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straightupsickfics · 5 months ago

Note

📘 For Crowley and Aziraphale... maybe Aziraphale is sick, sniffly, and sneezy but determined to downplay his symptoms so he can keep helping/serving people (and reading in bed). Meanwhile kinky!Crowley is burning up with his attraction to Aziraphale and concern for his sickly sweetheart. -🐰

A bunny anon appears! Ooooh, I really love this dynamic for the ineffable husbands, so I hope you enjoy this fic... <3

~ ~ ~

The thing about having a rival who becomes your closest friend and then your only beloved is that at the end, there are six thousand years of everything etched into your memory. Shared bottles of wine and decades-long debates and the entire cycle of human drama and every luxurious meal on g–well, someone’s green earth.

Crowley crosses his arms over his chest and watches Aziraphale rub at his nose for the half-dozenth time since they walked outside. He’s chatting with Nina about something Crowley barely finds interesting, and every so often he pauses, wrinkles his nose, and–quickly, gently–pushes it against the cuff of his coat sleeve. He gives a little cough, too, barely noticeable, into the crook of his elbow.

That’s when Crowley catches Aziraphale’s eye and gives him an expectant look. This angel thinks he’s being subtle, but Crowley can tell, Crowley has always been able to tell. Since the garden, really, if he leafs back far enough through the pages of his mind, all the way back to their first moments in this fallen world. The chill, and the rain, and this angel, half-abandoned by heaven and left to Crowley's care.

The expression on Crowley’s face softens at the memory, and that’s when he knows he’s lost this round of trying to convince said angel to go back inside his warm, dry shop.

Aziraphale smiles in reply to the look on Crowley’s face, and before he turns back to Nina, Crowley can see how his eyes and nose are both flushed pink with irritation. He looks tired and snifflish, and Crowley’s certain he sounds tired and snifflish.

A curl of warmth flickers through Crowley at the thought, then the memory of how all that snifflish congestion had been bothering him this morning. Frequent, scattered sneezes, coming in sets of threes and fours now that he’s absolutely ill, and his poor nose pressed into a handkerchief to quell all that bother.

Crowley savors the flickering warmth–he’ll get Aziraphale to himself soon enough, he always does, he always makes sure he does–then slithers back into the conversation. He has Nina and Maggie with him now, and if anyone else approaches, Crowley fears they’ll all be on the verge of making some sort of plan. The sort of plan that secretly hinges on heavenly influence, and Crowley knows Aziraphale doesn’t have the energy for that right now.

“All right, angel?” He says, just as Aziraphale clears his throat and touches the end of his now very pink, very tender looking nose. “Done chatting with the neighbors?”

“Almost… snffSNff! We were just discussing… the-thhhh…” Something flickers over Aziraphale’s face and the warmth flickers inside Crowley again. His eyelashes flutter just before his eyes squeeze shut, and Aziraphale turns his face back into the sleeve of his jacket with a quiet, muffled heptSSH! of a sneeze.

Before anyone can bless him, he sneezes again, this time an equally muffled but somehow itchier sounding hptCHssh! that Crowley knows must aggravate his sinuses.

That he’s managing to hold those sneezes back at all must some sort of miracle in and of itself. For all his quiet sniffles and soft coughs, he really does have a burgeoning head cold. One he didn’t even notice was overtaking him until that morning, until he woke up from napping with Crowley, his head congested and throat dry and scratchy.

Maggie and Nina both frown and bless him, and Crowley frowns at them. He rests a hand between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades when he gives a shuddery little cough. The gesture is at once protective and possessive, and Crowley barely resists the urge to hiss at anyone else showing any obvious concern over his angel.

Though he makes a show of groaning over it, Crowley doesn’t really mind following Aziraphale about when he makes his rounds of the neighborhood shops. He’s really in his element there, nattering on about books and restaurant nights and cafe drinks, imparting the faintest trace of heavenly influence to make sure the neighborhood thrives. If he uses that same influence to fashion the menus to his own particular taste, well, only Crowley would ever notice.

Only himself, Crowley thinks, and draws Aziraphale infinitesimally closer to him when the angel gives a little warning cough before ducking aside.

“h’Chsshmph! Ohh… goodness…” The third, final sneeze ends on a soft groan, and Aziraphale excuses himself and clears his throat before getting another round of blessings.

Thank Satan for that, Crowley thinks, and ignores the way his own sinuses buzz from the last round. If only Aziraphale didn’t inspire such heartfelt acknowledgement from everyone else when he was ill like this.

“Oh, Mr. Fell, but you should be inside,” Maggie says, probably on the verse of another concerned frown. “You really do sound under the weather.”

“It’s n-nothing, just… ah, a touch of cold. snff-snff! I’m sure it sounds worse than it really is.” Aziraphale clears his throat again, and Crowley can see how he loses the battle he’s been fighting to not sniffle again. He rubs at his nose once, then again, and the poor thing even twitches with irritation.

“I can do tea for you, if you like,” Nina offers, looking dangerously close to herding Aziraphale towards the cafe.

“Actually–” Aziraphale says.

“Actually,” Crowley continues before Aziraphale can. “I think I’ve got that covered. Tea and company, et cetera.”

Nina frowns at him again, and Crowley’s about to return that favor when Aziraphale makes a soft, pleased little oh sound. He leans into the hand that Crowley still has at the small of his back and when he looks up at Crowley, he looks like he’s melting inside.

Which is really just too much. Too much to be happening right here in the middle of the road, with all the shops open and pedestrians milling about, where Crowley can’t simply wind himself up around his angel. Warmth pulses through Crowley, and all at once all he wants is to have Aziraphale to himself.

“Et cetera?” Aziraphale repeats, thoughtful and fond, and he smiles at Crowley like all the warmth of the Garden is at his fingertips. He sniffles, too, and although he’s making every effort to be quiet and unobtrusive, the late winter chill isn’t doing his stuffy nose any good.

“Omnia cetera,” Crowley replies and heaven damn him, he can’t help but glow a little at the pleased, indulgent look Aziraphale gives him for answering in Latin.

The glow settles comfortably in Crowley’s chest as Aziraphale makes his good-byes, soft coughs and sniffles punctuating nearly all his words. His voice is starting to fade by the end of the conversation, and all it takes is one barely-there nudge to get Aziraphale to turn into the arm Crowley has around his waist.

Despite how stuffy his head has to be, Aziraphale’s sniffles are constant and damp by the end of the short walk back to the bookstore. Crowley snaps his fingers to unlock the door, then shrugs in reply to the frown of admonishment Aziraphale gives him.

“Really, dear,” he murmurs, then reaches up to rub at the corner of his eye. The shivers and sniffles and sneezes have been going on all day, but something about this singular gesture just gets Crowley.

One small gesture, and Crowley can tell just how tired and itchy Aziraphale’s eyes must feel, and how exhausted he’s getting from being ill. He can trace a direct line back from that act to countless other identical ones through the ages. Back to the garden, he thinks, back to that first cold rain, and the uncoiling warmth inside him when the angel tipped his head against Crowley’s shoulder.

He snaps his fingers to lock the door once they’re inside, and to set the lights to a soft, diffusing glow after leading Aziraphale to the sofa.

“Now… I did promise you tea,” Crowley says. He touches Aziraphale’s shoulder to guide him to sit, but relents when Aziraphale leans into him again.

“And … snffSNF! Oh… snff-sniff!” Aziraphale touches his nose gently, as if that’s going to pause the sniffles. He crinkles his nose against the touch, then rifles through his pockets for a handkerchief. “And c-company… snff-snff!”

“Of course.” Crowley can’t help but watch the battle Aziraphale still wages against his constant cold symptoms. “Wouldn’t renege on that one.”

Aziraphale smiles, but it wavers, and he rubs at his nose a little more vigorously to head off a sniffle. He’s never been truly shy about being ill around Crowley and for that Crowley’s grateful. He loves when Aziraphale’s like this, he loves every part of it, and he’s just as loathe now as he was six millennia ago to share it when anyone, even Heaven itself.

“uhh… huh… uhhTsschiiew! CHiishhew! ehh… tchisssh!” Angling his head aside, Aziraphale barely manages to catch the rush of three sneezes against his sleeve. He sniffles wetly, then gives Crowley a teary-eyed, apologetic look.

“Ssshh,” Crowley hisses softly before Aziraphale can say anything. It’s easy enough to slip his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and to hold him a little closer. “You sound like you needed that, angel, what with that head cold bothering you all morning.”

Aziraphale sniffles again and gives his nose a tentative rub against the side of his wrist. He’s been trying to downplay his cold symptoms all day, claiming none of them were much of a bother. But he’s so teary-eyed and sensitive now that Crowley can’t imagine even Aziraphale trying to explain his way out of his cold.

“Well… per… sniff! p-perhaps… snffSnff… snff!” Even sniffling too many times in a row seems to set him off. Aziraphale touches his nose again and wrinkles it when he has to sniffle again, too.

“What else d’you need?” Crowley murmurs into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. He’s all warmth and angel-scent here, familiar and indescribable. “Tea and company and bedrest, I should think.”

“Oh.. I don’t know. snff! Thought I wouldn’t turn down that cup of tea.”

“Thought not. Shall I do it properly for you, with lemon and honey, because you’re ill? And bring it to you in bed”

Crowley nuzzles a kiss behind Aziraphale’s ear and almost expects another admonishment for trying to get Aziraphale to rest in bed. Instead, however, what he gets in another of the angel’s soft, melting looks.

“Not sure I’d turn that down, either,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Especially since you’re being so sweet.”

“Hardly…” Crowley pushes his face back into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and breathes in his warm scent again. “M’never sssweet.”

Aziraphale makes a soft sound that’s more tired congestion than anything else. He leans into Crowley with a series of damp, shivery sounding sniffles, and he’s rubbing at his eyes when Crowley raises his head.

“See, you’re exhausted. Visiting the shops and planning a festival and–” Crowley waves his hand in the direction of the street. “Converssssing,” he adds, unable to stop the hiss in his voice.

Aziraphale sighs and tips his head against Crowley’s shoulder.

“You really are very sweet when you’re protective like this,” Aziraphale says, and it’s only the look on his face that stops Crowley from hissing in indignation. “Bed?”

“Yes, all right. Bed,” Crowley says, something sweet and soft moving through him when Aziraphale turns to cough into his shoulder.

Crowley brings Aziraphale tea in bed, and a couple extra blankets, and his favorite soft knit cardigan, and then decides that’s warmth enough for the both of them. All Crowley really needs to be warm is his angel, especially when he’s ill and a little feverish, but he can’t resist wanting to bury them both in blankets.

It would help, of course, if Aziraphale didn’t believe that resting in bed also meant reading in bed.

Not that he’s getting much reading done. Mostly, he’s sniffling into his tea or handkerchief, or nuzzling against Crowley for attention when the headache or faint fever bother him. Crowley attempts to take the book away, but relents every time Aziraphale gives him a sad look with his tired, teary eyes and pink nose.

Every few pages his nose trembles and his breath comes in a soft gasp of anticipation. He’s so stuffed up now, however, after getting settled in bed that more than half the time the sneezes don’t arrive. While Aziraphale gazes at his book trying to coax the sneezes out, Crowley just gazes at him.

Which means he gets to see the exact moment when Aziraphale realizes he’s actually going to sneeze. His nose quivers a little and his breath catches and the urgent expression in his eyes flickers briefly before they squeeze shut.

Fetching, Crowley thinks, and rests his hand on Aziraphale’s thigh to feel the shuddering go through him.

“heh… heh… hetCHshew!” Aziraphale turns away from his book and sneezes at the handkerchief in his other hand. His breath hitches softly, and the next two sneezes take over before he has the chance to sniffle again. “hetCHshhh! etCHisshoo!”

Crowley tries to slip the books from Aziraphale’s hand, but he grips the pages more firmly in a struggle to not sneeze again. He’s barely read a page since they curled up together, and now he can’t even keep his eyes open against the stuffy itch in his head.

“Just three sneezes?” Crowley says and presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s shoulder. He doesn’t even need to tease his angel–the cold is doing that work for him this time.

Aziraphale shakes his head and dabs the handkerchief against his nose. The edges of his nose quiver and Crowley leans in closer to watch the struggle. Poor angel, his eyes water as he tries to hold off his sneezes, and Crowley knows he won’t last long. Aziraphale even gives a little cough, the cold making his throat itch, too, and Crowley takes the moment of distraction to slip the book from his fingers.

Aziraphale glances at him, glasses slipping down his nose. His breath hitches once, then again, and Aziraphale is left with teary eyes and a look of vague frustration on his face. He makes a vague gesture to take his book back, then brings the handkerchief halfway to his face.

“huh… ehh….heh! hhh–eptChh… Ohh…” The futile half-sneeze leaves his nose red and trembling. When he sniffles, the sound is so stuffy, that Aziraphale just shakes his head in irritation.

“There, angel…” Crowley tosses the book aside, ignores the sound of annoyance Aziraphale gives, and reaches over to touch the end of Aziraphale’s nose. Just light, and just gently, but Crowley knows it’ll be just enough.

“hehEHhh–” Aziraphale stills, eyes shut and lips parted. “heh… etCHshu!” One soft, small sneeze, and he shivers. “huhESH! Eishhew!” The next two sneezes are equally small and soft, ticklish, teasing him through all the congestion in his head.

Crowley shivers, too, and curls in closer to Aziraphale on the bed. He’s perfect like this, so sensitive and needy, and his nose practically red with irritation. When he dabs at his nose with his crumpled handkerchief, he gives another futile sniffle.

“That’s better… Though,” Crowley pauses to thread the handkerchief from Aziraphale’s fingers. “... now you’re all stuffed up again.” He slips Aziraphale’s glasses off next and makes a satisfied sound when even that gesture makes his nose quiver.

“Still,” Aziraphale amends with a tired sniffle this time. He gives Crowley one of his soft, needy looks, too, and nuzzles in closer.

Crowley gives him a sympathetic frown and uses the handkerchief to dab at Aziraphale’s nose lightly. He sniffles against the cloth, then gives wrinkles his nose when Crowley moves the cloth aside.

“heh…” Aziraphale starts, uncertain, and his gaze flickers to the handkerchief in Crowley’s hand. He gets that faraway, distracted look on his face that Crowley’s so familiar with, the one that happens when he gets caught up in ages-old memories or books.

He’s not caught up in any of those right now, though, and Crowley can see from the tears gathering in his eyes that the irritation really is getting to him. His sinuses must itch something terrible, besides being stuffed up. He gives another soft, anticipatory gasp, then flicks his gaze back to Crowley.

Who is enjoying every single second of this, and knows that Aziraphale knows he’s enjoying it. Every congested little sniffle and every needy sigh and every soft cough, all Crowley wants is to be close enough to feel them.

“heh–EHhh!” This time when his breath hitches, Aziraphale trembles next to Crowley.

He makes one helpless sound and Crowley’s gone. Warmth rolls through him and he coils close to Aziraphale, snake-like and fond, and holds the handkerchief to his face.

“uhh… uhhESCH’uhh! huhSCHooo!” The sneezes come back-to-back, strong and muffled into the handkerchief, and the look of relief in Aziraphale’s eyes when he blinks them open is marked. He snuffles against the cloth and coughs, then pushes his face right back into it with a sudden, stronger huhhhCHUSH’ooh!

“That’s it,” Crowley murmurs. “Feelsss good,” he adds, a pleased hiss just behind his words.

Aziraphale nods, then gasps and aims another hh’Chshhoo! at the handkerchief right as Crowley lowers it.

“Oh… snffSNFF! Mbaybe I should…snff!” He blinks and reaches up to rub at the bridge of his nose. He casts a glance at his book and glasses, and Crowley can see the protest start to form on his lips.

A cough catches him off guard, though, and that’s enough distraction for Crowley to clear the bed and to rest one hand against Aziraphale’s chest.

“Maybe you should let me show you all the other things I can do to take care of you,” Crowley says.

Another look of relief crosses Aziraphale’s face and Crowley knows he won’t even have to pretend to tempt the angel to stay in bed the rest of the day.

#how's it feel to be the best to ever DO IT!!!#like how honestly #i love them and i love how you write them #crowley is sooooooooooo sweet here i can't

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straightupsickfics · 5 months ago

Note

Oh that sign language rb is so so Grant coded 💙

I miss him

Oh, but it is, anon 🥺 I miss him, too, so here's a quick little ficlet for you that I hope you like <33

~ ~ ~

“Here you go,” JB says as puts a take-out bag on Grant’s desk. “Tea, soup, and a couple other drinks. I’ll refill your water bottle for you, too.”

Grant looks up, nods in thanks, and gives his computer screen a last, long, weary look. He’s been sifting through emails from the past couple days while JB stepped out to grab lunch. After being home sick for two days, only a few hours back on campus seems to have worn him out. At least he was only in the museum for a while today, then back in his office, not lecturing to his Art History 101 students.

“I think I’mb good,” Grant says. He gives his water bottle a nod this time, then quickly turns aside as his eyelashes flutter and signs for JB to hold on. His nose actually trembles, that's how badly he needs to sneeze. “huhh… uhhTschoo! eiishoo! uhhh… Iiishoo!”

Three sneezes in a row bring tears to his already irritated eyes and Grant has to push his glasses aside to press his fingertips against his eyelids. He stays in that position for a few seconds, probably gauging if he’s going to sneeze again, and rubs the tips of his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

JB waits for Grant to look up at him, blesses him, and watches him for a minute while he sniffs at his tea. When Grant looks back up at him again, JB frowns. He still has shadows under his eyes and his nose looks worn out. His blond hair’s already rumpled up, too, like he’s been pushing it off his face as he rubs at it.

“Are you sure you don’t have a sinus infection?” JB asks. He tries to sound and look casual, but Grant really looks like he’s suffering.

Grant nods, then shrugs. Just allergies, he signs, and pinches his nose against how it must want to run and itch constantly. He quells one small sneeze, though he ends up coughing for his efforts.

“... and you were just sick,” JB adds. He leans across Grant’s desk to push his cup of tea closer and does the same with the box of tissues.

Not that – Grant signs, and interrupts himself to pinch his nose shut again. He ends up sneezing again anyway, a series of half-held back little etCHss! sneezes. Four in a row this time, each one curling him forward in his seat, and he has to reach for the tissues as soon as he finishes.

Not that sick, he finishes, still sniffling repeatedly, and pushes his nose against his crumpled tissues.

He doesn’t need to do or say anything else for JB to know his ears and throat and sinuses are a complete mess. He’s barely over the stuffy head cold he caught right after spring break, and his allergy medicine is barely helping against the tree pollen this week.

Drink your tea, JB signs to grant, then has to give a smile in return for the quick, shy, sweet one Grant gives him.

#JB AND GRANT MY BELOVEDS #i miss them too

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straightupsickfics · 6 months ago

Text

deserving kindness

hi! so wicked changed my life and it’s all i can think about. i haven’t seen act 2, so please no spoilers. but i am open to talking about it! g/elphie if you squint.

elphaba spends her day noticing something is off with glinda. she didn’t even toss her hair. enemies to friends to something worse, fiyero is a slut, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, illness, sickfic, pining, disaster gays, wlw, canon divergent word count: 4.4k A/N: oopsie i got lost in sauce of feelings and forgot to write a snzfic. yknow i mean business when i proofread and edit. enjoy!

Fiyero must have no concept of personal space, Elphaba thinks. He seems more interested in leaning into her personal bubble to watch her scribble down hurried, senseless notes than in taking any of his own. Then again, maybe it’s she who has no concept of personal space—Glinda, too, has slumped so far sideways that her head is now resting on Elphaba’s shoulder.

Fiyero breathing down her neck? A typical afternoon. But Glinda is usually engaged in her lectures; something must be plaguing her mind.

“Now, royal history would have it that King Pastoria was also once in love with a mesmerizing enchantress named Lurline,” Dr. Dillamond says. “We studied her last unit. Can anyone tell me who that is?”

Glinda’s friend—whose name Elphaba never bothered to learn—raises his hand excitedly, nearly knocking his curiously shaped glasses from his face. He squawks, and Dr. Dillamond lifts a hoof in his direction.

“Yes, Pfannee?”

“She was a queen,” he says, lifting his hands to his chest in the mimicry of humility as everyone applauds. Elphaba gives him an impatient look and turns towards Dr. Dillamond at the front of the lecture hall.

“Lurline was the Fairy Queen who possessed great power and is credited with making Oz a fairy country by enchanting it and cutting it off from the rest of the world in her reign,” Elphaba corrects, glancing at Pfannee just in time to catch his theatrical eye roll. No one applauds, but she doesn’t mind—she’s correct.

Dr. Dillamond hums in approval, circling back to the projector to change the slide so more notes to be taken. Elphaba glances down to turn her page when a small piece of paper, folded in the shape of a crane, lands on her notebook. She lifts her head and sees Fiyero perched ostentatiously in his chair, balancing precariously on its back legs. His foot hooked underneath his desk to keep himself from falling backwards.

He twists the end of his glass dip-pen in his mouth, his mouth curved in a lazy self-assured smirk.

He nods at the crane, and then looks back to her. She inspects the paper with her nail, turning the crane to face herself. When she unfolds the paper, there’s beautiful looping cursive written in the center:

“Ozdust 2nite? <3”

Her eyebrows lift. Fiyero smiles and jerks his chin towards Glinda, a subtle bid to extend the invitation. Glinda rests her cheek against her knuckles, sketching hearts around her own name on her paper that has nothing else written on it besides the date.

She will ask for Elphaba’s notes later.

Elphaba will give them to her.

With a flick of her fingers, Elphaba sends a snap of magic through her fingertips, propelling the paper to flutter through the air and land directly in the center of Glinda’s notebook. Glinda startles, as if shaken from a deep daze, and turns towards Elphaba with her wide chocolate eyes.

She is all cream and peach today, wearing a champagne dress hemmed above her knees and hanging just below her collarbones. Something shimmers on her eyelids, matching the rosy flush on her cheeks. She’s glowing, but her most bewitching decoration is the sticky pink gloss on her soft, sullen mouth. Elphaba stares at it often—it isn’t every day she finds it turned down in a frown.

Copying Fiyero, she nods at the note and watches Glinda pick it up and turn it over.

“Look over your notes on King Pastoria and Queen Lurline this weekend. There will be a test on Monday—closed note, I’m afraid,” Dr. Dillamond announces, nudging a lever with his snout as a collective groan ripples across the room. “Class dismissed.”

Elphaba begins collecting her things when a heavy arm settles over her shoulder. Fiyero tugs her toward his chest, looping his other arm around Glinda on his other side, making the blonde gasp in surprise.

“Well?”

Fiyero radiates flirtatious energy—it’s practically his resting state. Elphaba isn’t entirely immune to his charm, though she’s learned that her ideal evening involves a cup of Earl Grey and a book, rather than the chaos of a party. Since becoming friends with Glinda, she’s discovered that Glinda wilts when kept away from the public eye for too long. The blonde is always trying to rope her into nighttime escapades, and paired with Fiyero’s allure, it’s harder to say no.

To her surprise, however, Glinda straightens, gripping her book beneath her arm as she turns to face them both. “I’ll think about it.” She looks like she’s about to say more, but her shoulders hike toward her ears. Her mouth snaps shut, and a foggy look clouds her eyes.

In the afternoon sun, she does not shimmer, she does not sparkle, and she does not smile. Her eyes look tired.

She sniffs, her pert nose wrinkling, then turns on her heel and takes off—without so much as a hair toss or a goodbye. Her entourage falls into step behind her, fawning and chittering in her wake, but she ignores them too.

She didn’t toss her hair...

Strange.

Storm clouds roll in after lunch, but the setting sun cuts through just enough to paint everything golden in its fading rays. Far off, rolling thunder rumbles like a stampeding marching band.

By the time Elphaba begins packing her things, the library is desolate and quiet. A shy Munchkin girl with a shock of red hair shelves books and hums softly to herself, the only other company in the space. Elphaba has spent her evening immersed in Theory of Thaumaturgy and the Laws of Conservation of Magic.

It’s probably time to head back to the dormitories and see what loud, dazzling outfit Glinda has picked for the two of them. Of course, Elphaba will opt for something simple—purple, blue, or black—because she could never pull off magenta the way Glinda can.

The campus feels unusually still for a Friday, though she supposes most people have already started their partying. Lights flash in dorm windows from smaller gatherings, and faint giggles drift from those sneaking off campus. It’s the bottled commotion of a lively university—a shaken soda can waiting to burst. She expects no less from her exuberant roommate.

When she nudges the door open, Elphaba is met by a tender stillness. Her satchel slips off her shoulder as she steps inside, disarmed by the absence of laughter bouncing off the walls, music blasting, or clothes strewn across the floor. The room is dimly lit, Glinda’s pink lamp casting butter and bubblegum halos against the walls.

Elphaba pokes her head around the corner and finds Glinda in bed, her knees pulled to her chest under a thick salmon cable-knit blanket patterned with tiny hearts. The usual tornado of energy is gone, replaced by a quiet calm. A worn, calf-bound Linguification schoolbook is propped against her thighs, though it looks untouched.

Glinda doesn’t look up at the sound of the door, busy meticulously filing her nails with a glittery nail file, her lips slightly pursed in concentration.

“If you’re going to stare, at very least come to my good side.”

Elphaba lets out a sharp laugh, halfway between amusement and derision. Leave it to Glinda to forgo a greeting in favor of fluffing her ego. Shaking her head fondly, Elphaba shuts the door behind her and crosses the room to drop her book bag on her desk. Glinda’s gaze follows her, boring into her back. When Elphaba turns, their eyes lock.

“You well know every angle is your good angle,” Elphaba assures her, with more finesse than she expects.

Glinda tilts her head slightly, a soft, coy smile curving her lips upward. A single dimple appears on her cheek—she hasn’t done much of that lately. Something sticky and fond tugs in Elphaba’s chest, and she sheepishly nudges her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“I know, but I like to hear you say it since your praise is hard-earned,” Glinda pouts. “How was the dreadfully dull place with all the commonly shared books?”

“It’s called a library; we’ve been over this—”

“It’s called a bore,” Glinda interrupts with a sniff. “And I do not enjoy sharing. We've been over this.”

A slow grin spreads across Elphaba’s face as Glinda brandishes her nail file at her like a wand. Elphaba’s mossy eyebrows lift in surprise, a chuckle escaping her. She studies the blonde, equal parts fascinated and delighted.

“Oh, we’re in a mood this evening, are we?”

She crosses the room and sits on the edge of Glinda’s bed, tucking one leg beneath herself.

“No, I just don’t think you have to go to The Book Place in order to study. You can do it here just fine.” Glinda sweeps a dismissive wave of her nail file to showcase the room.

Over the course of the semester, Elphaba is learning just how gregarious Glinda can be. She’s like a sunflower, chasing the sun from sunrise to sunset and repeating the cycle the next morning. Elphaba is also discovering that Glinda is particularly fond of her company—though she hasn’t quite figured out why. Most people don’t take well to her, either because of the alarming color of her skin or because of her combative nature. Elphaba has never been one to make a good first impression, and it’s even rarer for her to redeem herself after making a commotion that leaves everyone with a sour taste in their mouth.

Not Glinda, though. She’s gravitated toward Elphaba, and, even more surprisingly, Elphaba has gravitated back.

“Are you feeling deprived of attention?” Elphaba teases, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Glinda’s ear. Her hair is pulled back in an elaborate braid, with pearl clasps holding back the stray strands that frame her face.

“No, Elphie!” Glinda’s face flushes a bright scarlet, and for a moment, she looks like an entirely different color. People are so quick to judge her for being green, but Elphaba has seen Ozian’s turn red, pink, and a kaleidoscope of other colors. Glinda jabs her nail file at the closed book in her lap. “I’ll have you know I’ve been studying!”

Elphaba shoots her a sideways look, her voice laced with disbelief. “You’re—wait, forgive me—you’re studying?”

Glinda shrieks, flapping her hands in indignation. “Is that so confusifying?”

”Well,” Elphaba squints. “Yes. In all the time we’ve spent together, I have never seen you study. Your textbooks were starting to collect dust on your desk.”

“You are terrible,” Glinda giggles, a rogue lock of blonde falling back into her eyes. “You are so terrible!”

They dissolve into a fit of laughter together. Glinda’s hand settles on her thigh, branding like iron. Selfishly, Elphaba reaches for her hand.

The nail file is gently given up.

Elphaba discards it on the nightstand, threading their fingers together as their laughter peters out. When she lifts her head to search Glinda’s face, she isn’t looking at her anymore—her eyes are screwed shut. Her shoulders hitch with a strange rhythm, like a stutter, hitch-hitch-hitch, and Elphaba tilts her head to explore the peculiar motion.

“Glinda?”

“hH— hzscht—iew!” Her head bobs forward, ducking almost imperceptibly. The sound is soft, a bottled chuff of air like a…like…

“Did you just sneeze?”

Her answer is another sneeze. Glinda pulls her hand free of Elphaba’s, fanning in front of her face and then holding her palm flat a few inches from her nose.

“hh’tzsch!…sch-! tsch-! tsch-!” Each sneeze is a mousey thing—wet but quiet, the best she could hope for unrestrained. It’s only then that Elphaba realizes she’s never seen Glinda sneeze before. Do they always come in packs, tumbling out one on top of the other, with only a whispery gasp to break up the patterning, spraying the air in front of her like a chipped nozzle to a perfume bottle? Glinda is doing a poor job of shielding Elphaba from the spray of her breath though in her defense she does otherwise seem occupied, caught in the daze of a flurry of sneezes. ”hH…hd’sHT! -scht! -sscht! ih’ssHht!”

“Oz bless you.” Elphaba breathes, equal parts amused, impressed and concerned. Glinda sniffs harshly, probably the most crass noise she’s ever made and then quickly jams her bent knuckle beneath her delicately quivering nostrils.

“ch’yiu!” Elphaba stifled her laughter at the pathetic squeak of a sneeze. Glinda gasps like she’s broken the surface tension, coming up for air for the first time since she began sneezing. It isn’t unlike Glinda to make everything she does a production but Elphaba never imagined she would sneeze with such rapid disarray. The sharp, airy quality to them isn’t surprising, but the plentiful, dizzying…dampness is definitely a shock. And still, she is annoyingly adorable, even with her tear filled eyes and the shiny underside of her nose.

The dainty curve of her septum to her upper lip reddens with irritation when Glinda unceremoniously itches her knuckle against it. Upon closer inspection, it looks flushed already as if this isn’t the first time she’s given attention to it. Elphaba breaks out of her stupor to reach for Glinda’s nightstand and grabs a periwinkle monogrammed handkerchief, handing it to her roommate. Glinda takes it gratefully and folds the silk over her nose, leaving two dark circles of moisture in the center.

“I don’t think The Wizard himself has enough blessings deserving of that…spectacle.”

The shells of Glinda’s ears turn a cherry red.

“Don’t laugh!” Glinda buries her face in her hands. “I can feel you laughing in your head!”

”Oh, don’t be embarrassed, it was cute.”

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door—firm and deliberate.

The two girls share a look, then glance at the door. Glinda is quick to flop on her back and pull her cable-knit blanket over her head. She shrieks. “Don’t you dare open that door! I look hideoteous!”

Elphaba pulls herself to her feet and shakes her head. “Let me see who it is, Glinda.”

When she pulls open the bedroom door, she is unsurprised to find Fiyero leaning against the threshold. His hair is wet with glittering raindrops, which drip on to the lapels of his navy blue jacket.

“To be ditched by one date,” he saunters in the room, shouldering past Elphaba with ease, “is natural. People are fickle.” He whirls towards Glinda’s bed, jamming an accusatory finger at her hidden form and then at Elphaba. “But to be ditched by two dates is insulting. Where is your whimsy, ladies? I always trust you two to join my escapades. I shouldn’t have to corrupt the corrupted! Everything is upside down. What in Oz is going on?”

“Maybe we should stay in tonight and study for Dr. Dillamond’s—”

The mass of blankets on the bed shifts. “Give us a few minutes and we will be ready, Fiyero.”

Elphaba snaps to look at Glinda’s silhouette. “Glinda, I don’t think it’s a good idea to—“

Fiyero claps his hands together. “Fabulous. I will meet you at the docks in ten minutes. I knew I could count on you both.” He retreats towards the door, smoothing out the front of his jacket. “Don’t stand me up; I will be very upset.” He blows a kiss to Elphaba and sees his way out.

Elphaba stares at the door in defeat and heaves a sigh.

“Is he gone?” Glinda croaks from beneath her blanket.

”He’s gone.”

Glinda throws the blanket off, sitting back up and her blonde hair is sticking up every which way from the static. She sniffs, wiping her handkerchief underneath her pink nose. “I know exactly what I’ll wear.”

“Glinda, are you sure you want to go out tonight?”

“Nonsense!” Glinda disappears around one of her wardrobe boxes. “The people need me.”

Pfannee and Shenshen descend on Glinda like vultures. They are carnivorous creatures, squawking their greetings and flocking around her with their entourage. She is torn away from Elphaba before she knows what is happening. Quietly, Elphaba heads for the corner closest to the bar, pressing herself against the wall where she can hear the music and watch the festivities without being swept into the commotion. She still keeps an eye on Glinda, who’s in her baby powder pink dress with billowing ruffles for sleeves that makes her look like she is a blossoming rose. It’s impossible to look away from her…plus, she’s standing next to Pfannee, who is wearing the loudest orange suit known to man. He is impossible to miss.

“Careful, someone may notice your extraordinary staring problem.”

Out of thin air, Fiyero appears. He slides close enough that their shoulders brush. Elphaba startles, hands flying to her chest to still her racing heart. “Fiyero, you frightened me.”

“I called your name but you were…preoccupied.” Fiyero laughs and sips a glittering indigo cocktail. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Fiyero tips his glass in Glinda’s direction. Elphaba finds her through the crowd immediately. Even before they were friends, they were magnetized. She found Glinda in every room, every building, in every thought she had. That hasn’t changed.

But Elphaba isn’t studying her in worship tonight. Something is off about Glinda, even if her friend is too stubborn to admit it herself. Elphaba knows her well, and something’s wrong. To Glinda’s credit, it’s subtle. A light dusting of foundation covers any excess rosiness, and with everyone laughing at her charm, no one notices her labored breathing through parted lips.

“… You’re going to catch flies.” Glinda’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “… Elphaba?”

Glinda hugs herself as more people close in around her. “Elphaba Thropp, are you even listening?”

“Something’s wrong with Glinda.”

Fiyero hums thoughtfully, glancing at the blonde and then back to her. “Don’t worry your green little head. I will get to the bottom of this.”

“Fiyero, I don’t think—“

He shoves his glass into Elphaba’s hands and charges through the crowd without second thought.

Perhaps to make room for his ego, the students part like the tide, leaving Glinda in the middle of their watchful circle. Fiyero slips in behind her, hands settling on her waist. “I just love this song. Can I steal you for a dance, Ms. Upland?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Fiyero flashes Elphaba a victorious smile as he tugs Glinda out of the center of the revelry. They stop only a few feet away from Elphaba, not close enough for her to hear their conversation over the loud music but enough to see the bright sheen in Glinda’s eyes and her chapped bottom lip.

Elphaba watches as Glinda relaxes just a fraction into Fiyero’s embrace, swaying and spinning beneath the twinkling lights. He pulls her a little closer, his hand firm yet gentle against her back. “You’re unusually quiet tonight,” he says, his tone laced with amusement. “Saving your witty remarks for later?”

Glinda forces a smile, though she has to clear her throat to speak. “Maybe you’ve dazzled me, Fiyero,” she replies, her voice slightly strained.

“That is a common side effect of being near me, I’ve heard.” He laughs, a warm, rich sound. Glinda doesn’t join him; instead, she stumbles, falling out of rhythm with their dance. Panic flickers across her face, followed by a slackness that settles over her features, except for the furrowed brow.

“Are you okay?” Fiyero stops dancing, causing the partygoers around them to widen their circle to avoid trampling the couple. He places a hand on her arm, which is freckled with goosebumps. She presses her lips together in a tight line, turning her head slightly, trying to pull away from his reach. But the more she backs away, the more he closes in around her. Fiyero glances toward Elphaba, who is watching them with a raised eyebrow.

Glinda’s shoulders hitch—hitch—hitch upwards, and it clicks that Elphaba witnessed the same peculiar movement earlier. But when that happened, she was going to—

“—hht’djzssh—iew!”

Elphaba hears it over the music.

Fiyero steps out of the line of fire at the last second, making a sound of surprise. He keeps a steadying hand on Glinda’s hip because she looks like she needs it. “Blessings, Glinda.”

“chHsh! -cHshht!..hH! HH! -ttssch! -cHhiew!”

“Sweet Wizard above, bless you. Do you always sneeze like that?”

Glinda fans a hand in front of her face, her breath coming in shuddering lungfuls, making her delicate chest rise and stutter. “Ye— hh’tsshu! Yes. I don’t know wih— h’tzsch! -shh! -n’djsh! -SHhh! Why.” She clasps her hands over her nose, pitching forward with one, two, three more sneezes, growing desperate and wet. Elphaba feels her chest tighten with sympathy. Glinda cares so much about her social standing, and sneezing herself dizzy in front of a prince is probably one of her nightmare scenarios.

Everyone is drinking and dancing, though some prying eyes have begun to observe Glinda’s state. No one is coming to her rescue, no one but Elphaba. She steps on to the dance floor, the bright flashing light feeling oppressive and suffocating as she moves beneath them. When she reaches Glinda, Fiyero looks entirely too grateful for her liking. He seems well meaning but way out of his depth. He steps away from Glinda, allowing Elphaba to take his place.

“I don’t mean to steal your dance partner, Fiyero.”

“By all means.”

Elphaba pulls her folded mulberry handkerchief out of her pocket and offers it to Glinda. She snatches it and brings it to her nose quickly.

“I am going to ask you a question, and I want you to be honest with me.” Elphaba’s hands settle on Glinda’s hips in the same place Fiyero’s were. It sets every fiber of her being alight. Glinda wipes her nose with the handkerchief and sniffs a few times experimentally, and when she’s satisfied she isn’t going to sneeze again, she lowers her hand.

“Yes?”

“Are you feeling under the weather?”

Glinda’s knee-jerk reaction is to dismissively flap the handkerchief at Elphaba. “Oh, no, no, no! Something in the air is bothering me, I’m sure—“

Elphaba cups Glinda’s elbow, slowing her wild gesticulating. Her gaze is heavy with sympathy. She asked the question, but she already had her answer, and there wasn’t any pandering Glinda could do to change Elphaba’s mind. It works. Glinda drops her hand in defeat.

“Yes. I do not feel well at all. Can we go home?”

The admission is like a balm to Elphaba’s anxious heart. She nods, her arm wrapping protectively around Glinda’s shoulders as she leads her up the stairs of the Ozdust and away from the commotion behind them.

Elphaba tells Glinda to dress for comfort, not calamity, so when Glinda emerges from the bathroom in a peach robe with feather trimming around the sleeves and hem, Elphaba knows her comment went in one ear and out the other.

“Do you not own a simple nightgown?”

“This is my simple nightgown. It’s very soft, come feel the down feathers. Come, come.”

Elphaba laughs as she crosses to the bathroom door. The feathers are soft, but she can’t imagine Glinda will be warm in the coral silk shorts and thin-strapped top. “I made you a cup of tea. I left it beside your bed. Go lie down.”

“Where are you going?”

“To fetch my thermometer,” Elphaba squeezes Glinda’s arm to assure her she isn’t going anywhere and steps into the bathroom. She finds her mercury-glass thermometer above the sink, tucked into a kit of elixirs and bandages. When she returns to the bedroom, Glinda has settled beneath the blankets, cradling her porcelain mug and warming her palms. In the lamplight, the shadows beneath her eyes and the curve of her cheeks make her look even more sickly, without any makeup to hide behind.

She looks up when she hears Elphaba’s shuffling footsteps. “This tea is magnificent. Thank you, Elphaba.”

“It’s Willowherb and honey. I thought something minty might be soothing. I’m glad you like it,” Elphaba says, twisting the thermometer anxiously in her hands. The weight of Glinda’s grateful gaze is heavy. It makes Elphaba feel unsure, especially when Glinda studies her with those wide brown eyes. She feels like she’s under a microscope, as though Glinda can see more than Elphaba expects her to. Uncomfortably, she lifts the thermometer. “I found it.”

Something in Elphaba’s clumsy delivery makes Glinda chuckle. She says nothing, though, as she sets the mug back on the nightstand and motions for Elphaba to come closer. Elphaba’s palm turns sweaty, and she grips the thermometer so tightly her knuckles turn lime. She doesn’t move.

“What are you waiting for, Nurse Thropp?” Glinda’s eyes sparkle with a mischievous glint that Elphaba knows all too well. The fever flush to her cheeks only adds to the enchantment of her beauty. “I don’t bite.”

Startled, Elphaba shuffles over slowly, each step feeling like a mile. “I just— I didn’t— I don’t know. Um, here you go,” she mutters, holding the thermometer out like it might burn her. Glinda smirks and pats the space beside her.

“I’m not going to take my own temperature,” Glinda says, her voice lilting the way she uses to coax Fiyero into doing something for her. Elphaba usually rolls her eyes at her antics, but caught in the direct line of fire, she understands just how persuasive a dimpled smile can be.

She swallows thickly. “Of course, right.”

Glinda obediently opens her mouth for the thermometer, never letting her gaze stray from Elphaba for a second. Elphaba feels her ears grow hot, and then the rest of her face follows.

“Oh,” Glinda says around the thermometer, as silver liquid climbs the numbers. “You’re blushing.”

Elphaba blushes darker. She snaps, “You really shouldn’t talk with the thermometer in your mouth.”

“Yes ma’am,” Glinda does a poor job of hiding her smile.

The thermometer beeps after a moment of stillness, and Elphaba feels like she can finally breathe when she pulls it from between Glinda’s pink lips. “One hundred point two. Looks like you’ll be spending your weekend in bed.”

”But I have plans with Pfannee and Shenshen tomorrow! We’re supposed to visit the market in the morning, loathe after lunch and then for dinner we were to paint our nails,” Glinda whines, her voice rising in indignation.

“Sounds important,” Elphaba says, setting down the thermometer and rubbing her hand over her eyes beneath her glasses. “Looks like you’ll have to reschedule. You’ve got a temperature.” She looks away, wringing her hands in that uncomfortable way of hers. “I’ll be here all day, studying… just— in case… you need anything.”

Glinda is quiet, too quiet, and when Elphaba turns to face her, she finds the blonde studying her hands. “I don’t understand why you’re being so kind to me,” she says, her voice wavering, caught somewhere between suspicion and genuine sadness.

Elphaba pauses, caught off guard. The air feels thick, the question hanging in the room like a storm cloud, its weight pressing down on her chest.

Why? Elphaba wonders. It’s a fantastic question, one she’s asked herself before. Many people know what it is like to be alone and will do anything to find a sense of community. Nothing brings people together like a common enemy. But Glinda was the first person to ever stand up for her, to risk her own sense of community so that Elphaba didn’t have to stand alone. That was the first time she hadn’t felt alone.

The witch crosses to Glinda’s side, the mattress dipping when she sits next to the blonde. She brushes a braid behind her ear, nudging Glinda with her knee. They lock eyes and Elphaba offers her hand. Glinda takes it, threading their fingers together with ease.

“Hurt people hurt people,” Elphaba says softly. She remembers hearing it once, and it made her feel a little less angry at the injustices she’d suffered. She tips Glinda’s chin up with her finger. “Everyone could benefit from a little kindness, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Glinda breathes, ducking her head again. Her shoulders hike in a rapid, hitch—hitch–hitch, stuttering motion, her back shuddering with a swelling breath. Horrified that she is going to burst into tears, Elphaba wraps an arm around her shoulder.

“Oh, don’t cry, Gli—“

”hih’tzSCH—iew!” Glinda snaps forward, not away, leaving a faint mark against the blankets. Elphaba can’t help but laugh. ”Stop…” is the only word Glinda can get out before she’s hitching again. “chshh! -tssh! -tzshh! Laughing at -ng’k! Me! ih’dSCHh!”

“Bless you, bless you, Oz bless you.”

“eh’TsSCHiew! —SCHhiew! Ooh, dizzy.”

Elphaba chuckles to herself and pushes herself off of the bed. “You should get some rest.”

Before she can make it far, Glinda grips her wrist. “Wait, will you stay until I fall asleep?”

A warmth spreads through Elphaba’s chest, that familiar sticky fondness. She nods and pulls back the covers, slipping in next to Glinda. She pulls the chain on the lamp, and darkness envelops the room.

The mattress dips, and Glinda’s head finds her shoulder. “You’re the most beautiful person in Oz, Elphaba.”

Elphaba worries that Glinda will hear her heart racing, so she laughs softly, adjusting the blanket around them both. “Rest.”

She stays there until Glinda grows heavy with sleep and remains long after. She stays even after her arm falls asleep, or when the sun begins to rise. When Glinda wakes late the next morning, feeling even worse, Elphaba is still there.

#saving this for when I am less tired but omg #4000 words! merry Christmas and happy birthday 2 me

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straightupsickfics · 6 months ago

Text

☽｡⋆ w/icked snz headcanons ☽｡⋆

>> Author’s Note: I don’t know Act 2, so these are subject to change. I do think illness can happen in Oz, I think they have their own version of medicine, living somewhere between The Gilded Age and modern medicine. I think science and magic live hand in hand in this universe. It makes it less fun if they can cure the common cold with a spell. Anyways, bone app the teeth.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Elphaba

Prefers grape juice to orange juice when she’s under the weather.

Terrible patient.

She gets frustrated by any unwanted attention. Oz already treats her like a commotion because of the color of her skin, so she doesn’t want to draw anymore attention to herself by her noisy symptoms.

Likely to isolate herself.

She is very conscientious of her germs and will stay home from classes or magic training until she’s feeling better.

Sleeps a lot and very heavily.

Prone to fever dreams

Sore throat is typically the first symptom to appear, swollen glands, raspy voice.

Lots of throat clearing and tea in the first few days while she tries to fight off whatever illness.

Keeps the bathroom stocked with medicines, elixirs and ointments.

Typically runs warm, so she gets very grumpy when she gets the chills.

Winter is not her friend.

Achy.

Falls asleep with her glasses on.

In effort to not draw attention to herself, she pinch stifles.

First few stifles are always silent, then the next few are only half stifled and then from there she cannot contain them.

Harsh and vocal sneeze when unrestrained.

She fights with all of her power to restrain them

They scrape her throat, and catch on her teeth, making a really sharp, full-bodied sound.

“hh’rDzSCHHh’uh!”

Sensitive to perfumes, pollen and carbonation.

Her handkerchief collection is entirely jewel toned and soft cotton.

She has a tendency to lose control of her powers when she’s sneezing, so she tries to make Glinda leave when she’s not feeling herself.

Possibly has the Kink™

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Galinda

Disaster!

Incredibly fragile immune system.

Catches a cold when seasons change or if she’s caught in the elements.

Sensitive to both too hot or too cold.

Nightmare patient

Denial, denial, denial.

She cares so much about her public appearance, she doesn’t want to be seen as weak or unpolished — unless it benefits her in some way.

She will use illness to garner sympathy if that’s what’s necessary, but she mostly dislikes being seen when she’s not at her best.

When she finally acquiesces, she is such a big baby.

Clingy, needy, helpless.

Runs cold, steals lots of blankets and hoodies

Her first symptom is always the sneezing. Without fail, regardless of what she’s coming down with, her body will alert her by sneezing first.

She’s got really wet eyes, always teary, always running.

So many pink matching pajama sets and loungewear.

Sneezes in fits (attacks) of 6+.

Rapid, WET, itchy, episodes of sneezing that last until her body is satisfied. She is out of commission when she is sneezing and there is nothing she can do to mitigate it until it's over.

They come in flurries, tumbling out on top of one another, leaving her breathless and frozen wherever she is until it’s done.

Does Not Cover

Holds her palm flat, inches away from her face so it doesn’t catch/shield/cover anything or anyone from the spray bottle quality of her sneezes.

Has a collection of different colored handkerchiefs with her initials sewn into them.

Will talk through them

“I don’t— schiew! Know wh—idzSCh! -sch! What’s gotten into me. —sch! ih…Oz above, make it stop—! tSChh!”

Allergic to dogs, dust, smoke, sometimes wine, sometimes mint

Her nose is so sensitive to touch

It’s very reactive, twitchy, etc.

Nothing makes her angrier than a false start

Enthusiastic blesser

Will expect to be blessed in return

Very candid and casual about snz talk

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Fiyero

GERMAPHOBE

It only goes one way? He is a germaphobe about other’s germs, never conscientious of his own.

When he’s sick, he’s a HUGE diva. Call for the calvary, he’s out of commission and it is everyone’s problem.

The type to get out of bed, fix his hair, and then get back into bed so when someone sees him he doesn’t look quite so awful (but never too good to not garner sympathy).

He will not isolate himself, he will still show up to everything and go through his day as usual, all while making off handed remarks about how brave he is for pushing through being under the weather.

Headache is usually the first symptom for him to take root. It leaves him restless, tossing and turning, head throbbing until he takes something for it.

Bratty, but obedient caretaker. He is used to, and expects to be waited on hand and foot.

He expects to be spoon-fed. Literally.

Everything MUST be cherry flavored. He is so incredibly picky about lozenges and medicine flavor.

Generally a night owl, but his restlessness increases when he’s unwell. It takes so much trial and error before he finds something to get him to sleep.

Honey to tea ratio is criminal. It’s mostly honey.

Handsome sneeze. Medium in strength, not loud but VOCAL. You can hear his voice in it.

Always wrenches to one side or the other. Covers with his elbow or into cupped palms/hands.

He needs unwavering focus and silence when he is about to sneeze. He has a very temperamental nose and any little thing will make him lose a sneeze.

Stands frozen, hands hovering in front of his face, squinting up at the ceiling with his lips parted. If anyone tries to speak to him, he will hold up a finger and shush them. This takes a great deal of focus.

“hh…hH-! Oh…Almost…hAH! snf! hDz—AE’SCHhheh!”

Subscribes to superstitions like if he sneezes once it means something good is being said about him, two sneezes means something bad is happening, and three sneezes means someone is in love with him.

Allergic to cats.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Boq

Catches whatever is going around no matter how hard he tries not to.

He tries so hard. He takes so many precautions like washing his hands, taking his vitamins, it never does anything.

If he gets sick, he is out of commission for a few days but a runny nose and cough will linger for much longer than anything else.

He believes the old wives tales: sleeping with wet hair will make him sick, getting caught in the rain will make him sick, starve a cold feed a fever.

Can and will sleep for over 12 hours when he is feeling under the weather.

He has lots of recipes for soup: one that is very hearty and filling and one that tastes like absolute shit, but it will clear out a congested head cold in just a few hours.

Keeps a first aid kit handy, mostly because of his own clumsiness but it ends up coming in handy.

Very apologetic sickie.

He tries to push through his sickness every time, but the second someone calls attention to it, he feels guilty at the prospect of spreading germs and will sadly shrink away to his dormitory.

The first sign of illness is his clumsiness will double, triple even. He is so foggy, mind clouded, no thoughts behind his eyes. He bumps into things and trips and stumbles constantly.

Very loud, very girlish sneeze.

Always twice, but never covered the same twice in a row.

He hardly gets any warning, just a startling and attention grabbing gasp.

“—hy’iESHHIEWhh! hh’iESCHHiew!”

Blesses himself

Always victim to accidentally induced sneezes (ie. opening a dusty book, spraying cologne at his face inside of the other way, dropping a pepper shaker, etc).

Sympathetic sneezer, he is really suggestible.

#omg I can’t believe how much wicked stuff is happening over here im dead

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