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Seeing people, especially in LGBTQ+ community, say "I got flu from Glastonbury" fucking SCARES me. The flu is seasonal. Very very few people get the flu in July. We are in the middle of a SARS-2 (covid-19) wave, it's already pretty well established that Glastonbury was a super-spreader event.
So many people died in the HIV/AIDS pandemic. And the LGBTQ+ community understood that governments did not care about those deaths. The same is happening right now with SARS-2. Asymptomatic or mild symptoms do not mean you are safe, 10-20% of SARS-2 infections result in long-term health conditions. The risk is cumulative, each infection carries that risk, so the more times you get it, the greater chance you face long-term health conditions as a result.
The rhetoric of "only vulnerable people are at risk" is eugenicist. Everyone deserves to live, and to live without constant exposure to life threatening infectious disease.
Bifur’s capacity to withstand various ills and pains had dwindled ever since the near-fatal injury. The axe was of poor Orcish make—though, of course, not poor enough to be easily extricated from bone. Óin had gravely informed them it would be no surprise if the crude metals poisoned the body’s defenses, creepingly slow but sure.
Whatever the cause, Bifur had the strange, sorry misfortune of catching a chill long out of season. He hadn’t even realized it, assuming the sweats were due to the summer; Bombur was the one who had eventually noticed how he was shivering despite the sun beating overhead and with Bofur’s help he had eventually wrestled him to bed.
The axe wound was inflamed with his fever, an angry red contrast to the rest of his pallid face. Bombur glanced forlornly between his cousin and brother. Bofur was uncharacteristically quiet, eyes distant as he wet another washcloth to drape over Bifur’s forehead. Bombur could only hazard a guess as to what—and who—he was thinking of.
“Bifur is stronger than Ama ever was, nadad,” he murmured tentatively. “Even now. He’ll fight, he’ll bounce back.”
“…Aye. I know. If nothin’ else, I can trust his stubbornness well enough. I only wish he didn’t have to fight for it. He’s already fought so hard for our sakes; it was fightin’ for us that put this bloody thing in his head.” Despite his frustration Bofur patted the damp cloth around the axe with utmost gentleness. Although mostly asleep, Bifur flinched regardless, his inhale hitching into a groggy cough. “I wish we could fight this for him. I’d…I’d take it in my head, if I could.”
“But you never could. He’d fight you for it. He’d rather it be him every time than either one of us.”
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Keith is a grumpy post-grad, studying during the day and working night shifts at a local bar, and comes down with a summer flu right before his final essay for the year is due in. He’s been desperately trying to sleep it off during the days, still going to work at night, but everyday for a week straight he's been unceremoniously woken up by the sound of an ice cream truck playing music up and down his street. Mostly he’s just ignored it, shoving a pillow over his head or putting in earphones, but by the end of the week, he’s Done. Cannot cope with another second of stupid ice cream music blaring through his window. And so, pyjama clad, red nosed and snuffly as all hell, he storms down stairs, out the house and right up to the truck parked outside his front door.
Cue complete brain shutdown when he sees the ridiculously cute tanned guy leaning out of the serving window, all smiles as he passes a couple kids their ice creams. When the guy spots Keith, he seems startled for a moment, before fixing his face back into his crazy bright grin and asking him if he wants to order an ice pop. But Keith’s brain still isn’t working, and all he can think to say is ‘You’re too pretty to be this annoying,’ before promptly collapsing right there on the street, completely overcome by dizziness.
The ice cream guy totally freaks, and dives straight out the serving window to grab Keith, who he’s horrified to find is burning up. But Keith’s door is shut, and he doesn’t think it’s right to dig through his pockets for a key, so he drags a half conscious Keith into the back of the truck.
Keith wakes up properly a few minutes later, confused as to why there’s something sticky and cold on his forehead, and reaches up to find a popsicle being held there by a very pretty tanned hand.
‘Man, you scared the shit outta me. Is that how you normally introduce yourself?’
‘What? No.. I-I’m sick..’
‘No shit, you’re sick, you’re burning up! And have you even slept?! You look like a zombie,’
‘...I would have slept if someone hadn’t insisted on playing stupid ice cream music all day everyday,’
Cute ice cream guy promptly blushes a lot, and Keith knows there and then that he is going down hard for this guy.
‘Why don’t we make a deal? You promise to give me your number, and I won’t drive my truck down this street for the next week - even though it is my street too,’ Turns out that ice cream guy lives in the house next to Keith, and has seen him come and go for the last few months and totally developed a super bad, super embarrassing crush on him.
Keith agrees, and the guys introduces himself as Lance. He then calls off work early, and insists that Keith let him look after him. Keith refuses at first, but Lance’s grin has his knees going all wobbly for a reason that isn’t anything to do with the fever.
‘C’mon, let me take care of you. It’s the neighbourly thing to do after all,’
All it takes is a wink from Lance, and Keith is Finished™. Lance doesn’t leave Keith’s apartment for the next three days, and Keith unexpectedly forms a deep love for ice cream and its stupid truck music.
