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At the moment, Peter was talking to the head of some scientific institution and loathing every second of small talk that ticked by. Elias lay on his back with his head propped up on a pillow, sniffling intermittently, and let the information flow through him. His cell phone lay heavy in his palm, his eyes open. Not watching. Just Knowing. Peter desperately wanted an out, some lull so he could disappear into the fog of the Lonely and phase back into his flat.
Peter's discomfort was less of a balm than Elias had hoped; he wasn't making an ass of himself or conducting himself in a way that betrayed his deep desire to leave. He'd even put on something nicer than that ratty old coat he always wore. So Elias had nothing, not even the sweetness of schadenfreude to distract himself from his own ills.
And they were plentiful.
He looked something like a prince as he lounged on his bed, though he had to breathe through his mouth. Only the sharpest observer would notice the gentle pink tinge to his nostrils and eyes, the frequent sticky swallow and sniffles. Safe in his position as the Watcher, Elias was the only person who knew the extent of his own weakness.
He intended to keep it that way.
Sitting up slowly did nothing to ward off the pressurized pounding in both temples; he squeezed his eyes shut despite himself and ran his free hand through his unstyled hair. Something indignant and petulant burned at the back of his mind, but he suppressed it and reached for the box of tissues on the nightstand so he could blow his nose.
It didn't do much.
His sinuses were inflamed (the knowledge jumped into his head) and likely to stay that way for a few days.
Elias crumpled up the mostly-dry tissue and left it on top of the duvet, instead dialing Peter's number with a practiced hand. Past experience, not the Eye, told him that Peter was bored enough to answer.
Sure enough, the ringing stopped a few moments later. "Yes?"
"You're in luck," said Elias, cringing at the tinny, constricted sound of his voice. He rubbed the bridge of his nose to no avail.
"Do tell." Elias also didn't need the Eye to know that Peter was feigning disinterest, was already calculating what the catch was going to be.
"Something's come up at the Institute," Elias said, already cursing himself for adding too much detail to his fabrication, "so I'm afraid I'll have to cancel tonight's plans." Lightning-fast, an itch shot through his sinuses, so sharp it made his eyes water. He scrunched up his nose despite himself. He knew full well the game would be up if he sneezed. Peter, for all his perceived faults, was not stupid.
"And miss the chance to watch me struggle to sit through a whole opera without feeding anyone to the Lonely?" The edge in Peter's voice practically gleamed in Elias' ears. "It must be very important business."
"Ye–" Elias couldn't help the gasp that strangled out the word, the whole body flinch of an oncoming sneeze. The flare faded at the last second only to hit hard once his guard was down. He didn't even have time to pull his phone away from his face.
"Bless you," said Peter with faux-innocence. "Elias?"
Elias swiped a tissue across his nose, wincing at the sting that shot through the irritated skin. "Yes."
Peter was quiet for a moment, letting the tension build before making his strike: "Are you sure you're feeling well?"
"Quite," said Elias, rage burning in his chest. "It's dusty down here in the Archives."
"Oh, so you're not at home?" Peter's voice rose in his mirth and Elias could have killed him for it. "Shame. I was going to stop by."
"The Hell you were," Elias said through gritted teeth. Another sneeze tore through him, barely even slowed by his frantic attempt to stifle it. The result was a strangled, barking sound that scraped against his tender throat and made him cough.
"Oh, my." Peter's shit-eating grin was evident in just his tone. "Elias," he said, switching to fabricated solemnity, "if you're not feeling well enough to go to the opera tonight, I'd be more than happy to cancel. Of course, I'd be honor-bound to come check on you, if that were the case."
Bastard. Elias sighed through his mouth and swallowed hard. The sensation was sticky and made his ears crackle. "No," he said firmly. "It's an issue at the Institute and I'm handling it. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly." Peter's response was sedate. "Perfectly clear."
"Good," said Elias.
There was a brief silence. Then Peter struck a mortal blow, leaving Elias cursing the horrendous brain fog that had plagued him since waking up: "I'll just swing by the Institute, then."
"What?" said Elias once he had recovered from the shock of his slip-up. "No. No, ah…" He felt himself begin to panic, his damaged pride finally forcing his hand. Peter had won. "That won't be necessary. Actually, I've almost got everything sorted; my secretary was being a touch dramatic on the phone. Business as usual, Peter."
"What a relief." Again, Peter's smile was practically visible through the phone. "I'll see you tonight."
"Yes." Elias hung up without saying goodbye, already tallying up the highest non-fatal dose of paracetamol for his body weight.
--
It was a small mercy that all of Elias' sniffling and sneezing had not left his nose and upper lipped more chapped. They were both a delicate shade of pink, but looked less irritated than they felt. It was his sinuses that were truly troubling him. No amount of pills or cough medicine could quell the horrible pounding in his temples nor the persistent itching crackle in his ears every time he swallowed. His head swam every time he so much as blinked and the heavy doses of medication he'd taken throughout the day only contributed to this cumbersome sense of malaise. If he remembered this night later, it would be a shock.
Peter had somehow done the impossible and found a tuxedo that would fit his hulking frame. Elias blinked languidly at him across the table, though a significant part of his attention was dedicated to mentally tracking the waiter on his quest to bring more espresso for the table. Elias had already had two cups. His hands trembled in his lap.
"You're sure you need more coffee?" Peter asked, planting his elbow firmly on the table. "I can hear you breathing from here."
Elias scowled. He'd been dragging ragged breaths in through his nose as often as he could, but his irritated sinuses would always itch and threaten a volley of sneezes. "It's only espresso, Peter." The words felt gummy in his mouth. A small voice, possibly what was left of his self-preservation after having been brutally crushed by his pride, warned him that he was playing a dangerous game, that there was no way he was making it through this evening. He ignored it.
The waiter finally finished chatting up one of the chefs (a pretty little thing, but wholly focused on doing her job) and brought another steaming demitasse on a pristine white saucer.
"Thank you," Elias said frostily, "and next time, might I suggest you wait until you're off the clock before you begin inflicting yourself on disinterested women?" The waiter's eyes widened and his mouth opened, but he said nothing. Elias smiled like fractured ice. "Just a suggestion." He managed to hold off on sneezing until the waiter had turned away in shame, but it was a near thing. Next came a bout of coughing that, despite his best efforts, rattled the table until espresso sloshed out of the cup and made little puddles on the saucer.
Once Elias had wiped his eyes on his otherwise unused napkin, Peter made a show of running his fingertip along the edge of the table, examining it, and wiping some imaginary particles away with his thumb. "Dustier than the Archives in here, is it?" he asked with a sly, sideways glance at Elias.
Elias' temples throbbed and for a wild moment, he contemplated confessing, letting Peter win so he could go home and stick his face over a pot of boiling water and sneeze without disturbing an entire restaurant full of people. Then, much like his frequent coughing fits, it passed. "Gucci Bloom," he said, sniffling, "Profumo di Fiori." His stuffy, nasal slur mangled the Italian until it was almost unrecognizable, but he forced the syllables out as cleanly as he could get them. "I'm allergic and three women in this restaurant are wearing it."
"Of course," said Peter, sitting back with a satisfied smile. He had long since finished his dessert, and now looked expectantly at Elias and checked his watch. Like everything else about Peter, his watch was massive and weather-beaten and in perfect working condition. "Better hurry," he said, indicating what was left of Elias' espresso with a nod. "Bottoms up."
Something about the challenge (or the ungodly amounts of Dayquil and caffeine already in his system) made Elias abandon propriety. He picked up the demitasse and slugged back its contents not unlike a college student would take a shot, albeit with a bit less swagger and a great deal more finesse. Having his head back like that made his ears throb and his eyes lose focus. His sinuses ached and threatened to make him sneeze. He wrinkled his nose as he brought the cup down onto the saucer, shoulders hitching with uneven breaths.
"Bitter?" Peter teased.
Elias sneezed explosively into his napkin, not having had time to dig his handkerchief out of his pocket. His ribs ached. His watering eyes made dark dots on the white linen. The waiter, coming by with the check, took a breath to bless him but was stopped by the expert application of a steely glare, its intensity not dampened by the puffy, red-rimmed quality of Elias' eyes.
"Good Heavens," said Peter with a commiserating wink," we'd better hope nobody at the opera is wearing Profumo di Fiori."
--
Elias wasn't sure how they'd gotten to the theater. He had no memory of it whatsoever. There seemed to be no room in his spinning head for anything other than foggy congestion and bad temper. Dazed, he kept his eyes on the wide expanse of Peter's back as they walked through the crowded lobby. The bitter aftertaste of espresso coated his tongue like velvet with every labored exhale. He couldn't breathe through his nose any more and the perpetual threat of a sneeze lurked in his irritated sinuses.
"There's the bar," Peter said, turning back to face Elias with nothing short of glee sparkling in his eyes. "Champagne? Or will the bubbles make you sneeze, too?"
Elias was quiet for a fraction of a second too long before a retort swam to the surface of his mind. It wasn't a very good one. "Very funny," he said with as much venom as he could muster.
Something in Peter's demeanor softened by the tiniest fraction. "Whiskey might help that sore throat of yours."
Peter's pity was more infuriating than his sadistic glee. Elias straightened, drawing his shoulders back and his chin up. "Who says I have a sore throat?" It was a childish thing to say, juvenile, but worse, it sent a flaming itch down his throat. He grit his teeth and fixed his dark eyes on Peter, not even bothering to breathe.
Just like that, the tenderness vanished from Peter's gaze. "Oh," he said, the corners of his mouth rising slightly, "do you not? Forgive me, Elias, I just assumed that with all that coughing—"
"Champagne." Elias forced the word up through his burning throat and did not cough.
"Of course."
The room swam when Elias took his first step after Peter. He took a shuffling step sideways, the side of his Oxford dragging on the carpet. The slight 'sh' of leather on wool filled his head, drowning out the ambient noise of the lobby. Then the moment passed. Reality came back in one reverberating wall of sound and Elias watched Peter's silver hair glint under the lights as he walked away.
Another step. He had to stop short again as a couple passed in front of him. A man and a woman. The air they displaced was cool against Elias' skin and should have sent up a waft of cologne and perfume, but he couldn't smell anything.
Chanel No. 5, the Eye informed him in lieu of his senses, adding: She committed a hit and run 6 years ago. She's terrified she'll be caught.
The couple passed. Elias kept his gaze locked on Peter as he followed. It was a slow process. Whatever commanding presence kept people out of his way seemed to have deserted him and he had to dodge theatergoers at maddening intervals. The parade of dresses and suits made his head whirl.
"There you are," Peter said.
Elias blinked and found himself by Peter's side. "Pardon?" he said, staring at the plastic cup Peter was trying to get him to take. "What is this?" The cup, he was horrified to see, had a lid and a straw. Mourning the death of class, he took it and examined the golden-brown liquid within.
"Whiskey." Peter shepherded him away from the bar, but not so far that they were near a wall or anything else Elias might lean against for balance. He swayed a little as they came to a stop, the ice sloshing against the lid. His head ached. His gaze found the floor for a moment, his eyes sliding shut as his face throbbed. Then Peter continued, tapping Elias' chin to angle his head back up, "The Lucas family owns this distillery." He indicated his own plastic cup. "I was surprised to see they're serving it here."
Elias took a sip through the straw and nearly gagged on the liquid; bitter and sharp, it hit his tongue like a wash of acid. He physically shuddered, coughing explosively into his sleeve. There were no notes of oak or spice, no smooth vanilla finish. It tasted like acetone.
"That good?" Peter asked, raising his eyebrows.
"It tastes like furniture polish."
To Elias' surprise, Peter nodded. "That's why I was surprised to see they had it. It's bottom shelf stuff, comes in a plastic bottle."
Elias unearthed his handkerchief and wiped his streaming eyes. Then he sniffled and, annoyed, swiped it under his nose as well. It wasn't the best of etiquette, but he was too angry to care. Cold shudders still rocked him at the bitter taste on the back of his tongue and the vapors seemed to burn in his irritated sinuses. Somewhere in his subconscious, two dots begged to be connected, but he had no attention to spare them. Three sneezes ripped through him like they were racing: one on top of the next until he was bent nearly double with his face buried in his handkerchief. "Pardon… me…" he said once he got his bearings again, his teeth clenched. Then, once the appropriate synapse fired, "I suppose the Lonely loves alcoholics."
"Oh, yes," Peter said serenely, sipping at his whiskey, "but sometimes, they're almost too easy to get. No fun to toy with."
Elias nodded, his mind already wandering from the conversation. Dark spots floated across his vision, silver stars winking in the golden light. Everything was white at the edges and the whole room seemed to be turning, ever so slowly, to the right.
"Do you know what I think?" Peter said suddenly. He finished his whiskey in one long swallow and stared expectantly at Elias.
At the moment, Elias didn't even know what he was thinking. There was nothing in his head but a gentle reverberation of sound through his blocked, throbbing ears.
When he received no response, Peter continued in a tone that was uncharacteristically accusatory: "I think you've got a nasty head cold. I think neither one of us is going to have a good time tonight and I think you need to go to bed before somebody catches wind of this and tries to kill us both."
The shock of this outburst pulled Elias back to reality, if only temporarily. "Don't be melodramatic," he hissed, and then was forced to dive into his handkerchief yet again as a sneeze assaulted him.
"You," Peter said, placing the back of his hand on Elias' forehead, "are disgusting."
The look on his face was almost fond and the emotion it stirred in Elias' chest was something nauseated and furious. He straightened and knocked Peter's hand away, fire blazing behind his eyes. "I don't know what makes you think you can speak to me that way—"
"Shut up," Peter said. "I'm taking you home."
Jonah Magnus, for the first time in his life, obeyed with no ulterior motive.