monochrome Posted April 18 Share Posted April 18 (edited) Hello!! I am back with another OC fic. It feels like it's been awhile đ I've been told I've been too nice to Vincent, to which... I agree. I will be meaner to him, and you can be the judge if this is mean enough >:) Anyways, I wanted to finish this (the first chapter, anyway) in time for a close friend's birthday, so! Here is the first installment out of a new series 𫡠If/when I continue this depends on my schedule. â Everything I've written w/ these two is listed chronologically [here]! But also, feel free to read this with no context. (The basic rundown is that Vincent & Yves are coworkers, and they're in a fake relationship for a variety of reasonsâthat's pretty much all you need to know.) â   Atypical Occurrence [1/?] Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit) â Vincent is late. Yves tries not to stare at the empty seat across from him. The meetingâtheir first meeting of the dayâstarted five minutes ago. If thereâs anything Yves knows, itâs that Vincent always comes in early. In stumbles Cara, handling a morning coffee with probably more espresso shots than anyone should have at 8am. Then Laurent, briefcase in one hand, paging through a folder of files in his other. Then Angelie, Isaac, Garrett, Ray, Sienna. Then they get started, and Yves turns his attention towards the graphs projected onscreen at the front of the room, and tries very hard not to think about Vincent. Itâs five minutes later that the door swings open, near-silent. Siennaâwhoâs presentingâstops, for a moment, to look back at Vincent from where heâs standing in the doorway, which means that of course, everyone looks. Cara turns around in her seat, raising an eyebrow. Angelie frowns at him. âSorry Iâm late,â Vincent says, quietly. âIt wonât happen again.â Isaac shrugs. Angelie looks a little concerned, but she turns back to her work, anyways. Sienna resumes her presentation. All in all, itâs nothingâor it should be nothing. Probably traffic, on the way here; a particularly unlucky commute. An unlikely occurrence, butâto anyone elseânot anything worth dwelling over. It might be a sufficient explanation, if Yves didnât know better. Vincent takes care to close the door quietly behind him, then heads over to the only open seat, across from Yves. He unzips his briefcase, quietly, unobtrusively, and takes out his laptop. Yves tries to focus on what Sienna is sayingâsheâs giving a review of a clientâs current investment strategies; heâd reviewed her work on this just a couple days ago. Vincent asks good questions throughoutâhe always has a good sense of what areas still lack clarity, Yves has found. Today is no exception. He takes part in the meeting with such calculated precision that Yves almost misses it. Almost misses: the slight stiffness to his shoulders, as if itâs taking more than the usual amount of effort to keep himself upright. The way in which he clears his throat before speaking, like it might actually hurt. The way he rests his head on one hand, halfway into the meetingâas if even now, barely forty minutes into the workday, heâs already exhausted. Itâs subtle enough to go unnoticed, subtle enough that Yves wonders if heâs just reading too much into itâif, perhaps, Vincent is fine, after all. â He doesnât see Vincent again until lunch. Or, more accurately, he doesnât see Vincent again until heâs headed down for lunch with Cara and Laurent. Vincent is already on his way out of the cafeteria, a takeout container in hand. âYouâre not going to eat here?â Yves asks. Vincent doesnât look at him. âI have some work to get done at my desk,â he says. He clears his throat again, like itâs irritating him. âOkay,â Yves says. Vincent turns to leave, and Yves thinks of a hundred ways in which he could possibly prolong this conversation, and then decides against it. Vincent is already so busy. âYou look tired,â he settles on, instead. He expects Vincent to dismiss this, to reassure him that it isnât true. But Vincent looks up at him at last, blinking, as if heâs surprised that Yves noticed at all. His eyes are a little dark-rimmed underneath his glasses. He doesnât deny it, which is as much of a confirmation as Yves needs. âThe sooner I can get this work done, the sooner I can go home,â he says. Yves supposes he canât argue with that. âI guess Iâll see you around, then,â Yves says, even though he wants to say more, even though he feels like thereâs more that he should be saying. âDonât work too hard.â Vincent nods, at this, and resumes walking. â Yves is probably overthinking it. There isnât anything concrete, really, to justify his concern. Vincentâs lateness to the meeting could just as easily be the consequence of an alarm heâd forgotten to set, his exhaustion just as easily a side effectâof recent late nights in the office, of arbitrary changes to the projects heâs on, of last-minute demands from clients. The next time he sees Vincent is at the end of the work day. Yves always takes the elevators on the north end of the buildingâtheyâre ones that lead directly out into the parking garage. When he gets out to the hallway, Vincent is already standing there, waiting for the elevator. Yves watches Vincent stiffen, slightly. Watches him raise one hand up to his face to shudder into it with a harsh, âHHihHâiKKTSh-hUH!â A thin tremor runs through the line of his shoulders, as if heâs too cold, even though the office air conditioning is no colder than usual. His hand, cupped to his face, remains there for a moment more before he lowers it. He sniffles, then, rummaging through his pocket forâsomething. When he doesnât find it, he just frowns a little, sniffling again. âBless you,â Yves says. âYves,â Vincent says, his shoulders stiffening a little. He clears his throat, turning around so that he can address Yves properly. Itâs only a few seconds later that heâs turning sharply away, tenting both hands over his nose and mouth forâ âHh-! hHiHâHIHhâDZSSschh-uhh! snf-!â âBless you again.â Vincent sighs. âDonât bother.â He really looks exhausted, Yves realizes. During their brief interaction at lunch, heâd already sensed as much, but the harsh white glare of the bright corporate lighting only makes it more evident. Vincent looks a little paler than usual, if only slightly, and thereâs a slight flush that spreads itself over his cheekbones. He looksâwell, nearly as put together as always, distilled only by the slight crookedness of his tie, as if itâs been on too tight; the near-invisible sheen of sweat over his forehead. The slight redness to the bridge of his nose, the slight shiver to his hand as he reaches up to adjust his collar. Yves frowns, taking this all in. âYou look kind ofâŚâ âTerrible?â Vincent finishes for him. Yves winces. â...Well, terrible is a strong word. I was going to say, you look like you could use some sleep.â âIâm⌠feeling a little off,â Vincent says, staring straight ahead, as if itâs not an admission at all. But Yves suspects, from the way he avoids eye contact, that perhaps it was something he was intending on keeping private. âYou should keep your distance.â The elevator dings. The sliding doors part, and he steps inside. âFirst floor?â Yves asks, hesitating next to the panel of buttons. âYes,â Vincent says. Then, quietly: âThanks.â âYou know, now that busy season is over, the world is not going to end if you take a sick day,â Yves tells him. âEven if you do like, twice the amount of work as everyone else on the team, if you needed to call out, Iâm sure something could be arranged.â Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly. âI must look pretty bad if youâre saying this to me.â âYes, I was lying,â Yves says. âClearly, you look terrible.â It isnât true at allâeven here, even like this, Vincent doesnât look terrible, not even in the least. But Vincent still smiles, at thisâa tired smile. The elevator doors slide open. âText me if you need anything,â Yves says, impulsively. âSeriously. Tissues, soup, medicineâwhatever. Itâs not far of a drive.â âThatâs very considerate of you,â Vincent says. âI will see you tomorrow.â And then he steps out of the elevator, and Yves is left with an inexplicable sinking feeling in his stomach. As far as he knows, it has no place there. Obviously, Vincent can take care of himself. Obviously, Vincent can handle a cold. Yves has nothing to be concerned about. â The next day is rainyâa constant, torrential downpour, which makes his commute to work take almost twice as long as it usually does. It wouldnât be spring here, Yves supposes, without dreary weather like this. Back in uni, when he rowed crew, theyâd practice out for hours out in the rain. Now that he spends the majority of his day inside, he supposes he canât complain. The shelter of the office building is a reprieve. Vincent doesnât show up. âI think heâs out sick,â Cara says, when Yves asks. âYou know, itâs funny. I donât think Iâve actually seen him take a sick day before.â âFor how hard he works, he definitely deserves one,â Garrett says. âHe seemed fine yesterday, when I saw him,â Cara says, with a shrug. âProbably came on quickly.â Yves nods. But that isnât quite right, is it? Vincent hadnât seemed fine, had he? Yves thinks back to the things heâd noticedâVincent, uncharacteristically exhausted during the meeting, though it was clear heâd been just as engaged as usual. Vincent, shivering in the elevator, telling Yves to keep his distance. How poorly had he been feeling already, yesterday? How poorly does he have to be feeling today to have called off of work for it? He finds some time just before lunch to text. Y: how are you holding up? Y: yesterdayâs offer stands if you need me to bring you anything! He doesnât get a response from Vincent, which is a little concerning. He checks his phone halfway through lunch, and then twice more, in between his afternoon meetings, just in case heâs missed a notification. âAre you expecting a text from someone?â Cara says, looking a little curious. âJust a friend,â Yves says, which is and isnât true. To make a pointâto Cara, and possibly to himselfâhe shuts his phone off. He very pointedly does not look at it again for the remainder of the hour. Itâs not until mid-afternoon that he finally gets a response. V: Sorry to get back to you so late. Yves sits upright, fumbling with his phone to get it unlocked. The text bubble pops up again, somewhat intermittently, to show that Vincent is typing. V: If itâs not too much trouble, thereâs a blue folder on my desk labeled 2-A. Yves blinks at this, a little disbelieving. Y: youâre asking me to bring you work files? Y: arent you supposed to be resting 𤨠Y: paid sick leave, remember? as in, leave your work at work?? V: I meant to pack them yesterday. Y: thatâs like a genie grants you 3 wishes and you ask for an extra day of assignments Y: terrible waste of a wish if you ask me V: As a genie, youâre quite judgmental Y: ok ok Y: as your loyal lamp dweller iâll be over around 8pm with folder 2-A Y: you need anything else? V: Nothing else V: You can just leave them outside my door A beat. Then Vincent sends: V: Sorry to trouble you Yves thinks of twenty responses he wants to send to that text. Then, thinking better of himself, he shuts his phone off and gets back to work. â Itâs a little past seven when he finally checks out of the office. Outside, the rain hasnât even begun to let upâit falls, straight and heavy, in large, globular droplets. The streets gleam with water. Yves leaves his umbrella in the trunk, tunes out everything but the static of the rainfall, and drives. Yves has only ever been to Vincentâs apartment onceâto pick him up for the New Yearsâ party Margot hostedâand even then, Vincent had met him at the door. But he recognizes the unit, nonetheless. For a moment, he considers leaving the folder of files outside of Vincentâs door and taking his leave. But itâs windy, and heâs afraid the papers might fly away, torn up by the biting wind, and get lost face down in a puddle somewhere, which would defeat the purpose of him coming here in the first place, and would probably also breach some employee confidentiality policy. So instead, he knocks. Itâs silent for a moment. Rain beats down on the slanted rooftops, a constant thrum. Yves is about to reach out to knock again, when the door swings open. There stands Vincent, in a pale blue hoodie and loose-fitting pajama pants, with neat rectangular cuffs. He looks tired. Itâs the first thing Yves registersâthe unusual fatigue to his expression, which he canât quite seem to blink away; the flush high on his cheekbones. The way he holds himself, his shoulders stiff, carefully, defensively; as if despite his exhaustion, thereâs a part of him which wishes to appear presentable still. Itâs only a moment later that heâs taking a halting step back, ducking into a hoodie sleeve. Yves catches the shiver of his expression, his eyebrows pulling together, before it crumples, and his head jerks forward with a harshâ âhHihhâGKkTTâ! Hh-!! iHH-âDZZSCHh-uuUh!â The second sneeze sounds louder and harsher than usual, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve. It betrays his congestion all at once. âBless you,â Yves says. Vincent emerges, sniffling a little. When he speaks, he sounds a little hoarser than he did yesterday. âI thought I said you - snf-! - could leave them on the front step.â âYou did,â Yves says, glancing down at the folder in his hands. âBut itâs windy, and itâs raining. I figured youâd prefer to have your files intact. How are you feeling?â Vincent blinks at him. Heâs leaning heavily against the doorframe, Yves realizes, one hand gripped tightly around the frame, his knuckles white from the pressure, as if it would take him too much effort to stay upright otherwise. âAlright,â he answers. âThanks for making the trip here. I⌠it mustâve taken longer, in the rain.â He squeezes his eyes shut, as if his head hurts, as if the light coming from outside is exacerbating his headache. âIf you ever need me to pick something up for you, I owe you.â âYou donât owe me anything,â Yves says. Despite himself, he reaches up to press his hand against Vincentâs forehead. The heat under his fingertips is alarming, to say the least. Yves blinks, lowering his hand, and tries to keep the worry out of his voice. âHave you taken your temperature?â Vincent shakes his head. âI donât think I have a thermometer.â âHave you eaten, then?â Vincent averts his glance, looking sheepish. âI⌠was planning to stop for groceries, yesterday,â he says. Planning to. Yves thinks back to the elevator ride yesterday. Vincent had probably already been feeling very unwell, then. And yet, heâd talked with Yves as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Iâm feeling a little off, heâd said, as if anything about his current affliction could possibly be characterized as âlittle.â I will see you tomorrowâas if he had really, genuinely been intending on showing up at work. âSo I take it that thereâs nothing in the fridge, either,â Yves says. âIf itâs any consolation, youâll be pleased to know that I slept,â Vincent says, in lieu of answering. Then he shiversâthe sort of concerning, full-body shiver that is a little concerning, coming from someone who is usually unaffected by the coldâand Yves is immediately reminded that the door theyâre speaking through is open. âCan I come in?â he asks. âYou probably shouldnât,â Vincent says, before his expression scrunches up, and heâs ducking away with aâ âhhâ! hHih-IIâTSSCHHh-UH! snf-!â, smothered hurriedly into the palm of his hand. He sniffles, emerging with a slight wince. âThis came on pretty quickly. It might be the flu.â âItâs fine,â Yves says. âI got my flu shot in the winter. And anyways, Iâll be careful.â Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Then, frowning, he says, âIâd feel terrible if you caught this.â Thatâs the least of Yvesâs worriesâhe doubts heâs going to catch this. Even if he does, it will just mean a few days off of work. Not the end of the world, by any means. Nothing to warrant the expression on Vincentâs faceâVincent looks upset, as if heâll really canât think of anything worse than Yves catching this. Like even the thought of it is worth being upset over. Yves shakes his head. âDonât worry about it, seriously.â He pushes past Vincent to step inside and shuts the door behind him. âHere, Iâll set these down on your desk. Where is it?â âDown the hallway, to the left,â Vincent says. Yves takes the folder, leaves his shoes at the door, and heads inside. Vincentâs bedroom is small and organizedâitâs the kind of bedroom thatâs tastefully minimal, in the sort of unified manner that implies that everything in it has been carefully arranged. Thereâs a small white desk in the corner, a stack of files arranged neatly next to Vincentâs laptop, its lid halfway to shut. Thereâs a bookshelf, leaned up against the wall far; the bottom shelf looks to be filled with textbooks; the top shelf lined with books, both in Korean and in English. The walls are painted slate gray, the carpets lining the floorboards picked out to match, and there are pale blue curtains hanging from the windows, pulled tightly shut. There are signs here, too, of his illness, but they are subtle. A tissue box, nestled between his pillow and the headboard, half empty. A waste bin at the foot of the bed, conveniently in reach. A small bottle of aspirin on the bedside counter; an empty packet of cough drops sitting at the edge of his nightstand. Yves sets the folder at the end of Vincentâs desk, next to the rest of his files, and turns to face him. âYouâre not going to work on these until youâre feeling better, right?â he asks. âOnly if I canât sleep,â Vincent says, which Yves supposes is a satisfactory answer. Then he twists away, his eyebrows furrowing, lifting a loosely clenched fist to his face to cough, and cough. The cough is harsh and gratingâhis entire frame shudders with the force of it, his breaths shallow and raspy. He really sounds awful. This must have come on quickly, Yves thinks. If itâs upsetting, seeing Vincent like this, itâs even worse to be standing here, in his room, doing nothing. Soâif only to make himself useful, if only to convince himself that thereâs something he can doâYves ducks out into the kitchen. The pantry is meticulously organizedâglasses lined up in neat rows; stacks of bowls sorted by size. He fills a glass with water, shuts the cabinets, and takes it back to the bedroom. By the time he gets back, Vincent is sitting at the edge of his bed. His glasses are folded neatly, left at the very edge of the countertop. âHere,â Yves says, crossing the room, holding out the glass for him to take. âThanks,â Vincent says, taking it gingerly from him. He takes a small, tentative sip, and then anotherâhis hands are a little shaky, Yves notices. âYou - snf-! - should really go.â âIâm not entirely convinced youâll be fine on your own,â Yves says. âOf course I will be,â Vincent says, with all of his usual certainty. He lays down, pulling the covers over his body. âI have been fine on my own for years.â Itâs meant to be reassuring, Yves supposes. But he doesnât feel reassured in the least. âThank you again for bringing me the files,â Vincent says, at last, shutting his eyes. âYou couldâve asked me to get you groceries,â Yves says. âThereâs a supermarket not far from here, right? And youâre out of cough drops.â He takes a few steps over, towards the desk in the corner of the room. âTheseââ He examines the bottle of ibuprofen on the table. ââare expired.â âJust because youâve extended this kindness to me,â Vincent tells him, âdoesnât mean I should take advantage of it.â Yves blinks, a little taken aback. âItâs only groceries. I wouldnât have minded, really.â âSee,â Vincent says, with a note ofâsomething in his voice. It sounds a bit like resignation. âThatâs just the kind of person you are.â Yves doesnât know what to say, to that. Before he can think up a fitting response, Vincentâs breathing evens out. Yves lets himself listen to the shallow, steady cadence of it. Lets himself acknowledge the heavy, painful feeling in his chest for just a moment. Then he shuts the lights off and heads back out into the hallway. â  Thank you for reading!! đ If you made it this far, I would love to hear what you thought! Edited April 18 by monochrome Link to comment
Catsgotyourtounge Posted April 18 Share Posted April 18 This is absolutely amazing more please Link to comment
orange Posted April 18 Share Posted April 18 I love this story ! please continue thank you Link to comment
RipleyToo Posted April 18 Share Posted April 18 Commented on Tumblr, but Iâll comment here too! I hope there will be more! Link to comment
AceUpYourSleeve Posted April 22 Share Posted April 22 So nice to read more about them! It's clear that both have something on their minds regarding each other. Link to comment
Sneeziestofthemall Posted April 22 Share Posted April 22 Uhh some more Yves and Vincent đ thank you for continuing Link to comment
asapyams Posted April 26 Share Posted April 26 omgg Im so obsessed with these two!! please continue writing about them! Link to comment
funbusej Posted April 29 Share Posted April 29 I like that they are starting to be a bit more comfortable with each other. Vincent is still very professional and work oriented, and Yves is still a little dense about the fact that he thinks about Vincent more than an "acquaintance" or even a "friend" would. But Vincent isn't trying to hide how bad he is feeling in this one, and Yves is pushing a bit more, not just letting Vincent brush off how he is feeling. And the slightly sassy texting...I am here for it. These boys might be a slow burn, but I can see things starting to change between them, in the best way possible. Of course, Yves is going to succumb to this plague as well, right?! Hopefully he won't try to hide it like he always does. Listen to me ramble on like these are actually people I know... Link to comment
sprinkles287 Posted April 29 Share Posted April 29 I loooove them. Please Yves. Figure this shit out before he writes you off as a lost cause! Link to comment
ichixshiro14 Posted May 7 Share Posted May 7 Oh man, this made my heart hurt đ I wish Vincent would let Yves take care of him, or that one of them would at least communicate some modicum of their feelings!! Also, I agree with Funbusej - I really hope that Yves succumbs as well đâ¤ď¸ Maybe there will be some fever-delirium spurred confessions?? Link to comment
monochrome Posted July 18 Author Share Posted July 18 Replies! @Catsgotyourtounge Thank you!! More is here đ @orange Thank you for reading!! I'm glad you like it â¤ď¸ @RipleyToo AHH thank you for reading and commenting on both platforms!! Despite my long-ish absence, there is more to come 𫡠@HPG I'm happy to hear you like them 𼰠@AceUpYourSleeve It's so nice to hear your analysis of them!! I always like hearing where other people think they stand đ @Sneeziestofthemall Thank you for following them through the series!! 𼰠@asapyams This is so kind of you, thank you so much for liking them đĽšâ¤ď¸ @funbusej AHH I love receiving detailed comments like this, thank you for spoiling me with your careful analysis!! đâ¤ď¸â¤ď¸ I'm also really happy you see change happening between themâit's a little tricky for me to slowly move the needle forward, so I'm really glad you get that sense while reading 𼚠It's also funny that you mention the texts; I personally really enjoy writing them! > Of course, Yves is going to succumb to this plague as well, right?! No comment đ¤Â Though your "Hopefully he won't try to hide it like he always does" comment made me giggle, it seems you know him pretty well LOL @sprinkles287 There will be more figuring out to come, I promise đ @ichixshiro14 I'm partially sorry to hear that it made your heart hurt... but not too sorry đ (Kidding ofc, but it's always really nice to know that the chapter resonated with someone!!) Thank you so much for your sweet comment đâ¤ď¸ Also a vote for Yves to succumb? I'm taking note âď¸ Â Link to comment
monochrome Posted July 18 Author Share Posted July 18 (edited) Part 2!! Thank you so much to everyone who's been following this series :') â¤ď¸ I'm aware this took three months (I apologize)... though if you have been following since Fool Me Twice, you might recall that my personal record (of taking forever to update) has not been broken this time đ This chapter was really difficult for me to write!! It's also pretty long (7.3k words, my longest non-oneshot installment thus far). It's been marinating in my drafts for months now. :') Anyways! Here it is:  â Thereâs a grocery store thatâs a ten minute drive from Vincentâs apartment. Yves picks out ingredients for chicken soup, two different kinds of cold and flu medicine, a new pack of cough drops, a few boxes of tissues, a small thermometer. All in all, itâs less than a thirty minute excursionâsomething heâs done many times before in uni, where everyone seemed to catch something in the middle of exam season, and a house visit was just a short walk away. Chicken noodle soup isnât difficult. Heâs made it a hundred timesâheâs experimented with a dozen different variations of it. He puts the groceries in the fridge, washes the vegetables, and gets to work. While the soup cooks, he half watches it, half busies himself with cleaning the apartmentâloading up the dishwasher and hand washing everything that doesnât fit, stocking the fridge and the medicine cabinet with the groceries heâs gotten, vacuuming the floors with a vacuum cleaner he finds tucked behind the fridge. Then he shreds the chicken, chops a round of fresh vegetables to add to the broth, and waits. Itâs comfortably quiet. Outside, rain drums steadily on the windowpane. It shows no signs of stopping soon. Itâs dark enough outsideâthe sun fully set, the clouds heavy overheadâthat the lit interior of the apartment kitchen feels like a warm reprieve. Yves likes cooking. He doesnât actively enjoy doing chores, but thereâs something comforting to how mindless they are. Itâs an appreciated distraction. The rain outside is loud enough that he doesnât hear the footsteps, approaching, until Vincent clears his throat from behind him. Yves jumps. âYouâre up,â he says, spinning on his heels to face him. Vincent looks a little worse for the wearâhis hair a little messy, his shirt slightly rumpled from sleep, his glasses perched haphazardly in place. Yves watches him take everything inâthe pot on the stove, the chopping board set out on the counter, the empty paper bags from the grocery run flattened and stacked into neat rectangles. âAnd youâre still here,â Vincent says. âI made soup,â Yves says, by way of explanation. âItâs chicken noodle. I wasnât sure if youâd be up for trying something new.â He reaches over to lift the lid off of the pot of soup. Steam wafts up from it, carrying with it the faint scent of the aromatics heâd addedâthyme, bay leaf, garlic, peppercorns. âActually, you picked a good time to wake up. I just added in the noodles, so itâs almost done.â Vincent eyes the pot, his expression unreadable. âDid you leave to get groceries?â âEarlier, yeah. You werenât kidding about your fridge being empty.â Vincent frowns. âI can pay you back. Did you keep the receipt?â In truth, the price of the groceries is the last thing on Yvesâs mind right now. He waves a hand. âDonât worry about it.â âIt must have taken a long time.â âSoup is pretty forgiving. You just toss everything into a pot of boiling water and wait. Itâs barely any work at all.â Vincent stares at him for a moment longer. Then he says: âThatâs an oversimplification.â âNot really. Besides, I enjoy cooking,â Yves says. âThanks for letting me use your kitchenâthough, technically, I guess Iâm asking forgiveness instead of permission. Iâll clean everything up, by the way.â Heâs done dishes along the way, so there isnât really much to do besides rinse off whateverâs left, load up the dishwasher, and store whateverâs left of the soup in the fridge. âYou donât have to,â Vincent says, before turning into his elbow with a few harsh, grating coughs. âI can clean up. Itâs my apartment.â âIf you think Iâm letting you do household chores while you have a feverââ âItâs not that high,â Vincent interrupts, perhaps a little stubbornly. Yves lets out a disbelieving laugh. He leans over the counter, shifts his weight forwards on his feet to press the back of his hand to Vincentâs forehead. Itâs concerningly hot, still, which isnât a surprise. Though perhaps the way Vincent blinks, a little tiredly, and leans forward into Yvesâs hand is a giveaway on its own. âItâs definitely over a hundred,â Yves says, withdrawing his hand. âIf you donât believe me, Iâll have you know that I bought a thermometer.â For a moment, Vincent looks surprised. Then he sighs. âThat was an unnecessary purchase.â âAre you admitting that Iâm right?â Vincent just frowns at him, whichâYves notesâisnât exactly a denial. âFever or not, thereâs not much I can do except sleep it off.â âYou can go back to sleep after youâve had something to eat,â Yves says. âWhat was it that you said? That you havenât had anything to eat since yesterday?â â...You wonât leave unless I eat, then,â Vincent says. He says it evenly enough that it barely registers as a question. Yves smiles at him. Itâs not a wrong conclusion. âExactly,â he says. â In between the hallway and Vincentâs kitchen is a small dining area, furnished with a high table and two high chairs. Yves waits until the noodles are cooked just enough. Then he turns off the stove, unrolls a placemat to lay out on the dining table, and carries the pot over. He gets everything he needs: two bowls, two spoons, some of the fresh parsley heâd chopped earlier, for garnishâand lays it all out. âI can help,â Vincent says, for maybe the third time. Heâs seated on one of the chairs, which Yves had pointedly pulled out for him, looking like heâs perhaps a few seconds away from getting out of his seat and doing everything himself. Itâs just like Vincent, Yves thinks, to offer to helpâeven at work, aside from all the work he takes on, it feels like heâs always finding some way or other to be useful. Yves says, âWhen youâre not running a fever, you can ask me again.â When everything is laid out, he pulls up a chair for himself, so he can sit across from Vincentâwho is still perched on his seat, though he looks a little less like he wants to get out of it. âYou didnât have to wait for me,â Yves says. Vincent blinks at him. âIt would have been rude to get started on my own.â âNonsense,â Yves says. âI made it for you.â He takes a bite. The soup tastes fine. That is, it tastes the same as every other time heâs made itâlight and comforting. Itâs just one of those recipes Yves thinks he can make in his sleep. Nothing about it is particularly inventive. Still, he hasnât cooked for Vincent beforeânot formally, at least, other than the dish heâd bought to Joelâs potluckâso itâs a little nerve-wracking to watch Vincent take a bite. Itâs worse, still, to watch his eyes widen by a fraction. For a moment, Yves wonders if heâs done something wrongâif perhaps, it isnât to Vincentâs taste, after all. He sets his spoon down. âIs it okay?â âItâs really good,â Vincent says. âI can see why Mikhail said what he said.â âWhat?â âThat your cooking was half the reason why he roomed with you.â Yves laughs. âSo does that mean youâll forgive me for trespassing?â Vincent smiles back at him. âIâll consider it.â Now, with his glasses off, Yves can see his eyes a little more clearlyâtheyâre slightly red-rimmed, his eyelashes long and dark, his cheeks flushed brighter with fever. Thereâs a little crease at the edge of his eyes which shows up when he smiles. Yves is caught off guard, for a moment. The tightness in his chest is nothing, he tells himself. Certainly not a crush that he shouldnât be allowed to have. A crush. Thatâs new, too. Itâs ironic, considering the terms of their fake relationship. He thinks itâs probably supposed to make him better at thisâwhat better way to feign romantic interest than to not have his feelings be so fake, after all?âbut instead, he finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, finds himself stumbling over the most basic of pleasantries. Of course, he has no intention of acting on his feelings. Vincent is attractive, yesâbut heâs also considerate, and attentive, and hardworking enough to go early and stay late, to take on work he doesnât get credit for. Heâs thoughtful enough to entertain Yvesâs friends, to have lunch with Yvesâs siblings, to fly all the way to France to meet Yvesâs family. But all of that is inconsequential. None of it is going to amount to anything, because Yves knows how to keep his distance. Because Yves needs thisâthe perks of their fake relationshipâmore than he needs to indulge in any inconvenient crush. Because he knows enough to know how things would turn out if he were to say something. Thatâs the thing. Vincent isnât cruel. Itâs for that reason, precisely, that Yves knows that heâd drop this arrangement immediately if he knew. Vincent would never string him along knowingly, and thatâs what makes this so much worseâYves has gone and gotten himself stupidly attached. Now that theyâre sitting across from each other, in Vincentâs apartment, having dinner, Yves thinksâa little selfishly, perhapsâthat this is the best that he can ask for. It is all that he can ask for. Far better to keep up the pretense entirely, far better to pretend that this is all just for show. When they put an end to this arrangementâsomeday, inevitablyâYves will thank Vincent for everything, and then theyâll go their separate ways. He already knows how it will go. There is no need to complicate things. Itâs quiet, for some time. Yves finishes his bowl first, heads over to the sink to rinse it off, and positions it neatly in the lowest compartment of the dishwasher. When he gets back, Vincent is spooning more soup into his bowl. Yves allows himself to feel a little relieved to see that he has an appetite. âItâs been awhile,â Vincent says, after some time. âSince anyoneâs done this for me.â âMade you chicken soup?â Yves says, a little puzzled. âIf you want the recipe, I can give it to you. I make it all the time.â âNo,â Vincent says. His expression is unparsable. âJustâ since anyoneâs looked after me, in general.â âOh.â Yves finds his mind is spinning. âHow long have you been living alone?â âSince university. I had suitemates, in my second year. Then I got an apartment of my own.â âBecause you like the privacy?â âIt was just simplest.â Yves thinks back to his years, rooming with Mikhailâthe conversations theyâd have to have to figure out groceries, to alternate cooking dinner and doing dishes, to manage transportation. He has a studio apartment now, too, but heâs over at his neighborsâ house frequently enough, or otherwise at home with Leon and Victoire for dinner, so it doesnât really get lonely. âYou have a pretty spacious kitchen,â he says. âI hope you donât mind that I used your pots and pans. Iâll wash them, I swear.â Vincent takes in a small, sharp breath. Yves looks up just in time to see him twist away from the table, tenting his hands over his nose and mouth. âhhIHhâIIKTS-HHuhh-!â âBless you!â Yves exclaims. Judging by the way Vincent keeps his hands raised over his face, he assumes that there are going to be more. He rises from his seat, heads back into the kitchen in search forâah. Six boxes of tissue boxes, stacked neatly into a block. He tears off the thin plastic film around them, removes a box from the pile, and pulls off the tab. When he gets back to the dining table, Vincent is ducking into steepled hands with anotherâ âhhihâGKKT-SHHh-uuUh! hhâDDZSChh-HHuh! snf-Snf-! hhh⌠Hh⌠hh-HH-hhâyIIDDzsSHH-hHUH-!!â The sneezes seem to scrape painfully against his throat, for the way he winces in their aftermath. He twists away from Yves to cough lightly, after, into his shoulder, his eyes watering. âBless you!â Yves pushes the tissue box towards him. âHere.â Vincent takes a tissue from the box, blows his nose quietly. When he emerges, lowering the tissue from his face, his eyes are a little watery. He eyes the tissue box. âDid you buy these earlier, too?â âI did,â Yves says. âI picked up some medicine, too. I didnât know what flavor you wanted, so I got a couple different kinds. And some other stuffâyour fridge was getting pretty empty, by the wayâin case you needed it.â Vincent lifts his head to study him, as if thereâs something heâs trying to understand. Finally, he says, âDo you do this for all of your friends?â âWhat?â Vincent frowns, as if the subject matter should be obvious. âCook for them. Get groceries. Clean their apartment.â âSometimes,â Yves says. Heâs certainly no stranger to stopping by to helpâsometimes with homemade soup, or tea packed tightly in a thermos, or something else. Then again, that was easier to do back in uni, when everyone lived within a twenty minute radius. âIt depends on what they need.â âSo this is just a Yves thing.â âWhat? Showing consideration for my friends?â âShowing consideration is one thing,â Vincent answers. âYou could have left after dropping off the files. You would still have been showing your consideration.â âI guess thatâs true. But at that point, I was already here,â Yves says, with a shrug. âIt seemed logical to check up on you.â âWell, now youâve checked up on me,â Vincent says. âSo you can go.â Yves supposes this is true. âDo you want me to go?â he asks. Vincent says, âItâs late. I assume you have things to get home to.â âThatâs not what I asked,â Yves says. Vincent says nothing to that. But Yves gets the message, even without him saying it. If Vincent is the type of person who prefers to be alone when sick, Yves wonât take it personally. He doesnât want to overstay his welcomeâarguably, heâs already stayed for much longer than Vincent had invited him to. Thereâs leftover soup in the fridgeâenough to last Vincent a couple days, hopefully through the worst of thisâand Vincentâs apartment is reasonably well-stocked now. He has something to take if his fever gets any higher; he has all the basic supplies Yves could think of off the top of his head. And Vincent is a lot of things, but he isnât irresponsible. Heâs shown himself to be self-sufficient more times than Yves can count. Thereâs no reason why Yves should have to stay and look after him for any longerâno reason, perhaps, aside from the fact that seeing Vincent ill has left him more worried than heâd like to admit. âOkay,â he says. âIâll go. But at least let me clean up first.â He does dishes, leaves the cutting boards and the pot out to dry on the drying rack, transfers the soup to smaller glass containers to store it in the fridge. He returns the vacuum cleaner to the storage closet he found it in. Then, as promised, he gathers his thingsânot much, just his phone and his car keysâand heads toward the front door. Vincent follows him to the door, presumably to lock it after he leaves. Yves steps outside, lingers for just a moment on the doorstep. The car is parked close enough that he hadnât bothered to grab his umbrella, but now itâs dark out, and itâs raining just as hard. âI left new cough drops on the kitchen countertop,â Yves says, biding his time under the overhang until he inevitably has to get rained on. âThe medicineâs in your bathroom, behind the mirror, with the thermometer. Everything else is either on the counter or in the fridge. Donât come back to work until your feverâs completelyââ It happens in a moment: Vincent stumbles. Yves is looking at him, which means he sees the exact moment when it happens. Yves doesnât think, just reactsâhe reaches out to grab his arm to keep him from falling entirely. âWoah,â he says, steadying him. âAre youââ Vincentâs hand is concerningly warm, even through the fabric of his sleeve. For a moment, he leans into Yvesâs touch, though this seems less intentional as it is inevitable. Heâs breathing heavily, his eyes tightly shut, his shoulders rising and falling not as soundlessly as usual. Yves swallows past the alarm he feels percolating in his chest. Had he been about to pass out? Just how high is his fever right now? âVincentââ âSorry,â Vincent manages, through gritted teeth. He makes an effort to regain his balance, to move away. He sways on his feet, and Yves feels the panic in his chest rise anew. He reaches up and slings an arm around his waist. âHey,â he says, trying for reassuring. âIâve got you.â Vincent doesnât say anything, to that. He just stands there, perfectly still, his eyebrows drawn together, his shoulders a little stiff under Yvesâs touch. Without letting go of him, Yves shuts the front door gingerly behind him, toes his shoes off at the door again. âI think it would be best if you laid down,â he says. âDo you think you can walk?â Vincent nods, slowly. Yves tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows. âSorry,â Vincent says, again. âI⌠didnât expect it to be an issue.â Heâs frowning, hard, as if heâs upset with himself, though Yves canât quite piece apart why heâd have reason to be. âHey, no apologizing,â Yves says. âSave your energy for walking.â Vincent seems to understand that their current arrangement will not change until heâs in bed, so he lets Yves steer him towards the bedroom. Itâs a short walkâdown the hallway and then off to the leftâbut Yves spends half of it distracted by how warm Vincent is. Like this, he practically radiates heat. Itâs not until Vincent is settled on his bed, the blankets pulled loosely over him, that Yves allows himself to let go. Truthfully, the last thing he wants to do right now is leave. But it isnât about what he wants, and perhaps Vincent would sleep better if he did. âAre you warm enough?â Yves asks. The words feel heavy on his tongue. A nod. âDo you need me to get you anything else?â Vincent shakes his head. âOkay,â Yves says. âI guess I shouldnât overstay my welcome, then.â Vincent will be fine, he tells himself. At the end of the day, they are only coworkers, and Vincent is one of the most independent people he knows. If Vincent doesnât want him here, the best Yves can do is comply with his wishes. He straightens. âText me if you need anything, I mean it.â He lets go of the blanket, rises to his feet. Only, thenâ Thereâs a hand on his sleeve, tugging. Yves goes very still. When Vincent notices what heâs done, alarm flashes through his expression, and he pulls his hand away as if heâs burned. âSorry,â he murmurs, again. And just like that, heâs back to how he always isâhis expression perfectly, carefully neutral, in a way that can only be constructed. âIâm sorry.â But Yves doesnât forget what heâs seen. âYou can go.â Yvesâs heart aches. He settles back at the edge of the bed, reaches out a hand, settles it gently at the edge of Vincentâs forehead. At the physical contact, Vincentâs breath catches. And for a second, Yves wonders if heâs made a mistakeâif maybe Vincent doesnât want to be touched, right now. If heâs misread the situation; if Vincent wants him to go, after all. He opens his mouth to apologize. But then Vincent shuts his eyes. The tenseness to his expression eases, almost imperceptibly, his eyebrows unfurrowing. Oh, Yves realizes. His head must hurtâYves suspected as muchâbut if heâs not mistaken, the expression on Vincentâs face right now is⌠Relief. Cautiously, Yves traces his fingertips lightly over the edge of Vincentâs temple, combs them slowly through his hair. Vincentâs eyes stay shut, but the furrow to his eyebrows loosens, and his jaw unclenches, just a bit. The change is minute, almost imperceptible. If Yves werenât paying close attention, he mightâve missed it. As if he could pay attention to anything else, right now. Tentatively, Yves cards his fingers through Vincentâs hair, traces slow circles into his scalp, slowly, carefully. He does it until the heartbeat he feels thrumming under his fingertipsâquick and erraticâslows. Until Vincentâs breathing evens out, until the hurt in his expression dulls. Until the tension in his shoulders eases. By the time he finally withdraws his hand, Vincent is fast asleep. Yves fetches a new glass of water for his nightstand, changes out the plastic bag lining the trash can, and lines the cough drops and medicine up at the edge of Vincentâs desk. He flips through folder 2-A, assessing. Then he heads back out to his car to get his laptop, and gets to work. â He doesnât remember falling asleep. But when he wakes at Vincentâs desk, itâs to an unpleasant ache in his neck that spreads laterally into his shouldersâprobably from sleeping with his head pillowed awkwardly against his arms. He lifts his head. Behind him, thereâs a weak, uncertain breath, and then the sort of cough that makes Yvesâs chest hurt in sympathy. It sounds wrong, somehowâtoo quiet, for its proximity. Muffled. Itâs dark inside, aside from the faint glow of Vincentâs digital alarm clock, the pale green digits cutting into the black. He hears the rustling of blankets, followed by another short, painful intake of breath. The sneeze that follows is stifled into something. Even stifled, it sounds uncharacteristically harshâall force, pinched off into a short, muffled outburst which sounds barely relieving, at best. âhHâihâiNNGKkk-t!â Yves blinks. Then he leans over the desk to flick on the lamp. Dull golden light suffuses the desk, bright enough to cast Vincent in form and graying color. âAre you okay?â At the light, Vincentâs eyes widen. He looksâstricken, somehow. Then his expression shutters, and he frowns. âDid Iââ he stops to cough again into his fist. It sounds as though each breath heâs taking in is an effort of its own, shallow and unsatisfying. When he speaks again, his voice sounds noticeably hoarser. ââDid I wake you?â Yves opens his mouth to respond. Before he can think up a convincing excuse, Vincent shakes his head dejectedly, as if he already knows the answer. âSorry,â he says. âI was - cough, cough - tryidg to be quiet.â Quiet. As to not wake Yves, presumably. The revelation causes an ache to settle somewhere deep inside of him, heavy and inexorable. Yves is more than certain that this flu is already miserable enough on its own, even without the added challenge of having to be quiet about it. He wants to say, do you really think thatâs what matters to me? He wants to ask, how long have you been up dealing with this on your own? âYou donât have to be quiet,â is all he manages, instead. Itâs a miracle that his voice manages to come out as evenly as it does. Vincent looks like heâs about to say something. But before he has a chance to, he twists away to cough harshly into his shoulder. Now that he doesnât make an attempt to muffle the coughing fit, Yves can hear just how harsh it sounds. Itâs the kind of coughing fit that just sounds exhaustingâforceful enough to leave tears brimming at the edges of his eyelashes, his breaths coming in shallowly. âCan I get you anything?â Yves asks, when Vincent is done coughing. Vincent just looks back at him, unmoving. In the dim light of the desk lamp, he looks perhaps more exhausted than Yves has ever seen himâreally, he looks as though he hasnât slept at all. Heâs seated with his back against the headboard with a blanket pulled around his shoulders. One of his hands is clenched loosely around it, pinning the corners in place. âTea?â Yves offers, because itâs better than saying nothing. âWater, cough drops. A cold compress?â Vincent doesnât say anything, but Yves thinks, a little helplessly, that there must be something he can do. âExtra blankets? Tissues? Ibuprofen?â âWater⌠would be nice,â Vincent says, as if it takes a lot out of him to admit it. Yves blinks, surprisedâhe had half expected no answer at all. At Yvesâs split second of hesitation, Vincentâs frown deepens, his grip around the blankets tightening slightly. â...If itâs not too much trouble.â Yves has never gotten out of his seat faster. âOf course,â he says. âIâll be right back.â he swipes the empty glass from the nightstand and heads out into the hallway. Itâs dark. There arenât many windows in the hallway to let in light from outside, but once he gets to the dining room, it gets easier to see. Judging by how dark it is outside, there are probably a few hours left until sunrise. Itâs still early, then. Early enough that itâs quiet, around themâno traffic out on the streets, save for the occasional car, headed to who-knows-where; no neighbors going about their early morning routines; just the steady trickle of rain on the windowsill. Yves rinses the cup out in the sink, shakes it dry, and fills it again. When he makes it back to the bedroom, itâs unusually quiet. Vincent is still sitting at the edge of his bed, looking like he hasnât moved at all since Yves left the room. Yves crosses the room to hand him the glass. Vincent blinks up at him, a little blearily. âI got you water,â Yves says, unnecessarily. Vincent takes the glass from him with both hands, as if he doesnât quite trust himself to hold it with just one. Yves looks away as he drinks.  When Vincent lowers the glass at last, Yves takes it from him and sets it back into place onto the bedside table. He straightens, turns to face Vincent again. âAny better now?â Vincent nods. Itâs quiet, for a moment. Outside, the rain has nearly stoppedâthe room is soundless, aside from the thin whirring of the air conditioning. âI didnât think youâd still be here.â Yves hums. âTo be honest, I didnât either.â He stifles a yawn into one handâheâs still a little tired. âI didnât mean to fall asleep.â âYou must be tired,â Vincent frowns, looking him over. âYou came right from a full day of work to check on me. Does your neck hurt?â âWhat?â Vincent inclines his head towards his desk. âIâve fallen asleep there before. Itâs not very comfortable.â Yves thinks he shouldnât be surprised, at this point, that Vincent has picked up on something so subtle. âItâs not that bad,â he says, reaching up with a hand to massage his neck. âMy neck would probably be sorer if Iâd slept through the whole night. I should thank you for waking me.â âYou couldâve taken the couch instead,â Vincent says, a little disapprovingly. âIt would probably have been wiser.â âI wanted to be here so I could keep an eye on you,â Yves says, because itâs true. âBesides, you sat in a chair while I slept in France. That canât have been comfortable either.â âItâs not just about that. Youââ Vincent raises a hand up to his face, ducks into his wrist for a sudden: âhh-! hhiHâGKT-sSHuh! snf-!â He sniffles, then presses the wrist closer to his face, his expression shuttering. âHhâŚÂ hhâIIDDZshHâUhh-!â âBless you!â Yves says, startled. Vincent blinks, a little teary-eyed, turning over his shoulder to muffle a few harsh coughs into his wrist. âYou shouldnât have slept so close to me. I really donât want you to catch this.â Heâs frowning, as if it really is a big deal. As if even now, even shivering and feverish, itâs somehow Yves that heâs more worried about right now. Yves isnât particularly concerned about thatâhe has no shortage of sick time to take off of work, in any case. If he does manage to catch this from Vincent, heâll just stock up on essentials before the worst of it hits. It would be nothing he hasnât done before. Still, Vincent looks soâwell, so torn by the mere possibility of it that Yves wants to say something to comfort him. âHow about this?â he says. âIf youâre so worried about it, you can buy me cough drops next time I come down with something, deal? Then weâll be even.â Vincentâs eyebrows furrow. âThatâs a terrible deal for you.â âIâll get sick at some point in my life, anyways,â Yves says, with a shrug. âIf this means I get free cough drops out of it, Iâd say itâs a win.â He moves the desk chair over so he can sit down at the edge of Vincentâs bed. Vincent watches him, uncertain. He looks like heâs resisting the urge to say somethingâto tell Yves to move further away, probably. âRelax,â Yves says, reflexively. âItâll be fine, seriously. I know what I signed up for.â He leans forward, presses the back of his hand against Vincentâs forehead. Vincent closes his eyes. A slight tremor passes through his shoulders at the contact, but aside from that, he stays perfectly still. âYour feverâs worse than before,â Yves says, withdrawing his hand. âItâs not.â Vincentâs eyes are still shut. âThe temperature is just higher because itâs night time.â The suggestion is so far from comforting that Yves almost laughs. âYou know,â he says, âthatâs not very reassuring.â The blanket around Vincentâs shoulders starts to slip, so Yves reaches over and snags an edge of it, fluffs the whole thing outwards to lay it neatly around Vincentâs shoulders, like a cloak. Secures it with a loose knot. âAre you feeling any better than before?â Vincent does open his eyes, now. He looks as though heâs trying hard to figure out how acceptably he can lie. âIâŚâ âYou can be honest.â Vincentâs jaw clenches. He reaches up with one hand, his fingers curling around the blanket Yves set down around him. âMy head feels heavy,â he says. He screws his eyes shut, his eyebrows furrowing. âAnd my chest hurts.â He lets out a short, frustrated breath, as if every sentence is a new and difficult admission. âIâm⌠not used to getting sick like this.â Yvesâs hands still. âLike what?â âIn any way that would necessitate taking time off from work,â Vincent says, looking away. The discomfort sits, plainly and indisputably, in the way he holds himselfâhis shoulders stiff, his jaw clenchedâeverything a little too tense, despite his exhaustion. Yves stares at him for a moment, considering. In the end, itâs the small, impulsive thought that wins out. He takes a seat at the edge of the bed, next to Vincent. The mattress dips under his weight. Vincent has always been taller than him, but sitting down like this, they nearly see eye to eye. Itâs a risk, of course, to offer this. He and Vincent havenât been physically intimate outside of the times where theyâve had to prove their relationship to an audience. But when he thinks back to how Vincent reacted to Yves feeling his forehead, or Yves carding his hands through his hairâif he hasnât misread, it almost feels likeâ Yves opens his arms out in offering, tries on a smile. âIâve been told I give good hugs. Good enough to cure all ailments, obviously.â For a moment, Vincent stays perfectly still. Yves has five seconds to overthink all of his actions over the past twenty four hours. Then Vincent inches closer, ever so slightly, to lean his head on Yvesâs shoulder. Yves curls his arms around him. Thereâs the slightest hitch in Vincentâs breath, at the contact. Then the stiffness seeps out of his shoulders, and he presses a little closerâas if heâs allowed himself permission, at last, to let go. His whole body is concerningly warm. âYouâre burning up,â Yves says, softly. He reaches up with one hand to run his fingers through Vincentâs hair. â...I figured,â Vincent says. The next breath he takes comes in a little shakily. âWhoever gave you the review was right. You are a good hugger.â Yves laughs, a little surprised. âCareful. Youâre going to inflate my ego if you keep talking.â âI canât help it if itâs true.â Yves has hugged a fair share of people in his life. He doesnât think heâd be able to list them all if he were asked to. Itâs different, though, being so close to Vincentâso close that Yves can reach out and let his hair fall through his fingertips. He can lift up his palm and feel the rigid line of his spine, the slope of his shoulders; he could reach out and trace the dip of his wrist, the form of his hand. Vincentâs chin digs slightly into his left shoulder. His nose is turned slightly into Yvesâs neckâlike this, he is almost perfectly still. Yves can feel the warm brush of air against his neck whenever Vincent exhales. He is so close that Yves is afraid, for a moment, that he might hear how badly his heart is racing. Would dating Vincent be like this? Would this kind of exchange be given and received as easily as anything? Yves wills himself not to think about it. This is nothing, he tells himself, but a simple offering of comfort between friends. To think otherwise would be disingenuous. They stay like that for some time. Time slows, or perhaps it expands or collapsesâreally, Yves would be none the wiser. The whir of the ceiling fan and the light rain on the rooftop a constant. When Vincent pulls away at last, itâs to turn sharply off to the side to muffle a sneeze into his sleeve. âHh-! hhIHâIIDZsSHM-FF! snf-!â âBless you,â Yves says, blinking. The sudden absence of warmth is a little jarring. But Vincent isnât done. His eyebrows draw together, and he ducks tighter into his elbow, his shoulders jerking forward. âhHIHâiiGKKTsSHHâ! Sorry, Iâ Ihh-! hHHhâDZZSSCHhâuH-!â âBless you again,â Yves says, reaching past him to hand over the box of tissues on the nightstand. He holds out the box for Vincent to take. Vincent turns away to blow his nose. When he returns, heâs a little teary eyed. The flush on the bridge of his nose hasnât gone away. âWhen I asked you to come over,â he says, âI wasnât expecting you to stay.â Yves blinks. âIs it so strange for me to be here?â To that, Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Yves looks out the window, where he can see the skyline, off in the distance, the dark form of the apartment building across the streets, the street in between lit dimly with golden streetlights. âA little,â he says. âWhen I was young, if I got sick, it wasnât really a big deal.â At Yvesâs expression, he amends: âThatâs not to say that my family didnât care, because they did. No one spent too long in my roomâbetter to not risk catching it, if they could help itâbut back then, if I didnât have much stomach room, my mom always cut fruits for me to leave on my desk. Sometimes she made ginseng tea, too.â he shuts his eyes. Thereâs a strange expression on his faceâsomething a little more complicated than wistfulness. âWe had a habit of keeping the heat off, in the winters, and closing the windows. But if I was running a fever, my brother always made sure to keep the heat on.â His lip twitches, almost imperceptibly. Then: the smallest of smiles. âSometimes heâd stay outside my door to talk about his day. He was the class lead, back when he was in high school. It was always something inconsequential, like which of his classmates he liked and which ones he held a grudge against, and why. Almost always for the smallest reasons, like someone borrowing a pencil and forgetting to give it back, or someone tossing the ball to him in gym class.â âWere you and your brother close?â Yves asks. âClose is relative,â Vincent says. âI never really knew how toâinhabit his world, I guess. When I moved to the states, and when I decided to stay here, part of it was out of some sort of defiance. I didnât want to have to follow in his footsteps, because then I could only ever be focused on doing things differently.â He shuts his eyes. âBut I felt close to him, then. When he stood outside my room and told me those stories. Even if they were things I wouldnât have cared about had they happened to me, I guess. Itâs strange how that works.â âI think I know what you mean,â Yves says. Heâs always had a good relationship with Leon and Victoire, though that doesnât mean theyâve always seen eye to eye on things. âSometimes itâs less about what they say, and more about the fact that theyâre saying it.â Vincent nods. âThey all cared about me in their own way,â he says, at last. âI donât think I appreciated the extent of it at the time. When youâre a kid, you tend to take everything at face value.â âDo you regret it?â Yves asks. âWhat?â âNot appreciating them more, back then.â Vincent smiles. âI was just a kid. I suppose itâs natural that I didnât know better.â Yves has a feeling that that statement is perhaps further reaching than Vincent is making it out to be. âI didnât think much about it at the time.â âDo you ever miss being part of a large household?â âItâs peaceful on my own,â Vincent says, at last. âI usually donât mind it. I usually have other things to worry about.â He hasnât asked if the information is useful to Yves, Yves realizes, a little belatedly. Back then, at Joel and Cherieâs potluck, Vincent had seemed to believe that the only way Yves could possibly be interested in him was if the information could serve their fake relationship, somehow. The realization settles him. Perhaps Vincent has shared this because he knows Yves cares. âYour apartment is nice,â Yves says, trying to ignore the insistent beat of his heart in his chest, which all of a sudden seems to want to make itself known. âI can see why you would like living here.â Vincent tilts his head up towards the ceiling. âItâs not the same, of course. As home. Though thatâs a given.â Yves notes the usage of the word: home. Here, instead of home, the clarifier salient, even though Vincentâs done nothing to emphasize it. Could it be that after all these years, Vincent still considers Korea to be home, for him? âWhen Iâve had people over, it was just for dinner. Not forâŚâ He looks over to Yves, now. Yves knows what he means, knows how to fill in the rest of the sentence: not for the reason youâre here, now. âI know Iâve intruded a little,â Yves says, with a laugh. Vincent frowns at him, his eyebrows furrowing. âI wouldnât consider it an intrusion,â he says. âYouâve helped me a lot. I justâIâm a little embarrassed that your first time over had to be under these circumstances.â Your first time over. Yves ignoresâwell, tries to ignoreâthe implication that this could be the first out of many. That he might have another opportunity, in the future, to swing by. Vincent hasnât confirmed anything, and itâs not likely that their fake dating arrangement would warrant another house visit, out of the publicâs eye. Yves tells himself that the warmth he feels in his chest is misplaced. âYou donât have to worry about that. I like seeing you,â Yves says. Vincent raises an eyebrow at him. âEven bedridden with a fever?â Isnât it obvious? âOf course.â âIâve been terrible company,â Vincent says. âAnd even worse of a host. I recall I fell asleep yesterday, only for you to spend two hours cleaning my apartment?â âVacuuming is therapeutic.â âYou said that about cooking, too,â Vincent says, narrowing his eyes. âAm I supposed to believe that you enjoy doing all household chores?â âItâs not like you made me do them. I just wanted to be useful, and your vacuum was easy to find.â âIâll be sure to hide it thoroughly next time,â Vincent says, deadpan. Yves laughs. âItâs like I said,â he says. âI like spending time with you. Evenââ To steal Vincentâs words from earlier. ââbedridden with a fever.â Vincent huffs a sigh, a little incredulously. âThough, I promise I wonât intrude for much longer,â Yves tells him. âIâll probably head out in the morning.â Heâs almost done with the work Vincent has on his deskâheâd fallen asleep checking over one of the income statements for discrepancies. A few hours should be enough time to make sure that everything is in order. He still has work at eightâheâll probably be a little tired for it, considering how late heâd slept, but thatâs nothing new. âIâm sorry,â Vincent says, averting his glance. He frowns down at himself, as if he really is apologetic. âYou mustâve had other evening plans.â None as important as taking care of you, Yves catches himself thinking. He canât say things like that if he wants to keep thisâwell, this unfortunate recent development, i.e., his feelings for Vincentâto himself. âIt wasnât just for you,â he says, instead. âWhat?â âI didnât just do it for you.â Vincent blinks at him, a little confused. âAre you going to say you get personal gratification out of seeing my apartment clean?â âItâs like you said,â he says. âIâve never seen you this unwell. You said this doesnât happen often, right? When you didnât show up at work, IâŚâ The next admission feels a little too honestâbut thereâs a small, unwise part of him that wants to get it across, regardless. âI was really worried. Even though you said you had everything covered, I wanted to make sure you were fine.â Vincent nods. âI get it. It would be an inconvenience if I were unfit to be your fakeââ âIt has nothing to do with that,â Yves interrupts him. His heart hurts a little, with it. âI wanted to see that you were fine because I care about you. To be honest, I think I wouldâve spent the entire night worrying if I hadnât come.â He laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. âItâs a little selfish, I know.â Vincentâs eyes are very wide. âAnyways,â Yves says, with the sinking feeling that heâs said too much, âyou should try to get some more sleep.â He rearranges the blankets around Vincent, a little unnecessarily, fluffs the extra pillow thatâs leaned up against the headboard, and turns away. âItâs still really early. If youâre planning to be back in office next week, it would be best to keep your sleep schedule intact.â âYves,â Vincent says, from behind him. âHmm?â â...Thank you.â When Yves works up the courage to look over, Vincent is smiling, unreservedly, as if something Yves has said has made him very happy. Yvesâs heart stutters in his chest. Fuck. (On second thought, it might not be so easy to live with these feelings, after all.) â At daybreak, Yves drives home to get changed, takes a quick shower while heâs at it, and heads off for work. He yawns through half his morning meetings, adds an extra espresso shot to the coffee he snags from the break room. The text arrives halfway through the day, just before heâs intending to head downstairs for lunch. V: When I asked you to bring folder 2-A, I didnât mean for you to complete my work along with it. Yves smiles. Heâd emailed Vincent the completed work from yesterdayâs late-night work session before heâd left. Vincent mustâve seen it. Y: some genie i met told me your wish was to have your work done before the deadline V: What are you talking about? Y: he also told me you were very stubborn about not redistributing your assignments to anyone else Y: so you canât blame me for taking matters into my own hands V: Yves. Y: feel free to check it over for errors đ â  Hello! If you got to this point, thank you for reading!! As always, I would love to hear what you thought đ Edited October 1 by monochrome Link to comment
2SHY222 Posted July 21 Share Posted July 21 OMG this was incredible đąđĽ°. I love the reverse care taking and...the sort of confession đŤ . I do hope you continue this. I can't wait to see if this blossoms into a real relationship 𤊠Link to comment
sprinkles287 Posted July 21 Share Posted July 21 Im absolutely swooning over here. Beautifully written. Link to comment
RipleyToo Posted July 21 Share Posted July 21 I love these characters! I love seeing them grow in every fic you write about them! Link to comment
asapyams Posted July 23 Share Posted July 23 this is so adorable!! and its so beautifully written. its so cute to see Vincent let his guard down a little around Yves Link to comment
terro Posted July 25 Share Posted July 25 the confession, the sneezes.. itâs all so cute đ 10/10 Link to comment
Recommended Posts
Create an account or sign in to comment
You need to be a member in order to leave a comment
Create an account
Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!
Register a new accountSign in
Already have an account? Sign in here.
Sign In Now