#aceocs

Thomas held his breath. Was...was his cute, sexy, and vulnerable choirmaster asking him to stay with him while he suffered through a miserable cold and hold him through his shivers and mop his fevered brow and-

Okay, he was getting a bit ahead of himself. But his heart still catapulted up into his throat and he was suddenly worried it was going to pop out of his mouth rather than his butt. Or maybe it was actually thudding out of his chest like in cartoons. (He risked a quick glance down and was relieved to discover that this was decidedly not the case.)

“Besides,” Mr Malone went on, wiping his poor red nose with what was by now a very tired tissue. “Ellie seems to think you’re part of the couch now. Wouldn’t do to harm her concept of object permanence at such a delicate age.”

God, Thomas thought. He’s so fucking weird. He’s perfect.

Since Mr Malone refused to let him get up lest he disturb Ellie’s catnap, the nurse/patient scenario which had been growing arms and legs in Thomas’s mind quickly began to fade as he watched Mr Malone stand up again with a groan of exhaustion and shuffle into the kitchen to brew a fresh pot of tea. Thomas didn’t think anybody actually owned teapots outside of his grandfather and old ladies who exchanged gossip in the church hall on Sunday afternoons. He heard a flurry of rough, almost violent sneezes from the kitchen but all he could see was the blurred outline of Mr Malone’s shadow in the soft light shifting noncommittally with each desperate spasm.

Trying quite desperately to ignore the sudden heat between his legs as an image of Mr Malone falling asleep with his head on Thomas’s shoulder blossomed unbidden in his mind, Thomas quickly focused his attention on the variety of instruments cluttering up the living room. He noticed a violin case tucked away down the side of an armchair and wondered just how many instruments Mr Malone could actually play. He pictured his long, slender fingers pressing confidently against the taut strings, the body of the instruments nestled expertly beneath his chin. He saw his teacher’s strong grip on the bow, the fluid sway of his body as he moved with the feel of the music, intensity of his body’s music growing to a climax along with the music until-

“Thomas?”

Thomas snapped back to reality with an unpleasant crash and found Mr Malone sitting on the couch next to him, one hand resting gently on his thigh and an expression of deep concern on his face. The tone of his voice suggested that he’d been trying to get Thomas’s attention for some time and the thought of what his face might have betrayed of his daydreaming sent a shiver down his spine.

“Are you alright?” Mr Malone asked, voice quiet and hoarse. “You’re not feeling ill, are you?”

“No!” Thomas protested quickly, wincing when Ellie grumbled. “No, I’m fine. Just...away with the fairies.”

Mr Malone was squinting at him, apparently unconvinced. “Maybe it isn’t a good idea for you to stay. I really don’t want to give you this.”

“No! It’s okay, really,” Thomas said desperately, trying to claw his way towards an excuse. He didn’t want to leave. He’d just moments ago been granted this insight into Mr Malone’s private life and he didn’t feel ready to give it up yet.

Mr Malone hummed thoughtfully and reached forward to press a cold hand against Thomas’s forehead. More than anything, Thomas willed himself to stop bloody blushing or else Mr Malone was going to think-

“You look a bit flushed. And you’re warm,” Mr Malone said and the corners of his eyes were creased in concern.

Thomas wanted to reach over and smooth out the lines of worry on the choirmaster’s face, to reassure him that he was fine, that he didn’t need to go home, that he wasn’t catching Mr Malone’s cold. He cursed his stupid body’s inability to think about this man without instantly turning his face a ridiculous shade of scarlet.

Mr Malone sighed and Thomas knew what he was going to say before the words were out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry. It was selfish of me to ask you to stay. I’d hate to get you sick,” he said quietly, patting Thomas’s upper arm before pulling away and shifting so he was as far from Thomas as he could be while still sitting on the couch.

“It’s really f-”

“No.” Mr Malone interrupted gently. “I’d like you to go home and rest. I’ll be perfectly alright on my own.”

Thomas sighed. “What about Ellie?” He asked, defeated. He knew this was a lost cause.

Silently, Mr Malone reached over and nudged Ellie’s behind firmly, earning a disgruntled meow as she hopped down onto the ground and sauntered off down the hall with her tail swishing carelessly through the air.

“Thank you for the lift, Thomas,” Mr Malone said as they both stood. Mr Malone placed a hand on the small of Thomas’s back as he guided him to the door. “I really do appreciate it. And I’ll see what I can do about getting you into an advanced piano class.”

“Oh, you don’t, you don’t have to do that,” Thomas said, flustered.

“It’s no trouble,” Mr Malone said, sounding raspier with every word. Thomas felt his own throat ache in sympathy. “And don’t worry. If they won’t bend the rules, I’m happy to teach you myself.”

And, without even giving Thomas a chance to respond, Mr Malone told him to have a safe trip back and closed the door, leaving his poor, smitten student gaping like a goldfish at the chipped green paint. Feeling somewhat numb, Thomas robotically made his way outside and climbed into his car.

Mr Malone was...happy to teach him...himself? Did that mean...did that mean there was likely to be more of these one-on-one moments in that tiny office, Mr Malone adjusting his wrists just so?

“Maybe we should warm up?” said James Piper, the only other postgrad student among them. Then he turned to Thomas. “You could play for us, right?”

Thomas didn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely.”

As a child, Thomas had outright hated piano practice. It had seemed to tedious and repetitive and he could never seem to get his fingers just right on the keys, especially back when he’d had littler hands. Now it was solace; it was letting go and holding on and a breath of sweet spring air. The feel of the cool smooth keys beneath his fingertips was exhilarating and it had been days since he’d had a chance to play.

Taking a seat on the piano stool, Thomas played a quick C major scale with both hands to warm up and glanced up at the assembled choir with a smile. He suddenly felt important and a sense of calm warmth washed over him at the sight of them, trusting him to lead them through a warm up. Despite the bubble of anxiety in his throat, Thomas felt completely at home.

“Ready?” He asked and, upon receiving their nods of assent, played the familiar lead-in to the warm up.

As he played, his thoughts wandered to Mr Malone and he found himself watching his fingers with a vague sense of distance. He imagined Mr Malone’s fingers playing the same song, pressing the same keys, and felt a blush spread steadily up the back of his neck to the tips of his ears. He took a deep breath.

The final group was left singing in the round when Thomas glanced up at long last and spotted a familiar face in the doorway, stumbling over his notes in surprise. He played the final chord a beat too early and flushed brilliantly, quickly stumbling back to his place among the tenors. Mr Malone was still looking at him curiously.

“Did you pick that up by ear?” He asked and his voice was rougher than the day before.

He still wore the blue scarf and his cardigan was a thick navy-blue cable-knit garment with large flat buttons securing it across the choirmaster’s front. Between his rumpled hair and chapped nose, Thomas was quite certain that he was failing in his valiant attempts to fight off what threatened to be a miserable cold.

Uncertain of what else to say, Thomas nodded bashfully, but it didn’t satisfy Mr Malone’s thoughtful gaze. Thankfully, he was saved from further scrutiny by James.

“Are you alright?” He asked, stepping out from the gathered choir and heading over to where Mr Malone was still standing by the door. “You don’t look well.”

Mr Malone smiled wanly and held up a hand. “I’d keep my distance if I were you, James,” he warned jokingly, stopping James in his tracks. “I’m not at my best, I’ll give you that. But I’m thoroughly disinfected and planning to remain at least six feet away from the rest of you at all times so I suspect we’ll manage.”

Despite his obvious illness, Mr Malone’s energy didn’t seem to be curbed. He strode to the piano with all his usual finesse and discarded his music on the stool, grabbing a few stray sheafs from the top of the pile and placing them on a music stand.

“Now then,” he said, placing his foot on the bottom of the stand and adjusting it to suit his height. “Since you’re already warmed up,” he winked at Thomas who, having just cooled down from his last furious blush, felt his face set alight again. “I have a new piece for you.”

Excited chatter broke out among the choir and Gracie Kwan teased, “Is it something from this century?”

Mr Malone smiled. “Almost. We’re closer to the present day than normal.”

He returned to the piano to retrieve a manilla wallet and extracted a wad of paper, splitting it into two sections and handing them to two girls in the front.

“They’re vaguely grouped by part but I’m afraid I didn’t have time to sort through them properly so they might be a bit muddled,” he went on with a sheepish smile. “This is an extract from Duruflé’s Requiem which was composed…” He left the sentence hanging. “Does anyone know when?”

“1950s?” Milan suggested.

“Oh, very close. 1948. Well done,” Mr Malone praised and Milan beamed proudly. Thomas couldn’t blame her. He was still flying high from the choirmaster’s earlier comments. “Alright, have a look over your pa-”

Mr Malone stopped talking and Thomas looked up from his music to what was, frankly, an unfairly attractive sight. Despite his attempts to fight it, Mr Malone’s eyes were slipping closed, nose wrinkling as the impending sneeze built outwardly in his features. One slender hand came to hover, uncertain, in front of his face before he finally folded forward, nose buried in the crook of his elbow.

hh’gyISHHhoo! hr’niSHHHhuh!

A chorus of “bless you’s” sounded around the room and Mr Malone offered an embarrassed smile as he pulled a fresh packet of pocket tissues from his cardigan and blew his nose harshly. It was clear by the angry colour of his poor nose that he’d been doing that a lot. Thomas felt a wave of sympathy hit him right in the stomach.

“Maybe you ought to go home, Evan,” James suggested in a last-ditch effort to talk some sense into their stubborn choirmaster. It always startled Thomas that James felt comfortable enough to call Mr Malone by his first name. True, the three of them were essentially the same age (Thomas thought that James might actually be older than Mr Malone, in all honesty) but he commanded too much authority for Thomas to ever venture beyond a formal title.

Mr Malone rolled his eyes in exasperation. “You’re starting to sound like my mother,” he quipped.

And so, practice began.

Recently, Raymond had been struggling through an awfully resillient cold, going through his small supply of handkerchiefs almost once every day. Milo did his best to wash them for him when he was at work (which was pretty much all the time these days since- well, since Milo had last worked) but they hand’t always finished air drying by the time his poor, sickly boyfriend returned, run down and exhausted and good for nothing but his bed.

Hearing footsteps echoing in the close, Milo glanced at the alarm clock on the floor next to the mattress (hey, bedframes were expensive) and quickly made his way to the front door, throwing it open just as Raymond had been reaching for the handle.

“Oh, Ray,” he breathed, pulling Raymond inside quickly and immediately taking off his cargidan to wrap it round his trembling shoulders.

Raymond smiled wanly by way of greeting but it did little to convince Milo that he was feeling any better. His usually pale face was ashen and drawn, dark circles under his eyes telling tales of nights spent lying awake coughing and wheezing. Milo had been trying to convince Raymond to visit a doctor about his chest since they’d first started dating at seventeen but he’d always been a stubborn little shit, to use the technical term. Raymond’s nose was red and angry and, judging by his congested breathing, completely functionless.

Swiftly, Milo swept Raymond into the kitchen and sat him down at the little wooden table, fixing him a cup of tea.

Raymond sniffled pitifully behind Milo’s back and Milo turned in time to see his boyfriend duck forwards into his tired handkerchief, letting out a few exhausted sneezes.

Ehhshhhuh’ngh!

Hhishhhhuh’nngkh!

“Bless you,” Milo sighed, placing the cup in front of Raymond and taking a seat next to him. “Drink up then straight to bed, yeah?”

Raymond nodded, shakily lifting the tea to his lips and taking a sip, wincing as it burned his lips and throat. Putting the cup down again, he looked Milo up and down once and grimaced, making Milo tense. Here it comes…

“Have you taken that off today?” Raymond asked, nodding to Milo’s chest and barely managing to make himself heard amid the wretched congestion which blocked his sinuses.

Milo sighed, though doing so wasn’t comfortable. “Not yet. I will when you’re asleep.”

Raymond, who looked far too tired to argue, simply nodded but the look on his face suggested that he didn’t believe Milo really would. And maybe he wouldn’t, Milo himself didn’t know. Today had been a rough day. He’d try - for Ray - but that was all he could promise. They didn’t say another word.

With the tea finished, Milo dragged Raymond to the bedroom and started organising the bed while his boyfriend changed slowly into his pyjamas. Milo tucked him in lovingly and kissed his forehead.

“I’ll have food ready when you wake up,” he whispered but Raymond merely grunted in response, already snuffling congestedly as he drifted off to sleep.

Sundays were Milo’s least favourite day of the week. As if his boyfriend’s health wasn’t delicate enough, Sunday saw him working 8am-5pm then 11pm-4pm and, following perhaps two hours of sleep if he was lucky, he was back at work 8am the following morning. Currently, Raymond would get around four hours before Milo would wake him for dinner and hate himself as he ushered his sniffling, wheezing boyfriend out the door to work for the second time that day.

One thing was for sure, this wasn’t living. This was bullshit.

Leaving his boyfriend to sleep, Milo headed to the bathroom. He liften his baggy t-shirt over his head, sighing down at the bandage which tightly bound his chest. Raymond was right. He needed to take it off. The last thing Raymond needed right now was to be worrying about Milo any more than usual. It was ironic, really, that Raymond worried so much about Milo’s health but cared so little for his own when he was the one most often down with coughs and sniffles and, on one awful occasion recently, bronchitus.

Milo sighed and immediately winced when he felt the bandage tighten around his chest. Raymond was always right.

The moment the bandage came off, Milo felt his lungs take in a sudden gasp of cool, fresh air. The constricting happened so gradually over the course of the day that he tended not to really understand how tightly he was binding until it came off. He relished in the moment, eyes closed, feeling suddenly a little lightheaded as the air rushed into his lungs.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t stay like that forever and, when he opened his eyes, he was left staring at his breasts and belly fat in the mirror, feeling the tears spring to his eyes as he quickly threw his t-shirt back on again. The bandage didn’t exactly make his chest flat but it did significantly help to decrease his dysphoria and, provided he wore baggy clothing, it helped him pass as male in public.

Folding his arms across his chest, he dumped his makeshift binder in the bath and headed out to the living room where he flopped down on their raggedy couch. And then he cried. He cried for his poor boyfriend and his impossible work schedule and fragile health. He cried for himself and his stupid body and his stupid dysphoria. He cried because everything felt like his fault - ever since he’d come out and lost his receptionist job at the bank, Raymond had been tirelessly working just to keep them both afloat.

So Milo cried because he felt trapped and he cried for a long, long time.

~

Waking Raymond after just four hours sleep that evening was almost more than Milo’s heart could bear, especially after seeing his boyfriend’s exhausted, bleary gaze fall on him and attempt a smile.

“Y-you…” he began but he got no further before he broke off into an awful cough. Milo quickly pulled Raymond upright and sat down beside him, supporting him with an arm wrapped around his lower back. In obvious pain, Raymond pressed his hand against his spasming chest, each gasp of air sounding more and more desperate and tight than the previous.

“It’s alright, my ray of sunshine,” Milo whispered, using his free hand to grab a handkerchief and wipe the sweat from Raymond’s forehead while he coughed. “I’m right here. You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

Raymond’s breathing only got more desperate as the fit went on but finally, miraculously, he seemed to clear his chest of whatever blockage was there and would have collapsed back down again in exhaustion had Milo not pulled him close, taking Raymond’s full weight against his side. Panting, Raymond rested his head on Milo’s shoulder and sniffed thickly, giving Milo’s hand a pathetic squeeze when it handed him his handkerchief. Following a pitifully feeble nose blow, Raymond closed his eyes, wheezing and exhausted as he used his boyfriend to keep himself upright.

“You took it off,” he rasped, letting out an awful wheezing sigh which made Milo’s chest constrict as though he had still been binding.

“Four hours now,” Milo whispered back, kissing the top of Raymond’s head, barely noticing that his short blond hair was soaked with sweat.

There was absolutely no way in hell Raymond was fit to go to work. Hell, he wasn’t fit to go to the living room. By all basic human decency, Milo should have tucked him back into bed and doted on him until his health returned. He should have threatened to have his guts for garters if his sickly boyfriend even thought about putting one foot on the floor. He should have done several things, maybe, but nothing feasible sprung to mind in time. All he could manage was bringing Raymond a fairly bland meal in bed rather than dragging him to the table.

It wasn’t much of a meal - just a baked potato with what was left of the cheese. Tomorrow, when Raymond was back at work again, Milo would brave the outside with his shoulders hunched and his head down to make sure he could have a decent meal prepared for his hard-working darling when he returned. Tomorrow, Milo would only have one meal. Healthy food was expensive and medicine was expensive too and Raymond needed those things now more than Milo needed to eat three meals a day.

Raymond managed half of the potato before he started to look a little green and Milo quickly took the plate from him, deciding it was better for Raymond to have half a potato in his stomach than to force down the rest of it and lose it. He’d keep it in the fridge for later.

As he helped Raymond into his green cleaning scrubs, Milo suddenly couldn’t take it anymore and threw his arms around his boyfriend with a wail of despair.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered tearfully. “I want you to stay so I can take care of you.”

Raymond gently prised Milo off himself and kept his hands on his shoulders, Milo’s arms still looped around Raymond’s torso should he suddenly need support.

“I dnow,” he said and, as Milo studied his face, even his blinking seemed sluggish. “Budt I godda go. Ndo mbore sick days left.”

Milo leaned forward to quickly kiss Raymond’s cheek. “I’m just- I’m so sorry I lost my job so you have to-”

“Shh,” Raymond interrupted, lifting one finger slowly to Milo’s lips. “Ndot your fault, andgel.”

“It is,” Milo whispered, blinking back tears though a few still escaped. “If- if I wasn’t…”

“Sdop!” Raymond’s voice had such unexpected force behind it that Milo physically started. When he glanced back up into his boyfriend’s eyes again, they were burning with a strength which pleasantly reminded Milo of when Raymond was healthy.  “This is ndot your fault snf.”

Not trusting his voice, Milo offered Raymond a small smile and quickly headed back to the bathroom to bind his chest again so he could walk his shivering boyfriend to work.

The fridge itself also had sheet music attached, often with names scrawled at the top. Thomas presumed they were the names of Mr Malone’s private students. There was also a drawing of a man sitting at a piano with an arrow pointing to him, declaring him to be “Mr Melon” and Thomas had to bite his lip to keep his laughter contained.

The sound of Mr Malone’s chesty cough carried through from the living room and Thomas quickly felt his mirth ebbing away. He really did sound terrible. As much as it was causing him anxiety to now be standing in Mr Malone’s house, Thomas was glad he’d offered to take him home. It was obvious to all - save for, apparently, the choirmaster himself - that he was undoubtedly not well enough to work today.

With the tea prepared, Thomas made his way back to the living room, careful not to spill any on Mr Malone’s hallway carpet. The choirmaster, who was stroking absently begid Ellie’s ears with one hand and wiping his nose with a tissue with the other, gave Thomas the most sincerely grateful smile he had ever seen as he took the cup from him and cradled it between his hands. Ellie looked somewhat disgruntled at his ceasing affections and wandered over to Thomas who rubbed the top of her head affectionately.

Mr Malone smiled fondly at her. “She can be a right little diva when she wants to be,” he said as Ellie started scratching insistently at the leg of Thomas’s trousers.

Thomas put his tea down on the floor and scooped Ellie up into his lap.

“She’s quite taken with you,” Mr Malone murmured as Ellie put her front paws on Thomas’s chest and pushed her face against his cheek.

Thomas smiled. “I think I might be in love with your cat.”

Mr Malone laughed heartily at that before dissolving into a few painful chesty coughs. Before Thomas could do much more than move to sit beside him, intending to pat his back, he’d regained himself and, despite the tears in his eyes, was still smiling.

“It looks like she might feel the same way,” he observed thoughtfully. “I suppose you’ll just have to visit more. If you can stand the mess, that is.”

Thomas felt his heartbeat speed up and forced himself to keep his breathing steady. Ellie settled down with her head just resting on Thomas’s knees and the rest of her body curled up on his thighs.

“You should bring her to your office. She’d be a hit,” he suggested with a smile in his voice but also with complete sincerity.

Mr Malone looked thoughtful. Or, Thomas thought he looked thoughtful. But he suddenly jerked forward and snatched a tissue from the table, pressing it over his nose and mouth with a resounding hh’iSShCHOO!

“Oh, excuse me,” he said, scrubbing at his clearly still itchy nose through the tissue. Thomas blessed him quietly.

There was a moment of quiet while Mr Malone blew his nose and aimed the crumpled tissue at the wastepaper bin in the corner - only to miss quite abysmally.

“I don’t think I was born to be a basketball player,” he said forlornly. And shivered.

“Cold?” Thomas asked. “I can grab you a blanket if you tell me where you keep them?”

Mr Malone sniffled and shook his head. “No, no. Her highness has chosen her throne.”

At this, Ellie purred contentedly. Thomas chuckled. That was the purr of a kitty who knew she was royalty. So Mr Malone got slowly to his feet and started making his way down the hall. When his shuffling footsteps stopped abruptly, Thomas couldn’t help but crane his neck around to investigate.

Mr Malone’s back was to him but even at this angle, Thomas could see the tension in his shoulders. His right hand was thrown out hastily against the wall to brace himself and his left was frantically exploring his pockets, presumably for a tissue. He didn’t find one in time, however, and Thomas watched as the choirmaster lifted his arm to his face and all but doubled over with a ferocious sneeze.

hh’HRRisshHOO!

Thomas couldn’t speak. He was too busy watching Mr Malone’s left hand return to its desperate search while his entire body geared up for another. Thomas held his breath, listening to Mr Malone’s desperate, panting breaths. Even if Ellie hadn’t been sat on his lap, Thomas didn’t think he could have moved. He felt frozen to the spot, like he was trapped in a single moment while his painfully attractive music teacher was struggling with a reluctant sneeze.

The release started in his shoulder blades, shifting down through his arms and travelling down his spine. And, finally, his head ducked forward and his hand on the wall seemed to slip just a little, like the force of it was too much for him to contain.

hhuRRiHSHHOO! hnTZZUHSHHngk!

That last sneeze ended with a distinctly wet noise which made Thomas’s heart clench in his chest and he finally managed a weak “bless you” which didn’t seem like anything close to a proportionate response given the strength of the sneezes he’d just witnessed.

Looking somewhat dazed, Mr Malone finally extracted a tissue from the pocket of his trousers and cleaned under his nose sheepishly. He turned to Thomas with a confused look in his eye.

“Excuse me,” he said, cheeks flushing pinker than before. “What was I doing?”

Thomas bit his lip. “Blanket?”

Mr Malone clicked his fingers and pointed at Thomas briefly before disappearing down the hallway, sniffling and scrubbing at his red nose. Thomas scratched behind Ellie’s ears perhaps a tad too vigorously but she didn’t seem to mind.