Fool Me Twice [M/M, 7/?]

[monochrome]

Edited on 3/7/24 to add: in an attempt to make things more findable, here's a list of works featuring these two! I will keep this list up to date.

Works with Vincent + Yves (chronologically):

I. Fool Me Twice (this is the first ever - you are here!)

II. Foreign Home

III. Small Price to Pay

IV. The Worst Timing

V. Atypical Occurrence

—

(once again, I have returned to write something terribly self-indulgent.)

These are new OCs that I came up with yesterday! I envision this to be the first (chronologically) in their series, so no further context needed. Also, this chapter is not extremely sneeze-heavy, but subsequent parts will be, if I get to writing more.

Summary: Yves needs a date to the party, and Vincent seems happy to play the part, for better or for worse. But a last-minute cold throws a wrench in their plans. - (ft. fake dating, heartbreak, a New Year’s party, and a cold)

 

—

Yves tries to be the bigger person about it, really.

He has every intention of never contacting Erika again. He thinks he never wants to speak to her again, and he certainly has no intention of doing anything in retaliation. Not that she would care if he tried. He tells himself he’ll take all of it in stride—the cheating, the breakup, her immediate engagement with Brendon—and never speak to her again.

The problem is that he and Erika were friends before they dated. The problem, really, is that they both know Margot, who’s throwing an end-of-the-year party—an annual occasion, and one which he promised her months back he would attend—and Erika is, without a doubt, going to be there with the very person she left him for.

The problem is, Margot knows he’s in town. He could take the easy way out—say he’s been called away last minute for some cousin’s wedding in Europe—and tell her he isn’t attending, and he’s half considering it when Erika texts him.

E: what are you thinking of getting for margot?

Yves thinks of ten responses to that, which do not exclude please do not ever contact me again and I’m definitely not going to the party if you are. Instead, he shuts his phone off, takes a run around the neighborhood, showers, makes breakfast. Then, against all better judgment, he texts her back.

Y: nice try. can’t have you stealing my idea

And he knows he should leave it. He knows that if he doesn’t show up to the party, everything will be fine, even if it means that Erika will get to tell her side of the story—frame her own infidelity in such skewed, oversimplifying terms that it will seem perfectly reasonable, and maybe even shift some of the blame to Yves in the process—to practically everyone he’d spoken to in university. It will be for the better.

But part of him is bitter. Part of him wants to show up to the party and show her just how fine he is, just how little he needs her. Part of him wants to show her that he hasn’t thought about her at all since the breakup. That he’s doing perfectly fine without her—or, better yet, that he’s better off now; even more ludicrously, that their breakup was one of the best things that’s ever happened to him. 

It wasn’t. It isn’t. He misses her more than he’d like to admit. But he can’t help but think it would be nice to even out the score, for once, after everything she’s put him through.

It’s that train of thought that leads him to… well, drastic measures.

“I can’t believe the year’s almost over,” he says, at work, to Vincent Gates, in the break room. “It really felt like it dragged at the start.” this, he thinks, is probably not a relatable sentiment to Vincent Gates, who probably keeps impeccable track of time, but at least it’s a half-decent setup to the next question he’s planning to ask: “are you going anywhere for the holidays?”

Vincent has been his coworker for almost a year now—ever since Yves started working with Evertech Solutions. 

And Vincent is good at his job, as far as Yves can see. He minds his own business, and—as Yves had told Erika when they were still dating—he “looks like the kind of person they hire for photoshoots.” He’s attractive in a natural, boyish sort of way—he has soft, feathery dark hair that hangs just short of his eyes; high, angular cheekbones, and a decent jawline. He wears glasses with wiry red frames, and he almost always wears ties, and he brings the same laptop bag to work every morning.

All in all, he carries himself like someone who takes himself all too seriously. And, most importantly, Erika has heard of him.

“I don’t have anything planned,” Vincent says.

“Great,” Yves says. Here goes nothing. “One of my friends is throwing a New Year’s party, and I was wondering if you’d—”

“I’m not interested.”

Really, it’s not as though Yves hadn’t expected this.

“Okay,” he says evenly. “Not a fan of parties?”

“Not exactly,” Vincent says, which is Yves’s cue to take his coffee and get out of here before this gets any more awkward. Except, then he adds, “I mean, if your friend was desperate enough to have you soliciting your coworkers…”  

Yves blinks. “I’m not allowed to invite my coworkers?”

Vincent shrugs. “We don’t know each other very well. If you’re asking me, I assume you’ve already asked half the office.”

“I haven’t.” he hadn’t intended to explain himself—or any part of this situation, really—unless Vincent had said yes. But now, he thinks, leaving things on this note would probably come across as some sort of clumsy proposition. Better to clarify while he still can. “It’s not really that sizeable of a party.”

“So,” Vincent says.

“So,” Yves clears his throat. “If i’m being really honest here, my ex is going to be there. At the party, I mean, with the guy she cheated on me with like, half a year ago, whom she’s currently dating. So I wanted to find someone to go with too. And you’re right—this is probably the worst place in the world to be looking for a plus one. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“And you’re asking me because?”

She knows you, he doesn’t say. “You didn’t seem like the type of person who would make a big deal out of it,” he reasons instead, with a shrug, which isn’t untrue. “That’s all. Forget I asked.” he swipes his coffee mug from the counter, turns to leave.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Vincent says.

Yves doesn’t turn around. Swallows down the faintest semblance of hope that those words stir in his chest. “What?”

“Like I said, parties aren’t my scene. But if one of us is getting something out of this, I would be fine with it.”

“Oh.” This is better news than expected. He doesn’t manage to hide his surprise. “Great. You’re a lifesaver, Vincent. I’ll give you my number so we can coordinate?”

—

Vincent texts him later that night.

V: Do you think your ex will ask me about you?

It’s not out of the question: if they’re going to pretend to be dating, Vincent is going to need much more context than what he’s presumably picked up from their limited interactions in the office. So Yves spends the weekend getting Vincent up to speed:

His ex’s name is Erika, they dated for two years before he caught her making out with a colleague at a party he wasn’t invited to, she hadn’t had the courtesy to pretend to be remorseful when he confronted her about it. (“It wouldn’t have been any more forgivable if she were remorseful about it,” Vincent says over lunch, which Yves guesses is technically true, even if it doesn’t feel that way). When they’d broken up, he’d never wanted to talk to her again. But they were friends before they ever dated, and half of his close friends are her friends, too. So naturally, she has her way of showing up in his life when he least wants to see her.

They’d been friends ever since their first year in university—they’d gotten close over sleepless nights at the library and pre-sunrise mornings with the rowing team (“Somehow you rowing crew doesn’t really surprise me,” Vincent says. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Yves says, and Vincent laughs.)—and when she asked him out it had only felt like a natural progression, like something that had felt so right he had barely thought to question it. The worst part of all of it is that he would’ve been more than happy to give her the benefit of the doubt. He would’ve been ready to forgive her, to dismiss the entire incident as a decision she’d been too drunk to think clearly about, and move on from it. (To this admission, Vincent frowns in a manner which Yves thinks can only be disapproving, but he keeps his mouth shut.) But Erika left no room for doubt.

Then they discuss logistics: on New Year’s Eve, Yves will pick Vincent up at seven and drive them both to the party. They’ll tell everyone that they met at work and that they’ve been together since august. They’ll say that they’re keeping the relationship an open secret between themselves and their friends, so that it doesn’t complicate things unnecessarily at work. Yves won’t drink, in part because he’s driving and in part because drunk Yves can be a little too honest for his own good, but Vincent can. Yves cares about catching up with Margot. Yves does not care about catching up with Erika. There will be maybe thirty people there, and there will probably be fireworks. They’ll stay for dinner, but they can both leave before midnight if Vincent has family or friends he wants to call. 

All in all, by the time Yves goes home for winter break, it seems like things are all set to go smoothly.

That is, until he wakes up three days before the party with a twinge in his throat.

It’s nothing he can’t sleep off, he tells himself. He’s just tired—he’s been busy getting everyone gifts for Christmas and New Year’s and getting them delivered; having dinner with Leon, his younger brother, and Victoire, his younger sister; helping his neighbors set up their Christmas tree; running errands for the Miss Elodie, the old lady who lives across the street; helping Mikhail, his roommate from college, with moving in. He just needs a proper night’s rest, or maybe two. No need to text Vincent about it if this turns out to be nothing.

But the twinge in his throat turns into a terrible sore throat, which gets worse, not better, until it hurts to swallow anything aside from hot tea. He wakes up on the second day congested, with a tickle in his nose so intense that he has barely any warning before he’s jerking forward with a loud, miserable sneeze. 

He texts Margot first:

Y: think i’m coming down with a cold. do you still want me to go?

—to which she responds,

M: PLEASE COME 
M: (if you’re feeling up to it?)

Y: i feel fine
Y: just don’t want to pass it on if i’m contagious 🤧 

M: it’s about to be 2017, live a little
M: would rather have you here and catch your cold personally then have you skip

Y: haha okay, i’ll take some dayquil

Then he texts Vincent:

Y: i think i have a cold
Y: i’m sorry, i know it’s shitty timing. i totally get it if you’d rather not go w me
Y: just let me know

Vincent doesn’t respond immediately. Yves takes a seat on the couch, sets the tissue box down beside him, and tries to mentally prepare himself for showing up alone. On second thought, maybe he’ll have to drink, within reason, to get through the night. To put up a convincing enough act that he’s doing fine. To see Erika again—with Brendon, probably—and pretend he doesn’t miss her at all. To—

V: Do you need anything?

Yves blinks down at the screen. It’s not the response he expects.

Y: thanks for asking! i’m good
Y: just don’t want to get you sick

V: I’m not worried about that at all
V: I have a pretty good immune system

That seems like it could be true. Yves doesn’t think he’s ever seen Vincent take a sick day, much less show up to work looking anything less than healthy.

V: Just tell me if you’re not feeling up to it?

Y: okay
Y: i’m definitely going to go
Y: are you sure you’re okay w this? i would feel really bad if you caught my cold

V: Not going to happen. See you tomorrow at 7

Yves sets his phone down beside him, tilts his head back onto the couch, and shuts his eyes. They’re really doing this.

—

 

Feedback is greatly appreciated!

Edited April 18 by monochrome

[glitterdoll78]

I really hope you do get around to writing more because I’m very interested in seeing where this story is going!

[GraySkies]

I'm definitely into this! I hope you feel inspired enough to write more!

[Waters]

I'm already loving this, fake dating is such a fun trope. Can't wait for the next part.

[Privatedancer]

Adorable and looking forward to mores 

[JohnnyOxn]

Nice foundation so far. Can’t wait to see more!

[Gemmia]

I can’t wait to see more, this story seems amazing !

[Reader]

Such a delightful premise! 

[ID2006]

I love the idea of this and the possibilities are endless. 

[monochrome]

Thank you guys so much for the warm reception and kind feedback! I'm very happy to hear that people are interested 🥹❤️

Here's part 2! I hope you enjoy!

 

—

Yves wakes up the morning of the 31st with a dull, throbbing headache. 

His whole body feels heavy, his limbs leaden and sore as if he’s just gone through a day of heavy lifting, and it feels as though he’s barely slept at all. It’s the kind of unshakeable exhaustion that doesn’t dissipate even after a hot shower and a cup of coffee (nearly hot enough to scald, though at least it feels good on his throat), and he’s congested in a way that no number of tissues seems to alleviate.

He spends the morning wrapping his presents for Margot, shoveling enough snow off of his front doorstep so he can open the front door, and rifling through his closet for something to wear. Then it’s a stop at the pharmacy for cold medicine—he picks out the kind that he hopes will leave him least symptomatic for the party—and a short text exchange with Vincent, who doesn’t say much except confirm that he has everything ready for tonight, followed by a longer text exchange with Mikhail, who will be at the party too.

If Yves is honest with himself, he could use a nap, but he denies himself one until he finds himself nodding off in the middle of putting together lunch. If he’s going to be staying close to midnight and driving back after, he thinks, then perhaps a short nap wouldn’t be the worst idea.

The nap, as it turns out, doesn’t help much. He wakes up groggy and disoriented. Still, he hopes maybe, at the very least, it might help keep him awake enough on the drive back. Vincent’s address is a twenty minute drive from home. Yves downs a dose of cold medicine, sets his presents down in the trunk, texts Vincent that he’s on his way, and then heads out. 

Outside, it’s snowing in thick, heavy flakes. Snow settles over the roads, over the trees and the houses. He gets there five minutes early, out of courtesy, but it’s barely ten seconds after he knocks on the door that Vincent is opening it.

He’s dressed in a white button-down shirt, a black blazer, and tight-fitting jeans, though something about the way the jacket fits over his shoulders makes them look sharper and more angular than usual. His dark hair is sideswept, and there are pink-tinted sunglasses perched atop his head, and there’s a tiny golden rose pinned to his lapel. He looks simultaneously put together and flatteringly in his element. Definitely photoshoot material, Yves thinks. 

“I didn’t have much other than work clothes,” Vincent says, which is how Yves realizes he’s been staring.  

“No, you...” Yves swallows. ...You look like someone I could fall in love with, his mind supplies unhelpfully. “You look fantastic. I can’t thank you enough for doing this.” 

“It’s no trouble,” Vincent says. He shuts the door behind him, locks it, and steps outside into the cold. 

Yves follows after him. It’s cold enough outside to make his nose run, and he sniffles as discreetly as he can, clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He can only hope he looks half as presentable as Vincent does, right now. The cold medicine is working its magic as it stands, but it’ll start to wear off around eleven—hopefully by then, everyone will be drunk enough not to take notice.

“I know you said parties are not your scene,” Yves says, rounding the corner of the driveway towards his car. “So we can leave whenever you want. I mean, I’m guessing you probably have New Year’s plans anyways? I can make sure to… hhEHh-!” As if the timing could be any worse. He veers sharply away, raising an arm to shield his face, and buries his nose in his suit sleeve. “hHEH… hEHh’iisZSCH-ieww! snf-! Ugh, sorry, unfortudately you’ll be hearing a lot of… t-that… HEHH’izsSCHH-Ew!”

The sneeze is messy and spraying, and he winces, wipes his nose on the back of his wrist.

“Bless you,” Vincent says, seemingly unaffectedly, though Yves can’t help but wonder if he’s disgusted.

“Thadks. But dod’t bother,” Yves says, and sniffles again. He’ll make a point to ask Margot where the tissues are. “You’ll get tired of that phrase really quickly. Adyways, as I was saying, I can mbake sure to get you back home before midnight. Or… earlier, if that’s what you prefer.”

“I can stay late,” Vincent says. “Though if you’re unwell, you should probably get some rest.”

“That’s sweet. I’m ndot really that unwell, though,” Yves says. “But I can’t promise I’m not contagious. I wod’t make you like, hold my hand or adything.”

“If it’s to sell the relationship,” Vincent says, “I wouldn’t mind.” 

Yves says, “Still.”

“You’re doing this to prove to your ex you’ve moved on,” Vincent says, as if it’s really that simple. “For that to work, we’d have to be a convincing couple.”

“You can just sit close to mbe,” Yves says, pulling open the car door to slide into the driver’s seat. “Or laugh even when I crack a bad joke. Or tell embarrassing stories about mbe—great power, great responsibility, of course.”

“I could do all of those things as a friend,” Vincent says evenly. “But it won’t exactly look like I like you if I refuse to touch you all night.”

“If the others dod’t buy the act, at least I can say I’ll have tried. I just - snf-! - don’t want it to be an inconvedience to you, especially when i…” Yves turns away sharply, towards the window at his left, and lifts his arm to cover. “hHEH’iIIZSHEew! Ugh…” The sneeze mists over his sleeve, leaving him teary-eyed and sniffling. “...when I’b - snf! - so evidently… well, you know.” He clears his throat, though even that small action is enough to make him cough. 

Vincent goes quiet for a moment. Then he asks, “What would you be fine with?”

“What?”

“You said you wouldn’t make me hold your hand. But would you be fine with it?”

“Just hypothetically, I’d be fide with whatever,” Yves says, with a shrug. “Hand holding, hugging, making out—i mean, it’s ndothing I haven’t gotten drunk and done before with a stranger, but obviously I don’t actually expect you to do any of that. You just being there is more than edough. I mean, you’re already spending your New Year’s Eve doidg this for me.”

“Yes,” Vincent says. “That’s exactly why I want it to not be for nothing.”

When Yves looks over to him, Vincent’s expression is difficult to parse.

“It wod’t be for nothing,” Yves says, mustering up a smile. It’s almost endearing how seriously Vincent is taking this.

Really, if Yves can get through tonight with this cold of his—and his ex of his—he’ll consider it enough of a win.

—

When they get to the party, Margot waves them in. She steps in for a hug, and even though Yves thinks that’s probably inadvisable, he lets her—Margot hugs everyone, and the extra warmth is more than welcome, as it stands.

“I made sure that tonight’s refreshments included orange juice,” she says. “How’s the cold?”

“Fantastic,” Yves says, trying not to sniffle. “I’m sure the orange juice will cure it.”

“That’s the spirit.” She steps in to hug Vincent, too, who stiffens at first, but then returns the hug more naturally than Yves would have expected. “And this is Vincent, right? Yves has told me all about you.”

“Nice to meet you, Margot.” Vincent says. “Your apartment looks spectacular.”

And it does—Margot’s decorated it with string lights and HAPPY NEW YEAR! banners, strung in neat arcs from the ceiling; champagne flutes lined up on the fireplace mantel, 2017! spelled out in glittery block letters on the living room wall. Pale golden balloons bob up and down in the hallway; yellow roses are strewn neatly across the living room tables, the walls gilded with shining gold streamers.

“Thank you, thank you!” Margot says. “I’m so glad you could make it.” She leans in conspiratorially. “We need you for intel. We’ll trade you embarrassing things Yves did in college for embarrassing things he’s done at—”

“Please take my peace offering instead.” Yves says loudly, and then hands her the gift he’s holding. Margot laughs and squeezes his shoulder.

“You didn’t have to,” she says. “It’s good to see you again, Yves.” Then, to both of them: “Dinner will be ready in an hour. There are drinks in the iceboxes, so feel free to help yourselves.”

Then someone knocks, and she’s off again to meet the newcomers at the door. Yves muffles a cough into his sleeve, remembering too late he’d meant to ask her where to find the tissues. He’s sure there will be some napkins laying around.

The hour before dinner goes better than he expects. He introduces Vincent to a few of his friends—he runs into Mikhail, who thanks him for helping him move in and asks about his family, and Nora, who—like him—is going into business, and asks him and Vincent both about the work culture at Evertech. He talks to Joel, who congratulates him on the relationship and asks them how they met (they have a story prepared for this, of course) and Francesca, who—much to his embarrassment—says, “You really weren’t joking when you said he looks like a model,” to which Yves nods and smiles and pretends not to notice the questioning look he gets from Vincent.

He thinks his cold is manageable enough, too—he gets accustomed to turning sharply away from Vincent mid-conversation, to burying his face into his sleeve to stifle another harsh, wrenching sneeze, and to the (unnecessary, but thoughtful) bless you that sometimes follows—though all this talking is not exactly conducive towards his voice, and he finds himself clearing his throat incessantly and stopping mid-sentence to cough. If Vincent notices how his voice is getting hoarser as the night goes on—or how every stifle exacerbates his headache, if only slightly—he says nothing of it. 

It’s only when they’re all settling down for dinner—Vincent at his right side, pouring him a glass of water—that Erika arrives.

She looks just as he remembers her—beautiful and intimidating, with her hair down over her shoulder, curled just for the occasion, her eyeliner a large, graceful dark wing. She’s wearing a long sheath dress which hangs off from one shoulder, and Brendon is at her side, with his arm around her waist, wearing a suit with a boutonniere which matches her dress, and he says something that makes her laugh loudly and lean closer into his chest.

“Thadks,” Yves says, to Vincent, as he sets the pitcher back down. Maybe this will be fine if she doesn’t speak to him. She doesn’t have any real reason to start a conversation with him, anyways.

But then Erika takes a seat diagonally across from him.

“Yves,” Erika says, looking straight at him. “It’s been awhile.” He watches as her gaze slides over to Vincent. “And who’s this?”

“This is Vincent,” Yves says, clearing his throat. “Vincent, this is Erika.”

Really, the introduction is nothing more than a formality. Vincent must already know. 

Erika turns to look Vincent over. There’s something calculating in her expression, something that unsettles Yves. “Your coworker?”

“Boyfriend,” Vincent corrects her, with a small, economical smile that seems to fall just short of sincere. “But yes, coworker too. And you’re his ex? I think Yves might’ve mentioned you in passing.”

“Yes,” Erika says. “Only good things, I hope?” If it’s meant to be a joke, it comes out a little too pointed, but she laughs after it anyways. Yves wonders if there’s a way to stave off the headache he feels brewing. He needs a drink. “It’s great to meet you. I didn’t realize that Yves was seeing someone else.”

“We haved’t exactly kept in codtact, so I wouldn’t expect you to kdow,” Yves says to her. Then, remembering himself, he grins. “Mbuch to catch up on, right?”

“Yes, much,” she says, leaning her head onto Brendon’s shoulder. “Brendon and I were just talking about how easy it is to fall out of touch with old friends.”

“It really is, if you think about it,” Brendon says. “I think it has to do with how we’re all very different people from who we were in college, even though it’s barely been a year and a half. And with all of the job stuff, too, and all the moving away—it’s really only natural that people drift apart.”

Yves shuts his eyes briefly. It’s really only natural. As if that justifies everything—the cheating, the dishonesty, the lack of apology. Briefly, he wonders if Brendon even knows what she’s done, or she’s reframed things the way she likes to, rephrased cheating as unfortunate miscommunication over a falling out.

He used to think of it as one of her strengths, back when she’d done debate in college: that she was so good at redirection, that she knew exactly what she believed in, that she could frame things as favorably or unfavorably as she wanted. Now, that knowledge makes him feel sick to his stomach.

“On the contrary,” Vincent says, “I think it’s a matter of making time for the people you want to keep in your life.”

“That’s much easier said than done,” Brendon says.

“I didn’t say it was easy,” Vincent says.

Erika looks between them, her eyes flashing, and Yves looks away in favor of muffling a cough into his fist. His throat is really starting to hurt. Maybe he has been talking too much tonight.

“I guess we can agree to disagree,” Brendon says, as if that makes him the bigger person.

Or maybe he has it wrong, Yves realizes. Maybe Brendon knew exactly what Erika was doing, back then. Maybe he even encouraged her.

“Either way, it’s good to see everyone agaid,” he says. “Eved if we have changed.” There’s a slight, almost imperceptible tickle in his nose, but knowing this cold—knowing how many of his sneezes tonight have caught him off guard, often with barely enough time to cover—he’s not sure how long it will stay that way.

“So,” Erika says, deceptively nonchalant. “How did you two meet?” 

Yves is ready to give her the spiel he’s already given so many times tonight. “We met at work,” he starts. “I was assigned to Vincent’s team, so I—” His voice breaks on that note, and he clears his throat again, fighting the urge to wince. Has he sounded this rough since he got here? “So I relied on him a ton for… hh… those… hHEH… sorryIhavetohH… HEh’IZCHH-Eew! snf-! Ugh, snf-!” The sneeze is just as theatrically loud as usual, which, embarrassingly, prompts a few bless yous from further along the table.

He thinks he can feel the effects of the cold medicine starting to wear off—or perhaps his cold is just getting worse. Either way, all this sneezing must be making him lose his voice twice as fast.  “I relied on him a tod for those first few weeks, with all the… snf-! All the odboarding stuff. And then after that, I… hH-!” he really, really doesn’t want to sneeze again, but the tickle in his nose seems to have only gotten worse. “...figured I should thank him… f-for… hh-! for helping out…  sorry, I— hh!... HEh-hhHEH’IZSSCH-EEW!”

He can feel Erika’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t have time to interpret her expression before he’s twisting away from the three of them, coughing so harshly into the crook of his arm that he can feel his eyes beginning to well up with tears. His throat really hurts—every subsequent cough seems to scrape uncomfortably against his throat, making it feel impossibly sorer.  

He feels a hand settle on his own, feels someone interlace their fingers with his, though the incongruousness of the action doesn’t quite register to him immediately; at least, until—

“Save your voice,” Vincent says, softly. “I can take it from here.”

Something about his tone of voice startles Yves. He’s never heard Vincent sound like that before—uncharacteristically soft, despite the command.

“You’re sick?” Erika asks. 

Yves opens his mouth to respond, but Vincent beats him to it. “He’s a little under the weather.” 

“It’s - snf-! - a lot better than it sounds, I prombise,” Yves cuts in.

Vincent sighs. “What did I say about saving your voice?”

“He was saying something about onboarding?” Erika says, as an invitation for Vincent to continue.

Vincent nods. “Back then, we worked pretty closely for a few weeks, so Yves took me out to dinner as a way of thanking me for my help. That was in June, back when Starcruisers was just premiering in theaters.”

“That movie with Willow Alder and Denver Gill?” Brendon says.

“That’s right. Yves likes the same kind of sci-fi as I like, so we went together.” That’s a half-truth: they have talked briefly, but not extensively, about Starcruisers, and Yves does like sci-fi, but he’s not sure if he’s communicated that to Vincent before. “After that, we started seeing each other more often. Dinner, and a movie, every Friday after work. And when we ran out of movies to watch in theaters, he invited me over to his place.”

The smile Vincent has on now is worlds away from the strained, tight-lipped one he’d given Erika earlier. If Yves didn’t know better, he might have thought it looked sincere.

“If I’m honest, it became the thing I looked forward to the most every week. I mean, it’s not uncommon for me to meet people who are easy to get along with at work. That kind of surface-level agreeability—for lack of a better phrase—is generally well-valued in our field, to the extent that it hardly even feels like a choice. But even outside of work, even when it doesn’t benefit him, Yves is actually one of the most thoughtful people I know. He’s always thinking about others, even when it’s ill-advised. I’d imagine you know that too.”

At that, Vincent looks to Erika, as if he expects her to agree with him. But he doesn’t wait for her acknowledgement, either, to continue: “And he’s good at taking initiative, which saved me a lot of stress. He asked me out shortly after I realized I had feelings for him. We’ve been together since then.” 

Yves stares back at Vincent. His mouth feels suddenly dry.

He owes Vincent a free dinner over this. And a performance review so good that it earns him a raise.

“That’s very sweet,” Erika comments, with a pointed smile. “And I know where you’re coming from. I used to think some of the same things about him, too.”

Used to. Yves is sure Vincent must hear the unspoken remainder of the sentence: but of course, I’ve come to know better.

But Vincent merely nods. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Just a sec, I should give my presents to Margot before I forget,” Erika says. She reaches under the table for the packages she’s set down, both of them wrapped nicely in silver wrapping paper and sealed off with a neatly tied bow. Yves watches her leave. He’ll have to remember to thank Vincent later.

“Erika was telling me she doesn’t know why you don’t text her more,” Brendon says.

Yves stares at him, disbelieving. 

“We dod’t exactly have a lot to talk about,” he says.

“Really? She told me she wanted to stay friends.”

Yves knows this, of course. It had been his idea to not stay friends after the breakup. He missed her, then, of course, but it was the best decision out of several unfavorable options. 

“I ndeeded space,” Yves says, muffling a cough into his sleeve. “I’m sure you cad guess why.”

Erika reemerges from the kitchen, though she doesn’t take a seat just yet. “What are we talking about?”

“Whether Yves is open to being friends with you,” Vincent says.

Yves’s problem is this: if she announced, now, to everyone, that she was breaking up with Brendon and getting back together with Yves, there’s a part of him that would seriously consider being with her again. There’s a part of him that misses her, even still. There’s a part of him that would stop at nothing to have a semblance of that same closeness, that familiarity, that trust. 

But there’s a part of him, too, that knows better.

“Oh. That’s a good segue, actually. I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Erika says, lowering her voice and leaning forward. This can’t possibly turn out well, Yves thinks. “Do you remember that night with Brendon?”

“Of course.” As if he could forget, even if he wanted to.

“I had already been meaning to break up with you for awhile,” Erika says. “I was just waiting for the right time.”

Yves nods. She’d said that back then, too.

“But then I got drunk,” she says, “and I made decisions I shouldn’t have made, even before I broke things off officially.” She meets his eyes, now, with a frown. She’s always been beautiful, but something about the lighting tonight makes her look so beautiful it feels cruel. “What I’m getting at is that I didn’t mean to lie to you. I always mean to end things properly.”

Yves stares at her.

He really, really doesn’t want to deal with this right now.

“I’b sorry,” he says, with an apologetic smile. He gets to his feet, pushes in his chair. “If you could hold that thought. I really have to go blow my ndose.”

Then he just about bolts—he leaves the dining table and heads out into the hallway, leaving the three of them still there. He’s been to Margot’s apartment before, so luckily, he knows that the bathroom is just off to the right. Thankfully, it happens to be unoccupied. He slips in and shuts the door, turns the lock, turns on the light.

—

 

As always, I would love to hear what you thought!

Edited February 5, 2023 by monochrome

[Privatedancer]

So glad for the update and love how the story and uses cold is developing 

[Dye]

AAWWWW I love how this is going 🥺🥺🙏 poor Yves!!! Vincent is SO sweet I can't wait to see where this goes hehehe 

[GraySkies]

This is a great update!! I'm so glad you're continuing it!

[ID2006]

This is amazing 

[Reader]

Vincent is amazing! Great chapter! 

[Tumble]

Can’t wait to see where this goes. 

[AutumnSneezes]

Wow, this is so good! I'm loving watching Yves' decent into his cold, and Vincent is just so wonderful! I love how well he's 'playing' his part, I really hope there's another reason for him doing this! Erika is so mean! I can't wait to see what happens next, and btw, Yves talking through his sneezes was so good!

[Evian]

I think I’m in love with Yves! He’s super sure. Pls keep going if you can 

[monochrome]

Replies:

@Privatedancer - Thank you! I love writing/reading stories where a character's cold gets incrementally worse as time goes on, so I'm glad you like the progression 😊

@Dye - AHH Dye!! It's good to hear from you! 💖 I'm so happy you like Vincent, I have so much fun writing his dialogue 😭 I hope you like the newest installment!

@GraySkies - Thanks!! 😊 It's easy for me to lose steam when writing multi-chapter stories, but I'm trying my best to keep it up 🙏

@ID2006 - Thank you! I'm glad you like it!

@Reader - I'm happy to hear that you like him! And thank you ❤️ 

@Tumble - Thank you, it always motivates me to know someone's waiting for more 😊

@AutumnSneezes - !!! Thank you SO much for your thoughtful comment!! 💕 Detailed breakdowns like this always make me so happy, so I really appreciate that you took the time to write this! I love talking through sneezes too (also it's just so convenient to write sneezes into dialogue, sometimes I feel like they disrupt the flow elsewhere, haha.) I won't spoil anything about Vincent's motivations, but your comment definitely gave me some ideas 😌

@Evian - I'm always a little worried writing characters like Yves that they won't be super likeable, so I'm really glad to hear that you like him 🥹

[monochrome]

Alright, here is the new update! I didn't think I'd end up writing this this week + was feeling a bit demotivated, but I unexpectedly found some time yesterday/today! So here's part 3 (which turned out a lot less mean to Yves than I expected, haha). I hope you like it!

 

—

Margot’s decorated the bathroom nicely— a glass soap dispenser, tied with a singular golden ribbon that seems—intentionally or not—in theme with the decorations outside; a small, fluffy blue rug; a shower curtain lined with silhouettes of raindrops, and one of those scented reed diffusers, scented like bamboo and lemongrass. Neither of which he’s allergic to, to his knowledge, but with this cold, any small push is enough to send him over the—

“hhEH… hehh’IIZSCHEEW!”

The sneeze does nothing—or close to nothing—to relieve the tickle in his nose. Yves desperately hopes that the walls are more soundproof than they appear to be. He reaches blindly for the roll of toilet paper, if only to have something to cover the resounding—

“hEHh… hEH-hHEh-! hhhEH’iTSSCH-Eew! Snf-! hEHH… HEHh’iIZSCHEEw!” 

The sneezes scrape unpleasantly against his throat, enough that he coughs a little, after. He blows his nose into the handful of toilet paper and finds, even after, that his nose is still practically dripping. His excuse to Erika had been nothing more than that—an excuse—but he’s starting to feel as if this bathroom excursion was necessary in more ways than one.

The cold medicine from earlier is certainly starting to wear off, if the congestion settling in his sinuses is anything to go by. He’s tired, even though it isn’t especially late, and his throat is undoubtedly sorer than it had been before he got here. On top of everything with Erika, it feels like insult to injury. 

Erika. Where would he even begin with her? Now—knowing that she wants to be friends with him still—what can he do? Has anything she’s said tonight merited his forgiveness? Even if she hadn’t meant to cheat on him—even if she’d been planning to break up with him formally, even if she’d only made out with Brendon because she was drunk—does that make any of this permissible? She still lied to him. That night, when she’d gone to the party, she’d told him that she was just visiting a relative. The only reason why Yves had found her there with Brendon—the only reason why he’d shown up at the party at all—was because he’d been dropping something off for a friend.

She might not have chosen to cheat on him. But she’d still chosen to get drunk with someone she knew she had feelings for. Is that really any better?

And there’s this, too—part of Yves wants to forgive her. Part of him wants to move past everything, if only it means he’ll get to keep her as a friend. There was a point where she was everything to him, and maybe a friendship would be second best to everything if it meant he’d get to keep talking to her. That version of her that he remembers, walking with him through the 5am dark to crew practice, leaning into his shoulder.

Yves turns on the sink, lets the cold water wash over his hands for a few seconds before he cups his hands together to splash some water on his face. For reasons other than the cold water, his eyes sting. He shouldn’t have come here, he thinks. Seeing Erika again, after everything, feels like reopening a wound that had only started to close up.

Or maybe that isn’t right. Maybe it hadn’t started closing up at all.

From the other side of the door, he hears a sharp knock.

“I’ll - snf-! - be out in a sec,” he says. “I thidk Margot has adother bathroom if you need to go.” One that he hasn’t just sneezed in, notably.

“Do you need anything?”

It’s Vincent.

It occurs to Yves, all of a sudden, what an asshole he’s been. He’s the entire reason why Vincent is here in the first place, and here he is, locked in the bathroom, leaving Vincent alone at a party he wouldn’t enjoy to socialize with people he doesn’t know.

But what can he say? He’s far from presentable, right now—with the large, glossy bathroom mirror in front of him to confirm it—his face flushed, his hair a mess. There’s no way he can open the door, as it stands, and let Vincent see him like this.

“I could… hEHh… hEHh’iIIZSCHEEW! snf-! Ugh, I could use a dridk right ndow,” he says instead, which is more honest than he intends, except then he remembers he’s not supposed to be drinking. “Wait, fuck. I still have to drive.”

“I can do it,” Vincent says, “If you trust me with your car. I wasn’t planning on drinking.” 

“I do trust you with my car,” Yves says. 

“What do you want? Champagne? A beer?”

“Whatever you find that will get mbe idtoxicated the fastest.” It’s half a joke.

“So you can wake up tomorrow with a hangover to go with your cold?”

“Hodestly? I can’t think of a better start to the ndew year,” Yves says.

A pause. “If it’s what you want.” It’s an easier victory than he’d expected—he supposes he can’t complain. He listens as Vincent’s footsteps recede.

He shuts the water off. Runs a hand through his hair, fixes some of the strands back in place. Blows his nose again, for good measure. His face is a little flushed—probably a telltale sign that he has a fever—but if he drinks, who will notice?

Vincent is back a couple minutes later. He knocks with the same, curt knock as before, and this time, Yves opens the door.

He’s standing there, looking no less charming than before, holding a cocktail glass. There’s an orange slice on the edge, and an elegantly placed sprig of rosemary—Margot’s doing, probably.

“Vodka and orange juice,” he says, by way of explanation. “Margot said it’s called a screwdriver.”

“She’s really committed to the orange juice,” Yves says, and takes the glass from him. “Thadks, snf! I’m sorry for disappearing on you.”

Vincent looks like he’s about to say something more. Yves braces himself for the questioning, but instead, Vincent turns away. “It’s fine.”

“And sorry about Erika,” Yves says. He thinks he sounds a little less congested now that he’s blown his nose—at least, for the time being.  “It’s just—it’s been awhile since I’ve seen her. But that doesn’t mbean—i mean, I don’t wadt you to have to worry about all of this.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I just want you to edjoy the party,” Yves says. “Well, as much as you can, adyways. I can handle myself.”

“I never doubted that,” Vincent says.

“That’s why you’re the perfect pretend boyfriend.” Yves tips his drink back, takes a couple large, indulgent sips. He doesn’t catch Vincent’s expression as they take their seats again at the dinner table.

“You’re back,” Erika says. “I was starting to think you were planning on camping out in the bathroom for the rest of the night.”

“Yeah, it’s quite the complicated bathroom,” Yves says. “Thankfully Vincent was there to show me the way out.”

The rest of dinner is surprisingly uneventful—or maybe Yves is too tipsy to pick up on Erika’s passive aggression. Either way, he finds himself actually enjoying himself through the haze of the screwdriver and a few glasses of champagne. It helps that Erika hasn’t brought up the whole friend thing again, and it helps that Margot stops by a few times, whenever the conversation lulls, to change the subject to something utterly unrelated to his breakup. Yves isn’t sure how much of a role Vincent has to play in that. At some point—halfway through another sneezing fit—Vincent wordlessly gets him a stack of napkins, and Yves is not embarrassed enough to pretend he doesn’t need them at all.

After dinner and dessert (which Yves would usually help with, on the many occasions when he doesn’t have a cold, but which Margot does a perfectly impressive job with), everyone disperses again. Yves catches up with everyone he knows from college, introduces Vincent to them (“Don’t tell Vincent I said this,” he says, “But I think he’s way too smart to be on our team,” and Vincent laughs and modestly denies this), and wonders what he’ll tell them all when, inevitably, Vincent doesn’t show up to any of their future meetups. At some point in the future, Vincent will find someone, presumably, who he’ll spend every subsequent New Year’s with. Yves is a little too drunk to think about the slight pang in his stomach when he considers this.

It’s only when it’s nearing midnight that he finds himself out on Margot’s balcony with Vincent.

It’s a nice view of the city, with its rows and rows of glittering skyscrapers. Yves leans out on the railing. 

The alcohol has done its job of making him feel pleasantly warm indoors, but it’s too cold outside for it to have the same effect. He doesn’t realize he’s shivering until Vincent says, “Are you too cold?”

“No,” Yves says, crossing his arms in an attempt to keep himself from shivering. “It’s… ndot that… cold out—hh-! hHehh’IIZSCHh-EEW!” Ugh. Very convincing.“That was bad timing, snf-!, I swear.”

“Bad timing, I’m sure,” Vincent says, his tone soft. “We can go inside if you want.”

“No,” Yves says, rubbing his nose. “It’s nicer out here, snf-! Also, I’m sure there will be fireworks at mbidnight. Which is soon.”

“So you’re taking the best vantage point all for yourself,” Vincent says.

“Yes, I— hHh-hHEH-!” He thinks it might culminate in another sneeze, but the tickle in his nose dissipates, very frustratingly, at last possible moment. “I got here first,” Yves says, sniffling. “Finders, keepers.”

“In that case,” Vincent says. Then—in lieu of finishing that sentence—he unbuttons his blazer and drapes it over Yves’s shoulders. 

Yves stares at him, disbelieving. The blazer is still warm—indulgently, comfortably warm—from Vincent’s shoulders. “There’s no way you’re not cold wearing that,” he says, gesturing to Vincent’s button-down shirt. It’s long-sleeved—a small consolation—but with fabric that thin, there’s really no chance he’s dressed warmly enough for this weather.

It’s starting to snow again—lightly enough that the snow melts into water when it hits the ground.

Vincent shrugs. “I grew up here. I’m used to it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Yves says, pulling the jacket closer. “Thadks.”

Inside, almost everyone who hasn’t left has gathered in the living room. Someone—Mikhail, maybe—is telling a story to the crowd, to raucous laughter. Then, after a bit, Margot says something, lifting her glass of champagne, and everyone joins her in counting down. Ten. Nine.

“Erika’s watching,” Vincent says, after a beat. Eight. Yves turns and sees that he’s right—he spots her somewhere in the crowd, in her sleek blue dress. When she catches him looking, she waves. Seven. Six. “She’ll probably be expecting us to kiss.”

Yves looks away from her to look at Vincent. Vincent, who’s here just because Yves asked him to be, who looks unfairly attractive even in something as forgettable as a white button-down shirt, who Yves will probably never have another chance to spend a night with again. The question is out of his mouth before he can think twice about it.

“Can we?”

He almost bites his tongue after. What is he thinking? It’s a ludicrous request—something absolutely unfitting to ask from a coworker, especially when he has a cold—and he’s certain he would never have asked it if he were sober. He opens his mouth to apologize, to explain himself, but—

Two. One.

Vincent leans in, briefly, and kisses him.

Beyond them, fireworks shatter into the sky. There’s the sound of cheering in the living room. 

The kiss lasts only a moment before Yves is wrenching himself away, taking a couple hurried steps back before his head snaps forward with a sudden, spraying—

“Hhehh’IIDSCHiiEW!”

—which, despite his efforts, almost certainly mists Vincent’s collar. It’s enough of a warning for him to lift his hand to his face and twist away to cover the subsequent—

“hHEH… Hheh’yISSCHEew! Snf-! Heh… hheh-!! Hheh… HEHh’iiDDZSChiEw!”

He feels heat creep up into his cheeks.  “I’mb so sorry,” he says, and means it for everything—for the untimely sneeze, for the kiss, for inviting Vincent to the party in the first place. “That was… I’mb really sorry. Oh, god, I really hope you don’t catch this. I would feel awful if you caught this.” His head swims, and he finds himself grabbing the railing to steady himself, muffling a fit of harsh, grating coughs into his hand. Usually, it would be his sleeve, but given that the sleeve he has on now belongs to Vincent’s very nice blazer, his options are limited.

Yves leans his weight onto the railing, sniffling, and shuts his eyes against the dizziness. He might be drunker than he’d given himself credit for. 

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Vincent says. Yves doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to see what he might be thinking. He really, really owes Vincent for all of this. “Are you tired?”

“Just a little drunk,” Yves answers. “We should probably head home soon.” 

“Okay,” Vincent says.

The apartment is indulgently warm when they step back inside. Yves hands Vincent back his jacket and lingers in the living room to say goodbye to Margot (he has the pleasure of watching her hug Vincent for the second time tonight) and to the handful of college friends that he recognizes. It’s a short walk to the car through the snow—just a few minutes, except he finds it to be more of a tedious walk than expected, and Vincent has to grab his arm a couple times to keep him from stumbling.

“Careful,” he says sternly, the first time.

Yves stares at him, tries to think about what sober Yves would say. He’s always been a little too honest when drunk.

“You are a godsend,” he says. “Thanks for coming todight. I kdow you hate parties.”

“I don’t hate parties. Are you always like this when you’re drunk?”

“Like what?”

Vincent laughs—a short, soft laugh which Yves wishes he could hear more of. “This is the fifth time you’ve thanked me.”

Is it really? “Ndo, I just am… hEH-!” Yves twists away from Vincent, just in time to let out a barely covered— 

“hehh’IZZSCHH-iIEW! Snf!” The sneeze jerks him forward, harsh—and loud—enough that he feels a twinge of pain in his throat. Luckily, Vincent won’t be here tomorrow to see him lose his voice. 

“Bless you,” Vincent says, reflexively.

“That’s definitely ndot the fifth time you’ve blessed me,” Yves says. “It’s more than that for sure. So I’mb allowed to thadk you more than once.”

“If you put it that way.”

Vincent drives him home. Yves directs the GPS to his address and tries to stay awake so he can talk to him, until Vincent says, “If you’re tired, you should sleep,” which Yves wants to protest. It seems rude to fall asleep in his own car when he’s supposed to be the one driving in the first place. But maybe Vincent is tired, too, from having had to socialize with strangers all night, and maybe silence would be preferable to him now. So Yves leans his head against the passenger seat window and shuts his eyes.

It feels like he’s only been asleep for a minute before Vincent taps him on the shoulder.

“We’re here,” he says, pulling the keys from the ignition.

“That was fast,” Yves says. He muffles a small cough into his sleeve. “Thadks again for driving me. I’mb sorry we stayed out so late.” He checks his watch—it’s close to 1am. It occurs to him that he has no idea if Vincent is a morning person, if this is considered late by his standards. If he’s tired, too.

“It’s no problem,” Vincent says, stifling a yawn into his hand. Well, that answers his question.

Yves unbuckles his seatbelt, opens the passenger door, and gets out. It’s brutally cold out, cold enough that he has to fight back a shiver. “At least wait inside as I call you an Uber?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

But Yves is already pulling out his phone, scrolling through their messages for Vincent’s address. It’s the least he can do, after everything.

Vincent waits inside with him for a few minutes. It’s a bit of a wait for his ride—probably everyone’s trying to get back home from their New Year’s parties at this time—so Yves makes them both some hot chocolate (nothing fancy, given the time constraints—just hot cocoa mix with some cinnamon and steamed milk—but Yves says “You should come again some time, I promise I can actually cook when I have more than three minutes”) and sits with him in the living room. He finds himself almost disappointed when the cab finally arrives.

“Get home safe,” Yves says.

“Thanks,” Vincent says. “I will.”

“And Vincent?”

Vincent turns.

There’s a hundred things Yves wants to say to him. He wants to say, you didn’t have to do this. He wants to say, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. He wants to say, how can I make it up to you?

“Happy New Year,” he says, instead, and Vincent smiles.

—

 

I do have additional plans for these two even though the party's over, if people are interested, but life is busy/motivation is fickle, so the next installment might take a bit.

I would love to hear your thoughts! :')

[AutumnSneezes]

Yes!!!! I loved the update! I'm so glad you had time to write, this was such a treat  Poor Yves, I'm glad you weren't as mean to him as you could have been haha, and I loved how sensitive and kind and caring Vincent was again! Him sharing his blazer jacket? And kissing him? I love him so much!!! But the way Yves had to stop the kiss (THE KISS!!!) to sneeze killed me in the best way! Absolutely loved this! 🤤

[ID2006]

Of course I want more. This is screaming romance and caretaking coming up.

[AutumnSneezes]

Also, I didn't see your reply until just now (still figuring out how to work this platform haha), thanks so much for your reply! I'm so glad my comments gave you ideas, but yes, talking through sneezes is the best! You're right, it can feel random to put the sneezes elsewhere sometimes haha. Also, you're so welcome, I love being able to highlight what I liked, and stories deserve it! Writing is so hard haha. Looking forward to whatever you have in store for us!

[Tumble]

Okay I’m hooked, I like the slow build you have here.🥰

[chronic reader]

I totally want more!!! I understand how difficult life can be though, so take your time and be good to yourself💚