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“I can’t believe I survived a million damn nighthorrors, being chased by headhunters, unmaking, a literal fucking demon, and being Dick Gansey’s roommate for three damn years to die of a fucking cold. What sort of...fucking universe karma twist is that.”
Ronan coughs into the sleeve of his black hoodie, the perfect punctuation to the end of his melodramatic monologue on how Great and Misunderstood his unique suffering is.
“Jesus weeps, asshole,” Adam grumbles back, voice strained and congested just as much, if not more than, Ronan’s is. “ Sorry that this is such a burden for you. I’ll be sure to mark my tombstone ‘Adam Parrish Suffered Many Hardships, but Wasn’t Nearly As Sick As Ronan Lynch’ when I die from this hell-plague.”
Adam’s pretty sure Ronan got sick first, but if he’s being honest, they’ve spent most of the past few days making out in excess as Ronan moved more boxes from the Barns into Adam’s Cambridge apartment (their apartment, now? Adam’s and Ronan’s?) so really there’s no way of knowing who contaminated who. All he knows for certain is that they both woke up yesterday achy and congested and feeling like shit, and things have only gone downhill from there.
God, Adam wishes he had the energy to enjoy the fact that they’re moving in together. And given that Ronan’s averaging a solid 8.9 on the Lynch Certified Grumpiness meter, he thinks he feels the same.
Instead of celebrating their cohabitation, however, they’ve spent the day wallowing in misery on the couch, trading off who has to get up to make soup and tea and get more tissues. For a few minutes they existed under the delusion that they could play MarioKart; they got one match in and it became clear that moving fingers and concentration and sitting up are not possible for either of them right now. So instead they’ve watch a million episodes of Chopped, with a few episodes of Cutthroat Kitchen in between for “variety” (and because once Adam dozes off Ronan takes over the controller, and it’s either Alton Brown or horrible action flicks and he knows only one option will keep Adam asleep.)
It took a few hours and a lot of grumbled, sniffling curses, but they finally figured out the most comfortable cuddling position where both of them have access to tissues and aren’t overheated by the low-grade fevers they’re running: Adam stretched out with Ronan’s head on his chest, legs tangled together. Adam’s one hand rests at the base of Ronan’s neck, fingers absently combing across his scalp. Ronan’s arm is draped across Adam’s stomach. When he’s not holding a tissue, his hand finds it way underneath Adam’s worn henley to rest in the divet of his hips, just above the waist of his old gym shorts. It’s a comfort, to feel Adam’s bare skin. Not in any sort of way; just for the contact. To know he’s there, and real, even if fever-hot.
“I’m dying first so you have to deal with the funeral,” Ronan says as he tosses a tissue into the wastebasket.
“No, I’m dying first so you can dream me a coffin and a headstone so I don’t have to pay for them.”
“You’ll be dead. You won’t need to pay for anything.”
“Oh, also,” Adam sits up with a harsh cough, “I paid my way through Aglionby, got emancipated, survived Harvard, and I’ve lived six years with you giving me a heart attack every other week. I don’t want to hear your shit right now. If anyone’s dying unfairly from misguided karmic principles, it’s me.”
Ronan flips him off. Adam flicks his forehead.
Netflix stops the Chopped episode two minutes in, asking “Are you still there?”
“Yeah we’re still fucking here,” Ronan snaps. “Can you not see that I’m dying?”
Netflix is not moved by his sour attitude.
“We’re dying, Lynch,” Adam sighs. He grabs the controller from the table. “We are both dying.”
“Whatever. I’m dying more.”
Adam’s breath hitches. Ronan reaches blindly for a tissue. They sneeze at the same time. Adam exhales raggedly and it’s almost a laugh. “This is pathetic,” he says. “You can dream up literally anything, and you haven’t thought to dream up a cure for a cold?”
“Colds are how we’re gonna take the earth back when fucking tripod aliens try to take over.”
Adam pauses. “Is that seriously the ending of War of the Worlds? We win because of a cold? ”
Ronan pushes himself off Adam’s chest. His cheeks are flushed and his nose is red and with his hood pulled up over his head he looks like a grumpy tween emo kid. “Yeah. Have you seriously never heard anything about this movie?”
“I’ve heard enough about it to know it was a book first before it was a mediocre Tom Cruise movie.”
“No it wasn’t.”
Adam coughs into his elbow. “Yes it was.”
“No way.”
“You have the book on our bookshelf.”
“No fucking way.”
Adam sits the controller on the coffee table, and detangles his legs from Ronan’s. “Where are you going?”
“To prove you wrong.” He pushes himself off the couch with a grunt and a cough.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
Ronan groans into the couch cushions, sitting up only to fumble for a tissue to sneeze again. Adam blesses him from another room. There’s rummaging, a few muffled coughs, and then the kettle is whistling. Ronan refuses to peel his face from where it’s planted in the couch cushion.
Something lands on his back. He fails his arm behind him, trying to grab it while moving the minimal number of muscles. Adam nudges him over with his knee and a sniffle, flopping back into his place with a mug of tea in hand and another steaming on the coffee table. The shuffle puts the book in the crevice between Ronan’s back and the couch, which forces him to sit up, which makes him cough, which makes him hate everything.
“Well, I’ll be fucking damned,” he rasps, holding the paperback copy of War of the Worlds.
“Told you,” Adam says, and goddamn him for sounding so fucking proud even when congested as all fucking hell.
“Where did I get?” Ronan asks.
Adam raises a brow. “The Barns?”
Sure enough, scrawled on the inside cover: Property of Niall Isaac Lynch.
“Huh.” Ronan says, and then tosses the book on the coffee table in exchange for more tissues.
“Did you not look at what you were packing?”
“Why would I do that if most of the shit is coming up here anyways.”
Screw this plague; Adam’s heart manages to flutter anyways. They’re living together. In an apartment. Like real, damn adults.
“When can we get the next hit?” Ronan grumbles, reaching for the Dayquil. Adam rolls his eyes and slaps his hand away.
“Please stop talking like it’s heroin.” Ronan grumbles something into Adam’s stomach that’s most likely obscene. “We have--” Adam squints at Ronan’s phone, “--42 minutes until we can take the next dose.”
Ronan groans, loud and long and absolutely obnoxious, and Adam has no sympathy when he gives himself a coughing fit. He takes Adam’s mug and sips mint tea while ignoring Adam’s glare, because if he were truly annoyed he wouldn’t have let Ronan take the mug in the first place.
“This sucks,” he says.
Adam nods as his eyes flutter shut once more before he sneezes. Again. “God, I felt that in my brain. ”
“We should keep a tally,” Ronan says. Adam takes the second mug of tea from the table. “How many times we sneeze. Winner gets to not get off the couch for the next 48 hours.”
Adam sniffles and swallows the tea with a grimace. “Wait, who’s the winner? Whoever sneezes more or less?”
“Oh. Uh, more, I guess.”
“But wouldn’t the person who sneezes less be the real winner? Because they’re less close to expelling brain matter through their nasal passage?”
“Seriously, Parrish, how the hell can you think right now?”
Adam’s head flops backwards onto the pillow. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “If I don’t think about something I’m just going to think about how miserable I am.”
“Turn the show back on, then.” And Ronan’s already crawling over Adam to press A to “Keep Watching.” He pauses on his way back down to leave a kiss on Adam’s forehead. “Still warm,” he mutters.
Adam puts his hand to his forehead, and the back of his other hand to Ronan’s forehead. “You too,” he says. He shifts his legs so Ronan can settle back into position.
They’re quiet for a while, only the occasional sniffle or cough interrupting the running commentary of the judges or chefs. Adam’s fingers still against Ronan’s head. Ronan turns to look at him, brow furrowed in petulance that even Opal would be impressed by.
“This isn’t what I imagined for your first few days here,” Adam says softly, as Ted Allen announces “Time’s up!” on the entree round. “But I’m glad neither of us have to be miserable alone.”
Ronan’s expression softens again. He holds Adam a little tighter. “We can make it up to each other later.”
Adam hums, obviously pleased. “That means you’ll unpack all your shit without help, right?”
“Fuck you.”
The phone alarm goes off.
“Next dose,” Adam announces.
“Thank Jesus Christ, my lord and fucking savior,” Ronan cries.
They cheers their little plastic medicine cups to each other, to the table, and knock them back, pretending they’re celebrating being home, together, at long last, instead of trying desperately to purge the excess snot from their bodies and break their fevers.
A chef that neither of them can remember the name of wins. The next episode rolls on. They fall asleep before the end of the appetizer round, Adam's hand in Ronan's hair, Ronan listening to Adam's heartbeat, and both so thankful they're no longer alone.