[Corrigan's half-turned to lecture Solstice about xir weird commentary, which is unnecessary and unhelpful, when the door suddenly swings open and -- ah, and then the world is set to rights again, because Kurt's standing there, flush-faced and tousled in a way they've never let themselves be in front of Corrigan before. There's a huge grin of relief, and he stepping forward, arms outstretched, and then --
And then Kurt's beating the everloving shit out of him with a pillow, albeit with almost zero force actually behind it, and Solstice is doubled over cackling loudly and being zero help whatsoever, of course. Corrigan ducks the swings, reaching out and trying to grab for Kurt's arms, their hands.]
Woah, woahwoahwoah, babe, baby, I'm sorry, I didn't know -- the damn phone was broken, it, babe, c'mon -- [He manages to duck forward, frowning deeply at the racking coughs, at the heat of Kurt's face, their flushed, sweaty state as he finally scoops them up.] Sweetheart, you're burning up. Are you sick?
[Part of them honestly wants to give him a break. He's there, after all, beating their door down to check on them, clearly caring more about them than they'd feared after days of no contact. They can believe the excuse of a broken phone—this is Corrigan, after all—and he's so sweet to go out of his way to see them, like he'd been just as worried as they'd been. It also helps that their chest goes all gooey and funny when he calls them baby.
Another part of them wants to keep beating him with their pillow.
They cough loudly into their hand, the sound like something has come loose inside their chest, and they keep squirming in Corrigan's grasp—although with how weak they are, the sudden exertion completely sapping them of energy, it's a good thing he's holding them up.] I-It's nothing, just a stupid cold. I'm fine. [They're not.]
Okay, you’re still mad. [Corrigan slings one arm under Kurt’s thighs, the other around their back, cradling their (shivery, overheated) body to his front as he strides inside the studio – which, really, is way too small for his strides. It’s also messy, in a way that surpasses the carefully-curated chaos Kurt prefers in the background of their videos.
He doesn’t comment on it, just pauses by the bed (tangled sheets, tossing and turning, the scent of illness like a sour tang in the air), and presses his lips to Kurt’s feverish forehead.] You can be mad as long as you want, baby, but I’m still right. You’re sick. You’ve been sick for a minute.
[There’s a low, foreboding note when Corrigan leans back, arches an eyebrow.] Anyone come by to help out? Any of your friends? [He says friends with a barely-perceptible sneer, as the vast majority of the people who appear in Kurt’s stories, their streams, are similar would-be influencers, craving the hit of fame from association. They’re not the sort who would show up, make themselves helpful in any way.]
[Yes, they are mad, and they will continue to be, thank you very much—and they will never admit out loud just how nice it feels when Corrigan cradles them against his chest and princess carries them through their tiny dirty apartment. It feels like a dream. Like he's their prince charming, their knight in shining armor, swooping in to kiss their forehead and steal them away from all their problems. Which is a lot of feelings to have about a sugar-daddy-booty-call-hot-older-boyfriend-not-boyfriend.
Kurt is completely red in the face, and it's not just out of rage and fever.]
What f-fucking friends? [They angrily rub at their eyes, hot and wet with frustrated sickness. Of course no one's come by to help out. Pretty much all their friends are streamers and cammers and Instagram models, each one as vapid and flakey as Kurt themself. Flus and colds don't vibe with their ✨grid✨.] No, I'm capable of being miserable all on my own, thanks.
That's what I thought. [Corrigan's voice is low, dangerous, even as he carefully sets Kurt back on their messy, tangled blankets, big hands moving to cradle their overheated face, thumbing away the tears.] You've been by yourself. How long?
[He doesn't wait for an answer, glancing over to where Solstice is taking a selfie with Noodle.] Text Naseer, tell him to meet me at the suite. [Mmkay after I send him this, xey chirp back, sticking their tongue out in imitation of the little snake's curious tongue-flicks.
Corrigan rolls his eyes, fond, exasperated, straightening up and grabbing one of those cute fashionable reusable totes influencers get for showing up to mediocre events.] What do you need for a couple nights? We can order in a lot of stuff, just the essentials for now.
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And then Kurt's beating the everloving shit out of him with a pillow, albeit with almost zero force actually behind it, and Solstice is doubled over cackling loudly and being zero help whatsoever, of course. Corrigan ducks the swings, reaching out and trying to grab for Kurt's arms, their hands.]
Woah, woahwoahwoah, babe, baby, I'm sorry, I didn't know -- the damn phone was broken, it, babe, c'mon -- [He manages to duck forward, frowning deeply at the racking coughs, at the heat of Kurt's face, their flushed, sweaty state as he finally scoops them up.] Sweetheart, you're burning up. Are you sick?
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[Part of them honestly wants to give him a break. He's there, after all, beating their door down to check on them, clearly caring more about them than they'd feared after days of no contact. They can believe the excuse of a broken phone—this is Corrigan, after all—and he's so sweet to go out of his way to see them, like he'd been just as worried as they'd been. It also helps that their chest goes all gooey and funny when he calls them baby.
Another part of them wants to keep beating him with their pillow.
They cough loudly into their hand, the sound like something has come loose inside their chest, and they keep squirming in Corrigan's grasp—although with how weak they are, the sudden exertion completely sapping them of energy, it's a good thing he's holding them up.] I-It's nothing, just a stupid cold. I'm fine. [They're not.]
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He doesn’t comment on it, just pauses by the bed (tangled sheets, tossing and turning, the scent of illness like a sour tang in the air), and presses his lips to Kurt’s feverish forehead.] You can be mad as long as you want, baby, but I’m still right. You’re sick. You’ve been sick for a minute.
[There’s a low, foreboding note when Corrigan leans back, arches an eyebrow.] Anyone come by to help out? Any of your friends? [He says friends with a barely-perceptible sneer, as the vast majority of the people who appear in Kurt’s stories, their streams, are similar would-be influencers, craving the hit of fame from association. They’re not the sort who would show up, make themselves helpful in any way.]
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Kurt is completely red in the face, and it's not just out of rage and fever.]
What f-fucking friends? [They angrily rub at their eyes, hot and wet with frustrated sickness. Of course no one's come by to help out. Pretty much all their friends are streamers and cammers and Instagram models, each one as vapid and flakey as Kurt themself. Flus and colds don't vibe with their ✨grid✨.] No, I'm capable of being miserable all on my own, thanks.
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[He doesn't wait for an answer, glancing over to where Solstice is taking a selfie with Noodle.] Text Naseer, tell him to meet me at the suite. [Mmkay after I send him this, xey chirp back, sticking their tongue out in imitation of the little snake's curious tongue-flicks.
Corrigan rolls his eyes, fond, exasperated, straightening up and grabbing one of those cute fashionable reusable totes influencers get for showing up to mediocre events.] What do you need for a couple nights? We can order in a lot of stuff, just the essentials for now.