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suddencolds · 2 years ago

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Fool Me Twice | [6/6]

Part 6 is finally here! 🎉 (6/6 feels so surreal to write.) I think this will be the last installment out of this mini-arc, but I definitely want to write more of these two in the future (+ have a lot very loosely planned, if I can ever get around to writing it).

Part 6 ft. fake dating, cold-induced exhaustion, and questionable decisions

You can read part 1 [here]! The other parts are listed in my [fic masterlist].

—

Yves isn’t sure what he expects.

He wakes up early to shovel snow from the front porch, makes breakfast, weighs his options over breakfast, and then—maybe ill-advisedly—texts Vincent before he heads out for work.

Y: tell me you got some rest last night!

V: Of course

Y: more than 3 hours?

V: Do you even need to ask?

Y: i’m sure no one would mind if you took the day off Y: give someone else a chance to be the most irreplaceable person in the room for a day! Y: i swear i’ve never seen you take a sick day

V: No need. I’m feeling a lot better today

It’s said with such conviction that Yves thinks he has no reason to question it. It isn’t like Vincent to be outright dishonest, after all. If he’s claiming to be feeling better, he must be at least on the mend.

It’s for that reason that Yves resists the urge to go out of his way to check on him. The office building is spacious enough that neither of them has a reason to cross paths, usually, except potentially at lunch.

And either way, it’s nothing Yves should have to concern himself with—Vincent can take care of himself. He can, and he will, Yves thinks. Perhaps in the future Yves will be able to take him out for a proper dinner, as a way of showing his thanks. But until then, things will be back as they’ve always been, barring the unusual circumstances over the last few days. Yves will go back to regarding Vincent as nothing more than a colleague—as someone he cares about to the appropriate extent, as someone whose life he’s in only tangentially.

And Vincent doesn’t need anyone—least of all, Yves—to look out for him. Yves likes his coworkers, but he knows better than to confuse civility with friendliness. He and Vincent certainly aren’t close enough to be properly considered friends.

It’s with that reassurance that he goes about work for the first few hours of the day. It’s easy, as always, to fall into the flow of it. He’s a little more tired than usual—he finds himself stifling a yawn into one hand during the morning team meeting—but not quite tired enough to be nodding off, at the very least.

Work always feels longer when he’s tired, though it’s never too long of a stretch until lunch. As a general rule, he likes to tackle the more difficult work in the morning, after he’s had his morning coffee, and save the more structured, less demanding busywork for after lunch. It’s interesting, but it’s work nonetheless, and all in all, it goes by especially slowly. He very pointedly does not allow his mind to wander. Halfway through his morning, Laurent shows him some of the ridiculous emails he’s gotten from a particularly standoffish client, and Cara comes over to peek over his shoulder and laugh with him about Laurent’s businesslike, unwavering civility, and the morning goes by faster after that.

It’s only when he’s a few steps away from the break room that he hears—or, rather, overhears—

“I’m sorry,” someone says, from the other side of the door. It takes him a moment to recognize the voice for who it is—the new hire. Angelie. Right. It’s not that he means to eavesdrop, but he thinks it’s strange that she feels the need to apologize at all. It sounds like the kind of apology that she really, sincerely means—not one given out of thinly-veiled obligation, not one exchanged only as a business courtesy, and that makes him pause.

He wonders what it is that she thinks she’s done wrong. Maybe if he sticks around, he can reassure her afterwards—he knows how intimidating it can be to be new. “When I asked you for help, I didn’t realize how much work it’d be.”

“It’s— it’s ndo problem, snf-!” Whoever she’s talking to says. As if Yves doesn’t know immediately; as if Yves hasn’t been thinking—or rather, trying not to think—about said person all morning. “I’m used to it.”

“Still, if I had known how long it’d take—”

“It’s really okay, Angelie.”

“You’ve been such a big help to me. I didn’t know until Charlotte told me you’ve been here all morning trying to—”

“It’s fine. This isn’t any sort of special circumstance. I’mb - snf-! - frequently here early. J-just a second—” For a moment, Yves wonders if they’ve lowered their voices to speak more quietly, but then the reason for the lull in the conversation becomes evident. Vincent coughs—harshly enough that, even through the wall, it sounds almost certainly painful. When he speaks up again, his voice sounds noticeably hoarser than before. “Sorry. I— coughcough - I’m happy to be - snf-! - of assistance, really.”

“Thank you,” Angelie says. “I honestly don’t know what I would do without you. I think I’m good from here—but um, if you don’t mind me asking…”

She hesitates. For some reason Yves can’t quite parse, she sounds uncertain.

“What is it?” Vincent says.

“Um, are you okay?”

All of a sudden, the apology makes sense.

“What?”

“You— seem—”

“I’m fine,” Vincent says.

“Okay.” A beat. “Do you need cough drops? I have a whole bag at my desk. I always get sick when I’m in new places, so—it hasn’t happened yet, I mean, but I wanted to be prepared in case it does. If you want any, I have a ton to spare.”

Yves hears the static whir of the coffee machine as it comes to life.

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m okay,” Vincent says. “Though, you should - hH… hh… hH-hih’GKT-! snf-!” The sneeze doesn’t sound relieving in the least, and the sniffle which follows seems as good as useless. “You should keep your distance.”

“Well, the offer still stands if you end up needing them later,” Angelie says, sounding uncertain. “Thanks again for all the help.”

“It’s no problem. If you run into any issues later, don’t be afraid to reach out.”

He hears footsteps, receding—Angelie is going back to work, he realizes. And, judging by the sound of the coffee machine, Vincent is still here, making his usual morning espresso.

Yves really shouldn’t interrupt. He should turn around and head back to his office desk. Really, it’s none of his business if Vincent is okay. It’s none of his business whether or not Vincent got to the office early today, as usual, despite working so late last night. It’s none of his business whether or not Vincent is feeling well enough to be here in the first place. Perhaps he should go back to his desk—perhaps he doesn’t need coffee as imminently as he’d thought.

Against all logic, he finds himself on the other side of the break room door.

At the sound of the door opening, Vincent looks up. Yves catalogs his appearance in silence. His hair is as neat as usual, his jacket ironed, his tie perfectly straight, but there’s an unusual flush high on his cheekbones, a paleness to his complexion.

“Yves,” Vincent says.

His voice practically cracks on the syllable, as if he’s just a few conversations away from losing his voice. He sounds so distinctly unwell, Yves realizes.

And he looks exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes are even more prominent than before, and when he lifts his elbow to his face to muffle a few harsh, breathless coughs into his sleeve, there’s an uncharacteristic sluggishness to the motion of it. When he lowers his arm, there’s a thin sheen of water to his eyes—from the sheer force of the coughing fit, perhaps. His eyes are a little red-rimmed.

Vincent sniffles, though the sound is so congested that Yves isn’t sure it’s made any difference at all. Past them, the coffee machine beeps to signal that it’s done.

Yves pushes the door shut behind him. His mouth feels dry.

“I wadted to - snf-! - properly thank you for last ndight,” Vincent starts. “I realize that—” His eyes water, and he blinks, reaching up with one hand to rub his nose. “That you - hH-hHih…” He veers away from Yves, steepling both his hands over his face as his shoulders jerk forward with a forceful, “hihH’GKT’ShhuH!” And then, just a few moments later, another - “hH… hiIH… HIIh’NGKTshHh!-!” The sneezes—even stifled—sound loud enough to grate on his throat. It’s no wonder his voice sounds off. “I realize that you ended up staying a lot later than you planned to.”

Yves stares at him. Is this really what Vincent thinks he wants to hear?

“And I apologize if I came across as…” Yves sees the moment Vincent’s gaze unfocuses. He sees the way Vincent tenses, cupping a hand over his face for another, “HIh’Gktt! Hh… hHh… hiih—!”

The look of ticklish desperation—his eyebrows creased, his expression slack—doesn’t let up, even as his breath settles. Vincent rubs his nose with the bridge of his index finger, sniffling again, as if to coax out the sneeze that his body seems so adamant on denying him—

“hiHH-’IksSHuhh! … hHIH… Hh… hh-hIih—HIih-TSCHhuuh! snf-!” A soft, almost imperceptible exhale. “Excuse mbe, I...” His voice practically gives out on that note, and he takes a halting step back, veering aside with another fit of coughs.

“You said you were feeling better,” Yves all but snaps, when he’s done.

Vincent looks off to the side. “I’m not as tired as I was yesterday,” he says. “So, in that regard.”

He turns aside to lift the coffee mug from where it sits on the machine. There’s a slight tremor to his hand when he picks it up, before he steadies it—indicative of one too many cups of coffee, perhaps—or, knowing Vincent, probably a lot more than that.

“In that regard?” Yves repeats. “So you’re feeling worse off in every other regard?”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out so accusatory, but a part of him feels—betrayed, maybe. By the dishonesty of Vincent’s response, by the intensity of his own worry.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Vincent looks like he’s about to say something more, but then he’s hurriedly setting his coffee down, raising both hands to his face, again, for—

“hiIH… HIIH’GK-t! Hh! Hih… HIih’IZSCHhuh!” A single, breathless, “Sorry,” and then - “hhH-! snf-…!” Yves watches his expression crumple as he jerks forward, his eyes watering. “hiIH-NGkt-! Hh…. HHh… hiIH-!... HH‘IIKTCHhuhH-!”

The sneezing fit is punctuated by another round of coughing, which all but confirms that all this sneezing is making Vincent lose his voice faster.

Yves passes him a coffee napkin. Vincent eyes it for a moment before taking it, gingerly.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Yves says. “You’re clearly unwell.”

“I’m fine. I had a couple calls this morning.”

“You didn’t think to cancel?”

“They were urgent.”

“And what do you think our clients would think if they see that you’re clearly coming down with something?”

“I took medicine to suppress the symptoms,” Vincent says, glancing off to the side. “A few hours ago. It’s - coughcough - just starting to wear off.”

“I don’t get it,” Yves says, feeling the frustration build in his chest. “You’re not going to recover quickly if you keep pushing yourself.”

“It’s just a cold. There’s nothing I can do but wait it out.”

“There are plenty of things you could do. You could take a sick day, for one. You could head home early. You could even get more than a few hours of sleep, instead of—” Yves looks toward the coffee mug in his hands. “—insisting on taking cold medicine and keeping yourself awake with caffeine. Just how many cups of coffee have you already had this morning?”

“I’m fine, Yves.

“As you’ve said,” Yves says, a little bitterly. “Though, even if you insist on lying to everyone else, at least you should be honest to yourself.”

Vincent is quiet for a moment.

When he speaks, his voice is carefully even. “Is that why you’re so upset?”

“What?”

“It’s because I told you I was feeling better.”

Yves supposes that’s part of it. But another part of him is frustrated—with himself, first and foremost, for putting Vincent in this situation in the first place, for inconveniencing someone he’s already indebted to, only to have to watch from the sidelines, guiltily, with no way to help. Back then—with Erika, with crew, with university; with the cheating, and the aftermath; with the apartment hunting, with the start of his job, with everything else—Yves has always disliked the revelation that there’s nothing he can do.

“You’re free to lie to me,” he says. “I know we’re not close. But I care about you, which is why I asked.”

“I don’t think you understand.” Vincent takes a measured sip from his coffee. His hand trembles slightly when he lifts the cup, and Yves has the sudden urge to take it from his hands. Vincent sighs. “Do you know why I told you I was feeling better?”

That seems obvious enough. “Because you wanted me to stop asking.”

“Because I don’t want it to be anyone else’s problem,” Vincent snaps. “Especially not yours.”

Before Yves has the time to fully process that statement, Vincent continues. “I don’t want my assignments to be work on someone else’s plate. I don’t want my health to be someone else’s problem. You already stayed so late last night—you went out of your way to get me dinner. How could I possibly ask any more of you?”

The sentence seems to grate unpleasantly against his throat for the way that he winces a little, turning aside to cough harshly into his fist. “I’m not feeling well today, but I knew you’d be worried if I told you. And how could I knowingly take up more of your time? After everything you’ve done for me already?”

His sentence tapers off into another coughing fit, which he emerges from with another wince. It must hurt his throat to speak.

“I wasn’t being honest when you asked me how I was feeling,” Vincent says—finally an admission, but hearing it now doesn’t make Yves feel better at all. “But it would be selfish of me to make this any more of your problem than it already is.”

In lieu of responding, Yves takes the coffee cup from his hands and sets it down, gingerly, on the countertop. He takes another mug—unwraps an herbal tea bag from the cabinets, while he’s at it—and fills it to the brim with warm water, for the tea to steep. He stirs in a spoonful of honey. Steam rises from the cup in white wisps, and with it, the faint smell of chamomile.

When the tea is ready, he holds the cup by the rims, turning the handle outwards for Vincent to take. Vincent regards it with confusion, his eyebrows furrowing slightly, and for a moment, Yves wonders if he should clarify that it’s meant for him.

But then he takes it. Watching him lift the cup to take a sip—seeing the brief, miniscule flash of relief as his throat dips with a swallow—makes something tighten in Yves’s chest.

It takes everything in him not to cross his arms outright.

“You are really a hypocrite,” he says.

“What?”

“You helped Angelie, just yesterday. You helped me when I was just starting out. Both of us made our work—and our training, and our inexperience—your problem.” For all the things Yves has asked of him—for all the things he’s seen others ask of him, however inordinate—Vincent has never once complained.

“You’re always taking on things for other people, because you know you’re capable of doing them,” Yves says. “How is it any different if it’s you?”

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that.

“You’re harder on yourself than you are on anyone else,” Yves says, with a sigh. “Even if you tell me not to worry, I’m still going to worry about you. But it’s not a burden to me.”

Something in Vincent’s expression stills.

“I know I can’t change your mind,” Yves says. “But you should get some rest—whenever you can. You’ve already done more than enough, I promise. I—or anyone else on the team—can take up anything that can’t wait until you’re feeling better.”

Vincent turns away, his shoulders trembling on an inhale, and Yves barely squeezes in a preemptive “Bless you,” before—

“Hh… hiIH’EKkTSHuhH! Hh… hh… HiIH’IIKKtsCHuhH! snf-! ”

He lifts his free hand up to cover, his eyes squeezing shut as he muffles the sneezes into his wrist. It’s a miracle that the tea doesn’t spill, Yves thinks.

When he emerges, a little teary-eyed, sniffling, he really does look tired. He says, “I don’t understand why you care so much.”

Isn’t it obvious? Yves opens his mouth to say just as much, only…

…Only, Vincent looks genuinely stricken.

“I like you,” Yves says, because it’s the truth. Because he wants, suddenly, for Vincent to know it. “Do I need any other reason?”

“That seems… impossibly simple.” “It is,” Yves says. For a moment, he wants to tell Vincent just exactly how simple it is, just how easy Vincent is to like.

“I didn’t intend to worry you,” Vincent says, looking off to the side. “I didn’t expect for anyone to be worried in the first place.”

Yves—who frequently worries about people, whether they want him to or not—laughs. “If you don’t want me to worry about you, you should hurry up and get better.”

At this, Vincent nods, contemplative. “Duly noted.”

“Which means getting some proper rest.”

“I’ll consider it.”

(Yves half expects that to be a lie. But when he gets to work the next morning, Vincent’s desk is unoccupied, for once, and there’s a small packet of cough drops leaned up against his desktop monitor—so he had asked Angelie for them yesterday, after all—and a stack of files set off neatly to the side, marked For Later.

Yves supposes he can deal with that.)

#snz fic #sneeze fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snz #as promised! posted today!#it sucked the life out of me to write this installment 😭 heart to hearts are so difficult and i really struggle with writing like #inter-dialogue descriptions #i hope it was alright 😵‍💫#i have many many plans for these two in the future if people are still interested in reading them still #to anyone who has left feedback in the tags for prev parts i owe my life to you 😭 thank you for encouraging me to finish this #my fic #yvverse

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