#sneezefic

You Why are you sending video of me sneezing? Jane You're cute when you sneeze. I guess the internet shares my opinion You It is a sneeze. Is not cute. Jane The comments beg to differ.

Reluctantly, Ilya switches back to the YouTube page and presses play.

The video begins with a shaky camera filming the Jumbotron at a game against the Florida Panthers. The score (2-1, Raiders' favor) is displayed below footage of the team, which switches from player to player. After a second, the camera lands on Ilya, who is squinting in no particular direction. Seemingly unaware he is being filmed, he wrinkles his nose and presses the back of his glove to it. Before the camera can cut away, he crunches in half with an uncovered sneeze, the momentum pushing him slightly backward on the ice. There is no sound, but visible spray can be seen on the high-definition screen, which glints on the ice.

The shot cuts away quickly, but not before Ilya can be seen gearing up for another, his nostrils flaring above his wet upper lip.

The video changes, displaying a pre-game interview— one that Ilya vaguely remembers. "And how are you feeling before the game tonight?" the interviewer is saying, holding a microphone to Ilya's mouth with the ESPN logo plastered on the front.

"Good," Ilya says simply, looking just beyond the camera, as if distracted by something. "Confident I can score more goals than other team." He brings a hand up to his nose and pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, working it back and forth. The microphone picks up the faint clicking sound it produces.

"Any specific predictions?"

"Other than we play wehh— well?" Ilya doesn't remove his hand, continuing to fumble with his nose, now more roughly. His itchiness is palpable, even through the phone. "No, I do not predict future."

The interviewer laughs, partially at the player's comment, partially at the intensity with which he was trying to rid himself of an apparent tickle. "Understood. Something got up your nose, there, Mr. Rozanov?"

"No," Ilya breathes, but it's clear the opposite is true as he whirls around, sneezing with his back to the camera. "hih'hh! h-ZDXSHsshiu!’"

"Marleau, tag in," someone says from behind the camera. Ilya turns back to the camera, presumably to protest, but is overtaken by the urge to sneeze, and pulls his jersey over the bridge of his nose.

"haH-! NXGGSSH’t! hh'GY’IHSSCHthh!"

The scene switches again. Ilya and Shane are pictured onscreen, sitting next to each other with their teams' logos on a backdrop behind them. It's a press conference, one from their early days of playing together. Ilya recalls that he had a cold at the time, one that he had ended up giving to Shane after their night together.

"I wouldn't say pep talks are a vital part of our game ritual. It might give a small boost of energy and motivation, but how we're going to play is determined by how we practice, not by something someone says," Shane says, glancing sideways at Ilya, who is once again staring into the middle distance, his chapped nostrils twitching.

"hh'heh-NGXshh!" Ilya spins to the side and sneezes in the general direction of, but not into, his elbow. A smattering of 'bless you's are murmured throughout the room, one of which comes from Shane. After he's semi-composed himself, he leans into the microphone. "Thank you. And yes, what he said. Sndf!"

A question for Shane from a Québécois publication follows. "Des cas de mononucléose se seraient propagés dans la ligue. L'une ou l'autre de vos équipes prend-elle des précautions à cet égard?"

"Euh, oui," he begins, switching languages with ease. "Nous prendrons—"

"ihh'y’IHSSCHt-hh!" Another chorus of blessings. Ilya pulls out a crumpled, thoroughly used tissue and swipes it across the moisture that has formed on his cupid's bow. He remains unfazed by the cameras that flash in front of him as he pockets the tissue, sniffling, this time more harshly. This sniffle ends up being a bad idea, as he ends up having to duck to the side of the table for a third time. "hh'ISSHt-hh!!"

"He always has to find a way to interrupt me," Shane says, his expression deadpan with the exception of the quirk in his lip, as is typical when he makes a joke. The room laughs, and the clip switches.

The rest of the video is made up mostly of single-second clips, all taken on phones with varying levels of shitty camera quality. Ilya doesn't have the wherewithal to finish them. In all, there are a little less than four minutes of him sneezing, which is far more than he'd like. Still, he is weirdly flattered that someone took the care to compile all of these clips. Taking great care to avoid the comments, he switches back to the text chain with his boyfriend.

Practice had been taxing as ever, leaving Shane with sore, exhausted muscles and the desire to burn away the rest of the day in the confines of his apartment. So he does exactly that, putzing around and falling into the familiarity of his routine. He showers, cooks himself the same meal he has most nights, cleans the kitchen, starts a load of laundry, and finally sinks into the plush cushions of his too-expensive couch as he listens to the swish swish swish of his washing machine hard at work. 

He used to find solace in these moments: quiet, well-earned moments of rest. But now he does his best to avoid them, to keep himself busy enough that he can’t think about the fact that all his brain can do is churn uselessly and spit out the same name every night: Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. 

He hasn’t received a text from ‘Lily’ in months, and despite his insistence that he doesn’t mind, he finds himself rereading their messages more often than he’d like to admit, reminiscing on the tightness in his chest that would catch and coil whenever he got a notification. He often finds himself running his hands over his body, handling himself roughly and pretending it isn’t his touch, but Ilya’s. He wonders if his rival ever does the same, if the hours spent with one another after they’d fucked meant anything more than a warm bed. 

A tired sigh interrupts Shane’s internal spiral, his fingers working over his thighs, pressing themselves into the taught muscles and rubbing. With his other hand, Shane turns on his phone and stalls, staring at the screen before flicking his thumb to the left without second thought. The screen swipes to the side, now showcasing an array of different apps, some hidden in bubbles so as not to risk being found. 

YouTube is one of them, as stupid as that may sound. It’s filed away with whatever apps he dubbed most useless: compass, calculator, voice memos, and a few others— the ones that no one would think twice about opening. He had definitely overthought the whole ordeal; no one ever uses his phone aside from him, but the thought of someone opening the app and seeing his search history was anxiety-inducing enough for him to have reorganized his homepage multiple times. 

So it sits hidden in plain sight, always logged in to Shane’s personal account where he watches breakdowns of hockey games, strategies, or whatever other rabbit-holes he finds himself going down. Tonight, however, he navigates to his account and switches to one attached to a fake email he’d created, one that couldn’t be connected back to him, one that had a collection of almost four hundred liked videos all related to a niche-fetish he’d tried and failed to outrun. 

He’s come to terms with it for the most part— at least, he thought he had. Until Rozanov had to fuck it up, like he fucks everything up. Because of course his rival has to be constantly touching his nose, rubbing and pawing at the appendage like it never stops itching. Shane wonders if that’s true, if it’s as itchy as it seems. His hand works its way further up his leg, settling between his thighs.

Eager fingers hover over the keyboard as he stares at his search history with bated breath. He should just find the videos that always do it for him and get it over with— something familiar, known, habitual almost. 

“Fuck.” Shane mutters to himself, tossing his phone to the side and rolling onto his stomach. The pillow offers a much needed refuge for him to bury his face and question how he ended up in this position, turned on by Ilya fucking Rozanov once again. Clutching the pillow tighter, as if to suffocate himself rather than admit to the hard on he’s beginning to sport. He finds himself revisiting his most recent memory of his face being pressed into his bed. 

Except this time, Ilya’s hand isn’t roaming over his back, his waist, his ass, his bare skin that screamed for more contact every time Ilya drew his hand away. It’s just Shane, rutting uselessly against his mattress as his breathing turns to quick, hot puffs and whines that fall flat without Ilya’s praise. 

After a few minutes, he’s worked up enough to pick up his phone again, pushing himself into a sitting position and leaning against the backboard as he kicks off his underwear. Habitually, he moves to fold the discarded undergarments and set them neatly on the other edge of his bed. Once they’re properly set aside, he slumps back again, taking himself in his hand and re-opening the app. 

He hesitates again, biting his lip as he begins to type: Ilya Rozanov Sneeze Compilation. Freckled cheeks flush red when he hits search, his mind stalling as the screen loads. ‘What the fuck am I doing? This is so—’

It loads, and to Shane’s surprise and great pleasure, there are multiple videos of varying length with that title. The thumbnails alone are enough to get Shane riled up, his left hand already working to release the pressure of arousal sitting hard between his thighs: Ilya with a reddened, dripping nose; Ilya caught with a desperate expression, moments away from sneezing; Ilya bent in two, partially turned away from the camera. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. Shane clicks on the first video available, settling into a more comfortable position as it begins. 

At first, he’s met with just a black screen, but then white text dashes across it: “These are all the clips I could find in random order! I hope you enjoy, and bless you Ilya!” Brown eyes skim over the words impatiently, skin prickling as his eyes flick down to the bottom of the screen. Five minutes and twelve seconds of the Russian sneezing— that’s all that has been captured on video since their rookie season. 

When the first clip begins, he recognizes the setting quicker than he should. Not from the text reading “MLH 2010 Season. Boston Raiders VS Montreal Metros” in the bottom right hand corner, but from the shirt Ilya wears in the video. The pullover isn’t anything spectacularly fashionable; it’s a simple, dark blue athletic top. But just hours after that interview, it had ended up strewn on the floor of Shane’s hotel room. 

Shane watches with rapt attention as Ilya berates the underside of his nose with two fingers, his eyes beginning to squint as the reporter finishes up her question: “How does it feel to win against the Montreal Metros yet again?”

Ilya smirks, lips curling upwards into a satisfied grin. “Good. It is always good.” His shit-eating expression works Shane up more than he’d like to admit. He had been furious after that game— the teams had been tied almost the entire time until Ilya had made a miraculous score within the last few minutes. It was a well-earned victory, and that made the loss all the more irritating for Shane. 

“You and Hollander are neck and neck in your race for points this season. Are you still confident in your…” The rest of her question is lost to Shane as Ilya shoves his fist against his nose again, crushing it into submission. 

“I know I will win. Hhhollander knows—” the hitch at the beginning of “Hollander” drags the ‘h’ out a second too long, forcing Ilya’s expression into a half-dazed grimace. He blinks once, twice with fluttering lashes as his lips curve in irritation, nostrils flaring outwards in picture-perfect ovals. “hHDT’SZZSChuh!” His torso twists to the side, snapping forwards as he directs the sneeze against his fist. A few blessings are given from behind the camera, but Ilya pays them no mind. He remains bent over, his eyes unfocussed as he waits for another “h’YhSSCXHHTt’eh!” Loose curls bounce as he shakes his head, straightening back up and continuing as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just done the most jawdroppingly arousing thing Shane could imagine, and the fact that he had hitched while saying his name. Fuck. 

Shane’s mind flashes to that night. The two of them had been exhausted from the game, from the cheering and jeering of the crowded stadium. Still, as soon as Ilya had crossed through Shane’s front door, he was steering him towards the bed. “Shirt off.” Ilya had planted his hands on Shane’s chest, squeezing the toned muscle before shoving him down onto the bed. He’d dropped down with a sharp breath, his rival stepping closer, closer, until he was sat on Shane’s upper legs. 

Then, a blur of movement, constant and consuming as they devoured one another. Broad hands claimed their place on Shane’s shoulders, kneading, rubbing, molding until they earned a moan. “Good.” Ilya had hummed, head dipping down and finding itself in the crook of Shane’s neck. Lips kissed at each and every freckle, tongue lapping at the spots of red irritation where Ilya’s teeth had caught the skin and pulled. Never before had Shane been so malleable at the hands of another man— of anyone, really.

Now, he’s left desperate, his own hand working to provide the same pleasure that Ilya’s had granted him as the next clip starts to play. It’s much blurrier than the previous one, lacking the professional quality of a reporter’s camera. The rectangular, upright frame gives away that it’s recorded by a phone— a fan’s phone, Shane deduces, as he notices the distinctly Ilya-shaped man walking down the street. 

He doesn’t recognize the scenery: cobbled streets lined with restaurants and shops illuminated by streetlamps that flicker, causing the light to dance haphazardly over Ilya’s form. A woman’s voice sounds from behind the camera in Russian, and Shane struggles to make out anything aside from his rival's name. ‘It sounds better when I say it’, Shane thinks, as if this fan doesn’t have the right to address Ilya, to say the name that belongs to Shane’s tongue. 

Ilya’s voice is distant and muddled in poor audio quality as he turns to face the fan, but even then, the congestion in his voice is evident as he responds. Shane’s cock twitches in his grip, aching with arousal as he waits for the imminent sneeze. The conversation continues, every few words followed with a liquid sniffle from the hockey player. Impatient, Shane taps his thumb against the screen, skipping forward ten seconds. The video momentarily stalls, lagging for a few seconds and earning a frustrated huff from Shane before it starts again, catching the end of a sneeze in a sharp “–CHhh’ugh!” that leaves Ilya bent in two. Shane scrambles to rewind, his left hand resuming its motions with renewed vigor, stroking and teasing along his hard shaft. 

This time, he forces himself to be patient. He watches with rapt attention, every sniffle from Ilya drawing him in more and more. His eyes slip shut momentarily. The image of Ilya’s sick, dripping nose pressed to his collarbone rouses another breathless moan. His tongue flicks out over his lips, wetting them as he opens his eyes just in time to catch the moment Ilya’s breath snags. The sick man cups two hands over his nose, one of the rare occurrences in which Ilya makes an effort to cover, turning on his heel and snapping forwards. “h’DJJZCHhh’ugh!”

As strong as it is, the sneeze is clearly held back to some capacity. The first syllable is caught behind his teeth, vocal, but not entirely uncontrolled. The second syllable is more of a throaty exhale than anything else— an irritated, useless addition to the sneeze, failing to relieve any of the pent up pressure in Ilya’s head. 

The woman recording offers a polite “oh! Bud’ zdorovy!” but Ilya remains hunched over, hands steepled over his nose. Shane swallows a moan and works to stroke himself harder, faster, as he mimics her words, purring “bud’ zdorovy”. The blessing sits heavy and sweet on his tongue. Ilya raises his head, chest swelling beneath his tight long sleeve before he doubles over with renewed force. “dHDTSZZSXHh’uh!” One of his knees bucks up with the power of it, resulting in a little stumble before he straightens up. 

Shane’s hips rock up against his fist, desperate to grind against something, anything— against Ilya. He swallows hard, slowing down with the reminder to pace himself; he’s not even a minute into the video. It helps that the fan and Ilya return to their conversation, mostly led by the fan’s rambling and accompanied with monosyllabic additions or grunts from the hockey player. His speech is drowned in thick congestion, making his accent even stronger than usual. 

Much to Shane’s disappointment, the fan turns the camera to herself, beginning to walk away as she continues to speak loudly to the camera. He’s about to skip ahead again when a muffled “hHMPDDZXHhhu!” sounds from the background followed by a round of barking coughs. His head tilts back, nearly hitting the backboard as he arches upwards, his hips once again rutting against nothing but his own hand. 

In one fluid motion, Shane flips onto his stomach. With his free hand, he fumbles to prop up his phone against his pillows, hips already bucking into his mattress. Once he’s confident his phone won’t slip, he props himself up with one elbow, his other hand still continuing its motions, now synced with the grinding of his hips. Need burns through his body and with it, all of Shane threatens to melt into sticky sweetness.

Eager teeth sink into his bottom lip when a fourth “a’hHDD’ZXCJCHhh! Fugk!!” interrupts the fan’s rambling, loud and distinctly desperate despite being further in the background. Shane pants helplessly into his sheets, ignoring the fact that the recently-washed cloth is being smeared with pre-cum. 

The scene shifts again; the video quality is similarly terrible, if not worse. It’s evidently a clip from another fan’s phone, the focus bobbing around as the person recording jumps and cheers. The camera swivels around the room to reveal a small, but incredibly packed space with none other than Ilya Rozanov standing in the corner with a few of his teammates and a security guard who’s evidently in over his head. 

The crowd is a blur of black and yellow jerseys, some of which have signatures cast on their backs in a messy scrawl. Shane scours the small screen for another sign of Ilya, and his wish is granted as the person filming pushes their way closer. Despite the swell of people swaying against one another, Ilya is remarkably calm— a trait of his that Shane envies. He can handle the crowds, the noise, the constant overstimulation that comes with the job, or at least he can swallow his discomfort enough to pretend he’s fine. Except now, there’s an evident crack in his mask, one revealed through flaring nostrils and two fingers that pinch and rub at his nose incessantly as he signs a woman’s shirt with his other hand. 

The fan holding the camera steps forward again, and suddenly they’re feet away from Ilya, earning his attention. He braces one hand on their shoulder so he can sign their jersey even as they’re both shoved side to side with the lull of the crowd. Dewy lashes flutter shut, and before the fan can so much as step back, Ilya pitches forwards, spraying the space between them with an itchy “ihZZZSCHHHtch!”

The camera jumps dramatically halfway through the expulsion. Shane’s eyes practically roll back into his head with a porno-worthy moan. God, what he would give to feel the showering of that sneeze against his skin as Ilya fucks him into his mattress; how beautiful it would be to have the casting of spray intermix with the freckles adorning his back. 

The crowd has a mixed reaction to the sneeze, none as pleased as Shane. Ilya’s teammates laugh and clap him on the back if they’re within reach. Some fans bless him loudly whereas others do their best to give him a wide berth as he gears up for another. Unfortunately, it seems to be almost impossible for them to navigate the room, and any attempt to step away is just met with a shove back towards Ilya. 

“hh—H’iTDSCHHh’huh!” Spray falls delicately over Ilya’s extended wrist, held just far enough away from his nose that it doesn’t succeed in covering the sneeze at all, though it gets doused in the process. 

“Jesus man, bless you!” A teammate jeers. 

“Fuck you.” Ilya pinches away the moisture resting above his cupid's bow and holds up his paint pen. “Who is next?”

‘A few sneezes must not be enough to dissuade fans’ Shane deduces as the screen shakes and then ends suddenly in an uproar, though his mind is primarily occupied with how productive the sneezes had been. Not to mention how itchy they’d seemed, catching against Ilya’s teeth before hissing out in a sharp “ZSCHHH” and warranting an irritated exhale in their wake. 

“Fuck.” The moan sits heavy in the empty bedroom, the stagnant air hot and sticky as sweat begins to gather on Shane’s skin. He bucks into his mattress harder, losing himself in the sensation of dizzying arousal. Trembling fingers clutch at his once-clean sheets, twisting them into a tight bunch as he returns his gaze to the screen. 

The video turns black momentarily before white text skirts over it again: “Podcast audio. No visuals :(“ It acts as an excuse for Shane to finally let his eyes flutter shut. Images of Ilya’s hands are plastered to his inner eyelids, accompanied with memories of his face, his lips, his tongue— so detailed Shane can almost taste them. He can almost feel the pressure of Ilya above him, rolling his body, tidal, over Shane’s. Claiming him with hands that grabbed and kneaded relentlessly all while asking “is this okay?” in that fucking accent. 

The audio clip begins mid conversation with the podcast host asking “as we jump back into a new season, how do the Boston Raiders feel about this weekend’s upcoming game?”

There’s a moment of silence, perhaps radio lag, before a simple “good” is offered in answer. If he weren’t so worked up, Shane might have been snarky enough to think ‘and people say I’m not sociable’, but his attention is currently claimed by Ilya.

“Right. Well, you’re playing against the Boston Bears, who performed remarkably well last season, making an unexpected comeback from their previous slump. Do you anticipate it being a difficult match?”

“No. I do not.” Again, Ilya’s response is brief, confident, self-assured in the way that gets under every one of his opponent's skins. 

His teammate tries to offer the podcast host more than unhelpful, monosyllabic arrogance. “What he means to say is that we have strategies that we do our best to employ, but it’s a complex game. We can’t always—” 

“I meant to say as I said.” Ilya interrupts. “We will win.”

“Yes, but—”

“No ‘but’. We are better team. We are better players.” 

The commentary momentarily lapses into silence. Just as the host begins with another question, there’s a sharp inhale and a “hH’yYDSHCHHhui!” that cuts through the audio in a vocal expulsion. With his eyes closed, Shane’s imagination surges forwards: Ilya above him, hands roaming over his sides, drifting to his hips and holding him firm. He shudders, pressing himself against his mattress again, as if Ilya’s fingers had found his upper back and shoved him downwards. Ilya’s lips parting to press soft against the smooth of his skin. 

The interviewer and Ilya’s teammate bless him before moving on, but the Raiders captain remains silent. Shane strains his ears to listen for something, anything from Rozanov. His attentiveness is rewarding as a quiet clicking intermixes with the dialogue—- a sound Shane has heard countless times when Ilya tries bullying his nose into submission. Ilya’s hand reaching upward to tangle in Shane’s hair, to work its way down his neck and back as he lets himself be grappled into submission. 

“Rozanov, as the team’s captain, how do you navigate—”

“hht’kTSZZCHhuhh!”

“—games like these, where—” 

“hHHh’uh…hR’DGSXHCHh’ugh!”

“Bless you! Where you’re playing against—”

Ilya’s hand, gripping his chin and forcing his gaze up. Warm fingers slipping through his kiss-swollen lips and pressing against his wet tongue. He imagines sucking on Ilya’s skin, hard enough to draw out his taste, to feel his pulse. Ilya’s nose, wet and irritated, flaring in agitation between Shane’s thighs. 

A change in audio quality cues to Shane that the scene has changed, urging him to open his eyes, to come back to reality. A whine slips out before he can help it— the kind of whine that would have Ilya purring his praises and leaning closer, letting his soft curls brush against Shane’s pulsing throat. Shane’s met with the sight of Ilya in a suit, sitting centered behind a rectangular table. He almost chokes as he registers the figure seated next to the Raider’s captain; it’s him, though much younger and looking decidedly uncomfortable as he tugs at his too-tight tie. 

“Fuuck,” the curse falls from his tongue when the memory dawns on him, dick twitching as he registers what he’s about to watch. He knew it was recorded. Of course it was, all their press conferences were, but he’d never considered the fact that Ilya’s sneezes would have been included in the recording. 

The screen only shows the two of them at the table, berated by flashing lights and a flurry of questions thrown at them from various reporters. What it doesn’t show is the scene off camera: the lights, makeup crew, film crew, journalists, and a few lucky fans who paid a shit ton of money to be an audience. Shane substitutes the limited visuals with his own memory, adding details that the camera had failed to show, like the way his and Ilya’s feet had bumped against one another the entire time. 

This time, the clip begins not with Ilya speaking, but with Shane: “—it’s an honor to play against any team, of course. I know there’s a— uh— a history.” The falter. A second’s hesitation, easily interpreted as an act of anxiety. Shane knows otherwise. Ilya’s foot had brushed against his ankle, maneuvering so the firm leather of his shoe pushed up the fabric of his pant leg. “—between our teams. But it’s just like any other game. We play to the best of our ability—”

At the time, Shane had been so focussed on his own words that he hadn’t seen Ilya’s expression shift. He’d missed the line of frustration that sketched itself between Ilya’s eyebrows, oblivious as his rival's lips had parted in a soundless exhale before broad hands fumbled to cup themselves over his nose. 

“hnGZst’ch!” 

The stifle, tight and insignificant, sends bursts of heat across Shane’s skin. He’s close now, he knows it. Damp, tangled sheets lay beneath him, made a mess by his leaking cock and the sheen of sweat clinging to his skin. Hips arch higher, the sleek curvature of his back craving Ilya’s hands. 

“n’DtSXch’uh!” Just seconds after the first, another stifle forces Ilya’s shoulders to hunch in on themselves, body almost falling concave with a third, stuttered “hhHTS'Xdch!"

He remembers the dryness of his mouth, how his tongue had sat limply in his mouth. How his unfinished sentence had hung limply in the air. The leather toe of Ilya’s shoe met Shane’s ankle again, harder this time, and roused him enough for him to utter “bless you. Uhm— right. In every game, we give all we’ve got—”

Fist curled and pumping, Shane’s breath is diminished to nothing more than a mix of whines and moans. Heavy lids threaten to slip shut, but he forces them to remain open, to watch as Ilya curls himself away from the cameras as best as he can, towards his shoulder. Towards Shane. 

“hHj'Xnt!” So close his head nearly collides with Shane’s shoulder. “hhSCH’GXxt-shw!”

After a few heavy, slow blinks, Ilya straightens again. “Exguse mbe” is all he offers in reference to the little fit he’d tried and failed to stifle into submission. 

Something in Shane’s chest shatters. He exhales sharp, like the breath had been knocked out of him. His body collapses hot and heavy against the mattress, and just like that, the tension coiling through his muscles eases, unraveling itself in sticky spurts. 

The video continues to play in the background while Shane lets the waves of arousal wash over him, a pleasant aftermath of his orgasm leaving him docile and content. It takes a few minutes for his breathing to even. When it does, he fumbles to pause the video, briefly noting the timestamp at its base: 2:15. He hadn’t even made it halfway through the compilation. 

“Fuck.”

I greeted him back. “Sort of,” I said, rubbing the grogginess from my eyes. It still weirded me out to have him there when I slept and woke. But we’d accepted each others’ culture. “Culture” was like playing a trump card for determining our living arrangements. 

I rolled out of bed and floated towards the dorms. “Coffee,” I said to the open air. The robotic arm appeared and handed me a pouch of liquid. It was nice to have a routine, even if there was no morning out in space. 

Once I got ready for the “day,” I headed up towards the lab, Rocky scuttling through the tunnels and pulling himself along with the rails. I had grabbed a chunk of xenonite from Rocky’s supply surplus downstairs. He assured me there was plenty to spare and that the materials cluttered in the bottom of my ship were only a fraction of his supply remaining on the Blip A. 

I’d messed with the xenonite when Rocky first came over, but I wanted to do some more testing. Maybe some other tools could make a dent in it, or I could gauge its influence on the stuff I did have. I gently pulled open a drawer, careful not to send any of the instruments floating in the cabin. They were always a pain to chase down and reorganize. I learned my lesson from the last time we left gravity. 

“What is Grace doing, question?” Rocky asked. 

“Well, I hit this stuff with a chisel last time and it didn’t make a dent. But I wanted to see if there was anything else I could do with Earth materials to affect the xenonite.” 

Rocky paced side to side, pondering. “Fire damage xenonite. Earth has fire.” 

I knew he was just trying to be helpful, but the suggestion was frustrating. I already figured that from the torches he used in assembling his rooms. The fact that the impossible material withstood anything I threw at it puzzled me. 

“Why sad face, question?”

“No, I’m not sad,” I shook my head. “I’m thinking. If I think really hard, sometimes it looks like I’m frowning.” For an alien, he was very observant of human emotions. 

Rocky clicked his claws together, his carapace lowering slightly as he relaxed. “Understand.” 

Xenonite was completely inert, but I could at least see how other materials interacted with this foreign one from a physical standpoint. I pulled out a pack of chalk and opened it, retrieving a stick. Simple calcium carbonate, a very familiar material. 

I rubbed it across the surface. Xenonite was so smooth, it didn’t cause any chunks to break off, instead leaving an incredibly fine layer across the material. When I rubbed my thumb across it, it left the surface completely unmarred, no trace of chalk remaining. With this xenonite stuff, chalkboards could make a comeback. 

I rubbed my fingers together, trying to get rid of the chalk. And then I immediately remembered why that was a terrible idea in zero gravity. When I inhaled, the chalk dust floated up my nostrils. I coughed, waving a hand in front of my face to clear the powder away, but it was too late. 

After months of breathing in ultra-purified ship air, the tiny particles from the chalk felt like an assault on my nostrils. On Earth, I was used to the air pollution, and a bit of chalk would have been unnoticeable. I didn’t realize how sensitive my nose had become in space. 

The itch to sneeze was unbearable, but I didn’t want to deal with the… mess that might float around as a result. I gasped, fighting the urge. 

“What is wrong, question?” Rocky asked, moving between his bars a bit frantically. 

I shook my head slightly, unable to speak. I held up one finger to Rocky while keeping the other pressed against the underside of my nose. 

Rocky remembered exactly what that one raised finger meant and slowed his pacing, still tilting forward in anticipation and puzzlement. 

Unfortunately for me, it seemed like I might not have a choice in the sneezing matter. I pinched my nose, but if anything, the forceful touch antagonized it. I doubt being gentler would have made a difference, though. “Hihh-! H-HEH’nNGHXX-guh!” 

Rocky hummed a follow-up question, still concerned. 

I blinked back tears. I guess the little guy had never heard me sneeze before. It certainly wasn’t something an Eridian would need to do, with their bodies designed to be completely self-contained. 

“It’s called a sneeze,” I answered. And it was the least satisfying sneeze I’d ever experienced in my entire life. Now my nose was itchy and leaky and stuffy. “Nothing’s wrong, humans do it automatically to get irritants out of their nose.” 

“Chalk is irritant!” He put it together now. “But you hold nose closed, question?” 

He had a good point. It defeated the purpose, and I probably wouldn’t get anywhere like this. 

“B-because,” I stammered. My breath caught as the urge to sneeze started to overpower me. I glanced around the room, looking for a cloth or tissues, but everything was stowed away. Curse my foresight to be tidy. I couldn’t even remember where the Kimwipes were kept. “Noses have… ha–EH’hNGCH! Heh’mpch!” I wasn’t giving up yet. 

“Noses have mucus inside to protect it. And I don’t want it to g-gehh.. get all over my lab.” 

Darn, this was getting really annoying. I could feel another one building. There would probably be something useful in the storage bins, or I could start tearing apart drawers, but I could barely focus through the hitching.

Rocky pondered the information. “Nose hold isn’t working,” he observed. Again, helpful. 

“Hehh’mNGXt!’ The itch in my nose was starting to go from mildly irritating to almost burning, which was even more uncomfortable. It seems like I might not have a choice at this point. I dropped my hand and quickly raised the neckline of my jumpsuit, pressing it tightly over my nose. “Oh god…heh Hyihh’CSHhuh! Hh’EHCHhmph! Heh…ngGCHOO!” 

Ugh. I kept the collar against my face, sniffling thickly. Not very dignified, but it did a pretty good job at containment. 

“Noses are strange. They smell and make humans explode. Weird.” 

I rolled my eyes, then blinked. “HYEH’ZCHHioo!” I might have to keep the makeshift mask over my nose until the ship cycled out the air. 

“You know, on Earth, the polite thing to say when someone sneezes is ‘bless you.’” Another bit of human culture for him to analyze and question. I pushed off the lab bench in search of some Kleenex. 

Remi nearly managed to stifle it against Levi’s shoulder, but the soft, desperate sound still jolted Levi from sleep, his eyelashes fluttering up in slow confusion.

He didn’t pull away.
Didn’t tense.
Just murmured, “…Bless you…” in a voice still weighted with dreams.

Remi’s arms tightened reflexively around him, a fever-heavy embrace that trembled almost imperceptibly.

“Mmnn… sorry,” he mumbled, the words gravel-soft and exhausted. “Didn’t mean t’wake you…”

“You didn’t,” Levi whispered, though his voice wavered with how recently he had been asleep. He lifted one sleepy hand and rested it over Remi’s forearm, thumb brushing gently back and forth. “You okay…?”

Remi didn’t answer with words.
He simply nuzzled in again—pressing his forehead into Levi’s neck, letting out a warm, shaky exhale that tickled Levi’s skin.

But a moment later, Remi tensed.

His breath hitched again, sharper this time.
Levi felt it before he heard it—the sudden tightness in Remi’s chest, the involuntary clutch of Remi’s fingers at his side.

“Hh—hih…”

Levi blinked, realizing what was coming. “Rem…?”

Remi tried to bury the sneeze into the blanket to spare him, but fever had dulled his coordination and instincts alike. He tilted forward slightly, breath trembling.

“Hh’… ngh—’isshh…!”

The half-stifled sneeze puffed warm air against Levi’s collarbone. Remi groaned weakly afterward, embarrassment flickering across his face even though Levi couldn’t see it.

Levi only rubbed his arm in slow circles. “Bless you… again.”

Remi let out a frustrated, congested sound that wasn’t quite a word. His glowing green eyes—dimmed to a foggy, fever-dulled shade—squeezed shut. He tried to relax, tried to settle his breathing, but another tremor ran through him.

“Hh… h-hh…”
He sniffed hard, trying—and failing—to stop the rising tickle.

“Remi,” Levi murmured, voice gentle but fondly exasperated. “Don’t fight it.”

Remi’s reply was a rough whisper into Levi’s hair. “I’m tryin’… t’nnnot—hih—wake you…”

“You already did.”

Remi’s breath stuttered helplessly.

“Hh—H'ihhSHHhhiew! iit’shHIEW!”

This time, the sneezes rocked his whole body, curling him forward around Levi rather than away. Levi tightened his arms slightly, steadying him through the force of it.

When Remi slumped back again, exhausted, Levi shifted enough to look over his shoulder. Remi’s cheeks were flushed, brows knotted, his nose pink and running. He looked miserable—and heartbreakingly soft.

Levi brushed a few strands of black hair off Remi’s forehead. “Hey,” he whispered. “It’s okay. Really.”

Remi pressed into the touch without hesitation, eyes fluttering shut. Fever made him seek warmth unconsciously—made him cling, nuzzle, and breathe softly against Levi’s skin like he was trying to ground himself in the presence he trusted most.

“…Sorry,” Remi murmured again. Softer this time. Less coherent. “Didn’ wanna stop holdin’ you…”

Levi’s heart squeezed, warm and achy.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m still here.”

Remi gave a small, sleepy hum in response, his arms drawing Levi even closer. Their legs resettled, tangling naturally, and Levi relaxed fully into the embrace, letting Remi’s fever-heavy weight mold around him.

Their breaths synced gradually—
slow, tired, stuffy—
their bodies fitting together like they always had a place to return to.

They lay like that for several long, warm minutes.

Until Remi’s breath hitched again.

Levi sighed, already resigned. “Go on.”

Remi barely managed a warning sound before he sneezed once more—small this time, almost delicate compared to the others.

“Hihh’ISSHh!”

Levi smiled into the blankets. “Bless you, Acushla.”

Remi, already half-asleep again, let out a soft whuff of breath, nuzzling into the curve of Levi’s neck with a needy, fever-drowsy affection he rarely allowed himself when awake.

The room settled into quiet once more, dim and safe and warm.
And Remi held Levi like he was something steady to anchor him, even through sickness and sleep.

Levi lay still for a few long breaths, letting the fog of sleep settle just enough for him to notice the details he’d missed a moment before.

Remi was burning.
His skin was hot, fever heat radiating through the blankets and into Levi’s arms. Levi could feel the uneven rise and fall of Remi’s chest against his back, each breath thick and heavy with congestion. Every exhale came out warm and damp against Levi’s neck, hitching faintly near the end like Remi’s lungs were struggling to keep up.

Levi shifted very slightly, turning just enough to face him. Remi loosened his hold but didn’t let go, his arm slipping from Levi’s waist to rest low on his ribs instead. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, the glow dimmed to a foggy green-grey.

Levi lifted a hand and brushed Remi’s messy bangs away from his forehead.
The moment Levi’s fingers touched his skin, Remi leaned into the touch—soft, instinctive, needy in the gentlest way. Like a sick, sleepy puppy searching for the closest bit of comfort.

Levi’s hand stilled for a heartbeat.

“…Remi?” he whispered.

Remi swallowed, gaze slipping unfocused before he blinked slowly back to him. His voice, when it came, was small and quiet in a way Levi almost never heard.
A cracked whisper shaped more by exhaustion than breath.

“I feel like shit…”

It wasn’t dramatic.
Wasn’t defensive or gruff or couched in curses.
Just honest. Soft. Bare.

Levi's chest warmed, even through the fever ache.
He shifted closer, pressing his forehead to Remi’s, letting their shared heat meet in the space between them.

“…Me too,” he murmured, voice slow and thick. “But we’ll be okay.”

Remi’s eyes flickered, the faintest spark of relief softening them. His arm tightened around Levi’s waist—just a gentle pull, nothing demanding. He dipped forward a little, breath warming Levi’s cheek.

Then Remi pressed a kiss to Levi’s forehead.

Slow. Barely-there.
A feather-light touch of lips that lasted only a second…
but felt like something instinctual and tender, nudged out by fever before he could think enough to stop it.

Levi inhaled softly in surprise, a tiny smile blooming across his face despite how sick he felt. His forehead tingled where Remi’s lips had been.

“That tickles…” he whispered, the words brushing against Remi’s throat as he tucked himself back into the circle of Remi’s arms.

Remi let out a soft, exhausted hum.
Not a laugh — just a warm sound of acknowledgment, of agreement, of comfort.

Levi rested his cheek against Remi’s chest, listening to the slow, heavy thud of his heartbeat. Remi’s chin lowered until it rested lightly against the top of Levi’s head, their breaths synchronizing again in messy, stuffy unison.

And for a quiet moment, in the dim haze of fever and blankets and shared warmth,
being sick didn’t feel quite so terrible.

Because neither of them was alone in it.

Levi lasted all of five minutes before the dryness in his throat became impossible to ignore. His head throbbed with each heartbeat, and the fever fog in his skull made everything feel slow and far away.

He shifted carefully, trying not to jostle Remi as he pushed himself upright.

The attempt failed instantly.

The moment Levi lifted even an inch off the pillow, Remi whined — a soft, broken sound, more breath than voice — and his arm tightened around Levi’s waist.

“Don’t go…” Remi mumbled, eyes still closed, face buried in Levi’s chest. “…you’re warm…”

The vulnerability in his tone hit Levi straight in the ribs.
It was rare enough when Remi asked for things outright, rarer still when he sounded small about it.

Levi stroked Remi’s shoulder gently. “I’ll be right back, baby. Just getting us some water.”

Remi blinked up at him, bleary and fever-bright, wearing the softest, sleepiest pout Levi had ever seen on another human being. His lower lip stuck out slightly, his piercings glinting in the dim light, his brow drawn, glowing eyes foggy with confusion and misery.

“…Promise?” he whispered.

Levi leaned down and kissed Remi’s hair. “Promise.”

Remi exhaled, defeated, and let his arms fall away. He flopped back into the blankets with a congested grunt, sniffling thickly as Levi slid out of bed.

The cold air outside the blankets hit Levi immediately. He shivered hard, wrapping his arms around himself as dizziness washed through him. His head felt too light, his sinuses too heavy. Even walking felt like navigating through fog.

Remi watched him through half-lidded eyes, barely visible beneath the blankets he’d pulled to his chin.

“Don’t fall…” he mumbled, voice hoarse and worried in spite of sleep.

Levi gave him a tiny, tired smile. “I won’t.”

He almost did.

Halfway to the kitchen counter, his knees wobbled and he caught himself on the table, breath coming out in a stuffy huff. His nose buzzed sharply—wet, urgent—and he barely had time to cup his hands around his face.

“Hh—Eh’schh’iue!! Hh’…H'ptschu!”

The sneezes bent him forward, and the aftermath left him blinking away tears. His breathing thickened, nostrils flaring in dull irritation.

From the bed, Remi called weakly, “Bless you, kitten…”
Then, after a pause:
“…y’sure you don’t need help?”

Levi sniffed wetly and shook his head. “I’m good,” he rasped, though his voice didn’t sound convinced.

He grabbed two glasses of water, a box of tissues, and the packet of cold pills. The effort left him winded, and he trudged back to the bed slowly, feet dragging on the wooden floor.

Remi’s eyes followed him the entire way — fever-glazed but attentive, like he was tracking the movements of something precious he couldn’t risk losing.

The moment Levi sat down, Remi reached for him, arms opening just slightly.

Levi barely settled against the pillows before Remi pulled him into a loose, shaky hug. His forehead pressed to Levi’s temple; his breath shuddered warm across Levi’s cheek.

“You’re back…” Remi murmured, relief softening his entire face.

“Told you I’d be.” Levi nudged him gently. “Help me sit up?”

Remi tried — but at the effort of leaning forward, his breath caught sharply. His nose twitched once… twice… then he turned abruptly into the blankets.

“Hh—hihh—! Hh’gdtSSHHh!—hh’DTSH’ue!”

He slumped afterward, dazed, sniffling hard. “Ugh… sorry…”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Levi murmured, guiding a tissue gently into Remi’s hand.

Remi hesitated—then blew his nose quietly, embarrassed, a soft congested sound that cracked at the end. Levi rubbed his arm through the blankets.

“Feel a bit better?” he asked.

Remi nodded weakly. “A little…”

When Levi eased back into bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, Remi shifted immediately. He turned toward him with a quiet, needy sound and pulled Levi in without hesitation, one arm slipping securely around Levi’s shoulders, the other settling at his waist. Levi was drawn in until his back rested against Remi’s chest, Remi’s warmth closing around him like a shelter.

Remi pressed his face into Levi’s hair, breathing him in slowly, relief evident in the way his hold tightened just a little too much. His chin rested against Levi’s shoulder, his breath warm and uneven against Levi’s neck.

Levi relaxed into the embrace, nuzzling back instinctively, his head tipping slightly until it fit beneath Remi’s jaw. Remi made a soft, almost inaudible sound at the contact, vulnerability leaking through in the way he held on.

Levi reached back to brush Remi’s hair away from his face, fingertips grazing his temple in a slow, careful motion.

“C’mere,” Levi whispered. “Let’s take these meds, then we can lie back down.”

Remi hummed quietly in agreement, the sound vibrating against Levi’s shoulder. He tried to sit up while keeping Levi tucked close, but the effort showed more than he wanted it to. His grip faltered for a moment, his breath hitching.

Levi turned just enough to help, guiding him upright while staying close. When Levi passed him the cup, Remi’s hands shook around it, water sloshing near the rim.

Levi covered Remi’s hands with his own at once. “Hey,” he murmured. “Let me.”

Remi didn’t argue.
Not tonight.

He relaxed his grip and let Levi guide the cup to his lips, tilting it slowly so Remi could sip without spilling. Each swallow was followed by a small, congested breath, his nose clearly struggling to keep up—flaring, then hitching as he paused to breathe through his mouth.

Levi waited patiently between sips, never rushing him.

When Remi finally pulled back, he exhaled wearily, shoulders sagging as the effort caught up to him.

“…thank you…” he mumbled, voice thick and soft, consonants blurred by exhaustion and congestion.

Levi reached for the tissue box and pressed one gently to Remi’s nose before Remi could look away. “You’re a mess…” he said softly, without even a hint of teasing cruelty.

Remi’s cheeks pinked a little — a rare sight, even under fever. The blush barely showed through his flushed skin, but Levi caught it anyway. Remi didn’t pull back. If anything, he leaned into the touch, letting Levi wipe his nose with slow, careful strokes.

“Sorry…” Remi muttered.

“Don’t be,” Levi whispered. “Just breathe.”

Remi tried — but the moment he inhaled, his breath snagged sharply.

“Hh… hh—”
His nostrils flared helplessly.
“Oh… shit—”

The sneeze pulled him forward, chest tightening painfully.

“Hh—hihh—hH’RHH’TSHHH!—hh’rRRTSSHH’uuhh!!”

The wheeze afterward was shaky and desperate, a thin rasp clawing out of his throat as he fought to catch his breath. Levi braced a hand on Remi’s arm, steadying him through the aftermath.

“You okay?” Levi whispered.

Remi nodded weakly, though his eyes were watering, breath still hitching in small, involuntary tremors.

“Hh… hhh…”

“Remi—”

“Hh’RRDTSSHHhh!—gktSSHH’uuh!”

The force of the sneeze drew Remi forward against Levi’s back, his arms tightening reflexively as his breath left him all at once. He slumped there afterward, forehead dropping briefly to Levi’s shoulder with a wobbling, congested sniff. His eyes stayed half-closed, lashes damp.

“Gods… that sucked…” he rasped.

Levi reached back carefully, threading his fingers into Remi’s hair and rubbing slow, grounding circles against his scalp. “I know,” he murmured gently. “You’re okay.”

Remi swallowed, cheeks still flushed, and leaned into the touch as much as he could from behind, pressing his face closer to Levi’s shoulder. The warmth of Levi’s hand, steady and familiar, seemed to anchor him, easing the fever haze just enough for him to breathe again.

Levi opened his mouth to speak, but his breath caught suddenly — a sharp, involuntary gasp. His nose twitched once, then twice, and he barely had time to bring his sleeve up as he bent forward.

“Hh… Hhih’eeshiew!! H’etshhiEW!”

The sneeze was small and breathless, muffled into his sleeve as he leaned away instinctively. He sniffled afterward, a wet, embarrassed sound, shoulders hitching as he tried to recover.

Remi tightened his hold at once, one arm firm around Levi’s middle. “Bless you, kitten… c’mere…” he murmured, voice rough but gentle.

Levi didn’t resist. He shifted, turning carefully in Remi’s grasp until he could curl back against him, settling with his cheek to Remi’s chest. Almost immediately, he nuzzled closer, nose brushing Remi’s shirt as another quiet sniffle escaped him. A small patch of damp warmth pooled beneath his nose, darkening the fabric as he breathed there, unselfconscious now that he was tucked safely away.

Remi adjusted around him, chin resting against Levi’s hair, pulling the blanket up over them both with a slow, deliberate motion. Levi sighed and tucked in closer, forehead pressing lightly to Remi’s sternum, letting himself be held while the night closed softly around them.

Remi lowered his head and pressed the softest kiss into Levi’s hair, lips lingering for a moment as he breathed him in. Levi’s hand slipped beneath Remi’s shirt, fingers splayed against the fever-warm skin of his ribs.

Neither spoke.

The world stayed hushed.
Their breaths stayed ragged, uneven, but shared.

And even with sneezes still building in Remi’s chest, even with Levi shivering against him…

There was a softness between them stronger than all of it.
A quiet, sleepy togetherness that didn’t need anything but the warmth of the moment.

The room had settled into the kind of quiet that only existed in the deep hours of the night, when even sickness softened into something slow and hazy. Their breathing filled the small space under the blankets—stuffed, uneven, but warm in its togetherness.

Levi shifted just slightly against Remi’s chest. His fingers traced faint shapes over Remi’s ribs, comforting more than searching.

For a long stretch of stillness, they didn’t speak.

Then Levi exhaled a trembling breath and whispered, barely audible:

“I’m glad it’s you…”
His voice cracked softly.
“Even sick.”

Remi’s heart stuttered—literally, physically—beneath Levi’s cheek. The warmth of his hold changed subtly, tightening for a moment before melting into something even gentler. The kind of softness he only ever revealed to Levi. The kind he didn’t know how to control.

He ducked his face into Levi’s hair, hiding the way the words hit him—too much, too tender, too real. His fever-warm nose nuzzled through the strands, and Levi felt the shaky inhale against his scalp.

Quietly, barely more than breath:

“Me too, kitten…”
A pause.
“…wouldn’t wanna be sick with anyone else.”

Levi’s fingers froze, then curled into Remi’s shirt. His breath shivered in his throat—half emotion, half congestion. He gave a small, involuntary whimper before the tickle in his sinuses surged up.

“Oh—hold on—”

“Hh… hih—”
His body tensed against Remi’s chest.

Then two soft, stuffy sneezes:

“—hah’ESHHh‘uh!! HET’Shhh’eu!”

It muffled into Remi’s shirt, leaving Levi sniffling quietly, embarrassed.

Remi didn’t tease him.
Didn’t laugh.
Didn’t pull away.

Instead, he tilted his head and pressed a slow, tender kiss to Levi’s temple—feather-light, steady, a promise in the shape of a touch.

“Easy…” Remi murmured, voice wrecked but warm. “Got you, kitten.”

Levi melted under the words, his sniffles softening into slow, steady breaths. He shifted again, burying himself deeper into Remi’s arms until their bodies fit together as though guided by instinct alone.

Remi’s hand slid up Levi’s back, palm warm, fingers gentle despite their fever shake. His breathing evened out behind Levi, still thick, still rough—but grounded now in the closeness between them.

The night wrapped around them like another blanket, heavy and comforting.

And for the first time since the flu had dragged them both down, Levi felt safe.
Remi felt steady.
And everything—aches, fevers, tickles, misery—seemed somehow softer in the space between their hearts.

The night settled deeper around them, heavy with warmth and the slow lull of shared breathing. Levi felt Remi’s skin grow hotter under his fingertips — fever blooming again across his cheeks, radiating through his neck and collarbones like rising embers.

Remi shifted restlessly, brows pinching. A soft, low sound escaped him — not quite a whine, but something close, a tired plea for comfort he didn’t know he was making.

Levi shifted slightly where he lay against Remi’s chest and lifted one hand, cupping Remi’s cheek with gentle care. His thumb traced slow, soothing strokes along Remi’s flushed skin as he reached up to smooth sweat-damp hair back from Remi’s forehead.

“Shh… I’ve got you, Acushla,” he whispered, voice soft and close.

Remi leaned down into the touch immediately, turning his face toward Levi’s palm like he was drawn there by instinct alone. A quiet, contented hum rumbled in his chest beneath Levi, vibrating faintly against him as Remi’s eyes drifted shut. Each careful stroke grounded him, easing the fever haze and dulling the ache settled deep in his bones.

Levi kept his hand there, cooling Remi’s face with slow, deliberate motions. Gradually, Remi’s breathing steadied and deepened—still thick with congestion, still carrying a faint rasp on every inhale, but calmer now. His arms loosened around Levi’s back, hands relaxing where they rested, fingers slowly uncurling as exhaustion finally pulled him toward sleep.

Little by little, Remi slipped in and out of sleep — blinking drowsily, humming when Levi touched his hair, then fading again.

Levi felt his own body surrender to fatigue. His eyelids fluttered, then drooped, his fingers tangling lazily in Remi’s hair — soft, repetitive motions that soothed them both. Their legs intertwined beneath the blankets, warm breath mingling in quiet puffs.

The rhythm of the room narrowed down to the two of them.
Soft.
Slow.
Stuffy.
Tired.

Remi stirred once more, eyes half-opening as his breath caught shallowly in his chest. Levi felt the shift beneath him and tilted his head slightly, cheek still pressed to Remi’s shoulder, listening for the telltale hitch of another sneeze.

It never came.

Instead, Remi lowered his head just enough to brush his lips to Levi’s forehead. The kiss was soft and unhurried, more instinct than intention, lingering for the barest second before he rested his chin there again.

His voice followed, quiet and worn thin by fever, shaped around careful mouth-breathing.

“I love you, kitten…”

Levi’s chest warmed, emotion blooming slow and steady beneath his ribs. He didn’t lift his head, didn’t break the closeness. He only curled in a little more, one hand slipping up to rest against Remi’s collarbone as he whispered back,

“I love you too, Acushla. Always.”

Remi exhaled shakily, relief easing through him as his arms tightened just enough to keep Levi close. His breathing stayed slow and open-mouthed, each warm breath ghosting over Levi’s forehead, damp and gentle with congestion.

Levi closed his eyes and let the sound of it lull him—Remi’s steady breathing, the rise and fall of his chest beneath him, the quiet safety of being held.

They fell asleep like that, Levi tucked against Remi’s chest and shoulder, Remi wrapped securely around him, lips resting near Levi’s hair, the blankets drawn close around them.

The night softened.
The world stayed distant.

Shapiro’s voice made him jump, and he had to hit his chest a few times to firmly stop coughing before responding.

“Yeah, just swallowed wrong.” His voice sounded strained to his own ears. Grace swiped his hand under his glasses, them moved his hand down to rub his nose and sniffed before looking at Shapiro and smiling. He’d been working with her and DuBois for a few months now, lecturing them on the astrophage and working with them to come up with new experiments to figure out as many things about them as possible.

He sniffed again, trying to fight the growing itch. “Is DuBois not here yet?” he asked.

Shapiro nodded. “He’s on his way. He got caught up in the lab. Actually, there was-”

She’s cut off by Grace turning away from her. Raising a finger as he desperately ducked into his elbow with a decently loud “HhHH’DJEschew! H’DJIISchew!” he sniffed again before he came back up, smiling sheepishly. “‘Scuse me.”

“Bless you!” Shapiro said, surprised.

“Bless,” another voice called from the door.

Grace barely suppressed another jump as he heard DuBois enter. He cleared his throat. “Thank you. What were you saying Shapiro?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It can wait until after this.” She started to continue talking, but paused as she really looked at him again. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re looking- not the best,” she said honestly.

DuBois had reached the desk Grace was sitting behind by this point and was looking him over. “I agree,” he said simply.

Grace flushed. In all honesty, he felt pretty bad. When he went to bed the previous night he could already tell he was coming down with something and when he’d woken up it had not gotten better. But there was no resting for him. He’d had mountains of paperwork and new research to get through and that was before he had to prepare for this lecture. Not to mention the other list of things he needed to do after this.

It probably didn’t help that he hadn’t slept more than a few hours in the past days.

He rubbed his eyes, ran his hand under his nose again (it was getting annoying now) and nodded to the duo before him. “I’m fine. Allergies or something.” He waved it off.  He could see that Shapiro was doubting him, but she seemingly decided to let it go for now. Grace got up from behind the desk and started up the powerpoint he’d created for this meeting. “Anyway, let’s get into today’s programming.”

“Hh- HH’HDJISchew! H’DZZschEW! H-” The third sneeze left him in limbo for a solid few seconds before he ducked down again with a final “H’DZSCHEw! Ugh-” Grace cleared his throat, trying to cover up the embarrassment he felt about interrupting himself for god knows how many times in the last hour.

“Bless you,” Shapiro said.

“T-” his voice cracked on the first letter of his word and he was forced to clear his throat again. “Thank you. As I was sayihhg…” he trailed off as he could feel his breath catching and he was forced to turn away again. “H- hh- H’DJZSCHIW! Oh my god!” he groaned. “I apologise.” He grabbed one of the tissues he’d been forced to dig out of his bag earlier and ducked down to blow his nose.

“Bless you again.”

“If I may, you look- unwell, Grace.” DuBois said. “Worse than when we started today.”

When he turned back to his colleagues he found Shapiro looking at him with an intensity that made him uncomfortable. “You do,” she confirmed.

He didn’t need a mirror to know they were probably right. His nose felt red and uncomfortable, and no matter how many times he’d blown it he still felt congested. His voice had also gotten worse, and he honestly wasn’t sure how much longer it would hold out before he lost it completely. “I, uh,” he sighed. “It’s just a cold,” he admitted.

DuBois raised his eyebrow, clearly doubting him. “Just?” he repeated.

Grace cleared his throat again. “Yes. Just. We might as well finish, I’m pretty close to being done with this.” He gestured at the powerpoint.

“Are you sure? We could continue this when you’re feeling better Grace,” Shapiro said.

“It’s fine,” Grace said, frustration lacing his voice. He cleared his aching throat again and pushed on with his lecture.

True to his word, he managed to finish it in about ten minutes, even holding off on sneezing until he was wrapping up. He gave his nose a frustrated swipe and turned back to DuBios and Shapiro. “Any- any questions?” He coughed lightly into his elbow.

“None for today I think,” DuBois said, sharing a look with Shapiro that Grace was too tired to interpret.

“You should rest,” Shapiro said, getting up. “That’s what we’re going to do as well.”

Grace doubted it. He shrugged. “I’ll head off in a second. I still need to wrap up some things for today.”

Shapiro raised her eyebrow. “Can’t it wait?”

He sniffed, rubbing his nose again as the itch came back with a vengeance. “N- not really.”

“If you insist,” DuBois said, and the concern in his voice made Grace feel both annoyed and a little warm.

He nodded curtly, keeping his fist pressed against his nose to stave off the inevitable. As soon as his colleagues left the room he immediately dropped himself back down in his chair and frantically reached for another tissue. “Hh- h- H’DJYZSCHIW! D’JZSCHew!! H- hDSCHHEw!! Ugh-” he blew his nose and leaned his head down onto his hands. His head felt like it was filled with lead. Still, he removed one of his hands to grab a pile of research papers he’d printed out of his bag and put them down in front of him. Then, he put his hand back and started attempting to read them. 

A hand on his bicep woke him up. He shot up with a start, gasping slightly with surprise which immediately threw him into a coughing fit. The room was dark, and through his nearly closed eyes and skewed glasses it was hard to make out who had woken him up. How long had he been asleep? When he was finally able to pull himself together he managed to make out the shape of Stratt in front of him, who was staring at him with something akin to concern in her eyes.

“Dr. Grace?” she asked.

He attempted to respond, but his voice came out a nearly inaudible croak. He coughed and tried again, but the resulting “yes?” was still hard to understand and cut out by the last letter.

“You sound bad.” Stratt stated.

“Thanks,” he croaked out.

Stratt sighed. “Go home.”

“But-” he started to protest, beginning to gesture at the pile of paper he’d moved around a bit in his sleep.

“Go home Grace. You’re of no use like this.”

His shoulders slumped. “Okay,” he muttered, beginning to gather up his stuff only to be interrupted by another pair of sneezes. “H- DSZCch! D’JZSChh!”

“Bless,” Stratt said in a tone he couldn’t interpret.

He nodded in response, finishing up gathering his things and slowly heading for the door.

“Oh, and Grace?”

He looked back to Stratt.