Average dude with an affinity for sneezing and sickness (kink blog) | 25-30 | She/her | very bisexual | my fics are tagged as Aa writes | pls no minors, it’s weird y’all
ok, sooo I have been writing this one on and off since like february, as my lil self-indulgent background piece, and I thought it should finally see the light of day. it's very overtly snzkink s/hane, especially the second part, so if that's not your vibe, I would maybe skip these (lol skip). I wanted to play with the whole text based relationship thing, and I originally wrote out a lot more of i/lya's update texts but then cut them bc it was kinda tedious to read, by which I mean I actually fell asleep proofreading it. anywayyy, here's part one.
I hope you enjoy! ♡
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 5.1k
cw: sneezing, snz kink, general illness, mentions of contagion
Shane ran his thumb back and forth across the bottom of his phone, staring at Ilya's contact, debating calling. He had only a few minutes before he'd need to head into the arena for the game and he would really like his anxiety level by then to be about half of what it was now.
When they'd spoken last night, Ilya had mentioned having a pretty bad headache, half his face scrunched up against the dim light of the lamp he seemed to have turned on only to talk to Shane, two fingers rubbing incessantly at his temples. He'd been sniffly too, although he was almost always at least a little sniffly, and it hadn't taken either of them very long to connect the dots to a flu that was making the rounds in their conference, principally because of the fact that a good quarter of the Centaurs were currently out with it.
So the fact that Shane couldn't get him to reply to a text currently was more than a little worrying. The last three texts he'd sent- “Ilya. Ilyaa. ILYA.”- had been more than 30 minutes ago, and the blond hadn't so much as read them.
Shane glanced over his shoulder into the back of the car, checking he had everything he'd need this evening. Nope, clearly he didn't because there wasn't a gorgeous blond Russian man curled up asleep there. Not that he’d feel particularly good about leaving his probably sick boyfriend in the fucking car while he amused himself on the ice for a few hours. Which is what this game would be, amus-
The phone buzzing in his hand came as such a shock that he almost dropped it, head whipping back to the device to read the notification.
LILY: whatttttt
LILY: I am alive
He sighed in relief, double checking the time before typing out a quick response.
YOU: Ok good. Stay that way. I love you. Keep me updated on how you’re doing, please.
And then with a click, the phone was off, and he was hopping out of the car to grab his bags, the pre-game adrenaline already starting to flood into his system. Kit? Check. Boyfriend? Alive. Win? Incoming.
…
He didn’t get a chance to check his phone again until after warm-ups, having been the mostly unwilling mediator in a stupidly heated debate about if it would be better to be reincarnated as a hockey puck or a stick. These guys seriously had too many concussions under their belts.
Despite the extended departure from his phone, it hadn’t been that long, and Shane was borderline alarmed to find he had more text messages than his lock screen would provide a specific number for, having resorted to a simple “10+”.
He unlocked the device, scrolling through to see a plethora of short messages from Ilya.
LILY: i love you toooo
LILY: update- doing ok
LILY: update- still doing ok
LILY: update- drinking water
LILY: update-lost fucking tv remotw
LILY: update- found
And so on. For over 30 messages. Some of them Shane couldn’t decipher however, either due to misspellings or Romanized versions of Russian words that he couldn’t quite translate. One however, appeared many times over.
LILY: update- chikh
LILY: update- stolko chikhhhh
Shane frowned.
YOU: I’m glad you’re okay. What is ‘chikh’?
Ilya read the text immediately.
LILY: timing is crazy. you are psychic?
LILY: is like spxhhi
What the fuck did that mean?
“Hollander! He’s making the stupid tape point again, you gotta come tell him he’s wrong!” Fuck.
With an anxious glance back to the still bouncing ‘typing’ bubbles, Shane tossed his phone back into his stall and returned to his captain duties.
…
He hadn’t had a spare second to consider what the last messages had meant in the whole of the first period, their opponents coming out strong and not letting up the entire time. A stupid fight had left them shorthanded, and Shane was so focused on not letting the disadvantage tip the score, that he’d forgotten all about his boyfriend’s ‘condition’ until he was lining up for a face off, flying high off the relief of a goal.
His stick clicked against the ice, and he kept his eyes down, uninterested in meeting the opposing center’s fiery hot gaze. Before the puck could drop, he heard Hayden, off to his left, say, “The fuck are you doing, dude?”, and then a sound that snapped his attention across to the wing.
“hEh…Kkf- hUhTNGKk! hhUh…hHTNGXhoo!”
It seemed that the illness that had the Centaurs flat on their backs was also running rife through the Raiders. So it would have gotten Ilya even if he hadn’t move- Oh, fuck, Ilya! He was watching, probably, although how much of the actual game he was taking in with the distraction of his symptoms was anyone’s guess. And the symptoms themselves, echoing through his empty house, no one to acknowledge them, acknowledge him… it was a tragic mental image. Or at least that was what he was forcing himself to think. Because he’d give anything to be a fly on the wall in that house right about-
Head still tilted to the left, eyes distant, stick hovering nowhere particularly useful, Shane, unsurprisingly lost the face-off. Fucking-
He turned fast, sharp, anger and embarrassment creating a flush high on his cheeks, ready to give chase. Thankfully, the defense had closed ranks behind him, and, with their right winger still flagging, Boston had lost possession.
After thirty seconds of what was essentially just keep-away, and Shane glaring hard at the puck, and the players around him, and trying to stay focused, he was heading back to the bench, turning to Hayden as they sat down, seeing the frown on the winger’s face.
“Sorry.” He muttered.
“Huh?” Pike looked like he’d been pulled from deep thought, “For what?”
“I fucked up the puck drop.” He confessed, shocked that the alternate captain hadn’t already picked him up on it.
Hayden reached for the nearest bottle, skying the liquid into his mouth as he stared absently at the jumbotron, swallowing before responding, “It’s no big deal, we can’t win ‘em all, right?”
“…right.” He doubted that he’d take the same attitude to the game itself, so he needed to get it together. They all did. For the love of fuck, Coach had better yell some sense into them at intermission, or they’d be losing to a team of invalids who would probably pass along this flu for their trouble.
…
Trudging into the locker room at what barely remained a 1-1 draw, Shane felt his heart rate pick up, knowing he’d get to answer those questions that had been building up in his mind ever since he’d lost half his focus to his boyfriend just over halfway through the period. Nowhere near the ice and still stealing his attention. Remind him not to tell Ilya that when he saw him.
“He literally sneezed like, right in my face, I mean, can you believe that?” Hayden was still complaining as they made it to their stalls.
“Yeah- or, no, that’s wild.” The captain was more focused on retrieving his phone and checking for updates, stripping off the unnecessary layers one handed as he unlocked it.
“I think that counts as biological warfare, for real. I hate that dude. I think I’m starting to get the way you feel about Rozanov.”
“What?” He looked up, having been just about to click on the aforementioned player’s contact when his name was voiced.
Pike looked slightly taken aback by the speed with which he’d met his eyes. Well, he wasn’t exactly known for his love of eye contact at the best of times. He actually couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked into Hayden’s. “I’m just saying, who does that? Like yeah, he looked really pathetic about it afterwards, but like, cover your face, man. I almost feel sorry for him, but instead it’s just like pure…hatred.”
“Yeah.” You keep telling yourself that, buddy.
As Hayden considered his ‘hate’ for the opposing winger more quietly, Shane finally opened the message thread, and started back up where he’d left off.
LILY: I type wrong
LILY: still chikh
LILY: can not see
LILY: *apchhi
LILY: apchhi! apchhi! you know?
LILY: you know bc I do all fucking summer
Shane’s eyes went wide.
“You okay, man?” Hayden nudged him, lightly, but Shane almost dropped his phone all the same.
“Yeah, I- sorry, I have to take a call.” He headed out into the hallway, eyes skimming back over the messages. No way Ilya was…live texting him his fucking sneezes?
…
It had taken him a good minute to get his breathing under control enough to hit call on the contact and even as it rang, he found himself leaning back against the wall of the corridor to try and stop his head from spinning.
“Hello?” Ilya’s voice was destroyed, so muffled and broken that it sounded like the phone line was bad. Which it wasn’t because he could hear the TV playing commercials in perfect clarity in the background.
“Hi. I uh, just finished the first period.” He knows that, dumbass, he’s watching the game.
“I know.”
“Some of the stuff you were saying, I couldn’t understand it, so I just wanted to call and check you’re okay.”
“I am good. What couldn’t you understand?” He broke off to cough throatily away from the receiver.
“The um-” It was slightly easier, saying it in a different language, if he was saying what he thought he was saying, that was. “-the ‘chick’ thing?”
“Oh, chikh. I explain already, Shane, is like- wait. I will do for you.”
He would fucking WHAT?
There was a snorting sound on the other end of the line, and then some kind of soft tapping noise. Shane waited silently, breath baited.
“hH-here I go-hKk! Kkh! hHKSH! KKh! hKSHuH! hrRSH! HRSHH! hhAHSHhOo!”
“Bless you.” He whispered, pressing his back against the wall in the corridor as though he could disappear into it, stomach flipping so intensely he worried it would get caught in his ribs somehow. Why did the idea of Ilya doing…that… on purpose make him feel like he was about to pass out?
“Thank you. How you not understand, though? I spell it out and everything.”
“You said ‘apchi’. That’s not a sneeze.” He hissed. If he framed it like an argument, he could ignore the words coming out of his mouth, right?
“What is it in English then?” Ilya sounded less than bothered, vaguely interested but also like his real focus was elsewhere.
Shane clenched his jaw, heartbeat thudding in his ears at the thought of having to verbalise the stupid sound, “It’s like… it’s like ‘achoo’.” He wished for the ground to open up and swallow him.
“What? Who the fuck says ‘a-choo’? That’s stupid.”
“You literally did five seconds ago.”
“No, I didn’t.” He paused, evidently playing back the sounds he’d just made, in his head before conceding. “Is because I spend so long listening to idiot Americans and Canadians doing this, now I sound like idiot too.”
“Fuck off.” Shane pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to get his thoughts and his heartbeat and his dick under control. The idea of the sound of a sneeze being contagious… he could only hope Ilya hadn’t caught that strangled sounding thing that he’d just heard from their winger. “I have to go now.”
“Okay, I keep you updated.” There was a clear smile in his tone, and it did nothing to help the snowballing panic that was overwhelming the Canadian. Ilya was taking over his fucking brain, and he needed that to play. Not everyone did, clearly, but for him hockey was a mind game, which kind of necessitated showing up with your mind there in your skull and not over a hundred kilometres away with its metaphorical dick out, laser focused on your secret, sickly, so so sexy, boyfriend.
He’d walked about five steps down the corridor when his ringtone rang out again.
LILY: update- finish tissue box
Oh, god, this was actually going to be the death of him.
…
During one of the previous flu outbreaks in the league, the Metros had started a policy where they’d take all the players temperatures before they hit the ice; warmup, first period, second, third, like clockwork, and Shane was exceedingly glad that they weren’t doing that now- not that they’d ever actually scratched anyone based on the results- because he was full of a fire that was part anger part lust, and that had beads of sweat rolling down his face before he even had his gear all the way back on.
He considered the feeling while benched between shifts, the furnace-like heat in his chest, making every breath feel hot enough to start melting the ice- he was almost sure he could feel his mouthguard turning soft and pliable between his teeth- and then that tightening feeling slightly higher up than the fire, like a rope being pulled taught, like at the slightest slash of a blade, it would snap. And he wasn’t sure what snapping would involve, but it would almost definitely end with him in the penalty box or back in the dressing room, regretting the entire night.
On autopilot, he stood as the receding line approached the bench, vaulting the boards and hunting down the puck, focused, ruthless, ready. He took possession, finding Pike and passing to free himself of the three Raiders who’d immediately descended upon him the second his skates hit the ice- clearly their intermission speech had involved the instruction ‘stay on Hollander’- trying to find space to receive it back.
Before he could make the pass, Hayden disappeared into a sea of white and gold as the puck got trapped against the boards. Shane joined the mass of players, trying to get eyes on the puck, and his winger, whom he couldn’t actually see among the taller Raider players.
Normally he’d leave this stupidity to happen on the other side of the ice, while he found a nice open area, ready to receive or intercept depending on who came out in possession, but right now he could not be left alone with his thoughts for the amount of time that that might take. So here he was.
His thoughts, as he realised belatedly, one weak swipe in the puck’s direction in, did not wait politely outside of the huddle, they clung to him with sharp, spiteful grips, and at the slightest invitation, would most certainly be taking back over his mind. He was surrounded by Raiders, and, right as the group shifted, and his balance was thrown, pressing him against the player to his left, said player sniffled pretty urgently and muttered a curse word in what definitely sounded like Russian. And even though he knew it wasn’t Ilya, and he could have turned to stare into the idiot’s face to confirm that, had he so wished, he froze, a shiver running down his spine, mouth going dry and gaze going distant as his mind ran away with him for a moment- Ilya draped over his back like a blanket, sniffling in his ear while he made lunch for the two of them, Ilya trying to speak through his typical early morning fit and cursing his nose out as it interrupted him, Ilya pressed against him in a hotel elevator, heat radiating off of him as he breathed noisily through his mouth, accent tinting each exhale-
The puck was freed. The puck had been freed somewhere close to four full seconds ago, and here Shane still was, staring at his own reflection in the glass, seeing someone entirely different. Once again cursing his own imagination, and his lack of concept of time passing, he spun, barely a millisecond behind the player ahead of him, but several crucial seconds behind the one in possession, opting to sprint rather than bother to push off and try to pick up speed, making it out to center ice just in time to see the flash of a stick and the crack of impact and then be promptly deafened by the goal horn. Fucking great work.
Shane never noticed it before, but the sound effect that played in the Metro’s arena when the opposing team scored had this ‘ding’ to it that kind of sounded like a phone notification. Like his phone notification. And as he was skating back to the bench, face blank, head down, all he was thinking about was his phone lighting up over and over in his bag in the locker room with notifications of every single development in his boyfriend’s illness. Every cough, every noseblow, every sneeze. He felt like he was visibly flinching every time the sound repeated, because it was definitely making his heart skip a beat each time. How quickly was it possible to become conditioned by a noise? He was pretty sure he had either just broken a record or at the very least tied that dog with the fucking bell. At least the dog actually got its food, while he was just imagining the reward- there was definitely something seriously wrong with getting gratification from your boyfriend’s flu symptoms right?
“Hey, game’s not over yet.” JJ clapped him on the back as he passed by.
In lieu of responding ‘get your fucking hands off me, I’m too fucking riled up to deal with this shit’. Shane nodded silently, following him through the door and slumping down on the bench, pretending not to notice how that impact felt as it jarred through him.
The jumbotron, which he’d glanced up at as a distraction, kindly displayed a shot of the opposing bench, players grinning and banging their sticks against the boards, and on the edge of frame, a player with his head down, apparently emptying his sinuses into a towel, glancing up, massaging his nose, and flushing when he saw himself on the screen.
Shane swallowed dryly, gratefully accepting the water bottle as it came his way and taking several gulps as though it would cleanse him of the endless temptation towards distraction that this game had apparently decided to present.
…
Period two had stayed 2-1, both teams starting to flag slightly, the Raiders, it seemed, out of pure exhaustion, and the Metros falling apart as their first line went to pieces for no apparent reason. Shane had made his way back to the locker room with his head down, not even attempting to offer the rest of the team any words of encouragement, because deep down, he knew he was the problem. Or, one of them at least. Pike was inexplicably all over the place, too, missing passes, and almost falling face first over the boards as he hopped over for one shift, not to mention the attempt to pull Drapeau that had seen the goaltender head halfway to the bench and then immediately have to sprint- or as close as he could get to it- back to the crease to field away a shot.
Shane, against his better instincts, dropped down into his stall and unlocked his phone. Maybe if he could just check what Ilya had said, he wouldn’t spend the entire time thinking about it, right? He’d know for sure, and then he could stop imagining things.
The latest two (or really three) messages, though, stopped him in his tracks.
LILY: Voice message. 00:41
LILY: did not mean send that 🫵
LILY: *👍
What the fuck could be in this voice note? Oh, this was a hundred times worse than just not knowing what the texts said. He wasn’t about to pull out his headphones and listen to what very well might be actual fucking audio porn in the middle of the damn locker room. But there was… another option…
Unconsciously gritting his teeth as though the button had a fifty-fifty chance of exploding the entire planet, Shane clicked ‘view transcription’.
0:05 stop
0:08 [Music]
0:13 harsh
0:14 [Music]
0:15 fight it
0:16 his shoe
0:22 oh wait
0:24 Shane
0:25 I do not mean to do this
0:27 what the fuck is
0:32 okay I don’t know what it is doing
0:34 how do I delete
0:36 ha I send you this as update
0:39 so you know what I am doing
0:41 okay love you miss you bye
An accidental voice note, then, so it wouldn’t necessarily be too…salacious. But his eyes were drawn to the notation at 16 seconds, reading it over and over in his mind, considering how it sounded…
“Hollz.” The voice in his ear was unexpectedly quiet, and he looked up into Hayden’s wide, focused eyes. “Is everything alright?”
“Uh-” Shane struggled to adjust to the conversation, feeling like the untoward thoughts in his brain were visible in his eyes, audible at the close distance, obvious to anyone who even glanced his way. But no one knew. No one knew what this was. What he was. “-yeah.”
“You sure, bud? You look pretty stricken there, and you have every time you’ve touched your phone tonight. Is someone in your family sick or something?”
What a fucking question Hay’. Yeah, he considered Ilya a part of his family now, even if it wasn’t something that he could really declare to anyone beyond the man himself, and his own parents, and yes he was sick, but… “It’s kinda complicated.”
“Okay, well you know, if there’s anything you need, or you wanna talk about it…”
“Thanks.” He was standing before he’d even really processed the desire to leave. “I’ll be back.”
Hayden nodded, with this disquieting look of ‘understanding’ on his face. Shane grabbed his headphones from his bag and walked quickly towards the door. He’d made it a single step into the corridor when he heard JJ’s voice from behind him,
“Where the fuck is the capitaine running off to again? We are falling apart here, people!”
And Pike’s response, “Shut the fuck up Boiziau.”
…
Shane was fumbling the earbuds into his ears before he’d even shut the door of the bathroom stall, fingers hovering over the play button the moment he’d realised he was alone, breath coming in embarrassingly urgent little puffs as the various combatant feelings within him swelled to a crescendo, heart thumping so loudly in his ears he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear whatever this turned out to be.
He slammed the bolt across, leaning against the wall and not even bothering to try and calm himself down this time- he had like no time at all before he’d have to be back out there, and he needed every single second of that time for calming himself down AFTER he’d listened to it.
With a final strangled-sounding attempt at a deep breath, his thumb came down on the screen and his ears were filled with static. And then-
“hKk! Kkh! KSH!” Oh this was exactly what he’d hoped and dreaded it would be.
“Stop.” Ilya pleaded with, apparently himself, in the recording, to no avail, “hKSH! KSHH! hhih… hKSH! hh… hhAHSHh! KSH! KXSH! hRSHH! Khvatit. Ple-hihh… hhIHSHOo!”
Shane shuddered, the sweat-drenched material of his compression shirt sticking to the tiled wall he was leaning against, almost holding him up. Ilya panted, loud and unrestrained in his ears, catching his breath. The Canadian shut his eyes, imagined the blond’s head pressed against his chest as he recovered, pressed his hand there just to make it feel a tiny bit more real.
“Oh, wait.”
He let his hand drop again, pressing his damp palm against the cool tile, trying to regulate his body temperature a little.
“Shane?”
The brunet pretended that his heart hadn’t just ejected itself from his chest to sit disobediently in his mouth, leaving an aching, unappeasable pit of desire in its place, at the sound of his name. God, he couldn’t last another second without him, right now. He couldn’t play without him, couldn’t live without him, couldn’t- apparently he couldn’t stand without him either, as his legs crumpled beneath him and he fell to his knees on the floor, eyes opening to stare up into that unyielding gaze, that stony expression that so poorly hid his boyfriend’s adoration for him now that he’d seen it fall so many times, that face, of the man he loved. And he saw only ceiling tiles, harsh lighting, the cold empty walls of the room he’d locked himself in to let down walls of his own. The prison of his own making.
“I do not mean to do this.” Ilya inadvertently apologised for the false hope the audio had given his boyfriend, brow somehow audibly furrowed as his voice got closer to the phone.
“What the fuck is-?” He was silent for a moment and then, “Okay, I don’t know what it is doing. How do I delete?”
More silence, and then, in stark contrast, giggling. “I send you this as update-” He broke off laughing again, the sound wheezing faintly in his chest as he struggled for breath, “-so you know what I am doing.” His voice was playful, but there was nothing lucid about it.
“Okayyy.” Ilya stretched the word out long, like they were on the phone and he didn’t want to be the one to hang up. Shane told himself that the sheen over his eyes was from staring into the ceiling lights, and blinked it away. “Loveyoumissyoubye!” He half-yelled, all as one word, and then there was a slight popping sound and the audio came to an end.
Shane took a shaky breath in, checked how much time he had left, and started to respond.
YOU: Bless you. The voice note was cute, even if it was an accident.
YOU: Do you know if you have a fever?
And then he typed, and promptly deleted, ‘I want to leave the arena right now and drive straight to Ottawa. I want to fucking hold you, I want to fucking fuck you, I want to devour you.’ He swallowed, watching the letters disappear again. No, there was definitely a less aggressive way to say that.
YOU: I love and miss you too.
…
The next hour had passed so quickly, he wasn’t sure it had happened at all, a blur of adrenaline and ice and yelling, and drinking unthinkable amounts of electrolytes as though that would help the time pass quicker, and staring at the clock, and scoring- nice- and then back to a blur again.
Shane took his post game interview- shot from the collarbones up essentially- rhythmically clenching his gloved hands into fists and then flexing them all the way out again, out of sight of the camera, while he gave some pointless answers that really could have been supplied by any of the other players’ kids just as well as they were by the captain.
“What the fuck did he ask you?” Pike had called after him as he’d walked in, already half stripped down, sorted his gear from his jersey and his compression clothes at an eyebrow raising speed- or so he gathered from the look on the winger’s face as he turned- and headed straight for the showers.
“The usual shit!” He’d yelled back, clearly not answering the underlying question- ‘why are you so pissed off?’ and throwing himself under the nearest free jet of water.
Having deftly dodged all other responsibilities for the night, he was now speedwalking out of the building, and navigating to Ilya’s contact, heart rate picking up again at the realisation that he’d made it, he was free from the purgatory of a game that he really should have been enjoying, and now he was-
“H’lo?”
“I’m coming to see you.” He delivered the words forcefully, no room for argument.
“Bless you.” This response was softer, spoken more closely to the receiver, and his fast pace across the parking lot faltered too, mental resolve weakened by the audio display of weakened physical resolve he’d been presented with.
“Thank you.” A thud.
“Are you okay?”
Ilya moaned. “Remote fell. I think I sleep through end of game.”
“Did I wake you?” He was fumbling for his keys, trying to force himself to visualise the inside of his bag pockets rather than the sweet, sleepy expression that was probably gracing his boyfriend’s face right now.
“Yeah.” The Russian’s voice broke on the single word, and he broke off coughing, not moving away from the phone, though Shane could hear him shifting his position on the couch.
He finally managed to find his keys and unlocked the car, jogging the final few steps, opening the back passenger side door and shoving his bag in before slamming it shut again and rounding the vehicle towards the driver’s side like he was trying to outrun a hoard of zombies. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to let you know I was on my way.”
“’S good.” The blond was whispering now, whether because his throat hurt, his voice was gone entirely, or he was simply too tired to make any effort to speak louder, Shane couldn’t discern. “I look forward to meeting you.”
“What?” When he was really out of it, but still coherent enough to retain some English, he’d noticed that his boyfriend seemed to revert to textbook phrasing, sentences he’d probably had drilled in before anything else, and they’d stuck. That was his theory for the overly formal blessing habit, too. And he wouldn’t change that for the world, no matter what it did to him.
“Love you.” Ilya continued, “Have a driving license.” From the tone he could only assume he meant something along the lines of ‘have a safe drive’ , but the first collocation that had come to mind for ‘driving’ was ‘license’. The man really was full of linguistic phenomena.
“L-” He began to reply, only to be abruptly cut off.
“hKk! KKh! hKSH! Kkh! hKSHUh! hKSHooh!” Cutee, why was there no ‘record’ button on phone calls for moments like this? He could have gotten weeks of teasing out of this clip, and months of… other amusement. “hhiHKSHh! KSHUh! huAHSXHh-ugh.”
“Bless you.” He winced slightly at the sound of that last one, “Love you. See you later.”
“Loooove you.” Ilya coughed, what sounded like the start of a whole fit, but put the phone down before he could hear it get to that point.
Ah, yes, also he was very much full of the flu. Linguistic phenomena, adoration for Shane, apparently, and the flu, that was most of what made up Ilya Rozanov right now. And his boyfriend, though it made his gut twist with guilt, couldn’t imagine a better combination.
I've been swamped lately but have scribbled a bit of fic on scratch paper between experiments. Now I just have to find the papers so I can type them up 🥸
I've been swamped lately but have scribbled a bit of fic on scratch paper between experiments. Now I just have to find the papers so I can type them up 🥸
Random thought, but since c//onnor did clowning do y'all think he'd do a good like. Kinda silly but realistically acted buildup. Idk I could just see him really hamming it up. If you're into that kinda thing lol.
10.3k includes sick ilya, concerned centaurs & caretaker shane
August 7th, 2025
Friday morning
Ilya was currently standing at the entrance of the Hollander-Rozanov household, attempting to delay the inevitable. He was excited for the hike, he really was. He didn't prepare for how hard it would be to say goodbye to his Shane for three days. He also didn't prepare for Shane to buy him a 3-pack of cargo shorts for the hike. He looked like someone's father at Disney.
"Alright, you got everything?" Shane asked, adjusting the straps on Ilya's backpack as if he were Ilya's mother.
Ilya nodded. "Got everything."
Shane continued to pretend to fix Ilya's shirt, also delaying the inevitable. They hadn't slept without each other for a while now. "Okay. You'll be fine. Remember what I said? Keep your eyes —"
"— on the ground, I know. I won't fall, Shane," Ilya grinned, leaning to plant a kiss on Shane's cheek. "Fuck, I'll miss you. Shane. Oh my god. Maybe I should stay."
Shane let a laugh slip, his cheeks warming. "Nooo, I've already made a ton of plans for my me time.."
Ilya feigned a look of sadness, his hand going to his heart. "Oh, wow. Okey. Okey. You have fun with your other men."
Shane snickered, rolling his eyes. "You're the one leaving me for other men, don't get this twisted."
Ilya pursued his lips, pulling at Shane's earlobes gently. "Ehh, no. You're the one who insisted I join them."
Shane smiled, sniffling a little. "It'll be fun! Okay, go on. I'm sure Troy will be here any minute, right?"
Ilya stood still and whined, squishing Shane's bicep. "What if your cold comes back? Who will look after you? Not Anya.. I should stay."
Shane let out an amused breath through his nose. "I'm all better now. I promise. You've been looking after me all week, you need a break."
"Okey," Ilya mumbled, wetting his lips. "Fine, fine. I go. Don't miss me too much, yes?"
Ilya jumped at a car honking outside, indicating that Troy was here to pick him up. Ilya frowned, holding the straps of his backpack as a little attempt to ground himself.
"I'll see you on Sunday, okay?"
Ilya nodded, giving Shane a soft kiss to his awaiting lips. "Okey.. bye. I love you. I'll miss you."
Shane smiled, his eyes creasing as he did. "I love you. Go have fun."
Ilya gave Shane one more kiss before turning and walking down the little pathway to their house. Lo and behold, Troy was waiting at the foot of their driveway in his black Camaro V8.
Troy rolled down his window as he saw Ilya approaching, leaning on his steering wheel to give Ilya a wave. Ilya stepped up to the passenger side, plopping himself down on the expensive leather seat.
"That backpack looks way too small to be carrying a tent and sleeping bag," Troy greeted with a little smile, grabbing Ilya's bag for him and tossing it on his back seat.
"Shane got vacuum sealer for Christmas last year," Ilya said, pulling his seat a little forward. Whoever sat there last must have had enormous legs. "From his mother."
"Of course he did." Troy started up his engine, skipping his usual acceleration roar. He didn't want to frighten Anya inside.
"Whoooo," Ilya howled out a breath as the car sped down their foresty driveway. "Fucking beast. Would look better in orange, though."
Troy grimaced as he drove, eyeing the little GPS he had up on his phone that was fixed onto the windshield. "Said no one ever."
"Said by me, just now." Ilya smiled at Troy, glancing back out the window. "We are picking up others or what? You are taxi driver now?"
Troy's expression remained blank as he took a moment to eye Ilya. "You haven't read the group chat, have you?"
Ilya blew out a breath. "Yes, I looked. We climb multiple mountains and camp."
Troy grinned a little, approaching the first signs of humanity as multiple buildings passed instead of trees. "Well, yeah. The guys are all going to meet us there. Which you would have known if you had read our texts."
"Mm," Ilya raised his brows with an unenthusiastic nod. "Had a busy week, leave me alone."
Troy breathed out a laugh, checking the GPS route. Bood had booked them in for a three-day hike-camp at Jacques Cartier National Park. Ilya had never been, nor had Troy. Bood insisted that they all go together for some 'team bonding time.'
Ilya felt his lips curl as Troy turned up the music that he didn't even notice was playing. His head had been bopping along to it subconsciously. Ilya eyed Troy's phone, reading its title. Doschitai by Locked Club.
"We are going to club or what?" Ilya said, making his head move more dramatically. "Better than Wyatt's music, maybe."
Troy scrunched up his face, coming to a stoplight. "Just wanted to up the vibes! Assumed you wouldn't be too excited to go hiking, city boy."
"Whaaaat?" Ilya gawked at Troy, shaking his head. "Am no city boy! Hiking is shallow water for me."
Troy let out a laugh as he drove, keeping his eyes on the road. "Alright man. I'll believe it when I see it."
—
After 30 more minutes of driving and techno music, Ilya and Troy finally made it to the site.
"Arrêt!" Ilya called, pointing to the red sign right by the entrance. "Alright! Yeah! That's what I'm talking about."
"That means stop, idiot, not 'alright'," Troy snickered, feeling equally as excited as they finally pulled into the parking lot. Troy spotted the guys before Ilya did thanks to their tanks of cars. Bood, Dykstra, Wyatt and Luca were all standing by two massive Jeeps, helping each other unload the trunks. Luca rode with Wyatt, and Bood drove Dykstra.
Troy pulled up opposite them into a free parking spot, smiling as he saw the group's faces light up as they caught sight of him and Ilya. Ilya was out of the car as soon as Troy parked, giving the guys some aggressive back pats.
"Are you ready to get your asses eaten by nature, gentlemen?" Ilya grinned, scruffing at Luca's hair. Troy got out of his car, giving handshakes after Ilya was done messing everyone up.
"Hey!" Dykstra shot back. "Says the guy who's wearing a pair of tourist shorts," he said, motioning to Ilya's cargo shorts.
Ilya's cheeks warmed as everyone but Luca began to cackle playfully at him. They were comfortable, okay? Shane had chosen the best for him. The material was nice and breathable, not too heavy and also waterproof. "Alright, okey. Laugh it up. I get it."
Bood patted Dykstra's back. "You got him with that one, man. Fuck."
"If I searched up 'hiker' on Getty Images, you would come up," Hayes added, making Dykstra start to cackle again.
"Oh my god, okey!" Ilya called, looking down at his outfit. Fine, maybe he did look a little bit too textbook. "What does it fucking matter?"
"Alright, leave him be," Bood grinned, patting Ilya's shoulder. "You look fine. We're practically decked out in the same shit, they're just acting like assholes because they're excited to hike."
"Aye, come help me!" Troy called to Ilya, popping open the trunk to get out their belongings for the hike.
"Yes, save me from the bullies. My hero." Ilya stepped over to Troy and his Camaro. Troy handed Ilya his backpack, waiting for Ilya to put it on before handing him another random bag. Ilya held the bag with one arm as he helped Troy get on his own backpack, making sure they were both secure.
Ilya stayed back with Luca as the four Canadians went to go talk to the information booth. Ilya tuned out the multiple conversations in French going on around him as he pointed out some beautiful mountains in the distance to Luca. This really was a beautiful sight. Bood always knew the best places.
"Okay," Bood's gravely voice rang out, slightly startling Ilya from his mountain viewing. "We're all set to go. You guys ready?"
"We're good," Luca said, walking to follow the four men. Ilya fell into step with them, looking at the map in Dykstra's hands.
"If you need a piss or whatever, I suggest you go now," Bood spoke to the group, pointing to the toilet stalls that were inside a weird little trailer.
"No, I'm good. I shit in Troy's car on the way," Ilya mumbled, keeping his expression serious to sell his joke.
Troy grimaced, shoving weakly at Ilya's shoulder. "You dirty dog. Shut the fuck up."
The group chuckled along as they continued walking, assuming nobody needed to go pee since nobody spoke up. Next to the trailer were two wooden statues. A mama moose and her baby in front.
"Ooh, we need a picture!" Bood spoke up, yet again. "This would look perfect for the gram. Group pic?"
The guys agreed, so naturally, Ilya did too.
Bood stepped off the pavement, holding up his iPhone. "Alright, everyone gather up. Make sure we can see the moose. Nice big smiles."
Ilya and Troy crouched in the centre; in front of the moose. Ilya's left arm went around Dykstra's shoulder, Troy's right arm on Haas. Dykstra grabbed Wyatt, all smiling for the photo. As soon as Ilya saw Bood take as many as he was satisfied with, he stepped up to him.
"Okey, I take your picture now. You go on the end. Harris edits them together, yes?" Ilya said, eyeing Troy for confirmation if his boyfriend would be able to do that. Troy nodded, making a thumbs-up on Luca's shoulder.
"That's a great idea! Thank you, man," Bood beamed, handing Ilya his phone. Bood crouched by Luca, slinging an arm over his shoulder.
"Yes, I have those sometimes," Ilya mumbled, holding up the phone to the group to take a picture. "Smile. Say 'we love Ilya!'"
There was a 5-second silence before everyone fell into a soft wave of laughter. Ilya took that opportunity to take the picture, smiling along with the group. Great. He got the perfect picture. "Beautiful. Our wives will cream their panties when they see."
A family of four walked past as Ilya said that. The mother covered her daughter's ears with a glare directed at Ilya, meanwhile, the father was grinning with a baby in his arms.
Troy snickered, coming to stand on the pavement to stretch out his legs from the crouched position, as did the rest of the guys. "Perv."
Bood took his phone back, swiping through the pictures with a smile. Hayes came over to pat Ilya's back. "A pity Shane couldn't make it. Heard he loves a hike."
Ilya nodded, pursing his lips with a little shrug. God, he was adopting all of Shane's mannerisms day by day. Maybe he will be fluent in loon by the time he's 40. "I know. He is so busy. Also recovering from cold, so. Thought it would be better for him to be home."
Bood nodded in agreement. "Maybe next time, yeah? This won't be our last group hike."
"Да, maybe," Ilya smiled at the thought of hiking with Shane. He'd probably get irked at the thought of sleeping in a crinkled-up sleeping bag. His brow would gain a wrinkle by day 2. Poor Shane.
"Okay, Ándale, ándale! ¡Arriba, arriba!" Wyatt clapped his hands, way too enthusiastically for 11 am. "Are we going straight to the campsite?"
Bood shook his head at Wyatt's words. "No, man. I was thinking we could get a feel for the area first, and then leave our stuff at the campsite. Nothing will get stolen, it's private property. We're paying customers."
Everyone mumbled their own agreements, following Bood as he went in the direction of the trail. Bood led them up the road that Troy and Ilya had entered, pointing at a sign to the right. "Chemin de la Vallée. Down here, okay? There's a cool river."
"Ooh, okay," Wyatt said, looking down the path as they turned the corner. The trees were enchanting at this time of the year. Each tree was a different shade of green, not one the same. It looked like something out of a painting. Ilya needed to go outside more. He was way too awestruck by some trees.
"No dogs," Ilya pointed to the little sign at the corner of the 'Le Belleau' sign that had a picture of a dog with a red cross on it. "Booooriiiiing. What did dogs ever do here to be banned?"
"They shit everywhere!" Dykstra said, nose scrunching. "I mean, fine, whatever, they're animals. Some people don't pick up after their dogs, though."
Luca hummed in agreement. Ilya frowned. "That's why poo bags exist. People are lazy. Canadians."
"Watch your mouth, boy," Troy mumbled in an exaggerated Canadian accent. "4 against 2."
"Heyyy, leave Haasy out of this," Ilya grinned, putting an arm around Luca. "You Canadians are mean. Is okey Luca, they won't hurt us."
Troy and Wyatt snickered, Bood was too busy looking at his map. Dykstra grinned at Ilya's words. Luca chuckled a little, looking down at his shoes as they walked.
"River upcoming," Bood announced, leading the group off the path and down the little hill past a little random shack.
The group followed Bood, padding along after him. Ilya scoffed as he eyed his surroundings. There was a sad little playground, two slides with some monkey bars. "Haasy, is perfect for you!"
Luca shook his head as he followed Dykstra to the lake. "Hilarious. I'm not a kid!"
"He's a little baby," Ilya said to Troy, walking to the playground. Wyatt ran past him and Troy, leaping on the monkey bars.
"Oh my god," Troy mumbled. "He's gonna fall and eat shit, watch."
"Behave!" Bood yelled to the three men, standing as he waited for them to join the rest of them to see the river.
Troy, Ilya and Wyatt snickered to themselves, padding away from the playground to join the group. The river was quite shallow, Ilya could see the floor of it from where he stood. Dykstra took off his shoes and socks, getting into the water. "Ooh, it's nice and cold. Come on, guys."
Bood was next to get in. Then Wyatt, Troy, and Ilya. The rocks felt a little slimy under Ilya's feet. Shane would have writhed at the sensation.
"Haasy? You scared?" Ilya chirped, keeping his tone lighthearted as he eyed Luca who was still on land, standing by everyone's shoes.
"Won't the fish bite?" he mumbled, eyeing the water.
Bood shook his head, walking over to where Ilya and Luca were talking. "C'mon, bud. All the fish are upstream."
Luca toed off his shoes at that, stepping into the shallow water. Ilya held out his arm, helping Luca adjust to the unexpected slipperiness. "No piranhas, yes? Breathe, kid."
Luca let out an amused breath through his nose, managing to walk more without Ilya's arm. "I gathered that, thank you, Ilya."
Ilya grinned, stepping over to the rest of the guys. He got out his phone to snap some photos to show Shane when he got home. The reflection of the trees in the water was absolutely entrancing. It danced with every movement from the ripples made by the men.
Ilya shook his head, pointing to everyone's rolled-up pants. "See? You all make fun of me. My cargo shorts will always win."
Dykstra snorted, cleaning his hands in the water. "You'll take that back when we're walking through the nettles later on. When the mosquitoes eat your calves."
Ilya furrowed his brow, swishing his feet around in the cold stream, opening his toes. "No, don't manifest that for me. No."
Troy splashed Dykstra a little. "There are no mosquitoes in Canada."
"Yes there are!" he shot back, eyeing the other guys for some backup.
"Alright, no one gives a fuck if there are or aren't," Bood spoke. "Campsite time? Less weight to carry."
There were multiple sounds of agreement. It wasn't fun carrying around your sleeping bag and tent, plus all the other little things that came with the tents.
—
Bood got them into the Le Grand-Duc campsite. The name sounded fancier than the actual plot of land. The site came with two toilet cubicles, a place to chop wood, and a river. And a warning sign of nearby bears.
Ilya set up his tent in under 30 minutes, walking around to help the others after he was finished. For some reason, Dykstra's tent needed the help of 4 grown men. The nails were refusing to stab into the soil. Bood had to be the one to jump on all of them for them to go in as the others held it up.
Ilya sat on the wooden benches as everyone's tents stood. He fished out the bottle of vodka he had secretly stuffed into his backpack without Shane's permission, popping open the cap with practised precision.
"You alcoholic," Troy chirped, coming to sit opposite Ilya. Bood was talking with Troy, and Dykstra was wandering the site with Wyatt.
Ilya grinned, pouring a little into Troy's flask without needing to be asked. "Cheers to dying on a random mountain."
"We're not dying." Troy clinked his flask to Ilya's bottle, taking a swig. Ilya took his swig, scrunching his face up at the swallow. Geez, that burned. That never normally burns. He's been drinking this stuff since he was practically a baby.
Troy gawked as if he just witnessed the Second Coming of Christ. "Did you just wince? Well well well.."
Ilya scrunched up his nose, trying to rid the burn. "Shut your face. Is strong vodka, don't act surprised."
"I have never seen you wince after drinking anything.. ever! Crazy. I didn't even wince."
Ilya made a little chatter hand motion, rolling his eyes. "Yup, I got it the first time. I winced, whatever. Big deal."
Troy smiled, shaking his head as he fished his phone out from his backpack. Nobody had service, so all they could do was take pictures. Ilya had luckily downloaded some mobile apps that required no internet.
He wasn't really interested in his phone right now though. His throat still felt tender from that one swig of vodka. Hm. He was getting old.
"Dang, it's already 4 pm," Troy mumbled, showing Ilya his home screen as if Ilya would doubt him.
Ilya raised his brows, rubbing his chin. "The day has gone by so fast. Well, not over yet."
"Y'all tired already?" Dykstra joined them on the bench, sitting next to Troy.
Troy shook his head, fixing his hair. "Nope. Are we going to see a trail today, or..?"
"Yeah. Bood's just waiting for everyone to be ready," Evan said, nodding over to Bood who was sitting in his tent with Luca and Wyatt.
"We better join them, then," Ilya stood, shaking off the wood chips from his cargo shorts.
—
Day one was the Les Loups Trail. Bood and Dykstra led the way, holding down the branches in the way for the team to get through. Luca loved pointing out each squirrel that trod through the path, snapping a picture of each one.
Ilya was giggling every single time Troy's foot slipped off a rock, which earned him a little swat on the arm each time. Wyatt was looking at the route on Pokémon Go, having to stop every 5 minutes to aggressively rub at his screen. Everyone minded their own business.
The top was beautiful. They got a group photo, managing to get everyone in one shot with the help of Bood's long arm. They all looked happy.
Ilya took some photos for Shane, capturing the water below, the trees, and the mountains in the distance. Fuck, he really needed some water. Ilya took off his backpack, getting out his water bottle. The water was a little lukewarm, but that was fine. It did nothing to quench the odd pain coming from his throat. His glands felt sore, almost.
Well, that wasn't ideal. Why was his throat closing up? He hadn't had a hay fever flare-up since he was 22.
Ilya continued without complaining. The group took the 4-hour retreat back to the campsite, occasionally laughing as someone tripped. Everyone's social batteries had definitely deflated throughout the afternoon. Bood murmured small encouragement every couple of minutes and that was it.
The sky was dark blue by the time they made it back to the campsite. Ilya's top lip had also gathered a hefty amount of moisture. His nose would not stop running.
Bood snapped a few pictures of everyone in their tents for Instagram, ignoring some tired groans of protest. Ilya had made himself into a human burrito with his sleeping bag by the time Bood came around to him. He jumped at the flash, closing his eyes at the intrusion.
"Whoops, sorry, Roz!" Bood laughed, putting his hands up in surrender. "Have a good sleep, alright bud?"
Ilya held back from producing a tired curse, instead, offering the same energy. "Is okay. You too."
Bood zipped up Ilya's tent. Ilya listened to the gravel crunching underneath the other man's sneakers as he padded away to his own tent no more than 10 feet away.
Lying on his side was making his runny nose worse. Lying on his back was making it all go back into his throat. Fuck.
Ilya sat up, freeing himself from his comfort burrito with a frown. He grabbed his backpack, rummaging through it for something, anything, to help stop his mucus from escaping. Thank god he still had some napkins in the side pocket from McDonald's.
He scrunched them in his fist, gently shoving the concoction into his right nostril. Now he could sleep peacefully.
—
Saturday morning
Ilya managed to get 4 hours of sleep. He kept alternating between staring at the blur of a far light through the material of his tent, listening to the crickets, reaching out to his left for Shane's vacant body, swiping at his nose, and falling asleep for an hour in between those things.
As morning came, he definitely knew his hay fever wasn't back for vengeance. His head felt packed with marshmallows. His body felt like one big bruise. His lymph nodes felt fatter than a happy dog. What the fuck had he managed to catch? He was fine this time yesterday.
If he thought logically, this could definitely be Shane's cold. Shane had forbidden him from kissing for the first two days, but the pair could never stay away. But.. Shane hadn't been this sick. Or had he? No. Shane would have been complaining if he felt as bad as Ilya currently felt, right?
Ilya stifled a groan, sitting himself up. The tissue that had helped stop the dam was now soaked all the way through with snot and on the floor of his tent. Fucking disgusting.
Ilya got himself into a clean pair of cargo shorts, shrugging on a hoodie he had packed just in case. Oh, sunglasses. Those might make him look less like a corpse. Thank god there were no mirrors around.
Ilya stumbled out of his tent, padding over to the wooden benches where Bood was enthusiastically pointing at the map under his fingers to a sleepy-looking Luca. Everyone else must be asleep.
"Mornin' cap!" Bood smiled at Ilya, sipping from a silver flask. Ilya offered his hand up, sitting himself at the bench. He leaned his head in his hand, eyeing the map.
"Okay! So!" Bood slapped the map, making Ilya visibly jump in his seat. "We're checking out the Le Scotora loop from RI route today. Moderate. 5 hours up and 5 hours down. Sound good?"
Ilya blinked, taking a full minute before he realised that the question was directed towards him. "Mmmyeah."
Bood gave him a funny look, eyeing Luca. "And you? Good route?"
Luca nodded, pawing at his eyes. "Yeah, no. Sorry. Tired. It's so early."
Bood chuckled at the pair. "It's only 8, c'mon. I can't believe the other guys are still sleeping. Yesterday's trail must have worn you all out."
Ilya hummed in agreement, grimacing at how it felt in his throat. "Maybe we do shorter trail t'day."
"Hmm," Bood looked down at his map, trailing his finger along his different highlighted routes. "Shit, how about the Les Érables trail? Sautauriski Bridge? That's only 4 hours up. 4 down."
Ilya gave a little nod, having no idea what that route was. All he knew was that he was really fucking tired.
Ilya padded back to his tent once Bood was making coffee. His eyelids felt like they weighed one million pounds. He got back into his burrito, only to rest his eyes. Yeah. Just for a minute.
Two hours passed before Ilya was awoken. Troy had unzipped his tent, gently tapping at his shoulder. "— oz? Roz? Ilya? We're going to check the trail out soon. You okay?"
Ilya's hand came up to cover his eyes from the light. He had two options. Option one = surrender. Tell Troy how bad he felt, and stay back and rest some more. Option two = endure. Don't disappoint Bood. Don't disappoint Shane. Option two definitely felt more palatable.
Ilya sat himself up, shrugging out of his sleeping bag burrito with a soft grimace. His head was aching with each pump of blood through his body. "M'comin'."
—
Ilya managed to hobble along with the group for the whole 4 hours up to the viewpoint, muffling stifles into his wrist. The bridge was admittedly gorgeous. They got a group photo, thanks to a random hiker who offered to take one for them. Ilya tried his best smile, closing his eyes behind his sunglasses. He would kill a man to be in bed beside his Shane right now.
And that man just might be Wyatt.
"Alright, truth or dare!" Wyatt hollered, scuffling his way back down the trail. The path bled into a slight scramble at times. Ilya did not like that.
"Truth," Troy spoke first, padding behind Dykstra as he eyed where his feet were landing.
"Alright, what's your favourite type of cheese?"
Ilya tuned out the stupid discussion around him, focusing on keeping his snot in his nose. He was so blocked up, he could barely get a good breath in. He was going back to his mouth breathing Russian baby roots.
"Ilya, truth or dare?" Troy called, one foot up on a rock as he re-tied his shoelaces.
Ilya huffed a little breath, rubbing at his chest. His lungs felt packed with jelly beans. "Uhh, truth."
Troy kept going with the group, taking a moment to think about his question. "What has been the happiest day of your life?"
Everyone's eyes were on him at the same time as he hobbled behind everyone, sunglasses over his eyes. Well, that was an easy question. "Weddi'g day."
The group cooed which made his cheeks warm up a little. "That's great, Ilya," Dykstra added.
Ilya grumbled with a little smile, sniffling a little bit. Hiding his symptoms was starting to get impossible. Why was he even trying to hide —
"Now you ask!" Luca spoke to Ilya, washing off a little bit of dirt from his shoe in a small stream.
Ilya hummed a little, thinking about what words wouldn't make him sound congested. Whose name was easier to say?
"Luca."
Luca beamed a little, looking down at his now clean shoe. "Truth."
Ilya scratched at his curls, needing to keep up his personality. "Do you still have tha'dt poster of m'be?" ..so much for not sounding congested.
Luca grimaced as he hid his face in his hands. The group laughed to themselves. "Ooooooh!" Wyatt toyed with Luca's hair, scruffing at it.
"No! That was years ago," Luca whined, glaring lightheartedly at Ilya. A smile on his lips made his false anger hard to believe.
Ilya just smiled, having no more energy to make fun of him. Nobody seemed to pick up on his congestion. He naturally had a more nasally tone at times, anyway. That's what happens when you're not careful with your nose when getting thrown into the boards.
—
They made it back to their campsite at 7 pm. Ilya and Luca were the sleepiest out of the bunch. Bood, Troy, Dykstra and Wyatt were currently building themselves a little fireplace to sit by. They weren't ready to go to sleep quite yet.
"C'mon, boys, join us! Don't be boring!" Wyatt called out, to which Ilya assumed was directed at Luca and himself inside their own tents. Fuck, he really didn't feel like socialising. He also knew that they wouldn't leave this alone if he were to not join them.
Ilya pulled on the red Hawaiian shirt that he had packed, along with some grey Adidas sweats. He was definitely a fashion guy. Top-notch outfits for every occasion.
Ilya pulled himself out of his tent, eyeing the group. Luca was also now sitting at the fireplace.
Troy beamed at Ilya as soon as he was close. There was a bottle of vodka being shoved into his hands. Ilya perched next to Troy and Boodram, taking a swig of the bottle. His now. His germs.
Fuck. Fuck, that burned. Oh, even his nose felt that.
"Hh'd! HH'Dds!" Ilya stifled down to his lap with great effort, shoving his left fist into his nose. "hH'Dj! Sshw! Is'hw!"
The conversations around him came to a stop, now met with concerned eyes reflected by the fire. "Bless you, cap," Bood reached over to pat Ilya's back.
Ilya breathed through parted lips. "Th'nks."
"You all good?" Troy nudged him, leaning his head down a little to see Ilya from where he was ducked over. Ilya nodded, spluttering a phlegmy cough into his elbow.
This felt like a humiliation ritual. It felt like he had just burst all of the blood vessels in his face with the effort it took to stifle a sneeze with a stuffy nose. That couldn't be too good for him. Shane would have probably yelled at him for stifling.
Shane. He really missed Shane.
"I go slee'b," Ilya murmured to Troy, standing without another word nor glance back as he booked it for his tent. His eyes were heavy, but not for sleep.
Ilya zipped himself up in his tent, tugging off his stupid floral shirt. He would be safe in his sleeping bag. He wouldn't cry in his sleeping bag.
He got himself zipped up in his sleeping bag, scooting over to the corner of his tent. No tears.
He tuned out the murmuring from the group, clamping his eyes shut. Maybe if he ignored his symptoms, they would go away.
Not even 10 minutes later, he was fumbling for the zipper on his sleeping bag. He needed his hands, like, right now. "HhH! hH'Ds HH'DShw! HHIH'dsw! D'shw! D'sHGjw! kK-KKHH'M! Mmh.."
The murmurs went silent. Someone was at his tent. A tall, wide shadow. Fuck, was that a bear? He was going to get mauled. He was going to die. He'd never see Shane again. Shane would be all alone.
"Hel'b!" Ilya tried to call, but his voice was already shot. He couldn't alert the guys. He was going to die from some stupid fat fucking bear. Oh my god.
The bear entered the tent, leaning over Ilya. Ilya attempted to kick, but it was more of a wiggle. He was trapped in his sleeping bag with snotty hands, for God's sake. What a perfect situation for a bear to eat him.
"L'v m'be alo'de!" Ilya sobbed, flailing around in his sleeping bag. Suddenly, the bear multiplied into three bears. A fourth joined.
A flashlight shone into the tent, directed at the bear's face. Whoa, the bear looked a lot like Bood. And there was a Troy bear. Also a Wyatt one. And a Dykstra bear.
"Buddy, it's okay! It's me! It's us!" Bood spoke, a hand covering his mouth. They all looked fucking petrified. Had they seen the bear too?
"Мне страшно!" Ilya spluttered, his face wet with tears. What were they doing? They needed to run from the bear that was in Ilya's tent. "Be'r.." Ilya tried to warn, his head glancing around for the beast and its friends.
"No, no bear, Ilya. Fuck, boys. Get me some water, and wet a rag. Try get some fucking signal, go down to the information box!" Bood barked out orders left and right, making Ilya's head dizzy. Ilya went to get up to obey Bood and get a rag, but he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.
Ilya closed his eyes with furrowed brows. He was so confused. What just happened? Why wasn't Shane here? Why was nobody running from the bear? They were all fucking idiots.
Bood sat with Ilya, a hand going from his forehead to his cheeks. "Fuck, bud. You're really warm. I wish you had told me you were this unwell."
Ilya blinked at Bood, rubbing at his eyes. Everything had happened too swiftly. He didn't feel like talking, his throat felt coated in slime.
Footsteps began to approach once more, rushing on the gravel. A cold towel was placed on the back of his neck. Whoa. That felt amazing. He leaned into the touch, allowing his head to loll back.
A cup was placed to his lips, and a hand was lifting the back of his head back up. Ilya allowed himself to indulge, drinking from the hand of whoever was offering the water.
"Z!" Wyatt came running back, his feet pounding on the ground making Ilya's head throb with every beat. "The park rangers advised us to drive him to Urgent Care. Said it'll be faster than getting an ambulance all the way out here."
Bood gave a singular nod, rubbing at his neck. "Fuck, okay. Alright. Troy can take him. We'll follow their car. Dykstra with me, you with Luca. Got it?"
Wyatt nodded, scrambling to help pack up everyone's tents.
—
Ilya dissociated for the whole car ride over to the hospital. He was laid horizontally on the back seat of Troy's car as he drove. Bood had somehow managed to buckle Ilya in even like this. He didn't remember any of it. Some random jacket had been put on him at some point, saving him from having his chest out.
Ilya babbled to himself, unable to open his eyes. "If I d'e.. DO'DN'T le'd Sha'de ge'd d'ew husba'd.. Tr'yyy.. pl'eas.."
As Troy pulled up to a hospital that Ilya didn't recognise, two other cars pulled up next to them. The back doors were yet again being opened and Bood was there again. How had Bood teleported here with them? Wow. That man could do anything.
Bood and Wyatt helped Ilya out of the car, his arms over their shoulders. Troy, Dykstra and Luca were ordered to stay put. Bood didn't want to crowd the hospital with too many celebrities dressed in dirty hiking gear.
As soon as they stepped foot into the lobby, Ilya was being whisked away by a little nurse. Fancy. In Boston, it would have taken a lot longer.
Bood stayed with Ilya while Wyatt stayed back in the waiting area. It felt like Ilya was now also teleporting with the number of location changes.
The nurse was holding a little clipboard, a pair of glasses perched on her nose under her eyes. Ilya was laid out on the examination bed, with Bood sitting in the little chair in the corner.
"What seems to be the problem today?" She started, assessing Ilya's body with her eyes for any immediate injuries.
Bood cleared his throat. "He's got a fever, and he's disoriented. The symptoms came on really fast."
The nurse nodded, scribbling on her paper. "Has he taken any medication?"
Bood shook his head. "No. Nobody brought any medicine. He.. hasn't taken any drugs. If that's what you're asking."
The nurse didn't respond as she continued to jot down something on her paper. She then moved to a drawer, pulling out a stethoscope and a forehead thermometer.
She checked Ilya's lungs, her expression staying still. "He's congested. How long has he been feeling unwell?"
Bood blinked, eyeing Ilya. "Bud?"
Ilya grumbled, closing his eyes underneath the harsh light. "Y'strd'y."
The nurse pursed her lips, scribbling on her paper. After taking his temperature and checking the thermometer, she spoke. "It seems that Mr Rozanov previously had Influenza, which then progressed into Viral Pneumonia. I'm going to prescribe him some acetaminophen for his fever, and oseltamivir." the nurse spoke, eyeing Bood. "Make sure he gets plenty of fluids and rest."
Bood nodded, wide-eyed as he took in all of the information at once. "Shit, okay. I meant.. wow. Sorry. Thank you."
The nurse nodded, stepping out of the room to get Ilya's medicine. Bood blew out a breath, rubbing his face. "Viral Pneumonia. Buddy, oh my god. You must feel like hell."
Ilya sniffled, stretching out a little. "Wh're Sh'de?"
Bood frowned. "Kid, I can hardly understand you. Save your voice, okay? The nurse will be back soon, then we can get you home."
Ilya coughed into his elbow, his lungs producing a pathetic rattle. The nurse came back into the room, passing a little pharmacy bag to Bood. "Bring him back if he doesn't feel better in 3-4 days."
Bood nodded, standing from his little chair. He grabbed the bag with an uneasy smile. "Yes, ma'am. C'mon, cap."
Ilya grimaced, forcing himself to get off the examination bed. He held onto Bood's arm, attempting to will away the humiliation.
Bood yet again manhandled Ilya into the backseats of Troy's car so he was horizontal and buckled in. Every moment was a blur. Ilya was blinking and being teleported to a different location every 10 minutes. This was so weird. He'd have to remember to tell Shane about his newfound powers.
—
Zane B. 👨🍳
17:32 Hi Shane. I don't want to overwhelm you with multiple notifications — so I'll make this one message. There's no need to panic, but we've had to cut the trip short. Ilya got really sick really fast; seemingly out of nowhere so we were advised to take him to the hospital by the park rangers. He's now on his way home to you with Troy. I've sent Troy off with a list of everything that the nurse informed me about his condition. I hope he gets better soon. ❤️😔
Shane was on his feet as soon as he got the notification, pacing the living room as he read the rest of the message from his notification. Ilya was sick? Ilya had to go to the hospital?
Shane's hand was in his hair before he could spiral, scrunching at the roots to self-regulate. Okay. Ilya is on his way home, everything is fine. Why wasn't he contacted the second that Ilya felt ill? Fuck.
Shane's teeth ground together subconsciously, a nervous childhood habit that he grew out of. Shane padded to their bathroom, collecting all of their sick supplies. Bood was pretty vague in his message, and Shane didn't even know what Ilya had. Did Ilya catch Shane's cold? Did Ilya get bitten by a snake? Did he eat a poisonous berry? Did he fall off a cliff?
Shane plucked out all of their cold medicines, grabbed the thermometer, Vicks VapoRub, nasal spray, and some cold packs. And a bucket.. just in case. Shane set up everything in their room, placing the bucket on the floor of Ilya's side of the bed. Shane fluffed up Ilya's pillow, plugging in the humidifier so it was on Ilya's nightstand and not his. He didn't need it anymore, he was better now. Okay, perfect. So what if his hands were shaking the whole time?
Shane grabbed Ilya's towel, setting it by their bathtub with a set of clean clothes. Ilya loved a bath when he felt gross. Shane's ears perked up at the sound of a low groan from a vehicle outside. It took everything in him not to bolt down the stairs. Breaking his ankle right now would not be ideal.
Shane got himself down the stairs in one piece, grabbing a random cardigan as he went. He stepped out onto the porch, wrapping the cardigan around himself as he watched the car approach. He really was his mother's son.
Shane padded to the car as he saw Troy getting out of the driver's seat. Where the fuck was Ilya? Shane couldn't see him sitting in the car.
Just as Shane was about to ask a thousand questions, Troy opened up the passenger door on the left side. "C'mon, cap. You're home."
Shane went to Troy's side, peering into the car. Ilya was still horizontal, all buckled up in the seatbelts.
"Oh my god," Shane breathed, helping Troy get Ilya out of the car. Once Ilya was upright, Shane held his waist. He was burning through the jacket on his shoulders. "Troy, what the fuck happened? I — he's.."
"I know," Troy said, helping Shane help Ilya up the steps and into their house. "Viral Pneumonia. I've got a little note for you about it. Sorry, Bood barely told me shit, man."
Shane nodded, getting Ilya onto their couch. His eyes were barely open as he flopped back into a horizontal position, curling up.
"Oh, baby," Shane sighed, not giving a fuck about being sappy in front of Troy. Shane crouched down by Ilya's side, pressing his hand to Ilya's forehead.
Troy left the note on the coffee table, along with the pharmacy bag. "His backpack and tent are in Wyatt's car. I'll bring them over for you whenever, alright? Shoot me a message."
Shane nodded, trying his best not to be rude to Troy. He was just trying to help. "Okay. Yeah — thank you. Thank you for bringing him home."
Troy nodded. "Of course. Okay, I'm off. Text me."
"Yeah," Shane called back, not really listening. How could he focus on anything but Ilya? His poor boyfriend who looked like shit on their couch. Who was fine not even 3 days ago.
"Baby, oh my god. Don't sleep yet, I need — to get medicine into you. Or something. Fuck," Shane breathed, grabbing the note on their coffee table. Ilya was barely awake.
The Ottawa Hospital | L'Hôpital d'Ottawa
* Flu > Viral Pneumonia
* Patient is a smoker
* High temperature 39.8°C (103.6°F)
* Cough, lungs (mucus)
* Wheeze
* Disoriented
* Acetaminophen & oseltamivir
* Do not smoke
* Get vaccinated
Shane felt his lower lip wobble as he read the note. Ilya was basically passed out on the couch and for once in his life, he didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to make Ilya better. He couldn't fix the situation. He couldn't fix Ilya.
Shane grabbed his phone off the coffee table, pressing on his mom's contact without a second thought. Even though it was approaching 6 pm (Yuna Hollander's 'Bath & Self Care Time'), she answered after two rings. "Hi, Shane. Are you okay? How's your cold?"
Shane's throat felt tight at her natural maternal tone, forcing an unpleasant sob out of his throat. He didn't plan on sobbing into the microphone, but here he was.
The line was silent for a split second. "Shane? Breathe, baby," Yuna ordered softly, followed by some whispering, probably to his dad. She was probably freaking out now, too. Fuck. He shouldn't have called. His anxiety is contagious.
Shane forced some air into his lungs, stopping his pacing to crouch back down to Ilya and check his forehead again with his free hand. "Mom?" Shane croaked.
"I'm right here," she spoke into the phone. "What's happened, Shane? Take your time, baby.."
Shane swiped at his tears, looking back at the note on the coffee table. "Ilya's, like, — really sick. It's all my fault. He was — on the trip I told you about, and — and," Shane took a minute, tugging at the skin of his throat to try to get some air. "I don't know. I don't know what to do, mom."
"Okay. Okay, baby. Do you want me and your father?" She asked, her voice tender and earnest.
Shane swallowed the lump in his throat down, closing his eyes. "Fuck. I don't know. He has pneumonia, Mom. That's bad for — for older people."
There was a slight sound of ruffling on Mom's end. "Shane, we're not that old, baby. We're vaccinated. I'm sure you could use our help. Is that okay?"
Shane grimaced, balling his free hand into a weak fist to hit at his knee. Stupid stupid Shane. "I don't know!" he spat. "Fuck. Wait. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell, I just — he's really not well. Okay. Please come over, Mom."
"Okay," Yuna breathed, the ruffling on her end continuing. "Dad is getting the car ready, okay? We'll be by your side before you know it."
Shane let out a sob, feeling grateful for his parents. How lucky was he to have all of the help that he could need right at his fingertips. "Okay. Thank you."
—
Mom had helped Shane make a schedule for Ilya's medicine while Dad had gotten some water and liquid flu medicine into Ilya and got the bath running. It felt like Shane could finally breathe with their presence.
"He hates pills," Shane mumbled, still crouched at Ilya's side. "I don't know if he'll take them. He might not."
Mom nodded, sat on an armchair. "Push comes to shove, we hide them in some peanut butter."
Shane grimaced. "Mom, he's not a dog."
Mom smiled. "Honey, I know that. I'm just suggesting things, okay? We can try different techniques. See what works."
Shane took a moment to breathe, rubbing at Ilya's pronounced brow. "He needs a bath. He's all dirty. He doesn't like being dirty."
Mom hummed, glancing over to Dad. "I can make you lunch while you do that, okay?"
Shane pursed his lips, pressing a gentle thumb to the jugular vein in Ilya's neck. "I'm fine. I've had all of my meal preps scheduled for today."
Mom sighed a little. "Well, alright. I think your father is hungry. Would it be okay for us to use the stove?"
Shane made a face, eyeing Mom. "..of course. You don't need to ask — ever. What's ours is yours."
Mom smiled, getting up from her armchair and disappearing into the kitchen with Dad.
Shane rubbed Ilya's shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze. "Ilya? Baby?"
lya stirred slightly, furrowing his brow as his nose twitched. He was like a little bunny.
Shane's heart warmed at the thought. "Bath time. Can you sit up for me?"
Ilya squinted, his eyes vacant and tired. "S' eeeehhgghkkhmmm.."
Shane worried at his lower lip, unable to understand Ilya. "You'll feel better.. with the steam. I'll wash you."
Ilya grumbled a little, lifting his head weakly. Shane helped him sit up, holding his shoulder until he was successfully in an upright position. Ilya's curls were flat to his head on one side, and crazy on the other.
"Bunny.." Shane mumbled, just for them to hear.
Ilya's eyes opened a little more with interest, eyeing Shane as if he were something precious. Ilya produced a gnarly sniffle, his mucus having to adjust to the new position.
Shane grabbed the tissue box that was placed on the coffee table by his Mom, ripping a few out and swiping the bundle to Ilya's nostrils. Ilya just let it happen, squishing his eyes closed at the weird sensation. Shane's bunny.
"Bath, then bed. Sleep. That sounds good, huh?" Shane mumbled, getting to his feet with a little groan. His knees were stiff from how long he had been crouched. Shane sighed as Ilya stared at the floor.
Shane reached down, getting one arm under Ilya's legs and one arm on his back. "Arm around my neck, please."
Ilya absentmindedly complied, his hand latching onto Shane's shoulder. Well, here goes nothing.
Shane stood to his full height, lifting Ilya as if he were a barbell. Whoa. Okay. He was carrying Ilya. His spine didn't immediately snap in half.
Shane murmured soft nothings into Ilya's temple, carrying up the stairs with carefulness. His baby.
Shane helped Ilya sit onto the closed lid of the toilet seat, unzipping the jacket from Ilya. Shane couldn't recognise the jacket. Maybe it was Troy's?
"Okay, c'mere," Shane lifted the underneath of Ilya's pits, shuffling down Ilya's sweats and boxers so he could get into the bath. Ilya leaned into Shane's neck, taking a crackly little inhale.
Shane frowned, getting Ilya into the warm bubbly water. Damn, he had gotten stronger. "Is that warm enough?"
Ilya hummed, melting into the porcelain as he closed his eyes. Shane crouched by the bath, ignoring his achy knees and reached for Ilya's hand. "Sweet boy."
Ilya smiled at that, his now open eyes assessing Shane's face. "Mmh."
Shane smiled, grabbing a scrubber brush. "I missed you. I'm sorry you had a bad trip."
Ilya frowned, picking at a hangnail on Shane's thumb. "W's g'd 't fi'rs."
Shane couldn't stop the coo that left his lips. Ilya couldn't even talk. Ilya loved to talk. Shane loved to listen. "Save your voice, it's okay."
Ilya hummed, spluttering a little. The splutter turned into a lung-rattling cough, Ilya covering it with two hands, then switching to his elbow. He sounded absolutely awful.
"Fuck, okay," Shane got to his knees, not knowing what to do with his hands. "Get it all out. Atta boy. Mom said you have to cough to get better, baby."
Ilya continued to cough, his body shaking in the water with each one. All Shane could do was watch. God, he felt fucking useless.
A nervous whine erupted from Ilya as he jolted upright off the porcelain, curling into himself. He looked like he needed to throw up.
Shane moved swiftly, cupping his hands under Ilya's mouth. "Get it out, it's okay. It's alright."
Another little whine left Ilya before he spluttered again, being forced to cough up a little bit of phlegm from his lungs into Shane's hands. Shane didn't even flinch as he dunked the mess into the sink, washing his hands and coming right back to Ilya's side.
There was a grimace on Ilya's face. He could even look at Shane anymore.
"Ilya.." Shane mumbled. "It's okay. You're sick. I want to look after you, okay? I don't care if you — you spit on me. Or cough in my face. I'm here for you."
Ilya eyed Shane with a shy little smile. "Eghhhh.."
Shane chuckled at the little noise, grabbing the scrubber brush again to wash off the dirt on Ilya's skin. "It isn't gross. Not to me."
Ilya went still for a minute. Shane stopped his scrubbing, preparing to catch more phlegm. Ilya's lungs began to swell with crackly inhales. "hH'SHw! Hh'sHIU!"
"Bless you, bless you!" Shane rubbed circles into Ilya's back with a little frown. The flu paired with pneumonia. Fuck. "No stifling, okay? I know you didn't just then, but. For future reference. Gotta get everything out of your lungs."
Ilya nodded, closing his eyes again. The pinkness of his husband's nose now matched his chest. Shane could admit that he did look a little cute. He was so sleepy.
"No sniffling, also," Shane added, moving to grab some shampoo. "Mom did some research for me. You've gotta cough that phlegm out, and blow the snot out."
Ilya hummed. Shane knew he wasn't listening, but Shane also knew that Ilya liked to hear him talk when he was tired. Shane also needed to verbally remind himself.
—
Once Ilya was all clean and in his new clothes, Shane helped him sit on the closed toilet lid again. Shane crouched down so he could look up at Ilya, holding his hands. "Okay. Give me one squeeze for bed, and two for the couch."
It took Ilya a minute, but he eventually squeezed both of Shane's hands once. Shane nodded, agreeing with the choice. "You're sleepy, huh? Okay. We can go to sleep," Shane mumbled, hooking an arm underneath Ilya's legs yet again.
Shane hoisted Ilya up, taking him to their bedroom for the first time in days. Thank God that Shane had gotten the bedroom ready.
Shane tucked Ilya under the covers, making sure he was comfortable and safe. Okay. Great. Ilya was okay.
Oh, his parents. Right. Shane had almost forgotten about them. Whoops!
Shane decided to send his mom a text instead of going downstairs. He didn't want to leave Ilya's side even for a minute, just in case.
Mom ❤️
21:03 Ilya is clean & ready to sleep. Feel free to take the guest room. Goodnight! :) Thank you for coming.
Okay, good enough. Shane put his phone to the side, crawling into bed next to Ilya after taking off his clothes and folding them with precision.
Ilya sniffled, reaching for Shane.
"No, no.." Shane cooed, combing back Ilya's hair between his fingers. "No sniffling, remember? Tissues — " Shane reached over to Ilya's bedside, grabbing the box " — are right here."
Ilya frowned, plucking three out. He gave his nose a weak blow, setting the tissue on his bedside as he kept the box between them.
Suddenly, Ilya's chest was swelling and deflating rapidly. Ilya was so sleepy that his arms couldn't get the memo. Shane watched as his husband drenched the tissue box and their fitted sheet. "hH'JSshiu! hHa'TSHu!"
"Bless you so much!" Shane said, chest aching for his husband. Shane didn't have it in him to care about how Ilya didn't cover. "Are you okay?"
Ilya gave a little nod, his nose now dripping down his lips.
Shane plucked some of the tissues out, swiping them against Ilya's nose as he did earlier. "Ooh, there you go. All better."
Ilya grimaced, moving the tissues aside to nuzzle into Shane's chest. Shane held him, digging his fingers into his warm scalp. "Shh. 'M here."
Ilya's yawns bled into wheezy breaths, indicating his asleep state. Shane, on the other hand, could not sleep. Ilya was on his chest, but he couldn't allow himself to sleep. What if Ilya needed him? What if there was a change to Ilya's breathing pattern?
Yeah, no. He had to stay up. Shane reached his arm out for his phone, tapping in the passcode. He should probably message Troy. And Bood.
Mom ❤️
21:08 Goodnight both ❤️ I love you.
Shane smiled at the message. He swiped out of iMessages, clicking on Instagram. He needed a distraction.
Oh. Harris sure did work fast.
@OttawaCentaurs
[ 3 images ]
Moments before disaster.. 🏕️🗻🤒 #getwellsoonroz #maybenextyear
Shane's eyes found the caption before the pictures. There were 3 images attached to the post that correlated to the caption.
The first image was.. weirdly cute. How 6 grown men could be described as 'cute' was beyond comprehension. But they were. Especially his Ilya.
[ 📷 1st attached image : (From Left to Right) Bood, Luca, Troy, Ilya, Dykstra and Wyatt were all crouched down in-front of a 2D statue of a moose with its baby. They all smiled at the camera, caps and sunglasses on at the ready. Ilya made a peace sign behind Troy's head to make it look like he had bunny ears. ]
Shane had to cover his laugh with his hand at how cute Ilya looked. He was all ready for his hike in his brand new cargo shorts, his fat backpack on his shoulders. Very bittersweet.
Shane swiped left on the next one after taking a screenshot.
[ 📷 2nd attached image : The group was posed on a bridge that Shane couldn't recognise. The view behind them was beautiful. The sun was setting, leaving red and orange hues on the treetops that hugged the surrounding mountains. Everyone was smiling, with fewer teeth smiles than in the last image. They looked happy but tired. Ilya wore sunglasses, his nose a little pink. ]
Shane sucked on his teeth, using two fingers to zoom in on Ilya. Nobody else could tell, but Shane definitely could. Ilya must have been feeling sick right there. Poor baby. Screenshot.
Shane cast a glance down at his sleeping husband, looking back up at his phone. Shane swiped to the last picture, unable to hold in his coo this time.
[ 📷 3rd attached image : Ilya was in his sleeping bag, his hands looking as if they attempted to cover his face mid-image. Ilya was engulfed by his sleeping bag, only his face and hands visible. His brows were furrowed and eyes closed, the moisture on his upper lip caught by the camera's flash. ]
Shane frowned, rubbing his thumb over the picture. Ilya looked like a distraught caterpillar. Screenshot.
"You're okay now," Shane mumbled, making sure to keep quiet so as not to wake Ilya. Shane rubbed at the small of Ilya's neck, kissing his hair.
Shane could feel himself dozing off. To prevent this, he clicked on one of the mobile apps that Ilya had downloaded on his phone without his knowledge. Fruit Ninja. Nice..
Slashing the fruit was quite therapeutic. Shane swiped his finger across his screen, fighting for his life to stay awake. His finger swiped on a bomb, which made him flinch. Why would they put bombs in a fruit game? Not fun.
Shane felt Ilya stirring on his chest, halting his hand on his phone. Don't wake up. Don't wake up. He needs the sleep.
"Y' pl'ai wi'ou' m'be.." Ilya whined, grabbing for Shane's phone. Shane let out a little startled laugh, not expecting that reaction. It was charming how Ilya still managed to be himself even with a nasty virus.
"Baby, you're supposed to be sleeping," Shane hushed, watching as Ilya made shitty attempts at slicing the fruit.
Ilya frowned, swiping out of the game. Shane kept watching as Ilya clicked on his own contact, sending himself a message.
'hi ilya i Lov yo usooo muc h. from shane ❤️,..❤️💙🐰.'
Shane snickered, scrunching at Ilya's curls. "Are you me, baby? Are you Shane?"
Ilya hummed, turning off Shane's phone to cuddle back into his chest with a little nod. "Mmmhm."
Shane cooed lightly, scratching Ilya's scalp. Shane put on his best reporter voice, "How does it feel to be the best hockey player, Mr Hollander?"
Ilya grunted, pressing his nose into Shane's chest. "A'bazi'gghhh.."
Shane gave Ilya's hair more kisses, feeling the heat at the back of his neck. "Amazing? Wow. You have such a way with words."
Ilya whined, pinching at Shane's waist. Shane squeaked a little, pushing at Ilya's hands. Ilya pushed himself away from Shane's chest, curling into his pillow with some sudden barking coughs.
Shane sat himself up quickly, patting Ilya's back. "You're okay.. you're good, baby. I'm here."
Ilya continued to cough away from Shane, the whole bed shaking with each cough. Shane swore when he heard Ilya begin to gag through his fit, pushing himself off their bed and onto his knees by Ilya's bedside. Shane grabbed the bucket he placed on the floor by Ilya's side, holding it under Ilya's chin where he could see it in the moonlight. "Cough it up, baby. Get that gunk out."
Ilya coughed and gagged into the bucket, spitting up multiple mouthfuls of mucus. Shane rubbed circles into Ilya's back, giving it pats now and then. "Fuck, you're okay. Good boy."
Ilya's coughs turned into little sobs as he weakly gripped onto the bucket over Shane's hands, his whole body quivering. To say Shane was terrified was an understatement.
There was a soft knock at their bedroom door.
"Yeah?" Shane called, staying by his husband's side. Mom poked her head in, holding her phone that had the flashlight option on.
"Everything okay in here?" she asked, stepping closer. She had a mug in the other hand, placing it on Ilya's bedside. "Warm honey tea."
Shane nodded, taking his time to look at Ilya now that there was a source of good light. "Thank you, mom. He's okay. Coughing it all up."
"Okay," Mom mumbled, shuffling her feet to release some nervous energy. "You're doing great, Shane. He'll be okay."
Ilya made a little sound at that, spitting into the bucket. Shane nodded, looking at Mom. "Thank you. Get some rest, okay? We're okay in here."
Mom nodded without another word, stepping out of the room. Shane continued rubbing Ilya's back in the quiet darkness, staying on the floor holding the bucket. "You're okay."
Ilya took a shaky inhale, ducking into the bucket. "aT'tshiu!"
Shane jumped, his hand leaving the bucket to fish around blindly for Ilya's bedside tissues. "Bless you, baby."
Ilya made a little grunting sound, lying back down on the bed. Shane swiped Ilya's nose with a little bit of tissue, taking the bucket into the bathroom to clean out. Once all was good, Shane retreated to their room with the clean bucket.
"Mom made you tea, Ilya," Shane mumbled, coming back to Ilya's bedside on his knees. "Can you be so good and drink it for me? It has honey. You love honey."
Ilya moved himself up on his elbows, closing his eyes. "Sh'de.."
"I know. I know you're so sleepy," Shane mumbled, holding the cup to Ilya's lips. "Big sip."
Ilya drank with Shane's help, sighing happily at the taste of the tea.
"Great job," Shane smiled into the darkness, placing the cup back down. It's okay if Ilya couldn't finish it.
Shane padded around their bed, getting into his side of the bed. Ilya gravitated towards him like a little magnet, gripping onto Shane's waist.
"G'night, baby. Feel better tomorrow." Shane felt Ilya's face, finding his temple to place a kiss on.
Y'all I'm a cat parent. There were babies near my home and one of my neighbors does tnr so I was like "yeah I'll help you catch them!" And now I have two chud sons. One will be going to my friend but the other is my son. He's so very spicy and I love him. I also caught the mama cat and we got her spayed. There are two more babies out there that I'm trying to catch so they can be adopted out.
Somebody who can tell their partner must be getting sick because they're suddenly trying to hold back their sneezes. They wouldn't normally care about sneezing in front of their partner, but they're obviously trying to avoid it. Almost as though they're trying to hide something...
melodramatic, but i’m a sucker for a scenario in which the sick one is truly afraid of their would-be (will-be) caretaker. they can’t trust the food or drink offered and they cannot let themself fall asleep under any circumstances. then again… they’re hungry…and thirsty…and so sleepy…
A character who starts fussing a bit anxiously when another character gets chilled &/ drenched because they know how easily the other character catches colds... to considerable annoyance of the one fussed
vs
A character who becomes a disagreeable nagging grumpy pest when they get chilled &/ soaked because they know how easily they catch colds... to considerable annoyance of anyone else who's around and falls victim to their mood
i/lya r/ozanov who develops honeymoon rhinitis when he breaks his nose for the second time. his nose was already sensitive before, but this time the break was just right and now he can’t control his nose at all when he’s horny
Kink sh/ane loses his mind because it happens the first time they actually do the deed. Il/ya's like "sorry, not s *hihhhh!* sick" and sh/ane is just broken brained and trying not to make a big deal out of it
Internally il/ya is mortified because this is a relatively new development for him, it didn't happen the first time they hooked up so he's worried sh/ane will think it's weird!! But sh/ane is trying so hard not to finish early because of this fit.
Update still insatiable but with much less free time 😭😭😭
I've had to go into lab daily (including weekends) for the last several weeks and will continue to do so through mid-July. The days have begun to run together lol.
based on the idea of routines…Ilya switching things up when he learns about Shane’s kink.
for example, he always has to blow his nose when he gets out of the shower, the steam making it both overwhelmingly stuffy and runny. normally he’d grab a stack of tissues and blow before leaving the bathroom, not yet having toweled himself down all the way, his curls dripping wet as he clears out his congestion.
but after Shane tells him that he likes his sneezes and nose blows, Ilya will first dry himself off, then sit on the edge of the bed in just his towel while Shane’s still getting dressed, curls still a little damp. he’ll grab a box of tissues and pull a few of them out with slow shfffs and some liquid snffs to get Shane’s attention, then stare him down as he blows and blows until his nose is no longer stuffy.
the room is silent other than the sound of Ilya’s very loud nose. when that nose is satisfied, Ilya grins and gives a huge, exaggerated aaahhh of relief. then Shane, who’s practically been drooling the entire time, pounces on him and they’re right back in bed where they started the morning.
I really like your take on sick Ilya with the Hollanders ❤️
It inspired an idea for me: The Centaurs (or the Bears/Raiders) learn how to care for Ilya when he is sick. Because there’s definitely a learning curve given Ilya’s childhood.
That said, if you like the idea, I would love to see your interpretation. If it’s not your thing, no worries! ☺️
XoXo
Three Times the Centaurs Tried to Care for Their Captain, and the First Time they Succeeded
One: The Initial Approach
hi anon :) thank you so much for your patience, and this amazing prompt! it has so much potential I had to make it another 3+1 so I could fully explore the journey of the team figuring out the enigma that is i/lya r/ozanov. that said, I'm not super familiar with the cens, so if you feel like I'm mischaracterising any of them, feel free to let me know, I'm always looking to improve!
I hope you enjoy! ♡
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 5.8k
cw: sneezing, general illness, mess, some seriously rocky team dynamics
Ilya was not, in his own opinion, particularly well-versed in the virtues of patience and grace. He didn’t see any need to be. Hockey was not a patient game, nor a graceful one. It was about being fast, and being aggressive, and being in tune with your team. Which he had a feeling that today, he wasn’t particularly. Because he was being betrayed by every single thing he typically depended upon.
His stick had just broken, and his winger hadn’t been in the right place for a pass, and now the referees were taking fucking forever to decide if they’d actually scored their last goal. Which was a problem because here he was, stuck on the bench, several hundred eyes on him, fighting the urge to cough his lungs out. So no, he had absolutely no patience for the decision being made, nor would he afford the officials the slightest amount of grace to make it, especially if they disallowed the goal, and he had less than no patience or grace for his own body. That was the biggest betrayal of all, that his immune system had allowed him to spend the week bragging about how it was better and stronger than those of the rest of the team, who’d all gone down sick with this stupid cold before he had, and then given up the ghost at the last minute.
Anything that held up the game like this had everyone on edge. The coaches were worrying about the decision, the refs were worrying about how it would be received, the players were worrying about staying warm enough to get right back to the game, and the audience were worrying about getting back to their cars, homes, and babysitters on time. So Ilya wasn’t alone in gnawing frustratedly on his mouthguard, tapping his stick on the boards and just generally looking like the epitome of impatience.
He sniffled, snorted, blinked up at the screen overhead in an attempt to stop his nose from dripping everywhere. The back of his hand, sans glove, had just made contact with his face and started to rub irritably, only two clicks of his nose into what probably would have been twenty, when a rolled up towel was tapped on his shoulder. Ilya glanced up at the equipment manager standing behind him.
“Thangks.”
Settling for pinching his nose through the fabric, fearing that blowing would only enable one of the urges lurking ominously in the back of his nose and throat, and using the excess to wipe the sweat from his brow, he scanned the ice, eyes drifting over to the huddle of officials still reviewing the play. How long could this possibly take? It wasn’t like the goal would make that much difference to the outcome anyway.
Boodram, on his right, held out a water bottle to the Russian without looking, still engaged in conversation with whoever was on his other side. Ilya took it gratefully, replaced his mouthguard, and skied the water into his mouth, taking gulp after gulp, until his throat felt relatively normal again, and then passed it on.
Finally feeling slightly more human, he surveyed the crowd, mostly adorned in the colours of the opposing team, since it was their arena, and mostly absorbed in their own conversations, or their phones, since the ice provided so little entertainment currently. He sniffled, and then sniffled again as he apparently dislodged the precarious balance of mucus filling his nose. It took three more sniffs to keep the tide at bay, and by then he could feel an insistent tickling sensation beginning. Maybe one more sniffle would quell the itch?
Of course one more sniffle only fuelled the itch, as he probably should have predicted, but he had no time to really chasten himself for the stupid choice, as he was immediately, “hKk! kKH!-” sneezing uncovered into open air, as the fit onset without warning. “-hKK! Kkh!-” Confident that he couldn’t be heard over the general noise of the stadium, and that it probably just looked like he’d choked on the water, the blond raised the towel to his face and ducked to conceal the more evidentiary subsequent sneezes. Unfortunately for him, he heard the foreboding swish of skates approaching the bench, and the crowd quieting as he succumbed. “-hKSH! KSHh! hihKSHh!-” The players around him audibly shifted as the official spoke with the coach, trying to hear what the call was going to be. “-hihh…KSHuh! hrrRSHh! hHRSHhUh!”
“Geez, bro,” Bood was facing towards him now, apparently having heard the commotion in the quieted arena, “Bl-”
But the blond had made the stupid decision to look right up at the blinding white ice at the conclusion of the fit, breath immediately stuttering prepensively again.
“hKk! hKK!-” God, it would be nice if he could get the towel over his face before he started doing that, because chances were, he’d be up on the screen at some point, expected to react to the call, and he knew it was far from his most attractive facial expression. “-hKSHh! hihKSHh!-”
“Damn, Roz.”
“-hAHKSHhuh! hihhAHSCHh!”
“Bless you. A lot.” Great, now he’s startled, distracted, and definitely mad because he can’t do his stupid little ritual. Not something that would affect their game in the slightest. It was bad enough that he was playing below his usual level, but did he have to drag the rest of the team down with him?
He straightened, slower this time, panting softly through his mouth, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light before he looked up.
“You alright? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before.”
“Is fine.” When it became clear that the winger was not going to leave him alone, Ilya graced him with a short, gruff answer.
“Don’t tell me you’re coming down with this shit that’s been ploughing through the rest of us. What happened to your-”
“Shh.” Anticipating the chirp, the Russian pointed out to center ice, where the referee was standing. “He will announce call.”
“After reviewing the video-”
…
The goal had been disalllowed. And, as Ilya had predicted, it didn’t matter, they would have lost with or without it. Most of the players still weren’t at 100 percent after succumbing to the illness, and with practices being sparsely populated as people recuperated, they were less of a well-oiled machine, and more of a rusty, misassembled one.
The captain entered the locker room dejected, though his face was its usual mask of neutrality. He dreamed of the hotel room, ordering shitty takeout comfort food, and sitting on the floor of a steamy shower until his skin wrinkled and his sinuses drained, calling Shane, and letting the Canadian’s monotone voice lull him to sleep. But first he had to debrief these dumbasses.
“Okay.” He only bothered to strip out of his skates, jersey, gloves, and helmet before he began, anticipating that undressing might take him a little longer on account of the aching muscles, exhaustion, and slight lightheadedness that had started to characterise any fast or demanding movements. “Was bad game. We know this. You know this. I know this. They-” He pointed in the vague direction of the opposition’s dressing room, “-know this.” Maybe not one of his better speeches but he’d like to see any of the team try and do better under his conditions. “We are sloppy, out of practice, not coordinated. No one is in right place, no one is ever in right place. So many fucking offsides-” It was a rant now, or spiralling into one, and he needed to pull it back. “But we work on this at next practice, we wa-hh-tch-”
He broke off, surprised by the sudden appearance of the tickle, and the concerning way it had interrupted his speech, as though it could strike at any time. “We watch-” Keep going, no one fucking noticed, no one fucking cares. “-for this at next game. You know where the lines a-ahh-” Ah fuck, he’d totally lost it.
For a brief moment he considered turning and running directly back out of the doors to the locker room, inexplicably sprinting for the showers, or just hiding in his stall and holding a towel over his face until he suffocated. But he had no time to do any of those things. And they all seemed pretty panic-inducing for his already out-of-sorts team, and he’d have to explain them afterwards. Also everyone else in the room had been doing this sort of thing, essentially unaddressed, for two weeks. Wasn’t he supposed to be showing them that he was one of them, or human too, or something anyway?
So, he stood his ground, and just- “hKk! Kkh! Kkh!-” Initially he directed the expulsions down at his chest, shoulder shrugging inwards to further cover his face with each jolt, but in the small gap between the third and fourth, he’d looked up and seen a look of total confusion and alarm on the face of the closest player, and realised that it probably looked more like he was choking than sneezing, and so raised his fist performatively to jam under his nose, “-hKk! KSHh! hihKSHHh! hihh… hHSHH! hrRSHh!-”
Dizzy as the lack of oxygen started to get to him, faster than it usually did, probably lingering breathlessness from the game, he bent double and placed his hands on his knees, too tired to even fight it anymore, spraying the floor of the visitors’ locker room, with vitriolic apathy, “hAHISHH! hHAHSHH! hhihh…HEAHSCHOo!”
With a forceful swallow, and a sniff that he intended to restore his sense of self-control and authority, but kind of sounded like he was attempting not to cry, the captain straightened. The faces surrounding him brought back with agonising clarity what Bood had said to him on the bench, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before.” Fuck. And what an introduction to his most chirp-worthy trait. The biggest fit he’d had in a good while, right in the middle of a speech when everyone’s attention was centred on him and only him. Jesus fucking- way to pick the moment, Ilya.
“God bless you, Roz.” Hayes offered. The Russian couldn’t turn to glare at him fast enough, a chorus of blessings, emboldened by the goalie, filled the room.
He sighed, tensely, waiting for the niceties to be over so he could get on with his debrief and head home. But no sooner had the last blessing been voiced, than “You good, cap?”
“Shut the fuck up, Dykstra.”
“I’m just saying. That was a lot.”
“Yeah, I saw him do it on the bench as well, scary stuff,” Bood interjected, “Thought he was gonna stop breathing.”
“I am not going to stop fucking breathing, everything is fine, everyone shut the fuck up.” His hackles were up now, brow furrowed, eyes flashing dangerously.
There was silence for a second, and he was just about to restart the sentence that he totally remembered the end of, when Hayes interrupted again.
“You finally get that bug that we’ve been passing about? Is that why you’re so prickly?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with you? We do not lose because of just me, okay? I come here, I play, I score, why the fuck you so critical?”
And he stormed off into the showers. With his clothes on. And no towel. And they all knew it. Fuck.
…
Ilya scrubbed his hands over his face, eyes squeezed shut as they flooded with warm shower water. He didn’t fight the stinging sensation the foreign liquid left under his eyelids, focusing on dragging his fingertips down his face as hard as he could, imagining the red marks he was leaving, imagining he could cleanse the humiliation and frustration of the evening from his mind, his soul, his reputation.
The steam was making his nose run. He didn’t care, picking up the fallout on his next angry swipe of his hands past his upper lip, holding his hands out ahead of him in the spray for a second to wash it off, and starting again at his forehead. He wasn’t really trying to get clean, just killing time until the awkwardness of the post-game speech dissipated, and a few more people filtered through to shower, so that he could walk back stark naked like he didn’t care that every single other player was watching him. Fucking foresight, Ilya, why do you never think before you do anything?
He startled when the shower next to him turned on, suddenly feeling vulnerable with his burning, waterlogged eyes, audibly rasping breath as the steam loosened the congestion in his lungs, and lack of a proper exit strategy. Ilya tilted his head down, letting the water hit the back of his head, wiped his eyes, blinked through the pain, and squinted at the figure beside him.
“Just me.” Hayes. Nice of him to announce himself after Ilya had gone to all the effort of trying to see for himself who it was.
He didn’t respond, starting to wash his body off instead, staring straight ahead as the water plastered his hair to his forehead.
The silence rang between them. More people filtered through to shower. Ilya counted each entry as the showers kicked on, one after another. He had no idea who specifically had joined them-
“hyEHSCHH! AHSCHUh!”
Okay, so one of them was Dykstra, but apart from that-
“Bless you and bless you.” Fine, and Boodram. Anyway, as he’d been trying to think, before he’d been interrupted, it didn’t matter. It was a numbers game. He needed more people in here or out in the corridor than in the locker room. Less people to see his walk of shame-
“I brought you a towel.” The goaltender spoke up again, jerking his thumb towards the hooks behind them.
“Thanks.” Now shut the fuck up and shower.
“Pretty essential part of showering.” He joked, tentatively.
Ilya snorted, amusement acting as passive approval, Hayes’ expression immediately turning more serious.
“Listen, cap, if you’re sick-”
The blond slapped the handle to turn the spray off, suddenly seething with anger, the goalie’s face changing again to betray how taken aback he was. “I am fucking fin-” The word caught harshly in his throat, a sudden coughing fit overpowering him, echoing off the tiled walls. Ilya slammed his fist over his mouth, muffling the sound, bending double as his lungs spasmed violently, and he hacked harsh breaths against his damp knuckles.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hayes’ hand move. It occurred to him, at about the same time, that he could barely see the movement, noticing a fuzzy, hazing effect on the edges of his vision, that left his peripheral blurry and unclear. Mind split between the observation and the agonisingly endless fit, Ilya reverted to instinct and flinched away from him.
Wyatt froze. The captain tensed. Fuck. He wasn’t going to hit you, idiot. He probably wasn’t even going to touch you, given you’re both buck naked and soaking wet and you’re known for acting like a cornered animal at the best of times. And now he thinks you’re scared to be hit, like some kind of fucking pathetic little child. You get hit for a living, asshole, toughen up.
Ilya straightened, swallowing the tail end of the fit. He didn’t look at Hayes, face a steely mask of anger that he hoped looked like it was directed at the goaltender, rather than its real target, himself.
“Rozanov-”
“Fuck off. Is not your fucking business.” He retrieved the towel Wyatt had brought him, wrapped it around his waist, and stalked back to his stall, pulling his water bottle from his bag and sitting down heavily to half-drain it without looking at anyone.
…
Most of the team had showered and changed, falling easily into their own conversations and distractions once it became clear that the captain was done with any kind of drama for the evening, by the time that Ilya started to think about putting his clothes back on. His skin had long since air dried, his hair about halfway there, the ends still dripping cold water onto his neck, and arms, and phone screen.
He stared at the text thread with Shane blankly. They hadn’t messaged since the first intermission, and he knew that Montréal had won their game. So he wasn’t overly eager to interrupt the celebrations with his woeful complaints of embarrassment and humiliation.
“Hey.”
Ilya pressed the button to turn the phone screen off at a speed that felt like it outdid any of his shots on the ice that game, head snapping up to look at the man who’d just spoken. Dykstra sat in the stall to his left, its owner having already left for the shuttle back to the hotel. The captain relaxed a tiny, imperceptible amount. The defenseman was not someone he’d be overly worried about snooping on his phone conversations.
“What?” He responded, guardedly.
“Just wanted to make sure you’re all good. Not in front of everyone, this time.”
“I am good.” He swallowed dryly, eyes wandering the rest of the room to check that the check-in really wasn’t in front of everyone, but no one else seemed to be paying the two of them any mind.
“Alright, man. But as someone who’s had this shit that’s been going around- not that you’ve got it- it hits pretty hard, so, it might be helpful to-” He held out his hand, closed around something. Reluctantly, Ilya presented him with an open palm to take it.
The defenseman dropped a cut off section of a blister pack of pills into his hand, four. Ilya stared at the orange capsules, distastefully. He didn’t like their weight in his hand, the unnatural shade that looked like it wasn’t intended for human consumption, didn’t like the idea of being expected to take them, to thank him for them, didn’t like the immediate sensations his brain conjured up, plasticky casing buckling on his tongue, acrid chemicals in the back of his throat, images he’d tried to forget flooding his mind- he sniffled as his tear ducts stung, staring blankly at his hand as Evan stared patiently at him.
A few short, silent seconds passed. Ilya floated a thousand miles from his mind, so far removed from his body that he no longer had any idea where he was, lost in the fog of dissociation. Flickers of the past day, week, year appeared and then vanished as his consciousness searched for some kind of anchor to keep him from drifting into more dangerous memories. Then his lungs stuttered back to life, a long, staggered breath drawn in sharply. His surroundings came back into focus. Faced with only a few moments to discern the automated reason behind his abrupt inhale, the blond panicked. Was he about to say something? To yell at the defenseman for his presumption? Was he about to break into full-blown panic? To cry? Or-?
“KKh!” The only reason he hadn’t sneezed directly on, or really at, Dykstra, was because his head had subconsciously started to turn away a few seconds earlier, responding on impulse to a pain in his neck at keeping his head craned at that angle for so long. “-hKk! Kkh! Kk!-”
He faintly heard the other man mutter, “Oh.” and then some moving and shifting that he assumed was him getting up to leave. He was wrong.
“-hKSHh! Ksh!-”
And then there was a tissue pressed in his free hand. The Russian forced his eyes open mid-fit to check. Yeah, definitely a tissue. And Dykstra’s hand retreating in his peripheral. What the fuck?
“-hKSHH!-” It took him one more sneeze to realise that he should probably be using the tissue, rather than just holding on to it as though he’d been told to keep it safe at all costs, and the rest of the fit to realise that, “-hKSHuh!-” to place the tissue in Ilya’s hand, the defenseman had had to, “-hihKSH!-” reach over him, “-hihh… sSCHh!-” and so he’d almost definitely, “-hRSHH! rRRSHHuH!” had his arm…
“G’ bless you.” The captain looked up, seeing that the Canadian was occupied holding a tissue of his own, swiping nonchalantly at his wrist …directly in the line of fire. Fuck. Fucking disgusting, Ilya.
“Sorry.” The word came out thick with congestion, and swathed in his accent, so strong that it was noticeable even to himself.
“No worries, man. Just, you know- maybe you’ll feel better if you take the-” He nudged the hand that still held the blister pack of pills, indicatively. Feel better? Feel fucking better? What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Would the drugs make him play better too?
“No!” Ilya spoke louder than he needed to, drawing the eyes of even those who’d politely deigned to look away during the fit, though the locker room was almost empty now, anyway. “Take your fucking shit-” He threw the pills back at him, muscles clenched to stop himself from shaking, “-and leave me the fuck alone.”
He stood, praying the towel would hold as he turned to rifle through his bag, dragging out a hoodie, and pulling it on, drawing a hand through his damp hair to try to calm himself, feeling his heart pumping hard in his chest, ignoring the careful way the defenseman backed away in his peripheral vision, returning to his own stall. Feeling painfully out of place, he finished changing, retrieved his things and stormed from the room, chest tight with anxiety, alternating between dropping his head to his chest in dejection and tilting it back to try and glean a tiny amount more oxygen as he walked. He could not imagine a worse way for that fucking game to have ended if he tried. And he had a sinking feeling that he’d be spending most of the night trying.
…
“Hang on.”
Ilya stared at the smooth, white, hotel room ceiling as he listened to Shane fiddling with a tupperware of some kind on the other end of the line. Once all the clips had been snapped back into place, his voice became less distant again.
“Alright, sorry, I’m back. Mom gave me these wholewheat cracker things, I think Dad baked them, and they’re pretty good, but there’s a lot of them.” The blond heard him pad softly through into the living room, and flop down on the sofa. “I tried to give some to Hayden, but he said-”
Evidently not keen to find out what bullshit Pike had said in response to the offer, Ilya ducked away from the phone, coughing roughly against his fist. Lying on his back had not done wonders for the congestion lingering in his chest. He forced himself upright over the course of the unexpectedly long fit, gradually, vertebra by vertebra, until he was hunched forwards.
Fifteen full seconds of violent coughing later, the Russian swallowed phlegmily, and raised the phone back to his ear, ignoring the darkness that had sprung up at the edges of his vision.
“Fucking hell,” Shane sounded shaken. “Are you okay?”
“Pike said this? Rude.” Ilya smiled weakly. “Could have just said ‘no’.”
“Shut up, stop joking around. What’s wrong?”
“Is nothing.” He stood, breathing heavily through his mouth as dizziness swelled within him, and the congestion shifted in his head with a click that he was sure was audible through the phone. “Same thing team had last week.”
“Fuck. Why didn’t you say anything? You played, right? How the hell did you play?”
“Badly.” He mumbled, dragging his feet the short distance to the bathroom and filling a glass with water from the tap.
“That’s not what I meant.” The ‘and you know it’ went unsaid, but Ilya still felt it, and the accompanying pang of guilt for twisting his boyfriend’s words. “You have the same thing that fucked LaPointe over so badly you had to leave him in Florida for two extra days, and you played through?”
The blond finished chugging his glass of water and refilled it, phone held between his shoulder and his ear. “Is not so bad.”
There was a long pause. Ilya downed a second glass of water. “Does the team know?” The brunet asked finally.
“Yes.” He scowled at his reflection. “Did not want them to, but-” The rest of the sentence was lost to a huffed out breath as the memory of the locker room flashed through his mind.
“Was it okay?” If anyone would understand the stress of letting his team know he was sick, it was Shane. They had the same pressure on them, as captains, as star players, as the cornerstones of their respective teams. They had the same weird wall of secrets between them and their fellow players that stopped them from getting close enough for admissions of vulnerability to feel normal or comfortable. Plus, the Canadian was always kind of weird when he talked about illness anyway, even with Ilya, cagey in the same way he got about his sexuality or their relationship, or-
“I do not know. Maybe they are mad, or disappointed? Is not helpful.” He filled the glass again, more out of habit than desire this time.
“What’s not helpful? Their response, or the illness?”
“Illness, yes. They were very…helpful.” Guilt clawed up his throat again at the memory of all the outstretched hands he’d smacked away, in the showers, in his stall, on the bus to the hotel…
“It’s not your fault you’re sick, you know? It can’t be helped.”
“I fucking wish it c-hh-” Ilya froze, glass halfway to his mouth again, as the tickle that he hadn’t been able to fully shake since the first fit in the locker room, made its presence known again. Focusing on lowering it back to the counter without spilling any water, he attempted to update his boyfriend through jagged breaths, “I h-ahh-ave t-uhHh-o sn-iHHhihh-snee-”
“Okay, I got it, you don’t have to tell me.” Shane sounded strangely ruffled, “You can…you can go ahead and-”
“Snee-ihHKK!-ze. kKh! hKk!-” He dragged the collar of his hoodie up over his mouth, first knuckle under his nose, phone still absently pressed to his ear, “hKSH! KSHh! hKSHh! hihKSHhuh!-” He broke off to cough, bent double now, trying to square his stance as he swayed, disorientated, breath catching again before he could catch it himself and, “hihhkSHH! hrRSHh! hihh…hhH…hyAHSHHhOo!”
The final sneeze had him crashing to his knees, curled in a ball on the bathroom floor, breathing heavily through his mouth as his nose dripped all over his hand, still loosely holding his collar over his spray-glazed lips.
“Bless you. Fuck, you sound awful.” The brunet whispered through the phone as though afraid to disturb the silence that had fallen in the wake of the fit.
“Feel awful.” He responded before he could stop himself.
“I bet. God I wish I was there with you.”
“Me too.” And he really did wish, visualising his boyfriend with his eyes squeezed shut and his breath baited in his chest, making himself believe that when he looked up at the bathroom doorway, he’d see the brunet standing there, making that awful, pitying face at him.
There was a knock on the door. Ilya startled, eyes flying open, phone falling from his hand. Shane?
He fumbled for a face towel, running it under his nose, scrubbing at his hand as he rose to his feet, wincing at the pins and needles in his legs, hobbling to the door. Fuck, how long had he been sitting there?
Ilya unlocked the hotel room door, heart quickening, not bothering to look through the peep hole before he flung it open. His wish had come true, he wouldn’t have to go through this alone, he had Shane, he had-
The hallway was empty. The blond’s stomach rolled with dread. Had he misheard? Was this some kind of prank? But then his gaze drifted downwards, to the small, rectangular container sitting in front of the door. One of the baskets for the face towels, from the en suite bathroom, and it was filled with-? Ilya bent down. A bunch of random stuff? Trash?
He looked closer. On top sat a piece of paper from the notepad that sat beside the beds, the hotel name and logo at the top, scrawly writing beneath. ‘Captain. The essentials, just in case you don’t have any.’ and then, in different handwriting, ‘If you need anything, you know where we are.’ and finally, in block capitals that could have been either of the two priors or another person entirely, ‘WE’RE A TEAM.’
Ilya snatched the basket from the floor, glanced in both directions, checking if he was being watched, and ducked back inside his room, walking over to the bed, heart pounding in his chest, and emptying the container onto the clean, white, backdrop of the comforter.
He’d been provided with; two travel packs of tissues, different brands- possibly different people’s contributions?-; the exact cut off corner of cold meds Dykstra had tried to give him earlier; a second sheet, of blue pills that he assumed were the night-time version; a packet of throat lozenges that loudly proclaimed they contained vitamin c and zinc; two teabags with labels in French; and several loose smelling salt ampules. What the fuck?
Impulsive and uncoordinated as a wild animal, he swiped angrily at the array, sending items flying across the bed and tumbling to the floor. This was a joke, a mockery, an insult. They were chirping him, provoking him- no, worse…could they be… pitying him? The blond snarled at the empty room, the note lying face up on the floor, closing message mocking him. They were a team, so he needed to pull himself together and do his part. Or, they were a team, and he wasn’t a part of it, some tacked on extra, the figurehead that no one really connected with, a misfit.
The dissonance of multiple interpretations crowded his mind, and he unconsciously backed away from the bed, the humiliating necessities that had been thrust upon him, the blame, the pity, the anxiety. He hardly noticed his breathing pick up, harsh, ragged breaths as adrenaline flooded his system. Two emotions fought for monopoly in his chest, anger winning out. How fucking dare they? How dare they assume he was sick, assume he was helpless, give him things like he was a child, an invalid, an idiot. How dare they- he stumbled into the bathroom, seeking his abandoned cup of water, but being confronted by his phone on the floor, screen still illuminated with the ongoing call. Fuck, Shane.
“-can hear me, you’d better fucking reply-” He was saying as Ilya fumbled the device to his ear, voice quick with anxiety, audibly pacing the kitchen as the blond could hear the sound of his bare feet against the tile.
“I’m here.”
“Fuck, Ilya, what happened? I thought you passed out or something!”
“No, I went to answer door.”
“There was someone at your door?”
Now that he was having to slow down and explain what had happened, forcing his brain through the achingly elongated process that was translating it back to comprehensible English, the anger and adrenaline were beginning to ebb away, leaving a drained, overwhelming exhaustion in their place. “No, was just- team leave me stupid sick person stuff.”
“What?”
“Does not matter. I am fine. You had big game, should rest. Talk tomorrow.”
“Wait, Ily-”
“Love you.” He hung up, not even giving Shane the chance to say it back.
Ilya turned his phone off and slumped to the floor, hiking his knees up and resting his forehead against them. Fuck this whole day, fuck the game, fuck him for thinking things would get better once he left the arena, fuck this illness, fuck everything.
He sniffled, unsurprised to discover that his eyes were…watering. He wasn’t crying, he was just tired and sick and sometimes that made your eyes water…right. It made his eyes water and his chest ache and his breathing all juddery and his nose run, and- he sniffled again, head immediately tilting back at the sharp itching sensation that the movement had awoken.
“hKk! HkK! Kk! hKk! hhKSH!-” He let his head snap forwards against his bicep, hating the way the sound echoed in the small room, but still feeling like he’d be less likely to be heard in here than out in the bedroom, “hKSHh! KSHH! hihSHHh! huHSHhh! hihhuhH…” The last sneeze was temporarily delayed by the tears sliding down his cheeks, face aimed towards the ceiling, breath hitching with what were undeniably sobs as he inadvertantly increased his own discomfort, saltwater dripping into his ears and down his neck, every tiny pitiful noise reflected back at him mockingly by the tiled walls, “hhihh…hhiEhh… hAHKSHHhoo!”
And he buried his face in the sleeve of his hoodie and sobbed, silently. Every breath tore at his raw throat, burdened his aching lungs, every shudder of his frame jolted his damaged muscles and swollen joints, and his face was totally soaked in tears and snot, the fabric pressed against it having done all it could to mop up the endless tide. And Ilya felt nothing but torment, and his mind went nowhere but to everything he’d done to deserve it- the game, the speech, snapping at his teammates, pushing Shane away- and even before that, every mistake he could remember making, that had garnered him this bad karma, warranted this punishment.
His sobs slowed through the methodical search for wrongdoing, more focused on his mistakes than his misery, until it finally all came to a shuddering stop. And his mind strayed to the team, the offering. Maybe he should stop wallowing in this and try to fix it. That seemed to be what they wanted him to do. The captain dragged himself to his feet, ignoring the pressure in his chest, the way his heart skipped up to a higher rate uncomfortably quickly, the wave of unbearable heat that washed over him, and stumbled through into the bedroom. He could fix this. He would fix this. And he would play the next game, and they would win. And then no one would be mad anymore, and they could all forget that this had ever happened.
Ilya collapsed onto the bed, surrounded by sick-day staples, and fumbled around until he found one of the packets of tissues, tearing it open and scrubbing at his face before heaving a breath in and blowing forcefully. Three tissues later, he was satisfied, dazedly letting his eyes drift shut, totally drained. And at least, he considered, surprisingly positive in the aftermath of the breakdown, he’d freed himself up to be able to sneeze in front of the team now- something he hadn’t really done with Boston- that would make allergy attacks, and the stupid light sneezing reflex slightly less complicated to deal with. And he’d made his position on care or sympathy of any kind clear. They wouldn’t be trying that shit on him again.
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