Pure & Sneasy

Part I: The Quiet One

Roger, 1967

The cabbie glared at us through the rear mirror. "Cover your mouth."

Not quite recovered from a spraying bouquet of sneezes, Pete wiped away the remnants and acknowledged him with a sluggish nod. "Thanks." He unfolded a handkerchief across his spread palms, gathering a breath to make use of it.

"I didn't say, Gesundheit. I said, Cover your mouth. Dun't need bleedin' flu on top of everythin' else, do I?"

Anger blazed in Pete's eyes. At the top of his breath, though, there was nowhere for it to go but out through his chapped nostrils as he blew his nose, as pointedly as I'd ever seen him do at somebody. Course, it was only a cold, but I could personally vouch that this was one rhinovirus the cabbie definitely didn't want. I'd caught it first. After three days of a runny nose that'd flood the banks of the Nile, my little visitor set up camp in the most vulnerable point it could find: my throat. I'd coughed myself hoarse. If the mere thought of speech didn't send hot forks of pain down my voice box, I'd tell the cabbie that he ought to keep his eyes on the road if he didn't like what he saw, and Pete to do as the man said.

Not that I thought it'd save him from our fate. This was a right monster of a cold, as cruel as it was catching. Within a week, nearly the whole bloody band was down with it. But money needed making, so we dragged our sorry corpses on stage night after night, waiting to see what would give out first—our legs or our voices. No-one wanted to cancel, even though Pete had been sneezing his head off and Keith was passed out against the window with fever. And as for the remainder—

My hand flew to the back of my hair as someone tried for my attention by flicking my skull. When I spun around, John tipped his chin up at me. "Got another lozenge?"

His voice was healthy, clear, and strong. I didn't understand it. By some black magic, this once-in-a-generation cold seemed to have passed John over completely. Not so much as a sniffle, when we three had been sporting red noses for a week. Where did this indomitable immune system come from? Not healthful habits and discipline; that much for certain. You'd think bodies were two a penny, the way John treated his, and somehow not one little sneeze; never. Meanwhile, I guarded and revered my body as a temple, and what did it get me? Sick as a dog. Flicked in the back of the head.

"Hello," Pete smirked, "caught up with you at last, has it?" He was as dubious as I was that John could outrun this cold forever.

John's eyebrows inched closer together. "I'm fine. It's for Moonie."

"You've got to be alive to suck on a lozenge. Go on, admit it: the Ox is no match for a measly little bug."

Without opening his eyes, Keith flicked Pete a lazy V. I pressed a cherry-flavoured throat lozenge into John's hand and turned to face forward. There was an itch creeping up the back of my throat that meant a sneeze. Most times, I could will it away, but not with this cold. All I could do was plug a fist over my mouth and curl forward with an abrupt nod and a whispered ghost of a sneeze.

"—! …choo."

The pounding in my head was murder, but it was nothing compared to the hell my throat would raise if I let fly a real sneeze. Besides, in apparent contrast to certain parties who'll remain anonymous, I wasn't brought up by wolves.

The cabbie gave a grunt that I took as a commendation of my manners. Straight away I wished I'd sneezed all over the bald back of his head, and to hell with the vocal strain.

John, 1967

John held the paper wrapper by both wingtips and pulled, freeing the red jewel inside.

"Aahh." He stuck his tongue out to demonstrate. When his patient amenably copied him, John popped the lozenge in Keith's mouth.

Keith mumbled his thanks. "When's it kick in?"

"Shhh, don't talk." John patted his lap and moved his hand out of the way. Keith's head, sweat-damp and smelling of eucalyptus and cherries, came to rest on his thighs. A smile teased John's lips. There was nothing like a good virus to take the edge off the little hellraiser. He looked bloody angelic like this.

John straightened in his seat. Looking down had shifted the pressure in his head. After a quick glance told him no one was looking, he edged the length of one forefinger across his right nostril, where a single clear droplet had almost seeped out.

Part II: Magic Bus

Pete, 1968

Whether the detonation was planned, Pete never found out. All he knew were these facts, in order: they'd been driving between cities in Oklahoma. It was hours since they'd seen a tall building. There was a small explosion from the vicinity of Keith's baggage. The very next instant, a blistering irritation invaded Pete's eyes, nose, mouth, and lungs.

The bus careened to a haphazard stop on the shoulder of a one-lane. Blinded and senseless, face streaming, choking on the fiery air, Pete joined the others in a mad, clawing scramble to escape their tour bus-cum-death trap. He tumbled into fresh, cool air, which only made the tears come freer. Pete fell to his knees coughing. Over the din of passing drivers' bewildered honks and his bandmates' purging airways, he discerned the words pepper bomb from somewhere off to his left.

Sounds about fucking right, he thought, moments before shuddering into a violent sneeze. His lungs burned, his nose stung, and his eyes were on fire, almost worse than just before. Pepper. God. A snoutfull of the dinner table condiment would have been a mercy. This was weapons grade capsaicin, searing so hotly Pete was sure he could feel his brain sweating. Another sneeze demanded its say, and he was helpless to stop his head whipping toward the ground as it bore out of him, followed by a sputtering, tearing cough. It was only the overture, spelling out the attack to follow. Quick as a see-saw, his lungs filled like bellows for the next set.

It was minutes before he caught his breath long enough to notice that there were other people in the world. From just behind him came the raucous music of the non-guitarists. Keith would chatter for a moment, then interrupt himself to sneeze again and again, in short rapid pulses like automatic rifle-fire. Whereupon he'd cough heroically and pick up on his last point, starting the process over. So he was hoist on his own petard, then. That comforted Pete, but it seemed little consolation to Roger, who was actually managing to do more talking than sneezing.

"Think I'm being funny?" he snarled. His voice had a croaky rasp to it, which only served to emphasize his rage. "You fucking watch me, mate. You fuc—" A strong, deep-chested sneeze Pete wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of, physically or emotionally.

Keith jabbered back his share of snot-laden insults and threats, but it wasn't until the thunk of someone's back hitting the bus that Pete realised they had come to blows.

"Oi!" He clambered ungracefully to his feet, then doubled over from the pain that lanced his eyes. Opening them had been a mistake. He pawed away fresh, scalding tears until he could see the blurry edges of the fight. Keith was trying in vain to prise Roger's sinewy arm from around his throat. Unfazed, Roger dragged him back to the front of the bus, flung him inside, and threw his bodily weight against the door.

"Let him out, Rog," Pete choked. "He'll as-fucking-phyxiate."

"Good." Roger's eyes were wild with fury, shocking blue against his pepper-reddened face. "I've had it with that one. I've fucking had it." A series of urgent thumps rattled the door from the inside, to which Roger responded by driving his shoulder even harder against the exit. "Won't have him in no band of mine. You hear?"

"All right! All right! Just fucking let him out, yeah?"

"I don't wanna see him. I don't wanna smell him."

"I said, All right! Open the fucking door!"

The point was moot; Keith poured out the back window and landed in a heap on the ground. His body spasmed with wracking coughs, sounding as though he might bring up a whole lung.

Pete pointed accusingly. "You could've killed him."

It was the wrong thing to say. "Oh, sod this," Roger spat. He proceeded to shed his blouse, flip it inside out, bury his face in it, and blow his nose profoundly. Once finished, he cast it spitefully aside and stalked off in the direction of the road.

"Where the fuck d'you think you're going, then?"

Roger's answer was to stick out his thumb and continue along the white line. Shit, thought Pete. We've still got to get to the show.

He took in air to offer Roger a final good riddance, but all he got was a bitter, well-seasoned cough.

"…fuckin' head case."

Pete turned at the sound, just in time to watch John deliver a slap to the back of Keith's head that sent his hair flying. Less than he deserved, no question, but it put an ache in Pete's heart to see Keith still too busy hacking and gagging to respond in kind. Besides, Pete was more interested in John: namely, where the hell he'd been through all of this.

"Talking to the driver." John cleared his throat, blinking away tears that made his light lashes look made-up. He nodded at the bus and went on: "He's up there washing his eyes out with Coke. Bein' sick behind the front tyre." He raised his eyebrows, almost as if to shrug. "Pepper has that effect on some people. Prefer horseradish, myself."

Keith barked out a cough that had some vestiges of a laugh in it. Pete did not join him. "And that's funny, is it?"

John eyed him incredulously. "No."

"So we're to believe you had no hand in this?"

"I only just talked him 'round from walking out on us."

"Just seems a bit suspect, is all. I mean, we're…we—"

Pete and Keith sneezed almost in unison. Coattail-rider, Pete thought, but kept it to himself. "And you're…" He sniffled, feeling his ears turn red. "You know. Not."

"Huh," said John. If Pete thought that a lead-in to a straight answer, he was soon disabused of that notion. John snorted gruffly, hawked, and spat. "Where's Duchess?"

Pete sighed. "He has hitched a ride."

"To Oklahoma City?!"

As he pictured it, Pete indulged himself a sorely painful but inwardly satisfying snicker. Roger, shirtless and shoeless, eyes flowing, resolutely thumbing his way into a Volkswagen Beetle full of young female fans. They'd have to drive with the windows down. And Casanova would have his day anyway. All right, ladies? Roger Daltrey at your—Achoo!—service. And what might your name be? Ah, but that suits you. Pretty name for a pretty girl…Ah-CHOO! The most disgusting part, Pete thought with a shake of his head, was that they would probably think it was cute.

Part III: Too Much of Anything

Keith, 1973

—Now this particular party was hosted by Cass Elliot, of the Mamas & the Papas, at her home in California. Sixty…sixty-nine, I think, thereabouts. Oh, let me tell you. Could this woman throw a shindig. Food, drink. I'll, er, I shan't bore you with the details, but this was one party from which the Emperor Nero would have gone home early. Very…happening stuff, at these Laurel Canyon parties. A gentleman smoking a poison dart frog in the corner.

—And the girls. Gorgeous suntanned chicks. There wasn't a bad-looking chick in the place. Yes, Brian—and Mike—I do wish they were all California girls, I do, I do. So I happened to be talking to a young lady—John and I were by the pool, John Entwistle and I, and we had both set our sights on this lovely young woman, who was wearing a sort of fancy dress costume of an ostrich. She was sort of, head—neck—feathers—legs. I thought, four of my favorite things, let's have it, how do you do, Keith Moon.

—So I was chatting her up, being my usual galant self, and she mentions she's learning how to play the bass. I thought…bollocks. Missed it by that much. In swoops John, taking her by the hand, tutting about how graceful and delicate her fingers are, much more suited to the piano; oh, I play that too; oh, I could teach you if you like. Textbook stuff. And the girl was his. You know, wild horses couldn't have…Though I was thinking of getting a few myself, by that point, you know, on the off chance…

—But then, the funniest thing happened, I'll never forget this—

Keith, 1969

John's face twitched, one side scrunching up like someone had poked him in the eye. Be funny if someone's slipped something in his drink, thought Keith. Shoe polish or cat piss. I might try that. But the reaction was too far removed from his latest swig to be related to the wine.

The ostrich girl, Tilly, hadn't noticed. John was behind her, shaping her hands with his, rumbling instructions into—not her ear, no. That would have made too much sense. He was addressing the skin between her neck and shoulder. Keith knew by the way her teeth caught her lower lip that she was trying not to shiver from it.

Then John huffed out his nose, sharp and flitting, a cough with no catch. Tilly broke out in a shudder from the breeze against her neck. A similar shiver seemed to take John—no, he was shaking his head. Once, small, like he was warding off a gnat. For a moment, he stared blithely into the distance. But then he blinked hard and went on with his lesson.

"Cross your thumb…under your third finger." John sculpted Tilly's hands on their pretend piano, a nearby railing. "Then one, two, three…four…"

The pause he left was too long for Keith. If there was a five coming, it had better hurry up and arrive before his moment's boredom grew into an itchy trigger finger. There were several outfits in their vicinity, for example, that would look much better in the pool. Tilly's feather shawl was top of the list.

But five never arrived. A funny look came over John. His brow furrowed into mild confusion, then agitation, then outright pain. Both eyes screwed tightly shut. His lips pulled back over jagged teeth.

Keith didn't know what he was watching until—

"hH'TFFFH!"

John ducked into a velvet-sleeved elbow, having disentagled his arm from Tilly's just in time.

A polite cough? "Bless you," offered Keith, hoping for an ironic laugh.

Even after Tilly twisted over her shoulder to suss him out, John showed no reaction. He seemed frozen, still buried up to the eyes in his sleeve.

"Are you all—"

"Was it something I—"

Keith and Tilly chimed in at the same time, only for John to interrupt them both.

"TcHHFFH!" His head dipped even lower, the arm around Tilly's waist tightening as his body tried to curl in on itself.

That was no cough. Better—it was a sneeze! One of the funniest expressions of which the human body was capable. Keith let out an ecstatic peal of laughter, unable to believe his luck. Delicious! Delightful! Do it again!

"Bless you." Tilly's plumage fluttered gently in the night breeze as she turned, cozying into John's arm. "Someone's talking about you."

"No, no," said Keith. "That's, 'Your ears are burning.'"

Tilly shook her head. "One sneeze, someone's missing you."

"Not likely. Go on."

"Two, and someone's talking about you."

"What about three?"

"—'PCHHHfh!"

John had dropped Tilly entirely, freeing his left hand to wedge his right elbow still tighter against his face. Within its protection sizzled a final, wheezy blast from a pair of very empty lungs.

Tilly shot Keith a knowing look. "That's a cold."

"It's not a…" John surfaced, twirling a finger in the vague direction of his nose. "I've got a—" He gasped suddenly, showing his teeth like a yawning tiger, then clapped his elbow back into place. "WHRRHFHhh!"

"God bless you, my dear boy." Keith derived a beautiful, buttery golden feeling from saying it. As the words left his lips, he considered that—fancy a thing like that?—this may well have been the first time he'd ever seen John sneeze. He'd know the man, what, five years? Hell of a debut.

"Bless you," Tilly echoed. "I dunno about four."

Keith's wit sprang into action (the gears giving somewhat of a rusty creak). "It's, er. It's, ah."

"'Scuse—" John extracted himself from the conversation and staggered away, one wrist shoved under his nose like he didn't trust it unattended.

Keith slapped his forehead. "Didn't I tell you? He suffers from a crippling allergy to nubile young virgins. Usually saves them for me."

At this, the hand that had crept beneath the fringes of Tilly's feather shawl clamped shut, squeezing a generous handful of her bottom. She squealed and wormed free, red with laughter as she rained playful bats on his shoulder.

A few feet away, John sneezed. It was more of a roaring bark, really; a cannon-crack that folded him at the waist and made Keith jump out of his skin.

"Gracious," Keith panted, laying a hand over his heart. "We'd better do something about that pesky virginity, darling. Now, your place, or…"

Though Keith wanted to kick himself for it, even the prospect of bedding this beautiful ostrich couldn't keep him from giggling at John's chosen course of treatment. He'd sealed his thumb against one nostril and forced out a powerful blast of air, essentially blowing his nose onto the veranda. By the time John stalked back over, Keith had schooled his expression into one of appropriate reverence. He was just praying John wouldn't go and say anything funny.

"Better?" asked Tilly.

John glared at them both, then twirled his finger again, pointing. "Feather up my nose."

Keith was lost. He exploded into laughter, but the electric, ticklish feeling bubbling up in his stomach needed another outlet. If he didn't vent it, he'd burst. He snatched Tilly's shawl in his fist and ripped.

"Ow!"

"'Ey," snapped John.

Keith looked down at his quarry. He'd meant to whisk the offending garment off her shoulders and fling it into the pool. Instead, he'd succeeded only in ripping out a handful of rich white feathers. Hmm, he puzzled. Give up, or go for broke?

He sucked in a huge breath and blew, palm flat as if delivering a kiss.

Feathers flurried toward John, who answered by giving Keith a moderate shove in the chest. It only knocked him back a step. Keith opened his mouth for a taunt, but a sudden wave of dizziness killed it in the cradle. His left heel had failed to find purchase, and now the party was zipping vertically past his eyes.

Roger

Usually sneezes just once.

Photic sneezer but no allergies. Gets a stuffy nose from red wine.

Sharp, voiceless affricate consonants followed by very vocal release.

Frequently comments on his own sneezes, whether to bless himself, excuse himself, speculate on the cause, or seemingly just to shoot the breeze, the way others comment on the weather.

The more sneezes in a row, the harder it is for him to refrain from comment. Ex: "At'CHEUw!" (silence or mild grunt) "Ah'TCHhue! Ah, bless me." "AtCHOO! Whew. Tickle." "Ah...Oh, come on...aht'CHHUW! Right, this is getting ridiculous."

Doesn't often cover his mouth or nose, which is not a big deal since his sneezes tend to be very "clean" (more breath than anything else). When he does cover: book-folded hands.

Excellent physical fitness but surprisingly delicate health, resulting in a few colds a year, inevitably wrecking his voice. Manages to fall face-first into pneumonia on more than one occasion.

Not overly precious about sneezing in front of people (as evidenced above, he enjoys the attention sometimes), but conscious of his image and rather short on patience. Can neutralize a sneeze into relative silence by holding his breath and pressing a fist over his mouth.

Keith

Rarely ever sneezes just once.

Mild seasonal allergies; takes enough recreational diphenhydramine (Benadryl and other first-gen allergy meds) that hardly anyone notices.

In the mod era, prone to rapid, voiceless, broken-record attacks with hardly any lead-in. Ex: "ah'kshh, ksh, ksh kshw kshiw ksshew—'KSsha—haH'KSHhw!"

Finishes with a shake of his head, laboring under no delusions as to the puppylike/kittenish cuteness of the display and what sympathy/favors it will win him.

In the Tommy era and beyond, stops trying to (or stops being able to) make his sneezes "small" and develops a more "mature" sound. Stronger sneezes -> more efficient irritant relief -> less prone to rapid fits. Ex: "eh'tCHAh! at'CHSHrue!"

Covers with whatever article of clothing he can yank up over his nose in time, not always his own. If he bothers to cover his mouth/nose at all. Spits a lot. In heavy drug use years, prone to messy nosebleeds.

Boom-and-bust health.

Master of fake sneezing. Can fool anyone once. Nuts over the attention it gets him. Because of this, and his unpredictable health, other Who members are usually reluctant to offer sympathy, on suspicion he's crying wolf.

Can hold a sneeze back but can't hold it in.

John

Sneezes once in a blue moon.

Allergies triggered by human-made irritants like dust and smog, but generally mild symptoms, usually just an itchy nose and some congestion. Nose-rubbing tic is a result of this.

During the Moon years: difficult to say what his sneeze sounds like since he muffles it into his sleeve whenever possible. Brief, devoiced, forceful but not loud, basically a strong scoff. Ex: "hh'TFFH!"

As the band starts to break down and he with it, loses a bit of control over how disruptive his sneezes are. Develops the quintessential "dad sneeze" that's little more than a loud bark, no alveolo-palatar fricatives. Ex: "—'RRUHFFHh!"

Still muffled, but often into a paisley handkerchief/bandana (deceptively expensive habit).

Blows his nose like a foghorn. Possible deviated septum from substance use.

Almost unbelievable health most of the time, but when it rains, it pours. A mild cold turns into bronchitis faster than you can say "twenty-a-day".

Not fond of sneezing, in front of people or otherwise, and often doesn't have to if he doesn't want to. Derives great amusement from other people's sneezes, out of schadenfreude rather than sexual thrill.

Pete

Sneezes follow no pattern. Might be once, might be five times.

Episodes are frequent, more so than the average person. Photic sneezer. Sensitive to dust and physical irritants, hilariously allergic to cats and certain pollens. Makes no effort to either medicate or avoid triggers.

Sneezes from the throat, resulting in a growling, screaming, "pushing" sound. Emphasis on the "attack" rather than the final release syllable. Fricative consonants leading into the release (no occlusive phase). Every sneeze is an ordeal. Even ones that aren't particularly loud sound taxing. Ex: "hHy'YESSHHheww!" (cough) "Uggh..." (sniff)

"Catches" rather than covers, i.e. with a hand only somewhat near his face. Sometimes pinches his nose to minimize mess (his sneezes tend pretty messy), but more often just lets it fly. Can "restrict" a sneeze hands-free by stopping the flow of air through his nose, but can't fully contain it without physically holding his nose shut. The trade-off: stifling makes him sneeze more. Ex: "hp'Ngt! -'NXKT!" (hands on, fully stifled) "hiH'CHXNSshiuh!" (hands off, half stifled)

Crummy health. Often sick.

Fraught with psychosexual issues related to sneezing. Enjoys it if his sexual partners sneeze on him because he finds it degrading, in the same vein as being spit on or used as a urinal. Would enjoy being forced to sneeze in a sexual context for the same reason: humiliation and loss of control.

I don't like the look of Pete and this girl. He's three sheets to the wind, stumbling all over her. She's not making a straight line either. Though how could she, while holding him up?

The party is packed. I'd assume Pete's too tall to lose in a crowd, but now I can't find the two of them anywhere. On a hunch, I slip upstairs.

There she is, stamping away from the door to Pete's room. He's nowhere in sight. As our paths cross, I stick out an arm. "'Scuse me, miss?"

Wariness flashes in her eyes, then recognition, then a dull anger. "Thank fucking God. You better keep an eye on him."

In a panicked scan, my eyes rake over her. Not a thread on her clothes is out of place. Her hair's in disarray, but I'm not about to cast the first stone there. "Has he hurt you?"

The girl snorts. "Idiot's too wasted to find his own dick. Better chance of choking on his vomit than laying a finger on me. Or any woman. Swear to you there's something wrong with him."

She brushes past me, but I anchor her with a hand on her forearm. With the other, I go digging in my pocket. "Hang on, darling, hang on."

"Don't you 'darling' me." She frees herself with very little effort.

I raise my hands in surrender, then hand out a fold of cash.

She's far from impressed. "Oh, please."

"Cab fare." I want to wave it in her face. Instead, I keep my wrist relaxed. "Get home safe."

A smile creeps in as she takes it. "I'm staying in the hotel. Did you know they let in regular people too?"

I've already passed her by. "Sleep tight, princess," I say without turning around.

"You too, Goldilocks."

Pete's room is dark. Before I flick the switch, I know he's in there by smell alone. Expensive brandy and cheap cigarettes. Hair, unwashed. He's a crime scene on the bed, spread out face-down. I check for breath and get plenty.

"Fuck off," he gurgles, as soon as one eye stops rolling long enough to lock on mine.

"Had a chat with that nice young lady."

Pete's other eye opens. "Where'she?"

"She's gone, you berk." I drop into the tatty armchair every hotel suite seems to have, for no other obvious purpose than to seat the cameraman during shooting of an X-rated film. "Not that you should have been messing about with her, anyway. Fucking state you're in."

Pete draws breath; I assume for a slurring retort, but instead he sneezes, his head plunging forward to spray the rumpled sheets. A bitten-back wince follows, as if his stomach bore the strain.

"Gesundheit." Imagining the slosh of liquor, I can't keep a note of disgust out of my voice. I hope he's done. Pete's manners, appalling when sober, get sloppier still when he's drunk.

To my chagrin, he sneezes again. Tight, with a nasal crunch, as though he'd tried to choke it off. But it showers out of him anyway, as does a breathy shudder. He shifts, cants his hips.

"Bless you."

"Stoppit." Half into the pillow.

I fold my hands and cross my ankle across my knee. "All right."

Pete lurches into another sneeze, so violent it sounds angry, curling his back off the bed. A pained groan hisses between his teeth, and I say nothing.

"God," he utters, then succumbs again, scattering a wretched, damp sneeze over the edge of the bed. Out slips a whine. He squirms, clutching the sheets in shaking fists.

My resolve breaks. "Are you all right?"

"Jus' fuckoff. Jus' fuckoff an'…" He's gathering himself up for another one, whether he likes it or no. Rising into a stiff little arch, his shirt pulling taut. He sneezes—shivers; sneezes—swears; sneezes again—a long moan wrings out of him, fluttering and desperate. His hips drive a clumsy furrow into the mattress, panting, shaking.

At once, my chair grows intolerably uncomfortable. "Jesus." I look anywhere but at him. The rustling of the sheets cuts through the room, and his ragged, broken breathing is somehow even louder. Waiting for him to sneeze or make some other horrible sound is like waiting for the lash. I find myself tensing my muscles, grinding my teeth, chafing in anticipation. I let out my breath and wipe sweaty palms on my jeans.

Pete mumbles something. It's inaudible to me until the word Roger. Reluctantly, I turn my gaze back to him. "Eh?" My hands rest on the arms of the chair, ready to push me to my feet. But only if he's dying.

His voice is so congested, they're hardly words that come out. "Touch be."

"No!" I pour every ounce of indignation I can into one syllable, but it's not enough to purge that request from my body. My skin feels too tight.

Pete wiggles and whines, rubbing into the mattress like he hates the damn thing. I can't tell if it's the sting of rejection that's got him worked up, or his nose, or some lurid combination of the two. Suddenly he gasps, a short cry of surprise, and I can feel the precipice, diving and swooping in my gut. He snatches another quick breath, even more vocal. Fuck, it's so vulgar. I wish he'd just get on with it.

I don't know what kind of vibrations I sent out, but just as I think it, the tether snaps. Pete crumples with a sodden car crash of a sneeze, the sound so loaded and thick I know he's made a right fucking mess of himself. The second purgation comes a few whimpers later. With a kick of his skinny hips, he gives over to a heaving sob of an orgasm. God help me, I blush. He sounds like someone's having their wicked way with him against his will, and he's so grateful for it he could cry. I feel filthy being in the same room. Right then, I make up my mind to leave.

I've risen halfway to my feet when movement catches my eye. Pete is stretching one bone-thin arm off the bed, pawing uselessly at a box of Kleenex on the end table. His weak grasp only pushes the box further away.

"Oh, for…" Frustration carries me across the room. I rip out two sheets and shove them in his hand. "Here."

One Kleenex drifts unblemished to the floor, but the other survives the journey to his nose. It's flushed, red with abuse—not that I'm looking too closely. He blows, about half-strength, and I can hear it hasn't done the job. His watery eyes struggle to stay open. He's barely alive.

"Why do you do this to yourself, mate?" I ask, as if an answer can be expected.

Pete muffles a bad spell of coughing into his long-suffering tissue. More tears pour out. Not looking at me, he tries another blow, with similar success.

I hesitate, then lay a cautious hand on his neck. It's clammy, his hair in wet strands. "Have you got a cold?" I venture. I should be leaping back at the mere possibility. Admittedly, my vocal cords tighten at the prospect of being gummed up by a raging infection. But Pete flinches under my touch, and I know I can't extricate myself any time soon. He's not overly warm. Then, I'm no doctor.

"Water?"