Work Text:
On Monday, Minute leaves his roommates with the clear instruction to call him if anything happens.
He dearly hopes it doesn't, they can't afford to have Minute miss another shift at work, with the rest of them sick at home.
In a way, it's funny that a larger apartment would amybe fix the problem of them all getting sick simultaniously, while also as a solution being prevented by them never seeming to have enough funny.
Sickness, Minute finds, makes everything seem funnier and more depressing at the same time.
He is once again glad for the reasonably good subway connection between home and work, because it menas he can avoid the almost-sure traffic accident he would have if he had to take his bicycle.
The door to Magic Mushroom Laboratory opens with its usual creaking and scraping that makes Minute's head hurt. Technically oiling the door has been Minute's responsibility since the janitor quit, but in practice he never has enough time in any given day to finish just the work assigned to his actual job.
Every day, he takes the small gadgets back home that fit in his backpack so he can fix them up without staying unsupervised in the laboratory and also without missing dinner.
That arrangement has the positive side effect of being great entertainment for his roommates and the negative side effect of technically being ilegal, but so would be staying after hours, so it's a rock or a hard place.
The solution, which Minute has only dared to propose once in his two years of working at MML, is hiring another mechanic.
But they haven't. Nor have they hired a new janitor.
So the door creeks and scrapes over dirty floors and Minute walks past the iverflowing trashcans, once again wondering if nobody at all cares about workplace cleanliness.
Then he remembers the fish-killing biohazardous waste being pumped unfiltered into the river below.
The environment matters to the higher ups even less than the helath of their workers, as evidenced by the protective glasses Minute, signed mechanic, has sown and glued together more thrice per piece.
Perhaps it's only twice for some — the ex-cookin-apron with heart-print used to replace a stolen lab coat is taken care of delightfully well by the scientists — but the point stands.
Punctual at five minutes to eight, Minute enters his office — what he assumes to have once been a closet, but that has never been proven — taking care not to stumble over the wires stretching from his workbench to an electrical socket outside
The absence of outlets inside his office has annoyed Minute to no end, being beaten only by the permament smell, the flickering lights and that the any and all cables are so short that they can only reach the socket by being stretched as long as they will go, with means that they hover dangerously at ankle height.
If Minute is honest with himself, if the other issues got fixed, he wouldn't really care all that much about the lack of power outlets.
But Minute is sick, and if he gives himself any grace, it is now to complain about everything. He can invest energy into being nice to be around when he's healthy or at home.
For now, he contends himself with shutting his door as far as possible and taking slightly more noisy steps towards his desk. Full on stomping woukd probably be noticable. No matter how shady, Minute needs this job.
Over the day, Minute fixes a number of more or less unimportant things (he blames Bacon for the habbit of making lists):
-one (1) gas line after having put it of for months on grounds of the other still working and thus having more urgent things to do, which isn't true as of today, but is pulled away before fixing the other one
-one (1) spectroscope he was pulled away to fix
-the other gas line
-three (3) microscopes
-his headache with half-a dose of ibuprofen after arguing with one of the nir eunreasonable scientists that no, their fourth (4th) microscope is damaged beyond repair
-a seemingly very immportant coffee cup of the facility manager, earning him a few splinter sof porcelain imbedded into his right palm
-his soldering iron, a hard task without his soldering iron
-one (1) desk
-two (2) chairs
-his worsening headache with the other half of his ibuprofen and a hopeless attempt at a five minute nap
-one (1) laptop, that needed even more fixing after Minute dropped it onto his foot, which at least nobody saw
-the creaking of the doors, because it makes his head scream at him (Minute is not the janitor)
-the acid-hole burned through the ex-kitchen-apron with a heart pattern used to replace a stolen lab coat (no, Minute is not a tailor either)
-one (1) puddle of water after the emergency shower was needed following that same incident to (unsuccesfully) try to prevent more water dammage to the floor
-one (1) gas burner involved in aforementioned incident
-one (1) hazardous pile of glass, sulphuric acid, dodecane-1,3,5,7,9,11-polyol, nonanoic acid, hexane, nonanoic acid dodecanpolyol ester, and water, as one nervously fluttering scientist won't stop reminding him, the smell of chemicals burning in his nose and behind his eyeballs.
-one (1) broom used to clean said bile up (nor is he a carpenter)
-hopefully his headache by finally walking out of the door at six in the evening, two hours past his contract, an hour before most of his shifts
Minute's hopefully fixed headache turn out to not be fixed, and his hope rapidly dwindling as he enters the full and stinking train, which is, of course, late.
He holds on for dear life onto the straps on the ceiling as the world swims before his eyes and his legs wobble below him. The bodies pressed and shifting against his sides are disgustingly hot and the only thing keeping Minute upright. The screeching of tires sparking against rails echoes in Minutes ears, pulsing and hot, burning as he tries to fight the pain by pressing his ears shut.
It distracts Minute from the nausea, in no way improved by the swaying of the train and the smell of unwashed bodies and old sweat.
A baby cries, someone telephones loudly, the tires screech. The world goes dark as Minute presses his eyes shut against his double vision, then lights up from the pressure.
He spares a ruefull thought for probably spreading his germs right now, but can't bring himself to truly care while deciding whether breathing through his nose and smelling everything or breathing through his mouth and having to keep it open is worse for his nausea.
Another stop. Minute is pressed against the wall and slumps forward against it, relieved. The glass pane is cool against his hot face, distracting him from the fire raging in his head and the rolling sea of his nausea. His shoulder hurts from his weight hanging on it and Minute's fingers feel stiff, curled around the grabpole. It slides down without Minute's input, before he quickly pulls it up again as it brushes against a stranger's.
He blinks his eyes open and squints to read the list of station's coming up. Two more, that means... ten done, two to go, that's...six minutes?
Minute blinks blearily up at the display. His tongue laps at his teeth, gums, to find any moisture, but Minute's water bottle is long empty, and the Magic Mountain Laboratory is not known in any way to be a good source of drinking water. Minute doubts that it's a good source for anything at all.
The train starting again jostles Minute and he bumps into the person behind him before his grip on the stanchion reflexively tightens again.
"S'rry", he mumbles. His tongue feels numb in his mouth and his lips refuse to move the way he wants them to, like numbed by the chilly air in winter. But that can't be it, Minute is painfully hot. Yet he shivers. His tongue darts out to run over chapped lips before he has to bite down on it again to fight another wave of nausea.
Just a few moments, Minute begs his body as he gags and bile runs ovet his tongue.
The doors open for his station, Minute stumbles outside, eyes darting around for the neares trashcan, but he isn't taking anything in.
Minute stumbles forward on weak legs towards one of the benches scattered throughout the station, clings onto it as his breakfast burst through despite his best efforts. Tears sting in Minute's eyes as he feels his stomach roll over. At elast, he thinks, gasping for air before more vomit takes it from him, this didn't happen at work.
His knuckles are white around the backrest of the bench, his left knee collapsed onto the seat, metal web digging into it.
His breaths come as heaving gasps, as more bile dribbles down Minute's chin and splatters drop by drop onto the plastic bag below.
It wasn't the trashcan for residual waste but instead for paper.
That realization startles an abrupt exhale of laughter out his chest, before he stands up again and wipes the vomit on his chin away his hand, then his hand on the side of his pants.
A mother holds her daughter protectively as she shoots Minute an evil look, a group of high schoolers stare at him in disgust. His ears grow even hotter with a flush and his gaze darts away, he turns on his heels and speedwalks towards the exit.
Better than at work, but in public? Couldn't his body have waited five mor minutes? He spits out the disgusting taste onto the sidewalk as he exits onto the street.
Five more minutes, he tells his wobbly kegs and pleads with the twirling world, five more minutes.
Minute makes it home, though he needs ten minutes and not five, stopping every block or so to rest against the sid eof a building.
As the elevator doors open on their floor, Minute allows himself a sign of relief. Their front door is in sight. He stumbles towards it and knocks, to tired to fish out his keys, though he immediately regrets it. He shouldn't make his roommates open the door for him, they're also sick, after all.
But Minute is sick, he allows himself the grace of finishing the thought, 'But I'm the one who went to work.'
The door opens and Minute falls forward, landing suprisingly gently in Mapicc's arm. "Woah!", Mapicc exclaims with a scratchy voice, before stumbling back, apaprently not having regained all of his balance yet.
"S'rry", Minute slurrs, catching himself against the wall.
"Oh shit, Minute!", Mapicc curses. Minute hisses as the noises continues ringing in his ears.
"What happened?", comes Hannah's concerned shout from the kitchen as Bacon's miserable face peeks up from his place on the coach.
Mapicc walks past Minute and closes the door. He pulls one of Minute's arms over his shoulder and Minute lets his eyes fall shut as he is pulled along and dropped onto the sofa. He groans as dizzyness overcomes him and blinks blearily, before shutting his eyes as the ceiling lamp blinds him.
"He's not looking good", Mapicc says. A cool lands touches his forehead. As it pulls way, Minut ecan't help the jerk of his head as he chases it, not the whimper as he fails. He loks up again at Bacon's concerned frown looming over him.
The hand — Bacon's hand — returns to cradle Minute's cheek. He knows he's acting stupidly embarassing, but he can't help the contended sugh that escapes his lips or the way he hoes limp under Bacon's cool touch.
"Really not good", Bacon emphasizes. Minute wants to be affronted but can't muster up the energy to do anything but float in the realm created by the pain in his body and Bacon's gentle touch against Minute's skin.
Hands untie his shoes and pull them off.
Minute blinks to see Mapicc walk away, Minute's sneakers in hand, then return a moment later, empty-handed.
It takes Minute a moment ot recognize that he must have put them onto the shoe mat in their three square foot of hallway.
"Let's get him to bed.", Hannah says in a low voice. If Minute wasn't supposed to hear him, that failed. His eyelids flutter as Bacon's hands move away to lift one of Minute's arms, then Hannah the other.
Minute's feet drag on the floor as his roommates carry him to their one and only bed, despite surely tired and exhausted themselves, laying him down on the mattress with an exaggerated "Oompf!", from Bacon.
Minute looks up at the too again and tries to push himself up. "Need t' br'sh'm teeth." Get the disgusting taste of vomit out of his mouth.
Hannah's hand is splayed out on Minute's chest, keeping him flat on his back. "We'll get it, yeah?", she smiles, then leaves.
Minute feels useless. He stares up at the ceiling, then at Mapicc's face as it enters his field of vision. Mapicc's mouth moves, then Minute hears a string of words. "Let's get you out of those, alright, man?"
Minute hums and Mapicc leaves again, leaving the water-stained ceiling behind.
Hands fumble with Minute's belt, then someone else lifts his limb legs as his pants are pulled off.
"You wanna keep the hoodie, bro?", Mapicc's voice pipes up again, leaving Minute scarmbling to sit up, eyes darting around to find him.
"I'll take that as a yes", Mapicc misunderstands, kneeling at the floor by Minute's dangling legs.
"Raise your arms", he instructs. Minute does best as he can, and Mapicc pulls the sweaty hoodie over his head. Minute fights keep himself upright, now sititng on the mattress edge in just his boxers and socks.
"Tired?", Mapicc asks and wipes the sticky hair away from Minute's forehead with a gentle caress. Minute hums affirmatively. His eyes droop again. Minute fught to keep them open.
"Ir's alright, Min", Mapicc promises as Hannah walks into the room, holding a water-filled cup with Minute's tooth brush and paste. Bacon arrives moments later with a bucket. The same bucket that camped by the coach when Hannah threw up every hour. He wants to smike at the thoughtfulness, but his face won't move, except for his eyes flaling shut again.
The mattrees dips on Minute's right as Hannah sits down. "Turn for me?", she asks, her hands on Minute's jaw pulling his face her way. "Open", she requests next and Minute obliges, lips pulling apart.
Minute is too tired to feel ashamed as Hannah gently brushes his teeth and Mapicc settles down behind him to hold Minute's torso upright while Bacon shuffled around the room, getting a bottle of water and Minute's deodorant, a new shirt, the pack of tissues from the couch. Mapicc's hands card through Minute's hair and scratch pleasantly at his scalp.
These roommates, Minute's wondering mind comes to realize, won't even tease him for this. They'll hug him and won't even make it blackmail.
He spits out the foam into the bucket as Hannah tells himto and rinses his mouth with the water from the cup.
Already, Bacon is waiting to press Minute's deo into his hand, then pull the faded batman shirt oger his head. Even for judt the short moment, Minute misses Mapicc's hug before it returns again, turning into spooning as they move to lie down.
It occurs to Minute suddenly that his roommates must be skipping dinner for this, a thought that stirrs up guilt and warmth equally in Minute's heart.
He hears lively rustling as Hannah and Bacon, too, get ready for bed, before replacing Mapicc so he can put on sleepwear.
Bacon's calloused hands tuck him underneith thier blanket, Hannah's warm breath tickling his neck, her chest pressed against his spine.
As he leaves, Minute holds onto his sleeve. "Work", he mumbles, half muffled by his pillow.
Mapicc's eyes soften even further, seeming somehow sad. "...Yeah. I can call in sick for you."
Minute manages to fight long enough for Mapicc to settle in again and wish his roomamtes a slurred "G'd'nigh', th'nks", then a restful and cuddly sleep claims him.