#sneezefic

Toki x Pickles drabble

“Hh’ENgxt’TZshu! Hg’Kxt! ‘Ndt! NGxt’shu! Hh’Ngxt! NGXT’TZSHhIeWWw!!”

Pickles groaned and slumped back against the sofa cushions for what felt like the hundredth time that hour. The ragweed had been evil this year. Even with the most expensive allergy medication, of which he was taking far beyond the recommended dosage, he was still sneezing enough to leave him feeling weak and ill. His eyes and nose were leaking, everything above his neck was itchy and he was so tired it was as if he’d woken up twenty hours earlier, rather than the actual two and a half. He sniffled tentatively, hoping he’d get at least a couple of minutes without another sneeze tossing him forward. He closed his eyes, squeezing out another couple of tears that ran in twin trails down his flushed cheeks.

“Bless yous.”

He smiled, running a hand up Toki’s back as the rhythm guitarist snuggled closer, wrapping a protective arm around Pickles’ waist and resting his head on his shoulder. It wasn’t all bad, having allergies this terrible when your bandmate became a cock-hungry freak as a consequence. If the pollen was so hellbent on making him unfuckable to 99.9% of the population in his current sorry state, he certainly wouldn’t turn away the advances of the very attentive and extremely toned Norwegian now tossing his leg over his thigh.

“Thank you. ‘m tickly today.” He said, sniffling again for extra measure and delighting in the way Toki shuddered and sighed in response. He was angled just so that Pickles wasn’t able to feel his erection, but there was no doubt in his mind that it was there all the same, throbbing hungrily in Toki’s jeans with every sniffle and sneeze.

Speaking of – the allergic tickle that never entirely subsided flared up again angrily, demanding the entirety of his being. He gasped with it, nostrils flaring into twin ‘O’s and jaw hanging slack, held on the precipice of another wrenching series of sneezes. He felt Toki tense at his side with anticipation and would have smirked were his face not frozen in the agonised grimace of imminent release.

A couple more seconds of suspense went by as both occupants of the couch held their breath, unmoving, and then – nothing.

“Ahh, Christ.” Pickles muttered, reaching up to rub the tip of his nose in violent circles with the heel of his hand. He knew he shouldn’t handle it so roughly but fuck it. It felt good in the worst way, like scratching an itchy bug bite. “Fuckin’ hate when this happens.”

“What ams wrong, Pickle?” Toki was watching him, pupils blown and mouth slightly open to accommodate the pace of his breathing. He looked absolutely ruined, though neither of them had taken even one item of clothing off yet. “Why amnt’s you sneezing? Doesn’t it tickles?”

“Oh, it ti-hih! Tickles, alright.” Pickles muttered breathily, hoping to god his efforts would usher out the stubborn, teasing sneezes he needed so badly. “It’s stuck. Happens sometimes, and it sucks. Fuck, it’s burning!” He moaned, rubbing harder, the wet, squishy clicking sounds of his efforts increasing in volume.

His motions were halted quite suddenly as Toki reached out, strong fingers encircling his wrist in a firm grip and pulling it away. He blinked blearily, irritably at the guitarist, silently seeking an explanation for the rude interruption.

“Stops that.” Toki murmured, any authoritative inflection in his voice marred by cloying arousal. “You ams goings to hurts yourself.”

Pickles huffed. He didn’t give a single fuck – and besides, the burning in his sinuses hurt plenty enough already. When Toki released his hand, however, he did not resume his manhandling. He watched as Toki, looking pleased as pie, extracted a fresh tissue from a pack in his pocket, then smiled in understanding as the younger man started to fashion the corner into a twisted point. Toki smiled back at him, looking as excited as he always did whenever the opportunity arose for him to play with the drummer’s nose.

“Here.” He started, shifting closer. “I’ll helps you gets the tickle out.”

He didn’t hesitate before plunging the tissue all the way inside Pickles' right nostril, probing and stroking. Pickles’ chest jumped with a series of desperate, uncontrollable little breaths as the tickling sensation was brought right back to the fore.

“Honestly, dude, it fee-hh!! -Feels like you’re just pu’hhtting more in-!” He gasped.

“Mm. I likes that.” Toki sighed, shifting his hips, and then Pickles could feel exactly how earnestly he meant it.

It didn’t take long at all. Another ten seconds or so of Toki’s gleeful teasing and Pickles was sucking in a huge, definitive breath, then pitching forward to sneeze fitfully over both of their thighs.

“HDtt-! HAHD’TCHOOh!! ‘TZshh-DZSH’u-TSHstt-! Heh’EISHH’ieww!! HNGXt’TZZsshh-! Ngxt’shu-HDt’tchu-hh-!! HEISHHh’IEWwww-!! Ouugh, fuck m’be…”

He shivered, settling back against the couch, eyes closing in pristine pleasure. He felt Toki wiping at his damp nostrils and lips with the non-twisted side of the tissue, and laughed softly, enjoying the attention.

“Blesses you, Pickle. Feels better?”

“Felt fucking great, dude. Man…I think I need to lie down after all that…”

Toki was pulling him to his feet with all of his monstrous strength before Pickles knew what was happening. Suddenly upright and blinking in surprise, he giggled at the sight of Toki’s shamelessly lustful expression. Kid had no poker face around him ever since he’d confessed his fetish – not that he’d had any reason to, given how frequently they now fucked over it.

“You gonna escort me to my room, huh?” He said, casting a lopsided grin Toki’s way.

“Mmhm. Needs to make sures you ams okays with all them sneezes.”

Pickles’ cock throbbed at the uncharacteristic roughness of the younger man’s voice, and he realised just how hard he’d become. Too focused on the sneezing up to that point to notice, he guessed. Now that he was aware, he could think of nothing more than Toki’s strong hands, warm mouth or slick ass wrapping around him.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He muttered, dragging Toki behind him, pretence be damned.

🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸

Scenario 1

I can picture Skwisgaar, Nathan and Pickles going out of their way to get an album finished and going too hard on the partying, lack of sleep etc and all ending up sharing the same evil cold. It’s frustrating enough for Nathan and Skwisgaar, but Nathan is able to get through most of his vocal recordings without sneezing (and subsequently blowing everyone’s eardrums out). Skwisgaar is similar in being able to hold back sneezes or stifle successfully without fucking up a power guitar solo; he staves off the worst to head back to his room and fuck it out with a series of groupies, fussing over his cold and itchy nose.

Pickles is used to sneezing whilst playing the drums without missing a beat – he’s had a lot of practice with his allergies and being supremely wasted – but I can see him getting to the point that he just can’t hold back anymore. It’s a particularly horrible cold and even though he’s stopped snorting drugs temporarily (literally too congested to bother) he’s still drinking heavily and making his condition far worse. Mid-recording, he just gives up and sits there, chest heaving in and out before sneezing over and over again, dousing his drum-kit and not giving a fuck that he’s spraying his cold all over the recording booth; all that matters is purging the tickle.

When he’s done, he’s wheezing, shaking and closing his mouth against the mess running over his lips. The rest of the studio is left mildly impressed by the dramatic outburst they just witnessed, and it’s the final straw for Knubbler who insists they stop recording for the day. A team of Klokateers is called in to sanitise the entire recording studio. At least one of them is sneezed on by a band member for their efforts – handing them a tissue box, not moving out of their way quickly enough as they sneeze rudely in their direction etc.

🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸

Scenario 2

I’ve thought a lot about early Dethklok Pickles getting sick in their shitty little apartment and how not one of them would know how to care for one another in that situation. He would just self-medicate, and I can picture Nathan in particular awkwardly blessing him and standing around like a spare part, torn between disgust, pity and amazement at just how many times Pickles can sneeze in a row and how tiny and dissimilar to his own huge sneezes they are. Pickles wandering into the kitchen to grab another beer and standing frozen all of a sudden before sneezing twelve times in a row and Nathan is just sat on the couch nearby watching like ‘Is my drummer broken?!’

Perhaps this is before he’s even aware Pickles has such terrible allergies – it’s super early on in their knowing each other - so he thinks it must just be the result of a really bad cold. Then, as they spend more time around each other, he becomes so used to Pickles’ sinus issues that fifteen plus sneezes in a row don’t even phase him. The whole band gets used to it, like ambient background noise LOL

The average city block in the US ranges from 250 to 1250 feet, usually falling on the shorter end of the spectrum. Grid-based city blocks are typically around 330 feet– not too long, not too short. A perfect Goldilocks of a block, if you think about it. 

Pittsburgh blocks, on the other hand, are whatever the fuck they want to be. Dennis had done a fair amount of research about Pittsburgh when he first moved to the city. He needed to know the public transit systems, the walking time from shelter to ED, the easiest routes, and safest areas for squatting. So, naturally, he’d learned about the lack of a standard grid system. He vaguely recounts a report about the abnormally challenging, hilly topography of the city– too many inclines, rivers, and unnatural terrains for there to be much organization in the street’s layouts. It’s called a colliding grid, he thinks, or something along those lines. 

To the ongoing list, he adds:

8. Colliding grid blocks 

Because of course the two blocks between the bus stop and the ED have to be the longest blocks imaginable, much closer to the 1250 feet range than the blessedly short 250. The slight uphill gradient doesn’t help, nor does the uneven sidewalk with more cracks and bumps than flat surface. 

Equally as unhelpful is his nose's inability to stop running. He has to stop every twenty or so paces to wipe at the appendage, refusing to blow it and forgo his last functioning tissue unless it proves to be absolutely necessary. 

Sneaker-clad feet drag against the pavement, their ache increasing with every break he has to take. Dennis has grown rather fond of his shoes, even with Trinity’s teasing that he shares the same style as her deceased grandmother. ‘They support my arches’ had been Dennis’s defense in buying them, stylish or not (definitely not). Afterall, he’s on his feet all day at work, he might as well make an effort to accommodate his body. 

Despite these efforts to make his body more comfortable, he can feel it staging a full fledged protest to being upright. Every time his foot meets the ground, the force of the concrete reverberates up through his leg, pinching at every joint it meets. Then, his legs propel him forwards with a stilt-like, uncoordinated gate, only for his other foot to hit the ground. And so on and so forth. 

Upon making it to the ED, Dennis plants himself on a bench just outside the ambulance bay. He knows he should buck up and go inside. People have it worse off than he does; he’s not bleeding, not broken, not needing medical attention. He’s just… cursed. 

The bench’s metal feels cool against his skin and he presses both of his palms to it, ignoring whatever germs are clinging to its surface. A brief reprieve from the heat works its way from his hands up his forearms, leaving a spattering of goosebumps that disappear after a few seconds. He shivers, and they reappear, intermixing with the light freckles speckled over his upper arms. For a second, he stills, and then another shiver sparks through his spine, his body caught in a dance between hot and cold. 

Dennis internally groans, wishing he’d thought to put a long sleeve beneath his scrub top as his overstimulated system settles on another shiver and a sudden chill. He knows he needs to stop sulking outside, to pull himself together and clock in, but the idea of spending all day on his feet is enough to keep him seated. Just one more minute, he reasons. What’s the harm in taking one more minute for himself? 

A distant ringing of sirens echoes through Dennis’s mind as it draws nearer– is the ringing from the sirens? The sound isn’t quite right, not the typical chorus of ambulance blaring, but something louder, harsher. It ricochets from one ear to the other before bouncing back, working its way through Dennis’s brain in piercing jolts. 

“Whitaker?” 

Dennis’s eyes open, adjusting to the sight of a man standing in front of him. He hadn’t realized his eyes had closed; they must have slipped shut of their own volition. After a painfully slow second, Dennis recognizes the figure that addressed him, mentally scolding himself for not having done so sooner. 

“Dr. Abbot– whadt are you doing here?” 

“Massive MVC. Six incoming patients with severe injury, countless others still on scene.” Jack answers, recounting the medical details that had slipped from Dennis’s mind. “All hands on deck.”

Right. There was a reason for Dennis having dragged himself out of bed and to the ED. Work. He’s working. And yet his mind lingers for a second too long on the number six, the mention dredging up thoughts about the man from the bus and his evident curse.

Jack’s eyes flick over Dennis’s form, scanning him head to toe. The older man’s lips curve into a slight frown as he catalogues the obvious signs of illness afflicting the other doctor; Dennis remains oblivious to the expression. He’s too busy willing himself to stand, silently egging on his legs to do the things they’re supposed to do– such as taking more than one step without stumbling and functioning non-mechanically. 

    9. Legs

When Dennis finally does stand, he chances a quick glance at Jack– the timid, hesitant kind of glance that he reserves for the twice-his-age-attendings that he finds particularly attractive– and, to his surprise, is met with Jack’s unfaltering gaze. An embarrassed flush blooms over Dennis’s cheeks, mixing with the previous fever pink tint and making him look even more overheated than he previously had. 

“So… shall we?” He gestures towards the ambulance bay doors, silently cursing himself for saying ‘shall we’ to his attending; he hasn’t even entered the ED yet and he’s already proven himself socially incompetent. 

“We shall.” Jack juts his chin towards the doors, a small movement, but one that Dennis reads clearly enough as a prompt for him to enter first. 

The chaos of the ED hits Dennis all at once, sending a surge of adrenaline through his body the second he steps inside. As always, there’s a chorus of medical equipment beeping, blaring, and ringing, but that’s just the undercurrent to the swell of shouting. Everyone is working over one another, weaving around gurneys with clusters of doctors and nurses working to the MVC patients– at least, those who have already arrived. 

Across the room, Dennis catches a glimpse of Trinity performing CPR on a seemingly unresponsive patient, but he doesn’t have the time to give her a second thought. Jack’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing firm before he disappears into the mess of medical professionals. 

Dennis joins the frey too, his body’s autopilot winning over his brain’s fever muddled antics. He jumps onto a case with McKay– a 25 year old male, responsive at the scene, car shrapnel penetrating the chest, broken ribs from the crash’s impact, lung sliding on the left. The patient crashes twenty minutes into treatment; Dennis reclaims his title as the ED’s resident LUCAS machine. 

Robby swoops into the patients room just as they get the patient back, his pulse thready but present. “Who’s this?” He asks, already slipping a pair of gloves over his hands as he approaches the patient’s bedside. His eyes flick from the patient’s vitals, over their chest and abdomen, to McKay, and then to Dennis. It’s only when his gaze reaches the younger doctor that he falters– not from the protruding foreign body in the patient’s chest, nor the blood soaked sheets, but rather the sight of Whitaker sweat soaked and swaying beside the patient’s bed. 

“Marcus Haynes. 25,” McKay rattles off the patient’s known demographics before diving into his physical traumas, symptoms, and treatment. Robby’s hands work their way over the patient’s torso, carrying out an exam as if by instinct as he listens. 

“Good. Page surgery again.” Robby peels off his gloves with a snap. “Tell them it’s urgent. This patient can’t afford to wait for their hour-long stroll down the stairwell.”

The sharp sound of the gloves breaks through Dennis’s reverie. He had been standing idly by, barely cognizant of McKay’s words in the wake of exerting himself to perform CPR. Beads of sweat slip down the center of his back, pooling above the waistband of his scrub pants and slowly seeping into the fabric. Sweat collects on his face too, threatening to form full drops and roll over his flushed cheeks; he swipes absentmindedly at his forehead before they can reach that point. 

“Whitaker. You alright?” 

Dennis looks towards Robby, nodding belatedly. “Yeah.” Another nod. “Yes, I’m good.” 

The attending pauses, eyebrows raised as he watches Dennis wipe his forehead again. “Alright. You’re with me then. Another rig is four minutes out.”

Dennis nods once more, trying to ignore the evergrowing sinking sensation in his stomach. Whatever spurt of adrenaline had carried him through the first patient has left him high and dry– or, rather, feverish and sweat soaked. He follows Robby towards the ambulance bay, weaving through the crowd with much less coordination than necessary. He bumps into at least three people on the way, nearly trips over his own feet, and lets his hip collide with a passing gurney. If he was in a contest for socially and professionally inadequate doctors, he’d win by a long shot, he’s sure of it. 

By some miracle, he manages to make it to the ambulance bay without completely humiliating himself. He didn’t faceplant in front of the nurses station, at the very least. Plus, the air is cooler outside, fresher, less suffocatingly sterile. As the automatic doors slip shut behind him and Robby, they leave a pleasant quietness in their wake. Sure, the sounds of ambulance sirens are ebbing closer with every passing second, bringing with them the promise of more chaos, but at least there’s a pleasant breeze, right?

“So, called in on your day off, huh?” Robby’s tone is conversational, but his eyes narrow as they take in Dennis’s appearance. 

“Yeah, I guess so– er, well, I know so. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, obviously.” 

     10. Making conversation with my boss while feverish cursed

Robby’s eyes soften slightly, a fondness easing his evident concern; he’s always enjoyed how easily Dennis blushes. 

“Hopefully you’re not here for too long. Except I can’t make any promises, these–”

“kzXCHh!” 

The sneeze takes the two doctors equally by surprise– Robby at having been interrupted and Dennis at having absolutely no warning for the expulsion. He raises a hand to his face, catching the second, “isXSch’ew!” against his wrist. 

“shifts tend to––,” Robby resumes, continuing his sentence in the brief gap before another “h’txCh–itSch!” double gets muffled by Dennis’s sleeve. 

“–drag on much longer when our systems get bogged down,” this time, Robby pauses his speech rather than being interrupted, allowing just enough time for Dennis to hitch twice and sneeze another fittish triple, “hih’hhH–ksxch’sch’tzch!”

“But for all we know,” Robby stretches his arms above his head, though his eyes remain trained on Dennis, “we might both make it home in time for dinner.”

Dennis buries his nose in his elbow, once again wishing he’d worn an undershirt beneath his scrubs as he feels a bead of moisture press to his skin. He waits, the tickle dancing just beyond his reach, enough to make his breath hitch and eyes water, but not enough to heighten the sensation into anything more than irritation. 

Dennis teeters on the edge, remaining tucked in the same position as he waits. He can feel Robby’s gaze on him and it makes his cheeks flush a darker shade of pink. 

Finally, his breath snags in something more than just a breathless gasp, spurring a light cough and then a half-stifled, “h’gtch!” He hadn’t intended on stifling, but the sneeze gets caught behind the wall of congestion solidifying in his nose. The following sneeze makes more of an effort to escape, but it still gets stuck behind his teeth, failing into a breathy, soft end: “ig’ksst!”  

Unsatisfied with the unexpelled half-sneezes, he shakes his head lightly– a bad idea in retrospect, it does nothing more than make him dizzy. Then, his head bobs forwards with a final vocal, “ik’tSSHh-ue!” that leaves the crook of his elbow dusted with a light spray. 

Dennis gives an involuntary sniffle afterwards, the pent up congestion now threatening to run over his lip like some post-fit humiliation ritual. 

    11. Sneezing in front of my boss

“You done?” Robby’s voice falls somewhere between amused, endeared, and concerned– not upset though, miraculously. Dennis nods and emerges from his elbow, remembering the crumpled excuse of a tissue he has shoved in his pocket from this morning and fumbling to retrieve it. “Bless you.”

     12. Being blessed by my boss

“Thangk you.”

The tissue does a poor job at cleaning him up. Already crumpled from inhabiting his pocket, its structural integrity isn’t nearly as strong as he needs it to be. He resorts to half sniffling, half wiping his nose with his body turned away from Robby as the sirens draw nearer. 

Robby watches, mentally toeing between the ideas of pointing out Dennis’s illness or giving him the benefit of the doubt– although it’s becoming evident to him that the younger doctor doesn’t know when to call it quits. “So,” he begins, but he’s interrupted. He’d underestimated how close the ambulance was to the bay; he’s been at the pitt long enough to be able to identify when a rig is going to pull up to the second, but he’s been uncharacteristically distracted. 

The sirens’ sound grows tenfold as they approach at haphazard speeds, spinning around Dennis’s head as he stares loosely in the direction of the ambulance. He shoves his sodden tissue unceremoniously back into his pocket and finds a pair of gloves held just before his eyeline. With a quick nod of thanks to Robby– a disjointed, slow jerk of his head– he accepts them and starts fumbling to pull them over his clammy hands. 

“What’ve we got?” Robby snaps into action, meeting the paramedics at the rig’s back door and immediately beginning his examination of the patient. Dennis tries to keep up, rushing to follow Robby’s lead and nearly bumping straight into his back in the process. Smooth, Dennis, he mentally chides. 

“50 year old female. She was an unrestrained passenger in the vehicle when–” 

Dennis prays that his adrenaline will take the reins again, silently willing his body to listen, to move, to attend to his surroundings, and to practice medicine– easy, right? 

“Dana, we need a room!” Robby calls across the ED once they make it past the entrance, his hands already carrying out a partial exam. 

“Trauma Two’s open!” Dana bellows back. As always, she’s working in the center of the chaos, acting as the pillar that keeps the whole damn place upright. 

“Alright. Whitaker, you’re with me,” Robby casts a quick glance around, “McKay! Javadi” 

The resident and student doctor join them in the trauma room at record speed, immediately getting the patient’s run-down, which, admittedly, was helpful for Dennis to hear again. A portable ultrasound is shoved into his hand, his other clutching loosely at a bottle of gel– when had he grabbed that?– “Dennis!” Javadi whispers, giving his elbow a slight nudge and snapping him out of his reverie. 

“Right– uh. Checking for lung sliding,” he spurs into action, his medical knowledge still miraculously intact despite his growing fever. “No lung sliding on the left,” he reports as the other doctors attend to Robby’s instructions, “the right’s clear too. Checking the abdomen next.” 

Robby steps back, allowing Dennis to take his place by the patient’s abdomen and position himself for the ultrasound. The room swirls around him for just a moment, its white walls blurring into a bright haze that forces Dennis to blink a few times to right his vision. One of Robby’s hands settles on his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

As distracting as Robby’s touch can be, it brings Dennis back to his body for a moment, back to the fact that he’s actively treating a patient. “Uh– the gel’s a bit cold, sorry,” he announces to the (unconscious) patient out of habit as he begins the ultrasound. McKay and Javadi exchange a look of concern. 

Dennis glides the ultrasound wand across the patient’s stomach, eyes straining to focus on the screen, “there’s free fluid in the belly.” That gets Robby’s attention immediately. He peers at the screen, reaching over to adjust Dennis’s hand ever so slightly before nodding. 

“Yep. It looks like a splenic injury. Javadi, what are our next steps?”

Dennis stares downwards, watching as Robby’s hand once again steers his own to get a different angle. He shouldn’t need help with an ultrasound, but his hand melts under Robby’s, suddenly incapable of moving without guidance. A tingling sensation pools in the tips of his fingers, and Dennis is unable to decipher if it’s from the fact that Robby’s hand is dwarfing his or if it's from the dizziness tugging at his consciousness. 

Another nudge to his elbow– harder this time– makes Dennis jerk his head upright. All three of the doctors have their eyes trained on him, so he sputters out a quiet, “sorry!” 

Before anyone can acknowledge Dennis’s behavior, Mohan opens the door in a rush, “Robby! We need you in Trauma One!” and with that, the attending is gone and McKay takes the lead. 

Luckily, she knows to delegate most of the tasks to Javadi, giving Dennis simpler instructions and double checking his work. Within thirty minutes, the patient is stable and awaiting surgery, and he’s off the case. 

Within the same thirty minute period, however, his symptoms start hitting him over the head like bricks one after the other: dizziness, headache (which makes the dizziness worse), congestion (which makes the headache worse), and body aches (which make the whole damn day worse). 

    13. Worsening symptoms of my cold curse

As Dennis finally steps out of Trauma Two, he’s met with a resurgence of the pitt’s chaos. More rigs have arrived since he’d last been in the bay, bringing with them emergent patients, some of whom were overflowing into the main halls. 

His eyes flick from patient to patient, his brain lagging as he tries to deduce who to help first. The decision is made for him when Abbot spots him standing idly by, “Whitaker!”

Dennis crosses the sea of gurneys, nurses, and doctors to where Abbot is treating a tearful patient. 

“She has an anterior shoulder dislocation. You’re going to help me reduce it,” Abbot instructs, eyes narrowing as he meets Dennis’s gaze, “got it?”

Dennis nods, looking over the patient's dislocation before recounting, “there’s skin tenting, most likely due to a bone fracture, so… traction-counteraction is needed. Then we can treat the break after.”

Abbot gives Dennis a onceover before bracing himself by the patient’s head and getting into position. “You’re going to provide counteraction. Make sure you’ve got a sturdy stance.” 

He tsks at Dennis, tilting his head to the side and gesturing with a nod of his head for Dennis to shift. “Spread your legs wider. Your feet shouldn’t be aligned with your hips.” 

Dennis adjusts, earning a nod of approval as he tries desperately not to think about the way Jack’s voice had sounded when he instructed him to spread his legs; fever or not, his attraction to his attending persists. 

The reduction itself goes relatively smoothly all things considered, but it seems to zap Dennis’s remaining energy. Sweat is still dripping down his back and pooling in his scrubs, and he’s certain that the pitt has never been hotter. He swipes his wrist across his forehead, collecting an embarrassing amount of sweat and wiping it against his scrubs– thank God they’re dark. He doesn’t need everyone to know just how incapable his body is at regulating its temperature right now. 

To make things worse, Dennis’s sinuses prickle angrily as he inhales, enough to make his eyes water. The sensation takes root in the left side of his nose, worsening with the next inhale, which stutters halfway through and falls into a fluttering exhale. Still standing by the patient’s bedside next to Dr Abbot, Dennis stalls; his feet plant themselves stubbornly in place, refusing to move until the itch is attended to. Two soft hitches build on one another and Dennis presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. 

He can feel his brows knitting together, eyes slipping shut just as the third and fourth hitches make it past his lips. The final hitch is determined, filling his chest with its inhale. Nose buried in his elbow, Dennis shudders with a congested stifle, “n’kGXt!” 

His head bobs down hard and quick, the action unplanting his feet and causing him to stumble towards Jack a few steps. The attending’s hands land on Dennis’s sides, bracing him with a surprised, “Jesus, kid.”

Dennis leans into the touch, his body overwhelmed by– “hn’gxXt!”– the itch that’s now searing through his sinuses, having traveled from just the left side to what feels like his entire nose– “ih’ngXCch!” 

By instinct, Dennis tries to stifle, but his attempts just worsen his body’s need to expel the cold from its system, resulting in a quick gasp and then a cluster of sneezes that tumble out over one another, “ig’ksSst! ngXch-ksch!iih’ksSCHh! kK’tTsSCHhy’w!”

The fit leaves Dennis panting, dizzy, and with his nose running into the crevice of his elbow. He keeps his head bowed and hidden, but an embarrassed blush reddens his ears and neck. 

“Bl–” Jack begins, but Dennis cuts him off with a belated, “t’sSXch’ehw!” to which an older man raises an eyebrow. Abbot hesitates for a second, letting any final sneezes make themselves known before attempting to bless the younger doctor again. 

“Bless. You trying to set a record or something?” 

“No, I’m— sorry. I’m nodt—,” Whitaker begins, words falling from his mouth without any real coherence. The itch lingers in the back of his throat, each word egging it on until, “hnGjXch! S-hihh’iSZSHh!—sorry!” 

A liquid sniffle follows Dennis’s apology, and he shoves his free hand into his pocket in a vain hope that it would contain a tissue. No such luck. He sniffles a second time, then a third, his nose still tucked into the crook of his elbow. Luckily, the sniffles are lost to the chaos of the ED, stamped out by sounds of medical machinery and a chorus of voices. 

Dennis pointedly avoids Jack’s gaze, his eyes skirting around for the nearest exit from the overcrowded room. He can feel the attending’s hands over his scrubs, bracing him with a sturdiness that he desperately needs. 

The nurses station is crowded as ever, as is the rest of the pitt. An overflow of patient beds lines the hallways, blocking the exit nearest to Dennis. Fine, that’s fine. He just has to cross by South 15, pass the breakroom, and take a few minutes in the stairwell by the family room. 

“Sorry,” Dennis offers again, his brain churning out the same useless apology as it works through the molasses clouding his judgement. 

“Whitaker.” Jack’s hold on Dennis’s waist continues, his grip growing firmer as the student doctor takes a step forward. 

Dennis’s fever-addled brain miscalculates. Lifting just a few inches off the ground, his foot collides clumsily with Abbot’s sneaker, missing the ground entirely and instead landing on the toe of his prosthetic. 

Fumbling to find his footing, Dennis feels the room spin as he tries to lift his leg again; the limb shifts off of Jack’s foot, landing on solid ground by some miracle. 

The heat that’s been sitting dormant beneath Dennis’s skin now sears to the forefront of his mind, blurring his vision. His body practically wilts: legs shaking, posture slumping, and head swimming. 

Oh. Shit. 

He just barely registers, “Alright kid, stay with me. You’re alright.” 

Dennis tries to nod, to get his tongue to do anything more than sit like a rock in his mouth. He wants to agree– yes, I am alright– but all he manages is another whispered apology as he slumps further towards Abbot. 

“Fuck!” Jack hooks his arms beneath Dennis’s, keeping the younger— surprisingly buff— doctor upright. He barks, “Robby!!” as he casts a glance over his shoulder, catching his fellow attending in his line of sight. 

that's all for now ~ any and all comments/tags are appreciated :) thank you for reading!

11:24 pm. 

The vague sounds of movement alongside a shift in the mattress rouse Dennis from sleep, shoving him into an uncomfortable, bleary, sweaty daze. The room is too dark for him to make anything out, but when he flops an arm to the side and finds a distinctly Robby-shaped divot empty in the mattress, he makes a quiet huff of protest. 

Ow. The stuffy exhale scrapes his throat on the way out, making his eyes prickle with painful tears that only worsen when he swallows with a wince. Between his fever and his barely conscious state, Dennis can’t piece together anything aside from the knowledge that Robby is gone. 

He opens his mouth to call out for his boyfriend, but it just results in a voiceless squeak and a renewed burning through his throat. Oh. Okay. 

Too exhausted to go find Robby himself, Dennis settles for rolling onto Robby’s side of the bed and burying his face in his pillow, but instead of being met with the familiar scent he’d wanted, the movement just makes him dizzy. Dennis vaguely registers the faroff sound of someone in the kitchen as his eyes begin to droop shut again; their lids are too heavy for him to keep open, inclined to shut despite his best efforts. 

He’s seconds away from falling back to sleep when a shiver racks his body, sparking up through his spine and casting a blanket of heat out over his skin. Goosebumps prickle across his arms and legs and with a congested whine, Dennis’s legs work to kick off the blankets. 

The action is less than graceful; he immediately gets tangled between the sheets and comforter, his legs hitting each other more often than the blanket. After exerting himself far too much for such a miniscule amount of movement, he manages to cast the blankets onto the floor. They meet the carpet with a light, barely audible thud and Dennis stretches over the bare bed in victory. 

With his battle won and his body appeased by the lack of extra heat, sleep starts to claim him again. This time, it’s cast away as he hears a muffled sneeze sound from down the hall. ‘hHUH’MMPdDZSSHhHh’uh!’ Ah, so that’s why Robby had gotten up.  

Dennis waits, rolling over once again and cringing as he shifts back into his spot, the sheets damp and sticky with sweat. Gross. He squirms around on the king sized bed until he finds the coolest, cleanest patch of sheets he can, resulting in him laying across the foot of the bed like a dog. He doesn’t even care; the coolness of the sheets is enough to entice him to stay in the strange position. 

After a few minutes of fighting to stay awake, heavy but deliberately quiet footsteps pad down the hall and back into the bedroom. With it being as dark as it is, Robby only notices Dennis’s change in position when he sits down and finds Dennis’s half of the bed empty. 

“Den?” he murmurs softly, hands roaming over the mattress to find his boyfriend, who has apparently disappeared from his spot in the few minutes Robby was gone. His right hand bumps into Dennis’s torso at the foot of the bed and works its way over his lower back. “Hey baby. What’re you doing down there?”

Dennis tries speaking again, forcing out a congested “ngh” before clearing his throat and mumbling, “bless you.”

“What?”

“You sneezed.” He answers, practically asleep and struggling to think about anything aside from the pain in his head and throat — aside from Robby’s hand rubbing gentle circles on his back, maybe. 

“Oh.” Robby smiles when Dennis’s bleary speech registers in his mind. “I did, thank you. Sorry, I was trying not to wake you.”

“Woke up… anyways… too hot.” Dennis mumbles into the mattress, burying his face against the sheets even though it makes breathing harder than it already was. A broad hand gently pushes his head upright to slip between it and the mattress, cupping his forehead. 

“Jesus, you’re burning up.” 

A shiver climbs through Dennis’s body again, forcing a little spasm and causing him to curl up on himself a little. He scootches closer to Robby, but the effort of lifting his head is suddenly far too much for him to manage; he settles for pressing his face against Robby’s thigh instead of resting it on his lap. 

“I think it’s time for some more tylenol, yeah? Your fever’s not cooperating.” 

“I’m very… copper… ative,” comes Dennis’s incoherent response, eyes fully shut and brain muddled. Robby huffs a soft laugh. “Yes, you are.” He agrees. Dennis is just awake enough for his chest to flutter at the praise. 

Robby reaches over to the bedside, careful not to shift too much and disrupt Dennis’s position. His fingers fumble for a moment before he manages to flick on the light. Asleep or not, Dennis’s body doesn’t like that — ‘hmPSXch!szSCHh! … ih’yhSXchi!’

The sneezes leave a small damp spot on Robby’s pants, and he hums in sympathy at the sound of Dennis’s whine. “I know, I’m sorry. That’s never fun.” He blinks as he registers the mattress's empty state. “Where are the blankets?” 

All he gets in response is a stuffy sniffle and a sleepy huff. Robby deduces that the blankets are somewhere in the room after most likely being discarded by his disgruntled boyfriend, and momentarily moves said boyfriend from his thigh before fetching him some more Tylenol to take. It takes some effort to get Dennis to sit up, but once they manage it, he takes the medication without much fuss. 

“See,” he murmurs, eyes closed, “‘m very co-oper’tttt’CHhiew! ‘Scuse mbe… hh–‘iZzzyShHiew!tsch!’ 

“Bless you,” Robby hums, “you wanna try going back to sleep? Maybe not at the end of the bed this time?”

Dennis frowns, leaning against Robby’s shoulder — well, more like falling into it — and huffs again. “‘S damp… sheets..” he waves a hand in dismissal, and burrows into Robby’s shirt. 

“Oh,” his boyfriend now realises the predicament at hand. “I can change the sheets?” 

“Noo, no, no…” Dennis sits up, wagging his finger at Robby, who’s now trying his best not to laugh. 

“C’mon, you. I’ll make you a temporary couch bed, and I’ll grab some new sheets from the laundry pile.” He helps hoist him up onto his feet, giving him a moment to gather his bearings, before slowly helping him out and into the living room. 

He brings a soft blanket for his boyfriend next, and goes in search of some new sheets and a duvet cover for the bed — oh, and a new pillow case, too. Robby’s guilt for getting Dennis sick in the first place starts to linger as he works at changing the bed, and remaking it again. He knows his boyfriend has some sort of issue with his immune system… he should have been more careful. Yet, it’s not like they even shared an apartment for the first few days of his cold. Dennis could have picked up a different rhinovirus simply in the ER. Robby sighs, before turning to return to his now sleeping (and snoring) beauty. He can’t bear to move him just yet, and so gently perches himself on the edge of the couch and watches Dennis’ rosy cheekbones lit up by the moonlight that slips in through the curtains. 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” He whispers, gaze not leaving his boyfriend's sleeping frame; arms strewn over his face in a comedic fashion, lips just barely parted. But, before Robby can continue to marvel in the beauty that is his feverish partner in all his glory… his own sinuses start to prickle and burn, reminding him that he’s not completely over his own cold just yet. 

He fumbles to get out of the room as quickly as possible, but it’s dark and he’s stuck in a desperate haze, and so kicks the coffee table on his way out and only manages to get to the bedroom door before — 

 ‘HHH’UH’YsssSSHhHhIEW!’ And, then there’s a soft thump! from the living room, followed by a whine. Dennis has just rolled off of the couch in half asleep shock from the noise. 

Robby rubs his nose against the back of his wrist, hurrying back into the living room and flicking on the light. The room becomes illuminated with a warm glow of yellow, and he watches Dennis duck into the blanket as his nose protests. ‘iiiIzZYyssHiew! ‘tChH! tCcCHh-TChhhh’Yyiew!’ Then, teary eyed he sniffles and re-emerges. 

“How’d I get here?” He croaks, looking up at Robby, who’s already carefully leaning down to hoist him back up again. 

“I’m so sorry I scared you there,” his voice is softer than ever, and Dennis goes a little giddy at the knees for multiple reasons, as he’s led back into the bedroom. “You okay? The sheets are clean now, let’s get you into bed, love.” Robby rubs Dennis’ back, before helping him to get back underneath the covers. 

With a gentle hum of contentment (that’s also very nasally), he finally settles back where he belongs, and Robby joins him. “‘M okay now.” Dennis sniffles, nose having run past his cupid's bow now — which Robby notices, and swipes away with the cuff of the hoodie he’s wearing. Dennis scrunches his nose, the sudden contact with the fabric about to set him off all over again, so it seems. 

The appendage twitches and flares, making its protests known as Robby’s sleeve wipes against it a second time to clear away the lingering moisture. “Rhhih– RobbyyY’iSSChh’ew!ksch’ichh!…hh’tTZZxchy’w!”

The sneezes are soft and damp, caught against the cuff of Robby’s jacket. “Bless, bless, bless, bless you.” Robby kisses Dennis’s forehead and runs his hands over the blanket again, ensuring that his boyfriend’s covered. Dennis squirms a little, but any protests he might’ve made are interrupted with a long, sleepy yawn. 

‘There you go.” Robby murmurs, brushing a few stray curls off of Dennis’s forehead. He lingers like that for a moment — hovering, ready to help however needed — before realizing that Dennis is pretty much passed out already. Instead of checking his partner’s temperature again, like his anxiety urges him to, he settles for pulling Dennis into a close embrace. 

•

1:06 am. 

Robby is woken for the umpteenth time that night as Dennis twists in his sleep, managing to tangle himself deeper into the knot of blankets he’s created. In doing so, he once again steals the comforter to his side of the bed – though he’s somehow still encroaching into Robby’s half of the mattress. 

“Den.” Robby mumbles, voice heavy with sleep as he gives the blanket a gentle tug. Nothing. Another little tug, and a sleepy Dennis rolls to the far side of the bed. 

Half asleep, Robby scootches closer and does his best to disentangle the smaller man from the sheets and comforter, starting with his hands. The sheet is pressed tight against the right side of his body, trapping one of his arms entirely before twisting around his torso and between his legs. How on earth he’s managed to get himself into that position while unconscious is entirely beyond Robby. 

The blanket is similarly intertwined, though that’s mostly due to the fact that Dennis is clinging to it like a lifeline. A sweaty, overheated lifeline that definitely needs a wash. 

“C’mon love.” The older man coaxes a very-dead-asleep Dennis to loosen his hold. When he finally starts making some leeway, Dennis stirs, and Robby pauses his motions. A sleepy, but clearly uncomfortable whine slips past Dennis’s lips. 

Brow pinching in worry, Robby stops his efforts to claim back any of the blanket, planting a hand on Dennis’s side. “You’re okay.” The reassurance is more for Robby than anything else. Dennis is okay. He’s here, and he’s safe, and he has someone to keep him that way. 

Dennis shifts again, this time rolling closer to Robby and pressing his face against his scruffy neck. He gives a little huff at the feeling of the facial hair against his skin, tucking himself against Robby’s chest instead. A calm, sweet comfort blooms in Robby’s chest as he holds Dennis close, hoping he can finally sleep longer than a 20 minute increment. 

Five minutes later, just as Robby is dozing off again, Dennis’s ice cold feet press themselves between his boyfriend’s legs, earning a gasp of surprise and a tired, soft reprimand. 

•

1:43 am. 

This time around, Robby is granted 40 minutes of sleep before he’s woken. It takes him a moment to register the movement beside him, but as soon as he does, he’s wide awake. Dennis’s face is buried in the bunched up blanket, attempting to muffle a series of wet, chest rattling coughs. 

Robby’s hand immediately falls between Dennis’s shoulderblades, rubbing circles as he murmurs gentle reassurances. “It’s okay, just breathe. I’ve got you.” 

It takes longer than Robby would’ve liked for the coughing to stop, and even longer for Dennis’s breathing to go back to normal. Congestion has clearly settled in Dennis’s chest after laying down for so long. 

Robby pushes himself upright in bed, propping a pillow behind him before pulling Dennis up as well. His boyfriend makes a small whine of protest at the movement, but melts into the hold nonetheless. Sure, Robby might regret the position in the morning when his back is screaming at him, but if it helps Dennis breathe, it will be well worth it. 

Even after Dennis falls back to sleep, Robby stays awake, counting Dennis’s stuffy breaths like they could stop at any moment. He almost has a heart attack when one of them catches, falling short before another small gasp, but his worry is eased when the stuttered breath just results in a few sneezes against his chest. ‘hTSSch! ngGSch’kxXCh!’

“Bless you,” Robby whispers, somewhat impressed at how Dennis snores again seconds later; sleep-sneezing, huh? Another little anecdote to add to his mental list. 

He continues to wait, just for a little longer, to check on Dennis and ensure that his breathing stays as comfortable and as even as possible. 

•

4.34am.

By some miracle, Robby’s boyfriend has managed to stay almost perfectly in place against his chest for the past few hours. Yes, there’s a few damp patches against the t-shirt material now, but he doesn’t care. It’s just past four when Dennis stirs again, but it’s the seventh consecutive sneeze that ends up waking Robby properly. ‘—kShHhHiew!’ And, it seems that exact sneeze wakes Dennis himself, too. “Hmm? B’lss you?” He murmurs, voice thick with sleep and congestion piled on top of one another and blurring lines. 

“I think you sneezed, sweetheart.” Robby groans softly, moving to sit and stretch his back. 

“Sneezed?” Dennis mutters amongst a yawn, quickly sniffling afterward as he begins to wake enough to realise his nose is very drippy, and probably has been for a while now. 

“Yeah. Bless you… you need anything? You sound a little more with it.” He squints through the darkness, trying to discern if his boyfriend looks any more lucid or if it’s his sleep-addled mind betraying him. 

“Maybe… you. And, a tissue.” Dennis sniffles thickly, extra congestion evident since he had gone to bed last night. He wriggles his nose, an unsatisfying feeling of fullness as well as tingling backing up in his sinuses. “Definitely a tissue,” he amends as the tingling surges to the tip of his nose, making the appendage twitch in itchy protest. 

“M’kay.” Robby hums, shifting in bed and reaching blindly towards the nightstand for the tissue box. Just as he plucks a few out, Dennis pitches forwards with a squeaky stifle. ‘nGXschy’w!’ 

He’d been trying not to make a mess of his drippy nose, but all he does is start a rapid fit, damp against pinched fingers. ‘ngt–’gSxCh–ih’nNxt-h’kgxt!’ 

Gently, Robby pulls Dennis’s hand away from his face, replacing it with the bundle of tissues. ‘ihHsSSXchh!tSXChiew!.. ih… hhihH’iTtDTschyu! ngh…’

Dennis snuffles against the now damp tissues, scrunching up his nose and coughing lightly as congestion drips into the soft paper. “S’rry” he mumbles, voice muffled as Robby begins to wipe away the moisture clinging to his septum. He’s too sleepy to register just how embarrassing the whole ordeal is. 

“Don’t be. Bless you bunches.” Robby’s voice is soft, affectionate, but he still can’t help the slight reprimand. “You know better than to hold them in.” 

“I kdow.” Dennis sniffs again, pushing himself upright so he can reach over Robby for more tissues. The older man laughs and reaches over for him, bringing the box to settle on his lap. His hand finds its way to the nape of Dennis’s neck, pressing itself to the warm skin there as Dennis blows his nose — once, twice, three times before he can breathe through his nose again. 

“There you go.” The soft praise rolls of Robby’s tongue as if by instinct, like he was made to comfort Dennis and do nothing more. “Better?”

“Better.” Dennis confirms with a little nod, yawning again and mumbling “what time is it?”

Robby plants a little kiss on his temple. “Too early. Go back to sleep.” 

The conversation wasn't going particularly well. It was a couple hours before opening for the night, and Majima and Yuki had set aside some time for more customer service training. Yuki was keeping up for the most part, but the more Majima thought about it, the more it seemed as if something was on her mind.

"What's the matter, Yuki-chan?" Majima asked her as she poured his drink, "Ya overthinkin' somethin' again?"

Her eyes widened slightly as she finished pouring, and a hot blush flashed on her cheeks. She didn't know how to tell him that he was the reason she was so distracted.

It was hard to maintain eye contact when her eyes kept getting drawn to the obvious signs of an emerging head cold. She could plainly see clear slime threatening to drip past his pink, twitching nostrils every several seconds. She noticed how dry his lips were as he breathed through them, only slightly parted. She watched his Adam's apple bob up and down every time he cleared his throat. When she did look up to meet his eye, it looked so tired, as if he'd slept all of 2 hours in the past 2 weeks. He wasn't trying to draw attention to it, so she wasn't planning on bringing it up. Majima didn't seem the type to be open about this kind of vulnerability, and she didn't want to upset him if he was already unwell. She stalled a bit while she tried to think of a delicate way to frame it.

"I was just wondering if we could continue this training session some other time." She couldn't look up at him, occupying herself by slowly and carefully rearranging the bottle and glasses on the table.

"Is something wrong with ya? I guess we could reschedule, but we're already halfway done. What's gotcha all nervous? 's there anything I can do?" He sounded so effortlessly cool whenever he offered to take care of things for her, but the effect was weakened a bit when his breath got caught on a liquid sniffle immediately after he said it.

Yuki looked up quickly, not wanting to miss what may come next. Her assumption was proved correct as her gaze was met with a slowly closing eye, a slacking jaw, and a scrunched nose. She watched in awe as his wet nostrils flared and twitched. His eyelashes fluttered as if he was trying to will his eye back open. His lip quivered as if he wasn't sure if he should close his mouth. Both were impossible owing to the intense irritation in his long, congested nose. He had been holding back this sneeze for what must have been hours now, and it wasn't going to wait any longer.

He slowly put his hand up to his face to cover his mouth and nose, curled index finger and thumb applying light pressure along the bridge. After holding that initial breath for as long as he could, he finally granted his sinuses the relief they had been begging for.

"hhi'TSCHt! hiihhhihh--"

One suppressed sneeze clearly was not enough.

hhAEH'KSHHhuh huhh... huhhh...

He couldn't quite tell if he was in the clear or not before--

snfffff haAEH'GSHIEW

That last thick sniffle stoked the fire in the back of his nose just enough to produce one final heaving sneeze into his open palm.

Before he even looked up to face Yuki after that, he kept his hand against his face and used his other hand to fish out a tissue from a pack in his pants pocket. Yuki watched closely as his fingers fumbled with the plastic a bit before he got a fresh tissue out and brought it to his face to clean up after his sensitive nose. She caught herself holding her breath and forced herself to let it out slowly through rounded lips. She couldn't believe this was really happening. Once the absolutely soaked tissue was shoved back into his pocket, Majima looked back up at her.

"Sorry 'bout that," he said as he tried to seamlessly return to the conversation, hoping Yuki wouldn't make a big deal out of it and they could move on quickly. Yuki, however, was totally transfixed, staring at Majima as he rubbed under his nostrils with his index finger, scrunching it up one last time to reset after all the irritation.

Shaking her head slightly, she snapped back into the conversation at hand. "Well, to be honest," she could not believe the ironic timing of where this conversation was going, "if I seemed distracted, I was actually just wondering if you were okay."

He honestly wasn't expecting that answer when he asked her. Yeah, he knew he was coming down with something. He knew since he woke up this morning to a full nose and a scratchy throat. Honestly, he was surprised Yuki picked up on it. She's normally not the swiftest hamster on the wheel, and he was putting in a decent effort to not draw attention to himself. Well, at least up until the sneezes started.

He still didn't see his condition as a really big deal. He was just a manager; it didn't matter if he was a little under the weather. He would just pop into Daikoku and buy some cold meds and power through like he always did, sore throat and tickly nose be damned. Although, he could do without the headache starting to build along his brow.

When he looked over to assure Yuki there was nothing to worry about, she looked away suddenly, like she had been caught staring this whole time and wanted to seem nonchalant. He paused a second, thinking her behaviour was a tad suspicious. Come to think of it, Majima was feeling her eyes burning through his skin for most of the training so far today. Different from the usual customer-hostess eye contact. Without realizing it, he started to feel a little defensive.

"What makes ya think there's somethin' the matter with me?" He smiled, trying to put her mind at ease.

She saw right through his smile and calm words. She could clearly hear from the thick nasal quality in his voice that his striking aquiline nose was totally full. She had to clear her throat to keep her voice even.

"Well, you taught me to be more attentive when interacting with guests." Yuki wore a proud smile for a moment, remembering her training. She forced herself into an unyielding eye contact and put on a serious yet playful face. "And it's clear that you're totally worn out!"

"Yer worryin' too much, Yuki-chan, really. I just didn't get a good night's sleep."

"Oh yeah? Well... your nose is all red!" Yuki's face had shifted to a look of pure determination, fighting through the redness rising in her cheeks. She wanted to get a real confession out of him.

His eyebrows twitched down a bit. Fueled by the embarrassment of how closely she's been studying his face, he got more defensive. Still, without missing a beat, he retorted, "Well, it's winter, after all! It's cold outside."

"A-and your voice keeps cracking!"

"Must have gone too hard at karaoke last night." He shrugged, trying to maintain a casual demeanor.

"Oh yeah? Then what about those sneezes?"

He didn't have a response prepared for that one. Luckily for Yuki, he was too focused on coming up with something to really notice her moment of hesitation before saying the s-word. He ended up blurting out the lamest excuse in the book. "It's probably just allergies, nothing to worry about."

"Allergies?" Yuki didn't believe him for a second, "What are you allergic to? It's the middle of winter!"

"Well, y'know, uh... perhhh... snfff your perfume?" He winced after his breath hitched. The last thing he needed was to sneeze again right now.

"I wear the same perfume every day. You've never reacted to it before." Yuki stated matter-of-factly. "In fact, you even picked it out, remember?" She felt her lips twitch into a small smile. She had won a battle of wits against none other than Goro Majima, the all-powerful manager of Club Sunshine.

As Yuki was stuck in her own thoughts about trying to make Majima admit to the cause of his sensitive nose, said nose was twitching and starting to leak out both nostrils. When she refocused on the situation unfolding before her, he was already pulling the last couple tissues from the packet.

hAH'PSHHah-- AE'GSHhhuh

He didn't make it in time for the first couple sneezes, but the rest of the fit was barely caught in the cheap, thin tissues. The sound of mess hitting the paper clear in Yuki's ears.

hAH'mphSHa... hhuh... hAE'nnshhh! guhh... haehh'HEH'SSHIEW

Yuki watched, mesmerized, as Majima slowly lowered the saturated clump of tissues from his explosive nose. She noticed two long threads of thick mess stretching from the tips of his nostrils onto the material, before he quickly repositioned the soiled wad back onto his irritated nose and tried to pinch off the excess before putting it back in his pocket. He finished the display with a long, thick, gurgling sniffle.

Yuki tried really hard to keep a straight face, although she could not hold back the blush spreading across her cheeks. She squirmed a little in her seat, growing more and more desperate to relieve some of the tension growing in her lower abdomen. She took in a long, shaky breath to say something, but she was cut short before she even started to speak.

"Wait." Majima interrupted her. He didn't want to hear what he knew she was going to say. He knew he should rest. But he also knew he couldn't do that. If he let his guard down for even a moment, he could lose everything he's been working so hard for. He would just need to endure a little longer. Or at least, that's what he'd been telling himself for the last several months. He wondered just how long exactly he would need to keep this up, but there were more pressing matters at present.

"You don't need to get yerself all worried over me, Yuki-chan." He was hoping for a carefree tone to come through his voice, but through the congestion and the hoarseness, he sounded like he was on his deathbed. He cleared his throat and tried again, his face and tone shifting drastically back into a 'safe' persona, "Well, this club ain't gonna run itself! It's almost time to start gettin' ready to open! We can continue this lesson another time."

He slapped his hands against his thighs dramatically and stood up quickly. That was a bad idea. As he stood up, his head felt light and he stumbled a bit. He held the booth with one hand, the other holding his head, as he waited a moment for the room to stop spinning. When it didn't, Yuki put her hands on his chest and shoulder, stabilizing him. He was much bigger than her, and there was no way she could actually hold him up if he fell, but she wasn't thinking about that in the moment.

After a second, the dizziness subsided, but the damage was done. He'd never be able to convince her to drop it now. He decided his best course of action was to be honest.

"Awright, so maybe I caught just a little case of the sniffles," Majima admitted finally, embarrassment turning his cheeks the colour of his nose. "But it's no cause for alarm or nothin'. I'll pop some meds, chug a Staminan, and I'll be fine."

"Okay... if you're sure." Yuki gave him a sympathetic look. "Just don't overdo it, okay?"

"I told ya to stop worryin'," he reminded her as he relaxed his gaze into a soft smile. It was nice knowing someone was looking out for him. Before he could finish his thought, the act of untensing all his facial muscles shifted something deep in his nose and he had barely enough warning to turn to the side before a spaced-out double struck him. The first one left a fine mist in the air next to them, before he managed to smush the second into a closed fist.

hya'ksshhhit... hi... hap'SCHhiew

"If you keep sneezing like that, I'll have no choice but to worry!" She giggled and lightly slapped his arm, figuring she should try to lighten the mood back up to normal Sunshine levels. He turned back to look at her a little sheepishly, but after seeing her smile, he felt at ease again. Maybe he didn't need to hide from anyone here. He didn't need to be "the Lord of the Night", he didn't need to be Shimano's lap dog, he didn't need to be an intimidating thug. At Sunshine, he just needed to be Goro Majima.

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I haven't written a fanfic in almost 10 years, so I kinda forced myself to write this and get back into the swing of things. This was so hard to write 🥲