She/her, 30s, here for the sneezes, allergies over illness. It's a kink thing, if you aren't here on purpose or old enough for that you know where the back button is. Longtime lurker, I finally decided to make an account.
Happy Wednesday 💖 I meant to have this out last week for my fellow May child Shane Hollander’s birthday, but that didn’t happen lol. Here’s his husband worshipping him. ;) cw: some mess. Feat. an appearance by Bartok the Magnificent
——
After a poor night of sleep, Shane opened his eyes, squinted at the alarm clock and groaned when he saw that it was 11am. Shit. This was his and Ilya’s first night back home after two full weeks of partying, and he’d been wanting to get up early enough to make the two of them breakfast.
The Centaurs had fucking done it. They’d won the Stanley Cup for the first time in their nearly forty-year history, after a grueling twenty-four playoff game run. And they’d won it in their own barn, surrounded by thousands of cheering and sobbing fans who’d never thought they’d see the day.
Years ago, Shane had thought that his first Cup win would always be the best day of his life. But that was before now — before Ilya. Now he knew that nothing had, or would ever, come close to the thrill of this fourth win, of leaping into Ilya’s arms after he’d scored the OT-winning goal in Game 5. Holy fuck, Shane had won the Cup with his husband. The two greatest players in the world, who just so happened to be the loves of each other’s lives, had won the Cup together. When a sobbing Ilya handed it off to a sobbing Shane, chests bumping together as they exchanged their hard-won prize, Shane had kissed Ilya so fiercely that they’d both nearly tumbled over onto the ice. That would have been a hell of a way to start the celebration. Their teammates would have lorded it over them forever — remember that time The Husbands fell and broke the Cup?
They’d returned home last night after a week in Las Vegas, which had itself come after a week of nonstop parades and clubbing and bar crawls all around Ottawa. Shane didn’t think he’d ever been so exhausted. Somehow he’d slept on the plane for a solid five hours, only waking when the smell of the herbal tea Ilya got him from a flight attendant wafted past his nostrils. There wasn’t much better than being soothed by warm tea and the cuddles of an even warmer husband, that Shane knew for certain.
Ilya’s side of the bed was empty, and, as Shane found when he reached a hand over to brush against the sheets, cold. He scrunched up his face, hoping to relieve the lead-weight tension that was sitting in the middle of his forehead and around his eyes, but didn’t feel much of a difference. He sighed, still frustrated with himself for getting up so late, then rubbed at his nose and went downstairs.
Ilya was sitting at the kitchen table, humming along to some heinous Russian pop music and scrolling on his phone, a piece of toast on a plate beside him. “Good morning, Mr. Conn Smythe,” he said warmly when Shane sat down next to him. “I made some toast for you, but you have been sleeping so long that I ate almost the whole thing.”
Shane would tell people that while he was honored to have been awarded the Conn Smythe (again), the most important accomplishment was the trophy he’d won with his teammates. And while yes, that was true, he was secretly so fucking proud of himself. After the year from hell he and his husband had been subjected to, including having been disowned by his former team - those he’d considered family - he’d clawed his way back to the top. He’d left everyone who’d scorned him lying in a heap at the bottom of the pyramid. And snowed them in their faces with his skates.
He picked up the toast, which had a huge bite taken out of it. “Gee, thanks,” he said dryly, then finished it off, savoring the salty taste despite the fact that he was probably dehydrated. Ilya always made the best toast. (He probably soaked it in butter, but Shane didn’t really care about that right now.)
When Shane looked over after his finishing bite, Ilya was watching him with a gentle smile on his face. Shane put an arm around him and squeezed. “We fucking did it,” he said, ignoring the slight twinge in his throat when he spoke.
“We fucking did it.” Ilya guided Shane’s head down to rest against his shoulder, then pressed some kisses to it. They were quiet, Ilya no doubt reliving the same memories as Shane.
——
1-1 after the third. After all this team had been through - the punishing seven-game series in the first round, pushing through injuries and exhaustion and stress, everyone giving it their all on the ice in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, this would finally be the year - they were dying to get it done now. Today. If worse came to worst, they could lose this game and start all over again in Game 6. But the Centaurs did not want to go back to Oregon. “I want to hear OUR fans. I want to hear THEM scream,” Ilya shouted at the boys before the beginning of OT.
And so they fucking did.
Everything became madness after Ilya scored by beating the goalie on his far side. Shane had played and won in Montreal, one of the biggest hockey markets on Earth, and still he’d never heard an arena get as loud as this one. Then there was the team pile-up against the glass…Hayes zooming across the ice towards them, whooping, goalie stick flying in the air…the confetti, the crowd, Ilya’s sweaty curls sticking to Shane’s cheek, the WAGs kissing their men like they’d returned from war…none of the three other times Shane had been here were anything like this. This was unencumbered happiness like he’d never felt before, cranked up to a deliriously high level. When he looked into Ilya’s eyes, he knew why.
And then, the parade. Ilya, drunk on joy (and beer. Lots of beer), speaking eloquently to the crowd (until the “WE FUCKING LOVE YOU, OTTAWA!” which got the biggest cheer of the day) as tears streamed down his, Shane’s, and many of their teammates’ faces. This was more than just a win, but a beacon of hope for a city that had become a punching bag amongst NHL fans. “Ottawa Centaurs: There’s Always Next Year” was a slogan Shane had heard many times, even seen in person on more a few t-shirts around town. Nobody shit on a team like its own fans, but then again, the Centaurs hadn’t given them much to be optimistic about. Until now.
Finally, Vegas. Bood commandeering karaoke with a group of tourists from Guatemala, Ilya walking around the casinos doing his best De Niro face, Luca Haas making sure their younger teammates were staying hydrated and managing their liquor to a (semi-)sensible degree. Shane kissed his husband beneath the palm trees every chance he got, the most beautiful trophy in sports casually photobombing them in the background. Harris was thrilled to get some of this on camera, and for once, Shane wasn’t being shy about it. He had a husband, and he could kiss him! In public! (The champagne was helping, too.)
——
“It’s like a dream,” Shane mumbled, closing his eyes against the gentle carding of Ilya’s hand through his hair. How could he possibly feel sleepy again after he’d just woken up? Then again, he’d been up throughout the night from the sound of Ilya’s rumbling snores in his ear, as well as to frequently adjust the blankets and pillows. Nothing had quite felt correct against his body for the last few days for some reason. Even the sweats he was wearing right now felt strangely restrictive and a little itchy.
“It’s no dream. Not anymore,” Ilya replied, and Shane heard a little wobble in his voice. “It’s even better.”
Shane was about to tell Ilya that he loved him when he felt an itch tickle at his nostrils, then lodge deep inside his nose with an alarming quickness. He lifted his head and raised his elbow at the same time, muffling a “hd’tschh! ht’shiew!” and an involuntary little sigh into the fabric of his soft, comfortable Rozanov Centaurs tee. Immediately his eyes filled with tears, and he wiped them away with his thumbs. “Fuck, excuse me.”
“Ah, bless you,” Ilya said, sounding disappointed. He shook his head and muttered to himself, “I knew it.”
“Knew what? -snrf-” Shane winced at the stuffy snuffle that escaped him.
Ilya put an arm around Shane’s shoulders and rubbed gently at his bicep. “You are catching a cold, lyubimyy.”
“Ugh, no, don’t say that,” Shane complained, squeezing his eyes shut as if it could help him avoid his husband’s words. It didn’t do anything other than make the pain in his head intensify. “I’m just a little tired.”
Ilya frowned. “Being tired doesn’t hurt your throat. Or make you sneeze.”
How the fuck did he know…? Shane sighed again. Ilya was a fucking prognosticator, often able to tell how Shane was feeling just by looking at him. He was right every single time he voiced that Shane was getting sick - He’s just on a lucky streak, Shane thought, knowing deep down that luck wasn’t a part of this, especially judging by the discomfort in his throat and the everpresent tickle in his nose. Motherfucker.
Shane was determined to ignore his symptoms. They were going to have a great fucking day today, goddammit. “I’m fine, don’t worrihh…!” But the strong tickle returned, cutting Shane’s reassurance short as his breath began to hitch…and hitch…and hitch. As he stayed stuck in limbo, he was faintly aware of Ilya hopping out of his chair and power-walking out of the room. What the hell? Irritated and desperate for relief, Shane looked into the fan light above the table, hoping it would trigger—“hy’ih! h’ehh-? hsshiew! ah’ishhoo!”—something in his nose. He felt some wetness trickle out of his right nostril after the second sneeze, and he quickly covered his nose with a hand. Ugh, disgusting. He needed a—
Ilya returned with a box of tissues and set it on the table next to Shane. “Bless you, sweetheart.”
“Oh. Thank you.” Fuck, Ilya had even known that Shane was going to need tissues. Blushing, he took one with his free hand and dabbed beneath where he had shielded his nose from view. He felt himself turn even redder when he caught Ilya’s amused little gaze. “You don’t need to be shy around me. I think you have seen me blow my nose five billion times,” he joked, and Shane laughed and blew gently into the tissue. A kind of creeping exhaustion, the same he’d felt on the plane, was coming over him, and he couldn’t hold back the huge yawn that escaped him. “Aw,” he heard Ilya say softly, then warm arms wrapped around his shoulders and another kiss was pressed to the top of his head. “Too much fun. It’s catching up to you.”
Shane groaned. He’d take one extra night of being hungover over having a cold for a goddamn week. (Although…he was learning that it was harder to recover quickly from a hangover in your thirties than in your twenties, even as a world-class athlete. Especially when you slept next to a chainsaw-jackhammer hybrid of a man at night.)
“Wanted to make us breakfast,” he mumbled.
Ilya chuckled. “I think you’ve missed your window. But I could have pancakes and bacon any time of the day. When you feel better, of course.” He paused, looking contemplative. “I think I’ll get a McGriddle before I pick up Anya.”
Shane grimaced. “You’re gross.”
Ilya shrugged. “I know what tastes good.”
“You don’t know anything.”
Ilya tsked. “I know that my husband is a big meanie when he’s not feeling well. Lucky for him that his husband is so good to him anyway.” He kissed behind Shane’s ear, and Shane grinned and sighed happily. God, Ilya’s kisses always felt so good.
“I am lucky,” he replied. “Not everybody gets to marry an OT-goal-scoring-Stanley-Cup-winning hockey player.” He grabbed another tissue to blow into as the insufferable fullness filled his sinuses again. It…didn’t help much, and it made his ear pop a little.
“Yes. Is you and a bunch of very blonde women.”
Shane smiled beneath the tissue. “Lucky us, then.”
Against his better judgment, Shane lay back down in bed as Ilya got ready to pick up Anya from Shane’s parents’ house. He sleepily watched his husband change with an appreciative hum that came out beyond his control. Ilya winked at him and flashed him his six-pack beneath his tank top. “Woo,” Shane said softly as his eyes begin to droop.
“Back soon, milyy,” Ilya said in a hushed voice. Shane felt the blankets being pulled up to his chest, then lips pressing against his forehead as he drifted off.
——
The next day, laying in bed and watching Anastasia, Shane felt his nose begin to drip. He grabbed for some tissues and blushed furiously when Ilya paused the movie (again) so Shane could focus on tending to his nose. “There’s subtitles,” he mumbled before he blew, the sound soft and snuffly.
“Yes, but then you could not hear her singing, Shane,” Ilya said, stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth (Shane was too tired to scold him for eating in bed) and turning to Anya in her enormous dog bed. “Who knew you had such a beautiful voice, my sweet girl?” he cooed as the Anya on screen sang “Once Upon a December.”
Shane laughed hoarsely, then coughed a little and rubbed at his chest, which had begun to ache a little. Ilya was at his side immediately, fussing with the blankets and petting a hand through his hair. “Make sure you’re drinking your tea, sweetheart,” he said, worry alight in his eyes. “It will keep you warm. Do you want a jacket?”
Shane rolled his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said for about the twenty-fourth time that day. “I’m warm enough.”
Ilya searched his face for a few moments, then nodded. “Okay. But if you start sneezing again, I’m getting you another blanket.”
“Ilya. It’s July.”
“You can be chilly in July.”
“Yeah, maybe in Antarctica.”
Ilya reached over and cupped Shane’s face in both hands. “Shane. You are sick. Let me take care of you.”
Shane felt his cheeks warm again, and he realized that he was unable to relent. Not with those big sweet baby blues trained on him like this. “Okay.”
He felt himself wilting more and more as the movie progressed, and eventually he had to lay his heavy head against Ilya’s broad shoulder, then sit back up when it made his nose start to drip again. “Fuck,” he grumbled as something in his sinuses shifted and he needed to duck forward into a hastily-grabbed tissue. “hy’ITSChh’uu! hip’schiew! ISHhhuhh! hyihh-! hy’ishhhew!”
“Bud’ zdorov.” Ilya, who had paused the damn movie again, was true to his word and grabbed Shane another jacket because of course he’d been wracked with a full-body shiver after the sneezes. Shane drew the line when Ilya attempted to zip it up for him, however. “I can put on my own jacket,” he argued, then immediately sneezed into his elbow with a rapid “hy’ischh-ISHhuhh!”
“Mhm, okay. Bless you,” Ilya said, then continued zipping the jacket up to Shane’s neck. He…felt a lot warmer and cozier, actually, and he tipped his head back on Ilya’s shoulder and snuggled close in response.
“So what do you think of the movie so far?”
Ilya shook his head. “Is very unrealistic. That bat should at least be wearing a fur hat in this snowy weather.”
Shane giggled. Being sick wasn’t so bad when it was like this.
“I think I had a crush on Dimitri when I was a kid,” he commented a few minutes later.
Ilya gasped dramatically and put a hand to his chest. “Shane Hollander, you have a type? Are you trying to make me jealous of other hot Russian men with crooked noses?”
“Don’t worry,” Shane reassured his husband, patting his thigh with the hand that wasn’t holding a tissue. “I like your hot Russian crooked nose the best.”
M/arleau definitely figured out that S/hane and I/lya are together during All Stars when he heard I/lya sneezing from S/hane’s hotel room, I rest my case
maybe a bit niche, but i love a good useless sneezing fit.
i love a sneezing fit that just does absolutely nothing for you, whether because you're not letting it, or because it doesn't tickle enough to actually get you to sneeze out whatever it is.
a quiet fit of girly "choo!"s that does nothing to clear the dust from your nose. a stifled fit between thumb and forefinger that doesn't clear any of the pollen. a tired, half-hearted fit that barely makes your nose run through the congestion of your cold.
the kind of thing where you sneeze for a solid 30 seconds and immediately go back to sniffling and hitching again, only to explode in another unproductive fit 30 minutes later.
it's just not helping. you need to tickle some bigger sneezes out if you want that to change
imagine...you're tied to a chair with your arms behind your back...and (insert whoever you'd like here) is straddling you and knows they're about to have a sneezing fit. maybe it's allergies, maybe a cold, but they can just FEEL it coming. and instead of turning away or covering or apologizing or any of the usual "sorry my nose is out of control" things, they tease and playfully threaten you with it, saying things like "i don't know...i just can't seem to hold it back," "it's coming, whether you like it or not...and it's gonna be big--hhHEH- and messy- aahhHhehhh-"
and. they sneeze all over you, pretending they can't control it, but really they're purposefully trying to let every possible sneeze out, never holding back for a moment. into your chest, your neck, everything.
“You don’t need to stifle with me,” Shane reminded Iliana. The flowers Shane’s team had forwarded from the rink to her hotel room were clearly bothering Iliana’s nose.
“Izvinite, lapochka,” Iliana said, contrite, sniffling and wrinkling her nose. “snnf! Think I’m going… hhh? to sneeze… ahhh–again… hhy’IISSHh’uhh! uh’GIISCHuue! huh… huh-uhSSHHHIIIeww!” The sneezes were stronger than she’d expected; the last one edging into her upper register.
“Bless,” Shane said, her voice slightly huskier than usual, and swallowed.
“Already?” Iliana raised an eyebrow.
“Already what?” Shane crossed her arms, knowing exactly what Iliana was talking about but refusing to give in so easily.
“Already wet for me,” Iliana purred, stalking closer to Shane. Sometimes Shane regretted telling Iliana about her kink (like she’d had a choice, the other woman could be eerily perceptive)… but the resulting sex was always hot as fuck. It was worth the embarrassment and gentle teasing that usually preceded it. “Just from a handful of sneezes,” Iliana continued as she draped her arms over Shane’s shoulders and pressed their chests together. “Those flowers are across the room, but I’m so sensitive…”
Iliana sniffled into Shane’s ear, her breath starting to hitch again. Shane’s nipples tightened under her shirt. “Took my… snf, took my meds already, but…” Iliana sighs, faux put-upon, knowing exactly what she’s doing to Shane. “I’m just so aaahhh– so allergic, Shhhhane,” she breathed into Shane’s ear, then closed her teeth gently around Shane’s earlobe. Iliana bit down slowly, stopping at just the right amount of force to make Shane moan at the pain-pleasure.
She released Shane’s earlobe hastily, tucking her face into the crook of Shane’s neck. “hhheeIISHHuhhh! adt’SHOOOoooh! huhh… huh-uhhh? hhhHH?” Fucking lilies.
“heeeishhew!”
The sneeze wasn’t Iliana’s, but Shane’s. Iliana’s sympathetic sneeze reflex kicked in, releasing her stuck “uhhUSSHHiiiewwsh!” Iliana sniffled wetly, rubbing her nose across Shane’s pulse point before raising her head.
“What was that, Shanyechka?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re still a bad liar,” Iliana said, amused.
“It was just a… hkgm,” Shane cleared her throat, “just a sneeze. I’m fine.”
“I did not say you weren’t.”
“You…” Shane clenched her jaw, turning aside into her elbow at the last second. “hiih’issscht’chew! eisch’ewww!” She started to lower her arm, but brought it back up a second later. “ahh’tiishhhew! hiht’sschiew!”
“uhht’TSSHHuhh!” Iliana sneezed in response, then knuckled at her nose. “Allergies are not contagious, Shane,” she teased.
“Fuck off,” Shane scowled, rubbing at the tip of her rapidly pinkening nose. “I… thhhink it’s your per–heh! your perfum-iiishhhew! ‘sshhiew!”
“Is… iiisssshhhoooh! hh’ISCHHoooh! idt’CHOOooo! Is new,” Iliana shrugged elegantly, raising the inside of her wrist to her nose for a quick sniff. “Such a shame, really. It’s nice. Should we test your theory?” She winked at Shane, who could see a mischievous gleam in her eyes, and held out her wrist.
Shane rolled her eyes performatively, even though she could feel how wet and swollen her cunt was. Obligingly, she lowered her nose to Iliana’s wrist and took a tentative sniff. Her nose wrinkled immediately and she let out a tickly double, the second uncharacteristically strong for her, before she could turn away. “hheeeiiishhhew! eeyIISShiew!”
Iliana’s head dipped with her own “aaASH’HHIEW!”
Shane pressed her thighs together as Iliana sneezed for a moment of desperately needed friction. The knowing look Iliana shot her after suggested that she hadn’t missed it (see: eerily perceptive).
“It is nice,” Shane admitted with a sniffle, and a circular rub of her nose. “Too bad it tickles my nose,” she added, sighing dramatically.
“Too bad, is it?” Iliana repeated suggestively.
A smile tugged at the corner of Shane’s lips as she looked at her girlfriend from underneath her lashes. Her turn to get Iliana wet.
Fic: Versus (H/eated R/ivalry, 5/5 (!), 8k (!!), NSFW)
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.
[I finished it!! I had this this realisation half way through writing this final chapter that I may have written an entire hockey match to put off writing the sex scenes. But written they are. I don't usually write explicit stuff but this is - though nothing more so than the show or the books. And I did enjoy doing it. Anyway, thank you if you left comments, or reblog notes, or clicked like on any other parts, because the responses made me truly happy and I am ever so grateful.
Happy May Day, if you celebrated or are celebrating tomorrow; join your union, up the workers.]
The buzzer for the end of the game is sounding. But that’s impossible. The game is still going on. Shane knows the game is still going on, because, alone in the home locker room, he can hear Coach yelling at him to get the fuck onto the ice. He’s late – the rest of the team have been out there for ages. But Shane can’t join them that because it’s not his Metros kit that’s hanging in the locker room; it’s his juniors kit. It’s his Kingston juniors kit, in the size that Shane wore when he was twelve – so comically small that none of it will come close to fitting. He can’t even get his feet into the skates, and it’s ridiculous to try but he’s trying anyway, because what else is there to do? And Theriault is still yelling that they’re losing the game – and the buzzer is going again – and that’s even weirder because the end game buzzer doesn’t ring twice – and now it’s ringing again, again, over and over and…
Shane opens his eyes. He’s not in the locker room anymore. He’s in his investment apartment, on the couch, where he meant to sit down just for a minute because he felt so exhausted after changing out of his suit. He sniffles, heavy and wet, because his nose hasn’t stopped running since he left the arena, and swallows painfully. He must have drifted off for… Shit. Half an hour, according to the time on his phone, which says ten minutes after ten, and he’s got five missed calls, and the buzzer is going again. But he realises now that it’s not the buzzer for the end of the game; it’s the buzzer for the apartment.
Rozanov. Shit.
He leaps off the couch far too quickly, and nearly collides with the coffee table, his proprioception shot from his body still being half-asleep and his head being full to the brim with congestion. He really needs a tissue, but he also really needs to get Rozanov – who is probably freezing cold, trying not to be noticed, and increasingly angry about what the fuck Shane is playing at. So the first thing he does is press the button to open the front door; he hears the thud of it closing seconds later. Then, he takes a moment to wipe away the crud that’s gathered in the corner of his eyes, and to slow his heartrate and breathing, because apparently being woken abruptly and sprinting a few paces is enough to make him feel like his chest is about to burst open.
The unfortunate consequence of being more awake is that Shane is more aware that he feels like shit. He was supposed to take cold meds before Rozanov arrived, but he hasn’t, and whatever little effect remained from the painkillers and decongestants that he took before the game has now gone completely. There is a stabbing headache behind his eyes, and a dull pain below his ears and across his cheeks. He’s cold, even though the apartment is heated to its usual temperature and he’s wearing a fleece-lined hoodie. So cold, in fact, that he shivers which is hell on his aching muscles – especially on the shoulder that took the brunt of the hit, and is already starting to stiffen. He should see the physio tomorrow, except that he almost certainly can’t because now that it’s not being held back by the meds, his cold is obviously and virulently contagious. He’s having to sniffle every few seconds to stop his nose from overflowing completely. And every time that he does, it triggers a prickling deep in the back of his sinuses that makes his eyes water.
Once his heart feels like it will stay inside his ribcage, Shane reaches into his pocket for a tissue that isn’t there, and then remembers there’s a box on the counter in the kitchen counter. But before he can grab some, he hears the approach of footsteps and a notably sharp knock on the door.
Rozanov wears the coat that he wore last night, and the red-rimmed eyes and pale colour that he wore during the game. His cheeks are flushed too, but whether that’s from the temperature outside or the temperature he’s running, Shane doesn’t know. He steps through the door that Shane is holding open without saying anything, just swiping the back of his wrist under is nose with a congested snuffle.
And then, it happens all at once. Shane has closed the door, and is turning back around, ready to ask Rozanov whether he’d like a drink, when he feels his shoulders slam into the wall of his apartment. It’s not enough to wind him, but, because of his body’s response to the virus and because he’s spent an hour being a punchbag on skates, it hurts. More embarrassingly, it draws a yelp of surprise from him, that the congestion in his head quickly turns into a damp splutter.
“… the fuck!”
Rozanov’s eyes are dark. His mouth is set into an insouciant expression that is entirely at odds with the force at which he has just accosted Shane. He has a fistful of Shane’s hoodie, and apparently no inclination to let it go. As Shane tries to shake off his grasp, Rozanov slams another palm into Shane’s right delt, pinning him back against the wall.
“You told your team that I am sick,” he snarls. His voice is a cracked rumble that resonates in Shane’s chest cavity.
“No.” Suddenly, the half-truths in which Shane has dwelt all day don’t seem to be providing him with the same protection. Technically, he didn’t tell JJ, or Hayden, or anyone else that Rozanov was sick, and so technically he’s not lying now. But he sounds like child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, especially because he has to punctuate his protest with a sniffle, and then because he decides to add. “You told your team about me, too.”
Rozanov snorts scornfully, or perhaps just because he can’t breathe through his nose.
“You miss easy pass from Pike. My teammates are not stupid like him. They would have noticed.”
“Hayden’s not stupid,” Shane snaps. “And you dodged every check that came at you in the first period – you think Boiziau wouldn’t have noticed that?” He sniffs, the pressure between his eyes almost painful now, but he’s not going to back down from this. “I didn’t have to tell him you were sick; he worked that out by himself once I’d pointed out how shit your skating was.”
Rozanov’s whole body tenses and Shane can something dangerous radiating through the heel of the hand that pushes deeper into his shoulder. If it was anyone else, Shane would think that he was about to get a punch to the jaw. But he knows instinctively that Rozanov won’t, would never, do that to him. He doesn’t even really do it on the ice. He doesn’t need to when he leaves most players reeling in his wake, and he prefers to give lashings with his tongue.
That’s kind of what happens now.
Rozanov pulls tighter on the fabric of Shane’s hoodie, and crashes his hungry lips into Shane’s. The kiss that Shane returns contains everything that he’s been holding back all day, through the game.
“I expect it,” Rozanov rasps, mostly into Shane’s mouth. He breaks the kiss, but tilts his head upwards, inviting Shane to pay some attention to his open throat. Shane happily obliges, trailing kisses down his throat, exploring Rozanov with his mouth, sucking and catching his teeth on the too-warm skin he finds there. Rozanov gasps, and chokes out a laugh. There is a damp note to it, and a crackle to his exhale. They really shouldn’t have let him play tonight.
“Everyone thinks Hollander is such a good boy. Hockey prince. But I know better.” Rozanov jerks his head back to centre so that Shane is forced to break off his kisses and look into his eyes. “I know what you’ll do to get what you want. I know what you’re like when you’re… desperate.”
Rozanov takes a step back, and looks down at Shane’s crotch, where the evidence of his desperation is already unmissable.
“Are you mad at me?” Shane asks, hoarse, breathless. He sniffs again, putting more energy to it, in the hope that it might stop his nose running for a few moments at least. The thick, wet sound makes him cringe.
“Of course.” Rozanov releases the hand that is pinning Shane’s shoulder, and rubs the cuff of his sleeve against his own nose. Then he tugs Shane’s hoodie upwards, exposing the waistband of his pants, and slips his hand beneath it. “But only because I know you like it.”
Through his underwear, Rozanov’s hand cups Shane’s hard-on, and Shane feels his hips buck forwards into his touch. Rozanov smiles now, his real smile, the one that changes his whole face; makes his sharp features seem gentler, makes his eyes twinkle and their corners crinkle in with surprising warmth. So Shane smiles too, even though his body still aches and his nose is still streaming.
Rozanov gives a final squeeze on his dick and then whips his hand away, placing it back at Shane’s shoulders.
“Don’t get too excited, Hollander. You need to make it up to me first.”
Shane is about to ask Rozanov just how he can do that when his nose decides that it’s finally had enough of the creeping itch that’s been building and retreating inside of it since he woke up. It starts to tickle more insistently, and when Shane sniffs to try to quiet it, this only triggers the tickle into a burning that makes his eyes fill with tears. There’s no time to slips out of Rozanov’s grasp. It’s all he can do to tuck his head into his left shoulder – the one that Rozanov isn’t pinning down – and pull the cuff of his hoodie over his wrist before he smothers the sneezes into the heel of his hand as best he can.
“huht’ISSHhoo!’ihSHhh’uu!”
The sneezes barrel into one another, Shane’s torso twisting painfully as his head snaps forward with each explosion. He’s making a mess of himself and his hoodie, but doesn’t have time to apologize before two more sneezes follow hard behind the first.
The expletive is mangled by congestion and the damp cuff of the sweatshirt that Shane’s forced to sniff frantically into. He doesn’t dare to lift his head and he can barely look at Rozanov, whose usual expression of cool indifference has taken on an unusual softness, but hasn’t morphed into the disgust Shane had expected.
“Bless you.” Rozanov’s voice is uncharacteristically hesitant, as though he learnt the phrase from a text book years ago but has only just had the chance to try it out.
Shane tries to communicate gratitude with a tight nod. Anyone else would have stepped back by now – anyone sensible would have run a mile because Shane is being objectively disgusting – but Rozanov is still standing there, still holding a fistful of Shane’s hoodie, his hand perilously close to where Shane is trying to stem the flood now coming from his nose and preserve the last of his dignity.
“Sorry,” Shane mumbles, trying to extricate himself again, wincing at how full his head sounds. “I really d’eed a tissue.”
Rozanov finally lets go of Shane’s clothing, and while in any other situation Shane would be disappointed about this, it feels like a mercy. But because Rozanov cannot behave like a normal human being ever, he doesn’t let Shane leave to hide in the bathroom where he can blow his nose and get over the mortification of sneezing all over himself in the middle of their foreplay. Instead, Rozanov reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a handful of clean tissues.
For one terrible, inexplicable moment, something in Rozanov’s expression and the way he’s dancing the tissues from side to side in front of Shane’s face makes Shane think that he might be about try to wipe Shane’s nose for him. Thankfully, it doesn’t come to this. After one round of keep-away, and a satisfied grin when it elicits the desired “Fug’k off!” from Shane – Rozanov allows the tissues to be snatched from his fingertips.
Shane closes his eyes as he tries to clear his nose both thoroughly and quietly. He succeeds in doing neither, and he’s pretty sure that Rozanov is staring at him the entire time, with that cool, unreadable gaze that Shane thinks might haunt him for the rest of his life. He’s certainly staring when Shane lowers the tissues, more because they’re so damp as too be useless than because he can actually breath normally again, his dark eyes shining with what might be fever.
“You are a mess.”
Probably it’s the unusual cadences of his English, but Rozanov makes the phrase sounds curious, as though he hadn’t known that Shane could be like this. Even though Rozanov reduces Shane to a begging, panting, spent mess every time they are together; even though he’s devoted a good ninety percent of his interactions with Shane to precisely that end. And Shane’s dick twitches again just thinking about that – about how much of a mess he is for Rozanov, how much more of a mess he’s going to be by the end of the night.
Not that he’s going to tell Rozanov that.
“You’re not looking so great yourself.” That’s a lie, of course. Shane isn’t sure Rozanov could ever look truly unattractive, but he certainly isn’t now. Even with what seems to be a very heavy chest cold, Rozanov looks fucking hot. His curls are tousled from the wind outside, and with his flushed cheeks, he reminds Shane of the angels in those old Italian paintings that his parents dragged him round on trips to the National Gallery. The redness around his nose seems to make his lips look even pinker, which makes Shane even more wild about the thought of them on his own lips, his chest, his thighs, his cock.
Rozanov must know it’s a lie because he laughs and shakes his head as he takes off his coat, throwing it behind him so that it lands in a crumpled heap on the back of the couch. He’s dressed for warmth. No low-v t-shirt tonight, or shirt made from some delicate, silky material that makes Shane’s mind go pleasantly blank when he strokes his hands across it. Instead, he’s wearing an Addidas sweater that looks soft from washing and wearing, and sweatpants that are tenting in the same area as Shane’s own.
Well, clearly he hasn’t put Rozanov off.
The thought of what he’s doing to Rozanov, the fever he’s running, or some combination of the two sends a shiver cascading though Shane’s body. He hisses slightly as it grips his sore shoulder, the seizing of the joint sending an unexpected jolt of
“You are cold?”
“I… I think I have a fever,” Shane admits, with a sniffle that sounds pathetic even to his own ears.
“Do you want me to check?”
Shane’s no doctor, but he’s pretty sure the medically advised method of taking someone’s temperature doesn’t involve tugging off their clothing, and running your hands up and down their body. Nor does it involve slipping your tongue inside their mouth, as your lips press against theirs almost frantically. It definitely doesn’t involve placing your hands on someone else’s hips and grinding them forward into your own, so that your rock-hard dicks rub against each other through fabric that feels, at once, far too much of a barrier, and put under so much strain that it might tear any second.
But Shane doesn’t complain about any of this, because his mouth is too full of Rozanov’s lips, Rozanov’s tongue, Rozanov’s name – the last one escaping in a hoarse moan as he breaks their kiss to draw breath.
Rozanov is smiling at him. He leans back at little, eyes dark and dangerous. Shane can feel a familiar heat rising to his face. It’s not his fever; this happens every time Rozanov’s eyes dance over Shane’s body, like Shane is something that Rozanov wants to devour entirely, to possess immediately and for all time. Shane’s always hated that he blushes so easily, that his feelings appear as a pink flush across his cheeks, like the ink in those toy pens that gives up its secrets the instant a light shines on it.
Rozanov really likes it when he blushes. Shane can see the desire building in him, in the way that Rozanov’s tongue darts over his chapped lips, the way his eyes widen further, like he wants to see all of Shane so that he might know him completely. It should be awful, standing in front of Rozanov, feverish, sniffling and weak. Shane ought to hate being seen like that by anyone, but especially by Rozanov: the only person whom Shane has ever really thought of as competition, who Shane – in moments of gut-churning 3am honesty with himself – has ever worried might only not be better than he is, but better than Shane could ever be. Shane Hollander with a red nose, and sore throat, and a cold that is bad now and will be worse in the morning, is not a version of Shane Hollander than Ilya Rozanov should ever get to see.
But now that Rozanov is seeing it, it only feels awful in the good ways, in the ways that Shane always hates himself for wanting more of. Which means that maybe it’s not just ok that Rozanov sees him like this, but maybe that Shane wants Rozanov to see him like this - if only because Shane wants to know what it will make Rozanov do to him next.
“How’s my fever?” Shane asks, meeting Rozanov’s gaze and enjoying how much it burns.
“Bad, I think.” Rozanov teases his bottom lip in his teeth, runs a thumb across his nose, and then presses Shane hard against the wall, so that he can hook Shane’s hips over his own and take Shane’s weight, his impossibly strong arms wrapping round Shane’s torso, his fingers digging into Shane’s thighs. “Time to put you to bed.”
Shane is propped against the headboard, legs open wide, with Rozanov straddling him, their clothes scattered like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs, a trace of their path to the bedroom. Rozanov’s mouth is exploring the swoop of Shane’s clavicle. Shane tightens his hands around the bedsheets, squeezing them until his knuckles hurt to make sure that he stays in the room, to stop himself from slipping off into some hazy, shimmering cloud of overstimulation.
Fevers always make his skin too sensitive, so right now, the brush of Rozanov’s lips, fingers, curls across his feverish skin is almost too much. He wonders if Rozanov feels the same, if fevers make him dread any contact but make his body more needy, so that any graze from someone else’s is almost unbearable but not being touched would be worse? Because that’s how this is making Shane feel, like Rozanov hands caressing his chest and his dick might make him scream out in pleasure and pain all at once.
Will a fever do the same thing to his cock? Shane’s never had sex when he’s been ill before, so he doesn’t know. But maybe it. Shit. That’s probably not what Shane needs. Sometimes just being with Rozanov, being this close to him, being allowed to touch him – fuck it, just being allowed to look at him without second guessing every which way that his looks might be read – sometimes it was hard enough for Shane to keep it together through all of that. The soft, wet, heat of Rozanov’s mouth on his chest is almost too much for Shane to stand, he can’t imagine what it would feel like if Rozanov placed it around his dick.
Rozanov doesn’t offer that, which is probably a good thing consider that he’s barely able to breathe through his fucked up nose. But he does wrap a slicked hand around Shane’s cock, before stroking up and down with practised tenderness. The moan slips from Shane’s lips almost before he’s realised, and he closes his eyes and throws his head backwards.
No, no, stop, stop, stop…
For a minute, Shane thinks that he must have said the words out loud, because Rozanov does stop – has stopped – nibbling at his throat. His hand is still curled round Shane’s dick, but it’s teasing strokes have paused. But no, Shane definitely didn’t say it out loud, not least because Rozanov would never have passed up with opportunity to laugh at him if he had. And now, even with his eyes closed, Shane is suddenly aware that the weight of Rozanov’s body has shifted, and there is a distance between the two of them that wasn’t there before. So what the fuck is going on?
“ngh’uhTSCHhhhh!”
At that sound, and Rozanov’s hand jerking tight around him and tugging sharply, Shane opens his eyes. Rozanov is sitting a bit more upright, his hand still on Shane, but his torso twisted away. His left arm is thrown up haphazardly across the lower half of his face, and he raises his head above it to take a shuddering breath before the next sneeze hits.
“huhh…hhh’GHHh’chuhh!”
For a moment, Shane held captive by the outline of Rozanov’s shoulders, the perfect v of his torso down to his waist. He can’t do anything but stare at how the muscles in Rozanov’s shoulders and stomach contract and release as the sneeze rips through him. Shane isn’t sure he’s ever seen anyone sneeze that hard. His whole body is taken over with it, and then with the snuffling and tight gasps of breath that suggests the fit clearly far from over.
It an unusual sensation, yeah, but not an unenjoyable. Quite enjoyable, actually, when the sneezes jerk Rozanov forwards so that his hips crash forwards into Shane’s, the base of his shaft rubbing into the underside of Shane’s erection. Especially because, unconsciously, Rozanov’s grip on Shane tightens with each sneeze, enough to make Shane squirm and shift, to rub himself against Rozanov’s hand. And even when practically incapacitated by his sneezes, Rozanov notices that, managing a crooked half smile through hitching breaths and watery eyes, before sneezes again.
“hhh’DJJISHHH’ughhhh!”
Jesus, that one was strong. So strong that when Rozanov’s head snaps forward and takes his body with it, Shane presses up an arm to catch Rozanov’s shoulder, and wraps his other arm around Rozanov’s waist to brace him in position. And if this means that Rozanov’s hips are pulled even closer, up against his own, well that’s just a happy coincidence.
At Shane’s touch, Rozanov’s eyes blink open in surprise. His eyes are damp and dazed as they meet Shane’s, slipping away from focus for a second until Rozanov scrubs his nose into his forearm with determined violence. And then he coughs, with the deep crackling sound that Shane remembers from the rink earlier than night, though its worse now that Shane is closer to it, and there’s no noise to drown it out. When he finally lowers his arm, after swiftly ducking into it again for another wrenching “hhhh’GHHshhhhuh!”, his face is flushed, cheeks tear-stained, and nose scrunching with near-constant sniffles.
“Are you…”
Before Shane can finish, Rozanov pounces forwards to silence him with a very snuffly kiss.
“Hollander,” he growls, mostly mumbling the words into Shane’s lips. “If you ask me again if I want to lie down I will…”
This time, its Rozanov’s turn to be interrupted, not by a kiss but by Shane’s spur of the moment decision to combine the leverage he has at Rozanov’s shoulder with a sharp upward thrust from his hips at the same side. Off balance from leaning forward for the kiss, and definitely not expecting Shane to try something like this, Rozanov topples over to his left, which makes it easy enough for Shane to end up on top of him.
Rozanov looks up at Shane from where he is now lying on the bed, pupils blown, and with a smile registering unexpected pleasure – and, Shane lets himself think, a touch of admiration.
“I’m not asking this time,” Shane says, almost surprising himself when the words slip from his mouth.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov growls. “You have been practisi’ihhh’ hhhh’YSHHHughhh!” It’s all Rozanov can do to turn his head to one side and direct the sneeze into the comforter that neither of them bothered to pull off the bed. “Nghh…” The groan follows hard behind desperate sniffs and Rozanov clearing his throat harshly. “Can’t fucking stop…”
“I don’t care.” Shane grabs Rozanov’s dick, and enjoys the moan of pleasure that he gets in return. Maybe he is supersensitive after all. Rozanov’s hand is still loosely on Shane’s cock, and so, Shane places his other hand on top and begins to move them both in the same rhythm, indulging in a sigh of pleasure as Rozanov follows his lead.
“hhh’uhhh’?...Uhh’TSCHhh’EUGH!”
“Fuck!” It slips out without Shane meaning it to, because every time that Rozanov sneezes the grip he has on Shane unconsciously tightens, a squeeze and a jerk that is a deliciously sharp interruption to his otherwise sweeping strokes.
Rozanov laughs. “You like that, when I…”
“Shut up,” Shane growls, speeding up the pace of hand on Rozanov’s shaft. But he does, like it. Not the sneezing exactly, though they are both, he thinks, way, way past caring about the dubious hygiene of this whole encounter. But the side effects of the sneezing are… pleasurable. And judging by the way that Rozanov is looking at him, pleased with himself and brimming with desire, Shane knows that he is blushing again.
“Do it for me,” Rozanov says.
“What, sneeze?” Shane laughs, because he assumes he’s misunderstood. But Rozanov is nodding as he’s jerking Shane off, picking up his speed to match Shane’s own.
“Want to know what it feels like,” Rozanov breaths. “So do as you’re… nghh’GHTSchhh!… told.”
Rozanov’s request is patently ridiculous, not just because its not something that anyone asks for during sex, but also because it’s not possible for someone to sneeze on demand. Except that it doesn’t take much to make Shane sneeze when his nose feels as sensitive as every other inch of him right now. It’s itched and prickled every time that Rozanov has sneezed, as though in sympathy with the tickle he can’t seem shake. And Shane really, really wants to do as he’s told, wants to do that so badly that his body feels like its vibrating with the urge. So, feeling less stupid about it than he ought to, Shane tilts his head back slightly, closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose where bone meets cartilage, and rubs.
From somewhere beneath him on the bed, Shane hears Rozanov whisper an almost reverent, “Wow,” which sends a shudder of pleasure thrilling through Shane’s body. Apparently, even if this doesn’t work, Shane’s eagerness to please is enough to please Rozanov, which also pleases Shane and so…
Fuck, though, it is working. The itch in the back of his nose is building, slowly but surely, teasing tears from Shane’s eyes as it does so. Concentrating on the sensation, and on the tension growing in his cock as Rozanov edges him closer and closer to release, and on the feeling of Rozanov in his hand doing the same, makes everything else in the room go black. After what feels like an age, but can only really have been seconds, Shane feels his breath catch once, twice, and then…
“hhh’EISSHHuu! hhuh'huh-YISHHuuh!”
“Fuck!” Rozanov yells, which must be from some combination of the way Shane’s grasp has tightened round his shaft, and the way that Shane’s hips have bucked against Rozanov’s dick with the force of the releases. “Oh, fuck Hollander, make me come…”
Not caring that his eyes are watering and his nose is streaming, Shane speeds up the motion of his hand even more, rotating his wrist as he does so in a way that draws a rough his from deep in Rozanov’s throat. And then all it takes is for Shane to rub his own cock against Rozanov’s, for everything to blur between their hands, and their dicks, and their moans, before Rozanov comes, with a strangled cry. The release splashes all over his and Shane’s stomach where, seconds later, it is joined by Shane’s as he comes and collapses forward into Rozanov’s arms.
It is a while before either of them moves, other than to place feverish, fucked-out kisses on the other one’s mouths. Shane is nestled into the crook of Rozanov’s shoulder, his limbs tangled round Rozanov’s body. Now the thrill of his organism is receding and the sweat on his body is beginning to dry, Shane can feel that he’s starting to shiver again. He should get under the covers, or put some clothes on, or maybe take a hot shower. But his instinct is to simply pull himself closer to Rozanov, as though the other man could provide all the warmth that he needs.
Rozanov, however, has other plans. He places a tender kiss on Shane’s temple but at the same time lifts Shane’s leg from where it lies across his thigh. Then he carefully sits up, depositing Shane’s head gently onto a pillow.
“Ngghh…Where’re you going…” Shane mumbles. “C’m’back…”
“Just a minute, sweetheart,” Rozanov whispers. Shane feels another kiss being pressed to his lips, and then hears footsteps are padding across the bedroom carpet.
Beneath the haze of head cold and afterglow, Shane hears water running. Not enough water for a shower, so maybe Rozanov is just cleaning himself up. Shane wriggles himself upwards until he’s half-sitting against the headboard, and studies the mess that remains on his skin. Maybe he’ll clean Shane up too. Shane secretly loves when he does that, or maybe not so secretly because he’s pretty sure he’s moans every time Rozanov wipes a warm flannel over his stomach and his dick and wherever else has ended up sticky and salty.
But when Rozanov does come back, its not a washcloth that he hands to Shane, but a mug of something warm, and with a familiar, cutting scent – acidic and medicinal – that cuts through even Shane’s stuffed head. It’s the same cold medicine that Shane made for Rozanov last night.
“You made this for me?” Shane says, which is stupid because who else is going to have done it. And yeah, Rozanov rolls his eyes.
“No, I make it for all the other hockey players with colds that I fuck tonight,” he says, which makes Shane laugh. Normally, this would be fine – good even, because the corners of Rozanov eyes crinkle when he manages to make Shane laugh, in a way that is utterly adorable and that Shane rarely gets to see to otherwise. Except now that his nose is so itchy, and his sinuses are protesting his movement to a semi-seated position, and so now Shane is going to sneeze while clutching a mug of very hot liquid.
The only thing Shane can do is thrust it back towards Rozanov, whose athlete’s reflexes allow him to take it without thinking.
“It’s not right?” he says, for a moment – maybe for the first time Shane has ever heard – sounding genuinely disappointed. “You don’t want it?”
The feeling of a sneeze building is not easy for Shane to speak through, but Rozanov sounds so crestfallen that Shane feels he has to try.
Shane feels something land in his lap, and opens his eyes to find the tissue box that was on the nightstand has been deposited there.
“So many sneezes,” Rozanov says, settling next to Shane as he blows his nose, and tries not to wince at the sound. “Though not as many as me, I think,” he adds, as he hands the mug back to Shane for a second try.
Shane gives a huff before taking a sip of his drink. Of course, Ilya Rozanov could even turn their colds into a competition.
“Is ok?” Rozanov asks, and Shane notices, approvingly, that he’s cradling a cup of his own, too.
“Yeah, it’s good.”
Rozanov nods. “I hear, better with honey,” he says, which makes Shane smile into his cup, until Rozanov adds, “And someone told me that you can’t microwave the water or it tastes funny, but I think he is a liar. And also boring.”
Shane is about to jab his elbow into Rozanov’s side when he remembers that they are both holding scalding drinks. So he settles for flipping Rozanov the bird instead. Rozanov grins in response, but it falters slightly as he looks at Shane, and Shane knows what he must be seeing. The pale skin, reddened nose, and inflamed eyes that Shane himself is seeing when he looks at Rozanov. Still, it is a surprise when Rozaonov reaches over and presses the back of his hand against Shane’s forehead.
Did you ever have a boyfriend who would feel your forehead to check if you had a fever? And did your boyfriend ever do that for you?
“I think you do have a fever,” Rozanov says, unusually serious. Shane nods and shrugs.
“Probably,” he agrees, allowing himself a little bit of a self-pitying sniffle. He hates being sick – who doesn’t – but he really, really hates how having a fever makes him feel. Like everything that usually stays so well hidden is suddenly right beneath the surface, and the cloth that is hiding it might be pulled off at any time. And so because it’s easier not to think about himself right now, he adds, “I think you have one too.”
Rozanov shrugs as well. “This will help, yes?” he says, holding up the mug as a gesture.
“Yeah, it will,” Shane says, taking another large sip from the mug. “Thanks.”
Rozanov looks down at his own drink, and smiles.
They lie there quietly, side by side, for several moments, their shoulders and upper arms touching. Rozanov must have retrieved his phone from his coat when he went to fetch the medicine, because he’s scrolling through messages and the Raiders Instagram account; Shane pointedly keeps his eyes on his mug so as not to see anything he shouldn’t. For his own part, Shane is content to lie and listen to the muted traffic outside, nowhere near dying away yet, and the snuffling, wheezing sounds of Rozanov’s breathing. Hopefully someone on the Raiders team would make him see a doctor before they flew back.
And suddenly, almost before Shane can think about the consequences of them, the beginning of a phrase is on his lips, almost spilling over before Shane can catch up with it.
“I wish - ”
I wish you didn’t have to leave. I wish you never had to leave. I wish we could stay together all night, and every night after that.
But he can’t say that. Because this is what they do; they fuck and they leave before morning.
So, instead, Shane tries, “I wish I hadn’t gotten sick this week.”
Rozanov’s teasing huff comes out probably more congested than he’d intended. “So it’s ok if I am sick?”
“Shut up.” Shane swallows the last of the medicine and puts his cup on the nightstand. Then he curls himself into Rozanov, returning his head to its place on the other man’s chest. “Obviously, I wish that you hadn’t gotten sick either.”
It’s not true though. Or rather, it’s not that Shane wants Rozanov sick, but that he wouldn’t mind Rozanov being sick if he could stay and let Shane take care of him. Lying in the dark, as Rozanov starts to thread his fingers through Shane’s hair, Shane lets himself think about a version of the past few days where they weren’t having stolen whispered conversations, weren’t sneaking around at night, weren’t having to leave before the morning. Where instead of being in this stupid show-home, they were in his real apartment, where there was a kettle for tea, and pans to make soup. Where Shane could have tucked Rozanov up in blankets on the couch, and put on a stupid movies, and checked his temperature, and rubbed his back when his cough sounded bad, and played with his hair until he fell asleep. Something like that could be… nice.
Shane’s so busy thinking about this that he almost doesn’t notice that Rozanov is speaking again.
“But better we were both sick, than just one of us.”
Shane hums his assent, and is ready to let the silence fall again. But Rozanov, it seems, is not done with talking, even if his fingers have quieted their soothing motion across Shane’s forehead. When he speaks, he doesn’t look at Shane as he does so, staring off instead into middle distance at somewhere far away, or perhaps, somewhere a long time ago.
“I think I am not very good at being a sick person,” he says.
Shane laughs; even to his own ears it sounds thick and heavy, dragged from his lungs like a dull skate blade.
“No one is good at being sick,” he says.
Rozanov shakes his head, as though Shane has misunderstood something.
“I think,” he says again, “I am not easy to care for.”
It is such a strange phrase – not easy to care for – that, not for the first time, Shane wonders what is being lost in translation when Rozanov speaks to him. Not just because he is speaking English, but because there is so much context for who Rozanov is that Shane doesn’t know. Who made him feel this way, and how did they do it?
Those aren’t questions Shane can ask now; even if he could, Rozanov probably wouldn’t answer them. All Shane can do is hold him a little tighter, and press another kiss to his cheek
“I don’t think that’s true,” he says, forcing out the words as steadily as he can. “I… I want to take care of you.”
Even as he hears himself saying the words, Shane knows that he’s gone too far. This isn’t the kind of thing they say to one another. This is dangerous. And if Rozanov started it, then Shane’s taken it further. They are out in the middle of the thin ice they’ve been skating on for a while now, far from the shoreline, and if it cracks, and there is nothing beneath but drowning.
Luckily, Rozanov finds a branch to drag them back to familiar, safe, grounds. With another huff - half amusement and half derision, and, tonight, also mostly the congestion in his head - he looks down at his softening cock and then back up to Shane, one eyebrow raised with suggestive menace.
“That what you call this? Taking care of me?”
Shane, at least, can follow his lead.
“Oh, fuck you.”
“Or maybe it was ‘taking care’ when you build whole gameplan around your teammates fucking with me because I’m sick? Make me skate so hard that stupid cold turns into nuumoneeya?”
“Pneumonia?” Shane replies, checking his translation.
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“That’s not a thing that happens!” And it wasn’t, right? “Anyway, you did the same to me.”
“Or when you leave me outside on freezing cold street for an hour?”
An hour? Fuck no, is he getting away with this.
“It was ten minutes!”
Rozanov tilted his head to one side as though he were considering this, and then said cooly, “I think more.”
“Shut up – no, it wasn’t. And I bought you cold medicine.”
“Which I make for you,” Rozanov responds, waving his mug as he places it on the other nightstand.
Shane is about to point out that he made medicine for Rozanov yesterday when he was ignoring the fact he was running a fever for Christ’s sake. But he’s interrupted by an annoyingly familiar sensation in his nose, that leaves him scrambling for the tissue box that – even more annoyingly – is only in his reach because Rozanov put it there.
“hhh’EISHHhhhh!’ISSHHhhhh!”
“And now you sneeze on me to try to win argument.”
Shane blows his nose sharply, and drags himself to a sitting position. Rozanov is grinning at him, and Shane knows there’s no point in continuing the back and forth, except that he can’t let Rozanov win after saying something so completely stupid.
“That doesn’d even make sense,” he grumbles.
“Yes, it does. And you are going to sneeze again,” he adds, matter-of-factly.
“What? No, I’b…” But he is. Right now. “hhh-IShhheuhh!... hhh’ISHHhhhewhh!
“Bless you,” Rozanov replies in a sing-song tone, his confidence with the phrase obviously increasing.
“Oh, fug’k off.” Shane gives Rozanov’s hamstring a soft kick, and shakes off the hand that is resting on his hip bone. He’s not sure where he’s going – shower maybe, or the kitchen for some tea, or to see if there’s something – anything - else in what he bought that might help him stop sneezing. But he doesn’t have to listen to this in his own… well, not actually his apartment, but a building that he owns.
“No, no, Hollander…” Rozanov’s wheedling tone can’t disguise the laughter in his voice, as he grabs Shane’s forearm, tugging him back towards the bed. “You cannot leave. This is not ‘taking care’. I will be cold.”
He pouts, and its adorable. Annoying adorable.
Shane is still about to tell Rozanov to go fuck himself when he realises, suddenly, that Rozanov has grabbed the arm furthest from him – so the arm that has the shoulder that didn’t get slammed into the boards, and so isn’t beginning to stain with indigo and burgundy bruises. The tenderness is so unexpected from Rozanov, who is a professional asshole first and a hockey player second, that it snatches the air from Shane’s lungs, and he thinks that the only way to get it back might be to kiss Rozanov and never stop.
As their eyes meet, he thinks Rozanov can see it. There’s something about the way that his grip loosens a little, about the tremble in his breathing as they are both frozen in the moment, trying to work out what the hell they are supposed to do next.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. You have got to stop this, Hollander. Sell your fucking apartment. Delete Rozanov’s number. Don’t ever think about what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, whether he’s thinking about you. This has got to stop.
It’s not going to stop.
A familiar sick feeling is back in Shane’s stomach, and he’s about to shake off Rozanov’s grasp, when he realises that he doesn’t have to, because Rozanov’s grip on him has already loosened. His upper lip curls, his nose scrunches upwards and his whole body crumples forward.
“Jesus Christ, do you always sneeze like that?” Shane mutters, extending the tissues to him.
Rozanov snatches a handful and blows his nose loudly. Then, he looks at Shane balefully over the tissues, and gives a reluctant nod.
“Well then, bless you, I guess.”
Rozanov finishes wiping his nose, though he’s still sniffling. He meets Shane’s eyes, and he’s not grinning now, and nor does he look like he’s about to rip into Shane again. It’s not even the cool, studied indifference that Shane is used to from Rozanov. It’s something quieter, less performed, more… sincere.
“Thank you,” he says. “And thank you for the tissues. And thank you for… ‘taking care’.”
He opens his arm, an invitation for Shane to return his head to Rozanov’s chest. It’s the worst idea in the world, and Shane doesn’t need asking twice.
“It’s ok. I… I don’t mind.”
I like it. I love it, actually. I would do it forever, if you would let me. Would you let me, Rozanov?
Rozanov tightens the arm around his shoulder, as Shane nestled his head back into Rozanov’s shoulder. Rozanov doesn’t say anything, but it feels, somehow, like he understands. They are silent like this for a moment, Rozanov teasing his fingers through Shane’s hair, Shane stroking the back of his knuckles across Rozanov’s bicep.
Oh, fuck it.
Shane clears his throat.
“Next time you’re sick… I mean, if you’re sick again, and… and you want someone to complain to, or I dunno… Well, you can, um, let me know.”
“You will ‘take care’ again?”
“Yeah, I’ll ‘take care’ again.”
Rozanov laughs again, and it’s still horribly congested – enough that Shane does start to worry that skating yourself into pneumonia might be a thing. But it’s also warm and kind. It’s laughter to wrap yourself up in against a cold day, and a colder world. Shane wonders who else knows that Rozanov’s laughter can sound like that.
“You will ‘take care’ from Montreal, when I am in Boston?”
“We can text. Or whatever.”
“Or whatever.” Rozanov leans down, and kisses Shane gently on the forehead. “Is your fever talking?”
“No,” Shane says, looking back up at him. “No, I mean it.”
“Ok.” Rozanov smiles, and it is beautiful. He is beautiful. Sick, and exhausted, and beautiful. “Ok. Maybe I do that.”
----
The interview and the photographs are published two weeks later. Shane discovers this when he arrives at practice to find the magazine’s front cover stuck on the wall in his usual stall. It’s someone’s – probably, JJ’s – idea of a good joke. Chirping their captain for being a pretty boy apparently never gets old.
Shane glances at the cover. By now he can pretty much guess the straplines word for word.
Hollander v. Rozanov - Head-to-Head with the Eastern Conference’s Greatest Rivals!
The cover photo is one that was taken at the practice: he and Rozanov facing off against one another. Because, like, they’re rivals? Really fucking original.
Carefully giving the picture only the most cursory glance, Shane turns back to his assembled teammates and their howls of laughter. He rolls his eyes, curses them playfully – whichever of you motherfuckers did this is skating laps – and makes a show of pulling down the cover, to some really old lines about when he’s giving up hockey for modelling – “because the pay is nearly as good and your workmates are hotter!”.
But Shane doesn’t screw up the cover and toss it in the trash, like he’s done on other occasions where his teammates have tried this gag. Instead, when no one is looking, he tucks in inside his kit bag in a space where it won’t get crumpled.
After practice, he’s deliberately slow getting changed, so that he’s the last one left in the locker room, once he’s told Hayden to go ahead and get them both a coffee, that he’ll be right out. And then, once the room is empty, Shane takes a deep breath and pulls out the picture.
Someone must have done some touching up or whatever, because neither he nor Rozanov looks anywhere near as sick as they actually were. The only real evidence is a tiny bloom of pink around the tip of Rozanov’s nose, and a pinched flush on Shane’s cheeks, both of which might be down to nothing more than the cold of the rink. Nothing that any one would notice. Almost like the two of them being sick never happened.
In fact, the more notable thing about the picture is that the two of them are smiling at each other. Not really smiling, or laughing, not like they were the day of the CCM shoot all those years ago, like they must be in some pictures that were on a photographer’s hard drive, but probably don’t even exist anymore. But they are smiling, lips quirking upwards in a way that might be read as confidence, or a playful challenge, or enjoyment of competition for its own sake, even though Shane knows that it was none of those things at all. And Rozanov knows it, too.
All at once, it strikes Shane that, aside from his parents, Rozanov probably knows Shane better than anyone else. And of everything fucked up about this whole fucked up thing they have, that might be the most fucked up thing of all.
He lays the cover on the bench, pulls out his phone and snaps a picture – to send to his mom and dad, if anyone asks. But he doesn’t send it to them; he sends it to Lily.
The read notification flicks up and immediately the three dots start flickering on the screen.
Lily: Congratulations. You are second hottest hockey player in the picture
Shane huffs, and types his reply.
Good job they had Photoshop to make you look like you weren’t dying from a cold.
Shane is about to put his phone away, because Hayden’s going to start wondering where he is, but then something comes over him and before he can think too hard about it, he adds:
You survived, then? No pneumonia?
Lily: No. I was not going to die before we could beat you in December
December. Six weeks. Nineteen games. Not that he’s counting. Shane taps his response with particular fervour.
You wish
Lily: You wish 😉
Shane stares at the message for a while. He knows it’s a dumb joke, in response to another dumb joke. It doesn’t mean anything. It can never mean anything. But still… But still.
You wish.
I do.
Shane rubs his eyes, suddenly overcome with tiredness. Swallowing hard, he locks his phone screen, the messages disappearing to black. Then he takes one last look at the cover photo, and folds it carefully away.
I'm a dirty liar! just yesterday I answered an ask explaining that I'd make the sequel to pauses one long part, but I wrote a chunk yesterday and found a pause (lol) in time that would do better with a break. that, and I'm still deciding if I want to keep a steady pov or switch to ilya...
in any case, here's the first of two parts. :~) dramatic, as usual.
ilya is on the mend, and—shane? well, shane is around the bend (hiding, in plain sight, from the big bad flu).
Saturday morning, Shane had left Ilya’s at exactly seven o’clock. Ilya had been asleep when Shane disentangled himself from the blankets, slow and careful in the dark bedroom. His game day morning routine had looked a little different, but he managed a shower and breakfast all before he spent his final fifteen watching the steady rise and fall of Ilya’s chest. He had gently shaken Ilya awake, a choice only made moments before he had to leave, and given him a lingering kiss to his forehead. It had been nice and cool, proof of a fever finally broken sometime in the night.
And then he had spent his two hour drive back to Montreal deliberating and halfway mourning over sleepy goodbyes and how much they hurt. Ilya hadn’t asked him to stay, jokingly as he usually did, if only because he knew how hard it was for Shane to leave in the first place. He hadn’t wanted to rub salt in the wound, probably, but a wound is a wound is a wound. Being asked to stay wouldn’t have made it hurt much more, maybe it would have even been like a salve that stung at first but made everything feel a tad better later.
At the practice rink, fatigue was really starting to set in. It wasn’t all that surprising; he hadn’t slept properly since… Fuck, Monday night? Between Ilya coming down sick and having his sleep schedule interrupted with lazy daytime naps and Ilya’s grating cough that seemed to kick it up a notch at night, he was racking up a mountain of sleep debt and couldn’t find the time to pay it off.
Shane leaned forward in his chair, fingers wrapped around a warm paper cup of coffee Hayden had picked up for him. He had taken off the lid a moment ago, first to confirm it was black the way he liked it, then to have an excuse to look at something. Theriault was noticeably pissed, standing at the front of the meeting room and throwing daggers his way as the team settled in their seats, and Shane appreciated there being something to stare at other than his hands.
He already felt like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. He didn’t need to look like one, too.
“Tuesday was a win, but don’t let that get to your heads.” Theriault’s gruff voice cut through the morning shuffle, silencing the room. “Tonight’s game won’t be that easy, and we have some serious issues to address.”
Shane tried to pay attention, but the tension in the room made it difficult. It was so thick he felt like he was swimming in it, batting at it with heavy blinks and slow nods when he felt he was supposed to, but he was really just making educated guesses. His mind lagged about five steps behind, still stuck on the way Theriault would point at something on the screen and motion widely in Shane’s direction like he was at fault for support not following through quickly enough.
“And some of you,” Theriault spat, looking straight at Shane this time, “should learn to read your teammates and know when the fuck to reset instead of pushing a broken play.”
Theriault let the silence stretch just to make a point.
A few chairs creaked. Someone cleared their throat. Shane ducked his head and took a sip of his coffee.
“I guess it’s no secret we have some very greedy players in the room.”
Shane spent the rest of the meeting shooting apologetic glances at his coffee cup, at the wall, at anything other than his teammates because the elephant in the room was definitely Shane, and Theriault looked suspiciously like a poacher with his laser pointer at the ready. And Shane was sorry for that, but not sorry enough to admit fault when he had been the only one to put the biscuit in the basket on Tuesday—a hat trick, in fact, and they had won.
Theriault could hold a serious grudge, and after all these years, Shane knew how to weather them. It wasn’t personal, even if it felt like Theriault would jump at the chance to take your first born and throw them in the net as a little incentive to up the defense. It wasn’t personal, but Theriault could lean cruel sometimes, if only because it produced results. It wasn’t personal, but—
“Hollander! A word.” The room was shifting around him—chairs scraping, hurried steps, a watering hole being left abandoned with a predator on the prowl. “Everyone else, gear up and get on the ice.”
Shane stayed sitting, and Hayden clapped him on the shoulder on his way out. Theriault stood near the front of the room, laser pointer still in hand, tapping it a few times against his palm like he was deciding where to start.
Shane had been sent to the principals office before, just once, when he had melted down over a kid behind him clicking his pen over and over and over during the most stressful math test he’d ever had in his then thirteen years of life—and pens hadn’t even fucking been allowed on the test, which is what he had yelled, more or less. There may have been a few more fuck’s thrown in there, and his mom hadn’t even known he was capable of saying such colorful words at the time.
This felt something like that—like being sat in the principals office and waiting to receive punishment for something that only halfway felt like his fault but that which he would take full responsibility for anyway, because that was what honorable men did (according to his mom, his principal, and his in-house hockey coach from when he had been five years old and still learning to hold himself on the ice).
“That.” Theriault jerked his chin toward the screen, and Shane’s eyes flicked over to the frozen frame. “What, thought you’d get an early breakout? Without clueing in your fucking team?”
“I thought—“
“They see you force a play they’re not ready for, and suddenly they think they’re allowed to be sloppy and take risks they don’t need to be taking.”
“But if they—“
“They aren’t you. You might be able to pull off shit like that, but they can’t.” Theriault’s mouth flattened. He took in a deep breath through his nose and let his shoulders drop on the exhale. “You’re too good of a strategist to be making these mistakes. Do better. Oh, and Hollander, next time you miss practice for a paycheck, you’ll be a healthy scratch.”
Shane took that as permission to leave. He managed a yes sir because Theriault was the kind of guy who liked to keep those closest to him in line—the kind of retired NCAA dud who talked big about keeping control just to prove how much control he had. To Shane, he was something of a shadow made up like a mentor, a devil in wolf’s clothing because at least wolves would protect their pack when they were threatened from the outside. Sometimes Shane respected him for it, in the way you might give accolades to a tyrant just because you weren’t allowed to give them to anyone else.
In other words, Shane was scared shitless of a washout turned coach—but one who was otherwise highly regarded, for some reason.
Practice went alright, if only because Shane overcompensated and used too much of his energy trying to appear in top shape. The tension from the team melted away with their captain in full swing, leading to high energy play run-throughs. Even Theriault appeared appeased, nixing the extra bag skates he’d threatened earlier. Shane, conversely, felt split every which way, maybe julienned for all he knew—pieces of himself sprinkled on the ice, in a sickbed back in Ottawa, two hours behind in a tongue lashing disguised team meeting, seven hours ahead in a roaring arena.
The dressing room was always loud after a good pregame practice. Their nerves were loosened up enough to take off some of the pressure. Saturday games always felt a hair more important, something about the novelty of the weekend withstanding changes in modern society. In life as Shane knew it, it started with Saturday morning cartoons with sugar glazed fingers, grew into sleeping in an extra hour during teenage rebellion, metamorphosed into just another day to read the news and pay the bills because adulthood liked to do that to a person, but Saturday still felt special somehow.
He sat at his stall with a towel draped around his shoulders, joggers already on and duffel half-packed. Sounds bounced around him, overlapping and bringing about a bright chaos—the slap of towels on skin, music from a phone propped precariously on a shelf, whoops and groans and harrowing tales of the latest diaper blowouts from the guys who had young kids—and words of sympathy from those who had been there, done that.
Which, honestly, left Shane with little to say. He was tugging on his shirt when he heard a low, “Hey.” He looked up and saw Hayden leaned against the stall next to him, hair still damp. “You, uh, all good?”
Shane nodded, halfway through the motion before he even understood the question. “Yeah, ‘course.”
“Yeeaaah,” Hayden echoed, pointedly slower and disbelieving. “You kinda look like shit, buddy.”
Shane let out a short breath that might’ve sounded like a laugh if it didn’t come out so weathered. “Thanks, Hayd.”
“No, really.” Hayden pushed off the stall, then took a step forward and leaned in. “You look like someone kicked your puppy or something.”
“I don’t have a puppy.”
Hayden laughed incredulously, shaking his head. “Dude, you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know.” Shane reached for his hoodie. “I’m good. I just—“ He rolled his shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “Didn’t sleep great. I’ll be good after some food and a nap.”
Back at home, he meant to eat lunch. He knew the importance of fueling after expending energy, of replenishing what he’d burned through. It was foundational knowledge, and normally there was something mundanely satisfying about the whole thing—of doing something right for his body and feeling it pay off in kind.
But the idea of food sat wrong in his stomach even before he had opened the fridge, turned downright uncomfortable when he stared at the shelves. He realized his prepped meals were days old anyway, past the point of being safely edible anymore, and he reasoned that he was let off the hook from lunch.
He set three alarms on his phone as he walked to his bedroom, spaced out because he always woke up on the first but felt better having the other two as insurance. He plugged his phone into its charger, stripped down to his briefs, and climbed into bed. The weight of the morning pressed into him as he sunk heavy into sleep.
When his alarm went off, he jerked awake with a gasp and then an irritated groan. He must have set his alarm wrong because he had only been asleep for—
Oh.
It was his third alarm, the last of them and twenty minutes past when he had planned to wake. He pushed himself upright too quickly, blinking hard as the room warped around the edges. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his skin, cooling in the open air as the blanket slipped down to his waist. It sent a chill down his spine.
Oh, no. No, no no.
He swallowed. His throat felt dry, maybe even sore. Actually, it was definitely sore, and a second swallow informed him of a thick, swollen kind of feeling. He closed his eyes as he tried to take stock of himself—the sore throat, the headache, the prickling unease under his skin.
He last had the flu four years ago, when he had learned the horrors of hanging around germ-ridden children during the holidays—the Pike children, to be specific. It had been an awful battle consisting of new year ailments, best friend cash-outs, and captain duties, but at least Hayden had been able to vouch for Shane’s ill health at the time. Shane had been a decent—very good, even—friend wanting to lend a helpful hand to two very overwhelmed parents.
(There had been a headline somewhere, of Shane exercising his good will for the benefit of a teammate in need, and sacrificing his health in the process. It had cost him two games, but all the public remembered was how honorable a captain he was.)
Ilya wasn’t a child, or a Metro, and no one knew Shane had been kissing his influenza-driven tears away. And it wasn’t like Ilya tried to, like, eat his own hands or cough in other people’s mouths the way children did. Shane had been a little reckless, but he had gotten his flu jab a few weeks prior and washed his hands so much the past few days his knuckles were cracking with the proof.
So, yeah, he could be sick, but he doubted it. It felt theoretical, like something you would consider because it was a possibility but not very probable, not anything worth trying to prove unless you were ready to dedicate your life to a miserable cause—being wrong and wrong and wrong and just hoping you might eventually get it right.
He didn’t really know what he was trying to get at, mulling over the scientific process with his eyes still closed, but the point stood that he wasn’t likely sick. He forced himself out of bed, dressed and texted Ilya and told him to keep up with the medication timetable he’d left for him in the kitchen. He opened his fridge and remembered, just then, that he didn’t have anything substantial to eat—not unless he wanted eggs, but those were for meant for breakfast.
Fine, he could get something on the way, because fast food places usually had some options that weren’t the worst in the world—a grilled chicken something-or-other, with too much sodium. But he was sweating as it was so a little extra salt would probably be a good thing, and, well, maybe he should have just gone with the eggs.
It was too late, though, because he was already in his car and on the way to the arena. He stopped at a drive-thru on the way and ordered a sandwich, a grilled chicken deluxe monstrosity because it had lettuce and tomato and he could probably use some kind of vegetable. He would just have to tear off most of the bread. He already felt tired, and simple carbs weren’t going to help.
“Huhh’ishhuh! Oh, shit—ISSH’ooh!”
He asked for extra napkins at the pickup window, a generous stack of them. He really needed to get a deep clean detail done to the interior of his car. It was so dusty that it was making his nose itch.
At the arena, he picked at his sandwich in front of his dressing stall, hunkered down and curled over his lap like a fiend hiding their stash. It must have looked strange but at least half the team wasn’t in yet, probably finishing an early dinner with their families. It was when Hayden finally rolled in, loudly announcing himself with a whoop and a promise to kick ass tonight, that Shane straightened and crumpled the rest of his half eaten sandwich in its wrapper.
“Holy shit, is the sky falling? Are pigs flying?” Hayden looked absolutely scandalized, waving his hands at the balled up shame still in Shane’s hands. “Our cap’s eating fast food? What, did that puppy of yours die? Are you grieving?”
“I don’t have a fucking—hheh! Heh’chssht!” He reached for a napkin in the bag beside him the moment his breath hitched and muffled the sneeze into it just in time. “Sorry, ahem, ‘scuse me.”
Hayden’s eyes widened. “Oh, fuck. Fuck no. Tell me you’re not sick.”
Shane scoffed and dabbed at his nose. “I’m not sick.”
“I’m gonna need you to sound about 110% more sure than that, dude.”
“I’m not. My car is, uh, dusty…” Which sounded even less believable.
“Your car? Is dusty?” Hayden deadpanned. “Buddy, if you think that makes any sense, you’re pretty much confirming you’re on death’s door. What the fuck?”
“Hayd, drop it, okay? I’m fine.” He discreetly pinched his nose through the tissue, doing away with the last of the wetness. He tested his nose with a sniff, pleased with the unobstructed breath, and felt more confident when he said, “Do me a favor and make sure you don’t overshoot your passes tonight.”
“Yikes, alright! Alright, will do. Jesus, what crawled up your ass and died?” Hayden looked particularly proud of himself over that while Shane flushed all the way down past his neck.
Ten minutes before the game, his team was asking for a speech. Shane had already fulfilled his pregame interview and had only sneezed once, very politely into his elbow, at the tail end because dust seemed to be following him everywhere. (He had tried to make a joke about it, which wasn’t very much like himself when he thought about it after, but at least he had gotten a little smile out of the reporter.)
He looked over the room full of his teammates, could see the way they were buzzing with pregame jitters. “Uh, just… Just fucking score?” It sounded more like he was asking for permission, or that he wasn’t really sure what he was saying at all, but no one seemed to bat an eye at their captain’s less than passionate attempt at motivation.
“We’re going to fuck them up tonight!” JJ beamed like sunshine, because the guy was always such a mood setter, and looked at Shane expectantly. Shane managed a mild mannered fuck yeah because he knew he was supposed to, and it was a well rehearsed line after years in locker rooms. It wasn’t that he didn’t mean it, because it admittedly felt good when he felt tantamount to the joy in the room continuing on, but he wasn’t sure of how it all equaled up at the end of the day, whether his ability to rile up the room (or lack thereof) counted for anything in the unwritten rulebook of leadership.
If JJ could set the mood then Shane could, at the very least, not do anything to get in the way.
Adrenaline carried him through the first period with such acute ferocity he was starting to believe whatever had been wrong with him earlier was a blip. It had probably been the result of overthinking, a natural worrier turning himself sick with it. His throat still hurt, yeah, but that was in his head. He was sneezing intermittently, sure, but his nose was just irritated from earlier. He should have had the sense to take an antihistamine, but hindsight was 20/20.
He scored once with an assist from Hayden and didn’t even avoid the scrum after. That was what a healthy player did, of course, and Shane had been known to get into it every once in a while (quarterly, perhaps, if measuring up against a decade).
After first period, back in the locker room, the high of it all wore off fast. He wiped his face off with a clean towel and let himself stay like that for a beat, pressing his warm eyes into the soft folds of it. It helped carry him away from the room, the shouts of his team and the distant roar of the crowd, the pressure of two more periods looming in the dark behind him.
He blew his nose without shame because half of the guys were too, a casualty of heavy exercise on cold ice. Hayden elbowed his side and laughed about something, JJ and Mitty were covering the latest Twitter feud about a team they weren’t even playing anytime soon, for a reason Shane was trying to follow but couldn’t seem to piece together.
He wasn’t sick, he was quite certain, because the risks just didn’t really add up—but something wasn’t right. He felt underwater, maybe in a fishbowl, or maybe the fishbowl was surrounding him in some sort of strange, inverted aquarium in which he was probably still swimming with the fishes, as they say.
He got a total of two minutes of ice time at the start of second period before Theriault had them switching forward lines. He dropped onto the bench and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, sucking in a deep breath of cold air. It made him cough a couple times, aimed down at his skates, a dry and irritating little thing that scratched at his throat on the way out. Then his vision dimmed, like someone had reached past his eyes and turned down the brightness without asking—or put sunglasses on him, which he thought was a douchey thing to do indoors.
“I think,” he started carefully, not to anyone in particular, but closer to the person on his left. He tried to sound as much like himself as he could manage, but slowly because his tongue was moving strangely in his mouth. “I think I’m gonna pass out.”
“What? Wait, what did you just s—”
Hands were on him immediately. One at his shoulder, another at his arm, forcing him upright when he started to list sideways. Loose limbed and halfway under, his head lolled. It felt heavier than he remembered.
“Hey—no, come on—Shane.“
“I got him.” He was hauled to his feet, and he felt his weight dropping straight through him. “Jesus, okay—easy, get on his other side. He’s about to drop.”
He blinked, the world coming to him through static. It was like a bad signal, with glimpses breaking through in fuzzy, prismatic ghosts—a violent mess of visual noise overlaying his field of vision. He was dragged through the tunnel and he fumbled in the hallway, skates hitting the ground in heavy thumps as he tried to get his footing.
“I gotta sit down,” he slurred. He felt nauseated, if only because he was so hot in all his layers. “Please.” He then was laid on his back, legs up propped up high in someone’s arms and helmet being pulled off by someone else. He let his head sink heavy to the side, cheek on the dirty floor, but it felt nice and cool and made him groan in relief.
“Shane, eyes open, buddy. Look at me.”
He looked and looked and looked, blinked and only saw the colors of his breath pulsing behind his eyes and one of the trainers kneeling beside him. Then the world narrowed down to his heart slamming into his sternum and the blur of being moved again, which he really wished they would stop doing before he was ready.
He was deposited on an exam table and tugged at in so many directions he had to close his eyes or he thought he might scream. There was a pinch to his hand and ice climbing through his limbs soon after, his skates were tugged off and he thought someone might have even been massaging his socked feet, and he was pretty sure if he opened his eyes he would have seen Lucifer himself orchestrating everyone in the room.
“Fuck, what—“ Something was shoved up his nose, swirling in what felt like an honest to god attempted lobotomy. When it was pulled out, he shuddered with a gasp. “Hhehh! Hehh’chsshoo! Huh’isshuh! Huh’isshhh!”
He felt so tired, and he was genuinely concerned the pieces of his brain dislodged from the backyard lobotomy were in danger of shotgunning through his nose. He curled onto his side with a groan and let himself drift into the misery of it all, still sneezing occasionally into a crushed tissue he’d gotten from—well, he was fucking lobotomized, so it wasn’t surprising that he couldn’t recall.
“Shane. Did you hear me?”
“Mmh?”
“You have the flu, Shane. When did you start feeling sick?”
Shane opened his eyes, a little panicked. “I… Um… Don’t know.” He swallowed and considered Ilya, and the moment he remembered Ilya first sounded strange over the phone. “Tuesday? Morning. Like, on the phone.”
“Oh?” The team doctor smiled reassuringly, which looked really, really wrong. Shane much preferred when he frowned his way through wrapping injuries in ice packs and bitching about hockey players with anger issues. He sounded very calm, as if he were talking about the weather, when he asked, “What day is it today?”
“Saturday,” he said proudly, because he was certain.
“Good.” The team doctor put a paltry sheet over him, and Shane barely resisted the urge to throw it off. “Let’s let this saline drip finish up, and we’ll see where you’re at after.”
The next time he came to, Hayden was standing beside him and on the phone. He sounded worried, a little too serious for a guy who liked to boast about his masturbation habits while on a road trip. In fact, two weeks ago he had told Shane he managed three times in one night. Shane had wanted to bleach that memory away at the time and was dismayed that the fever he now understood he had wasn’t doing anything to cook it out of him.
He decided he needed someone else to share the misery of knowing. “Hey. Heeey.” He cleared his throat and spoke a little louder, gripping Hayden’s arm to pull him closer. “Hayden jerked off three times in Buffalo. Like, in the same night.”
Hayden looked a funny mix of horrified and murderous, maybe a little sympathy somehow weaved in there too. “No, he’s totally out of it, I don’t know.” Hayden paused, and Shane heard a distorted voice on the other end. “Yeah, it was 40. Doc said he was just dehydrated, it should come down soon.”
“24,” Shane supplied groggily, offended that Hayden had gotten his number wrong. “Can’t believe…”
“What, buddy?” Hayden, distracted, patted Shane’s arm. “What was that?”
“I’m number 24,” he muttered.
Hayden looked genuinely confused, which Shane felt frustrated about. “Yeah, he—no, I’ve got it handled. I’ll take him home… Yes, I’m going to fucking wait. I’m not an idiot.”
Shane waved Hayden close, then grabbed his shoulder when he didn’t move fast enough. “Hey,” he rasped right into Hayden’s ear. “Can you call Ilya? Tell’im I’m okay?”
Hayden glanced back at the team doctor, who was busying himself with cleaning up for the night. “Yeah, man, already done. All good.”
Embarrassingly, Hayden had to help him get changed, then let him use his coat as a lap blanket in the car. Shane spent the ride home feeling caught in the time machine from Back to the Future, oscillating between fast speeds and timelines of the very healthy phone sex from Sunday night and Ilya crying into his chest during feverish witching hours. The present sat somewhere underneath, with Hayden steering them through it all and answering Jackie’s omnipresence, the voice of a god booming from the heavens.
(It was probably just the miracle of bluetooth, but Shane had his eyes closed and knew better than to question acts of god.)
‘Yeah, Jacks, I know, I know. I got it, it’s like taking care of the kids. No—no, I know you usually—alright, yeah. No, I’m not trying to pick a fight, baby. I’m just—yeah, it was pretty scary. It’ll be fine now, douchebag’s on his way and—no! No, I played nice, I swear.’
Getting inside, once they arrived, was about as pleasant as the car ride had been. Worse, in fact. Shane tried to carry his own weight, which mostly meant leaning in the wrong directions at the wrong times and nearly taking Hayden down with him.
“Okay—nope. Nope, that’s not—c’mon, dude.” Hayden hooked an arm under his and took most of his weight. “Would rather not have to carry you bridal style, you’re heavy as shit.”
Hayden steered him to the couch, and Shane dropped boneless onto the cushions with a heavy exhale that turned into weak coughs. He muffled them against his sleeve, grimacing.
“Don’t fall asleep yet,” Hayden said, already halfway across the room. “Hang on.”
Shane stayed like this, blinking blearily at the warm recessed lights on the ceiling. They were dimmed just how he liked them, keeping the room pleasantly cast in a glow reminiscent of sunset leftovers, of when the sun sat just below the horizon and scattered its light particles across the atmosphere in long, reaching swoops of amber.
Ilya knew how to set the lights like that for him, when he had a headache or a hard day or was sleepy but didn’t want to waste the night.
“Ilya?”
“Not yet,” Hayden said, returning from the kitchen with a glass of water. He set it on the coffee table and reached his hands out. “He’s on his way.”
Shane frowned, taking Hayden’s hands without question. He was maneuvered to the corner of the couch, propped up enough so he could drink from the glass of water when Hayden handed it to him. “The, uh… The lights.” He coughed and set the water precariously on the cushion, which Hayden whisked away immediately. “Ilya.”
Hayden blinked. “Oh, that? Yeah.” He laughed disbelievingly. “He told me to set the dimmer to a quarter. I honestly just thought he was being a fussy prick, but…” Hayden grabbed the throw on the other end of the couch and spread it over Shane’s lap before sitting on the edge of the coffee table. “I’m gonna be honest, you scared the hell out of me. I thought you were, like, dying or something.”
“Sorry, Hayd.” Shane shifted under the blanket, dragged one heel against the couch just to make sure his legs were still attached. With the way Hayden was looking at him, he hadn’t been sure. “Is coach mad?”
“What—no! What are you talking about, man? You have the goddamn flu and you scored in first period. No one’s mad.” Hayden paused. “Alright, maybe he’s a little mad, but he’s always mad about something. Fuck that, everything’s fine. We won, and now you get a little vacation, yeah?”
Shane squinted, trying to decide the legitimacy of what Hayden was saying, and gave up when his nose itched. He rubbed at his eye, which wasn’t very helpful to his nose but was a nervous habit he relied on when he wanted to appear nonchalant.
“Hehh’tshhh’uh! Heh’ISHH’iuhh-ISHh’ehw!” Though, he supposed, that had been quite chalant of him. He probably should have just rubbed his nose after all.
Hayden was gone when he opened his eyes, so he took the chance to wipe his nose with his sleeve. It wasn’t very hygienic of him, but he wasn’t feeling very hygienic as it was. When Hayden returned with a roll of toilet paper, Shane nearly complained, but he was admittedly relieved to have something other than his sleeve to clean his nose with.
There was a stretch of quiet after that. Hayden stayed on the edge of the coffee table, elbows on his knees as he tapped at his phone, while Shane drifted. Time slipped and folded, sent Shane back to the locker room and the ice and, for some reason, his first sunset with Ilya on the beach.
When the front door opened, Shane’s eyes shot open. The sound cut clean through the fog of fever, wired in deep—somewhere under thought, under language. He heard the specific scrape of the key in the lock, the quick click of it turning, the two second pause before the door gave way. A resumption of movement, under the pretense that the two seconds would have given Shane enough time to shout no, stop! if it were necessary.
It was like the condition of Pavlov’s dog, the way something in his chest pulled taught and made him turn, expectant, toward the door before he consciously knew why.
Ilya barreled in, not taking off his shoes, but he smiled tightlipped and gravely serious, and he looked so very handsome even when his brow wrinkled like that. “Hi, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”
“Ilya,“ Shane smiled. “Ilya, are we in Ottawa?”
Ilya turned to Hayden, eyes wild. “What did you do to him? Why is he like this?”
“Lobotomy,” Shane said wistfully. “It was awful.”
“Hey, I didn’t—! He just—! I d’know, man! He’s just sick!”
Ilya sighed. Hayden looked sad, maybe a little mad. Shane thought he might cry, which—oh, yeah, he was definitely doing that now.
“No, Shane, no, look. We are friends.” Ilya threw his arm around Hayden’s shoulders and Hayden gave a tense looking thumbs up sans smile. “Thank you, Hayden. You did a good job. Now please go home.”
Ilya steered Hayden toward the foyer, and Shane could hear hushed words bleeding together. He thought he heard the promise of a text, a well wishing of a safe drive, the casualness of people who weren’t really friends but pointedly weren’t enemies. The flu could be very humbling, Shane decided.
He heard the door shifting in its frame, the click of a lock, and Shane lay there at the edge of sleep, sniffling wearily around the sounds of Ilya finally toeing off his shoes.
“Ilya?” he called.
“Am here.” Ilya crossed the room, shrugging out of his jacket and letting it drop onto the floor. “Right here.”
“Hi,” Shane said, trying for a smile. It came out a little crooked. “You—hihh!” His breath hitched, sharp and sudden, and he turned his head down toward his shoulder. “Hih’TSHHuh! Huhh’ihhshh’uh!”
“Bless you,” Ilya murmured with a frown, already reaching for him.
He sank down onto the couch and gathered Shane up, one arm sliding behind his shoulders and the other tugging the blanket securely around him. Close and careful, with Ilya’s shoulders trying to curve around him, his whole body becoming shelter like he was handling something very, very important. A bulkhead in the sea of things, a means of keeping Shane afloat even when parts of him were trying to sink under.
Ilya was cool where Shane was burning, and he indulged in the relief as he pressed his forehead into the nape of his neck. He let out a long, shaky breath and let his eyes slip closed. Ilya stroked a thumb absently at the small of his back, under his sweatshirt.
“You are very warm, malysh.” His voice sounded rough, the rasp of nights spent coughing and the nasal quality of congestion that had loosened in the face of recovery, proof of a body pushing forward in messy determination. Shane loved this body, and its rigid muscles and the way they set soft when wrapped around him.
“Mmh.” He snuffled, feeling the slip of a running nose but not wanting to disturb the quiet peace with anything more offensive. “I have the flu.”
“Yes, you do.” Ilya sighed like he was mourning. “I’m sorry.”
Shane pursed his lips, reaching with them until they touched soft, warm cotton. He voiced a soft muah, and again just in case Ilya didn’t hear the first one, just in case Ilya didn’t understand he was searching for him through kisses. “I’m not. I’m not, at all.”
“Rest now.” Shane could hear the change in Ilya’s voice, the rasp giving way to a strained whisper. He could hear the quiver of a man in love and felt it, touching down somewhere deep in his bones. “I’m here.”
someone doing chhinkni and then suddenly there’s a knock at the door/the phone rings/someone important FaceTimes and they have to hold back the fit for as long as they can to get through the conversation.
whether they succeed or fail is up to you! Either way, they will be desperately sneezing and sneezing at some point!
That’s His Baby (Part 3/3) (H/eated R/ivalry, Ilya)
Been thinking about this and this and this and this a lot lately. I LOVE husband!Shane and his big softy of a man so much (they're still boyfriends here, but you know what I mean). Thank you to @softsicknose for reminding me that I can make Shane can give Ilya every cute French and Russian diminutive/endearment in the dictionary lmao. AS HE DESERVES!! THAT'S SHANE'S BABY!!
cw: implied parental abuse
Part 1 | Part 2
__
As the temperature on a summer afternoon in Quebec continued to rise, Shane reached into a box in the hall closet and pulled out a heavy down blanket. The cottage was full of them, thanks to both the interior decorator Shane had hired and his own mother, who could never resist a cozy throw. For this Shane was grateful, as they came in handy when one needed to provide warmth for their feverish, maudlin boyfriend.
When Shane came back to the bedroom, Ilya, who he'd left alone for two minutes at the most, was wrapping himself in the balled-up duvet cover Shane had just neatly made up. “Sh-Shane,” he said in a husky voice, and Shane’s eyes widened as he saw that Ilya’s teeth were chattering, “nothing is warm.”
“Here, here.” Shane draped the blanket around Ilya’s shoulders, frowning as Ilya poked his hands out from under the duvet and fisted them around it. Shane put a palm to Ilya’s forehead. “I think your fever’s gone up. I'm gonna take your temperature again.”
“No, I hate that stupid stick,” Ilya whined. “Can’t breathe through nose or mouth.”
“It’s only for five seconds, and then you’ll be able to breathe through your mouth again, I promise.” Ilya gave Shane his best pouty face, but Shane didn’t relent, poking Ilya’s protruding bottom lip gently with the tip of the thermometer until Ilya opened his mouth the tiniest bit to allow access. “38.3,” Shane said after the beep. Worse than before. He narrowed his eyes sternly at the thermometer as if that could lower his boyfriend’s temperature, looking back up when he heard a soft intake of breath.
“hy’ihh-!” Ilya grabbed the corner of the blanket and pressed it tightly to his nose, its beige color in stark contrast to his red-flushed face. “hd’ITSZChhHh! rrh’IZSCHHHht! hr’AASHhhhoooh!”
“Bless you, bless you, bless—bless you!” Shane exclaimed as Ilya let out another vicious, “hr'RASHHHhhhoo!” that seemed to tear its way out of his throat. He muffled a flurry of coughs into the fabric, and Shane passed him the tissue box and stroked through his tangled curls. “God, you’re so sick,” he said, worry seeping into his voice. It was a good thing Ilya hadn't had this bad of a cold during the season - Shane couldn’t bear to imagine him this ill on a plane or during a game. Frozen solid with a streaming nose while taking punishing hits on the ice for fifteen-plus minutes. Tossing and turning all night in a sterile, lonely hotel room. Ilya had done it before, and so had Shane, but it ached every time Shane thought of it. Of one of them not feeling well when they were apart. Of being apart in general.
Fuck, he hated when they were apart.
He was brought back to the present by the sound of Ilya noisily snorting and snuffling and rubbing at his squelching nose with his palm. Shane hoped this wasn’t going to turn into another sinus infection; the man was struggling enough already.
Shane held out the tissue box in one hand and rubbed Ilya’s arm with the other. “Blow your nose, you’ll feel better.”
Ilya shook his head and screwed up his face. “Is too loud. Hurts my ears.”
And though Shane was still worried - fuck, he was always worried whenever Ilya had a fever like this - he felt something inside him melt at the sweetness of his adorable boyfriend, doped up on cold meds, not wanting to blow his nose at his regular level because it was too loud for his poor ears to handle. He couldn’t stop the wide, lovesick grin that was spreading its way across his face, or the rush of fondness he felt when Ilya scrunched his nose and gave a huge, pathetic snrghhff that actually left his blue eyes watering.
Shane took a tissue and dabbed at his wet lashes, then took another and held it to Ilya’s nose. Not for the first time since Ilya had come down with this bitch of a cold, Shane thought of how easy this was - of how naturally the instinct to care for and protect his man came to him. “What if you just blow a little bit?” he said, and Ilya sat there blearily until Shane gave his nose a tiny pinch. “Just to clear some of that shit out of your head,” he encouraged, and when Ilya blew softly with a small honk, the look of relief on his face told Shane that he was right in having pushed him a little. “Better?” he asked, kissing the top of his head when Ilya took two more tissues from the box and blew again. “Yeah. Out of my head,” he mumbled, then lay back, closed his eyes and allowed Shane to stretch and smooth out the blankets for him.
“Good.” He pressed his lips to Ilya’s boiling forehead, watching as his breathing calmed and he started to snore.
Even though it was at the height of summer, Shane was considering chopping wood for a fire in case his boyfriend was still cold later.
——
Shane knew that he was intense. That his passion for hockey ruled his life. That he could talk and talk and talk about it until the average person’s eyes glazed over with boredom…which, well, is why he didn’t care about or surround himself with those kinds of people. Ilya and his parents, on the other hand, would listen to Shane’s ramblings about a shitty teammate ("He's a minus-eleven!") or the bullshit call a ref made against the Metros during last night's game ("Delay of game, my ass").
People weren’t always easy for Shane to figure out. Hell, Ilya wasn’t always easy for Shane to figure out. But he had a better grasp on Ilya than he ever would on anyone else.
Two days ago, Ilya had fallen asleep in the car on their way from Ottawa to the cottage. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence, but when he was still yawning and spaced-out hours later despite having slept for the entire ride, Shane’s Ilya-Isn’t-Feeling-Well radar began to go off.
They were playing Halo when Ilya started to sniffle and rub his nose roughly against his shoulder, the action increasing in frequency to nearly every time he shot off his pistol. Although it could have just been Ilya’s allergies, which made him sniffly all summer, every summer, Shane could tell from the heaviness of these sniffles that it wasn’t (just) the Quebec tree pollen that was making him so itchy. When Shane reached over to brush a hand over his back, Ilya shot up from his slouched position and looked at Shane like he hadn't even realized they were in the same room. Although whether this was because he was engrossed in the game or engrossed in his nose, Shane didn’t know.
It didn’t take long for him to realize that it was the latter when, during a cutscene, Ilya tossed his controller aside and ducked into his cupped hands.
“Bless you,” Shane said, alarmed by the ferocity with which he bellowed out the sneezes. When Ilya looked up at him, face white and exhaustion clear in his eyes, Shane knew that this was definitely not allergies, but a burgeoning cold.
Damn. “Bud’ zdorov,” Shane said softly, and Ilya, now wiping a tear from his eye, gave Shane a small smile that was almost shy. Shane returned it. He knew how much Ilya loved when he spoke to him in Russian, or French. It was something he needed to do far more often. Sometimes words were weird, but for Ilya, he could do his best.
“Spasibo,” Ilya said a little croakily. He grabbed a tissue and blew with a honk that would make a Canadian goose proud (and had Shane wincing in sympathy, but also having to stop himself from covering his ears), then cleared his throat and placed his head in Shane’s lap. Shane quit their battle and they lay quietly for a while, Ilya’s stubbly cheek pressed into Shane’s thigh.
“Want to go to bed?” Shane asked softly, not wanting to disturb the peaceful atmosphere they’d created.
Ilya sat up with an “Mm” and another powerful sniffle, his nose already tinged red. Shane definitely liked to be right about things, but he didn’t like to be right about Ilya catching a cold.
“C’mon.” Shane made sure to bring the tissue box along with them.
——
Two nights later, Shane jolted awake to the sound of three roaring sneezes echoing from the hallway. Heart pounding, he put a hand to his chest and turned to look at the other side of the bed. The blankets had been messily shoved aside. Had Ilya needed to sneeze and not wanted to wake Shane? Shane felt a twinge of worry in his stomach as he stepped into the hallway.
Ilya was sitting on the ground, head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed, long legs stretched out, arms crossed as he shivered. “Fuck,” Shane said, and Ilya cracked an eye open as he knelt down beside him. “Ilya, are you okay?”
Ilya looked like death. In the dim nightlight of the hallway (which they had because Ilya “liked to be able to see where he was going if he needed water or a piss in the middle of the night,” though Shane suspected that he was 'secretly' a little afraid of the dark), his eyes were glassy and wet, his nose was streaming, and his mouth was parted in what looked like an attempt to breathe. “Shade,” he said, voice hoarse and thickly congested, “I’b so cold.”
“C’mon, let’s go back to bed,” Shane soothed, grabbing Ilya beneath his arms and helping him stand. He gave an “oh!” of surprise when the feverish furnace of a man fell forward into his arms, and Shane had to put a hand to the wall so they wouldn’t both topple over. Ilya’s eyes were fluttering open and closed, like he was about to fall asleep. “Hey, hey, Ilyusha, stay with me,” Shane murmured, and Ilya looked surprised but pleased by the nickname. “Yeah, that’s it. Good. Let’s go back to bed, okay?” He took Ilya’s hand and started walking towards the bedroom, but Ilya took a step back, fanning at his nose with his free hand. “Mne nuzhno chikhnut,” he said breathily, before pulling away from Shane entirely and bringing his hands to his face.
"hd'ITZSCHhhhuh! ih! ITZSCHHhhhhoo! AEHSHhhhhuh!"
“Mon amour,” Shane said with a sinking heart. “À tes souhaits. Tout va bien,” he reassured as Ilya leaned back against the wall with a huge sigh. “It’s okay, chéri, I’ve got you.” Shane put an arm around him and guided him back into bed. “Good. Let me get you some w—”
Ilya burst into tears.
“Oh!” Shane froze in place, shocked, as Ilya started to sob into his hands. “Ilyushka, what’s wrong?”
“Prostite, pozhaluysta, ya bol’she tak ne budu,” he cried out, voice muffled and stuffy and nearly unintelligible. His shoulders hitched up and down, and he continued to hide his face as Shane sat down next to him and pulled him into a hug.
“Ssh, Ilyushka, dorogy, mon cœur,” Shane soothed, throwing as many Russian and French endearments as he could at the man. “It’s all right. It’s okay. You’re safe here.” Even though he had no idea what Ilya had said…he could imagine who he had said it to in such a frightened tone of voice.
Shane wanted to burn that bastard to the fucking ground.
He held Ilya through his tears, then helped clean him up with some tissues. Ilya blew a series of weary honks into them and Shane kissed his cheek in support as he did so, then got him to swallow some medicine.
Shane lay awake for a long time after that, listening to the sounds of Ilya’s gurgling snores.
——
It was just after ten in the morning when Shane finally emerged from the bedroom, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and found Ilya sitting at the kitchen counter with a mug of tea. “Hey, g’morning,” Shane said, sitting on the stool next to him and kissing into his curls. “How are you?”
Ilya looked as exhausted as Shane felt, and still pale as hell, but he smiled and leaned into Shane’s touch. “Better,” he croaked. “Green tea is yummy.”
“That’s true.” They sat for a moment as Ilya took some more sips of his tea and groaned happily. “Feels so good on throat.” He paused, then gazed downward. “Shane, I—”
“Ilya,” Shane cut in. “It’s all right.”
“I did not mean to worry you.” A blush was spreading across Ilya’s cheeks. Shane, fond, brushed his thumb over the redness, and Ilya sighed softly.
“I mean, I was worried, but I just want you to feel better.”
“Yes, I know,” Ilya said with a nod. “I just…” He trailed off.
Shane swallowed, then spoke up. “I know it’s hard for you to talk about this stuff. But I’m here if you ever want to.”
Ilya looked at him for a long moment, facial expression morphing from embarrassment to sadness to relief and, finally, to one of his gentlest smiles. The one he gave Shane when they first woke up in the morning, or when they were cradled in each other's arms after sex, or after Shane dabbed a tissue under Ilya’s nose whenever he had a cold. “Thank you,” he said, voice strained with emotion. They took each other’s hands, and Shane was about to lean in for a kiss, fuck the germs, when Ilya’s eyes glazed over and his mouth opened. “hHehh?” He stared into the void for a bit, then he gasped again, and Shane realized with horror that Ilya was not going to move away from him. He leaped off his chair as Ilya wrenched forward.
"hehhh-ESCHHHhh! AESHHHhhooh! gy'AHHHSHHhhoo!
“God. Bless you, bud’ zdorov, à tes souhaits.” He couldn’t even imagine sneezing so loudly and powerfully. He didn’t think his lungs had the capacity. The man’s throat must have been killing him. But Ilya was laughing as he recovered from this latest bout of sneezing.
“What?”
Ilya looked at Shane reverently, then touched a hand to his cheek and said, “Your accent needs lots of work. Is very bad.”
“Oh, fuck off!” Shane shoved him away.
Ilya grinned. “I guess Shane Hollander cannot be perfect at everything.”
“Go blow your nose, asshole. And maybe cover your mouth the next time you sneeze like a fucking lunatic.”
He was picturing the ring that he wanted to slip onto Ilya’s finger.
——
After Ilya had thoroughly blown his nose loudly enough to possibly garner a noise complaint from the neighbors, he set the tissue box on the coffee table and cuddled into Shane’s side on the couch. They were sitting in a comfortable silence, but he needed - needed - Shane to know how grateful he was for his support. How dear he was to him. How he woke up every day feeling like the luckiest man in the world. “I love you, Shane. You are everything to me.” he said, working hard to hide the wobble in his voice. When Shane didn’t respond, Ilya moved his head from his shoulder to look at him. He was about to make a joke - was Shane just going to say nothing to his boyfriend's beautiful words and perfect thoughtfulness? - when he saw that Shane’s face had fallen, that he was scrunching up his little freckled nose, that his breath was starting to hitch. “hihh-!” He hastily pulled a tissue from the box and held it to his face. “ht’schhh! tish’hew! ahISChhhew! hy’itschhoo!”
Shit. Four sneezes. That meant… “God bless you,” Ilya said, rubbing his boyfriend’s back as he blew his nose and wiped at his eyes. “I guess it is now my turn to take care of you.”
——
Russian translations:
Mne nuzhno chikhnut: I need to sneeze
Prostite, pozhaluysta, ya bol’she tak ne budu: I’m sorry (formal), please, it won’t happen again
prequel to greedy. ilya discovers shanes sneeze kink. lots of edging. some spellings. as usual please read bio if u stumbled here.
_
“Oh, bless you,” Ilya hums vaguely, eyes fixed on something in their fridge.
“Thank you,” Shane can’t help if he blushes as he replies. Ilya doesn’t know what this is doing to him. And thank god he doesn’t. He hides a sniffle behind his hand.
Lucky for Shane, one of his best talents is masking everything that’s happening inside his head and setting on a polite face.
Unlucky for Shane, he has no ability to control the way his other head twitches when Ilya turns around, shuts the door like an afterthought, and says, “You have allergies?”
“No, I don’t –”
“You are sneezing so much.” He eyes Shane suspiciously.
“Are you getting sick? Is this sabotage, Hollander? I am leaving for pre-season and you have this evil plan to infect me?”
Holy shit. Ilya wants to fucking kill him.
“No. Shut up.” Shane tries his hardest to remain casual. He sits at one of the stools at their kitchen island to hide the evidence from Ilya, who is still studying ingredients.
“Something’s bothering me, I guess.” Truer words have never been spoken.
It’s not even the sneezing that is making him so hard. It’s the fact that he’s sneezing and Ilya is watching – even though he’s not really paying attention – and hearing everything. It’s that he’s present for every bit of Shane’s unraveling.
It’s that Shane can’t control this unraveling as it happens. He’s trying, really fucking hard, to control it. He doesn’t want to sneeze. And that’s even worse because all the blood is rushing from his brain straight to his cock the longer he tries to tamper down the itchy feeling in his sinuses.
He watches as Ilya fixes himself dinner. Shane had offered to make him something, when he’d arrived, but he had insisted on fending for himself. It’s off-season. I will find my own combination of foods I want to eat from Shane Hollander’s rabbit kitchen.
He scrubs at his nose. It’s still testing him.
Ilya had arrived at their cottage and immediately swept Shane up in his arms. These arms included a bone-breaking hug and a forceful, hungry kiss.
Shane had been all in, until he registered that Ilya was wearing something new on his skin. Whatever scent he had on had, unsuspectingly, made its way from his boyfriend’s pulse points and up into the recesses of his nasal cavity. And it had fucking burned. And itched. And…
All this to explain why he’s been struggling ever since. A stifled fit into his boyfriend’s shoulder as they embraced had been the start. And now, three more itchy sneezes pinched between his forefinger and thumb — he understands why Ilya took notice.
“Shane.”
“Ilya.”
Ilya sets down the spoon and leans against the counter, arms crossed. The evil-scented fabric of his shirt pulls across his muscular shoulders. Shane’s nose twitches traitorously as he tries to hold the gaze
“Is it me?” Ilya asks. He doesn’t sound offended. He sounds more curious. A little careful, in the particular way he gets when he’s working something out.
Shane’s brain runs a very quick cost-benefit analysis. Cost: I have a weird kink. You’re going to chirp me about it forever. No, I can’t explain it. Benefits: My dick is so hard it hurts and I need you to touch me right now. Please. And maybe you’ll sneeze for me sometime.
“It – hh – whatever you’re wearing,” he says. “I think I’m sensitive to it.”
Something shifts in Ilya’s face. He reaches his wrist to his nose and takes a deep, thoughtful sniff.
“My cologne?”
“I think so.” Snf.
“Hm. It is new. Test?”
And Ilya is shoving his wrist under Shane’s nose before he can react.
Shane’s mouth falls open with an involuntary moan because this just pushed a hidden button inside him. He claps a hand over it and shifts back in horror, but not before he gets a huge noseful of itchy musk.
“Ehh’IkKh’SHhUu!!” He follows this up with three more desperate attempts at stifles. It’s so tickly, the scent, forcing its way into the back of his sinuses and activating some deep trigger. He’s been fighting it off, but to have it presented like that, so strongly. Like a hit of smelling salts.
Wetness leaks from his eyes and bursts between his tightly-clenched fingers at the tip of his nose.
He needs to get out of here now. He will as soon as he can catch a breath. Ilya’s staring, he knows this for certain even with his own eyes screwed shut and free hand steepled over the lower half of his face.
He gasps, head flicking up in an imitation of rage and giving his best glare to his boyfriend between irritated, watery eyes. He’s not where Shane had last seen him – he’s standing beside Shane with a damp paper towel in his hand.
“Sorry котик, I just rinsed my arms, okay?” He sounds genuinely regretful as he goes to wipe under Shane’s eyes, then all of a sudden stops with a jolt. His hand is half-raised to Shane’s face, but his gaze is down at —
“Huh,” is all Ilya says, so quiet Shane almost misses it. He resumes wiping at Shane’s face. As if that isn’t ominous.
As the damp paper towel swipes under Shane’s nose, it triggers another sneeze. His immune system has been thrown into overdrive and is reacting on a hair trigger.
“H’h’E’shz’ieWWw, hh!, hh, sor— eh’zS’CHEIWw!” And it’s right against Ilya’s large palm.
An itchy, desperate outburst of relief, freeing him from the violent building in his nose. It’s possibly the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. And also the most mortifying. He gasps out an apology between desperate, liquid sniffles, but he’s becoming even more distant and floaty.
He’s so fucking needy. Ilya saw his visible arousal and ignored it. This never happens. So it’s a game for him, then. A game that Shane really wants to lose.
He thinks Ilya is onto him and he’s being gentle about it. He wants him to call him out, to pin him up against the countertop and embrace his every filthy desire.
“I…” his eyes are streaming, burning irritated red at the sides, and he wipes a wrist over the moisture, sniffling, “I…”
Suddenly, Ilya forces in. He flicks his tongue at his cupid's bow, collecting up wetness Shane hadn’t known was there. He moans involuntarily at the contact, words falling away. Ilya licks around his nostrils and sucks a wet kiss at his philtrum. He should, really, force him off. But he’s beyond high off the feeling, and Ilya is always his drug of choice.
“You are sneezy from my cologne?” Ilya asks, as if his tongue hasn’t been making Shane crazy.
His whole body is on fire as he groans; and, finally, allows himself to palm at his own dick. Sparks tingle across his whole body with the contact. He might need aftercare just from this.
“F-fuck. Yes. It’s – uh, shit. Touch me, please. I like it. When –” He can’t articulate it, but Ilya stops him with a primal, biting kiss to his lower lip.
“You like to sneeze?” Ilya asks, voice lilting, yet sincere as he pulls away and runs a hand down Shane’s waist. His other hand thumbs at his cheek and moves towards the edge of his nostril.
“No. I don’t think it’s –” he’s panting, floating in ecstasy; his eyes are still closed as he pulses with pure, unadulterated want.
“I think maybe you do, no?” His boyfriend squeezes a hand over his dick and he moans with want. Moans. He feels the need for him rise up behind his eyes, splitting into bursts in his aching sinuses.
“It’s weird,” Shane complains with a careful sniffle, finding himself. He forces Ilya’s hand away from his leaking cock. “Fuck off.”
“Is hot, too. If you like it? I will want to make you…” Ilya, the dirty bastard that he is, lets his voice trail off and licks his lips as he pauses for emphasis, “sneeze?”
“Fuck off.” He tingles, whole-bodied. Ilya is completely right, of course. Because there’s no way Shane would have ended up with anyone except someone who can read him completely. His brain is going static-y, like an unreachable channel.
Ilya darts his tongue out to the tip of Shane’s nose and he gasps, shoving him off.
He squeezes his nose between two tightly-held, flat palms as he stifles, once, twice, expression pinching as he shudders with the feeling.
“I think you like that,” Ilya teases. He palms at Shane’s dick again and he shudders, moans, “but I will shower, okay?”
If he insists, then Shane will wait. Even as he's so hard that he's seeing spots.
Something like a seraphim or other monster character with like 4+ arms having to dedicate one of them to rubbing their nose and/or trying not to sneeze while they do a bunch of other stuff.
I would once again like the thank @snzivore for beta reading and generally being a lovely, talented person. I will not be thanking the H/abs this time because I'm still mad at them for blowing a 2-0 lead on home ice.
* * *
The beginning of practice went well, mostly. The team had rallied after finding out Roz was cleared for the game. Passing drills started up a little sharper than usual, the tension from an hour ago replaced with a steady, confident buzz. The tempo picked up when Roz hopped over the boards and took a lazy first lap, cheerfully chirping the rookies as he passed by.
As for Roz himself, he seemed to be close to normal. Well, aside from the constant sniffling and some occasional sneezes, but that was nothing he hadn’t played through every spring. He danced through the stickhandling drills with his usual deceptive ease, so his dexterity wasn’t affected.
The coaching staff had made some last-minute changes to the special teams. Unsurprisingly, they’d taken Roz off the penalty kill in an obvious bid to avoid wearing him out. Reduced ice time was standard practice when dealing with ill players, but that didn’t stop Roz from vocally objecting. He was obviously attempting to hold back a sneeze, which really didn’t help his case. Marleau left them to argue and skated off with the rest of the altered first PK unit.
“Why is he like this?” Carmichael asked in a tone that could only be described as ‘bitchy’. “It’s not like we can’t kill penalties without him. Especially against Montreal, he’s the one in the box half the time.”
“I’m still surprised he admitted he’s sick right away,” Varkov observed. “Maybe he’s growing up?”
The conversation was interrupted by the sound of Roz sneezing echoing around the rink.
“Or maybe this time it’s just too obvious,” Cliff drawled. “Come on, boys, we have work to do.”
One of the assistant coaches skated over to them, and they got to work adjusting to the new line. Carmichael was a competent center and a defensive specialist, but he couldn’t disrupt plays like Roz. That responsibility fell to Cliff, which was a bit of a challenge. Cliff knew he was a good power forward, maybe even a great one, but he didn’t have Rozanov’s hockey sense. Against an elite dangler like Hollander, that would be sorely missing.
Still, after fifteen minutes of tactical drills they’d managed to hit their rhythm, and moved to set up for a 5-on-4. The opposing power play had Connors on the left wing and St Simon on the right. Cliff groaned when he saw Rozanov skating up to center. Apparently, if he couldn’t be on the PK unit he would take revenge by destroying them in drills.
Roz looked a little worse for wear. His nose had obviously suffered more abuse, and his cheeks were tinged pink. The cold air of the rink clearly wasn’t doing him any favors.
“Roz. Why?” Cliff said, exasperated.
“There is this thing called morning skate, where hockey teams practice before game. You have heard of this, yes?” Roz said in the infuriatingly condescending tone he usually reserved for drawing penalties.
“Fuck off, you know what I mean. Why are you and your shitty sinuses hanging out in a freezing cold rink for no reason?”
“Is not no reason. LeClaire wanted a good simulation of Hollander, for once.”
Cliff was reasonably certain that what LeClaire wanted was for Roz to go home, and that he’d agreed to this compromise under duress. Still, Roz wasn’t wrong about simulating Hollander. He was probably the only guy in the league who could quarterback a reasonable imitation of the Metros’ five-forward power play. Cliff sighed.
“If you end up scratched for the road trip because of this I swear to god—“
The last sneeze appeared to be stuck – a rarity, for Roz. He had straightened back up to his full height, head tilted back, chest rising and falling with uneven gasps. His whole face was contorted into an expression of pure need; brow furrowed, lips parted, nose crinkled like he was trying to scratch the itch from the inside. Cliff had caught fleeting glimpses of it countless times, but there was something odd about seeing his best friend so unguarded.
After what looked like an eternity of fruitless hitching, Roz’s breathing calmed and his eyes fluttered open. His frustration was evident in every part of his body language.
“Budte zdorovy, Ilyukha,” Varkov called mockingly from the other end of the blue line.
“Poshyol na khuy,” Roz glared at him, then sniffled hard and rubbed his nose roughly on the sleeve of his jersey. “Fuuukh, I hate when it does that.”
“That’s not helping your case,” Cliff informed him, and was rewarded with a glare of his own. He raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine, simulate Hollander. I’m sure it’ll be very accurate, he’s always sneezing his head off between plays.”
For some reason, that one actually got a laugh out of Roz. Tension resolved, they set up for a face off in the defensive zone. Carmichael was at the dot across from Roz, with Cliff slightly behind him. Anticipation coursed through Cliff’s veins.
The assistant coach dropped the puck, and they were off. Apparently Roz’s reflexes were holding up despite his cold; he won the draw cleanly and sent it back toward St Simon at the blue line. Cliff’s body knew his job before his brain did, pushing out towards the left circle to cover Connors. Roz would usually drive down to the net, but this time he took Hollander’s position and cycled up to take the point. St Simon passed the puck to Roz as he drifted down to the right circle.
Now in possession, Roz danced along the blue line, probing for an opening. He really was skating like Hollander – head up, hands loose, patiently tugging at their formation. Carmichael’s level head prevailed at first, but Roz’s constant zigzagging and head fakes were grinding him down. Cliff glanced inward at Carmichael and caught the moment where he hesitated. He didn’t commit to the middle, but he wasn’t fully turning to mirror Roz, either.
At that moment, Roz attacked down the middle, angling for a pass to St Simon on his right. Carmichael bit, leaning left just enough to open a seam. Roz glanced toward the net, sizing up the shot opportunity. Cliff bolted in to close it, which turned out to be a mistake. Roz kept his whole body pointed at St Simon, selling it so well that Cliff almost missed him shooting a no-look pass to the left circle. It zipped through, right where Cliff had been a second ago. Puck met tape, and Connors fired a one timer.
Oregan managed to block the shot, but the rebound dropped right into the slot. Cliff crashed the net, but he was too late. Roz was already there, because of course he was. It was like he knew where the puck would bounce, appearing in the right place at the right time all while somehow evading Carmichael. Lightning-quick, Roz pulled the puck in and fired a snapshot into the upper left corner of the net.
“Man, fuck you!” Carmichael complained. Cliff felt similarly frustrated that they’d lost control of the play within twenty seconds, but kept it to himself. In fairness to them, controlling a penalty kill against Ilya fucking Rozanov quarterbacking the power play was kind of a tall order.
Instead of the usual gloating, Roz made a sharp cut to the side of the net and grabbed the post.
“haAHH’GDTTXJ’ssheuh!!”
The sneeze was big even by Roz’s standards, flinging him forward so violently that his grip on the post barely kept him standing. His torso immediately rose with another huge inhale, then snapped downward again.
The rink had gone quiet, every drill stalled as the Raiders watched their captain with varying degrees of concern and amusement. Most of the veteran players fell into the second category.
“He’s fine. If he’s swearing, he can still breathe,” Marleau assured him, then winced as a particularly messy sneeze sent snot cascading onto the ice. “Ugh, that’s gross.”
Roz just kept sneezing, entirely oblivious to the attention on him. He seemed to be winding down, the sneezes were bigger but less rapid.
The last one was so harsh it sounded painful, but at least he was finished. Roz was doubled over in the aftermath, one hand braced on his thigh while the other was still gripping the post. Aside from Roz’s labored, congested breathing as he muttered to himself, the rink was dead silent.
“Slysh, nos, ty—krysa yebanaya, eto chistyy sabotazh. Chtob tebya, suka, v Buffalo splavili…”
Varkov snickered; apparently the Russian profanities were more creative than usual. Roz glared at him, but the effect was entirely ruined by the mess he’d made of his lower face. Connors, who was standing by the bench, skated closer and threw a towel at him. Roz caught it with one hand and blew his nose, while flipping Connors off with the other.
“Alright, that’s enough,” LeClaire intervened. “Rozanov, hit the showers. The rest of you, set up for 5 on 5.”
Roz left without argument. Marleau wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.
* * *
The Metros’ team meeting ran long. Either Theriault was regretting the free rein he’d allowed last night, or the hockey gods hated them. Hayden was leaning towards the second option, because Shane was distracted the entire time. A random sneeze was one thing, but any interruption of Shane’s laser-focus on hockey was a really bad sign.
At long last, Theriault dismissed them for lunch. Before Hayden could get a word in, Shane high-tailed it to the bathroom. J.J. shot Hayden a significant look.
“What is going on with him?”
“Not sure. He slept in this morning, maybe he’s getting sick?”
“Crisse, I hope not. He hates being ill,” J.J. made a face, clearly remembering previous instances of a sick Shane.
“He was fine during practice, so it can’t be too bad,” Hayden reasoned.
“Or he is being Shane and playing until he drops. Do you think he has a fever? He was so red.”
“Nah, he was just embarrassed. He gets like that about—“
Hayden abruptly shut up when Shane reentered the dressing room. His nostrils had turned pink, hinting at more nose-blowing while he was in the bathroom. He seemed kind of wrung out, but at least his face wasn’t red anymore.
“Sorry about earlier, Hayd. That was gross,” Shane said, his posture obviously forced calm.
“Dude, we’re both hockey players and I have three kids. I’ve seen worse.”
“I guess,” Shane said weakly, then turned to his locker to grab his phone. He bit his lip as he shot off a quick text.
Marcel, one of the PR reps, poked his head into the room. “Hollander, they’re waiting on you for interviews.”
“Sure, I’ll be right out.” Shane looked resigned, his usually impassive demeanor cracking a bit. He was already sniffling softly again.
“I can go with you,” Hayden offered. He wasn’t much of a fan of interviews either, but Shane needed the backup today.
Shane seemed to consider it for a moment, then nodded. Hayden surreptitiously grabbed the tissue pack from his bag and followed Shane out into the hallway. Thankfully, there weren’t that many reporters, and only two camera crews.
The ESPN guy started them off with the generic stuff. “What’s the mindset coming out of today’s morning skate?”
“We’re ready to play at our best. We always bring our A-game against Boston, and tonight is no exception.”
Hayden heard his breath catch at the end of the sentence, followed by a damp sniffle.
“Any particular concerns heading into tonight?”
At the moment, Hayden’s main concern was making sure Shane didn’t spontaneously combust when he inevitably sneezed on national television.
“We know what we’re getting when we play Boston. They pressure hard and don’t give you much time with the puck. For us, it’s about—sorry, one sec… eh’dtSHHhuhhh! Excuse me. Anyway, we have to keep making clean decisions under pressure, stay disciplined, stick to our structure.”
Okay, that one seemed to pass without incident. Well, except for how Shane was now sniffling repeatedly, each one wetter than the last. Or how he could feel Shane radiating tension beside him without even looking.
Sportnet’s reporter took the next question. “Boston’s top line has been on fire lately. What does Montreal need to do to neutralize them?”
“They have some elite skill, for sure. We have to get pucks deep, establish our forecheck, not let them set the pace—hang on… Heh- ihhdt’SSSHhiuuhh!!”
Shane buried his face in his elbow again, and this time he didn’t resurface. He was completely still, betraying no overt reaction, but Hayden could tell he was two seconds from losing it. Time to stage a rescue, hopefully without making a big deal of things.
“Bless you, man,” Hayden said casually, passing Shane a tissue as unobtrusively as he could manage. He nudged Shane to signal that he was taking over.
“As our captain was saying, we mostly just have to stay on our toes. And we’re always on our toes when we play Boston, so it should be an exciting game.”
The reporters politely ignored Shane’s situation, and continued to direct questions at Hayden while Shane took a step back to clean himself up. Shane would probably rather die than blow his nose in public, so Hayden wasn’t surprised that he didn’t hear much from behind him.
“With the history between your two teams, how do you keep it from getting emotional out there?”
Hayden fought to keep from rolling his eyes. She might as well have asked him how to avoid punching Rozanov when he was being a fucking dick.
“Look, we know exactly who these guys are and how they try to get under our skin. At the end of the day, it’s about execution. If they want to take dumb penalties, that’s their problem.”
Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the perfect, media trained answer Shane would have wanted. But Hayden was doing his best, and it didn’t hurt to show some teeth once in a while.
“No further questions,” Marcel said from the back, cutting the interview short. Either he wanted to avoid Hayden answering any more questions, or he was rescuing Shane, or both.
“Thanks, both of you,” Shane said once the reporters were out of earshot. “That wasn’t my finest moment.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Marcel assured him. “We don’t need sports twitter speculating that you’re dying of the plague or something. Are you?”
Shane sighed, shoulders slumped. “I think I’m getting a cold. But it’s not that bad, I’m still good to play tonight.”
In Hayden’s personal opinion, Shane would say the same thing even if he was dying of plague. Thankfully, it did seem to be just a cold, Shane’s constantly flushed face notwithstanding.
“Come on, let’s get out of here. We can go back to the hotel and order soup on DoorDash.”
* * *
Cliff found Roz in the players’ lounge, sprawled across one of the couches in front of the TV with a crumpled Raiders t-shirt in one hand. Cliff knew from experience that he had definitely been using it to blow his nose. The habit was kind of gross and a bit disrespectful to the team’s logo, but Cliff had to admit that it was practical.
“You’re looking a bit better,” Cliff observed. It was only half true. Roz wasn’t a complete mess like he’d been on the ice, but his efforts to clean himself up had visibly chafed his nostrils.
“Yes, I am no longer sneezing every two seconds,” Roz snarked back. He sounded awful, his voice hoarse and laden with congestion.
“For you, that’s impressive,” Cliff informed him, then shoved his legs off the couch to make room. Roz scrambled into a sitting position and let out a dramatic groan.
“Marly, how could you? Your captain is dying of plague and you don’t even let him lie down.”
“Fuck off, Rozy. You can’t have a couch to yourself every time you sneeze your head off.”
Connors grabbed the remote and turned on ESPN, then sat down next to Cliff. “I mean, he could. We’d just have to buy him a personal couch.”
Roz reached over Cliff to flick Connors’ ear in retaliation.
“Ow, fuck you! I’m just telling the truth,” Connors complained.
“Seriously, though, you good?” Cliff asked in a low voice.
“Yes, fine. Is only— Huhh- EKH’DTCHuhh! Ehh’PDTXJ’schiehh! yehH’KGHDJ’xhhh! Ekh, nu vot.” Roz blinked blearily in the aftermath of the sneezes, then muttered something in Russian. He blew his nose harshly into the shirt, then groaned dramatically again. “Stupid nose, as usual trying to kill me.”
For all the histrionics, Cliff was actually reassured. Roz might be a drama queen about minor inconveniences, but not if he was actually feeling like shit.
“Shut up, they’re interviewing Hollander,” Connors cut in.
“Who cares? He will just say ‘Raiders are good team, we must bring A-game,’” Roz drawled, his attempt at a Canadian accent thwarted by the congestion weighing on his vowels. Cliff snorted, then laughed out loud when Hollander immediately fulfilled Rozy’s prediction.
“I’ll never understand how you do that,” Connors marveled.
“Is easy, he is most boring man alive.”
The conversation lapsed as they watched Hollander take the next question, pausing to sneeze politely into his elbow. The guy really was a hockey robot, even his sneezes were perfectly media trained.
“See? Even his sneeze is boring,” Roz echoed Cliff’s thoughts, his tone strangely smug.
On screen, Hollander had paused again, clearly anticipating another sneeze. At the same time, Roz inhaled sharply.
The difference was almost comical. Hollander had a perfectly normal sneeze, his face tucked demurely into his elbow like a model of good hygiene. Roz, as usual, had made no attempt to cover his three monster sneezes, doubling over to direct them at the floor.
“Wow, you really don’t pass up any opportunity to one-up him,” Connors sounded mildly impressed.
“That one seemed…messy,” Cliff observed as he watched Hollander frozen in place onscreen, his face still buried in his elbow. “Do you think he’s also sick?”
“I hope so, that would even the odds tonight,” Connors nodded at Roz, who was still blowing his nose. Hollander was mirroring him on the screen, his face buried in a tissue as Pike took over the interview.
“Weird coincidence. Roz, what did you do?” Cliff teased. “Biological warfare is probably against the MLH rulebook.”
Roz resurfaced from his t-shirt and snorted. Cliff couldn’t help but cringe at the blocked up sound of it. “Does that sound like something I would do?”
“Honestly? Yeah.”
Roz just winked, then levered himself off the couch and left the room. Typical.
* * *
As soon as they entered the hotel room, Shane kicked off his shoes and face-planted on his bed. Hayden was only 20% concerned, and 30% sympathetic and 50% amused. Shane didn’t get sick that often, but Hayden had witnessed it a few times over the years. In public, he kept up a strong front until he physically couldn’t. In private, he was quiet but expressively miserable.
“Shane, buddy, if you want our soup to fit with your diet I’m gonna need you conscious.”
Shane’s wordless protest was muffled by the pillow. Hayden waited a few seconds. Sure enough, Shane rolled onto his side and looked up at him.
“Sorry. S’just…I hate being sick,” Shane mumbled, shoulders slumped. His cheeks were pink again, and his eyes were watery.
“No kidding,” Hayden said, only slightly teasing. He handed Shane his phone, DoorDash app already open. “Are any of these okay?”
“Oh, uh, someone recommended a Japanese place that has good soup.” Shane sat up in bed, dug his phone out of his pocket and pulled up a text thread.
“‘Someone’, huh?”
“Shut up,” Shane retorted as he swapped his phone for Hayden’s and selected the restaurant. He added ginger tea and miso ramen to the order, then handed Hayden’s phone back. With that minor task completed, he flopped back onto the bed, eyes squeezed shut in obvious discomfort.
Shane’s phone, which he’d left at the foot of the bed, immediately started to buzz. Hayden glanced at the screen and was surprised to see it was Lily.
“Looks like ‘someone’ is calling you,” Hayden teased, but couldn’t keep the curiosity out of his voice. It had been years, and he’d only ever seen them text. What changed?
Shane snatched up his phone and immediately answered the call.
“Hey,” he said breathlessly, already standing up and moving towards the door. “Yeah, no, it’s not great. Uh, just a sec…”
Shane muted himself so he could put on his shoes, then left the room. Hayden was a bit annoyed, and even more curious. Why was Shane so cagey about this girl? Hayden told him everything, but Shane didn’t even trust his best friend with one side of a phone call. He had to know that Hayden wouldn’t judge him no matter what, right? Unless he was sleeping with a hardcore Boston fan, or something.
Hayden stewed for a few minutes until he heard Shane outside the door, finishing up the phone call.
“Jesus… bless you.” Shane’s voice was muffled by the door, but he was obviously flustered. There were a few seconds of silence before Shane spoke again.
“I’ll be okay, no thanks to you.” Shane was closer to the door now. He sounded annoyed, but Hayden could tell it wasn’t genuine. “Fuck off. See you tonight.”
Apparently someone hung up, because Shane entered the hotel room a few moments later. He was flushed so red that Hayden almost worried he had a fever after all, but he figured it had more to do with whatever Lily had said to him. The brief snippets Hayden had caught hinted that Shane’s girl was also sick, and that Shane was quite affected by it. Maybe he shouldn’t be fishing for information when Shane was already vulnerable, but he was too curious to resist.
“So… sounds like your Boston girl isn’t feeling too hot,” Hayden ventured.
“I don’t have a Boston girl!” Shane snapped, entirely too defensively.
“Sure. Your Boston ‘friend’, then,” Hayden said, rolling his eyes.
Shane glared at him for a few seconds, then turned away to blow his nose into yet another tissue. Hayden didn’t know why he bothered, because it seemed like his nose was just as runny afterward.
“See, this is the problem with sleeping with the enemy,” Hayden said half-seriously.
Shane coughed, panic flashing across his face for a moment before returning to his usual reserved expression. “What do you mean?”
“You know, you caught a cold from a Bostonian. It's biological warfare, man,” Hayden joked.
“Shut up. It wasn’t…she wouldn’t do that on purpose.” Was Hayden imagining things, or did Shane sound a little uncertain about that? “Anyway, she sounded worse than me,” Shane continued, slightly breathless. He was staring at the ground again, biting his lip and fiddling with his belt loops. Aww, he was probably worried about her.
“That sucks, man. At least she gets to rest tonight instead of playing a full hockey game.”
“Right.”
Shane was still tense, his brow furrowed. Hayden thought it was kind of cute for him to be so worried about a cold. Whatever Lily was to him, it was clearly beyond the realm of ‘casual’.
“I’m sure she’s fine, it’s just a cold. You need to rest, go change into something comfy and I’ll put on hockey coverage.”
“Good idea. I’m just, uh, gonna shower again. For the steam.”
Shane practically sprinted into the shower. He didn’t even take his clothes off first before going into the bathroom, which was odd; he usually left then folded neatly on the bed. Hayden lounged on his own bed to wait.
The shower lasted a good fifteen minutes, which was a lot for Shane. He emerged with the tissue box clutched in one hand. His nose was still running, but he was much more relaxed. It seemed to have helped Shane’s mood more than his cold, but Hayden would take what he could get.
“Soup will be here soon. TV while we wait?” Hayden suggested.
Shane nodded. They settled in front of the TV just in time for Cliff Marleau’s mug to appear onscreen. As usual, the first questions were pretty fucking boring.
“How are you approaching the matchup against the Metros tonight?”
“Our size and physical play are always an advantage against Montreal. With them, we mostly have to be disciplined with our positioning, take away their time and space.”
Marleau’s face was impassive, and his answer was boilerplate. It was a stark contrast to Rozanov’s cocky smirk.
“Kinda happy it’s not Rozanov this time. He’s always insufferable,” Hayden said.
“Yeah, definitely,” Shane responded in the particular flat tone he reserved for any mention of his rival.
“I wonder where he is. Hopefully he’ll stay gone until after the game,” Hayden said fervently.
Onscreen, Marleau was answering another question.
“…part of the plan. You want every puck battle, every hit, every shift to add up—“
Marleau’s answer was interrupted by a trio of loud sneezes from off-camera. He paused for a moment, but it seemed he decided not to acknowledge it and just keep going. “So yeah, those things add up. Even if it doesn’t show right away, those things start to make a difference in the third period.”
“Do you think that was Rozanov? It sounded like him,” Hayden speculated.
“I, uh, don’t know what his sneezes sound like,” Shane said awkwardly, fiddling with the drawstring of his sweatpants. He was always kind of weird about any aspect of Rozanov outside of hockey.
“Sure, buddy,” Hayden hoped his face conveyed just how much he was not buying it. “The guy has the most obnoxious sneeze in the league, you watch every interview he’s ever done, but you don’t know what he sounds like.”
“I guess I just don’t pay attention to that stuff,” Shane mumbled. He coughed lightly, then pulled out another tissue to wipe his nose. The skin around his nostrils was starting to look painfully chafed, which had to be driving him crazy.
Hayden decided to take pity on him for now and turned his attention back to the TV, where Marleau was getting grilled about special teams.
“Montreal’s power play is known for being unpredictable and moving pucks quickly, and the new lineup is really elevating their creativity. What does your penalty kill need to do to contain them?”
Wow, an actually interesting hockey question from the SportsNet reporter. They should just give her all the questions instead of letting the ESPN guy put everyone to sleep.
Something flickered across Marleau’s expression before he answered. “It starts with movement, applying pressure at the right time and place. You want to take away the middle, but you can’t just sit back or they’ll pick you apart—“
Three more sneezes, further away this time but still distinctive. Hayden rolled his eyes. What was the point of keeping him off camera if he was just gonna interrupt anyway?
“That’s definitely him. Probably why they have Marleau doing press,” Hayden theorized.
“If you say so— Heh- ihh’DJJZsshhhh! ihD’TCHHUuhh!!”
Shane managed to yank a handful of tissues from the box in time to sneeze into them. Hayden was startled by the harsh sound, and by the repeat performance; Shane was usually a one-and-done guy.
“Damn, bless you. You’re starting to sound like him—ha, maybe Boston’s bio weapon backfired!” Hayden crowed.
Shane looked oddly stricken, but he quickly brushed it off.
“Oh my god, Hayd, it’s a stupid cold, not a bio weapon.”
* * *
The Raiders’ PR rep had taken one look at Roz and relieved him of media duty. Minor illnesses were always kept under wraps as long as possible, and apparently ‘snotty’ wasn’t a good look on camera. Cliff had readily agreed to go in his stead.
For reasons known only to himself, Roz had tagged along and hung out behind the camera crews, which seemed counterproductive. Sure enough, a couple minutes in Roz sneezed, as loud as always. The reporters startled, and the mics definitely picked it up. The PR rep made a shoo-ing motion at Roz, and he started to back away very slowly. Was he just being a pain, or was he up to something? Cliff suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and turned his attention back to the reporters.
SportsNet’s reporter asked an unfortunately insightful question about their penalty kill. Halfway through Cliff’s answer, Roz sneezed again, drawing more attention from the reporters. SportsNet lady’s eyes narrowed, and Cliff had a feeling she was about to be nosy. Thankfully, the PR rep reached the same conclusion and signaled to wrap things up. Roz disappeared down the hall while Cliff answered the last few questions.
Finally, Cliff managed to extricate himself from the media scrum and attempt to track down Roz. He found him in the dressing room, in the middle of texting someone.
“Just so you know, I’m pretty sure the SportsNet chick thinks you’re dying,” Cliff informed him.
“Good, then Montreal will underestimate," Roz responded blithely. He sounded even more stuffed up than earlier, congestion muddying his consonants.
“You didn’t have to hang around for the media bullshit. I thought the whole point of sending me was to keep this situation a secret?”
“Eh, is what PR people want. I don’t think it matters.”
Roz had the particular mischievous glint in his eye that meant he was fucking with someone. Cliff didn’t think it was him, and couldn’t for the life of him figure out who else it might be.
“You’re up to something.”
“Maybe.”
Cliff raised an eyebrow. Roz scratched his nose, but didn’t say anything else.
“Fine, keep your secrets. You look like shit, by the way.”
“Go fuck yourself. You try looking good while your brain is t-trying to le-ihhhh!—leak out of…hhh-!! your nose—huh- ehH’GHXJJ’SCHhhiihh! Hehh’KXXDT’CHhhh! Heh- KGHXDT’SHHeuhhh!”
The sneezes were harsh and desperate, indicative of what should be a truly miserable cold. He directed them into the same shirt he’d been using as a snot rag earlier. He immediately blew his nose into it, making a sound like a clogged drain. Cliff winced, but when Roz resurfaced he seemed unperturbed. If anything, he looked…satisfied?
“You’re weirdly pleased with yourself, for a guy who’s about to drown in his own snot.”
“No one is drowning, Marly.”
“But I thought you were dying of plague,” Cliff said dryly.
“Liar told you that. I only have plague when I need divan to myself,” Roz informed him. “Other times, is just snihhh-! sniffles… Huhhhh… Ihh’KGXXT’tchhh! Ihh’GXHDJ’schuhh! IH’KGHXXJ’zhhh! Ihhh-! Hiehhh…! yehH’GDXJZ’SCHUue!! Snrrfffl! Pizdets.”
Roz caught the first three sneezes in the t-shirt, which was a sure sign that they were getting messy. The fourth sneeze seemed to catch him off guard. He sniffled, swore in Russian, then blew his nose with a loud honking sound. Cliff shook his head.
“Gesundheit, those were big even for you. Anyway, the steam room is calling your name. Then maybe go home and take a nap? No one wants your ‘sniffles’ to become a sinus infection.” Cliff left the ‘again’ unspoken.
“Yes, yes, I am going,” Roz grumbled. “You people, always putting me in steam room, like you want to boil me.”
“Poor Rozy, forced to hang out in a sauna,” Cliff said mockingly, then wrinkled his nose. “I have more sympathy for the cleaners who have to disinfect in there after you’re done.”
Slysh, nos, ty—krysa yebanaya, eto chistyy sabotazh. Chtob tebya, suka, v Buffalo splavili. = Listen, nose—you are a fucking rat, this is pure sabotage. I hope you get traded to Buffalo, bitch. (I’m kind of proud of this one.)
Ekh, nu vot = ugh, here we go again
Pizdets = clusterfuck
Author’s notes:
Is that snzkink!Shane? Yes, yes it is.
What’s Ilya up to? In his words, “I think you know”.
I know pregame interviews happen right before the game, not at lunchtime. Sometimes creative liberties must be taken to make the narratives line up.
My headcanon about Ilya and Raiders t-shirts: during allergy season in his rookie year he ended up in a situation where he really needed a handkerchief, so someone grabbed him a spare shirt from the equipment room. After that he just kept doing it because it’s a convenient source of snot rags, and he goes through a lot of those.
The drill where Ilya simulates Shane on the power play is based on a Habs vs Sens game from earlier this year. I made Shane/Ilya be L/ane H/utson because he’s my fav and he does cool shit. H/utson is a defenseman, so subbing him with Shane means the Metros are running a five-forward power play unit. It’s a risky lineup that relies on a really smart defensive center, but Shane is canonically a genius so he can handle it.
A's nose has been itchy all day, but now that B is talking to them, it's veering into Really Need To Sneeze territory. They're trying to pay attention and not interrupt the conversation, but their face keeps betraying them with twitchy nostrils, a crease between their brows, their lips parting, and maybe a little hitch here and there. They think they're doing well enough masking the problem, until B stops talking on their own and asks, "Do you need to sneeze?"
part three! it's been five days. that's enough right? im new at this. i should've held a poll.
summary: with the danger taken care of, sue takes raizenauld someplace to rest, but getting there is going to prove a little tricky with that cold he has...
2.5k words, rated PG, no CWs. Cold sneezes, Dragon!sneeze, Magic!sneeze, Clumsy!sneeze, Trying not to sneeze, Sneezing fits, Blessing sneezes, Light caretaking, M sneeze
pt i
pt ii
pt iii
–:–
–:-
⚜⚜⚜
The tunnel behind the shop was as it had been. Long, bare, and roughly hewn along the ceiling. Closing the door up into the shop shrouded the entirety of it in a velvety darkness, but as Sue raised and waved a hand, several torches flared to life along the walls, lighting the way a good several yards ahead of them.
The passageway stretched on and on, the torches lighting as the two of them neared and made their way through. They walked mostly in silence, aside from the gentle tap of their footsteps resonating through the hall, and the sound of Raizenauld's voice echoing off the walls whenever he sneezed, which was often, and frequent.
Seeing that he did often trip over himself and lose his balance when he felt a sneeze coming on, Sue took to steadying him by the arm whenever she heard him sniffling too intently or heard his breath beginning to catch.
The only conversation really made in this place was the exchange of bless yous and thank yous until they reached the end of the hall.
The tunnel came to an abrupt halt, blocked off by a wall of solid stone, most of which was covered by the large woven tapestry adorning it. There-depicted was a great big jackal, its teeth bared and fangsome, with great arcing wings sprouting from its back. Sue held an arm out, stopping Raizenauld from approaching any further, while she herself took a few steps forward.
He blinked around at his surroundings a little nervously.
“So is this just... a really long empty hallway? I don't mean to be rude, it's a very nice hallway, but I thought there would be a place to rest... Not that I can't rest here, no no! It just sounded like you were offering something... different, is all,” he rambled.
Sue shook her head, turning back to face him.
“We're only stopping here for a moment, you don't need to worry,” she said. “Just stay right there, alright?”
Raizen nodded, folding his hands politely in front of himself to wait.
Taking another step towards the tapestry, Sue waved one of her hands through the air, and a much larger, spectral facsimile of the same appeared in the space before her, glittering and cobalt blue. It moved with her own motions, reaching out and scritching at the jackal's image beneath the chin. The picture came to life, then, climbing up its tapestry until it was out of sight, the heavy cloth rolling up behind it to reveal the stone beneath, smooth and uniform like the rest, save for a large square etching right at the center.
Raizenauld tilted his head at the things Sue was doing, obviously confused and not following along. He stayed put, as he was bid, but spoke up at last.
“Wizard Pendergast?” he called, getting her attention as she stepped forward to place her hand at the center of the shape.
“Yes?” she said, glancing at him back over her shoulder.
“Um. I don't get it. What is all this?” he said, looking around at the cavernous hallway and the rolled up tapestry and the large mysterious square marking.
“You'll see soon enough,” she assured him, smiling and nodding at him. “Just give me one more moment to focus, alright dear?”
“If you say so,” he replied, looking nervously back the way they'd came.
Sue returned her focus to the stone before her with one hand outstretched, placing her palm flat against it, closing her eyes, and taking a deep breath. A light wind materialized around her, swirling as she focused her magic into the stone. The simple square etching it bore began to glow a bright, cherry red, the color slowly shifting, first closer to vermillion, now closer to orange.
“Wizard Pendergast?” came Raizenauld's voice again. The glow flickered before Sue caught it faltering, pouring more magic in to correct it. One brow furrowed in concentration. Raizenauld quickly kept talking.
“I know I'm supposed to be sngffh! snff! giving you a minute to focus, and I appreciate that, but I... ...snffh! I th-houghht I should tehh-hell you I'm uhh–! snfgk! aah- haah– ahhbouht to– hihh! hAHh—! hrRAHZZ'SHUuie!!”
Raizenauld once again, in trying to turn away, stumbled off-kilter and landed himself on his rear. Several bolts of lightning showered through the air and dissipated on welcoming stone. Sue dropped the spell she was casting in favor of waiting for the poor beast to stop. Raizen drew another deep breath.
“hHAATSCHJSHH!! aeeahh– hh'hh-heHh– haAHh—! h'ADZZSCHhiew!!! hahh... hEHHZZSHiew! snfk! ugh... Oh god it won't... why wh-hon't it– ih– ehAHh! HAZSCHYIEUWHhe!!”
Sue stood back as a small storm of sparks, lightning, and smoke swirled around him and flashed in bursts from his nose and mouth while Raizenauld sneezed himself dizzy, eventually lying back on the cold stone ground to catch his breath and rub at his nose when he was finally done. His first handkerchief was quite spent by now and he found himself partway through his spare, a cloth of the same design but featuring the addition of a peach colored border around the outer edge.
“Bless you! My goodness, you poor thing! Are you alright?” Sue said, standing over him. Raizenauld, a bit dazed, took a moment to answer.
“Oh yes, I'm fine. Just going to lie here a moment while the room stops spinning,” he said, not even removing his handkerchief from his nostrils. Sue tsk’d.
“It is a good thing you're not out over the ocean like this. You lie there, we're almost through,” she said, returning to her spellwork.
Raizenauld interrupted her by sneezing again three times before she finally gave up and went to crouch by him.
“Are you sure you're alright?” she asked, brushing back his hair from his face with one hand. Raizenauld's features relaxed and he smiled at the touch.
“I can't stop sneezing,” he said.
“Yes, I'd noticed,” Sue said, continuing to stroke his hair since he seemed to like it. “Are you too cold?”
He shook his head.
“No, not really,” Raizen said, “My nose just tickles and it keeps– snffh! keepsmakingme sneeze— yhh-! you should stahndbahhck—! hhHHHh!! hehHTSHHhue!! oh... at least that one wasn't so bad...”
A burst of electrical smoke surged forth around his handkerchief as Raizenauld gave another exhausted sneeze, the cloud dissipating against the tunnel's high ceiling with the rest of it.
“You poor thing...” Sue said, resuming petting at Raizenauld's head as he laid there sniffling.
There was no way she was getting this spell cast until he was finished.
“Would you like me to stay here next to you until it stops?” she offered. Raizenauld gave another sniffle.
“Alright. Might be a while, though,” he said.
“That's just fine,” Sue responded, settling down to sit by him and keep petting his hair.
True to his prediction, it took maybe half an hour for the sneezes to die down to a point that didn't leave Raizenauld sneezing every minute or so.
“Are you feeling a little better?” Sue asked, once five whole minutes had gone by in relative peace and quiet.
Raizenauld snuffled, wiggling his nose testingly.
“I think so,” he said. “But I'm tired. That was a lot.”
Sue nodded, and gave his head another pet before going to stand and lending him a hand as well.
“I know. Come on, let's get you up and someplace more comfortable. Take my hand,” she said, helping him to his feet. He swayed slightly, and she wrapped an arm around his waist. Raizenauld sniffled and leaned against her for support. The poor thing must have really been exhausted.
“It's okay, I've got you,” Sue said, leading him back towards the wall with the square marking on it. Finally she was properly able to cast her spell, laying her hand on the center of the stone and funneling magic into it, a light wind rushing around them both as the etchings lit up red, then gold, then bright blue, finally giving way with a loud CRACK! before the entire square crumbled to rubble, leaving an opening about the size of a large doorway.
“Come now, we have to step through quickly,” she said, beckoning Raizenauld forward with her arm still around him. He nodded, and followed along.
They found themselves, then, in a closet-sized stone chamber, where the only feature other than the hole they'd stepped through was a thick wooden door, with a keyhole and a brass knob. Shortly after stepping into the chamber, the tapestry unfolded back over the hole behind them with a sharp THWUMPFH, and the stone wall began clattering and crackling as it knit itself back together.
Raizenauld looked back at these workings with some alarm, sniffling and trembling, eyes wide as he addressed Sue.
“Wizard Pendergast—”
“Please, call me Sue,” she said, letting go of him to take a gold key with a red gem in the handle out from her sleeve and insert it into the lock by touch. Raizen nodded.
“Sue,” he said. “What is all this? Where are we?”
Sue smiled, and turned the key in the latch, taking Raizenauld by the hand and leading him through to the other side.
“Home security system,” she said lightly, smirking up at him. “And we're now in my cellar, or one of them. This is where I store dry goods, liquids are in the next room down.”
Raizenauld blinked around the room. It was a decent size, and true to Sue's word it seemed to be full of mostly root vegetables. He could easily see some onions and potatoes from where they stood, as well as some vegetables he just didn't recognize. The place was dry and dim and smelled mostly of dirt.
“This is your home?” he asked, touched to have been brought in by her. Sue nodded.
“Part of it. Come along now, it's a lot more comfortable on the higher floors,” she said, leading him through to another door. She hesitated before moving ahead, turning to consider her companion.
“Er, Raizenauld,” she started. He smiled at her amiably, despite the state of him.
“Yes,” he answered. Sue pursed her lips thoughtfully.
“The next couple of rooms... well they do have reactive substances within. If you have any sneezes left in you, you'd best get them out in here, if you can,” she said. Raizenauld tilted his head.
“What's that? Reactive... Reactive substances...” he said, repeating the words and squinting as if their structure would reveal something to him. It did not.
“Meaning, if they got hit with lightning they could be dangerous, or start a fire,” she explained. Raizenauld nodded.
“Ohh, yeah, better not have any of that flying around then,” he said, nodding in agreement until the rest of Sue's statements caught up with him, his eyes going wide in realization.
“Oh, me! I do that when I sneeze,” he said, putting two and two together at last. Sue nodded.
“Exactly, which is why if you feel you need to sneeze we really ought to stay in here for a moment until you don't feel that way anymore,” she said.
“Oh, okay that makes sense,” Raizen said, sniffling.
“Do you?” Sue asked. Raizenauld blinked back.
“Do I what?” he asked.
“Do you feel like you need to sneeze?” she clarified for him.
“Oh... I don't know, let me check... snfffh? ..... snfffffffhhh? hm... No,” Raizenauld said, taking a few deep, appraising sniffs to determine the quality of his sinuses.
Sue looked at him uncertainly.
“And you're sure about that...” she asked.
Raizen nodded, sniffling again and smiling at her good naturedly.
“I am. I'm good now,” he assured her. She nodded, and led ahead.
“Alright then. We should still try to make this quick,” she said as they made their way through a room filled with various kegs and barrels. “Regardless of if your nose has settled for now, you do still have a cold.”
Raizen nodded, giving a hefty sniffle.
“Yeah. I do, ” he agreed.
The next room was the apothecary, and it was much bigger than the other two, and it was longer and full of more interesting things. A large black cauldron dominated its main corner, which itself was recessed and circular. Bottles and jars of mysterious components lined tables and shelves, and the room grew narrower and more bare the farther it got down towards the door on the right.
They were about halfway through it when Raizenauld stopped, the suddenness of his halting catching Sue's attention. She turned to find him leaning heavily on his back foot and wobbling slightly, scrunching and wiggling his nose feverishly.
“Oh no, don't– Just– Hang on!” she said.
Thinking quickly, she spun the unsteady dragon around by the hips and gave him a rough shove into the corner of the room, just as the tips of his teeth began to show in a sneezy snarl and his breath caught in a heady gasp.
Raizen's hands, halfway to his face in what was sure to be an awful attempt to contain himself, instead flew out to catch himself against the edge of the cauldron as he stumbled and fell, letting out a massive—
“hAAHHTSCHYUUe!!”
—that sent lightning bolts skittering around and through the bowl of the cauldron itself. He sniffled, his shoulders shaking into another sneeze.
“heehTSCHHyiewh!! snffh! Whew... that was a close one. Good thing this pot was here,” he said, drooping over the side of the cauldron now that his frame wasn't rigid with ticklishness.
“I thought you said you didn't need to sneeze!” Sue said, heart still racing from such a close call.
Raizenauld sniffled.
“I didn't! ...well, until I did. Then I really had to... Sorry. It surprised me, too, if that's worth anything,” he said. He scrubbed a wrist under his nose and retrieved his handkerchief, leaning back against the cauldron to blow it again.
Sue sighed, and collected herself.
“That's alright. We managed to avoid any harm being done,” she said. “Do you think you can make it through the rest of the way without that nose going off again?”
It's year 1999, he's a stripper, she's a bouncer (and a former Greco-Roman style wrestler). She has a nasty neck cramp from going ham on neck bridges. He's getting increasingly sneezy. They're smoking pot.
750 words, modern AU Warbler and Tehana/Tea. There's substance use and some NSFW though not very explicit.
The song referred to is "Rooster" by Alice in Chains. I recommend giving it a listen, a very loud one. It's really good.
Ain't found a way to kill me yet
Eyes burn with stingin' sweat
Oh fuck it bites. She tenses up and fights the almost overpowering urge to cough. Where does he even get this awful stuff? She lets the smoke out and passes the joint back to him, leaning deep into the sofa, relaxing... a bit too much, a twinge in her neck reminding her why they're smoking in the first place, doesn't seem to help much though.
Here they come to snuff the Rooster
"Fuck..." she sighs, it's always so good, this song, one of the few things they can really agree on. Usually Warbler has such a shit taste in music.
Yeah, here come the Rooster
Gives her chills, every time. She watches the stream of smoke pluming out from between his lips, so beautiful like that, with the stupid drowsy look in those big, pale eyes, he hasn't washed his hair and it hangs lank around his face, spilling over his shoulders. Dirty beautiful.
"Can't," he says, sniffs, nudges his nose with his wrist as he relaxes into his own end of the couch. "Too high."
She can't help feeling amused and probably smiles.
He sniffs, sniffles, again and rubs his nose with the back of his hand, frowning. Then harder, like to punish.
"Starting early this year," she says. He's been sneezing here and there through the day, rubbing his nose, it isn't catastrophic yet but it's obviously his hayfever.
"No it isn't yet —" he starts, freezes in place, and sneezes. "Htkssh! Htkssh!-snff! ...H-Htkssh! ...Kshh!"
Oh now he's done it. It sounds... it just sounds so fucking... Ohh her neck!
He shoots her such a hurt, annoyed look, still rubbing his nose. "Don't laugh, it's... Htkssh!-snff! Kshh-Kshh!" He moans and rubs his nose with abandon, while she can't stop the giggles rising from her belly.
"Don't do that," she pleads with a shaky voice and draws a hiccuppy breath. "My neck, oww my..."
"It's dot fuddy!" he says, so irked, and blows his nose loudly into a half used tissue. "And you wouldn't hurt so if you had any empathy like a normal — Htkssh! Htkssh!"
Oh fuck... it hurts so much to laugh...
His eyes narrow, and there's the teeth, a shaky breath. "You..." he titters, "your neck is so fucked!"
He laughs, leaning his head back like to offer his throat. What a fucking bastard. Sneezes twice. Cusses and laughs more through the cussing.
--
Well, in the end the neck did relax somehow. Even without those pills he had offered her, just muscle reaxants, got them from one of the Russian guys. Yeah, she has seen him down some with gin and juice and then go out like a light, and she had to carry him to bed, looked so uncomfortable passed out on the couch like that. Next morning all pale and woozy, smeared mascara on his cheeks.
"Yeah, that's the... oh yeah..." she moans. Somehow she has ended up lying on the thick old rag rug next to the couch and he's sitting on top of her, giving her a back massage. He's so good at it, he has strong hands. But why does he have to squeeze her so with those fucking porn star thighs of his, and she could swear...
"You have a hard on," she notes.
"Yeah," he says.
"You're such a pervert."
"Agreed... perhaps you should throw me."
"You'd break your neck."
"Worh..." he gasps. "Worth it," he says on an inhale, and starts sneezing again. "Htkssh! Htkssh-Kshh! ...snff ...H-Htkssh! Htkssh!"
She can feel him roll off her, still sneezing in that ridiculous way, like an angry cat. She sits up as he is blowing his nose, it's getting pink already around the nostrils. When he leans his head against the couch and looks at her his eyes look teary and unhappy.
"Poor bastard," she sighs, and in a fit of probably misguided pity she puts her fingers on his cheek.
He immediately leans against her hand. "I think I'm going to die of it this year," he breathes. So dramatic.
"You always think you're going to die of it."
He sniffles. "Have come close."
"And you still have a hard on."
He doesn't say anything, just turns his head and pushes her hand with his so her palm presses against his lips.
She curses herself silently, for being taken in so easily by those big sad eyes, letting her guard down. It's going to happen again isn't it. Against all her better judgement, it's going to happen, they're going to do it, right here on the crappy old rug. God help her, this is becoming a problem.
I’m still not over DnD 2e’s Allergy Dust. Imagine trying to dungeon crawl but you start sneezing if you’re within 50 feet of a rat. Or having to derail your main quest and go find a high-level spellcaster because half your party is now allergic to the monster you’ve been hunting. Ooooh, what about a character intentionally making themself allergic to an invisible or hiding creature, as an advanced warning system? What about a character figuring out that someone they just met is a Polymorphed dragon way before the Dramatic Reveal because they’re allergic to dragons, and there’s nothing else that sets them off like this?!
Yeah, I’m going to have a lot of fun with this.
It's about the release. @dampfalsemustache - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
