O Olho Da Deusa/Deus - Arte Indígena Muito Conhecida Só Que Na Sua Forma Com Fios De Lã. Um Amuleto

This is a super SUPER late birthday fic for @shiveringsickies who’s wonderful and amazing and deserves all the good things in life.

*

The week before finals is, by far, the absolute most stressful event in anyone’s academic career. Add in being a complete perfectionist, and you’re in for an especially rough time.

Shiro is in that boat right now - alternating between pulling all nighters and sleeping for only a couple of hours. By the time Friday rolls around, he’s bone-tired and more than ready to sleep for a year straight. Except, he has to work, and he still feels like he has so much to study that he’s not sure when he’ll be able to actually sleep.

“Dude, you look beat,” Hunk says, raising a brow.

“Yeah…well…it’s finals week,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes sleepily, “why don’t you look like you’re about to fall asleep?”

“My finals finished two days ago…and then I slept for an entire day and a half.”

“How? Finals week doesn’t start until Monday.”

“I’m graduating tomorrow,” he grins.

“Oh right…congrats, man. That’s awesome,” Shiro says, shooting him a weak smile.

Hulk grimaces, “when’s the last time you slept?”

“Uh…I think I’ve been up for thirty two hours.”

“Shiro.”

“I know, I know…I’m pretty sure I’ve only slept about ten hours this week.”

“You need to sleep. Go home.”

“Can’t…I have to work.”

“I’m your boss, did you forget that?” Hunk grins.

“But-”

“-No buts. Seriously, I’ll get someone to cover your shift, we’ll be fine. Everyone is busy studying for finals, I really don’t think there will be many people needing the RA on duty. Go home and sleep.”

“Okay,” Shiro mumbles, “sleep sounds nice.”

“I’ll bet it does. Let me know if you need anything.”

*

When Shiro wakes up, his entire body aches with an intensity that nearly brings tears to his eyes. He feels so aggressively awful that he doesn’t really know…what…to do. He’s freezing, it feels like there’s ice water in his veins, and he can’t stop shivering.

He rolls onto his back, trying to ignore how raw and swollen his throat feels, and how much pressure he feels in his sinuses and behind his eyes. He sniffles, rubbing at his nose as he blinks heavily - he’s not entirely sure what day it is, but he just wants to go back to sleep.

Shiro forces himself out of bed anyways, because if the dizzy, light-headed feeling is anything to go by, he needs to try and eat something. He pulls the blankets around his shoulders and shuffles out into the living room area, muffling a cough into one of the corners of the blanket.

Lance is sitting on the couch, reading one of the books from his literature class when Shiro walks out.

“Are you alright?” Lance frowns, eyebrows furrowing when he takes in Shiro’s appearance.

“Umb…I think I’mb sick,” he rasps, voice weak and thick with congestion.

“Yeah, no shit, Shiro. You’re shivering, come sit down, what do you need?”

“I wandted sombe food…and mbaybe tea. Mby throat is killing mbe,” he grunts, dropping down onto the couch and curling into himself. He readjusts the blanket so that he’s laying underneath it.

“What sounds good?”

“Ndothing really…i’mb dizzy, though.”

“You’ve been living on coffee and energy drinks the last week. You’re probably way dehydrated.”

“Probably,” he mumbles, drawing his knees to his chest as he shivers again.

Lance rests his hand on Shiro’s forehead, “shit…no wonder you’re shivering so much, you’re burning up.”

“Thought so…what day is it?”

“Saturday night.”

“What?”

“Yeah, it’s eight.”

“Are you serious?”

“…Um…yeah? Why would I lie?”

“I wasted the endtire day,” he groans, “I have to study.”

“You have studied - all week - and now you’re sick. You need to get some sleep.”

“I kndow,” Shiro sniffles, “I’mb freezing…cand I have andother blanket?”

“You never admit you’re sick,” Lance frowns, walking over to the other side of the room to grab him another one, “what gives?”

“I feel awful,” he mumbles, pressing his face into the cushions. Lance drapes a blanket over him, which doesn’t seem to help him feel any less cold, and it doesn’t make the shivers abate at all.

“Yeah,” Lance frowns, feeling his cheek, “I want to get a read on your temperature, hold on.”

“Ugh…okay,” he groans.

His phone rings, and it takes a couple of minutes of him trying to figure out what’s buzzing before he realizes it’s his phone. His brain feels sluggish and hazy, and he almost just ignores the call.

But, he figures he probably shouldn’t do that, so he fumbles with it for a few moments before he’s finally able to answer.

“Hello?” He croaks, rubbing at his forehead as he tries not to cough all over his phone.

“Hey, man. You know you’re supposed to be working, right? Keith just called, he said nobody can get ahold of you,” Hunk says.

“I…what?”

“Are you alright?”

“I just woke up, I’mb ndot-”

“Oh shit,” Hunk hisses, “you sound awful. Stay home, don’t worry about your shift, we’ll get it handled.”

“Thanks,” Shiro mumbles, still entirely too confused to understand what just happened.

He scrubs a hand over his face, letting out a stuffy little cough as he hunkers down deeper into the blankets.

God, why is it so cold?

“Okay, here,” Lance says, handing him a thermometer, “stick it underneath your tongue. I’m going to make you some tea.”

“What?”

“Thermometer under your tongue,” Lance repeats, a frown crossing his face, “you okay?”

“Dizzy,” he mumbles, sticking it in his mouth.

When it beeps, Lance takes it from him and walks into the kitchen.

“103.4. Holy shit, dude.”

“I dond’t feel very well.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Lance hisses, grabbing him some medicine. “You’re going to take this and we’re going to watch a movie until you fall asleep. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Shiro mumbles sleepily, “sounds good.”

Hi could you write something where A has been hiding sickness for a while now, but suddenly B got sick as well (maybe got it from A) and everyone else are too busy so they ask A to take care of B not knowing A is worse off? Maybe A even gave up some comfort items or the last meds for B?

just a disclaimer that this is all in good fun and not actually recommended treatment for the following illness - I just wrote purely from vibes lol 😆

A suppresses another cough in the corner of their elbow, disguising it as a clear of their throat. They’ve definitely felt off for the past week or so - deep aches and chills all the way to their bones, a constant cough, and the desire to just stay curled up in bed - but they’re not going to tell anyone that.

Instead, they pull on a sweatshirt and head down to the kitchen to make themselves a cup of tea to ease their shivers, praying that today is the day they finally take a turn for the better.

“Hey, have you seen the hot water bottle anywhere?” C bursts into the room, eyes searching urgently, just as A takes their first sip.

“Um…yeah, it’s in my room.” And it’s been my constant companion for the last two nights because I ache all over and can’t get warm for anything. “Why?”

“B woke up not feeling great, so I was gonna grab it and give it to them. You’re good if I take it?”

“…Sure.” A rolls their shoulders, rubbing their aching joints and trying to stretch out their sore muscles. They’ll take a hot bath later, then.

“Thanks,” C says, darting back out of the room, then suddenly poking their head back in. “Hey, A?”

“Hmm?”

“Listen, I’ve got a bunch of errands to run today and a work meeting I’ve got to go into the office for, and D’s working later at the hospital, so do you think you could look after B?”

A shrugs, clearing their throat. “Sure.” If C’s asking them, then B must be much worse off than them - so they owe it to them to suck it up and help out.

After they finish their tea, they head upstairs to B’s room. B’s curled up in bed reading a book, hot water bottle laying on their stomach.

“How’re you feeling, B?” Despite not feeling well themselves, A has to admit that B looks a little wan and peaked.

B sets the book down, coughing into their elbow. “I’m okay. Just a fever, aches, that sort of thing.” Their voice is scratchy, but they’re clear-eyed and alert.

Same as them a few days ago, then. Guilt washes over A - if they’d have just confessed to being sick, they could’ve isolated and B would be okay. This is all my fault. “Well, can I get you anything?” They try to brighten their voice, but overdo it and it just comes out sounding forced.

But if B notices, they don’t let on. “Maybe….some cough medicine? It’s all in my chest, and coughing hurts.” They rub their breastbone with a wince, pulling the hot water bottle over their chest.

“On it.” A shuffles off to the bathroom, pulling the brown bottle they know all too well from the medicine cabinet. There’s only a little left, but they don’t even give it a second thought - B needs it more, and they can text C to grab more while they’re out. Their hands tremble as they pour the remainder of thick liquid into the little cup, and they squeeze their eyes shut to try and stop shaking. Come on, A. Get it together.

By the time A sets the dose of cough medicine on the nightstand, their vision’s swirling in their eyes. Even walking to the bathroom was exhausting.

“A, are you alright?” B sits up in bed, eyebrows furrowed as they pick up the dose and knock it back. “You’re really pale.”

“I’m…I’m fine.” A sudden shudder rattles their teeth and they lean on B’s bed for stability. Despite their layers, their whole body’s just gone ice cold, a sheen of cold sweat and goosebumps covering their body. They tilt toward the bed and lean heavily against the mattress, bracing themselves with both their arms, suddenly finding it hard to take a full breath between the deep, painful coughs.

“A, I’m serious, are you sure you’re…”

But A doesn’t hear the rest as their knees slip, and they’re falling down, down…..

“A. Wake up. Come on, now.” B’s raspy voice cuts through the haze, commanding with an edge of fear. They’re out of bed and on the floor with them, looking just as shaken as A feels. “Get up. Please.”

A blinks awake, immediately aware that B’s at their side, tugging at their sweatshirt, trying to lift them off the floor.

“A. Get in bed. Now.” B’s voice is someone between stern and on the verge of tears. A’s so spent that they can’t even respond verbally, so as B half-lifts them with their remaining strength, A claws at the comforter to pull themselves up, up, until they tip onto the covers in a heap next to B. They cough deeply, the effort burning in their chest, and moan slightly. In a minute, they’ll get up and care for B.

“A….are you sick too?” B’s crackly voice sounds small and scared, and A wishes that they could spare them from this.

I should’ve said something. This is my fault. I’m sorry.

But a sob is the only thing that can escape their lips as they nod. They’ve been trying and trying so hard not to bother anyone with this, and now they’re collapsing in front of the only other sick person in the house.

“God, A, why didn’t you say something?” The words are angry, but A can hear the tremble in B’s voice.

“I’m sorry,” A weeps. “I just didn’t know what to say.”

“Hey, hey, you’re alright. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped.” B clears their throat, resting a hand on A’s shoulder. “You’re just scaring me, is all. Tell me what’s up.”

“I’m so cold,” A chatters weakly, hugging themselves. That’s all they can get out, anyways. In reality, they’re feverish and cold to the bone, shivering from head to toe, and their chest is on fire. They’ve barely done anything and yet they can’t catch their breath, and the air feels thick and heavy when they breathe.

B hurriedly covers them with a blanket, pulling them close and rubbing their shoulders, pressing the hot water bottle to their chest. A clings to it like a lifeline against their sore chest, but the chills still course through their body. Nothing warms them - they’re slowly freezing from the inside out, even though they can feel their head and joints burning with fever.

The next hours (or days - A’s lost all sense of time) are an absolute blur. They’re aware of a voice shouting, thought they sound like they’re underwater, even though there’re right next to them. Hands tug at their clothing, pulling off their sweatshirt, and in their fevered dreams, vultures peck away at them, and they’re unable to fight off the vicious birds. Cold, damp rags are laid across their forehead and over their chest and stomach, and to them, they’re trapped in the deepest ocean, and seaweed wraps around them and chokes the life out of them.

And the shakes - god, the shakes are unlike anything they’ve ever felt. Great, rolling earthquakes of chills from their core that rattle their bones and teeth so hard they’re scared they’ll break. At times, it seems the only thing keeping them together is the warm arms that hold them tight and the gentle whisper of comforting words in their ear.

When A surfaces from the dark hell they’ve been trapped in, they realize they’re still in B’s bed, covered in piles of blankets. D hovers next to them, fiddling with a small orange bottle, and the night table has been filled with all sorts of medical paraphernalia - medicine bottles, a nebulizer, a stethoscope and box of tissues. Perks of living with a doctor, they think, but they’re too drained to poke fun at B about it.

They’re acutely aware of feeling worse than they had earlier. Everything aches - their arms, their legs, their back and shoulders, especially their chest, and even shifting in bed is painful. Not to mention that they’re still freezing, and they can’t take a deep breath.

“What….happened?” They rasp, coughing between each word.

“Hon, you’ve got pneumonia.” D slides onto the bed next to them, pushing A’s hair back off their forehead to feel their fever. “How long were you feeling this bad?”

A shrugs. “Couple days.” D gives them a pointed look, but doesn’t push further. Instead, they pop open the small bottle and tap two pills into their hand.

“Take these,” D says. “B called me at the hospital freaking out, and we were able to chat with the doctors and get some antibiotics to pump into you for the next few days.”

A’s too tired to respond to that, so they just oblige as D slips the bitter medicine under their tongue, then props their head up so they can sip some water to chase them. As they sit up, the blankets slip from their shoulders and allow the cool air of the room underneath, setting off another round of shivers that send them clutching at the covers. D hurriedly tucks A back in, gently rubbing at their shoulders.

“Shhhh, you’re alright. You’re okay.” The chills seize their body for what feels like an hour, but finally, A stops shivering enough to ask the question on their brain.

“B, how’s B?”

“Fine. We still think they’ve got a bad cold, but they shouldn’t get nearly as bad as you if we take care of them.” D smiles sadly, gazing up at the ceiling. “They’re in your room - we didn’t want to move you.”

As if on cue, B pokes their head in the door, blanket wrapped around their shoulders. A’s awake enough to see them lean against the door, exhausted from their own illness.

“B, I thought I told you to stay-“

“Is A okay?” B asks it in that crackly, worn out voice of theirs.

D glances back at A. “Still pretty sick. But we’ve got some medicine in them now. Once C gets back with the rest of the prescription, I think we’ll be out of the woods.”

B nods, coughing into their own elbow. “Sorry you’re sick, A.”

A nods, stifling a coughing fit of their own, cinching the covers up to their chin. In that moment, B darts back into the room, carefully settling on the bed next to A while D’a back is turned. When D sees it, they exhale and roll their eyes at B’s clinginess. “B, you need rest. Go back to-“

“Can’t I stay here? Just for a little bit?” B’s voice is pleading, and they nestle closer and rest their head ever so gently near A’s stomach.

D finally relents. “A few minutes. But only until their nebulizer treatment’s done. You push it, and you’ll end up like A here.”

B nods, sneaking under one of A’s many blankets and wrapping an arm around A’s waist. D fiddles with something on the nightstand and turns around with the mask of the nebulizer in their hand, then gently eases it over A’s face.

“There. That’ll help your breathing a bit.” D rubs their hands together and surveys the room, and with every breath of the medicine A wants nothing more than to throw their arms around D and thank them for helping them be able to breathe better. But D leaves to go get something else, and B curls closer, pressing themselves into A’s side like they’re scared they’ll fade away.

“Don’t you ever sacrifice yourself like that again, okay?” B’s voice is shaky, and they gently rub A’s side.

A nods weakly, letting their tired eyes fall shut. They wish they could pull B close, but they can’t bring themselves to pull their arms out from under the warmth of the covers. So instead, they just roll toward B and hope they get the message. And from the way B hugs them tighter, A thinks they do.

💟 “Are you okay?” response prompts:

“Why do you keep asking me that?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Not really…”

“Yeah, my stomach’s just bothering me a little.”

“No, my stomach’s really bothering me.”

“Do I look okay to you?”

“I was just going to ask you that.”

“I’m fine. I’m just tired.”

“I will be once we get home.”

“Not exactly.”

“No, I kind of feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m just a little out of it today.”

*shrugs* “I don’t know. I feel funny.”

*covers mouth and shakes head before making a mad dash for the bathroom*

“Yeah, I think so.”

“No, something’s not agreeing with me.”

*shivers* “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I’m running a fever.”

“Like you care.”

*wraps arms around belly and starts to cry* “No.”

*blinks dazedly* “Huh? Are you talking to me?” ———————————————

“Relatively speaking.”

“At this point? Not sure I’ll ever be okay again.”

*swallows thickly* “No, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Hard to say.”

“No, I’m starving.”

*snorts* “Did ____ send you?”

“Not even a little bit.”

*shakes head* “I don’t feel good.”

“I think I’m as far from okay as I can be.”

“Yup! I’m right as rain.”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“No, I-I don’t–” *faints*

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Who’s asking? Because I know it’s not you.”

“Define ‘okay.’”

“You know I hate that question.”

“No. I have the worst stomach ache.”

*sarcastically* “Oh, yeah, I’m great.”

*shakes head and buries face into friend’s shoulder*

“Ugh, no. I think I’m gonna hurl.” ———————————————

“Yeah. Why?”

“No. I just threw up.”

*can’t answer over the urge to gag*

“Yes. You’re starting to sound like a broken record.”

“Yeah, fine. Why do you ask?”

“Would you be okay?”

*gasping breaths, crying* “No. I can’t breathe.”

“No, I-I need a bucket.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about me.”

“You have some nerve asking me that.”

*knees collapse*

“No. I don’t think my stomach’s too happy with me.”

“That’s a bit of a loaded question.”

“I dunno. Do I feel hot to you?”

“Never better.”

“No, I feel like my insides are liquifying.”

“Nnh. My head feels like it’s gonna explode.”

“I think you need to answer that question first.”

“Psh. Of course I am.”

“That’s gonna be a negative, ghost rider.” ———————————————

“If I said ‘yes’ would you believe me?

“Jury’s still out.”

“I feel like I could puke at any second, but other than that I’m great.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m living the dream.”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

“Compared to who?”

“No. Pretty sure I’m dying.”

“I’ll live.”

“Well, I’m still alive.”

“No, I’m really dizzy.”

“No, I think I’m sick. Really sick.”

“You’re receiving medical attention right now and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

“Just peachy.”

“No, I’m not okay. Is that what you want to hear?”

*exasperated* “Yes, quit asking me that!”

*shakes head, pinches bridge of nose* “I think I need to leave.”

“You already asked me that today. You passed your quota.”

*humming no and cradling belly* “Mm-mm. M-My stomach…”

“No… I’m gonna–” *throws up hugely*

*stomach makes loud gurgling noise* “Yeah, sorry, my stomach’s just going haywire.”

Hug Fables amirite?

When you said vi is diagnosed with baby I just pictured bee getting smaller and smalller,gaining a lisp,etc, and leif and kabbu are distraught meanwhile vi is just really annoyed

when the teenager you lowkey adopted fucking just turns into baby

Go Home

I’m back with more snide restaurant coworker bullshit. No plot, just vibes - I used 3 different prompt posts in this, this one, this one, and this one, which are all just *chefs kiss*. Unbetad, unedited, just a big pile of garbage I threw together and shamelessly present unto you all. Hope you guys enjoy :)

In case you didn’t read my first story posted here, Elijah is a restaurant owner/General Manager and Greyson is a chef. That’s all you really need to follow along lmao. 

Go Home

“Greyson. Go home.”

Greyson’s head snapped up and his eyes locked with his boss’s as Elijah breezed out of the office and into the kitchen. “Why would I go home?”

“You’re sick. You have a cold.”

Greyson let his jaw fall open in mock aghast, put down his knife and placed a hand on his chest as if he needs to center himself after such an indoctrination. “I do not. How dare you. Why would you say that?”

Elijah rolled his eyes at the chef’s theatrics and placed his phone and laptop on the prep table where Greyson was working. “I say it because I’ve been here not even three minutes and the only things I’ve heard out of your mouth are sneezes and coughs.” He picked his things back up and poked the chef in the chest. “Go home.”

“That’s not even true, we just had a full conversa- HFTSHH-uhh!” Greyson caught the sneeze in an elbow, hastily brought to his face at the last moment. Elijah bleated out a laugh as he pushed through the kitchen doors and into the server’s station. “Bad timing!” Greyson called behind him.

“Go home!”

***

Greyson wasn’t about to just go home.

It was January, which meant it was painfully slow in the restaurant, but that didn’t mean he had nothing to do. They had a few big events coming up, and his team was only just recovering from some nasty bug that had taken them down one by one through the busy holidays. The guys needed the support of their chef, and Greyson certainly wasn’t one to take a sick day when his team needed him – especially when he wasn’t even sick.

“Huhh…huhETSHH-ue! Fuck me,” Greyson said, turning away from his prep station to sneeze into his shoulder for what felt like the millionth time that day. He walked to the sink nearest to him, pulled out a paper towel, and wiped his nose before washing his hands. He definitely wasn’t sick, but whatever was making him sneeze like it was his job was really starting to piss him off.

There were still several hours til service began, so Greyson decided to work on some new menu recon while he had a few moments of down time. The mushroom risotto dish he’d spent some time on still wasn’t quite there yet, but he’d tasted it so many times it had turned to mush in his mouth. Greyson scooped the less-than-perfect dish into a deli container and went out in search of his boss.

He knocked on the open office door at the front of the kitchen, where Elijah was seated and working on a schedule. Greyson scooped a bit of risotto onto a spoon and held it out. “Hey, boss, can you give this a taste?”

“I most certainly cannot,” Elijah said, not looking away from his work. Greyson couldn’t help but laugh.

“Uh…any particular reason why?”

Elijah raised his eyebrows and lolled his head to the side to look at the chef. “Two reasons, actually. One, you aren’t supposed to be here, so I’m ignoring you. And two -”

“Onesec – HGSTHH-ue! HRSHH-uh! Shit, sorry, ’scuse me, go on,” Greyson rubbed his nose on his shoulder and Elijah gave him a look of revulsion.

“Two,” he continued, pointedly placing a box of tissues at the end of the desk, facing Greyson, “I’m not eating off of your spoon because, as I have said, you are sick.”

Greyson rolled his eyes and held the spoon closer to Elijah’s face. “C’mon, man, I need some feedback.” He sniffled, trying not to sound pathetic. “Please?”

“If I try it, will you go home?”

“Probably not.”

Huffing exasperatedly, Elijah grabbed a fork off of the plate that had held his lunch earlier and stuck it pointedly into the deli container Greyson was holding. He took a bite while looking into Greyson’s red-rimmed eyes. “More parmesan,” he said, putting the fork back on the used plate beside him. “And too much truffle oil. Now go home.”

Greyson smiled and grabbed a tissue from the box Elijah had placed before him. “Thanks, boss,” he said, shoving the tissue in his pants pocket. “Can always count on y-yuhh…HGTSHH-uhh! Snf. Coundt ond you,” he finished, stuffily. Elijah glanced at the chef, eyebrows raised as if to say, you ready to admit defeat yet? Greyson just shrugged.

“I’ll take sombe claritin,” Greyson said lamely, pulling the tissue back out of his pocket and wiping his nose. “I’mb ndot sick.”

Elijah looked back at his computer. “Whatever you say, Grey.”

***

Whoever the fuck had given him this shit was about to feel his wrath.

…not that he was sick or anything.

It was four pm and the cooks were all sitting at the back of the kitchen eating staff meal before the restaurant opened. Alternatively, Greyson was crouched on hands and knees in his office, cursing under his breath while he searched for the ibuprofen he and Elijah kept in one of these drawers.

He figured it was most likely his sous chef, Matt who was the culprit. Kid couldn’t cover his mouth if you forced him with a gun to his head, and he’d been so sick on New Year’s that Greyson forced him to go to urgent care at the end of the night. Fucking Matt. Didn’t he know better than to come to work si -

“HuhETSHHue! GTSHH-uh! HRRSTCHH-oo! Fuck.”

Greyson abandoned his search for ibuprofen in lieu of the rapidly depleting tissue box on the desk. He pulled himself back into his desk chair and reached for the box -

Only to see Elijah holding it hostage at the entrance to their office.

“You’re not going to eat?” Elijah asked. Greyson, whose nose had begun running in earnest post-sneezing, gave a lame eye roll from behind his hand.

“Ndot hungry. Give mbe the tissues, please.”

“Oh, these?” Elijah asked, holding up the box theatrically. “Why ever would you need these? I mean, you’re so clearly well and spry. Healthy as a horse as they say.”

“Dude, just give them to mbe. Shouldn’t you be in pre-shift?”

“I was coming to get you for pre-shift, you bozo,” Elijah said, tossing the tissues at Greyson. “But now I’m beginning to question if the servers would even be able to understand what you’re saying.”

Greyson gratefully blew his nose facing away from Elijah and tossed the tissues in the trash. “Fuck directly off, Lij,” he said, the words punctuated with a hoarse cough. “I’m coming. Give me two minutes.”

“I’ll give you two days, how about that?” Elijah said, turning to leave the kitchen. “Go. Home.”

Greyson stood, reinvigorated by fury. “Fuck. Off,” he said in the same cadence as his boss. “I’m fine.”

Elijah threw his arms up in defeat and held the swinging door open for the chef. “C’mon, then,” he said, gesturing Greyson towards the dining room. “Let’s go infect my entire staff.”

***

An hour into service, Greyson felt his phone buzz. Twice.

It wasn’t a busy service – people were out of money post-holiday it seemed – so Greyson was working on menu ideas and scheduling in the office while Matt held down the line and his cooks did some deep cleaning. Or, he was attempting to do scheduling between bouts of -

“Huhhh…HGTSSHH-ue! HRRSHH! HPTSSH-oo!”

“Bless, Chef,” Matt called to him from the line. Greyson flipped him the bird and pulled his once-again-vibrating phone from his pocket. Who the fuck was blowing him up? Everyone he knew was here.

Greyson wiped under his nose with a tissue and unlocked his phone. Eight new messages – all from Elijah. Jesus Christ. Was his boss really that lazy that he couldn’t walk the twenty steps from the dining room to the kitchen?

Greyson opened their text thread and immediately rolled his eyes.

5:21PM

Bless you.

Bless you.

5:46PM

Bless you.

You know everyone out here can hear you.

5:59PM

Bless you.

Bless you.

6:12PM

Bless.

Ok, seriously you sound like fuckin shit.

Greyson felt his face go hot as he typed out and sent his response.

6:15PM

Fuck off, Lij.

“HTSHHH-uhhh. Godammit.”

Greyson pulled the last tissue out of the box and blew his nose. So maybe he was kind of sick. A little bit. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He was a grown man for God’s sake, he couldn’t deal with a little cold at work?

The chef rubbed a hand down his face and used all his willpower not to groan. A little cold. A few hours left of work. A slow evening. If anyone could handle it, it was him.

***

Greyson was fairly sure he’d never been more miserable in his entire life.

It was ten pm, and the last table had finally cleared the building; not that Greyson would’ve known it. The chef was holed up in the employee bathroom, finally taking a minute to himself to blow his nose and wash his hands. What was supposed to have been a quiet night had suddenly picked up around seven – and with it, so did his cold.

He wasn’t sure how it worked out this way, but the moment five tickets printed at the same time on the line, Greyson felt the first whisper of a fever slither up his neck and make itself home behind both of his eyes. The tickets had continued to print, much to his chagrin, and after a few moments Matt had turned to his boss with panic in his eyes and frantically called, “Chef?!”

Greyson did what he was trained to; he pulled it together and hopped on the line to help his guys. He cooked and shouted orders and garnished and sent food out. He remade steaks when they came back overcooked, and he apologized when he yelled at his grill cook, who was new and clearly petrified. He ignored the massive headache blooming in his temples, and his cooks ignored the near-constant volley of sneezes he smothered into the inside collar of his chef coat. It was a rough one. Ticket times weren’t what they should’ve been, and he definitely screamed at his cooks more times than they deserved.

But it was over. And now, hours later, he stumbled out of the employee bathroom and into the office and slammed his ass into the chair, fully and completely spent. To his left, he felt Elijah’s hand firmly place itself on his shoulder.

“You killed it tonight. Truly,” Elijah said, his voice low. “We’re lucky to have you.”

Greyson looked at his boss, defeated. “I was an ass,” he said, his voice congested and hoarse. “I’m a dick. I yelled at Juan, and it wasn’t even his fault. Ticket times were trash. I wasn’t on top of it the way I should’ve been and I – huh…HUGTSSH-uhh! HUHESHHHOO!” Greyson swiped angrily under his nose and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “And I have a fuckigg cold.”

Elijah sat silently for a moment, and Greyson figured he was getting ready to gloat or make some sort of snide comment about how he knew Greyson was sick, and Greyson was an idiot for being there at all, but instead he heard his boss get up and leave the office. Greyson looked up from his hands after a few minutes of silence to see Elijah standing over him with a new box of tissues and a bottle of whiskey.

“I know,” he said, sitting down and pushing both of his peace offerings towards Greyson. “But you did it anyway. And that’s badass.”

Greyson had to swallow the lump in his throat before he could look his boss in the eye again. “You’re a kndow-it-all prick,” he said, taking a tissue and unscrewing the whiskey cap. He took a swig, and blew his nose, unsure what else to say.

“I’m aware,” Elijah replied. “But I’m right.”

Greyson looked at his boss and managed a smile. “I thindk…I mbay have to call out tomorrow.”

Elijah couldn’t help but laugh. “Grey,” he said, “if I see your ass in this building anytime before the weekend, I’ll send you home in a bodybag.”

This time, it was Greyson’s turn to laugh. “Honestly…body bag doesn’t sound too bad at this poindt.”

Elijah smiled and pushed the whiskey towards the chef once more. “Get yourself nice and drunk, chef. I’ll drive you home.”

Okay but what about a situation where character A loves giving character B massages/foot rubs to show their affection/character B loves physical affection and loves it when character A massages their neck and back and feet and stuff.

One day character A is sick with a really cruddy head cold, but they insist on rubbing B’s feet and back while they watch a movie since they had a long day at work. The whole time they’re sitting there, A slowly works their way to different places to massage, every so often letting out super congested sneezes and tired, stuffy coughs and sniffling quietly the whole time. B is getting more and more concerned and finally halfway through the movie just kind of scoops A up close to them and kisses their neck and tells them they need more loving than B does right now.

•You never really go to parties and are always really uptight and we made fun of you for it/expressed frustration at this so you forced yourself to go to this party and shit you’re so sick and you won’t go home because we made you feel bad I’m so sorry how can I make it up to you?? (Keith is not a fan of parties but his friends eventually pester him into going to one despite being sick as a dog.)

(I started this fic with the intention of having it for whumpmas, so if that is not a testament to how slow I am as a writer, idk what is! Also, btw this is weird but I love when sicknarios I write get back to me, lol! And I did write this scenario with Keith and E from les mis in mind, so this is a great prompt! This is college au, btw, I find it kinda difficult to write alien parties lmao!)

Parties are the perfect culmination of everything Keith hates in life.

Bright, strobe, head ache inducing lights with a wide variety of flashing, psychedelic colours, ear piercingly loud music with a tremendous beat that makes his heart thump and thump and feel way too overwhelmed, warm, sticky bodies way too close too each other and making him feel suffocated, too much people, having fun and feeling free when Keith can only feel more trapped.

Too much people.

Too much.

Keith has spent so much time in solitude, in simplicity. And being thrust into a situation where there is too much all at once is alien to him, and he can’t help the rapid beating and thumping of his wild heart when he looks around for some sort of serenity.

Keith feels trapped in this room, the overwhelming humidity and heaviness of this air weighing down on him and compressing his lungs so he can’t breathe.  He hates watching all these people exhilarated, vibrant, alive. When he can only feel more lifeless by the second.

He feels like an alien like this. Like he isn’t part of this world. Keith doesn’t even feel like here’s here. He can’t even feel his body, he doesn’t feel like he’s connected to it, and he’s floating away. Looking down.  And he hates what he sees.

All Keith can feel is the pounding and raging headache that seems to pierce into his skull and the pain is only worsened by the tremors of the pulsating waves of sound from the obnoxiously large speakers that litter the place.

He didn’t even want to be here; Shiro had told him this would be good, that college was great, and he needed to start living that college life. Shiro said he needed to be more sociable, because he would make the best friends of his life here. Pidge would tease him , and so would Lance. And Hunk encouraged him kindly, and Keith did not have any energy to fight them. So he went. And he could not have regretted a decision more than this very moment.

Keith stumbles around the night club like he’s drunk, and he doesn’t have one single drop of alcohol in his body. If he can be drunk on a fever, he definitely is. Due to his feverish haze he’s lost Shiro and Pidge, and his only hope is finding Lance and Hunk who are probably the life and soul of the party.

In this haze he hasn’t even realised the tickle blossoming within his sinuses and before he knows it he’s doubling over with one loud, powerful sneeze that grates against his throat with no time to cover, and just aim towards the floor. He gets a slightly irritated look from some person, and honestly, he doesn’t even mind. Keith feels awful being this germ incubator in this tightly knit space. This cold is horrendous, and he’s probably just passed it on to a good three people and he feels terrible.

Keith stumbles and wobbles around the night club dizzily, the technicolor lights seeming like an acid trip he did not consent to, and it seems to be sending waves of messages to his brain to hurt and throb. He feels a tad bit of anger and bitterness towards Shiro, Allura and Pidge, and maybe a little bit towards Lance and Hunk, but in fairness to them, they hadn’t pushed him to go this particular evening, but they had in the past.

“You need to enjoy your college experience, Keith! Get out of your room for once, embrace your youth!” Shiro had told him, in a way that was so middle aged dad he wanted to tear his hair out but so perfectly Shiro he couldn’t help but be persuaded into it.

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Keith,” Pidge had whined.

“It’ll be so much fun, Keith! Plus, I heard that Lance is wearing a pretty cute outfit tonight,” Allura had teased, causing him to scowl knowing she had played with his heart and manipulated him with the promise of his crush looking cute.

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As my first post on this hellsite...

I invite you to think about cold symptoms that wake the sickie up. 

Congestion so bad that the effort to breathe jerks them out of a sound sleep, making them shift positions with a quiet, thick sniffle that lets almost no air in and does nothing for the stuffiness.

Wet coughs that crackle in their chests and leave them gasping and fumbling for the water glass they left there for just such an occasion, spluttering a bit because they can’t stop coughing long enough to actually take a proper sip.

Sneezing. Maybe that’s not what woke them up, but now that they’re awake, they can’t stop. Slow building fits that make their breath shiver, and they agonize over every moment that the next sneeze doesn’t come. When it finally stops, they’re more exhausted than they were before, and can barely summon the energy to swipe the cuff of their sleep shirt against their nose before rolling over to try and sleep before this all happens again.

Fevers that turn their dreams sour and make them shake with chills, or feel so hot that their immediate thought is to fling all the sweat-dampened covers off. And maybe crawl out of those disgusting pyjamas that were fresh from the wash when they put them on three hours ago. Their head spins, and the world swims in and out of focus when they peer blearily around to make sure that the lurking danger from their nightmare isn’t actually hiding in the corner of their room.

Think about those cold symptoms that you just can’t sleep through.