Storm (G/T)

Cautiously Contagious

-I forgot their @ but someone completely knew where I was going with this, so shoutout to them. They'll probably comment on this-

Sniffle. Pause. Sniffle. Pause. Again. Pause. Again. Austin inhales deeply and sighs dramatically, catching me off guard. "I'll be right back. I'm a little stuffy." He sets down the human-sized shirt and his needle amid a mess of fabric, speed-walking out of the room relatively quietly. I don't blink, simply returning to my own makeshift leggings.

A soft blowing is heard from the bedroom. No, not soft. Not at all soft. The only softening of the noise is the muffling from the distance. In fact, you can see visually how aggressive his stuffy nose was, as he returns with it inflamed into bright red.

I joke, "Hey, Rudolph."

"What is that?" He coughs. We really do run different lives.

"Never mind. You can sit down if you want."  He does so, making the weight shift so I rise up again. Less than a minute of sewing takes place when he's up again, this time louder. He comes back after more nose-blowing and coughing and sniffling and wheezing, sitting down slightly more aggressively.

"Well, I'm happy you're doing o-" I can't even finish before Austin's risen once again, nearly stomping out now, even for his level. Nothing moves. My arms stay still, not resuming the process. 

He returns once again, sniffling and angry about it. He drops himself on the bed, the weight no longer just shifting, but throwing me into the air. I brace for impact, but I'm caught short. Literally. His hands lower to the mattress.

"Thank you," I reposition myself. "I hope you washed your hands."

"Sanit-," he coughs loudly into his flannel sleeve and punches his chest a couple times, loud enough to make me flinch. "Sanitizer good enough?"

"... Sure." Yes, it's good enough, I'm just concerned about his dilemma. "How did you get a cold before me?"

"What's a cold? Do you think I have a disease?"

"A cold is just a sore throat and runny nose, not a whole disease. Christ," I reply.

"How is that not a disease? When your throat is sore and nose is running, you're not in ease, correct?" There's no good way to reply. "I did not-"  Cough. "get a-" Cough. Cough. "cold, damnit!"

"You sure didn't, you're in great health." The pin pokes through the bottom of the seam, and I tie the end to make it stay neat and sturdy. The leggings are done. I smile with an open mouth and  try to show them off to no amusement from the giant. He returns to the subject matter.

"If I had a disease, I would have more problems than coughing. My throat isn't sore, I'm not dizzy, I haven't been snee-" he inhales aggressively, about to sneeze. Oh, come on! His staggered exhale shows that he's regained it. "See? No sneezing."

"I really beg you to turn away and maybe even leave the room if you sneeze. You're not the quietest person in the world and I'll probably stab myself." I eye the needle as I start to stitch two fabrics together, unsure of what'll become of them.

"I'm actually a rather quiet sneezer," he retorts, making me look up to him with a blank expression. "I mean it!"

"You're not a quiet anything, but I'll let you believe that."

He flies his wrist to his mouth and nose again. Guess he gets to prove it. I brace for an intense sneeze, which I know will come. "Ah- ah- AHH-" here goes. "tch." It wasn't even an achoo. It was the quietest thing he's done since I've met him.

"Told you." He does it again, then once more, ending the slew of sneezes. Tch. Tch.

"Fair, and bless you," the pin end pulls the thread together, hemming the strips of cloth. "But you're still clearly sick."

"Fine, you're right, but what of it?" Quickly shaking his head to realign himself, he picks up the shirt and needle again.

"Can you do me a favor and not touch that?" I question, and he pauses, still holding the clothing. "I plan to wear that while I'm being held hostage." He makes direct eye contact with me and huffs, pushing the pin into the shirt aggressively. He's clearly not in the mood to debate the status of my living conditions. "Sorry."

"I am not holding you hostage, and I'm not contagious," replies the grumpy teen, returning to the thread. "It's like how you can't get dogs sick. We're not the same species."

"You really want to test it? What if I get sick?"

"I'm sure you've managed a disease before. I'd just let you rest and get you some medication-"

"But how much will I need? And what if my type of medication is different for my needs?" I prick my finger and fly it to my mouth, sucking on the wound for a second. "After all," my hand shakes off the pain. "We're not the same species."

There's a pause. His eyebrows furrow atop his glasses, and he promptly scoots back about fifteen feet while pouting. I smile. "So you're not gonna get me sick?"

Building up all his energy and volume, he sighs to the heavens. "I hope not."