#flu fic

10:22AM

Matt

ofc we can reschedule :) but im also happy to help with promo stuff!! I took that graphic design class in highschool, remember? and I mean ive been hoping to meet ben, since hes like. your only friend lmao

Mark didn’t respond; generally, he was the type to answer immediately, the bubbles on the bottom of their chat popping up almost the second that Matt’s message was sent. Today, though, the message didn’t even get read for almost five minutes. Again, Matt’s face pinched with worry. His boyfriend was absolutely not the type to cancel a date and then abandon his phone – quite the opposite, honestly. If anything, Matt figured Mark would have responded quicker than he usually did, falling over himself with unnecessary apologies and berating himself for forgetting something like this. After seven minutes went by, Matt unlocked his phone again and stared at their chat. Mark had read his message.

Patience was not one of the virtues Matt possessed. When the bubbles didn’t pop up a minute after Mark read his text, Matt pressed the video button to FaceTime his boyfriend.

Within three seconds, the call was rejected. Matt gave his phone a look of disbelief – no shot Mark rejected his call. No way. He pressed the video button again.

Brrm, brrm. Boop. Rejected.

What the fuck.

10:37AM

Matt

???

10:37AM

Matt

did I say something wrong? why are you ignoring my calls?

The texts were read immediately. This time, Mark started typing.

10:38AM

Mark

no!! im sorry, im just out right now, im driving. lets have you meet ben another day, if thats ok baby? I just know he wants to lock in on the promo stuff and I don’t want him like ignoring you or smthn and then you both hate each other

Matt read the text over twice. Was Mark high or something?

10:38AM

Matt

ur driving? since when do you have a car?

The text stream went silent again. Beneath the pajama shirt he was wearing – Mark’s old shirt, a Duluth tee that was near threadbare and smelled like his shampoo – Matt started to sweat. What was really going on here? Mark never canceled anything with Matt, not even if he was busy. They’d run errands together, been to Restaurant Supply in the middle of a date for Elijah and Greyson. Hell, Mark hadn’t even canceled a date post an all-nighter helping Elijah do inventory after a crazy service. Now he couldn’t do a date because he was going to be helping Ben? He was driving in Manhattan? Or… was he not in the city, did Ben live in the burbs? Matt couldn’t remember any details Mark had given him about his high school buddy, the only guy Mark ever hung out with outside the other restaurant employees. Had they had some sort of… fling in high school?

Was… was Mark cheating on him?

The thought sent a pang through his chest that felt like he’d been pierced by an arrow. A lump formed in the back of his throat, and immediately tears welled in his eyes. He was moments away from calling again, when a new text from Mark popped up in their chat.

10:41AM

Mark

sorry, I meant im on the train. little out of it today lol, I guess anothee reason to reschedule?

And now he was sending texts with typos. Mark, Matt’s Type-A boyfriend (was there something beyond Type A? Type Pre-A? Type A-Plus?) was hastily sending misspelled texts and mistakenly saying he was driving when he wasn’t. Something here didn’t add up. Sighing heavily through his nose, Matt typed out a message back.

10:42AM

Matt

are you ok?

Sure, they’d only been together officially for a few months, but Matt and Mark had known one another for years. Matt figured they’d been close for long enough that he could cut through the bullshit. And this? This situation was fucking bullshit.

10:43AM

Mark

im ok baby, sorry for canceling and being confusing. everything is fine, pls don’t worry :) ill see you at work tommoro ok?

At this second typo, Matt closed their chat and stood from his bed. He pulled on the closest pair of jeans he could find, keeping the sleep shirt on and donning a hoodie over top it. He needed some air.

***

“Wow, one day off in the last ten days and you’re calling me. I’m honored, really. I didn’t realize you loved work this much. Care to come in tonight?”

Matt, twenty blocks from his house at a patio table at his favorite coffee shop, rolled his eyes so hard he was sure Greyson could hear it through the phone. “Fuck off, Chef,” he said, sipping his latte. On the other end, Greyson laughed.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” his boss asked, the bustle of the kitchen preparing for service a constant hum behind him. Matt sighed through his nose, tracing the outline of his coffee cup with a finger.

“I think Mark might be cheating on me,” he said, his voice low. Before he could even really register what he’d said, Greyson guffawed.

“Mark? Are we talking about the same Mark who can’t keep his hands off of you for three seconds to get through a service? The one who leaves those gay-ass little poems in your apron every day? That Mark?”

“I don’t think you can say ‘gay-ass’ like that, Chef. I think people frown on that now.”

“Why? I’m a gay-ass. You’re a gay-ass. Mark’s a gay-ass. The poems are gay-ass.” Greyson said, the sound of a Kitchenaid being thunked on the prep table obnoxiously loud behind him. “It’s a descriptor at that point. Not a slur.”

Matt couldn’t help but snort out a laugh. “You’re certainly an ass,” he said, prompting another laugh from his boss.

“Whatever,” Greyson said, turning on the noisy Kitchenaid and yelling into the phone. “All I’m saying is I would sooner bet on the moon being made of fucking brie before I’d bet on Mark cheating on you. What the fuck even happened?”

Leaning back in the patio chair, Matt squeezed his temples between a thumb and forefinger. “He’s being fucking bizarre, that’s all. He canceled our date for tonight, said he’s doing some random thing with his friend, and when I asked if I could just join him he started acting weird. He’s ignoring my calls, avoiding me. Texting fucking typos, if you can believe that. It’s just all…” Matt blew air out from between his closed lips, a soft pbbtt sound escaping them. “It’s just… weird. I dunno.”

For a moment, the other end of the line was silent, save for Greyson steadily chopping and Elijah coming up to ask who’s on the phone?

“Tell Elijah I said hi,” Matt said.

“Matt says hi.”

Why the fuck is Matt calling you?

“He thinks Mark is cheating on him.”

In the background, Elijah snorted out a laugh. Put him on speaker. Then, more clearly, “Matt, Mark is not cheating on you.”

“Greyson, can you not keep anything to yourself?” Matt asked, frustrated. “Seriously.”

“Sorry,” Greyson laughed. “I figured Elijah didn’t count as telling someone.” A thunk in the background, then an ow! as Elijah smacked Greyson. Matt groaned. Again, he relayed the story while Elijah listened on.

“Hmm,” Elijah hummed, thinking. “Have you gone to his house?”

Matt rolled his eyes. What a boomer, he thought, though he kept it to himself. “No, he said he isn’t home,” he said. “He was on the train or in a car or in some guy’s bed.”

Elijah huffed out another laugh. “Yeah, so you said. But I mean… Mark isn’t known for being a great liar. And while you’re right, this all sounds like a lie, I agree with Greyson. Mark would rather eat glass than cheat on, like, a spelling test. I think he’d pass away before he’d cheat on you. So I mean… maybe just like… go there? See if he’s there? Because I’d assume he’s just, like, having a freak out over something. Panicking over whether you really like him or whatever, you know how he is. I doubt he’s even left the apartment today.”

While Matt hated to admit it, that did sound like something Mark would do. He let a beat go by before he answered the two older men waiting on the other end. “Alright,” he said, standing. “Okay, yeah, maybe you’re right. I’ll… I’ll head over there.”

Greyson made a noise of approval. “Good man,” he said, his voice becoming clearer as he took Matt off of speakerphone. “And hey, he lives so close to the restaurant, if he doesn’t answer you could always pop in and run middle for me!”

At this, Matt snorted. “Yeah, Chef, sure. Thanks, asshole.”

“Welcome!” Greyson sang. “Good luck. Tell Mark we said ‘mwah, mwah.”

Matt rolled his eyes, hung up the phone. He pulled up his his uber app and typed Mark’s address in. It’ll be fine, he thought to himself, everything will be fine.

***

This is a mistake.

As Matt’s uber pulled up to Mark’s apartment building, he felt his insides twist like they were being coiled into a balloon animal. He nodded to the driver and stepped out of the car, his heart thumping wildly, and stood silently at the front door, trying to work up the nerve to push the call button for Mark’s apartment. Why had he done this? Why did he listen to his old-ass bosses?

“Just go to his house,” Matt mumbled mockingly under his breath. “The hell is wrong with me.”

Instead of pressing the call button, Matt took a picture of the call box outside of Mark’s apartment and sent it in their text stream. Surprise? He typed out under the picture, and sent that as well. In his chest, his heart hammered ever harder.

Unlike this morning, the three dots popped up in their chat immediately after Matt’s picture went through.

Mark

12:32PM

?

Mark

12:32PM

are you at my apartment?

“Fuuckk,” Matt muttered, pulling a hand down his face. Of course Mark would be pissed; who just showed up at someone else’s house, unbidden? This wasn’t the fucking eighties. Leaning on the wall of the apartment building, Matt attempted to fix what he’d done.

Matt

12:33PM

uhhh, maybe? lol.

Matt

12:33PM

you seemed a little weird this morning over text...i just wanted to make sure ur ok

Matt

12:34PM

sorry, I know that’s kinda weird. but could I come up? just to say hi?

He waited. The bubbles took a moment to pop up after he sent his last text, but – finally – pop up they did. It took a few tries, but eventually Matt heard the bzzz of the front door unlocking. On his phone, Mark replied.

Mark

12:36PM

ok. juust don’t judge the mess. hjaha

Matt clicked his phone off, the lump of worry resurfacing as he clocked more typos from his boyfriend. Maybe Mark was drunk? Elijah may have clocked it; some sort of mental health crisis day might have been underway. Maybe it’s good I came, he thought, climbing the stairs two at a time to the fifth floor. Maybe this is what he needs.

When he got to Mark’s front door, though, he hesitated. It was still weird, right? That he’d come? And when Mark asked why he’d really shown up here unannounced, what would he say? I’m a jealous little baby who wanted to make sure you weren’t fucking around on me? That didn’t sound great, honestly.

But also… he was worried. This was part of it, right? Part of loving someone. Part of being serious – you checked on each other. You reached out to each other. Matt pulled in a deep breath through his nose; he was here. Mark knew he was here. No choice but to follow through now. He knocked on the door.

It took a moment, but eventually the door clicked open to a Mark unlike Matt had ever seen him before. He was so shocked by his boyfriend’s appearance, Matt couldn’t help but mutter an “Oh,” as they made eye contact.

“C’mbon in,” Mark muttered, clearly embarrassed. “Sorry againd.”

Matt stepped inside and took in both his boyfriend and the surrounding apartment. Mark’s impossibly tall frame was stooped, his hair unwashed and greasy in his face. Around them, the apartment was certainly a mess; takeout containers and gatorade bottles littered the kitchen, the blinds were half-drawn, and on the couch there were a mess of blankets that Mark had clearly just emerged from.

Matt had never seen Mark like this; was this a mental health crisis? He took in his boyfriend’s face, the two of them not moving from the entry of the apartment. His bright blue eyes were watery, like he’d been crying, and he was deathly pale; shit. What am I supposed to do?

“Are… are you okay, baby?” Matt finally asked, a question that felt ridiculous given the state of his boyfriend. Mark attempted a smile, before his face faded into a look that Matt didn’t recognize. Oh, fuck, is he about to cry? Fix it, dumb ass, fix it!

“I’m sorry,” Matt said, “I mean, it’s fine if you’re not okay, I was just -”

“HUHTZCHH-uhh! NnGTZCH-ue!”

Mark wrenched into a crumpled tissue Matt hadn’t realized he was holding, the sneezes tearing out of him painfully. He stayed there for a moment, turned away from his boyfriend, as a flurry of congested coughs escaped him. When Mark righted himself, his cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, the tissue hidden in a fist. Ohhh.

“Bless you,” Matt said, carefully. Swallowing hard enough for his adam’s apple to bob up and down his throat, Mark nodded. “You’re sick,” Matt mused, not moving from his spot. Mark coughed out a laugh.

“What gave it away?” he managed, swaying lightly on his feet. Feeling bold, Matt took three steps across the entryway and slid an arm around his boyfriend’s waist. Their height difference was always comical – Greyson loved to make fun of them for it – but today, it felt almost dangerous. Mark was really swaying, clearly unable to stand for much longer, and Matt wasn’t sure if he’d be able to catch his boyfriend if he came toppling down. He held tight.

“Can we sit?” Matt asked, sagging under Mark’s weight. Mark nodded slowly, groggily.

“Yeah,” he said, untangling himself from Matt’s grip. “Sorry, yeah, let’s sit.”

Carefully, Matt guided Mark back to his blanket nest and sat him down as gently as possible, flopping down next to him in the process. “You mbay wahh – hh… ngh. Wandt to sit a little further awahhh – hhETSZCH-ue! Snf. ’Scuse mbe,” Mark grabbed a tissue from the box that was set on the coffee table in front of them, turned away to quietly blow his nose.

“Bless you,” Matt said again, ignoring his boyfriend’s warning. “Baby, why didn’t you just tell me you were sick?”

Mark attempted a smile, wiping the tissue beneath his nose gently. “Didn’t, uh… didn’t want to worry you,” he managed, clearing his throat. Matt scoffed.

“Babe, I hate to break it to you, but you sending cryptic-ass texts with typos galore was far more worrying than knowing that you’re sick,” he said, pushing Mark’s sweaty hair off of his face. Christ, he was burning up.

Beneath Matt’s hand, Mark visibly relaxed. “Feels good,” he muttered, eyes closed. Matt moved his hand down his boyfriend’s face, cupping his hot, dry cheek. They really needed to get that fever down.

“Have you taken anything?” Matt asked, voice low. Mark shrugged.

“Didn’t have andything,” he said, sniffling. “Onesec – hhhITSZCH-uhh! HIIITCH-uee!” Again, Mark collapsed into the near-ruined tissue, pained coughs on the tail of even more painful-sounding sneezes. Matt winced at the pinched, crunching sound.

“You sound fucking awful, babe,” he said, rubbing Mark’s back in slow circles. “We really need to get you something for that fever. How did you get so fuckin’ sick, like, overnight? You seemed fine at work yesterday.”

If it was even possible, Mark’s fever-reddened face deepened in color. “Umb,” he said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, “I, uh… I’mb pretty good at, like. Hiding it?” He pushed his palms into his sweatpants, avoiding Matt’s gaze. “I’ve felt off for, umb. I dunno. A couple days?”

Matt blanched at this admission. “A couple days? Baby, seriously, why would you hide that from me? Or Elijah or Chef? I mean, if Elijah knew you were sick I’m sure he would’ve sent you home. Did you feel this shitty yesterday?”

“Ndo. I felt okay, today is the worst so faahhh… snrf. So far – hh-! HhNTSZCHH-uhh!” This time, Mark didn’t have the wherewithal to fold into the tissue, opting instead to sneeze into his own lap and wipe his hands over the spray left there. Against his better judgment, Matt pulled a handful of tissues out of the box; a few to hand to Mark to clean himself up, and a few for Matt to wipe off his boyfriend’s pants. Mark flinched at the touch.

“Don’t,” he said, gently pushing Matt’s hands away. “You’ll get sigck.”

“Baby, I don’t care if I get sick, I think that’s what you’re not understanding. I would rather get sick a thousand times over than know you’re alone in your apartment with no medicine, sick as a dog. I’d rather get sick as fuck than know you’ve hidden feeling shitty from me for days on end. That hurts, Mark. I don’t give a fuck about getting sick, Greyson infects the rest of us like once a month, minimum.” He held his boyfriend’s face between his palms then, the heat radiating into his hands. “I really just want to be there for you. Okay?”

Mark opened his mouth to answer, but his face dissolved into a now-familiar one before he could. Before Matt could remove his hands from the other man’s face, Mark crushed his nose into his own shoulder, attempting to stifle. “Hhh-TXCH! NGTSH-uhh! HRXTSH-ue!” Another gurgling, helpless sniffle. Another grating, congested cough. Matt sighed; this conversation was going to have to wait until Mark was medicated, that much was obvious.

“Bless you, babe,” Matt said, handing the box of tissues on the coffee table to his boyfriend. “Okay, enough of this conversation. I need to go to the pharmacy and pick you up some shit. You’re fuckin’ dying.”

This snapped Mark out of his stupor; his head shot up, bloodshot eyes locking desperately with Matt’s. “Ndo, ndo babe you don’t ndeed to get mbe anything. I’mb fine, really, please don’t -”

“Mark,” Matt interrupted, a gentle hand placed on his boyfriend’s bouncing knee. “Honey. I say this with love: chill out. I’m not being put out by you or whatever. I want to get you medicine. Alright? Where’s the closest pharmacy to here?”

Defeated, Mark shrugged. Helpful, Matt thought, pulling out his phone and -

“Fuck, you live close to, like, nothing,” he muttered, scrolling through the results google pulled up. “Why is it all fancy-people areas have nothing helpful around? There’s not even, like a grocery store within a ten-block radius.”

“Butlers?” Mark offered, prompting a snort from Matt.

“How could I forget about butlers?” he asked, clicking through the apps on his phone. “Okay, either I can order a doordash that’ll be here in… fuck, two hours? This area, I swear to god… okay, not that. I can walk to this Duane Reed, and be back in like… an hour and a half?” He glanced up at Mark, whose white face and wet eyes betrayed exactly how he felt about Matt leaving for an hour and a half. Pivot, Matt thought to himself.

“Or…” Suddenly, an idea popped into Matt’s head. He sat up straighter, smiling at Mark when it did; perfect.

“Or,” he said, “I can just run next door to Elliot’s and raid the cabinet Elijah keeps there.”

At this, Mark paled even further. “Ndo,” he said, adamant. “Babe, Elijah is goigg to be so annoyed if you show up there to steal mbedicine for mbe. I’mb okay, I promise, I’ve mbade it this long without anything, just… just stay with mbe.” He held tight to Matt’s hand.

In his chest, Matt’s heart ached like a vice was gripped around it. He pressed his lips together, folding his other hand over the one Mark had taken. “Honey,” he said, carefully, “I want to stay with you—I will stay with you – but we have to get your fever down. We have to get your cough under control. And Elijah won’t give a fuck, he buys all that shit for this exact situation. It’s literally either this, or urgent care.” He shrugged in a way that he hoped conveyed this is the best idea I can come up with, please just go with it. Mark sighed, defeated.

“Okay,” he said, voice small. “But I - I really don’t wandt to be alonde. I’mb sorry for trying to keep you away.” He looked up, feverish tears threatening to fall. “But please don’t leave mbe alonde.”

Matt pushed a hand through his hair, the lump in the back of his throat reappearing. “It’s a short walk,” he said, finally. “Just… let’s get you bundled up. If you can walk, you can come with me.”

***

Any hope Matt had that they could make this a quick, quiet trip was dashed the moment they stepped in the back kitchen doors.

“Hh-!” Mark’s breath hitched audibly, his glazed-over eyes fluttering closed as he tucked into his elbow away from Matt. “Hhh-ITSZCCH-ue! Huh -! HHITSZCHH-uhh! ITSZCHH-uee!” The sneezes ripped out of him, loud enough to make Matt flinch in sympathy. Around the corner and across the kitchen, Elijah’s voice rang out as Mark attempted to recompose himself.

“Jesus fucking christ… who’s back there?”

Mark’s face colored, embarrassment further flushing his pink cheeks. “We should just go,” he whispered to Matt, voice thready and congested. Matt shook his head; they’d made it here, somehow, despite the fact that Mark was swaying on his feet and couldn’t get a word in edgewise without sneezing or coughing so hard he nearly fell over. They’d walked the two blocks over here – a five-minute stroll that had drawn itself out into a forty-five-minute diatribe – and they’d made it in the doors. Matt wasn’t leaving until Mark was medicated, whether everyone here liked it or not.

“No,” Matt said, guiding Mark slowly through the kitchen. “We made it here, we’re getting you medicine. Plus, you need to sit down. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Unable to argue with that point, Mark just huffed out a sigh that immediately turned into a coughing fit. The spasms wracked his body, tore him in half and into his elbow right in the middle of the kitchen, unwilling to let up until he was nearly gagging with the effort. Slowly, carefully, Matt rubbed small circles into the small of his boyfriend’s back while Elijah and Greyson popped their heads out of the office in concern.

“...Mark?” Elijah asked, standing from his desk chair and walking towards the younger two managers. “Good lord, what are you guys doing here?”

Finally, when Mark was able to get a hold of his lungs, Matt helped him stand to his full height and answered the question for the both of them. “Um… well, Mark isn’t cheating on me,” he said, an attempt to make light of the situation that immediately backfired when Mark’s head turned on a swivel to give his boyfriend an incredulous look.

“You… you thought I was cheatigg ond you?” he asked, voice breaking mid-sentence.

Oops, Matt thought, cringing. “I… no, baby, I was just worried because you wouldn’t call me back, I didn’t actually think you were cheating, I-”

“I would ndever cheat on you, Mbatt,” Mark interrupted, tears welling in his eyes. “Ndever. I… I cand’t believe you would thingk -”

“- I didn’t think it, baby, I was just worried, I-”

“Okay,” Elijah cut in, placing a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders. “Maybe we save this conversation for later, hmm?” He looked at Matt, then Mark, then back to Matt. “Let’s stick with the original question: what are you fucking doing here? Mark looks like he’s about to keel the fuck over, and neither of you even work today. I know we’ve instilled some bad habits in you both,” at this, he looked to Greyson, still seated in the office, who held up both of his hands in feigned innocence.

“Why am I catching strays?! I’m not even a part of this conversation!”

“Because you Pavlov’s Dogged our management team into thinking that they have to come to work when they’re sick, whether they’re on the schedule or not, apparently,” Elijah answered, turning back towards the younger men. “Anyway,” he said, “don’t you think you should be… home?”

Matt sighed, Mark still leaning heavily into him. “We were at Mark’s place, but he doesn’t have any medicine,” Matt explained. “And this stupid rich people area isn’t exactly rich in pharmacies, so we figured we’d come and use the in-home pharmacy.”

Elijah raised an eyebrow, confused.

“The office,” Matt explained, gesturing that way. “We figured it’d be easier to come here and steal some Nyquil than try and make it across town to buy some.”

“Ahh,” Elijah said. “Got it. And… you couldn’t come by yourself?” He gave Mark a once-over, taking in the chills wracking his body, his pallor and red, running nose. Mark looked down, while Matt lowered his voice to explain.

“Um… he didn’t want to stay home alone,” he muttered. “It wasn’t a long walk.”

Finally, Elijah seemed to understand. “Oh,” he said, face softening. “I see.” He turned to Mark then, grabbing him gently by the shoulder and leading him towards the office. “Let’s see if we can’t get you doped up.”

While Elijah sat Mark in his office chair and began perusing the medicine drawer, Greyson exited the office and approached his sous.

“So I was right,” Greyson bragged, slapping Matt on the back. “Per the usual.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “You knew he was sick? Since when?”

“Not about that,” Greyson said, cringing as they watched Mark dip into the elbow of his sweatshirt to sneeze again. “You’re going to be down so bad in a couple days, fuck. Take some Zicam or something, I’m not letting you stay home this weekend.”

“I’ll be fine,” Matt deadpanned. “What do you mean you were right?”

Greyson shrugged. “That he isn’t cheating on you. I mean seriously, Matt, did you really think Mark of all people would cheat? The man worships the ground you walk on.”

The lump that had made its home in Matt’s throat all day dissolved into tears that filled his eyes; he worships the ground you walk on. It wasn’t an overstatement, not really, and Matt knew it. From the moment they began seeing each other, Matt began receiving flowers almost weekly, had been taken on near-constant dates, and was always getting little messages from his boyfriend about how beautiful he was, how lucky Mark was to have him. There was almost nothing Matt could do wrong in Mark’s eyes, it seemed – Matt was a chef, quick to anger and frustration, and Mark never took the bait to fight, always stayed cool and collected. He never made Matt feel like he was lesser than, the way Matt had always felt from the time he was a kid, never flaunted the money his family clearly had, never made Matt feel weird about the fact that he barely spoke about his fucked-up upbringing. Mark was good. Mark was everything Matt knew he didn’t really deserve, but got to have anyway. He swiped under his eyes quickly, hoping Greyson wouldn’t notice the tears falling.

“Yeah,” Matt said, voice thick. “Hey… do we still have that beef stock from the wedding over the weekend?”

Greyson knit his eyebrows, glancing over at his sous. “Yeah, it’s in the freezer. Why?”

“Would you mind if I took some with me when we go?”

Before he could answer, Mark pulled both their attention back to the office. “HNTSZZCHH-uhh! Fuck, ’scuse mbe, sorry,” he muttered, pulling a few tissues out of the box on the GM’s desk.

“Bless,” Elijah said, placing the Nyquil in front of his floor manager. “Don’t take that til you get home. Greyson, can you go into dry storage and get the Lysol spray?”

“Let me amend,” Greyson said to Matt, “we’re all going to be down so bad in a couple days.” He sighed, pulling a hand down his face. “Yes, dear, I’ll go get it,” Greyson called to Elijah. Before heading to the back, he turned to face Matt. “You can have the stock,” he said. “Go. Take care of your guy.”

Matt nodded. Take care of your guy. He would certainly try.

***

“Okay,” Matt said as they walked in the front door, “go lie down.”

For the first time all day, Mark laughed in earnest. “What amb I, a dog?” he asked, the laugh quickly turning to an angry cough. In lieu of trusting his boyfriend to follow any instructions in this state, Matt guided him to the couch and gently lowered him down.

“Not a dog,” he said, pulling a blanket up over Mark’s middle and turning the TV on to the Great British Baking Show. “Just bad at being sick. Obviously. This or What Not to Wear?”

“This is good,” Mark said, eyelids already drooping. “Sit with mbe?” he asked, voice giving out on the last word. Matt bit his cheek at the raw sound of his boyfriend’s voice, then leaned down and kissed his warm – not hot, thank god the ibuprofen was starting to kick in – forehead.

“Soon,” he said, holding up the Trader Joe’s bag filled with supplies from the restaurant. “Just give me a bit to put this all away. Close your eyes, love.”

Mark nodded, nearly asleep before the words even came out of Matt’s mouth. “Love you,” he muttered, swiping mindlessly under his nose. Matt’s heart ached.

“Love you,” he said back, though Mark had already begun to snore.

In the kitchen, Matt quickly and quietly got to work. The bag from work he’d filled with medicine, and more tissues, and, at Greyson’s insistence, Lysol wipes, but he’d also filled it with everything he’d need to make beef stew; carrots, potatoes, celery, even some filet scrap that he was fairly sure Greyson wouldn’t notice was missing. Working his ass off in a kitchen had to come with some perks, he reasoned with himself.

Last out of the bag was the beef stock he’d made for a demi they’d included on the filet set from the wedding over the weekend. Matt had spent hours babying the stock, feeding it beef bones and veal bones and fortifying it with some older stock they’d been trying to use up. What had been borne of his babying was a rich, deep broth that frankly he could’ve just gone at with a spoon and a piece of bread. The demi it made was unreal.

Now, standing in Mark’s tiny kitchen, Matt uncapped the stock and set it to the side. With an expert hand, one that had spent thousands of hours doing it at this point, he peeled potatoes, chopping them into equal-sized chunks, then moved on to thinly slicing the celery and carrots, mincing the garlic. He carefully picked and chopped thyme, his hands moving quickly and with practiced ease. When he was younger – younger even than anyone knew, about fifteen – Matt had begun washing dishes, doing prep at a diner; grating potatoes for hashbrowns and par-cooking bacon and chopping so many onions that the skin under his eyes was constantly red and raw from weeping. It was hard work, but it was everything to him. It kept his mind busy, gave him a reason to step away selling pretty good weed and horrible coke. Cooking wasn’t what he wanted to do when he grew up, but in all honesty the idea that he would even grow up past his teen years had been a long shot before he got the diner job. Cooking gave him a lifeline, it changed all that. It gave him the gift of considering the future.

And when he was nineteen – again, younger than Greyson, who thought Matt was into his mid-twenties when he brought him on, realized – and he saw that a new restaurant, a buzzy, hip restaurant that just screamed James Bear Award Winner, Michelin-bait, as it were, had opened up clear on the opposite side of town from where he worked and lived in a studio with three friends, he knew he had to work there. He got the job on the spot; the first time he knew he was worth something. Cooking hadn’t been his dream, but in a lot of ways – ways different than he even knew at the time, he thought, looking over to his snoring boyfriend – it had been his destiny. And who was Matt to argue with destiny?

Matt turned the stove down, allowing the flavors to meld together, and cleaned up the small area. While the soup simmered and English people talked about soggy bottoms quietly on the TV, Matt checked his phone. One new message.

2:37PM

Chef

lij said to tell mark to stay home tomorrow, if u could let him know plss!! hope hes feeling better soon. don’t get sick, ur still comin in whether u want to or not LMAO. love ya kid. enjoy the filet scrap ;)

The tears he’d been fighting all day finally coursed silently down Matt’s cheeks. Fucking Greyson. If he weren’t such a player, the man would’ve made a great dad.

Matt took a deep breath, clicked off his phone, and turned off the soup. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, composing himself as much as he could before looking for a vessel for their meal. The bowls Mark had were cereal bowls, not soup bowls, but they would do; Matt ladled out the soup and headed to the couch, gently rubbing Mark’s shoulder to wake him.

“Mmm?” Mark startled awake, a hand pressing deep into his eye socket beneath his glasses. “Sorry, did I fall asleep?”

“Yes, but don’t apologize,” Matt said, setting the bowls down on the coffee table. “You’re sick, you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

Mark huffed out a little laugh. “I guess,” he said, sitting up slowly. “Did… you mbake mbe soup?”

Matt blushed. “I mean, I made both of us soup. Because I figured if I just made you soup, you wouldn’t eat it.”

“You kndow mbe well,” Mark managed, taking Matt’s hand. “You didn’t have to do that. I have food here.”

Matt raised an eyebrow, amused. “Protein bars aren’t food,” he laughed.

“Proteind bars aren’t good food,” Mark corrected him. “But they are technically food.”

This time, they both laughed, Mark’s ending once again in a soupy, productive cough that he muffled into his sleeve. “Sorry,” he said again, “gross.” Matt handed him the water bottle on the coffee table, rubbed his back in slow circles.

“Can you please stop apologizing for not feeling well?” he asked, earnest. “Please?”

“Ndo prombiseehh – hh – HRTZCH-ue! Huh -! Hh… hhITSZCCHH-ue!” This time, Mark folded his hands over his nose and mouth, grimacing at what Matt assumed was the mess he left behind. Matt walked over to the kitchen table where he’d left the medicine and supplies, opened a box of tissues. Handed it silently to his boyfriend.

“Sorry,” Mark said once again, after he’d cleaned himself up. “God, I’mb a fuckigg mbess.”

Matt tilted his head in a little half-nod. “Kinda,” he said, prompting another laugh from Mark. “But baby… that’s okay. You’ve seen me a fucking mess. Hell, you’ve taken care of me as a fucking mess like, twice since we’ve started seeing each other. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you sick.”

Mark scoffed. “That’s ndot true. We’ve worked together for years, you’ve definitely seen mbe sigck.”

“I mean, yeah, I’ve like, seen you with a cold at work a couple times. But even then, you like hide from everyone. Half the time no one even knows you’re sick until you’re like forced to call out. I’ve never seen you… I don’t know, ill. Like this.”

Shrugging, Mark began to pick at the blanket over his lap. “I mbean… yeah. That’s kinda by design.”

“But why?”

Mark sighed stuffily. “I just… I don’t kndow, baby. I wasn’t, like, allowed to be sick as a kid. My parents weren’t exactly… the warmbest. It’s just what I’mb used to. Sweat it out, alone. Put on a brave face.”

“Apologize for normal bodily functions.”

A laugh. “Yeah. I guess that, too.”

They sat in silence for a moment after that, letting the words sink in. Finally, Matt said, “I’m sorry for thinking you were cheating on me. I’m not used to having things work out. Or be good. Or whatever.”

Mark looked at his boyfriend. Gave a little smile. “You deserve good things,” he said. The lump reappeared, and Matt looked down while Mark placed a hand over his. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’mb sorry for… hiding. Ndot telling you. I should’ve told you.” He squeezed Matt’s hand then, and Matt squeezed back. “I’mb sorry.”

Matt looked up at his boyfriend – his miserably ill, pale, red-eyed boyfriend. His sweet, tender boy. Never had he ever felt such affection for someone. It was scary, to feel this much, to have something to lose. He knew that Mark felt that, too.

“It’s okay,” Matt said, pulling Mark in for a hug. Against what Matt knew was his boyfriend’s better judgment, he hugged back, held Matt tight until he was once again forced to pull away to -

“HRTSZCHH-uee!” Unable to get to his elbow, Mark sneezed into the space between the two men, their laps misting with spray. “God, you’re gonna get so fuckigg sick,” Mark muttered, swiping under his nose and looking up at Matt with those big, apologetic eyes. “Like so fuckigg disgustingly sick.”

Matt shrugged, leaning in to kiss Mark’s hot, wet lips. “Oh, well,” he said, a hand placed on his boyfriend’s cheek. “At least I’ll have someone to ride it out with.”

The early morning dawn had barely broken, and the fifth hour was steadfastly approaching when the gentle whisper of rain against the glass panes grew more assertive, evolving into a persistent downpour. The distant grumbles of a thunderstorm were a clear indication of its inexorable advance. Liz, feeling utterly wretched and forlorn, summoned the last vestiges of her energy to extricate herself from the welcoming embrace of their exquisite four-poster bed, adorned with luxuriously soft velvet sheets that had offered her a fitful cocoon throughout the night. Her nasal passages were a battleground, with the merciless cold laying siege to her senses, while the faint yet unmistakable scent of the neighbor's rose garden wove a delicate path through the air, taunting her with its presence amidst the chaos of her discomfort. Her eyes, a deep shade of amethyst, searched the room with an urgency driven by the unbearable itch in her nose, seeking out the culprit that had invaded the sacred space of their boudoir.

"Hh'RSCHH! Hdd'RSCHH-iew! Hdd'GSZCHHH! Hahhh'RRDZCHH'iuuu!" The sneezes erupted from her with the force of a volcanic eruption, a cacophony of sound that resonated painfully through the congested caverns of her head and the raw tapestry of her throat. "Oh, for the love of…" she murmured with exasperation, her once vibrant voice now a mere echo of its former self.

It was at this precise moment that the sweet, melodious voice of Katya wafted into the room from the adjacent hallway, a stark contrast to the tumultuous symphony of the storm outside. "Dobroye utro, kotenok," she greeted, her words a warm embrace of affection, using the tender Russian term for 'kitten'. Liz's head shot up with a start at the sound, her eyes widening slightly as the sudden movement intensified the misery of her current predicament. "I have prepared a bowl of steaming borscht for you," Katya announced, her voice a beacon of comfort in the tempest of Liz's suffering.

With a sniffle and a grumble, Liz hastily reached for a tissue, her hand moving with the desperation of one trying to stifle the inevitable explosion of a sneeze. "Oh, bloody hell… I can't be late," she croaked, her Yorkshire-accented voice a mere shadow of its usual vitality. The council meeting loomed before her, an event of paramount significance; her attendance was not merely a preference but a requirement. As the mayor, she knew that the future of the burgeoning Brentwood district hung in the balance.

Her protests were met with a knowing look from Katya, whose eyes revealed the depth of her concern. "Liz," she said firmly but gently, "you are burning up. There is absolutely no way you can attend that meeting in your current condition."

Liz's gaze grew steely with resolve. "You can't be serious, Kat," she rasped, her voice thick with the unshed tears of mucus. "It's vital that I'm there. The council needs my input on the development plans for Brentwood."

Katya's eyes searched Liz's, a silent testament to the love and understanding that had grown between them. With a touch of maternal insistence, she said, "Your health is more critical. You're not going anywhere in this state, especially not out in the rain."

For a brief, tense moment, the only sound that pierced the silence was the rhythmic patter of rain, a poignant reminder of the world continuing outside the confines of their sanctuary. Then, with a begrudging sigh that seemed to carry the weight of Liz's shattered resolve, she finally relented. "Fine," she conceded, her voice nasal and defeated. "But we're going to the urgent care afterward."

Katya nodded, her eyes never leaving Liz's feverish gaze. "First, we focus on making you more comfortable," she assured, her voice a balm to Liz's weary soul. "Let's get some tea and honey for your throat, and then we'll decide on our next steps."

The sneezes continued to plague Liz, coming in rapid succession as if they were on a mission to leave her breathless. "HURASHHOO! RREDZCHHH'Hiiuu! HRRDZCHHH'Hiiuu! HRRRDZCHHH'HUUU!" Each one seemed to take a piece of her with it, leaving her chest heaving and her eyes watering.

"Dorogaya…" Katya began, her expression a tapestry of care and worry. "You must learn to prioritize your health."

Liz, already on the defensive, retorted with a snarl, "Yeah, yeah, rub it in." Another sneeze took hold, this one even more violent than the last. "RRRSZCHHH-ihh! RRDZCHHH-ooh! RZCHHH-iiuu! RZCHHH-oo! Heh-heh-heh-RRRADZCHHH'HOO! Ahhh-HEREDZCHHHHiuh! aAAAEDZCHHH'ioo!" The sneezes sounded relentless in their wake. After the sneezing fit, Liz let out a few congested and crackling coughs.

Katya's eyes searched Liz's sneeze-stricken face before she took action. A warm mint tea appeared in her left hand, while a purple face mask was swiftly secured over her features. "The urgent care won't be open for another three hours," she informed her partner, her voice a mix of practicality and concern. "We should go to the emergency room."

Liz's eyes grew wide, and she let out a gruff laugh. "You want me to go to the ER, where that old man was puking everywhere? No, thank you," she protested, her words punctuated by a series of wet, resounding sneezes. "Ugh-heh-HEHHH! HRRADZCHHH'IUH! ERRDZCHHH'HUH! HASSSHHH'huuh!" The sound of her nose was akin to a rubber chicken being squeezed underwater, a disturbing yet comical addition to the cacophony of her symptoms.

"Gesundheit," Katya offered with a smile, though it was hidden behind the mask. "Once you've had a shower and gotten dressed, we'll make our way to the ER."

Their eyes locked, and for a brief moment, the world outside was forgotten. Then, with a resigned nod, Liz conceded. "Fuck it, we'll go. But if there's anyone puking next to me, we fuckin' bolt, yeah?"

Katya couldn't suppress a soft chuckle at the sight of Liz's unyielding stubbornness, even amidst her illness. "Elizavete," she said in a tone that was both gentle and firm, "When someone is unwell, particularly when vomiting, we maintain a safe distance from them. You will be in quarantine, even if I need to escort you there personally."

"Whate--heh'RDZCHHHiuh! RRDZCHHH'ih! RASSHHHih!" Liz's sneezes interrupted her words, and she quickly brought her handkerchief to her nose to catch the next one. "Shit… Are you going to talk to Auguste?"

"Naturally, my dear," Katya replied reassuringly. Her eyes were filled with warmth that seemed to penetrate the fog of Liz's misery as she approached the bedside. Liz's skin was flushed with fever, a poignant canvas of the suffering she endured. With the care of a loving mother, Katya placed the cup of tea, infused with the calming scent of mint, into Liz's shaking hands. "Drink," she urged, her gaze unwavering. "It will soothe your throat and offer relief to your sinuses."

The minty aroma wafted towards Liz, offering a brief reprieve from the merciless onslaught of her cold. With a nod of appreciation, she took a tentative sip of the tea. The warmth spread through her, coating her throat in a soothing embrace. "Thank you," she murmured, her eyes fluttering shut momentarily. The honey and mint melded together in a harmonious blend that seemed to whisper sweet nothings to the storm raging inside her.

The sudden sound of her phone ringing with a classical melody pierced the air. Auguste Kudlac. Finally, she thought, she could relay the message to Auguste herself, but before she could move, Katya had already answered it. "Ah, Auguste," she spoke smoothly, as if she were a seasoned diplomat. "I do apologize, but Liz and I are heading to the emergency room this morning."

Auguste's French accent, polished and elegant, filled the room. "Mon dieu, is our dear Mayor all right?"

Liz, propped up on one elbow and coughing into her handkerchief, managed to get out, "It's just a bloody cold." The effort left her chest rattling like an old engine struggling to come to life. "Katya, tell him it's just a cold…"

Katya, ever the composed intellectual, placed the call on speakerphone. "Auguste, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but Liz is quite the stubborn one. We're on our way to the ER to get her checked out, despite her insisting it's a cold."

Auguste's voice, filled with genuine concern, replied, "Ah, les températures, they can be so fickle, non? Tell her to take care, and I will manage everything here. The council can wait." He was already organizing documents for Brentwood's new district with the diligence of a young vampire eager to prove himself. "But do let her know that we've had a few absences due to illness today."

With a touch of exasperation, Liz's voice, now a mere whisper, interjected, "It's just a fucking cold, I'll be fine." Her protests were met with a series of coarse, phlegmy coughs.

Auguste's tone grew more insistent. "I can hear you, Liz. Go to the ER, get it checked out. The office will be sanitized, and Governor Lisbon will understand."

Katya nodded solemnly. "We will keep you updated," she assured him before ending the call.

The warmth from the tea and the shower's heat was but a fleeting comfort against the cold's relentless siege. Each movement felt like wading through thick molasses, and every breath was a battle. Liz stepped out of the shower, her nose red and her eyes watery. "HAEDZCHH'IUH! HHRRSSSCHHH'IUH! HAEDZCHH'IUH! HAEDZCHH'IUH!" The woman sneezed loudly into her hands, a generous pool of yellow coating her hand.

Katya suggested they get dressed and head to the hospital. Liz donned a soft Moschino buttoned shirt adorned with geese and green cargo pants. The house was eerily silent, save for the occasional groan of old wood and the persistent patter of rain outside.

It was now 6:30 AM, and Katya led Liz to her red Cadillac. The spring air made Liz sneeze five times on the way. "Goodness, Elizavete, you sound horrible."

Liz couldn't argue. "HRRRSSCHHH'IUH! RRSSCHH'IUH! HRRRSSCHHH'IUH! HRRSSCHHH'IUH!" Her voice was nasal and desperate, each sneeze a declaration of war against the merciless cold. "Fuck everything." She groaned, the weight of the cold weighing heavily on her. As the ignition started, Katya asked her wife, "Do you want something to eat before we head to the ER?"

She shook her head, feeling the strain of her throat. "No. It's hurting too much to breathe." With the speed of a gazelle, Katya drove to Kindred Hospital. When they got out of the car, Liz almost wobbled over.

"Hold on, love." Katya wrapped her arm around her waist, offering her support.

The rain had turned to a drizzle, but it was enough to make Liz's nose tingle. "HRRSSCHHH-ooh! HRRSDZCHH'uhh!" she sneezed into the fabric of Katya's pink shirt, leaving a wet spot by her breasts. "Shit, sorry."

"It's okay, Liz." Katya patted her back, her hand warm and reassuring. "Let's get you inside, out of the rain." They went inside the emergency department, where a green-haired man was checking in patients. The name tag said "Cyrus Hoffman", and he looked like someone that came straight out of a pride festival.

"Hello, ladies! What can I do for ya?" Cyrus's chipper mood felt like nails on a chalkboard for Liz.

"I think I…" Liz tried to state what was wrong, only for her to pitch forward with four spraying sneezes. "HRRR-EDZCHHH'iooo! ARRGSZCHOO! AREDZCHHHiuh! Hahh-hahh-HEHH'EDZCHHH'uhh!"

"Wow! Goodness! Bless you!" Cyrus flinched adjusting his face mask. "I think… that's the problem. What's her name and date of birth?"

"Flu symptoms. She had a fever of 103 this morning." Katya rubbed the much taller woman's back. "Ah, and Elizavete Vintere, 11/05/1981." At that point, Liz gave Katya a knowing glare.

"Ah, I see…" Cyrus accessed the EMR system with his badge. "What's your relationship to the patient?"

"She's my wife." The words hung in the air, a declaration that seemed to echo through the bustling emergency room.

Cyrus's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he composed himself, his smile never wavering. "Ah, I see. I'll get her registered right away." His fingers danced across the keyboard, typing with the grace of a pianist playing a sonnet. "Also, has Mrs. Vintere been out of the country or in the Badlands within the last thirty days?"

"No, no traveling." She explained.

"All righty, ladies. Mrs. Vintere, hold out your right hand for me." Cyrus printed out a bracelet. "Does the name and date of birth match?"

"Yeah…" Liz whimpered to the unwavering fever. Liz's nostrils flared to twice their magnificent size, and she turned to the side to sneeze. "Huhh! HIISHHHoo! HRRSCHHHoo! HASHHHoo! Hih-hih-KNGGT'schh-iuhh!"

"B-Bless you." Cyrus managed to get the bracelet on Liz's right wrist. "Do you need a wheelchair, or can you--,"

"I can walk." With a firm nod, Liz leaned heavily on Katya, her legs wobbly as they made their way through the emergency room's sliding doors. The antiseptic smell of the hospital was a stark contrast to the cozy scent of home, and it made her stomach churn. She felt a shiver run down her spine, a precursor to another sneeze. Her nostrils flared again, the sensation becoming as old as time. "HRSSCHHH'oo! HERSSCHH'iioo! HAASDZCHHHioo!" Her eyes watered as she sniffled, and a drop of yellow snot clung to the tip of her nose like a tiny icicle.

"You're burning up…" Katya's voice, a gentle whisper amidst the storm outside, cut through the fog of Liz's feverish haze. "I can tell by the way you're breathing."

A blonde-haired, blue-eyed nurse approached them, her name tag reading "Sabrina." "What brings you in today?" She inquired, her eyes flicking to the thermometer that read 103.2.

Katya spoke up, explaining Liz's symptoms with the calmness of a seasoned doctor herself. "My wife woke up with a high fever, has a sore throat, and she's feeling very tired. She's also been coughing and sneezing uncontrollably."

Liz nodded, adding, "And my stomach feels like it's been run over by a truck." She coughed, "And my ears feel like they're all filled… with gelatin."

The nurse looked sympathetic. "We're going to test for the Big 4: COVID, Influenza, Strep, and RSV. Is that okay?"

Liz nodded again, her head pounding like a drum in a samba band. She felt the tickle in her nose that foretold another sneeze. The nurse took her temperature again, and the cold metal of the thermometer sent a shiver down her spine. She felt a tickle in her already inflamed sinuses.

Don't sneeze, don't sneeze, don't sneeze--

"Huh-huh-HURRSSCHHH'IUH!" She sneezed, the force of it spraying droplets onto the nurse's shoulder. "M' sorry," she murmured, her voice nasal and weak.

The nurse wiped off her shoulder and led them to an examination room, her eyes never leaving Liz's. "Let's get you into a room," she said, her voice a gentle melody in the cacophony of the emergency department.

Once in Room 5, the medical assistant named Mako began the barrage of tests. She was as professional and empathetic as they came, her movements as graceful as a ballet dancer's as she donned a new pair of gloves. "Looks like you're going to need all the tests today," she said with a frown. "Let's start with the COVID test, okay?"

Liz nodded, her eyes watering as the cold swab touched her nose. "HRRSSCHHH'IUH! HAEDZCHHH'IUH! HAEDZCHHH'IUH!" She sneezed again, her body jolted by the involuntary spasm.

Mako took a step back, her eyes wide at the mucus that had erupted from Liz's nose. With a sigh, she grabbed a fresh swab. "Alright, this one is for Influenza A and B. I'm sorry, but we have to go a bit deeper."

The tickle grew stronger, like a wildfire in her sinuses. "HrrAERSZCHHoo! HUHHGDZCHHHooh! HRRGSZCHHooh!" Liz sneezed thrice more, her eyes watering profusely.

Mako took a moment to assess the situation before moving on to the next test, her demeanor a blend of understanding and professionalism. "Let's get you cleaned up before we proceed."

The strep test was next, the cold swab against the back of her throat sending a shiver down her spine. "We're going to check for strep now," Mako informed her with a kind smile.

Liz nodded, her body a symphony of discomfort as she held back another sneeze. "It's fiiIIH--Fine," she croaked, the effort of speaking through her fever and sore throat immense.

The room was a cocoon of white walls and the faint scent of antiseptic, the rain outside a gentle serenade that seemed to mock Liz's plight. Despite her misery, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of gratitude for the care she was receiving from Katya and the hospital staff.

The medical assistant, Mako, swabbed the back of Liz's throat with precision, and the coldness of the swab brought forth a shiver. "It's okay, I'm here for you," she murmured, her voice a soothing balm in the sterile environment.

As the tests continued, Liz felt a mix of anxiety and relief. Each sneeze, each cough, brought with it the hope that the storm within her would soon pass. "Huh-huh-HURRSSCHHH'IUH!" Another explosive sneeze, but she managed to keep it contained, her eyes watering as she looked up at Mako. "Sorry," she murmured, her voice nasal and apologetic.

The nurse offered a wry smile and a fresh tissue. "Don't worry, dear," she said, her voice a gentle caress. "It's all part of the job."

The wait was interminable, each tick of the clock echoing in Liz's feverish brain like a drumbeat. Finally, a female doctor entered the room, her eyes scanning the test results with the focus of a hawk. Her nametag read "Rui Haruhata, MD". She spoke calmly, her voice a beacon in the sea of Liz's discomfort.

"Good morning, ladies, how are you doing?" Rui's voice was a merciful symphony of need.

"Fuckin' horrible." Liz conceded.

"I wish things could be better..." Katya agreed.

"I understand completely. Sorry that you're not feeling well." Dr. Haruhata nodded, looking concerned. "Unfortunately, you tested positive for Influenza-A, Mrs. Vintere," she said, her gaze meeting Liz's. "We're going to get you some medication to help with the symptoms, and make sure you're comfortable."

"Thank fuhh... HGgg-ERDZCHH'iuuh!" The sneeze sounded unceremonious and more like a growling monster.

"Bless you." Dr. Haruhata smiled, "We'll get you some steroids for the coughing, Tamiflu for the flu, and an albuterol inhaler." The woman paused, looking at Liz blowing her already filled nose. "In the meantime, no work for a week, and drink lots of fluids." The words were like a cool breeze on a hot summer's day, a promise of relief. Liz nodded, too exhausted to speak.

Katya took her hand, squeezing it gently. "We'll get through this, my love," she whispered, her voice the sweetest sound in the world to Liz's feverish ears.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay tonight?” Elijah asked, tapping his fingers nervously on the butcher block on the prep station. “I mean, there’s no Matt.”

No Matt or Mark, Elijah thought to himself, grim and foreboding. The two junior managers were celebrating their one-year anniversary this week, and as a surprise for the two of them, Greyson and Elijah had agreed to work double time for two days and close the restaurant for the other two to give Matt and Mark a full four-day-weekend together. Of course, as soon as Matt and Mark had waved their bosses goodbye from Elijah’s car – letting them borrow it to drive to the Jersey shore was the other half of the younger men’s gift – Greyson started coming down with whatever this shit was. Yesterday had been annoying, but fine; Greyson sneezed his way through his prep, hoarsely expoed throughout service, and promised he’d be fine for the next night. Now, though?

A sudden “HNGTSCHH-ue!” escaped Greyson’s lips before he could answer, a sneeze so harsh it made Elijah take two steps back.

“Dude,” he said, wincing while Greyson grabbed more tissues to clean himself up. As he watched Greyson blow his nose, he couldn’t help but press two fingers to the base of his own throat. The tiny pang he’d felt when he woke up this morning had not gone away with water, as he’d hoped, but had blossomed into a full sore throat. It burned brighter the longer Elijah watched Greyson cough, as though upon seeing how ill the chef was, his body had been given permission to start its own downward spiral. Finally, Greyson tossed the tissues, cleared his throat as well as he could.

“I’ll be finde,” Greyson growled. “Let’s just get through this fuckigg ndi- HRRTSHH-uhh!”

***

There was absolutely no way in hell Greyson was going to make it back to Brooklyn tonight.

The shift had gone about as well as Elijah expected; Greyson lost his voice halfway through the night, couldn’t stop sneezing long enough to garnish the plates, and eventually had to retire to the office to put his head between his knees to quell the dizzy spell he’d coughed himself into. Eventually, Elijah put Riley, his head server, in charge of watching the floor and went to the kitchen to expo while Greyson snored on the floor of the office.

Meanwhile, Elijah spent the evening well-and-truly coming down with Greyson’s disgusting illness. His head ached, his throat felt sticky and painful, and possibly most annoying, his breath kept hitching around a sneeze that – “Hh-! Hhh… hnnghh” – never quite came.

It had been, to put it mildly, a true fucking nightmare.

Now, at nearly one in the morning, Greyson was burning up with fever and high on cough medicine, glassy-eyed and chatty, spinning the office chair round and round like a kid. Beside him, Elijah was rapidly deteriorating.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lij, of course I’mb goigg hombe,” Greyson rasped, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “I’mb fine, it’s a cold, it’s ndot a big deal.”

“Greyson,” Elijah said, rubbing an eye with the heel of his hand, “you are not fine. Did you somehow forget the last seven hours?” He grabbed Greyson’s chair then, stopping it in its tracks. “And stop fucking spinning you’re going to pahh – hh… pass… huh… passoutNGTSZH-oo! Huh-! HGTZCH-ue! Fuck, finally,” Elijah sighed into the sleeve of his shirt. From over his glasses, Elijah could see Greyson fold his arms.

“Bless you,” he said, accusatory. “You feeling okay?” Elijah rolled his eyes, painfully.

“Yes, Mama Greyson,” he said, sucking in through his nose and sitting up. “How do you plan on getting home, anyway? Isn’t an uber out there like a million dollars on a Saturday night?”

Greyson raised a confused eyebrow. “I’mb… what am I, Warren Buffett? Ndo I’mb ndot ubering, Elijah, I’mb taking the train.” Again, despite the worrying amount of cough syrup he’d ingested, Greyson dissolved into a painful-sounding coughing fit. Elijah bit his cheek to keep from snapping.

“Grey,” he said, massaging his throat. “You’re not taking the train an hour home when you have a fucking fever. Just – fuck – GTSCHH-uhh! NGTSZCH-ue! Snrf.” Elijah snatched a tissue from the box Greyson thunked next to him, wiping his nose before finishing. “Just stay with mbe,” he said, congestion finally seeping into his voice. At this, Greyson visibly perked up.

“Stay… you mbean stay at your apartment?” he asked. “Like sleep at your apartment?”

The look on Elijah’s face betrayed his every feeling. “I – yes, you fucking freak, like sleep at my apartment, why are you being weird?”

“You ndever let anyone stay over at your apartment,” Greyson said, pushing out of his chair and putting his winter coat over what was definitely Elijah’s sweatshirt. “Like, it’s a whole thigg Matt and Mark and I joke about, that ndo one is allowed at your place past seven p.m because you have sombe sort of weird bedtime ritual ndo one can see. Mby theory was you’re one of those people who sleeps in those who-goes-there-ass old-timey pajamas. The ones with a hat.”

Elijah blinked. “People stay at my apartment,” he said. Throwing the GM’s coat into his lap, Greyson scoffed.

“Yeah?” Greyson asked as Elijah slowly pushed up from his chair. “Whend?”

“I mean, it’s been awhile,” Elijah mused. Now that he thought about it – when was the last time he had someone stay at his place? Greyson had never asked or needed to stay with him; if he was gallivanting through the city after work, he was staying with whoever took him to bed. Mark lived practically next door to the restaurant, so he and Matt had never asked to stay even if all of them were out drinking. And the last time he’d had a date come to the house… well, if he was being honest, he couldn’t remember ever having a date stay the night at his apartment.

“That’s what I thought,” Greyson said, grabbing onto the back of Elijah’s chair to keep from falling over. “Oh – jesus, shit, hold on.” The chef closed his eyes, took as deep of a breath as his spasming lungs could handle. Slowly, he let the breath out, unfurled his fingers from the chair, and opened one eye. “Okay,” Greyson said, “mbaybe the train would be out of the question.”

Elijah bleated out a laugh. “You think?” he said, clapping Greyson on the shoulder. “C’mon, patient zero. Let’s get you to bed.”

***

As the winter night sky parted and made way for the blue-black light of morning, Elijah let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for hours. Okay, he said to himself, time to get him to fucking urgent care.

Despite his goofing-off, his quipping, his inability to be serious for five fucking seconds, the moment Greyson’s body collapsed into Elijah’s bed, he crashed harder than Elijah had ever seen anyone crash. The shivers he’d had at the restaurant turned to shaking that rattled the headboard against the wall so loudly, Elijah assumed his neighbors would come and bang on the door. His teeth chattered in his head hard enough to crack the enamel, and his eyes, in the brief moments they were open, were bloodshot to hell. Greyson’s fever – however high it was, Elijah could only guess since he wasn’t exactly the type of guy who kept a thermometer lying around – just would not budge.

Elijah tried everything he knew to help get his friend’s fever down. At first, he tried to get Greyson to feel comfortable, to feel warm – piling blankets on top of him, forcing wool socks and a coat on him in bed, the whole nine. When that didn’t seem to do anything except make his skin burn hotter, Elijah tried moving on to old reliable: medicine.

The issue here was Greyson was barely conscious, and even getting water into him was proving difficult. “Greyson,” Elijah whispered after an hour of trying and failing to get the other man to swallow some ibuprofen. “Please, man, just take it, I promise you’ll feel better.”

Greyson’s eyes flitted open for a few moments, and Elijah pressed the pills into his hand. “Please,” he repeated. The chef attempted a nod, put the pills in his mouth, and immediately coughed them onto the bed; he shook his head, grabbing at his throat as the coughing continued. Unfortunately, Elijah related deeply to what his friend was implying: his throat was too swollen to swallow pills. Elijah swallowed around the knives in his own throat. Nodded.

“Okay,” he said, handing Greyson a cup filled with water instead. “Okay, fair enough.” God, why didn’t he keep any fucking Nyquil on hand?

After that episode, Elijah came to his senses and pulled out his phone to google how to get a fever down. One of the websites – one that looked to be for mothers of small children, but whatever, he’d try anything at this point – mentioned a lukewarm or cool bath, which didn’t sound like a terrible idea, but ultimately Greyson was seemingly unable to move and with the five inches and thirty pounds he had on Elijah, no shot was he getting carried to the bath.

Ultimately, Elijah ended up pressing a cool washcloth to Greyson’s forehead from three a.m. onward, the night spreading endlessly around him. The sleepless, worrying hours of trying to care for Greyson were only made worse by the fact that Elijah felt like absolute fucking dog shit; his lungs constricted with angry, bubbling coughs every few moments, and breathing out his nose was, as of about five in the morning, an absolute no-go. Worse still, as Greyson sweat through his sheets, Elijah could feel the stifling heat of his own fever spreading itself behind his eyes. Whatever it was that Greyson had managed to pick up, it certainly didn’t fuck around.

At seven a.m., when the alarm Elijah had set on his phone notified him that the closest urgent care would be open in thirty minutes, Greyson, who’d finally settled into a true sleep about an hour before, gasped himself awake.

“’S timbe for work?” he slurred, attempting to sit up. Elijah coughed out a hoarse laugh.

“Ndot exactly, bud,” he said, clearing his throat. “C’mond, let mbe help you uhh – uh… up-NGTSZCHH-ue!” Elijah wrenched to the side to avoid sneezing directly in Greyson’s face as he pulled the chef to a sitting position. Greyson pressed his eyebrows together, reached out to place a hand on Elijah’s forehead.

“You have a fever,” he mused, as Elijah pulled a few tissues from the near-depleted box on the end table. “I thought you said you weren’t sick?”

“I lied,” Elijah said plainly, shoving the tissues into the pocket of his hoodie. “Let’s go, up and at ’em, we’re getting you to urgent care.”

“Wh -? Urgent care, what do you mbean? I’mb fine.” Greyson said as Elijah slowly helped him to his feet. Elijah laughed again, this time doubling over into his elbow to cough.

“Please don’t mbake mbe laugh,” Elijah said, helping Greyson into one of the winter coats he had hanging in his closet – Greyson’s coat had been sweat through multiple times over, and Elijah wasn’t about to brave the doctor’s office with the smell of fever sweat coating the two of them. It seemed, frankly, a little too on the nose.

“Ndot trying to be funny,” Greyson mumbled as he shakily put on the coat. “’S just a cold, Lij.” As he said it, Elijah could see his eyes starting to roll back in his head, felt his fever-warm body go limp – fuck.

“Grey!” Elijah yelled, jerking the chef back to a standing position. Greyson came back to quickly, collapsing into a barking fit of coughing that wouldn’t subside until Elijah sat him back on the bed. This is going to be harder than I thought. “Are you okay?” Elijah asked, Greyson’s arm still gripped in his hand. Shakily, Greyson nodded; clearly the near-fall was enough to scare him.

“Fuck,” Greyson moaned, pulling a hand down his face. “I haven’t felt this shitty in…. I don’t even kndow how long. Hh-! HRRSHHT! Fuckigg ow.” Greyson pressed the heel of his hand into his eye, his headache palpable even to Elijah. The GM sighed, rubbed his friend’s back.

“That’s why we’re goigg to urgent care,” he said. “This is clearly beyond mby scope of ability. I almbost took you to the ER last ndight.”

Greyson looked at Elijah as if he were completely deranged. “I appreciate you ndot bankrupting mbe over a fuckigg fever,” he said, some levity breathed back into the room. Elijah croaked out a chuckle. “But… I mbean yeah, okay, I guess it couldn’t hurt to go.”

At this, Elijah pat Greyson once on the back. “Good mban,” he said, once again helping the chef to his feet. Greyson squeezed his eyes shut as he stood, an attempt to not lose consciousness again.

“Ndot sure I’mb gonna mbake it down the elevator, you mbay have to carry mbe to the car,” he joked, an attempt to keep Elijah calm. At the word car, Elijah’s heart sunk.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, pressing a palm to his face. “The boys have the fuckigg car.” Greyson pressed his lips together, remembering. Matt and Mark were hundreds of miles away at the Jersey shore. With Elijah’s only mode of transportation. With Greyson sick as a fucking dog, and Elijah well on his way to being down just a bad. The fucking boys have the fucking car.

“Where’s the clinic,” Greyson said, his voice thin. Elijah looked down at his phone.

“Three miles away,” he said. “It’s… oh, fuck mbe I forgot about the fuckigg mbarathon this weekend.” He pressed a few buttons on his phone, shaking his head in disbelief. “Ubers are like a hundred and fifty bucks,” he murmured. Greyson groaned.

“Don’t tell mbe we have to take the fuckigg subway,” he said, eyes still closed. Elijah bit his cheek; their options were more than limited. Without a car, and with the possibility of an uber even picking the two of them up looking the way they did near-zero, their choices were basically train… or walk. A glance in Greyson’s direction proved that walking was simply not an option.

“Let’s try to get sombe ibuprofen in you,” he said, guiding Greyson towards the kitchen. “It’s gonnda be a long train ride.”

***

The fact that they made it to this god-forsaken clinic was nothing short of a complete fucking miracle.

Getting to the train was bad enough; after pumping Greyson with enough ibuprofen to kill an elephant, topped off with four shots of espresso to keep him awake enough to get to the subway, the two of them set out on their jaunt. Still, it took nearly thirty minutes for the two of them to walk three blocks to the subway station.

“Greyson,” Elijah said for what felt like the thousandth time, “we gotta pick up the pace, kid, you’re killigg mbe here.”

“I – HGTSCHHH-uhh! Snrk. I’mb goigg as fast as I possibly cand,” Greyson mumbled, wiping his running nose on the coat Elijah had lent him. If this nursing-home shuffle was as fast as he could go, Elijah mused, they’d be lucky to get there next fucking year. Pursing his lips, Elijah looped his arm through Greyson’s and started dragging. “Stop pulling,” Greyson said, placing a hand on his own forehead. “’M gonnda pass out if we go any faster.”

“Then pass out,” Elijah said, continuing to pull. “It’d take the same ambount of timbe for me to drag your lifeless corpse through the street. We ndeed to get theehh – holdon-NGTZCHH-ue! Hh-! Hhh…” Elijah held an elbow up to his face, trying to use the very few exposed rays of sunlight to coax out the second sneeze. It was in vain; Elijah let out a shaky breath, annoyed.

Beside him, Greyson regarded Elijah with bloodshot, half-lidded eyes. “Bless you,” he said, sniffling. Elijah returned his watery gaze with a venomous scowl.

“I should, like, sue you for givigg mbe this,” he said, arm still locked in his friend’s. “This is a fucked-up illndess to give to someone.”

Elijah couldn’t tell if Greyson was nodding, or if he momentarily lost consciousness, causing his head to bob. Either way, when he lifted his gaze to look Elijah in the eyes again, he was finally smiling. “Yeah,” he said, coughing away from his friend. “Yeah, I mbean, when you’re right, you’re right.”

By the time they reached the train, Elijah was completely spent. Greyson had been so dizzy for the last half of the walk that he’d pulled the hood of his coat over his eyes and pressed his face into Elijah’s shoulder while they trudged forward, adding what felt like a billion pounds to Elijah’s already-weighed-down-by-fever body. They had made it, though, down the stairs and into the train and – blessedly – into two seats that faced the outside. Finally, when the tinny voice canned in from above asked them to stand clear of the closing doors, please, Elijah dropped his head between his legs and let out a brutal fit of coughs.

“Y’okay?” Greyson asked from behind the hood with both hands shielding his eyes like a visor. When he finally caught his breath, Elijah slowly turned slowly towards the chef and gave an exhausted nod.

“Great,” he rasped. “Ndever better.”

Urgent care was five stops away – five of the longest fucking stops Elijah had ever endured. Each time the train jerked forward or ground to a halt, Greyson made a tiny, terrible whimper in discomfort, a noise that broke Elijah’s heart each time it escaped his lips. “You’re okay, kid,” Elijah muttered, rubbing his friend’s arm while he silently cursed himself for not just paying the two hundred dollars for a stupid uber. “Almbost there.”

After what felt like an eon, the train finally pulled into their station, and Elijah summoned all the strength he had left to hoist Greyson to his feet and pull him out the door. By the grace of whatever-the-fuck entity was watching this scene unfold, the clinic was the first thing he saw when they made their way up the stairs. Small mercies, he thought, dragging Greyson across the street and in through the double doors. Small fucking mercies.

***

“I take it you’re Mr. Abbott?”

As the nurse practitioner breezed through the door she smiled at Elijah, who was sitting in the chair immediately to her right. The GM swung his head around to look her in the eye – fuck, she was pretty. Figures, he thought, wiping under his nose.

“Uh, ndo, I’mb Mr. Morrison – uh, I’m Elijah. That’s the patient,” Elijah said, pointing at Greyson swinging his feet loopily on the exam table. The NP hummed, taking her seat on the stool next to the computer.

“My apologies,” she said, adjusting her mask so it was more secure over her nose and mouth – can’t blame her there, Elijah thought. “Mr. Abbott, I’m Emily. I’ll be helping you out today.”

“Ohh, you cand call mbe Greyson, Doctor Embily,” Greyson said, smiling sloppily. From his chair, Elijah’s face burned red – only Greyson would be able to flirt with a hundred-and-three-degree fever. The NP smiled.

“Just Emily is fine,” she said, her voice kind and cheerful. “Can you tell me a little bit about what’s going on with you?”

Greyson, still with a half-drunk smile pasted on his face, just shrugged. “I’mb good,” he said, before turning suddenly to cough into the collar of his jacket, long enough for Emily to wince and bring him a cup of water from the machine right outside the door of the exam room they were in. “Thangks,” Greyson rasped, sipping the water with his eyes closed. “D’you mbind if I, uh, lay down for a mbinute?”

The NP nodded, then stood in time with Elijah to help him lay Greyson on the crumpled paper. While Greyson fought back the dizziness, Emily the NP turned towards Elijah. “Maybe you could help us with the details?” she asked, smiling.

Elijah nodded, cleared his throat. Fought back a shiver – why the fuck do they keep these offices so fucking cold? “Yeah,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “Sure thiihh – hh..scusembe-NGTXCH-uhh!” Elijah attempted to stifle the sneeze into the sleeve of his sweatshirt, to no avail. Before he could even look around for one, Emily placed a tissue box on the chair next to Elijah, giving him a sympathetic look.

“Bless,” she said, simply. Elijah nodded, taking a tissue and wiping his nose to keep from seeming any grosser that he already was.

“Thangks, sorry,” he said, swallowing painfully. “Uh, yeah, I mbean he’s had a fever since… Friday, I thingk? Thursday ndight, mbaybe? And a cough, which has definitely gotten, uh, worse…” Again, Elijah held up a finger as though to say give me a minute, before turning away in hopes of a sneeze. This time, he wasn’t so lucky – it evaded him, and left in its place a crunchy, painful cough. On the exam bed, Greyson coughed in time with his boss. The NP raised her eyebrows.

“And… is there a reason you aren’t up on that exam table with him?” she asked, her voice light. Greyson croaked out a laugh, not opening his eyes. Ignoring the chef, Elijah attempted a smile.

“I’mb okay,” he promised, clearing his throat. “Anyway, last ndight the fever just got really intense, he was shakigg and couldn’t get mbedicine down and uh… yeah.” Elijah blinked, trying to clear his head. “Is that… does that help?”

Emily nodded, standing. “It does,” she said. “Let’s take a look and see what we can do.” She approached Greyson then, placing a hand on the bed. “Mr. Abbott? Is it okay if your husband and I help you up?”

At this, Greyson’s eyes flew open. “Mby what?” he asked, coughing out another laugh. A look of panic passed over Emily’s eyes, and she looked back at Elijah as if for confirmation. Elijah just rubbed his face with one hand, a modicum of embarrassment on his face.

“We’re, uh… he’s ndot mby husband,” he said, standing to help the NP lift Greyson to a seated position. “We’re busindess partners. Friends, y’kndow, and… business partners.”

“I keep askigg and askigg, and he keeps sayigg ‘ndo’,” Greyson said, a hand kept over one eye to keep from falling down or passing out as he sat up. He smiled at Emily, a charmer to the end, even when he was half-dead. “You’d thingk I’d kndow how to deal with the heartbreak by ndow, but it just ndever gets easier,” he said, turning once again to cough away from the other two. Emily flashed Elijah a confused look.

“He’s kidding,” Elijah promised, sniffling. “I’d say it’s the fever, but really this is just… how he is.”

Emily nodded slowly. “My apologies, I shouldn’t have assumed anything,” she said, putting the earbuds of her stethoscope in her ears and placing the cold bell on Greyson’s chest. Coughing into his sleeve, Elijah lowered himself back into his seat.

“All good,” he said, voice mangled. “You wouldn’t be the first person to assumbe it.”

The NP worked quietly then, asking Greyson to breathe as she listened to his lungs, checking his throat and ears, swabbing his nose for a flu test and his tonsils for strep. By the time she was finished and the rapid tests were back, Greyson looked ready to pass out again.

“Alright, Mr. Abbott,” Emily said, breezing into the exam room with a clipboard in hand. “Good news and bad news; the good news is, you tested negative for strep. Bad news is you tested positive for Flu A, and based on how your lungs sound, I’d say you also have bronchitis. And most likely, a sinus infection.”

From his laid-out position on the bed, Greyson attempted a smile. “Yay?” he said, coughing into his hand. Emily laughed a little behind her mask.

“I’m going to prescribe you an antibiotic for the sinus infection; unfortunately, there’s not much I can do about the flu or the bronchitis, unless you’d like a steroid shot. Obviously get rest and lots of fluids, over the counter medicine is fine, too, you can take it with the antibiotic. Do you need a doctor’s note for work?”

Greyson smiled at Elijah from the bed. “Mmm, ndo pretty sure mby boss believes that I’mb sick,” he said. Elijah rolled his eyes, then pressed his hand deep into one of their sockets when pain spread behind them. Emily also turned to look at Elijah.

“Ah, yeah, I forgot. Business partners,” she said, swiveling the seat of her chair to face Elijah and scooting herself towards his seat. The GM’s heart thumped in time with his head as she approached. “As for you, Mr…?”

“Elijah is finde,” Elijah said, suppressing a cough by swallowing hard.

“Elijah,” Emily repeated. “Is it alright if I touch you?”

When was the last time a woman asked you that? Elijah thought to himself, nodding. Emily gently brought her hands to his face and pressed under his eyes and holy fucking shit, fucking ouch.

“Jesus,” Elijah said, reeling back before turning away from her to suddenly – “HRRTSH-ue! NGTSCHHH-uhh!” The NP’s eyes betrayed the smile behind her mask.

“Bless you,” she said, backing up to her computer. “That’s what I figured; listen, I don’t normally do two-for-one type stuff, but it’s pretty clear that you have what he has, so I’m going to go ahead and prescribe a round of antibiotics for you as well. Keep you from having to come back in a couple days.”

Elijah’s face flamed as he grabbed another tissue and quietly blew his nose. This woman was the first person he’d felt those adolescent butterflies for in – he didn’t even know how long, honestly – and of course he was laid out, barely able to talk and sneezing in her face. The universe has it out for me, I swear to god.

“Uh, okay,” Elijah said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thangk you.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said, typing into her computer. When she finished and turned back to the two ill men, she smiled with her eyes. “Is there anything else I can do for the two of you?”

“You could hit mbe with a blow dart and wake mbe up when this shit is gone,” Greyson said, coughing again. Elijah bit the inside of his cheek while the NP laughed.

“Outside my jurisdiction,” she said, standing. “My apologies. Well, if that’s all then I’ll let you two get home. Take care of yourselves, if things get worse don’t be afraid to come back in.” Emily opened the door, pulled her mask down to smile at the two of them. Fuck, this woman is gorgeous. “Feel better,” she said, and closed the door behind her.

***

“So, do you thingk you’re goigg to go by Mr. Doctor Embily?” Greyson asked, propping himself up on an elbow. “Or is that, like, too on-the-ndose?”

From under the warm washcloth he’d placed over his aching sinuses, Elijah snorted and threw his friend a playful middle finger. “You’re an asshole,” he muttered, pulling the blanket Greyson had moved when he shifted positions back over his torso. “That womban wouldn’t touch mbe with a ten-foot pole after the fuckigg performance we put on in there.”

“Mmmb, I don’t kndow about that,” Greyson mused plucking the washcloth off of Elijah’s face and placing it over his own. “Seemed like she thought you were cute.”

This time, Elijah was the one who sat up. “Yeah,” he said grabbing both his and Greyson’s cups of TheraFlu off the side table and pressing the chef’s cup into his hand. “Ndothing cuter than sombe guy nearly sneezing into your open eyes. Dringk your damn mbedicine.”

Greyson did as he was told, sifting through the arsenal of Doordashed medications the two men had laid out on the bed as he sipped. After they’d stumbled out of the urgent care Elijah, who’d held it together as well as was humanly possible the past thirty hours, hit a wall so hard he nearly dropped to his knees. Without saying anything, Greyson had pulled out his phone and ordered an eye-wateringly expensive uber to cart them the few miles back to Elijah’s apartment; in return, Elijah had sent for an equally expensive courier to pick them up a pharmacy’s worth of medication and the best soup that the upper west side had to offer. While they waited for everything to be delivered, the two shivering, coughing men curled into Elijah’s sweat-soaked bed, listening to the labored sounds of one another’s breathing until they both passed out.

Now, an hour later and finally medicated, Greyson seemed wont to talk, while Elijah felt himself slipping into a deeper rung of illness. His whole body ached; he could think of nothing but sleep. Still, Greyson continued to prod.

“I’mb being serious,” Greyson said, unwrapping a cough drop and popping it in his mouth. “Mbaybe you should go back and ask for her ndumber.”

Elijah, eyes laden with bags from a sleepless night, flushed and sweating and breathing through his mouth, looked at Greyson, deadpan. “Look mbe in the eye and tell mbe that’s a goooo – hh… snrf. A good ideahh – hhGTSCHHH-oo! HRRTSCH-uh!” He wrenched to the side just in time, groaning at the pain. Out of the corner of his eye, Elijah saw Greyson wince.

“Well, obviously wait a few days,” he said, prompting Elijah to throw a pillow at him. The chef laughed, a soupy cough punctuating it.

“God, this is fuckigg mbiserable,” Elijah muttered, laying down again. “I can’t believe you worked yesterday feeling like this.”

Shrugging, Greyson placed his cup back on the side table and laid down as well. “I’mb mbade of different stuff, what can I say,” he joked. Elijah made a sound between a laugh and a snort before closing his eyes, the soft tendrils of sleep curling their fingers around his fevered mind. Moments before he dropped off, Elijah heard Greyson speak up again. “Hey, Lij?”

“Mmm?” Elijah muttered, sleep still right on the horizon. When Greyson didn’t immediately speak up, he opened one eye just a crack. Greyson, face pale and lips cracked, was looking right at him, clearly thinking of how to put whatever it was he wanted to say. Finally, he spoke up again.

“Thangk you,” Greyson said. “For takigg care of mbe.”

For a moment, Elijah just stared back, the sincerity of the sentiment setting him off-balance in a way he wasn’t expecting. Elijah rubbed his face to wake up enough to speak, nodded without letting his head leave the pillow. “’Course, Grey,” he said, attempting a weak smile. “That’s what friends are for.” He shrugged then, nonchalant, and closed his eyes once again. “I kndow you’d do the sambe for mbe.”

“Yeah,” Greyson said, voice soft. “I would.”

Right on the edge of sleep, Elijah allowed himself the last word. “Grey?”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever get mbe this sigck again, I will shoot you with a gun.”

For the first time in days, Greyson laughed in earnest. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said. “Ndight, Lij.”

“Just wanted to prove I was riiii – hh… hh -? Huh – hhhh. Snf.” Once again, Greyson raised an arm to catch a sneeze that staunchly refused to come. He glanced over at Elijah with watering, irritated eyes; the other man’s face was a mix between pity and disgust. “What?” he snapped.

Both of Elijah’s hands shot up; poking the bear was obviously not the right call today. “Nothing,” he said. “That just sounds fairly miserable. Can’t wait for all of us to be in the same boat. Definitely one of my favorite traditions you’ve bestowed on us.”

Greyson sighed, which prompted a flurry of barking, painful coughs. It was only eleven in the morning, but he felt as defeated as though he’d already worked a brutal shift. “It’s too busy for mbe to leave,” he said once he’d regained control of his spasming lungs. “It’s restaurant week, for God’s sake. Any other Tuesday, I’d just go home,” Greyson glanced up at his boss and shrugged, apologetic. “Sorry, Lij.”

Elijah pulled a weary hand down his face. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said. “Since this literally happens every single fucking year. But god, Grey, you certainly could’ve picked a better week.”

“Do you thingk I want to feel like shi – hh! Huh – HRRTSHHZCH-ue! Fucking finally,” Greyson nearly moaned in relief. He grabbed the tissue box that Elijah had placed on his side of the desk and tore into it. “In mby defense,” he said once he’d thrown the used tissues away, “at least this year I haven’t brought ndearly as much shit into the restaurant. I feel like mbaybe you should congratulate mbe on that. Hh...hhITSZCHH-ue!”

“Bless,” Elijah said, rolling his chair more towards the door to try and avoid the worst of the backsplash. “Yeah, Grey, you’re absolutely right, I should absolutely thank you for not bringing a thousand illnesses a month into the restaurant. What a normal and hinged thing to think.”

This prompted a stuffy laugh from the chef. “Whatever,” he said. “Ndot mby fault that Reed picked up sombe airport flu. What do you expect mbe to do, sequester mbyself fromb him? It’s a thousand-square-foot apartment, Lij. Sequestering isn’t exactly its selling point.”

“Mmm,” Elijah murmured, clicking his computer off. “Are you okay to work, honestly?” He placed a rough hand onto Greyson’s forehead, frowned at what he felt. “You’re hot.”

“Aww, see that’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear fromb you,” Greyson placed a hand on his heart as he pushed his boss’s hand off his head. “I’ll mbake it through,” he said, standing to put a chef coat on. “Try ndot to get too close. HRRSZCH-ue! Hh -! HUHESTZHH-ue!”

Try not to get too close. As if any of them stood a chance in hell.

Before

When he moved there, everyone had told him Chicago is cold, as though that weren’t the most obvious fucking thing on the planet. He’d rolled his eyes; he knew cold. Hell, he’d grown up in Minnesota – if anyone knew cold it was him.

As the months went on, though, and the muggy summer turned to blustery autumn, which turned to the frigid, bone-chilling winds of winter, Greyson realized what everyone meant. Yeah, the weather was icy and the wind could cut through you to the bone – but he figured when people said Chicago is cold, they just meant the weather.

They did not.

“Chef, you’re twenty minutes late.” It was the first thing he heard when he trudged into work that morning; not a ‘good morning’, not a ‘how are you’, not even a ‘hey, you look like shit, is that why you’re twenty minutes late?’. With effort, Greyson pushed his hood off his head and blinked his superior into focus. The older chef was quite literally holding his watch up to Greyson’s face, as though he thought this may be the first he’d ever heard of the concept of time.

“Sorry, Chef,” Greyson managed, his voice a mangled knot of congestion. “The train was runnding behind. Hh-! HhhNGTSXCH-ue!” In an attempt to stifle the sneeze, Greyson managed to pop one of his ears open; the sudden clarity of sound made his head spin. Do not pass out, he chided himself silently, grabbing onto the wall for stability. The executive chef rolled his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re fucking sick,” the older chef sneered. If he wasn’t already flushed from fever, Greyson’s face would have flamed in embarrassment. He shook his head.

“I’mb good, Chef,” he said, swallowing hard to keep from coughing. “Just… the wind mbakes mbe… sneeze. Sorry for being late.”

His boss sighed through his nose, annoyed. “I have three projects I need you to finish by the time service starts. Do not sneeze on my fucking food, Abbott, you hear me?” Greyson nodded. “Great. Now get to the prep kitchen, and don’t let me see or hear you until service. Don’t be late again.”

The executive chef turned on his heels and slammed the office door, leaving Greyson shivering in his heavy winter coat in the middle of the kitchen. Thoroughly chided and markedly ashamed, the sous chef slunk to the prep kitchen to begin his projects; each one took longer than the last, as his health rapidly deteriorated. By the time service had begun, Greyson’s lungs burned, his head throbbed, and he had no voice to speak of – instead of having family meal with the rest of the cooks, Greyson stepped outside into the freezing alleyway and lit a cigarette, a bad idea but this comforting ritual was all he had to keep going at this point. He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket. No new messages.

Instead of taking a puff of the cigarette, Greyson let out a single, choked sob; he hadn’t felt this shitty in years. What was the point of all this, of suffering for his career, of dealing with asshole, piece-of-shit chefs who didn’t give a fuck about anyone, of living in big, cold cities where everyone was just out for them-fucking-selves? He’d lived in Chicago for nearly a year and had exactly zero friends, had been on zero dates, and had exactly zero creative drive. Desperate for any connection, Greyson pulled up his messages and typed one out.

Greyson

4:37PM

hey, mom. how are you doing?

The wind howled around him while he waited for a response. The sun was already set, and darkness had settled over the alleyway; Greyson tried to remember the last time he saw the sun, without luck. Please respond, a tiny voice in his head begged. Please.

A minute passed, then two, then ten. Service was about to start; if he didn’t get inside to the middle station soon, his chef would come looking for him – and that wasn’t something anyone wanted. Greyson pressed his lips together, coughed painfully into his coat, and stubbed out the unsmoked cigarette. One last time, he checked his phone: no new messages.

After

Per the usual, Matt was the first to succumb to Greyson’s illness.

“Already?” Elijah groaned. The two chefs were in the back kitchen, though to say they were prepping would have been a stretch. “It’s literally been one day, Greyson, how did you already manage to get Matt sick?”

The question went unanswered; Greyson was a bit preoccupied. “Hhh-! Huh...hnghh. Fugck,” he groaned, sniffling into the sleeve of his jacket. “God, that’s getti’g old. Hh-!”

“Hh’IGTSZH-ue!” Behind him, Matt pitched forward, suddenly, into both hands. “Ew, gross – HRRTSH-uhh! Hh...ITSZHH-ue!”

“Stop fuckigg stealing fromb mbe,” Greyson growled, turning towards his sous chef. “It’s rude.”

“I’mb rude?” Matt balked, snatching the box of tissues from the table that separated him from both his bosses. “You’re the one who mbade mbe like thi-ihh… HTSZHH-ue! RRSHH-ue!” This time, he managed to cover his mouth with a handful of tissues. “God, I can’t stop fuckigg sndeezing. HHITSCHH-ue!”

“Don’t rub it in,” Greyson muttered, pawing at his nose. Beside him, Elijah’s eyes were closed, his lips pressed into a hard line of annoyance. “Mbaybe we should start taking bets,” Greyson said, elbowing his boss playfully to keep the man from completely losing it. “Who goes downd first, who goes down last… mbight be a fun activity for the whole fam-”

On the last syllable of ‘family’, Greyson’s voice – which was mangled to begin with – fell off completely. Elijah swung to look at his counterpart, as Greyson’s hand flew to his throat. “Oh, fuck,” Greyson whispered.

“Did you just lose your voice?” Elijah’s voice verged on the edge of mania. “Tell me you didn’t just lose your fucking voice.”

“Umb,” Greyson wheezed, with effort. “I didn’t just lose mby voice.”

Elijah groaned. Greyson let out a small, painful cough. Across the prep table, Matt was stuck in his own personal hell.

“HRRSHH-uhh! Fu – NGTXSH-ue! Hh-! Hh’ITSZCH-ue!”

The two older men shared a concerned glance – normally, it would have been Greyson who asked, but since apparently speaking was no longer an option for him, Elijah regarded the younger chef. “Matt… are you -”

“HRRSHH-ue!”

“-okay?” Elijah finished, as Matt succumbed to a fit of ticklish coughs. He blew his nose, then tossed the tissues and nodded at his bosses.

“I’mb okay,” he said, near-panting post-fit. The heel of his hand found his eye, rubbed until both Elijah and Greyson winced on his behalf. “Christ, Chef, where do you pick this shit up,” Matt muttered, more to himself than anything. As if in response, Greyson doubled over, coughing into his sleeve until his eyes watered with the effort.

Elijah looked from one chef to the other, unsure of what to do or say; what Greyson said yesterday held true. It was restaurant week, one of their busiest weeks of the year, and no matter how much he wanted to send these two idiots home, it just wasn’t in the cards. He checked his watch – 2:55PM. Almost two hours until service.

“Okay, listen up you sick fucks,” Elijah regarded the two chefs. “It’s time to take a nap.”

At the word nap, both chefs visibly deflated. “Lij,” Greyson whispered, “mbuch as I love that idea, like ten out of ten, would a thousand percent love to participate… we just have so mbuch prep to do for restaurant week.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. “Like, we haven’t even gotten to half the mbenu. Hh-!”

“HHUHETSZCHH-ue!” This time, it was Greyson who doubled over to sneeze – a sound so harsh, Elijah was sure he wouldn’t even be able to whisper after it.

“Ndow who’s stealing,” Matt muttered, his sneeze obviously lost. They both glared at one another, then turned when Elijah began speaking again.

“Par the menu down,” he said. “It was choice of? Now it’s not. You two need to take some medicine and lay down, at least for an hour. I wish I could send you home, but I can’t.” He pushed a hand through his hair; obviously, this wasn’t a decision he wanted to make, but he had to do something. Otherwise there was just no way Greyson and Matt would make it through service.

“You’re sure, boss?” Matt asked, desperation painted on his face. If he could have made a sound, Elijah was sure Greyson would push back on this idea – as it stood, the executive chef just pressed his lips together, swallowed painfully. Elijah nodded, one curt, small nod.

“I’m sure,” he said. “Now, let’s get you two medicated.”

Before

Night was coming.

During the day, being sick with nowhere to go was not ideal, but ultimately it was fine. Matt would pick up extra hours at the diner – washing dishes, bussing tables, anything that didn’t involve having to speak – and stay there from open at four a.m. until they closed at six in the evening. It was hard to work while ill, yes, but it was easier than roaming the streets of New York with nothing to think about except how shitty he felt.

At night, though, the diner was closed. On normal days, Matt would crash at a friend or coworker’s house; he’d buy beer, or dinner, or weed and in return, he’d be granted a night on their couch, or their floor or – if he was lucky – a night pressed up against them in their bed. But those rare times when he was under the weather, he didn’t get invites to anyone’s home, no matter how close he thought they were. His weed and beer money never seemed to be enough to get any of his coworkers to bring an ailing Matt to their apartments, heat him up a can of soup, allow him a quiet night in a warm bed.

“NTSHZH-ue!” Matt sneezed painfully into his too-light jacket and shivered in the cold of the Manhattan evening. This was the third time he’d been sick since he was kicked out of his final foster home the day he turned eighteen, and each time went the same: he couldn’t manage to swing an evening at a friend’s house. The shelter turned him away – if we let you in, we get everyone sick, and then we’re taking care of a hundred sick homeless people. Sorry, it’s just policy. – and all his former foster parents let his calls go to voicemail. When it was finally too late to try anything else, Matt would find a bench in the park, put his backpack on his front with his jacket zipped up backwards over it to keep anyone from stealing it, and try to get some fitful rest until it was time to work again.

Eventually, just like every other time he’d been sick while living on the street, the cold and the elements would catch up with him. He’d end up with walking pneumonia, end up sleeping for at least one night in a bed in the ER. When the accounting department would ask where to send the medical bills after he’d been pumped full of antibiotics, he’d give them the address of one of his former foster families. Serves them fucking right, he’d think as he walked out of the emergency room.

Then, he would wait. He would go to work, get back to crashing on couches and sleeping with people he had no interest in just to get the sweet relief of one night in a bed, and he’d wait for the inevitable next illness to strike. Wait for the cold night to overtake him once again.

After

In the past, it had always been a toss-up as to whether Mark would fall victim to the yearly Greyson Flu. There were some years where he’d be the last to get it – usually a week or so after everyone else had recovered, which was exactly Mark’s style. Hold it together until everyone else is okay, he’d tell himself when he woke up with a sore throat and aching joints, and hold it together he would, until it was safe to take a day off. Then there were years where Mark was the only one to avoid the flu; his immune system tended to be better than the other manager’s, and he was the best at taking care of himself, though that wasn’t exactly a hard prize to win in this restaurant.

This year was different, though. This year, Mark and Matt were officially an item.

“NTSHH!” Mark wrenched to the side, attempting to hold back the sneeze that snuck up on him just as Elijah passed by the office. At the stifled sound, Elijah’s head turned on a swivel to see Mark, doubled over his elbow.

“No,” Elijah groaned, the look on his face so devastated that Mark felt his ears burn with shame. “Mark, please tell me you aren’t sick, too.”

Mark shook his head, attempted to keep from sniffling, and said, “I’mb ndot.” Wrong choice of words, he chided himself after hearing how congested his voice came out. Elijah looked like he might cry.

It was Day Three of the restaurant’s latest pestilence. Restaurant week hung over all of them like a wet blanket, soaking them to the bone, too heavy for anyone to remove. Each night had been busier than the last, and tonight – Friday night – was to be the busiest one of them all. Mark swallowed around a throat on fire. “I’mb sorry,” he whispered to his boss, sniffling. “Mbatt likes to snuggle whend he’s sick. Hh…hhETSCHH-uh!”

Taking pity, Elijah found one of the myriad tissue boxes placed strategically for the chefs on the line and brought it to Mark, who begrudgingly took one. “You’re supposed to be my rock, Mark,” Elijah said, his voice light and joking, but the words stinging the younger manager all the same. The GM sighed, pulling a hand down his face. “Greyson!” Elijah called towards the prep kitchen while Mark blew his nose.

After a beat, they both heard a hoarse call-back. “What?” Greyson asked. Elijah rolled his eyes, annoyed.

“Come here!” he yelled.

They both heard an audible groan from the back kitchen – at least his voice is back enough to groan, Mark found himself thinking – and then Greyson was standing in the doorway of the office, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.

“Does it look like I have nothigg going ond?” Greyson asked, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “I’mb ass-deep in yellowtail right ndo – ahh… ahKTXSHH-ue!” The chef attempted to stifle the sneeze into his elbow, then attempted to clear his throat – both attempts seemingly in vain.

“Bless,” Elijah said, automatically, before pointing directly at Mark’s face. “Look what you fuckin’ did. Asshole.”

Greyson’s eyes shifted towards the younger floor manager. Mark knew what he looked like; his eyes were red-rimmed, his mouth partially open in order to breathe, his nose scarlet and glistening. He had the flu, same as Greyson. They both looked like shit.

“Oops,” Greyson said, pressing a hand to Mark’s forehead and wincing. “To be fair to mbe,” Greyson said, turning towards Elijah, “this one’s mbore Mbatt’s fault than mbine.”

“Matt’s only sick because you are physically incapable of keeping germs to yourself. Now my fucking floor manager looks like he has a fucking wasting disease on the busiest night of the month.” Had they forgotten that Mark was still there? Or did they assume the fever had fried his brain past the point of understanding them?

“C’mon, Lij, he looks…” Greyson glanced back at Mark, made a little face. “He looks fine...ish.”

“No one would want him touching their table. I wouldn’t want him touching my table with a ten-foot pole.”

“That’s a little drambatic, don’t you thingk?”

“You kndow I’mb right here,” Mark broke into the conversation suddenly, prompting the other two to shoot their glances his way. “Right?”

With that, the wind was taken out of both Elijah and Greyson’s sails. “Sorry, Mark,” Elijah said, pulling a hand down his face. “You don’t look like you have a wasting disease.”

“Okay,” Mark said, brilliantly. “Thangk – GTSZCH-ue!” He sneezed into his lap, then lapsed into a fit of coughing. From above him, Mark heard Greyson snort out a laugh.

“Oh, fuck,” Greyson said, laughing and coughing at once. “Oh, jesus christ, we are so fucked.”

The laughter was as contagious as the illness Greyson brought in – Elijah was doubled over as well. “The fucking timing,” he guffawed. “The timing is just… it’s impeccable.”

Mark looked from one of his bosses to the other – Greyson doubled over coughing, Elijah crouched into a ball laughing – unsure of what to do. “Uh,” he said, “does all this mbean I can stay and work?”

If it was even possible, Elijah started laughing harder. “Fuck, Mark,” he sobbed with laughter, “you literally have to stay. We have no other choice but to put your half-dead ass on the floor.” Greyson grabbed his stomach, hysterical.

“Fuck, we have to stop I’mb gonna keel over,” he said, wiping under his eyes. “Oh, mby God.”

Behind them, Matt crept up from the prep kitchen. “What the fugck is goigg on up he – hh! HhITZSCHH-ue!”

This seemed to be the nail in the coffin; Greyson and Elijah fell to the floor in hysterics, with Matt and Mark groggily staring down at them. “Uh,” Matt said, wiping under his nose, “are they gonna be okay?”

Mark just blinked, bleary. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “NTSHZCH-ue!”

Before

The phone lit up for the third time that hour, buzzing angrily in an attempt to get Mark’s attention. On the top of the screen, the word that always sent a pit directly into his stomach: Dad.

With effort, Mark rolled over on the uncomfortable dorm-room bed and picked the phone up off the side table. For a moment, he considered tossing it across the room, watching it shatter into a million pieces, never having to speak to his father again – a freedom he couldn’t even imagine. He answered the phone.

“’Lo?” Mark croaked, biting his cheek to keep from dissolving into a fit of coughs. He hadn’t spoken in almost three days, not since he’d gone to the campus infirmary for a Z-pack in an attempt to rid himself of the illness one of his roommates had so kindly brought back to their dorm, and his voice sounded rougher than he thought it would.

“Mark, that you?” his father boomed on the other end. “It’s your dad, why the hell didn’t you pick up the first time?”

A vein in Mark’s head pulsed at the immediate accusation; he’d texted his father after the first call that he was sleeping, but apparently that wasn’t an acceptable excuse. “Sorry,” he said, yanking the phone away from his face to cough into an elbow. When he brought the phone back, his dad was already speaking again.

“-money for the goddamn cafeteria, I thought we talked about this.” The tail end of a sentence, but Mark instinctively knew what the first part had been. His mother and father got a bill for the campus cafeteria, despite the fact that Mark had promised to get a job to cover his own food expenses at university. Fuck.

“I’mb sorry,” Mark said again. “I’ve been lookigg for work, but it’s hard to find sombewhere that’ll accommodate a student’s schedule. Hh – HRRSXHH-ue!” This time, he didn’t have time to pull the phone away. On the other end of the line, his father grunted.

“You sick?” he asked after a beat; an accusal, not a concern. Mark swallowed hard.

“Ndo, sir,” he said.

“Good,” his father replied. “Figure the job thing out, Mark. I get another damn grocery bill from that school, and I’m done paying for any of those damn classes. Got it?”

Mark pressed his lips together. Do not cry on the phone, do NOT. “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice small.

“Mom says hi,” his dad said, though Mark knew she hadn’t. “Talk soon.”

The line was cut before Mark had a chance to say goodbye – not that he wanted to. He let out a pathetically soupy cough, and put his head in his hands, defeated. What the fuck kind of parent says that shit, he allowed himself to think. The angry tears he’d held back during the call fell before he was able to sniff them back again. Fuck you, Dad.

For the next six weeks, until he finally found a part-time catering job, Mark would avoid the cafeteria completely; he’d scrounge from his friend’s leftovers, be the first at the dorm parties to shove cookies into his pockets, live on dollar gas station burritos so that he wouldn’t hear from his dad again. For now, he gave in to his baser desires: turning the phone over in his hand, Mark viciously hurled it across the room, cracking the screen into a million tiny webs.

After

By the time Sunday – the final day of restaurant week – rolled around, the restaurant could have been better classified as a biohazard unit.

“Last big night, guys,” Elijah said to the coughing, sniffling servers during the week’s final pre-shift. “Let’s just get through it and… and then we-ehh…” The servers all groaned as Elijah pitched into his elbow. “NGTZHH-ue!”

“Not you, too,” Riley, Elijah’s lead server, moaned. “Who’s going to help us on the floor now?”

Elijah flushed and cleared his throat. “Fuck off, all of you,” he said. “I’m fine. One sneeze does not the flu make. Let’s get back to the task at hand, hmm?”

They all knew, of course, that the denial was in vain. Elijah had felt the tendrils of a nasty fever work their way behind his eyes post-service the night before, and had only made it until four p.m. today without any accusations due to an arsenal of meds – meds that seemed, at this point, to be losing their ability to help him. His lungs felt heavy, his head and body ached, his nose was sore from sucking nose spray in every five fucking minutes. Despite the fact that they’d barely gone over any reservations, Elijah dismissed the servers to go eat family meal early; he needed to remedicate.

In the kitchen office, Matt and Mark were taking their Greyson-mandated nap on the pile of old tablecloths and coats; since his fever had broken, the executive chef seemed mostly-recovered and had taken charge of medicating and babysitting the younger managers. Elijah wasn’t about to complain; he had enough to deal with without doling out meds every five minutes. Perched in his office chair above the sleeping couple, Greyson was playing a loud-ass game on his phone with one hand and coughing into the other.

“Is there not anywhere else you can do that?” Elijah whispered, sitting quietly in his office chair. “Can you not see them trying to fucking sleep?”

“Oh, please,” Greyson said at full volume. “They’re out like fuckin’ lights. Watch.” He used the toe of one of his clogs to gently kick Matt’s shoulder. The sous chef let out a little cough in his sleep and rolled closer to Mark, not opening his eyes. “I snuck a little Nyquil in their teas,” Greyson admitted, laughing a little.

“Why would you do that?” Elijah asked, pressing his fingers into one of his eyes. “We still have service tonight, dipshit.”

“Oh, this was hours ago,” Greyson said, turning back to his phone game. “They’ll be good by five.” He shrugged. “Maybe. I was over listening to them coughing.”

“I’m over listening to you coughing, but you don’t see me drugging yehh – HNXTSH-ue! Huh - ! HRRSCHH-ue!” Elijah cleared his throat into the sleeve of his shirt, grimacing at the pain there. The soft sshhh of the box of tissues being slid across the desk prompted his eyes to shoot up from his elbow.

“Bless you,” Greyson said, pointedly. “Man, took you long enough to catch it. I feel like I should give you a prize or something.”

Elijah pulled a few tissues out and cleaned himself up. “I have ndot caught it,” he said, sucking in through his nose. “Until service is over tondight, I am well. I am healthy. I – HUHESTCHH-ue!” This time, he was unable to even partially stifle. Greyson made a noise of sympathy in the back of his throat, reached across the desk to put a hand on his boss’s arm.

“Yeah,” he said as Elijah blew his nose. “That’s not really how being sick works.”

Before

In his hand, Elijah held the key to the rest of his life.

He honestly couldn’t believe it was real; a key, a real, physical key to the restaurant he’d dreamed of since he was a child. Sliding it into the lock for the first time, Elijah could feel his life changing. The door creaked open and there it was: his restaurant, in all of its dusty, ripped-to-the-studs glory. Elijah pressed his lips together, on the verge of tears – nothing could ruin this moment for him. Nothi-

“NGTZSHH-ue! HRRSTSHH-ue! Fuck,” he wiped his nose with the back of his hand – ugh. Nothing could ruin this, he repeated to himself, not even this bitch of a cold he’d picked up at work three days prior; he’d been laid up in bed when he got the call from the commercial Realtor that actually, the keys would be ready for him today, if he wanted to pick them up. Never had he ever bolted out of bed so quickly.

Elijah walked carefully through what would one day be the dining room of Elliot’s, pressing his fingertips into the stone walls as though introducing himself to them. Hi, he whispered to the walls, the ceiling, the floors, the hundred-year-old stove that he was sure was a fire hazard. I’m home. Elijah had the sudden urge to call his parents.

It wasn’t an urge he had often; in fact, he’d only mentioned once in passing that he’d been trying to purchase a restaurant to them, and that was almost a year ago. But he needed to tell someone, needed someone to share in this excitement with him. He dialed his mom’s number.

“Hello, may I ask who’s calling?” his mother answered, formal as ever even though she knew exactly who had called. Elijah smiled into the phone.

“Mbom,” he said, his voice hoarse and congested. “It’s me – it’s Elijah.”

“Oh, Elijah, hi honey,” she said, distracted. “Is something wrong?”

“Ndo, mom, sombething is actually… ambazing,” Elijah said, still looking around his dark pre-restaurant. “Is dad there with you?”

“Mmm, yes, he’s watching golf, is this important honey? We were about to head out to the Club.” The Club. That was what Elijah’s parents called the only restaurant they’d ever cared about while he was growing up – the country club that was their pride and joy to be a part of. Elijah rolled his eyes.

“It’s really important,” he insisted. “Please – just put mbe on speakerphone. I have sombe huge ndews.”

The moment huge news came out of his mouth, Elijah knew he’d made a mistake. Immediately, his mother gasped and called to his father in delight – oh, no, Elijah thought.

“Honey! Greg, honey, it’s Elijah, he’s going back to school! He’s going back to medical school! Isn’t that right, sweetie? Huge news! Yes! Oh, we knew you’d go back. We knew this whole restaurant thing would blow over.” His mother’s voice tumbled out so quickly she was nearly breathless. Elijah felt his head spin.

“Mom, I-”

“Back to medical school, that’s great, son!” Elijah’s father bellowed from what was obviously the other side of the room. “My son, the doctor,” he mused.

Mouth dry, Elijah managed to speak over his parents, who were now discussing who at The Club they would tell first. “Mbom, Dad, please,” he managed, before dissolving into a coughing fit. His mother tutted.

“Oh, you sound terrible, sweetheart. All those nights up late studying, I’m sure!” The glee in his mother’s voice made Elijah sick to his stomach. He cleared his throat as well as he could.

“I’mb ndot going back to medical school, mbom,” he managed. On the other end of the line – silence. Elijah was fairly sure he could hear a distant sob from his mom. Finally, Elijah’s father spoke back up.

“Why would you tell your mother that, then? Christ, Elijah, haven’t you put her through enough?” Greg, never quick to anger unless it involved his wife, audibly sat back down in his chair. He mumbled something Elijah couldn’t hear.

“I – I didn’t tell her that,” Elijah said, voice raising like a teenager’s. “She didn’t even let mbe finish what I was saying.”

“You said you had huge news!” his mother bawled. “What else was I supposed to think it was?”

Without thinking, Elijah pulled the phone away from his ear and once again looked around his restaurant. Fucking medical school. He’d dropped out almost ten years ago, and here they were, still holding out for him to be their perfect little doctor. Looking for a reason to brag about him at the club. As it stood, he wasn’t sure if his parents even told their friends they had a son.

Elijah glanced back at his phone, where his mother was still crying on the other end; silently, he pressed the end button and put the phone back in his pocket. Elijah closed his eyes and attempted to take a deep breath without coughing. Nothing will ruin this for me, he thought as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Nothing.

After

Keeping the post-restaurant-week, thank-god-that’s-over manager meeting had been Greyson’s idea; Elijah had said they should cancel, but Greyson insisted they keep it on. Since he was the only one well enough to execute it, and since Elijah needed the distraction of being around other people to keep him from his flu-ridden agony, he’d agreed. He hadn’t known that Greyson intended to host a meal and a mock-funeral for the week they’d just had, but somehow, it was the perfect salve to the burn that was restaurant week.

“Dearly beloved,” Greyson said from behind the line, mimicking a microphone with his hands, “we’re gathered here today in his hellhole of a kitchen in remembrance of the Week From Hell.” He raised his paper cup filled with whiskey, and Elijah, Matt, and Mark copied the gestures with their cups of tea. “May it forever rest in agony, and may we never have to speak of it ever again.”

“Amben,” the three other men called from the couch they’d dragged in from the host stand. Elijah suddenly turned into his sweatshirt to cough, prompting a groan from Matt and Mark beside him.

“Every timbe you do that you yank the fuckigg blanket off me,” Mark grumbled, pulling the blanket they were sharing back over his lap. “I’mb fuckin’ cold, boss.”

“Oh, please forgive mbe,” Elijah croaked when he was finally able to compose himself. “I’mb so sorry that the illness you gave mbe caused mbe to cough and mbake you cold.” He pulled a tissue out of the box on Matt’s lap between them and wiped his nose. “I’ll self-flagellate in the street as soon as I’mb able to mbove again.”

This prompted a laugh, followed by a soupy cough, from Matt. “He got you there, babe,” he said, touching his boyfriend’s face.

“Alright, alright, enough bickering,” Greyson called from behind the line. “Soup’s almost ready, are you assholes eating on Elijah’s nice couch?”

Greyson bowled the soup up, pushed a serving into each other man’s hands, and took his seat at the end of the couch next to Elijah. Silently, they all dug in.

Mark and Matt glanced over to Elijah for confirmation – the GM just shrugged, exhausted.

“I certainly can’t get up,” he said. “So I guess the answer is yes.”

“Fuck, that’s good, Chef,” Matt moaned, sniffling into his soup. “I don’t thingk I’ve had a real mbeal all week.”

Greyson raised an eyebrow at his sous. “Uh, thanks – I mean, that’s fairly concerning, but thanks anyway,” he said, prompting a laugh from all of them.

Without warning, mid-laugh, Elijah’s breath hitched. “Hh-! HRTSCHHH-ue!” Before he could realize what he was doing, the GM had turned towards Greyson and sneezed, mostly uncovered, into the chef’s face. Belatedly, he covered his face with his hand while Matt and Mark howled in laughter behind him.

“Bless you,” Greyson said, wiping his face with his hand. “Asshole.”

Elijah smiled – the laughter from the two younger chefs was contagious – and patted his friend’s shoulder. “I’d say sorry,” he said, “but to be fair, you’re the onde who got us into this mbess.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greyson said, rolling his eyes and smiling. “Whatever. Just eat your soup, dickhead.”