friendly neighbourhood snzbian

The average city block in the US ranges from 250 to 1250 feet, usually falling on the shorter end of the spectrum. Grid-based city blocks are typically around 330 feet– not too long, not too short. A perfect Goldilocks of a block, if you think about it. 

Pittsburgh blocks, on the other hand, are whatever the fuck they want to be. Dennis had done a fair amount of research about Pittsburgh when he first moved to the city. He needed to know the public transit systems, the walking time from shelter to ED, the easiest routes, and safest areas for squatting. So, naturally, he’d learned about the lack of a standard grid system. He vaguely recounts a report about the abnormally challenging, hilly topography of the city– too many inclines, rivers, and unnatural terrains for there to be much organization in the street’s layouts. It’s called a colliding grid, he thinks, or something along those lines. 

To the ongoing list, he adds:

8. Colliding grid blocks 

Because of course the two blocks between the bus stop and the ED have to be the longest blocks imaginable, much closer to the 1250 feet range than the blessedly short 250. The slight uphill gradient doesn’t help, nor does the uneven sidewalk with more cracks and bumps than flat surface. 

Equally as unhelpful is his nose's inability to stop running. He has to stop every twenty or so paces to wipe at the appendage, refusing to blow it and forgo his last functioning tissue unless it proves to be absolutely necessary. 

Sneaker-clad feet drag against the pavement, their ache increasing with every break he has to take. Dennis has grown rather fond of his shoes, even with Trinity’s teasing that he shares the same style as her deceased grandmother. ‘They support my arches’ had been Dennis’s defense in buying them, stylish or not (definitely not). Afterall, he’s on his feet all day at work, he might as well make an effort to accommodate his body. 

Despite these efforts to make his body more comfortable, he can feel it staging a full fledged protest to being upright. Every time his foot meets the ground, the force of the concrete reverberates up through his leg, pinching at every joint it meets. Then, his legs propel him forwards with a stilt-like, uncoordinated gate, only for his other foot to hit the ground. And so on and so forth. 

Upon making it to the ED, Dennis plants himself on a bench just outside the ambulance bay. He knows he should buck up and go inside. People have it worse off than he does; he’s not bleeding, not broken, not needing medical attention. He’s just… cursed. 

The bench’s metal feels cool against his skin and he presses both of his palms to it, ignoring whatever germs are clinging to its surface. A brief reprieve from the heat works its way from his hands up his forearms, leaving a spattering of goosebumps that disappear after a few seconds. He shivers, and they reappear, intermixing with the light freckles speckled over his upper arms. For a second, he stills, and then another shiver sparks through his spine, his body caught in a dance between hot and cold. 

Dennis internally groans, wishing he’d thought to put a long sleeve beneath his scrub top as his overstimulated system settles on another shiver and a sudden chill. He knows he needs to stop sulking outside, to pull himself together and clock in, but the idea of spending all day on his feet is enough to keep him seated. Just one more minute, he reasons. What’s the harm in taking one more minute for himself? 

A distant ringing of sirens echoes through Dennis’s mind as it draws nearer– is the ringing from the sirens? The sound isn’t quite right, not the typical chorus of ambulance blaring, but something louder, harsher. It ricochets from one ear to the other before bouncing back, working its way through Dennis’s brain in piercing jolts. 

“Whitaker?” 

Dennis’s eyes open, adjusting to the sight of a man standing in front of him. He hadn’t realized his eyes had closed; they must have slipped shut of their own volition. After a painfully slow second, Dennis recognizes the figure that addressed him, mentally scolding himself for not having done so sooner. 

“Dr. Abbot– whadt are you doing here?” 

“Massive MVC. Six incoming patients with severe injury, countless others still on scene.” Jack answers, recounting the medical details that had slipped from Dennis’s mind. “All hands on deck.”

Right. There was a reason for Dennis having dragged himself out of bed and to the ED. Work. He’s working. And yet his mind lingers for a second too long on the number six, the mention dredging up thoughts about the man from the bus and his evident curse.

Jack’s eyes flick over Dennis’s form, scanning him head to toe. The older man’s lips curve into a slight frown as he catalogues the obvious signs of illness afflicting the other doctor; Dennis remains oblivious to the expression. He’s too busy willing himself to stand, silently egging on his legs to do the things they’re supposed to do– such as taking more than one step without stumbling and functioning non-mechanically. 

    9. Legs

When Dennis finally does stand, he chances a quick glance at Jack– the timid, hesitant kind of glance that he reserves for the twice-his-age-attendings that he finds particularly attractive– and, to his surprise, is met with Jack’s unfaltering gaze. An embarrassed flush blooms over Dennis’s cheeks, mixing with the previous fever pink tint and making him look even more overheated than he previously had. 

“So… shall we?” He gestures towards the ambulance bay doors, silently cursing himself for saying ‘shall we’ to his attending; he hasn’t even entered the ED yet and he’s already proven himself socially incompetent. 

“We shall.” Jack juts his chin towards the doors, a small movement, but one that Dennis reads clearly enough as a prompt for him to enter first. 

The chaos of the ED hits Dennis all at once, sending a surge of adrenaline through his body the second he steps inside. As always, there’s a chorus of medical equipment beeping, blaring, and ringing, but that’s just the undercurrent to the swell of shouting. Everyone is working over one another, weaving around gurneys with clusters of doctors and nurses working to the MVC patients– at least, those who have already arrived. 

Across the room, Dennis catches a glimpse of Trinity performing CPR on a seemingly unresponsive patient, but he doesn’t have the time to give her a second thought. Jack’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing firm before he disappears into the mess of medical professionals. 

Dennis joins the frey too, his body’s autopilot winning over his brain’s fever muddled antics. He jumps onto a case with McKay– a 25 year old male, responsive at the scene, car shrapnel penetrating the chest, broken ribs from the crash’s impact, lung sliding on the left. The patient crashes twenty minutes into treatment; Dennis reclaims his title as the ED’s resident LUCAS machine. 

Robby swoops into the patients room just as they get the patient back, his pulse thready but present. “Who’s this?” He asks, already slipping a pair of gloves over his hands as he approaches the patient’s bedside. His eyes flick from the patient’s vitals, over their chest and abdomen, to McKay, and then to Dennis. It’s only when his gaze reaches the younger doctor that he falters– not from the protruding foreign body in the patient’s chest, nor the blood soaked sheets, but rather the sight of Whitaker sweat soaked and swaying beside the patient’s bed. 

“Marcus Haynes. 25,” McKay rattles off the patient’s known demographics before diving into his physical traumas, symptoms, and treatment. Robby’s hands work their way over the patient’s torso, carrying out an exam as if by instinct as he listens. 

“Good. Page surgery again.” Robby peels off his gloves with a snap. “Tell them it’s urgent. This patient can’t afford to wait for their hour-long stroll down the stairwell.”

The sharp sound of the gloves breaks through Dennis’s reverie. He had been standing idly by, barely cognizant of McKay’s words in the wake of exerting himself to perform CPR. Beads of sweat slip down the center of his back, pooling above the waistband of his scrub pants and slowly seeping into the fabric. Sweat collects on his face too, threatening to form full drops and roll over his flushed cheeks; he swipes absentmindedly at his forehead before they can reach that point. 

“Whitaker. You alright?” 

Dennis looks towards Robby, nodding belatedly. “Yeah.” Another nod. “Yes, I’m good.” 

The attending pauses, eyebrows raised as he watches Dennis wipe his forehead again. “Alright. You’re with me then. Another rig is four minutes out.”

Dennis nods once more, trying to ignore the evergrowing sinking sensation in his stomach. Whatever spurt of adrenaline had carried him through the first patient has left him high and dry– or, rather, feverish and sweat soaked. He follows Robby towards the ambulance bay, weaving through the crowd with much less coordination than necessary. He bumps into at least three people on the way, nearly trips over his own feet, and lets his hip collide with a passing gurney. If he was in a contest for socially and professionally inadequate doctors, he’d win by a long shot, he’s sure of it. 

By some miracle, he manages to make it to the ambulance bay without completely humiliating himself. He didn’t faceplant in front of the nurses station, at the very least. Plus, the air is cooler outside, fresher, less suffocatingly sterile. As the automatic doors slip shut behind him and Robby, they leave a pleasant quietness in their wake. Sure, the sounds of ambulance sirens are ebbing closer with every passing second, bringing with them the promise of more chaos, but at least there’s a pleasant breeze, right?

“So, called in on your day off, huh?” Robby’s tone is conversational, but his eyes narrow as they take in Dennis’s appearance. 

“Yeah, I guess so– er, well, I know so. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, obviously.” 

     10. Making conversation with my boss while feverish cursed

Robby’s eyes soften slightly, a fondness easing his evident concern; he’s always enjoyed how easily Dennis blushes. 

“Hopefully you’re not here for too long. Except I can’t make any promises, these–”

“kzXCHh!” 

The sneeze takes the two doctors equally by surprise– Robby at having been interrupted and Dennis at having absolutely no warning for the expulsion. He raises a hand to his face, catching the second, “isXSch’ew!” against his wrist. 

“shifts tend to––,” Robby resumes, continuing his sentence in the brief gap before another “h’txCh–itSch!” double gets muffled by Dennis’s sleeve. 

“–drag on much longer when our systems get bogged down,” this time, Robby pauses his speech rather than being interrupted, allowing just enough time for Dennis to hitch twice and sneeze another fittish triple, “hih’hhH–ksxch’sch’tzch!”

“But for all we know,” Robby stretches his arms above his head, though his eyes remain trained on Dennis, “we might both make it home in time for dinner.”

Dennis buries his nose in his elbow, once again wishing he’d worn an undershirt beneath his scrubs as he feels a bead of moisture press to his skin. He waits, the tickle dancing just beyond his reach, enough to make his breath hitch and eyes water, but not enough to heighten the sensation into anything more than irritation. 

Dennis teeters on the edge, remaining tucked in the same position as he waits. He can feel Robby’s gaze on him and it makes his cheeks flush a darker shade of pink. 

Finally, his breath snags in something more than just a breathless gasp, spurring a light cough and then a half-stifled, “h’gtch!” He hadn’t intended on stifling, but the sneeze gets caught behind the wall of congestion solidifying in his nose. The following sneeze makes more of an effort to escape, but it still gets stuck behind his teeth, failing into a breathy, soft end: “ig’ksst!”  

Unsatisfied with the unexpelled half-sneezes, he shakes his head lightly– a bad idea in retrospect, it does nothing more than make him dizzy. Then, his head bobs forwards with a final vocal, “ik’tSSHh-ue!” that leaves the crook of his elbow dusted with a light spray. 

Dennis gives an involuntary sniffle afterwards, the pent up congestion now threatening to run over his lip like some post-fit humiliation ritual. 

    11. Sneezing in front of my boss

“You done?” Robby’s voice falls somewhere between amused, endeared, and concerned– not upset though, miraculously. Dennis nods and emerges from his elbow, remembering the crumpled excuse of a tissue he has shoved in his pocket from this morning and fumbling to retrieve it. “Bless you.”

     12. Being blessed by my boss

“Thangk you.”

The tissue does a poor job at cleaning him up. Already crumpled from inhabiting his pocket, its structural integrity isn’t nearly as strong as he needs it to be. He resorts to half sniffling, half wiping his nose with his body turned away from Robby as the sirens draw nearer. 

Robby watches, mentally toeing between the ideas of pointing out Dennis’s illness or giving him the benefit of the doubt– although it’s becoming evident to him that the younger doctor doesn’t know when to call it quits. “So,” he begins, but he’s interrupted. He’d underestimated how close the ambulance was to the bay; he’s been at the pitt long enough to be able to identify when a rig is going to pull up to the second, but he’s been uncharacteristically distracted. 

The sirens’ sound grows tenfold as they approach at haphazard speeds, spinning around Dennis’s head as he stares loosely in the direction of the ambulance. He shoves his sodden tissue unceremoniously back into his pocket and finds a pair of gloves held just before his eyeline. With a quick nod of thanks to Robby– a disjointed, slow jerk of his head– he accepts them and starts fumbling to pull them over his clammy hands. 

“What’ve we got?” Robby snaps into action, meeting the paramedics at the rig’s back door and immediately beginning his examination of the patient. Dennis tries to keep up, rushing to follow Robby’s lead and nearly bumping straight into his back in the process. Smooth, Dennis, he mentally chides. 

“50 year old female. She was an unrestrained passenger in the vehicle when–” 

Dennis prays that his adrenaline will take the reins again, silently willing his body to listen, to move, to attend to his surroundings, and to practice medicine– easy, right? 

“Dana, we need a room!” Robby calls across the ED once they make it past the entrance, his hands already carrying out a partial exam. 

“Trauma Two’s open!” Dana bellows back. As always, she’s working in the center of the chaos, acting as the pillar that keeps the whole damn place upright. 

“Alright. Whitaker, you’re with me,” Robby casts a quick glance around, “McKay! Javadi” 

The resident and student doctor join them in the trauma room at record speed, immediately getting the patient’s run-down, which, admittedly, was helpful for Dennis to hear again. A portable ultrasound is shoved into his hand, his other clutching loosely at a bottle of gel– when had he grabbed that?– “Dennis!” Javadi whispers, giving his elbow a slight nudge and snapping him out of his reverie. 

“Right– uh. Checking for lung sliding,” he spurs into action, his medical knowledge still miraculously intact despite his growing fever. “No lung sliding on the left,” he reports as the other doctors attend to Robby’s instructions, “the right’s clear too. Checking the abdomen next.” 

Robby steps back, allowing Dennis to take his place by the patient’s abdomen and position himself for the ultrasound. The room swirls around him for just a moment, its white walls blurring into a bright haze that forces Dennis to blink a few times to right his vision. One of Robby’s hands settles on his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

As distracting as Robby’s touch can be, it brings Dennis back to his body for a moment, back to the fact that he’s actively treating a patient. “Uh– the gel’s a bit cold, sorry,” he announces to the (unconscious) patient out of habit as he begins the ultrasound. McKay and Javadi exchange a look of concern. 

Dennis glides the ultrasound wand across the patient’s stomach, eyes straining to focus on the screen, “there’s free fluid in the belly.” That gets Robby’s attention immediately. He peers at the screen, reaching over to adjust Dennis’s hand ever so slightly before nodding. 

“Yep. It looks like a splenic injury. Javadi, what are our next steps?”

Dennis stares downwards, watching as Robby’s hand once again steers his own to get a different angle. He shouldn’t need help with an ultrasound, but his hand melts under Robby’s, suddenly incapable of moving without guidance. A tingling sensation pools in the tips of his fingers, and Dennis is unable to decipher if it’s from the fact that Robby’s hand is dwarfing his or if it's from the dizziness tugging at his consciousness. 

Another nudge to his elbow– harder this time– makes Dennis jerk his head upright. All three of the doctors have their eyes trained on him, so he sputters out a quiet, “sorry!” 

Before anyone can acknowledge Dennis’s behavior, Mohan opens the door in a rush, “Robby! We need you in Trauma One!” and with that, the attending is gone and McKay takes the lead. 

Luckily, she knows to delegate most of the tasks to Javadi, giving Dennis simpler instructions and double checking his work. Within thirty minutes, the patient is stable and awaiting surgery, and he’s off the case. 

Within the same thirty minute period, however, his symptoms start hitting him over the head like bricks one after the other: dizziness, headache (which makes the dizziness worse), congestion (which makes the headache worse), and body aches (which make the whole damn day worse). 

    13. Worsening symptoms of my cold curse

As Dennis finally steps out of Trauma Two, he’s met with a resurgence of the pitt’s chaos. More rigs have arrived since he’d last been in the bay, bringing with them emergent patients, some of whom were overflowing into the main halls. 

His eyes flick from patient to patient, his brain lagging as he tries to deduce who to help first. The decision is made for him when Abbot spots him standing idly by, “Whitaker!”

Dennis crosses the sea of gurneys, nurses, and doctors to where Abbot is treating a tearful patient. 

“She has an anterior shoulder dislocation. You’re going to help me reduce it,” Abbot instructs, eyes narrowing as he meets Dennis’s gaze, “got it?”

Dennis nods, looking over the patient's dislocation before recounting, “there’s skin tenting, most likely due to a bone fracture, so… traction-counteraction is needed. Then we can treat the break after.”

Abbot gives Dennis a onceover before bracing himself by the patient’s head and getting into position. “You’re going to provide counteraction. Make sure you’ve got a sturdy stance.” 

He tsks at Dennis, tilting his head to the side and gesturing with a nod of his head for Dennis to shift. “Spread your legs wider. Your feet shouldn’t be aligned with your hips.” 

Dennis adjusts, earning a nod of approval as he tries desperately not to think about the way Jack’s voice had sounded when he instructed him to spread his legs; fever or not, his attraction to his attending persists. 

The reduction itself goes relatively smoothly all things considered, but it seems to zap Dennis’s remaining energy. Sweat is still dripping down his back and pooling in his scrubs, and he’s certain that the pitt has never been hotter. He swipes his wrist across his forehead, collecting an embarrassing amount of sweat and wiping it against his scrubs– thank God they’re dark. He doesn’t need everyone to know just how incapable his body is at regulating its temperature right now. 

To make things worse, Dennis’s sinuses prickle angrily as he inhales, enough to make his eyes water. The sensation takes root in the left side of his nose, worsening with the next inhale, which stutters halfway through and falls into a fluttering exhale. Still standing by the patient’s bedside next to Dr Abbot, Dennis stalls; his feet plant themselves stubbornly in place, refusing to move until the itch is attended to. Two soft hitches build on one another and Dennis presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. 

He can feel his brows knitting together, eyes slipping shut just as the third and fourth hitches make it past his lips. The final hitch is determined, filling his chest with its inhale. Nose buried in his elbow, Dennis shudders with a congested stifle, “n’kGXt!” 

His head bobs down hard and quick, the action unplanting his feet and causing him to stumble towards Jack a few steps. The attending’s hands land on Dennis’s sides, bracing him with a surprised, “Jesus, kid.”

Dennis leans into the touch, his body overwhelmed by– “hn’gxXt!”– the itch that’s now searing through his sinuses, having traveled from just the left side to what feels like his entire nose– “ih’ngXCch!” 

By instinct, Dennis tries to stifle, but his attempts just worsen his body’s need to expel the cold from its system, resulting in a quick gasp and then a cluster of sneezes that tumble out over one another, “ig’ksSst! ngXch-ksch!iih’ksSCHh! kK’tTsSCHhy’w!”

The fit leaves Dennis panting, dizzy, and with his nose running into the crevice of his elbow. He keeps his head bowed and hidden, but an embarrassed blush reddens his ears and neck. 

“Bl–” Jack begins, but Dennis cuts him off with a belated, “t’sSXch’ehw!” to which an older man raises an eyebrow. Abbot hesitates for a second, letting any final sneezes make themselves known before attempting to bless the younger doctor again. 

“Bless. You trying to set a record or something?” 

“No, I’m— sorry. I’m nodt—,” Whitaker begins, words falling from his mouth without any real coherence. The itch lingers in the back of his throat, each word egging it on until, “hnGjXch! S-hihh’iSZSHh!—sorry!” 

A liquid sniffle follows Dennis’s apology, and he shoves his free hand into his pocket in a vain hope that it would contain a tissue. No such luck. He sniffles a second time, then a third, his nose still tucked into the crook of his elbow. Luckily, the sniffles are lost to the chaos of the ED, stamped out by sounds of medical machinery and a chorus of voices. 

Dennis pointedly avoids Jack’s gaze, his eyes skirting around for the nearest exit from the overcrowded room. He can feel the attending’s hands over his scrubs, bracing him with a sturdiness that he desperately needs. 

The nurses station is crowded as ever, as is the rest of the pitt. An overflow of patient beds lines the hallways, blocking the exit nearest to Dennis. Fine, that’s fine. He just has to cross by South 15, pass the breakroom, and take a few minutes in the stairwell by the family room. 

“Sorry,” Dennis offers again, his brain churning out the same useless apology as it works through the molasses clouding his judgement. 

“Whitaker.” Jack’s hold on Dennis’s waist continues, his grip growing firmer as the student doctor takes a step forward. 

Dennis’s fever-addled brain miscalculates. Lifting just a few inches off the ground, his foot collides clumsily with Abbot’s sneaker, missing the ground entirely and instead landing on the toe of his prosthetic. 

Fumbling to find his footing, Dennis feels the room spin as he tries to lift his leg again; the limb shifts off of Jack’s foot, landing on solid ground by some miracle. 

The heat that’s been sitting dormant beneath Dennis’s skin now sears to the forefront of his mind, blurring his vision. His body practically wilts: legs shaking, posture slumping, and head swimming. 

Oh. Shit. 

He just barely registers, “Alright kid, stay with me. You’re alright.” 

Dennis tries to nod, to get his tongue to do anything more than sit like a rock in his mouth. He wants to agree– yes, I am alright– but all he manages is another whispered apology as he slumps further towards Abbot. 

“Fuck!” Jack hooks his arms beneath Dennis’s, keeping the younger— surprisingly buff— doctor upright. He barks, “Robby!!” as he casts a glance over his shoulder, catching his fellow attending in his line of sight. 

that's all for now ~ any and all comments/tags are appreciated :) thank you for reading!

The average city block in the US ranges from 250 to 1250 feet, usually falling on the shorter end of the spectrum. Grid-based city blocks are typically around 330 feet– not too long, not too short. A perfect Goldilocks of a block, if you think about it. 

Pittsburgh blocks, on the other hand, are whatever the fuck they want to be. Dennis had done a fair amount of research about Pittsburgh when he first moved to the city. He needed to know the public transit systems, the walking time from shelter to ED, the easiest routes, and safest areas for squatting. So, naturally, he’d learned about the lack of a standard grid system. He vaguely recounts a report about the abnormally challenging, hilly topography of the city– too many inclines, rivers, and unnatural terrains for there to be much organization in the street’s layouts. It’s called a colliding grid, he thinks, or something along those lines. 

To the ongoing list, he adds:

8. Colliding grid blocks 

Because of course the two blocks between the bus stop and the ED have to be the longest blocks imaginable, much closer to the 1250 feet range than the blessedly short 250. The slight uphill gradient doesn’t help, nor does the uneven sidewalk with more cracks and bumps than flat surface. 

Equally as unhelpful is his nose's inability to stop running. He has to stop every twenty or so paces to wipe at the appendage, refusing to blow it and forgo his last functioning tissue unless it proves to be absolutely necessary. 

Sneaker-clad feet drag against the pavement, their ache increasing with every break he has to take. Dennis has grown rather fond of his shoes, even with Trinity’s teasing that he shares the same style as her deceased grandmother. ‘They support my arches’ had been Dennis’s defense in buying them, stylish or not (definitely not). Afterall, he’s on his feet all day at work, he might as well make an effort to accommodate his body. 

Despite these efforts to make his body more comfortable, he can feel it staging a full fledged protest to being upright. Every time his foot meets the ground, the force of the concrete reverberates up through his leg, pinching at every joint it meets. Then, his legs propel him forwards with a stilt-like, uncoordinated gate, only for his other foot to hit the ground. And so on and so forth. 

Upon making it to the ED, Dennis plants himself on a bench just outside the ambulance bay. He knows he should buck up and go inside. People have it worse off than he does; he’s not bleeding, not broken, not needing medical attention. He’s just… cursed. 

The bench’s metal feels cool against his skin and he presses both of his palms to it, ignoring whatever germs are clinging to its surface. A brief reprieve from the heat works its way from his hands up his forearms, leaving a spattering of goosebumps that disappear after a few seconds. He shivers, and they reappear, intermixing with the light freckles speckled over his upper arms. For a second, he stills, and then another shiver sparks through his spine, his body caught in a dance between hot and cold. 

Dennis internally groans, wishing he’d thought to put a long sleeve beneath his scrub top as his overstimulated system settles on another shiver and a sudden chill. He knows he needs to stop sulking outside, to pull himself together and clock in, but the idea of spending all day on his feet is enough to keep him seated. Just one more minute, he reasons. What’s the harm in taking one more minute for himself? 

A distant ringing of sirens echoes through Dennis’s mind as it draws nearer– is the ringing from the sirens? The sound isn’t quite right, not the typical chorus of ambulance blaring, but something louder, harsher. It ricochets from one ear to the other before bouncing back, working its way through Dennis’s brain in piercing jolts. 

“Whitaker?” 

Dennis’s eyes open, adjusting to the sight of a man standing in front of him. He hadn’t realized his eyes had closed; they must have slipped shut of their own volition. After a painfully slow second, Dennis recognizes the figure that addressed him, mentally scolding himself for not having done so sooner. 

“Dr. Abbot– whadt are you doing here?” 

“Massive MVC. Six incoming patients with severe injury, countless others still on scene.” Jack answers, recounting the medical details that had slipped from Dennis’s mind. “All hands on deck.”

Right. There was a reason for Dennis having dragged himself out of bed and to the ED. Work. He’s working. And yet his mind lingers for a second too long on the number six, the mention dredging up thoughts about the man from the bus and his evident curse.

Jack’s eyes flick over Dennis’s form, scanning him head to toe. The older man’s lips curve into a slight frown as he catalogues the obvious signs of illness afflicting the other doctor; Dennis remains oblivious to the expression. He’s too busy willing himself to stand, silently egging on his legs to do the things they’re supposed to do– such as taking more than one step without stumbling and functioning non-mechanically. 

    9. Legs

When Dennis finally does stand, he chances a quick glance at Jack– the timid, hesitant kind of glance that he reserves for the twice-his-age-attendings that he finds particularly attractive– and, to his surprise, is met with Jack’s unfaltering gaze. An embarrassed flush blooms over Dennis’s cheeks, mixing with the previous fever pink tint and making him look even more overheated than he previously had. 

“So… shall we?” He gestures towards the ambulance bay doors, silently cursing himself for saying ‘shall we’ to his attending; he hasn’t even entered the ED yet and he’s already proven himself socially incompetent. 

“We shall.” Jack juts his chin towards the doors, a small movement, but one that Dennis reads clearly enough as a prompt for him to enter first. 

The chaos of the ED hits Dennis all at once, sending a surge of adrenaline through his body the second he steps inside. As always, there’s a chorus of medical equipment beeping, blaring, and ringing, but that’s just the undercurrent to the swell of shouting. Everyone is working over one another, weaving around gurneys with clusters of doctors and nurses working to the MVC patients– at least, those who have already arrived. 

Across the room, Dennis catches a glimpse of Trinity performing CPR on a seemingly unresponsive patient, but he doesn’t have the time to give her a second thought. Jack’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing firm before he disappears into the mess of medical professionals. 

Dennis joins the frey too, his body’s autopilot winning over his brain’s fever muddled antics. He jumps onto a case with McKay– a 25 year old male, responsive at the scene, car shrapnel penetrating the chest, broken ribs from the crash’s impact, lung sliding on the left. The patient crashes twenty minutes into treatment; Dennis reclaims his title as the ED’s resident LUCAS machine. 

Robby swoops into the patients room just as they get the patient back, his pulse thready but present. “Who’s this?” He asks, already slipping a pair of gloves over his hands as he approaches the patient’s bedside. His eyes flick from the patient’s vitals, over their chest and abdomen, to McKay, and then to Dennis. It’s only when his gaze reaches the younger doctor that he falters– not from the protruding foreign body in the patient’s chest, nor the blood soaked sheets, but rather the sight of Whitaker sweat soaked and swaying beside the patient’s bed. 

“Marcus Haynes. 25,” McKay rattles off the patient’s known demographics before diving into his physical traumas, symptoms, and treatment. Robby’s hands work their way over the patient’s torso, carrying out an exam as if by instinct as he listens. 

“Good. Page surgery again.” Robby peels off his gloves with a snap. “Tell them it’s urgent. This patient can’t afford to wait for their hour-long stroll down the stairwell.”

The sharp sound of the gloves breaks through Dennis’s reverie. He had been standing idly by, barely cognizant of McKay’s words in the wake of exerting himself to perform CPR. Beads of sweat slip down the center of his back, pooling above the waistband of his scrub pants and slowly seeping into the fabric. Sweat collects on his face too, threatening to form full drops and roll over his flushed cheeks; he swipes absentmindedly at his forehead before they can reach that point. 

“Whitaker. You alright?” 

Dennis looks towards Robby, nodding belatedly. “Yeah.” Another nod. “Yes, I’m good.” 

The attending pauses, eyebrows raised as he watches Dennis wipe his forehead again. “Alright. You’re with me then. Another rig is four minutes out.”

Dennis nods once more, trying to ignore the evergrowing sinking sensation in his stomach. Whatever spurt of adrenaline had carried him through the first patient has left him high and dry– or, rather, feverish and sweat soaked. He follows Robby towards the ambulance bay, weaving through the crowd with much less coordination than necessary. He bumps into at least three people on the way, nearly trips over his own feet, and lets his hip collide with a passing gurney. If he was in a contest for socially and professionally inadequate doctors, he’d win by a long shot, he’s sure of it. 

By some miracle, he manages to make it to the ambulance bay without completely humiliating himself. He didn’t faceplant in front of the nurses station, at the very least. Plus, the air is cooler outside, fresher, less suffocatingly sterile. As the automatic doors slip shut behind him and Robby, they leave a pleasant quietness in their wake. Sure, the sounds of ambulance sirens are ebbing closer with every passing second, bringing with them the promise of more chaos, but at least there’s a pleasant breeze, right?

“So, called in on your day off, huh?” Robby’s tone is conversational, but his eyes narrow as they take in Dennis’s appearance. 

“Yeah, I guess so– er, well, I know so. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, obviously.” 

     10. Making conversation with my boss while feverish cursed

Robby’s eyes soften slightly, a fondness easing his evident concern; he’s always enjoyed how easily Dennis blushes. 

“Hopefully you’re not here for too long. Except I can’t make any promises, these–”

“kzXCHh!” 

The sneeze takes the two doctors equally by surprise– Robby at having been interrupted and Dennis at having absolutely no warning for the expulsion. He raises a hand to his face, catching the second, “isXSch’ew!” against his wrist. 

“shifts tend to––,” Robby resumes, continuing his sentence in the brief gap before another “h’txCh–itSch!” double gets muffled by Dennis’s sleeve. 

“–drag on much longer when our systems get bogged down,” this time, Robby pauses his speech rather than being interrupted, allowing just enough time for Dennis to hitch twice and sneeze another fittish triple, “hih’hhH–ksxch’sch’tzch!”

“But for all we know,” Robby stretches his arms above his head, though his eyes remain trained on Dennis, “we might both make it home in time for dinner.”

Dennis buries his nose in his elbow, once again wishing he’d worn an undershirt beneath his scrubs as he feels a bead of moisture press to his skin. He waits, the tickle dancing just beyond his reach, enough to make his breath hitch and eyes water, but not enough to heighten the sensation into anything more than irritation. 

Dennis teeters on the edge, remaining tucked in the same position as he waits. He can feel Robby’s gaze on him and it makes his cheeks flush a darker shade of pink. 

Finally, his breath snags in something more than just a breathless gasp, spurring a light cough and then a half-stifled, “h’gtch!” He hadn’t intended on stifling, but the sneeze gets caught behind the wall of congestion solidifying in his nose. The following sneeze makes more of an effort to escape, but it still gets stuck behind his teeth, failing into a breathy, soft end: “ig’ksst!”  

Unsatisfied with the unexpelled half-sneezes, he shakes his head lightly– a bad idea in retrospect, it does nothing more than make him dizzy. Then, his head bobs forwards with a final vocal, “ik’tSSHh-ue!” that leaves the crook of his elbow dusted with a light spray. 

Dennis gives an involuntary sniffle afterwards, the pent up congestion now threatening to run over his lip like some post-fit humiliation ritual. 

    11. Sneezing in front of my boss

“You done?” Robby’s voice falls somewhere between amused, endeared, and concerned– not upset though, miraculously. Dennis nods and emerges from his elbow, remembering the crumpled excuse of a tissue he has shoved in his pocket from this morning and fumbling to retrieve it. “Bless you.”

     12. Being blessed by my boss

“Thangk you.”

The tissue does a poor job at cleaning him up. Already crumpled from inhabiting his pocket, its structural integrity isn’t nearly as strong as he needs it to be. He resorts to half sniffling, half wiping his nose with his body turned away from Robby as the sirens draw nearer. 

Robby watches, mentally toeing between the ideas of pointing out Dennis’s illness or giving him the benefit of the doubt– although it’s becoming evident to him that the younger doctor doesn’t know when to call it quits. “So,” he begins, but he’s interrupted. He’d underestimated how close the ambulance was to the bay; he’s been at the pitt long enough to be able to identify when a rig is going to pull up to the second, but he’s been uncharacteristically distracted. 

The sirens’ sound grows tenfold as they approach at haphazard speeds, spinning around Dennis’s head as he stares loosely in the direction of the ambulance. He shoves his sodden tissue unceremoniously back into his pocket and finds a pair of gloves held just before his eyeline. With a quick nod of thanks to Robby– a disjointed, slow jerk of his head– he accepts them and starts fumbling to pull them over his clammy hands. 

“What’ve we got?” Robby snaps into action, meeting the paramedics at the rig’s back door and immediately beginning his examination of the patient. Dennis tries to keep up, rushing to follow Robby’s lead and nearly bumping straight into his back in the process. Smooth, Dennis, he mentally chides. 

“50 year old female. She was an unrestrained passenger in the vehicle when–” 

Dennis prays that his adrenaline will take the reins again, silently willing his body to listen, to move, to attend to his surroundings, and to practice medicine– easy, right? 

“Dana, we need a room!” Robby calls across the ED once they make it past the entrance, his hands already carrying out a partial exam. 

“Trauma Two’s open!” Dana bellows back. As always, she’s working in the center of the chaos, acting as the pillar that keeps the whole damn place upright. 

“Alright. Whitaker, you’re with me,” Robby casts a quick glance around, “McKay! Javadi” 

The resident and student doctor join them in the trauma room at record speed, immediately getting the patient’s run-down, which, admittedly, was helpful for Dennis to hear again. A portable ultrasound is shoved into his hand, his other clutching loosely at a bottle of gel– when had he grabbed that?– “Dennis!” Javadi whispers, giving his elbow a slight nudge and snapping him out of his reverie. 

“Right– uh. Checking for lung sliding,” he spurs into action, his medical knowledge still miraculously intact despite his growing fever. “No lung sliding on the left,” he reports as the other doctors attend to Robby’s instructions, “the right’s clear too. Checking the abdomen next.” 

Robby steps back, allowing Dennis to take his place by the patient’s abdomen and position himself for the ultrasound. The room swirls around him for just a moment, its white walls blurring into a bright haze that forces Dennis to blink a few times to right his vision. One of Robby’s hands settles on his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

As distracting as Robby’s touch can be, it brings Dennis back to his body for a moment, back to the fact that he’s actively treating a patient. “Uh– the gel’s a bit cold, sorry,” he announces to the (unconscious) patient out of habit as he begins the ultrasound. McKay and Javadi exchange a look of concern. 

Dennis glides the ultrasound wand across the patient’s stomach, eyes straining to focus on the screen, “there’s free fluid in the belly.” That gets Robby’s attention immediately. He peers at the screen, reaching over to adjust Dennis’s hand ever so slightly before nodding. 

“Yep. It looks like a splenic injury. Javadi, what are our next steps?”

Dennis stares downwards, watching as Robby’s hand once again steers his own to get a different angle. He shouldn’t need help with an ultrasound, but his hand melts under Robby’s, suddenly incapable of moving without guidance. A tingling sensation pools in the tips of his fingers, and Dennis is unable to decipher if it’s from the fact that Robby’s hand is dwarfing his or if it's from the dizziness tugging at his consciousness. 

Another nudge to his elbow– harder this time– makes Dennis jerk his head upright. All three of the doctors have their eyes trained on him, so he sputters out a quiet, “sorry!” 

Before anyone can acknowledge Dennis’s behavior, Mohan opens the door in a rush, “Robby! We need you in Trauma One!” and with that, the attending is gone and McKay takes the lead. 

Luckily, she knows to delegate most of the tasks to Javadi, giving Dennis simpler instructions and double checking his work. Within thirty minutes, the patient is stable and awaiting surgery, and he’s off the case. 

Within the same thirty minute period, however, his symptoms start hitting him over the head like bricks one after the other: dizziness, headache (which makes the dizziness worse), congestion (which makes the headache worse), and body aches (which make the whole damn day worse). 

    13. Worsening symptoms of my cold curse

As Dennis finally steps out of Trauma Two, he’s met with a resurgence of the pitt’s chaos. More rigs have arrived since he’d last been in the bay, bringing with them emergent patients, some of whom were overflowing into the main halls. 

His eyes flick from patient to patient, his brain lagging as he tries to deduce who to help first. The decision is made for him when Abbot spots him standing idly by, “Whitaker!”

Dennis crosses the sea of gurneys, nurses, and doctors to where Abbot is treating a tearful patient. 

“She has an anterior shoulder dislocation. You’re going to help me reduce it,” Abbot instructs, eyes narrowing as he meets Dennis’s gaze, “got it?”

Dennis nods, looking over the patient's dislocation before recounting, “there’s skin tenting, most likely due to a bone fracture, so… traction-counteraction is needed. Then we can treat the break after.”

Abbot gives Dennis a onceover before bracing himself by the patient’s head and getting into position. “You’re going to provide counteraction. Make sure you’ve got a sturdy stance.” 

He tsks at Dennis, tilting his head to the side and gesturing with a nod of his head for Dennis to shift. “Spread your legs wider. Your feet shouldn’t be aligned with your hips.” 

Dennis adjusts, earning a nod of approval as he tries desperately not to think about the way Jack’s voice had sounded when he instructed him to spread his legs; fever or not, his attraction to his attending persists. 

The reduction itself goes relatively smoothly all things considered, but it seems to zap Dennis’s remaining energy. Sweat is still dripping down his back and pooling in his scrubs, and he’s certain that the pitt has never been hotter. He swipes his wrist across his forehead, collecting an embarrassing amount of sweat and wiping it against his scrubs– thank God they’re dark. He doesn’t need everyone to know just how incapable his body is at regulating its temperature right now. 

To make things worse, Dennis’s sinuses prickle angrily as he inhales, enough to make his eyes water. The sensation takes root in the left side of his nose, worsening with the next inhale, which stutters halfway through and falls into a fluttering exhale. Still standing by the patient’s bedside next to Dr Abbot, Dennis stalls; his feet plant themselves stubbornly in place, refusing to move until the itch is attended to. Two soft hitches build on one another and Dennis presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. 

He can feel his brows knitting together, eyes slipping shut just as the third and fourth hitches make it past his lips. The final hitch is determined, filling his chest with its inhale. Nose buried in his elbow, Dennis shudders with a congested stifle, “n’kGXt!” 

His head bobs down hard and quick, the action unplanting his feet and causing him to stumble towards Jack a few steps. The attending’s hands land on Dennis’s sides, bracing him with a surprised, “Jesus, kid.”

Dennis leans into the touch, his body overwhelmed by– “hn’gxXt!”– the itch that’s now searing through his sinuses, having traveled from just the left side to what feels like his entire nose– “ih’ngXCch!” 

By instinct, Dennis tries to stifle, but his attempts just worsen his body’s need to expel the cold from its system, resulting in a quick gasp and then a cluster of sneezes that tumble out over one another, “ig’ksSst! ngXch-ksch!iih’ksSCHh! kK’tTsSCHhy’w!”

The fit leaves Dennis panting, dizzy, and with his nose running into the crevice of his elbow. He keeps his head bowed and hidden, but an embarrassed blush reddens his ears and neck. 

“Bl–” Jack begins, but Dennis cuts him off with a belated, “t’sSXch’ehw!” to which an older man raises an eyebrow. Abbot hesitates for a second, letting any final sneezes make themselves known before attempting to bless the younger doctor again. 

“Bless. You trying to set a record or something?” 

“No, I’m— sorry. I’m nodt—,” Whitaker begins, words falling from his mouth without any real coherence. The itch lingers in the back of his throat, each word egging it on until, “hnGjXch! S-hihh’iSZSHh!—sorry!” 

A liquid sniffle follows Dennis’s apology, and he shoves his free hand into his pocket in a vain hope that it would contain a tissue. No such luck. He sniffles a second time, then a third, his nose still tucked into the crook of his elbow. Luckily, the sniffles are lost to the chaos of the ED, stamped out by sounds of medical machinery and a chorus of voices. 

Dennis pointedly avoids Jack’s gaze, his eyes skirting around for the nearest exit from the overcrowded room. He can feel the attending’s hands over his scrubs, bracing him with a sturdiness that he desperately needs. 

The nurses station is crowded as ever, as is the rest of the pitt. An overflow of patient beds lines the hallways, blocking the exit nearest to Dennis. Fine, that’s fine. He just has to cross by South 15, pass the breakroom, and take a few minutes in the stairwell by the family room. 

“Sorry,” Dennis offers again, his brain churning out the same useless apology as it works through the molasses clouding his judgement. 

“Whitaker.” Jack’s hold on Dennis’s waist continues, his grip growing firmer as the student doctor takes a step forward. 

Dennis’s fever-addled brain miscalculates. Lifting just a few inches off the ground, his foot collides clumsily with Abbot’s sneaker, missing the ground entirely and instead landing on the toe of his prosthetic. 

Fumbling to find his footing, Dennis feels the room spin as he tries to lift his leg again; the limb shifts off of Jack’s foot, landing on solid ground by some miracle. 

The heat that’s been sitting dormant beneath Dennis’s skin now sears to the forefront of his mind, blurring his vision. His body practically wilts: legs shaking, posture slumping, and head swimming. 

Oh. Shit. 

He just barely registers, “Alright kid, stay with me. You’re alright.” 

Dennis tries to nod, to get his tongue to do anything more than sit like a rock in his mouth. He wants to agree– yes, I am alright– but all he manages is another whispered apology as he slumps further towards Abbot. 

“Fuck!” Jack hooks his arms beneath Dennis’s, keeping the younger— surprisingly buff— doctor upright. He barks, “Robby!!” as he casts a glance over his shoulder, catching his fellow attending in his line of sight. 

that's all for now ~ any and all comments/tags are appreciated :) thank you for reading!

The average city block in the US ranges from 250 to 1250 feet, usually falling on the shorter end of the spectrum. Grid-based city blocks are typically around 330 feet– not too long, not too short. A perfect Goldilocks of a block, if you think about it. 

Pittsburgh blocks, on the other hand, are whatever the fuck they want to be. Dennis had done a fair amount of research about Pittsburgh when he first moved to the city. He needed to know the public transit systems, the walking time from shelter to ED, the easiest routes, and safest areas for squatting. So, naturally, he’d learned about the lack of a standard grid system. He vaguely recounts a report about the abnormally challenging, hilly topography of the city– too many inclines, rivers, and unnatural terrains for there to be much organization in the street’s layouts. It’s called a colliding grid, he thinks, or something along those lines. 

To the ongoing list, he adds:

8. Colliding grid blocks 

Because of course the two blocks between the bus stop and the ED have to be the longest blocks imaginable, much closer to the 1250 feet range than the blessedly short 250. The slight uphill gradient doesn’t help, nor does the uneven sidewalk with more cracks and bumps than flat surface. 

Equally as unhelpful is his nose's inability to stop running. He has to stop every twenty or so paces to wipe at the appendage, refusing to blow it and forgo his last functioning tissue unless it proves to be absolutely necessary. 

Sneaker-clad feet drag against the pavement, their ache increasing with every break he has to take. Dennis has grown rather fond of his shoes, even with Trinity’s teasing that he shares the same style as her deceased grandmother. ‘They support my arches’ had been Dennis’s defense in buying them, stylish or not (definitely not). Afterall, he’s on his feet all day at work, he might as well make an effort to accommodate his body. 

Despite these efforts to make his body more comfortable, he can feel it staging a full fledged protest to being upright. Every time his foot meets the ground, the force of the concrete reverberates up through his leg, pinching at every joint it meets. Then, his legs propel him forwards with a stilt-like, uncoordinated gate, only for his other foot to hit the ground. And so on and so forth. 

Upon making it to the ED, Dennis plants himself on a bench just outside the ambulance bay. He knows he should buck up and go inside. People have it worse off than he does; he’s not bleeding, not broken, not needing medical attention. He’s just… cursed. 

The bench’s metal feels cool against his skin and he presses both of his palms to it, ignoring whatever germs are clinging to its surface. A brief reprieve from the heat works its way from his hands up his forearms, leaving a spattering of goosebumps that disappear after a few seconds. He shivers, and they reappear, intermixing with the light freckles speckled over his upper arms. For a second, he stills, and then another shiver sparks through his spine, his body caught in a dance between hot and cold. 

Dennis internally groans, wishing he’d thought to put a long sleeve beneath his scrub top as his overstimulated system settles on another shiver and a sudden chill. He knows he needs to stop sulking outside, to pull himself together and clock in, but the idea of spending all day on his feet is enough to keep him seated. Just one more minute, he reasons. What’s the harm in taking one more minute for himself? 

A distant ringing of sirens echoes through Dennis’s mind as it draws nearer– is the ringing from the sirens? The sound isn’t quite right, not the typical chorus of ambulance blaring, but something louder, harsher. It ricochets from one ear to the other before bouncing back, working its way through Dennis’s brain in piercing jolts. 

“Whitaker?” 

Dennis’s eyes open, adjusting to the sight of a man standing in front of him. He hadn’t realized his eyes had closed; they must have slipped shut of their own volition. After a painfully slow second, Dennis recognizes the figure that addressed him, mentally scolding himself for not having done so sooner. 

“Dr. Abbot– whadt are you doing here?” 

“Massive MVC. Six incoming patients with severe injury, countless others still on scene.” Jack answers, recounting the medical details that had slipped from Dennis’s mind. “All hands on deck.”

Right. There was a reason for Dennis having dragged himself out of bed and to the ED. Work. He’s working. And yet his mind lingers for a second too long on the number six, the mention dredging up thoughts about the man from the bus and his evident curse.

Jack’s eyes flick over Dennis’s form, scanning him head to toe. The older man’s lips curve into a slight frown as he catalogues the obvious signs of illness afflicting the other doctor; Dennis remains oblivious to the expression. He’s too busy willing himself to stand, silently egging on his legs to do the things they’re supposed to do– such as taking more than one step without stumbling and functioning non-mechanically. 

    9. Legs

When Dennis finally does stand, he chances a quick glance at Jack– the timid, hesitant kind of glance that he reserves for the twice-his-age-attendings that he finds particularly attractive– and, to his surprise, is met with Jack’s unfaltering gaze. An embarrassed flush blooms over Dennis’s cheeks, mixing with the previous fever pink tint and making him look even more overheated than he previously had. 

“So… shall we?” He gestures towards the ambulance bay doors, silently cursing himself for saying ‘shall we’ to his attending; he hasn’t even entered the ED yet and he’s already proven himself socially incompetent. 

“We shall.” Jack juts his chin towards the doors, a small movement, but one that Dennis reads clearly enough as a prompt for him to enter first. 

The chaos of the ED hits Dennis all at once, sending a surge of adrenaline through his body the second he steps inside. As always, there’s a chorus of medical equipment beeping, blaring, and ringing, but that’s just the undercurrent to the swell of shouting. Everyone is working over one another, weaving around gurneys with clusters of doctors and nurses working to the MVC patients– at least, those who have already arrived. 

Across the room, Dennis catches a glimpse of Trinity performing CPR on a seemingly unresponsive patient, but he doesn’t have the time to give her a second thought. Jack’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing firm before he disappears into the mess of medical professionals. 

Dennis joins the frey too, his body’s autopilot winning over his brain’s fever muddled antics. He jumps onto a case with McKay– a 25 year old male, responsive at the scene, car shrapnel penetrating the chest, broken ribs from the crash’s impact, lung sliding on the left. The patient crashes twenty minutes into treatment; Dennis reclaims his title as the ED’s resident LUCAS machine. 

Robby swoops into the patients room just as they get the patient back, his pulse thready but present. “Who’s this?” He asks, already slipping a pair of gloves over his hands as he approaches the patient’s bedside. His eyes flick from the patient’s vitals, over their chest and abdomen, to McKay, and then to Dennis. It’s only when his gaze reaches the younger doctor that he falters– not from the protruding foreign body in the patient’s chest, nor the blood soaked sheets, but rather the sight of Whitaker sweat soaked and swaying beside the patient’s bed. 

“Marcus Haynes. 25,” McKay rattles off the patient’s known demographics before diving into his physical traumas, symptoms, and treatment. Robby’s hands work their way over the patient’s torso, carrying out an exam as if by instinct as he listens. 

“Good. Page surgery again.” Robby peels off his gloves with a snap. “Tell them it’s urgent. This patient can’t afford to wait for their hour-long stroll down the stairwell.”

The sharp sound of the gloves breaks through Dennis’s reverie. He had been standing idly by, barely cognizant of McKay’s words in the wake of exerting himself to perform CPR. Beads of sweat slip down the center of his back, pooling above the waistband of his scrub pants and slowly seeping into the fabric. Sweat collects on his face too, threatening to form full drops and roll over his flushed cheeks; he swipes absentmindedly at his forehead before they can reach that point. 

“Whitaker. You alright?” 

Dennis looks towards Robby, nodding belatedly. “Yeah.” Another nod. “Yes, I’m good.” 

The attending pauses, eyebrows raised as he watches Dennis wipe his forehead again. “Alright. You’re with me then. Another rig is four minutes out.”

Dennis nods once more, trying to ignore the evergrowing sinking sensation in his stomach. Whatever spurt of adrenaline had carried him through the first patient has left him high and dry– or, rather, feverish and sweat soaked. He follows Robby towards the ambulance bay, weaving through the crowd with much less coordination than necessary. He bumps into at least three people on the way, nearly trips over his own feet, and lets his hip collide with a passing gurney. If he was in a contest for socially and professionally inadequate doctors, he’d win by a long shot, he’s sure of it. 

By some miracle, he manages to make it to the ambulance bay without completely humiliating himself. He didn’t faceplant in front of the nurses station, at the very least. Plus, the air is cooler outside, fresher, less suffocatingly sterile. As the automatic doors slip shut behind him and Robby, they leave a pleasant quietness in their wake. Sure, the sounds of ambulance sirens are ebbing closer with every passing second, bringing with them the promise of more chaos, but at least there’s a pleasant breeze, right?

“So, called in on your day off, huh?” Robby’s tone is conversational, but his eyes narrow as they take in Dennis’s appearance. 

“Yeah, I guess so– er, well, I know so. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, obviously.” 

     10. Making conversation with my boss while feverish cursed

Robby’s eyes soften slightly, a fondness easing his evident concern; he’s always enjoyed how easily Dennis blushes. 

“Hopefully you’re not here for too long. Except I can’t make any promises, these–”

“kzXCHh!” 

The sneeze takes the two doctors equally by surprise– Robby at having been interrupted and Dennis at having absolutely no warning for the expulsion. He raises a hand to his face, catching the second, “isXSch’ew!” against his wrist. 

“shifts tend to––,” Robby resumes, continuing his sentence in the brief gap before another “h’txCh–itSch!” double gets muffled by Dennis’s sleeve. 

“–drag on much longer when our systems get bogged down,” this time, Robby pauses his speech rather than being interrupted, allowing just enough time for Dennis to hitch twice and sneeze another fittish triple, “hih’hhH–ksxch’sch’tzch!”

“But for all we know,” Robby stretches his arms above his head, though his eyes remain trained on Dennis, “we might both make it home in time for dinner.”

Dennis buries his nose in his elbow, once again wishing he’d worn an undershirt beneath his scrubs as he feels a bead of moisture press to his skin. He waits, the tickle dancing just beyond his reach, enough to make his breath hitch and eyes water, but not enough to heighten the sensation into anything more than irritation. 

Dennis teeters on the edge, remaining tucked in the same position as he waits. He can feel Robby’s gaze on him and it makes his cheeks flush a darker shade of pink. 

Finally, his breath snags in something more than just a breathless gasp, spurring a light cough and then a half-stifled, “h’gtch!” He hadn’t intended on stifling, but the sneeze gets caught behind the wall of congestion solidifying in his nose. The following sneeze makes more of an effort to escape, but it still gets stuck behind his teeth, failing into a breathy, soft end: “ig’ksst!”  

Unsatisfied with the unexpelled half-sneezes, he shakes his head lightly– a bad idea in retrospect, it does nothing more than make him dizzy. Then, his head bobs forwards with a final vocal, “ik’tSSHh-ue!” that leaves the crook of his elbow dusted with a light spray. 

Dennis gives an involuntary sniffle afterwards, the pent up congestion now threatening to run over his lip like some post-fit humiliation ritual. 

    11. Sneezing in front of my boss

“You done?” Robby’s voice falls somewhere between amused, endeared, and concerned– not upset though, miraculously. Dennis nods and emerges from his elbow, remembering the crumpled excuse of a tissue he has shoved in his pocket from this morning and fumbling to retrieve it. “Bless you.”

     12. Being blessed by my boss

“Thangk you.”

The tissue does a poor job at cleaning him up. Already crumpled from inhabiting his pocket, its structural integrity isn’t nearly as strong as he needs it to be. He resorts to half sniffling, half wiping his nose with his body turned away from Robby as the sirens draw nearer. 

Robby watches, mentally toeing between the ideas of pointing out Dennis’s illness or giving him the benefit of the doubt– although it’s becoming evident to him that the younger doctor doesn’t know when to call it quits. “So,” he begins, but he’s interrupted. He’d underestimated how close the ambulance was to the bay; he’s been at the pitt long enough to be able to identify when a rig is going to pull up to the second, but he’s been uncharacteristically distracted. 

The sirens’ sound grows tenfold as they approach at haphazard speeds, spinning around Dennis’s head as he stares loosely in the direction of the ambulance. He shoves his sodden tissue unceremoniously back into his pocket and finds a pair of gloves held just before his eyeline. With a quick nod of thanks to Robby– a disjointed, slow jerk of his head– he accepts them and starts fumbling to pull them over his clammy hands. 

“What’ve we got?” Robby snaps into action, meeting the paramedics at the rig’s back door and immediately beginning his examination of the patient. Dennis tries to keep up, rushing to follow Robby’s lead and nearly bumping straight into his back in the process. Smooth, Dennis, he mentally chides. 

“50 year old female. She was an unrestrained passenger in the vehicle when–” 

Dennis prays that his adrenaline will take the reins again, silently willing his body to listen, to move, to attend to his surroundings, and to practice medicine– easy, right? 

“Dana, we need a room!” Robby calls across the ED once they make it past the entrance, his hands already carrying out a partial exam. 

“Trauma Two’s open!” Dana bellows back. As always, she’s working in the center of the chaos, acting as the pillar that keeps the whole damn place upright. 

“Alright. Whitaker, you’re with me,” Robby casts a quick glance around, “McKay! Javadi” 

The resident and student doctor join them in the trauma room at record speed, immediately getting the patient’s run-down, which, admittedly, was helpful for Dennis to hear again. A portable ultrasound is shoved into his hand, his other clutching loosely at a bottle of gel– when had he grabbed that?– “Dennis!” Javadi whispers, giving his elbow a slight nudge and snapping him out of his reverie. 

“Right– uh. Checking for lung sliding,” he spurs into action, his medical knowledge still miraculously intact despite his growing fever. “No lung sliding on the left,” he reports as the other doctors attend to Robby’s instructions, “the right’s clear too. Checking the abdomen next.” 

Robby steps back, allowing Dennis to take his place by the patient’s abdomen and position himself for the ultrasound. The room swirls around him for just a moment, its white walls blurring into a bright haze that forces Dennis to blink a few times to right his vision. One of Robby’s hands settles on his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

As distracting as Robby’s touch can be, it brings Dennis back to his body for a moment, back to the fact that he’s actively treating a patient. “Uh– the gel’s a bit cold, sorry,” he announces to the (unconscious) patient out of habit as he begins the ultrasound. McKay and Javadi exchange a look of concern. 

Dennis glides the ultrasound wand across the patient’s stomach, eyes straining to focus on the screen, “there’s free fluid in the belly.” That gets Robby’s attention immediately. He peers at the screen, reaching over to adjust Dennis’s hand ever so slightly before nodding. 

“Yep. It looks like a splenic injury. Javadi, what are our next steps?”

Dennis stares downwards, watching as Robby’s hand once again steers his own to get a different angle. He shouldn’t need help with an ultrasound, but his hand melts under Robby’s, suddenly incapable of moving without guidance. A tingling sensation pools in the tips of his fingers, and Dennis is unable to decipher if it’s from the fact that Robby’s hand is dwarfing his or if it's from the dizziness tugging at his consciousness. 

Another nudge to his elbow– harder this time– makes Dennis jerk his head upright. All three of the doctors have their eyes trained on him, so he sputters out a quiet, “sorry!” 

Before anyone can acknowledge Dennis’s behavior, Mohan opens the door in a rush, “Robby! We need you in Trauma One!” and with that, the attending is gone and McKay takes the lead. 

Luckily, she knows to delegate most of the tasks to Javadi, giving Dennis simpler instructions and double checking his work. Within thirty minutes, the patient is stable and awaiting surgery, and he’s off the case. 

Within the same thirty minute period, however, his symptoms start hitting him over the head like bricks one after the other: dizziness, headache (which makes the dizziness worse), congestion (which makes the headache worse), and body aches (which make the whole damn day worse). 

    13. Worsening symptoms of my cold curse

As Dennis finally steps out of Trauma Two, he’s met with a resurgence of the pitt’s chaos. More rigs have arrived since he’d last been in the bay, bringing with them emergent patients, some of whom were overflowing into the main halls. 

His eyes flick from patient to patient, his brain lagging as he tries to deduce who to help first. The decision is made for him when Abbot spots him standing idly by, “Whitaker!”

Dennis crosses the sea of gurneys, nurses, and doctors to where Abbot is treating a tearful patient. 

“She has an anterior shoulder dislocation. You’re going to help me reduce it,” Abbot instructs, eyes narrowing as he meets Dennis’s gaze, “got it?”

Dennis nods, looking over the patient's dislocation before recounting, “there’s skin tenting, most likely due to a bone fracture, so… traction-counteraction is needed. Then we can treat the break after.”

Abbot gives Dennis a onceover before bracing himself by the patient’s head and getting into position. “You’re going to provide counteraction. Make sure you’ve got a sturdy stance.” 

He tsks at Dennis, tilting his head to the side and gesturing with a nod of his head for Dennis to shift. “Spread your legs wider. Your feet shouldn’t be aligned with your hips.” 

Dennis adjusts, earning a nod of approval as he tries desperately not to think about the way Jack’s voice had sounded when he instructed him to spread his legs; fever or not, his attraction to his attending persists. 

The reduction itself goes relatively smoothly all things considered, but it seems to zap Dennis’s remaining energy. Sweat is still dripping down his back and pooling in his scrubs, and he’s certain that the pitt has never been hotter. He swipes his wrist across his forehead, collecting an embarrassing amount of sweat and wiping it against his scrubs– thank God they’re dark. He doesn’t need everyone to know just how incapable his body is at regulating its temperature right now. 

To make things worse, Dennis’s sinuses prickle angrily as he inhales, enough to make his eyes water. The sensation takes root in the left side of his nose, worsening with the next inhale, which stutters halfway through and falls into a fluttering exhale. Still standing by the patient’s bedside next to Dr Abbot, Dennis stalls; his feet plant themselves stubbornly in place, refusing to move until the itch is attended to. Two soft hitches build on one another and Dennis presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. 

He can feel his brows knitting together, eyes slipping shut just as the third and fourth hitches make it past his lips. The final hitch is determined, filling his chest with its inhale. Nose buried in his elbow, Dennis shudders with a congested stifle, “n’kGXt!” 

His head bobs down hard and quick, the action unplanting his feet and causing him to stumble towards Jack a few steps. The attending’s hands land on Dennis’s sides, bracing him with a surprised, “Jesus, kid.”

Dennis leans into the touch, his body overwhelmed by– “hn’gxXt!”– the itch that’s now searing through his sinuses, having traveled from just the left side to what feels like his entire nose– “ih’ngXCch!” 

By instinct, Dennis tries to stifle, but his attempts just worsen his body’s need to expel the cold from its system, resulting in a quick gasp and then a cluster of sneezes that tumble out over one another, “ig’ksSst! ngXch-ksch!iih’ksSCHh! kK’tTsSCHhy’w!”

The fit leaves Dennis panting, dizzy, and with his nose running into the crevice of his elbow. He keeps his head bowed and hidden, but an embarrassed blush reddens his ears and neck. 

“Bl–” Jack begins, but Dennis cuts him off with a belated, “t’sSXch’ehw!” to which an older man raises an eyebrow. Abbot hesitates for a second, letting any final sneezes make themselves known before attempting to bless the younger doctor again. 

“Bless. You trying to set a record or something?” 

“No, I’m— sorry. I’m nodt—,” Whitaker begins, words falling from his mouth without any real coherence. The itch lingers in the back of his throat, each word egging it on until, “hnGjXch! S-hihh’iSZSHh!—sorry!” 

A liquid sniffle follows Dennis’s apology, and he shoves his free hand into his pocket in a vain hope that it would contain a tissue. No such luck. He sniffles a second time, then a third, his nose still tucked into the crook of his elbow. Luckily, the sniffles are lost to the chaos of the ED, stamped out by sounds of medical machinery and a chorus of voices. 

Dennis pointedly avoids Jack’s gaze, his eyes skirting around for the nearest exit from the overcrowded room. He can feel the attending’s hands over his scrubs, bracing him with a sturdiness that he desperately needs. 

The nurses station is crowded as ever, as is the rest of the pitt. An overflow of patient beds lines the hallways, blocking the exit nearest to Dennis. Fine, that’s fine. He just has to cross by South 15, pass the breakroom, and take a few minutes in the stairwell by the family room. 

“Sorry,” Dennis offers again, his brain churning out the same useless apology as it works through the molasses clouding his judgement. 

“Whitaker.” Jack’s hold on Dennis’s waist continues, his grip growing firmer as the student doctor takes a step forward. 

Dennis’s fever-addled brain miscalculates. Lifting just a few inches off the ground, his foot collides clumsily with Abbot’s sneaker, missing the ground entirely and instead landing on the toe of his prosthetic. 

Fumbling to find his footing, Dennis feels the room spin as he tries to lift his leg again; the limb shifts off of Jack’s foot, landing on solid ground by some miracle. 

The heat that’s been sitting dormant beneath Dennis’s skin now sears to the forefront of his mind, blurring his vision. His body practically wilts: legs shaking, posture slumping, and head swimming. 

Oh. Shit. 

He just barely registers, “Alright kid, stay with me. You’re alright.” 

Dennis tries to nod, to get his tongue to do anything more than sit like a rock in his mouth. He wants to agree– yes, I am alright– but all he manages is another whispered apology as he slumps further towards Abbot. 

“Fuck!” Jack hooks his arms beneath Dennis’s, keeping the younger— surprisingly buff— doctor upright. He barks, “Robby!!” as he casts a glance over his shoulder, catching his fellow attending in his line of sight. 

that's all for now ~ any and all comments/tags are appreciated :) thank you for reading!

“Usually they do,” Megumi says coolly. “But I haven’t actually been inside tonight.”

Okkotsu laughs faintly and says, “Oh, sure, I guess that makes sense.”

“Ieri-san’s condo gives Megumi a really hard time until he leaves,” Yuji says, which makes Megumi wonder what he’d told Okkotsu for him to know about the issue in the first place. Obviously not a lot. He takes Megumi by the waist, affectionately squeezing him closer. “But you’re still kinda sneezy for a few hours until we can go home and change, so usually we just stay out here to be safe.”

“Wow, I had no idea it was that bad,” Okkotsu says. He looks Megumi up and down, probably without meaning to, and then jumps like he’s startled himself. “Oh, should I move further away? I might have fur on my clothes.”

“It’s fine,” Megumi says quickly. He doesn’t know whether that’s true or not; he’s never spent much time with any cat owners aside from Ieri, who works in a sterile environment. He regrets his deflection instantly because Okkotsu is not the person he’d want to be with when he finds out. “Have you not interacted with cats much before?”

Self-consciously, Okkotsu smiles.

“Not really,” he says. “I mean… Animals mostly avoided me, when Rika’s curse first showed up? She probably scared them. And ever since I got it under control, I’ve been too busy with work to spend time with anyone’s pets.”

“Damn,” Yuji says. “That’s sad. And now you don’t even get to enjoy them, huh?”

He’s so cute. Megumi distances himself from his own stupid mind.

“They’re less skittish than you’d think,” Megumi says, because maybe that’ll help Okkotsu feel better. Cats, like many creatures, are sorely misunderstood. Megumi doesn’t ruminate on what he’s missing out on by being made incompatible with them, because bumming out wouldn’t change anything. “But either way, it’s probably best not to get too close.”

“I’m trying to remember if I was allergic before or not,” Okkotsu replies, looking up and off to the side contemplatively.

Yuji nods sadly and then rests his arm on Megumi’s shoulder while Okkotsu sniffles madly and resumes pushing his features around. 

“Megumi sounded pretty much like you do the first time we came over,” he discloses. “Only he knew why and we were able to leave earlier, so maybe you’re even more allergic than him. Does it work like that?”

“Depends,” Megumi says. “You didn’t touch them or anything, right? Ieri’s cats aren’t really friendly.”

“No, I got to pet one!” Okkotsu says. “But she said the same thing, that they don’t really like people.”

“Was it the white one?” Yuji asks. “He let me give him a treat once.”

“No.” Okkotsu shakes his head, nostrils flaring as he sniffles. “It was that curly one, with the big ears?”

“Whoa,” Yuji says. He moves his arm out so it’s wrapped around Megumi’s shoulders. “I’ve never seen him. How many does she have again?”

“Five,” Megumi says.

“Five cats…” Okkotsu murmurs before sniffling again. “No wonder you don’t feel well, Fushiguro-kun. Do they just make you sneeze, or is it something else?”

“Uh. Yeah,” is all he can manage to say. What a question.

“Like, a lot,” Yuji adds. “But you don’t really stick around to see if it gets worse than that, right?”

Absolutely not. Why would he?

“No. I’ve never had a reason to.”

Yuji hums ominously, like he’s thinking some more about it. “You did get a sinus headache that one time.”

“Mmm, I hate those,” sympathizes Okkotsu. He rubs his eyes and then the space on his forehead above them, as though he’s developing a headache just by thinking about it. “I used to be able to sleep them off, but it’s hard when you can’t really lie down all the way.”

“Damn. That sucks,” Yuji says in all his earnest charm. “Sometimes you can tell when it’s coming on because these shadows show up right around, like—”

He traces Megumi’s face with his index finger, right above his cheekbone and toward the outer bridge of his nose.

“Uh-huh, me too. Toge points mine out sometimes. They get really bad,” Okkotsu says. He rub-wipes his nose on his shoulder as he reaches for his phone, sniffling as he unlocks the screen. “I’ll let him know I’m out here now. I think he was stalled trying to figure out a way to get Panda through the lobby without Maki having to carry him.”

The topic sticks. Somehow, they figure out the Panda situation like they always do, and Inumaki is able to surprise them with his entrance to the balcony being through a hidden stairway that even Ieri and Iori didn’t know about. He explains that he’d done it to avoid walking through the apartment and risking attracting wayward tufts of cat fur with the static on his clothes.

It doesn’t seem to have done much to help his boyfriend, but the secret door was at least interesting, so his detour wasn’t all for naught.

Intermittently, Megumi – and everyone else at the party, both inside and out – can hear Okkotsu sneezing for the entirety of the evening, regardless of his cleansing exposure to the inner city’s particulated version of fresh air. He and Inumaki leave on time with all their friends when the night closes out, but Megumi is distracted by the vestiges of their shared predicament for the rest of the week.

📕📖👜☕️🕯️🏪📚

The thrift market trip is a disaster, despite its halfway-organized, cluttered aisles of bookshelves creating a perfect maze of secluded corners for Megumi to occupy as he rides out the relentless ambush of a long-winded sneezing fit.

He can tell it’s coming shortly after he walks into the store, once their group has split up for the afternoon. Yuji had taken off with Inumaki toward an arcade down the street, and Megumi chose to follow Maki’s route through the bookstore to help her find a half-birthday gift for her sister, who doesn’t even enjoy reading. Kugisaki came along because Maki was going, and Okkotsu followed because he isn’t very good at video games and had never seen a novelty bookshop before.

Okkotsu has also never seen one of Megumi’s allergic reactions before, and Megumi will be damned if he can’t keep it that way.

They happen acutely enough for him to be able to recognize all of the unique tells, despite not having much practice. For the most part, Megumi is good at keeping himself away from places that might trigger them. As long as he stays in the city and doesn’t hang out in any pet stores, it’s hardly a concern at all.

But life can be unpredictable in all the worst ways, and unfortunately, today’s scandal is a mark on its tally.

A high stack of thick hardcovers and sturdy shelves of requisitioned war journals make up his deliberate fortress of both privacy and alibi when the first couple of sneezes hit. Megumi knows better by now than to try and delay the impulse, and the dryness in his eyes and crawling in his sinuses provide enough warning to get away from everyone else before the episode could actually begin.

Quietly, Megumi inhales twice and pulls up his collar. Nobody is around to see him, but covering his face makes the whole ordeal feel safer. It comes on fast and blunt with barely a breath between – “hh’tsch! ht’TSch!” – and then brings a tense pause before an unexpectedly cleansing third: “ehGHshh’uh!”

The itch begins to recede. It’s strange, but he doesn’t need to sneeze again. Perhaps Megumi’s recent conversation with Okkotsu had darkened his memory, exaggerating his expectation of how dependable his allergy is in its severity. He hopes so. The vastness of the space might be helping, even if its abundance of merchandise is excessive enough to make him claustrophobic.

Who knows. The store could also just be dusty.

Either way, Megumi relaxes with nothing to worry about aside from the dregs of a runny nose. It’s negligible enough for him to sniffle a couple of times and get rid of it, returning to his search for something compelling to read on the train ride home and then leave in a donation bin once it’s finished.

Absently, he wonders whether the others are having any luck navigating the collection. Megumi is used to hunting for books in places like this, but he doesn’t think anybody else has the patience nor the interest for it. He keeps his ears open in case somebody needs help, and browses two more sections before the urge to sneeze advances on him quickly.

This time, there’s less opportunity for discretion. The travel anthologies around him are closer to the middle of the store, with empty aisles to act as hallways on either side. He barely has time to get his wrist in front of his face before he’s flinching softly and clenching his teeth.

“dtSHh! hh’dzsh’u! – DZshh’iu!” Unlike earlier, a just three doesn’ it. He presses down harder underneath his nose anyway. “iht-GKssh’ih!”

He holds his breath, frozen as he waits, and resists the curious and embarrassed part of him the wants to look and see whether anyone is around to say something. It shouldn’t be such a big deal, but Megumi sometimes wonders whether he’d be this adverse to sneezing in front of others if his tastes were less peculiar.

With the urge finally dimming, Megumi is safe to move. He doesn’t have much of a choice in cleanup aside from the cuff of his sleeve, but there isn’t much to manage, so he just deals with it. The fabric of his sweatshirt is dark enough to camouflage the damages.

As his time spent in the center continues, so does the growth of whatever irritation Megumi’s body is pressuring him to scratch away. He keeps his hands away from his eyes as much as possible despite the dry sting above his lashline, and he doesn’t tempt himself by rubbing his nose too many times against the flexible, canvassy cotton covering his wrist when he sneezes against it.

But the opportunity comes regardless. Again, and again, and again.

He gets two in a row among a corner aisle of secondhand paperbacks: “TSsh! hd’tssh!” and a beat before the next set. “ht’CHsh’u! CHhsh’u!”

And only a few minutes to catch his breath until he exits the aisle, and then: “htt’CHsh! tssh’iu! –tz’shyiu!”

…Followed by a break that exchanges the sneezing for a watery, trickling itch that feels torturous but appears tolerable, because it’s not so bad that he can’t keep his face under control. It’s almost serene in the way things seem to be calming down.

However, Megumi’s reprieve lasts all of ten minutes. Maybe fifteen, if he doesn’t count the slow creep of intensity blooming right around his nose, his eyes, the roof of his mouth. Without any other choice, he resumes sneezing in a section spotlighting geographical references. 

Twice at first, itchy and underwhelming: “kdT’ssh’u! ehKzsh’u!”

Three more a moment later, when he’s bending down to return a magazine that was written in the wrong language: “tzsh! ihTZshh! hh’IHtsh’iu!” And then two into his shoulder, right after he stands up. “htShh’u! NdTshh’iu!”

And again, before he exits the aisle, right in front of…

“hhH-TZssh’yu!”

“What’s your deal?”

…In front of Maki. Great.

“Nothing,” he says. Speaking for the first time since this began reveals to Megumi that his voice has become polluted with congestion. “I’m fine.”

On second thought, better Maki than Kugisaki or Okkotsu, god forbid. At least she’s blunt and on an unrelated mission and generally uninterested in whatever is going on with him in general. She’d offered him her own brusque version of Are you okay? and will probably leave him alone now that it’s been addressed and she’s too busy to tease him.

“Yeah, real fine,” she replies, and luckily she doesn’t fuss or argue. With her head held high, Maki stalks off somewhere else and Megumi wanders in the other direction.

By now, he’s able to commit to knowing that whatever is setting him off has been around for a while and isn’t going to disappear. A cat in a store this big would be ridiculous, but it makes more sense than anything else. The culprit is unlikely to be any sort of plant, given the environment and Megumi’s history. Okkotsu is particularly sensitive to pollen, and they’d all be able to hear it if he were having problems.

He cuts his mind off instantly. That thought is off-limits.

As is thinking about Okkotsu at all today, with his head already scratchy and swimming.

So it only makes sense that Megumi would run into him next, in a wide corner section with a sitting area, where he’s busy being involuntarily bullied into scratching that damned itch.

“het’TZshiu! TZSsh’iu! …huhhIHZsh’iuh!” They’re getting rougher now, more insistent, and making him take longer, less predictable breaths in between. “hhH! –huhKdTsheu!”

What’s worse is that Okkotsu startles him with the kind of statement that has Megumi’s blood pressure swerving so quickly that it makes him dizzy.

“Fushiguro-kun!” he says brightly, if not too loud for a bookstore. “I wondered if that was you sneezing back here. Are you alright?”

This has never happened before. It’s already too much, not only because Okkotsu had referred to Megumi sneezing specifically – and could hear him the entire time, after all – but because he’s already being so nice about something so objectively unflattering.

“Hey,” Megumi answers. Unlike with Maki, he can’t bother lying, not just because it feels discrediting after what happened before but also because there wouldn’t be any point. He’s not going to stop, so he needs to fess up. “Yeah, fine. Just something in the air.”

“Oh, do you know what it is?” asks Okkotsu innocently.

“Not sure,” Megumi says. He’s probably starting to look as bad as he feels, which actually isn’t too awful – just annoyed and confused. And itchy, and mortified, with those telltale shiners under his eyes that Yuji was talking about the other night. He might not actually mind any of it so much if he were by himself, or behind a locked door with Yuji and a bed. But that’s not at all what’s happening right now.

Instead, he’s an hour’s train ride away from home among both strangers and friends, one of whom is interested in why Megumi can’t seem to stop sneezing and has unintentionally cornered him to talk about it with excruciatingly endearing, characteristically genuine concern.

With all of his might, Megumi compartmentalizes himself wire by wire and entertains the mystery with prompting from one of the hottest people he’s ever met.

“Probably dander in the furniture or the vents,” he says. “Nothing else has ever gotten to me like this.”

And honestly, Megumi is curious too. If his problem is with something else, then he wants to be able to avoid it in the future.

As though it would be visibly floating through the air, Okkotsu looks into the space around them. Not on any upholstery to check for fur and not on the floor for any traces of animal activity. He’s cute. Megumi can’t handle him.

“That’s strange, isn’t it? I feel okay,” he reports. Then, his expression changes as he appears to check himself, wrinkling and twitching his nose to make sure. “Yeah, that’s weird.”

There are a lot of things Megumi could say to that. Allergies exist on a spectrum, for one, and it’s especially true when it comes to cats in particular. There are certain breeds, colors, and proteins at play that bring out stronger responses in different people. 

But Okkotsu does have a point. The protein that makes him sneeze is incredibly sticky, and cats shed it in abundance. If the airflow is poor enough, the stuff is going to be impossible to avoid. Okkotsu could have even been allergic to something else in Ieri’s home, or uniquely sensitive to her animals for some reason. It’s easy to theorize, but hard to say for sure.

Allergies as a whole can be fickle. Perhaps that’s the best way to sum it up.

“ht-TZsh!” But he’s teaching by example instead. It comes on so suddenly that Megumi can only direct it into his shoulder, with his profile in plain view before he gets his hand up to shield Okkotsu from the rest. “tssh’iu! hh’KZssh’iu!”

Patiently, Okkotsu waits for Megumi to give some sort of signal that he’s finished.

“Uh. Sorry,” is what he offers, and he needs to sniffle before he can drop his hand and face Okkotsu again. They barely make eye contact before he’s turning back for an encore into his arm, pointedly targeting the yearning itch. “heh-hh’izssh’yiuh!”

“Oh, wow,” Okkotsu says. It’s refreshingly crude. “Maybe you’re getting a cold?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Megumi says very, very calmly. There’s quite a lot packed into everything he just heard, echoing through his mind and stamping itself on the walls of his skull. He needs to push through the heat if he wants to focus. 

“You might need some air, then,” Okkotsu suggests. “That always helps, doesn’t it? Do you want me to go outside with you?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Megumi says, referring to the first part and flustered by the latter. And by Okkotsu’s commitment to helping him with this. “I’m alright. You don’t have to chaperone.”

“I don’t mind! I think I’m done looking around,” Okkotsu says. “Maki is kinda taking forever.”

“I wonder what’s holding them up,” Megumi agrees. 

He’s actually surprised they’re still here. The objective of her trip was to find something her sister wouldn’t like but couldn’t write off as a gag gift. Mai has specific tastes, and Kugisaki is adept at finding ways to upset her – as a team, the two of them shouldn’t have had any delays.

Unless there had been a distraction. And with Kugisaki involved, Megumi is sure to get an earful about it.

“Maki! Maki, come look! He just rolled over!”

Sooner rather than later, apparently.

Okkotsu looks to Megumi and says, “What do you think that’s about?”

Megumi starts following in the direction of her voice and says, “Pretty sure I have an idea.”

When they reach an area near the front counter, Okkotsu’s stride has caught him up with Megumi and then some. Megumi can see Okkotsu’s gaze beeline for a spare countertop where Kugisaki is crouched with her lips pursed affectionately, scratching the tawny patterned coat of a housecat.

“Watch what he does!” she commands of her wary girlfriend, then holds her phone in the air horizontally, swinging its attached fashion charm above the animal’s head. He waves a paw to swipe at it, and when Kugisaki pulls the charm up higher, the cat flips rightside-up and lowers its shoulders in preparation to pounce.

With a dry grin, Maki says, “Huh. Dude’s vicious.”

“Haha! Gotcha!” Kugisaki replies triumphantly when she lifts the toy even further into the air, too high for her new friend to reach. The cat swipes at her next without actually touching her skin, and Kugisaki resumes the game, wiggling the charm near his face like before. 

Kugisaki looks up at Maki to make sure she’s watching. They’re effectively lost in each other; neither of them have noticed that anyone else has entered the scene.

Meanwhile, Okkotsu is lost in the scene itself. His eyes are wide with wonder, gaze bouncing back and forth as the cat tries over and over to capture a little plastic bear on a string.

“Just like in the jungle,” is Okkotsu’s enchanted remark. Yuji had been right; it is sad to think that Okkotsu has had such little interaction with animals that he’s never seen a domesticated cat at play before.

What’s even sadder is the way he lifts his hand and gently reaches out, then quickly bundles his fingers into a fist and stuffs it in his pocket. Megumi can’t blame him.

After a second, Okkotsu whispers something else to himself, then turns his head to look at Megumi as he pulls his hand back out.

“I forgot I had these,” he says, extending a half-empty packet of tissues with a game store logo on them. “Maki gave them to me a while ago. Do you want them?”

Dwelling on a person’s word choice isn’t always helpful, but Megumi can’t help feeling a sharp warmth at Okkotsu giving him the whole thing instead of just one. Or Okkotsu carrying them around in the first place, and admitting to having needed them himself recently. Desperately, Megumi wishes he had a place to escape to and let his mind wander somewhere filthy and dark.

“Thanks,” Megumi says, and when he accepts the tissues he realizes that means he has to use one in front of Okkotsu, lest he seem ungrateful or render the entire situation null. That’s fine. It’s not like he hasn’t needed to blow his nose for at least twenty minutes.

He has the sheet halfway to his face when Maki finally picks up on their presence, presumably having heard her own name. She takes a second to process the situation, and then exhibits an ominous smirk.

“Ah. That’s why you’re so worked up,” she says, angling her head toward Kugisaki’s new best friend. “This guy bothering you, Megumi?”

She really can’t help herself. Megumi steels his posture and lets Maki have her fun.

“What do you thhh-hihh–! think,” he says back, as dryly as he can manage. He puts the tissue – Okkotsu’s gift – to use, cupping it around his nose and mouth with one hand and twisting to the side. “hih’TSssh! tzSH’ih!”

Only for a second, he feels Maki patting his shoulder. 

“Alright,” she says, “we don’t need a demonstration. We’ll get going in a sec, I just need to check out.”

“Wait, what’s going on?” asks Kugisaki, now snapped out of her trance. When she unfolds to stand up, the cat jumps seamlessly onto the unoccupied counter so that she can continue to pet him. She looks at Megumi and says, “Whoa. What the hell happened to you?”

“It’s…” He waves her off, literally, and sneezes once more. “ihTZshh’uh!”

“Megumi’s allergic to cats,” Maki says. “Makes him sneeze like crazy. C’mon, let’s go to the register.”

“No way, for real?” Kugisaki sticks out her bottom lip and huffs. The hand she isn’t using to absently continue petting her friend is held out in anguish, meaning she’s going to keep the attention on Megumi, where it doesn’t belong. “How are we supposed to keep throwing parties?”

“Huh?” Maki prompts. “What do you mean ‘keep’?”

“This is why you have to stop keeping secrets from everyone, Fushiguro! How are you going to come over now?” Kugisaki gestures to the counter and says to Maki, “We have to get a cat ASAP, obviously.”

“What?” Maki says.

“It’s not a secret,” Megumi says.

Kugisaki ignores him, pointing to the cat with her eyes fixed on Maki. “We’re cat people. You love this one!”

Maki’s mouth twitches. “Do I?”

“Yes! Come on.” Kugisaki holds out her hand, prompting the cat to rub its face on her knuckles. “He’s so cool.”

While she doesn’t disagree, Maki’s veto continues. “We don’t have time for a pet.”

“You barely have to do anything! Cats are super easy. Our apartment is perfect for one, it has a little window he can sit on and everything.”

“Uh-huh. And what about Megumi?”

“Leave me out of this.”

“Yeah, don’t act like you care about him all of a sudden. Oh, what if we get our cat a cute little swing to sit on and watch the birds? And we can feed him treats and train him to catch bugs and other stuff.”

“I wonder if that’s why they brought them in here,” Maki muses, hand on her hip as she moves her head to look around, presumably checking for signs of other pets at work. That would make sense. “To keep mice from getting in and chewing through the pages.”

“No,” Kugisaki says, pitching her tone up round and high. “They do it because they’re so cute! It makes people want to stay!”

“That’s not a good business model. Nobody would buy books they’ve already read in the store.”

While Kugisaki continues fawning and Maki tries to keep the obvious, incriminating fondness from showing on her face, Megumi apprehensively checks on Okkotsu.

Just like before, he’s showing no signs of distress in any place but his eyes, which hold something that looks like an unfortunate heap of yearning. Megumi made peace with this restriction long ago, which wasn’t so bad given his inheritance of inorganic animals that he’s tried to be careful about perceiving as pets. But Okkotsu is new to a lot of things, and there’s a frustrating, embarrassing sorrow that comes with one’s own body forbidding engagement with something nice.

It doesn’t help that Okkotsu enjoys interacting with new things. Megumi takes pity on the both of them.

“Still doing okay?” he asks, and Okkotsu nods without looking away.

“I think so,” he answers. He moves his eyes from the cat to Kugisaki and bravely says, “Can I pet him?”

“Yes!” she says, beckoning Okkotsu over with her fingers, then demonstrates the same thing down toward the counter. “Watch: you go like this. Wait— You aren’t allergic, are you?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, stepping over and holding his hand out. “I thought I was, but I’ve been okay so far. I think this might be worth it even if I am.”

“Just don’t go touching your face,” Maki warns. “Last thing we need’s the both of you pulling a Megumi the whole way back.”

“Hmm, okay,” Okkotsu says, although keeping something he’s intentionally coated in dander off of his eyes and nose hadn’t occurred to him.

“You don’t have to say it like that,” Megumi adds in protest.

“Yeah, it’s not Fushiguro-kun’s fault. But still…” Okkotsu smiles with his chin up and teeth out. “Thanks for looking out for everyone, Maki.”

Megumi is fairly sure Okkotsu had said that just to piss her off, perhaps even gallantly to get back at her for teasing. He sighs and resists dwelling.

some background on the au: g/ojo is the student at the uni studying astrophysics (and playing basketball) but his fam (g/ojo clan) is the most rich and powerful fam in japan and is very judgmental and hard on him, and expects him to take over the fam business when he graduates (point of contention in the story is he rlly doesn’t want to but struggles to stand up for himself- aka he might seem ooc at times). ge/to is his philosophy professor. he’s very respected and adored by all the staff and most female students but he’s v stoic and keeps to himself, g/ojo decides to flirt w him as a joke and thus begins the slow burn…

ok srry for the info dump, let’s begin now !

Suguru Geto enjoyed office hours. He had been teaching for 6 years now, and it had always been a highlight getting to work with his students more closely on the material he was so passionate about. It truly made the extra work hours fly by.

However, there was not a single uni-relatedly thought in his head as he gazed at the the beautiful white haired boy sitting behind his desk, leaned back in his chair, long legs perched lazily across the desktop.

Satoru Gojo was the most magnificent creature Suguru had ever laid his eyes on. It had been about 3 weeks since they’d started seeing each other officially, and only the third time Suguru had worked up the courage to invite him to “stay late.” Being in a closed room with Satoru made his hands get clammy and his stomach feel like fireworks at the summer festival. But at the same time he absolutely could not get enough.

Suguru peaked out the door, making sure the coast was clear, then slowly locked it before turning back to catch eyes with Satoru, who was already grinning mischievously at him.

“You’ve got me all alone,” he drawled, standing up and leaning over the desk, batting those long white eyelashes. “You nervous, Suguru?”

Suguru’s arms broke out in goosebumps hearing his first name, which was still a recent development. Since they’d hooked up a few times, it had been decided it seemed okay to drop the formalities. He hoped the sensation never went away, the way each syllable dripped out of Satoru’s mouth like honey.

“Mmmm,” Suguru mused, dropping down into his chair and looking up at him. “Yes. You should be too. We need to be careful.”

Satoru’s eyes sparkled as he settled back on the desktop, facing him. “Are you still coming to my basketball game tomorrow? The other team’s supposed to be crazy good.” He smirked. “But if I have your face to look at in the stands, I promise we’ll kick their ass.”

He started chattering on about how his parents wouldn’t let him go to the next few practices because of “a work thing,” so it would be a good time to come.

Suguru had come to learn quite quickly that the Gojo empire came before pretty much anything Satoru enjoyed. Of course, he didn’t feel comfortable commenting the full extent of these feelings yet. So he just let Satoru rant about them whenever he wanted—surely it was good for him to get these things off his chest.

However, as Satoru began exasperatingly explaining how his parents were trying to force him to go to a business cocktail party in two weeks, which he despised, Suguru noted the noise levels. He couldn’t help the way he can’t relax, knowing a few of his colleagues liked to stay late on Thursdays.

“Satoru, a little quieter, pleeeease. Not all the staff will have gone home yet.”

This stopped Satoru mid sentence, and suddenly his eyes were blue pools of mischief again. He leaned his face down to look at Suguru behind his glasses, and said, “Oh, Suguru, I’m afraid I’m gonna get a lot louder than this.”

Suguru felt his insides clench as heat pooled in his belly. Satoru’s glasses slipped down his nose as he started to slid off the desk, but suddenly his expression changed from ? to—panic?

His eyes widened, and he pulled off his glasses, placing them beside him on the desktop. All advances from a second ago stilled. His lips parted and he reached up to scrub at his nose with his wrist.

“S-Sorry, one sehh-sec…”

Satoru’s face broke into a flush as he rubbed and pinched at his nose, turning away so that Suguru wasn’t able to fully see his face.

Confused, Suguru stood up from the chair, moving forward and cupping Satoru’s cheek in his hand. Satoru’s eyes were so sensitive, it wasn’t unusual for something to bother them. “Are you alright? Did you get something in your eye?”

“N-N-No—I—I’m—“

Satoru’s eyes squeezed shut and Suguru saw his flushed lips part, his breath hitch in a pitchy gasp. He couldn’t finish the words before he lurched forward, slamming a wrist against the underside of his nose, his head bumping against Suguru’s chest as he curled inward. His body jerked once, twice, three times.

Suguru rested a hand on his back, alarmed, before he realized. “O-Oh. Bless—“

“Hh…xxgttt! nxxgtt!” Two more incredibly restrained sneezes, but not completely soundless this time. Satoru remained twisted forward, head resting against Suguru’s chest. He pressed three more silent stifles into his wrist. Suguru smiled, amused. He could feel the delicate white hair brushing against his chin as he breathed in the comforting scent of veryyy expensive shampoo.

“Heh! Ih’xxchu!” The last one was the loudest so far, but still incredibly stunted. Satoru let out a shakey breath and scooted backward, not looking up, and fumbled his hands around behind him. He grasped for a tissue from the box that was always sitting on Suguru’s desk and hurriedly cupped it around his nose.

Suguru stepped back to get a better look at him now that the fit had seemingly concluded. “Bless you,” he offered, surprised at his boyfriend’s obvious discomfort. He added teasingly, “When you said you’d get louder, that isn’t what I expected.”

The man who normally oozed confidence was now hiding his face behind a tissue, not meeting his eyes.

“T-Thanks. Sorry,” Satoru mumbled, blowing his nose quietly.

Suguru was once again stunned by this drastic shift in character. “Y-You’re apologizing? For sneezing?”

Satoru cringed at the words. “I guess I am. I’m…” he tossed the soaked tissue into the bin before grabbing another. “I know they’re annoying. Just ignore it.”

Suguru sat for a minute in stunned silence. As if he could read his questioning thoughts, Satoru blurted out, “M-My dad used to…tell me I needed to change them. The way I sneeze. He said I sounded like a little girl and he had a son, not a daughter.”

Suguru blinked. “I didn’t know there was an option to change the way you sneeze,” he replied with astonishment. Satoru’s parents were absolutely, mind-boggling ridiculous. He’d never heard of such a thing.

Satoru sighed and rolled his eyes, sliding his glasses back into position with a congested sniffle. “I tried for sooo long to make them sound…I don’t know, manlier? I can’t help it. Every time I sneeze, it’s like….five, six times….when I’m sick, it’s even worse,” he groaned. “When I’m sick I’ve hit fifteen. In one go.”

Suguru huffed a laugh and sat back into his chair. “So you’ve just resulted to making them silent then? Doesn’t that hurt?”

Satoru nodded, the blush returning to his cheeks. “But it’s better than hearing my dad bitching about a literal normal bodily function. He’s such a dick, it’s insane.” He sniffled again. “Now I just do it on instinct. Just in case.”

Suguru raised his eyebrows. He loved learning these new little details about Satoru, no matter how silly. “Well, you don’t need to do that around me. In fact, please don’t. I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

“I don’t even remember what it’s like to sneeze like a normal person,” Satoru laughed nervously. “It’s been so long.”

And just then an idea formed in Suguru’s mind, something that made him feel uncomfortably warm. He couldn’t really place what exactly about the idea excited him so much, but with Satoru, even the most mundane thing lit a fire in his belly. The kind of attraction that burned for every thing he did, no matter how small. So without really thinking about it, he said “I can help you?”

Satoru blinked, looking confused. “H-Help me? How?”

Suguru’s gaze shifted to his bookshelf, which was overflowing with an array of fun knickknacks from his many years of studying, of traveling, and now of teaching. His eyes fell on a relatively new addition—a quill pen he’d picked up from a museum a few weeks ago. He got up and lifted it delicately off the shelf, giving it a little shake to make sure it hadn’t collected too much dust.

Satoru’s eyes widened as he brought the quill over, and Suguru swore he saw his nose twitch even at the sight of the feather. His Satoru, so magnificently sensitive. He was still sitting on the desk, so Suguru positioned himself in front of him, and gave him a reassuring smile. “Do you think this will work?” he asked innocently. “I think it would for me.”

Satoru nodded slowly, nervously. “Um….yea. Definitely,” he replied, his voice barely a whisper. “Are you sure? You don’t think it’s….gross?”

Suguru reached out to gently ruffle his hair and murmured, “nothing you could ever do is gross to me.” He twirled the feather in his fingers. “But if you want to stop, we can stop. Just tell me, okay?”

Satoru nodded and removed his glasses again. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, inching forward to give Suguru unrestricted access to his nose.

Having no other guidance than the occasional cartoon, Suguru brought the feather up and ran it under Satoru’s septum. The reaction was nearly immediate. Satoru’s features began to twitch and his lips parted, nostrils flaring dangerously as Suguru dragged the feather ever so gently along the bridge, then back down.

“S-Sugu-hihhh-“ his breath began to catch so quickly. It took barely any stimulation at all, Suguru realized somewhat proudly, to have his beautiful boyfriend hanging on the edge of a sneeze.

Satoru was clearly trying to fight the tickle, but he was failing fast. His mouth fell open. He took pitchy gasps as his chest swelled, “Hihhh! Hihihihhhh-“

“Don’t try and hold back,” Suguru chided, “we’re trying to fix that, remember?” He knew, with one last gentle swipe of the feather, that it was a losing battle anyway. He pulled the feather back and gazed in awe at the sight of his boyfriend’s flushed face, his white lashes fluttering desperately, his nostrils trembling with need. Satoru took a final gasping inhale before his body pitched forward, unintentionally aiming directly for Suguru’s chest.

“IHhh’iitsh! hh’nDSHhh’iw! tSCHh’iewwh! Hih…h-hih-!” One hand reached out to hold Suguru’s shoulder, a weak attempt to steady himself, as his head snapped forward again and again. “tSZShh! tSsZCHH’iyu! hh’tSSHHhyu! Isshhh! IssHHH’iew!”

Satoru’s real sneezes were music to Suguru’s ears. He stroked his hair fondly as the fit continued. He wouldn’t admit it, but the sensation of Satoru’s sneezes drenching his shirt…of him clinging to Suguru’s shoulder as the sneezes ripped through him…was doing something to him. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to come to terms with that quite yet.

“Bless you, bless you,” Suguru whispered, pressing a kiss to his sweaty forehead. “That was cute. Are you alright?”

Satoru responded with another set of sneezes—“tSCHh’iewwh! tSzzhh! IssHH’iew!”—before finally his body gave him a break to breathe.

“T-Thagk…you,” he managed, panting heavily. He waited a minute before looking up, his face red and his nose streaming, before asking, “tissue, please?”

Suguru pressed a few into his palm and then stepped away, giving him a chance to clean up. “How was that? Better?”

Satoru nodded earnestly. “So much better. It actually felt really good.”

The heat in Suguru’s belly moved to gather between his legs. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Um…g-good. I’m glad I could help.” He looked down at his watch. “I’ve got to get home soon so I can start grading the midterms from yesterday. Do you want to come and spend the night?”

Satoru hopped off the desk. He was back to having that sneaky smile on his face, and Suguru froze as he slid right down onto his lap. He had a knowing look in his eyes as he reached down to palm the growing bulge in Suguru’s pants.

“I think we should hurry up back to yours,” he whispered, voice dripping with sweetness. “Looks like there’s something you need help with too.”

——

It’s a miracle Jack manages to sleep, although he finds himself rousing around seven am — rolling over to find that Robby’s eyes are already open. “That’s kind of terrifying, by the way,” he whispers across Dennis’ sleeping form.

“Morning,” he whispers back, voice rough even in whisper tones. “I think he’s burning up…” Robby’s gaze moves to Dennis.

“Mhm, can feel it,” Jack murmurs back, not even needing to double check with the back of his fingers against Dennis’ forehead. “How bad, d’you think?”

“Probably not dangerous… but maybe we should wake him up for meds soon sort of bad,” he muses, “but, I don’t want to wake him.”

Jack makes a small noise of agreement, considering their options. Most of them consist of him leaving the bed first, which is also not very tempting, but needs must. “D’you still have a thermometer somewhere? Or, did you at least upgrade from the 1900’s model?” He teases his partner, glancing over to see Robby shooting him a look.

“Firstly, oral thermometers work just fine,” Robby starts, making the mistake of raising his vocal volume just ever so slightly… and, proceeding to try and muffle his coughing fit into his pillow.

“Idiot.” Jack sighs, moving to sit and grabbing his prosthetic from beside the bed. The moment of chaos is enough to begin to rouse Dennis, too, and so whilst Jack is dragging Robby up into a sitting position, he returns to the waking world with a small frown.

“… hm?” Dennis only hears sounds of distress, and he attempts to ask what’s wrong, but his mind feels like somebody has filled it to the brim with treacle. So, all he manages is the small noise, which obviously nobody hears over Robby’s coughing.

After the fit subsides, Jack hands Robby his glass of water, and Dennis just sort of lies there trying to figure out if he has the energy to move or not. His eyes are still closed, and he feels ten times worse than he did yesterday, which isn’t exactly ideal. He settles on the fact that he doesn’t really have the energy to do anything; although, of course there's one thing he can do. One thing he can probably always be counted on to do…

… sneeze.

In the fever-addled daze, Dennis doesn’t completely manage to register the fact that he needs to do so, until it’s already happening. So, when multiple bursts of tiny; ‘hh’iTtkksh! ‘kkshH! ‘kshHiew! h..ghhh’tchH-‘ tumble out one after another, it’s sort of already happening and he doesn’t really have any choice but to just sneeze into the duvet. Until, he feels something soft over his mouth and nose and his eyes open and there’s an angel — it’s Jack — above him catching his sneezes and saying something in a soft but gruff voice that Dennis doesn’t quite understand.

“… urgent care…” is the only thing he really registers, and even then it doesn’t properly settle into his brain until he’s being manhandled into a sitting position and handed some pills and water.

“Swallow. Good.”

Dennis does as he’s told, and becomes granted a temporary moment of lucidity afterward. “Urgent care?” He croaks, wincing at the pain it causes in his throat. “N…no. I just have to sleep it off. Let me sleep it off?” He looks uncertainly at Robby, who’s looking at him with guilty but sympathetic eyes, and suddenly Dennis just feels pathetic all over again for it.

“I can pull some strings,” Jack reassures, “we won’t be there long.”

“We’ll be there long enough,” Dennis sniffles, feeling his eyes start to sting. Long enough for people to stare, make comments; observe and perceive him.

Robby’s hands find his hips a moment later, enticing him into his hold. Jack must’ve gone to fetch something, because all of a sudden it’s just the two of them. Dennis doesn’t want to know how high his fever is, but a shiver causes his muscles to momentarily contract and remind him how much everything fucking hurts.

“You okay?” Robby whispers, keeping each purposeful touch as gentle as he can; whenever Dennis gets sick, things tend to be a lot more sensitive, especially his skin.

“No,” Dennis mumbles, resting against his boyfriend’s chest. “You okay?” He returns the question, and closes his eyes for a moment.

“I’ve been better.” Coming from Robby, an admission like that must mean he feels pretty shitty – anything more than insistence that he’s fine is a miracle, though he’s been doing his best to unlearn those habits; as Dennis has so often pointed out, it’s entirely hypocritical to insist that Dennis practices self-care when Robby can’t muster up enough sympathy for himself to even admit he feels poorly. Everyone in the pitt has been on the receiving side of Robby’s cruelty when he’s sick, and despite Jack having always been the one to talk him down from that torrent, Dennis has started making progress too.

Today, though, Dennis is too tired to make much of Robby’s response. His chest crackles with a slow, stuffy inhale, breath catching in his chest and struggling to dredge through the congestion settled just behind his ribs. He can feel the weight of it in his chest’s center, making him work to breathe without breaking into coughs.

“Jack’s grabbing the keys,” Robby informs Dennis, keeping his voice a whisper both for his sake and his boyfriend’s. “Do you want to change before we go to urgent care?”

“Nghh,” is all Robby gets in response. Dennis shifts in bed, the small effort to hide his face in Robby’s chest taking every ounce of energy he has. It’s like his limbs are filled with lead, heavy and unresponsive to his brain’s request for them to move.

“I’m taking that as a no,” Robby decides, shifting to try and stand, which earns a whine from Dennis. He manages to help him get to his feet, which once again is a sign he’s definitely sick — barely protesting anything Robby’s doing, when usually he’d at least playfully argue.

•

The arrival to urgent care is fairly uneventful. Jack drives, for obvious reasons, and Dennis dozes in the back seat with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. There’s a go bag sitting in the empty seat beside him, and Robby sits in the front seat whilst constantly checking the mirrors to make sure his partner is alright in the back. They park close to the entrance thanks to the perk of having a disability vehicle badge when Jack is driving (Robby makes the ‘I’m only with him for his disability cheque’ joke often, and Dennis choked on his drink the first time he heard it) and immediately both men in the front seats are making their way to the back, to help the third out of the car.

“Doing okay back here?” Robby asks, peering in. “You look a little more lucid, actually.” He offers out his hand.

“Tylenol worked,” Dennis replies, physically recoiling at the sound of his own croaky voice. “A little, at least.” He takes his boyfriend’s hand, and hoists himself out of the truck, bumping into his chest once he’s back on his own two feet properly.

There’s a small pause, where Dennis shuts his eyes against the sunlight and the sticky, unwelcome summer’s heat. “Can’t we just stay here?” He mumbles against Robby’s shirt.

“As adorable as you both are, we should get inside,” Jack teases lightly. “C’mon. We’ll get it over with and then stay on the couch for the rest of the day.”

Dennis follows beside Robby, who takes him by the hand and allows him to lean against him slightly. Jack checks them in at the front desk, explaining everything to the receptionist, whilst the other two take their respective seats in the waiting area.

Dennis bites his tongue to stop himself from whining in discomfort as he takes a seat, shifting in the chair and trying to ignore the way his clothes cling uncomfortably tight to his skin. His undershirt is sticking to his back, held tight to his frame by a feverish sheen of sweat. Even worse is its tag, poking the nape of his neck with every movement he makes, itching at his skin just enough for it to be a constant discomfort.

“Hey,” Robby’s voice cuts through Dennis’s focus, soft and accompanied with a hand on his shoulder, “you okay?”

Wordlessly, Dennis nods. He doesn’t trust himself not to admit to his discomfort if he opens his mouth, not to tell Robby just how terrible he feels, and just how much he hates being here. Sitting in the squeaky, cheap chair in the corner of the urgent care feels like some sort of humiliation ritual. Not only had he caught his boyfriend’s cold, but he managed to rope Jack into taking care of him too.

He hadn’t fully registered his discomfort before, too tired to really wrap his head around the fact that he was being brought to see a doctor. Now, however, that discomfort sits hot and heavy in his chest. It tugs at his limbs, weighing them down and imploring him to sink to the floor. It dampens his lashes, eyes brimming with tears he hadn’t known were there.

“Dennis.”

His eyes slip shut, squeezing a few tears out as heavy lids meet. He can feel Robby’s gentle touch wiping them away with a softness he can’t help but submit to. He leans forward expectantly and is met with Robby’s hand, which shifts to cup his face.

“Den. Open your eyes baby.” The older man’s voice is soft, as soft as his touch, but Dennis can’t obey. He gives a little huff in response – a wet, short breath that threatens to bloom into a cough.

After a moment, Dennis feels another hand land on his shoulder. Its grip is firmer than Robby’s, that much he knows. The hand is slightly smaller too; it doesn’t dwarf his shoulder in the same way that Robby’s does. Jack, he thinks, letting himself sink further into the chair. A mix of guilt and relief churns in his mind. He’d all but forced them to take care of him – he hadn’t – and he feels terrible about it, but the fact that they’re both here, both offering affectionate touches when he must look so gross is enough to dissuade his guilt ever so slightly.

His shirt’s tag reminds him of its presence as he slouches, pressing against his skin and urging him to itch. He makes a halfhearted effort to tug at the fabric of his shirt, his eyes still closed as he does. Instead, he ends up accidentally knocking his hand against Robby’s wrist and making a quiet noise of discomfort.

“What’s up?” Jack questions, grip tightening on Dennis’s shoulder. It’s grounding, but it’s not enough to negate the teasing of the tag.

Dennis’s tongue sits too heavy in his mouth, unwilling to form anything resembling speech. He makes a second attempt at itching where the tag meets his skin, fumbling to slip his hand under his shirt. The whole ordeal just exhausts him. Every movement makes his head spin, his vision still black as his eyes rest cloistered behind closed lids.

“Take your time, it’s okay. They said they’re pretty busy, but I don’t think we’ll wait too long.” Jack gently rubs his back, surveying the room of waiting patients and mentally noting who seems to be worse off than Dennis. (Not many.)

He leans into the touch, but falters as he begins to hitch soft underneath the surgical mask he’s wearing. Now, sneezing in public was one thing, but sneezing in an urgent care waiting room where he would likely be extra perceived just seems a whole lot less fun. ‘Hh-‘

“Here,” Robby is already on the case, wrapping an arm around the younger man and pulling him closer, “just sneeze into me. You’re okay.” He carefully reaches to lower Dennis’ mask, knowing that it would be uncomfortable to constantly sneeze into the material, then guides him to rest against his chest.

Normally, Dennis would most likely deny the instruction, yet he’s so tired and warm and just wants to disappear, and he’s definitely too tired to try and quell the itch; so, he uses his boyfriend's chest as he’s told. ‘hH’isHhoo! ‘ksHh, ktsShH-tsh! ‘khshhiew!’ Jack uses a palm to stabilize him from the other side, and Robby quietly gives words of encouragement. Dennis feels tears prick at his eyes, overwhelmed with the care he’s being gifted.

“Mr. Whitaker?” As if by some miracle, he’s saved by the metaphorical bell. AKA the nurse who’s now calling him back into a treatment room.

“C’mon,” Robby stands, whilst Dennis is still sniffling and slightly clinging on to the fabric of his shirt, trying desperately not to let his nose run past its threshold. “I’m sure Jack has a handkerchief. Or five.” He jests slightly, helping Dennis to his feet.

Jack, in one swift movement whilst the nurse’s back is turned, leans in and wipes Dennis’ nose for him, before pulling his mask back up with careful precision so as not to tickle him. If he wasn’t feeling so awful and dazed, he would’ve said thank you, but Jack knows that.

“So,” the nurse gestures to a small curtained off section, with a bed. “Take a seat. You’re having breathing issues?” The woman seems nice, not giving any questioning looks toward the trio. She’s young, with dyed hair and a septum piercing — Jack’s found they’re usually the least judging, not that they go around advertising their situation in public.

Dennis is helped up onto the bed by his partners, where he stares at his hands and picks at the skin by his fingernails. “Uh, it’s really not that bad, but yeah.” His voice is shot, and the nurse shoots him a sympathetic look.

“Started with cold symptoms?”

He nods.

“And, is there anything else bothering you? Fever, I see.” She checks the notes. “And, you’ve taken a dose of Tylenol… let me check your obs.” She reaches for the blood pressure monitor in the corner, and also hooks him up to a pulse ox. Whilst those are starting to gather a reading, she places a thermometer into his ear until it beeps.

Once the basic three are done, the nurse gets Dennis to sit up a little so that she can listen to his chest, and then takes a swab to test for strep, flu and C-19.

“While we wait for the results, I could hook you up to an IV — help you get rehydrated?” Jack’s already nodding in agreement. “And, you, Mr. Robinavich.”

“Everyone calls me Robby — I’m fine. I’m just here to support —“

“You were also checked in,” she glances at Jack. “So, I’m afraid I’m going to have to check you over too, Sir.”

Robby turns to Jack almost in slow motion, giving him a look that says ‘we’re in public so I won’t get frustrated with you right now, but what the fuck?’ He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right, of course. But, after you’ve finished treating him.”

After a small nod, the nurse disappears to fetch the equipment needed, leaving the trio alone together. “You’re so stubborn,” Dennis mumbles, rubbing at the side of his nose with a knuckle. “Let her check you over. Please?”

“Oh, you’d be a bastard to ignore those puppy dog eyes,” Jack smirks, nudging Robby with his elbow slightly.

Robby is quick to concede when he sees Dennis’s expression, the younger man’s features softened with fatigue and fever; his eyebags are darker than usual, his lids are drooping with exhaustion, and his eyes are watery with unfallen tears. He looks like the picture of sickness, his symptoms having undeniably taken a toll on his body.

“Attaboy,” Jack praises under his breath, lips quirking into a smirk when Robby gives him a look that reads ‘don’t start with me’ clear as day.

Dennis tries to appreciate the dialogue between the two, but his focus shifts to the everpresent sore throat that flares with every swallow. It had been easier to ignore when his cold had first developed, but now it demands his attention, toeing the line between too-dry and too-wet. Each inhale feels sharp, dry, painful as the air drags against the sensitive interior of his throat. That is, until it meets the wall of phlegm that’s settled in his upper chest; then, it feels too thick, wet, congested. Getting a full breath feels impossible, and he knows better than to try – it’ll only spur another bout of coughing.

So, he settles for shallow, unsatisfying little breaths that fall from his lips in a congested huff as he exhales. His nose is too blocked to provide any use in his attempt to breathe, forcing him to remain open-mouthed and trapped in this limbo of discomfort.

11:24 pm. 

The vague sounds of movement alongside a shift in the mattress rouse Dennis from sleep, shoving him into an uncomfortable, bleary, sweaty daze. The room is too dark for him to make anything out, but when he flops an arm to the side and finds a distinctly Robby-shaped divot empty in the mattress, he makes a quiet huff of protest. 

Ow. The stuffy exhale scrapes his throat on the way out, making his eyes prickle with painful tears that only worsen when he swallows with a wince. Between his fever and his barely conscious state, Dennis can’t piece together anything aside from the knowledge that Robby is gone. 

He opens his mouth to call out for his boyfriend, but it just results in a voiceless squeak and a renewed burning through his throat. Oh. Okay. 

Too exhausted to go find Robby himself, Dennis settles for rolling onto Robby’s side of the bed and burying his face in his pillow, but instead of being met with the familiar scent he’d wanted, the movement just makes him dizzy. Dennis vaguely registers the faroff sound of someone in the kitchen as his eyes begin to droop shut again; their lids are too heavy for him to keep open, inclined to shut despite his best efforts. 

He’s seconds away from falling back to sleep when a shiver racks his body, sparking up through his spine and casting a blanket of heat out over his skin. Goosebumps prickle across his arms and legs and with a congested whine, Dennis’s legs work to kick off the blankets. 

The action is less than graceful; he immediately gets tangled between the sheets and comforter, his legs hitting each other more often than the blanket. After exerting himself far too much for such a miniscule amount of movement, he manages to cast the blankets onto the floor. They meet the carpet with a light, barely audible thud and Dennis stretches over the bare bed in victory. 

With his battle won and his body appeased by the lack of extra heat, sleep starts to claim him again. This time, it’s cast away as he hears a muffled sneeze sound from down the hall. ‘hHUH’MMPdDZSSHhHh’uh!’ Ah, so that’s why Robby had gotten up.  

Dennis waits, rolling over once again and cringing as he shifts back into his spot, the sheets damp and sticky with sweat. Gross. He squirms around on the king sized bed until he finds the coolest, cleanest patch of sheets he can, resulting in him laying across the foot of the bed like a dog. He doesn’t even care; the coolness of the sheets is enough to entice him to stay in the strange position. 

After a few minutes of fighting to stay awake, heavy but deliberately quiet footsteps pad down the hall and back into the bedroom. With it being as dark as it is, Robby only notices Dennis’s change in position when he sits down and finds Dennis’s half of the bed empty. 

“Den?” he murmurs softly, hands roaming over the mattress to find his boyfriend, who has apparently disappeared from his spot in the few minutes Robby was gone. His right hand bumps into Dennis’s torso at the foot of the bed and works its way over his lower back. “Hey baby. What’re you doing down there?”

Dennis tries speaking again, forcing out a congested “ngh” before clearing his throat and mumbling, “bless you.”

“What?”

“You sneezed.” He answers, practically asleep and struggling to think about anything aside from the pain in his head and throat — aside from Robby’s hand rubbing gentle circles on his back, maybe. 

“Oh.” Robby smiles when Dennis’s bleary speech registers in his mind. “I did, thank you. Sorry, I was trying not to wake you.”

“Woke up… anyways… too hot.” Dennis mumbles into the mattress, burying his face against the sheets even though it makes breathing harder than it already was. A broad hand gently pushes his head upright to slip between it and the mattress, cupping his forehead. 

“Jesus, you’re burning up.” 

A shiver climbs through Dennis’s body again, forcing a little spasm and causing him to curl up on himself a little. He scootches closer to Robby, but the effort of lifting his head is suddenly far too much for him to manage; he settles for pressing his face against Robby’s thigh instead of resting it on his lap. 

“I think it’s time for some more tylenol, yeah? Your fever’s not cooperating.” 

“I’m very… copper… ative,” comes Dennis’s incoherent response, eyes fully shut and brain muddled. Robby huffs a soft laugh. “Yes, you are.” He agrees. Dennis is just awake enough for his chest to flutter at the praise. 

Robby reaches over to the bedside, careful not to shift too much and disrupt Dennis’s position. His fingers fumble for a moment before he manages to flick on the light. Asleep or not, Dennis’s body doesn’t like that — ‘hmPSXch!szSCHh! … ih’yhSXchi!’

The sneezes leave a small damp spot on Robby’s pants, and he hums in sympathy at the sound of Dennis’s whine. “I know, I’m sorry. That’s never fun.” He blinks as he registers the mattress's empty state. “Where are the blankets?” 

All he gets in response is a stuffy sniffle and a sleepy huff. Robby deduces that the blankets are somewhere in the room after most likely being discarded by his disgruntled boyfriend, and momentarily moves said boyfriend from his thigh before fetching him some more Tylenol to take. It takes some effort to get Dennis to sit up, but once they manage it, he takes the medication without much fuss. 

“See,” he murmurs, eyes closed, “‘m very co-oper’tttt’CHhiew! ‘Scuse mbe… hh–‘iZzzyShHiew!tsch!’ 

“Bless you,” Robby hums, “you wanna try going back to sleep? Maybe not at the end of the bed this time?”

Dennis frowns, leaning against Robby’s shoulder — well, more like falling into it — and huffs again. “‘S damp… sheets..” he waves a hand in dismissal, and burrows into Robby’s shirt. 

“Oh,” his boyfriend now realises the predicament at hand. “I can change the sheets?” 

“Noo, no, no…” Dennis sits up, wagging his finger at Robby, who’s now trying his best not to laugh. 

“C’mon, you. I’ll make you a temporary couch bed, and I’ll grab some new sheets from the laundry pile.” He helps hoist him up onto his feet, giving him a moment to gather his bearings, before slowly helping him out and into the living room. 

He brings a soft blanket for his boyfriend next, and goes in search of some new sheets and a duvet cover for the bed — oh, and a new pillow case, too. Robby’s guilt for getting Dennis sick in the first place starts to linger as he works at changing the bed, and remaking it again. He knows his boyfriend has some sort of issue with his immune system… he should have been more careful. Yet, it’s not like they even shared an apartment for the first few days of his cold. Dennis could have picked up a different rhinovirus simply in the ER. Robby sighs, before turning to return to his now sleeping (and snoring) beauty. He can’t bear to move him just yet, and so gently perches himself on the edge of the couch and watches Dennis’ rosy cheekbones lit up by the moonlight that slips in through the curtains. 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” He whispers, gaze not leaving his boyfriend's sleeping frame; arms strewn over his face in a comedic fashion, lips just barely parted. But, before Robby can continue to marvel in the beauty that is his feverish partner in all his glory… his own sinuses start to prickle and burn, reminding him that he’s not completely over his own cold just yet. 

He fumbles to get out of the room as quickly as possible, but it’s dark and he’s stuck in a desperate haze, and so kicks the coffee table on his way out and only manages to get to the bedroom door before — 

 ‘HHH’UH’YsssSSHhHhIEW!’ And, then there’s a soft thump! from the living room, followed by a whine. Dennis has just rolled off of the couch in half asleep shock from the noise. 

Robby rubs his nose against the back of his wrist, hurrying back into the living room and flicking on the light. The room becomes illuminated with a warm glow of yellow, and he watches Dennis duck into the blanket as his nose protests. ‘iiiIzZYyssHiew! ‘tChH! tCcCHh-TChhhh’Yyiew!’ Then, teary eyed he sniffles and re-emerges. 

“How’d I get here?” He croaks, looking up at Robby, who’s already carefully leaning down to hoist him back up again. 

“I’m so sorry I scared you there,” his voice is softer than ever, and Dennis goes a little giddy at the knees for multiple reasons, as he’s led back into the bedroom. “You okay? The sheets are clean now, let’s get you into bed, love.” Robby rubs Dennis’ back, before helping him to get back underneath the covers. 

With a gentle hum of contentment (that’s also very nasally), he finally settles back where he belongs, and Robby joins him. “‘M okay now.” Dennis sniffles, nose having run past his cupid's bow now — which Robby notices, and swipes away with the cuff of the hoodie he’s wearing. Dennis scrunches his nose, the sudden contact with the fabric about to set him off all over again, so it seems. 

The appendage twitches and flares, making its protests known as Robby’s sleeve wipes against it a second time to clear away the lingering moisture. “Rhhih– RobbyyY’iSSChh’ew!ksch’ichh!…hh’tTZZxchy’w!”

The sneezes are soft and damp, caught against the cuff of Robby’s jacket. “Bless, bless, bless, bless you.” Robby kisses Dennis’s forehead and runs his hands over the blanket again, ensuring that his boyfriend’s covered. Dennis squirms a little, but any protests he might’ve made are interrupted with a long, sleepy yawn. 

‘There you go.” Robby murmurs, brushing a few stray curls off of Dennis’s forehead. He lingers like that for a moment — hovering, ready to help however needed — before realizing that Dennis is pretty much passed out already. Instead of checking his partner’s temperature again, like his anxiety urges him to, he settles for pulling Dennis into a close embrace. 

•

1:06 am. 

Robby is woken for the umpteenth time that night as Dennis twists in his sleep, managing to tangle himself deeper into the knot of blankets he’s created. In doing so, he once again steals the comforter to his side of the bed – though he’s somehow still encroaching into Robby’s half of the mattress. 

“Den.” Robby mumbles, voice heavy with sleep as he gives the blanket a gentle tug. Nothing. Another little tug, and a sleepy Dennis rolls to the far side of the bed. 

Half asleep, Robby scootches closer and does his best to disentangle the smaller man from the sheets and comforter, starting with his hands. The sheet is pressed tight against the right side of his body, trapping one of his arms entirely before twisting around his torso and between his legs. How on earth he’s managed to get himself into that position while unconscious is entirely beyond Robby. 

The blanket is similarly intertwined, though that’s mostly due to the fact that Dennis is clinging to it like a lifeline. A sweaty, overheated lifeline that definitely needs a wash. 

“C’mon love.” The older man coaxes a very-dead-asleep Dennis to loosen his hold. When he finally starts making some leeway, Dennis stirs, and Robby pauses his motions. A sleepy, but clearly uncomfortable whine slips past Dennis’s lips. 

Brow pinching in worry, Robby stops his efforts to claim back any of the blanket, planting a hand on Dennis’s side. “You’re okay.” The reassurance is more for Robby than anything else. Dennis is okay. He’s here, and he’s safe, and he has someone to keep him that way. 

Dennis shifts again, this time rolling closer to Robby and pressing his face against his scruffy neck. He gives a little huff at the feeling of the facial hair against his skin, tucking himself against Robby’s chest instead. A calm, sweet comfort blooms in Robby’s chest as he holds Dennis close, hoping he can finally sleep longer than a 20 minute increment. 

Five minutes later, just as Robby is dozing off again, Dennis’s ice cold feet press themselves between his boyfriend’s legs, earning a gasp of surprise and a tired, soft reprimand. 

•

1:43 am. 

This time around, Robby is granted 40 minutes of sleep before he’s woken. It takes him a moment to register the movement beside him, but as soon as he does, he’s wide awake. Dennis’s face is buried in the bunched up blanket, attempting to muffle a series of wet, chest rattling coughs. 

Robby’s hand immediately falls between Dennis’s shoulderblades, rubbing circles as he murmurs gentle reassurances. “It’s okay, just breathe. I’ve got you.” 

It takes longer than Robby would’ve liked for the coughing to stop, and even longer for Dennis’s breathing to go back to normal. Congestion has clearly settled in Dennis’s chest after laying down for so long. 

Robby pushes himself upright in bed, propping a pillow behind him before pulling Dennis up as well. His boyfriend makes a small whine of protest at the movement, but melts into the hold nonetheless. Sure, Robby might regret the position in the morning when his back is screaming at him, but if it helps Dennis breathe, it will be well worth it. 

Even after Dennis falls back to sleep, Robby stays awake, counting Dennis’s stuffy breaths like they could stop at any moment. He almost has a heart attack when one of them catches, falling short before another small gasp, but his worry is eased when the stuttered breath just results in a few sneezes against his chest. ‘hTSSch! ngGSch’kxXCh!’

“Bless you,” Robby whispers, somewhat impressed at how Dennis snores again seconds later; sleep-sneezing, huh? Another little anecdote to add to his mental list. 

He continues to wait, just for a little longer, to check on Dennis and ensure that his breathing stays as comfortable and as even as possible. 

•

4.34am.

By some miracle, Robby’s boyfriend has managed to stay almost perfectly in place against his chest for the past few hours. Yes, there’s a few damp patches against the t-shirt material now, but he doesn’t care. It’s just past four when Dennis stirs again, but it’s the seventh consecutive sneeze that ends up waking Robby properly. ‘—kShHhHiew!’ And, it seems that exact sneeze wakes Dennis himself, too. “Hmm? B’lss you?” He murmurs, voice thick with sleep and congestion piled on top of one another and blurring lines. 

“I think you sneezed, sweetheart.” Robby groans softly, moving to sit and stretch his back. 

“Sneezed?” Dennis mutters amongst a yawn, quickly sniffling afterward as he begins to wake enough to realise his nose is very drippy, and probably has been for a while now. 

“Yeah. Bless you… you need anything? You sound a little more with it.” He squints through the darkness, trying to discern if his boyfriend looks any more lucid or if it’s his sleep-addled mind betraying him. 

“Maybe… you. And, a tissue.” Dennis sniffles thickly, extra congestion evident since he had gone to bed last night. He wriggles his nose, an unsatisfying feeling of fullness as well as tingling backing up in his sinuses. “Definitely a tissue,” he amends as the tingling surges to the tip of his nose, making the appendage twitch in itchy protest. 

“M’kay.” Robby hums, shifting in bed and reaching blindly towards the nightstand for the tissue box. Just as he plucks a few out, Dennis pitches forwards with a squeaky stifle. ‘nGXschy’w!’ 

He’d been trying not to make a mess of his drippy nose, but all he does is start a rapid fit, damp against pinched fingers. ‘ngt–’gSxCh–ih’nNxt-h’kgxt!’ 

Gently, Robby pulls Dennis’s hand away from his face, replacing it with the bundle of tissues. ‘ihHsSSXchh!tSXChiew!.. ih… hhihH’iTtDTschyu! ngh…’

Dennis snuffles against the now damp tissues, scrunching up his nose and coughing lightly as congestion drips into the soft paper. “S’rry” he mumbles, voice muffled as Robby begins to wipe away the moisture clinging to his septum. He’s too sleepy to register just how embarrassing the whole ordeal is. 

“Don’t be. Bless you bunches.” Robby’s voice is soft, affectionate, but he still can’t help the slight reprimand. “You know better than to hold them in.” 

“I kdow.” Dennis sniffs again, pushing himself upright so he can reach over Robby for more tissues. The older man laughs and reaches over for him, bringing the box to settle on his lap. His hand finds its way to the nape of Dennis’s neck, pressing itself to the warm skin there as Dennis blows his nose — once, twice, three times before he can breathe through his nose again. 

“There you go.” The soft praise rolls of Robby’s tongue as if by instinct, like he was made to comfort Dennis and do nothing more. “Better?”

“Better.” Dennis confirms with a little nod, yawning again and mumbling “what time is it?”

Robby plants a little kiss on his temple. “Too early. Go back to sleep.”