💌🤧

23! she/her 18+

[snifflybabe]

i think hollander is sick

i wrote this purely for fun. it's also kind of hot. indirect sequel to hollander and rozanov share a cold. the people of the internet realize shane hollander is sick? voyeurism?

~ i think hollander is sick

[Video footage clearly shot from a phone camera, shakily zooming in on the Metro’s bench. Hollander is talking to his winger, then suddenly, as if struck by lightning, stiffens and turns away. He’s had a towel in his hand, but he brings it up now over his face. His body shakes a few times before he lowers the towel, blinks, and turns back to Pike. Pike puts a hand on his shoulder and jostles him lightly. Says something. Hollander shifts and looks apologetic.] 

~ omg he’s so cute. was he sneezing???? 

[Quote-tweet of the video of Hollander and Pike.]

there’s a rumor holzy has bad allergies, maybe something was bothering him 

yeAH i think he was

no def, i think he’s fighting something rn. im looking and there’s a clip of him at warmups someone took where he sounds kinda congested my poor baby

omg he’s so polite with it im going to die

~ Go Metros!! hollander def sick. still won the game, that’s our fucking boy. 

[screenshot of Hollander talking to press post-game. He’s pressing a knuckle to the side of his nose and his face is scrunched up as he looks at the reporter.] 

i bet he’s pissed. holzy literally never gets sick 

24 fuckin killed it this game

Hollander is a fucking god 

yeah he has a cold or something

~ when the rivalry is too good that u both have to catch colds to even it out. 

[Quote-tweet of Rozanov from last week.] [Rozanov is leaving a restaurant, looking decidedly annoyed as he throws his sleeve over his face and sneezes. He’s clearly intended to keep walking, but he stumbles as he continues to sneeze and stops, bending forward. He eventually retreats from his elbow and growls at the camera, “You don’t even say bless you after filming me?” Rozanov continues towards an orange sportscar, hands in his pockets, muttering in Russian.]

he’s so fucking hot. i’d take care of him. give me a thermometer and a box of tissues (and a very slutty nurse costume) and i’ll take very good care... 

rozanov sneezes a lot i don’t think he was sick here 

 are u new to hockey?  roz sneezes all the time lol. <link> Ilya Rozanov Sneezing Compilation 

thought he would have dad sneezes. but he sounds more like he’s moaning

 oh, to be his puck bunny. 

No one has so far, so i’ll say it. bless you! bless you!! mr. ilya rozanov. Bless you, sir. 

~ my shaneeeee. his nose is so cute 

[Picture of Hollander smiling. It’s wide enough that the bridge of his nose is wrinkled and his freckles are coming together.] [Picture of Hollander itching under his nose, turned away from the camera so it’s a full side-profile.] [Picture of Hollander at the latest game walkout, suited-up, pinching the bridge of his nose and angling into his shoulder.] 

i’m going to put his nose in a museum 

they write books about faces like this 

awww i think he was about to sneeze in the third pic. 

— 

Trending:

Taylor Swift 

#LoveWins 

Hollander trending with sneeze. 

Caitlyn Jenner. 

#WorldCup

__

Jane: we won so shut up 

Lily: but u had to sneeze so much... poor Jane. 

Lily: the cold i give you is trending on twitter, did you know that? 

Jane: i’m fine asshole. you barely even got me sick. 

Lily: u look nice with my cold 

Lily: maybe i’ll give you another one

Lily: u want this cock so much. 

Lily: [image attached] 

Jane: you’re so weird 

Lily: you got hard didn’t you? 

Jane: no 

Lily: you are a bad liar 

[blesser-in-disguise]

Notify Me (But Actually Don't) Part One

ok, sooo I have been writing this one on and off since like february, as my lil self-indulgent background piece, and I thought it should finally see the light of day. it's very overtly snzkink s/hane, especially the second part, so if that's not your vibe, I would maybe skip these (lol skip). I wanted to play with the whole text based relationship thing, and I originally wrote out a lot more of i/lya's update texts but then cut them bc it was kinda tedious to read, by which I mean I actually fell asleep proofreading it. anywayyy, here's part one.

I hope you enjoy! ♡

fandom: h/eated r/ivalry

word count: 5.1k

cw: sneezing, snz kink, general illness, mentions of contagion

Shane ran his thumb back and forth across the bottom of his phone, staring at Ilya's contact, debating calling. He had only a few minutes before he'd need to head into the arena for the game and he would really like his anxiety level by then to be about half of what it was now.

When they'd spoken last night, Ilya had mentioned having a pretty bad headache, half his face scrunched up against the dim light of the lamp he seemed to have turned on only to talk to Shane, two fingers rubbing incessantly at his temples. He'd been sniffly too, although he was almost always at least a little sniffly, and it hadn't taken either of them very long to connect the dots to a flu that was making the rounds in their conference, principally because of the fact that a good quarter of the Centaurs were currently out with it.

So the fact that Shane couldn't get him to reply to a text currently was more than a little worrying. The last three texts he'd sent- “Ilya. Ilyaa. ILYA.”- had been more than 30 minutes ago, and the blond hadn't so much as read them.

Shane glanced over his shoulder into the back of the car, checking he had everything he'd need this evening. Nope, clearly he didn't because there wasn't a gorgeous blond Russian man curled up asleep there. Not that he’d feel particularly good about leaving his probably sick boyfriend in the fucking car while he amused himself on the ice for a few hours. Which is what this game would be, amus-

The phone buzzing in his hand came as such a shock that he almost dropped it, head whipping back to the device to read the notification.

LILY: whatttttt

LILY: I am alive

He sighed in relief, double checking the time before typing out a quick response.

YOU: Ok good. Stay that way. I love you. Keep me updated on how you’re doing, please.

And then with a click, the phone was off, and he was hopping out of the car to grab his bags, the pre-game adrenaline already starting to flood into his system. Kit? Check. Boyfriend? Alive. Win? Incoming.

…

He didn’t get a chance to check his phone again until after warm-ups, having been the mostly unwilling mediator in a stupidly heated debate about if it would be better to be reincarnated as a hockey puck or a stick. These guys seriously had too many concussions under their belts.

Despite the extended departure from his phone, it hadn’t been that long, and Shane was borderline alarmed to find he had more text messages than his lock screen would provide a specific number for, having resorted to a simple “10+”.

He unlocked the device, scrolling through to see a plethora of short messages from Ilya.

LILY: i love you toooo

LILY: update- doing ok

LILY: update- still doing ok

LILY: update- drinking water

LILY: update-lost fucking tv remotw

LILY: update- found

And so on. For over 30 messages. Some of them Shane couldn’t decipher however, either due to misspellings or Romanized versions of Russian words that he couldn’t quite translate. One however, appeared many times over.

LILY: update- chikh

LILY: update- stolko chikhhhh

Shane frowned.

YOU: I’m glad you’re okay. What is ‘chikh’?

Ilya read the text immediately.

LILY: timing is crazy. you are psychic?

LILY: is like spxhhi

What the fuck did that mean?

“Hollander! He’s making the stupid tape point again, you gotta come tell him he’s wrong!” Fuck.

With an anxious glance back to the still bouncing ‘typing’ bubbles, Shane tossed his phone back into his stall and returned to his captain duties.

…

He hadn’t had a spare second to consider what the last messages had meant in the whole of the first period, their opponents coming out strong and not letting up the entire time. A stupid fight had left them shorthanded, and Shane was so focused on not letting the disadvantage tip the score, that he’d forgotten all about his boyfriend’s ‘condition’ until he was lining up for a face off, flying high off the relief of a goal.

His stick clicked against the ice, and he kept his eyes down, uninterested in meeting the opposing center’s fiery hot gaze. Before the puck could drop, he heard Hayden, off to his left, say, “The fuck are you doing, dude?”, and then a sound that snapped his attention across to the wing.

“hEh…Kkf- hUhTNGKk! hhUh…hHTNGXhoo!”

It seemed that the illness that had the Centaurs flat on their backs was also running rife through the Raiders. So it would have gotten Ilya even if he hadn’t move- Oh, fuck, Ilya! He was watching, probably, although how much of the actual game he was taking in with the distraction of his symptoms was anyone’s guess. And the symptoms themselves, echoing through his empty house, no one to acknowledge them, acknowledge him… it was a tragic mental image. Or at least that was what he was forcing himself to think. Because he’d give anything to be a fly on the wall in that house right about-

Head still tilted to the left, eyes distant, stick hovering nowhere particularly useful, Shane, unsurprisingly lost the face-off. Fucking-

He turned fast, sharp, anger and embarrassment creating a flush high on his cheeks, ready to give chase. Thankfully, the defense had closed ranks behind him, and, with their right winger still flagging, Boston had lost possession.

After thirty seconds of what was essentially just keep-away, and Shane glaring hard at the puck, and the players around him, and trying to stay focused, he was heading back to the bench, turning to Hayden as they sat down, seeing the frown on the winger’s face.

“Sorry.” He muttered.

“Huh?” Pike looked like he’d been pulled from deep thought, “For what?”

“I fucked up the puck drop.” He confessed, shocked that the alternate captain hadn’t already picked him up on it.

Hayden reached for the nearest bottle, skying the liquid into his mouth as he stared absently at the jumbotron, swallowing before responding, “It’s no big deal, we can’t win ‘em all, right?”

“…right.” He doubted that he’d take the same attitude to the game itself, so he needed to get it together. They all did. For the love of fuck, Coach had better yell some sense into them at intermission, or they’d be losing to a team of invalids who would probably pass along this flu for their trouble.

…

Trudging into the locker room at what barely remained a 1-1 draw, Shane felt his heart rate pick up, knowing he’d get to answer those questions that had been building up in his mind ever since he’d lost half his focus to his boyfriend just over halfway through the period. Nowhere near the ice and still stealing his attention. Remind him not to tell Ilya that when he saw him.

“He literally sneezed like, right in my face, I mean, can you believe that?” Hayden was still complaining as they made it to their stalls.

“Yeah- or, no, that’s wild.” The captain was more focused on retrieving his phone and checking for updates, stripping off the unnecessary layers one handed as he unlocked it.

“I think that counts as biological warfare, for real. I hate that dude. I think I’m starting to get the way you feel about Rozanov.”

“What?” He looked up, having been just about to click on the aforementioned player’s contact when his name was voiced.

Pike looked slightly taken aback by the speed with which he’d met his eyes. Well, he wasn’t exactly known for his love of eye contact at the best of times. He actually couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked into Hayden’s. “I’m just saying, who does that? Like yeah, he looked really pathetic about it afterwards, but like, cover your face, man. I almost feel sorry for him, but instead it’s just like pure…hatred.”

“Yeah.” You keep telling yourself that, buddy.

As Hayden considered his ‘hate’ for the opposing winger more quietly, Shane finally opened the message thread, and started back up where he’d left off.

LILY: I type wrong

LILY: still chikh

LILY: can not see

LILY: *apchhi

LILY: apchhi! apchhi! you know?

LILY: you know bc I do all fucking summer

Shane’s eyes went wide.

“You okay, man?” Hayden nudged him, lightly, but Shane almost dropped his phone all the same.

“Yeah, I- sorry, I have to take a call.” He headed out into the hallway, eyes skimming back over the messages. No way Ilya was…live texting him his fucking sneezes?

…

It had taken him a good minute to get his breathing under control enough to hit call on the contact and even as it rang, he found himself leaning back against the wall of the corridor to try and stop his head from spinning.

“Hello?” Ilya’s voice was destroyed, so muffled and broken that it sounded like the phone line was bad. Which it wasn’t because he could hear the TV playing commercials in perfect clarity in the background.

“Hi. I uh, just finished the first period.” He knows that, dumbass, he’s watching the game.

“I know.”

“Some of the stuff you were saying, I couldn’t understand it, so I just wanted to call and check you’re okay.”

“I am good. What couldn’t you understand?” He broke off to cough throatily away from the receiver.

“The um-” It was slightly easier, saying it in a different language, if he was saying what he thought he was saying, that was. “-the ‘chick’ thing?”

“Oh, chikh. I explain already, Shane, is like- wait. I will do for you.”

He would fucking WHAT?

There was a snorting sound on the other end of the line, and then some kind of soft tapping noise. Shane waited silently, breath baited.

“hH-here I go-hKk! Kkh! hHKSH! KKh! hKSHuH! hrRSH! HRSHH! hhAHSHhOo!”

“Bless you.” He whispered, pressing his back against the wall in the corridor as though he could disappear into it, stomach flipping so intensely he worried it would get caught in his ribs somehow. Why did the idea of Ilya doing…that… on purpose make him feel like he was about to pass out?

“Thank you. How you not understand, though? I spell it out and everything.”

“You said ‘apchi’. That’s not a sneeze.” He hissed. If he framed it like an argument, he could ignore the words coming out of his mouth, right?

“What is it in English then?” Ilya sounded less than bothered, vaguely interested but also like his real focus was elsewhere.

Shane clenched his jaw, heartbeat thudding in his ears at the thought of having to verbalise the stupid sound, “It’s like… it’s like ‘achoo’.” He wished for the ground to open up and swallow him.

“What? Who the fuck says ‘a-choo’? That’s stupid.”

“You literally did five seconds ago.”

“No, I didn’t.” He paused, evidently playing back the sounds he’d just made, in his head before conceding. “Is because I spend so long listening to idiot Americans and Canadians doing this, now I sound like idiot too.”

“Fuck off.” Shane pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to get his thoughts and his heartbeat and his dick under control. The idea of the sound of a sneeze being contagious… he could only hope Ilya hadn’t caught that strangled sounding thing that he’d just heard from their winger. “I have to go now.”

“Okay, I keep you updated.” There was a clear smile in his tone, and it did nothing to help the snowballing panic that was overwhelming the Canadian. Ilya was taking over his fucking brain, and he needed that to play. Not everyone did, clearly, but for him hockey was a mind game, which kind of necessitated showing up with your mind there in your skull and not over a hundred kilometres away with its metaphorical dick out, laser focused on your secret, sickly, so so sexy, boyfriend.

He’d walked about five steps down the corridor when his ringtone rang out again.

LILY: update- finish tissue box

Oh, god, this was actually going to be the death of him.

…

During one of the previous flu outbreaks in the league, the Metros had started a policy where they’d take all the players temperatures before they hit the ice; warmup, first period, second, third, like clockwork, and Shane was exceedingly glad that they weren’t doing that now- not that they’d ever actually scratched anyone based on the results- because he was full of a fire that was part anger part lust, and that had beads of sweat rolling down his face before he even had his gear all the way back on.

He considered the feeling while benched between shifts, the furnace-like heat in his chest, making every breath feel hot enough to start melting the ice- he was almost sure he could feel his mouthguard turning soft and pliable between his teeth- and then that tightening feeling slightly higher up than the fire, like a rope being pulled taught, like at the slightest slash of a blade, it would snap. And he wasn’t sure what snapping would involve, but it would almost definitely end with him in the penalty box or back in the dressing room, regretting the entire night.

On autopilot, he stood as the receding line approached the bench, vaulting the boards and hunting down the puck, focused, ruthless, ready. He took possession, finding Pike and passing to free himself of the three Raiders who’d immediately descended upon him the second his skates hit the ice- clearly their intermission speech had involved the instruction ‘stay on Hollander’- trying to find space to receive it back.

Before he could make the pass, Hayden disappeared into a sea of white and gold as the puck got trapped against the boards. Shane joined the mass of players, trying to get eyes on the puck, and his winger, whom he couldn’t actually see among the taller Raider players.

Normally he’d leave this stupidity to happen on the other side of the ice, while he found a nice open area, ready to receive or intercept depending on who came out in possession, but right now he could not be left alone with his thoughts for the amount of time that that might take. So here he was.

His thoughts, as he realised belatedly, one weak swipe in the puck’s direction in, did not wait politely outside of the huddle, they clung to him with sharp, spiteful grips, and at the slightest invitation, would most certainly be taking back over his mind. He was surrounded by Raiders, and, right as the group shifted, and his balance was thrown, pressing him against the player to his left, said player sniffled pretty urgently and muttered a curse word in what definitely sounded like Russian. And even though he knew it wasn’t Ilya, and he could have turned to stare into the idiot’s face to confirm that, had he so wished, he froze, a shiver running down his spine, mouth going dry and gaze going distant as his mind ran away with him for a moment- Ilya draped over his back like a blanket, sniffling in his ear while he made lunch for the two of them, Ilya trying to speak through his typical early morning fit and cursing his nose out as it interrupted him, Ilya pressed against him in a hotel elevator, heat radiating off of him as he breathed noisily through his mouth, accent tinting each exhale-

The puck was freed. The puck had been freed somewhere close to four full seconds ago, and here Shane still was, staring at his own reflection in the glass, seeing someone entirely different. Once again cursing his own imagination, and his lack of concept of time passing, he spun, barely a millisecond behind the player ahead of him, but several crucial seconds behind the one in possession, opting to sprint rather than bother to push off and try to pick up speed, making it out to center ice just in time to see the flash of a stick and the crack of impact and then be promptly deafened by the goal horn. Fucking great work.

Shane never noticed it before, but the sound effect that played in the Metro’s arena when the opposing team scored had this ‘ding’ to it that kind of sounded like a phone notification. Like his phone notification. And as he was skating back to the bench, face blank, head down, all he was thinking about was his phone lighting up over and over in his bag in the locker room with notifications of every single development in his boyfriend’s illness. Every cough, every noseblow, every sneeze. He felt like he was visibly flinching every time the sound repeated, because it was definitely making his heart skip a beat each time. How quickly was it possible to become conditioned by a noise? He was pretty sure he had either just broken a record or at the very least tied that dog with the fucking bell. At least the dog actually got its food, while he was just imagining the reward- there was definitely something seriously wrong with getting gratification from your boyfriend’s flu symptoms right?

“Hey, game’s not over yet.” JJ clapped him on the back as he passed by.

In lieu of responding ‘get your fucking hands off me, I’m too fucking riled up to deal with this shit’. Shane nodded silently, following him through the door and slumping down on the bench, pretending not to notice how that impact felt as it jarred through him.

The jumbotron, which he’d glanced up at as a distraction, kindly displayed a shot of the opposing bench, players grinning and banging their sticks against the boards, and on the edge of frame, a player with his head down, apparently emptying his sinuses into a towel, glancing up, massaging his nose, and flushing when he saw himself on the screen.

Shane swallowed dryly, gratefully accepting the water bottle as it came his way and taking several gulps as though it would cleanse him of the endless temptation towards distraction that this game had apparently decided to present.

…

Period two had stayed 2-1, both teams starting to flag slightly, the Raiders, it seemed, out of pure exhaustion, and the Metros falling apart as their first line went to pieces for no apparent reason. Shane had made his way back to the locker room with his head down, not even attempting to offer the rest of the team any words of encouragement, because deep down, he knew he was the problem. Or, one of them at least. Pike was inexplicably all over the place, too, missing passes, and almost falling face first over the boards as he hopped over for one shift, not to mention the attempt to pull Drapeau that had seen the goaltender head halfway to the bench and then immediately have to sprint- or as close as he could get to it- back to the crease to field away a shot.

Shane, against his better instincts, dropped down into his stall and unlocked his phone. Maybe if he could just check what Ilya had said, he wouldn’t spend the entire time thinking about it, right? He’d know for sure, and then he could stop imagining things.

The latest two (or really three) messages, though, stopped him in his tracks.

LILY: Voice message. 00:41

LILY: did not mean send that 🫵

LILY: *👍

What the fuck could be in this voice note? Oh, this was a hundred times worse than just not knowing what the texts said. He wasn’t about to pull out his headphones and listen to what very well might be actual fucking audio porn in the middle of the damn locker room. But there was… another option…

Unconsciously gritting his teeth as though the button had a fifty-fifty chance of exploding the entire planet, Shane clicked ‘view transcription’.

0:05 stop

0:08 [Music]

0:13 harsh

0:14 [Music]

0:15 fight it

0:16 his shoe

0:22 oh wait

0:24 Shane

0:25 I do not mean to do this

0:27 what the fuck is

0:32 okay I don’t know what it is doing

0:34 how do I delete

0:36 ha I send you this as update

0:39 so you know what I am doing

0:41 okay love you miss you bye

An accidental voice note, then, so it wouldn’t necessarily be too…salacious. But his eyes were drawn to the notation at 16 seconds, reading it over and over in his mind, considering how it sounded…

“Hollz.” The voice in his ear was unexpectedly quiet, and he looked up into Hayden’s wide, focused eyes. “Is everything alright?”

“Uh-” Shane struggled to adjust to the conversation, feeling like the untoward thoughts in his brain were visible in his eyes, audible at the close distance, obvious to anyone who even glanced his way. But no one knew. No one knew what this was. What he was. “-yeah.”

“You sure, bud? You look pretty stricken there, and you have every time you’ve touched your phone tonight. Is someone in your family sick or something?”

What a fucking question Hay’. Yeah, he considered Ilya a part of his family now, even if it wasn’t something that he could really declare to anyone beyond the man himself, and his own parents, and yes he was sick, but… “It’s kinda complicated.”

“Okay, well you know, if there’s anything you need, or you wanna talk about it…”

“Thanks.” He was standing before he’d even really processed the desire to leave. “I’ll be back.”

Hayden nodded, with this disquieting look of ‘understanding’ on his face. Shane grabbed his headphones from his bag and walked quickly towards the door. He’d made it a single step into the corridor when he heard JJ’s voice from behind him,

“Where the fuck is the capitaine running off to again? We are falling apart here, people!”

And Pike’s response, “Shut the fuck up Boiziau.”

…

Shane was fumbling the earbuds into his ears before he’d even shut the door of the bathroom stall, fingers hovering over the play button the moment he’d realised he was alone, breath coming in embarrassingly urgent little puffs as the various combatant feelings within him swelled to a crescendo, heart thumping so loudly in his ears he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear whatever this turned out to be.

He slammed the bolt across, leaning against the wall and not even bothering to try and calm himself down this time- he had like no time at all before he’d have to be back out there, and he needed every single second of that time for calming himself down AFTER he’d listened to it.

With a final strangled-sounding attempt at a deep breath, his thumb came down on the screen and his ears were filled with static. And then-

“hKk! Kkh! KSH!” Oh this was exactly what he’d hoped and dreaded it would be.

“Stop.” Ilya pleaded with, apparently himself, in the recording, to no avail, “hKSH! KSHH! hhih… hKSH! hh… hhAHSHh! KSH! KXSH! hRSHH! Khvatit. Ple-hihh… hhIHSHOo!”

Shane shuddered, the sweat-drenched material of his compression shirt sticking to the tiled wall he was leaning against, almost holding him up. Ilya panted, loud and unrestrained in his ears, catching his breath. The Canadian shut his eyes, imagined the blond’s head pressed against his chest as he recovered, pressed his hand there just to make it feel a tiny bit more real.

“Oh, wait.”

He let his hand drop again, pressing his damp palm against the cool tile, trying to regulate his body temperature a little.

“Shane?”

The brunet pretended that his heart hadn’t just ejected itself from his chest to sit disobediently in his mouth, leaving an aching, unappeasable pit of desire in its place, at the sound of his name. God, he couldn’t last another second without him, right now. He couldn’t play without him, couldn’t live without him, couldn’t- apparently he couldn’t stand without him either, as his legs crumpled beneath him and he fell to his knees on the floor, eyes opening to stare up into that unyielding gaze, that stony expression that so poorly hid his boyfriend’s adoration for him now that he’d seen it fall so many times, that face, of the man he loved. And he saw only ceiling tiles, harsh lighting, the cold empty walls of the room he’d locked himself in to let down walls of his own. The prison of his own making.

“I do not mean to do this.” Ilya inadvertently apologised for the false hope the audio had given his boyfriend, brow somehow audibly furrowed as his voice got closer to the phone.

“What the fuck is-?” He was silent for a moment and then, “Okay, I don’t know what it is doing. How do I delete?”

More silence, and then, in stark contrast, giggling. “I send you this as update-” He broke off laughing again, the sound wheezing faintly in his chest as he struggled for breath, “-so you know what I am doing.” His voice was playful, but there was nothing lucid about it.

“Okayyy.” Ilya stretched the word out long, like they were on the phone and he didn’t want to be the one to hang up. Shane told himself that the sheen over his eyes was from staring into the ceiling lights, and blinked it away. “Loveyoumissyoubye!” He half-yelled, all as one word, and then there was a slight popping sound and the audio came to an end.

Shane took a shaky breath in, checked how much time he had left, and started to respond.

YOU: Bless you. The voice note was cute, even if it was an accident.

YOU: Do you know if you have a fever?

And then he typed, and promptly deleted, ‘I want to leave the arena right now and drive straight to Ottawa. I want to fucking hold you, I want to fucking fuck you, I want to devour you.’ He swallowed, watching the letters disappear again. No, there was definitely a less aggressive way to say that.

YOU: I love and miss you too.

…

The next hour had passed so quickly, he wasn’t sure it had happened at all, a blur of adrenaline and ice and yelling, and drinking unthinkable amounts of electrolytes as though that would help the time pass quicker, and staring at the clock, and scoring- nice- and then back to a blur again.

Shane took his post game interview- shot from the collarbones up essentially- rhythmically clenching his gloved hands into fists and then flexing them all the way out again, out of sight of the camera, while he gave some pointless answers that really could have been supplied by any of the other players’ kids just as well as they were by the captain.

“What the fuck did he ask you?” Pike had called after him as he’d walked in, already half stripped down, sorted his gear from his jersey and his compression clothes at an eyebrow raising speed- or so he gathered from the look on the winger’s face as he turned- and headed straight for the showers.

“The usual shit!” He’d yelled back, clearly not answering the underlying question- ‘why are you so pissed off?’ and throwing himself under the nearest free jet of water.

Having deftly dodged all other responsibilities for the night, he was now speedwalking out of the building, and navigating to Ilya’s contact, heart rate picking up again at the realisation that he’d made it, he was free from the purgatory of a game that he really should have been enjoying, and now he was-

“H’lo?”

“I’m coming to see you.” He delivered the words forcefully, no room for argument.

“Ok-ehhKk! KKh! hKSH! KSH! KSHUh! hAHKSHh! WhoahH…hKSH! hrRSH! hRRSHHOo!”

“Bless you.” This response was softer, spoken more closely to the receiver, and his fast pace across the parking lot faltered too, mental resolve weakened by the audio display of weakened physical resolve he’d been presented with.

“Thank you.” A thud.

“Are you okay?”

Ilya moaned. “Remote fell. I think I sleep through end of game.”

“Did I wake you?” He was fumbling for his keys, trying to force himself to visualise the inside of his bag pockets rather than the sweet, sleepy expression that was probably gracing his boyfriend’s face right now.

“Yeah.” The Russian’s voice broke on the single word, and he broke off coughing, not moving away from the phone, though Shane could hear him shifting his position on the couch.

He finally managed to find his keys and unlocked the car, jogging the final few steps, opening the back passenger side door and shoving his bag in before slamming it shut again and rounding the vehicle towards the driver’s side like he was trying to outrun a hoard of zombies. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to let you know I was on my way.”

“’S good.” The blond was whispering now, whether because his throat hurt, his voice was gone entirely, or he was simply too tired to make any effort to speak louder, Shane couldn’t discern. “I look forward to meeting you.”

“What?” When he was really out of it, but still coherent enough to retain some English, he’d noticed that his boyfriend seemed to revert to textbook phrasing, sentences he’d probably had drilled in before anything else, and they’d stuck. That was his theory for the overly formal blessing habit, too. And he wouldn’t change that for the world, no matter what it did to him.

“Love you.” Ilya continued, “Have a driving license.” From the tone he could only assume he meant something along the lines of ‘have a safe drive’ , but the first collocation that had come to mind for ‘driving’ was ‘license’. The man really was full of linguistic phenomena.

“L-” He began to reply, only to be abruptly cut off.

“hKk! KKh! hKSH! Kkh! hKSHUh! hKSHooh!” Cutee, why was there no ‘record’ button on phone calls for moments like this? He could have gotten weeks of teasing out of this clip, and months of… other amusement. “hhiHKSHh! KSHUh! huAHSXHh-ugh.”

“Bless you.” He winced slightly at the sound of that last one, “Love you. See you later.”

“Loooove you.” Ilya coughed, what sounded like the start of a whole fit, but put the phone down before he could hear it get to that point.

Ah, yes, also he was very much full of the flu. Linguistic phenomena, adoration for Shane, apparently, and the flu, that was most of what made up Ilya Rozanov right now. And his boyfriend, though it made his gut twist with guilt, couldn’t imagine a better combination.

[rozsnz]

sundreesoro 🌙

ilya 'tissue' rozanov

2.8k includes .. a lot of sneezing ;; light nsfw

Winter, 2018

Ilya was currently half asleep in bed with a sick Shane tucked into his side. Their relationship was so advanced, yet Ilya couldn't bear to tell Shane about a certain fetish of his. Even now, when the scenario was starting him in the face. Fuck, he was such a pussy. Papa was right.

Shane coughed at his side, reaching out for his phone that was on his bedside. Ilya allowed him the privacy, keeping his eyes on the ceiling as he heard the pads of Shane's thumbs beat against his phone screen.

"Sndff! Sveta's coming. That okay?"

Ilya raised his brows, looking down at the man tucked into his side. "Oh? She texted you?"

Shane nodded, producing another soft sniffle as his eyes stayed on his phone. "Mm. She doesn't want to be alone, she's also sick."

Ilya's heart sped up in his chest as he took a breath. Shane and Svetlana. At the same time. "Ah, okey. I'll take care of you both."

Shane hummed happily, sending a reply back to Svetlana and discarding his phone back on his bedside table. Shane tucked his face back into Ilya's armpit without another word.

Ilya gave Shane's hair a kiss, taking a whiff of the man's shampoo. "She is sleeping over tonight?"

"Think so," Shane stretched a little, drooping a leg over Ilya. "The guest bedroom is all ready, so."

Shane's phone dinged again, which made him peel away from Ilya for a second time to answer the message. Shane sat up from bed, rubbing at his eyes as he sniffled. He sounded so congested.

"Where you going?" Ilya mumbled, giving Shane's back a rub where he could manage to reach.

"I'm going to let her in," Shane responded, getting up from bed in just his boxers with another little stretch before padding out of their room. Ilya wanted to follow, but he was pretty sleepy. 5 more minutes of being horizontal should be enough time to be able to work again.

Shane soon returned with Svetlana, opening their bedroom door for her. Svetlana was wearing a baggy black Adidas sweatshirt with a pair of blue shorts. She looked beautiful, but obviously under the weather. Ilya never saw Svetlana in such clothing whenever she was healthy.

"Привет!" Sveta greeted Ilya, her voice quite stuffy as she waved at Ilya from across the room.

"Sveta," Ilya smiled, sitting up against his and Shane's headboard. Shane padded in behind Svetlana, crawling back into bed in his prior position against Ilya. "You aren't well?"

Svetlana shook her head, leaving her purse on the door handle and walking over to the bed. Ilya raised a brow.

Sveta eyed Shane with a little smile. "May I join? Please?"

"Course," Shane sniffled, rubbing his nose against Ilya's clothed pec. "Bed's nice 'n warm."

Svetlana got into bed on Ilya's right side, mirroring Shane as she curled up to Ilya. Ilya frowned at the warmth surrounding him. "Wait, you both have fevers? I have to get medicine."

"No!" Shane mumbled, grabbing onto Ilya's arm. "Just — stay. We just got comfortable, Ilya."

"Hm," Ilya held Shane and Sveta, lapping his lips. "Fine. Later, then. Before we sleep."

Shane mumbled something under his breath, his body starting to stiffen up. "Hh! Hh'rRSHu!" Shane brought up his fist, pressing it into his nose as he shook with a startling sneeze.

"Bless you!" Sveta was the first to say, sitting up so she could see Shane over Ilya's pecs.

"God bless," Ilya mumbled, using all of his mental strength not to pop a boner. Not even Sveta knew about his fetish. He hoped that not telling anyone would make it disappear. Instead, it only seemed to grow over the years.

"Hh'RSHHOO!" Shane barked out another one, yet again smushing his fist against his nose. Shane couldn't stifle to save his fucking life.

"God damn!" Sveta's voice pitched. "He sneezes so loud, Ilyush! I expected little kitten sneezes."

Ilya breathed out a small scoff, running a thumb over Shane's furrowed brows. "Oh, I know so. Surprised me too."

Shane weakly shoved at Ilya, sitting himself up in bed. "Fuck, can you pass me that box?" Shane pointed to the box of tissues, the ones closest to Svetlana.

Sveta nodded, passing Shane the box without hesitation.

Shane took the box with a little 'thanks', plucking out a couple to swipe at his nose with. Don't get hard. Just don't.

"Eeshiu! He'ieeishu!" Sveta suddenly curled into Ilya's side, spraying her hand as she shook with each sneeze.

"Oh, bless you," Shane frowned, offering the box back over to Sveta.

Don't get hard! Don't. Stop. Think of anything else.

Sveta sniffled miserably, reaching over and taking the box from Shane with a shy smile. "Thank you."

Shane nodded, staying seated on his heel as he reached out for Ilya's hand.

"You aren't going to bless me, Ilyusha?" Svetlana mumbled, voice tainted by the tissues currently bundled to her nose. Fuck.

"Bless.. you. Будьте здоровы," Ilya mumbled, forcing his voice to sound more confident than he felt.

Sveta cocked her head with a sarcastic beaming smile, sniffling up her excess mess as she placed her tissue off to the side. Svetlana placed the box on Ilya's chest for easy access between her and Shane.

Shane coughed into his elbow, turning away from the two. Sveta moved to sit up, patting at Shane's back over Ilya. "Hey, it's okay."

Shane soon calmed, nodding in appreciation. Ilya just stared at the two, his lungs itching for an anxious cigarette.

Sveta groaned a little, prodding at her nose. "All I've been doing today is sneezing! So annoying. Can't sleep."

Shane frowned, his empathetic heart not being able to hear her words. "That sucks. Have you tried.. a neti pot or something? I don't know."

Sveta raised a brow. "A what? Pot? No, I don't smoke that anymore."

Shane smiled a little. "No — nevermind. Sndff. Have you taken some medicine?"

Svetlana nodded, continuing to prod at her nose with the back of her wrist. "Nothing works. American colds are crazy."

Shane hummed in agreement, his expression turning a little hazy. Ilya's brain felt dizzy with the sight. This was like a porno.

Shane ducked down, sneezing into his lap. "Hh'rRShuu! H'eRRsHH! Fuck, excuse me. Those ones got away from me."

Sveta giggled a little, eyeing Ilya. "He's so cute."

Ilya adjusted the quilt over his crotch subtly, nodding his head against the headboard. "Mm. Bless you, Shane."

Shane's brow furrowed, eyeing Ilya as he shifted on their bed. "You've been calling me sweet names all day, now it's Shane?"

Ilya spluttered, his eyes flickering between Shane and Sveta. "I — that is your name. You are my baby, you know this."

Shane scoffed, plucking out some tissues from the box on Ilya's chest so he could wipe his nose. "You're being weird."

Ilya frowned, scratching at the stubble on his chin. "I'm being weird? No. I am fine. You're weird."

Shane sent a look of disbelief over to Sveta, to which she mirrored. "Be nice to your boy, Ilyusha."

Ilya swallowed, feeling his skin start to prickle with an unfamiliar sense of shame. They were ganging up on him! "I didn't even — "

"He didn't even bless you a minute ago, right? You had to ask," Shane interrupted, subconsciously leaning over to Sveta as he spoke to her.

She nodded in disappointment, raising her brows. "Yes. I don't know what's up with him today.."

Shane hummed in agreement, reaching over to pluck out another tissue. His hand came out empty. "Ugh, shit. We're out."

Ilya worried at his lower lip, looking into the box at his chest. It sure was empty.

Sveta whined a little, pulling her sleeves over her knuckles. "But I really need one."

Shane raised his brows at Ilya, as if he was expecting something. "Give her your shirt, Ilya. Don't be rude."

Ilya obeyed, tugging his shirt over his head before anyone else could speak. He felt out of his body with the situation at hand.

Sveta took the grey shirt from Ilya's hands, immediately moving it to her nose. "Eeishhyu! EEISHIU! Shhu!" Sveta used the shirt, wiping herself off with it once she felt she was done.

Ilya squeezed his thighs together underneath the sheets, taking measured breaths. This was not fucking happening right now.

Before Ilya had time to calm himself down, Shane was also frantically grasping for the shirt in Svetlana's hands. She handed it over, keeping a hand on Shane's knee for support. Shane buckled into the shirt, barely cupping it over his face in time. "hHR'sHOugh! Fuck—! HRrshuoo! hHSHhue! SHHue! Sndff!"

Ilya's lips parted at the sight, an unmistakable bulge forming in the sheet that covered his crotch. Oh my fucking god. Oh my god.

"Bless you!" Sveta sniffled, squeezing Shane's thigh with a soft pout on her lips.

Shane snuffled into the shirt, blowing his nose weakly. He nodded, mopping up his nose. "Mm, thank you. You too."

Ilya whined a little, clamping a hand over his own lips as his voice box threatened another one. Both Shane and Sveta's heads whipped to him.

Shane grinned. "Oh, fuck. Are you getting off to this? Seriously?"

Ilya bit at his hand, shaking his head. Please no.

Shane eyed Sveta with his lips parted into a smile, keeping the shirt in his hands. Svetlana scoffed, looking down at Ilya. "What the fuck, Ilyusha? He's so hard, look!"

Shane looked down to the space of which Svetlana pointed at, eyeing the obvious bulge.

Shane's wrist came up to his mouth to hide a smile, his eyes now on Ilya. "Oh, wow. He is."

Ilya moved to close his legs but Shane was faster, grabbing both of his thighs and pulling them back apart. "Ah, ah! We've seen it now. Don't hide."

Ilya grumbled out of pure humiliation, rubbing at his forehead. Had he broke a sweat?

Sveta giggled to herself, her expression soon beginning to crumble as her chest swelled. Ilya clamped his eyes shut, feeling his ears get uncomfortably warm under both of their gazes.

"Ee'eishhiu!"

Ilya's heart skipped a beat. Instead of reaching for the shirt, Sveta must have forgotten about it. He felt specks of spray hit his stomach.

Ilya's eyes snapped open, his stomach swirling with arousal. "Eeishu! Eeyyishu!" Sveta continued, leaning over to wet Ilya's stomach as her lips parted over and over. What the fuck? No, what the fuck? Was he concussed?

Shane rubbed at Sveta's arm. "Bless you, bless you. It's okay, he likes that. Fucking clearly."

Ilya frowned, glaring at Shane as his cheeks matched the same shade as Shane and Sveta's noses.

Svetlana sighed as she was done with her fit, using Ilya's shirt to dab at her nose with. "Mmh, too right. He is weird like that."

"I don't like it!" Ilya mumbled, his voice gruff as he kept his brow furrowed. His balls were definitely blue by now.

Shane gasped in mock offence, triggering his own nose as he froze up again. Shane's head lulled back slightly, his hand coming up to his mouth. Sveta pulled Shane's hand back, not allowing the action.

"IIIRSHho'ou!" Shane ducked with his sneeze, spraying the other side of Ilya's tummy as he fell forward with the force of his sneeze. "HRR'shiiu! SHHuoo! HIH'RRSHoough!"

Ilya heard himself unwillingly moan, his hips rutting up into nothing like some rabid old mutt. He could feel the weight of both of their spray mixing on his tummy and it was driving him fucking insane. This must be a hoax or something. Shane got into his YouTube search history, right?

Shane panted with the aftermath of his fit, glancing over at Sveta. Svetlana was eyeing Ilya with a look of amusement, sitting back on her heels. "Bless you!"

Shane sniffled, pawing at his nose to quench the itch. "Ah — thank you. Ilya? No blessings for us?"

Ilya tried to get his voice to work, but it wouldn't. His throat felt tight, his skin on fire as he just slumped there.

"Ohhh! I forgot," Shane mumbled, patting Sveta's thigh. "Tissues can't talk."

Ilya whined. He audibly whined through closed lips as his eyes fell cloudy. "Sh'ne.."

"Tissues can't talk," Shane repeated, now looking at Ilya. "Well, good ones at least. Only the bad ones talk. We don't use those ones."

Ilya felt close to sobbing. He was good. He was so good.

Sveta sniffled, the familiar sounds of hitching hitting his ears once more. God, not again. He was going to explode out of his dick and potentially die.

Sveta tilted her head forward as she stayed where she was, her hand blindly reaching for Shane's as she curled up with a sneeze accidentally aimed at Shane's lap. "Eeh! Eeishuu! EeiShOou! Oh, fuck! Sorry, Shane! Did I get you?"

Shane held her hand, fixing Svetlana's hair that had fallen out of place. "That's okay. Bless you.. oh, you look so ill," he mumbled, swiping his thumb against Sveta's cheek to catch her now running mascara.

"Stop!" Ilya managed to whine out, his dick pulsing beneath the sheets. "I can't! I will come! I can't, I can't.. oh my god..!"

Shane pursed his lips at the outburst, eyeing the man who was begging so prettily.

"Nobody said you couldn't touch yourself, baby," Shane reassured, his voice ever so soothing.

Ilya bucked up again, his hands unable to move. Wait, why couldn't he move? If he didn't touch his dick in the next minute, they'd have to drive him to the emergency room. "F'ck! Can't.. baby, help. Pl'se.. help me..!"

Shane snickered softly, blinking down at Ilya as he held Svetlana's hand. "Wake up."

Ilya awoke with a desperate gasp, his lungs filling with air as he jolted up from bed. What the f —

"Baby?" Shane mumbled from his side, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was blinking up at Ilya was a concerned expression that made Ilya stop for a second.

Ilya panted, attempting to catch his breath. Shane too sat up, hand on Ilya's chest. "Ilya? Breathe. You're freaking me out.."

Ilya forced himself to breathe like a normal human being, his hand coming up over Shane's on his chest. "Oh my god, oh my god. О, нет."

"What happened?" Shane rubbed at Ilya's chest, the other hand on Ilya's back. "Oh, Ilya. Nightmare?"

Ilya frantically shook his head, opening and closing his mouth. "Fuck. Opposite."

"Opposite?" Shane parroted in a soft mumble. Shane scrunched up his brows in confusion, eyes drifting down. Oh. He was quite literally about to explode in the waking world, too.

"Right.. opposite," Shane let out a breathy laugh as he calmed at the sight. "Want to share with the class what you, uh.. dreamt about?"

Ilya groaned, subtly rubbing up into the quilt. "I am pervert. I need to wash brain. Need to see priest, Shane. Was crazy. Fucking insane. Ебать."

Shane couldn't wipe the smile off his face if he tried as he continued to hold Ilya. "C'mon, I won't judge. Talk to me."

Ilya let a whine slip as he shook his head, covering his face with his hands. "You.. and.. Svetlana."

"Oh?" Shane mumbled, placing a kiss to Ilya's shoulder. "Greedy."

Ilya laughed a little, leaning into Shane. "Fuck. I can't ever look at you two the same now. Fuck. Ugh."

"What happened?" Shane tried again, holding Ilya's wrists in attempt to see his boyfriend's face again. Ilya just sighed, curling into Shane.

"You both.. used me. That's all I'm saying."

Shane whistled lowly, nipping at Ilya's naked shoulder. "Whoa, okay. We used you? What, at the same time?"

Ilya nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. "I know, okey? Am man whore. Am greedy."

Shane hummed, placing his thumb over a mole on Ilya's wrist. "I didn't know you were into that kinda stuff."

Ilya just kept shaking his head, flopping back down into his prior position on their bed. "You both used me as a tissue, okay? There. I said it. Fuck."

Shane stared, raising a brow. "Wait, we wiped our asses on you? What — Ilya — "

"No!" Ilya spat out, almost choking on a laugh. "No no no — no, Shane. The achoo kind. I was used that way. You know?"

Shane wiped at his mouth with his wrist. "We.. sneezed on you?"

"Yes," Ilya hissed, curling up so his back was facing Shane.

Shane cooed a little, coming to spoon Ilya. "That isn't a big deal. Did it turn you on?"

"Obviously!" Ilya whined, turning around so that he was facing Shane on his side. "I am.. freak. You were both sick, and took advantage of me. I liked it."

Shane hummed, turning so Ilya could spoon him instead. "I'm just glad we didn't shit on you. That would have been — "

"Okey," Ilya mumbled, cutting Shane off before he could say any more. Ilya pressed into Shane, accidentally bucking his hips into the slot of Shane's clothed ass.

Shane breathed out, amused to see how worked up Ilya was. "Do tell me more, though. I'm curious."

Ilya sighed, resting a thigh over Shane's hips. "You.. I don't know. You guys laughed at me."

Shane hummed, pressing back into Ilya's bulge. "Poor baby."

[feverfcking]

The Horrifying Ordeal of Being Known (2/3)

H/eated Rivalry, S/hane (Cold), 6.3k, NSFW

Read pt. 1 here!

Well here it is! Sorry for the wait, but I really enjoyed working on this and I have zero control over a wordcap apparently lol. CW for contagion, mess, graphic NSFW scenes, and some minor dacrophilia if you squint. Enjoy!

With Shane drowsing on his chest, it was remarkably easy for Ilya to fall into sleep as well. He had been up since five to get packed into the team bus, drive to the airport, and catch a flight home. Admittedly, he was a little exhausted. Ilya had planned on arriving to the cottage, getting in a quick fuck, and promptly taking a nap in Shane’s bed or Shane’s couch or honestly wherever Shane was. It wasn’t often that his boyfriend joined him in napping, but Ilya had a way of getting Shane to play with his hair as he drifted under. And that was nearly as good as sex itself. 

Ilya drifted in and out of sleep for maybe an hour and a half, listening to the sounds of people on television bickering over off-white paint. Shane was snoring softly against Ilya’s chest, the sound making his heart squeeze - this was the first time he had heard his boyfriend make such a sound. Firsts were always something he treasured. Shane was soft and relaxed against him, features slack, occasionally snuffling and sighing and burrowing closer. 

They hadn’t really been sick in front of one another before. Hundreds of miles were somehow always between them whenever one of them was down and out. Ilya was pleasantly surprised that Shane was rather sweet and needy when he wasn’t feeling good. 

Shane’s brow furrowed, restless as he coughed softly in his sleep. Ilya rubbed his back with the flat of his palm until he stilled and quieted, soothed back into rest. He felt a bubble of fondness swell in his chest so large it was near to bursting inside of him. The feeling coaxed Ilya into waking fully, tuning back into the weight of Shane on top of him, the gentle sound of the outside wind against the windows, and the afternoon light turning the room golden around them. He continued to stroke Shane’s back slowly, pressing a quick, gentle kiss to his head. 

Although he couldn’t say he enjoyed the extents of Shane’s anxiety, his boyfriend was so endearing in how much he cared about everything. Shane had come a long way from when Ilya had first met him in terms of confidence and excessive worrying, but obviously it still could get to him. The crease in his brow and shining brown eyes when he looked at Ilya earlier, the way he nervously bit his lip, eyes searching for permission to just fucking relax already. As if Ilya would be upset that Shane was getting sick - all Ilya really cared about was being there and, well, he had achieved that.  

Ilya honestly had honestly been insistent about kissing him so Shane wouldn’t spend the rest of the next few days freaking out about contamination. The worst had already been done. Additionally, there were worse things in the world than getting sick. And Ilya really wasn’t kidding about the sexy nurse thing either - that would definitely make him feel better no matter what kind of state he was in. 

It was about twenty minutes before Shane stirred. His gentle, congested snoring was cut off by a deep inhale, a sigh, a gentle reverberation in his throat as he began to wake. His face scrunched up adorably as he registered wakefulness, freckles bunching together as he wrinkled his nose. Shane groaned softly as he blinked to awareness, brows pulled together as he registered the miseries of being awake with a cold. 

Shane lifted his head, eyes widening a little as he saw the the way the light had changed in the room. 

“…Fuck. How long did I sleep?” he rasped, voice beginning to turn gravelly and sore. 

“Almost two hours?” Ilya said, glancing at his watch. “I thought maybe you had died.” 

Shane groaned again and ran a hand over his face, thumb putting pressure on his temple like he had a headache.

“God, I’m sorry, I didn’t think I’d be out so long. You must be bored,” he lamented, sighing and pushing his cheek into Ilya’s chest. He sniffled and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. 

Ilya smiled and hugged him tight. 

“Is okay. I was tired after the flight, I took a nap with you.”

Shane sighed and deflated. “Okay. Good.” He sniffled and turned away to cough into the crook of his arm, far away from Ilya. As if that would make a difference at this point. 

Shane looked a little miserable already, brow pinched, mouth in a tiny little frown, nose pink and sniffly. Ilya thought he kind of looked like a pitiful kitten, brown eyes big and watery, hair a mess, pout on his lips. And, like a pitiful kitten, he clung to Ilya like he might not make it otherwise. It always amazed Ilya that all six feet and 180 some-odd pounds of his boyfriend was able to look so small and kissable. 

So, of course, Ilya leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Shane sighed with content and wriggled closer.

“You’re very adorable,” Ilya murmured, so very fond. 

“Mmph. I don’t feel adorable,” Shane mumbled, following it up with a soupy sniffle as if to prove his point. His face was scrunched up in some mixture of disagreement and discomfort, eyes barely open. 

“No, is adorable. You are like a baby animal, so cuddly and sleepy and sweet.” Shane groaned and rolled over to hide his face in the back of the couch, but Ilya could see from his ears that he was blushing. Ilya laughed and continued, “Now is my little kotonok hungry now? I am starving.” 

Shane rolled back over to face him, sighing. “Not really, but I probably need to eat.” 

He slowly peeled himself off of Ilya and sat up on the couch, reaching for the box of tissues on the coffee table. He took one and sheepishly turned away, blowing his nose as quietly as possible. It wasn’t as effective as it should have been, leaving him still sniffly and pink-cheeked, desperately avoiding eye contact. 

Ilya patted him on the thigh and got up to look in the fridge, giving Shane a moment to clean himself up in private. It was endearing to Ilya how Shane still managed to get embarrassed at such mundane things. Ilya understood to a degree, as anyone would after growing up with his father, but he did not feel ashamed about most bodily functions around Shane. 

Still, it was cute. 

It was very quickly apparent there wasn’t much to work with in the fridge in terms of sick people food. It was stocked full of vegetables and healthy lean protein and even more vegetables on top of that. 

Ilya groaned and dug through to the back of the fridge, calling over his shoulder to Shane. “You eat like insane person. The insides of this fridge are a disgrace to all kitchens.” 

He turned at the sound of footsteps to see Shane trailing in sleepily, affronted frown on his face. 

“Shut up. I eat healthy. It’s better than the shit you eat,” Shane grumbled, coming to stand beside his boyfriend to peer into the fridge. 

“I am ordering more groceries, there is no food for sick people in here. I know it is not diet-approved but I will make you some borsht later, yes?“ Ilya said, rummaging around and pulling a few things out of the fridge. 

Ilya expected Shane to deny, to interrogate him about the ingredients, to ask for changes here and there to cut back on carbs or fat or whatever. But he just nodded, sniffling, keeping his eyes away from Ilya’s. He still looked sheepish, embarrassed about something. Being sick, maybe. Ilya kissed the side of his head and shooed him over to a stool.

“Sit, I will make us sandwiches. I will make yours with gluten-free bread and everything. Does that sound good? Okay for your throat?” 

Shane settled onto the stool, leaning onto the counter, nodding in agreement. “Sounds great, thank you.” 

They talked idly while Ilya put everything together, sliding a cold can of ginger ale for Shane to drink while he waited. Ilya plated everything, cut the sandwiches into neat triangles, and hopped into the seat next to his boyfriend with a can of coke. They ate, talked, laughed. Ilya told him about his trip, stupid shit his teammates said, chirps towards players from his last game. Shane let Ilya talk as he ate slowly, stopping now and then to cough softly or pull a tissue from his pocket and dab at his pink nose. 

Once they had finished eating, Ilya took their plates to the sink and began washing them. He looked up at the quiet sound of Shane’s breath catching. Ilya watched as his nose twitched, eyes blinking several times in rapid succession. Memorizing every micro-expression. Noticing how similar they were to the ones he made during sex. The way his eyebrows pulled together, floating up and up and up, lips beginning to part. Shane’s chest shuddered with a few near-silent hitches before his expression scrunched up. He turned to the side, ducking away from Ilya and into his elbow. 

“Hih… hehH-hTDSH! Hih-iITChiew! ETshoo!”

Shane pulled away from his elbow slowly, immediately bringing up the tissue from his pocket to pinch and swipe at the moisture left behind. His cheeks were pink, and he was definitely still avoiding eye contact. 

“Bud'te zdorovy. Did that feel good?” Ilya teased, finishing with the plates and drying his hands on a nearby towel. Shane’s blush deepened as he brought his eyes up to Ilya’s to glare. 

Ilya could see the panicked arousal behind it.

“Is it possible for you to not be an asshole right now?” Shane scowled and busied himself with shoving the tissue back into his hoodie pocket. Ilya did feel a little bad for teasing - Shane’s voice was going rough and he was getting more sniffly by the minute. But also he was blushing, so maybe Ilya didn’t feel too bad. 

“I thought you were very fond of assholes the last time I had you bent over and-" Ilya was cut off as Shane groaned loudly into his hands, ears red. 

He was so much more reactive than usual, so much more affected. Maybe because he was trying not to share his germs, Ilya thought, trying to make it seem like he didn’t want. Usually by now Shane be all over him. But either way Ilya was going to make sure his boyfriend was well taken care of, in more ways than one. 

Ilya just chuckled and made his way to the bedroom, tugging Shane along with him. 

“Come, it’s time for more medicine, yes? I will stop teasing you.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Shane grumbled, which was a fair point, but he followed anyway. 

Ilya stepped into the en-suite, pulling open the medicine cabinet. Shane followed in after, sniffling and clearing his throat as he leaned against the counter. He still seemed shy, sheepish. 

“What have you taken?” Ilya asked, opening the bathroom cabinet to rummage through the medicine shelf. Thankfully, this was Shane’s cottage, so he was stocked up with absolutely fucking everything. Ilya’s place wouldn’t have had nearly as fruitful findings. 

“Just some Advil earlier.”

Ilya pulled out a thermometer, capsules of DayQuil, name brand decongests, and a large bottle of ibuprofen. He then ducked down to rummage under the sink for a new box of tissues. He rose and dumped his findings on the bathroom counter. 

“It is your nose that is giving you the most trouble, yes?” Ilya asked, choosing to talk about Shane’s nose just because he could, because it was the easiest tease in the world, because it always got Shane so worked up so fast. His cute shy boyfriend with his cute horny sneezes. 

The current circumstances were technically uncharted territory as this is his first time experiencing Shane with a cold, so Ilya continuously kept an eye on his body language. And by his findings it looked like Shane was battling to keep his restraint intact. Ilya watched hungrily as the question registered, then promptly choked him until he could gather back his bearings. Shane blinked twice, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and brought a hand up to tug at his earlobe nervously. His face was still pink, eyes absolutely anywhere but on Ilya. 

“Um— uh, yeah,”Shane choked out after a brief moment of obvious internal struggle.

Ilya frowned at him, feigning ignorance. 

“You look flushed, lubimyy, do you have a fever?” 

“I don’t think so,” he replied. Ilya stepped closer into his boyfriend’s space, cupping Shane’s cheek with one hand and lighting up with desire as he watched the blush there darken. 

“It is okay if you are feeling bad. I want to take care of you,” Ilya said, aiming for earnest and caring and much less horny than he actually felt. He wanted to get to the root of whatever was working Shane up so much, wring it out with his bare hands until the answer was at his feet. 

“I’m. Uh, I’m okay,” Shane said, still struggling to maintain eye contact. He sniffled again, sound wet and thick, and it made him wince. Shane dabbed at his rapidly-reddening nose with the tissue from his pocket, too embarrassed to blow. 

“Let’s check just in case.”Ilya drops the hand from Shane’s face to pop the plastic cap off of the thermometer, shaking it. “You know how to do this part - open.” 

Shane did as he was told, letting Ilya slip the thermometer under his tongue before the words really registered. Ilya saw the moment they did as Shane froze, eyes finally snapping up to meet Ilya’s. His eyes were the perfect deep brown they always were, gaze that familiar curious mix of anger and embarrassment and lust. 

Ilya patted his cheek. 

“Good boy. You always look pretty with something in your mouth,” Ilya purred. Even under the circumstances it was true. Shane looked unbearably lovely even in the midst of a cold - cheeks gently flushed, nose red and twitchy, freckles prominent. His brown eyes were ever so slightly glassy, much like they were when he was sex drunk and sated. 

Ilya saw the moment Shane was about to open his mouth and yell at him a little, so he put a finger to the underside of Shane’s chin, firmly holding his jaw shut with the pad of his finger. Shane could have easily fought it, but his lips stayed sealed, bowing to the faintest pressure. 

“Ah-ah. No talking. We need your temperature.” Ilya continued to look him directly in the eye, still holding his chin so Shane couldn’t tilt his head away. Shane’s face was flushed with embarrassment, but his eyes betrayed him. His pupils were blown wide, a longing look of lust seeping through the seams of his expression. 

They both knew he didn’t have a fever but they played along anyway just for the sake of the game. Ilya was aware Shane knew he was just playing this shit up, but Shane let him anyways. He was malleable and perfect like he always was when Ilya laid it on this heavy. 

Then suddenly, Shane’s eyes fluttered shut. Ilya thought that maybe he was lost in the pleasure of the moment, about to finally give in and reach out and take, but then his breath hitched. 

Oh, Ilya thought. 

Ilya caught Shane’s arm as he brought it up to rub at his nose, lowering it back down to his side. No touching unless I say so, it said. Shane’s eyes snapped open, still squinty and itchy, giving Ilya a questioning glare. The thermometer still poked out from between his pouting lips. 

“Don’t sneeze. We will have to start all over. You can hold it back for me, lubimyy.”

The command landed as they always did. Shane shuddered, eyes squeezing shut again as his brows knitted in concentration, all confusion and frustration replaced by focus. He kept his mouth firmly shut, breathing slowly through his nose only to be interrupted by a hitch in his breath. He scrunched and wiggled his nose, chest rising and falling with each scissoring breath. Shane clenched his jaw, blinking furiously as irritated tears gathered at his lash line. 

There was a second that Ilya thought Shane might loose it, teetering on the very edge of a sneeze - his chest swelled high and stayed there, eyebrows pinched upwards, head tilted back and giving Ilya a perfect view of damp, flaring nostrils.  

But, after a few wavering moments, the urge passed. Shane blinked his eyes open slowly to meet Ilya’s, glassy and teary, still with the thermometer under his tongue. He shifted his weight, bulge now obvious in those grey sweatpants that always drove Ilya fucking insane. Ilya held Shane pinned with his gaze for a couple of long seconds before he leaned forward to whisper directly into Shane’s ear. 

“Good.” 

Shane let out the quietest shaky breath through his nose, eyes rolling up and slipping shut like one word alone was too arousing to handle. Ilya ran a feather-light touch over Shane’s clothed dick just to watch him shiver. 

The thermometer, finally finished with its reading, beeped and flashed numbers on the small digital screen. Ilya stepped back and plucked it from Shane’s lips, not missing as Shane chased his touch with his hips, making a soft noise of protest. 

“Ugh, fuck you,” Shane grumbled, sniffling and rubbing at his nose with the tissue from his pocket. Ilya was unsure which part of the last two minutes he was being cursed at for specifically. 

To Ilya’s surprise, Shane did actually have a low-grade fever: 99.8. He flipped the instrument around to show his boyfriend the reading. 

“You’re warm. Will be a fever later, maybe. We will keep an eye on it,” Ilya purred, setting the thermometer aside and cupping a hand to Shane’s cheek to feel the warmth there. 

Shane was about to respond when his breath caught on a huge inhale, sudden and aggressive. He barely had time to bring up his elbow before he was sneezing harshly. 

“Hah-hiITCHiew! HiINGTShu-hDTCH-ADTChoo! Hih-INGTSHIEW!” 

Shane stayed tucked into his elbow, panting and blinking away the moisture in his eyes. Ilya was a little bit shocked - he had never in his life heard Shane sneeze like that. It was fittish like how it was when he was aroused, but also heavy, harsh, and visibly uncontrollable. Shane’s head had jerked forward with each one, pulled down again and again with the force of the fit. He had to cough several times after like the congestion had shifted wrong and choked him. 

Ilya quickly pulled a handful of tissues out of the new box and pressed them into Shane’s free hand. He quickly brought them up to his nose, still hiding in the crook of his arm. 

“‘Scuse mbe, sorry. Thangk you.” Shane’s voice came out clogged and hoarse and once again, embarrassed. He avoided Ilya’s eyes as he cleaned up and tossed the evidence into the bathroom trash. He started to cough again and ducked back into the crook of his elbow. As if that would save Ilya from the germs he had already kissed right from Shane’s mouth.  

The giveaway that Shane was still enjoying it all was the straining fabric of his sweatpants. Ilya was a little surprised at that - if anyone was a big enough horndog to want to fuck while unwell it was himself. But Shane still looked painfully riled up. Even despite the mess and the sore throat and the headache and the sneezing. If Ilya could have taken a guess before, he would’ve thought Shane would be uptight, overstimulated, and cranky when he was sick. But so far he’s turned out to be needy and panting and pliant, and Ilya is absolutely not complaining. 

Shane was so turned on, and Ilya wanted to get him so desperate that Shane finally broke and went for it, took it with his own two hands for his own pleasure, his own want. 

“Oh, lubimyy, you really don’t feel good do you? Bud'te zdorovy, I have never heard you sneeze like that before. My poor malysh. Someone needs to take care of you, yes?” Ilya brought his hands from Shane’s shoulders, sliding down to his hands, passing over the backs of them to rest on his hips where he rubbed slow, slow circles with his thumbs, arching ever closer to where Shane clearly wanted touch the most. 

Shane’s breath caught as he shuddered. He didn’t speak, currently too overwhelmed for words. 

Ilya wanted him to say it anyway. 

“Yes? Is what you want?” 

Shane nodded, eyes hazy. 

“Tell me,” Ilya purred, thumbs still rubbing circles in the divots of his boyfriend’s hips. 

“I wandt you to take care of mbe,” Shane said, voice hoarse and wavering, increasingly clogged with congestion. Ilya felt through the stretch of fabric under his fingers as Shane’s dick twitched. 

It was then Ilya began to figure out where this heady, needy arousal of Shane’s was coming from. 

“Yes? Because you’re feeling bad? Tell me why.” 

Shane noded again, eager, waiting for Ilya to touch him, to kiss him, to do something. 

“I… I wandt you to mbake mbe feel better. Mbake mbe forget. Take care of mbe. Please,” Shane said, voice wavering and nearing a whine. He was panting now, staring blatantly at Ilya’s mouth. His face was beautifully flushed, eyes wanting and glassy, expression so painfully longing that Ilya wished he could take a picture of this moment to have it forever. To sear into his memory. 

Ilya, still holding him by the hips, leaned in and kissed Shane with an open mouth. Shane sighed into it, eyes fluttering shut as he tilted his head for best access to Ilya’s lips. Their noses brushed, and Ilya was surprised to find he didn’t mind the transfer of moisture that occurred as a result. Not when Shane was gasping into his mouth, unable to breathe through his nose but still desperate to kiss. It was like Shane was starving for it, for the feeling of Ilya’s tongue in his mouth, oxygen deprivation be damned. He was puffing breath into Ilya’s mouth, panting, yet still ravenous with his intensity.

When Ilya broke away to give him a fucking chance to breathe, Shane chased him with his mouth, making a low displeased noise in his throat. His eyes were dark and hungry, covered by a glassy, watery sheen. 

“Fugck, Ilya, cobe on,” Shane whined, still short of breath, almost more worked up and desperate than Ilya had ever seen him. He sniffled thickly and ran a hand under his now-red nose, too distracted to care about how gross he usually found it and that tissues were literally within his reach. On top of all of that, he had a slight wobble to him like he was dizzy. 

“You can’t breathe, milyy, you need to blow your nose,” Ilya replied, hands roaming up and down his boyfriend’s ribs. 

Shane visibly reddened all the way down to his neck. If Ilya looked, it would probably be deliciously spread over his chest. In Ilya’s peripheral vision, he saw Shane’s dick twitch again. Proof that he was on the right track whether Shane would verbally tell him that or not. 

Still making eye contact, Ilya reached over and drew a few tissues from the box. Shane reached for them but Ilya pulled back, making a tutting sound 

“I am taking care of you, remember? This is for me to do.” 

Shane visibly struggled for a second, embarrassment beginning to creep back in, but it was stopped by a furrow in his brow and a twitch of his nose. He hitched, expression tortured and itchy, gearing up for however many sneezes his body decided was enough to express his arousal. He loved Shane’s little fits. They were like music to his ears, visual and auditory proof that Ilya was turning him on just right. 

“Hah- Ilyaahh, I-,” 

Ilya reached out and cupped the tissues around his nose. Shane’s hands flew up to meet them, clamping Ilya’s hand firmly in place. 

“HiISHIEW! HihH-hDTCH-ahISHIEW-ITCHoo! HahH-ADTCHOO!”

Shane sneezed harshly, over and over again, breath warm and damp against Ilya’s palm. The tissues flooded with warmth as the expulsions forced the congestion to shift and loosen and expel itself. He finished the fit with a noise between a groan and a whine, equal parts relief, mortification, and arousal. 

“Bud'te zdorovy,” Ilya purred, pinching the mess away from Shane’s nose with one hand while the other plucked a few more tissues from the box. Shane’s hands slowly withdrew from his face as he let Ilya do the work, face beautifully flushed. Ilya was quick to tent the fresh tissues against Shane’s nose, holding them tightly in place. “Now blow.” 

Shane for a second looked like he would protest, but something in Ilya’s expression stilled it. Instead he took a trembling inhale and blew, a couple hours worth of congestion flooding outward into the folds of the soft paper, warm against the pads of Ilya’s fingers. While Ilya clearly understood this was foreplay (Was it weird? Yes. Did he really give a shit? No.), it also felt sweetly intimate and trusting. Like a skittish kitten eating out of your hand. Or something. Maybe Shane just always reminded him of a kitten. 

Ilya had him blow one more time before cleaning him up, murmuring sweet praise into his ear while he did so. Shane looked so fucking blissed out it was insane and Ilya wanted to swallow him whole. 

Thankfully, it did seem like he could breathe a little better after blowing, which made Ilya feel better about accidentally suffocating his boyfriend during a makeout. Ilya nuzzled into Shane’s collarbone, gently teething on the skin there. Shane shivered and swayed, fingers tightening on Ilya’s shoulders as he moved in for another kiss.  

“You should be lying down,” Ilya breathed into his mouth, kissing him and walking Shane out of the bathroom and towards the bed, pulling their shirts off as they went. Shane fell back on the bed once the back of his knees hit the edge of it, propped up on his elbows and looking up at Ilya through his lashes with dark, glassy eyes. He was breathing hard, chest heaving, and nose beautifully red. 

Ilya went for the drawstring of his boyfriend’s sweats with fast, nimble fingers, tugging them down and off in a single practiced motion. Shane shivered as Ilya ran his fingers up his thighs and to the seam of his boxers, throwing his head back and exposing his neck. 

“You have been so reactive to me. So tense, so nervous. But I can see that you like it. I told you, I can always tell when you want,” Ilya said lowly, leaning down to mouth at the skin of Shane’s inner thigh. Shane trembled, sighing, twisting the bedsheets with tight fists at his sides. “You just want someone to take care of you, yes? Fuck the cold out of you?” 

The man beneath him groaned at that, dick twitching in his boxers. And the next moment Shane was sneezing again, gasping once and twisting to the side.

“Hih…hihH-INGTSHiew, ihHITCHuu, hah-ADTCHiew! Ngh, fugck, sngff, Ilya blease-”

Ilya watched, mouth watering as his boyfriend’s abs contracted and released over and over. With the next breath he was begging, panting, sniffling thickly, pulling Ilya closer by hooking his heels around Ilya’s ass and tugging. 

Ilya chuckled and kissed a line up Shane’s throat. 

“Oh, I know that sound. So eager even when you don’t feel good.” Ilya pulled back to look Shane in the eye for a second, savoring the tension and want in his boyfriend’s gaze. His nose was running already, eyes dark, embarrassed flush blooming down his neck at the intense attention. He sniffled thickly then turned to cough into his wrist. Ilya ran his hands over Shane’s ribs. “My poor Shanya, you are so sick.” 

Shane made a keening noise in his throat, reaching up and pulling Ilya down for the neck to mash their mouths together.

Soon enough Ilya had Shane on his back in the middle of the bed, the both of them naked, kissing a line down Shane’s body until he reached his groin, dick straining and untouched. Like the rest of him, it was flushed red. Precome gleamed at the tip. Ilya licked a slow, sensual stripe up his cock before swallowing it to the base in one smooth slide. 

Shane moaned loudly and tried not to writhe, both hands balled into fists in Ilya’s hair. His voice was fully hoarse now, but that didn’t seem to be interfering with his need to be vocal. Ilya took the opportunity and reached up to put his fingers in Shane’s mouth. Shane groaned and sucked on the digits dutifully, coating them with saliva. Ilya focused back on the cock in his mouth, bobbing his head and laving his tongue along the underside of it, pausing to suck at the tip with each slide. He was startled out of his rhythm when Shane caught him by he wrist and tore Ilya’s fingers from his mouth, grip tight and desperate. But then he was gasping, twisting to the side and - 

“Fu-uhhck, Ilya, I- INGtshiew, hDTCH-ahINGTSH-idtSHIEW, ahITSHIEW! Hih-hiISHIEWW!”

Shane’s dick thrusted into Ilya’s mouth with each sneeze, fingers tightening on Ilya’s wrist in time with the expulsions. Ilya stilled and relaxed his throat, feeling as the sneezes forced Shane to fuck forward into his throat again and again. Shane had never let Ilya do this before, too afraid of being rough and choking him. He had this irrational fear he’d make Ilya throw up... as if Shane could be rough enough cause anything other than a ghost of a gag. Ilya groaned at the sensation, eyes rolling back into his skull. Fuck this was hot. He couldn’t believe a cold is what got Shane to finally fuck his face. 

He didn’t give Shane a chance to think about it too hard though, quickly taking his slicked fingers to work his boyfriend open at the conclusion of the fit. Shane was clearly in no mood to wait - as soon as Ilya’s fingers were inside him he was groaning and squirming and pulling at Ilya’s hair, murmuring fever-drunk pleas all the while. 

Ilya was never one to say no to him. 

Ilya pulled Shane closer by the thighs, reaching up and making sure his beautiful head was propped up by a pillow so he at least had a chance at breathing properly. He smoothed a hand down Shane’s chest and stomach, admiring. Shane looked so wrecked already and he had only had a few fingers in his ass. He appeared as though he had already gone a couple rounds, face red, hair a mess, body slick with sweat. Shane’s nose was glistening and he couldn’t go a handful of seconds without sniffing. Ilya put a few tissues to his nose for him to blow, then kissed his forehead. 

Ilya slicked himself up with lube and pushed in slowly, giving time for Shane to adjust. He felt warmer than usual, hot muscle tight around Ilya’s cock. It felt so unbelievably good that he had to stop and breathe for a second one he was fully seated. He was glad he did because seconds later Shane was succumbing to another fit of sneezes, squeezing him tight over and over. 

“Hah! Hah- haAETCHiew, ITCHiew-hDTCH-ahISHIEW-ITCHoo! Hih-ITSH-ISH-ADTCHIew!” 

Shane usually had a fit right when Ilya bottomed out, but just how good and warm and tight his boyfriend’s ass was nearly made him forget. The spray fell cool on his overheated, sweat-slick skin. 

Once he was able to access coherent thought again, Ilya said, “Bud'te zdorovy. So sneezy. Does your nose really like this?”

“Shitd,” Shane whispered, dropping his head back and clenching down on Ilya’s dick as he began to thrust. “Yes.”

Ilya pulled Shane’s legs up over his shoulders for a deeper angle, to which his boyfriend cried out. Ilya kept his pace steady and thorough, hands roaming and groping every bit of flesh they could find - his boyfriend’s stomach, his pecs, his thighs, his ass. Shane shivered underneath his touch, overwhelmed tears gathering in his eyes and rolling in fat drops down his cheeks. Every time Shane had to stop to cough or sniffle it seemed to push himself ever closer to the edge. He was moaning and slurring words in that beautiful congested voice of his. 

Ilya was getting close. The feverish heat of him combined with just the sight of his lover was ruining him forever. Shane was a fucking mess - sweaty and fever flushed, lips dry and mess gleaming on his top lip as he’d stopped caring about appearances some time ago. His eyes were hazy, far-off and glassy, with tears leaking steadily over his cheekbones. 

But Shane had to come first. This wasn’t about him. 

Ilya kept his pace steady, bringing one hand down to wrap around Shane’s dick. Shane’s legs clenched around him. He groaned as Ilya thumbed at the precome-wet slit at the apex of each stroke. Shane was fuck-drunk and lost in it, brow pinched with pleasure, mouth open as he continued to lose his voice around the moaning and incoherent babbling for mbore, yes, blease, Ilya, righdt there.

Shane gasped, breath hitching and catching around his desperate panting, and Ilya knew he was close. 

“Come for me, Shanya. I will take care of you, come for me, good boy, yes, fuck-“

Shane climaxed with a cry, squeezing Ilya tight with his cry. The come on his stomach was immediately joined by the spray of his desperate, aroused fit of sneezes. 

“Ahhng, fuckfuck fuuhHITSHiew, hiISHIEW, iINGTSHoo, ADTCHOO-ETSHIEW-ITCHOO!” 

Ilya wanted to keep going, wanted to fuck Shane through it, but Jesus fucking Christ the way Shane looked and sounded and clenched down on his cock with each sneeze was too much. 

Quickly, he pulled out so Shane didn’t have to clean out, and was coming hard over Shane’s stomach with three quick stokes of his hand. Shane gasped, threw his head back, and snapped forward with another predictable fit. Ilya shuddered with pleasure as his dick was drenched in it. 

“HihH-idSHiew! hiISHIEW! HihH-hDTCH-ahISHIEW-ITCHoo! HahH-ADTCHOO!”

Shane’s face was a mess. His nose was an irritated red, wetness spilling over his cupid’s bow and down his chin. But in the post-coital bliss he didn’t seem to care yet. He was boneless and panting, staring at the come on his stomach and chest with drowsy, leftover arousal. It was unbearably sexy when Ilya made Shane a mess, when he fucked him so good that he didn’t care about the sweat or the come or the spray. That he alone was able to have this, to see this, to make this happen. That he was able to get Shane so fucked out that he didn’t care if he sneezed all over himself or all over Ilya. He cherished the fact that he was the only one who knew how much Shane Hollander liked to be covered in come and sweat, disheveled and messy. 

“Fuck,” Ilya breathed. It felt extremely well-spoken all things considered. 

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, just as out of breath. “Fuck.”

Ilya sat back on his heels on the bed and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. “So,” he started. “You will catch a cold again soon, right?” 

Shane burst into surprised, hoarse laughter and Ilya thought it was maybe the sweetest sound he had heard all day. 

…

After Ilya had cleaned Shane up with a warm cloth and fed him a handful of various medicines from the discarded pile in the bathroom, he pulled Shane on top of him for a cuddle before he began to insist on a shower. Shane sounded a lot less congested after the sex and multiple rounds of blowing his nose. Ilya filed this away for later when he eventually caught this - oh Shane, a blowjob would make my nose feel better, don’t you think? But for the moment he was just content to hold his boyfriend and run a hand through his damp hair. His skin seemed to be more sensitive than usual so Ilya kept the pressure firm until Shane stopped squirming at every touch. He still had a bit of a cough and his voice was definitely going out, but Shane didn’t seem to be too bothered by it. 

“So,” Ilya said, “Will we talk about this now or later?” 

Shane groaned and turned red, burying his face between Ilya’s pecs. 

“Never,” he groaned. 

Ilya chuckled. 

“Later, then. I have never seen you so worked up, lyubov.” 

“This is so embarrassing,” Shane replied, still hiding his face.

Ilya rolled them over so they were both lying on their sides, nose to nose. Ilya kissed the freckles on his face, then his eyelids, then his nose until Shane was relaxed and giggling. 

“Never. You are the hottest man alive and it isn’t fair you kept this kind of sex from me.” 

Shane laughed. “It’s not like I meant to. This is like, our first time really together when I…” He gestured vaguely - he couldn’t get himself to finish the sentence. 

“Have a cold? You are very sweet and needy when you’re sick, it’s very nice. I thought you would be a big asshole.”

“Hey!” Shane punched his arm. “I’m never an asshole. You’re the asshole.” 

“Shane Hollander, that is a lie. You and me are the same amount of asshole,” Ilya said, grabbing Shane and rolling on top of him, trying to tickle his sides. 

Shane groaned and tried to push him off. “Ew, Ilya, you’re so sweaty. We need to shower.” “You did not care about this five minutes ago.” 

“Well five minutes ago you had my dick in your hand. Things have changed.” 

Ilya waggled his eyebrows, smirk pulling at his lips. “That can be arranged.”

[percyphonea]

c/ens “im passing the phone to someone” video but everyone is full on picking on I/lya’s overly sensitive nose

[blesser-in-disguise]

I'm intrigued by Sco/tt's usual daily sneeze count and him during allergy season if you could write that please🍓 love a doting Ki/p

21, Sun, Salud

hi anon, thank you for the request! I also love a doting k/ip, and a snzkink k/ip, so I wrote both :) very self-indulgent, I know. the sneeze count concept is from this fic, and the arithmomania is me projecting lol. this is set post coming out, pre wedding.

I hope you enjoy! ♡

fandom: h/eated r/ivalry

word count: 7.2k

cw: sneezing, snz kink

The sound that woke Kip had his heartbeat climbing and his eyes searching the room before he’d even processed what it was. There were clothes and various other items spread out across the floor, so clearly there had been other noises prior to that one, and he’d awoken purely because of the implications that the sound of tape ripping away from plastic had carried.

“Uh, good morning?” Scott was kneeling on the floor at the end of the bed, looking slightly stunned by the speed with which his boyfriend had awoken, frozen with a tissue tented over his nose like a deer caught in the headlights.

Kip flushed, lying back- he hadn’t even realised that he’d pushed himself up onto his elbows for a better look- and staring innocently at the ceiling, “Morning.”

The older man blew his nose, pointed and productive like he’d been waiting a while to be able to, and pushed himself up to stand with a small grunt of effort. He walked around the bed to look down at his fiancé, who was still doing his best to look like he hadn’t identified the sound of a travel pack of tissues being opened while completely unconscious and responded as if he’d heard his own name called out.

“Sleep well?”

Kip finally looked at him again, noticing that he was dressed in workout clothes, and looked like he’d already been down to the hotel gym, face lightly flushed from the exertion. He was still holding the balled up tissue in one hand- which was perfectly normal and totally not doing unspeakable things to Kip’s train of thought right now- and breathing mostly through his mouth, occasionally interrupting himself to sniffle softly.

“Yeah, you?”

Scott nodded, “Mostly. Thought I’d get a quick run in before I have to leave for practice. Sorry I woke you.” They both knew he hadn’t woken him by coming back in, but it was nice of him to pretend so Kip could save face.

“It’s okay, I wanted to see you before you left anyway. How long until you have to go?”

He knuckled at his nose with the hand that held the tissue, glancing at his watch on his other wrist. “About five minutes.”

“But you’re coming back here afterwards?”

“Straight away.” The taller man started to walk back towards his bag laying open on the floor, pulling out a pair of trousers and tugging down his shorts to change. “I’m not going to be out there for a second longer than I have to.”

Kip went back to staring at the ceiling, knowing that those sculpted abs were the last thing he needed to be staring at right now, thoughts already wandering towards pulling his fiancé back into bed.

Scott took his silence for offense, amending his statement, “And of course I need to get back to my ridiculously handsome fiancé…”

The younger man laughed, running his hand through his hair as he listened to the ambient noise of clothes being tugged on and off and out of bags, letting his mind wander to breakfast, possibly brunch with the WAGs, considering the various pleasures of being on the road with the man he loved until he heard the zip of Scott’s duffel close, indicating that he was ready to leave.

Sitting up again, fully this time, he voiced the sentimental musings. “It’s really nice to get to be here this time, watch you and celebrate with you in person, rather than over the phone.”

Scott laughed, “Yea-” He cut himself off, squinting into the distance for a moment before his breath caught abruptly and he raised his free hand to his face in a fist, “heHTSHh! hEHTSHh! tTSHh!”

“Bless you.” Kip watched him drop his shoulders and raise his head back up.

“Ugh, thanks.” The older man sniffled. “Now you get to see and hear all of this-” He gestured exasperatedly at his face, “-in horrifyingly disgusting 3D glory.”

“I don’t think it’s disgusting.” His fiancé contested, coyly.

This sparked some of the most intensely suggestive eye contact Kip had ever been on the receiving end of, and he was mostly sure that he didn’t even breathe in the few seconds before Scott replied, voice low and husky, “I know you don’t.”

He leaned down and kissed the shorter man, still half under the bedcovers, though he scrambled to simultaneously free his legs, bringing them up under him so he could kneel up to close the distance Scott was having to bridge. The latter smiled into his mouth at the adjustment, but then pulled back after a moment wearing that expression again, shaking his head in irritation as he tilted his head back towards the ceiling, drawing in a wavering breath. Kip reached into the net pocket on the side of the bag on his fiancé’s shoulder and pulled out the pack of tissues, deftly removing one and holding it out to him.

Scott glimpsed him out of the corner of his eye, and accepted the offering, bringing it to his face without unfolding it and pressing it over his mouth and nose as he jerked in on himself, apparently trying not to knock the bag off of his shoulder with the motion, “hEHMPHh! hMPHSHhoo!”

Kip smiled, still delighted that he didn’t have to hide his attraction or at the very least endearment in moments like these anymore, watching his fiancé try to redirect how the forceful reflex puppeteered his body with limited success, “Bless you.” It was almost comical, the way the otherwise extremely strong, determined, put-together player completely lost all ability to function in the face of a teeny tiny tickle in his nose. And maybe to some people it would have been. But to him, it was an arrestingly vulnerable display of humanity, and to Scott it appeared to just be an inconvenience that he largely ignored.

To his surprise, though, when the older man straightened, he was smiling too, “Thanks. I’m at twenty-one!”

“Twenty one… sneezes?” He still had to hesitate before that word, though. Some things would just never feel natural.

“Yep.” Scott leaned down and kissed him again, on the head this time, and then started back in the direction of the door, swiping at his nose with the tissue, “That’s good luck. I’ve gotta go before there are any more. See you later!”

“See you! Love you!”

The captain stopped for a second, holding the door open, though he was already out in the corridor, to look back at him. “Love you too.” Then he let the door swing shut, and Kip was alone.

He laughed, surprised by the whirlwind exit, and amused by the superstition. If something could be counted or numbered, and was likely to reach 21, some part of Scott’s brain would be keeping track of it. From the date to hotel room numbers to car numberplates, to, apparently, sneezes. Normally he wouldn’t get close to double digits, but in Raleigh, right at the end of the regular season? 21 before he even left for morning skate was nothing.

It was Kip’s first time seeing it in person though, and the emotions were surprisingly bittersweet. He was excited and turned-on by the possibilities for after the game, but still concerned about the game itself, and how Scott would fare for the better part of the day without strong meds. Watching the typical post-exposure, pre-meds paroxysm over Facetime- or more accurately, watching the hotel room ceiling fan spin while listening to Scott wrestling with the allergy attack, which usually took both hands and all of his concentration- was absolutely nothing like watching it build from the first moments of exposure in the morning to the breakdown late at night. He had great confidence in his fiancé’s ability to play through the issue, but he couldn’t help but pity him for having to. Even if it was the sexiest thing imaginable, and totally something he’d daydreamed about any time he’d caught a hockey game prior to catching one of the actual players. Which it was.

…

“This is the worst.” Scott groaned, leaning shirtless against the wall of the bathroom, looking like he was anything but at his worst. Practice had given him that post-exertion glow, and his muscles looked extra defined after the workout. Even the pink tinge to his nose seemed to be more of a blush than rawness or irritation, though he couldn’t underestimate the frustration and discomfort of the constant itchiness he knew the older man was enduring. It was pretty undeniable that he looked hot while he was suffering, though, more in spite of it than because of it, even from Kip’s point of view.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Kip responded, hand in the spray of the shower, checking the temperature. His fiancé had been returned to him a congested, crotchety mess, so he hadn’t hesitated to suggest a steam shower to try and clean him up and clear him out before they relaxed. Reportedly he’d held at 21 sneezes until setting foot in the arena- which was the important thing apparently- but that was as far as his luck had taken him.

The older man cleared his throat a few times with audibly limited success, and Kip was just turning around to face him to let him know that the shower was ready, when his breath scissored abruptly.

“hEhH…” His eyes fluttered back open and their gazes met, Scott’s face flickering into something sweet and loving for a moment in response to the younger man’s attentive expression before his eyes went distant again, “huEHh…”

Kip watched him try to hold on to the sensation, chasing the relief of release, but as the tension in his facial muscles shifted from involuntary to an intentional mimicry of the automatic expression, in a way that the younger man could definitely detect but probably not describe, the tickle seemed to wane.

“Did you lose it?” He asked, sympathetically.

Scott nodded, raising a hand to rub at his nose, and at the last second taking that gasping breath in again and clenching the hand into a fist in front of his lower face instead, “hyEHhoo!” He dropped his hand again, frowning in dissatisfaction. “I have no idea what the fuck that was.”

“Bless-” Kip started.

“Don’t.” His fiancé waved him off. “I don’t deserve it yet.”

The younger man raised his eyebrows, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Scott started to step out of his boxers, sniffling as he closed the distance between them. “Just that if you’re going to be stuck saying that all day, I’d rather not give you the extra work.”

“It’s not work, and I’m not stuck.” He stripped down too, following the taller man into the shower, “I say it because I love you, and I care.”

“Yeah, and because you think it’s hot.” Well…yeah, but more for the sentimental reasons.

Kip shook his head, laughing as he averted his eyes. His reaction made Scott laugh too, for all of two seconds before he was breaking off to cough roughly into his fist, the steam filling his irritated lungs. His fiancé sobered immediately, taking his waist and rubbing his thumbs soothingly up and down the older man’s sides, feeling his ribs contracting forcefully, and his torso quaking with the effort.

The fit lasted only a few seconds, but it sucked most of the fun out of the small room, and when he broke the quiet, Kip spoke softly, barely discernible over the rushing water, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Scott matched his tone, voice raspy, eyes reverently traversing the younger man’s face, “Everything’s just so fucking itchy.”

“I bet.” He reached out for one of the washcloths on the towel rack just outside the shower. “You’re probably still covered in pollen. Let me help.”

His fiancé didn’t reply aloud, just closing his eyes and nodding, submitting to his care so he could preserve every ounce of energy for later. His hands drifted to the shorter man’s waist, anchoring them together.

Kip wetted the cloth in the spray, and then cupped Scott’s face with one hand, while he swiped slow, steady lines across it, working from bottom to top, outside-in, re-wetting the cloth every so often. He started along his jawline, then moved to his cheeks, his temples, his forehead, and then the area just below his eyes, and softly across his eyelids themselves, before venturing towards his nose.

The sides seemed like a less sensitive place to begin, so the younger man ran first up one side, over the bridge and down the other. Then he tackled the area just below his nose, carefully wetting and cleaning Scott’s moustache, pausing as his lip curled a little at the pressure, and then continuing. Then he hesitated. There was no way that this bit was going to go smoothly, right?

“I’m going to do the end of your nose now.” He warned, the words clunky and awkward in his dry mouth, flush rising on his cheeks as if he’d suddenly made the caring act perverted.

“Mmhm.” Scott only hummed in response, and then coughed, mouth still shut, as the vibration irritated his face.

“Okay.” Kip muttered, hesitantly moving in. He tried a firm touch, not wanting to contribute to the tickle, squishing his fiancé’s nostril with the cloth until it was amusingly almost closed, and then dragging across it. Nothing seemed to have happened there, so he moved across and tried the same thing on the other one. Again, there was no catastrophic response. He couldn’t fully tell if he was relieved or disappointed about that.

Confident that he’d managed not to make the older man feel worse with the sweet gesture, and had given him a few precious moments to relax while Kip took care of things for a bit, he smiled, shifting his grip on the cloth and then swiping it upwards along Scott’s septum. He’d used a little less force for that, because he knew the captain had broken his nose before, and didn’t want to cause him any pain by pressing too hard. This, however, turned out to be a mistake.

At first, he just sniffled, nose wrinkling up, and face twisting in response to the touch. Kip opened his mouth to apologise, but Scott, nostrils suddenly flaring, and eyes shooting open, beat him to break the stillness between them.

“hEIHSHh!” He turned his face towards the side that didn’t have his fiancé’s hand cradling it, spraying the glass, although the evidence was immediately washed away.

Clearly not done, Scott acted first again, pulling the shorter man into his chest, one hand pressing into his back to keep him close, the other coming up to loosely cup his nose and mouth.

“hHTSHoo! TSHhuh! heh…hH… TSCHh!”

Kip stared at the tiled wall, wide eyed. His arms had somehow ended up over his fiancé’s shoulders, so he’d awkwardly clasped them behind his neck, and now he was trying not to get so distracted by the naked torso shuddering against him that he would lose his balance and pull them both to the floor. Clearly Scott had thought this would be the most stable position to ride out the fit in, but maybe he hadn’t accounted for the shorter man being bowled over by lust. Because it was starting to feel like he might be.

“heHTDSh! TSHh! Ohmygod.”

As Scott let go of his back, his fiancé pulled away gingerly, looking up at the desperately sniffly man in front of him, who looked just seconds away from dissolving into another fit, and forcing himself not to lean back in for a kiss. “Bless you. I’m sorry, that was my fault.”

He shook his head emphatically in response. “N-hh-no I-ah-”

Kip pressed the washcloth into his hand, judging that he probably wouldn’t survive another bout pressed against him- not standing anyway- “Here.”

The taller man nodded his acknowledgement, turning away, towards the wall, shoulders hunching, and steepling his hands with the cloth over his nose. Please don’t accidentally waterboard yourself.

“hMPHh! hMPHh! hMPHShOo!” The sound was muffled, but still forceful, and Kip thought that he could probably still feel the force exploding into his hands through the barrier. He wasn’t sure if there was anything on the earth that could fully contain those expulsions when he really got going, and it was only worse when he was sick, so really they should both be grateful that this was just allergies.

“hrRSHHuh!”

“Bless you, bless you, bless you.” Kip took him by the shoulders, gently turning him back around to face him.

Scott didn’t look him in the eyes, ducking down further to blow aggressively into the cloth before he straightened fully again, and even then his posture sagged slightly, like he barely had the energy to stay upright. “Thangk you.”

“Okay, we’re going to finish up in here quickly, and then how about we lie down for a bit?” His heart ached with pity, and he tried not to let himself think about all the times that the older man had had to ride this out alone- and still indulged him over Facetime after the game…-his stomach twisted with guilt.

“That sounds good. ‘m fucking exhausted. Need to sleep a bit.”

Kip cupped his face again, leaning in slightly and waiting for him to close the distance. He did, kissing him gently between soft little pants for breath, and then the younger man pulled away. “You can sleep for as long as you want. I’ll wake you in time for us to leave.” If you’re feeling good enough to leave, that is. Because right now he looked like he should be anywhere but out on the ice, well, not anywhere, not like in the middle of a field full of cats and flowers and long grass, but definitely better in the hotel room than at the rink. Kip trusted him to know his limits, but he didn’t necessarily trust him to stick within them.

…

Scott unbuckled his seatbelt before Kip was even all the way into the parking spot, opening the glove compartment and pulling out a travel pack of tissues that he dragged the first two from and tented over his nose.

At his fiancé’s curious expression he explained, “I just want to- you know- get it all out before I have to go in there and act like it’s not bothering me.”

“Oh, okay, sure.” Kip responded, putting the car in park and pulling his phone out of his pocket like his full attention wasn’t focused on Scott. He didn’t have to pretend, but it was sweet of him to at least give Scott the illusion of privacy.

The older man blew forcefully, coughed a few times, leaned forwards in his seat to blow even more forcefully, and then cursed on a sharp inhale, before “hTDSH!”

“Bless you.”

“W-hh-ait- aHSCHhUh!”

“Bless you.”

Scott gave his nose one more blow for good measure, crumpled the tissues into one hand and sniffled as he straightened up. “Thanks.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay to play? I can’t imagine even having to walk around like that, let alone skate at full speed and score goals and be on camera for several hours.”

“Yeah.” He sniffed, frustrated to discover that his nose was starting to run again, and swiping at it with the tissue. “It’s always this bad before I get in there. Adrenaline and air conditioning kinda take care of it, though.”

Kip frowned sympathetically. “If you say so. I brought the meds with us so you can take them right after. You won’t have to wait until we get back to the hotel.”

“You’re an angel.” Scott leaned across the center console, staring into where his fiancé’s eyes probably were- both of them still wearing their sunglasses given the early hour- “Or at least a lifesaver.”

“Wow, demoted from heavenly being to a piece of candy.” The younger man laughed, but he closed the distance between them all the same, the two of them sharing a short kiss, before Scott tried to pull away to sniffle back the flow of what were probably redirected allergic tears, again. God, his whole face was one big fucking itch. People who thought allergies were just a slightly tickly nose were severely mistaken and also blissfully ignorant.

Tried was the key word there, as their sunglasses accidentally linked together- ironically by the nose-pads, and he yanked his fiancé’s pair off, and into the shorter man’s lap, with the movement, watching as his eyes squinted shut against the bright light, taken too much off guard to even move his hands from where they’d ended up- holding onto the lapels of Scott’s jacket, as he ducked forwards into the space between them.

“hTChhew! hhIHSHiew!”

“Fuck, sorry, bless you. God bless you.” The taller man fumbled the glasses back up onto Kip’s face, “Sorry.” The latter staying statue-still so he didn’t get his eye poked out.

Once he was safely protected from the mid-afternoon sunshine again- not exactly the most foreboding nemesis- his fiancé reassured him, “You’re all good, really I should be apologising, I don’t think I turned away like, at all.”

“It’s not your fault, you weren’t expecting it.” Scott shook his head dismissively, cupping the younger man’s face in his hand, “And I’m pretty sure neither of us mind that much.”

Kip blushed. “Get out of my fucking car Scott.”

He ran his fingers along his fiancé’s jawline until he held his chin. “Not until I make sure you’re alright.” Also it wasn’t his car. It was a rented car. But he wasn’t going to point that out and add insult to injury.

“Me alright? It was twice. You’ve been going at it all day. I think I can handle two without turning to dust.” He sniffled, fingers twitching in the taller man’s peripheral vision as he apparently tried not to touch his nose and refute his own point.

Scott decided not to pick him up on not actually voicing the word ‘sneeze’, although it was completely adorable that he couldn’t bring himself to say the ‘salacious’ word. “Yeah, please don’t turn to dust, that might be the end of me.”

The younger man laughed. “If I’m going to die like that then I’m taking you with me.”

“Yeah, till death do us part, for all of two minutes.”

“Wow, you think it would take two full minutes to die in a car filled with one whole human’s worth of dust?”

Scott snorted and shook his head. “Yeah, no, probably more like twenty seconds. Okay, I’ve gotta go in now, before they start thinking I’ve died of pollen exposure or something.” He sighed. “God, I fucking hate spring.”

He leaned in and kissed his fiancé again, noticing that the shorter man was holding his sunglasses on by one arm as they parted.

“See you afterwards.” The latter said with a smile, and another sniff that he’d clearly tried to delay until Scott was out of the car. “I love you.”

The older man opened the glove compartment again, grabbing another napkin and handing it pointedly to Kip as he opened the door with his other hand. “I love you too.”

…

Kip scrolled through his Instagram feed, trying to make the minutes until Scott would come out for warm-up go quicker. As he refreshed it for probably the fiftieth time, he saw that the Admirals’ page had posted a video of cut-together clips of the players walking in towards the locker room, captioned something that he hardly read about ‘game faces on’. Because the face that his fiancé was wearing was not his game face. It was his I’m-trying-really-really-hard-not-to-sneeze face.

The brunet watched the clip over and over, taking in the flaring nostrils, tensed jaw betraying gritted teeth, eyebrows raised in what probably looked to most people like an attentive expression as he he nodded towards the press, but to Kip was blatantly an attempt to keep his eyes from fluttering closed so he wouldn’t give in to the tickle.

He frowned, slightly anxious on his fiancé’s behalf, pulling up their message thread to check on him.

…

“huAHHSHh!-sorry.” He’d managed to muffle the preceding one into his jacket sleeve in the empty corridor, but his entrance into the locker room had occurred simultaneously with the latest sneeze and he’d looked up to see several people looking his way in mild alarm. It kind of had sounded like he’d just come in and yelled for no reason, so, valid reaction.

Thankfully it seemed like the only people in there were players, currently, no family members, or trainers, or press. The team had seen him succumb to whatever the fuck hated him so bad in North Carolina many times now, bar maybe the rookies, and were largely unruffled. He preferred not to get through his apparently mandatory pre-game respiratory system clean-out in front of people he knew less, people who might be overly concerned about his health, or anyone holding a camera or mic, though.

Scott headed for his stall, already squinting as the sensation grew back to a distracting presence in his face again. He braced himself against the shelf, palm planted squarely over his name plate, and raised his other fist to his face, “heHTSCHh! hTDSHh! hh… hyEHSHhoo!”

“Jeez, bless you.” Vaughn said from where he was visibly leaning away from the captain, sitting in his neighbouring stall, one hand raised to his ear dramatically as though Scott had just fired a gun at the same range.

“My bad. Thanks.” He sighed, shoving his bag out of the way and taking a seat, immediately reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose in the hopes that he could quell the itch and the sinus headache in one go. He made no significant impact on either of them.

Vaughn sat up straight again, eyeing the captain in commiseration. “All good. How many are you on now?”

It was definitely one of his more niche superstitions, but an oddly fun one for the team to monitor, apparently, and he had multiple memories of late spring roadies where every sneeze was followed by the corresponding count chorused in response by the rest of the bus, with excited exclamations every time he reached someone’s jersey number. “Fifty si-ihh hiEHTSHh! TSHhUh!”

“God bless.”

“Thanks.” He sniffled heavily. “Fifty eight.”

“Wow.” Carter whistled, impressed. “I wonder what the most I’ve ever gotten up to is.”

Scott almost snorted, and then thought better of it with the current state of his nasal passageways. “Like ten, maybe? Do you even have any allergies?”

“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’ proudly

The captain tried not to glare at him in jealousy, reminding himself what good fortune these allergies had turned out to be with his fiancé’s…tastes. “Well, count yourself lucky.” He fished a tissue from his bag, blew his nose forcefully, much to the winger’s unabashedly vocalised disdain, and started to get changed. He was halfway through lacing up his skates when the message came through,

Kip: [shared a post by @nyadmirals]

Kip: bless you, I’m assuming :/

Kip: how are you doing?

Scott clicked through to watch the clip and winced seeing his desperate expression. A quick scroll of the comments told him that, thankfully, no one other than his wonderfully discerning fiancé seemed to have noticed.

You: Thanks 👃 🫠

You: I’m better knowing that you’re here, but I definitely made a pretty dramatic entrance to the locker room…

Kip: oh?

Kip: maybe you’d like to re-enact it for me later ;)

You: Oh absolutely 😉 Not really sure I’ll have a choice in the matter though.

Kip: will it still be bad after you take the full strength stuff?

Kip: I don’t want you to suffer for my sake :(

You: It won’t be great. I’ll be comatose though, so I’ll wait to take it until afterwards. It’s basically a choice between 👃 and 💤.

Kip: I’m sorry :(

Kip: also stop sending me nose emojis you fucking tease. we have a whole game to get through.

You: I have a whole game to get through. You just have to sit and look pretty. Maybe we should even out the suffering.

You: 👃👃👃👃👃👃👃

Kip: turning my phone off.

Kip: good luck.

…

Scott had assumed that, after warm-ups, he’d be completely in the clear. He’d been inside, in filtered air, for a while by then, and his adrenaline was starting to pick up ahead of the game. Once he was in that headspace, there was no way he’d be able to get distracted by anything his immune system had to throw at him.

But he wasn’t quite in ‘game mode’ yet. Because he had to stand here, for almost two minutes, while they sung the anthem. Stick in one hand, helmet in the other, doing his best to only sniff or scrunch his nose when he wasn’t in danger of being on the jumbotron. Which was essentially never.

The captain dropped his gaze and stared at his skates, shifting from one foot to the other, biting his tongue behind closed lips, fighting against the tickle that had swelled in the brief moment of pre-puck-drop calm. They’re halfway through, come on, just hold it in.

His chest juddered involuntarily with a hitching breath, and Scott immediately raised his head expression neutral, lest it look like he was crying or laughing or something. He let himself glance around the arena, knowing where Kip was, that he was watching him, that he probably knew exactly how badly Scott had to sneeze right now, that it was definitely driving him crazy to watch…

He sniffed, the camera feed safely focused on a slow pan across the flag, and suddenly it all came apart. The tickle burst into a burning itch, like a pollen bomb had just detonated inside his nasal passageways, and as he was helplessly fumbling his helmet into his other hand so he could raise one to cover his face, eyes squinting shut, he caught a glimpse of a white jersey and what looked very much like the Empire State Building drifting across the jumbotron. Fuck, they were panning along the line again. He could only hope he’d seen wrong or it was the bench, or they switched the feed before he-

“aAHSCHh! heHTSHh!” Most of the noise was muffled by his glove, he couldn’t even hear it echo off the ice, and there was far too many other sounds currently happening to have drawn the attention of anyone beyond the players to each side of him. Visually, though- he glanced up at the screen, braced for what he knew he would see- himself, halfway through ducking back out of his glove. Oh great, so literally thousands of people had just watched him do that. He couldn’t wait to hear what that signified for his performance this season, and his career trajectory as a whole on every single sporting information source he encountered for the next two weeks.

A glance over at the benches showed him that players on both sides were smirking up at the screen, and even openly laughing as they glanced in his direction. Assholes. This did not mean anything for the game. The game was going to go perfectly.

…

“I looked like an idiot.” Scott lamented, hands planted on the bathroom counter on either side of the sink, as he stared into his own slightly puffy eyes in the mirror.

Kip, squeezing toothpaste onto his toothbrush for him, paused, “No you didn’t. They only really caught the second one on camera, and you had your face hidden anyway. It was cute.”

“I don’t want to look cute before a fucking game.” He frowned, “I want to look intimidating.”

The younger man held out the brush to him, watching as moving one of his supporting hands away to take it made him tilt dazedly to one side. Those were the allergy meds kicking in, making him sleepy and uncoordinated, hence the help he’d had to provide him in preparing to brush his teeth. “It doesn’t matter how you look if you play like that. And I think Carter lost more face than you anyway, he almost face-planted from laughter.”

Scott, already halfway through scrubbing uncoordinatedly at his molars, made eye contact with him in the mirror, speaking awkwardly around a mouthful of toothpaste. “But he was laughing at me. I made us both look sloppy.”

“Try and stop thinking about it.” Kip suggested. “I’m sure everyone else has. You scored, you won, you’re in a great position for the playoffs, no one cares about one little blip during the anthem.”

His fiancé wrinkled his nose bridge doubtfully, and then leaned forwards to spit into the sink. “I wish you were right, but I have a feeling I’m gonna be hearing about sickness and conditioning and the ‘beginning of the end’ until someone else starts to pick up retirement rumors. Bennett already sent me an article called, ‘Admirals’ 5-2 win in Raleigh nothing to sneeze at’.”

Kip fought against a laugh, Scott looking too dispirited to be amenable to having the humor of the situation pointed out to him, deciding to place a sympathetic hand on the taller man’s shoulder as he went back to attacking his teeth with depleted swipes of the brush, eyes drifting shut as he exhaustion became overwhelming.

Neither of them spoke until he was done, leaning forwards to spit again and then staring blankly at the faucet like it would turn itself on and rinse his brush automatically. In the absence of such magic, his fiancé stepped in, taking the toothbrush from his hand as Scott continued to brace himself over the basin, too tired to move away independently.

The younger man watched him in the mirror as he finished the task for him, eyes shut, breathing heavily through his mouth, pausing with the occasional sniffle. Suddenly, just as Kip flicked the faucet off again, his breath caught on the wake of a forceful sniff and he gave an irritated cough against the bicep further from his fiancé.

“Oh fuc-kTSHh!” He ducked towards his chest, trying not to spray the shorter man or the countertop beneath him, “hEHDjsh! The sound came out compressed from the crunched up angle, and his arms shook with the force

Kip set the toothbrush down, “Bles-”

“N-hh-no. huhTSHh!” He stumbled a step backwards, snapping towards his abdomen, fingers clawing at the countertop for purchase.

“You’re going to knock yourself over. Here.” The younger man guided him upright again, pulling him into an embrace, and gently steering his fiancé’s head towards his own shoulder. “There you go.”

Scott’s arms looped around his waist, already leaning heavily on him despite the word that he forced out, “S-sure?”

“I’m sure.” It was more of a ‘sure you understand what I’m going to do?’ than a ‘are you sure you want me to do it?’ and Kip was affirming both. Beyond the fact that his boyfriend dissolving in his arms was unthinkably sexy, he also wanted Scott to feel safe to be at his worst in front of him, they were getting married after all, and to understand that he’d bear the brunt of whatever Scott needed him to without complaint. He wanted him not to have to ask at all, but he knew that the confirmation only being a single word was kind of a miracle in the first place, and he’d already earned so much of the older man’s trust.

“hheHSHh! TSCHh! hyETDSHh! hhH… hTSHh! TsH-TDSHH! huEHSHh!-” It was definitely a longer fit than Kip figured either of them had been expecting, and he found his mind occupied more with keeping both of them balanced, predicting when Scott was about to pitch forwards so he could shift his weight accordingly, and running a soothing hand up and down his back, than with the lewd side of things. “-hyEISHhoo!” He finished, at last.

“Bless you.” Kip said, fixing his fiancé with concerned eyes as he pulled back.

“Thank you. Fucking toothpaste set me off.” He sniffled, “God, it’s always something.”

The shorter man pouted sympathetically, retrieving some toilet paper from the roll and offering it to him. He seemed like he’d already well and truly cleared out any irritants there, but it had left him sniffly, and maybe blowing would make it a little easier to breathe?

Scott, barely paying attention, took it and made towards him, swiping once at the fabric of the hoodie he’d just buried his face in, before Kip pushed him back.

“Not for here.” He pointed at his shoulder. “For here.” He pointed at his fiancé’s nose.

“Right.” The older man blinked slowly. “I think those meds might be kicking in.”

…

He sat on the closed lid of the toilet, staring broodily into space as Kip brushed his own teeth, free hand carding through his fiancé’s hair. They drifted towards the bed after that, though Scott redirected back to the bathroom before he’d even sat down to blow his nose again.

The younger man settled himself sitting back against the headboard, legs stretched out, skimming through his messages to figure out their plans for the next day. They had a little while before the next game, and were spending several days in Raleigh, which was the reason he’d come along in the first place, the slightly relaxed pace was contrary to what was often typical for these roadtrips, and the opportunity to see his boyfriend in the full clutches of spring allergies without the stress of a game… he had a feeling they wouldn’t be leaving the hotel room all too much.

Several squeaky, unproductive sounding noseblows later, Scott joined him, sitting down beside his fiancé and dropping his head to rest on his shoulder. Kip tilted his head to rest on top, privately wondering if he’d noticed the dampness still clinging to the fabric from the fit earlier, since it was the same shoulder. If he had he didn’t seem to show any sign of it, sighing softly and vocally as he fully relaxed.

Kip continued to scroll through his phone, unsure whether the older man was paying attention or if he was already drifting off to sleep. He definitely wasn’t fully asleep though, as he proved seconds later,

“hTDSHh!” Legs jerking with the redirected force as he tried to keep his head on the shorter man’s shoulder.

“Bless you.” Kip, having felt their heads hit softly together as he jolted, rethought the position, pressing a kiss into his messy curls before moving away a little.

“Yeah, b- hEHTDSHhOo! Whoo!” This one threw him fully forward, and his fiancé couldn’t help but think it probably would have been three or so smaller sneezes if the medication wasn’t starting to keep them at bay-and keep him from having any real control over them, it seemed.

“Bless you.”

“Bless me.” Scott echoed with a breathy, distant, laugh. He leaned back, head already dropping towards Kip’s shoulder again, but he missed, thunking against his chest instead, and, too tired to redirect his course, he slid down him until his head was in his lap, shifting his body so he was laying perpendicular to his fiancé, blinking up at him.

“Comfy?” Kip smiled, amused.

“So fucking comfy.”

The younger man extricated his phone from under his fiancé’s shoulder, and watched as his eyes started to drift closed. His breathing slowed and deepened, and he seemed moments from drifting off to sleep when his nose wrinkled, and he raised a faltering hand to rub at it.

Kip watched him scrub at one nostril, and then the other, and back to the first, and then his breath was switching to a different, faster, rhythm, and he was tugging up the collar of his shirt over his nose and mouth.

“hTCHuh!” Scott did half a sit-up. “hyehSHh!” He let the shirt drop back down, and started to relax again.

“Bless you. It’s taking a while to let up, huh?”

“Thanks.” He responded, and then frowned suddenly and deeply, after a moment shutting his eyes and scrunching his face up as if enduring some great pain or pressure. And then his expression was peaceful again.

Kip pressed a grounding hand to his fiancé’s chest. “What’s wrong?”

“Forgot the number for a second.” He responded, tone that of someone who’d just narrowly avoided making a fatal mistake.

“The number?”

“I wanna keep count.” Scott said, seriously, though he addressed the statement more to Kip’s pecs than his face. He was still counting them?

“Why? You’re way over twenty-one. You can relax now.” The younger man smoothed his hair back, supporting the verbal encouragement with a physical one, and watching as his fiancé’s eyes drifted shut, momentarily giving in.

“What if I hit one hundred and twenty-one though? That could be like…” He opened his eyes again, frowning as he tried to concentrate on what that number could portend, “double good luck.”

“Or it could be a visit to the medic to get sedated because one hundred and twenty-one in twenty-four hours is a lot.” Kip pointed out. “What do you need double good luck for anyway? The game’s over. You won.”

“Maybe a hundred twen’y one-” He was slurring his words now, “m’ns g’d luck f’r the whole r’st ’f th’ season!”

The younger man looked doubtful, not that Scott was watching him, because he wasn’t, he actually looked about 85% asleep. “Maybe. I don’t think you need it though. I mean, you’ve got me. Aren’t I enough luck for you?”

“Y’re-” His fiancé poked him in the chest, eyes still shut, and then suddenly gasped, turning his head away from Kip’s body, “hTDSHh! Eighty-si-ihh-x. huAHSHhOo! Eighty-s’v’n.”

“Bless you times eighty-seven.”

“Th’nks. Y’re more th’n ‘nough, ‘kay? For ev’ryth’ng.”

Kip laughed softly, “As sweet as that is, I don’t think I’m enough of a pillow so-”

“You aree.” Scott interrupted, pressing his face into the younger man’s abdomen in an attempt to convince him not to move.

“Not enough for you to wake up without hurting all over, and then even two hundred and twenty-one… sneezes won’t save your game, okay? So-” He patted the taller man’s hip. “Let’s lie down properly, and then you can sleep.”

Scott groaned, but pushed himself up enough that Kip could slip out from underneath him and they could both shift over to their pillows. Kip glanced over at him, arm outstretched to turn off the lights with the switch by the bed, and saw that he was smiling- or his best approximation of a smile under the heavy influence of the medication.

“What?”

“You would f’cking love two hundr’d twen’y ‘ne sneezes. Th’ts your dream.”

Kip, floored by the completely accurate accusation, flushed. “The only dreams you should be thinking about right now are the ones you’re going to have when your head hits that pillow, okay? I can’t believe you’re this out of it and still trying to rile me up.” It was actually fucking adorable that he wouldn’t let himself go to sleep without getting in one last little teasing comment, but if he let Scott know that, he wasn’t sure that either of them would ever get to sleep.

“Mmokay.” Scott’s head hit the pillow with a thump, and he sighed, eyes drifting shut and face slackening as he gave in to the medication and exercise induced exhaustion.

The younger man flicked the lights off, and laid down opposite him, about to close his own eyes, when his fiance muttered, with surprisingly lucid determination, “One day imma g’ve you two hundr’d f’ck’n sn’zes.”

Kip laughed, reaching out blindly to find his hand and squeeze it gently. This prompted one last elaboration from Scott, “M’ybe f’r your b’rthd’y.”

[silklined]

Fic: Magpie (H/eated R/ivalry), 1/1, c. 6k

Ilya: There is nothing to do in Denver, so good we made it a long game The reply is almost instant. Jane: I think Denver is ok. Ilya’s response almost writes itself. Of course Hollander thinks Denver is “ok” because it’s boring like him. Come on, Hollander, you are giving me an empty net. But then Ilya pauses. The speed of the replies means that Shane is somewhere awake with his phone. But it’s 11:30pm in Denver, which means that it’s 1:30am in Montreal. Way past good boy Shane Hollander’s bedtime. Ilya: You are up late Jane: Can’t sleep.

A/N: I've merged book and tv show canon as I've found them the most useful here. The only thing to note, if you care, is that the book leaves an ambiguous number of weeks between the phone calls from Moscow and the Raiders/Metros game in which Shane gets injured, whereas in the show Ilya comes back from Moscow and immediately goes to Montreal: this fic follows the book timeline. Also in the book, Ilya is convincing himself he needs to break up with Shane at this point. On the other hand, I like Shane asking Ilya to come to the cottage when he's in his hospital bed, so (unlike the book) that conversation hasn't happened yet. This is way too much detail for a kink!fic, I know.

Huge, huge thanks to @pyronomous for beta reading and catching my many, many typos and pointing out where my references got obtuse. Any mistakes that remain are my own.

Ilya rolls his eyes. The game shouldn’t have gotten anywhere near overtime, let alone beyond it. Colorado were six games without a win going in, and their starting goalie was out. Boston should have wrapped it up easily, but something wasn’t working tonight. Nothing was wrong, but nothing was especially right either. Perhaps it was just that this was the second of their back-to-back away games at the end of a ten day road trip – and fuck whoever scheduled that – so the whole team was exhausted, but the Raiders’ plays failed to connect as often as they succeeded. Marleau and Hammersmith never seemed to be quite where Ilya needed them to be; they’d probably have had the same gripe about him.

Jane: Just watched the highlights of your game with Colorado. Good job in the shootout.

So yeah, Ilya did do a good job in the shootout, but only after playing the kind of game that his father would have had some choice words about, once upon a time. Mediocre. Second-rate. Lazy.

Still, he doesn’t have to worry about that anymore.

Ilya: There is nothing to do in Denver, so good we made it a long game

The reply is almost instant.

Jane: I think Denver is ok.

Ilya’s response almost writes itself. Of course Hollander thinks Denver is “ok” because it’s boring like him. Come on, Hollander, you are giving me an empty net. But then Ilya pauses. The speed of the replies means that Shane is somewhere awake with his phone. But it’s 11:30pm in Denver, which means that it’s 1:30am in Montreal. Way past good boy Shane Hollander’s bedtime.

Ilya: You are up late Jane: Can’t sleep.

There are a hundred ways for Ilya to reply to this. Someone keeping you up? So what else are you doing in your bed, all alone? But his fingers are typing without him really telling them what to do, which almost never happens when he messages in English because he still has to think so fucking stupidly hard about every sentence. Now, however, his body seems to have bypassed his brain: his text back is an automatic nervous response that he can’t fully control.

Ilya: Everything ok?

For a few moments, nothing appears on the screen. But Shane must have his phone in his hand – he’d been so quick to reply to every other message. So he’s thinking about what he’s going to say. Well, ok. Actually talking to each other is still a pretty new thing. Ilya can be patient.

The dots appear, then disappear. They flicker on and off again a few times. Then, the message suddenly arrives.

Jane: I’m sick. I think I can tell you that since we’re not playing for another two weeks.

Even as Ilya is reading the message, the dots dance again.

Jane: Don’t tell anyone. I got sent home from practice and told to stay home and not let anyone see me, in case Pittsburgh finds out.

For fuck’s sake, Hollander. Who would he tell? And how would he explain knowing this very specific bit of information about Shane Hollander’s immune system? Ilya grins, as his thumbs tap out a response.

Ilya: Too late. I already tweeted that you are texting me from your bathroom floor. But I will cancel the Instagram post I scheduled. Jane: Ha ha. Very funny. Jane: But not that kind of sick. I just have a cold.

He has a cold. He just has a cold. How strangely intimate that Ilya knows this. It’s the kind of mundane detail that he always wants to know about Hollander, like the colour of his bedsheets, or how he takes his coffee, or whether he got stuck in traffic on the way home that day. The kind of knowledge that most people have about the person that they’ve been fucking for years – all right, the person they are probably in love with – without even thinking about it, but that Ilya can only ever acquire by accident. Every time one of these details about Shane falls into his hands, Ilya wants to tuck it away in some secret place where he can possess it forever: how Shane folds his clothes before he gets into bed, that he wears glasses for reading.

So Shane Hollander has turned him into a сорока – he’ll look up the English word later –  collecting tiny, glittering scraps and hoarding them jealously in its nest.

Because he’s tired and grumpy about the game, either of which on its own could put Ilya in the mood for some self-flagellation, he considers that it’s not normal to find yourself in this deep, for this long with another person without seeing them sick. Hollander must have been sick a handful of times since they’ve known each other, maybe more. Maybe he’s  one of those professional athletes who combines being super fit with having a terrible immune system – it happens more than people think. Or maybe he gets sick at the same time every year: right after the playoffs end and his body can finally give out, or around now, when the seasons are changing and spring becomes something more certain than a promise. And maybe Hollander has never really noticed these patterns in himself, and he’s never had anyone else to notice them for him. No one to brush his hair back from his forehead, and say, моя любовь, you always catch the worst colds this time of year.

But that won’t happen because you are going to do the right thing next time you meet. You’re going to end it - right after the next time you play Montreal. No more hotels, no more sexting, definitely no more phone calls. Two weeks. That’s all.  

The problem is that Ilya can picture exactly what Shane would look like with a cold. He’d be a little paler than usual, with a slight flush on his freckled cheeks. His stupidly cute nose would be red at the tip from tending it with tissues (far too polite to use his sleeve, of course). He’d allow himself a nap in the day time, and so his hair would be mussed up – kind of like the way it often is after Ilya’s finished with him – and he’d wear those button down pyjamas that Ilya always imagines that Shane wears to bed, maybe with a sweater over the top if he’s chilled and can’t stay warm. And he’d make himself tea – green, probably, or camomile, something caffeine-free and healthy – and he cradles the mug in both his hands, so that the steam rises up, and makes him sniffle.

Ilya lets himself linger on the image he conjured for a few moments, stretching an arm up behind his head as he readjusts his position on the hotel bed, and it’s then that it strikes him. He doesn’t only have to imagine it. Because, since that last trip – last ever trip – to Russia, there is something else that they’ve allowed themselves to do together. And ok, that time it was just for sex, but that doesn’t mean that it can’t be for other things too. Because he talks to Hollander now, too. They’re friends.

Ilya: Did you want to Skype? You’re awake. I have hotel room to myself.

Nothing, for a moment, and then dots.

Jane: Sure. But I’m kind of gross. Ilya: I will try not to run screaming Jane: Fuck you.

Ilya grins to himself, and then pulls his iPad from his bag to send the video call request. It rings once, twice and then…

Shane’s face appears on the screen and, oh, he does look sick. In the low light of his bedside lamp he looks… well, exactly like Ilya had imagined he would: pale, tired, a bit sad, and like someone who has spent the better part of the day with a tissue pressed to his nose. The rectangle of the iPad screen frames his face in landscape, dark hair teased across the pillows he’s piled against the headboard of his bed; he must have propped his own device up on the bedside table. The close-up highlights the dark shadows under his eyes and the skin rubbed raw at the tip of his nose. Somehow, the pink flush on his cheeks makes his freckles even more beautiful.

The one detail that Ilya had forgotten was Shane’s glasses. Is he wearing them because he’s been reading to distract himself, or because the cold is making his eyes sore and his head ache? At first, the light bounces off the lenses, masking the dark eyes underneath. But then Shane sniffles and adjusts his position slightly. When he looks at his screen again, their magnification makes his liquid brown eyes even larger and easier to get lost in, even now, when they’re actually liquid: damp with tears, red around the rims, and a little bit swollen, as though Shane has just been rubbing them.

In his mind, Ilya presses a screenshot button, saving this image and filing it away with all the others he has of Shane as he’s pretty sure no one else has ever gotten to see him.

“Hey,” Shane says. He sounds as bad as he looks, his voice lowered and scuffed by his cold.

“Hey.”

Silence.

It’s not that there aren’t things Ilya wants to say. You look fucking awful, Hollander. No wonder they sent you home from practice. Did you know your nose is twitching like a little bunny rabbit? Is someone looking after you? And he’d be able to say them in Russian; make the words sound teasing but not cruel, caring but not sappy, tender but not vulnerable. In Russian, he could make Shane feel better without dropping his own guard. But English is too complicated, and so Ilya doesn’t say anything at all.

Hollander blinks first, an anxious look creeping into his liquid eyes.

“You’re not really going to run screaming are you?”

“No…” He lets himself draw out the syllable, making Hollander wait for what will follow. “But you were very stupid to go to practice.”

In the rectangle frame, Shane’s face visibly relaxes, his lips quirking upwards into a half-smile.

“I am not joking, Hollander.” He keeps his mouth stern but hopes that Hollander can see that his eyes are teasing. “Is not good captaining to die in front of your teammates. Sets very bad example to the rookies.”

Hollander laughs at this, and then seems to immediately regret it when it sets off a damp congested cough. He smothers it into the sleeve of his – yes, Ilya called it – Metros sweater, even though there’s no one there he could possibly infect.

“Don’t,” Hollander protests, congestion dulling his consonants. “Theriault already tore me a new one. Asked me what the fuck I thought I was doing turning up too sick to skate.” He sighs, and sniffs. When he wrinkles his nose, his freckles cluster and constellate like stars.

Hearing Theriault’s remarks sparks a tense feeling in the back of Ilya’s neck that he recognises as irritation. All right, clearly Hollander was too sick to skate. And Theriault wasn’t known for pulling punches; “old school,” was what a winger who’d been traded from Montreal to Boston had called him, which pretty much tallied with what Ilya had seen himself across the benches. Still, a little sympathy for his most valuable player wouldn’t have gone amiss.

Oh well. Ilya would make Theriault’s team pay for that when Boston played Montreal.

Now, he asks, “What did you think you were doing?”

“Hiding that I was sick.” Hollander sniffles again in a way that sounds truly miserable without being self-pitying. “I was doing an ok job until I stepped onto the rink and sneezed four times in a row.”

Probably not an ok job, not possible really, not if Hollander looked anything near as bad as he does now. And so Ilya takes a moment to redirect his anger towards the rest of the Montreal Metros for not telling him to go home and sleep it off. You’d have had to be… well, you’d have had to be Hayden Pike not to have noticed how unwell Hollander was.

“Are you benched for the game?” he asks. Hollander shrugs.

“I don’t think they’ll decide until Friday. I can probably shake this thing before then. They just don’t want it to get out that I’m sick to, um -” Another sniffle. “I think Theriault’s phrase was ‘to avoid unnecessary speculation’.”

“Unnecessary speculation that you are about to die?”

That earns half a laugh from Hollander. “You know how it is. People post all sorts of shit on Twitter.”

That was true. Ilya had once made the mistake of going to buy a new suitcase, and someone took a photo and put it online; by the end of the day at least three of his teammates had texted him to ask if the rumour was true that he was being traded. 

“So yeah,” Hollander adds, filling the silence. “I’m not going anywhere for the next couple of days.”

He reaches up under his glasses to pinch the spot on the bridge of his nose where they rest. Ilya feels like his heart literally squeezes in his chest. Shane’s head must hurt. He looks so tired. If Ilya were a better person, he’d wish Shane get well soon, and hang up, to let him try to get back to sleep. But he’s not.  

“You feel like shit?”

“Um…” Hollander pauses for a moment, and Ilya thinks that he’s going to deny it. But then, perhaps because less than a month ago, he’d listened to Ilya being a sad sack in Moscow, he doesn’t. “Um, yeah. Pretty much.” Hollander sighs, and shakes his shoulders, as though some internal voice just told him to pull himself together, and adds, “I just… I hate when my nose is blocked, and then I can’t sleep because I can’t breathe right, you know?”

Ilya does, indeed, know. As far as he knows, he’s definitely broken his nose three times: once from a high stick, once when playing football – ironic – and once as a result of a punch that he deserved. But there had been at least a couple more occasions when a broken nose was a strong possibility but the hospital visit didn’t seem worth it. All of which had left him with a nose that is very crooked, and mildly congested at the best of times. It’s nothing more than an annoyance, except when he catches cold (thankfully not often) or when something irritates his nose (more often than he’d admit). Then, breathing through it became… well, exactly what Shane is dealing with now.

“You have taken medicine?” Ilya asks. “American stuff works - or knocks you out until your cold is gone.”

“Well, I’m Canadian.” Hollander’s smile is smug, teasing; the kind that makes Ilya want to pin him to the bed, cold or no cold. “No, that stuff makes me feel weird. I took some Tylenol and a decongestant the team doctor gave me.”

“Did it help?”

Hollander seems to be genuinely thinking about the question. “Maybe? I - ”

At first, Ilya wonders if Hollander has stopped mid-sentence because the connection is bad, which would also explain the frozen, distant expression in his eyes. But then those eyes narrow in something like panic, and Shane’s perfect nose scrunches upwards, and Ilya works it out. He’s about to sneeze.

Logically, he must have seen Shane Hollander sneeze before. On the basis of probability alone, it would have happened at some point. He and Hollander have known each other for nearly ten years, give or take. It’s a lot of time. Time on the ice, and time in press conferences; All-Star weekends, and Vegas Awards nights. Time that Ilya has spent studying Hollander in VT sessions he feigned boredom through, in YouTube highlight reels he deleted from his history, in that fucking ESPN documentary that he definitely hadn’t watched over and over. And the time they’ve spent alone together? Two weeks, maybe, if you added it all up.

So don’t add it up, you fucking idiot. Arithmetic is not supposed to be a gut punch.

Enough time, then, to see someone do something as mundane as sneezing. Except that, although Ilya is sure it must have happened, he can’t actually remember it happening. Which makes it very, very important that Ilya is now going to be able to add it to his Shane Hollander collection.

The videocall creates a strange proximity even though they’re really so far apart. The screen frames Shane’s face, showing every eyelash damp with tears, every twitch and wrinkle of his unfeasibly straight nose. The only other time that he’s this close to Shane is when they’re facing off or fucking, and yes, he understands the significance of this pairing – he’s not fucking stupid. 

And there aren’t many chances left to be close like this. Hollander must know it, too - that this thing can’t go on much longer. It’s gone on long enough. There’s only one ending and it’s stupid to prolong it.  So he should take this moment, add it to a collection of memories that will fade when they don’t even see each other a few times a season, when Shane Hollander will just be a name alongside his own in the record books, and whatever they had together might just as well have never existed. 

And then, just as Shane snatches a quivering breath, there is a sound like the movement of fabric, and the screen goes dark.

What the fuck? Has the iPad run out of battery? It was fully charged when he turned it on. Perhaps it crashed? But then the darkness on the screen ripples a little. Not dead, then. The screen is still on, the device still connected to the call, the camera still showing what’s in front of it. So Hollander must have – what, thrown something dark over the top of it? No, not that. As Ilya’s eyes adjust, he can see the outline of something vaguely Hollander shaped shuddering underneath what must be his blanket.

“hh’Tchhheuwh!!”

“Hollander?”

“huh-ISHHeuwh!”

 “We are playing hide and seek now?”

“Isshhhh!... huh-IESHhhh’eugh!” Those two are harsher. Not loud, precisely, but strong, as though Hollander’s body is determined to use all of its superior aerobic capacity to rid itself of the germs that had broken down his carefully maintained defences.

“You are very bad at hiding.”

“Fugck off.” They were followed by what sounds to Ilya like the rustle of some tissues, and some very damp snuffling noises.

“You ok in there?” he asks, half-amused, half-concerned.

From the blankets comes a noise that falls somewhere between assent and a groan. It’s followed by more snuffling before the pile manages to speak. “Sorry, I was gonna mu’dte when thad happened. Save your ear drumbs.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. Hollander’s sneezes were not loud, especially not through tissues and a blanket-cocoon. Ilya spends his time with hockey players: a giant breed, not known for their attention to hygiene or decorum. He’s heard worse.

“I think I can survive your sneezes.” More silence; the blanket doesn’t move. “Are you going to hide in there all night?”

“Baybe?”

“Hollander…”

“Ok, doh.” The blanket-pile gives a heavy sigh. “Bud I really need to blow my nose, so I ab going to put you on hold.”

“You don’t…”

 “One seg’ond…”

The blanket shuffles again. A clattering sound rattles through the speakers, loud enough to make Ilya wince; maybe Hollander knocked the nightstand. Then, the sound cuts and a green pause sign looms on Ilya’s screen. All at once, the room is quiet and empty – just him, alone with his thoughts. Far too many thoughts.

“Hurry the fuck up, Hollander.”

For something to do, Ilya moves the iPad from where it’s balanced on his thighs, knees drawn up to the ceiling, to his own nightstand. More comfortable that way, he’d have said, if anyone was there to ask. But it also means that he can lie on his side and look at Shane, who will look at him, so that it feels like they’re lying next to each other. Then, Ilya can believe, just for a moment, that if he stretches his fingers out then he will press through the screen and touch Shane – smooth down his hair, and tease out the headache from behind his forehead like there aren’t thousands of miles between them.

He reaches a finger forward and lets it hover just above the glass, just as the pause sign disappears and the screen goes black.

Ilya’s first thought is that Hollander has hung up on him. But then a voice, small and far away says “Ilya?” and it takes his breath away. A second later, the screen flickers, pixels reorganizing themselves, and Hollander appears again. The pink spots on his cheeks are brighter, and his hair is ruffled in different directions.

“I’m here. You ok?” Ilya adds, before he could think better of it.

Hollander nods. “Sorry about that.” His voice sounds clearer, but not altogether steady, as though blowing his nose has left him a little breathless.

“Is fine. You are sick,” Ilya says, pleased when Shane gives a small, shy smile of acceptance in response. “Is someone bringing you food while you are under home arrest?”

Shane’s eyes sparkle, which is enough to tell Ilya he’s got something in that last phrase wrong. Fucking English. Still, Hollander clearly finds it charming enough. Maybe he can make a few more mistakes before their call is through.

“Hayden offered, but I’ve got stuff in the apartment.”

“No, that is your team meals. You need soup – sick person food.”

On the screen, from far away in Montreal and right here in the room with Ilya, Shane smiles.

“You’d bring me soup, Rozanov?” he asks, sniffling softly.

“Sure. What kind do you want?” Shane’s smile gets bigger, warmer, and it’s such a rush, making him smile like that, that Ilya presses the joke further. “Might be cold when it gets there from Denver.”

It’s only once he’s said the words that he realises that the joke wasn’t supposed to be funny because he’s in Denver. It was funny because Ilya Rozanov doesn’t send soup to his hook ups when they’re sick. Shit.

But Hollander probably doesn’t notice because he’s too busy ducking under the blanket to sneeze again.

“huh?- ISHH’euhhh!... huh’IISHHhheuh!”

“Будь здоров.” He knows the English phrase; doesn’t use the Russian one unless he’s with another native speaker. But he pulls it out now because Shane said he likes it when Ilya speaks Russian – it’s sexy, is what he’d actually said – and Ilya aims to please. It does seem to pull Shane out from under the covers a little quicker this time. His eyes are still damp with fresh tears, and he still has tissues pressed to his face. Taking his moment, Ilya changes the subject. “Your mom, she will come to take care of you?”

Hollander wipes his nose and scowls, which is strange because it’s not weird of Ilya to think she’ll be there. Hollander’s mother always seems to be there, when Boston play in Montreal, and when the tv cameras flick to the audience in Hollander’s home games. His dad, too. But Mrs Hollander is the presence; she’s the one that people make space for, the one whose hand they shake first. And she seems steely, determined, disciplined like her son, but Ilya also sees the warmth with which they embrace, how she lets her hand rest on Shane’s elbow when they speak, grounding him and guiding him. She seems like the sort of mother who would turn up when her only child was sick - yes, he knows Hollander doesn’t have any siblings. The kind of mother who would turn up even when that child is now a two hundred pound hockey god, even when it meant driving two hours from Ottawa - yes, he remembers where they live - even when it’s just a cold.

Hollander apparently disagrees, because he’s shaking his head.

“No, fuck off. I didn’t call my mom to come tuck me in. I’m not eight years old.” He pouts and adds a note of indignation to his sniffle, both of which are quite eight-year-old things to do, but Ilya doesn’t mention that. Then Shane’s expression crumples and he groans again. “She’ll probably just know I’m sick by tomorrow, though, so I guess she’ll want to come and make sure I’m eating or whatever. How do moms do that – just know stuff?”

The question grips Ilya’s body like a vice, forcing the air from his lungs, and that, in itself, is unexpected. The sharp arrows of other people talking like this don’t usually pierce his armour these days; he can withstand the casual way that they dismiss the generosity and kindness of their families. Anyway, he gets it. He remembers when his own mother’s fussing was humdrum, even annoying. He remembers telling her to go away, leave him alone, stop hovering so much. He also remembers when she did stop hovering so often, and then when the hovering stopped for good. But reminders don’t usually hurt like this.

Hmmm. His father did just die. Perhaps his body is learning how to absorb that loss, like the blood that pools and swells near the skin in a particularly nasty bruise. Or maybe it’s because he’s tired and his team played like shit tonight. Or maybe it’s because Hollander is saying these things and, deep down, he’s glad that Shane can just brush off how much his mother loves him, and how she’s still there to love him, and Ilya hopes it’s a long time before he has to know otherwise.

Anyway, this is a normal thing for Hollander to say. Normal people talk about their normal, not-dead mothers like this all the time. So he doesn’t get to be weird about it. And with that thought, Ilya swallows down everything that seems to be rising in him, shrugs and says, “I don’t know.”

There’s a beat, and then Ilya gets to witness the exact moment that Shane realises why Ilya doesn’t know.

“Oh, fuck, Rozanov – Ilya – I didn’t… Your mom… I shouldn’t…”

“It’s fine,” Ilya says quickly, because Hollander doesn’t know the half of it and it’s not a conversation they are going to have right now, on Skype, with two hours, a land border, and a few thousand miles between them. Also, he’s supposed to be cheering Hollander up, and right now he’s not doing a very good job of it.

And so, yet again, it’s time for a clever bit of work with the puck before he passes the conversation back over.

“How many goals are you going to score against Pittsburgh?” Ilya asks.

Shane smiles, though Ilya can tell it’s mostly relief that his misstep didn’t land harder. But it still makes Shane’s reddened nose wrinkles, and his watery eyes crease at the corners, and it’s tooth-achingly sweet.

“Two,” he says, like he’s already planned out the plays in his head, can already see the back of the net catching the puck as he scores them. He probably does all that visualization shit after he finishes his wholesome yoga on his beautiful deck, which Ilya, for the record, has only watched five times, and definitely doesn’t ever think about when he jerks himself off.

Ilya tuts. “Scott Hunter got two against them last week, and he is twice your age. You should score at least four.”

“He is not twice our age,” Shane says, rolling his eyes theatrically as he presses a tissue to the underside of his nose again. “Hunter’s having a good season, isn’t he?”

“We beat them,” Ilya reminds him. “But yes. Sometimes he plays good hockey. For an old man.”

“Do you think he’s got a new regime or something?”

“I think he is having some very good sex,” Ilya replies. Mostly because he knows it will make Shane squirm – which it does – but also because it has the advantage of being true. Since Christmas, Hunter has had the look of someone getting a regular railing, lucky bastard.

“I cannot just believe you just made me think about Scott Hunter having sex.” Shane is pouting again but through the glasses and the tears his eyes are smiling.

“What do you think his sex face is like?”

“No! No! Stop!” Shane’s stuffy nose makes his shouts of protest impossibly cute, and he’s laughing now – no, giggling. Ilya’s never heard him giggle before, and all he can think is that he wants to hear it again.

“Like this I think?” And Ilya pulls the most grotesque imitation of a sex face he can imagine, eyes half-closed, head tipping back, mouth open, tongue teasing across his lips. He’s not going to make Hollander come this evening; the least he can do is make him laugh.

“Fuck no, Rozanov!” Hollander yells, only with his sore throat, it’s more like a choked squeal. Ilya stores the memory, so he can wheel it out for an impression next time he needs to rib Hollander about something. That how you talk dirty to me, Hollander? He doesn’t need to do that now because Hollander is laughing so much his eyes are watering, though that probably doesn’t take a lot right now. And Ilya is laughing too, and it's so nice to be laughing, to be silly like this after the game and his father, and the fucking shit show of a funeral and…

Hollander’s laughter catches and halts, and a familiar, pained, itchy, expression crosses his face, as looks down desperately, and then pulls up a tissue that must have been from a box just out of frame.

“No hide and seek this time,” Ilya says calmly, firmly. Shane looks nervous for a moment, lips parted, nose twitching, as his hands hover at his chest, tissues open over both of them like a prayer book. But as his eyes flutter closed, he does as Ilya says.

“uhh’ITSCHhh’ghh!” His head snaps forward into the waiting tissues, palms pressed tightly to his nose and anchored on his cheekbones. He holds the tissues in place, through another quivering inhale. “hehh?... iiIH’CHHHhheuh!!”

Shane exhales unsteadily, pinches the tissues around his nose and carefully rubs and lowers them. He opens his eyes for just long enough to throw Ilya a look that is both mortified and brimming with apology, even though there’s no good reason for either. But there’s barely an instance before Shane’s breath catches again.

“hhIHh’YISShhh’EUhhh!” Stronger again, the tissues and his hands barely muffling the sound. Strong enough to pull a breathless, “Ohmygod…” from Shane before the final sneeze hits. “hihh?--JIHHishhh’EUHh!”

The sneeze is strong enough to drag his whole upper chest forward, and snap his head sharply towards his chest. The sigh that follows tells Ilya exactly how exhausted he must feel.

“Будь здоров.”

“You said that before.” Shane has snatched up a fresh handful of tissues, and pressed them roughly up against the underside of his nose again. “What does it mean?”

“Be healthy,” Ilya replies.

“Ok. Well. I’m trying.” Shane’s mouth is set, but eyes are twinkling; Ilya feels the corners of his own mouth turning upwards.

“It’s what you say in Russia when someone sneezes,” he explains.

“Like, ‘bless you’?”

“Yeah, like that. But makes more sense.”

It’s Shane’s turn to smile at this.

“I guess it does,” he agrees. “Tell me how you say it again.” Exhausted as he is, Shane’s eyes are wide, eager. If Ilya didn’t know better, he’d think Shane had a pen in his hand, ready to take notes.

Ilya says, slowly and deliberately, “Будь здоров.” And then he adds, because it’s useful information and because he wants Shane to know this, “Is the informal version. What you say to a friend.”

Shane’s eyes sparkle, and then, diligent student that he is, he repeats, “Bud-zdor-rohv.” His eyebrows furrow adorably as he strings together the unfamiliar syllables. Ilya tucks the image away in the vault, along with the thought that maybe he, Ilya Rozanov, is the sole witness to the one thing at which Shane Hollander isn’t instantly perfect.

Except, of course, it is. He is. Perfect.

Shane must notice Ilya’s smile because he adds, “Was that bad?”

“No,” Ilya says, softly, truthfully. And then, because he needs to pull this game they’re playing back under his control, he adds, laying the accent on a little thicker, “Your Russian very good. You go play in KHL next season. Make many roubles.”

Hollander rolls his eyes.

“I think I’ll pass, thanks.” He scrunches his nose and closes his eyes, and for a moment Ilya thinks he’s going to sneeze again, but instead, it’s a large yawn that he smothers behind his fist.

“I am boring you?”

Shane blushes at this. Jackpot.

“Ngh… Sorry.”  Shane takes off his glasses, and carefully folds back the arms before reaching out to place them somewhere beyond the frame. “Just tired.” He sighs. “But also all… stuffed up. And itchy. Like I’m going to sneeze a billion more times.”

 Моя любовь, are your colds always like this – all in your nose? Do they always make it hard for you to sleep? Come and lie on me, prop your head up, you’ll breathe more easily. Now tell me how you’re feeling. Tell me what helps. I want to know it all.

“You should try to sleep,” is what Ilya actually says.

“I know.” Shane sighs. “But trying to sleep and failing is the worst.”

Yes. Another thing Ilya knows too well. But there are late night drives on the Pike for that, out into the stony and unyielding Massachusetts countryside and the huge dark forests that he’s rarely seen in daylight. There are night clubs, too, and hook-up apps, even if he’s lost his taste for the latter lately. None of these are useful suggestions right now, and none of them have actually cured his insomnia. He knows what the cure would be, though, and if he can’t ask for it himself, he can at least offer it to Shane. 

“Want me to stay on the call?” he asks.

 Shane sniffles, and says, sweetly, “You must be tired though. Long game.”

Ilya shrugs.

“Is ok. Not tired yet.”

Hollander looks so grateful, and it’s almost unbearable - the distance between them, the inevitable ending that they’ve only been delaying all this time, the impossibility of it all, and how much, despite all that, he wants it. Not just what they have now - though Ilya would take it, a lifetime of it - but what in his wildest, stupidest fantasies, they could be if they weren’t who they are. 

He and Shane stare at one another for a moment – or, that is, they stare at the screens that contain each other. The glass they can’t reach through; the thing they can’t touch.

“Could you talk to me for a bit?” Shane says, with another yawn that folds into a damp cough. “Tell me about the game. Tell me how it went.”

“You watched it. You know how it ended.”

“Well then it doesn’t matter if I fall asleep.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Okay…”

Shane smiles, sweetly, sleepily and his eyes flutter closed. Until Ilya begins speaking in Russian, and they open again, wide and full of wonderment. No one’s ever looked at Ilya quite like that before, and maybe no one will again. So it takes all of Ilya’s willpower to say, “закрой глаза… Close your eyes, Hollander.”

Shane does as he’s told, nestling a little deeper into the blankets, and Ilya wonders if it’s possible for a heart to swell so much that it bursts.

He talks about the game with Denver; tries to work out by speaking it aloud, pass by pass, play by play. Lays it on thick when he describes his goal in the first. Tries to get to the bottom of why they fucked up the powerplay in the third. Wonders whether LeClaire will change the timing of the lines for the next game, in three days’ time. Wonders if he should take Marleau out for a drink when they get back to Boston, because it seems like he hasn’t known how to talk to Ilya since he’s been back from Moscow, how to handle the fact that Ilya doesn’t seem like he’s sad. Or maybe he could take him to go look at a car he’s thinking of buying, but he probably won’t buy, and…

A snuffly sound, half snore-half sigh, comes from Ilya’s iPad. On the screen, the tension has left Shane’s forehead, and he has the blankets pulled up to his chin, the lower half of his face lost between them, and the pillows, and the dim light. He’s asleep.

For a moment, Ilya considers not doing anything – keeping the call connected, and closing his eyes, so that they can both fall asleep alongside one another. But it feels like too much, much more than what Hollander asked for. Besides, they couldn’t wake up like this; couldn’t be this way in the daylight.

“Goodnight, Shane,” he whispers. “Feel better soon.”

He reaches over, taps the picture of the red phone, and Hollander is gone.

[goodcol0gne]

So Jealous

Buck and Eddie are on a date, and the waitress at the restaurant won't stop flirting with Eddie. Buck handles it normally. Incredibly short and silly fic of Buck being a jealous freak while having a cold.

Buck, as a rule, typically has a pretty low opinion of people who are rude to waitstaff.

Even as an immature frat boy, he’s always been very self-aware of how he comes across as a customer, especially when he was hanging around people who weren’t quite as considerate. When a group of his college friends would come into a place, be loud and obnoxious and leave a mess, Buck always made sure to apologize profusely for them and leave a generous tip.

This particular waitress, however, is testing his patience.

It’s not that she isn’t nice. In fact, she’s too nice, in Buck’s opinion. She’s been flirting with Eddie right in front of Buck’s face, completely oblivious to the fact that Buck and Eddie are on a date.

At first, Buck tried to convince himself it was all in his head. She was overly friendly to the both of them from the jump, and Buck figured it was just her way of earning extra tips. But then she’d called Eddie hon, and laughed a little too loudly at some corny joke Eddie had made about appetizers, and finally, terribly, when she’d brought their drinks, she’d touched Eddie’s arm. That was the point that Buck started seeing red. Now, he’s practically vibrating with rage every time she walks by their table.

It’s not like Eddie’s flirting back, Buck tries to reassure himself. He’s seemingly remained completely oblivious, all eyes on Buck. Buck feels drunk on both Eddie’s attention and the shot of DayQuil he’d downed earlier. He might be coming down with a bit of a cold, but he wasn’t about to let that ruin their date night. Little did he know that someone else was intent on doing that for them.

The waitress comes back, all toothy smiles and Southern charm. “Y’all leave room for dessert?”

“No, I think we’ve had enough,” Buck says shortly, leveling her with the iciest glare he can muster.

Eddie laughs awkwardly, shooting Buck a glare of his own. “We’ll take the check, please.”

The waitress nods, unphased by Buck’s chilliness, still grinning warmly at Eddie. “Sure thing, babe.”

Babe. Hon was bad enough, but babe? Oh, if Buck was a cartoon character, he’s positive he’d have steam coming out of his ears.

“Buck,” Eddie chastises as soon as she walks away. “What gives, man? Why are you being such a dick to the waitress?”

Buck prickles with annoyance at Eddie calling him man, something he normally wouldn’t mind. Why is he getting called man while the waitress gets to call Eddie babe. It’s not fair. He’s the boyfriend. “Oh sure, take her side,” he says petulantly.

“Buck,” Eddie groans, clearly growing impatient.

“Don’t act like I haven’t noticed you two flirting all night!” Buck accuses, which he knows isn’t fair. Eddie has been nothing but cordial and appropriate all night. Buck is being crazy and he knows it, so sue him.

“I’m flirting with the waitress? You know that’s ridiculous.”

Buck pouts. “Well she’s definitely been flirting with you!”

“You’re being paranoid. She’s just a little…friendly. You heard the accent, it’s a cultural thing.”

Oh, Buck had heard the accent, alright. The waitress had been quick to bond with Eddie about the fact that they were both from Texas. Just another thing they have in common that Buck could never relate to because he’s from stupid Pennsylvania. They can run off to Texas and get married, for all Buck cares.

The thing is, it kind of pisses him off that the waitress doesn’t realize they’re on a date. It might piss him off even more than the flirting with Eddie does. Because while Eddie has been nothing but civil to the waitress, he hasn’t exactly been all over Buck either. Sure, they’re in public, and sure, the relationship is still in those early stages where they don’t know where they stand on PDA yet, and sure, their ankles have been linked underneath the table this whole time, but it’s not enough. Buck can’t help but want to be touching every part of Eddie all the time. The more the waitress smiles at Eddie, the more Buck wants to shove his tongue down Eddie’s throat in front of her. Which probably isn’t such a good idea if he’s catching a cold. Buck swipes at the underside of his nose to keep it from running, then coughs discreetly into his fist.

Eddie frowns. “You keep doing that. Are you getting sick?” Something seems to click into place, and Eddie says, “That’s why you’re all grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy. And I’m not getting sick. Shut up.”

Eddie softens, still impossibly sweet in the face of Buck’s obstinance. “Buck, you could’ve told me.”

“I’m fine,” Buck grumbles, then quietly says, “But you don’t have to kiss me tonight if you don’t want to.”

“I always want to kiss you,” Eddie says, strikingly honest in a way that makes Buck feel like a terrible person for acting like such a brat.

The waitress, of course, chooses that exact moment to interrupt them, because why wouldn’t she? She’s made it her personal mission to ruin Buck’s night, after all.

“Here’s the check. You have a nice night,” she says, looking directly at Eddie, and it doesn’t escape Buck’s notice that she says you instead of y’all. In case there was any doubt as to who she was wishing a nice night.

Buck sniffles to keep his nose from running, and it does nothing but exacerbate the itch deep in his sinuses. He sniffles again, trying to clear it, and that just makes it worse.

The waitress slides Eddie a napkin with what Buck presumes is her phone number on it and winks at him, and that, he decides, is the last straw.

His nose happens to agree.

Buck’s breath hitches, and in a lucid moment of defiance before he’s lost to the tickle, he snatches up the napkin with the phone number on it, and presses it to his nose.

“Hah-ah–AH’SHUUU!” he practically shouts, soaking the napkin with a wet, productive sneeze, and he’ll be lucky if he stops at just the one. His other hand blindly fumbles for the napkin dispenser, and Eddie hurriedly presses a handful into his outstretched fingers as another sneeze overtakes him. “EH’SHIIEW!” He presses the bundle of additional napkins to his nose, blowing heartily before exploding with a third sneeze. “AHR’GZZHUU!”

“Oh my,” the waitress says, eyes widening as Buck gives another forceful, frustrated blow. “Bless you. Coming down with a cold?”

Buck sniffs, and glares at her over the napkins. “I don’t think your perfume agrees with my nose.” A blatant lie. It’s not like Buck could even smell her perfume if she was wearing any, with how stuffed up he is.

Eddie looks somewhere between mortified and amused. Probably leaning closer to amused. He scooches closer to Buck and makes a show of draping his arm around Buck’s shoulder. “Oh, babe,” he coos. “We need to get you home and in bed.” He looks at the waitress and very pointedly says, “You’ll have to excuse my boyfriend. He’s not feeling well.”

“Oh!” the waitress exclaims, glancing between Buck and Eddie, suddenly understanding. “Oh,” she repeats, her face turning beet-red, to Buck’s satisfaction. She mutters an apology and scurries off.

Eddie pays and leaves a generous enough tip to make up for Buck’s antics, but not so generous that she gets the wrong idea.

[silentsneezes]

Captaincy

NSFW this is a honeymoon rhinitis fic, so it mostly centers around sexual pleasure. sh/ane receives a blow job ~ if that's not something you enjoy reading, this might not be the fic for you! 1.3k words!

thank you @stifledfreek for beta reading!! grammar has never been my friend, and your advice made the fic read much smoother :3 (also thank you to others who offered to read, i really appreciate it!)

Being Captain, in any capacity, carries a weight that no one truly understands until they experience it firsthand. Leading a team to victory or consoling them during a loss falls to one person—one singular stronghold who faces expectations that can, at times, feel impossible. For the Metros, Shane is that stronghold. 

Since his rookie years, he was understood to have the highest hockey IQ of any players, old or new. His talent was unquestionable, as was his work ethic, so he rose in rank until he led the team he had once admired from afar. He did everything right, to the point of obsession. He was in charge on the ice, in brand deals and interviews, in planning sessions and practices that ran overtime because he needed to iron out a few tricks until his team played flawlessly. 

He was, and is, a perfect captain. He knows how to be in charge, how to assert himself on the ice in ways he couldn’t imagine doing otherwise. He is not, however, in charge in the bedroom. Ilya makes sure Shane knows that, tonight especially. 

The Metros had beat the Raiders 3:2 that afternoon; Shane perfectly executed a goal in the last few minutes of the game, raising the crowd into a cacophony of elated cheers. When he shook Ilya’s hand afterwards, the Russian whispered, “1023,” and with that, Shane’s captaincy was relinquished. 

Now, in the privacy of the hotel, Shane listens to Ilya’s body without question; each push of his fingers or flick of his tongue is followed by sighs of pleasure, sounds of affirmation that Shane barely recognizes as his own. They’re low, drawn out, and intermixed with whispered, nonsensical praise. Sometimes it’s Ilya’s name, purred so sweet it makes him shiver. Other times, French and English pour from Shane’s mouth in a cascade of nothings, “oui, just like that, mon amour, please.” It isn’t a conscious decision, isn't performative like others Ilya had slept with. It’s pure, unadulterated desire. 

It’s addicting to see Shane slip into such a pleasurable state that his mind shuts off, his tongue speaking in a manner that he would otherwise be embarrassed by. When Ilya takes Shane apart, as he does tonight, all of Shane melts into something sweet, obedient—into loveliness. 

The most consistent marker of his pleasure begins with moans splintering into quick, sharp breaths. Shane’s chest expands with soft hitches, as if he’s winding up in anticipation for release. He’s then interrupted with staccato breaths, mouth falling agape and disrupting the kisses he presses to Ilya’s skin mindlessly. 

In the beginning, Shane would turn away from Ilya and shield himself from view to the best of his ability—whether he cupped a hand over his face or pulled away entirely was determined by how quickly the fits came on. Sometimes, he would take his nose between thumb and forefinger and pinch until the sneezes were squashed into submission, unnecessarily quiet. 

Ilya would bless him. In Russian first, and then English. Typically, a few niceties followed (“thank you, sorry, excuse me”) before Shane would let Ilya kiss him again. When Shane was especially embarrassed, Ilya would coax Shane’s hands away from his face and kiss both palms despite their dampness. Later, when the two of them would lay undone beside one another, Ilya might tease him (“So, you let me swallow your spit and your cum, but I cannot kiss you after sneezing? Is too much?”) and Shane would blush, call Ilya an idiot, and kiss him again. 

If they were rushed for time, Ilya worked efficiently, using Shane’s fits at a cue for which position he liked best that night. The fits became useful to him—they were praise of his skill, and they spurred him on, assuring him that Shane was close to release. 

Tonight, however, Ilya takes his time. He lets Shane devolve into sweet whispered nothings, kissing up and down his thighs before taking him in his mouth. Slowly, he undoes Shane’s carefully crafted captaincy. He allows Shane to tug at his hair and buck his hips upwards, rewarding his eagerness with the timely flick of his tongue. 

When Shane’s moans first catch—splintering into a trembling breath that falls short of a full hitch—Ilya hums his praise, and the sensation sends a shiver down Shane’s spine. His breath stacks atop itself again, building into a quiet crescendo, “hh—hih—,” and succumbing to nothing more than a breathy moan. 

Tease, Ilya thinks; if his mouth wasn’t preoccupied, he would have called Shane a tease himself. Those carefully restrained breaths are enough to make Ilya work more quickly. After years of experience, Ilya knows exactly how to make Shane come, be it with his hands, mouth, or cock. 

It takes less than a minute for Shane’s breath to stutter again, this time more urgently than the first. The hand he had tangled in Ilya’s hair is suddenly raised to his face, just barely managing to cover the first of many soft sneezes: “idt’sSch!” It hisses out between his teeth, damp but light. Unlike his typical routine, he suffers through no anticipation for the second sneeze. 

“hh’itsschh!-hsch!-itSChh!”

Shane’s body shudders with each expulsion, his torso clenching and his legs trembling as Ilya hums his praise once more. 

Ilya’s hands work their way up Shane’s  abdomen, squeezing and pinching wherever they please. His right hand settles over Shane’s pec, and he presses his fingers into the muscle. He works his tongue down Shane’s shaft once more, pulling back as he does so—a moment later, he lets his head bob down as he takes Shane fully again. 

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane moans. He places a hand over Ilya’s, grappling for some sort of capital. He can feel heat pulsing through his body, rippling beneath his skin as Ilya works to please him. The thought alone of the Russian working so carefully to unravel him is enough to make his hips buck up once more. Ilya retaliates, squeezing his pec and quickening his pace. 

“Fuck…. fuck— Ilya!” Shane's head falls back, hitting the pillow with a soft thump as he writhes. The pleasure seeps bone deep, easing the tension that has sat heavy in his stomach since the last time he had seen his rival. Warmth replaces the knot of anxieties, spurting out as he whispers delirious praise. Ilya swallows and pulls away with a lewd pop! 

Shane finds that the warmth has shifted from his abdomen to his nose—the pulsing thrum is now a buzz, deep seated and demanding release. His lashes flutter shut, eyes brimming with tears that refuse to fall, instead leaving his eyes glassy. Freckles crowd one another as his nose scrunches, and suddenly he’s curling a fist beneath the appendage. It presses to his septum, stopping a sneeze in its tracks for just a moment, and then a fit spills out in retaliation: “hng’SHxt!—ngSCh—hssch! h’sSchh’ew!” 

“Bud’te zdorovy.” Ilya rests his chin on Shane’s thigh, peering up at him, “Just four?” 

“Shut up.” Shane’s cheeks flush, and he reaches for a tissue from the nearby box; Ilya had made sure there was a box on the nightstand before Shane had come over that evening. He likes to watch when Shane falls into his typical post-sex routine: folding the tissue politely once, twice, and then tenting over his nose and wiping gently.  

“And the four before.” Ilya hums in observation. “In fours today.” 

Ilya’s hands once again roam over Shane’s body. One skirts down his side, collecting dampness from Shane’s sheen of sweat. It settles just above Shane’s hip, and Ilya can’t help but give his side a squeeze. 

Shane jerks in reaction, his body sensitive, every sensation heightened in the wake of his pleasure. He doesn’t oppose the touch, though. He watches Ilya’s hand move to his thigh next. Another squeeze, this time followed by a slight tremble from Shane. 

“Maybe,” Ilya purrs, not taking his eyes off Shane, “I can make it five.” 

[percyphonea]

How many times do you sneeze a year?

fandom: H/eated R/ivarly wc: 1.8k disclaimer: Inspired by a video I saw on YouTube. There are no snz spellings in this, but it's full of sneeze talk. It's also mostly a transcript style. If any of the numbers sound unrealistic... Well, we can't all have a sneeze kink which helps us to know how many times do we sneeze a year.

I eventually plan to make a second part, maybe of just of the comments under the video BUT if you guys are up to it, you can also comment under this like you would comment if it was a video; I think that would be a really funny game.

Honestly, H/arris thought making this video was stupid enough, but people on  YouTube seemed to love it when another team made something similar. So, overall, H/arris was pretty happy with how he edited the short. It was fine, really; it just… seemed weird. He wasn’t really sure if the question was interesting enough, and honestly, it wasn’t a question he ever thought of asking someone.

But also, the video already had a bunch of views, likes, and comments, so maybe it wasn’t a total disaster after all.

Harris sighed and then clicked play. Maybe if he watches it enough times, he will understand what the apparel is. Or not - but he liked to understand what viewers wanted because it made it easier to work on videos for the team’s social media. It’s not like he contributed to the rapidly growing follower base to his editing skills. He suspected it had more to do with both Ilya and Shane being on the team now.

The video started playing. Harris recorded this one like a month ago, but for some reason, it took way too long to edit. He remembered, clear as day, when they filmed it; it was during winter, and it was so cold outside that Harris was freezing even with his warmest clothes.

video transcript of ‘Cens vs sneezing’

<The camera is pointing at the bench from the back. It’s clear that there are a lot of people on the ice still, but a bunch of rookies are sitting next to each other, looking at the older players running drills on the ice. The camera gets closer and closer, and then suddenly it’s a side view at the end of the bench. The rookies look up; Nils Holmberg, Julian LaPointe, Alex Young, and Luca Haas are sitting like little kids. They are all wearing hockey gear and looking expectantly at the camera. It’s clearly visible that Luca is kicking his legs like a little kid.>

[LaPointe]: What is your question today, Harris?

[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?

<It doesn’t sound like a hard question, but the rookies all pause, and they look like they are deeply thinking. Young even starts to count something using his fingers.>

[LaPointe]: I don’t know, like 50?

[Holmberg]: You only sneeze 50 times a year?

[LaPointe]: I mean, yeah? Is that too much? Wait… how many days are in a year?

[Young]: Like 365?

<LaPointe looks like he is thinking very deeply; meanwhile, all of the other rookies look at him, amusement in their eyes.>

[LaPointe]: Okay, I mean, I guess my answer is around 300? I don’t know; I never counted, but I don’t sneeze every day, probably, but it’s not like I never sneeze, so…

[Holmberg]: Yeah, that sounds accurate. I will say 365. Like a sneeze every day, you know? Like, sometimes it’s zero, but sometimes it’s two, so?

<Luca Haas is still silent; he looks like he is deeply in his head, thinking about something. His blond hair is completely in his eyes, and he is squinting a little. He scratches his nose while he is thinking. Next to him, Young looks uncertain.>

[Young]: Mine’s like 700? I mean, I mostly sneeze two times in a row, so…

[Haas]: I mean… I honestly never thought about counting my sneezes, but it has to be triple digits. I feel like I sneeze every day and I always sneeze three times, so three times 365 is like… 1100?

<Haas looks uncertain, saying the number, and he’s clearly blushing. Next to his face, there is an edited photo of a calculator with the number 1095, and a classic, celebrating GIF.>

CUT

<The scene switches from the bench to outside the locker room. There is loud music and yelling coming from behind the closed doors, and it just gets louder when the door opens and then quickly shuts. The cameraman walks back a few steps as he realizes there are more people coming out of the locker room. Boyle, Dillon, and Chouinard stop and look at the camera, clearly expecting a question. All three of them look a little sweaty, bundled up in warm clothes.>

[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?

[Boyle]: Like, all year?

[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah, approximately.

[Dillon]: Is this like a trend?

[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah. The Admirals had a similar video.

[Chouinard]: It has to be around 200? Like, not one every day, but that’s like a pretty normal number.

[Dillon]: Yeah, I think mine is a little more, so I’m gonna say 250?

[Boyle]: Why are we acting like it’s a competition? Roz will win anyway.

[Chouinard]: I don’t know; it’s fun. What’s your number, Boyle?

[Boyle]: I don’t know. At least 200. Okay, you know what, I’m gonna say 250. I don’t sneeze that much.

CUT

<Some time clearly passed, maybe it’s even a day later because Boyle can be seen in the background, walking away. He’s clearly wearing different clothes from before. The locker room’s door opens, and Boodram walks out, laughing with Dysktra about something.>

[Dysktra]: Okay, Harris, I am ready for today’s question.

[Boodram]: It better be interesting.

[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?

<Pause. They clearly don’t expect this question, but it takes a little time, and Boodram is already laughing. He seemingly likes the question, or it just made him think of something funny.>

[Boodram]: Honestly, this feels like a targeted question. I don’t know, man? Like, once a day? Maybe a little less.

[Dysktra]: I don’t think you sneeze once a day. I think you are like… the least sneezy person I know.

[Boodram]: Hmm… maybe, yeah. You’re right, it’s definitely less. Fine, let’s go with 210.

[Dysktra]: That’s weirdly specific.

[Boodram]: I just gave a random number, smart***. Just say something.

[Dysktra]: Fine, if yours is 210, then mine is gonna be 283.

[Boodram]: And you say mine is specific…

CUT

<The video cuts back to the bench, except now it’s the cameraman sitting there, recording the ice. Troy Barrett skates over, and he looks all smiley and happy; there’s a faint blush on his cheeks.>

[Barrett]: Hey, b..

[Harris, off-camera]: I’m recording. I have an important question for today’s video.

<It’s clear on Troy’s face that he knows all about Harris’ important questions, and he definitely doesn’t think they are that important or exciting. He rolls his eyes and then rests his elbow on the barrier.

[Barrett]: Shoot.

[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?

[Barrett]: <laughing> Oh, yes, that definitely sounds like a really important question.

[Harris, off-camera]: What is your answer?

[Barrett]: I don’t know. What is my answer?

[Harris, off-camera]: I mean, I am asking you, so…

[Barrett]: Fine. Like, twice every day? What is that, like 700?

[Harris, off-camera]: <snorts> C’mon! You totally sneeze more than twice a day! Haasy said 1100, and you do sneeze more than him!

[Barrett]: I thought you were asking me?

[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah, but if you’re not gonna tell the truth, what can I do?

[Barrett]: Fine, okay. 1300. Happy.

[Harris, off-camera]: Happy.

CUT

<It’s clearly the end of practice. People are walking down the corridor, happily chatting with each other. Most of them look at Harris, expecting him to ask a question. Harris just shakes his head off-camera; he’s still missing three people from the next video.>

<Speaking of missing people. Wyatt Hayes gets stopped right in front of Harris. He looks really unhappy; his blond, curly hair is completely flat, and he looks really pale and tired. His nose is red, and he is clearly sniffling.>

[Harris, off-camera]: Ah, I was looking for you!

[Hayes]: <sniffs> Shoot. But hurry up, I need to get a tissue.

[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?

[Hayes]: This feels targeted.

[Harris, off-camera]: I asked everyone except you, Shane, and Ilya.

[Hayes]: Like, how many times do I sneeze in general, or right now?

[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah, like generally, per year.

[Hayes]: <his breath hitches, and he turns away from the camera, to direct a strong triple into his elbow. He stays like that for a few seconds, hitches again, and sneezes another two times.>

[Harris, off-camera]: Bless you! So, your final answer is?

[Hayes]: Thanks, sorry about that. Great, now people will think I did that on purpose. < He points at the camera, very seriously> I swear, I didn’t do that on purpose! I’m just sick! But yeah, I don’t know. I sneeze… like a lot? I think I’m a pretty sneezy guy, and I have allergies. Plus, every time I get a stupid cold it’s all in my nose, so… What was the most said?

[Harris, off-camera]: Troy said 1300, but I feel like you sneeze more like Troy. I mean… You sneeze a bunch in a row, so…

[Hayes]: Yeah, I do… Hmm, okay. You know what, I’m gonna say 2000. That sounds unrealistic, but it’s not, so.

CUT

<Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov step out of the locker room. They are holding hands and seemingly in deep conversation. They both stop once they notice Harris standing there with the camera. Ilya immediately smiles.>

[Rozanov]: Harris! Did you bring Chiron with you?

[Harris, off-camera]: No, not this time, sorry. I’m actually making a video, and you two are the only ones missing, so I wanna record that if that’s okay with you.

[Hollander]: Yeah, sure. What’s the question?

[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?

[Rozanov]: This is targeted!

[Hollander]: <blushing> Ilya…

[Harris, off-camera]: Roz, I asked everyone. You guys are the last ones.

[Rozanov]: I never sneeze. Russians do not sneeze. Shane, tell them.

[Hollander]: <still blushing> I mean, you do sneeze a lot.

[Rozanov]: Is lie.

[Hollander]: Ilya, oh my god, shut up and answer the question.

[Rozanov]: No, you answer it first.

[Hollander]: Oh my god, Ilya! Okay, fine. Like, probably around 1500? Maybe? I don’t sneeze that much when I’m healthy, but I have seasonal allergies, and I get pretty congested when I am sick. so. Yeah.

[Rozanov]: Fine. Yes. Mine is around that too.

[Hollander]: Ilya, you know that’s not true! If mine is 1500 yours is at least… I don't know! 4000! 5000! C’mon.

[Rozanov]: I don’t sneeze that much.

[Harris, off-camera]: You literally sneeze like… ten times in a row, Roz.

[Hollander]: At least.

[Rozanov]: I do not!

<Cut. First, there’s a clip from an older interview. It’s from when Ilya was still with Boston. To no one’s surprise, he is sneezing into closed fists, painfully stifling every little burst of sneeze.>

<After this, the video cuts back to Ilya and Shane, still bickering. An “one eternity later” meme fills the screen. When it disappears, Shane and Ilya are still on camera. Shane looks smug, while Ilya is clearly unhappy.>

[Rozanov]: Fine. My husband says I sneeze 5000 times a year, which is absolutely ridiculous, but I wanna **** *** tonight, so I gotta say what he says.

<Harris laughing can be heard in the background. Shane looks completely red, he is blushing hard, while he looks at Ilya, scandalized. The video starts to darken, and then it completely blacks out.>

[silklined]

Fic: Magpie (H/eated R/ivalry), 1/1, c. 6k

Ilya: There is nothing to do in Denver, so good we made it a long game The reply is almost instant. Jane: I think Denver is ok. Ilya’s response almost writes itself. Of course Hollander thinks Denver is “ok” because it’s boring like him. Come on, Hollander, you are giving me an empty net. But then Ilya pauses. The speed of the replies means that Shane is somewhere awake with his phone. But it’s 11:30pm in Denver, which means that it’s 1:30am in Montreal. Way past good boy Shane Hollander’s bedtime. Ilya: You are up late Jane: Can’t sleep.

A/N: I've merged book and tv show canon as I've found them the most useful here. The only thing to note, if you care, is that the book leaves an ambiguous number of weeks between the phone calls from Moscow and the Raiders/Metros game in which Shane gets injured, whereas in the show Ilya comes back from Moscow and immediately goes to Montreal: this fic follows the book timeline. Also in the book, Ilya is convincing himself he needs to break up with Shane at this point. On the other hand, I like Shane asking Ilya to come to the cottage when he's in his hospital bed, so (unlike the book) that conversation hasn't happened yet. This is way too much detail for a kink!fic, I know.

Huge, huge thanks to @pyronomous for beta reading and catching my many, many typos and pointing out where my references got obtuse. Any mistakes that remain are my own.

Ilya rolls his eyes. The game shouldn’t have gotten anywhere near overtime, let alone beyond it. Colorado were six games without a win going in, and their starting goalie was out. Boston should have wrapped it up easily, but something wasn’t working tonight. Nothing was wrong, but nothing was especially right either. Perhaps it was just that this was the second of their back-to-back away games at the end of a ten day road trip – and fuck whoever scheduled that – so the whole team was exhausted, but the Raiders’ plays failed to connect as often as they succeeded. Marleau and Hammersmith never seemed to be quite where Ilya needed them to be; they’d probably have had the same gripe about him.

Jane: Just watched the highlights of your game with Colorado. Good job in the shootout.

So yeah, Ilya did do a good job in the shootout, but only after playing the kind of game that his father would have had some choice words about, once upon a time. Mediocre. Second-rate. Lazy.

Still, he doesn’t have to worry about that anymore.

Ilya: There is nothing to do in Denver, so good we made it a long game

The reply is almost instant.

Jane: I think Denver is ok.

Ilya’s response almost writes itself. Of course Hollander thinks Denver is “ok” because it’s boring like him. Come on, Hollander, you are giving me an empty net. But then Ilya pauses. The speed of the replies means that Shane is somewhere awake with his phone. But it’s 11:30pm in Denver, which means that it’s 1:30am in Montreal. Way past good boy Shane Hollander’s bedtime.

Ilya: You are up late Jane: Can’t sleep.

There are a hundred ways for Ilya to reply to this. Someone keeping you up? So what else are you doing in your bed, all alone? But his fingers are typing without him really telling them what to do, which almost never happens when he messages in English because he still has to think so fucking stupidly hard about every sentence. Now, however, his body seems to have bypassed his brain: his text back is an automatic nervous response that he can’t fully control.

Ilya: Everything ok?

For a few moments, nothing appears on the screen. But Shane must have his phone in his hand – he’d been so quick to reply to every other message. So he’s thinking about what he’s going to say. Well, ok. Actually talking to each other is still a pretty new thing. Ilya can be patient.

The dots appear, then disappear. They flicker on and off again a few times. Then, the message suddenly arrives.

Jane: I’m sick. I think I can tell you that since we’re not playing for another two weeks.

Even as Ilya is reading the message, the dots dance again.

Jane: Don’t tell anyone. I got sent home from practice and told to stay home and not let anyone see me, in case Pittsburgh finds out.

For fuck’s sake, Hollander. Who would he tell? And how would he explain knowing this very specific bit of information about Shane Hollander’s immune system? Ilya grins, as his thumbs tap out a response.

Ilya: Too late. I already tweeted that you are texting me from your bathroom floor. But I will cancel the Instagram post I scheduled. Jane: Ha ha. Very funny. Jane: But not that kind of sick. I just have a cold.

He has a cold. He just has a cold. How strangely intimate that Ilya knows this. It’s the kind of mundane detail that he always wants to know about Hollander, like the colour of his bedsheets, or how he takes his coffee, or whether he got stuck in traffic on the way home that day. The kind of knowledge that most people have about the person that they’ve been fucking for years – all right, the person they are probably in love with – without even thinking about it, but that Ilya can only ever acquire by accident. Every time one of these details about Shane falls into his hands, Ilya wants to tuck it away in some secret place where he can possess it forever: how Shane folds his clothes before he gets into bed, that he wears glasses for reading.

So Shane Hollander has turned him into a сорока – he’ll look up the English word later –  collecting tiny, glittering scraps and hoarding them jealously in its nest.

Because he’s tired and grumpy about the game, either of which on its own could put Ilya in the mood for some self-flagellation, he considers that it’s not normal to find yourself in this deep, for this long with another person without seeing them sick. Hollander must have been sick a handful of times since they’ve known each other, maybe more. Maybe he’s  one of those professional athletes who combines being super fit with having a terrible immune system – it happens more than people think. Or maybe he gets sick at the same time every year: right after the playoffs end and his body can finally give out, or around now, when the seasons are changing and spring becomes something more certain than a promise. And maybe Hollander has never really noticed these patterns in himself, and he’s never had anyone else to notice them for him. No one to brush his hair back from his forehead, and say, моя любовь, you always catch the worst colds this time of year.

But that won’t happen because you are going to do the right thing next time you meet. You’re going to end it - right after the next time you play Montreal. No more hotels, no more sexting, definitely no more phone calls. Two weeks. That’s all.  

The problem is that Ilya can picture exactly what Shane would look like with a cold. He’d be a little paler than usual, with a slight flush on his freckled cheeks. His stupidly cute nose would be red at the tip from tending it with tissues (far too polite to use his sleeve, of course). He’d allow himself a nap in the day time, and so his hair would be mussed up – kind of like the way it often is after Ilya’s finished with him – and he’d wear those button down pyjamas that Ilya always imagines that Shane wears to bed, maybe with a sweater over the top if he’s chilled and can’t stay warm. And he’d make himself tea – green, probably, or camomile, something caffeine-free and healthy – and he cradles the mug in both his hands, so that the steam rises up, and makes him sniffle.

Ilya lets himself linger on the image he conjured for a few moments, stretching an arm up behind his head as he readjusts his position on the hotel bed, and it’s then that it strikes him. He doesn’t only have to imagine it. Because, since that last trip – last ever trip – to Russia, there is something else that they’ve allowed themselves to do together. And ok, that time it was just for sex, but that doesn’t mean that it can’t be for other things too. Because he talks to Hollander now, too. They’re friends.

Ilya: Did you want to Skype? You’re awake. I have hotel room to myself.

Nothing, for a moment, and then dots.

Jane: Sure. But I’m kind of gross. Ilya: I will try not to run screaming Jane: Fuck you.

Ilya grins to himself, and then pulls his iPad from his bag to send the video call request. It rings once, twice and then…

Shane’s face appears on the screen and, oh, he does look sick. In the low light of his bedside lamp he looks… well, exactly like Ilya had imagined he would: pale, tired, a bit sad, and like someone who has spent the better part of the day with a tissue pressed to his nose. The rectangle of the iPad screen frames his face in landscape, dark hair teased across the pillows he’s piled against the headboard of his bed; he must have propped his own device up on the bedside table. The close-up highlights the dark shadows under his eyes and the skin rubbed raw at the tip of his nose. Somehow, the pink flush on his cheeks makes his freckles even more beautiful.

The one detail that Ilya had forgotten was Shane’s glasses. Is he wearing them because he’s been reading to distract himself, or because the cold is making his eyes sore and his head ache? At first, the light bounces off the lenses, masking the dark eyes underneath. But then Shane sniffles and adjusts his position slightly. When he looks at his screen again, their magnification makes his liquid brown eyes even larger and easier to get lost in, even now, when they’re actually liquid: damp with tears, red around the rims, and a little bit swollen, as though Shane has just been rubbing them.

In his mind, Ilya presses a screenshot button, saving this image and filing it away with all the others he has of Shane as he’s pretty sure no one else has ever gotten to see him.

“Hey,” Shane says. He sounds as bad as he looks, his voice lowered and scuffed by his cold.

“Hey.”

Silence.

It’s not that there aren’t things Ilya wants to say. You look fucking awful, Hollander. No wonder they sent you home from practice. Did you know your nose is twitching like a little bunny rabbit? Is someone looking after you? And he’d be able to say them in Russian; make the words sound teasing but not cruel, caring but not sappy, tender but not vulnerable. In Russian, he could make Shane feel better without dropping his own guard. But English is too complicated, and so Ilya doesn’t say anything at all.

Hollander blinks first, an anxious look creeping into his liquid eyes.

“You’re not really going to run screaming are you?”

“No…” He lets himself draw out the syllable, making Hollander wait for what will follow. “But you were very stupid to go to practice.”

In the rectangle frame, Shane’s face visibly relaxes, his lips quirking upwards into a half-smile.

“I am not joking, Hollander.” He keeps his mouth stern but hopes that Hollander can see that his eyes are teasing. “Is not good captaining to die in front of your teammates. Sets very bad example to the rookies.”

Hollander laughs at this, and then seems to immediately regret it when it sets off a damp congested cough. He smothers it into the sleeve of his – yes, Ilya called it – Metros sweater, even though there’s no one there he could possibly infect.

“Don’t,” Hollander protests, congestion dulling his consonants. “Theriault already tore me a new one. Asked me what the fuck I thought I was doing turning up too sick to skate.” He sighs, and sniffs. When he wrinkles his nose, his freckles cluster and constellate like stars.

Hearing Theriault’s remarks sparks a tense feeling in the back of Ilya’s neck that he recognises as irritation. All right, clearly Hollander was too sick to skate. And Theriault wasn’t known for pulling punches; “old school,” was what a winger who’d been traded from Montreal to Boston had called him, which pretty much tallied with what Ilya had seen himself across the benches. Still, a little sympathy for his most valuable player wouldn’t have gone amiss.

Oh well. Ilya would make Theriault’s team pay for that when Boston played Montreal.

Now, he asks, “What did you think you were doing?”

“Hiding that I was sick.” Hollander sniffles again in a way that sounds truly miserable without being self-pitying. “I was doing an ok job until I stepped onto the rink and sneezed four times in a row.”

Probably not an ok job, not possible really, not if Hollander looked anything near as bad as he does now. And so Ilya takes a moment to redirect his anger towards the rest of the Montreal Metros for not telling him to go home and sleep it off. You’d have had to be… well, you’d have had to be Hayden Pike not to have noticed how unwell Hollander was.

“Are you benched for the game?” he asks. Hollander shrugs.

“I don’t think they’ll decide until Friday. I can probably shake this thing before then. They just don’t want it to get out that I’m sick to, um -” Another sniffle. “I think Theriault’s phrase was ‘to avoid unnecessary speculation’.”

“Unnecessary speculation that you are about to die?”

That earns half a laugh from Hollander. “You know how it is. People post all sorts of shit on Twitter.”

That was true. Ilya had once made the mistake of going to buy a new suitcase, and someone took a photo and put it online; by the end of the day at least three of his teammates had texted him to ask if the rumour was true that he was being traded. 

“So yeah,” Hollander adds, filling the silence. “I’m not going anywhere for the next couple of days.”

He reaches up under his glasses to pinch the spot on the bridge of his nose where they rest. Ilya feels like his heart literally squeezes in his chest. Shane’s head must hurt. He looks so tired. If Ilya were a better person, he’d wish Shane get well soon, and hang up, to let him try to get back to sleep. But he’s not.  

“You feel like shit?”

“Um…” Hollander pauses for a moment, and Ilya thinks that he’s going to deny it. But then, perhaps because less than a month ago, he’d listened to Ilya being a sad sack in Moscow, he doesn’t. “Um, yeah. Pretty much.” Hollander sighs, and shakes his shoulders, as though some internal voice just told him to pull himself together, and adds, “I just… I hate when my nose is blocked, and then I can’t sleep because I can’t breathe right, you know?”

Ilya does, indeed, know. As far as he knows, he’s definitely broken his nose three times: once from a high stick, once when playing football – ironic – and once as a result of a punch that he deserved. But there had been at least a couple more occasions when a broken nose was a strong possibility but the hospital visit didn’t seem worth it. All of which had left him with a nose that is very crooked, and mildly congested at the best of times. It’s nothing more than an annoyance, except when he catches cold (thankfully not often) or when something irritates his nose (more often than he’d admit). Then, breathing through it became… well, exactly what Shane is dealing with now.

“You have taken medicine?” Ilya asks. “American stuff works - or knocks you out until your cold is gone.”

“Well, I’m Canadian.” Hollander’s smile is smug, teasing; the kind that makes Ilya want to pin him to the bed, cold or no cold. “No, that stuff makes me feel weird. I took some Tylenol and a decongestant the team doctor gave me.”

“Did it help?”

Hollander seems to be genuinely thinking about the question. “Maybe? I - ”

At first, Ilya wonders if Hollander has stopped mid-sentence because the connection is bad, which would also explain the frozen, distant expression in his eyes. But then those eyes narrow in something like panic, and Shane’s perfect nose scrunches upwards, and Ilya works it out. He’s about to sneeze.

Logically, he must have seen Shane Hollander sneeze before. On the basis of probability alone, it would have happened at some point. He and Hollander have known each other for nearly ten years, give or take. It’s a lot of time. Time on the ice, and time in press conferences; All-Star weekends, and Vegas Awards nights. Time that Ilya has spent studying Hollander in VT sessions he feigned boredom through, in YouTube highlight reels he deleted from his history, in that fucking ESPN documentary that he definitely hadn’t watched over and over. And the time they’ve spent alone together? Two weeks, maybe, if you added it all up.

So don’t add it up, you fucking idiot. Arithmetic is not supposed to be a gut punch.

Enough time, then, to see someone do something as mundane as sneezing. Except that, although Ilya is sure it must have happened, he can’t actually remember it happening. Which makes it very, very important that Ilya is now going to be able to add it to his Shane Hollander collection.

The videocall creates a strange proximity even though they’re really so far apart. The screen frames Shane’s face, showing every eyelash damp with tears, every twitch and wrinkle of his unfeasibly straight nose. The only other time that he’s this close to Shane is when they’re facing off or fucking, and yes, he understands the significance of this pairing – he’s not fucking stupid. 

And there aren’t many chances left to be close like this. Hollander must know it, too - that this thing can’t go on much longer. It’s gone on long enough. There’s only one ending and it’s stupid to prolong it.  So he should take this moment, add it to a collection of memories that will fade when they don’t even see each other a few times a season, when Shane Hollander will just be a name alongside his own in the record books, and whatever they had together might just as well have never existed. 

And then, just as Shane snatches a quivering breath, there is a sound like the movement of fabric, and the screen goes dark.

What the fuck? Has the iPad run out of battery? It was fully charged when he turned it on. Perhaps it crashed? But then the darkness on the screen ripples a little. Not dead, then. The screen is still on, the device still connected to the call, the camera still showing what’s in front of it. So Hollander must have – what, thrown something dark over the top of it? No, not that. As Ilya’s eyes adjust, he can see the outline of something vaguely Hollander shaped shuddering underneath what must be his blanket.

“hh’Tchhheuwh!!”

“Hollander?”

“huh-ISHHeuwh!”

 “We are playing hide and seek now?”

“Isshhhh!... huh-IESHhhh’eugh!” Those two are harsher. Not loud, precisely, but strong, as though Hollander’s body is determined to use all of its superior aerobic capacity to rid itself of the germs that had broken down his carefully maintained defences.

“You are very bad at hiding.”

“Fugck off.” They were followed by what sounds to Ilya like the rustle of some tissues, and some very damp snuffling noises.

“You ok in there?” he asks, half-amused, half-concerned.

From the blankets comes a noise that falls somewhere between assent and a groan. It’s followed by more snuffling before the pile manages to speak. “Sorry, I was gonna mu’dte when thad happened. Save your ear drumbs.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. Hollander’s sneezes were not loud, especially not through tissues and a blanket-cocoon. Ilya spends his time with hockey players: a giant breed, not known for their attention to hygiene or decorum. He’s heard worse.

“I think I can survive your sneezes.” More silence; the blanket doesn’t move. “Are you going to hide in there all night?”

“Baybe?”

“Hollander…”

“Ok, doh.” The blanket-pile gives a heavy sigh. “Bud I really need to blow my nose, so I ab going to put you on hold.”

“You don’t…”

 “One seg’ond…”

The blanket shuffles again. A clattering sound rattles through the speakers, loud enough to make Ilya wince; maybe Hollander knocked the nightstand. Then, the sound cuts and a green pause sign looms on Ilya’s screen. All at once, the room is quiet and empty – just him, alone with his thoughts. Far too many thoughts.

“Hurry the fuck up, Hollander.”

For something to do, Ilya moves the iPad from where it’s balanced on his thighs, knees drawn up to the ceiling, to his own nightstand. More comfortable that way, he’d have said, if anyone was there to ask. But it also means that he can lie on his side and look at Shane, who will look at him, so that it feels like they’re lying next to each other. Then, Ilya can believe, just for a moment, that if he stretches his fingers out then he will press through the screen and touch Shane – smooth down his hair, and tease out the headache from behind his forehead like there aren’t thousands of miles between them.

He reaches a finger forward and lets it hover just above the glass, just as the pause sign disappears and the screen goes black.

Ilya’s first thought is that Hollander has hung up on him. But then a voice, small and far away says “Ilya?” and it takes his breath away. A second later, the screen flickers, pixels reorganizing themselves, and Hollander appears again. The pink spots on his cheeks are brighter, and his hair is ruffled in different directions.

“I’m here. You ok?” Ilya adds, before he could think better of it.

Hollander nods. “Sorry about that.” His voice sounds clearer, but not altogether steady, as though blowing his nose has left him a little breathless.

“Is fine. You are sick,” Ilya says, pleased when Shane gives a small, shy smile of acceptance in response. “Is someone bringing you food while you are under home arrest?”

Shane’s eyes sparkle, which is enough to tell Ilya he’s got something in that last phrase wrong. Fucking English. Still, Hollander clearly finds it charming enough. Maybe he can make a few more mistakes before their call is through.

“Hayden offered, but I’ve got stuff in the apartment.”

“No, that is your team meals. You need soup – sick person food.”

On the screen, from far away in Montreal and right here in the room with Ilya, Shane smiles.

“You’d bring me soup, Rozanov?” he asks, sniffling softly.

“Sure. What kind do you want?” Shane’s smile gets bigger, warmer, and it’s such a rush, making him smile like that, that Ilya presses the joke further. “Might be cold when it gets there from Denver.”

It’s only once he’s said the words that he realises that the joke wasn’t supposed to be funny because he’s in Denver. It was funny because Ilya Rozanov doesn’t send soup to his hook ups when they’re sick. Shit.

But Hollander probably doesn’t notice because he’s too busy ducking under the blanket to sneeze again.

“huh?- ISHH’euhhh!... huh’IISHHhheuh!”

“Будь здоров.” He knows the English phrase; doesn’t use the Russian one unless he’s with another native speaker. But he pulls it out now because Shane said he likes it when Ilya speaks Russian – it’s sexy, is what he’d actually said – and Ilya aims to please. It does seem to pull Shane out from under the covers a little quicker this time. His eyes are still damp with fresh tears, and he still has tissues pressed to his face. Taking his moment, Ilya changes the subject. “Your mom, she will come to take care of you?”

Hollander wipes his nose and scowls, which is strange because it’s not weird of Ilya to think she’ll be there. Hollander’s mother always seems to be there, when Boston play in Montreal, and when the tv cameras flick to the audience in Hollander’s home games. His dad, too. But Mrs Hollander is the presence; she’s the one that people make space for, the one whose hand they shake first. And she seems steely, determined, disciplined like her son, but Ilya also sees the warmth with which they embrace, how she lets her hand rest on Shane’s elbow when they speak, grounding him and guiding him. She seems like the sort of mother who would turn up when her only child was sick - yes, he knows Hollander doesn’t have any siblings. The kind of mother who would turn up even when that child is now a two hundred pound hockey god, even when it meant driving two hours from Ottawa - yes, he remembers where they live - even when it’s just a cold.

Hollander apparently disagrees, because he’s shaking his head.

“No, fuck off. I didn’t call my mom to come tuck me in. I’m not eight years old.” He pouts and adds a note of indignation to his sniffle, both of which are quite eight-year-old things to do, but Ilya doesn’t mention that. Then Shane’s expression crumples and he groans again. “She’ll probably just know I’m sick by tomorrow, though, so I guess she’ll want to come and make sure I’m eating or whatever. How do moms do that – just know stuff?”

The question grips Ilya’s body like a vice, forcing the air from his lungs, and that, in itself, is unexpected. The sharp arrows of other people talking like this don’t usually pierce his armour these days; he can withstand the casual way that they dismiss the generosity and kindness of their families. Anyway, he gets it. He remembers when his own mother’s fussing was humdrum, even annoying. He remembers telling her to go away, leave him alone, stop hovering so much. He also remembers when she did stop hovering so often, and then when the hovering stopped for good. But reminders don’t usually hurt like this.

Hmmm. His father did just die. Perhaps his body is learning how to absorb that loss, like the blood that pools and swells near the skin in a particularly nasty bruise. Or maybe it’s because he’s tired and his team played like shit tonight. Or maybe it’s because Hollander is saying these things and, deep down, he’s glad that Shane can just brush off how much his mother loves him, and how she’s still there to love him, and Ilya hopes it’s a long time before he has to know otherwise.

Anyway, this is a normal thing for Hollander to say. Normal people talk about their normal, not-dead mothers like this all the time. So he doesn’t get to be weird about it. And with that thought, Ilya swallows down everything that seems to be rising in him, shrugs and says, “I don’t know.”

There’s a beat, and then Ilya gets to witness the exact moment that Shane realises why Ilya doesn’t know.

“Oh, fuck, Rozanov – Ilya – I didn’t… Your mom… I shouldn’t…”

“It’s fine,” Ilya says quickly, because Hollander doesn’t know the half of it and it’s not a conversation they are going to have right now, on Skype, with two hours, a land border, and a few thousand miles between them. Also, he’s supposed to be cheering Hollander up, and right now he’s not doing a very good job of it.

And so, yet again, it’s time for a clever bit of work with the puck before he passes the conversation back over.

“How many goals are you going to score against Pittsburgh?” Ilya asks.

Shane smiles, though Ilya can tell it’s mostly relief that his misstep didn’t land harder. But it still makes Shane’s reddened nose wrinkles, and his watery eyes crease at the corners, and it’s tooth-achingly sweet.

“Two,” he says, like he’s already planned out the plays in his head, can already see the back of the net catching the puck as he scores them. He probably does all that visualization shit after he finishes his wholesome yoga on his beautiful deck, which Ilya, for the record, has only watched five times, and definitely doesn’t ever think about when he jerks himself off.

Ilya tuts. “Scott Hunter got two against them last week, and he is twice your age. You should score at least four.”

“He is not twice our age,” Shane says, rolling his eyes theatrically as he presses a tissue to the underside of his nose again. “Hunter’s having a good season, isn’t he?”

“We beat them,” Ilya reminds him. “But yes. Sometimes he plays good hockey. For an old man.”

“Do you think he’s got a new regime or something?”

“I think he is having some very good sex,” Ilya replies. Mostly because he knows it will make Shane squirm – which it does – but also because it has the advantage of being true. Since Christmas, Hunter has had the look of someone getting a regular railing, lucky bastard.

“I cannot just believe you just made me think about Scott Hunter having sex.” Shane is pouting again but through the glasses and the tears his eyes are smiling.

“What do you think his sex face is like?”

“No! No! Stop!” Shane’s stuffy nose makes his shouts of protest impossibly cute, and he’s laughing now – no, giggling. Ilya’s never heard him giggle before, and all he can think is that he wants to hear it again.

“Like this I think?” And Ilya pulls the most grotesque imitation of a sex face he can imagine, eyes half-closed, head tipping back, mouth open, tongue teasing across his lips. He’s not going to make Hollander come this evening; the least he can do is make him laugh.

“Fuck no, Rozanov!” Hollander yells, only with his sore throat, it’s more like a choked squeal. Ilya stores the memory, so he can wheel it out for an impression next time he needs to rib Hollander about something. That how you talk dirty to me, Hollander? He doesn’t need to do that now because Hollander is laughing so much his eyes are watering, though that probably doesn’t take a lot right now. And Ilya is laughing too, and it's so nice to be laughing, to be silly like this after the game and his father, and the fucking shit show of a funeral and…

Hollander’s laughter catches and halts, and a familiar, pained, itchy, expression crosses his face, as looks down desperately, and then pulls up a tissue that must have been from a box just out of frame.

“No hide and seek this time,” Ilya says calmly, firmly. Shane looks nervous for a moment, lips parted, nose twitching, as his hands hover at his chest, tissues open over both of them like a prayer book. But as his eyes flutter closed, he does as Ilya says.

“uhh’ITSCHhh’ghh!” His head snaps forward into the waiting tissues, palms pressed tightly to his nose and anchored on his cheekbones. He holds the tissues in place, through another quivering inhale. “hehh?... iiIH’CHHHhheuh!!”

Shane exhales unsteadily, pinches the tissues around his nose and carefully rubs and lowers them. He opens his eyes for just long enough to throw Ilya a look that is both mortified and brimming with apology, even though there’s no good reason for either. But there’s barely an instance before Shane’s breath catches again.

“hhIHh’YISShhh’EUhhh!” Stronger again, the tissues and his hands barely muffling the sound. Strong enough to pull a breathless, “Ohmygod…” from Shane before the final sneeze hits. “hihh?--JIHHishhh’EUHh!”

The sneeze is strong enough to drag his whole upper chest forward, and snap his head sharply towards his chest. The sigh that follows tells Ilya exactly how exhausted he must feel.

“Будь здоров.”

“You said that before.” Shane has snatched up a fresh handful of tissues, and pressed them roughly up against the underside of his nose again. “What does it mean?”

“Be healthy,” Ilya replies.

“Ok. Well. I’m trying.” Shane’s mouth is set, but eyes are twinkling; Ilya feels the corners of his own mouth turning upwards.

“It’s what you say in Russia when someone sneezes,” he explains.

“Like, ‘bless you’?”

“Yeah, like that. But makes more sense.”

It’s Shane’s turn to smile at this.

“I guess it does,” he agrees. “Tell me how you say it again.” Exhausted as he is, Shane’s eyes are wide, eager. If Ilya didn’t know better, he’d think Shane had a pen in his hand, ready to take notes.

Ilya says, slowly and deliberately, “Будь здоров.” And then he adds, because it’s useful information and because he wants Shane to know this, “Is the informal version. What you say to a friend.”

Shane’s eyes sparkle, and then, diligent student that he is, he repeats, “Bud-zdor-rohv.” His eyebrows furrow adorably as he strings together the unfamiliar syllables. Ilya tucks the image away in the vault, along with the thought that maybe he, Ilya Rozanov, is the sole witness to the one thing at which Shane Hollander isn’t instantly perfect.

Except, of course, it is. He is. Perfect.

Shane must notice Ilya’s smile because he adds, “Was that bad?”

“No,” Ilya says, softly, truthfully. And then, because he needs to pull this game they’re playing back under his control, he adds, laying the accent on a little thicker, “Your Russian very good. You go play in KHL next season. Make many roubles.”

Hollander rolls his eyes.

“I think I’ll pass, thanks.” He scrunches his nose and closes his eyes, and for a moment Ilya thinks he’s going to sneeze again, but instead, it’s a large yawn that he smothers behind his fist.

“I am boring you?”

Shane blushes at this. Jackpot.

“Ngh… Sorry.”  Shane takes off his glasses, and carefully folds back the arms before reaching out to place them somewhere beyond the frame. “Just tired.” He sighs. “But also all… stuffed up. And itchy. Like I’m going to sneeze a billion more times.”

 Моя любовь, are your colds always like this – all in your nose? Do they always make it hard for you to sleep? Come and lie on me, prop your head up, you’ll breathe more easily. Now tell me how you’re feeling. Tell me what helps. I want to know it all.

“You should try to sleep,” is what Ilya actually says.

“I know.” Shane sighs. “But trying to sleep and failing is the worst.”

Yes. Another thing Ilya knows too well. But there are late night drives on the Pike for that, out into the stony and unyielding Massachusetts countryside and the huge dark forests that he’s rarely seen in daylight. There are night clubs, too, and hook-up apps, even if he’s lost his taste for the latter lately. None of these are useful suggestions right now, and none of them have actually cured his insomnia. He knows what the cure would be, though, and if he can’t ask for it himself, he can at least offer it to Shane. 

“Want me to stay on the call?” he asks.

 Shane sniffles, and says, sweetly, “You must be tired though. Long game.”

Ilya shrugs.

“Is ok. Not tired yet.”

Hollander looks so grateful, and it’s almost unbearable - the distance between them, the inevitable ending that they’ve only been delaying all this time, the impossibility of it all, and how much, despite all that, he wants it. Not just what they have now - though Ilya would take it, a lifetime of it - but what in his wildest, stupidest fantasies, they could be if they weren’t who they are. 

He and Shane stare at one another for a moment – or, that is, they stare at the screens that contain each other. The glass they can’t reach through; the thing they can’t touch.

“Could you talk to me for a bit?” Shane says, with another yawn that folds into a damp cough. “Tell me about the game. Tell me how it went.”

“You watched it. You know how it ended.”

“Well then it doesn’t matter if I fall asleep.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Okay…”

Shane smiles, sweetly, sleepily and his eyes flutter closed. Until Ilya begins speaking in Russian, and they open again, wide and full of wonderment. No one’s ever looked at Ilya quite like that before, and maybe no one will again. So it takes all of Ilya’s willpower to say, “закрой глаза… Close your eyes, Hollander.”

Shane does as he’s told, nestling a little deeper into the blankets, and Ilya wonders if it’s possible for a heart to swell so much that it bursts.

He talks about the game with Denver; tries to work out by speaking it aloud, pass by pass, play by play. Lays it on thick when he describes his goal in the first. Tries to get to the bottom of why they fucked up the powerplay in the third. Wonders whether LeClaire will change the timing of the lines for the next game, in three days’ time. Wonders if he should take Marleau out for a drink when they get back to Boston, because it seems like he hasn’t known how to talk to Ilya since he’s been back from Moscow, how to handle the fact that Ilya doesn’t seem like he’s sad. Or maybe he could take him to go look at a car he’s thinking of buying, but he probably won’t buy, and…

A snuffly sound, half snore-half sigh, comes from Ilya’s iPad. On the screen, the tension has left Shane’s forehead, and he has the blankets pulled up to his chin, the lower half of his face lost between them, and the pillows, and the dim light. He’s asleep.

For a moment, Ilya considers not doing anything – keeping the call connected, and closing his eyes, so that they can both fall asleep alongside one another. But it feels like too much, much more than what Hollander asked for. Besides, they couldn’t wake up like this; couldn’t be this way in the daylight.

“Goodnight, Shane,” he whispers. “Feel better soon.”

He reaches over, taps the picture of the red phone, and Hollander is gone.

[percyphonea]

Hii! I absolutely love your work!! I wrote a little story about Ilya and the Centaurs’ WAGs because I really love them! I hope you like it!!

The WAGs adopt Ilya Rozanov

It was still early in the evening so Shane was watching tv when he heard the door click open. A soft smile formed around his lips as he realized that Ilya was finally home. Immediately Shane heard loud, booming sneezes fill the house. 

‘Huhh’DTSCHehh!’, ‘uhh’HHDEZZSCH’hoo!!’ 

By the time Ilya came into the living room, he was still sneezing his head off. Stumbling blindly over to the couch, he pressed one elbow against his face in the knowledge that Shane didn’t like him spreading germs. The man in question flinched involuntarily everytime his boyfriend scream-sneezed, but still held his hands out to catch Ilya. 

The Russian let himself fall on the couch, into Shane’s arms before sneezing one final time and then going completely limp. 

‘hihh'DZZTSHheww’

‘Bless you, baby’, Shane fished a pack of tissues out of his pocket and handed the blond man one. Ilya blew his nose tiredly and then went on to cuddle with his boyfriend. Shane rubbed his back soothingly as Ilya let out a few ticklish, little coughs. 

Ilya often had these seemingly never ending sneezing fits in front of him. Mostly as soon as he got home from a day of being exposed to the hardships of Canadian spring. Ilya didn’t always sneeze in these draining fits like the ones he had right after practice, but Shane just assumed it meant that Ilya’s allergies were really bad in those moments. 

——

Shane enjoyed his first barbecue with the Centaurs much more than he could’ve imagined. It was the end of the summer and the beginning of a new season with Shane as a new player of their team. Cassie and Bood had outdone themselves with all kinds of dishes and even made a different salad for Shane specifically. 

Shane was startled out of his contentment when Luca Haas sneezed really loudly, alerting everyone in the garden. The rookie blushed and tried to disappear into the shadows before his teammates burst out laughing. 

Shane, who was close to him, shook his head comfortingly and laughed, saying:

‘Don’t worry about it. I mean, have you ever seen Ilya sneeze?’ 

At that Luca narrowed his eyes while thinking deeply but then tilted his head sideways. 

‘Uhm actually no, now that you mention it’

LaPointe lowered the piece of potato he was about to eat and frowned slightly.

‘It’s not possible that Cap has never sneezed, right?’

Bood shrugged, flipping some sausages on tbe barbecue. 

‘I thought maybe Russians just didn’t do that’

Wyatt nodded in agreement, stretching his legs on the soft grass while leaning against his wife’s shoulder. 

‘I would have remembered if it was that loud’

Dykstra turned towards Shane raising an eyebrow. 

 ‘Are you sure about it?’

Shane was absolutely baffled. Almost everyday Ilya had these huge sneezing fits, loud and unstoppable. There was no way he had never once sneezed during practice? 

‘Ilya has really bad hayfever. He’s the sneeziest person I know’

Shane shook his head at the incredulous looks on The Centaurs’ faces. He was almost starting to doubt himself. 

But then Cassie Boodram placed another bowl of salad on the plastic table and coolly turned towards her husband. 

‘I think Shane knows his own husband the best. Hayfever really sucks, I hope you take good care of your captain’

Bood put his gloved hands up defensively:

‘We can’t take care of him if we don’t know anything is wrong!’

‘And here I was thinking that he finally started to open up to us’, Wyatt pouted sadly. 

Caitlin Dykstra rolled her eyes. 

‘That’s so typical, guys really don’t pay any attention. I’ve literally heard Rozanov sneeze multiple times before’ 

Evan Dykstra’s mouth fell open and Bood raised his eyebrows in disbelief. 

‘And I can confirm that it is indeed very loud’, Lisa Hayes added smugly and Wyatt pointed a betrayed finger at her. 

‘You too?!’

Luca shook his head curiously. 

‘When?’

Instead of Lisa, Cassie answered: 

‘Well, there was that time we all went to the petting zoo last spring…’ 

——

Cassie Bood

In the beginning of March, the Centaurs and Harris organized a team building activity and they all went to a petting zoo in Ottawa. After practice they would take the kids and let them roam free between all the animals.

 Although it quickly became clear that the adults might have even more fun than their children. 

Cassie loved watching all the tough hockey boys absolutely lose their minds when they were allowed to feed the newborn lambs. 

She wasn’t ashamed to admit that she took almost as much pictures of her son Milo sitting on a beautiful black pony, as she took of Rozanov and Barrett cuddling baby bunnies. 

As the day went on though, she noticed Ilya becoming more and more quiet. She caught him more than once turning away from the group or staying a bit behind to quietly hide what she assumed were little sneezing fits into his shirt. Afterwards he would look around frantically if anyone else noticed and then continue on as if nothing happened. 

When Zane took their son into the chicken coop, Cassie subtly pulled on the captain’s sleeve. 

‘We’re gonna check if there’s a place to drink something around here’, she called out but the group didn’t react, too excited to see the next animals. Cassie shrugged and dragged Rozanov away from the barn and over the gravel path. 

Ilya followed Cassie quietly as they walked next to each other in the direction of the little bar she had already noticed earlier. 

‘What’s bothering you?’, Cassie dared to ask the stoic captain as gently as she could, but Rozanov was already busy. She saw more than heard him flinch into his elbow, strangled sounds filling her ears. They were different than the nearly silent ones he’d continuously let out earlier. She could tell these were more desperate and therefore less controlled. 

‘H’DGxtt, Ngt’dtsh!, HHgxt’ugh’,

‘nGT’shh’, hehhD’xgt!-ng’

‘You can just sneeze here you know, it’s only us and some fields’, Cassie tried to encourage the stubborn hockey player. 

Ilya opened his teary eyes a bit as if he wanted to check the area for himself. In the end he just gave an exhausted cough and let his body do its job to sneeze fully. The relieved sound echoed across the fields and Cassie worriedly counted about fifteen of them before Rozanov seemed even remotely finished.   

“HEHH’dTSSChoo, ‘Ihh’ZZEHSCHHiew’

When Ilya straightened back up, he wiped tears from his eyes and blinked against the low, setting sun. 

‘Allergies have been bad today. I am really sorry’, he snuffled congested and Cassie wished she hadn’t left the stroller that contained a pack of tissues with Zane.  

She wondered faintly if Rozanov had waited all day, looking to hide somewhere and sneeze his head off. Even though he was still fighting them now when they were alone. 

Cassie frowned. Zane had told her the new captain had been reserved when they first started playing together. It hadn’t taken long for him though to find a way into everyone’s heart. Cassie thought naturally that it must’ve been the other way around as well. But maybe they needed to step up their game.

There was a moment of silence between them until a horse in the distance, offended by the loud noise, neighed back at the hockey player. Cassie burst out laughing at the same time that Ilya flipped the poor animal off, his cheeks turning embarrassingly red. 

‘I’m allergic to horses too’, Ilya muttered grumpily and Cassie stopped laughing instantly to sheepishly rub some stray pony hairs off of her shirt. 

‘Let’s find that café so you can wash your hands and face’, she stated seriously. Ilya just nodded, still blushing fiercely. 

‘I think I deserve some vodka maybe’

‘Water will do’, Cassie shook her head amused, linking her arm through Rozanov’s in quiet comfort. She was a mother after all, germs didn’t scare her. 

——

Lisa Hayes

When Wyatt told Lisa that their captain had fallen ill, she had ordered him to go check on the man. Lisa had gotten to know Rozanov a bit better over the many months that he played for Ottawa now. She knew that the man was not so secretly a sweetheart but that he was also extremely stubborn.  

Wyatt had gone the first time but apparently the captain had been asleep and hesitant to wake him up, Wyatt had just returned home. The next visit was for Lisa. 

She rang the doorbell, holding on to a thermos with homemade soup. When the door buzzed, she pushed it open and went inside. 

Lisa found the man under a blanket on the couch, watching television. He looked up through heavily lidded eyes but straightened when he saw her. Lisa informed him about the soup and made her way to the kitchen to warm the food up for him before he could protest. Once she’d done that, she put the bowel on the table next to the couch. 

Lisa noticed some bottles of pills that the team doctor had prescribed him and a white package that she immediately recognized. 

‘Did you take this?’, she pointed to the flu test, knowing that Rozanov very likely hadn’t. None of the things on the table seemed even touched. 

As predicted, the man shook his head and mumbled something under his breath. Lisa settled herself next to him on the couch to which the blond’s eyes widened and he tried to move away from her. 

‘What did you say?’, she prompted, ignoring Rozanov’s attempts at escaping. 

‘I can’t- Is difficult in English’, Ilya muttered annoyed but Lisa understood what he meant. The instructions weren’t very difficult  but when you’re sick, even reading in another language can be too much of a task. She could tell that the Russian was embarrassed about it, but honestly she didn’t mind. 

‘I’ll do it for you. Just 30 seconds, 15 seconds for each side, and we’re done’, she proposed. Ilya considered it for a while but gave his permission eventually with a tight nod. 

Lisa pulled out the swab and carefully inserted it deep into his right nostril. Rozanov tried to pull back with a startled groan but Lisa was a trained doctor so she kept his head in place with one hand. 

‘Breath through it. Out through your mouth when I go in’, she instructed and when Ilya did, he calmed down a bit. She rotated the stick around in his nose, counting to fifteen out loud. 

Lisa made it to ten before she became alert to the way her patients nose twitched and his eyes fluttered to stay open. 

‘Are you going to sneeze?’, she asked sympathetically, wondering whether she could push through for the last five seconds. 

Ilya muttered a short “no” and then focused on breathing through his mouth again. Only a bit later his eyes fully closed, head tilted back and the tip of his tongue peeked through his parted lips. His nostrils flared wide to give her better access.  

It was only a matter of seconds so Lisa pulled the swab out and Rozanov lunged forward into his shoulder immediately, sneezing silently about a hundred times. Lisa breathed surprised and gave him some  tissues that she found on the table. 

‘GnxTsh!’, ‘huhh’gktsh’, 

‘ihh-DT’shff!’, ‘hhihNgktt’

‘Bless you!’, she smiled kindly when he was done, but Ilya had his head turned away, his gaze focused on his lap. 

‘I couldn’t stop it’, he observed sadly. 

‘I know, that’s okay. It’s a normal reaction’, Lisa tried encourage him but Rozanov continued to look oddly put out, like it was the worst thing in the world to have happened. She tried her best to comfort him then. 

‘How many times have you broken your nose?’

The man made an uncertain noise and Lisa nodded. 

‘I thought so. That combined with being sick makes you more sensitive. That’s very normal, honey. I’m gonna have to do other nostril now’ 

Ilya nodded apprehensively and closed his eyes. This time they made it smoothly to fifteen but before Lisa took the swab out, she urged gently: ‘Don’t hold them in, doctor’s orders’

Ilya nodded barely before he sneezed loudly but politely into his elbow and then repeated the process two times. 

‘HD’uhhT’SCHEWW!’, HehD'ESHHuhh’ 

‘HIHH’DTZZSHiew!’ 

‘I’m so sorry. I don’t want you to catch this’, the sick man apologized and Lisa handed him his bowl of soup. 

‘I won’t’, she assured him. 

‘Wyatt can come around tomorrow, to see how you’re doing?’

Ilya waved his hand somewhere in the air and began sipping from the now not so hot soup. 

‘Not like this’

Lisa finished putting the swab away neatly for the team doctor to find. She would ask Wyatt for the results tomorrow. 

‘He won’t mind’ 

‘I mind’, Rozanov croaked out around thick coughs and Lisa hummed concerned. She was definitely sending her husband to check in on Rozanov. Whether the stubborn man wanted or not. 

——

Caitlin Dykstra

Caitlin was hosting a party in the winter for New Year. The new year had already begun but this was the only day that most people could make it. Everyone was outside having fun with the Sparkler Fireworks Evan bought when Caitlin went back inside to prepare the dessert. 

As she was busy cutting the cake she had baked that morning, she heard some shuffling above her. Caitlin frowned. Wasn’t everyone outside? She went upstairs to investigate and found the upstairs bathroom closed.  

Caitlin didn’t mind, she told her guests that they could use the bathroom if the toilet downstairs was occupied. Only, right now it wasn’t. Caitlin knocked softly and waited, but when no one opened the door, she let herself in. 

‘Hey’, she said sheepishly to the man inside and Ilya Rozanov startled, looking up at her from where he was sitting on the closed toilet in the dark. 

‘I’m sorry, I was ju-huhh just-‘, he started to explain but then his breath hitched, causing Caitlin to panic. Fearing that the man might be crying or worse, choking or something, she turned on the light. 

The sudden brightness immediately tipped Ilya over the edge as he started sneezing quietly, ducking into his fist over and over again. After a while they were getting stronger and Caitlin was getting more worried. 

‘Ihh’Gxt’, ‘Ng’tzd!’,

‘ngKTshh’, ‘UhhDT’nxt!’ 

Caitlin rushed to the sink and held a washcloth under the water. She pushed it into Rozanov’s hands and told him to hold it against his face. The cold shock stopped the sneezes for a while and Caitlin blinked nervously at the man in front of her. 

‘Are you alright?’

Ilya nodded embarrassed, his breath still suttering every few seconds but he managed to hold the sneezes at bay. 

‘I’m alle-hehh allergic to cats’, he admitted quietly. And Caitlin realized suddenly that of course now had to be the exact moment that they were babysitting Evan’s sister’s pet. 

‘Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Normally we don’t have pets but Lexi is with us for a few weeks’

Ilya’s shook his head dismissively and started saying: ‘I couldn’t-‘

But Caitlin interrupted him before he could lunge into another suppressed sneezing fit that clearly didn’t help any bit:

‘I’m gonna serve the cake to all the guests outside and then I’ll come back. Hang on’

Caitlin hurried downstairs and took the tray with cake. With the excuse of preserving the heat inside, she closed the door loud enough. Outside she waited a little until she indeed heard the faint echo of what had to be impressively loud sneezes. Caitlin smiled to herself. She had no idea what the captain was self-conscious about but she hoped he’d gotten some relief when she got back. 

After everyone was served, Caitlin turned to Evan: ‘Do we still have those antihistamines you normally take in summer?’

Evan nodded. 

‘Yeah they’re in the bottom drawer in the bathroom. Are you having an allergic reaction?’

Caitlin had already turned her back to her husband again and called over her shoulder. 

‘No, one of the girls asked for it’

Then she went back inside and hurried to the bathroom to find Ilya scrubbing at his nose but he had immediately stopped sneezing upon hearing her return. Caitlin rummaged worriedly through the drawer and found the medication she was looking for. 

‘I only have the liquid kind, is that alright?’

Ilya nodded shyly and sat perfectly still, apart from a few sniffles, until she handed him the right dose. 

‘You know Evan has hayfever in summer. He understands what a pain allergies can be’, she tried to cheer the miserable looking captain up. 

It didn’t seem to work though as Rozanov simply said: ‘It’s nobody’s issue but mine. I’d like to keep it that way. It will never affect my playing, dont worry’

Cassie grimaced but quietly put the medication back again. 

‘Of course not, honey. Just don’t forget that we’re all here for you. Let me see your face? 

I think you should shower first. Then you are ready to go downstairs again’

Ilya nodded and hopped off the toilet. He waited until Caitlin showed him where the towels were before closing the door with an awkward little wave. Caitlin made eyecontact with Lexi on her way down the stairs and gave her a stern pet on the head, telling her to leave the poor man alone. 

———

The more Shane listened to the women, the more outraged he became. He didn’t even know that Ilya was capable of holding his violent sneezes in, let alone that he was stupid enough to actually do it. Often, apparently. 

‘So what, Ilya only sneezes that much with me because he spends whole day holding them back?! The first thing I’m doing on the team is training that habit out of him‘

Wyatt nodded earnestly.  

‘We’re up for the task! Roz is our family, he deserves to be comfortable when he’s with us. And Luca needs good examples in his life growing up’

Luca threw his hands up exasperated. 

‘I am grown up?!’

OH MY GOD ANON thank you so much for this fic it was absolutely wonderful and i LOVED reading it. have to share with everyone actually

[percyphonea]

and I raise you, sympathy sneezer sh/ane who rarely sneezes…unless i/lya is about to sneeze and now he’s got to sneeze all of a sudden too. and if i/lya sneezes all the time, so does shane!

I need this on my desk yesterday

[percyphonea]

I feel like I/lya once hes comfortable letting loose has the most snotty and spray sneezes ever and s/hane would think it was absolutely disgusting if it was anyone else but him and i/lya are sitting outside in chairs looking at the view and i/lya is sneezing into the sunlight and now S/hane is squirmy and warm and wants to go inside and tend to his husbands drippy nose and have I/lya tend to his drippy d—

anon you are putting so many ideas and images into my head! yes, absolutely!! (once I/lya realizes S/hane is into it, he's not against letting out all of his sneezes during sex either. (i yearn for freak4freak h/ollanov))

[minteacutiewrites]

Let Me Love You Like You Love Me.

Sooooo....

I wrote a thing.

Is it the thing I’m supposed to be writing…no. But I think it turned out nicely, so hopefully I’ll be forgiven. 

Anyway, enjoy Shane being bullied just a little bit. 🤣

⚠️ CW: Light Mess and Potential Contagion ⚠️

‼️Minors Do Not Interact‼️

~

Shane had been avoiding eye contact with him most of this game, and Ilya had a feeling he knew why.

It started last night on the phone when Shane insisted that he was fine. Despite most of his team being sick with whatever bug was going around.

Now that they were on the ice together, though, Ilya could see Shane was in fact not fine.

It was even worse close-up when they had to face off. 

His boyfriend’s face was pale, making the dark bruise-like rings under his eyes stand out, and his nose was the kind of chapped red you only got from days of abuse with tissues.

“So this is fine?” Ilya muttered pointedly when they faced each other. Shane’s cheeks flooded with color, as his gaze flitted away from Ilya.

“Can we not do this right now?” He rasped, his voice almost gone and thick with congestion.

Shane lost the face-off.

Ilya watched Shane from his bench as a teammate handed him a couple of tissues, and all Ilya could think was that wont nearly be enough. He averted his gaze just as Shane snapped forward into the waiting tissues. Not wanting to tempt fate with the prickle he felt forming in his own sinuses.

Ilya couldn't understand why Shane was here.

Taking a swig from his water bottle, he chanced a peek at his boyfriend, smiling and chatting with his teammates like nothing was wrong.

Probably looking to their eyes relaxed and confident.

He saw it, though the way his smile was just a bit too tight at the corners, the slight pinch in his brow.

Shane was miserable, and Ilya couldn't understand how no one else could see it.

He looked away when Shane caught him staring, smoothing his expression, icy like he didn't care.

Missing the way Shane's smile faltered slightly.

~

Ilya texted Shane after the game, standing in the middle of the cold and flu aisle, waiting for his boyfriend to answer.

Ilya stared at his phone, the text conversation only providing more fuel for his irritation.

He didn't understand why Shane was being like this.

It didn't matter if Shane wanted to be stubborn. If Shane wasn't going to take care of himself, Ilya would do it for him.

He shoved his phone in his pocket, making his way around the store, tossing things into a basket.

Not even sure Shane needed any of these things, but he didn't care.

When Ilya walked through the door of Shane's home tonight, he wanted to make sure that he was prepared for whatever was thrown at him.

He got to Shane's place, punching in the door code, arms loaded with bags, wondering if he'd maybe gone a bit overboard.

"Shane?" Ilya called out softly, in case his boyfriend was asleep. Standing quietly in the entryway, he listened for signs of life.

IhZZSCHHihhwww!!

Okay, so not asleep. Ilya closed the door behind him, setting the bags on the counter and unpacking them, as Shane sneezed.

HtzzzsHHiiehww!

And sneezed.

HhhizzZSHHhih!!

And sneezed.

Hh…hehh…hihh-AtzzsSSHiheww!

Ilya thumbed at his nose, roughly bullying the growing prickle in his own sinuses into submission with a snort.

He made quick work of the bags, putting everything perishable away, leaving just the cold medicine, a box of tissues, and a bottle of blue Gatorade.

He opened the cabinet, grabbed a glass, and when it was filled with water, he took his spoils to the bedroom.

Ilya expected to find his boyfriend resting. Instead, he found Shane sitting on top of the covers, staring at the screen of his laptop intensely.

A slight crease in his brow as surly the screen was giving a headache.

"Shane," He said, watching the man startle, "Sweetheart, you're supposed to be resting. Y'know, so maybe you can breathe through your nose next game and maybe not lose so badly."

"I am resting..." Shane grumbled, "We didn't lose that badly."

Ilya peeked over Shane's shoulder to see what he was even doing, irritated to find he was watching game footage.

"Reviewing game footage is not resting, Shane." He said, closing Shane's laptop and taking it away before Shane could attempt to reopen it.

"What the fuck, Ilya!" Shane croaked, reaching for his laptop, but Ilya pulled it out of his reach, using his other hand to push Shane back onto the bed.

His boyfriend didn't give up sitting back up making another grab for it, but Ilya was quicker.

"Stop it, Shane." Ilya said firmly, "Gospodin, I don't understand why you're being so difficult."

He regretted saying it the second the words came out of his mouth, and Shane flinched, letting his hand drop to his side. Staring at Ilya wide-eyed and hurt.

Ilya didn't have a chance to correct himself before Shane retreated under the blankets.

"Fuck you...I said you didn't have to come over." Shane's voice wobbled, sounding small and broken, making Ilya's heart throb.

The last thing he wanted was to make Shane cry.

Ilya took a deep breath, exhaling his frustration. Lifting the corner of the blanket, he crawled underneath, wrapping Shane up in his arms. When he wasn't immediately shoved away, Ilya spoke.

"I'm sorry, Moya lyubov', you're not difficult," Ilya told him, pressing a kiss to the top of Shane's head. "It's just don't understand you did not even tell me that you are feeling bad, and it made me feel sad."

Shane was quiet for a moment, and for a second Ilya was worried he'd said the wrong thing again.

"sndf...I don't...I didn't think you'd want to know. It's just a cold." He mumbled into Ilya's chest.

"You would want to know if it were me." Ilya reasoned, and Shane made a little noise, burrowing further into his side.

"That's different." Shane answered.

"How?" Ilya huffed, letting his hand smooth over his boyfriend's back in circles as Shane thought about it.

"I don't know..." Shane said, "It just is."

Ilya thought about his next words carefully, not wanting to put his foot in his mouth again. He didn't want this to be an argument; he wanted to understand.

"Okay, explain then, help me understand," Ilya said, "What does Shane Hollander normally do when he catches a cold?"

Shane hesitated for a moment.

"Mmm...take medicine, hydrate, take vitamins..." He answered, and Ilya's brow furrowed.

"And let your body rest, right? Skip practice?" Ilya supplied, hoping that Shane had at least the sense to skip practice.

But instead of agreeing, Shane just got really quiet.

Ilya had a feeling he was starting to get to the bottom of this and that he wasn't going to like what he found out.

"Okay, what about on day you have a photoshoot or an ad?" He presented a different scenario: "You call Yuna and say I don't feel well."

"No!" Shane answered almost immediately this time, "My mom works so hard to get those. It'd be selfish to cancel for just a cold."

There was that phrase again. Just a cold.

It bothered Ilya.

"So if cold is not a good reason for Shane Hollander to take a sick day, what is?" Ilya prodded.

"I don't know..."Shane sounded irritated," An injury? The flu? Something more than just a cold."

It was the way Shane said it, not like he was telling Ilya but like he was trying to convince himself. That having a cold wasn't enough to justify needing a break or a minute to rest.

It made him wonder just how many times Shane had heard this phrase.

From his coach? His teammates maybe? He prayed that he had never heard it from Yuna, but Ilya couldn't be sure.

Ilya felt like an idiot.

His Shane could never be difficult. Not really. He always folded himself into whatever neat little box people needed him to fit into

A sharp intake of breath pulled him from his thoughts.

Ilya was almost worried Shane had started crying for real this time, but one glance at his expression told him this wasn't the case.

Shane's mouth hung open slightly as he brought up a hand, his expression hazy, on the cusp of another fit. His chest swelling with hiccuping breaths.

Watching him awoke the dormant buzzing that had settled in Ilya's own nose, which was angry from being squashed down twice today. It was clear it wouldn't be denied this time, but he didn't want to interrupt Shane, so he pinched his nose shut.

Hhht’khschh!—hh’khschhh! HHp-hnNGkkssSHhhtt!!

It wasn't enough.

Shane was still hovering on the crest of his own fit a moment before exhaling, scrubbing his nose.

"Gngh...sorry." Shane snuffled apologetically.

"What are you sorry for? Pretty sure I should be apologizing." Ilya huffed, amused, feeling a little bad about stealing Shane's sneezes.

"I don't know...I just am." Shane said, inhaling sharply.

hHDT’iIISSCHHHhuhh!!

The first sneeze took them both by surprise, as it was much louder than Shane's usual sneezes and completely uncovered. The cool spray made Ilya shiver as it misted his face.

HhhDTSSCHHHhihww! eh'TZZSSHIEW!

The next two came nearly on top of each other, and it wasn't until the fourth and final sneeze that Shane got enough of a pause to bring his hand up.

Hhh… f-huuugck–hH-UhsscCHHheuhw!!!

Ilya was stunned.

Shane's eyes were wide, his face turning bright red as he didn't move his hand away from his face.

Not that Ilya had to guess why that last sneeze had sounded...productive.

"Bud'te zdorovy." He said after a moment, trying hard to keep a straight face, passing Shane the tissue box from the nightstand.

"God, that was so gross..." Shane moaned, pulling a handful of tissues from the box and blowing his nose.

Ilya couldn't keep it together, snorting, amused.

"Don't fucking laugh! I just sneezed in your face." Shane hissed, sounding mortified, but that just made Ilya laugh harder.

"It's fine, Shane. I'm pretty sure I've seen grosser things come out of Troy's nose in the locker room." Ilya teased, and Shane wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Gross, Ilya, I don't want to hear about that." Shane whined.

"Is true, though, can get really nasty." Ilya joked, earning a light shove from his boyfriend, but at least Shane didn't look so miserable.

He pulled Shane close to his chest, feeling the man's warm breath tickle his neck. They lay there for a moment, enjoying each other's company.

"Shane?" Ilya broke the silence.

"Hm?" Shane hummed, sounding like he was falling asleep.

"Next time, let me know when you're not feeling well...even if it is just a cold." Ilya said, waiting with baited breath.

"...Okay." Shane breathed out before he nodded off.

[lipsmind]

i feel like it’s been mentioned a few times recently around here and i need to reiterate my love for the hc that shane is an elbow hover-er before he sneezes. like even if he’s not hitching yet but feels that distant prickling he puts his arm up and waits for as long as it takes.

[silentsneezes]

sh/ane writing a grocery list and mealprepping... meanwhile, il/ya’s bumbling from room to room (waiting for sh/ane to finish being fussy over his list) and sneezing every few minutes

sometimes they come in threes or sets of two. on occassion, they’re intermixed with nose blows

sh/ane blesses il/ya under his breath and adds “tissues x3” to his list