Sicktember Collection! 2024

[gay-for-the-snz]

I've decided to just make a big ol' post on here for containing all my Sicktember prompts, instead of trying to pick and choose which ones would be the best one or two to post. They're gonna be out of order, mostly because I'm still working on them, but I figured I'd post one or two a day until I'm caught up with what I've got written already, and then just drop new ones as I finish! These are all cross posted on my tumblr, and will say who they're featuring with a little description before each one : )

Edited Monday at 06:37 AM by gay-for-the-snz

[gay-for-the-snz]

Day 1 “I’m not hungover, I’m just sick” (Or vise versa) [FLORENCE]  

 

F/F, emeto mention but not actually contained, some mild nsfw (happy to delete if it crosses boundaries for this board!)

 

⁂

 

She jerks awake with a start when the alarm clock on the other nightstand beeps, some shrill tone bidding Rhoda to have to get up and get ready for work. And, as such, signaling that it's time for her to get her sorry ass home to do whatever she's supposed to do today. Instead of that, though, she just sinks further under the blankets and whines until the beeping is cut off by a hand that snakes out from under the covers and pats around until it finds its mark.

"Good morning."

She doesn't respond to that, just rolls around a little throwing a tantrum at the fact that she has to get up. It's too bright in here. More than that, she's gonna fucking hurl if she has to get up right now. "It's not."

Rhoda crawls a little closer, pulling her closer and intertwining their limbs, her bare skin still sleep warm. "Mm, not a good morning or not morning at all?"

"Both."

She kisses along her shoulder, down towards her collarbones. "We could make it a good one."

Florence considers the offer, shivering a little at her affection. "I feel like shit."

"You're hungover."

"I'm never hungover. Don't even suggest that, you're insulting me." She grabs the pillow and puts it over her head to block out the light, half smothered by silk. "I'm sick."

She can feel the expanse of Rhoda's hand running over her chest, gently pinching one of her nipples in question of furthering the contact. "Talking dirty to me at six thirty in the morning?"

She slides the pillow over enough that she can turn her head and make eye contact with the woman whose face is only inches from hers. "Not the sexy kind. The 'I might go puke up dinner in your bathroom' kind."

"Ah. You're right, that's not the sexy kind." She sits up, stretches in that way that always makes Florence think of a cat, and lays back down, this time propped up on one elbow, cheek rested in her palm. "So you're just staying here, then?"

"Why would I go be miserable in my own blankets when I can do it in yours?"

"I don't know. Because you don't live on this side of town and I'm not driving you to work tomorrow morning?"

She whines at this, too, burying herself back under the pillow. "Why are you so mean to me? I've never been anything but nice to you."

Rhoda laughs in response, and she can't make the venomous eye contact she wants to from beneath her luxurious hovel. She probably should go home. If nothing else, Rhoda is usually amenable to dropping her off on the way to work--even though it isn't actually on the way at all--and that means she won't have to deal with the bus system this early in the morning, nor later when it gets crowded with everybody else.

But the blankets are so warm and comfortable, and so is Rhoda's body against hers, supple curves and rolls enveloping her in the embrace. "Do you at least have a Gatorade or something for on the way?"

"I don't, but I'll make you some tea for the road if you promise to behave."

"That doesn't sound like something I'd do."

"Then I guess you'll be taking yourself home after I leave."

And apparently that bitch means it, because she climbs out of bed. She can hear her wandering around the bedroom and into the bathroom, and the sound of the shower starting.

This is so wholly unfair.

She crawls out after her, half stumbles into the bathroom and squints against the lights glaring at her from over the sink. She flicks them off.

"Oh, did somebody decide she wanted to play nice?"

"You're cruel to me. Me, your beautiful and fun and sexy situationship. I sneeze on your cunt and this is how you treat me."

"Not last night you didn't. We were barely two drinks into that movie before you wandered off and climbed into my bed." She shuts the water off and steps out, wringing her hair out into the tub. She will never understand how she manages to shower so fast--years of practice, she's said, but it seems surreal that a person could be in and out in less than ten minutes. Sometimes less than five.

"Is this punishment for last night, then?"

"I'm hardly the one who punishes you in this relationship."

"Remember that next time you wanna be a brat."

"You love it." She doesn't bother turning the lights back on, but does take her makeup bag to the other room to use the hall mirror. "Have you given any more thought to our conversation last week?"

"Dude, there's nothing I wanna do less than go to a wedding with you, ESPECIALLY if you're gonna make me pretend to be your girlfriend." The thought of it makes her cringe, and the thought of all the food that's going to be pushed on her makes her stomach turn.

Rhoda looks ridiculous trying to be mad while she's applying mascara, but she makes a good effort. "I can't be the only person at Parveen's wedding without a date. Do you know what they're going to do if they see me single?"

"I don't see how that's my problem."

"Because I'm making it your problem. Because if it's my problem, I'm going to have to field a million aunties and cousins trying to set me up with anybody that's got a pulse and isn't over the age of seventy." She turns to admonish her further, but pauses abruptly. "Oh. Florence, you look terrible."

"Thanks."

"Shut up." She reaches out, and the fact that her hand feels cool on her skin tells her that she's definitely feverish. "You really don't feel well, do you?"

"Like I said, I'm not hungover, I'm sick. You're really going to kick me out into the cold like this?"

"It's like sixty-five outside. It's the middle of August. I think you would survive the slightly below room temperature world outside." She leans down to shake out her hair, settling for a slightly windswept look when she straightens back up. "Besides, I said I would drive you. And I said I would make you tea before we left."

Tea doesn't sound horrible, but she's still not really in the mood for it. Not that she's in the mood for anything, really, but that's kind of the problem. "I guess. Don't you have, like, Pepto or something?"

"What I have is curry leaves, but somebody doesn't like those."

"Listen, I don't make you try Irish food."

"You don't even like Irish food?"

"I fail to see how that has any bearing on this."

"Go get dressed or you're going home naked."

She begrudgingly relents, shuffling off back into the bedroom to gather up discarded clothes from the floor and paw through the dresser drawer she's taken over as her own. "You need to do laundry."

"For your clothes?"

"Yeah." She tugs on an old tee shirt that's far too large for her, and a pair of shorts that are flirting with the line of too small to wear. "You coming over when you get off?"

"Probably not tonight, we've got a project coming up that's already getting delayed because we can't get the fabric in on time, they're back ordered for at least a week. So I've got a week's worth of work to try and get sorted out before it puts us behind enough we can't actually get anything out."

She honestly isn't even listening beyond 'probably not tonight', just letting the sound of Rhoda's voice wash over her. She's more aware than anything of the fact that she's nauseous, and beyond that, that her body is kind of weirdly achey. "Rhoda."

"What?"

"You know you're getting whatever this is, right?"

This might be the first time she's ever seen her grimace in response to the prospect of catching something off of her. "Yeah, I know. I'm not happy about it."

"What, this isn't as romantic as a cold?"

"Not even a little."

She pretends to gag, and Rhoda is already halfway across the room, voice shrill.

"Florence I'm not joking, you'd better knock that off--"

"Okay, okay, chill out." That definitely didn't help the actual nausea, so she was done anyway. But it's nice to make somebody else a little miserable, too. Misery loves company, or whatever the fuck Three Days Grace said.

"You're really close to actually having to walk. If you do that in my car--"

"Your car is worth more than I make in a fucking year, I'm not gonna hurt it."

"I'm serious--"

"I hear you!" And ugh, does she ever. She couldn't ignore her even if she wanted to, the volume is not doing any favors to the headache that's encroaching on her everything. "Do you know where my phone is?"

"Why would I know where your phone is?"

"I don't know, 'cause it's your house?"

"Do you want me to call it?"

"It's on silent."

"Then I guess you'd better get looking, shouldn't you?"

Rhoda is clearly still upset about the little joke, because she isn't actually helping the search and rescue efforts any. She halfway attempts to fix her hair a little while she wanders around, partially out of frustration, partially just because she needs to get her hair off the back of her neck. She's uncomfortably hot and kinda sweaty, and the thick halo of curls resting on her skin are definitely not helping matters.

She finds the long lost phone somewhere underneath the bed, and practically dangles off of Rhoda, holding onto her tightly, fevered cheek rested against cool skin. "Take me home?"

She rolls her eyes, fondly. "Fine, let's go."

 

[gay-for-the-snz]

 Day 2 Too Much of a Good Thing/Overindulgence [ELLIOTT] 

 

Wine snz, implied illness but it doesn't come into play here

 

⁂

 

The office Christmas party is in full swing when he swaggers in, a wrapped gift tucked beneath one arm. The invite said it was starting at seven, but here at six forty-five people are already congregated and getting somewhat rowdy with it. Evidently the open bar is the only thing that can get people chronically late to show up early enough to imbibe.

"Captain!"

The man in question is at the center of the throng, dressed in a cabled red sweater that, with the hat and beard, makes him a fairly spitting image of a more casual Santa Claus. "Ah, there you are, son!" The crowd parts enough for him to get through them and pull Elliott into a hug that threatens to take him off his feet from the vigor of it. "You look chilly."

"Oh, this? I'm sure I'll be fine--it's just a short walk to the bus stop, and I thought it looked nice." And he does! At least, he likes to think he does. It's more daring than what he usually wears, a red halter top that plunges to expose most of the curve of his spine, the breadth of his shoulder blades, the graceful length of his arms; he thinks it's rather flattering, even without any cleavage to fill it out in a way that it was designed for.

"You're going to freeze to death, and I'll be sad to see it happen and get the call in the morning that there was a handsome popsicle found outside the bar." He shrugs, emphatically, and takes a sip of his drink. "If you die, they won't let us rent it again next year for our party."

"I'm surprised they let us after last year--"

"Shh!" He pulls him close around the shoulders, hunching him over to speak lowly enough to keep the conversation between them only. "Keep your mouth shut, I think they forgot that that was our group, and I'm not risking them remembering and kicking us out early."

"Oh! Er, right. And, you know, that probably wouldn't happen again anyway, I heard that he and his wife are in a better spot and are working through their differences--"

"Ah ah! What did I say? Zipped."

Elliott mimes the motion and tosses away the key, and this seems to satisfy the Captain enough for him to let him go with a thump on the back.

"Good man!" He glances over Elliott's shoulder, and at the present in his arms. "You came alone?"

"Oh--er, yeah, it's just me this year! Everyone else was working, or busy, and I didn't want to, uh, drag anyone out just to come to a party with my coworkers, you know?"

"I suppose so. You're going to behave with nobody to keep you in line?"

"Oh, Captain! You insult me! I'm not the-the partying type, you know that!"

The Captain gives him a skeptical look, but drops the subject. "Alright, alright. Well, go on and get yourself something. We won't be doing the gift exchange until eight or eight thirty, so make merry until then."

Nothing sounds nicer than a drink and mingling, so he deposits his gift on the table with all the others, each one in a different paper, some wrapped significantly better than others. He politely pretends that the one shaped suspiciously like a bottle of wine escapes his notice. The instructions had been "discreet" packaging, but some were, perhaps, a little more diligent about this aspect than others had been.

But! That doesn't matter when he's got a party to get partying at, and since he's the only person not having any fun yet, and the newest arrival to boot, he finds himself being descended upon by coworkers like a flock of seagulls upon a single french fry in a parking lot. People from other shifts that he recognizes mostly from all company meetings, or from previous years' parties, or from days he's filled in. People from his own shift, who are much happier than the other lot to see him.

Niklas, the great old beast of a man that he is, has no trouble cutting through the little welcome party to just heft him up and affectionately throw him over one shoulder to carry him off across the room. They watch him as he goes, accepting a pleasant, "okay, bye!" with his exit.

He's deposited onto a mostly comfortable armchair next to one of the pool tables, the low loveseat beside it occupied by Niklas's brother. Behind him, Bolormaa and Erdeni are potentially the first two people to ever actually play a game on this table, judging by how pristine the felt looks. He's never been any good at pool, but he's thankful that it doesn't look like they're looking to add a player right now.

"Felix! It's good to see you! What brings you into town?"

He isn't quite as tall or broad as his brother, and though he's definitely older by a few years, he still retains a fair amount of red in his hair that hasn't washed out with the rest of the grey. He takes the offered hand to shake. "Elliott! It's good to see, too. I swear you've gotten taller since I saw you last. What was it, a few years ago?"

"Gosh, it's got to have been at least three or four, I think. You were here for Warren's, what, fifth grade commencement? That was four and a half years ago."

"Christ above, was it really that long?"

"I'm the parent of a high schooler, now."

"Oh, stop! You're making me feel old!"

Niklas leans over and elbows him. "That's because you are old."

"Right, and you're still a spring chicken."

Elliott grins at the pair of them, and is surprised by someone nudging his shoulder. The Captain pressed a glass into his hand, warm and sweet smelling. "Mulled wine," he says by way of explanation. "It's good stuff, local grown by some winery or another. There's a little sign next to the bar if you're actually curious. If you'll excuse me, I see empty glasses out there, and that's unacceptable as a host. Eat, drink, be merry, and all that."

"Thank you, Captain!" It's nice and warm in his hands, and he just holds it for a second to savor the feeling of heat seeping into him. He's more chilly than he realized, now that he has the heat of a drink to remind him of it, and finds himself sniffling a bit in response to the steam. "Uhm, Felix, you were saying...?"

"Ahh, no, don't worry about us having our little squabble. Have your drink." Despite bidding him to not participate in the conversation, he addresses a question to him directly just seconds later. "You're still single, then?"

He nearly chokes on his drink, holds a hand under himself in the off chance he actually spills any of it. "Oh!"

He receives two elbows to the back and shoulder and incredulous looks to go with them from Niklas and Bolormaa. "Dude?"

"No, no, it's okay! He can ask! I, uh--sort of. I'm--well, I'm s-sort of seeing someone, and it--uh, I don't know if we want to really put a label on it yet--"

"Ohhh, I see what you're saying. You sly dog, you. What do the kids call it now, a booty call?"

"DUDE?" He's half convinced that Bolormaa is about to actually take up his pool stick in defense of his honor.

He laughs, some startled, breathy thing as all the blood in his body rushes to his face, red clean through to his ears. "Unfortunately for him, the only 'benefit' to our friendship is that sometimes I cook dinner when he's over." He glances at his cup, and opts to drink the rest of it as fast as possible. "I think I'd like to talk about something else."

"Alright, I can take a hint!" Felix leans away from the menacingly raised pool stick, even as Erdeni pries it from her wife's hand.

"We really don't want to be the ones that get us banned from her for real, do we?"

He doesn't, relenting enough to let her take it away from him and set it back in the rack of cues mounted to the wall, but he makes sure to sigh dramatically so that everyone is aware of his displeasure at this.

Niklas hands over his still mostly full glass--though it's cooled nearly to room temp, in comparison to the warmth of the previous one--and Elliott accepts it gratefully as an excuse to not have to talk for a minute. The conversation slowly rolls away from him, and he relaxes in the knowledge that it doesn't require his attention as of yet.

He's vaguely aware that his nose itches, but it's nothing that demands his attention just yet, aside from the increasing frequency of the sniffles as he deals with the new effort from his nose--and the fact that it isn't as warm in here, even with all the bodies, as he'd expect--to start dripping. The cocktail napkin that came with his first drink makes a valiant effort, but it doesn't take a terribly long time before he's starting to think about needing to go grab another. Or, really, to go grab a stack of them, since he knows it'll be an ongoing thing.

Wine always makes him itchy, but there's really nothing to be done for it. And, besides, it gives him an excuse to stand up and stretch his legs. "I'll be right back, does anyone want anything while I'm up?"

A chorus of "I'll take one"s meets him, and so he sets off to grab five drinks. He's carried more before, but he's far from a waiter, and as thankful as he is that that was never one of his past jobs, he kind of wishes it had been to give him an edge in managing an array of glasses tucked into his arms as he navigates his back carefully back towards the group. The stack of napkins he's tucked into his pocket to wait for later are calling to him as he sniffles more aggressively than he'd really like to be doing, drawing looks from coworkers as he passes by them.

He's nearly begging them to take their drinks from him when he gets back, scarcely able to set his own down before he whips aside into steepled hands for what promises to be the first of many sneezes of this evening. "h-hHYISSHHuu! 'SSHHue!"

"Bless you!"

"Uh oh, now that he's started, I don't know that he's going to be stopping."

"Bless you, sweetie."

His cheeks are rosy from more than just the alcohol when he straightens up with a sniffle, and wipes his hands off on his pants, aware of how thin the fabric is when he can feel the heat of his skin--and the moisture on it--through them. "Excuse me, thank you." He sniffs again, takes one of the napkins to dab away the excess, and sniffs again, just for good measure. "Sorry, you know how it is with wine."

"Bolkaa, didn't your aunt react that way?"

"No, she does that with chocolate."

Niklas leans into the conversation from where he'd been lining up a shot, evidently having joined their pool game. "Our roommate years ago used to do that with mints. Felix, do you remember him?"

"Yeah, Andy. Couldn't offer him a breath mint without spending the whole time it dissolved listening to him sneeze from it."

"Okay, well," Elliott laughs, embarrassed that he seems to have sparked such a conversation, "then you know this will be ongoing. So, just, don't worry about it."

Erdeni does worry about it, shrugging off her wrap and draping it around his shoulders. "Here, you still look frigid. You're going to catch a cold like that."

"You're really sweet, but I don't--"

"I'm not taking no for an answer, so don't even waste your breath."

"Er, right." He has to admit, it is somewhat nice, even if satin isn't a particularly warm material. Being wrapped like this is comfortable, the smooth fabric taking his body heat well enough to keep him more or less insulated from the chill of the room, even if no one else seems particularly chilly. That is, admittedly, the downside of being skin and bone--he's the first one to get cold, and the last one to get particularly warm. He knocks back the glass of wine, hoping that the flush of a good buzz will warm him soon enough.

"Is that better?"

He sniffles, and ties it as tastefully as he can manage--the bows he's seen some ladies finagle these into boggle his mind--and smooths it out. "It is. Thank you, Erdeni."

"See? This is why you always need a femme around. That, and she's got anything you could ever want in her purse." Bolormaa's draped around his wife now, pressing kisses along her shoulder and towards her neck. "Doesn't even have to look, she can pull anything you could name out in two seconds flat."

She giggles, pushing him away slightly. "It's always good to be well prepared. Especially," she adds, a knowing glance to her wife, "when you know that you're going out with someone who thinks anything she can't fit on his carabiner is just dead weight."

He wants to just watch them, to enjoy the tenderness of being allowed to witness domesticity between two people who he loves, but his nose has other ideas. The last glass of wine seems to have gone straight to it--or, gosh, maybe it's just a psychosomatic thing because he's expecting it--either way, it's maddeningly itchy now.

"HoldonIm--hh'TSHH'ue! Hih'TSHieww! hiH-! ...hiISSHHyue! hyIISSHHue!" He holds his position, tucked into his elbow like this, until he's absolutely certain that this is the end of it. He straightens with a liquidy sniff, awkwardly wiping his arm against his shirt, and grabs a few napkins from the stack he'd shoved into his pocket earlier. "Excuse me, sorry. I didn't mean to--snf!--to interrupt."

"What they're doing doesn't need your input, you can do whatever you want over there." Niklas has brandished another handful of crumpled napkins from his pocket, and sets them on top of the stack of Elliott's. In turn, everyone else donates a napkin to the pile, whatever was wrapped around their glass or tucked into a pocket or set aside elsewhere.

There's a sizable pile there, now, certainly more than respectable in its proportions.

It won't be enough.

They all know this, seeing the way he's already dripping and sniffling and he isn't even properly buzzing yet. He can feel it creeping in on the edges of his mind, the next glass will probably do it, but as of yet he's still feeling pretty well sober. Too sober for a Christmas party, Niklas decides, because he makes an announcement that he's getting another round for everybody, even if nobody else has finished theirs yet.

He gets the distinct feeling that he will be pouring himself into somebody else's backseat on the way out of here. Tomorrow morning's shift will be somewhat of a hassle, but it's nice to feel like he's still got this chance, brief as it is, to be an adult making bad decisions first, and a parent second.

The gift exchange passes in a haze of wine and laughter and joy as everyone displays what they received, and vie for the more favorable gifts--he's quite satisfied with the pair of socks he ends up with, brightly colored and fuzzy and trimmed with designs of Christmas lights snaking around them--and he discovers, much to his alarm, that the party is ending soon when someone makes a last call for drinks.

He wobbles a bit when he stands, catching hold of Niklas's shoulder for support when his heels threaten to break his ankle--oh, gosh, heels were probably a bad choice if he was planning on drinking--and practically melts into his warm embrace, sinking down enough that he's no longer fully supporting his own weight and can rest his chin comfortably on his shoulder.

"Oh, Niklas, you're so strong. And handsome."

He snorts in response, patting his back. "And much too sober for you to be flirting with me. Come on, let's get you and your socks home."

"Did you--hh-? huH--! hHDSSHHue! 'TSSHHyue!" He manages to angle away from him enough to sneeze openly towards the floor, arms much too occupied clinging to Niklas and his little gift bag to be brought up to attempt to cover. His lashes flutter, chest rising and falling in unsteady intervals as he wavers on the edge of a third sneeze, which finally grants him some clemency and resolves itself with gusto. "Hh'HEESSHHyue!"

"Bless you!" Erdeni's hand on his cheek is warm and soothing, brushing a thumb up over his cheekbone as she cradles his face. He can feel the warmth of her soul through it, a thread running between the two of them, from soul to hand to cheek to soul, warming him up from the inside out like he's glowing like a candle. He can see that faint flush over her skin, the alcohol and affection in equal proportions.

"You're so nice. Bolormaa, your wife is so nice."

He grins. "Yeah, I'm pretty fond of her myself."

"Ohh, are you now? You're going to make them think you like me or something."

Felix coughs to interrupt the way they've taken hold of one another, kissing that's threatening to become something more amorous better reserved for a bedroom or a bathroom stall. "Think that might wait until we get into the car?"

"Prude."

Everything seems so beautiful in the dim light, festive layers shed and altered and shared amongst eachother, smiles on faces that are usually focused on the task at hand. The Captain, at some point this evening, has gained several necklaces with plastic candy canes and trees and ornaments, each one blinking like he imagines the stars must be twinkling if they could see them over the city lights.

Everything is so...so. He doesn't know how to put it beyond that. He pours himself into Niklas's backseat, squished up against Bolormaa and Erdeni who are laughing at some joke that's been too soft for him to catch it, and the streetlights have halos like they're all angels.

The realization creeps up on him slower than the feeling does. His thoughts feel like they're swimming through molasses as they struggle to catch up to him. He's gasping before he realizes that he needs to sneeze, giving him only enough time to turn away from his seatmates.

"hIH--IISSHHue! hyEISSHHuue! Huh-! huUDSSHhue!" He makes a pitiful "nuh" at the end, some itchy, miserable little sound as he sniffles and rubs hard at his nose, not nearly sober enough to be embarrassed by the wet click it produces. The droplets on the window shimmer under the passing streetlamps and what windows are still lit in the office buildings and billboards they pass.

Someone shoves a couple napkins into hands that are still half curled in front of him, never having made it anywhere near covering and returned to their previous position once he finished tending to his nose. He blinks tiredly at them, and then sniffles, the sound getting more congested than he'd really like it to. " 'scuse me. This is--mm--gonna be gross." If anyone is bothered by the sound of him blowing his nose, they don't show it--or at least he thinks they don't. He's suddenly so tired that it's hard to keep his eyes open.

He doesn't want to lay his head directly against the window he just sneezed all over, so instead he leans against Bolormaa, resting their heads together. It's somewhat awkward, given that he's about a million feet taller than he is, but they both shift enough to find a more comfortable arrangement of their bodies, and he lets his eyes drift closed, lulled to sleep by the sounds of soft conversation and the hum of the engine, of the radio melting dreamily from one song to another as the night wraps him into its embrace.

[gay-for-the-snz]

Day 5 Rogue Organ (tonsils, spleen, appendix, gall bladder ect…) [JOSEPH]  

 

Laryngitis, touch of cold, weird coworkers dynamic (professor and TA)

 

⁂

 

In all of the time he has known Dr. Valentine, he's never walked into his office and received no acknowledgement at all. He awkwardly drops his bag down beside his desk chair, leans it up against the corner to prop it up.

"Good morning, Dr. Valentine."

The man in question turns in his chair, his cheeks slightly flushed. He's never seen him blush before, but it kind of...looks like he might be? He doesn't reply immediately, just clears his throat in a way that sounds painful.

"Doctor--"

He holds up a hand to silence him, and clears his throat again. He leans close, uncomfortably so, and gestures towards his throat, fingertips gently touching his skin. "Laryngitis." His voice is thin and hoarse, hardly even a whisper.

"Oh. I'm sorry." He doesn't know what else to say, but mirrors the action to touch his own throat. "Viral or overuse?"

The good doctor looks pained by the acknowledgement, and scribbles on the notepad laying on his desk. Clearly he'd prepared for this before he got in. 'VIRAL' says the absolutely perfect penmanship. He's mused before that he could probably use Dr. Valentine's handwriting to teach printing to kids like in those booklets. The man writes like a typewriter, utterly pristine in a way that's difficult to reconcile with the typical handwriting associated with the profession. He realizes, when he slightly jiggles the notepad to display it again to make sure that he's seen it, that he's just neglected to respond.

"Ah." Well, that was a lame response. "That's a shame. Are you feeling alright otherwise?"

He's not a man given to really shrugging much, but he does so now. 'MINOR COLD' is all he writes in response.

It's clearly bothering him, not being able to say anything or do anything with his voice, but he's got that weird, steely resolve to not want to show any sort of...anything. Dr. Valentine's a man who would rather not let a single person know literally anything about him. Not his birthday, not his favorite color, not anything about him whatsoever. He doesn't even like people knowing that he takes his coffee black, so it isn't really surprising to know that he doesn't want to acknowledge much regarding his own condition.

"I was about to go get myself some coffee, do you want tea while I'm up?" He shakes his head, and that's not a surprise either. "Suit yourself."

The break room is kind of a far walk, but that doesn't stop him from actually wanting to walk over there. It's nice to be able to go get himself some coffee when he wants to, and it's also nice to be able to just take himself for a stroll whenever he feels like it. There's a soft hum of people walking around in their routines, and it's beautiful to be able to watch them do their things.

He's actually fucking shaking, though, by the time he's on his way back with the coffee--and a tea, that he didn't ask for but is getting anyway--because the realization dawns on him that if Dr. Valentine isn't able to speak, that means that the duty of lecturing is going to be falling onto him. He hates public speaking. And, equally importantly, Dr. Valentine hates giving up control.

He shoulders open the door to the office, and sets the tea down pointedly on the corner of the desk to preempt the argument he knows is coming. "I know you said you didn't want it, but I decided you did."

The look he receives is absolutely venomous, and he is FURIOUSLY scribbling on that notepad. It must be painful for him to not be able to say anything off the cuff--he's a man who's composed of quips, and stinging responses, and barbed witticisms that rely on timing for their effectiveness. It undercuts him to be reduced to writing on a notepad instead of speaking over him to cut him off.

He hadn't realized, really, how much of this man's authority was centered around that. Not that he doesn't carry an authority now--he looks like someone who was born to stand on a balcony overlooking a party like a Bond villain--but that cold silence doesn't necessarily carry the same sort of weight to it when he can't immediately back it up. He is not a man whose authority can rely on his bulk, he is not someone who is physically daunting in the way he looms above others.

No. It is his voice that he uses with such precision to overrule others. He carries himself in such a way that no one doubts that he is the one in charge. When he walks into a room, others fall into silence as they await him. The fact that he's now victim to that same silence just makes him look...tired. He looks old, and small in a way that's so unnatural and jarring. It stirs pity somewhere inside of him to see, which he knows is the last thing on earth the doctor wants from him.

"Anyway," he says, as a way of attempting to break the tension, "I'm assuming that you're going to need...assistance with today's lectures?"

Dr. Valentine looks like he wants to say something, but he just sits there in stony silence, staring at him. He's about to ask the question again, until he realizes why he's been silent. He twists aside with a gasp and ducks into his elbow with a sneeze that sounds absolutely miserable--and ridiculous. It lacks the sharp, harsh sound it usually has, more leaned hoarse and squeaky in a way that makes them both wince just hearing it.

He looks like it hurt his throat, and that seems right--he always sneezes so harsh and loud and rough, the sound of it alone always makes him think that it must hurt his throat just to have happen, but especially now that he's certainly already sore and miserable. "Bless you--"

He shakes his head, holding up a finger to bid him silence, even as his features contort into a snarl of irritation, before he ducks down into his sleeve a second time with a pair of them. He holds that position for a moment more, before he finally sighs and drops his arm with a liquidy sniffle.

"Bless you!"

Dr. Valentine looks irritated by the blessing, but he doesn't say anything to overrule it. This time. Perhaps he will later, should there be a repeat occurrence, and he wouldn't be shocked if it does. He takes a couple of tissues from the box on the corner of his desk, and blows his nose.

"Anyway," he tries again, "are you...going to be canceling your lectures, or is it going to be me behind the lectern today?"

He sniffs wetly, again, and scribbles on his notepad. YOU HAVE MY NOTES, AND WILL BE LEADING LECTURE TODAY.

"Oh! Right, I can do that. You've left me the notes, then?"

ALWAYS.

"And you're going to be haunting your desk as well, then?"

AS I ALWAYS DO.

"Good. I guess we'll have to, uh, sort of look through everything real quick before I go up there, so we can potentially check everything out and get prepped for it." He is distinctly aware, as he looks at the man glowering behind his desk, that he's going to be doing this lecture with a man who's going to be sitting behind the desk like a gargoyle the whole time he's speaking.

The gargoyle in question is currently tending to his nose (again) as he drops a stack of printed lecture slides onto the desk, neatly stacked together and annotated on each page, so it seems. That's nice of him. None of this prep work looks like something he could possibly have done terribly recently, it's too thorough. Clearly he decided sometime this morning--or, potentially, last night even--that he wouldn't be able to do anything today with his voice in the condition that it's in. Perhaps he's been sicker for longer than he's wanted to admit.

He wonders what it's like for him at home. He's unmarried now--he knows that much, as does everybody else in this school. Nor does he see anybody else ever usually really spending any time around the doctor. He's always pretty isolated, cloistered in this office. He goes to this office, or to the classroom, and then to home.

He wonders if when he goes home, he's lonely. If he's doing anything to take care of himself, or if he's merely ignoring it and letting it run its course. Is he taking care of himself? Does he miss having someone else in his home?

He must catch him staring, because he leans forward and strains his voice, against certainly his own advice, to be able to whisper. "Why are you staring at me and not your lecture?"

"I was just thinking about the, uh, lecture later." He takes a sip of his coffee, paled to a soft beige that can really barely even be considered coffee anymore, and watches the doctor finally take a sip of his tea. "Is the tea fine? I figured the peppermint one might be somewhat soothing."

He nods, faintly, and Monty knows he's not going to really be getting anything better than that. That's high praise and acknowledgement to receive from a man who's built a reputation on being cold and impenetrable. And, for the most part, he's lived up to it for that as being truth.

"Good, I'm glad." He idly flips through the lecture pages, trying to make him feel like he's actually doing something important here instead of just staring at his employer and psychoanalyzing him. "I hope that--I know, I can already tell that you're going to dislike hearing this from me--and I want you to know I also know that you're not going to like it--but I hope that you're able to recover soon."

He's right, about the fact that there is nothing Dr. Valentine wants less than to be fussed over or pitied in some degree, but he seems to begrudgingly accept it, if only because he can't really avoid hearing it be said. His hand hovers over the notepad, marker uncapped, for a couple tentative seconds, before he commits pen to paper.

THANK YOU.

It's surprising to receive a concession like this from him, and it actually warms his heart a little. "You're welcome." He returns to the task at hand, a more quiet understanding sitting between them. It's good to feel more appreciated for once, to know that Dr. Valentine is actually seeming to notice his efforts in a way that he's able to really appreciate as well.

The doctor is carefully annotating his own stack of papers over on his side of the office, attempting to balance this with the tissues he's got pressed to his nose for the time being. He looks like he's probably going to want to sneeze again. More than that, he looks like that paper travel cup of tea on the desk is going to need to be joined again by another at some point.

"You're prone to this?"

He looks surprised by the question, his face betraying the feeling.

"I was just wondering, because you didn't seem too surprised by the laryngitis. It doesn't seem like this is the first time you've suffered this particular rogue organ." He taps his pen along the page, coyly refusing eye contact as he speaks. "So that would, reasonably, mean that you're either used to this, or...that you've been sick for longer than you've wanted to let on, and had the advanced notice to plan my taking over today. Not there's any shame in either, of course. Just an observation. You know, like how you always urge us to be keeping our eyes open for patterns to be sharper practitioners."

Oh, he's going to kill him. He's certain that the only thing that's stopping him from snapping at him to get out of this office--and all manner of other nasty things--is the fact that he cannot physically do so right now.

Or, perhaps, it's the fact that he doesn't get any further into it than opening his mouth to attempt to anyway, before he's muffling a racking fit of coughs into his sleeve. It isn't the wet, hacking  sort he'd fear was indicative of something more serious. No, this is the dry, ticklish and irritated sort that sounds pretty normal to be accompanying the laryngitis he's already copped to.

He politely averts his eyes, because as much as he's kind of enjoying being a little shit when the professor can't do anything about it, he does feel sorta bad about taking advantage of it, or for being a voyeur in this way. He doesn't dislike him in any way, nor does he actually derive any pleasure from the ailment itself. This particular symptom makes him feel the need to clear his own throat sympathetically.

The fit tapers off with an uncomfortable sort of gasp--not quite a wheeze, but inching uncomfortably close into that territory. He wordlessly takes the tea, defeated by himself in this moment, and drains it with the air of a man who knows he's getting his ass kicked by something that was definitely supposed to be minor. Something easily dealt with and worked around, which is doing everything in its power to become something much more.

With a resigned weariness, he takes the now empty cup and trudges out of the office to begin what will, by all accounts, become the day's routine in refilling it.

[gay-for-the-snz]

Day 10 The Sniffles ™ [ELLIOTT]  

 

Cold fic, coworkers hanging out

 

⁂

 

"haH-! heEZZHHieww! eEZZHhyue!" He snuffles into his tissues, pinching at reddened nostrils through it. "Excuse me." He's already losing his consonants, distinctly aware of the fact that he's going to be impossible to understand and aching behind his teeth by this time a day or two from now. He shoves the tissues back into the pocket of his sweatshirt, immediately changes his mind, and fishes them back out to press to leaking nostrils.

"I don't know why you don't just skip." Bolormaa's been idly following behind him, scrolling on his phone as they wander the aisles of the Costco.

"Because," he snuffles again, the sound of it miserably wet, "I already agreed to go, and we don't exactly have the choice in skipping it, and you said you didn't mind coming with me--"

"And I don't."

"--so there's no point in trying to dodge the meeting just because I'm a touch under the weather."

He snorts in response. "Yeah, okay."

He frowns, actually distracted from his task of trying to cross off his list by it. "What do you mean, 'yeah okay'?"

"Listen, man, you're never just a 'touch under the weather'. You're always like 'ohhh, uhhhh, you know, it's just the sniffles', and then you walk in and it's like the bubonic plague. I know you can't help it or whatever, but it's never 'just' anything."

He opens his mouth to speak, thinks better of it, and closes it again. He very conspicuously puts the tissues back into his pocket. "It's not that bad."

"What are we here buying right now?"

"A couple snacky things for the meeting so people don't eat eachother at this thing."

"And what else are we buying?"

He blushes. "Nothing."

"Oh? Nothing? Not, say, tissues because the supply closet is empty of them again, because someone's coming down with something?"

"No."

"Dude, be so for real right now."

"I hate to disagree--"

"For a man who hates to disagree, you sure aren't agreeing?"

"Bolormaa, please, can't we just drop this?"

He rolls his eyes, but seems to drop the topic, if only because instead he pops a piece of gum in his mouth. "We still need to get those light bulbs, and the cat food."

"Oh! I forgot about the cat food, actually."

"That's why I'm holding the list."

That, and they both know that he'll immediately lose it and forget everything if he's in charge of it. Instead, his task is the guy pushing the cart, and reaching all of the tall shelves. And, interspersed in there, he's the guy tending to a budding cold, though now he feels weirdly guilty and self conscious about it. Not that there are many people in a warehouse at almost nine pm, but still. He wishes they could just do this in the morning on the way--it's past his bedtime by a long shot, but if he wanted company, this was the only option.

"Bolormaa, do y--you-? hh-! hH'DZZHHue! iidZZHHyue! eiIZZHHhyue!" He crumples into the sleeve of his sweatshirt, no hope of even attempting to get the tissues back out in time, and grimaces at the dark spots on the grey fabric from it. He sniffs, scrubs hard at his nose with the rather bedraggled tissues, and sighs. "Excuse me."

"Do I...?"

"Uhmb--" he sniffs hard, dismayed at how useless it's proving to be, and pinches at the tip of his nose. "Do you remember what brand of cat food they get? I think the bag was...orange?"

"They stopped eating the orange one, didn't they? Now it's the old man one. The blue one?"

"I thought the old man one was the green one they didn't like?"

They are distinctly aware of the fact that it's almost closing time and all of these cat foods actually look exactly the same. "We could just...pick one..."

"...right. Like...this one...?"

"That's--...hm. Maybe if we...got a different one altogether...?"

They stand there, motionless, staring at the sacks of cat food. "Okay, hear me out: we just get them...the one that I get Arthur...and if they don't eat it then I'll just take it home...and buy the Captain a different bag..."

It isn't necessarily the best solution to this problem--anything that necessitates potentially making a second trip into Costco is automatically a bad idea, because everything in there costs a million dollars and he has no self control, but the other option is to just not feed the warehouse cats, which seems like an even worse idea, so he resigns himself to needing to take a grown up with him if he has to come back and hefts the bag into the cart.

"Right, so that--Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, my nose will not stop running--so that covers, uh, everything then?"

"Light bulbs."

"Right. Light bulbs...I wiillll....remember...the light bulbs..." He pushes the cart slowly, staring down each aisle they pass like he's diffusing a bomb and stepping down the wrong one is going to kill him. "Do you, uh--"

Oh.

He stares at the blank space where Bolormaa had been standing, now conspicuously devoid of butch lesbians.

Well fine then. He'll just find the light bulbs on his own. And people accuse him of wandering off! Hmph.

He huffs in irritation, though takes the opportunity to look around, and awkwardly tears open the pack of tissues to grab a couple. He hates doing this--it feels so wrong! He doesn't want them to think he's stealing!--but if he doesn't blow his nose, he is going to die, and that would be a pretty big downer for the meeting in the morning!

The mere sound of it makes him blush with embarrassment, desperately wet and uncomfortable, but it's--

"Feeling better?"

He jumps so badly that he rams his knee into the back of the cart, and can't help the profanity that he cries out in that strangled sound of anguish.

"Jesus, dude, no need to try and take out the cart!"

"You--" he takes a second to try and gather himself a little, still tucked into the tissue he's been holding onto for dear life. Right. One thing at a time. He pinches at his nose, sniffles as sharply as he can, and tucks them back into his sweatshirt pocket. "You wandered off. I didn't expect you to be back so soon."

"Yeah, well, we needed tissues still, and you were on the prowl for light bulbs." He's casual in the way he drops a couple of those big bulk packs of boxes into the cart. "You should be fine until we get out of here, right? Since...you know..." his eye contact is piercing as he glances up and locks eyes, "it's just the sniffles..."

Ah. So that's the game he's playing here, then. Holding the tissues hostage in exchange for an admission of illness. He chews the inside of his cheek, fingers running over the (damp, bedraggled) tissues currently in his pocket. "Right. I'll be fine."

"Okay."

"Right."

They stand there staring at eachother for a moment, before he finally looks at his watch.

"It's almost closing time. We should get a move on before they're mad at us for being in here."

"I think they already don't want us in here."

"I'm sure they don't, but they're going to want us here even less when it's actually closing time." He nudges the cart forward, until Bolormaa opts to just stand on the edge of it to be pushed along as well. That's fine, it's not like they've really picked up anything substantial except the cat food, and even that's a manageable sack when it's in the cart. "Were you still picking me up or did we change our minds about that?"

"Yeah, me and Niklas are gonna grab you since you're on the way, and then when it's over he's staying and I'm gonna take you home and then, I don't know, get breakfast or something, and then head back for actual start time." His fingertips drum along the tops of the boxes of tissues, a steady rhythm that, he supposes, forms the percussion to whatever he starts humming under his breath.

"Bolormaa?"

"Elliott?"

"If I--" he wavers, feeling that horribly ticklish, sneezy feeling rearing its head again. "If I said I needed tissues, would you--hh-!--would you letme--hH-!?"

"Would I let yooouuu...?"

"Letme--eEIIZZHHyue! hDT'ZZHHieww! hh...hih-! hiH-!? ...hYEIZZHHuue!"

He looks so smug as he tears open the plastic, handing him one of the boxes from the pack. "I will accept your admission of sickness."

He sighs, deeply, taking a handful from the box and blows his nose, wincing at the sound of it. He's absolutely dripping with cold at this point, unable to do anything more than to pray for this cold to be over swiftly and painlessly. He highly doubts it will be.

Bolormaa doesn't say anything more about it in the drive home, only comments occasionally that there should be a law about headlight brightness, and also that they should really re-pave his apartment complex's parking lot, because the potholes could be kiddie pools by this point, casual in his refusal to embarrass him further than he already is. It's sweet, in its own way.

He gives him a friendly punch on the shoulder. "Alright, just leave it all in the trunk. I don't care about having to bring it all up just to load it all back down in the morning." He can't deny the sympathetic little look in his eye when he allows him to lean in for a hug. "Get some sleep. I'll see you--and your sniffles--in the morning."

He gives him a little squeeze, and then watches as he drives back off into the night. He glances at his watch, and winces at the time. Dang, it's later than he wanted to be getting home.

He's still got one box of the tissues tucked beneath his arm--at Bolormaa's insistence--as he jogs up the stairs, losing steam after the second flight and settling to a walk for the remaining few. He's thankful he isn't weighed down by groceries just yet, and especially to have his hands more or less both free, so that he can occupy one with unlocking the front door and one with holding a couple of the newly gifted tissues to his leaking nose to keep it from dripping as he shoulders open the door and is immediately struck by the temperature change.

The apartment, warm and dark, stands in stark contrast to the cold night that shows his breath in steaming puffs, caught in the harsh white of the lights on the landing that the landlord finally installed after enough people complained over the tripping hazard. His nose takes notice immediately.

"hHYEIZZHHieww! iiZZHhyue!" He braces himself against the door frame, hunched as they tear their way over an already tender throat, and he teeters on the precipice of a third, tissues pulled away enough to take a stuttering breath. Scarlet nostrils quiver indecisively, the tickle coquettish and coy in the way it teases. His shoulders sag in defeat, and he's halfway straightened up before it resurges with ferocity, catches him so off guard he's unable to get the tissues back up in time. "hH'DDZZHHyue!"

He sniffles thickly, his cheeks hot with embarrassment at the cloud of spray and the fog of his breath that he catches lingering in the air from it. Tenderly, he cups damp nostrils in the tissues to massage at his nose, still acutely aware of the prickly irritation that hasn't fully subsided in the wake of the recent trio.

He doesn't even bother undressing, just kicks off his shoes and shrugs out of his coat, before wriggling underneath the blanket with his--literally--ill-gotten tissues cradled on the bare space on the mattress beside him. He's sure that by the time he opens his eyes in the morning, he'll be absolutely frightful, but for the time being he's content to stay with the unbelieved notion that this is, as Bolormaa put it, merely the sniffles.

[gay-for-the-snz]

Day 11 Medieval Treatment “I didn’t mean to wake you up.” [ELLIOTT]

 

Cold fic, contagion, and a character borrowed from a vanilla friend who knows about the fet! (please read platonically!)

 

⁂

 

He isn't aware of anything, really, except the distant notion that he's awake, until it clicks that he's awake for a reason. He's already awkwardly partially sat up to roll away from Cerine with a handful of sneezes, each one, while not soft by any means, lacking the usual desperation they carry when he's truly awake. He manages to drag a hand up in time to catch the last couple haphazardly, the splayed fingers and distance rendering his attempts particularly ineffective.

He sniffles, or at least gets the closest he can when he's so terribly congested, and squints at the alarm clock on the nightstand. He hasn't actually absorbed the time before he feels a hand snake out from under the covers to grab at him. It pats along his arm, and up his chest, to lovingly (if awkwardly) pat sleepily over his face before finding his cheek and resting there.

"Bless you."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up."

"You didn't." Truthfully, she may be accurate--she doesn't exactly seem awake, so much as conscious. Her skin is still sleep warm, rich and dark and absolutely beautiful against his sickly pallor. She practically crawls under his skin to get closer, nestling in against him and nuzzling into his chest. "Go back to sleep."

He wrinkles his nose, and gives a tentative sniff. "Cerine, I think I'm coming down with something."

"I know you are."

"Wh--how?"

"You always are."

Ouch. Well, she's got a point. He leans away from her, much to her chagrin, to grab a handful of toiler paper off the nightstand--he really should pick up some actual tissues, he's worked enough overtime lately that it wouldn't feel so wasteful of a splurge--and stares blankly ahead, waiting for that vague, ticklish feeling he's been left with to become something properly actionable.

"You might not want to snuggle so close, then. I wouldn't want you catching anything."

He's delayed recommencing the snuggle for long enough that she seems like she's actually waking up now, enough so that she rolls onto her side and props herself up on one elbow to look at him with tired eyes. "Elle, if you've got something, I've already got it. I'm cuddled up to you, in your bed, where you've been sleeping and existing with your 'something' you're coming down with. Don't worry about it, just get--"

"hH'HDdjzzhue! iIDdzzhhue!"

"--cozy. Bless you." She sits up, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Better?"

"No, I--hh-!--think I'm--huH-! uDZZHHieww! 'DDZZHHyue!" His breath wavers for a fifth, but seems to change its mind at the last second, leaving him somewhat dissatisfied, but his shoulders slump enough for her to rest her cheek against one of them.

"Bless you."

"You don't have to say it every time."

"How long have I known you? I know. I want to."

He can feel the color flood his cheeks at her remark, at the feeling of her resting against him like this, of her lack of fear and her glut of understanding and compassion in its place. "Well...thank you."

"You can thank me by laying back down."

He can't fight the smile that threatens to display the little gap between his teeth, nor does he fight her attempting to pull him back down against the mattress. "You drive a hard bargain."

"I've been accused of as much in the past." She pulls him close, leaving him to rest his head on her chest, and entangling their limbs together. It isn't long before he's threatening to doze off again, lulled by the comfort of this moment. It's so cozy like this; the warmth of her body, the steady beat of her heart, the soft scent of whatever she's got on her skin...

Oh. That last one is actually rather cloying.

Now that he's aware of it, he finds it difficult to notice anything else--he swears he can feel it worming its way into his sinuses, sweet and light and positively ticklish, like its kissing every inch of an already irritable nose. He wrinkles it hard, gives a sharp sniff, but it doesn't do anything to really solve that buzzing itch--nor does he expect it to, unfortunately.

He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth in the vain hope that it'll buy him enough time to do something--anything!--except sneeze directly onto her chest.

It succeeds in buying him a couple extra seconds to instead openly spray the blankets, unable to free an arm quick enough to cover it. "eIZZHH'uh! iIZZHhyue! 'ZZHhue! hH'DDZHuuee!" He recovers with a thickly congested sigh that sounds more pitiful than he means it to, and he's leaning over Cerine's shoulder to grab the toilet paper on her side of the bed instead this time, not wanting to completely peel themselves apart just to do something about the moisture threatening to drip while he can't sniffle it back. "Excuse me--gosh, I'm sorry--"

"This is your bed, dude. You're the one who's gonna have to do the laundry, it's not any big thing to me."

"Yeah, but--"

"Elle."

"...right."

Well. She has a point. He'll have to do laundry in the morning anyway, so it really isn't going to be doing too terribly much damage like this. And, unfortunately, she also has a point that she's almost definitely caught whatever he's got, just from snuggling close like this. He sniffles thickly, and lets the thoughts roll around in his mind, weighed down by the clinging exhaustion of the absurd hour.

"I didn't mean to wake you." He stresses it again, as if she may not have had it impressed upon her enough the first time.

"I know." She shifts the blankets off of herself, swings her legs over the side of the bed and onto the cold floorboards. "I'm not mad about it." She circles around to the nightstand he's laying beside, and flicks on the lamp to look at him. "Oh, dude...you look awful."

"You talk so sweetly to me."

"You know I don't mean it badly." She runs her fingers through his hair, and he can't help but lean into her touch. Her hands always smell faintly of turpentine, of the lotion that's only sort of effective in fixing the cracks along her knuckles from trying to wash the paint and the inks off of them constantly. "This is day one?"

"It is."

"If this is first night, you're in for a bad one." She brushes a thumb up over his cheekbone, and then turns her hand over to press the back of it against his forehead. "You're not feverish." Not yet, at least. He has no doubt that he will be before terribly long.

"I know. I'm--" He laughs, unable to really stop it as she sits down into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and snuggling close against him. "You're really trying to catch this, aren't you?"

"I've already got it."

"You're trying to guarantee it."

"It already is."

He lets her lean their foreheads together, the tips of their noses touching. "You're tempting fate, with your face right in mine like this. My nose is unpredictable."

"Your nose is always unpredictable." She does seem to accept his protestations, even if he doesn't create a very strong argument, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

He's going to sneeze--and, if he's being honest, it's probably going to be soon--and having her so close feels like a gamble he doesn't want to take. She might be willing to take the risk, but it's still on him, regardless, if she does provoke something and is caught by it. More than that, he can't imagine how absolutely mortifying it would be to be the one sneezing on her, even if she doesn't seem truly perturbed by the idea of it--nowhere near as much as he thinks she really should be, anyway.

"Let's contemplate whatever you're thinking of while you're laying down." She rolls off of his lap, flopping down beside him onto the pillow. She pulls him down by the shoulder, and he can't find it in himself to resist even if he wanted to. He's so tired. It's, like, two in the morning, and neither of them have to work tomorrow morning, and there's something so delicious about being allowed to sleep in.

He coughs into his sleeve, ragged and ticklish, and he wriggles more deeply into the blankets to get as comfortable as he can. She's got her arms wrapped around him, letting him be the little spoon--much to his delight, as his preferred position between the two for snuggling--and his eyes are drifting closed before he can fight it.

⁂

He jolts awake when someone grabs his shoulder and shakes it. She's got ahold of him, and he's suddenly aware of the fact that he's trembling and sweaty, her hand on him to pull him closer. "Hey, hey...you good?"

"Uhmb--" He glances at the clock, and the wall, and down towards his lap awkwardly. It's disorienting to be awake so suddenly, to feel like his mind simply can't catch up with the rest of him. He snuffles thickly, coughs in response to it, and snags a handful of toilet paper to try and blow his nose. It does little to fix the way his consonants are all rounded out, but it gives him some semblance of his proper voice back. "Am I good?"

"You seemed like you were having a bad dream...are you sure you're okay?" In the dim glow of the alarm clock on the nightstand, in the shaft of light that leeches in from under the door, he can make out the expression on her face. Her forehead is creased with sympathy, the way she touches him so gently.

His thoughts are catching back up with him enough that he just leans into her touch, letting her bear his weight. "I think I'm okay. Did I--did I wake you?"

"No, it's fine. Really I woke you here, I should be the one apologizing." Her hands trail down over his back, her fingertips drawing little designs over his nightgown to comfort him.

He shivers. "Cerine, I love you. You're so nice to me."

He can feel how her body shifts when she laughs, how she holds him close and rocks them both a little like they're both going to drift off just like this. "I love you, too. You're a good guy, y'know? I'm glad that we're friends. There's nobody else I'd rather wake me up while we're having a sleepover."

She nuzzles in to kiss the crown of his head, and he feels like he glows from the inside, like every fiber of his being was made for this moment. "You're my favorite sleepover. Thank you for being here."

"Ah, well, you know. I was free, and you were offering, so..."

He grins. "Of course."

[gay-for-the-snz]

Day 14 Clean Sheets/Fresh Pajamas [ELLIOTT]

 

Cold fic

 

⁂

 

"This really isn't necessary..."

"Elliott?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

"Okay."

He would argue with him, but Bolormaa, despite being an entire foot shorter than he is, more than makes up for it with his presence and the intimidation that he thinks only short women possess. Or maybe it's just that he is, as he's told him affectionately, a 'pitiful twink who can't handle a hot butch'. It could be either, really, or perhaps even both.

"So, as I was saying," he chases Elliott's hand away from the pot with a spoon, "I am under strict orders from the boss man to make sure that your fool ass doesn't try to get himself sent to urgent care with an everything-infection again."

"It wasn't everything."

"It was a sinus infection and both ears! How much more 'everything' do you want?"

"Well--"

"I am not arguing with a man in a bathrobe. Go sit down on the couch or I'm going to carry you there myself." He gives him a nudge towards the couch, and he sheepishly complies, turned around to stare at what the two women are doing in his kitchen.

It's always nice to see them both, but this is perhaps a little overkill for just a cold, even if it's a particularly nasty one that seems to be trying to turn to cement in his sinuses and now trying to settle into his lungs. He's sure he looks silly, peering at them like a dog through a glass door, but he wants to help! If they're going to such trouble just to be kind to him like this, the least he can do is to make himself useful. He doesn't want to just sit around like a bump on a log while they do all the work.

"Elliott?" Erdeni leans over the back of the couch to brush the hair from his face, and feel his forehead. "You poor thing, you're burning up. Bolkaa, he's feverish."

"I know, but he won't take anything, and unlike the cat, I'm not willing to force-feed it to him." He glances over his shoulder at Elliott's sweaty face and grimaces. "Is he more pale than usual? It's hard to tell."

"I think he might be. What does he usually look like?"

"Pale."

"I'm right here?"

"The grown-ups are talking."

"You're both ridiculous."

"Ridiculous, sure, but we're also in charge." Bolormaa's smile and remark are enough to make him roll his eyes, which earns a laugh from Erdeni. "Listen, we're gonna take care of you or whatever, so be a good patient so I can tell the Captain that you're behaving like a little angel."

"I'm sure he wouldn't believe it if you told him that." He coughs wetly, just as painful and productive as the sneezing has been, and the mere sound of it has them both wince as they look him over.

"Yeah, alright, you're gonna go take a shower. Get some steam to loosen that shit up. Oh--yeah, Deenii, you weren't joking, he's hot." He finds himself being half hauled to his feet by Bolormaa, enough to shift the balance weirdly and threaten to pull them both over, because dragging him is like dragging the world's most gangly ragdoll. "C'mon, work with me here."

"I can stand on my own, I'm not that sick."

"You could've fooled me."

There's something rather embarrassing about being fussed over by two people, but he has to admit, there's also something deeply nice about it. About being considered worth the effort by his employer to give a coworker the day off, just to make sure that he's alright. Apparently he'd sounded particularly wretched when he called out sometime in the wee hours of the morning, or else the Captain wouldn't have decided it was critical enough to go to the trouble.

He pulls awkwardly away from Bolormaa, getting to his feet quickly enough that it throws her off balance and gives him the opportunity to snatch a couple tissues from the box to nuzzle into. "hyYIIGZZH'uhh! hH'DJZZHH'hue!" He practically whimpers in the aftermath, the packed feeling in his sinuses not eased at all by the pair of sneezes. If anything, it feels like it just made things worse, which is, admittedly, probably not a great sign.

"Oh, honey, bless you. Bolkaa, he sounds so miserable."

"I know, I hear him. We'll get him feeling a little better before we leave, I promise."

Two hands are placed on his back as they shepherd him towards the bathroom, and he can't deny the will of the both of them--nor, really, does he want to, a shower sounds lovely. He hears them whisper something behind him, and even if he doesn't understand any Mongolian to decipher it even if he wasn't feverish, the hushed tones, oozing with concern, are enough to tell him the rough gist of what they're discussing: him.

What they'll do with him. Whether or not they should be genuinely worried that this is going to become something that necessitates a trip to the doctor. What they're going to tell the Captain.

"Elliott? You're going to be fine to do this on your own, yeah?"

"If you're not, we could help you--"

"No!" He can feel how hard he's blushing from the mere thought of it. That horror deep in the pit of him at the idea of his coworker and his wife having to not only look at his nude form, but to touch it because he can't be trusted to do something as simple as stand upright for long enough to scrub himself clean. "No, I can do it on my own, I swear. You're very sweet to offer but I'm not so far gone that I need someone to bathe me. I'm not on death's door, just congested and sweaty."

"You don't have to be modest if you need it..." Erdeni's brow is creased with sympathy, her cool hands instinctively pressed against the back of his neck and shoulder to feel his skin in the void between where the bathrobe ends and his tanktop begins. It makes him shiver.

"You are so kind to offer, but I don't need that--I'm not just being modest! I swear! You don't--" He trails off into a flustered little cough, that morphs into something deeper and more brutal on his ribs. He can't help the 'oww' that follows as he presses a hand to his chest.

"Alright, we'll let you shower, but the compromise is that you're keeping the door cracked. Not wide open, but open enough for us to make sure you're not about to keel over and die in there." Bolormaa keeps a firm hand on the knob, pushing back against his halfhearted attempt at closing it against the both of them.

"If that's what it'll take to keep you both out there..."

"It is. Right, Deenii?"

"We're women of our word."

Whether he believes them or not is irrelevant. He knows well that he can do nothing to actually stop them if they set their mind to something, and he has little choice but to take them at their word that they intend to let him shower in peace at this compromise. He coughs into his fist again, less harsh this time than the last, and gives them a beleaguered look as he slips behind the cracked door. "Don't look."

"You have nothing to worry about in that department."

He waits until he hears them walk away from the door before he's truly convinced of his privacy, and strips down as quick as he can manage to hop into the water. It's probably not a fantastic idea to boil himself like a lobster when he's already feverish, but the main point of this shower, other than getting the sweat off his skin, is for steam, so he cranks the temp way up until it's straddling that line between painful and just right.

And good Lord does it feel divine.

He sags with relief as the hot water runs over aching muscles, slowly twisting from side to side to try and--gently--crack his back, to ease at least some of the tension in his body. This may be the closest thing to Heaven he can achieve while on earth, and he intends to stand there savoring it. He doesn't even bother to do anything with his hair, just lets the water run down it and occasionally pushes it over his shoulders enough to let the water touch bare skin.

He doesn't even attempt to fight the loosening congestion in his head or his chest, just lets the hot water do as it pleases as the heat sinks deep into the core of him to warm him against the chill that he hasn't really been able to shake since this morning. He sniffles sharply against the liquidy feeling in his sinuses, and it proves to be a mistake. He takes a shaking gasp before he simply braces against the shower well and lets it take its course.

"H-hH! hiIDTZZHHyue! Huh...hH'DZZHHieww!" The tickle doesn't exactly abate so much as back away teasingly, and he can't find it in himself to really do anything to hurry it along. He's comfortable here, and certainly in no rush to get out. "Hh...h-hiH--! ...hyIIZZHHue! 'DTZZHHuh! 'ZZHHyue! hIH--!? ...guh!"

From somewhere else in the apartment, he hears a pair of "bless you"s, and is grateful they can't see how ridiculously he's scrubbing at his nose, taking full advantage of the fact that he is both out of view and that the thin moisture that greets him from the action is easily washed off. He stoops low enough to let the water run from his crown, turn him into his best approximation of a drowned rat, and soaks the warmth in for another several minutes before extremely reluctantly shutting off the water and getting out.

Despite how thickly he can see the steam in the air, turning the mirror into a useless white void and rising from his skin in hot coils, he is frigid from the change in temperature. Was it this cold before he stepped in?

He wrinkles his nose again, irritation sparked back to life from the sheer indignation at being taken from a warm heaven to a cold hell, and doesn't find himself with time to do anything but sneeze openly towards the tiles. "hYEIZZHhue! Hih--hiISSHHue!" He groans, grabs a handful of toilet paper to blow his nose into to keep it from dripping quite so badly.

Now that the congestion is moving, he half regrets wishing it would, everything seeming intent to flood forth all at once. He dries his hair the best he can without going to the full time commitment of letting it air out, and ties it back to keep it off his neck--or at least as off his neck as he can really manage, and realizes, as he stares at the counter, that the pajamas he was wearing have disappeared into the hereafter.

Color floods his cheeks as he realizes he's been left nothing but his drawers, and wraps himself as decently into the towel as he can manage. The door cracks open further, and he peers out in a mixture of confusion and embarrassment. "Did you--where are my pajamas?"

"In the wash. You were sweaty, poor thing, they weren't going to help you feel any better."

"But--"

"You heard her." Bolormaa nudges him towards the bedroom, Erdeni following behind with a bowl and mug clutched close to her chest.

He is nothing if not obedient, and lets himself be shepherded into his bedroom.

The bed's been freshly made, blankets folded back expectantly, a nightgown and the robe laid out in the empty space where he's clearly intended to occupy. He looks back at them in surprise, and they just laugh.

"You're not usually one to take a hint, so we spelled it out for you." Bolormaa's grin is infectious, and he jostles Erdeni as she stands beside him, threatening to spill the contents of her arms. "Go on, get comfortable. We're not taking no for an answer."

He can feel their eyes on him as he changes, and crawls under the blankets. They still smell faintly of the hall closet, and he's sure it's probably a lot stronger to the two people in the room whose noses aren't nearly deadened by the weight of a cold. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"Don't--"

Erdeni elbows her wife's side to silence him, and takes a seat on the edge of the bed beside his legs. "Of course we didn't, but we wanted to know that you would be taken care of once we left. You should have everything you need: we made soup, and there's tea, and you've got clean sheets, fresh pajamas...there should be everything you need to shake this thing, as long as you just take it easy."

"Yeah, if we come back and find that you've been pushing it too hard and are in worse shape, we're gonna kick your ass." Despite what he says, he's smiling softly, taking the mug from her to set on an ugly little coaster on the nightstand. "It's nothing crazy or fancy, but it should be enough. And if you need something else, you'd better tell somebody, and they'll come to it for you. No one wants to have to tell the Captain that you're in urgent care again."

His chest and throat are suddenly tight, the weight of the affection nearly too much to bear. He wipes hard at watery eyes, willing himself to just play it cool for once and not absolutely come to pieces because someone did something nice for him. His voice is thin and hoarse from the effort when he finally speaks. "Thank you."

Bolormaa waves a dismissive hand. "Don't mention it."

"You feel better now, alright? We're only a call away--and call the Captain in the morning, he'll want to know how you're feeling." The pair of them give an affectionate squeeze to whatever they can reach on him, a knee and a shoulder, and he sinks down against the mattress.

"I will, I promise." It's one he intends to keep.