Title: Is It Hot in Here (Or Is It Just Me?)
Fandom: Tangled
Characters & Pairings: Eugene, Rapunzel, Pascal
Rating & Warnings: PG+, takes place after the movie
Word Count: Just shy of 1,100
Summary: As an orphan, this is one prescription when you are sick: denial.
Author's Notes: Written for picturetheordinary for the Tangled fic exchange. 


As an orphan, this is one prescription when you are sick: denial. It’s not always effective, but I learned at an early age that pretending you are the picture of good health is preferable to sitting in a corner, feeling miserable because the headmaster doesn’t have enough money from the donation box to “waste” on medicine.

“I’m not sick,” I tell my reflection resolutely.

He doesn’t seem too convinced.

I turn away from the man with the pink nose and the red-rimmed eyes and shrug into my black “I’m Eugene, not Flynn Rider” vest. Blondie is waiting for me in the library and I’m already running late.

There is a faint, impatient knock on my bedroom door. I managed to give myself one more “you’re absolutely fine” look before I swing the door open.

Pascal is there. And he doesn’t look too happy. Before I can even try to apologize, he starts chirping away animatedly. I can’t understand anything he is saying, but when he punctuates the end of his tirade with a closed fist slamming into his palm, I get the point.

“Yeah, I know,” I reply as I scoop him off the floor and place him on my shoulder, “I’m making Rapunzel wait.”

We walk down the castle halls together. I’m dismayed to discover that I can feel little beads of sweat forming on my brow and my breath is far too labored for my liking.

I’m not sick!

Obviously, someone is a little too zealous in heating up the castle during this inclement weather. Yes, I tell myself, that’s what’s going on!

Finally, I make my way to the library. Before I walk inside, I swipe the sweat off my brow with my shirt sleeve, nearly crushing Pascal in the process.

Oops.

The frog scurries down my body, giving me a glare in the process. I ignore his rant and push open the door with my Flynn Rider smile fully in place.

The entire room is covered in various swatches of fabrics and cans of paint. That’s right, I remember belatedly, I’m here to help Blondie decide on this year’s color scheme for the Harvest Festival.

That would have been bad enough if I wasn’t feeling as though someone decided to direct a lava flow throughout the castle. I tried explaining to Rapunzel that I don’t know the different between canary, goldenrod, or lemon, but she hadn’t let me squirm out of helping her.

The smolder still doesn’t work on her. Shocking, I know.

“Eugene! You’re here!” she beams. She leads me into the room and plops me in a seat.

My shaky legs appreciate the reprieve from standing, but it still feels like a furnace in here. “Is it hot in here…” I begin to ask, tugging on my collar, “…or is it just me?”

Rapunzel raises an eyebrow. Your pickup lines won’t work on me, her look tells me in no uncertain terms.

“Don’t worry,” I quickly assure her, “I’m not trying to pull any of my Flynn Rider moves on you.” A bead of sweat rolls down my temple. “It’s just a little warm in here, isn’t it?”

She frowns slightly. She’s really cute when she looks concerned. “Are you sure you’re alright, Eugene?”

“I’m fine,” I reply before firmly reminding myself that Eugene Fitzherbert does not get sick. Ever. “You were saying something about pumpkins?”

I must have convinced her that I was fine because she starts talking animatedly, but I don’t have the energy to process any of the words she is saying. Keeping my eyes open is a difficult enough task.

I’ll be perfectly honest. I don’t remember much of what happened during the next five minutes (or was it hours?). I vaguely remember mumbling something to Rapunzel as she pressed her blissfully cool hand on my forehead and I’m pretty sure her parents made an appearance.

Then, there was nothing but darkness. I must have fallen asleep.

Later, I open my eyes to see an unexpected sight: Rapunzel is leaning over me. In my bed. And I’m pretty sure I have nothing on except for a pair of underwear.

I scramble to remember what wonderful –and no doubt alcohol-induced – incident happened for such an amazing surprise, but my mind draws a blank.

As my eyes finally start to focus, I notice that Blondie is fully clothed. A frown creeps on my handsome face. What is going on here?

“You’re awake!” she notices. She moves away from me, much to my disappointment. Suddenly, her cheerful demeanor is replaced with an uncharacteristic frown. “You’re sick.”

“No.” I shake my head emphatically. “I don’t get sick.”

She crosses her arms, unconvinced. “The Royal Physician said you had a dangerously high fever and were delirious.”

Delirious? I wince. That doesn’t sound too good. “I didn’t say anything…strange, did I?” I ask, keeping my voice deceptively calm.

She thinks about it before shrugging. “You didn’t say anything that you haven’t said after you have spent too much time at the Snuggly Duckling.”

“That’s good-“ I pause as her words catch up to me. “Wait…what kind of things do I normally say?”

I must have gotten a little too agitated because she suddenly decides to end the conversation. “You’re supposed to be getting rest.”

“Blondie,” I say, pulling myself into a sitting position, “What. Did. I. Say?”

She bites her lip as she considers my request. Finally, she sits on the edge of my bed. “You recited some poetry.”

“Poetry?” I parrot dumbly. I don’t know any poems.

“You made it up for me.” She straights up her back as she begins to recite. “‘Blondie’s body is better than the rest; Her hair, her hands, and her beautiful—“

No, no, no! I did not say that.

“I get the picture, Blondie.” I resist the urge to hide my head under my pillow. I sigh resignedly as my fuzzy memories come back to me. “Your parents were there, weren’t they?”

She nods. “I think they were surprised that you could rhyme so well even when you were so sick,” she answers innocently.

I don’t have the heart to correct her. I’m lucky that the king didn’t throw me out of the castle, fever or no.

“When you are feeling better, my father asked to speak with you,” she continues. She lowers her voice. “I think he wants to know where you learned your poetry skills.”

This time I can’t stop the groan that escapes my lips.

The next time I even think that I’m starting to get sick, I’m staying in bed.