frivolite

BEWARE OF SNZ KINK. Lite on H, heavy on C. 39, she/her. I am an old crone; minors, do not interact.

[ilikefeathers]

We shouldn't feel embarrassed.

I'm at a/nthrocon right now with a friend who is a f/urry, and today in the shopping area I saw a stand selling a shirt that said "I ❤️ SNEEZING"

I was super nervous but my boyfriend encouraged me to buy it because it was both funny and applicable to me. I got up there and said "I'd like that sneezing shirt please" and pointed to it. They laughed and said something about how 4 other people had bought it before me. I said "Well, I actually *have* a sneeze fetish." One of the vendors said "That's fair, I get it!" and the other said, "Hell yeah!"

Now, I was extremely embarrassed when I first thought about putting the shirt on, but then I remembered that there were people there in p/up gear and there were at least 10 stands selling i/nflation and f/eeder merch.

I walked around with that shirt on for several hours and guess what happened? NOTHING. 99.9% of people didn't bat an eye. A couple vendors asked me about it and all I said was, "Yeah, I have a sneeze fetish and someone was selling this shirt." and they were chill and laughed about it.

People were selling a/bdl stuff and full on kink gear in the 18+ section, which is far more taboo, and there I was trying my best to not feel ashamed about what I was wearing. That shirt wasn't even inherently sexual either! THERE WAS A FUCKING "FEET AND GREET" LAST NIGHT AND I FELT EMBARRASSED ABOUT MY SNEEZE SHIRT!!

I wanted to post this because I see people all the time who are too embarrassed to tell their partners or spouses about having a sneeze fetish. Granted, I wore that shirt in front of a bunch of strangers whose opinions are inconsequential, but I also think that it shows that we make our fetish out to be way more embarrassing in our heads than it actually is.

I think part of the reason we feel ashamed is because people (mostly ourselves) believe that there is a non-consensual element to our fetish. People can choose not to show their feet in public, people can choose not to use public restrooms, people can run to a bathroom to throw up, etc. But people typically cannot control when/where they need to sneeze, and so they are unintentionally "indulging" our interests. I think we need to remember that we are not our thoughts, and if we were our thoughts, then people with intrusive thoughts or O/CD would be terrible horrible criminals, which they generally are not. People aren't considered awful people for finding certain features sexually attractive. It is ok to find things attractive. Finding strangers attractive is how we eventually reproduce, actually.

Sometimes when I tell a person my fetish I feel nervous and tell them it's really weird and that they've probably never heard of it before, and then when I tell them, they say "Oh, that's it?"

I have told probably around 15 people in my life that I have a sneeze fetish, and I have come to find that most people are completely neutral about it, and at worst they just find it funny. We have nothing to feel ashamed about. If I can state my fetish in front of thousands of strangers, then I think all of your partners will still find you lovely ❤️

[ilikefeathers]

to whoever said "i like your shirt" really fast and rushed off, thank you.

[furfevers]

feeling like this rn

[snifflybabe]

missing you

there's something insanely sexy to me about not actually witnessing the snz.

what we are getting into: texting fic, mostly. the long game, hollanov. limited shane POV of ilya's flu.

Jane: practice over i’ve got time before our game 

Jane: [image attached]

Lily: [missed FaceTime call from Jane] 

Jane: [image attached] [image attached]

Jane: for you for later

__

Jane: they just announced you’re a late scratch tonight? 

Lily: [2 missed calls from Jane] 

Jane: call me when you can please 

__

Lily: sorry was asleep 

Lily: watching game now

Lily: saw your goal

Lily: good assist to u from Pike 🤮

__

Lily: going to sleep again 

Lily: game is basically over so i will jinx it and say good win

Lily: will keep my phone on so you can call 

— 

The FaceTime request goes through and Shane squints as Ilya floods into view. Or rather, doesn’t. The screen is dark as Ilya murmurs a greeting. 

“Hey, sorry — you were asleep? I can’t see you. Are you okay?” 

“Sorry,” the dark screen sniffles and sheets shift. There’s some fumbling and then a click of bedside lamp and now Shane can see him. 

Ilya’s adjusting to lie down on his side. He must have turned over once Shane called because he’s got pillow-lines on his cheek and his curls are angled flat, pressed against invisible surface in the air. His eyes are sleepy, visible even through a video call, and there’s a flush to his cheeks and around his nose. 

He snuffles and itches two fingers under his nose, then coughs sharply. He doesn’t seem to be about to say anything else, even though Shane was waiting. 

“Are you okay?” he repeats, watching as Ilya’s fingers move from under his nose to press at the corner of his eye socket, massaging in circles. 

“Mmm. Will be fine,” he sounds hoarse, clearing his throat as he pauses, “just sick. I can sleep it off, yes?” 

“How sick? They wouldn’t let you play?” 

Ilya shakes his head, almost imperceptively. “You are asking information about players from other teams, Hollander? I will have to write the Commissioner about this.” 

He coughs, and Shane’s view shifts, presumably being placed down as he stares at Ilya’s ceiling. 

The sound of a tissue being pulled from a box, the flash of an arm across his screen, and then a muffled sneeze. It’s loud through the tinny speaker of his phone, and Shane hurries to turn down his volume as Ilya sneezes more, devolving into a fit offscreen. 

A relieved gasp for breath as Shane sees Ilya’s face for a second. His upper lip is shiny and the corners of his eyes are wet. Then all sound cuts out and he’s got a nice view of the ceiling again. Crown moulding him and Mom liked for Ilya’s place. 

“Bless you,” Shane says to the silence. He’s pretty sure Ilya muted his end of the call.

 Another tissue flashes across the screen. 

Then, the bottom of a glass. Clear liquid. Shane hopes faintly it’s water and not vodka. 

A beat and then the screen is tilting to Ilya’s face again as he settles back against his pillows. 

“Sorry. Thought you would not want to hear that,” he says, voice and background noise flooding back in. He sniffles again. Shane doesn’t think he’s imagining a glassy look, even through the screen.

“Are you okay?” Shane repeats again, distinctly annoyed somewhere under his concern; he hears how it leaks into his voice. 

Ilya groans, “I am fine, Hollander. Just sick, okay? Fever was what they would not let me play because.” 

He sounds so sick. His English is coming apart. Shane knows exactly what he means, but it’s something he flags sometimes. Sometimes he worries that Ilya intentionally or carelessly fumbles his words when he’s trying to keep him out. He can be very closed off like that. 

And he looks so sick. Shane’s heart aches. I’m Shane. Call me Shane. I love you. 

“I just wish I could be with you,” he whispers. He knows Ilya isn’t about to reply honestly right now, because Shane’s too far away to help. (That’s the easiest one to blame.) And Ilya hurts all the time, but hates to feel it. 

Ilya’s glance flicks back to the screen, face unexpectedly open. He rubs at his nose. “Me too, Shane.” 

Then he breathes, shaking off sentimentality forcefully, scrubbing his nose with a click click, “But you would hate to be with me. You would complain about me getting you sick and —“ he shakes his head harder, “—you know. You don’t miss me right now.” 

I would still miss you. I miss you right now so badly I’m afraid I might explode. But Shane isn’t sure he can say that. He’s worried it will make Ilya more sad. And it will make him more sad, too. 

He swallows. “Okay, just — sorry for calling, then. Get some sleep. I love you.” 

“Love you. Я Тебя Люблю.” 

Ilya looks at him for another long second, and Shane can’t hang up, even though that’s the social cue where he’s supposed to. 

After a brief eye-scrunch, Ilya gasps, “G – ghdd – nigh– hh–” 

And then the call ends abruptly. 

Shane takes a look at his reflection in his phone screen, blinks. Okay.

He can’t help texting him after. 

__

Jane: Goodnight.

Jane: I love you and feel better. 

Jane: I’m sorry you’re sick. 

__ 

Jane: I really wish I could hold you. 

__

The next morning, Shane is awakened before his alarm. 

“Hi?” he asks blearily in response to Ilya’s call. 

“Hi,” Ilya coughs down the other end of the line, “was just saying good morning. Couldn’t sleep that well. Sorry.” 

Shane starts to reply, but Ilya has hung up. Well, fuck. He might as well get up. 

__

An couple hours later –

Lily: fever broke now

Lily: sorry about this morning, wanted to hear you 

Jane: I like to hear you. I’m glad you’re feeling better. 

Lily: 🥹🥹

__

Jane: you were sneezing a lot last night. 

Jane: and how is your cough? 

Lily: better

Lily: kind of

Shane watches his screen bounce with ellipses from Ilya for much too long. He watches anyways.

Lily: i hate being sick

Jane: me too

Jane: i hate seeing you sick 

Lily: sorry

Jane: no 

Jane: i mean i guess i miss you a lot

Jane: fuck 

Lily: i miss you too 😙

__

Jane: i’m trying to say i hate when you’re sick because i want to make it better and i can’t because i’m far away

Jane: but i really want to. 

Jane: i don’t like 

Jane: wrong phrasing, sorry. 

Jane: i’m anxious about how you won’t tell me your symptoms and stuff

__

Lily: well, what would you like or

Lily: in your words, be anxious to know about? 

Lily: i cannot stop sneezing at all

Lily: i am coughing up half the lung i have left

Lily: you know because i smoke, not much there to work with 

Lily: i feel gross and sick and i miss you

Lily: i miss you so much i cried to sleep last night. thats why i called. 

Lily: just really really wanted to hear you

Lily: is that good enough? 

[friv0lite]

My dear siblings in whump, have we found this???

I just stumbled upon the audio book this week and have listened about 3 times 🤣. It's one long sickfic filled with mutual caretaking, guilt, self-sacrifice, healing past trauma, and other delightful h/c tropes. Martin is a self-hating Lord with consumption intent on neglecting himself to death, and the book starts with his childhood best friend, Will, kidnapping him to a country cottage where they spend about half the book healing each other's physical and emotional wounds and getting cozy and horny together. In other words, it's right up our alley :) 10/10 would recommend!!

Has anyone seen fic for this? There's just a handful on AO3, but has anyone seen any around these parts? If not, there will be soon...

[silklined]

Hahaha... I feel like snzblr is having a collective awakening to this author this weekend. Paging @sickhaze...

But this sounds amazing. Thanks for the rec! Also this author definitely has patterns so there is probably a deep seam to mine here.

[friv0lite]

That's wild! These books have been out for a couple of years, how are we all finding them this week 🤣. I agree, it's definitely a pattern. I love that there's a romance novelist out there writing these themes!!

[sickhaze]

🔔 [ snzblr town cryer voice ] 🔔

okay so i just couldn’t in good conscience not put you guys onto this book because !!!!!! chapters 16 and 17 are an experience. two whole chapters dedicated to one half of the main character’s (overwhelmingly snz adjacent) cold, exploring it in a way that enriches his character and fleshes out his and his partner’s relationship and where they’re at at that point in the plot.

main gist:

m/m period romance set from like 1958-60

friends to lovers; newspaper reporters in NYC

looooots of nice caretake-y vibes woven into the plot and the main characters’ dynamic (one being very clumsy/scatterbrained/disaster prone and the other finding it endearing and looking after him like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to do).

like…

it’s called “w/e c^ould be so g/ood” by c/at s/ebastian. apart from all that nice stuff it’s also just so sweet and earnest and an incredibly interesting and well-written story, meaningfully dissecting what it meant to be queer in that time period. would’ve recommended to anyone even without the 👀 aspects.

[sickhaze]

more highlights under the cut because !!

also, seen in a following chapter lmao:

[friv0lite]

My dear siblings in whump, have we found this???

I just stumbled upon the audio book this week and have listened about 3 times 🤣. It's one long sickfic filled with mutual caretaking, guilt, self-sacrifice, healing past trauma, and other delightful h/c tropes. Martin is a self-hating Lord with consumption intent on neglecting himself to death, and the book starts with his childhood best friend, Will, kidnapping him to a country cottage where they spend about half the book healing each other's physical and emotional wounds and getting cozy and horny together. In other words, it's right up our alley :) 10/10 would recommend!!

Has anyone seen fic for this? There's just a handful on AO3, but has anyone seen any around these parts? If not, there will be soon...

[coldexposure]

Out in the Cold

Okay, here we go. Being brave. Posting my fic. 

This one has established Geraskier, whumping both the boys but focusing on Jaskier snz. In a total surprise to me, I think this may end up being part one to a larger fic, so… let me know if you want more?

Special thanks to @w1ngxd @pomegranateperfume and everyone who interacted with this post for encouraging me to share my Witcher fic!

:::

Geralt coughed pitifully into his glove as he pushed open the door to the inn, bringing in a torrent of rain with him. He was absolutely soaked after a longer-than-expected bout with a mud-slinging water hag who’d pulled him into the swamp, followed by a trudge to the inn through the torrential downpour.

The bard stumbling in behind him fared no better. He sniffled as he wrang out his poet sleeves and cursed his impeccable fashion sense as puddles dripped from his cloak. The fire roaring in the inn commons did nothing to ease the chill settling in his bones.

The tavern was quiet. All the sensible people were holed up at home, already asleep. Jaskier yearned to join them. The thought of his own bed propelled his weary feet forward, walking him straight towards the innkeeper behind the bar.

“We’ll be needing a room for the night.”

The innkeep looked suspiciously towards where Geralt was warming himself by the fire.

“For him?” He cocked a skeptical eyebrow.

Jaskier frowned.

“Yes. I thought that was clear from the ‘we’. As in, he and I.” 

Jaskier was much too tired for this. He was well versed in this particular song-and-dance, far too used to the anti-Witcher sentiment that had driven him out of more than one inn. They ought to go where they were wanted, or at least give the man a talking to. They had just taken care of his town’s necrophage problem, you know. Jaskier gathered himself to make a fuss, but his attention was pulled away from the innkeep by a wracking coughing from the other side of the room- Geralt, still dredging up the swampwater he’d inhaled. 

Tonight, the Witcher didn’t need to hold his bard back from punching the barman, he needed to sleep.

Jaskier sighed, unfastened his purse from his belt, and sat it heavily on the counter. Right now, all he wanted was a room with a fire and a bowl of something warm to eat. And, if his purse permitted, a stiff drink. He couldn’t care less what it would cost, he was going to sleep in a real bed tonight, so help him gods.

The innkeep narrowed his eyes as he quoted the bard a number. 

Jaskier of course knew he was being gauged, but the weather wasn’t quite conducive to comparison shopping, and he hadn’t the energy for haggling. He sighed, fishing around his sopping pockets for a few more coins to meet the hefty price. So much for that drink.

“We’ll take it.”

:::

The short walk up to the single room shouldn’t have been so tiring, but each sluggish step pulled him down as if the swamp was still sucking at his boots. Geralt trudged up behind him, just as exhausted.

The door clicked open to a dreary room. Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to be disappointed at the meagre accommodations. He was overjoyed at the prospect of spending a night off the floor of the marshy forest they'd been trekking through for the past week. Even if the fireplace barely had room to stack a single proper log and the table in the corner was wobbly and the bed was overpriced and understuffed and several inches too short for the two of them to fit in comfortably.

Jaskier dropped his pack to the floor with a contented sigh. He rolled his shoulders and reveled in the weight lifted. For all he complained about the forgone luxuries of traveling light, having only one bag made unpacking the few things not stabled with Roach quick work. He immediately began to strip off his traveling clothes, eager to get into bed and chase away the cold.

Geralt eyed the single bed warily.

“Should probably do something about… this.” He gestured down at his muck-covered clothing. 

Jaskier looked him up and down, then groaned. Damn Witcher. Why did he have to be right?

As much as he appreciated the forethought (he certainly wouldn’t recommend sharing a bed with a Witcher-sized wet dog), Jaskier dreaded the hour a proper bath would put between him and his bed.

Jaskier was ready to protest, but as he looked over at Geralt, shivering even in the warm inn, nose and cheeks an unhealthy wind-whipped pink, he had to agree a bath would do him some good.

He sighed his resignation.

“Get the fire going, and I’ll send for some water.”

:::

Jaskier bathed as quickly as he could. As pleasant as the warmth was, he longed to get out of the water, wrap himself up in a blanket, and finally be dry for the first time since they decided to cut through that wretched bog. The water was still plenty warm when the bard surrendered it to Geralt. 

Geralt eyed the bard warily as he sank into the bath. It wasn’t like Jaskier to rush through his washing. He was usually one to take his sweet time, leaving Geralt to heat another bucket or scrape himself clean in frigid water. Still, the Witcher wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

As Geralt melted into the tub he uttered a sigh that gave way to a heavy cough. 

The sound made the bard’s throat ache sympathetically, and he cooed soothingly as he slid into his nightclothes and made his way to his usual vigil by the head of the bath.

The post-hunt bath had become something of a ceremony over the years, and Jaskier was well-versed in his role. That didn’t stop him from looking longingly at the bed as he lathered his hands and got to work.

Wordlessly, Jaskier began their unspoken routine, carting his fingers gently through the Witcher’s hair, slowly massaging his temples as he started the meticulous work of pulling the mud and grime from his scalp. The hot water would wash away the worst of Geralt’s aches, along with whatever manner of viscera he managed to get doused in. 

Jaskier kneeled beside the tub, compulsively checking him over for injuries he might’ve managed to miss and slowly detangling his hair. The soothing motion of calloused fingertips cradling his head allowed Geralt to let the tension bleed from his taut muscles, and feeling his hands against a very solid, very much alive Witcher was just what Jaskier needed to ground himself after an adventure gone awry. 

Tonight, the aura in the room was fond, but quiet. A late day with too many close calls and a long trudge through a rainy bog was enough to tucker them both out, and there was nothing to discuss that couldn’t be conveyed in their shared language of glances and monosyllabic murmurs.

It would have been perfectly silent if not for Geralt pulling his head away from the bard every few minutes to cough into a fist. Jaskier didn’t like the crackly quality to the fits. He was loath to think what was in that swampwater.

Jaskier’s nose prickled at the thought, reminding him that he’d managed to get knocked into the bog too, though Geralt was the one who’d been pulled under the surface.

The prickle quickly developed into genuine itch, and he barely had time to untangle a hand from the Witcher’s mane before snapping to the side, directing a throaty “Heh-Hurreschchew” into his soap-slick palm.

Geralt winced suddenly, jerking out of Jaskier’s grasp and splashing lukewarm water down the front of his dry nightshirt. Jaskier wiped his hand on the hem. I’d have to be changed again, anyways.

“Geralt?” The worry was heavy in the bard’s voice. Had he missed a wound? Was he pulling too hard on the silvery hair in his hands?

“Wasn’t expecting that.”

That did little to ease the bard’s anxieties. It wasn’t like Geralt to be so skittish. He beheaded a water hag without blinking an eye not three full hours ago. It usually took more than an errant sneeze to get a rise out of him.

“‘S loud.”

Ah. That’s why he was so jumpy tonight.

“Mmm. Head bothering you?”

The Witcher offered an affirmative grunt.

“Why don’t we finish up here and get some food into you, yeah? Then sleep?” 

The Witcher was reluctant to leave the soothing water, but it had gone cool by the time his hair was clean. He might as well get out.

:::

Geralt practically melted into the thin broth the inn sent up to the room for a few more of their quickly-dwindling oren. Jaskier looked over him in the weak light.

The Witcher was shoveling spoonfuls of soup into his mouth mechanically, staring blankly forward, eyes glazed over. He was wincing every time the thunder clapped or the fire popped or he swallowed a piece of meat or potato that wasn’t soft enough. In the firelight, the bard could see that his cheeks were flushed with what he desperately hoped wasn’t the beginnings of a fever. He looked about as miserable as Jaskier felt.

Jaskier would love to leave it for the morning. Really, he would. But if something was really wrong, he’d need to see to it tonight.

He sighed heavily. 

“Exactly how sick are you?”

The Wolf pulled in a breath to insist he was well enough, but instead found himself bent at the waist, hacking violently into his hand. The force and volume of the fit sent a stab of sharp pain though his head, and he bit back a moan. 

That settled that. Jaskier sighed.

“Thought so,” Jaskier tutted sympathetically at his Witcher, pressing a hand to his forehead, trailing it down to his cheek.

“You’re a bit warm, too. Do you have anything you can take? Could I make you some tea?”

Geralt muffled another congested cough into a clenched fist, but shook his head. 

“Just sleep.”

“Then maybe it’s time for some rest?” the bard asked, hopeful. “Here- why don’t you finish the rest of this,” he pushed his only half-empty bowl of broth in front of the Wolf “and I will go make up the bed.”

The Witcher frowned at the barely-touched stew, but before he could coax Jaskier into a few more bites, a soft kiss was pressed to his forehead and the bard pushed away from the table.

:::

Ten excruciatingly long minutes later, and Jaskier was finally ready to climb into bed. Geralt had finished his soup and was stoking the fire when Jaskier came up behind him. The bard took him lightly by the hand and led him to the bed, turning down the covers and slipping the amenable Witcher inside.

Geralt had a sleepy, contented grin on his face as he informed the bard that he was a grown man, and a Witcher at that, and he didn’t need to be tucked into bed.

Jaskier just tutted as he got in bed beside him.

“I’m sure you don’t, my love,” he said as he gently combed his fingers through Geralt’s hair. Jaskier’s light touch against the silvery tresses had nearly lulled his Wolf to sleep in when the bard pulled back with a sudden gasp that startled the sleep from the Witcher’s eyes. 

He tried to snuff out the sneeze, but quickly failed, grinding his nose into the shoulder of his linen shirt to stifle a feathery “Heh-TSCH, ItSCH! TiISH, ITsch, ItSCH! Heh-”

He gasped in a breath at the end of the unsatisfactory fit. “ngh, sorr-ITchsh. Gods. Sorry.”

The itchy outburst was soft enough that it had Geralt’s brow furrowed in concern instead of pain, but the shallow, ticklish sneezes were far from relieving. Jaskier could already feel the prickly feeling starting up again behind his eyes.

“Are you…?”

“Fine. Fine. snff. Just worn out.”

Geralt rolled on his side, tapping the warmed spot next to him.

“Better get some rest, then.”

Jaskier nodded his silent agreement before nestling into the Witcher’s arms. The bard frowned at the congested rumbling of Geralt’s breathing against his back, the gentle vibration wrenching  a ticklish cough loose in the bard’s own chest.

He managed to mostly bite back the fit, but Geralt could feel his shoulders jerking with the effort. The Witcher started to sit up, concerned.

“Jask…” 

“Hush, Geralt. It’s you I’m worried about. Your lungs sound positively awful. You need to sleep.”

Geralt’s sigh was unconvinced, but he settled back down.

:::

The Witcher was out like a light. He obviously needed the rest. Jaskier had no such luck. The on-again-off-again itch in his nose had cemented itself as a constant, faint buzzing, and thick congestion was quickly building at the bridge of his nose.

Jaskier pulled the collar of the soaked chemise he hadn’t managed to change over his nose and blew gently, hoping to shift the congestion enough that he could breathe with his mouth closed. 

The shift in pressure let him breathe, but the first breath of cold air stoked the buzz into a fierce prickle. The bard clasped his hands over the collar to catch the resulting “HehITschew!”

Geralt groaned beside him and mumbled something sleepily.

“Oh! Sorry. Headache. Right. I’ll- uh- keep it quiet, then.” His statement was punctuated by a liquid sniffle, firmly conveying that his nose did not intend to keep it quiet, then.

Geralt hmmed appreciatively and rolled over.

Most nights, the Witcher relegated himself to a few hours of meditation and dedicated the rest of the break to sharpening swords or keeping watch, but after a day of mudrucking and hag slaying, he deserved a proper sleep. Jaskier was not going to ruin it for him.

So, when the niggling itch that had been softly buzzing behind his eyes worked its way to his sinuses, he tried his hardest to squelch the resulting sneeze into oblivion. 

The “Nnhgh-tch” that followed roused the Witcher enough that he sleepily reached across the bed and wrapped his arms around the bard. 

At first Jaskier reveled in the slightly-too-warm embrace, but when the tickle in his nose returned, mounting into an irrepressible itch deep in his sinuses, he suddenly realized he couldn’t move enough in his Witcher’s grasp to bring a hand to his face.

Oh gods. This was not going to work.

“Could I maybe have my arms back?” he whispered. There was no answer. Then, a little louder: “Geralt? Darling? Are you awake?” His answer was a stuffy snore.

The bard sighed and set about extricating himself from the bearhug, but Geralt just growled drowsily and pulled Jaskier closer, ignoring his indignant protests.

“Yes, dear, this is all very nice and all, but I’m…” He cut himself off with a hitching breath as the itch manifested itself. “I’m… heh… I’mgonnasneeze-“ his prediction was immediately confirmed with a wrenching “HehISHschew! Hesch! HurRATCHsch!”.

He tried to pull as far away from the Witcher as possible, but as soon as he could open his eyes, Jaskier was taken aback by the sight curled into the bed beside him. Geralt was panting, calloused hands clapped over his ears, eyes screwed shut. Jaskier’s heart caught in his throat.

“…Geralt?”

He only responded by curling in on himself, wincing further.

“Ooh, dear. See, this is the exact thing I was trying to avoid…” Jaskier tutted in a whisper. “Let’s get you laying back, aye? There we are. Is that better?” Geralt’s tense muscles relaxed minutely as the bard eased him back against the backboard.  

Jaskier could feel the warmth coming off him as he pressed Geralt’s shoulders gently into the pillows. He tsked lightly as he pressed a soft kiss to the Witcher’s forehead, frowning at the steady heat.

“I think your fever has gone up a bit, dear. You need to sleep.”

He did need to sleep. And Jaskier knew that he wouldn’t be able to if he was sharing a bed with a sneezy bard. So when Geralt finally relaxed enough that his steady breath faded into congested snoring, Jaskier eased himself up from the warmth of his Witcher’s side, cast a final longing look towards the bed he desperately wanted to curl up in, and pulled on his boots.

:::

He was already far from warm, but the jaunt from the inn door to the relative shelter of the stable left Jaskier freezing cold and soaked to the bone.

The stable boy had long since locked up shop and headed to bed, and Jaskier reveled in the privacy of the dark stalls, taking the opportunity to violently scrub at his nose away from the prying eyes of worried Witchers. 

The familiar scent of fresh hay and molasses and leather mingling in the air soothed the mind he was now certain was at least a bit fevered.

The stable was quaint, but thankfully fully enclosed. Not many strangers were looking to dock their horses this far off the trade routes, so it was easy to find the stall where Roach was untacked. Jaskier was relieved to see she hadn’t quite settled in for the night yet. At least he wasn’t disturbing her sleep. It’d been a long day on the Path for her, too.

Roach greeted her visitor with a worried nickering and a gentle nudge to his shoulder.

“I’m alright, girl.”

She snorted her dissent.

Jaskier melted onto the dusty floor and curled up in the corner of the stall, letting his heavy head loll backwards onto the wall.

The puff of thick dust and old hay he kicked up was enough to tip his hypersensitive nose over the edge. At least out here, he didn’t have to muffle the exhausted “huh… hurISHchiew” that ensued.

He wished he’d had the foresight to grab a handkerchief from his pack. As it was, he wiped his running nose on his sodden sleeve.

“Gods kill me now,” he whispered, throat too sore to give the Almighty a proper cursing out. Instead, he settled for pulling a spare threadbare saddle blanket around his shaking form and coughing into the shoulder of his rain-drenched chemise.

Sleep did not come easily to the bard. He was too uncomfortable to settle down. The blanket was itchy and rough and too thin to be of much use. The wall of the stable was harder against his back than the straw-padded floor, but if he laid down flat his nose would clog completely and the cold air would burn the back of his throat and set him coughing. It was too cold, and then halfway through the night it was suddenly too warm. Then it was freezing, more so even than the rain had been earlier.

At least he was soothed by the thought of Geralt getting a solid night’s sleep in the relative warmth of their room. It was that warm thought that finally settled him enough to drift off into a dreamless sleep.

:::

With his bright white hair mussed into a tangled halo, a sheathed sword thrown over his bedclothes, and his cat’s eyes scanning wildly, Geralt looked half madman, half monster. Hardly the sight Jaskier expected to wake up to. With the way the Witcher had practically knocked down the stable door, however, staying asleep was not much of an option.

Jaskier sat up groggily, trying to preserve what little dignity a man who’d slept in a pile of hay could. 

“Oh. Hello there. What brings you to these parts?” Jaskier’s voice was scratchy and thick as he feigned nonchalance. Geralt was having none of it.

“Gods Jaskier. What were you thinking? I had to find out where you were from the barkeep! What are you doing out here?”

“Didn’ wanna keep you up. Did you sleep well? Feel better?”

“Did I- Melitele’s fucking tits, Jaskier, did I sleep well?”

Jaskier smiled up at Geralt from his makeshift straw mattress.

“Sound better.”

“You certainly don’t.” He really didn’t. The congestion had settled firmly in his head overnight, dulling his ns and ts, and his throat was roughened. It sounded painful.

“You shouldn’t be out in this. It’s freezing. Come on. Up with you.”

The Witcher pulled his bard to his feet, but the sudden shift left Jaskier reeling. The pressure in his head felt unbearably heavy. He stumbled forward a step before Geralt caught him by the shoulder.

“Jaskier? Are you alright?” His voice was as soft as a Witcher’s could be, the poor attempt at soothing that was usually reserved for calming a spooked Roach. Instead of answering, Jaskier wilted into his grasp, clinging to his side like a drunken limpet. He moved his hand to the back of Jaskier’s neck, frowning at the warmth there. It was damp, too, so either Jaskier had been sweating through this fever for a while, or he’d slept in a soaked shirt. Probably both. 

“Come on. March. We need to get you into a proper bed.”

Jaskier made no attempt to assist Geralt, instead pawing at his chest like a child.

The Witcher sighed, but obliged. He gathered up the bard, wrapping him in the saddle blanket and holding him against his chest, and carried him back towards the inn.

Jaskier smiled into his Witcher’s chest. He was still exhausted and damp and feverish, but, curled into Geralt’s arms, he was finally warm.

[starletstarry]

I'm so into apologetic sneezes. Like the excuse me, pardon, sorry something really tickles in my nose, so sorry I really can't help it. It just gets to me. It's so hot and so adorable at the same time, it drives me nuts.

[sickhaze]

happy (late) WIP wednesday! ✨

y’all remember that lil streamer!k/ip fic i said was getting a part 2? here’s some reassurance that it’s definitely in the works! because what was the point if we didn’t get to see scott come home and take care of business? 🙂‍↕️

[snzficsaturn]

I know about hearing concern in their voice when they say, “Bless you,” but have you considered

hearing a hesitant sadness in their blessings?

Like caretaker is upset there’s nothing more they can do but let the other’s condition run its course?

[hollanovsnz]

It’s You (Part 2/3) (H/eated R/ivalry, Shane)

So this turned out a little more NSFW than I expected it to! Oh well…🤣

Part 1

——

Spring 2017

A few hours after the All-Star Game ended, Ilya and a few of the guys headed to a rooftop bar near the hotel. Incredibly, Shane Hollander was one of them. He must have still been, as he had told Ilya at the beginning of the weekend, “feeling a bit wild.”

The music was raucous, and everyone was getting sweaty in the confined space despite the open air. Carter Vaughn was grinding on his movie star girlfriend. The DJ was playing ABBA. Someone was drinking out of an actual coconut through a straw. What a strange, magical place America could be.

Shane was standing in a corner, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and his dorky boat shoes. He had his thumbs awkwardly hooked in his shorts pockets. He seemed a little anxious, but his head was bobbing slightly to the music.

He could not have looked more gorgeous if he tried.

The group of hockey players lined up at the bar to take some shots. One by one, they knocked back their tequila, some chasing theirs with a slice of lime and others just rawdogging it. Ilya was standing next to Shane as they swallowed, and he saw his face twist, nose wrinkling and lips puckering. He looked delicious. Ilya wanted a taste.

As the others laughed and chatted and went back to partying, Ilya and Shane both hung back. Ilya was about to ask Shane if he was enjoying himself when he saw him swivel to the other side, his face going right into his elbow. He stood there for a moment, his shoulders slightly moving along with his hitching breaths.

“hih!…hyihh! hn’gxtch! hng’txiew! hd’txch! -txchh!”

When he turned towards Ilya with half-lidded eyes, breathing out a little “-heww,” Ilya found himself unable to control his huge smile. “Bud’ zdorov. Is the alcohol too much for your nose, Hollander?”

As predicted, Shane turned bright red. “Shut the fuck up,” he said gruffly.

“Is this why you only drink ginger ale during the season? So you are not sneezing in front of your teammates during night on the town? Wait, but you do not go out much with them, do you? You stay home and read your boring hockey books instead?”

Shane cracked a smile, then laughed, then flipped Ilya off. “Bite me, Rozanov.”

Oh, krasivyy, with pleasure, Ilya thought.

~

After Ilya and Shane talked about their feelings, then fucked about them, they lay in the hotel bed side-by-side. Shane had his head on Ilya’s shoulder, and Ilya was running his fingers through his soft, shiny dark hair. It was so pretty. Just like the rest of him.

It was always a special moment when Ilya was allowed, without the worry of being caught in the act, to just openly look at Shane. To stare at his sex-flushed face, his sleepy dark eyes, his stunning straight nose with its smattering of freckles. Ilya was enamored with that nose. He loved to slide his finger down the bridge and kiss the tip of it. He did so now. It was just too irresistibly cute for him to stay away.

Shane leaned into the kiss, a gentle smile on his face. His nose twitched at the touch, just the tiniest bit, and Ilya felt a fondness in his core so strong that for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

He glanced at the objects on his nightstand to distract himself. There he saw the bag of mints that had been on the bed when he’d checked in. He picked them up, and realized with delight that they were shaped like palm trees. “Look at this,” he said to Shane excitedly. “This is my favorite thing I have ever seen in a hotel room. Besides your ass, of course.”

Shane lifted his head from Ilya's shoulder. “Such a charmer,” he said with a roll of his eyes. Ilya took a mint and popped it into his mouth. It was peppermint flavored, and he enjoyed the spiky feeling of the leaves as he rolled it around his tongue. He held the bag out to Shane, who took one.

Ilya raised a brow. “Ah, you are wanting to get the taste of my dick off your tongue?”

“You took one first. Do you want to get the taste of my dick off your tongue?” Shane shot back, placing the mint in his mouth.

Ilya gasped exaggeratedly. “Never, Hollander. I just wanted mint.”

Ilya continued to suck on the mint, which by now had lost its shape from the heat of his mouth, when he heard a little sound that was starting to become familiar to him.

“hih…!”

Another dutiful tucking of Shane's nose into his elbow.

“hh’tgxh! hxng’sh! hn’tiew! hnn." He took his fingers away and snuffled. “Excuse me.” Ilya frowned at the discomfort in his face.

“Bud’ zdorov. Doesn’t that hurt?"

He snuffled again. “Doesn’t what hurt?”

“When you stop up your nose like that. It looks like it is painful.”

“Sometimes, yeah,” Shane admitted, his eyes trained towards the ground.

“Then you shouldn’t do that.” At Shane’s reticence, Ilya said, “What would happen if you did not hold your sneezes in?”

Shane looked at Ilya. “What do you mean?”

“Would the world end? No. Would you die? No. You should let yourself sneeze like normal, Hollander. You will feel better.” Ilya knew from experience that there was nothing better than a head-clearing sneeze. It may take him three or four or ten of them to get there, but it did happen.

Every anxious, irrational thought Shane was having right now was playing out on his face. Ilya knew exactly what he would say if asked: It’s rude. It’s gross. It’s an interruption. It’s unattractive.

None of this was true. Especially not with Ilya. Especially not it being unattractive. It was…adorable, really.

God, Ilya was so fucking in love.

He placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Shane.” It was the first time he’d said his first name all night, and he loved the way the word felt in his mouth. “You need to relax.” He thought for a moment. “How about…for every time you sneeze normally I will do something to your body.”

Shane’s eyes lit up, but there was still some skepticism in his expression. “Something like what?”

Ilya thought for a moment. “Like…you will have to see. But maybe I’ll put your dick in my mouth again. You know, since mint took away the taste.”

Shane hastily grabbed the bag and shoved four more mints into his mouth.

Wow. Such an eager (Canadian) beaver. Malenk'iy bober.

“Good,” Ilya purred.

“You are the weirdest person I’ve ever met,” Shane said through a mouthful of peppermint.

“You are the one trying to make yourself sneeze for sex,” Ilya pointed out. Shane paused, then nodded. He started to rapidly crunch at the mints and swallow them.

Ilya chuckled. “So desperate. You need to be touched so badly, don’t you?”

A crumb of mint was on Shane’s lips, and his tongue peeked out to lick it away. “You’re such an asshohh! hyihh! hih, ih…” His mouth hung open, and Ilya realized he was holding his own breath in anticipation. Then Hollander held his elbow to his face, and…

“hit’chiew, isshyew, idt’shooo!”

That was…

“So sweet,” Ilya heard himself murmur, then he cleared his throat. “Bud’ zdorov. Okay. That was three.” He held up three fingers. His eyes raked up and down Shane’s body. What to do first…

He went to Shane’s neck and licked from his jaw to his collarbone.

Shane’s reaction was immediate; he gave a sharp little gasp the moment Ilya’s tongue touched his skin. For number two, he ran a finger down one of Shane’s thighs and relished in his little trembles. For number three—

“adtshhoo! hyishh’ue! ahYISHhew!”

Hm. He was going to have to get very creative very quickly. “Bud’ zdorov. Those mints are too strong for your nose, hm? Like the tequila? I had no idea you were so sensitive, Shane Hollander.” He watched for every microexpression on Shane’s face as his nose twitched and his eyes teared up and his mouth opened and he moaned quietly. “Oh, please,” he begged, and Ilya was thrilled to see that he was getting hard again so soon. Come to think of it, Ilya was too.

What perfect timing.

“There is four more…”

Ilya cupped one of Shane’s balls in his hand, then the other. Shane’s hips jerked up and he hissed between his teeth. It was so frustrating that they could not be as loud as they liked in this hotel room; Ilya wanted to make Shane fucking scream. For number five, he leaned up and kissed Shane’s nose. For six, he lightly and slowly trailed his finger from between his brows and down his nose all the way to his Cupid’s bow.

Shane gasped a strangled hitching sound, then turned his head to the side. “hah! haasheww! itsch’yew! hah'ishooo! ah-chooo!”

“Bud’ zdorov. Four more.” Ilya moved down to Shane’s chest with a sudden burst of inspiration, looking him in the eye and speaking to him first. “Shane. You will tell me if you need to sneeze again. Do you promise?”

Shane nodded with a small snff. There were tears in his eyes, and Ilya wiped them away with his thumbs.

“Good. This is for making me be your winger in the game today,” Ilya said, even though he himself had volunteered to do so, taking one of Shane’s nipples between his teeth and biting gently. When he looked up, Shane had his fist stuffed his in his mouth to keep his moans of pleasure quiet.

“And this is for running away last time.” Ilya repeated the action on the other nipple. Shane let out another muffled groan. “And this is for going out with Rose Landry.” Ilya quickly nipped at one nipple, then the other. He reached up and kissed Shane, who was huffing raggedly into his fist, on the forehead. “Good boy. You can sneeze again now, if you need to.”

Shane nodded and grabbed for another mint, still looking a little sneezy. After a moment, he was caught in another wave of hitchy breaths.

“hahIPTsciew! TSCHhhh! ihhhSHyew!” The sneezes were getting a little stronger as more and more peppermint tickled his nose.

“Tri.” Ilya grabbed Shane’s cock in his fist and gave it three quick jerks.

Shane was clearly in a state of ecstasy. He was coming completely undone. Ilya fucking loved it. “Oh, Rozy…oh…oh—!” He whimpered, bucking into Ilya’s hand.

Ilya grabbed Shane’s face and forced him to look into his eyes. “Ilya,” he corrected, then sank back down and took Shane’s entire length into his mouth.

Shane let out a loud cry, then clapped a hand over his mouth as Ilya sucked him off.

“Ilya, I’m gonna—I'm gonna—!” Ilya moaned as Shane spilled into his mouth, lapping up every last drop. Just as delicious as he knew it would be. As it always was.

Shane heaved with pants, rubbing a hand over his face with a hysterical laugh. “That was fucking insane. What the fuck.” He reached over, grabbed a tissue, and blew wetly into it. He ran it beneath his nose multiple times, and by now it was almost as red as his cheeks. He looked at Ilya, and his grin was as wicked as Ilya had ever seen it. “Your turn.”

After Shane let Ilya fuck him, they lay together for a little while longer, and then Shane had to go. He needed his beauty sleep before the early trip back to Canada. (Ilya did, truly, hope that he got a good night’s rest.)

He had sneezed so much. Clearly all those mints had done a number on him. Ilya found himself thinking of a word that he only thought of when it came to Shane Hollander - precious. He was a treasure, a jewel. Ilya selfishly didn’t want to let him go. So he posed himself dramatically on the bed with feigned casualness instead as Shane changed and went to the door. “Goodnight, Shane.”

“Goodnight, Ilya,” he replied with a shy smile. Then he closed the door, and Ilya was alone with his racing thoughts.

----

Summer 2017

The cottage. Shane’s home. Ilya’s new sanctuary. The most magical place on Earth.  

Shane had set up a little picnic for them in the backyard, right on the edge of the lake. Ilya was not one for sitting on the cold, hard ground - not a very fun activity in Moscow - but he had found himself doing a lot of new things over the last week and a half. And anyway, it was a beautiful day, and he and Shane were in love with each other. 

Shane was laying down one of his ridiculously Canadian plaid blankets. He had a charcuterie board set up with meats, cheeses and the crusty bread and tomatoes Shane’s parents had brought over the night before from a local farmer’s market. He even had a fucking picnic basket with red-and-white gingham ribbons tied to it. “It was my granny’s,” Shane said, blushing, when Ilya asked him, “You are a Disney Princess?”

They ate and watched the water. God, what a stunning place this was. Ilya did not want to think about having to leave. So he cleared his mind of the thought and turned to watch Shane instead. He looked so relaxed. So happy. Ilya cherished seeing him like this and he clutched these kinds of moments close to his heart. 

But now, he noticed a change in Shane’s face. It turned irritated, scrunching up, and he rubbed at the side of his nose with a little sniff. 

Ilya knew what that meant. 

Shane grabbed his napkin and held it to his face, hunching forward. “hid’tschew! -tshhew! ah, ahisshiew!”

“Bud’ zdorov, sweetheart.” It was such a joy to finally say out loud the words he’d felt towards Shane for so long. “All right?”

“Thank you, excuse me.” He brushed a fingertip over one eye. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Hm. Ilya was not so sure, judging by the way Shane's eyebrows knit and upper lip curled, showing his incredibly straight and intact teeth. (Had he not lost even a single one during his career? Lucky bastard.) He held the napkin up again. “ht’choo! hd’itshew! -shhiew!” He blew his nose quietly, and Ilya, concerned, touched his shoulder. “Bud’ zdorov. Are you sure you are fine?”

Shane flushed deeply, looking terribly embarrassed. “Thank you. I…allergies, I guess,” he murmured. “Gets kinda bad out here sometimes.”

Oh. “I didn’t know you had allergies.”

Shane shrugged. “I usually start taking meds this time of year, but I’ve been a little distracted lately, so…”

Ilya’s eyebrows raised. “Ah, so it is my fault that you are sneezing?”

“Yes, absolutely.” When Shane’s eyes narrowed again, Ilya handed him his own napkin and rubbed a hand over his back. “hh’ishhew! adt’chyew! adt’CHOO!…god damn it,” he growled, wiping at his teary eyes, cheeks and nose both red. “I’m so sorry.”

How could someone still be so beautiful even while having a sneezing fit?

“Bud’ zdorov. Don’t be sorry for anything. Do you need to go inside?”

“No, it’s cool. Don’t want to ruin our picnihhhc! -ishuhhh! Fuck!”

“Bud’ zdorov- Shane, you are having allergy attack. Go inside, milyy, I will clean up. Do you keep medication here?”

“Yeah, I have some in the bathroom—hy’izchhhoo!” The sneezes were starting to sound a little more itchy. Ilya gave him a third napkin and waved him away, and Shane went, muffling a few more sneezes into it. 

“Bud’ zdorov!” Ilya called after him, and Shane gave him a thumbs up. What an adorable man. 

After Shane had taken his allergy pill and splashed some water on his face, he came to the kitchen and put his head on Ilya’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. That was ridiculous.”

“Stop with these apologies. Is just some sneezes.” Ilya kissed the top of his head. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah, actually. Thanks.” A droplet of water was caught in Shane’s eyebrow. Ilya reached out and thumbed it away. Shane’s eyes closed at the contact, and he smiled dreamily. “Thank you for helping me.”

“No need to say thank you. Is my pleasure.” Ilya ran his finger over his freckles, from one cheek to the other, touching the bridge of his nose along the way. Shane’s face looked itchy all over again, and he rapidly ripped a paper towel from the roll on the counter and sneezed into it. “hy’itshoo! ISShhuu!”

“Oh, fuck. I’m sorry, Shane,” Ilya said guiltily as Shane blew his nose again and coughed softly. He tossed the paper towel in the trash and gave Ilya a little kiss on the cheek. “It’s okay. I actually kinda needed those. They were…here,” he said, pointing at his nose just above where Ilya had touched him. And tenderness twinged in Ilya’s heart. 

He put his face to Shane’s nose and kissed along it from bridge to tip. Then he drew him into a hug. “Dusha moya,” Ilya breathed into his neck, then kissed his lips.

Shane’s arms went to Ilya’s waist, and he looked at him with his gorgeous chocolate eyes. “What does that mean?”

“My soul.” Ilya brushed his lips once more, and when he pulled back, Shane had tears welling in his eyes.

“Oh, Ilya…”

Ilya squeezed him tight. “Ya tebya lyublyu, I love you, I will always take care of you.” He had never been more sure of anything in his life.

Shane cradled Ilya’s face in his hands, kissing his nose too. “I love you so much. I’ll always take care of you, too.”

Yes, the cottage was their sanctuary. 

[greyknighterotica]

[sickhaze]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hhUH’IHHHDZSSTCHhh’uh!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, two. Kip’s turn to buckle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sfromrochester_77: Tsk. Call yourself a New Yorker.

kipstopher_g: Says the man from Rochester!

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

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

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

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

sfromrochester_77: Holiday bonus?

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

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

Oh, fuck, I like you.

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

He does it anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, hodey– umb…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck it. He’s come this far.

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only two and a half more hours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. He has a missed call. From Scott.

And a new voicemail message.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Hey, honey–’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In a few years, maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...except for the ones from Boston.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. No. Absolutely not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two hours and seven minutes left to go.

—--------------------------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s such a worrier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yep. Definitely that.

[sleptwithinthesun]

i neeeed shane finding ilya standing on the balcony of the hotel room, smoking a cigarette and trying to squash down the symptoms of his cold and not disturb their peace!!!!!

i got 250 words into the setup before realizing i misread your prompt. and starting the story is eternally the hardest thing so this is basically the same idea but executed differently :> my bad

anyway here’s 2.2K !! ily bestie and i'm so sorry i only know how to write angst <3

It’s one of those nights. The kind where instead of sending him a room number, Ilya flirts at him over text and Shane can’t quite pluck up the courage to send his own—four digits, it’s just four digits—or even respond to the other captain. He can’t tell if the casual flirting is Ilya’s way of leaving him an opening, or if he’s genuinely disinterested. The uncertainty is usually enough to dissuade him from trying to figure it out. 

He’s currently perched on the edge of a hotel bed, fingers interlocked, hands in his lap. His phone sits a foot away from his left thigh, face-up, the screen glowing with the last message from Ilya. He’d sent it a little more than an hour before their match began; nothing important, just an aspersion at Montreal’s performance against New York two days ago. Much like Ilya himself, the message is cocky. In no way does it foreshadow how badly Ilya played tonight, nor Montreal’s consequential trouncing of the Raiders, ending the match at 4–0. 

The locker room had been rowdy in the aftermath, of course. But even Hayden had been aware enough to give Shane a worried look as they packed their gear. It wasn’t like their goalie was playing better than usual. In fact, their backup had gone in for the third period. The Raiders simply hadn’t been able to pull it together, and watching Ilya nearly stumble over his skates as he traversed the ice during the final TV break, Shane could understand why. 

He’d considered intercepting him at some point, before realizing that he couldn’t without drawing suspicion to them both. They’re conference rivals; Ilya wasn’t injured during the game. Shane couldn’t say “sportsmanship” and use it as an excuse while they were still in the arena, and he can’t try now, since he doesn’t have Ilya’s room number. 

It’s fine; Ilya’s an adult, and it’s not like Shane cares about him. He’s just—worried. Discomforted. 

His leg bounces anxiously, nerves itching to go somewhere and do something about it. 

With a sigh, he pushes off the mattress, pausing to stretch once he’s standing up. Boston didn’t play too hard, but nevertheless, it is hockey, and Shane took a solid check from one of their players late in the second period. Nobody enjoys being beaten at home. 

The corridor is empty when Shane exits his room, the door clicking shut behind him. Unsurprising; most of his teammates are probably still out celebrating, and the Boston players would have retreated to their rooms to lick their wounds. Or their homes, he supposes, but Ilya’s never given him an address when they hook up in his city. 

There’s no plan. He doesn’t have a destination in mind, and debates the ice machine, the hotel gym, or going out for a walk as he wanders. The latter is simultaneously the most and least appealing. The city’s going to be upset after their loss, and while they can’t be worse than Philadelphia, Shane isn’t quite keen on being out and about. But the fresh air would be nice. 

He ends up standing in front of the elevator, waiting for the doors to part so he can see if the rooftop is open. If not, Shane decides, he’ll go to the gym and work off the excess energy. 

Eight floors later, the elevator spits him out at the bar, which is closed. The bartender glances over to him, then goes back to wiping down the counter. Beyond the seating is a door that leads out to the roof, which boasts a couple of high-top tables, stools, and one Ilya Rozanov leaning against the railing. In front of him, smoke curls into the breeze. The sight is painfully reminiscent of Vegas, nearly two years ago. 

“Rozanov?” 

Ilya startles, inhales too quickly, and immediately begins choking on his cigarette. Shane hovers awkwardly as Ilya brings up his left elbow and coughs into it, his eyes squeezed shut and already tearing up from the force. It takes almost half a minute for him to wrangle his lungs into wheezy submission, and when he finally straightens up, Shane’s heart clenches upon seeing the younger player’s face. He’s pale, eyes heavy with fatigue and his fingers are trembling slightly around the thin body of the cigarette. 

“Hollander,” Ilya rasps, then clears his throat. He coughs once, like he’s testing himself to see how much he can handle. When it doesn’t immediately trigger another jag, he squints at Shane. “Why are you here?” 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he replies honestly. “Why are you here?” When he doesn’t get a reply, he adds, “It’s still not worth jumping over.” 

He expects Ilya’s mouth to quirk up at the corner, for him to rebound as he usually does. But maybe there’s something about rooftops, because Ilya just looks away, swallowing hard. 

“…You alright?” he probes. Ilya nods. He taps ash from the cigarette over the edge, brings his arm up, and coughs again. It’s deeper than before, a little chesty, and his inhale catches on another wheeze halfway through. 

When he drops it, Shane’s frowning. “That doesn’t sound great, Rozanov.” 

Ilya doesn’t look at him. “It is, um, what do you call…” His left hand opens and closes at his side, as if grasping for the word in English. He doesn’t find it, based on the frustration that crosses his face, and goes quiet. His eyes are exhausted, scanning over the city’s skyline with nothing resembling fondness. 

Shane shifts his weight. He’s never seen Ilya subdued before, and it’s throwing him off more than he’d expected. He thought Ilya would still tease him or find something to poke at. Instead, the other captain’s quiet, confused, and— 

Oh, he realizes. He’s sick. 

That… explains a lot, actually. 

“You have a cold?” he asks. 

Ilya nods after a moment. “Yes. Probably.” 

He should tell Ilya to go to bed. The night is warm enough, but the wind isn’t gentle and Ilya’s in a T-shirt and joggers. And is holding a lit cigarette, which he raises to his lips again. 

Instead of taking a clean drag, Ilya’s breath hitches even before his mouth closes around the filter paper. He lifts his arm half-heartedly, shifting his elbow over to hover in front of his face as he twists into his right shoulder. Neither action is necessary, since he squashes the fit into complete silence. His head jerks with each sneeze and he curls in on himself slightly, but otherwise, it’s very neatly contained. The first, second, and third hit in rapid succession, followed by a moment’s hesitation where he doesn’t bother to lift his head. The next double punches through him in a similar manner as the first set, and Ilya finally emerges. His eyes are glassy, tongue barely poking out of his mouth. Shane watches his gaze turn hazy as a sixth manages to sneak up on him just as he begins to lower his arm. It’s no less stifled, but Shane gets to see Ilya’s entire face scrunch with the effort. 

“Bless you, wow,” he says, after a beat passes and he’s sure Ilya’s done. He rarely sneezes more than once in a row, and most of the other people he knows get to three, at most. The exception to the rule is Hayden, who gets stupidly long fits of eight to twelve, but it’s always a minute-long commitment most people don’t have the time nor patience for. Ilya’s entire fit happened in less than fifteen seconds. 

Ilya slowly brings his arm down, cigarette still poised between his fingers. He sniffles. Rubs at his nose with the back of his wrist, then sniffles again. “Ah. Sorry.” 

“Not your fault,” Shane replies. 

Ilya shrugs and takes a drag. Holds it, exhales, and predictably, starts coughing again. 

“…You want to put that out?” 

The blond is too occupied with coughing to respond immediately, and just when Shane assumes he’s going to recover his breath and defend his habit, Ilya’s hand lashes out and grabs onto the railing. The cigarette tumbles to the ground as he doubles over, hacking into his elbow. 

Okay. What do you do with a sick Russian? 

Apparently, you don’t touch him. Ilya flinches at the slightest brush of Shane’s hand over his back, then presses his knuckles against his lips to muffle his coughing. It doesn’t work, obviously. Ilya’s chest shakes regardless, and they only grow more violent underneath his effort to suppress. For a moment, Shane wonders if it’s possible to break a rib from coughing. 

Then Ilya actually retches from the force of the next jag, and every rational thought in Shane’s head evanesces. 

“Rozanov, look at me,” he demands, trying to get Ilya’s attention while he finally catches his breath. The eyes that meet his are newly bloodshot—a vessel in the left must have burst and Shane winces sympathetically, because the pressure in his head must be agonizing for that to happen. Ilya’s face is pink, either from embarrassment or effort, but he doesn’t back away from Shane’s gaze. Even now, he’s keeping it up. 

Shane barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. Nobody but Ilya fucking Rozanov could nearly cough his lungs up in front of him and then smirk at him after. 

“You like being in charge?” he rasps. His voice is nearly gone, and what remains crepitates like ruined vinyl. 

“Fuck you,” Shane responds. He can’t muster up any heat to put behind it. “Get inside.” 

Ilya keeps his hand on the railing as he goes to stand again, but not before fumbling for the cigarette butt. Once it’s in his grip, he levers himself up and sways. 

“Woah,” Shane murmurs, instinctively darting forward to catch him. Ilya stiffens with Shane’s palm against his sternum, but doesn’t flinch or freeze the way he did earlier. “Steady.” 

“Big, strong Canadian,” Ilya mutters. He straightens, and Shane lets him go. “I am fine, Hollander.” 

“Yeah, right. I’ll believe that when you don’t look a minute away from passing out.” 

“I am not going to die, Hollander.” He drops the cigarette butt in the receptacle before following Shane inside. 

“That’s pass away. Passing out is, like, fainting.” 

Ilya waves a hand. “Either way, I am fine.” 

“I’m walking you back to your room.” 

“You think I cannot get back to my room?” 

“After that display, I’m not inclined to leave you on your own,” Shane snaps. “I mean, really, you’re smoking with a respiratory illness?” 

Ilya rolls his eyes. The bartender is gone, thankfully, and they make it to the elevator bay without issue. “We cannot all be perfect like you.” 

“Not smoking while you’re sick isn’t perfection, it’s common sense. Which floor are you?” 

Ilya reaches in front of him to press the button for the fifth floor. Just one beneath Shane, then. They don’t speak as the doors shut and they begin descending. 

That is, until Ilya twists to the side again, his head bobbing slightly with another set of silent sneezes. Three before he’s exhaling, a tiny, congested, “ngh.” He sounds miserable. 

Politely, Shane chooses to ignore him. 

He’s played hockey while ill. Every player has. It’s easier with a cold than anything else, but regardless, it sucks. From observing Ilya’s symptoms over the past five minutes, he’s almost shocked his coach didn’t bench him. But it’s hockey, and Boston needs Rozanov, and tonight was probably inevitable. 

Boston starts an away series in three days. Montreal goes on to play Philadelphia in two. 

They see each other three times a year; four if they’re lucky. And, selfish as it is, Shane’s annoyed that Ilya had to be sick for this match. 

He shoves the thought aside, though. It’s not going to help anyone right now, least of all Rozanov. The blond steps out of the elevator first, glancing both ways for the signage before turning right and heading down the hallway. He stops at the third door, digs around in his pocket for his key card, and crams the back of his hand against his nose to rub it as he uses the other to push the door open. 

“We keep meeting in rooms like these,” Ilya teases, then coughs again. It’s just a couple, mercifully, but from the way he winces afterward, Shane’s willing to bet they’re hell on his throat and head. 

He softens. “Go change. In the bathroom,” he adds, when Ilya starts pulling off his shirt.  

“You have seen me naked before.” 

“We’re not—just go to the bathroom, okay?” 

“Fine.” Ilya crouches by his duffel bag, pulls out a tank top and sweatpants, and disappears into the bathroom. He doesn’t fully close the door, and with the opening, Shane can hear the rustle of discarded clothing, the quiet tearing of toilet paper, and a softer noseblow than he’d expect from Ilya. That’s been a fact of today, however, so he doesn’t give it much attention, until Ilya gasps. 

“nhH’h–ih? nNT’tch–tsch–nt’TZch! ihTSCH’uh!” One beat, then another, and then, “nKT-sch! ihNT’CHSH–euh! ngh…” The damp squeak of congestion accompanies the last two, and his sigh isn’t quite as stuffy, like finally letting them out, at least halfway, did something for his sinuses. 

Shane doesn’t want to leave, he realizes. He wants to stay until Ilya falls asleep and then spend the rest of the night here, making sure he’s okay. And the very thought of caring about Ilya that way scares the shit out of him. 

He can’t do that. They don’t know each other, only their bodies. 

There’s the shuffle of Ilya pulling on the sweatpants. He’ll exit the bathroom any second, now. 

Shane turns around. “Feel better,” he tosses over his shoulder, and the door closes behind him. 

[sickhaze]

how are we feeling about s/cott “catholic boarding school scholarship education” h/unter and a semi-occasional, habitually off-hand “god bless you”?

[percyphonea]

hmmmm photic s/cott h/unter? yes? yes.

[percyphonea]

Please share your thoughts i need more S/cott and K/ip content

[lilies-and-hyacinths]

Love the concept of photic S/cott! He’s a mess during press interviews. Declines red carpet events because it’s absolute hell on his sinuses

I feel like S/cott has a tendency to get horribly sick midseason every year- thus all the commentators being like “wow he fizzles out halfway thru the season every year for no reason”. There’s a reason!! But he’s an incredibly private person so people outside the team just don’t know it

Part of the reason his penthouse is so minimalist is because dust drives his nose crazy. Clean freak by default

Stress colds. Every damn post-season. The week after they win the Cup and he comes out, S/cott goes down for like two weeks because the stress of it all finally got to him

Very sniffly on plane rides due to all the circulated air. Idk he just has a sniffly vibe

[bless-you-babe]

"Maybe" Part 2/? - Heated Rivalry

ok...y'all are the sweetest. I can't believe so many of y'all liked the first lil part of this fic! Thank you for the kind words, likes, reblog, etc - it really gave me the courage to actually keep posting! So here's part 2! Shane arrives at Ilya's, full of guilt and angst...and a burgeoning cold. Will he be able to convince his clingy boyfriend to keep his distance?? ...I think we all know the answer to that question. Here's Part 1 if you missed it! * * *

Shane took a deep breath before unlocking the front door and stepping into Ilya’s place in Ottawa, closing the door gently behind him, as if making too much noise would make his current predicament worse. He heard the rustle of shopping bags, cabinets opening and slamming shut - Ilya must have his headphones in, he was always extra noisy when he did. Shane paused at the perimeter of the living room - the house featured an open floor plan, and from there he could see straight through to the kitchen, where Ilya was puttering around, head bobbing slightly to whatever music he was listening to. Shane  felt unsure about what to do, frozen with indecision. He took one more step, dropping his bags to one side. When he looked up, Ilya was smiling, pulling his headphones off and walking around the counter toward him. But Shane froze again, and looked away, down at his shoes. Ilya sensed his mounting anxiety and stilled, the smile fading from his face to something soft, “How is your throat?” he asked. “Umb,” Shane sniffled reflexively when he heard the congestion in his voice, “It still hurts a little.” 

...It actually hurt worse. Ilya made a small noise of sympathy and pouted slightly. It was such an adorable face, so rare on his tough, take-charge boyfriend that Shane was almost tempted to laugh. “And you are getting…” Ilya trailed off as he searched for the English word, gesturing vaguely to the center of his own face. Shane looked down again, “Stuffy, yeah.” There was a beat of awkward silence as he fought to find the willpower to make all the (very solid) points he’d thought of in the last half hour of his drive - to lay out the plans he’d made to keep his boyfriend healthy through playoffs. But he took too long. And maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Ilya was chewing his bottom lip, and Shane saw the exact moment he thought “fuck it” - a small shrug of his shoulders and a determined set to his expression. And then he was striding toward him with single-minded focus. Shane brought his hand up just in time to block his face from an enthusiastic kiss, “Ilya!!”

Ilya was undeterred, and went for Shane’s neck instead, wrapping his arms around him and breathing him in before sighing indulgently. The sound made Shane’s head spin for a moment before he tried to push the slightly larger man away. “You can’t- we shouldn’t!” “Shhh…” Ilya murmured against his neck, then sighed again before placing a series of gentle kisses against his throat that ended with him grazing his teeth along Shane’s jaw. Shane shuddered slightly, trying to ignore the way his cock twitched. Ilya pulled away slightly to look him in the eyes, “I have not seen my boyfriend in a month. Four. Weeks.” He gave Shane a little shake on the two words, for emphasis, “I have to touch you, be close to you.” Shane tried to dip his head away. He was overly conscious of the germs on his breath, their proximity…his own desperation to squeeze this man within an inch of his life. But Ilya tilted his chin back up, forcing eye contact, “Listen,” he said, “I do not care.”

And now Shane couldn’t look away, couldn’t blink. Ilya’s curls were chaotic and perfect, and he was so warm and close and his gaze so intense. Without thinking, his eyes flitted down to Ilya’s lips. He might even have leaned forward slightly… And suddenly they were crashing into each other, mouths working, hands in each other's hair, pulling and pressing in closer and closer, as if they could simply become one, never separated again. The magic of the moment was shattered when Shane had to break the kiss to breathe fully. He turned away to sniffle and fumble for a well-used tissue in his pocket, bringing it up with clumsy hands to wipe at his running nose. Ilya pulled him close once more to give him a quick kiss on the side of the head, then trailed his hand down Shane's left arm until he was loosely holding his hand, guiding him further into the house. “Come. I got us huge grocery order. Medicine - you should take some, yes? That minty shit you are always making me use when I get sick, lots of food - I will make you shchi, if you want…”

Shane couldn’t help but smile as Ilya gestured to the pile of sick supplies on the kitchen counter, then opened the fridge so he could see it fully stocked, chock-full of everything they’d need, including the greens Shane used in his “gross” smoothies. He knew what his boyfriend was doing, keeping a current of low chatter going, talking about nothing interesting in particular. He was trying to distract Shane’s obsessive mind from overthinking, from spiralling into anxiety about the fact that they’d just swapped spit while he was likely highly contagious and Ilya and his team were in the middle of a historic playoff season. It was…sort of working. Ilya was gorgeous (as always) but he was downright adorable in this domestic setting. If only Hayden could see him now, explaining how he couldn’t get all the exact ingredients to make the authentic Russian soup, but that he’d done this a few times in the city and it was actually pretty close to what he could make at home and… The spell was once again broken as Shane felt a sharp twinge in the back of his sinuses. He tried to reach up and rub the sensation away, but it only grew. So he turned his back to Ilya and took a couple of steps in the opposite direction, gasping once before burying his face in his right elbow.

“Hh’mPSHh’shuhh!” He stayed there, using his left hand to anchor his right elbow in place as he gasped again, “Nnng’TSCH-ieww!” He heard the sound of plastic unwrapping behind him, the rip of cardboard and the sound of a few tissues being pulled out, then felt a warm hand on his shoulder. “Bud'zdorov” Ilya’s voice was impossibly tender. It…did something to the center of Shane’s chest, sent a radiating warmth that spread to his cheeks and ears in an embarrassing flush. Ilya didn’t force Shane to turn around, only held out a handful of tissues in front of him. Shane, sniffled, taking them gratefully as his breath hitched - god, again??? - and he pitched forward once more. “HHhi—hiiIh’NTSCHh’iehww!!” Ilya hugged him from behind, blessing him again and placing a kiss to the back of his head, before moving back to give Shane, who was still blushing furiously, a little space. He took pity on him, stepping away to focus on putting the last of the groceries away, but not before placing the tissues within reach. Shane sighed and pulled a few more out, turning away to blow his nose. God, why was he still so embarrassed by this kind of thing, this kind of attention. And the better question…why did he NEED it at the same time?? He tossed the tissues in the trash and sniffled experimentally. He could breathe again…for now. That was nice. He moved to the sink to wash his hands, ignoring the way Ilya smirked at him. Was this attempt at good hygiene absolutely pointless?? Had they just had their tongues down each other’s fucking throats?? Yes. Did washing his hands in hot water still somehow make Shane feel better?? Also yes. And Ilya knew it. So he kept his mouth shut. Shane dried his hands on the dishtowel, turned around…and this time he honestly couldn’t even tell who initiated things, but he and Ilya were tangled together again. And then he was being lifted up and set on the counter, and oops - his boyfriend’s tongue was in his mouth again. When he sniffled, Ilya pulled away to check in, “Are you feeling bad? Do you want to stop?”

Shane just shook his head and leaned back in, where he felt Ilya grin against his mouth, “Bedroom then,” he said, his accent gone slightly thicker like it always did when he was turned on. And Shane nodded, “Yes, please” Ilya grabbed the tissue box on the way, just in case. 

* * * Ilya was very, very good at distracting Shane. They passed a couple of hours in bed, slowly exploring and teasing and simply reveling in the pleasure of finally occupying the same space. At first Shane was embarrassed by his runny nose and sniffles. He kept pulling away to make sure he wasn’t leaking, leaning back slightly to keep from dripping, shaking his head in annoyance. But Ilya didn’t seem to care - he pulled his face down for rough kisses, murmuring assurances in Russian and English. Once, with his mouth around Shane’s cock, he passed Shane tissues after a particularly wet sniffle, not even breaking his rhythm. The sight was so achingly sweet and somehow sexy as fuck, that Shane lost focus and didn’t think to actually wipe his nose, instead throwing his head back and letting out a cry of release.

Ilya crawled back up his body and kissed him, slow and sensual, then feral and messy until Shane snapped back to reality, pulling away to wipe at his upper lip and blow his nose. But the orgasm seemed to have shifted something, cleared his sinuses, and the relief mixed with the immediate return of his boyfriend’s hands in his hair pulled him away from yet another anxiety spiral. They moved to the shower to clean up after a while, got distracted again…then cleaned up again. It seemed there was an unspoken agreement to stay as close as humanly possible to each other. They made a simple, quick dinner of sandwiches in the kitchen side by side and then ate sitting hip to hip at the coffee table, a comfort show droning on in the background. Shane felt his sinuses gradually fill back up, his focus returning to the ache in his throat and the steadily building pressure behind his eyes and cheeks. Ilya grabbed their plates to clean up, brushing off Shane’s attempts to help - instead he wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and guided him to the couch. After a minute, he came back from the kitchen with the bottle of Nyquil and a spoon.

It was hard to tell when his own fatigue ended and the Nyquil stupor began as they watched one more episode cuddled up on the couch, Shane’s head resting on Ilya’s chest. Some time later, he heard Ilya murmuring his name and tapping him gently, “Come. Bed.” They brushed their teeth side by side and fell into bed the same way, where Shane dropped into unconsciousness before his overactive mind could even start to question what they’d done tonight…and the consequences that may follow.

*~*~*~ End of Part 2 ~*~*~*