i write sickfics

In the relatively short time they’ve been together Seamus has picked up that Theo does not enjoy disclosing his weaknesses. Apparently he’d much rather everyone believe he showed up to his boyfriend’s birthday shitfaced at 7 PM than that he has the flu. Exactly why that's the case is anyone's guess, Seamus certainly doesn't know.

Cleo was obviously not happy he was leaving early, even less so that Theo would be at their place, but he wasn’t about to drag him back into the city. He does feel bad for bailing, especially when he’s already been accused of ignoring everyone to be with Theo, but what else could he have done? Certainly not let him go home by himself - he’s burning up, and God knows what else is wrong with him.

Even so, he looks incredibly out of place lying in Seamus’s beaten up apartment. A celebrity juxtaposed with their mishmash of secondhand clutter and facebook marketplace couch.

He’s not embarrassed of it, not necessarily, but there was never a reason to bring Theo here before. Not when Theo’s place is quadruple the size and minus 1 roommate. He knew it was going to happen eventually, but he's glad Theo’s probably too sick to register what it looks like.

Their place is tiny, barely navigable. An upright piano is crammed between the bedroom doors, and in front of it their couch and TV set up with just enough room to walk. By the door is a mess of shoes and an overflowing coat rack. Guitars, keyboards, and picture frames line the walls to the ceiling and stacks of books, sheet music and records are everywhere.

After draping the first blanket he can find - a quilt from his Grandmom - over Theo’s shivering body he heads into the bathroom to try and find a thermometer and ibuprofen.

He’s able to find an expired bottle of advil and what looks like a mercury thermometer in the cabinet and walks back into the living room. He half sits on the arm of the couch, runs his fingers gingerly over Theo’s forehead and winces. He’s really, really warm.

“Teddy,” he says, and Theo’s eyes flutter open, big and brown. His gaze is unfocused and hazy, and he pushes out a breath through chapped lips. One of his arms, dusted with freckles, dangles off the edge of the couch, so long his fingers rest on the carpet. When Seamus pulls his hand away, he makes a soft sound. “I’m gonna take your temperature.”

“That’s not necessary,” he mumbles, words sliding together, and Seamus laughs.

“No?” He lays his hand on his flushed, hot cheek and tries not to catastrophize. But he’s never met someone who gets so sick like this.

“M’fine,” he slurs, and his lashes flutter again. “Seriously, I’m so good.” He pulls his arm back under the blanket, hugging his chest like it might help conserve warmth. As if he needs it.

“Makes no difference then,” Seamus says. “C’mon.”

Theo stares up at him through those almost-blonde lashes and opens his mouth and Seamus has to remind himself this is not the time for thinking inappropriate thoughts. He tucks the thermometer under his tongue, brushes his cheek with his thumb.

“Good. Now don’t talk.”

“Why not?” He mumbles around the thermometer, and before Seamus can answer him he starts to cough hard. The thermometer ends up on the cushion beside him as he hacks into his shoulder, breath wheezing in and out, crackling and tight.

“Shh, hey,” Seamus says, laying a hand on his chest as he tries to catch his breath. His skin is hot there too, and he can feel the way his lungs are struggling to get anything in or out, how hard his whole body is shaking. He waits until it seems like he’s done before he grabs the thermometer and places it back in his mouth. No argument. They sit there in silence for a while, Theo’s eyes closed, Seamus listening to the sound of him breathing. When he arbitrarily feels like enough time has passed he takes the thermometer out. 102.8. Maybe 9.

Theo stares up at him.

“Why…” Seamus trails off, still staring at the little glass device. “What’s going on?” He finally asks, setting it down on the cluttered coffee table. Theo closes his eyes and sniffles wetly.

“It’s fine, it’s like…a cold, or whatever. It’s not a big deal,” he mumbles. Seamus fishes two pills out of the advil bottle and hands them to him. He knocks them back dry, rubbing his eyes, then hacks a few more times into his elbow.

“What’s a big deal then?” Seamus asks and his eyes open again. It looks like it takes all his effort.

“There have been way bigger deals,” he says, and Seamus pushes a few strands of his bright red hair back into place. Theo looks at him again with those soft, pretty brown eyes. “Can I lay in your lap?”

“Of course.” He slides off the arm of the couch and onto the seat, and Theo lays back, the nape of his neck on Seamus’s left thigh, so hot even through his jeans. It’s times like these that he feels like he needs to pinch himself. Theo is so beautiful, like a statue, like a painting. He’s someone who millions of people would kill to even catch a glimpse of. And he's lying in Seamus’s lap. *Asking* to lie in his lap.

He wants to ask about the “bigger deals” Theo mentioned but decides against it. If Theo wanted him to know he’d tell him. He’s about to ask if he wants to sleep in a real bed when the front door creaks open. Almost everything creaks open in this place. Cleo frowns from the doorway, dropping her worn out tote bag by the coat rack.

“Hey,” Seamus says, and she takes a deep breath, turning the deadbolt. “You didn’t want to stay out?”

“Please don’t let him throw up on the rug, Seamus,” she says as she kicks off her sneakers. “And no. I have work, and if you’re not out it’s not worth it.”

“He’s not gonna throw up,” Seamus says. “We were just gonna go to my room anyway,” he says. Judging by the way she’s standing, she really wants them out of the living room but she wasn’t actually going to ask. Theo’s closed his eyes again.

“Cool. You mind if I watch tv?”

“Yeah, no worries,” Seamus says and he shakes Theo’s shoulder gently. “Teddy, c’mon.”

He groans softly but manages to get himself standing. When Seamus pushes open the door to his room the embarrassment he was already feeling about the apartment heightens, but Theo doesn’t seem to register anything before he flops down onto Seamus’s twin bed. His long legs hang off the end, and Seamus slips his sneakers off for him.

On the other side of the door, he hears the episode recap for Love Island and he flips on his bedside lamp. He strips off his shirt and jeans, tossing them into the newly empty laundry basket and sits down on the edge of the mattress.

“Last night, on Love Island USA,” Theo mumbles in a vague accent, echoing the muffled TV.

“That’s your best Scottish?” Seamus teases. Theo smirks. “You comfortable like that?” He asks. Theo is in jeans and a t-shirt still, face down on top of the covers. Theo shakes his head against the pillow and rolls over with another groan of effort. He fumbles with his fly before Seamus just takes over. As he slides off the jeans, he’s again worried by the heat he can feel rolling off him. It’s too soon for the advil to have done anything, but he’s worried anyway.

There’s more maneuvering before they’re finally both beneath the comforter, practically on top of each other in the twin bed. Still, Theo’s skinny enough that it’s not too much of a struggle. The fever heat coming off him is uncomfortable, and Seamus is glad that somehow their place has central air because without AC it would be unbearable. Theo is shivering. His breathing is uneven, his cheek pressed against Seamus’s chest.

“Why didn’t you just stay home?” Seamus finally asks.

“I can’t just not come to your birthday,” Theo mumbles back, and judging by the sound of his voice he’s close to sleep.

“I would’ve understood. And it was a surprise anyway, I didn’t even know it was happening.”

“That’s what Zeke said. I don’t know, I…it’s important.”

“You wanted me to think you were drunk?”

“Because I didn’t want to happen what’s happening,” he slurs. “Ruin your night.” Seamus is about to say it’s not ruined - it’s far from ruined - but Theo speaks again, “But I wanted to see you. Because I love you.”

Seamus actually feels his body jolt, as if he was driving and something ran into the road. They have not broached the “love” topic yet, not at all.

“You love me?” He asks, but when he looks at Theo, he’s already asleep. He stares at the ceiling for what feels like an hour before he can get to sleep himself.

The next morning when his alarm goes off at 6:45, the sun is barely up through his little window. The whole room is bathed in orange. He’s able to extricate himself from the tangle of limbs and start getting dressed without waking Theo, but he’s putting on his shoes when he hears a soft groan. He looks over his shoulder from where he’s sitting at the foot of the bed and sees Theo staring at him with a little smile on his face.

“Morning. You feeling any better?” He asks, and Theo rubs his eyes.

“Uh, a little.” His voice sounds worse. His cheeks are still flushed and his hair is stuck to his temples. He still looks like hell. He can tell from the way he’s looking at him that he wants him to stay.

Seamus doesn’t want to leave. But if he misses these sessions today - writing sessions - he’s fucked. Cancelling this late, or cancelling at all, means there will be no second chances. And a writing session with an artist is already a long way from a cut on their albums, and no session means there definitely won’t be a cut which means no money. And rent is due in two weeks.

“Just stay here, alright? I have work but I’ll be back at like…7:30. 8. Tonight. Text me if you…I don’t know, if you need me.”

Theo nods, his eyes clearly fighting to stay open. Seamus kisses him before he leaves.

When Theo actually wakes up, he feels worse than he did last night. First reason being Seamus is no longer pressed against him. Second being his whole body is aching like he’s been beaten up. And he knows what that feels like. The world still seems hazy through his fever, the feeling that he’s still half asleep.

He wants tea and he has to piss, so he knows he has to get up, but the thought alone makes him moan to himself. The minute he’s out from underneath the covers he’s shivering, and he pulls on the heaviest sweatshirt he can find in Seamus’s closet, along with a pair of his sweats. They’re big on him, but he doesn’t mind.

After resting his aching, burning forehead against the sink for maybe too long, he goes into the kitchen to attempt to make tea. Being in someone else's kitchen is disorienting enough but with the fever he feels like he might be on another planet.

By the time he’s waiting for the kettle to boil he feels like he's solved a calculus problem, but he starts trying to work out what happened last night anyway. He went out, he had a beer, he was in Seamus's bed…

“Hey,” Cleo says, and his whole body jerks.

“Fuck! Hey, sorry, am I in your way?” It hurts to talk.

“Nope. All good.” She's just standing in the doorway like she wants something. What does she want? There's a silence just long enough to be awkward before he clears his throat and speaks.

“Seamus just said-”

“He has sessions until 8, I know. He paid me to watch you,” she says. Theo almost laughs.

“That's nice, but you don't have to. I won't tell him,” he says and sniffles, rubbing his nose with the eviscerated tissue he’s been clutching in his left hand. “What does he want you to do?”

“Make sure you don't die, I guess. You alright?” She asks.

“Yeah, good. Just like…hungover, whatever. I'm fine,” he says, even though he knows she probably knows the truth at this point. He can't imagine how annoyed she is if she thinks he's being this dramatic about a hangover.

“Weird hangover,” she says, and he pours hot water into a mug with the Sweetwater audio supplies logo. Jig is up, then. But probably for the best.

“I have the flu or something. I was sick last night when I came out, then I think the beer I had just completely fucked me up,” he says. “I'm sorry. For ruining the night. I know you guys already think…I don't know, that we’re…whatever. I didn't want to make a big thing, I just wanted to see him.”

She nods but her expression doesn’t change.

“Right. Well I appreciate the apology. It wasn't like I put a ton of work in but he's always cancelling to be with you, so I thought if I invited you there's no way that could happen. Wrong, apparently.” She’s still just standing there, watching him.

“Does he really do that?” he asks. She shrugs.

“It's fine. So you were just really sick last night?”

“Yeah.”

“And you just thought…” She trails off.

“I don't know. Does he really cancel to hang out with me?” Of course he’s aware of how much time they spend together, but it never occurred to him that Seamus was cancelling plans with anyone else to make that happen. He’s not sure how it makes him feel. Anxious? Pleased?

“Oh yeah. All the time. He's obsessed with you.” She says dismissively. She opens the fridge and rummages for something. 

“Really?”

“Yeah, of course. He was practically on his hands and knees this morning begging me to call into work. Like you’re on the verge of death. And I thought he was exaggerating, but…” She rakes her eyes up and down before turning back to the fridge. She pulls out a pitcher of iced coffee and looks at him again. He sits down in one of their kitchen chairs to make room for her at the counter. And because his head is starting to really hurt from being upright for so long.

“Call in?” He asks.

“I work at Suzy’s. On Hart.” He’s been there. It’s a coffee shop. 

“Why?” He didn’t think Cleo needed a job like that.

“Not all of us are multi millionaires,” she says, but it’s not as snarky as it normally would be.

“I would've thought you have sessions booked out the ass. You're like… Your work is insane. You and Seamus.” He always figured she was making her money from writing full time. 

“So why aren’t we working together?” She asks, stirring cream into her coffee. Again, not as annoyed as she would normally sound. She’s almost teasing, like they're having a good conversation. Maybe him being reduced to the state he's in has made him more approachable?

“I don't know, I figured you hate me and I've asked him but he always brushes it off. But if you don't hate me, I'd love to get in a room with you.”

He’s floated it to Seamus many times, actually. But for whatever reason, Seamus always has some excuse. The truth is probably that he doesn’t want to work on such shitty pop-radio music but of course he’s too nice to say that.

“Oh I am not above nepotism. I don't care. Nepotize me,” Cleo says, smirking. He opens his mouth to reply but a string of painful coughing comes out instead. His ribs feel like they’re on fire. When he’s done she hands him the thermometer. “Here.” He tucks it into his mouth wordlessly. “Wanna watch TV?”

He nods and follows her the few feet to the living room. He knows he's not supposed to talk when it’s in his mouth and he’s glad because the conversation seems to be going well and he’d hate to ruin it. He also knows better than to try and suggest something to watch. His best move is to try not to be too annoying or contagious until Seamus comes homes.

Their couch feels impossibly comfortable. He pushes out a heavy breath through his mouth and pulls his knees up to his chest, his feet on the cushions. He's still clutching his mug of tea.

She opens up Love Island and despite his efforts, he must make some kind of face because she sighs.

“What?” She asks. He's about to speak when she takes the thermometer out of his mouth and squints at it. She shakes it before handing it back to him. “Again. And I like it, ok?” she says, defensive.

Theo nods and tries to keep his mouth still. When the intro ends, she takes the thermometer again.

“Jesus. This thing can't be right,” she says, squinting at it.

“Why, what is it?” He winces at the rawness in his throat.

“102 something.”

That seems right to Theo, but he’s not going to argue with her.

“Just tell him I'm fine then,” he says.

“Well he'll definitely know I'm lying if I say that.”

“Ok so, whatever. And I like Love Island. I'm just surprised, I wouldn't have clocked you.” She seems like the kind of person who would roll their eyes at the very concept, but he was wrong, apparently.

“I'm an enjoyer of psychology, of human nature. Also it's campy and I love it. And I'm like a week and a half behind.”

They watch in silence for a while, Theo just trying to drink his tea and not spill it everywhere. He wishes Seamus was here. His body still hurts all over, and his head is still throbbing. If Seamus were here...

“So he's obsessed with me?” He asks, breaking the silence, and Cleo laughs.

“Yes. I thought you knew that.”

“No, I mean… I don't know.” He doesn’t know anything. People act all kinds of ways in front of him and behind his back. No matter what Seamus did or didn’t do he could never really be sure. 

“Ever since he was at your place for like 4 days straight a few months ago it's all I hear about. Theo this, Theo that. And you're not even gonna ask him to write for you?”

He's glad she doesn't know what actually happened in those 4 days. Theo hardly knows, to be honest. He was down extremely bad with the flu, and Seamus had just shown up at his door. Then he stayed. For four days. Something had shifted in their relationship then, but it was unspoken.

“Like I said, I have. He's probably seeing other people anyway. It's…whatever.” He closes his eyes and tips his head back. He hears the chatter from the show stop abruptly.

“You think he's seeing other people?” She asks. He turns his head and opens his eyes. She looks absolutely incredulous. He shrugs. “Are you?” She asks.

“No, definitely not. But we’re not exclusive. Like, we’ve never…” He sniffles and doesn’t bother lifting a hand to his nose to wipe the mess he’s sure is there.

“Are you an idiot?” She asks, now fully turned toward him, feet up on the couch. “Or you just don’t wanna commit?” She seems fascinated more than upset.

“No, it’s not that I don’t want to, I just figured he would like, let me know.”

“Well you should let *him* know.”

–

When Seamus gets home that night, he’s surprised to hear what sounds like laughter coming from their apartment. He walks in to find Theo on the couch with Cleo, Love Island on the TV, both of them cracking up. 

“Hey,” He says, and even though it’s been an insanely long day, he feels so happy to see both of them. And *getting along* at that. And Theo doesn’t look too awful either. Not better, but not worse. He feels some of the tension ease from his shoulders. Their laughter tapers off.

“Hey,” Theo says before muffling a few coughs into his elbow. He sniffles. “How was it?”

“Uh, fine. Good. You guys want dinner?” Seamus asks, and drops his bag on the floor, not bothering to unpack anything.

“We just ordered from Good Chinese. Got you your soup dumplings,” Cleo says. “Should be here soon. I’m gonna take a shower though,” she says and stands, giving Theo a look that feels meaningful but Seamus can't decode.

Theo inches closer to the arm of the couch and Seamus sits down next to him. Immediately, Theo’s head is resting on his shoulder. He's still burning up, just like this morning.

“Long day for you,” Theo says softly. His voice is hoarse still, and Seamus plays with his hair. Everywhere they touch is overly warm, but Seamus doesn’t really mind.

“Little bit. You guys seem like you’re getting along,” he says, and Theo laughs softly, which leads to a few weak coughs. The door to the bathroom shuts and the shower turns on, and there's an extended silence before Theo speaks again.

“Why aren’t we exclusive?” he asks, and Seamus feels the same as he did last night when Theo had let “I love you” slip out - viscerally shocked. Theo must feel him tense because he quickly interjects. “I’m not… I want to be. Just…”

“I mean…” Seamus’s brain already feels fried from almost 12 hours of writing sessions. “Should I be the one? To suggest it? I want to be too, I just thought… You have a PR team and everything, I thought you’d be the one.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Theo says. “You didn’t bring it up and you don’t wanna write with me and-”

“It’s not - I mean, you know I… you know I like you a lot. I…” he doesn’t know how deep he wants to get into all of this. Especially when Theo is shivering and miserable. “I never wanted you to think I was with you for the wrong reasons.”

Theo laughs again, which leads to another few choking coughs.

“Seamus, we’re not on Love Island,” he says and Seamus feels a little relieved and little indignant.

“Is that such a bad fear to have?”

“No, I get it. But that’s good then. It’s handled. Exclusive.”

Seamus laughs this time.

“Is it?”

“You’re sure you’ll be okay tonight?” Elijah asked, tapping his fingers nervously on the butcher block on the prep station. “I mean, there’s no Matt.”

No Matt or Mark, Elijah thought to himself, grim and foreboding. The two junior managers were celebrating their one-year anniversary this week, and as a surprise for the two of them, Greyson and Elijah had agreed to work double time for two days and close the restaurant for the other two to give Matt and Mark a full four-day-weekend together. Of course, as soon as Matt and Mark had waved their bosses goodbye from Elijah’s car – letting them borrow it to drive to the Jersey shore was the other half of the younger men’s gift – Greyson started coming down with whatever this shit was. Yesterday had been annoying, but fine; Greyson sneezed his way through his prep, hoarsely expoed throughout service, and promised he’d be fine for the next night. Now, though?

A sudden “HNGTSCHH-ue!” escaped Greyson’s lips before he could answer, a sneeze so harsh it made Elijah take two steps back.

“Dude,” he said, wincing while Greyson grabbed more tissues to clean himself up. As he watched Greyson blow his nose, he couldn’t help but press two fingers to the base of his own throat. The tiny pang he’d felt when he woke up this morning had not gone away with water, as he’d hoped, but had blossomed into a full sore throat. It burned brighter the longer Elijah watched Greyson cough, as though upon seeing how ill the chef was, his body had been given permission to start its own downward spiral. Finally, Greyson tossed the tissues, cleared his throat as well as he could.

“I’ll be finde,” Greyson growled. “Let’s just get through this fuckigg ndi- HRRTSHH-uhh!”

***

There was absolutely no way in hell Greyson was going to make it back to Brooklyn tonight.

The shift had gone about as well as Elijah expected; Greyson lost his voice halfway through the night, couldn’t stop sneezing long enough to garnish the plates, and eventually had to retire to the office to put his head between his knees to quell the dizzy spell he’d coughed himself into. Eventually, Elijah put Riley, his head server, in charge of watching the floor and went to the kitchen to expo while Greyson snored on the floor of the office.

Meanwhile, Elijah spent the evening well-and-truly coming down with Greyson’s disgusting illness. His head ached, his throat felt sticky and painful, and possibly most annoying, his breath kept hitching around a sneeze that – “Hh-! Hhh… hnnghh” – never quite came.

It had been, to put it mildly, a true fucking nightmare.

Now, at nearly one in the morning, Greyson was burning up with fever and high on cough medicine, glassy-eyed and chatty, spinning the office chair round and round like a kid. Beside him, Elijah was rapidly deteriorating.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lij, of course I’mb goigg hombe,” Greyson rasped, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “I’mb fine, it’s a cold, it’s ndot a big deal.”

“Greyson,” Elijah said, rubbing an eye with the heel of his hand, “you are not fine. Did you somehow forget the last seven hours?” He grabbed Greyson’s chair then, stopping it in its tracks. “And stop fucking spinning you’re going to pahh – hh… pass… huh… passoutNGTSZH-oo! Huh-! HGTZCH-ue! Fuck, finally,” Elijah sighed into the sleeve of his shirt. From over his glasses, Elijah could see Greyson fold his arms.

“Bless you,” he said, accusatory. “You feeling okay?” Elijah rolled his eyes, painfully.

“Yes, Mama Greyson,” he said, sucking in through his nose and sitting up. “How do you plan on getting home, anyway? Isn’t an uber out there like a million dollars on a Saturday night?”

Greyson raised a confused eyebrow. “I’mb… what am I, Warren Buffett? Ndo I’mb ndot ubering, Elijah, I’mb taking the train.” Again, despite the worrying amount of cough syrup he’d ingested, Greyson dissolved into a painful-sounding coughing fit. Elijah bit his cheek to keep from snapping.

“Grey,” he said, massaging his throat. “You’re not taking the train an hour home when you have a fucking fever. Just – fuck – GTSCHH-uhh! NGTSZCH-ue! Snrf.” Elijah snatched a tissue from the box Greyson thunked next to him, wiping his nose before finishing. “Just stay with mbe,” he said, congestion finally seeping into his voice. At this, Greyson visibly perked up.

“Stay… you mbean stay at your apartment?” he asked. “Like sleep at your apartment?”

The look on Elijah’s face betrayed his every feeling. “I – yes, you fucking freak, like sleep at my apartment, why are you being weird?”

“You ndever let anyone stay over at your apartment,” Greyson said, pushing out of his chair and putting his winter coat over what was definitely Elijah’s sweatshirt. “Like, it’s a whole thigg Matt and Mark and I joke about, that ndo one is allowed at your place past seven p.m because you have sombe sort of weird bedtime ritual ndo one can see. Mby theory was you’re one of those people who sleeps in those who-goes-there-ass old-timey pajamas. The ones with a hat.”

Elijah blinked. “People stay at my apartment,” he said. Throwing the GM’s coat into his lap, Greyson scoffed.

“Yeah?” Greyson asked as Elijah slowly pushed up from his chair. “Whend?”

“I mean, it’s been awhile,” Elijah mused. Now that he thought about it – when was the last time he had someone stay at his place? Greyson had never asked or needed to stay with him; if he was gallivanting through the city after work, he was staying with whoever took him to bed. Mark lived practically next door to the restaurant, so he and Matt had never asked to stay even if all of them were out drinking. And the last time he’d had a date come to the house… well, if he was being honest, he couldn’t remember ever having a date stay the night at his apartment.

“That’s what I thought,” Greyson said, grabbing onto the back of Elijah’s chair to keep from falling over. “Oh – jesus, shit, hold on.” The chef closed his eyes, took as deep of a breath as his spasming lungs could handle. Slowly, he let the breath out, unfurled his fingers from the chair, and opened one eye. “Okay,” Greyson said, “mbaybe the train would be out of the question.”

Elijah bleated out a laugh. “You think?” he said, clapping Greyson on the shoulder. “C’mon, patient zero. Let’s get you to bed.”

***

As the winter night sky parted and made way for the blue-black light of morning, Elijah let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for hours. Okay, he said to himself, time to get him to fucking urgent care.

Despite his goofing-off, his quipping, his inability to be serious for five fucking seconds, the moment Greyson’s body collapsed into Elijah’s bed, he crashed harder than Elijah had ever seen anyone crash. The shivers he’d had at the restaurant turned to shaking that rattled the headboard against the wall so loudly, Elijah assumed his neighbors would come and bang on the door. His teeth chattered in his head hard enough to crack the enamel, and his eyes, in the brief moments they were open, were bloodshot to hell. Greyson’s fever – however high it was, Elijah could only guess since he wasn’t exactly the type of guy who kept a thermometer lying around – just would not budge.

Elijah tried everything he knew to help get his friend’s fever down. At first, he tried to get Greyson to feel comfortable, to feel warm – piling blankets on top of him, forcing wool socks and a coat on him in bed, the whole nine. When that didn’t seem to do anything except make his skin burn hotter, Elijah tried moving on to old reliable: medicine.

The issue here was Greyson was barely conscious, and even getting water into him was proving difficult. “Greyson,” Elijah whispered after an hour of trying and failing to get the other man to swallow some ibuprofen. “Please, man, just take it, I promise you’ll feel better.”

Greyson’s eyes flitted open for a few moments, and Elijah pressed the pills into his hand. “Please,” he repeated. The chef attempted a nod, put the pills in his mouth, and immediately coughed them onto the bed; he shook his head, grabbing at his throat as the coughing continued. Unfortunately, Elijah related deeply to what his friend was implying: his throat was too swollen to swallow pills. Elijah swallowed around the knives in his own throat. Nodded.

“Okay,” he said, handing Greyson a cup filled with water instead. “Okay, fair enough.” God, why didn’t he keep any fucking Nyquil on hand?

After that episode, Elijah came to his senses and pulled out his phone to google how to get a fever down. One of the websites – one that looked to be for mothers of small children, but whatever, he’d try anything at this point – mentioned a lukewarm or cool bath, which didn’t sound like a terrible idea, but ultimately Greyson was seemingly unable to move and with the five inches and thirty pounds he had on Elijah, no shot was he getting carried to the bath.

Ultimately, Elijah ended up pressing a cool washcloth to Greyson’s forehead from three a.m. onward, the night spreading endlessly around him. The sleepless, worrying hours of trying to care for Greyson were only made worse by the fact that Elijah felt like absolute fucking dog shit; his lungs constricted with angry, bubbling coughs every few moments, and breathing out his nose was, as of about five in the morning, an absolute no-go. Worse still, as Greyson sweat through his sheets, Elijah could feel the stifling heat of his own fever spreading itself behind his eyes. Whatever it was that Greyson had managed to pick up, it certainly didn’t fuck around.

At seven a.m., when the alarm Elijah had set on his phone notified him that the closest urgent care would be open in thirty minutes, Greyson, who’d finally settled into a true sleep about an hour before, gasped himself awake.

“’S timbe for work?” he slurred, attempting to sit up. Elijah coughed out a hoarse laugh.

“Ndot exactly, bud,” he said, clearing his throat. “C’mond, let mbe help you uhh – uh… up-NGTSZCHH-ue!” Elijah wrenched to the side to avoid sneezing directly in Greyson’s face as he pulled the chef to a sitting position. Greyson pressed his eyebrows together, reached out to place a hand on Elijah’s forehead.

“You have a fever,” he mused, as Elijah pulled a few tissues from the near-depleted box on the end table. “I thought you said you weren’t sick?”

“I lied,” Elijah said plainly, shoving the tissues into the pocket of his hoodie. “Let’s go, up and at ’em, we’re getting you to urgent care.”

“Wh -? Urgent care, what do you mbean? I’mb fine.” Greyson said as Elijah slowly helped him to his feet. Elijah laughed again, this time doubling over into his elbow to cough.

“Please don’t mbake mbe laugh,” Elijah said, helping Greyson into one of the winter coats he had hanging in his closet – Greyson’s coat had been sweat through multiple times over, and Elijah wasn’t about to brave the doctor’s office with the smell of fever sweat coating the two of them. It seemed, frankly, a little too on the nose.

“Ndot trying to be funny,” Greyson mumbled as he shakily put on the coat. “’S just a cold, Lij.” As he said it, Elijah could see his eyes starting to roll back in his head, felt his fever-warm body go limp – fuck.

“Grey!” Elijah yelled, jerking the chef back to a standing position. Greyson came back to quickly, collapsing into a barking fit of coughing that wouldn’t subside until Elijah sat him back on the bed. This is going to be harder than I thought. “Are you okay?” Elijah asked, Greyson’s arm still gripped in his hand. Shakily, Greyson nodded; clearly the near-fall was enough to scare him.

“Fuck,” Greyson moaned, pulling a hand down his face. “I haven’t felt this shitty in…. I don’t even kndow how long. Hh-! HRRSHHT! Fuckigg ow.” Greyson pressed the heel of his hand into his eye, his headache palpable even to Elijah. The GM sighed, rubbed his friend’s back.

“That’s why we’re goigg to urgent care,” he said. “This is clearly beyond mby scope of ability. I almbost took you to the ER last ndight.”

Greyson looked at Elijah as if he were completely deranged. “I appreciate you ndot bankrupting mbe over a fuckigg fever,” he said, some levity breathed back into the room. Elijah croaked out a chuckle. “But… I mbean yeah, okay, I guess it couldn’t hurt to go.”

At this, Elijah pat Greyson once on the back. “Good mban,” he said, once again helping the chef to his feet. Greyson squeezed his eyes shut as he stood, an attempt to not lose consciousness again.

“Ndot sure I’mb gonna mbake it down the elevator, you mbay have to carry mbe to the car,” he joked, an attempt to keep Elijah calm. At the word car, Elijah’s heart sunk.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, pressing a palm to his face. “The boys have the fuckigg car.” Greyson pressed his lips together, remembering. Matt and Mark were hundreds of miles away at the Jersey shore. With Elijah’s only mode of transportation. With Greyson sick as a fucking dog, and Elijah well on his way to being down just a bad. The fucking boys have the fucking car.

“Where’s the clinic,” Greyson said, his voice thin. Elijah looked down at his phone.

“Three miles away,” he said. “It’s… oh, fuck mbe I forgot about the fuckigg mbarathon this weekend.” He pressed a few buttons on his phone, shaking his head in disbelief. “Ubers are like a hundred and fifty bucks,” he murmured. Greyson groaned.

“Don’t tell mbe we have to take the fuckigg subway,” he said, eyes still closed. Elijah bit his cheek; their options were more than limited. Without a car, and with the possibility of an uber even picking the two of them up looking the way they did near-zero, their choices were basically train… or walk. A glance in Greyson’s direction proved that walking was simply not an option.

“Let’s try to get sombe ibuprofen in you,” he said, guiding Greyson towards the kitchen. “It’s gonnda be a long train ride.”

***

The fact that they made it to this god-forsaken clinic was nothing short of a complete fucking miracle.

Getting to the train was bad enough; after pumping Greyson with enough ibuprofen to kill an elephant, topped off with four shots of espresso to keep him awake enough to get to the subway, the two of them set out on their jaunt. Still, it took nearly thirty minutes for the two of them to walk three blocks to the subway station.

“Greyson,” Elijah said for what felt like the thousandth time, “we gotta pick up the pace, kid, you’re killigg mbe here.”

“I – HGTSCHHH-uhh! Snrk. I’mb goigg as fast as I possibly cand,” Greyson mumbled, wiping his running nose on the coat Elijah had lent him. If this nursing-home shuffle was as fast as he could go, Elijah mused, they’d be lucky to get there next fucking year. Pursing his lips, Elijah looped his arm through Greyson’s and started dragging. “Stop pulling,” Greyson said, placing a hand on his own forehead. “’M gonnda pass out if we go any faster.”

“Then pass out,” Elijah said, continuing to pull. “It’d take the same ambount of timbe for me to drag your lifeless corpse through the street. We ndeed to get theehh – holdon-NGTZCHH-ue! Hh-! Hhh…” Elijah held an elbow up to his face, trying to use the very few exposed rays of sunlight to coax out the second sneeze. It was in vain; Elijah let out a shaky breath, annoyed.

Beside him, Greyson regarded Elijah with bloodshot, half-lidded eyes. “Bless you,” he said, sniffling. Elijah returned his watery gaze with a venomous scowl.

“I should, like, sue you for givigg mbe this,” he said, arm still locked in his friend’s. “This is a fucked-up illndess to give to someone.”

Elijah couldn’t tell if Greyson was nodding, or if he momentarily lost consciousness, causing his head to bob. Either way, when he lifted his gaze to look Elijah in the eyes again, he was finally smiling. “Yeah,” he said, coughing away from his friend. “Yeah, I mbean, when you’re right, you’re right.”

By the time they reached the train, Elijah was completely spent. Greyson had been so dizzy for the last half of the walk that he’d pulled the hood of his coat over his eyes and pressed his face into Elijah’s shoulder while they trudged forward, adding what felt like a billion pounds to Elijah’s already-weighed-down-by-fever body. They had made it, though, down the stairs and into the train and – blessedly – into two seats that faced the outside. Finally, when the tinny voice canned in from above asked them to stand clear of the closing doors, please, Elijah dropped his head between his legs and let out a brutal fit of coughs.

“Y’okay?” Greyson asked from behind the hood with both hands shielding his eyes like a visor. When he finally caught his breath, Elijah slowly turned slowly towards the chef and gave an exhausted nod.

“Great,” he rasped. “Ndever better.”

Urgent care was five stops away – five of the longest fucking stops Elijah had ever endured. Each time the train jerked forward or ground to a halt, Greyson made a tiny, terrible whimper in discomfort, a noise that broke Elijah’s heart each time it escaped his lips. “You’re okay, kid,” Elijah muttered, rubbing his friend’s arm while he silently cursed himself for not just paying the two hundred dollars for a stupid uber. “Almbost there.”

After what felt like an eon, the train finally pulled into their station, and Elijah summoned all the strength he had left to hoist Greyson to his feet and pull him out the door. By the grace of whatever-the-fuck entity was watching this scene unfold, the clinic was the first thing he saw when they made their way up the stairs. Small mercies, he thought, dragging Greyson across the street and in through the double doors. Small fucking mercies.

***

“I take it you’re Mr. Abbott?”

As the nurse practitioner breezed through the door she smiled at Elijah, who was sitting in the chair immediately to her right. The GM swung his head around to look her in the eye – fuck, she was pretty. Figures, he thought, wiping under his nose.

“Uh, ndo, I’mb Mr. Morrison – uh, I’m Elijah. That’s the patient,” Elijah said, pointing at Greyson swinging his feet loopily on the exam table. The NP hummed, taking her seat on the stool next to the computer.

“My apologies,” she said, adjusting her mask so it was more secure over her nose and mouth – can’t blame her there, Elijah thought. “Mr. Abbott, I’m Emily. I’ll be helping you out today.”

“Ohh, you cand call mbe Greyson, Doctor Embily,” Greyson said, smiling sloppily. From his chair, Elijah’s face burned red – only Greyson would be able to flirt with a hundred-and-three-degree fever. The NP smiled.

“Just Emily is fine,” she said, her voice kind and cheerful. “Can you tell me a little bit about what’s going on with you?”

Greyson, still with a half-drunk smile pasted on his face, just shrugged. “I’mb good,” he said, before turning suddenly to cough into the collar of his jacket, long enough for Emily to wince and bring him a cup of water from the machine right outside the door of the exam room they were in. “Thangks,” Greyson rasped, sipping the water with his eyes closed. “D’you mbind if I, uh, lay down for a mbinute?”

The NP nodded, then stood in time with Elijah to help him lay Greyson on the crumpled paper. While Greyson fought back the dizziness, Emily the NP turned towards Elijah. “Maybe you could help us with the details?” she asked, smiling.

Elijah nodded, cleared his throat. Fought back a shiver – why the fuck do they keep these offices so fucking cold? “Yeah,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “Sure thiihh – hh..scusembe-NGTXCH-uhh!” Elijah attempted to stifle the sneeze into the sleeve of his sweatshirt, to no avail. Before he could even look around for one, Emily placed a tissue box on the chair next to Elijah, giving him a sympathetic look.

“Bless,” she said, simply. Elijah nodded, taking a tissue and wiping his nose to keep from seeming any grosser that he already was.

“Thangks, sorry,” he said, swallowing painfully. “Uh, yeah, I mbean he’s had a fever since… Friday, I thingk? Thursday ndight, mbaybe? And a cough, which has definitely gotten, uh, worse…” Again, Elijah held up a finger as though to say give me a minute, before turning away in hopes of a sneeze. This time, he wasn’t so lucky – it evaded him, and left in its place a crunchy, painful cough. On the exam bed, Greyson coughed in time with his boss. The NP raised her eyebrows.

“And… is there a reason you aren’t up on that exam table with him?” she asked, her voice light. Greyson croaked out a laugh, not opening his eyes. Ignoring the chef, Elijah attempted a smile.

“I’mb okay,” he promised, clearing his throat. “Anyway, last ndight the fever just got really intense, he was shakigg and couldn’t get mbedicine down and uh… yeah.” Elijah blinked, trying to clear his head. “Is that… does that help?”

Emily nodded, standing. “It does,” she said. “Let’s take a look and see what we can do.” She approached Greyson then, placing a hand on the bed. “Mr. Abbott? Is it okay if your husband and I help you up?”

At this, Greyson’s eyes flew open. “Mby what?” he asked, coughing out another laugh. A look of panic passed over Emily’s eyes, and she looked back at Elijah as if for confirmation. Elijah just rubbed his face with one hand, a modicum of embarrassment on his face.

“We’re, uh… he’s ndot mby husband,” he said, standing to help the NP lift Greyson to a seated position. “We’re busindess partners. Friends, y’kndow, and… business partners.”

“I keep askigg and askigg, and he keeps sayigg ‘ndo’,” Greyson said, a hand kept over one eye to keep from falling down or passing out as he sat up. He smiled at Emily, a charmer to the end, even when he was half-dead. “You’d thingk I’d kndow how to deal with the heartbreak by ndow, but it just ndever gets easier,” he said, turning once again to cough away from the other two. Emily flashed Elijah a confused look.

“He’s kidding,” Elijah promised, sniffling. “I’d say it’s the fever, but really this is just… how he is.”

Emily nodded slowly. “My apologies, I shouldn’t have assumed anything,” she said, putting the earbuds of her stethoscope in her ears and placing the cold bell on Greyson’s chest. Coughing into his sleeve, Elijah lowered himself back into his seat.

“All good,” he said, voice mangled. “You wouldn’t be the first person to assumbe it.”

The NP worked quietly then, asking Greyson to breathe as she listened to his lungs, checking his throat and ears, swabbing his nose for a flu test and his tonsils for strep. By the time she was finished and the rapid tests were back, Greyson looked ready to pass out again.

“Alright, Mr. Abbott,” Emily said, breezing into the exam room with a clipboard in hand. “Good news and bad news; the good news is, you tested negative for strep. Bad news is you tested positive for Flu A, and based on how your lungs sound, I’d say you also have bronchitis. And most likely, a sinus infection.”

From his laid-out position on the bed, Greyson attempted a smile. “Yay?” he said, coughing into his hand. Emily laughed a little behind her mask.

“I’m going to prescribe you an antibiotic for the sinus infection; unfortunately, there’s not much I can do about the flu or the bronchitis, unless you’d like a steroid shot. Obviously get rest and lots of fluids, over the counter medicine is fine, too, you can take it with the antibiotic. Do you need a doctor’s note for work?”

Greyson smiled at Elijah from the bed. “Mmm, ndo pretty sure mby boss believes that I’mb sick,” he said. Elijah rolled his eyes, then pressed his hand deep into one of their sockets when pain spread behind them. Emily also turned to look at Elijah.

“Ah, yeah, I forgot. Business partners,” she said, swiveling the seat of her chair to face Elijah and scooting herself towards his seat. The GM’s heart thumped in time with his head as she approached. “As for you, Mr…?”

“Elijah is finde,” Elijah said, suppressing a cough by swallowing hard.

“Elijah,” Emily repeated. “Is it alright if I touch you?”

When was the last time a woman asked you that? Elijah thought to himself, nodding. Emily gently brought her hands to his face and pressed under his eyes and holy fucking shit, fucking ouch.

“Jesus,” Elijah said, reeling back before turning away from her to suddenly – “HRRTSH-ue! NGTSCHHH-uhh!” The NP’s eyes betrayed the smile behind her mask.

“Bless you,” she said, backing up to her computer. “That’s what I figured; listen, I don’t normally do two-for-one type stuff, but it’s pretty clear that you have what he has, so I’m going to go ahead and prescribe a round of antibiotics for you as well. Keep you from having to come back in a couple days.”

Elijah’s face flamed as he grabbed another tissue and quietly blew his nose. This woman was the first person he’d felt those adolescent butterflies for in – he didn’t even know how long, honestly – and of course he was laid out, barely able to talk and sneezing in her face. The universe has it out for me, I swear to god.

“Uh, okay,” Elijah said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thangk you.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said, typing into her computer. When she finished and turned back to the two ill men, she smiled with her eyes. “Is there anything else I can do for the two of you?”

“You could hit mbe with a blow dart and wake mbe up when this shit is gone,” Greyson said, coughing again. Elijah bit the inside of his cheek while the NP laughed.

“Outside my jurisdiction,” she said, standing. “My apologies. Well, if that’s all then I’ll let you two get home. Take care of yourselves, if things get worse don’t be afraid to come back in.” Emily opened the door, pulled her mask down to smile at the two of them. Fuck, this woman is gorgeous. “Feel better,” she said, and closed the door behind her.

***

“So, do you thingk you’re goigg to go by Mr. Doctor Embily?” Greyson asked, propping himself up on an elbow. “Or is that, like, too on-the-ndose?”

From under the warm washcloth he’d placed over his aching sinuses, Elijah snorted and threw his friend a playful middle finger. “You’re an asshole,” he muttered, pulling the blanket Greyson had moved when he shifted positions back over his torso. “That womban wouldn’t touch mbe with a ten-foot pole after the fuckigg performance we put on in there.”

“Mmmb, I don’t kndow about that,” Greyson mused plucking the washcloth off of Elijah’s face and placing it over his own. “Seemed like she thought you were cute.”

This time, Elijah was the one who sat up. “Yeah,” he said grabbing both his and Greyson’s cups of TheraFlu off the side table and pressing the chef’s cup into his hand. “Ndothing cuter than sombe guy nearly sneezing into your open eyes. Dringk your damn mbedicine.”

Greyson did as he was told, sifting through the arsenal of Doordashed medications the two men had laid out on the bed as he sipped. After they’d stumbled out of the urgent care Elijah, who’d held it together as well as was humanly possible the past thirty hours, hit a wall so hard he nearly dropped to his knees. Without saying anything, Greyson had pulled out his phone and ordered an eye-wateringly expensive uber to cart them the few miles back to Elijah’s apartment; in return, Elijah had sent for an equally expensive courier to pick them up a pharmacy’s worth of medication and the best soup that the upper west side had to offer. While they waited for everything to be delivered, the two shivering, coughing men curled into Elijah’s sweat-soaked bed, listening to the labored sounds of one another’s breathing until they both passed out.

Now, an hour later and finally medicated, Greyson seemed wont to talk, while Elijah felt himself slipping into a deeper rung of illness. His whole body ached; he could think of nothing but sleep. Still, Greyson continued to prod.

“I’mb being serious,” Greyson said, unwrapping a cough drop and popping it in his mouth. “Mbaybe you should go back and ask for her ndumber.”

Elijah, eyes laden with bags from a sleepless night, flushed and sweating and breathing through his mouth, looked at Greyson, deadpan. “Look mbe in the eye and tell mbe that’s a goooo – hh… snrf. A good ideahh – hhGTSCHHH-oo! HRRTSCH-uh!” He wrenched to the side just in time, groaning at the pain. Out of the corner of his eye, Elijah saw Greyson wince.

“Well, obviously wait a few days,” he said, prompting Elijah to throw a pillow at him. The chef laughed, a soupy cough punctuating it.

“God, this is fuckigg mbiserable,” Elijah muttered, laying down again. “I can’t believe you worked yesterday feeling like this.”

Shrugging, Greyson placed his cup back on the side table and laid down as well. “I’mb mbade of different stuff, what can I say,” he joked. Elijah made a sound between a laugh and a snort before closing his eyes, the soft tendrils of sleep curling their fingers around his fevered mind. Moments before he dropped off, Elijah heard Greyson speak up again. “Hey, Lij?”

“Mmm?” Elijah muttered, sleep still right on the horizon. When Greyson didn’t immediately speak up, he opened one eye just a crack. Greyson, face pale and lips cracked, was looking right at him, clearly thinking of how to put whatever it was he wanted to say. Finally, he spoke up again.

“Thangk you,” Greyson said. “For takigg care of mbe.”

For a moment, Elijah just stared back, the sincerity of the sentiment setting him off-balance in a way he wasn’t expecting. Elijah rubbed his face to wake up enough to speak, nodded without letting his head leave the pillow. “’Course, Grey,” he said, attempting a weak smile. “That’s what friends are for.” He shrugged then, nonchalant, and closed his eyes once again. “I kndow you’d do the sambe for mbe.”

“Yeah,” Greyson said, voice soft. “I would.”

Right on the edge of sleep, Elijah allowed himself the last word. “Grey?”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever get mbe this sigck again, I will shoot you with a gun.”

For the first time in days, Greyson laughed in earnest. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said. “Ndight, Lij.”

Character arcs/Internal/social shifts:

1 caretaker, their relationship to the whumpee strengthens

1 caretaker, they find themselves growing apart from the whumpee

2 or more caretakers, there are complicated dynamics between all of them + the whumpee that shift around

Eg; there's a whumpee and 3 others, Caretaker A forms a closer relationship with Whumpee throughout the story, Caretaker B *was* close with them before but finds their place now "usurped" by A, Caretaker C tries to keep the peace between them while also helping out Whumpee

A caretaker realizes they're better at Caretaking than they'd thought

A caretaker realizes they're not as good at Caretaking as they'd thought

Whumpee realizes they have romantic feelings for Caretaker (or vice versa)

Whumpee discovers they only like Caretaker as a friend (or vice versa)

Whumpee learns to trust Caretaker (s)

Caretaker (s) learn to trust Whumpee

There was a previous misunderstanding (about their feelings for one another, their loyalties, an action taken from one of them etc.) between Whumpee and Caretaker (or between more than one caretaker) that gradually gets resolved

A misunderstanding occurs within the story that builds and is then resolved

One caretaker has to convince another to be honest with Whumpee about this misunderstanding (or has to convince Whumpee to be honest with Caretaker)

Someone unexpected arrives at the scene; whether that be a rival, a friend or family member of the whumpee, a potential other caretaker, or Whumper

Perhaps this is a relief for the caretaker, who needs a break

Or it's a stranger who causes tension in the situation

Maybe the caretaker knows this person is coming and is stressed out waiting for them

Physical/symptomatic shifts:

Whumpee is found injured and unconscious, and wakes up being cared for - their wounds later become infected, leading to a much longer recovery

Whumpee's condition quickly worsens

Whumpee steadily becomes delirious

Whumpee is feverish and goes from feeling freezing cold to boiling

Whumpee feverishly tries to stumble out of bed and into a different room (searching for Caretaker? trying to find a warmer spot?), and are found before, as, or after they collapse

Adding illness to injury: Whumpee is dealing with an injury, only to get sick, or sick only to also become hypothermic, they have heatstroke and then get hurt etc. Compounding whump.

Environmental shifts:

A caretaker could leave temporarily out of necessity, leaving whumpee and/or other caretaker(s) worried about them until they return

The weather changes (worsens? gets better? worsens and then gets better? gets better and then worsens?)

The characters have to shift locations for some reason

An important resource is run out of

Something necessary is destroyed or partially destroyed

A doctor/medic needs to be called

Somebody else becomes sick, injured, or lands in some other danger

Whumpee's newest symptom requires a different type of medicine than what they've been taking up until now, possibly one the caretaker doesn't have

The characters are in an intense situation (in hiding, in a warzone, on the run, trying to escape a natural disaster etc.) and the stakes suddenly become much higher due to something related to this

Maybe there's a flood and the waters have reached their safe spot

Maybe whumpee is some enemy they're sheltering in secret and members of their team/army/etc. come searching for them