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chasedeys · 16 days ago

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in a totally not sleazy way: heyyyyy

can i offer you some 23rookies/mike polycule mess real quick:

Mike snuffles the way he does, a crinkle of nose and shuffle of beard-covered chin that makes Chase go a little moon-eyed sometimes, endeared and charmed in spite of himself.

“So I gotta ask,” Mike starts, slurping his melted ice cream, uncaring of it dripping over his beard, “Uno and Burrow—that a thing?”

Charlie snort-cackles into his cone of devil’s piss, a little mean like he usually is when he’s comfortable with you. “Boy, what?”

Mike stares at him long and—well not hard, but a bit like disappointment. Like an ache he didn’t expect to have.

Andrei rolls his eyes and chucks a pillow bulls-eye at Charlie’s stupid face, ignoring how his salsa-vanilla-horror-shit-show spills all over him and the cotton and the floor and a bit over Chase’s sweats.

“He’s not homophobic,” Andrei saves their redheaded disaster with grace he honestly doesn’t deserve, “he’s just a dick because he tried flirting with both of them and got put down so badly it was fucking embarrassing.”

He sings fucking embarrassing like Olivia Rodrigo, hitting the pitches perfectly even if he’s raspy as hell, and Chase kind of hates that he actually knows what song he’s singing—memories of being curled up in the back of Andrei’s van with the doors wide open, tucked under Charlie’s armpit, buried under thick quilts, sipping watered down absinthe, letting Andrei blare that shit right into his fucking ear.

Bug-eyed and jaw hanging open, their new Tight End offers no replies or platitudes—unlike Ossai, who tried to offer his therapist’s hours with actual an discount he sharpied himself on paper napkins through his snotty laughter and tears. BJ was the one who saved all of them from themselves, a time before they knew that Chuck was kind of a psychopath and shouldn’t be trusted with jokes at his expense at all, really. He’d have taken the offer and painstakingly tangled Ossai’s therapist in a pyramid scheme of unknown evils from sheer pettiness alone.

“Did you—” Mike tries, “did you not know or…?”

“He knew,” Chase says, amused as he helps tug Charlie’s sticky shirt off and mop all the mess, “he’s just dumb as all fuck.”

Charlie shrugs, a vision of carelessness complete with vanilla and tomato bits sticking to his skin, “I didn’t really give a shit if they were together, they were hot, just wanted to shoot my shot, you know?”

“I can see why you’re the one catching balls instead of slinging ‘em,” Mike huffs around the rim of his IPA now, lips spit-shiny and beard still with ice cream drying on it.

Charlie points at him with his scrunched up soiled tee, “You joke now, but you’ve never played me at darts.”

“You say that like you’re actually good at it,” Andrei squints at him, all confused puppy charm with his new floppy mullet curling from the heat.

Charlie tackles him.

–

Chase huffs, trying to shake loose the tension in his shoulders. God knows his physical therapist pokes and prods at him to quit tensing up so much but fuck if the thought of—of talking about the future with Charlie and Andrei makes him want to hurl.

–

Chase is in charge of getting flowers, Andrei has the chocolate and the bear, and Charlie has strict instructions to make sure Mike is distracted for the next 2 hours that Tee (bless his kind and tender soul to not ask questions and Tee enough that no one bats an eye at him lurking around no matter how suspicious) can swipe his apartment keys. Charlie’s brand of manic charm keeps Mike away from his own home while Chase and Andrei set up the most romantic dinner in his humble little dining room with his own set of mismatched china and table cloth.

(“No, it’s not creepy or weird Tee, fuck off and steal his keys for us damn it.”

“I already told you I’d do it, why the hell are you telling me all this for fuck’s sake, now I just wanna call the cops on you.”

“Tee.”

“Dont ‘Tee’ me. I’m not the crazy one here.”)

The blooming pot of white flowers he has no idea the name of but looks gorgeous and would compliment the hell out of the high of Mike’s cheeks is held proudly in his arms.

It’s huge, half his body-up is covered by it, It’s potted—though maybe rethinking it he should have gotten it in like those plastic bouquets? Isn’t that how it usually goes? But the florist had just given him the pot and he was kind of intimidated by the idea of asking for it in a plastic wrap—like is that worse? Is it a downgrade? Would he be judged too harshly for asking something probably cheaper for a date? He isn’t a cheap date. He spends half his signing bonus on Charlie’s weird obsession with basketball arcade games. All those coins accumulate, holy shit. The other half on Andrei’s equally weird obsession with any photomatics they come across on their dates. His wallet is filled with what felt like hundreds of little photo papers of Andrei with cat whiskers stamped on his face, fake gnawing on Charlie’s own face decorated with strawberry seeds and a stalk.

He walks out the parking lot and smacks into something right away because of fucking course he does, how can he not?

“Hey Chase,” Joe says, the exact cadence of voice like every other time he greets his guys and the cock of his head Chase can imagine even if his view is obstructed by the spring of flowers all up in his eyeballs. He’d wonder how Joe could tell how it was him but being 6’4 probably gives him the perks of looking at the crown of Chase’s head even as his face is all floral, which—

Okay, yeah, he can’t stand the fucking plant. He shoves it right at his quarterback and damn the man for being perfect because he automatically grabs it from him and the thing doesn't cover his face at all because he’s blessed with a long torso and long arms, so all it does is frame the underside of his face like he's the surprise for a loved one. Fuck him too he guesses.

“Hi,” He greets back brightly, hands to his hips and begging telepathically not to ask please for the love of god.

Except he’s not Ja’Marr Chase or Tee Higgins, so:

“What’s with the flowers?”

“We’re courting Mike,” Chase says flatly, not even bothering to lie, straight out like that’s a normal thing to say when it’s known he’s already happily dating two men. And it is, actually, a normal thing to say, so fuck that.

To his credit, Joe barely blinks at his declaration. But then again, he barely blinks at anything except Ja’Marr Chase crying, so.

His quarterback looks bemusedly down at the plant shoved into his hands. Chase is kind of itching to take it back, but something is stopping him. He’s smart and self-aware enough to deduce that he kind of wants his approval—something about him being the running back to Joe Burrow’s quarterback or some shit, he doesn’t know, sports, man, sports—and his advice, because if this man bagged the world’s most complicated, most hard-to-please, most outrageously high-standard-ed diva wide receiver in the league not named Stefon Diggs and kept him, he’d better have some good ones.

Case in point:

“So you decided to get him a bereavement plant?” Joe asks, squinting down at the plant he's being forced to cradle.

Chase freezes, because that word better not mean what it fucking means goddamnit.

“What—what do you mean bereavement plant? What the hell is a bereavement plant? Did I get him funeral flowers?”

Joe stares at him, “Well. Yeah.”

They spend the next good minute mutely looking each other in the eye. You can always count on Joe Burrow to give a long good stare as you rearrange your thoughts.

“Give me those fucking flowers I need to burn them.”

He gets handed back the flowers.

“Why would you choose white lilies anyway? Most people stick with roses.” Joe asks, like the absolute bitch he is. Chase knows what he’s doing. He can read the smirk behind the flat of his lips, even if he’s trying to hide his mean girl persona under the cover of Joe Cool to the universe. How the hell does he even know what type of flowers these are. Is he fucking with Chase. No, he wouldn’t damn it he’s not Orlando.

“Because they looked pretty!” Chase says shrilly, knowing he sounds hysterical and so-the-fuck-what, “And they looked like something he would like! How was I supposed to know those were funeral flowers? What do you usually get Ja—right. Those purple fleur-de-lis.”

He snuffs out the freak out quick and done because he knows exactly what’s coming—nothing better to tamp down your rising hysteria than the knowledge that your captain is about to spout the most bullshit romantic garbage you’ll probably ever hear in your entire goddamn life on a random Tuesday in Ohio of all fucking places.

“Fleur-de-lis,” Joe corrects, a curling smile tugging his lips and a tilt to his chin like there always is whenever he talks about the apparent love of his life, “Purple irises. Hope, wisdom, trust, and valour. Perfect for Ja’Marr.”

“Ugh, shut up.” Chase groans. Why oh why on earth did he ever admire this man ever so much when he’s nothing but a lovesick dork.

Purple flowers, fresh and bright and pretty and light, delivered like clockwork every three weeks to the bengals locker room, tucked under ‘1 CHASE’ since 2021, distracting the rookies for the first few times it gets delivered before it just—gets too much and gets blocked out of their minds for their sanity. The first time Chase sees them bounding into the room he sniffs around confused and charmed before it got fucking ridiculous real quick, actually.

“To be fair,” Joe says, and Chase braces himself for another bitchy thing to be slapped with, “I don’t think Mike would know they’re funeral flowers. He thinks it’s hotter the higher you are in the mountains.”

And, god, what the hell does Chase even say to that. His taste in men is shit.

One thinks people’s emotions are to be played with and manipulated like playdough he has to stop himself from stabbing him sometimes, another is unerringly good at subconsciously using his looks for everything there has got to be a level 1 DEFCON trauma related to that that Chase feels so shitty even speculating about at times, and now—an actual dumb blond, it feels like. But they’re all his, goddamnit—or will be.

Will be.

Joe stares at him evenly, like he knows exactly what Chase is thinking of. Fuck. Is his crazy eyes showing through. Sydney tells him to constantly chill the fuck out, but he’s not here to cool him down now is he. He’s in fucking Philly wearing tight crop-tops and testing the waters of wearing booty shorts. The hell is Chase supposed to know whether he’s toeing past the line of normal and gets inches away from getting dragged to a shrink.

But the thing is, like always really, Joe just huffs low and amused, like he likes what he sees, like he wants it by his side—and Chase is just reminded all over again how he’s kind of willing to die and kill for this man, how he kind of wants to stay and share his crazy because it’s not crazy at all, is it, with him?

“Give him the flowers,” Joe says, tapping the pot Chase is gripping too tightly, “tell him don’t look it up.”

“That’ll make him look it up.” Chase says automatically.

“Then you’ll have something to talk about,” Joe says easily, clasping his shoulder then slipping around him to his car, “and get to buy him more.”

Well he can’t argue with that, really.

///

my characterization of them if u will bc i know that one paragraph is like a slap in the face like the hell are you talking abt cleo:

(disclaimer rpfffffictionnnnnnn :"))))

charlie : a bastard a dick a prick a psychopath someone not fit for public consumption. proof: that time andrei said smth abt new years resolution? i think idk how he doesn’t wanna say smth like but didn’t finish his sentence and said him just being better in general and that’s crazyyyy what the hell did he do 😭, the time he tried to escape the socmed palming the helmet thing clear distrust ish idk he screams crazy and unhinged to me but in the opposite end of the spectrum with chase's brand of crazy like he has ISSUESSSS but whatever u know he's also a brand of when you're it you're it taking mike to the zoo driving him around what the hell do u mean.....he's mean but sweet do u get me

chase : adhd no? also: crazy eyes. just legit crazy. heavily exuberant all over the place one minute you’re talking about a and he’s talking about a and he’s taking over and pushing everything to talk about ab and ac and ad pushy and shameless about it. okay this last part is mostly my own narratives tbh. but he does have crazy eyes i cant let that go like he's so. soooooo. he's like a feral kitten tbh and wholly unapologetic about it. proof: every miced up moment of him tbh, bowling into the endzone even if there’s literally nobody there to stop him and when drew called him out on it he just laughed etc etc sooo sweet and loud like that's what them all work they're all just so sweet you know

andrei : sweet summer child with some issues that I’m stamping onto him just because he’s pretty idk. raspy as hell voice. sooo nice and kind and flirty with everyone so its kind of understandable he’s the socmed admins fav tbh. pushing on narratives to him: people pleaserrrrr. this is where it gets ???? because hes not like this i swear i just write him like this: insecurity issues. am i just a pretty face or am i actually good. chip on shoulder from said pretty face. oh god did i get here from pretty privilege or. but at the same time: sometimes hes like. subconsciously taking advantage of what he has to get what he wants and oppressing it so he knows what he’s doing but he doesn’t know what he’s doing do u get me. but nah he's really sweet and genuine and honestly the people pleaser thing feels very real tbh 😭

mike : the dumb blonde thing is kinda mean but my god that vid of him saying its hotter the higher u r in the mountains. my god. my godddd. but nah other than that he’s funnyyyyy p sure i said this before but like. his humor? 100/10 fits perfectly well with the 23 rookies which is why they want to bang him so bad. i kind of like the idea of charlie being so taken with him bc mike is so incredibly chill abt his crazy which is why the others followed suit lmao. he's so sweet :( that moment with the ig comment 'dinner on me forever' and charlie butting in are u fr :(((

idk tbh the vibes here are more hmm unrealistic? and not even just the rpf aspect of it!! like idk why i made them to be so very flawed people. but i felt like writing them like this so 😭 but i was happy to write anything anyways so. bye 😭

oh i don't know flowers btw :( i just look them up and hope for the best :(((

#my writing #do you know how sometimes its 1 am u have a schedule at 7 but ur mind is UP and you just. write.#didn't even know if i wanted to post but i wanted to anyway god what am i saying but oh well if this speaks to u pls lmk 😭#23 rookies #what the hell is my tag for them #23rookies/mike #well that's that #though this is sort of more of a joe intervention on chase? idk #fic: biscuits you so want me with you #working name lmaooo the hell is that even mean and like i'll actually finish this but let me share it anyway pls thank u :")#goodnight i will sleep and hope nothing bad happens 😭#ALSO its fascinating to note how if ur a fan of a team it shows through how various players it is that you mention lol

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suddencolds · 1 year ago

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Atypical Occurrence [1/?]

Happy birthday to my dear friend, @caughtintherain!! I wanted to give you some Vincent suffering to chew on for the occasion, so please take this fic (or, first part of a fic) as a gift <3

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! chronologically, this fic takes place a month or so after the last installment leaves off :)

Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit)

—

Vincent is late.

Yves tries not to stare at the empty seat across from him. The meeting—their first meeting of the day—started five minutes ago. If there’s anything Yves knows, it’s that Vincent always comes in early.

In stumbles Cara, handling a morning coffee with probably more espresso shots than anyone should have at 8am. Then Laurent, briefcase in one hand, paging through a folder of files in his other. Then Angelie, Isaac, Garrett, Ray, Sienna. Then they get started, and Yves turns his attention towards the graphs projected onscreen at the front of the room, and tries very hard not to think about Vincent.

It’s five minutes later that the door swings open, near-silent.

Sienna—who’s presenting—stops, for a moment, to look back at Vincent from where he’s standing in the doorway, which means that of course, everyone looks.

Cara turns around in her seat, raising an eyebrow. Angelie frowns at him.

“Sorry I’m late,” Vincent says, quietly. “It won’t happen again.”

Isaac shrugs. Angelie looks a little concerned, but she turns back to her work, anyways. Sienna resumes her presentation. All in all, it’s nothing—or it should be nothing. Probably traffic, on the way here; a particularly unlucky commute. An unlikely occurrence, but—to anyone else—not anything worth dwelling over.

It might be a sufficient explanation, if Yves didn’t know better.

Vincent takes care to close the door quietly behind him, then heads over to the only open seat, across from Yves. He unzips his briefcase, quietly, unobtrusively, and takes out his laptop. Yves tries to focus on what Sienna is saying—she’s giving a review of a client’s current investment strategies; he’d reviewed her work on this just a couple days ago.

Vincent asks good questions throughout—he always has a good sense of what areas still lack clarity, Yves has found. Today is no exception. He takes part in the meeting with such calculated precision that Yves almost misses it.

Almost misses: the slight stiffness to his shoulders, as if it’s taking more than the usual amount of effort to keep himself upright. The way in which he clears his throat before speaking, like it might actually hurt. The way he rests his head on one hand, halfway into the meeting—as if even now, barely forty minutes into the workday, he’s already exhausted.

It’s subtle enough to go unnoticed, subtle enough that Yves wonders if he’s just reading too much into it—if, perhaps, Vincent is fine, after all.

—

He doesn’t see Vincent again until lunch.

Or, more accurately, he doesn’t see Vincent again until he’s headed down for lunch with Cara and Laurent. Vincent is already on his way out of the cafeteria, a takeout container in hand.

“You’re not going to eat here?” Yves asks.

Vincent doesn’t look at him. “I have some work to get done at my desk,” he says. He clears his throat again, like it’s irritating him.

“Okay,” Yves says. Vincent turns to leave, and Yves thinks of a hundred ways in which he could possibly prolong this conversation, and then decides against it. Vincent is already so busy.

“You look tired,” he settles on, instead.

He expects Vincent to dismiss this, to reassure him that it isn’t true. But Vincent looks up at him at last, blinking, as if he’s surprised that Yves noticed at all. His eyes are a little dark-rimmed underneath his glasses.

He doesn’t deny it, which is as much of a confirmation as Yves needs.

“The sooner I can get this work done, the sooner I can go home,” he says. Yves supposes he can’t argue with that.

“I guess I’ll see you around, then,” Yves says, even though he wants to say more, even though he feels like there’s more that he should be saying. “Don’t work too hard.”

Vincent nods, at this, and resumes walking.

—

Yves is probably overthinking it. There isn’t anything concrete, really, to justify his concern.

Vincent’s lateness to the meeting could just as easily be the consequence of an alarm he’d forgotten to set, his exhaustion just as easily a side effect—of recent late nights in the office, of arbitrary changes to the projects he’s on, of last-minute demands from clients.

The next time he sees Vincent is at the end of the work day. Yves always takes the elevators on the north end of the building—they’re ones that lead directly out into the parking garage. When he gets out to the hallway, Vincent is already standing there, waiting for the elevator.

Yves watches Vincent stiffen, slightly. Watches him raise one hand up to his face to shudder into it with a harsh, “HHihH’iKKTSh-hUH!”

A thin tremor runs through the line of his shoulders, as if he’s too cold, even though the office air conditioning is no colder than usual. His hand, cupped to his face, remains there for a moment more before he lowers it.

He sniffles, then, rummaging through his pocket for—something. When he doesn’t find it, he just frowns a little, sniffling again.

“Bless you,” Yves says.

“Yves,” Vincent says, his shoulders stiffening a little. He clears his throat, turning around so that he can address Yves properly.

It’s only a few seconds later that he’s turning sharply away, tenting both hands over his nose and mouth for—

“Hh-! hHiH—HIHh’DZSSschh-uhh! snf-!”

“Bless you again.”

Vincent sighs. “Don’t bother.” He really looks exhausted, Yves realizes. During their brief interaction at lunch, he’d already sensed as much, but the harsh white glare of the bright corporate lighting only makes it more evident.

Vincent looks a little paler than usual, if only slightly, and there’s a slight flush that spreads itself over his cheekbones. He looks—well, nearly as put together as always, distilled only by the slight crookedness of his tie, as if it’s been on too tight; the near-invisible sheen of sweat over his forehead. The slight redness to the bridge of his nose, the slight shiver to his hand as he reaches up to adjust his collar.

Yves frowns, taking this all in. “You look kind of…”

“Terrible?” Vincent finishes for him.

Yves winces. “...Well, terrible is a strong word. I was going to say, you look like you could use some sleep.”

“I’m… feeling a little off,” Vincent says, staring straight ahead, as if it’s not an admission at all. But Yves suspects, from the way he avoids eye contact, that perhaps it was something he was intending on keeping private. “You should keep your distance.”

The elevator dings. The sliding doors part, and he steps inside.

“First floor?” Yves asks, hesitating next to the panel of buttons.

“Yes,” Vincent says. Then, quietly: “Thanks.”

“You know, now that busy season is over, the world is not going to end if you take a sick day,” Yves tells him. “Even if you do like, twice the amount of work as everyone else on the team, if you needed to call out, I’m sure something could be arranged.”

Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly. “I must look pretty bad if you’re saying this to me.”

“Yes, I was lying,” Yves says. “Clearly, you look terrible.”

It isn’t true at all—even here, even like this, Vincent doesn’t look terrible, not even in the least. But Vincent still smiles, at this—a tired smile.

The elevator doors slide open.

“Text me if you need anything,” Yves says, impulsively. “Seriously. Tissues, soup, medicine—whatever. It’s not far of a drive.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” Vincent says. “I will see you tomorrow.” And then he steps out of the elevator, and Yves is left with an inexplicable sinking feeling in his stomach. As far as he knows, it has no place there. Obviously, Vincent can take care of himself. Obviously, Vincent can handle a cold. Yves has nothing to be concerned about.

—

The next day is rainy—a constant, torrential downpour, which makes his commute to work take almost twice as long as it usually does. It wouldn’t be spring here, Yves supposes, without dreary weather like this.

Back in uni, when he rowed crew, they’d practice out for hours out in the rain. Now that he spends the majority of his day inside, he supposes he can’t complain. The shelter of the office building is a reprieve.

Vincent doesn’t show up.

“I think he’s out sick,” Cara says, when Yves asks. “You know, it’s funny. I don’t think I’ve actually seen him take a sick day before.”

“For how hard he works, he definitely deserves one,” Garrett says.

“He seemed fine yesterday, when I saw him,” Cara says, with a shrug. “Probably came on quickly.” Yves nods.

But that isn’t quite right, is it? Vincent hadn’t seemed fine, had he? Yves thinks back to the things he’d noticed—Vincent, uncharacteristically exhausted during the meeting, though it was clear he’d been just as engaged as usual. Vincent, shivering in the elevator, telling Yves to keep his distance. How poorly had he been feeling already, yesterday? How poorly does he have to be feeling today to have called off of work for it?

He finds some time just before lunch to text.

Y: how are you holding up? Y: yesterday’s offer stands if you need me to bring you anything!

He doesn’t get a response from Vincent, which is a little concerning. He checks his phone halfway through lunch, and then twice more, in between his afternoon meetings, just in case he’s missed a notification.

“Are you expecting a text from someone?” Cara says, looking a little curious.

“Just a friend,” Yves says, which is and isn’t true.

To make a point—to Cara, and possibly to himself—he shuts his phone off. He very pointedly does not look at it again for the remainder of the hour.

It’s not until mid-afternoon that he finally gets a response.

V: Sorry to get back to you so late.

Yves sits upright, fumbling with his phone to get it unlocked. The text bubble pops up again, somewhat intermittently, to show that Vincent is typing.

V: If it’s not too much trouble, there’s a blue folder on my desk labeled 2-A.

Yves blinks at this, a little disbelieving.

Y: you’re asking me to bring you work files? Y: arent you supposed to be resting 🤨 Y: paid sick leave, remember? as in, leave your work at work??

V: I meant to pack them yesterday.

Y: that’s like a genie grants you 3 wishes and you ask for an extra day of assignments Y: terrible waste of a wish if you ask me

V: As a genie, you’re quite judgmental

Y: ok ok Y: as your loyal lamp dweller i’ll be over around 8pm with folder 2-A Y: you need anything else?

V: Nothing else V: You can just leave them outside my door

A beat. Then Vincent sends:

V: Sorry to trouble you

Yves thinks of twenty responses he wants to send to that text. Then, thinking better of himself, he shuts his phone off and gets back to work.

—

It’s a little past seven when he finally checks out of the office.

Outside, the rain hasn’t even begun to let up—it falls, straight and heavy, in large, globular droplets. The streets gleam with water. Yves leaves his umbrella in the trunk, tunes out everything but the static of the rainfall, and drives.

Yves has only ever been to Vincent’s apartment once—to pick him up for the New Years’ party Margot hosted—and even then, Vincent had met him at the door. But he recognizes the unit, nonetheless.

For a moment, he considers leaving the folder of files outside of Vincent’s door and taking his leave.

But it’s windy, and he’s afraid the papers might fly away, torn up by the biting wind, and get lost face down in a puddle somewhere, which would defeat the purpose of him coming here in the first place, and would probably also breach some employee confidentiality policy. So instead, he knocks.

It’s silent for a moment. Rain beats down on the slanted rooftops, a constant thrum.

Yves is about to reach out to knock again, when the door swings open.

There stands Vincent, in a pale blue hoodie and loose-fitting pajama pants, with neat rectangular cuffs.

He looks tired. It’s the first thing Yves registers—the unusual fatigue to his expression, which he can’t quite seem to blink away; the flush high on his cheekbones. The way he holds himself, his shoulders stiff, carefully, defensively; as if despite his exhaustion, there’s a part of him which wishes to appear presentable still.

It’s only a moment later that he’s taking a halting step back, ducking into a hoodie sleeve. Yves catches the shiver of his expression, his eyebrows pulling together, before it crumples, and his head jerks forward with a harsh—

“hHihh’GKkTT—! Hh-!! iHH-’DZZSCHh-uuUh!”

The second sneeze sounds louder and harsher than usual, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve. It betrays his congestion all at once.

“Bless you,” Yves says.

Vincent emerges, sniffling a little. When he speaks, he sounds a little hoarser than he did yesterday. “I thought I said you - snf-! - could leave them on the front step.”

“You did,” Yves says, glancing down at the folder in his hands. “But it’s windy, and it’s raining. I figured you’d prefer to have your files intact. How are you feeling?”

Vincent blinks at him. He’s leaning heavily against the doorframe, Yves realizes, one hand gripped tightly around the frame, his knuckles white from the pressure, as if it would take him too much effort to stay upright otherwise.

“Alright,” he answers. “Thanks for making the trip here. I… it must’ve taken longer, in the rain.” He squeezes his eyes shut, as if his head hurts, as if the light coming from outside is exacerbating his headache. “If you ever need me to pick something up for you, I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Yves says. Despite himself, he reaches up to press his hand against Vincent’s forehead.

The heat under his fingertips is alarming, to say the least. Yves blinks, lowering his hand, and tries to keep the worry out of his voice. “Have you taken your temperature?”

Vincent shakes his head. “I don’t think I have a thermometer.”

“Have you eaten, then?”

Vincent averts his glance, looking sheepish. “I… was planning to stop for groceries, yesterday,” he says. Planning to.

Yves thinks back to the elevator ride yesterday. Vincent had probably already been feeling very unwell, then. And yet, he’d talked with Yves as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I’m feeling a little off, he’d said, as if anything about his current affliction could possibly be characterized as “little.” I will see you tomorrow—as if he had really, genuinely been intending on showing up at work.

“So I take it that there’s nothing in the fridge, either,” Yves says.

“If it’s any consolation, you’ll be pleased to know that I slept,” Vincent says, in lieu of answering.

Then he shivers—the sort of concerning, full-body shiver that is a little concerning, coming from someone who is usually unaffected by the cold—and Yves is immediately reminded that the door they’re speaking through is open.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

“You probably shouldn’t,” Vincent says, before his expression scrunches up, and he’s ducking away with a— “hh—! hHih-II—TSSCHHh-UH! snf-!”, smothered hurriedly into the palm of his hand. He sniffles, emerging with a slight wince. “This came on pretty quickly. It might be the flu.”

“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I got my flu shot in the winter. And anyways, I’ll be careful.”

Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Then, frowning, he says, “I’d feel terrible if you caught this.”

That’s the least of Yves’s worries—he doubts he’s going to catch this. Even if he does, it will just mean a few days off of work. Not the end of the world, by any means. Nothing to warrant the expression on Vincent’s face—Vincent looks upset, as if he’ll really can’t think of anything worse than Yves catching this. Like even the thought of it is worth being upset over.

Yves shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, seriously.” He pushes past Vincent to step inside and shuts the door behind him. “Here, I’ll set these down on your desk. Where is it?”

“Down the hallway, to the left,” Vincent says.

Yves takes the folder, leaves his shoes at the door, and heads inside.

Vincent’s bedroom is small and organized—it’s the kind of bedroom that’s tastefully minimal, in the sort of unified manner that implies that everything in it has been carefully arranged. There’s a small white desk in the corner, a stack of files arranged neatly next to Vincent’s laptop, its lid halfway to shut. There’s a bookshelf, leaned up against the wall far; the bottom shelf looks to be filled with textbooks; the top shelf lined with books, both in Korean and in English. The walls are painted slate gray, the carpets lining the floorboards picked out to match, and there are pale blue curtains hanging from the windows, pulled tightly shut.

There are signs here, too, of his illness, but they are subtle. A tissue box, nestled between his pillow and the headboard, half empty. A waste bin at the foot of the bed, conveniently in reach. A small bottle of aspirin on the bedside counter; an empty packet of cough drops sitting at the edge of his nightstand.

Yves sets the folder at the end of Vincent’s desk, next to the rest of his files, and turns to face him.

“You’re not going to work on these until you’re feeling better, right?” he asks.

“Only if I can’t sleep,” Vincent says, which Yves supposes is a satisfactory answer. Then he twists away, his eyebrows furrowing, lifting a loosely clenched fist to his face to cough, and cough.

The cough is harsh and grating—his entire frame shudders with the force of it, his breaths shallow and raspy. He really sounds awful. This must have come on quickly, Yves thinks.

If it’s upsetting, seeing Vincent like this, it’s even worse to be standing here, in his room, doing nothing. So—if only to make himself useful, if only to convince himself that there’s something he can do—Yves ducks out into the kitchen.

The pantry is meticulously organized—glasses lined up in neat rows; stacks of bowls sorted by size. He fills a glass with water, shuts the cabinets, and takes it back to the bedroom.

By the time he gets back, Vincent is sitting at the edge of his bed. His glasses are folded neatly, left at the very edge of the countertop.

“Here,” Yves says, crossing the room, holding out the glass for him to take.

“Thanks,” Vincent says, taking it gingerly from him. He takes a small, tentative sip, and then another—his hands are a little shaky, Yves notices. “You - snf-! - should really go.”

“I’m not entirely convinced you’ll be fine on your own,” Yves says.

“Of course I will be,” Vincent says, with all of his usual certainty. He lays down, pulling the covers over his body. “I have been fine on my own for years.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, Yves supposes. But he doesn’t feel reassured in the least.

“Thank you again for bringing me the files,” Vincent says, at last, shutting his eyes.

“You could’ve asked me to get you groceries,” Yves says. “There’s a supermarket not far from here, right? And you’re out of cough drops.” He takes a few steps over, towards the desk in the corner of the room. “These—” He examines the bottle of ibuprofen on the table. “—are expired.”

“Just because you’ve extended this kindness to me,” Vincent tells him, “doesn’t mean I should take advantage of it.”

Yves blinks, a little taken aback. “It’s only groceries. I wouldn’t have minded, really.”

“See,” Vincent says, with a note of—something in his voice. It sounds a bit like resignation. “That’s just the kind of person you are.”

Yves doesn’t know what to say, to that.

Before he can think up a fitting response, Vincent’s breathing evens out. Yves lets himself listen to the shallow, steady cadence of it. Lets himself acknowledge the heavy, painful feeling in his chest for just a moment. Then he shuts the lights off and heads back out into the hallway.

[ Part 2 ]

#snz fic #sneeze fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snz #i wanted to end somewhere more conclusive but i was falling asleep at my keyboard trying to end this so #please take this for now 🙏#my fic #it is very late rn so i am scheduling this for the middle of my work day tomorrow... now i need to run to sleep T.T #i will finish off the latter half of the house visit in the not too distant future!#yvverse #ps caughtintherain if you are reading this ily and i am so grateful to you for letting me consult you abt these two 😭😭 and i hope it's #okay for me to post this as a gift jafkhjfslk ANYWAYS pls read this at your leisure and happy birthday again!!!

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