Hope woke up that morning with an uncomfortable thickness at the back of his throat.

Oh, he thought even as his thoughts were barely making its way out of the muck of sleep, no.

The sun was too bright from where it peaked in from behind curtains and his head felt drowsy, more so than he usually felt early in the mornings. He was tempted to just pull his pillow over his head and then pretend that the day had yet to come, that it was just some dream and it was actually still in the middle of the night when he'd have hours of sleep yet. A cursory motion at clearing his throat of the thickness dispelled the idea of a dream, though, as he started coughing when the thickness grew into a tickling sensation just out of reach.

Allergies. Hope told himself. It was just that time of year again, that was all.

He must have closed his eyes for just a moment, but soon enough he could hear the ringing of his phone, far too loud and shrill in the morning - who in the world could be calling him at such a time, anyway? Unless the world was ending (which he had already experienced multiple times, and was fairly certain wouldn't be happening again today), Hope was rather content to ignore the phone.

No, wait, that wasn't right. He had important things to do and couldn't ignore any calls.

Opening bleary green eyes, he reached from under his bed covers to the phone, rasping out a greeting as he attempted to make out who it was from.

"Director?" The hesitant female voice belonged to his current assistant, and Hope tried to shake off the lethargy to follow her words. "Are you alright? It's... twenty minutes past your first meeting."

What?

Hope shot up in bed, gaze sharpening as he confirmed that fact with his bedside clock. It was nearly two hours past when he usually woke in the morning!

"I've rescheduled the investors and and delayed the research department's follow-up inspection to fourteen hundred hours, but another delay would mean that the department needs a secondary in order to get their reports in on time. Should I contact a secondary for them?"

"No need." Hope choked out, attempting to both follow her crisp words with his fuzzy thoughts and physically get dressed at the same time. "My apologies for - oversleeping," and the word felt distasteful on his tongue, like laziness and a general lack of work ethic, "but I should be in the office within the next thirty minutes."

There was a momentary silence Hope took as assent for a moment before his assistant said, "Perhaps I should cancel your schedule for today, Director? I can send you the reports for today directly. You sound rather ill."

Hope paused in his efforts. Was his voice really that hoarse?

"The excavation team isn't going anywhere." She continued, "And a contagion would prove distracting at the physical point of our work."

The words were blunt, but made sense. Hope himself had made the same argument many times for co-workers to stay home and recuperate, both for their own health and also for the health of their co-workers around them. The most critical point of illnesses, he had said severely to many, was at the very beginning when it was still infectious. Those who got plenty of rest and plenty of nutrients from when the very first symptoms showed up always recovered the fastest. It was better to take the time to recover than infect the rest of a department. Results were produced best by a cleaner work environment.

It was that very reason Hope hadn't been the slightest bit ill for the past several years. That, and the lack of outside exposures seeing as he rarely deviated from his routine from home to office and back... and even in instances when he did (such as this), his transport and temporary residence was provided by the Academy.

He felt groggy and tired, perhaps with an itch at the back of his throat, but not really sick.

Still.

"I'll send the investors a message regarding the meeting," Hope said carefully, intoning his words in an effort to filter out the graininess of his throat. It would be disappointing to delay his tour of the developing research site in the Dead Dunes, but it couldn't be helped. Better safe than sorry, after all.

"I'll send you their contact details." His assistant said, sounding pleased that he was listening to her advice. "Don't forget to get some rest, Director."

After she disconnected, Hope lay back down on his bed and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, legs still over the edge. He tried not to be disappointed by the atrocious timing of oncoming illness - he had been looking forward to the inspection of the Dead Dunes - and wondered just where he might have contracted a virus.

.

.

The rest of the day passed slower than Hope would have liked, the growing itch in the back of his throat developing into something more irritating and persistent with each hour, no matter how much juice and supplements Hope ingested. Not something that could be staved off, then.

After setting up a holographic conference with the investors he had missed in the morning with profuse apologies (it ended up rather well when Hope had to clear his throat several times just to get a full sentence out. The group had been rather disappointed they wouldn't actually be meeting him in person, but had been sympathetic enough to understand why it hadn't happened that way), Hope buried himself in backlogged reports and maps the excavation teams had uncovered.

The Dead Dunes were vast and treacherous, and progress had been slow in uncovering its secrets. It had been a week ago that the excavation team had requested his insight to several minor discoveries they had made: several markers and tablets long buried deep in the sand with languages so old that very few knew it.

As someone who had studied the evolution of script from Pulse to Cocoon and then back again, Hope had been one of the very few.

It was a break from micro-managing various branches of, of all things, politics rather than science. The years after chaos had taken over grew to be more and more stressful and was taking all of Hope's patience and experience with rebuilding world governments. But without a pressing and critical goal to banner under, people's attentions had divided and scattered into a system of isolation as different lifestyles clashed and then was diffused by what was left of the Academy.

They just didn't have the manpower or the motivation to decide everyone's moves any more, and it was all Hope could do to keep peace and manage smaller teams in several outposts. He had no interesting in rebuilding society a second time.

It was night time when Hope gave up on attempting to get more work done, his thoughts far too scattered to be of use to anyone and the itch in his throat now distracting enough that he was both coughing and cursing himself mentally for contracting a cold mid-spring, when everyone else had long gotten over their own illnesses.

.

.

Unlike the previous day when Hope had woken with the vague feeling that he was going to be sick soon, the second morning Hope knew with an absolute certainty that the day was going to suck.

He groaned and threw an arm over his face to block out the irritating sunlight streaming in from the window of the temporary outpost, curling up away the exasperating brightness only to have the movement irritate his sensitive throat and result in a coughing fit that left him gasping for air as it wouldn't stop until he literally had no breath to expel. He winced, pressing his forehead against the pillow as he drew in much needed air, only to be surprised by the amount of pain that accompanied the intake of breath.

He buried his face further in his pillow, darkening his sight as the sharp pain slowly faded from behind his eyes and he traced it back to his airways, the warm breath of his exhale bringing a stinging sandpaper sensation to his throat. Painful, yes, but bearable. A tentative swallow brought up more pain. Too dry: he needed water.

"Well," an unexpected but extremely familiar voice spoke up from close by. "That sounded like it hurt."

Hope had just enough breath to groan again, this time louder and straight into his pillow, taking a few precious seconds to compose himself and his thoughts before he rasped out, "It's not the end of the week yet."

"Your assistant called - Loretta? Leticia? Nice girl. Said you were sick, and, well, here I am!"

Aina, Hope wanted to correct, but knew it would be a futile attempt and a waste of breath. He's had the same assistant since he arrived in 500AF, but Snow had never managed to remember her name and always came up with new ones when he spoke to her, which as a point for him wasn't very often.

He didn't want Snow there; had barely agreed to the call once a week since Snow had meandered off to help rebuild the cities and Hope would travel to settle disputes and research the chaos. Hope didn't know what he had expected - of course the self-proclaimed hero wouldn't be able to sit still and just -

No. Hope squashed the thoughts with a vengeance and bitterness he hadn't expressed outwardly for many years. It had been extremely childish and even stupid of him to imagine that had things been different, had someone, anyone at all, stayed with him while he was growing up rather than leave on missions far beyond anything Hope could lay claim to, that he wouldn't be -

Alone.

He wasn't now, of course. He stayed with Noel half the time, and Snow came and went as he pleased, but...

Well, Hope hadn't known he had been expecting. Of course not.

(It's just that he missed the close bonds he used to have, still missed his mother and her attentiveness and smiles - he missed the days as l'Cie when the group of them would gather around a fire for food and soft laughter, willing the inevitable away and believing that everything would be okay not because the world was fair but because they were all together. He missed the warmth of sitting knee to knee with others, of falling asleep against shoulders and knowing that the person would still be there come morning.)

Hope startled as fingers carded through his hair and then settling on his forehead, and he could hear the frown in Snow's voice. "You might have a fever. You'll feeling a bit warm."

At that, Hope reached up and shoved Snow's hand away.

"Hey now, don't be like that." Snow chastised even as Hope scowled darkly at him. "You look like you don't even want me here!"

"I don't." Hope rasped out, feeling rather vindictive through the sharp pangs that breathing brought him. He glanced up at the man, even if the dim lighting of the room hurt his eyes and made him want to bury his face right back into the pillow. "Your hair's dumb."

That hadn't what he had been meaning to say, but it didn't make it any less true. It was with a sadistic glee that Hope watched from behind his pillows as Snow pulled back in confusion and then reached up to rub a strand of his blond hair between fingers and frown thoughtfully. It really did look rather silly gelled back like that, and really, it was Snow's own fault he was being criticized considering the man couldn't seem to find a moment to look into a mirror to see the fault for himself and that he managed to invade Hope's bedroom without so much as a warning.

"You look like a chocobo." Hope clarified, just in case Snow needed that clarification. "But then, that'd be insulting chocobos, so I shouldn't say that."

Snow dropped the strand of hair and then made a point to squint at Hope, leaning just a bit closer and making the scientist scowl harder. "...You're as bad as Lebreau when she's sick, aren't you? Hoo boy. This is going to be an experience."

"Why would Aina contact you, anyway?" Hope grumbled, ignoring that statement entirely. He shoved at his blankets, feeling entirely restless and tired at the same time. It was like he hadn't gotten any sleep the night prior. "How would she have gotten to you?"

"...I might have signed off as your next of kin back in 400AF."

Those were words Hope hadn't expected to hear. "What?"

Snow looked sheepish, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he looked up at the ceiling and slumped in the chair next to Hope's bed. "Couldn't have left you completely by yourself four hundred years in the future, right? That would be irresponsible of me."

Hope wondered for a moment just how Snow thought signing a document would make him any less alone during that time period.

"Besides," the man continued, ignoring Hope's bleary glare. "After that whole thing with Alyssa, I had to keep an eye on you somehow."

That didn't make any sense at all. "...Alyssa?"

Snow stilled, and then waved that question off. "Never you mind about that. All you need to worry about right now is getting better! I've got everything else covered right now."

Normally, Hope would have pursued the topic just because he didn't like the feeling that Snow knew more of this than he did, but now… now he was too tired to start an argument. Too tired and in too much pain with every intake and then careful exhale of breath because somehow it felt like someone was running a hot wire across in the inside of the skull every time he exhaled, following his breath in ways that should be possible (for example, he was fairly certain that his exhalations did not actually pierce through his brain like that no matter how much his body was attempting to tell him otherwise right now).

"I'd rather not think about being sick or getting better at all." Hope grumbled, and then finally attempted to sit up from bed, still glaring blearily at Snow when the man grinned at him. "I've got work to catch up on."

And he wanted a glass of water. Or a lot of water. Or just something that would slick up his throat. Or something that would take away his respiratory systems entirely so that he wouldn't have to worry about breathing.

There was an idea. Maybe he could build a machine for that.

"Hey, no, don't get up for work!" Snow protested, gesturing at Hope to stay as if he were some kind of pet. "Didn't I say I've got everything covered? Look, I've got food on right now so you don't have to worry about that, and Noel took a delay in Luxerion to get some supplies. I sent him for everything you might need — cough drops, decongestants, bandages, painkillers, anything to reduce fevers…"

Hope felt a little offended. "You told Noel—? Why is he even getting all of that? I'm not dying, Snow."

"I know that." The man waved his irritation off. "But all Lucille said was that you were sick! We didn't know with what!"

"Well, it's not the plague." Hope sniped back, reminded of his earlier irritation. "But you're welcome to be infected along with me if it is."

Snow drew back, expression unreadable for just a moment before he put his fingers up index finger to thumb each hand and peeked at him through the area between his fingers. "You know, if I squint reeeeal hard… you really could be like Lebreau right now. Sure you two aren't related? You might be, you know. The attitude's certainly there."

Hope decided to ignore him, instead pushing himself out of bed and stalking heavily across the cold floor in attempt to get away from the man all the sooner.

"Hey, where are you going? C'mon, don't be like that, Hope!"

"I'm going to get myself a glass of water," Hope narrated as he stomped into the tiny kitchen provided in the humble abode he was given, "And then get ready for the day." His throat still hurt like hell, and for a moment he wavered between wanting to bend into a curl before he stubbornly pushed through, deciding that he didn't want to give Snow even an inkling of weakness on his part.

True to form, it really did seem like Snow was attempting to cook something brothy over the stove, although the rich smell of it nauseated him rather than appealed to his senses.

He was just fine, Hope thought grumpily. He didn't need someone hovering over his shoulder, because Snow was going to be more a pain than help and he already knew it. He was just a bit tired and in pain, but that wasn't anything new to him.

"I'll get you water." Snow amended, already barging into the kitchen as well. There was barely enough space for the two of them, and Hope made sure Snow knew this by shoving the man away very pointedly. "You just get some rest and — h-hey! C'mon, Hope."

"One," Hope rounded on the blond, his back already pressed against the small counter space even as Snow backed up a step with his hands up in surrender. "I don't need your help here. I've got a cough. I'm not dying. Two, I've got work to do, whether or not I can actually go to the excavations. You'd just get in the way."

"Ouch." Snow said without any heat, leaning back away from Hope's accusing presence. "You got so much meaner when you grew up, Hope."

The scientist made a disgruntled sound, his patience at an end already thanks to the irritation in his throat. All he wanted were some painkillers and then maybe some peace and quiet to get some work done. Maybe a lot of water, and then more peace and quiet.

Any other time, he might have welcomed a bit of company. Maybe. However, being in pain wasn't one of those times.

"I'm going to get ready for the day, and then read over some reports." Hope announced, ignoring Snow's words just as the man was apparently ignoring his. He grabbed the glass of water, and stomped over to the tiny dining table where he stored most of his tablets and technology, bits and pieces of it disassembled thanks to boredom the day before. Looking at the mess, Hope suddenly wanted nothing more than a steaming cup of coffee to wake him up, but he doubted it would help him feel that much better when Snow was still hovering behind him.

It didn't matter, Hope thought darkly. Wait long enough, and Snow was sure to get bored and wander off. He'd just have to concentrate on work until then.

.

.

"Are you sure that's going to work?"

"It'll work. Trust me, he's just—"

It was the shifting the brought Hope away from the darkness of exhaustion, and he turned his head away from the movement and murmured something incoherent before settling once more when everything grew still again, his world once again thick and warm like a cocoon of dark molasses.

"...That was too close."

"You make it sound like he's one of the monsters from the chaos." The voice sounded amused, but still quiet.

"He might as well be, right now." There was a pressure around his shoulder blades and under his knees, but Hope managed to mostly ignore it for the warmth of his dreams. Slowly, slowly, there was a bit of movement, but it was gradual enough to tune out. "As dangerous as one. Even more so. You should count yourself lucky you've never had to deal with him when he's sick."

"What, he's that bad? You're joking."

There was a chuckle, just as low as the whispers, and Hope curled in discontent when he felt cold fabric against his cheek. Soft. The familiar scent of his pillow, still smelling slightly of the travel shampoo he packed before the trip. His brow furrowed.

"Last time I did this," the voice whispered, "he was fifteen and Bartholomew called—"

Hope frowned, and then kicked out when he felt someone pull at his shoe, satisfied enough by the muffled curses that resulted that he managed to slip back deeper into the dark, even if the weight of the shoe disappeared as well.

There was a snort and then the sounds of laughter being smothered that accompanied the squawk of pain.

"I swear he does this on purpose." The voice murmured, and then sighed. "He was never this bad with Serah."

"What, Serah's done this before, too?"

"Yeah. Like I said — Bartholomew called that year because long story short there was an massive flu epidemic during that season, mostly passed through school and the such. Heh. First flu season down in Gran Pulse, more like, and it hit all the kids the hardest. I remember that year Maqui managed to drop all the spanners down some Behemoth's nest accidentally and we spent the next few months finding them in the guts of all the Behemoths we had to take down because they kept attacking the settlement — more like trying to look for more 'comfort' food, if they were raised on a diet of Cocoon-made metals."

"You're such a liar, Snow, Behemoths don't eat—"

"But they do! They did. You're spending too much time with Hope if you're going to pick up that attitude. Anyway, that year Serah's entire class got sick, and what was only weeks after she just started teaching them, too, so a few parents were worried that their kids being exposed to the ex-l'Cie would have dire consequences or other crap like that. We were all pretty upset then since no one could prove they were wrong, even though they were."

The weight of the other shoe disappeared, but this time Hope just pressed his face against the pillow, breathing evenly.

"It was right in the midst of all those accusations Bartholomew gave us a call to tell us that he was needed at some Sanctum conference immediately, that he'd been putting it off for days because Hope had been sick, but even Rydgea couldn't stall for him anymore. He asked us to look after Hope for two days, and then he'd be back and take over again."

There was slight pressure, somewhat chilled, pulled over to Hope's shoulders. The cold didn't last long, just as his pillow had warmed up quickly as well.

"And, well, that was proof enough for us. If we were the culprits, then how could Hope be sick, too? I left first, since there were still a few parents who wanted to talk with Serah about things… made sure that Gadot and Lebreau would be with her at all times, and then I took a ship over to Hope's place."

There was a huff in remembrance. "Kid was just wandering around with a fever, kept insisting he was just fine and didn't need anyone to look after him. Guess not that much has changed."

The voices grew quieter, as if the people moved further away.

"Took me nearly an hour just to get him to sit down instead of fall down. And then he wouldn't even eat — kept saying there was no way he could trust my cooking and he could just make it himself to be sure he wouldn't be poisoned."

Once again, there was muffled laughter.

"And then," the voice continued, although the grousing tone was slowly fading into something more amused, "he found his way out of the house — I took my eyes off him for one second, and there he was standing at the doorstep with his feet covered in mud and this — this scraggly old furball that couldn't even be described as a cat in his arms, claiming that she's been meowing outside his window the past two nights and he was going to bring her in and feed her and keep her. Wouldn't take no for an answer, either, not that I tried very hard since I figured I'd just let his father deal with that behavior, but…"

This time the voice cut off snickering. "Turns out, a few hours after he's pulled the damned thing inside and washed and fed the menace, he's entirely allergic to cats. I'm talking rashes everywhere she touched him, and let me tell you, that was one affectionate cat who must have thought he was her kitten or something because she wouldn't stop cleaning him—"

This time, breathy laughter from both voices which stopped suddenly when Hope huffed and turned over, pulling the blankets higher until barely a tuft a pale white hair could be seen.

"I tried to get him to give her up," the voice gasped between breaths of laughter, "and he tossed her at my face! After I finally managed to get the cat out, he threw up in the kitchen, and — get this, told me that it must have been because of my poisoned food, the same one he didn't even eat. It just got worse after that, all the way until Serah showed up, and then he slept the entire day she was taking care of him."

The laughter faded as Hope finally drifted completely into the darkness.

.

.

He woke suddenly to a powerful itch in his throat, coughing as he doubled over into his pillow, each heaving breath toeing the line between the need to physically expel that itch and the pain that would blossom as his lungs attempted to keep up with the thick syrupy exhales.

Worse yet was the fact that once he woke coughing, he couldn't seem to stop no matter what he tried — holding his breath only worked mere seconds before the itch broke through and spasmed his throat to exhale again, until he was dizzy from lack of breath, unable to breathe in as fast as he seemed to expel his breaths.

He pressed his face hard against his pillow, his entire body tense to the point of shaking, feeling overly warm and exhausted with his hair starting to stick to his forehead and the sides of his face. His ribs hurt and his knees ached as he dug them into the mattress, and Hope was starkly reminded of long days before an important deadline when days of paperwork resulted in little to no sleep and eventually a full body ache between his joints which marked his exhaustion and need for proper rest.

No way, Hope thought to himself. This was, what? The third day he was sick?

"Hey," a quiet voice coaxed his attention, and Hope raised bleary eyes in the darkened room to see Noel standing at the edge of the bed, a glass of water in one hand and and a cap in the other. The brunet looked slightly frazzled and a little cautious. Hope couldn't figure out why.

Instead, Hope shook his head slightly and turned back to his pillow, attempting to muffle his coughing in the cotton fabric.

"I've got cough syrup," Noel offered, nudging at Hope's side with his elbow. "You'll feel better after you take this."

It took nearly another minute of gentle coaxing before Hope could catch his breath long enough to receive the small plastic cup filled with sickly sweet clear red gel without spilling the thick syrup all over the blankets. He grimaced as the scent wafted over to him, feeling especially sensitive to the smell. Still, it was only a moment before Hope steeled himself and downed the cap in one go, making a distressed noise as his tongue was coated in sickly sweet.

Noel handed him the glass of water wordlessly after that, looking sympathetic as Hope downed the glass as well, the cool liquid a blessing as it came into contact with the syrup, spreading blessed ice down his throat and suppressing the itch that had plagued him the past few minutes.

"Better?"

Hope nodded, eyes shut tightly even as he scraped his tongue against his teeth in efforts to rid himself of the medicinal taste. "Yeah," he croaked out, the cracking of his voice indicating the damage that had been done with just a few minutes of coughing. "Thanks."

"Go back to sleep," Noel told him. "You've barely been out for three hours."

He didn't remember going to bed. He must have fallen asleep over his paperwork, but… "I don't remember you coming in."

"Snow let me in." The hunter said, and then took the empty cap and glass of water away. "Sleep."

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A/N: Honestly, this was written because I was sick and wanted a fictional character to suffer with me. And I wanted some character interaction. Because LR just didn't do it for me in character interactions. This is actually already completed, I'm just putting it in three parts.