the s word

His forehead was clammy, and his eyelids were burning. It was cruel to wake him up. And yet…

“Get up, knight! You are supposed to be hunting with me this morning! Oh, Sir Elanos! Sir Elanos, don’t you want to go out into the woods and get some fresh air?”

“Ambrose, will you quiet down? For goodness sake, what is wrong with you?”

The door was open. He had forgotten to lock it. 

Elanos lifted his head in a groggy blink, now painfully aware of the pounding headache he had and the pressure that had built up on the right side of his face overnight. He was still in his nightclothes. Was he supposed to be out? Oh, he must be…for someone to be calling for him…

He sniffled with a weak cough, which caught the attention of the two outside his door. It opened fully. 

“You’re going to come hunting with me,” Ambrose Everheart announced. The leather he was wearing was suitable, and he had a bow on his back. His chestnut hair was brushed, and he had on a pair of well-tended boots, a simple but warm doublet and a belt, “Your horse is being readied. Don’t wear plate, it'll be too loud. Get dressed.”

“He absolutely does not have to do that! Elanos, you are more than welcome to stay in bed, because it is what a person of right mind would recommend!” Courtney Everheart argued. She shouldered past her brother in a manner not befitting a lady. The two struggled to get past the doorway. 

Elanos pinched his brows. It was much too early for any of this. 

“I-I can go hunting,” He mumbled. To save Courtney the headache, “If…if my lord requests it of me.”

“Ha! See?” Ambrose gloated then sighed, tossing around his silky locks back, “Only because it is a favour to my darling baby sister, I’m sure, you and your white knighting. You rarely get to go on adventures anymore, I am here to bring that joy back.”

“Yes, of course. I just need to get…dressed…” He muttered. Oh…his head. His nose was running. It had been in his sleep, how embarrassing. His ears felt plugged. Gods, when was the last time he even felt so incapacitated? He didn’t get sick often- in fact, at a certain point, he wasn’t even sure he could! Elanos sneezed. 

“Gods, bless you! You do have a cold. Here I thought Courtney was being greedy.”

“Ugh! Unbelievable…”

“I am happy to…to come with. I can assure you,” Elanos added. His voice was grainy, slow with sleep and thick with congestion, “Excuse me—hhHSSChhh!!IDt’sschhh!!”

Damn, stifling was hard when just waking up. His head was overflowing. He quickly grabbed a handkerchief to blow his nose into as the door finally shut and he was left to change in peace. The two were still bickering behind the door.

A cursory glance out the window gave him shivers. It was cold enough for wool, but he worried he would sweat. Gambeson, for sure, armour seemed…a bit much. Riding on a horse would require riding pants and boots. Handkerchiefs, of course. His neck felt comfortably warm, the clothes forming a bubble of heat fueled by a fever  

Ever the tactician, he got ready in a vague haze. Many, many mornings of his time as a guard and soldier were spent readying himself in half-consciousness before the sun was even up. The only difference now is that he had the luxury of waking past dawn. Or…maybe there was one other difference. Usually, he could muster through a cold. Right now, it was very annoying and he was struggling to focus. Had he grown soft living it up in his knighthood? He could feel his whole nose with every breath, it really itched. 

“HuUH-YSSChhihww!! My gods…”

He blinked, seeing the remnants of spray settling onto his gambeson. There should be none of that while hunting, he ought to get a handle on things. Elanos quickly brushed out his hair and knotted a thin ribbon around it to hold it off his neck before stepping outside — Ambrose was gone but Courtney remained. He turned to her with a faint bow and she reached up to fix the ragged strands of hair he had missed. 

“I promise this is- iHHs…but a small outing. I am still your humble knight, Lady Courtney.”

“Oh, and the very bravest, no doubt. Don’t let him bully you into anything stupid…”

He lifted her hand and mimed a kiss on her knuckles. For once, he couldn’t bring himself to do it, his nose all wet and such. She looked slightly disappointed as he pulled away. 

“Suppose this’ll find its way back to me somehow but-“ She withdrew a handkerchief from a hidden pocket in her dress and tucked it nearly beneath the collar of his breastplate, “There. Should you need it.”

“I will.”

“Don’t worry me like that,” She sighed, putting a hand to his forehead. He swore she had grown three shades pinker since this conversation started, “I’ll prepare a bath for you when you’re back. Don’t get caught out there.”

“Very appreciated…” He answered finally. 

—————

The morning sun had a blinding presence on the semi-melted snow. It made for a layer of fog that swirled around the horse’s legs as he pulled himself up and joined Ambrose at the edge of the estate. A longbow, rope, and quiver adorned both their backs as the ride began. 

“You know I’d usually bring one of the baron's sons with me…” Ambrose spoke almost immediately as they set off. He was heading towards a small entrance to the woods, framed by lush pine that still gleamed amidst the late winter weather, “I’m glad to have you here. I worry your skills in the field may have dulled, spending so much time hanging around Courtney while she reads or talks nonsense.”

“Not tihH-…to worry, my lord. I do drills regularly…” Elanos mumbled. He was spoken to first, so to answer was not out of place, though he’d have to watch what he said. It was nice that Ambrose wasn’t bothered by his agreement, and was more than happy to talk through the silence. 

“Well, consider this outing my diagnosis to see if you are up to par.”

“I will do my best to impress…” 

“Good luck, oh, knight.”

Elanos sniffed. He watched the back of Ambrose’s head. He wasn’t sure how much training this man had done himself. Combat was not the same as hunting for sport or hunting for survival, for that matter. Best keep those opinions for later, for when Courtney wants to gossip. He rubbed his nose and winced at how cold his nose felt with the moisture. 

Whatever it was that Ambrose actually wanted out of him, he wasn’t stupid enough to jeopardize himself. May as well make the best of this, right? Some fresh air might do him some good, he could only hope. He patted the sides of his horse and rode steadily behind the man. 

Now if one were to ask for Ambrose's opinion...

—————

Impress. Sure. Who does this guy think he is?

Ambrose rode ten paces ahead and tried to ignore the sounds behind him of the poorly hidden sniffling and the offhand cough. 

He wanted to bite through his leather reins. The occasional bump of the trail they were riding through was wreaking havoc on the pressure against his tight riding pants. 

The slight glimpse of fogging breath and crystalline spray was enough to ruin him. Elanos should learn to cover his mouth. He’d seen it when the man went to get his horse, unaware of the eyes peering in from afar. He couldn’t stop thinking of tearing the gambeson from his person and having him beg for his clothes due to the chill, all red-faced and sniffly. 

Helpless on the ground, shivering…gods. He wanted to make him beg. 

“HHIh—hh!hpPt’xssch!!…phew…”

“Will you pipe down? You’re going to frighten off any creatures within our radius.”

“There won’t be many this shallow into the woods, my Lord…”

“It’s good practice for you to quiet down anyway,” Ambrose muttered between gritted teeth. He pulled on his reins and steered his horse to a fork in the road. There was a post where he’d usually keep them tied, then they’d proceed on foot, off the path. He motioned for Elanos to stop not too far from him before dismounting his horse and drawing his bow. It was quickly mirrored, and he left the knight to secure their steeds. 

“What are you planning on catching…?” Elanos walked towards him, stopping at a respectable distance. 

‘A cold, if I’m lucky’ Ambrose’s conscience nagged. 

He could hear the sleep still clinging to his voice and realized that maybe he should have given him time to eat. Ambrose undid a satchel of jerky and nuts from his belt and tossed it his way. 

“I’d like to bring back a stag. A hare, maybe. I’m here without hounds, but I think catching a larger creature would hardly be an issue. How about a dire wolf?”

“You will need to do a lot of hiking for a dire wolf. And a stag will be hard to carry on horseback. I advise the hare…” 

Ambrose watched Elanos speak with his head tilted forward to hide a runny nose. He tossed a few dried berries into his mouth and waited for a response. 

“Fine.”

The walk into the underbrush was quiet. Most of the trees’ branches only started a few feet over their heads, leaving ample space between the canopy of bushes and the cover from above. The sound was muffled with the snow and thicket, and each step or crunch sounded distant. 

“HhDSSCHHHhhihw!!…snff…”

Was his— the knight even paying attention? Ambrose didn’t need a guard, no, he could very well fend for himself out here. So he told himself. That’s probably why he didn’t get a knight. No other reason. 

He glanced back to see a pale pink handkerchief being drawn up from his collar, used, before being tucked away. Something that felt like a punch to his gut. 

“Tracks…” He mumbled for a moment, letting Elanos stop to observe, “Enough for a den, perhaps.”

“No fun hunting a den. Too docile.”

“Exactly. I think we shall look for a quick one, more impressive. Maybe out towards the fields.”

“Whatever you see fit.”

“We shall sit and wait.”

That was his favourite part about hunting trips, the moments of quiet. Growing up, he was able to enjoy nature, take it in, without the stagnancy of the castle’s bureaucrats breathing down his neck. Made him feel like a man. He was standing on dirt, he was hunting. Now, if Elanos could just remain completely silent, it might be easier. 

Elanos didn’t speak as he sat down on the wet earth, looking up to Ambrose, who had his bow at the ready. Every so often, he’d cast his eyes across the woods, blink, then retrieve the handkerchief again to wipe his nose. The poor man. He sounded winded. Not something he heard often; usually, he was a paragon of health. A thick crackling cough made Ambrose wince. 

“Have you taken anything for that?”

“Just the regular tea and honey.”

“What the hells happened? You were fine yesterday.”

“Mishap. You can ask Nortello.”

“Nortello? The bespeckled twit?”

“The very same…”

Good to know Elanos’ sense of humor was still intact. He sneezed rather violently, and Ambrose pretended not to see the mess clinging to his knee. He turned away. 

Another ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. The waiting stretched on and on, and with each sniffled answer to Ambrose’s questions, he only felt himself growing more impatient. 

Just as Elanos took the handkerchief out for the third time, a stirring in the distance made the knight snap his head. Ambrose froze out of fright but quickly recovered. Sure, he heard that too. Elanos silently gestured a finger in the direction, and Ambrose could make out a little grey fuzz from behind a bush. It stood out against a small patch of open field just behind. 

“Where did you get that damn thing?” Ambrose muttered under his breath. He drew his bow with a near-silent exhale and could see the handkerchief in his peripheral, “Rooting around drawers?” 

“It was given to me. Of course.”

“I know, gods, I’m teasing.”

“—hhPNNGxxsh!!…hah…”

“Shh!”

His arm strained slightly as the hare lifted its head. It must have heard them and began a quick scamper. The string of the bow was let go with a snap, and the arrow shot to the ground in a spray of dirt that frightened the hare off. 

Without a word, Ambrose hurried after it. 

He was running for a good three seconds before turning around to find Elanos wasn’t there. Nearly fell headfirst into a tree trying to find him! 

The man was fast, faster even still, somehow dipping in and out of shadows. A bit of arcane nonsense, he had to guess. Bells and whistles. Elanos apparated with his own bow drawn in front of the hare, which bolted immediately away from him. 

The man had a perfect shot! Why give it up!?

Didn’t matter! 

Ambrose found a stretch of clearing, a good three seconds of tailing before an arrow quickly put the hare to an end. 

“—aptsscHHSHIHhhhww!…ghh—hhDSSCHhhuhww!-sschHHihw!!-adTTschiihww!…”

Gods. 

“Bind it up. Your reflexes are not as honed as they should be.”

“Good shot, my lord…”

“You were right in front of it.”

Elanos nodded halfheartedly before dipping his head back into the handkerchief. That thing was soaked. Ambrose felt a twinge of irritation. Why did he feel like he was being condescended to? Entertained? Humoured, even? 

“It’s hard hitting a moving target, I think perhaps a stationary one will make the playing ground even out...if you’re too faint of heart to kill. What do you say to that?”

“I agree…” 

Was it possible for a man to be too agreeable? 

“Ugh. Then, how about…there? That tree with the eye in it about shoulder level? I’ll mark it with my dagger, and we will get three shots each.”

“From how far?”

“Let’s do 120 paces.”

“Alright.”

“I will go first. Hesitance is not something I’d reward in the field, El.”

“You can call me Sir, it’s alright…”

“Spare me the formalities, I’m not doing that.”

He watched as Elanos withdrew a bit of twine from his pack and knelt down to remove the arrow from the hare. A dagger made quick work of the blood, and soon it was tied up, read its rites, the whole bit. 

Meanwhile, an X was carved into the knot of the tree. Some snow packed it in, and from a distance away, it was made quite visible. 

“See it there?” He asked, rolling his head back and nocking an arrow. Once he was given affirmation, Ambrose drew the bow back and made for a shot. 

Elanos sniffled. Maybe a second before he let go, but enough to weaken his grip. The arrow stuck further down the trunk of the tree. 

“Apologies…”

“Don’t. Don’t apologize. That would not be enough to distract me. I have a steel resolve,” Ambrose answered sharply. His fingers felt tingly, “…damn you, sneeze right now so you don’t do so when I am shooting.”

He could see the half-focused face crumple. 

“—aahD’tsschhuhhww!!…excuse me. Please- snf! Please, go ahead.”

Elanos lifted his arm. It was to lick at his bottom lip in privacy. Ambrose hurriedly looked away, thankful that his coat reached his mid-thigh. Goddamn knight. He was rock hard out here, and this moron was still sniffling nonstop. 

The second arrow landed in the snow. It had hit a stray branch on the way there. Good gods, what is wrong with him? Too horny to make a shot? Don’t miss, this would be so insanely humiliating he might just have to call for Elanos’ termination as a witness. 

Relax. Breathe…

Ambrose arched his back and strained as he pulled the arrow back. 

The woodsy thunk that followed was well rewarded. He breathed out in relief and watched his breath fog in the cold winter air. That’s how it was meant to be done. Dead centre, in fact.

“Well…let’s see you go.”

Elanos wiped his hands in the snow and got up to where he’d been standing. His own bow was drawn out, arrow nocked in one smooth motion. Practiced. Under the gambeson, his muscles were flexed. Beautiful form. 

There was a graininess in his breath. Ambrose could hear it despite the rustling of the trees. Watching Elanos felt voyeuristic. The way he…just kept blinking. All the tears fogging his vision. His breath held. The fuzz of sickness over his skill was amusing to watch. His nose wrinkled. Like a hare. 

The arrow whistled through the air and pierced the knot in the wood with a splintering crack. 

Ambrose glanced back. 

“I win,” Elanos said flatly. 

“What?”

“We get three shots. You in three. I in one. I win.”

“But your aim is-! You landed over mine, and I’m closer to the target.”

“I’m still within range. A difference in space of that little would kill an animal eihH-! Ei-either way-“ Elanos exhaled, and his posture sank for a moment. He turned in one motion to duck behind a bent arm, “sohHrey-HHSSCHHhuhw!!”

“You got lucky. I think I’d best you in most cases, a-and! Perhaps when you’re not drowning in your own sickness, we shall have a rematch.”

“If you insist…”

That pissed him off. He was sick. He literally looked like he was going to start coughing any second with his lips parted like that. The faint sweatiness of a fever, with the cold bite of winter air. What he would do to take those lips to his own. Ambrose watched his breath fog as he hitched again and delivered another sneeze into the handkerchief. 

Seriously!? He couldn’t land a shot over a guy like this?! 

“Gods, you are annoying! You think you’re better than me-? For winning one shot?”

Elanos’ brows lifted, but his eyes remained half lidded. There was something deeply irritating about his pride. His knight’s ‘valour or whatever they have going for them. His eyes drifted towards the arrows, then back to Ambrose: he didn’t need to affirm his statement; the proof was sticking out of a tree. 

“That’s so not fair,” Ambrose grumbled, wrangling loose another arrow from his quiver. Securing it, he quickly pulled his arm back to shoot again. 

“You should secure your stance.”

“Don’t talk back to me, dog. I know what I’m doing.”

Ambrose yelped as something hooked around his leg and slid it back a few inches. Elanos’ leather boot. He could have kicked him, that righteous posture, hands behind his back. The way the head guards would discipline their men if they did something foolish or fell short. How dare he look at him like that. Like a- a squire or something...!

“I’m helping you better your technique! Do you want me here or not?”

“Not to get smart with me!” Ambrose dropped his bow and turned to grab Elanos’ collar. The bastard was tall, and it looked stupid, which only infuriated him more. He pushed him back towards a tree, up against the bark, and watched the thinly veiled frustration on the knight’s face momentarily give. 

A mixture of surprise, then fury. Enough self-respect to know this was nonsense, but too much respect for his position to bare his fangs. He saw his nostrils flare briefly, whether in anger or from irritation. 

Fuck, he was so—

“You forget who you are an underling to. My sister is too softhearted to speak with authority, but I am not!” He barked, “You aren’t to rub it in my face just for a small victory, especially when you’re so clearly incapacitated. Stroke of luck! Admit it!”

“You forget yourself, Lord Ambrose,” Elanos’ gloves scraped against the bark. He wasn’t pushing back, though his physique could lend itself well. 

Come on. Do it. Push back. Bite.

This chivalrous devotion complex was sickening.

“You need to move,” Elanos added dryly, turning his head, “I am incapacitated, yes, and I am going to sneeze very soon, whether you move or not. You should.”

Ambrose all but pulled his top off as he dropped his grip. He grabbed his bow with a huff.  

“That cold of yours is annoying.”

“To you?” 

“Yes.”

He could hear Elanos hitching. That scuffle probably ruined whatever discretion they had. After a moment, Elanos ducked down below a cupped hand towards the disturbed snow. 

“HhDd’HHSChhhhww!! HrSSCHHhihww!!…excuse me…”

And he sniffled. Sounded all slobbery and disgusting. 

Ambrose’s jaw clenched harder. 

“Fuck! I hate you, I hate this. Take your pants off.”

“You’re weak-willed, my lord.”

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, I cannot focus. You’re throwing me off.”

There was a frantic unclasping of buckles and leathers. His face felt like it was on fire as he staggered close to the tree where Elanos’ back was up against and pulled down his riding pants. Sweeping aside the gambeson, he let the knight do the same and greedily took both of them in his hands. To his delight, Elanos whimpered. 

“I’m not going to take this backtalk from you. You follow my orders, don’t you forget it.”

“I haven’t. I assure you…”

Elanos was warm to the touch, a thrumming energy of something divine that he couldn’t put his finger on. His insanely high metabolism was likely to blame for this heat. Damn. At the very, very least, Ambrose got a kick out of knowing he was bigger. 

“H-haah…d-did I do something to warrant this?” Elanos mumbled. His stuffy voice was like warm mead. Ambrose shook his head. 

“Can’t I ask for your service and devotion on a whim? Damn-“

“It’s like a reward, then? HiHH—IIH-ysscHHHihwww!!…mmnh….”

“Ugh—ffuck. Sure, fine, whatever.”

The bark on the tree crumpled a little beneath Elanos’ firm grasp. The spray settled a little on their exposed legs, and Ambrose felt warmth spreading quickly over his hands. Fuck. A short-lived mutual jack in the woods. Like he's never done worse...

His eyes squeezed shut as he eagerly pumped his hands. Heat filled the space between them, heavy breath, the sounds of half-muffled grunts and groans. 

Embarrassing.

Amateurishly soon, he came. Elanos was quick to follow, probably by thinking whatever fantasy he had in his head rather than genuine attraction. For all he knew, Elanos was off fuck-fantasizing that maid he hung around so much. 

They stood there panting for a moment. The silence was painfully long before Elanos had the notion to withdraw his own personal handkerchief, an off-white, and clean himself up. Didn’t bother to offer one to Ambrose first. Guess chivalry had died there. 

Whatever. He had his own. 

“I would like to head back,” Elanos slurred breathily, “I don’t feel too well. A little lightheaded…”

It would be the ultimate act of putting him in his place to keep him out here, wouldn’t it? But Ambrose figured, weighing this, that to drag Elanos’s body back would be more trouble than it was worth. Dragging him back, or dragging a cleric out. And knowing Courtney would have a litany of things to say in retaliation-

“We’ll head back. Go get our arrows.”

“Can I sit for a moment?”

“Fine. Do that.”

Ambrose stood around, looking at the arrows in the tree. More hurt than anything was his pride, though he wasn’t about to admit it out loud. Not to Elanos anyway. He was slumped down on the tree with his hands on his knees and a dazed look in his eyes. 

“Are you…alright?”

He nodded. 

An overwhelming sense of concern flooded Ambrose’s stomach. Maybe it was worry or gods forbid, empathy. The idea of Elanos coming back injured or passed out was frightening for both the situation itself and the reprimand. Like returning something lent, broken. 

“Maybe you should drink some water. Eat a little more…” He muttered stiffly. Hells, he’d do it himself. Undoing the stopper on Elanos’ waterskin, he raised it to his mouth and let him take a few sips. His skin felt warm, now especially, through a faint mist and drizzle. He looked a bit feverish, and a small sliver of drool hung on his lip before he closed his mouth and swallowed. 

“Let’s go. Before it rains. Can you get up?”

Ambrose offered a hand, and the look of surprise on Elanos’ face was not missed. He took it with a shivery grasp and was pulled up. 

“Arrows…yes, of course…” He sighed finally. The rabbit in one hand and his bow over his back, he quickly wrangled up the stray arrows and gestured to head back to their horses. He’d caught up with Ambrose just as the path cleared up again. 

“Not a word of that to anyone, though I…figured it would be implied.”

“Already uhH…understood…snfff-“

“Is there anything you could do to temper that?” 

“Wh-whadt? Gh—hIIIYSChhihww!…adtSSCHhhh!!”

“Gods! Watch it! I felt that in my hair!” Shouted, out of surprise, lust or disgust. Ambrose felt his face burn seeing the droopy-eyed look Elanos gave him. 

Had…had he done it on purpose?!

“Are you trying to be intentionally disgusting? Learn some manners!” He yelped. To his surprise, Elanos knocked him with his shoulder. Sick or not, the man was lean muscle all the way, and Ambrose staggered into a snowbank. Elanos stood and watched, giving one very pointed sniffle. 

“I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone…” The knight mumbled. Was that a smile? It might’ve been, “I swear.”

“You snake…”

“What does that mean? That you don’t like cruises?” When Vincent shakes his head, the stranger stills, contemplative. “Do you get seasick or something?”

“I am not the kind of person who would pay for a cruise.”

“Huh. Well, I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t have to pay for this one.” 

Vincent supposes that is true. His coworkers had been happy for him when the announcement had come out—are you serious? I’m so jealous! And you’re going to love it! And Take lots of pictures! We’ll definitely be grilling you for them when you get back!—he thinks he probably ought to be happy, too, considering how expensive this kind of thing would be normally, considering how statistically unlikely it had been for him to win.

Instead, he’d felt a sort of blankness, bewilderment veering on apathy—but it would be ungrateful to turn this kind of thing down, or to sell it off to someone else, wouldn’t it? In the end, he’d nodded a little stiffly at them, and smiled, and promised them their pictures.

“And what about you?” Briefly, Vincent entertains the possibility that this stranger is someone who takes ten cruises a year—the exact opposite kind of person that Vincent is, the kind of person who likes being hundred of miles out from the nearest coast, who likes the extravagance of the room service and the on-deck waterslides and the quaint high class diners, who likes talking to strangers. “Is this your hundredth cruise?”

The stranger laughs. “It’s actually my second. I was planning to go with someone. We bought two tickets way back—not company-sponsored, by the way, though I wish they were.”

“Did they decide to call it a night early?” Vincent asks.

The stranger laughs—a short, curt laugh. Vincent cannot tell if it’s genuine. “She’s actually not here. She couldn’t make it.”

It seems strange, to Vincent, that someone might miss something as expensive as a cruise. “Something else came up?”

“To be frank, I was in a relationship with her up until two weeks ago,” the stranger says. Then he laughs again, a little self-deprecatingly. “Sorry, that’s probably too much information.”

“Oh,” Vincent says. “I’m sorry about the breakup.”

The stranger waves a hand. “It’s fine. She left me the tickets, which wasn’t cool, but I found someone to resell hers to, even though it was sort of last minute. Facebook marketplace is the maker of miracles. The guy who bought it is somewhere on this ship, though I don’t think I could point him out to you.” 

“Are you alright?”

The stranger blinks at him. He looks a little caught off guard. “Sorry?”

“With the breakup,” Vincent clarifies. “Two weeks ago is still recent. Are you alright?”

The stranger is quiet for a moment. “That’s very considerate of you to ask,” he says, at last.

Vincent looks away from him. “That’s not an answer.”

The stars are starting to come out. The ocean stretches out, wide and dark, beyond them. The stranger says, after a moment: “With a view like this, who wouldn’t be?”

He reaches up a hand to swipe at his eyes. His sleeve doesn’t linger for very long. If Vincent weren’t looking, he might mistake the motion for something casual, something unassuming.

The stranger squeezes his eyes shut, and takes in a breath. The exhale that follows is carefully, meticulously even. 

Vincent doesn’t know what it is that prompts him to open his mouth. It’s a stupid, impulsive decision, directed towards someone to which he has no allegiance. It’s entirely unlike him.

And yet.

“My cabin number’s 3-75-F.” he says, before he can think better of himself. “If you need company, or if you want to talk about how your ex was the worst person on earth, we can get dinner, or just take a walk. If you don’t, I won’t take it personally.”

He turns, starts off in the direction of the deck entrance—this is preferable, he thinks, to sticking around to hear the stranger’s response. Judging by the size of the cruise ship, there are probably two thousand people on board. Vincent tells himself that it’s statistically unlikely he will run into this particular stranger again, which means his offer doesn’t have to mean anything at all.

“Wait,” the stranger says, falling into step with him.

Vincent turns.

“That actually sounds really nice. I’m glad you offered. Dinner, tomorrow at 6?” The stranger extends a hand. When Vincent looks up, he is surprised to find that he’s smiling. “I’m Yves.”

Vincent takes it. “Vincent.” he tries to keep his surprise out of his voice. “I’ll be free.”   

Yves says: “Great! I hear there’s a restaurant on the third floor which people really like. Do you like seafood?”

“Seafood’s great.”

Yves grins. “I’ll make the reservation tonight. Goodnight, Vincent.”

“Goodnight,” Vincent says, before he can second guess himself into taking it back. He has the distinct sense that he’s just gotten himself into something he’s fundamentally ill-equipped to handle.

—

In truth, the first time Yves meets Vincent is not the first time they meet. Vincent meets Yves for the first time when he’s in line to board. This, like their second meeting, is a coincidence.

— 

Before.

The stranger is smiling.

The girl he’s talking is interested in him. That’s the first thing Vincent notices. It’s not a secret—it’s evident in the way she cranes her entire body towards the stranger as he speaks. Evident in the way she laughs, her shoulders shaking, after he tells her something Vincent can’t quite decipher; evident in the way her eyes snap to his hands as he gesticulates.

Briefly, Vincent wonders how they know each other. A couple? But the more Vincent watches, the more he realizes that that doesn’t make sense. His body language is so deceptively open, as if to dismantle any line upheld between the two of them, but he is careful not to touch her. Likewise, she doesn’t reach for him, even though—from the way her gaze lingers on his arm, too long, loaded—Vincent thinks she probably wants to.

Long-time friends, then? Whatever the stranger is saying is too novel, and the girl is nodding vigorously at him, now, and Vincent can see that she’s trying to make a good impression. Have they just met tonight, then? The girl rummages through her purse for her phone, pauses briefly to type something out. Holds the screen up so he can see it.

The stranger leans in, his face intimately close to her, to peer down at it, too. There is something so confoundingly thoughtless about the gesture. It is almost as though there is a gap in how long they have known each other—as if she is, to him, already a longtime friend. There is no nervousness to the way he regards her, no pointed self-consciousness.

It’s a little interesting, Vincent thinks. He wonders, briefly, if the stranger knows that she likes him.

What strikes him about the arrangement is how open he is. It’s peculiar. It is as if they are not strangers at all. He holds the conversation seamlessly, with such warmth that Vincent marvels at it, as easily as if he has known her for years.

—

Dinner.

It’s around 5:41 when Vincent hears the knock on his cabin door.

The cruise room is more comfortable than he’d expected it to be. The ship is large enough that it feels oddly stationary, and the room—despite its relatively low ceilings and narrow walkways—has an excellent view of the ocean when he pulls back the curtain—the unmoving blue line of it, the inky sky above it, the clouds low on the horizon. 

Vincent, who had been half expecting Yves to not show up at all, puts his book down on the nightstand and heads towards the door.

When he opens it, Yves is dressed in a button-down collared shirt and slacks. He looks boyishly handsome, Vincent thinks—kind of like he could be a movie star, probably someone who would play a childhood-friend-turned-lover. 

“You’re early,” Vincent says. 

Yves checks his watch. “I guess I am. Did I catch you unprepared?”

“No, I’m ready,” Vincent says, nodding towards the hallway. “Lead the way.”

The living quarters on the cruise are ordered in neat rows. They head down a long hallway toward the central elevators. Yves talks about his morning—about how he’d spent his time perusing the second floor shops, how he’d played one game at a casino, won twenty dollars, and now he’s determined to never go back. (“I need to keep the net positive,” he says, “statistically unlikely as it is.” “You’re already doing better than everyone else in the casino,” Vincent says.)

The elevator ride is short. The cruise technically has fifteen floors—more if you count the partial floors at the top: the rooftop bar, the rooftop garden and grill.

“I can’t wait till we get to shore,” Yves says. “Not that the cruise isn’t nice, and all, but whenever I take a walk on deck, it never really feels like I’m stretching my legs.”

It’s Thursday evening. They’ll dock early tomorrow morning at the Amber Cove cruise island, spend a few hours there out on the beach, and then head back onto the cruise for their next stop. Vincent has packed swim trunks, sunglasses, a couple bottles of sunscreen, but the idea of going to the beach on his own feels distinctly out of character. He’s never been the kind of person to seek out experiences like this—sunny and indulgent—on his own, without someone else to pull him into them.

He supposes this isn’t really an exception. The company tickets which landed him on this ship in the first place were the catalyst to everything.

“You haven’t eaten here before,” Yves asks, as they round the corner to the door of the restaurant, “have you?”

“No,” Vincent says. “I’ve only been to the diner on the second floor.”

Yves smiles back at him. “That’s good. I don’t have to cancel my reservation, then.” “I wouldn’t have made you cancel it anyway.”

“You seem too polite to do that sort of thing,” Yves says, with a laugh. “There are too many things to do on deck for me to be dragging you to the same few places.”

Yves relays his reservation name and time to the waiter, who shows them to a table by the window. The restaurant is dimly lit—the majority of the light is coming from a single candle that sits in front of them, next to a vase of tastefully arranged flowers.

“This place is very romantic,” Vincent says.

Yves blinks at him. “I guess it is. Does that bother you?”

Vincent thinks that he can easily imagine another version of this evening—a dinner in which the seat across from Yves is occupied by his ex. An evening where they talk and laugh over a shared bottle of wine and eat the best seafood on the ship.

“I can see why you would have wanted to come here with her,” Vincent says. “I’m sure you had a lot to look forward to. I’m sorry.”

Yves glances back at him, his expression unreadable. Then he looks down. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he says. “You didn’t have any part in it.”

“In your decision?” “In hers.” He shakes his head with a laugh that doesn’t quite show in his eyes.  “It wasn’t mine to decide. She rekindled an old relationship at a bar. It was with this guy who went to the same college as the both of us, though I didn’t know him that well.”

He unfolds his cloth napkin and positions it gingerly on his lap. “I didn’t even know that they were friends, or that she would be meeting up with him. We were still together when it all happened, and then suddenly we weren’t.”

“That must have been painful for you,” Vincent says.

“I probably should’ve known better,” Yves says, tilting his head up to the ceiling. He smiles, a little self-deprecating.“I think there were probably signs that I missed. It’s the sort of thing you dwell on, you know. If everything really came out of left field, or if she’s already been falling out of love for a long time. This is depressing, but I keep thinking about—well, if maybe I could’ve done something to fix things if I’d realized it sooner.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” Vincent says. 

Yves blinks at him. “What?”

Vincent looks down—at the flowers between them, arranged artfully in a shallow glass vase. “You shouldn’t have had to do anything. You shouldn’t have had to speculate at all.” He doesn’t know why he’s saying this. It is none of his business, he knows, and besides, it’s not as though Yves has asked for his opinion. He finds himself thinking, abruptly, to Yves’s conversation with the girl in line, a couple spots ahead of him—the girl smiling, leaning close; Yves somehow reflecting back her interest with warmth.

It is part of the reason why Vincent is here, right now, if he’s honest with himself. Vincent understands exactly why people would be drawn to that particular sort of warmth. It’s the sort of warmth he doesn’t know how to cultivate, probably wouldn’t be able to cultivate, even if he tried. It is evident even now, in the way Yves seems to so readily offer his ex the benefit of the doubt, in the way his warmth extends towards her still.

“If she was having second thoughts, then she should’ve said something. You shouldn’t have been expected to read her mind,” Vincent says. Perhaps being so honest is overkill, but even if no one else in Yves’s life will say it, Vincent finds he has no such reservations. “At the very least, she should’ve ended things with you before looking for other options. Frankly, your ex sounds like a terrible person.”

Yves blinks at him, a little taken aback. “I’m sure I’m giving you a very biased impression of her. She’s a pretty reasonable person.” 

“Reasonable people can do bad things,” Vincent says, crossing his arms. On some level, he understands—of course Yves, with his proximity to the problem, would not see it this way. “Your ex hooked up with someone behind your back. I find it hard to believe that someone who had your best interests in mind would do that.”

Yves seems to consider this.

“I don’t think I’ll be in the business of forgiveness anytime soon,” he says, as if he is choosing his words carefully. “You’re right to say that what she did was pretty terrible.”

Vincent raises an eyebrow. “But?”

Yves is quiet, for a moment.

“I think it would be easier,” he says, at last, with a small smile. “If I thought about her that way.”

It’s a confession that Vincent has already figured out. “You still think highly of her. It makes sense.”

“She was my best friend for three years.” he shakes his head, smiling. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought. When I thought about a future with her, everything seemed so intuitive. Like all the problems that could come up would be things we’d already know how to work through.”

The waiter stops by their table to ask them for their choice in refreshments. Yves greets him with a polite smile—one that Vincent finds no holes in—and asks for one of the drinks on the cocktail menu. Vincent picks something at random, to match.

“Sorry,” Yves says, after the waiter leaves. “I didn’t mean to get into such a depressing tangent. We don’t have to talk about my ex. I’ll give you time to actually look over the menu.”

Vincent says, “You don’t have to apologize. I won’t take long.” He opens the menu—it is nice, he thinks, that all the food and drink is included in the cruise fare which he didn’t have to pay for—makes a mental list of all the items which look interesting, and stack ranks them in his head. Then he shuts the menu and sets it off to the edge of the table, so the waiter won’t have to lean over to pick it up.

He feels, without looking, that Yves is watching him.

“You weren’t kidding. You’re very efficient.”

Vincent meets his eyes from across the table. Yves has his own menu open, too, but he’s pretty sure Yves has been waiting for him. “You decided more quickly than I did.”

“I cheated and looked up the menu beforehand,” Yves says. “I didn’t want to subject you to my indecisiveness.”

This makes sense to Vincent—as does the early knock on his door. “You were looking forward to eating here.”

“With a hot stranger,” Yves says, with a laugh. “Yes.”  

The compliment is unexpected. It settles something inside of him, something nervous and wanting, though Yves says it offhandedly enough that Vincent thinks he probably shouldn’t take it to heart. He raises an eyebrow. “Am I still a stranger? We’ve exchanged names.”

Yves laughs. “I guess we can be acquaintances, then.”

The waiter arrives with their cocktails—Yves’s has a sprig of lavender near the rim, and Vincent’s has a dried orange slice and a stem of mint—and sets them down in the middle of the table. They place their orders.

After the waiter leaves, Vincent shifts his cocktail a little closer to him. He’s not much of a drinker, but his drink of choice is usually on the sweeter side. 

“Does it live up to your expectations?” Yves asks.

“The drink?”

“The cruise.”

“I don’t know if I had many expectations to begin with,” Vincent says. “The ship is bigger than I thought it would be. I’m still finding my way around.”

“Have you explored everything already?”

“Not everything.” Vincent thinks through his morning. “I walked around the shopping center, and then the fourth floor plaza.” he says. “I stopped by the theater, too, though I didn’t sit down for a show.”

He thinks, distantly, that perhaps the ship’s amenities are getting wasted on him—during his walk through the shopping center, he’d briefly thought about bringing gifts back for his coworkers and ultimately decided that if he’s going to do any shopping, it should probably be on his last day here, not his second. “I went up to the deck to see the pools. There were more distinct pools than I imagined—I had assumed they’d all be connected.”

“Did you go swimming?”

“I didn’t.”

“So you just walked around all twelve of the pools,” Yves says, incredulous, “without ever getting in?”

Vincent can see how this fact could potentially be off-putting. “The pools were all pretty crowded. I decided it’d be more symbolic if the first time I change into a swimsuit is tomorrow, after we dock.”

It isn’t entirely the truth. Truthfully—and he thinks this might be worse—he’d been more preoccupied with taking pictures of everything—nicely framed shots of the different pools, the different entrances of the shopping center, the crowds gathered around the theater for the midday show—half so he can have something to show his coworkers when he gets back to work (and thus, dispel any accusations of his own ungratefulness around winning) and half so he can have something to send back to his family (particularly Ji-Sung, who he thinks will get a kick out of seeing all of the amenities).

“You’re really serious about this,” Yves says, looking strangely amused. “Are the vacations you go on always so structured?”

Vincent says, “something like that. The cruise is not the main attraction, anyway.”

“For some people, it is.”

“For the same people who make it a mission to take a swim in all twelve of the pools, maybe,” Vincent says, and Yves smiles.

Yves, as it turns out, is an easy person to talk to. Vincent finds out that he doesn’t get seasick—or carsick, for that matter—but that he feels a little claustrophobic if he doesn’t go up to the deck (“to remind me that we’re actually still making progress towards some destination,” he says. “That way, I don’t feel as though I’m trapped in some giant feat of human engineering.”) He finds out that Yves has two siblings, both of them younger; that most of his extended family lives in france; that he likes vacationing in warm places; that the next time he steps foot onto a cruise, it will probably be with his younger sister and his younger brother. That he’d been working late for three weeks in a row to make this trip happen; that it feels a little wrong, now, to have nothing pressing to do.

It turns out to be a nice night, after all.

—

Firsts.

The cologne is an offhanded purchase. 

It’s not something Vincent thinks much about when he picks it up. It’s on the third day that he purchases it, after he holds too long of a conversation with the sales assistant—who seems to have an uncanny ability for translating whatever it is he says into one recommendation, and another, and another—to feel like he can walk away unguiltily. In the end, he settles with a tall, sleek bottle with a wooden cap. The cap is lined in gold—to suggest that this is a classy choice, presumably—to match the serif lettering on the front, which says Wood & Flame. 

It’s not something he intends on using, either—that is, until Yves messages him, dinner? And then, a moment later: feeling kind of lazy tonight. Mb we can order in 

Vincent texts back, Sure. Let’s order in. 6:30? 

Yves’s response is immediate. You haven’t been to my room yet, right? I can host :) 

It doesn’t mean anything, Vincent thinks, that the dress shirt he picks out is the newest one he owns, that he spends time ironing the creases out of it. It doesn’t have to mean anything, when he lingers longer than usual in front of the bathroom mirror, suddenly apprehensive. Yves is asking him out of friendly camaraderie, and nothing more. He runs another hand through his hair, catches himself, lowers it. Fixes his tie, straightens his collar, finds himself having to fix it again.

With a hot stranger, Yves had said, as if it was nothing. So offhandedly it seemed almost like it didn’t even matter—a throwaway comment, maybe. 

The cologne is an afterthought—he spritzes some on his wrists, and then, upon further thought, sprays some in behind his ears. It’s probably not going to be noticeable anyways, unless Yves gets close enough, which is unlikely. The scent of it is somewhat mild, understated—that had been one of the factors which had led him to pick it up in the first place—even when he lifts his wrist to his face, it’s not nearly as obvious as he expects it to be.

The bottle is large enough that it seems as though it will never run out—the liquid in it seems to be at the same level as before, even though he feels like he’s been generous enough in his application of it. He’s starting to think he won’t have enough occasions to wear it to.

Perhaps he will get some mileage out of this purchase tonight. Or perhaps, optimistically, this bottle will last him the rest of his life, he’ll never have to shop for cologne again in his lifetime. If he thinks about it that way, it doesn’t seem like such a financially bad investment.

—

Through his walk down the long, narrow hallway, and up two flights of stairs, Vincent prepares himself for the moment when Yves opens the door.

He’s still caught off guard, though, when the door swings open. Yves is dressed in a green button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows—the shirt is loose-fitting, but the way the fabric tightens around his arms does not do a good job of obscuring the muscle definition underneath—and well-fitted khaki chinos. His light brown hair is tied up in its usual low ponytail, but the strands which were too short to secure are tucked behind his ear.

“You made it!” He grins—it’s the kind of charming smile that completely overtakes his features—and steps aside to let Vincent in. “Now you can compare how different the rooms are three floors up.”

Vincent looks past him, at the arrangement of the room. “It looks like the same elements have undergone a few different transformations,” he says. “The wall art in this room looks more like it’s trying to remind you what you’re here for.”

Yves follows his gaze to the large landscape painting which hangs in the living room, to the right of the TV. It’s a watercolor drawing of waves crashing onto a white sand beach, except it’s drawn in a way that the waves closer to shore are saturated and dazzling, and the waves further from the shore fade out in color into the horizon. There’s faint detailing of buildings in the distance, too. Vincent is pretty sure it’s supposed to be the shoreline of Nassau, which they’re set to dock at two days from now.

“Huh,” Yves says. “It’s sort of like it’s taunting me. What’s in yours?”

“Mostly abstract art,” Vincent says. “Aside from that, a photograph of a conch shell, up close. There’s also a photograph of a ship out at sea, with no land in sight.” 

Yves laughs. “That’s pretty ironic. I heard that lower floors are better for seasickness. It would probably suck to be seasick, and then when you look up you’re forced to look at some sailboat in the middle of nowhere. Super on-the-nose.”

Vincent smiles. “It’s probably a good reality check.” he presses closer in to leave his jacket—which he is realizing now that he doesn’t need, but which he brought with him just in case, on the occasion that their evening culminates in a night-time walk on the deck—folded on Yves’s couch. “Were you thinking of ordering room service?”

“Yep,” Yves says. “I think everything on there is complimentary except for the wine. Do you need the room service menu?”

“I took a look at it already,” Vincent says. “I recalled that a certain someone does his research early.”

Yves looks briefly taken aback. Then he laughs. “You caught me. I totally did look at it beforehand. Though I was ready to act indecisive if you needed more time.”

“Very gentlemanly,” Vincent says. “Should we call in?”

Yves ends up calling for room service, on both of their behalf. (“That sounds really good,” he says, when Vincent recites his order to him. “It was probably my second choice.” “You can try some when it comes,” Vincent says.) He orders wine, too, to share, and waves off Vincent’s offer to split the cost.

After that, they settle on the living room couch. Yves says: “I’m thinking we can put something on while we wait for dinner to arrive? But probably not something you care about too much, because I might talk over it.” he passes the remote over to Vincent.

Vincent flips through the channels. There’s some sitcom which is playing which seems somewhat suitable, up until one of the couples gets into a sincere-seeming argument onscreen and Vincent thinks that, considering Yves’s semi-recent breakup, maybe everything with romance should be quietly vetoed. He eventually settles on one of those reality TV shows where people have to partake in increasingly difficult obstacle courses in order to not get eliminated.

“These are always fun,” Yves says. “You know about hysterical strength? I’ve always wondered if being nervous on these kinds of shows helps you or hurts you.” 

He reaches up with a hand to scrub at his eyes. Vincent looks over at him with a frown.

“Are you tired?”

“No,” Yves says. He blinks, and then sniffles—if Vincent isn’t mistaken, his eyes are a little watery. 

“Bored of the competition already?”

“Not at all. I think these kinds of shows are manufactured so that you can’t get bored.”

“There’s probably an optimal amount of nervousness,” Vincent says, “to answer your question. I’ve found that to be true with public speaking.”

“Huh,” Yves says. “Does your work require a lot of public speaking?”

“Not particularly. Mostly internal presentations, occasionally a conference.” He looks over at Yves. “If you weren’t tired before, talking about my work is going to make you tired for sure.” 

Yves laughs. “No way. I love hearing about other people’s work.”

“It’s not very life or death. There are no obstacle courses. Just a lot of regression analysis.”

Yves blinks at him. “Do you work in business, by any chance?”

Vincent nods. “I’m a quantitative analyst.”

“Huh,” Yves says, contemplative. “I heard it’s very competitive.” He sniffles again, quietly enough that it almost goes unheard. “You must be good at math.”

“A small subset of math,” Vincent says. “What do you work in?”

“Wealth management. It’s a little more client-centric, so I had to plan pretty far ahead to take time off for thihh-!” The inhale is sharp, unexpected. They’re sitting close enough to each other that Vincent can feel Yves stiffen beside him, can feel the sharp upwards stutter of his shoulders as his breath hitches again. “hHeh-!” He pivots away from Vincent, burying his face into his elbow—polite, Vincent thinks—and then, after a long, torturous moment, loses the fight to a loud, vocal, “HhHEh-IIDZschH-iEEw!”

Vincent wills himself not to look. “Bless you,” he says, staring straight ahead. Onscreen, a contestant loses her balance on a high mounted totem and drops straight down into the water, much to the dismay of her teammates. It is a wholly ineffective means of distraction.

Yves’s sneeze—like Yves—is painfully Vincent’s type.

“Ugh,” Yves says, sniffling again. He lowers his elbow slowly. “Sorry about that. Where was I?”

“You said you had to plan far ahead to take time off,” Vincent says. It’s no small miracle that he remembers this.

“Right, yeah,” Yves says, and launches into a story about the hoops he’d had to jump through to make sure all the clients he was assigned to would have their needs accounted for.

“That’s a lot of work for a week’s absence,” Vincent says.

Yves laughs. “Yeah. Sometimes the pickier clients really hate the idea of not getting round-the-clock attention. I’m— hh-! hHEH-!” He reaches up with a hand to scrub at his nose, though the look of ticklish irritation doesn’t quite leave his expression—Vincent really shouldn’t have looked. After a moment, he lowers his hand, takes in another uncertain breath, as if he’s still testing the waters. “Ugh, I lost it. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. This must be distracting for you.”

Distracting is an understatement. “Don’t worry about it,” Vincent says. “Is it worse during tax season?”

“Oh, yeah. No one in their right mind really takes off during tax season, snf-! It’s not like, officially against any rules, but it’s pretty openly acknowledged as one of those suggestions that’s not actually very optional. That doesn’t affect you guys as much, does it?”

“No,” Vincent says. “My free time is mostly dependent on project deadlines.”

“The ticket you won happened to not conflict with any of those?”

“I brought my work laptop with me,” Vincent says, a little sheepishly.

Yves’s eyes widen. “No way.”

“It’s not like I’m working long hours,” Vincent says. “Just some catch-up work, here and there. I don’t want there to be any surprises when I get back.”

“Always putting out fires,” Yves says, shaking his head. “It’s probably good that you won the—” He reaches over to lay a hand on Vincent’s arm—presumably as a comforting gesture—only he wrenches away at the last second. “The— Hheh-! Hh… hHEH-!” There’s another brief pause, as though whatever is affecting him has left him stranded again on the precipice of a sneeze. For a moment, Vincent prepares himself mentally for another false start.

But then Yves takes in another sharp, ticklish breath, and it turns out to be enough to set him over the edge. “hh’hEHh’iITSSSCHh-EEw!”

The sneeze snaps him forward at the waist to meet the crook of a hastily-raised arm. It’s just as attractive as the first, if not more—Vincent can hear his voice in the ending syllable, can hear the ticklish desperation in the release. Yves keeps his face buried in his elbow for a moment longer, sniffling wetly.

It takes everything in Vincent to not visibly shiver. What are the chances, really, that the attractive stranger-slash-acquaintance he’s having dinner with—someone who, when this cruise is over, he probably will never see again—just happens to have a sneeze which happens to be perfectly aligned with his tastes?

“Bless you again,” he says. “Are you okay?”

“I feel fine,” Yves says, with another sniffle, his eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t think I’m getting sick. I was fine earlier.” 

“Are you allergic to anything?”

“Not that I know of,” Yves says. “No seasonal allergies. Nothing pet-wise, either.” 

Vincent tries, and fails, to think of what else might be causing this. The cabins seem too clean, too well-ventilated, to be dusty. There are no flowers anywhere in sight. Is Yves coming down with something, then? But he’d said I don’t think I’m getting sick, with the certainty of someone who probably isn’t. 

“Let me know if you start feeling worse,” Vincent says.

Yves smiles at him. “I will. I’m really fine, I promise. It’s just—” he reaches up with a hand to rub his nose. A distant look crosses his expression for a moment—as though he’s warring against the need to do something about it—before his breathing levels off. “—tickish, snf! Not unpleasant.”

The sneezing doesn’t stop. Yves, for the most part, proceeds as though he’s completely unaffected by it—he’s no quieter than usual. It’s as though every time he feels the need to sneeze, he is intent on ignoring it until the need is too pressing to ignore. When that happens, he turns away just in time, except for a couple close calls when he misjudges and instead doubles forward with a sneeze directed into his lap, sniffling afterwards. 

Vincent blesses him intermittently, but otherwise offers up no comment. Yves apologizes sheepishly, after the fourth or fifth sneeze, for interrupting the show. Vincent doesn’t tell him that he probably couldn’t care less about the show. Truthfully, he has no clue what’s going on onscreen anymore—obstacle course shows are interesting, but not that interesting.

Dinner arrives not too long after. Vincent can barely focus on the seafood pasta he’s ordered, though he offers Yves a bite, as promised. Yves unfolds one of the napkins room service leaves for them and blows his nose quietly into it. He sniffles afterwards—as though his nose is properly running, now—and resumes talking as usual.

Vincent crosses his legs, does his best to ignore the heat radiating below his stomach. This is really bad timing. The entire inexplicable setup—the fact that they’re sitting so close to each other; the fact that he can physically feel Yves tense beside him, rigid with anticipation, his shoulders jolting upwards with every inhale—is honestly nothing short of torturous. 

It’s worse, too, that Vincent can see the ticklish irritation in Yves’s features—the crease of his eyebrows, the fluttering eyelashes, the sharp, uncontrolled gasp—before he wrenches forward with another desperate sneeze. It’s always a full-body endeavor—something that snaps him forward at the waist, leaves him bent over, a little breathless, sniffling wetly.

It absolutely doesn’t help that the underside of Yves’s nose is slightly flushed red, now, from the unusual attention—perhaps this is to be expected, seeing as Yves keeps rubbing it. More than once, Vincent contemplates asking to use Yves’s bathroom, and subsequently, well, getting rid of the problem at hand. Yves has no idea what this is all doing to him. After all, how would he know?

It’s only when they’re almost done with dinner that it clicks.

“Hold on,” Vincent says. Yves had said he wasn’t allergic to anything, but there’s a first time for everything, right? Particularly, there’s always a first time exposure to allergens. That first time might come later in life for those that are less commonplace.

It seems glaringly obvious, in hindsight. Yves hadn’t been sniffling when he’d opened the door for Vincent, had he? From the way he’d reacted to the first sneeze, it didn’t seem like this has been going on for long.

But of course. He’d been so focused on the environment that he hadn’t considered it. There’s only one thing Vincent did tonight which was pointedly out of the ordinary.

The realization leaves him feeling suddenly cold.

“Yves.” Vincent flinches away. “I think I know what’s causing this.”

Yves pauses. “What is it?”

“I’m wearing new cologne,” he says. “I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it earlier. I didn’t think much of it when I was applying it.” He feels a little like an asshole, now that they’re discussing it. It wasn’t his intention to leave Yves suffering. He hadn’t known. But still, the fact that they’ve been sitting in such close proximity this whole time definitely hasn’t helped.

The last thing he wants to do right now is look at Yves, but he forces himself to, anyway—wrenches his gaze upwards until he meets Yves’s eyes. “I’m really sorry. I should’ve made the connection earlier.”

Yves blinks at him. He doesn’t seem as upset about this as Vincent thinks he should be—strangely, he doesn’t seem upset at all. “Are you saying you think I’m allergic?”

“Allergic, or sensitive, yes,” Vincent says, frowning. “In any case, I take full responsibility. I should probably just—”

“Wait,” Yves says, reaching out with a hand to latch onto Vincent’s wrist. “I haven’t been allergic to anything before.” 

“It’s probably not something common,” Vincent says, wondering if he should pull away.

“You applied it to your wrists?” Yves asks.

Vincent nods, a little stiffly. He doesn’t quite trust himself to speak. It feels like Yves’s fingertips are burning holes into his arm.

Everything that happens after happens in a flash. Yves tightens his grip around Vincent’s wrist, pulls it gently towards him, and leans down to take a long, indulgent inhale.

Vincent feels all of the blood drain from his face. He rounds on Yves, wide-eyed. “What are you—?”

The reaction is almost immediate. Yves drops Vincent’s arm as if he’s been scalded. He shuts his eyes, barely turns to the side in time for a harsh, “hhEHH’iiDZZSHH-iEW!”

The sneeze is so forceful he coughs a little afterwards, his eyes watering. His shoulders jerk upwards again, his nose twitching. “hHEH… HEHH… hehH’IITSSCHh-EEW! Ugh… coughcough, you’re right, it’s defidetely… hHEH—!!”

Vincent can only watch, frozen in place, as Yves jerks forward again, burying his nose into his sleeve. “IHHHh’DZschH-IIEW! Snf-!” He lowers his arm slightly—Vincent can see him scrunching his nose up, trying to rid himself of what must be the worst tickle he’s been faced with all night. That thought sends a wave of electricity down Vincent’s spine. “Hh-hHeh-! Definitely the cologne that’s… hh-! that’s… hEHH… setting me… hh… HhEH’IDDzShHH-IIEW!! —off, snf, f-fuck… hh-Hehh-hhEHH’IITTSHhh-IIEEW!” The sneeze explodes from him, barely contained, snapping his entire body forward with the sheer intensity. Yves barely manages a breath in between before he’s doubling over with another: “IIIiDDDzSCHHh-YyiEW!”

Vincent swallows hard. He’s, well, so turned on that he can barely speak. It feels a little like the heat he feels—more of a full-body-flush, at this point—might actually melt the clothes off of his arms. “Bless you.” It’s remarkable that his voice manages to come out as evenly as it does.

He stands, heads over to the coffee table to retrieve a small box of tissues. Takes in a deep breath.

When he gets back to the couch, Yves has cupped both his hands over his nose and mouth. Vincent tilts the opening of the tissue box towards him without comment. 

“Thadks,” Yves says, with a laugh. He takes a handful and blows his nose. “I needed those. That was probably ndot the best idea, in hindsight.”

Understatement of the fucking century. Vincent stares at him, disbelieving. “Your first idea after learning you’re allergic to something is to test it out?”

“Scientific rigor, and whatnot,” Yves says. “I had to be sure. Like I said, I’ve never actually been allergic to something before. This was quite the… hHeh-!” He raises the handful of tissues back up to his face, his gaze going unfocused. “Just a sec—hh… hH… hHEH’IIDZSCHh-IIEW! snf!”

“Bless you,” Vincent says. “I guess this answered your question, then.” Yves laughs. “It definitely did.”

“I think you—” Vincent places the tissue box—which is at risk of falling off the edge of the couch—directly into Yves’s lap. “—should take this.” He takes a cautious step backwards. “And I should go take a long shower back in my room.”

Yves looks up at him, still a little teary-eyed. “It doesn’t bother me that much,” he says earnestly. “It’s just sneezing. I don’t mind it.” Just sneezing. Vincent shakes his head.

Yves stills, his expression probing. “Unless…” His voice comes out a little softer, now. Uncertain. “...Unless it bothers you?” 

That couldn’t be further from the truth. Not in the sense that Yves means it, at least.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Vincent says. “But I’ve been in your situation before, so I know what it feels like. I… know it isn’t pleasant.”

This information seems to surprise Yves. “You’ve experienced this before too?”

Vincent nods. “Every spring, more or less. I’m allergic to tree pollen.” His face feels hot from the admission—it feels strangely inappropriate to be admitting this, but then again, it’s not as though he’s bringing it up out of nowhere. “You can imagine that’s harder to avoid than a singular kind of cologne.”

Yves’s eyes widen. “That sounds terribly - hhEH-! hH… HEHh’iITSHH-iIEWW! snf-! terribly incodvenient. I can’t imagine having to deal with this feeling for an edtire season.”

“It is. That’s why I don’t want to subject you to this for longer than I have to.” He steps past Yves to grab his jacket from the couch, which he ties around his waist. It will be better for both of them if he leaves now. “I really should shower and get changed. Your symptoms are not going to get better if I stick around.” 

Yves seems to be coming around to this. “Sorry to have to end things off early,” he says, frowning. “You came all the way here.”

“It was barely a walk,” Vincent says. “And this wouldn’t have happened if not for me. I should be the one saying sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Yves says, with a laugh. “It was an illuminating experience. I’ll see you, then?”

The possibility is so fleeting that Vincent almost dismisses it. Could Yves really be disappointed?

“I have some Claritin back in my room,” Vincent says, trying his luck, though a part of him recognizes that this kind of confidence is categorically unlike him. “We can resume our night when you can get through two sentences without having to sneeze.” And after Vincent takes care of something else, and preferably spends enough time in his room flipping through boring travel pamphlets and sensational catalogues to get his mind out of the gutter, so he can face Yves again with some semblance of normalcy. “...If you still want to.”

Yves brightens.

In theory, S/antos should have begun to recognize the pattern in her immune response that as soon as the adrenaline of fast paced shifts, skipped meals, and little sleep finally wore off during a few days of real rest, her body had the tendency to fail her.

Really, she thought as she laid in her bed the morning of her second day off in a row, she should have seen this coming. The cold going around the ER had forced many of her coworkers on the day shift to slow their rapid fire pace of work that they were normally so comfortable existing in. It was only a matter of time before she was also taken down by this cold from hell.

Unfortunately, she had convinced herself that she might have escaped it as she left her last shift with her four days off as a beacon glowing ahead of her. The fact that she was wrong only made her grumpier. Her throat started with a telling roughness the previous morning, and by the evening of her first day of rest, she was a sniffling, sneezing mess.

Now, she groaned as she rolled over and checked the time.

6:14am. Perfect.

She sniffled and adjusted her pillow behind her to sit up slightly, hoping to find a way to be able to breathe more easily out of her nose. Her head felt like a cinder block and she coughed lightly at the tickle buzzing deep in her sinuses.

She wondered absently if Huckleberry had come home from his farm widow’s house last night. She hadn’t heard him come in, but he could be very quiet when he wanted to be. She smirked lightly at a memory of her stumbling, bleary eyed, into their shared kitchen for a glass of water in the middle of the night and turning the light on only to find him sitting in the dark, eating crackers straight out of the box, scaring the shit out of her. He apologized like hell and she didn’t let him live it down for weeks.

An odd sense of melancholy settled in her chest as she listened to the quiet of the house around her. He probably spent the night with Amy again. Santos hadn’t seen him since he left the shift they worked together the last day before she was taken out by this cold.

“-hhiih -hiHH’ngxt-chiew…uhgh,” she stifled a sneeze that left her head pounding. She sniffled as the tickled reared again, unrelieved by her restrained release. “-hihh…-hIH -itscHIW- haaTCSIIEW -hiiihCHIEW! *snrfff*.” She groaned again and closed her eyes. Maybe she could sleep a bit more. Despite her fit of sneezes, she still felt a tickle lingering under her congestion. She grabbed a tissue off of her nightstand and blew to try and relieve it.

Closing her eyes once more, she wrapped her duvet closer around herself as a chill swept down her body. She wished she had grabbed some cold meds from the break room in the ER. She didn’t think there were any around…maybe in the back of the kitchen cabinet if she could just find the energy to get herself up to look.

If Huckleberry caught this he’d probably die. She thought to herself. But a part of her hoped he did catch it, and maybe he would come home from Amy’s to get some sleep in his own bed.

“Oh jeez, you don’t look so good…” he would probably say when he saw her. “Did you get that cold too??”

“Damn Dr. Whitaker how did you deduce that one??” She would snap back and roll her eyes.

And then they would probably sit together on the couch watching trash reality tv together, order soup and make fun of the dumb contestants and their silly little scripted problems all afternoon.

“haTSHEW! itchIEW! -hihhH -hiH” she waited for the last sneeze to come with her head tipped back, mouth open and pink nostrils flaring slightly. She took a shaky inhale and hitched and hitched, “hiiHhh…hihHH…HITCHIEW!” Finally.

Maybe she should text Huckleberry and check to see if he did catch this too. But no…she would let him be. If he did catch it Amy would probably love to coo over him for a few days.

And I’ll just stay here, sick as a dog, by myself. She thought bitterly. She was used to it. Despite the last few months of unlikely friendship with Whitaker, she was used to relying on herself. But she couldn’t help but feel a sense of longing to have his annoying ass around when she felt so terrible, even just to go get her some cold meds from the drugstore.

Another shiver wracked her. She definitely had a fever.

Despite herself, she let out a little whimper as she sniffled and another tickle wound its way through her nose. “hATChiew! -hiiHH-chIEW! -hiHH! itcHU!” she sighed and snuggled deeper into the bed.

Slowly, sleep blissfully started to take her.

**** She woke again later with a pounding head.

9:47am. Although she was still wrapped in her blankets and hoodie, her teeth chattered and rounds of shivers felt like they were running through her bones. Okay, really time to go find some meds now. Pulling a soft throw blanket from the end of her bed and wrapping it around her shoulders, she dragged herself into a seated position.

Her nose twitched in protest and she breathed a shaky inhale “hiiHdshIEW! -schIEW! hih…hitchIEw..uhhh.”

Santos sniffled and got to her feet, wobbling slightly on her way out of her room and through the small apartment to the kitchen.

Dialed in on the cabinet she suspected had some cold meds lurking in the back, and wanting to get herself back to bed as quickly as possible, she jumped when she heard a voice from behind her.

”Uhh hey, you good?” She whirled around, and regretted it instantly as a wave of dizziness clouded the corners of her vision and she wobbled slightly.

Whitaker jumped forward and gently steadied her by her arms. “Woahhh there. I see…not so good” he took in her appearance in with a grim look and a wince. “Bad cold eh?”

“N’do gendius, I’mb feeling fandtastic” she replied, but her rasp and heavy congestion took away some of the bite of her words. She coughed lightly into her fist, sniffled, and moved away from her roommate to go back to searching for meds.

“Looking for these?” Huckleberry asked and she looked back to see him holding a new pack of cold and flu meds out to her.

She nodded and took them from him, actually looking at his face and noticing slightly more darkness bagging under his usually tired eyes, and a redness to the edges of his nose.

“Ahh so Am’by didn’dt wan’dt you sticking around to spread the plague?” She asked him as wryly as her current state could allow.

“Ah no, I just thought I’d get out of their hair in case I passed it along…I don’t think it’s hit me as hard as you though” he sniffed lightly and looked at her with an edge of concern around his eyes. “Have you taken your temperature?”

Santos rolled her eyes again and cringed as she swallowed down a dose of cold medicine. Was she really missing him earlier? Of course he would come home and immediately start mother-henning her.

“Im’b a Doctor, Huckleberry, I don’dt need you t-hiihh-“ she was cut off as her nostrils flared. “hiihH- hiT’ngxt! Ngtxh! hitNGXT-CHIEW!” The sneezes sounded painful and she and Huckleberry both winced.

“Hey…okay, why don’t you go sit on the couch and I’ll order some soup for us?” Whitaker took out his phone and gazed over at her expectantly.

Santos grumbled but didn’t argue as she made her way over to the couch and curled up with her blanket.

“Chicken noodle or hot and sour?” Huckleberry called from the kitchen.

Santos felt a smile tug on her lips and though she still felt like crap, her heart felt a little lighter.