#beam x forth

The flu has been spreading around the engineering faculty like wildfire for the past month and after listening to Kit whine for five days straight about Ming’s sick induced clinginess pushing him to his wits end, it was only a matter of time before Forth succumbed to the stubborn ugly virus.

Beam slowly reaches out to thread his fingers into Forth’s hair, lightly scratching his scalp. A small smile spreads across his lips when he hears a muffled moan.

“How are you doing there?” he asks when Forth turns his head but doesn’t open his eyes.

“Mhh. Fine,” his boyfriend croaks, and Beam winces at the sound.

Forth, like most gruff engineers Beam has met, is prone to be quite the drama queen when it comes to the little things. Splitters, papercuts, dry lips, you name it, Forth is a big baby about it. He stubbed his toe on a chair leg walking through the canteen a few months back and anyone would have thought he’d had his entire foot amputated without anesthetic.

But when it comes to the big things, the stuff that matters or the things that hurt, Forth downplays them like he’s trying to achieve the olympic gold medal in avoidance.

“What’s the truth?”

Forth shrugs with his head still on the table pillowed on his forearms, blinking his eyes open. They’re red and sore, and they match his blotchy cheeks. “M’okay, Doc.” 

“That bad, huh?” Beam says lightly.

Forth huffs.

“It’s early,” he comments. “What are you doing here?”

“Ming called Kit. He said you looked terrible when he saw you in the hall.”

Forth tuts. “Fucking brat.”

Beam is usually inclined to agree. He’ll make an exception in this case as Forth mumbles something about ‘the next time I see that Nong.’ Forth may treat his boyfriend like he’s made of fine china, but Beam has seen Forth mid-hazer meeting. He doesn’t envy the nong who gets on the wrong side of him.

“Why didn’t you just stay in bed?”

It doesn’t usually take much to persuade Forth to play hooky. Especially when he’s horny. It’s a true testament to how awful he feels.

“Missed you,” Forth mutters. “Wanted to see you later.” His voice sounds like he’s been chewing on sandpaper for the best part of the morning.

“You could have called. I thought you’d love the idea of me playing nurse for the day?” He’s joked about it more than once. 

Right on queue, Forth mumbles something Beam doesn’t quite get but he suspects it’s something explicit from the tiny smirk that creeps into the corners of Forth’s lips.

“Even now you’re thinking with your downstairs brain?” Unbelievable. 

“My blood supply knows its priorities.” 

“You have a fever,” Beam says, moving his hand from Forth’s hair to cup his cheek to feel the heat radiating from his skin.

“You burn me up, Doc.”

Beam decides to ignore the lewd comment that would usually earn Forth a whack. Especially when his boyfriend turns his head to cough into his elbow and it sounds awful. Wheezy and wet and painful.

“How long have you had a cough?”

Forth shrugs.

“Does anything hurt?”

He breathes out slowly, like he doesn’t have enough energy to properly sigh.

“How's your head?” Beam urges. “Honestly.”

A pause.

“Pouding,” Forth answers.

“Did you take anything?”

He shakes his head fractionally. 

“We’ll stop by the pharmacy on the way home.”

Beam doesn’t realise what he’s said and how causally the phrase slipped from his mouth until Forth lifts his head and frowns wordlessly.

“Your dorm or mine?” Beam urges, trying to breeze past it.

It’s something Forth keeps bringing up, he asks at least once a week. It’s not that Beam doesn’t love him -at least, he’s getting there- but they’ve only been dating for six months. It’s far too soon for them to be moving in together, a point he keeps pushing whenever Forth comments on the matter.

“Your place,” his boyfriend answers, slowly pulling himself upright to lean into Beam’s side. “Let me borrow one of your shirts,” he says, his cheek hot on Beam’s collar. 

“Sure,” Beam nods. “How's breathing?” he asks when he notices how shallow his breaths are.

“Fucking hard, babe.”

Beam swallows.

“I know.” He pushes his hair back from his forehead, feeling Forth nestle into his neck. “Tell me if it gets bad. I’ll kill you if you’re stupid enough to get pnemonia as well as the flu.”

“Your bedside manner could use some work, Doc,” Forth complains in his croaky voice, but he’s smirking again. It’s wobbly and effortful, but as obnoxious as ever.

“Lucky you give me plenty of practise.” Between this and Forth’s many -luckily minor- knuckle scuffs, he should be an expert by the time he graduates. “Are you ready to go?”

“Five more minutes,” Forth murmurs, with tired eyes and a content look on his face.  

“What are you smiling at?” Beam asks curiously.

His boyfriend hums. 

“I like it when you worry about me,” he says.

“Tsk.” Beam rolls his eyes, but there’s no real heat behind his expression. “Get better soon, idiot.”

“Doctors orders?”

“Doctors orders.” Beam nods, brushing his fingers through Forth’s soft hair. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

Forth nods, closing his eyes and sinking onto Beam’s side.

Beam checks his watch. His next class starts in ten minutes and it's probably important but he can’t find it in himself to care at this moment in time. He’ll borrow Pha’s notes -Kit’s are always weirdly passive aggressive and impossible to follow- and catch up over the weekend while Forth sleeps it off.

With any luck, they’ve caught it just in time before it has a chance to grip its claws deep into Forth’s immune system and wipe him out for over a week like it did with Ming.

Jokes about his bedside manner aside, Beam hopes he’s learned enough to know how to properly take care of his sick boyfriend because otherwise, he really chose the wrong faculty.

“Breathe,” he reminds his boyfriend when he can feel him straining. “You’ll be okay. Just breathe.”

He’s been walking for over an hour, vaguely wandering in the direction of his apartment building with no real desire to actually go home. It’s not like there’s anything waiting for him besides musty bed sheets and his neighbours screaming cat out on the balcony.

With a sigh, Forth shoves his hands into his pockets when a flash of neon pink catches the corner of his eye from the opposite side of the street. He cranes his neck, squinting to make out the artsy sign in fluorescent fuchsia hanging above a brightly lit cafe. He imagines the warm scent of coffee under his nose if it wasn’t blocked with his own dried blood. His stomach grumbles in response regardless, reminding him he hasn’t eaten since lunch.

Curiously, Forth crosses the road and peers inside the hipster coffee shop. It takes a moment for his swollen eyes to adjust to the light.

The only person he can see through the glass front is a male barrister sat down behind the counter. Young, tanned skin, broad shoulders. He has a thick fringe of dark hair and he’s wearing a white sweater with a bright pink apron over the top that’s only marginally less offensive than the sign outside.

Caffeine is probably the worst idea Forth could have right now but he’s never been one to make smart choices so pushes open the door and heads inside towards the register. He looks up through his own messy fringe at the boy behind the counter, slowly looking up from his textbook.

“Hey, what can I get fo-”

The boy jumps to his feet with a gasp, eyes blown wide like a startled cartoon.

“Shit,” he murmurs without blinking.

“Did you forget to turn the stove off or am I just that good looking?” Forth chirps, voice gruff from disuse over the last hour or so.

“A-are you okay?”  

Forth nods, clearing his throat. “Can I get an Americano?”

“Are you sure you don’t need an ambulance?” the boy responds.

He’s about the same height as Forth. Thick eyebrows, dark eyes, golden skin. His cheeks are round and soft, there’s a faint hint of stubble on his chin and his lips are plump and rosey pink. The shade much kinder on the eye than his clashing neon apron.

“Just the coffee, thanks.”

The boy swallows. “Were you mugged? Should I call the police or something?”

Forth pulls out his wallet and waves it. “Nope. Wasn't mugged. How much for the drink?”

“200฿,” the barista replies robotically. Eyes darting over the bruises and lingering when Forth runs his other hand over his lip that’s bleeding again. “Are you...sure you’re okay?”

“Just another day at the office.”

That doesn’t help to ease the boys' nerves. He seems more than a little flustered, his cheeks are starting to match the rose of his lips. It’s cute.

“Don’t worry, I’m a professional,” Forth assures.

“You’re a professional punching bag?”

Cute, check. Funny, also check. 

“Some days, it depends how much my boss pays me.”

The boy looks stricken and Forth chuckles.

“I’m kidding,” he says. “I’d never throw a fight, it’s illegal and I’d lose my license.”

“You’re a fighter?”

“MMA,” Forth replies proudly. “Are you a fan?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. I know I’d remember seeing you in the crowd.” Typically Forth would throw in a wink for good measure but something tells him its a terrible eye given the state of his face. Maybe next time.

“Staying in or taking out?” the barista asks with a frown.

“Sorry?”

“Your coffee, in or out?”

Forth shrugs. “In, I guess. If it's not too much trouble.”

“It’ll be a few minutes until the coffee machine starts up.”

It’s not clear whether the barista is being informative or he’s just trying to put Forth off to make him leave instead.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he says in any case and hands over the appropriate money.

“You should take a seat,” the boy offers, and Forth takes the opportunity to read his wonky name tag. Beam, it reads. It suits him.

“Thanks.”

Forth turns over his shoulder, looking around the bakery and taking in the decor. The mint green walls, the white marble tables, gold chairs and accents of bright pink. It’s all so jarring it’s only adding to his headache. He truges over to the closest table, sitting down gingerly with a hand over his sore ribs.

“Any cakes or pastries?”

Forth puts his feet up on the chair opposite. “What do you reccomend?” He isn’t much of a sweet tooth but why not while he’s here. He picks up one of the pink napkins and dabs his lip, wincing.

The cute barista tuts, flicking and clicking some things on the coffee machine.

“An ice pack and a check for concussion?” he answers with not a hint of irony.

“I’d prefer something with cinnamon.”

Forth closes his hand around the used napkin and sinks back in the chair. His left over adrenalin is starting to go stale and exhaustion is tugging at his weary bones. It won’t be long before the real pain rears its ugly head. He closes his eyes against the offensive decor of the bakery and lets out a slow breath.

The clink and clunk of the cute boy moving about behind the counter is almost enough background noise to block out the buzzing starting up in his left ear. He really should get that looked at one of these days before he goes deaf completely.  

“Don’t they have medics where you work?” the barista asks behind his station.

“Sure,” Forth grunts. “But they’re sadists.” The three inch scar from the shoddy stitches he received on his forehead after one of his very first fights is proof enough.  

He doesn’t know how much time passes but he must have drifted off for a few minutes because the next thing he knows is startling at the clink of something dropping on the table. He blinks away the fog and sits up to see the barista putting his steaming mug of coffee down next to a bowl of-

“I don’t remember ordering an ice bath,” Forth quips at the boy staring down at him.

“It’s a new deal we’re offering to customers who look like they lost a round with a wrecking ball.”

“Now you’re starting to hurt my feelings.” He takes his feet down from the chair. “Seriously, you should see the other guy.”

The barista frowns. “You’re telling me you’re the winner?”

The surprise in his tone does genuinely hurt Forth’s pride. He does his best to pretend otherwise.

“I’m the undefeated champion,” he boasts with a wink.

The barista doesn’t respond. Just blinks, eyes darting to Forth’s hand which is as cracked and bruised as his face.

“I’ll get you a cloth for the ice,” he mutters eventually, disappearing back behind the counter.

Forth wraps his sore fingers around his steaming mug and blows over the top, sipping gingerly so as not to burn his tongue.

The cute guy -Beam, Forth reminds himself- comes back and picks up a handful of ice from the bowl onto the cloth he brought over.

“Ah, shit,” Forth hisses, not expecting it to be pressed onto his battered face without warning and he almost spills his coffee. “That hurts.”

Beam rolls his eyes. “Now you’re complaining it hurts?” he asks without sympathy.

“Warn a guy,” Forth whines into his mug. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“Relax, I’m a medical student.”

“You work at an all night cafe,” Forth comments after another sip, poking the inside of his mouth with his tongue as the string of bitter coffee hits his cut.

“Need to pay the tuition fees somehow.”

“Aren't you full of surprises?” Forth hums. “Cute, funny, makes decent coffee, and a doctor. I think I hit the jackpot.”

“Medical student,” the barista says slowly. “Not a doctor.”

Despite his blunt words, the ice presses more gently onto Forth’s throbbing cheek and he breaths out carefully, eye twitching from the cold seeping into his tender bruises.

His mind wanders as he sits silent and docile with his drink. He thinks about the weight inside his jacket, the thick rolls of cash hidden discreetly in his chest pocket. Tonight wasn’t the best he’s ever performed, and his wage is a reflection of that. But it's not a bad days pay for the meager hours he puts in. It’s not exactly the most honest way of earning a living but it's what he’s good at. He’s not built to be a doctor or lawyer or even a coffee boy.

He doesn’t know how long the cute barista stands over him, holding the ice to his face while he drinks from his cup. It’s odd and neither of them says anything, the only sounds coming from the grinding coffee machine.

The barista is the first to break the silence.

“How old are you?” Beam mutters.

“Twenty one. You?”

“Twenty.”

Forth suppresses a grin. “That means you’re my Nong,” he says cheerfully.

“I’m not calling you Phi.”

“Suit yourself, Nong Doc.” Forth’s breath hitches when the ice is pressed a little too firm into his cheek. “I’m Forth, by the way,” he mentions, voice a little tight.

“Beam,” comes the curt response.

“Because of your charming smile?”

The boy could cut glass with the look he gives Forth and a split second, he’s more intimidated than he was in the ring.

“I can kick you out,” the barista warns.

“Don’t they make doctors sign an oath to protect and serve all?”

“Protect and serve is the police,” Beam chirps. “Doctors swear to do no harm. And I’m not a doctor yet, like I keep saying.”

“Even so, I trust you.” It’s the most honest thing to come out of Forth’s mouth all night and it takes them both by surprise.

Their eyes meet and for a moment, Forth feels stuck, like the world hits pause. Not in a bad way. But so he can take in every golden fleck in the barista’s chocolate eyes staring back at him and count every freckle dotted over his nose. The boy isn’t just cute, he’s beautiful.

“So,” Forth clears his throat when things flood back to the present. “What’s your diagnosis, doc?” He hadn’t noticed he’d been white knuckling his coffee cup or that’s empty.

Beam purses his lips and pulls the ice away, narrowing his brow. “You’re probably lucky not to have a zygomatic fracture.”

“Cool.”

The barista looks doubtful he knows what that means. Forth doesn’t mention the fact that he gets hit in the face for a living, of course he knows what it means. And yes he knows he’s lucky to not need x-rays.

“Should I come see you in a week if the swelling doesn’t improve?”

“You’re embarrassing yourself, now.”

Forth licks his lips, the taste of copper on his tongue. His cut has opened again. 

“Is Forth your actual name or your fighter name?”

“I can’t tell you my fighter name. I’m afraid you’ll want to come and watch me. And then how would I concentrate if I had such a pretty boy standing in the crowd cheering for me?”

“Who says I'll be cheering for you?”

Forth chuckles. It’s small and chesty but it's genuine and it feels right. “Ow,” he whines. “Don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”

“Something tells me it serves you right.”

“Probably. I have a history of making bad decisions,” Forth admits. “Karma and all.”

Beam shrugs. “I don’t believe in karma.”

“So you’re a make your own luck kind of guy?”

“Isn’t luck just karma backwards?”

If Forth’s head didn’t already ache. “Are you a philosophy student too?”

“Like I have the time.”

“That’s a shame. I was going to ask you out on a date.”

Beam shakes his head and mutters something inaudible under his breath. No matter, Forth is nothing if not persistent.

“Do you want a refill? I never got you that cinnamon roll.”

Forth looks inside the cup, he’s not sure why exactly. What he expects to find there. Maybe it's like when you look inside the can after you take a dump. Everyone does it, but no one knows why.

“I better not. I’ll never sleep as it is.”

Beam shrugs and drops the melting ice into the bowl. “I gave you decaf,” he mentions as he stands and leaves the table.  

“Damn. I fucking trusted you, doc.” Forth feels a little violated.

He watches Beam slip back behind the counter. Forth had never taken into account how hot the whole hipster barista thing was before now.

“You’ll thank me later.”

Forth grins.

“Can I thank you over dinner?” See, persistent.

Beam lets a long exasperated sigh.

“Between classes, exams, and working to cover my ever increasing student debt, I’ll be free for dinner seventy years next Saturday.”

Forth shrugs, suppressing another wince. “I can wait,” he says. “I’m a pretty patient guy.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Can I at least get your number?”

Beam looks suspicious.

“You know, in case I need any follow up medical advice,” Forth explains.  

“Ice your face in intervals. Always read the recommended dose on painkillers. Seek medical attention if you throw up or you have a persistent headache.”

“I should also mention I’m forgetful, doc.”

“I’ll write it down.”

“Wouldn’t it be quicker to write down your cell?”

“Do you also not know how to take no for an answer?”

Forth smirks. “Except you haven’t said no.”

“I’m saying it now.”

“Saying what?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

Beam glares. “You’re insufferable.”

“Or adorable?”

Forth chews on the inside of his torn cheek, waiting with bated breath as the cogs of consideration tick behind the baristas eyes.

“If I give you my number, will you leave so I can actually start work?” Beam says.

Forth grins.

“Fighters honor, doc.”

Another cup of decaf later -to go this time- Forth pockets the napkin, dotted with his own blood and scribbled with black ink he hopes is Beam’s real number.

“I’ll call you.”

“Can’t wait,” Beam grumbles.