a super sneaky side blog

As is his usual luck, it's one of the few days Olruggio is awake before noon. While Qifrey struggles not to slump against the wall of their kitchen as his apprentices eat their breakfast in the other room, easily entertained by their own ideas, thank goodness, because Qifrey’s throat feels thick and the vibration of his own voice echoes through his head in sharp pains, Olruggio staggers downstairs and into the room, likely in search of coffee. His hair is mussed, and he's still blinking away sleep, but when his eyes lock with Qifrey’s they hesitate for a moment too long. 

Qifrey tries to smile, but it makes Olruggio’s brows furrow, so he just turns away to gently wipe his nose against his wrist. He’s been caught like always. It’d be easier to hold up the facade if Olruggio didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, because he just feels guilty lying to him. He sighs with defeat when Olruggio leans against the counter and levels him with a stern look. 

“You look awful.” Olruggio says, voice still rough. Qifrey sniffles again, nose irritated by the steam wafting off the bowls of oatmeal in front of him, feeling all too much like he's advertising his symptoms. “I’m quite alright.” He says, and his voice is just as congested as he feared it would be. How embarrassing he is. “Just a cold.” 

Olruggio huffs, leaning over to gruffly force a hand against Qifrey’s forehead that he's a bit too unsteady to dodge. “Jus’ a cold.” He murmurs. “You’re awfully warm for that.” Qifrey smiles again, suddenly finding his nose itchy. He pushes olruggio’s hand away, not unkindly, and steps back a bit to create space, waving a halfhearted hand in front of his face. “Not at all,” He can’t help the wince that comes across his face, the feeling aggravating both his sinus’ and his headache. “I’m merely warm from bearing near the stove. I’m in a fine state to-” has to pause to press a knuckle against his nose, which ends up having the opposite effect. The itch crescendos, so he has to whip around in an attempt to protect Olruggio from the worst of his symptoms.

“ ‘chT-!" he has to pause for a moment, curled over into his wrist, until his vision returns from static and he can feel anything but the thundering pulsing of his own skull. After a few deep breaths, he manages to straighten up and almost-look Olruggio in the eye. He looks annoyed, but not in the way he does when dealing with frustrating clients or mental blocks. He looks, frustrated, almost, closer to when their girls stubbornly refuse rest, or even Qifrey, sometimes. It's not a look he likes very much when it's placed onto himself. 

“Go to bed.” Never one to mince his words, Olruggio tells him flat out. “You’re going to fall over.” Qifrey was perfectly able to come to that conclusion himself, because there is still grey towards the corners of his vision, and his legs are starting to get suspiciously shaky. It's not something his lovely Olruggio should be seeing, though. Having his own weakness thrown back at him sparks an age-old defensiveness every time, like a cat backed into a corner. He sort of wants to snarl. 

“The girls need a master present.” He grits out instead between clenched teeth. Olurggio sighs, looking worn already, drags a hand down his face. “I’ll watch ‘em. I’m basically their master already.” He makes a shoo-ing motion. “Go off to bed before they start worryin’.” It's a bit lowbrow to bring them into this, but Qifrey can’t argue it, no matter how much his skin is prickling with desire to fight back. He sniffles against the back of his hand again instead of replying, starting to stumble his way upstairs to his chambers. Olruggio’s shoulders are tense as he passes, and his eyes look even more tired than normal, even though he doesn’t have any upcoming deadlines that he’s heard about. Not that he's been a good listener these past few days.

••●━━━ 𖤓 ━━━●••

His room is dark when he wakes up. Intentionally, surely, because he had been too tired to bother closing his own blinds when he collapsed against his bed, had fallen asleep with his head buried into the pillow to try to drown the light out. There’s only one person that would be in here, so he squints against the dark shapes, ignoring the way it makes him ache, and can vaguely make out a dark robe. 

Olruggio must be focused, or else he would’ve noticed. Qifrey takes his time getting up, for no reason relating to the way the world spins and heady pressure shifts in his face, tries to study Olruggio. There's the faint scratching of a quill, and Oruggio's posture seems stiffer than usual, like he's focused. Once Olruggio sniffles a few times, unconsciously, because his nose has started running since he lifted his head up, Olruggio looks up at him.

“Mornin’.” He says, voice soft like he knows. “Want a light on?”  Qifrey feels his face pull into a frown. “Why not just open the blinds? Natural light is always better.” According to Beldaruit, anyway, who liked to preach on the importance of nature at random turns. Olruggio opens his mouth, then shakes his head like he’s thinking better of something. “It’s the middle of the night, Qifrey.” Is all he says, quill taping an anxious rhythm against his paper. 

Qifrey sits up in a frantic motion, almost tipping over in the process. He has to grip the sheets hard and pant for a second, the whole world consisting of spinning shapes and his heartbeat in his skull. He sniffles again, uselessly, and Olruggio shifts around for a moment before handing him a grey handkerchief.

The gentle touch of fabric against his nose sets him off almost immediately. He barely has time to take in a breath before twitching. “ ‘dszhh-!” The shifting of congestion in his nose makes the itch reignite before he manages to catch his breath. He watches Oruggio's gaze as his breath wavers, on the edge, until he's finally set free. “ ‘dSZh - eH’dTZh!” thick and so unlike his usual sneezes, they hurt his throat. 

“Bless you.” Qifrey hums. He doesn’t trust his ability to talk. He's sick of this song and dance with Olruggio. Tired of pretending, tired of everything. He's exhausted, aching, and feels trapped in this room. 

“You’ve got a fever.” Oruggio says, startling him out of his fervor. His hands are gripped in the sheets, handkerchief still in hand. He avoids Olruggio’s eyes. “Nothin’ bad, you’re not too warm.” Qifrey sniffles again, pathetically, clears his throat into his shoulder. He’s so foggy-minded. “Okay.” he murmurs. “Thank you, Olruggio.” 

Olruggio doesn’t say anything, for a few minutes. Long enough that Qifrey nearly starts nodding off, lulled to sleep by rhythmic noises of anxiety. His quill never stops its tapping, probably bleeding through the paper and onto his sheets. Neither of them mention it. 

“Can I just take care of you, for once?” Qifrey finally meets his eyes, through his half closed eyes. He looks more ragged than usual, accentuated by the dark shadows of his room. Qifrey wants to ask him when he last got a good night's rest, when his next commissions are due, when the last time he checked up on the girls is. Wants to ask if Richeh ate much dinner, if Tetia is too hyper without enough to do today, if Aggott even looked up from her studies once. He does none of this. 

Instead, he sighs. “Will you take no for an answer?” he tries, to Olruggio's scoff. “Do you ever?” Qifrey can’t help but feel a little guilty at that, sinking back into the bed sheets with flushed cheeks. Olruggio stands, groaning, like he had been sitting there for a while. He shuffles across Qifrey’s room to his desk, full of books and scattered sheets of paper. There’s a bowl on it, and Olruggio takes it before returning to his chair heavily. He reaches out the bowl, full of cool oatmeal, until Qifrey begrudgingly takes it, is slow to release it like he is worried Qifrey will drop it. It lays heavy in his lap. He sets it aside, despite Olruggio's look, and neither of them mention it. 

  Olruggio shuffles around a little more and pulls a few snugstones out of his pocket. He sets them around Qifery’s form in the blanket, and they’re too warm, but he doesn’t have the heart to say anything with Olruggio’s thoughtfulness. He closes his eyes, too tired to keep whatever it is they have going, and lifts a corner of the blanket. “Come in here, then. You look tired.” 

Olruggio gives him a long look, and Qifrey’s worried the fever got to him for a second. But then he stands from his chair, slides into bed without complaint. Their bodies are so close, and wife's aflame. He falls asleep burning. 

••●━━━ 𖤓 ━━━●••

Qifrey feels disoriented when he wakes up. He can’t find anything that could have startled him awake, and he hadn’t had a nightmare. He stares at the dark ceiling for a few moments, trying to get his bearings, until he’s startled by a sudden  “ ‘rSZCHh!”, and the previous hours start to drift back to him. 

“Bless you..” Qifrey murmurs, voice surprisingly present. He must have passed the worst of it, finally. “Are you okay?” 

Olruggio makes a thick, snuffling sound somewhere to his left. The bed is still warm, so he must have just gotten up. “Yeah,” he says, and then it’s quiet for a few moments until the floor creaks with his return. “I didn’t mean to wake ya.” He says, voice more rasped then it usually is when he wakes up, nuzzling back into Qifrey. He falls back asleep quickly, but he tosses and turns uncharacteristically. It eats at Qifrey, keeps him awake. 

It’s likely sometime after sunrise when Olruggio starts to stir again. He never really settled, and at some point Qifrey stopped trying to help him for fear of waking him up, so his limbs are knotted in the quilts. He doesn’t seem to notice, blinking slowly at Qifrey. “Good morning,” he tries, with a smile. Olruggio doesn’t say anything, just buries his head back against Qifrey’s chest and takes a slow, congested breath through his nose. Qifrey’s heart hurts. 

They stay like that for a while. Qifrey doesn’t want to move him, but his nose starts to itch at some point, and despite his fight he ends up jostling him with a sharp movement. “h’TShh-! ‘tSZhih!” 

Olly startles up, probably having been half asleep. Qifrey wants to apologize, but his nose isn’t satisfied, so he holds a placating hand and shields his mouth against his other one as he sneezes once again. Finally, he falls back against the pillow, pushing Olruggio back against his chest with a gentle hand. Olruggio doesn’t say anything for a long while, and when he does speak it's rough and painful sounding. 

“I think we’ll both be stuck in here for awhile,” he says, and there’s nothing saying he’s mad at Qifrey for it but he can’t help but feel so guilty, especially when Olruggio’s so busy. “Somebody’s got to tell the girls.” Qifrey hums, allows himself the pleasure of running one brief hand through Olruggio’s messed up hair. 

“I’ll do it.” He says, without making any move to get up. “I think I may be better off than you are, now.” Olruggio huffs at that. He doesn’t want to move, feeling kind of like Olruggio is a cat that won’t come back if he moves even the slightest bit. But he can hear birds, faintly, and the floor above him is starting to creak with life as his girls start to stir. No matter what he wants, he can’t leave them entirely alone. 

So he gets up, and Olruggio watches him leave with droopy eyes, and he smiles at the girls as they trickle in, passing off his own stuffiness as just a bit of allergies. When he serves their bowls, he finds himself suddenly famished, so he ends up scarfing down a bowl in the kitchen while they eat in the other room. Their quiet chatter is so warm, but the light in the kitchen spills out from the windows. His head aches. He has to bid his girls farewell, instructing them to learn on their own for a second day, and return to his room with an orange and paring knife. 

Olruggio makes no move to sit up from where he’s sprawled out in his absence, so he sits himself at the edge of the bed. “Are they doing alright?” He mumbles into the bedsheets. “Of course,” he replies, choosing not to tease him for his worrying this time. “They’re a bit concerned, though.” Olruggio hums. “Too smart for their own good.” 

Qifrey has to stifle his laugh. “I brought you food,” he says, holding up the orange even though Olruggio can’t see it. Fruit doesn’t count as a meal, really, but Olruggio tends to get upset stomachs when he doesn’t feel well, so he’s hoping it's good enough. Olly groans into the mattress, but he eventually shifts around until he’s sort of sitting up. His face looks pinched, and it isn’t long before he’s muffling a heavy sneeze into his elbow. “ h’rRSZhh-iuh!” 

 “Bless you,” Qifrey says, and Olruggio makes a lazy flapping motion with his free hand before gasping again. “ ‘rRSCHhh’iuh!” 

if he is caught he'll get a little red and excuse himself

snzing in general tends to aggravate his headaches but stifling makes it worse.. but he'd rather die than let people see him snz naturally i think

tends to stifle even when hes alone out of habit, but sometimes they sneak past him. natural sneeze is kind of, like sharp and itchy. "hH'tsch - 'tSCh!"

his sneeze is so soft and unassuming he really doesn't need to hold it in at all

usually blesses others. esp olruggio because he thinks its cute. also makes comments on him like My goodness i've been hearing you all morning ^_^"....

i don't think hes very prone to illness aside from headaches, but i think that he's very good at working through it when he is + usually hides it

hmm.... dander allergy. very mild but he can't put the brushbuddy too close to his face

also very sensitive physically, esp when about to / having a bad headache. sometimes the feeling of his glasses on his nose set him off

Olruggio

natural snz!!! doesn't really get the point of stifling i think and also he is terrible at it

tries to stifle sometimes with clients to seem formal and it just ends up soo much more desperate at the end

harsh + vocal but not overly so. very tired sounding especiallyyy when its spring and hes been doing it all day. kind of like a. "hH - 'rRSHh'uhh!"

sorry im a little rusty.. he gets very drawn out fits that drive him crazy because hes constantly stopping his work to snz and he cant focus

sneezes either into his elbow or shoulder. usually does the thing where he'll like take a full step back to sneeze. if hes alone he still does it out of habit ^_^ cute..

apologizes if he startles qif or the girls but generally doesn't acknowledge it. gets embarrassed when anybody says anything

awful awful pollen allergy. especially to tree pollen. walk with me. tends to hide away during the spring because hes a bit embarrassed so qif will be like oh don't mind him hes just a bit sensitive ^_^ and get smacked upside the head

his allergy sneezes are a bit more frequent and itchy than his general ones, but still spaced out and typically singles. a double or more is rare and a full on fit would leave him pantinggg..

paws at his noise alottt so its very red. gets those wrinkle lines along the bridge.

The tavern was quiet. All the sensible people were holed up at home, already asleep. Jaskier yearned to join them. The thought of his own bed propelled his weary feet forward, walking him straight towards the innkeeper behind the bar.

“We’ll be needing a room for the night.”

The innkeep looked suspiciously towards where Geralt was warming himself by the fire.

“For him?” He cocked a skeptical eyebrow.

Jaskier frowned.

“Yes. I thought that was clear from the ‘we’. As in, he and I.” 

Jaskier was much too tired for this. He was well versed in this particular song-and-dance, far too used to the anti-Witcher sentiment that had driven him out of more than one inn. They ought to go where they were wanted, or at least give the man a talking to. They had just taken care of his town’s necrophage problem, you know. Jaskier gathered himself to make a fuss, but his attention was pulled away from the innkeep by a wracking coughing from the other side of the room- Geralt, still dredging up the swampwater he’d inhaled. 

Tonight, the Witcher didn’t need to hold his bard back from punching the barman, he needed to sleep.

Jaskier sighed, unfastened his purse from his belt, and sat it heavily on the counter. Right now, all he wanted was a room with a fire and a bowl of something warm to eat. And, if his purse permitted, a stiff drink. He couldn’t care less what it would cost, he was going to sleep in a real bed tonight, so help him gods.

The innkeep narrowed his eyes as he quoted the bard a number. 

Jaskier of course knew he was being gauged, but the weather wasn’t quite conducive to comparison shopping, and he hadn’t the energy for haggling. He sighed, fishing around his sopping pockets for a few more coins to meet the hefty price. So much for that drink.

“We’ll take it.”

:::

The short walk up to the single room shouldn’t have been so tiring, but each sluggish step pulled him down as if the swamp was still sucking at his boots. Geralt trudged up behind him, just as exhausted.

The door clicked open to a dreary room. Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to be disappointed at the meagre accommodations. He was overjoyed at the prospect of spending a night off the floor of the marshy forest they'd been trekking through for the past week. Even if the fireplace barely had room to stack a single proper log and the table in the corner was wobbly and the bed was overpriced and understuffed and several inches too short for the two of them to fit in comfortably.

Jaskier dropped his pack to the floor with a contented sigh. He rolled his shoulders and reveled in the weight lifted. For all he complained about the forgone luxuries of traveling light, having only one bag made unpacking the few things not stabled with Roach quick work. He immediately began to strip off his traveling clothes, eager to get into bed and chase away the cold.

Geralt eyed the single bed warily.

“Should probably do something about… this.” He gestured down at his muck-covered clothing. 

Jaskier looked him up and down, then groaned. Damn Witcher. Why did he have to be right?

As much as he appreciated the forethought (he certainly wouldn’t recommend sharing a bed with a Witcher-sized wet dog), Jaskier dreaded the hour a proper bath would put between him and his bed.

Jaskier was ready to protest, but as he looked over at Geralt, shivering even in the warm inn, nose and cheeks an unhealthy wind-whipped pink, he had to agree a bath would do him some good.

He sighed his resignation.

“Get the fire going, and I’ll send for some water.”

:::

Jaskier bathed as quickly as he could. As pleasant as the warmth was, he longed to get out of the water, wrap himself up in a blanket, and finally be dry for the first time since they decided to cut through that wretched bog. The water was still plenty warm when the bard surrendered it to Geralt. 

Geralt eyed the bard warily as he sank into the bath. It wasn’t like Jaskier to rush through his washing. He was usually one to take his sweet time, leaving Geralt to heat another bucket or scrape himself clean in frigid water. Still, the Witcher wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

As Geralt melted into the tub he uttered a sigh that gave way to a heavy cough. 

The sound made the bard’s throat ache sympathetically, and he cooed soothingly as he slid into his nightclothes and made his way to his usual vigil by the head of the bath.

The post-hunt bath had become something of a ceremony over the years, and Jaskier was well-versed in his role. That didn’t stop him from looking longingly at the bed as he lathered his hands and got to work.

Wordlessly, Jaskier began their unspoken routine, carting his fingers gently through the Witcher’s hair, slowly massaging his temples as he started the meticulous work of pulling the mud and grime from his scalp. The hot water would wash away the worst of Geralt’s aches, along with whatever manner of viscera he managed to get doused in. 

Jaskier kneeled beside the tub, compulsively checking him over for injuries he might’ve managed to miss and slowly detangling his hair. The soothing motion of calloused fingertips cradling his head allowed Geralt to let the tension bleed from his taut muscles, and feeling his hands against a very solid, very much alive Witcher was just what Jaskier needed to ground himself after an adventure gone awry. 

Tonight, the aura in the room was fond, but quiet. A late day with too many close calls and a long trudge through a rainy bog was enough to tucker them both out, and there was nothing to discuss that couldn’t be conveyed in their shared language of glances and monosyllabic murmurs.

It would have been perfectly silent if not for Geralt pulling his head away from the bard every few minutes to cough into a fist. Jaskier didn’t like the crackly quality to the fits. He was loath to think what was in that swampwater.

Jaskier’s nose prickled at the thought, reminding him that he’d managed to get knocked into the bog too, though Geralt was the one who’d been pulled under the surface.

The prickle quickly developed into genuine itch, and he barely had time to untangle a hand from the Witcher’s mane before snapping to the side, directing a throaty “Heh-Hurreschchew” into his soap-slick palm.

Geralt winced suddenly, jerking out of Jaskier’s grasp and splashing lukewarm water down the front of his dry nightshirt. Jaskier wiped his hand on the hem. I’d have to be changed again, anyways.

“Geralt?” The worry was heavy in the bard’s voice. Had he missed a wound? Was he pulling too hard on the silvery hair in his hands?

“Wasn’t expecting that.”

That did little to ease the bard’s anxieties. It wasn’t like Geralt to be so skittish. He beheaded a water hag without blinking an eye not three full hours ago. It usually took more than an errant sneeze to get a rise out of him.

“‘S loud.”

Ah. That’s why he was so jumpy tonight.

“Mmm. Head bothering you?”

The Witcher offered an affirmative grunt.

“Why don’t we finish up here and get some food into you, yeah? Then sleep?” 

The Witcher was reluctant to leave the soothing water, but it had gone cool by the time his hair was clean. He might as well get out.

:::

Geralt practically melted into the thin broth the inn sent up to the room for a few more of their quickly-dwindling oren. Jaskier looked over him in the weak light.

The Witcher was shoveling spoonfuls of soup into his mouth mechanically, staring blankly forward, eyes glazed over. He was wincing every time the thunder clapped or the fire popped or he swallowed a piece of meat or potato that wasn’t soft enough. In the firelight, the bard could see that his cheeks were flushed with what he desperately hoped wasn’t the beginnings of a fever. He looked about as miserable as Jaskier felt.

Jaskier would love to leave it for the morning. Really, he would. But if something was really wrong, he’d need to see to it tonight.

He sighed heavily. 

“Exactly how sick are you?”

The Wolf pulled in a breath to insist he was well enough, but instead found himself bent at the waist, hacking violently into his hand. The force and volume of the fit sent a stab of sharp pain though his head, and he bit back a moan. 

That settled that. Jaskier sighed.

“Thought so,” Jaskier tutted sympathetically at his Witcher, pressing a hand to his forehead, trailing it down to his cheek.

“You’re a bit warm, too. Do you have anything you can take? Could I make you some tea?”

Geralt muffled another congested cough into a clenched fist, but shook his head. 

“Just sleep.”

“Then maybe it’s time for some rest?” the bard asked, hopeful. “Here- why don’t you finish the rest of this,” he pushed his only half-empty bowl of broth in front of the Wolf “and I will go make up the bed.”

The Witcher frowned at the barely-touched stew, but before he could coax Jaskier into a few more bites, a soft kiss was pressed to his forehead and the bard pushed away from the table.

:::

Ten excruciatingly long minutes later, and Jaskier was finally ready to climb into bed. Geralt had finished his soup and was stoking the fire when Jaskier came up behind him. The bard took him lightly by the hand and led him to the bed, turning down the covers and slipping the amenable Witcher inside.

Geralt had a sleepy, contented grin on his face as he informed the bard that he was a grown man, and a Witcher at that, and he didn’t need to be tucked into bed.

Jaskier just tutted as he got in bed beside him.

“I’m sure you don’t, my love,” he said as he gently combed his fingers through Geralt’s hair. Jaskier’s light touch against the silvery tresses had nearly lulled his Wolf to sleep in when the bard pulled back with a sudden gasp that startled the sleep from the Witcher’s eyes. 

He tried to snuff out the sneeze, but quickly failed, grinding his nose into the shoulder of his linen shirt to stifle a feathery “Heh-TSCH, ItSCH! TiISH, ITsch, ItSCH! Heh-”

He gasped in a breath at the end of the unsatisfactory fit. “ngh, sorr-ITchsh. Gods. Sorry.”

The itchy outburst was soft enough that it had Geralt’s brow furrowed in concern instead of pain, but the shallow, ticklish sneezes were far from relieving. Jaskier could already feel the prickly feeling starting up again behind his eyes.

“Are you…?”

“Fine. Fine. snff. Just worn out.”

Geralt rolled on his side, tapping the warmed spot next to him.

“Better get some rest, then.”

Jaskier nodded his silent agreement before nestling into the Witcher’s arms. The bard frowned at the congested rumbling of Geralt’s breathing against his back, the gentle vibration wrenching  a ticklish cough loose in the bard’s own chest.

He managed to mostly bite back the fit, but Geralt could feel his shoulders jerking with the effort. The Witcher started to sit up, concerned.

“Jask…” 

“Hush, Geralt. It’s you I’m worried about. Your lungs sound positively awful. You need to sleep.”

Geralt’s sigh was unconvinced, but he settled back down.

:::

The Witcher was out like a light. He obviously needed the rest. Jaskier had no such luck. The on-again-off-again itch in his nose had cemented itself as a constant, faint buzzing, and thick congestion was quickly building at the bridge of his nose.

Jaskier pulled the collar of the soaked chemise he hadn’t managed to change over his nose and blew gently, hoping to shift the congestion enough that he could breathe with his mouth closed. 

The shift in pressure let him breathe, but the first breath of cold air stoked the buzz into a fierce prickle. The bard clasped his hands over the collar to catch the resulting “HehITschew!”

Geralt groaned beside him and mumbled something sleepily.

“Oh! Sorry. Headache. Right. I’ll- uh- keep it quiet, then.” His statement was punctuated by a liquid sniffle, firmly conveying that his nose did not intend to keep it quiet, then.

Geralt hmmed appreciatively and rolled over.

Most nights, the Witcher relegated himself to a few hours of meditation and dedicated the rest of the break to sharpening swords or keeping watch, but after a day of mudrucking and hag slaying, he deserved a proper sleep. Jaskier was not going to ruin it for him.

So, when the niggling itch that had been softly buzzing behind his eyes worked its way to his sinuses, he tried his hardest to squelch the resulting sneeze into oblivion. 

The “Nnhgh-tch” that followed roused the Witcher enough that he sleepily reached across the bed and wrapped his arms around the bard. 

At first Jaskier reveled in the slightly-too-warm embrace, but when the tickle in his nose returned, mounting into an irrepressible itch deep in his sinuses, he suddenly realized he couldn’t move enough in his Witcher’s grasp to bring a hand to his face.

Oh gods. This was not going to work.

“Could I maybe have my arms back?” he whispered. There was no answer. Then, a little louder: “Geralt? Darling? Are you awake?” His answer was a stuffy snore.

The bard sighed and set about extricating himself from the bearhug, but Geralt just growled drowsily and pulled Jaskier closer, ignoring his indignant protests.

“Yes, dear, this is all very nice and all, but I’m…” He cut himself off with a hitching breath as the itch manifested itself. “I’m… heh… I’mgonnasneeze-“ his prediction was immediately confirmed with a wrenching “HehISHschew! Hesch! HurRATCHsch!”.

He tried to pull as far away from the Witcher as possible, but as soon as he could open his eyes, Jaskier was taken aback by the sight curled into the bed beside him. Geralt was panting, calloused hands clapped over his ears, eyes screwed shut. Jaskier’s heart caught in his throat.

“…Geralt?”

He only responded by curling in on himself, wincing further.

“Ooh, dear. See, this is the exact thing I was trying to avoid…” Jaskier tutted in a whisper. “Let’s get you laying back, aye? There we are. Is that better?” Geralt’s tense muscles relaxed minutely as the bard eased him back against the backboard.  

Jaskier could feel the warmth coming off him as he pressed Geralt’s shoulders gently into the pillows. He tsked lightly as he pressed a soft kiss to the Witcher’s forehead, frowning at the steady heat.

“I think your fever has gone up a bit, dear. You need to sleep.”

He did need to sleep. And Jaskier knew that he wouldn’t be able to if he was sharing a bed with a sneezy bard. So when Geralt finally relaxed enough that his steady breath faded into congested snoring, Jaskier eased himself up from the warmth of his Witcher’s side, cast a final longing look towards the bed he desperately wanted to curl up in, and pulled on his boots.

:::

He was already far from warm, but the jaunt from the inn door to the relative shelter of the stable left Jaskier freezing cold and soaked to the bone.

The stable boy had long since locked up shop and headed to bed, and Jaskier reveled in the privacy of the dark stalls, taking the opportunity to violently scrub at his nose away from the prying eyes of worried Witchers. 

The familiar scent of fresh hay and molasses and leather mingling in the air soothed the mind he was now certain was at least a bit fevered.

The stable was quaint, but thankfully fully enclosed. Not many strangers were looking to dock their horses this far off the trade routes, so it was easy to find the stall where Roach was untacked. Jaskier was relieved to see she hadn’t quite settled in for the night yet. At least he wasn’t disturbing her sleep. It’d been a long day on the Path for her, too.

Roach greeted her visitor with a worried nickering and a gentle nudge to his shoulder.

“I’m alright, girl.”

She snorted her dissent.

Jaskier melted onto the dusty floor and curled up in the corner of the stall, letting his heavy head loll backwards onto the wall.

The puff of thick dust and old hay he kicked up was enough to tip his hypersensitive nose over the edge. At least out here, he didn’t have to muffle the exhausted “huh… hurISHchiew” that ensued.

He wished he’d had the foresight to grab a handkerchief from his pack. As it was, he wiped his running nose on his sodden sleeve.

“Gods kill me now,” he whispered, throat too sore to give the Almighty a proper cursing out. Instead, he settled for pulling a spare threadbare saddle blanket around his shaking form and coughing into the shoulder of his rain-drenched chemise.

Sleep did not come easily to the bard. He was too uncomfortable to settle down. The blanket was itchy and rough and too thin to be of much use. The wall of the stable was harder against his back than the straw-padded floor, but if he laid down flat his nose would clog completely and the cold air would burn the back of his throat and set him coughing. It was too cold, and then halfway through the night it was suddenly too warm. Then it was freezing, more so even than the rain had been earlier.

At least he was soothed by the thought of Geralt getting a solid night’s sleep in the relative warmth of their room. It was that warm thought that finally settled him enough to drift off into a dreamless sleep.

:::

With his bright white hair mussed into a tangled halo, a sheathed sword thrown over his bedclothes, and his cat’s eyes scanning wildly, Geralt looked half madman, half monster. Hardly the sight Jaskier expected to wake up to. With the way the Witcher had practically knocked down the stable door, however, staying asleep was not much of an option.

Jaskier sat up groggily, trying to preserve what little dignity a man who’d slept in a pile of hay could. 

“Oh. Hello there. What brings you to these parts?” Jaskier’s voice was scratchy and thick as he feigned nonchalance. Geralt was having none of it.

“Gods Jaskier. What were you thinking? I had to find out where you were from the barkeep! What are you doing out here?”

“Didn’ wanna keep you up. Did you sleep well? Feel better?”

“Did I- Melitele’s fucking tits, Jaskier, did I sleep well?”

Jaskier smiled up at Geralt from his makeshift straw mattress.

“Sound better.”

“You certainly don’t.” He really didn’t. The congestion had settled firmly in his head overnight, dulling his ns and ts, and his throat was roughened. It sounded painful.

“You shouldn’t be out in this. It’s freezing. Come on. Up with you.”

The Witcher pulled his bard to his feet, but the sudden shift left Jaskier reeling. The pressure in his head felt unbearably heavy. He stumbled forward a step before Geralt caught him by the shoulder.

“Jaskier? Are you alright?” His voice was as soft as a Witcher’s could be, the poor attempt at soothing that was usually reserved for calming a spooked Roach. Instead of answering, Jaskier wilted into his grasp, clinging to his side like a drunken limpet. He moved his hand to the back of Jaskier’s neck, frowning at the warmth there. It was damp, too, so either Jaskier had been sweating through this fever for a while, or he’d slept in a soaked shirt. Probably both. 

“Come on. March. We need to get you into a proper bed.”

Jaskier made no attempt to assist Geralt, instead pawing at his chest like a child.

The Witcher sighed, but obliged. He gathered up the bard, wrapping him in the saddle blanket and holding him against his chest, and carried him back towards the inn.

“Usually they do,” Megumi says coolly. “But I haven’t actually been inside tonight.”

Okkotsu laughs faintly and says, “Oh, sure, I guess that makes sense.”

“Ieri-san’s condo gives Megumi a really hard time until he leaves,” Yuji says, which makes Megumi wonder what he’d told Okkotsu for him to know about the issue in the first place. Obviously not a lot. He takes Megumi by the waist, affectionately squeezing him closer. “But you’re still kinda sneezy for a few hours until we can go home and change, so usually we just stay out here to be safe.”

“Wow, I had no idea it was that bad,” Okkotsu says. He looks Megumi up and down, probably without meaning to, and then jumps like he’s startled himself. “Oh, should I move further away? I might have fur on my clothes.”

“It’s fine,” Megumi says quickly. He doesn’t know whether that’s true or not; he’s never spent much time with any cat owners aside from Ieri, who works in a sterile environment. He regrets his deflection instantly because Okkotsu is not the person he’d want to be with when he finds out. “Have you not interacted with cats much before?”

Self-consciously, Okkotsu smiles.

“Not really,” he says. “I mean… Animals mostly avoided me, when Rika’s curse first showed up? She probably scared them. And ever since I got it under control, I’ve been too busy with work to spend time with anyone’s pets.”

“Damn,” Yuji says. “That’s sad. And now you don’t even get to enjoy them, huh?”

He’s so cute. Megumi distances himself from his own stupid mind.

“They’re less skittish than you’d think,” Megumi says, because maybe that’ll help Okkotsu feel better. Cats, like many creatures, are sorely misunderstood. Megumi doesn’t ruminate on what he’s missing out on by being made incompatible with them, because bumming out wouldn’t change anything. “But either way, it’s probably best not to get too close.”

“I’m trying to remember if I was allergic before or not,” Okkotsu replies, looking up and off to the side contemplatively.

Yuji nods sadly and then rests his arm on Megumi’s shoulder while Okkotsu sniffles madly and resumes pushing his features around. 

“Megumi sounded pretty much like you do the first time we came over,” he discloses. “Only he knew why and we were able to leave earlier, so maybe you’re even more allergic than him. Does it work like that?”

“Depends,” Megumi says. “You didn’t touch them or anything, right? Ieri’s cats aren’t really friendly.”

“No, I got to pet one!” Okkotsu says. “But she said the same thing, that they don’t really like people.”

“Was it the white one?” Yuji asks. “He let me give him a treat once.”

“No.” Okkotsu shakes his head, nostrils flaring as he sniffles. “It was that curly one, with the big ears?”

“Whoa,” Yuji says. He moves his arm out so it’s wrapped around Megumi’s shoulders. “I’ve never seen him. How many does she have again?”

“Five,” Megumi says.

“Five cats…” Okkotsu murmurs before sniffling again. “No wonder you don’t feel well, Fushiguro-kun. Do they just make you sneeze, or is it something else?”

“Uh. Yeah,” is all he can manage to say. What a question.

“Like, a lot,” Yuji adds. “But you don’t really stick around to see if it gets worse than that, right?”

Absolutely not. Why would he?

“No. I’ve never had a reason to.”

Yuji hums ominously, like he’s thinking some more about it. “You did get a sinus headache that one time.”

“Mmm, I hate those,” sympathizes Okkotsu. He rubs his eyes and then the space on his forehead above them, as though he’s developing a headache just by thinking about it. “I used to be able to sleep them off, but it’s hard when you can’t really lie down all the way.”

“Damn. That sucks,” Yuji says in all his earnest charm. “Sometimes you can tell when it’s coming on because these shadows show up right around, like—”

He traces Megumi’s face with his index finger, right above his cheekbone and toward the outer bridge of his nose.

“Uh-huh, me too. Toge points mine out sometimes. They get really bad,” Okkotsu says. He rub-wipes his nose on his shoulder as he reaches for his phone, sniffling as he unlocks the screen. “I’ll let him know I’m out here now. I think he was stalled trying to figure out a way to get Panda through the lobby without Maki having to carry him.”

The topic sticks. Somehow, they figure out the Panda situation like they always do, and Inumaki is able to surprise them with his entrance to the balcony being through a hidden stairway that even Ieri and Iori didn’t know about. He explains that he’d done it to avoid walking through the apartment and risking attracting wayward tufts of cat fur with the static on his clothes.

It doesn’t seem to have done much to help his boyfriend, but the secret door was at least interesting, so his detour wasn’t all for naught.

Intermittently, Megumi – and everyone else at the party, both inside and out – can hear Okkotsu sneezing for the entirety of the evening, regardless of his cleansing exposure to the inner city’s particulated version of fresh air. He and Inumaki leave on time with all their friends when the night closes out, but Megumi is distracted by the vestiges of their shared predicament for the rest of the week.

📕📖👜☕️🕯️🏪📚

The thrift market trip is a disaster, despite its halfway-organized, cluttered aisles of bookshelves creating a perfect maze of secluded corners for Megumi to occupy as he rides out the relentless ambush of a long-winded sneezing fit.

He can tell it’s coming shortly after he walks into the store, once their group has split up for the afternoon. Yuji had taken off with Inumaki toward an arcade down the street, and Megumi chose to follow Maki’s route through the bookstore to help her find a half-birthday gift for her sister, who doesn’t even enjoy reading. Kugisaki came along because Maki was going, and Okkotsu followed because he isn’t very good at video games and had never seen a novelty bookshop before.

Okkotsu has also never seen one of Megumi’s allergic reactions before, and Megumi will be damned if he can’t keep it that way.

They happen acutely enough for him to be able to recognize all of the unique tells, despite not having much practice. For the most part, Megumi is good at keeping himself away from places that might trigger them. As long as he stays in the city and doesn’t hang out in any pet stores, it’s hardly a concern at all.

But life can be unpredictable in all the worst ways, and unfortunately, today’s scandal is a mark on its tally.

A high stack of thick hardcovers and sturdy shelves of requisitioned war journals make up his deliberate fortress of both privacy and alibi when the first couple of sneezes hit. Megumi knows better by now than to try and delay the impulse, and the dryness in his eyes and crawling in his sinuses provide enough warning to get away from everyone else before the episode could actually begin.

Quietly, Megumi inhales twice and pulls up his collar. Nobody is around to see him, but covering his face makes the whole ordeal feel safer. It comes on fast and blunt with barely a breath between – “hh’tsch! ht’TSch!” – and then brings a tense pause before an unexpectedly cleansing third: “ehGHshh’uh!”

The itch begins to recede. It’s strange, but he doesn’t need to sneeze again. Perhaps Megumi’s recent conversation with Okkotsu had darkened his memory, exaggerating his expectation of how dependable his allergy is in its severity. He hopes so. The vastness of the space might be helping, even if its abundance of merchandise is excessive enough to make him claustrophobic.

Who knows. The store could also just be dusty.

Either way, Megumi relaxes with nothing to worry about aside from the dregs of a runny nose. It’s negligible enough for him to sniffle a couple of times and get rid of it, returning to his search for something compelling to read on the train ride home and then leave in a donation bin once it’s finished.

Absently, he wonders whether the others are having any luck navigating the collection. Megumi is used to hunting for books in places like this, but he doesn’t think anybody else has the patience nor the interest for it. He keeps his ears open in case somebody needs help, and browses two more sections before the urge to sneeze advances on him quickly.

This time, there’s less opportunity for discretion. The travel anthologies around him are closer to the middle of the store, with empty aisles to act as hallways on either side. He barely has time to get his wrist in front of his face before he’s flinching softly and clenching his teeth.

“dtSHh! hh’dzsh’u! – DZshh’iu!” Unlike earlier, a just three doesn’ it. He presses down harder underneath his nose anyway. “iht-GKssh’ih!”

He holds his breath, frozen as he waits, and resists the curious and embarrassed part of him the wants to look and see whether anyone is around to say something. It shouldn’t be such a big deal, but Megumi sometimes wonders whether he’d be this adverse to sneezing in front of others if his tastes were less peculiar.

With the urge finally dimming, Megumi is safe to move. He doesn’t have much of a choice in cleanup aside from the cuff of his sleeve, but there isn’t much to manage, so he just deals with it. The fabric of his sweatshirt is dark enough to camouflage the damages.

As his time spent in the center continues, so does the growth of whatever irritation Megumi’s body is pressuring him to scratch away. He keeps his hands away from his eyes as much as possible despite the dry sting above his lashline, and he doesn’t tempt himself by rubbing his nose too many times against the flexible, canvassy cotton covering his wrist when he sneezes against it.

But the opportunity comes regardless. Again, and again, and again.

He gets two in a row among a corner aisle of secondhand paperbacks: “TSsh! hd’tssh!” and a beat before the next set. “ht’CHsh’u! CHhsh’u!”

And only a few minutes to catch his breath until he exits the aisle, and then: “htt’CHsh! tssh’iu! –tz’shyiu!”

…Followed by a break that exchanges the sneezing for a watery, trickling itch that feels torturous but appears tolerable, because it’s not so bad that he can’t keep his face under control. It’s almost serene in the way things seem to be calming down.

However, Megumi’s reprieve lasts all of ten minutes. Maybe fifteen, if he doesn’t count the slow creep of intensity blooming right around his nose, his eyes, the roof of his mouth. Without any other choice, he resumes sneezing in a section spotlighting geographical references. 

Twice at first, itchy and underwhelming: “kdT’ssh’u! ehKzsh’u!”

Three more a moment later, when he’s bending down to return a magazine that was written in the wrong language: “tzsh! ihTZshh! hh’IHtsh’iu!” And then two into his shoulder, right after he stands up. “htShh’u! NdTshh’iu!”

And again, before he exits the aisle, right in front of…

“hhH-TZssh’yu!”

“What’s your deal?”

…In front of Maki. Great.

“Nothing,” he says. Speaking for the first time since this began reveals to Megumi that his voice has become polluted with congestion. “I’m fine.”

On second thought, better Maki than Kugisaki or Okkotsu, god forbid. At least she’s blunt and on an unrelated mission and generally uninterested in whatever is going on with him in general. She’d offered him her own brusque version of Are you okay? and will probably leave him alone now that it’s been addressed and she’s too busy to tease him.

“Yeah, real fine,” she replies, and luckily she doesn’t fuss or argue. With her head held high, Maki stalks off somewhere else and Megumi wanders in the other direction.

By now, he’s able to commit to knowing that whatever is setting him off has been around for a while and isn’t going to disappear. A cat in a store this big would be ridiculous, but it makes more sense than anything else. The culprit is unlikely to be any sort of plant, given the environment and Megumi’s history. Okkotsu is particularly sensitive to pollen, and they’d all be able to hear it if he were having problems.

He cuts his mind off instantly. That thought is off-limits.

As is thinking about Okkotsu at all today, with his head already scratchy and swimming.

So it only makes sense that Megumi would run into him next, in a wide corner section with a sitting area, where he’s busy being involuntarily bullied into scratching that damned itch.

“het’TZshiu! TZSsh’iu! …huhhIHZsh’iuh!” They’re getting rougher now, more insistent, and making him take longer, less predictable breaths in between. “hhH! –huhKdTsheu!”

What’s worse is that Okkotsu startles him with the kind of statement that has Megumi’s blood pressure swerving so quickly that it makes him dizzy.

“Fushiguro-kun!” he says brightly, if not too loud for a bookstore. “I wondered if that was you sneezing back here. Are you alright?”

This has never happened before. It’s already too much, not only because Okkotsu had referred to Megumi sneezing specifically – and could hear him the entire time, after all – but because he’s already being so nice about something so objectively unflattering.

“Hey,” Megumi answers. Unlike with Maki, he can’t bother lying, not just because it feels discrediting after what happened before but also because there wouldn’t be any point. He’s not going to stop, so he needs to fess up. “Yeah, fine. Just something in the air.”

“Oh, do you know what it is?” asks Okkotsu innocently.

“Not sure,” Megumi says. He’s probably starting to look as bad as he feels, which actually isn’t too awful – just annoyed and confused. And itchy, and mortified, with those telltale shiners under his eyes that Yuji was talking about the other night. He might not actually mind any of it so much if he were by himself, or behind a locked door with Yuji and a bed. But that’s not at all what’s happening right now.

Instead, he’s an hour’s train ride away from home among both strangers and friends, one of whom is interested in why Megumi can’t seem to stop sneezing and has unintentionally cornered him to talk about it with excruciatingly endearing, characteristically genuine concern.

With all of his might, Megumi compartmentalizes himself wire by wire and entertains the mystery with prompting from one of the hottest people he’s ever met.

“Probably dander in the furniture or the vents,” he says. “Nothing else has ever gotten to me like this.”

And honestly, Megumi is curious too. If his problem is with something else, then he wants to be able to avoid it in the future.

As though it would be visibly floating through the air, Okkotsu looks into the space around them. Not on any upholstery to check for fur and not on the floor for any traces of animal activity. He’s cute. Megumi can’t handle him.

“That’s strange, isn’t it? I feel okay,” he reports. Then, his expression changes as he appears to check himself, wrinkling and twitching his nose to make sure. “Yeah, that’s weird.”

There are a lot of things Megumi could say to that. Allergies exist on a spectrum, for one, and it’s especially true when it comes to cats in particular. There are certain breeds, colors, and proteins at play that bring out stronger responses in different people. 

But Okkotsu does have a point. The protein that makes him sneeze is incredibly sticky, and cats shed it in abundance. If the airflow is poor enough, the stuff is going to be impossible to avoid. Okkotsu could have even been allergic to something else in Ieri’s home, or uniquely sensitive to her animals for some reason. It’s easy to theorize, but hard to say for sure.

Allergies as a whole can be fickle. Perhaps that’s the best way to sum it up.

“ht-TZsh!” But he’s teaching by example instead. It comes on so suddenly that Megumi can only direct it into his shoulder, with his profile in plain view before he gets his hand up to shield Okkotsu from the rest. “tssh’iu! hh’KZssh’iu!”

Patiently, Okkotsu waits for Megumi to give some sort of signal that he’s finished.

“Uh. Sorry,” is what he offers, and he needs to sniffle before he can drop his hand and face Okkotsu again. They barely make eye contact before he’s turning back for an encore into his arm, pointedly targeting the yearning itch. “heh-hh’izssh’yiuh!”

“Oh, wow,” Okkotsu says. It’s refreshingly crude. “Maybe you’re getting a cold?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Megumi says very, very calmly. There’s quite a lot packed into everything he just heard, echoing through his mind and stamping itself on the walls of his skull. He needs to push through the heat if he wants to focus. 

“You might need some air, then,” Okkotsu suggests. “That always helps, doesn’t it? Do you want me to go outside with you?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Megumi says, referring to the first part and flustered by the latter. And by Okkotsu’s commitment to helping him with this. “I’m alright. You don’t have to chaperone.”

“I don’t mind! I think I’m done looking around,” Okkotsu says. “Maki is kinda taking forever.”

“I wonder what’s holding them up,” Megumi agrees. 

He’s actually surprised they’re still here. The objective of her trip was to find something her sister wouldn’t like but couldn’t write off as a gag gift. Mai has specific tastes, and Kugisaki is adept at finding ways to upset her – as a team, the two of them shouldn’t have had any delays.

Unless there had been a distraction. And with Kugisaki involved, Megumi is sure to get an earful about it.

“Maki! Maki, come look! He just rolled over!”

Sooner rather than later, apparently.

Okkotsu looks to Megumi and says, “What do you think that’s about?”

Megumi starts following in the direction of her voice and says, “Pretty sure I have an idea.”

When they reach an area near the front counter, Okkotsu’s stride has caught him up with Megumi and then some. Megumi can see Okkotsu’s gaze beeline for a spare countertop where Kugisaki is crouched with her lips pursed affectionately, scratching the tawny patterned coat of a housecat.

“Watch what he does!” she commands of her wary girlfriend, then holds her phone in the air horizontally, swinging its attached fashion charm above the animal’s head. He waves a paw to swipe at it, and when Kugisaki pulls the charm up higher, the cat flips rightside-up and lowers its shoulders in preparation to pounce.

With a dry grin, Maki says, “Huh. Dude’s vicious.”

“Haha! Gotcha!” Kugisaki replies triumphantly when she lifts the toy even further into the air, too high for her new friend to reach. The cat swipes at her next without actually touching her skin, and Kugisaki resumes the game, wiggling the charm near his face like before. 

Kugisaki looks up at Maki to make sure she’s watching. They’re effectively lost in each other; neither of them have noticed that anyone else has entered the scene.

Meanwhile, Okkotsu is lost in the scene itself. His eyes are wide with wonder, gaze bouncing back and forth as the cat tries over and over to capture a little plastic bear on a string.

“Just like in the jungle,” is Okkotsu’s enchanted remark. Yuji had been right; it is sad to think that Okkotsu has had such little interaction with animals that he’s never seen a domesticated cat at play before.

What’s even sadder is the way he lifts his hand and gently reaches out, then quickly bundles his fingers into a fist and stuffs it in his pocket. Megumi can’t blame him.

After a second, Okkotsu whispers something else to himself, then turns his head to look at Megumi as he pulls his hand back out.

“I forgot I had these,” he says, extending a half-empty packet of tissues with a game store logo on them. “Maki gave them to me a while ago. Do you want them?”

Dwelling on a person’s word choice isn’t always helpful, but Megumi can’t help feeling a sharp warmth at Okkotsu giving him the whole thing instead of just one. Or Okkotsu carrying them around in the first place, and admitting to having needed them himself recently. Desperately, Megumi wishes he had a place to escape to and let his mind wander somewhere filthy and dark.

“Thanks,” Megumi says, and when he accepts the tissues he realizes that means he has to use one in front of Okkotsu, lest he seem ungrateful or render the entire situation null. That’s fine. It’s not like he hasn’t needed to blow his nose for at least twenty minutes.

He has the sheet halfway to his face when Maki finally picks up on their presence, presumably having heard her own name. She takes a second to process the situation, and then exhibits an ominous smirk.

“Ah. That’s why you’re so worked up,” she says, angling her head toward Kugisaki’s new best friend. “This guy bothering you, Megumi?”

She really can’t help herself. Megumi steels his posture and lets Maki have her fun.

“What do you thhh-hihh–! think,” he says back, as dryly as he can manage. He puts the tissue – Okkotsu’s gift – to use, cupping it around his nose and mouth with one hand and twisting to the side. “hih’TSssh! tzSH’ih!”

Only for a second, he feels Maki patting his shoulder. 

“Alright,” she says, “we don’t need a demonstration. We’ll get going in a sec, I just need to check out.”

“Wait, what’s going on?” asks Kugisaki, now snapped out of her trance. When she unfolds to stand up, the cat jumps seamlessly onto the unoccupied counter so that she can continue to pet him. She looks at Megumi and says, “Whoa. What the hell happened to you?”

“It’s…” He waves her off, literally, and sneezes once more. “ihTZshh’uh!”

“Megumi’s allergic to cats,” Maki says. “Makes him sneeze like crazy. C’mon, let’s go to the register.”

“No way, for real?” Kugisaki sticks out her bottom lip and huffs. The hand she isn’t using to absently continue petting her friend is held out in anguish, meaning she’s going to keep the attention on Megumi, where it doesn’t belong. “How are we supposed to keep throwing parties?”

“Huh?” Maki prompts. “What do you mean ‘keep’?”

“This is why you have to stop keeping secrets from everyone, Fushiguro! How are you going to come over now?” Kugisaki gestures to the counter and says to Maki, “We have to get a cat ASAP, obviously.”

“What?” Maki says.

“It’s not a secret,” Megumi says.

Kugisaki ignores him, pointing to the cat with her eyes fixed on Maki. “We’re cat people. You love this one!”

Maki’s mouth twitches. “Do I?”

“Yes! Come on.” Kugisaki holds out her hand, prompting the cat to rub its face on her knuckles. “He’s so cool.”

While she doesn’t disagree, Maki’s veto continues. “We don’t have time for a pet.”

“You barely have to do anything! Cats are super easy. Our apartment is perfect for one, it has a little window he can sit on and everything.”

“Uh-huh. And what about Megumi?”

“Leave me out of this.”

“Yeah, don’t act like you care about him all of a sudden. Oh, what if we get our cat a cute little swing to sit on and watch the birds? And we can feed him treats and train him to catch bugs and other stuff.”

“I wonder if that’s why they brought them in here,” Maki muses, hand on her hip as she moves her head to look around, presumably checking for signs of other pets at work. That would make sense. “To keep mice from getting in and chewing through the pages.”

“No,” Kugisaki says, pitching her tone up round and high. “They do it because they’re so cute! It makes people want to stay!”

“That’s not a good business model. Nobody would buy books they’ve already read in the store.”

While Kugisaki continues fawning and Maki tries to keep the obvious, incriminating fondness from showing on her face, Megumi apprehensively checks on Okkotsu.

Just like before, he’s showing no signs of distress in any place but his eyes, which hold something that looks like an unfortunate heap of yearning. Megumi made peace with this restriction long ago, which wasn’t so bad given his inheritance of inorganic animals that he’s tried to be careful about perceiving as pets. But Okkotsu is new to a lot of things, and there’s a frustrating, embarrassing sorrow that comes with one’s own body forbidding engagement with something nice.

It doesn’t help that Okkotsu enjoys interacting with new things. Megumi takes pity on the both of them.

“Still doing okay?” he asks, and Okkotsu nods without looking away.

“I think so,” he answers. He moves his eyes from the cat to Kugisaki and bravely says, “Can I pet him?”

“Yes!” she says, beckoning Okkotsu over with her fingers, then demonstrates the same thing down toward the counter. “Watch: you go like this. Wait— You aren’t allergic, are you?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, stepping over and holding his hand out. “I thought I was, but I’ve been okay so far. I think this might be worth it even if I am.”

“Just don’t go touching your face,” Maki warns. “Last thing we need’s the both of you pulling a Megumi the whole way back.”

“Hmm, okay,” Okkotsu says, although keeping something he’s intentionally coated in dander off of his eyes and nose hadn’t occurred to him.

“You don’t have to say it like that,” Megumi adds in protest.

“Yeah, it’s not Fushiguro-kun’s fault. But still…” Okkotsu smiles with his chin up and teeth out. “Thanks for looking out for everyone, Maki.”

Megumi is fairly sure Okkotsu had said that just to piss her off, perhaps even gallantly to get back at her for teasing. He sighs and resists dwelling.