In an effort to contribute more to the community, I thought I'd start organizing the few things I've shared so far.
Maybe if I write enough fics I'll eventually muster up the energy and creativity to create OCs like so many wonderful folks have! But for now...I'll stick whatever bits & bobs I've got here.
Literary sneezing:
(I'm constantly falling in love with fictional characters in the books I read and imagining scenarios...I'll try to start writing them up!)
Outlander:
- "Silver Linings" - Jamie (M) catches a cold on the road
Fourth Wing:
- "Human, after all" - Xaden (M) with a cold
Check Please:
- Just a lil Drabble - Bittle (M) is definitely not getting sick
Hi! I'm back with my stupid allergic guys! Happy spring!
Summary: 4.3k words. OC enemies to lovers M/M. Bellamy and Nass go camping. Both sneeze. Prince Bellamy discovers a new allergy.
TW: Sneezing fit while driving. Light mess.
My Ko-fi is linked here. If you enjoy my content and feel called to offer something, it is deeply appreciated. Either way, thank you to everyone who reads and enjoys this universe. <3
Part two will be very spicy. But for now, enjoy the buildup ;)
Authors note: Yekitiverse is a magical OC universe inspired by the culture/relationship between Spain and Morocco. It takes place akin to our early 20th century. So there are cars and technology but society is in a transitional stage.
***
“I don’t like this,” Nass complains as he helps Bellamy shove a rolled-up tent into the back of their rental car.
“Only rich people would willingly sleep outside on thin blankets,” Nass grumbles.
He rubs absently at his lower back, like his body remembers too well the years he and Marwa shared a mattress so thin it may as well have been the floor. The best their parents could afford at the time.
“I will make you like camping. I am sure of it.” Bellamy says neatly folding both of their jackets and setting it into the trunk.
“Doubtful,” Nass snorts, though he’s grinning.
“Well,” Bellamy pauses, bringing his hand to rest on the small of Nass’s back. He squeezes, his breath hot against Nass’s neck. “At the very least, I’m sure you’ll enjoy what I plan to do to you in complete privacy.”
Now that got Nass packing up the rest of the car in no time.
The university had a long weekend and for the first time in the history of them knowing each other, neither of them had anywhere to be. No royal obligations, exams, or illness. And the weather was perfect.
It was finally spring in central province, all warm wind and red weeds beginning to bloom along the highways and city streets. Bellamy had suggested a two-night camping trip in the Aylean Woods — three hours from the city, isolated enough that no one would bother them.
Nass knows Bellamy loves being in nature. The prince practically wilted if he spent too long trapped inside. And selfishly, the thought of having Bellamy entirely to himself for three uninterrupted days made Nass’s stomach flutter.
Their relationship had been going well — really well — the past few weeks.
Which honestly terrified him a little.
A few days ago, Nass had accidentally overheard Bellamy on the phone through his bedroom door.
“I sort of have a boyfriend I think,” he’d heard. “A Southerner.”
Nass had nearly dropped the tea he was holding.
“He hates the North,” Bellamy continued, deep voice muffled through his bedroom door. “It’s complicated. But he really likes me. Well, actually he says he loves me.”
Nass’s throat had gone dry at that.
There’d been a pause.
“You can’t meet him, Jorge. I c-can’t bring him to our village.” Bellamy said finally, tone flattening in that careful way it always did when he was upset. “He’d freak out.”
Nass had stood frozen in the hallway staring at the wall.
“I know it’s probably a bad idea,” Bellamy said, an air of finality to his voice. “But when has anything in my life ever been easy?”
The entire conversation had lodged itself beneath Nass’s ribs ever since. Half butterflies and half dread.
Nass had never had a boyfriend before. Just messy hookups in the back of clubs or in cramped dorm rooms.
Now he was dating the prince of Yekiti.
He wants to meet people from Bellamy’s past. He wants to see Bellamy’s home. And he sure doesn’t want to freak out or be a bad idea.
He wants to prove to Bellamy he’s easy to be with. Even if the idea of stepping foot in Northern province — hearing their language everywhere, seeing Northern soldiers like the one that killed his mother— makes nausea curl in his stomach.
And who the hell was Jorge anyway? Bellamy had never mentioned him. Or anyone from his past really.
But this weekend he’s determined to find out more.
“Did you pack your tincture for motion sickness?" Bellamy asks as he slides into the driver’s seat.
“Yeah, I packed it. And took some already.” Nass drops into the passenger seat. Being in cars, boats, trains — any form of transportation really — always made him horribly motion sick. It was incredibly embarrassing and inconvenient. “I don’t travel without itt — Hih’Gnxt’Shuu!”
The sneeze pitches him forward.
Ugh. He sniffles thickly rubbing at his tickling nose.
“And your allergy tincture?” Bellamy asks as he starts the car. “In case that continues?”
A smile tugs at Nass’s mouth. Bellamy’s concern is sweet. Ridiculously sweet.
“I have it,” he says, flipping on the radio. His hay fever is significantly worse in the early fall, but the pollen levels have been so high this week it’s affecting him even now in early spring.
Yesterday Bellamy had noticed Nass sniffling halfway through first period and had disappeared to the apothecary before lunch to buy him allergy tincture.
Bellamy notices everything.
“Good,” Bellamy pulls onto the main road as Nass settles onto a Southern radio channel.
“Where did you learn to drive?” Nass leans back into the cushiony leather seat.
He’s somehow unsurprised that Bellamy knows how to drive. He’s learned by now Bellamy knows how to do most things, despite living half his life as a prince.
Nass himself, just learned how to drive last year. Only the wealthiest Yekitians owned cars and in the South transit was still mainly camel or horse.
“I got lessons when I was a teenager,” Bellamy says, as he merges onto a main road. “I never liked my father’s staff doing things for me.”
Bellamy doesn’t seem comfortable with anyone doing anything for him, but Nass doesn’t say this.
“Why do you never speak of your friends from the North?” Nass asks, watching as Bellamy pulls sunglasses over his light eyes. “Did you not have any?”
“You really think my social skills to be so poor, Nass?” Bellamy raises an eyebrow, but Nass can tell he’s teasing.
“Of course I have friends.” Bellamy says. “You saw one of my friends in fact. Camille.”
A sharp stab of jealousy hits Nass instantly.
Camille’s hands in Bellamy’s curls flashes through his head. Bellamy kissing her under the red lights of Hookah’s Sex Lounge.
“She didn’t look like your friend that night at the sex club,” Nass says flatly.
Bellamy chuckles at Nass’s tone. “Camille is a very good friend.” He continues. “After I moved to the palace and had to go to private school, she was one of the only people who dared to socialize with me.”
“Why?” Nass frowns.
His fingers tighten slightly against the steering wheel.
“My brother did not take kindly to suddenly discovering he had a secret half sibling threatening his future throne. At school he made it very clear that speaking to me would have consequences.”
Nass feels immediate disgust crawl up his spine. Jason Velaquez being a bully as a teenager is the least surprising thing he’s heard all month.
“Camille was never afraid of him,” Bellamy continues. “Her father is a trusted palace advisor. So Jason had no real power over her. Though he certainly tried.”
“And then?” Nass presses.
Bellamy gives a small shrug. “Eventually we dated for a few years. But Camille is not a mage and has no interest in living anywhere but the North.”
He doesn’t elaborate further. He doesn’t need to.
“And your friends from before you were a prince? From the orphanage?” Nass asks. He can’t even imagine it. To Bellamy, that time must feel like a past life.
Bellamy’s jaw tightens. Nass thinks he isn’t going to answer but then he does.
“Jorge and Amira,” he finally answers. “They are more like my family.”
Jorge. The person Bellamy was speaking to on the phone.
“Jorge was born with a degenerative illness and uses a wheelchair. Amira is albino. And I have the king’s eyes,” he waves at his face. “Invalids they called us. And so, we were never adopted. Though I suppose I was technically adopted by the king.”
Something twists painfully in Nass’s chest.
“You must miss them,” Nass comments.
“Very much,” Bellamy says quietly. “I don’t see them often.”
“Why not?” Nass frowns.
Bellamy goes still.
“Because I am the prince,” he says finally, voice clipped. “And my father forbids me and my brother to associate with invalids.”
The words are so cruel Nass almost thinks he misheard them.
Bellamy sniffles softly, rubbing at his nose with the back of his wrist.
“And if anyone saw us together and word got back to the palace,” he continues, “it could make their lives… difficult. So, when I do see them I must be very discreet.”
Silence settles heavily between them.
Nass stares out the window, throat tight. He can’t imagine being forbidden from seeing Marwa. The thought alone makes him feel ill.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“Yeah.” Bellamy clears his throat. “Anyway. It’s hot in here.”
He presses the button for the windows. Warm spring air immediately whips through the car, tangling Nass’s braids together.
The sharp scent of pine and something sweet he can’t exactly name hits him. Nass inhales, spraying his lap with an itchy and uncovered “Hih’Ttt’Shuuyiew!”
“Bless you,” Bellamy says. “Do you want to take your allergy tincture?”
Nass rubs his face. “No. It’ll only make me sleepy.”
“It will be a three-hour drive,” Bellamy says kindly. “It’s okay if you sleep.”
“That doesn’t make me a very good c-company — “Hih-EsshHUE!”,” Nass wrenches forward with the uncharacteristically loud sneeze, his seatbelt pulling against his chest.
He clears his throat that’s beginning to itch.
“You are good company awake or asleep, Nass,” Bellamy smiles. It’s almost shy.
The sincerity in his voice makes warmth spread through Nass’s chest so quickly it almost embarrasses him.
Maybe Bellamy is right.
Besides, even with the motion sickness tincture already in his system, the rolling highway has nausea beginning to churn low in his stomach.
With a sigh, Nass reaches into his bag, retrieves the allergy tincture, and lets a few bitter drops fall beneath his tongue before washing the awful herbal taste away with water.
After another forty five minutes and half a dozen sneezes later, both tinctures start to kick in. Nass leans back in his seat, letting the steady sound of the car and the drumming of Southern music lull him to sleep.
The next thing he knows, Nass is woken up to a thunderous “hHHh’DZZSSCHh—'uH-!” echoing through the car. He startles awake, neck aching from the awkward angle he’d fallen asleep in, just in time to see Bellamy snap forward with a second uncovered and equally loud “hh! H’uh! hih! IIESHHh'YEUh!”
It sprays all over the steering wheel, the mist sparkling in the sunlight. Bellamy sniffles, face twisted in irritation.
“Skies,” Nass struggles to sit up, “Bless you.”
“Sorry to wake you,” Bellamy pants, knuckling at his nose. Nass can see that his boyfriend had removed his sunglasses, blue eyes red and watering. “Gods, I couldn’t sth! Stifle anymore… hh! — “heH’SCHEUG’Hiih-!”
The car jerks slightly as Bellamy makes a right. He gives another irritated snuffle, his eyes glassy. “Can you check if there are any tissues in here?”
Nass doesn’t think there will be tissues anywhere in a rental car, but he checks anyway.
“Nothing,” he says, poking around the center console. “And I’ve told you many times you don’t need to stifle your sneezes, Bellamy. I don’t care if it wakes me up or —”
"Heh- hH’IYSChhiuEH!!” Bellamy interrupts as if his body agrees, a loose frizzy curl flying into his eyes from the force of it.
Bellamy mutters what Nass presumes is a curse in Northern tongue.
“Bless you,” Nass says, trying not to stare.
“Sorry,” Bellamy coughs. “I can’t stop sneezing for some reason.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Bellamy,” Nass blinks, growing flustered.
“Ugh,” he gives a stuffy sounding sniffle. “I think I should blow my nose. Do you have an extra handkerchief?”
Nass flushes, all of the blood in his body rushing to his pants. He blinks, adjusts his jeans against his erection then blinks again. Fuck why is Bellamy so hot, how can he say things like this and not have a clue what it does to him —
“N-Nass?” Bellamy asks. Shit. He must’ve have zoned out for a second longer than appropriate.
“Do you have one? We’re on this highway for a while and I don’t know where I can bu! Buy —h’IEGHkSsH’hue!!”
It sprays absolutely everywhere. The steering wheel, the dashboard, Nass even feels some of the mist settle on his arm.
“No — shit — I’m sorry, yes I have an extra one,” he twists over towards the backseat, pulling the soft fabric out from the bottom of his backpack.
“Here.” He hands it out to him. “Do you want to pull over or —,”
“It’s fine,” Bellamy makes a face of brief disgust at using a handkerchief, but takes it anyway, calmly removing one hand off the wheel to blow his nose. The aftermath of the blowing wrestles another tickly sounding sneeze from him.
Bellamy groans.
“Bless you,” Nass squeezes his shoulder trying to sound normal. His erection is so stiff he’s nearly throbbing. “What’s setting you off? Hay fever?”
Bellamy always sneezes multiple times in a row so it could just be that. But his blue eyes look very red and irritated. Though as far as Nass knows, the only thing Bellamy is allergic to are cats.
“I — I don’t have hay fever,” Bellamy sniffles, sounding a little bewildered. “In fact, I spend most of the spring and summer outside.”
“You’re living in a new place,” Nass shrugs. “You could be allergic to something here that isn’t in the North. My seasonal allergies are way worse here than back home in the South.”
Bellamy shrugs at this, though he raises the crumpled handkerchief to his face to blow his nose again.
“How was your nap?” Bellamy asks, lowering the handkerchief onto his lap. He rubs at his nose with his wrist.
“Good,” Nass cracks his sore neck. “Are we almost there?”
He is suddenly very desperate to get there and take care of the… problem in his pants. Plus, he can tell they’re getting close. Huge old growth trees dot the sides of the highway, their gnarled roots woven in between flashes of bright red fireweed.
Bellamy nods at the map on the dashboard.
“In about thirty minutes,” he says with a punctuated sniff.
Nass leans back in his seat. Bellamy had changed the radio station, while he was sleeping. Soft Northern flute music blares through the speakers.
“You don’t like Southern music?” he asks, the question coming out a little defensive.
He itches to change the station back to the Southern channel, but he doesn’t. That would be incredibly rude and selfish. Besides, he started seeing a therapist a few weeks ago to work on his…issues with the North and she advised to him to stop and breathe before acting.
He takes a deep breath.
“Of course I do,” Bellamy’s answer comes out polite and diplomatic, just like everything Bellamy says.
“But I also enjoy the music of my people Nass.” Nass has spent enough time with Bellamy to hear the slight hardening in his voice.
And with that, he leans forward and increases the volume. And Nass would never say it out loud, but the Northern music isn’t so bad.
It’s good even.
He closes his eyes, listening to the sound of the flute and Bellamy humming along. He can’t tell how much time has passed, when the distinct sound of Bellamy sniffling has Nass opening his eyes at full attention again.
Bellamy’s right hand is off the steering wheel, scrubbing at the underside of his reddening nose. He has his sunglasses back on again, but Nass is willing to bet his eyes are probably just as irritated as his nose looks. He hears Bellamy take a shaky breath, then exhale.
“Bellamy,” Nass clears his throat. “You should close the windows. You’re clearly allergic to something and having the windows open is probably making it —,”
“AEHD’SSCHhy’uuh!" Bellamy gasps, splattering the steering wheel with an irritated sounding sneeze.
“Worse,” Nass says barely able to finish the word before Bellamy explodes with —
The sound tears through the car so loudly Nass’s heart lurches into his throat.
A silver car tears past them in the opposite lane, missing the driver’s side by what feels like centimetres. Nass catches a flash of terrified faces through the window.
His stomach lurches violently.
“Bellamy!” Nass shouts, lunging forward and wrenching the steering wheel back into place. The movement jolts painfully through his shoulder. “Pull over!”
Bellamy gasps out, clearly unable to say anything at all. One hand is clamped over his nose and mouth now, the other hand white-knuckling the wheel.
Nass reaches across Bellamy, nearly climbing over the center console to flick on the turn signal just as another itchy "h’IEGHkSsH’hueY!” sprays across the side of Nass’s face.
Nass jerks the steering wheel hard, pulling them out of the lane and onto the shoulder of the road. Gravel explodes beneath their wheels. Another angry horn sounds somewhere behind them.
“Brake! Brake!” Nass yells over the sound of three more strangled sneezes.
Bellamy slams on the brakes hard enough to throw both of them forward against their seatbelts. The car skids unevenly before jolting to a stop.
Nass leans over, putting the car in park with shaking hands. For a second, he doesn’t move, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He blinks against a wave of nausea.
Gods, they almost got into an accident.
This is why his father and grandmother tell him not to mess with cars. Cars are not safe, they always say. Travelling the good old fashioned way by camel or horse is much safer and —
“hh! ehh’HTSSHH’Yueuh!” Nass blinks again, finally registering that Bellamy is still sneezing his head off. A miserable stuttered gasp from his lover gets him springing into action.
He shoves open the passenger door, grabs the allergy tincture and water bottle from the backseat, then rushes around the car and yanks open the driver’s side door.
Bellamy is still trapped in the seatbelt, sunglasses discarded, handkerchief crushed to his face as relentless sneeze after sneeze wracks through him.
“—AhehDTSSS’shuh! hhH! “hhh... hhAATCHSHhh’uye!!”
“Gods,” Nass mutters, fumbling with the buckle. “Come here.”
He drags Bellamy upright by the arm. Bellamy stumbles out of the car, disoriented, eyes streaming so badly he can barely keep them open.
“Here,” Nass presses the water bottle into his hands. “Wash your face.”
Bellamy leans against the hood of the car as he unscrews the lid, not hesitating as he dumps cool water over his eyes and nose with a shaky groan. Water drips from his curls, down the sharp line of his throat, soaking into the collar of his pressed green shirt.
Bellamy glances down at the soiled handkerchief in his other hand and makes a disgusted look. Instead, he lifts the hem of his linen shirt to scrub at his wet face.
Nass is so concerned the part of his brain that would otherwise be enjoying this has gone completely silent.
Instead, he watches helplessly as Bellamy pants from the exertion, bringing the water bottle to his lips for a few desperate sips. Then his lover’s face twists again, full lips parting as he lurches to the ground with another helpless and uncovered — “hh! hhK’IISCHhh’Yue!”
Bellamy swears under his breath, eyebrows pinched together in allergic frustration.
“Here,” Nass says quickly, unscrewing the allergy tincture. “Lean your head back. I’m giving you six drops instead of three, okay?”
Bellamy answers with another strangled sneeze, though this time it’s only one. The fit must finally be slowing.
Nass moves fast, tipping the herbal drops beneath Bellamy’s tongue.
He would never say this out loud to his boyfriend, unless he wished to horrify him to no end, but Bellamy’s nose was profusely running, watery rivulets running over his lips and down his chin.
“Here,” Nass says, softer now, pulling his own handkerchief from his pocket. “Use this.”
It’s slightly used, which is pretty unhygienic, but Nass supposed they’d swapped their fair share of bodily fluids by now. And clearly Bellamy must be feeling quite desperate because he does not hesitate at all before snatching the handkerchief out of Nass’s hand, burying his abused nose in the fabric with a relieved groan.
Nass gives him some privacy as Bellamy blows his nose. When he turns back, Bellamy is leaning heavily against the hood of the car, pinching the bridge of his nose between damp fingers. He’s taking slow breaths through parted lips between careful sips of water.
Thankfully, the sneezing finally seems to be easing.
Nass approaches him cautiously, laying a hand on his arm. “Skies, bless you. Are you okay, Bellamy?”
“Yes,” Bellamy sniffles, sounding a bit dazed. “Well. Besides bmy dignity, which I fear did ndot survive that experience.”
His face is bright red down to the very tips of his ears.
“I’m so sorry for scaring you,” Bellamy dabs at his watery eyes with the edges of Nass’s soiled handkerchief.
“It’s fine,” Nass squeezes his arm. “Nothing happened. We’re fine. Are you sure you’re okay? I’ve never seen you sneeze like that before.”
Bellamy flushes even darker.
“Neither have I,” he takes a stuffy congested breath. “A-andyway, I just need a minutde. Thend we cand g-go.”
He can hear Bellamy trying to hide the lingering shock in his voice. Trying to appear calm and collected for Nass.
His stomach twists again.
“Are you crazy?” Nass stares at him. “I’m driving the rest of the way.”
“But it’ll just make you even more motion sick,” Bellamy says faintly, scrubbing at his nose with the underside of his wrist. Clearly whatever he is allergic to is still bothering him.
“Bellamy!” Nass says aghast. “I took medicine. I’ll survive. Besides, what if you start sneezing like that again? We nearly drove into incoming traffic!”
Bellamy pinches the bridge of his nose again. Closes his watery red eyes. “You’re right, of course. That must’ve been terrifying for you. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize for being a human being Bellamy,” Nass crosses his arms.
“Okay,” Bellamy swallows.
Then —
“I have no idea what set me off like that. Skies.”
Frustrated, he kicks a stone near his shoe. It goes skidding across the roadside shoulder, flattening a cluster of bright red fireweed.
There’s a brief silence.
Then Bellamy’s expression shifts.
“Nass,” he says slowly. “What are those?”
“What?”
“Those red flowers.” He points at them.
“There not flowers. You don’t have those in the North?” Nass raises an eyebrow.
Bellamy shakes his head.
“They’re weeds. Called fireweed because of their red colour.”
“I see,” Bellamy shifts. “And they grow here?”
“They grow everywhere this time of year,” Nass says, squinting against the sun.
“Right,” Bellamy nods, looking at them thoughtfully. “Okay then.”
And before Nass can tell him not too, Bellamy takes a few steps forward plucking a few fireweeds from the grass. He raises them to the underside of his nose, inhaling experimentally.
He blinks, eyelashes still damp from earlier. And maybe not less than a minute later, Bellamy chest shudders, exploding down with a violent —
“hh-hhh-HA! Hh’AEDTSSCCH’HY’ueeH!” that sprays his trousers in messy droplets.
Bellamy swears, shuddering to the left with another uncovered, equallly massive “heH’SCHEUG’HiiyUhH-!”
The fireweed tumbles from his hand.
Clearly, he has found the culprit of his allergic misery.
Bellamy blinks rapidly, blowing his nose hard on the leftover available real-estate of Nass’s handkerchief. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs. The sound is soft and a little sad around the edges.
“Maybe it’s a signd to go back to the North,” he says as he rejoins Nass against the hood of the car. “Clearly the people do not want bme here.” He sniffles. “Or the land.”
Nass stomach twists.
“Well, I want you here,” he bumps Bellamy’s shoulder. “And I enjoy your… sneezing. Not when you almost drive us into oncoming traffic. But otherwise,” Nass leans in, pressing his lips to the side of Bellamy’s temple, “I enjoy it very much.”
“Oh, I have noticed,” Bellamy sniffs again, then gives a real laugh at this. The musical sound makes Nass’s stomach flutter.
“I thought I was more discreet than that,” Nass scratches his head.
“You certainly attempbt discretion,” Bellamy turns to him with a shit eating grin. “But the sexual endergy that pours out of you, I must say, Nass, is quite loud.”
Nass blinks.
Bellamy has always been much more observant and perceptive of energies than he is. And Nass would rather eat cotton than admit it, but he fears that is exactly what makes Bellamy a far better mage — and person — than he ever will be.
Still to hear that Nass’s sexual energy is… loud? Well, that gets his cheeks warming.
“Andyway,” Bellamy clears his throat, but it does nothing to ease the congestion in his voice. “If I have to suddenly suffer spring allergies, I am at least glad it’s not wasted.”
“Definitely not wasted, Your Majesty” He can practically hear the lust in his own voice. His eyes drag over Bellamy’s tight green t-shirt. His mouth waters.
He wants to pleasure that man senseless. Even if it is in the woods in a stupid tent. It seems the sex gods have answered his deepest, darkest sexual fantasies. He has his tall, extremely sexy lover, suddenly ridden with hay fever, all to himself for three whole days.
Nass’s dick can hardly stand the thought.
“Let’s go,” he nudges Bellamy. “I am suddenly quite inpatient to get there already.”
Bellamy gives him an amused knowing look, tossing him the car keys. “I’m sure you are.”
They switch seats, Nass sliding into the driver’s side, adjusting the seat and mirrors.
“Can we stop at the next road stall to buy some tissues?” Bellamy asks, stuffing Nass’s sodden handkerchief into his pocket.
“In case…well… in case that happens again?” He rubs at his red nose.
Nass swallows hard against the thought of Bellamy doing that again.
“Of course,” He says with a laugh. “It seems that tissues are a camping necessity, Your Highness,”
And with that, he starts the engine and pulls their car back onto the road.
welp… I think this is more indulgent than anything because I love a suffering shane. what can I say, I like to see the guy miserable and unable to hide it, especially with ilya around to make it better :’) I NEEEEEEDED to follow my whumpy lil heart with this.
very hard for me to assess the quality of my writing when my brain is just going *heart eyes heart eyes heart eyes* over sick shane. luckily I had the absolutely invaluable help of @silklined, who kindly offered to beta this second part for me. they did such an AMAZING job, and I feel a thousand times more confident about this thanks to their expertise. please know they had a huge hand in this ;) you should go read all their stuff, what an incredibly talented writer!
pt. 1
here we goooo:
shane is strong. shane is 200lbs of sharp skill and grit. shane has a tightly packed schedule that would make other grown men cry, and he’s very proud of the fact. shane is also presently down with the flu and learns what it means to be seen at his worst and held close anyway. he learns that, perhaps, the only thing he needs to do in return is not pull away from it.
When Shane woke, the offensive clock on his nightstand informed him it was far too early to be checking the time at all, just a few minutes past three in the morning. He had chosen the clock because of the soft blue numbers and how easy they were on the eyes, but the flu seemed to challenge his choice and made him rethink having a clock at all.
Frankly, he couldn’t remember the trek to bed. He remembered Ilya cajoling him into drinking some tea, remembered letting Ilya dab at the corners of his wet eyes when the realization sunk in that Ilya was truly there. He remembered feeling sick yet comforted, and consequently so sleepy he had let Ilya gather him up in his arms and—
Oh. Apparently, Shane had been carried to bed.
Ilya was beside him, his hair crushed flat on the side and unruly at the back. Shane shifted closer to Ilya, feeling the warmth of his bare back through the cotton of his own sweatshirt. He nuzzled his nose against the back of his neck and had never wished so vehemently for clear sinuses, just to breathe the familiar scent of love caught sleeping.
Ilya stirred with a snort, then a cough, and Shane remembered Ilya was sick too—recovering, but still not well. It was almost romantic, in a deranged way, to be weathering the flu together in the same bed. It felt distinctly intimate, a rite of passage in a relationship.
He soothed Ilya with another nuzzle, a soft hush whispered right up against his spine, and snaked his arm around a body that eased into him. Ilya was still asleep, Shane knew, but always angled himself like a sunflower in search of its own solnyshko.
Shane was nearly back to sleep when his breath hitched, the warmth of it puffing on the back of Ilya’s neck, trapped between them. The sensation of a sneeze in the works was crawling up his sinuses and making him take slow, shallow breaths through his mouth as he wrinkled his nose.
“Hhehh… Hh’huuuh…”
The center of his face was throbbing, his nose becoming impossible to ignore now that it had its own pulse. He didn’t want to wake Ilya, not when he was finally getting quality sleep, and he should have been running to the bathroom to sneeze, as quietly as possible, in private. But his concentration was threadbare at best, the immense tickle making it difficult to think anything beyond don’t sneeze, don’t sneeze, don’t sneeze.
He ducked his chin down toward his chest, hot forehead finding the cool relief of Ilya’s bare back, and he carefully removed his arm from around Ilya so he could worm his hand between them, bringing it to his nose.
“HhEHH—“
His breath hitched in a strangled vocalization, the worsening surge of the tickle sudden and undeniable. His nostrils flared as the bridge of his nose wrinkled hard. His eyes squeezed shut, whole face tightening. He closed his hand into a fist and pressed a knuckle tight into the right side of his nose where the tickle was at its worst, then he held his breath and stilled.
“Shane?”
Apparently, Ilya had woken anyway—and swept away Shane’s effort to hold back his sneeze. He stuttered a surprised and overwhelmed gasp.
“Hh’hh’heh’ISSHOO!”
It tore out of him, harsh and wet against his fist. Now that his nose had started, it didn’t want to stop. It almost felt like a punishment, a vengeful fuck you for ever being denied relief.
“Huh’ISSHHuh! Hh’ISSHHeuh-ESCHH’iuhh!”
Each sneeze seemed to make the feeling worse, like shaking around something fragile until it splintered further and further. His nose felt oversensitive and unsteady, the irritation of sneezing feeding back into the itch in a constant loop. When he heaved a breath, it stuttered in uneven gasps, already starting him on the next sneeze.
His body was trembling, muscles quaking with each snap forward that he didn’t have the energy for but was forced into. He was distantly aware of Ilya saying his name, of his back being rubbed, of his hand being forced away from his nose and replaced with a bundle of tissues.
He couldn’t have said how long the fit went on, a cycle of gasping and sneezing and a few faint groans in between. When it finally began to taper, enough that he could drag in a fuller breath, there was Ilya tending to his nose with pinched rubs and telling him blowing his nose would help.
“Try, malysh. Here, blow your nose.” Ilya pressed a fresh bundle of tissues to his nose, and Shane was far too exhausted to refuse the support.
He blew his nose in short, breathless spurts that did indeed help to abate the tickle. Ilya continued rubbing his back through it and murmuring sweet nothings.
Ilya waited until he was done, then wiped his nose clean with another tissue. He stared at Shane after, assessing him with a look that made Shane smile. He felt very valuable, perhaps a rare sight fit for gemological appraisal. Ilya looked at him as such, closely and carefully. Ilya’s hair still looked aggressively disheveled, almost windswept, and Shane couldn’t help but tug at it.
Ilya’s hand on the small of his back, which had still been rubbing soft strokes with his thumb, inched under his sweatshirt and touched his skin. Shane’s smile twisted into a wincing frown, his skin incredibly sore where Ilya touched. It felt like having a sunburn slapped, but without the smell of saltwater hair and the feeling of sand in shoes. That had happened to him before, at seven years old and during his first ever beach vacation. His cousin had slapped his sunburnt shoulder and reduced him to loud, messy tears.
“I cried odne tibe,” Shane mumbled, recalling the pain of the memory as Ilya’s fingers moved across his back carefully. “Frob a sudburd.”
Ilya stilled, giving a frown of his own, then his hand moved from under Shane’s sweatshirt to his forehead. The backs of his fingers first, then flipped so his whole palm lay across it, finally to the side of his neck like he didn’t quite believe whatever he was feeling.
Ilya pulled back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He coughed as he got up, sharp and encompassing and making him stumble a little on his way to the bathroom.
Shane watched, distantly wondering if learning that his boyfriend had cried over a sunburn a lifetime ago was just too much for Ilya to bear, was the final and unforgivable straw for all the ways Shane could be so boring.
Ilya came back from the bathroom with a thermometer in his hand, and Shane felt relief wash over him in waves. He had convinced himself Ilya had been packing his toothbrush with his heart already halfway out the door.
Instead, Ilya sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his leg, patiently asking, “How do you feel?”
“Ubm… Sick,” he admitted uncertainly.
Ilya made a quiet sound that might have been agreement, or dissatisfaction. He pressed the button on the thermometer and held it in front of Shane’s mouth. “Open.”
Shane blinked, and Ilya waited.
There was a pause in which Shane began to process that something was being asked of him, a request that he understood conceptually but wasn’t sure he needed to act on. It was as if Ilya’s command had slipped through one ear and gone clean out the other side, leaving him blissfully without thought but with the low, gravelly tone of Ilya’s voice still sitting warm in his mind.
“Shane.” Ilya patted his thigh gently. “Open your mouth.”
With the thermometer set under his tongue, they waited in the quiet with only the sounds of Ilya’s short coughs catching on exhales and Shane’s congested, half breaths through his stuffy nose. They were a sight to be seen, or perhaps heard—a symphony composed of the sounds of sick men.
Ilya removed the thermometer when it beeped and cursed under his breath, a phrase in Russian Shane hadn’t heard before but held familiar words, something like a plea for help.
Ilya dropped the thermometer onto the bedside table and slipped his hand behind Shane’s neck, steering him upright with gentle insistence. “Come.”
Shane let himself be guided out of bed. The stretch between the bed and bathroom became a journey of steps, careful heel-to-toe measurements like he was navigating unfamiliar space. Ilya stayed with him, a steady arm hooked around his waist.
In the bathroom, Ilya turned him gently and pressed him down to sit on the closed toilet lid. Shane rested his elbows on his thighs and let his head hang. He noted the sound of the shower turning on, the roar of rushing water filling his ears.
Ilya came back into his space quickly, and Shane welcomed him with arms looped around his legs and his face pressed into his bare stomach. He was rewarded with a gentle stroke down his spine, then a tug at the hem of his sweatshirt.
“Put your arms up,” Ilya said softly.
Shane lifted his arms, half with his own merit and half forced by his sweatshirt being dragged over his head. For a moment he was nowhere, blind and caught in fabric.
“Hh’ISSH’ehw!”
It caught him by surprise, muffled awkwardly into the soft cotton still half over his face. His body jolted forward with it, and he grabbed blindly at Ilya from the shock of it.
“Woah, okay, okay.” Ilya caught him immediately, one hand firm at his side as he finished pulling the sweatshirt free. “I got you.”
Shane blinked, disoriented. “Sorry,” he mumbled thickly.
Ilya pressed a stray kiss to the top of his head before moving on. The rest of Shane’s clothes went the same way, removed carefully with one of Ilya’s hands keeping steady at his side all the while.
“Fuck,” Ilya muttered suddenly, stopping in his tracks. Shane frowned, lips curving down until Ilya tapped his cheek and smiled warily. “Is nothing. Just, I forgot—wait here, okay? I will be right back.”
As if his plan had been to move at all. He wanted to say as much, but Ilya was gone faster than he could manage a single word. He felt horribly alone now, one hand bracing the counter beside him as he shivered, the air sliding unpleasantly against his overheated skin.
“Huh’ISHHuh—‘TSH’uh!”
Two sudden, messy sneezes that had him curling forward, the second weaker and doing nothing to relieve the buzzing feeling suddenly taking hold of his sinuses. He stayed there for a moment, with his hand hovering uselessly in front of his face, breath stuttering in uneven hitches.
“Have to sneeze?”
Shane’s watering eyes shot up. Ilya had returned with a glass in one hand and his other closed in a loose fist, and he was taking in the sight of him. Shane nodded absently, then tilted his head to slide his gaze toward the bathroom light.
“HH’ISHHoo—ISHH’uhh!”
“Oh? That helps me too sometimes, looking at something bright.” Ilya gently nudged the glass of water into Shane’s hand, then offered him two tablets. “I learned something new about you.”
Shane swallowed the pills down without fuss. His throat hurt with it, but he greedily drank half the glass of water, as if the first little sip had reminded him how parched he was.
Ilya undressed, just his boxers, then helped Shane into the shower. When the water hit his skin, it sent a shudder up through him that made his teeth clack together. He flinched hard, pulling back instinctively. “It’s cold—“
“No,” Ilya said firmly, his arm tightening around his waist and effectively stopping his escape. “Is warm, Shane. Your skin is just warmer. Trust me, give it time.”
Shane obeyed, because that was what he did now—followed the path Ilya set, step by step, without needing to see where it led to. Letting Ilya tend to him, take care of him like Ilya had allowed Shane to do earlier in the week. What was love if not a give and take, if not an exchange of trust?
So Shane leaned into him and closed his eyes, letting his cheek rest on Ilya’s shoulder as Ilya adjusted the angle of the shower head so the water fell more evenly over Shane’s back. One arm stayed steady around Shane’s middle, anchoring him, and his other moved—a hand over his shoulders, down his arm, across his back.
Shane’s consciousness narrowed down to sensation. The steady drum of water, the slide of Ilya’s hand, the quiet rhythm of breathing into each other. The steam seemed to be doing good for both of them, easing Ilya’s cough and Shane’s burning sinuses. The tension in him slipped away, muscles loosening as his body adjusted to the temperature of the water, his weight settling more fully into Ilya’s hold.
At some point, Ilya pulled his shoulder back and took Shane’s cheek in his hand, fingers gentle but insistent as he forced him up a little straighter. “I will wash your hair, okay?” Shane made a vague sound that he hoped Ilya understood as a yes. “Close your eyes.”
Ilya placed a hand at the base of his skull, guiding him to tilt his head back to wet his hair. His fingers combed through gently, the drag of fingertips against Shane’s scalp. It made Shane sigh, long and loose.
Shampoo came next, worked into a lather. Ilya’s fingers massaged careful circles and scratches, a firm pressure that wasn’t too hard but enough to make Shane feel hypnotized. His forehead drifted toward Ilya’s shoulder unconsciously.
“Hey, no. No, stay up.” Ilya adjusted him again. “It’ll hurt if you get soap in your eyes.”
“Feels so good,” he muttered drowsily.
Shane knew Ilya must have been indulging him. It was slow and gentle work, certainly going on longer than necessary, but it was the best Shane had felt all night and Ilya seemed to recognize it. They stayed like this for a stretch of time, with Shane melting into Ilya’s touch, until his breath caught.
“Hhuh!” Ilya’s fingers paused, and Shane lifted his wrist to his nose. “Hh’ISHHh!”
The sneeze caused him to jerk forward, the motion throwing off his balance just enough that he would have tipped if Ilya hadn’t tightened his hold.
“Hehh’ISHhuh! So-sooh’ISHHeuh! Sorry, fuck.”
“Easy, easy.” Ilya steadied him, holding him tightly to his chest. “Is okay, just sneeze.”
Shane sniffled wetly, dragging his wrist firmly under his nose. “Doh, it’s okay… Thigk I’b donde.”
Ilya waited a few more seconds, just enough to make sure, then helped Shane rinse his hair. Ilya’s fingers started at his forehead, swiping suds back carefully away from his face, then raked through his hair to help the water wash everything away.
Ilya turned the shower off and they exited together. Cold air rushed around them, sharp against Shane’s wet skin. He shuddered hard, shoulders curling inward. The shower, which had been comforting, now felt like a trick. Perhaps this was a Herculean task. Maybe showering with the flu was one of the 12 Labours, with the act of standing wet and cold being the price to pay for working a fever down.
But then Ilya was moving, reaching for a towel and wrapping it around Shane’s shoulders, drying him off with careful presses of the towel rather than dragging it in scratchy passes, and Shane felt soothed. Shivery, uncomfortable, but deeply loved.
It settled somewhere deep in Shane’s chest, that kind of attention—in being learned so thoroughly by another person. Ilya, full of force and rough edges in so many corners of his life, was handling Shane with a kind of gentleness that made him feel frighteningly known. It was as though Ilya knew by instinct which parts of Shane needed softness without ever having to place it into words.
Ilya managed to get them both dried and dressed, a pair of shorts hanging low off his hips purely for the convenience of them, and Shane more carefully tugged into a loose shirt and sweatpants. Once Shane was back in bed, propped up against the headboard, Ilya reached for the thermometer and held it out to him.
Shane frowned, edging more towards a wince. “Agaid?”
“Yes, again.”
He put the thermometer under his tongue and watched Ilya while they waited. Really watched him—his damp, unruly hair; the crease between his brows; the way his hands rested on Shane’s thighs like he couldn’t not touch him; the way he looked at him, assessing from the top of his head, his face, the climbing numbers on the thermometer.
The thermometer beeped, Ilya took it, and Shane quietly considered that the act of loving someone had less to do with grand declarations and a lot more to do with selecting soft, warm clothes and taking temperatures.
Ilya squinted at the thermometer, and his shoulders dropped with a sigh. “Better,” he said, sounding relieved. “Still high, but better.” Ilya set the thermometer aside and started adjusting Shane, guiding him lower down the bed, easing his head against the pillow, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders.
Shane swallowed. He was, essentially, being tucked in. “Ilya.”
Ilya’s hands paused, now hovering over Shane. “Yes? Are you okay?”
“You… I, umbb…”
He could feel the words sitting somewhere in his gut, formed in intention but not taking the shape of language. It was the slow, aching pull of tenderness tangling up with the sharp sting of embarrassment. Now with a sound mind, or closer to one, he was painfully aware that he had been washed, dried, dressed. He had failed, even, to hold himself up. He had let his body become more an extension of Ilya’s, or a burden to him, than something within his own control.
The truth of it, though, was that something else was threaded through every moment. It had been care in motion, as if Shane was allowed to need him, as if Shane needing him wasn’t an inconvenience but a circumstance that Ilya met eagerly and entirely willingly.
The hands that pressed him face-first into mattresses, that gripped him with the edge of a challenge, that stole touches at the worst moments just to prove they could—those same hands had held him upright under a shower, had tenderly wiped his nose clean, had generously washed his hair. This version of him, weak and unsteady and unable to care for himself, hadn’t changed anything fundamental. The world hadn’t come crashing down. In fact, the world felt a little lighter, like Ilya had decided to shoulder it with him without being asked.
But how would he say any of that? The enormity of it, gratitude and vulnerability and love, sat somewhere in the aching center of him. He wouldn’t be able to find the words tonight, and maybe not ever—not in a way that would feel like enough. So instead, he croaked a soft, “Thagk you for helpig mbe.”
Ilya smoothed his hair back, palm flattening briefly against the crown of his head in a gentle, reassuring press. “Always.”
The rest of the dark, early morning hours passed in stretches of restless sleep and bouts of hazy consciousness. Sometimes Shane woke to find Ilya scrolling on his phone beside him; at others, he woke to fingers carding through his hair. Once, horrified, he woke to Ilya coaxing him up so he could change his shirt because he had apparently sweated through it.
The day arrived somberly. There was no glowing sunrise, no hopeful sense of renewal—just weak, muddled light leaking around the curtains and Shane waking with the immediate realization that he still felt like absolute shit.
The flu had settled into him completely now. His skin was oversensitive and hurt just from the rustle of his clothes. His body ached with a deep, heavy soreness. His sinuses throbbed and buzzed in miserable little waves, and he was so congested he had to breathe through his mouth, making his throat feel rubbed raw.
Ilya was asleep on his side, one arm thrown over Shane’s waist protectively. Even now, still recovering and obviously exhausted, Ilya slept like he was holding the hope of the world in his arms, like rest was secondary to keeping Shane close and cared for.
Shane loved him with such terrible force it seemed to circle back around into fear. Could you love someone so much that it stopped being healthy? Maybe there was some kind of recommended limit, beyond which devotion crossed a line and became pathological.
Throughout the day, Shane’s house transformed. It carried signs of ill health. Tea mugs accumulated, half full and abandoned after naps between doses of cold medicine. Damp washcloths were left draped over the edge of the bathroom sink. Crumpled tissues bloomed in strange places (the bathroom counter, tucked into folds of blankets, inexplicably on the windowsill in the kitchen).
“How mbady boxes do I have stashed away?” Shane asked hoarsely, blinking blearily at the fresh box of tissues Ilya placed on his lap. “That’s gotta be… What dumber is that?”
Ilya flattened the empty box in his hands, probably for recycling. “Three,” he said. Then he glanced at Shane, his mouth twitching into a crooked little smirk. “There is two left, but with both of us… I should order grocery delivery, for tissues. And food.”
“Yeah, good idea.”
“Ten boxes of tissues, yes?”
Shane huffed a weak laugh that dissolved into grumbling coughs muffled into his sleeve. Ilya stepped closer and spread a warm hand over his chest, rubbing slowly while Shane coughed himself miserable. When the coughing eased, Ilya brushed his knuckles over Shane’s cheek.
“You sound so bad, Shane.”
“You soud worse.”
Ilya raised a brow.
“Doh, really,” Shane insisted. “Your cough really does soud bad.”
Shane lowered his gaze, fixing it on the corner of the bed. Ilya hadn’t meant any harm, Shane knew, but the truth of it reminded him that Ilya had a life waiting. Soon, Ilya would stop spending entire days wrapped around Shane. He would leave for Ottawa and slide back into the rhythm of his normal life while Shane remained in Montreal.
It was ridiculous how distressing the thought was, as if that hadn’t been their arrangement for the past couple years.
Ilya sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth, palm cupping under his jaw.
“You will get better too,” he said softly. “Maybe slower than me, because I am very strong. But your strong boyfriend will take care of you.”
The joke should have calmed something in him. Instead, emotion climbed unexpectedly into Shane’s throat, hot and awful.
“How logg?” he asked quietly. His voice strained despite his effort to steady it. “Udtil you go back?”
“Hey.” Ilya’s expression softened. “Don’t worry about that right now.”
But Shane did worry. He worried because he wanted this horribly domestic version of them forever, wanted Ilya worrying about their stock of toiletries and asking him about grocery orders. He wanted to settle in bed at night without counting down days. He wanted—
“We have time,” Ilya said quietly. He brushed his thumb beneath Shane’s eye, stopping him from spiraling further. “I have to go to Ottawa on Tuesday to see my team doctor. Get cleared for light practice, probably. Maybe play game Wednesday.” He continued slow strokes over Shane’s skin. “So we still have a few days, okay?”
Shane nodded. A few days shouldn’t have felt as precious as it did, but relief still coursed through him. Relief that Ilya would have more time to rest, and selfishly, that Shane would have two more nights not spent alone.
Their conversation dissolved into murmured pillow talk, little sweet nothings and encouragements whispered back and forth until Ilya coaxed more water and medicine into him, and eventually guided him out to the couch with the promise that a change in scenery might make him feel better.
By late evening, Shane had become part of the couch.
He lay cocooned under two blankets, his head propped up against one end of the couch and his legs resting in Ilya’s lap. A nearly unwatchable slapstick comedy played quietly on the TV, only really on for Ilya’s benefit while Shane dozed between bouts of coughing and sneezing.
It had been funny at the time, when Ilya actually added ten boxes of tissues to the grocery order, but now Shane thought Ilya had demonstrated great foresight.
“Huh’EISHH’uh!” His head throbbed with it, and he scrubbed weakly at his nose with a tissue. “Heh-! Hehh’ISHH’iehh! H’ITSHHooh! Ugghh.”
Ilya assessed, watching him with the same low-level concern he’d been wearing on his face all day. Then, he carefully slid out from underneath Shane’s legs. “I will heat soup.”
Shane answered with another sneeze.
“After we eat, I think we go to bed.” Ilya stroked his palm gently over the top of Shane’s head as he passed the couch. “You want chicken noodle? Or miso?”
Shane wanted neither. Really, all he wanted was to remove his entire respiratory system, and possibly his musculoskeletal system while he was at it; he was sore in places he didn’t even know he could hurt. But the instant miso cups Ilya bought were small, more drink than meal, and it sounded marginally less miserable than trying to choke down noodles.
“Mbiso,” he croaked.
Ilya returned a few minutes later, carrying two cups of instant miso soup. “Sit up,” he instructed.
Shane struggled his way into something resembling a half sitting lounge. Every muscle protested the movement, but when he accepted the soup, he nearly groaned at the warmth of it in his hands. Ilya drank from his own soup cup while Shane slowly sipped at his.
He was halfway through the cup when his nostrils flared. The tickle came on so suddenly he let out a strangled sound before he even registered he needed to sneeze. He pinched his nostrils tightly while his other hand reached blindly toward the coffee table, trying desperately to set the soup down lest he spill it all over himself and the couch.
The cup disappeared from his hand at the last possible second.
“Hh’nnghk’uhh!” The first sneeze was forcibly contained behind his pinched fingers. It hurt everywhere. “Owwwhhuh-hEH’TSHH’iewhh—ISHH’ooh!”
Tissues were pressed into his hand, and Ilya murmured a soft blessing while Shane groaned miserably as he cleaned himself up. He finished with a thorough blow. By the end of it he felt entirely drained, all the energy wrung out of him by half a cup of soup and three poorly timed sneezes.
Quietly, Ilya gathered both soup cups, Shane’s still only half-finished, and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, he crouched in front of the couch and held his arms open toward Shane.
Shane, without a word, sank into Ilya’s arms. He allowed himself to be gathered up, Ilya’s arms fitting securely around his shoulders while Shane buried his face against the slope of his neck. He let his eyes slip closed, all tension draining under familiar warmth.
Ilya’s hand settled against the nape of his neck, thumb moving lazily through the short hair there. “We should go to bed now,” he murmured. “You need sleep.”
“You do too,” Shane countered grouchily, voice muffled against Ilya’s shoulder.
Normally Ilya would have struck back, would have found some way to beat Shane at his attempt to smart him, to tease Shane into smiling just for the sake of it. Tonight, he only hummed softly and pressed a lingering kiss into Shane’s hair before helping him carefully off the couch.
He held Shane’s hand the entire walk to the bedroom.
Shane leaned shamelessly against Ilya while they brushed their teeth, side by side at the bathroom sink. At one point, he caught Ilya watching him in the mirror with sleepy fondness, toothbrush hanging from the corner of his mouth.
“What?” Shane mumbled around toothpaste foam.
“You are very cute when sick.”
Shane rolled his eyes and brushed his teeth a little more aggressively, if only to stop himself from smiling.
When he finished rinsing, Ilya wiped the corner of his mouth clean with his thumb before guiding him gently toward bed. The sheets were cool when Shane climbed in, a relief against his feverish skin. He curled toward Ilya, and Ilya gathered him close instinctively.
Shane rested his forehead against Ilya’s collarbone and listened to the slow rhythm of his breathing. It had deepened noticeably, slow and even. Apparently, Ilya had fallen asleep almost instantly. It struck Shane suddenly that Ilya must have been exhausted. The entire day had revolved around Shane and his temperature, and his liberal use of tissues, and his love of freshly brewed tea.
Aching with the realization, he tilted his head up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the center of Ilya’s throat before he let sleep drag him under, too.
Unfortunately, the flu rendered sleep very difficult, indeed. Shane surfaced abruptly from a shallow fever-dream less than an hour later because a cough caught at the back of his throat. It made his chest ache and his eyes water.
Ilya stirred under him and passed a sluggish hand over his back. Shane stayed still, listening carefully. He desperately wanted Ilya to get more rest.
When he was certain Ilya was still asleep, he carefully shifted off of Ilya and onto his back. He swallowed against the soreness in his throat and tried to settle back down, but his sinuses had packed themselves completely shut, as though cotton were stuffed deep into his skull.
Slowly, cautiously, he reached for a tissue on the nightstand and attempted to blow his nose, one nostril at a time, with the smallest amount of pressure possible. The congestion remained stubbornly immoveable, but somehow his nose was still managing to run.
Shane sighed miserably and, out of desperation, tore off two small pieces of tissue, stuffing them into his nostrils so he wouldn’t have to wipe at his nose every few seconds. The skin around his nostrils was rubbed raw and painful, anyway.
It felt deeply pathetic, but also incredibly effective.
For a while, he lay on his back like this, staring into the darkness and trying to ignore the pressure throbbing behind his eyes. It was miserable business, but Ilya was at least sleeping soundly.
“Hh-hIIH!”
He clamped a hand over his nose, trying to smother the tickle out before it worked into a sneeze, but the congestion only made the sensation worse, pressure building painfully.
“Hhgh’SHHoo!”
Yeah, that fucking hurt.
Sneezing while this congested felt genuinely agonizing, the force ricocheting painfully through his blocked sinuses.
“Hh’GSHHiuh!”
“Shane?” Ilya mumbled drowsily. “You okay?”
Shane was beginning to suspect Ilya possessed some inexplicable biological reflex to react to the sound of Shane suffering. Perhaps a survival instinct, ancient and deeply coded in his DNA. Maybe Russian men had once survived brutal winters by instinctively waking whenever their lovers sounded ill, entire bloodlines preserved through aggressive caretaking and sheer emotional vigilance.
“Mby dose…” Shane tried to sniff and immediately regretted it when he choked on a cough.
Ilya made a soft sound of understanding and rolled toward him. Even half asleep, his hand found Shane’s face in the dark, broad palm nice and cool against his hot cheek.
“Come here.”
Shane shifted closer beneath the blankets, and Ilya’s fingers moved over his face, carefully mapping it in the dark. His fingertips pressed gently beside Shane’s nose, then along his sinuses in slow practiced motions. The pressure hurt at first, making him wince, then slowly began to ease some of the tightness.
Shane let out a low, appreciative groan.
“Mmh, feel good?” Shane could practically hear the little smile in Ilya’s voice.
Shane made a soft sound, and Ilya’s fingers continued to work carefully in touches more gentle than seemed possible for such strong hands. It wasn’t enough to clear the congestion completely, probably not even enough to be able to properly blow his nose, but enough that the throbbing behind his eyes lessened into a dull, nearly unnoticeable ache.
“How do kndow how to do this?” Shane asked, bewildered.
Ilya’s fingers slowed briefly as he answered, “My mother.”
Ilya was able to say these things, late at night with the world quiet behind sleep and without the bright hours left to expose him. It was like he saved his sadness for the dark, when only its silhouette was visible in the low light, its details swallowed kindly by shadows.
And it had been stated so simply, not an invitation for probing or a request for comfort. It was an explanation, a humble offering of information caught between I trust you with this and I trust you won’t make me talk about it. It was a house of cards, a building without a proper frame, a structure one breeze away from catastrophe—of Ilya falling apart. And Ilya trusted Shane enough to chance it anyway.
Ilya once had a mother, too. Once, Ilya had been loved freely and tenderly, by a woman who had pressed cool hands to feverish skin and learned the exact places to soothe pain from her son.
Shane could picture it, Ilya’s mother sitting beside him and teaching him care through patient hands, passing her love so ordinarily neither of them knew how important it would become later. People passed, and parts of them continued moving through the world. What Ilya kept for himself, the remnants of his mother’s love, lived on in his hands and was being selflessly handed over to Shane.
Shane shifted closer, tucking himself warm against Ilya’s chest, and murmured in practiced yet still clumsy Russian, “я тебя люблю.”
For the briefest moment, Ilya went very still. Shane felt the pause of his breathing, the way his body tightened sharply before relaxing again. Then, Ilya lowered his face into Shane’s hair with a gentle nuzzle.
“Terrible accent,” Ilya whispered against the top of his head.
Shane smiled weakly. “Dod’t lie, I’b very good. It’s… It’s just the codgestiod, that’s all.”
“Wooorst accent.” But Ilya’s arms wrapped tightly around Shane, pulling him impossibly closer, then continued gentle rubs along Shane’s sinuses with his thumb. “But good effort.”
Eventually, little by little, Shane’s breathing eased. He was halfway to sleep when he sneezed again, suddenly and helplessly right into Ilya’s chest.
“Hh’ISHHuhh!”
The force of it startled both of them. Then, Shane realized with horror that he still had tissue stuffed in his nose.
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, mortified. “I’b sorry… This is so gross.”
He twisted away from Ilya and pulled the damp tissue free, quickly wrapping it in a clean tissue before abandoning it on the nightstand. He had the foresight to grab a few more tissues just to keep in his hand.
Beside him, Ilya laughed softly. “Yes,” he agreed. “Is very gross.”
Shane groaned again, but through a self-deprecating laugh, and Ilya pulled him back into his arms.
“But,” Ilya continued, sounding awfully fond, “this is also love.”
Something warm spread through Shane’s chest. He pressed the tissues to his dripping nose and settled heavy into Ilya’s arms again, forehead finding the crook of Ilya’s neck on instinct.
“I could do this agaid,” Shane admitted softly after a moment, voice edging on shy. “Every flu seasod, forever.”
Ilya made a quiet sound against his hair that might’ve been a laugh. “Every flu season? For the rest of our lives?”
Perhaps it was the fever, but he nodded. Shane considered that he was essentially proposing under the pretense of surviving future respiratory illnesses together, which honestly sounded perfectly reasonable to him at the moment.
“I like flu-Shane,” Ilya mused. “He loves me very much.”
“Healthy Shade loves you too,” Shane argued weakly. “Healthy Shade loves you without sdeezig od you.”
“Healthy Shane, sick Shane.” Ilya smoothed his fingers over Shane’s hair in gentle, slow pets. “All my Shanes.”
Love was a lot of things. Sometimes it was bright and cinematic and made Shane think happily-ever-afters weren’t only for fairytales. Sometimes it was mild summers spent in Lanaudière, or puzzles at his parents’ house during family dinner nights.
And sometimes love looked like this, curled together in the middle of the night with fever sweat cooling against Shane’s skin, crumpled tissues gathering on the nightstand, and Ilya holding him like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.
I have consumed an ungodly amount of caffeine and not enough food over the past two days and I texted an ex at 1am. either I’ve reached a state of nirvana or am on the brink of a total crashout. or both? no wonder so many novelists lose their ever loving minds. how do they do this day after day, how how how?
shoutout to everyone who has encouraged me along the way with likes and tags and replies. seriously, I could cry just thinking about it :) this community's willingness to lift each other up is so special to me. and very special shoutout to @hollanovsnz for inspiring me to try out narration-interrupting sneezing
I had this gif of ilya crying on shane looping in the background the ENTIRE time I wrote this part. please take a look, it's so worth it.
without further ado, here is the final part—
in which ilya is very sick, and shane struggles with words but excels in physical touch (and google searches).
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6
Ilya was being scarily compliant.
How many times had Shane asked Ilya to grow up, to listen to his advice because sometimes he knew what he was talking about, to fall in line when a situation required a more delicate approach? Ilya was a mischievous kind of person who really enjoyed setting Shane on edge, and Shane spent a lot of time halfheartedly scolding him for it.
Now, Shane was wholeheartedly regretting it.
He had taken Ilya’s temperature (39.2), made him eat a bit of yogurt (3 spoonfuls, something easy on his throat and to settle his stomach for medication), dosed him up with cold and flu tablets (2) and ibuprofen on top of it (400mg), and got him to drink half a glass of water (to wash down said medication, around 200ml).
Shane accomplished all of this within fifteen minutes, down to the haphazard notes on his phone for tracking, if only because Ilya was ragdolling around and giving Shane absolutely no pushback. He hadn’t even asked Shane why he was suddenly in his house, feeding him medicine and throwing caution to the wind. It was as if the flu had taken all of Ilya’s essence and left his body behind, flushed and sweat soaked.
This was much more frustrating than Ilya’s tendency to lean provocateur over passive lover, or maybe it was just that now Ilya was stripped bare and Shane selfishly wanted it all back.
Or maybe Shane just always had something to complain about.
He surprised himself with the thought. Shane had never been a very introspective person, but Ilya shaped him into more of a human than he’d ever known he could be. It was inexplicable, the power of caring for someone so much.
I love you, he thought. I love you, I love you, I love you.
“I need to get the sheets changed,” he said accordingly. “Come on, I’ll help you up.”
He leaned in, sliding an arm behind Ilya’s shoulders to help him upright. Ilya seemed awfully uncoordinated but no less made the effort to lean into Shane’s stable hold. Ilya was heavy, muscles whipcord tight in a way that always made Shane question how junky breakfast sandwiches and ice cream could amass into such a body, but Shane was strong too.
He helped Ilya onto the chaise near the window. Ilya gave a full body shiver, looking uncomfortable and fully absent, his rheumy-eyed stare fixed on nothing in particular. Shane covered Ilya with the throw at the end of the chaise as an afterthought.
(Ilya wasn’t the type to have an extra set of sheets, and Shane had complained about it just days after Ilya moved in. A week later, there had been three identical sets waiting in the linen closet, courtesy of Ilya caring so much, and three separate hickeys on Ilya’s chest from a thankful and thoroughly loved Shane.)
Shane stripped the bed and tossed the damp sheets on the floor because he didn’t have time to put things in their proper place, then redressed the bed with clean sheets. He did a sloppy job with his shaking hands, but he desperately wanted to get Ilya back in bed.
“Do you think you can handle a quick shower? Just to rinse—“
“—zZdshooh! RrHh’sSCHuuh! Hh-hehh-gd’schhiuuh!”
Shane turned to Ilya and watched him curl into the thin throw blanket, aiming his sneezes down at it with no real intention other than that his head snapped down with them.
“Never mind,” he said gently, more for himself. “Bless you.”
Ilya sniffled in response, a congested sound that made Shane reach for the box of tissues on the nightstand. He pulled a couple out and moved to the chaise, pressing them into Ilya’s hand. Ilya blinked down, only curling his fingers around the tissues.
“Ilya? Hey.” Shane kneeled, catching Ilya’s eyes just for the sake of making sure he was still in there. He took the tissues back from Ilya’s hand and wiped his nose for him with a gentle touch. Ilya’s head tipped forward, following the touch automatically, and Shane couldn’t remember a time he’d ever seen Ilya so pliant. “Alright, bed. You need to be in bed.”
Ilya made a sound of agreement, a thick grumble sticking in his throat, but it eased Shane’s anxiety by a hairline. At least Ilya wasn’t totally lost to the fever, at least he could still appreciate the idea of resting comfortably.
He kept his arm anchored around Ilya’s bare waist as he guided him back to bed. The fever was doing a number on him, but Shane figured being next to naked wasn’t helping. He got Ilya get settled in bed, propped against the pillows and duvet pulled up to his waist, then set out to find something comfortable for Ilya to wear.
He momentarily considered if it was even worth getting Ilya dressed. He would undoubtedly sweat through any clothes, but he supposed it was much easier to change his clothes than to keep changing the sheets.
He settled on a loose long-sleeve and pulled it over Ilya’s head, guiding his arms through and tugging the fabric down into place. His fingers brushed over fever heated skin all the while, mentally clocking that he should check his temperature again soon, just to make sure the medicine was at least keeping it steady.
“RRH’SCHOooh!”
“Oh, fuck—“
The sneeze broke loose against Shane’s arm, and the expletive slipped out in tandem. It took a moment for his mind to catch up, to process the sensation, warm and damp against the back of his hand that was still braced on Ilya’s stomach.
And the reality that he was still being sneezed on.
“Ggh’ZDSCHuuh! YhH’SHhh-ISHhuh-ghH’SHOo!”
There was a brief, horrible pause in which Ilya looked at Shane’s arm, then up at his face, and then Ilya’s expression shifted. He looked completely crestfallen, guilty in a way that looked wrong on on him, and Shane hovered his hands near Ilya nervously.
“Oh, no, it’s—Ilya, it’s fine. You’re fine.”
Ilya turned his head, still looking stricken, and Shane placed his hands on Ilya’s shoulders.
“It’s fine,” he said firmly.
“I’b sorr—“
“I know,” Shane cut in, softer but no less certain. Just to prove a point—to both of them, probably, but he would dissect that later—he pressed a placating kiss to the top of Ilya’s head and squeezed his shoulders. “I know, it’s okay.”
Had Ilya not been sick, they probably would have laughed it off quickly enough. Shane would have complained and dramatically scrubbed his hands under hot water, Ilya would have made a joke about the honor of being baptized by a hockey god, but they both knew the parameters were different during flu season. Shane would have been just as, if not more, mortified if the tables were turned.
“Get some rest.” He squeezed Ilya’s shoulders one more time. “My mom’s coming by soon with some soup. Call if you need me, okay?”
_________________________
Okay, so he was still dramatically scrubbing his hands under hot water, but he was doing so in the kitchen and out of Ilya’s line of sight. He used a healthy four pumps of soap and scrubbed up to his elbows. His sweatshirt had already been tossed in the laundry room with the dirty sheets.
Feeling sufficiently clean, he sat at the table with the packets and bottles of medication, crosschecking as he set alarms for doses. He was in the middle of searching the maximum dose of ibuprofen appropriate for an adult when his mom texted, indicating she had arrived.
He tried to make it a quick affair. His mom, for all her good intentions, had a very hard time relinquishing control. He let her ask questions, answered as kindly as he could manage, and rushed her out with a promise to call her in the morning.
The evening crawled on. He changed Ilya into a clean shirt when the one he had put on him earlier grew too damp. He pushed fluids and kept the bed clear of used tissues. He even convinced Ilya to have a few bites of soup.
Two hours and a few rewetted cool cloths later, Ilya held a cognizance in his eyes that made Shane want to fall to his knees in a belated prayer because he didn’t believe in God, but he could still set his gratitude in places he didn’t understand. With Irina, maybe, and wherever she watched from.
He hadn’t really planned on sleeping in bed with Ilya because it seemed like an unnecessary (and very germy) risk, but he hadn’t really planned on this evening at all. It was unfamiliar, a little scary, but Ilya made Shane’s muted voice of instinct speak up. So Shane sat up in bed with Ilya, scrolling through an article about the workings of fevers and keeping his free hand on Ilya’s blanket-clad thigh.
“Hhah’DZSHHooh! Ugh… Snndfff!” Shane wordlessly passed Ilya a tissue even though the box sat between them, within Ilya’s reach. He listened as Ilya blew his nose and continued thumbing over his screen. “Shade?”
“Hmm?”
“Shirt.”
“What?” He frowned and turned his head to look over.
“Hot. Help mbe take this off.”
“Oh—yeah? That’s good, I think.” He set his phone down and gently swatted Ilya’s hands away from the bottom hem of his shirt, deciding it would be easier if he did it without clumsy, flu-fatigued help. “I think that means your fever’s coming down.”
“Good.” Ilya coughed into his bare arm after his shirt was off. “I hate fever. Terrible.”
“Terrible,” Shane agreed, reaching for the thermometer on the nightstand. “Have you ever been this sick before?”
“Probably. Whed I was yougg, baybe. Dnot sindce... Si’ihhh’hahh—“
Shane had more tissues ready—
“Hh’aAHDZCHUuh! Yhh’HIDDSCHhh!”
—to push into Ilya’s waiting hand, who was anticipating Shane would answer to the call—
“—GDZTCHhuhh-hh’huuh’dZZSsh-ETSCHhoo!”
—of his nose fucking losing it.
“HhehH-HEH’JDSHhooh!”
“Holy shit.”
Ilya blew his nose after Shane handed him another fresh handful of tissues, then again when Shane gave him more.
“Ugghh. Sorry.”
“No, I just… That just sounded like it hurt. Are you okay?”
“Mby dose is goig to break agaid probably.”
“I don’t think that’s poss—“
“Is a joke, Shade. You thigk I ab stupid? You thigk this fever cooked mby braidn, huh?”
It was more like Ilya than he’d sounded all night, and Shane kissed him for it. On his forehead, far away from his running nose, but happily. Ilya looked notably happy about it, too.
“I’b really glad you are here.”
“Me too.”
_________________________
Shane dozed intermittently. He found it difficult to sleep deeply even on an average night, despite his daily dose of the magnesium supplement his nutritionist swore by, and tonight proved to be more of a challenge.
Ilya was snoring louder than usual, which he couldn’t help, and Shane also couldn’t help the way it ground his nerves to dust. On the other hand, snoring meant Ilya was getting sleep, which he desperately needed if he had any hope of feeling better come morning. Maybe the dichotomy between relief and distress wasn’t so stark, after all. Or maybe Shane was really losing it and could no longer tell the difference between the two.
All he knew was that Ilya was snoring, the feverish heat was so stifling that Shane had done away with his own shirt some time ago, his head was starting to hurt from the lack of sleep, and if he could go back in time, he still would have forgone a quiet bedroom and chosen a two hour drive with all that followed.
He held onto that thought and kept his eyes closed.
It was nearly four in the morning when Shane woke with a start.
He had been half-dreaming of growling engines, of machines struggling to power on and push through their work, and it all seemed so out of left field until he realized that the grating noise was happening in real time right beside him.
“Fuck, fuck, Ilya.”
That was a fucking terrible cough.
Shane reached to turn on the bedside lamp. Ilya was faced away from him, curled in on himself and shaking the bed with it. Shane grabbed at him in a panic, pulling him to his chest to raise him up and firmly rub his back.
“Ilya, breathe. You need to breathe.”
Which wasn’t likely helpful to say, but if he meant it enough, if it helped even marginally, he would keep saying it until he went hoarse.
“Shhh, shh. Breathe.”
The coughing slowed, but Ilya’s breaths took on a staccato quality, a sign that he was either building up to a sneeze or, worse, crying.
“Hhuh’ddjshh!”
A sneeze, then.
Ilya’s cheek settled on his collarbone, and Shane finally registered how immensely warm he was. His fever was back up, and Shane felt torn between measuring it with the thermometer and holding Ilya a little longer, at least until his own heart settled.
“You’re really hot, Ilya.” For a brief moment, Shane held hope on the cusp of his breath. He was waiting for Ilya to agree, to make an innocuous joke Shane could roll his eyes at. It was the Ilya whom Shane was trying to carefully coax out of fever.
All he got was another stuttered breath, only this time it was tears that followed.
It broke his fucking heart. He would have preferred being sneezed on again.
He threaded his fingers through Ilya’s hair, smoothing it back just so he could press his cheek flush against Ilya’s forehead. His other arm wrapped around Ilya, keeping him close and holding him in place. He could feel the heat of him sinking into his skin, could feel the gentle stridor of weak crying straight from Ilya’s throat vibrating messages of help me, help me, help me into his chest.
He held Ilya’s head in his hands, his face against his chest, and he kissed, and he kissed, and he kissed because it was all he could do. He thumbed away loose tears, Ilya’s and a few of his own when he really couldn’t help it.
“—ihhdj’shh! Nngh’jdshh!”
Shane knew that would keep happening, Ilya sneezing into his bare chest, and it didn’t matter. It didn’t fucking matter, because Ilya was sick enough he was crying about it, and it made Shane feel like his world was crumbling in consequence. He could withstand a little sneezing if it meant keeping Ilya close for the end of the world.
“Ddzh’ishhuh!”
A lot of sneezing, perhaps, but the point remained unchanged.
He checked Ilya’s temperature four times over the course of the next hour, in 15 minute increments, just to make sure it wasn’t getting any higher. He made Ilya take more medicine, made him shiver his way through cool cloths being gently wiped over his neck and back. Ilya didn’t complain, but Shane wished he would.
It took time, and some patience, and some (all) frayed nerves to get through the worst of it, but Ilya’s temperature calmed. Ilya slept soundly now, and Shane still had the address of the nearest emergency department set on his navigation app just in case. He fell asleep somewhere around the tenth re-check of the estimated arrival time.
Hours later, he woke to Ilya blowing his nose (very loudly, and very obnoxiously), looking pale and bedraggled and still unwell, but noticeably better.
“Wow, Shade, you look like shit.” Ilya raised a brow, a glint in his eye. “What, could dnot sleep?”
Shane, with his relief palpable and needing a place to go, climbed on top of Ilya and kissed all over his clammy but much cooler face. “Your—fucking—fault,” he grouched between kisses.
Ilya laughed, coughed, and laughed again. He rolled them over, pinning Shane under him, and trailed quiet thank you’s from the right side of Shane’s neck, over the front of his throat, and to the left.
_________________________
By Friday morning, Ilya was well enough to lounge on the couch and groan over Shane’s obsessive need to watch tapes of his last game on Tuesday.
Shane had missed optional practice yesterday and was skipping mandatory practice today, with the fabricated excuse of a brand deal commitment and a promise that he would be more than ready for their pre-game practice tomorrow. And Theriault had been more than pissed, tearing into him with you’re a hockey player first and brand whore second, and Shane knew he would be paying for it further tomorrow.
Still, it was hard to feel ashamed about it when Ilya was sprawled over his lap, still sniffly and just slightly flushed, using Shane’s phone because he had wanted a second Clash Royale account to test decks or practice clan formations or whatever he’d rambled on about until Shane gave in.
“Wait, wait, Shane.”
“Yeah?”
“What is this?”
Shane craned his neck forward, seeing that Ilya wasn’t tapping at the game anymore and was now on his browser.
“Hey, no! Give me my phone!”
“Oh, no-no-no. No, I must see this.”
“Ilya!”
“This is… Woooow, Shane. This is bad for you even.”
“God, fucking leave me alone.”
“No, I love it. You are so crazy about me, you have to search every crazy question for my health. Medicine dose, even. You know it says on the box, yes?” Ilya laughed, a brazen and wheezy and gloriously happy kind of sound. “You looove me.”
Shane, aching with something overwhelmingly tender, smiled with a shy laugh of his own. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
Maybe in a week’s time he would be back to nagging Ilya over his choice of breakfast, or admonishing him for a second-day wear of his favorite shirt, or something else that didn’t truly matter in the grand scheme of things. He didn’t worry about it, because Ilya would find him human all the same and love him for it.
Ilya, in turn, would quip back twice as hard. He would find something unrelated to tease Shane about, trying on which insult of the day would make Shane most irritated and wear it proudly, would get on his nerves just to come back with a kiss to make it better.
Part 2 of this fic, sick il/ya runs into sh/ane who's out partying with his team after a victory over il/ya's team. Thanks to @hollanovsnz for helping me with the mini hockey reference I made lol. See if y'all can spot it!! I wanna try to crank out the next part tonight or tomorrow but I feel the need to post this part tonight so I'm gonna do it before I lose my nerve.
The streets of Montreal were cold, not that Ilya was surprised. He should have brought a real coat. Maybe he'd pop into a bar, have a drink or two. Yeah, that'd warm him up and help him sleep.
He lit a cigarette and began to walk, following the sound of raucous laughter from around a corner.
His nose stung when a harsh wind blew against his face. It made his eyes water, and suddenly he was pitching forward with a wet, spraying fit.
He coughed, running his sleeve beneath his streaming nose. Stupid cold air making his stupid eyes water. The lights of the nearby bar further impeded his vision, halos of light blurring with the tears in his eyes. He could barely see, let alone watch out for other human beings that might be in his path, so it wasn't a surprise when he nearly ran into someone.
“My bad, man.”
That voice was familiar…
He turned to apologize or at least acknowledge the other person, blinking hard to try to clear his vision enough to see while forcing a cocky grin onto his face.
“Rozanov?”
Shit, it was Shane fucking Hollander.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Shane sipped his ginger ale while the rest of his teammates downed their third shots of the night. He didn’t understand how they could drink so heavily after a grueling game, but he supposed they deserved to celebrate. They'd beaten the Raiders which was always cause to celebrate. Not to mention, they had the next few days off for the holidays.
They were in some random bar, whatever had been closest after the game, and most of them would not be driving home.
“I’m going to get some air!”
Hayden nodded and waved, gesturing that it was fine for Shane to retreat from the chaos.
He hurried across the street, hoping to find somewhere quiet enough that he could breathe, and nearly ran into a passer-by.
“My bad, man.”
He murmured offhandedly.
The figure turned slightly and nodded their acknowledgement.
Wait, it kind of looked like--
“Rozanov?”
The Russian’s distinctive profile flinched, but as Shane got closer he could see a smile playing on Ilya’s lips around a lit cigarette.
The other man didn’t speak, just nodded toward an alley and knuckled at his nose. They stopped just outside of the alley, though Shane purposely kept his back to the street so his face wouldn’t be seen easily.
Ilya took a drag of his cigarette, nonchalant as ever. Great, so Shane had to initiate conversation as usual.
“What’re you doing out here?”
Bluish green eyes glanced between Shane and his lit cigarette, a smirk gracing his stupid pretty face.
“Fuck you. You smoke in your hotel room all the time. You’re not just here for a smoke.”
He watched Rozanov’s throat work with a swallow before he spoke,
“Is good city.”
Something sounded off. Plus, normally Ilya would have insulted him by now, or offered a roundabout congratulations for the Metros’ win. They’ve done this song and dance several times, so why hadn’t Ilya whispered a room number to him yet? Or groped his ass?
“Shit, is your team out with you?”
He looked over his shoulder, preparing to play off their interaction as trash talk or something.
He vaguely heard Ilya sniff through his frantic search through the scattered faces across the bar. None of them appeared to be Raiders players.
“They are asleep, probably.”
“Why are you so quiet, then?”
Ilya took another drag from his cigarette, then made a strangled sort of snort, grabbing onto his nose like he was snatching a loose puck in the corner of the rink.
“hhh…hih’YIttTTSCHhhh!”
“Bless you!”
“hehhhh’HSChh’SCHTIEW!”
“Bless y--"
“UDTSCHhhH!”
“Bl--"
“S-hhhh! Save your b-brEHHHhhh!-breath, Holladder, fug’k!”
Ilya adjusted his grip on his nose to speak, brows furrowed as he apparently tried to massage the thing into submission. Upon closer inspection, Shane could see how horrible Ilya looked. And he wasn’t done sneezing, either.
Shane found himself flinching with each quaking sneeze, head bowing a bit each time Ilya’s upper body snapped forward. Damn. He’d of course seen the other man sneeze, plus there was more than one compilation video online of the Russian player’s impressive fits both on and off the ice, but Shane worked hard to avoid clicking on those. He was mostly successful, but now, seeing one so close, it was breathtaking. For both of them.
“HHH’RRTSCHHHhhhh!”
Ilya swayed in front of him, the final sneeze apparently knocking enough wind out of him to make him dizzy. Shane placed a steadying hand on his rival’s shoulder instinctively, though his mind was a cacophony of anxiety and arousal.
“Shit, uh, bless you. A-are you sick?”
He didn’t know what else to say. ‘That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, please take me to your hotel room and fuck me while you keep sneezing’ felt incorrect.
“Ndo, Russiands do ndot get sigk.”
Came the hoarse, stubborn reply. It was ridiculous enough to knock the wit back into Shane’s stupefied, slightly aroused mind.
“Sure they don’t, and I assume that’s why you don’t have a fever that I totally can’t feel through your sweatshirt too?”
“Yes.”
Shane reached a hand up to Ilya’s brow, the other player very belatedly reaching up to swat him away. That was a bad sign.
“What’s your room number?”
“Ndo, Holladder, I candot fugk you todight. Mby f-father…”
“I don’t want to fuck, Rozanov, you’re sick as a dog!”
He wouldn’t mind Ilya’s fever-warm mouth sliding over his--no, he needed to focus!
“What’s your room number? Let me walk you back there and get you settled.”
“Uh....”
“You don’t remember your fucking room number??”
He hissed, and the Russian man flinched, wrapping his arms around himself and averting his gaze. Shane sighed. Damage control surrounding Ilya Rozanov was apparently becoming his specialty.
“Okay, uh, you try to remember your room number and I’ll go tell my team I’m going home. Just… try not to keel over while I’m gone?”
I'm so incredibly weak. Have the first part of my silly little il/ya snzfic. He's sick as shit after a bad loss of some kind, Mayhaps akin to the loss his dad was so pissy about in ep 1, but he's got a nasty cold. Sh/ane will appear in the second part if I ever decide to finish/post it, but I've got a million thousand fics I need to finish and therefore this may get pushed to the back burner for a while.
Disclaimer: I know literally nothing about hockey and have only watched the first two eps of h/r Sorrie friends. If anyone has any suggestions please let me know!!!!
Also, all of the phone convos in this are in Russian, I was just too lazy to do the whole Google Translate thing.
Sick il/ya fic
Ilya was dragged from sleep by his damn phone going off for the third time in a row. It was past midnight, who the fuck--of course.
“Whatd, what is it, Alexei?”
He snapped into the phone, consonants dulled by exhaustion and congestion. He felt like shit.
“You sound like shit.”
“You kndow whad, fugk you.”
His finger hovered over the ‘end call’ button.
“Dad wants you to call him back.”
“I’mb tryigg to sleeb, cand’t you tell himb-”
“Now, Ilya.”
His brother’s tone caused a pit to form in his stomach. That was not a good sign.
“Fide…”
“Blow your nose, dumbass. He’s pissed enough already and if you talk to him sounding like that, I’ll have to hear about it for weeks.”
Ilya winced, but grabbed a handful of toilet paper. He’d used up all the tissues in the hotel room yesterday, and he’d rather chafe the shit out of his nose than call the concierge to ask for more.
“Okay, I’ll blow before I--”
“Do it now, I’ll let you know when you sound normal enough for him not to notice.”
Ilya’s cheeks heated up, but he was too fucking exhausted to argue with his brother. He set the phone beside him on the bed and started the painstaking process of blowing his aching, overfull nose. He was three balled up stacks of toilet paper into the process when he felt the telltale zing of pain-turned-burning tickle shoot up his sinuses.
Dizzy, he gave a final gurgling blow before picking his phone back up.
“--had 8? Suck my dick, I know his idiot nose best!”
The color drained from Ilya’s burning cheeks when he realized what was happening on the other end of the line.
“Are you taki’gg fucki’gg bets ond mbe?”
He spat, only for his brother to guffaw into the phone.
“Of course we are, baby brother! You’re the sneeziest person I know and your nose never fails to win me money! Now call dad, you still sound like shit!”
The line went dead. He should have known better than to trust Alexei to have anyone’s best interest at heart but his own, but he had a fever to blame for that lapse in judgement.
Your nose never fails to win me money… what the fuck? He thought about the fits he’s had on the ice, had Alexei been betting with his friends on those too? His eyes burned, mortification pooling in his chest and making his teeth ache. He’d always been a sneezy person, a quirk that his father never failed to remind him was annoying and disgusting.
His phone began to buzz. The Colonel. Fuck, he needed a cigarette.
He sniffled and snorted in a futile but instinctive effort to clear his voice before answering, a pang of dismay weaseling into his stomach as his nose tickled mercilessly. After he broke his nose for a second time, his habitual sniffles began to tickle his nose horribly. Usually he could tamp it down and breathe through it, but with this cold virus inflaming his sinuses, he was oversensitized to every passing tickle.
“Finally answering me now?”
“Sorry, papa, I was hhhhasleep…”
“Lazy! After a loss like that, you ought to be running drills overnight with your useless team! You are the captain, make them do better!”
“Hhh… Hehh’DDSHHT!”
“Disgusting, Ilya! You know better than to do that into the phone!”
“I t-tried to turnd…”
“No excuses! You sound terrible, do you know why you are sick again? Because you lack discipline!”
Ilya’s eyes glazed over as his father continued his tirade, mumbling soft apologies every so often. He needed air and a fucking cigarette.
He had to start pinching his nose against the tickles invading every few minutes while his father’s tirade continued until finally,
“I will see you when you return home in a few weeks, correct? And we will continue this conversation.”
Ilya’s heart skipped a beat, dread forming a knot in his stomach.
“Yes, papa. Good n'hhhehhh-night.”
The moment the line went dead Ilya pitched forward and sneezed openly onto the bed several times. His post-fit haze was interrupted by the sound of thumping on the wall beside him. Shit, he’d been too loud again. He squeezed his eyes shut, embarrassment and shame flooding his chest. Too loud, too sneezy, too weak.
He needed to clear his head.
“Fug’k it.”
He muttered as he crawled out of bed, goosebumps breaking out over his arms. He grabbed a hoodie, his lighter, and a pack of cigarettes, then hurried out of his room.
Had to finish this cozy cliché comfort piece. I just love to give my sweet Shane a sweet cold.
(also, remember one of the greatest moments in NHL history? because I sure do)
——
Ilya is writing a grocery list in the kitchen when Shane finally emerges from the guest bedroom, looking just as tired as he did before his nap. The tufts of dark hair peeking out from beneath his sweatshirt hood are messy and sticking to his forehead. He has the stumbling gait and pinched expression of someone emerging from a deep slumber into the brightest of lights. His nose is already dusted pinker than his cheeks. He looks fucking miserable.
It hasn’t been the easiest weekend for Shane, but honestly, he’s personally caused the majority of his stress. Nobody really cared about the All-Star Game or Skills Competition - it was all just an excuse for the league to garner ratings and for the players to dick around for a little bit (pun not intended) before the season started to ramp up. It was pretty much a slumber party with the NHL’s best.
But Shane didn’t give a shit about any of that. He wanted to play actual hockey, contribute to his actual team, instead of sit around and watch some guys hit a puck at 100 miles per hour. “It’s a who-has-the-biggest-dick competition,” he’d complained once to Ilya, who politely did not mention that Shane himself was the owner of one of those biggest-dick All-Star records, and proud of it.
Despite his disinterest, Shane still took the All-Star Game seriously - way, way too seriously. The fans had voted in some random goon to play for the Pacific team, a cruel practical joke against a guy who could hardly even fucking skate. And yet, somehow, that goon had helped demolish the Atlantic team with a hat trick and an assist. At the final buzzer, Ilya had looked over and seen his husband’s face twist, very briefly, with fury and disgust. No matter the importance of the game…Shane loved to win and hated to lose.
He’s paying the price now for the intensity of his emotions. This looks like it is becoming the cold from hell, and it’s only been a day. Still half-asleep, he gives a scrunched-up snrf that crinkles his nose adorably while staring dazedly at Ilya. “Tibe’s it?” He says, his voice deeper than before, and a little hoarse.
“6-ish,” Ilya says. “Are you feeling any better?”
“Doh,” Shane sighs out, looking irritable and defeated. Despite this, Ilya can’t help but melt at how cute Shane looks when he’s all tired and sniffly. No masking, no politeness, just his mildly grumpy self getting full up with a cold.
Ilya holds out his arms, and Shane shuffles over to faceplant into his chest. Ilya lets out a little “oof,” surprised at the ferocity of Shane’s cuddling. “You are so out of it, lyubov moya,” he says with a chuckle.
“Warm,” Shane mumbles.
“Are you cold? Let me get you a blanket.”
“Mmh, no, stay,” Shane says, pressing his cheek harder into Ilya’s sternum.
“Want to go on the couch? It will be more comfortable.” Shane allows Ilya to walk him over so long as he keeps an arm around him. And Ilya does, because he could never deny such a sweet request from his Shane. (The request is asked in more of a gruff, grumbly manner than a sweet one, but Ilya is happy to oblige anyway.)
On the couch, Shane pulls Ilya’s arms around him. “Tighter,” he says, and Ilya complies. Shane sighs and his head lolls back onto Ilya’s shoulder. “So good,” he says, before his breath hitches and he snaps his head to the side. “ahh’ishhew! ky’IShhuhh!”
Ilya doesn’t tell Shane that he felt some of the spray hit his arm. He’d be fucking mortified. Instead, he kisses his temple. “God bless you,” he says, and Shane shivers when he lays back in Ilya’s arms. Ilya presses his wrist to his forehead - no fever, just shivery from his little sneezes taking everything out of him? Oh god, how fucking adorable - and says, “Are you hungry?”
Shane shakes his head. “Maybe later.” He turns into Ilya’s chest. “hmph’choo! hn’isschmff!”
“Bud’ zdorov,” Ilya says, a complete pile of mush. Just when he thought his man couldn’t get any cuter, he does that.
“Fuck, this is a cold,” Shane mutters. “I hate it when you’re right.”
Ilya cracks a smile. “I am always right.”
“Shut up.” Shane reaches into his hoodie pocket, pulls out a crumpled tissue, and turns away from Ilya’s hold to blow wetly. Ilya frowns and runs a hand over his back. “You sound terrible already, sweetheart.”
“Goddammit,” Shane says. “Road trip this week.”
“You need medicine and plenty of rest, then. Can’t have our best player feeling bad.”
Something lights up in Shane’s eyes, his ego responding to the praise. “Mmkay. Come to bed with me?”
Ilya nods. “Okay, malysh. Let me just get some things together for you.”
“Love you,” Shane says as he makes his way upstairs. Ilya hears two more itchy “hy’IPTSChhh! hy’isshiew!” sneezes as he climbs.
Ilya takes Anya outside, then gathers together a little care package of medicine, water, crackers (even though there’s no way in hell Shane will eat in bed), and tissues for his husband. When he gets to the bedroom, Shane is fast asleep. Ilya watches him and hears the little stuffy catch in his breathing. Later, he will put some Vicks on his chest and give him kisses everywhere he can. For now, he just lets him rest.
Another shortie for @poetic-illness 💖 also had to do something with this :) <3
——
Shane crashes the day after his first All-Star Weekend as a Centaur.
What was supposed to be silly fun has left him miserably overstimulated.
Practicing with people he’s never played with before. The unseasonable winter heat of Los Angeles that chokes him every time he goes outside, followed by the freezing cold of the airplane that takes him and Ilya back to Ottawa. The press conferences, where everyone and everything is loud and flashy and exhausting. Where reporters have been warned by the NHL to keep questions about Shane and Ilya’s relationship to a minimum but clearly want to ask about it anyway. Ilya gives them all death glares, but really, it’s the league’s fault for having a joint presser with just the two of them.
They’ve just gotten back from the airport, and Shane’s daylong headache has only gotten worse. The ache behind his right orbital bone is unceasing, leaving him squinting even behind his sunglasses. He can’t even get himself to sleep on the car ride home, trying his best to just lean against the window in such a way that the bumps of the road won’t slam his fucking head around too much. Ilya is driving, quietly, and when he puts his hand over Shane’s, Shane pulls his own away, even that small touch being too much for his oversensitive skin. Ilya keeps to himself the rest of the ride, and Shane appreciates the silence. His brain needs it.
It’s all too much right now.
“Too much?” Ilya says as they walk through the front door and Shane kicks his shoes off haphazardly, rather than stacking them neatly on the rack.
Shane looks at him even though his eyes, and his temples, are fucking screaming at him. “Mm,” he says in agreement, sniffling, then goes to curl up in the corner of the couch, trying to meld with the cushions.
Ilya goes into the kitchen, then comes back with a glass of water and some pain pills. He hands them to Shane wordlessly, then turns to leave, when Shane snags his hand.
“Stay,” he says weakly.
“You are sure?”
“Mm,” he says again. He doesn’t want to risk nodding and making his head explode.
“Okay.” Ilya sits next to him and guides Shane’s head into his lap. Shane shivers and fists his hands around his sweatshirt sleeves. Why does he switch so quickly between feeling like touch will burn him and craving constant, crushing amounts of contact?
He feels all the pain pool in the right side of his head where it rests against Ilya’s thigh, but he doesn’t care so long as he can stay like this forever. Or, for now, at least.
Ilya runs a soothing hand over his shoulder, petting him slowly and gently. Shane’s head throbs with every heartbeat. He tries to clear his mind, to ignore everything but the feeling of his husband’s big hand on him. An itch tickles his nose, and he hitches quietly into his covered hand.
“hih..ihHh! hip’schiew! hadt’choo!”
“Bud’ zdor—”
“hahIDTSCHhew! mnguhh,” Shane moans as the stronger sneeze sledgehammers a jolt of pain into his brain.
“Bud’ zdorov. Uh-oh. Sweetheart,” Ilya coos. “I know that sneeze.”
Shane is busy recovering from the feeling of stars exploding behind his eyes. “Huh?” He slurs out.
“You are getting sick,” Ilya says worriedly. “You only sneeze like that when you have a cold.”
Shane doesn’t know what to say other than, “Oh.” That last sneeze had hurt more than the others. And sure, the temperature change had made him a bit sniffly all day today. But a cold?…Hm. Well, maybe. Fuck.
Ilya resumes petting him for a bit, until Shane takes in a sharp breath that catches embarrassingly. “ah-ghHihh…!”
“Oh, Shane…”
“hadt’shuhh!”
Ilya tightens his hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Bless you. One more?”
“HISHhuhh! ah’ISHhoo!”
“Oh, two,” Ilya says with surprise. “Bud’ zdorov, lyubov moya.”
“I thigk I need to lie dowd,” Shane says stuffily.
Ilya presses a kiss to the top of his head - coincidentally, right where another flare of pain has taken root. “Of course. Let’s go.”
Shane whimpers at the jostling of his head as he lifts it from Ilya’s leg, then takes Ilya’s hand. He covers his eyes with his other hand as they walk, Ilya guiding him to the guest bedroom so he doesn’t have to walk upstairs.
In bed, he snuggles under the covers and is faintly aware of Ilya padding around the room, closing the curtains and turning the fan on, leaving a box of tissues next to him. He hands him the water and pills. “Just drink, and then you can sleep, yes?”
Shane takes a small sip, then guzzles down the rest of the glass, feeling the liquid cool something in his burning head. He puts the glass down and smushes his face into his pillow, sleepily rubbing a little at his nose. “Thagk you,” he mumbles out.
“Spi sladko, milyy,” he hears Ilya say softly. Right before dissolving into sleep, he feels the brush of a kiss being pressed to the shell of his ear.
Hi! for the colour snz fic prompts would you write a hollanov fic with ilya being allergic to pollen 💛 I am an ilya sneezes in multiples and is a chronic stifler truther and like to think he sneezes more when he stifles when is hayfever is acting up.
I love reading all your fics so much so thank u 🫶
Thank you for this request <3 I’m combining this with another request for allergic!Ilya from @chaoticghostgremlin :) I had a HUGE idea for this one but it was getting too complicated and angsty and OOC for my liking, so I turned it into silly snz smut instead. 🤣 Am I embarrassed? A little. Am I gonna go hide after this? Probably. Honestly idek if I’m any good at writing sex scenes but screw it (heh), it’s fun and I enjoy doing it! Stole a “lube” idea from @snifflybabe but kinda chickened out on it lmao
——
Very Stupid and Irresponsible (H/eated R/ivalry, Ilya)
“How could we let this happen?” “We were both very stupid and irresponsible.” - Heated Rivalry, 1x06
Sorry, Ilyukha, this one’s all on you. Also, Canada, I am screaming at this. Pick a lane, eh? ;) <3
Prompt fills 💛 (pollen) and 💜 (lavender) from @heleniumx’s color list (sorry to taint it with this filth LMAO). VERY nsfw. Feat. kink! and honeymoon rhinitis!Shane. -4k words
cw: some mess
——
On May 10th - Shane’s birthday - Ilya made a very spontaneous, very idiotic decision.
The Centaurs were currently in the second round of the playoffs against Colorado. After playing their first two games on home ice, they were due to ship out to Denver tomorrow morning. Ilya and Shane had obviously never been on the same team during the playoffs, but Shane was acting exactly as Ilya had expected he would - singularly focused on winning the Cup, relentless in the gym, playing back video of their opponents’ special teams tactics over and over between bites of meals, pushing himself pushing himself pushing himself. Ilya knew that Shane was extra obsessive in his pursuit now that the two of them were playing together - and Ilya was certainly no less passionate about his desire to win with, and for, his husband.
Lately, though, there’d been far too many nights where Ilya had needed to coax Shane out of their media room, or off the stationary bike, or away from the Centaurs’ practice rink, and into bed for a good night’s rest. He wasn’t positive that Shane was sleeping well at all, though it was difficult to tell thanks to how spectacularly well he was performing on the ice, with two goals and an assist in the last game alone. He was en fuego, as the analysts loved to say, sure, but peak performance came at a cost. Ilya didn’t even think Shane would have remembered today was his birthday if Ilya hadn’t been there to wake him by wishing him a good day and giving him a kiss. The first thing Shane had said in response was, “Flight’s at 9 tomorrow, so we’ll have to be home from my parents’ early tonight.”
Ilya loved hockey. He wanted to play in the NHL into his forties, if possible. He was determined, a born leader, a great teammate, someone who loved to win and hated to lose. Plus, he was really, really fucking good at the game, one of the top two players in the entire goddamn world, the other just so happening to be the man he shared his entire life with. But even Ilya Rozanov had his limits, and he was worried that Shane was going to reach his own. He could burn out, get the flu, injure himself, or suffer any number of other misfortunes if he didn’t give himself proper care. If Ilya could do anything to help prevent that from happening, he would.
So when Ilya went to pick up the desserts he was bringing over to David and Yuna’s later tonight and passed by a local florist on the way back to his car, he realized that, well…there was at least one way he could help Shane.
Ilya did a quick mental calculation. They had to be at Shane’s parents’ at 6. It was 3:30. If he could time this well enough…
…Fuck it. Ilya was thinking with his dick, not his brain, at this point, which was honestly true most of the time when it came to Shane. He took a breath and prepared himself to step into the lion’s den.
Ilya entered the shop and immediately regretted it. It was as if someone had sprayed perfume directly into his nostrils, which began to quiver with the onslaught of pollen attacking them. Fuckfuckfuck, this was a bad idea. The arrangements were stunning, but all Ilya could see was little allergy bombs. He was going to have to make a decision, and quickly, lest he scare this poor small business owner, who was greeting him with a little “welcome!”, with a ferocious sneezing attack. He raised a hand as a hello, then covered his nose with it as he scanned the shop, landing on a little bouquet of pretty purple flowers.
Lavender - symbolizes purity, calmness, serenity, said the mini chalkboard next to it.
Ilya smiled through his watering eyes. Calmness and serenity. Perfect. Exactly what Shane needed. Purity…well, that one had gone out the window a long time ago. Ilya picked the lavender up anyway, giving the florist a $50 note and telling her to keep the change. He power-walked out of the shop holding the neck of his dark t-shirt to his nose, and managed to make it into his car without incident. Once he closed the door, however…
“haah! ha’ahh? haAASHHhhoo! AAESSHHHhh! hy’YESCHHooo!…oh, fuck…” Ilya reached into his jeans pockets, which was ridiculous because of course there were no tissues in there, before opening the glove compartment. Slava bogu, a mini pack of Kleenex. Thank you, baby, Ilya thought about his husband before blowing his nose with a loud honk. Fuck, if he was already this affected…
Well. He supposed Shane had better be prepared tonight.
Ilya was exiting the parking lot when his car’s touchscreen lit up with a phone call. Yuna Hollander.
Shit.
After a quick series of short blows to further clear his nose, Ilya tossed the tissue to the side and answered. “Hi, Yuna.”
“Ilya, hi,” Yuna said. “I’m going to the store in a little bit. Is there anything you’d like? Munchies or anything?”
Ilya smiled. Even though it had been years since he’d been adopted into the beautiful Hollander family, he was often still amazed at the tightness of their little unit, a place where love flowed freely, and where snacks were purchased. “No, thank you, I am okay.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. Text me if you need anything. I’ll make sure to get you some ice cream, though. Shane...he can forage for his own berries or something.”
Ilya laughed, swiping at his nose, which was already growing tickly again. He glanced at the bouquet on the seat next to him, then cracked the windows a little to let in some air. Hopefully Yuna could still hear him. “Thank you, Yuna. I bought a fruit tart, maybe he will have some of that.”
“Right, we can only try. Did you see the Dallas-Jersey game last night? That was nuts. Nilsson got high-sticked in the mouth three times! His teeth must be destroyed, not that he had many left to lose—”
“ngkxht! -ngkkt! hh…hDXGKT!”
“Oh, bless you!”
“Ah, hgkm, thank you,” Ilya said with an itchy clearing of his throat. Shit. He was lucky it wasn’t such a long ride home. He felt absolutely coated in pollen, and he’d only been in the shop for, what, five minutes? And of course, his breath was hitching again.
“hy’IDKT! -hghxt! HNGKT-uhh!” Fuck.
“Bless you! Are you all right, honey? You’re not getting sick, are you?! The playoffs—”
“No, no, I am okay. It’s just, um, allergies.” Ilya felt his face grow very hot. No matter how well he knew Yuna and David, admitting any kind of vulnerability around them was…well, it was awkward. Not that they cared - Ilya knew they loved him regardless of his shortcomings, something that certainly could not have been said of his biological family after his mother had passed.
But Ilya would rather go back to Russia than talk to Yuna about his sneezing right now.
He could literally hear her frown through the phone. “Oh no! The pollen count’s been really high lately. I hope you don’t feel too bad tonight, Ilya.”
“I’ll be fine, I’m sure. I will just…take something for it at home.” His face was growing hot.
“Okay. Wait, are you driving?! Be careful, sweetheart, don’t drive if you’re sneezing!”
“Ah, all good here, I’m pulling into driveway,” he said, instantly feeling terrible for lying to her. He was only about three minutes away from home, but still. He could feel the tip of his nose begin to tingle and he did not feel like having a full-blown sneeze attack on the phone with his mother-in-law. But he also didn’t want to be rude and hang up on her out of nowhere, especially because she would absolutely call back and ask what had happened. And anyway, the road was clear…mostly. He pressed a finger hard beneath his nose to quell the tingling sensation. It helped a little.
“Okay, good. Take some meds and drink some water, okay? Big game tomorrow. See you later, love you.”
“Luhh…love you too,” Ilya hitched out, frantically tapping the “end call” button, and just as he stopped at a red light he cupped his hands to his face and—
“ha’ihh! iHh? ihhiHIhh?…hah…”
—Nothing. Just some useless hitchy breaths. What the fuck?
The hitching continued even after he parked, including when he had to stop in the middle of walking up the driveway, one hand holding the lavender and the other hovering in midair, as he hitched and hitched and his eyes filled with tears. He managed to snap out of his sneezy trance long enough to open the front door, upper body finally snapping towards the ground with a—
“HY’AAASSHHhhhooo!”
The enormous sneeze rang through the room; the soft sounds he’d heard coming from the kitchen died, shocked into silence. Through his half-open eyes as he gasped towards another sneeze Ilya could see Shane and Anya’s heads poking out from around the corner, twin expressions of surprise on their sweet faces.
Ilya braced his hands on his thighs as two more sneezes barreled out of him. “HAESSHHHhuhh! HAAHSHHhooo!”
He heard footsteps, then felt a hand rubbing between his shoulder blades as he sneezed harshly towards the carpet. “Bless you, bless you, bless you! Jesus Christ, Ilya, are you okay?” Shane’s touch ignited something in Ilya, making him smile a little and reminding him of why he was subjecting himself to this ridiculous, fantastic torture.
Ilya held the flowers up to his husband’s dumbfounded face as allergic tears began cascading down his cheeks. “Hhhappy birthday, Shade,” he said, proudly and stuffily.
Shane gaped at him. “I…what? Ilya, why do you have flowers? Are…” His big brown eyes widened in realization as Ilya leaned in and started to nuzzle into his neck with little kisses and sniffles.
“I thought I would give you your first present early, lyubimyy,” Ilya purred, nosing beneath Shane’s henley tee to lick at his collarbone.
“Oh my god,” Shane hissed into his ear, gripping Ilya’s shoulders tightly as Ilya continued to explore him, “are you insane? We have to be at my parents’ in like an hour and a half!”
“Mm, yes. I will be cured by then,” Ilya promised with a big scrunch of his nose. Shane did not look at all convinced by that statement.
“That’s not how allergies fucking w-work…ohh…” Shane’s protests turned to soft moans as Ilya snuffled and ground his nose back and forth into the divot between Shane’s pecs. When he pulled away, there was a small spot of wetness left behind on his shirt. Shane was transfixed by the sight, a pink flush creeping up from his neck all the way to his forehead, and Ilya took his chance to walk Shane backward until his legs hit the back of the couch. He gave his best pouty eyes and lips - something he knew never failed to make his husband weak for him - and ran a hand beneath his leaking nose.
“I have to sneeze so badly, and I need some relief, Shane,” he said, gesturing back towards the lavender bouquet. “Will you help me, sweetheart?” He grazed his mouth over Shane’s ear and sniffled wetly. “My nose is so itchy…”
“I…Ilya…” Shane gasped as Ilya tangled his fingers in his dark hair and covered his neck in open-mouthed kisses. Shane managed to gain control, grabbing Ilya’s face between his hands and wiping away a tear as it slipped down the tip of his burning nose. Fuck, Ilya was going to really start sneezing soon…and he couldn’t fucking wait. “Are you okay? Is it too much? We can stop if it’s too much,” Shane said hastily, breathily, looking both worried and very horny, running his hands over Ilya’s chest, his back, his shoulders, down past his stomach, fingertips grazing just beneath his jeans. Poor confused boy just needed to touch. Ilya growled and picked Shane up in response, hauling him into the guest bedroom down the hall. Just as he made it towards the bed, the intense roar of another itch clawed its way to life into his sinuses, and Ilya made sure to safely deposit Shane onto the mattress before he—
“HAESZCHHHhhh! HAADT’SCHUHhh! HDT’GYISHHhhooo!” He sneezed openly, making sure that Shane could see every desperate microexpression on his face, then opened his eyes to the sight of Shane tearing off his shirt, jeans and boxers, which were darkened with pre-cum. He looked hard and wet and wanting, and Ilya couldn’t wait to have a taste. But first…
Ilya gave a thick -snrff- to stop his nose from leaking. “Oh, Shade, I need some help,” he whined, making sure to emphasize his husband’s name as he rubbed a finger just beneath his nostrils and batted his eyelashes at him. Shane stilled immediately, eyes drawn to Ilya’s nose as if hypnotized. “My dose is so stuffy, please, will you get me a tissue, hodey?”
Shane dove towards the nightstand with an athleticism and rapaciousness that made Ilya crack up. He pulled several tissues out of a box and crawled his way back towards Ilya, looking a little bashful as if he hadn’t done this many times before, often at Ilya’s insistence. Ilya knew just how much Shane loved to take care of his nose. How much he loved to smear Vaseline over it when he had a cold, how much he loved to kiss (and occasionally nip at) it, how much he loved to hold tissues to it and rub his back as he cleared out his congestion. It made Ilya feel…special, really. Deeply loved. Cherished.
On his knees on the bed, Shane was slightly lower than Ilya, who bent his head down a little to give Shane better access. Shane held the tissues gently yet firmly to his nose. “Blow,” he commanded, and Ilya obeyed, letting out another loud honk as he did so. And Shane shivered.
“Fuck, love that sound,” he moaned. “Love you.”
“Love you. What do you need, Shane?”
Shane looked deeply into Ilya’s eyes. “I need you to fuck me.” His voice was husky with need. His face said, destroy me.
“I will, sweetheart. But first…” Ilya held up a finger, then darted out of the room and brought back the flowers. Shane looked like he was about to start drooling.
Ilya held the lavender close to his face, which involuntarily and wholeheartedly scrunched at the fragrant scent. “I have never seen such beautiful flowers,” he said. “If I wasn’t afraid of giving the florist a heart attack, I would have smelled each one to see which made me sneeze the most for you.”
“Ilya,” Shane moaned weakly, voice high and broken. He started to move his hand downwards, but Ilya shook his head.
“No. You don’t get to touch yourself yet. That is for me,” he gestured at Shane’s leaking dick. Then, not caring that he might regret it later, he held the flowers to his nose and took a deep inhale. His head jerked back, and he released a few itchy coughs before tossing the lavender aside and pinning Shane down to the bed. The image of Shane’s awed and aroused face would be burned into Ilya’s memory forever. But right now, he wasn’t thinking of anything but the precarious tickle in his nose.
“hih! hih, ihh, IYHhh, hYIHhh…!”
Ilya buried his face in Shane’s neck. “haAAASHHh! -HRISHHHhuhh! hrRUSHHhhhoo!” Shane cried out and oh, god, Ilya could feel the pulse of the other man’s racing heartbeat against his nose.
“HY’ESCHHhh! hyeh, ehHhh, ESCHHhhh! eshh-esHhh-ESHhhhoo!” The sneezes were getting more rapid, more intense. Ilya felt them in his chest as they yelled their way out of them. Clearly, his past smoking habit hadn’t affected his lungs too much.
After a spraying “YESCHHhhoo!” against Shane’s chest, Shane grabbed the lube he’d conveniently placed on the pillow next to him and warmed it in his hands, but just as he started to reach for Ilya’s cock, Ilya dipped his head downward between them with a softer, no less wet “AESHhhoo!”
“There,” he said with a wink and a sniffle. “More lube.”
“If you don’t get in me in the next five seconds I am going to snap your neck,” Shane growled.
“Mm, so bossy. Well, is your special day.” Ilya pushed Shane back against the blankets and entered him, reveling in Shane’s ecstatic yips and whines. “Moy ángel,” he murmured with another hitching breath. He started to gasp, overwhelmed with the dual sensation of filling Shane up while also needing to sneeze out the pollen in his nose, and momentarily paused in his thrusting. Shane took the opportunity to change their positions, moving to sit in Ilya’s lap. Ilya went along with the motions as he stuttered out, “hn’yehh…ehh-!”
Shane started bouncing as Ilya’s head surged downward once more. “haashh-aashh-AESHHhh!”
“Fuck!” Shane rode Ilya for dear life, gripping his shoulders so hard that he knew that there would be bruises tomorrow — maybe he could convince the boys that he was trying cupping therapy — abs clenching with the fluid movements of his body rolls. Ilya appreciatively watched his husband’s moves reach Magic Mike terrritory, then gave a great snort against his revolting sinuses. At the sound, Shane raised his head from where it’d been pressed against Ilya’s collarbone and just stared at his nose, and Ilya made another snuffly noise and scrunched the appendage dramatically, adding a little wink for good measure. Shane devoured his mouth with delicious uninhibited moans as Ilya drove into him harder, faster, deeper—just as his nose began to itch again and he buried it into his husband’s chest—
Shane screamed as loudly as Ilya had ever heard him. “IlyaIlyaIlyaILYA oh GOD I’m coming—”
Shane came spectacularly over both of their stomachs. He continued to cry out as he rode through his orgasm, taking huge heaving gasps into Ilya’s chest as Ilya released inside of him. They clutched each other for a while, and then Ilya pulled out, rubbing his nose in squelching circles with his palm, surprised that it was taking Shane so long to—
In a flash, Shane grabbed some tissues out of the box and held them in his cupped hands. “hy’ischhh! -ihshhiew! shhiew! hy’eschhuhh! -eshhoo! ESHhiew!”
“Wow. Bless you.” Ilya rubbed Shane’s back as the rapid little sneezes took over his body. “This is a lot for you. You must be very satisfied.”
Shane thoroughly blew his nose and gave Ilya a pointed look. “No shit, asshole.” The words couldn’t have been said in a gentler tone.
“Good. I am here to make the birthday boy happy.” Ilya gave Shane a shit-eating grin, but then Shane reached over to give him a soft, chaste little kiss, and he thought his heart might stop. “You do,” Shane said softly, reverence clear in his voice. “Thank you. I love you.”
“Я влюбился в тебя с первого взгляда,” Ilya replied.
Shane’s face scrunched up adorably in concentration as he attempted to translate what Ilya had said. Then his eyes widened, and he grinned, and a beautiful pink flush spread over his cheeks. “So did I,” he breathed.
Ilya brushed his thumb over the length of his husband’s straight sniffly nose, still sniffling himself - he needed a tissue yesterday. He thought back to the moment when Shane — quiet, reserved, oft-aloof — had first approached Ilya, like he was greeting a friend rather than the man the entire hockey world had pitted him against before they were even drafted. He’d looked so cute, bundled up against the cold weather, smiling and politely offering a hand to shake, his striking freckles immediately catching Ilya’s eye. And here he was now, just as fucking cute, sweaty and spent and staring at Ilya like he was something precious. He offered Ilya the much-needed tissue box and Ilya blew loudly, Shane giving an “mmm” of appreciation and stretching out his limbs. He checked his phone. “Oh fuck, we have to leave in an hour.”
“Is that not enough time to do your hair or something?”
“Fuck you. You’re a mess.” Shane’s brown eyes looked worried as he searched Ilya’s face. Ilya knew he looked terrible, if the soreness in his sinuses and the heat of his nose and the wetness of his eyes were any indication. But god damn, did he feel amazing. There was nothing quite like being loved and worshipped by Shane Hollander. “Are you feeling up to go out tonight? Because we can stay home. Oh, and bless you, by the way, like a thousand times.”
“Thank you. I’ll be fine.” His eye was itching a little, too, but he resisted the urge to rub it. “As long as I get to shower with my sweet Shane so he can get all this pollen off of me.”
Shane tucked a curl behind Ilya’s ear, then kissed his nose. “Okay, but we have to be quick.”
“No sneezy blowjobs, do you mean?”
Shane paused and bit his lip so hard it started to turn white. For a moment Ilya thought he was going to text his parents and cancel, but then he let out a slow breath through gritted teeth. “I…fuck. No. We have to go.”
“Okay. Next time.” Shane swallowed, eyes huge, and Ilya found that he was already planning ‘next time.’ Although that ‘next time’ was less likely to come out of thoughtful planning; it was much more likely that Ilya’s fucked-up nose would just act up out of nowhere. No matter how it happened, he would make sure that Shane would have thr best time.
Shane had once admitted to Ilya that he’d planned on taking the secret of his attraction to sneezing to the grave…
“…but then I heard you sneeze for the first time, and…fuck, I couldn’t control it, and you fucking knew right away.” Shane’s gaze was averted and he was beet red, but a tiny shy smile was playing out on his lips.
Ilya put an arm around Shane’s shoulders and kissed his warm cheek. “I always know what gets you turned on. You have a very obvious tell.”
Shane turned to look at him, curious. “I do? What is it?”
Ilya kissed his cheek again. “Your dick gets hard.”
Shane pushed Ilya away as the Russian started to laugh. “Fuck you.”
…And Ilya was happy that he could indulge his husband’s deepest fantasies. Lord knew that Shane fulfilled all of his. Even the ones he had no idea he was fulfilling, like when he bent over to put the laundry in the washing machine, or when he wore only his glasses, boxers and a Team Canada sweatshirt while reading in bed.
Ilya would wonder when he became such a sap, but truly, he knew the answer: the moment he had first laid eyes on Shane Hollander.
“Happy birthday, my love.”
Shane hugged him tightly. “Thank you. God, you’re the best. Let’s get washed off so you feel better.” Shane pulled Ilya’s still-drippy face in for a deeper kiss, then took him by the hand to lead him to the bathroom. Before they could leave the bedroom, however, Shane’s phone buzzed with a text. He checked it, and his face went bright red. “…Uhhh, Ilya?”
“Hm?”
“Why is my mom asking me if you’ve taken a Claritin today?”
Ilya blushed too. “Oh. Um. Long story. Come on, let’s shower, we do not want to be late.” With that, he led his confused baby boy far away from his phone.
——
Russian translation: I fell in love with you at first sight 💖
Well I haven’t written fanfiction in like 3 years BUT this hockey show has damaged my brain in incomprehensible ways so. Here is ~5k words of sick I/lya and S/hane being way too perceptive about it
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I/lya R/ozanov was having a horrible fucking day.
The Raiders were in Montreal for a game and I/lya had been looking forward to it for weeks. It had been months since he had been able to get H/ollander in his bed. They hadn’t been texting much - both of them were busy and I/lya knew S/hane was skittish when he was constantly around people. Now, I/lya sent his room number to H/ollander as soon as he was handed the key card, with a kissing emoji next to it for good measure.
Since I/lya had seen the schedule he’d been ready to not only fuck H/ollander into the hotel mattress, but to beat the Metros so badly they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. Mentally, physically, he was ready to go. He was at the top of his game. There was nothing he loved more than playing against H/ollander on the ice, except maybe fucking him and hearing the sweet whines that came from his lips after every game.
Until Ilya had woken late for practice to one of his teammates banging at his hotel door. He had slept badly that night, too hot then too cold, tossing and turning over and over. Ilya only really reached REM once the sun started coming up, and by then he should have been getting dressed already. He leapt out of bed and threw on whatever discarded clothes were in proximity. His head was fucking killing him and he was already in a bad mood, cursing as he hopped on one foot trying to yank his sweats on. Ilya missed breakfast, barely made it downstairs for the bus, and simply sucked ass during practice. His head wasn’t in it and no matter how hard he focused on the ice he just couldn’t find the tight groove he usually did.
By the time practice had finished, he was drenched in sweat and could barely catch his breath. Ilya had a hard time remembering ever being this tired after a pre-game practice on the ice. It soured his mood further, how out of routine he felt. This was not how game days went, especially not game days in Montreal. His headache hadn’t gone away; if anything it felt worse. He snapped at his teammates until they all got the hint and left him alone because honestly the last thing he wanted to do was speak or deal with someone asking him what the hell was wrong with him. Ilya didn’t even know himself what was going on and he’d rather chew concrete than try to put it into English.
During the afternoon Ilya tried to get back to feeling normal. He ate lunch with his team even though he had zero appetite, he went back to his room and showered, he chugged a couple of water bottles because maybe his problem was dehydration.
But by the time they were at the stadium in the locker room, he was beginning to think maybe he was fucked. His brain felt slow to process the information around him - English was suddenly so difficult that he stumbled through a rather short, embarrassing pre-game speech before just walking around and giving each teammate a shake or bump of helmets or punch on the arm to physically get them hyped instead. His vision felt a little off, a little out of focus, and god his head was killing him. The sound of the fans in the stadium nearly made him clamp his hands over his ears when they skated out for warmups.
Ilya couldn’t even get himself to look at Shane. Ilya was pissed off, he felt like shit, and the last thing he needed was Shane to pick up on that. Because of course Shane would. There was no way if he was even a hair off of his usual game that Shane wouldn’t notice and Ilya really didn’t want to fucking talk about it.
By the time the game was over, Ilya wanted nothing more to be magically transported to his hotel room where he didn’t have to do anything other than shower and sleep for the next twelve hours.
The Boston Raiders lost by one point, 4-3 for the Montreal Metros. He felt worse and worse as the game progressed. By the second period his throat was aching, not yet raw but uncomfortable when he swallowed, dry and irritated from all of his panting during the game. His nose was next to useless now. Ilya always was sniffly on the ice from the cold of it, but this was a new low. The congestion was bad enough his ears ached and muffled the sound around him. His head continued to pound. His gear felt hot and suffocating and he was constantly wiping sweat out of his stinging eyes. The harder he pushed, the faster he worked his legs, the more nauseated he became. By the fourth period he was benched - somewhere in the last few minutes of play is vision went a little sideways and he just couldn’t keep track of the puck and his coach knew it. Embarrassing.
Luckily he hadn’t been slammed around too bad, but he still felt like shit and he was pissed that he felt like shit. He was pissed that they lost, and he was pissed that he would probably have to tell Hollander he was coming down with something and couldn’t hook up. Of course. Ilya knew he was an asshole, but not that much of an asshole. But with the way Hollander squinted at him during the puck drop, he might already know.
Shane gave him a narrow-eyed, calculating look when they shook hands after the match. Ilya had seen him make this face at enough people that he didn’t take it personally, but did make him feel weirdly self conscious in a way only Shane was capable of. Ilya probably looked as bad as he felt. So he got the handshakes over with and skated back to the locker room where he peeled off layers of sweat-soaked fabric and protective gear to shower this fucking night off of him.
The steam didn’t help the issues he was having with his nose. The congestion began to shift in earnest, and before he knew it he was -
“Hih’Nxcht! HUH’ngkt! HAh’NXXNGT! Hngh… ”
Damn that hurt.
It was surprising to him how quickly he was going downhill. His headache has been steady all day, but over the course of just a few hours he had a full-blown head cold. Hopefully. Ilya was really and truly hoping this wasn’t the flu. Either way, his ears were blocked, nose packed full and running, and his throat felt like it was gearing up for laryngitis. Awesome.
Ilya showered quickly, dried off, and threw on his post-game clothes. He sniffled thickly, wiping his nose roughly with his hoodie sleeve. He’d have the team medic check him out tomorrow if he still felt like this, and either way he had a couple of days before he needed to catch a flight. Right now all he wanted was to just to go the fuck to bed.
Soon enough he was fumbling with his door key and stumbling inside his hotel room, closing it with a thud and leaning back against it. Ilya closed his eyes and took a deep breath, coughing weakly into his elbow on the exhale. Great. He rubbed his aching eyes and shuffled into the bathroom, rolling a copious amount of toilet paper around his hand and blowing his nose thoroughly. The noise was loud and gurgling, making him wince in disgust. He looked pretty terrible, hair still damp from the shower, face puffy and pale, nose already an irritated red with a mound of makeshift tissues tented around it.
He took a moment to mop up his nose, but the touch just made him -
Ilya groaned afterwards. This cold had just started and he was already over it. He finished cleaning up, dug through his bag for tylenol, and took a couple with several desperate gulps of water. The liquid didn’t really help with the dryness in his throat, just made it sting as it went down his esophagus. He took a whole spare roll of toilet paper to bed with him as he collapsed into it, clumsily sliding it onto the nightstand.
Ilya was so exhausted, sore and aching, head and sinuses pulsing when he moved. The bathroom light was still on and he needed to set his alarm for the morning. He was still fully dressed. But Ilya was too tired and felt too shitty to care about a single one of those things.
He did care about one thing though. Groggy and squinting, he quickly pulled out his phone and typed a message to Hollander.
Lily: Don’t come tonight. We will meet next time.
Satisfied that Shane both wouldn’t come over and wouldn’t freak the fuck out at his radio silence, Ilya tossed his phone to the bedside table and nuzzled deeper into the starchy pillow, sniffling thickly. He just needed to sleep, just for a little while…
~~~~~~~
Ilya jerked awake an indeterminate amount of time later to knocking at his door. His phone on the bedside table was vibrating incessantly and Ilya could basically feel the reverberation of it in his skull. He grumbled and swore and swatted at his phone until he knocked it to the carpet, fingers fumbling and failing to tug it towards him. He swore again and pushed himself up on trembling arms, confused and aching and pissed off.
He really truly now felt awful. He was freezing cold even as sweat plastered his shirt to his skin. As soon as Ilya left the warm pocket of air trapped between the blankets, he began to shiver. His head was pounding and his nose was running already, congestion packed so tight that even sniffling made his face bloom with pain. His throat was beginning to ache properly now after an indeterminate time of mouth breathing.
The knocking began at his door again, sharp and insistent. The phone on the ground stopped vibrating, then seconds later began again. Shaky, Ilya threw his legs over the side of the bed and wobbled to his feet. He was grateful in that moment he had left on the bathroom light so his balance wasn’t a hazard along with the lack of sight. Ilya, hunched over himself, arms tucked tight around his stomach as if that could ward off the chill, pulled on a discarded hoodie and swiped an arm under his leaky nose after trying and failing to sniffle away the mess.
Ilya didn’t know who was at his fucking door but they were about to regret it. The only thing in the world he wanted was to sleep, and Ilya swears to god if this is one of his idiot teammates-
The door is yanked open to reveal Shane Hollander, ball cap pulled low over his eyes, standing nervously in the hallway. He had a plastic shopping bag in one hand, the other holding his phone to his ear. Ilya saw Hollander’s shoulders visibly droop with relief as he pushed his way inside. Ilya felt stunned for several seconds, mouth working soundlessly, sluggish sick brain trying to put the pieces together as to why Shane Hollander was here right now. He had cancelled, hadn’t he? Had he dreamt that? Ilya didn’t have time to make sense of it before Shane was shutting the door behind him and sighing in relief. It took several seconds for Ilya to realize he was being spoken to. He felt like he was underwater, vision swimmy, thoughts slow.
“-really thought someone was going to see me. Are you okay? I’m sorry if you were sleeping. I just wanted to…” Shane trails off, looking nervous and embarrassed in that endearing way he always does when he meets Ilya’s silence with rambling. But then his eyes focus in on Ilya’s face again and his eyes narrow, bottom lip pursed in the prettiest frown Ilya’s ever seen. “God Rozanov, you look awful. No wonder you played like shit tonight.”
The insult seems to jolt Ilya back into the land of the living. Now it’s normal territory again, back where Ilya knows what song and dance to perform.
“So you have combe here just to insult mbe then?” Ilya has to fight to not cringe at the sound of his own voice. It’s beginning to sound raspy and raw, clogged with congestion. The concerned wrinkles in Shane’s face deepen.
“No, I just wanted…” Hollander paused for a second, averting his eyes and shuffling nervously, and Ilya takes the opportunity to move this conversation in a less tender direction. Ilya really didn’t want to talk about it, the vulnerability so vile he could feel it on his skin like a physical entity. If Shane got all soft and sweet with him right now Ilya knew he won’t be able to resist it like this. He could not do this, not with Hollander and his worried brown eyes, not while he felt so shitty.
“You have combe here for a fuck, hm? Are you so unable to resist mby dick even when I tell you ndo?”
The taunt works and Shane’s eyes snap back to his usual affronted squint he does when someone says something particularly stupid.
“Stop fucking around, I’m not here to sleep with you. What do you have, the flu?”
Ilya sniffled before he answered, which proved to be the wrong choice. The congestion shifted inside his already sensitive nose and the burning need to sneeze ignites in his sinuses. After he had broken it for the second time, Ilya’s nose became over-sensitive and reactive, even more than before. So now when he got sick it was always a constant struggle to fight the tingling, burning urge to sneeze.
He turned away immediately, ducking to try and hide his face in his below. His sinuses were packed full since Ilya hadn’t really thought to blow his nose before answering the door. He felt a small flare of panic, a lick of embarrassment; this was possibly the least sexy thing he could do in front of the one man he found to be the most attractive person on the planet. But still, his breath hitched on a shuddering inhale and his body gave him no choice.
“Hih’Ngxt! Hd’nGXT! Hngt’NXTSH-KNGT-NGXNT-uh!”
He stifled painfully, jerking forward one, two, five times, expulsions squelchy and squeaking. Thank god, no mess had escaped him. Ilya groaned quietly, face pinched with pain. His pulse roared in his head for a few seconds as the sinus pressure made his ears pop. He turned back towards the bedroom, going straight for the roll of toilet paper on the bedside table. He fumbled with the soft sheets and then blew his nose, going slowly to try to avoid the worst of the pain in his head. Ilya made sure he was presentable before he turned back around to face Hollander, nose beginning to feel raw and chafed from the frequent friction. At least now he felt a touch less clogged.
"Don't do that, you're going to give yourself an ear infection. I can't believe your medic cleared you to play tonight."
While Ilya was busy dealing with his nose, Shane had put his shopping bag down on the desk and was pulling things out of it. Bottles of medicines, sports drinks, water, a can of ginger ale (naturally), and two large cylindrical takeout containers. Ilya's nose was too stuffed up to smell anything, but he guessed from the shape that it was probably soup. Soup. This man was going to fucking kill him.
"He did not clear me," Ilya grumbled, pulling the hotel room's waste bin closer to chuck the sopping tissue he was still holding into it. Shane whipped his head around to ogle at him, eyes wide and outraged, freckles bunched up adorably. He quickly amended his statement before he got thoroughly chewed out. "I was okay before game, just headache and was tired. I will see team doctor tomorrow. I am okay, Hollander, Russians to not pass out and die just from ti-ihhh-ny coldsihhNGXT! Hih’NGngXT!”
Ilya ducked quickly into his elbow again to squash the angry expulsions there, strangled again into quiet, painful things.
Hollander just blinked at him as he blew his nose again. At least the blowing helped a little.
"Uh-huh. Tiny."
Ilya refused to feel embarrassed about the call-out.
"Why are you here, Hollander? I told you not to come yes? We cannot fuck, you will catch this and then you will blame me for ruining your perfect little winning streak." Ilya felt himself already losing the little energy he had from the shock of seeing his rival at the door. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed to look up at Shane, eyes heavy and hot. As if Shane were telepathically tuned into that thought, he stepped close into Ilya's space and put a palm against his forehead. Their eyes met, and Ilya felt his pulse jump into his throat at the zing! of contact. At the gentleness in Shane's eyes.
Shane must have felt something equally as vulnerable because he pulled away and turned away to open one of the pill bottles on the desk, ears red. Ilya tried not to mourn the contact. He really did feel pretty awful, head aching, throat sore, snuffling and miserable and cold.
"Well, I correctly assumed that you're shit at taking care of yourself. And I... wanted to see you." Shane admitted the last part softly, like he was unable to get his vocal cords to raise the volume past the nervous lump in his throat. Shane opened one of the boxes, pulled out the bottle inside, and then disassembled the box to fold it flat. Always so neat. "You probably have a fever, by the way."
Ilya was helpless to the smile that worked its way onto his face.
"Ah, so you do think I am hot."
Shane huffed and smiled softly, shaking his head.
"Shut up, Rozanov. You're not funny." He finished with his unboxing and counting of the pills he had brought, four capsules in the cupped palm of his hand. "Have you taken anything?"
Ilya leaned back on his palms, bed creaking beneath the new distribution of weight. He still kind of couldn't believe this was happening. Shane Hollander was here in his hotel room to feed him pills and soup and play nurse. Ilya hadn't even told him he was feeling bad, hadn't said much during their game together, and hadn't even been terribly symptomatic during the time he was on the ice. To anyone else he was just playing shitty. Was it that Hollander only had to look at him to know? Did Shane see the differences in him the way Ilya could see the differences in Shane? When Shane was playing on a tweaked ankle, when he pretended missing a goal didn't bother him, when his eyes just barely flashed anxiously while answering interview questions that were just a little too personal. Did Shane watch him like Ilya did?
Ilya took a deep breath, then stopped the train of thought where it was. He didn't need to be thinking of that when he was so tired and unwell, when his walls just weren't as strong, when he simply didn't have the resources to keep them tall.
"Umb," Ilya said, clearing his throat and turning away to cough weakly. "Tylenol only."
"Good," Shane said, holding out the handful of pills with a bottle of water. Ilya felt his heart do a insubordinate little flutter at the praise. He took the pills into his own palm, chasing them down with a swig of water. The bottle was cold, recently refrigerated, and it made him shiver. "This will fix you up. And it's nighttime too so it should help you sleep. I checked Boston's schedule so I know you don't fly out for a few days. If you have practice in the morning, don't go."
Right as Ilya was going to tell Hollander to fuck off and that he wasn't Ilya's boss and he could go to morning practice if he wanted to (he very much didn't), the itching from earlier came back to his sinuses full force. He brought up the back of his wrist to his nose, breath gasping.
“Hih’HnGT-nGXT-HNGKT! HAH’ngHHXT!”
He suppressed them as well as he could, unwilling to make a mess, to show further proof of his illness. To try and make it as small as possible.
Shane frowned at him again, eyebrows pulling together in displeasure.
“Seriously, Roz, knock it off. Stop doing that."
Ilya snuffled into more toilet paper he had pulled off the roll. "Doing whadt." He blew his nose with a painful honk before tossing the tissue into the trash. If anything he thought maybe Hollander would appreciate his attempts to keep his germs to himself, to be less gross. Shane was always so put together, so neat and tidy, so very much the opposite of whatever Ilya was right now and Ilya very clearly felt the imbalance of it. It made him feel a mix of embarrassment and self-consciousness and shame he didn’t often feel outside of interactions with his father.
"Holding them in. Your, uh, sneezes," Shane said, suddenly looking sheepish. "You'll make yourself worse. Or, like, explode your brain. It must hurt to stifle them."
"Whatever," Ilya grumbled, crawling further onto the bed and leaning his aching head against the headboard. He didn't love the idea of sneezing with a very full nose in front of the guy he fucks every other month, but Shane was right. It did hurt to stifle them. "You did ndot have to do all of this."
Even as he said it, Ilya was grateful Shane had come. It warmed something inside of him, that Hollander had thought of him, had noticed something was out of place, and had showed up unasked to fix it. Ilya struggled to remember a time someone had done this for him, especially without being asked. He couldn’t. The last person who must have done this for him was his mother, and he really didn’t want to think about that right now. It was a strange feeling to be grateful and content and miserable and exposed all at once.
Shane looked away with a half shrug, cheeks heating. God, he was so sweet Ilya could barely handle it.
“I wanted to.” Again uncomfortable with his own nervousness, Shane retrieved the takeout containers and dug around in the bottom of the bag for a pair of spoons. “Are you hungry? I brought soup. I don’t know what you like so I just got miso? It’s what I usually get when I’m sick but if you don’t like it-“
“Hollander.” Ilya smirked softly. Even sick and drippy and gross he couldn’t help the swell of affection in his chest. It was so Shane to fret so much, even about his rival, the guy he sometimes has sex with. Ilya had never had another hookup in his life care about him like this. Or look at him the way Shane sometimes does. “I’mb sure is fine. Bring here, we can eat.”
Ilya wasn’t really hungry at all, but an excuse to keep Hollander in his room was something he couldn’t make himself pass on. Shane just nodded quickly and fumbled with the food and utensils for a second before getting it together while Ilya took him in with hungry eyes.
They ended up side by side on the bed, bad hotel TV on, eating soup mostly in companionable silence. Ilya drank his soup while Shane ate his with a spoon. It was actually pretty good despite having no desire to eat, simple and savory and salty. The food was enjoyable, but the steam almost immediately made his nose begin to run. He sniffled through it for a few mouthfuls before the congestion shifted just so and ignited the tickle in his sinuses. Again.
He had just enough time to set his container of soup on the bedside table before he was snapping forward with several body-shaking sneezes.
He remembered at the last minute Hollander’s instructions to not hold it in. He was glad for it - even letting loose still made pain shoot through his sinuses and into his temples. Ilya didn’t want to know what the agony of stifling right now would feel like.
Ilya felt a little winded, a touch dizzy as he pulled away from his elbow. As he reached for the now half-used roll of paper on the nightstand, he saw there was a smattering of wet droplets on his hoodie sleeve. He felt himself blush a bit as he scrubbed at his sleeve with the tissues and blew his nose. But when he risked a glance over at the man next to him, Shane was looking at him with a little proud smile pulling at his lips, eyes soft and warm.
“Better,” Shane said before turning his attention back to the TV, still smiling.
Ilya for the first time felt too flustered to reply. That, and he was still exhausted and sick and his brain was slow. That’s why he just finished cleaning up his nose and turned back to the TV. It was just the cold medicine making his face warm, making his heart pound.
Ilya managed to finish most of the soup which he was rather proud about. He was glad that he was able to eat despite his lack of appetite, if only so Shane would be happy about it. And it was clear that Shane was; he made a little satisfied noise in his throat when he got up to throw their trash away and saw just an inch of broth left in Ilya’s container. And to Ilya’s great surprise, once Hollander finished tidying up, he got right back into the bed, just a touch closer than before.
Now full of warm soup and medicated, Ilya began to feel his eyes droop. He wanted more than anything to have just a little longer of this, a little more of Shane’s company, a little more of the creature comforts he usually denied himself. But sleeping off how terrible he felt was a close second.
Shane, of course, was quick to notice.
“Meds working already?” He looked at Ilya so sweetly, eyes soft, little concerned crease in his brow. He reached over again and felt Ilya’s forehead, then brushed the backs of his fingers against his flushed, warm cheek. Ilya sighed and leaned into it, sniffling thickly.
“Mm. Amberican medicines are insande. Is like I amb dreaming while awake.”
“We’re in Canada right now.” “Mmph. Whatever. Ndorth Amberica, is sambe thing.” Ilya yawned hugely and nuzzled down into his pillow, blinking slowly up at the man in his bed. Shane moved his hand up to play with Ilya’s hair. Ilya was rather enjoying it before he had to jerk away into his sleeve with another set of sudden, intense sneezes.
“Hih’IhhtSHUU! Hah’HRISHH’oo! HA’SESHHUH!”
He coughed and sniffled wetly after, eyes watering, head pounding, vision wobbly from the medicine. “Sorry,” he rasped, already turning away to clean himself up. His face felt hot with embarrassment, shame, vulnerability. His head swam as he tried to sit up.
But Shane just frowned and pulled Ilya’s face back towards him with a cupped hand.
“Don’t be. I’m sorry it hurts.” Shane’s fingers skidded across his face, gently pressing and massaging the swollen passages of his sinuses. Ilya shut his eyes so as not to cry. He felt both raw and soothed simultaneously as Shane moved his warm thumbs to trace firm circles at Ilya’s temples, slowly easing the ache there.
Ilya felt himself deflate against the pillows. He was well and truly in the depths of a nasty cold, but he was somehow the most content he had been all day - and he was also on the verge of tears. Shane Hollander was absolutely capable of making him feel complicated things. He was nothing but putty under Shane’s hands, helpless as the haze of cold medicine pulled him under.
“Is okay. You mbake it better.” Ilya was sure he was slurring, and maybe not even entirely sure he had spoken at all. Shane’s fingers froze at his temples for the smallest of moments before they began their ministrations again, somehow even more tender than before. Eyes drifting closed, Ilya let his body relax fully as the fuzzy sensation of sedation washed over him. Promptly, he fell asleep.
Whatever pills Shane had given him had knocked him out more than properly, but some time later Ilya was sure he felt the quick press of lips against his cheek before Shane whispered a soft ‘Goodnight’ just inches from his ear.
Ilya would wake alone the next morning, which was not a surprise. But it did make him smile when he saw all the supplies Shane had brought him lined up on the desk with a note set neatly before them.
you are here and don't want to be or want the links removed or would like slashes inserted etc.
Last updated: 3/8/26
A -----------------------------------------------------------
anon(s?) via @perseaphoneaa
Anxious Human Writes Story and Selfishly Makes It Another Human's Problem Ilya, unknown
I/lya being allergic as hell to S/hanes citrus shower gel Ilya, allergies
B -----------------------------------------------------------
@bl3ssvous
compilation Ilya, various, ~1k
@bless-you-babe
Maybe part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4 Shane, sick
@blesser-in-disguise
All-Subpar Game part 1, part 2 Ilya & Shane, sick; 5.5k, 7.6k
drive me to distraction (or the cottage (preferably the cottage)) Ilya & Shane, allergies, 6.4k
Unexpected Interference Ilya, sick, 6.6k
C -----------------------------------------------------------
@cutenose
Give Me Your Nose Shane, cold
F -----------------------------------------------------------
@feverfcking
The Horrifying Ordeal of Being Known part 1 Shane, cold, 4k
Make it Better Ilya, cold, 5k
H -----------------------------------------------------------
@hollanovsnz (tysm for the masterlist!)
An (Un)healthy Scratch Shane, cold
Bunny Shane, allergies
Headspace Ilya, allergies
Hazards of Our Occupation part 1, part 2 Ilya, various
It’s You part 1, part 2, part 3 Shane, various
H/R One-Shot #1 Shane, cold
H/R One-Shot #2 Shane, cold
H/R One-Shot #3 Ilya, cold, 2.1k
Ilya w a cold part 1 Ilya, cold
Oh Babe, I Hate to Go part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4 Ilya & Shane, cold
Oh, Those Russians Ilya, allergies
Quiet part 1, part 2 Ilya, cold
@hurt-care
Untitled (Ilya with a cold, set during his time in Ottawa while Shane still plays in Montreal) part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4 Ilya & Shane, cold
I -----------------------------------------------------------
@itchyandtwitchy
allergic!S/hane with kink-ish I/lya (rewrite of Moscow phone call) Shane, allergies
I/lya with a constantly itchy nose rubbing it against S/hane during sex because his hands are otherwise occupied Ilya, allergies, 3.8k
@ithadtobesneezing
honeymoon Shane, honeymoon rhinitis
K -----------------------------------------------------------
@kushamixotwod
S/hane H/ollander x I/lya R/ozanov set in the Vegas hotel scene Ilya, scent sensitivity
L -----------------------------------------------------------
@lavsnz
the first time Shane sees Ilya sneeze Ilya, unknown
ilya & sneezing in the centaurs locker room (after shane joins the team) Ilya, unknown
ilya & the handkerchiefs Shane, cold, 1.4k
mics & a head cold Shane, cold, 2.3k
@lilies-and-hyacinths
Off the Record Ilya, allergies
@lipsmind
h/ayden being grossed out by i/lya’s sneezes Ilya, sick
I/lya at morning practice on game day Ilya, cold
P -----------------------------------------------------------
@perseaphoneaa
prompt: Delayed and confused-sounding “bless you”s after a singular sneeze from a person who is a chronic multiple-sneezer because everyone was just waiting for more to follow Ilya, unknown
I/lya having the nastiest, messiest sneezing fit in the locker room after his first practice with the Centaurs. Ilya, unknown
Untitled Ilya, allergies
@poetic-illness
Photic Senses part 1, part 2 Ilya, photic
Untitled Ilya, sick, 0.9k
R -----------------------------------------------------------
@rozsnz
bad luck Ilya, flu, 2.9k
copycat Ilya & Shane, cold, 2.7k
one thing after another Ilya, cold and allergies, 3.3k
pucks & tissues Ilya, cold, 5.1k
rudolph Shane, allergies, 1.9k
so easy Ilya, various, 6.3k
S -----------------------------------------------------------
@silentsneezes (ty for masterlist!)
Blessed with Rivalry Ilya, various, 4.1k
Idiot part 1 Shane, flu, 5.5k
@silklined
Versus part 1, part 2 Ilya & Shane, cold
@sleptwithinthesun
ask: before the cottage I/lya injured his ribs a little… + realizes that he is really allergic to something around the cottage Ilya, allergies, 3.1k
ask: i/lya has a cold/allergies whatever, but he absolutely refuses to take the pill form of medicine Ilya, cold, 2.1k
ask: I/lya plays in a canadian location for the first time and it make him really sneezy during the game and in the locker room too Ilya, allergies, 4.2k
ask: shane finding ilya standing on the balcony of the hotel room, smoking a cigarette and trying to squash down the symptoms of his cold Ilya, cold, 2.2k
ilya stifling Ilya, unknown, 1.8k
@smallandsneezy
itchy Ilya, allergies, 1.65k
softie Ilya, allergies
so sensitive Shane, allergies, 1.7k
to be cared for Ilya, cold
@sneezeace1
photic!Ilya on the red carpet Ilya, photic
@sneezydreamgirl
Hysterical and Useless part 1, part 2, part 3 Shane, sick
@snifflybabe
greedy Shane, allergies
In Sickness and In Health Ilya, sick
Untitled Ilya, sick
@snottysnz
a messy mouthful Ilya, cold, 0.7k
don't feel good Shane, cold, 0.2k
itchy Ilya, allergies, 0.5k
kinky little secret Shane, flu, 1.4k
Untitled Ilya, cold
Untitled Shane, cold
@snzity
A sneeze attack over facetime?! Ilya, allergies, 2k
Double the Misery Ilya & Shane, cold/flu, 4k+
Ilya doesn’t show up to practice because he’s sick, and Troy is the one who calls him to inquire Ilya, cold
First time Ilya sees Shane sneeze Shane, unknown
First time Shane sees Ilya sneeze Ilya, unknown
Second time Shane sees Ilya sneeze Ilya, unknown
Third time Shane sees Ilya sneeze Ilya, unknown
@snzivore
prompt: on a family vacation and I/lyas allergies are insane part 1 Ilya, allergies
@stormysnz
Growing on Me Ilya, various, 5.6k
T -----------------------------------------------------------
@themiseryandcompany
untethered; his teeth ache with it | Shane, cold, 3.7k
Or maybe Rozanov had nothing to do with it. After all, they’ve always come as a pair, ever since the draft. First and second; second and first. Rozanov and Hollander; Hollander and Rozanov. Only, not like that, not… coupled. No, it’s Hollander versus Rozanov, now and always.
Part 1
Part 2
[Delighted by the nice things people had to say about the previous parts. Thank you, thank you. Sorry this took me a month! It's longer than I thought it would be...]
The Raiders have the practice slot before the Metros; the schedulers have left a short gap between the sessions for the photographs of him and Rozanov. So Shane arrives before the rest of his team, changes alone in the home-team locker room, and comes out to the ice just in time to see the last few minutes of the Boston skate. If he’s a little early for the call time, well, it’s only polite to be punctual. If it also lets him take a look at how his opponents are shaping up – maybe one opponent in particular – so much the better.
Rozanov isn’t on the ice. Instead, he’s behind the boards, locked in a intense discussion with two members of the coaching staff. But he has been skating. Though he’s removed his gloves and his helmet, sweat-soaked curls are still plastered to his skin and sticking out at odd angles and his cheeks are warm from exertion. He also looks much, much sicker than he’d looked that morning. The red flush that had previously coloured the tip of his nose has now spread downwards and outwards, and deepened to an angry scarlet. Probably a freezing rink, a head cold, and the rough polyester of hockey gloves and jerseys hadn’t proved an ideal combination over the last ninety minutes. The parts of Rozanov’s face that aren’t rubbed red-raw are strangely pale, as though someone has painted a grey wash under his usual year-round tan. His brow is furrowed, like he’s trying to push away a gnawing headache, and he’s leaning a little too heavily on the boards.
But the most obvious sign that Rozanov isn’t doing well is that everyone’s stopped pretending that he isn’t sick. One of the coaches is alternating between concerned looks at Rozanov and meaningful glances to another member of staff. Another folds his arms to draw a line under something. Rozanov himself is throwing heated gestures towards the players on the rink, though no one seems to be rising to his frustrations. All of which suggests that their conversation is about whether he can play tomorrow: a topic on which they seem to have very different opinions. And when an assistant coach blows a whistle for the end of the practice and the rest of the Raiders left the ice, Cliff Marleau stops to put a concerned hand on Rozanov’s shoulder. It’s immediately shaken off. Marleau shrugs, and heads back to the dressing room with the team and most of the staff, leaving Rozanov alone at the sideline, staring across the rink until his gaze finally falls on Shane, who is pretending to adjust his skates and trying to look like he isn’t watching Rozanov very closely.
He’s not surprised that Rozanov is feeling worse; Shane's own cold has definitely come on since that morning. He’d skipped the run he’d had planned to take an afternoon nap on the sofa – something he rarely did – and woken up with an aching head, and congestion pressing between his eyes and under his ears. More worrying was the prickling feeling under the skin across his upper back, which, for him, was usually a sign of a fever coming on. Luckily, more Tylenol was enough to mute the symptoms to a background annoyance. He’d sneezed a couple of times on the drive over but he can still breathe pretty well, even if the cold of the rink is already starting to make his nose run. Still, he looks pretty much like himself – which is more than anyone can say for Rozanov.
Thankfully, the photographer doesn’t have a whole shoot planned. He promises that he’s not going to take up too much time, that he just wants to get some quick shots as back up, in case he can’t get them at the game tomorrow. He has Shane skate a few quick laps with the puck at his stick – which feels pretty silly with no one chasing him - and then ask Rozanov to do the same.
Rozanov isn’t sloppy – he could never really be sloppy, with his near flawless stick handling – but he’s definitely slow. In the quiet of the arena – no fans, no teammates even – Shane can hear his breathing, and it doesn’t sound great. Of course, Rozanov isn’t trying his hardest… But he’s certainly trying a bit, and probably harder than he’d have liked to. Even in a performance for a photoshoot, Rozanov would still want to put on a good show. So even if Rozanov dialled it up tomorrow, if he’s winded like this now then you could catch him, you could totally catch him, and he definitely couldn’t catch you. Plus his recovery is going to be slow and…
Rozanov finishes his loop around the back of the goal and, probably just for something to do, fires the puck towards the open net. It hits the right hand side of the frame with an echoing clang, and ricocheting out towards the barriers, and spinning miserably to a halt in the lonely neutral zone.
“You don’t look so good,” he ventures, under his breath.
The last shot the photographer needs is one of the two of them facing off with one another. As he takes a moment to swap his lens, Shane skates over to a few feet behind Rozanov, and then kneels down to pretend to adjust his skates.
“We can’t all be a pretty boy like you, Hollander.” It’s the type of response Shane has come to expect, but without Rozanov’s usual playfulness. Instead, he just sounds exhausted. Shane tries again.
“That looked like a pretty intense discussion.”
Rozanov sniffs, and mutters something towards the ice that might have been a curse in either English or Russian; Shane can’t tell through the muffled consonants. Then he looks up at Shane, sniffs again, harder, and adds in an icily polite tone, “And how is your cold?”
At that precise moment, Shane’s gloved hand is been half-way to his damp nose. He deliberately lowers it, and fights back the urge to sniffle himself.
“No worse,” he lies. Rozanov rolls his eyes, and skates off – much quicker than is necessary, as if to show that he can – towards the centre face-off spot.
This isn’t the first time Shane has pretended to face off in front of a camera, but it never stops felt weird. It’s hard to fake the tension in his body when there’s nothing at stake, and feels stupid to be gripping his stick, holding it a few inches from the ground, as if ready to strike at a puck that’s never going to be dropped. That was why it has been so easy for Rozanov to make him laugh when they did that shoot in their rookie season. Shane hasn’t thought about that day in a long time, but now, when he does, he can still hear Rozanov’s laughter, can still remember how wonderful it had felt to hear his laughter. Does Rozanov ever think about it? Does he think about any of these moments they have together after they’ve passed? Sometimes, I wonder if I think about anything else.
The photographer wants a thousand little adjustments to their position. Tilt your head a little to the right, no not that much, now put your chin up, drop your shoulder, and so on, and so on. Through it all, and though the set of his jaw suggests he would clearly rather be anywhere than on the ice with a camera pointing at him, Rozanov keeps his gaze locked on Shane – that gaze that, even now, Shane struggles to read. Rozanov’s eyes are challenging him, teasing him, inviting him in and shutting him out, all in the same intense stare.
Shane isn’t good at this staring game. Facing off with other players he avoids it, fixing his gaze on a point on the ice, or staring at the bridge of their nose, because almost no one can tell you’re not actually making eye contact. But with Rozanov, as always, his body thrums with a hot determination to keep up. So Shane stares back, and he keeps staring, even as it starts to feel physically painful, to restrict the air he can force into his lungs. He keeps staring even as the photographer’s instructions, echoing around the empty ice rink, are stretched and compressed into a series of sounds without meaning.
Of course, he doesn’t just want to keep up with Rozanov. He wants to beat him, wants to thrash him, wants to leave Rozanov reeling in his wake. Though, whenever he’s tried to make sense of it afterwards – lying in the darkness of nights in hotel rooms, cocooned in the white-noise of red-eye flights, caught breathless by the crisp chill of morning before an early practice in January – it seems that it isn’t the moment of victory that he savours. No, it’s the competition itself, the struggle, both of them locked together in battle. And then he can’t tease apart any of the strands of this thing the two of them have, can’t work out whether the sex is an extension of the rivalry, or the rivalry is an extension of the sex. Whichever it is, that probably explains why neither of them can end it.
Suddenly, Rozanov blinks. Or rather, he closes his eyes deliberately, squeezing them shut as if pressing something back. When he opens them again, his intense stare has shifted to a dazed look into middle distance. The tension in his jaw has dissolved, his chapped lips part, and his poor abused nose scrunches upwards. Then, in a cyclone of balletic grace, Rozanov pushes himself backwards across this ice, and at the same time swings shoulders and stick up and over to his left and away from Shane.
It’s actually impressive that Rozanov manages to stay on his feet as each heaving sneeze rips through him. He jams his stick into the ice like an anchor, as he hunches over into his left arm, crumpling further in on himself with each successive explosion. Shane feels the involuntarily twitch of his muscles that is usually triggered by a puck skidding across the ice or another player racing past him, the instinctive urge to move towards something at pace. But he fights it back, because he can’t skate over to Rozanov and place a hand between his shoulder blades, can’t slip a steadying arm around Rozanov’s waist while he sneezes his head off.
The photographer laughs, which both breaks the tension, and reassures Shane that no one is going to be scanning his own features for traces of the expression of concern that he is sure must be plastered across them. He forces out a stilted “Bless you” and turns away while Rozanov clears himself up as best he can. The photographer says something throwaway about the flash doing that to lots of people, and starts asking them whether they can swap sides of the face-off spot, so he can get some other angles.
When they face each other again, Rozanov doesn’t stare at him again, but he does flick an exhausted, watery glance up at Shane as they reposition themselves.
“Fuck this,” he mutters, and Shane isn’t sure if he’s talking about the photoshoot, his cold, or both.
“You ok?” Shane mouths, raising his stick again. He’s starting to feel less than okay himself. Now that they’ve been standing still for some minutes, the cold of the rink is stabbing through his layers of clothing, and he’s having to sniffle almost constantly to stop his nose from running.
Rozanov rolls his eyes, as he leans back into the face off position. What do you think?
Shane rubs at his nose and then shrugs, in what he hopes is a reasonably universal gesture for, I know, it sucks to play sick, and risks a small smile. For a second, Rozanov smiles back. Somewhere, far away it seems, the camera shutter clicks.
“Looking good, Hollander!” Hayden’s voice, bright with good-natured teasing, rings out across the ice. Shane turns towards the clatter of skate-blades, pads and helmets tumbling from the home end, a clatter that is quickly accompanied by more shouts, whoops, and the odd wolf-whistle. Shane huffs a sigh, which catches in his sore throat and ends up as a choked, spluttering cough. He really does not need this now.
Rozanov, never the most generous to Shane’s teammates, narrows his eyes. “Idiots,” he mutters, barely under his breath.
“Jealous, Rozanov?”
Shane can’t identify the voice from the shout – there’s a handful of players it could plausibly be – and can’t turn quickly enough to see who it is, and can’t really tell if it’s a response to Rozanov’s mutterings or a random jab, sent out to see if it will land. On another day, Rozanov would probably have spun around and blown a kiss to his “adoring fans” – but not today. Today, Rozanov stands upright like his back aches, which it probably does, and says quietly but firmly, “We are done here, I think.” It’s not a question, and before the photographer can respond, Rozanov adds a short, “Thank you,” and skates off towards the away end.
He doesn’t look at Shane before he leaves.
By the time Shane has finished thanking the photographer himself, trying not to stare after Rozanov the whole time, Hayden is at his shoulder.
“Why do they always pick you for this stuff?” he grumbles.
Because I was the league’s second-top scorer last season. Because I have an Olympic silver medal. Because I’ve been Rookie of the Year, and the League’s MVP. But also because I’m not white and that makes them feel good about themselves, or hit some kind of target. Because I’m also the kind of not-white that won’t put off their readers. Because my mom’s been planning for this since I was in middle school. Because she makes a lot of phone calls even when I wish she wouldn’t, and then I feel ungrateful for wishing she wouldn’t. Because my jerseys sell. So many fucking reasons, Hayden, where do you want me to start?
Shane swallows. His throat hurts. There’s a low static in his ears, and that threatens a sharp pain whenever he moves his head. The cold of the rink is making his nose run. For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t want to be here: on the ice, with his team.
“I dunno, man. The rivalry, I guess,” he mutters, which at least gives him an excuse to look in Rozanov’s direction again.
“Oh, yeah,” Hayden agrees, his eyes also following Rozanov off the ice. “Is something up with him? He’s usually got better comebacks.”
“How should I know?” Shane lies without thinking about it. Lying about Rozanov is second-nature now. “Come on, let’s get on with practice.”
***
It takes Shane and CityMapper two minutes chooses a grocery store that is sufficiently distanced from the Metro’s stadium, his home and his investment property – and as long as he keeps thinking of it as that, then that’s what it is – that it doesn’t indicate any of those locations. A grocery store that Shane visits as quickly as possible, with his hood up, hoping all the time that no hockey fans are doing any evening shopping in the pharmacy aisle.
This cold probably wouldn’t feel too bad if he’d spent the evening at home on the couch, but after ninety minutes of drills in literally freezing stadium, it feels pretty fucking awful. Half-way through practice, his nose started playing this great trick of feeling clogged and on the verge of streaming all at once. And then it kept prickling with the urge to sneeze, an urge that he fought back by jamming it against his shoulder or his glove. But he’s paying for that, because there’s a constant buzzing underneath the bridge that’s making his eyes water, and occasionally provoking a pathetic shuddering gasp that fizzles away into nothing. And now the endorphins have worn off, he’s noticing that the meds he took before practice are wearing off too. His muscles ache, and it’s the ache of an oncoming fever rather than a successful work out.
The sensible thing to do would have been to drive back to his actual home, eat some take-out soup, and sleep until the last possible moment before he has to leave for the game tomorrow. The sensible thing to do would be to text Rozanov and tell him the plan is off; he’s a grown up, he can sort his own cold medicine out, or he can get someone else to do it, because professional hockey teams have people for that. But Shane stopped being sensible six or seven hotel rooms ago, or maybe even before that. Maybe he stopped being sensible that day in Saskatchewan when he saw Rozanov smoking outside the rink. Maybe he hasn’t been sensible for a long time, and nobody’s noticed yet.
Shane keeps apartment well provisioned for the one purpose for which he uses it. Besides that stuff, there’s some beer in the refrigerator, some coffee pods for the machine that Shane can’t remember actually ever using, and maybe a box of protein bars that he took out of his kit bag after arriving straight from a practice. But there’s nothing there that a sick person might need, let alone find comforting.
On his own, Shane would have grabbed the lemon-flavored medicine drink that is objectively the least disgusting thing in the cold-and-flu section, some ginger tea, and an extra box of tissues. But he has no idea what Rozanov prefers, so he also grabs another three vaguely familiar types of cold meds, both Tylenol and Advil, and a second box of tissues just in case. He draws the line at soup; he’s not sure he’s got any cooking equipment in the apartment anyway. But orange juice and tea, those seem like not-weirdly-intense things to provide for someone who is sick, and is also someone that he fucks on the regular, especially when Shane himself is sick too. Yeah, this seems ok.
Or it does until he’s at the automatic register and he remembers that there’s no kettle at this apartment. There’s a microwave – he’s pretty sure there’s a microwave? – but microwaving makes hot water taste weird to him. Maybe the coffee machine makes hot water, but maybe it doesn’t, because he’s never used it so he doesn’t know. So he’s buying tea that he’s not even sure he can make, and what looks like enough medicines to open a small pharmacy.
Jesus, this is ridiculous. He, Shane Hollander, is ridiculous. Rozanov is going to rip him to shreds for going shopping for cold supplies on the way to a hook up. All this for me, Hollander? You shouldn’t have… He’d be insufferable, and the thought nearly leads Shane to drop the grocery basket on the floor and walk right out of the store without it.
But he doesn’t. Because Rozanov had looked really, really sick at practice, and Shane is starting to feel pretty sick himself. So he’s going to take his medicine, and make Rozanov take his too, so they can both get the maximum enjoyment out of this monumentally fucked-up thing that they have going before they wake up feeling even shittier in the morning.
***
Rozanov is ten minutes late, which is enough to make Shane fidgety, but also not enough that a message asking where the fuck he is won’t sound stupidly desperate. It’s not that Shane wants to suggest he can play it cool – that ship sailed in a shower in Toronto half a decade ago – but Rozanov doesn’t need any more lead to make bullets from. At the same time, if Rozanov is too sick to come over, or he can’t get away, or he’s changed his mind, Shane would really like to know now, so he can go back to his real apartment, where he keeps real things like comfy sweaters and fresh fruit, and where his real bed is, and where he might try to sleep off his cold.
“hhh?’hhhh… huh-EISH’www!.. h’ISH’shww!” Shane twists the tissues away from his nose, and then swipes away a tear that’s spilled onto his cheeks, before tossing them to the pile that’s rapidly accumulated in the trashcan and snatching another handful of from the box he’s place on the coffee table.
It’s his nose taking revenge for all the tickles he scrubbed away during practice; that’s the only explanation for why he’s been sneezing and sneezing since he stepped inside the apartment. Obviously it’s not actually that. It’s the dry air from the heat being on, or just that he’s caught what is rapidly turning into the worst cold he’s had in years.
He’s refreshed their chat twice, which fails to make any new messages magically appear. He tries resting on the couch with whatever ESPN has on playing mindlessly in the background, but his muscles, still wired from practice, are too twitchy to sit still. So all that’s left is for him to try to make an apartment that no one lives in seem the tiniest bit like it might be somewhere that would make a sick feel a little more comfortable. He’s put the medicine on the counter where its visible, and now he fetches a plaid blanket from the guest room, and drapes it over the back of the couch.
The buzzer to the apartment rings.
Rozanov looks better than he had a few hours earlier. Not better as in cured – the skin around the tip of his nose is still red raw, and he should really stop rubbing at it or he’s going to make it worse. But as he climbs the stairs towards the door, he looks less strung out, less like his benching tomorrow is an inevitability. He also looks fucking good, dressed for autumn weather in Montreal in a charcoal-coloured woollen coat that he’s buttoned over his hoodie, and a lighter grey scarf wrapped high around his throat. It pushes up the longer strands of his curly hair around his ears, in a way that makes Shane want to twist the spirals around his fingers and pull, hard until Rozanov gasps opens that pretty pink mouth of his.
“hh’tSSHHhew!....hhh’EIshhheugh!”
This makes it all the more embarrassing when Shane literally greets him with a sneeze.
“Fuck. Shit. Sorry.” Shane mumbles into the handful of tissues that he’s pressing hard against his nose. He knows he’s blushing, can feel the heat rising into the top of his cheeks. “Sorry,” he says again, wiping his nose and adding, “This cold is making me really sneezy.”
Good one, Shane. Smooth. Definitely not a phrase that’s going to immediately kill the mood.
Rozanov offers Shane a familiar lopsided grin and there’s a look in his eyes that Shane can’t parse. Then, he raises his hand, and strokes a thumb across the plane of Shane’s cheekbone, exactly where Shane knows that the skin has flushed pink. Rozanov’s fingers are chilled from the cold of the outside, and his touch sends a pleasurable shudder cannoning up Shane’s spine.
“Poor baby…”
Rozanov’s voice is shredded to a low growl that barely makes it out of his throat. The deeper pitch and roughened edges somehow make his accent seem stronger than usual, which would be enough to make Shane want to hum with pleasure. His comment is probably meant to be mocking – knocked on your ass by the sniffles, Hollander? - but also maybe not, because the thumb that stroked across Shane’s cheek is now on the back of his neck, with the rest of Rozanov’s fingers tangled in and tugging on Shane’s hair. Rozanov’s other hand moves to Shane’s waist, slipping into the small of his back and then tugging their hips together sharply, as Rozanov presses his mouth urgently onto Shane’s own, and then traces kisses along Shane’s jawline.
“I can make you feel better,” he whispers into the hollow of Shane’s throat.
Shane moans softly, turning his head and leaning his cheek on to Rozanov’s. Oh. There’s a surface coldness from the walk to Shane’s backdoor. But underneath that is a latent heat, something more than the usual warmth of Rozanov’s skin against his own, that pulls a hiss of sympathy from Shane. It is a heat that is urgent; a sign that should be observed. Shane reaches his hand to the other cheek and presses it, half-conscious that he should be using the back and not his palm if he’s checking for a fever.
He’s no expert, but he’s pretty sure that’s what he finds. Hot, tight, pale skin that Shane wants to kiss and bathe and sooth until Rozanov feels like himself again.
But before Shane can say or do any of this, a shove to the chest sends him stumbling backward in the direction of the bedroom; he has to catch himself on the back of the couch so that he doesn’t lose his footing entirely. Rozanov snorts out a laugh, and tugs off his scarf and coat, abandoning both to the floor as he stalks towards Shane. He wraps his muscular arms around Shane’s body, drawing him upright with a force that almost lifts Shane off his feet, and crashes them together as their lips meet in a ferocious kiss.
Shane’s body is stirring to Rozanov’s, but when he catches a handful of Rozanov’s hair to pull him closer still, the heat radiating off his skin is distracting. Has he taken anything for it? Does he even know about it? As he catches Rozanov’s lower lip between his teeth and tugs gently, and then not so gently, Shane slides a hand up underneath Rozanov’s hoodie and the soft, well-worn t-shirt beneath it to see if he can feel the same burning heat from Rozanov’s torso.
Shit.
Shane presses the kiss more firmly before he breaks away to say, “Um… You feel really hot.”
Rozanov freezes for an instant, and laughs curiously at the choice of verb.
“You feel good, too,” he replies, and adds “You taste even better,” leaning in for another bruising kiss as he presses Shane backwards towards the threshold of the bedroom.
Clearly, Rozanov choose to interpret the sentence metaphorically. He’s also translating Shane’s hands running over the contours of his chest as an invitation to remove some more layers of clothing – something Shane doesn’t mind at all. He’s slipped the hoodie from his shoulders, and now leans away for a moment to pull his t-shirt over his head, which at least gives Shane an opportunity to clarify things.
“No, I mean, it feels like you’ve got a fever.”
Rozanov stares at Shane like he’s lost his mind (and maybe he has). He sniffs damply, scrubs a hand across his nose and then says, “Probably? I am sick, remember?” He starts to kiss Shane again, more tenderly this time, as though trying to remind him of exactly how badly he needs to be taken care of. As they fall through the door to the bedroom, Shane reluctantly pulls away once more.
“Yeah, no, I remember…” He’s a little breathless from the kissing. “I just meant, have you taken anything for it? Do you need to… um… lie down?”
Fuck. He actually said that.
Rozanov laughs out loud, though it’s only seconds before it dissolves into a crackling cough, that he smothers into a fistful of the t-shirt that he’s still holding.
“Yes, Hollander, I need to lie down,” he deadpans. Then his eyes flash and narrow, and he stares at Shane like he can know him absolutely. He drops his voice to a deep, hoarse, whisper and jerks his head over Shane’s shoulder towards the bed that is behind him. “I need to lie down on your bed, with you underneath me, and your legs open. Can you do that for me?”
Yes. Yes. Whatever you want. I’d do anything for you.
“Only when you tell me whether you’ve taken any meds,” Shane insists.
Rozanov rolls his eyes. “This is very boring, Hollander.”
“Just fucking tell me then.”
“No, I haven’t.” Rozanov practically spits out the words, and then coughs. When he speaks again, his voice is like sandpaper. “You are happy? We can get on with it now?”
Shane sighs. “No, I’m not happy. You need to take something. I’ve got some Tylenol in the kitchen.” He goes to move past Rozanov, who catches him by the elbow.
“I don’t need it,” Rozanov replies tersely, only to have his body betray him with a shudder that runs through his shoulders. The room is definitely too warm for that. Reluctantly, Shane shakes off his touch.
“You’re shivering.”
“Because I’m standing here half-naked waiting to fuck!”
“Because you have a fever.”
Rozanov sniffs, likely more from necessity than derision, and tosses the t-shirt to the floor. He opens his arms, exposing his broad firm chest. “Come on…” He steps forward, arm outstretched to pull Shane back towards him, but Shane steps sideways, slipping his grasp. “Hollander.”
Rozanov says Shane’s name like a threat. His eyes are hungry now. They stare at each other in silence for a moment, until Rozanov snarls, “You playing nurse, Hollander – it doesn’t really do it for me.” One side of his mouth quirks upwards, and he drops his eyes meaningfully to the crotch of Shane’s sweatpants. “But maybe, for you...”
“Fuck off, Rozanov.” Eloquent. But in his own defence, Shane’s nose is running and his ears hurts, and every word he has to speak feels like he’s scraping his throat down a cheese grater. He doesn’t need to be making sure that Rozanov undertakes the bare minimum of self-care and he definitely doesn’t need to be fucked around while he does it. He huffs out a sigh, and pinches his nose. “I’m going to get you some meds. Then you’re going to take them. And then we’re going to fuck.”
Rozanov smirks at him again, sniffs again, and mutters under his breath, “So demanding.”
Pretending not to hear this, Shane moves back towards the kitchen. Rozanov doesn’t make eye contact with him, but he does check Shane with his shoulder as he passes. The contact is just hard enough to hurt deliciously, to make Shane’s squirm with the anticipation of the weight of Rozanov’s body on top of his own, and its all he can do to swallow the moan that rises in his throat.
“Hurry back…” Rozanov calls after him.
Shane has every intention of hurrying back. His cold, however, has other ideas. He’s grabbed one of the blister packets and is about to fetch a glass of water when the creeping, prickling sensation that has barely left his sinuses since practice finished intensifies. Feeling his breath start to catch, Shane puts down the glass – because tissues seem like they would be a good idea, and sneezing with a glass full of water does not.
“hhuh’h?… hh-hhh-uhh…”
The tickle in his nose sharpens, the urge swells, but then backs away again, though not completely – which leaves Shane on the cusp of a sneeze that won’t materialize but also won’t disappear. Ugh, it really itches. Should he try blowing his nose? Will that make it better or…
“hehh’ihh.. uhhh….”
… worse. Shit, definitely worse. He rubs his nose, not to suppress the sensation, but to tease it out because now he desperately needs to sneeze, and the only saving grace is that Rozanov isn’t here to witness this whole sorry sight.
“Hollander, what the fuck is taking so long?”
Heavy footsteps on the wooden floors. Fuck. Shane turns towards them and through the blur of tears sees Rozanov, shirtless and beautiful, while Shane himself is clutching a handful of tissues like his life depends on it.
“Hollander?”
“I n’deed to suhh’hh-sdeeze…” he somehow manages to stutter between breaths that catch in the top of his lungs.
Rozanov snorts. “Sneeze then.”
Shane practically moans in frustration, unsure whether the cause of his imminent death is going to be his cold or the embarrassment he’s feeling right now.
“I ca’hh’hhh…huuhhh.” Shane squeezes his eyes shut as another hitch of breath fizzles out into nothing. “You really don’dt have to watch this…” he mutters, eyes still closed.
Rozanov sniffs in amusement – because apparently even his cold symptoms are expressive – and the sound is closer than Shane expects it to be. Then, there is a hand on his waist and another on his shoulder, and then sensation of a too-warm body pressing into his back through his sweatshirt.
“Relax, Hollander.” Rozanov’s whisper is in his ear and everywhere, and Shane can feel the vibrations of his chest as he speaks, can hear the slight crackle every time he breathes out. His cold is probably going to his chest and that’s not great, but he also told Shane to relax, and so Shane tries to do that. He keeps his eyes closed, leaning his weight back slightly against the warm, familiar, mass behind him and matching his breath to Rozanov’s steadying inhales and exhales, until, after what seems like forever –
Obviously, it isn’t actually possible to sneeze so hard that you fall over, but Shane really thinks that he might, if it wasn’t for the hand on his waist and the other one that was rubbing his back gently between his shoulder blades. He could lean back and stay there forever, wrapped up in Rozanov’s arms and against his chest, while Rozanov mutters into his ear things in Russia that Shane doesn’t understand. He could stay here forever, except that Shane really needs to blow his nose. Reluctantly, he presses away the hand that is still resting on his hip bone and stems out of the embrace.
“This is so gross,” he mumbles, the words mangled between congestion and tissues.
Rozanov makes a humming sound in the back of his throat, as though to suggest he’s seen worse – and yes, honestly, they both have seen worse, do see worse, on a weekly – no daily basis, in their dressing rooms. But to give Shane some space and a chance to regain a little bit of dignity, he steps back and pretends to be deeply absorbed in the packets of cold medicine that Shane has left on the counter.
He’s still looking at them when Shane has cleaned himself up, tossed the tissues in the trash that he wishes he could literally burn, and retrieved the glass that he set down an age ago.
“What is this?” Rozanov says suddenly, holding up the box of the lemon-and-honey drink that’s Shane’s preferred medicine of choice.
“Cold medicine. You mix it with hot water. You’re not supposed to take it with Tylenol so I guess it’s the same thing? It’s lemon flavour,” he adds, wondering if any of the answers that he’s given are what Rozanov wanted to know.
“It’s not tablets?”
“No, it’s a drink.”
Rozanov looks at the box again, eyebrows narrowing a little as he studies it. “I want this,” he says, pushing the box over to Shane.
“Um, sure.” Shane turns back to the cupboard to swap the glass for a coffee mug. “Oh, but I don’t have a kettle here so I’ll have to heat the water in the microwave.”
“Okay…?” Rozanov is giving him that look again – a look that most people who have known Shane long enough give him eventually, the look that means he’s acting like he’s from another planet altogether.
“I always think that water tastes different when it’s been heated in the microwave and not boiled in a kettle. I can always tell when someone makes tea that way and…” Shane stops, because he knows he’s babbling, but also because Rozanov is smiling at him, smiling properly now, so that his eyes crinkle in the corners and his whole body relaxes with it. “What?”
“You’re so weird,” Rozanov says, but it’s not an insult.
“And you’re an asshole,” Shane replies, and it’s not an insult either.
The microwave hums in the background, glowing warmly in the half-lit kitchen. Rozanov pulls himself into one of the stools on the other side of the counter and leans forward on his elbows, arms wrapped around his own torso. He kneads the heels of his hands into his eyes, and suddenly looks tired. It’s only when Rozanov shivers again that Shane remembers that he’s not wearing anything on his top half.
The throw from the guest room might come in useful after all.
“Here.”
Rozanov looks up in surprise as Shane drapes the blanket over his shoulders, but he gives a small smile, and nod of thanks as he gathers the folds together across his chest. His eyes are a little too bright, and he still doesn’t look warm.
Did you ever have a boyfriend who would feel your forehead to check if you had a fever, or put a blanket round your shoulders, and let you fall asleep in his lap?
And how is it possible that this feels so much more of a risk than anything else he’s done with Rozanov? But risks – calculated risks – are how you win hockey games: shots from angles that should be too tight, the check that might come too late, the pass that you hope your teammate will read. So Shane has taught himself not to be cautious; nothing ventured, nothing gained, as his dad would say. To the victor, the spoils. Maybe doesn’t work like that with Rozanov, but neither of them has any other metaphors than hockey tonight.
Shane reaches over and presses the back of his hand to Rozanov’s forehead and feels the fever burning there. Rozanov closes his pretty eyes and sighs, as though he’s been waiting a lifetime for someone to do this. They stay there still for a moment before the microwave pings.
“It’s better if you add honey to it, but I haven’t got any here.” Shane’s talking just to fill the space between them, as he tips a sachet of the powder into the water and begins to stir. He’s never understood how other people know exactly the right amount to talk in any given situation. He either says too much or not enough.
“hhgh’Nghchhh!” Rozanov’s sneezes so violently that it sounds physically painful, his head crashing forward onto the arms he has folded over in front of him. “hhh’EGNH’hh!” He lifts his head, lip curling toward his inflamed nose, as he catches his breath before snapping forward once again into steepled hands. “hhh’Ntschh!N’tschhh!djTschhh!”
“Bless you.” Shane slides the mug across the counter until at Rozanov’s left elbow, and then, as an afterthought slides the tissue box there as well. Rozanov still hasn’t lifted his head. “Hey, are you –“
“hhgh’Xtchhh!-hh’TXghhh!”
“Jesus,” Shane says, once he lifts his head to snatch some tissues from the box. “Are you still breathing?”
Rozanov blows his nose and chokes out a bitter laugh that quickly crumples like paper into a hacking cough. Shane nudges the drink again.
“You should drink that while it’s hot.”
Rozanov sniffs, takes a large sip and then grimaces.
“This is disgusting,” he says. Shane shrugs sympathetically.
“I did say it’s better with honey. I can get the Tylenol, if you like.”
“No – is fine,” Rozanov says, steeling himself for another sip. He looks down at the lack of a mug in front of Shane. “You are not…?”
Shane shakes his head. “I can’t for another – two hours, maybe? I took something before practice.”
“Sucks to be you.” Rozanov takes another drink. The steam must be making his nose run, because he scrubs at it again.
“It does,” Shane agrees. “But sucks to be you, too. Being sick on the road is the worst.”
Rozanov looks at Shane, the thumb and finger of his left hand teasing the blanket that Shane draped over his shoulder. He sniffles and says, “I can think of worse.”
“Are they going to let you play tomorrow?"
Rozanov snorts. “You want to know so you can decide whether to call out sick?”
“No.” The anger prickles through Shane’s shoulders. “And fuck you. I’m playing.” He takes a sip of his water. “I’m asking because I hope they let you play, too. Like you said before, it’s – it’s more fun when you’re there.”
Rozanov sips his drink again, and draws out another tissue to scrub his nose with.
“I can play if I don’t have a fever,” he mutters.
“Oh.” Shane runs a finger around the rim of his glass. “Maybe tomorrow it will…” His voice trails off.
Rozanov shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Look, um…” Shane tries. “Um… we don’t have to… If you just want to – ”
“If I want to lie down?” Rozanov’s mouth quirks upwards. “I come all the way across this city, to your murder-alley, when it’s freezing cold, and I am sick, for the only thing that can make me feel better…”
He’s smiling properly now, as he gets to his feet, blanket draped over his chiselled shoulders like he’s a marble statue in a museum. His tongue darts out to moisten chapped lips that are, nevertheless, slightly parted, expectant. Lifting the mug to those lips, Rozanov drains the rest of the liquid.
“Now, I took medicine like a good boy, you will come and join me?” Rozanov raise one eyebrow, flicks his head back towards the bedroom. and leaves without another word.
Silently, slowly, deliberately, Shane counts to twenty, and then he follows Rozanov, just as he knows he always will.
Throat burns, ears stuffy, Mom's spaghetti. Off from work, so I knocked this one out. Another awards show-inspired fic. Our boys are EVERYWHERE! Expect another one like this when HR inevitably sweeps the Canadian Screen Awards, I guess. ;) Still have to scream in the tags about many of the incredible fics you guys have posted this week. <3 2.6k words
cw: some mess and a lot more talk about food than I expected
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“Shane,” Ilya murmured as their limo stopped at yet another red light. “We can turn around if you want.”
Shane opened his eyes from his little half-nap and lifted his head off his husband’s shoulder. “No, I’m okay.” No chance he was going to miss seeing Rose on her big night.
They were on their way to the Hollywood premiere of Rose’s latest movie, the origin story of her X-Squad superhero. Shane hadn’t seen her in months, but they texted multiple times a week and he knew how much she was looking forward to this. He wasn’t going to let the stupid cold that had been brewing in him since last night get in his way of supporting her. Besides, any excuse to see Ilya in a tuxedo was a good one.
Ilya was quiet for a moment. “Okay.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Shane’s head, then smoothed his rumpled hair. “You are very sexy,” he said matter-of-factly, like he was stating “the sky is blue” or “ice is cold.”
Shane ran his hand over Ilya’s bicep. “Speak for yourself.” He looked like James fucking Bond on his way to seduce some women and sip a martini. Vodka, not gin.
Shane, on the other hand, felt like a sniffly, sweaty mess. But he appreciated the compliment anyway. He took a tissue from his pocket and rubbed it beneath his nose. He steeled himself for the sensory nightmare that tonight was going to be — screaming photographers, flashing lights, loud Imax explosions, too too too many people in a crowded theater — but then Ilya was stroking up and down his back and he sighed and let his shoulders drop. “Just a few hours,” Ilya said, “and then bed.”
“Mm, sounds good.” At least Shane’s voice didn’t sound too congested. He rested his head back on Ilya’s shoulder and closed his eyes once more, not opening them until the car stopped.
They managed to get through the herds of reporters and young, pretty starlets rather quickly — despite their relationship having rocked the hockey world, Shane and Ilya were still relatively unknown by plenty of Americans, particularly those in LA. Though Shane was starting to feel overstimulated from the cacophonous rush of noise and the snuffliness of his troublesome nose and the ache in his throat and the heat of his suit, he felt comforted by the touch of Ilya’s palm against his back, the way he entwined their fingers as they walked, the sweet smiles he gave when Shane looked into his eyes. It grounded him, made him feel the red carpet beneath his feet and realize that he wasn’t sinking into it. Ilya Rozanov. It really didn’t get any better than this.
“Guys!” Shane turned at the sound of the excited voice to see Rose, grinning, hiking up the skirt of her long black dress and hustling towards them. Her hair was shorter and darker than when Shane had last seen her, and she had put on some muscle for her latest role. She was done up spectacularly, with glossy red lipstick that made her look like a doll come to life. She looked beautiful, and she looked happy.
“Hi hi hi!” She came up to Shane and threw her arms around him, and he put his hands around her waist to steady her in her dangerously high heels. She kissed his cheek, and he ran a hand over her back in lieu of getting his germy face anywhere near her. She gave Ilya just as fierce and tight of a hug, and something warmed in Shane’s chest to see the small woman nearly knock over his huge husband. “Thank you so much for coming,” she said, her cheeks flushed with delight.
“Thank you for inviting us,” Ilya said, gallantly pressing a kiss to her hand. “Our teammates are very jealous.”
“Trust me,” she said, “I know a lot of people who are jealous that I’m friends with you guys.”
Ilya raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think friendship is what the boys are wanting.”
She winked and stuck out her tongue. “Sorry. I’m not looking to date another athlete.” She looked at Shane. “I had the best one, after all.” All three of them smiled, and Ilya made Shane’s breath catch by putting a hand to the small of his back and saying, “We are both very lucky, hm?”
And then, of course, Shane had to ruin the moment by needing to sneeze. Gasping a high-pitched breath that he hoped wasn’t too audible, he turned his back to his best friend and his man and jammed his face into his elbow. “hh…! hgk’t! hktschh! hgkt’shh! hd’tschh! hn’dtchiew!” God, his sneezes had been plentiful all day, far more than they usually were at the onset of one of his colds. Stifling was difficult, too - Ilya had gently encouraged him over the years to stop lest he injure himself, and he’d pretty much trained himself out of it at this point. Especially because Ilya was fucking right. It did hurt. But he couldn’t be so gross around—
“Bless you!” exclaimed Rose, at the same time as Ilya’s soft “Bud’ zdorov.” Shane took a second to hide in his arm, blinking back the tears in his eyes and sniffling as quietly as he could to clear some of his congestion, before lifting his head. “Thanks, excuse me.” He felt his cheeks heat at the concern on both of their faces. God, being perceived was so fucking embarrassing.
Mercifully, neither of them brought more attention to Shane’s cold, which was growing more obvious by the minute. They chatted a little longer, cameras flashing all around them, until Rose was called over for an interview with some woman named Amelia who had a show about…chickens? Before she left, Rose rubbed a hand over Shane’s shoulder and said, kindness shining in her eyes, “Thanks again for coming. I’ll see you guys in there!”
As the first of the guests began to trickle into the theater, Ilya found a small alcove behind the red carpet and led Shane over. Shane tugged at the collar of his shirt and Ilya wiped away a droplet of sweat that was traveling down his temple. "How are you feeling?”
Shane shrugged. “I’m…here.” He turned his back to the wall, took out one of his wilting tissues, and blew his nose gently, the sound much wetter and squeakier than he would have liked.
Ilya frowned, looking like he wanted to pick up Shane and carry him back to the car. But he knew how much Shane wanted to be there for Rose. “As soon as you are feeling really bad, tell me and we will go, okay?”
He nodded, but he really wanted to make it to the end of the night. If he could play through the flu in the Stanley Cup Final, he could get through a goddamn action movie. “I must look so disgusting.”
“You look beautiful,” Ilya said, voice so tender and adoring that it made Shane blush again. “Is kind of annoying, actually. I look like unseasoned chicken breast when I am sick. You look like…” he thought for a moment. “A nice cock au vin.”
Shane cracked a smile. “You know that’s not how it’s pronounced,” he chided, then let his eyes slip shut when Ilya cupped his cheek.
“I know, Mr. Frenchie. I just mean that you cannot even tell that you are sick. I mean, I can tell, but I know that none of these boring people can.” He pressed his palm, then a long kiss, to Shane’s forehead. “No fever."
Yet, Shane thought. He wasn’t as prone to fevers as Ilya was, but he could tell that this cold wasn’t going to be an easy one. “You don’t look like chicken when you’re sick,” he reassured as the two of them made their way into the theater, Ilya with an arm around his shoulders. “You look like…steak. Like a really good ribeye. With garlic butter. And shoestring fries.”
Ilya chuckled and squeezed him tight. “Thank you, malysh. You’re making me hungry.”
Inside the theater, Shane was relieved to see that they were close to the aisle, only one woman between him and a possible escape route. Rose had apologized outside — I tried to get you guys right near me, but they put a bunch of bigwigs there instead! — but it immediately made Shane calmer. He could get through this. He was a fucking hockey player who ate pain and discomfort for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
At least, he thought he did.
Over two hours into the movie, Shane started to flag. Hard. He’d been wincing a little throughout as the klaxon sounds of cars being thrown across the city of Metropolis by a tentacled sea monster (wait, how was it surviving without being in the sea?) made his head pound. Now, though, he was needing to close his eyes against the flashes of lightning in the sky coming from a magical hammer (what was even going on in this movie)? At least Rose looked badass and was actually insanely believable as a scientist-turned-blue shapeshifter. Shane had even teared up a little at her emotional monologue in front of her X-Squad partner-turned-evil villain. But he wouldn’t admit that.
A particularly bright bolt of lightning triggered something in his sinuses, which had begun itching steadily as soon as they entered the theater. The woman next to him was wearing some kind of perfume and it was…cloying, to say the least. Ilya had even looked over at her at one point with a wrinkle of his own nose, but she hadn’t noticed the Russian telepathy he’d been trying to use to get her to explode.
Fuckfuckfuck, Shane was going to sneeze. In front of all of these people. Not that his sneezes were like atom bombs, not like Ilya’s, but god…this was a nightmare akin to coming out to his parents. Deep down he knew that was extreme, but the wooziness he was starting to feel and the burning spreading from behind his cheekbones to the bridge of his nose said otherwise. Not wanting to move towards his elbow and disrupt the woman or Ilya, Shane hunched forward into cupped hands. “hih-ngkxt! -nnhgkt! gxtsh-uhh! hgx’tiew!” And fuck if that didn’t make the pain in his everything even worse.
As Shane stayed behind his hands for a moment, waiting to see if the tickle was gone and not daring to sniffle, Ilya looked over at him and mouthed a “Bud’ zdorov.” He lay a hand on Shane’s thigh and kept it there as Shane thumbed the tears from his eyes. He felt about as stopped up as a corked bottle of wine. Sneaking a glance at his husband, he saw that Ilya was still watching him, big blue eyes full of worry, and he nudged his knee with his own to tell him, “I’m fine.”
(He was not fine.)
A few minutes later, Shane felt a tickle, alarming in its ferocity, start to make its way up his throat. He held his breath, willing away the sensation of needing to cough, but his body didn’t feel like listening. He covered his mouth once more and coughed itchily once, twice, three times, as softly as he could, before the confusing sensation of needing to cough and sneeze overpowered him. He coughed again, stronger and deeper this time, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman next to him look over. He stood up from his seat, mumbling a humiliated “‘Scuse be,” and used his quick strong runner’s legs to dash as politely as he could into the hallway, making it out just in time.
“hyihh! ihhDSCHT! hyy’ISHhh! -YISHhew! hy’ish, ISH, ISHhoo!” He lay back against the wall, gasping, hands wet with spray and cheeks flushed scarlet. He spotted a bathroom at the end of the hall and rushed inside to blow his nose, letting out a few softer “y’ISHhh!” sneezes into his tissues between blows.
The bathroom door began to open, and Shane was momentarily terrified he’d been caught. But it was Ilya, whose eyes widened at Shane’s face, leaking and revolting as Shane knew it to be. “Dorogy,” he cooed, and Shane gave another “hy’IShhoo!” in response.
“Bless you, bless you, God bless you.” Shane practically fell into his arms. “Ssh,” Ilya said when he started to cough uncontrollably into his chest. Fuck, he was going to ruin his husband’s designer suit. “Let’s go home,” Ilya said into his ear.
“Can’t. I have to…Rose…”
“Credits started rolling just after you left. They should be out soon. Scene after credits, I bet,” Ilya said with a roll of his eyes. “If we say goodbye, can we go right after?”
Shane buried his face back into Ilya’s chest. “Please,” he said, voice hoarse and congested from all of the sneezing. Speaking of which, he started to pull away when his breath hitched again, but Ilya kept holding him tight against his chest. “Ilyaah…! hdt’SCHIEW! hy’eshhuhh! hy’ISHHhhuh! -coughcoughcough-” Ilya released him with a "Bud' zdorov," and Shane reached for a wad of paper towels to blow strongly into, not bothered anymore that he was in a fancy suit at a fancy movie premiere and trying not to make a fuss in front of a bunch of fancy people. He was here with his husband, who loved him more than anything. Who didn’t care that he was an exhausted snot monster. Who knew that sometimes Shane got anxious, and overstimulated, and that he cried whenever he watched Youngblood. And wanted him anyway.
As Shane finished blowing his nose, he heard the cinema doors opening and a wave of chatter. Ilya brushed the dark hair out of his eyes and said, “Let’s go.”
Outside, the limos of the rich and famous were circling around the concourse to collect their clients for the afterparty. Shane and Ilya spotted Rose right away — her loud laughter at something Miles had said could be heard from a mile away — and gave her their farewells and apologies.
“Take care of that cold, okay?” Rose said into Shane’s ear as she hugged him again. She must have said something similar to Ilya, who smiled and told her, “I am, I promise.”
“Love you! See you soon!” Rose yelled and blew them kisses as their limo pulled up. “Take Emergen-C!”
As soon as the car door closed, Shane lay his head down in Ilya’s lap. It wasn’t very safe, but hey, his muscular thighs were more comfortable than they looked and they were right there. How could Shane stay away from them?
Ilya ran a hand up and down the curve of Shane’s waist. “I’m so sorry you’re sick, sweetheart.”
Shane hummed. “S’okay. At least we got to see Rose. Oh fuck…hope I don’t get her sick. Or you.”
“Russians and superheroes don’t get sick. How many times must I tell you this?" Ilya laughed, then lowered his voice. "Are you still warm?” At Shane’s “A little, yeah,” Ilya opened the window, then perked up like a dog hearing the sound of kibble being poured into his bowl. “In-N-Out,” he said dreamily.
Shane sat up and gave him a knowing smile. “Yes, we can stop,” he said with a roll of his eyes.
Ilya punched the air and asked the limo driver to take them to the drive-thru, practically vibrating with excitement. “I am getting a Double-Double. And a chocolate milkshake. And animal fries.”
Shane’s jaw dropped. “Ilya, if you eat animal fries, I swear to god I am never kissing you again.”
Ilya shrugged. “Worth it—kidding, kidding!” he laughed as Shane lightly smacked his arm. As they waited their turn to order, Shane lay his head back in his husband’s lap.
“Hey, Ilya?”
“Yes, lyubimyy?”
“Do you have any idea what was going on in that movie?”
📯🦵: Especially because S/hane is polite and Canadian lol or or or!!! Hear me out they are on a family vacation and I/lyas allergies are insane and Yuna and David keeps blessing him and S/hane is fidgeting so hard he has to excuse himself and I/lya eventually follows him to the bathroom 😏
Ohh anon your brain is so amazing! I think it’s such a good idea, I can literally see it, maybe even Y/una and D/avid are confused because S/hane is usually so polite and nice to people, and it’s I/lya who has sneezed about 20 times in 5 minutes and S/hane hadn’t blessed him ONCE!
But S/hane is also literally red in the face and blushing and trying to act very casual as I/lya stifles another double into his shoulder
Okay this wouldn't leave me alone. May I present, fresh off the keyboard, 0% proofread, my first fic in a decade (1/probably 2):
The four of them are having breakfast at a cafe on Yuna's list to try, just a few blocks from their hotel. Ilya angles himself away from Yuna and David again, aiming over his right shoulder. "hh'NNtsch! ngxt!" A quivery inhale, then his customary third. "ahh?-kNGTch'huhh!"
By Shane's count, that makes seven since they were seated three minutes ago. Ilya had been fine the first couple days they'd been here, but something must have bloomed, or maybe the direction of the wind had changed, because the sneezing started yesterday afternoon and hasn't stopped since.
"Bless you!" Yuna says, David a half second behind.
"Spasibo," Ilya murmurs, then sniffles wetly and roughly scrubs at his nose with a loose fist. Shane, sitting shoulder to shoulder with his boyfriend, is close enough to hear the resulting squelches and clicks. His open hand on Ilya's thigh clenches into a fist and his face feels hot. His mom is giving him a Look, clearly expecting Shane to chime in, but he can't. He can barely bless Ilya when it's just the two of them. In public? In front of his parents? Jesus Christ.
"Honey, are you sure you're all right?" Yuna asks, expression concerned.
"Is just allergies," Ilya says dismissively, "I will be fine. Shane takes good care of me." He starts to flash Shane a slightly wicked smile, but in what feels like slow motion to Shane, Ilya's gaze turns hazy, his lips part, and he pitches forward towards Shane.
"hhdjsschmpf!" It's not so much stifled as much as muffled into Shane's shoulder, which tells Shane that this sneeze was stronger than Ilya had expected. "ehh'TSCHHxtt!" A pause, a few hitching breaths. Shane's quads start quivering without his permission. "hhh? hhah! aHHh-! ...nngt'kTSCH-kNTschh-zZCHhhiew! " The force of them resonates through Shane's body and he can feel the effort Ilya's putting in to partially suppress them.
Ilya presses his face into Shane's trap, mouth moving in what Shane guesses is an unvoiced "fuck me," before he straightens with a few damp sniffs. Shane clenches and unclenches his toes inside his sneakers.
"God bless you!" Yuna says, stressing the 'bless,' and overlapping with David's plain but no less heartfelt, "Bless you." Shane, meanwhile, digs a couple tissues from his pockets and puts them into Ilya's hand (because if he knows his boyfriend -- and he does -- Ilya doesn't have any). At least he can do that without spontaneously combusting, as long as he stares at the table the whole time.
The sound of Ilya softly blowing his nose tips Shane's restless energy over the edge and he stands without thinking.
"Uh, excuse me," he blurts, face probably on fire, and makes for the bathroom.
Part 2/2! 1.3k, explicit sex. Thanks to @snifflybabe and @diamond-pixie-dust for the assists!
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Yuna and David watch Shane until he’s out of sight, then turn towards each other and exchange looks before saying anything to Ilya.
“Ilya, honey,” Yuna begins delicately, leaning in and resting her elbows on the table, hands clasped. “Is Shane alright?”
“He high-tailed it out of here,” David adds, brow furrowed.
Ilya clears his throat before answering. “kgm– yes, I think is just too much at once. I will, ah–hhahh!" His go-to filler catches in his sinuses, turning into a hitching breath that he’s able to quell with a sharp, harsh sniff. "I will go check on him."
Shane braces his hands on the counter, letting his head hang. His breathing sounds extra loud in the cool quiet. “Get it together, dude,” he mutters to himself.
He hears the door opening behind him. He doesn’t need to see to know that it’s Ilya. Ilya locks the door and comes to stand near Shane. He doesn't say anything, just looks at Shane with soft understanding.
“Shane, kotik, everything is fine. They don’t suspect anything, just wondering if you feel well.” Ilya pauses. His eyelids flutter and his brows furrow. “hhhNXGTshuh! nnkxtch! hh’ahh? ahh’nKTzisch’ue!’...snnff.” Ilya sniffles a few more times and uses the base of his thumb to rub at his nose, flicking the tip up. “–ugh, sorry. Bad timing.”
“It’s okay,” Shane says. “I’m sorry for freaking out, I just–”
Ilya gently, familiarly, cups Shane’s jaw, lifting it so they’re looking at each other. He leans in enough to ghost a soft kiss over Shane’s lips, an unspoken ‘it’s fine.’
“And, fuck, I feel bad that I’m… you know,” Shane prevaricates. Ilya sniffles thickly and raises an expectant eyebrow. Of course he’s going to make Shane say it. The desire to crawl out of his skin intensifies. “That I’m… so fucking turned on when you’re clearly suffering.”
“This,” Ilya flicks his wrist to indicate his face, “is annoying, yes, but is far away from the worst.” He leans in close, gently cupping Shane’s jaw with his hand, directing Shane to look at him. “Solnyshko, I like when you get off to me like this. I would be allergic anyway, so.” He shrugs, easy. “Is bonus.”
“I know,” Shane mutters, because he does, but he hates how often he needs reassuring about this.
“I am sorry, though,” Ilya continues. “About this happening with Yuna and David. I would not, if I could.”
“I know,” Shane repeats helplessly, shifting his weight.
"It might help to release some... snfff, tension, yes?" Ilya says. His right hand rises to his face, the pad of his thumb worrying the flushed edges of his nose against the knuckle of his index finger. Shane can see a faint sheen of moisture on Ilya's skin as he lets his hand float down to rest on Shane's hip.
Shane swallows involuntarily. "Yeah," he reluctantly concedes, rolling his head on his neck, and huffs a sigh, "I guess."
Ilya's tender smile shifts into a slight smirk as he crowds Shane against the wall. He feels for his boyfriend, yes, but the thrill of semi-public sex is never going to not get him going.
Ilya thumbs open the button of Shane’s shorts, then slowly pulls the zipper down, letting the tip of his thumb ghost down the ridge of Shane’s already hard cock as he does. His gaze lingers on the growing wet spot on Shane’s favorite black boxer briefs and Shane squirms under the attention. Ilya smiles, a little predatory, and tugs the waistband down just far enough to get Shane out. He pauses then, lips parting, and Shane can see from the sudden haziness in his gaze and irritated flare of his reddened nostrils that Ilya’s going to sneeze. Shane’s own lips part and his breath quickens in anticipation.
So he’s not surprised when Ilya does exactly that, a soft yet forceful double, then a stronger, itchier and wetter single. “hh-atchshew!-ahTSCHhhh’ew! …huhh-? uhhh’JYISSHHHiew!!” But Shane is surprised that Ilya raises a hand to sneeze into, since he doesn’t need to cover (and usually doesn’t) when it’s just the two of them. A moan punches out of Shane’s throat and his eyes roll back a little when that hand encircles his dick and starts stroking. The spray isn’t enough lubricant to completely erase the friction between them, but the sparks of pleasure-pain light him up.
“Since I already had to sneeze,” Ilya practically purrs into Shane’s ear, then sucks the lobe into his mouth and bites down. Shane’s head thunks back against the wall. “And I–snf–think I will need to sneeze again soon...” The thought makes Shane shiver and his hips buck up into Ilya.
Ilya’s voice is a low, congested rasp as he instructs, “Do not come yet.” And, because he is a considerate boyfriend (or horrible menace), he slows the rhythm of his hand up and down on Shane’s dick. Shane groans, biting his lip and looking at Ilya through his lashes. His hands fist themselves in Ilya’s shirt, clenching tight.
“Ilya, please–’m so close,” Shane pleads, slurring slightly. Ilya touches his nose to the corner of Shane’s jaw and drags it tantalizingly slowly down Shane’s neck, leaving a slick trail as he goes. Shane whines softly. It’s embarrassingly high-pitched.
“Mm, I do not think it will be long, moy lyubimyy,” he reassures Shane, his face scrunching up around his reddened, damp nose. He jams it against Shane’s collarbone, rubbing harshly. “snnff, so iihhh’tchy,” Ilya complains into the top of Shane’s tits, his free hand sneaking up under Shane’s shirt to knead at them.
“I…,” Ilya starts, then interrupts himself with a hitching breath, his chest pressing into Shane’s, “hh-HHHhhh!” and manages to tuck his face into the crook of Shane’s neck just before the sneezes start. “hh’ahISSHHHHuhh! uhhITSCHschew!...guh.” Ilya lets out a congested little sigh, waiting for the inevitable next sneeze. “hh’ITSCHOOO! ihh’djshhoooh! ahh, huh-ahhh? ahhASHhooo! tisch-isch-iiEYISHHHew! hhh’ATSCHHshiew!” Shane feels the force of each sneeze reverberate through him, followed a split-second later by the hot wetness against his skin. A breathless “ohmygod” spills from his lips, his fingers scrabbling at Ilya’s shirt because he’s so so fucking close, he wants to be good, but Ilya’s not done yet. “-ohh, tra’ahhh’khni menyaAASCHHHiew! hihh-ihh? ihhZZITSSCHHHhhh!! ah! …hah! hah–USSCHHOOOooo!” Shane flexes his calves, clenches his toes, presses them as hard as he can against the ground to try and not come.
“God bless you,” Shane sighs, too far gone to be embarrassed now.
“Thank you,” Ilya replies softly, looking chagrined, like he didn’t mean to take it that far. He sinks to his knees, taking the head of Shane’s cock into his mouth. “Come now,” he instructs, words garbled but recognizable. Shane, perforce, does. Ilya swallows, as usual, but he’s too congested; a dribble of Shane's come spills from the corner of his mouth.
Shane swipes his thumb over Ilya’s chin, cleaning Ilya up, and sticks his thumb into his mouth. He also produces a few more tissues from his pocket, handing them over to Ilya. Ilya takes them with a grateful smile and swipes them over his glistening philtrum before starting to blow his nose. Shane’s dick gives a half-hearted throb in response, which he’s both pleased and frustrated by. While Ilya tends to his nose, Shane gets himself squared away.
“Ready to go back?” Ilya asks, voice sounding thick.
Shane rests his head against Ilya’s shoulder and Ilya hugs him tightly. “Yeah, I guess.”
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They slide back into the booth, faces neutral. “Small panic attack,” Ilya informs Yuna and David, rubbing a hand over Shane’s back. “All good now.”
It’s only a few minutes after that when Ilya puts his knife and fork down, raising cupped hands to his face. “ngt’CHshh! khh’TSCHhuh!” He tilts his head back a few degrees, waiting for the third sneeze. “...ehh’TISCHhmmmff!”
“Oh, bless you, honey!” Yuna says with feeling.
Shane doesn’t say anything, but he passes Ilya a tissue and tucks an errant curl behind the shell of his boyfriend’s ear.
Working on some requests this week, but here’s a little short one of my baby boy Shane with a dust allergy and a broken finger.
——
“‘tchiew!”
Ilya was heading towards the bedroom when he heard a breathy little sneeze from Shane.
“-shhiew!”
Hm. So far it hadn’t seemed like his allergies were bothering him today. Was he coming down with something?
“hy’ISSHhew!”
Ilya frowned at the sound of the stronger sneeze. When he came in the room, Shane was by their bookshelf, holding a feather duster in one hand and a balled-up tissue in the other. Ilya could see the dust particles floating in the air from his spot by the door. Shane gasped and smushed his nose into the tissue. “ahh’YISHhew!” He wiped at his eyes with the hand that had his finger in a splint.
“Bud’ zdorov. Izvini,” Ilya apologized when Shane startled, making the feather duster quiver - and release more particles into the air. “Shane, what are you doing?”
Shane turned to the side. “-ishhew! snf. This bookshelf is so dusty.” He sniffled and rubbed his nose with his tissue, then tossed it and grabbed for another. “It needs to be cleaned.”
Four days ago, while playing against Carolina, a deflected puck had hit Shane in the hand and broken his index finger. He was expected to miss three more weeks, and he was buzzing with restlessness and anxiety while sidelined. This morning alone, he had gone for his customary six-mile run, made his breakfast smoothie, chopped veggies for lunch and prepped a tofu marinade for dinner (his, not Ilya’s), and done two loads of laundry - all well before 9am. Ilya hadn’t even woken up until 10.
Ilya put a hand to Shane’s shoulder. “You need to stop, honey. You are so allergic.”
Shane opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, then opened it again. “I know. I just need to do something,” he said, the weary frustration in his voice palpable. He gave a pitiful sniffle and ducked his nose back into the tissue to blow quietly.
Ilya put a hand on his back, stroking gently as he blew. “You have done plenty today, sweetheart. Come relax a little.”
“I…” Shane sighed and ran his uninjured hand over his face. Ilya knew what he wanted to say: I can’t. I have to be productive. I have to get things done. Because if I can’t, then who am I?
“It’s all right,” Ilya said. “I know you are not happy but maybe we can do something nice together? Watch a movie, get something for lunch—”
“I already made lunch,” Shane said, then accepted the tissues Ilya handed him when his breath started to hitch again. “hy’ishhyew! hy’YISHhhew!”
“Bud’ zdorov. I know.” Ilya paused for a moment, trying to think of a solution, then took Shane into his arms instead. “I am sorry,” he said next to Shane’s ear, feeling him sigh against his neck.
“Out because of a little fucking broken finger. -snf- I feel so useless.”
“Well, you do need fingers to hold your stick,” Ilya reasoned. “Is important to take care of it.” Shane gave a grumble of discontent and tightened his arms around Ilya’s back, then hissed and released his injured hand. “Fuck.”
“Does it hurt?”
Shane nodded against Ilya’s shoulder.
“Bednyazhka. You need more ice. And some kisses.” Ilya grabbed Shane’s face and started peppering him with kisses, Shane laughing as Ilya pecked at his forehead, his freckled cheeks, his cute little nose. “Waiiiiht…!” He stepped out of Ilya’s hold and held the tissue he’d been clutching to his nose. “tschieww! izschhhew! -shoo! -shoo! Ugh, excuse me,” he said, completing the small fit with another soft blow. Ilya wanted to put him in his pocket.
“God bless you. Come, let’s get you some medication to stop this sneezing. And then we can find something fun for us to do.”
“Thank you, Ilya.” He smiled as Ilya brushed a tear from his eye, then scowled down at his bandage. “Stupid finger.”
Ilya touched Shane’s affected hand, very gently, rubbing at the back of it with his thumb. “Hey, don’t be so mean to this poor finger. I love this finger. It is very skilled.”
Shane grinned and raised an eyebrow. “-snf- You mean at hockey, or at—”
