Fic: History Boys: Lemsip (it's not all it's cracked up to be)

[mooging]

Title: Lemsip (it’s not all it’s cracked up to be)
Fandom: The History Boys
Rating: PG-ish (plus added swearing)
Pairing: Nnngh, Irwin/Dakin, Dakin/Posner-ish.
Word Count: 1283
Summary: Dakin has the ‘flu ("It’s a cold," says Scripps.)
A/N: This is completely self-indulgent and also more than a little bit rubbish (i.e. very bad). I apologise. (also, sorry if anyone caught this while it was all in bold: lj for the fail, thanks)

 

Dakin has the ‘flu.

"It’s a cold," says Scripps, supportively clapping him on the back one afternoon before Games, "get over it."

"Nonsense," says Dakin. "I’m dying. Feel my forehead. I am made entirely of sweat." Scripps rolls his eyes. Dakin raises his voice, calls, "Oh, Nurse Posner? It’s time for my bed bath," and Posner, undressing with the reluctance of a boy with a lifelong contempt for sport, flushes a violent fuschia and drops the nylon shorts he is twisting miserably in his hands.

"Spiteful to the last, I see," says Scripps, and pushes him out of the changing rooms.

Dakin completes the cross-country run without dropping dead, although Scripps endures numerous scarcely veiled hints about his imminent demise. Despite all protestations, however, and much to Scripps’ annoyance, Dakin out-paces everyone and pants back to school with the best time of them all.

"I might hate you if I wasn’t so devout," Scripps tells him, sprawled over two benches at once and refusing to open his eyes.

Dakin staggers through the doorway, dripping from the showers, clutching weakly at the waist of a white towel with his fingertips. "Is that really what you want to be the last thing you say to me?"

"Perhaps not," says Scripps, "but then again, you’re not dying."

"Yes, I am," Dakin insists, flopping down onto the wooden slats perilously close to Scripps’ face.

"Go away," says Scripps. "You’ve already ruined me with running, I don’t need your death-bug as well. One of us has to get to Oxford, and preferably not in a coffin."

"What will you do at my wake?" Dakin is blatantly ignoring him. "You’d better bring flowers. Will you weep for the passing of one so talented?"

"I will weep on you now if you don’t put some clothes on," Scripps informs him, inching one baleful eye half-open to glare reproachfully up at Dakin’s admittedly clammy visage. "Are you aware of quite how short that towel is?"

"Maybe," says Dakin, but he crosses his legs. He grins, suddenly wicked. "Posner, might I prevail upon your good self to tell me quite how short my towel is?"

Posner, having obligingly looked over, drops his eyes to Dakin’s crotch seemingly unconsciously and proceeds to trip over the sports bag at his feet. Dakin laughs, and then coughs loudly. Scripps sighs. Posner sighs. Posner says, "Try not to be late for Irwin, won’t you?" and leaves.

The bell rings.

Scripps says, "Nothing in this world will make me move now."

Dakin is pulling on a shirt. It manages to look both come-hitherly rumpled and angelically untouched as soon as it touches his body. Dakin says, "God would want you to."

"I don’t believe you," says Scripps, but he struggles upright and starts defeatedly manoeuvring himself into his clothes.

They have miraculously left the changing rooms before the second bell rings.

The corridors are still full, bustling with people all younger than they are and infinitely more annoying.

"Have some respect," bellows Dakin, as they attempt to elbow through an unwashed sea of uncaring faces. "Move!" He coughs dramatically. "I am dying, you know."

Pushing through the crowd in Dakin’s wake, Scripps notices with a slightly guilty pang that the back of Dakin’s shirt is damp with sweat. They stop: a batch of lockers restricts the traffic of students to one-way travel, and despite being older and wiser and generally better, they are vastly outnumbered and are forced to wait.

"Look," says Scripps, "are you actually ill?"

"Haven’t you been paying attention?" says Dakin, leaning against the side of the lockers with one hand flung ostentatiously across his forehead. "I’m facing death in the…face." Scripps laughs. Dakin pauses. "Actually," he says, sounding surprised, "I really don’t feel well at all."

Scripps is just about to reply (oh, really or I think I picked up on that or you do look a bit green), when Dakin pitches forward and lands in a heap on the dirty linoleum floor.

Scripps thumps onto his knees beside him and taps at Dakin’s face. Dakin doesn’t move. Scripps says, "Come on, you wastrel, we’ve got Irwin next," and pulls up Dakin’s eyelids. Dakin’s eyes roll back into his head. Even the whites under his pupils manage to mock Scripps for being disbelieving. Scripps says, "Shit," and wonders what to do.

A circle has formed around them. They are being goggled at by big staring eyes and people are pointing, laughing behind their hands, curious and nosy at once. No-one seems the slightest bit inclined to help.

Then: "Excuse me," says a familiar voice, and the layers of onlookers start to step aside. "Excuse me," says Irwin again, edging through the rabble, and Scripps, kneeling beside a large lump of unconscious Dakin, is aware of never being so glad to hear his exasperatedly authoritarian tones.

Irwin finally appears from behind the foremost line of gawping students. "What happened?" he asks, looking sceptically down over his glasses.

"He fainted, sir," says Scripps, then adds: "Honestly."

He expects Irwin to react; instead Irwin says, "R-right," although he looks perfectly calm, then says: "We’ll need to get him out of the corridor."

Irwin stoops down and scoops Dakin’s shoulders off the ground. He nods at Scripps, who belatedly realises that he should be helping. He grabs at Dakin’s legs. As they straighten up, and the full burden of Dakin-weight is deposited firmly upon them, Scripps swears and Irwin winces.

"Sorry, sir," says Scripps, and Irwin says, "I didn’t hear a thing."

Between them, they manage an ungainly shuffle towards the nearest classroom. From nowhere, Posner appears and throws open the door for them, standing smartly behind it, out of their way.

"What happened?" he asks, eyes seeming larger and rounder and worried, mouth in a smooth ‘o’ of concern.

"What does it look like?" grits Irwin, uncharacteristically, and he and Scripps heave Dakin onto a desk. Irwin stands up properly, moves his shoulders around. "Now that I think about it, we probably shouldn’t have moved him." Scripps, in the middle of composing a mental chart of exactly which parts of his body he will ever be able to move again, stares at him. "At least he’s out of the crowds," Irwin says pacifingly.

Scripps watches as Irwin rests the back of his hand on Dakin’s forehead. His wrist twitches just before his fingers touch Dakin’s skin. Scripps pretends not to notice: he hears Posner shifting in the background.

"He’s got a temperature," says Irwin, moving away. "Do either of you know if he’s been feeling ill?"

"He’s got a cold," announces Posner.

"He’s got the ‘flu," Scripps corrects.

Irwin looks at them both. He doesn’t look at Dakin.

The second bell rings.

Irwin says, "We’ll call it a delayed start, shall we?" and then, when Scripps looks blank, he clarifies. "Come back in twenty minutes. I’ll just wait for all members of the class to be fully conscious before we begin." He smiles wryly. "It tends to help."

Scripps shrugs and heads for the door. Posner doesn’t move. Scripps pulls him out by the arm, mutters, "Don’t be ridiculous," and they leave.

As he turns to close the door, Scripps sees Irwin pull a chair up to the desk where Dakin still lies, draped limbs-akimbo across the plastic surface. Irwin hesitates. Then he puts his hand tentatively on Dakin’s forearm, cautious, and closes his eyes. He looks tired, and worn, and too young to be either.

Scripps pulls the door shut.

Dakin’s got the ‘flu.

That’s all.

*