#Pneumonia

[beepbeep-eddy-27]

#196 #r196 #shitposting #r/196 #shitpost #mimosa #nimona #nimonaposting #nbposting #pneumonia

[ausetkmt]

Pharmacist Lunsford Richardson made Vicks a household name throughout the nation, but his popular product did not do the same for him.

Even in his native North Carolina, where his most celebrated of chemical concoctions has been right under our stuffy noses and on our congested chests for generations, the mention of Richardson’s name elicits blank stares from all but those who study and cherish history.

Richardson’s salve, Vicks VapoRub, helped the world breathe easier during the devastating influenza pandemic of 1918 and during the countless colds and flus of our childhoods, yet most of us couldn’t pick Lunsford Richardson out of a one-man police lineup, much less a who’s who of medical pioneers.

Why didn’t Richardson — by all accounts a creative inventor and smart businessman — ever become as famous as those vapors packed into the familiar squat blue jar?

Because his name wouldn’t fit on the jar.

That’s one version of the story. According to company and family lore, Richardson initially dubbed his promising new product Richardson’s Croup and Pneumonia Cure Salve. Realizing that this name didn’t exactly roll off the tongue nor fit when printed on a small medicine jar, Richardson changed the name to honor his brother-in-law, Dr. Joshua Vick. Another account suggests the inventive druggist plucked the name from a seed catalog he’d been perusing that listed the Vick Seed Co.

The truth may never be known. What is known, though, is that Lunsford Richardson created a medicinal marvel for the ages, the likes of which may never be equaled.

Croupy beginnings

A Johnston County native born in 1854, Richardson loved chemistry and hoped to study it at Davidson College. The college’s chemistry program at the time wasn’t as strong as he’d hoped it would be, so he studied Latin instead, graduating with honors in three years. He returned to Johnston County and taught school, but it wasn’t long before the young man’s love of chemistry got the best of him. In 1880, he moved to Selma to work with his physician brother-in-law, Dr. Vick. It was not uncommon in those days for doctors to dispense drugs themselves, but Vick was so busy seeing patients that he teamed up with Richardson, allowing him to handle the pharmacy duties for him. Richardson relied on his knowledge of Latin to help him learn the chemical compounds required to become a pharmacist, and that’s when he began to experiment with recipes for the product that would become Vicks VapoRub.

It wasn’t until Richardson moved to his wife’s hometown of Greensboro in 1890 that his magical salve and other products he created began to take off.

“He was a man of great intellect and talent,” says Linda Evans, community historian for the Greensboro Historical Museum, which has an exhibit devoted to Richardson and Vicks.

“Druggists at the time fashioned their own remedies a lot, and he created a number of remedies, in addition to his magic salve, that he sold under the name of Vick’s Family Remedies. He was obviously a man of such creativity.”

In Greensboro, working out of a downtown drugstore he purchased (where he once employed a teenaged William Sydney Porter, the future short story writer O. Henry), Richardson patented some 21 medicines. The wide variety of pills, liquids, ointments, and assorted other medicinal concoctions included the likes of Vick’s Chill Tonic, Vick’s Turtle Oil Liniment, Vick’s Little Liver Pills and Little Laxative Pills, Vick’s Tar Heel Sarsaparilla, Vick’s Yellow Pine Tar Cough Syrup, and Vick’s Grippe Knockers (aimed at knocking out la grippe, an old-timey phrase for the flu).

These products sold with varying degrees of success, but the best seller in the lineup of Richardson’s remedies was Vick’s Magic Croup Salve, which he introduced in 1894. And by all accounts, necessity was the key to its success.

“He had what they referred to as a croupy baby — a baby with a lot of coughing and congestion,” explains Richardson’s great-grandson, Britt Preyer of Greensboro. “So as a pharmacist, he began experimenting with menthols from Japan and some other ingredients, and he came up with this salve that really worked. That’s how it all started.”

Another version of the story suggests that all three of the Richardson children caught bad colds at the same time, and Richardson, dissatisfied with the traditional treatment of the day, which included poultices and a vapor lamp, spent hours at his pharmacy developing his own treatment.

Richardson’s salve — a strong-smelling ointment combining menthol, camphor, oil of eucalyptus, and several other oils, blended in a base of petroleum jelly — was a chest-soothing, cough-suppressing, head-clearing sensation. When the salve was rubbed on the patient’s chest, his or her body heat vaporized the menthol, releasing a wave of soothing, medicated vapors that the patient breathed directly into the lungs.

Vicks in the mailbox

In 1911, Richardson’s son Smith, by now a successful salesman for his father’s company, recommended discontinuing all of the company’s products except for Vick’s Magic Croup Salve. He believed the salve could sell even better if the company stopped investing time and money in the other, less successful remedies. He also suggested renaming the salve Vicks VapoRub, according to the company’s history timeline, to “help dramatize the product’s performance.” Richardson agreed, and a century later, the name’s still the same.

Meanwhile, Richardson intensified his marketing efforts by providing free goods to druggists who placed large orders and publishing coupons for free samples in newspapers. He also advertised on billboards and sent promotional mailings to post office boxes, addressed to Boxholder rather than the individual’s name, thus earning him the distinction of being the father of junk mail.

In 1925, Vicks even published a children’s book to help promote the product. The book told the story of two elves, Blix and Blee, who rescued a frazzled mother whose sick child refused to take nasty-tasting medicines. Their solution, of course, was the salve known as Vicks VapoRub.

Expanding and experimenting

As successful as the marketing campaign was, nothing sold Vicks VapoRub like the deadly Spanish flu outbreak that ravaged the nation in 1918 and 1919, killing hundreds of thousands of Americans. Loyal Vicks customers and new customers stocked up on the medicine to stave off or fight the disease.

According to the company’s history timeline, VapoRub sales skyrocketed from $900,000 to $2.9 million in a single year because of the pandemic. The Vicks plant in Greensboro operated around the clock, and salesmen were pulled off the road to help at the manufacturing facility in an effort to keep up with demand.

As the flu spread across the nation, Richardson grew ill with pneumonia in 1919 and died. Smith took over the company. Vicks continued to grow, buying other companies until Procter & Gamble bought it in the 1980s. Through the years, Vicks continued adding new products to its arsenal of cold remedies: cough drops, nose drops, inhalers, cough syrup, nasal spray, Formula 44, NyQuil. And whatever success those products attained, they got there standing on the broad shoulders of Richardson.

Richardson will never be a household name, but his salve has held that status for more than a century — and may do so for the next hundred years. And for Richardson, were he still around, that ought to be enough to clear his head.

A cure-all salve

Vicks users have claimed the salve can cure and heal many maladies. Even though Vicks doesn’t say the salve works for these problems, people still believe.

Toenail fungus: Rub the salve on your toenails, cover with socks, and sleep your fungus problems away. Cough: For a similar fix to a nagging cough, some believe rubbing Vicks on the soles of your feet can fix the problem. Dandruff: Rub Vicks directly on the scalp, and your flakes may just disappear. Chapped lips: Petroleum jelly is one of the ingredients in Vicks, and some say the ointment can help heal cracked lips. Mosquito bites: If you smooth Vicks on the red bumps on your legs and arms, it can supposedly take the itch right out. Warts: Dab Vicks on the wart, cover with duct tape, and it may fall off in a few days.

Greensboro Historical Museum 130 Summit Avenue Greensboro, N.C. 27401 [phone] greensborohistory.org

See historical Vicks VapoRub bottles and learn about Lunsford Richardson.

#VICKS #Vicks vapo rub #Lunsford Richardson #Vicks VapoRub #spanish american flu #Spanish flu outbreak #1918 #1919 #pneumonia #Black Inventors

[mindblowingscience]

A mysterious and rapid rise in Legionnaires' disease, a severe bacterial lung infection, has been linked to cleaner air, in a US study of trends in sulfur dioxide pollution. Puzzled by the lengthy global upsurge in Legionnaires' disease, an atypical form of pneumonia caused by Legionella bacteria, researchers at two US universities and the New York State Department of Health investigated possible environmental factors that could explain the trend in their neck of the woods.

Continue Reading.

#Science #Health #Atmospheric Science #Pneumonia #Airflow #Bacteria

[squintingcats]

Caretaker helping Whumpee sit up during an intense coughing fit and thumping them on the back to make things easier on their aching diaphragm and raw throat.

Bonus points if the coughing fit exacerbates Whumpee’s headache and leaves them too exhausted to move. Caretaker would have to slowly ease them back down and tuck them in again.

#fever whump #sick whump #whumpblr #whump #whump community #fever #cold whump #whump aesthetics #whump things #whump tropes #whump scenario #whump stuff #whump writing #sickfic whump #sickfic #sicknario #coughing #pneumonia #sick #hurt/comfort #caretaking #caretaker #whumpee

[liminalweirdo]

[image id: two screenshots of four tweets by user lisa_iannattone on Twitter, posted on 19 December 2022 at 1:14 p.m., reading sequentially: "It's absolutely wild to me that we're pretending that the higher than average number of respiratory tract infections and the pandemic of adults with pneumonia this year is not a warning sign of immune impairment. This is literally how immunodeficiency would present.In clinical practice, we we want to screen for the possibility of an undiagnosed underlying immunodeficiency syndrome, "how many respiratory infections do you get in an average year?" and "have you had pneumonia more than once?" are the 2 first questions we ask.There's been more pneumonias among my healthy adult friends & acquaintances in the last 6 months than among my immunosuppressed patients in the last 6 years. Something is clearly off. And healthy adults with pneumonia is not a viral transmission dynamics issue.This thread blew up and some people aren't sure if I'm suggesting immunity debt. Definitely not. Staying healthy doesn't make you sick, pathogens do. As for the immunity "gap", it's likely a contributing factor but doesn't explain adults with pneumonia. It's SARS2 I'm worried about.

end image id]

hey, the pandemic is not over. wear a mask.

in case this is unclear, immunocompromised, immunosuppressed, and other disabled people are not getting sick the same way as healthy adults because they are masking the fuck up and/or still largely being forced to isolate, while many many “healthy” adults are not. just because you are healthy doesn’t mean you are immune to long-term effects from covid. anyone can become disabled at any time. immunity debt is not real.

do your part to protect yourself and others. not wearing a mask is worse than ableism. It’s disablist.

Please at least wear masks in public indoor, and crowded outdoor spaces. Make public spaces safe and accessible for everyone.

#immunity debt #immunity debt is not real #ableism #wear a fucking mask #wear a mask #pneumonia #immunodeficiency #immunocompromised #disability #pretending the pandemic is over doesn't make it true #disablism #described #like disabled people are largely still isolating because of people who don't give a shit if they catch or spread covid

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

Hi, could you write something about a Villain taking care of a Hero with pneumonia?

Hi Anon! Sure I can! Thanks for your patience while I got around to this, and for requesting it! Here you go!

“Come on, you need to take your medicine,” Villain coaxed.

Hero’s breaths came in short little gasps, a sheen of sweat coated their forehead, and their eyes were glassy and unfocused.

“You probably can’t even tell I’m here,” Villain sighed.

Without warning, Villain sat Hero up against the pillows, eliciting a heart-breaking whine from the incapacitated crime-fighter. Villain poured some medicine onto a spoon and pushed it past Hero’s lips.

“Mmmf?” Hero mumbled with a grimace.

“Swallow for me,” Villain said, “you can do it.”

Hero held the medicine in their mouth for a few moments, then eventually acquiesced and swallowed the bitter liquid. Villain let out a sigh of relief.

“I’m gonna take your temperature now,” Villain said, “hopefully the fever’s gone down some.”

Villain pulled out a thermometer and gently shoved it in Hero’s mouth. After a few moments, a loud beeping broke the silence. Villain pulled the thermometer out and their face fell as they read the number.

“Not much better,” they muttered, “I might need to take you to a hospital.”

Just the one word was enough to bring Hero back to some semblance of lucidity.

“N-no!” they said weakly, “no hospital!”

“Hero, I know you have a thing about hospitals,” Villain reasoned, “but this is serious. If your fever gets much higher, you’re not coming back from this.”

“You s-said you’d take care of me,” Hero pleaded, “please, Villain, no hospital.”

Villain looked at Hero’s pitiful expression. They groaned loudly.

“Alright,” Villain conceded, “but I swear, if your temperature goes up by so much as a decimal of a degree, I’m taking you to the hospital. No arguments. Deal?”

Hero sniffled and nodded. They suddenly lurched forward as they let out a string of wet coughs. Villain rubbed their back soothingly. Hero fell back against the pillows, blinking slowly as though their eyelids were made of lead. Villain adjusted Hero’s covers and left the room so they could rest.

…

Villain entered Hero’s room with a tray in hand. On the tray was a bowl of soup and a tall glass of water with a straw. The sound of whimpering made Villain practically run to Hero’s bedside. They set the tray down and caught sight of Hero tossing and turning in their sleep.

“N-no,” they mumbled.

Their fever-addled mind had conjured up some sort of nightmare, Villain guessed. Villain shook Hero a few times to wake them.

“Stop it!” Hero cried in their sleep.

“Hero, it’s me,” Villain said, “you’re alright. It’s just a dream.”

Hero’s eyes flew open, and they screamed, bolting upright in bed. Their wide eyes darted around the room until they fell on Villain. They hugged Villain as tight as their weakened state would allow.

“Shhh, you’re alright, you’re alright,” Villain soothed, carding a hand through Hero’s sweat-dampened hair.

“I-I- it was so real,” Hero muttered.

“I know,” Villain said softly, “it’s over now, okay? It’s all over.”

Villain adjusted the pillows and sat Hero up against them. They set the tray of food in Hero’s lap.

“I need you to eat,” Villain said, “you need fluids.”

Hero nodded. They tried to lift the spoon, but their hand was shaking, and their grip was so weak that it fell back down on the tray with a clatter.

“It’s okay,” Villain said quickly, seeing the tears form in Hero’s eyes, “let me.”

Villain quietly fed Hero small spoonfuls of the soup. Once or twice Hero reached for the water, so Villain held it steady for them to drink. Once the bowl was empty, Villain set the tray back on the nightstand.

“Thank you, Villain,” Hero said quietly.

The corner of Villain’s mouth curled up into a small smile.

“Of course, Hero,” they said.

It would be another week before Hero fully recovered, and Villain was there every step of the way.

ko-fi

tags: @mythixmagic @infinityshadows @fishtale88 @thelazywitchphotographer @the-beasts-have-arrived @princessofonwardsworld @surplus-of-sarcasm

#pneumonia #writeblr #writing #creative writing #whump #snippet #hero x villain #as requested #fever #nightmares #heroes and villains #hero x villain community #whump fluff #spoonfeeding #hospital mention #disorientation #delirium #hurt/comfort #sick hero #sick whumpee #sickfic #hero x villain sickfic #hero whumpee #villain caretaker

[esbee-daisy]

Sickfic prompts? Listing out my first fave? I genuinely don’t know how to tumblr so here we go…

A and B are out in the ice cold wildness on some mission

- B falls into a frozen lake (maybe they’re on it despite A’s warnings but they’re trying to get something that will help someone)

- A pulls B out, B is barely conscious but sputters out water

- B tries to stand but their legs aren’t working and they crumple back down to the ice

- A has to carry a soaking wet and hypothermic B through the start of a snowstorm. B fights to stay conscious and A is terrified by the ragged weak breath against their neck. They’ve never felt anything so cold

- finding shelter in whatever is nearest…maybe an abandoned cabin or for maximum pain, a cave or overgrowth

- A frantically trying to warm a delirious B, who is resisting anything warm because OMG IT IS SO PAINFUL (and B’s subsequent struggle between lucid moments of wanting to be held by A, feeling freezing, but feeling burned by A’s gentle touch)

- A grows more terrified as B slips in and out of consciousness. B is the one with medical training, A doesn’t even know if they’re doing things right!

- after much detailed angst and hurt/comfort, A finally thinks B’s hypothermia is passing and they’re out of the woods

- but they’re not because A finally lets themselves drift off to sleep, but the next time A wakes up, B is burning with fever and a terrible, rattling cough. They’re limp and pathetic but coherent now which in some ways makes A feel worse than when they did when they were unconscious because B is aware of their situation now and in so much pain, so scared and vulnerable and SMALL (which is totally out of character for B) and A really doesn’t know if/when help is coming

#hypothermia #sickfic #sickfic prompts #whump prompt #whump tropes #fainting #passing out #writing prompt #hurt/comfort #freezing #shivering #sick character #fever #burning up #pneumonia #sneezing

[macgyvermedical]

How would pneumonia have been treated in the mid to late 1930s, during the Great Depression?

This actually varies a LOT depending on where the person was, what their socioeconomic status was, whether they were getting hospital care or being cared for at home, etc...

At the highest level of care, someone could be in a hospital paying to be in a private room (which at the time meant paying for a private doctor (not just the hospital resident) and private nurse (not just the student nurses training at the hospital) to care for them, plus either family members or servants to provide basic direct care), on continuous oxygen therapy, getting arterial blood gas readings (super duper high tech), and receiving the most effective antibiotic of the day- sulfanilamide.

At the "lowest" level of care, someone was probably going to be cared for at home by a family member. To be clear, home nursing was still common at this time and there would have still been generational knowledge about how to feed, clean, and otherwise care for an ill person- knowledge that is largely lost today. If someone had access to a medical text aimed at home caregivers, it likely had advice to purge the body by taking medications designed to make the ill person sweat or vomit. This, and placing a mustard plaster against the person's chest.

You can see that these are two extremely different approaches to care, and most people would be somewhere in the middle- potentially able to afford a doctor's visit or prescription for sulfanilamide, but not private hospital care.

Or, if they did need hospital care (usually just those who didn't have someone to care for them at home, or those who needed oxygen), they would be on a public ward, probably cared for mostly by student nurses and the hospital resident (literally a doctor just out of training who lived and worked full time at the hospital for a year or so before setting up their own practice).

Oxygen therapy would have been available in hospitals at this point in pressurized tanks stored near patient beds. Pneumonia was one of the first uses of medical oxygen, which was titrated to the patient's level of cyanosis and level of consciousness.

Oxygen delivery mechanisms were developed in WWI and resembled just about what we have now in the way of cannulas and masks. Interestingly enough, there was a bitter debate at this time about whether continuous or intermittent oxygen was best. Continuous eventually won out, but not until the 1970's.

#whump reference #writing reference #pneumonia #history #oxygen therapy

[warmblanketwhump]

What about something with a whumpee who falls through ice?

this turned into some kind of winter epic but I hope you enjoy 😂

One minute, A's standing on the frozen lake, waving at B and C back on the shore. The next, they hear a sharp crack—and they're through the ice and underwater.

The cold feels like a thousand knives—so blinding that A can't see or feel, much less figure out which way is up or down. After a few seconds, they gain their bearings, only to feel the horrifying thud of the solid ice above their head.

Their desperate scream is muted as they hit the ice once, twice, three times, to no avail—

get me out get me out get me OUT

Their lungs burn as they fail to hold their breath any longer, and they suck in a mouthful, then another of water, colors swirling and flashing as their pleas for oxygen go unheard—

—until suddenly their fingers punch through to sharp, clean winter air. A sputters and coughs as their lungs fight to expel water, and they whirl around as they try to get their bearings, then seeing B and C waving and shouting something their ears can’t quite parse out.

A frantically claws at the ice at the edge of the hole, a pained sound escaping from their throat as the thin ice breaks every time they try to grab hold. They feel their muscles seizing up, but force themselves to keep kicking, keep fighting. They can't die. Not like this.

But as the minutes drag on, and B & C are nothing more than moving blurs of color on the shore and their limbs begin to stiffen, the fight within them starts dwindling.

Hold on, A. Come on. Hold on. Don't give in.

“A! Grab on!” A rope suddenly appears a few inches from them, and A kicks toward it with all their might. Their fingers are too numb to hold on very tightly, but they manage to wrap it around their wrist several times and give a weak tug.

“P-p-pull!” It’s a choked whimper, but B and C must hear their small voice because they feel the tug against their skin, then feel their numb, burning limbs scraping over the ragged surface of the ice as they’re dragged back to the blessedly solid shoreline.

As their trembling body meets the cold black rock of the shore, they’re consumed with the terror of what just happened. But when they take a breath to sob, they’re choked by more coughing as their body fights to rid their lungs of the frigid lake water.

B rips off their coat and wraps it around A’s quaking body, hoisting them up in their arms, gently stroking their rapidly freezing hair from their forehead. “Shhh…you’re okay. You’re okay. We’ll warm you up in no time.”

A can’t still their clattering teeth or their gasping breaths enough to respond.

————————

An hour later, A’s still violently shivering despite being wrapped in a blanket, their feet submerged in a steaming bucket of warm water, seated in the chair closest to the fire. They cinch the blanket tighter with cold, aching fingers, pulling it up over their ears and nose. The fire is banked high and crackling, but it does little to displace the bone-deep chill in their core or quiet their rattling teeth.

The first minutes after the rescue were hazy—first jostling and numb as B carried them and sprinted back to the cabin, then cold and dark, and murmuring voices, and frozen clothes peeled away and replaced with warm, dry ones on their ice-cold skin. Slowly, the colored blobs gave way to the forms of their frantic friends, wool blankets, muttered curses and sparks that turned to a healthy flame.

If only warmth would come.

The thought of getting warm was all-consuming for A as they shiver with chills. The bucket of hot water was somehow painfully hot and just not warm enough. The blanket around their shoulders was too thin, and they could still feel the icy water on their skin. The fire should be bigger. But none of the thoughts can make it out of their clattering jaw with any semblance of order.

However, as if B heard their thoughts, A feels them gently drape a second blanket around their shoulder, then feels their hands sweep up and down their back to generate warmth.

C watches them from the other side of the hearth, poking at the fire to stir the flames, eyeing A with concern. “How are you feeling?"

An honest answer bubbles up in their mind. I thought I would die down there.

Instead, they force out a weak “J-just c-c-cold,” before coughs steal their voice again. And though not their first thought, it is true. They weakly rub their arms with shaky hands, desperate to try and help B generate a spark of heat. “I c-can’t g-get warm.”

At that, B leaves and then returns to the fire with something wrapped in towels, handing it to A. “Here. This will take the edge off a bit more. You've had quite a chill.”

A clutches the warm bundle closer to their body, desperate for the warmth to permeate their core. “Th-th-thanks.” Another round of coughing burns in their chest, the lake water still unyielding. They feel B’s hand on their shoulder, rubbing gently, and they look up to see B’s concerned frown as their hand traces up to their damp hair.

“We shouldn’t leave your head wet. Don’t want you getting sick.”

A doesn’t have the energy to explain that they just spent a substantial amount of time in a freezing lake, which pretty much negated the benefits of keeping their head warm by now. But they don’t mind the feeling of B gently toweling the melting water droplets out of their hair, and they lean into the soft touch long after their hair is dried.

A figures they must look pitifully cold, because B continues to run their fingers through their hair, and C, who usually avoids most physical touch, hugs A close to them on their other side, helping them sip from the cup of tea since their hands are too shaky to hold it.

Three hours later, A’s still deathly pale, but they can manage an intelligible sentence, and their hands are still enough to curl around another mug of tea, and they’d managed to eat a little soup for dinner. What their friends can’t see is the ice that clings to A’s bones, the superficial heat unable to thaw the chill that had gripped their core. They're out of the danger zone, but they're still just....cold.

Between the exhausting hours of shivering and the events of the day, it's no surprise when their head starts bobbing, and their eyelids start feeling like they’re weighted. They’re not sure when the transition from waking to sleeping happens—they only feel someone gently lifting their bundled form off the couch to take back to their bedroom. B leaves and returns with two more blankets, draping each of them in turn over A and tugging them up to their chin. “You just rest now,” B whispers, gently smoothing down A’s hair before.

Despite the warm layers, A just can’t chase the cold out of their achy bones. Chills crawl across their skin, and they clutch the pouch of hot water closer, trying to envision themselves sinking into a hot spring, or sunning themselves in a field on a hot summer day.

A strange childhood memory resurfaces in a dream—of swimming in a frigid lake too long on a hot summer’s day and emerging blue-lipped and chilled through, of a relative wrapping them in a dry blanket and holding them close in the warm sun.

The memory is full of comfort and they long to re-enter it—but the memory frosts at the edges, and they slip out of the dream-relative’s arms and are plunged back into the lake. The lake freezes over and washes over their ankles, knees, waist as the cold seeps back in, unrelenting, unreleasing, coming from the inside out.

The black water rushes up to their neck now, but A's frozen in place, unable to move or even scream as the water closes over their head—

—and suddenly they're awake, coughing up a lung, unable to take a full breath. Somehow, they’re colder under the blankets than they were in the lake, like the lake had stolen their fire and left them an icy, empty shell. At the same time, they feel sweat prickle on the back of their neck, chilling in the cold air, and as A struggles to draw in a full breath, they get the sensation that something is very, very wrong.

The rest of the night consists of hours of restless tossing and turning, sweating and shaking, trying to stifle the relentless coughs. They wake in the early blue dawn feeling chilled and congested, chest heavy like an iron bar is resting across them. A draws the blankets closer and rubs their arms, trying to generate a little warmth in their achy bones. Everything hurts—even the joints in their fingers and toes, and there's a violent cough that burns in their rib cage every time it seizes their lungs.

The fireplace. That's warm.

The thought of heat propels A to jerk to an upright position. As the blankets tumble off their shoulders, the wintry air sends a sudden, violent chill throughout their whole body, rattling their teeth so hard they're scared they chipped a tooth. Bad idea. They scramble for the top quilt, fumbling as they wrap the precious layer back around themselves and dive back under the covers.

But it’s not warm enough—nothing is warm enough. They hug their knees to their chest and huddle under the blankets, too wracked with shudders to embark on the trek to the fireplace, too exhausted to move, chest burning, and so, so scared.

They don’t know how long they lay there, trembling and coughing, alone. They only feel the hand rest on their shoulder, then move up to their forehead to push away the damp hair, a whispered curse floating out into the air that they can see.

Why can I see words?

Why is my hair still damp?

B's face enters their field of vision, their cool hand on A's forehead.

Why is B cold?

Amid the thoughts, A hears pounding footsteps. They barely register that B is gone before B is back, dragging a half-awake C with them.

"B? What's wrong?" C’s voice is hazy from sleep, and A sees them rub the sleep away from their eyes.

"A's caught a bad chill from the cold water. And they're burning up."

"My....my chest...." A gasps out.

C comes closer, leaning against A’s chest to listen more intently to the rattling sound that comes every time A breathes, then lays the back of their hand against A's cheek. When their face is visible again, it's painted with ridges of concern.

"B, get the fire going."

"C, what's wro—"

"B, now." C's tone sends another chill down A's spine. "And get some water boiling, and those herbs from the pantry."

C's voice is so firm that B doesn't question it again, and scurries off to the main room.

Despite B not receiving an answer, A has to know. In their weak, cough-roughened voice, they rasp out two words: “What's.....happening?"

C gives a small smile, meant to comfort, which only confuses A's feverish brain further. "After your little swim yesterday, you’ve come down with a bout of winter fever."

Winter fever. The words alone send an ice pick through their heart. Winter fever makes its way through their village every year during the coldest months, stealing breath and warmth and life from too many to count. It can strike after a bad chill, or getting one’s feet wet, or even if you don’t warm yourself enough by the fire.

“Am…am I gonna die?”

"Shhhh....you'll be fine. I've helped many a relative through winter fever, and you're going to be no exception.”

A nods, still scared, but anchored by C’s confident voice.

Ten minutes later. A is plopped in front of a fire that's even bigger than yesterday, a pot of water giving off steam that casts a cloudy haze in the main sitting room. They’re nested in two warm blankets, hot water bottles at their feet and on their stomach to try and combat the constant fever chills.

C slowly peels away the layers of B’s blankets and pajamas over their upper body, exposing the skin of their chest to the cool air of the room. A grits their teeth to hide the chill that threatens to tear through them as they feel the goosebumps prickle over their whole body, squeezing their eyes shut at the painfully strange sensation.

Then, a pleasant warm feeling spreads across their chest, and A opens their eyes to see C laying a steaming towel soaked in some type of herb-scented mixture. It’s strong and pungent and not particularly good-smelling, but A instantly feels some of the tightness in their chest ease at the warmth and the medicinal scent.

“Old family remedy. It’ll ease the pain a bit and get you breathing better to get your lungs fighting again.” C nods toward B, who’s refilling a bubbling pot over the fire. “The steam will help, too.”

A coughs weakly, a sharp, rattling sound that makes both B and C tense. “Wish…wish I’d never gone on that lake,” they say, bottom lip trembling. On top of feeling awful, they’ve trapped B and C into caring for them. “Now you’re stuck helping me.”

“Hey, hey, none of that.” C’s at their side, carefully thumbing away the tear that’s slipping down their cheek. “You’d do the same for any of us. Who knows, I’ll probably break a leg hunting, or B will accidentally poison themselves with some root they think is edible.”

A tries to laugh, but a cough steals away their breath. “M’sorry for crying. The past couple days…”

“They’ve been rough, I know, love. I know.” C’s hand cups around A’s cheek, then drapes down to squeeze their shoulder. “But we’re with you. You don’t have to do this by yourself, okay?”

A nods readily, not trusting themselves to speak.

C nods back, glancing back at the fire. “It’s time to change the cloth—don’t want you getting chilled.”

A’s too tired to do more than just track C with their eyes as they move to the fire, get a new cloth, and swap out the cooling one with the gentlest of movements all while keeping A nested in blankets. They’re still feverish and achy and so tired, but the fear is evaporating as quickly as the steam from the pot over the fire.

I’m not alone.

#whump prompt #cold whump #falling through the ice #chills #fever whump #pneumonia #ALL OF IT #near drowning

[whumpster-dumpster]

Maybe not very likely but something is better than nothing, right?

#whump #whump meme #the elements #rain #pneumonia

[shion-yu]

A Safe Place (part 1) [Day 28]

Cliff shows up at Elliot's doorstep in the middle of the night soaked to the bone. A Cliff/Elliot sickfic heavy on the angst, also ft. Theo. For @monthofsick Day 28: Chaotic body temperature. I know, not me joining in on a writing challenge right at the end but it fit so well. 3,065 words, original work, TWs for homophobia, emeto (neither strong warnings, but the sick will get much sicker in p2).

It had been a long summer. Cliff had spent it working at Theo's law firm again, except this time he wasn't an unpaid intern but a legal secretary. It was a temporary job that they had offered him when his summer break had aligned perfectly with one of the secretary's maternity leaves and Cliff had jumped at the chance to work in such a great environment again. He was happy to see many familiar faces from last year, and to his surprise they were happy to see him too. Although he was mainly working with one of the other partners this time - not Theo - he saw the lawyer nearly every day and was relieved to learn both Theo and his partner, Al, were in good health. Al had gotten a double lung transplant that last Fall, Theo told Cliff. He and his new lungs were doing great. 

"What about you?" Theo asked Cliff eagerly. "How did your first year at NYU go?" 

Cliff smiled, automatically thinking of Elliot. "It was great," he said. "My classes were interesting but not too hard."

"You look happier," Theo said, surprising Cliff with how true the observation was. "Did something cause that?" 

"Yeah," Cliff said thoughtfully. "Someone did."

Being apart from Elliot that summer was difficult. He missed hugging and kissing Elliot every single day. He wanted to talk to him on the phone for hours and hours just to hear his voice and fall asleep with his fingers in Elliot’s curls. But when he was living at home, Cliff knew he had to be the perfect, straight laced child he'd been raised as. In other words, he couldn't be himself. He wore business attire to work every day, but the soft sweaters and cute hair clips he'd amassed over the past year stayed packed away in his college stuff for next semester. He didn't think his parents would appreciate those particular fashion choices he'd been making.

It's not like his parents made it hard to hide things. They hardly ever asked questions, and if they did it was about grades or tuition. Cliff knew he was incredibly lucky that his parents paid his entire tuition, room and board as if it were a given. Elliot's parents weren't able to help much financially, meaning his boyfriend had to take out loans and work part time while in school. This summer he was working nonstop in his dad's auto mechanic shop, saving up money. Often when Cliff video called Elliot these days he was covered in sweat, streaks of black motor oil on his face. It seemed wrong to complain about his parents when it was thanks to them that he was only working this summer because he wanted to, not because he had to. And yet, silently, Cliff  thought maybe he'd be happier if he was in Elliot's shoes - without much money but with a place he could really call home. It was a selfish, privileged thought and Cliff refused to voice it, but it creeped in each time he heard Elliot's mom call in the background, "Boys, wash up, it's time for dinner!" 

Working was a blessing to Cliff, because if he'd been at home he would've been in that big, lonely house all by himself most of the summer. Being at the law firm was not only a distraction, but comfortable. Despite wearing a suit, Cliff actually felt less tense there than at his parents' house. He stayed long hours, longer than he needed to, because he preferred the sound of printers and fax machines over his parents screaming at each other downstairs. When he was in high school it seemed easier to ignore. Maybe it was because he'd had a break for so many months that returning to it seemed worse than before. Or maybe it was because Elliot never screamed at him like that, and Cliff had started to realize that this wasn't how things had to be.

Around the beginning of August, Cliff caught a cold that didn't seem to go away. At first it was just the sniffles, and then it was a cough that grew progressively deeper with each week that passed. The other employees started asking him if he was alright, and embarrassingly Theo caught him staring blankly at the water fountain one day for far too long. Cliff was so out of it that he didn't even notice Theo calling his name until the older man waved his hand in Cliff's face.

"Oh," Cliff said, rubbing his eyes to try and make his blurry vision clear up. "Sorry, I was just... Daydreaming." 

"You look pale," Theo said, and before Cliff could step back Theo had placed a hand on Cliff's forehead while ignoring Cliff's protest that he was fine. "Hmm, you feel a little feverish. Why don't you go home, kid?" 

"I'm really fine," Cliff said, wildly embarrassed. "It's just a cold."

Theo looked him up and down, clearly assessing how pushy he should be. "At least go take a nap on the couch in my office, you look exhausted."

Usually, Cliff would say no immediately. He wouldn't even consider showing weakness at the place he was supposed to be making a vitally good impression at for his career. But he felt weak and a little dizzy and found himself saying in a small voice, "...If you're sure." 

Theo was sure. He brought Cliff to his office and shut the blinds so there wasn't much light coming through the many glass windows. He even tossed a blanket to the eighteen-year-old. "I sleep here all the time," he reassured Cliff. "You can't work if you're too tired to think. Don't worry about it." 

Cliff felt guilty for taking over Theo's office, but Theo headed out for a two hour meeting and Cliff was left alone on the couch. He had half a mind to leave and get back to work at his desk now that there was no one stopping him, but just sitting there made him realize how fatigued his whole body felt. A little nap wouldn't hurt, he reasoned. A really short one. He lay down and fell asleep so quickly that he didn't even remember closing his eyes. 

He woke up to Theo gently rubbing his shoulder. Cliff was confused, then his eyes widened in embarrassment and he sat up. Shit, had it been two hours already? Wait, that clock didn't say 5pm did it? - surely he hadn't slept for four hours?! 

"Woah, it's okay Cliff," Theo said quickly, "You seemed really tired so I let you sleep. You should go home now, everybody's leaving for the day." 

"I'm so sorry," Cliff gushed, face bright red. "I didn't mean to sleep so long. You don't have to pay me for today - please don't, actually." 

"Settle down, it's really fine," Theo said in a calm voice that made Cliff remember to take a deep breath like Elliot had taught him to calm down. "We all have off days. You don't feel so warm now, so that's good. Stay home tomorrow though." 

"That's totally not necessary," Cliff said, his confident tone supplemented by a very unconvincing round of dry coughs. He waved off the tissues Elliot tried to hand him. "Really, I'm fine. I've just been having some asthma since I got sick last winter, but my boy-" Cliff stopped himself, realizing he was about to out himself. "My, um, my roommate got me an inhaler so I just have to use it that's all." 

"Your boyfriend," Elliot supplied gently. "It's okay to say it, Cliff. You know I have Al." 

Cliff wanted to deny the comment outright. He wanted to laugh and say Elliot really was just a friend. But Theo had such an earnest expression, and he was the only successful adult man Cliff knew of who was gay. "I know, but, it's really not, not for me," Cliff found himself saying, voice wavering. "I-I have to go. Sorry I slept in your office so long," he said as he hurried out, ignoring Theo's all too kind voice calling after him. Cliff knew in a certain world that it was okay, but it wasn't his world. Not the world where he still relied on his parents. 

Despite saying he'd be back the next day, Cliff did stay home that Friday. His fever was worse and he had chills that left him huddled under the covers. His mom didn't notice he didn't leave the house and he didn't tell her. She didn't need to know, just like she didn't need to know about Elliot. She had never supported Cliff in anything at all, so why... Why did Cliff feel such a strong urge to tell her? 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

On the last day of Cliff's work at the law firm, Theo told Cliff if he ever needed a reference, he'd get a glowing one from him. And if he ever needed to talk about anything, anything at all, Cliff could call him too. Cliff knew what he was getting at, and he didn't want to face it. But Theo was such a calm person that it was disarming, and Cliff asked without meaning to, "Is it worth it?" 

Theo nodded. He knew what Cliff meant without specification. "Yes, it's worth it," Theo said. "Even if there's nay-sayers and you lose people, you gain much more. It's always worth it to be exactly who you are, Cliff."

Cliff went back to his parents house with those words echoing in his brain. Theo, a successful and respected lawyer, said it was worth it. He had a career and a person who loved him by his side. Was that something Cliff could have, too? Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be honest, just once?

"Mom," Cliff said over dinner, pushing his phone over to her with a picture of him and Elliot together on the screen. "I want to tell you something. This is my-"

"Don't do this to me Cliff," his mother interrupted before he could finish. "You've already caused enough trouble. He's not - just because you have a thing with another guy doesn't mean anything."

"It's not a thing mom. I love him," Cliff found himself saying angrily. And oh, why did he say that? The first time he finally said he loved Elliot and it was directed at his mom in spite. It wasn't supposed to be like this. 

"Cliff, you don't love him. You're too old to be playing this game. Now I'll forget we had this conversation. And don't tell your father."

Cliff saw red. He'd never been so angry in his life. He snatched his phone back and grabbed his wallet on the shelf by the door and went outside. She didn't follow him. 

It was pouring rain. Cliff shivered, wishing he'd had the forethought to grab a coat too, but he wasn't going to ruin his dramatic exit by going back inside. Of course his mother hadn't approved. Cliff hadn't expected her to. But he'd expected her to get angry - not to dismiss him all together like he was just a kid with a big imagination. Cliff knew then that she would never really think of him as his own person, and he couldn't do anything to change that. It broke his heart. 

Cliff walked for a very long time. He didn't quite know where he was going, only that he wanted to get as far away from that house as possible. He found himself at a park by the water where he beat up a couple of tree trunks that definitely won based on his bleeding knuckles afterwards. The rain didn't let up, and Cliff found himself getting progressively colder. His cough from earlier that month had never gone away and his breath began to catch on what felt like a dry patch in his throat. Cliff realized then that he'd left his inhaler at the house, too. The coughing grew more desperate until he pitched forward and vomited onto the grass he was standing on. He groaned and leaned against the nearest tree he could find, the contents of his stomach mixing with rushing rain water and swept away quickly. He continued to gag for several minutes until the coughing abated ever so slightly. He felt weak and pathetic. And also very, very alone.

He needed to get somewhere dry. Somewhere warm and safe. Cliff only had one place like that in mind. He boarded train after train, shivering in the corner like a wet dog as he made his way all the way to Long Island. He knew Elliot's address because he'd been sending Elliot mail all summer, little love notes and presents that made Cliff think of him. He never included a return address though, because he hadn't wanted his parents to see. Thankfully his phone had enough battery to direct him to Elliot's doorstep despite the wet four hour commute, and he found himself at the front door of a modest suburban home at 3:30 in the morning. 

The journey had felt like a daze. Cliff had never done something so erratic, so unplanned. He raised his hand to knock before remembering what time it was, and Elliot had parents and sister who probably wouldn't appreciate him knocking. He called Elliot instead, his phone barely hanging on at 5%. He thought to himself that it seemed unlikely that Elliot would answer at this time of night. But after several rings, by which time Cliff had resigned himself to waiting for dawn under a tree, a very sleepy voice picked up. 

"Cliff?"

"Elliot? Sorry to bother you," Cliff said, as if this entire situation weren't incredibly bizarre. "But I'm at your door."

There was a long pause, presumably while Elliot tried to figure out exactly what Cliff meant by 'at your door'. "Like right now? Now?" 

"Yeah," Cliff said. "Do you think I could sleep over?" 

"I'm coming down," Elliot said, and there was the rustling of sheets and then the thump of footsteps as Elliot ran downstairs. The front door opened and Elliot hung up. Cliff looked at him and thought he was the most beautiful person in the entire world. "Holy crap, you're really here," Elliot breathed. "God Cliff, what happened? No, come in first, you're soaked..."

Elliot pulled Cliff inside and helped Cliff take off his soaked trainers. There were traces of vomit on the front of his shirt and his fingers were still bloody. Elliot brought him to the bathroom, motioning for Cliff to stay quiet with one finger to his lips. He grabbed a towel from under the sink and wrapped it around the shorter boy, who was shivering violently from the marked change in temperature. In the bright light of the kitchen, suddenly his journey seemed a lot less valiant and a lot more stupid. "Sit," Elliot said, sitting Cliff on the toilet. "You're freezing... Can you take your temperature?”

Elliot handed Cliff a thermometer, which Cliff obediently used. After a few seconds it beeped and read ‘96.9.’ Elliot frowned. “Hot shower, okay?" Despite being woken up in the middle of the night, Elliot seemed fully alert. Cliff nodded and peeled off his wet and dirty clothes. He coughed roughly as he did so, a slight wheeze audible on the end of the exhale. Elliot patted his back with a concerned expression. "Do you have your inhaler?" Cliff shook his head no. Elliot grimaced and ran the hot water for Cliff. "You warm up. I'm gonna find you some clothes and I think there's an old inhaler somewhere in the medicine cabinet..."

Elliot moved to leave, but Cliff grabbed his arm before he could go. "Don't wake your family up," Cliff said hoarsely. "I'm okay." 

Elliot looked at Cliff in concern and sighed. "Cliff, you just showed up soaking wet in the middle of the night. You live all the way in Newark. I'm gonna be a little concerned. But right now you need to warm up. We can talk later."

"Okay," Cliff said. He took the hottest shower of his life then, and it felt glorious. After a few minutes he started to feel dizzy though and sat on the floor of the tub. Elliot came back and peeked around the curtain, frowning when he saw Cliff sitting there. 

"Are you awake?" Elliot asked worriedly. 

"Hmm," Cliff hummed in confirmation. "Just feels nice, and I got sleepy." 

"Finish up in there," Elliot said. "I've got sweats and a hot water bottle and bed waiting for you." 

Cliff obediently finished showering and sat on the edge of the tub as Elliot dried him off thoroughly with two big, fluffy towels. Cliff closed his eyes and remembered how many times he'd imagined being together again over the summer. "I missed you so much," Cliff said, resting his face on Elliot's abdomen. 

Elliot stilled and crouched in front of Cliff. "I missed you too," he said softly. "Now arms up." Elliot helped Cliff get into the warmest sweats that he owned and then led Cliff upstairs to his bedroom. The house was quiet, and Cliff hoped that meant he hadn't disturbed anyone else's sleep. He glanced around curiously at Elliot's childhood bedroom, which was decorated in a way that seemed so very Elliot. He smiled at the teddy bear sitting on the dresser that Cliff had bought Elliot at the baseball game they'd been to. It brought back good memories, nothing like the ones that had been swirling around in Cliff's head for the past several rainy hours. 

"Bed," Elliot whispered, tucking Cliff under the duvet and several extra blankets. Cliff was still shivering, but less so now. His temperature had blown from low numbers to high and he gazed at Elliot with glassy, feverish eyes. Elliot handed Cliff a very expired albuterol inhaler, which Cliff took a few puffs of. Despite the date stamped on the canister, it still eased the tightness in Cliff's chest a little. Elliot then climbed in next to him and wrapped his arms around Cliff. The feeling and smell of being enveloped by Elliot after all this time brought Cliff to tears and he hid his face. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know I should have called.”

"It’s okay,” Elliot said. “Sleep, Cliff. We can talk tomorrow.” Knowing he was finally in the only place he truly felt safe, Cliff slept.

[Cont. part 2]

#shionwrites #novemetober rescheduled #whump #sickfic #sicknario #tw: emeto #tw: homophobia #prompt: chaotic body temperature #novemetober 2023 #oc: cliff #oc: theo #oc: elliot #fever whump #hurt/comfort #angst #hypothermia #pneumonia

[gwydionmisha]

#CDC #Infection Protections #Pneumonia #News

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Whumpril Day 8, Day 16

Bloodshot, Coughing Fit

Whumpril Prompts List

TW: coughing, sickness, pneumonia, self-deprecation

Whumpee could feel the cough rising in their chest, the unbearable tickling, burning sensation in their throat as they held it back. Caretaker was asleep nearby; Whumpee didn’t want to wake them. Unfortunately, they could only keep the cough back for so long.

Whumpee cleared their throat, trying to soothe the burning. It didn’t work. What started as a simple grunt snowballed into a cough, and another, and another. And another. Whumpee’s chest spasmed as their lungs tried desperately to expel the sickness. They covered their mouth, but it didn’t do anything to stop the coughing or muffle the noise.

Eventually, the fit subsided. Whumpee’s throat burned even more from the force of their coughing, and the sound trailed off into a quiet sob.

“Whumpee…? Are you okay?”

Whumpee exhaled slowly. “Yeah, I’m okay, Caretaker, go back to sleep.”

Caretaker was silent for a few moments before sitting up. Whumpee could see their eyes were bloodshot from many nights of little sleep spent caring for Whumpee. “I’ll get you some water,” they said, rising to their feet.

“Nonono, it’s fine…” Whumpee weakly protested, but Caretaker ignored them and left the room.

Whumpee slumped. Stupid pneumonia. Stupid cough. Stupid me for getting sick.

@fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @whumpril

#whump #whump writing #my writing #sickfic #sickness #illness #pneumonia #whumpril2024 #whumprilday8 #whumprilday16 #blood shot #coughing fit #self deprecation #whumpee #caretaker #stubborn whumpee #exhaustion

[sabyfangirl16]

After heading over to the garage to grab his Creature Pod, Chris ends up falling out of the Tortuga and landing in a forest where the sky seems like it’s permanently covered with clouds. Now he has to survive on his own with minimal equipment and materials while his brother and friends search for him wherever they can.

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51577057/chapters/130363633

Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/story/356010652-wild-kratts-desolate

#wild kratts #kratt brothers #chris kratt #martin kratt #aviva corcovado #koki #jimmy z #wild kratts fanfiction #wk fic #hurt/comfort #angst #bro fluff #sickfic #pneumonia #Chris gets whumped because of course he does #fandom #fangirl power!

[sickficideas]

nice try || SSKK sickfic

ao3! 7.1k - please refer to the tags in the link for content + warnings! sicktember 2023, day 7: "you're a jerk when you're sick"

Atsushi really doesn’t think Akutagawa should be on this mission. He's already the most difficult person in the world to work with, but he's somehow even more stubborn and rude when he's ill.

"We don't need the two of us waiting here or the informant. Go ahead and head back to your agency," Akutagawa grumbles, stepping back into the shade with his arms crossed over his chest. He coughs twice, only briefly covering his mouth, likely thinking Atsushi didn’t notice.

Atsushi huffs. He moves so he's standing in front of him and puts his hands on his hips to show he's staying where he is, but even while he's in Akutagawa's view, the latter's avert him completely.

"Dazai told us both to stay here in case they cross us," Atsushi huffs. "You want to go against his orders?"

"You're far too incompetent. Even if they were to betray us, I could easily handle a traitor on my own,” Akutagawa huffs. He’s so delusional that he thinks Dazai would praise him for something like that. Atsushi doesn’t even want to think about the scary face Dazai would make if he found out Akutagawa did something like he’s suggesting.

“Well, I’m not leaving, so suck it up,” Atsushi tells him, leaning against the wall beside him, a safe distance away in case he tries to do something.

Akutagawa looks like he wants to say something back, but instead a hand comes up to cover his mouth as he starts to cough again. Atsushi is used to that by now, but today, it sounds worse. It sounds hoarse, like it’s been happening more than usual and his throat is sore from the strain., but it sounds deeper too. Not like the usual dainty coughs he’s used to hearing from him. His shoulders are nearly hunched over as he coughs into his hand.

Atsushi has learned not to say anything. He really doesn’t have any idea why he coughs all the time. Maybe he’s a smoker, maybe he’s got a sensitive throat - it’s anyone’s guess, but he knows that if he ever bothered to ask, Akutagawa would not give him a straight answer.

Atushsi takes note of how Akutagawa checks his hand as he pulls it back from his mouth. Strange. He crosses his arms back over his chest.

“Do you want some water or something?” Atsushi asks, sounding a little more accusatory than he means to.

“No, but it’d be nice if you would let me decapitate you,” Akutagawa mumbles in a soft voice. He almost sounds out of breath.

"You're a real jerk when you're sick. You know that?" Atsushi huffs.

"I think you've said this today already," Akutagawa says, rolling his eyes. "Come up with something else."

"I take it back, you're actually a jerk all the time. You're just more of a jerk when you're sick,” Atsushi groans. He’s so over it. He wants to call Dazai and ask if he really needs to be here. He highly doubts most foes need a team as combative as the two of them. Akutagawa probably could handle it on his own, but Dazai wants the two of them to work together, for some reason.

"I'm not sick. Stop saying that,” Akutagawa murmurs. “It’s just this ocean air.”

Atsushi doesn't even feel like arguing with him anymore. Akutagawa is so frustratingly stubborn, it's unbelievable. Atsushi knows he’s sick. He can see the sweat along his hairline from here, even six feet away, but he’s shivering. There’s a bit of a breeze from the ocean on the ship, but not enough to make someone shiver, even though they’re in the middle of fall.

"When is he supposed to get here?" Atsushi huffs.

"I don't know,” Akutagawa says simply.

“Okay, then I’m gonna look around the boat. Just yell if you need something,” Atsushi mumbles.

“I will most certainly not be doing that,” Akutagawa says, rolling his eyes.

Atsushi wants to kick him in the neck.

He decides to spend some time looking around the docked boat, for no reason other than the fact that he’s bored waiting and he doesn’t want to waste more precious seconds of his life talking to Akutagawa.

It’s unremarkable. The boat is called The Hellscreen, which is a scary name for something that just sails the seas. It’s a yacht, he’s been told, or rather very rudely informed by Akutagawa. Atsushi doesn’t know the first the about boats. He just knows this one is fancy, and they’re waiting for the captain to arrive, to hand off important information relevant to both the Port Mafia boss and Fukuzawa, information Atsushi and Akutagawa aren’t allowed to know the details of.

All they were instructed to do was wait for him, take the envelope, and in case they are suspicious of the captain in any way, they were to detain him until backup arrived. Simple enough, for Atsushi, anyway.

Atsushi sort of wants to dip without saying anything, but they were ordered not to kill, and even though he’s already made a promise not to, Atsushi isn’t sure he trusts him.

A half hour or so passes, and Atushsi finds nothing of interest. He only manages to meet back with Akutagawa because he lost track over which parts of the yacht he’s already explored.

Akutagawa is leaning on the railing of the yacht when Atsushi returns, the shade having extended that far, by now. Atsushi is thrown off, seeing Akutagawa look so weirdly casual. He’s sure he hasn’t relaxed a day in his life. But then, he notices the tension in his shoulders.

Atsushi's taken note of how his breaths have become labored and forced. That's not right, he knows that for sure. He seemed a little short of breath earlier when he was talking, but Atsushi didn’t pay much mind to that until now.

He's sort of thrown for a loop when Akutagawa suddenly leans over the railing to vomit into the water. It’s followed by a series of harsh sounding coughs, ones that somehow sound worse than before. Atsushi almost say something, but the coughing turns into choking and sputtering, and he throws up again. It sounds painful. He ducks his head into his arms with a pained groan, and Atsushi can’t help but notice that breaths still don’t sound any better.

"Are you - are you okay?" Atsushi asks. He’s not sure he should be asking.

"It's motion sickness,” Akutagawa bites, not lifting his head. Atsushi watches his shoulders shake. “Stop talking to me."

"You don’t have to stay on the boat,” Atsushi murmurs. It’s not that he feels bad or anything, but it’s just inconvenient for him to be here if it’s making him sick, he thinks. That’s all. “You can wait on the dock. I’ll stay here.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Weretiger,” Akutagawa growls.

Atsushi takes a few steps close to him, thinking he might end up regretting it. Akutagawa is trembling, he realizes. He’s in pain. Something’s not right. “I’m just saying. It might be better anyway, maybe you can keep watch from the dock, or -”

“I told you,” Akutagawa starts, venom lacing his tone before he whips his head up and turns to face Atsushi a little too quickly, he’ll soon find out, “don’t -”

Atsushi could have seen it coming a mile away with how fast he moved his head, but he watches his eyes roll back and his knees bucking underneath him, and Atsushi isn’t a horrible person. Maybe Akutagawa would have let Atsushi fall on his face if their roles were reversed, but he can’t let that happen for him. He catches him, fully expecting Akutagawa to shout or attack as soon as he regains consciousness, which must be any second now.

But he’s silent, and completely still, even after the mental ten seconds Atsushi gives him to recover. Akutagawa’s labored breaths land against his chest as Atsushi lowers the both of them to the ground.

Shit. He's completely unconscious. He’s not showing any sign of waking up. Atsushi thought it was maybe just a head rush, but he really, actually passed out.

"Akutagawa?" Atsushi mumbles. It comes out like a squeak. He lays him down on the deck, sliding him down from his arms, so he's lying on his side. He's afraid to move him at all, worried Akutagawa might decapitate him without a moment's notice, but he receives no reaction, no attempt at trying to move, let alone get up and bark back at him.

Atsushi still has a hand on his shoulder, worried he might roll forward into his face, and he can feel his hot skin burning even through his coat. He’s absolutely ridiculous for wearing a coat like this when he so obviously has a fever, but his body shivers gently like he's cold. He should probably take it off of him, but he needs to reevaluate his situation.

“Please don't kill me," Atsushi groans to himself as he scoops an arm under Akutagawa's knees and the other under his neck, with little to no reaction from him other than a tiny, pathetic grunt. Atsushi is so tense that the effort hurts, but he thinks he has every reason to be. He's holding a ridiculously unpredictable mafia killing machine in his arms, after all.

He thinks for now, he'll take him inside the cockpit that they've been standing outside of, at least for some cover. Atsushi isn't sure if he really threw up because of motion sickness or something else, but either way, cover is more important when he's completely out like this. They have to keep their guard up.

He's incredibly lucky the door isn't locked, but the captain had told Dazai he left it that way in case they wanted to be inside. Akutagawa said waiting in there was too dangerous, and Atsushi has to at least agree on that. He manages to open the door with his tail and slides in, closing it behind him.

There's long, cushioned benches on either side of the cockpit, and Atsushi gently lays him down on the nearest one. Akutagawa's head lulls to the side once Atsushi steps back, and he thinks for a moment that he's awake already, but still - nothing.

His breathing really doesn't sound good. It's shallow, short, like it's painful to breathe any deeper. Atsushi thinks he probably has a serious cold, but he's not admitting it no matter the case.

He grits his teeth as he remembers he told himself he would take Akutagawa's coat off. It might be good in the end, too, if he can't use it to attack Atsushi when he wakes up, so he moves Akutagawa as gently as possible to sit up so he can undo the buttons on the coat and slide off the sleeves, one by one. He lays him back down, haphazardly folds the coat and lays it down on the other side of the bench.

Now what? Should he call Dazai? He still has the number of Akutagawa's assistant. He saved it in his phone, but he won't use it to call her. He'd need to find a pay phone. Unless, maybe he could find Akutagawa's cellphone.

He makes sure to check outside the door in case the captain has arrived, but he doesn't see any sign of him. So as he pulls the door back shut, decides he's going to look for Akutagawa's cellphone - at least, until he sees him open his eyes.

"Oh, hey," Atsushi starts nervously, not wanting to get too close to him, "you passed out on the deck, so…"

His explanation trails off as he watches Akutagawa's eyes grow wide and he scrambles to sit up. They're wider than Atsushi's has ever seen them. His hair is in disarray, sticking in all sorts of directions, some of it plastered to his forehead from the sweat his fever is causing.

Atsushi knows that look. He's felt it before. Waking up in an unfamiliar place is a horrifying feeling, he's woken up in full blown panic attacks because of that before. Even though Akutagawa was only out for a few minutes, he's scared.

Atsushi's heart feels heavy with guilt.

"We're in the cockpit on the yacht. You passed out like, five minutes ago," he stammers, but he's not sure that's enough. Akutagawa doesn't look relieved in the slightest, he looks terribly confused. He grasps at the fabric on his sleeve and almost looks like he's gotten to breathe when he realizes he's not wearing his coat.

"Where's - what did you - "

He breaks into a violent coughing fit, hunched over and coughing into his hand, somehow sounding worse than before. It's not so dry this time, either.

Atsushi catches a hint of the scent of blood, but he dismisses it. That couldn't be right, anyway.

"Where's…my coat," he somehow manages between coughs as it dies down, each one on the downtick sounding just as painful as the one before it. He looks exhausted. Atsushi can imagine that takes a lot out of him.

"You don't need that right now. You've got a fever," Atsushi murmurs.

Akutagawa sort of hangs his head as he lays a hand over his chest. He's more focused on something else right now, but Atsushi isn't sure what exactly that is. It might be his breathing. He's trying to slow it down, maybe, but his lungs don't seem to be cooperating. It almost seems like he can't really take a deep breath at all.

"Give it back," he says quietly, not lifting his head. He still sounds short of breath. He sounds defeated.

"I'll give it back, but don't put it on," Atsushi mumbles as he approaches the other end of the bench.

"Don't tell me what to do," Akutagawa huffs. A few coughs interrupt him, but thankfully, it doesn't seem to break him into a coughing fit like before.

Atsushi takes the coat from where he laid it down and hands it to him, expecting him to snatch it back, sure, but he rips it from Atsushi’s grip like he's taking something away from him that he can't live without. Atsushi steps back and gingerly shows his hands to show he doesn't mean any harm. Akutagawa brings it close to his chest like it’s a blanket he needs to fall asleep, curling his fists into it and lowering his head.

He looks miserable.

Atsushi sees the captain on the dock through the window and he squeaks, briefly telling Akutagawa to stay where he is before he disappears through the door.

“You’re with the Armed Detective Agency?” The captain asks. He’s a well dressed man in all white, carrying a black envelope. He looks a bit confused to see Atsushi exiting the cockpit, standing in front of the door. He hopes he doesn’t need to go inside.

“Yes - yes, sir. Atsushi Nakajima, nice to meet you,” Atsushi says, bowing his head politely. The captain bows back.

“There were supposed to be two of you. Can I please see your ID, detective?” The captain says. Atsushi bites his lip. Dazai did tell him to look for two people. Atsushi digs in his pockets for his wallet and finds it in the back left, scrambling to flip to the side that features his employee ID. The captain looks it over with a nod.

“I’m sorry, sir. I…my, uh…” Atsushi pauses. What does he even call Akutagawa? He’s not his friend. He’s not his co-worker. “My…my partner, he’s uh, injured. I told him he should sit down for a while. I didn’t mean to trespass or anything.”

“I see. It’s no trouble, as long as everything is left intact. Does your partner need medical attention?” The captain asks. That’s kind of him. Akutagawa definitely needs medical attention, but he has a feeling he shouldn’t get the captain involved with that.

“Oh, he’s…it’s not too serious. I’ll make sure a doctor sees him today,” Atsushi says, accidentally making a commitment. He would really just like to get this envelope and be on his way.

“If it’s not too serious, I’d like to meet your partner as well. Just to cover my bases and verify your identities,” The captain says sternly. He seems a bit suspicious.

Atsushi’s heart drops. He doesn’t want to make Akutagawa walk out here, especially to meet someone when he looks the way that he does - but if he says no, the captain may refuse to give him the envelope, and then Atsushi will have a whole new kind of problem.

“Oh…yeah, of course. I’ll, uh, be right back,” Atsushi murmurs, taking the door handle to let himself in and close it behind him without any room for the captain to follow him. It is his own boat after all, he has every right to do so.

Akutagawa is still on the bench, except he’s sitting now, the coat laying over his lap, both hands twisted in the fabric. He’s holding onto it for dear life, almost. Atsushi didn’t realize the coat was that important to him, although, if it’s his ability, it makes sense.

Akutagawa very slowly turns his head to look at Atsushi, eyes focused and pointed but heavy with exhaustion.

“The captain says he needs to meet you too. Before he gives us the envelope,” Atsushi murmurs quietly. Akutagawa is already attempting to get up. He’s rather unsteady on his feet, and had to use the bench as leverage to stand up, but Atsushi knows he’ll refuse any offers for help. He manages to slide his arms into he sleeves of the coat without much issue.

His hair still sort of looks like a mess. He approaches the door and Atsushi resists the very strong urge to at least rustle his bangs up so the sweat isn’t so obvious, but not for long. He reaches forward and does it before he can convince himself not to, and Akutagawa flinches backward, eyes wide.

“W - “

“Let’s go,” Atsushi says, opening the door and walking in front of him.

Akutagawa stands in front of the door, now, politely bowing his head, much more discreetly than Atsushi had.

“Good to meet you. And you are?” The captain asks.

“I have no reason to give you my name,” Akutagawa says coldly. Atsushi stiffens. Now is really not the time to be rude.

“I know you’re with the Port Mafia. I have no issue with that. I’m simply asking your name to verify your identity,” The captain says.

Akutagawa averts his gaze.

“Ryuunosuke Akutagawa,” he answers. Atsushi realizes he’s never heard his first name before. It’s nice.

“Alright. And I have two questions for each of you to continue my confirmation. Think of them as…security questions, when you’ve forgotten your password,” The captain says. “For you, detective. What is your mother’s first name?”

Atsushi feels sick.

What kind of question is that?

He never knew his parents. The headmaster told him thinks about what they did to Atsushi, but he doesn’t remember them. He has no idea what they look like, let alone either of their names. What is he supposed to say?

“I don’t know,” Atsushi murmurs, his eyes drifting down to the deck flooring. “I never knew her name.”

“Alright, good,” The captain says, evidently satisfied with the answer, and Atsushi realizes that was the correct one. It’s a trick question. Anyone trying to impersonate him might have known the answer, but Atsushi didn’t. “And you, Akutagawa. Where did you live when you were twelve years old?”

Akutagawa seems to have a similar reaction to his question. His eyes are wide, at least, as wide as they can be in his state. But his expression very quickly shifts into anger.

“I’m not answering that,” he snaps. He almost staggers sideways, clearly still rather unsteady on his feet.

“I need you to,” The captain says. “I already know the answer. I’m just asking you to confirm it. Only you would know the answer to this.”

Akutagawa opens his mouth to shout something obscene, he’s sure that’s his plan, but Atsushi is able to distract him by lifting his hands up and pressing them against his ears. He’s not sure why, but he thinks Akutagawa simply doesn’t want Atsushi to hear the answer. And he can respect that. They’re not friends, after all.

Akutagawa stares at him for a moment, not catching on right away to what he’s doing, but he sees the anger fade just a bit after a second, and Atsushi turns his head away to allow Akutagawa to answer, so that he won’t hear it.

But he hears it anyway.

That damn Tiger’s hearing.

Suribachi City.

Atsushi’s shoulders drop a little bit. The slums?

Akutagawa is from the slums?

Atsushi very slowly lowers his hands and just barely catches the end of the captain saying very good before thanking the two of them, He thinks this is a strange way to verify someone’s idenity, but maybe the captain has an ability and this is relevant. Maybe Dazai set this up. He’s not sure, but either way, he doesn’t like it.

The captain hands Atsushi the envelope.

“Thank you to you both. I have some business to attend to at the Marina Club. Feel free to stay here if you’d like, and please make sure your injury is tended to,” the captain says, directing that last part to Akutagawa. Akutagawa makes a very displeased, confused expression as Atsushi bows the captain away, and soon enough, he’s gone.

Akutagawa is quiet for a few moments, and Atsushi is at a loss of what to say. Normally, he thinks Akutagawa would have just been on his way without a word to Atsushi, but he doesn’t move.

At least, until he bolts toward the railing choke up a mouthful of vomit into the water again. Atsushi yelps at how quickly he managed that, and he realizes Akutagawa was likely just waiting for the captain to leave the boardwalk.

Akutagawa grips onto the railing, tight, but one hand comes up to lay against his chest as he starts to cough again. It’s only a few times, but they’re wet and deep, and they make him vomit again, nearly missing to get over the railing. His knees collapse in on themselves and he leans heavily against the railing once he’s on the ground, keeping that hand on his chest.

"You need to go to a hospital or something," Atsushi mumbles, carefully approaching him.

"Nice try," Akutagawa chokes out, not daring to lift his head. He tries to use the railing to stand himself back up, but his legs are shaking so much that they’re completely unreliable to stand on, and he comes back down to the deck. "You…really must take me for some kind of fool."

"What the hell do you mean, nice try?" Atsushi scoffs. He can’t stand this guy. What’s wrong with thinking he needs help when he looks so miserable?

"I'll get arrested if I'm admitted to a public hospital," Akutagawa growls, his faze only then turning up to glare at Atsushi, eyes like those of a hungry wolf. "You've seen my wanted posters, haven't you, Weretiger?"

Atsushi's shoulders sink. "I didn't think about that, actually."

"Just go," Akutagawa huffs, leaning his head to the side.

"What? I'm not leaving you here,” Atsushi grumbles. “You can't even stand up."

"Why does it matter to you?" Akutagawa asks quietly.

Why does it matter? He could simply head home right now, if he really wanted to. It shouldn’t make a difference to him how Akutagawa gets home, if he sees a doctor. He’s not his babysitter.

"Just cause I hate your guts doesn't mean I want you to suffer," Atsushi mumbles quietly.

"I was in a coma for a week because of you," Akutagawa huffs with a shaky breath. "Don't give me that."

"That was different, you kidnapped me and Kyoka cause you're a psychopath," Atsushi snaps before really taking in what Akutagawa said.

A coma?

"So I've been told,” Akutagawa breathes out, letting his eyes fall shut as he lets his head lull to the side just a bit. 

He's really starting to look out of it, now. He almost had Atsushi fooled for a moment in an encounter with the captain. He seemed composed and put together, but now he seems to have literally started to fall apart. He can't even stand up, at least not in this moment.

The way he's breathing is deeply concerning. It somehow sounds worse. He takes note of how he tries to take a deep breath, but all it brings him is a round of painful sounding coughs. Atsushi doesn't know what to do.

Akutagawa seems to have lost the ability to care about Atsushi being in his vicinity, he doesn't even remotely try to protest his presence.

"I'm gonna call Dazai real quick. To let him know we got the envelope," Atsushi says. Akutagawa's shoulders stiffen at the mention of Dazai, but not for long. He quickly sinks back.

Atsushi wanders to the bow of the ship before he makes the phone call, out of earshot from Akutagawa.

"Dazai," Atsushi mumbles as soon as the ringing stops.

"What's the matter? Is everything okay?" he asks. He sounds more intrigued than concerned, but he seems to recognize that something isn't right.

"Well - we…we got the envelope. Everything went well, but, Akutagawa…" Atsushi murmurs, staring at the envelope in his hands. What does he even say? What would Dazai do about Akutagawa's condition? They can't take him to a hospital. "I don't know, something's wrong. I think he's really sick, Dazai."

He hears Dazai sigh over the phone. "How sick? Is he unconscious?"

"No, he's…he passed out, but he's awake now. It just seems like…" Atsushi murmurs, and an idea comes to mind. "Do you think…could Yosano help him? I can't take him to a public hospital, he'd get arrested, so maybe -"

"Atsushi, she won't use her ability for the Port Mafia. I can tell you that now," Dazai tells him sternly. Atsushi shrinks. He can't force Yosano to help anyone, sure, but it feels wrong to just leave him here. He can't let it go, for some reason.

"But he needs help," Atsushi mumbles. "I can't just…I can't just leave him. Something's really wrong, Dazai."

"I'll let Chuuya know it's done and he will be there soon. He can take him to the extraction point," Dazai tells him. "He's not your responsibility, Atsushi."

"I'm gonna stay here until Chuuya gets here, then," Atsushi mumbles. "I wouldn't…I wouldn't want someone to leave me while I'm that sick. I can't do it."

Dazai is quiet for a moment, and if it's not already impossible to tell what he's thinking in person, it's certainly impossible right now. He can't even begin to guess.

"Alright, I'll see you when you get back, Atsushi," he says.

"Yeah, see you," Atsushi says quietly. Dazai hangs up.

Atsushi is sure he's better off waiting over here, but he feels like he needs to be closer. He's starting to get this irrational fear that Akutagawa will suddenly stop breathing.

He wanders back over towards him. Akutagawa is leaning with his back against the railing and his knees pulled into his chest, eyes looking nowhere in particular. It's obvious he doesn't feel good, but Atsushi feels like every time he turns around, Akutagawa looks about fifty percent worse than before. His eyes are unfocused and his cheeks are red to match his eyes.

"Chuuya will be here soon to meet you," Atsushi tells him. "Maybe we can wait inside, or -"

“You heard me,” Akutagawa murmurs.

Atsushi freezes for a second before he tilts his head. What is he talking about? Is it something about not telling him what to do? Atsushi didn't really order him around, so he's not sure what he means.

Maybe his fever is starting to talk.

“Heard what?” Atsushi asks. He sits down a few feet away from him, his legs crossed.

“The answer,” Akuatagwa murmurs.

Oh. His answer to the captain's question.

Atsushi isn't sure what to say, because he can't tell how Akutagawa feels about it. It seems like he's upset, at least a little bit, but he thinks he sounds more defeated than anything else, like it's a secret he never intended on sharing with anyone, let alone Atsushi. Atsushi could apologize, make it awkward, but he doesn't think Akutagawa would react well to any of that.

“I knew some kids at the orphanage from Suribachi City," Atsushi says instead, lowering his head as he starts to study the woodwork on the deck. He remembers one in particular, a girl who was practically emaciated, covered in scars and healing wounds, missing a few fingers from wild dogs. The others weren't much different from her, either. It's hard to imagine Akutagawa in that kind of state, especially at ten years old.

Akutagawa ducks his head down. He's shivering again, but Atsushi can't tell if it's chills from whatever illness is plaguing him, or he's shaking.

“I knew someone who escaped from an orphanage,” Akutagawa manages, the sound muffled. “I saw a lot of kids like that.”

Atsushi bites his lip. He’s known people to do the same. He’s wanted to try it himself, but he remembers one instance of a kid who froze to death outside trying to escape. She was used as an example. You're safest in here. He shudders at the thought.

“I was…I was the only ability user I knew,” Akutagawa says quietly, having to stop once to take some breaths. “He told me…he knew an ability user at the orphanage. Or, he thought him to be one. I always thought…he must have imagined it…"

Atsushi isn't sure where he's going with that, but he's too afraid to ask. Akutagawa lifts his head, just to cough into his hand. It's only two or three times, but they still sound so painful. Atsushi thinks he sees spots of blood in his hand, but he can't be sure from where he's sitting. He's probably just seeing things.

“You should wait inside the cockpit or something,” Atsushi murmurs nervously. “Didn’t you say the ocean air is bad for you?”

Akutagawa doesn’t say anything, he just lowers his hand and makes eye contact with Atsushi. He’s not all there. Atsushi can’t be sure, but he thinks the fever he has must be really high, that look in his eyes just isn’t right. It’s not Akutagawa.

A chill runs up Atsushi’s spine when he hears a huff come from behind him.

It's almost as if Chuuya appears on the deck instantaneously. Atsushi didn't see him coming. He heard footsteps somewhere, looking back on it, but didn’t think they were on the deck already.

"What're you still doin' here, Weretiger?" Chuuya growls. He sounds mean, but Atsushi doesn't think he means to shoo him away. He almost sounds curious, tilting his head down at Atsushi, a hand on his hip as Atsushi turns his head to face him.

“I - uh,” Atsushi mumbles, standing up and patting down his pants, for some reason feeling the need to look presentable in front of him. Chuuya is starting to look impatient, and his head starts to turn away from him. “I just - well, Dazai said…”

Chuuya suddenly rushes past him in Akutagawa’s direction, and Atsushi realizes he’s completely missed Akutagawa attempting to stand up, and now, it looks like he’s unconscious in Chuuya’s arms.

Chuuya almost effortlessly shifts Akutagawa so that he can easily carry him like Atsushi did earlier. Except, he keeps him lowered on the ground for a moment to lay the back of his hand against his cheek.

“How long’s he been breathin’ like this?” Chuuya asks, running a hand through Akutagawa’s hair. He bites his lip.

“Um…pretty much the whole time, I think,” Atsushi says. His eyes trail down to Akutagawa’s hand, the same one he coughed into earlier, and his stomach drops when he realizes those are spots of blood in his hand.

Chuuya nods and scoops Akutagawa back up into his arms, but Atsushi stays where he is, eyes wide and hoping for some sort of explanation. Chuuya looks like he’s only seconds away from leaving the deck, but Atsushi stops him.

“Wait - ”

Chuuya turns, that same scowl on his face. Atsushi’s eys drift down to Akutagawa, who’s still breathing heavy and shallow. He looks like he’s in a lot of pain, even half-conscious like this, his face all twisted up. “What?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Atsushi asks. He has a feeling Chuuya is sort of familiar with Akutagawa’s weak state right now, based on his reaction.

“It’s probably pneumonia again,” Chuuya answers quietly.

“Again?” Atsushi clarifies. His heart sinks. He’s had pneumonia once before while at the orphanage. It was so miserable that he’s forgotten much of it.

"He always gets hit real hard like this. Doesn’t take good care of his health," Chuuya mumbles, his eyes on Akutagawa’s pale face for a moment before they dart back up at Atsushi, and the scowl has melted away. "Thanks for stayin' with him."

"Yeah…yeah, no problem."

Atsushi can’t take his eyes off of Akutagawa, even as Chuuya leaves.

…

"You're very distracted today, Atsushi. I need you to focus, we have a lot of work to do."

Kunikida’s stern voice pulls him out of his thoughts.

He sounds disappointed. Atsushi doesn’t want to disappoint him. He’s tired. He didn’t sleep well last night and for some reason he’s having a lot more trouble focusing on his work than what’s normal for him. His laptop is just staring him in the face.

“Right, right. I’m sorry,” Atsushi nods, his hands moving to the keyboard, even unsure what to do then. Mabe he should go down to the cafe or something and grab a coffee, but he knows he’s not just tired. The only thing swirling around his brain today is the image of Akutagawa unconscious in Chuuya’s arms.

He opens the web browser on his computer and takes one of the reports from the center of the tables, opening it to the first page. He can feel Dazai’s eyes on him.

Dazai didn’t say anything about Akutagawa yesterday when Atsushi returned to the agency, and while he didn’t expect him to - he’s probably certain Chuuya came to get him and that he’s getting treated now - Atsushi found it strange. It feels like there’s a rock in the pit of his stomach.

Once Kunikida wanders over to Junichiro’s desk to help him with something, Dazai speaks.

"What's on your mind, hm?" Dazai asks, his elbows propped up on the table and his head in his hands. "Akutagawa?"

Atsushi's shoulders shrink. He was sort of expecting this question, but he’s not sure how to answer it. "I just…I dunno. He was really sick, Dazai. Chuuya said he might have pneumonia.”

"I know. That's not uncommon for him, Atsushi. He doesn't have a good immune system," Dazai says with a little sigh. Atsushi isn’t sure if that was supposed to make him feel better or not. He kind of figured that last part, Akutgawa doesn’t seem like a super healthy person, but even so, this weird feeling is still settled in his stomach.

"Yeah?" he says, turning his head.

"Mhm. And they have good doctors in the Port Mafia too, you know. He'll be fine," Dazai says with a little nod.

Atsushi feels a little better, knowing that.

He doesn’t need to worry. Akutagawa has plenty of people looking after him, he’s sure about that.

"If you say so."

…

Two weeks later, Atsushi sees Akutagawa again.

The sun has just set, and Atsushi is outside the nearest train station following a lead on a case on Kunikida’s behalf when he sees him leaned against the wall outside of the station on the phone. He’s not wearing his usual coat, and he thinks he looks a little suspicious wearing tinted glasses at night, but it’s definitely him.

Akutagawa’s eyes dart over, like he knows someone is watching him. A scowl appears on his face.

He really looks ghastly, a word Atsushi can only imagine Akutagawa saying. His cheeks are sunken and his eyes look dull, like the life has been sucked out of them. Exhausted doesn’t sound like it’s good enough to describe him, but he certainly looks better than he did.

Atsushi was planning on just walking off, but Akutagawa is still glaring at him.

So Atsushi walks over, just as Akutagawa hangs up the phone. He’s still holding it, looking like he’ll snap it apart at any moment.

"Akutagawa?" Atsushi starts awkwardly.

"What do you want from me," Akutagawa grumbles. "Weretiger."

“First of all, we’re in public. I’m not stalking you,” Atsushi groans, rolling his eyes. He pauses for a moment to listen to Akutagawa’s breathing, and he’s relieved that it sounds a little more normal - but there’s a faint rattle when he breathes in that concerns him. "You still don't look great.”

"I was released from our hospital two days ago," he mumbles, turning his head to the side.

Two days ago?

Does that mean he was in the hospital all this time? Two weeks? He already figured he had pneumonia because of what Chuuya said, but being hospitalized for two weeks is such a long time.

Atsushi doesn't know what to say. He just stares, his brow furrowed.

"I don't heal as well as normal people. And certainly not as well as you," he grumbles, his eyes briefly turning back to Atsushi. "I'll be fine. Wipe that pathetic look off of your face, it's unbecoming."

"Oh - sorry," he says with a nod of his head. "I…"

"Don't say anything else," Akutagawa huffs.

Atsushi pouts. “Can I at least ask what it was?”

“Pneumonia,” Akutagawa says simply, like it was an obvious answer.

“Have you had it before?”

“Yes,” Akutagawa nods with a small sigh. He’s surprised he’s being so cooperative with his answers. Maybe he really is just more of a jerk when he’s not feeling well.

“I had it once too. It was miserable,” Atsushi murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. An apology won’t change anything,” Akutagawa says with a slightly more annoyed sigh this time, stepping forward so he’s no longer leaning on the wall. 

“I guess not, but…” Atsushi says. He shrugs his shoulders, expecting Akutagawa to just walk off and leave, but he doesn’t. It almost seems like he wants to say something, but he’s not sure if he should.

“I’m…I’m sorry that you felt obligated to look after me,” Akutagawa mumbles.

Now that is definitely the last thing he expected Akutagawa to say. He doesn’t like his head or even attempt to make eye contact, but it sounds sincere, he thinks. It sounds like they’re his own words, not fed to him by someone else.

“Oh,” Atsushi blinks. “Um…well, I didn’t…I dunno. It wasn’t a big deal.”

His cheeks feel warm, for some reason. He’s embarrassed. He doesn’t really know what to say or think, he’s just really surprised to hear Akutagawa say anything about it at all. He wonders if he feels guilty.

“If you insist,” Akutagawa answers simply. Now it seems like he’s ready to walk off. “Well, Weretiger, I would really prefer if you would get out of my sight before my company arrives, I -”

“Wait,” Atsushi says, finally having managed to gather his scrambled thoughts together. Akutagawa glares at him again. “I just…I don’t mind helping you if you need it. I’m not a heartless monster.”

“No, you’re not,” Akutagawa agrees, as if it’s the most obvious thing he’s ever heard.

Atsushi’s a bit taken aback by that, too.

“You think?” he says, feeling his ears start to heat up, too. Why, even?

“Weretiger,” Akutagawa sighs. Atsushi has lost track over how many time he’s heard that sound, “on with it. Or leave.”

“I just - I’ve got your back, I guess. Maybe you don’t have mine, but…I won’t leave you stranded if you need help,” Atsushi says. He realizes how corny that sounds, he can hear Dazai’s hysterical laughter echoing in the back of his brain, but Akutagawa doesn’t seem to think so, at least not in the moment. He blinks at him.

His cheeks sort of look pink. Atsushi hopes he doesn’t still have a fever.

“I didn’t realize you were so cheesy, Weretiger,” Akutagawa says as he drops his gaze before he huffs out a breath. Atsushi really thought he was going to say something nice back, but he really is a jerk. Bastard.

Atsushi groans. “Well, too bad, cause I am! And you’re gonna have to deal with it!”

Akutagawa opens his mouth to respond, but his hand covers his mouth to cough a few times, and Atsushi is relieved they don’t sound as bad as they did - they’re certainly hoarse, though.

“Are you -”

Akutagawa nods. “I’m okay.”

“Akutagawa…?”

They both turn their heads at the same time to find a pair has approached them, seemingly without any warning. It’s Akutagawa’s assistant - Atsushi thinks her name is Higuchi, or something like that - and a girl with long, dark hair that he doesn’t recognize at first, but quickly remembers is Akutagawa’s sister. Gin. Akutagawa having a sister is still an incredibly foreign concept to him. They’re both wearing casual clothing, evidently not working.

They both look very confused to see Akutagawa talking to him. Atsushi sees them both reach for something, and realizes almost too late that they’re reaching for weapons.

“Wait, I -”

“He was told to meet me here. Miscommunication,” Akutagawa says simply. Interesting tactic, he makes it sounds like it’s something the two of them already know about. Higuchi nods, accepting the answer, but Gin only looks suspicious. “Finish your business elsewhere, Weretiger.”

“Right, uh…yep, I’ll do that,” Atsushi says. Does he say goodbye? See ya? No, that’s weird, especially in front of his coworker and his sister. They both view him as the enemy.

What is he talking about? He is the enemy. They are enemies. He shakes his head as he walks off, even more confused than he was before this interaction began.

“Is your fever back? Your face looks red,” his sister says, and Atsushi briefly turns his head to see her laying a hand against his cheek, to which he quickly turns away. “You don’t feel warm.”

“Maybe we should take you back to the clinic, just to be safe,” Higuchi starts.

“I’m fine. Let’s go,” Akutagawa says with a heavy sigh, and the three of them walk in the opposite direction, eventually, out of his sight.

Atsushi shakes his head. Why is he still standing there?

And why are his ears still hot?

#more sskk teehee #my fanfictions #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #sskk #shin soukoku #atsushi #akutagawa #atsuaku #dazai #chuuya #akutagawa x atsushi #sickfic #ao3 #pneumonia #bsd #illness #sick #vomiting #fever #fainting #passing out

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

Just the Flu- Part 3

Part 2

Hero woke up to the sound of their door opening. They turned their head and saw Villain enter with a bowl of soup in hand.

"Hey," Villain greeted.

"Hi," Hero rasped.

Hero pushed themselves up into a sitting position as Villain sat down at their bedside. Villain held out a spoonful of soup. Hero gave them a pitiful look.

"Look," Villain sighed, "I know your throat is raw from coughing, but if you don't eat you won't get better. Just eat half of it, and I won't bother you after that."

Hero paused, then relented, letting Villain feed them the soup. Hero managed to eat just about all of it. They had to stop now and then to cough, but still.

"Awesome, good job," Villain praised, setting the bowl aside.

Villain fiddled with their hands nervously before speaking.

"Listen... I think the stress of being kidnapped is hindering your recovery... you'll get better much quicker if it's from the comfort of your own home."

Hero took a minute to process Villain's words.

"What are you saying?"

Villain smiled.

"I'm letting you go, Hero."

Hero's dull eyes widened, brightening up for just a moment.

"Yeah!?" they asked weakly.

Villain nodded. They lifted Hero up into a bridal carry, bringing them out of their lair and to their car. They gently laid Hero in the passenger seat, buckling their seat belt for them and draping a blanket over them. They drove off to Hero's home.

...

Villain helped Hero into their own bed.

"There, all cozy," Villain said.

Hero coughed a couple times, then relaxed under the covers.

"Stay?" Hero asked.

"Well duh!" Villain scoffed, "I wasn't gonna leave you here while you had pneumonia!"

Hero looked up at them in shock.

"I mean-!" Villain started, "Dang it..."

"So not 'just the flu', huh?" Hero asked with a feeble smile.

"Heh, yeah... I'm sorry..."

"Eh, it got me out of being kidnapped," Hero said, "and now you have to wait on me."

Villain laughed.

"Fair enough, Hero, fair enough."

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