Everybody assumes that when Tamaki is sick, he’s a melodramatic little baby about it. Hell, Haruhi had assumed the exact same thing for a long time. Mostly because she had never seen him sick.
The thing is, Tamaki almost never gets sick. He’s got a pretty good immune system, and he doesn’t so much as sniffle during allergy season, let alone suffer from colds. So when he gets the flu, nobody really knows how to handle his reaction to being sick.
Which is, of course, full-blown denial.
He refuses to admit that he’s sick. He’s got a burning fever and can hardly go two seconds without sneezing, but he will be Damned if he misses work. Haruhi found him standing at the door, wearing a pair of pajama pants, his bunny slippers, a half-buttoned up shirt, and a hot pink running jacket. She promptly tries to bring him back to bed, which feels akin to trying to cajole an over-tired toddler back into bed.
It takes him an extra long amount of time to get better, mostly because he keeps leaving bed and over-exerting himself when he’s meant to be resting. Haruhi takes it like a champ, mostly because she used to babysit for her neighbors. Surprisingly, baby sensory videos are just as effective on men in their twenties as they are on toddlers.
102 notes
·
View notes
She comes back.
Ragged and run-down, battered yet breathing, but she comes back. There’s a fresh bruise on her cheek and a permanent scar on her upper lip that changes the way she smiles, and Callum hates it—hates the way Ezran envelopes her in a tight hug while Callum is rooted to the spot, his lungs screaming for him to—
“Ez.” Soren nudges the young king once he and Rayla have broken apart, his little brother’s hands sturdy on her shoulders. But now her gaze has lifted, locking on Callum ten feet away again, her expression unreadable if agonized. “We should, uh...”
“Oh, right.” Ezran releases her and levies a look at both of them as he and Soren exit. “Try not to burn down the throne room,” he adds, which feels one-sided, but Callum can’t bring himself to care, to tear his eyes away from her.
Rayla, just a few feet away, safe and alive and relatively whole, standing in the centre of the home he’d hoped to give her, the home she’d run away from. She’s still wearing that blasted Moon Nexus cloak, the hem frayed, the hood pushed off, the rest framing her figure.
Two fucking goddamn years.
“Rayla.”
She takes a tiny step forward even as she swallows, demure in a way she’s never been before, and he hates that too. She’s Rayla, she shouldn’t look small and scared and worn—not of him, not because of him—
“Look,” she starts, “I—”
But he’s too angry to be generous, something savage and loose in his chest. “I thought you were dead,” he says bitingly, glaring at her. “I thought—” he trails off for a second, trying to find the right words now that he can finally speak them, now that he can finally show the wound to the person who gave it to him.
“Callum—” she tries in an uncertain but still comforting tone. He doesn’t want her comfort. He doesn’t need it.
“No,” he says, pointing at her with a shaking hand. “You—you got your chance to speak. To explain.” If the letter in the inside of his breast pocket, over his heart, can be called that. “Now it’s my turn.”
And to her credit, Rayla falls silent and stays in her spot.
“You let me think you were dead for two years,” he says. “I thought you might be dead for two years, do you have any idea what you put me through—I needed you and you left me! You fucking lied to me and now you come back just because we’re in danger, not because you actually wanted to come back to me—”
“I always wanted to,” she cuts in, her voice ragged. She sounds like she’s going to cry. “I thought—I didn’t realize—” She takes in a sharp breath, steeling herself while he glares at her, his eyes burning. “I understand if you hate me.”
That incenses him more than anything else, and Callum strides forward, roaring now. “You think I’m this upset because I hate you?” he demands, grateful when she doesn’t shrink and meets his gaze instead. “You are so—”
Fucking stupid and infuriating and—
Her hand grazes his wrist, warm and real and solid, and Callum pulls her into his arms before he can stop himself. His enfolds her easily, her chest warm against his as he feels her breathe, and the tears start and they don’t stop, pouring down his cheeks. He wants to keep on yelling, but all that comes out is miserable sobs and hitched, broken syllables.
“I thought I lost you,” he says, eyes wielded shut to try and stem the flow. It doesn’t. He bows his head and sobs into her shoulder. “I thought I—”
Rayla’s arms encircle him like a safety net, her small, soft hand curling over the nape of his neck. Stroking and soothing. “It’s okay,” she says, even if she’s trembling under his weight and her own emotions. She holds him tighter. “It’s okay,” she promises, a few tears spilling over her own cheeks as she tries to keep it together. She gives him a squeeze. “I’m here. I’m not leaving, ever again.”
He doesn’t know how long they stand like that, only that his face is blotchy but dry when they finally separate, and he’s more tired than he’s ever been in his life, which is saying something. He doesn’t let go of her, though, keeping his arms snug around her waist and mid-torso, and Rayla doesn’t part any further, either.
It's as natural as breathing when he raises his head and rests his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. Their breaths mingle softly together.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers hoarsely, and he lets her.
Tilts his head forward and gives her the smallest kiss, their eyes still closed. “I love you,” he says, and it means I know and I’ll forgive you and I’m glad you’re here, and I love I love I love you.
Rayla’s hands slid up to cup his jaw, gently stroking. He can hear the tearful smile in her voice, the promise of salvation and the shoreline after two years lost at sea for both of them.
“I love you too,” she says, and he always knew that, too, as they let out a pair of shaky exhales.
They can finally breathe.
172 notes
·
View notes
trick or treat!!!
Thank you sweetie 😘😘😘
OK, how about the new beginning to the fic I'm supposedly editing?
Gertie’s truly is a shithole. Abrasively bright bulbs dot its ceiling, providing an ambience nobody is looking for of a bar while glaring nude upon his pummelled pupils. Near half those fixtures are busted but the fact offers only barest relief: that pervasive glare off high gotta be almost worse on the corneas at his shadowier spot than from any island of intense luminosity he bypassed when selecting this outlying spot along the bar. Considerable cobwebs, plus every stain across the close-by clutch of once-cream tabletops, are distressingly easy to catch sight of in this position anyhow.
Vision now sweeping rapid, Rio’s reminded how none of the interior doors entirely fit their frame; journeying for the bathroom’ll involve huffing and froing along that cluttered back hall come fall… This forms a further frustration for forward-fucking-looking, with the year steadily burning onward.
In distracted irritation he huffs deep, subsequently imbibing the upholstery’s reek. As perpetual, it’s of stale tobacco mixed with some pickling fishiness despite the fact he’s never clocked a soul smoking nor eating inside.
Yeah, Gertie’s gotta be at least two or three rungs below your classic dive. A flop, that might be. In more ways than the one though it remains convenient — no trait worth sniffing scornful over — being only a block and a half up from his own bar makes it a handy location to slide upon when not in a particularly, hm, conspicuous mode.
(and for comparison, here's how it started.)
Trick or treat me(me)!
9 notes
·
View notes