#snezfic

Each one was gentle, barely louder than a breath, but they clearly shredded her sinuses. She groaned as she flopped back against the pillows, voice gravel-thick and mock pitiful. “I’m dyiiing.”

Rexar groaned too—but for a different reason. He half-turned away from her, hiding the flicker of flames that licked the edge of his irises for a split second. She caught it anyway.

“Oh no,” she rasped, her tone suddenly smug despite the congestion. “Did I trigger something, Sparky?”

He scowled over his shoulder, freckled cheeks tinged pink just above his piercings. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t do anything.” She curled her legs beneath her and sniffled, rubbing her nose on the inside of her sleeve with an exaggerated whine. “I’m just a poor, helpless shadow elf with a sensitive little nose and a boyfriend who’s about to leave me for his soul-sucking murder cult.”

Rexar dropped the bag with a groan. “Gods, you can be such a brat when you’re sick.”

She looked up at him from her nest, suddenly sincere beneath all the teasing. “But I really don’t feel good.”

That cracked something in him.

He crossed the space in three strides, falling to his knees at her side. The smoke thickened for a moment as he reached out to cradle her flushed cheek in his fireproof palm. The temperature of his hand was scorching, but it felt good against her feverish skin. She leaned into the touch instinctively.

“I know,” he murmured, brushing his thumb just under her eye. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“I mean it in the most tragically hot way possible.”

She smiled faintly, and then sniffled again. He reached for the tissue box and offered it wordlessly, but she waved him off and curled her fingers into his hoodie instead.

“Can’t you skip it? Just once?” she asked, quiet now, voice small in a way she rarely let anyone hear.

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers. The heat of his breath washed over her face in steady puffs of smoky warmth. “If I skip another Culling, they’ll think I’ve gone rogue. You know what happens then.”

“They throw a dramatic council meeting in an underground wine cellar and gossip about you in Latin for six hours?”

He chuckled, but didn’t deny it.

“Tomorrow,” he promised, brushing her crimson hair from her damp forehead. “I’ll come back early. I’ll bring you that spiced honey you like and the purple cough syrup you pretend not to love.”

She scoffed. “It tastes like grape soap and shame.”

“Exactly your flavor profile.”

She elbowed him weakly and winced. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then another to the bridge of her nose. She melted, nose twitching at the proximity of the smoke curling from his nostrils. She didn’t sneeze—but he definitely wanted her to.

“Text me when you get there,” she murmured, tugging on the drawstring of his hoodie with fever-heavy fingers. “And when you sneak off to smoke. And when you get bored and want me to distract you.”

“I’ll call,” he promised, hand lingering in her hair like he didn’t want to let go.

“You better. Or I’ll send you a sneeze video every hour until you die of frustration.”

He groaned low in his throat, fire flickering behind his pupils. “You’re evil.”

“I know.”

With great reluctance, he pulled away, lifting his bag again. She watched him walk to the front door, every inch of his tall frame bristling with affection and restraint. Just before stepping out into the cold, mist-choked air, he turned back, eyes gleaming red-gold in the dim light.

“I love you, babygirl.”

She blinked blearily at him and whispered, “I love you too. Go do your weird soul ritual and eat or whatever.”

And just like that, he was gone.

The door shut, shadows slid up to lock it behind him, and Kriia flopped backward into her cocoon with a frustrated huff.

She was miserable. And congested. And maybe—just maybe—a little excited to see what would happen when he finally

The silence that followed Rexar’s departure settled over the estate like a thick, damp blanket. It wasn't the peaceful kind—more like the suffocating quiet you get before a storm, heavy and full of things left unsaid. Kriia sniffled pathetically into her hoodie sleeve, then groaned and tossed the empty tea mug onto the coffee table where it clinked loudly against three others. She had no idea when she’d finished it. Time felt syrupy and disjointed, her fever fogging the space between moments.

The living room had dimmed without her asking—shadows drawing in tighter like sympathetic pets. A few of them pulsed sluggishly near the windows, absorbing the overcast grey light bleeding in through the frost-laced glass. Normally, they were sharp and reactive, moving in tandem with her breath or her moods. Now they just hovered there—lethargic, dull, sick like their mistress.

“Great,” she rasped, voice shredded by congestion. “Even my powers caught the damn plague.”

She reached for the game controller on the ottoman, wincing when her bangs brushed her oversensitive nose. It twitched immediately, sparking a sudden, flaring tickle that bloomed behind her sinuses like someone had dusted the inside of her skull with pepper and regret.

“Ughh…h-hhhuhh…”

The build-up hit her out of nowhere—vocal, sharp, and unpredictable. She wrinkled her nose against it, breath fluttering with frustration.

“Hhhiih’NGkt! Nn’chh! Hihhh… Hh’ngxshhh! Huhhh…k’nGXT!”

Each stifle was tighter than the last, barely muffled against her palm before the next snuck up on her. She blinked, dazed and bleary-eyed, and then groaned again, wiping at her nose with the cuff of her sleeve.

“Freakin’ ambush sneezes... I swear to gods…”

The shadows rippled a little at her irritation but did nothing to help. Useless.

She tossed the blanket aside in a dramatic flourish and grabbed her headset. If she couldn't breathe and she couldn’t taste anything and even her shadows had abandoned her for a nap, then she could at least shoot something in the face. Virtually.

The console booted with a cheerful chime that grated against her migraine. Kriia narrowed her eyes at the screen, gripping the controller with clammy hands. Ten minutes later, she’d died seventeen times, most of them to absolutely stupid shit—like walking off a cliff or trying to reload in the middle of a boss lunge.

“Fuuuuuuck yoooou,” she groaned at the screen, dragging her voice like syrup. “This game is rigged. I’m a goddess of darkness and I just got body-slammed by a skeleton with a rake.”

She sniffled again, hard, wincing at the raw scrape of it through her throat. Her nose twitched traitorously, not done tormenting her.

“Hhhuhhh… Hn’gktch! Tschhkt! Huhhh’nkxt—Hhh’tCHHkk! Ahh…”

She sagged forward, controller sliding to the floor. Her whole face throbbed, sinuses aching behind her eyes like someone had taken a crowbar to her skull.

“Should’ve let Rexar baby me,” she mumbled bitterly. “Stupid, soft, overgrown fire prince. Would’ve wrapped me in seven blankets and spoon-fed me soup if I’d let him.”

The thought made her lips twitch. She could see it—Rexar bustling around the kitchen shirtless, one hand holding a steaming bowl, the other trying not to set the dish towel on fire. He’d kiss her nose between sneezes and wouldn’t grumble when she wiped snot on his hoodie. He’d light scented candles even though she couldn’t smell anything, and hum some trap-metal melody under his breath while holding her against his furnace-hot chest.

“Wouldn’t have minded,” she muttered to herself. “Not this time…”

A flush burned through her cheeks, and not from the fever.

She flopped back onto the couch and stared up at the ornate ceiling, eyes tracking the familiar carvings of swirling flames and vines that lined the molding. Rexar’s family had no subtlety. Even the woodwork screamed power and legacy and death-by-fire. But they’d made this mansion theirs. Kriia had insisted on shadow-dampening the lights, adding blackout curtains, bookshelves stuffed with worn paperbacks, her worn-down bong collection, and a fuzzy purple rug that Rexar hated but let her keep.

“Bet he’s all stiff right now,” she muttered, imagining him standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his grim-faced siblings in some underground temple room, listening to hymns about fire and righteous consumption of souls. “Poor thing. Surrounded by murder nerds and horny ghosts.”

She grinned, then sniffled, then groaned.

Her stomach growled. She ignored it.

The shadows pulsed sluggishly again and coiled half-heartedly toward the kitchen.

“Don’t bother,” she told them. “The stove scares me when I’m like this. And I’m not about to microwave that mushroom rice he made. It smells like despair.”

Instead, she reached for her phone.

Rexar’s name was pinned at the top of her messages. Their last thread was mostly memes, selfies, and a video she’d made the last time she was sick—a dramatic montage of her sneezing into a tissue and whispering “this is your fault, you plague-ridden bastard” between fits.

She smirked and tapped record.

The front camera flicked on. She looked rough—hair a mess, face flushed, her facial tattoos standing out stark against her pale skin. Her voice was shot, but her smirk was devilish.

“Hey, Sparky,” she whispered. “Just wanted to let you know your girl is suffering. Miserably. Sniffly. Pathetically.”

She paused, scrunching her nose theatrically as another tickle crept up. Her eyes fluttered half-shut.

“Uhhhn…heh…Nhh’tchkk! Hh’ngxchhh! …Huhhh'n’kSHhh!”

Each one hit sharp and quick, her breath hitching prettily between stifles. She let the last one linger, groaning softly as she wiped her nose on her sleeve again.

“Hope you’re having fun with the soul buffet,” she whispered, voice cracking. “But if you were here, I might have let you cuddle me. Might’ve even let you hold the tissue box. Too bad you’re not.”

She blew him a kiss, then hit send.

Ten seconds later, she regretted nothing and everything.

She curled up again, tissues and shadow-blankets gathered around her like the world's most dramatic fevered elf girl. Her body ached. Her nose was running again. Her powers were barely a flicker.

But deep down, in the part of her heart that she'd never admit aloud—not even to herself—she knew she didn’t just want him there because he’d help. She wanted him there because when she was this sick and miserable and exposed, he made her feel safe.

Like she didn’t have to pretend to be tough all the time.

Like maybe, just maybe, being vulnerable wasn't such a bad thing.

Another sneeze snuck up on her while she was thinking too hard about that.

“Huhhh… HnngCHhh!—ng’tchh! Huhh… kTChhh!”

She sighed, face buried in the curve of her elbow.

“Miss you, you big smoky idiot.”

The shadows tightened gently around her, cocooning her like arms she could almost pretend were his.

Kriia’s phone buzzed beside her on the nightstand, cutting through the haze of fever and television static. She blinked blearily at the screen. Incoming call: Rexar 🔥🖤. The profile photo—a ridiculous close-up of his face—made her snort, which turned immediately into a congested groan.

Still, her fingers reached for it.

The screen shifted, brightening to reveal Rexar’s face, framed by the dim, red-hued glow of one of his family’s ceremonial rooms. The camera angle was slightly tilted—he must’ve propped it on a table or altar—and his familiar mop of curly white-and-crimson hair was tousled and slightly damp. He had that look in his eyes, the soft haze of fatigue layered under a stubborn grin.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite little plague rat,” he drawled, voice already thick with restrained amusement.

Kriia didn’t even try to look good. Wrapped in a tangle of blankets with her nose twitching under the haze of her fever, she lifted one hand lazily in greeting. “I hate everything,” she croaked.

Rexar chuckled, adjusting his position. “You look like you hate everything. Damn, babygirl. That cold is kicking your ass.”

“You should see what I did to the Kleenex box,” she mumbled, voice ragged and nasal. “It’s in mourning.”

Rexar’s lips curled into a grin that was too fond. In the background, flickering candles and smoky incense glowed on stone pedestals. Occasionally, a voice chanted something indistinct—ceremonial, formal, faintly ominous.

“You’re literally surrounded by murder priests,” she muttered. “And I’m the pathetic one.”

“You’re hot when you’re pathetic,” he said immediately. Then paused. “Okay wait, that came out wrong.”

She sniffled and coughed a laugh into her sleeve. “I’ll allow it.”

He leaned in closer to the screen, and she saw it: the shift in his expression. The subtle flicker in his red-grey eyes as he watched her rub at her nose, the tiny dip in his voice as he asked, “How bad is it?”

Kriia’s hand stalled just under her nose. Her breath caught.

That look.

That look.

Rexar, trying to play casual, forced his attention elsewhere—adjusting the scarf on his neck, pretending to fiddle with something just off-camera—but she’d seen it. The flicker of fascination. The simmering beneath the concern. And suddenly, Kriia remembered everything.

That first day they moved in. The endless barrage of “so cute,” the nose kisses, the tip-off confession that still made her stomach flip whenever she thought about it.

She narrowed her eyes at the screen.

“You alright, flameboy?” she asked, pushing her sleeve to her face, deliberately slow. Her voice dropped, teasing. “You’re staring.”

“I always stare at you,” he muttered, distracted.

“Mmhm.” She rubbed under her nose again, slower this time, just to see if he’d flinch.

He did.

Only slightly—but enough. His fingers twitched in his lap. His eyes darted, once, to the corner of the screen where her hand disappeared under the blanket.

Kriia grinned. Then, without warning—

“Hh’NgXt! Hh‘gsch! k’gnsh! Ngt’chh!”

She stifled the fit rapid-fire into the collar of his hoodie she was wearing. When she looked up again, Rexar had visibly swallowed. The hand that was resting on his thigh curled slightly, as if to resist the urge to reach through the screen.

“Gods,” he rasped, voice dropping. “Bless you, babydoll.”

“Thanks,” she sniffled, eyes narrowing wickedly. “But you don’t have to say it every time, y’know.”

“Yes, I do,” he said too quickly.

In the background, a voice called something like “Et parae, in tenebris vitae.”

Rexar glanced over his shoulder with a sheepish grin. “We’re invoking the judgment clause or whatever. Don’t worry, no one’s being disemboweled yet.”

“Tragic,” Kriia muttered, flopping sideways on the couch. “You look like you’re dying to be somewhere else.”

“I am,” he said immediately. “Like, with you. Under all those blankets. Probably being strangled by your nose.”

Kriia choked on a laugh. “You are so disgusting.”

“You say that,” he said, dragging a hand over his face, “but every time you do that little sneeze-sound—it’s like, I don't know, the gods are punishing me and rewarding me at once.”

Kriia blinked, caught between embarrassment and delight.

“Are you seriously flirting with me while your whole family is soul-feeding in the next room?”

He whispered back, “They’re soul-feeding quietly.”

Kriia grinned, sniffled again—loudly this time—and caught his expression just as he bit the inside of his cheek. His eyes fluttered half-shut for a second. His breath came a little shallower.

“Ohhh,” she breathed. “There it is.”

Rexar’s smile was lopsided now. “No clue what you mean, princess.”

“I sneeze one more time and you're gonna have to excuse yourself, aren’t you?”

He groaned low. “Don’t tempt me. This robe isn’t flameproof.”

“And whose fault is that?”

They stared at each other.

The room on his side seemed darker now—more intimate, the flickering shadows giving the illusion of privacy. In the distance, the low chanting continued, but Rexar didn’t look away. Not once. His attention was pinned to her.

To her flushed face. Her twitchy nose. Her messiness.

“You remember when you first told me?” she asked quietly. “About this?”

His breath caught.

“Gods, yeah. You were moving boxes, covered in dust, half-sneezing yourself into the floor.”

“And you just—said it.”

“‘I have a sneeze kink, babygirl,’” he quoted back with zero shame.

She rolled her eyes. “Most people would, like, ease into it.”

“I tried,” he said, grinning again. “I complimented your sneezes like ten times before that.”

“And I thought you were just into being a menace.”

“I am that too.”

Kriia laughed, then coughed, then rubbed her nose again with a tired sigh. “I don’t even have the energy to keep teasing you properly.”

“That’s okay,” Rexar murmured, voice dropping again. “You’re killing me anyway.”

Kriia’s gaze flicked toward the camera, slowly. Her breath hitched.

“I feel one coming,” she whispered.

Rexar visibly inhaled. “Fuck.”

Kriia let the build-up take its time—let it drag through her expression, her eyes fluttering, nose scrunching, hands slow to react as she waited just long enough to let him react.

Then—

“Huhhh… h’n’gtx! Hh‘gsch! hptt’CH!—n’gtx!”

She sniffled, voice hoarse: “You still with me, flameboy?”

But the screen had shifted.

Rexar had moved—camera tilted down now, showing the vague impression of a stone hallway. Somewhere private.

She heard him murmur, “One second,” followed by the sound of a door closing. Then nothing but the glow of low torchlight and the sound of him breathing—

Heavy.

Low.

Shaky.

Then—

“Ohhh, babygirl…”

Kriia’s grin widened as she curled deeper into her blankets.

She hadn’t even started yet.

The camera flickered as Rexar settled somewhere new—somewhere quiet, dim, clearly carved into the stone heart of the Fang estate. The sharp gothic edges of the ceremonial chamber had given way to dark brick and a low-hung torch glowing faintly behind him. His face filled the screen now, flushed and taut with restraint.

“Okay,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, “I’ve got like five minutes before they send a blood-soaked cousin to drag me back. Use it wisely.”

Kriia’s voice came through soft, hoarse, and syrupy with congestion. “You mean abuse it wisely.”

Rexar blinked, breath catching faintly. “Kriii…”

She sniffled, delicately. The camera on her end tilted as she adjusted, blankets rustling. Her nose twitched as she rubbed a finger under it, voice dropping just enough to make his pupils visibly dilate.

“I still feel awful,” she murmured, eyes wide with mock innocence. “My nose won’t stop tickling…”

Rexar’s jaw flexed.

She sniffled again, breath fluttering—just slightly exaggerated, just long enough to tease.

“I think I’m gonna—hhihh… Hhh-n’ktchhh! Hh’gschhh!—n’nxtch!”

Each stifle was light, high-pitched, barely muffled by her wrist as her body shuddered with the gentle, rapid fire rhythm. She lifted her gaze slowly, finding the lens again with glassy purple eyes.

“Ughhh,” she breathed, congested and miserable-sounding. “They’re getting so bad.”

Rexar’s throat worked visibly. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I’m not doing anything.” Her voice went up in an exaggerated whimper. “I’m sick, remember?”

“You’re evil,” he corrected.

Her lips twitched as she brought her hand back up and gave her nose another slow, deliberate rub. “You think I’m faking it?”

“No,” he muttered, leaning forward, eyes hungry and half-lidded. “That’s the problem.”

Kriia giggled—then coughed, sniffling thickly. “My throat hurts…”

“Ohhh fuck me,” Rexar rasped, shifting in his seat. The camera wobbled slightly. His hand disappeared from frame, likely bracing on his thigh. Or lower.

“Can’t breathe through my nose,” she added pitifully. “And I’m all warm and achey and—hhihh… hehh…—nn’ktschh! k’chh! Nxt!”

Rexar’s breath hitched, and this time she heard the faintest rumble—a stifled groan that leaked from the back of his throat.

“Babygirl,” he breathed. “I’m gonna spontaneously combust.”

“Don’t do that,” she teased. “Not until I’m better. You still owe me soup.”

Rexar’s laugh was breathless. “Kriia, I swear to gods—”

“I wish you were here,” she whispered, letting the moment drop into something just a little softer. “My whole body’s so sensitive…”

She let that hang.

Watched it land.

Rexar swallowed again. The hand reappeared briefly in the frame, dragging across his mouth before vanishing again. When he next spoke, his voice had dropped nearly an octave.

“Say that again.”

She tilted her head. “What, that I wish you were here?”

“No,” he said immediately. “The other part.”

Kriia gave him a look. “You want me to say my body’s sensitive?”

The way he exhaled—shaky, low, through his nose—set her stomach fluttering.

So she said it again. Slower.

“My body’s… really sensitive.”

Rexar closed his eyes, tipped his head back against the wall, and let out a slow, unsteady breath that came dangerously close to a whine.

“You’d be touching me so much,” she added, voice rough from the cold but soft with intention. “You’d be trying to help. And I’d be all sneezy and needy and whiny…”

Rexar’s fists clenched.

“I’d be curled in your lap,” she continued, letting herself imagine it aloud. “And you’d keep petting my hair and kissing my forehead—and every time I sneeze, you’d just melt.”

“I am melting,” he rasped, cracking an eye open. “Krii, I’m—I’m gonna have to—fuck.”

She didn’t let up. Her hand fluttered to her face again, pressing lightly against her twitching nostrils as her eyes fluttered shut.

“Hhhihhh… snf—N’gtxchhh! hh’ptTshh! Hehh… hihh—huhhh’nkkT!”

The fit was longer, wetter, her breath fluttering between each stifle as she shifted under the blankets, clearly breathless by the end.

Rexar looked wrecked.

Face flushed.

Smoke leaking from his nose in thicker, steadier curls.

He stifled a noise into his fist that might’ve been a gasp. Or a groan. Or both.

Kriia raised her brows at him, eyes glinting. “Are you okay?”

He was not.

“Babydoll,” he croaked. “I—fuck—I can’t…”

“You’re in the murder basement of your family estate, calling your sick girlfriend while you’re supposed to be eating souls,” she said sweetly. “You’re doing this to yourself.”

“I had to call you,” he argued, breathless. “You looked so fucking sniffly and adorable—I couldn’t not.”

“Mmhm,” she hummed. “And now I’m making your life difficult.”

He pressed the heel of his palm into his thigh. His voice was tight, bordering on wrecked. “You’re making it impossible.”

“You poor thing,” she crooned, voice full of syrupy mock-sympathy. “You’re all flustered and helpless and alone in some dark hallway, and I’m here sniffling and whining and—huhh…!”

Her eyes fluttered shut again.

“Hhhihhh—hh'n'gtx! Hh’gchh! k’tchh! h’pttshh! Nnxtch!”

Rexar cursed softly under his breath, fingers tightening visibly as he shifted out of frame.

She could hear the rustle of fabric. Could feel the tension vibrating through the screen.

“Do you need a break, Sparky?” she whispered.

He exhaled shakily, clearly struggling to focus. “What I need is a stronger soul and a cold shower.”

“You’ll get neither,” she said, relishing the way his face twisted with tortured delight. “So you’ll just have to sit there and listen.”

He let out the most broken little laugh. “Gods, I love you.”

“Yeah,” she said, sniffling again. “I know.”

She shifted on camera, blankets slipping to reveal her shoulder—red X tattoos vivid against pale skin, flushed cheeks, and the hoodie still hanging loose from her frame. Her nose twitched again.

“Think I’m gonna sneeze again,” she whispered.

Rexar let out a small, strangled sound.

Kriia gave him the slowest, most delicious pre-sneeze buildup imaginable. Her breath hitched. Her brows drew together. Her lashes fluttered.

“Huhhh… hehh… hiihh… Hh—n'ghkkT! hh’tchhh! hihhh…NnngCHh!—uhhh…”

She sagged back against the pillows, flushed and sniffling.

“Ohhhhhh gods,” Rexar whispered, his voice so hoarse she barely recognized it.

His camera shifted again—blurring out briefly as he angled it just off his lap. One of his hands was still visible at the edge of the frame, curled tightly, knuckles white.

“I should hang up,” he said, but it didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like begging.

Kriia smiled.

Then fake-whined, soft and desperate: “Baaabe, I feel so yucky…”

That broke him.

She watched it happen—his eyes fluttering shut, breath catching, nostrils flaring slightly as he let out a barely contained groan.

“I want to hold you so bad,” he whispered. “You’d be such a mess in my arms.”

She sniffled, then murmured, “I’m already a mess.”

He whimpered.

And for a second, Kriia forgot the ache in her body, the fever, the rasp in her throat. Because right now, she was winning.

Rexar Fang, descendant of murder-pyromancers, beloved soul of the underground music scene, six-foot-four menace of chaos and fire—

—was a stammering, undone wreck for her sneezes.

And she wasn’t about to let him forget it.

The sound of stone beneath Rexar’s boots echoed low and quiet, muffled by the thickness of air that hadn’t been touched by light in decades. The tunnel he’d ducked into stretched deep beneath the Fang estate—an ancient hall of carved obsidian, once used for rituals long since banned by the High Circle. It was colder down here, the walls damp with condensation, lit only by faintly pulsing glyphs scrawled across the stone.

He kept one hand on the wall, guiding himself deeper into privacy, the other holding his phone tight in his grip like a lifeline.

“I can still hear you breathing, y’know,” Kriia said on the other end, her voice like honey-dripped static through congestion. “Even when you run off like a scared little schoolboy.”

“I’m not—” Rexar broke off, dragging a hand over his flushed face. “I’m not scared. I’m trying not to catch fire in the middle of a death chamber, thanks.”

A breathy laugh filtered through the speaker. It was wet. Hoarse. Wicked. “Mmm. So dramatic…”

Rexar didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He could barely think.

His body ached—not just with heat and the rising storm of tension clawing its way through his gut—but with guilt, too. Somewhere two floors up, his brothers and cousins were performing a ritual centuries old. Flames. Incantations. The devouring of damned souls. A necessary evil in the world the Fang family had built and one Rexar hated with every bone in his body.

He was supposed to be participating. Should’ve been cleansing the next sacrificial vessel. But instead, he was in a tunnel—palms shaking, breath catching, painfully hard in ceremonial robes that still smelled like ash and incense—because his sick, sniffly girlfriend couldn’t stop teasing him.

“You sound a little out of breath,” Kriia murmured. “Everything okay down there?”

Her image was still framed perfectly on his screen: blankets around her like a plush throne, hoodie collar rumpled around her collarbone, hair tousled from fever-sleep. Her nose twitched subtly as she sniffled, lips parted around shallow, tickly breaths.

“Krii, please…” he whispered, voice raw.

“Please what?” she asked, all wide eyes and mock innocence. “Please stop describing how I feel like my entire body’s melting from the inside out? Or should I keep talking about how raw my throat feels? Or how I’m so dizzy and achey I can’t even sit up straight without—hhihh…—hehhh… h’Nxgtchhh!”

She collapsed forward with a breathy stifle that hit all at once—perfectly timed, utterly devastating, her breasts bouncing slightly with the force of it.

Rexar let out a sound that could only be described as a strangled whimper.

Kriia straightened slowly, blinking at him with glassy eyes. “Still with me?”

He stumbled, catching himself on the wall.

“Rexar,” she said, softer now, teasing giving way to curiosity. “Are you actually okay?”

“No,” he whispered. “Not even a little.”

“Then why are you still holding back?”

His throat moved as he swallowed.

“Because this is wrong,” he said, breathless. “I’m literally underground while my family’s performing a soul ritual and you’re—you’re making me…”

“Making you what?” she asked.

Rexar groaned. His hand disappeared from frame again, this time bracing against his thigh, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths.

“Say it,” she whispered.

His nostrils flared. His smoke was thick now, curling up the camera lens. “You know what.”

“You like this,” she purred, voice hoarse but filled with smug glee. “You love this. Sitting in some haunted hallway, body burning, while your poor, congested girlfriend makes those little sick noises you lose your mind over…”

She sniffled again—loud, wet, intentionally exaggerated.

Kriia adjusted her position on the bed, shadows shifting around her like velvet tentacles responding to her mood. She looked into the camera with glassy, half-lidded eyes and a flushed nose twitching gently, deliberately exaggerating every motion as she reached up and rubbed her palm in slow circles beneath her nostrils.

“You still watching me?” she asked, voice like cracked honey.

Rexar, sitting hunched in the tunnel, nodded silently.

“Remember what you said that first night?” she crooned. “How you wanted to tie me up in a blanket cocoon, lay me in your lap, and keep tissues tucked into your waistband so you could wipe my nose for me every time I sneezed?”

“I—fuck—I didn’t mean it like—”

“Yes, you did,” she said with a sly smile. “You do want that. You want me feverish and soft and needy. You want me to look up at you with teary eyes and beg you to make the tickle go away.”

Rexar’s camera tilted slightly as he shifted, trying to hide the way his hips bucked forward. His breathing had fully changed—shorter, sharper, his voice caught somewhere in his throat.

“Say it,” Kriia whispered. “Say what you want.”

“I want you,” he finally gasped. “Sick and squirmy and fucking helpless. I want to take care of you until I can’t stand it anymore.”

Kriia grinned, slow and dangerous. “And then what?”

His next breath was guttural. “Then I want to ruin you.”

She gave a soft moan—half a congested groan, half breathy giggle—and tilted her head, pretending to sniffle innocently. Her fingers crept up to press beneath her nose again.

“Ohhh, Rexar… I feel another one coming… what if I can’t hold it back this time?”

“Don’t,” he begged. “Let it happen—please—”

She fluttered her lashes, breathing building in theatrical little hitches.

“Hhhuhhh… hhhH’NGSHhh! h’tchhh!—huh’Ktchhh! Ahhh…”

She didn’t cover it. Let the mist glint in the screen light again. And when she recovered, panting lightly, her voice went syrupy again.

“Bet you wish you were here to clean that up.”

Rexar groaned so deeply it echoed.

“Gods,” she whispered. “You get like this every time, don’t you? The second I sound a little stuffy, you forget all about fire rituals and soul feasting. All you want to do is—what? Babysit me? Pin me down and pet me until I sneeze all over you?”

“K-Krii,” he stammered, voice low, breath shallow.

“You’re so easy,” she purred. She leaned in toward the screen, just enough for her camo bra to peek out again as she pulled her hoodie collar down slowly. “Every little sniffle I make, you get hotter. Your fingers start twitching. You forget how to speak.”

He swallowed audibly.

“You want to help me, don’t you?” she asked sweetly. “Tuck me under the blankets, rub my back, kiss my forehead while I—hhuhhh… hh’nkkTCH!—huh’Nxtchhh!—hiihh... hhh’tchhh!”

She collapsed forward again, breath catching so prettily between sneezes she sounded winded by the end of it.

Rexar was on the edge. His breathing had gone shallow, one hand now flat on the floor beside him for support as he practically trembled with restraint.

“Princess…”

“I’d be whining for you,” she continued softly. “Nuzzling against your chest, rubbing my little stuffy nose into your shirt…”

“Babygirl,” he begged.

“And you’d love it,” she whispered. “You’d tell me how cute I sound. How helpless. How bad you want to—”

“Don’t,” he snapped—but the way he said it wasn’t angry. It was desperate. Like he needed her to stop just as much as he didn’t.

She tilted her head at the screen. “You’re making that face again.”

“What face.”

“That starving face.”

“I’m not—”

“Your eyes get all shiny,” she murmured, licking her lips. “And your nose twitches. And you get this little tremble in your voice, like you’re fighting every urge in your body not to lose it.”

He said nothing. He couldn’t.

So she delivered the killing blow.

“You’re so good at pretending to be composed when you’re turned on,” she whispered. “It’s adorable.”

Rexar snapped.

He dropped the phone briefly as he leaned his head back against the wall and groaned—loud. The screen went black for a second, muffled by fabric, before tilting sideways to capture only the edge of his jaw and the heavy fall of his red-tinted bangs.

His voice came through ragged. “I’m not gonna make it back to the ritual.”

“Don’t,” Kriia whispered. “Stay with me.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“But you will.”

He didn’t argue. Couldn’t.

He stayed there, slouched on the cold stone floor, ceremonial sash twisted around his waist, breath shaking, hips subtly shifting as he tried to ground himself. His smoke curled higher, denser, glowing with embers that shimmered with every ragged exhale.

“You’re wrecked,” Kriia cooed. “All because I’ve got a head cold.”

“Not just that,” he breathed. “Because it’s you.”

Kriia smiled—soft and real this time. “I’d kiss you if you were here.”

“Even if I was sweating through my clothes and leaking smoke?”

“Especially then.”

He laughed—a rough, low sound. Then: “You are evil.”

“I just know what you like.”

“You’re what I like.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then—quietly, almost sheepishly—Rexar said, “If you don’t stop, I’m gonna—”

“Then don’t stop,” she interrupted, voice raspy with congestion and control. “Don’t stop anything.”

He exhaled so hard it sounded like his whole chest was collapsing.

“I can’t even touch you,” he rasped, one hand dragging across his jaw. “And I’m still closer than I’ve ever been.”

Rexar’s grip on the phone was white-knuckled, jaw clenched so tightly his temple ached. The flames of his family’s ritual still danced somewhere above, but down in this carved-out sanctum of obsidian tunnels, all he could see—all he could feel—was her.

Kriia.

A flushed, sniffling, sick mess on the screen. And she was glowing.

Not literally. Not like him. But in the dim lamplight of their shared bedroom, she looked lit from within—cheeks ruddy, nose pink and twitching, lips parted with every ticklish breath. She had that dazed look she wore when fevered, half-feral and fully dangerous.

She gave a hoarse little giggle, rubbing under her nose with a knuckle. “Still watching me fall apart, flameboy?”

“I can’t not,” Rexar groaned, barely keeping the tremor from his voice.

“Good.”

Then—slowly, theatrically—she lifted her shirt just enough to show off the curve of her camo bra. The motion sent her hair spilling messily over one shoulder, her breath visibly hitching.

“I think I feel another sneeze coming…”

Rexar couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.

Kriia’s build-up was torturously slow. She let her breath flutter in ragged, uneven waves—head tilting, nostrils flaring delicately, lashes fluttering. “Hhhihhh… hiihhh… hhH’NG’tchh! K’tchh! H’ngCHhh! Huhhh… nn’KXshhh!”

She sneezed openly at the camera—wet, head-snapping fits that misted faintly in the dim light.

Rexar whimpered offscreen.

Kriia sniffled and tilted her head at him. “You still breathing?”

“Barely,” he rasped.

“Gods, you’re so easy,” she whispered, voice thick with amusement—and congestion. “You get hard so fast. Bet you’re already stroking yourself under those robes, aren’t you?”

Rexar’s head hit the wall behind him with a quiet thunk. “Don’t. Start.”

Kriia smiled—languid, sly, eyes half-lidded. “You want me to stop?”

He didn’t answer.

So she leaned in closer, let the camera catch every detail of her flushed, glistening expression. “I’m still burning up,” she whispered. “My skin’s so sensitive I can’t even lie still. And my nose just won’t stop.”

Another sharp inhale.

She snapped forward with a wet, breathy “Hh’NgxtCHhh!—uhhh…”

This time she moaned a little after, drawing her sleeve slowly across her upper lip. “Still there, Sparky?”

Rexar’s voice broke: “Fuck, yes.”

He shifted the camera slightly. She caught a glimpse of his hand—finally sliding beneath his robe, slow and unsteady. His face was flushed deep crimson now, lips parted, breath shallow.

“You’re touching yourself,” she breathed.

“I had to,” he muttered, like it physically hurt to admit. “You—you’re too much.”

“Poor thing,” she cooed. “You’re down in your murder basement, getting off to your girlfriend’s sneezes while the rest of your family’s out sacrificing souls.”

“I know,” he hissed, stroking himself now in slow, shuddering movements. “It’s so fucked.”

She smirked, letting out a fake-cute little cough. “You love it.”

“I love you,” he choked. “That’s worse.”

She giggled again, rubbing her nose between forefinger and thumb. “What if I just… kept going?”

He twitched. Visibly.

So she pushed.

“Ohhh, babe… I feel soooo yucky,” she mock-whined. “I need someone to take care of me. Rub my back. Hold me while I—hhuhhh!—Huhhh’nGTCHhh! k’tCHhh!”

She shuddered with the release, mouth parted, breath panting just a little harder.

The wet sound of his slicked strokes reached her through the speaker.

“Ohhh my gods,” she murmured. “You’re really doing it.”

“You’re making me do it,” he growled.

She tilted her head. “Good.”

“Touch yourself,” he ordered.

Kriia blinked, then raised an eyebrow. “You sure you can handle me doing that?”

“Try me.”

She didn’t hesitate. One hand dipped under the blanket, just past the camera’s frame. Her body shifted, hips rolling slowly as her fingers found heat.

Rexar moaned.

“I’m so sensitive,” she whispered. “My skin’s all hot and I keep flinching every time I sneeze. Everything tingles. Even this…”

She stroked herself gently, breath catching.

“Fucking hell,” Rexar growled, speeding up.

“I’m gonna get messy,” she moaned. “All sticky and flushed and red—and still sneezing.”

She let out a wet sniffle, the sound obscenely timed, dragging her hand higher for one deep rub.

“Say it,” she panted. “Say what I do to you.”

“You make me crazy,” he gasped. “You make me fucking feral. I want to bury my face in your pussy while you’re feverish and begging.”

“Mmmn,” she moaned. “You’d hold me tight, right? While I can’t stop sneezing into your chest? Your shirt soaked in it, and you’d just groan every time—”

“Hnnngh—Kriia!”

She gasped too, working herself harder now under the covers, her chest rising with every fevered breath. “You’re gonna cum, aren’t you? Just from hearing me like this?”

He nodded, frantic. “Say my name.”

“Rexar,” she purred.

Again—more desperate: “Say it.”

“Rexar,” she moaned. “Flameboy. S-Sparky. I’m gonna—hhuhhh… HHH’KTCHhh!—Ahhh! Gods—”

She came with a gasp and a sniffle, hips bucking beneath the blanket, every part of her trembling with overstimulated sensitivity.

Rexar came seconds after, breath shattering into raw, incoherent groans. His hand kept moving for a moment as he rode it out, hips arching, until he slumped back against the wall—completely undone.

For several seconds, neither of them said a word.

Kriia laid there in the dark, chest rising and falling, a lazy, satisfied smirk curling across her lips.

Again, after several seconds, Rexar finally reappeared on camera—hair mussed, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded and shining in the soft firelight of his hidden sanctuary. His skin glowed faintly red from exertion and residual magik, lips parted as if even breathing took effort now. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate rhythm—every inhale still tinged with the heat of his undoing.

He looked wrecked. And wholly satisfied.

He stared at the screen, drinking her in as though the image alone could sustain him a moment longer. Kriia was still lying back in her fevered nest, her shirt back in place, hoodie slightly askew on one shoulder. Her nose was still pink, twitching faintly now and then, and she dabbed at it lazily with a tissue, face soft with post-teasing contentment.

When Rexar finally spoke, his voice came out gentle, half-broken with awe, “You are fucking lethal.”

Kriia barely glanced up from blowing her nose, the sound wet and unbothered. She tossed the tissue aside with dramatic flair and exhaled tiredly. “Still worth it.”

They grinned at each other through the dim, wrecked glow of their devices.

“Okay,” Rexar finally muttered, “I need to go find a cold fountain. Or die.”

“Don’t die,” Kriia said, burrowing into the blankets. “Just come home soon.”

“Tomorrow,” he promised. “And you’re not moving. I’m gonna take care of everything.”

Kriia yawned, shadows curling up around her again. “Good. I’ll be sneezy and pathetic. Just for you.”

Rexar’s grin softened into something near worshipful.

“I love you, plague rat.”

“I know,” she mumbled, eyes already closing. “I love you, hotshot.”

There was silence for a moment—thick with shared heat, sickroom intimacy, and the kind of charged calm that came only after surrender.

Then Rexar laughed, breathless, and whispered, “Only you could get me to do these kinds of things.”

Kriia’s lips curved. “Who else but Kriia?”

She didn’t need to say anything else.

The next few minutes passed in a lull, peaceful but heavy with afterglow. Neither of them said much. Rexar rested his head against the wall, occasionally glancing down to check his camera, as if afraid she'd disappear if he blinked too long. Kriia sniffled once or twice but didn’t speak. Her eyes began to flutter closed as her breathing slowed. The teasing was done, the game complete. Now she was just tired.

She shifted deeper into her blankets, hoodie tugged up to her chin, shadows gently coiling tighter around her limbs like velvet vines. Her last visible motion was a twitch of her nose and a soft sigh as she turned onto her side, the screen dimming slightly as the camera auto-adjusted to the dark.

Rexar watched it all.

The rise and fall of her chest. The way her fingers curled loosely around the edge of a tissue. The slight hitch in her breath as she sank from playful mischief into deep, medicated sleep.

He didn’t say goodbye.

He didn’t need to.

Instead, he let the image burn into him, let the stillness settle, and whispered so softly that it might not have even made it through the speaker:

“Sleep tight, menace.”

Her shadow shifted in reply—just the faintest ripple—and then stilled again.

It was nearly two in the morning by the time the Fang estate fell silent.

Above ground, the halls still carried the residue of the ritual: a low thrum of residual energy, the smell of scorched air and sanctified ash. The Culling was complete. The ceremonial fire had gone out. The others had retired to their chambers or slunk off into the snow-drenched hills beyond the estate to hunt or smoke or meditate, as they always did after devouring something eternal.

But Rexar stayed in the tunnel.

Slumped against the wall, robe half-undone, face still flushed, he watched his phone screen with the quiet intensity of someone who'd just survived a holy war. Not because of the Culling. Because of her.

Kriia had fallen asleep on the call.

He hadn’t wanted to hang up. Couldn’t bring himself to. Even now, her camera stayed open, her screen dimmed just enough to blur her features into dreamy softness.

She was curled under her mountain of blankets like a fevered empress, cheeks still ruddy, breath shallow. Her shadows coiled lazily around her shoulders and chest like a living scarf, weaving gently with each inhale, reacting even in her sleep.

Rexar watched her for several minutes, chin resting against his knee, a small crooked smile playing at the corner of his mouth. His body still tingled—warm, drained, soul-deep content like he'd been wrung out and left glowing.

Then the screen went dark.

He blinked.

No warning. Just—Call ended.

For a second, he sat in stunned silence.

And then: buzz.

New Message from Kriia.

hey sparky,
you’re probs a melted pile of smoke rn but… just in case you’re still in one piece:
i miss you.
even more than i wanna sneeze on you.
maybe. 😛

A second later, another buzz. A voice memo this time.

He hesitated, then pressed play.

Her voice came through rough, raw with congestion, quiet like she didn’t want to wake herself up.

“Hey. Um. Sorry I ended the call. My phone tried to overheat and combust. Wonder why…”
soft congested laugh
“You’re probably still glowing, huh? All sweaty and pretty and ruined.”
pause, long inhale
“I feel gross. Still. But… I dunno. That was nice. You made me feel like I wasn’t alone, even if I was a snot-monster in a blanket cave.”
pause again, soft shifting of sheets
“So yeah. I miss you. And I love you a lot. Come home soon. Or I’ll find a way to sneeze directly into your next family gathering.”
sniffle, softer now
“...Night, Sparky.”

Rexar bit back a groan that was half love, half ache, all need.

He opened the text reply bar and hovered for a moment before typing:

You are the most beautiful snot-monster in history.
I am, in fact, still glowing.
I miss you so bad it’s making me stupid.
You can sneeze on me tomorrow. I’m not even kidding.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he snapped a picture with the front-facing camera.

His hair was a mess. His face flushed. Eyes still heavy-lidded, and the firelight behind him painted him in deep oranges and shadowy reds. He looked wrecked. Soft.

He captioned it: “You did this.”

Hit send.

Then closed his eyes.

Let his head fall back against the obsidian wall. Let the chill of the tunnel wrap around him like a counterpoint to the heat still singing through his blood.

“Gods,” he whispered into the dark, to no one and only her. “I miss you.”

Back in their shared wing of the estate, Kriia lay cocooned in warmth.

The shadows wrapped her like a velvet cocoon, responding to her every breath with tiny pulses of inky motion. The fire in the hearth had died to coals, and her fever had dipped just low enough to grant her lucidity without totally robbing her of the sick haze that made the world feel softer.

Her phone buzzed gently on her chest.

She cracked open one eye and peeked at the screen.

The selfie made her laugh out loud—a breathy, tired chuckle that caught in her throat. Gods, he was such a mess. And it was so obviously her fault. The thought alone made her cheeks heat.

She didn’t reply.

Instead, she whispered to the shadows, too soft for words, and they responded—curling tighter around her like arms, warm and thick and heavy. Almost like him.

She let her eyes fall shut.

Still smiling.

Six hours later, Rexar slipped in through the back entrance of their estate, covered in snow and ash.

The room was dark.

Silent.

He peeled off his robe, hung it over the rack, and padded quietly through the hall. When he reached the bedroom, he stopped.

She was still asleep. Curled up under their blankets. Nose pink. Mouth open. One arm flopped over the pillow, the other clutching a tissue box like a stuffed animal.

She sniffled softly in her sleep.

Rexar melted on the spot.

He tiptoed closer, reached down, and brushed a lock of red hair from her cheek. Her skin was cool now, no longer burning. Her shadows flicked toward him lazily, then relaxed. Accepting. Welcoming.

“I’m here,” he whispered.

She didn’t wake.

But she smiled in her sleep.

And that was enough.

The End ✨

—————————————————————————

Vox shivered under the blanket, then managed a slight smile as he felt the soft thud of another blanket landing on top of him. “It’s the warmest one I could find,” he was assured. “Had I realized the severity of the situation I would have brought some of my own. Or perhaps transported you to my fireplace, but I think it best to limit your movement in such a state.” Vox attempted to express his thanks, but only a whisper slipped out. “No need, old friend. You rest that marvelous voice of yours, just let me tend to you.” Vox almost nodded, then decided to keep still to conserve his energy. “Yes, just like that. Wait here and I’ll be right back.”

His friend returned with both hands full. Vox almost reached for the mug of tea, until he realized it was being brought directly to his mouth. He took a long sip and sighed at the simple comfort of being served with such attention in a such a vulnerable moment. The steam loosened his sinuses and he let out a few sneezes. “Bless you! Seems that was just what you needed.” A pause. Vox relaxed into the cooling touch as he felt the condensation being wiped from his screen. Thankfully his face was already flushed from fever, so he didn’t have to worry about hiding a blush.

“Now then, you’ve been resting for so long, you must be famished. Are you ready for the food I brought?” Vox nodded, then winced at the headache triggered by the movement.

Shortly thereafter, he was fed a spoonful of the warm, spicy dish, and he moaned at how good it was. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until such delicious food touched his lips, and suddenly, that hunger was consuming him. He ate spoonful after spoonful after spoonful, desperate to have his mouth filled. After he’d finished the massive bowl he begged for the tea, more tea, he was so thirsty. And still starving.

After the third request for more food and drink, the figure laughed in his face. “I knew you were pathetic, but I didn’t know you were so weak! You can’t lift your head, you can’t hold a mug, you can’t hold a spoon, you can hardly even talk! I come here to help, and you have the audacity to demand… no, to beg! For more than you could ever handle. You’re so hungry it puts cannibals to shame. You’re so thirsty you could drink the ocean and still ask for more. You’re so desperate for my attention you’ll humiliate yourself to the point of being incapacitated, just in the hopes of getting one more moment of time with me.”

Vox gulped and tried to blink back the tears forming, irritated with how static his vision was becoming. “I just thought you came cause you cared about me, you know, since we’re… friends.” Every word was quieter than the previous.

“Friends? There are no friends in hell, Vincent. I thought you of all people would understand that.”

***

Vox bolted up in a cold sweat, growling in anger as Alastor vanished. Not that he’d ever been there in the first place, Vox realized as his consciousness attempted to piece itself together. Just a fever-induced torment. Was that all Alastor would ever be now?

Vox’s stomach growled, and he realized there had been some truth to the nightmare after all. He dragged himself out of bed, despite his every muscle protesting. He couldn’t keep lying in bed wasting away, but he barely had the energy to get the needed food. He gritted his teeth. It was just like a sick day on earth. He was going to have to power through it, consequences of overclocking be damned.

His fridge was depressingly bare, and what remained showed signs of growth that discouraged any attempt at eating, lest he become even sicker than he already was. Maybe the freezer would have a better yield. If this was all for nothing he was going to scream.

As it was, he almost screamed anyway. As soon as he opened the door, there it was, mocking him. Jambalaya. Containers upon containers of it. It had been just a couple weeks ago that Alastor had made the dish. Vox had admitted that he’d never had it before, so Alastor had made a comically large batch (Vox tried not to think about what else might have been cooked in that pot before). Upon seeing how much Vox loved it, Alastor insisted on sending Vox home with leftovers.

Vox was flooded with tears again. Would he get any more memories like that? Probably not with Alastor, and how could he feel this way about anyone else?

Vox shivered and realized he was still holding the freezer door open. The cold air prickled his sensors and he felt that buzzing pick up again behind the center of his screen. No. Not now. Not in the room full of appliances, some of which were responsible for making sure he didn’t starve. He sniffed angrily and glared at the contents of the freezer. He couldn’t see anything else in there but the jambalaya and he really didn’t want to waste time rooting around now.

He grabbed a few containers, dumped them all in a pot, and put that pot in the oven, all the while diverting most of his limited processing power to holding back the sneezes that were almost certainly coming. As soon as he’d started the oven, he ran back into his bedroom and shut the door.

He was out of breath from that sprint, and when the air finally returned to his lungs it was immediately diverted to furious hitching. Hitching that quickly turned into a fit of sneezes so rapid any observer would have thought his audio drivers had glitched. That assumption wouldn’t have been too far off though, as the harshness and volume was enough to blow out his speakers.

His body was rebelling against the holdbacks so hard that every sneeze doubled him over with the force. “HHHHEHH’TZZZZZZSCH!” As another sneeze exploded out of him, he felt his heavy head pitch a little too far forward and he toppled to the floor. He growled, the sound muffled by the ground and distorted by his blown out speakers. “Hhhhhh’mphhhzzzzzzsh!” The resulting mess from that one made him want to rip his head off. At least his head was sturdy enough to have survived the fall, he really didn’t want to have to deal with a crack in his face.

Eventually, he was sitting up, gripping the bedpost for support. His dulled sensors picked up an unpleasant scent and he realized that in his rush to get out of the kitchen, he had failed to set the oven timer.

Vox peered into the oven, grateful for the built in light. The jambalaya was looking overly browned but it still seemed edible. It would be fine as long as he didn’t…

The steam went straight to his sensors and that cursed buzzing started up again. No! No no no no no! He was so close, don’t blow it now! But it was no use, his body had been denied too much before and it would not be denied again. The sneeze ripped out of him and he heard a loud crackle as the oven caught fire. He groaned and slammed the door shut, food still inside. No meal was worth risking his life over, not even Alastor’s jambalaya. And as bad as leaving a burning oven unattended was, staying here where he could risk fucking something else up was even worse.

He retreated back to his room, sniffling through the tears that had returned. All this work and he still had nothing to show for it! Nothing but a sore throat from all the crying, growling, and sneezing.

Eventually, he checked back in on the kitchen and, on confirming that the flames were all gone, retrieved the jambalaya. It was clearly charred, but at this point his growling stomach would take just about anything.

He sat on his bed sulking through spoonfuls that tasted better than he thought they would, given the circumstances. Of course Alastor’s cooking would be so impressive it could be burned to hell and still taste good. But wait, what was that new flavor? And why was he choking?

The pain in his throat went from a dull ache to stabbing to a slashing sensation that scraped up until finally he coughed up a full rose, thorny stem and all. It was the same blue as all the others had been. Vox sighed in defeat and flung the rose away. He shoveled as much food into his mouth as he could in between the ensuing sneezes, groaning at the inconvenience. He was suddenly hit with a wave of exhaustion, and used the last of his strength to stumble into bed.

***

When Vox finally came to, he blinked repeatedly and even pinched himself, sure this was another nightmare. But no, the petals and buds and full grown flowers spread all over the room were very much real. As were the roses growing out of his gills.

The waves lapped against the shores of Ithaca, home was finally in sight after a long 20 years of torment and sailing he was finally going to touch down on solid ground, fall into the arms of his wife, what more could he want? The closer he got however the swell began to grow, it was getting bumpier and his little raft was getting tossed left and right, something was beginning to rise. The water lumped up until the surface tension finally broke and Odysseus could feel his heart sink at the sight… Poseidon. The waves grew as his island was pushed further away from view, disappearing behind the dark clouds beginning to rise, this wasn’t supposed to happen, he had played the game and followed all the instructions to get home, this wasn’t supposed to happen! As Poseidon rose from the depths of the ocean Odysseus could feel every inch of life draining from him,

“There you are, coward,” the gravel in his voice sounded like it had been scraped across the rocks surrounding Ithaca, it wasn’t his usual gravel though, there was something different, something off. As the waves grew in size, capsizing the little raft that had been barely keeping Odysseus afloat was now at the mercy of Poseidon’s tides, the only thing Odysseus could do was scramble up onto the rocks for safety as the Sea God’s shadow loomed over him before it shrunk down to just nearly taller than the human himself but the ever intimidating presence still felt overwhelming. Poseidon leered at him, pushing closer to him and forcing the waves to rise, smashing Odysseus against the rocks with a pained groan, barely stumbling back to his feet and looking at the God. The ever-stoic figure of Poseidon appeared rugged, rough-looking, off. There was a red rim around his nostrils, deep bags from his eyes, and the occasional flare of his nostrils as he approached Odysseus, a crackle from his breathing as he did. Slowly Odysseus began to piece things together but he was still in disbelief, the God’s could get sick? This was definitely something…

As Poseidon drew closer to the Greek there was an unease in his breath, a small quiver almost as his chest rose and fell with unease, the waves around them starting to swell and crash with uncontrol, splashing up onto the edge of the rock, catching Odysseus with light sea spray.

“You reehh really thought you cehh… heeeh- could hide?” The Sea God asked, his breath catching as he did, the hitches causing a light cough into his clenched fist, his nose wriggling and flaring as he pushed Odysseus up against the rocks face, unable to move any further back. For some reason he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of God's nose, watching how it twitched and scrunched up as he was clearly biting back the urge to sneeze, his face betraying him with his eyes becoming half-lidded, his chest rising and falling with more aggression.

“Hehhh… heh’ERRRSHHU!!” Poseidon’s head snapped off to the side, his teeth clenching down, barely just scraping the side of Odysseus’ face with the spray, the ocean’s wave crashing up against the rocks mixing with the spray from the sneeze. The Greek was frozen in place, unable to react at the sight before him, a God seemingly having fallen to the mercy of a feeble human ailment leaving him more on the level of the one he was fighting against.

Poseidon sniffled thickly as he regained composure, his nose still not seeming completely done yet however he ignored it, his head turning back to face Odysseus who was now seemingly rather quiet and almost nervous. This made the Sea God smirk as he watched Odysseus.

“Are you starting to realize the depth of your situation?” Poseidon loved the nervous look on the other’s face as he leaned in a little closer. Odysseus could practically feel the warmth of the God’s breath on his neck and face. He began to shake softly as he felt his face flush, starting to match the shade of his nose, which was still seeming to be twitching and sniffling as he awaited the response.

“What’s the matter? Heeehh How the hiihhh high and meehhh mighty King of Ithaca has fallen,” He growled softly as his breath began to hitch again. “Wheehhh wheres thahhh that.. Haaahhh… hah’ERRSSHHUU! Ah’IRRSSHHUUUH! Where’s thad quick wit now?” He asked, regaining his composure after barely moving his head away from Odysseus, the spray glistening down onto his chest and chin while the waves crashed, and waves started to wash over their feet with each sneeze. It was slowly becoming obvious that the all mighty God of the Sea was definitely falling down a level, he looked pathetic. The God was sniffling, vulnerable and looking like one strong wave would knock him over and back into the depths. This look on Poseidon made Odysseus have conflicted feelings, it would be so incredibly easy to escape now and make it back to his home.. However this situation was ever so intriguing, he’d been away for 20 years, and Ithaca could wait a little bit longer…

“Poseidon… please, it’s been ten long years, you surely still can’t be stuck on this, just let me make it home. You look like you’re a bit worse for wear yourself…” Odysseus finally managed to sputter out some words in response as he stood staring at Poseidon. He was hoping to get through this easily without having to fight his way out, although it didn’t look like it would be a very difficult fight with the condition his opponent was in. The God’s nose constantly twitched and scrunched as he snorted back his drippy nose, the swell beginning to rise up as his breath faltered again, scrunching his eyes shut before another wrenching sneeze ran through him with a shudder as it misted across Odysseus’ cheek again. Waves splashed over the two of them, soaking them to the skin, the Greek shivering lightly which could be disguised as a cold shiver from the freezing ocean which fell over the two.

While Poseidon was recovering from this one, still in desperation to sneeze the constant buzz flooding all through his sinuses as he sniffled back wetly, his spray and mess mixing with the seawater. Odysseus swiftly twisted around and brought God down onto the rocks, leaving him there vulnerable to anything the man wanted to do. The power dynamic completely flipped onto its back like Poseidon was at that moment. The God of the Sea lay on the rocks, waves washing over him and scrunching his nose up as he looked at Odysseus with a slight bleary look on his face, stuck in a limbo of needing to sneeze but it was not coming out, the sneeze seemingly stuck just on the tip of his nose, snorting again with a scrunch of his nose again. He really did look pathetic.

Odysseus wasn’t about to let this attempted attack slide however, as he picked up the golden trident lying on the rocks, pointing the three prongs towards the pathetic man as he lay on the rocks. The king of Ithica watched as the God realised the position he was in but still fighting, and losing, his own battle against the sneeze that was brewing up again, the storm raged on in the seas.

“You’ve lost” Odysseus said smirking, standing above the God and pointing the trident down towards him but he didn’t seem to react, much rather his eyes began fluttering shut, jaw going slack as two more sneezes wrecked through his whole body, shaking it as the sneezes ran through him. The oceans rose up as he did. Odysseus could feel his cheeks heating up from this, he needed to get himself under control, this was not the time! However… he was just a man.

Odysseus dragged the trident across Poseidon's cheek, this prompting a whimper of pain from the God before tossing it to the side and pressing their lips together in a moment of madness. Poseidon jumped in surprise as he felt the Greek lock lips with him, this was definitely not what he had thought was going to happen but strangely a warm feeling began to rise up inside of him as the two lay on the rocks kissing. This was until the waves started to swell again, a reminder of what was ailing the God.

“Heehhh O-Odysseus… ihhhh hiihhh… geehh goneeehhh.. Heh-! Heh’ERSSSHHHUH! Hah’IRRSSHHHUUHH! Heehhh… ahhhh.. AH’IRSSHIUEWW!” Poseidon hitched out a desperate attempt at a warning to the other man before the sneezes ran through his body. A shiver ran down his spine as Odysseus got drenched by the spray of them, hitting him square in the face as he needed to break away from the sudden kiss, this seemed to leave Odysseus blushing brighter but he was not phased at all even with the waves roaring around them. Rather he pushed their lips back together with a soft pant as he did so, dragging himself up further onto Poseidon’s lap.

“Oh how the mighty have fallen, poor Poseidon left defenceless over a mere case of the sniffles, unable to control his own waves~” Odysseus sat above Poseidon as his index finger dragged down the bridge of the God’s nose, causing it to scrunch up with a sharp hitch which was soon followed by-

“Heh’ERRSSHHUU! Get your heehhh hands of mbe you pathetic ehhhhxcuse of a Greek” Poseidon snarled at the man who was so neatly sat in his lap as the buzzing only swelled up more, leaving him hitching and gasping desperately, Odysseus letting his finger slide under the Gods quivering nose, forcing the tickle to stay in its place, his eyes starting to water as a few tears fell. The Greek simply tutted as he rubbed his finger back and forth along the God's nose, “Now now Poseidon, I doubt you want to be saying such things in your current… predicament” He replied, a smirk crossing his face.

It was true, Poseidon, God of the Sea, was now at the mercy of a mere human who he had been waiting for at his own island for 10 years only for him to come home at the worst possible time when said God was at his weakest. Odysseus let his finger slowly move away from Poseidon’s nose as a sharp inhale escaped him just before his nose was pinched shut, a whine escaping the God along with a shaky exhale.

“Why are you doidg this?” He managed to pant out as he looked blearily up at Odysseus.

“Isn’t ruthlessness mercy upon ourselves?” Odysseus smirked and leaned in close to Poseidon again, his eyes filled with lust as he pressed their lips together again, letting go of his nose and instead letting a hand run through his hair as Poseidon was too caught off guard by the different senses to react, his nose taking the forefront of this reaction however.

“Heeehh.. Ehhhh.. HEH-! ERSSSHHUU! Heh’IRSSSHUUHH!” The sneezes flew out of him without a moment to react, the spray hitting Odysseus square in the face but this didn’t bother him only making his face flush up before pressing their bodies together, one hand on Poseidon's chest to keep him pushed down on the rocks, the waves splashing up against them, the sea God still feeling the itch in his nose. Odysseus could see this and made sure to keep his hand close to his nose, not able to help himself but to rub at it and push his nose back to expose his nostrils a little bit more. They were flaring wildly and he let out a soft moan as he felt the sneezes be pushed to the forefront of his nose.

“Heh’ERRSSHHUUU! Ih’RIISSHHHHUUHHH! Geeehh heeehhh geh’IRSSSHHHUU!” The sneezes wrenched through his body, his large frame rattling with each one, the spray hitting Odysseus being both from the ocean and the sneezes from the Sea God with the help of the human messing with his nose as they only kept on coming, “heh’IRSSHHHUU! H-hHeh- hRSSSHHHuuhhww! hHGSSHHhww!”

Poseidon was starting to sound more exhausted as the sneezes flooded out of him, the storm still looming overhead but was slowly beginning to calm down, the exhaustion of everything starting to catch up with him and Odysseus knew this was going his way.

It didn’t take long before the shores were calm again, the waves nothing more than a few ripples and small waves that would lap up against the shores. Odysseus smiled in satisfaction as he looked over to where Poseidon was lying against the rocks, panting softly and looking exhausted. His nose was dripping slightly and looked even redder than at the beginning of their encounter, Odysseus caressed his cheek gently with his hand and hummed.

“There, we seemed to have calmed down a little bit huh?” Odysseus asked with a small smirk, tilting the other’s chin upwards so they were looking at each other.

“I knew we would see eye to eye on this” he hummed and pulled away, his boat just within reach so he was able to climb aboard. With a look of pity towards the God splayed across the rocks Odysseus ripped a bit off his sail, draping it on the edge of the rocks. “Good luck, do try not to flood absolutely everywhere~”

In the heart of Victorian London, amidst the fog-draped streets and gas-lit alleys, stood an imposing manor. It was home to two vampires, Dali and Gerhard. The manor, with its grandiose architecture and lush gardens, was a stark contrast to the bustling city outside its gates. Inside, it was a haven of quiet elegance, adorned with rich tapestries, antique furniture, and flickering candlelight....well normally but today was a exception.

Dali, with his piercing green eyes and raven-black hair, was usually the epitome of strength and grace. However, tonight, he lay on a lavish velvet sofa, wrapped in a blanket, looking decidedly less formidable. His pale skin was even paler than usual, and his normally sharp features were softened by the weariness of illness. He had caught a cold, a rare and inconvenient affliction for a vampire.

Gerhard, his partner of many centuries, hovered nearby with a worried expression. His blond hair was neatly tied back, and his tanned eyes reflected his concern. Gerhard was the more impulsive of the two, always ready to tell off Dali, especially in moments like these.

"Dali, you need to rest," Gerhard said gently, placing a cool hand on Dali's forehead. "Your body needs time to recover."

Dali coughed softly, looking up at Gerhard with a mixture of frustration and gratitude. "I know, Gerhard. It's just... so inconvenient," he admitted, his voice slightly hoarse.

Gerhard smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair away from Dali's face. "Even vampires need to rest.”

Dali reclined on the plush velvet sofa, sipping the herbal tea that Gerhard had prepared a few hours before. The warmth of the tea soothed his throat and offered a brief respite from his symptoms. However, a stubborn tickle remained in his nose, threatening to bring on another sneeze.

Gerhard watched Dali closely, noticing the subtle signs of discomfort. "Are you alright?" he asked gently, his voice filled with concern.

Dali nodded, but his nose twitched, and his breath hitched slightly. "I think I have another sneeze coming," he admitted, though his voice was tense with the effort of trying to hold it back. "But it won't come out."

Gerhard moved closer, his hand resting reassuringly on Dali's arm. "It's alright. Just relax and let it happen," he said soothingly.

Dali closed his eyes, trying to focus on the sensation in his nose. The tickle was persistent, yet the sneeze remained frustratingly stuck. He took a few deep breaths, hoping to coax it out. "Heh... heh..."

Gerhard gently rubbed Dali's back, offering comfort. "Bless you, in advance," he whispered, a small smile playing at his lips.

Dali's breath continued to hitch, his nostrils flaring slightly. "Heh... heh... ah..." But still, the sneeze refused to come. He opened his eyes, looking at Gerhard with a mixture of frustration and amusement. "This is so annoying."

Gerhard chuckled softly, still rubbing Dali's back. "I cannot watch this," he indicated. "Hold still." He grabbed a silken handkerchief from the lavish table in front of them and held it to the twitching man's nose rubbing it gently.

Dali looked shocked but soon his expression changed. He focused on the feeling of the cloth against his nose, feeling the tickle in his nose intensifies. "Heh... heh... Hh’KZZHhshew! Hh’Tszchiiiew! HIH’TSHHEW!!" The sneeze finally erupted, shaking his frame. Gerhard could feel the spray through his handkerchief before tending to the other dripping nose.

"Bless you," Gerhard said warmly, his hand still resting on Dali's back. "Feel better?"

Dali sighed in relief, a small smile on his lips. "Yes, thank you," he said, his voice softer now. "That was driving me crazy."

Gerhard chuckled and pressed a gentle kiss to Dali's temple. "I'm glad you feel better. Now, how about we get you back under the blankets and rest some more?"

Dali nodded, feeling a wave of gratitude for Gerhard's care. "All right." He agreed, allowing Gerhard to help him settle back onto the sofa with the blanket wrapped snugly around him.

-----

As the dawn painted the sky with soft hues of pink and orange, Dali stirred from his rest, feeling slightly better yet still under the weather. Determined not to appear weak, he tried to mask his discomfort from Gerhard.

Gerhard, ever attentive, noticed the subtle signs: the slight pallor in Dali's cheeks, the faint rasp in his voice, and the occasional, barely suppressed sniffle. But Dali, stubborn as always, refused to admit he was still feeling ill.

"Gerhard, I really think I'm fine now," Dali said, attempting to sound convincing. "You don't need to fuss over me anymore."

Gerhard raised an eyebrow, a knowing look in his brown eyes. "Dali, you don't have to pretend for my sake. I can tell you're still not well."

Dali forced a smile, trying to appear nonchalant. "I'm perfectly fine, Gerhard. See?" He stood up, but the movement triggered a tickle in his nose. He turned away quickly, trying to stifle the sneeze. "Hh’KZZHhshew! Hh’Tszchiiiew! HIH’TSHHEW!" Despite his best efforts, the large sneeze escaped and he was left to deal with the mess.

Gerhard sighed softly, moving to Dali's side. "Bless you, Dali," he said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You are sick, forget about the investigation. Besides one sneeze would surely scare the children."

Dali's stubborn pride kept him from admitting the truth. "It's just a little sneeze," he insisted, though his voice wavered slightly. "I can handle it."

“Little sneeze, oh really?! If I wasn’t holding you I am sure you would fall.”

Dali tried to rebuttal the tickle in his nose became more persistent, and he struggled to hold back another sneeze. "Heh... heh... Hh’KZZHhshew! Hh’Tszchiiiew! HIH’TSHHEW! He sneezed again, each one shaking his frame. His nose was surly red and itchy but he would like true vampire eat a basket of garlic before he ever admitted that.

Gerhard looked at him with a mix of concern and affection. "Dali, please," he said. "I know you're strong, but if those sneezes are anything judged by this is going to be a bad cold. Let me help you. The last thing you want is the kids to get sick."

Dali finally sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Alright, Gerhard. You win. Maybe I do need a bit more rest," he admitted, his voice softer now.

Gerhard smiled, guiding Dali back to the sofa. "Thank you for admitting it," he said warmly. "Now, lie back and relax. I'll make you some more tea."

As the soft glow of the fireplace illuminated the room, Gerhard continued to care for Dali, making sure he was as comfortable as possible. Dali, finally allowing himself to relax, felt the cool cloth soothing his fevered skin.

However, the persistent tickle in Dali's nose made it difficult for him to rest. His breath hitched once more, and despite his best efforts to hold it back, another sneeze erupted. " Hh’KZZHhshew! Hh’Tszchiiiew! HIH’TSHHEW!!"

Gerhard, ever attentive, quickly moved to wipe Dali's nose with a fresh handkerchief. "Bless you, Dali, goodness those should come with a warning," he said, a smile on his face. Dali's breath began to hitch again, signaling another impending sneeze. He reached for his handkerchief, but to his dismay, it wasn't where he thought it would be. His eyes widened in mild panic as the urge to sneeze grew stronger.

"Gerhard, I—ah... heh... can't find my handkerchief," Dali managed to say, his voice strained as he tried to hold back the sneeze.

Gerhard, ever attentive, quickly realized the predicament. Without hesitation, he moved closer, his gentle touch reassuring. "Hold on, Dali," he said softly, taking charge of the situation.

Just as Dali's breath hitched one final time, Gerhard brought his own handkerchief to Dali's nose, covering it just in time. "Heh... Hh’KZZHhshew! Hh’Tszchiiiew! Heh…HIH’TSHHEW!!" Dali sneezed into the handkerchief, the force of the sneezes shaking him slightly. Gerhard could feel the cloth get drenched with spray from Dali, and from the way the other was snuffling, he knew he needed to blow. He turned the handkerchief over and held it over his nose. “Blow.”

Dali protested. “I am not a child, I can take care of my ow…own….Hhh… f-huuugck– hHHRRZZSCHHH’HUE!!.....Ahh- hahh..! hHZNGT’SHUE! Hh’IZZSCHh! hhheh’IZZSHhiew!”

“That was impressive, is your nose done throwing a temper tantrum?” Gerhard asked with a slight smile in his tone. Dali blushed and wiped his running nose with his sleeve. “I believe I am done for now. That was undignified.”

"Bless you," Gerhard said warmly, his voice filled with compassion. He kept the handkerchief in place until he was sure Dali was done sneezing, then gently wiped Dali's nose. The poor thing looked so red and itchy. And Gerhard knew this cold was a bad one.

As they lay there, the warmth of the fire and their closeness offered a soothing comfort. Dali closed his eyes, feeling the heavy weight of exhaustion start to lift as he relaxed into Gerhard's embrace. The night outside remained shrouded in fog, but inside the manor, there was a palpable sense of peace and love.

Just as Dali began to drift off, the persistent tickle in his nose returned. He tried to ignore it, not wanting to worry Gerhard. "Heh... heh..." His breath hitched, and he desperately tried to hold back the sneeze, hoping it would pass.

Gerhard, ever perceptive, noticed the struggle. "Let them happen sneezy head!" he posed smirking, his hand still resting on Dali's arm.

Dali nodded, trying to convince himself as much as Gerhard. "I think—ah... Hh’KZZHhshew! Hh’Tszchiiiew!” he sneezed abruptly, unable to hold it back any longer.

"Bless you," Gerhard said warmly, his voice filled with compassion. He kept the handkerchief in place until Dali was done, then gently wiped Dali's nose. Despite the comfort, the persistent tickle in Dali's nose was growing more insistent, signaling an impending sneezing fit.

Dali's breath began to hitch, and he could feel the sneezes building up. "Heh... heh..." He tried to stifle them, but it was no use. The tickle was too strong.

Gerhard, ever attentive, quickly moved closer, handkerchief at the ready. "It's alright, Dali. Just let them out," he said gently, his voice filled with reassurance.

Dali's breath hitched again, and he couldn't hold back any longer. "Heh... HIH’TSHHEW!!! Heh... ah... HIH’TSHHEW… HIH’TSHHEW!" Each sneeze shook his frame, and Gerhard was there to catch them all with the handkerchief, he could feel the other's nose twitching under the fabric. "Bless you, Dali," Gerhard said warmly, his eyes filled with concern and affection. He kept the handkerchief in place, ensuring Dali's nose was covered.

Dali managed a weak smile between sneezes, grateful for Gerhard's care. "Th-thank you, Gerhard. I'm sorry... heh... HIH’TSHHEW!" Another sneeze escaped, and Dali sighed in frustration. "They're not stopping."

Gerhard rubbed Dali's back soothingly. "It's alright. Just let them out. I'll help you," he said, his voice calm and supportive.

Dali's breath hitched again, and he could feel a particularly stubborn sneeze building. "Heh... heh... ah..." He struggled, the sneeze stuck and refusing to come out.

Gerhard, noticing Dali's struggle, gently tilted Dali's head towards him and using his fingernail and rubs his angry septum. The light touch seemed to intensify the tickle in his nose, coaxing the stubborn sneeze out. "Heh... heh... ah... HIH’TSHHEW!" The sneeze finally escaped, bringing a sense of relief.

"Bless you," Gerhard repeated, his hand still holding the handkerchief to Dali's nose. "You're doing great. Just a few more I know they are so big, you can do it."

Dali nodded, his breath hitching once more. "Heh... hhUH-! HH!! hHEH-ESSCHHheuhww!!!" The sneezes came in rapid succession, each one caught by Gerhard with care.

After a few more sneezes, the fit finally subsided, leaving Dali exhausted but relieved.

Gerhard smiled warmly, brushing a strand of hair from Dali's forehead. "You're welcome, Dali. I'll always be here to take care of you," he said softly.

Lúcio snorts. “As if Hanzo would allow a speck of dust to breach his perimeter.”

“Right; fine,” Junkrat shrugs, sheepish.  “Guess I might be coming down with something.” He barely finishes the sentence before another set of sneezes curl him into himself. “Ht’Rushhew! Ussshhah! Hih-ih… Hit’schuuuh!”

“Sounds like a distinct possibility.” Hana says, tone dry as the Outback.

“You’re a right dag, ain’t ya.” Junkrat blows his nose, then finds himself talking before thinking. “Any chance I can hitch a ride out of here ‘fore the storm sets in?” 

Hana types something on her keyboard, eyes narrowed, clearly figuring, but Lúcio shakes his head. “Mei says it’s coming on faster than expected. No one’s allowed in or out until it passes. Not even Lena.” 

As if to prove her right the wind rises, tree branches tap the window like fingers and Junkrat can’t stop the shiver that comes over him. “Yeah, nah, course not. Didn’t really think ya could. She’ll be apples. Just…” just wishes it didn’t look like he’s ‘bout to spend his birthday snowed in, alone, with what feels like it’s shaping up to be a right bastard of a cold.

“Dude! You didn’t mention it’s your birthday,” Hana interrupts and Junkrat blinks, confused. Hadn’t actually said it out loud, had he? But no, she’s still focused on the screen in front of her. “You’re a leapling?” Lucio also looks at her screen. “Born on the extra leap year day,” he clarifies at Hana’s perplexed expression. “And you’re not celebrating?”

Junkrat rubs the back of his neck. “Ain’t a big thing, birthdays.” Never had been, that he could remember. Sure, sometimes he and Roadie’d grab Chinese take away and shell out for whiskey with a name, rather than the usual rotgut. Maybe smoke a couple joints. Nothing like he saw on the holovids. Parties. Family. Ain’t that he missed it, exactly. Could you miss something you’d never had? Have to ask Roadie. Bloke loved questions like that.

“You’re turning thirty! Of course it’s a big thing,” Hana protests, incredulous. “We’re throwing you a party when you get back-”

Junkrat opens his mouth to argue, doesn’t need a party, but a sneeze rips through him, followed on by the usual additional two before he can even snag another breath. 

“When you’re not spewing germs,” she amends. “And don’t worry, old man, we won’t keep you up past your bedtime.”

Lúcio punches her shoulder. “Who’re you calling old? He’s only a couple years ahead of me.” 

“Got a point though.” Junkrat runs his hand through his hair and a few strands drift over his shoulder to the floor. “Old comes early in Junkertown - pretty sure I’m older than either of my parents got to be.” 

No one laughs. Lúcio looks like Rat slapped him.

Bollocks. Making shit worse, as usual. Thinking’s slow through the fog of congestion and dull headache. If only everything didn’t feel so odd, wavery and swirling, he’d know the right tone to take. Right words to use. Roadie woulda laughed, but Rat knows better than to joke about shit like that with Hana and Lú. “Ain’t serious, mate. Honestly. Didn’t mean nothing. Sorry.”

“I’m not mad, Rat. Just -”

“So disappointed,” Hana interrupts, perfectly mimicking Mercy at her most frustrated, a tone Junkrat knows all too well. 

He laughs, but it quickly devolves into coughing and his lungs crackle ominously when he takes a breath.

“You sure you’re going to be okay, Jamie?” Lú asks.

Heat floods his cheeks. Only Roadie uses that name, and every time his stomach aches like the phantom pains of his missing limbs, something cut out of the center of him. “Ain’t I always?” Junkrat forces his smile wider. “Wanted some time alone, now I got it, yeah?” Wanted… hell, planned… time alone with Roadie, but the mission took precedence. Which, course it did. But understanding don’t lessen annoyance.

“I could convince Lena that you’re really sick and need evacuation. Healer privilege.”  Lú’s still trying to figure how to drag him out of danger, as usual. Shouldn’t have asked for a ride. Bloke’s gonna worry.

“Ain’t Lena needs convincing. Jack’s sure as shit not gonna allow her to risk it just ‘cause I got the sniffles.” Sheila might be Overwatch’s pilot and a damn good one, but Morrison’s word’s law. “Give me a couple days an’ she’ll be apples, mate. No worries. Catch me up on the game. Connection’s shit out here, back of beyond.” 

Lúcio’s brow is still scrunched, doubtful, but he can’t resist an opportunity to brag about his favorite team. Hana moves over to give him room on the sofa and lets him interrupt her story. He puts an arm around her, drawing her close. She listens with an expression so fond that Junkrat wishes he’d sneeze again just so he’d have a reason to look away.

When they finally sign off and the screen goes dark, he sags. Cabin feels colder, emptier after the warmth of their laughter; their birthday wishes echo in his ears. His nose itches and he rubs it in the tissue, sniffling. Seems right bloody unfair he’s coming down sick and Roadie ain’t even around to appreciate.

He should get moving, make sure everything’s closed up for the storm, but even though it’s barely half-four he’s completely knackered. Rests his cheek on the table, wood cool, polished smooth against his skin. Lingering scents of wax and turpentine tease his already sensitive sinuses. He sniffs and the burn intensifies.

Closing his eyes, he conjures Roadie sitting in the empty chair across from him, arms crossed over his chest, statue-still, gaze burning behind the dark lenses of his mask, watching as Rat breathes in gently, softly, letting the tickle feather over his nose. Imagines Roadie barely breathing while his own breath hitches once, twice, and then “Hut’chhhiew! Uh-Esssh! Huhr’Usshhuh!” His sneezing shatters the silence, but it closes back over him immediately like water. 

No blessings. No Roadhog. Morrison better fucking appreciate his support on this mission, saving the world or whatever the fuck. Junkrat blinks his eyes open, rubs away the irritated tears. Everything fucking leaks when he’s sick. Disgusting. 

The grandfather clock in the corner marks time, each move of the second hand ticking against his brain. Older than his parents. He’d laughed when he said it, but maybe… maybe Lú’s right. Thinking about it, ain’t exactly funny. How old were they, when they slipped through the holes of his memory? One into Omnium explosion and flame, the other drawing inward, desiccated and cancer-skeletal. Casts his mind back, searching for details mostly lost in fog. Figures they couldn’t’ve been more than twenties, neither one. 

What does he have to show for all these years - this life longer than theirs, longer than so many in Junkertown? Pile o’dosh and a hard drive. Always thought it was enough, relatively speaking. Pile could still grow. Could buy whatever Roadie wants; could buy his freedom, maybe. But Rat’s stomach twists, knots. What’s it even mean, all those died and he didn’t? 

A particularly strong gust of wind howls down the chimney, a shutter slams against the wall, and Junkrat lurches up, sways as the room does a slow swirl. He grits his teeth, grips the edge of the table until the lightheadedness passes. Ain’t gonna let the place fall apart just because he’s a little under the weather. He yanks a jacket from the rack and forces the door open against the wind’s resistance. 

The last rays of sun gild clouds wreathing mountain peaks. Long fingers of shadow reach across the yard. The air is sharp with the scent of piñon and cypress. Icicles glitter in oak and maple. The land is grim and beautiful in its starkness. Junkrat pauses just over the threshold for a moment, appreciating the biting cold against the heat of his skin, the soothing deep quiet of winter, then heads for the shed to grab a ladder and tools.

It’s a race against fading light and gathering clouds. Against rising fever and aching joints. Junkrat fixes the shutters, knocks snow from the eaves, gives the pipes a once-over to make sure they’re wrapped proper and won’t freeze. He hauls wood for the fireplace, hoping there’s enough split to last out the weather, or at least this plague. Reckons using an axe now risks what limbs he’s got left, woozy as he’s feeling. 

He’s just securing the shed door so it doesn’t blow open when the storm’s first flurries drift down, dusting his shoulders and sparking cold on his cheeks. He sniffs, sleeves his nose and looks up, realizing night has fallen. Clouds scuttle over the moon hanging full and yellow above the mountains. Wind moans through the pines. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howl rises, curling into the air. A pause, then another answers, call and response, rising and falling together, a ghostdance.

The high lonesome sound hooks, tugs something in his chest. He coughs, but it doesn’t help. Rubs the heel of his palm over his breastbone. The song beckons and he takes a step forward. Follow, it calls. Into the wood, into the softness, the solitude. Follow - away from the cabin, from the long arm of Overwatch’s law, from Hana’s bright laughter and Lúcio’s too-kind eyes. Follow - down into the deep and quieting dark. He does, ducking under low-hanging branches, following a path that isn’t exactly a path, pulled by the hook and the song and the ache in his chest. Until his prosthesis slides on a patch of ice he hadn’t seen, his other ankle twists, and he’s falling before he can catch himself. 

Junkrat lands hard on his back, breath knocked from his lungs, dazed. It takes more than a minute to gather himself and push back to standing. His ankle throbs when he puts weight on it, but pain’s not sharp enough to indicate a break. Stupid to wander around in the dark, full moon or no. Roadie’d call him a galah and he’d be right. Brushes snow from his hair and a wet clump slides down the back of his collar. He shudders with the chill then sneezes, heavy and exhausted. The wolves have gone silent; snow creaks cold under his boot, wind soughs though pines. Feels he’s the only living thing in kilometers. 

He manages to get a fire laid and lit before collapsing onto the couch. With the last of his energy he takes off the prosthetics to keep them from rubbing. Ankle aches, joints ache, dull but building with the fever. Flames burn high and bright, but he can’t stop shivering. Trek to the bedroom for the doona feels like crossing the Outback on foot so he tugs the scratchy wool afghan off the back of the sofa. Wraps it tight around himself, trying to ignore the way it rubs against oversensitive skin. Curls onto his side, knee to chest, listens to the ticking of the clock. Blinks slow. Drifts. 

Turning thirty… of course it’s a big thing… gonna throw you a party… More years than not he’d forget his birthday entirely. Hard to remember, when it’s a day only happens every four years. Maybe that’s why he never feels his right age. Times when Mercy’s reading him the riot act about some dumb fool thing he’s done - again - he feels like a kid what failed a test on an untaught lesson. Missing something everyone else knows. Other times he’ll sit with Hana and Lú, play holovid games and listen to the ease of their banter, dazzled in the light of their laughter, sure as sure he ain’t never been that young. Maybe thirty’ll be different. Maybe something’ll shift and he’ll be right. Maybe. 

Fire cracks, snaps, sparks float up the chimney. Imagines them spinning into the sky, scattering stars. Embers pulse below the logs like heartbeat. Eyelids feel scrubbed with sandpaper so he lets them fall closed. World rocks and tilts; he slides away.

Sun beats down on the top of his head, sky wide, empty, white with heat. Dust puffs up around his boot, sweat trickles down his back. Leg aches like he’s been walking ages, but can’t remember where he’s going, or where he’s coming from. He pauses, squints into the distance. A few scraggling bushes dot the horizon, nothing else. No buildings, no people. 

Turns to look behind. Outline of a shack at the edge of his vision. Roadie’s? Can’t see details this far away. Silence presses against his ears. No birdsong, no insects hum. No rumble of Hog’s hog. Not even a breeze stirs the air. Better turn back - Roadhog’ll remember what he was doing, give him direction. Can always count on the big lug to be his brains, when things get foggy. 

At first feels like he’s walking in place, buildings far away as before. Just him and the sun and the heat and the dust, coating his throat, skin, inside of his nose. He shudders into a sneeze, then another and another, and when he straightens again he’s right in front of the door. Blinks, confused. Door opens on its own. Weird.

Temperature’s at least ten degrees cooler inside and he shivers at the change. Squints, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Door clicks closed behind him.  “Oi, Hog?” Silence swallows the words. No answer. 

One chair at the table. One plate, one mug of coffee, still steaming. No Roadhog. None of Rat’s stuff neither. Corner where he keeps his gear empty. 

Heavy footsteps thump overhead, ceiling creaks. A sense of foreboding crawls over him, setting the hair at his nape prickling up. He doesn’t call out again, doesn’t dare. Better leave before whoever… whatever’s… up there comes down. Takes hold of the door handle but the knob slips under his fingers, refusing to budge. Bloody fucking thing. He struggles, but it holds fast. 

Footsteps closer now, boots on the stairs. Gotta be Roadhog. Who else could be in his place? Tension tightens his shoulders, gut twists. Ain’t Roadie. Somehow he’s certain of it. Doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to know. Can’t resist. Even as he still wrestles with the door, glances over his shoulder as the footsteps descend. Roadhog’s boots, camo pants, tattoo across his stomach but where his face should be, where his mask would be, a horrible blank emptiness. Can’t be real. Gotta be a dream.  Wake up. Gotta wake up. Whatever it is moves across the room unnatural fast. It reaches for him. Desperation clutches his lungs. Leans a shoulder against the wood, shoves, then stumbles through -

Boot and prosthetic ring as he hits the metal floor and he staggers for a second before catching his balance. Presses himself back against a wall; has the thing followed? No, he’s alone in the corridor. He coughs, wipes sweat from his forehead, lungs ache like he’s been running. Clearly ain’t in Junkertown. Where…?

One of the Watchpoints he realizes, glancing around himself. Likely Gibraltar. Ain’t as familiar as some of the other bases, but he should be able to find Winston’s lab. Maybe he can explain what the hell that thing was. 

Sets off in the direction Rat’s pretty sure’ll lead to the lab. Walks past closed doors with only a passing glance. They are labeled, but he can’t make out the writing. Seems to squirm and blur as he tries. Makes him feel vaguely nauseated, so he quits trying. Keeps walking. 

Turns a corner and nearly collides with a figure coming toward him. 

“Careful,” she snaps, passing without another word. Like she don’t even know him.

“Satya, wait,” he calls, but she doesn’t break stride, disappears around the corner. He frowns, perplexed. She ain’t never liked him, but this is beyond. Can’t recollect anything he’s done recently to piss her off.

How big is Gibraltar, anyway? Seems like he should’ve found the lab already, feels he’s been walking for ages. He pauses, squints at the nearest door; letters still refuse to form words, stubborn sons of bitches. Raises his hand to the scanner but it blinks red and the door stays closed. Fuck sake, can’t a thing just be easy? He slides down the wall to the floor, unsure where to go, what to do. Rests his head on his arms.

“Hey, man. What’re you doing here?” 

The touch on his shoulder is gentle but Rat still startles, heart thudding in his throat. “Damn Lú, made me jump. I’m fucking lost. Can’t find Winston’s lab.”

“How do you know my name,” Lú asks, a small crease between his brows. 

“Has everyone here lost their damn minds? How the hell’d I not know someone I been working longside for years. My memory sure as shit ain’t perfect, but you never forget a thing.” Makes no sense. Weren’t they friends? He’d thought anyway.

Lúcio shakes his head. “I don’t know how you passed the security system, but you need to leave. I don’t know you. You don’t belong here.” The door slides open for him, and he’s backing through, and Rat recognizes his room. His and Roadie’s, but Lú’s turntables, sound system, computers, cords spread across the workbench, not his own plans and projects in progress. Lú’s clothes hang next to Roadie’s. Everything neat and orderly the way Roadie likes it; no sign of Rat’s sprawling chaos.

A shadow falls across the floor, Lúcio turns to meet it, and Junkrat goes cold. Knows what’s coming. He wants to run, wants to warn Lú, but he’s frozen, body and voice. Roadhog’s form comes around the corner, moving fast and its face is still the awful empty staring blankness and Junkrat wrenches himself back and away and…

Opens his eyes to full night, fire gone out. He’s shaking hard enough worries his bones will break. Furnace didn’t kick on, though the cabin feels cold enough to see his breath. Storm must’ve knocked out power. Get up ya useless shit, tells himself. Rebuild the fire. Get water, meds. But everything aches, hair to foot. Eyelids. Bones. Head feels like it’s going to split and he massages his temple, wishing for relief. But before he can gather the energy, sleep tugs him back under.

“Sure you got that under control?” Roadhog’s voice rumbles through the comm, muffled slightly by his mask.

“Told ya I do, didn’t I? Be quiet and keep watch,” Rat snaps. He sniffs, sleeves his nose against a drip. What is he doing? Can’t quite remember. Blinks down at the tangle of wires and electronic components on the floor in front of him. Putting something together? Taking it apart? Construction or destruction, could go either way. One leads to the other anyway, so does it really matter? Rubs his hand over his forehead and tries to follow thoughts that dart away like minnows. 

Roadhog on watch. Comms. A mask of his own puddled at his feet. Doing something they ain’t supposed to be, somewhere they ain’t supposed to be. 

Small room, bare wood floor, dust covered. Nobody else been here in a while. Shelves along one wall, mostly empty except for a few dilapidated boxes, rusted spade, clearly nothing worth taking. Quiet, but just at the edge of his hearing a murmur of voices. Boisterous. None he can make out enough to recognize, until one sharp barking laugh cuts through the tangle. Knows that sound from any distance. The Queen’s just won a challenge. He shudders, cold and empathetic for whatever bloke just took a fall.

Right. Recollects the plan now - gonna blow the Queen’s summer shack. Payback for all she’s taken from them. All of them. Make her think twice before trying again. He swallows a cough and bends over the bomb in progress, crimping two wires and setting the fuse. An’ Roadhog doubted him. Thought he couldn’t keep it together just because of a little fever. Bollocks to that. Tenses against another shiver threatens to make his hands shake.

A screen door creaks opens, then slaps closed and the Queen’s rusty hinge voice scrapes through the comm. “What the bloody hell’re you doing here, all on your own? Where’s the vermin?”

Junkrat’s mouth goes dry, a trickle of sweat slides down the back of his neck. Hog better think quick, come up with something plausible.

“Realize I owe you somewhat. Come up to Bobby’s for a round.”

“Pint of that rotgut ain’t coming close to paying your debts.”

“Course not, but got some information might go a ways toward...” Comm garbles and cuts out. 

For a long minute only static buzz in his head. What information does Roadhog have that he’d even consider sharing with her? Rat’s hands are still, though his heart beats double time. Gotta be a ruse. Get her away from the work Rat’s doing. Get the rest of the crew to follow. Ain’t actually going to tell her a damn thing.

Time’s short. Needs to finish before she comes back. Turns his focus to the calculations. Set the fuse too long and might end up with collateral damage. Too short and he might be collateral damage. Hard to concentrate, to keep the numbers straight, to see the measurements clear. He wipes his forehead on his arm and bites his lip against the urge to sneeze. Come on, think - done this a thousand times.

Finally makes the last cut, puts lighter to fuse and steps back to admire his work. A thin thread of smoke drifts up, itches his nose and before he can move back shudders into a sneeze, followed on by two more. And then the world explodes.

Sharp roar and blast of heat burst over him, toss him across the room like a doll. At first there’s no pain, only the flames dancing high and blinding bright, sending showers of sparks swirling into the blackness above and his heart rises with them. Ain’t nothing like explosion. Like fire. The power in the blast, the purifying burn, clearing away what needs to be destroyed, opening space for new growth. He relishes the heat, finally chasing the chill from his body. He reaches toward the flames, needing more warmth, needing more, offering himself to the pyre. It reaches back, licking along his skin with greedy tongue, setting him alight. At first it’s just an emberglow, curling around his arm, sliding over his chest, down around his leg, up his neck, his hair ignites like a torch and he is entirely engulfed. Sparks dance along each nerve, exquisite pain. Opens his mouth to scream, but the fire’s consumed his throat, his lungs, his blood until he’s nothing but flame and he’s laughing as his eyes burn. The smoke closes around him and all he can do is cough.

The coughing wrack his body, shaking him back to himself, back to the cabin and the cold. He shudders, tries to catch his breath and realizes there’s pounding at the door. His fingers fumble with the buckles of his prosthetic and for a moment he wants to just let whoever it is move on. Find some other refuge. But the closest neighbor is a good several kilometers away, and the wind is still howling. He pushes himself up, clutches the edges of the afghan tight around himself, and makes his unsteady way across the cabin, hoping he doesn’t trip over something in the dark. 

He’s not even through the kitchen when the door opens with a bang, a gust of wind swirls through the entry and the shadow lurking there lifts a torch, shining practically in his eyes and dazzling him nearly blind, before moving it aside. For a second he’s sure he’s still dreaming because Roadhog’s framed in the doorway, larger than life and covered in snow. Junkrat’s mouth goes dry, shivers catpawing up his spine. His face is gonna be the horrible blankness and -

“Jesus, Rat. Lúcio’s right, you look like shit.” Roadhog stomps snow from his boots, wipes fog from the eyes of his mask - his normal mask - closes the door behind himself. 

“Feel like it, too.” Junkrat’s voice rasps, smoke and gravel. He clears his throat, tries again, “The fuck are you doing here?” Barely a thread of sound this time.

Always the neat and tidy one, Roadie hangs up his coat and folds his mask neat on the bench. “Quit talking; hurts to listen to ya. Finished the mission,” he says turning back, and never has the deep scars marring his cheeks, lips, nose looked more perfect.

Junkrat slumps against the wall, as relief washes over him.  “Morrison - “

“Might run Overwatch, but bloke don’t run the world,” Roadie interrupts. “Found myself a ride on one of the last supply ships in before the storm. Had to borrow someone’s ute to make it up the mountain from the port. Colder than a witch’s tit in here. Lost power?” 

“Shoulda built the fire better.”

“Ain’t criticizing ya, Rat. Come on,” Roadie puts an arm around his shoulders, steadying him as dizziness makes the world list and sway, walks him into the living room. Rat leans into the warmth he radiates, furnace-like as always.

Might fall onto the couch more than sit, but Roadie doesn’t comment, just sets to work rebuilding the fire with the last couple of logs, then heads back out into the storm for more wood. Junkrat tries to stay awake, wants to ground himself in this time, in this place - in reality - but exhaustion pulls him back down before Roadhog returns.

Finds himself in empty dark. In the distance, the outline of a door, light shining from below. He makes his way toward it.

“Torb,” he calls, guessing. Torb’s workshop door shines like that when he’s smithing turrets. But no clang of hammer to iron. Not silence, either. A lilting sound teases the edge of his thoughts. Familiar, sweet. He stops at the closed door, reaches for the handle but can’t quite bring his fingers to close around it. Words float through the wood, a lullaby - babies rocked in cradles and falling from trees, lovely despite the violence. He knows that voice. Knows the warmth of it, bonfire on a late fall evening. Heart squeezes, thumps in the center of his throat, and the door creaks open on a room barely big as a closet.

A single candle glows gold over a woman sitting on the side of a small bed. Her jeans are worn thin, shirt patched and threadbare, but her hair shines brighter than the ingots he and Roadie liberated from the El Dorado Bank. She’s the one singing and he takes a step closer, wanting her to stop, wanting her to never stop. The bedsheets rustle and someone moans, mumbles words he can’t quite catch.

“Shhh, Jamie-love,” she says, hushing, lulling. 

“Mama,” he says and the boy-in-the-bed says at the same time, word splitting dry lips, and her face comes clear in weird double vision, seeing her above and before him simultaneously.

Her voice is calm, steady, as she soothes, “Don’t worry, just a little fever, you’ll be right soon enough.” She dips a flannel into a basin of water, gently wipes it over the boy’s cheeks, his chest, then folds it and drapes it over his forehead.

Rat shudders as a drop of water somehow traces down his own collar and as though she feels his eyes on her, she looks to him, motionless in the doorway. The candlelight shadows her eyes, hollows her cheeks skull-like. In the depths of the sockets her gaze burns with disappointment.

“What have you done,” she demands, sharp, cracking like tree branches in an ice storm.

“I… What?” Words, thoughts, dissolve and scatter.

“How many have you killed?”

He shakes his head, voice lodged in his throat. “Everything you’ve done... Everyone you’ve murdered… Why did you live when we died?” Tone colder than stormwind and it freezes him where he stands, shivering. 

I don’t know, he tries to say, but his teeth are chattering too hard to form the words. I’m sorry…

“Get out.” 

Wake up… gotta wake up… She stands. He stumbles back like he’s been shoved right in the center of his chest. He falls… falls…

Wakes, gasping, shuddering. Her questions circle - what have you done… how many have you killed… murdered… why did you live… why did you live… why….

“Hey, slow it down. Breathe.”  Roadhog’s voice comes clear, then the weight of his hand on Rat’s forehead, grounding.

World around comes back more slowly. Crackle from the rebuilt fire, scent of soup warming on the stove. Roadhog’s been busy. Junkrat tries to focus on breathing, but lapses into another coughing jag, hastily muffled in his elbow. 

“Got quite a fever. When’s your next dose of paracetamol due,” Roadie asks.

“Haven’t taken any.” 

Roadie disappears down the hall, reappearing moments later with more pillows, doona, tissues, bottle of meds and glass of water. “Not exactly the best way to spend your birthday.” He moves Rat over, settles down beside him.

Junkrat shrugs, nestles down in the blankets, head in Roadhog’s lap. “Better now.” His thoughts drift lazily, circling memory and dream, questions surfacing like bubbles before floating away. Takes some effort to hold one without popping. “Hoggie, you think it’s possible to miss something ya ain’t never had?”

Roadhog hums a considering noise. Rat appreciates the pause, means he takes the question serious instead of brushing him off like he’s ridiculous.

“Don’t know about missing, exactly. Longing for, sure. Wishing.” He threads his fingers through Rat’s hair absently as he considers. “But maybe those words don’t quite capture what you’re asking. Why?”

“Talking to Hana and Lú earlier. Got me thinking about birthdays an’ parties an’ sorta felt like maybe I was missing what the holovids show.” 

Roadhog nods, slowly. “Makes sense. Nothing exactly picture perfect, back home.”

“Yeah, nah.” Junkrat blows his nose, everything feeling a tangle. “Was it ever?” Roadhog’d remember, back before the Omnium blew, back before everything went to shit.

 “Time or two, maybe close. But few an’ far between times.” 

“Tell me about one?”

Roadie’s eyes go vague, seeing something in the distance, physically and temporally. He hesitates for so long, Rat wonders whether he’ll actually answer. Then his chest rises and falls in a deep sigh, and he says, “Went to one of those holovid story type birthday parties, once. Kid party. Rainbow balloons. Cupcakes frosted pink and covered in fairy sprinkles. Presents piled up on one end of a card table, burgers and snags piled on the other. Ankle biters in frilly princess dresses and Sunday suits, running every which way, parents laughing and shouting at them. Terrible clown with terrible magic. Not half-bad balloon man, though. Perfect October afternoon, wildflowers, warming breeze, sky bluer than the balloons.”

Junkrat almost sees the scene, though Roadhog – mask, tattoos, big fuckoff boots -- don’t really fit. Maybe it was before Roadhog. Rat can’t picture him without the scars, when he was Mako. Something in him doesn’t want to. He sniffs, presses the back of his hand under his nose, trying not to sneeze and interrupt the story. The memory.

“All about her favorites. Favorite food, favorite ice cream, favorite flavor cake. Favorite music, games. She wanted the clown, the balloon animals. So excited to be turning five - old enough to go to school with her friends. Felt like the beginning of everything.” There’s a strange tone in Roadhog’s voice, one Rat rarely hears. It hooks, tugs at the same place the wolf song did.

Takes a breath to ask who she was to him, but the tickle that’s been building takes advantage of his distraction and he sneezes instead, a harsh paroxysm that curls him into himself. “Hut’Rushhew! Usssh! Huh’Rushhuh!”  Tears well and spill and he’s left mopping himself up. “Fuckin’ gross.”

Roadhog reaches for the tissue box. “Gonna live?” 

The tone’s shifted, mood changed. Roadie’s laughing at him, which is better than the alternative, but Rat can’t stop the tears that keep on, even after the sneezing backs off.

Takes Roadie a second to notice. “What’s up?”

Junkrat shrugs, shakes his head. How can he put it into words? Hana and Lu’s kindness and teasing, the stark cold winter, ache of fever, the strangeness and fear of nightmare, of how he was erased and the questions his mom asked that he can’t answer, is afraid to answer. “Fever gave me weird dreams,” he says finally.

Roadhog is silent. Waits.

“And turning thirty, makes a bloke think, ya know?”

Holds his silence. Letting Rat take his own time putting the words together.

Junkrat looks down, ripping a clean tissue into smaller and smaller pieces. “Thinking, like. How’m I still alive? Longer than my parents. Than so many people. Maybe ain’t really worth it.”

“What’s worth got to do with anything? Think there’s a scale, someone weighing and choosing? You, not you?”

“Could be.” Flicker of anger. “Could be my ma thinks she got right shafted with the deal, dead and buried and I’m… what? Stealing fuckall and blowing shit up and killing people what get in my way.” With nothing else to throw, and no energy to get up and walk away, Rat tosses the bits of tissue and they drift to the floor like snow. Does nothing to dissipate the anger. 

“When you’re a parent, that ain’t the way you think.”

“How the fuck would you know?”

A heavy silence falls between them and it bites at Rat like fleas. He’s said something wrong again, but isn’t sure what. Roadhog’s not looking at him anymore and it feels like he’s pulled back and away even though he hasn’t moved. He’s staring at the fire, expression utterly flat. The moment stretches.

“I’m sorry,” Junkrat blurts. Take it back, whatever it is, to get rid of the awful stillness.

A log snaps, Roadhog blinks and shifts. “Things happened back there should never have. Choices made, actions taken. We all got regrets. Don’t take yours out on me. Gotta make your own peace with what’s done, what’s undone, and what you do next.” But he reaches back out, puts his arm around Junkrat, who leans into him again. This time the quiet is easier.

“Morrison’s gonna be pissed you stole a ute,” Junkrat says.

Roadie’s chuckle is a low rumble against Rat’s ear. “Nah, left payment for time used. Sure McCree’ll send it back when he finds it.” A pause. “And Jamie, your ma’s happy you’re still here. She’d trade herself in a heartbeat.”