the whole idea of holding a tissue to someone's nose to catch their sneezes or whilst they blow their nose or wiping their nose for them is easily one of the cutest and hottest things ever and i simply refuse to believe otherwise
A peak sick and snz moment to me is when a character takes their sick SO to their place on public transport. The poor sick person is feeling absolutely miserable and hate being out in public so visibly sick. They are weak and shivery, have a light sheen of sweat on their forehead from fever, and a cherry red nose announcing loud and proud that they've caught a terrible cold.
The SO has their arm wrapped around them. Maybe even opens their own jacket to pull their sick partner in, like taking them under their wing. And when the sick one has to sneeze, they turn into their SO as if they are trying to melt into them, releasing their sneezes into their SO's shirt, scarf, or vest, or muffling them against the SO's neck. All while the SO has a hand on their back or in the back of their neck, gently holding them close as they sneeze, cooing words of comfort.
They thought it would just be a few sniffles herec and there, maybe a few sneezes sprinkled in, nothing they couldn't manage.
Now they're clinging to you, rubbing their itchy itchy nose on every part of you they can get to, sneezing in desperate fits, hoping that it will stop tickling so so so much. It doesn't apparently, because they're already hitching (almost moaning) again and so you gently lift their face and bring another tissue to their red and pink nose. Poor dear, you can already feel their nostrils flaring against the tissue.
Maybe these sneezes will help them feel better and if not, you'll be there for them anyway.
Oh Babe, I Hate to Go (Part 2/4) (H/eated R/ivalry, Sh/ane)
Oh my goodness, thank you all SO MUCH for the love on the first part of this story! I am so overwhelmed by your kind comments; thanks for such a warm welcome back to this community! Sorry to our poor Sh/ane but I had to wreck him a bit in this part. There is a little mess (and some fevery tears) this time around. After all, we, as snzblr people, get to choose who to put in a situation. <333
Part 1
----
An impossible amount of time later, S/hane’s eyes opened to darkness. Detangling himself from his twisted blankets, he checked his phone and saw that it was after 5 P.M. - he’d slept for nearly ten hours. So why the hell didn’t he feel better? In fact, his throat burned, his nose was so uncomfortably stuffed that he had to grab for a wad of tissues before the feeling of fullness became too intense for him to handle, and he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He held the tissues to his sore nose and blew, horrified at the thick honking sound that escaped him, so different than his usual soft, gentle, unobtrusive noseblows. A sharp pinprick of a tickle hit his nostrils, and he hastily grabbed some more tissues before hih-hih-hitching into-
“hih…ihhHH! ihy’TZSCHHhiew! -tzchiew! ah, ah…AHDZSCH’ooo! …fucgk…” Jesus fucking Christ, that had hurt. In fact, everything was hurting - his head, his throat, his cheekbones, beneath his eyes, his chest - and still his nose continued to tingle with need. Grabbing yet another handful of tissues, Shane held them in both hands, gasping sharply, nostrils fluttering wildly, waiting for the sneezes to come, desperate for release from this torturous limbo-
“hih…hiIHHh…ADT’ZCHyew! AD'TSCHuhhh! Ohhh…” Shane moaned in relief after the devastating sneezes and mopped at the mess that dripped down past his cupid’s bow. He blew again wetly until the tissues were soaked and he needed to lie back on his pillows, panting and spent. He used another tissue to wipe away the tears brought on by his forceful, unusually loud sneezing. He unconsciously reached a hand out to massage the bridge of his straight, freckled nose, but put it down, afraid of setting off another sneezing fit. Fuck, this was all way too much.
Ilya. He needed Ilya.
Shane reached for his phone again and saw messages from both his parents (telling him that his mom would be coming back over tomorrow morning) and Ilya (saying that he would be at the Russia-USA semifinals but to call him whenever he needed). He didn’t have to think twice about Ilya’s offer. He texted him, Can I call you?
Shane was greeted moments later by a video call request. With a surge of relief, and too exhausted to care that he probably looked ready for death, he answered it.
“Hey, Sha— oh,” Ilya started, pausing as he took in Shane’s no-doubt godawful appearance. “Sweetheart,” he said softly, and the gentleness in his voice brought fresh tears to Shane’s eyes. Ilya was sitting in an armchair, Stockholm’s city skyline illuminated in the black sky outside his window. “You look so sick. Your nose.” He tapped at his own nose, crooked and perfect, one of Shane’s favorite things in the world.
Shane snuffled, the offending appendage scrunching as he did so. “Hi. I, uh…hgkm. I don’t feel good,” he admitted.
“I’m sure you don’t. I’m sorry.”
“I wish you were here,” Shane mumbled quietly, feeling his throat tighten as tears once again began to spill from his eyes.
Ilya’s own eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, malysh,” he crooned, “me too. You have fever, and I need to kiss it away.”
A fever? Come to think of it, Shane did feel a bit floaty…and shivery. A tear slipped down his cheek and he let it drip off his chin. He covered a chesty cough against his sweatshirt-covered palm, ignoring the crackly feeling it brought to his chest. “I love your kisses,” he said, feeling more tears begin to stream down his face. He sniffled, and it was like his nostrils were filled with glue. A sob hiccuped its way out of him, and he had to turn away from his phone for a few more rumbly coughs.
Ilya looked panic-stricken, like he had no idea what to do, and then his face hardened. “I am calling Yuna to come back over. You need to see a doctor.”
“Nooooo, please. No doctors. I’m fine,” Shane whined. Leaving his warm bed to be poked and prodded at (and not in the way he would have liked) by a guy in a white coat sounded about as good as taking a puck to the face.
Ilya brows shot up at the sound of Shane’s uncharacteristic complaining. “Shane,” he said gently, “you sound terrible, and your cough is no good. You are needing something stronger than DayQuil to take, I think. Now, take a breath, lyubimyy. In and out. That’s it, again…”
As Shane followed his boyfriend’s instructions, he felt his heart rate slow and a semblance of calm come over him. When Ilya said, “I’m going to call Yuna to come and get you and then I will call you back,” Shane nodded and relaxed against the pillows. He dozed off for a moment until his phone buzzed in his hand and Ilya was back on the line, blessing Shane sweetly when he launched into another throat-scraping sneezing fit. “You are sounding loud like me. I am rubbing off on you in more than one way,” Ilya joked with a waggle of his eyebrows, and Shane smiled and stuck out his tongue, finding that, somehow, he no longer cared that he was ill and vulnerable in front of his boyfriend. Being silly with Ilya made it easy to forget - or, at least, briefly ignore - his anxieties.
For a while, Shane listened to Ilya talk about his day and how the tournament was going, too exhausted to speak himself. Two of the Centaur prospects may have advanced to the finals earlier tonight, but Ilya had a much more pressing issue in Stockholm: “It is ridiculous,” he was saying. “There is not one Swedish meatball in this cafeteria. That’s all I came here for.”
“That’s all you came there for?” Shane laughed, the sound strained and garbled and leading to a few weak coughs, but Ilya was grinning.
“Pretty much, yes,” he confirmed. "They are so good from Ikea."
——
A short while later, Shane heard his front door unlock. He felt the cool hand of his mother on his cheek, his forehead, his temples, and he leaned into her touch. Ilya said a few parting words to the two of them in Russian that Shane didn’t understand, and then Shane was being piled into the car with a blanket and the heat cranked up to keep his chills at bay.
Later, after spending what felt like hours shivering in a freezing clinic, sneezing into wads of tissues before and after his ears, nose and throat were checked, then being diagnosed with a sinus infection on top of a severe cold and prescribed a course of antibiotics, Shane was returned home and tucked into bed. His dad had arrived from the pharmacy with Shane’s prescriptions, and his mom had made sure he’d eaten and taken his pills. He lay slumped against his pillows, sleepy eyes beginning to close, while Yuna stroked his hair and texted Ilya:
Yuna:
We’re home now. He’s resting.
Ilya (Son #2):
Good. I’m coming home early
Yuna:
Will they let you do that?
Ilya (Son #2):
Yes. Told them I have family emergency. I will be home tmw night
Yuna:
That’s great. What time should I be there to pick you up?
Ilya (Son #2):
Don’t worry about it, I will take taxi home. Will text when I land
Yuna:
Okay. I love you, sweetheart.
Ilya (Son #2):
I love you too. See you soon
——
Shane slept, feeling iller than he had in years, dreaming of playing pond hockey just like when he was a little boy.
lips parting, breath catching in uneven hitches. hand coming up quickly, pressing beneath the quivering nostrils as the eyelashes flutters against the tickling sensation.
the sneezes tumbles out and desperate to muffle them, shoulders jerks with the sudden release. harsh but stifled into cupped hands, leaving the nose pink and damp as they lower the hands with a rough sniffle.
'...still.... hhhhh, not done.' they express, staying half-bent for a moment, blinking rapidly, fishing out a fresh tissue from the pocket with a thick wet sniffle before another build up takes them over.
the second round hits them harder and they have to lean their shoulder against the wall, keeping the crumbled tissue close to their mouth as the sneezes keeps coming, harsh and now explosive.
God. I love the passive sounds of a cold. The throat clearing. The sniffles. That particular sound to someone's voice that's an immediate tell that this person isn't at 100%. It's all so GOOD.
also sosoooo cute when a character accustomed to chest colds starts falling sick with only head symptoms instead and the novelty makes them happy and convinced this will be some small light cold. it is not.
Being so sick and sneezy in bed with a cold to the point you cant even hold your own tissues and your partner has to help you induce and hold the tissues for you because you’re just so congested and sniffly… youre just so cold and the chill keeps tickling your nose even more and the little bits of fabric from the tissues tickle you even more until you start desperately hitching and sniffling until you let out a huge sneeze while your partner desperately tries to catch it and comfort you for the rest of your sneezy fit till they can get you to bed.. (´ω｀)
That ideal cold sneeze. The ah-part has a horrible phlegmy rattle to it, and the choo-part is eye-watering and slobbery, they need to wipe their mouth afterwards.
Well I haven’t written fanfiction in like 3 years BUT this hockey show has damaged my brain in incomprehensible ways so. Here is ~5k words of sick I/lya and S/hane being way too perceptive about it
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I/lya R/ozanov was having a horrible fucking day.
The Raiders were in Montreal for a game and I/lya had been looking forward to it for weeks. It had been months since he had been able to get H/ollander in his bed. They hadn’t been texting much - both of them were busy and I/lya knew S/hane was skittish when he was constantly around people. Now, I/lya sent his room number to H/ollander as soon as he was handed the key card, with a kissing emoji next to it for good measure.
Since I/lya had seen the schedule he’d been ready to not only fuck H/ollander into the hotel mattress, but to beat the Metros so badly they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. Mentally, physically, he was ready to go. He was at the top of his game. There was nothing he loved more than playing against H/ollander on the ice, except maybe fucking him and hearing the sweet whines that came from his lips after every game.
Until Ilya had woken late for practice to one of his teammates banging at his hotel door. He had slept badly that night, too hot then too cold, tossing and turning over and over. Ilya only really reached REM once the sun started coming up, and by then he should have been getting dressed already. He leapt out of bed and threw on whatever discarded clothes were in proximity. His head was fucking killing him and he was already in a bad mood, cursing as he hopped on one foot trying to yank his sweats on. Ilya missed breakfast, barely made it downstairs for the bus, and simply sucked ass during practice. His head wasn’t in it and no matter how hard he focused on the ice he just couldn’t find the tight groove he usually did.
By the time practice had finished, he was drenched in sweat and could barely catch his breath. Ilya had a hard time remembering ever being this tired after a pre-game practice on the ice. It soured his mood further, how out of routine he felt. This was not how game days went, especially not game days in Montreal. His headache hadn’t gone away; if anything it felt worse. He snapped at his teammates until they all got the hint and left him alone because honestly the last thing he wanted to do was speak or deal with someone asking him what the hell was wrong with him. Ilya didn’t even know himself what was going on and he’d rather chew concrete than try to put it into English.
During the afternoon Ilya tried to get back to feeling normal. He ate lunch with his team even though he had zero appetite, he went back to his room and showered, he chugged a couple of water bottles because maybe his problem was dehydration.
But by the time they were at the stadium in the locker room, he was beginning to think maybe he was fucked. His brain felt slow to process the information around him - English was suddenly so difficult that he stumbled through a rather short, embarrassing pre-game speech before just walking around and giving each teammate a shake or bump of helmets or punch on the arm to physically get them hyped instead. His vision felt a little off, a little out of focus, and god his head was killing him. The sound of the fans in the stadium nearly made him clamp his hands over his ears when they skated out for warmups.
Ilya couldn’t even get himself to look at Shane. Ilya was pissed off, he felt like shit, and the last thing he needed was Shane to pick up on that. Because of course Shane would. There was no way if he was even a hair off of his usual game that Shane wouldn’t notice and Ilya really didn’t want to fucking talk about it.
By the time the game was over, Ilya wanted nothing more to be magically transported to his hotel room where he didn’t have to do anything other than shower and sleep for the next twelve hours.
The Boston Raiders lost by one point, 4-3 for the Montreal Metros. He felt worse and worse as the game progressed. By the second period his throat was aching, not yet raw but uncomfortable when he swallowed, dry and irritated from all of his panting during the game. His nose was next to useless now. Ilya always was sniffly on the ice from the cold of it, but this was a new low. The congestion was bad enough his ears ached and muffled the sound around him. His head continued to pound. His gear felt hot and suffocating and he was constantly wiping sweat out of his stinging eyes. The harder he pushed, the faster he worked his legs, the more nauseated he became. By the fourth period he was benched - somewhere in the last few minutes of play is vision went a little sideways and he just couldn’t keep track of the puck and his coach knew it. Embarrassing.
Luckily he hadn’t been slammed around too bad, but he still felt like shit and he was pissed that he felt like shit. He was pissed that they lost, and he was pissed that he would probably have to tell Hollander he was coming down with something and couldn’t hook up. Of course. Ilya knew he was an asshole, but not that much of an asshole. But with the way Hollander squinted at him during the puck drop, he might already know.
Shane gave him a narrow-eyed, calculating look when they shook hands after the match. Ilya had seen him make this face at enough people that he didn’t take it personally, but did make him feel weirdly self conscious in a way only Shane was capable of. Ilya probably looked as bad as he felt. So he got the handshakes over with and skated back to the locker room where he peeled off layers of sweat-soaked fabric and protective gear to shower this fucking night off of him.
The steam didn’t help the issues he was having with his nose. The congestion began to shift in earnest, and before he knew it he was -
“Hih’Nxcht! HUH’ngkt! HAh’NXXNGT! Hngh… ”
Damn that hurt.
It was surprising to him how quickly he was going downhill. His headache has been steady all day, but over the course of just a few hours he had a full-blown head cold. Hopefully. Ilya was really and truly hoping this wasn’t the flu. Either way, his ears were blocked, nose packed full and running, and his throat felt like it was gearing up for laryngitis. Awesome.
Ilya showered quickly, dried off, and threw on his post-game clothes. He sniffled thickly, wiping his nose roughly with his hoodie sleeve. He’d have the team medic check him out tomorrow if he still felt like this, and either way he had a couple of days before he needed to catch a flight. Right now all he wanted was to just to go the fuck to bed.
Soon enough he was fumbling with his door key and stumbling inside his hotel room, closing it with a thud and leaning back against it. Ilya closed his eyes and took a deep breath, coughing weakly into his elbow on the exhale. Great. He rubbed his aching eyes and shuffled into the bathroom, rolling a copious amount of toilet paper around his hand and blowing his nose thoroughly. The noise was loud and gurgling, making him wince in disgust. He looked pretty terrible, hair still damp from the shower, face puffy and pale, nose already an irritated red with a mound of makeshift tissues tented around it.
He took a moment to mop up his nose, but the touch just made him -
Ilya groaned afterwards. This cold had just started and he was already over it. He finished cleaning up, dug through his bag for tylenol, and took a couple with several desperate gulps of water. The liquid didn’t really help with the dryness in his throat, just made it sting as it went down his esophagus. He took a whole spare roll of toilet paper to bed with him as he collapsed into it, clumsily sliding it onto the nightstand.
Ilya was so exhausted, sore and aching, head and sinuses pulsing when he moved. The bathroom light was still on and he needed to set his alarm for the morning. He was still fully dressed. But Ilya was too tired and felt too shitty to care about a single one of those things.
He did care about one thing though. Groggy and squinting, he quickly pulled out his phone and typed a message to Hollander.
Lily: Don’t come tonight. We will meet next time.
Satisfied that Shane both wouldn’t come over and wouldn’t freak the fuck out at his radio silence, Ilya tossed his phone to the bedside table and nuzzled deeper into the starchy pillow, sniffling thickly. He just needed to sleep, just for a little while…
~~~~~~~
Ilya jerked awake an indeterminate amount of time later to knocking at his door. His phone on the bedside table was vibrating incessantly and Ilya could basically feel the reverberation of it in his skull. He grumbled and swore and swatted at his phone until he knocked it to the carpet, fingers fumbling and failing to tug it towards him. He swore again and pushed himself up on trembling arms, confused and aching and pissed off.
He really truly now felt awful. He was freezing cold even as sweat plastered his shirt to his skin. As soon as Ilya left the warm pocket of air trapped between the blankets, he began to shiver. His head was pounding and his nose was running already, congestion packed so tight that even sniffling made his face bloom with pain. His throat was beginning to ache properly now after an indeterminate time of mouth breathing.
The knocking began at his door again, sharp and insistent. The phone on the ground stopped vibrating, then seconds later began again. Shaky, Ilya threw his legs over the side of the bed and wobbled to his feet. He was grateful in that moment he had left on the bathroom light so his balance wasn’t a hazard along with the lack of sight. Ilya, hunched over himself, arms tucked tight around his stomach as if that could ward off the chill, pulled on a discarded hoodie and swiped an arm under his leaky nose after trying and failing to sniffle away the mess.
Ilya didn’t know who was at his fucking door but they were about to regret it. The only thing in the world he wanted was to sleep, and Ilya swears to god if this is one of his idiot teammates-
The door is yanked open to reveal Shane Hollander, ball cap pulled low over his eyes, standing nervously in the hallway. He had a plastic shopping bag in one hand, the other holding his phone to his ear. Ilya saw Hollander’s shoulders visibly droop with relief as he pushed his way inside. Ilya felt stunned for several seconds, mouth working soundlessly, sluggish sick brain trying to put the pieces together as to why Shane Hollander was here right now. He had cancelled, hadn’t he? Had he dreamt that? Ilya didn’t have time to make sense of it before Shane was shutting the door behind him and sighing in relief. It took several seconds for Ilya to realize he was being spoken to. He felt like he was underwater, vision swimmy, thoughts slow.
“-really thought someone was going to see me. Are you okay? I’m sorry if you were sleeping. I just wanted to…” Shane trails off, looking nervous and embarrassed in that endearing way he always does when he meets Ilya’s silence with rambling. But then his eyes focus in on Ilya’s face again and his eyes narrow, bottom lip pursed in the prettiest frown Ilya’s ever seen. “God Rozanov, you look awful. No wonder you played like shit tonight.”
The insult seems to jolt Ilya back into the land of the living. Now it’s normal territory again, back where Ilya knows what song and dance to perform.
“So you have combe here just to insult mbe then?” Ilya has to fight to not cringe at the sound of his own voice. It’s beginning to sound raspy and raw, clogged with congestion. The concerned wrinkles in Shane’s face deepen.
“No, I just wanted…” Hollander paused for a second, averting his eyes and shuffling nervously, and Ilya takes the opportunity to move this conversation in a less tender direction. Ilya really didn’t want to talk about it, the vulnerability so vile he could feel it on his skin like a physical entity. If Shane got all soft and sweet with him right now Ilya knew he won’t be able to resist it like this. He could not do this, not with Hollander and his worried brown eyes, not while he felt so shitty.
“You have combe here for a fuck, hm? Are you so unable to resist mby dick even when I tell you ndo?”
The taunt works and Shane’s eyes snap back to his usual affronted squint he does when someone says something particularly stupid.
“Stop fucking around, I’m not here to sleep with you. What do you have, the flu?”
Ilya sniffled before he answered, which proved to be the wrong choice. The congestion shifted inside his already sensitive nose and the burning need to sneeze ignites in his sinuses. After he had broken it for the second time, Ilya’s nose became over-sensitive and reactive, even more than before. So now when he got sick it was always a constant struggle to fight the tingling, burning urge to sneeze.
He turned away immediately, ducking to try and hide his face in his below. His sinuses were packed full since Ilya hadn’t really thought to blow his nose before answering the door. He felt a small flare of panic, a lick of embarrassment; this was possibly the least sexy thing he could do in front of the one man he found to be the most attractive person on the planet. But still, his breath hitched on a shuddering inhale and his body gave him no choice.
“Hih’Ngxt! Hd’nGXT! Hngt’NXTSH-KNGT-NGXNT-uh!”
He stifled painfully, jerking forward one, two, five times, expulsions squelchy and squeaking. Thank god, no mess had escaped him. Ilya groaned quietly, face pinched with pain. His pulse roared in his head for a few seconds as the sinus pressure made his ears pop. He turned back towards the bedroom, going straight for the roll of toilet paper on the bedside table. He fumbled with the soft sheets and then blew his nose, going slowly to try to avoid the worst of the pain in his head. Ilya made sure he was presentable before he turned back around to face Hollander, nose beginning to feel raw and chafed from the frequent friction. At least now he felt a touch less clogged.
"Don't do that, you're going to give yourself an ear infection. I can't believe your medic cleared you to play tonight."
While Ilya was busy dealing with his nose, Shane had put his shopping bag down on the desk and was pulling things out of it. Bottles of medicines, sports drinks, water, a can of ginger ale (naturally), and two large cylindrical takeout containers. Ilya's nose was too stuffed up to smell anything, but he guessed from the shape that it was probably soup. Soup. This man was going to fucking kill him.
"He did not clear me," Ilya grumbled, pulling the hotel room's waste bin closer to chuck the sopping tissue he was still holding into it. Shane whipped his head around to ogle at him, eyes wide and outraged, freckles bunched up adorably. He quickly amended his statement before he got thoroughly chewed out. "I was okay before game, just headache and was tired. I will see team doctor tomorrow. I am okay, Hollander, Russians to not pass out and die just from ti-ihhh-ny coldsihhNGXT! Hih’NGngXT!”
Ilya ducked quickly into his elbow again to squash the angry expulsions there, strangled again into quiet, painful things.
Hollander just blinked at him as he blew his nose again. At least the blowing helped a little.
"Uh-huh. Tiny."
Ilya refused to feel embarrassed about the call-out.
"Why are you here, Hollander? I told you not to come yes? We cannot fuck, you will catch this and then you will blame me for ruining your perfect little winning streak." Ilya felt himself already losing the little energy he had from the shock of seeing his rival at the door. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed to look up at Shane, eyes heavy and hot. As if Shane were telepathically tuned into that thought, he stepped close into Ilya's space and put a palm against his forehead. Their eyes met, and Ilya felt his pulse jump into his throat at the zing! of contact. At the gentleness in Shane's eyes.
Shane must have felt something equally as vulnerable because he pulled away and turned away to open one of the pill bottles on the desk, ears red. Ilya tried not to mourn the contact. He really did feel pretty awful, head aching, throat sore, snuffling and miserable and cold.
"Well, I correctly assumed that you're shit at taking care of yourself. And I... wanted to see you." Shane admitted the last part softly, like he was unable to get his vocal cords to raise the volume past the nervous lump in his throat. Shane opened one of the boxes, pulled out the bottle inside, and then disassembled the box to fold it flat. Always so neat. "You probably have a fever, by the way."
Ilya was helpless to the smile that worked its way onto his face.
"Ah, so you do think I am hot."
Shane huffed and smiled softly, shaking his head.
"Shut up, Rozanov. You're not funny." He finished with his unboxing and counting of the pills he had brought, four capsules in the cupped palm of his hand. "Have you taken anything?"
Ilya leaned back on his palms, bed creaking beneath the new distribution of weight. He still kind of couldn't believe this was happening. Shane Hollander was here in his hotel room to feed him pills and soup and play nurse. Ilya hadn't even told him he was feeling bad, hadn't said much during their game together, and hadn't even been terribly symptomatic during the time he was on the ice. To anyone else he was just playing shitty. Was it that Hollander only had to look at him to know? Did Shane see the differences in him the way Ilya could see the differences in Shane? When Shane was playing on a tweaked ankle, when he pretended missing a goal didn't bother him, when his eyes just barely flashed anxiously while answering interview questions that were just a little too personal. Did Shane watch him like Ilya did?
Ilya took a deep breath, then stopped the train of thought where it was. He didn't need to be thinking of that when he was so tired and unwell, when his walls just weren't as strong, when he simply didn't have the resources to keep them tall.
"Umb," Ilya said, clearing his throat and turning away to cough weakly. "Tylenol only."
"Good," Shane said, holding out the handful of pills with a bottle of water. Ilya felt his heart do a insubordinate little flutter at the praise. He took the pills into his own palm, chasing them down with a swig of water. The bottle was cold, recently refrigerated, and it made him shiver. "This will fix you up. And it's nighttime too so it should help you sleep. I checked Boston's schedule so I know you don't fly out for a few days. If you have practice in the morning, don't go."
Right as Ilya was going to tell Hollander to fuck off and that he wasn't Ilya's boss and he could go to morning practice if he wanted to (he very much didn't), the itching from earlier came back to his sinuses full force. He brought up the back of his wrist to his nose, breath gasping.
“Hih’HnGT-nGXT-HNGKT! HAH’ngHHXT!”
He suppressed them as well as he could, unwilling to make a mess, to show further proof of his illness. To try and make it as small as possible.
Shane frowned at him again, eyebrows pulling together in displeasure.
“Seriously, Roz, knock it off. Stop doing that."
Ilya snuffled into more toilet paper he had pulled off the roll. "Doing whadt." He blew his nose with a painful honk before tossing the tissue into the trash. If anything he thought maybe Hollander would appreciate his attempts to keep his germs to himself, to be less gross. Shane was always so put together, so neat and tidy, so very much the opposite of whatever Ilya was right now and Ilya very clearly felt the imbalance of it. It made him feel a mix of embarrassment and self-consciousness and shame he didn’t often feel outside of interactions with his father.
"Holding them in. Your, uh, sneezes," Shane said, suddenly looking sheepish. "You'll make yourself worse. Or, like, explode your brain. It must hurt to stifle them."
"Whatever," Ilya grumbled, crawling further onto the bed and leaning his aching head against the headboard. He didn't love the idea of sneezing with a very full nose in front of the guy he fucks every other month, but Shane was right. It did hurt to stifle them. "You did ndot have to do all of this."
Even as he said it, Ilya was grateful Shane had come. It warmed something inside of him, that Hollander had thought of him, had noticed something was out of place, and had showed up unasked to fix it. Ilya struggled to remember a time someone had done this for him, especially without being asked. He couldn’t. The last person who must have done this for him was his mother, and he really didn’t want to think about that right now. It was a strange feeling to be grateful and content and miserable and exposed all at once.
Shane looked away with a half shrug, cheeks heating. God, he was so sweet Ilya could barely handle it.
“I wanted to.” Again uncomfortable with his own nervousness, Shane retrieved the takeout containers and dug around in the bottom of the bag for a pair of spoons. “Are you hungry? I brought soup. I don’t know what you like so I just got miso? It’s what I usually get when I’m sick but if you don’t like it-“
“Hollander.” Ilya smirked softly. Even sick and drippy and gross he couldn’t help the swell of affection in his chest. It was so Shane to fret so much, even about his rival, the guy he sometimes has sex with. Ilya had never had another hookup in his life care about him like this. Or look at him the way Shane sometimes does. “I’mb sure is fine. Bring here, we can eat.”
Ilya wasn’t really hungry at all, but an excuse to keep Hollander in his room was something he couldn’t make himself pass on. Shane just nodded quickly and fumbled with the food and utensils for a second before getting it together while Ilya took him in with hungry eyes.
They ended up side by side on the bed, bad hotel TV on, eating soup mostly in companionable silence. Ilya drank his soup while Shane ate his with a spoon. It was actually pretty good despite having no desire to eat, simple and savory and salty. The food was enjoyable, but the steam almost immediately made his nose begin to run. He sniffled through it for a few mouthfuls before the congestion shifted just so and ignited the tickle in his sinuses. Again.
He had just enough time to set his container of soup on the bedside table before he was snapping forward with several body-shaking sneezes.
He remembered at the last minute Hollander’s instructions to not hold it in. He was glad for it - even letting loose still made pain shoot through his sinuses and into his temples. Ilya didn’t want to know what the agony of stifling right now would feel like.
Ilya felt a little winded, a touch dizzy as he pulled away from his elbow. As he reached for the now half-used roll of paper on the nightstand, he saw there was a smattering of wet droplets on his hoodie sleeve. He felt himself blush a bit as he scrubbed at his sleeve with the tissues and blew his nose. But when he risked a glance over at the man next to him, Shane was looking at him with a little proud smile pulling at his lips, eyes soft and warm.
“Better,” Shane said before turning his attention back to the TV, still smiling.
Ilya for the first time felt too flustered to reply. That, and he was still exhausted and sick and his brain was slow. That’s why he just finished cleaning up his nose and turned back to the TV. It was just the cold medicine making his face warm, making his heart pound.
Ilya managed to finish most of the soup which he was rather proud about. He was glad that he was able to eat despite his lack of appetite, if only so Shane would be happy about it. And it was clear that Shane was; he made a little satisfied noise in his throat when he got up to throw their trash away and saw just an inch of broth left in Ilya’s container. And to Ilya’s great surprise, once Hollander finished tidying up, he got right back into the bed, just a touch closer than before.
Now full of warm soup and medicated, Ilya began to feel his eyes droop. He wanted more than anything to have just a little longer of this, a little more of Shane’s company, a little more of the creature comforts he usually denied himself. But sleeping off how terrible he felt was a close second.
Shane, of course, was quick to notice.
“Meds working already?” He looked at Ilya so sweetly, eyes soft, little concerned crease in his brow. He reached over again and felt Ilya’s forehead, then brushed the backs of his fingers against his flushed, warm cheek. Ilya sighed and leaned into it, sniffling thickly.
“Mm. Amberican medicines are insande. Is like I amb dreaming while awake.”
“We’re in Canada right now.” “Mmph. Whatever. Ndorth Amberica, is sambe thing.” Ilya yawned hugely and nuzzled down into his pillow, blinking slowly up at the man in his bed. Shane moved his hand up to play with Ilya’s hair. Ilya was rather enjoying it before he had to jerk away into his sleeve with another set of sudden, intense sneezes.
“Hih’IhhtSHUU! Hah’HRISHH’oo! HA’SESHHUH!”
He coughed and sniffled wetly after, eyes watering, head pounding, vision wobbly from the medicine. “Sorry,” he rasped, already turning away to clean himself up. His face felt hot with embarrassment, shame, vulnerability. His head swam as he tried to sit up.
But Shane just frowned and pulled Ilya’s face back towards him with a cupped hand.
“Don’t be. I’m sorry it hurts.” Shane’s fingers skidded across his face, gently pressing and massaging the swollen passages of his sinuses. Ilya shut his eyes so as not to cry. He felt both raw and soothed simultaneously as Shane moved his warm thumbs to trace firm circles at Ilya’s temples, slowly easing the ache there.
Ilya felt himself deflate against the pillows. He was well and truly in the depths of a nasty cold, but he was somehow the most content he had been all day - and he was also on the verge of tears. Shane Hollander was absolutely capable of making him feel complicated things. He was nothing but putty under Shane’s hands, helpless as the haze of cold medicine pulled him under.
“Is okay. You mbake it better.” Ilya was sure he was slurring, and maybe not even entirely sure he had spoken at all. Shane’s fingers froze at his temples for the smallest of moments before they began their ministrations again, somehow even more tender than before. Eyes drifting closed, Ilya let his body relax fully as the fuzzy sensation of sedation washed over him. Promptly, he fell asleep.
Whatever pills Shane had given him had knocked him out more than properly, but some time later Ilya was sure he felt the quick press of lips against his cheek before Shane whispered a soft ‘Goodnight’ just inches from his ear.
Ilya would wake alone the next morning, which was not a surprise. But it did make him smile when he saw all the supplies Shane had brought him lined up on the desk with a note set neatly before them.
lips parting, breath catching in uneven hitches. hand coming up quickly, pressing beneath the quivering nostrils as the eyelashes flutters against the tickling sensation.
the sneezes tumbles out and desperate to muffle them, shoulders jerks with the sudden release. harsh but stifled into cupped hands, leaving the nose pink and damp as they lower the hands with a rough sniffle.
'...still.... hhhhh, not done.' they express, staying half-bent for a moment, blinking rapidly, fishing out a fresh tissue from the pocket with a thick wet sniffle before another build up takes them over.
the second round hits them harder and they have to lean their shoulder against the wall, keeping the crumbled tissue close to their mouth as the sneezes keeps coming, harsh and now explosive.
titsay
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
snowghoul
kaledo-art
