#skysscript

[sky-snz]

aftermath / pillow talk

-

The bed shakes again. Lying on your back, you gaze sideways, watching as their silhouette convulses with another sneeze. “‘zZZSCHhh-!!” and another- “d’TCHiuh!!” -audibly wet, but airy, without vocalization. A visible mist of droplets bursts into the air, dissipating in the warm lamplight.

They’re also on their back, not having moved much in the past few moments of rest. At your movement, they sniffle reflexively, the sound thick. The faraway look in their eyes breaks as a self conscious grin takes over. For a few seconds, there’s quiet - then they gasp again, involuntarily, and their eyelids flutter. You put a gentle hand on their forearm, while their other arm swings forward to catch another vicious, itchy sneeze. “heiHd’SHIEWW!!” It leaves them blinking dazedly, sniffling liquidly. You bless them yet again.

They let out a sigh and a soft chuckle. “Look what you did,” they tease. A grin washes over your features.

You turn onto your side, facing them. Their expression crumbles as another sneeze arrives with little patience. “hAED’TCHH-!!” Another mist is cast into the air. The droplets catch in the lamplight, glittering before the dim vanity on the other side of the room.

With soft eyes, you watch the spray dissipate. They lean their head back and sniffle hard. Your lips begin to form another blessing, making them grin and let out another flustered huff.

[sky-snz]

(making breakfast in your underwear with a lover who has allergies)

You listen to the way they shuffle sleepily about, reaching for clinking mugs and setting them down on the countertop. They sniffle and softly clear their throat. They draw in a lazy, damper sniffle as they pour water into the coffee maker. As you look over, they’re turning their nose into their shoulder, rubbing the scrunched appendage against it. You see the muscles around their shoulder blade moving, and then stop as they raise their head with a sharp sniff. 

They place your favourite mug under the spout and turn on the machine. “… *snnrff!* …” There’s notable congestion and hoarseness in the way they clear their throat - or could they just be sleepy? “*snrffh! ah-hemm~* … *snrk!*” 

You finally find the cast iron skillet and put it on the stove. They chuckle softly and mumble that the sugar is close to running out. You open the carton of eggs and say you��ll buy more on the way home from work. You hear another whistly, but gentle sniffle from behind you, and the water in the coffee maker bubbling. Sizzling becomes part of that melody. 

“Oh no…” they mutter softly, causing you to glance over. “hAHt’TSCHhh-!! *hsnff*”

Waiting for the coffee to finish dripping, they’re leaning against the counter. “Whew. ‘Scuse- oh. ‘Scuse mbe…” They lift a hand to their sternum, fingers grabbing at nothing. Meanwhile, their expression crumbles, and- “haAH’SSCHHhieww!! oh by god. *hsndrff!*” They sniffle rather liquidly and exhale in a soft huff.

“Bless you,” you say gently, and kiss their cheek as you reach to grab the pepper from the shelf near them.

“hh’Thagks. ‘mb sorry, that was… a wet ode,” they murmur sleepily, and keep sniffling thickly. “*hsnrff!*”

You kiss them again. “Don’t be sorry.” You uncap the pepper and grind some onto the eggs. 

“Oh no,” they say breathily again, and their feet begin to stumble-shuffle away from the kitchen counter. “-huUH’USSCHhiuu!! *sdrff!*”

[sky-snz]

(A very cold-ridden guest at a holiday party)

“Oh! Shit, sorry, *snrk!* Hi. Oh, you’re good. You just startled be. It’s cool.”

“Ndo, I haved’t tried it, is it good? *akhm* Ndo thagks, I’ve got by owd poisod. *snnrgk!* Haha, *koff! sdrf!* Doe, hodestly I’b… defiditely buzzi’g… did some heavy drugs earlier.”

…

“h-huHdt’CHIEWW!!-D’TCHHhh!! *hsnNrgk!* Thagk you, oh by gosh. Sorry.”

“*sdff* Doe, I’b fide. I thigk it’s… EHd’CHIEWW!! *sddrff!* Thagk you. Ugh. I thigk there’s also a good aboudt of dust frob the decoh… the decoratiods thah… oh fuh- hh-! huHd’ESSCHHIEWWw!!!”

“*snnnrgk!* Jesus, sorry. I- *ahem, snNrk!* Really? You’re by hero, thagk you. Sorry, ode secod.”

…

“You’re so origidal for that, you… *hsnrk!* Oh, y’hhh… *sngk!* Ha’g od, I’b godda sdeeze…”

“Who? Oh, the reiddeer? *sdDRFF!* Fuckin horrible, that’s how they treat be. Apparently they still laugh ah’d… *snNrf!* callbedabes, hiHH-! *snrgk!* hihh’ihH-! HAAASSCHHIUHh-!! Sorry, I- AAAASSCHHIEW!! -‘scuse be for a s’hH’ESSCHHIEWWw!!!”

“…-RR’SSCHIEWWw!!… HAASSCHHIEWWw!! *snngk!* Oh by god…”

…

“🎶 Godda fide out who’s sdotty or dice… 🎶 *snnrKk!!*”

…

“Oh. Hey. *s-snrgk!*”

“…Yeah. Just got a refill. Off by fuckid f-’ESSCHHh!!hieww -face. Sorry. *hsnrff, sddrff!*”

…

“Hmb? Yeah, I’b… I’ll live. Was a success, huh?”

“We’re under the- oh. *snrgk!* Oh. You- But I’b…”

“I’b godda sdeeze od you.”

“I’b godda sdeeze id your bouth. *hsnrk!*”

��Actually? Well- I-I bead, cobe here. If you dare.”

…

“There, happy? hUHdt’CHIUEWW!! -Oh doe. *snNrgk!* Sorry. That was, *snNRFF!* Oh god, I…”

“Well… *hsnrk!* I did ward you.”

[sky-snz]

leisure skate benchwarmer (m) ⛸️

-

In the midst of the noise, there’s a soft, squelching sound that gently interrupts your thoughts. You’d only sat down to tighten your skates. But with that, you take your time pulling out the double knots. Over the volume of people talking on and off the ice, you can hear thick sniffles coming from someone sitting on the next bench over. Then, a loose cough. The air of the indoor rink is chilly - it seems to be exacerbating the symptoms of a cold.

As your fingers tug at your laces, you hear his friends come by on the ice. One hockey stops hard, creating a spray of ice shavings that fall close to the guy, just missing him by a hair. The other greets him cheerfully and bumps into the first friend, who curses and stops them both from falling. 

The poor benchwarmer lets out a wheezing, raspy chuckle, and coughs. It’s a wet, mucus-y sound. You can tell as he tries to stop, sniffling so thickly you can hear the vibration of air barely making it past a heavy wall of congestion. When he speaks, you feel your face flush a little - his voice is croaky and weak, sniffling between words as he gives tips to friend on stopping.

“You gotta- *snrfh!* You gotta lead idto it. *snrk !*”

The two on the ice start to practice stopping together, staying near the guy’s bench. One keeps calling out to him, showing him their form. He’s sniffling a lot now, and his scratchy words begin to slow as his breath shakes.

“Yeah… hh’Thaht’s… hHht’DD—?-unhh, *hsnrkk!* Sorry, I have to sdeeze…”

Pretending to look at the time on the large digital clock at one end of the area, you turn in his direction. His brow crumples as he muffles, or rather tries to muffle, a harsh-sounding sneeze into his hoodie sleeve, his shoulders shuddering with the force.

“HaAAH’SSCHIUE-!! *sngk!* Agh,” he lowers his arm and draws in a very soupy sniffle. 

“Bless you!” his friends call out.

As his hands fly to his pockets, you pull your gaze back down to your skates, not at all retaining what time the digital clock read. There’s a slight pause, and then a soft, shallow gasp. 

“hht-? …Ugh. Wait, there’s…”

“Bless you.”

“…adother ode… Shit, you jidxed it. *snrgk!*”

“Sorry.”

He lets out another half chuckle, half cough.  “It’s gode.”

As you’re doing up the bunny-eared knots, you hear more rasping laughs as his friends keep talking and attempting fancy little maneuvers, scraping and carving lines into the ice with their hockey skates. You tie an extra knot in each bow, then stand and pull on your gloves. 

As you step back onto the ice, you nearly wobble as- 

“hAAAD’SSCHIUHh-!!”

The next sneeze is less restrained, sounding desperate. They’re naturally loud, despite his efforts to muffle them into his sleeve. His thick sniffles begin to fade behind you as you skate away. As you glide around the arch at the far end of the rink, you toss an absent glance sideways - catching the poor benchwarmer in the middle of blowing his nose.

[sky-snz]

A moves their hair and asks B to clasp their necklace for them. bleary-eyed and pink-nosed, B comes over. as their fingers fumble with the chain, an urgent, accidental sneeze sprays the back of A’s neck. B apologizes calmly, snuffling dazedly and trying again with the clasp. A blushes and waits until they’ve fastened it, which is made known by a soft exhale of satisfaction. They let their hair back down and try to listen as B continues on the conversation in a voice rounded by congestion. Without interrupting their sentence, A’s hands move up to undo the buttons of B’s dress shirt, which had been done up into the wrong holes. The fabric strains against the last two buttons as B curls over A with another harsh sneeze.

[sky-snz]

(The only person around who knows guitars is sick, but yours is messed up and you need it, like, tomorrow.)

“Are you sure you wadt be to touch it?”

“Oh, you dod’t… *hsnf* have to order be adythi’g, I’b dot hungry adyway. But, I bead, if you’re offeri’g…”

“Just let be see.”

…

*hollow rattling* “…What’d you do?”

…

“*sdrff!* Where? Oh, this fret. That’s gdarly, *hsnrff!* I cad take care of that. Ady other odes like that?”

“Well, sidce I’b *ahem!* restri’gi’g it, I cad check and sand it dowd for you.”

…

“Cad you… take it, cuz I’b godda- ‘Esschh-!! *snrgk!* ‘ESCHhiu-!! *snnnrff!* Thagk you. Sorry. *snrk!* So, yeah, id the future just be mindful of leavi’g it sobewhere hubid, cuz… Well, I dod’t kdow how they do it in the tropics. I’b just sayi’g…”

“Oops. Yeah, I just swallowed by cough drop.”

“h-heiHt’ESSCHH!!-ieww, Fuck’s sake… hihh! It’s just the-hih! dust frob sanding, probhhably- ieyY’ESSCHHIEWWw!! *hsngk* ….Agh…”

…

“What happened is the ndut cabe off, see? So the bechadisb is just kide of id there. Heh. *snrf!* I thigk I cad fix it? But… Just hold od…”

“…AAESSCHHIEWWw!!! *snrff, ahem!* Excuse be. Thagks.”

“…How did you badage that?”

…

“Cobe here. Cad you hold this idside the body like this? *snrk!* I’ll just screw id the’hh… *sdrff!* Actually, cad you do it? I’b holdi’g it where it deeds to be, just… Oh doe-“

“USSCHHIU!!-*snnrgk!*-USSCHHIU!!!-*snnnrk!* ‘Kay, I’b godda let go- uH’schieww!! heihhHh, HRR’USSCHIEWWw!!!”

“Yeah… *koff, koFF! snrff!* …Pardod be, holy shit. I’b okay. It’s- whew. *snrgk!*”

“Let’s try agaid?”

…

“There we go. Those strings’ll stretch a bit, so you may have to tune it again later. But yeah. Wadda test the pickup?”

“There we go.”

“Doe sweat. *snrk!* She’s a beauty.”

…

“Aw, I told you dot to order adythig…. thagk you.”

[sky-snz]

i just wanna say i absolutely ADORE your writing. i keep rereading your stuff dude, all of it is just so, SO GOOD. and man if you ever feel like writing some really sick dude who's miserable with a cold on his way home from work (left early, ofc) who's just dripping and feeling gross and stuffed up and itchy and sneezy as hell on public transport and he's out of tissues and oh fuck everyone's staring??? I'D LITERALLY DIE HAPPY 😭

hey anon, thanks so so much for the kind words, and for this prompt. this may just be the grossest thing I've written in a bit, and boy was it fun. hope it fits the bill 🫶🏼

cw mess

-

His head leans against the bus window, eyes staring into space. His relentlessly drippy nose produces constant vulgar, liquid sounds with every unavoidable sniffle, and the sight of it isn’t any less forgiving. Deep red, like a stain from the juice of blueberries. All around his nostrils, down to his philtrum. His breathing has a shaky rhythm to it, between noisy, slurping sniffles, and coughs that are too weak to move the phlegm lining his throat.

At a certain point it seems as if he’s dozed off. Mucus streams down his upper lip, and the next breath seems to catch on the muck in his throat. His brow crumples as he coughs and draws in more deep, liquid sniffles. He lifts a folded, sodden tissue to dab at the moisture oozing from his chapped nostrils. It’s all he has left. 

The sound of a shaky breath arrives like a distant siren. His eyes close, not just out of exhaustion, but in resignation of what’s to come. With fumbling fingers, he lifts the damp one-eighth surface area of tissue over his flaring nostrils.

“hrrRR’USSCHHIUE!!!-USSHIEWW!! hiH-! huUDZ’EEISSCHHIUHh!!! …. *snnnrgk~* … *snrgk*”

If the ‘Move Out Of The Way’ siren-like gasps hadn’t been heeded by any passengers a few moments earlier, they were certainly alerted by the sudden hurricane-caliber burst of sneezes, which had expelled an uncontainable amount of warm, goopy mess into the small folded-up tissue. He pants for breath, clutching the soaked fibres over his still tingling nose. His other hand moves to his pocket, but any tissue that’s left is wet and unusable, leaving him to try and pinch-wipe the mess away with the sopping one he’s holding. His upper lip stings as the tissues grazes it. 

“AAIY'ESSCHHIEWWw!!!” 

Fuck. He isn’t exactly a fan of surprises, and that one had been particularly un-delightful. By now the passengers on the bus have parted like the Red Sea - some spooked, some disgusted. The man can barely sniffle, and trying is far too ticklish. Both hands hurriedly rise to cover his mouth and nose as the urge reappears with violence.

“-'EDSSCHHIUHhh!!!”

Oh dear. 

His eyes blink hazily through a film of moisture. There are tear tracks he can feel, but that seems to be the least of his troubles right now. Muffled coughs seem to expedite the unending flow of thick mucus, pooling into his palms. Sniffles are merely instinctive, no use to him now. The air is warm beneath his steepled hands. He doesn’t dare move them.

[sky-snz]

couch cuddles (m)

-

A quiet evening in. A stiff throw pillow propped up against one arm of the couch where I lay, with him lying on top. Sort of. Mostly on the cushions, his arms around my middle. His head rested on my stomach, breath warming me through the fabric. The living room lighting changed shades with the bright television screen, cutting often between different faces. It was a cooking show rerun.

His breathing gave a small stutter. I pulled my gaze back to him. Brow pinching, eyes still shut. “*e‘hm!*… hmb…” Slowly, he turned and pressed his face into my shirt. “RR‘SSCHH!!-iew…” 

A hot blast of air set my skin aflame as he directed his sneeze into my stomach. My hand raised to rest on his back, and gently moved up and down.

“Bless you,” I murmured. 

“*hsnf*… *grm!* Thagk you.”

I looked back over at the tv. The pixels formed a lovely-looking cheesecake that I knew wouldn’t win the challenge. He snuffled and buried his face into my shirt. My hand moved slowly over his back as he tried to get comfortable again. His form deflated with a sigh as he lay still. Some moments later, at my abdomen, I felt his nose pressing in. There was brief, tickly pause in the rhythm of his breathing. I gently scratched his back. 

“rR‘USSCHHiue-!!“ He sneezed again, with such desperation that made my breathing falter, the ridge of his nose digging into my stomach.

I gave his back another rub. “Bless you, hon.”

He coughed and drew in another thick sniffle. As face lifted away briefly, I could feel a wet patch of fabric on my stomach. He laid back down, breath whistling.

I stared at the coffee table, where the tissue box was out of reach. My eyes fell back to him, limp on top of me, trying to sleep. There was a feeling of déjà vu. And other feelings. His arms squeezed me as he got comfortable again.

“Let me get some tissues,” I murmured delicately, anchored to the couch.

He responded with a soft snore.

[sky-snz]

if you're in the mood for a prompt, could you do something with a doctor (m, 30s-40s) trying to conceal the fact that he has a cold? thank you so much! love your writing <3

hey anon! your request made me realize that I haven’t written many doctors or medical settings in general, as in recent years, it hasn't been an area I’ve been too inspired by. although, I have been watching too much chicago med. 

I imagine this new character to be a bit like dr. rhodes, a brooding and kind cardiothoracic surgeon. very stubborn and driven. because a lot is inspired by what I’ve seen on tv I am so sorry if I inevitably get any details wrong about the setting or work dynamics. I did have fun with it though, so thanks for the push out of my usual. hope it’s alright. xx

-

A Difficult Case (M, Illness)

1.1k words

content: stifles, let outs, nose blowing, fever, risked contagion

A patient of his reappears post procedure. A familiar face, and a brave one. One he’d graciously hoped not to see again, certainly not like this. The options swim in his head. He’s ordered every test he can think of. Some options are waitlisted or pending approval. In the past few hours, the most he’s been able to acquire is eye strain.

He sniffs twice, quietly, to get his nose to stop whistling. His eyes remain glued to the computer screen. The air behind the surgical mask is hot. Sniffling is becoming less and less effective - perhaps he should blow his nose. Perhaps the irritating heat and soreness between his eyes might culminate in a sneeze. Directly linked to a diagnosis for himself that he had no trouble making, and no current intention to address. He really doesn't have the time. Eye strain - if anyone asks. Dehydration - if anyone clocks the rasp in his voice.

He stands up too fast, and has to sit back down again. “Low iron,” he grunts, and the nurse who’d glanced his way diverts her gaze. A very strange, disorienting feeling, heavier than usual, swirls in his head and doesn’t leave until he’s sat still for several seconds. He stands up again - slowly. 

“Doctor Goldman,” a newer resident calls his name. 

He goes over, sinking into the details of their patient’s case and ignoring the prickling sweat of a looming fever. He gently clears his throat and asks if they’ve gotten the patient’s full history. Something he has from his current patient, as far as he knows. The younger doctor says he’ll keep looking, and he wishes him luck.

His nose scrunches beneath his mask as he’s walking away. He relaxes his features as the charge nurse greets him. 

“Doctor Goldman.”

“Delilah.”

There’s a look in her eye that makes him wary - careful not to sniff too loudly or cough. Although she’s only asking about an upcoming fish fry. Some rumour that he’s good at mixing cocktails, and it's entirely right, thanks to a part time restaurant job that got him through school. His upper lip tickles as he confirms his attendance. Then it rudely demands attention. She smiles and asks for his preference between two types of rice. It’s not an answer, but he gasps softly, and turns his head away. “ht‘gxXNt!-nhhh…”

“Are you getting sick?”

“Uh, no. *snf!* Must be allergies. Sorry,” he musters, turning and wrinkling his nose so dynamically it causes his mask to shift. He pinches the bottom edge and straightens it. The hands-free stifle has left a dent-like soreness in the roof of his mouth.

“Huh. Well, bless you.”

“Thanks. *k’hm.* Sorry, what were the options?”

He gets paged as lab results come in, and somehow the case has become even foggier. The tech leaves him to study the paper, with a ‘good luck’ raising of the eyebrows. A mindless sniffle goes by unauthorized, newly louder and embarrassingly liquid. Gingerly, he peeks around. He elects to steal away somewhere to blow his nose, and starts to line up the facts about his patient again in his head as he escapes.

Moments later, he winds up at another computer, squinting at an article pulled up on the screen. The sore ‘dent’ from the earlier sneeze is still there. It’s as if it’s punishing him now. The production of mucus hasn’t stopped, and he’s hiding in the empty break room, still scouring documents and breathing through his mouth. “… aht’xXGkt!!-chiuhh….” And occasionally, that. A feathery tingle lingers in his blocked nose, making his stinging eyes well up. It seems a strange solution to dry eyes, but as he blinks through tears, it isn’t totally unbearable. Someone calls his name and he jumps.

“Whoa. You okay?” Bill, an attending, stands there, looking equally surprised.

“Yeah, you startled mbe, *snf!*” he sighs, and leans on the arm of the chair. 

“Sorry.”

“Ndo, it’s fine. What’s up?”

“Uh, your patient, Melody Sparks? Her specialist phoned in.”

“Oh, fidally,” he sighs, rolling back in the desk chair.

“Yeah…” Bill stares as he gets up to leave. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, ndo, just… hay fever.” He dismisses, vaguely shaking his head.

“Or a regular one?”

“Thanks,” He says over his shoulder as he exits the break room.

On his way to the phone, he makes a wrong turn and veers down a hall. One could say he’s simply taking his break, which he’d “*sdrff!*” been reminded to do a couple of hours prior. Or, perhaps, looking for “*snnrff!* spare supplies. Yes. He’ll make the call as soon as he’s back, “-heiH!” and for now he’s just “hheH!” taking a few minutes to- “AAESSCHh-!!” -to himself, “aAD’Esschhioo!!” in the storage room. “Aaiy'ESCHh!!” Where it’s nice and empty, and also dark. He unhooks the mask from his ears, and pinches the rough material to his nose. “hiehhH-! aAD’ESCHhiuh!! …hnhh…”

Good god. He sinks onto a chair and tries to catch his breath. He folds the masks and crumples it in his fist, then drops it into the wastebasket. His hands make a desperate grab for a pack of paper towels on a table to the side. By some miracle, the bustle in the ED covers the gurgling, liquid sound of him blowing his nose, at least as best he can. Hot inflammation lingers, blocking both nostrils.

He can picture the swelling in his sinuses, the heat retaining and elevating reactions leading to the boiling in his brain, the trivial illness that would worsen and steal precious time. It would be counterproductive to panic. He takes a breath through parted lips and lets it out, slowly. Right. Now he needs another mask, if he can find one in here.

The door handle clicks and he startles once again. Someone says his name, without his title. “Caleb?”

“Delilah.” His face scrunches slightly. Nope, not much to go off of. “I was looking for… hey-!” 

Before he can finish, the back of her hand is on his forehead. The door is ajar, casting a soft triangle of light on the tiled floor from the hall. “I thought you might’ve sounded strange earlier. But then Dr Reid..." Bill. He moves his head away, the thought of his sweat touching her hand probably making matters worse. She sighs and moves back. “Home, for you,” she says firmly. “Unless, of course… you’d rather stay and explain.”

He can see now for himself that his nose is a pitiful shade of red. It’s far from the list of things he’s wanting to discuss before he leaves.

[sky-snz]

tattoo artist is allergic to the scent you’re wearing (unspecified gender)

cw for needles and being poked, descriptions of being sneezed on

-

emphasis on this being fictional, don’t intentionally combine sneezing+tattooing if you can, be safe when handling needles and long term ink

-

You’d chosen the right side of your upper back, just a few inches off from your shoulder blade. In a sectioned off corner of the studio belonging to your artist, you take off your jumper to reveal a tank top, one you’d chosen for easy access to the shoulder. They gently clean the area with rubbing alcohol and apply the stencil. After checking the position of it in the mirror, you’re told to lie down on your stomach on the straightened out leather chair.

The artist pulls a small rolling chest of drawers nearer, the top of which is covered with a clean paper towel. Out comes a round cap of ink, richly opaque, a couple of popsicle sticks, and a bottle with a straw-like protrusion, filled with a clear liquid.

“Alright. Are you ready?”

“Yeah.” You rest your chin on your other arm, and gaze at the framed designs hung up around the artist’s walled studio section.

A soft buzzing starts.

A warm, gloved hand gently rests on your back. It begins like a stroking of stiff brush bristles. You’re unsure if the process so far is particularly gentle, or if your pain tolerance is high.

“How long have you been tattooing for?” you ask, just as your back begins to tense a little.

“Me? About… five years…”

The strokes pause. You breathe out. You feel the gloved hand give the area a smooth caress with their thumb, and the tension eases a little.

“Sorry if I’m squirming,” you breathe out, as they begin to reposition.

“You’re fine… I’ll just…” Their voice is soft as they’d been getting a closer look, then you hear them draw back. You peek sideways. They appear calm and collected, but strangely quiet - you trust them to do this, and they haven’t given you a reason not to. “*snff!* I’ll just hold you down, if that’s okay.” they say with a bit of a chuckle.

“Fine by me,” you allow, with a grin.

The fingers of their gloved hand gently rest upon your back, their index finger and thumb of their non-dominant hand framing the stencilled area. It becomes a little rougher, like scraping. Your fingers curl, pressing together, wrapping around your thumb.

“You’re sitting pretty well,” they murmur softly, continuing with sharp focus.

There’s a pause. As you hear a bit of movement behind you, you hear a small sniff. With your gaze hovering over the framed artwork on the walls, you hear a soft, shallow gasp. What follows is a rather restrained-sounding sneeze, a desperate vocalization forced through clenched teeth. “rrRR’ESSCHHh-!!”

The chair jerks a little beneath you - they must have been leaning on it. “Bless you,” you say, and peek around at them. They’re facing away, an elbow held over their face.

Another reflexive gasp- “k’hiH-!” -and exhale. “-g’hhh… *snrf!*” Their arm lowers. “Thank you. So sorry.”

“It’s all good.”

You hear another sharp sniffle. You feel their hand gently pressing on you again. It stings as they continue, but you’re distracted by other things… “*hsnnnrk~*” Toward the end of a particularly hard stroke, you tense and then loosen when it stops. “You good?” they ask gently.

“Yep,” your eyes shut as they start again, one hand keeping you from moving.

You follow the sound of their voice, which every few words, “*snrf!*” is split up by sniffles, getting progressively wetter and *sdrff!* slowing the pace of their calming speech.

“*ak'hm! snf!* What's the story of this tattoo?"

...

"I used to, uh... *snNrfh* Uh, I used to go to this ode shop, to this ode guy... *hsnrf!* He agreed to train me."

...

"...And y'know what, I did get my heart broken. *sndrf!* But- *snNRFF!* That's just life. I just kept doing me. Doing my strange little projects..."

…

“You’re doing really well, *snrffh!*”

The needle pauses. You’re tempted to peek back, as you hear the wheels of their chair roll backward. “Oh gosh…” they mutter softly.

When you turn to look, their face is frozen - eyes shut, their brow slightly pinched.

“Sorry, hh-!” Quickly, their elbow flies back up to cover their face. “hAHt’TDSCHhh!! *snrk!* d’EEISCHHhh!! *snnrgk!* Agh, excuse mbe.”

“Bless you. You okay?”

“Yeah, I…” they begin, blinking shiny eyes. “Uh, would you happen to be wearing a scent of some sort?”

You pause. Then, “Yeah. Oh no, I’m sorry.”

“Ndo, it’s okay. I mean, if you’re cool with it, *sdrf!* I cad keep going, but…”

“Are you sure?”

“I cad, it’s almost dode. *ahem!* But I, *hsdrff!* I deed to blow mby dose first. Sorry. *hsnrk!*”

“Okay,” you hear yourself say, as they get up to grab tissues, pulling off their gloves. “I mean, you sure you’re good to continue?”

“Yeah, *snrf!*” They raise a folded tissue and blow their nose. “I think I just get more sneezy when my nose is stuffy. Be right back, I need to wash my hands,” they say, stepping out.

“You gonna try not to breathe?” you joke lightly as they go, eliciting a small chuckle.

“You betcha,” they play along. They reappear a few moments later, shaking out their hands a little. “Whew. I’m fine. You still cool?”

“As ice.”

They pull on another pair of gloves and sit down. You feel their fingers gently rest on your side again. “I hope not actually,” they breathe.

“Nope,” you exhale in a soft chuckle. You rest your head on your arms and go back to staring at the framed tattoo designs.

“That would suck…” they breathe, preparing to start again. “Just let me know if… Ooh. Wow. *hsnff!*”

“Still bothering you?”

“A little.” This, and they’re still going. You’re about to suggest another pause when one arrives abruptly - the strokes come to a stop, as does the buzzing, and their hands lift away from you.

“yY‘ISSCHHhhioo-!!”

The prolonged period of focus and determination culminates into one wrenching, desperate expulsion without a preparatory breath, again causing the chair to jerk slightly as they jackknife to the side. Mostly to the side - you feel a cool, ghostly mist on your back, and almost immediately feel heat rise to your cheeks.

“*snnrff!* Sorry, oh mby god.”

“No, it’s my bad,” you start to say, turning to look at them again. “Bless you.”

They’re wiping their eyes with their wrists, looking a bit at a loss. They have to stand up and remove their gloves again, then reach for more tissues. With little hesitation, they blow their nose hard, as if it really itches.

“I really tried,” they say, still sniffling, drying their teary eyes. “But I think I might need to reschedule. *snrff!* Is that cool?”

[sky-snz]

The cafe smells as lovely as ever, but even sitting inside, they’re unaware.

That one, over there, slumped in the brown leather booth by the window. Practically swaddled in a reasonable number of winter layers, their arms rest atop the table. A hot cup of tea sits in front of them, inches below a visibly streaming red nose. 

They can’t detect the signature earthy scent of strong coffee that hangs in the air - but there’s some placebo effect that the tea makes, as the steam twirls upward in wisps. Its deep amber colour is enough to hint some idea of its strength. Familiar, safe, and healing mundane. It’s too hot to drink, and they’re too feverish at this point to consider moving, so they just sit still.

Spell-like swirls of vapour rise beneath rosy red nostrils, gently warming the sensitive membranes. Watery mucus trails down their upper lip. They taste salt and sniffle thickly a few times. Their shoulder muscles complain as they lean back, raising a slightly damp, folded handkerchief to dab gently under their chapped nostrils. Eyes in a thoughtful trance, softly fixed on a point outside the cafe window. Cars go by and spray the curbs with salt and pepper slush.

Why they're there instead of home, no one is sure. Perhaps they’re waiting for someone. Perhaps they'd ran out of tea.

Slowly, they lean back forward, putting their face over the steaming mug. More warm vapour kisses their chapped, red nose. It begins to run again, causing a new sensation. In two seconds development, an awfully ticklish sensation. Blinking, they turn their face away from the mug. 

A combination of sweat and condensation cools the surface of their face. Groggy and consumed by the urge to sneeze, their eyelids flutter. It’s there for a second - white hot, a bit like frozen flesh coming in from the bitter cold. Their chin tucks downward as their brown begins to pinch, then, god no-

... Well, come on then.

Then, they exhale. A sigh pours shakily from their lips, and they draw in some sharp sniffles.

“…*hsnrff!* …. *snNRFh!*”

The girl behind the counter pouring coffee peeks up at them, while the customer who just ordered isn't brave enough to. The poor soul at the booth peers down into their hot cup of tea, eyes wet and weary. It keeps steaming, still smelling strongly of the leaves. Not that they’re able to detect it. 

[sky-snz]

may flowers (m) 🌸

-

How his doctor expected him to go off his allergy meds at this point in early May, she wasn’t sure. But he listened, not saying much about it. She’d held him the first night in bed as the last dose of his antihistamines wore off, talking softly and blessing each of his shuddering, tired sneezes until he somehow managed to fall asleep. The next day, his eyes were swollen and he barely spoke. She made sure the kettle was always filled halfway, lingering within earshot. He clutched a handkerchief and spent all day muffling itchy sneezes, rubbing his poor nose raw. In the evening, when it was just them, she gently wrapped her fingers around the fist that gripped the handkerchief. Slowly, she pulled it away from his face. Eyes rolling, breath heaving, he sneezed again, at full force. Her face was showered with a cool mist, and while his voice cracked with an apology, she hoped and wondered if that one had felt better than the ones before it.

[sky-snz]

another cold weather scenario, but you’re romeo and juliet works at the annoying pub next door

-

The scent of cold air, spearmint and no sugar. Wet burnt tobacco and paper, barbecue smoke, steam from sewer grates. Cars clustered downtown, the sidewalks empty.

This, and concrete steps. A steel door, industrial grey, between chaos and quiet, or relative quiet, where the world can’t reach. Sitting beneath the small back alley lamp, wisps of vapour twirl from your lips, as the atmosphere instantly chills the moisture of your breath. It’s 5pm and dark out, and it feels as if someone has taken the street at a nice ripe three degree sunset and wrung it out completely.

Such emptiness.

Such silence.

“hep’CHIEEWw!! -hdt’EEISCHhh!!”

Or-? You stare down the side of the alley, unsurprised when you see a sliver of the well-lit empty street. Then,

“rrRR’ESSCHHiuu!! God…”

You look up toward the dark balcony on the upper floor of the next building over, an old red brick structure. A figure stands looking out, leaning both hands on the metal railing.

“UHd’JSSCHHhioo!!!”

You sigh a little, trying to make the billowing smoke from the sewer grate under the yellow lamp light appear more interesting than-

“-unghh…. *hsnrk!*”

-something audible, yes, very smart. Your nose is nearly frozen by now. But the one above is audibly dripping, reaching a level of noticeable discomfort. You sigh again inwardly, able to hear the faint pumping bass within the building. The owners of the new pub next door hadn’t been in the good graces of your manager; who found them to be inconsiderate and rude. You’d seen them a few times - they appear to be respectable people, but not always the most accountable.

As you lift your eyes again toward the Capulet-esque figure on the balcony, a relatively new hire, you wonder what the story is this time- right as particularly strong sneeze tears the silence.

“rrRR’ESSCHHIEWWw!!”

A cloud of vapourized breath and spray of spittle bursts into the open air, glittering and dissipating under the beam of the alley light behind you, falling as delicately as the first snow.

“But soft,” you say gently after a short moment of weak coughs and sniffles. “What light,” You hear a sigh. “Through yonder window breaks. It is the east… / and… bless you.”

“It’s you again. *hsnff!* …Urgh. Thanks.”

“Kill the envious moon.”

“What?”

“Or something like that.”

A gentle smile in the gloom. The figure chuckles and sniffs sharply. “I could, with this plague.” The corners of your lips twitch upward with sympathy. “Don’t you swear by the moon later on? If I’ve killed it, you’re out of moves.”

“You deem it inconstant, anyway.”

“So you’re just looking for a show, then. *snrk!* Why ndot. It’s what I’b here for. *hsnrff, sngk*”

You’re unsure how much of your break time has passed. Another breath vaporizes before your eyes. You stand, and pause before reaching for the door handle. You glance upward at the next door building’s balcony.

“Keep warm, alright?”

Some clunky, genuine words, prompting a very honest cackle that casts spell-like swirls of fog into the frigid air. “I’ll try.”

You take one last glance up at the balcony, fixing your eyes as best they can on the dim, smirking figure with drooping shoulders and shining eyes - then slip back inside, righting your shoulders and preparing to return to work.

[sky-snz]

sneezy motorcycle passenger 🏍️

-

In a quick, less than fortunate series of events, they’d discovered that the black waxed leather was not very absorbent at all. They stare hazily at the slick, translucent mess they’d made on the back of their partner’s jacket, glistening under passing streetlights. A troubled sigh tickles the nape of the driver's neck, but they can't look back.

Instead, the passenger's body slumps against their partner’s back as they hold on. Wind blows their hair away from their face, from a glowing red nose and weary eyes. Their arms squeeze a little as they press their face back into the warm space between their partner’s shoulder blades and sneeze again with abandon. The buzz of a small groan and cough is more felt than heard by the driver. 

The hum of the engine drones on through lonely streets. From a distance, it masks the sound of frequent tired snuffles, and more arduous sneezes muffled into leather, fabric, and muscle.

[sky-snz]

(a blackout and a singular scented candle - a dialogue.)

“What do you mean you don’t keep candles?”

“Why would I have any use for candles? I have lamps and a flashlight.”

“And zero batteries.”

“I gave my last batteries to my cousin’s Elmo and then I was supposed to buy more, but… the holidays hit and I got too busy.”

“So it’s phone lights then? Wow. It’s just like a concert.”

“Haaaang on. I found one.”

“Oh. … . What the hell is ‘leather and brandy’?”

“Pass me your zippo.”

“No.”

“Fine, sit in the dark.”

*click.* …… *click.* “What’s ‘leather and brandy’?”

“It was a gift from- my ex, now just pass the lighter.”

“Oh, sexy.”

“Shut up.”

“The smell is strong already.”

“I know that.”

*click.* …. *click.*

….

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make fun of your candle.”

“…. *snfff* Nah, it’s alright. It’s cheesy. *snrf!*”

“It’s - charming, the scent.”

“Really? It’s actually kind of- AAERRSCHH!!-hieww -Excuse me. *snff!* Pungent to me.”

“Oh. Bless you. …Is that why you never lit it?”

“Uhh, yeah, sorta… *snrf!*”

“We can put it out if it’s bothering you.”

“Nah, it’s okay. *ahem!* Might as well let it fulfil its purpose. *snrff!*”

“Okay. Just make sure you don’t-“

“AESSCHHh-! *snrk!*”

“Bless you. Oh, there goes the flame...”

“Stop laughi’g, *sngrk!* Oh, actually? Wow.”

“I’m not laughing. Oh lord… God, I’m sorry, that’s, like it’s sweet, but so-“

“Brutal od the siduses. I kdow. “

“It’s like, weirdly floral.”

“Pass be’hh, *hsdrff!* Pass be your lighter.”

“I’ll do it. You go grab some tissues, or- do you want me to grab them?”

“HAASSCHIUHh!! *sdrff!* Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Here.”

“Thagk you. *snrff!* Go, do it, I’ll be fide… *snrk!*”

“You want- you want me to light it again?”

“Go ahead. You need it to see what you’re reading, and I- hHeht’CHIEWW!! Ugh, *snrk!*”

“Bless you!”

“Thagk you. I’ll just ha’g back a’d try dot to be… too… hh-! haAAESSCHHhh-!!”

“Bless you. No. That’s back to the drawing board, no ridiculous-“

“-‘AASSCHIEWWw!!”

“-Jesus, bless you. No more ridiculous scented candle of death…”

“*hsnrff!* Wait…”

“Why do you still have this?”

“I dod’t know…”

….

“There, it’s… on the doorstep.”

“What? *hsnrk!* People will thidk that sobeode died.”

“From ‘leather and bra-“

“Shut up…”

…

“Let ‘em. Maybe then they’ll order a bunch of unscented candles, and you’ll be stocked for emergencies.”

“Your emergencies, I’m more of iht’CHIEWW!! *hsnrg!* mbore of a… screed debod.”

“A ‘scremon’?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll just use my phone light. Sing me something, maybe we can have our own concert.”

[sky-snz]

bless you chronology in rhyme or whatever

-

“Bless you,” I said, as your chin turned away. My gaze flitted back as the stoplight had changed. 

“Thank you,” I said, as I gave up my menu. Each table glowed gold in the dark, formal venue.

“Bless us O Lord,” over steaming hot plates. Your listless eyes gleaming, resigned to some fate.

“Thagk you,” you attempted, muddling letters. Gathering sharp, liquid sniffles until I’d made them out better.

“Fuck you,” I tossed, in a heat of some sort. “Fuck mbe,” you swung, pulled me back in the court.

“Bless you times three,” seemed the only right phrase - as if soft, humble words could’ve matched the tirade.

“Bless you,” again, said before I could think. “Health,” put on top, like the damn kitchen sink.

“Bless,” I said once, like a screenplay in parts. I held up your coat so you’d put in your arms.

“Alright?“ I asked, in case things were not fun. “A blast”, in my peripheral, you riding shotgun.

“Goodness,” I added, to the same cultural words. Politeness on air that you better deserved.

“Bless you,” I said, like the same song on loop. “Thadk you,” you breathed, and that was a song, too.