The Best Laid Plans [M/M; 1/?]

[Hovercuke]

*chef’s kiss*
I’m so obsessed with this

[Privatedancer]

9 hours ago, treehouse said:

Great update - looking forward to the crash of his defenses and Nate’s caretaking 

[thesneezyowl]

1 hour ago, Privatedancer said:

Great update - looking forward to the crash of his defenses and Nate’s caretaking 

Same 👆

[ID2006]

This is still so amazing. Mmmm, looking forward to Nate getting him home, and Mark admitting he's sick, and comfort fluff.

[snowshie]

I adore these two. They're just so endearing. ❤️ I'll add my voice to the chorus and say how much I'm looking forward to the next part!

[GoldenOwl]

This is so adorable! I love both characters so much, I come for the sneezes but I still get invested in the characters themselves!

[Lady Blessington]

So much gentle nurturing! So many gorgeous sneezes! 💕

[Skylacticon]

This is so, so cute. I’m hooked. 

[thesneezyowl]

1 hour ago, ice_cream_though said:

So much gentle nurturing! So many gorgeous sneezes! 💕

Gentle nurturing … I was trying to come up with Nate’s demeanor, and that’s spot on!

[ID2006]

Yup, still been thinking about this all day. So hoping for forehead feels and forehead kisses and if I'm really lucky Mark accidentally sneezing on Nate and being embarrassed and Nate totally not caring, but I'll take whatever I can get. I'm hooked.

[treehouse]

NOT an update (soon though I hope!), just answering comments while my executives are functioning. I am truly, truly blown away by your response to this story; thank you all so much 💙

@HideAndGoSneeze Ahh thank you! And yeah asking for help is a struggle for many, myself very much included lmao, so I love messing around with it in fiction 😄

@thesneezyowl Thanks so much!! Love that this is hitting all those notes for you, it’s one of the pieces I’m really driving for with Nate’s character.

@EveP I’m so flattered by this ty!! 

@Hovercuke omg I love to hear this especially because at the moment I am obsessed with writing it, thank you!

@ID2006 Making someone think about something they wrote all day is the writer’s dream tbh. Truly thank you for this, I am delighted 

@Privatedancer @snowshie Ahh thank you, I hope you enjoy the next bit too!! 

@GoldenOwl Thanks!! I love sneezing but I also love… character development… so I’ve had a lot of fun  with this, and I’m so glad it’s producing compelling stuff 😄

@ice_cream_though Ah thank you, so glad you’re still enjoying it!!

@Skylacticon  Thank you! I hope it continues to entertain 😄

 

[thesneezyowl]

25 minutes ago, treehouse said:

NOT an update (soon though I hope!), just answering comments while my executives are functioning. I am truly, truly blown away by your response to this story; thank you all so much 💙

@HideAndGoSneeze Ahh thank you! And yeah asking for help is a struggle for many, myself very much included lmao, so I love messing around with it in fiction 😄

@thesneezyowl Thanks so much!! Love that this is hitting all those notes for you, it’s one of the pieces I’m really driving for with Nate’s character.

@EveP I’m so flattered by this ty!! 

@Hovercuke omg I love to hear this especially because at the moment I am obsessed with writing it, thank you!

@ID2006 Making someone think about something they wrote all day is the writer’s dream tbh. Truly thank you for this, I am delighted 

@Privatedancer @snowshie Ahh thank you, I hope you enjoy the next bit too!! 

@GoldenOwl Thanks!! I love sneezing but I also love… character development… so I’ve had a lot of fun  with this, and I’m so glad it’s producing compelling stuff 😄

@ice_cream_though Ah thank you, so glad you’re still enjoying it!!

@Skylacticon  Thank you! I hope it continues to entertain 😄

 

I am so happy that you started writing for YOU! You are an extremely talented writer and storyteller. I hope our response has encouraged you to write and write and write about whatever you want! 

[RipleyToo]

I’d love to see Nate catch that sneezy cold & try to hide it from Mark so Mark doesn’t need to worry. 😜 

[Serendipity]

Aww, love this!! Can't wait for more! 

[Privatedancer]

On 12/28/2022 at 9:31 PM, treehouse said:

It’s okay, Mark,” Nate says, running his knuckles along Mark’s arm, his voice low and painfully sincere. “You don’t have to apologize

I just keep re-reading the care taking and loving Nate more and more. They are both so kind to each other.  I can’t wait for them to tell each other how in love they are too;) I wonder who will crack first and take the leap.

[treehouse]

Happy New Year, everyone! Gonna be brief because this chapter is 10k and I’m temporarily out of words lmao, but thank you as always for your absolutely wonderful comments, and I hope you enjoy this installment! 💙

-TH

 

CHAPTER FOUR

Mark wakes up slow, his head heavy against the pillow. He rubs his face against the gently worn flannel of the pillowcase, moaning softly as various parts of his body come online and start registering complaints. His throat’s on fire; his head is already throbbing; his nose feels chapped and full, and his lips are peeling, dried out from a night of breathing solely through his mouth. Worst of all because it’s so unexpected, his muscles hurt — not just with the usual aches a cold brings on, but with the deep, trembling pain of overexertion. This confuses him for a moment, and then: 

All that fucking shivering, Mark realizes, still only half-awake. He hadn’t been thinking about it at the time, but it must have taken a lot out of him, trembling so violently for so long. This thought brings on its heels the complete, dreadful memory of yesterday; it falls into his head like a pile of bricks, heavy and unavoidable, making him wince.  

Mark opens his eyes and slowly sits up. It’s… not rewarding. The bright morning light is filtering into Nate’s tidy, comfortable bedroom, making Mark’s headache spike even as it illuminates the framed nature photography and other artwork on the walls. One of Mark’s pieces is up now, a little nothing still-life he’d done on a whim one night when he couldn’t sleep, and he smiles fuzzily at it, still touched that Nate had bothered to frame the ballpoint pen drawing of his own clothes tossed across a chair. Mark hadn’t even intended for Nate to see it — it was just an exercise he picked up in art school, a way to occupy his hands while his brain calmed down — but Nate had fished the piece of printer paper it was drawn on out of the trash, built it a frame, and hung it up. Looking at it  on the wall always make something twist in Mark’s chest, this almost pleasurable ache that doesn’t resemble any of the others his body is currently enduring. 

It’s at this point Mark’s nose, determined as ever to deny him any peace, begins to aggressively itch. He looks around frantically for something to sneeze into, only to realize there’s a box of tissues and a large stack of hankies sitting right next to on the nightstand. He doesn’t have time to think about this for a few moments, the tickle growing too insistent; he snatches up a tissue because they’re closest, just managing to catch his gasping, messy, “HihHh-eHhckCHOO! EHhhCkCHOO! AHhhH…. AHCHOO!” within it. His nose is dripping unpleasantly after this, and he has to take a few minutes to thoroughly blow it — running through several tissues and stopping to cough twice in the process — before he can focus properly. There’s a glass of water next to the stack of handkerchiefs, and Mark takes a long sip from it, peering at it as he swallows. Was it on the nightstand last night? Were the tissues and hankies? 

God, wait, he’s in Nate’s bedroom — how did he get here? The last thing Mark remembers is deciding to close his eyes for a second in the Wrangler; he struggles hard to pull up anything after that, but comes up tragically short. His clothes aren’t much help, either: he’s wearing the same undershirt he had on beneath his sweater last night, a pair of boxer-briefs, socks, and nothing else. 

He’d ask Nate about it, but Mark’s alone in the bed. When he looks around, he sees that there’s a bright orange Post-It affixed to Nate’s pillow.

Gone to get coffee/breakfast. Go back to sleep! -N

Mark smiles wistfully at the Post-It, wishing he could follow its very tempting directions. He would love nothing more than to go back to sleep — he feels, in fact, like he could sleep for a year or two, and still wake up exhausted. Nate’s bed is hardly Mark’s own bed, of course, but it’s the next best thing: not only is it spacious and comfortable, but eventually the devastatingly handsome man it belongs will have to climb back into it. As beds go, it has a lot working in its favor. 

But last night… did not go well. In the cold light of day, without any mulled wine in his system, Mark can see that he did not do a great job of concealing his worsening illness, or of appearing to be having any fun. It didn’t seem to bother Nate — if anything, Nate had seemed worried about him, not frustrated by Mark’s lack of party spirit — but Mark knows that might just be wishful thinking. It’s all too easy to tell yourself something’s fine when, in reality, it’s not.

God, but Nate was so amazingly, incredibly sweet about everything; surely that can’t all be wishful thinking on Mark’s part. Nate rubbed Mark’s back in the ambulance — he massaged Mark’s head on the drive home — maybe if Mark would just let him, Nate would —

“Stop that,” Mark says out loud, wincing at how raspy and congested he sounds. It’s too early in the morning — and honestly, he feels too sick — to go traipsing down that dangerous road. He’ll get lost in the fantasy, and start hoping for things from Nate that aren’t reasonable to expect, and it’ll hurt that much more when he ends up at home, managing this alone, like always. 

He drags himself out of bed, hating the experience profoundly, and goes into the bathroom, sneezing again as he steps inside. The dwindling supply of DayQuil is still in his dopp kit, and Mark takes a dose, grimacing as the large pills drag down his roughened throat. As he brushes his teeth, he thinks his way through a new plan, trying to weigh all the variables.

There’s absolutely no chance he’s going to make it to tonight’s dinner party; that much is obvious. Even if he could remain upright for that long — something which, at this moment, he doubts himself capable of — he doesn’t want Nate’s friends to think of him as a sneezy, contagious mess. Mark really likes the handful of them he’s already met, and the last thing he wants to do is make a terrible impression on the ones he’d be encountering for the first time. 

But they’re Nate’s friends, points out the reasonable voice in the back of his mind. The ones who stuck around after his allergies kicked in. So they’re probably pretty used to sneezing, at this point. Then, proving it’s still him, it adds, Not that you should go, of course. To the party, or anywhere else. God forbid; that would be insane. 

Mark ignores this last part, spitting toothpaste into the sink, and decides that his best move here is to do the farmer’s market. He’ll just go for a bit, then say he’s starting to feel under the weather, and have Nate drop him off at home. That’s the safest, least weekend-disrupting plan; Nate will still get to show him the market, and pick up the supplies, and he probably won’t mind throwing the dinner party on his own. Mark will have done two out of three of the things they intended to — that’s a respectable ratio, one that at least demonstrates he’s trying his absolute best.

Mark’s even pretty sure he can do it; once the DayQuil kicks in, he’ll get a little burst of energy and focus. It won’t be much, and it won’t last long, but it should carry him through — it’s not as though shopping for produce is a high-impact activity, especially since Nate’s the one who will actually be doing the shopping. All Mark will have to do is walk around with him, which, okay, his knee isn’t… great… but it’s less terrible than it was last night, so that’s something. It stands as the only part of Mark that feels better today than it did yesterday, putting him in the odd position of being grateful for its relatively commonplace pain, since at least he’s used to it.

Glancing in the mirror for a moment to assess the damage, Mark whistles under his breath, then sighs. He looks like shit — heavy circles under his eyes, pale skin, a high flush to his cheeks highlighted by his crimson nose. He touches that with two fingers, wincing, in hopes of getting a sense of how bad the chafing has gotten, but even this slight pressure sets it off, leaving him sneezing abruptly and wretchedly into the sink: “HeHhhHHSHIEW! AAASHEW! EhhHh-ehhckCHIEW! HuHh…hUHhh…hUhEHHCKchiew!” He’s glad there’s still a pile of folded hankies next to the faucet; he grabs one up and blows his nose… and blows his nose… and blows his nose. After a full five attempts, Mark swears under his breath, accepting that he’s not going to be able to clear the congestion no matter what he does. He drops the now-full hanky directly into the laundry basket and grabs another, deciding it’s probably best to just keep one in his hand until the DayQuil kicks in and slows his nose down. 

He shivers, somehow still chilled from yesterday even after a full night’s sleep, and hurries to get dressed. But he’s sneezing into the hanky before he even makes it to his bag at the foot of the bed: “ETCHEW! Heh-AAASHIEW!” Of course it had to be a sneezy cold, Mark thinks to himself as he blows his nose again, not that he ever really gets any other kind. God, he hates to itch like this; it’s so frustrating and unsatisfying. Every breath feels like it might be the first in a buildup, and then when he does, inevitably, sneeze — even if he sneezes a dozen times! — it just keeps itching, relentless and unyielding. It’s maddening, and Mark rolls his eyes in annoyance as yet another breath catches and starts to hitch: “HaHh… hhAhhh… hAAhHHH…HAAAAAHHISSSSSHOO!”

It’s a good thing Mark’s standing next to the bed; this sneeze is so enormous that it knocks the breath right out of him, and he stumbles back, landing hard on the mattress with an “Oof!” He gasps for a second, but the tickle isn’t done with him yet — his nostrils flare, and he shakes his head against the sharp, eye-watering  prickle in his nose before he fires, “HAaATCHOO! AhH-aiTCHEW! EhH-EHH-EHh… eHhh? Oh, god — HEHHH-EHHCKSHIEW!” into his hanky.

This final sneeze is so strong it hurts coming out, pulling up from Mark’s chest and making him cough for almost a full minute after it’s over. But it does, at least, seem to pause the fit, and Mark blows his nose yet again, groans, and decides to lay back down, just until the DayQuil kicks in. He crawls back under the covers and spends the next fifteen minutes curled there, hanky in one hand and his phone in the other, blearily browsing social media in the roughly 45-second intervals between sneezes. He’s glad Nate’s out of the house — no one on earth could witness this particular moment in Mark’s life and retain even an inkling of doubt that he’s sick as a dog.

Eventually, his headache recedes a little, his congestion goes from ‘terrible’ to just ‘very bad,’ and the sneezing slows to a (clearly temporary) stop. The meds are working, for now — they’re supposed to last a minimum of four hours, but Mark knows from experience that the severity of whatever bug he’s got has a diminishing effect on the longevity of cold medicine. He thinks he’s got about two hours, maybe less, before he descends back into the bowels of hell, this time without the promise of rescue; experience has also taught Mark that every dose of DayQuil in a given day is less effective than the one before it. 

He gets up again and changes, pulling on boxers, socks, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt before grimacing down into his bag as he realizes he doesn’t have any good sweater options. The Mark who packed this bag on Thursday night was an optimistic fool who didn’t know what he was about, and the haggard, struggling Mark of right now curses him heartily. 

He shudders, goosebumps popping up along his bare arms, and decides to borrow something of Nate’s. Nate probably won’t mind — he never has before — and also, shivering makes Mark’s already sore muscles cry out in agony, and he can’t afford to make that situation any worse right now. 

He paws through Nate’s closet until he finds a thick university hoodie that’s impossibly soft to the touch, as though it’s been run through the wash hundreds of times. Mark shrugs into it and sighs happily, glad it’s too large; there’s more fabric to wrap around himself, trapping warmth against his skin as he shuffles carefully down to the kitchen. Mark’s knee is better today than yesterday, but it still doesn’t enjoy descending Nate’s stairs, and he wishes he were at home, where the only thing he uses the upper level for is long-term storage.

Nate said he was going to get coffee and breakfast, so Mark doesn’t start either — he doubts he could manage it anyway. He just sits down at the kitchen table, folds his arms on top of it, and rests his pounding head on this makeshift pillow. He doesn’t have to wait long, which is a lucky break; it’s barely been two minutes when he hears Nate’s car pull into the drive, and in that short time Mark very nearly fell asleep.

He sits up, yawning, and rubs his eyes, hoping to look perky and ready to go when Nate walks in. He must not succeed, because when Nate steps into the kitchen and catches sight of him he flinches, as though seeing a ghost. 

“God, Mark, I thought you’d be asleep,” Nate says, sounding a little exasperated, as he sets down a coffee carrier with three cups in it and a couple of brown paper bags. Then he smiles slightly, shaking his head, and adds, “I can find you a better sweatshirt than that one, you know. I’ve had that since college, and I’ve beaten it nearly to death.”

“I like it,” Mark says, trying not to sniffle and failing immediately. He lifts his handkerchief as he continues, “It’s aged, like a fine wine or a fancy — f-fancy — EHHHCHHXT!” This is a particularly brutal stifle, one that reverberates painfully through Mark’s skull, and it’s so loud he might as well have let it out. 

Nate winces. “Jesus, babe. I really don’t think you should be stifling those like that; you’ll hurt yourself.” 

“I’m just trying not to be too annoying,” Mark protests, and then, when Nate adopts an utterly incredulous expression, adds, “Oh, don’t look at me like that! It’s different when it’s you sneezing.”

“How?” Nate demands, raising his eyebrows. “Name one way, I dare you.”

For once in his life, Mark’s nose saves him; his eyes flutter closed before he can think of a reply, and he muffles four harsh, half-coughed sneezes into his hanky, not wanting to risk the agony of another stifle like the last one. He gasps for a second after the fourth sneeze and then blows his nose, which is… messy and unpleasant, to say the least. It feels like it’s scraping the back of his already aching throat raw, and it makes him cough again, which is horrible.

By the time he looks back up, Nate no longer appears to be waiting for Mark to explain anything. He just looks concerned, and maybe a little tense around the jaw, as he says, “Oh, Mark, god bless you. Forget about that other stuff — how are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” Mark lies, doing his best to believe it. His nose is still itching, and he rubs it, trying to be subtle; it doesn’t help. “Just a little huh-HuH-hUhCHOO! Ugh, excuse me. Hungover.” 

“Hungover,” Nate repeats, flat. “Really. From that one glass of mulled wine.”

“Y-yeah,” Mark pants, giving up on subtlety and waving a hand in front of his face; that last sneeze left his nose burning, and he can’t think about anything else. “Just — one s-second — hehHYAAAAAAASHOO!” 

This sneeze is absurdly, bordering on comically enormous; it draws all the breath from Mark’s lungs, and causes Nate to actually spin on his heel and walk out of the room. Mark’s distressed by this for all of a moment, but then Nate’s back with a box of tissues in his hand, which he places on the table in front of Mark as he sits down in the chair next to him. Gratefully, Mark sets down his now-soaked hanky and plucks several tissues from the box, sneezing “HAHCHOO!” and then “HASHIEW!” and then “HaHh-hAhHH-HAAAHETCHOO!” into them before he’s finally able to blow his nose and return the tickle to a muted, distant roar.

“Sometimes hangovers just, uh, make me sort of sneezy,” Mark mutters, not meeting Nate’s eyes. “Nothing to worry about.”

An expression of mutinous frustration briefly crosses Nate’s face; then he curls one hand into a loose fist, raps his knuckles lightly against the table twice, and sighs. When he says, “Bless you,” there’s an edge to his voice that Mark hasn’t heard before, a sort of weary resignation he doesn’t care for at all. 

“Thanks,” Mark says quietly. Eager to change the subject, he casts around for something else to talk about and then genuinely gets distracted: “Oh, Nate, you went to Sugarbun? But they’re all the way across town — oh my god, and it’s Saturday morning. They must have been mobbed!”

“I know how you feel about their croissants, babe,” Nate says, brightening a little. He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, when Mark immediately grabs for the nearest paper bag. “And it wasn’t so bad — honestly, the longest part was waiting for them to make the lattes, and that’s always slow. Here.”

He passes Mark a cup, and Mark takes a sip, surprised by what he tastes. “This… isn’t coffee.”

“No?” Nate says innocently. He takes the cup from Mark and makes a show of looking it over, then says, “Oh, that’s right — this was the drink of the day. Lemon verbena tea with ginger and honey, I think? I just grabbed one because I thought it sounded good. But I tasted it — not for me.” He shrugs, picking up a second cup and sipping from it. “You’re welcome to drink it, if you like it. Otherwise I guess I’ll dump it — “

“God, no, don’t dump it. I think it’s delicious,” Mark says, accepting the cup as Nate hands it back and taking another long sip. The hot, flavorful tea feels good going down his throat, lessening some the ache that the DayQuil‘s barely addressed. After several sips, he adds, hopefully, “But you did get me a coffee too, right?”

Nate smiles ruefully, grabbing the last cup from the carrier and passing it over. “Yes, babe, I got you a coffee.”

Mark accepts it, thanking him, and drinks some, silently extending his thanks to the entire universe for the great gift of caffeine. He also eats an entire croissant and almost half of a morning bun, which is more than he expected; he’s never very hungry when he’s sick, even though he knows he needs to eat. Nate, in between devouring his own pastries, entertains him with the details of the people he ran into at Sugarbun, widely known as the town’s best bakery. Apparently it was a lot of very hungover government employees making shameful displays of themselves, and Mark laughs as Nate talks, trying not to cough and mostly succeeding. 

It’s far and away the best ten minutes of a day that has so far been extremely underwhelming, and Mark decides to seize the moment while he’s feeling relatively okay. “We should head out, right? For the market? I know you said you wanted to get there early.”

Nate freezes with a piece of a cinnamon roll halfway to his mouth. Setting it down, his voice carefully controlled, he says, “Babe, we do not need to go to the farmer’s market.” 

“Of course we do,” Mark says, trying to sound enthusiastic and upbeat. He thinks he probably succeeds only in sounding congested, but what can you fucking do? “Nate, you’ve literally been talking about it since our first date. And this is probably the only weekend where the pollen count will be low enough for you to go — “

“You really do not need to be worrying about me right now,” Nate says quietly, though his cheeks are faintly flushed, like he’s pleased that Mark’s taken the time to factor in his allergies. “And I can always go on my own, Mark — you can stay here and get some rest. Your… uh, hangover… kind of seems like it’s doing a number on you.”

“But I want to see all the places you talked about,” Mark argues, which is, at least, true. “And the vendor with the beehive hat — I’ve been thinking about that since you told me about it months ago.” Nate opens his mouth, clearly to argue, and Mark quickly adds, “Listen — what if we make a deal? We go to the market, and then if, after that, I’m still… a little off, or whatever… then I’ll — I’ll rest, I guess. Like you said. Okay?”

Nate gives him a long, evaluative look, then says, “Fine, but no conditional clause.”

Mark blinks. “What?”

“If we go to the market,” Nate says calmly, “then you get some rest afterwards. That’s the deal. None of this, ‘If you’re still feeling bad,’ stuff — a clean exchange.”

“Ugh, whatever, okay,” Mark says, rolling his eyes even though this was his exact plan anyway. “But I probably won’t even — even n-need it. I f-feel — fiH-HiH-HICHOO! ITCHOO! AAAHSHIEW! Ugh, sorry. Fine.” 

“Yeah, you sound fine,” Nate says pointedly, but then he sighs and, more gently, says, “God, I mean… I mean bless you, of course. And you don’t have to apologize for sneezing, Mark — god knows you’ve refused to accept me doing it enough times.” He squares his shoulders, stands, and says, “Come on; if this is what it’s going to take, then by all means, let’s get to that market.” 

Nate offers Mark a hand up, and Mark takes it; Nate offers Mark his black peacoat, and Mark takes it; Nate offers Mark one of the cups from Sugarbun, and Mark takes that, too, surprised and secretly pleased to realize Nate must have grabbed the tea by mistake. It hasn’t cooled down completely yet, and Mark sips it as they walk to the car, savoring its lingering heat against his throat. It seems to be a little warmer outside than it was yesterday — Nate’s just wearing a heavy flannel and a long sleeved shirt — but it’s still grey, and vaguely damp, and Mark’s chilly even inside the sweatshirt and peacoat. 

He realizes as he gets into the car that he should have grabbed a fresh handkerchief before leaving the house. He’s already a little sniffly, and he wonders if he can steal one from the glovebox without Nate noticing. But when he reaches into the pockets of the peacoat to warm his hands, he finds that once again, there’s a fresh hanky in each one. 

This, combined with Nate’s tight smile as he starts the car and the rest of his behavior this morning, sends up an urgent little flag in the back of Mark’s mind. He feels a bit like he did yesterday on the side of the road, when he couldn’t remember that the number he needed to call was 911 — something is clearly going on with Nate, and Mark can tell that he would find it glaringly obvious if he weren’t so muddled up. But between his splitting headache, the constant urge to sneeze, and the growing suspicion that he’s running a bit of a fever, Mark’s thoughts have reached a point somewhere beyond muddled. They’re fractured, sluggish and thick, and he keeps forgetting to finish them, drifting away without meaning to before he can draw any conclusions.

He can’t work out Nate’s issue, is the point, so he focuses, instead, on remaining awake. This is… harder than he would prefer. When Mark was eight and the twins were dreadful, relentless toddlers, the only thing that would trick them into sleeping was long rides in the car; Mark’s mother used to poke and prod him into coming with her most nights, because she got bored driving around the neighborhood alone. At the time, Mark had mostly just resented his tiny screaming brothers for keeping him from whatever comic he was reading, but he thinks of them now with an odd, belated rush of fellow feeling. He suddenly knows just what it is to be powerless, exhausted, and empty-headed, easily lulled to sleep by the rumbling motor of a car.

It would be easier to stay awake with a conversation to distract him, but Nate’s unusually quiet as he drives, both hands tightly gripping the wheel. Mark starts to worry, after a few minutes, that maybe the nightmare scenario is happening and Nate’s angry about his worsening symptoms after all — but then Mark sneezes, a drawn-out fit of four which consumes him so completely that he can’t even think of holding them back: “HeHhh… eHHh… EhHhCHOO! EhH… eHhckCHOO! Hah-hAHHh-HAAaAah-AAAAAAASHIEW! Hah… HAHhETCHOO! Ugh, fuck, sorry.”

“Oof, baby, bless you,” Nate says, and his voice is so soft that Mark’s worries smooth over. Whatever’s going on with him, there’s no way he would have said that so tenderly if he was angry at Mark for all the sneezing; even in his addled state, Mark can see that glaring truth. Nate puts a hand on Mark’s thigh as he adds, “And stop apologizing, for god’s sake. You can’t help it, and it doesn’t bother me.”

Mark’s pretty out of it, but not so out of it that he can’t find it in himself to point out, “Something you never seem to believe when I say it.”

“I might after this,” Nate says, a wry twist to his mouth. “Experiencing it from the other side is… enlightening.”

“Hmm,” Mark says, not able to muster up a better response, and Nate squeezes his thigh and leaves his hand there for the remaining five minutes of the drive. 

The farmer’s market is held in a large field behind the town library, and as Nate parks in the building’s lot, Mark looks around. There are a number of little booths and stands blanketing about a third of the (currently largely dead) meadow, some manned, some empty; since it’s the first market of the year, a number of the vendors probably don’t have anything to sell yet. As it is, Mark sees a lot of carrots and apples — things that would have stored well over the winter — as well as preserved items, baked goods, and produce that’s in season, mostly brassicas and alliums. It looks like a good little market; Mark’s always meant to check it out, but between one thing and another, he’s never gotten around to it before.

But: “God, babe, no wonder you can’t come here during allergy season,” Mark says, noticing the large ‘POLLINATOR HABITAT: Please do not disturb the wildflowers!’ sign on the left side of the entrance to the field. That part of the meadow is much larger than the bit the market is on, and while it’s just mud and dead leaves right now, Mark knows it won’t be for long. If he squints, he can see little green shoots peeking up from the muck. “Does that whole side of the meadow flower? Holy shit, it must be a nightmare for you.”

Nate gives Mark a look that he doesn’t totally understand, one that’s more fond than Mark thinks his comment warrants, as he says, “Yeah, it’s not… ideal. The last time I tried to come here I didn’t make it out of the parking lot.”

“Well, let’s enjoy February while we’ve got it, right?” Mark says lightly, unbuckling his seatbelt. “And hey, maybe next week I can come and like… Facetime you the vegetables, or something.”

Nate smiles at him, a huge, eye-crinkling one that makes Mark’s chest hurt, but not in a bad way. “What, just — walk around holding the camera up to the produce? People would think you were nuts.”

“Eh, it’s for a good cause. Anyway, people already think I’m nuts,” Mark says, and then, rolling his eyes, adds, “Fuck, one — s-second — AAAAASHEW! HihHh-hiHhCHU! Oh, god, excuse me.”

“Bless you,” Nate says, and then, in the tones of a man trying to bail water from a rowboat with a hole in the bottom, “You know, technically you’ve seen the market now. So, if you wanted to skip right to the resting part of the day — “

“Oh my god, Nate, I’m — “

“Fine?” Nate says sharply, and then sighs, shaking his head. “Right. You’re… fine, I know. Let’s — go in, then, I guess.”

They get out of the car and walk across the parking lot; this is all the time it takes for Mark to realize he has made a bad mistake. The party last night wasn’t great, but he’d at least had a reasonable grip on his faculties — he feels almost drunk now, his head swimming, every sensory input a little overwhelming. The weak sun bouncing off the white-topped tents hurts his eyes, and the shrieks of happy children on a nearby playground make him wince, headache spiking. The market isn’t crowded — it’s too early in both the season and the morning — but even the bustle of the handful of other patrons makes Mark feel slightly dizzy, as though some critical wire inside his brain has shorted out.

Nate sticks close to him, which is a relief. Mark’s a little afraid of what would happen if he was just wandering around loose in here; his sense of direction is all mixed up, and though he knows the market isn’t actually a labyrinth, it feels like one to him right now. He lets Nate lead him around, hazily looking over offerings of produce, local honey, and baked goods that he’d be very tempted by on a better day. 

As it is, he’s mostly quiet as Nate greets and quickly catches up with vendors he hasn’t seen in a year, introducing Mark and explaining the situation with his allergies as he loads the canvas tote bags he pulled out of his trunk with purchases. He buys leeks, garlic, parsley, mushrooms, apples, a farm-raised raw chicken, two loaves of hearth bread, and several bags of hand-rolled and dried egg noodles with a speed and competence that belies how regularly he used to come here. All of the vendors are glad to see him, and they’re mostly sympathetic to his situation. A few even offer to let him order via text and have his stuff brought out to his car, which Nate seems thrilled by; that’s really nice, even if Mark does keep considering the possibility that he died somewhere in the last few hours, and is now, in fact, a ghost. He feels a bit like a ghost, shivery and insubstantial, as though he might drift away on the wind at any moment. 

He must sneeze a dozen times in the first fifteen minutes they’re there, muffling them into his handkerchief as best he can. Mark’s increasingly sure he’s making a bit of a spectacle of himself; he’s starting to get both judgmental and sympathetic looks from strangers, always a sign that his illness has grown dreadfully obvious. Nate doesn’t say anything about it, just blesses him and carries on, but Mark can see him getting more and more tense, even as he smiles and chats with the vendors. He wishes desperately that he could get control of his nose, but knows that things are likely well past the point where that’s going to be possible. 

They stop at a large tent at the far edge of the market, bordered in back by the other side of the parking lot where Nate left the Wrangler. The sign reads ‘Tommy’s Produce,’ and the large, red-faced man underneath it — presumably Tommy — cries, “That’s never Nate Graham! You bastard, I haven’t seen you in a year!” He stands and comes around the booth to give Nate a hug, and which Nate returns with visible delight, slapping him hard on the back.

Nate introduces Mark — apparently Tommy’s an old friend of the family, although Mark misses a lot of the details of how — and apologetically explains his long absence. The two of them start catching up as Nate selects carrots, onions, celery, parsnips, and dill, and although both men try to include Mark in the conversation at first, he finds himself drifting, both physically and in terms of his attention. He walks dazedly over to the far side of the tent, looking down at a vast array of oranges, and picks up a knobbly one to examine it. Then he carries on, peering dizzily at jars of jam and bundles of herbs until he spots a park bench some distance away.

Yes. That’s what Mark needs — a little sit. A moment to rest his legs, and his… everything else, honestly. God, he can barely think straight; he tries to focus on the bench, pushing down the distant roaring in his ears. If he can just sit down for a minute, it’ll all be fine. 

He’s only a few yards away from his target when a huge, breath-stealing sneeze hits him, bending him double: “HaH-HAAH-HAAAH-HAAAAESSSHIEW!” When he straightens, he realizes unsteadily that the roaring in his ears has grown quite a bit more urgent, and that he’s more than just a little dizzy, now. He sways where he stands, terribly afraid that if he takes another step, he’ll —

“Whoa, Mark, easy,” Nate says, stepping into his space as if out of the ether. Mark hadn’t even realized Nate was behind him, and he leans into Nate’s grip thankfully as he says, “Let’s get you sitting down — come on.”

Mark stumbles the last few yards to the bench, only Nate’s hold keeping him from falling, and sits down heavily, hard enough that it hurts. He puts a hand to his pounding temple and moans softly, trying to get the world to stop spinning.

“Lightheaded?” Nate asks quietly, and when Mark nods, not trusting himself to speak, Nate says, “Lean forward, babe. Head between your knees — yeah, that’s it. That’s good. Breathe with me, okay?” He runs a hand slowly down Mark’s back as he says, “In,” as if mirroring the direction and speed the air’s meant to go, then pauses before he says, “And back out.” His hand moves up Mark’s back this time, at the same careful speed. 

It helps, especially when Nate immediately does it again, and then again. They sit there for several minutes like that, Nate’s hand guiding Mark’s breath, until the dangerous, wobbly edge fades back away from Mark’s vision, and he feels like he can sit up. 

“Slowly,” Nate warns him as he starts to move, his hand pushing gently against Mark’s back to keep him from sitting up too fast. “Yeah — that’s good. Nice and easy. There you go.” Mark blinks at him once he’s fully upright, expecting to see exasperation or irritation or annoyance, but the expression on Nate’s face is unmistakably concern, to a degree that obscures even the possibility of anything else. “Christ, Mark, are you all right? I thought you were going to pass out on me for a minute there.”

Mark’s last stupid wall shudders, cracks, and crumbles in the face of this absolute onslaught. Nate is too — he’s too — he’s too good, and too kind, and Mark can’t fight temptation or play it safe or execute whatever half-cocked plan he’d thought, even an hour ago, was so important. He can’t really remember what most of it was anymore, and he’s done, anyway. His goose is cooked. It’s time to give it up.

“Nate, god, I’m so sorry, but — I’m not hungover,” Mark admits, scrunching up his nose as the tickle starts to flare again. “I have an aHHwful — an a-awful — c-c-cuHh-hUHH-HUhHH-HUhhHhSHIEW! HuHHhhhSHIEW! Etchu, eTCHOO, hUH…HUHAAAAHSHEW! Oh my god, an awful cold.” He pauses, blowing his nose hard, and then, miserably, says, “I know I shouldn’t have lied to you, I just — I didn’t want to ruin our whole weekend, you know? I… I get sick a lot, and it always makes guys want someone who, like, I don’t know. I guess gets sick the normal amount, or whatever. And I… I… like you too much, I think. I didn’t want to mess everything up. I’m sorry.”

Nate stares at Mark with wide eyes for a few second. Then, startling him, he bursts out laughing, immediately turning his face away and covering it with his hands as though trying to hide it.

“Oh my god,” Nate gasps, still laughing, “sorry, I’m — I’m not laughing at you, just — god, give me a minute.” Mark, gobsmacked, does, watching Nate’s shoulders shake for at least thirty seconds before he finally takes a deep breath, drops his hands from his face, and says, “Okay; okay. I’m good now. Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry about that. I promise I wasn’t laughing at you, it’s just… it’s been a really stressful couple of days, and something in my brain just kind of, uh. Broke for a second, I think.“ Nate pauses, then shakes his head as if to clear it and says, “Sorry, that’s not what we’re talking about — Mark! I know you have a terrible cold.”

“You… do?” Mark says slowly. At the back of his mind, the little voice which torments him with its reasonable suggestions and snide comments remarks, My god, you are truly a fool. Mark can’t say he feels inclined to argue. 

“Of course I do. I knew yesterday, babe. Pretty much the second I laid eyes on you,” Nate says, delivering this brutal blow in a very kind tone of voice. “The fact that you thought you were hiding it is a little upsetting; it’s… not subtle. Honestly, I thought you might be coming down with something when we talked on Thursday night — “

“No you did not!” Mark gasps, astonished. “I didn’t even know then — “

“You sounded weird,” Nate says, holding up one hand defensively; the other has returned to Mark’s back. “And you kept forgetting what you were talking about, and you said you were tired about ten times.”

“Well!” Mark protests, not even totally sure why he’s bothering. “It was night! People get tired at night!”

“It was six thirty,” Nate says gently. “And then, I mean, yesterday you were so obviously sick, but — “ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “God, look. When I was with Pierre — “

“Oh, Pierre,” Mark says darkly, his mood blackening as it always does when Nate’s ex-fiancé comes up. However, usually when this happens Mark’s brain is more functional, so he doesn’t actually say things like, “You don’t even have to tell me what he did, I already know he should spend the rest of his life in — iHhhn — iSSHIEW! IHHH….iTCHOO! God, excuse me. In a slime chamber.”

“Sorry,” Nate says, blinking at him, a smile starting at the corners of his eyes, “in what?”

“A slime chamber,” Mark elaborates, because he might as well, now. It’s too late, and anyway, he’s pretty sure this cold is murdering off parts of his personality like a game of Clue, and shame was the first to go. “Full of slime. Pretty much what it says on the tin. That’s what he deserves for — “ He pauses briefly to cough, then continues, “For being such a godawful dick to you. I hope all his food tastes like Pine-Sol till he dies.”

“Mark!” Nate says, but he’s laughing. “God, that’s such a specific curse. And he would really hate that, actually.” He sighs, and adds, “The truth is, he was one of those guys who never admits he’s sick, and he’d get really shitty if I even brought it up. So I thought — sorry, but — I thought maybe you were just… kind of like that? And didn’t want to acknowledge it? Which, I mean, usually I would have just insisted, but after everything that happened yesterday, I… I didn’t want to be pushy, or overbearing, or whatever. Not while you were still so shaken up.”

“What?” Mark says, blinking. “That’s… no. You’re not — either of those things. You’ve been so great, I — I — oh, HASCHOO!” This is a particularly productive sneeze, and Mark has to blow his nose several times afterwards, which leads to a coughing fit. By the time he’s finally gotten his breath back, he’s utterly forgotten what they were talking about. 

Luckily, Nate seems to remember: “Bless you. Listen — babe, of course I’m not upset with you for being sick, and you’ll never catch me valuing weekend plans over your health,” he says, pushing a few of Mark’s stray curls back out of his face. His eyes are warm as he adds, “And I’m certainly not planning on breaking up with you because you catch colds sometime. If I’d had any idea that’s what was going through your head — oh, well. It’s too late now, I guess. What’s done is done.” He pulls his hand from Mark’s hair only to place the back of his palm against Mark’s forehead, then to each of his cheeks, frowning. “God, I thought so — I’m pretty sure you’re running a fever.”

“That… sounds right,” Mark admits, shuddering. “I think m-maybe I — I — AAASHIEW! ATCHOO! God. Overdid it a little.”

“Oh, do you think?” Nate says, but for all the words are sarcastic, his tone is soft, and he runs his knuckles carefully over Mark’s cheek as he says, “You stole that orange, you know — even without the eight million other clues, that would’ve been a pretty good sign you’d pushed things too far.”

“What?” Mark says, staring at him. Then he looks down and sees… the knobbly orange he’d picked up to look at in Tommy’s tent, sitting there in his lap. He’d thought he put it down with the other oranges — he certainly doesn’t remember bringing it out here — but: “Oh my god, I stole this! I have to go back and, and pay, I didn’t — “

“Whoa, hey, hold on,” Nate says, laughing a little as he plants his hand firmly on Mark’s shoulder to keep him from standing up. “It’s okay; definitely don’t get up. I paid for it already, and explained the situation to Tommy — he says he hopes you feel better.”

“Oh,” Mark says, sagging with relief. He sniffles, and adds, “Well that’s — that’s really — r-r-really — hEhh… hEhHhCHOO! EhHhHhSHIEW! Ugh. Really nice of him. Especially since I’m a thief, apparently; god.”

“Bless you,” Nate says. He waits for Mark to blow his nose, then reaches his hand up again. This time he places his palm against the side of Mark’s neck, his thumb running soothingly over Mark’s jawbone and cheek, as he says, “Will you please let me take you home now? It’s taking years off my life watching you run around like this; I feel like a crazy person.”

“Sorry,” Mark says quietly, blearily ill enough now that the thought of taking years off Nate’s life makes him feel genuinely guilty. “I didn’t mean to make everything so difficult — “

“Oh, hey, no; that’s not what I meant,” Nate says immediately, still moving his thumb in soft, soothing swipes across Mark’s cheek. “I wish I’d known sooner what was going on in your head, that’s all, and that’s… really, really okay. I kinda think it’s on me, to be honest — I’m realizing maybe your judgement’s not so great when you’re sick, huh?” When Mark nods sheepishly into Nate’s hand, Nate sighs. “I knew I should have put more stock in that peanut butter in the car story.”

Mark opens his mouth to reply, but all that comes out is, “HiHhh-HiHhhTCHOO! ITCHOO! Ehh-eHhh-ESSHIEW! ASHEW, ASHEW, ASHEW, HEHH-HEHHASSSSSSSHIEW!” He gets his hanky up in time to keep these hideously wet sneezes from landing all over Nate, but it’s dangerously close, and Mark moans when he catches his breath, his head aching even worse than before. 

“Okay, that’s it, we are leaving,” Nate says, and stands up, grabbing his tote bags and putting both hands on Mark’s shoulders to stop him from rising. “No, babe — you stay here. I’m going to bring the car around.”

“It’s just on the other side of the parking lot,” Mark protests weakly. “You don’t have to — “

“Too late,” Nate calls over his shoulder, already jogging away. “Can’t hear you! Don’t move.” 

Mark doesn’t. He could cry in relief that he doesn’t have to pretend anymore, that Nate’s being so wonderful and kind about it, and, anyway, he already needs to sneeze again. It takes a minute to really come on, just itches horribly without delivering as Mark scrunches his nose, rubs it with the handkerchief, and wishes desperately that the sneeze would arrive. When, eventually, his breath catches and starts to hitch, he closes his eyes and lets the huge, teasing build up wash over him, feeling the itch all the way back into his sinuses and holding his nearly soaked hanky in wait: “HehHh… heh… hEhh? Ehhh…. hIhhhhHh…. HIIHHHH — Hihhh? HiHhh — hIHhh? — oh, god — hiHhh! HiHhhHh! HaHh-HaHhh-HAH-HAAAAAAAAAAASHOO! HehH-HAAASHIEW! Oh, EHTCHOO! EhCkShOo! ASHEW, aAaSHIEW, EHH-HEHHECKTCHOO! ETCHU, etCHU, ETCHEW, hUHh….HUhH-HUHH-HUUURAAAAAASHOO!”

“Jesus Christ, Mark, bless you,” a familiar voice says quietly. When Mark blinks through watering eyes, a little dizzy again from the effort of these sneezes, Nate’s crouched in front of him, the Jeep parked up against the curb a few feet away. He pushes Mark’s tousled hair back out of his eyes again as he says, “God, you poor thing; you must feel so awful. Here — that one looks like it’s on its last legs.”

He hands Mark a fresh handkerchief, which Mark takes gratefully — he’d forgotten that such a thing existed, although he vaguely remembers as he blows his nose that there’s another one in his pocket. “I feel like shit,” he admits, wincing when it comes out as a raw, congested croak. “My head is killing me, and my throat’s sore, and my chest hurts from all the stupid coughing, and god, Nate, my nose. It’s like no matter what I do I — I still need to — t-to — HAAAASCHOO! EhH-EHHSHIEW! Ugh, sneeze.”

“Bless you again,” Nate says again, offering him a small, sympathetic smile. “C’mere, babe — that sounds horrible, and you’ll be more comfortable in the car.” 

“Okay,” Mark sighs, and lets Nate help him up off the bench and over to the Wrangler. He ends up being glad that Nate pulled the car around; the Dayquil’s wearing off, and for all it wasn’t doing much, the situation without it is somehow even worse. Mark’s so exhausted by the time he’s sitting down that his hand shakes as he buckles his seatbelt.

Nate leans over Mark to put the key in the ignition, turns up the heat, and then says he’ll be back in a second. He returns a few minutes later bearing another paper cup of tea, this one from one of the market stands. Nate tells Mark what’s in it as he climbs into the driver’s seat, and while Mark misses most of the detail — honey and a lot of herbs, is the sense he gets — it’s hot and sweet and helps his throat enormously. 

“Will you be okay if I make a few stops on the way?” Nate asks, as he pulls the Jeep out of the parking lot. “Obviously you’ll stay in the car — I just want to swing by a pharmacy, and go back to my place and grab our stuff — “

“Our stuff?” Mark says, blinking. He sniffles, and adds, “I thought — I thought you were just dropping me off.”

Nate stares at him for a second before he looks back to the road. “Okay, learning from my earlier mistake of not asking you this question enough: why… would you think that?”

“HaHh… HASCHOO!” Mark replies, though obviously not intentionally. He has to honk into the hanky for a moment before he can reply, “I mean… don’t you have to stay at yours? For the dinner party?”

“The… dinner party,” Nate repeats slowly, as though trying to remember what Mark’s talking about. Then, in a more incredulous tone, he says, “The dinner party — Mark! I cancelled it yesterday! I didn’t think the whole… ordeal… would leave either one of us in a partying mood, and I could see you were getting sick anyway; I had Sam spread the word it was off.”

“You never said,” Mark says accusingly, and then, pausing, adds, “I mean, at least I don’t… remember you saying anything. Might be a little fuzzy on the details.”

”The truth is, babe, I would have mentioned it to you eventually, but I was a little afraid you might insist we go ahead with it if I said something too soon.” At Mark’s slightly stricken face, Nate adds, “Hey, look, don’t worry about it. Most of my friends are married with kids these days; the best gift you can give them is a Saturday night plan which you then cancel on Friday. One of them actually sent me a thank you text, she was so excited.” 

“But,” Mark says, waving a helpless, handkerchief-clutching hand, “you bought all that food — “

Nate shakes his head, his expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “It’s mostly chicken soup ingredients, you maniac.” He cuts a sideways glance at Mark and says, “Do you really think I’d want to be hosting a party across town from you while you’re in this condition? Come on. I’d just be worrying the whole time that you’d filled your bathtub with grape jelly or something.” His tone is light, like he’s joking, but Mark’s pretty sure he isn’t, especially when he adds, “Anyway, I’m pretty sure taking care of you when you’re sick falls solidly into the roster of boyfriend duties, so. Gotta check that box or the union will be on my ass.”

“The… boyfriend union?” Mark asks, wrinkling his faintly itching nose and feeling lit up inside, in spite of his profound physical misery. 

“Mhmm,” Nate says. “They’re real sticklers for that sort of thing, I’m afraid.” He seems, Mark realizes, more relaxed than he’s been all morning, as though Mark admitting to his illness has actually, against all the odds, made things better, not worse.  

“I have a lot of exes who are out of compliance, if that’s the case,” Mark mutters, mostly because he’s beginning to wonder if he’s behaved like a bit of a freak. He can’t be sure — his head’s too soupy to determine such a thing right now — but he thinks there’s a strong chance, and that he probably owes Nate a bit of an explanation if so. “The people I’ve dated have… not been great about it. Uh. At all.” 

“May all their food taste of Pine-Sol,” Nate says solemnly, and Mark laughs, feeling the lingering limpets of anxiety detach from somewhere deep in his chest, and start to drift away.  

Of course, the relief is short-lived, because the laugh pushes Mark’s itching nose over the edge: “Hetchoo! HetCHOO! HETchoo, heTCHOO, heHh-hEhH-HAAAAASHIEW! Oh my god, I’m sorry I’m such a mess right now.” Now that he’s letting himself acknowledge it, Mark can hear that it sounds like, ‘Oh by god, I’b sorry I’b such a bess right dow,’ and wonders distantly why he thought he was fooling anyone.

“Bless you,” Nate says, reaching over to squeeze his thigh. “And you’re not a mess; you’re just sick. It happens. I’ve seen worse, believe me.”

“Really?” Mark asks, intrigued in spite of himself.

“I told you my immune system is legendary,” Nate says, with a rueful smile. “So I’ve been the last man standing on a number of ill-fated excursions. Believe me, you haven’t seen hell until you’ve gotten six guys through norovirus in the middle of a forest.” He winces, and adds, “That’s not a great example, actually — nobody dodges norovirus, it got me in the end — but I was the last to fall. And I never got H1N1, even though everyone else in that cabin was in bed all week — “

“Your previous life as a man of the forest is truly a minefield of horrors,” Mark proclaims, and then, feeling like maybe he should, adds, “No offense, babe.”

“Oh, sure. Who would take offense to that?” Nate says, but he’s laughing as he says it, and he squeezes Mark’s thigh again. “Anyway, my point is — one little cold is hardly going to freak me out.” He cuts a glance sideways, and adds, “Not to diminish it, to be clear; I’m sorry to say it, but it seems like it’s kicking your ass.” 

“Oh, yeah, it’s th-thrashing me,” Mark agrees wearily, and then, rolling his eyes, “Case in — in p-p-point — eHhH-ehHhcKSHIEW! EhHckSHIEW! AhH-HAhHh… hAHh?… AHH-hAAAhAAAASHIEW!” Mark rubs the bridge of his nose after this one, and, for his agonies, allows himself a plaintive, “Ow.”

“Bless,” Nate says, wincing. “How’s your head? You want another — “ He makes an expressive gesture with his right hand, clearly offering a head massage like the one he gave Mark last night.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Mark asks, not wanting to push his luck.

Nate barks out a brief and largely humorless laugh. “Mind? Listen, compared to like — stuffing handkerchiefs in your pockets while you’re not looking, and trying to trick you into drinking tea and sitting down, this is… easy. I mean, for god’s sake, you had me trying to seduce you into staying in last night — “

“Oh my god,” Mark says, his mouth dropping open. “That’s — you — holy shit, I thought that was weird. I know I wasn’t at m-my — my m-most — ahH-AhH-AHHHSHIEW! ACHOO, ACHOO, AHHHCHEW! Fuck, attractive.” He grimaces, and adds, a little bitterness riding on the words, “Obviously.” 

“Hey, you always look great to me,” Nate says, flashing him a quick smile before flicking his gaze back to the road. “But the rejection did sting a little, I’m not going to lie. Not that I really thought anything was going to happen either way — my theory was that you’d fall asleep the second you were lying down.”

“Good instincts,” Mark says breathlessly, “but — h- hold on, I’m — I’m gonna — g-onna — hAAAAAAAAAAACHEW!” This sneeze is so violent that it jerks Mark into his seatbelt, which in turn throws him back into the seat, and he starts coughing, not able to stop for the better part of a minute. Each one makes his head feel like it’s being hit with a sledgehammer, but at least when he catches his breath, Nate’s hand is on his back, rubbing slow, soothing circles. 

“Headache’s bad,” Mark admits, closing his eyes against the oppressive daylight. Making himself ask is distressingly, upsettingly difficult, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to add, “If… if you really don’t mind — “

But Nate doesn’t even make him get all the way through the request. He slides his hand up into Mark’s hair before Mark’s finished his sentence, pressing the same steady, soothing pattern into his scalp that he did last night.

“Oh,” Mark breathes, his whole body relaxing. “God, thank you. That’s… so good.”

“You’re easy to please,” Nate says, a little laughter in it. After a minute, more quietly, he says, “You can sleep, if you want. I’ll wake you when we get back.”

“What?” Mark mumbles, already halfway there. “Oh. That’s — good. Thank you.”

He blinks his eyes open again what feels like a few seconds later, disoriented when he glances to his left and sees the driver’s seat of the Wrangler is empty. Then he realizes it’s because they’re parked in Mark’s driveway, and Nate is standing next to him, the passenger door wide open. His hand is running through Mark’s hair again — that must be how he woke Mark up — and Mark sighs, abruptly so grateful for him that he can hardly stand it.

“Hey,” he says; the single word scrapes his throat enough that he starts coughing, turning hastily into his shoulder. When he can breathe again, he moans and says, “Holy shit, I feel so bad.” 

“I know you do, sweetheart,” Nate says gently. Mark shivers, this time with pleasure; Nate’s never used that word before, except… last night, Mark remembers hazily. He’d just been too out of it to notice. “You want me to carry you in again?”

“What the hell do you mean, again?” Mark demands, abruptly much more awake. 

Nate’s eyebrows lift. “How did you think you got to bed last night?”

“Oh my god,” Mark groans, mortified. “I didn’t — I don’t remember that!”

“Yeah, you were really out,” Nate says, with a shrug and a little bit of a grin. “And I figured it would be easier on your knee than my stairs would, anyway, so. I just did it. You only woke up for a second, and that was just to, uh.” He flushes, ducks his head, and, sounding like he’s trying not to laugh, finishes, “Tell me to stop being a sexy lumberjack?”

Mark groans again, burying his face in his hands. “God. I hope this cold erases my whole memory. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mark — EHHCKSHIEW! Oh, ugh.” This sneeze completely sneaks up on him, spraying mess over both his palms, and he has to take an embarrassing moment to clean himself up before he sighs and says, “No chance you’ll just put me out of my misery right here, is there? Hit me with a mallet or something?”

“Absolutely none,” Nate says, smiling at him. “And bless you, by the way. If it helps, you’ve definitely seen me do worse.”

“Thanks,” Mark says wearily, and unbuckles his seat belt. At least his blush will just blend into the flush on his cheeks. “Ugh, let’s go in, then, if you won’t mercy kill me — sexy lumberjacks aside, I do think I can manage the fifteen foot walk to the door.” 

It’s actually upsettingly close — he’s unsteadier on his feet than he’d like to be — and by the time they get inside he’s exhausted all over again, even though he knows he should be fine. Mark lets Nate fuss over him a little at this point, take off his jacket and then kneel down to unlace his shoes, offering his arm for support as Mark steps out of them. Nate doesn’t even seem to think about it, and Mark would kiss him if he could muster up the energy. Still — 

“Oh, god,” Mark says, looking dazedly towards the kitchen, where he can see the mess he left yesterday on storming out of the house. At the time he hadn’t even noticed it, but now he sees the dishes sitting dirty in the sink, the various clutter sitting out. “I should really go clean up in — “

“Nope,” Nate says firmly. “You have an urgent appointment with your bed.”

“It wouldn’t take very — v-very — oh, god, I’m gonna s-sneeze.” Mark fumbles for his handkerchief as he begins to draw in huge, helpless hitches, his whole body rocking with them. He’s obviously in for a terrible fit, and he panics a little, not able to stop hitching long enough to determine the nearest place to sit down —

— and then Nate’s hands are guiding him down into a chair, his voice soft as he says, “You’re okay, babe. It’s okay.”

Relieved, Mark gives in to the dreadful itch, and his whole nose wrinkles up around a desperate “HiHhhh,” before he folds forward with a, “HehHh-AAAAASHIEW!” A breath, and then six sneezes that hit like coughs and scratch at his burning throat: “Aitch! AiTCh, AiTCH, AITCH! AITCH! AITCHOO!” Another breath. Two. Then: “HahH-hAISSSSSHO! HAAAISSSHO! IHh-ISSSHOO! ISSHU, ISSHU, ISSHU, ISSHU, hAH-HAH-HAAAAAAAAIIISSHOO!” 

“Yeah, you are not cleaning anything right now,” Nate says, as Mark breathlessly blows his nose several times. “Christ, babe, bless you. Come on: bed. I mean it.”

“Oh, all right,” Mark says, the final remaining traces of his fighting spirit having been obliterated during that last bout of sneezes. “Bed… sounds good.”

He lets Nate help him back up, and steer him to the bedroom with a hand on each of Mark’s shoulders. He lets Nate sit him down on the edge of the bed — his own wonderful, perfect bed — pull off his jeans, and help him into a pair of soft pajama bottoms. He lets Nate fluff up his pillows and ease him gently into laying back, then tuck him carefully in, and sit on the mattress next to him. He lets Nate run long, dexterous fingers through Mark’s hair, each touch a salve for the pounding ache in his skull.

Eventually, he must let the comfort of Nate’s presence lull him into sleep more effectively than any car motor, but he doesn’t really remember that part.

-

[starpollen]

 ❤️
 

And Happy New Year to you, as well! 

[thesneezyowl]

Haaaappy New Year!!! Thank you for this ahhhhhmazing update. These 2 have my heart 4eva!!!

[brownsasha11]

Happy New Year’s my friend. Another treasure love that we are seeing Mark sick and trying to be stoic. Glad that he has finally come to his senses and caretaker Nate has been fully activated. With hopeful anticipation I look forward to the next part will Mark get worse or dare I say Nate gets sick with some allergy thrown in. Kudos

[Privatedancer]

That.was.AMAZING!!!!!!!!!!!  I will read and re-read and re-read until there is more to love! Thank you!

[thesneezyowl]

1 hour ago, Privatedancer said:

That.was.AMAZING!!!!!!!!!!!  I will read and re-read and re-read until there is more to love! Thank you!

Juuuuust did another re-read!! So much caretaking goodness!!!

[A57]

Oh my goodness… this keeps getting better and better. Your writing of these characters is incredible- you truly make them come to life. Poor Mark and Nate is such a sweetheart 🥰

I find myself checking this site multiple times a day and getting so excited when I see an update. You’ve been spoiling us with long chapters and I cannot say thank you enough for continuously blessing us with your amazing writing.

Hope your New Year has been off to a good start- you absolutely deserve it!!  

[Lady Blessington]

Happy sigh!

“A few even offer to let him order via text and have his stuff brought out to his car, which Nate seems thrilled by; that’s really nice, even if Mark does keep considering the possibility that he died somewhere in the last few hours, and is now, in fact, a ghost.”

So many great lines oh man! 

I love the park bench scene especiallyyyyy.

[ID2006]

Omg, love that Mark finally gave in, and Nate being so caring and calling him 'poor baby' and 'sweetheart' and steadying him so he doesn't fall, and tucking him in and gah I'm in love.

[Kaitlynne]

I love this so much!