good dayyy, I interrupt my regular posting schedule to bring this belated birthday fic to my fav from across the waves @poetic-illness. twas supposed to be cute r/oselana fluff and... I fear I strayed into some slightly different themes by accident. anyway, please accept some established but not concrete or public relationship r/ose and s/veta, and my sincere apologies?
I hope you enjoy! ♡
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 7.2k
cw: sneezing, general illness, brief death mention, sexual undertones? overtones?, thematic inconsistency
Luck was usually on Svetlana’s side, she found. Things just kind of seemed to go her way, largely because she was an incredibly perceptive and slightly Machiavellian sort of person, but also because, as her previous boyfriend had told her when he was absolutely blitzed out of his mind on cocaine, ‘the universe was in love with her’. Whatever that meant. God, she really needed to stop falling for these secretly whimsical sensitive guys with the aggressive exterior. Partially because a lot of them turned out to be gay- or at least bisexual. To be fair, though, so had she.
While the universe’s love for her seemed to have wavered that morning, a certain unnecessarily chipper actress’ love for her- or like for her, maybe- had not. She’d received sixteen texts from Rose this morning, and each of them had sparked a spike of guilt in her gut. She seemed so excited, it would be a shame to- The brunette paused, mid-step, raising her free hand to her face as her head tilted back automatically-
“nGt! hNGTchiew! hiHIhShiew! Fuck.” She glared at the floor, a small puddle of smoothie at her feet where she’d accidentally jolted the glass in her other hand as she’d sneezed. Seriously, the universe must be pissed that she was cheating on it or something, because this morning was not going her way.
Right on cue, her phone buzzed with a text from her more corporeal paramour. Sighing dramatically as she placed the glass down on the countertop, retrieved a cloth to wipe up the smoothie and crouched down beside the spill, Svetlana fished the device from her pocket.
Unlocking it one-handed, she found a close up photo of Rose’s face from the eyes upwards waiting for her, the redhead’s eyes squinted slightly as if she were smiling below the cut-off.
розочка (2): sooooo excited to see u later!! need this meeting I’m in to be over alreadyyyyy
Once again, Svetlana felt the rush of warmth and excitement, followed by the pang of guilt and dread. She really didn’t want her own bit of bad luck to ruin her girlfriend’s day too.
you: I can’t wait :)
you: Shouldn’t you be paying attention tho? They wanted you there for a reason, no?
She put the phone down at her side, starting to clear up the mess as she waited for a reply.
A buzz as she turned on the tap to rinse the cloth out, drew her eyes back to the screen, now taken up with a new picture, of Rose pouting faux angrily. So, it wasn’t an in-person meeting, then. Unless she’d gone full ‘movie star mode’ and started taking selfies when people were trying to talk.
Finishing the task quickly, Sveta dropped the cloth in the sink and crouched to read the other messages she’d heard come in in that time.
розочка (2): that rhymed!
розочка (2): still mean tho. they a million percent do NOT need me here >:(
She squinted at the screen dubiously, but, not particularly keen on starting an argument when they were going to see each other in a few short hours, and she had no real investment in the topic at hand anyway.
you: You won’t be there for long. Don’t focus on the time.
Apparently focused on anything except the meeting, Rose replied instantly.
розочка (2): are u coming to whisk me away?
розочка (2): pls say yes
you: No, sorry. My car’s still fucked, remember?
розочка (2): oh yeahhhhh. shit.
розочка (2): ok I’ll be brave and push thru
Svetlana smiled, helplessly endeared by Rose’s nature, as always. She’d seemed so polished from afar, but somehow, getting to see all the chaos that made her up, up close, had only made what she’d initially deemed a ‘girl crush’ into pretty much adoration.
you: Good luck.
She clicked her phone screen off, mind flicking back to the various tasks that needed to be done before the actress would arrive, plus her smoothie, which she still hadn’t finished. Excitement fluttered somewhere just below her diaphragm, the thought of the afternoon and evening ahead of them, having Rose all to herself, at this cute little late night café the redhead had ‘discovered’ that was apparently very discreet. It had kind of fucking better be. Neither of them really had a plan, as far as she knew, for ‘coming out’ yet. It would probably be a hell of a lot less damaging for Rose, although she’d implied that it might be bad for some other people close to her- whatever that meant- but still, neither of them were quite ready to bid goodbye to the comfort of comphet, and the lack of scrutiny it brought, just yet.
Fingers hooking over the edge of the counter, she pulled herself up to stand, glancing around to locate the smoothie she’d just placed down and suddenly frowning. The excitement in her chest had morphed into butterflies, and then what felt like tiny birds beating at her ribcage, and suddenly there was a sinking feeling in her stomach and black started to encroach on her vision.
“Perestan’” She muttered, pressing down on the countertop with her hands, the sensation lost to a feeling of static that started at her elbows and swallowed her fingertips entirely. Svetlana slid forwards so her face rested on her forearms against the counter, standing on her tiptoes as she tried to will the blood back into her head. “Come on. You are not going to fucking faint. You are fine.”
And in thirty seconds, she seemed to be, raising her head and blinking slowly at her hands. Maybe some of those tasks that needed to be done could be…delayed slightly. Not because she didn’t feel well enough to do them, just… because she wanted to finish her smoothie. In her bedroom. Maybe in bed. And then maybe she would go back to sleep, just for five minutes. After all, an outing with Rose took a lot of energy, and wouldn’t necessarily end at the allotted time, so she needed to be ready to maybe stay up all night.
A small smile once again graced her face at the thought of all the possible endings to that night. Maybe they’d end up at a club, dancing close together in a crowd where no one looked twice at them, making out in a bathroom stall, holding hands underneath Rose’s coat in the car on the way back. Maybe they’d explore the city some more, the redhead inexplicably breaking out into a run, making Sveta chase her, both of them laughing until their lungs ached at everything and nothing at once. Or maybe they’d end up right here, drinking vodka sodas or- what was that shit Rose had doordashed all the ingredients for last time? Sex in the driveway?- or that, and just talking, and staring softly at each other like strangers until they fell into bed and made out, so instinctively and easily, like lifelong lovers.
The anticipation-fuelled movie still running in her mind, the brunette made her way slowly back through to the bedroom, stripping down- it was suddenly pretty hot- and sipping on her drink as she dropped her phone on the pillow and unmade the bed one-handed, before flopping down to sit on the edge of it. God, she was exhausted.
Svetlana had no sooner finished her drink, than her phone buzzed again. With a groan that she stifled halfway through- seriously, are you not grateful that this beautiful, sexy, intelligent woman is messaging you? That she’s coming to see you later? Okay, now if it wasn’t Rose, she was going to throw her phone against the wall.
розочка (2): meeting is overrrrrrr
розочка (2): WOOHOO
розочка (2): going back to the hotel to change for laterrrrr 😉
Sleepily setting her glass on the nightstand and lying down as she brought the phone to her face to text back, she took a moment to mentally remind herself to set an alarm so she too could get up and change before they headed out. How long did she want to sleep for? Like an hour? Then she could take her time getting ready and she’d be totally awake for their date.
you: Text me when you’re here.
…
For a brief moment after her eyes had opened, Svetlana had no idea where she was. Her vision was blurred from deep sleep, she was far too hot, and there was a weight on her chest. Still working its way slowly back into full gear, her brain compiled the clues and told her she was in her apartment in Moscow, at the height of the summer, with her adorable, if ancient, cat, Gipnos, lying on her chest. Under this illusion, she raised her head slightly to smile affectionately at him, only to be greeted by the unsentimental sight of her phone laying there, and the bedsheets of her Boston apartment beneath it, and the stark reminder that Gipnochka had passed away several years before.
Svetlana let her head fall back onto the pillow with a thump, tears inexplicably springing to her eyes at the harsh reality that she’d been dragged back into. She missed him so much. She missed a lot of things from that time, although she loved her new life in Boston, too. It was all so confusing, all these mixed up emotions that she normally dealt with just fine. But right now, it was too hot, and despite just having woken up, she was exhausted, and she was probably stressed about her plans for the day, which were… what day was it, even?
With a sniffle, she retrieved her phone and unlocked it to check the day and time. And that was when everything came rushing back to her. She had a date with Rose that afternoon. She’d forgotten to set an alarm. Rose would be there in…. fifteen minutes. Fuck.
All systems dialed to ‘running catastrophically late’ mode-not one she engaged often- she threw herself out of bed, stumbling on sleep numbed legs as she ran to the bathroom. First- shower.
…
Despite hoping that the shower would make her feel better, she’d spent that entire five minutes changing the temperature back and forth, shivering in the cool water and sniffling in the steam, trying desperately to run through her typical body shower routine at 2x speed until the temperature changes started to make her feel dizzy, and she was forced to shut the water off.
Consciously steadying her breathing, Sveta wrapped herself in a towel, and ran through to sit at her vanity, applying SPF and primer haphazardly to her face and neck, fingertips pushing the product around uncoordinatedly, mounting her frustration. What the fuck was wrong with her right now? She didn’t even have time to figure it out, she was far too fucking late for that.
She’d left her phone on the bed, so she was flying totally blind on what time it was, rushing through her base makeup, and mentally picking out an outfit- she had it narrowed down to three already, which made the job significantly easier- while she applied her mascara. One side done, she paused to try and take a deep breath, steady herself. Just finish here, grab the clothes, let your hair down, it’ll be fine. She’s always late anyway.
Two swipes into the second side, mind occupied with which shoes would be best, she felt a sudden tickle in her nose, barely giving her enough time to pull back from the mirror, and raise her free hand to hover in front of her face.
“nGt! hNGXchiew! hHCHiew!”
Before she even opened her eyes, she knew what she’d just done, and reluctantly peering into the mirror confirmed it. The mascara on the side she’d just started was stamped in a stark black shadow of her lashes, below her eye. Realistically, it would only take an extra two minutes to fix, but it was two minutes that she knew she didn’t have.
“Da yebal ya eto! Fucking why?” Her eyes flooded with angry tears, and before she knew it, there were dark smudges below both her eyes as the fresh mascara bled, tear streaks carving lines in the foundation on her cheeks. She stood, ignoring the towel as it fell to the floor, running through to the bathroom and scrubbing at her face in the sink, not even trying to fix the mess, actively aware that she was making it worse.
She drew in a shuddering breath, staring down at the water flowing into the drain, purposefully avoiding eye contact with the monster she’d created in the mirror in front of her. Calm down. This isn’t helping. You can start again. You have time.
Still sniffly from crying, she pulled a few tissues from the box on the counter and blew her nose, sighing out an, “Okay.” afterwards as she leaned back against the wall. Everything suddenly felt completely overwhelming, and she realised she hadn’t bothered to take stock of her body since she’d woken. The exhaustion she’d noted, but now she was also becoming aware of the nausea of her nose draining down her throat, the achingly desperate thirst of dehydration, and the foreboding sensation of a single droplet of sweat running down her bare back. So, clearly she wasn’t going to get through this without some kind of medication, and as much liquid as she could get down before Rose arrived, because if one thing was for sure, it was that she wasn’t going to cancel.
…
Shifting from foot to foot outside Svetlana’s door, Rose frowned at her phone. She’d already waited five minutes to be buzzed into the building, and even then had only slipped in when someone had been on their way out, and now she’d knocked twice, with no reply. Maybe she’d missed a text or something?
veuxtrouver 👀: Text me when you’re here.
you: will do! see you spoon!
you: soon, not spoon lol!
veuxtrouver 👀: Maybe both…?
you: i’m literally going to crash my car.
you: didn’t crash! I’m hereeee
Nothing. Not even a read receipt. Twisting her lips in thought, the redhead decided not to let herself spiral, and to just try sending another text.
you: at ur door :)
Rose scrolled through Twitter, wandered along the hallway looking at the carpet, and leaned against the wall by the door until almost five minutes had passed. Then she bit her lip, directed a last, desperate look at her phone, and an anxious one at the door, and hit the doorbell. She was so not a doorbell kind of person, and she didn’t really think Sveta was one either, the sound loud and jarring in a way she tried not to have her entrances be, already aware that some people found her ‘too much’, and not desiring to set that tone if possible. But right now she was desperate. Oh God, was she ignoring her on purpose? Why had that only just now occurred to her? Now she looked like some obsessive-
The locks clicked, and, with just enough time for her to pull herself out of the mental tailspin and relax back into that easy, excited smile, the door opened.
Sveta looked… different. She was definitely still arrestingly beautiful, and the redhead’s heartbeat picked up at the sight, but she didn’t look as put together as Rose would have expected. She tried not to let her gaze visibly catch on the running shorts and ancient looking Raiders sweatshirt that the brunette wore, neckline so stretched that it had now become an off-shoulder top on one side. Her hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and Rose could see that some of the curls were sticking to the sweat-sheened skin on her neck and shoulders. Had she just been working out? Was she early by accident? That would be an actual honest-to-everything miracle. They looked kind of notably inconsistent for an outing though, with the actress in her open crochet sweater and her miniskirt, and her girlfriend in… that.
“Hey.” Rose realised she’d gotten through her whole examination of her girlfriend’s outfit without either of them saying anything, and hurried to greet her.
“Hi.” Sveta stepped back so she could enter, expression unreadable.
The redhead walked in, swinging her arms awkwardly as she waited for the door to shut behind her, and then cocking her head at her host as she stood apathetically opposite her in the hall. She was never this dispassionate, and she’d seemed so excited earlier, something must be wrong, surely.
“Are you okay?” She tendered, shocked when, the words barely having left her lips, Svetlana’s expression crumpled and she raised a hand to cover her face.
Rose panicked, stepping closer, catching the glint of a tear falling from the brunette’s eye, gently reaching out to rest her hands on Sveta’s upper arms. “Are you- can I do something to help?”
Though she didn’t respond, she did step forwards to rest her head against the actress’s collarbone, shaking with quiet sobs. Rose let her hand drift up and down her girlfriend’s back, waiting readily for her to confess what had her so distressed. It was truly uncharacteristic of her to appear this… disarrayed. She’d seen her girlfriend with her guard down before, but never in such a completely and unapologetically devastated manner. It was honestly heart-breaking.
Almost a full minute passed before Svetlana started to explain, words coming out fast and jumbled in an almost incomprehensible vent that was interrupted by jagged breaths and the wavering of her voice. To Rose it sounded mostly like-
“…universe hates me... and I spilled my fucking smoothie… too tired… texting you… woke up and thought- thought that-” and then she was crying more loudly again, “my baby… so much… love cats and… because of stupid landlords… fucking Boston…” and a pause to force herself to take some deep breaths, “-and I showered but it didn't fix anything… ruin my makeup… can’t remember… wanted to be perfect.. so late… made you wait… so fucking-” and then she straightened abruptly, breathing heavily, but expression more distantly frustrated than upset.
“It’s okay.” Rose said softly, one hand on her back and the other on her side, staring lovingly into her eyes. “What do you need?”
Sveta met her eyes, but just barely, gaze drifting uncoordinatedly. “Do you think you can hold me?”
In opposing synchronicity, the redhead’s eyes widened while her girlfriend’s slipped shut, the brunette suddenly dead weight in her arms. Oh, so by ‘hold her’ she meant hold her up, not…
Rose carefully lowered them to the floor, as slowly as she could- which was in about three seconds and with a slight jolt that made her wince, but didn’t seem to affect Svetlana in the slightest- and leaned her against the wall.
“Svet? Can you hear me?” She reached out, softly patting her cheek. Fuck, how did you help an unconscious person again? She was sure she’d done some kind of first aid course as a kid or something, but other than chest compressions, she couldn’t remember any of it. And Svetlana was breathing, so she had a heartbeat, right? Was that how that worked? “Hey, Lana, sweetheart. Come back to me.”
After an achingly long pause, Sveta’s lashes fluttered, and she blinked at Rose dizzily. “Mm?”
“Are you okay? What happened?”
The brunette coughed roughly against the back of her forearm, adjusting her position to something more comfortable than ‘dropped on the floor like a ragdoll’. “I forgot.” She murmured distantly, seemingly chiding herself for something.
“What did you forget?” Rose asked her, hands on her shoulders to try and keep her attention. Had she forgotten to eat? Or forgotten that she couldn’t work out that day because it would activate a semi-dormant poison in her system? Or forgotten to take some kind of vital medication that Rose didn’t know about? Shit, maybe she should have asked her that sort of thing earlier, you know, ‘Hi, nice to meet you, you’re gorgeous, I think I’m gay, do you need to take a pill everyday that keeps you alive?’.
“Really dehydrated.” She pressed her fingertips into her temple with a soft wince. “Forgot to drink anything.”
“Okay, hold on.” The redhead pushed herself to her feet, jogging through into her kitchen- shoot, should she have taken her shoes off?- and opening the fridge, retrieving a sports drink and just barely missing hitting herself in the face with the door as she spun around and took off back to the hallway. Sveta was still conscious when she returned- thank God- and took the drink gratefully, chugging almost half of the electrolyte water before leaning back against the wall with a half-stifled groan.
“Ugh, thank you.”
Rose stayed standing. “Do I need to call someone? Or something?”
“Something?” The brunette looked a little more lucid now. “Yes, please call the vending machine at work and let it know I won’t be there for my midday soda tomorrow.”
“I meant like an ambulance.” Rose amended, finally relaxing enough to seat herself next to her, back against the wall. “Are you feeling better?
“A bit.” Sveta let her head slowly slide down the wall to lay on the redhead’s shoulder. “I don’t think I can go out, though.”
“I wouldn’t have let you, even if you thought you could.” She responded firmly. “What’s going on?”
She didn’t get an immediate answer, the brunette sighing heavily before sitting up to take another few sips of her drink. “I guess I was pretending it wasn’t an issue, but-” She hesitated, and then brought a hand up to cover her lower face, eyebrows raising in anticipation for- “nGk! hihGKkchiew! hIHSHhiew!”
“Aww, that was literally the cutest thing I have ever seen.” Rose laughed as her girlfriend turned doubtful eyes to her. “What? You’re actually adorable. Bless you.”
Sveta turned away from the outpouring of affection, with a breathy laugh that only exaggerated the adoration thrumming through Rose. She reached out to squeeze the brunette’s other hand, earning a glance back in her direction, before Sveta’s expression flickered back to that unguarded, hesitant one, and she twisted away again to- “nGT! hNGTchiew! hhH… yiESHhhiew!”
“Bless you, babe.”
“Ah, sorry.” She let her head fall back against the wall again, not looking at Rose. “Thanks.”
“Are you sick, sweetheart?”
“I think so.” Svetlana almost looked drunk, slurring her words and staring dazedly into the distance. “Forgot to take anything for it, too, fuck. My brain is just-” She trailed off.
“Oh you poor thing. We should get you back into bed then, hm? Come on.” Rose stood up, moving around so she was in front of her girlfriend and holding out her hands. “Are you going to be okay standing up?”
She shrugged, “Probably.”, setting her drink down and taking the redhead’s wrists, the two of them working together to get her upright. Once there, she did seem to be okay, offering her girlfriend a small reassuring smile, though Rose waited a few seconds before starting to move them any further to be safe. Passing out once, she could deal with, but more than that seemed like a medical emergency, and she’d really love it if them coming out- if that was going to be a ‘them’ activity- didn’t involve ambulances or emergency rooms.
They headed for the bedroom with small steps, probably unnecessarily slowly, but she wanted Sveta to be as comfortable as possible, and Svetlana herself seemed too out of it to think to change their pace herself, lost in thought. So it was slow going, and Rose occupied herself by reminding herself of the layout of the apartment, and mentally guessing at where the brunette was likely to keep her sick day supplies. Was she a medication in the kitchen, bedroom, or bathroom kind of person? That could probably be a kind of personality test, though what it would show, she wasn’t sure.
The bedroom was unexpectedly messy, a towel thrown on the floor, a glass with the remnants of some kind of purpleish drink, -a smoothie, if Rose had to guess- by the bed, makeup strewn across the vanity, rumpled bedsheets barely visible beneath several discarded items of clothing. She’d been here a few times before and it had never looked…quite like this. Not when she’d gotten there, at least.
Guessing that her host was probably a little embarrassed by the state of the room, though, she ignored it, leading Sveta to the bed, and watching her immediately sprawl out there, staring at the ceiling, though the movement had jolted her slightly, and she started to cough against the back of her hand.
“I’ll get your drink.” Rose snagged the glass from the nightstand as she went, dropping it off in the kitchen, where she also retrieved a new glass of water, and then returned to the hallway for the electrolyte drink again. This was the first time either of them had been sick in their short time dating, and honestly she hadn’t expected it to be Sveta whom it happened to first. She also hadn’t really expected the brunette to be so forthcoming about it, either, having been initially fooled by her cool, poised exterior, and then surprised by the bubbly, passionate personality underneath. She’d just assumed there’d be more layers she’d have to work to peel back, but no, it appeared that Svetlana really trusted her. That or she was just out of her mind with fever.
Toeing off her shoes beside her girlfriend’s ones, and trying hard not to spill either of the drinks, Rose paused to assess the surreal nature of the situation. She, who’d spent years joking about how she ‘wished she was a lesbian’, who’d re-enacted stories about kissing her friends drunk as an excuse to kiss them sober, who’d said in multiple interviews that she was ‘just an overexcited ally’, was now somehow neck-deep in this whirlwind but also incredibly grounded relationship with a woman who was everything she’d always dreamed to be, but maybe also always dreamed to be with? Svetlana was put-together, she was socially apt, she was good at keeping secrets, and knowing what to say, and being on time. She was always the most stunningly beautiful person in the room, and it didn’t even seem to matter to her. She was so layered, could talk for hours about hockey and never repeat herself, could analyse exactly why an outfit worked the way it did, could predict the twists in movies before they happened. She was Rose’s opposite, but also her perfect copy, the only person to balance her out and meet her where she was at simultaneously. And when Rose returned, she was- “Naked?”
“Mm?” Svetlana looked glassily at her, still stretched out on the bed, though the Raiders sweatshirt and shorts were now on the ground. Which left her in tiny black boyshorts… and nothing else.
“Uh-” Rose averted her eyes, looking over her shoulder through the doorway as though she’d forgotten something. “- you’re naked?” This did not seem to be Sveta trying to be sexy, and she wasn’t totally sure the brunette knew she’d taken her clothes off in the first place.
“It’s really hot.” Was the plaintive, but simple, reply.
The redhead frowned sympathetically, now focusing on crossing the room to place the drinks down without staring openly at her girlfriend or shutting her eyes entirely, anticipating that either of those choices might lead to her tripping and spilling everything. “I think that might be a fever, sweetheart. Do you have a thermometer?”
“Bathroom.” She was back to staring at the ceiling again.
Rose settled the drinks on the nightstand, pausing to cup Sveta’s face with a condensation cooled hand- the brunette’s eyes closing in brief bliss- before quickly stepping through to search the bathroom. So she was a bathroom first aid person, meaning she was… practical, clinical maybe? Someone should really start working on this theory. Someone who wasn’t in the middle of trying to play nurse with her first ever girlfriend.
It didn’t take her long to find the thermometer, neatly tucked in a drawer that Rose noted also held various kinds of medication that might be useful once they had a figure to work with. As she stepped back through, eyes on the device, focused on figuring out how to work it, her girlfriend’s breath caught sharply.
“hNgt!” Her body jolted upwards, as if drawn by a string attached to her collarbone, falling down again for a brief moment before, “hnGTchiew! hiiHSHhiew!” She didn’t move up at all for that one, Rose thought with vague interest, almost seeming to ground herself against the bed and put the force into the sneeze instead.
“Bless-” She hesitated, at the bedside now, realising Svetlana’s hand was still raised in front of her lower face, eyes still squeezed shut, sniffling softly and anticipatorily. Were there more to come?
“NGt!” Apparently yes. “hNGTChiew! heiHISHHiew!”
As hard as she’d tried to keep her focus sympathetically trained on the brunette’s face- and even that had some less than pure connotations, the expressions inextricably similar to…certain other ones- it was pretty hard not to notice the effect the hitching and convulsing was having on the rest of her body out of the corner of her eye. “Um.” Rose swallowed. “Bless you.” For someone whose eyes seemed to be magnetised to her girlfriend’s chest, it sure had taken her a long time to figure out how much she liked tits.
“Thanks. I’ll stop now, I promise.” Sveta smiled at her, though her gaze had already started to wander back to the ceiling as she dropped her hand to rest at her side again.
“Why?” Jesus, you don’t have to sound so upset about it.
The brunette raised a single finger to point at the device in Rose’s hand. Oh, right.
She laughed awkwardly. “Ah, good thinking.” With slight hesitancy, she offered the thermometer first to Sveta’s hand, which made no move to take it, and then to her mouth, which opened obediently. “Don’t hurt yourself keeping them in though,” She advised as she pushed the button on the device, “We can always try it again.”
“Mm mm mm mm-mm, mm?” Whatever she’d said seemed to be some kind of witty retort, if the look on her face was anything to go by.
“Really? Wow.” On instinct- maybe something to do with growing up with brothers who’d been the recipients of some pretty rough dental procedures that left them mostly unable to speak for several days at a time- she pretended to understand her girlfriend’s incomprehensible mumble, plastering a doe-eyed, innocent look on her face simultaneously that always worked to maximise the mute individual’s frustration.
Svetlana huffed, unimpressed, and scrunched her nose up, in what Rose initially considered to be petulance. Cute.
She was wrong. “nGT!” Still cute.
“Oh, do you want me to take it out?” She can’t answer you, which probably means yes, you should take the thermometer out. The redhead reached forward, only to have her hand smacked gently away, a determined look briefly visible on her girlfriend’s face.
“ngGT!” Unconsciously, the brunette had taken hold of Rose’s skirt, probably mistaking it for the bedsheets, fisting the material in her hand as she focused on keeping the thermometer in her mouth.
“nGK!-” She took several short consecutive breaths in through her nose, eyebrows tenting in anticipation, “-nGk! NGk! nGk!”
“Bless you.” Rose brushed a stray curl from her girlfriend’s forehead and stroked her thumb over her cheek softly. “That was an impressive display, but you can’t tell me it didn’t hurt.”
Sveta shook her head, eyes wide and sincere.
“Really?” The redhead asked again, meaning it this time. Okay, maybe now she wouldn’t feel so bad about having let her gaze wander briefly during the fit.
The thermometer beeped and she gently slid it from between the brunette’s lips.
“Really.” Svetlana responded, finally able to use her voice again. “No more than sneezing the regular way.”
Mentally banking that comment for a moment, to interrogate her about as soon as she could remember to, Rose squinted at the numbers before her. “38.4? What does that even mean?”
The brunette took the device from her, hitting a small button and handing it back.
“Oh, 101.1. That’s pretty high. You must feel bad?”
“I guess.” She sniffled softly, and then shivered, pulling her limbs in to move into a foetal position, on her side, head tilted to look up at Rose.
“Are you too cold now?” Her girlfriend guessed.
“Yes, but I don’t want to put that-” She nodded towards the discarded clothes, “-back on.” Sveta moaned in frustration, pushing her face into the pillow, mumbling, “Too myagkiy, it prilipayet k moyu kozhu.”
“I’m sorry, babe.” Rose patted her hip awkwardly, not wanting to put her cold-ish hands directly onto her skin lest she make the chills worse. “Hey, what about my sweater?”
The brunette peeked back at her, examining the offer.
“I’ve got a shirt underneath, so I won’t get cold.” She pulled the sweater off, showing Svetlana her cami top. The way her girlfriend’s eyes roved her newly more exposed body made her feel kind of like she was the half naked one, and the attention drew a flush to her cheeks that was far closer to excitement than embarrassment.
Sveta half sat up, apparently interested.
“And look, it has these holes-” Rose poked her finger through one of them to demonstrate. “So you won’t get too hot.”
“Okay, thank you.”
She watched the brunette slip into the item of clothing, full upper body still technically visible if she really looked, but that wasn’t why she’d given her the shirt. She wanted Sveta to be warm and comfortable, and as long as she was both, then so was Rose.
“Can I get you some kind of medicine for this?” She asked, gently, truly wanting to do anything she could to ease the discomfort.
“The blue box, in-” Once again, she was gesturing in the direction of the bathroom, and Rose was heading through to retrieve it. She was pretty sure she’d seen a blue box in that drawer.
Box in hand, she hurried back, handing it over and moving the clothes off of the bed and onto the stool for the vanity while she waited for Sveta to take the pills, passing her the glass of water- though she seemed to have already swallowed them dry- and smoothing back her hair from her forehead as she drank.
They moved in comfortable silence, bar Rose’s extremely fast inner monologue considering her girlfriend’s every hypothetical need, and the hypothetical solutions for them. The brunette sniffled, and before she’d even had time to raise her fingertips to press under her nose, the redhead was making her way once again back through to the bathroom to pull a few tissues from the box on the counter there and return to present them to her. q
“Thank you.” She responded absently, raising them to her face and blowing her nose unabashedly. The force of it seemed to trigger something and, with a gasp that tugged on the loose edges of the tissues she was holding to her face, her eyes squeezed shut.
“hTSHiew! TSHhiew! hihh…” Sveta’s head tipped back as she chased the sensation. Rose watched, rapt. So they weren’t always those tiny held-in ones… intruiging.
“hihIHSHhiew!”
“Oh, b-”
“hehh…” Damn, just when she thought she’d got the pattern down.
“hihTSHhiew! TSH-SHhiew! hiHSHhyiew!
“Oh bless you, Sveta, sweetheart. This-” She was immediately drowned out by the brunette blowing her nose again, and laughed, sincerity and pity evaporating in favour of being amused by the new unreserved side of her girlfriend that this illness had brought out. “-this is a really sneezy cold.”
“Sleepy cold, too.” She yawned behind her hand, unbothered by the observation.
Rose made a sympathetic noise, “You want to take a nap?”
Svetlana nodded, moving herself across in the bed, so she was slightly more centred. “Lie down, if you want.” Rose did want, and she’d wanted to since that exhausted expression had first taken over the brunette’s face, when she’d flopped down onto the bed, but she’d been waiting to be invited, and hoping not to be told to leave.
The redhead turned and pulled her legs up, so she was sitting beside her girlfriend, who made a satisfied little noise and started to snuggle into her side. Wanting to lean forward to kiss her on the top of the head, but not confident in her neck’s ability to bend that far without pulling something, the actress settled for smiling lovingly at Svetlana’s curled up form as she drifted off to sleep.
…
Rose had a lot of practice sitting still for a long time with nothing much to do, mainly in the makeup chair, occasionally before interviews or auditions, so, while Sveta dozed on her chest, she occupied herself in the usual ways, mentally running lines for her current project, reworking conversations she’d had recently that she felt had gone particularly poorly, and, her favourite mental exercise- the infinite hotel buffet, where she challenges herself to create the ultimate plate in a single run.
Thirty minutes of “I thought you were dead!” and “Actually, I think you’ll find that…” and incredibly precisely stacked food that defied several laws of physics, and most of the laws of nutrition, later, the brunette stirred.
“Hey,” Rose spoke softly, “How are you feeling?”
“More alive.” Sveta sighed, rolling onto her back, the redhead’s arm stretched out behind her neck, and reaching up to lace her fingers with Rose’s. “Sorry about our plans. This just came out of nowhere.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. I still get to spend time with you, so I’m literally not missing out on anything.”
“Really?” The brunette cleared her throat, tone flat and disbelieving. “This isn’t boring for you?”
Rose laughed. “Not even the most boring thing I’ve done today, I’d so much rather be here than anywhere else, right now.”
“You’d rather be here than in a meeting, I’m flattered.”
“Stop.” She protested, amused but still slightly indignant, clarifying, “I’d rather be in your apartment with you, even if you’re stressed, or sick, or asleep, than out at a club with anyone else on the whole planet.”
“Wow. Now I really am flattered.” Sveta made playfully affectionate eyes at her girlfriend, which really made the actress want to pounce on her, an instinct she resisted due to the brunette’s current condition.
“You should be.” She continued, faux conceitedly, looking away with played-up false modesty, “I could probably actually get most people to go with me.”
When her girlfriend didn’t laugh, Rose’s head snapped back to face her, concerned she’d taken her seriously, only to see her shaking her free arm around weirdly, which the redhead eventually realised was her one-handed attempt to push back the sleeve of the loaned sweater, which was stuck over her hand in an adorably inconvenient sweater paw.
“Oh, wait. Let me help.” She caught Sveta by the wrist, using her own single hand to pull back the clothing to expose her palm, hardly given time to let go before the hand they’d collaboratively uncovered was flying to cover the brunette’s face.
“nGt!”
“Bless you.”
“hNGTchiew!”
“Bless you.”
“hhISHhiew!”
“Bless you!”
“Thank you.” She sniffled softly, hand still raised. “Are there sal’vetki- tissues, over there?”
The redhead craned her neck over her shoulder to look at the nightstand, catching sight of a box of tissues- ah, so she hadn’t had to go all the way to the bathroom last time- and stretching out to drag a few free, not close enough to pick up the box itself. “Here you are.”
“Thanks.” She took them one handed, blowing her nose softly, fingers still intertwined with the her girlfriend’s on the opposite side.
Rose watched the bridge of her nose wrinkle as the action seemingly irritated it, watched her eyelids flutter back open almost in slow motion, watched her lower the tissue, revealing just the hint of a flush to her nose, and her full lips, parted to breathe- “You’re so pretty.”
The brunette shot her a look that made her laugh on instinct, the word “seriously?!” communicated perfectly without her saying anything at all. “No, really,” She clarified, “How are you so beautiful 24/7? I know if I was even half as sick as you, I’d look like roadkill.”
“Well I guess we’ll probably see if that’s true in about a week.” Svetlana looked slightly regretful, grip on her hand loosening almost imperceptibly, as though she were thinking about pulling away. “Sorry about that.”
“I don’t mind. As long as you repay the favor and take wonderfully good care of me.” The redhead kissed her on the forehead, both of them giggling at the sweet gesture, before Sveta sobered up slightly and looked her in the eyes again.
“Firstly, you know I will. Secondly, I’m not actually ‘beautiful 24/7’ or whatever you said, you’re just biased because you-” She broke off.
Hoping she wasn’t reading into this the wrong way, Rose kept her gaze. “Because I…?”
Several seconds of weighted silence later, the brunette’s intense expression was replaced by a brief one of relief, and then she turned away, raising her hand-
“nGTchiew!”
“Bless you.”
“hNGKhiew!”
“Bless you.” Rose waited patiently, both for the third sneeze, and for them to return to the unfinished sentence. She would not be getting out of this that easily, especially if she’d been about to say what the redhead thought she had.
“hhuhISHHiew!”
“Because I… what?”
The repeated question, or maybe the impatient omission of the blessing, earned her the restored eye contact she’d been awaiting. “I don’t remember what I was going to-”
“Because I’m in love with you?” The words almost barrelled out of her mouth before she could stop them, but she didn’t really want to. She wanted to know if this feeling was real, if it was mutual.
“Yes.” The brunette answered after a beat. “Are you?”
“Yes.” Rose echoed, unable to control the smile that spread across her face. “Are you?”
Svetlana laughed, nodding, not looking at her again. The redhead’s heartbeat was thumping in her chest, a myriad of emotions overwhelming her, helpless in the face of the tidal wave of joy and adoration and passion. She cupped her girlfriend’s face in her free hand, breath catching at the profoundness of the feeling as their eyes met.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Only if you're interested in sampling this sickness.”
Rose leaned in and captured her lower lip with her own, feeling the brunette smile before she fully kissed back, the two of them falling into an endless cycle of staring into each others’ eyes and giggling, and then closing their eyes to kiss, softly at first, and then deeply, until one of them started to smile again, and they both began to laugh.
It took a minute before Rose sat up with a gasp.
“What’s wrong?” Sveta asked, squeezing her hand, while she dabbed at her nose with the tissues she still held in her other one.
The actress looked guilty. “I didn’t say ‘bless you’ the last time.”
Her girlfriend stared at her, dumbfounded for a moment, before bursting into laughter.
“What?” Rose was indignant. “It’s polite!”
Svetlana shook her head, still smiling widely, and reached up to pull her girlfriend back down to her level. “Don’t worry about it, rozochka. I’m sure you’ll get plenty more opportunities to say that."
Sooo, I hopped from one hockey show to another...If you're looking for some cheesy fun and sweet friendships, you're in the right place! @themiseryandcompany has some lovely HCs about these guys here, and mentioned Logan mowing the lawn and trying to go to practice...and Garrett just laying down the law and I couldn't get it out of my brain.
So, here this is! Definitely not the best written thing in the world, but it is fun and full of whimsy, so I had to share :) Read and have fun with me!
Logan hadn’t thought twice about it. Really, he hadn’t. All four of the guys have their job, the thing they contribute to the house. Tucker’s is the cooking, Dean’s got a handle on any and all parties, Garrett’s the one that’s handed them multiple Frozen Four hockey wins across their past years at Briar, so he’s pretty sure they’re all in agreement that Garrett’s captainship can count for his job…
And Logan, well, he’s always the one doing the ‘blue collar’ jobs for the household. Repairing cars if they break down, changing tires, installing (and bettering) anything electronic, building furniture, fixing plumbing mishaps, and anything else that might fall in that same category.
It feels like second nature to him, at this point. Growing up, Logan was always the one responsible for doing those jobs around his childhood home. But, his family owned an auto-body shop. It was kind of par for the course to know how to do those things.
But now, living with the other guys that didn’t know what their car’s engine was supposed to sound like, weren’t sure how to tighten up the plumbing under the sink…he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find an enjoyment in it. He likes being the one to be able to take care of his friends in this way. To take something off of their plate, so they don’t have to worry about bringing in their car to the shop and getting a rental car, or calling in an electrician for the light in the bathroom when it starts flickering too much.
So, of course, when he notices the grass in the front yard getting too long one morning, he grabs his headphones and heads into the garage to start up the mower.
Maybe he should’ve thought twice about it. Thought about why Garrett usually had someone come to mow the lawn for them. Thought about checking the weather app. Specifically the pollen section that he definitely doesn’t have pinned to the top of said weather app. But, Logan hasn’t actually mowed the lawn in so long that he sort of just…
“Hh? hH’KSHh!--kK’SHHh! hdT--hDT!--dSHHhhU!”
Forgot.
Forgot the effect that mowing the lawn, kicking all that cut up grass and pollen into the air -- “kKTSHhU! iH! iH’DJZzzhU!” -- has on his over-sensitive nose.
Whiiiiiich is how he ends up walking into the locker room for practice with toilet-paper-tissue bundles shoved into his jacket pockets, actively attempting to hold back an onslaught of sneezes, with sunglasses across his rapidly-blinking eyes.
Now, the problem is, that his friends are too good of friends. He knows, he knows, he’s very grateful for that to be his complaint. But, really, they just know him too well. They know that when he gets particularly set off, that it’s a whole performance of not one, not two, not three…Yeah, he’s not gonna go through all the numbers, but it’s a shit ton of sneezes.
But, really, that’s not a total issue. He’s not too shabby at quieting his sneezes, if he does say so himself. The real issue is his damn eyes. Hence the sunglasses.
He swears, the minute that anything that’s not pure oxygen gets within five feet of his eyes, they’ll start watering. It’s annoying as hell. And obvious as hell. And it makes his plight a hell of a lot more evident when he’s wandering around with tears clumping to his eyelashes or dripping down his cheeks.
And, his too-good friends that know too damn much about him also know about this particular symptom.
So, he’s just going to walk in casually, not say anything to anyone, turn to his locker, casually take the sunglasses off and hope no one forces him to turn around before they get on the ice, and…and! pinch his nose quick because--
“ehH’DSHhhtt! hh! kSHhhu!--ehH’TSHhhU!”
Shit. Good thing he’s already facing (see: practically hiding in) his locker, because he feels the tears hit his cheeks almost instantaneously. His face swiftly ducks to meet his clothed shoulder, quickly swiping up the moisture before he blinks his eyes open again with a sniffle.
Jesus, he’s gotta get himself together before he goes out on the ice. He can’t even think about how shitty practice is going to go if he’s still blinking tears out of his eyes, but at least he’ll be on the ice.
That’s the hard part, getting past his over-aware teammates and onto the ice. Garrett shouldn’t be a problem, he’s always at practice early, so he’s probably on the ice already. Soft fabric tickles his skin as he pulls his jersey over his head, tuning into the conversations going on behind him.
There are only a few other guys in the locker room at this point, most already having made their way out to warm-ups on the ice. With some focus, he hears Tucker’s thick Southern accent somewhere…getting softer and softer…and the locker room door closing. Alright, another target down. With the slam of the locker room door, he’s suddenly plunged into silence. Slowly, Logan’s head turns to finally come out from hiding in his locker, glancing around the now-empty locker room.
A sigh of relief escapes his throat, and he pulls out one of the many crumpled tissue piles he stored away, bringing it to his nose. He knows it’s going to make it worse for a moment to blow his nose, but he also knows there’s no way he’s going to get through practice on the chilly ice without blowing his nose beforehand.
Okay, blow nose, tie skates, and get on the ice. Hope you don’t sneeze yourself into an injury. Go home and take some damn Benadryl. Good plan, Logan.
As predicted, after angering his nose with the constant vibrations, the lingering itch blooms into a fiery tickle, snaking through his sinuses. Whatever, better to happen here before practice than out on the ice. Wet lashes flutter shut, his nose bridge scrunches and he lets his breath catch dramatically as the tickle takes over.
“--I’m so sorry! I know I’m late, I swear, I’ll be laced up in thirty seconds--”
Fuck. Dean.
Even if he wanted to (which he absolutely does want to), Logan can’t stop halfway through this all-consuming fit. All he can do is press his tissue bundle ever-tighter to his nose and mouth, hoping that it’ll muffle the sound just the tiniest bit more, and between that and Dean’s obvious frantic demeanor about being late, that he just won’t notice h--
“Logan?”
Well. There goes that plan. And he’s still. Fucking. Sneezing.
“ehHPTSHhh!--kKSHhhH! eh-hIH! iiHTZZHhhuU!”
Footsteps increase in volume behind him, and he feels a large hand land on his shoulder. “What’s the matter with you?”
If he was capable of scoffing right now, he would. “N-nDSCHhh! hiH’DJjSHhh!--Nothing!”
Finally, the tickle is satisfied and tear-streaked eyes wrench open, gazing up at his blonde-headed roommate as Logan is left cleaning himself up.
Dean just blinks down at him, critically. Looks down at his jersey, then back up to his surely red and irritated eyes. “You’re about to practice like this?”
“Y--ehH’TZSHhhU!...Yes.”
Another blink from Dean. Then, faster than Logan can blink, Dean’s turning on his heels and sprinting towards the entrance to the rink. “Garrett! Cap! Graham, come here!!”
Logan’s feet must be faster than his brain, or maybe he’s just conditioned at this point to follow when his roommates start to run. It’s not until a few seconds into the chase that Logan realizes what his asshole roommate is doing. Tattling to their captain. “Motherf--Dean!”
Now, Dean’s got height, but Logan has speed. By the time they’re in sight of the ice, Logan’s caught up with his asshole roomate (And, yes, he’s going to keep calling him that). His asshole roommate who’s still yelling out for their captain, by the way.
When Logan reaches up to try to slap a hand over Dean’s (sorry, asshole roommate’s) mouth, they end up in a tangle of limbs, where Dean unfortunately has the upper hand. Logan finds his back pinned to Dean’s front, the blonde’s arms locking him in place across his chest.
“Graham! Come here!” A soft wince crinkles Logan’s features at Dean’s yell in his ear. Struggling against the hold or giving a comeback isn’t even possible, because all Logan can do is mumble a soft “Fuuuuck…” as he, one, sees his captain and best friend pause in his skate across the rink to look their way, and two, feels that fucking itch spark up again.
An instinctive arm attempts to come up to scrub at his nose, but is stopped in its tracks by Dean’s hold, unable to reach above his chest. Dark eyes start to squint shut against the irritation.
“Dean, let--fuck--gohH! h’KSHhH!--kkGSHhhuU!”
It’s either the surprise of the first sneeze that gets Dean to let go, or the disgust of being sneezed on. To save his ego, Logan’s gonna pretend it’s the former, and forget the latter is even an option.
“hH! d’JShhHh!--aH’TShhhhU! h-hh--”
The attempts to hear through his sneezes what Dean and newly-arrived Garrett are talking about are futile. His hair-pin-trigger nose going off every five seconds is not helping his mission, and he can only catch a few clips of their sentences between each sneeze.
“Wha----ong with him?”
“k’KSHh--dJZHhh--hH!!”
“---n’t know----locker roo---”
“DJZHhhHU! hHTZShhh!”
“Why----sk him anyth----”
“hh? hhIH! iH’DZSCHhhU!” A low groan escapes his throat without permission, sniffling back congestion with a clumsy arm swiping across his eyes, then under his nose. When he gazes up, it’s just at Garrett, who must’ve sent Dean off to suit up for practice.
“Dude, how the fuck’d you get sick so fast? I saw you this morning!”
Ah, right. They still had no idea what was wrong with him. Well, maybe this was better. When they realized he wasn’t actually sick, they’d let him on the ice. Maybe.
“I’m not sick, I’m fine--”
“--You’re not fine--”
“I mean, okay, I’m not perfect, but I’m not sick,” Logan insists, sniffling back congestion.
Garrett raises a brow. “You’re doing a hell of an impression of a sick person, Lo.”
Christ, he doesn’t even want to look in a mirror to see what Garrett’s talking about, because he’s sure his best friend is absolutely right. With the sandpaper feeling in his eyes and the perpetual itch in his sinuses, he can only imagine how he looks right now.
“I know, but it’s just...I just mowed the lawn, swear, I wouldn’t have come if I was…fuuh--Fuck. snf! Ihf I wh--hH! wassick!--k’SHhh!--KSHhhuU! hh! dJSHhhtt!”
Crap, and there he goes again, starting the whole minute-long-production all over again. After the surprise of the first two, clumsy hands manage to pull the collar of his jersey over his nose and mouth. He winces at the moisture he already feels on the material, but surely that’s better than nothing.
He feels heavy hands drop to his shoulders, spinning him around and shoving him back towards the entrance to the locker room. His feet try to dig into the floor, attempting to stop whatever journey Garrett’s trying to take him on, but he’s definitely not agile enough to do that while flinching forwards with sneezes every three seconds.
Garrett silences his attempts at talking with a shushing sound and another shove towards the locker room. “You just said you mowed the lawn. Why, I’m not sure, because anyone could’ve told you that was a shitty idea, but either way, you need meds.”
A congested sniffle and a soft groan escape Logan’s throat as he harshly pinches his nose with the rough material of his jersey. “N-No, meds are juhH! just gonna mahhke me…make me--! kSHhhhtT! Ugh, snf!...make me drowsy. Can’t practice like that.” He brings up the hem of his jersey to sop up stray tears that have made their way across his cheekbones.
Garrett barks out an incredulous laugh. “You’re not practicing! You can’t be out on the ice while going off like a machine-gun every fourty-five seconds, Logan.”
Through the mesh of the material he’s still dabbing at his streaming eyes with, he can make out the locker room door opening, Garrett guiding the both of them inside.
“It-It’s just sneezing, Graham. I can still skate fine!” Though he’s still trying, he knows deep down that it’s futile. Garrett’s stubborn as hell, and not gonna give up on this one. He hates how good a friend he is, sometimes.
Large hands press down on his shoulders to guide him to take a seat at the lockers. A quick glance up tells Logan he’s sitting at Garrett’s locker, who’s currently digging through his duffle as he speaks.
“Yeah, but--fuck, where…You know it’s just gonna get worse when you get out on the ice. All the cold air and temperature change and shit--Ah, there!” His best friend emerges victorious with a blister-pack of Benadryl. “It’s not gonna get any better unless you take something.”
Logan blinks for a moment…before groaning and swiping the blister-pack from Garrett’s outstretched hand. He looks far too satisfied with himself. “You’re an asshole,” Logan mumbles, popping the pill through the foil, dropping it in his mouth, and gesturing for Garrett’s water bottle. Over the sound of Garrett’s laughter, Logan squeezes the bottle, flooding his mouth with water before swallowing the pill.
His best friend takes the bottle back, hoisting Logan to his feet and shoving him towards his own locker. “Alright, lace up.”
Surprise and hesitation washes over his features. “Lace up?” He had assumed Garrett would insist he sit his ass out.
“Lace up.” Garrett nods. “When you can stop sneezing for a minute thirty, I’ll put you on the ice.” He grins, holding up his phone -- opened up to the stopwatch app -- before walking out, leaving Logan calling after him.
“I was right, you are an asshole!”
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆❄︎⋆｡˚✴︎⋆
“heh’yiiHSSHh! That wuH! uhHTSHhhh! was n-nih! DZSHhhu! --ninety seconds!”
“Ehh, you’re not gonna wanna hear this, Logan. Eighty-seven.”
“Ugghh…GZSHHhhu! Come on, Tuck…”
“Hey, take it up with Garrett! He was very clear. Ninety seconds, not a millisecond before that.” Tucker’s soft features crinkle up apologetically.
Coach Jensen’s voice cuts through the rink. “Next line, switch it up!!”
Tucker stumbles through tossing Garrett’s phone onto Logan’s lap and throwing his own body over the boards, off to the races on the crisp ice. The previous line takes their spots, collapsing onto the bench. Mid-sneeze, Logan’s attention prickles with the feeling of someone sitting in his periphery, grabbing the phone from his lap.
“ghH! uh’KSHhhuU!--uhh…Alright, snf! Start it over, I’m done,” Logan sighs out, swiping at his eyes before leaving them closed, tipping his head to lean back against the wall behind the bench.
“Bless ya’, sneezy. Whatever you say.”
Logan rolls his eyes under closed eyelids. Dean. “You don’t have to say that every time, y’know.” Translation: Stop fucking saying it every time.
“Come on, Logan, I’m just being polite. If you sneeze seventeen times in a row, I’m positive that deserves seventeen ‘bless you’s.”
“You’re an ass.”
“I’m trying to save you from demons entering your body. Who knows what’ll happen if I’m not around to bless your every sneeze?”
“My headache will magically go away, probably.”
Dean snorts out a laugh, bumping his side into Logan’s body in a gentle shove.
Logan sniffles carefully, eyes still blissfully shut. “Is the time going?”
“Mhmm.”
“Do I wanna know how much tim--”
“--Nope.”
Alright then. Probably only been around thirty seconds, then.
He sits, zoning out into some exhausted haze until he realizes he’s been sniffling against a sharp tickle for the past fifteen seconds. A low groan vibrates through his throat on the way out. He knows he’s not going to make it to ninety this time.
Dean, of course, can’t let it go without a comment. “Ah, here he goes again! How many this time? Five? Six? Sixteen?”
Even with his eyes closed, he feels irritated tears escaping his waterline as he hitches up, up, uhHP--!
“DSCHhhhU! hh! hH’TShhh--djJSZHhhu!”
Too late, he feels a hand nudging at his forearm. He can’t put together enough brain power to figure out what that means right now. Whoever it is must get fed up with Logan’s lack of a response (other than sneezing, there’s plenty of that), because they stop nudging and start grabbing Logan’s forearm, dragging it up towards his face.
Giving a sliver of thought to something other than his constant sneezing, he realizes he has a tissue clutched in that hand. Oh. Right. Haphazard movements clutch the tissue to his mouth and nose, directing the last bout of this fit into the soft white paper. He tunes in to Dean’s voice in his ear again.
“--Logan, you good?”
Another snuffle, another swipe at his cheeks that really only serves to spread the tears into his skin. “Mhmm.” He sinks into the bench and flutters his eyes shut. Logan’s not sure how long they sit there before Dean says something back.
“...Alright.”
Jensen’s voice cuts through the moment, yet again indicating a line change. Logan feels a warm hand ruffling his hair, and Dean’s voice is back. “See you in a minute.” He hears, before Dean’s presence is gone, and Logan’s back in the zoned-out haze.
At the cutting sound of the whistle to halt the play, Dean skates over to Garrett, breathing heavily. “Logan looks like he’s about to pass out or some shit,” He gets out in between breaths.
Garrett’s head swivels over to the bench. “What do you mean?”
“He’s just…out of it,” Dean details. “Not really saying much. Keeping his eyes closed. Forgot he even had tissues in his hand.”
Garrett gives a soft hum. “Ah, gotcha. He’ll probably fall asleep in the next five minutes, then.” He nods.
Dean pauses for a moment. His captain seems rather…content with his best friend’s current hazy state. He thinks for a second…Narrows his eyes…
“...This was your plan the whole time, wasn’t it? Keep him occupied while the medicine kicks in until he falls asleep?” Dean inquires.
A smirk pulls at Garrett’s lips as he sends a knowing shrug Dean’s way. The blonde can’t help but to laugh, pounding his captain affectionately on the back as they skate back over to the benches.
“Alright, Evil Mastermind, but you’re the one that has to deal with getting him in the car like that when practice is over,” Dean lets out.
Laughter spills from Garrett’s lips. “Uh, no. That’s gonna be a three person job for all the roommates,” He insists.
Dean glances back over to where Logan is stationed on the bench, head tipped backwards against the wall, lips parted and eyes fluttered shut. The irritated creases between his brows and around his eyes have smoothed out, and he wouldn’t be surprised if soft snores were escaping his lips. This is probably the longest he’s gone without sneezing since he got the damn mower out this morning.
“Alright, fine,” He concedes. “But, you’re calling the landscapers when we get back and setting up a schedule for the lawn. So this doesn’t happen again,” Large hands gesture in Logan’s direction.
“Yeah, yeah, I will,” Garrett agrees, heaving out a sigh. “Then, what will you be doing to help this situation? Dealing with delirious Logan?”
Dean scoffs. “No, absolutely not. That’s Tucker’s job.” He can’t help the grin that snakes across his lips. “I’ll be hiding the mower from Logan. Obviously,”
ward of the week (and the weaker) [o/ff c/ampus] 3/3
hello imaginary gay people in my phone, here is the final part of WOTW!!! it took much longer than i expected to write LOL oops. i have been cursed with work disease so i work like 45 hrs a week rn. sorry i put extra torture sauce in this part, im feeling extra whump-y lately. i literally get fueled by logan sneezing himself dizzy so like let’s keep that going. love you all. as always, no beta bc i can’t Read, stay hydrated and be kind to yourselves !!!! pt one | pt two | pt three
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗
Friday
A great plague has befallen the House of Hockey, or at least that’s what Hannah said last night on the phone. Garrett laughed, and then he coughed and coughed until he wheezed, so he’s tried to refrain from laughing again since then.
It’s the first Friday night that isn’t spent hosting a party or at Malone’s in their time at Briar U.
The air in the living room is stale. It’s warm inside too, and so dry, the hallmark of doors sealed shut to the rest of the world. The living room is a nice change of scenery from his bedroom ceiling, which he’s seen plenty of in the last five days. Garrett feels fuzzy, and all weird, not quite sleep-tired but bone-tired in a way that he can’t seem to reach by napping.
He’s got his shirt off, and his socks off, he even had his plaid pajama pants off before he decided to enter the common space—he’s hot underneath the skin, sweltering sticky heat.
He’s got a nice tapestry of purple-yellow bruises on the right side of his ribs. He presses the cool metal of his Hydroflask to his torso, because all the ice packs are melted and being hoarded by Logan and his black eye which resembles smudged eyeliner now without all the swelling.
Garrett meets the couch with gratitude, sinking into the worn cushions with a groan. He’s sore all over, through his shoulders and lower back. The thermometer rests hauntingly on the coffee table next to a half empty mug of something dark and an ominous, unraveling roll of paper towels.
He figures most of the aching is the fever, but he’s sure the residual damage from the game isn’t helping.
The door to the back patio slides open and Dean saunters in, raggedly coughing into his elbow. Behind him, Tucker slides the door shut, wafting in the ripe tang of marijuana. Dean’s eyes are heavy lidded and red at the corners, useful hints that he’s high as a fucking kite.
The coughing carries on long enough for Dean to make it to the couch, and snatch up the mug and lift it to his lips. Tucker makes a noise like a squawk and shakes his head violently.
“Don’t drink that, it’s cold. At least, let me make you a fresh cup of tea.”
Dean concedes with an huff and settles on the couch, at Garrett’s feet. He lifts his heavy feet and slides beneath them, before placing them back in his lap. Tucker collects the mug and disappears into the kitchen, but Garrett can hear the sound of his distant coughing and then the abrupt shift into nose blowing. The poor guy has been hugging a paper towel roll to his chest all day, and his face is pink and raw to show for it.
“Are you sure you should be smoking?” Garrett knocks his foot against Dean’s stomach.
Garrett only ever indulges during off-season. Between the pressure of the school, and his father, it has sucked all the fun out of partying for him. He wants to succeed, not for his father, but for himself. Getting drunk with his friends is a luxury he cannot afford. He needs to be in the best shape of his life.
He received a text from his father after their match from hell yesterday. All it read was:
[ 8:22 pm ] Phil
Rest.
Garrett didn’t bother to dignify him with a response, but the comment has been eating at him ever since.
Especially since he can’t even disobey the order. He doesn’t have energy to do anything but lay on the couch and, case-in-point, rest.
Dean, blinking in slow motion, seems to register Garrett’s question in even slower motion. He gives a small smile, which quickly turns to a grimace when he clears his throat to speak.
Whatever cold, or flu they’ve got has hit everyone in their own specific way.
Garrett’s aching down to the marrow of his bones. Every part of him pulses with a throbbing discomfort, and it makes his skin feel tight and uncomfortable. He can’t keep his eyes open either. Every time he sits down, he seems to be dozing to sleep almost immediately.
Everything has settled into Dean’s throat. After the game, everyone piled into the upstairs bathroom after the steam cleared from the mirror and shined their phone flashlight into his mouth. His throat is a gnarled, enraged red. The sprinkling white dots lining his tonsils are a familiar sight—tonsillitis—which often accompanies most of his colds, or now, the flu. Violently recurrent and his doctor has been begging him to get them removed. If Dean could just get over his fear of needles, this would be handled already.
If he had to guess, Tucker is at the mercy of gravity. His ears are tender, and inflamed which has thrown off his entire equilibrium. Garrett has been playing hockey for a long time, and he hasn’t seen someone crash and burn as many times as Tuck did on the ice yesterday. Had he not played alongside him for many years, he might’ve thought it was Tucker’s first time lacing up some skates. He squints at bright lights, winces when sound gets too loud (even his own sneezes, which is maybe the saddest sight Garrett has ever witnessed). It’s like a Sarah McLaughlin puppy commercial, watching Tucker stumble over his own feet as his headache causes the room to tilt and sway and then look down at his own body with betrayal.
He knows Logan the best, and this is a top contender for the worst shape Garrett has ever seen him in.
The stairs creak behind the couch and Garrett cranes his neck to see Logan coming down the stairs, dragging sleep along with him. It’s wrapped tightly around him, like a weighted blanket. His hair is air dried and half of his curls stick up, endearingly messy. His t-shirt is wrinkled, creased from his warm sleeping body. He has lost his pants somewhere along the way, but his boxers are wrinkled in the same spot as his shirt. In fact, his cheek is pink with sleep lines on the same side too.
He stops on the last step, frozen in his pursuit and squints into the distance in front of him. Garrett watches his chest rise and fall, lips agape, eyes fluttering and fluttering. His eyelashes are long, fanning his high cheekbones and it’s such a desperate facial expression that he can’t help but watch in a mix of horror, amusement, and erotic curiosity.
“S-Shit,” mutters Logan, as he swiftly snatches his grey t-shirt collar over his mouth.
“hn’kdtschh! iSCHh! kN’tSCHh!”
Here he goes.
“Nk’tschh! —‘shhh! —shhht!”
Whatever they had caught had ravaged Logan’s sinuses. Not that it’s particularly difficult, with how sensitive he tended to be. He’s known Logan a long time and a plethora of things make him sneeze: dust, grass, coming into a cold rink from a hot day, when he pulls an all-nighter, alcohol, and above all else, sickness.
He’s never been the type of guy to sneeze once and be finished like he or Dean or Tucker can. It is always relentless, an entire production and epilogue. He sneezes until he’s gasping for air and still goes back for more.
It’s impressive.
Logan makes his way down the rest of the stairs while he’s panting, and only makes it as far as the arm of the couch before he’s twisting his upper body away from the crowd and sneezing loosely towards his hip, hand lingering uselessly a few inches away from his face.
Logan looks out of breath, lips parted and glistening. He takes a huge breath and then blows it out slowly.
“That’s been happedni’g every few mbinutes since last ndight. I’bm so—snf!—tired.”
Dean grimaces sympathetically. Logan trudges sadly to the arm chair and drops himself into it heavily.
“Yikes. I do not envy you.” Garrett reaches over and pats his knee. Logan’s wet sniffle is sad.
From the kitchen, mugs clink and chime. Garrett isn’t even aware that he’s hearing it until it abruptly pauses.
“All good in there, Tuck?”
“RRRSHH’OOHh!”
The sound of dishes clattering into the sink makes such a boisterous crash that everyone jumps.
“Bless you.”
Tucker groans loudly. The kitchen faucet switches on.
“G’bless.” Garrett sits up and tucks himself into the corner of the couch. He pats the cushion next to him and Logan scrambles over to join the fray.
Tucker enters from the kitchen with a two mugs in each hand and a package of frozen blueberries tucked underneath his armpit.
He sets a mug in front of each one of them before settling into the cushion on the other side of Dean. Once he’s sat, he passes the packet of frozen fruit to Logan who opens the ziplock and pops a frozen blueberry in his mouth before he seals it shut and presses it to his eye.
This is it. This is the pitiful motley crew. In his opinion, they’ve either reached a new level or friendship or this is a new low for them and he can’t decide which. Maybe it’s both.
“hH’ZSSHH’uh!” Garrett doesn’t even feel the sneeze coming before it announces itself. He catches spray all over his chest in surprise, when his head snaps forward suddenly. “Guh, sorry.”
“Do we have any mbore NdyQuil?” Logan asks.
Dean reaches into the front pouch of his hoodie and pulls out an empty bottle of NyQuil.
“No,” he croaks. The empty bottle hits the edge of the coffee table and skids to the floor, landing a few feet in front of them.
Damn.
Garrett snuffles a few times, wiping the underside of his nose on his wrist. They desperately need to put in a delivery order for the essentials: cough drops, daytime and nighttime medicine, soup, Liquid IV because he finally used their last packet yesterday evening, and then tissues.
Garrett fishes his phone out of his pocket, but a quick knock at the front door distracts him from getting his order started.
Dean groans loudly, which pretty accurately encapsulates the way they all seem to be feeling about getting up and answering the door. Logan finds the solution before the rest of them.
He twists over the back of the couch, and with the last dredges of his energy, hollers for whoever it is to enter.
It’s always been an open door policy. (See: They never remember to lock the door.)
“IT’S OPEDN!”
The door creaks open, Allie Hayes steps past the threshold…?
Then, Hannah steps in behind her with grocery bags hanging off each arm.
Allie steps over the duffel bag of sweaty undergarments like it’s a live bomb. A comical amount of disgust is written across her features, as she steps over Logan’s germ-riddled basketball shorts which are bunched at the base of the steps. She is careful to avoid bumping or brushing anything until she lands in front of the couch.
She frowns. “Ew.”
Dean looks like he’s about to crawl into the split between the couch cushions and die.
Hannah trudges through their den of sickness with familiarity, kicking aside any obstacle in her path and settles beside Allie on the far side of the coffee table.
“Hannah thinks you all are incapable of taking care of yourselves, and I agree. So, here we are.”
Allie is a breath of fresh air in the stale room. Tucker laughs a little and Garrett pushes himself up to sit up straighter. He wasn’t expecting to host anyone, but he’s glad to see them here.
Hannah doesn’t react to the comment though. She studies each of them thoroughly, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. She slowly lowers the bags onto the floor and by the way the weight settles, they sound heavy.
Her smile slips off of her face. It’s replaced by a slight frown, and a wrinkle between her eyebrows that Garrett loves to kiss away when she’s worried.
Are they such a sorry sight that it stole her smile in seconds?
“You guys look…” Hannah hesitates, weighing the outcome of her words. Allie doesn’t care, she rummages around in the grocery bags.
“Bad. They look bad. You’re allowed to say that, Han.”
“Sick,” she exhales a soft chuckle. “I was going to say ‘sick’.”
Allie gives a noncommittal hum, neither impacted nor impressed. She was right, they did look bad.
“We thought you guys could use a care package, so we ran to the store on our way over,” says Hannah and grabs a few things from Allie. First, she rips open a three-pack of tissues, and then tosses the box to Logan. The surprise causes him to fumble the cardboard but eventually he catches it.
Allie retrieves a family size bag of cough drops, cherry-flavored and numbing and tosses them into Dean’s lap.
Dean loves cherry-flavored medicine. He whines the entire time he has to choke down any other flavor, and Allie’s attention to detail means as much to Garrett as it does to Dean.
Dean, usually so sharp, struggles to school his expression. His lips part, his eyes widen and shimmer with emotion. Garrett turns his head away to grant them the illusion of privacy.
Hannah sets up her own pharmacy right in front of their eyes. A packet of decongestants, a brand new bottle of NyQuil, a bottle of Tylenol, a tube of muscle pain reliever, and then a container of Vicks Vapor rub.
“Wellsy,” Garrett whispers. Hannah shakes her head immediately, dismissing any commentary he has.
“I couldn’t just sit around knowing you all were so sick, and do nothing.”
“No, literally.” Allie pauses and gives Garrett a look. She does that a lot these days, like they’re sharing an inside joke. He hasn’t figured out what it means yet. “She almost didn’t sleep last night. It was very cute.”
The final thing Allie pulls out of a grocery bag is a wide paper sack. It’s stapled shut with a receipt in the front, but over the print is a hand-scrawled message ‘Get well soon!’
“We picked up a few quarts of tomato soup and grilled cheese from Malone’s. Figured you needed to eat.”
Hannah ducks into the kitchen briefly and returns with bowls and spoons.
“This is…exceptionally kind.” Tucker breathes, frozen by the weight of their thoughtfulness.
Allie extends a parchment wrapped grilled cheese to him, and everyone watches him shudder from the warmth rolling off the sandwich. “I am just starting to like hockey, so if my favorite team died from the flu, I’d be pretty pissed.”
Then she ruffles Tuck’s hair and his smile is almost blinding.
Garrett stands, because he can’t stomach sitting idly by, or being taken care of. He doesn’t know how to accept gentility without a price tag. Not entirely, not yet. He takes the bowls from Hannah, and holds them out while she pours tomato soup into each bowl.
Dean holds the bowl to his face and inhales the steam, and the sound of him trying to inhale through his nose is suffocating. He tucks into the bowl immediately. He’s been having a hard time swallowing much of anything with his shredded throat, so something liquid and warm is heavenly to him.
Garrett sets a grilled cheese in front of his and Logan’s seat, and then extends a bowl of soup to Logan. Logan reaches for the bowl, and then hesitates.
He quickly jerks his hands back, with a desperate shake of his head. His breath snags in rapid staccato, in-in-inhale, and Garrett knows to pull the bowl directly out of his line of fire before he starts sneezing.
Before Logan can even begin sneezing, Dean slams the bowl onto the coffee table and startles the tickle right out of him.
“G’nnasnee—zDSSCHHh’yiew!”
Dean manages to muffle the majority of the sound into the thick sleeve of his hoodie. Allie frowns and rounds the table. She presses her palm to his forehead, and he peeks up at her through his messy fringe, his eyes wide and guilty. Garrett hands Logan his rightful bowl of soup.
“Next time, just tell me you’re sick,” Allie says. Garrett glances at Hannah, who is grinning again. He wonders if she’s ever seen Allie this soft for someone. By the look on her face, he doesn’t think this is very common. “If you ever do that again, I’ll kick your ass.”
There she is.
Dean grimaces. “I kn—w…kHM! I’m s—…” He twists away from her and begins coughing, the deep barking coughs that rattle his frame and tend to wake the entire house.
Allie coos, brushes his sweaty bangs back from his forehead and kisses this warm temple. “I know you’re sorry. Shh.”
“Sit down.”
Garrett’s attention is turned back to Hannah, who is glowering up at him sternly. Unfortunately for her, she’s got the widest, sparkliest eyes in the entire world, so she entirely misses intimidating and lands on cute. Garrett bites back a smile.
“I’bm just helpi’g,” says Garrett, all charm and snot. He sounds so audibly sick, he probably wouldn’t even recognize his own voice on record.
“You’re swaying,” scolds Hannah. She gently pushes her hand over his marbled canvas of bruising and he can’t stop the sharp hiss of pain from the touch. Her fingers are blessedly cold, which is like a million needles on his tender, feverish skin. It hurts so good. “You’re not in any shape to help. Sit.”
Garrett ducks his head, craving nothing more than the feeling of her lips. He hasn’t kissed her in almost an entire week, in fear of getting her sick. A kiss from her would heal every ache and pain in him now. Instead, she rocks onto the very tips of her toes and kisses the highest point of his cheekbone and then presses their foreheads together.
Just as Garrett is about to melt into her, mould them into one, she pats his jaw and then motions him away to the couch. Only a few more days and then he can have as many kisses as he wants.
Dragging his feet, Garrett trudges back to the couch and plops down next to Logan to await being served his portion of soup. Just as Hannah is handing Garrett his bowl and spoon, Logan’s abandoned sneeze returns with a vengeance.
Logan manages to get his bowl onto the table in time, hitching the entire time. He gets two, three precursors sneezes, desperate chuffs of air that don’t even count as full, real sneezes but warn him of what’s to come.
He quickly pulls his collar to his mouth. “hH’nGKsh!…’schu! nDT’chu! —SHHht!”
Allie and Hannah both giggle, but Logan doesn’t lift his head to acknowledge him.
“Give him a minute,” Tucker instructs, around a mouthful of grilled cheese.
“I’bm sure ndow.” Logan snatches three tissues from the new box, and tents them over his nose. He blows softly, timid and careful not to aggravate his own nose.
“Bless you,” Allie giggles again, sounding impressed alongside her amusement. “And I thought I was bad.”
Hannah freezes, face suddenly flush a rosy pink, darkest at her ears and stretching to her throat. She clears her throat, and side steps the topic entirely.
Garrett squints at her.
“Bl—mhn.” Her voice trembles. “H—uh, how about we watch a movie?”
They decide on Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, as it feels most fitting for the occasion. It takes everyone a minute to get settled, Garrett and Hannah sprawled across the couch, tangled in one another, Hannah tucked to Garrett’s side. Logan sits at the other end of the couch, with a quilt around his shoulders. Dean and Allie settle into the armchair, reclining it as far back as it will go, so there is room for the both of them. Allie wraps her arms around Dean, and Dean wraps his arms around the family size cough drops.
Tucker sits between Logan’s legs on a worn bean bag, sunken into the malleable folds, swallowed up by the soft material. Together, they look as content as could be.
Now fed and medicated, the house has settled into a comfortable rhythm that it hasn’t seen for days.
The opening credits begin to roll, and Garrett shifts beneath Hannah, pushing himself onto his elbow so he can create a fraction of distance.
“Are you alright?”
Garrett pulls in a shallow, steely breath. “Yeah, I think I’m going t-tuHh…” He loses his ability to speak, the tickle teetering on the precipice of coming to fruition or disappearing entirely. It’s delicate and precious. He squints at the bright screen in the dark. “hAHh—?!”
The gasp scrapes at his throat, before it drastically peters off, leaving him wanting and feeling lost.
Logan snorts. “Bruuutal.”
Garrett stamps the heel of his foot against his thigh which makes Logan laugh harder.
He settles back down, muttering an apology for interrupting their comfortable position, wrapping his arms around Hannah.
The attention returns to the movie, silence settling back over the room.
Then he sneezes. “H’JYSSSZCHHoo!”
Dean opens his mouth to retort, or maybe even bless him, but his throat has other plans. His voice squeaks, nothing but a strangled noise coming out which devolves into sharp, piercing coughs.
Logan nudges his socked foot against Tucker. “These guys are a fucking disaster, huh?”
Tucker’s head lolls to the side, and a stuffy snore is Logan’s only response. He leans down and adjusts Tucker’s blanket so it covers both of his shoulders.
Garrett pinches away the wetness around his nostrils, and collapses back onto the couch. Hannah takes a moment to settle back against his chest, her blue eyes sparkling with something he can’t name.
He pushes her hair behind her ear, brushing his thumb along her jaw. Her eyes flutter shut and he tips her head down to kiss her forehead. “Thangk you.”
Her eyes spring open, and she’s smiling again, big and unencumbered. “For what?”
“Everything.” Maybe if he keeps practicing, like this, he could get used to love. He could learn that love is all it’s cracked up to be, the tangible, breathing thing that’s between them. The gentle touches, the soup, the thoughtfulness of cherry lozenges. That's love. Maybe he could learn that. “For taking care of us.”
Hannah shakes her head, slowly and fondly like he’s not grasping something. Like there is a point to this all and he isn’t getting it. “You don’t have to thank me. Wanna know why?”
Garrett smirks. “Why?”
“Because I loHhve!—oHhh no— eHhpTSCHh’yiew!”
His sweet, sweet girlfriend, and her bleeding heart. Garrett just might get the opportunity to practice loving her to his fullest potential very, very soon. Her thoughtfulness and bleeding heart have brought her before the jury, calling her immune system into question.
If it managed to tear through the entire hockey team, then Hannah and the entire theater troupe probably don’t stand a chance.
Garrett can’t help himself. He barks a laugh, catching Hannah’s face in his hands.
“God bless you, Wellsy.” Garrett leans in and presses their mouths together, softly humming into the kiss. Her lips are warm and sticky, flavored like cherry cough syrup. “That doesn’t sound so good.”
When he pulls away, Hannah is blushing like she did when they first met, all those months ago when she was easier to fluster and couldn’t untie her tongue. It’s cute to see again, like being visited by an old friend.
Hannah frantically shakes her head. “I just sn—uh. It was only a—hm.” She can’t seem to organize her thoughts, stammering awkwardly through her own feelings. It’s very endearing to watch, though Garrett isn’t sure where it’s coming from. “I’m okay.”
Garrett pecks her lips again. “Yeah?”
Hannah breaks the kiss to sniffle. She doesn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah.”
“You’re positive?”
Hannah drops her head to his shoulder, hiding her face. She makes a frustrated noise, unintelligible but very clear in intention.
“Ooh, grumble, grumble.” Garrett whispers into her hair. He squeezes his arms around her a little tighter. It’s slow, like learning to ride a bike, practicing this. But the forward momentum will come, and he will adapt, and soon he will know the way she takes her tea or how to massage all the aches and pains from her body too. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Three Times the Centaurs Tried to Care for Their Captain, and the First Time they Succeeded
Three: A Technically Correct Approach
part one, part two
so, I'm supposed to be doing postgrad applications rn but it's so hot and I'm suffering on so many levels, my brain is just like nope, snz and hockey and that's it, so have some of both. third time is very much not the charm for the cens, unfortunately, but I firmly believe this approach would have worked if it wasn't for... well, you'll see ;)
also I'm closing requests for now, but I will still be working through the ones already in my inbox, which are all so gorgeous and fun, and I'm super excited about all of them!
Wyatt was unsurprised by the captain’s absence from the locker room, which he noted as he walked in, nodding greetings to the players who were present. The Russian had been known to dip right before practice, games, meetings, to take covert phone calls, or stand outside, downwind of the smoking area, staring at it longingly. So, as usual, he only glanced into his stall to see that his stuff was there on his way past. Which it was. Good, he was here, he was probably fulfilling one of his two cravings, this would be a good practice.
But when he stepped out into the hall, on his way to hit the head before donning his goalie gear, he caught sight of the captain, unexpectedly exiting the physio room, walking backwards, talking to the team doctor about something. Wyatt hesitated, watching the conversation, though he couldn’t make anything out. Rozanov was doing a lot of nodding, and Terry was doing a lot of firm staring as he delivered what seemed like instructions.
The captain took a half step in Wyatt’s direction, about to turn, and the goalie quickly averted his gaze, starting back towards the bathroom again as though he hadn’t stopped to stare in his direction in the first place. A tiny, shrill alarm started to sound in the back of his brain, part warning, part muster call. And what had seemed like it would be a typical practice was shifting, a new mission appearing in his metaphorical peripheral vision. Look out for Roz.
…
The rhythmic clicking of skates down the hallway as they headed for the ice struck calm into Ilya’s chest. There was nothing quite as therapeutic to him as practice, working out, or a really easy game. Anything with a lot of exertion, predictability, and adrenaline. Practice was maybe his favourite of those, though. He’d been something of a rink rat as a kid, which was only partially his choice, his father pushing him to be the best, train the hardest, stay the longest. But what little autonomy he’d had had only been used to reinforce that message. He loved every second spent on skates.
So now, heading back for their first real practice in a while, feeling the chill blowing off the ice before he could even begin to see it, he felt every ounce of tension drop from his shoulders. The cool air also made his nose start to run a bit, not unusual, still annoying. He sniffled, frustratedly inhibiting the urge to swipe at it with his glove, as the appendage was already raw and sensitive, and the thought of the rough material against the damaged skin was…
Tilting his head back slightly seemed to keep the flow at bay, and he kept his eyes on the helmet in front of him as they walked to maintain the unnaturally high eyeline. It took no time at all for the clicks to be replaced by the swish of blades and the clattering of pucks to the ice as the players began to warm-up. Also sounds that healed something deep within him.
The barrier in front of Ilya was suddenly removed as the player ahead of him took off rapidly across the ice. He squinted at the bright white expanse, fighting the powerful itch that had sprung up in the center of his face. It usually wasn’t enough to set him off, especially during games, when his adrenaline was too high and his focus too occupied to enable the reflex. But today-
Aware of the queue behind him, the captain stepped out onto the ice, passively skating a few strides to one side to get out of the way of the next few players.
“huhHih-” His breath juddered ominously, and he felt his eyelids instinctively start to flicker shut. Resigned, he dragged his jersey up over his lower face,
“hKK! hKk! Kkh! hKSH! KSH!-”
Though he usually balanced in skates on ice just as well as he balanced in sneakers on concrete, the combination of closed eyes, involuntary jerks of his torso, and returning to the ice after a little while away combined to make him unsteady. He reached out for the boards, gloved fingers greeting the plexiglass and slipping slightly on the surface as he grounded himself, trying not to drop his stick.
“-hKSHuh! KSHuh! hhAHKShh!”
Ilya cleared his throat as he let his jersey drop back into place, pushing off and starting to skate a lap the moment his eyes were fully open again, letting his gaze drift across the rest of the team, checking for observers.
Those closest to him were looking away, absorbed or faux-absorbed in their stretches, but as he turned the first corner, he made eye contact with Hayes, paused halfway through scuffing up his crease, watching him unabashedly.
They maintained eye contact for the entire time it took Ilya to skate the length of the ice, and the second he got close enough for his expression to really be visible, he threw a challenging look at the goalie, raising his eyebrows, daring him to confront him. What little of the Canadian’s face that he could see, seemed to smirk back. Fuck him and his stupid ability to get under Ilya’s skin.
The temptation to stop and yell at him was there, but he could also feel the tickle stirred up moments ago threatening an encore performance, so he continued his lap, skidding to a halt behind the goal and surveying the rink, checking no one was approaching him, or really looking his way, and then, with a desperate, “hiHH-” he started up again.
“hKk! Kkh! Kk!-” His gloved fingers fumbled clumsily with his jersey, the threat of slipping overwhelming his concentration. “-hKSH!-” The sneeze sprayed out into open air and he realised he’d run out of time to try and get the material to his face. Ilya slapped his free hand up against the glass again, cupping the other, glove and all, over his face, stick knocking against his helmet like it was admonishing him for his ill-thought-out form. “-hKSHuh! KSHH! hAHKSHh! huAHSHH!”
He didn’t even look at his hand as he lowered it, shifting his weight to head off again, leave the scene of the crime, when-
“Bless you.”
Hayes only looked at him for a second this time, before his eyes dropped back to the ice again. That just barely took the edge off of Ilya’s anger, but the wrath that the goaltender had spared himself from, only turned right back around and smacked the captain in the face, full force. Fucking idiot, why’d you stop to lose control right behind the exact guy who’s going to call you out for it?
He didn’t reply to the blessing, picking up speed as he finished the first lap, and started a second. He’d always had some pretty heavy emotions circling expressions of vulnerability like that, mainly self-reproach and frustration because he was out of control, being disgusting, being dramatic, blah blah blah. But now, it was different. He hadn’t really been chided for those kinds of things since getting drafted, chirped sure, in Boston, but here there was none of that energy. It was more like trepidation, concern, worry. And Ilya hated that.
He broke off the lap before he got close to the goal Hayes was occupying, again, snagging an unclaimed puck and turning fast to take it back the way he’d come, eyes on the boards at the far end, watching the black circle bob back and forth in his peripheral vision. The admonishment, punishment, vitriol, he could deal with. It struck him hard, but it didn’t cut deep, feeling like he’d earned it, and like he would end up a stronger, tougher person at the end because of it. Plus no one who had just called you disgusting wanted to stick around and continue to watch you being disgusting. But pity… that was something else entirely. It was like ice cold water poured over his head, soaking through his defences, chilling him to the core. He felt like a child again, too small, too weak, too helpless, too soft. And people who pitied you wanted to keep pitying you, watching you like a car crash, too hideous to look away from.
The captain shot the puck ahead of him, along the boards, ricocheting it off the wall behind the goal when he caught up with it and spinning quickly to catch the rebound on the tip of his stick, before starting back the other way again. Disdain felt normal. Disdain felt like his father. Disdain felt like the walls going up, being reinforced by layers of concrete, steel beams, jagged edges, broken glass, harsh internal architecture that hurt whichever side of it you pushed from. Pity felt eerily familiar. Pity felt…like his mama. Pity felt like phantom fingers, reaching through his walls to drag him out into the open and expose the terrified, weak little child that still hid itself inside of him. Pity was dangerous.
…
They’d moved into starting-stopping drills, rapid back-and-forth stuff, just to start. They were rotating lines, and to stop the guys who weren’t in the midst of it from tuning out, the coach had set up a peer monitoring system, where anyone who didn’t stop within a reasonable distance of the line, had to skate three laps. It was chaos, but it was firing them up.
It was also, Ilya thought frustratedly, finishing out his third lap after a mistake that had led to at least six guys calling out his name in amused unison, fucking exhausting. He headed for the bench, retrieving a water bottle and making his way back so he was almost standing in the tunnel before starting to sky it into his mouth in short bursts, turning to watch the drill continuing as he did so.
The whistle blew and the players in the center of the ice started to make their way off as well, Dykstra coming to stand nearby the captain, panting for breath and leaning against the wall. The Russian eyed him, but determined that he wasn’t there for any untoward reason, watching as the next group lined up to start.
Two sets in, one of the younger players, who’d rather cockily been trying to beat everyone else back to the line by stopping especially fast, placed his weight wrong and fell. Ilya had just been taking another sip of water, and the sight of the kid faceplanting and then immediately scrambling to his feet, red in the face, had drawn a half-laugh out of him that had drawn the water half-way into his windpipe.
His throat was clear of the irritant in three short coughs, but he couldn’t stop, once again grabbing at his jersey and pressing it to his face to muffle the sound, although the raucous laughter at the kid’s mistake probably would have drowned him out regardless. The fit felt reflexive, his body overreacting in a frustratingly unstoppable manner. By the time he’d managed to bring it to a stop, his lungs ached, and his throat felt raw, though the whole ordeal had only lasted about 7 seconds.
With a sigh that was significantly more shaky than he would have really liked, Ilya raised his head, taking an immediate swig of water, and then looking sharply across at Dykstra, whose eyes were on the ice, but he strongly suspected had only just made their way over there. The Canadian said nothing, though, which he was appreciative of. Not as appreciative as he would have been if the other player had walked away entirely, but he’d take what he could get.
The captain blinked slightly watery eyes back at his team, watching the drill again, suddenly really wanting to get back out there, because he could feel the warmth and energy draining out of him with every second he stood still there. He sniffled, the tears of exertion, having been turned away at his lashline, apparently having decided to make their way into his nose instead. Their second exit plan would, it appeared, be the successful one, as the sniffle immediately made his nostrils flare with irritation, and he angrily reached out to grab a towel from a nearby stack, pressing it over his nose and mouth. Two fits right on top of each other he could probably brush off as coincidence, but three would be too much. The less people that witnessed this one, the better.
“hKk! KK! hKK! HKSH! hKSH! hMPHH! hhihhMPHH! hrRMPH! hihh… hRRMPHHoo!” He very nearly broke off coughing again, managing to keep it to just two, and a rough rub at his nose with the fabric before he looked up to be repaid for his troubles with,
“G’ bless you.” Dykstra was already moving back towards the ice as he spoke, which was the only thing that saved him from the conflagrating gaze that Ilya was sending him. Finally the defenseman had gotten the message about walking away… after he’d already made a fool of himself, wonderful.
…
“Hey.”
Wyatt looked up from where he was lounging on the bench, excused from the current drill for obvious reasons. Technically he was supposed to be doing his own exercise but watching and chirping the others every time they messed up was much more fun. Dykstra sat down beside him, staring out at the ice but with the air that he wasn’t really watching anything. This felt like a spy meet.
“Hi.” The goaltender replied.
“You think there might be something going on with Roz?” He asked, straight to the point, not turning towards Wyatt in the slightest.
“Yeah. Do you?”
“I just watched him cough his way into a sneezing fit and then nearly sneeze his way back into a coughing fit, so yeah.”
The blond nodded, making a grim facial expression that Dykstra didn’t bother to look over at. “I don’t think he wants anyone to know-”
“As usual.”
“Mm. But I’ve been keeping an eye on him-”
“As usual.”
“Yes. And I guess at some point we should probably try to see if he needs anything, although I don’t know how well that will go-”
“As usual.” What had him so snappish today?
Wyatt smacked him on the arm with the back of his glove. “We know him better now, we’ve got experience, it doesn’t have to be a trainwreck.”
“Alright.” The defenseman turned to look at him, finally, as he stood up to climb over the boards, “If you think it will help him, consider me in, but if it all goes to shit again, consider yourself warned.”
“Fine.” He watched the groups switch out, eyeing Rozanov as he stepped back onto the ice, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment, face twitching for a brief moment with a sniff that Wyatt imagined he could hear even though he definitely couldn’t, the sound so characteristic of their captain that he probably could have picked it out of a line-up despite not having been teammates for all that long.
The Russian glanced in his direction, and he was quick to shift his gaze to the shaft of his stick, faux scrutinising it just to look preoccupied. This whole thing made him kind of nervous, but third time was the charm, right? Things weren’t looking overly good so far, he’d tried to send the captain a casual smile earlier, but had been meet only with vitriol. And then he’d sort of known the blessing was a mistake, but it’d been just the two of them up that end and he was right there, so he’d obviously heard, and it would have been weird not to have said anything, right?
He ran through the last few tough times with Roz in his head, noting their mistakes, the revelations that followed, searching for anything that would guide how he should approach the issue this time. No pills, that was the main thing. He didn’t even know what the dude’s symptoms were, other than sneezing, which he did reasonably frequently anyway- Wyatt often found himself following the captain out of the arena after practice and had noted the effect that the change of setting seemed to have on him, for whatever reason- and coughing, and a mean attitude that didn’t seem all that removed from his typical personality. So he’d have to try and get him to communicate. The goaltender sighed, more resolve than frustration, but not blind to the futility of the operation. The operative word being ‘try’.
…
The drill they were working on was a new one for the Centaurs, but it was similar to something Ilya remembered working well in Boston. They were training line cohesion, awareness, precision- passing back and forth in place with their eyes shut. He was paired with Dillon to start, though he knew the exercise would probably go slightly easier with Boodram. There was more of a connection there. If he had to pick between the two wingers, Bood and he were just a little more in sync, usually.
He’d been getting into a good rhythm with the right winger, though, and they were starting to build confidence. It was definitely a useful skill to have on the ice, Ilya thought as the puck hit his stick with a ‘CLICK’ and left it again with a forceful push in his linemate’s direction.
He did not hear the satisfying ‘clack’ of it meeting Dillon’s stick, though and when he opened his eyes, frustrated, he saw the winger chasing the puck down the boards. Ah, forget it, they were so fucking out of sync.
There was barely a second for him to even think that, before a violent, unignorable tickle started to grow, responding to the sudden, rudely unprecedented, influx of light, thrashing between the very back of his nose and between his eyes, snagging his upper lip, face twisting and twitching in helpless itchiness as his breathing faltered.
“hHh-” He swallowed, gritted his teeth, snorted out a half-breath through his nostrils like a compromise, the function of a sneeze without all of the drama. Shut up. Stupid fucking reflex. Stupid fucking sensitive nose and stupid burning, aching lungs, and stupid oxygen-
“My bad. You ready?” Dillon had returned.
Without thinking, Ilya nodded, grateful for the excuse to clench his eyes shut, trying to focus on their positions, and the sound of the puck moving across the ice, to meet- CLICK- his stick, perfect. He sent it back- clack-
Lungs at capacity, he let out a shaky breath, the sensation of it leaving his chapped lips somehow stirring the tickle back up. Seriously? How was his mouth even relevant to an itch in his nose caused by a light in his eyes? Said eyes flew open as the blond panicked, trying to control the situation, catching a glimpse of black skidding towards him, shifting his grip on his stick-CLICK-
“hHuAHKK!-” Apparently he could only focus on so many things at once, and, given an inch of opportunity to sneeze, his nose had taken a mile, “-hKK! KKh!-” and didn’t seem intent on stopping. Accidentally getting his wires crossed between the drill and his instincts, Ilya timed his next sneeze with a haphazard swipe at the puck still in front of him, “-hKSHH!-”, hearing it thwack off the boards as he finally thought to drag his jersey over his face, “hKSH! KSHhUh! hhRSHHH! RSHHUh!”
“Bless.” Dillon had retrieved the puck, apparently, moving it absently from side to side in front of him, and had also closed the distance between them, eyes fixed on the captain, warily.
Before Ilya could tell him to move back to his spot so they could keep going, the coach’s voice rang out across the rink, “Rozanov! C’mere a second.” Fucking wonderful.
…
Hayes watched with interest from the goal, where he was fielding backhand shots from Boodram, as Rozanov skated off towards the bench. Bood paused, slightly insulted, as Wyatt let two shots pass by uninterrupted, and glanced over his shoulder at the scene that had drawn the goaltender’s attention.
“What’s going on?”
Wyatt snapped back to the exercise, not wanting to create additional focus on a situation that the captain probably already felt was too public, retrieving the two pucks from behind him, and passing them back towards the winger as he answered, “Something’s up with Roz. Guess Coach has picked up on it.”
They both watched as the two conversed, the captain removing his gloves and knuckling at his nose as he spoke. Their coach looked concerned, but not completely worried, Rozanov’s words apparently placating him somewhat. He started to reply, but the Russian cut him off, pulling his shirt over his face, the fit still faintly audible from the other end of the rink-
“…-ksh! -ksh! -kshUh! -ahksh! -aehshh!”
Wyatt winced slightly. Oof, God bless him, that looked rough- the last few had bent him double.
“He sick?” Bood asked, lining up and taking another shot, which the goaltender caught easily, both of them preoccupied with their own thoughts.
“Yeah, think so.” He tossed the puck back.
“Jesus, he just never stops, does he?”
“Showing up to practice, or sneezing?” The blond dropped to his knees, blocking the shot that Bood had apparently been trying to distract him from noticing he was lining up. “Either way, no.”
To Wyatt’s surprise, Rozanov skated back out to his spot opposite Dillon moments later, rather than taking a seat on the bench, or heading down the tunnel, as he’d expected after the conversation. How the hell had he talked his way out of that? It was one thing to push through for a game, but for practice when they had games coming up soon? That wasn’t just tenacity, it was actual stupidity.
“You gonna try and help him?”
“Always.” Always up for a long shot, that was.
Bood nodded, clearly equally as unoptimistic as Dykstra, but less keen to voice that opinion. “Alright, well, if you-” He launched the puck into the top corner of the goal, beating Wyatt’s lunge to redirect it by barely a second, “-ha! If you need anything…”
What he needed was an actual miracle, probably. “Thanks, man.”
…
Ilya was about halfway to the locker room, having been the last off the ice, drinking in the final dregs of adrenaline as the post-exertion exhaustion started to kick in, when he met Dykstra coming back the other way.
The defenseman didn’t look him in the eyes at all, but moved close enough to him in the not-really-all-that-narrow corridor to slip something into his hand. The captain paused, watching him walk away with about as much purpose as a remote control car being piloted by a three year old with no concept of U-turns. What the fuck was that? No, literally, what the fuck had he given him? Also where was was he going?
He opened his hand to be confronted by a familiar looking tube of lozenges. He was pretty sure Dykstra always carried them, being known for destroying his throat yelling, and for some impressively awful coughing fits when he came down sick. And now here they were in his hand. Was this some kind of weird chirp that he hadn’t stuck around to deliver the punchline for? Because if it had anything to do with the captain’s health, the line would definitely be followed by a punch.
Ilya glanced over his shoulder again, the defenseman already around the corner and out of sight. Fuck, why were these guys so complicated? Everything with Boston was exactly as one-dimensional as it seemed, no one gives a fuck about your private life, get on with the games, get drunk, get girls. or at least pretend to. But here, things were all open and friendly and attentive and fucking terrifying. He felt like he wasn’t keeping up, and there wasn’t even anything to really keep up with. People got on with their lives and left him to his own devices, and they trained and they played and they talked, and it still felt like nothing he was doing was enough. Because he had no idea what they expected of him.
Mind whirring angrily, he continued on his way to change, rolling the cylinder back and forth in his palm. More focused on his surroundings now, vigilance awakened, he saw the next figure approaching from further away, tracking them as they headed towards him. He kept his face stoic, but his stomach roiled with anxiety. What if this was the whole team banding together to tell him to shut up and get out or something? That felt more warranted after a game than practice, but still, maybe it had been brewing over the off-season. He hadn’t exactly been particularly present with the team in that time. Maybe they wanted a captain who was more-
“Hey.” It was Hayes, slightly out of breath, stripped to just his compression gear and shorts, footsteps silent in socked feet against the smooth flooring.
Ilya only nodded in response, guard up against whatever this was about to be. If it was some kind of joke, he had no doubt that the goalie would have taken great pleasure in volunteering to deliver the payoff.
“Just uh- good practice.” He smiled easily, though the words were awkward, like he’d only started thinking of what to say once he’d already called out for the captain’s attention.
“Yes.” If you give him nothing, he’ll probably go away. Ilya ignored the bitter regretful feeling that the assertion stirred in his chest. Everyone went away. Because he never gave anyone anything.
“So, I wanted to ask-”
The captain shifted his stance, trying to find a comfortable way to stand that didn’t make him feel like he was about to fall over. God, he was so fucking tired.
At the same time, he ran a finger under his nose, only for his knuckle to collide with his septum, exhaustion and multitasking making his spatial awareness dip, creating a buzzing sensation that he didn’t even try to fight- Hayes had probably already seen it happen three or four times that day so what was another one on top of that?- taking a half step backwards so he could turn away towards the floor.
“hKK! KKh! hKk! hKSH! hKSHH!-” His hands immediately fell into position, bracing against his knees to keep his upper body at least somewhat upright, the stick still clutched in his off hand clattering against the wall behind him. “-hKSH! hihKXSH!-” Unexpectedly forceful, the latest sneeze spritzed significantly more than just miniscule droplets in the direction of the floor. Ilya dragged his jersey up again hurriedly, belatedly noticing it was still damp from the last time he’d done that, “hKXSHH! haHKSHH! huAHSCHHUh!
When he raised his head again, the goaltender’s gaze was averted, as though he couldn’t even bear to look at him. Fuck, he was such a mess he’d even managed to disgust pretty much the most unbothered guy he knew.
…
“God bless.” Wyatt looked away slightly as he spoke, wondering if it was the staring that was the problem, waiting for the captain to take the pack of tissues before glancing back at him, neutral. He looked exhausted, though, like the practice had really drained him, shoulders slumped, blinking slowly as though he were half asleep. And the sweat beaded on his brow made the goaltender start to worry about a fever, and how on earth he’d get the other player to let him check for one.
“Thanks.” Rozanov said, carefully, pulling one out and scrubbing angrily at his lower face with it.
“You need anything else?” He nodded towards the tissues, and the lozenges Dykstra had left the locker room with, both now clutched defensively in one of the Russian’s hands.
He frowned in response, glancing between said hand and the goalie before a look of exasperated realisation took over his face. “I am not fucking sick.” Oh. Really? That sort of put a hole in his plan.
“Uh, right. So, this is…?” What, allergies or something? He’d seemed a lot worse last time Wyatt had seen him allergic to something, and there weren’t exactly a whole lot of prevalent triggers in the area.
“Is just lights and air and stupid shit.” He gestured around wildly, throwing blaming hands at the environment surrounding them.
“That doesn’t normally bother you this much.” He knew he was pushing it, but if this was already a failed attempt, he was absolutely going to use it to gather more information. He was nothing if not determined, and once he’d set his sights on a goal, he wasn’t going to drop it.
Rozanov looked slightly thrown by the assertion, and his response was quieter, almost unresistant, “I know,” He thumbed at his nose, “Is still- nevermind.”
Wyatt saw the walls starting to go back up, and unknowingly made his biggest mistake so far in an attempt to keep them down. He made a sympathetic face, and a stupid guess. “You just getting over something, then?”
The responding expression on the Russian’s face was initially shock, and then recognition, and then pure, unadulterated rage. “Why the fuck you care? I am not sick now. You think I am weak or something? Like you are better than me because you are never sick? You are. I have seen you-” He paused, seemingly coming to the realisation that this line of defense was thin and sounded petty.
“Roz-” Wyatt took the chance to interrupt. “-I’m not heckling you here, bud. I just want to help.”
“I do not need help.” His face flickered from scorn to regret for a moment. “I am supposed to help you, no? But I don’t, so you think we do this other way round. That is not how this works.”
“I kind of think it is.” The goalie proposed, hesitantly. “Yeah, you’re the captain, but we’re a team, right? We’re equals, we help each other.”
“But captain is not supposed to need help.” Rozanov insisted, body tensing as though he was trying to physically put himself behind the points he was making to bolster them. “That is why they get position.”
‘Who told you that?’ was how he wanted to answer, but instead he simply shook his head. “None of us need you to be perfect, Roz. You’re human and that’s fine. We check in with you because you’re one of us, and we want to make sure you’re comfortable. It-”
The captain interrupted him, ducking to one side to cough, and when he looked back, the anger seemed to roar back into full fledged fury again, Wyatt suddenly aware of the concerned expression he’d unintentionally donned, because Rozanov’s gaze was roving all over it in enraged disbelief. Damn, he needed to learn how to control his face.
“See? Is not equal.” He surged forwards, getting up in the goaltender’s face, finger extended accusatorially, “You make face, you fucking pity me. You look down on me. You try help me, and I don’t fucking need it. Not equal.”
The Canadian flushed, swallowing the angry words that threatened to burst out of him in response, ‘Maybe that wouldn’t happen if you fucking communicated with us, idiot.’ Fighting to keep his face neutral, he took a breath before responding, “I’m not looking down on you, I’m looking out for you. You can’t keep this macho shit up, it’s not sustainable, you’ve gotta let someone in.”
The captain wasn’t really that scary close up, not when you kind of knew him. His rage was overwhelming, all-consuming, but if you really looked at it, stared into the heart of the fire, he was just a kid having a tantrum because he didn’t feel like an adult. He didn’t want to be respected, or feared, or whatever bullshit he was saying, he clearly just wanted to be treated like his problems didn’t make him any less of a person, handled at arm’s length until he knew he could trust them. So Wyatt would do just that, and then Rozanov would trust him. Right?
The latter wasn’t responding, just staring at him blankly, though Wyatt could see the thoughts flitting around behind his eyes. And then he shrugged, sidestepped him, and continued down the corridor towards the locker room. It was like he’d flicked a switch in his mind, remembered some other place he had to be, some more important thing in his life than standing here yelling at his teammate, and calmly headed off to seek it out. Maybe he had let someone in, then, and he was off to go confide in them. It was kind of all Wyatt could hope for, that even if he couldn’t successfully be of assistance to the captain, that at least someone could.
…
“-so yeah, he wasn’t exactly grateful for the help, but hey, at least he’s not actually sick.” Wyatt concluded his debrief of the other team members who’d also noted and voiced their concerns about the captain’s less than stellar-seeming health.
“I really thought he was.” Bood mused.
“We know him better now.” Dykstra parroted what Hayes had said earlier, slightly mocking.
The goaltender rolled his eyes, “Alright, so it was a false alarm.”
“And now we look like we’re waiting for it.”
“We kind of are waiting for it, D.” Boodram nudged him. “Why’re you so cranky?”
Dykstra shrugged, not looking at him.
“He’s definitely gonna be pissed if we look like we’re hovering.” Wyatt continued, “I really don’t think he likes the coddling shit, he said something along those lines.”
“So, what, we’re just gonna yell at him next time?” Dillon asked with a smirk, “FEEL BETTER SOON CAP!”
Bood snorted, “Yeah, PUNCH THAT ILLNESS IN THE FACE, ROZ!”
They unconsciously all turned to look at Dykstra, expecting him to have an even louder rallying cry for the captain’s next hypothetical battle locked and loaded. Instead,
“hyYESCHH! hHh… huUESCHHh!”
“Bless you and bless you.”
Wyatt, not having been particularly invested in the yelling encouragement bit, still trying to puzzle out the pity issue in his head, frowned at the defenseman, still barely visible behind a bandana he’d whipped out of nowhere. “God bless, buddy. You alright?”
“You order one of whatever the captain’s just had?” Dillon tacked on, unhelpfully.
“I’m good, I’m good.” Dykstra waved them off, and then hesitated, “And if I’m not, I’ll be a hell of a lot better patient than him.”
Three Times the Centaurs Tried to Care for Their Captain, and the First Time they Succeeded
Two: Missed Approach Point
part one, part three
hiii, I come bearing part two, in a setting that isn't an arena or s/hane's place (shocking, I know). this is me getting slightly braver and adding more centaurs to the mix, although we still don't have t/roy or l/uca yet. all in good time ;)
I hope you enjoy! ♡
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 7k
cw: sneezing, mess, snz kink implications
As he approached the front door of Boodram’s place, Ilya fought to keep his mind on his surroundings, forcing himself to take in the décor, the late afternoon sunlight glancing off the windows, anything to stop himself thinking of an excuse to turn sharply on his heel and get back in his car.
With a tense sigh, the blond slid his sunglasses off, tucking them over the collar of his top, the sun-warmed plastic digging into his chest slightly. He didn’t flinch from the discomfort, hardly noticing it over the battle going on in his mind, reaching out to rap softly on the door with the back of his hand. It swung inwards at the contact, no surprise to the captain, who knew he was to head straight through. Despite how he may behave on the ice, he hadn’t been raised just to push his way into places. He still had some concept of respect.
His footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor as he crossed the house, heading for the backyard. He could hear voices, laughter, music. It stirred something in his chest, like trepidation, and then guilt over the feeling. This is supposed to be fun, Ilya, remember fun? You know how to relax, you know how to have a good time, what the hell is the problem?
The problem, as he’d figured out in the car, was that Ottawa’s idea of a good time was pretty starkly different to Boston’s. Not that he’d really want to be out at a club at some obscene hour with a random woman’s tongue down his throat, but he could do that sort of thing without even thinking. Simple, mindless partying where no one wanted to talk to him, no one even could talk to him over the blasting music. That was socialising, unwinding, camaraderie, distilled. This was-
He stepped out into the yard, making eye contact with his host immediately, the winger shirtless with an apron on, all muscles and tattoos, and a wide grin.
“Cap! Glad you could make it, man.”
Ilya nodded agreeably, raising the case of beer he had in his other hand, some Belgian stuff that Kohn had hounded him into trying a good few years ago which had ended up being some of the best he’d ever drunk. “I bring beer.”
“Nice one,” Bood made his way over, taking the drinks and clapping the blond on the back, “Grab a seat wherever, I’ll be firing up the grill in a bit.”
He nodded again, raising a hand in greeting to the few other team members already there, and finding a plastic lawn chair that appeared to be in a good patch of shade, and a little ways away from everything else, and sitting down.
It took under five minutes for him to retreat to the safety of his phone screen, already feeling slightly distanced by the few references that had set the rest of the group laughing uproariously, but had seemed to pass him by, and wanting to check in with Shane.
YOU: He has nice house.
Extremely important information, which he’d absolutely had to convey to his boyfriend right that minute. Ilya sighed softly, hunger stirring in his stomach, boredom stirring in his soul. He glanced up and around the group again, gaze alighting on Hayes, sitting next to his wife and smiling at her affectionately, as Lisa made some quiet comment to him, behind her hand, the two of them breaking off laughing afterwards. Jealousy clenched Ilya’s jaw, and he turned his eyes back to his phone, seeing Shane had replied. He wouldn’t have had to wait so long for him to reply if he was actually fucking here with him. They could have stupid whisper conversations too, then.
JANE: Oh you’re there? Did they like the drinks?
JANE: What’s nice about it?
JANE: The house, not the beer.
The anxiety drained from the blond as he read the messages, replaced by the comforting reassurance that Shane was there, on the other end of the phone, knew where he was, and was interested enough to receive some probably over-regular updates from him about it.
YOU: They like beer I think. No one is drinking or eating yet. Just talking.
YOU: Is big new house, you would like.
“Yo, Roz.”
Ilya looked up. Dykstra was standing by the cooler, holding one of the beers.
“Where’d you get these?”
He shrugged, “Import from Belgium.”
“They good?”
His expression apparently conveyed his disbelief at the question, because LaPointe started to laugh. “Yes, is good. Why would I bring bad beer?”
“Ya never know.” The defenseman responded, faux-wisely, walking back to his seat with his drink.
He tracked him with his eyes, expression unchanging, to the younger player’s continued amusement, until his phone vibrated in his hand, earning his returned attention.
JANE: Are you talking too or just texting me?
JANE: Very descriptive, thanks (¬_¬)
…
Boodram had fired up the grill 20 minutes ago, and Ilya had resorted to replacing his sunglasses in the last five, approachable body language be damned. The smoke seemed to be blowing directly in his direction, and he could only get away with blinking every ten seconds for so long before someone would have asked if he was alright. So mysterious asshole mode it was.
Behind the tinted lenses, the captain squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, bringing the cool can of cola he’d been nursing, to his lips and relaxing as the liquid soothed the prickling in his throat. Although he would have killed for one of the beers he’d brought, the alcohol content was just slightly too high to risk it, since he had to drive himself back and he had no idea when that would be, so he was sticking to soda. Plus, he wasn’t sure how the alcohol would interact with the two separate kinds of antihistamines he was currently on.
Though the patches Shane had found for him had been a godsend, he still experienced breakthrough symptoms, particularly during long exposures, so he’d taken it upon himself to pick up some actual meds- some kind of kids’ syrup- for allergy symptoms, and take a dose of that as well. They were both the non-drowsy kind, so that didn’t seem to be an issue, and so far they’d been completely effective. Against his allergies. The smoke was a different story.
He wasn’t really allergic to smoke- that would have made his cigarette habit hard to keep up- but the stuff made everyone’s eyes burn and lungs ache. It just happened to also set his nose off. Like so fucking many things did.
The blond sniffled softly, the sharp stinging sensation in the back of his nose that had sprung up in response to the constant influx of smoke being dragged in with every inhale, spiking in warning. He scrubbed at the offending appendage irritably, glancing at his phone, which rested on his lap, void of new notifications.
Shane had stopped responding a few minutes ago, called away by something else. Something that was actually there, in front of him, to entertain him and draw his attention. Ilya took another sip of cola, stared at the distant trees along the horizon, vowed not to be jealous of what was probably just a bird that the Canadian had glimpsed out of the window and gotten caught up in trying to identify. You are better than a bird. You are smarter than a bird. You have more friends than a bird. Did he have more friends than a bird? You have more important things to do than compare yourself to a bird.
More important things like dealing with the sudden trickling sensation in his nose that let him know that he had about three seconds to find something to press under there, or it would start dripping down his face. Fuck. He was way too far from the stack of napkins sitting on the table beside the grill to casually snag one, he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and there were no towels or items of discarded laundry in the immediate vicinity. Ilya sniffled, stalling the inevitable, while he thought of a solution.
“-and then he fucking lost them!” The captain tuned in to the story Dykstra was telling right at the punchline, as everyone burst into laughter, and Young, apparently the subject of the tale, attempted to frantically defend himself. That made for a good enough cover.
Ilya ducked smoothly, dragging the collar of his shirt up over his mouth, and pressing the edge to the base of his nose, letting the fabric soak up the moisture there as he tilted his head away, making it look as if he were laughing. Really if any of the players actually knew him, it would have been a weak performance, since he didn’t make a habit of laughing at shitty stories when he was sober, nor hiding said laughter. But they didn’t fucking know him, did they?
He’d essentially finished the clean-up job, halfway through looking up to check he hadn’t been sussed out, when Young’s attention turned in his direction.
“I don’t know why you’re fucking laughing, Cap. Didn’t Boodram lend you his keys to the equipment room like a month ago?”
A sharp glare from Ilya silenced him, but his linemate had already begun to turn around from the grill, eyebrows raising, “Actually, yeah-”
“They are in my fucking car. I did not lose them.”
“Lost the first set, though.” Hayes pointed out perceptively, gesturing with his drink.
“That is not your business. My keys, I do what I want with them.” What he wanted, apparently was to mix them up with Shane’s keys, and then lose them forever when the Canadian’s panic over being called out for having the wrong set had resulted in a very stupid excuse that had led Pike- fucking stupid Pike- to helpfully put them in the Metro arena’s lost and found, where neither of them could ever claim them.
“Do you really have them in your car?” Bood had turned back to the grill, but the doubt in his voice was unmistakable.
“Yes, I fucking-” He’d sat back, preparing to take a swig of soda, the velar sound at the end of the curse word hitting at the exact angle to reverberate right through the congestion in his sinuses. There was absolutely no way his irritated, congestion-laden nasal passages were going to let him get away with sparking a vibrating, buzzing, bordering-on-tickly sensation like that without sneezing. “-I will prove to you.”
He placed the can by the leg of his chair and stood, to the sound of various passive ‘ooh’s, a snort from Dykstra, and a slow clap from Hayes.
“Odds that he actually has them, anyone?” Young asked as the captain headed back towards the house.
“Odds that he just gets in his car and drives home?” Was the first response. Now that was tempting.
The comment earned a smattering of laughter, though, and the thought of them seeing his swift departure as the result of an overconfident assertion rather than some mysterious captaincy-related responsibilities, was extremely off-putting. He’d be back, with the keys and with his nose under control.
…
From his cool, unruffled exit from the yard, to the walk through the house again, Ilya kept his pace slow and measured. Once he reached the front hall, though, all bets were off. He snagged two tissues from the box on the table by the door, suppressing the instinctive feeling of transgression- they aren’t going to fucking notice, dickhead, and if they do, they won’t know it was you- jabbing at the button on his keys in his pocket, and taking the short distance to his car at a jog, diving into the passenger seat without really thinking about it.
He pressed the stolen tissues to his nose and blew hard, spluttering afterwards at the mess dripping over his upper lip, scrubbing at his face violently to clean himself up and subdue the itching sensation. Chest heaving as he tried to take in the clean air, fight the urge to cough out all the lingering smoke particles, and furnish his lungs with enough airpower to fuel the sneezing fit he could feel approaching, he shoved the used tissues into the center console, and braced his hands on his thighs, eyes squeezing shut.
With a snort and a sniffle, he was reaching out to open the glove compartment, seeking one of Shane’s many tissue/napkin stashes, and the promised keys that he knew were in there. Before he could even begin to look, though, his breath caught again.
“hHh… yeshcho?” The blond questioned himself, exasperated, moving back into brace position as he geared up for- “hKk! hKk! Kkh! hKK-KSh! KSH! KSH! hKSH! … haHHKSH! hah…hAHSHHOo!”
Ilya blinked itchily, sunglasses now sitting under his chin, thrown from their perch on his nose by the fit. The upholstery between his spread legs was… wet, more than spritzed by tiny spray droplets, dotted with visible drips from his mouth and nose. His lip curled slightly in distaste.
Temporarily freed from the burdensome itch, he leaned forwards to start to search through the glove compartment, ignoring the tingling sensation on the backs of his hands, the ghost of the spray they’d been doused with moments before. He found the napkin stack first, neatly tucked away to one side. Thank God for his slightly obsessive boyfriend.
He pulled two from the stack, leaning back in his seat to blow forcefully, abs tensing from the exertion as he cleared himself out. That led to a rough, gravelly coughing fit, concluding with a very pitiful noise which resonated in his cupped hands, still pressing the napkins to his face. Ilya regained his self-control, and his manliness, with a few muttered curse words, finally locating Bood’s keys and swiping them from the mayhem he’d stirred up in his search for tissues, pocketing them, discarding the napkins, and stepping back out of the car. Okay, back into the-
The smell of smoke drifting from behind the house hit him immediately, followed by a brief hint of recently cut grass, wildflowers, and- he was reaching for the passenger side door handle again before he could really register it.
“hKk! HkK!-” Hand over his nose and mouth until he could get all the way in and get the door fully shut, Ilya tried not to suffocate, kneeing at the glove compartment until it opened and grabbing two more tissues to slap to his face. “-hKSH! hKSH! hMPH! hihMPHh!-” He reeled backwards as his breath caught in a series of progressively deeper hitches, “hihhIhHUH-” The feathery, slow-spreading tickle didn’t feel like just irritation anymore. “hKSH-kSH-KSHuH! hiHKSHH! hihAESHHOo!” It felt like an allergic reaction. Like his immune system had overpowered the- admittedly pretty pitiful- medication he’d sent in to subdue it, and was now seeking revenge on whoever had tried to suppress it’s wrath. Like he was totally fucking fucked.
…
Ilya had checked his face for any signs of his internal battle in the wing mirror of his car, the mirror in the Boodrams’ house’s hallway, and his reflection in the glass door out into the backyard. Satisfied that behind his replaced sunglasses, his bloodshot eyes weren’t visible, and that his nose seemed the regular amount of pink given the sun exposure and his constant abuse of the appendage, he returned to the rest of the group, keys held high in triumph.
“See. What I fucking tell you?” He tossed the keys to Bood, who caught them with an appreciative nod, dropping them into his pocket. Then, accompanied by the repeated slow claps from Hayes-dude seemed to only have one joke when he was at this ratio of beers to any kind of food- , various rekindling conversations, the sizzling of the grill, and laughter as some money changed hands- apparently they’d actually gone through with the betting talk- he returned to his seat.
The group’s focus moved on. Ilya toyed with the idea of letting Shane know that he was starting to have an actual reaction to the various allergens, the smoke apparently having given his body the excuse it needed to disregard the allergy medication and start a reaction anyway. But he didn’t want to worry his boyfriend unnecessarily, he reasoned with himself as he took the plate Cassie was holding out to him, all his attention immediately on the delicious-looking burger in front of him, he was fine, he could ride this thing out.
And ride it out he did. For all of fifteen minutes, breathing awkwardly through his mouth between bites of food and gulps of drink, feeling like a child who had not yet been taught table manners. Not that anyone noticed, all the attention now on the food, and plying Bood with complements in order to inspire the player towards the idea of cooking second and possibly third or fourth portions. The food was fucking incredible.
A lull had tentatively fallen, the team full and happy, a few smaller conversations taking place while Dykstra fucked around with Bood’s phone and the Bluetooth speaker, to everyone else’s chagrin. Ilya rubbed at his nose, the itch now feeling constant and all over, hyper-aware of the feeling that the slightest misstep would spark a sneeze. He wondered when he would be able to leave, and whether he would still be able to drive by then.
The misstep- which was inevitable really, his nose was nothing if not fault-finding and over-particular at the best of times- came in the form of a wry glance in the direction of the horizon, over the top of his sunglasses. The blond cursed himself for his brief moment of whimsy, wishing to admire the colors of the setting sun without the tinted barrier, when he should have been focused on placating his immune system. The light barely caught his eye, but it was more than enough to push him over the edge.
“hKk! Kk!-” Panic flooded him as he tried to regain control. Cover your fucking face. Breathe. He went for the back of his hand as a shield, knuckles pressed against his mouth and nose, and face half-turned away, towards his shoulder. “-hKSH! KSHuH! hHKSH!-” Just get it over with, finish up already, almost done. The words in his head were somewhere between the kind of placations Shane would have whispered to him and the indifferent admonishments of significantly less patient people who’d borne witness to his fits over the years. “-hihKSHh! KSH-SHh!-”
“Yo, Cap, you breathing over there?” He couldn’t place the voice, barely audible to him over the sound of his own hitching breaths and the music changing again as Dykstra remained absorbed in the endless music content available to him, and the captive audience. But he definitely could place the sound that came right after the question, a plastic cup bonking against someone’s head, likely thrown, from the sound of the impact. Ilya had no time to process either the question or the response, because he was still-
“-hiHSHH! kSHH! Ksh!” -sneezing? The fit trailed off into nothing in a way that it didn’t usually, but that Ilya was extremely grateful for, taking a moment to steel himself before raising his eyes to meet the several invested gazes trained on him. Definitely less than if he’d had his usual grand finale of a finish. Hayes certainly looked more alert now, though, eyes trained directly on the captain, unblinking. Fuck. Why was he always paying attention at the worst moments?
“Bless you ten-ish times.” Bood offered, amused. A glance at Dillon told Ilya the winger had apparently been counting on his fingers to aid his linemate’s stupid habit, both palms spread wide in front of him, like he’d only just noticed he had hands. Dickheads, both of them.
“Thanks.”
Most people who’d looked up when solo cups had started flying seemed to return to their drinks, phones, or conversations, Ilya pretending to do the same, rubbing at the side of his nose with his finger as he squinted at his phone screen.
YOU: going to fucking die
He regretted the text as soon as he’d sent it, knowing it would freak Shane out. Sure enough, ten short seconds later, his phone started to buzz with an incoming call. Ilya stood, unceremoniously walking back towards the house, seeing Hayes track his movements with his head in his peripheral vision and ignoring him. Everything was fine. No one thought anything was wrong. No one knew him well enough to know something was wrong.
…
“Is something wrong with Ilya?” Lisa elbowed Wyatt as they watched the captain stalk off into the house. The goaltender immediately turned to smile at her, ever enamoured by her perceptiveness and apparent mind-reading ability. Because that was exactly what he’d been thinking.
“Nah.” Boodram responded, leaning across to cut in before he could respond. “He always does that. It’s a lot, but he’ll be fine.”
Wyatt shook his head. “No, I was thinking he seemed off too. Besides the sneezing, I mean.”
“Oh.” Bood squinted in the direction the Russian had stalked off in. “Yeah, maybe?”
“Like, where did he go?” Lisa continued, with a sip of her drink, and the air of a 1940s private investigator.
“Bathroom, I guess.”
“Right, but-” She turned to look at their host, head tilted in that discerning way that made her husband’s heart rate climb even when it wasn’t directed at him, waiting for the revelation. “-how does he know where it is? Has he been here before?”
“Uh, no.”
“So, why would he leave to go somewhere he didn’t know how to get to, without telling anyone?”
“He… wouldn’t?”
“Right, unless something was wrong.”
“Or unless he wasn’t going there at all?” Bood countered. “Maybe I was wrong about the bathroom.”
“Right, maybe he’s going to his car, to leave, because something’s wrong.”
Bood’s eyes widened. “Oh shit.”
Wyatt fought not to openly grin. Bam. Theory, evidence, analysis. Perfectly argued. God, he loved this woman.
…
The first ten seconds of the call were rustling, and indecipherable muttering, and quickened footsteps echoing on wooden flooring.
“Hello?” Shane tried, finally, more concerned for his boyfriend’s wellbeing than he was that someone had taken his phone and was about to discover that his secret girlfriend was really a secret boyfriend.
“HRRRSHHH!” The brunet jumped slightly. “Oh my f-hUH…” The footsteps paused. “hAHKSHHyOo!” Okay, so he was definitely alone.
“Fucking hell- are you okay?”
No response, only more rustling and footsteps. Then-
“Nakonets-to. Yebat.”
And a door slammed, and a lock clicked shut.
“Ilya?”
“I could not find fucking bathroom.” His voice cracked slightly and the brunet felt his heartbeat, which had slowed down a bit at the sound of his boyfriend’s voice, speed up again at the thought that he might be crying.
“What happened? Are you okay?” With bitter regret, he forced himself to cut himself off before uttering the instinctive next sentence, ‘Do you need me to come and get you?’, because it didn’t matter if he needed it or not, he couldn’t have it.
Ilya moaned distantly, sounding like he had his shirt pulled over his face, “I am so fucking-” He dragged in a ragged breath and started to cough, the sound echoing cacophonously through the phone, productive and fitful, slowing before inevitably picking up again. Shane absently shoved the knuckle of his first finger into his mouth, biting down to distract himself from the vicarious ache in his chest. Please be okay. Please just say you’re okay.
The first word that he uttered in the wake of the fit didn’t register in any recognisable language to his fretful boyfriend, waiting patiently on the other end of the line, just a jumble of consonants and breathy little gaps that might once have been vowels. It sounded like a combination of several swear words in several languages to Shane- you pick up a lot when you play with and against people from so many different countries- and didn’t even begin to cover the coughing fit itself, which warranted an essay’s worth of expletives, if the Canadian was any judge.
“You’re okay.” He whispered in response, no idea yet if he was lying or not. “What happened?”
“Smoke and plants and-” The blond cut himself off with a rough sniffle that turned into a loud hitching breath, the itchiness even audible through the phone, Shane picturing his boyfriend’s eyes squeezed tightly shut and his mouth hanging open as he listened to him dragging tissues from a box.
“hKK! hkK! HkK! hihhKSH! KSH! kSh-KSH! huhhKSH!-” More tissues being grabbed, desperate, uncoordinated, a slight bump as the box itself apparently fell over. “-kKSHHh! huAHSHH! AHSCHOo! hrRSHH! hRRSHH!-” Some garbled curse word that he couldn’t quite make out. “-hrRSHHOo!”
“God bless you.” He inadvertently echoed the Russian’s typical response to him, mind having drifted to other times that this feeling had stirred in his stomach, similar displays from Ilya and less intense incidents with himself, his boyfriend’s constant, arresting, attention and care-
“Wow, Ilya. Bless you. Fuck, you’re really allergic, huh?” He was unsure whether he should focus on the concern that threatened to overwhelm him, for moral reasons, or whether the…other feeling that sat, immense and illicit, in his chest, would allow him to discard some of the blinding anxiety in favour of crude curiosity.
“Shut up.” Apparently his reverence had come off more as mockery. “Everythi-ihh-ing is itchy. How is worse with meds than with no meds?”
“I’m sure it’s not, you’ve been taking them for a while now, so maybe you’ve just forgotten how bad a full blown reaction can be.” Shane reasoned. “The smoke can’t be helping either. Maybe wash your face? You’re in a bathroom, right?”
“Yeah, okay.” He heard the click of the phone being set down on the countertop, moving fabric, and then rushing water, with intermittent splashing sounds as the blond tried to clean his face of irritants. After a minute, the splashing stopped, and Shane cringed as he heard the strained, extremely productive sound of his boyfriend blowing his nose. The noise echoed in the space, unencumbered by any kind of fabric barrier. He was just using his hands. Gross. Reasonable, given how desperately itchy he sounded, and with his hands and face soaking wet, but still kind of gross.
The faucet turned off, and for a few seconds there was just the quiet dripping of water from his face into the sink, and regular, panting breaths, the blond apparently focusing intently on something. Shane smiled slightly, despite the situation, the sound adorably familiar.
“What are you doing?” He asked, innocently, hearing himself reflected back tinnily, Ilya apparently having put him on speakerphone.
Another open-mouth, distracted breath. And then, “Hurts when I touch it.”
The Canadian’s endeared smile dropped to a frown of disappointed frustration, immediately. “What does?”
“My skin.”
He’d barely answered before Shane reprimanded him. “Then why are you touching it, Ilya? Leave it alone.” He processed the answer he’d been given. “Your skin hurts? Is it hives?”
“Mm.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“I swear to God if you don’t stop touching it-”
Ilya laughed. “How you know?”
“Because I can tell when you’re not paying attention.” Because it’s far too much of the time you annoyingly easily-distracted, unthinkably sexy, concerningly allergic man.
“You are so obsessed with m-ihh-”
Shane swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut as he waited for the inevitable, trying with all his willpower not to take any joy in his boyfriend’s suffering. And it REALLY sounded like he was suffering, so it would be REALLY bad to feel good about it…in any way.
“hKK! KK! Kkh! hKSH! hKSH-KSH! hKSHuh!-”
Suddenly the echoey, unrestrained quality of the sneezes was dampened, the noise slightly muffled as he continued.
“-hKSHH! KSHH! hihh… hIHKSHHOo!”
“Bless you.” He pretended not to notice the weight of the words as they left his lips and then echoed accusatorially back at him through the phone, resisting the shudder that threatened to run through him. Control yourself.
Ilya didn’t seem to have noticed. “Ah fuck. Stupid fucking-”
“What’s wrong?”
“I sneeze in my fucking shirt. I forget I have to put back on.” He clicked his tongue and sighed. “Stupid.”
The Canadian had no response to that, staring wide-eyed and empty-brained, into space as he listened to his boyfriend mutter in frustration and the sounds of him slipping the shirt back on and adjusting it.
“Is fine.” He’d picked the phone back up now, voice closer and clearer. “I feel bit better too.”
Shane smiled. “That’s good. What are you going to do now?” He was asking partially because he couldn’t tell whether this was a ‘I’m the captain, I have to stick it out.’ situation or a ‘run away and don’t let them see you like this’ situation, but also because he wasn’t sure Ilya had decided yet, and he thought it prudent to remind him that he couldn’t stay in Boodram’s washroom forever.
“I think I will leave.” The blond’s response was flat, devoid of emotion, but Shane could sense the regret regardless.
“Good, you need to take care of yourself.” He reaffirmed the decision confidently. “And I’m sure things would have finished out soon anyway. Well done for going.”
Ilya choked on a laugh that would have been bitter even if he’d managed to correctly get it out on the first try. “Because I am fucking shut-in, I need you to say ‘well done’ when I go out with my team for two hours? Fuck.”
“You’re not a shut-in, okay? You have a lot on your plate, and I know it’s hard to hang out with them because of… everything else in your life, so yeah, I’m proud of you. I would have gone home at the first symptom, so you’re better than me.”
There was a pause, during which time Shane gnawed on his hoodie drawstring with his back teeth and stared anxiously at the wall, imagining his boyfriend’s face, tired, swollen, disappointed, and wishing he could kiss it all over until it was probably still just as swollen, but more happy and relaxed instead.
“Okay, thank you. I go now.” Ilya said at last, the tragic emptiness still audible in his tone.
“Alright.” Though he was helpless to do anything meaningful about the emotional side of things from this distance, and fuck did he know it, he took some solace in the fact that his boyfriend would at least be about to feel physically better, and maybe that would lead to an improvement in his mood. “Drive safe, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
…
Lisa’s mind raced, in time with the beat of the- what was this, fucking country-electro-pop-punk?- that Evan was ‘trying out’. She’d met the Centaurs’ captain a few times, and he’d seemed polite, passionate about the sport, if slightly distant, like he was preoccupied. But today- today he’d been more than distant, sunglasses still on even in the dying light, sitting at a distance from even the more solitary members of the team, glued to his phone, taking frequent breaks from eating- not something she’d ever actually seen a healthy hockey player do- and gulping down soda like he hadn’t drunk in days. Something was wrong with that man, and Wyatt’s quiet but constant attention on him had confirmed as much.
“I think someone should go and check on him.” She said aloud, inadvertently intervening in an escalating bickering match between Evan and Zane over the music.
“Why?” Evan’s brief lapse in attention had allowed the alternate captain to snatch his phone back, the music coming to an abrupt halt. “Isn’t he just in the bathroom?”
“Maybe, or maybe he left.” Wyatt was already standing up. “I’ll go.”
“Yeah, I might come with you, actually.” Something told her that her medical knowledge might be needed here.
Apparently something also saw fit to tell Evan that his specific skillset- whatever that might be- was also necessary, because he stood too, Zane hardly noticing, busy scrolling through his music app, doing damage control.
“B-” The brunet went to get his attention, but was stopped by Wyatt holding up his hand.
“Maybe we should keep it just the three of us, Roz doesn’t love being crowded when he’s not doing his best. Remember Buffalo?”
At Lisa’s questioning look, he explained, “We… inquired after his health in the locker room and he just kind of yelled at us and then sulked for the rest of the evening.”
“He didn’t talk to anyone outside of games for four full days.” Evan added.
“Right. Just the three of us, then.” Lisa tried not to feel apprehensive about the undertaking. She’d dealt with some pretty combative patients in her time, but it sounded like this might hurt the captain more than it would hurt them. Not to mention the dubious idea of intervening with team dynamics…
Cassie shot them a brief, concerned little smile as they headed in, the rest of the attendees apparently oblivious to the search-and-rescue mission currently taking place. Probably for the better given Wyatt’s assertion about their target’s dislike of attention when he wasn’t feeling well.
The house was mostly dark, and seemed empty, the silence disturbed only by faint sounds of mirth echoing through from the backyard.
“Maybe we should check if his car’s gone?” Evan whispered without looking across at either of them, eyes scanning their surroundings like he expected Ilya to jump out at him from behind the furniture the moment he let his guard down.
Wyatt poked him, amused when the defenseman jumped slightly. “Why are you whispering?”
Before he could answer, a floorboard creaked in the hallway, and all three of them looked up to see Ilya walk into the room, eyes on his phone, sunglasses clutched in his other hand as he typed.
“Hey, Cap.” Evan raised a hand awkwardly in greeting.
The blond startled, face displaying unguarded alarm for under a second before it was a mask of annoyance again. “Hi.”
“Having a good time?” Wyatt asked.
“Yes. Is good food.” His voice sounded almost muffled, Lisa’s brain immediately documenting the change, wondering about vocal chord damage- acid or strain?- and nasal passageway obstruction- inflammation or maybe mucus build-up?-as she tried to subtly make her way towards some kind of tentative diagnosis. Of course it might not be a fully medical issue at all, he could get the same symptoms from crying…
“We’re lucky to have Bood, on and off the ice.” Evan agreed. “Do you-”
The captain’s reached up, habitually swiping at his nose. Suddenly, his expression shifted, and he held up a single finger to stop the defenseman mid-sentence, eyes flicking back and forth across the floor as though in thought as he appeared to bite his tongue or grit his teeth, definitely doing something that caused his jaw to pulse with tension and his nostrils to flare with… anger?
Switching his phone and sunglasses to the same hand, he dragged the collar of his shirt up over his nose and mouth and ducked into it.
“hkK! hKk! Kkh! hKSH! KSH!-”
Ilya stumbled a few steps backwards, voluntary or not, Lisa couldn’t really tell. She stepped closer, just in case he was going to fall over completely, or back into something. Evan and Wyatt moved with her.
“-hKSHuh! hihKSHH!-”
As he crunched in on himself, she found her gaze sticking on his exposed lower abdomen, and a slight colour alteration in the skin on one side. She stepped closer again, trying to get a good look despite the jolting and shuddering of the fit making it difficult. That was definitely urticaria. And pretty bad, too, though she could only really see the edge of it. This was looking like some kind of allergy. She could only hope it wasn’t to the shirt he currently had his face buried in.
“-hiHIHKSHH! hhH… aHSHHUh!”
The second he sounded like he was done, she reached across to briefly hold her hand in front of Evan’s mouth, not touching him, but still letting him know not to say anything for a moment.
“Bless you.” She offered, Wyatt having noticed her motion towards his teammate, keeping his own mouth shut as well.
“Thanks. Sorry.” He raised his head with a dissatisfying sounding sniffle, shirt falling back into place, avoiding eye contact. Lisa’s heart twisted in pity, but she steeled herself for the question she knew she had to ask anyway.
“Are you having an allergic reaction to something?”
Now he was looking at her, head turning so fast she almost didn’t catch it. “What?”
“The respiratory symptoms, the hives-”
He gripped the hem of his shirt, belatedly tugging it even further down, like he hadn’t realised that they’d been visible until she spoke.
“- I just wanted to make sure you knew?”
“Yeah, I know.” Ilya admitted in a voice that was hard and guarded, but still soft enough that she wasn’t totally sure the others could hear from two paces back. “Is not big deal.”
“Can I ask what you’re allergic to?” She pushed.
His eyes flicked towards the door, the backyard. His irritated, bloodshot eyes.
“Is it the smoke from the barbecue?”
“No- yes- is fucking everything. Who cares?”
Lisa hesitated. He was clearly on the defensive, hackles raised. And she didn’t really know this guy… but he was a Cen, and that made him family, right? “I mean… I do?”
“We kind of all do, bud.” Her husband appended.
The captain suddenly looked unusually genuine and concerned, “Is problem? I should leave?” And he tensed, like at the slightest confirmation, he would turn and walk away.
“No, it’s not a problem, Roz, you only need to leave if it’ll make you feel better.” Evan’s words seemed to calm him slightly, something about his tone, firm but kind, set the other man at ease.
“Dessert’s gonna be killer, though.” Wyatt added. “Might be worth staying for even if you sit inside. I’ll probably be here too, since the soundtrack out there kinda sucks.” Shockingly, Evan didn’t even retort, too focused on making Ilya comfortable enough to stay.
Lisa watched the captain’s eyes flick between them, considering the offers, the new information. “I might have antihistamines in my bag that could put a dent in this reaction.” She offered.
“Yeah, or I’m sure Bood has something somewhere.” The goaltender looked prepared to step back out into the yard and ask.
Ilya swallowed thickly, glancing away again. “No, nikakikh tabletok- no, thank you.” He spoke more quickly, accidentally slipping into Russian for a second, and then seeming more abstracted than ever when he returned to English. Damnit. One of them had messed something up there. They were losing him.
“Tabl-etok?” Wyatt repeated quietly under his breath, pulling out his phone, “Nikakikh… tabletok.”
Ilya seemed not to have noticed the goalie’s quest for translation, backing up with slow, tense steps, like a cornered animal. “I have to go now, anyway. I have meeting tomorrow. Tell Bood I say ‘thank you’.”
“Cap-”
“Was fun. See you.” His words were light-hearted but his tone was one of warning. Acquiescently, none of them spoke as he turned and stalked out of the house, a faint, familiar yet unidentifiable, sound audible just before the door slammed shut. Like a ‘fsh, fsh’ and then what sounded like the start of another sneezing fit. Poor thing.
“Well that went so much better than last time.” Evan sighed, disheartened, turning to Wyatt, expression switching to curiosity when he saw what the blond was still absorbed in. “What’d he say?”
He shook his head in response, expression identical to having missed saving an admittedly good shot- resigned but still disappointed. “We fucked up.”
…
The same players who’d huddled together in that hotel room in Buffalo, pooling items from their individual emergency kits to make the cold-and-flu themed gift basket for the captain, now stood in Boodram’s kitchen, with the addition of Lisa, staring at Wyatt expectantly.
The goalie smiled grimly, like a general about to deliver important news to his troops. How had he ended up the leader of this weird makeshift committee that cared about their captain? “So, uh, I think I figured out why Cap gets so mad when we try to help him out with health stuff.”
“Is that what today was?” Bood leaned against the counter, arms crossed frowning.
“Yeah, some kind of allergy attack, right?” He glanced at his wife -a consultation with their chief medic- fuck, he was getting too absorbed in this military metaphor- who nodded in confirmation.
“He wouldn’t say what specifically, but it looked pretty bad, so it might have been more than one trigger.”
There were simultaneous winces from the group.
“So, he said something in Russian, and I managed to translate it- essentially, he doesn’t take pills. I think that’s like a rule of his, and when we offer them to him, we’re offending him in some way?” Wyatt tried not to feel too awkward about how much it sounded like he was talking about some entirely new species with unthinkable customs. The captain was just kind of like nothing any of them had ever run into before. And it was definitely not a cultural divide, either. Just a ‘him’ thing.
“Shit, that makes sense.” Dykstra’s brow was furrowed, the defenseman deeply lost in thought. “Okay, I’ll remember that for next time.” Hopefully they’d all remember that for next time, since medication was a pretty common first offer, they didn’t want to immediately alienate him every time.
“You think we’ll ever make any headway with him?” Dillon asked, dejectedly.
“Yeah, we’ve just got to get it right.” Wyatt did his best to look positive, conveying some of the determination he felt to the players around him. “Those walls will come down eventually.”
Thinking about Ilya Rozanov’s nose (what else is new?). Sorry I’m a little behind on some asks and reblogs here, will get to those soon! :)
——
Ilya Rozanov’s nose is itchy.
This isn’t exactly unusual - after three separate breaks, Ilya’s sinuses have become an absolute wreck - but it is notable enough that he needs to pause his day to tend to the stupid thing. He tells Marleau that he will join him downstairs for breakfast in a minute, then grabs the tissue box from his nightstand as soon as his roommate leaves their hotel room.
He’s not exactly sure why he’s sneezing, which is extremely frustrating. It’s been over an hour since he woke up, so his typical morning fit has long passed, and he’d blown his nose thoroughly both before and after his regular hot shower. It doesn’t seem to be allergies or a cold; his eyes aren’t bothering him, nor is his throat. It’s just his fucking nose, which has been buzzing with little pinpricks of itchiness all the way around his nostrils and down to his septum for the last five minutes. An absolute eon in Ilya’s world.
Cradling the tissue box in the crook of his arm, Ilya plucks one out and holds it to his nose, which twitches the moment the paper brushes against it. He pinches a bit at his nostrils, letting out an involuntarily snrf against the contact. The sneeze isn’t coming, but the itch is moving upward now, and he rubs at the bump on the bridge of his nose in quick circles. Fuck, this is frustrating. His nose is on fire with the need to sneeze, yet none of his normal tricks are working.
What would Shane do?
For himself? Probably just hitch and hitch and hide his face in his arm until the sneezes either burst out of him in cute little doubles, or got shy and disappeared entirely. Even in the throes of his own nasal plight, Ilya smiles while imagining his boyfriend with tears in his eyes, a sniffle in his nose and a blush high on his cheeks.
For Ilya? …Well. Shane knows plenty of ways to induce a sneeze or twelve out of him. But Ilya doesn’t have a feather, or some pepper, or that sneezing powder Shane bought online; how fun that would be to explain at customs. But he does have a tissue that he can twist into a point. He sniffles loudly and thickly as he grabs another tissue, as if his nose is preparing him for what’s coming. As he sets to twirling the tissue between his thumb and pointer finger, Ilya continues to think of Shane.
He imagines Shane licking his fingers the tiniest bit to get a sharper tissue point, glancing up at Ilya with shy smiles all the while. Then, he’s sitting in Ilya’s lap, entire body flushed a deep red, erection straining against his thigh. Ilya cannot take his eyes off of him as he determinedly takes the tissue and gently inserts it into one of Ilya’s nostrils, and they stare into each other’s eyes, brown and blue and both heavy-lidded. Each begin to pant heavily, Shane from arousal and Ilya from the immediate need to sneeze. But the sneezes aren’t ready just yet. Shane swirls the tissue around, gently, with just the right speed and amount of pressure to leave Ilya gasping with high-pitched hitchy breaths. Tears fill his eyes, and when Shane touches his shoulder and asks if he’s okay, Ilya nods. “Ihhht’s right…th-here…” Shane moans and moves the tissue back and forth like he’s a bell-ringer in a church tower, and right now, he’s the only God that Ilya knows. “hHhhahh—! ahHhh—!”
“—AESZCHHHhhhhh’iew!” Back in his hotel room, the first sneeze barrels out of him, and he stumbles backwards until he is sitting on the bed. “HAESHHhHhhhUHH!” Ilya is taken aback by how strong the sneezes are, even for him, and they knock the breath out of him. The tissue lays forgotten on the ground as he buries his head in his hands for a third, even more vicious, “AAADSZCHHHhh’hooo!” that tears from his nose and throat and has his hairs standing on edge. He sits back up, shocked, and jumps when someone pounds on the wall next to his ear.
“The hell, Cap?!” he hears one of his teammates cry out from the next room.
“Have you snf never heard sneezing before?!” he shouts back.
“Not like that, man!”
“Insubordidation!” he cries out, cringing at the congestion in his voice. In retaliation, he moves right next to the wall and blows his nose as loudly as he can, deliberately taking huge breaths in between to make them lengthier. He hears a short groan, but no other noise complaints are raised, so Ilya considers Mission Shut Up the Hungover Dickhead Teammate Next Door a success. Huffing a laugh, Ilya scrubs at his nose with his wrist and realizes that he is very, very hard. All that thinking about Shane, how sweet and sexy he is when he’s asserting his control over Ilya’s nose…he swallows.
He can see why this gets his boyfriend so riled up.
He sends him a text after another round of nose blowing: I had very loud sneezing fit just now. Someone yelled at me through the wall. Wish you could have heard it 😏
He gets a text back not even a minute later: Fucking tease. How many?
He texts back: Only three. Will record some if it happens again, then cackles when Shane sends him back a Thank you. Only Shane Hollander would thank Ilya for sexting him. He shakes his head with a smile, then sends back a kiss emoji and heads downstairs, his nose satisfied for now.
His Russian Weighted Blanket (Part 2/3) (H/eated R/ivalry, Shane)
Part 1
————
Unlike many of his fellow athletes, Shane lived for practice.
He loved every bit of minutiae that went into the game of hockey, in fact. As a kid playing Tyke, he’d been fascinated by watching the employees at his local rink stitching names on the back of jerseys and sharpening skates. His parents had practically needed to (gently) drag him back to the car after every lesson. “We’ll look again next time, bud,” became a common expression of his dad’s.
But today, when he walked towards the locker room and saw a note taped to the door that told the Centaurs to report to the video room, Shane had to hold back a groan.
He turned to Ilya, who looked about as unamused as Shane felt, his mouth set in a straight line. “So much for short day,” he muttered, dumping their bags in their stalls before they set off.
When they got to the video room, most of the team was already there. Instead of taking his usual seat in the front, Shane dragged himself over to the corner of the back row. He looked back at Ilya, who caught his eye and took a seat next to him. Shane was caught between wanting to curl into himself to shut out the world and curling directly into Ilya’s lap. That wouldn’t quite be appropriate at practice, however. God, he wanted to go home. His skin didn’t feel right; he could feel his sweatshirt brushing against his arms, his torso, the back of his neck. He wanted to tear if off and sit there shirtless, but that definitely wouldn’t be appropriate in the middle of a video review. Especially as the OTTCentaursInsider.com head writer was in the room. What would he call that day’s news: “The Naked Issue?” Plus, Shane didn’t want to be leaning with his back bare against a potentially dirty chair. Gross.
The room settled as their coach walked in. “Hi, guys,” Wiebe said, looking annoyingly chipper. Shane liked Wiebe’s easygoing and positive attitude most of the time, but now…“I want to review the Arson’s special teams, then we’ll run some drills and head home. Sound good?”
“I do not understand,” Shane heard Luca Haas say to Zane Boodram as the video coach finished setting up the screen. “Why is the Calgary team named after a criminal act?”
“Lots of things don’t make sense in the NHL,” Bood said with a shrug. Shane definitely agreed with that.
As the review of the Arson’s power play and penalty kill units went on, Shane found himself having to blink, hard, to keep his eyes from going fuzzy while looking at the screen. They have the best PK in the league, gotta clear the puck out of the zone ASAP, win faceoffs, blah blah blah….
“nghxshh-hgk’tchhh! hn’tiew!” The little sneezes came so suddenly and rapidly that Shane had to catch his breath after, inhaling deeply within the confines of the crook of his elbow for air. Squashing the sneezes down made his head fucking hurt, and he had to blink hard again as blurs of white and red flashed across the screen. At least nobody had noticed…
Everyone started laughing at something, and for a terrifying moment Shane thought they were laughing at him - oh god, even Ilya? His cheeks flushed red and he tucked his chin into the neckhole of his sweatshirt, thinking that maybe if he became a turtle, no one would see him. But nobody was looking at him, so it must have been a crack by Bood or one of Hayes’s classic (and eye roll-worthy) puns.
When Shane turned his head, Ilya was staring back at him with furrowed brows and worry in his eyes. “Okay?” He mouthed. Another flash of heat went through Shane, and irritation burst through his embarrassment. “Leave me alone,” he grumbled, then immediately felt terrible about it when he saw the hurt expression on Ilya’s face. “M’ sorry,” he said, and Ilya nodded and patted his thigh in response.
Back in the hallway, Shane stopped Ilya to apologize again. The other man gathered him in his arms, gave him a little squeeze, kissed his forehead, then released him. “Is okay, malysh.” He frowned, leaned forward, kissed his forehead again, lingering a bit more, then stepped away with a smile. Thankfully, he didn’t ask Shane how he was feeling or if he wanted to go home. Probably because he knew Shane’s answers would be “fine” and “fuck no,” respectively.
Shane felt hazy on the ice, everything moving both too fast and too slow all at once. He passed the puck back and forth on autopilot - he could do that in his sleep, and he knew that some people thought he was like a robot anyway, so it didn’t arouse much suspicion.
Twice, when Harrison passed to him for a one-timer, Shane fanned on the puck and it banged into the boards. “Hollander!” Wiebe called out. “Look alive. We’re not giving the pyros another shutout tonight.” Shane nodded, but on the third pass, the puck sailed by him, as he was busy stifling three shivery sneezes into his elbow to take a shot. Wiebe blew the whistle as Shane blinked wetness from his eyes. “Alright, that’s enough for today. See you guys tonight. Hollzy, talk to you?”
Shane skated over, feeling like a guilty dog who had chewed up his owner’s couch. (Thankfully Anya didn’t do anything like that, the good girl.)
Weibe gave him a once-over. “You sat in the back row today. Not like you. What’s going on, Shane?”
Shane felt himself blush again. What a fucking day. “I, uh. Just a cold, I think?” He was mortified that his voice pitched up higher at the end, but he steeled himself before he spoke again. He was a big, strong hockey player, goddammit, he could have a simple conversation with his coach without getting anxious. Or sneezing. “I can play.”
Weibe raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Positive,” Shane said firmly.
Weibe’s eyebrows raised, but he nodded. “Get a good nap in when you get home. If you have a fever tonight, though, you’re out.”
Shane nodded determinedly. “I won’t have a fever.” He wouldn’t.
When he got back to the locker room, Ilya was waiting for him. “Let’s go home,” he said with a gentle smile on his face that Shane returned. Even though he was sniffly and itchy and uncomfortable, seeing his husband’s smile lifted his heart up every time. When he pulled on his sweatshirt, he noticed that there was a packet of tissues in the front pocket.
————
🏒 r/OTTCentaurs · Posted by u/h0llanov 20 mins ago
Shane Hollander Pregame Interview
[Video of Shane Hollander speaking with Centaurs Reporter Mickey Albright, wearing a grey sweatsuit and a black face mask. His voice sounds gravelly, and he has to duck into his arm to sneeze two times. Even though he speaks confidently, he is clearly exhausted and coming down with something.]
Damn. Mans sounds ROUGH.
🗨 48 comments ➡️ Share ✔️Save 🙈Hide 🚩Report
——
stillhollzyswife: OMG, he sneezes like a kitten!!!
69_CAD: okay, even I have to admit that was adorable.
m00seknuckle: Gayyyyyyyy
2481: Fellas, is it gay to think another guy’s sneeze is adorable?
69_CAD: depends on if you want to fuck him or not
h0llanov OP: better watch out or you’ll get another temp ban from this sub.
69_CAD: noooo! you’ll never take me alive, mods!!!
~
OTTSentaurs: If he didn’t want to seem like he’s sick then he shouldn’t have worn a mask. Holy Streisand Effect, Batman
StreisandEfxt: You rang?
2481: he’s wearing a mask because he’s a polite Canadian boy
OTTSentaurs: yeah he probably falls asleep listening to O Canada as white noise
StreisandEfxt: no way Rozy lets that happen. or they switch between anthems
2481: Omg so you’re saying you think they’re both switches???
m00seknuckle: Gayyyyyyyy
~
69_CAD: Beaulieu just tweeted that they’re benching him
m00seknuckle: TABARNAK
—————
Okay, so maybe wearing the mask hadn’t been the best way to keep a low profile.
But Shane had driven to the rink with Ilya, and not wanted to spread his germs to the team captain in such a confined space. But when he got to the arena and got strange looks from photographers, rink employees and some of his teammates, Shane knew that his attempt to not be perceived had failed miserably.
Sneezing during a live interview…shit, that would be online immediately, he knew. But he avoided the comments section entirely…most of the time.
Ilya was worried and doing his best not to show it, but Shane could see the tension in his face whenever he coughed or sneezed. They both knew that illness was par for the course during the season, and that Shane had to at least show up tonight. Part of the gig. Ilya kept feeling Shane’s forehead on the way over, his frown deepening. He grabbed Terry the moment they got to the locker room.
“38.3,” Terry said. “Sorry, Shane, but you’re out tonight.”
Shit. How had this come on so quickly?
“I’m sorry, Hollzy,” Coach Wiebe said as the others prepared for warmups. “You look like shit, you sound like shit, and you have a fever. We’re calling you an Uber so you don’t have to wait for Rozanov to go home.”
Scratched. Just before the game. For a little cold. Coach may as well have cut Shane’s balls off.
Weibe sighed. “Look,” he said, “Five days until we play next. We’ll reevaluate you on Monday. I’m sure you’ll be good to go. In the meantime, take care of yourself.”
Before he left for the ice, Ilya pulled Shane into a tight hug and kissed his cheeks. “Text me when you are home, sweetheart. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He gave Shane a final look, blue eyes full of concern, then blew him a sorrowful little kiss and went to join their teammates.
Shane went to the vending machine in the hallway and bought a ginger ale to combat his newfound wooziness. He held it to his forehead as he walked a death march back to the locker room to collect his things, and was surprised by how quickly the can lost its cold. Fuck. Maybe he was too sick to play.
——
“Shane? Your Uber’s here.”
Shane lifted his head from where he’d been resting it against the cool wall of the infirmary while watching the game on TV. The first period was at the halfway point, and Calgary had already scored a goal. Shane had watched the Centaurs D fuck up and felt a surge of anger. They practiced this every fucking day. Why couldn’t they get it right when it counted? Then he’d needed to shake his already-fuzzy head and clear his mind. Annoyingly, of the most important aspects of being on a team was being patient with others who maybe needed a little more guidance. But Shane didn’t have a whole lot of that right now. He wanted to speedrun through whatever crap illness he had so he could get back out there ASAP. With his team. With his husband.
Shane was consumed with the sudden urge to be wrapped up in a suffocatingly warm cuddle with Ilya, nose buried in his curls as the other man pressed gentle kisses into his fever-sweaty neck.
“Shane?”
“Yeah, sorry,” he mumbled, getting off the tiny cot he’d been sitting on. He had to blink hard a few times against a feeling of heaviness and heat in his eyes.
“-DZCHhhiew! hadt’zchoo! huh, huhh-! ADT’SCHIEW!”
“Bless you!” cried out whatever poor intern had been tasked with guiding him to the car.
“Thagk you, uhb, exguse be, sorry,” he said, feeling his face grow even hotter, not able to look the person in the eye. He got into the car, remembering at the last moment that he had his mask tucked into his pocket. Although it was hot against his face and the strings were bothering his ears, he felt better about having it on while in such an enclosed space with another person.
He wasn’t able to concentrate on where they were going, and the lights they passed by from street lamps and other cars were making his head hurt. A particularly bright pair of headlights from a car traveling on the opposite side of the road made Shane’s sinuses quiver with an itch, and he had to stifle three sneezes in rapid succession, pinching his nose with his fingers overtop the mask for extra support.
“-ngxt! hg’khht! hgk’t!”
They were nearly silent, but made him feel so dizzy that he needed to close his eyes before they rolled out of his skull. He wanted to check how far away they were from home on his phone, but his clumsy hands couldn’t grab his phone out of his pocket. Instead, he tilted his head back and tried to think of something good to get him through the rest of this ride. Ginger ale. Anya. The cottage in summer. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.
If he had been feeling even a little better, Shane would have chided himself for being so desperate to see his husband, who he’d literally just left and who would be back home in less than three hours. But god, Shane wanted him now. So he allowed himself a little mental whine session, and let a tear slip down his face.
Finally back home, Shane stripped out of his clothes and lay beneath the blankets, occasionally petting Anya when she came near, a little worried look on her face. He needed water, but felt too wiped out to go back into the kitchen. He had no idea when the last time he’d taken medicine was - at the rink, right? - and he kept having to throw the covers off and then wrap them back around himself as the sweats and chills cycled back and forth. And he couldn’t…stop…sneezing.
“tschhhhhh!…ahh’shiewww!…ah, ahh…” after two lengthy, almost languorous sneezes, the third got shy, and Shane had to wiggle his nose to get it to— “hahhEHshieww!” —come out. Eyes and nose both dripping, he looked down at the destroyed tissue in his hand. One had definitely not been enough.
“heh-eHh…! EHH’shuhh!…hehh’kisshhew!…hy’ihhh…” Fuck, these sneezes were just so teasy, so itchy, so fucking annoying…
“P-please…” he begged his own body. “Lehh-letme…”
He gasped, the sound enormous in the quiet space, then pitched forward into his next round of tissues with an agonizing “hyisshh’ew! hahh-shuhh! MotherfuHuhCk-ISHHhhuh! HADT’shiew! Ohh…” He moaned and blew his nose forcefully, over and over again, until he was breathless and two wads of tissues were soaked. He tossed them and lay back, spreading his exhausted limbs out across the mattress like a starfish.
Shane used all his strength to reach over to Ilya’s nightstand for the remote. Even just pressing a button made his goddamn fingertips hurt. He turned the TV on and saw that the second had just ended. As the camera panned on the Centaurs heading towards the locker room, Shane caught sight of his husband, a head taller than whoever was walking in front of him, with a look of consternation on his face. Even while feeling unbelievably ill himself, Shane wanted to kiss it better.
His phone buzzed as he loopily pressed his lips into little kissy-faces at the screen.
Ilya: one more period and then I am coming home to you my baby ❤️
Shane put his head in his hands and began to weep.
I really like your take on sick Ilya with the Hollanders ❤️
It inspired an idea for me: The Centaurs (or the Bears/Raiders) learn how to care for Ilya when he is sick. Because there’s definitely a learning curve given Ilya’s childhood.
That said, if you like the idea, I would love to see your interpretation. If it’s not your thing, no worries! ☺️
XoXo
Three Times the Centaurs Tried to Care for Their Captain, and the First Time they Succeeded
One: The Initial Approach
part two, part three
hi anon :) thank you so much for your patience, and this amazing prompt! it has so much potential I had to make it another 3+1 so I could fully explore the journey of the team figuring out the enigma that is i/lya r/ozanov. that said, I'm not super familiar with the cens, so if you feel like I'm mischaracterising any of them, feel free to let me know, I'm always looking to improve!
I hope you enjoy! ♡
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 5.8k
cw: sneezing, general illness, mess, some seriously rocky team dynamics
Ilya was not, in his own opinion, particularly well-versed in the virtues of patience and grace. He didn’t see any need to be. Hockey was not a patient game, nor a graceful one. It was about being fast, and being aggressive, and being in tune with your team. Which he had a feeling that today, he wasn’t particularly. Because he was being betrayed by every single thing he typically depended upon.
His stick had just broken, and his winger hadn’t been in the right place for a pass, and now the referees were taking fucking forever to decide if they’d actually scored their last goal. Which was a problem because here he was, stuck on the bench, several hundred eyes on him, fighting the urge to cough his lungs out. So no, he had absolutely no patience for the decision being made, nor would he afford the officials the slightest amount of grace to make it, especially if they disallowed the goal, and he had less than no patience or grace for his own body. That was the biggest betrayal of all, that his immune system had allowed him to spend the week bragging about how it was better and stronger than those of the rest of the team, who’d all gone down sick with this stupid cold before he had, and then given up the ghost at the last minute.
Anything that held up the game like this had everyone on edge. The coaches were worrying about the decision, the refs were worrying about how it would be received, the players were worrying about staying warm enough to get right back to the game, and the audience were worrying about getting back to their cars, homes, and babysitters on time. So Ilya wasn’t alone in gnawing frustratedly on his mouthguard, tapping his stick on the boards and just generally looking like the epitome of impatience.
He sniffled, snorted, blinked up at the screen overhead in an attempt to stop his nose from dripping everywhere. The back of his hand, sans glove, had just made contact with his face and started to rub irritably, only two clicks of his nose into what probably would have been twenty, when a rolled up towel was tapped on his shoulder. Ilya glanced up at the equipment manager standing behind him.
“Thangks.”
Settling for pinching his nose through the fabric, fearing that blowing would only enable one of the urges lurking ominously in the back of his nose and throat, and using the excess to wipe the sweat from his brow, he scanned the ice, eyes drifting over to the huddle of officials still reviewing the play. How long could this possibly take? It wasn’t like the goal would make that much difference to the outcome anyway.
Boodram, on his right, held out a water bottle to the Russian without looking, still engaged in conversation with whoever was on his other side. Ilya took it gratefully, replaced his mouthguard, and skied the water into his mouth, taking gulp after gulp, until his throat felt relatively normal again, and then passed it on.
Finally feeling slightly more human, he surveyed the crowd, mostly adorned in the colours of the opposing team, since it was their arena, and mostly absorbed in their own conversations, or their phones, since the ice provided so little entertainment currently. He sniffled, and then sniffled again as he apparently dislodged the precarious balance of mucus filling his nose. It took three more sniffs to keep the tide at bay, and by then he could feel an insistent tickling sensation beginning. Maybe one more sniffle would quell the itch?
Of course one more sniffle only fuelled the itch, as he probably should have predicted, but he had no time to really chasten himself for the stupid choice, as he was immediately, “hKk! kKH!-” sneezing uncovered into open air, as the fit onset without warning. “-hKK! Kkh!-” Confident that he couldn’t be heard over the general noise of the stadium, and that it probably just looked like he’d choked on the water, the blond raised the towel to his face and ducked to conceal the more evidentiary subsequent sneezes. Unfortunately for him, he heard the foreboding swish of skates approaching the bench, and the crowd quieting as he succumbed. “-hKSH! KSHh! hihKSHh!-” The players around him audibly shifted as the official spoke with the coach, trying to hear what the call was going to be. “-hihh…KSHuh! hrrRSHh! hHRSHhUh!”
“Geez, bro,” Bood was facing towards him now, apparently having heard the commotion in the quieted arena, “Bl-”
But the blond had made the stupid decision to look right up at the blinding white ice at the conclusion of the fit, breath immediately stuttering prepensively again.
“hKk! hKK!-” God, it would be nice if he could get the towel over his face before he started doing that, because chances were, he’d be up on the screen at some point, expected to react to the call, and he knew it was far from his most attractive facial expression. “-hKSHh! hihKSHh!-”
“Damn, Roz.”
“-hAHKSHhuh! hihhAHSCHh!”
“Bless you. A lot.” Great, now he’s startled, distracted, and definitely mad because he can’t do his stupid little ritual. Not something that would affect their game in the slightest. It was bad enough that he was playing below his usual level, but did he have to drag the rest of the team down with him?
He straightened, slower this time, panting softly through his mouth, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light before he looked up.
“You alright? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before.”
“Is fine.” When it became clear that the winger was not going to leave him alone, Ilya graced him with a short, gruff answer.
“Don’t tell me you’re coming down with this shit that’s been ploughing through the rest of us. What happened to your-”
“Shh.” Anticipating the chirp, the Russian pointed out to center ice, where the referee was standing. “He will announce call.”
“After reviewing the video-”
…
The goal had been disalllowed. And, as Ilya had predicted, it didn’t matter, they would have lost with or without it. Most of the players still weren’t at 100 percent after succumbing to the illness, and with practices being sparsely populated as people recuperated, they were less of a well-oiled machine, and more of a rusty, misassembled one.
The captain entered the locker room dejected, though his face was its usual mask of neutrality. He dreamed of the hotel room, ordering shitty takeout comfort food, and sitting on the floor of a steamy shower until his skin wrinkled and his sinuses drained, calling Shane, and letting the Canadian’s monotone voice lull him to sleep. But first he had to debrief these dumbasses.
“Okay.” He only bothered to strip out of his skates, jersey, gloves, and helmet before he began, anticipating that undressing might take him a little longer on account of the aching muscles, exhaustion, and slight lightheadedness that had started to characterise any fast or demanding movements. “Was bad game. We know this. You know this. I know this. They-” He pointed in the vague direction of the opposition’s dressing room, “-know this.” Maybe not one of his better speeches but he’d like to see any of the team try and do better under his conditions. “We are sloppy, out of practice, not coordinated. No one is in right place, no one is ever in right place. So many fucking offsides-” It was a rant now, or spiralling into one, and he needed to pull it back. “But we work on this at next practice, we wa-hh-tch-”
He broke off, surprised by the sudden appearance of the tickle, and the concerning way it had interrupted his speech, as though it could strike at any time. “We watch-” Keep going, no one fucking noticed, no one fucking cares. “-for this at next game. You know where the lines a-ahh-” Ah fuck, he’d totally lost it.
For a brief moment he considered turning and running directly back out of the doors to the locker room, inexplicably sprinting for the showers, or just hiding in his stall and holding a towel over his face until he suffocated. But he had no time to do any of those things. And they all seemed pretty panic-inducing for his already out-of-sorts team, and he’d have to explain them afterwards. Also everyone else in the room had been doing this sort of thing, essentially unaddressed, for two weeks. Wasn’t he supposed to be showing them that he was one of them, or human too, or something anyway?
So, he stood his ground, and just- “hKk! Kkh! Kkh!-” Initially he directed the expulsions down at his chest, shoulder shrugging inwards to further cover his face with each jolt, but in the small gap between the third and fourth, he’d looked up and seen a look of total confusion and alarm on the face of the closest player, and realised that it probably looked more like he was choking than sneezing, and so raised his fist performatively to jam under his nose, “-hKk! KSHh! hihKSHHh! hihh… hHSHH! hrRSHh!-”
Dizzy as the lack of oxygen started to get to him, faster than it usually did, probably lingering breathlessness from the game, he bent double and placed his hands on his knees, too tired to even fight it anymore, spraying the floor of the visitors’ locker room, with vitriolic apathy, “hAHISHH! hHAHSHH! hhihh…HEAHSCHOo!”
With a forceful swallow, and a sniff that he intended to restore his sense of self-control and authority, but kind of sounded like he was attempting not to cry, the captain straightened. The faces surrounding him brought back with agonising clarity what Bood had said to him on the bench, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before.” Fuck. And what an introduction to his most chirp-worthy trait. The biggest fit he’d had in a good while, right in the middle of a speech when everyone’s attention was centred on him and only him. Jesus fucking- way to pick the moment, Ilya.
“God bless you, Roz.” Hayes offered. The Russian couldn’t turn to glare at him fast enough, a chorus of blessings, emboldened by the goalie, filled the room.
He sighed, tensely, waiting for the niceties to be over so he could get on with his debrief and head home. But no sooner had the last blessing been voiced, than “You good, cap?”
“Shut the fuck up, Dykstra.”
“I’m just saying. That was a lot.”
“Yeah, I saw him do it on the bench as well, scary stuff,” Bood interjected, “Thought he was gonna stop breathing.”
“I am not going to stop fucking breathing, everything is fine, everyone shut the fuck up.” His hackles were up now, brow furrowed, eyes flashing dangerously.
There was silence for a second, and he was just about to restart the sentence that he totally remembered the end of, when Hayes interrupted again.
“You finally get that bug that we’ve been passing about? Is that why you’re so prickly?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with you? We do not lose because of just me, okay? I come here, I play, I score, why the fuck you so critical?”
And he stormed off into the showers. With his clothes on. And no towel. And they all knew it. Fuck.
…
Ilya scrubbed his hands over his face, eyes squeezed shut as they flooded with warm shower water. He didn’t fight the stinging sensation the foreign liquid left under his eyelids, focusing on dragging his fingertips down his face as hard as he could, imagining the red marks he was leaving, imagining he could cleanse the humiliation and frustration of the evening from his mind, his soul, his reputation.
The steam was making his nose run. He didn’t care, picking up the fallout on his next angry swipe of his hands past his upper lip, holding his hands out ahead of him in the spray for a second to wash it off, and starting again at his forehead. He wasn’t really trying to get clean, just killing time until the awkwardness of the post-game speech dissipated, and a few more people filtered through to shower, so that he could walk back stark naked like he didn’t care that every single other player was watching him. Fucking foresight, Ilya, why do you never think before you do anything?
He startled when the shower next to him turned on, suddenly feeling vulnerable with his burning, waterlogged eyes, audibly rasping breath as the steam loosened the congestion in his lungs, and lack of a proper exit strategy. Ilya tilted his head down, letting the water hit the back of his head, wiped his eyes, blinked through the pain, and squinted at the figure beside him.
“Just me.” Hayes. Nice of him to announce himself after Ilya had gone to all the effort of trying to see for himself who it was.
He didn’t respond, starting to wash his body off instead, staring straight ahead as the water plastered his hair to his forehead.
The silence rang between them. More people filtered through to shower. Ilya counted each entry as the showers kicked on, one after another. He had no idea who specifically had joined them-
“hyEHSCHH! AHSCHUh!”
Okay, so one of them was Dykstra, but apart from that-
“Bless you and bless you.” Fine, and Boodram. Anyway, as he’d been trying to think, before he’d been interrupted, it didn’t matter. It was a numbers game. He needed more people in here or out in the corridor than in the locker room. Less people to see his walk of shame-
“I brought you a towel.” The goaltender spoke up again, jerking his thumb towards the hooks behind them.
“Thanks.” Now shut the fuck up and shower.
“Pretty essential part of showering.” He joked, tentatively.
Ilya snorted, amusement acting as passive approval, Hayes’ expression immediately turning more serious.
“Listen, cap, if you’re sick-”
The blond slapped the handle to turn the spray off, suddenly seething with anger, the goalie’s face changing again to betray how taken aback he was. “I am fucking fin-” The word caught harshly in his throat, a sudden coughing fit overpowering him, echoing off the tiled walls. Ilya slammed his fist over his mouth, muffling the sound, bending double as his lungs spasmed violently, and he hacked harsh breaths against his damp knuckles.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hayes’ hand move. It occurred to him, at about the same time, that he could barely see the movement, noticing a fuzzy, hazing effect on the edges of his vision, that left his peripheral blurry and unclear. Mind split between the observation and the agonisingly endless fit, Ilya reverted to instinct and flinched away from him.
Wyatt froze. The captain tensed. Fuck. He wasn’t going to hit you, idiot. He probably wasn’t even going to touch you, given you’re both buck naked and soaking wet and you’re known for acting like a cornered animal at the best of times. And now he thinks you’re scared to be hit, like some kind of fucking pathetic little child. You get hit for a living, asshole, toughen up.
Ilya straightened, swallowing the tail end of the fit. He didn’t look at Hayes, face a steely mask of anger that he hoped looked like it was directed at the goaltender, rather than its real target, himself.
“Rozanov-”
“Fuck off. Is not your fucking business.” He retrieved the towel Wyatt had brought him, wrapped it around his waist, and stalked back to his stall, pulling his water bottle from his bag and sitting down heavily to half-drain it without looking at anyone.
…
Most of the team had showered and changed, falling easily into their own conversations and distractions once it became clear that the captain was done with any kind of drama for the evening, by the time that Ilya started to think about putting his clothes back on. His skin had long since air dried, his hair about halfway there, the ends still dripping cold water onto his neck, and arms, and phone screen.
He stared at the text thread with Shane blankly. They hadn’t messaged since the first intermission, and he knew that Montréal had won their game. So he wasn’t overly eager to interrupt the celebrations with his woeful complaints of embarrassment and humiliation.
“Hey.”
Ilya pressed the button to turn the phone screen off at a speed that felt like it outdid any of his shots on the ice that game, head snapping up to look at the man who’d just spoken. Dykstra sat in the stall to his left, its owner having already left for the shuttle back to the hotel. The captain relaxed a tiny, imperceptible amount. The defenseman was not someone he’d be overly worried about snooping on his phone conversations.
“What?” He responded, guardedly.
“Just wanted to make sure you’re all good. Not in front of everyone, this time.”
“I am good.” He swallowed dryly, eyes wandering the rest of the room to check that the check-in really wasn’t in front of everyone, but no one else seemed to be paying the two of them any mind.
“Alright, man. But as someone who’s had this shit that’s been going around- not that you’ve got it- it hits pretty hard, so, it might be helpful to-” He held out his hand, closed around something. Reluctantly, Ilya presented him with an open palm to take it.
The defenseman dropped a cut off section of a blister pack of pills into his hand, four. Ilya stared at the orange capsules, distastefully. He didn’t like their weight in his hand, the unnatural shade that looked like it wasn’t intended for human consumption, didn’t like the idea of being expected to take them, to thank him for them, didn’t like the immediate sensations his brain conjured up, plasticky casing buckling on his tongue, acrid chemicals in the back of his throat, images he’d tried to forget flooding his mind- he sniffled as his tear ducts stung, staring blankly at his hand as Evan stared patiently at him.
A few short, silent seconds passed. Ilya floated a thousand miles from his mind, so far removed from his body that he no longer had any idea where he was, lost in the fog of dissociation. Flickers of the past day, week, year appeared and then vanished as his consciousness searched for some kind of anchor to keep him from drifting into more dangerous memories. Then his lungs stuttered back to life, a long, staggered breath drawn in sharply. His surroundings came back into focus. Faced with only a few moments to discern the automated reason behind his abrupt inhale, the blond panicked. Was he about to say something? To yell at the defenseman for his presumption? Was he about to break into full-blown panic? To cry? Or-?
“KKh!” The only reason he hadn’t sneezed directly on, or really at, Dykstra, was because his head had subconsciously started to turn away a few seconds earlier, responding on impulse to a pain in his neck at keeping his head craned at that angle for so long. “-hKk! Kkh! Kk!-”
He faintly heard the other man mutter, “Oh.” and then some moving and shifting that he assumed was him getting up to leave. He was wrong.
“-hKSHh! Ksh!-”
And then there was a tissue pressed in his free hand. The Russian forced his eyes open mid-fit to check. Yeah, definitely a tissue. And Dykstra’s hand retreating in his peripheral. What the fuck?
“-hKSHH!-” It took him one more sneeze to realise that he should probably be using the tissue, rather than just holding on to it as though he’d been told to keep it safe at all costs, and the rest of the fit to realise that, “-hKSHuh!-” to place the tissue in Ilya’s hand, the defenseman had had to, “-hihKSH!-” reach over him, “-hihh… sSCHh!-” and so he’d almost definitely, “-hRSHH! rRRSHHuH!” had his arm…
“G’ bless you.” The captain looked up, seeing that the Canadian was occupied holding a tissue of his own, swiping nonchalantly at his wrist …directly in the line of fire. Fuck. Fucking disgusting, Ilya.
“Sorry.” The word came out thick with congestion, and swathed in his accent, so strong that it was noticeable even to himself.
“No worries, man. Just, you know- maybe you’ll feel better if you take the-” He nudged the hand that still held the blister pack of pills, indicatively. Feel better? Feel fucking better? What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Would the drugs make him play better too?
“No!” Ilya spoke louder than he needed to, drawing the eyes of even those who’d politely deigned to look away during the fit, though the locker room was almost empty now, anyway. “Take your fucking shit-” He threw the pills back at him, muscles clenched to stop himself from shaking, “-and leave me the fuck alone.”
He stood, praying the towel would hold as he turned to rifle through his bag, dragging out a hoodie, and pulling it on, drawing a hand through his damp hair to try to calm himself, feeling his heart pumping hard in his chest, ignoring the careful way the defenseman backed away in his peripheral vision, returning to his own stall. Feeling painfully out of place, he finished changing, retrieved his things and stormed from the room, chest tight with anxiety, alternating between dropping his head to his chest in dejection and tilting it back to try and glean a tiny amount more oxygen as he walked. He could not imagine a worse way for that fucking game to have ended if he tried. And he had a sinking feeling that he’d be spending most of the night trying.
…
“Hang on.”
Ilya stared at the smooth, white, hotel room ceiling as he listened to Shane fiddling with a tupperware of some kind on the other end of the line. Once all the clips had been snapped back into place, his voice became less distant again.
“Alright, sorry, I’m back. Mom gave me these wholewheat cracker things, I think Dad baked them, and they’re pretty good, but there’s a lot of them.” The blond heard him pad softly through into the living room, and flop down on the sofa. “I tried to give some to Hayden, but he said-”
Evidently not keen to find out what bullshit Pike had said in response to the offer, Ilya ducked away from the phone, coughing roughly against his fist. Lying on his back had not done wonders for the congestion lingering in his chest. He forced himself upright over the course of the unexpectedly long fit, gradually, vertebra by vertebra, until he was hunched forwards.
Fifteen full seconds of violent coughing later, the Russian swallowed phlegmily, and raised the phone back to his ear, ignoring the darkness that had sprung up at the edges of his vision.
“Fucking hell,” Shane sounded shaken. “Are you okay?”
“Pike said this? Rude.” Ilya smiled weakly. “Could have just said ‘no’.”
“Shut up, stop joking around. What’s wrong?”
“Is nothing.” He stood, breathing heavily through his mouth as dizziness swelled within him, and the congestion shifted in his head with a click that he was sure was audible through the phone. “Same thing team had last week.”
“Fuck. Why didn’t you say anything? You played, right? How the hell did you play?”
“Badly.” He mumbled, dragging his feet the short distance to the bathroom and filling a glass with water from the tap.
“That’s not what I meant.” The ‘and you know it’ went unsaid, but Ilya still felt it, and the accompanying pang of guilt for twisting his boyfriend’s words. “You have the same thing that fucked LaPointe over so badly you had to leave him in Florida for two extra days, and you played through?”
The blond finished chugging his glass of water and refilled it, phone held between his shoulder and his ear. “Is not so bad.”
There was a long pause. Ilya downed a second glass of water. “Does the team know?” The brunet asked finally.
“Yes.” He scowled at his reflection. “Did not want them to, but-” The rest of the sentence was lost to a huffed out breath as the memory of the locker room flashed through his mind.
“Was it okay?” If anyone would understand the stress of letting his team know he was sick, it was Shane. They had the same pressure on them, as captains, as star players, as the cornerstones of their respective teams. They had the same weird wall of secrets between them and their fellow players that stopped them from getting close enough for admissions of vulnerability to feel normal or comfortable. Plus, the Canadian was always kind of weird when he talked about illness anyway, even with Ilya, cagey in the same way he got about his sexuality or their relationship, or-
“I do not know. Maybe they are mad, or disappointed? Is not helpful.” He filled the glass again, more out of habit than desire this time.
“What’s not helpful? Their response, or the illness?”
“Illness, yes. They were very…helpful.” Guilt clawed up his throat again at the memory of all the outstretched hands he’d smacked away, in the showers, in his stall, on the bus to the hotel…
“It’s not your fault you’re sick, you know? It can’t be helped.”
“I fucking wish it c-hh-” Ilya froze, glass halfway to his mouth again, as the tickle that he hadn’t been able to fully shake since the first fit in the locker room, made its presence known again. Focusing on lowering it back to the counter without spilling any water, he attempted to update his boyfriend through jagged breaths, “I h-ahh-ave t-uhHh-o sn-iHHhihh-snee-”
“Okay, I got it, you don’t have to tell me.” Shane sounded strangely ruffled, “You can…you can go ahead and-”
“Snee-ihHKK!-ze. kKh! hKk!-” He dragged the collar of his hoodie up over his mouth, first knuckle under his nose, phone still absently pressed to his ear, “hKSH! KSHh! hKSHh! hihKSHhuh!-” He broke off to cough, bent double now, trying to square his stance as he swayed, disorientated, breath catching again before he could catch it himself and, “hihhkSHH! hrRSHh! hihh…hhH…hyAHSHHhOo!”
The final sneeze had him crashing to his knees, curled in a ball on the bathroom floor, breathing heavily through his mouth as his nose dripped all over his hand, still loosely holding his collar over his spray-glazed lips.
“Bless you. Fuck, you sound awful.” The brunet whispered through the phone as though afraid to disturb the silence that had fallen in the wake of the fit.
“Feel awful.” He responded before he could stop himself.
“I bet. God I wish I was there with you.”
“Me too.” And he really did wish, visualising his boyfriend with his eyes squeezed shut and his breath baited in his chest, making himself believe that when he looked up at the bathroom doorway, he’d see the brunet standing there, making that awful, pitying face at him.
There was a knock on the door. Ilya startled, eyes flying open, phone falling from his hand. Shane?
He fumbled for a face towel, running it under his nose, scrubbing at his hand as he rose to his feet, wincing at the pins and needles in his legs, hobbling to the door. Fuck, how long had he been sitting there?
Ilya unlocked the hotel room door, heart quickening, not bothering to look through the peep hole before he flung it open. His wish had come true, he wouldn’t have to go through this alone, he had Shane, he had-
The hallway was empty. The blond’s stomach rolled with dread. Had he misheard? Was this some kind of prank? But then his gaze drifted downwards, to the small, rectangular container sitting in front of the door. One of the baskets for the face towels, from the en suite bathroom, and it was filled with-? Ilya bent down. A bunch of random stuff? Trash?
He looked closer. On top sat a piece of paper from the notepad that sat beside the beds, the hotel name and logo at the top, scrawly writing beneath. ‘Captain. The essentials, just in case you don’t have any.’ and then, in different handwriting, ‘If you need anything, you know where we are.’ and finally, in block capitals that could have been either of the two priors or another person entirely, ‘WE’RE A TEAM.’
Ilya snatched the basket from the floor, glanced in both directions, checking if he was being watched, and ducked back inside his room, walking over to the bed, heart pounding in his chest, and emptying the container onto the clean, white, backdrop of the comforter.
He’d been provided with; two travel packs of tissues, different brands- possibly different people’s contributions?-; the exact cut off corner of cold meds Dykstra had tried to give him earlier; a second sheet, of blue pills that he assumed were the night-time version; a packet of throat lozenges that loudly proclaimed they contained vitamin c and zinc; two teabags with labels in French; and several loose smelling salt ampules. What the fuck?
Impulsive and uncoordinated as a wild animal, he swiped angrily at the array, sending items flying across the bed and tumbling to the floor. This was a joke, a mockery, an insult. They were chirping him, provoking him- no, worse…could they be… pitying him? The blond snarled at the empty room, the note lying face up on the floor, closing message mocking him. They were a team, so he needed to pull himself together and do his part. Or, they were a team, and he wasn’t a part of it, some tacked on extra, the figurehead that no one really connected with, a misfit.
The dissonance of multiple interpretations crowded his mind, and he unconsciously backed away from the bed, the humiliating necessities that had been thrust upon him, the blame, the pity, the anxiety. He hardly noticed his breathing pick up, harsh, ragged breaths as adrenaline flooded his system. Two emotions fought for monopoly in his chest, anger winning out. How fucking dare they? How dare they assume he was sick, assume he was helpless, give him things like he was a child, an invalid, an idiot. How dare they- he stumbled into the bathroom, seeking his abandoned cup of water, but being confronted by his phone on the floor, screen still illuminated with the ongoing call. Fuck, Shane.
“-can hear me, you’d better fucking reply-” He was saying as Ilya fumbled the device to his ear, voice quick with anxiety, audibly pacing the kitchen as the blond could hear the sound of his bare feet against the tile.
“I’m here.”
“Fuck, Ilya, what happened? I thought you passed out or something!”
“No, I went to answer door.”
“There was someone at your door?”
Now that he was having to slow down and explain what had happened, forcing his brain through the achingly elongated process that was translating it back to comprehensible English, the anger and adrenaline were beginning to ebb away, leaving a drained, overwhelming exhaustion in their place. “No, was just- team leave me stupid sick person stuff.”
“What?”
“Does not matter. I am fine. You had big game, should rest. Talk tomorrow.”
“Wait, Ily-”
“Love you.” He hung up, not even giving Shane the chance to say it back.
Ilya turned his phone off and slumped to the floor, hiking his knees up and resting his forehead against them. Fuck this whole day, fuck the game, fuck him for thinking things would get better once he left the arena, fuck this illness, fuck everything.
He sniffled, unsurprised to discover that his eyes were…watering. He wasn’t crying, he was just tired and sick and sometimes that made your eyes water…right. It made his eyes water and his chest ache and his breathing all juddery and his nose run, and- he sniffled again, head immediately tilting back at the sharp itching sensation that the movement had awoken.
“hKk! HkK! Kk! hKk! hhKSH!-” He let his head snap forwards against his bicep, hating the way the sound echoed in the small room, but still feeling like he’d be less likely to be heard in here than out in the bedroom, “hKSHh! KSHH! hihSHHh! huHSHhh! hihhuhH…” The last sneeze was temporarily delayed by the tears sliding down his cheeks, face aimed towards the ceiling, breath hitching with what were undeniably sobs as he inadvertantly increased his own discomfort, saltwater dripping into his ears and down his neck, every tiny pitiful noise reflected back at him mockingly by the tiled walls, “hhihh…hhiEhh… hAHKSHHhoo!”
And he buried his face in the sleeve of his hoodie and sobbed, silently. Every breath tore at his raw throat, burdened his aching lungs, every shudder of his frame jolted his damaged muscles and swollen joints, and his face was totally soaked in tears and snot, the fabric pressed against it having done all it could to mop up the endless tide. And Ilya felt nothing but torment, and his mind went nowhere but to everything he’d done to deserve it- the game, the speech, snapping at his teammates, pushing Shane away- and even before that, every mistake he could remember making, that had garnered him this bad karma, warranted this punishment.
His sobs slowed through the methodical search for wrongdoing, more focused on his mistakes than his misery, until it finally all came to a shuddering stop. And his mind strayed to the team, the offering. Maybe he should stop wallowing in this and try to fix it. That seemed to be what they wanted him to do. The captain dragged himself to his feet, ignoring the pressure in his chest, the way his heart skipped up to a higher rate uncomfortably quickly, the wave of unbearable heat that washed over him, and stumbled through into the bedroom. He could fix this. He would fix this. And he would play the next game, and they would win. And then no one would be mad anymore, and they could all forget that this had ever happened.
Ilya collapsed onto the bed, surrounded by sick-day staples, and fumbled around until he found one of the packets of tissues, tearing it open and scrubbing at his face before heaving a breath in and blowing forcefully. Three tissues later, he was satisfied, dazedly letting his eyes drift shut, totally drained. And at least, he considered, surprisingly positive in the aftermath of the breakdown, he’d freed himself up to be able to sneeze in front of the team now- something he hadn’t really done with Boston- that would make allergy attacks, and the stupid light sneezing reflex slightly less complicated to deal with. And he’d made his position on care or sympathy of any kind clear. They wouldn’t be trying that shit on him again.
anonnnn, I have lost the original prompt for this fic bc I am foolish and frequently click things that I should not click, but I think? this is what you requested? I hope so, because it was a really good prompt, and I really wanted to do it justice. this is the epilogue to the "3x S/hane Hid Something From I/lya, and 1x I/lya Helped Him' series, leading on from this part.
I hope you enjoy! ♡
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 5.4k
cw: sneezing, panic
Shane sighed loudly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He’d parked the car close to five minutes ago, but had yet to get out. His gaze drifted again to the occupant of the passenger seat. The reason why he had yet to exit the vehicle echoed the sigh obliviously, though his was more blissful than frustrated, a single golden curl falling unnoticed down in front of his eyes.
The Canadian bit his tongue in frustration, and tried pointedly clearing his throat instead. He watched in disbelief as Ilya merely shifted his position against the window, and continued to sleep. Like he’d done for the entire drive. Like he needed to stop doing if they were going to get into the arena on time.
Shane was one of the only people he knew who had superstitions that extended to practice. Most players couldn’t imagine their actions having implications beyond game day, but for him, almost everything to do with hockey had a ritual or two to go along with it. And one of them was that he would not get out of the vehicle first at the arena. For a game or for practice, at home or away, a car or a bus, it didn’t matter. His feet would not touch the concrete until someone else’s had first. And right now, his husband was stubbornly refusing to be that person.
“Ilya.” He snapped, finally, internal tension reaching breaking point. The blond stirred.
“Mm?”
He was practically vibrating with anxiety, routine delayed for slightly too long, mind allowed to wander a little too far, unable to be brought back by the sweet, sleepy face of the man he loved, now turned towards him in curiosity.
“We need to go in.” Shane reached across and unbuckled his seatbelt for him, smacking up the passenger side sun visor, and accidentally allowing the light that Ilya had been shielded from, to hit him smack in the freshly-awoken, squinted-shut eyes.
Ilya blinked forcefully, recoiling, looking reproachfully at his husband as his breath caught sharply, hands outstretched with palms raised in a wordless ‘why?’.
“Sorry.” The brunet reached out to take his shoulder, brow furrowed in remorse, gut twisting in self-criticism at his impatience. “Bless you.”
“Agh.” The Russian emerged from the collar of his sweater. “Why you do this to me?”
“I know, I’m sorry. I just wanted us to get in faster.”
“No.” Ilya met his gaze, faux serious. “You don’t know. You sneeze two-” He held up two fingers, “-times and done. Me?” He sniffled, half his face drawing up in response to the itch. “A million. Is so much worse.”
“Okay. I don’t get it, you’re right. Can we please go in now?” He was starting to get a bad feeling about this practice, and a bad feeling today meant maybe a bad feeling tomorrow and they had a game tomorrow and-
“Yes.” Satisfied by his victory, Ilya leaned across and kissed him, pinning him back against the headrest for a moment, before opening the door and stepping out, gesturing to his feet on the floor pointedly before shutting the door. Shane rolled his eyes. As if he didn’t have a million things that had to go just right before the game as well.
…
They were the first in, as usual, despite the small setback in the parking lot. Shane sat down in his stall to wait for the rest of the team to start filtering in, scrolling through emails on his phone. Ilya stood by his neighbouring stall, rifling through his bag for something. It was hardly surprising that he’d lost whatever it was, his bag was a fucking mess, everything shoved in at random. He’d find it eventually.
Now that they were actually in, and the most important ritual had been completed, he was significantly less tense, looking up to briefly greet each player as they entered, the blond also emerging from his bag each time to acknowledge the new arrival.
The rookie was about the eighth person through the door. He headed straight for Ilya, fingers tight around his bag strap, clearly on a mission.
“You see the second goal last night?” Haas blurted before he was really close enough to be in what most people would consider to be casual conversation distance.
Ilya turned to study him for a moment. “Yes.”
“A beauty, right? I really want my backhand shots-” Shane tuned him out for a second as he felt a sudden tickle in his nose, like there was something tiny, feather-light, stuck in there. He pressed down on the affected nostril with one subtle knuckle, sniffed quietly.
And he was hit, startlingly forcefully, by this at once familiar and totally impossible to place scent. Where had he- It took him less than a second to realise. Because, though he couldn’t name the scent itself, the growing burning itch in his face quickly let him know where he knew it from. He was allergic as fuck to whatever this was. Something he’d only encountered a few times, but each had been notably devastating, the worst having been when the allergen was distilled into some kind of perfume… Shane scrunched his nose at the memory of the cramped store, the endless sneezing and coughing and watering eyes and itchy everything for close to 36 hours afterwards. Please for the love of fuck don’t let the kid be wearing that.
Luca, still talking animatedly about the specifics of the goal, stepped closer to get out of the way of Hayes, inexplicably carrying- three bags? It was just the one practice- and then closer again as the goalie turned and headed back towards the door. Shane blinked harshly, the air feeling uncomfortably close around him, full of the scent of whatever bioweapon the rookie had thought it pertinent to apply to his entire body that morning. Beside him, Ilya coughed lightly, apparently also having noticed the overwhelming aura of scent surrounding the younger player.
The brunet tensed as his nostrils flared, the itch absolutely overwhelming his nose. There was no way this was going to fade away on its own. He stood abruptly, pocketing his phone as he sidestepped Haas, half-holding his breath, and headed for the door.
He hadn’t really realised that his eyes were fixed on the floor until they were snapping up, a loud clattering sound echoing from in front of him.
“Jeez, buddy, what’s with all the luggage?”
Hayes had bumped into Dykstra right as the defenseman had been entering, all three bags, and various personal effects that Shane could only partially identify as belonging to the goalie, strewn across the floor.
They both crouched to begin clearing up, totally blocking the doorway. Shane’s heart started to race. He had to get the fuck out of here. He had to get out NOW.
But there was no way out. He knew that either of the players would probably move if he asked, but he wasn’t sure he could ask without his respiratory system rebelling in a pretty concerning way, and he really didn’t want to draw that much attention to himself.
So he turned, moving quickly back to his stall, tense and anxious and angry, fiddling with the jersey hanging there just to look like he had something to do, and mentally screaming at Luca to finish the fucking conversation and move away so he could have half a chance of regaining his ability to breathe.
“hhT-” He half-gasped, clenching his jaw aggressively in the wake of the small slip, resisting the urge to shudder at the nauseating sensation of dragging cool air in through gritted teeth. But he couldn’t breathe through his nose right now. That would be a surefire way to lose immediate control.
A glance over his shoulder showed him that he was still trapped, Hayes having paused in his clear-up to explain exactly why the day’s practice had necessitated three bags- Shane couldn’t hear why over Haas and Ilya, who’d now transitioned into a spirited argument about luck versus skill- and the rookie still half a pace away, inadvertently suffocating him.
The brunet took another small breath in through his mouth, thrown when it caught in his throat, and a small cough escaped him before he could control it. Panic rising, he unzipped his bag, rifling through with Ilya-like frenzy to retrieve his water bottle, and swallowing a few desperate gulps. The feeling faded, and he dropped his head to his chest, breathing heavily, anxiety and allergy amalgamating.
The angle made his nose run. A sudden, tickly little rivulet trickling down the inside of his left nostril, threatening to drip onto his shirt. He wrinkled his nose, sniffled on instinct. Horrible mistake.
“hHhihhHiHHehhehH-” The breath was sudden, overwhelmingly uncontrollable, and startlingly erratic. He bit down aggressively on his lower lip, halting the unexpected hyperventilation, shoulders hiking slightly in case he’d been noticed. A ridiculously ineffective defence against the man standing next to him.
“What is it?” Ilya had taken him by the wrist, leaned in so Luca couldn’t hear him, though he still faced outwards towards the rest of the locker room. Shane could see his focus flitting between him and the other players, checking they weren’t being watched, knowing how much Shane would hate it if they were.
“Nothing.” He breathed in response, on instinct, far too stressed to think of how to convey what was happening to his husband right now.
“You are having panic attack in locker room. Is not nothing. What is it?”
“Not panic.” Shane frowned, shaking his head, before reconsidering. “I mean yes, panic, but-hihheHh!” He bit his tongue this time, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to force the feeling away.
“Shane.” Ilya drummed his fingertips against the underside of the brunet’s wrist.
“Sorry, fuck.” He raised his other hand, pinching his nostrils shut as his breath caught again, “hhhHT-!” After a moment he sighed it back out again, and let go, lest anyone look over and notice the rather obvious pose. “Remember that time I bought you that fucking-” He paused as the inhale between words scissored ominously, “-candle that smelled like me?”
“Yes.” No lewd comment, clearly the Russian was as focused as he on getting to the point as soon as possible so they could get on the same page about what was plaguing him.
“And in the shop there was something tha-hh-at-”
“That fucked you up so you sneeze to death in car.” He finished the sentence for him. It hadn’t been exactly what Shane was going to say, but yeah, that was a pretty accurate way to describe the event.
The brunet nodded. “It’s here.”
“Here? In locker room?”
Shane nodded, avoiding eye contact as aggressively as he wanted to avoid a confrontation resulting from the words he was about to utter. “I think… I think Haas is wearing it?”
…
The words sent a wave of negative emotions over Ilya that was so powerful that his chest ached with pressure and his vision whited out for a moment, half-baked thoughts flitting through his head in a swarm of multi-directional blame. Fucking of course the rookie would pick the one fucking scent that- Jesus Christ, how the fuck had he let Shane describe that experience to him and then forgotten to further investigate the cause- He was such a bad fucking partner, Shane knew every one of his allergies and meticulously avoided them- Fuck, and he was his captain as well, so twice the responsibility to- How long would his husband have suffered without saying anything if Ilya hadn’t- He thought they were over the whole hiding health stuff- There was no way he was about to let this happen in front of the whole team, it would kill- He needed to get Shane the fuck out of there. He needed to get Haas the fuck out of the way.
“Move.” He whirled back around to face the younger man, whose eyes widened in shock at the sharp command.
“What?”
“Move, get the fuck back.” The captain stepped menacingly towards him, still speaking in a low tone, so as not to catch anyone’s attention. He could see his husband hunching in on himself out of the corner of his eye, barely visible little jerks betraying the rapidly decaying control he was attempting to exert over his immune system.
Luca stumbled back a few steps. “Sorry. Did I say something-”
“Stay.” He pointed at him firmly, before moving back towards Shane, shielding him from the rest of the room as he leaned in. “Hey, is okay, you can breathe, yes?”
The brunet nodded, breathing shallowly through his mouth as he kept that death grip on his nose. Ilya could see tears beading in the corners of his eyes, the sight feeding the seething, boiling, protective rage in his chest, whether the cause was the allergen or the stress of the sudden onset reaction, he hardly cared. He would fix this.
“heHNGT! hNGGTt!”
“God bless you.” His hands and arms ached with tension, wanting to reach out and cradle his husband, pull him in, let him come apart in his arms. But he knew that would draw the focus of everyone in the room, and only make Shane more uncomfortable, so he forced himself to remain close but not touching, watching over him.
The Canadian threw a quick, terrified glance in between their shoulders at the door. “Can’t get out.”
Ilya looked too. “I can move them. Stuff is almost gone anyway. Just one more minute, moya lyubov, then you can get out.”
He nodded, resigned, hand moving back to his face again as he ducked, slightly towards the blond, apparently grateful for the cover. “hNGTt! hhehHNGTch!”
“God bless-”
“Is Hollander okay?” The words cut through the calm Ilya had been trying to embody, through the quiet hubbub of the rest of the room, through the illusion of normality.
He spun around, Shane moving further into his stall in his absence until his head was almost hidden in his jersey. Haas stood, closer again- fucking disobedient little- innocent frown on his face, totally unaware of the rest of the locker room, now also attuned to the captain, behind him.
“Yes. Is fine. Everything is fine. What the fuck is your problem?” His original approach of aggressively neutral denial collapsed halfway through, confrontational nature rearing its head.
There was silence for a moment, as everyone processed the question, and the harsh response, and Luca tried to disappear into his own body like a turtle.
Then, “hNGT!”
In the stillness of the room, the small jolt of the only person who wasn’t facing the rookie and the captain ‘s shoulders, accompanied by the tiny strangled sound, drew pretty much everyone’s attention. And even if that hadn’t…
“hNGTt!” Shane was by no means done. “heHNGTt! NGT! hNGT! NGGTt!”
Another moment of silence. And then,
“I tell you stay, and you move! You can not follow instructions. And you never hear of minding own business?!” Ilya made a valiant attempt to drag the attention away from his husband, by letting a little of the vat of anger in his chest, explode in the catalyst of the attention’s direction.
“I just wanted-”
“No! You do not talk back!” It was a good fucking thing this argument was in English, because he was starting to sound disgustingly like his father.
“What’s going on Roz?” Boodram stepped between the two of them, eyes trained on the captain.
“He fucking- he- agh!” The words were just not there, the tentative nature of the accusation and the stupidities of the English language combining to form an impenetrable barrier to communication. “What the fuck is on you?” He decided to just ignore the intermediary and return to his interrogation. “Is new cologne or what?”
“Uh-” Haas also looked like he was suffering from a case of ‘the words not being there’, panic clear on his face. “I have- like, new soap? Natural stuff, is that-?”
“That is why you smell like this?”
The younger man flushed, “Uh, yeah?”
“Cap.” Hayes had also moved over towards the epicentre of the argument, leaving Dykstra alone in the doorway, picking up the last few things from the floor. “What’s the problem?”
Shane helpfully summarised the issue with a desperate, “heHNGTDSHh!” that echoed around the room, so conspicuous that it almost made Ilya visibly cringe in sympathy.
Realisation dawned on the other players’ faces.
“Alright,” Bood’s hands were on the rookie’s shoulders, steering him away as he showed no signs of moving on his own, mouth open, eyes flicking back and forth between Ilya and Shane. “Let’s give him a bit of space, yeah?”
“I didn’t mean to-”
“hTDSHHuh!”
…
Both hands clamped over his lower face, Shane considers why there couldn’t be a second, secret exit in the back of his stall, for times like this when he really needed to get out of the locker room but was trapped in. He could hear Ilya cursing under his breath in a long stream of angry Russian as he guarded the brunet against the return of the rookie. It didn’t really seem like Haas wanted to return, as far as Shane could tell, Bood had him on the other side of the room, and Ilya’s death stare was pinning him there.
“hehMPHh! hNGT!” God this was fucking embarrassing. He would give anything for the ability to teleport, or turn invisible right at that moment. “heHNGTCh! hNGTCHh!” Invisible and inaudible.
His breath hitched again, painfully shallow in the small space afforded by his aggressive grip on his nose and over his mouth. Dragging in oxygen between his fingers like this almost made him dizzy. “heH…hEHMPHh! hMPHh!” He felt like it would never end. Like Ilya would never turn around and realise he needed him, he needed help, and like he’d stand here with his hands over his face until he suffocated. “heHMPHh! hHNGTXCHh!” Ugh, okay, now he was definitely going to keep his hands over his face until he suffocated.
Shane hadn’t really noticed that he had his eyes shut until something unidentified nudged against his arm. He looked over, panicked, to the side that wasn’t shielded by his husband, to see Hayes standing there, holding out a towel. Seeing his predicament, the goalie tucked the towel over Shane’s arm, patting his head affectionately, before turning his back to him, as though he were the net, forming a shield on the other side, so he couldn’t really be seen from the rest of the room.
Unspeakably grateful, but still in unspeakable discomfort and distress, the brunet snatched the towel from his arm and buried his face in it. He blew softly in short itchy snuffles of breath that had barely any chance to be effective before his breath was catching sharply, dragging some of the material into his mouth. The sensation barely deterred the reflex for a second.
“hEhTSHh! TSHh! hTSHh!” He frowned in frustration, though the expression was quickly wiped away by desperation again. Why were they so small and ineffective? It felt like they were only making him more itchy. “hEHTChh! hheh..”
Blindly, desperately, already feeling himself flagging, the exhaustion of stifling and holding back, and panicking, and the fast, useless sneezes, starting to creep up, he reached behind him, trying to find Ilya. He could hear the blond yelling at Haas to go to the showers, the rookie trying fruitlessly to apologise, and an animated conversation in the doorway as Dykstra caught who Shane was pretty sure was Barrett up on what the fuck he’d walked in on. He couldn’t find Ilya’s wrist and he was pretty sure he looked like a fucking idiot, towel over his face, hand waving around behind him. How the hell could he get Ilya’s attention? There was absolutely no way he was capable of speech right now, and whatever voice he could muster would surely be drowned out by the chaos in the rest of the room anyway.
“hEhTSh! TSHH!” Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone here. “hehh…” Shane gripped his nose aggressively through the towel, holding the sneeze back, but letting the need build. “huhhEh…” He ran his tongue hard across his teeth, using the pain to get the tickle to cooperate, fighting the urge to just let it overwhelm him and hope that those uncharacteristically small useless expulsions would rid him of the feeling. “hhEHEH…” At last the feeling swelled enough to drag his lungs to full capacity against his will, chest trembling with the force of the breath. God, this was stupid. Maybe he could just breathe it back out again and hope that Ilya would turn around in his own time, preferably before Shane passed out.
But he was too far gone, forced to reap what he had sown, the brunet could only control himself for a few more agonising seconds, holding his breath, pressing the towel to his face so hard he was sure there would be visible marks if he ever let it go, and listening to his husband obliviously yell in what felt like slow motion. And then-
“EHhESCHhOo!” It sounded nothing like him. It sounded like a half-tired, more Canadian version of the end of one of Ilya’s fits. It sounded kind of like his fucking dad, actually. Shane’s ears rang in the half-second of silence that followed before, “hiEHTDSHHuh!” It bent him double, sent him stumbling into the wall of his stall, made his whole face flush in embarrassment, and actually reduced the tickle in his nose to almost nonexistence.
“The fuck are you looking at?” Ilya’s voice rang out immediately afterwards, yelled at the room at large, before the blond pressed up against him, hands on his waist, head over his shoulder, trying to get a good look at his face. “God bless you, moy malen'kiy vulkan, are you okay?”
“No.” He managed. It felt like he should have used his singular word allowance to convey some slightly more important information, but all he could really think right now was how was it possible to be this itchy? and what would it do to Ottawa’s rep to have him die in the dressing room before practice?
“Okay, you’re okay.”
He really wasn’t, but it felt good to hear that anyway. Like if Ilya believed it, maybe a little bit of him could believe it too.
“hEhh…” He resisted again, rewarded for his efforts with a sharp pain high in his nose that made his eyes flood with tears.
“Let it out.” Ilya had pulled away, one hand on his lower back, the other… Shane could hear him fumbling around with his bag, shoving stuff around, and then the zipper being tugged across. He was getting ready to leave. They were finally going to get out of there.
“hTSHh! TSHhuh!” The blond’s hand migrated to the back of his neck, thumb stroking softly at the nape of his neck as he retrieved Shane’s bag as well.
“God bless you.”
“hTCHh! hihEHTCHh!”
“God bless you.”
It didn’t feel like he could actually sneeze the itch out, the sensation almost stuck between the layers of skin in his face, burrowing its way into his pores, his sinuses, his skull. Like it was as much a part of him as the hair on his head. Every breath, every movement, every muscle that tensed or relaxed, made the feeling flare. Every sneeze made it fade ever so slightly, before it grew back stronger than ever. His neck was starting to hurt from having his head ducked towards his chest, and his shoulders hiked up protectively. He felt almost weak at the knees with the effort of trying to expel the irritant. Like the tiniest push would send him tumbling to the floor. Also, he was really starting to hate the feeling of pushing all of the air out of his lungs.
“hNGT! heHH…hNGTt!”
Ilya tapped him lightly on the back of the head chidingly. “Budʹzdorov. Stop that.”
There was a tiny chuckle from somewhere else in the room. Not spiteful, more endeared, familiar, amused. But it made Shane’s stomach clench all the same, and it made Ilya-
“What the fuck is funny?!” He’d taken several steps away to confront whoever it was, and the Canadian felt his absence like all his clothing had been removed, unprotected, vulnerable, alone.
“Il-hNGT! HTSHh!”
“No, you laugh, so what is funny?!”
“hTSH-TSH! Ily-ahHTSHh! hTCHh!”
“And you are all staring like rude fucking… fuckers, you have nothing better to do?!”
Ilya’s tirade was abruptly interrupted, “What is going on in here?”
Blinking burning, watering eyes in the direction of the door, Shane somehow managed to identify Coach Wiebe, standing in the doorway, surveying the chaos. His view was immediately cut off as his breath hitched and he automatically raised the towel to cover his face again, ducking into his stall and hopefully out of sight.
“hNGT! NGT! hNGT! hNTSh! TSHh!-”
“Roz, your guy’s kind of dying over here.” Hayes muttered, no sooner having finished the sentence than Shane felt a familiar hand on his back again.
“Sorry, moya lyubov. Is okay. God bless you.”
“hTSHh!” Shane continued, with no way to interrupt himself to actually convey anything meaningful back to his husband, “hEHTShh! TSHh! TSHhuh!”
“Rozanov? Boodram? Someone tell me what’s going on, please.”
“Hollander’s having a reaction to the rookie’s soap, coach.” Bood informed him, evenly. Shane buried his face further into the towel, breath still scissoring, hoping that the ‘if you can’t see them, they can’t see you’ rule would somehow apply here.
“Hollander?”
The brunet pinched his nose through the towel again, desperate not to respond to his name with another sneezing fit. Ilya’s arm stretched protectively across his shoulders. He held his breath. Footsteps crossed the room towards him. Please no, please just let him leave without confronting him in front of the entire fucking team.
His lungs were burning. He had to breathe, he had to-
“H-” The coach was clearly just about to call his name again, but Shane beat him to it.
“hNGT! hNGTSHh! hehh…hTDSHH! TDSHh! TSHh! TSHh!” Oh God, he couldn’t stop, he was never going to stop, he was running out of breath and he was never going to stop sneezing and- “EHTSHh! hhihhh…hihHEHTCHh! hEHTDSHh! hIEHTCHheW!”
“Fuck.” Was Ilya’s input, too thrown even to bless him, apparently.
“Jeez. Okay, Roz, back it up, I’m not going to do anything, I just want to check on him.” Even the explosive fit hadn’t deterred the coach, apparently, as Shane heard his voice move closer.
“Is okay.” The Russian whispered in his ear. “People are leaving.” And then he pulled back, and Shane was alone, in the corner, with his back to the coach like the fucking Blair Witch.
“Hollander, bud, can you just turn around so I can get a look at you?”
Obviously that was the last thing he wanted, but the possibility of getting a look at the remaining occupancy of the room, and a potential clear path to the door as an escape- although they were probably all out in the hallway, weren’t they- was pretty enticing. Besides, Ilya was gently pushing on the shoulder that was closest to him as though he was a fucking revolving door or something.
He turned, face still hidden mostly behind the towel, eyes on the floor. He could only see his own, Ilya’s, and the coach’s shoes, so either everyone else was huddled just out of his peripheral vision, or they’d actually left.
“Okay.” Wiebe stepped closer, pulling gently at Shane’s wrist to get him to move the towel away. “What are we working with here?”
The brunet sniffled miserably, trying not to set himself off again, but also trying not to let his nose run down his face in front of his coach.
“What is it that you’re actually allergic to?”
“We do not know.” Ilya answered for him. “Has only happened two times.”
“More than two.” Shane muttered, immediately thrown by his utterly destroyed voice, the Russian apparently thrown by the words themselves if his sharp head turn was anything to go by.
“Alright, maybe that’s something we take up with the rookie later. For now, let’s see about getting some heavy duty allergy meds into you. I’ll go talk to the trainers.”
“Practice-.”
“-is cancelled.” The coach finished calmly. “I’m not sending you or the rookie out, I doubt he’ll be able to skate straight, the way that Roz was yelling at him. And if I’m not sending you, I can’t send the captain, and if I’m not sending Haas, I should leave Bood with him. And if I’m not sending either of those two, what’s the point in sending Barrett? And so on and so forth until I have no one to send out. So-” He paused, so Shane could-
“heHTSHh! hhehh… hTDSHhew!”
“God bless you.”
“Gesundheit. So, practice is cancelled, and you two should head on home as soon as you get cleared by medical. Alright?”
He nodded. Ilya thanked the coach for the both of them, Wiebe patting the brunet on the shoulder before heading out of the locker room to inform those lingering in the hallway of the schedule change. The blond started gathering their bags again.
Shane stared into space while he waited. The itch was in his chest now. Not his lungs, just like somewhere between his ribcage and his skin, it felt like. He coughs, and the feeling buzzes, but doesn’t change. It hadn’t been that annoying originally, but now, knowing that he had no power over it, it was suddenly agonizingly uncomfortable.
The Russian thrust his water bottle at him, swinging the bags over his shoulder. “Drink. Breathe. Then we go see trainer.”
…
One dose of the most hard-hitting allergy meds the medics could find later, they were on their way out of the arena. Ilya was running over and over the information he’d been given about side effects, next doses, and allergy testing in his mind as they walked. He held the door open for his husband, and then stepped out after him, immediately squinting in the bright sunlight. Normally he donned his sunglasses for the lighting transition, but obviously today he had other things on his mind, so-
“hKk! Kkh! hKk! hKSH!” In trying to keep walking, the blond inadvertently stumbled over his own feet, the weight of the two bags dragging him forwards, and he almost fell down entirely, before Shane lunged in front of him, taking his weight. “hKSHh!” Ilya twisted away from him, although he almost definitely caught the brunet’s arm in the subsequent spray, “hKSHh! KSHh! hiHSHh! hhih…haHKSHh!”
“Bless you.” The Canadian sounded exhausted, and Ilya felt his stomach twist in guilt for having thrown his entire body weight plus the two bags at him, even if it had been an accident.
“Thank you.” He kissed him on the temple, sniffling as they started to walk again.
They’d barely made it thirty more seconds before Shane slowed to a stop, mouth falling open as his eyes fluttered shut.
“Fuck, wait-” The blond fumbled in his pocket desperately for one of the handful of tissues he’d taken from the physio room. He managed to retrieve it, and slapped it into his husband’s hand just in time.
“hEHTSHh! hTDSHhuh!”
“God bless you.”
Shane blew his nose softly, glancing at the tissue as he folded it to put into his pocket. “Thanks. You forget these when you were sneezing all over my arm a minute ago?”
“Fuck off.” Ilya felt his heart pick up in relief at the jab, a clear sign that his husband’s condition was improving.
“You fu-uhh-” They repeated the routine, the Russian frantically trying to extract a tissue from his pocket and press it into Shane’s hand in time, the Canadian absently folding it and pressing it over his nose and mouth before folding forwards with, “heHTCHh! EHTSHew! hTCH! Oh-” The extra sneeze clearly surprised him as well as Ilya, as the tissue had moved away from his face a good ways by time time it appeared, “-hihEHSHh!”
“God bless you, god bless you.” The blond snaked an arm around his waist as they started to walk again, leaning across to press a kiss to his cheek. “You will be okay by next practice?”
Shane’s brow furrowed, as though he hadn’t actually thought about the concept of the next practice, just surviving that one, “Yeah, no. After the entire team saw me like that? I’m literally never going back.”
“Yes, you are. You will get used to it.” Ilya smiled. “I did.”
3.1k includes bitchy hayden, implied contagion, allergy inducing & caretaking
November, 2013
Cleo M
18:23 On my way!
18:24 *omw Autocorrect lol
Hayden stared at the texts on his phone screen, sat in a little armchair in the corner of his hotel room. When Cliff gets here, this will be their fifth hook up.
He could admit, it was exciting to keep this secret. He did feel like a traitor for fucking the enemy between games, but God did it make things more interesting. He was definitely the first to do something like this.
Hayden got up to do some stretches, leaving his phone on the chair. There was no need to stretch himself out, Cliff was the one to do that for him; he insisted every single time. The man had hands the sizes of hockey sticks, it worked out.
After Hayden's last nervous stretch, there was a knock at the door. Very light for the beast of a man that was behind the door.
Hayden stepped to the door, letting the man in. Hayden was worried that he would feel like a slum for wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but Cliff was stood in sweatpants and a hoodie. Nice.
"I told you we'd beat you today," Hayden started the conversation, plopping down on his hotel bed so he could send a smug look to Cliff through his lashes.
Cliff let out a breathy scoff which turned into a chesty choke into his elbow, head bobbing with it.
Hayden stared, forehead creasing between his brows at the man across from him. "It wasn't that funny."
Cliff sniffled, catching his bearings as he cleared out his throat with a syrupy cough. "You're n'dot fu'ddy."
"Uh," Hayden said, the initial heat in his stomach slowly departing. "Why the fuck do you sound so weird?"
Cliff blinked, expression stone on his face as he eyed Hayden. "My tea'bm has a cold," Cliff paused to wipe his nose with a little crumpled tissue from his pockets that looked like it got passed around the whole team. "'S why you bea'dt us today. Go'dt off easy."
Hayden's eyes flickered somewhere else in the room, trying to make sense of the given information. "So you thought it would be a great idea.. to still come here? For sex? Are you kidding me?"
"Wha'dt?" Cliff mumbled, looking uncharacteristically sheepish as he attempted to catch Hayden's eye again. "I do'dn't see the pro'ble'bm."
"You don't see the problem?" Hayden mimicked with a hiss, truly dumbfounded. "I don't wanna catch that shit!"
Cliff frowned, looking as if he just found out what contagion is. "We jus'dt wod'n't kiss. N'do biggie."
Hayden grimaced, throwing his arms in the air in frustration. "Are you fucking stupid?"
Cliff blinked, shifting his weight on his feet as he stood there, taking the insults. "N'do.. chill.."
Hayden scoffed, stretching across his hotel bed to open the window. Was it a requirement for the Boston Raiders to be obnoxiously unaware of how germs spread?
"There's no way we're having sex. I can't risk that," Hayden laid it out, glancing back at the bigger man. Cliff was looking down at Hayden's tummy from where his shirt had rode up to open the window, glancing back up to his eyes as Hayden turned.
"Fi'dne," Cliff murmured, shrugging a little. "Blowjob?"
"Fuck no," Hayden spat, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrists. "I don't want you snotting on my dick."
Cliff continued to frown, not a smile on his face the whole time he'd been in the room. "You give m'be o'dne, the'dn.."
"In your dreams, man," Hayden mumbled, blinking up at Cliff. Something in Hayden stuttered as he took a moment to look at Cliff's face. His eyes looked softer than usual. His nose was a comical shade of red, harsh against the tone of his skin. He looked.. lethargic. Worn out.
Hayden inhaled a big breath, feeling slightly guilty for how he'd treated the man who just wanted some attention. The man who drove himself here after losing a home game — with a nasty cold — just for Hayden. The man who hadn't spat an insult back like he normally would. "Have you taken something for your cold?"
"Mmbh," Cliff reached into the right pocket of his sweatpants, pulling out a little vial of DayQuil cold medicine. "Bee'dn ta'kging this."
Hayden swiped the medicine from the mans hand, reading over the label. Hayden frowned suddenly, looking up at Cliff through furrowed brows. "This expired in 2010. It's 2013."
"Oh, uhbm," Cliff sniffled, pursing his lips. "Whoops. Aha.."
Hayden shook his head a little, getting on his feet to look through his own bag under his bed. Thank god for choosing an overthinking best friend like Shane. Hayden got out what he was looking for, holding his bottle of Buckley's out for Cliff to see.
"Alcohol?" Cliff cocked his head at the Canadian medicine like a dog, sniffling thickly. "Right o'dn."
"Medicine," Hayden corrected, snapping off the cap as he hadn't had to open it yet. He poured some into the cup cap for Cliff, holding it out to the man. "Drink, like a shot."
"Ger'mbs.." Cliff mumbled as if it was a question, eyeing the cap.
Hayden frowned. "It's fine, I'll wash the cap." Fuck, Hayden was an asshole. Now the man was thinking about germs after being yelled at.
Cliff held the cap off Hayden, taking the medicine like a shot as told. He grimaced lightly, keeping hold of the cap. "I'll clea'dn i'dt."
"It's alright," Hayden murmured, taking the cap from Cliff's fingers. "Just.. lie down or something."
Hayden stood, stepping into the connected bathroom to give the cap a rinse. Once the cap was screwed back on, Hayden returned to see Cliff sat on the floor with his back against the hotel bed.
"I thought I told you to lie down," he mumbled, leaving the bottle of Buckley's on the desk by the television.
"I'bm good," Cliff replied, tightening the strings of his hoodie. "I go'dt n'datural pillows."
"Well, suit yourself," Hayden shrugged, seating himself on the bed next to where Cliff's head was. "So, your coach let you play like this?"
Cliff nodded, knuckling at his nose subtly. "Yeah, he did. Cap didn'dt wa'dnt any of us ou'dt. Coach listens to hi'bm."
"Man, fuck him." Hayden sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Rozanov is an asshole for that. And many other things, but."
"He's no'dt so bahhhd.. hh.." Cliff hitched a little, hands grasping at the neck of his hoodie so he could bring it over his nose. "hH-H'RRSSHHuu! uRRRSShhjjww! RJJDDZZ'HHWWGgh.."
"Jesus, shut the fuck up," Hayden hissed down at Cliff, eyes wide. "My teammates are next-door."
Cliff produced an unproductive sniffle, glancing up at Hayden with his hoodie still held over his nose. "So?"
"So, they'll recognize your sneezes!" Hayden spat, as if it was terribly obvious.
"They won'dt," Cliff scoffed weakly, feeling like a burden with every minute he spent in this hotel room. "Tha'dt's stu'bid."
Hayden stood to stretch out his stress, rubbing at his forehead. "I can't believe you played like this. You shouldn't play tomorrow."
Cliff shrugged, not feeling up for another argument tonight. "It's u'bp to Roz."
"He's your pal, right? Just talk to him or something," Hayden said, sitting himself back down on the bed.
Cliff sniffled, shaking out his hair. "Mm, yeah. He'd probably le'dt us to'bhorrow. Agai'dst Thham'bpa.. easy. Hh- hih! G'nna s'deeze," Cliff warned, blindly feeling around the floor next to him for his tissue. Cliff grabbed the first thing he felt under Hayden's hotel bed, shoving it up to his nose.
"No, no — not my — !"
"Ktt'rRRSHHwwGgh! Kihh'tssSHHRRgghh! Hih — hhHK'hiht'rRSHHDDJjzzw!" Cliff sneezed into the material balled up into his hands, his sneezing not allowing him to breathe between them.
"Oh my fucking god." Hayden mumbled somewhere behind Cliff, eyeing the man on the floor with a grimace.
Cliff coughed a little, taking the material away from his nose. He straightened out the material, realizing that it was a Metros shirt. The logo was now.. thoroughly used. Cliff let out a stuffy laugh at the sight of it.
"Man, fuck you. You're fucking disgusting," Hayden groaned out, moving off his bed. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?"
Cliff balled up the shirt so his mess was contained, keeping the shirt in his hand. "N'do, asshole! I trie'dt to b'he quie'dd." Cliff looked up at Hayden, his brown eyes shining under the cheap light.
Hayden let out a dramatic sigh, bending down to snatch the balled up shirt from Cliff's stupid hands. Hayden threw the shirt in a little plastic bag that he kept for laundry. "You should have told me to come to you or something. I would have declined, but it's better than going out sick."
Cliff stretched his legs out on the floor, rolling his ankles. "I ha'be two roo'b'ates."
"Can't afford a place of your own?" Hayden chirped, eyeing the man on his hotel floor.
Cliff shrugged, closing his eyes for a moment. "I pay their ren'dt. M’by brothers," Cliff babbled, not looking at Hayden. "-a'dt tuitio'dn."
Hayden blinked, not expecting that. They never talk about anything personal with each-other. "Why would you do that?"
Cliff blinked, lazily scrubbing at his nose. "'Cuz I wan'dda? They're m'by brothers. I a'bm rich."
Hayden shifted his weight on his feet, taking in the information. "That's.. nice of you. Surprisingly."
"I ca'd be nice, you know tha’d," Cliff mumbled with a sniffle, stretching out his weirdly long arms. "You live alo'de?"
Hayden gave a nod, adjusting his shirt on his shoulders. "Got a place in Montreal.. obviously. Close to the rink."
Cliff made a little noise in his throat, which Hayden took as a scoff. Before Hayden could retaliate, Cliff was hitching again. Oh. So he wasn't scoffing..
Hayden winced, anticipating the loud sounds before they started. Cliff continued hitching, hands shielding his face.
After about 30 seconds of pure hitching, Cliff groaned, hands dropping down to his lap. He looked weirdly humiliated. "Los'dt it."
"Bummer," Hayden snickered a little, rubbing the back of his neck. "Do you usually sneeze this much with colds? Or, try to?"
Cliff nodded, puffing his cheeks. "Fu'gck, nor'bally a lot more. This o'de has me stuffed."
Hayden hummed in thought, feeling guilty for being such a bitch to Cliff. He couldn't help it. "Remember our first meeting? The hotel bar. Nashville."
Cliff grinned a little, recalling the event. "Mmh, yeah. Yu'bp. Wha'd abou'd it?"
Hayden rubbed at his chin, eyeing his suitcase. "I was wearing that one cologne.. you hated it. Remember? We had to go outside to talk because you got all.." Hayden trailed off, making a gesture to his nose.
Cliff bent his knees to plant his feet on the floor, patting his knees. "Tha'dt was stro'g s'duff!"
Hayden pursed his lips. "Well, I have that in my suitcase. I still wear it sometimes, not around you though."
Cliff eyed Hayden's suitcase, not able to catch up. "Okay.. n'diceee.."
Hayden scoffed a laugh, shaking his head a little. "Nice? Fuck, do I have to spell this out for you?"
Cliff blinked up at Hayden like a wet rat in a cold alleyway, looking back at Hayden's suitcase. "Oooh.. it, uh. You wan'dt to — hel'bp?"
Hayden nodded, eyes wide with sarcasm. "You're so smart. So smart."
"Fucki'd bully," Cliff mumbled, shaking his head. "Okay, wha'dever. How do we do t'hhis?"
"Alright," Hayden took a breath. "Just — get on the bed. Take off your disgusting outside clothes."
Cliff frowned, looking down at his outfit. He started toeing off his shoes, pulling his hoodie over his head. Cliff moved himself up to sit on the bed once he was left in his sweatpants and black vest.
Hayden was crouched over his suitcase, holding the cologne in his hand. Ralph Lauren Polo Black. "Wait, shit, I don't wanna mess you up even more or something. Will your throat swell?" Hayden eyed Cliff, standing straight with the cologne in hand.
Cliff shook his head, lapping his dry lips. "N'do, it won'dt swell. C'mo'd. Hel'bp me."
Hayden made a sound of contentment, stepping into the bathroom to get a spare roll of toilet roll for.. the inevitable mess.
"I know this isn't what you had in mind when coming here, but," Hayden said, coming out of the bathroom to step to the bed. "You'll probably feel.. way better. Hopefully."
Cliff sniffled, sitting crisscrossed at the head of the bed. Hayden moved to sit at the centre. Cliff eyed the man in-front of him, the closest they had been all day.
"Alright, you ready?" Hayden asked, putting the roll of toilet roll between them. The cologne was beside Hayden.
Cliff squinted. "Will you co'blai'd about the 'doise?"
Hayden shrugged, shaking his head. "I don't even think the guys are in their rooms. Probably out.. partying or something. It's Boston."
"So I won'dt ge'dt yelled at agai'd.. n'dice."
Hayden made a face at that, reaching for the cologne. "Alright. Let's do it."
Cliff nodded a little, watching as Hayden spritzed the cologne on his wrist, neck, and t-shirt. "If it gets too much, just hop in the shower. There's a bunch of towels, it's crazy."
Cliff hummed, nodding although not really taking in the information. Their knees were practically touching now.
Cliff leaned in, taking a sniffly whiff of the crook of Hayden's neck.
"Whooohkay. Bold," Hayden mumbled, feeling Cliff's nose against his neck.
Cliff leaned back into his prior position, producing a little sniffle. "Uuf, yeah. I'b feeli'g i'dt."
"Sensitive." Hayden noted, surprised by how fast it hit.
Cliff ducked his head, giving his nose a little rub to satisfy the itch. The squelch that sounded throughout the room made Hayden feel almost sympathetic. The man sounded absolutely miserable.
Cliff desperately reached out, snatching some toilet roll and cupping it over his nose and mouth. "hHH' H! Hh — hHHHRRRUSHHhiue.. hooh.."
Hayden felt the bed shake with just one sneeze, raising his brows at the sight play out in-front of him. "Jesus, bless you. That's one."
Cliff blew his nose out in the same tissue, tossing it into the trash can he saw next to the bed. "Hh- hhHHI'DDTSShhh! H'RUSSSHHHooie! Agh, fu'gck!"
Hayden stared for a moment before quickly ripping more toilet roll for Cliff, passing him some. Cliff hadn't managed to cover that time, instead he baptised his own lap. Probably Hayden's too.
"Are you good?" Hayden mumbled, trying not to think about how he was in the spray zone. Cliff hadn't lifted his head.
"M'by ears are so fu'gging blo'ged.." Cliff managed, pressing the tips of his pointers into his ears.
Hayden reached out to grab his wrists, bringing the mans arms down from his ears. Pressing on them couldn't be good for him. "Hold your nose and swallow, they'll unblock. Hopefully."
Cliff obeyed, bringing a hand up to pinch his nostrils together. The man swallowed, followed by a quiver throughout his body. "Whoa, tha'dt was weird."
Hayden breathed out an amused sigh. "Did that work?"
Cliff nodded, closing his eyes from how much his nose tickled. He grabbed the toilet paper between them, ripping multiple squares off. "hHH! HHRRSHHOO! HrS!- HRRsshu! TDJJSHWW! HrR — RSSHWw!"
Hayden pursed his lips, watching as the man began to blow his nose again. "Jesus, you're worse than a zamboni. So loud."
Cliff smiled a little, taking a big breath. "I feel a little better."
Hayden nodded. "You sound better. I can actually comprehend what you're saying now."
Cliff sniffled lightly, shoving one of Hayden's knees. "Mm. Uh, thanks. For that."
"Yeah, whatever. It's cool," Hayden shook his head, making sure all of the tissues were in the trash. "You owe me a blowjob whenever you feel better."
"You bet." Cliff stretched out, flicking at his nose. "You were a little mean earlier, though."
"I can be meaner," Hayden scoffed, watching Cliff. "I'm.. yeah. I know I can be intense. You just — caught me off guard."
Cliff shook his head, pinching his nose. "Mm, that's fine. Your fuckin' cologne is still irritating me."
"Shit," Hayden moved himself off the bed, standing by the far wall. "Okay, I'm due a shower. Are you staying, or..?"
Cliff made a face, looking down at the trash can. "Ehh, nah. I should probably get home."
Hayden found himself nodding a little, although he didn't want Cliff to leave. "Ah. You got somewhere to be?"
Cliff hid a smile behind his hand, rubbing at his stubble. "No, not necessarily."
"I'll see you after my shower then." Hayden said, stepping into the attached bathroom before Cliff could muster a response.
—
After coming out of the shower, Hayden found Cliff curled up in the hotel bed.
"Make yourself at home, why don't you." Hayden snarked, fixing the towel tighter around his waist so he could bend down for his shirt.
Cliff peeped from the quilt, sniffling softly. "You took forever. Longer than a girl."
Hayden sent a lighthearted glare to the man, throwing on a Nike shirt. "I got a whole ass routine, alright? Shane helped me pick out some skin shit."
Cliff chuckled to himself, keeping watch over the quilt. "Yeah. You and your perfect skin. Perfect hair. Perfect everything. Get outta here."
Hayden threw his towel at Cliff, grabbing some sweatpants and boxers from his suitcase to wear. He never unpacks. "You get outta here."
Cliff rolled up the towel, tossing it to the foot of the bed. "C'mere."
Hayden obeyed, climbing into bed next to Cliff. Cliff handled Hayden, turning the man over by his waist so they were spooning.
Hayden was the first to talk after a while of comfortable silence. "This is really gay."
Cliff took a breath, rubbing his nose against the crook of Hayden's neck. "We're gay. If you hadn't noticed."
"You're gay?" Hayden mumbled, voice audibly softening throughout the evening.
Cliff hummed behind him, sniffling quietly. "I don't care for a label."
Hayden took Cliff's hand, feeling the callouses on his palms from his years of weightlifting. "I.. yeah. I might be bisexual. Or the other one — pan? Pansexual?"
Cliff nibbled at Hayden's shoulder, sniffling over the area he bit. "I've never heard of that one."
"It's 2013.. get with the times, man," Hayden mumbled, bending Cliff's fingers one by one. "It's listed on that 'You Can Play' campaign thing."
"Huh," Cliff mumbled, fingers curling around Hayden's. He couldn't really come up with a response with his upcoming- "h'httDshx!"
Cliff stifled against Hayden's shoulder, arms tensing where they held the other man.
His Russian Weighted Blanket (Part 1/3) (H/eated R/ivalry, Shane)
This fic is for @feverfcking who is an awesome friend and SUCH a kind person; he surprised me with some INCREDIBLE art of my dog and I am forever honored and thankful for it!! Blake, thank you for being so generous and sweet and I hope you enjoy masked-up, run-down Shaney with a terrible cold and a worried husband 😘 (The Reddit formatting is terrible LOL but it was a fun experiment! I love making up hockey shit.)
Part 2
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🏒 r/OTTCentaurs · Posted by u/StreisandEfxt 1 hour ago
Shane Hollander Wearing a Mask at Scotiabank Centre
[Photograph of Shane Hollander walking through the player entrance of the arena wearing a grey sweatsuit and a black face mask.]
🗨 17 comments ➡️ Share ✔️Save 🙈Hide 🚩Report
~
m00seknuckle: FUCK
69_CAD: fuck…
rozanuts: TABARNAK
2481: [GIF of Dolo from S/horesy saying “Tabarnak”]
~
stillhollzyswife: he looks soooo tired, poor baby
rozanuts: “poor baby” and it’s a 200lb man
69_CAD: please, he’s a buck 80 at most.
rozanuts: your mums a buck 80 at least
~
sodahhhmb: Just heard the pregame interview, he sounds sick as fuck.
iguessedhollanov: Don’t mind me, just imagining Rozy bringing him tea and soup in bed…..
m00seknuckle: Found the fujoshi
2481: Why do I feel like Rozy is a big softie who’s amazing at taking care of Hollzy
StreisandEfxt OP: Uhhh, do you see the way they look at each other on the ice??? They live to cuddle with each other (and fuck nasty before and after, probably)
m00seknuckle: Found the other fujoshi
StreisandEfxt OP: Nah, I’m just a horny gay guy :)
~
MTLorBust: Metros fan skating in to say get well soon, Cap! We miss you 💕
Cens4PMs: This is so wholesome wtf
StreisandEfxt OP: liek dis if you cry evrytim (seriously though, this made me smile.)
—————
Pierre Beaulieu @ hockeytalkie:
Hearing that Shane Hollander was scratched right before warmups due to illness #OTTCentaurs
—————
Earlier that morning…….
“You should not go to practice today.”
Shane whirled around from where he’d been picking out a shirt from his dresser to wear to the rink. “Uh, what?”
Ilya, still sitting in bed, looked deadly serious, like a psychic warning away from impending disaster. “You are getting sick, lyubov moya. See, your voice sounds terrible. And your breathing is off.”
Bewildered, Shane let out a breathless laugh. “How -snf- could you possibly know that? I’m not even standing by you.”
“I can just tell. Come here,” Ilya said, and Shane felt his body automatically obey. He sat on the edge of the bed and let Ilya study him like he was a cheese-focused lab rat getting zapped with electricity. Shane felt his cheeks flush as Ilya scanned him up and down with a frown, feeling, absurdly, like he’d done something wrong. Ilya noticed Shane’s discomfort and put a hand to his thigh, his blue eyes softening. “I just want to check on you, sweetheart. Make sure of how you are feeling.”
“I’m fine,” Shane said. Well, he’d thought he was fine...for about five seconds after he’d first woken up. Then the ache in his head, the burn in his throat, and the stuffiness in his nose had hit him full force. Now, he absentmindedly pressed two fingers into his temple, feeling it throb against his touch. Ilya reached up, gently brushed Shane’s hand aside, and rubbed his thumb lightly over the same spot. “Is it very bad, your head?”
Shane let his eyes droop as his husband took his face in his hands and rubbed at his temples, then his cheekbones. He let out a little moan of relief, but Ilya didn’t smile at the sound. In fact, he looked quite concerned. Maybe even scared. “Is it like when you had your concussion…?”
“No,” Shane said firmly, which was the truth. This was less of a migraine-worthy pain and more of a dullness that he could tell wouldn’t be too bothersome. “I can play, Ilya.”
Ilya was quiet for a moment. They both knew that Shane could not miss a mandatory practice just because of a little headache - nor did he want to. He would automatically be benched, and Shane would rather die than be a healthy (or, in his case, “healthy”) scratch. Plus, he was looking forward to tonight’s game against Calgary after last game’s line brawl. (Ilya had looked sexy as fuck with some other guy’s blood on his jersey.) The season series was 2-1 Calgary and Shane was itching to even it out. Even if he had to do that with a little bit of sinus pain.
“Okay,” Ilya finally acquiesced. “But I get to put you to bed for our nap the second we come home.”
“You do that anyway.”
“Then I will do it extra this time. I’ll grab you by the waist —” he did just that, and Shane laughed with an “Ilyaaaa!” “—and fling you onto the bed.” He very gently guided Shane’s body downward towards the mattress, then climbed on top of him and started kissing his neck. “Ilyaaaa,” Shane said again, between more peals of laughter. “We have to gooooo. Go get changed, you weirdo…mmnh,” he moaned as Ilya began to kiss and lick and suck at a sentitive spot. Abruptly, Ilya hopped up and left a flustered Shane panting and laying with his legs spread wide open on the bed. “Preview,” Ilya purred as he stuffed his luscious ass into a pair of track pants, “for later. If you are a good boy and promise to rest when we get back.”
Shane had never been more excited to rest in his life.
——
Shane’s first sneezes of the day came in the car.
“tshhh’ew! hh’kisshhu!”
“Bud’ zdorov,” Ilya said, and when Shane emerged from where he’d buried his face in his elbow he saw Ilya looking at him with naked worry on his face. Blushing from the intensity of the attention, Shane began digging in his pockets for tissues but realized that he’d left them in his bag in the trunk. Shit. He felt like he was going to start sniffling sooner rather than later, and they had another ten minutes before Shane could duck into a room at the practice rink to blow his nose in private.
He was debating whether he should allow himself to sniffle back his growing congestion or - shudder - wipe his nose on his sleeve when Ilya handed him a pack of travel tissues from his pocket. Shane took them with a soft “Thagk you” and blew into one, surprised at how quickly the tissue became soaked through. He stuck it into his jacket pocket as Ilya leaned over (while they were stopped at a red light, thankfully) and pressed a kiss into Shane’s hair.
As they turned the corner into the parking lot, Shane, who’d been staring into space for a bit, suddenly needed to grab a tissue from the pack against an enormous itch that had somehow started between his eyes and moved its way downward. As his breath hitched, the tissue got stuck on the sealing sticker and tore in two, and Shane was only left with a few measly scraps to hold to his nose as he—
Fuck. The tickly, spraying sneezes had practically turned the tissues into pulp in his hands. And now he was coughing, turning his body as far from Ilya as he could to choke out a fit into his shoulder. He felt icky as hell from the dampness in his hands and the pressure in his chest and the fact that his nose was still. Fucking. Dripping. A wad of tissues were pressed into his hands, and he took in a deep breath and blew his nose messily, a few extra coughs slipping out in between blows. He stayed hunched over for a moment, blinking back tears, when he registered a warm hand rubbing his back and something being said in a soft, lulling tone. Ilya.
Shane blinked the last of the blurriness out of his eyes and turned towards his husband, who was murmuring so quietly in Russian that Shane couldn’t even guess what he must have been saying. His expression was an agonizing mix of concern and affection, and Shane could hardly look at him without feeling overwhelmed by the love he saw there. It was exactly how he himself felt about Ilya, laid bare on the other man’s face.
“Bozhe moy,” Ilya exclaimed, face back to doing that frowny-thing that made Shane feel like he’d fucked up somehow. Ilya’s not unhappy with you, he told himself, he’s unhappy that you don’t feel good. “God bless you, honey.”
“Tha—hgkm—thank you,” Shane replied, having to clear his croaky throat. Jesus Christ, he felt like a mess and definitely looked like one too. But…the boys had seen much worse. So he sighed and took off his seatbelt - he hadn’t even felt the sensation of Ilya putting the car into park - and forced a smile as best he could, which probably meant that his teeth were bared. “Big game tonight, eh?”
“Shane—”
“Can you pop the trunk? I’ll grab our bags.” Shane got out of the car before Ilya could say anything. Ilya didn’t pop the trunk, instead making Shane wait in the infuriatingly bright sunshine as he came around and unlocked it manually, blocking Shane and grabbing the bags himself.
Shane opened his mouth to argue but Ilya came up very close to him and whispered in his ear, “Let me do this for you.” Shane’s heart flip-flopped, and he nodded. Ilya kissed the top of his head and they headed inside, waving at some of their teammates along the way, both looking forward to the nap they were going to take together later.
Three Times S/hane Hid Something from I/lya, and One time I/lya Helped Him
+ One: The Assist
part one, part two, part three, part four
at long last I bring you the culmination to this series (excepting the epilogue of course which will be next), with a refreshing theme of teamwork and communication rather than my typical angst and misunderstandings (although there is still an angsty undertone, because I'm incapable of leaving it out entirely).
I hope you enjoy! ♡
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 8.7k
cw: sneezing, general illness, anxiety, mentions of injury
Ilya woke first again, blinking in the mid-morning sunlight as his eyes alit on Shane curled into a tiny ball halfway down the bed, gripping onto the covers in his sleep like the Russian would try to drag them away. He was breathing through his mouth, rasping short breaths like he had just exerted himself, though the lines the comforter had left imprinted on his face attested that he’d been sound asleep for hours.
The blond let himself take in his boyfriend’s form for a few moments, noting the signs of illness, exhaustion, distress, estimating just how tired, symptomatic, and anxious he’d be when he awoke, and then swung his legs out of bed, stretching and grabbing his phone to check the time. They had three hours until Shane’s parents would arrive.
He padded softly back to the master bedroom, stared at himself in the mirror again as he stepped out of his boxers. He looked horrifically tired. He felt horrifically fucking tired. After this, they would both sleep for a week straight, he decided.
With a yawn, he turned the shower on, stepping in and letting the cool water run over him. Sharing a bed with his very feverish boyfriend all night had left him seriously overheated and clammy, though he couldn’t tell if it was his sweat or Shane’s that had left his skin with a tacky sheen.
He lathered up soap in his hands, starting to massage it into his skin, watching as the bubbles were washed away just as quickly as he swiped them across himself. Ilya took extra time with his upper body, an ache throbbing in the back of his neck from the awkward angle he’d spent most of the night in, sitting up to watch over Shane, and the acidic, throbbing tenderness in his shoulder that always arose in recent injuries when he was stressed or sick or sleep-deprived.
His shoulder was the latest victim, having taken a puck right under the padding at one of the final games of the season, injuring the joint badly. He’d stayed out, though, god knew they needed him to, up until the point where he’d hit the boards with another player on top of him and his shoulder had given up the ghost and dislocated. Even then he’d only missed the last two minutes of second period, and returned with a relocated arm and a taste for the blood of the opposing enforcer in the third. And they’d won.
Ilya dug his fingers into his trapezoids, drawing firm circles in the tense muscle, thumb only grazing over the outside of his shoulder as he worked, mostly willing the pain away. It was almost fully healed, and he wasn’t eager to interfere with that by kneading the ligaments the wrong way.
He snorted in aggressively, morning congestion finally beginning to shift as the steam from the shower filled the room. Predictably, a tickle arose in the absence of the blockage, Ilya watching his distorted reflection in the fogged up faucet contort as his face scrunched and his nostrils flared. He kept his hands on his shoulders, losing focus on the itch as he hit a particularly tense spot close to the base of his neck.
Moments later, though, his fingers stuttered to a halt as his attention was sharply ensnared by the actualization of the tickle, eyes slamming shut as his breath wavered.
“hKK! hKk! Kkh! hKSH! hKSHuh!-” He squared his stance, making sure he wouldn’t be knocked over by the coming sneezes, continuing to press his fingers into his upper back, jerking forward with each tiny expulsion, as though imitating the shower head in front of him. “-hKSHh! hihHKSHh!” Ilya snorted again, fighting the approaching threat of emptying his sinuses all down his face, “hAHSCHhUH! ASCHhOo!” The final two sneezes were directed upwards, the blond forcing his head to remain tilted back as he sprayed the tiled wall, keeping the contents of his face where they were until he was finished with his massage.
Accordingly, once he’d loosened his taut muscles and washed his hair and face, Ilya gripped his nose halfway up, pressing on alternating nostrils and blowing forcefully, emptying himself out into his palm, and then allowing the evidence to be washed away before turning off the water.
He wrapped a towel around his waist, using another to swipe his upper body dry enough to slap an antihistamine patch on, on his stomach this time, not wanting to garner questions from Yuna and David. Then he stepped back into the bedroom, intending to walk through and check on Shane, but having his mission immediately voided as he found his boyfriend tugging at the rumpled bedsheets, trying, with little logic or technique, to strip the bed.
“Good morning.”
Shane looked up. “Can you help me? I should have done this last night.”
He looked calm, lucid and focused, but Ilya could tell that he was terrified, and barely even present. There was an underlying air of panic that he couldn’t help but sense immediately, though it was absent from the brunet’s tone, and his face. Also his gaze hadn’t strayed to Ilya’s shower water dropleted abs for even a single second, so clearly something was wrong. Hollander had never had that kind of willpower.
“Yes.” Was his only reply, deciding to take things slow, let Shane explain what he was feeling and why in his own time.
The blond walked quickly to the closet to grab some clothes, dressed himself, and then met him at the opposite side of the bed, patiently starting to untuck the sheets from the mattress, and strip the comforter, as his boyfriend collected the bedding and struggled to accumulate it all into a manageable bundle in his arms. He wasn’t thinking straight. Maybe he wasn’t thinking at all. Normally, Hollander moved with logic, organisation, forethought. He would have stripped the sheets top to bottom, folding each item as he went, moving the pillows and comforter out of the way to get to the next item. This approach was haphazard, distracted, like he was trying to divert himself from some underlying anxiety, with a task he couldn’t even seem to perform on autopilot right now.
Eventually, the bed was stripped, and Shane started off in the direction of the laundry room, sheets trailing behind him like a wedding veil. Ilya let him go, heading through to the other bedroom to pick up his phone, and the thermometer, slipping it into his pocket so he wouldn’t forget to check. As he walked back into the corridor, he could still hear Shane shuffling through the house, apparently not having made a whole lot of progress in the time it had taken the Russian to make the short detour.
He’d just entered the kitchen when there was a loud thump from near the front door. Adrenaline spiking, the blond ran in the direction of the sound immediately. As he rounded the corner, he saw, to his relief, that the Canadian was still upright, though he’d inexplicably dropped all of the bedsheets in a pile at his feet. Before Ilya could say anything, though, the brunet snapped forwards, away from him.
“hEHTDSHh! hihESHHew!” Ilya could hear the sound ricochet off his cupped hands, and stared curiously at the back of his boyfriend’s head as he stepped closer. That was…unusually careless of him. Normally he could predict, and to some extent control, his sneezes, giving himself enough time to acquire something to cover with. Something deemed more suitable than his bare hands.
“God bless you.” He announced himself.
Shane turned. “Sorry.” He gestured at the sheets at his feet, and then flexed his palms towards the blond guiltily. “I couldn’t do both.”
“Is fine.” Ilya stepped deftly to one side, snagging a couple of tissues from the box on the hall table- an addition Shane had definitely made for his sake- and holding them out, pre-empting the expression of self-disgust that the brunet’s face took on as he observed the way his palms glistened in the sunlight.
The Canadian took the tissues, cleaning off his hands, and pressing them between his palms, balling them up absent-mindedly as he stared into space, original mission forgotten in favor of letting himself be carried off on some other train of thought.
Ilya moved slightly closer, purposefully slow, but still somehow managing to startle his boyfriend out of his trance, the brunet’s eyes dropping down to the pile of laundry discarded on the floor of the front hall with a frown.
“Right. I’ll take these…to be washed.” He still looked slightly confused by his purpose, and the Russian took his hesitation as an opportunity to retrieve the condensed ball of tissues from his hands, so that it wouldn’t accidentally get thrown in with the sheets.
“Okay.” He at least trusted him to do the laundry by himself. “I will make breakfast.”
…
Ilya watched Shane not watching the TV as the brunet fiddled absently with the hem of his shorts. The Russian had heard a car pull up on the driveway almost two minutes ago, but it appeared that his boyfriend hadn’t, either too lost in his own thoughts or his hearing muffled by the illness. He seemed anxious, but not imminently so, eyes fixed on the screen, not flitting in the direction of the door as Ilya found his own gaze doing.
Not wanting the brunet to be startled, he reached out a hand, laying it on the nape of his neck. Shane looked at him immediately, eyes suddenly attentive and focused.
“I think your parents are-”
There was a knock at the door. The Canadian sprang to his feet with a soft gasp. For a moment, his face contorted as though he had to cough, but he swallowed hard, ran his tongue over his lips, and straightened his shirt, pushing the sensation down as he ran through the motions to make himself presentable.
Ilya stood up too, brushing a thumb over his boyfriend’s cheek, subtly double-checking that the meds he'd taken at breakfast had brought his fever down. “You are okay?”
“Please don’t ask me that right now.” Shane said tightly.
“Okay. You remember the signal?”
“Yes.”
The brunet side stepped him before he could ask any more questions, climbing the stairs, crossing the kitchen and pausing just before he’d reach the sight of the front door.
Ilya followed him, placing a hand on the small of his back, but saying nothing. Shane took a deep, slightly shaky breath in, muttered something that sounded slightly self-contemptuous, and moved forward to open the door.
“Hello.” He said, the picture of unreadable neutrality, stepping back to let his parents inside.
“Hello, darling.” Yuna crossed the threshold first, pulling her son into a brief hug and smiling over his shoulder at Ilya. “Hi, Ilya, how are you?”
“Good, thank you.” He stood awkwardly, waiting, as she moved forwards to hug him as well. He loved it, loved the affection he'd missed out on for so long, but that didn’t mean he was used to it. “How was drive?” The question was directed at both of them, David also having entered now, and handed off a bottle of wine to his son, with a muttered “It’s mostly for your mother and I, I assume.” at his slightly dubious look.
“It was great, beautiful weather for it.” He responded as Shane shut the door behind them, Ilya leading the way into the kitchen.
“Yes, we sit outside for lunch?” He offered, feeling his boyfriend’s hand on his arm, a soft warning. Don’t push yourself for my sake.
…
They were sitting in the living room, Shane and Ilya on one side, Yuna and David on the other, peacefully catching up before the preparation of lunch would have to begin.
“I read an article about it,” Shane’s mother was saying, “and there’s some speculation that-”
“Sorry, excuse me for a minute, I forgot to empty the washer.” Shane interrupted suddenly, standing.
“You should do that now.” Ilya backed him instinctively, knowing that this wasn’t about the sheets. “Before clothes go… gross.”
“Uh, okay.” Yuna looked thrown for a moment, watching her son exit the room and jog across the kitchen with an urgency that seemed unwarranted for laundry, before returning to her story, “Anyway, Ilya, I don’t know what you’ve heard about it-”
He listened to her explain whatever conspiracy was currently making the rounds regarding the league, how it could affect either of the two of them, and what she’d thought and done and said to David about it. He assumed that Shane actually would go and take the laundry out of the washer, knowing how much he disliked lying, and also knowing that he’d put the wash on several hours ago, without having returned to it, Ilya remaking the bed with fresh linen once it looked like the sheets wouldn't be dry in time. But what had called him away so urgently?
The conversation moved on. Ilya did not.
“So, you had a fair season, didn’t you? Really whipped Ottawa into shape. They’re starting to get quite good under your leadership.”
“Yes.” Ilya said flatly, looking at the two of them without really seeing. “Is good.” All he could think about was Shane, probably hunched in the furthest corner of the bathroom, sneezing in jerky little bursts with his nose held in that death grip that always looked so painfully remorseless, muzzling himself into silence. And for who? The three people in the world who cared about him most? It made no sense to Ilya.
“Not as good as Boston, though.” Yuna probed.
“Mm.” She could have said absolutely anything at that moment and he’d have agreed, mentally setting himself a timer for how long he would leave his boyfriend to his own devices before he let himself check on him. Five minutes? Seven? He barely gave enough of a fuck about manners not to go right now, but he could already hear Shane’s hissed reproach, “You left them on their own to check on me? Now they’re going to know that something’s wrong!”
“Does that bother you?”
“Yuna.”
“What? I just want to know where his head’s at.”
“Does not bother me.” Ilya interjected. “I like challenge.” He had no concept of whether the move bothered him or not, currently. He had no concept of anything except Shane. The blond was merely allowing the conversation to follow whatever path it would, giving instinctive answers while he allowed the rest of his brain power to be devoted to his boyfriend's suppressed suffering several rooms away.
They discussed more of the ins and outs of the season, though Ilya had no idea which ins or which outs, almost treating the conversation like an interview, agreeing with whatever he was asked to corroborate, spitting out the same few talking points, short circular sentences that made it sound like he'd recently suffered a concussion.
Just as he was bracing his hands against the edge of the couch to get up, familiar footsteps re-entered the room, Ilya's shoulders dropping immediately as the tension of his Schrödinger's boyfriend situation was resolved. Hollander was both alive and dead until Ilya could lock eyes on him again.
Shane padded over and sat down next to him, listening attentively to his mother explaining exactly why a goal that Ilya hadn’t even been on the ice for, which had been waved off, had in fact been a goal, and should have been treated as one, and how that would have affected their season overall. It was actually a kind of fascinating hypothetical.
He glanced subtly over at his boyfriend, who looked, miraculously, much the same as when he’d left. No redness around his nose, no bloodshot eyes, same clothes, same hair, same man. But Ilya knew something had happened. And it was driving him crazy to not be able to ask.
…
Twenty minutes of casual conversation later, Ilya glanced at his watch. “I will start lunch.”
He stood up, Shane standing with him. The brunet’s gaze turned distant, face imperceptibly paling. Ilya reached over, fisting a hand in the back of his boyfriend’s shirt, where his parents couldn’t see.
“Maybe you move outside? Is so nice.” The blond said, voice smooth and calm, and pointed in a way that only Shane could hear. He leaned in, kissing the Canadian on the cheek, and muttering “Fresh air.”
The brunet nodded, blinked. “Right, yeah. We can go sit outside.”
Ilya let him take the steps first, under the pretence of pausing to check his phone. But his eyes never left his boyfriend’s back as he walked, ready to spring forwards and catch him at any second.
His vigilance was unnecessary, as it turned out, but he would much rather have been vigilant than careless, and let his boyfriend collapse halfway up the stairs right in front of his parents.
The Russian watched the three of them walk out onto the patio, making their way to sit at the table, Yuna and David facing the water, Shane facing the opposite way. Ilya watched him stare blankly at the glass, knowing his boyfriend was looking back, but unable to see the blond through the sun glancing off the windows.
He frowned, before turning to the fridge, retrieving the ingredients Shane had had him collate the day before, some extremely boring salad that inspired absolutely no appetite in the blond. He placed them on the counter before returning to the fridge to retrieve a cola, opening the can and taking a long sip of the cool, bubbly liquid, before setting it down beside the ingredients and setting a frying pan on the heat.
He was too in the flow of cooking to notice the door sliding open again, masked by the sizzling of mushrooms in the pan. He only became aware that he wasn’t alone when he took a few steps away from the oven and heard something from behind him.
There was a soft noise, a tiny displacement of air like half of a hiccup, and Ilya turned to see Shane standing a few steps past the doorway, pouting absently at nothing. At Ilya’s questioning look, he smiled tightly and started walking towards the fridge.
“I’m just grabbing a drink for mom.”
The blond caught his arm as he went past, pulling him in to face him. “What happened?”
Shane’s pout was back, accompanied this time by glistening tears in the corners of his eyes. “I bit my tongue.”
Ilya winced sympathetically, connecting the dots in his mind. “Sneeze?” Shane nodded his confirmation, Ilya’s heart breaking at the regret on his face. “Budʹzdorov, lyubimy. I’m sorry. Does it hurt still?”
He shook his head before butting it into the Russian’s shoulder. “I hate this.” He whispered.
“I hate it too.” Ilya inched them closer to the fridge, hands around Shane’s waist. “I want to wrap you up like tiny burrito and kiss you-” He paused to press a kiss into the brunet’s hair, “-until you are better.”
“I wouldn’t be a tiny burrito.” Shane corrected as Ilya tugged the fridge door open. “Burritos are usually smaller than me.” What fucking burritos had he seen that were bigger than him?
“Okay. Get drink before they wonder what we are doing in here.”
“Ugh.” The Canadian stared out through the windows at his parents’ backs, Ilya feeling his boyfriend's muscles tense up under his hands. “What if we just hid in the bedroom and never came out?”
“We starve.” Ilya’s gaze drifted to the salad ingredients and he wrinkled his nose slightly. “Maybe we starve anyway.”
Shane paid him no heed, still in his own head. “That’s awful of me, though. They love me, and I just- God, why can’t I just be normal?” He thunked his head against his boyfriends chest.
The blond frowned, surprised. “What?”
“I don’t know.” He straightened and sniffled, retrieving the drink and nudging the door closed. “I just feel ungrateful.”
Ilya pressed the back of his hand to the side of Shane’s face. He was slightly warm. They’d dosed him up as close to the time of arrival as possible, obviously, and he had been sitting in the sun out there, but still, it made the Russian uneasy.
Shane pulled away with another little sniff, eyes focused out the window again, checking his parents hadn’t seen the brief check-up.
“You should blow your nose.” Ilya commented. “You are sniffly.”
“Can’t.” Shane started back towards the door. “Don’t want to set myself off again.”
And from the look on his face, the previous time he’d ‘set himself off’ had been bad. Disquietude crawled under Ilya’s skin like a parasite, wondering how much his boyfriend was inhibiting himself from divulging, not wanting the blond to visibly worry while his parents were here.
He pulled the pan off the heat, retrieving a large bowl to mix the salad in, filled with an overwhelming sense of triviality. The complete inanity of having to make this fancy, disgusting meal, and talk about the season, and the summer, like everything was fine, when his boyfriend was enduring such discomfort. It almost made him angry. But if he was angry, he had no idea at whom. Because it felt seriously wrong to be mad at Shane right now. Like he was confirming the brunet’s deepest dread, fulfilling some awful anxiety-fuelled prophecy that Hollander had set for him, becoming the very thing he'd sworn to protect him from. So maybe he was just angry at the situation, or the salad, or the virus ravaging his boyfriend's body. That seemed like a suitable target for his rage.
…
Ilya shoved a forkful of leaves into his mouth, and stared angrily into his bowl as he chewed them. His angry stare could be easily written off as being the result of the glaring sunlight getting in his eyes, so he allowed himself to indulge.
“This is delicious, Ilya.” He looked up at Yuna's sunny smile. No, the fuck it isn’t.
“Thank you.”
He glanced at Shane, wondering if the brunet could even taste the food, wondering if he still found it appetising in his languescent state, wondering if there was something else he’d prefer. He seemed to be eating normally.
Several more forkfuls did nothing to quell his hunger, his stress over his boyfriend, or his body’s protest to their surroundings. An antihistamine patch, sometimes two if the count was high, usually kept his symptoms to a minimum, so long as they stayed indoors, or showered after going outside. The allergy was manageable. But manageable was entirely different from eradicable, even temporarily, and what he would consider to be unremarkable levels of sneezing and sniffling and scrubbing at his eyes, was probably markedly different to what would be considered unremarkable by Shane’s parents.
“Oh, by the way, Ilya,” Yuna said, “I know you were talking about a new sponsorship, and that they’d sent over a contract? If you wanted me to look over that, just to be sure they’re giving you everything you need, I’d be happy to.”
Ilya swallowed what felt like a mouthful of nondescript Canadian flora. “Okay, thank you. Sounds usefu-hh-l.” Something about speaking, maybe the vibration of the vocalisations, maybe the pause in breathing through his nose, had incited a fire about halfway up his nose, that he was quickly realising wouldn’t be easy to subdue.
He could see that the hitch in his breath had been noticeable, the other three all looking attentively at him in mild surprise, where Shane’s focus had previously been deep in his own bowl of assorted plants.
“hKK!-” He barely raised the back of his hand in time, crunching hard into his shoulder as he tried to shrink away from the table without leaving his chair. “-hKK! Kkh! hKSH! hKSHh! hhih…hrRSHH!”
“Bless you, darling.” Yuna patted the hand he’d left on the table.
“Thank you.” Ilya didn’t meet her gaze, electing to stare into his glass of water instead, as he straightened up.
That really should be it. One little fit, and he’d be fine for the rest of the visit. He didn’t want to make a scene, or rather, he didn’t need to. Although it could take some of this imagined heat off of his boyfriend… that would be the only thing that could induce Ilya to give in any further to his body’s little temper tantrum about the new environment it found itself in.
They finished the meal in calm silence, each allowing their gaze to wander across the beautiful landscape, Shane and Ilya both also throwing little concerned glances at each other every so often, when they were convinced that the other wasn’t looking.
Ilya debated whether he could get away with sidling back into the kitchen to grab himself something else to eat, craving slightly more substance than the meal had provided. He rubbed at his still itching nose with his knuckle, glancing up to see Shane looking at him intensely. Instinctively, he lowered his hand, assuming he was being chided for being impolite. But as he watched, Shane raised one hand open, fingers splayed, and held up the first finger on his other hand. He held the pose for barely a second, before his hands were back in his lap again. That was the signal. He needed them to leave.
Serendipitously, the tickle in Ilya’s nose was unfazed by his nervous system shifting towards fight-or-flight mode as the instinct to protect his boyfriend kicked in. He sniffed, and glanced up at the windows, letting the bright sunlight shrink his pupils and trigger that one misplaced connection in his brain.
An hour’s worth of pollen exposure, urged on by the purposeful enactment of his photic reflex, generated a tripping, sharp, staccato breath, that pulled the blond’s head back slightly, squinted eyes focused on the roof of the house as he ducked away from the table, against his forearm.
“Bless you.” Shane’s parents responded in synchronicity.
Ilya turned back, standing immediately with a sniffle and a wince. “Thank you. I have to…” He nodded towards the house nonspecifically. “Shane?”
“Uh sure, yeah.” The Canadian stood too, letting himself be taken by the arm as his boyfriend marched them both back inside.
…
“Are you okay?” Shane tried to turn to look at him, but Ilya was on an uninterruptable path to the bathroom, not pausing for a moment. He had his game face on. Like the exact expression that Shane had seen so many times during face-offs. Was this the plan he’d talked about? What the fuck was he going to do?
They made it to the bathroom, the blond shutting and locking the door behind them. He spun back to Shane with focused, attentive eyes.
“It is bad? You need them to leave?”
“I think so.” He bit his lip guiltily, wondering if he really did feel that bad after all. Maybe he’d just been sitting in the sun for too long. He could stomach a little more conversation, wait for them to open the wine his parents had kindly brought. Couldn’t he?
“Okay.” Ilya reached out and took him by the arms, grounding him. “I can get them to leave.” He reached up to cup his boyfriend’s face reassuringly, but Shane saw the flicker of pain in his expression.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Is nothing. My shoulder. No big deal.”
“Yes, big deal. How long has it been hurting?”
“Since it got hit with puck.” He responded evasively.
“Il-” Shane broke off coughing, at first trying to choke it back, but then giving in, elbow pressed to his face, bending forwards. His throat felt chalky and raw, his lungs encumbered by mucus and fatigue, every inch of his respiratory system intent on dragging out this fit until it worked properly again. And who knew how long that would be?
There were firm hands on his back, two initially, but then one vanished and he heard the tap running. This time he couldn’t reject the water on the basis of its origin, no matter how much disgust it sparked within him. He raised his head, took the glass in a shaky hand, and downed it, horribly aware of its not-quite-cold, metallic-tasting nature.
“You are okay? You can breathe?” Ilya asked.
“Mm.” Shane didn’t really know he could. He just assumed. He was exhausted, the effort of being a person in front of his family, pretending not to be sick, and his body fighting this infection tooth and nail had completely drained him. He hardly had the energy to take a full breath, ending up with short, raspy half-breaths that made him lightheaded.
Ilya’s breathing was off too, now that he was listening to the breathing patterns echoing in the small room. The blond turned away slightly, one hand still on Shane’s upper arm, and scrubbed angrily at his nose, horrible clicking sounds emanating from the abused appendage.
The brunet watched through blurry, honeycombed vision. “I…Ilya.” He breathed, finding it impossible to put any real weight or power behind the word, despite the urgency that he knew he needed to convey.
“Yebat. One se-ehh-cond. Fucking Canad- ahKK! Kk! hKSH!-”
Shane could no longer really feel the bathroom tile beneath his feet. He had a sense that it had originally been a firm, reliable presence, pressing up against his soles with the same force that he’d been pressing down on it with. That was how physics worked, anyway. But now, it felt softer, like he was standing in quicksand, or clay, and the longer he stood there, the deeper he was sinking.
“-hKSHh! hiHSHh!-”
The sounds Ilya was making were starting to slow and echo in his ears, beyond the effects of the tile surrounding them, playing over and over until Shane wasn’t sure if the fit was still going, or if his ears were just stuck on a loop.
“Help?” He whispered, unsure if the sound even left his lips, if his lips even moved. But the blond turned back, squinting at him, even as his expression was pulled into desperate itchiness again.
And as Shane’s vision was swallowed by nothingness, and his legs were swallowed by the undulating mass of the tiled floor, and he found himself tilting forwards into the firm mass of Ilya’s chest, the last thing he heard, was a violently hitching breath, suddenly cut off, as though by extreme force.
…
When his eyes opened, meaningless colors swirling before them before solidifying into the familiar surroundings of his bathroom, he felt as though he’d been asleep. Like 8 full hours had just passed, like he’d had dreams.
“Shane.”
He twisted his neck to look up into his boyfriend’s steely gaze, brow furrowed, nose and cheeks slightly flushed. He went pink sometimes, when he panicked. It was something Shane had never actually mentioned, knowing that it would either make for a very endearing private moment, or a useful chirp, at some point in the future.
“How long?” He muttered, turning back to press his cheek into Ilya’s thigh again.
“A minute. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.” He started to push himself up, drawing his legs up until they were kneeling opposite each other. “Sorry I didn’t have much warning.” His head felt fuzzy and distant, like he was drunk, or overtired. It felt dangerous. He definitely couldn’t go back and face his parents like this.
“I should have noticed anyway.” Ilya frowned further. “How do you feel?”
“Dizzy. Uh…” He tried to think of another descriptor for the endless list of discomforts plaguing him. “I guess achy too.”
“Okay.” The blond pulled out his phone. Shane faintly wondered if he was going to call his parents in order to get them to leave, or if he’d just remembered a particularly important text that he had to respond to. Or if he was calling an ambulance? He really had only been out for a minute, right? “You will be okay for few minutes while I am talking to your parents?”
“Yes.” The Canadian huddled in on himself, suddenly slightly cold in his summer clothes, sitting on the cool tiled floor. He sniffled as Ilya scrolled through some app or another, blinking in discomfort as a sharp pain started in the back of his nose, making his eyes water.
Shane coughed softly, taken aback as his boyfriend’s gaze immediately snapping up to fix on his face.
“Why are you crying?”
“I’m not.” He swiped at his eyes, coughing again as the pain switched tracks and became a tickle. “Can you get the-” He gestured up at the counter they were kneeling next to, “-tissues down, please.”
Ilya stretched out obediently, retrieving the box and setting it down between them.
“Thanks.” He rushed the word out, tugging one free, folding it, and pressing it to his nose as he drew in a deep breath. “hTSHhh!”
“God bless you.” Ilya’s eyes stayed on his phone.
“hTDSHHh!”
“God bless you.”
Shane couldn’t reply, face so full of pressure and pain and itchiness that it was all he could do to drag another tissue from the box and fold it over the first, rushing it to his face as his breath caught again.
“hEHTSHH!”
“God b-”
“hEHTSHhew!”
Ilya looked up. “God bless you. What is-”
“HEISHh!”
Face flushing, the brunet grabbed another tissue, surprised and embarrassed at his own volume.
“hehh…hEh…”
His boyfriend shuffled forwards, placing a hand on Shane’s shoulder. “God bless you.”
He sniffled, panted, immediately stopped panting because it made him feel ten times dizzier, “hHh…”
“Is stuck?”
“YeahH…”
“Mm.” Ilya leaned closer, grazing the edge of the brunet’s nostril with the pad of a calloused finger. “You know, when you fell, I stop sneezing.”
The Canadian couldn’t reply, consumed by the tickle, and his boyfriend’s attempts to tame it into something actionable.
“I do not think,” The blond continued, tilting his finger so that the edge of his short nail ran along one side of his septum, “I have ever stopped in middle before.”
Shane absolutely did not give out a tiny moan, so fever-addled and uncomfortable that he couldn’t tell whether the salience was sexual or not.
“Once I start...” Ilya hovered directly in the centre of the brunet’s flaring nostril, letting his fingertip brush against the hairs, a powerful, concentrated itch building at the point of contact, and travelling through Shane's nose like wildfire, “I have to finish.”
“hyEHTDSHh!” Shane covered his entire face with the handful of tissues he’d been accumulating in preparation as his boyfriend spoke. “hEHTSHh! EHHTSHh! huhH…TSHh! tSHeW!”
“God bless you.” Ilya kissed him right at the hairline, one hand cupping the back of his neck.
The brunet swallowed thickly, tired and light and empty in the wake of the fit, blinking heavy eyes up at his boyfriend, only to see a phone screen, opened to some kind of website, held in front of his face. His vision was too blurry, from tiredness, the proximity, and the water that had flooded his eyes as he’d sneezed, to read any of the content.
“What?”
“You have looked, yes?”
“I can’t read it.”
“Good.” Ilya smiled at him mischievously as he stood up. “I come back. Stay here.”
“Wait, Ilya.” Shane sat upright, hand holding the tissues dropping into his lap. “What are you going to say to them?”
The Russian only shook his head, eyes locked on Shane’s until the door was closed all the way, and the brunet was alone in the bathroom.
…
He stepped out onto the patio slowly, arms folded and cradling each other at the elbow, walking around the table to where both Yuna and David could see him, serious as a surgeon coming to deliver post-op news.
“Ilya?” Yuna glanced around, noting the absence of her son. “Is everything alright?”
“Is…” He hesitated, feeling that looming, terrifying possibility of an unknown response. They could say anything right now. It didn’t really matter, because he was doing this for his boyfriend, not himself, and he didn’t care about what they thought of him. He definitely didn't care. He couldn't. But still. He had the unignorable sense that he was about to drop something precious between the slats of a sewer grate with his next words. “Is my shoulder. I hit last season.”
“I remember.” Yuna’s eyes were fixed on his upper arm, though David’s remained attentively on Ilya’s face.
“Has been not good, recently. I am not supposed to shock it, you know. But earlier…”
“You jolted it when you were sneezing?” She offered.
“Yes.” He admitted. He had, and it had hurt badly, but not reinjury badly. “Shane looks at emergency physio.” He nodded back towards the house, explaining the brunet’s absence. Not a lie. The page he’d shown his barely conscious boyfriend had been for an emergency physiotherapist that he’d seen like once in Boston, and had bookmarked on his phone ever since.
“Are you going to go to one now?” David asked.
“Trainer said go as soon as possible if is problem.” Also true.
“Okay, honey. Do you need anything? Do you want us to drive you?” Yuna stood up, moving closer to brush his curls back from his face.
“No, thank you. I think is fine.”
“We’ll get out of your hair then.” David collected the plates left on the table, a gesture Ilya was grateful for as he wasn’t sure he’d have remembered them otherwise, and headed back into the kitchen.
Yuna stepped in behind Ilya, a guiding hand on his back as though it were his legs or his eyes that had ceased to work. Shane’s father placed the dishes carefully in the sink, before moving back to where his wife and Ilya were standing on the other side of the kitchen island. The three of them stood there awkwardly for a moment before the blond realised they must be waiting for Shane. Fuck.
“Sorry we had to cut short.” He muttered, taking a tentative half-step towards the door.
“It’s not your fault, Ilya, darling, don’t feel you have to apologise.” She smiled, patting him on his non-injured shoulder. A small part of him was still surprised that she remembered which one it was that he’d hurt, that she’d been watching the game, and had cared enough to internalise the mechanism of injury.
“Okay.” He stared in the direction of the bathroom, wondering how he could explain his boyfriend’s absence in a way that wasn’t a complete lie, and settling for, “I do not think he is coming.”
He delivered the sentence with enough exhaustion in his tone to show he didn’t want to continue standing there waiting, but not enough that Shane’s parents would feel encouraged to go looking for their son in his stead.
“That’s fine.” David moved back towards the front door. “Tell him we said goodbye.”
“I will.” Ilya fought a relieved smile at the realisation that they were leaving. Every second that Shane was alone was another opportunity for him to cough himself unconscious again.
“Alright, honey, keep us updated. I hope the physio helps.” Yuna smiled, stroked his cheek softly, and then exited the door that her husband was holding open.
David left after her, “The salad was great, Ilya. See you soon, kid.”
“Bye.” He raised a hand, watching them walk to the car, before slowly shutting the door, and sprinting back to the bathroom as fast as he could without tripping.
…
Shane had gone back to lying down in his boyfriend’s absence. The tile was cool beneath him, and he shut his eyes, imagining himself laying on the ice in an empty rink, visualising the arena from the smooth white surface he lay on, all the way up to the rafters. It was a combination of many different arenas he’d played at, the layout shifting and changing around him as alternate settings arose in his memory. It was a very relaxing exercise. One of his favorites. With a sniffle, he shifted his position, trying to stop the ache the hard floor was imbuing in his bones. The sound echoed in the small space, breaking the illusion of the empty arena somewhat.
He shuddered slightly, suddenly a little cold. Shane wondered where Ilya was. Had his parents seen straight through whatever excuse he’d given? What if he hadn’t given one at all and was just straight-up telling them? Hadn’t he understood that this was an important area of non-disclosure for him? Should he get up and go help? Could he get up and go help? He inadvertently visualised himself rising to his feet on the isolated ice, and immediately slipping, and cracking his head off of the surface.
Shane frowned, trying to erase the image from his mind, only serving to make his mind expand to also begin to play Ilya crouching on the patio, gasping for breath, overexposed to the disagreeable Canadian air, cradling his injured shoulder as Shane’s parents watched on helplessly. He squeezed his eyes shut harder. Now his parents and Ilya were huddled together at the table, discussing Shane with anxious, disappointed tones, conspiratorial, careworn, critical.
“Shut up.” He muttered to himself.
Attempting to ground himself once again, he focused on the arena even harder. The cool air rising from the ice, the bright lights up above, the darkened stands… But as he visualised them, the stands filled with people. Everywhere he looked, every face he tried to make out, was one of his parents; his teammates; friends he used to play with when he was younger; players he hardly knew but still really looked up to; the first coach he’d had a real connection with; Ilya.
Maddened, the brunet visualised himself getting up to skate off. If he couldn’t picture himself on the ice in peace, then he’d picture himself in the tunnel, or the locker room, or locked in a bathroom stall. But again, his brain refused to imagine skates on his feet, and he was slipping, and slamming his face into the ice. And the crowd of people he cared about, gasped. And though he wanted to do anything else in the world, he found himself looking up, taking in all those concerned, worried, put-upon faces turned towards him. Stop it. Stop fucking looking.
“Stop it.” He whispered, the real sound silencing the imagined noise of the crowd, Shane grounded back in the silence of the bathroom again for a moment.
And then the door slammed open.
With wide panicked eyes, he looked up to see Ilya in the doorway, panting for breath.
“They are gone. Did you faint again?” He was on his knees in a moment, leaning over Shane upside down, smoothing hair from his face.
“No. It’s just colder down here.” He fought the urge to laugh at the odd angle.
Ilya's panic faded, affection taking its place. “You are too hot, moya sverkhnovaya?”
“Mhm.”
“Can you sit up?”
Shane didn’t respond, providing his boyfriend with the answer he needed by pushing himself carefully back up into a sitting position instead. When he met Ilya’s eyes the right way up, he saw how unbearably fretful he still looked.
“I’m okay.” He immediately tried to placate the blond.
“Good.” Ilya’s expression didn’t change, and he reached into his pocket to pull the thermometer back out. Shane’s mind skipped through a trifecta of awful scenarios where the device had fallen out in front of his parents and they’d had to explain it away, before flicking back to the present moment, his heartbeat maybe 10bpm faster for his trouble, and opening his mouth to take the thermometer in it.
The silence as they waited seemed to stretch on forever, the brunet watching his boyfriend rub absently at his nose, and after a moment, mirroring the action himself, breaking the stillness with simultaneous sniffles and clicks as their respective immune systems protested to the respective invasions.
Shane’s mind wandered again, his parents in the car, driving home, probably talking about how sullen and quiet he’d been that day, how he hadn’t helped Ilya with lunch, how he hadn’t said goodbye…
The thermometer beeped. Ilya took it.
“38 point-”He glanced up, face dropping suddenly, “Oh, vzglyani na sebya.”
The brunet blinked at the pitying tone, staring blankly at his boyfriend until the Russian plucked a tissue from the box on the floor and swiped at Shane’s cheek. Oh, he was crying. The realisation was confusingly slow, Ilya having made one full go over of his face with the tissue by the time the Canadian had processed what was happening. But then, with his cheeks newly dry again, the floodgates opened.
He raised his hands to cover his face, suddenly hiccupping and gasping for breath as the exhaustion of the day finally won over the last dregs of determined adrenaline, and he felt the ache deep in his bones, the painful tenderness of his skin, the weight and pressure of congestion in his head, and the itch that ran from his nostrils, all the way down his throat.
“Shane, Shanya, moye vse,” Ilya placed his hands on the brunet’s shoulders, leaning in closer, “What is it?”
“’m not okay.” He managed, between gasping breaths.
“I know, I see this, why?”
“Feel bad…my skin…and because I sent them away… and so hot… my body and… and fucking can’t even… I was so mean, ‘lya, so mean… bad fucking person… everything feels bad… every single thing… everything… feels… it feels bad.” He knew he was incoherent, barely able to form thoughts in his distressed state, let alone sentences, so he focused on the phrases that seemed relevant and would probably be easily understood by his boyfriend, intercutting the declarations with little groaning noises and writhing movements as he resisted the agonies that plagued him, emotional and physical.
“Alright, okay.” Ilya removed his hands, apparently noticing that Shane had enough going on right now, and didn’t need any extra anything on his body. “You are very overwhelmed, yes?”
“Yes.” The Canadian suddenly realised that crying was only making his face more uncomfortable, as the tears left his skin sticky and irritated, and the pressure in his sinuses was building tenfold. “It hurts, though. I want to stop.” He looked up at his boyfriend pleadingly. “Help me.”
A fresh wave of tears filled his eyes, despair amassing in his chest as he failed to stop himself from continuing to cry.
“What hurts? Stress? Or crying?”
Shane nodded at the second prompt, swiping angrily at his cheeks with the back of his hand.
“We take deep breath, okay? Watch me and copy.” He mimicked a deep breath in. The brunet tried not to glare at him. He didn’t want to breathe, it was going to hurt his lungs. He didn’t want to try and stop the feelings, he just wanted them to stop. He didn’t want to do a dumb breathing exercise, he wanted to be fucking sedated so his decelerated brain would stop spitting out nightmare scenarios in agonising slo-mo and freaking him out.
Against his own wishes, Shane mimicked his boyfriend and took a semi-deep breath in. It was shakier than Ilya’s and it did indeed hurt his lungs, and feel like having ice water dumped directly into his nervous system as the therapeutic effect of the tears dwindled. But the tears themselves did also start to slow.
He copied Ilya through three more breaths before his anxiety was usurped by antsy frustration. Apparently this change was visible on his face, too.
“Better?”
Shane nodded slowly. “Some.” He still felt like shit, and he still felt stressed and guilty, but there was only so much that breathing could do for you.
“You have fever. I get you medicine, then we go to bed.” Ilya reconsidered for a moment. “I get snack as well. You want something to eat?”
“No, I don’t think…no.” The brunet pressed his hands hard against the floor in front of him, trying to distract himself from the other sensations.
“Okay, fine. We go to bedroom first. And you are not,” Ilya placed his own hand in between Shane’s on the floor, getting his attention without touching him, “A bad fucking person. You are maybe only good person here.”
“Here? Canada?”
“No, cottage. Maybe Ottawa.”
Shane smiled weakly, regretful that he couldn’t quip back in some way, but his brain was just too slow, and before he knew it, Ilya was climbing to his feet.
“Come on.” He held out his hands to help him up.
…
Ilya stood in the doorway and watched his boyfriend cross the room towards the closet. He said nothing as Shane pulled out one of his own hoodies, stared at it with intensity that suggested that it was either speaking to him or covered with invisible text that Ilya couldn’t see, put it back, and retrieved one of the blond’s instead.
He said nothing as the brunet accumulated a full outfit’s worth of clothes and headed slowly back towards the bed. He said nothing as Shane dumped the clothes on the end of the bed Ilya had remade earlier, further antagonising his shoulder- not that he would be telling his boyfriend that-and started to shimmy out of his shirt.
But when he tried to strip off his shorts and started to stumble dangerously around the room, trying to keep his balance, Ilya stepped in.
“Sit. I will do it.”
The lack of protest from the Canadian momentarily spurred the thought in Ilya’s mind that he’d been acting that hapless on purpose to garner some assistance, but once he got close enough to start to help with the changing process, he could see how glazed over Shane’s eyes were, and knew this was no performance.
As he pulled the hoodie over his boyfriend’s head, the blond asked, “You could not go to bed in these-” He nodded in the direction of the discarded outfit at his feet, “-clothes?”
“No.” Shane responded firmly, muffled by the neck of the hoodie still half covering his nose and mouth, eyes barely visible enough to discern the disparaging glare he was directing at Ilya.
“Okay.” He didn’t bother to ask why not, unsure whether the brunet could actually express why at this current moment, and further unsure whether the answer would make sense to him on a regular day.
Hand hovering a small way from his boyfriend’s back just in case he lost his balance, Ilya shepherded him into bed, watching him snuggle into the sheets with an endeared half-smile.
Once it looked like Shane was comfortable, he let himself refocus on the things he had to do before he could join him in bed. Medicine was the first, then something more substantial for himself to eat, he’d need to check they had everything they’d need in the bedroom, make sure Yuna hadn’t messaged either of them seeking physiotherapy updates, and-”
Suddenly, his nose started to itch sharply again with an imminent need that he’d just barely noted before he was stepping back and dragging his shirt up over his face.
“hHAHKSHh! KSHh! KSHh! hhihKSHh! hRRSHHhOo!”
“Mm, bless you.” Shane snagged a tissue and scrubbed at his own nose in sympathy. “That’s the other half of the fit from earlier, right?”
The Russian was nonplussed. He’d never had a fit cut itself in half like that before so he had literally no idea if that was how it worked. “Maybe?"
…
One dose of medication for Shane and one suitable snack for Ilya, and they were both back in bed, the blond stripped naked in order to counteract the effects of his bundled-up, feverish boyfriend laying beside him.
The Canadian looked exhausted, Ilya watching as he brought a wavering elbow to his face, blinking haphazardly and involuntarily as he coughed, whole face puckering for the millisecond that each expulsion took over him. It was adorable, but it made him want to bite the brunet and suck out this illness like some kind of medicinal vampirism, spurred by his hatred to see the man he loved suffering in any way. And it almost seemed that Shane hated to be seen suffering just as much, he mused.
“I do not get it.” He voiced his thoughts on an impulse, prompting his boyfriend to look across in surprise.
“Don’t get what?” His voice was totally shot, thin and strained, while also being significantly deeper than usual, in a way that was borderline attractive to Ilya.
He knew the topic was a sensitive one, and the brunet was only just relaxed and medicated and lucid enough not to be crying over it on his own, so it was a risk to bring it up, but the thought weighed heavy and confusing on the Russian’s mind. “Your parents. They are nice, no? They are nice to you. They want you to be okay, but they are not mad if you are not.”
“Mm.” Shane could clearly see where this conversation was going.
“So why can they not see you like this?”
There was silence for a moment, while Ilya waited for an answer, and then waited for his boyfriend to start crying or hyperventilating or screaming, and then waited for a meteorite to fall from the sky and crush him where he lay to stop him from asking any more stupid questions.
“It’s really complicated.” The brunet said at last. “It’s not really their fault, I guess I just… I hate worrying people. I just want to be normal, I want to be okay, I want the people I love to feel happy and proud, not stressed and disappointed.” He sighed shakily. “There’s other stuff too, but I’m too tired right now. I guess basically it’s just that my brain sucks and my parents don’t.”
It was a lot for Ilya to process. There was a lot he wanted to say, to refute, obviously Shane was normal, and everyone was happy and proud of him, and illness didn’t spur disappointment in Ilya, though he’d known it to do that in other people, worse people, but he could tell, by the gradually increasing length of time the Canadian’s eyes remained shut each time he blinked, that now was not the time.
“I understand.” He said, slightly more truthfully now. “I hope you do not feel these things as much with me. Like you have to hide. Because I love you, and I do not want you to hide. Ever.” The exhaustion was contagious, it seemed, because as he leaned closer to press a kiss to the brunet’s temple, he felt a wave of exhaustion crash over him, slumping his head down afterwards to rest on Shane’s shoulder.
“I love you too.” His boyfriend slurred sleepily. “And I know I don’t have to hide from you. Not anymore.”
Summary: S/hane gets sick during the playoffs and tries like hell not to be. I/lya gets big gooey heart eyes about it and gives him a massage. Set during their first year as a couple, right after I/lya switches teams and moves closer. (Contains possible kink I/lya, if you squint.)
*
“You okay, H/ollander? Moving slow this morning.”
S/hane could feel his brain moving at a glacial pace as he fought to comprehend the words that had been tossed at him carelessly by a teammate. He’d woken up this morning feeling like he was half-underwater, like everything was hazy and dreamlike, but not in a nice way.
He’d dragged himself slowly to morning practice, even when I/lya—already out of the playoffs this year, and sleeping at S/hane’s apartment—had teased that he should just come back to bed “if he was going to be such a slowpoke”.
By the time he’d processed JJ’s words, JJ had skated off, leaving him behind. “I’m just tired,” S/hane said, protesting to no one. He swiped a glove under his nose, which had started running from being out on the ice.
That was all it was. Just tired.
He picked up his hockey stick and kept moving.
*
After practice, Hayden was chatting at him by the lockers. Something aimless, about Jackie’s latest bird food recipe for him. Something that didn’t require a lot of participation on Shane’s part, thank God. He hadn’t been able to shake off this morning’s haziness quite yet, and practice had only made him feel slower, heavier in his bones.
“You good, bro?” Hayden interrupted himself to ask. He poked at Shane’s arm, as if imagining that Shane would deflate like a balloon. “You’re really pale over there. Like, more than usual. I think I can count all your freckles.”
Shane cleared his throat, shifting away from Hayden to avoid more poking. He picked up his water bottle and took a long gulp. “Just dehydrated, I think. Skipped my morning smoothie.”
Not because his throat had hurt. He just hadn’t been thirsty.
“Okay,” Hayden said cheerfully. “I bet you could find someplace around here that makes them just as disgustingly healthy as you do.”
Shane flipped him off and headed for the showers, ignoring Hayden’s cackle of laughter behind him. The water was cold when he stepped into the spray, and Shane couldn’t keep himself from immediately snapping forward with a sneeze.
“hh’esshht!”
He caught it in his elbow, thanking God that none of his other teammates were in the showers just yet. He hated when the cold made him… him…
This one, he managed to mostly stifle between his pinched thumb and forefinger. “hh’nkkt!”
And the next two. “hh’ngkt! …HAH’ngxxkk!”
The last one had come with a louder inhale than he’d wanted, and he knew he needed to blow his nose or risk this turning into a bigger fit. He fumbled to turn the shower off, reaching blindly for his towel.
“Hollander, you alr—?”
“HEHHT’sschhh!” he sneezed again, hastily into the palm of his hand, this time only partially keeping the sound of it contained. He could feel the congestion building up, and they were only going to get wetter. Reluctantly, he brought his towel up to his face and bullied his nose with the rough fabric until the tickle died down.
“Jesus, man,” Miitka said, giving him a wide berth as he went to another shower stall. “You don’t sound too good.”
“S’just from the cold water,” Shane muttered, wishing he still had the showers to himself so he could blow his nose without an audience. Giving up on the shower, he wrapped the towel around himself and booked it for the bathrooms so he could clear out his sinuses in peace.
*
Hayden talked him into lunch with the team, some poor eatery that wasn’t prepared for twelve hockey players and their humongous appetites. Shane was just grateful they had a single salad on the menu with his safe foods in it.
They didn’t have ginger ale, though. He was surprised by how actually upset he felt about that, having to push back the barest prick of tears in his eyes.
He felt… raw. Like an exposed nerve. His sensitivity surprised him. Practice had really worn him out.
“You’re shivering, dude,” a teammate told him.
Shane struggled to swallow his bite of salad. His throat was dry, the tiniest bit sore, and he chugged more water to fix it. “Yeah, we’re right under the vent,” he said, though it really wasn’t even that cold.
The next sip of water went down the wrong way, and he couldn’t keep from coughing, pressing his face into his elbow and praying he would stop before his teammates started thumping him on the back. His skin felt hypersensitive, probably from the cold of the vent plus overexercise at practice, and he suddenly couldn’t bear the idea of being touched.
He pushed his chair back, the sound of it scraping the floor hurting his ears, and mumbled an excuse before booking it to the bathrooms. In there, he coughed until tears burned at the corners of his eyes, swallowing tap water from the sink—which he usually avoided drinking on principle—to finally make himself stop.
Hands braced on the edges of the sink, Shane looked up and eyed himself in the mirror warily. He forced himself to take in the facts. A wet shimmer in his eyes from the tears. Dark under eye circles. Skin so pale he could see his freckles standing out. He sniffled—there was a thickness there, like inflammation and congestion both settling in. His throat still tickled a little bit. His skin still hurt, and maybe it wasn’t from overexertion after all.
His grip on the sink tightened. “No,” he told his reflection, firm and insistent. “This is not happening.”
*
He made it through the rest of lunch without doing anything to stand out or embarrass himself, which he was thankful for. Hayden had offered a hangout at his place afterward, a way to chill out before the game, but didn’t seem too pressed when Shane declined. He’d begged off for a nap at his place instead, which was a common thing for players to do before a game, thank God.
He slid into his car and rested his forehead against the steering wheel for a minute before forcing himself to sit up. Now that he wasn’t in the group, the pressure to act normal was off him, and he suddenly felt so tired that he thought he might actually nap once he got home. He hoped Ilya wouldn’t mind—he probably expected some marathon sex session, knowing him.
Shane had decided by the end of lunch that his moment in the bathroom had just been pre-game nerves. He was not sick. There was no way, he didn’t have time for it, and he hadn’t been around anyone sick. Well, Hayden’s crew always had some bug going around, but Hayden himself seemed fine, didn’t he? So it stood to reason that Shane had to be fine, too.
“hh’TSSCHH’sheww!” He flinched forward with a sudden sneeze before he could stop himself. His nose tingled, like he’d been dusting or something, and the sneeze felt wetter, heavier, than he was used to. Shane lifted a hand to his face to try to scrub the tickle away, only for it to abruptly transform into another sneeze that refused to be held back, forcing him to shield the spray with only a palm. “hh’TCCHHH!”
Once he’d recovered himself, sniffling into a takeout napkin that Ilya had probably left in his car, and regretting not having any tissues, he slumped back against his seat. “Fuck.”
He drove back to the apartment, suddenly overwhelmed with the proof of his immune system giving up. He kept having to stifle back little fits of sneezes, like he’d done in the shower that morning, so he wouldn’t wreck his car. His throat protested, too, but he wasn’t coughing. Yet, he thought ominously. And his skin ached, worse than this morning.
The drive itself was short and uneventful, aside from all his symptoms refusing to be dammed back anymore, and he’d spent the whole time daydreaming about his bed, but he found himself lingering in the car once he’d parked. He didn’t know what he’d say to Ilya once he got inside, Ilya who’d been waiting all day for him—“hey, thanks for making the inconvenient drive from your new apartment in Ottawa, but I’m sick, so leave me alone? I appreciate your eternal devotion, but my nose is stuffy, so get the hell out?”
He’d never been sick around Ilya before, not beyond little post-game sniffles they’d been able to ignore during hookups, and certainly nothing since they’d made their relationship official. His immune system’s sudden breakdown made him a little nervous for Ilya’s reaction. It was inconvenient, it was gross, and worst of all, it was weak.
Eventually, he had to force himself inside, knowing that he needed the nap before it got too late in the day. What he didn’t want was to go into the game tonight exhausted and… and sick. It was the playoffs, for God’s sake. He cursed, dragging his feet and making his way to his floor.
Ilya was lying on the couch, playing one of those stupid ad-ridden games on his phone that he was addicted to. “Good practice?” Ilya called out, not taking his eyes off his game.
For once, Shane was grateful not to have the weight of Ilya’s full attention on him. Usually he craved it, but today he felt like ducking notice as much as possible. He croaked out a, “Yeah,” and slunk into the kitchen like a dog trying to avoid getting into trouble. He was halfway through making his afternoon protein shake when he felt Ilya slide up behind him, wrapping his arms around Shane’s stomach and pressing his chin into Shane’s shoulder.
“Okay?” Ilya asked.
Shane couldn’t keep himself from smiling. He loved the way Ilya pronounced that word, so quintessentially Russian. “Tired,” he said, clinging onto the excuses that the team had bought wholeheartedly all morning. Just tired. Just dehydrated. Just cold. Really cold, actually, now that he’d stopped moving. He shivered.
Ilya seemed to read his mind, rubbing his hands up and down Shane’s arms to soothe the goosebumps. “Chilly,” Ilya said, an observation and not a question.
“The, uh, restaurant was kind of cold.”
“And the car on the way home?” Ilya asked.
Shane could feel Ilya’s raised eyebrows without turning around to look at him. He stayed very still, like a prey animal hoping to avoid the predator’s eye.
Ilya waited a beat, then sighed and rubbed Shane’s arms again, this time more to comfort than to warm. “Malyyysh,” he said, drawing the word out until it was almost a tease. It was one of Shane’s favorite pet names, and he knew it. “You are getting sick, I think? Yes?”
Shane felt caught, like the prey animal he’d imagined himself as. Maybe he needed to stop thinking in metaphors. “I’m fine,” he protested, but his voice broke awkwardly on the words, leaving him exposed in the lie, and he abruptly knew there was no point in it. Ilya always knew all the things he wanted to hide. His shoulders slumped in defeat and he nodded. “You can go whenever.”
“Go? Go where?” Ilya asked, actually sounding surprised. “You think I am going to leave, malysh?”
“I mean… yeah?” He let himself sniffle, feeling the drag as it caught uncomfortably in his swollen sinus passages. What was the point in hiding it anymore? “I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to catch this.”
Ilya shrugged and draped himself over Shane even harder, if that were possible. “I am out for the playoffs already. Does not matter if I get sick.”
Shane groaned at the reminder of tonight’s game. He brought up a hand and scrubbed at his eyes. They were so tired they were starting to pulse, but he was dreading lying down. There was no way he woke up feeling any better than he felt now—most likely, it would be even worse, and then he’d still have the game to play.
“You, though,” Ilya mused, reading his mind again. “We need to do something about this, yes?”
“Like what?” Shane snapped. Immediately, he sighed and rubbed at his nose, feeling it prickle at the touch uncomfortably. “Sorry. I’m… shit, I’m sorry. I don’t feel great. And I don’t have time to be sick right now. I have so much to do.”
Ilya huffed out a laugh and pressed a kiss to Shane’s shoulder over his shirt. “I do not think you get a choice in this, Hollander. It’s okay, though. We fix.”
Shane couldn’t help but feel curious. “How?”
He let Ilya take charge from there, leading him into the bedroom and gathering up comfy pajamas. “Ilya,” he put up a token protest when Ilya physically pushed him toward the bed, “I’m sorry, I really don’t feel like—”
“Thank you, Shane, I know this,” Ilya put in with patience, rolling his eyes with a fond smile. “I am not here to rock your world, at least not right now. But how will you nap with dress shirt, hm? Put on your pajamas.” Ilya shoved a soft pair of sweatpants in his direction, then disappeared into the en-suite bathroom.
Shane changed his pants and sat down on the bed while Ilya perused the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. The prickling in his nose had only grown more insistent, teasing and annoying in equal measure. He stripped out of his dress shirt, making to fold it as he sat there shirtless, but the teasing sensation abruptly transformed into the immediate, undeniable need to sneeze. Casting the shirt to the side, he ducked into his cupped hands, stifling the sneezes back as much as he could. “heh’kxxt! heh… hih’KGGXHHT!”
The two sneezes were rougher than he was used to. Drier, though that was because he’d been stifling; he could feel wetness begging to come out, congestion having thoroughly settled in his sinuses. They had hurt from the force of stifling, too, and he resisted the urge to groan.
“Bless you,” Ilya called out from the bathroom.
And after all that, they’d still been audible, making it hardly worth the effort.
Shane blushed, scrubbing at his nose until the lingering tickle died down. “Thangks,” he muttered, feeling now just how stuffy he was getting.
Ilya returned from the bathroom with a bottle of cold medicine in hand. “You should not hold them back like that,” he informed Shane, measuring out a dose. He handed it over matter of factly, leaving Shane feeling like he was six years old again.
“I’ll keep that ind mbind,” Shane mumbled, flushing again when he heard how congested he sounded in his n’s and m’s. “That’s what everybody says.”
“You will give yourself sinus infection,” Ilya said. He gestured at his own thrice-broken nose and deviated septum with lighthearted self-deprecation. “Take it from someone who gets one every year: they suck. Take your medicine.”
“Jeez,” Shane cracked a smile, unable to help himself. “I wouldn’t have pictured you as such a mother hen.” He downed the medicine like a shot, praying it worked quickly. Sitting down had let him relax a little, and all he could focus on now was the way his body ached. He hoped he wasn’t spiking a fever. He’d be useless tonight if he couldn’t even skate straight.
Ilya only grinned and took charge once again: hanging up the dress shirt so Shane wouldn’t fuss over folding it, putting away the rest of his clothes, and ushering him into bed. He even went to get Shane the protein shake he’d left behind in the kitchen.
By the time Ilya got back from the kitchen, Shane was sitting up against the headboard, trying to coax out the sneeze that had been taunting him for the last few minutes. He had grabbed a handful of tissues from the fresh box Ilya had left on the nightstand, but it just wouldn’t come. He dragged the tissue over his nose, featherlight this time, and felt his breath finally catch in the way he’d been waiting for. Too relieved to stifle, he let it come out a little louder than typical for him. “hehh… HEHHH… HEPT’SHHIEWW!”
“Bless you,” Ilya said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
But he wasn’t done. He rubbed at his nose through the tissue and hitched again, helpless until the itch was finished with him. “huhh—!” It was fighting him. Frustrated, he hovered over the tissue, feeling his breath catch again and again as the tickle teased him some more. “huhh… huhHH—!”
“Oh,” Ilya said, a little surprised but mostly teasing him, just as surely as the tickle was. “Oh, I see. One is not enough, you go again?”
Shane’s eyes were closed, so he was surprised to feel Ilya’s fingers brush against his cheek, the tips dragging at the bridge of his nose.
“You need help, hm?” Ilya murmured, gentle but ribbing him. “A little assist?”
The hockey pun wasn’t lost on him, but he didn’t have time to react as Ilya’s gentle touch, plus the tickle in his sinuses, overwhelmed him. He crashed forward into his lap, the tissue barely covering everything as he gave in and let the explosion burst out. “HUUSSCHHH’OOH!”
It was bigger than any sneeze he could remember having, huge and soaking and demanding. It sounded like one of Ilya’s sneezes, actually, loud and satisfying. Shane moaned, half relief and half embarrassment. Maybe a little bit turned on, too, though he couldn’t explain why. He was Pavloved to Ilya’s touch in all circumstances—even the snotty ones, apparently.
Ilya sucked in air against his teeth, surprised. “Big sneeze, moya lyubov.”
Shane’s shoulders hunched, the embarrassment belatedly winning out. “Sorry,” he mumbled into the tissue he’d sneezed into, feeling its dampness against his skin. Gross. He blew gently, trying not to be as loud as he knew he could be. Jeez, this cold was turning out wet. Just what he needed.
“Is okay,” Ilya said softly. His hands were suddenly everywhere on Shane, rubbing his shoulders and taking away the tissue to throw it away for him. “Lie on your stomach? I have idea.”
Those were usually Shane’s words—he’d have an idea, and Ilya would grumble and groan but eventually give in. The role reversal took Shane by surprise. This whole afternoon was taking him by surprise, honestly. Ilya was being so soft, so calm, so unexpectedly sincere.
It was… nice. So nice he didn’t even put up a token protest, only flopping back onto the bed and rolling onto his stomach. It was harder than usual, breathing in this position with his nose so stuffy, and he propped his chin on folded arms to make it a little easier.
Then Ilya sat on the backs of his thighs, and Shane didn’t breathe at all for a second. “I-Ilya,” he said, coughing a little with the shock. “I… I really dond’t thingk…”
“You don’t want back rub?” Ilya teased. “I will be gentle, solnyshko. Will help you sleep, I promise.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the back of Shane’s neck. His next words came out breathy, his exhale felt on Shane’s neck. “I promise, is all this is.”
Shane could feel the evidence of Ilya’s arousal against his ass, but he didn’t argue. A massage sounded amazing, if he didn’t fall asleep immediately. Why had he ever been against the thought of a nap? Now that he was horizontal, he could barely keep his eyes open. “Mmb… ogkay,” he said sleepily. “No funndy busindess.”
Ilya snorted at Shane’s congested words. “Sure, sweetheart. No funny business.”
For a moment, nothing. Then, Ilya’s hands were on Shane’s shoulders, gentle at first before he started to dig into the muscles. Several minutes of this passed peacefully before Ilya spoke again.
“Was going to do this for you anyway, what with the playoffs. Good for sore muscles,” Ilya mused out loud. He dug his thumb into a knotted spot that had Shane groaning into his folded arms. “But it will probably help you sleep off this bad cold, too, hm?”
Shane shivered a little, though he wasn’t cold, exactly. He felt warm, and hazy with sleep, and cared for even when he was being gross, and the combination was kind of intoxicating. His nose started to tickle, and all he could bring himself to do to fend it off was to rub it hard against his forearm.
“Tired yet, malysh?” Ilya murmured. His touch was firm but not painful, teasing and prying at all the knots of tension Shane carried in his shoulders and back until they simply fell apart. It felt better than any physio.
“Mmb…” Shane knew he’d made a sound in response, but right now he couldn’t bring himself to form words for a response. He felt so sleepy, and maybe a little hazy off the cold medicine starting to kick in, and abruptly ticklish… God, his nose felt so unbelievably sensitive with this cold…
“Shane?” Ilya asked, pressing hard at a stubborn knot in one shoulder.
He couldn’t focus long enough to say something, anything, to reassure Ilya. All of his concentration was suddenly on the tickle, but oddly enough, he didn’t feel like fighting it for once. He sucked in a hasty breath, letting the sneezes burst out of him in a wet, needy rush that felt so, so satisfying.
“heh… hehhh’shieww!” He sneezed, feeling the hot, damp air of it as he sprayed helplessly across his forearms and into the sheets. Immediately, he was inhaling for the next one, no time to even think of covering or stifling it, no desire to do so even if he’d had time. “huhh… huh’hupshhoohh! Oh…. I’mb… huhhsshheww! Ohhh…”
God, the relief of them had been intense. They’d been softer than his previous sneezes, but no less powerful. His nose still tingled, like it might need to sneeze again in a moment but was in no hurry to do so. He found himself completely uncaring of the fact that he’d sneezed so openly and wetly on himself, right in front of his boyfriend. Too tired and overwhelmed with this cold to even be embarrassed anymore.
“Oh, Shane,” Ilya said, a little hoarse. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Shane’s shoulder, chaste and sweet. “Bless you, sweetheart. Feel better?”
Shane smiled into his forearms, half-drunk on sleepiness and the cold medicine. “Bet-ter,” he said, gently mimicking Ilya’s accent. “Will you nap with me?”
Ilya smoothed his hands over Shane’s shoulders and back one more time, feeling for any remaining knots. Then, satisfied with his work, he dismounted and collapsed back onto the bed beside Shane, eyeing him with a lazy smile. “Nothing I’d rather do,” Ilya said genuinely. “Come here, malysh.”
Shane army crawled into Ilya’s arms, resting his head on his chest. With what little remained of his rationality, he hoped and prayed he wouldn’t sneeze into Ilya’s chest. He’d embarrassed himself enough for one afternoon, and even Ilya couldn’t possibly be so accepting after that. He’d already put up with Shane sneezing and sniffling all over himself.
Shane felt like he was dreaming already. He’d never imagined, this morning, that Ilya would stay through all this, would take care of him. “Thanks for staying,” he mumbled into Ilya’s skin. “You’re good at this.”
Ilya pressed a kiss into his hair, so quiet and gentle that Shane wouldn’t have known it had happened at all if he hadn’t felt the slight pressure. “I have been waiting a long time,” he said softly, “to take care of you in all the ways I want to.”
Shane felt a little overwhelmed by that—he was frequently overwhelmed by the depth of Ilya’s love, when he least expected it—and he couldn’t think of the right thing to say. He snuggled further into Ilya’s arms and pressed his own kiss into the skin just beside Ilya’s nipple. “Me too,” he whispered.
“I know,” Ilya said. His hands petted Shane absently, soothing over the nape of his neck and across his back. “Sleep, malysh. I will wake you when it’s time.”
*
It was getting to the end of the game by the time Shane really started flagging.
He’d woken up from his nap to another dose of meds already ready for him, along with hot tea and Gatorade. Ilya had kept him well-hydrated as he’d eaten a light dinner and prepped for the game, and it had done a lot to soothe his headache and growing cough. Keeping hydrated had also kept him with a permanently streaming nose, so Ilya had pushed bundles of tissues into his hands every few minutes to address it, until it was time for him to catch his ride for the game.
Shane had made it to the stadium feeling decently okay to play, though he couldn’t quit sniffling, to the point where Hayden had noticed. “Thought you were just dehydrated,” he’d said dryly in the locker room.
“Caught your Pike plague, I guess,” Shane responded snarkily, thumbing at his nose and praying it behaved itself during the game. He’d been feeling too annoyed and self-indulgent to even pretend not to be sick.
Hayden only rolled his eyes with a grin and shoved a water bottle at him. He’d been nice about it, at least.
Shane had played fairly well, though now as they wound down, he could feel himself starting to droop. There were only a couple of minutes left in the game, and Montreal had the lead by 1, which he felt confident in. They’d win tonight, putting them into the next round of the playoffs, which would earn Shane a couple of nights to rest off this cold. He could feel now how badly he needed it.
He finished his shift on the ice, collapsing readily onto the bench and watching his teammates play with bated breath.
“…hihh—!”
Okay, not so much bated breath, maybe. The sneeze had snuck up on him, but he’d been fighting them off all evening, increasingly more as the game went on. This tickle was insistent, though, and he was exhausted and worn down by all the energy he’d spent playing. Unable to help himself, he snapped forward with the sneeze, hastily buried into the elbow of his jersey. “hiiihh’tiisschhoohh!”
The sneeze was damp, airy, and not half as satisfying as he’d hoped it would be. He sniffled on the inhale of his next breath, and the tickle burst back into life, forcing him to immediately hitch and sneeze again on the exhale. “…sndff… huhh—tchh’shhuhh!”
Fuck, he could feel eyes on him. Maybe even the cameras. He prayed that this wasn’t being broadcast to the whole stadium. He couldn’t check himself, because his eyes were still shut tight, his head rearing back as he got ready for another one.
“hetchhshh!” he exploded for the third time, this sneeze wetter and heavier than the others.
It seemed to be the last, for now. He emerged from his elbow, feeling the redness in his cheeks as he caught the eyes of his teammates watching him. He sniffled, dragging his arm under his nose when that wasn’t enough to stop the flood, and he cringed at how disgusting that was.
The game ended soon after, wrapping up their advance to the next round of the playoffs like he’d hoped. Shane hurried his way through his shower and cool-down, ready to get home. He checked his phone first chance he got, seeing several texts from Ilya commentating on the game throughout.
And then, the most recent text, from the last few minutes of the game:
Lily: God bless you sweetheart! That looked like a strong fit. I will have tissues ready for you when you get home ❤️
Well, that was confirmation that the cameras had caught him all sick and sneezy for the audiences at home to see. Shane knew he was blushing down at his phone, and he hoped his teammates didn’t notice. He couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the text, only letting Ilya know in a brief message when he was leaving the stadium.
The car ride home was quick, or at least he thought it was, but he was really starting to fade now that the adrenaline from the game was wearing off. Time was losing its meaning. Before he knew it, he was stumbling out of the car and up to his apartment. The elevator ride was equally hazy, and by the time he made it to his door, all he could focus on was the idea of his bed, with Ilya in it. That, and the resurging tickle in his nose.
He pushed his way through the front door just as the tickle caught up to him. Helpless to stop it, and not really in the mood to try to crush it down, for once he just let himself sneeze as loudly as his body needed to. He bent forward at the waist, barely catching a pair of violent, huge sneezes in his cupped hands.
Jesus Christ, that had felt agonizingly good. He panted into his hands for a second, trying to see if there would be more, and decided that that had been enough to satisfy his sinuses for now. He sniffled thickly and straightened.
Ilya, who’d been approaching, stood in front of him, a little frozen in shock from the outburst he’d just witnessed. He blinked and recovered, coming up to hug Shane and produce a handful of tissues for him from his pocket. “Big big sneezes, malysh!” he exclaimed. “Game wear you out? You played well.”
He’d have played much better healthy, but Shane wasn’t in the mood to diagnose his errors tonight. That was unusual for him, but he was just too tired, and Ilya’s arms around him were so warm…
He took the tissues and blew his nose, cringing when he filled the tissues immediately. “Ugh, thangks,” he said, his voice more of a congested rasp than it had been just an hour ago. “Umb, do you have andy mbore…?”
Ilya readily handed over more tissues, and Shane blew his nose again, coughing a little afterward. His nose felt clearer, though, and his head was not-unpleasantly foggy as his body and brain equally decided they were ready to give up for the night. “Bed?” he suggested hopefully.
Ilya laughed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, guiding him toward the bedroom. “Once you have your meds again,” he said, “you can lay down. And maybe, if you are good, I will rub your back again.”
Shane felt pretty sure he’d be asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, massage be damned, but he let Ilya talk up the prospect of it anyway as he put on pajamas and took a dose of the nighttime stuff that Ilya had carefully measured out for him. He could cash in on the massage tomorrow, maybe, when he undoubtedly woke up feeling achy and exhausted after exacerbating his cold with tonight’s game.
And maybe, in a couple of days when Ilya inevitably started sneezing and coughing himself, Shane could flip the tables around and return the favor. He was feeling pretty grateful, after all.
“Thangks for all this,” he said throatily, half from illness and half from emotion, as he curled into Ilya’s arms in bed. It couldn’t have even been midnight, but Ilya hadn’t protested the early bedtime at all, and that was making him feel more mushy than usual with this cold fucking with his emotions. “Taking care of mbe, I mbean. Staying.”
Ilya squeezed him a little tighter, like Shane was going to slip out of his arms. “I would not be anywhere else,” was his unusually serious response. “I love you, moya lyubov.”
Shane felt his eyes drifting shut. “Love you too,” he mumbled, just as he fell asleep.
Three Times S/hane Hid Something From I/lya, and One Time I/lya Helped Him
+ One: The Confession
part one, part two, part three, part five
hiiii, I am back, I am free, I have finished my dissertation! I was so hyped to return to this series that I accidentally made this part a little too long, so it's going to be two parts, but still focused on the same incident, if that makes sense? and then I was honored with an incredible prompt for an epilogue to the series (tysm anon!) so expect that soon as well. if you are in line with a request, stay in line! bc I am very much working through them again :) I also wanted to thank everyone for their patience and kind words, you all are the sweetest ever!
I hope you enjoy! ♡
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 7.6k
cw: sneezing, general illness, anxiety, a genuinely annoying amount of interrupted sleep
Ilya stirred from a light sleep at the waning of a long midsummer night to his boyfriend looming over him. It was dark, still, but he could make out Shane's outline, and hear him breathing. He was breathing quite fast, Ilya realised slowly, and fumbling around the blond's nightstand, though his legs remained on his own side of the bed.
The Russian wondered if he should interrupt, wondered what he should say, wondered if his boyfriend had been possessed by some kind of demon with a hunger for half-used chapstick. He settled for, “Are you lost?”
Shane's sharp shallow breaths were abruptly cut off with a jagged inhale of surprise. He froze for a moment before continuing his search with renewed frenzy and no justification.
A few short seconds later, Ilya heard the familiar sound of a tissue being dragged from the box before Shane sat back on his haunches, crunching forward with a violent,
“hEhTDXSCHh!”
It was more forceful and productive sounding than his usual sneezes, and Ilya winced sympathetically, reaching out to turn on the light, blinking away the resultant tickle that sparked somewhere between his eyes, as Shane repeated himself.
“EHtCHuh!”
“God bless you moya lyubov.” He crooned, ignoring the chaos of his nightstand in favour of tending to his crumpled husband and his crumpled tissue.
“Tried not to wake you.” Shane muttered. “Didn't realise I was out of ti-hih- hHNGtch!”
“Budʹzdorov”
“heHTDSHhew!”
“God bless you.”
“Thank you. Sorry. Thank you.” Shane gratefully accepted the additional tissues Ilya thrust upon him, and blew his nose aggressively.
“You are sick.”
“Nooo.” The word was elongated so far it could be considered a whine by most definitions, and the Canadian’s voice wavered in and out, only stopping when the strain on his throat made him cough. It was no real denial, he clearly just didn't want it to be happening.
“Yes. You are so so sick,” Ilya pulled him into his arms, dotting kisses over his shoulders and head, “and I make you… better.” He was entirely too tired to placate his boyfriend in any more detail than that, having almost replaced ‘better’ with ‘butter’ and only deciding he’d chosen the right word when the Canadian didn’t burst out laughing. Was butter good for sick people? Wasn’t better to do with gambling? Why were words so fucking stu-
“Fuck. My parents are coming tomorrow.” Shane groaned in a much more serious voice, pushing his face into Ilya’s sternum so hard it almost hurt the blond, and he was half worried about his boyfriend suffocating himself.
“They will help me, then.”
“No.” Shane sat bolt upright, almost cracking his head on Ilya's chin. “I don't want them to know. I don't like freaking them out.”
“I do not think they will freak ou-”
“No, Ilya. You don’t get it, I can’t just-” Ilya could see him shrinking in on himself as his muscles tensed up, hands fisting in the sheets, eyes flitting back and forth across the bedspread as he spoke. “-make them worry for no reason. I can’t-” His voice had been growing progressively tauter with each word, the start of the next sentence the final straw for his throat as he broke off into a coughing fit, shuffling away from Ilya as he practically suffocated himself with his elbow.
“Okay, okay.” Ilya reached out and took the brunet by the hips, dragging him back until he was almost sitting in his lap and rubbing his back, applying just enough pressure to bring him out of his head, ground him back in the moment, but not enough that the contact would hurt. Which was a fine balance with how sensitive his boyfriend’s skin was to touch when he was really sick, but it was an art Ilya had all but mastered now. “We do not tell them. I understand.” He really didn’t. Not completely, anyway, but what he could understand was that talking about it was working his boyfriend up far more than was really good for him with his body trying to fight off illness. And that was good enough for him for the moment.
Shane surfaced from his elbow, breathing heavily, a slight flush visible on his cheeks in the lamplight, from exertion or embarrassment or some cold-related cause, Ilya couldn’t be sure. “Thank you.”
The blond reached out to cup his face, drawing a thumb over his cheek before moving his grip down to his boyfriend’s neck and pulling him gently back down to rest his head on his chest again. Shane melted against him like butter on hot toast, every ounce of tension draining from his body as he sighed deeply, Ilya’s fingers starting to skim gently through his hair, pausing to draw soft circles at the edge of his temples, as though he could draw out the spiralling thoughts and lull him into a peaceful, anxiety-free sleep.
A crease appeared in the brunet’s brow, worries having apparently continued to plague him, as his eyes opened and his face fell into a regretful expression. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”
“No, is good.” Ilya reassured him without hesitation, before his mind flicked back to the abrupt awakening. “Was scary, though, I thought you wanted to kill me.”
“Really?” Shane’s tone was quickly taking on the soft awed quality of a child being told a bedtime story as sleep swallowed the more critical corners of his mind.
“No.”
“Well, I was out of tissues, and I didn’t have time to get out of bed and go round.” The explanation was slightly slurred and less monotone than the Canadian usually sounded when he was sober. It was very endearing, but some evil little part of Ilya wanted to see how far he could push it with his boyfriend in this state.
“Why not use the sheet? Is same thing.”
A moment of hesitation as the cogs whirred, and then, “It is not the same thing!” No further than the vague idea of improper manners apparently.
“I think it is.” He argued, heatlessly.
“I fucking know you do.” The crease in his brow was back, and deeper now. “God, I can’t believe I let myself share a bed with you before training those habits out.”
“So what, I am dog now? Maybe I want to train weird Canadian habits out of you too.”
The brunet looked up, intrigued. “Like what?”
Ilya stared into his eyes, took in the way his lashes glowed golden brown in the lamplight, and suddenly couldn’t think of a single thing he’d ever found annoying about the man. There definitely were things, he was sure of it, and Shane had somehow managed to erase them from his mind with his crinkly little half-asleep expression. Witchcraft.
“hNGTt! hEHNGT!” As quickly as he’d looked up, the subject of Ilya’s infatuated gaze ducked down again, body jolting against the Russian’s as he pinched his nose tightly with fatigue-feebled fingers. “Fuck, sorry.”
“Mm. Budʹzdorov. Like that, actually. Stop holding it in.”
Shane shook his head. “I don’t wanna infect you.”
“Oh yes, I will get sick bad if you sneeze in same bed as me. If we have sex in every room of house I will get just a little sick.”
“Fuck, Ilya.” He sat up a little, pulling back so he was leaning mostly on the Russian’s shoulder but they were eye to eye, so the blond could see his honestly guilty expression in full. “I didn’t know.”
He met him right back with an openly unbothered expression. “I don’t care. I would fuck you anyway. Is fine.”
Shane made a small noise like it wasn’t fine, but he didn’t want to argue about it, as he slumped down against his boyfriend’s shoulder, and then sniffled, sleepily nudging at his nose with the back of his hand. This sparked another sniffle, a retaliatory nudge again, and a flicker in his slightly affronted expression- Ilya could have watched this, rapt, for hours- and then a panted hitching breath.
“hEh…” He turned away with the sharp inhale, internally wrestling for control for a moment before he looked up at the Russian. “Can you pa-ah-ss me another-” He hesitated for a moment, face scrunching against the itch. “-ti-ihH-issue please.”
Ilya pulled up a section of the sheet, holding it out with a goading look. Shane smacked his chest weakly, shaking his head.
As amusing as dragging the issue out was, it was impossible to deny the helpless expression he was being fixed with for a moment longer. The blond reached out and tugged another tissue from the box, bringing it back, but just out of reach. Really Shane could have reached up and taken it without much difficulty, but they were both entirely too stubborn for this to be a simple hand-off.
“I-ihh-lya.”
“You have to do it properly, okay?”
“F-uhh-ine.” The Canadian appeared to be genuine about the response, as far as Ilya could discern, so he handed over the tissue, surprised as his breath made a sharp switch from periodic snags to erratic hitching the second it was in his hand. He really was incredible at keeping the reflex under his control. Maybe Ilya should push the issue of learning how to do that slightly harder, it really would come in useful.
“hEhh…hhH…” Shane fumbled with the fabric, folding it haphazardly before bringing it to his face, eyes squeezing shut.
“hEHtTDSHh!”
“God bless you.”
“hHTDSCHhew!”
“God bless you.” He was already reaching for another tissue to hand over, the damp, forceful nature of the expulsions not having gone unnoticed.
“Thank you. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting them to be quite that…you know…” Shane took the next tissue, avoiding eye contact as he pressed them both to his face, the last word coming out muffled, “big.”
“Mm, me too. Is going to be big cold, clearly.” He pressed a kiss into his boyfriend’s hair as the brunet ducked in on himself slightly to blow his nose, coughing softly into the tissues afterwards, with a muttered “Sorry.”
Ilya wasn’t completely sure what he was apologising for this time and he was definitely not going to ask, knowing it would be something completely unnecessary, as usual. Instead he settled for stroking his thumb over the back of his boyfriend’s neck as he let himself drift towards slumber again, slightly slower than usual, just in case Shane wasn’t done with the prolog of his ‘big cold’ and needed anything else.
It appeared that he didn’t, because within minutes they were both sleeping deeply, dead to the world even as the first rays of sunlight started to slice around the blinds.
... When Ilya awoke for the second time, it was from a far deeper sleep. His phone alarm dragged him into consciousness against his will, an aching heaviness weighing on his eyelids, and an uncooperative clumsiness plaguing his limbs as he smacked at the screen in a frustrated bid to stop the noise.
Mind full of the swirling remnants of one of those dreams that felt like you’d lived an entire lifetime in the space of a few hours, he extricated himself from under Shane’s splayed form and padded through to the bathroom to piss. Why the hell was he so tired? They’d gone to bed at what Shane would call a ‘reasonable’ hour right?
He stared at his slightly puffy face in the mirror, brow furrowed low over his eyes, debating going back to bed. After a few seconds of blank staring while the last coherent memories of the not-quite-nightmare dissolved before his mind’s eye, he dragged open the drawer in the counter, pulling out the box of antihistamine patches and shaking one out into his hand. Even if he was going to go back to sleep after this, it was still better to put one on before he forgot.
As he applied it to his arm, a rustling from the bedroom told him Shane was stirring, the sound of bedsheets rumpling as his boyfriend turned over. And at the sound, a tiny blaring alarm in the back of Ilya’s brain was silenced. That was what had been throwing him off. He never woke up first. And if he did, he most certainly didn’t get up first. It wasn’t their routine.
Ilya stepped back into the doorway of the bedroom, watching the Canadian greeting the morning by pushing himself up onto his elbows and staring blankly at the opposing wall, like he had no idea where he was or why.
“Good morning.” The low words drew puffy half-shut eyes to him immediately, as Shane’s confused gaze was given a new target to examine. Ilya swallowed a smile, knowing what his morning voice did to his boyfriend, the deeper, more thickly accented words never failing to earn him a passionate kiss.
“Morning.” In contrast, the brunet’s voice today sounded like his best attempt to provide a voice for some kind of lethargic, animated frog character, betraying a bubble in his throat that seemed to pop in synchronicity with the blissful ignorance that had been encapsulating Ilya, as Shane ducked to one side with a fit of productive coughs muffled into his bare elbow. Fuck, so that hadn’t been part of the dream.
Ilya turned abruptly back into the bathroom, filling a glass usually reserved for rinsing one’s mouth, with water from the faucet and bringing it back to the bed. He held it out, waiting as the brunet wrestled with his lungs, finally surfacing to look at the glass with a reluctant expression.
“Drink.” He encouraged.
“It’s bathroom water.”
“It’s what?”
“You got it from the bathroom.” He swallowed thickly at the end of the sentence, as the coughing threatened to start again.
“Yes, from sink, not from toilet. Drink.”
“It’s gross.”
“It is same thing as in kitchen. You have fucking well. Drink.”
Shane stared at him obstinately. Ilya stared back, outstretched arm unwavering. He would stand here for as long as it took to get his boyfriend to drink some damn water and let himself feel better. The only thing more stubborn than Ilya on a regular day, was Ilya when something was wrong with Shane, and they both knew that.
“Drink.”
…
The only thing more stubborn than Ilya when something was wrong with Shane, the Russian thought as he tugged open the fridge, was Shane himself.
He could hear the brunet succumbing to another coughing fit back in the bedroom, though it was audibly muffled, and couldn’t help mentally cursing himself for not retrieving some suitable water sooner. He grabbed a bottle from the door, and took off at a jog, letting the appliance close on its own.
“Here.” Ilya twisted the cap off, holding out the bottle before he was even remotely close enough for Shane to take it from him, desperate to provide him with some relief.
The blond watched in exasperation as Shane took the water, fought to catch his breath, swallowed dryly, and turned sincere, bloodshot eyes up to him, “Thank you.” Only then would he allow himself to begin to rehydrate, chugging the water with a fervor he usually saved for the bench, between shifts in the third period.
“Slow.” Ilya instructed, tapping on the side of the bottle to get his attention.
Shane did slow a little in response, lengthening the time between desperate, hungry swallows, finally pulling the bottle from his lips with a shaky sigh.
“How do you feel?”
The brunet stared blankly at the bottle in his hand, resting against the covers, as though he were too tired to hold it unassisted, despite it being more than half empty. After a moment he shook his head.
“Not good?” Ilya guessed.
“Mm.”
“You want food? Medicine?” He carded a hand softly through Shane’s hair, smoothing the chaos left over from a night of tossing and turning.
“Not really.” He held the bottle back out to Ilya, the Russian moving it carefully to the nightstand for him. “But I should probably eat something anyway.”
“Okay.” Without really realising why, the blond started to walk away, only questioning his action when he’d made it to the other side of the bed. He didn’t intend to get back in, so why-
“hhH-”
The sharp breath in drew Ilya’s focus, and he realised that he was already reaching out to retrieve the box of tissues from his nightstand. He had just enough time to make it back around the bed and hold out the box, Shane dragging a couple free and folding them over his lower face.
“hTDSH! TDSHh! heHh… hEHTSHh! hTCHhew!”
“God bless you.” He cupped the nape of the brunet’s neck with his free hand, feeling each jolt as it tensed up the muscles there.
Shane blew his nose, and cringed, either at the sound or the sensation, Ilya couldn’t tell. “Thank you.” He murmured, eyes drifting shut for a moment as he drew in a deep breath and sighed it back out again. Then his gaze turned slightly sharper, and he looked up at his boyfriend, curious. “Did you know that was going to happen before I did?”
“I don’t know.” Ilya responded honestly. “Maybe.” Maybe he’d just remembered that Shane didn’t have any tissues in his nightstand and gone to fetch them pre-emptively, or maybe he’d noticed some small signal, too small even to recall, that had warned him of the imminent need for something that wasn’t a bedsheet to cover his face with.
“Wow, that’s pretty romantic.”
“You know what else is romantic?- Fuck, vinovat, sorry.” He’d dragged the covers back as he spoke, only for the brunet to shudder like he’d been doused in ice water, pulling his knees up to his chest. “Wait.”
Ilya stepped over to the closet, retrieving one of his hoodies and shaking it out so it wouldn’t feel as stiff and cold. He wished he could have given Shane one he’d been wearing but it was far too hot for him to sleep with any sort of shirt on, or even to think of dressing for the first few hours of being awake.
“Arms.”
Shane obediently raised his arms, though he visibly tried to keep the rest of his body as compact as possible to stay warm. The blond rolled up the sleeves and body of the hoodie until he could easily slip it over his boyfriend’s hands and tug it down over his head and chest. Shane sunk into the material with another shudder.
“What else is romantic?” He asked, face buried in the collar of the hoodie, either trying to warm it up with his breath or soaking in Ilya’s scent, if the Russian had to guess.
“Ah.” His train of thought restored itself. “Making you breakfast. Come on.”
Unable to bear watching his boyfriend crawl out of bed like he hadn’t moved in a hundred years, both because he knew it would embarrass him and because the painfully slow, exhausted movements made Ilya want to scoop him up and carry him everywhere for the rest of his life- and he knew Shane would have some pretty serious qualms about that- he retrieved his phone from his nightstand and stood in the doorway scrolling aimlessly through it until the raspy congested breaths got close enough to make him look up on instinct.
Shane stood, glassy eyed, somehow appearing to drown in a hoodie that Ilya knew he had the muscular capacity to fill out as well as the blond did, breathing slowly through cracked lips, a dissatisfied little frown on his face.
“Ready?”
He nodded slowly, and, with a deep sigh, started to shuffle down the hall towards the kitchen.
…
Shane stared blankly out at the water as he moved oatmeal that he couldn’t really taste around in his mouth. There was an aching heaviness lingering in his head, waxing and waning in his temples, throbbing behind his eyes, like gravity had been turned up on one specific lobe of his brain and it was dragging him down towards the table.
He swallowed, lifted another spoonful. It was so quiet, so peaceful, the trees barely stirring in the wind, wildlife muted by his clogged ears, that he wasn’t totally sure he’d notice if time stopped entirely. That would be nice. Give him as much time as he needed to kick this stupid cold before his parents came around tomorrow.
The daydream of infinite stillness and silence, no time pressure, no responsibilities screaming in his ears, felt so tangible, so possible. He let his eyes drift closed as the spoon touched his tongue, imagining the birds in the trees freezing in place, the ripples in the water paused perfectly, refusing to decohere, clouds hovering hesitant in the sky, nothing in the world moving but him and-
“hhAHKk!-” Ilya.
Shane opened his mouth instinctively to gasp in surprise at the sudden noise, eyes darting to his boyfriend, who was leaning back over one shoulder, hands gripping the edge of the table to keep himself upright. The spoon fell from his mouth, hitting his thigh with a resounding slap, before bouncing onto the floor.
“-hKk! KKh! hKK!-” It was rare for his fits to start with anything but the tiny cough sneezes, but it happened, mostly when he’d been trying to keep himself under control for a while, or if the sneeze had eluded him for too long. The Canadian swallowed his mouthful of oatmeal, the bite going down agonisingly slowly as his digestive system kicked back in in the wake of the scare, and reached out an uncoordinated hand, placing it on Ilya’s shoulder as he continued.
“-hKSHuh! hhhKSHH! haHKSH! hrRSHHOo!”
“Bless you.”
“Thank you.” The Russian’s eyes scanned the table, Shane’s legs, and then the floor, alighting on the fallen spoon with a slightly guilty expression. “I tried not to, you looked so peaceful.” He leaned forward, retrieving the piece of cutlery. “I will get new spoon.”
Shane squeezed his shoulder lightly to get his attention as he straightened back up. “Maybe we should go inside.”
“No, is fine. You need air.” He waved his hand in the vague direction of the landscape surrounding them.
“Not if it’s bothering you, I don’t.”
“Is not bothering me. I always sneeze in morning, you know this.” Ilya tapped the antihistamine patch on his bicep. “Will work soon.”
Shane did know this, obviously. He also knew that his boyfriend’s morning sneezes were typically limited to one or two fits, three if either of the first had been particularly unsatisfying. And he’d watched him pause once while cooking, taking several nimble steps out of the kitchen to shower the floor in the hall with a violent fit, and heard him succumbing to a second in the bathroom when he was retrieving meds for the brunet to take with his breakfast. So this fit was clearly just because they were eating outside. So, because of him.
Before he knew it, Ilya was back, nose slightly redder than when he’d left, most likely the mark of the unforgiving paper towels in the kitchen, holding out a clean spoon.
“Thank you. If you want to go inside, just say, okay?
Ilya looked at him unblinkingly, eyes roving Shane’s form. Shane termed this his ‘trap detector’ look, when the Russian appeared to be staring into his very soul, searching for the meaning behind his words, figuring out exactly how Shane could use them to trip him up. It wasn’t panicked, like a wild animal already caught, it was cunning, like something that had learned to pre-empt capture, and with a hint of enjoyment, as if these feeble word cages he’d set up were amusing to escape.
“I will say.” He answered at last.
“Good.” He used his new spoon to bring another mouthful of oatmeal to his lips. Ilya watched him in silence.
“So, tomorrow-” The blond’s knee nudged his, as if to make sure he was listening, “-we need plan or what?”
“A plan?”
“For your parents. You do not want them to know, so…”
“Oh fuck, yeah probably.”
“I have excuse, for if we need them to leave completely. What if you need break, though?”
“What’s the excuse?”
Ilya shook his head. “Is not for you, so you don’t need to know.”
Wasn’t the entire point of a plan to get on the same page about stuff? Whatever. “I guess if I need a break, I’ll just go to the bathroom? Or pretend to take a call.”
“Call from who?”
Shane took another spoonful of his breakfast and shrugged. Did it matter?
“Is all in details. You will not be able to think tomorrow. Plan ahead.”
“Mm. Let me think about it.”
Ilya stroked his thumb along the back of Shane’s hand. “Is all going to go fine. Everyone loves you.”
He felt his shoulders tense, gaze flicking from the bowl in front of him, out to the distant treetops as a pit opened in his stomach. That only made the pressure worse. Why couldn’t everyone be ambivalent about him instead?
The Russian withdrew his hand, sensing his mistake. “Stop thinking about it and eat. Is getting cold.”
He was grateful for the bluntness. It brought him back to reality, and he turned his focus back to his breakfast again, running over mundane information about the season in his brain to keep his mind from wandering to the next day, icing the intrusive thoughts over to the far side of his brain until his spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl.
Then he allowed himself to return to the moment, relieved to discover that his headache had withdrawn somewhat, the medicine he’d taken just before the meal apparently having kicked in. With a final deep breath in of the fresh air, he stood, glancing over Ilya who appeared to be lost in thought, as he opened the door to head back into the house.
“Hollander.” There was a flicker of urgency in Ilya’s voice, and the brunet spun around immediately.
“What?”
“I want to go inside.” The smile was picking up the edges of his mouth before he’d even finished the sentence.
“Wh- fuck off.” Shane turned back, stepping over the threshold and heading to rinse his dishes in the sink.
“You say to tell you!” The Russian’s voice echoed after him. “I am just doing what you say!”
“Fuck-” He paused to cough harshly into his elbow. “-off!”
…
The day had been far from peaceful for Shane. His mind spun back around to the next day and all sorts of hideous worst case scenarios, every time there was a slight lull in other things to think about. The only way he’d managed to get some rest was by having a random European hockey match playing on mute on the TV while he laid on Ilya’s chest on the couch, watching, the blond delivering what appeared to be sarcastic commentary in Russian into the top of his head, punctuated with kisses.
So, to say he was exhausted now would be the understatement of the year. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the shifting shapes of the bedroom in the light from the bathroom, enthralled by whatever misperceptions his mangled mind was regaling him with, like a fatigue-driven version of shadow puppets.
“Tired?” Ilya’s fingertips lifted Shane’s chin, his face turning obediently before he could drag his eyes along with it.
“Mmf.” He slumped his face into the blond’s palm until he was holding the entire weight of his head, taking a partially obstructed breath in, faintly able to detect the scent of his own soap and the Russian’s aftershave.
“So tired.” It was almost praise-like, the words spoken reverently from low in Ilya’s throat, sending a shiver through Shane.
“Mmf.” Was his only response, again.
Ilya sat down next to him, gently moving his head back up so he could take its burdensome weight on his neck again, and moving his hand around to massage lightly at Shane’s shoulders, starting on one side of his neck and moving around to the other, as the Canadian’s gaze got lost in the things that weren’t there again.
“You will sleep so good, and your body will kill the cold while you sleep, and you will wake up and feel so much better, yes?”
It was less of a question or suggestion than an instruction, and though Shane knew he had no control over the microorganisms that made him up, he felt inclined to obey in every way he could. He nodded.
“And you will-” Though he wanted to listen, his focus was pulled away by an irritatingly sharp tickle in his nose, the first active feeling in a sea of sluggish sensations which had been lazily plaguing him for hours without drawing much notice.
He reached out and plucked a tissue from the box that remained on his nightstand, only aware of Ilya talking once the action drew him to a sudden halt. Instant regret washed over him, though he had no time to express it, raising the tissue and ducking away apologetically.
“hTSHhh!”
“God bless you.”
“hhEhtDSHhhew!” The sneezes were weak, lacking the punch needed to be satisfying, entirely too feeble to have really earned the way they dragged him forward and left him drained afterwards.
“God bless you.”
“Sorry, I interrupted you.” He breathed into the tissue, too tired to sit back up, bent double still in the picture of exhausted remorse.
“No, was just your body telling me ‘shut up so we can go to bed’.” Ilya drummed his fingers on Shane’s back. “Can you get in by yourself?”
The Canadian straightened. “Yes. I’m not eighty. And I don’t want you to shut up.”
“Okay. I will talk for another hour, then.” He inhaled deeply, as though to begin some sort of monologue.
Shane didn’t give him the satisfaction of trying to stop him, instead turning over to crawl slowly into bed, slumping down against the pillow with his back to him.
“You are sure you are not eighty?” Ilya asked, poking his ass. “You get into bed at same speed.”
“Did you sleep with a lot of eighty year olds before me, or is this based on just one or two observations?” He shot back, kicking weakly in the direction of his boyfriend’s hand.
“Fuck you.” The mattress shifted as Ilya stood up, and with a click, the bathroom light turned off.
“Not before you fuck a bunch of grandpas, apparently.” Shane laughed, giddy in the sudden darkness, the sound quickly morphing into a cough that had him curling in on himself, elbow pressed to his mouth, feeling the whole bedframe shake with him.
“Okay, okay, you cannot die laughing at this shitty joke.” The Russian climbed in opposite him, hands coming to his boyfriend’s shoulders to steady him, though they felt around his head and the pillow and at least one of his knees before both finding their purchase. Not funny, not funny, don’t start laughing again or you’ll die.
The breath he drew in in the wake of the fit was long and ragged, stinging in his throat and aching in his lungs. Though he knew speaking would hurt even worse, he braved the decimation of his vocal cords anyway.
“Ilyaa.”
“I know, moya lyubov. I know.”
“Hurts.”
“I’m sorry.” Shane felt him let go, heard him shifting around, felt the covers being pulled up over them both, and finally heard slow calm breaths just in front of his face, before a soft kiss was pressed to his forehead. “Try to sleep, okay? I am here, and I will wake up if you need me.”
“I love you.” This he whispered, hoping to preserve his throat for the next day, and also fearing that the emotion that was making his eyes prick with unseen tears might extend to his voice.
“I love you too. Now rest.”
…
Ilya was once again awoken by his boyfriend looming over him, though this time he wasn’t in the bed at all, and when the blond’s eyes flew open, it was to blinding light.
“Agh!” He startled backwards, arms coming up defensively. Shane didn’t move. “hhAH-!” He bit his tongue forcefully against the reflex, finding it easier than usual to quell, as fight-or-flight kicked in halfway through, flooding his system with adrenaline. Shane didn’t react. “Are you okay?” Ilya managed finally, starting to push himself up to more of a sitting position. Shane said nothing, staring at him with wide blank eyes.
The Russian forced himself to slow down, heart racing from the horror movie scenario he’d woken to find himself in, forced himself to take in the scene. Shane stood, almost imperceptibly swaying, right by Ilya’s side of the bed, breathing heavily again, though his expression was mostly neutral. He’d abandoned the long-sleeve he’d gone to bed in, standing, shivering, in pyjama trousers, upper body covered in goosepimples, pecs glistening with sweat in the light of Ilya’s bedside lamp, a single droplet running down his neck in a way that normally would have taken the blond’s breath away but instead opened a cold pit of dread in his stomach.
“…Shane?” Ilya reached out to touch his face, poised to spring back if he accidentally startled him. Was he even conscious? Was he sleepwalking or something?
“I’m scared.”
The sentence came out of nowhere, nothing changed on the brunet’s face, and he spoke right as Ilya’s hand grazed his burning hot cheek, making the Russian flinch in surprise. His voice was gravelly and obstructed, sounding discomposingly unlike himself as though he were only miming along to another person’s voice, the deep shadows cast on his face from the single light source not helping the terrifying image.
Ilya forced himself to reply with some semblance of stability, rather than echoing his boyfriend’s fear, as instinct drove him to. “Why are you scared moy lyubimy? Is all okay.”
“Tomorrow.” He replied simply.
“With your parents?” Ilya tugged on his wrist, trying in vain to get him to sit down on the bed, only succeeding in making the Canadian stumble awkwardly towards him, bumping into the edge of the mattress and then stepping back again.
“What if they figure it out? And they know that I’m…” He breathed heavily for a moment, a clumsy attempt to calm himself. “-sick.”
“Then-”
“Then,” Shane interrupted before he could be placated, “they’ll know I hid it from them. They hate when I hide things.”
Ilya glanced down for a single second to free his legs from the covers, and when he looked up again, tears were pouring down his boyfriend’s face. Fuck. This was a bad fever. He could tell.
“Okay, okay, we have options, yes? We have plan and excuses, we have medicine, and we can move to other day if is really bad.” He swung his legs out of bed and stood up as he spoke, gently taking hold of his boyfriend’s arms- not missing the slight wince as he touched the fever-raw skin- and steering them around to the other side of the bed.
“But I didn’t sleep well, and I don’t want to cancel because I might get worse, or you might get it, and we can’t just keep moving it back.” Shane sniffled as Ilya snagged a tissue from the box on his nightstand and started to wipe away the tears.
“We still have time to sleep.” In reality he had no fucking idea what time it was, but right now his boyfriend didn’t seem capable of thinking straight, let alone reading and comprehending any kind of clock. “And I- what is it?” The brunet’s face had suddenly turned from absent distress to frustration.
“We can’t sleep in the bed anymore.”
Ilya fought the urge to sigh, entirely too tired to be picking apart Shane’s incomprehensible lines of logic. “Why not?”
The Canadian reached out and unceremoniously drew back the covers to reveal his own side of the bed, sheets rumpled from tossing and turning. He frowned at Ilya, as if to say ‘See?’
He did not see. “What? Is just uh…” What was the fucking word? “Crumbled? Crunkled? Look.” The blond reached out to tug the sheets taut, withdrawing his hand almost immediately. “Oh. Why is it-?”
The entire side that Shane had been sleeping on was at least moderately damp, the pillow too, now that Ilya was actually looking at it. For a moment he had no idea how this had happened, but, glancing back at his boyfriend, skin still glistening in the warm lighting, he knew. If he’d sweat all the way through the sheets and was still feverish, he was definitely completely delirious and dehydrated.
As Ilya watched, the brunet shivered, arms pressed tight against his torso as if he were fighting against a bitterly cold wind that the Russian somehow couldn’t feel. The tiniest amount of anxiety stirred in his chest. He was really sick. Like if Ilya didn’t do something he might be doctor sick, hospital sick, accidentally-out-themselves-trying-to-get-him-medical-care sick.
“Okay.” He straightened up, retrieving Shane’s phone, the box of tissues, and the bottle of water he’d made sure was on the brunet’s nightstand this time, rounded the bed to grab his own phone, and made a mental note to come back for medicine and some kind of washcloth from the bathroom. “We sleep in other room.”
Shane stared at him blankly for a moment from across the room, and Ilya was just mentally running back the words that had left his mouth to check that they were in English and generally comprehensible, when the Canadian snapped forwards.
“hEISHh! huHITCHhew!”
“God bless you.” The Russian stared at him with wide, wary eyes, the tiny flicker of anxiety fanned into a flame by the scene he’d just observed. Shane had made absolutely no effort to cover his face, suppress the sneezes, turn away, or in any way interfere with the process. It was uncannily unlike him, and it sent a shiver down Ilya’s spine, that innate sense of ‘wrongness’ like an optical illusion or one of those humanoid robots, screaming a warning in his mind.
The brunet didn’t respond, frowning as he raised a hand to run his fingers under his nose, as though confused by the intractable expulsions that had just overwhelmed him. Ilya nodded towards the door, reminding him of their destination, and with a soft sniffle, Shane dropped his hand back to his side and headed for the hallway.
They walked through slowly, Ilya watching his boyfriend walk as though he could feel every single muscle and tendon involved in moving, and each one ached in a different way. The journey was steady though, excepting the small pause they’d had to take when the plastic water bottle had briefly slipped from the Russian’s grasp, hitting the floor with a liquid-y thud. Shane had slammed his hands over his ears, shoulders hunching protectively as he growled low in the back of his throat a barely audible “Too fucking loud.” They’d continued shortly after, though the Canadian’s shoulders never untensed in the wake of the incident, and Ilya found himself gripping the bottle with a newfound tightness, berating himself for his clumsiness.
When they’d made it to the other room ,he flicked on the overhead light without thinking, both of them reeling back from the sudden assault on their eyes. Ilya’s breath started to hitch immediately, fiercely, the trigger awoken for the second time that night and not eager to be denied. He nudged Shane into the room, tongue between his teeth as he sidestepped his boyfriend, tossed the contents of his arms gently onto the bed, and ducked back out into the hallway, turning his back to the room and clamping a hand over his lower face.
“hKk! hKk! KKh! hMPH! hihMPH! hhMPHoo!”
With a sniffle and a frustrated glare at nothing in particular, since he was actually just mad at whatever stupid connection in his brain caused that reflex, and it was pretty hard to glare at your own brain, he spun back around to see Shane staring at him with glistening wet eyes again.
“What happened?” He moved closer immediately, watching the brunet’s lips twist into a pout as the tears started to fall.
“You’re hurting yourself.” He was what? If his boyfriend wasn’t doing an excellent imitation of someone at death’s door right now, Ilya would definitely point out the hypocrisy in that statement.
“No. Does not hurt. I am fine. I did not want to make loud noise, because it hurts you.” This explanation only made things worse as Shane drew in a shuddering breath, tears flowing incessantly down his cheeks again. He was going to dehydrate himself even more if he kept that up.
“You hurt yourself because of me?”
“No, no. I-” Ilya struggled to explain, not wanting to worsen the situation but sensing that his boyfriend could and would twist whatever he said into some devastating misinterpretation in his current state. “Wait here.”
He jogged back through to the master en suite, retrieving cold medicine, a cool soaked washcloth, and the thermometer, and returning to find his boyfriend sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.
“Okay, look at me.” He knelt in front of him, waiting patiently as Shane lifted his head and blinked stuck-together lashes at him.
“You left.”
“Yes.” He was in no-nonsense mode now, knowing that placating the fatigued Canadian was a never-ending quest. “To get things to help. Put this in your mouth.” He held out the thermometer, watched Shane dejectedly place it between his lips.
While they waited for the beep, Ilya started to gently clean the sweat from his skin, swiping the cool washcloth over his face, chest, neck, arms, and moving around behind him to reach his back. The brunet didn’t move throughout the process, sitting still, pliable, patient, letting himself be helped.
The device reached a conclusion just as the Russian decided he’d gotten enough of the sweat off that Shane wouldn’t be uncomfortable when it dried, plucking the thermometer from his mouth and frowning at the number.
39.1. It was about what he’d expected, but that didn’t make it any more comforting to see. “Take two of these,” He doled out the medicine into his boyfriend’s waiting hands, “And I will put this back, okay? I come back in two minutes.”
The brunet nodded, Ilya ducking out of the room, and heading to toss the washcloth in the laundry and retrieve an electrolyte drink before he had to watch him putting the pills in his mouth. By the time he’d gotten back, Shane had drunk a third of the bottle of water, and shuffled around the bed to partially climb in, only under the covers up to his ankles.
“Can you drink some of this, too?” Ilya handed him the open drink, relieved to see him starting to sip it eagerly. He retrieved their phones and the tissue box from the end of the bed and placed them on the nightstands, pulling back the covers so Shane could get further in, and taking the electrolytes from him when it seemed like he didn’t want to drink any more.
“Better?” He asked, turning the lamp beside the bed on before heading to turn the main light off.
“Yes. Thank you.” The Canadian still didn’t sound totally lucid, voice slightly dreamy and distant, gaze not quite focused, but he wasn’t crying or shivering or staring through Ilya like he didn’t exist anymore, so that was definitely progress.
“Good.” Ilya joined him in bed, unsurprised when Shane immediately slumped over to lie against him, taking the opportunity to cup his cheek and kiss his forehead, checking whether his fever had started to wane yet. It hadn’t.
“Tomorrow-” He began again, in a small voice.
“Tomorrow is for tomorrow. We talk in morning.” The blond replied, firmly, staring unwaveringly into his eyes as they drifted closed, as if to scare away the recurring thoughts that were making his boyfriend so anxious.
“Yeah, okay.” Shane finally conceded as his breathing began to deepen, expression slackening as sleep began to take hold on his consciousness again.
Ilya remained sitting up, watching him relax, bit by bit, wanting to make sure he was completely asleep, totally at peace, before he drifted off himself. The total unguarded lethargy in his expression was somewhat arresting, the Russian realised, feeling like he was privileged to be privy to the sickness that was visible up so close. The way his mouth was slightly cracked, and he seemed to be alternating between sucking in raspy breaths between his chapped lips, and inhaling stuffily through his nose. The slight flush high on his cheeks that appeared to be fading now as the medicine began to work, making the similar flush on his nose that much more stark in contrast. The puffiness around his eyes from crying and the lack of rest, eyelashes clinging together in small clusters like the bristles of a damp paintbrush. He really was beautiful. Like this and always.
For all he knew, it could have been hours that he waited, lost in his own thoughts, mindlessly watching his boyfriend sleep, occasionally pressing a kiss or the back of his hand to the brunet’s forehead or the back of his neck, to check the progress on bringing down his temperature. But as soon as Shane’s skin became imperceptibly warmer to Ilya than his own, and he was sure that the Canadian was truly immersed in slumber, his own eyes closed and his head tipped over to rest on Shane’s as he joined him in a deep, desperately needed sleep.
I ask for Holla/nov with cat allergies (both of em). Saw a scenerio somewhere that Hay/den gets a new cat and Holla/nov is over for date night. Il/ya is much more allergic but Sh/ane is less allergic but still adorable
Please and Ty ! Sorry for another request
First, this scenario is SO cute. Second, you have nothing to apologize for! Your requests are so fun to write, and you don’t send too many or anything! I hope you enjoy :)
The latter half of this fic (the car scene onward) was created by @softsicknose and me in a massive geeking-out session. I also added in a few sentences as recommended by the ridiculously lovely @snifflybabe. Thanks to both of them <33 This is set shortly after the ending of The Long Game.
——
Meovv (H/eated R/ivalry, Shane and Ilya)
Shane had never spent a lot of time around animals.
He hadn’t had a pet growing up - the Hollanders devoted all of their time and effort to hockey, so taking care of a cat or dog would have been difficult - and the same went for his hockey-playing friends and acquaintances. So his experiences had always been pretty limited, and he hadn’t done much of anything to remedy that in his adulthood.
Now that he and Ilya were married and finally living together full-time, Shane was used to life with a dog and enjoying it more than he’d ever thought he would. He’d pictured dogs as messy and rambunctious, and while Anya was certainly full of energy, she was far gentler and sweeter than Shane had expected her to be. A lot like her father, actually.
Shane still assumed, in the great debate of cats v. dogs, that he was more likely to be a cat person - they were quiet and calm, which matched his vibe well (maybe a little too well, if the aloofness associated with them was to be believed). But he hadn’t spent enough time near any to be sure.
When Shane pulled into the driveway of Hayden and Jackie’s home, Ilya made a show of slowly unbuckling his seatbelt and sighing exaggeratedly. “Do you think we will be able to eat lunch right away, or…?”
Shane gave him a little shove. “Don’t be an asshole.”
Ilya gave him his trademark (pain-in-the-ass) faux-innocent look. “I’m just very hungry, Shane.”
“Mhm. C’mon,” he said, ready to drag his husband by the collar of his shirt if he didn’t get a move on. Fortunately for both of them, Ilya just stuck out his pretty pink bottom lip like the drama queen he was and got out of the car.
“Hi, guys,” Jackie said with a smile as she greeted them at the door, gesturing for them to sit down on the couch. “Where the hell is Hayden, he was just here a secon—Hayden!”
“I’m here,” Hayden said, coming into the room carrying something small and black and white and fuzzy with teeny little claws — a cat?
Shane looked at Ilya, whose eyes had grown very wide with what looked like…fear? worry?…before a cheerful grin overtook his face. “Is that a kitty?” he said, and Shane couldn’t help but smile at the delight in his voice.
“Meet Sparkles,” Hayden said, then shrugged at Shane’s raised eyebrow. “The girls named her.”
“And Arthur,” Jackie added. “He got the last say.”
Hayden sighed. “Technically we got the last say, but…”
“May I pet her?” Ilya said in an awed voice. What the hell? Shane had never seen Ilya be so polite in Hayden’s presence. To his further surprise, Hayden smiled and gently held the kitten out for Ilya to take into his arms. Wow. Who knew that all it would take for the two of them to get along was the presence of a furry creature?
Jackie caught Shane’s gaze and grinned, probably thinking the same thing he was. Ilya made a small contented noise as Sparkles curled up in his lap. “She is gorgeous,” he said, blinking hard multiple times as he stroked her fur. Was he going to start crying? Shane thought the cat was cute too, but Ilya’s emotions seemed a little overboard. Still, the way that Ilya was so gentle and sweet with the tiny kitten made Shane absolutely melt. It made him want to climb into his husband’s lap and kiss and kiss and kiss him…but then, Hayden might never invite the two of them back.
“I just need to finish up the salad, and then we’ll be ready,” Jackie said. “But before that…” she went into a bedroom and brought out another cat, just as little and fuzzy as Sparkles. “Meet Sparkles’s brother!”
Ilya looked up from scritching behind Sparkles’s ears. Once again, his face morphed from terrified to excited, and no one but Shane seemed to notice. Shane muffled a quick cough into his elbow and watched the tuxedo cat’s austere, unblinking expression. How did animals look so human sometimes? This one looked like he needed a scotch and a cigarette and a nap. It was fucking adorable.
“His name’s Emmett,” Jackie continued.
“I named him,” Hayden cut in.
Ilya rolled his eyes, still petting Sparkles in a steady rhythm. “Of course you would name your cat a boring human name.” He sniffled, probably to emphasize his contempt.
Hayden crossed his arms. “Uh…doesn’t your dog have a human name?”
Ilya scowled at him like he had called Anya a filthy mongrel. “That is -snf- different. She has a beautiful name. Not like…” He screwed up his face, nose twitching, and affected a drawn-out Canadian accent. “‘Emm-ett.’”
“God, you are such a fucking—”
“Jesus Christ,” Shane said exasperatedly. “Can you two stop arguing for five fucking seconds?”
Jackie nodded in agreement. “Get it together, Hayden.”
“Me?! He’s the one who—”
“Let -snf- Shane hold him,” Ilya cut in. “He has not spent enough time around kitties. He needs practice for when we -hgkm- buy a farm for our fifty animals.”
“I draw the line at getting an emu,” Shane said, deadpan, as he took the cat in his arms, trying to hold the tiny thing carefully without squeezing too tight or dropping her. Hayden and Jackie both laughed. A loud purring began to emanate from Sparkles as she curled further into Ilya’s lap. Ilya began blinking hard again, and he rubbed his nose into his shoulder. Hm. He hadn’t seemed quite so sniffly this morning. Must have forgotten to take his allergy pill. Again.
“Wow, she really likes you,” Hayden said incredulously.
“Of course she likes me,” Ilya said. “I am -snf- irresistible. Right, Shane?”
Shane ignored him, and Hayden’s accompanying groan, focusing his attention solely on Emmett instead. He was so soft, and his huge yellow eyes were mesmerizing. He rubbed his head against Shane’s thigh, and Shane scratched beneath his chin, and - oh. He started purring too, loudly enough that Ilya turned his head to watch the two of them. Shane placed a hand on Emmett’s side to feel his little body vibrating with the sound. Something lit up in Shane’s heart. So cute…he looked over at Ilya, and returned his soft smile. Hmm…maybe Anya wouldn’t mind if they added another member to their family?
Then Shane needed to cough against the growing fullness in his throat and scratch beneath an itch in his right eye.
Ilya gave him a questioning look but became distracted by Sparkles kneading biscuits into his leg. He dragged a wrist beneath his nose as he watched her, grinning.
Shane grinned, too. Then he scrunched up the right side of his face against the returning itch in his eye. And then his other eye. And then both at once. And then the itch became a burn that left him both annoyed and confused.
Beside him, Ilya made a strangled sound, then ducked his head back into his shoulder. “h’gnxt! ngkt-uhh! huhh, iuhh…GXT’SHHt!”
“Bless you!” Jackie exclaimed as Ilya let out a shaky breath.
Shane wanted to also bless Ilya’s incredibly itchy-sounding sneezes, but he was too busy struggling with an urgent and all-encompassing tickle in his own nose. His breath hitched, at an embarrassingly high pitch, and what came out was “Blehh-ehh-eh’TSCHHhh! ts’chhhoo!” As Emmett mewed in surprise, Shane snuffled and blushed and blinked, hard. Just as Ilya had been doing since he’d started playing with the kitten. Oh, shit. “Eh-excuse m-! hdt’shiew! hh'ISHhhuhh!”
“Oh, shit,” Hayden said, echoing Shane’s thoughts. “Are you guys allergic to cats?”
Shane noticed that Ilya was avoiding everyone’s gazes. He attempted to give him a what the fuck? stare but had to give up when his vision began to blur with tears. “I-I didn’t knowhhh-!” he tried to explain. Jackie swooped in to pick up Emmett before Shane could jostle him further with his sneezes (not that they were strong enough to really bother him, like Ilya’s would be, but still). "huh-ISChhh! hh'ISHhhhoo! hah-tishh'hew!"
Ilya, meanwhile, was handing Sparkles back to Hayden before rocketing forward with a trio of explosive sneezes muffled into his hands.
"haaAAASHHhhoo! AESHhhhuhh! HAAH-SHUHHhhh!"
“Bless you! Oh my god, I’m so sorry, guys,” Jackie said. “I’ll get you some Benadryl.” She dashed off to the bathroom as Shane felt the now-burning tears begin to slip down his dripping nose. He wiped them away and turned back towards Ilya, whose face was buried in some tissues from a box that Hayden had passed him. Oh, they’re getting along again, Shane thought faintly before he had to pitch sideways into his elbow.
"hadt'schiew! -tschiew! ahh'ISHHhhew!" The sneezes came in wet bursts that left a mist on his arm, and Shane grimaced with discomfort.
“Bless you,” Ilya said, not moving his face from where it was covered by the tissues.
“-cough- Thagk you. Bless you,” Shane said, then mumbled a “Sorry” to Hayden and flushed when Ilya handed him the tissue box. Hayden told him not to worry, gave his own “sorry” - this was a very Canadian affair - and went to put the cats in the other room. Shane was grateful to have a moment to blow his nose in relative privacy, excluding the very sniffly man sitting next to him and rubbing his nose against his palm in rapid circular motions like his life depended on it.
“Ilya…" Shane noticed his husband freeze at his questioning tone. "...did you already know that you’re allergic to cats?”
With a guilty expression on his face, Ilya plucked some more tissues from the box and blew his nose with a booming, bass-note honk.
Shane huffed. “Don’t try and get out of answering the question by blowing your nose, smartass.”
Ilya sniffled thickly, and it sounded like his nose was already starting to fill back up with congestion. “I just needed to blow my nose, Hollander.”
“Oh, it’s Hollander now?” Shane narrowed his eyes. “You did know you were allergic, didn’t you?”
Ilya paused. “…-snf-…Maybe.” He said this in the direction of Shane’s knees.
Shane threw his arms up. “Jesus, Ilya!”
“What am I supposed to do? Say no when a kitten is offered to me?! She is so cute, Shane!”
“Wait, you’re the one who asked to hold—you know what, no.” Shane sighed and shook his head. “Forget it. Let’s go outside and get away from the dander, you look miserable.”
“So do you, moy lyubimyy,” Ilya said, staring into Shane’s eyes with a frown. He cupped Shane’s cheek in his hand, and the gentle touch somehow made Shane’s nose twitch. “Your eyes are so watery. Are you feeling very bad?”
“I’m okay. Just a little itchy and - hit’chew! - ugh, sneezy, I guess.” he took some more tissues and blew hesitantly to avoid setting his sensitive nose off again, Ilya rubbing his back all the while.
“Bud’ zdorov, sweetheart. I guess it is a good thing that you have not spent much time around cats.”
Shane couldn’t argue with that. “How are you?”
Ilya looked an absolute wreck; his sclera were tinged scarlet around the blue of his irises, his nostrils red and flaring with the need for release and relief. Some of his curls flopped loosely along his forehead from where’d they’d been flung during his sneezes. “I am—”
“Yeah, don’t even try and tell me you’re fine.” He took Ilya’s hand and led him out the French doors into to the Pikes’ huge backyard. The brightness of the sun shined down on them, and with how angry their noses already were, they both—
“hishh’yew! tissh’hhew! iSsh’ooo!”
“AESZCHhhh, ESZCHhhh, AESHHHhhuh!”
24 and 81 stared at each other for a moment before bursting out laughing, Shane reaching an arm around Ilya’s shoulder as Ilya moved to grab Shane by the waist. What a fucking mess the pair of them were. Two big, strong hockey players brought down by the likes of two itty-bitty kitties. They cackled until tears ran down both of their faces and they were left gasping and sniffling and wiping at their eyes and noses.
Nope, they were definitely not getting a cat.
There was a noise behind them, and they both turned to see Hayden and Jackie in the doorway, holding in their own laughter. Shane felt his entire body heat with embarrassment, but he was put a little more at ease when Hayden clapped the two of them on the shoulders and Jackie handed them both pink pills and glasses of water. Ilya swallowed his pill without hesitation, a testament to how bad he must have been feeling.
“I’ll take one later,” Shane said, placing the pill in his pocket. “I have to drive us home.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” He felt his symptoms beginning to subside as he continued to breathe in the outside air. “But Ilya—” they both watched Shane’s husband jackknife forward with another cluster of rapid “eshhuhh, ESHhuhh, AHHHshoo!” sneezes “—definitely needed one. Bless you,” he called over as Ilya fisted his hands and began to rub viciously at his eyes.
“Don’t do that, Ilya, you’ll make it worse,” Jackie said, beating Shane to the punch. After Shane confirmed with Ilya that his breathing was okay and that he was just, to quote Shane, “itchy and sneezy,” he sipped at his glass of water and walked towards Hayden.
“I’ve got to get us home. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, buddy.”
Shane scratched at the inside of his hand so he wouldn’t give into his own urge to rub at his eyes. “-snf- Y’know, Hayd, you could’ve just said that you don’t want us to come over anymore.”
Hayden laughed. “I would never, Cap.”
Shane froze, and Hayden’s eyes widened as he realized his mistake. “Uh, I mean—“
“It’s okay,” Shane said, though he did still feel a little pang at being called Cap. Nope, he told himself. That’s all behind you. You’re a Centaur now. He forced a smile. “Well, thanks for having us, I guess.”
“Hey, anytime. Want some food to take home?”
Shane looked over at Ilya, who was scratching at his nose and flushing red at Jackie’s kind attention. “We could always take some food home.”
——
After the two of them went back into the house to wash off their faces and wave goodbye to the cats from a safe distance, they got back into the Land Rover and started on the drive home. The Benadryl was already affecting Ilya, who was getting droopy-eyed as he leaned his head against the window.
“You are feeling better, dorogy?” he mumbled as Shane got onto the highway.
“I’m okay. You seem a little better, too.” Shane reached over and placed his hand on Ilya’s thigh.
Ilya closed his eyes. “I hope I did not scare them.”
“Who?”
“The kitties. With my sneezes. They are so big and loud.” His voice had gone very quiet, like it did whenever he was feeling sad, or insecure, or nervous, or frightened. It made Shane’s heart hurt.
“You didn’t, Ilya. And you were so nice to Sparkles, you even held back your sneezes when she was on your lap.” Shane had learned over the years that Ilya was very considerate when it came to the people (and animals) he loved.
Ilya smiled as his eyes began to slip closed. “Sparkles…so cute…wish I could pet her without itching…” his smile turned a little sad.
“Hey, Anya’s waiting at home for you, you can pet her,” Shane said, hoping to soothe the distress out of him.
“Anyoshka,” Ilya said, and even with his eyes on the road Shane could tell that Ilya’s happy smile had returned. “My sweet girl. Ya tebya lyublyu, moy ángel…”
Shane felt the butterflies in his stomach that always fluttered when Ilya was sleepy and his Russian accent came out thicker. It made Ilya self-conscious, but to Shane, it was the most adorable thing in the world.
Ilya gave a little gasp and turned towards his shoulder with a soft, itchy “hushhhoooo…” that made Shane’s butterflies increase tenfold. He had never seen his husband sneeze so quietly, and it was so sweet he couldn’t even stand it. “hushoooo…hushhooo…”
“Blehh-bless you,” Shane said, surprised to find his nose buzzing in sympathy with Ilya’s plight; he wasn’t quite free of his own allergic reaction, it seemed. “tschhh! tschh’ooo!” he sneezed as best he could into his shoulder with his hands occupied by the steering wheel.
Ilya, eyes half open, reached over and rubbed his thumb over Shane’s knuckles. “Bud’z’rov…” he slurred.
Shane couldn’t help but laugh. “I guess the Benadryl is working.”
“Mm…” Ilya yawned enormously and adjusted his head to lean more comfortably against the window.
As he slept, Shane held his hand for the rest of the ride home.
——
After Shane woke him gently and guided him inside their home, Ilya sat on the ground of the living room and held his arms out for Anya to come close. “Moy shchenok,” Ilya cooed when she cuddled into him, her backside wiggling as he scratched it. “Here is my good girl. She would never make her papa sneeze, hmm? No, no, never,” he said, taking her head in his hands and kissing all over her face. Then he smooshed his face into her chest. “My little teddy bear. You smell like corn chips,” he muffled into her fur before dragging his head away to sneeze into his shoulder. “hy’AASHHhhhuhh! hAAHHhhhoo! AESZCHhhhuh!” Anya, used to Ilya’s strong sneezes, didn’t even blink.
“Bless you, Ilya. C’mon, we need a shower, then bed.”
“Da, yes. Need to get all this…” Ilya waved a hand in the air as if it could help him conjure up the words he was looking for. “…kitty pollen off of us.”
Shane melted anew at the thickness of Ilya’s accent and his adorable substitute for “cat dander.” He helped him up, kissed his hand, then led him to the bathroom. He let Ilya lean on him as he washed them both off with the best sensitive-skin soap money could buy. (They’d learned the hard way never to buy scented body wash. Shane had thought he was going lose his hearing from how loud Ilya’s sneezes were that day.)
Wearing the matching robes that Shane had bought them for Christmas (monogrammed with their initials, of course), they got into bed and Ilya curled up on Shane’s chest. His nose and eyes were still red, but he was much less snuffly and irritated. Shane was feeling better himself, but he took his pill just in case. He had a tendency to be a bit sneezy in the mornings and after pregame naps, so he figured he may as well avoid that if he could. He felt pretty sneezed out for the week, anyway. How the hell did Ilya handle sneezing so much so often? It was exhausting.
Ilya snuggled as close as he could. “Shanya. You are okay?”
Shane smiled and nodded. “I’m good.”
“Anya?”
“She’s right here.” Indeed, Anya had approached Shane’s side of the bed for pets before going over to Ilya’s. “Let’s rest, okay?”
“Mmh.” Ilya closed his eyes, and just as Shane began to drift off, he said, “Shane…”
Shane opened his eyes and was lovestruck by the gorgeous, red-rimmed blue eyes staring back at him. “Yeah, Ilya?”
“We didn’t eat lunch...”
Shane rolled his eyes. “Oh my god, you dork. I brought home some salad for later.”
“Better have some protein in it…” Ilya whispered a moment before he began to snore.
