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He is well aware of the cost of landscaping a university. They have shown him the papers when he stood in the Dean's office, irate, about how much money they were certainly wasting in landscaping it so ardently and frequently. They didn't care for the articles on biodiversity or ecological impact, nor did they pay any heed to the petition that students started after some unknown individual whipped them up into a fervor over it.
He reaches, slowly, for the box of tissues parked on the edge of his desk. One of many things he curses is that the AC for this building has gone out. They've had technicians in and out over the last two weeks, while the spring quarter winds into its last weeks, and the temperature skyrockets accordingly. The heat is uncomfortable, but tolerable. It has the added unpleasant effect of forcing everyone to open their windows in a vain attempt at cooling down, which carries its own hell with it.
"hH' RRSSH hue!"
He wrinkles his nose, sniffles sharply in the aftermath, and then blows his nose forcefully. The tissue is thrown into the nearly overflowing basket, situated on the faded berber of his office and beside the polished leather of his dress shoes like a stalwart soldier, with all of its compatriots. A squirt of hand sanitizer into his palms, a hissing breath at the stinging contact with the dry skin around his knuckles from washing so fervently, and he's back to grading a quiz. The routine has become purely mechanical by now.
Doubling his dose of antihistamines has helped somewhat, but it's always playing catch up, unable to get ahead of a heavy pollen count and the open windows of every room in this building, of the pitiful desk fans that do nothing but move hot air and stir it up constantly so it doesn't have a chance to truly settle. His nose has been running constantly, the skin around reddened nostrils chafed and irritable, which matches the redness of his eyes, gritty and watering and raw in the corners from the tears.
They're lucky that he is a man of impeccable self control. In moments like these, he indulges a single thought of torching every blade of grass on campus, replacing it with cement or AstroTurf or bark mulch or nothing at all for all he cares. Anything but the grass that is allowed to grow just tall enough to make him miserable, and then sheared flat into a fragrant mat of uniform allergenic torment.
Coworkers have long since given up shouting a blessing from across the hall, or through the door as they pass by his office. They know he doesn't like it, which is precisely why they persisted in doing so for so long, but it lost its shine as the temperature climbed and everyone grew more sluggish and lethargic in their work. Even he has taken to rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, the faint tan line between his cuffs and his wristwatch visible against the sweat clinging to the hair of his forearms.
He catches sight of himself in the reflection of his monitor as it stutters and chugs in its attempts at opening the grade book and grimaces. His nose, beakish and prominent in the best of times, has taken on an irritable shade of red at the nares from the constant attention. More noticeable, though, are his eyes: they're red, bloodshot, and teary despite his frequent wiping and a strict regiment of eye drops that he follows like clockwork. He muses, briefly, that they look like they belong to whatever inhuman beast his colleagues and students often imagine him to be.
He pushes the thought aside, not only because he doesn't have time to dawdle on nonsense, but because he can feel the itch rising to a fever pitch, and he grabs a new pair of tissues in anticipation of it.
"Hh..." One soft breath in preparation, before he draws a sharper gasp for the real thing. "hH'RASSHhue! 'RRSSHhue!" A pair of them this time, and, much to his annoyance, he can tell a third one is waiting in the wings. He wills it along, glancing up from his computer at the sun beaming in through the shut window. "hHRASSHh'ue!"
That scratches the itch this time, though it scratches at his throat equally. He coughs, a couple light, itchy things, and then blows his nose with an irritatingly liquid sound.
"Bless you, Dr. Valentine!"
He glances over his shoulder fleetingly to make eye contact with Monty, before directing a short, sharp blow into the tissues and resuming the mechanical routine. "I told you--"
"Not to say that, I know. It's hardwired instinct, sue me." He's more irritable than normal. Perhaps the heat is getting to everyone. "Are you sure we can't open the window? I'm pretty sure the damage has already been done--"
"hH RRASH ue!"
"You could have just said no."
"Mr. Cavanaugh," he hisses from behind an elbow, "I must warn you that you are precipitously close to homicide via stapler."
"Well, I suppose it's either that or melt to death." He leans back in his chair with an agonized groan, mousy curls falling limply across the back of his chair like a dying diva. "When are they fixing the AC?"
"If I listen to the email they sent, it will be fixed today. If I listen to the number of times I've seen that truck pull in and out of the parking lot over these last two weeks, I'd say it will be winter quarter when they triumphantly announce it's been fixed, and announce a week later that they can't turn it off." Truthfully, he doubts it will be this week. It's already Thursday, and there's little hope that today or tomorrow will make the difference that a fortnight hasn't.
His eyes remind him that he hasn't been paying attention to them for the last two minutes, because they itch so furiously that he's forced to do something about them. He gives in to the ill advised urge to dab at them with a clean tissue. He wants to grind them into dust, to rub at them with a knuckle, with the heel of his hand, with sandpaper to rid himself of the gritty, horrible itch that cannot be fixed by something so simple as dabbing away the itchy tears threatening to roll down his cheeks.
"Doctor, are you--"
"No."
"You don't even know what I was going to say. I could've been asking, 'Doctor, are you a really accomplished professor?' or "Doctor, am I still getting paid this week even though our entire budget has gone to the HVAC guys?'"
"You were going to ask if I was crying."
"I was, but you didn't know that."
"Theodore--"
"Okay, okay!" He mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like 'bitch', but he refrains from commenting loudly enough it's intended to be heard.
Nor does he bother to remark on it. He is a bitch, after all; it's hardly the worst he's ever been called, including in this very office. But he knows that if he starts saying something now, he'll just have to lapse into silence in a moment. That itch, needling at every square inch of his respiratory system.
He knows that Monty knows as well, because he catches his inquisitive glance from the corner of his eye as he takes a pair of tissues, carefully folds them in half, and waits for it to come.
"Doctor--"
He's cut off by a sharp gasp and an index finger that bids him silence. "hH-! hRASSHhue!" He can feel that irritation still dwelling, the siren's song of hay fever attempting to coax something further, but it's been relatively relieved by the single sneeze, enough that he straightens up with a sniffle and pinches at aggravatingly damp nostrils through the tissues.
"Bless--" he falters at the venomous look, pivots directions abruptly, "--ed be. Popular in, ah, Wicca circles." He clears his throat, just looks away bashfully and returns his attention to his laptop. "My fun fact of the day."
"Joy." Perhaps he should call on his apparent Pagan knowledge to call in a favor, to place a curse on histamines and the landscaping of the university at large. "Theodore."
"Yes, Doctor?"
"Focus on your work."
"I am."
"Then why can I see you watching me over your screen?"
"I'm surprised you can see anything through those eyes right now." He's already risen from his chair, having anticipated the sharp turn towards him. "You know, I think now would be a good time to go get myself an iced tea from the plaza."
"A wise decision."
He waits a few minutes until he's certain he's given Monty a head start, before he gets up from his chair himself. The clock tells him it's time for the next round of eye drops, and it couldn't possibly come any sooner.
The staff bathroom is miserably small, a single stall whose lock broke long ago despite his hounding them to make repairs, but it's enough privacy to handle a task so minor as this. He certainly doesn't find it ideal, but he would do it anywhere if it just meant he could get it done and over with. It's either this, or claw his eyes from his skull.
He looks garish in the mirror, and it's perhaps not a surprise that they were commented on. He's more surprised that he didn't comment on how red and damp his nostrils are--chafed, angry, threatening to flicker into a sneeze with each breath. He brushes the thought aside, because nothing can distract him from this mission.
They don't offer any immediate relief, nor is he optimistic they will be offering any long term relief from where he's already at, but he knows that he is in a better state with them than without. If he foregoes them now, he will be wishing for the relief of going back to this level of grit and itch in them.
He takes the opportunity, now that he's taken care of his eyes, to deeply indulge himself with a protracted, miserable blow that destroys the handful of paper towels he's grabbed to handle it. It is disgusting. It is wet. It is fiercely itchy. It does absolutely nothing to take care of the fact that he is drowning in histamines and his own fluids. And it is heavenly.
If nothing else, it clears his nose enough that he isn't sniffling pitifully, and that's the best he can hope for for the time being. He washes his hands thoroughly, and makes his way back to his office with the first mostly clear breath he's had this last hour.
The world outside, beautiful and cheery and pollen-laden, is shut out with a scowl and a flick of the wrist, sending the blinds crashing down against the sill. Even looking at it is too much to bear, and he allows himself a single, harsh rub at his eyes to wipe away the tears and irritation as much as possible.
There is no hope he will survive this, but there is nothing more to be done. He awaits Monty's return, to once again prod him while he works.