Hello, I'm hurt-care, aka Dusty15. 39, F, sneeze-fetishist and general lover of all things cold symptom and allergy symptom related! No minors, please
Fic master list: https://www.tumblr.com/hurt-care/181856281059/dustys-fic-masterpost?source=share
Finally making a proper Intro Post cause I've been neglecting this Tumblr for a while and I've been interacting with some new folks so I figured it was time
✿ about me
You can call me Dusty...you know, like the 60s singer or the allergen. Both are great. I'm a cis woman, late 30s (maybe even early 40s depending on when you read this), I've been in the SF community since sometime around 2004 (wild to think about), and I'm chronically online and have been since I first logged in to AOL dial-up as a kid.
✿ my fandoms
I have been swallowed up whole by the H/eated R/ivalry fandom and as a Canadian, I am happy to live at the cottage forever now.
R/emus L/upin from H/arry P/otter has been my favourite character for 25+ years. The author for those books really sucks and I do not support the author's intellectual property in any form anymore. However, I do still occasionally (but rarely) write within the book universe with the extreme caveat of 'fuck JKR'.
✿ my OCs
I usually write one-shots with OCs, but I have delved in to some longer form stuff with my OC, Francis Miller. He's a very allergic/asthmatic gentleman in the late 1800s.
✿ my favs re: snz stuff
I'm an equal opportunist for colds and allergies, although I think colds wins by a tiny margin. I enjoy caretaking and most related symptoms. I like the loss of control, the vulnerability, and the helplessness that comes colds and allergies. I enjoy material from all genders, but generally prefer writing/reading about men.
✿ my own sneezes/etc
I have pretty mild allergies and I'm typically a single or double sneezer. I work in generally pretty dusty, old places and occasionally with old things (antique furniture) so that usually results in at least one or two daily sneezes. I probably average two or more sneezes on a normal day. And I'm pretty good at inducing.
✿ can I contact you?
I'm okay with folks DMing me or reaching out via an ask. I generally don't enjoy just random fetish talk or swapping wavs unless we've spoken before, but if you want to chat fandom and related fetish stuff or you want to request that I write something, feel free to reach out. No promises though! And please, NO MINORS!
✿ do you make recordings?
Yes, sometimes! I used to have a good Youtube channel but it got reported and taken down multiple times, so you can't find my stuff there anymore. You can find my stuff on Tumblr under the tag #my-wavs on my blog. Here's a link
✿ where can I find your fics?
My fics are all tagged #dustyfic on Tumblr. You can find my fic master list here and I'll try to keep it up to date!
In a Crowded Room (There's Only You) - H/R Fic, Il/ya allergies
She did it! She wrote a proper H/R snzfic one-shot with a plot and everything! Cause I've only been thinking/dreaming/scheming things with these two in my brain for 5 months like the rest of you.
Inspired by a post I saw on here about sneezing in a crowded club/bar. There are some Long Game minor spoilers in here and some characters introduced in other books (Ryan, Fabian) but if you haven't been introduced to them, it should still make sense! Enjoy :)
And this, like my blog, is 18+.
----
It's not that Sh/ane hates clubs, per se. It's just that he'd rather enjoy music or be forced to dance in a settling that wasn't quite so...close? Strobe-lit? Hot in the way a place gets when there's too many bodies too crammed in together?
He cranes his neck to see Il/ya making his way through the crowd towards their spot at the back near the soundboard where the crush of bodies isn't as overwhelming. The success of Fabian's latest album is exciting but it means the venues where he plays have gotten bigger along with the amount of people at his shows.
They always end up near the back of Fabian's shows because of Ryan. He's so tall, it's the only place where he doesn't block anyone's view. And frankly, Shane is okay with it because it also allows a certain amount of anonymity. Every since he and Ilya were outed and became teammates for the Centaurs, his public profile has risen to a level higher than ever before. Now, it's not only hockey fans that recognize the pair, but anyone who watches the news. The media can't get enough of the fact that two professional athletes play on the same team (literally and metaphorically).
As if on cue, Shane sees Ilya stop and exchange a few brief words with a guy in the crowd, leaning in to pose for a selfie. The man, a lithe redhead, roars with laughter at something Ilya has said, and Shane feels a little tinge of jealously flare in his stomach. It’s not that he would ever suspect Ilya of cheating; they're still as obsessed with each other as ever. And it's easy to see why Ilya is drawing attention from the crowd. He's wearing a tight mesh black top that clings to every inch of his chest in a way that had Shane suggesting they skip the concert altogether when they'd started to get ready earlier that evening.
“Hi,” Ilya says in Shane's ear, finally reaching their spot. He presses a cold glass into Shane's hand as he tucks himself behind his back. “Sorry – too many people.”
Shane sips at the cold beer, trying to ignore the sweat pooling along his spine in the closeness of the room. Ilya's hips are tucked against his and Shane can feel the muscle of Ilya's chest against his shoulder blades. He leans back a little against his husband and Ilya tucks his head over Shane's shoulder.
“I'm glad we came,” Ilya says over the opening act's final notes. “I'm excited to hear his new stuff.”
The lighting in the club shifts dramatically as an electronic hum fills the speakers. The crowd chatters with excitement as a technician swaps a few cables onstage and sets out Fabian's violin. There's another flourish of lights, a burst of stage haze, and Fabian emerges to a thunderous cheer from the crowd.
And then the hush. The crowd goes quiet as the first notes fill the air and Shane relaxes a little, trying to get lost in the sound of the strings and Fabian's voice.
There's a slight jostle of people still as the crowd inches forward and latecomers try to get a better view of the stage. Someone hits Shane's elbow and he barely manages to not spill his beer. A group of giggling women pass in front of them, trying to get to the bar but they're blocked by the roped-off soundboard. They pause to survey the scene and Shane nearly chokes when it hits him – the scent of a flowery perfume applied so heavily that he can practically taste it.
From behind him, there's an irritated sniffle from Ilya, inhaled close to Shane's ear.
Instantly, the blood rushes to Shane's cheeks. The sound of Ilya's sniffles is not novel. In fact, come springtime, it's so present that it reaches the point of annoyance. But here, in the closeness of this club and with Ilya pressed against his back, it portends the inevitable – Ilya is going to start sneezing.
And, the thing is, Ilya's sneezing does something to Shane. Something primal and inexplicable and embarrassing and sweet and all together too overwhelming to happen in a crowded club.
“Christ,” Ilya mutters into Shane's ear and his nose presses against Shane's shoulder, giving a sharp rub against the fabric of Shane's t-shirt. “Did she take a bath in that shit?”
Shane can already hear the falter in Ilya's voice and he doesn't need to turn around to know the expression that's forming on his husband's face. He can see it so clearly in his mind: the slight furrow of his brows, the barely parted lips, the fluttering eyelashes.
Ngh-TXGHT!
Ilya jerks into Shane, his head bobbing in and out of Shane's peripheral vision.
The crowd of women have moved on, but the damage is done.
Hehh—eh'TSGHT!
There's a low rumble of Ryan's voice offering a “bless you” and Shane nearly tells him not to bother. There's going to be no end in sight to this.
Shane stares at Fabian, trying desperately to focus on the performance. He takes a deep, steadying breath even as he feels Ilya's own breath rush in and then – Nhhh-TSGHT! Tsh'GGHT!
Ilya's vodka glass is now on a nearby ledge, abandoned in favour of one hand around Shane's waist and the other rubbing at his offended nose. Ilya tucks his head back against Shane's neck and trails the edge of nose briefly along the skin there.
Shane closes his eyes, fighting the building desire. Ilya knows exactly what effect his sneezes have on Shane by this point and he's clearly trying to take advantage of it.
“Not here,” Shane growls softly. “Jesus, Ilya.”
“Can't help it,” Ilya whines into his ear. “So itchy...I....heh...ehh-TSGHT!”
Mercifully, Ilya is stifling the sneezes but Shane feels a small rush of warm air as Ilya sneezes against his t-shirt.
Concussion recognition tools, Shane thinks, trying to bring his focus to the most boring thing he can think of at present. They'd recently reviewed concussion protocols for their Game Changers hockey camps. What are the reasons you should immediately call an ambulance? Neck pain...double vision...loss of consciousness...
TSHH! Hehh'khtshh!—eh’tsghtt!
Ilya's hips are pressing against Shane's ass as he sneezes and Ilya is holding on to Shane...he is fucking doing it on purpose. And it's working. Shane can feel the insistent press against the fly of his jeans. Thank god the club is dark.
“Are you alright?” Ryan asks, staring at Ilya.
There's a thick sniffle next to Shane's ear and then the low rumble of Ilya's voice, now congested-sounding.
“Some had on too much perfume. Sorry – this happens -I just – I –ehh—hehh'TSGHTT!”
Shane has to bite his lip to stop a moan as Ilya bumps against his ass again.
“Maybe we should step outside?” he says through gritted teeth. “Get some air?”
“Yes, good idea,” Ilya agrees.
They make their way across the back of the club – Ilya still occasionally shuddering with suppressed sneezes and Shane trying to subtly hold his hands over his crotch.
Ilya shoulders open an exit door past the bathrooms that leads out to an alley behind the club. It's a warm summer night and insects buzz around a nearby utility light mounted by the door.
“Oh my god,” Shane groans, leaning against the brick wall of the building. “You can't do that in public, Ilya.”
“Do what?” Ilya says innocently, coming towards Shane and reaching down to palm over his jeans. “Make you so hard you nearly cry?”
“I swear, either you stay out here until you stop...until you stop doing you know what...or we might as well just call it a night and go home now,” Shane says, pushing Ilya's hand away even though he wants nothing more than to be touched.
“Or we could -”
“I am not letting you give me a hand job in a back alley downtown, Ilya.”
Shane looks up at his husband for the first time since the perfume assault, and a rush of affection and desire washes over him. Ilya's nose is pink at the edges and his eyes are starting to water.
“Especially not like this,” Shane adds, reaching up to thumb a bit of irritation away from Ilya's eyelashes.
Ilya sniffles and shrugs.
“Fine. Longer we wait, less I sneeze.”
“I know that isn't true,” Shane says with a smirk as he takes out his phone to call their car service. He taps a few buttons on an app and pockets the phone again. “They'll be on the side street in two minutes.”
“Fine,” Ilya concedes. “Only cause they always have tissues in the cars and I need one. But while we wait, I will tell you what I will do to you when we get home.”
Holy shit, pollen count. I was outside for a bit doing some yard work and then relaxing. I've been inside for about an hour and now my eyes and throat are super itchy and....there's this. Hitching, itchy, and insistent.
Paging @sadmencentral cause based on your content this is gonna send you into orbit lol. We’ve got an allergic tears Hud/son alert
And as someone in Ontario this week, I can verify- very bad allergy week. Insane pollen counts. My eyes were itchy for two days straight and I’m already medicated.
inspired by @coldexposure's excellent post. i don't know where these two came from, but this prompt was too good to resist! early 20th century, artsy, libertine, international crowd, imagine something similar to the bloomsbury group. m/m. as usual for me, too much exposition for my own good.
(i was also intrigued to discover, after some cursory research, that medicinal cigarettes actually worked in some cases, even to the point of the benefits outweighing, in the moment at least, the inflammation caused to the lungs by the act of smoking. it seems counterintuitive, but the more you know!)
Lounging around after sex was a most agreeable occupation, Llewellyn thought – particularly when the sex had taken place mid-afternoon, a fair amount of energy had been expended by both parties and the bed was the well-worn double that took up almost all of Willem's attic room.
He stretched, relishing the feeling of cool sheets on his skin, and rolled over. With his chin propped on a hand, it was the perfect position in which to ogle his companion.
Willem was a lovely creature when clothed; he was even more divine stretched stark naked amongst a rumple of bedclothes, sunlight spilling through the window to limn the languid curve of his hip in gold. Moles were scattered across his body, silent instructions, kiss me here, and here, and here. They formed a trail that led up to his throat. Llewellyn was not by nature a possessive man – willingness to share was a virtue in their circles – but something about seeing his friend like this, a glimpse inside a locket that was usually kept tightly shut, made him want to set a guard by the door.
"Htsshhuhhh!"
There was also that.
Dragging himself upright, Willem rubbed the tip of his nose. It was as lovely as the rest of him, straight and perhaps a touch too large for his face. Currently it was also red, particularly around the quivering nostrils, and glistening slightly on its underside. His eyes were the same, red-rimmed and leaving shiny tear-tracks down his flushed cheeks. Most everything set Willem off, from Llewellyn's cologne (which he had foregone) to the lush, yellow-dusted catkins of the tree outside his window. It was mid-May, and the room was unbearable with the window closed, but Willem was suffering for it. The catkins, and his most delightful sensitivity: the tendency to sneeze when aroused.
"Verdomme..." Willem muttered. He tilted his head back so a tear ran off his dew-damp eyelashes and down his face, lingering on his jaw. A hand went back to his nose, rubbing it thoughtlessly. The action made it run, and he sniffled hard, but he'd done so much sniffling and sneezing while they fucked that his sinus were audibly packed tight, the sound a painful, blocked squelch. It seemed to provoke his nose again; he snapped forward: "Ht'issshhuhhh! Itsschh! Snff!"
Llewellyn inched up the bed and caressed Willem's thigh. "You sound awfully bunged up."
"It's the damned... trees..." Willem gestured towards the window while blinking rapidly, red, twitching nostrils glowing in the light. "Huhhh... hhiHH'Huhtssch! Atschsshh'uhh..!"
There was a catch to the last sneeze, a slight wheeze in the gasp that followed it. Llewellyn sat up more and studied Willem closely. Since last winter he'd been unable to dismiss his friend's asthma as easily as Willem clearly wished everyone would.
As if he could sense his thoughts, Willem gave him a look. Llewellyn tilted his head meaningfully; Willem sighed, but there was a rattle in the sound, and he reluctantly fumbled on the bedside table for a handkerchief.
"Here." Llewellyn passed him the one that had been under a pillow, but had been put in as much disarray as the rest of the bedding by their activities.
Willem sat forward to blow his nose; from the sound of it, he was putting more effort into it than he was getting relief. He folded the handkerchief and coughed into it afterwards. Llewellyn's hand went to his shoulder, steadying, instinctually, which meant he felt the tremors as Willem's chest began to jerk again –
"Uhhh... hhiHhh... ohHh, for God's saHhh-Atsschh! Ehhtschhh! Atsschh!! Huhh... EHhhhtschhh!"
"Bless you, love." Llewellyn squeezed Willem's shoulder while he tried to blow his nose again. He got much the same result, and resorted to squeezing and wiping it while snuffling uselessly, knuckling at one eye. "Are you sure your head isn't going to fall off?"
"Sorry..." Willem said faintly. "I think I need to..."
He went back to the bedside table, this time fumbling a cigarette from a small red carton. Had he a lighter to hand, Llewellyn would've offered it; instead he revelled in the sight of Willem's eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he looked down in concentration, lighting the cigarette.
The first drag made him cough; a distinctly herbal, medicinal scent, like a menthol cough drop, reached Llewellyn's nostrils. He was amused to notice Willem's twitching frantically almost immediately.
"Oh dear," he murmured, smiling. Willem scowled at him, pulling on the cigarette more deliberately, but the next smoky exhale had already sealed his fate:
"Etschh!" It burst from him with no prelude, snapping him forward, so itchy it sounded unfinished. "Huhh'Etschhuhh! HahhHh- Tssch! Ihhtssh! Etsschuh! Hhih... ihHh... Itsschh!! Itsschh! Itsshh!!'tsshh!'tsshh!"
Llewellyn's hand was still on Willem's shoulder throughout the convulsive fit, and he could feel every shudder, see the the muscles in his stomach tense over and over again as he curled in on himself. Despite it all, the cigarette burned undisturbed between Willem's fingers; it was somehow that maddening display of elegance that made arousal pool in Llewellyn's stomach.
"Good God, that was quite a production," he said, with a nonchalance he certainly didn't feel.
Willem unfurled and blinked up at him. His eyes, bloodshot around deep brown irises that always reminded Llewellyn of a baby deer, were streaming. As was – oh. His nose was running over his lips; moving as if in a dream, he brought the handkerchief to it and gave a long, liquid blow. A gasp of relief followed it that was almost obscene; Llewellyn had to wrestle down the urge to kiss this delightful man. Not least because he'd probably suffocate him.
After a few more blows, and an awful lot of rubbing his nose through the fabric, Willem emerged, scrunching his irritated eyes and sighing. His cheeks pinkened as he took another drag of the cigarette.
"Sorry," he said again. "It's a bit dramatic, but it's the only thing that clears my head."
"So I see." Llewellyn grinned as Willem lightly hit him in the arm with the hand his handkerchief was balled in. "Don't apologise; I should be sorry for the part I played in getting you to that state."
"No, you should not." Willem leant in, looking up at Llewellyn through his lashes in a puckish way, and he really couldn't resist pressing a kiss to those parted lips. Just a fleeting contact. He could almost taste the medicinal cigarette.
"Htsshhuhhh!!" Willem barely managed to move, sneezing freely into the space between them. Some of the spray ghosted over Llewellyn's thigh. "Oh god..."
"Spring really isn't your season, is it, love?"
Willem glared. Then he let his head rest against Llewellyn's shoulder with a long sigh.
Thinking about an absolutely pathetic wet dog of a person with a streaming head cold, nostrils chapped red and dripping, standing outside in the freezing snow, hands shaking as they take a drag off their cigarette
Apparently giving I/lya sinus issues has come back as karma to hit me with a stupidly clogged nose this week. So I might as well share the goods here lol. Please enjoy some sneezes into stifles into a few coughs in the middle. And then a finale of some soupy-sounding stifles. I am going to go take some meds now.....
I know in my soul that with strangers/colleagues/most folks this man is full on Soviet stoicism and "what the fuck are you looking at?" when he's sick around them, but around Shane is he is biggest whiny diva lmao.
Not someone snoring through congestion (although that is cute too!) but that whistly sound of breath moving through the tightening constriction of mounting congestion and swollen sinuses.
Especially if it IS in their sleep. ESPECIALLY if it's the thing that tips someone else off to the fact that something is off, whether it be a cold they're coming down with or the pollen count spiking.
A little H/eated R/ivalry one-shot based off of this post I made about the uniquely Canadian treasure that is Buckley's Cough Syrup.
---
Shane added the last scoop of protein powder to the blender and pulsed the smoothie until it was fully mixed. As he poured it into a glass, the bedroom door opened and Ilya emerged, bundled in a hoodie and joggers with their duvet around his shoulders.
“Sorry, did I wake you with the blender?” Shane asked.
“No,” Ilya grumbled, flopping down on the couch. “Was awake. Need a change of scenery.”
“Did you get any sleep?”
“Some.”
“Are you feeling any better?” Shane continued.
“Shane, it is just a cold. I will live.”
And right on cue, as if his body was out to prove otherwise, Ilya began to cough. He tucked his face into the duvet, curling forward and muffling the hoarse barks with the thick blanket.
Smoothie abandoned on the counter, Shane went to sit next to Ilya.
“Hey,” he said softly. “That sounds pretty painful.”
“It will pass,” Ilya replied hoarsely as the coughs died down. He rubbed at his nose wearily. “I am fine, Shane.”
“I would feel better if you took something. You're not going to get any rest with a cough like that. There's some DayQuil tablets in the medicine cabinet and -”
“Shane,” Ilya interrupted. “I said I'm fine. You can make me better without stupid whatever you call it orange gel pills.”
He flopped sideways into Shane's lap, nestling his head against Shane's thigh. Shane's fingers went automatically to Ilya's curls, tracing gentle circles against his scalp.
“If I got some cough syrup, would you take that?” Shane asked.
“No, I'm comfy. Don't move.”
“Ilya...”
Hehhh...ehh'TSGHHHT!
Shane flinched as the man in his lap sneezed damply against his thigh and then snorted back a thick sniffle.
“Ilya, we have practice early tomorrow and there's no way I'm sleeping in the same bed as you if you're keeping me awake coughing all night,” Shane said.
Ilya turned his head and glared up at Shane from under the shelter of the duvet.
“You wouldn't.”
“Oh I absolutely would. I'll sleep in the guest room.”
Ilya cleared his throat with a cough, nuzzling his head against Shane's leg.
“Fine. I will drink your stupid syrup. Why is this country so obsessed with syrup?”
Shane leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Ilya's temple.
“Good. I'm going to get a truly Canadian cough syrup. It'll be a cultural experience for you.”
“Will you also get ice cream if you're going out?” Ilya asked.
“Ice cream is bad for you when you have a cold. Makes more mucus.”
“That is why I will drink syrup – so that I can have ice cream after,” Ilya retorted.
Shane rolled his eyes as he gently transferred Ilya's head from his thigh to a throw pillow.
“I will get ice cream. Any other requests?”
“No. Come back quick.”
---
Shane returned with shopping bag in hand to find Ilya still bundled up on the couch, but now with the tissue box resting on his lap and several discarded tissues scattered around the coffee table and floor.
He deposited the bag on the kitchen counter and went into the powder room, grabbing the trash can and passing it over the back of the couch to Ilya.
“I swear, if you get me sick with your gross tissues all over the place, I will exact my revenge when you least expect it.”
“We share a bed, Hollander,” Ilya rasped. “Too late to worry about tissues. I will cough on your pillow.”
“Not after you drink this,” Shane replied, removing a small plastic bottle from the shopping bag.
Ilya squinted at the label.
“Buckley's?”
“Uniquely Canadian, since 1919,” Shane said as he broke the seal on the bottle cap and dug in the kitchen drawer for a teaspoon. “You can mix it with honey, if you want.”
“I can just drink it,” Ilya said. “Can't be worse than Russian mix of vodka with garlic juice. Should've told you to just buy some garlic.”
Shane quirked an eyebrow but didn't say anything as he handed the spoonful of liquid to Ilya.
“I recommend you drink it like a shot,” he advised.
Ilya tipped the spoon into his mouth and swallowed. And then gagged.
“What the fuck is that, Hollander?” he choked out, his eyes starting to water. “Oh my god. Tastes like a rotten pine tree. But also spicy?”
He coughed harshly and reached for a tissue, spitting in to it.
“I hope you bought good ice cream. I will need it to forgot that taste.”
Shane laughed and leaned over, kissing the top of Ilya's head.
“They had an ad campaign for a while that said it tastes like a hockey puck.”
“No,” Ilya replied, still making faces from the taste. “Have tasted a puck. That stuff is worse.”
“But it works,” Shane said. “You already sound less stuffed up.”
“Shane. Focus. Ice cream, please.”
Shane took out the pint of ice cream and grabbed a spoon from the drawer, passing both to Ilya.
“Your reward.”
Ilya reached out and grabbed Shane's hand.
“No. You will give me real reward later when this cold is gone.”
Canada has a famously awful-tasting cough medicine that only comes in syrup form. Buckley’s. See image below - they literally advertise it with “It tastes awful. And it works!” AND they’ve run a hockey ad.
I now need the fic of Shane introducing a sick!Ilya to this awful concoction.
Thinkin’ about that thing when someone is really sick with a wet cold and they’re carrying around a ratty tissue and coughing into it with those those little rough barking coughs that are just slightly productive sounding and it always ends with them having to wipe their nose because coughing makes their nose run and it’s just like bleghhhh all the snot trying to escape from their face from every way possible. And then those productive sneezes that immediately turn into a cough and there’s not enough tissues in the world to deal with the miserableness of it.
Part 4 of my untitled, slightly indulgent H/eated R/ivalry fic.
Part 1 is here
Part 2 is here
Part 3 is here
-
The fluorescent lighting in the Pharmaprix feels oppressively bright as S/hane stalks up and down the aisles with his hoodie up, filling a basket with the essentials to survive the drive to Ottawa: cold medicine, cough drops, a large bottle of water, a box of tissues, and a few protein bars. Back in his Jeep, he takes a dose of the medicine and gulps down water until his thirst is temporarily sated. The last stop before the highway is the Tim Horton's drive-thru for a steeped tea that he sips as he takes the on-ramp towards Ottawa.
The drive feels twice as long in the dark as he tries to stay focused on the road while breathing solely through his mouth. His nose keeps dripping down the back of his throat, making him cough and snort every few minutes. It's not long before he's drank the whole tea and is back to the water bottle, trying to stay hydrated in his battle against the dry winter air versus his sore throat.
Ottawa is getting closer by the minute and Shane's energy is draining with equal speed. There's an uncomfortable buzz in his nose that he keeps pressing his palm against his nostrils to quell but it finally builds to the inevitable sneeze and he's too focused on driving to shield his nose, instead sneezing openly – something he rarely does.
Hurhh-TSGCHHH! Ehh—hehh—TSCHHHT!
Snot pools down his lip and mists the steering wheel with small droplets.
“Ugh,” Shane groans, fumbling for the tissue box and trying to clean himself up as he takes the exit towards Ilya's neighbourhood. It's just past midnight and the streets are quiet as Shane stops at a red light and mops his face with a Kleenex.
“Text mom,” he says hoarsely as he presses the phone button on his steering wheel. “I'm almost there.”
When he pulls into Ilya's driveway, the house is mostly dark except for the front foyer where his mom stands waiting in the doorway. She comes outside to help him with his bags, first gathering him into her arms as he climbs out of the driver's seat.
“Hi baby,” she says gently, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
Shane feels small as he melts into her embrace, letting his head rest on her shoulder for a moment. She pulls back to look at him, feeling his forehead with her hand.
“No fever,” she says.
“No, just a cold,” he agrees. “I took medicine before I left Montreal. How is he?”
“Sleeping,” Yuna says as she collects Shane's luggage from the trunk. “Poor thing's been so congested and sore it's been hard for him to rest. I think the new medicine is helping.”
“I'm really glad you were here,” Shane says softly as they enter the house. “I didn't want to leave.”
“Of course,” Yuna says. “I came as soon as he texted. I was glad he trusted me enough to ask.”
“Me too, Shane replies.
“Are you hungry?” she asks. “There's soup I can heat up for you, or something else?”
“I just want to sleep, honestly. But thank you.”
“Okay,” Yuna says, reaching out to hug him again. “Maybe the guest room? I suspect there's a lot of snoring going on in there.”
She nods her head towards Ilya's room.
“Yeah right,” Shane says, leaning into her hug. “I'll move later if I need to. But I need to see him. We'll be alright for the night if you want to go home.”
“It's late,” she says. “I'll just sleep in the other guest room and we'll decide in the morning if you want me to stay.”
Shane nods as she kisses his cheek and releases him.
“Get some rest. Just knock if you need anything.”
Shane digs out a pair of sweatpants from his travel bag and quietly opens Ilya's door, ducking into the darkened bedroom. There's the soft hum of something mechanical and Shane spots a steam humidifier by the bed, filling the room with a warm mist. It's one from his childhood that his mom always insisting he had in his bedroom whenever he was sick.
Ilya is reclined against a stack of pillows, mouth slightly open, face slackened with sleep and his cheeks flushed with swashes of pink. He is indeed snoring softly through his mouth and his nose...oh his poor nose, Shane thinks. It's red and tender-looking at the nostrils, shiny and chapped and swollen.
Shane goes into the ensuite and changes out of his travel clothes. There's a row of bottles on the counter now – a Neti-pot and saline plus a prescription nasal spray.
When he climbs carefully into bed beside Ilya, he notices that the sheets have been changed again since he left, though the room still smells vaguely of menthol Vicks. Ilya doesn't move when Shane shifts, trying to get comfortable. He lays still for a while, facing Ilya, trying to ignore the irritating shift of congestion in his nose as it pools on the far side of his sinuses.
He loves watching Ilya sleep. It's like seeing another man he only gets glimpses of at the cottage or in rare moments alone in their homes during the hockey season. This Ilya is soft - younger looking and unguarded. His mouth is slightly open and his pink lips are chapped along the arch of his cupid's bow from wiping his nose. Shane has the sudden urge to gather Ilya in his arms and smear chapstick all over those lips.
But he's exhausted and sick too, and finally he slips into sleep. The next thing Shane knows, he's waking to the sound of something clattering to the floor and the suffocating heat of a 6'3” feverish Russian.
Ilya is disoriented, reaching for something on the nightstand and now there's a water bottle rolling across the rug and a bottle of pills under the bed.
“Hey,” Shane murmurs, reaching over and touching Ilya's back. Ilya tenses, head whipping around, eyes bright and slightly scary looking in the dark bedroom. He looks at Shane for a terrifying moment, not recognizing who Shane is or the fact that they're safe at home in Ilya's bed in Ottawa.
“Hollander?” he says breathlessly after a few tense seconds, his face slacking into a congested, exhausted expression. “Oh my god, you're here.”
“Yeah, I'm here,” Shane confirms, sitting up and reaching to settle Ilya back down against the pillows. “I'm here.”
Ilya closes his eyes, reaching up to pinch at the spot on his nose just below his eyebrows. He mutters something in Russian, face wincing with discomfort.
“What were you reaching for?” Shane asks softly. “Water? Do you need more medicine?”
He glaces at the clock to see it's just past 3:30 in the morning.
Ilya has opened his eyes again and he's staring at Shane in the dark.
“You are sick,” he says. “I got you sick.”
“I mean, it was a bit inevitable,” Shane replies, sitting up and reaching to feel Ilya's forehead. It's radiating a steady heat. “It's just a cold though. I'm alright. You, however, need more Advil.”
Ilya makes a soft sound of agreement.
“I think it's under the bed now,” he rasps, starting to move his legs to get out of bed.
“Yeah, no,” Shane says, putting a hand on Ilya's legs and pulling them back. “I've got it.”
He climbs out of bed and searches the dark until he finds the bottle. Once Ilya has taken the dose, Shane lingers at the bedside.
“Do you need more cold medicine too?”
“No,” Ilya replies, although he's so congested that it sounds more like 'd'oh'. “No. You are sick too. Come back to bed.”
Shane crawls back under the sheets and Ilya tangles himself up in Shane's arms, clinging to him.
“I'm sorry,” Ilya murmurs against Shane's chest.
“It's okay,” Shane replies. Ilya is sweaty and too hot, and Shane's skin is crawling with the dual desires to both pull away and to cling tighter. “I'm sorry you got worse. I wish I'd been here.”
He shifts, sitting up a bit to put a pillow between Ilya's sweaty skin and his own, guiding the feverish man into a more comfortable elevated position. Ilya doesn't protest – he's basically listless, flopping around easily with Shane's guidance. His head is heavy against the pillow between them, pressing into Shane's shoulder with his full weight.
“Your mom is the best,” he mumbles wearily. “She helped me.”
“She is the best,” Shane agrees, stroking Ilya's hair. “Now go back to sleep.”
“I want to,” Ilya says. “But it's like my head is full of cement.”
He sniffles as if to demonstrate but it's a thick, heavy sound with barely any air getting in. He turns to cough into the pillow and the resulting noise makes Shane's heart clench – it's crackly wet and painful.
“Just the gunk from my head going down my throat,” he croaks. “Doctor said it's normal.”
They recline quietly for a few minutes, fingers entwined, united in their discomfort from the colds and the comfort of being together again. Shane is just starting to feel himself drift off again when Ilya's breath hitches rapidly.
“Dammit...” Ilya grumbles, breath catching and stuttering as he fights off an impending sneeze before he suddenly pitches forward into a raised corner of the blanket.
Ehh-GSXHHT! Nhh'GSXHTT!
“Owwww,” Ilya growls in the aftermath of the two partially-stifled sneezes. “Fuck.”
He fumbles in the dark for a tissue and gives a short, gurgling blow.
“Oww,” he says again, his voice softer as he presses his fingertips to his sinuses.
“That doesn't sound good either,” Shane says sympathetically, reaching up and gently trailing his fingertips along the ridges of Ilya's fever-flushed cheeks.
“Is fine,” Ilya says sleepily, letting the tissue drop from his hand to the nightstand and flopping against Shane again. “Just hurts when I sneeze. Stupid infection.”
They lapse into quiet again, punctuated only by occasional sniffles from each of them, until they're asleep.
When Shane wakes it's to the quiet buzz of his cell phone on the nightstand signalling his alarm. It's six - his usual waking time to hit the gym and have a smoothie before practice. He grabs the phone to silence it and types out a quick message to the team management text thread indicating he's going to miss the optional practice today due to illness.
He shuts off the phone screen and curls back up in bed. The cold in Shane's system has finally fully settled in – his sinuses are clogged, his throat is sore, and his ears are muffled. There's something about the combination of the disruption to his routine and the way illness makes his body feel that sends him into full anxiety mode. As he lays still, trying to ignore the sound of Ilya's snores and the dull throb in his congested ears, the tension builds under his skin, making every last inch of it prickle until he wants to scream. He slams a pillow over his head, trying to block out the early morning light and the sounds and the sensations, but it's all too much. He's supposed to be up and moving at this hour, not trapped in bed.
He climbs out from under the covers and grabs one of Ilya's hoodies from the dresser. With his runners in hand, he goes down to Ilya's home gym in the basement and puts on the shoes before stepping on to the treadmill, starting out at a fast walk. Even though he has to breathe through his mouth to get enough air and his legs feel a bit like jelly, the steady movement is soothing.
But, of course, his body doesn't want to obey. He can feel a twinge in his nose, gathering to a sharp sting and he blindly reaches for the stop button on the treadmill, desperate to get off the machine before the inevitable. There's a gym towel just in reach that he barely manages to raise to his face as he sneezes harshly.
Ahh—heh-SGHHGHT!
His nose gushes into the towel and drips down his lip, leaving a trail from his nostrils. He sniffles thickly and then immediately has to sneeze again.
Hehh-ehh—ehhTSGHHH! Ugh.....
Left with no other option, he blows his nose into the towel and balls it up, setting it aside for later laundering. He tucks a fresh one over his shoulder and starts up the treadmill again.
“Shane?”
A voice calls down the stairs – his mom. She appears a moment later, dressed in her pyjamas.
“I thought I heard someone down here,” she says. “Honey, what are you doing?”
“Morning workout,” Shane says and then he swallows, surprised by the gravely sound of his own voice.
“You're sick, Shane,” Yuna says. “You need to be resting. At least come upstairs and let me make you some tea. Did you take any medicine this morning?”
She knows he's bad at being sick; this is not a new thing. As a kid, he'd panic as soon as he felt the beginnings of a cold and would chug orange juice in an attempt to ward off the germs. He'd charge forward through practices and games until Yuna would put her foot down and make him stay home. Even then, he'd pace in front of the daytime TV game shows until he was simply too tired to stay upright any more. He's thinking about that now – the delirious hours spent watching “The Price is Right”. He doesn't realize his mom has crossed the room until her hand is pressed against the small of his back and her other hand is pressing the treadmill's power button.
“C'mon,” she says, putting her arm around his middle. “Come upstairs.”
He allows himself to be led up to the kitchen and seated at one of the stools along the island. Two orange pills and a glass of water are placed in front of Shane and he takes the medicine as Yuna sets a kettle to boil and pulls out two of Ilya's coffee cups.
“Did you at least get some sleep overnight?” she asks softly.
Shane nods.
“Yeah, some. Ilya woke up around three-something with his fever up. But we fell back asleep.”
“You didn't even get here until past midnight. You should try to sleep more. Maybe try the guest room?” she suggests. “Or out here on the couch?”
“I'm not tired,” Shane counters, his leg bouncing anxiously as he stares at Ilya's countertop, fingers tracing the patterns in the granite.
The kettle reaches a boil and Yuna presses a mug of hot tea into Shane's grip.
“Drink, at least,” she says. “Once the medicine kicks in, you'll feel a little better and you can go back to bed.”
----
To be continued...with what plot? I'm open lol. Tell me what you want to see!
