snz & ocs

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!

He does not regret them, those words, not in that moment, but he knows he will later; when the lights had dimmed and the warmth was escaping, when the silence was creeping in, and he was alone in his bed. He can hear her voice in his head, following him down the hall, “you and I both know, you could do no such thing to your brother”, and she would be right. Kate was always right. 

He knows too, it will take him some time to apologise, to repatch the fraying edges between them, the splitting seams that caught him off guard more than he cared to admit. He may not have meant it, not really, trying to impose the gravity of the situation onto his brother who didn’t seem to understand the ripple these consequences would have.

He may not have meant I should cut you off, (because how could he ever?) but they had to be said. It could be a flight of passion, a fleeting moment, a passing of something vulgar, or real love. Whatever had overcome his brother’s common sense, he was still Benedict. 

It didn’t make it any less damaging, but they both knew he could never follow through with that threat. Nevertheless, it needed to be said, and not least because it was their mother who called for him. 

The painted eyes etched into the image of his father, watching over their quarrel in the dark flickers of the study, and the familiar weight pressing into his back. It does not take long for the heaviness to return, staring down at the sketches on his desk, into the desperation of his brother's eyes. He is thrown for a moment, back into the body of a man with no prospects for a future, entrenched in the bleakness of life (and death). 

Duty clutters his head like the aftermath of wine, clouding his judgement, that’s what Kate always said. Blinded, by the responsibility binding him to the chair his father should sit in, and even now, even as at peace as he was with being alive, it still encroaches in, like shadows stealing away his breath. 

Benedict understood some of that, his crutch, when he’d spent days washed out in front of ledgers and letters, losing himself in a bottle where society could not find him. He can see it, a version of it, resting in the lines of his brother’s anger. But he did not understand all of it.

The fear underneath the burn of alcohol and the dripping candles that one day he would lose them all, just as he had his father. The fear that all he did would not be enough to keep them together, or the days where everything was slipping from his hands and he could not keep up. 

He could be blinded, Anthony knew that, protect the family protect the family protect the family. That had been his burden from the moment the venom took their father, a suffocating, relentless burden that he would not wish anyone else – would not trust anyone else – and relinquishing its hold was harder still. 

Warmer now, more alive, content in the pleasures of his wife, basking in the golden haze of the birth of his son – he existed. But he had spent too long, before Kate, not measuring up to the shoes he had to fill beyond the papers and the money. He did not wish to make the same mistakes, to fall back on the darkness. 

Perhaps Benedict was right; he didn’t know his brother anymore. Perhaps he had been away too long, allowed himself too much, been too careless, too selfish. Perhaps he just couldn’t see what Benedict could? 

Anthony exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. 

It aches, the echo of his brother's words, and to return home to a quarrel as his family stretches in several different directions. It had not escaped his notice he had barely seen Eloise, Gregory and Hyacinth. India was his choice, his favourite choice, but were the consequences too great? 

(Was it time to return properly? Was father disappointed?). 

He disliked being harsh with his siblings, he always had — though he was certain they still believed otherwise — it was never a burden he wanted. But his position expected sacrifices, and it seemed he had grown too complacent, had let things carry on without his perspective to oversee them for far too long.

He misses Kate. 

He’d forgotten how bright these halls could be when his head was aching. It was nice to be home again, that much was true, and he could not wait to show off Edmund to everyone; his baby boy, his Ed. But all the travelling was starting to wear him thin like the buttons on his shirt that needed sewing. 

He scrubs at his eyes, pushing the lingering doubt to the back of his mind. It was no use lingering on such thoughts if he were to be of any use. 

“How was Benedict?”

His mother greets, meeting him halfway down the stairs. 

“Well, he is convinced of his feelings, that is clear.” Anthony sighs. “And my books have paid the price.”

“Pardon?” Violet blinks. 

Anthony shakes his head. This does nothing to deter the headache creeping in behind his eyes. It had been there since last night, silently brewing in the back of his skull with each jerk of the carriage. A quiet arrival in the late evening, after his siblings had gone to bed – or rather, found their way to other establishments – and he was glad of it. But his sleep had been restless, as his body always was the first night or so away from Kate. 

“I’d like to say I got through to him, but when has Benedict ever listened to me?”

“Quiet often, I shouldn’t wonder.” She replies dryly. 

Anthony scoffs in rebuttal, sensation tickling the back of his throat with the dry, warm air, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

“Thank you for coming, Dear.”

“Of course.” 

“Are you travelling back tomorrow?” 

“The day after,” he smiles wearily,“I have gifts from our trip to bestow and Hyacinth wishes to show me her ribbon collection.”

She does not try to hide her laugh as her eyes gaze him up and down. Even now, after all this time, she still had an uncanny ability to see everything he wanted to hide. 

“You look tired. Are you getting enough sleep?”

“This morning you said I looked well!”

A half smile, his mock offense slipping away as her cool palm caresses his cheek. 

“I am well,” he murmurs, “it has simply been a long few days.” 

“Well, it is wonderful to see you again.” Her thumb stroking his cheek, and Anthony reaches up, squeezing her hand. 

“Get some rest, my dear.”

He tries. A valiant effort lying in the strewn bedsheets that don’t feel quite as comfortable as they should, half thrown across his body, half exposed to the air. His throat itches, swallowing against the dryness like sand, eyelids heavy as they flicker open for the hundredth time. A new light seeping through the curtains, morning, though just a few minutes ago it had been dark, he was sure. 

He knows what it is. The absence lingering like the echo of a song, his hand gripping the pillow where she should lie, where his son should be, and finding nothing. Anthony pushes himself up, sheets spilling off his chest, cold wood against his feet as he bends forward, rubbing his temple. He exhales, blinking tiredly and reaches for his pocket watch. It’s a comforting tick, as he glances at the time. 

Too early. He clears his throat, clambering into his breeches and pours himself a glass of water. It’s cool, refreshing, and yet, does not satisfy the itch in his throat, lingering like a bad omen. A physical penance, perhaps, for being too harsh. He drains the water, and reaches for his shirt with a sigh. 

Before Kate, he longed for the moments where the house was silent, that he had a moment’s peace to think before everyone else was awake. He still enjoys it, but his honeymoon to India had assured him, he would hate to be without it now. Her soft breaths, reaching for him as she stirs, the touch of her hand gliding over his chest, her lips brushing against his ear, calling for him, he wanted, he needed–

Enough. Anthony rakes a hand through his hair, snatching his pocket watch from the bedside table, shaking his head. If Kate could manage without him, he could manage a couple of days without his wife, whether he wanted to or not. Merely out of sorts. That’s all it was; missing them, all this business with Benedict's, travelling around, tampering with the humours in his body. 

Nothing a decent sleep wouldn’t cure. 

He just had to get there first, it seemed. And whilst Anthony adored – or despised, given the nature of it – seeing Hyacinth so excited to debut (something else to give him nightmares about), and Gregory growing into himself, he was glad for the respite of dinner. 

Whether it could truly be called that, at least he was not monopolising all of the attention; they rather quickly turned theirs to each other, bickering across the table around a bowl of soup. That was the double edged sword of having six siblings. Or any siblings, he would imagine. 

“I still cannot believe you went to India.” Elosie sighs. “Must everyone get to see the world apart from me.”

“You can see the world with your husband.” 

Violet replies, pointedly.

Eloise rolls her eyes. 

“Next time, we shall take you all.” Anthony chuckles, clearing his throat. “We have plans to return with Edmund when he is older, to see where he was born.”

“Oh how lovely dearest,” Violet smiles. “I’m sure we’d all be delighted to come.”

“Perhaps you could find a gentleman there, Eloise.” 

Hyacinth gets a crouton thrown in her direction for her efforts. Their mother sighs. 

“How is Lord Anderson?” 

He murmurs, as Elosie is pulled into an argument over whether the merits of extra croutons is a good conversation starter (god knows, and it’s steering dangerously close to thought of Hyacinth debuting, that he tunes it out), and only mildly enjoys the way his mother freezes. It was not often he could catch her off-guard. 

“We- well, he- I mean, Lord Anderson is well…I would imagine.”

She takes a sip of soup and avoids his gaze. 

Anthony hums into a glass of wine. He appreciates the soup more than his siblings, choosing to ignore implications of the gesture from his mother, and enjoying the taste of old fashioned, bland English food. His drink, though rather poorly chosen but there would be questions if he picked something else, like tea, leaves his throat as parched as when he entered and no less itchy. 

The headache had not left, slowly emerging from a distant irritation to a steady thump settling behind his left eyelid, as he stared at the almost completed ribbon collection for an hour, whilst Hyacinth speculated where she might find the rest. It was tiredness wearing him down, he was sure of it, the ache in his muscles remained from travelling – a bath would soon settle it – and the heaviness on his bones was less to do with endurance and more about Benedict, he suspected. 

Who was notably absent from dinner. 

“Good,” Anthony mutters, “that is good.”

Her eyes jump to his, grip on her napkin tightening. It is okay, he wishes to say, I know. I know and it is okay. If he deserved to be happy, by some stroke of miracle, then his mother more than deserved it, Kate had shown him that. 

“Is…Is it?”

“It is.” 

His lips curl upwards, as her eyes widen, just a fraction, breath catching. And then, she relaxes, a nervous smile, looking away, faint flush on her cheeks. She knew what he meant.  

“Righhhht…” Eloise drawls, glancing between them, face scrunching up. “Well now we know Lord Anderson is well, can we have dessert?”

Anthony snorts. 

It dissolves into a cough, turning his head away into his fist, sensation scraping at the back of his throat. He sniffs, clears his throat, and drains the rest of his glass as the others argue over chocolate pudding. From which he abstains, with some comment about weight and getting ready for Eddy’s first game of Pal Mal that keeps them preoccupied as he retires from the table. 

He loved everything about his family, but he was weary tonight. The sooner he got a decent sleep, the better. 

And then, on the stairs, she runs into him. Or, more accurately, he bumps into her, distractedly rubbing his temples, the air starting to shimmer in a way that suggested a migraine and he really did not want one of them. 

“Oh!” His shoulder catches her as they pass, and she drops a basket of laundry on the floor. He jerks down instinctively, catching the basket from rolling down the stairs.

“My sincerest apologies, my Lord, I did not mean to-”

“It was my fault.” Anthony dismisses, muscles twinging as he straightens back up with a sniff. “You have my apologies, I was distracted.” 

The maid – Sophie, was it? – nods hesitantly, accepting the basket back. 

For a moment, he thinks about saying something. His mother had not meant to mention her name, he knows that much, she let it slip in her worries, but seemed to think highly of the woman. Whatever the case; it might not be proper, it might not be right, but she was not his responsibility (yet, his mind whispers savagely). He had spoken to Benedict, he had no right to interfere any further, even at his mother’s request. 

He shakes his head with a wince, coughing into his elbow. 

“Are you quite alright my Lord?” Sophie frowns. “I can fetch you a glass of-”

“That is not your job.” He cuts in, a little too brusquely; he catches her blanch before her face schools, and softens.

“It is nothing to worry about. Thank you.” 

She nods, after a moment, and moves on, glancing back only once before disappearing down the stairs. 

He coughs again, hand catching the bannister, lights bleeding against his eyes. He groans, closing them for just a second. Maybe he was getting old. He shivers involuntarily at the thought, and redirects his head before it can stray elsewhere (“We’ll take it one day at a time” isn’t that what Kate said? One day at a time, he could do that.) 

A bath. That should settle him. 

It is nice, to lock the door in the low light of his room, and sink down into the water. Just right, as always, submerging his aching body into the heat as steam drifts around his chest. Anthony exhales, head tipping back, basking in the warmth. He yawns softly, massaging his temple and brushing a hand through his hair, half wishing it was Kate’s. The heat seeps slowly down his body, into his bones, drawing out the weight clinging to his skin and letting it go. 

He hopes it hasn't been too long. He does not regret going, will never regret that trip, seeing the birth of his son, seeing Kate’s face returning to her homeland. But he cannot say he didn’t miss his family, even with the letters he sent. Birthday’s, Wedding’s, Celebrations. There are things he missed that his father would never have. He hopes, when all of this with Benedict is over, and his brother knows there will always be a place for him here, that he can prove to his family that they are what matters most to him. 

He hopes they know it already. 

Water droplets trickle down his face, steam tickling the back of his throat with another dry cough, and tingling in his sinuses. Anthony sighs again, reaching for a small glass of port and closing his eyes. He presses the cold edge of the glass to his temple, sniffling softly. 

He did not miss how complicated they could be. 

“huH–!” His breath hitches, as the gentle tingling in his sinuses turns to a sudden, sharp tickle, head jerking down with no time to even raise his hand. “-hhESSHHOO!”

Water splashes up his chest, narrowly avoiding tipping the glass into the bath. He sniffs, rubbing his nose with his knuckle and drains the rest with a half-cough, before placing it back on the side. He sniffs again, palming his eyes, a noticeable tickle still resting in his sinuses. 

Clearing his throat, Anthony washes his hair, trying to ignore the stubborn itch, pausing only to rub at his nose once or twice. He scrubs his body with a bar of soap, bubbles rippling across the surface of the water, suds lingering on his hands. 

It was a new kind, he thought, more scented, something floral and it wasn’t lilies.

Anthony sniffs, faint scent lingering like a herb, as the tickle in his sinuses moves down. He falters, breath snagging, it blooms across his cheekbones and burns in the bridge of his nose, eyelashes fluttering.

“ehh…heh…Huh…” he scrubs a hand under his nose, eyes squeezing shut, muscles tensing. “HEhh'ERrrSSHHU!” 

He snaps down in the general direction of his palm, droplets dusting his chest. 

“hHhh—!” 

His nostrils flare, half rising out of the bath, gripping the side of the tub, he inhales sharply, tickling the back of his throat as he does. 

“—aADTSSCHHeUH!” 

Another itchy sneeze carelessly aimed, as his eyelashes flutter and his nose twitches, coughing roughly in the aftermath. Peace now firmly ruptured by the comings and goings of light congestion in his head, he resigns himself to sniffling soupily as he finishes his bath, unable to return to the pleasure of soaking in the water. 

He drags himself into the cooler air, shivering slightly as it touches his body, and clambers out of the bath, wrapping a towel around his waist. He doesn’t wait for the air to dry his skin, tugging on a loose night shirt, tousling his damp hair with the towel before collapsing into bed. Face pressing into the pillow, coughing again, he rolls onto his back, legs tangling in the sheets. 

Just some sleep, and then, home to Kate. That was all he needed. 

But he seems cursed to wake every hour like the toll of a clocktower, head throbbing, lungs lurching in his chest with a rough cough, that leaves every morning order short, clipped, and rasping from his throat.

He could forgive them for mistaking his misery for a bad mood, as he barked for his valet to bring the carriage around, before the sun had truly risen into dawn. 

“Dearest?” 

His mother’s voice rings through the entrance hallway, as Anthony buttons up his waistcoat, letting the cool breeze from the open doors wash over his skin. 

“Mother.” He greets wearily, “Did I wake you?”

“No, not at all…are you leaving already?”

“Mmh.” Anthony sniffs, and refrains from nodding his head. It makes the walls swirl in a nauseating swing that he despised. 

“Have you eaten? Will you not stay for Breakfast?”

He swallows thickly, throat grating, and clears it helplessly, tickle igniting like a loose flame, rubbing the base of his neck. 

“No, I have a long ride.”

“All the more reason to eat–”

“I am fine, honestly.”

Abrupt, but not sharp, all those edges had softened under Kate’s gentle touches. He reaches out, drawing her into a warm, brief hug, and stepping back. She catches his forearms as the footman, John, returns. 

“Your carriage is ready, My Lord.”

He nods, forgetting for a moment, and winces, pressing his thumb and middle finger against his eyelids. 

“Thank you John, that will be all.” 

His mother commands, and in the wake of disappearing footsteps, brushes something off of his jacket. He knows it is just an excuse to keep him longer, and he is restless, itching beyond his sinuses to return to Aubrey Hall. But he wavers, hesitates under her touch.  

“Are you sure you do not wish to stay another night? You do not sound well.” 

As if to prove her point, his lungs clench, forcing a cough up his throat, twisting away into his elbow. He sniffs, swiping the water from his eyes with the pad of his thumb, and double checks his pocket for a handkerchief. 

“I am fine, Mother.” He smiles, faint but he hopes it is reassuring. He certainly did not need them to worry about what was probably just some allergies, a small cold at best, readjusting back to English air. He was the Viscount, it was his job to worry about them.

“Nothing that country air won’t cure, I imagine.” 

“Hmm. And some bed rest.” She adds, rubbing his arm. “I am only sorry your return is at the consequence of all this business–”

“Benedict will do what is right, I am sure.”

Right for whom Anthony could not say. But her shoulders relax nonetheless, and he accepts a kiss on the cheek for his efforts. 

He clambers into the waiting carriage with a single wave, before it jerks forwards into the dawn, and he sighs, sinking back into the seat.

Technically, Kate was supposed to join him at the end of the week, once they’d had time to rest. But it felt needless to stay when Benedict was avoiding him, and as much as he loved his family, he was still enjoying the space. 

A few more days, and then they would return properly as Viscount and Viscountess. Surely nothing improper could happen in that time? 

It’s selfish, he knows this, rubbing his nose, tickling in the cool air of the carriage. And yet, as the bright glow of the morning sun peeks through the window, auburn streaks descending over his legs, the only place in the world he wants to be is with Kate Sharma. 

He closes his eyes, head tipping back, edges of warmth touching his cheek. All this movement, consorting with the crisp dawn air, shifts the growing congestion in his head. 

Anthony clears his throat lightly, pressing the tip of his knuckle to the rim of his nose with a sniffle. There it was, like a feather teasing down from the bridge of his nose; a tickle, tricking sensitively. His eyes prickle faintly, rubbing roughly, stalling a hitching breath between his lips, and jerks forward.

“Ng'TCHht!”

He stifles, mostly silent, if not for the harried exhale, and equally sharp inhale. His head bobs forward again. 

“HT’TSCHh!” His eyes water, nose still tickling. “Ng'TCHht!...Ugh…hh! hiT'NGK! 

He coughs, a final forceful rub as the buzz settles, not gone, lingering in the back of his head, but not so immediate it needed to be addressed instantly. 

It leaves the impression he is woefully unprepared for the oncoming storm. 

Anthony sniffs, but resists reaching for his handkerchief. That would mean it was winning, whatever it was. 

It was not winning. 

The sun spikes over the hills, a gentle warmth over his skin, and he could almost enjoy the view. Almost. 

“hhRUSHHHOO!” Anthony sneezes harshly, towards the floor of the carriage. He swears loosely, and massages the bridge of his nose. 

(It was winning.)

It was just the travelling, he was sure of it. That was all. 

But if it wasn’t, he did not want to make Kate or Edmund sick. Perhaps he should find other lodgings for the night? Spare them both. But Kate would not approve, and he did not fancy a scolding from his wife after delivering one to his brother. And his head…

He presses his palm into his temple, as if to force back the unrelenting throb, as the carriage jerks and he bites back the urge to snap at the driver. It wasn’t the poor man’s fault the country roads were terrible and his sinuses were thoroughly beaten. 

As if summoned, Anthony stifles a sneeze into his fist. He sniffles soupily, exhaling through his mouth, a small cough trickling out as he watches the fields drift by. He would retire to a different room, yes, that was all it needed. He could still see Kate, god he missed her. 

“Snggrk,” He snuffles wearily, out towards the bright sunlight. His nose tingles, a thoughtful pause as it toys with him, and he gives it a hard rub in defiance. It settles, as much as it can as the carriage bumps on. At least they were out of the city now. There were clouds coming in on the horizon, a few hours away, but he expected to meet them as they reached Aubrey Hall. 

“Hah'tCHNx!”

He catches it, just, between his thumb and index finger, pinching his nose. It aches, sending the itch jarring back up his sinuses, eyes watering, breath catching desperately. His eyelashes flutter, a slow, steady inhale. 

He releases. 

“HEhh'ERrrSSHHOO!” It barrels out like a steam train, spray hanging in the daylight, clouding in the small space. Anthony coughs, somewhere near his elbow, fumbling for the handkerchief in his pocket. It was a cheap kind, easily disposable, rougher on his nose but what did it matter, this didn’t count as surrendering. 

“-AhhDSSCHhhwww!"

Yet he’s barely cupped the cloth around his nose before he snaps forward, an itchy, gasping sneeze that has his lungs searching for air and his nostrils flaring. He rubs his nose into the handkerchief, sighing. 

He was certainly glad he was not in London. His family did not need to see this. 

He falls asleep somewhere along the way, caught in the warmth of the sun and the unrelenting exhaustion cloaked over his skin.

Anthony jerks awake to a bumpy stop, the carriage rolling through the gates of Aubrey Hall with the sun no longer in sight. Instead, the teal blue of the evening was beginning to settle in with the dark clouds, and he could almost be satisfied with his prediction, if the last thing he wanted to do right now was move. 

He breathes slowly through parted lips, and carefully readjusts his stiff limbs. Grabbing the edge of the seat, his neck twinges, arms arching, head tipping forwards, swimming.

The fresh motion as he reaches for the handle sends a wave through his head, pausing momentarily as everything shifts. The congestion in his sinuses had worsened, like a thick fog hanging in his head, and it trickles teasingly down the inner passage of his nose. 

His hand jerks up, swiping quickly at the edge, and fumbling with the carriage door. He sniffs fruitlessly, met with a heavy barrage, refusing to let the air pass. This tickles out a rough cough, just beginning to reach for his chest, as a footman opens the door. 

Anthony decidedly does not stumble out of the carriage, though it’s a near thing as he jerks down, stifling a harsh sneeze into his handkerchief. 

God. 

He straightens up blearily, and attempts to stride past the waiting footman with more dignity than he felt. The breeze nips at his cheeks, gravel crunching underfoot, he cannot stop to enjoy the fresh country air as his sinuses burn.

At least he does not trip up the steps, at least he does not cough in their presence, at least—

“Welcome home.” 

His eyes snap up, as the shadow of the doorway falls over his head into the softer lighting of the hall. Glowing like a goddess in the candlelight, sapphire draped dress streaked with gold flecks, wrapped up like the very stars themselves, he orbits her every word. 

There she is, ethereal in every sense. 

His lips curl into a smile as the door falls shut behind him, and he is finally submerged in peace, as her palms glide over his forearms, lighting the nerves under his skin.

His head sinks down with an appreciative groan, arms curling around her, breathing her in – but no scent trickles past the blockade in his sinuses, and he exhales tiredly, disappointedly, nuzzling the crook of her neck. She chuckles, warm and soothing, hand stroking the back of his hair like silk. 

KateKateKate. 

His soul begs. 

“I have missed you.” He murmurs instead, sniffling, kissing her collarbone. 

She shivers and tilts towards his touch. 

“You have only been gone three days.” Kate laughs, thumb straying down over the nape of his neck. “But we have missed you too.” 

His lips graze over her skin, warmth, lust pooling in his stomach but his head can’t draw in the strength to pursue, and settles for mumbling her name into her ear. She lets him, the cool brush of her bangle as her hand smoothes over his back. 

“Is all well?”

“With the family?” He answers, not quite willing to breakaway yet. “Mmh.”

Kate sighs contentedly against him, but it’s restrained, waiting, as he presses his lips to her collarbone again. His nose buzzes, scrunching against her, a warning tickle down the bridge of his nose, that brings moisture with it. 

“You must tell me about it.” 

She breathes – as if he had any intention of doing otherwise, indeed that was all he had been waiting to do – as his lips trails across her neck, to the other side, and her fingers brush through his hair. 

“Benedict is stubborn and I am tired, snnf.” 

Anthony purrs into her neck, magnetized under the enchantment of her hands, her voice, her eyes, always yearning to be closer, even as their bodies press together. Kate shudders as his lips dip into the crook of her neck, palm sliding over the small of her back, before placing a stalling hand upon his chest. 

He exhales disappointedly, resting his forehead against her shoulder. 

“You are tired,” She echoes, the back of her knuckle brushing down his cheek. “This can wait.”

He doesn’t want it to wait, under her touch all his aches seem to vanish, he feels alive. And yet in the pause, stood in the entrance hall, like a cold breeze seeping over his skin, he is reminded of the ailment cursing his body as exhaustion finds its way into his bones 

“Perhaps we should–”

“Benedict believes he is in love.” He sighs, throat aching as the words scratch their way out, and he slowly pulls back, scrubbing a hand down his face. “He is-” 

Anthony breaks off with a cough, turning into his elbow, damper, like smoke tickling inside his lungs. He shakes his head, and tries to return to the sentence, “he is not listening-” but it is not done with him yet. 

Kate rubs his arm as he muffles another itchy, rough cough into his sleeve, frown falling between her eyes, following the movement as he tries to turn away. His eyes prickle, and he clears his throat with a gruff, apologetic ahem. 

“Taking a maid as a mistress? A maid? Snggrk.”

Kate blinks in surprise, fleeting, before her expression grows thoughtful. Watching her think was a favourite pastime, the curves of her lips pressing together, the flicker of her eyes, already searching for a solution, a peace. Viscountess. He could never stop falling in love with Kate Sharma. 

He breathes easy for the first time in hours.  

Her expression resolves, returning back to him as he clears his throat again, and he silently mourns the loss as he rubs the base of his throat. She reaches forward, fingers brushing over the undone button on his shirt, finally falling away from the stitches. She tucks it into his pocket. He sniffs, caught in the pull of her dark eyes, tension beginning to seep from his body. 

“And how are you? Hm?” Kate shifts, cupping his jaw with both hands as her gaze tracks over his face. She sees it, he knows she sees it, the unavoidable rasp to his voice, the congestion coating his words, the exhaustion bearing down upon his shoulders, and it had only been three days. Was he failing? 

His eyes flutter shut, shoulders sagging, surrendering, the last flame left melting the candle wax.    

The tickle in his sinuses intensifies, like the last of a rope where the threads are exposed and cannot be tied back in. Everything was aching, itching, hanging on to the end of a tether. His lips part as his eyes prickle, the words catching in his mouth, breath hitching, faltering. He’s going tohhh…He’s going to…hUhhh… 

It crescendos in his head, crashing through his skull, and he twists sharply to the side, sneezing damply into his handkerchief. His breath staggers, and erupts with a second, reverberating in his own head. “HhhDTSSCHHHhihww!"

He sniffs, and coughs. 

“Kate.” A pathetic croak. 

“Oh, bless you.” It’s a soft murmur, dripping concern from her tongue like honey, a steadying hand on his back. “Anthony…” 

She trails off, creases in her brow, guiding his face back to hers. He was nothing but the river in her hands, following in her gentle winds. He felt rather like he’d swallowed a river too. 

“You do not look well.” Her concern soothes his weary bones, or perhaps it’s just her thumbs, brushing over his cheekbones, feeling his slowly swelling sinuses. “Why travel all this way? You could have stayed in Bridgerton House, rested.” 

“I couldn’t..” He sniffles thickly, a lump sticking in his throat. “I’d rather be here.” 

“Of course.” She hums, stroking his cheek. “But you’re-”

“AhDTSCHhHHUhh!” 

It overtakes him with sudden ferocity, a loud, scraping sneeze, and he’s bending at the waist, eyes blurring with an involuntary shiver.

“I dknow, sNnff..” He coughs, as he resurfaces, blinking back the water from his eyes. “I shall have another room mbade up-”

He cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes shut as the sudden change in stance sends black spots dancing in front of his eyes. 

“Steady, steady,” Kate murmurs, wrapping an arm around his waist, resting a hand on his chest. He can hear the frown in her voice. “Whatever for? That will not be necessary.” 

He exhales tiredly, leaning into her grasp, forehead tipping against hers. 

“Are you sure?” He murmurs after a moment, a half-hearted question as her thumb strokes the edge of his cheekbone, palm flattening across his jaw. It’s warm, gentle, like home, and he sniffs, yearning for the intoxicating scent of lilies he cannot smell. 

“Of course.” She soothes, shaking her head. “I recall the last time I was sick — on our voyage home, no less — you hardly left my side.” 

“That was different.”

“How so?”

“We were on a boatsNFF…hHhh..”  Anthony rubs his nose with a wince, head tilting back, breath catching, nostrils flaring. 

Kate hums, leaning back to peer at his face, raising an eyebrow. 

“Oh, so if we weren’t on a boat, you would have left me alone? I see.” 

“No-! No, KatehUhh..” He sniffles, and shakes his head, half hoping it would shake the cold from his bones, from his head. “Do not- teaseiHHH—“ 

Anthony tapers off, head jerking down into the handkerchief, smothering the sneeze into submission. His nose is getting sore, a soupy sniffle trying to keep the consequences inside his head. She lightly strokes the back of his neck, skin tingling, and he shivers faintly. 

“I apologise,” Her lips brush against his ear, with an amused apology he suspects she does not really regret. He does not mind. “Bless you my darling.”

“Guh…I shall mbake it stop in a moment.” 

He croaks. For his benefit or hers, he wasn’t sure.  

“I do not think even you are capable of such a feat.” She chuckles, and he pulls in a breath between his teeth to say otherwise, but it’s lost as in the freshly ignited tickle across his sinuses, as Kate steers him towards the stairs. 

“Come now, you must rest.” 

Anthony muffles a hoarse sneeze into his handkerchief in reply, coughing thickly, and leaning into her side. Kate tsks softly but does not comment, leading him to the comfort of their room. She guides him over to the bed, and he awkwardly kicks off his shoes as he lowers himself down onto the edge, muscles protesting. 

Her knuckle brushes against his beard, eyeing him critically as he sniffs. 

“Here.” She takes the worn handkerchief from his hands before he can protest, and replaces it with her own, soft, silk, and a small series of pink lilies stitched into the seam. He knew this one. A special one. 

“This is yours,” he croaks, sagging forwards. “I have manyhhh.. my-my draw-“ 

Kate pays him no mind, and Anthony cannot quell the sneeze brewing in his sinuses no matter how hard he tries. A hitching breath disparaging his lungs, burying himself in the soft silk, stitches rubbing against his cheek, desperate sneeze spraying into the cloth. 

“hUHH-HhRSSCHHhhhww!!” 

“I’m sure you do.” She agrees, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. She knows he does. “It matters not, a handkerchief is a handkerchief. It can be washed.” 

No regard for his handkerchief system, but his stomach flutters and he’s losing himself to the soft touch on his head, that the words don’t find their way into his mouth. Instead, a cough does, muffled, shoulders jerking with the motion, and her palm moves from his forehead to his neck. 

“Warm,” she decides after a moment, stroking a hand through his hair and kissing his temple. 

“But not too worrisome yet.” 

“Yet?” He croaks indignantly, like he could control it, because he cannot help it. “Ye ofihh l-little faithhUh’DGSSHHHHUH.” 

“I wonder why.” She remarks dryly. 

He wants to fall back against the mattress, so soft, but he thinks he might drown himself if he does that. Instead, he bends forwards, blowing his nose, trying to appease it. It does not seem to help much, or at all, if the heaviness of his head is anything to go by. 

“Sorry,” Anthony murmurs, pinching the bridge of his septum, pressing the water back from his eyes “I had a rather different greeting in mind.”

“I do not doubt that.” 

He can hear the fond amusement lacing her voice and it tugs at his lips infectiously. 

“But you cannot help being sick.”

He wants to shake his head, to rebuke, even half heartedly, he’s not sick for the sake of his own pride. But he can’t deny it now, between the caress of her hands and his ailing body, ducking back into the handkerchief with another stuffy blow. It sends a burst of pain through his congested sinuses, and into his head. 

He groans, shutting his eyes, hanging there like a man on the verge of the gallows. The mattress sinks beside him, her palm rubbing between his shoulder blades. 

“Perhaps I should have stayed in London. I do not want to risk-”

“None of that,” Kate rebukes gently, but firm. “Edmund and I shall be quite alright. I am only sorry all this travelling has made you ill.”

Anthony frowns, head tipping into her neck. 

“It is not your fault.” 

“Then it is not yours, either. So there is nothing more to worry about.”

He relaxes, with a low, involuntary chuckle, cheek resting on her shoulder. 

“Kate-”

“No excuses.” She runs a soothing hand through his head, and he trails off, sighing into her dress. 

Nothing more is said for some time, his eyes drifting shut every now and again, before something – the ache in his head, the itch in his throat, the tickle in his nose, god – jerks them back open, and he finds that all he wants is her. 

“I do not feel well.” 

Anthony admits, unnecessarily, into the quiet. Kate brushes a loose strand of hair off his face, lips pressing to the crown of his head. 

“I know.” 

As simple as that, somehow, when she is the one listening. 

And in a way he was coming to despise, his momentary peace is interrupted by a congested cough erupting from his lungs in a thick, aching jag. It tickles up his throat and burns in the exhale, like an icy fog settling in his chest. He groans, head tilting back, palming at his eyes with both hands, before reaching for the glass of water on the bedside table.

His stomach grumbles loudly, and he winces.

“Have you eaten?”

“I’m not hungry.” He sniffs, rubbing his nose into his wrist between sips. 

Kate raises an eyebrow. 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

“No.” he admits. 

“I shall have the cook make you a broth.” 

His expression scrunches, but Kate doesn’t back down. 

“You need to eat something,” her thumb brushes over the edge of his eyebrow, and Anthony sighs in defeat, rubbing his chest. “I shall be back in a moment.”

He opens his mouth to ask her to say, but the words get stuck in the empty space as she slips out of the room. She was right of course, but he was just so tired. He drains the glass of water and refills it with the jug behind the lantern, leaving it collecting condensation on his bedside table. 

Scrubbing a hand down his face, he sniffs again, carding a hand through his hair. Skin warm and clammy, he rubs his palms off on his trousers and slowly begins to undress. Stopping had made him sluggish, irritatingly uncoordinated, but the cool air on his skin feels nice, that made the fumbling worth it as he finally stumbles to his feet and strips down to his boxers. 

Rain patters down the window as he coughs raggedly, muscles clenching, and exhales stuffily through his mouth a buzz flares through his sinuses. It teases its way down his septum agonisingly slowly, rubbing his nose hard into his wrist. 

For once, he welcomes the aggravation the gesture brings, eyelashes fluttering as water glosses over his eyes. His head tilts back, breath hitching repeatedly as his nostrils flare, glistening, desperate. 

“hhah’AASSChhh!! hhhh…hUhH—ah’DTSCHHHHWW!”  

He gasps throatily, chest expanding, snapping down into Kate's handkerchief, something akin to desperation pooling through his sinuses. “Nnghh..hUhh…hUHHH…”

It tickles unforgivingly, lips hanging open, eyes squeezed shut as the light of the bedroom blurs into streaks. 

"Hh–uhSSCHHIHHwww! uh..hhGNSHHhuhw!”

They spray from his nose with urgency, haphazardly aimed towards the cloth, and it’s only when he clasps the handkerchief to his nose does the final one obey. 

“huh-HUHH’RRRSHUUH!”

Anthony shivers and coughs, bare chest exposed to the fading daylight, with a damp gurgling blow. 

“Goodness! Bless you.”

He blinks blearily, eyes watering from behind the soaked cloth, and folds it over, wiping his nose with a sniffle. 

There’s a rawness to Kate’s gaze as she waits for him to finish tending to his nose, a tenderness of her own, as her eyes trail over his bare body, and he wonders what he must look like, reduced to a shivering, cold ridden mess.  

But she moves towards him with no hesitation, her palms gliding over his arms, and down his chest. 

Anthony sniffs thickly. 

“Bed, I think.” She leans in, pressing a gentle, warm kiss to his lips. 

He almost jerks back, an instinctive, I cannot make you sick, I cannot be the cause of your pain, I cannot, but his senses are dulled by the congestion in his head and it feels so nice. 

He has never been capable of resisting his wife, and when sick, he is even less so. 

He sinks into it with a soft, gravelly moan, her cool palm caressing his cheek, thumb swiping lightly at the edge of his nose. 

God, it was starting to run. He sniffs soupily and tries to fight to the flush crawling up his neck, but she pays it no mind, reaching into the bedside drawer behind him and pulling out one of his clean, white ones.

And because he’s a stickler for control, she places a second one beside the lamp, with easy reach. He collapses back against the pillows with a breathless sigh of welcome relief, and blinks up at her.

“If we weren’t already married, snGRrk, I would marry you again.” 

“Well, that is good to know.” 

He relishes the tinge to cheeks, the faint startle, flattered, and the way her lips tug up of their accord, even as she tries to fight it. If she did not feel loved every day of their marriage he would have failed, that much he is certain. 

For a moment, Anthony thinks she’s going to leave, tugging in a sharp breath as she turns away and smothering a damp cough into his handkerchief. His eyes water, nose running, lungs aching, rubbing his face into the cloth with a thick sniff. 

Instead, she makes her way around to the other side of the bed, and slips into her nightgown, adorning her gold short-robe over her arms and climbs in beside him. 

“Your broth may be some time.” She admits, gesturing him forwards. He drags himself up blearily, as she props up the pillows behind him, and when he sags back it feels easier on his chest. “If you wish to sleep, go ahead. I shall wake you when it is ready.” 

Her fingers brush over the crown of his head, soft tingles trickling down his back. He sniffles, and leans into her side, slinging his arm around her waist and nestling down. Kate chuckles, curling her arms around him with a soft, contented sigh, stroking his cheek. 

“Thank you,” Anthony murmurs sleepily, as he drifts towards the first peaceful sleep in days. “For everything.”

JAKE

I adjusted the collar of my shirt for what felt like the tenth time, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror of my beat-up Honda. The housewarming invite from Alex came last week. We’d kept in touch since college, grabbing beers every few months, swapping stories about our dead-end jobs and failed attempts at getting our shit together. But this…dinner party? It screamed “setup,” especially after he’d casually mentioned his coworker Iris would be there.

“She’s great, man. Smart, funny, and single. You’d hit it off.”

Yeah, right. Me, the guy who has never had a girlfriend, who had mediocre going-on-unpleasant sex once at 20, who can’t even look a girl in the eye without my brain malfunctioning. Me.

Confidence around women wasn’t exactly my strong suit.

I grabbed the bottle of wine I’d picked up,

a cheap Cabernet that the clerk assured me was “decent for the price”, and stepped out into the cool evening air. Alex’s new place was a modest house in the suburbs, the kind with a neatly trimmed lawn and a welcome mat that looked like it had never seen a muddy boot. As I approached the door, a faint itch prickled at the back of my nose. Pollen season was winding down, but the neighborhood trees were still shedding their invisible torment. I rubbed my nostrils discreetly, hoping it wouldn’t escalate. Allergies were my constant shadow—pollen, dust, pet dander, and god forbid anyone wore strong perfume. One whiff could turn me into a sneezing mess.

The door swung open before I could knock, and there was Alex, grinning like he’d just won the lottery, his arm slung around his boyfriend Mark’s shoulder. “Jake! You made it. Come on in, dude.”

“Hey, man. Congrats on the place.” I handed over the wine and clapped him on the back, stepping into the warm glow of the living room. The space was cozy, still smelling faintly of fresh paint and unpacked boxes. A small dining table was set for five, with mismatched chairs and a centerpiece of wildflowers that made my nose twitch again. Damn, those looked pollen-heavy.

“Everyone, this is Jake, my old college buddy,” Alex announced, steering me toward the group. Mark waved from the kitchen, stirring something that smelled like garlic and herbs. Next to him was his cousin, Lena, a bubbly woman in her mid-twenties with short curly hair, who gave me a friendly nod while pouring drinks.

And then there was Iris. She was perched on the edge of the couch, legs crossed, chatting animatedly with Lena. The drawings I’d seen in my mind’s eye from Alex’s vague descriptions didn’t do her justice—long auburn hair cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall at sunset, freckles dusting her cheeks like stars on a clear night, and eyes that sparkled with a quiet intelligence. She wore a simple blouse and skirt, but there was something effortlessly magnetic about her, the way she leaned in as she listened to Lena, her smile warm and genuine. My heart did a stupid little flip, and I felt that familiar awkwardness creep in, that made my palms sweat and my words tangle.

“Iris, this is Jake,” Alex said, winking at me not-so-subtly. “The one I told you about—the tech whiz and the trivia god.”

She turned to me, her smile widening, and extended a hand. “Hi, Jake. Alex has been singing your praises. Nice to meet you.”

Her voice was smooth, like honey over warm toast, with a slight lilt that made my stomach knot. I shook her hand, hoping mine wasn’t too clammy. “Hey, Iris. Nice to meet you too. Alex exaggerates, though.

I-I’m not that good at trivia .” A slight stutter sneaked in to my words.

She laughed, a light, melodic sound that sent a shiver down my spine. “Modest, huh? I like that. What do you do for work?”

“Software engineer,” I replied, settling into the chair across from her as Alex herded us toward the table. “Boring stuff, mostly fixing bugs in apps. You?”

“Oh, I work at the firm with Alex on marketing. It’s creative, but half the time it’s just arguing with spreadsheets.” She tilted her head, studying me with those piercing eyes. “Alex mentioned you two were roommates in college. Any good stories?”

Before I could answer, Mark called out from the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready! Pasta primavera, salad, and garlic bread. Nothing fancy, but it’ll fill you up.”

Dinner commenced. The conversation flowing easily as plates were passed around. Lena dove into a tale about her recent trip to Europe, her enthusiasm infectious, while Alex and Mark bantered about the horrors of moving. I tried to chime in, but my gaze kept drifting to Iris. She was right across from me, her presence like a gentle pull, making the room feel smaller, more intimate. Every time she spoke, her words carried a subtle confidence that I envied—asking thoughtful questions, laughing at the right moments.

As I took a bite of pasta, that prickly sensation in my nose returned, sharper this time. It wasn’t the flowers; I’d sat far enough from them. No, this was different—a floral, musky scent wafting subtly across the table. Perfume? Shit. I sniffed discreetly, trying to pinpoint it. Iris shifted in her seat, and there it was again, stronger now, teasing the edges of my nostrils like tiny feathers. Her perfume. It was intoxicating in more ways than one—rich and alluring, but damn if it wasn’t stirring up trouble.

I rubbed my nose with the back of my hand, hoping no one noticed. “This pasta is great, Mark,” I said, my voice a touch nasal.

“What’s the secret?”

Mark grinned. “Fresh herbs from the garden. And a lot of butter.”

Iris leaned forward, her eyes locking onto mine. “Jake, you okay? You look a little… flushed.”

Shit. Was it that obvious? The tickle was building, a persistent itch deep in my sinuses, making my eyes water just a bit. I forced a smile, awkward as ever. “Yeah, totally. Just, uh, allergies acting up a little. Nothing major.”

She tilted her head, concern mixing with curiosity in her expression. “Oh, poor thing. What are you allergic to? Maybe we can move the flowers or something.”

IRIS

I watched him from across the table, this Jake, with his dark hair tousled just enough to look effortlessly charming, those glasses perched on his straight nose giving him that intellectual edge that always pulls me in. He was cute in a boyish way—semi-awkward, the kind of man who fumbles his words but means every one of them. When Alex introduced us, I caught the way his eyes lingered on me, a flicker of attraction that made my skin tingle. I liked it. I liked him already, the subtle blush creeping up his neck, the way he adjusted his posture like he was trying too hard to seem at ease. Straightforward, unpretentious. A refreshing change from the overconfident types who think a smirk is what gets a girl going.

The conversation swirled around us like a lazy river, the clink of forks against plates punctuating the laughter. I leaned in, savoring the warmth of the room, the faint garlic aroma mingling with the wildflowers’ earthy sweetness. But my focus kept drifting back to Jake. He was engaging, chiming in with a dry wit that made me smile, but something was off. His voice had taken on a nasal edge, and every few seconds, he’d rub at his nose with the back of his hand, a discreet gesture that only drew my attention more.

—“Oh, poor thing,” I said softly, my voice dipping into that husky tone I reserve for moments like this, when I want to draw someone closer. “What are you allergic to? Maybe we can move the flowers or something.”

He hesitated, his fingers pausing mid-rub, and I saw it then, the subtle twitch in his nostrils, those delicate flares widening just a fraction as if something invisible was teasing them from within. His eyes watered ever so slightly, the rims turning a soft pink, and he blinked rapidly, trying to play it cool.

God, it was endearing. And so much more. A spark ignited low in my belly, unbidden but familiar, the way his vulnerability peeked through, raw and unfiltered.

“Just… everything, really,” he managed, his words hitching a little, like his breath was catching on the edge of something. “Pollen, dust, pets… perfumes sometimes, if they’re strong.” He laughed it off, but it came out strained, and there it was again: a soft, involuntary hitch in his breathing. “Hh… it’s fine, though. Really.”

I tilted my head, letting my hair cascade over one shoulder, watching him, that itch seemed to deepen. His nostrils quivered, the pinkish rims flaring wider now, trembling with each shallow inhale. He pressed a finger under his nose, rubbing firmly, but it only seemed to make it worse. His chest rose and fell unevenly, those little hitches building—“Hh… hih…”—slipping out like he couldn’t contain it.

Lena was mid-story about a disastrous Eiffel Tower proposal she’d witnessed, but I barely heard her. My gaze was locked on Jake, on the way his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, fighting whatever was building inside him. His lips parted slightly, breath quickening, and I felt a flush creep up my own neck, heat pooling between my thighs. There was something so intoxicating about it—the loss of control, the way his body betrayed him in such an intimate, helpless way. I shifted in my seat, crossing my legs tighter, my pulse thrumming with a wicked thrill. He was trying so hard to hold it together, and it only made me want to unravel him more.

Then it hit, the first one. His head tilted back just a touch, eyes squeezing shut behind those glasses, nostrils flaring dramatically—wide, quivering ovals that betrayed the intensity of the tickle. “Hih… hih’NGXt!” He stifled it into his sleeve, the sound muffled but sharp, like a sudden burst of restrained energy, wet and desperate. In my mind, it echoed like a thunder—deep, throaty, with that edge of congestion that made it sound utterly vulnerable. God, it sent a shiver through me, my nipples tightening under my blouse. I bit my lip, masking my reaction with a concerned smile, but inside, I was on fire. Why did this affect me so? The rawness of it, the way his face contorted in that split-second of surrender.

He sniffled wetly, excusing himself with a mumbled “excuse mb’e,” his voice thicker now, eyes darting around the table as if embarrassed. But it wasn’t done. Oh no, I could see it building again, those hitches returning faster—“Hih… hhih…”—his breath stuttering as he tried to respond to Alex’s question about some college prank. His nostrils twitched incessantly, the left one flaring more than the right, rimmed with a faint sheen of moisture. He pinched the bridge of his nose, but it was futile. “I… hih… yeah, that was—hih’KSCHuu!” This one was louder, less contained, exploding out of him with a spray that he barely caught in his napkin. It sounded powerful, almost relieved, with a harsh, itchy edge that lingered in the air like an aftertaste—deep and resonant. One that vibrates through your chest. My core clenched at the sound, a rush of arousal making me squeeze my thighs together helplessly. Fuck, he was adorable like this, all flustered and sneezy, his cheeks flushed a deeper red. I imagined tracing my fingers along that twitching nose, coaxing out more, and the thought made me ache.

The fit wasn’t letting up. He sneezed again, doubled over slightly—“Heh’ISHHoo! Hah… hah’CHSHH!”—two in quick succession, each one wetter than the last, the sounds building in intensity: the first a sharp, ticklish release, the second deeper, more exhausted, like his nose was finally giving in to the torment. His glasses slipped down his nose, and he pushed them back up with a shaky hand, sniffling thickly, eyes glassy and apologetic. Everyone murmured sympathies, but I was transfixed, my body humming with desire. The way his nostrils continued to flare even after, red and irritated, quivering with residual itches—it was mesmerizing. I wanted to pull him aside, to watch up close, to feel the warmth of his breath as he hitched and sneezed.

“Poor thing,” I purred, leaning forward, my voice low and soothing, laced with that sultry undertone that always gets what I want. “You sound miserable. How about we step outside for some fresh air? I could use a break from the crowd myself.” I let my eyes meet his, holding the gaze a beat longer than necessary, inviting him in without saying it outright.

He blinked, those watery eyes widening a fraction, and I saw the hesitation—the insecure flicker, like he couldn’t believe I’d suggest it. But he didn’t say no. Of course he didn’t; I could sense his attraction, the way he mirrored my lean, drawn to me despite the chaos in his sinuses. “Uh… yeah, sure. That… hih… that might help.” His voice was congested, hitched, but agreeable, almost eager beneath the awkwardness.

I stood gracefully, smoothing my skirt, my heart racing with anticipation. As we excused ourselves and headed toward the back door.

JAKE

I followed Iris out the back door, my heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the allergies, or at least, that’s what I told myself. The cool night air hit me like a balm at first, the suburban backyard quiet under a canopy of stars, the faint hum of crickets and distant traffic the only soundtrack. Alex’s place backed onto a small garden, overgrown with late-blooming flowers that probably weren’t helping, but anything was better than the confined space inside where that scent—her scent—had been trapping me like a velvet noose.

God, she was stunning, even in the dim glow from the porch light. Her auburn hair caught the faint illumination, shimmering like polished copper, and the way her hips swayed just a fraction as she led the way to a pair of Adirondack chairs made my mouth go dry. She moved with this effortless grace, confident and alluring, her skirt brushing against her legs in a whisper of fabric that I couldn’t help but notice. I felt like a fumbling idiot next to her, my glasses fogging slightly from the shift in temperature, my nose still prickling with that insistent, feathery tease.

We settled into the chairs, the wood creaking under us, and she turned to me with those freckle-dusted cheeks flushed just a bit, maybe from the wine, maybe from something else. I couldn’t read her, not really; women like her were a mystery to me, the kind that made my insecurities flare up like a bad rash. “Better out here?” she asked, her voice low and smooth, like warm silk sliding over skin. She leaned in a little, and there it was again—that perfume, wafting toward me on the gentle breeze, jasmine and vanilla intertwining in a heady embrace that invaded my sinuses without mercy. The tickle sharpened instantly, a tiny spark igniting into a full-blown fire deep in my nostrils, making them flare wide as if begging for release. I rubbed at the bridge of my nose, feeling the warmth there, the subtle redness I knew was creeping in from the irritation.

“Yeah, a bit,” I managed, but my voice hitched mid-sentence, that telltale “hih…” slipping out before I could clamp down on it. The sensation was exquisite torture— a persistent, fluttering itch that danced along the sensitive membranes, like invisible feathers brushing against every nerve ending, building pressure that made my eyes water and my breath come in shallow, uneven gasps. I’d always had this weird thing with sneezing, something buried deep that I’d never dared to unpack. As a kid, I’d feel this strange thrill when someone sneezed around me, especially if it was drawn out, vulnerable. But my own fits? They embarrassed me, yet there was this undercurrent of… arousal?

No, I pushed that thought away, like always. It was stupid, perverse.

Being a sneeze prone man, that came with the blessings, I hated them. They made it worse, turned the embarrassment into something intimate, spotlighting the helplessness. If a pretty girl ever said “bless you” with that soft concern, it could stir something low in my gut, make me shift uncomfortably to hide the evidence. But with Iris? Fuck, she was on another level. Just imagining her voice wrapping around those words made my cock twitch traitorously.

She tilted her head, her eyes, those deep, expressive pools, locking onto mine with a mix of sympathy and something sharper, more curious. “You must be so itchy,” she murmured, her tone dipping into a sultry purr that sent a shiver straight down my spine. “Your nose all red like that, poor thing. It looks so sensitive, flared up and twitchy.” Her words hung in the air, laced with a fussing tenderness that made my face burn hotter. She reached out, almost as if to touch my arm, but pulled back, her fingers lingering in the space between us. Up close like this, I could see the curve of her lips, full and inviting, the way her blouse hugged the swell of her breasts, rising and falling with her breath. She was fussing over me, and it was undoing me thread by thread.

I tried to respond, to play it cool—“It’s not that ba—hih… hih’NGXt!”—but the sneeze cut me off, stifled into my elbow, a sharp, congested burst that rattled through my chest. The sensation was overwhelming: the itch peaked, my nostrils quivering wildly, rims pink and damp, as the pressure released in a wet, muffled spray. It felt like a dam breaking, relief mingled with that forbidden spark, my body tensing in ways it shouldn’t. But it wasn’t done; oh no, the perfume was relentless, clinging to her like a second skin, each inhale pulling more of it into me. My nose twitched again, the tickle rebuilding almost immediately, faster this time, like a storm gathering speed. “Sorry, I—hih… heh…” My breath hitched audibly, chest heaving as I fought it, but it was useless.

Fantasies flashed unbidden, her on top of me, that skirt hiked up, her breasts spilling from that blouse, soft and warm, and me sneezing helplessly against them, the spray misting her skin while she whispered encouragements. Jesus, where did that come from? My cock stirred harder at the image, straining against my pants, and I crossed my legs to hide it, mortified.

Iris leaned closer, her concern deepening, that alluring smile playing on her lips like she was enjoying this—wait, was she?

“Aw, don’t apologize, sweetie. Let it out if you need to. You look like you’re building up to something big.” Her voice was a caress, fussing in a way that made the itch intensify, as if her words were stoking the fire.

My nostrils flared wider, trembling with each hitch—“Hih… hih’ISHHoo!”—this one escaped freer, a harsh, desperate expulsion that bent me forward, the sound deep and throaty, echoing in the night air like a confession. The release was electric, waves of sensation rippling through me, the wetness on my lips, the after-tingle making my sinuses buzz.

But the rapid ones followed, relentless: “Heh… heh’CHSHH! Hah’KSCHuu!” Two more in quick succession, each one building on the last, a ticklish snap, sharp and itchy, spraying fine mist. I was out of breath, my body shuddering with the force. I could feel the redness blooming across my nose, hot and inflamed, the itch lingering.

Through watery eyes, I glanced at her, and she was a vision, her eyes wide with innocence but gleaming with something darker, more intrigued. She bit her lower lip, fussing again: “Bless you, oh my god, that sounded so intense. Your poor nose. You must be dying from that itch—does it tickle really bad, making you just have to sneeze like that?” Her words hit like a bolt, wrapping around me, and damn if it didn’t make me harden fully, the arousal mixing with the allergy haze in a confusing, sensual fog.

I hated being blessed, the way it spotlighted my weakness, but coming from her? It was intoxicating, fueling those hidden desires I’d buried. I sniffled thickly, trying to speak through the building hitches—“Th-thanks, it’s just—hih… the air out here isn’t—heh… helping as much as I—hih’NGXshh!” Another stifled one, but it came out wetter, more urgent, my body betraying me in waves of sensation that blurred the line between torment and pleasure.