Make the Yuletide Gay

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Dan Siegel wasn't a Dickens scholar by any means, but the thought always struck him at the end of every semester, the end of the fall semester in particular. Classes were over, and the campus was quiet, but there was a stack of research essays waiting on his office desk, and the prospect of reading about childhood obesity, euthanasia, and abortion rights over and over again simply increased the mild headache he was already experiencing from the chill Midwestern wind ripping across the quad. Squinting his eyes against an onslaught of tiny ice crystals, he pried open the side door of Bessey Hall and made his way up the two flights of stairs to his department. "Hi, Dan" Sandra Adams, a petite blond woman who always seemed to be in her office, no matter how early or late the hour, stuck her head out of her doorway to greet him. They had exchanged a few friendly words at the start of the term, when Dan had been brand new to the department and the school, and had mistaken Sandra for a fellow visiting instructor. It turned out she was a tenure-track assistant professor, which partially accounted for all of the hours of work she put in, but she'd been open and friendly with him, guiding him toward affordable but safe apartment complexes within easy driving distance of the campus.

"Hi, Sandy." Pain bit into the back of his raw throat, and Dan swallowed hard to ease the sensation. "I swear, as early as I get here, I always see your office light on and your door open."

"It's the perks of the job." Sandra adjusted the already impeccable hem of her slate gray suit. "Once I get tenure, I can show up at reasonable hours and dress like Mark." Mark Singer, one of the tenured faculty, wandered around the department day after day in sweat pants and sneakers, talking enthusiastically about baseball, Star Wars, and other iconic aspects of American culture. He was tremendously friendly to everyone, but it galled Dan a little that there was still such a disparity between the expectations imposed on women in academia -- suits, heels, professional attire -- and what men could get away with.

"If you want to do that." Dan lifted a fist and coughed into it, prompting Sandra to take a step back into her office. "Sorry."

Sandra shook her head and smiled, realizing that she'd retreated. "It must be the end-of-semester crud catching up with you." She stepped forward again and scanned the hallway. "I've been tempted to close my door, I've heard so much coughing and snuffling in the past few days. But, we're all bound to catch it eventually, right?"

"Yeah." Dan's voice rasped in his throat, and he cursed the grit of it. "Probably from our students, no doubt." A tickle was making its way up his sinuses, and, loathe to sneeze in front of anyone, he stepped back from the doorway. "Tell you what, you're probably as busy as I am, maybe busier. I'll leave you to your work."

Dan didn't bother to note Sandra's puzzled expression as he escaped down the hallway. His footfalls echoed in the empty hall, matched step for step with sharp intakes of breath. "Hih! Hiiiih!"

One point in his favor, Dan thought, as he reached the door to his office and fumbled for the key, was that the buildups to his sneezes were usually long, so he had a lot of warning. The key turned, along with the knob, and he nearly fell into his office in his haste, lunging for his desk and the large blue box of tissues he kept there just in case a distraught student were to stop by and need one. It was one of the first things he'd been advised when he started teaching, back as a Master's student, though he'd never had cause to offer one.

Now, he grabbed three tissues at once and released the sneezes he'd been holding back. "Hrr-chfff! Huh-eshhh. Chrrf!" Thanks be to Anson Smith, Dan thought, slouching back into his office chair with the clump of tissues still pressed to his nose. But Dr. Smith had told him one other thing in that first wave of advice, and now it seemed like a prophecy. "As soon as your students leave for the break, and you have time to decompress, that's when you'll get sick."

Dan certainly hadn't expected the virulent sore throat he'd awoken with that morning to be blossoming into a cold so quickly, but it made sense that his immune system would have taken a crash. Four courses of freshman composition, with twenty seven students per class, was enough to try anyone's sanity, not to mention their health. But Agrimont University was facing their biggest budget shortfalls of the decade, and so they squeezed every last bit of work they could out of everyone. And as Sandra had mentioned, it had taken its toll on the department, and at least five professors had begged off of the final week of classes, down with a particularly nasty strain of flu that even the CDC hadn't anticipated.

"Shit." Dan blew vigorously into the tissues, then tossed them into the rectangular metal waste basket near the door. The persistent tickle in his nose was aggravating, but not as much so as the mountain of research papers facing him.

"Okay, if I can just get through one class worth, I'll go have a bagel." He took the first one off of the stack, an indictment of global warming from one of his brightest midday student, and tried to become engrossed in it. Resisting the urge to make marks on the paper, knowing that would just slow him down, he placed his blue ink pen in the desk drawer, taking it out only long enough to jot a quick 3.5 on the title page.

A half hour and four papers later, Dan's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone behind him sniffling. "Sniff!" A moment went by, then he heard another "Sniff!"

"Oh, for the love of..." Dan grimaced and pulled at a dark brown eyebrow, willing the person to either blow their nose or go away. When the unseen offender sniffled one more time, Dan swiveled around in his chair toward the open doorway. A shivering girl in an Agrimont University hooded sweatshirt stood staring at the door of an office down the hall, clutching a manila envelope to her rather ample and pert chest.

"Can I help you?" When the girl turned to face him, Dan noticed that her eyes were bloodshot, and tears were tracking down her wind burned cheeks. Taking the tissue box from his desk, he rolled his office chair to the doorway, getting the student's full attention.

"You want a tissue?" Dan pulled out a few, and the girl approached shyly, accepting them in a trembling hand.

"Thank you." She swiped briefly at her tears, looking stolidly at the floor. "Uhm, do you know if Professor Givens is around? I was supposed to turn in my final paper, but I got the wrong room, and once I found the right room, there was a note on the board saying he'd be here, but now he's not."

Dan held up a hand, wanting to head off a fresh volley of tears. "Tell you what, I think he stepped out just a few minutes ago, but let's you and I go down to the main office and see if the secretaries can help us."

"That would be so nice," the girl said, a bit breathlessly, dabbing again at her eyes. "I spent all of last night finishing this paper, and I just have to get credit for it."

"I understand that." Dan escorted the girl down to the department's main office, introducing her to the secretaries. "Joyce, this nice young woman needs to find Professor Givens." He explained the girl's predicament to the secretary, who made appropriate soothing noises and started writing a note on her behalf.

Once it was clear that Joyce had the situation under control, Dan assured the student that he, too, would write a note to Professor Givens to plead her case, then retreated back to his office, retrieving his coat before making the chilly walk across campus and across the busy street that bordered the university. One egg-and-cheese bagel and cup of coffee later, the bagel slipped into the cavernous pocket of his pea coat and the cup clutched assiduously between gloved hands, Dan trudged back through the cold, nearly-deserted campus to his office.

The wintry breeze aggravated his alternately stuffy and runny nose, and he paused near the Botany building to take a Bagel Bonanza napkin from his pocket and swipe underneath his nose. The last time he'd tried blowing using only one hand, he'd ended up with shmorke on his glasses, so he wasn't going to chance it again. Pausing to dab at his nose every few minutes until he could get back to his office would have to do, and he crunched through the combination of decaying leaves and ice crystals that skittered across the sidewalks.

The rest of the morning passed in a daze of paper grading, Dan alternating between muffled groans and admiring lifts of his eyebrows at the student's ideas. Every fifteen minutes, his nose filled up, and he grabbed more tissues from the box on the desk to clear it. By the time he'd gotten through the first set of papers, the tissue box was suspiciously light, and yet his congestion was, if anything, even heavier.

"Fuck it, I must be a super-secretor." Dan ripped another two tissues from the box and blew again, the sound heavy and burbling. If his past colds were any indication, he'd need to stop by the grocery store on the way home for two or three more boxes of tissues and some decongestant pills, and even that might not be enough to keep the cold from slipping down into his chest, where it would set up a great party of wheezing, hacking and gurgling.

Flicking off the cpu under his desk and turning off the monitor, Dan rose from his maroon swivel chair, pushed it under the desk, and packed up another set of papers to take home with him. The office was growing colder by the minute, and with no one else in the department -- he'd heard no footsteps, coughs or sniffles for an hour -- it seemed best to go home and try to work there.

Not that his apartment would be any more welcoming, really. He'd temporarily separated from his lover of three years, Jacques, in order to take the position at Agrimont; Jacques had found a better job in Portland, but it, too, was just a visiting gig, and didn't offer enough salary to allow both Jacques and Dan to live comfortably. Such was the hell of academia, and as Dan drove home to his industrial loft in the center of Bellemarque, the state's capital, he asked himself yet again why the fuck he'd been so stupid to take the job.

"Because you're a good teacher," Jacques had assured him at the airport, tears standing in his eyes. "You want to make a difference for people, and you will. It just requires some sacrifice now so we can maybe have what we want later." The flight to Bellemarque had been announced then, and Jacque enfolded the shorter, slightly built Dan into his arms. "Don't forget me when you're in that hellhole, sweetheart." He made that difficult, leaving Dan with a lusty, hot kiss that went on for a full minute, ending with the slightest swirl of Jacque's tongue over Dan's wet lips. "Now, there's your flight. I'll come visit you soon."

They had parted with another hug, Jacque discretely slipping a large silk square into the breast pocket of Dan's pea coat. The paisley printed hanky held Jacques' familiar scent of Mouchoir de Monsieur, and Dan found himself taking it out occasionally, even in the semi-public space of his office, to bury his nose in the soft folds and inhale his sweetheart's scent.

The door to Dan's loft opened with a soft yet resonant click, revealing a large studio apartment divided with shoji screens into a sleeping area, a work area, and an all-use area near the kitchen. As spaces went, it was reasonable, if not particularly welcoming. Dan had promised himself when he'd moved in that he'd put up some posters, maybe hang a few pictures, but that plan had been swept away in the tidal wave of work, and now he was faced with dull blue walls and silver industrial pipes on the ceiling. Maybe if there'd been a show like "Straight Eye for the Queer Guy," the apartment would have looked better, but the warehouse decor had to suffice for the academic year.

Too tired to do more than shrug out of his winter clothes and dump his leather satchel near his home office space, he brought a box of tissues from the small art deco bathroom, filled a large bottle with water, and placed both on a small side table near his bed. Sighing, he shucked his clothing, and slipped under the covers clad only in a pair of gray boxer briefs. Minutes later, he slipped into a fitful, snoring sleep.

The next day dawned bright but cold, branches adorned in sparkling opera gloves of ice. Dan rolled over to get out of the stream of light hitting him in the face, and groaned, reaching for a tissue. The little sleep he'd gotten had been constantly interrupted by a clogged sensation threatening to take over both his nose and throat, as if a bottle of rubber cement had been poured up his nostrils by malevolent spirits. Blowing seemed to do little good, but he persisted anyway, disgusted by the goopy mess that filled each tissue with a squishy warmth.

Breakfast consisted of a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of orange juice, both of which Dan consumed only because he knew he would have never heard the end of it from Jacques had he skipped breakfast. The oatmeal was more tasteless than usual, but the warmth was soothing, and the cold juice made a nice counterpoint.

Driving into school, a CD of Company blasting from the stereo, Dan tried to refrain from torturing himself with thoughts of Jacques, how he would have fussed over Dan all night, made pain au chocolat for him in the morning to entice his appetite, then coaxed him back to bed for cuddling and care. Jacques enjoyed care giving, was always the one to cajole Dan into refilling his inhalers during the summer months "so you'll have them when you need them," had even made a study of which tissues combined strength with softness in the correct ratio, though he himself used brightly patterned handkerchiefs for their kitsch quotient.

Trying his best to avoid both the winter blues and the compounding effect of Jacques' absence, Dan trudged up to his office and concentrated on the second stack of student papers, reasoning that he could grade one stack a day for the next three days, save time for himself in the afternoons to rest, and still make the deadline for submitting his final grades, six days later.

His attention span, however, was spotty at best, interrupted as he was by fits of coughing, low, rumbling coughs that jumbled around the crap that had settled in his chest but failed to bring it up. Sure that the sound was audible (and irritating) to everyone in the building, Dan tried his best to muffle the noise in clutches of tissues, though even that did not work well, only exacerbated his growing feeling of air hunger and subsequent fatigue.

The only small relief he felt from the congestion came when he sneezed, and he almost welcomed the burning sensation in his sinuses that culminated with a harsh "Huh-shuuuuh!" He made certain to blow as thoroughly as he could after each sneeze, and two hours after he'd started grading, he had gone through far more tissues than student papers, the level in the blue box falling disproportionately to the stack of essays on his desk.

Giving his full attention over to the essays, Dan managed to grade two of them, one on the evils of the Record Industry Association of America suing innocent and unknowing parents for their children's illegal downloads, and another on sleep deprivation among college students, before he felt a new wave of itchiness assail his nose. Rubbing his palm against his nose in deliberate strokes seemed to make the itch back off for a moment, but it came back vengefully, and Dan had barely turned away from the student papers before he let loose a wet series of sneezes. "Ashhh-hooo! Hep- tshoo! Heh-shooo!"

"Bless you!" A tenor voice called out cheerily, and Dan coughed in response. Some folks were just too damn happy for their own good, especially around grading time. Mark Singer, the cultural studies prof who usually wandered around in attire fit for a junior high school track coach, seemed to always be in a good mood, and Dan had never heard him utter an unkind or degrading word about anyone, save a few Republicrats in the state house who were slashing Agrimont's budget to make more money for a "Celebrate Cities" project designed to lure tourists to mid-Michigan.

But, Dan thought, swiping at his damp nostrils with a tissue before turning back to the top paper in the stack, Mark was a good guy, and it was unfair to cast his depression in Mark's direction. Hell, hadn't it been Mark who'd invited him out for his first cup of coffee, even if it had been a stale Styrofoam cupful from the faculty lounge? Didn't students crowd around Mark's office door, looking at the Phantom Menace poster and chuckling over the political cartoons? Wasn't Mark the sort of professor Dan secretly wished to emulate, if he stayed in academia rather than jumping ship for a more lucrative but also more boring career in technical writing?

"Eh." Dan waved the thought off and tried to concentrate on the essay at hand, a history of the brilliant life and sudden death of rapper Guarino-cino, a not-so-tough Italian kid who'd made enemies on both the West and East coast with his tough rhymes about going out for coffee and croissants with his rivals' girlfriend. The drive-by shooting, according to the student writer, had been ugly, and to this day, no one was sure who'd pulled the trigger, though there had been suspicious activity on all fronts, from Guarino- cino's entourage to the police investigating the homicide. "A latte, a latte, my kingdom for a latte," Dan mocked quietly, yawning. The student wasn't one of his better writers, but he was trying, so he should be given the benefit of the doubt, maybe a C+ for effort. But the type was blurring on the page, and Dan slumped forward in his chair to get closer to the paper. Maybe that would resolve the type. Or maybe ...

Dan had no idea how long his head had been resting on the hard, dark green surface of the desk before he felt a gentle hand on his back. "Daniel-san?"

It was the sort of name only one person in the department would think to call him, and he struggled to lift his head. "Mark?"

Just speaking Professor Singer's name tore at Dan's throat, and a fresh wave of coughing overtook him. The fit ended on a loud, raspy wheeze, the sound prompting Mark to action.

"I'm taking you to the health center. Now." Mark took Dan's heavy coat from the hook on the back of the office door, pulling Dan's arms into the sleeves as if he were dressing a rag doll.

"Nuuuh. Have to grade these papers."

"You're not going to grade any papers if you're dead," Mark joked, pulling Dan up by the lapels of his coat.

Dan looked up into the man's green eyes, noted his curly blond, fashionably long hair and uttered, "Are you an angel? I'm in heaven, right?"

Mark laughed and carefully adjusted his arm around Dan's waist. As close as he was, he could hear Dan's breathing clearly, and the rasp and gurgle alarmed him. "My students say I'm the devil, actually," he joked, though even in his stuporous state, Dan knew that wasn't true.

"Yeah, right." Again, Dan was struck silent with a fit of coughing, though with Mark's arm around his waist to support him, the spasm passed more easily than he'd feared.

"Oh-kay." Mark paused in the hallway to take out a crisp white handkerchief, pressing it into Dan's limp hand. "You can cough into that. No need to have everyone think you're contagious with SARS."

The cloth was cool and a bit taut when Dan brought it up to his mouth, and he welcomed the sensation of having something to cough against besides his hand. Mark shuffled him down the hall, down the stairs, and into the parking garage across the street, finally easing him into the high seat of a SUV. Buckling the seatbelt around a lolling Dan, Mark patted him on the shoulder, as one might a favored nephew, then went around to the driver's side to hop in and start up the car.

"Oh, there's a pack of tissues in the glove compartment, if you want those." He opened the compartment with a deft motion and tossed the soft packet onto Dan's lap.

"Thags." Dan tipped his head back against the headrest and exhaled carefully, trying to hold back another volley of coughs.

"We'll go over to the Bluebird Clinic -- they take walk-ins. Or should I say, stumble-ins?" The engine came to life with a roar, and Mark carefully maneuvered his large truck out of the garage and onto Farm Lane, passing Bessey Hall on the way off campus.

The trip to Bluebird took less than ten minutes, but in that time, Dan nearly exhausted the little pocket pack of tissues, trying to relieve his nose of congestion. Mark simply grimaced on his behalf, pivoting the SUV into a stall close to the door.

Dan was relieved when Mark took over for him at the check-in desk, and fumbled out his insurance card and new driver's license so that Mark could record the numbers for the multitude of forms. He noticed that the few other patients in the clinic waiting room moved away from him the first time he coughed, even though he was careful to hold Mark's handkerchief firmly to his mouth and trap any germs. The other patients didn't know, couldn't know, that the awful sounds were due to his illness-induced asthma, not SARS or the season's killer flu, so he couldn't blame their caution.

"Mr. Siegel?" Moments later, the admitting nurse was calling his name, ahead of the other patients, and Dan didn't bother to look back at their wrathful gazes as he walked through the door with her. "Not feeling well?" She asked brightly as she motioned Dan into an exam room. He pushed up the sleeve of his wool sweater to give the woman between access to his elbow, and she slipped a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm, tightening it with a scrape of Velcro on Velcro before placing the cold disk of her stethoscope against the bend of his elbow.

Dan shook his head, opening his lips slightly so the nurse could slip a disposable plastic thermometer under his tongue. It was a struggle to avoid coughing for the minute or so that the thermometer had to remain in place, and almost as soon as the nurse pulled it out, he did let loose with a soupy cough.

"Oh, my." She took a curved, kidney-shaped plastic basin from a high cabinet and thrust it toward him, assuming the junk in his lungs was going to come up at any minute.

"Would that it could," Dan thought to himself, settling the basin on his lap. As the nurse asked him about his symptoms, Dan pulled a few tissues from the box on the low counter to his left, grimacing as they touched his already raw nose. It was like blowing into 40-grit sandpaper, and he made a mental note to take some paper towels from the roll once the nurse had departed. Using Mark's handkerchief was tempting as hell, but he refrained, keeping the cloth safely tucked away in his pants pocket.

"Okay, then, Doctor will be in in just a few minutes." The nurse jotted a few more things on the chart, then rose from the swivel stool near Dan, who knew that "just a few minutes" almost always meant a half hour. Once Nurse Bright Voice was out of the room, Dan crossed to the sink and pulled out a paper towel from the dispenser, wetting it a bit under the faucet to soften it before blowing.

Loosening some congestion prompted another sneeze, and Dan was glad of the towel in his hands as a sopping "Huh-shhhh!" hit the paper.. "Gesundheit." A deep bass voice startled Dan, who had not expected anyone for at least a half-hour, and he turned, paper towel still pressed to his nose, to find a tall, dark-haired, blue eyed man in a lab coat holding a thin folder. If Dan hadn't been feeling so rotten, he would have appreciated the doctor quite a bit more, as "tall dark and handsome," clichéd as it was, was his ideal type. "Think we should upgrade the tissues?" The doctor gestured with the chart to the paper towel, and Dan smiled despite himself.

"Oh, yes." Dan obediently took his place on the exam table, offering to take his sweater off so the doctor could get a better listen to his chest. The feel of the man's nimble, large fingers on Dan's smooth chest elicited a purr, though Dan was glad the sound could be disguised in the harsh rumbling of his breath sounds. When the doctor thumped his chest with one finger tapping against his other hand, Dan coughed, prompting the doctor to raise his eyebrows. "You really do have a lot of phlegm in there. I'll give you a breathing treatment to try to open your airways, as soon as I'm done with the rest of my examination."

Dan nearly purred again at the thought of alleviating the constriction in his chest, even though he didn't relish the process. Instead, he allowed himself to discretely study the doctor's blue eyes, answering questions about onset, symptoms and over-the-counter remedies on auto-pilot.

"You can put your sweater back on, now." The doctor stepped back in order to allow Dan to hop off the exam table and sit in a regular chair, then took a seat on the rolling stool.

"I think an antibiotic is in order, given your level of congestion and your underlying asthma. I'm also going to prescribe a decongestant, to loosen everything up. You'll need to take that every four hours, without fail." The doctor scanned the preprinted form he was filling out, then looked up at Dan. "You have extra inhalers?"

"No, I don't think so." If he did, they were still in the bottom of a box he'd yet to unpack, and they did him no good there.

"Okay, I'll add those on. Marcy is going to come back in here to give you a nebulizer -- I assume you've had one of those before?" Dan simply smiled in response, all the answer the doctor needed.

"Okay, then. I'll leave these here with you, and I'll go get Marcy. Oh, and one other thing -- do you have anyone at home to look after you?"

Dan thought briefly of his empty, morose apartment, and dreaded the idea of returning to that nothingness. "Uhm, no. My boyfriend is out of town."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. Can you stay with a friend?" An image of Mark came to mind, and Dan nodded, if only to appease the doctor. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good, good." The doctor made a few more perfunctory remarks about staying hydrated, then left the room, replaced a few moments later by Marcy, who quickly set up a nebulizer. Once the small gadget had been hooked up to an oxygen vent and was spewing a fine mist through the pipe opposite the mouthpiece, she handed it to Dan, who placed the mouthpiece between his teeth and inhaled diligently. What he noticed, a moment after Marcy had conveniently disappeared, was that the nebulizer was doing little more than vibrating his entire face, which set Dan's nose to itching fiercely.

"Haah-shhh! Hahhh-chssh! Chssh!" He placed the contraption on the table beside him and glared at it, wishing for the relief the albuterol usually brought but unwilling to endure the face-buzzing this one was giving him. His cheeks were still abuzz five minutes later when a smiling Marcy came back in.

"Oh, good, you finished the inhalation treatment!"

"Yeh." Dan didn't bother to correct her, just took the prescriptions with him out to the front desk, where he forked over twelve dollars for a co-pay.

"Ready to go?" Mark stood up as soon as he saw Dan come out the door, watching the younger man's slumping posture and odd bit of face rubbing.

"Sure." Dan pulled out the handkerchief Mark had given him to cough into, pressing it briefly to his lips after the paroxysm had subsided.

"I thought they were going to give you something for that."

"Yeah, and I got a real buzz off of it." Dan rubbed his face for emphasis, then explained what had happened. The rehash took them all the way back out to the parking lot, where Mark opened the passenger side door of the SUV. Dan was glad when the heater kicked in, as the cold afternoon air had exacerbated his cough. The sound was deep and rumbling in the enclosed space of the cab, and although he was used to the noise from countless bouts of bronchitis as a child, even he was disgusted.

"Sorry." He reached for another tissue from the packet, spitting discretely into it.

"No problem." When they had to stop at a red light, Mark turned to face his junior colleague. "Dan, I'm worried about you. I don't like the sound of that cough."

"I'll be fine."

"No, you won't." Mark exhaled harshly, running his long fingers through his tangle of blond curls. "Let me guess, there's no one waiting for you at your apartment, but you were going to lie and say there was."

Dan grabbed at the dashboard as the truck lurched forward, glad of the diversion. "How do you know that would be a lie?"

"Because you didn't bring anyone to the department party last week, yet you're wearing that ring." Dan and Jacques had exchanged commitment rings before they'd parted for the academic year, had even discussed driving to Toronto to be legally unioned, but had decided against it at the last minute as time they couldn't spare.

Dan turned his face away from Mark, pretending fascination with the small flakes that had started to fall. If he'd had more energy, maybe he would have lied, but it all seemed too difficult to concoct a great web, and instead, he stifled another cough before answering.

"Okay, there's no one I can go home to, and the doctor wants me looked after like I'm a child." The admission hurt, and he discretely blinked away a few tears. Fuck, but he was tired. Then again, if he were honest with himself, he had to admit that expressions of kindness and generosity could bring him to tears, even if he didn't understand why he reacted that way.

"Good." Mark turned down an unfamiliar street, and Dan realized they were not going back to the campus. "Then will you let me take care of you, just for tonight?"

"Sure." Why not, Dan reasoned, and relinquishing control felt damn good, better than he'd allowed himself to dream. "I'll probably be up all night, though -- the albuterol does that."

"Not a problem." Mark stopped at a drive-through pharmacy window to drop off the prescriptions, and waited with the engine idling while the pharmacist filled the order. One bulging brown bag and a seventy-five dollar check later, they were headed for Mark's house, a cozy two-story mock Tudor with an archway over the door and two cats prancing up to greet them.

"That's Han," Mark pointed to a sleek black cat, then to a golden tabby. "And that's Luke."

"Old school, are you?" Dan recalled the picture on Mark's office door, bending down to pet Han, who was curling against Dan's legs and purring loudly.

"I like the new stuff, but, yes, Chapters Four through Six were the formative ones, in my experience. Take off your coat and stay a while. I can brew some tea if you'd like."

"Please." Dan set the bag of prescriptions on the hall table and hung his pea coat on a hook on the back of the front door. The interior of Mark's house was as eclectic as the professor's office door, tall bookcases filled to capacity with pulp fiction and small groupings of action figures, a set of mission-style couches and loveseats arranged near a fireplace in the living room. It was pretty much what Dan had expected, and he allowed himself to collapse into a loveseat, admiring the contrast of the bright flowered tapestry of the cushions against the dark wood of the frame and armrests.

Mark came in a few moments later with two steaming mugs on a platter, a mound of cookies between the mugs. "I thought you might be a little hungry." Seeing the cookies, Dan was, a little, and he thanked Mark for his thoughtfulness as he picked up a mug of tea. The steam was soothing and fragrant, but to his chagrin, inhaling it caused his nose to start running, and he sniffled.

"Ah, that's what I forgot." Mark set down the platter on the coffee table, calling over his shoulder as he left the room, "Feel free to use my hanky if you need to. I have others."

Dan did need to, and was in the process of blowing his nose for the third time when Mark returned, a large box of extra-strength tissues in hand. "There's more of those, too, if you need them." He set the box on the arm of Dan's chair, adding unnecessarily, "I have horrendous allergies in the spring and summer, when the trees start blooming."

"Ah." Discussing allergies, colds, and whatnot with Mark felt a bit awkward, but the older teacher seemed remarkably open about his life, and his own directness appeared to inspire the same in others. Dan recalled hearing Mark's high voice frequently discussing anything and everything with colleagues in the faculty lounge, almost always with enthusiasm and genuine interest in the other person. If their department could be said to have a Mr. Congeniality, Mark was it.

"Now, I have to grade a few papers, myself, but feel free to take a nap, wander around the house, whatever you want." He didn't even wait for a "thanks," simply disappeared into the back of the house in the high energy way that also seemed particularly Mark Singer.

Dan sighed once he was alone in the living room and relaxed into the seat cushion behind him. It wasn't that Mark was being overbearing, it was just, well, Dan still felt as if he needed to be a good guest, maintain a façade for his hosts' benefit. As son as he let down his guard, however, his nose itched anew, as if unlocked from bondage.

"Haaa-ish! Ishhh! Ha-isshhhh!" Sneezing into the handkerchief reminded Dan of Jacques, how his lover favored hankies to tissues and kept a good two dozen, neatly folded and pressed, in the top drawer of their shared dresser. Jacques had even tried to convert Dan, who humored him on occasion and allowed Jacques to hold a handkerchief to his nose when he needed to sneeze or blow, but for the most part, Dan was firmly in the tissue camp. "They're cheap, clean, and disposable. What else could you want?"

"A lasting relationship, with style, panache," Jacques had argued one morning while dressing for work, shaping a pocket square into a neat fan and tucking it into the breast pocket of his blazer. If the professors in the department of history thought their doctoral candidate too flashy, too forward, too flagrant, even, they had never said it, had even encouraged his dissertation on Stonewall and oral histories gathered thereon. And Jacques' students seemed to admire him almost as much as Dan did, though Dan's admiration was tempered with romantic love, and with the equality of a fellow doctoral candidate.

Dan had laughed and kissed his lover squarely on the mouth, swirling his tongue inside for a moment, enticing and signaling more to come that evening. "I think we can have as lasting a relationship as you like, with all the panache you see fit to bring to it." They parted with another kiss, a lighter peck, Jacques playfully patting Dan's ass before dashing out the front door of their apartment and heading out to campus.

Jesus, but I miss that, Dan thought to himself, staring blindly into the dark fireplace. Taking the job so far away from his sweetie had been one of the dumbest, the most difficult things he'd done, ranking right up there with coming out to his parents and watching his father die, over the course of an agonizing year, from a brain tumor. Before he'd died, Avram had given his son solace and blessing for his lifestyle, which had eased Dan's heart tremendously, but letting go of his father had been nearly impossible.

Jacques had been the one to pull him through those dark days, meeting him first through a professor who knew that both men were working on gay culture, Jacques in history, Dan in literature. Professor Martin, Dan's dissertation director, had coaxed him out for a cup of coffee at the campus café, where Jacque had been waiting with a copy of And the Band Played On on his table. That had piqued Dan's interest, and almost as soon as James Martin had introduced them, they were both chattering away about GRID, ARC, and Randy Shilts' impeccable research. They were so engrossed in conversation, neither of them saw James smile, then slip out of the café.

Over the course of the next six months, Dan and Jacques attended nearly every independent movie that came to Buffalo, and even stood in line for tickets to the Toronto Film Festival. They also spent more time than they should have in local bookstores, Jacque often disappearing down an aisle and then reappearing with some book in hand, eager to show it to Dan. They argued over philosophy, politics, and food, but in the end, found they were more compatible than either could deny. Dan realized that, in Jacques' presence, he wasn't brooding over his father's death, was less afraid to express his thoughts and feelings, was more comfortable with himself and his sexuality.

It was that comfort Jacques inspired that prompted Dan to pursue their relationship, kissing Jacques first with a warm, open and seeking mouth. Jacques had chuckled at Dan's eagerness, then responded with the same intensity of passion. "Gods, you are one hot little thing," he said moments later, panting. Of course, it was only because Jacques was built like a grizzly bear, albeit a very well-dressed one, that he could get away with saying that. Dan, at a wiry 5' 7", was hardly tiny, but Jacques' husky 6'2" dwarfed him.

Dan's reverie was broken by a harsh fit of coughing, reminding him that he needed to dose himself up on his inhalers. The first, albuterol, opened up his airways, followed by the steroid mist designed to calm the reactivity that closed the airways in the first place. Both tasted mildly unpleasant, and Dan wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water to rinse his mouth out. Han and Luke followed him, assuming they would get a treat.

"Mrow," Luke demanded, followed by a distinct "Meep!" from Han.

"Look, guys, I don't know if you're supposed to have anything or not." Both cats looked well-fed but not overweight, their coats glossy even in the dim glow of the skylight. "Let me go get your paw-paw and see what he says."

Dan walked toward the back of the house, the two cats trailing behind him, and knocked on the first likely door he found. It opened slightly on its own, and through the opening, Dan could see Mark sitting at a desk, frowning in concentration at a stack of papers. Despite himself, Dan sneezed, a harsh "Eshhhh!" that he didn't have time to cover.

"Bless."

"Thank you." Dan wiped under his nose with a crumpled tissue he'd fished from his pocket. "Uh, the cats followed me into the kitchen, and I didn't know if -" He lifted the tissue to his nose again, letting out another "hah-shooo!" that bent him double at the waist.

"Bless you again." Mark's lips quirked upward. "I guess I needn't ask how you're feeling?"

"Actually, a little better." Although Dan still couldn't take a full breath without coughing, he did feel at least a bit less congested, though he'd need a new tissue in the next minute or two or face the embarrassment of a runny nose.

"I'm sorry about taking up your time like this, at the end of the semester."

"Nonsense. This house hasn't had much company in the past few months, and it's nice to have someone here to talk with besides the cats. They win all the arguments, after all."

Dan laughed, then regretted it as he started to cough. Mark whacked him gently on the back while simultaneously walking both of them back toward the living room. The coughing was making the congestion in his nose shift, and Dan reached for the tissue box, pulling out a bunch and blowing hard into them in an attempt to break the fit. It worked, more or less, though he had to spit discretely into another tissue and crumple it up quickly.

"Want me to thump you?" The offer would have sounded odd to anyone else, a wild bit of s/m perhaps, but Dan just shook his head, looking curiously at his host.

"Where'd you learn about that?" Prone as he was to bronchitis, even pneumonia in his earlier years, Dan had mastered at least some of the lingo of respiratory therapy, the fine art (or torture) of having one's chest pounded by a trained expert in an effort to loosen chest congestion. He'd re-discovered the vocabulary once he'd settled on his dissertation topic: autobiographies of illness. A few of the books he'd read and written about revolved around dead children, one from Hodgkin's Disease and two from cystic fibrosis, in which "thumps" were a daily part of life until they no longer did any good at all against fulminating infections and collapsing lungs.

"My little brother had CF." Given the enormity of what he'd said, Mark's expression was remarkably calm, and Dan realized just how little he knew about the usually jovial professor.

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks." Mark took a framed photo off of the fireplace mantel, coming over to hand it to Dan. A faded black and white snapshot showed two tow-headed kids, one taller, heavier and older than the other, both in baseball caps with an upside-down trident insignia. The younger child on the left had a baseball glove in one hand, and the older one had draped his arm casually but protectively over his little brother's shoulders.

"Jase absolutely lived for baseball. He couldn't get enough of watching the Mariners. They even let him be a bat boy for one game, courtesy of Make a Wish. God, that was all he talked about for the rest of the year, even though he'd done little more than sit in the dugout and run really slowly after a few grounders that rolled near enough to grab."

Dan stared at the picture again, noticing Jason's barrel chest and clubbed fingertips. And yet, the photo had captured a big, gap-toothed smile, one that had real feeling behind it, it seemed to him. So many pictures he'd seen of adults had stilted, uncomfortable expressions, but Mark and Jason looked for all the world as if they were having a great time, no dissembling required.

Searching his addled brain for something appropriate to say, Dan was almost relieved to feel an itchy pressure building in his sinuses. "Y-ihhh. You look, ah, happy here." He sniffed hard and rubbed the back of his hand against his nose in little circles.

"We were." Mark took the frame back from him and set it down on the floor near his own chair. "Jason was hardly a Tiny Tim, you understand. The kid could be a hellion, kept our parents pulling their hair out for quite a long time."

Dan was well-aware of the tendency in biography to render dead children angelic figures filled with preternatural wisdom, and he nodded in response, rubbing again at his nose.

"You look like you're really fighting something there." Mark reached over to pull three tissues from the box, draping them over the armrest.

"Y-uh. Yes." Although the rubbing was having little or no effect, and Dan knew the longer he fought it, the larger the sneeze would be, still he persisted. "Huuuuhh."

When he heard the long exhalation, Mark picked up the tissues and cupped them under Dan's nose. "Go ahead." Dan resisted for another moment, eyes watering and nostrils quavering. "Id's, ehhh, goig to be b-hiiih."

The older professor simply smiled in anticipation, readying the tissues. "Okay. Whenever you're ready."

Mark's invitation was tantamount to pushing the cork off of a champagne bottle, and Dan burst forth with a strong "Harrr-shooo! Yihh-shhhh. Eshhh-oooo!"

After the third sneeze, Dan didn't bother to open his eyes, merely sunk back against the chair, certain his ears were turning thirteen shades of red from his embarrassment.

"Well," Mark offered brightly, and Dan heard the faint ripping sound of more tissues being pulled out of the box. "Good to get that out of your system, isn't it?"

Dan sniffled and opened his eyes to find Mark kneeling on the floor in front of him, tissues at the ready. "I just, sniff! I hate to sdeeze sniff! In front of other people."

"My brother was that way, too." Mark shook the tissues at his guest, who finally accepted them. "Of course, with Jase, it was his cough. Once he got going, it could last a minute or two, just this awful choking and gagging noise. For a while, every time I heard it, I wanted to run from the room, scream, something. It was as if the noise itself was what was killing my little brother."

"But," Mark paused for emphasis, nodding at the tissues in Dan's palm. Taking the hint, Dan blew hard and long, finally releasing a bit of the itchiness and congestion that had been plaguing him for the past five minutes.

"But?" Dan balled up the used tissues and set them on the armrest, not seeing a convenient trash basket.

"But, over time, I realized that the less I made a big deal of it, the less hideous it was. If he didn't cough his lungs clear, he'd just get an infection, and then it'd be another ten-day clean out in the hospital. He spent a lot of time at Children's, sure, but we all wanted him to have as much healthy time as possible, so thumps and coughing clear gave us that, to some extent."

Dan felt a wave of shame sweep over him at his discomfort about sneezing around others. Hell, so many other things were worse, were worthy of his sympathy. So why on earth was he so hung up about something that people did every day, many on the television for comic effect?

"Anyway," Mark went on, his voice almost too bright. "We all learned to live with Jase's CF. Some days, I wish he'd lived long enough to get a lung transplant, but we're talking the early 60's, he was going downhill, and even though he outlived the expectations, the life expectancy for the time, which wasn't very long, he was in pain near the end."

"Shit."

"Yeah, shit." Mark's blond curls fell in front of his eyes, but Dan thought he saw them glimmer suspiciously. "He was a good kid. You would have liked him."

Mark ended the subject with a quiet cough and a shake of his head, eradicating the ghosts that had crept into the room. It astounded Dan that this man he'd barely exchanged two hours of conversation with was telling him the deep and painful secrets of his life, but perhaps some people were just more open than others.

"Shall I heat up some lasagna for dinner? You'll need to eat something before you can take the antibiotic."

"That would be great. Thank you."

Dinner passed in easy, fun conversation about various pop culture topics, including theories about what would be included or excluded from the upcoming finale of the Peter Jackson production of The Lord of the Rings.

"More dialogue, less fighting."

Naaah." Mark forked more salad into Dan's bowl, avuncular. "More fighting. The Battle of Helm's Deep wasn't long enough for my tastes."

"It was plenty long. What the film needs more of is Legolas and Gimli."

Once the words were out of his mouth, Dan wanted to take them back. Like his reluctance to sneeze in front of others, he didn't often discuss his orientation, even though Jacques seemed perfectly happy being outré.

"They do make a good comic pair," Mark agreed. "But Aragorn - damn fine."

Dan wanted to check his inhalers, make sure he hadn't taken some sort of bad hallucinogen. Had Mark just called Viggo Mortensen "damn fine"?

"Though, for the life of me, why he spends so much time pining for an elven girl is beyond me. And Elrond - that man desperately needs to get some."

Dan choked on the sip of water he'd just taken, prompting Mark to pound him on the back yet again.

"What?" He asked once Dan had recovered. "You don't find Elrond one big priss?"

"Well, er, ah." Dan mopped up the puddles of water around his plate with a cloth napkin. "Yes, as he was portrayed in Fellowship."

"But you thought somehow I wouldn't notice?" Mark seemed to think that was the best joke he'd heard all week. "My dear, I was at Stonewall before you were a gleam in your parents' eyes."

When he noticed Dan inching away, Mark laid a soft hand on Dan's shoulder. "I didn't invite you over here to seduce you. Hell, you're committed to someone else, any fool can see that." He indicated Dan's ring, which many people assumed was a common wedding band.

"I just thought, you're sick, you don't have anyone at home to look after you, and it's the holidays. I'd feel bad, thinking of you alone in your apartment, having to make do for yourself when you feel so horrible."

"I don't feel that horrible."

"No? Then how is it I could hear you coughing from my office, all the way down the hall, this afternoon? And when I came over to see if you were okay, I could hear your chest gurgling from the doorway?"

Dan used the excuse of digging in his pocket for a tissue to avoid answering. It wasn't that he'd not felt ill, it was that he didn't want to have to admit it, didn't want to be dependent on someone else, as his father had been in the last months of his illness.

"I didn't think anyone was worried." He coughed into the tissue, spat out more phlegm, took a gulp of water before saying anything else. "I - I guess I didn't want to bother anyone."

There, he thought. It was out there, hovering between the two of them. He hated, hated, hated the idea of losing control, of being at someone else's mercy. His parents had always shown him kindness, hadn't flinched or kicked him out of the house when he'd come out to them, but for some odd, inexplicable reason, accepting help from someone, receiving kindness, could bring him to the brink of tears. It would happen at the weirdest of times, his reacting that way to a generous compliment, and he was uncomfortable with what he thought of as his overreaction.

"Well, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but people like you." Mark cleared away both their plates, his own clean, Dan's only half finished but long-since abandoned. "I've seen the way your students line up at your door to get your advice about papers, and I have it on good authority that Sandra would invite you out for a cup of coffee if you ever once spent more than five minutes talking with her."

"Oh." Dan wished he had spent more time during the semester interacting with his colleagues, but the punishing workload, and his own depression over his separation from Jacques, had rendered him a virtual hermit.

"Maybe this cold is your body's way of forcing you to get to know the folks you're working with." Silverware clinked together as Mark placed the used dishes into the sink, running water over them in a hissing stream. "We won't bite, you know."

"Not even if I'm really good?" Dan wasn't into s/m games, never had been. He just wanted to lighten the mood, turn the conversation away from such vulnerable areas.

"Possibly, but your boyfriend would kill me, I'm sure." Mark poured out dry food for the cats, who came dashing into the kitchen as soon as they heard the kibbles hitting their dishes.

"Now, I need to find you a comforter and a pillow. Do you mind sleeping on the couch? I don't have a spare bed, since I'm using the second bedroom as my home office."

"No, that's fine." Dan stretched and smothered a yawn behind his hand. Right now, the floor would be more than adequate, and the long, wide couch looked like heaven to him. "Can I help you carry anything out?"

Mark shook his head. "Just make yourself comfortable back in the living room. I can brew more tea later on, if you want, or you can just shoo me away and get to sleep as soon as I put down the sheets and the blanket."

Dan didn't bother to tell Mark that his asthma meds would likely keep him up all night - three hits of albuterol were as nerve jangling as a quadruple espresso. "Sounds great."

Five minutes later, Mark was assembling a bed on the couch, and as soon as it was done, Dan slipped wearily between the sheets, smiling weakly when Mark laid the comforter on top of him.

"Now, the bathroom is down the hall behind you, there are extra boxes of tissues in the linen closet just before the bathroom, and you can watch any DVDs or videos you want, in case you can't fall asleep right away. Come to think of it, I made a couple audiotapes of my lectures on containment culture - those are guaranteed soporifics."

Dan started to laugh, but again, it became a deep, junky cough, and Mark ran a hand over his back until the fit subsided. The physical contact felt amazing, friendly without crossing the line into sexual, and Dan absorbed as much of it as he could, regretting it when Mark moved his hand away to take more tissues from the box and offer them to him.

"Thanks." His voice was rough and hoarse, and Dan didn't honestly know if it was the effect of all the coughing, or something else.

Mark patted his shoulder in reply, then adjusted the comforter around Dan as an uncle might for a favored nephew. "Try to get some sleep. I'll be in the large bedroom if you need anything."

The older man left the room before Dan could rasp out a reply, and he shifted over onto his side, closing his eyes and trying to drift off into sleep.

"Oh Danny boy, the waves, the waves, the waves are calling."

Jacques sang softly into his lover's ear, enticing, but Dan groaned and rolled over on their shared beach blanket, enjoying the warmth of the sun too much to get up. When Jacques dipped his head down again to whisper lascivious pleasings into his ear again, however, Dan's eyes opened, and he looked over at Jacques, intrigued.

"I didn't know you could do that underwater."

"Oh, yes," Jacques purred, his tongue rimming Dan's ear. "And after that, I think I'll..."

Dan jumped off the towel and brushed sand off his long, slender legs, laughing. "Jacques, I think even on this beach, we'd be arrested for that."

Jacques merely adjusted the waistband of his swim suit, a brightly pattered Speedo legged brief that emphasized the enticing line of dark hair that ran from the furred expanse of his chest to the trailing line disappearing under the suit. From this distance, the pattern couldn't hide Jacques' eagerness, and Dan, always the more reserved partner, was glad of the short legs attached to the brief. Had they not been there, Jacques' interest would have been unmistakable to everyone on the beach.

"Let's cool off just a little, first, make this last." Dan took his sweetheart's hand and led him to the water's edge, noticing the appreciative glances from other beach comers as they made their way down to the tide line. Jacques was truly a sight to behold, burly and hairy in his bear-like splendor, and his appeal was simply heightened in the contrast with Dan's slimmer, less furred, more sleekly muscular physique. A few men even whistled at them, but Jacques only had eyes for Dan, and vice versa.

Dan entered the surf first in a smooth dive, popping up to the surface ten yards from the shore. Jacques waded in, preferring to acclimate himself, even though the water was pleasantly warm that time of year. Once they were both chest-deep in the waves, Dan rubbed his smooth chest against Jacques' furry body, reaching down to cup his ass in trembling hands. The strain of Jacques' sex was unmistakable against Dan's thighs, and with a deft motion, Dan stripped Jacques of his suit.

"Oh, you bad boy." Jacques grinned when he felt the warm waters lap around his balls, but didn't divest Dan of his suit. Instead, he splayed his hands across Dan's back, pulling him as close as he could before bending his knees to lick the salt off of Dan's chest. His tongue caressed Dan's now-rigid nipples, then he playfully, roughly bit them in a gesture that made Dan gasp with the sharp sensation.

"God, don't do that."

"Don't do what?" Jacques asked coyly, letting the waves come over his head as he bent lower, circling his lover's cute little innie navel with a pointed tongue. He could feel Dan's own cock straining to be set free from his looser trunks, but he still didn't acquiesce to what he knew Dan wanted.

"That!" Dan pulled Jacques' head up to kiss him, savoring the taste of the sea on Jacques' lips. He murmured into his love's mouth, a throaty hum that only heightened both their anticipation. The feel of Jacques' fingers tracing small whorls on the back of Dan's upper thighs, one of his odd little erogenous zones, was almost too much, and Dan forced himself to pull away.

"Shit, you don't know what you're doing to me. Any more of that and I'll -"

"Oh, you'd better not, baby." Jacques backed down his fondling, watching the heat rise in his man's dark brown eyes. "When you come, I'll make you see stars. And I want to feel you in me, all the way in."

"God, I want that, too." Dan wanted to pound himself inside Jacques, torquing them both to orgasm in a few quick strokes. But he knew from experience that Jacques would prolong their foreplay, drive Dan to the point of bursting, before he would allow him inside. It was a gift Jacques had, perfectly gauging how ready Dan was and then pushing their lovemaking to within a millimeter of that limit.

Taking a deep breath, Jacques sank under the waves, face to face with Dan's tenting swim trunks. Caressing Dan's erection over the bright red cotton that held it trapped and waiting, Jacques replaced his fingers with his tongue, inching down the waistband, until Dan's ass and the top of his pubic hair were revealed.

With Dan's trunks still in their precarious position, Jacques popped back up to the surface, gasping for air. "Jesus, I don't know how Jack's girls did it."

"I don't really care about Kennedy," Dan moaned, "or even Jackie's brilliant pillbox hats." He pushed his trunks down the rest of the way, letting them tangle around his ankles. "I want to fuck you."

"And what's the magic word?" Jacques teased, even though he was already turning around.

"I want to fuck you senseless."

"Please do."

Dan slipped into Jacques eagerly, his lover's tightness enveloping and welcoming. One of his arms hooked around Jacques' waist, while his other hand encircled Jacques' rigid penis, warm even by contrast to the water that lapped around them. Dan's nose itched from the salt water that had entered during his dive into the water and by the little splashes Jacques had created while turning around, and he rubbed it against the furred convexity of Jacques' neck. His lover moaned softly at the sensation, and Dan replaced his nose with his tongue, licking at the ridge that connected his lover's neck to his broad shoulders.

"Oooh." Dan sniffed, his "ooh" unrelated to the feelings aroused by what was happening under water.

"What's wrong, sweetie?" Jacques' normally smooth voice was a bit strained in his eagerness.

"I - haaah - I think the salt got up my nose."

When he sniffed again, Jacques tightened reflexively around him, and Dan had to fight hard against the impulse to climax.

"Poor baby." Jacques had tickled Dan's nose before during their foreplay, loving the pre-sneeze expressions Dan made while trying to fight back the urge.

"Y -ihhh. You'd like it if I sn-uhhh- sneezed, wouldn't you?" Given Dan's long builds, it was easy to keep talking as the sensation escalated. Well, not easy, but he got enough time to work Jacques into a fetish frenzy before he finally did sneeze.

"Oh, yessss." Jacques phallus jumped in Dan's grasp, and he licked his lips in anticipation. Dan had such a powerful, masculine sneeze, and the extended build up was almost the best part, ranking just under seeing his normally straight laced, control freak boyfriend capitulate to the power of the sneeze.

"Y-uhh. You're a freak, you dough thad?" Dan sniffled again, rubbing his wet nose against Jacques' upper back. Jacques savored the congested sound of Dan's speech as much as the wetness on his back. "Yeah, but you love it, too. C'mon, love, let it go. I'm so ready here!"

Dan's breath hitched again, and his eyes shut tight against the impending force. "I'b about t-huuuuh. Hih!"

Gasping once more, Dan timed his sneeze with a solid thrust of his cock, exhaling with a "herrrr-asshooo!" that propelled him upward and sprayed a fine mist against his love's neck.

"Oh, god, yesssss!" Jacques jerked against Dan's grip, shooting forth a salty tide of his own and collapsing at the waist against Dan's arm.

Dan, in turn, sneezed once more, a rough, "hushhhh," before the spontaneous clenching of Jacque around him proved too much, and he was thrown forward with the strength of his own orgasm. "Aaaaah!"

The two lovers embraced in the surf a long moment, collecting their strength and savoring the feeling of their spent bodies intertwined in the ocean. As the aftermath of climaxes dimmed, Dan felt Jacques pull away first, Dan's arm slipping away from Jacques' waist.

"Sweetheart, please, stay with me a little longer." Dan's voice was barely above a whisper, and he could fell a tidal surge pulling him farther out into the surf, farther than he'd intended to go. The ocean churned around him, and he felt the pull of something that was not his swim trunks grasping at his legs, immobilizing him. It was as if the ocean had transformed into a gigantic hot tub, the waters growing uncomfortably warm, then scalding his flesh. He extended an arm over his head, a line from a Stevie Smith poem popping into his mind. Ah, god, he was going to die a true English major, quoting poetry as he went. Struggling against it, he yelled Jacques' name, over and over, until the ocean filled his mouth, then his lungs, and he was truly not waving, but drowning.

"It's okay, it's okay." A voice pitched an octave higher than Jacques' soothed him as Dan thrashed and struggled against the confining sheets. He had kicked off the comforter earlier, hot even though the air in the living room was a relatively brisk 65 degrees. "You just have a fever. It'll be okay."

A hand - Dan assumed it was attached to the high but masculine voice - smoothed his limp, sweaty hair away from his brow, replacing it with a cool, slightly rough washcloth. The terrycloth moved in long strokes over his forehead and down the sides of his neck, which were sticky with perspiration. Dan felt as if he were trying to swim up from the bottom of a superheated pond, but long vines had wrapped around his torso and legs, keeping him from reaching the surface. He clawed at them, pulling his legs up to his chest, trying with the last of his strength to reach the bright voice that seemed like the glow of the sun from his position underwater.

Suddenly the vines gave way, freeing him, and with his eyes still closed, Dan sprang to the surface with a gasp. He tried to speak, tried to thank his benefactor, but what came out was another series of coughs, low and painful. "Your inhaler must have worn off. Here, let's get you sitting up." Dan felt a strong arm loop around his back, pulling him into a sitting position.

"Good, good. Now, open your eyes for me.."

Dan inched one eye open, then the other, to find Mark sitting next to him on the couch, a box of tissues and Dan's small gray inhaler balanced on his lap.

"Well, good morning!" Mark said cheerily, reminiscent of his usual greetings to his colleagues. "Okay, maybe not morning." Dan noticed that outside, it was still dark, the snowy lawn still an undistinguished, barely discernible line. "More like three AM." "What happened?" Dan took the tissue box and pulled out a handful, first clearing his nose, then trying to cough up more congestion. It didn't work very well, only left him making hacking sounds against the tightness in his chest.

"You were yelling something about Jacques, calling out for him. You're a psychoanalyst, wanting Pere Jacques?" Mark knew Dan had come from a theory-heavy school, where some students were enamored of psychoanalytic critic Jacques Lacan, but Dan and his circle had always thought the worship of false idols stupid, and the isolation of theory from literature downright dangerous.

"No," Dan rasped a moment later. "Jacques is my . . . my lover." Oh, gods, what a torrent of desire, of need, that unleashed, and despite himself, Dan felt tears gathering in his eyes. "We're spending the year apart - I got offered the Agrimont job before Jacques heard about another school he'd applied to, and neither of us thought it wise to turn down our first post-doc gigs." His breath caught, and he was glad, then, for Mark's arm around him.

"It's been a while since you've been able to see each other?"

The compassion in Mark's voice broke through the last of Dan's illness-weakened defenses, and he could only squeak out a noise that sounded affirmative. Mark offered no words of sympathy, no empty murmurs of solace, simply put his other arm around Dan and pulled him close. Dan's soft, almost-coughed sobs were hot puffs of air on Mark's neck, ruffling his long hair.

For the first time since he'd been separated from Jacques, Dan allowed himself to fall apart emotionally, to accept physical contact, emotional support, from another man. In truth, he could not have vouched for exactly what he was crying over - the pain of his separation from his lover mingled with the stresses of the semester and his unresolved grief over the death of his father, who'd not lived to see Dan receive his doctorate in literature. But the older professor's arms were strong around him, his chest a soothing place to burrow into, and Dan wept for a long while, until he couldn't breathe for the congestion running out of his nose and the coughs trapped in his chest.

"I'b sorry." Dan pulled away from Mark and snuffled, rubbing at his wet eyes with the heels of his hands. "I didud bead to..." He snuffled again, prompting Mark to clear his throat in quiet censure.

"Need a hanky there, Siegel?" Dan realized dimly that Mark was joking with him, repeating a line from a classic M*A*S*H episode that Jacques happened to love. Dan, too, enjoyed it, mostly for the Freudian undercurrents and Sydney Freedman's psychoanalytic explanations of Hawkeye's hysterical allergic reaction.

Dan forced out a muffled "Yes."

Mark pressed a bright red bandanna into his hand, and Dan accepted it with a sigh of gratitude, pressing the cloth first to his eyes, then unfolding it and blowing repeatedly. Five blows later, his nose felt clear, and he looked over at Mark, hanky still cupped to his nose.

"Better?"

"Yes. Thanks." Dan rubbed at his nostrils, then concentrated on refolding the cloth.

"You're welcome. Let me go make that tea I promised you earlier."

While Mark puttered around in the kitchen, Dan dosed himself on his inhaler, cursing the first inhalation as he coughed out the mist before holding it in his lungs for the full 30 seconds. The medicine had a remarkable effect, and he could feel his bronchioles popping open, releasing his breathing and allowing him to cough up quite a bit of phlegm into a series of tissues.

"You can just toss those in here." Mark had returned with a small tin wastebasket, and Dan chucked the used tissues in the bin.

"Now, the all-important question: herbal, or black?"

Dan paused to consider; any more stimulation after the albuterol, and he'd go through the roof. His hands were already shaking, and he tucked them under his legs. "Ah, chamomile. Nothing with caffeine, please."

"I'll see what I can do." When he came back five minutes later, he also brought with him another plate of cookies, gingerbread this time.

Dan took a cookie and munched thoughtfully. "Mark?"

"Mmmm?"

"When your students dropped off their final papers, or attended your final exams, did all of them wish you a merry Christmas?"

"Yes, I guess so. They're nice kids, here in the Midwest."

"But, why did all of my students, to a person, wish me a merry Christmas? Do they all assume I'm Christian? Don't they notice my last name, my commitment band?" Jacques and Dan had chosen their bands out of a catalog, and the Hebrew letters read, "I am my beloved's, and he is mine," quoting from the Song of Solomon.

"Oh, they mean well. I like to goad mine a little, sometimes tell them `Festive Winter Solstice!' at the end of finals week. But I'm a lapsed Catholic myself, so I suppose I shouldn't tease."

"You're allowed. It was just something I thought was odd, that's all." Rambling on helped bleed off some of the adrenaline in his system, but Dan still felt mildly ashamed for taking up his host's time. In an attempt to hide his discomfort, he peered into his mug, inhaling the steam that rose from it. The mildly herbaceous vapors wended their way up into his turbinates, initially pleasant, but soon creating the sort of persistent itch that could not be dissuaded by any amount of rubbing, sniffing or blowing.

"Ah, you know, I really should go use the bathroom." It was the only excuse Dan could think of to leave the room, but the mere act of standing made the room spin, and he sat back down abruptly. "Whoo."

"Take your time." Mark sipped at his tea, focusing most of his attention on Han, who had sauntered over for a head scratch. The cat purred and seemed to smile, accepting the affection as his due. Luke held back, wary of the stranger in the house, and flopped himself down a good five feet from the couch, eyes wide and full.

"Luke's, huh, not as f-uhhh -friendly, is he?" Dan groped for nonchalance as he felt the itching rise up to an intolerable level, not wanting to make a big deal out of his need to sneeze.

"Well, one of my students found Luke in the basement of her apartment, and he was friendly enough, but her apartment manager didn't allow cats. So, she asked me if I'd take him, and I did. He's moody, but he's a sucker for a good brushing. Aren't you, Luke?"

The cat squinted upon hearing his name, letting out a low "mrow" sound and stretching out his back legs to lie on his stomach as if he were spending the day at the beach. "I've neh - never seen a cad do thad." Dan sniffed and raised the bandanna to his face.

"No, I haven't either, but he's the sort of cat you only find one of in a galaxy."

"I behhh - bed you doad!" Dan's voice rose on the last word, and he gulped in air before releasing it with an extended "Hurr-uh- huhhh!"

Although the sneeze was somewhat muffled by Mark's handkerchief, both Luke and Han took the sudden racket as a sign of impending doom, racing for the back of the house with their tails puffed out into bottle brushes.

"Bless you."

"Tha -huuh. Hishooo! Eh-shhhh! Heh-shooo!" Dan's fit went on for a good ten sneezes or so, but he noticed as the last one flew out of him with a pronounced "Higgg-shfff!" that he was not burning with shame. Indeed, as he repositioned the handkerchief to blow into a relatively unscathed portion of cloth, he felt calm, relieved, even. It was, as Mark had said earlier, good to get it out of his system.

"Bless you again. I can go set out a few towels, if you'd like to take a shower."

Dan did feel rather sweaty and gross, come to think of it, so he nodded his assent, scrubbing at his nose once more. He'd shucked his jeans just before falling asleep, along with his wool sweater, and he hesitated to fling the sheets off of him and walk to the bathroom with Mark watching.

The older professor took the hint, announcing, "Right, I'll get those towels, then."

Dan waited a full five minutes, until he was sure he'd heard Mark open the bathroom door, close it, then close the door to his own bedroom. He padded down the carpeted hallway to the bath, impressed by the size of the combined shower and bath. The bath had little whirlpool jets mounted in the sides, and Dan wondered fleetingly what it would be like to feel all of the jets caressing his body. But, no, he'd requested a shower, and a shower he would take. It seemed too much of an intimacy to actually sit down in another man's bathtub, particularly one that raised such erotic notions.

Steam filled the bathroom within a few moments, and Dan relished the feeling of the warm, moist air working to free his breathing. As he soaped up his body with a bar of Dial, he coughed vigorously, reaching an arm around the curtain to strip tissues from the box on the toilet tank so he'd have something to cough into. It wasn't the ideal situation, he knew, tossing the used tissues in the general direction of the garbage can near the sink, but it would have to do. Five minutes later, as the hot water was beginning to fade, he turned off the tap and stepped out onto hard tile, wrapping a fluffy striped towel around his waist and locking it into place with a fold and twist.

The steam had also loosened the residual congestion in his nose, and he reached again for the box, clearing his nose in a series of honking exhales. Finally afforded a little breathing room, Dan allowed the sweet lethargy of warmth to relax him, and he slipped back under the sheets of his improvised bed on the couch with a grateful sigh. Sleep came quickly, and in minutes, he was snoring gently on the couch, dreaming of nothing.

"Time to rise and shine!"

The next time Dan opened his eyes, the living room was awash in light, and Mark was standing over him with another steaming mug in hand.

"Oh, good morning. I didn't sleep too long, did I?" In contrast to his fevered nightmare and confused thrashing in the wee hours, Dan woke refreshed and feeling marginally better able to breathe. Maybe the decongestant and antibiotic were kicking in, ahead of schedule.

"No, no." Mark waited until Dan had slipped on his sweater before offering him a cup of coffee. "I was just grading a few more papers, but I thought you'd want to get back to your office and do the same, if you're feeling up to it."

"I think I am." Dan accepted the coffee and sipped at it cautiously, not wanting to burn his mouth. The brew was a thousand times better than that first bitter cup Mark had treated him to in the faculty lounge, and he said as much.

"Well, thank you! I like to think I can make a decent cup of coffee in the mornings, but someone in the department always beats me to it. Maybe that's best, though," he mused. "If I made the coffee, everyone would be in the lounge, drinking it, and no work would get done!"

"And we can't have that happen." Mark's jovial mood was nice to wake up to in the morning, and Dan found it easy to play along. "Bad faculty, no good coffee for you."

"I'll let you get dressed. Take your time with the coffee, but I would like to get back to school in the next half hour or so."

Dan spent a leisurely ten minutes with his cup, pausing to pull on his underwear and jeans, then inching on his socks. Han and Luke both got into the game of "helping" him tie his shoelaces, each one grabbing at a different set of laces as Dan tried to tie neat bows.

"Hey, now, guys, I need to get going. Let go." Discipline was not Dan's long suit, and he was actually enjoying watching the two cats at play, so he didn't try very hard to dissuade the cats from his shoelaces. A moment later, however, they both heard the familiar clink of kibble hitting their bowls, and went running for the kitchen. A quick tug and tie of the laces later, Dan was able to get up from the couch and retrieve his pea coat from the foyer closet.

"Oh, good, you're ready to go." Mark was still pulling a wide-toothed comb through his hair as he approached from the kitchen. He gave a few more pulls, then set the comb aside, accepting his down jacket from Dan's outstretched hand. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." It felt nice to be on the giving end again, after so many thank-yous of his own. But, of course, there was one more thank-you he knew he had to give.

"Professor Singer, thanks again for putting up with me last night. I really appreciate it."

Mark's mouth quirked at the use of his academic title, and when he shook his head, his blond curls swung gently over his coat collar. "Jeez, kid, such formality. Are you gearing back up for the rigid hierarchies of Bessey Hall again, or something?"

"Well, no, I just - okay, thank you, Mark."

"That sounds a lot better, Professor Siegel."

The ride back to school was quick and filled with chatter about a new gallery opening, the jazz trio that had played at the department party, and other light, innocuous topics. Once they were at the parking garage, Dan made sure to open the glove compartment and toss in a full packet of tissues, then slammed the compartment shut.

"Thanks for doing that. I would have forgotten." Mark opened the side door of Bessey for Dan, and for a moment, Dan felt as if the previous afternoon was a backward-running film strip. But as they walked up the stairs, Dan's breathing felt a bit lighter, even if he had to go up the two flights more slowly than his normal pace. His nose was still a bit itchy, but even that seemed surmountable.

"Good morning, Sandra!" Both Dan and Mark stopped at the door of Sandy's office, and she greeted them both with her usual bright smile.

"Hi, guys. Dan, you feeling better?"

"Oh, yes, much. Thanks." Dan was about to walk down the hall to his office and let his colleagues converse on their own, but Mark put a light hand on his shoulder.

"This is where I have to part with both of you. Sandra, lovely holidays. And Dan, happy Hanukkah."

"Warm winter solstice, Mark." Dan watched Mark amble down the hallway, then turned back to Sandra.

"Uhm, Sandy, I was thinking."

"Yes?" Professor Adams stood in her doorway, one hand on her hip, the other gripping the door jamb.

"I was just th -ihhh." Oh, gaah, Dan thought, hearing his breath hitch and feeling an impending sneeze build up. "I was thinking that if y- uhhh." He sniffed hard, then continued. "I was thinking that if you have the time early next semester, I c --. Hmm. I could take you out for a cup of coffee?"

The last part of his question came out in a rush, leaving him just enough time to cup his hand to his nose against a strong "Huh-isssh!" He sneezed twice more, and Sandra backed up into her office, but came back with a clutch of tissues in her hand.

"Gesundheit."

"Thanks." Dan took the tissues with a shy, grateful smile. "And, thanks."

"You're welcome. And I would really like that cup of coffee. You know," Sandra leaned forward conspiratorially, "Mark makes the coffee most mornings, and it just sits around all day."

Dan laughed, softly and gently enough to avoid triggering another coughing fit. "Ah, so that's why it's always undrinkable."

"Yes. Though he probably told you he never makes it `cause if he did, we'd all run."

"For the exits?"

They both laughed that time, Sandra laughing extra hard, it seemed, for both of them.

"Listen, you still have grading to do, and I still have grading to do. But," she added, "let's have coffee out as soon as we can."

"It's a date." Dan gave her a comradely salute, then sauntered down to his office, unlocking the door at a leisurely pace. Although a mountain of papers still awaited him, they seemed surmountable, and he took the first one off the stack to study it.

"Why health costs are soaring in America, and what we can do about it." Dan mulled over the thesis statement, pleased to find that the rest of the paper gave strong and convincing arguments about four particular sectors of rising health care costs. Sure, he and the student had spent a good twenty or thirty minutes a few days before, outlining the parts based on a somewhat jumbled rough draft, but that was what he loved most about teaching, the one-on-one conferencing and office time, and working with students who were willing to work hard to improve both their writing and their thought processes.

Three hours later, Dan had made real progress on the essays, enough so to justify putting the rest in his satchel and taking them home to grade there. Grades weren't due for another five days, after all, a span of time that now seemed a luxurious stretch. Hell, maybe he could even treat himself to a few posters after he submitted grades, spruce up the apartment a little before he flew off to Portland to be with Jacques.

On his drive home, Dan stopped off at an all-purpose store en route, buying three boxes of extra-strength tissues and, on a whim, a pack of two bandannas, one maroon, the other gray. He could wash them in the community washer as soon as he got back to his loft, and they'd be soft and useable that evening. He also swung by the video and DVD department, impulsively throwing M*A*S*H Season Three into his cart. The last episode of the season, Abyssinia, Henry, always made him cry, and that wasn't such a bad thing, either.

Dan even replayed the CD that he'd been listening to on his drive in to school the day before, growling along with Elaine Stritch as best he could without coughing up a lung. When Dean Jones came on to deliver his end-of musical number, Being Alive, he simply let the words wash over him, savoring their optimism.

Lugging both his satchel and the bag from Tar-jhay took all his concentration, and as he opened the door, he did not immediately notice anything different. As he let both satchel and bag hit the floor, however, he noticed that the apartment was bright, even glowing, from lights he had not turned on. And there was the scent of bergamot, lavender and jasmine in the air, a faint but familiar reminder of a signature cologne.

"Jacques?" Dan dared to allow himself to hope. It was, after all, the season of miracles, was it not?

"Dan!" A burly bear of a man picked him up and swung him around, and Dan was enveloped in a combination of strong arms and the aroma of Mouchoir de Monsieur. "You're home!"

"God, yes, love. I'm home." He kissed Jacques squarely on the mouth, not giving even the remotest care to germs, sniffles, or coughs as he savored the nearness of his lover, his man, his heart.

It was the best of times.