heyitsmemel

[heyitsmemel]

When they apologize over and over again for having to sneeze, while building up to a sneeze, each "sorry" sounding more high pitched and desperate... 😩

"Sorry...heh...I have to... heh! I'm sorry-heh-sorry! Hhhh-sorry! HEH-HEH!! S-SORRY!! Heehhh'TSCHIEW!!!"

Idk why, but I just thought of that and thought it was kinda hot.

[heyitsmemel]

Once every 4 years I am struck by slut lightning and come online to be a wh*re so

under the cut is sneezing, cleavage, and mess kinda ??? (lol who is she??). Very 18+ do not watch if you don’t want to see b00bs!! Ok!!!

[heyitsmemel]

[heyitsmemel]

so like. we all have a little guy (30 year old man) that we want to see sneeze until he stumbles right. rigght?

[heyitsmemel]

Asshole Part 1/2

Well. This fic is sort of an exploration of me writing soft porn. It's safe for work, but man, I feel like an animal lol.

CW: 2.6 Words. M/M enemies to lovers, description of mess, cursing, cultural clashes, cultural differences regarding illness, humiliation, chara with a snz fetish, and two guys who can't admit they want to f*ck eachother! All characters are in their mid 20's.

TW: Mentions and implications of colonialism and ramifications on indigenous populations.

General Summary: Nass hates Prince Bellamy. But when they are forced to co-teach together at the University of Encouneteuro, Nass is forced to deal with a man who should be his enemy — and his cold.

Here are parts One Two Three Four and Five if you want! Helps for context not totally necessary though.

_____________________________________________________________

Bellamy wakes shivering.  

At first, he’s not sure what dragged him out of sleep — the vicious ache running through his entire body? The relentless throb behind his eyes? The sensation of his own breath crackling like popcorn in his chest?

Or maybe it’s just the silence of being alone.  

He blinks blearily at the ceiling, then rolls over with a congested groan. His nose is a wall — completely, infuriatingly stuffed. He can’t breathe through it at all. And there’s a deep, raw pain in the back of his throat that makes swallowing unbearable. Even his teeth hurt.

Gods. He sneezes once — a sudden, wrenching burst that rips out of him with no warning — and his body wracks forward so violently he nearly falls out of bed.

The clock on his desk reads 8:03 p.m.

For a moment, his fevered brain sputters. He had gone to sleep at what — maybe 10 a.m.? Nass had said he’d wake him in an hour.

Apparently, that had been a lie. Or just wishful thinking.

Bellamy groans again, dragging himself upright against the pillows. His entire body feels bruised, like he’s been thrown down stairs and left there to rot.  He’s somehow freezing despite an extra blanket that someone (Nass?) must have thrown over him.

His gaze lands on his bedside table.

There’s a note propped against a glass of water, next to a folded handkerchief and some purple root he’s never seen before.

Bellamy, This is arashkan root. Chew on it for your fever. By the way, you snore in your sleep. – N

The writing is jagged and a little rushed, like Nass had written it standing up. But it’s unmistakably his.

Bellamy exhales slowly, holding the paper for a second longer than necessary. The fact that Nass had sat here while Bellamy slept — even going so far as to leave a Southern remedy on his table — is so out of character that Bellamy almost wonders if Nass hit his head during their sparring match.

He lets his hand fall to the mattress with a wet cough. He sniffles again, then reaches for the glass of water with trembling fingers, hands barely steady enough to raise it to his lips. The coolness is a shock. It slices down his throat, setting every raw nerve alight — and he coughs again, harsher. He wishes it were tea instead. He doesn’t think he can even make it to the common room down the hall to boil water in this state.

As if summoned by Bellamy’s thoughts, a firm (and distinctly Nassim-sounding) knock bangs on the other side of his door.

Oh Gods. Bellamy sinks deeper under the blankets, holding his breath. Maybe if he doesn’t make a sound Nassim will think he’s still sleeping and go away. He barely has the energy on a good day to deal with the man.

“Bellamy.” Another knock. “I know you’re awake. I can hear your coughing.”

There’s a pause. Then — “I’m coming in.”

Apparently, his door is unlocked. Of course it is.

The doorknob turns, and a second later Nass enters his room. His long black hair is out of its usual braids. Instead, it spills straight and loose like fine ink, coming to a stop at his shoulders.

Bellamy can barely stand it — being seen like this. Sitting here in bed, flushed and sweating like an invalid while Nass just stands there, composed, leering, and unfairly attractive.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Bellamy croaks, voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you back here? What is that?”

Bellamy gestures weakly at the bizarre half-moon shaped bottle in Nass’s hands. In the other, he holds a clay pitcher of what mercifully looks like mint tea.

Nass gives him a look. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who can barely speak.” Instead of setting the pitcher down, he presses it into Bellamy’s freezing hands. The warmth of it is like a spell — sudden, shocking relief, chasing the cold from his palms to his chest.

“I didn’t wake you because you obviously needed the rest. This,” he shakes the bottle, “is Southern snuff oil. From my village. Good for clearing sinuses.”

“I don’t ndeed that,” Comes Bellamy's automatically prideful and horrifingly congested reply.

Nass gives him a look. “I assure you Your Highness, you do.”

Bellamy grinds his teeth. “How about you tell me why you’re really back here?”

Nass doesn’t.

Instead, he sits on the edge of Bellamy’s bed.

Bellamy’s entire body stiffens.

“Please get off my bed Nass,” he says, though the demand comes out far less intimidating than he’d like — rasped and ragged.

“No,” Nass shoots back, eyes narrowing. “Why haven’t you chewed on the root?”

Bellamy sniffs. His entire face is pulsing with sinus pain. “You’ve never given me anything besides dirty looks, insults, and blaming me for everything that’s gone wrong in the history of Yekiti. Am I to expect you’ve suddenly had a change of heart and care about my health? What if it’s poisoned?”

Nass flinches.

Bellamy did not anticipate that. He doesn’t really think it’s poison — not truly — but he is in so much pain that it feels good to snap at him, after four months of smiling through teeth-gritted diplomacy.

“I brought you the root because you were shivering in your sleep,” Nass says quickly, looking away. “And judging by the flush in your face, you still have a fever.”

Bellamy sniffles again, the sound humiliatingly wet. There’s an itch building behind his eyes, painfully slow.“And that’s why you’re here? Because I’m flushed?”

Nass exhales sharply. “No,” he mutters. “I’m here because you don’t have your fancy palace aids to care for you. And someone needs to make sure you make it to tomorrows campaign. Speak to your father about his new decree.”

Heat slithers down Bellamy’s spine.

It was true — the last time he’d been this sick, he’d been laid up in his four-poster bed at the palace. But it is not like this in the North. The sick are quarantined — left to rot unless things get so bad that a doctor needs to be called in.

That’s why it takes everything in him to keep his composure at the insinuation. Every ounce of his willpower to keep his voice even as he spits, calmly:

“I’ll have you know palace aids do not care for the sick,” he snaps. “Least of all me. If I died of influenza, life would get significantly simpler for my father.”

He rubs his aching temples. “And since you have so eloquently made your intentions clear, you may now get out.”

It is bait. And Bellamy waits for him to take it.

He refuses to sit here while Nassim lies through his teeth. He’s here because — somehow — despite the differing colours of their skin and their complex ancestral histories, Nass likes him. And it’s slowly driving him mad.

Bellamy is not an idiot. He’s received formal training in the art of observation, in body language, in subtext. He sees the way Nass looks at him — hungry. So pissed off from his own lust that it comes out in snapping remarks.

And Bellamy has had enough.

He is going to rake that bastard through the coals until he admits it.

Nass doesn’t move from where he sits at the edge of the bed. And perhaps that is why Bellamy finds the last vestiges of strength to swing out of bed and stagger to the door. His legs wobble, his grip tightening on the doorknob.

“Sit down, Bellamy,” Nass says, jaw tight. “You’re shaking.”

“You know what I think, Nass?” Bellamy ignores him. “I think you’re here because you, despite your best efforts, like me.”

That gets him up fast. Nass’s face colours and he stalks towards Bellamy, slamming the door shut.

“Sit down, dammit,” he snaps. “Now.”

The demand nearly makes Bellamy grin. He almost has him.

“Do you think I’m an idiot Nass?” Bellamy steps into Nass’s personal space ignoring the prickling itch blooming in his sinuses. Bellamy is far taller than Nass. Though somehow it doesn’t perturb Nass whose glaring up at him. They are practically nose to nose, both breathing hard.  

His finishing tutor always told him that eye contact makes most people uncomfortable. Now he’s using it to his advantage, staring Nass down like a laser.

“I see the way you look at me. You think you’re clever — hiding it with hate and anger. But you hide nothing.”

Nass has gone still as a statue, eyes ablaze with fury.

“You flatter yourself, your Majesty. You are the last person I’d ever want in that way,” Nass growls.

“Liar,” Bellamy leans down, his lips just barely grazing Nass’s ear. He feels drunkenly victorious when a shiver runs through the shorter man. “You know it’s an offence to lie to a prince, Nass. I think you havhh — hh…! Ih! ”

Gods dammit. He’s going to — to!

The itch reaches a crescendo, so strong its unbearable to keep speaking. Bellamy just barely manages to raise a hand to cup around his mouth and nose before shuddering into his palm with a squeaky hih-  Hi'Tzchhxxt-!

The force of the sneeze snaps him downwards, forehead knocking hard into Nass’s shoulder. Bellamy hears Nass make a startled sound, but it hardly registers over what feels like ants crawling through his sinuses.  

He stumbles away from Nass, eyes streaming as he’s rocked forward with another needy Hhh!!! hI'gGnXxtT’ish!

His breath feels like fire, as the next expulsion attempts to squeeze out his inflamed sinuses. “hih -  hiD- hh!!”

Bellamy collapses back onto his bed breath scissoring wildly. He grabs the handkerchief Nass left folded on his bedside table, fingers fumbling with the cloth before he’s pitching into it with a congested “Hih-! HiiD'zshhiittt-!”

The cement lodged in his sinuses is not budging. Every sneeze is a blinding, splintering wave of pain. And then he makes a sound — a low, half-whimper of pain that he dearly wishes he hadn’t — because it gets Nass moving.

“Here,” Nass is suddenly there, pulling the handkerchief away from his face. “This will help.”

He doesn’t ask.

He simply screws open the black bottle and holds it under Bellamy’s nose.

A sharp, invasive spiced smell floods Bellamy’s nostrils — cutting through everything— even the pounding in his skull, even the spinning in his lungs.

He wrenches his face away, to take a cleaner breath, but its as if the smell has taken residence in his sinuses. For half a second, there’s nothing as he sits there eyes wet, blinking rapidly.

And he gasps— because he can a flurry of sneezes clawing its way up—

“hhH!  “hhh... hhAATCHSHhh’uye!!  h!— hh-hh–! h’IEGHkSsH’hue!!  —Huhhh’EhSHhhY’ueuh!!”

His entire body convulses. Again. And again. The fit seizes him like possession—each breath nothing more than a prelude to ruin. He pitches forward, hand barely catching the edge of Nass’s shoulder to brace himself—then his thigh—as he curls around another brutal—

“huhhh’EhSHhhuh!! heH’SCHEUGHih-! —AhehDTSSS’shuh!”

“Gods,” Nass mutters, sounding half strangled. “Breathe, you idiot—”

But Bellamy can’t — doesn’t think he can do anything other than sneeze. He’s gasping, chest trembling, lips parted as the next sneeze builds and builds, breath hitching so obnoxiously it makes Nass go still.

“hh—hehh!’Huhu’-h’ih? —hh-hhh-HA! Hh’AEDTSSCCH’HY’uee!”

Bellamy snaps into steepled hands with what might just be, the loudest sound he’s ever made in his entire life.

The handkerchief in his hands is decimated beyond belief. Bellamy doesn’t care. He’s soaked, red-faced, blinking feverishly and trembling. His nose is streaming in rivulets down his chin, and his eyes are watering so badly he has no choice but to keep them shut.

“Are—there—tissues?” he coughs out, voice thick and destroyed.

“N-no,” he hears Nass stunned reply. “Tissues are wasteful. Here.”

A clean cloth brushes against his knuckles. Linen. Blissfully soft.

Bellamy doesn’t think. The fit has left him light-headed, ruined. He buries his nose into it and blows and blows until that wretched scent is gone from his sinuses. He dabs at his eyes with shaking fingers, and when he’s done, he takes the first proper breath in through his nose that he’s had in days.

“I hope you’re finished, Your Highness,” Nass’s voice is back to being too casual, amused. “Because that was my last handkerchief.”

Bellamy raises his scalding face, cursing at him in Northern tongue. He agrees with most Southern beliefs—save this ridiculous one.

“Handkerchiefs are unhygienic,” he spits.

“According to who?” Nass bites back. “Northerners? I think they work fine. I didn’t think you’d — well — run out of real estate.”

Nass’s face is scarlet red which wouldn’t be that unusual — Nass is often red with anger when Bellamy is around — but still, his face is redder than normal.

“There’s really nothing else I — can — use?” Bellamy manages to get the words out, despite the horror clawing up his throat.  

“No,” Nass shakes his head, arching a brow. “Maybe a towel would suffice?”

Bellamy didn’t think this day could get any worse but somehow, it has.

“You asshole,” Bellamy growls. “You made me inhale that—that—” Bellamy searches for the right word, incensed. “Horrible snuff.”

He shudders at the now sealed bottle in Nass’s hands

“I didn’t think inhaling the snuff would give you…” Nass swallows. “That strong of a reaction. Gods. It was certainly... impressive Bellamy.”

Nass waves a hand toward the evidence—the two soiled cloths, the wet sheen on Bellamy’s hands, the mess somehow now splattered across his trousers.  

“Maybe you should get a towel,” he adds as an afterthought.

 Bellamy throws every curse he knows in Kureesh at him.

“I seem to recall you gasping in sinus pain,” Nass snaps, eyes flickering. Then, in a softer voice, one that slides beneath Bellamy’s skin: “I was just trying to help, Bellamy. You can thank me for being able to breathe properly now.”

Bellamy stares at him. Every part of him aches, but what’s worse is the creeping flush that burns hotter than the fever in his cheeks. Nass is watching him again—too closely. And Bellamy can feel the faintest trace of satisfaction lingering in Nass’s smirk.  

He wants to scream. He wants to hit him. He wants to—

“Screw you,” Bellamy says, yanking his covers back and crawling underneath them.  

“You’re welcome,” Nass says. Too pleased. Too proud. And back sitting on the edge of his bed like he owns the place. “And bless you, your Highness.”

Bellamy’s entire face blooms beet red at the edge in his voice. “Damn you. Do not mock me, Nass.”

“I’m simply wishing you good health,” Nass leans over the bed, grabbing the purple root. “Hardly a mockery. Now chew this so you’ll have strength for tomorrow.”

He’s not wrong. In less than ten hours — gods help him — Bellamy will need to be presentable, perfect, for his father.

Bellamy picks up the root and cautiously puts it into his mouth. The bark is chewy and fleshy, and Bellamy suspects if he could taste it, it would taste awful, if the sour tang in his throat is any indication.

He chews, slow and miserable, while Nass watches like he’s won something.

“Good,” Nass exhales. “Chew on it for five minutes every hour and the body aches you’ve been hiding from your fever should lessen.”

Bellamy fights to keep his face even, as Nass leans in.

“Your poker face isn’t as foolproof as you think it is, your Highness,” Nass whispers, his breath warm and infuriatingly steady, lips just grazing his ear. Bellamy’s entire body shudders, though not from this wretched illness.

Nass pauses.

“And if I wanted you, Bellamy,” his voice drops, silk and steel, “you would know.”

Nass straightens, and swings open his door, not looking back as he exits.

The door clicks shut. The silence that follows feels deafening.

Bellamy swallows or tries to. His throat still burns. His sinuses ache. But it’s not just the sickness anymore.

He stares at the door like it might open again. It doesn’t.

Slowly, he lies back down, sinking into the sheets. The taste of the root still lingers bitter on his tongue.

“…Asshole,” he whispers hoarsely, to no one but himself.

[heyitsmemel]

so tired someone inject espresso into my veins

[heyitsmemel]

a wrenching near perfectly silenced stifle immediately followed by the wettest most desperate sniffle imaginable

[heyitsmemel]

when i say i want holdbacks, i never want them to be successful. just you as desperate as you can possibly be

[heyitsmemel]

You like the cold-hearted and professional type because you want to be dommed by him.

I like him because the idea of watching a hyper competent man unravel into vulnerability and humiliation brings me sexual gratification.

We are not the same.

[heyitsmemel]

Manhandling Part 2/2

I present to you!! More content from my horny lizard brain thats gone feral.

CW: 4k words, m/m sneezing while sparring, magical powers going haywire from illness, enemies to lovers who can't admit they want to f*ck eachother, and more! All characters are in their mid 20s.

TW: Whump, light sparring violence and mentions of colonialism.

General Summary: Nass hates Prince Bellamy. But when they are forced to co-teach together at the University of Encouneteuro, Nass is forced to deal with a man who should be his enemy — and his cold.

Read Part One Two Three and Four if you want! (Not necessary but helps for context).

_________________________________________________________

Nass tries not to think about Bellamy for the rest of the weekend. But at the University of Encounteruo, that’s impossible.

Students gossip about him over dinner, spit his family’s name in hushed, venom-laced whispers — and Nass is fucking sick of it. Sick of thinking about Bellamy Velázquez.

He supposes Bellamy is just collateral. A consequence. Their country stands on the brink of revolution. Half the nation wants to dismantle the monarchy through peaceful reform. The other half — Nass included — wants King Richis’s head on a spike.

And it was so much easier to hate Bellamy before meeting him. Back when he was just a concept. A heartless Northern demon whose family dined off silver spoons while his people starved in their desert homelands.

It’s much harder to hate Bellamy now. Now that he knows Bellamy is a person, with likes and dislikes, who has troubles sleeping, and hardships of his own. Someone who gets sick just like anyone else.

And now, standing in the domed mosaic training arena on Monday morning, it’s not just hard to avoid thinking about Bellamy — it’s impossible.

Because Bellamy is late for their final exam. And delaying the start of class for everyone.

“Are you sure he was okay on Saturday?” Marwa elbows Anha as they and the rest of the final years sit in rows on the large viewing carpet.

Anha shrugs, pulling her dark hair into a ponytail. “He wouldn’t let me into his room. Said he was fine.”

She chews on her bottom lip. “I don’t know why he even bothers lying to me. He knows I’m an empath.” Her gaze flicks to the arena doors. “I could feel his fever before he even opened the door.”

Marwa sighs. “Honestly, he should’ve spoken to Headmaster Gomez. Rescheduled his exams.”

That draws a scoff from Nass.

“Rescheduling exams is prohibited at this university,” he snaps. “Unless you're gushing blood from your vital organs or bedridden, you show up.”

Marwa raises an eyebrow. “Skies, Nass, have a heart. I practically spoon-fed you last month when you were sick.”

Heat crawls up Nass’s neck. He glares at his twin. “The prince gets enough exceptions as it is,” he mutters, jaw tight.

But even as he says it, there’s a twist in his gut. A faint, unwelcome twinge.

Because Bellamy did look awful on Saturday. That cough sounded like it was ripping his lungs apart. And in all the time he’s known him, Nass has never — not once — seen Bellamy late to anything.

Judging by the sundial on the far wall, he’s now fifteen minutes behind.

A cardinal sin for the Crown Prince.

And then — as if summoned by Nass’s thoughts — the arena door swings open.

The chatter dies instantly as he steps inside.

He is dressed immaculately like he always is — , hair freshly washed, his black tight sparring gear clinging to the defined muscles in his shoulders and chest. But even from across the room, Nass sees the cracks in his prince facade.

Bellamy is deathly pale, his complexion the colour of milkglass. Dark circles bloom beneath his eyes like ink smudges, and the tip of his nose — usually sharp, elegant — is just as pink and raw as the other day. He holds his posture like it’s been stitched upright, but there’s a tremor in his hands — subtle, but there.

“Apologies for my lateness Master Khandro,” Bellamy says in a hoarse voice. “Something important came up that required my attention.”

Nass rolls his eyes so hard he thinks he can see his brain. Surely, he overslept because he’s still ill. Why can’t he just admit that?

“More important than your exams Bellamy?” Master Khandro raises an eyebrow. Mage masters rarely let anyone get away with anything, even if that someone was a prince.

“Yes,” Bellamy’s hands twitch. “I was jusd informed the king will travel here tomorrow on the first stop of his campaign.”

The remaining chatter in the room falls silent. Nass nearly chokes on his next breath. His nails curl into his fists.

The king. Is going to visit the University? Tomorrow?

Master Khandro doesn’t miss a beat. “Sit down Bellamy,” she motions to the floor space around the sparring ring.

Bellamy clears his throat, beelining it to a free space beside Anha. He is close enough to where Nass sits that he hears a congested sigh roll out of him as Bellamy lowers himself to the floor. His shoulders slump the moment he sits, and up close Nass can see how flushed his ears are against the paleness of his cheeks. Nass wonders if he feels better or worse than the weekend. He isn’t close enough to determine whether Bellamy has a fever but he sure is super pale. But that might just be the shocking news of the king’s visit.

“For your final exam,” Master Khandro says. “You will be sparring in pairs. Your partner must yield for fifteen seconds and—”

“hhK’IISCHhh’Yue!”

The exhausted expulsion echoes loudly in the domed training area. Twenty heads swivel in Bellamy’s direction, who whips away from Anha, burying his nose in his elbow.

“—you may use your elemental powers as you see fit,” Master Khandro continues as another, heavier “AEHD’SSCHhy’uuh!” sounds from the same direction.

 Nass can’t resist looking at him. Bellamy is clearly struggling — hands trembling as he wrestles the last tissue from a small, mangled packet. His breath hitches raggedly, and then he pitches forward again with a violent, “huhhh’EhSHhhYueuh!!”

It absolutely obliterates what’s left of the tissue.

Nass feels all the heat in his body rush to his lower extremities. He’s still sneezing a lot then. That bastard. It’s as if he was put on this earth solely to torture him.

Master Khandro doesn’t react. “Hassan and Esther,” she says, nodding to the far left. “You’re up first.”

They’ve barely made it to the center of the sparring ring when Bellamy gasps again, curling into the destroyed tissue with another throat scraping—  "huhhh’EhSHhhuh!!”

It’s a horrid, congested sound. Nass winces as Bellamy drops the tissues from his face — strands of mess clinging from his chin to the wadded paper. Anha immediately moves between him and the others, shielding him from view. But not well enough.

Because it’s impossible not to see Bellamy forced to wipe his streaming nose directly on his sleeve, leaving dark, wet streaks across the black fabric.

It is, by far, the most unhygienic thing Nass has ever seen him do.

“Someone give Bellamy another tissue,” Hassan mutters from the ring.

“Or ten,” he adds. A wave of laughter ripples through the class.

Bellamy’s face flushes beet red. He finishes wiping his nose, then sniffs — sparking a violent round of coughing that leaves him doubled over and even redder.

“Skies,” Hassan mutters under his breath, voice dripping with mock concern. “Maybe his father will put him out of his misery tomorrow.”

Something twists in Nass’s gut. Before he knows it, he’s snapped around, barking:

“He’s sick, Hassan. Weren’t you out all last week with the same damn virus?”

Hassan’s face flushes red.

Bellamy doesn’t look up. Just stares at the floor like he wants it to swallow him whole.

“Enough,” Master Khandro snaps, raising her hand. “Nass. Bellamy. Switch with Hassan and Esther. You’re sparring next.”

Every drop of blood in Nassim’s body goes cold.

“What?” he manages to croak.

“Now,” she says, voice leaving no room for argument. “And Nass — when you’re finished, escort Bellamy back to his room.”

“Thad will not be necessary!” Bellamy croaks, eyes wide with horror. “I assure you, Master Khandro, I can—”

“On your feet,” she claps her hands sharply which immediately gets both of them scrambling up.

Nass hears Bellamy smother another cough as he enters the rink, grabbing one of the long wooden sparring staffs — conduits for their elemental magic.

Nass grabs a staff of his own, facing Bellamy in an awkward silence. Now that he’s standing close Nass can see the exhaustion in Bellamy’s mouth, the glassy tinge of fever in his eyes. His hand is pale where he grips the staff, his free hand knuckling at his nose like he’s trying not sneeze again.

“Well,” Bellamy says, straightening. “You’ve finally gotten your wish Nassim. A proper go at me.”

There is another heavier silence, only broken when Bellamy makes the first ceremonial bow.

“I did not wish for this.” Nass says, bowing. “I can’t spar with Bellamy, Master Khandro. Not when he is unwell.”

“Bellamy will spar to the best of his abilities in his present condition,” Master Khandro says. “Working with the conditions present is what makes a master mage. Just don’t overdo it Bellamy.”

No matter how much he dislikes Bellamy, Nass’s father raised him to always uphold honour. And that means fighting an evenly matched partner.

“Afraid it won’t be an even spar?” Bellamy raises an eyebrow, glassy eyes blinking. His grip tightens around his staff. “Because I assure you Nassim, it will.”

“Of course it won’t be,” Nass snaps. “I can’t attack you. You can’t go five minutes without sneezing your head off. How the hell is that an even sparring —,”

Bellamy twists his staff, cutting him off.

A tendril of water shoots out of the ground, slamming into Nass’s chest. The impact is so strong it sends Nass staggering backwards. The other students gasp as Nass hits the ground, soaked and stunned. Water slaps across the mosaic tiles, spraying over a pile of silk training scarves at the edge of the ring.

Cold seeps into Nass’s skin, like Bellamy’s magic is trying to claw its way inside him.

He blinks up at the prince, whose chest is already rising too fast.

Bellamy made the first blow. He actually made the first blow.

“That’s for screaming at me at nine in the morning,” Bellamy steps into a sparing stance. “On a Saturday.”

Nassim scrambles to his feet, steam hissing from his palms. “I seem to remember catching you before you fell over.”

 He swings his staff in a wide arc, fire flaring from the carved grooves along its shaft. The heat radiates outward in a wave, and Bellamy raises a shield of water just in time to block the blow. It sizzles and spatters between them, heat meeting chill in a crackling dance.

“I wouldn’t have been awake — in the — first place if you — you —,” Bellamy exhales sharply—too sharply. “Learned to control your anger!”

His breath catches, and he staggers into his elbow with a violent “hehh’TSSCHh’euuh!” that echoes throughout the room. He stumbles back half a step, the watery shield flickering.

“Still think this is even?” Nass calls, circling. “Bless you by the way.”

Bellamy’s reply is a glare. He sweeps his staff low, and the training floor responds—a rush of water from the underground aqueduct’s whips toward Nass like a lashing rope. Nass leaps over it, countering with a spin and a crack of fire from his outstretched palm, aiming high.

The heat blasts toward Bellamy’s head, but the prince is faster than he looks in his sickly state. He pivots to the side—graceful, practiced—but not before coughing again, hard, into his sleeve mid-motion.

His balance holds. Barely.

“If this isn’t an even fight,” Bellamy rasps, eyes flaring. “Why haven’t you beaten me yet?”

“Fine,” Nass growls, heat flaring at his palms. “You asked for it.”

He swings his staff low this time, fire catching along the ground like a whip. Bellamy leaps over it—barely—his footing skidding on the wet floor. Nass flicks his wrist, and the flame rears up behind him, sweeping toward Bellamy’s legs.

Bellamy doesn’t move in time.

The fire lashes around his ankles—not burning, but hot enough to make him flinch—and he trips, crashing sideways onto the floor with a grunt.

Nass steps forward, staff raised to end it—but Bellamy surges up like a wave rebounding off rock. Their staffs clank together in a spray of steam, the clash echoing through the dome.

“Yield Bellamy,” Nass yells. “You’re sick!”

“Ndo,” Bellamy pants, blue eyes glassy, nose twitching.

Then he moves.

Water surges from the cracked aqueducts under the stone. It freezes under Nass’s boots so fast he doesn’t even have time to blink. One moment he’s lunging, and the next—

“Shit—!”

His feet won’t move.

Ice shackles wrap around his ankles, pinning him in place. The cold creeps up his calves, dull and biting, and his balance wobbles as Bellamy steps forward, victorious and gasping.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Nass grits his teeth, struggling to move, break out of the ice with steam — but to no avail. The ice isn’t melting fast enough. Gods, he hates water mages. Why does Bellamy have to be a water mage of all things?

Five.

Six.

Bellamy stumbles again, bracing himself on his staff—his magic flickering in and out. Sweat is pouring down his face from holding the ice shackle.

Seven.

Eight.

Bellamy blinks hard —then winces, nostrils flaring. His breath catches.

“Hh!—hehh’TSSSCH’Yue!!” He pitches forward violently, grip tightening around his staff as he barely catches the sneeze in the crook of his elbow.

Nine.

Ten.

“hh-hh–! h’IEGHkSsH’h!!

The next sneeze is rougher, wetter, jerking his body sideways. A wave of magic bursts from him—wild, unrefined and Nass stares as more water shoots up from the ground, sloshing around Bellamy’s boots.

Eleven.

“hhh... hhAATCHSHhh’uye!!”

The aqueducts shatter with force as Bellamy doubles over with the loudest sneeze Nass has ever heard come out of him. Water surges out violently in every direction like a broken dam. Nass feels it slam into him like a tidal wave, like he’s standing in the middle of the ocean rather than a training room.

“Gods—!”  Nass curses as water crashes over his chest, soaking his sparring uniform.

“B-Bellamy!” He hears Marwa shriek from the sidelines as water splashes out and over the confines of the sparing rink, drenching the crowd.

“Hp’NGGgSCHhu!"

The sneeze comes with another pulse of water, soaking the floor, spraying the walls — hitting Nass in the face again. Bellamy is hunched over in front of him pulling in deep ragged breaths, grip iron clad on the staff so he doesn’t fall over.

But if he doesn’t let go of the damn staff, his magic will keep soaking everything.

Nass rips his legs free from the ice, storms through water up to his ankles, and knocks the sparring staff out of Bellamy’s hands with a loud clatter.

“Yield, dammit,” He grabs a hold of Bellamy’s right shoulder forcing him to his knees.

Bellamy goes down to the floor easy with a splash. His chin hits his chest, panting out another exhausted, “Hii'H’GktSSchuh!” 

Master Khandro lifts her hand. “Fifteen seconds. Match over.”

But Nass doesn’t care about the match. Bellamy is shaking like a leaf, and he doesn’t need to be an empath like Anha to feel his nervous system spiralling. Nass moves his hands into Bellamy’s dark curls, digging his fingers into a nervous system point along the base of his skull.

The prince smells like lavendar.

“Breathe Bellamy,” he says in a low voice, his other hand coming to rest in between his shoulder blades. He can feel the prince shuddering as he presses deeper into the point. Bellamy takes another few shallow rasping breaths, bobbing forward with a helpless “AhehdTSSS’shuh!””

The expulsion tears out of him, splattering the air in front of them with droplets. He groans, raising his soaked sleeve to wipe his face.

The rest of the room is dead silent except for the sound of dripping water and Bellamy’s ragged, ruined breaths.

Nass moves to the next pressure point, then another, trailing down his spine. Bellamy’s skin is boiling.

Nass swallows a lump in his throat. Bellamy still has a fever.

Finally, after what feels like hours, Bellamy’s breathing steadies. Shaky—but clearer.

Nass helps him to his feet. Bellamy’s skin has gone an alarming shade of grey, his body shivering violently. He nearly collapses again at the edge of the ring—Nass catches him in a tight grip.

Their class stares in soaked, stunned silence as Master Khandro stalks toward them.

“What!” she snaps. “You all can’t handle a little water? You’ll live.”

She kneels beside Bellamy, grabbing his wrist to check his pulse. Then forehead. Then breath rate.

“He’ll be fine,” she declares. “Just burnt out. You pushed yourself outside of your conditions, Bellamy.”

Her hand lingers against his cheek. “And you’re running a fever. Nass—take him back to his room. Stay until his temperature comes down, ya?”

“N-no!” Bellamy sputters, scandalized. “I'm the prince! I don’t need—a—babysitter!”

“You’re both dismissed,” she says, already turning.

“Please—anybody but himb,” Bellamy groans as Nass steers them toward the door.

“Shut up,” Nass growls, grip tightening. “I’m trying to help you, Bellamy.”

Maybe it’s the way he says his name—not Your Majesty, not Your Highness—just Bellamy. Whatever it is, the prince finally stops resisting.

Nass walks him back to the dorms, arm still clutched around him, while Bellamy shivers the entire way.

Inside, Bellamy’s teeth are chattering so hard it’s practically a death rattle. Nass heads straight to the dresser, yanks open drawers lined with elegant silks until he finds the warmest thing available—soft fleece. All of Bellamy's clothes smell like his hair — lavender. Marwa once told him lavender grows like weeds in the lush forests of the North.

“Here,” Nassim throws the pile of clothing at him. “Change. Now.”

Bellamy doesn’t curse at him like he did the other day. He is shivering so violently that he simply grabs the clothes, stumbling into the adjacent bathroom.

“Try not to die until I come back,” Nass says heading to his own room to change clothes. He doesn’t know if Bellamy hears him or not, just hears more coughing float out of the closed bathroom door.

By the time he returns, Bellamy’s sitting on his bed, hunched over, arms limp, head bowed into his lap. A scattered constellation of used tissues surrounds him on the blankets.

Nass’s stomach lurches.

The sight of Bellamy—slumped, pale, —not ramrod straight, not composed, unmasked—is somehow worse than all the sneezing and water and chaos.

“Bellamy,” he says swallowing his worry. “Take your temperature again.”

Bellamy lifts his head slowly, red-eyed and dazed. “You may go, Nassim,” he mumbles, congested and dry. “You have wond.”

“Won?” Nass frowns.

“Yess Nassim. Wond.” A breathless laugh breaks from him—half hysterical. “You beat me in a spar, watched me humiliate myself in front of the entire class, and tomorrow—” He chokes on a cough. “—tomorrow you will probably watch my father murder me on sight for being ill in public.”

Nass flinches like he’s been slapped.

Yes—he had dreamed of this moment. Victory. Satisfaction. Seeing Bellamy —his enemy — laid low.

He could walk out the door right now. Leave him there. Shivering. Alone.

But his feet don’t move. Because Marwa was right.

Last month he laid in bed much like Bellamy is now, Marwa feeding him when he was too weak, watching over him when his fever spiked in the night. He’d drifted in and out of sleep to the sound of her playing guitar, once finding Anha there who’d pressed a glass of fresh orange juice into his hands.

He’d had them in his corner.

 Bellamy has no one.

And maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t deserve that.

“Seriously, Nass,” Bellamy reaches weakly for the thermometer on his nightstand. “You may go.”

Nass stands unmoving, staring at him.

“You called me Nass,” he says quietly. “Not Nassim.”

He's never done that before.

Bellamy pauses.

“Why aren’t you leaving?” he sniffs. “You’ve practically run out of every room I’ve been in all year. The moment I am ill — likely contagious — you suddenly want to stay?”

“It was an order to stay.” Nass shrugs. “From Master Khandro.”

“Please,” Bellamy rolls his eyes. “We both know you listen to no one but yourself.”

Damn is Nass really that selfish?

“If Master Khandro comes to check on you and doesn’t find me here, she could fail me. You know she would do something like that.” Nass pauses.  “Plus, if you die of lung fever, I’ll have to grade our students’ papers alone. And I can’t have that.”

“Now you reveal your true intentions,” Bellamy rasps, though he puts the thermometer in between his lips.

It’s in his mouth for all of ten seconds before Bellamy’s face shudders. The thermometer falls out of his mouth, clattering to his lap. His shoulders hunch as he twists into his elbow with a miserable, “hiH’TSCHH’Euhh-!”

“Ugh, excuse bme,” Bellamy groans, reaching for more clean tissues to wipe his nose with. He sounds so congested Nass’s own sinuses begin to ache in sympathy.

“Why don’t you — you, know,” Nass waves his hand. “Blow your nose?"

Bellamy’s cheeks colour. “Itd’s improprer,” he picks up the thermometer putting it back in between his lips. “A social blunder in the North. Something we do only in private.”

“Or during emergencies?” Nass can’t help but roast him a little. “Like in the Souk the other day?”

Bellamy glares.

Luckily the thermometer beeps saving him from answering.

“39 degrees,” Nass stares at the number. “Gods, Bellamy how were you using so much magic with a fever this —

“Hih-! heH’SCHEUGHih-!”

Bellamy’s head snaps to the side, sluggishly raising an elbow that does not get up in time. Nass watches him spray his light blue fleece instead in wet droplets.

Nass whistles. “Do you always sneeze this much when you’re sick?” He bites his lip, unable to resist. “A Northern affliction perhaps? Or just you?”

“Is there any world where you don’t make fun of where I come from?” Bellamy snaps. “Or gloat in my misery?”

He coughs, this time bringing up a sleeve to cover his mouth.

“You may leave Nass,” he says, slumping against the pillows. “No need to stay out of obligation. If Master Khandro comes by, I’ll tell her you were here the entire timbe.”

He rubs a hand wearily across his blood shot eyes. Nass’s gut twists. Bellamy looks so tired it’s almost painful.

“You should sleep, Bellamy,” Nass says, pulling out his desk chair.

“It is the middle of the day,” a shiver runs through Bellamy’s frame.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of the day,” Nass sits down into the chair. “You’re running a high temperature. You should rest.”

God dammit even his desk chair smells like lavender.

“You don’t understand,” Bellamy swallows. “I have many things to prepare before my father arrives tomorrow.”

Nass forces himself to take a long breath. He is going to have to see that rat of a king in less than twenty-four hours. Watch him give a stupid speech while knowing he’d just banned his mother tongue in Southern schools.

“I think you can spare an hour of rest, Your Majesty,” Nass tries to look at something, anything else as Bellamy scrubs at his nose with his wrist.

“Nass,” Bellamy clears his throat. “Truthfully, I — I cannot sleep with someone who hates me at the foot of my bed.”

There is a silence. Nass shifts in the chair.

“I don’t hate you,” he says quietly. “Not really.”

He wishes he did. It would be so much easier that way. But maybe what Nass really hates is how much he wants to feel the princes’ wild curls in his fists, find out what he tastes like, run his tongue along the sharpness of his jaw.

He’ll need to get over it. This stupid foreign lust growing inside of him. Nassim can never do it, have Bellamy in that way, his ancestors would roll in their graves.

But still. He doesn’t really hate him.

He hates how much he wants him.

Bellamy exhales slowly, the faintest flicker of surprise passing over his flushed face. His lips part, like he might say something, but then—

“hih!’IISCHhh’Yuuhh!” Another sneeze bursts out of him, messier than the last. It goes everywhere — spraying onto the blankets, the thermometer into his lap, his already ruined sleeve.

He groans, rubbing his nose with the dwindling supply of tissues. “If you stay, you will hear that a lot.”

Nass shrugs. “I have been hearing you do that a lot already, Your Highness. Bless you.”

And it certainly is not a problem. Not for Nass.

Bellamy gives him a weak glare, then finally, finally sinks very slowly into his pillow.

There’s a long pause, only the soft whirr of the heater fills the room.

Then:

“…You’re still here,” Bellamy murmurs, half-lidded, voice raw and thick.

“I am,” Nass crosses his arms. “I’ll wake you in an hour or so.”

“I nearly won the spar by the way,” he shivers, pulling blankets up to his chin. “Almost had you.”

Nass rests his feet against Bellamy’s desk. “You did not almost win the spar.”

Another pause.

“Sleep well, Bellamy,” he adds, softer this time.

Bellamy doesn’t answer. He simply turns toward the wall, curls inward with a sharp sniffle, and lets his eyes flutter shut.

Nass stays in the chair.

Just for a while.

Just in case.

[heyitsmemel]

It's so funny to me that the term "whump" can easily mean anything from "this character has a cold 😦 but here's another character taking care of him 🙂" all the way over to "this character is being viciously tortured to death" and sometimes those two creators are following each other.

[heyitsmemel]

Manhandling 1/2

Guyssssss the snzfic writing demons have fully possessed me. I can't stop writing these OC's. Sorry not sorry.

CW: 2.5k. Enemies to lovers M/M. Contains lots of sneezing while fighting, cultural clashes, languages, sneezing with accents, light humiliation, cursing, and more! All characters are in their mid 20's.

Tw: mentions of colonial violence and the erasure of indigenous populations. Read at your own discretion.

General Summary: Nass hates Prince Bellamy. But when they are forced to co-teach together at the University of Encouneteuro, Nass is forced to deal with a man who should be his enemy — and his cold.

Read the earlier instalments, if you want! Here is one, two and three !!

********************************************************************

When Nass reads the morning paper Saturday morning over coffee and fresh date squares — a morning ritual he undertakes every weekend — he stops dead at the headline.

His entire mouth runs dry as he takes in the words. His hands clench into tight fists as he forces himself to breathe, just breathe dammit—

He barely manages it. And when he blinks, he practically sees red.

KING RICHIS ANNOUNCES NEW DECREE

Nass eyes scan the page, breath catching.

Kureesh to be banned in all Southern public schools, educators must teach in common tongue.

Nass’s breakfast crawls up his throat. He swallows it back down, forcing himself to keep reading.

Anyone caught not following the decree will be fined by regional guards.

No.

No, the king can’t do this. Red hot rage sizzles through every pore of his skin like molten lava. He pushes against the floor cushions, shooting to his feet. The newspaper crumples like ash in his hand.

This is unacceptable.

As if he’s watching himself from outside of his body, Nass stalks towards the canteen doors. He barely registers Anha who calls for him from across the room. He ignores her, weaving in between tables until he’s tearing through the arched hallways of the university towards the dormitories.

Towards Bellamy’s private room.

Just thinking about his private room curls his hands into tight fists again. His breathing feels like fire against his skin.

It is customary for students at the University of Encouenteruo to share a dormitory. It is also customary, for eighteen mages to make it to the final year of the school’s elemental program.

Bellamy, who’d transferred in from a Northern university at the beginning of the year, meant there are now, for the first time ever, nineteen mages.

An exception.

They made an exception for him and no one else simply because he is the prince.

And Nass doesn’t care if Bellamy speaks Kureesh, gives coins to little children, samples Southern food or how he isn’t really that insufferable — he can’t think or feel any of that through his rage. All he can think is the king’s —Bellamy’s father’s — new decree.

And so, Nass comes to a reeling stop at Bellamy’s door just steps away from his own dorm.

He doesn’t knock.

He slams his hands hard enough against the brass handle that it sends an electric shock of pain up his arm. The sound reverberates down the hallway like a thunderclap.

 He hears a cough from inside and the sound sends him spiralling.

He doesn’t care if Bellamy’s sick. He doesn’t care about anything other than the fact his people are being slowly erased.

“Bellamy!” He shouts, slamming a hand against the brass door. “Open up!”

That seems to get things moving because a second later the door swings open.

Nass’s jaw drops open at the sight of him.

Bellamy leans against the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, in a loose tunic rather than the tight fashion he always dons. The prince’s skin is pale, far paler than it was the other day in the Souk, his curls plastered damply to his forehead. Nass’s eyes flit down to the dark circle’s underneath Bellamy’s bright eyes, framed by thick glasses.

The fact that they make his eyes look even bigger, even more royal blue makes Nass grind his teeth.

“Nassim?” Bellamy sounds alarmed. He straightens his shoulders though it looks like it costs him everything to do so. There’s a tremor in his movement, a wobble in his balance.

“Has someone died?” His voice is hoarse, as if he’s spent the night screaming. “Because there is ndo other reasond you would be standing here at my—”

He breaks off with a thick, uncontrollable cough, hastily turning into his elbow. His whole frame folds inward, a moment later shuddering with a —huhhh’EhSHhhueh!!”

The sound echoes in the doorway. And for half a second, Nass falters.

He doesn’t look like a prince. He looks like someone who hasn’t slept in days.

“Sorry,” Bellamy whispers, scrubbing at his long red nose. “Excuse me. Is there something I can do for you?”

His stupid Northern politeness—while this sick and disoriented—reignites Nass’s fury.

“Do you know what your father has done?” Nass seethes, words already hot in his throat. “Do you have any idea what he’s signed into law this morning?”

He throws the newspaper clenched in his fist, watches as it flutters to the floor. Bellamy’s grip tightens on the doorframe as he lurches into his sleeve with a second, “hhK’IISCHhh’Yue!”  

“Answer me,” Nass spits, hands trembling. “Did you know about this?”

Bellamy’s hand stays on the doorframe. He breathes like it hurts, his lips opening, closing. Another wet cough drags out of him, rough and rattling.

“Ndo — what are you talking about?” He blinks slowly as if it takes effort.

“The papers.” Nass snaps, stepping forward.

“I—I haven’t read the papers yet,” he croaks.

Nass lets out a bitter laugh. “No, of course not. Why would you? Must be hard to read while you’re holed up in your private fucking dorm, fevered and fed.”

Bellamy flinches like he’s been struck.

Nass knows he’s going too far, cutting too deep but he can’t stop it.

“Let me enlighten you, Your Highness,” Nass shouts. “A royal decree from your father making it illegal for children to speak our own language in school.”

Bellamy’s face goes sheet white. A violent shudder rips through him—he barely manages to stay upright, fumbling a used tissue from his pocket and crumpling into it with a damp, congested— “HhDJSChhh’UH!”

 “My aunt teaches in the South. Do you know what that means now? She’ll be fined if she speaks her mother tongue in the classroom.”

Bellamy’s glassy eyes widen. His mouth opens but nothing comes out.

“Your father is trying to erase us,” Nass snarls, voice cracking.

“Nassim!” Bellamy finally says, looking left and right. “Calm down. We can discuss this in my room and —”

The words calm down pulse through Nass like lightening.

“Do not tell me to calm down!” Nass shouts. “The South will not be erased! And you—,” he pauses, searching for the right words. “You — you are…,”

“I am not my father!” Bellamy screams. The words tear out of him, hoarse and furious, echoing down the hallway.

This time it’s Nass’s turn to flinch.

It’s the first time he’s heard Bellamy say anything not in that cool, indifferent tone, and the shock of it hits like a slap. Nass stumbles backward, stunned.

“As much as you want to hate me, blame me, Nassim!” Bellamy is shaking now, finally speaking the truth that’s always laid between them.

“I am not my father! In fact, I wake up every day wishing another man’s sperm sired me but — but —!” His voice splinters, breath breaking. “You can’t choose the family you are born into!”

At this Bellamy doubles over slightly, one hand clutched to his chest, the other still gripping the wall like the floor might tilt beneath him. A deep, body-wracking cough seizes him as he tries to finish:

“I — will speak with my father — try and make him — see reason — reverse — the — decree!”

He gets out the final word, voice breaking on the last syllable, knees buckling.

Nass doesn’t even think. His arms shoot out on instinct, catching Bellamy as he sags sideways.

The prince is tall—far taller than Nass—but Nass has the iron-built strength of Southern blood. As Bellamy collapses into him, his skin burns through Nass’s fingertips, hot and clammy.

“Gods, Bellamy,” Nass breathes, the anger bottling inside him like a shaken flask. “You’re burning up.”

Bellamy’s collar is damp with sweat. He’s still gasping from the shouting match when his breath catches again with an exhausted— “hhK’IISCHhh’ue!”

Nass feels warm spray burst against his shoulder. Bellamy sniffs loudly in panic —sharp and desperate — the action sparking a second “EH’Mmphh’schu!” Nass feels another splattering of droplets against his light tunic fabric, grip tightening on the prince.

Feeling Bellamy sneezing, broad chest shuddering with breath against him, sends a jolt of lightening all the way down into Nass's toes.

“U-unhand me!” Bellamy croaks, more raw panic bleeding into his voice.

“Like hell,” Nassim snarls, beginning to move them both into Bellamy’s room. “So, you can fall over? You’re going to bed.” “N-Nassim!” Bellamy wheezes, horrified as he’s dragged back inside. “I’m going to — to! huhhh’EhSHhhuh!! hehh’TSSHH’yuuh!”

Sneeze all over Nass’s arm again apparently.

Nass doesn’t register his surroundings — not over the arousal blooming low in his pelvis. Somehow he manages to kick Bellamy’s door shut, dragging the taller man towards his bed. He deposits him on green bedsheets, where Bellamy all but curls against his headboard, shivering out another —HEH’DZSSCHhhY’iuh! Into the open air in front of him.

Nass pauses for a breath. Everything in the room is immaculate. Books stacked neatly on shelves, papers folded on the desk. The only evidence that he’s sick at all is a box of tissues stacked neatly on his nightstand next to an empty glass and some unlabelled tincture.

Nass wanders into the adjacent bathroom, rummaging through a small medicine cabinet until he pulls out a thermometer from the back.

“G-get out!” Bellamy croaks, as Nass returns, thermometer in hand. Hs face twists into horror as he stares at the evidence of his illness on Nass’s damp shirt.

“You have a fever, Bellamy.” Nass stalks over to the bed, shoving the thermometer into his hand. “Take your temperature. Now. Or I’m not leaving.”

It’s a threat. But it works.

Bellamy slides the metal instrument in between his teeth, muttering curses in Kureesh, common tongue, then presumably Northern tongue though Nass can’t quite understand the last part.  

There is a tense, very heavy pause as they wait for the reading.

When it finally beeps, Bellamy doesn’t even look down at the number. Just continues to curse Nass in a language he doesn’t understand.

Nass glances down at the reading on the thermometer.

38 degrees Celsius.

Definitely a fever.

Nass snatches the thermometer and heads back into the bathroom. Bellamy medicine cabinet is sparse — no tinctures for colds, stomaches or other common ailments. All he finds is a bottle of lavender oil. Cursing under his breath, Nass finds a spare hand towel under the sink and runs it under cold tap water. He wrings out the excess water before bringing it over to the bed.

“Here,” Nass snaps, handing him the damp towel. “So, you don’t die of fever before you can speak with your father.”

Bellamy doesn’t look at him. But his hand takes the cloth. He presses it to his forehead, a shiver rolling down his frame like wind through trees.

“What’s this?” Nass asks, picking up the unlabelled tincture bottle. “Medicine?” "Ndo,” Bellamy sniffs. Congestion threads through every word. “Sleeping tincture.”

“Problems sleeping?” Nass doesn’t mean to ask the follow up question, but he does.

Bellamy turns to face him slowly, with a glare that could freeze just about anybody else.

“Obviously,” he snaps.

There is a brief pause.  

Then —

“Itds why I have a — hh! His eyes flutter shuts as he frantically yanks a few tissues out of box to his right. “A private roomb…” he trails off, eyes streaming, raising the tissues to his face for a heavy, AEHD’SSCHhy’uuh!”

Nass winces at the miserable sound. Or maybe it’s because, possibly, he’s never felt more of an asshole, in his entire life. Bellamy has a private room because of sleeping problems?

“Bless you,” Nass says, almost reflexively. Then as if pulled from the depths of his soul he adds — “I’m sorry I yelled.”

“Fuck you,” Bellamy snarls, dabbing at his streaming nose.

“I’m angry,” Nassim clears his throat. “But not at you.” At what you represent. “Get out, Nassim!” Bellamy coughs, twisting into the refuge of his sleeve. “I’mb sick! Do you want to get sick too — hh! hhK’IISCHhh’Yue!”

Nassim really doesn’t. Though judging by the dampness on his tunic sleeve it may already be too late.

Bellamy does not stop coughing. It’s harsh, guttural, and goes on so long that Nass feels the rage he barged in the room with, dissipate. Instead, he picks up the empty glass on the nightstand, refilling it with water from the bathroom, pressing it into Bellamy’s hands.

“Have you seen a doctor?” Nass asks, standing there awkwardly as Bellamy downs the water in one go. “You look like shit.”

“How sweet of you,” Bellamy sneers, wiping his forehead with the damp cloth. He sniffs and it makes a liquid, congested sound. His face twists, and he immediately straightens his shoulders as if good posture will hide his cold.

“Bellamy, seriously,” Nass says quietly. “You should see a doctor. Your cough sounds terrible.”

Bellamy barks a wet laugh, then chokes on it. “Any doctor here will report to my father,” he rasps.

“So what?” Nassim folds his arms across his chest. “Who cares if they report to the king?”

Bellamy gives him an exhausted look, like Nass is missing something obvious.

“I will not,” Bellamy rasps. “I’d rather die of lung fever than be dragged back to his palace —AEHD’SSCHhy’uuehh!”

The sneeze comes on so fast Bellamy doesn’t have time to grab tissues. He snaps into steepled hands, loose dark curls flying over his eyes.

Nass doesn’t respond. He just swallows hard, something twisting uncomfortably in his chest.

Instead, his eye catches on something glinting on Bellamy’s desk lamp. Small. Silver. Too delicate to be a weapon, too finely crafted to be decoration.

Nass takes a step forward to look at it. It’s a hanging pendant—cold and perfectly symmetrical—a snowdrop flower, petals carved from silver, edges so fine they could cut air. A thin, invisible seam splits it down the middle.

“What’s that?” he asks, nodding at it.

He doesn't think Bellamy is going to answer, probably just curse at him again in Northern tongue but he doesn't.

Bellamy’s voice is sandpaper rough as he answers: “It’s a Frost Charm. Northern mothers give them to their children after the first frost.”

Nass feels a slow chill run down his spine. No one ever talks about her. Bellamy’s mother — the king’s mistress. It was a huge scandal when she died in a tragic house fire — childless — they'd said.  

Well, they'd been wrong. Or at the very least, tried very hard to make it look like she was childless.

“Do you remember her?” Nass looks away from the pendant, staring at the polished hard wood floors. “Your mother?”

He doesn’t know why he’s asking. But he finds himself curious, his furry, strangely disarmed by Bellamy’s illness.

“Of course notd,” Bellamy shakes his head, massaging his temples. “He had her killed before I could ever have that chance.”

Nass’s mouth drops open. His eyes widen to the shape of saucers.

He doesn’t speak.

He can’t.

Bellamy's fever must be melting his brain, loosening his tongue. Him saying these accusations against his own father —is — is —

Treason.

“What?” Bellamy sniffs again. “You’re going to turn me in for speaking “treason” Nassim? You hate the king as much as I do.”

“You think he killed her?” Nass shivers despite it being nowhere near cold in the room.

“Of course, he did,” Bellamy rubs at his nose. “The king did not want a secret bastard child. Though he got to her a little late and here I ammb  —

He trails off, lurching to the left just barely catching a heavy “hhK’IISCHhh’Yue! In the crook of his elbow.

Nass winces at the exhaustion in the sound. The prince must really be feeling ill because he’s not even attempting to stifle, like he was the other day at dinner and in the Souk.

“Bless you,” Nass says, pulling some tissues out of the box and handing it to him.

Nass can see that Bellamy’s nose is streaming, despite an attempt from Bellamy to angle himself away. He snatches the wad of tissues from Nass, turning away to dab at his nose. Though he doesn’t blow it, not like the other day in the Souk.

“Excuse me,” Bellamy says reflexively.

There is a pause.

Then —

 “I promise I will do what I can Nassim,” he clears his throat. “To reverse the new Decree. But I won’t save the South. The South will save themselves.”

A lump rises in Nass’s throat. He wants to say you’re right, or thank you, or yes, we will. But none of it comes out. He stands there instead, awkwardly leering at him.

Do something, Nass screams at himself. Say something.

“Would you like to scream at me some more?” Bellamy coughs after an uncomfortably long silence. “Make me the scapegoat for your anger? Or keep standing here relishing in my illness?”

Something hot and uncomfortable squeezes at Nassim’s throat.

“Bellamy I —,” he starts.

 “Because if we’re finished Nassim,” he sniffs, in a cold voice. “I’d like to go back to being fevered and fed in… what did you call it? My private fucking dorm.”

Nass flinches as Bellamy throws his own words back at him, cheeks burning.

He is about to say something when the prince’s breath trails off and he fumbles for the wad of tissues in his lip, sealing them around his mouth and nose for another hh! ehh’HTSSHH’yuuh!”

Nass pretends he doesn’t hear the groan Bellamy makes in the aftermath.

“Sorry,” Bellamy says automatically.

"Stop fucking saying sorry," Nassim says, though the bite is gone from his words.

"W-what?" Bellamy gives him a bewildered, exhausted, look.

"Your sick," Nass says. "You don't need to be sorry for sneezing."

Bellamy's lips purse at this.

There is another silence, though this one, less uncomfortable than before.

“See you Monday for our exam.” Nass finally says, moving to the door.

“If you fall ill, it’s hardly my fault,” Bellamy closes his eyes, sweat glistening at his temples. “I didn't mean to — to —," he pauses, before quietly adding "to sneeze on you."

His lips curl, as if admitting that cost a tiny bit of his soul.

"Anyway you were the one who barged into my space and manhandled me onto my bed.” A shiver runs through his broad form. "So it's hardly my fault that you should now wash your tunic."

Nassim swallows the laugh that threatens to burst from his chest.

“I wouldn’t worry about me or my tunic, Your Majesty,” Nass says as he opens the door. Then a second, softer, “I hope you feel better.”

And Nass can never say why he does it, but after he leaves, he marches straight to Anha’s room, and makes her swear she’ll check on Bellamy later that day.

_____________________________________________________________

Next instalment here

[heyitsmemel]

A stoic person who doesn't groan or whimper during sex BUT has really terrible honeymoon rhinitis, so their partner knows they're pleasuring them well when they start sneezing in increasingly desperate and numerous fits

[heyitsmemel]

Into the Souk Part 2/2

I'm super proud of this one!! Definitely one of my best works imo!

CW: 2.5k. Enemies to lovers M/M OC. Contains lots of sneezing, manners, cultural clashes, languages, sneezing with accents, light humiliation, and more! All characters are in their mid 20's.

TW: Mentions emeteo once.

General Summary: Nass hates Prince Bellamy. But when they are forced to take their shared class on a field trip to the Souk together, Nass is forced to deal with a man who should be his enemy — and his cold.

Read the earlier instalments (if you want its not totally necessary) here and here

______________________________________________________________

Nass doesn’t speak to Bellamy for the entire journey down to the Souk—an impressive feat, given how far the University of Encounteruo is from the city centre. Built on a sprawling isolated cliff that towers over Yekiti’s sea, the only way out of the university is a forty-minute gondola ride over the wide-open ocean that deposits passengers directly onto the city centre’s port.

Rain speckles the gondola windows as they descend, soft and persistent, blurring the view of whitecaps curling on the horizon. Nass stands on the farthest corner of the gondola from Bellamy, hands clasped behind his back, angled away. Between them: the heads of their giddy, chattering students and a silence that’s grown strangely familiar over the past few months.

As Nass has discovered this semester, it’s entirely possible to co-teach a class while speaking very little to your co-teacher.

Maybe that’s why, a small voice whispers, so many of your students are failing.

He swallows the thought as the gondola touches down with a creak and a hiss. He and his thirty-five underclassmen disembark into the already-crowded port, dodging puddles and slick cobblestones.

“Follow behind me,” Nass calls over the low hum of rain and voices. “I will walk you into the entrance of the Souk.”

Bellamy steps out from behind a large fisherman, flipping up the hood of his dark blue tunic. “Follow us,” he corrects crisply. “We will walk you into the Souk.”

Nass’s hands curl into fists at Bellamy’s cool correction. Besides sneezing earlier in the classroom, Bellamy has managed to hide evidence of his cold shockingly well. A fact that irrationally irritates the living daylights out of Nass.

“Do you even know how to get to the Souk from here, your Majesty?” Nass growls as they fall into a brisk walk side by side, winding deeper into the narrow-cobbled streets of the city.

“I know my way around my own kingdom, Nassim,” Bellamy says as water drips off the edge of his hood. “As much as you wish I didn’t.”

Nass’s reply is cut off by sudden whispers and pointing. People dart out of the way as they recognize Bellamy.

The prince’s face doesn’t change, but Nass notices the way his step quickens—shoulders subtly tensing beneath the rain-damp fabric. He’s always wondered why Bellamy doesn’t travel with a bodyguard, like the three other Velázquez royals.

Nass thinks it’s because he’s one of the strongest water mages the country has seen in decades.

Marwa, damn her, thinks it’s because Bellamy—raised in his early years a commoner—doesn’t want one.

But no one really knows for sure.

When they finally reach the mouth of the Souk, Nass forces himself to stop thinking about it. Bellamy gives their class explicit instructions to meet back at the entrance in four hours. Then, without saying goodbye to Nass, he spins on his heel and disappears into the twisting labyrinth of brightly coloured tapestries and hanging carpets.

Nass’s students flow past him like a school of fish darting toward sound and colour—and after a moment, he follows.

The air inside is thick and warm, a sharp contrast to the cool drizzle outside. It’s heavy with clove incense, fried kohbz dough, camel leather. Nass walks past stalls crowded with elaborately embroidered carpets, rows of leather shoes, and woven baskets filled to the brim with Yekitian spices. The noise is endless: bells clinking, voices bartering, children laughing.

An hour passes. Maybe more.

He wanders. Steers two girls away from a card-reading crone who smells of opium. Helps another student haggle the price of a carpet down. Later, he buys Marwa a set of purple beads for their next hair-braiding day.

He’s just exiting the hair stall when he hears a very familiar voice—speaking broken but clear Kureesh. Southern language.

Bellamy.

Horror surges through Nass’s chest. He stumbles forward a few steps, heart thudding.

There is no fucking way Bellamy is speaking the language of his people. It can’t be—because Nass has spent the past four months swearing in Kureesh under his breath at him during class, believing Bellamy had no clue what he was saying.

He must be mistaken.

But then he sees him. Bellamy, crouched beside a pomegranate stall, back pressed against the terracotta wall. Two unmistakably Southern little girls stand in front of him, watching with wide eyes as the prince pulls a silver coin from behind one of their ears like a magician. As if he’s done it many times. He drops two more coins and honied candies into one girl’s outstretched palm, who laughs. Her friend squeals as she receives the same. Then both girls spin away, giggling, disappearing into the crowd.

Nass stares, frozen.

His mouth tastes sour with humiliation.

Bellamy speaks broken Kureesh.

He’s stood across from Nass in every lesson, understanding him—and never once said a word.

That fucking little—

Bellamy suddenly shoots upright, bracing one hand against the wall. He tips his head back, lifting the other arm as though to ward something off—but it’s futile. His entire body jolts forward with two stifled sneezes:

Hh’GgnNxSHh’uh! —hh-Hh’TSCHhhuuxt!””

Nass’s feet feel glued to the floor.

Bellamy’s shoulders tremble with the aftershocks. He must’ve been sneezing like this the entire time—they just hadn’t crossed paths. His eyes are red and puffy, nose pink, colour blooming across the high points of his cheeks.

Bellamy drags the back of his hand under his nose, shuddering with two more:

““hhiH’NGXTtS’suh! Hh! H-ih! “hH’EHGXST’huh!””

Nass can’t help himself. He steps forward, switching tongues, loudly offering the Kureesh form of “bless you,” which roughly translates to good health.

Bellamy’s head jerks up, his mouth falling open in shock. His watery blue eyes lock onto Nass’s. But before he can answer, his eyes flutter shut again and he pitches forward with a strangled “hh! hH’I’SCHhhxt!”

It’s more breath than sound.

“You never thought to share you speak Kureesh?” Nass says casually, though the flush in his neck betrays him. He leans against the wall, close enough their shoulders almost brush.

“You—” Bellamy pants, dragging a crumpled tissue packet from his pocket, fingers trembling as he tries to tear one free. “N-never asked—”

“Hh!—’NkTCHSH’Yue!”

He fails to get the tissue out in time, twisting into his elbow with a half-stifled gasp. Then finally, he straightens, dabbing at his streaming eyes with shaking hands.

“Bullshit,” Nass says, voice low and burning. “You’ve been eavesdropping for four months.”

“Honestly, what could I possibly have heard, Nassim?” Bellamy croaks. Congestion clings to his voice, thick and raw, even through the sarcasm. “You calling me a goat in Kureesh? Or wait—wasn’t it handsome goat?”

Nass blinks, forcing himself to breathe. Bellamy’s long nose twitches, already turning the same shade as his swollen eyes.

“Scents of the Souk bothering you, Your Majesty?” he says. “Quite different from palace air, isn’t it?”

Bellamy inhales too sharply. His mouth falls open again, eyes fluttering shut as he shudders with another sneeze, tissue sealed to his face:

“ hh! —,” hhiH’NGXTS’suh”

Then, a pause, before a second, heavier, “hhINtTSSZH’Y’ue!”

People are starting to stare.

Nass feels an unholy spark of satisfaction.

Sure, Bellamy understanding his mumblings is mortifying—but watching him sneeze his face off in public might just even the score.

“We do not have Souks in the North, Nassim,” Bellamy glares, scrubbing at his nose. “And I don’t seem to recall goading you when I eased your seasickness on our last field trip.”

The words land like a slap.

Nass flinches before he can stop himself.

He remembers. Of course he does. That field trip to Yekiti’s coast. The way the boat dipped and rocked through angry waves, how he clung to the railing, retching in front of his entire class—until Bellamy came over. Quietly. Pressed long, cool fingers to his upper back. Used water magic to ease the nausea and bring his nervous system down from its spiral.

Nassim clears his throat.

That bastard.

“Come on,” he says gruffly.

And because Nass always repays his debts, he doesn’t wait for permission. He just steps forward and gently wraps a hand around Bellamy’s upper arm, guiding him from the wall. The prince staggers slightly but doesn’t resist. He follows.

The walk is quiet. No more jabs. No more barbs. Nass expertly leads them through the Souk’s winding chaos, back toward the entrance. Back toward cleaner air.

More people stare as they walk—adults, children. Some whisper. Bellamy doesn’t notice over his misery, though Nass does.

They’ve just made it out of the Souk, the rain starting up again in a misty drizzle, when Nass feels a tug. At first, he thinks Bellamy’s trying to pull away—but then he hears a urgent:

“N-Nassim!”

Bellamy’s voice is panicked, desperate. His eyes are so swollen that Nass feels a twinge of concern deep in his gut.

“Let go—I—”

hHHh’DZZSSCHh—'uH-! Hh HH —!”

The first sneeze explodes out of him, so much stronger than its predecessors that it rocks them both. Bellamy who’d twisted away in an effort not to sneeze all over Nass, nearly slips on the slick cobblestone, drawing in more hitching breaths.

Nass tightens his grip, grounding him as another unprecedently loud “AEHD’SSCHhy’uuh!” wracks through Bellamy’s frame.  

The sneeze is harsh, echoing with the clippings of his sharp Northern accent. The sound  — and the fine spray of mist Bellamy aims towards the ground — sends heat racing through Nass’s body all the way down to his toes. He inahles sharply, his undergarments suddenly too tight against his skin.

“Skies,” Nass breathes, without thinking. “Bellamy, bless you. My gods.”

Bellamy’s face goes a little green as he thanks him. Nass wonders if he has a headache from choking back sneezes.

Surely, he must. Anyone would.

Another sneeze follows, exhausted and violent. Bellamy sways, barely upright.

This is ridiculous.

He might hate the man, but letting him fall and crack his head open on wet stone? Not on Nass’s watch.

Nass scans the street, eyes locking on a familiar Southern café he often frequents when in the city. Without a word, he guides them through the crowd, into the restaurant’s dry, cozy interior. He helps Bellamy settle onto the floor cushions at an empty table, then finally lets go.

Bellamy lets out a sound—half groan, half gasp—and collapses against the pillows shoulders sagging. He is streaming from every orifice in his face: eyes, raw nose, lips trembling. Nass picks up the menu as Bellamy buries his face in a wad of tissues he rips from his packet.

He’s never seen a Northerner blow their nose in public before. Certainly not Bellamy, who usually conceals every emotion and sign of his humanness like a lockbox. But now? He doesn’t really seem to have another choice. As Bellamy mops up his face, Nass calls the waiter over again, ordering his usual lunch time favourite. After the third round of emptying his sinuses, Bellamy finally groans and leans back, utterly spent.

Moments later, the sneezes finally give way to a cough—deep and chesty. A waiter rushes over with a small brass pot of complimentary mint tea. Nass pours for both of them, because Bellamy clearly can’t, utterly wrecked by two hours in the Souk.

Nass feels another twinge of sympathy. The Souk on a good day is an assault on anyone’s senses, never mind when you have a cold.

“My apologies, Nassim,” Bellamy croaks, both hands curled around the teacup like it might save him. “You’ll have to excuse my—my—”

He searches for the word.

“Your sneezing fit?” Nass offers, raising a brow.

Bellamy’s cheeks flush a deep red. “Yes.” He sniffles. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Nass opens his mouth to make a jab—but instead says, “It’ll last about twelve days.”

Bellamy blinks. “What will?”

“Your cold,” Nass says plainly, sipping his tea. “Well—the one everyone’s getting. I should know.”

Judging from how miserable he looks, Bellamy’s probably only on day two.

“I have exams,” Bellamy mutters, weariness uncharacteristically bleeding into his voice. “Then I have to travel with my father for his campaign…”

He pinches the bridge of his red nose. The waiter arrives with food: a fragrant plate of kurkurek, two sharing plates beside it. Not that Bellamy would be sharing. His ears would probably blow steam if his Northern palette tried this.

“Well,” Nass shrugs, lifting his warm mango tamarind drink, “I like you better like this. Maybe the rest of our country will too.”

“Like what?” Bellamy asks, sniffing.

“Human,” Nass says before he can stop himself.

Bellamy blinks. There’s a silence—then he gestures to the dish between them.

“What’s this?”

“Kurkurek,” Nass says, grabbing a piece of bread and dipping it in the spicy sauce. “Spicy beans and sour bread. It’s usually served when someone’s ill. Warms the meridian channels.”

Bellamy stares at it, intrigued. “I’ve never had this before. And I’ve sampled many Southern foods.”

“This’ll be too spicy for you,” Nass says with a flicker of amusement, the fragrant steam coiling between them. “But go on, then. Prove me wrong. You’ll have to eat with your hands, though. This is a Southern restaurant. No knives and forks here.”

 Bellamy doesn’t hesitate. He reaches across the table for a piece of bread. Their fingers brush — just briefly — before he tears a chunk off, then cautiously drags it through the sauce. He takes a bite, chews slowly.

Nass watches him swallow, waiting for the inevitable.

It doesn’t take long.

Bellamy’s eyes widen. Then they begin to water—viciously. Sweat breaks along his brow. His nose follows the same route as his eyes, and suddenly he’s digging into his packet of tissues with frantic urgency.

A second later:

 “hhK’IISCHhh’ue—hehh’TSSHH’yuuh! HeH—HhDJSChhh’UH!”

It comes in bunches. Wet. Exhausted. Uncontrollable.

“Skies!” Bellamy gasps, pitching forward. “—huhhh’EhSHhhuh!! HEH’DZSSCHhhY’iuh!”

By the fifth sneeze his whole body is shuddering, face gleaming with sweat.

“Here,” Nass says, pushing the mango drink toward him. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

Bellamy grabs it without hesitation, tissues still pressed over his nose. He downs the entire drink in three gulps, then slams the empty glass back onto the table. His curls stick damply to his temples as he rubs at it with his tunic’s sleeve. He’s gone red to the very tips of his ears from the embarrassment or the spice level — Nass isn’t sure which.

Nass could say I told you so. Just to gloat.

“A valiant effort, Your Majesty,” he says instead—surprised to find he means it.

“I’ll order you another drink,” Bellamy nods toward the glass, still dabbing at his running nose.

“Call it insurance for that time on the boat,” Nass says, plucking a saucy bean between his fingers. Then, because he feels a bit bad, he nods at the menu. “Do you want to order something else?”

Bellamy shakes his head. Wipes more sweat that’s collected at his brows. Nass can’t tell whether he’s not hungry or has simply reached the limit of his culinary bravery for the day.

“Well,” Nass shrugs. “At least you cleared your sinuses from two days of stifling.”

To Nass’s surprise, Bellamy laughs at this. It’s a genuine, musical sound, one that sounds much more joyful than the prince looks capable of.

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” he rasps, reaching to pour himself more tea.

“So where did you learn Kureesh?” Nass asks, taking another bite of bread.  

Bellamy pauses, shoulders stiffening.

Nass thinks he isn’t going to answer but then —

“I taught myself,” Bellamy rubs at his puffy eyes.

Nass stares at him, his chewing slowing. A bean drops out of his hand, clattering onto the plate.

Taught himself? Kureesh is a notoriously difficult, dying language since the king has mandated common tongue. The fact that Bellamy simply taught himself, seems, seems —

“It took me a long time,” Bellamy eyes narrow as if he can feel Nass’s disbelief. “But I taught myself.”  

Then as an afterthought he adds, “I believe it is my duty as prince to speak all three Yekitian languages to communicate with our people.”

He chews his lip. “Though I am nowhere near fluent in Kureesh. Most Southerners do not wish to speak with me.”

“Your past tense could use some work,” Nass nods.

Bellamy gives another small laugh at this which quickly spirals into that horrid chesty cough.

Good, gods.

Nass reaches to pour more tea into Bellamy’s mug quickly finding the pot empty. He waves over the waiter to replace it. It’s only when Bellamy takes big gasping gulps of freshly replaced tea does his coughing cease.

“I am so sorry, Nassim,” Bellamy rubs his throat, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing.

“For?” Nass asks through a mouthful of beans.

Bellamy clears his throat. “I am sure a symphony of coughing and sneezing is not particularly appetizing.”  

Nass’s gaze slides down into his food.

Bellamy really has no fucking idea.

 “What do you eat?” Nass asks, just to save himself the horror of responding. “In the North when you are sick?

There is another pause.

Then, in a hoarse but slightly wistful voice, Bellamy says, “We eat cold soup. With parsley. Watercress. Juniper. It cools the inflammation.”

Nass blinks. “You need to burn the virus out,” he says. “Cooling the body is ridiculous.”

Not to mention that all sounds disgusting.

Bellamy makes another noise — a laugh? Or maybe a cough. Hard to tell.

“Is it really ridiculous?” He says blue eyes soft. “Or is it just different?”

Nass doesn’t have an answer to that.

Instead their eyes meet—quiet and strange. Something settles between them. Low and flickering.

And for the first time since they were forced to teach together four months ago, the silence between them doesn’t feel like a standoff.

It feels like something beginning to soften.

____________________________________________________________

Next instalment here

[heyitsmemel]

~ The Bazar Book of Decorum. The Care of the Person, Manners, Etiquette, and Ceremonials, by Robert Tomes, 1870

[heyitsmemel]

THINGS TO TAKE:

Your time

A nap

A walk

The compliment

Your energy where it’s valued

Deep breaths

Your power back

Your inner child by the hand

Nothing personally

A chance on yourself

It one day at a time

Up space

[heyitsmemel]

God the way I use tumblr for horn, angst, and vague optimism would make fifteen year old Mel so proud we really returned to our roots huh miss Mel