I'm the carrier, as usual.

"He's going to make me sick like this."

"John, please. Grow up. You're more resilient than that. You're not going to get sick."

Foster sneezes from his spot on the couch once more. 

And again. And again. 

"Jesus, Foster, where the hell did you catch… whatever that is."

"John, now, be nice," His mother says, and promptly moves to straighten out his shirt.

Foster sneezes again. 

It looks a bit like he's trying to rocket himself into the sky, in an… up, up and awaaaayyy sort of way. 

"Trying to fly, Foster?"

"Sha up j-jun."

Sniff, sniff. 

So not attractive. Or composed. At all. How on earth can he live with himself, blankets upon blankets on top of each other while he lounges on the couch, balled up, used tissues surrounding him, tissue box in his lap, bowl to his right, tv remote in one hand, phone lying vaguely near the other. 

"I cold Gab. Hez hom sic tu."

"You what?"

"He called Gabriel, John," his mother interjects, as if he'd been completely lucid, voice crisp and clear as any other day. "He's home sick. Throwing up, coughing, sneezing left and right. That's probably where he got it."

"Yes, well, tell him to keep his germs to himself next. Or just. Stay away next time."

"Jun!" 

Foster looks indignant.

John furtively eyes the soup on the table.

"Datz mein. Gut sic yursuff."

"Ugh. Not like it matters, I'm meeting Christine for lunch today."

"Who's Christine, John, dear?" 

There is a strange taste in his mouth. Too much saliva. He decides he doesn't like it one bit. Foreboding? Perhaps. Too proud to admit.

It doesn't last long.

"Prbibly anudr hukr."

As if on cue, John sneezes.