Revisions and Decisions

[RipleyToo]

LOVED this part! I really hope for more! Their relationship is very cute! I’d love to see it progress— maybe with some caretaking from a cold from Medan?  

[starpollen]

Agreed. ☺️ Do, go on. 👍🏻

[EveP]

I don't mind waiting for something this good, and agree that some caretaking would be really nice. 

[sprinkles287]

Im so in love with all of this. 

[tma]

OMG.... I just.... 😍😍😍 SQUEEE!!!

This is so cute.  I haven't been checking my regular email so I missed the update, so I am especially thrilled that I randomly decided to check the forum.

❤

[jensenkate]

I’m so glad to have caught the update after being away! Love what I came back to! 

[marzipan]

What a long time it has been (again!). I'm glad that I finally have had time to revisit these two. Thanks for your comments, requests, and suggestions - they keep me writing! 😊 From Viola's perspective (and with the overture of care-taking promised!), here's the next section. 

Stunned speechless by the unexpected question, I could only muster an “umm.” Medan wasn’t rattled by my silence, though. Looking me directly in the eye, like he wasn’t nervous at all about my response, he added, “Just to be clear, I’d be happy if this is indeed a date. However, if it isn’t, of course I won’t be upset.” He laughed a little bit, still watching me intently. “As you have probably deduced, my ego is perfectly healthy - one might even say it is arguably too robust - and it will pull through just fine.” I wanted to try to get some response forward, but could only manage opening and closing my mouth like a stranded goldfish. 

 He waited a couple beats - I should have guessed he’d be a patient listener - and then added, “You also don’t have to tell me why, or pick something so definitive as ‘yes’ or ‘no’ if… if you’re not sure.” He looked apologetic, for reasons I couldn’t fathom. “Perhaps because I tend to be a bit of a... polarizing person, I tend to assume people make their decisions about me quite quickly, but I could be wrong.” 

He kept leaning forward, his hands almost touching mine but refraining. Before I could figure out what I wanted to say, I knew I wanted to be reassuring, so I closed the gap between our hands, letting our knuckles brush. He kept perfectly still, but his eyes darted down to our hands on the table, back at my face, and then back to our hands. I could see him swallow in the suddenly even tenser silence. 

“Um… I… I would be… yes? Yes, I’d like that, if you would too?” Ugh, that inarticulateness wasn't worth waiting for. My voice sounded embarrassingly tiny and fragile.  Medan didn’t look up, but his slight smile as he stared at my hand was refreshingly relaxed. “Yes, of course.”

Wow. Well, that was easy. I sat back, suddenly feeling like my muscles were jelly-like and potentially incapable of holding me up, with a slightly hysterical giggle of disbelief. My ability to screen my brain-to-mouth connection was defunct due to shock, so I blurted “Are you sure? I mean - I can’t believe you like me.” The sentiment was ineloquently put, but absolutely accurate. 

His replying eye roll was extremely expressive. “Don’t be ridiculous. What’s not to like?” I would have given him a few examples - my ability to overthink anything being one of the primary ones - but he pulled back when his phone buzzed. “Just a second, sorry. It’s Mum.” When he looked at the text, his forehead furrowed and he took a sharp breath in, casting his eyes toward the sky with weary frustration. “Well, shit. I have to go.” 

“What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”  I wanted to lean forward, cup his cheek with my hand, touch his tensing jaw, brush back his hair from his eyes, but instead just satisfied myself with taking in how intensely beautiful he looked, fully focused, posture perfect, already slipping his phone back into his pocket. 

“It’s probably nothing. You know my mother - if making mountains out of mole hills was a sport, she’d be a gold medalist.” I couldn’t quite take his glib words at face value when I noticed, as he stood, that his legs were shaking like he’d just received an electrical shock.

I stood up with him. “May I walk you to your car?”  

Nodding with a shrug, he replied “Sure” with a casualness that belied the tension rippling through his body. Figuring he wasn’t up for conversation, I swallowed my general dating cowardice and fear of making any kind of “first move” and, as we walked, gently put my hand on his back. 

When he turned back to me at his car, his expression was guarded, carefully designed to ward off questions or concerns. Maybe he’s assessing my reaction? Maybe he’s embarrassed? Who could say? “Thank you for the date.” Despite our date’s abrupt ending, the way he deliberately articulated my name was enough to make my stomach flutter. The effect was compounded when he tilted his head at me, his expression still inscrutable, before shaking his head slightly and opening his car door. “Viola, please rest assured that yes, I like you, and what’s more, I find you very attractive.” With a quick smile - he clearly appreciated my wide-eyed deer-in-the-headlights look of flabbergasted delight - he leaned down, brushed his lips against my cheek so softly the quiet gesture felt silken in its gentleness, and closed his door. 

***

When I didn’t see Medan at work on Monday, I suppressed the urge to catastrophize. However, when I walked straight to his office first thing Tuesday morning and he wasn’t there, my impulse control abandoned me. When I asked Elisa where he was (struggling to sound casual and offhand), she clicked her tongue with apparent annoyance. 

“He’s under the weather. He’s working from home, and he should be checking his e-mail. Is he not responding? Do you have his phone number?” I muttered something unconvincing about “just wondering” while silently judging Elisa’s apparently lousy bedside manner, and then beat it back to my office to drop Medan a text: 

Elisa said you’re sick. I’m so sorry!  Can I bring you anything/help out with work stuff?

When he didn’t respond instantaneously, I almost succeeded in convincing myself that I shouldn’t expect him to respond at all. He might prefer to suffer in dignified silence than accept assistance - and, if Elisa’s tone was any indication, he might still be in back-to-back meetings even if he wasn’t feeling well. However, as I was getting ready to leave at 4:55, my phone vibrated:

Thank you for offering. Could you please bring me the series of files in my upper left desk drawer in my office? They’re marked North-Reed and stamped “urgent.” 

I wondered if the delayed response was indicative of how much he hated asking for help, even when it was offered. I suspected the answer was yes, so in hopeful reassurance, I texted back a perky “Of course!! And no - text it to me?” 

I was a little surprised when I recognized his address as belonging to an apartment building I passed on my way to work - it looked like it was built in the early 1900s, and I’d generally pictured Medan as a modern-condominium-with-all-the-niceties kind of person. When I got inside, it was even more incongruous. The building’s interior was scrupulously clean, but stark and plain. White walls, unpainted railings, and rattling radiators that sounded like they were working too hard all indicated that the building hadn’t been renovated any time recently. 

His apartment was on the fourth floor, tucked away in a back corner down a narrow hall. It took me a moment to work up the courage to knock. I suspected that Medan didn’t often ask people to come by his apartment, and even though he’d specifically invited my appearance, I felt like I might be intruding. When I finally knocked, the door creaked open a second later. He’d been waiting for me. 

Perfect posture and flawless dress sense aside, he looked wrecked, like he hadn’t slept for days. His pale complexion made it so the dark shadows under his eyes were glaringly apparent, blending with the dark frames of his glasses to make his already disconcertingly intense eyes appear deep-set and hollow. Apparently his only concession to comfort when working from home was ditching the suit jacket - he was still dressed like he could be about to step into a boardroom. The handkerchief in his vest pocket didn’t escape my notice.

“Thanks for bringing the files, Viola. I hope it wasn’t too far out of your way.” His deep voice was ragged, and I felt a burning desire to make him tea and put him promptly to bed. 

“Yeah, of course, no problem. Are you doing okay?” He nodded curtly, then stepped back to let me come into his apartment.

Clearly not a lot of people made it past Medan’s threshold. The first thing I noticed was the rather remarkable absence of furniture. No couch… no coffee tables… no visible TV… nothing that would suggest that people gathered here, or really even that Medan ever really relaxed here. His place was smaller than I would have imagined. Sparse and spare, bookcases lined his walls, and a small lamp stood on his desk, illuminating a truly forbidding pile of papers and folders. The walls were bare except for the calendar adjacent to his desk, a whiteboard, and a small painting I couldn’t quite make out. 

“You can set those on t-t-hheehh…” He raised a hand to hover slightly under his nose, eyes crinkled in concentration and his chin quivering with each hitching breath. His irritated eye roll communicated more potently than words ever could how extremely tired he was of this. I tried to keep myself from imagining what all I’d missed, but wasn’t successful. 

I wasn’t sure where I should be looking, but I couldn’t take my eyes off his face, so the question was moot, regardless. “...bless you?”

He shook his head, defiantly refusing my blessing, and pinched his nose shut. After a second, a seemingly involuntary gasp for air interrupted his poised stillness, but he dropped his hand after a moment and took a cautious, congested breath, blinking away the lingering itch. “Sorry. Set those on the desk, please.” 

I wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for and didn’t ask, because his eyelids suddenly fluttered in a slightly cusp-of-unconsciousness kind of way and he stumbled, bracing himself against his desk. I darted forward to put a hand on his back for support, and when I touched him, I almost recoiled at how clear it was that he was running a temperature - he was over-warm and damp with sweat. “Do you need to sit down?” 

He shook his head, but I was unconvinced. If he felt like he could gather himself, open his eyes, step away from me, and tell me that he was fine, I was sure he would - and the fact that he was doing none of those things was telling. 

“Overtired, I guess. It’s been…” He wordlessly shook his head again, but I got the impression he was still trying to formulate what to say, so I tried to be patient. “...it’s been too much.” 

“Is it work stuff?” He hesitated like he wasn’t sure he could say, but then nodded, pulling his glasses off to rub his eyes. “What’s going on?” 

“It’s just… kind of a mess.” He spoke with a slight smile, but he dropped into his desk chair with what appeared to be such bone-crushing exhaustion that I wondered if he had slept at all since our date. 

“...what’s a mess?” I couldn’t help but sound nervous, my voice quivering, and that appeared to spark Medan’s desire to allay my anxiety. He reached out to lightly rest his hand on my arm. “Please don’t worry about it. Your job is perfectly secure.”

“That’s not actually what I’m worried about. Medan, when is the last time you slept?” His response was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, which wordlessly provided me with all the data I needed. 

“I really think maybe you should take a break and -” He shook his head again, more emphatically this time, anticipating what I was about to say. 

“No time. This is t-t-t…t…oh, goddamnit. Htshuuuh! Hrrrshuuuuh!!” He flinched visibly after both congested sneezes, which didn’t do anything to bolster his arguments for carrying on with work deadlines. However, he looked so rundown I didn’t want to point that incongruity out. Still, I think he could read what I was thinking on my face. As he reached for his handkerchief, he muttered somewhat sheepishly, “Sorry. Headache. Anyway, this is time sensitive.”

It was my turn to try to be soothing. “Medan, we’re just a planning firm. Deadlines don’t have to be urgent -” 

“Viola, the books don’t balance. We’re short of funds, and by thousands.” His interruption was quiet and  measured. “Mum wanted my help because she counts on me to be discreet. She might not like me particularly, but she does at least trust me to not go around blabbing about our –” I couldn’t tell if it was his panic making him increasingly breathless or his cold firmly lodged in his chest and throat, but he stopped sharply to draw a deep breath. “Viola, you’re welcome to stay and help, and of course you’re also welcome to go, but you’re not going to change my mind.” 

The set of his jaw was a clear indicator that I wasn’t going to get anywhere arguing with him. If I can’t get him to sleep, I can do the next best thing… “I’ll stay. Have you had dinner?” 

[EveP]

@marzipan, it was well worth the wait. Poor Medan! I hope Viola can help him feel better.

[starpollen]

Oohhh stubborn sneezy men! Gah 😍 my weakness.  This is lovely!  Can’t wait for more. 😊 

[Anonymace]

I don’t usually go for male sneezing or allergies, but the way you write is just beautiful. Definitely will be keeping up with this story from now on!!!

[RosyLights]

This is so good! I just found this story and I love it so much. The characters are great; and the sneezing, too, of course! I look forward to seeing what happens next. 😁

[RipleyToo]

Loved this 🥰 

[glitter_]

Omg! @marzipan I just found your story and binged all of it. There is only one word that can describe it: masterpiece! 

[tma]

Awwww!! An update!! ❤❤❤

 

This is SOOO cute.

 

Loving it.  Can't wait for more!

 

[sprinkles287]

Omg.OMG. How do you make it even better each time? The way you described Medan when he answered the door was just. Beautiful. Thank you for continuing to update! 

[sweetnerd32]

ugh i love this story so much!! 😍

[RipleyToo]

Medan getting sick is going to be very cute. He seems like a very stubborn guy that doesn’t like to show any sort of weakness. Can’t wait for the next part! 

[Evian]

Moreee plss this is too good

[marzipan]

I finally had time to update! 🙌 Thank you all for reading and commenting, and I hope you enjoy this new section (also from Viola's perspective!). If you have suggestions/requests/etc., I welcome them! 

@EveP, I'm glad you're still enjoying the story!  

@starpollen, they're among my weaknesses, too 😆

@Anonymace, thanks for reading, and I'm glad you like my writing! 

@RosyLights, I really enjoy writing these characters, and I'm happy you enjoy them, too!

@glitter_What a compliment! Thank you!

@tma, thank you! (And the wait for a new section was long - thanks for sticking with the story!)

@sprinkles287, thank you so much, and yay for continued improvement! 

@sweetnerd32, thank you so much for reading! 

@RipleyToo, Medan's obstinacy is one of my favorite things about him!

@Evian, the wait was long, but hopefully worth it!

 

When Medan blinked silently at me in response, seemingly taken aback and unsure what to say, I realized he hadn’t been expecting me to stay. Suddenly self-conscious, I wondered if he was wishing I’d leave, but he clarified what he was thinking quickly. “I don’t think I’m contagious, to be clear. It’s probably another godforsaken sinus infection - I get them all the time, particularly when I’m a little… overextended. It’s just… ” he trailed off, eyes distant, focused on some unknown point beyond my shoulder. I wanted to wait for him to finish his thought, but anxieties prompted by the stretching silence made me interject. 

“...Just what?”

He shrugged dismissively, wincing slightly as he bent forward to examine the files I’d brought. “Just… unseemly. And no, I haven’t had dinner.” 

Despite his reversal to the original subject of my question, I was more preoccupied with the “unseemly” bit. I wasn’t sure how to respond in a comforting, polite, but suitably disinterested way. Fortunately, he filled the silence himself after a moment. “You’re vegetarian, right?” 

Is there anything this man doesn’t remember? “Yes, but I didn’t mean - I mean, I didn’t intend to impose - I - “

He held up a commanding hand to stop my rambling train of thought. “You’re not imposing. How do you feel about broccoli cheddar soup?”

Honestly, I’d never enjoyed the experience of broccoli, but I figured now would be the perfect time to broaden my palette. If I’d inadvertently invited myself to dinner and infringed on the hospitality of a sick but startlingly attentive man, personal pickiness felt unacceptable. “That sounds lovely, thank you.” 

Medan nodded and turned on his heel toward the kitchen. “Just a second, I’ll heat up a couple bowls for us. Please, make yourself c-c-omfortable.” 

I briefly wondered whether he was excusing himself into another room primarily to get a bit of distance between us before he lapsed into an “unseemly” sneezing fit. His suddenly shaky voice and quivering shoulders were certainly suggestive of that eventuality, although I tried to distract myself from thinking it over too much. If I let myself imagine what I was missing, my rational mind would be taken offline and replaced with the more… hormonal aspects of my consciousness, which wouldn’t be helpful if I actually wanted to copy edit with any degree of finesse. 

To try to keep myself from holding my breath in case I missed the faint exhalation of a stifled sneeze from the kitchen, I occupied myself by wandering over to Medan’s bookshelves. They featured a startling amount of fiction. I’d incorrectly guessed that he’d be a nonfiction purist, probably mostly economic theory. I was also surprised to discover his books weren’t organized alphabetically, by title or by author - but, when I realized they were organized by color, I felt somewhat vindicated. I knew he wouldn’t be someone who’d slide a book onto a shelf at random.

Turning to face the small painting near the bookshelves, I was intrigued by the subject: two cats curled up on a woman’s lap, with a kitten perched on her shoulder and another three more kittens playing by her feet. The woman in the painting looked vaguely familiar, which was odd. Something about the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed reminded me of someone. 

My efforts to place her were interrupted by Medan bringing me soup. In the interim, he’d pulled on a charcoal gray sweater, and his previously perfectly coiffed hair had fallen over his forehead, brushing against the top of his glasses. I guessed, given the temperature he seemed to be running, that he was freezing, and his unruly hair suggested that he’d jerked forward hard to repress one (or more) sneezes while I was killing time with his bookshelves.

I was acutely aware that Medan probably never invited people to his apartment, so I was particularly pleased to have the opportunity to compliment his home. “I was just admiring the painting there. It’s really pretty.” 

His smile was genuinely pleased, despite the clear exhaustion lingering around his eyes. “I’ll pass your compliment along to Ellie, Leo’s fiancee. She painted it.”

“Wow - I didn’t know she was an artist!” 

“She doesn’t paint professionally, but yes, I think she’s really very good. The painting itself was actually kind of a joke. She gave it to me when she and Leo became engaged, in place of an invite to the engagement party they threw at their house. They have two dogs and a veritable clowder of cats - she’s a vet, so I suppose that is to be expected - but obviously, I won’t be darkening their doorstep anytime soon, for reasons you can no doubt deduce. So, she painted this from a picture Leo took of her right after he proposed, so I’d sort of have a bit of the celebration with me.” 

I’d seen pictures of Ellie on Leo’s Facebook page occasionally - although most of the time, her face was hardly visible since she was usually holding a critter that was eager for its own photographic close-up. “That’s really sweet.”

“I thought so. She and Leo are very happy, although Mum is obviously miffed that Leo has ‘settled’ for ‘just’ working as a receptionist at Ellie’s clinic.” His air quotes conveyed significant sarcasm, more so than his voice, which was flatly impassive. 

I could believe it. Elisa could be a real snob about things like that, a deeply obnoxious quality. “I’m sorry to hear that - that must suck for Leo. Is she disappointed in him?” 

Medan nodded immediately, with an accompanying long-suffering eye roll. “Of course. Still, between Leo, Hazel, and me, we try to disappoint Mum equally, but in novel and exciting ways, you know?” Neatly ending that particular conversation, he passed me a bowl of soup and deadpanned, “So, is this the worst second date you’ve ever had?” 

I laughed in surprise, letting the non sequitur redirect my attention. “Please believe me when I say it doesn’t even crack my top ten.”

He eased down to the floor, sitting casually cross-legged, incongruously informal for a man leaning toward the “business” side of “business-casual” in appearance. “That’s hard to believe. You must’ve gone on some terrible dates.  I can imagine few less appealing scenarios than being served reheated soup in preparation for a harrowing night of copy-editing grant proposals.”

Following his lead, I slid down to the floor too. “Unfortunately, you’re right about the terrible dates, but fortunately for you, I actually quite like reheated soup. Copy-editing isn’t so bad either.” 

My demurral didn’t reassure him. He leaned forward, putting a hand on my knee for just a moment before drawing back, eyebrows knitted together. “You do know you don’t have to stay, right? You’ve probably had a long day already.” He rolled his eyes with a sardonic chuckle that was husky with congestion. “Actually, I know you’ve had a long day. You work for Mum.” 

I set my bowl aside so I could reach for both his hands, his frank honesty inspiring similar frankness in me. “Medan. I want to be here. Truly.” I cut myself off from saying that I wanted to help, guessing that Medan might instinctively bristle at the insinuation that he needed help (although, based on the dark circles under his eyes and the increasing frequency of his sharp sniffles, he did need it). “It’ll be more fun with the two of us to complain about how stupid the grant forms are, anyway.” 

“True. Misery does love company.” Medan’s half-smile was a little apologetic, but its quietly flirtatious promise didn’t escape me. Unfortunately, the “misery” element of his comment was quick to prevail. He suddenly tilted his head back, an involuntary hitching breath escaping through his slightly open mouth before he tightened his jaw hard, catching his upper lip between his teeth before turning his head to obscure his face. He pulled his hands away from me to pinch his nostrils shut with unforgiving intensity, and then froze. 

 I realized I was also holding my breath, but for a very different reason. The fluttering in my stomach made breathing feel like an unnecessary distraction from his statue-like stillness. If I could actually commission a statue of Medan like this, right now, and keep it tucked away from prying eyes who wouldn’t appreciate how beautiful he looked, I would. His tenseness made the taut muscles of his jaw, neck, and shoulder as apparent to me as they might be in a Michelangelo. 

Stop staring and make yourself useful, for heaven’s sake. In an effort to not overstep, but to acknowledge, I pressed a hand briefly against his arm, murmuring “It’s okay” with quiet embarrassment. He turned slightly toward me, his eyes opening just a crack to peer at me hazily before his gaze sharpened in an unnervingly appraising way. His eyes were arresting in any circumstance, but the stark shift between being regarded by gray eyes clouded with exhaustion and discomfort to being perceived with steel-sharp clarity made me look away, fidgeting nervously. For a brief second, I was suddenly completely sure he could see right through me, and was perfectly aware of my simmering desires bubbling closer and closer to the surface. 

He’d always been a strange combination of interpersonally disengaged and observationally annoyingly brilliant. Can he tell from my face how much I'm in overwhelming, mind-numbing awe of him right now? Is he telepathic? Am I paranoid? Am I nuts? Am I reading too much into this?

The moment passed quickly, when Medan’s forehead creased in concentration and his eyes fluttered shut. For a second, as he bit down on his lip fiercely, chin trembling with the effort, it seemed he would reign victorious over his sinuses - but the reprieve was short-lived. “Htttxxcht! Heh…tchht! Tchttt! Heh…tsh-ahchxxt!” A deep, shaky breath seemed to quell the brewing fit, but when he blinked, shaking his head slightly to shake off the fog of descending congestion, he certainly didn’t seem relaxed. 

“I’m not sure about ‘okay,’ but it certainly is unavoidable.” His voice was soft, a little tentative. A subsequent sniffle that sounded uncomfortable in its liquidness surprised me - he didn’t seem the sort to allow himself such improprieties. Confirming my belief that Medan was a little too eagle-eyed, he noticed the look that must have flitted across my face, although he didn’t seem to interpret it correctly. “Yes, it’s horrible, but blowing my nose inevitably kicks off a fit, so it’s a bit of a catch-22.” 

Well, there goes all hope for my brain’s functionality this evening. That sentence, spoken with the quiet raspiness of someone on the cusp of losing their voice, will definitely be popping into mind at inappropriate times throughout my every workday for the next week… or two. I shook myself mentally. “I… um… well… whatever makes you most comfortable is good.”

He shrugged in what I first thought was a nonchalant dismissal, but then, as he kept watching me steadily, I realized perhaps he meant his silence to be inviting, not intimidating. Come on, Vi. Come on. Seize the moment. Be honest, because he already knows, and he’s waiting for you to say something. Don’t be a coward, don’t overthink this, just be honest and mature. Yes. I can do that. Honest. Mature. Perfect. Got it. “I - um… I… So, tell me about the budget deficit. Elisa hasn’t talked with me about it - is she trying to keep it really quiet?” Well, that’s some high-quality honesty and maturity for you. Well done, Viola. Oh my God, how could you have brought this moment back to work?! You fool! You dullard! You blithering dolt! 

I don’t know what Medan was expecting, but he took my question in stride and started to explain without any hesitation or awkwardness. It was good that he was explaining something that required a significant amount of detail, as it gave me plenty of time to mentally kick myself in peace. 

Listening to him speak, I noticed that whatever speech therapy had done for his stutter, it also appeared to have worked wonders for his ability to articulate clearly even through appalling levels of congestion. He was speaking a little more slowly than perhaps was usual for him, like it maybe took more effort, but I was tempted to attribute that more to the headache he’d mentioned than anything else. He also was startlingly comprehensive as he carefully outlined each element of the budgetary woes, delving into the minutiae of financial planning. Where other people might have taken shortcuts, particularly when feeling unwell, his quiet, unblinking, self-assured competence rivaled his breathless, hitching shudders for pure hotness. I wasn’t sure which was more responsible for the gentle, boiling feeling in my stomach. 

Explanation finished, we sat in silence for a second before Medan shook his head and sprung to his feet, his lithe spryness almost feline in its grace. “I should have gotten a chair for you. I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

“You don’t have to - “ he waved off my protestations silently and disappeared into what I guessed must be his bedroom. When I heard the sounds of furniture skidding against the carpet, I got up too, but he waved me back and shoved a small armchair through the door towards me. He was out of breath from that limited exertion, given his congestion, but he stubbornly shook his head again when I stepped forward to help him push. 

He straightened up with a quivering exhalation that I figured presaged a sneeze, but he managed to suppress it, this time by pressing his entire clenched fist against the side of his nose - a practical measure, but one that appeared to express as much irritation with himself as it did irritation with the general situation. While he was getting me a chair, he’d also fetched himself a hand towel, clearly having determined that a mere handkerchief wasn’t up to managing the current task of flood control. “Alright, then. Let’s do it. I’ll e-mail you the drafts I’ve pulled together.”

“Sounds good to me!” Resignedly accepting that the strangely electric moment had passed, I folded my legs up into the armchair and pulled my laptop out of my bag. 

As Medan opened his e-mail, he dryly commented, “Just a prior warning - I fully expect my writing has deteriorated in quality in the last couple of days. I suggest that you start with the most recent draft, which likely appears to have been written by a troglodyte, so you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the relative competence of the early ones.” He sank into his desk chair like a marionette that had suddenly had its strings cut, but then straightened up to resume his deliberate, flawless posture: spine straight, shoulders back, neck tense. Perhaps he could only be slightly vulnerable with his back to me, because he chose that moment to murmur, “Thank you for staying.”  

[EveP]

Wonderful update! I love a stubborn sick man who eventually has no choice but to give in to some care, so that's what I'm hoping for.

[VioletGarden]

I m very happy with this update. really. I'm loving this two and looking forward to seeing more of the sick Medan.

[Privatedancer]

Happy for the update!

[RipleyToo]

So happy for this update! I absolutely LOVE your writing! The amount of detail & how both of these wonderful characters interact with one another.. it’s just pure quality, I just LOVE it!
 

Medan is so cute & I love how he’s getting slowly more & more comfortable with Viola. Medan’s harsh sneezes aren’t going to stay stifled forever (I hope 🤪).. I know that he’ll let them free if under the impression that Viola is asleep or in another room. I hope to see some more update’s & definitely more sneezy, stubborn Medan ❤️ 

[marzipan]

Another update - the last one of this section narrated by Viola before getting Medan's POV on the recent events. Then, I think I may switch over to a different thread for updates about these two. 😁 Hope y'all enjoy!

Usually, settling into copy-editing with a bowl of soup, in a comfy armchair, set in a quiet room, after standard work hours would be a recipe for struggling to concentrate because I was struggling to stay awake. In this case, though, I was struggling to concentrate because I was so painfully hyper-aware of Medan’s every move.  He was holding the towel to his face, quietly letting his nose drip unrestrained. In the form I’d expect of him, he was still efficient -  he held the towel with one hand while he typed with the other. He was quick at one-handed typing - this was clearly not his first time trying it. 

His every audible intake of breath made me twitch, my eyes darting to his back. I’m surprised I made it through even a single draft grant, given how many times my attention was diverted. 

The pressure from his sinuses must have been excruciating. His nose was running like a faucet, but his occasional thick sniffles indicated to me that his airways were entirely blocked. When he occasionally swiveled slightly toward me to page through a new folder, I noticed he was breathing wholly through his mouth, unobtrusive but undoubtedly uncomfortable. 

As I’d anticipated, although he’d told me to expect terrible things from his most recent draft, it was not only just fine, but genuinely good. I caught occasional places where it seemed his train of thought had gotten going too quickly for him to manage, leaving a sentence fractured and shooting off in a different direction, and a few typos, but the substance was excellent. 

Every so often, I’d come across a terse comment he’d left for himself. They ranged from the mundane: “Needs citation”; “find stat re: pending acct”; “check data on p. 3-5; doesn’t align w/ p. 22-23” to the more snarkily self-critical. For instance, he’d appended a pithy note to a paragraph detailing the foundation’s relevant credentials that simply read: “Upon review, this is garbage.” Other highlights included “Check for nonsense”; “Revisit - can’t make heads nor tails of this”; and “Insufferable corporate backpatting.” 

Medan was a still, focused worker. It looked to me like he was leaving his soup mostly untouched (which, despite the broccoli, was actually quite lovely). His concentration was total, laser-like - although, as hour two of intensive editing dawned, I noticed he was leaning closer to his screen, like he was struggling to focus his eyes on the text marching across the page. We mostly worked in silence, but when I interrupted him occasionally with a question, he stammered slightly more with every reply, with each passing hour. He didn’t acknowledge it, and neither did I.

 Hours ticked by far more quickly than they did in the office, and far more pleasurably. It wasn’t just that copy editing was a preferred task of mine - I felt genuinely comfortable in his apartment, like I’d been stopping by and working quietly alongside Medan for years. However, the fourth time I noticed Medan shake his head slightly and sit back up straight after beginning to curl in on himself in increasingly apparent exhaustion, I broke the silence by murmuring his name. He flinched when I spoke - I think he was so absorbed he’d kind of forgotten I was there - but tried to cover it by swiveling his chair toward me. “Yes, sorry?” 

“Is your headache getting worse?”

He shrugged dismissively and started to turn back to his laptop. “Not worse. It just hurts.” His voice was tight, and I almost wanted to just drop the subject, but I pressed forward with as gentle a tone as I could summon.

“I’m sorry. Do you think it’s a sinus headache?  I imagine there’s… quite a lot of pressure up there.” When he responded by freezing and dropping his gaze to the floor, I assumed I’d put my foot in my mouth, but wasn’t sure how. “I’m sorry! I just meant - you - it just - looked like maybe… you were a bit uncomfortable, that’s all.”

I was surprised when he huffed a brief laugh and decisively closed his laptop. “Don’t apologize. If anyone should apologize, it’s me. I daresay you’re the only one here getting anything of quality done. Anyway, it’s late. I didn’t mean to keep you here this long.” 

“No, I don’t mind at all. Really.” I was tempted to close my laptop too, but decided to wait until I was sure he was genuinely done for the night and going to bed - where he clearly belonged. “You’re done for the night too, right?” 

His guilty silence told me everything I needed to know. “In that case, I’d like to stay, if you don’t mind. If you work, I work.” I suspected that declaration might be more effective in getting him to consider taking a much-needed break.  

“I… okay.” His acceptance of my ultimatum was more docile than I’d expected, which worried me. If he felt even halfway decent, he would have put up an argument.

“Can I get you anything to make you more comfortable?” 

His wry laugh turned into a cough, which he smothered in his sleeve. He’s going to make himself absolutely miserable if he keeps this up. While I’m very rarely inclined to interfere or give my opinion on someone else’s personal choices, watching Medan run himself ragged was serving as an immediate and compelling reason to cautiously provide my perspective on the situation. By nature, I’m pathologically conflict-averse, but I increasingly suspected that I’d misjudged Medan’s general tendency toward sharpness. Perhaps there wouldn’t be any argument whatsoever. 

“Medan, may I be blunt?” 

He hesitated for a moment, a little wary, but then nodded. 

“I’m worried about you. You really don’t look well. Perhaps it would be better to take a night off and get some rest?” 

Predictably, as soon as I said that I was worried about him, he shook his head and sprung to his feet, although he didn’t interrupt. He was (quite tellingly regarding his general condition) a little unsteady, but rather than going on the defensive, the tone he struck was verged on the pleading: “No, don’t. Please, for heaven’s sake,  don’t waste your worrying on… this. I’m just going to take a moment. I’ll… I’ll be just a second.” When he disappeared into his bedroom and closed the door behind him, I was sorely tempted to follow - but given his clear cue that he wanted to be alone, I curbed the lingering impulse. 

After washing our dishes, straightening the papers on his desk, and flipping through the remaining grant applications, though, I ran out of tasks to distract me from my rapidly intensifying concerns. This is the longest ‘second’ I’ve ever experienced. Pacing just outside his closed door, I reached for the handle and then drew back to rethink approximately a billion times. But, when I heard a crash of what sounded like shattering glass, I threw shyness and decorum to the winds. 

“Oh my God, are you okay?” I threw the door open to discover that his bedroom was empty - damn it, he was behind more than one closed door. My flight to the door across the room was rash and speedy, and my impulsive entry was definitely poor manners, considering that said door opened into Medan’s bathroom. 

He was sitting on the tile floor, knees drawn up against his chest. When the door swung open, he flinched, clearly startled, but couldn’t respond to my intrusion with anything other than a harsh, wet “Htttshhuuuuh!” His hitching breaths were guttural, rasping in a way that suggested this unrelenting fit had been going on since he’d stumbled out of my presence. 

The clatter I’d heard was, I deduced, the sound of his pressure-hold shower curtain rod falling and shattering what appeared to have been a small mirror hung over his sink. “Are you okay? Did you cut yourself?” He managed to shake his head in reassurance before gasping in a deep breath to fuel another explosive sneeze. “Tshuuuuh! Hrrshuuuuuhh! Hhuuuhh…." Taking advantage of the slight lag between sneezes, he quickly tried to explain himself, words falling over themselves in his hurry: "I'm fine, I just got a little dizzy, but - Heehhhh…hrsh! Hrrshh! Httxcht-uhh! Httcxht! Tshcht! ” In an futile but audacious effort to restrain himself, he crossed both arms across his knees and buried as much of his face as possible into his elbow. Fortunately, he’d had the presence of mind to remove his glasses, probably as a preventative measure before he’d even blown his nose. He’d said before that blowing his nose would launch him into a fit, and it seemed he knew his patterns well. 

I carefully brushed glass shards away from where he was sitting and slid down to sit beside him. When he didn’t shift away, I began rubbing his shoulders slowly, feeling them knot with tension. He was shaking, perhaps with overexertion, perhaps with the chills accompanying his fever. “It’s okay. You’re going to make your headache worse if you hold them back like that. I don’t mind.” 

He responded with a slight, helpless shrug that effectively suggested that even if I did mind, he didn’t think he could stifle them much longer. “Ehhhhrshuuuuh! Tshhuuuh-hrshh! Hrrshhhuuuuh!” When he tensed reflexively, he leaned slightly back against my hands, letting me feel his muscles straining with the effort of gasping in enough air to fuel his body’s heedless sternutation. 

“Tshhuuuh! Errrshuuuuuh! Achhuuuuh! Eeeerrshuuuh!” I wondered how long I could sit here like this, cautiously rubbing his back and feeling him tremble against my fingers, without spontaneously combusting in a puff of smoke. He suddenly sat up straight, blinking hazily toward the ceiling. At first, when he took a cautious breath through his mouth, I briefly thought the fit was over - but then, when he blinked hard and looked back toward the fluorescent light in his bathroom, I realized he was trying to induce a particular stubborn sneeze. 

When he winced in apparent frustration and discomfort, I felt moved to offer assistance, although my voice quavered. “...Can I bring you anything that would help?”

At first, he just shook his head. A verbal reply took a second, presumably because he was busy engaging in the most slow-burn build-up I had ever had the pleasure of witnessing. “This is – heehh… this is all totally normal. D-d- heeehhh… don’t worry about it.” His chest rising and falling with a staccato frequency, and, for the first time, his nose dripping onto his collar - both facts belying his words. He rolled his eyes at me, an unexpected smile almost taking form before his mouth dropped open again as he took a sharp breath in. “Hrrrushuh! Heett-chuuh!! Hrrruuuush! Tsh-uhh! Hrrruuuuush! Hehh, heehh…” He tilted his head back, trying to keep his nose from overflowing as he wedged his entire elbow under it.

My god. I had never seen a more erotic sight outside of a bedroom than this beautiful man, back upright and flat against the speckled tile wall, head tilted back, exposing his throat. I’d never noticed particularly gorgeous necks before - indeed, I hadn’t really thought there was such a thing - but Medan’s long, slender throat and angular bones - cheekbones prominent, clavicle clear - created a certain elegance that was entirely preserved even when he was convulsing with sneezes, arm taut against his flushed face. His sleeve was becoming increasingly wet, and I didn’t mind a bit.

 You never make the first move. Ever. But… 

In a moment that I can only describe as a sudden influx of distinctly uncharacteristic daring, I reached out and lightly brushed the back of my fingers against his throat, before gently laying my hand against his damp cheek. He dropped his arm from his face, letting me see him clearly. He was flushed and still out of breath. His inquisitive gray eyes looked a little blue in the bright, unforgiving bathroom light. While it wasn’t at all my original intention to check if he had a fever, the soft touch confirmed it. “Medan, you’re burning up.” 

He pulled away from me to smother six more rapid-fire sneezes into his sleeve, but then took a steadying breath and turned back, seemingly satisfied that he had at least a moment of reprieve. “You’re blushing.” His tone was light, a little curious, and accompanied by a slight smile that broadened as he added, “It suits you.”  

My instinctual response - a nervous laugh and a “...thanks?” - seemed to intrigue him. He twisted around to face me, staring speculatively like I was a Rubik’s cube he was solving in his mind, spinning the constituent pieces until they all matched. I began to quickly ramble, not so much to distract him from his puzzling - I was pretty sure, once he started untangling a compelling question, there’d be no possibilities for distraction, anyway - but to distract me from wondering about whatever he was concluding. 

“You must be exhausted after - well - you know, everything. You’re very close to the end of the proposal you’re working on - how about I take it home with me? I could wrap it up in probably under an hour, and then I could show it to your mum tomorrow and get her feedback. I imagine you probably don’t especially want her… um, her critical oversight right now. I could just drop you a text if she has edits, and maybe we could work on them together tomorrow night, since the proposal deadline isn’t until midnight. What do you think?”

Medan tilted his head at me, contemplating silently for a moment before reaching up to the sink for his glasses. “I think…” He paused again, tantalizingly quiet as he put his glasses on, adjusting them against the bridge of his sharp, straight nose before leaning forward. When he spoke, his voice was thick with congestion but so quietly self-assured that I hardly noticed. “I think you’re anxious right now. Are you?” My deer-in-the-headlights look was probably enough of an answer, but he waited for a verbal confirmation, regardless. 

“Um… yes?”

“I feel fairly confident that the reason you’re anxious is unnecessary, if my speculation is remotely accurate - which, of course, it may not be.” His self-deprecating acknowledgment that his guess might be wrong was considerate, but I was more than “fairly confident” his guess was right on the money. I couldn’t speak, and he seemed able to tell, as he carried on without waiting for me to respond. “You’re worrying… about what I’m thinking of you?” He waited for a verbal confirmation this time, but I could only muster a tiny nod and an embarrassingly weak “mm-hmm.”

“Right. Well, I don’t believe in beating around bushes. I know I’ve already said that I find you very attractive. Is the feeling mutual?” Another tiny nod. “Do you find me attractive right now?” Oh… if only you knew how much. Another tiny nod. “You like - ” he gestured expansively  - “all this? All the incessant - oh, god, what– heeehhh….- t…t….timing -  htttshuuuhh! Tttshh! Tshuuuuh!” When he was able to blink his eyes open to see me, I worked up my third nod - the tiniest of them all. He sniffled hard, reaching tentatively for a handkerchief to clean himself off as much as possible while staying clear of his still-oversensitive nostrils. 

“Well, Viola, I fail to see how that could be anything but good news for me. I - tsh! Tsh-uuuh! -  Christ, what a mess - I am frankly in a kind of joyous awe that you could want me in any situation, least of all while I'm sitting on a bathroom floor, drowning in my own fluids - which, indeed, is a condition in which I spend approximately 25% of my waking hours.” He reached out for my hand as he spoke.  I hadn’t thought that dry sarcasm would mingle so harmoniously with genuine tenderness. But in his case, it did. 

[EveP]

I've longed for this. A great update! Thank you! I can't wait to "hear" Medan's thoughts about this and perhaps some TLC from Viola.