geddit it’s a snz pun

The snz kink blog I’ve been putting off making for years. Jay, 30, she/her

[dopaminty]

I see your Only One Bed and raise you: there was only one tissuebox

[dopaminty]

Two emotionally constipated pining morons on the couch together sharing a cold and the One Box, both distractedly reaching for it as both their breathing starts to hitch, WHOOPS their hands brush over it and their shocked eyes meet for THE MOST INTENSE SPLIT-SECOND before -

[kaijusnz]

Person who always sneezes pretty softly and quietly needing to sneeze next to someone who's sleeping so they try and stifle it and the stifle ends up being louder than any sneeze they've ever let out

[hitching-hyacinth]

I may have made this exact post before but can't find it if I did. sky god whose sneezes cause the wind so it's considered good luck for sailors to tie feathers to the top of the mast to tickle their nose. and it works, of course

[hitsnz]

favourite pre-sneeze eyebrow movement (and possible emotion/s implied by them) GO!

[kinkyaxolotlartist]

"It's very -snf- cute of you to be worried about me, but I'm fihh... Nnh... ihh, itSHUu!"

[not-quite-a-lurker]

A riding B's face but B's nose is very sensitive (as usual or due to something else) and every movement of A's body is bumping into it, making it very tickly and even harder to hold back (and maybe that's what A wants)

[waterfallofspace]

Allergic Doctor (collab with @daystar428)

had a little scenario idea, and the absolutely lovely Day agreed to do it with me (aaahhh!!!!), soooo, here it is!!! please give her SO much praise for this because oh my god???? she did such a good job, and im so honoured she agreed to do this with me~ ✨ she's such a sweetheart, and my god like-such good content hhhhh~

[fetishccinealfredo]

soft laughter that transitions into hitching, and a desperate sneeze. <3

from 'hahaha!' to 'ahh...ahhH..!'

[iralikessnz]

A and B are close friends who’ve been gradually moving towards romance (e.g. occasional kisses at parties, making out whilst drunk once). A has the kink, B knows but generally doesn’t think about it.

A and B are hanging out, and B has an incredibly sniffly cold. They’re chatting, and A is trying to remain relatively normal but their self-restraint is gradually worn down until they make the impulsive decision to lean in for a kiss.

B is surprised, but reciprocates. Unfortunately the kiss sets of B’s nose, and they have a small set of fittish sneezes hittsh hittish hittiss. This finally clues them in as to why A is being so affectionate, and things progress …

[skullysniffles]

That breathless “g’euhh” after a particularly vicious sneeze.

[choofeyrac]

A couple sneezing, but one has big slow built up sneezes, and the other has immediate sneezes. So until A actually sneezes it goes

A: ahh—

B: chu!

A: ahh!

B: chu

A: stop stealing my sn-sneezes ahh’Tchuh!

[coldfckrrrr]

awh, bless you, sweet thing. did that one feel good? no..? oh, i’m so sorry, hon. i know. that one was messy, huh..? here, blow your nose like a good boy so i can kiss it better after.

[lostatsneeze]

I made a prompt game! I’m calling it a 6x6 Misery Maker.

It’s a dice game: your character is in the situation at the top, in this case “Sick at a Formal Ball”, and then you can either pick a category or roll a d6 for a random category, then roll a second d6. The number you roll corresponds to a row. The prompt in the column you chose and the row you roll is yours!

(If you just pick your favorite prompt without consulting the dice, no one has to know.)

[silklined]

Fic: Versus (H/eated Riv/alry, 2/?4, 4k)

Or maybe Rozanov had nothing to do with it. After all, they’ve always come as a pair, ever since the draft. First and second; second and first. Rozanov and Hollander; Hollander and Rozanov. Only, not like that, not… coupled. No, it’s Hollander versus Rozanov, now and always.

[Thank you so, so much for all the kindness for the first part. More actual sickfic in this one! I still know nothing about hockey.]

Shane is the first to arrive – obviously – so he sits in the inoffensively beige hotel conference room. He makes small talk with the Metros’s publicist and the assistant from the magazine, picks at a fruit platter someone has ordered for them, and bats away his mom’s texts about going to dinner with them after the home game with non-committal replies. The Tylenol kicked in before he left the house, and so his headache is better but he’d prefer to be sprawled on a sofa than sitting in a leather conference chair, trying to look attentive.

How long is this going to take? How much are they going to want him to say? He’s not good at judging these things: when someone wants a bit more out of him, when he’s giving too much detail about a play, when a yes or no question is really an invitation to say something more.

He’s in the middle of planning out answers to some questions he expects the reporter will ask when the door opens and in comes Rozanov, with a woman who Shane assumes must be a publicist for the Raiders.

They linger in the doorway for a moment, as the woman – who is a foot shorter than Rozanov but clearly no push over – stops him to say something in a low, serious tone, that Shane thinks might include the phrase “ninety minutes then we’re done.” Rozanov’s response is to frown and shove his hands in his pockets. It doesn’t faze the publicist. She gives back a look as good as the one that she got, and then leaves Rozanov to go and shake the hand of magazine assistant, with a warm and bright smile. Clearly, she’s used to his bullshit.

Shane is leaning forward over the edge of his chair, half way to his feet, when he realises that no one is expecting him to get up and shake everyone’s hand. So he’s left in that awkward position when Rozanov catches his eye. This is the kind of keenness to please that Rozanov drags him about on a regular basis, but today it doesn’t even elicit a smile. All Shane gets from Rozanov is a raise of his eyebrows in response to Shane’s own nodded greeting, before Rozanov stalks over to a chair as far away from Shane as it’s possible to be. Really doubling-down on the narrative that we can’t stand each other.

Trying to watch Rozanov without looking like he’s watching Rozanov, Shane pretends to be responding to a message while peering over the top of his phone. Rozanov has pulled out his own phone and is shuffling awkwardly around in chair. It’s small for his height and his broad shoulders – stop thinking about his shoulders – but not so small that it should be uncomfortable. But Rozanov does look uncomfortable, and he doesn’t stress about interviews the way that Shane does. Shane’s done enough press with him to see that Rozanov has little patience with dumb questions, but he also likes to have some fun with reporters, showboat a bit, say something for the commentators to chew over at the next match. Today, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, to the extent that he pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt and hunches down inside of it over his phone.

Something’s not right.

Shane taps the messaging icon on his screen, and, ignoring the newest message from his mom, flicks open the chat headed Lily. He raises his eyes for a last shaded glance up at Rozanov, and is about to start typing a message asking Rozanov what the fuck is up with him, when Rozanov sneezes.

“hNgh’shhh!’GHtschh!..Ahh’Xtschh!-h’Ghshhh!-hhh’Ghsshh!”

Shane doesn’t even have to pretend not to notice it. Despite Rozanov smothering his nose with the cuff of his hoodie, the volume of the explosions crashing loudly into one another is enough to draw the attention of and scattered blessings from everyone else in the room. With a sniff and frown, Rozanov nods a barely-polite thank you, and goes back to scowling at his phone, leaving Shane to remember that he really shouldn’t be staring at him.

Why didn’t he spot it from the moment Rozanov walked in? Because it’s so fucking obvious, and must have been even before he sneezed like a machine gun. He’s sniffling, there’s an unfamiliar stiffness to his body, and he looks like he might murderer the first person who raises either of those things with him. Shane types quickly into their chat.

- Are you sick?? (10:07am)

Rozanov’s eyebrows narrow as he sees the message arrive. His jaw tightens a little as he reads its contents, and then begins to type back furiously, making the familiar rippling dots appear on Shane’s screen. Seconds later, the reply pops out.

Lily: Worried I’ll infect you? (10:07am)

Shane looks up at the screen to find Rozanov grinning wolfishly at him. It’s Shane’s turn to frown, and he considers flipping Rozanov the bird, before turning back to his screen instead

- No. I wanted to check that you’re

The three rippling dots appear again on Rozanov’s side of the screen, making Shane stop typing mid-sentence. Then another bubble appears.

Lily: I’m still going to kick your ass on Saturday. (10:07am)

Pushing all thoughts of soup-buying and forehead-feeling far, far down in his brain and jamming the delete button as hard as he can, Shane erases his attempt at sympathy. His phone can autocomplete his new reply.

- Fuck you (10:07am).

He glances across the room to see the corners of Rozanov’s pink, soft lips creep upwards. Shane can see that he’s typing something else, but at that moment the door opens again, and a vaguely familiar man around his dad’s age walks in, who must be the interviewer. Shane loops his thumb over to lock the screen before he tucks his phone away, but as he does, he catches sight of the last message Rozanov has sent.

Lily: That was what I missed doing last night. (10:08am)

Heat rises in his face and there’s a sudden dryness in his throat that Shane knows is nothing to do with the cold that he’s starting. He can’t look at Rozanov, but Shane’s sure that he must be smiling.

The interview proceeds much as the publicist had pitched it to Shane. The reporter asks Shane about the end of the last season and the first couple of games of this one, and then asks Rozanov the same. They both address their responses to him and don’t engage with one another, which Shane supposes fits with the narrative that they hate each other’s guts and allows him to studiously avoid looking at Rozanov for long periods, even though that’s difficult when he keeps rubbing his nose and eyes, snuffling in between sentences, and interrupting his responses to cough into his sleeve. 

Shane doesn’t know how they haven’t all noticed he’s as sick as dog. Perhaps it’s because Rozanov is still a great interviewee. He’s funny, and apparently entirely candid. If he throws verbal jabs at other players’ that Shane is pretty sure will get returned for real on the ice, he’s also genuine in his praise for his teammates. He’s giving great copy and the interviewer is lapping it up.

Or maybe everyone has noticed he’s sick, and is too polite to mention it, or his publicist had briefed everyone not to ask about it on pain of death. Their conversation in the doorway makes sense now. The Raiders’ coach must be furious that his star player is doing interviews instead of sleeping off his head cold.

The fact that no one has mentioned Rozanov’s cold makes Shane a little more relaxed about his own, which can’t be anywhere near as visible. The intense air conditioning in the room isn’t helping that swollen, about-to-be-congested feeling in his sinuses, but he’s not actually sniffling yet. Likewise, his voice feels a little precarious, but sipping water every time it threatens to give out on him seems to be working so far. Once or twice when it’s faded a bit during an answer, Shane thinks he’s caught Rozanov giving him a strange sort of stare, but it never lingers long enough for him to work out what it means.

Still, he’ll be glad when this is over, and he’s pretty sure Rozanov feels the same. There’s a moment when the reporter’s attention diverts from them as he pulls something up on his laptop to show them, and Shane risks a longer glance over. Rozanov slumps forward for a moment on his elbows, kneading his eye sockets with the heels of his hands. It’s only a moment though. When the reporter looks up again, Rozanov is lounging in his chair, with a cough into his fist the only indication that anything might be amiss.

“Ok, I’d just like you to watch this and tell me your thoughts,” the reporter says, tapping the trackpad of the laptop to set a video running.

It takes Shane less than a second to work out what he’s watching, because the first thing he sees is Rozanov, five years younger than he is now, dressed in a suit and tie. It’s draft night. It must be a few minutes before the draft was actually made because Rozanov isn’t holding a jersey, and he looks twitchy in a way that doesn’t tally with Shane’s memories of him playing up for the cameras as they were photographed together.

You just remember thinking how hot he looked.

And Rozanov does look hot. Unlike most of the draftees, who are awkward in jackets and dress shoes, he wears the suit like he’s used to it. The camera lingers on him speaking to his father, his curls cropped a little more closely than he wears them today. Then he looks up, staring into the distance like he’s trying to work something out, and the camera catches a slight flush on his cheeks – oh yeah, it was really warm in that room – and the way that he teases his lip in anticipation. And the realisation of just how young Rozanov looks strikes Shane so quickly that he can’t help it; he laughs.

“What are you laughing at?”

“You!”

It’s the first time they’ve spoken to each other all morning; first time in months, in fact, apart from texting. The first time they’ve held each other’s gaze for longer than a stolen moment. Rozanov’s eyebrows narrow quizzically. His eyes might be red at the rims from his cold but his gaze is steely, and his chin is jutted forward as though he’s issuing a challenge.

“Me?” he says cooly, his cold pitching his voice lower than usual and roughening its edges.

“Your baby-face,” Shane clarifies, gesturing towards the screen just as the camera cuts to a shot of Shane himself. And in that second, Shane realises the irony of what he's said. If Rozanov looks young, Shane is a puppy, who doesn’t know what to do with the limbs he’s still growing into. His cheeks are bright pink, and they’ve not yet quite lost the fullness of his late teens. His dad had needed to tie his tie for him, and he remembers how uncomfortable his shirt collar was and the way that his shoes pinched. He’s holding a glass of something that he’s too nervous to drink. God, how did he forget he looked like that?

So it’s Rozanov’s turn to laugh. And if it’s not the unrestrainable outburst of pure pleasure that Shane has heard too infrequently, it still makes his heartbeat quicken.

“You are the one with baby face,” Rozanov says. He turns away to smother a cough in his fist. When he looks back, he’s frowning but there’s something light in his eyes. “Did you even need to shave then?”

“Sometimes,” Shane mumbles, smiling despite himself.

“I bet your mom picked that suit for you.”

“Of course she did.”

Shane’s laughing at himself now, which is something only Rozanov can really make him do. They are holding each other’s gaze and Shane can see Rozanov’s pupils widening. There’s a warmth radiating from his eyes that matches the one that Shane can feel rising in his cheeks, and moving down to the skin of his throat.

He needs to stop this. There are four other people in the room, for fuck’s sake, and they are all of them are looking at him and Rozanov. Of course they are. They’ve barely acknowledged one another in thirty minutes, and here they are now, bantering back and forth, and staring like they could never take enough of each other in.

So Shane looks away, just in time for the clip to cut forward to the draft itself. Luckily, the camera focuses on Rozanov as soon as Boston pick him first, so Shane doesn’t have to watch himself experience that particular gut punch, after he’d been imagining himself as the first pick of the draft for as long he could remember. But it turns out that he wasn’t great at hiding disappointment, because its there in his face as he’s called second, even though he smiles politely, warmly even, as he’s handed the Metros jersey, and he dutifully holds it up for the camera flashes to begin.

“You really wanted to be first pick.” Rozanov’s voice pulls Shane back to the room and the present. He looks back, perhaps before Rozanov expects him to, because Shane catches him rubbing his nose on his sleeve, before he quickly drops it away.

“Doesn’t everyone want to be first pick?” Shane replies, because it seems silly to lie about that now. And yes, it will be Rozanov’s name in all the draft stats in the books and the number one next to his name on the player cards that Shane collected over as a kid. But there are other lists, and a career is a long time, if you’re lucky. He can give this one to Rozanov. “But, yeah, no, I think you deserved it – after the Prospect Cup, I mean.”

“I did deserve it,” Rozanov agrees, with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. Shane rolls his eyes.

“Ilya Rozanov - modest to a fault.” The reporter smiles at that one; clearly them needling one another is what he’d been hoping for.

“But I did!” Rozanov raises his voice a little, which means that he has to pause to cough again. Shane tries to join in with everyone else pretending to ignore it – because, come on, they must be pretending by this point, it’s so obvious Rozanov is pretty sick. But he’s not sure how good a job he’s doing because that cough doesn’t sound great, and when Rozanov starts talking again, his voice is husky and fraying. “You were promising, yes, and fast. But you weren’t - ” Rozanov pauses, the English word escaping him; in its place, he makes a gesture like the shape of a ball.

“Rounded,” Shane supplies helpfully, before he realises that he’s literally helping Rozanov to tear apart his own game.

“Rounded, yes – not rounded,” Rozanov agrees. “I was full package. Easy choice.”

The comment is cutting but not inaccurate – which suggests that Rozanov probably spent more time watching Shane on the ice than he’d ever let on, back then, at least. And Shane is about to make just this point, when Rozanov starts speaking again.

“But you won Rookie of the Year, and you deserved that, so…” He trails off, his hands weighing their relative accolades in the balance.

It’s at that unfortunate moment that Shane’s eyes start to water. Because the watering is also accompanied by a buzzing sensation right at the back of his nose, Shane knows that it’s because he’s about to sneeze. But he also knows that to everyone else, it probably looks like he’s been moved to tears by such suddenly generous praise from his greatest rival. And even if it was possible to explain any of this without sounding completely insane – no, no I’m not crying, my eyes are just watering because I’m getting a cold and I’m going to sneeze any second now – Shane couldn’t because it’s really hard to talk when you really, really need to sneeze. And even harder when Rozanov is giving him that strange stare again, like Shane is a puzzle that he’s struggling to solve.

“h’Tschhuu!” Shane has his head tucked tightly into his elbow so he can’t see whether or not everyone is looking at him, but presumably they are. The strength of the sneeze surprises him a little, and if he’s covered it scrupulously, he doesn’t think he’s done much of a job of suppressing the sound. One of the publicists blesses him and he manages to open his eyes and nod a quick thanks before the second sneeze sends him ducking into his sleeve once more. “hihShhh’uu!”

He sniffs, hopefully discreetly, then swallows, and tries not to look pained at the uncomfortable pressure now building between his throat and his ears. He knows he should be grateful that his colds rarely – if ever – go to his chest, but the trade off for that seems to be that they get stuck in his head. The congestion is always the worst part.

“Excuse me,” Shane says briskly, trying not to sniff again. That’s difficult, because the tingling in his nose has retreated, but hasn’t gone away altogether. There’s still a lingering, incredibly distracting irritation, which he knows means that he’s going to sneeze again, but not instantly. No, he’s going to sneeze again only after minutes of itchy, watery, snuffly torture, because this is something his supposedly perfectly-tuned body does to him sometimes: leaving him stuck in the middle of a sneezing fit, during which he’ll barely be able to concentrate on the question, let alone answer anything.

The reporter has moved on to asking Rozanov about that rookie season, showing some footage of a Raiders match against Detroit. Shane knows why he’s showing it, because it’s a match in which Rozanov shot a goal from inside the neutral zone, a hit of such pace and precision that the puck skips past everyone, including the Detroit keeper, who was left looking around trying to work out how it happened. The only person who didn’t look surprised at the goal is Rozanov himself, who pantomimed a bow to the crowd and then skated cooly back to the center circle, as though he might just do the same thing again. Shane remembers all of this because he watched that goal over and over, also trying to work out how it happened, how he could do the same thing, how he could be as good as Ilya Fucking Rozanov.

He’s thankful now that the sheer spectacle has drawn everyone’s attention to the laptop screen, so that Shane can mumble a polite, “I’ll just be a second,” waving his phone like he needs to take a call, and slip out into the corridor until he can pull himself together.

Once he’s put ten yards between himself and the conference room, Shane stops. Thankful that the room seems to be on a quiet corridor, he swipes away a tear that’s broken containment, and leans back against the wall. His nose is burning now, and his eyes are watering even more, forcing him to wipe away more tears, sniffle even more desperately, and, fuck it, reach for the tissues he’s stashed in his pocket for emergencies.

Unfolding the tissue over both of his hands, he presses it to his nose, trying to rub away the itch – but, of course, it doesn’t work.

“Just fucking sneeze or don’t,” he mutters under his breath, while his body refuses to do either. So he squints up at the halogen strip on the ceiling in the hope that the light might help his nose hurry up with it already.

“Did my skating overwhelm you with its beauty, Hollander?”

Oh fuck, no. No, no, no. Why is Rozanov here?

To watch you make a complete ass of yourself, of course.

Shane snaps his head downwards to look at Rozanov, who is several feet away but moving towards Shane, eyeing him up and down with an extremely amused look on his extremely smug, extremely handsome face. Shane, unfortunately, doesn’t have time to take much of Rozanov in, and certainly not time to reply. Because whether it’s the sudden movement of his head or the surprise at discovering he isn’t alone, his nose decides that now is exactly the time to -

“hhhiIHshh’yoo!... ht!’Shhheuu!” He snaps forward over steepled hands, pressing the tissue as tightly over his face as he can to dampen the noise. He can hear Rozanov laugh, a gentle chuckle of exasperation, roughened by his own cold.

“Ah. No. I think is that you’re allergic to my game.”

Shane manages to open his eyes and shift one hand from the tissues so he can flip Rozanov the bird – a gesture that only makes Rozanov laugh again, as Shane feels his breath catch again.

“hhhi’yihh?... hhhhTchhew!...hhTishhh’ooo!” The fourth sneeze – because, of course, there had to be four right now – is stronger than the others, and seems to be enough to get rid of the desperate buzzing in his head. For now, at least. Shane blows his nose as softly as he can, and raises his head to find that Rozanov is now right across from him, leaning on the opposite wall of the corridor. He pulls down the hood of his sweatshirt, as though to get a better look at Shane without it.

“You’re sick, too,” he says, and its not a question. Up close and without his hood now, Shane can see quite how pale Rozanov looks. There are dark circles under his eyes that suggest his cold didn’t let him get much sleep last night, and the underside of his nose is pink.

“Maybe. Maybe getting sick,” Shane admits. His voice sounds worse after the sneezing fit, and he can tell Rozanov hears it too, so he adds quickly. “Not as sick as you though.”

Rozanov doesn’t look happy about the comparison but he doesn’t deny it either. He coughs lightly, and drags the back of his hand across the tip of his nose in what looks like frustration. Considering that nose looks like it’s been broken more than once, having a head cold is probably enough to really mess up his breathing.

Might be worth trying to outpace him on the break tomorrow, especially if you tell the others to help you run him round a bit – give his lungs a bit of a work out. If yours are up to it, that is.

Shane shuts down the hockey part of his brain, and looks up and down the corridor, checking once again that they are completely alone. Satisfied that they are, he drops his voice and asks, “Is that why you didn’t want to see me last night?”

Rozanov rolls his eyes in response. Obviously.

“You could have told me. I waited up for you.”

“Cute.” But if Rozanov’s smile is self-satisfied, his eyes look genuinely pleased at Shane’s apparent devotion to – well, to whatever their arrangement is.

“Fuck off, Rozanov.” Either the Tylenol is wearing off, or the bright lights in the corridor are making Shane’s headache worse. Whichever it is, he doesn’t have the patience for Rozanov’s bullshitting right now. And besides… “Didn’t think you’d care if you got me sick.”

Rozanov shrugs.

“No point in me turning up if you’re sneezing so much you can’t skate straight. Win would be too easy. The rest of your team sucks.” Rozanov might be running his mouth off as usual, but the toe of his right sneaker, which he’d slid across the floor until it was parallel to and pressed against Shane’s own, is now hooked round the back of Shane’s ankle. “But I can’t give you my cold if you’ve already got one.”

Scientifically speaking, Shane is pretty sure that this isn’t how it works. But Rozanov’s point stands. If they’re both going to be playing sick anyway, neither of them has to worry about catching anything. Which is convenient, to say the least.

Rozanov continues, his foot sliding higher up Shane’s leg, “So if I was to come over tonight, usual place at…”

“…8:30.”

“8:30, I would find the door…”

“… on the latch.”

“… on the latch. Good.” Rozanov sniffs, and rubs his nose like he’s trying to scrub it from his face. “Ngh… I should go back. Someone will come looking. Wondering why we do not want to answer any more stupid questions. Would be bad enough without even more stupid cold.”

As if on cue, it’s then that Rozanov’s eyes lose focus for a second. Then a few things happen at once. Shane hears Rozanov’s breath catch in the top of his chest, his nose scrunches upwards, his eyes close, and his lips twist into something between a gasp and a snarl. And then he’s motionless for an instant, before he folds forwards, cuff pressed to his nose, upper body arching left away from Shane, as the sneezes crash out of him with the same intensity that Rozanov shows on the ice.

“ahgh’TXSHHH!-hhgh’Xtchhh!-hh’TXghhh!-hhhh’! ….nhghhh…” The fit dissolves into a sigh, and then a string of syllables in Russian. Shane doesn’t understand them, but he’d bet good money that they constitute some barely translatable expletive.  

“Bless you,” Shane says, resisting a sudden urge to run his hand over the exposed nape of Rozanov’s neck. “Can you skip practice?”

Rozanov straightens up and clears his throat. He shakes his head. “I have a cold, not broken leg. Besides, they want to take photos of us, remember?”

Fuck, Shane hadn’t remembered. He just hoped that they’d be taken from enough of a distance that neither of them would look as shitty as they both clearly feel.

“Well, just, um… Take care of yourself,” he says. Rozanov grins again.

“Oh, are you worried about me, Hollander?” he replies, pitching his voice upwards in a babying tone as he walks away. Then he stops, turns, and fucking winks, and then adds in a low growl, “You should be.”

[choofeyrac]

What is this, more fic? (I started this just before Valentine’s Day last year…) K//aleidotrope pod/cast again, ~4k words, NSFW, explicit snz kink

Drew should have known that Sidlesmith on Valentine’s was a place to be avoided. And if he hadn’t known that, he should definitely have known that Kishi’s would be up to some nonsense. 

But Harrison hadn’t even asked, hadn’t even joked about it, so busy he’d been trying to make it the perfect day for Drew. So Drew had had no choice, really: he’d wrapped an arm around his shoulders and steered Harrison away from the path he had planned. He’d even asked the barista to surprise him, just to see Harrison’s eyes go soft. Also because it was Chima, Harrison’s favourite barista, and if Drew trusts any of the Kishi’s baristas it’s them, but mostly to see Harrison’s face. It’s Valentine’s Day, he can be forgiven a soppy stare or two. 

It’s why he doesn’t notice the Confetti Friday signs, or the Valentine’s Glitter Bomb signs, or even the person approaching them until there’s a cloud of glitter suddenly exploding in his face. He hears Harrison’s delighted laughter, which quickly fades to concern; hears his name on Harrison’s lips and apologies from someone he can’t see. He waves them off, rubbing some glitter from his eyes as Harrison guides him away from the counter. 

“Are you alright? You look…”

“heh’pischh” 

“Well, I was going to say you look pissed, but I’ll revise that down to just very sneezy.”

“hehp’ishoo”

“Bless you,”

“heh’issshh!” He sniffles, looking up balefully at Harrison who— bursts out laughing. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he says through the giggles. “I just— your face.”

Drew rolls his eyes, but even he knows how fond his smile must look. He tries to brush some more glitter away from his nose, but he just ends up sneezing again. Harrison doubles over, he’s laughing so hard. 

“Thanks,” Drew says drily. 

“I’ll get you some napkins,” Harrison says, then pauses, tilting his head. “How grumpy would you be if I took a photo for posterity?”

“By posterity do you mean ‘For Hal’?” He sniffles again. “Ugh. Go on, before I start sn—! Sneezing again—! aa’hischoo!”

“Bless you baby,” Harrison says through all his snickering, and doesn’t give Drew chance to compose himself before he’s snapping a few photos. Then he grabs some napkins and brings them back to Drew. “Wanna switch our orders to takeaway cups so you can get all this out your system outside?”

“Please,” Drew says, looking relieved. Harrison goes to catch Chima’s eye, but finds they’ve already anticipated the request. 

“Thought the glitter might be too much for him,” They tell Harrison. “Admittedly this is not the way I anticipated.”

Harrison laughs again, and thanks them and pays  before taking the coffees. 

“Chima might be an angel,” He tells Drew. 

“Chima’s definitely an angel. Can we go, though?”

“Drink some coffee first, otherwise it’s just going to spill when we try and get this glitter off.”

He’s right, but Drew’s nose starts twitching again at the thought, and he pushes his cup back into Harrison’s hand. At least he has tissues now; he all but dives into them to muffle the sneezes.

“Not sure you’re going to get the glitter out if you keep stifling,” Harrison points out. 

“How did I even inhale this much glitter anyway? uh—tchoo! uh— uh—! uh’tChoo! uh’tchoo! Ugh, you’re right, that does feel better.”

“Good. Now drink some of that coffee so I can get you out of here.” Drew smirks at him for that. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day?” He asks, and it’s Harrison turn to flush beetroot. 

“I didn’t plan this!” He says helplessly, but Drew just smiles at him, sipping his coffee. 

“I know. You weren’t going to bring me at all, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah. Well.”

“So seeing as I’ve already messed up your plans, how about we make a new one? One that’s got things you want to do in, too.”

“I—“

Drew leans in, kisses the corner of his mouth. His cheek brushes glitter onto Harrison’s, and Harrison gives in. 

“You know, once you’ve got the glitter out of your nose, probably the best way to get rid of the rest would be a shower.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Perhaps we should go back to mine.”

“That sounds sensible. I won’t be able to see all the glitter though, you might have to help me.”

“I think that could be arranged.”

They smirk at each other, and then the glitter in Drew’s nostrils decides to remind him of its presence. 

“uhp’schoo!”

Harrison giggles again. 

“Every time you sneeze, a little tiny cloud of glitter just lifts off.”

“It’s only a matter of time before you make a vampire joke, isn’t it? Oh— ahp’schh—ahp’schoo!”

“I really think it’s time to get you out of here, actually.”

“Can you grab some more n— nn’tcheww — napkins on the way out?”

“Of course. Come on, let’s go.” He takes another swig of coffee, then tugs Drew by the arm. Then he loads Drew’s free hand with napkins, stuff a few in his pockets for good measure, and leads him outside. It’s a grey day, and though milder for it it’s still not much of a surprise that there’s no one in the alley beside the cafe. That’s useful; Harrison has a lot of good memories from this alley, and he intends to make this another one. 

“Want me to take your coffee?” He asks, slowly crowding him against the wall. Drew shoves it into his hands. 

“Aa’yischhhoo! Aa— aah—! Hah’tchoo! aht’choo! hh’tchhischoo! Huh! e’tchiew!”

Harrison’s hands are regretfully full of coffee. He winces in sympathy instead. 

“Those were big sneezes, baby.”

“Huh-eh! eh’tchiewwww.”

He sniffles helplessly. 

“Blow your nose, Drew,” Harrison tells him softly. 

“I— I’ll stop sneezing as much… eh— tchuhhh.” 

Harrison loses what he was going to say in the face of such a cute sneeze. It takes him a moment to remember, and he’s almost got it when—

“eh— tchuhh.” Drew lets out another soft little barely there sneeze, and he forgets again. He leans up and kisses him instead; it’s all he can do with his hands full. As soon as he leans back, Drew sneezes again, another tiny one down towards his shoulder. Then another. Then another. 

“Jesus, Drew,”  

His only response is two more sneezes, these two closer together than the last ones have been. His eyes stay closed until a third follows. 

Harrison decides he doesn’t care how hot his coffee still is; he steps back from Drew only to drain it and chuck the cup in the bin near the end of the alley. He’s tempted to do the same for Drew’s, but he had finally asked Chima to surprise him, and Harrison doesn’t want to rob him of that delight. Drew’s face is all scrunched up when he steps back into his space, this time placing a hand in his hip. 

“Saved them for you,” He mumbles, then, “eh’chisch uh’tchisch, huh uh— oh— haht’choo!” He sniffles again. “Sorry, sorry, that one got loud.”

“We came out here so you could be, remember? It’s okay.”

“Is it? Is that why we came out here?”

“Shut up and sneeze,” Harrison tells him, then kisses him so he can’t even obey. He can feel when Drew’s huffing breaths mean he needs to lean away, and in the flurry that follows Harrison finally remember what he’d meant to say earlier. 

“I know you’re dragging this out for my benefit,” He says. “And that’s not unappreciated. But you can blow your nose, it’s okay. We can make you sneeze plenty at home, too.”

“Hpt’chuuhh—“

“Yes, even if you try and distract me more with these little ones.”

“Not trying to di— distract you. Heh—chuuhh. Just… heh’eh— oh, it went. Just, heh— eh—! Mmf. Oh! Heh’schooo.” He sniffles some more. “Bless me.”

“Yeah, bless you. God, Drew. Seriously. You need to get this out of your system enough to get us home, otherwise I’m not being held accountable for the public indecency charges.”

Drew puts his mouth right by Harrison’s ear, and lets his breath hitch audibly. Then he tucks his head into Harrison’s neck, and sneezes once, twice; tiny little things with no force behind them. 

“Jesus,” Harrison whispers, hoarse. Drew sneezes again. Harrison swallows. Drew sneezes again. 

“You’re going to get us arrested.”

“Can’t help it. Mm— huh’schooo.”

“Andrew.”

Drew sniffles, and it’s stupid cute. 

“We can’t do this here, oh my god.”

“We’ve done worse,”

“Not when it’s light!”

“Oh. Yeah. uh’choo.”

Harrison gives up trying to convince him with words; he snakes a hand down Drew’s side until he finds the pockets of his jeans. Then he fishes out one of the napkins, and manages a step back. 

“How much glitter do you mind on your face to walk through campus?” Drew pulls a face. “We’re going home, Drew. So either you tell me how much glitter to get off, or we walk away like this.” 

Drew gives in with a hint of a grin, and even that’s enough to take Harrison’s breath away again. 

“I don’t know how bad the glitter is. Can you make it look more intentional? And keep it away from my nose, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Harrison repeats, then brushes his napkin over the tip of Drew’s nose. 

“Hih’schooo! I thought you wanted me to stop.”

“I wanted you to stop teasing. Never said I would.”

Drew sneezes into Harrison’s hand, just because he can. Harrison wipes his nose without fanfare, more firmly this time so he doesn’t provoke more sneezes. 

“Think you can hold your own coffee again?” He asks, and Drew takes it from him so he can use both hands to try and get the glitter under control. 

“We’re still going to need that shower,” he says eventually, “But I think you’ll do for now.”

“Somehow there’s all this glitter on your neck too,” Drew points out, because he’s apparently determined to test Harrison’s resolve. Harrison wants to kiss him again, but he knows what will happen if he does. He steps back instead. 

“We have walls at home too, remember. And also, y’know, privacy.” Drew shrugs. “We’ll explore your exhibitionist streak later, but Drew. You’re going to take me home. Now.” 

After that, Drew stops complaining. 

They have to pause a few times when Drew’s nose demands it, but they get home mostly intact — even when Drew makes a frankly illegal noise when he sips his coffee and finds it’s finally cooled down enough to taste it. He’s finished it by the time they get through the door, which is good, because Harrison takes the empty cup from him as soon as they’re inside, placing it with his keys on the cabinet before turning back to Drew. 

“What first?” He asks, and Drew just raises an eyebrow before Harrison shoves him against the wall and kisses him. Drew’s hands are free this time, and he runs them up and down Harrison’s back, his sides, before settling them into the back pockets of his jeans and tugging him even closer. Harrison has one hand in his hair, directing the kiss, keeping him there even as his breath gets more and more ragged, keeping him there until Drew makes an urgent noise and Harrison finally releases his lips, drawing Drew’s face into his neck so he can sneeze and sneeze and sneeze. The first ones come out strong, and he adjusts his grip on Harrison to make sure he feels the force of every one, bodies moving together as the sneezes wrack through him. When they finally slow, they don’t stop, just turning back to the little soft ones that Harrison loves so much. Drew can think through these ones, which means he can tease through them. He scatters them all across Harrison’s neck, making sure he can feel any build up, pushing his face down into Harrison’s shoulder, nose nudging under Harrison’s shirt. When he has to sniffle, he makes sure to do it near the glitter he’s already left on Harrison’s skin, and it’s not much but it’s enough to keep these little sneezes going. 

“Wanna see— ii’schoo— wanna see if I can blow you like this?”

It’s a good job Drew has his arms around him; Harrison’s knees go weak. His lips find his pulse point; he’s pretty sure it skips a beat when he sneezes again. 

“Bed,” he says, even as Harrison grinds himself up against him. He gets distracted by another couple sneezes, and then by Harrison grinding against him again. 

“This will be so much b— better in— in— ii’schuh ii’schuh! In bed. Ih—!” He hangs in the balance for a second, then sniffs. “It disappeared. Come on, I— god, Harrison, Harrison!” Harrison’s turning them, pushing Drew to his knees. Drew fumbles at the button of Harrison’s jeans, getting it undone but not getting his fly down before the tickle reappears and he sneezes into the bulge in his pants. Harrison’s hips buck again; Drew reaches up to pin them in place, letting Harrison unzip his fly and push down his pants and boxers. The tickle is toying with Drew; for a moment he can’t even appreciate Harrison’s dick in front of him. Then he pushes his face into Harrison’s thigh, sneezes three times in quick succession, and gets his mouth on him. Harrison’s babbling above him, full of praise and awe and instruction that Drew can’t take in right now. He’s— he’s— so close to sneezing again— he pulls back off Harrison despite Harrison’s noise of disappointment; burying more sneezes into his thigh again. He’s not done, but he kisses up Harrison’s shaft anyway, licking his head before his breath starts hitching and he sneezes again. The next one comes on so suddenly that he freezes; Harrison says his name, concerned, but then the sneeze bursts out of him with an intensity that surprises them both. It’s ratifying; final; he gets his mouth back on Harrison and sucks him down properly. And that would have been it, except that Harrison swipes his thumb through the glitter that’s still on Drew’s cheek, and touches it to his nostrils. Drew can’t avoid the breath in; he quivers with it, and then he has to pull away from Harrison yet again, except this time Harrison takes himself in hand and jerks himself off in time with Drew’s sneezes. The sneezes are getting big again, drawing to a finale; they’re both panting, and the sneezes tumble out of Drew in quick succession against Harrison’s hand, and Harrison makes a noise and comes all over his neck. 

After the sneezes have crescendoed too, Drew looks up at Harrison, chin propped on his leg. 

“You look obscene,” Harrison murmurs. “And I definitely owe you that shower now.”

Drew kisses his thigh, knowing both of them are too exhausted to move right now. He undoes Harrison’s shoelaces, seeing as he’s already down here, and Harrison steps shakily out of the shoes and his jeans. 

“There’s more napkins in my pockets,” he remembers, and Drew uses them gratefully, then lets Harrison pull him to his feet. Harrison tilts his head carefully so he can kiss him without disturbing his nose any more, and slowly starts them walking towards the shower. 

As if it’s a surprise to anyone, the steam from the shower sets Drew off too. Harrison’s hands are gentle as he washes the glitter away from his face, but Drew sniffles and hitches his way through it, shuddering at any touch to his nose.

“God I— I want to sneeze again,” he manages to say, and Harrison smiles. 

“I bet you do.”

“Will you h-help again? Huh—“ but yet again the intake of breath doesn’t go anywhere. 

“Of course I’ll help, baby. You just need to stop fighting it, okay?”

“C—can’t.”

“What, you’re not going to let any of those sweet sneezes out for me?”

“Tr— trying. That’s why I— heh!— asked for help—“

“I know, sweetheart, I know. Hey, is that shampoo you’re allergic to still here?”

“hp’tchoo!”

“Oh bless you, darling. That better?”

“N—no. Just— just the thought of—“

“Just the thought of the shampoo was enough to make you sneeze?”

“Yeah,” He breathes. 

“Well that’s lucky, isn’t it. Because here it is.” He takes the bottle and uncaps it, but makes no move to do anything else. He doesn’t need to. 

“Haht’schoo!”

“There we go. Isn’t that better?”

“Huh-ah! ah’schoo!”

“That’s it, baby. That’s it.”

“No, no I— want— I need— Harrison.”

Harrison just grins again, and closes the lid. 

“Why—?”

“Mm, I know baby. But I need you to tell me if it’ll be too much, first.”

“No—“

“I know you want it now. But this kept you sneezing all night last time. Is that okay?”

“Would feel so good…” Drew’s desperate; Harrison doesn’t trust his judgement. He shakes his head. 

“Use it on me, how’s that? Then you can have a break if you need it.”

“That’s— that’s a better plan. But can we— now—?”

“You really want those sneezes out, huh? Still got some glitter up there? It must be so tickly.”

“It— it is. Hah—!”

“Poor Drew,” Harrison murmurs, then leans in to kiss him, dotting them in around the hitches. 

“Let. Me. Sneeze.” Drew insists. 

“All in time,” Harrison teases, and Drew growls, then reaches for the bottle himself. Like Harrison, he doesn’t pour any, just opens it and holds it close to his face. 

“That’s it,” He sighs. “Oh, that’s better. They’re coming. They’re— eh— heh— heh! ‘tchischoo. Oh, oh thank god. eh—! ’tschischuh. ‘tTchischoo. ah’chischhh— chi’schoo. Huh. Huh—huh-huh—! Huh’tchoo. Huh’tchoo. Huh’ytieuw. Huhp’tchiew. Ah— ah— ah— ah’ischoo. Oh, shit, aa’ischhhah! Huh’schaH! aH— aah— haht’schAH!”

He pants in the aftermath. Harrison is watching him, open-mouthed, hand drifting towards his dick even though it’s barely been any time since he last came. Drew sniffs, hard. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says, and smirks. 

“Fuck me,” Harrison says, reaction and request in one. Drew leans in close, sniffles right by his ear, then whispers, 

“All in time.” He kisses the shell of Harrison’s ear, grazes his teeth over his earlobe. “Oh, look at that,” He murmurs. “Seems like I’ve found some more sneezes.”

“Drew,”

“hp’schiewww.” It’s another of the soft, small ones from earlier. “huhp— huhp— huhp’schiewww. Oh, bless me. Mm, these feel nice. huh— p’schieww.”

“God,” Harrison says. 

“You know,” Drew starts, then pauses. “Huht’schiew. Oh, these feel so good. Huhp’schieww. Mm. What was I saying? Oh, yeah, huhp’schieww— huh— huh’schieww. I was thinking.” He pauses to sniff. “Let me wash your hair. Then let me fuck you. I won’t be able to stop.”

Harrison pushes him against the wall for the third time that day. Drew laughs through the onslaught of kisses, and Harrison barely lets him go enough to stifle three more sneezes right by his cheek. 

“You should open yourself up— huh’tchuh— whilst I— I— huh’tchuh. Whilst I wash your hair. Get yourself nice and ready for me.”

Harrison squeaks. 

“Go on,” Drew says. “I’m gonna— blow my nose, first.” He grabs the hand towel they’d left nearby for this reason, but sneezes into it before he can blow. 

“I’m still sneezing glitter,” he complains, and Harrison bursts into laughter again. It lasts as long as it takes Drew to blow his nose and come back to Harrison, kissing him gently before he picks up the shampoo again. He keeps it as far from his nose as possible this time, wanting to actually get somewhere before the sneezes start up. It’s not fully successful, but he holds back as best he can, focusing on Harrison’s curls and trying to save the sneezes for later. When he does sneeze, he fists his hands in Harrison’s hair, and the noises Harrison makes are gratifying. 

“I think we should— bed, now,” He manages to say, when it’s getting harder and harder to keep his hands moving in Harrison’s hair. He rinses the shampoo off him as carefully as he can. Harrison takes over from there, turning the shower off, wrapping Drew in a towel whilst he dries himself and then patting down Drew too. Drew’s in a haze; Harrison pinches his nose shut and he blinks back into reality. 

“Bed,” He says, urgently. “Gonna—“

Harrison wastes no more time, pulling him through the house. The change of temperature is yet another source of aggravation for Drew’s poor nose. 

“Heh’djjuhh!” He sneezes, as soon as they reach the bedroom. 

“Heh’djeshhoo!” He sneezes, as he pushes Harrison onto the bed. 

“Huh’djuh huh’djuh huh’djjooh!” He sneezes, and Harrison says,

“Please,” So Drew gets hold off himself for just long enough to lube himself up and push inside before—

“Hih’sChoo!” They both groan with it. “Hih’schoo!” Drew nuzzles Harrison’s hair. “Mn!! heh’tchoo—e’tchoo-e’tchoo!! e’tchoo-e’tchoo! eh—eh! chh—chh—chuh! eht’chuh! heht’djjhoo!” He gives a wordless cry, letting each sneeze push him further into Harrison. “Unh— unh— uh’tchhuh— ungh. ahp’tchuh ahp’tchoo hah—! hah’aschooo. Oh, god, Harrison, I— hahp’tchoo— aahp’tchoo! This was— I’m so— hahp’tchoo! Feels— so good. You and— and the sneezing— I— ‘chuh! Chuh! I’m— oh, god—! aht’tchoo! oh, oh, I, fuck, Harrison.”

Harrison’s making his own noises, gasping breaths and hums as Drew’s sneezes rock through both of them. The moment Drew gets a break from the sneezes, his thrusts get more intentional, but the tickle builds back up and distracts him again. Harrison doesn’t care, it feels amazing, he’s going to come again just from this. He tries to say it, but Drew gasps out,

“Not yet,” And Harrison does his best to obey, except it turns out Drew was saying that because he’s just inhaled by Harrison’s hair again. The sneezes slam back to full intensity, but Drew somehow has the wherewithal to reach around Harrison, to give him something to rut into even if half the time he’s sneezing too much to stroke him through. Drew’s sneezes get throatier, slowing down but only because they’re too intense to go quickly, and he starts muffling them directly into Harrison’s shoulder, one, two, three, then he bites down and Harrison shouts as he comes. 

“Keep going,” He manages to say, and lets himself whimper through every sneeze. 

“Harrison,” Drew gasps out. “Harrison, oh, fuck!” He spills into Harrison, panting desperately. The sneezes don’t stop, but he barely has the energy, they come out on every other pant — “huh’schoo. Huh. Huh. Huh’schoo. Oh, my god.”

“Drew,” Harrison says, when he can manage it. “That was…”

“Huh’schoo.”

“Fuck…”

“Yeah.”

“God. You want—?” He can’t reach the tissues, but Drew says,

“There a handkerchief under my— my pillow. ‘Tchiew.”

“Drew.”

“Just— give it. ‘tchiew.” Harrison does, and Drew blows his nose, and manages some breaths without sneezing. He pulls out of Harrison, then flops down by his side. “Thought things might get sneezy,” He admits, raising the handkerchief. “‘tchieww! Wasn’t expecting this, though. eh— e’tchuu.” He rubs his nose into the fabric again, snuffling into it. Harrison reaches out to stroke his side. 

“C’mere?” He requests, and Drew shuffles closer, putting an arm round him. There’s not much space between them; Drew directs his leftover sneezes down towards Harrison’s neck, until Harrison moves to kiss him, and Drew doesn’t have the energy to move away at all. They’re gentle things now, though, and Harrison just laughs softly, and kisses him again. 

“Think you owe me another shower now.” 

Drew just sneezes again. Harrison kisses his nose; Drew sneezes again. 

“Bless you, sweetheart. Bless you so many times.”

“Hh’tchuh.”

“Bless you again. God, you’re gorgeous.” Drew sniffles; smiles; sneezes again. 

“Never been more in love with you baby,” Harrison says, and kisses Drew’s inevitable blush. Drew sneezes on him again, then brings the handkerchief back. When he’s done, he kisses Harrison again, soft and sweet and slow, and Harrison can’t do anything but kiss him right back. 

[sickhaze]

errant intimacy || h/eated r/ivalry 🏒 || sk/ip 🫐🍌

hello!! i come bearing more sk/ip food for the timeline. this has been sitting in my WIPs folder for a hot minute and i'm very happy to finish it!!

[[ EDIT ]] (because i cannot believe i forgot to add this disclaimer — i posted at like 3:30am i’m so sorry!!):

the idea for this fic initially came about off the back of this gooorge dialogue post by @sky-snz [ X ] — thank u so so much for the inspo!!! i just couldn’t help but make a fic out of it xx summary: set about six months after they agree to take a break, s/cott and k/ip are still hopelessly in love and can't leave each other alone. now, s/cott may or may not have accidentally given k/ip the plague, right before heading back out of town, and has to eat humble pie about it. [ feat; contagion, s/cott h/unter stuffed up out of his ever loving mind, big big feelings, smoothies, and a cameo from papa grady.] words: 6.5kish.

For all of S/cott H/unter’s flaws – and he himself would admit to having many – an inability to own up to his mistakes and take accountability, even when it was difficult, generally wasn’t one of them.

On the ice, he took the time to apologise to the refs when one or more of his guys were being assholes about being given a (fairly earned) penalty. If he accidentally cut someone off in traffic, he’d make a point to meet their eye in the mirror and give an apologetic wave. It was an essential component, he felt, to being both a good captain and a good human being overall.

For all the time that he’d had with his mom, he liked to think she’d raised him right.

A JFK departure lounge, one that was much too brightly lit, when he had a thumping headache, however, was not exactly the easiest setting in which to rouse himself into taking such accountability. Particularly not when it would involve having to call his ex-boyfriend who he knows he should be leaving well alone.

His chest still pangs, referring to Kip as his ‘ex’ anything, but that’s where they are.

“hhUH’IHHHDZSSTCHhh’uh!”

Scott pitches forward from the confines of the uncomfortable metal bench, catching the sneeze in the little nest of tissues he’d been clutching like a lifeline since before TSA.

It cuts clear through and echoes above the din of chatter that surrounds them, heavy and abrasive. A couple of nearby passengers turn their heads. He might have blushed if it was anywhere near the first time it’d happened today, but having blown right through the ‘suspiciously sore throat’ stage of this cold the previous evening, this morning had ushered the ‘stuffed up to his eyes and sneezing his brains out’ stage right on in.

No fever, though, so no excuse not to play. Especially not with the upward trajectory the team has been riding these last couple of weeks. As Captain, the weight of that bearing down on him is ever-present, the pressure and the expectations of fans, coaches, managers, agents, the team themselves. It only grows for every year that goes by without a cup win, particularly when they’ve been within touching distance so many times over the last number of years. It’s his job to finally see it done.

Beyond everyone else, though, he wants it for himself as well; desperately. Needs it, really. Setting aside career-long pipe dreams about his personal legacy, or whatever, what he’d now allowed to slip through his fingers made it absolutely imperative.

Carter Vaughn, his unfortunate roommate for this leg of the journey, and whose shoulder he’d just accidentally knocked, gives him a sympathetic pat. “Jesus, man. Bless you.”

Finally satisfied after a moment of uncertainty that it was to be just the one, Scott sniffles and slumps back in his seat. He isn’t properly done, though, not by a long shot. He can feel the need still buzzing around in his head, just not quite strong enough to manifest yet.

“Thadks, Vaughny. Sorry, agaid, though. I feel like you’ve drawn the short straw here.”

Minneapolis may not actually be a million miles away, but it may well feel like it if you were going to have to listen to him like this the whole way there. But Vaughn just shrugs, his smile easy-going with a hint of teasing, like nothing on earth could bother him too much. Scott could always rely on him for that and it takes the edge off his unease.

“Hey, so long as you score some goals and lead us to a win later, all is forgiven, man.”

I’m not sure you’ll be saying that if you do actually end up getting whatever the hell this is, Scott thinks to himself, but he appreciates the sentiment all the same. He’ll certainly do his best, but with the ability to score goals heavily dependent on one’s ability to regulate their own breathing, it remains to be seen just how much use he’ll be.

There’s a ringing chime over the tannoy, followed by a chirpy, but monotonous drone of announcements. Pulling his phone from his pocket to check the time, his stomach sinks. They’ll be boarding in no more than five minutes or so. He’s stalled long enough – if he was going to call Kip, it’d have to be now.

Scott pulls himself to his feet with a sigh. With how early he’d had to be up to make it to the airport, he was just going to text, and had even been putting that off all morning. But suddenly faced with the prospect of several hours on a plane with no service, the weighty thought of getting on the flight without having put this right sits heavy in his stomach. It was late enough now that Kip would definitely be up for work, and a text just didn’t seem like enough.

“Hey, mban, I’mb just gonna hit the bathroom before we board, you good watching mby bag?” he directs to Vaughn as he stands, the lie rolling off his tongue with a practiced ease. He paces far enough away through the bustling terminal that he just about loses sight of the team and is comfortably out of earshot, ducking into a quiet alcove.

This is Scott’s karma, he’s convinced. A nice big dose of karmic retribution for his lack of willpower because he couldn’t just let Kip go.

If he had anything to say in his own defence, when the temperature of what they’d had going on had accelerated to such an all-consuming fever pitch in such a short space of time, plunging back into the cold came as a bit of a shock to the system. It’s been hard, adjusting back to how his life was before. How it’s been for the last 20 or so years.

God, he’d spent a lot of his life alone. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t realised just how much that ached until he’d had someone fill the space and then vacate it again.

Kip was just so… big. So bright and so clever, unflinchingly kind and wickedly funny. His heart is so open, it’d embraced him right from the very beginning. His smile is like pure, undiluted sunshine in an open blue sky, and Elena was right. That’s where he belongs.

No matter how much time passes, though, or how much moving on is attempted, Scott knows himself very well and he knows he’ll always leave a door open for Kip. Maybe one day Scott will be worthy enough for him to walk back through it. He hopes so.

In the meantime, in order to lessen the blow of the separation for both of them, they’d agreed to try and remain friends. Platonic friends.

However, over the last six months since the official break-up, they’d seen each other no less than three times. Though they tried to limit how much they spoke outside of these instances, the offer of meeting up was admittedly like a token they each kept, hidden and cherished in their back pockets, available to cash in in a moment of weakness.

At first, it had taken three months. Scott broke first.

Then, two. Kip’s turn to buckle.

Then one month after that. That’d been the day before yesterday.

In Scott’s defence, Kip had reposted a picture from Maria’s Instagram story, one in which he was sitting on a bench at what looked like a bustling outdoor public ice rink, lacing up a pair of skates. It was like fate had dropped the circumstance in his lap purely for the purpose of allowing him to strike up conversation, and that’s genuinely all he’d intended for it to be. It was too tempting to resist. Scott had fantasised before about getting Kip into a pair of skates, inviting him and his family and friends to one of the family skate nights the team held sometimes at Madison Square Garden. He could recall Kip mentioning that his sister had a kid, even, who might’ve gotten a kick out of it.

Scott takes no real interest in his own official public Instagram profile, nor that of any social media platform for that matter, leaving access and periodic posting responsibilities in the dutiful hands of his comms team. His grid remains an impersonal mosaic of carefully curated, contractually obligated ad posts. Which is why when he swipes up on Kip’s story it’s from the burner account (‘sfromrochester_77’) they’d sat on his couch and made together while they were dating, so Scott could watch Kip’s stories and privately keep up with his life there.

sfromrochester_77: Those generic rental skates are death traps, btw, so be careful. I’d even struggle to stay upright on them.

The reply doesn’t come until a couple of hours later, presumably after they got done with whatever they were up to. Scott’s heart leaps in time with the chime of the notification.

kipstopher_g: I fear any skates are likely to be death traps simply by virtue of being worn by me 😅 Can confirm though: I’m alive and well.

kipstopher_g: Ego only slightly bruised, knees and elbows also.

That manages to get a chuckle out of him. He has no doubt Kip looked cute as hell bambi-ing out on the ice.

sfromrochester_77: Tsk. Call yourself a New Yorker.

kipstopher_g: Says the man from Rochester!

sfromrochester_77: What are you doing out at a public rink, anyway?

kipstopher_g: Straw+Berry holiday staff ‘party’. Skating, then dinner and drinks. However we’ve now learned that the tab for the latter two are not included in management’s festive spirit of generosity, lol.

sfromrochester_77: Harsh. Your great work all year is worth at least a nice burger some place where the waiters come to you.

kipstopher_g: Yeah, I’m not holding out hope.

sfromrochester_77: Holiday bonus?

kipstopher_g: I wish. Your tips were my holiday bonus.

kipstopher_g: And hey, if my ‘work’ set the Admirals in good stead for the season this year, then I can live with that.

Oh, fuck, I like you.

Scott catches himself smiling at his phone. He’s been on the road so much lately and he’s so worn out, even if being away from his apartment has become somewhat of a welcome reprieve of late, it doesn’t make travelling any less tiring. Feeling the familiar warmth of Kip’s glow within arms reach is almost too much to bear resisting, but he shouldn’t give in to it. Scott definitely shouldn’t (after insisting that he can absolutely say no), imply to Kip that if he wanted to come round to his place after he gets done with his work party, then the invitation was open.

He does it anyway.

They were really going to have to try and get better at being, well, not together.

If anything reinforced that, it was now having to reckon with the mortifying possibility that said moment of weakness could have led to him having accidentally given Kip the plague, and then immediately skipped town and simply left him with it.

Steeling himself as best he could, Scott presses Kip’s contact and brings the phone to his ear.

From somewhere between the monotonous, anticipatory rings of the dial tone, that tingling buzz of irritation he’d been left with before flares suddenly back to life, this time with a vengeance. He isn’t sure what’s set it off – someone walking by wafting a perfume sample that didn’t agree with him, or wearing clothes layered in cat hair from last minute cuddles before leaving for the airport, or even nothing at all, his sinuses are so sensitive right now it really wouldn’t have taken much of anything.

It all happens so fast and he doesn’t get time to ponder it in any real depth before his eyes are full of tears and he’s hurrying to press the handful of tissues to his nose, which has swiftly started to stream. He grips the phone tighter and turns away even further into the alcove.

‘Hi, this is Kip! Please leave a message-’

Pervasively aware of how little time he has, Scott has no other choice but to power on.

“Hey, hodey– umb…”

And promptly stumble at the first petname-shaped hurdle. He winces at the slip up, clearing his throat to try and dispel some of the awkwardness he felt flood his system. They didn’t talk on the phone much nowadays, and he hadn’t had the chance to get himself out of the habit.

“...sdnffff. I, uh, I hope you’ve beed havidg a good day. I hope work’s ndot beed too awful after last ndight-”

He smothers a string of coughs into his fist, his breath threatening to snag on them. Jesus Christ.

“Hhihh… what it is, I just wadted t-t’hhh-.... wadted to, ub… sdnrrff. I just wadted’hhh-”

How many goddamn times is he going to have to try that sentence?

“....hhhuhH’AEH’DZZSSSHhhhh’uh!… sdnnngk… ugh, sorry… I wadted to check how…. h-how… hhh? how you’re feeli’g, b-because’hHH… h’aH’EHDTZZS’sssch’huh!...”

Blinking against his swimming vision, Scott jams his phone between his ear and his shoulder, leaving him with both hands to try and wring the very last ounce of use out of the now thoroughly soaked, very useless tissues in the aftermath of those sneezes. He sounds vile, he knows that, but there’s no turning back now.

“...sorry– sdnrrfff. As you cad hear, I, uh, thidk I’ve cobe dowd with sobethidg really…” He huffs out a humourless laugh. “...ndot ndice. Defiditely ndot pretty, by ady mbeans. I just wanted to… check id, I guess? Ward you, just id case? I really hope you dod’t get it, though. And I’b… I’b so so sorry. If I’d knowd I was getti’g sick, I wouldn’t have-”

He heaves out a heavy sigh. Maybe the cold had just left him feeling particularly vulnerable, but to be honest, even just speaking to the vast, silent, empty abyss of his voicemail inbox, Scott can’t help but tell Kip the truth, even if he instinctively lowers his voice to do so. “It was great seei’g you. I just wish–… yeah.”

Scott shakes his head, unsure of where exactly he was going with that thought, but it makes him sad regardless. “Yeah, ub, for sure get sobe vitabid C into you if you cad. Irodically you’re i-id…hhhi’h?... the perfect place for that– sdnrffff. A-A’hhhnd….” Not again. He tucks his face firmly into the crook of his elbow, holding the phone slightly away. “hhuH’AEHHTCH’ssch’iew!... Fuck, excuse mbe…”

Vaguely aware of movement in his peripheral vision, Scott pauses, stepping out of the alcove far enough to catch the team in the distance, en masse, beginning to stir.

Shit, he definitely doesn’t have time to delete the message and try it again.

“Look, I have to go, I thidk we’re getting ready to board…”

He pauses, considering. Should he ask to him to–

Fuck it. He’s come this far.

“But, ub, mbaybe give mbe a call back sobetime later, if that’s okay? Alright–” He stutters a beat, managing this time to catch the habitual ‘love you’ before it could spill out. “Bye.”

—-

Once again, Kip is hungover at work. Because he never fucking learns his lesson.

He has no one to blame but himself, either. They’d all been out for Shawn’s birthday the night before and he arrived at the Kingfisher full of assurances that, because of the whole “I have to open the shop at 6am and I’m stuck commuting from Brooklyn again” thing, he was only going to have a couple of drinks. He was then going to switch to Diet Coke, go home at a reasonable hour, and get a half decent amount of sleep.

Did he expect to actually follow through on such sensible plans? Honestly, not really.

Did he expect himself to abandon them quite as quickly or as wholeheartedly as he had done? No. He did not.

What could he say? The music was great. Kyle, though not on duty, was jumping behind the bar anyway and had a very generous pour. It did his heart good to be around his friends. He’d been leaning on them a lot more since he and Scott stopped seeing each other, happy to be distracted by their joyful, colourful chaos, even if he couldn’t even fully talk about the situation to them.

So as stupid as it was, with all those factors conspiring together, his arm hadn’t been difficult to twist into staying out. Even if he was paying for it now, suffering through an opening shift on three hours sleep (Thank God Elena had let him crash at her place so he didn’t have to traipse all the way back out to Brooklyn, only to have to pretty much come right back in again), a killer headache, and incurable dry mouth that probably hadn’t been helped by the Taco Bell they’d all picked up after stumbling out of the bar.

His throat was aching with it, too. No matter how much water he’d been gulping down over the course of the morning.

With his phone battery drained after last night’s escapades, he’d left it on to charge face down under the counter as they just about made it through the morning rush from hell. Between said rush and having to basically restock the whole prep area to account for the rush, it’s like 10:30 before the shop is empty again, they’ve done everything they need to do, and they can finally take a breath.

Only two and a half more hours.

Maria, who is somehow looking remarkably less worse for wear than him despite being out just as late, flutters around while Kip finishes refilling the last of the fruit containers that’d been decimated, concocting herself an improvised, off-menu smoothie. Mango, passionfruit and… probably some other things, he thinks.

“Mmmm!” she exclaims. Her eyes are a tired reflection of his own, but they light up when the smoothie hits her tongue. “Not to ride my own dick, but I swear, this might actually be my calling in life. That tastes awesome. Here, try–”

Kip is quick to oblige, desperate to quench his apparently unquenchable thirst, and takes the cup from her waiting hands.

“Mmmm,” he repeats, a little caught off guard by just how good it really is. Not that Maria’s not a proven and extremely proficient ‘smoothie artiste’, but he could swear he even feels his headache recede a little with the sugary hit. “It’s really good. Did you crush up some Advil into this? If not, could you?”

He grabs the straw and takes a second, longer, admittedly rather audacious, sip before she can snatch it off him again.

“Hey! Give me that back and I’ll make you your own. Jeez…” She sucks up another mouthful of her masterpiece through the straw, as if in protest of his audacity.

Kip turns back to the counter and unhooks his phone from the charger. It’s the first opportunity he’s had to look at it since the whole of Manhattan, their wives, and their dogs too, woke up deciding they wanted smoothies on a random Wednesday morning. Smoothies that, at some point, had managed to drip down onto the back of his phone case. His brow furrowing in disapproval, he licks thumb, rubbing it away before turning the screen face-up.

Oh. He has a missed call. From Scott.

And a new voicemail message.

Kip’s heart lurches. For many reasons, probably, but primarily because nowadays, they never call; just text. Even in and around these little liaisons they’d been allowing themselves to indulge in. Call it a futile attempt at holding in place some kind of boundary, no matter how feeble, but either way, this is unavoidably strange. Something must be wrong. Scott would have been at the airport when he’d called, about to fly to Minnesota for the start of another string of away games. He’d said as much the other night.

Kip swallows painfully against the worry starting to churn in his stomach.

“Hey,” he calls across to Maria, “Are you okay if I step out here and make a call? Just for a sec, promise.”

She gives him a deadpan look. “Um, no. How will I cope with all these customers all by myself?” she says, gesturing dramatically to the empty shop. 

Kip rolls his eyes, playfully flipping her off, and her face breaks into the smile she’d just about been holding at bay as he made his way towards the back storeroom.

Nestled away safely amongst boxes of cleaning supplies and plastic cup lids, he hurries to hit play on the voicemail.

He isn’t entirely sure what he was expecting to hear, but straight out of the gates, the first three syllables are a swift one-two punch to his resolve.

‘Hey, honey–’

The endearment washes over him like deep heat on a blossoming bruise; a pleasant, pleasant kind of hurt. In that deep, low, familiar gravel of his voice, too, and–

Oh. Oh, wait, no. It isn’t just gravelly, it’s wrecked. He’s sick. Kip doesn’t need to wait for him to confirm as much himself, the hopelessly stuffy sniffles and eye-wateringly raw, forceful sneezes he couldn’t even hold back long enough to get through a minute long voicemail saying all that needed to be said.

Scott sounded awful. Not even in a placating ‘Aww, you sound awful. Here, wrap up warm, pack some extra tissues into your pocket and get on with your day’ kind of way. The kind of awful that should be tucked away in bed and not flying across the country to go play a major league contact sport, involving ice and blades and sticks and a rubber projectile travelling at over 100mph.

“As you cad hear, I, uh, thidk I’ve cobe dowd with sobethidg really ndot ndice. Defiditely ndot pretty, by ady mbeans. I just wanted to… check id, I guess? Ward you, just id case? I really hope you dod’t get it, though. And I’b… I’b so so sorry. If I’d knowd I was getti’g sick, I wouldn’t have-”

Kip feels all mixed up, his immediate feelings a strange cocktail of sympathy, appreciation of the fact that he’d gone out of his way to let him know and check up on him, perhaps a touch of regret for just how sorry he sounded, like it was all his own singular fault that he’d gotten sick in the first place.

Then, just as a hint of an essence in the mix, a seed of foreboding.

Kip swallows experimentally, that ache in his throat suddenly recontextualising in his mind in real time as a third sneeze rings in his ear, and Scott’s hoarse, thoroughly cold-ridden voice closes out the message.

No. It’s fine. I’m hungover, but it’s fine. I’m fine. Shawn’s party had been kind of rowdy, I was yelling quite a bit. I was out the night before, too. There’s absolutely no need to jump to conclusions.

If he did end up getting sick though… maybe it was his punishment from the universe. For being the one to insist that they take a break, as deeply as it had pained him to do so, regardless of the strength of how they felt about each other. Of how blissfully happy they’d been when things were good, how effortless they clicked, and the potential of what they could be if he’d had the patience to wait for it…

In a few years, maybe.

To set that aside and then not even having the decency to hold true to his own convictions or fully close that door.

Kip should probably get back to work. Text Scott later– tell him he feels fine, wish him luck for the game, and that he hopes he feels better soon. Scott would probably be busy right now anyway, in warm ups or even fully into the practice session. A practice session he probably shouldn’t even really be in at all. Would he get benched at some point before the game? Probably not, all-star player and captain that he is, as much as Kip wishes he would.

What’s more likely to happen is that he’ll play, push himself harder to compensate for not feeling well, sustain some sort of minor injury and then be left tending to himself in some cold, impersonal hotel room so far from home.

Kip presses ‘call back’ instead. It picks up on the third ring.

“Hey,” Scott’s voice comes through the receiver as hoarse as he was in the voicemail but now a little breathless as well, and slightly surprised. “How, um… how’s it going?”

When the line connects whatever environment he’s in sounds bustling and busy, punctuated by loud, accented voices and the sound of lockers slamming. It’s quick to die off and quieten, though, like he’s moved rooms to take the call. It takes Kip a second to realise he isn’t sure what he’d intended on saying. It feels like new territory.

“Good! It’s– it’s going good. Well, alright, really,” he has to swallow back the urge to keep rambling. “I got your message.”

He could almost hear Scott cringe over the phone. “Ndot mby finest mboment, I kndow. I’mb sorry. I dod’t know whether I’mb hoping at least sobe of it was intelligble, or…”

He trails off, with the faint sound of his breath starting to hitch, like he’s trying to hold back a sneeze that inevitably, imminently, needs to come. For Scott, that tended to be a rather pointless exercise though, as it rarely ever succeeded. So Kip politely waits, wincing in sympathy at coarse, devastating fierceness of the sound, even evidently muffled.

“Hhih–  h’AH’EHDTZSS’sshh’ue! Ugh, sorry…”

“Bless you. And it’s okay; don’t be, honestly. For any of it, by the way. You didn’t know–”

Didn’t change the fact that you shouldn’t been at his house in the first place–

Kip shook his head, clearing the unhelpful thought away. “I can’t believe you’re actually playing tonight. You really don’t sound good.”

Scott dismisses the concern with a huff of humourless laughter. “Dod’t worry, I’mb mbade of sturdy stuff, mbost hockey players are–”

“...except for the ones from Boston.”

Now that gets a real laugh out of him. Kip enjoys the sound very much; of the brief reprieve from his discomfort.

“Exactly, you get it,” Scott says. “I’mb ndice and dosed up with cold mbedicine and I’ve played with a lot worse. Dod’t eved have a fever, so.” Kip swears he can hear him shrug, so nonchalant. So a team doctor actually checked him out and signed off on him playing in this state?

“Alright, ednough about mbe, though. You’re okay, right? You sound okay, but please tell mbe I’ve ndot gived you this.”

Kip swallows, unable to ignore the definite twinge in the back of his throat, one no amount of water, nor coffee, nor smoothie has been able to quell. He’s sure it’s just the power of suggestion, listening to Scott speak to him all stuffed up and sniffly, but he’s suddenly feeling the urge to sniff? Even though his nose isn’t running. To reflexively test the resistance against some non-descript, incrementally increasing pressure.

He was a very suggestible person, clearly, hence how he’d ended up in this situation. Of course he’s fine. He’s hungover but he’s fine.

“Oh yeah, no, I’m okay. You’re good,” Kip lies. “Well, about as much as I physically can be, though it’s all self-inflicted. I told you it was Shawn’s birthday party last night, right? And I had to be here for 6am, and, well, you know me,” he sighs, though his lips twitch at the corners, his and Scott’s first meeting flitting through his mind like a sun-soaked daydream.

“I never learn my fucking lesson, do I? I’m hard-headed like that.”

Scott groans, but it’s unmistakably fond, an air of relief clear in the sound. Kip wonders if he’s thinking about that day as well. “Apparently ndot– sdnffff. You odly have, what, a couple of hours left, right?”

“Two hours and fifteen minutes exactly. I’m counting ‘em down. I’m going to get a bagel on the way home, and oh my God, the nap I’m going to take…” Kip groans in pre-emptive pleasure at the thought.

Scott chuckles. “Stop, I’mb jealous. You’re mbaking mbe mbiss Ndew York. And sleep.”

The pleasure twists in Kip’s stomach the thought that Scott still technically has a full, physically strenuous work day ahead of him now. 

“Well, be sure to get plenty of it when you get back later,” Kip says, his voice soft.

God, he sounds way too much like he’s still Scott’s boyfriend right now. Like he has a right to be concerned. He bites his lip, looking to the storeroom door as if the real world was beckoning him back.

“Sorry, I left Maria on her own out on the floor and I think she’s calling me back. She’s meant to be making me a smoothie ‘of her own creation’ – sounds ominous, but she let me try some and it’s actually really good, lots of vitamin C, so I’m sure I’m covered. But look, good luck for the game later, and thanks for the, uh, the heads up…”

For a second he thinks he might be imagining it, but no, an errant tickle is in fact flaring to life in the back of his throat, radiating upwards into his sinuses and embedding right in.

No. No. Absolutely not.

His eyes screw shut against the sensation, and he jams the side of his fingers underneath his nose, massaging away the itch as silently as he can.

“Thadks, Kip. Yeah, you mbanaged to catch mbe just after warb-ups here– thidk we’re heading into full practice now, so I’ll let you go. I know what you said, but just… sorry. Agaid. If I’d kdnown, I wouldn’t have, well…”

Scott pauses, and for a second Kip worries he’s clocked him and his struggle, as he finally manages to wrangle the urge to sneeze into some kind of temporary submission. When he continues, though, his voice is pitched lower, into something altogether more intimate, more exposing.

“Could I mbaybe give you a call sobetime toborrow? Just to mbake sure you’re definitely okay.”

“Hey, that’s my line, right? You’re the one who’s sick,” Kip says, weak and non-committal.

How fucking sad he feels at the prospect of turning him down only further reveals how much he probably should.

But yet again, he can’t quite bring himself to do so.

They leave things in that weird, up-in-the-air space as they say goodbye. As if Kip’s body was primed and waiting for that ‘end call’ button being hit, a slight loosening on the grip of control he’d exerted to keep the itch in check, it instantly expanded, overwhelming his senses until–

“hih’IH’txss’chue!......huh’EH’dtxssh’iew!”

Right as the door swings open and Maria appears, a very full, very refreshing, very delicious looking smoothie in-hand.

“Are you– oh, bless you, damn” she chirps. “Here–”

Handing him the drink, she gives him an assessing look, not looking overly pleased with what she sees. “You flagging? You look like you need it. But anyway, it’s still empty out there and I’m so bored, please come back.”

Kip takes the smoothie gratefully and gives his nose one final scrub, hoping that clears away the irritation threatening to linger there, before following Maria back out into the shop.

Two hours and seven minutes left to go.

—--------------------------

Waking up later from the nap he’d been so looking forward to, honestly, it was kind of a disappointment.

Rather than feeling restored, or refreshed, or in any way better at all, all Kip really wants to do is just go right back to sleep and write the day off entirely. That distinctive ‘head caught in a vice’ type of hangover headache has eased off at least, which would be welcome if it hadn’t left this throbbing pressure behind his eyes and a fledgling sinus headache in its wake. And as much as he’d like to continue denying it, he was for sure feeling a bit congested now.

As much as he’d love to continue rotting in bed in peace– he’d come home from work, gone straight to his bedroom, and hasn’t been downstairs since. And that’s after having pretty much only shown his face here in the last two days to change for Shawn’s party before heading out and not coming home. Again. So even if mom’s probably already left for her night shift, he knows if he doesn’t show his face downstairs soon his dad will be coming up to investigate.

It’s probably just easier to bite the bullet and go down of his own volition. Anyway, there’s a heady scent of garlic and tomatoes wafting from down there, which means his dad must be making his famous baked ziti and he was definitely not missing out on that.

After much ribbing about how much he’s been out recently, they eat dinner together in comfortable companionship and Kip fills him in on all the gossip and goings on with his friends and the guys at work from the last couple of days. Whilst his dad has his moments, and can impart some sage wisdom in response to even the silliest of misadventures, a lot of the time he just lives for the drama. However, Kip tactfully leaves out that part where he’d ended up staying the night at the place of ‘the closeted public figure’ he’d been seeing before, at the behest of an impromptu Instagram DM conversation.

Having come clean about everything (minus Scott’s actual identity, because hey– still wasn’t his information to be giving out), after rather dramatically sobbing into his arms the night it all ended, Kip doesn’t exactly reckon he’d be too impressed to hear it.

If one good thing has come out of all this though, he supposes it’s maybe being able to share in his dad’s passion for hockey and for the Admirals as his team, and how they now regularly carve out time to sit and watch the games together. Kip regularly wonders if perhaps he simply stopped watching, whether he’d have an easier time moving on or not.

Of course he had to tonight, though. Just to make sure Scott is holding up okay. Because he totally couldn’t trust the teammates, friends, coaches, and the medical professionals he was surrounded by in-person, and who were in a position to actually do something, to do so. So he follows his dad to the living room and settles in as he flips the channel over.

Caught occasionally by the camera’s close-up, both pre-match and during the first shift, Scott’s looking rather worse for wear, though he was doing his best to mask it. Quite honestly, he’s playing like it too. Not to the point that he’s playing bad necessarily, just distinctly average, which isn’t like him; definitely not his best. The commentators are annoyingly quick to point it out, too.

Kip finds it difficult to reconcile sometimes, the tall, broad, proud figure on the TV screen, broadcast to millions, being the same man he’d been on the phone to a few mere hours ago, sounding sick and vulnerable and so achingly familiar.

The same man whose head he’d held in his lap, running his fingers through his hair after a long, gruelling day. Whose apartment he knew the layout of by heart, right down to exactly how he liked his cupboards organised. Whose bed he’d shared not 48 hours ago, tongues down throats, gasping for breath straight from each other’s mouths, like there was a limited supply of air and they had no choice but to share it.

“hhiH’IH’gxtss’chiew!.......hah’EH’txcsssh’iue!”

Kip sniffles, the pressing need to do so a development which has been gradually unfurling over the course of the evening, no matter how unwelcome it was. He’s not even aware he’s doing it half the time, and from what he is aware of, even that is starting to feel excessive. Not to mention the sneezing. It was at least once per period now (twice accounting for the fact they’re pretty consistently coming in two’s), and going into the third, his dad turns to him, his gaze shining with concern.

He’s such a worrier.

He reaches across to the coffee table and helpfully chucks the box of tissues that’d been sitting there in the vague direction of Kip’s lap. His reflexes are a little rusty, but he just barely grabs it before it bounces right of him and onto the floor.

In all honesty, he’s been fantasising about getting up and snagging that box for the better part of an hour now, held back only by the inclination that by doing so he would be admitting defeat. It’s actually kind of a relief to have the decision taken out of his hands. He plucks a couple out.

“Bless you. Sounds like you need those, bud,” his dad says kindly. “You coming down with something?”

He’s aware his dad’s eyes steadfastly aren’t leaving him, waiting on an answer or at least an acknowledgement, while Kip’s own are focused solely on the screen. They’ve panned back to the away bench, where Scott’s got the bottom half of his flushed, sweaty face buried in a towel, blowing his nose, seemingly, before his attention snaps back to the game in front of him, following the puck and the movements of his players with what was usually a laser-like focus, now rendered sluggish but determined. He’s got his helmet off, so he must be pretty sure he’s not likely to get tapped back in.

He looks about as good as Kip’s beginning to feel.

In an aberrant, almost taboo sense, it feels almost intimate, if Kip’s ready to fully accept reality. The one in which he does in fact have Scott’s cold, the one he’s heard over the phone and is seeing play out right now on a TV screen over a thousand miles away, leftover from the time spent together right here in New York they probably shouldn’t have. He should probably feel annoyed and inconvenienced by the whole situation– he wasn’t sure he wanted to face why he didn’t, not completely.

It’s endearing. In a stuffy, snotty, sweaty, humbling kind of way. If it’s a punishment it’s a tender one; one that’s shared.

That’ll at least be something to hold onto when tomorrow comes around and I have to work on grad school assignments with a streaming head cold.

“Mmm, maybe…” Kip finally answers through a sigh, still watching the screen, giving his nose a soft blow. “Probably, yeah.”

His dad seems to accept his admission, turning back to the game with a tut. “See, that’s what you get, staying out ‘til all hours of the night partying.”

Yep. Definitely that.

[kinkyaxolotlartist]

"dDTCHH-!...Th-there." A mumbles, still determinedly trying to not succumb to the itch in their sinuses.

B shakes their head. "Really! All that work, and you waste it on a stifle?" They scold, tracing their fingers all around B's nose. "I'm almost offended."

"I dihh... didn't want t-to..." A tries to say, prevented from finishing as they once again slip into pre-sneeze desperation.

"Give me a real sneeze, and just maybe I'll let you go."