Queen Violet is awesome. There is no other way to describe Queen Violet. Therefore, in recognition of supreme awesomeness, Queen Violet gets blamed for this fic! Or has it dedicated to her, whichever you prefer. :D Enjoy, and hopefully reap the benefits of such fabulousness as your habit of reviewing everything I write!

And, on another, less awesome note, this is also dedicated to my little sister and my friend Nika who are sick but recovering. They will probably never see this, but they gave me the idea and so deserve credit.

Another note: The title has nothing to do with the story, it's just what I was eating when I finished the fic.

Disclaimer: Just for the sake of simplicity, can it be understood that no one here owns Beyblade, especially not me?

Grilled Cheese and Tomato Soup

The sun had finally decided to make an appearance after a week of rain, the sky was a flawless blue, uncluttered by clouds, and the foliage was all decked out in impossibly moist and brilliant hues. All the rain had washed the dust and grime out of the air, leaving the whole of everything with a clean, fresh, just-out-of-the-shower feeling. A light breeze stirred the warm summer air, making the outdoors irresistible for the inhabitants of the city. In short, it was the perfect day to be outside.

And in acute accordance with Murphy's Law, Oliver was stuck inside.

Blowing his nose and trying to not look at the tissue as he threw it away, the miserable Frenchman turned over in bed and looked longingly at his large open window. Of all the days to come down with something, it had to be today. He'd gone to the doctor yesterday after being sick all week with what felt like Coldzilla, and had been told that he had sinusitis or something—he hadn't really been paying attention to anything other than the feeling of having a wet towel stuffed in his nose. He'd barely caught the prescription that he had to pick up, he was so zoned out. Actually, he didn't even remember how he'd gotten home that afternoon.

The phone on his bedside table rang, making him wince at the pain the loud noise sent splintering through his brain. Moaning lightly through his blocked sinuses, he reached for the phone just to shut it up. He picked it up and whined, sounding very nasal, "Wha-at?"

"Oli? Geez, you sound awful."

Rolling his eyes and almost immediately regretting the action, the sick teen said, "Thanks En. You're only the ninth person to imply to me that I need to stay in bed today."

"Hey, I'm not the one that got you sick, am I," Enrique asked, sounding nervous and on the brink of contrite.

"It's sinusitis," Oliver said flatly, draping his upper arm over his eyes to block the sunlight. "I didn't catch it from anyone."

"Then why are you mad at me," he asked, sounding defensively confused.

The green-haired teenager sighed. "I'm not mad at you, Enri. I'm just ticked off that I can't be outside today."

"Why? Is it nice out?"

"The best it's been all week. Oh, what I wouldn't give for the weather to be gross again," he moaned.

"I'm sorry, Oli," the Italian said, doing a surprisingly good job of sounding sympathetic. "I know! I'll come cheer you up."

Oliver's eyes opened wide underneath his arm. "Uh, that's okay, En, you don't have to do that. I'm fine, rea—"

"Nonsense, you need me. You just don't know it."

"I'm fine, Enrique. Really. Some sleep, some chicken noodle soup, I'll be back on my feet in no time."

"I'm coming over, Oli," he said stubbornly, the sounds of him throwing things of assorted weight and size onto his bed in the background. "What kind of friend would I be if I didn't come help you in your time of need?"

"The kind who let me recover in peace," he muttered under his breath, rolling over so the window was behind him and the cord of the phone was stretched across his waist. "I'm fine, really—I have a book I haven't gotten a chance to read yet, that'd keep me occupied all day. You should just go hang out with your girlfriend…. Maria or whatever her name is."

"Her name's Miara, and we're not going out anymore. I'll see you in a couple hours." The dial tone droned ominously out of the receiver. Oliver groaned and fumbled around behind him to hang the phone up, finally giving up and letting it hang off the hook. Burying his head in the mounds of pillows on his bed, he forced himself to forget about the impending arrival of his sometimes annoying best friend and fell back asleep.

-----------------------

"Hey, Trouble," Enrique greeted the white kitten-almost-cat several hours later. "How's Oliver?"

Trouble mewed sagely, brushing against his ankle as if to say Go see for yourself, stupid human.

Laughing, the Italian teenager picked the imperious feline up by the abdomen, laughing even harder as he mewed in protest. "Oh, shush, you're fine," he scolded lightly, cradling the squirming animal like a baby. He wandered up the stairs and down the hall, his feet hardly needing any guidance from his brain at all. Busy murmuring to the cat still squirming in his arm, he almost ran into the set of double doors at the end of the hallway. "Whoa," he breathed, blinking at his own inobservant-ness. Trouble meowed almost sarcastically in agreement and continued wriggling in another attempt at freedom. Unperturbed, Enrique transferred the cat to one arm and pushed the door open. "Oli?"

Silence.

"Oliver…," the Italian called in a sing-song tone, stepping into the room and forgetting to shut the door behind him. "Are you alive?"

A muffled moan from a lump under the comforter on the bed answered the question.

Enrique continued to the bed and poked what appeared to be the midsection of the lump. Another muffled moan rewarded his efforts.

"En, cut it out," Oliver whined, poking no more than his eyes out of the comfort of the blanket to glare at the blonde intrusion.

"Sorry," he apologized insincerely, tossing his backpack on the foot of the bed.

Pushing himself up on his elbows, the Frenchman eyed the bag suspiciously. "What, dare I ask, is in that?"

Enrique shrugged and said dismissively. "Oh, stuff. How're you feelin'?"

"I'm fine, really—go hang out in Paris for the day, find a pretty girl or something. I'll be fine by myself," Oliver said, just barely stopping himself from sounding like he was pleading; a hard feat to accomplish when he was sick with a sinus infection.

"I'd never be able to live with myself if I just abandoned you here!"

With as heavy a sigh as his inflamed respiratory system would allow, the miserable teenager decided he was going to have to get rid of his best friend, as evil and out of character as that sounded, some other way. Through the haze of a 102 fever, his brain drifted into Paris, thinking of all the things he could send Enrique in search of "to aid his recovery." "Hey, En," he asked, sounding as sickly and helpless as he could.

"Hmmm?" The Italian sat on the edge of the bed and tossed his still sneaker-clad feet up by his friend's ribs.

"Would you mind getting a few things for me? I wouldn't ask, but—"

"Sure, what do you need?"

-------------------------------

Enrique wandered through one of Paris's open markets, looking for the items Oliver had requested he pick up. Some of said items were incredibly specific and hard to find, especially for a non-native of the city, such as himself. "Let's see here…," he mumbled to himself, looking at the list written in Oliver's very loopy and hard-to-decipher handwriting. "Strawberries, special teabags, not sure what that is…. Oh, excuse me," he said, not looking up from the list as someone bumped into him.

"Oh no, the fault is mine," a distinctly feminine voice purred under a slithery Parisian accent.

Enrique looked up, semi startled. A pair of gold-flecked green eyes stared back at him through long lashes. "Hi…," the Italian breathed, the list falling to his side, all but forgotten.

The young lady smiled with an impeccably feigned shyness in reply. Her eyes flickered to the ground beside his feet and she knelt down to retrieve something. "You dropped your grocery list," she said, her voice tickling his ears as she handed the piece of paper back to him. "Your girlfriend has fabulous penmanship, by the way."

"What? Oh, no. My friend just wrote me that list so I could run a few errands for him."

"Oh, my mistake, I just thought…," she trailed off, her cheeks turning a sumptuous dusty rose with embarrassment.

"Ah, it's cool. Oliver is kind of feminine," Enrique laughed, charmed almost to the point of forgetting the reason he was even in Paris. "Which makes reading his handwriting a bit of a problem."

Batting her long, black lashes, she adjusted the strap of her sundress almost seductively and said, "Really? I could read it perfectly. Would you like for me to…translate for you?" She giggled girlishly.

The love-struck blonde chuckled along with her, his heart fluttering in his chest. "Uh, sure. That'd be awesome."

--------------------------

Sighing contentedly, Oliver turned the page in his book, savoring the quiet of the house without his hyperactive best friend. His disease-muddled brain trailed after the thought of Enrique being ADHD, the train of thought ending on the note that yes, applesauce sounded good for lunch. Pausing and looking back at the thought process by which he'd arrived at the conclusion, he groaned and let his head fall back against the headboard in exasperation, inhaling sharply as the sudden movement sent something like an electric shock through his brain and down his neck. "Ow," he hissed, rubbing the back of his head.

Recovering, he decided it was time for lunch and crawled out of bed. He shuffled downstairs to the kitchen, stretching his surprisingly sore arms as he walked through the icy maze of stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. Tugging the refrigerator door open, he looked at the contents through half-lidded eyes for a minute before finding a fairly large glass jar. "Aha," he mumbled, pulling the jar out and letting the door fall shut on its own. "Now, a spoon…," he said into the empty room, shuffling over to the silverware drawer.

-----------------------

"My, you've just been all over, haven't you," the girl simpered, her hips swaying seductively as she walked down the street with Enrique in tow. She'd offered to help him gather all the things needed on his list; for what reason, the Italian really couldn't say he cared.

"Yeah, I just go wherever the party is, you know," he boasted, going for the trademark "cool party guy" vibe that, in reality, he could never quite pull off.

She giggled behind her fingertips and leaned deep into his personal space to get a look at the list. Enrique swallowed and handed her the list, taking a step in the other direction to reinstate his personal space bubble.

"Let's see here," she purred, her green eyes travelling over the list.

"Ummmm…."

"Yes, darling?" She looked up from the sheet of paper, her eyes locking onto his with an almost tangible force.

"I know this is kind of a personal question, but…."

"What do you wish to ask, sweetheart?" She had turned to face him fully, her head cocked to the side curiously.

"Ummm… What's your name?"

-----------------------

Sighing for the umpteenth time that day, Oliver rested his shoulder against the wall of the window seat in his room, his knees pulled up loosely to his chest as he looked out at the sunset. Despite having to fend off Enrique's "helpfulness" earlier, it had been a wonderfully peaceful day, even if it had to be spent inside.

"Oliver, I'm ba-ack!"

As if on cue.

Enrique poked his head through the door and smiled. "There you are. Sorry it took so long, it took me a while to find a few things."

A small smirk twitched on Oliver's lips. "Uh-huh. What was her name?"

The Italian's eyes widened. He stuttered nervously, flailing to find a reply.

The Frenchman's smirk widened a fraction.

Sighing, the blonde muttered, "Natalie."

"Hmmm. Was she cute?"

"Why so interested?" He walked around the foot of the bed dominating the center of the room and sat on the edge, slipping off his sneakers.

Oliver shrugged and coughed. As the fit subsided, he rubbed his forehead and moaned at the headache coming on.

"Here," Enrique said, digging in the bag he'd brought back with him. He pulled out a bottle of aspirin and handed it to the teen on the window seat.

"Thanks," he mumbled as he accepted the container and twisted it open. "Would you hand me the glass of water on the nightstand?"

"Sure. You need your antibiotics too?"

"Probably wouldn't be a bad idea…"

Enrique passed the glass and the medication bottle to him, watching as Oliver popped one pill from each bottle into his mouth and took a sip from the glass. "Thanks," he said after he'd swallowed, setting the glass on the floor.

"But. I still got everything on the list. See, it's all right here." The Italian held out the bag for him to take.

Oliver chuckled through his stuffed sinuses. "I believe you, En. Really."

A faint smile passed through Enrique's eyes as he set the bag back on the bed.

"What?"

"You know, I knew you were just trying to get rid of me."

The Frenchman's jaw dropped. "I, uh…"

Laughing, the blonde grinned mischievously and grabbed a pillow from the unmade bed. "Think fast!" He lobbed the cushion at the ill teenager's head.

"Hey, no rough-housing around the sick person," Oliver protested, laughing as he caught the projectile.

Enrique smiled and leaned back on his elbows. "And I guess I have to thank you for getting me a date tomorrow night."

The pillow was thrown back at his head in response with a moan of exasperation.

Don't judge Enri too harshly--he's just easily distracted by the female gender. :D

Please review.