Rio | 22 They/Them-ish ~Minors DNI~ Sneeze/Caretaking kink I’m aware that my kink is weird, I don’t need you to kink shame for me, I can do it myself ~🦎
guys is this anything or did i waste my time. Did i eff up the order things should be and did i miss something Huge. Let me know. Also has someone made this before ?
In which Neal and Elizabeth suffer, and Peter is there to fix it.
Pretty much another classic sick fic of my favourite hyperfixation rn! Please don’t reblog to non kink/whump blogs. Hope you enjoy!
Part 1.
“You’re sick,” Mozzie stated matter of factly, whilst wandering alongside Neal, in the streets of New York.
“I’m fine.” Neal muttered back, rubbing a knuckle under his nose in an attempt to put a stop to the itch.
“You’re not fine! You never sneeze. Like, ever, so unless you can explain the past ten minutes? I’m staying ten steps away, my friend. Ten. Steps. Away.”
“Mozz, you’re being dramatic. It’s nothing, it’s just —“ Neal stopped walking, bringing his elbow to his face. Mozzie was right, but he was hanging on to the small dregs of hope that this was all random and he wasn’t getting sick after all.
‘Heh’kshu!’ The sneezes told a different story.
“Gesundheit. Now, why don’t we do the sensible thing and double back to June’s instead of breakfast? You can go to bed, I’ll get you some medicine and then I’ll make scarce!” Mozzie took a few steps back towards Neal, rolling his eyes at the sound of his cellphone ringing.
He folded his arms, tapping his foot as he listened to his friend speak. “The suit wants you to work?” He questioned, after Neal hung up.
“Elizabeth’s workplace got robbed,” Neal explained, pocketing the phone. “She’s okay, but Peter wants to investigate. Don’t look at me like that, Moz. It’s just a stuffy nose. It’s probably just… allergies, or something.”
“You don’t get any kind of pollen allergies, wise guy.” Mozzie pointed out. “Let me know if El needs my… expertise. I’ll be at breakfast, while you go and tango with the bureau, Sneezy.”
“Yeah, yeah. See you later, Mozzie.” Neal watched him walk away, checking his watch; Peter would be here to pick him up soon.
After almost ten minutes, Peter was parking by the sidewalk and Neal climbed into the back seat; they were picking up Elizabeth, so he naturally assumed she’d go up front.
“Hey, Neal.” Peter greeted, and it was already obvious he was stressed.
“I’m sure Elizabeth is fine,” Neal replied, buckling his seatbelt.
His handler only sighed, driving off again. “I told her to stay home today,” he continued, without acknowledging Neal’s statement.
“Stay home?”
“Yeah… she’s sick, and she already worked from home for a couple days. I just — well, El thinks I’m being too dramatic. It’s just a cold, but, still.”
Ah. That explains how Neal caught what he has. “You worry a lot,” he confirmed. “But, I’m sure Elizabeth appreciates it. She’ll be okay, and I’m sure she’ll work from home tomorrow.”
There was a long pause, before Peter sighed again. They stopped in traffic, and he took a look in the mirror back at Neal. “Maybe you’re right,” he hummed.
“I’m right? Really?”
“Alright, don’t push it.”
“Are you sure you’re not getting sick?” Neal teased, although unbeknownst to Peter he was the one feeling under the weather; Neal’s throat itched, and so did his ears, and he couldn’t breathe through his nose or he’d sniffle and it would make him sneeze again.
“My immune system is top notch, and you know it.” Peter pointed out. “I’m feeling fine.”
“Even when sleeping with Elizabeth?”
Peter shot him a glare in the mirror, and Neal held up his hands. I meant sleeping as in sharing a bed! That’s a sure fire way to get sick.” He scrunches his nose, trying his best to quell the ever growing itch.
“Huh. And, you’d know, wouldn’t you?” The man jested back, falling quiet as they neared their destination.
Neal rolled his eyes at Peter’s comment, but for lack of energy and realisation that he was about to park the car again, he stayed quiet. Peter told him to stay put, and explained that he wasn’t going in as FBI — Elizabeth had a bunch that the lead thief was one of her colleagues. It was an interesting sounding case, but right now the CI was too focused on holding back a sneeze. And, as soon as Peter had closed his car door and stepped away from it, Neal buried his face into his elbow and inhaled sharply.
‘Hh’sSHhu, k—tch’tcH. Ugh. Shit.’ He sighed, making quick work of blowing his nose into the handkerchief in his pocket, placing it back just in time for Peter to open the door for Elizabeth.
“Honey, I promise, I’m fine — hey, Neal — a little shaken up, I guess, but I feel alright! You worry too much.” Elizabeth huffed a little, waiting for her husband to get in the car beside her. She didn’t sound extremely sick, but Neal could definitely hear the congestion in her voice.
Peter climbed in the car, and leaned across to feel El’s forehead. She didn’t look impressed. “I know, I know. I worry too much! We have to take your statement back at the office, is that okay? I’ll work from home after that.”
Neal’s eyebrows raised a little at that.
“You’re coming too, Neal. You’re not getting out of work that easily.” It was like Peter had read his mind. “We can —“
‘hu’tsh, tch, tshh. . Huh’tcHoo.’
“Bless you,” Peter and Neal rang in sync, whilst the agent continued to rub his wife’s back.
“Sorry,” El apologised softly, pocketing her tissue and leaning back in the seat with a heavy sigh.
“It’s okay, Hon. Neal, I’ll explain everything to you when we get to my place. Let’s get this statement over with so we can all relax.” Peter leaned across to kiss El on the cheek, before starting up the car.
•••
The conference room was dark, with the shutters closed and the lights turned off. It was like a welcoming blanket of calm, and immediately Neal felt the ache in his head dissipate a little. He quietly closed the door, glancing over at El, who was sitting on the couch scrolling through her phone, on low brightness mode.
“Neal,” she greeted softly. “Everything okay?”
“Peter sent me to check on you,” it was only a tiny, white lie. “And, I’d much rather sit in here with you. Peter gets grumpy when he’s worried.” Neal muttered, wandering in and closing the door behind him.
Elizabeth watched him for a moment, eyebrows raised. “Really? No other reason?” She questioned, still watching him.
“No other reasons.” Neal took a seat in one of the spinning chairs by the conference room table, and rubbed his eyes. They were almost as itchy as everything else; his nose itched, his ears felt stuffy as well as itchy. . . He was starting to feel worse, and if anyone was going to figure him out, it was Elizabeth Burke.
“Neal, are you okay? You’ve been acting off since we were in the car.” Elizabeth pressed on, and Neal sighed in semi-defeat.
“If I told you I had a headache, would you stop asking?” Neal muttered, trying not to sound agitated, and somewhat failing.
There was a pause, and El coughed slightly. “No. Does your throat hurt?” She continued, and Neal spun a little in his chair.
“Maybe.”
“Stuffy nose?”
“A little.”
“So, you’re sick. I knew it.” Elizabeth muttered.
“Which means, this is my fault,” she concluded next. “I’m sorry, Neal.”
He shook his head, reaching into his pocket for the silk handkerchief he’d been hiding away. He rubbed at his nose, and sniffled; revealing the oncoming congestion he’d been trying so hard to cover up for the past couple of hours. “It’s not your fault,” Neal finally spoke, pocketing the handkerchief.
“Know anyone else with a summer cold?” El quipped back, and he could imagine the look she was currently giving him.
With a heavy sigh, Neal leaned to rest his head against his arms, on the tabletop in front of him. “Elizabeth B — wait, what’s your middle name?” Neal asked, sitting up again and squinting over at her.
“Why?”
“Just.. humour me, just for a second.”
“It’s Laura.”
Neal inhaled, and stood up. “Elizabeth Laura Burke, why are you so irritatingly observant?” He exhaled, sniffling afterwards.
A laugh fell from her lips at that, which proceeded into a cough covered by a fist. “Marrying an FBI agent might have had something to do with it,” she smiled, patting the space next to her. “Neal George Caffrey, you know it’s alright to let your guard down here, hmm?” El’s voice softened, watching him as he sat.
He shifted slightly, and El could tell that he was uncomfortable. Although, the eventual albeit very quiet “I know,” was comforting. “That’s why I told you so easily.” Neal murmured, leaning back against the couch with a shiver.
“And, because whatever meds you dosed up with this morning are starting to wear off?” Elizabeth teased, gently reaching to feel his forehead. A little warm, but nothing alarming.
“Stop being right.” Neal grumbled, before quickly leaning away and burying his face into the crook of his arm.
‘Hu—ngxT. . . HheisHhhoo—ugh.”
“Bless you,” Elizabeth murmured, rummaging around in her purse for a new packet of tissues, and gently nudging him before offering them out.
Neal practically whined, taking a moment to use one of the tissues, before leaning back against the couch with another little shiver. Elizabeth frowned, about to suggest asking Peter to take them home sooner, when the glass door behind them opened.
“Sorry that took so long,” Peter’s voice announced. “Ready to go?”
The CI’s demeanour was quick to change — he sat up straight, cleared his throat and plastered on a signature Neal Caffrey smile in greeting. “Am I still coming?” He questioned nonchalantly, scrunching his nose and trying his absolute best not to sniffle again.
“Yep,” Peter responded. “We’re working from home today. Which means better coffee and some proper rest for El.” He offered out his hand for his wife, who stood and wandered towards him. She took a glance back at Neal, that was wordlessly saying ‘are you going to tell him, or am I?’ But, the CI simply followed behind them, shaking off whatever discomfort he was currently feeling for now.
Seconds after leaving the comfort of the dark room behind them, both Elizabeth and Neal squinted at the harsh lighting that illuminated the bullpen. Barely seconds later, the pair both paused and comedically in sync sneezes caused Peter to stop in his tracks and turn. “Bless y—whoever just sneezed.” He frowned, watching his wife continue to do so, and Neal turn around to put his back to him.
‘Hhh—ngxXt.’ The CI spun back around, sniffling desperately, and faced with a quizzical look from Peter.
“What, you’re sick too, now?” He questioned, folding his arms.
Neal shook his head. “The lights are too bright, Peter. You should really get someone to — snf — fix that.” He straightened himself up, and glanced sideways at El, who didn’t seem all that pleased with the holdup.
“Right,” Peter muttered, gesturing for the pair to follow him again.
“You wouldn’t understand. Having striking blue eyes isn’t all fun and games,” Neal continued, ignoring the look he got from Elizabeth beside him. He didn’t want to tell Peter he felt lousy, not yet. It was awkward, and he wasn’t used to being so open about vulnerability… besides, he just needed some more meds and he’d be fine to work the case.
On the elevator ride back down, El wrapped her arms around Peter and rested her head against his chest. It was obvious that her meds were wearing off too, although all Neal could do was uncomfortably shift on his feet until they reached the parking garage. He shivered, rubbing his eyes again, and followed Peter and El to the car in silence. Even when sitting in the back, he was uncharacteristically quiet, and at this point Peter wasn’t very convinced that his excuses earlier were true… because, a quiet Neal Caffrey was always something to be suspicious of.
When they got back, El told Neal to wait upstairs and she’d find him something comfortable to wear. Peter waited until the CI was out of earshot, before turning to his wife with a questioning expression. He led her into the living room, bringing her into his arms and waiting a moment before speaking.
“El,” he began. “What’s wrong with Neal?” He figured that if Neal was going to tell anyone, it would probably be El.
His wife faltered, looking up at him with a slightly guilty look. “Why would he tell me?” She replied, resting her head back against Peter’s chest with a congested sigh.
“Because you’re Elizabeth Burke — kind, soft, warm and caring. I can imagine Neal would talk to you, given the right circumstances… you were alone, maybe his guard was down.”
“Well, I kinda guessed. He eventually told the truth.” Elizabeth admitted. “I feel awful about it. I didn’t want to get anyone sick.”
Peter pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Speaking of awful, how are you feeling now?” He asked, leaning back to look at her.
“A little less than awful.”
“But, not great?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “D’you still need me to help with anything in the case?” She asked quietly.
“All I need for you to do is go and change into something comfortable and lie down. We can talk work later, once you’ve rested. I’ll come check on you in a half hour… I guess I should check on Neal too, huh?”
“I’ll check on him before I go to bed. I love you.”
When Neal came down stairs a half hour later, he didn’t exactly look up to field work. Hell, he didn’t look up to sitting in an office either. His nose was slightly red now, and Peter could see that his eyes were watering.
“Dodn’t,” Neal warned. “Dodn’t say a word.” He sniffled, walking over to the couch to take a seat. He was wearing a pair of Peter’s old sweatpants now, and the white vest he’d had on underneath his usual shirt. The agent simply held up his hands in response, before going back to the papers that were currently scattering the table; similar to how his thoughts felt right about now.
‘H’eishu, t’shu!’ He groaned, looking around for tissues, until Elizabeth somehow appeared directly in front of him; holding out a box for him.
Neal took them, and eventually wiped his hands, before holding them out for the sanitizer El was also holding. She was magic, or something, because he could’ve sworn she was upstairs just a second or two ago.
“You were supposed to be waiting upstairs, so I could bring you some medicine.” She chided, reaching to feel his forehead with the back of her hand.
“I godt bored.” Neal sniffled, and Elizabeth gave him a look. . . That probably meant blow your nose, so he complied eventually. His dignity. It hurt.
Peter looked up, immediately going to check on his wife, and he took the thermometer and Tylenol from her hands. “You need to rest too.” He reminded her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “C’mon. You two sickies on the couch — I’ll get a blanket and make some tea. You, use the thermometer, and you… rest.” He pointed to Neal, and held out the instrument until the disgruntled CI opened his mouth. Resting a blanket over the pair, Peter then disappeared into the kitchen.
The thermometer beeped a few seconds later, and Neal removed it. He showed it to Elizabeth afterwards, knowing he’d only be made to take it again if he turned it off prematurely. “99.32, Hon! Just a slight temperature.” She called out to Peter, who was still busy with making the hot drinks.
After a while, he eventually reappeared, carrying two steaming mugs. “Herbal tea — I know you’ll complain, but I even added honey to mask the… leaf taste.” Peter grimaced, remembering all too well when he was made to drink the stuff a while back. He handed one to each of them, and stood back, hands on his hips. What could he do to miraculously heal them both in two days?
There was a pause, while Peter thought, and Neal and Elizabeth exchanged looks. “Hon, you okay?” El eventually questioned, while Neal stayed quiet and sipped on the tea. It helped his throat a little, and the taste was obscured by his congestion, so that part wasn’t really an issue.
“I’m… gonna go to the pharmacy. I’ll call Jones on the way, and when I’m back we’ll come up with a plan. I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere!” He stepped closer to El, to kiss her forehead, and then glanced at Neal. “Don’t get into any trouble.”
“Like whadt, exactly?” Neal looked at him, sniffling again.
“If anyone can get into trouble when they are acting all sick and innocent, it would be Neal Caffrey. I’m not saying you will! Just saying.” Peter replied, before grabbing his car keys and heading out of the door.
•••
“What if — hu’isHu — El can name drop me, or — tShhHh… snff! — one of my aliases. I can convince him to cut me in on the robberies and… we’ll get him that way.” Neal pressed another tissue to his nose, holding onto the back of a chair with his other hand. The past thirty minutes had been a repeat of this; sneezing mid conversation, yet refusing to rest until they thought of how to get this guy.
“How does El know you?”
“C… colleagues. Me and you. Your fake office jo… heh—hh—h’tCHhh! Ugh. Your fake office job.” He grabbed another tissue from the box on the table, and stumbled over to the couch. The idea was good, and that was enough for him. The cold meds Peter had brought back from the pharmacy were fuzzing up his brain, and he was tired again.
“Bless you,” Elizabeth chimed in, from her seat at the table. “I think that could work. We could talk more about it over dinner? I think a break is due.” She looked at Peter, who was staring at Neal with a concerned expression.
“Dinner will be takeout, because don’t think I haven’t noticed you trying not to cough throughout this entire conversation. No cooking. Not until you’re better.” Peter warned El, but his tone was one of endeared worry, not anger.
“I guess I won’t argue with that,” Elizabeth murmured sheepishly, picking up her glass of water.
“What do you think, Neal? Takeout?” Peter called over to the CI, who was currently having a one on one fight with a blanket, trying to cover himself over with it.
‘Heh’tsh.’
“I thought so, too.”
‘t’chOo— ow. Snff…’
“Are you talki’g to mbe?” Neal turned, once again holding a tissue to his nose. It was becoming a permanent feature.
“No, no. Lie down. Get some rest, and I’ll close the curtains. We need you healthy for this job… alright? You need anything? More water?” Peter rambled slightly, unbeknownst to the fond look Elizabeth was giving him as he wandered over to deal with the curtains situation. He helped cover Neal over with the blanket, and brought him another box of tissues.
“You’re dnot gonna tell mbe to cowboy up?” Neal looked up at him with watery blue eyes, frowning as Peter’s hand touched his forehead.
“Not this time. I’m telling you to cowboy… down. If that’s a thing. I’m making it a thing.” He muttered, giving Neal’s hair a slight ruffle. “Rest. Tomorrow, you and El are taking an entire day to recover, you got that?”
il/ya trying to make smalltalk with sick sh/ane, who’s less responsive than usual, his focus splitting in and out. he mostly contributes nods and the occassional practiced smile— one that il/ya sees straight through.
except il/ya doesn’t know that sh/ane is sick. he assumes his disinterest is from annoyance or frustration. maybe sh/ane doesn’t like il/ya as much as he had hoped… maybe he’s just a good great fuck.
until sh/ane goes silent for a full minute, his gaze directed towards il/ya’s shoulder but his focus evidently elsewhere. il/ya’s about to give up on the conversation entirely when sh/ane ducks into his elbow, half stifling a sneeze. he freezes in place, keeping his nose tucked away until a second, “h’hSXCHh’ew!” is caught in his elbow, wetter and more urgent than the first.
I’m just thinking, cause ya boy hasn’t been feeling well lately, about the intimacy of someone looking into your mouth to check for a raw, red, sore throat.
Their thumb upon your lower lip, gently prying your jaw open. Maybe it lightly brushes or hooks over your bottom teeth.
Moving your head slightly to get better lighting, maybe digging out a flashlight just for this.
The little tisks of concern when it’s obvious your throat is inflamed.
The direct gaze into your soul as they give you the update, tell you to get back in bed.
The proximity, the gentle care, the attention, all the things I love!!
Another collab with the amazing @silentsneezes <3 we are bringing you established h/ucklerobby & a side of h/ucklerabbot for this fic!! I hope you enjoy :D!!
It could be a learned trait from his childhood, maybe: to give and give and give until he can’t. Or maybe it’s his desire to prove that he can do more than just accept the constant favors people are paying him, ones he can’t return as easily. He may not be able to pay Trinity rent or support Robby the same way the older man supports him, but he can sure as hell plan a picnic; he can give Robby extra kisses in the morning, learn how to make his coffee just right, and offer small comforts on the days where everything starts to feel a bit too much.
It’s a flawed logic and he knows it, but he’s willing to do whatever it takes to make his newfound happiness last. Today that includes packing all the appetizers that Trinity had given the highest ratings in a cooler alongside a few types of cheese and a bottle of wine from Robby’s pantry. Each item fits neatly in the container, but Dennis arranges and re-arranges them a few times nonetheless. His only stills when Robby comes up behind him, broad hands finding their places as his hips as he presses against Dennis’s back.
Dennis leans back into the touch eagerly, smiling as Robby’s beard brushes against his ear. He feels a little kiss land on his neck. “You ready?” Robby asks, watching as Dennis fits the last few items neatly into place.
“Mhm. We just need to carry everything out to the car.” Dennis turns so he’s facing his boyfriend, grinning up at him with a giddy excitement. It’s going to be a perfect day, he’ll make sure of it.
He pushes himself up onto his tippy toes so he can give Robby a kiss, but the older man turns to the side just as he does, dodging him slightly so the kiss lands on his cheek instead. Dennis’s lips tug into a slight frown, pouting up at Robby as he feels a little pang in his chest from his aversion to the affection.
“Sorry. I’ve still got coffee breath,” Robby excuses lamely. He squeezes Dennis’s hips gently. “Give me two minutes.”
With that, Robby leaves for the bathroom, and Dennis tries to ignore the slight doubt at his boyfriend’s excuse. He’s been dating Robby long enough to know his routine, his habits, and he knows for certain that Robby’s already finished his coffee and brushed his teeth over half an hour ago. ‘Stop it,’ Dennis thinks. There’s no need for more of his fanatic overthinking… right?”
•
Somehow the next half hour follows according to Dennis’s plan; they drive to the park, find a lovely half-shaded spot to set up, and get settled in a relatively private area. The sun is shining, and there are a few clouds blowing in… but, that should be fine.
“I hope I didn’t bring too much food,” Dennis murmurs more to himself than to his partner, as they begin to get everything out of the picnic basket.
Robby smiles, reaching his hand across to momentarily stop his overly-anxious boyfriend from unpacking for just a moment. “Relax,” he eases gently, “this is all amazing, no matter how much you did or didn’t pack. I promise you, you’ve got this.”
He’s already blushing — the way Robby can make his partner turn wonderful shades of pink and maroon always amuses him greatly — and Dennis clears his throat, before becoming momentarily distracted by an incoming tickle. The pollen is nowhere near as awful to him as it is in Spring, but where there’s nature, there’s usually a reason to sneeze, in his world.
‘hh-eh-isShZziew! ‘ksHh! ‘kshiew!’ Dennis sneezes thrice into his bare elbow, sniffling afterwards and frowning in the vague direction of a nearby tree. “Sorry, ‘scuse me.” He murmurs, a little sheepish, “I was trying to say thank you.”
Robby just grins. “Bless you, bless you… buh-less you.” He starts helping Dennis unpack the last of the food, before eagerly reaching for a sandwich.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, stabbing a paper straw into the little juice box he’s picked out first.
The first thirty minutes of the date go pretty perfectly, if Dennis could say so himself. They chat about idle things, a little bit about work, and about their plans for their next day off. They enjoy the food that he’s packed, and Robby makes sure to compliment almost every bite of something new. In fact, things are going so well, the at neither of them notice the clouds above start to turn to grey… until the dark shadows become too much, and their pretty picnic is now shrouded in gloomy darkness from above.
“Oh, fuck, it looks like it’s gonna—“ as if the comedic Gods are sneering down at him, the heavens quite literally open at that exact moment before Whitaker can even finish his sentence, and it begins to pour. “—rain!” He squeaks, fumbling to try and pack away the food as quickly as possible.
Robby is quick to step in and help, and although they’re both almost soaked through by the time everything is packed up his help was most definitely needed. He rushes to the trunk of his car parked just a metre away, shoving the basket and a few loose items inside, and grabbing the picnic blanket from his boyfriend who’s now very grateful for the temporary shelter of the trunk roof.
“You okay?” Robby asks, slightly breathless, and silently wishing fuck, I wish I could kiss him right now out here in the rain. But… but…
He’s quick to turn away, and duck into his elbow, ‘HHUH’YYSHOO! ‘YSHH-UH!’ Well, maybe the cat’s out of the bag already. He most definitely has a cold, and being out in the rain clearly hasn’t helped. Fuck.
“Woah-“ Dennis blinks, stumbling in surprise. “Bless you. Are you okay?” He’s not sure if he’s ever heard Robby sneeze twice in succession like that.
“Sorry,” Robby sniffles thickly, congestion having appeared out of nowhere all of a sudden. “I, uh—“ he’s interrupted by a clap of thunder, that also makes Dennis yelp in surprise. “Let's get in the car!” Robby raises his voice over the sound of the rain, deciding it best to spend as little more time outside as possible while the Summer storm persists.
•
“I’m sorry you caught a cold,” Dennis pouts, returning to his boyfriend’s side after having changed into some warm and dry clothing.
“I should’ve mentioned it earlier,” Robby clears his throat, reaching for one of the strawberries on the picnic mat they’d set up in the living room. “I just didn’t want to ruin the afternoon you’d planned for us.”
Dennis smiles slightly, shuffling closer to his boyfriend. “The weather did a good job of that instead,” he groans, remembering not that long ago when the pair were torrential rained upon, “maybe it was a sign.”
“You could go back to Santos’? Just for a few days while I get over this cold — I don’t think it’ll stick around long.” Robby muses, planning to neck as much vitamin C as possible over the next twenty four hours.
But, Dennis is quick to shake his head, “I never get to take care of you, and besides, we spent the night together in very close proximity. Might be too late for me, but a valiant sacrifice it was indeed.” He grins, and Robby laughs, a ticklish cough catching on the end of it.
“Well, I didn’t feel sick then. You might still be safe.”
“I’ll be careful — wash my hands, not kiss you on the lips. Sorry.” He shrugs, feigning innocence at the last remark. “I could go make us tea? I know it’s not the picnic in the sun that we planned, but I also didn’t have a spontaneous Summer storm on the itinerary. You get what you’re given, I guess.” He shrugs, glancing at the rainy skies outside of the window.
“I’ll make us tea,” Robby insists, “you’ve planned a great day, don’t put yourself down about some rain. The weather can be as unpredictable as one of our shifts.” He stands before his boyfriend can protest, and Dennis startles as he hears a rather loud — ‘hhH’AH’YYYSHHH’EW!’ From the kitchen. Robby’s congestion is clearly settling in, along with the telltale tickle that he gets at the start of a cold.
“Bless you!” Dennis calls out, earning a stuffy, ‘thank you! Sorry!’ right back.
As if the universe was trying to create a romantic comedy starring the both of them, Dennis succumbs to a sudden tickle (most likely caused by the residue raindrops in his hair that are intermittently falling) and ducks into the sleeve of Robbie’s hoodie he’d shrugged on earlier once dry. ‘Hh’iShhH-! ‘tChH! ‘isSzzZshHiEw!’ The last one comes out high pitched, and he hears Robby’s low-pitched giggle in the room.
Dennis re-surfaces, sniffly and tearful for a moment.
“Bless you,” Robby hums, placing two cups of honey tea down onto the picnic mat and taking a seat again. “You okay? Not trying to set a record time for catching a cold, I hope?”
“I’m fine.” Dennis responds immediately. He rolls his eyes when Robby looks at him doubtfully. “Really, just adjusting to being inside I think.”
Despite his reassurance that he’s okay, he berates his nose with the cuff of his hoodie, leaving it irritated and tinged with pink. It’s a sight that Robby has grown more than used to, but still can’t help but be endeared by. These small, domestic moments that warm his chest.
“Feeling chilly?” Robby offers, before the realisation, “I guess I can’t really cuddle you.”
“You can. Well — I’ll cuddle you. You’re always taking care of me, let me return the favour?” Dennis pouts for extra effect, but smiles when his boyfriend laughs. “Please? I’ll still be careful, like I said.”
“Let’s get up on the couch,” Robby gives in, knowing Dennis just wants to make him feel better. They both get settled, leaving the picnic items on the floor for now, and Dennis wraps his arms around Robby’s middle; resting his head upon his chest with a contented little sigh.
The TV is switched on, and he flicks through various channels before settling on some nature show. Outside, the rain is still gently pattering against the windows, but the sun has come back out and there’s likely a rainbow shining somewhere. Robby’s comfortable, happy, and runs his fingers gently through Dennis’ curls.
“‘M sleepy,” Dennis hums. “Do you need anything? In case I fall asleep?”
“Just you,” Robby murmurs, close to his boyfriend’s ear, making the hair stand up on the back of his neck and causing him to giggle softly. “You sure you don’t wanna go lie down? If I sneeze, I’m waking you up immediately.”
“It’s okay.” He reassures. “Not your fault.”
“Still,” Robby hums low. “Are you sure?”
“Mhm. I’ll just go back to sleep afterwards, so, like, bless you in advance?” Dennis yawns, clearly very close to slumber.
Word count: 4.1k (we cooked a little too hard, maybe?)
When Jack eventually arrives just under an hour after Dennis had called him, he walks in to Robby dozing on the couch; the coffee table having become a portable pharmacy, and a very fluffy blanket covering his boyfriend. His stuffy snores are evident to the Summer cold he’s nursing, and Jack smiles to himself, glancing around for any sign of Dennis. He doesn’t seem to be in the immediate vicinity, so the man quietly makes his way into the kitchen, searching the cupboards for soup ingredients.
Meanwhile, Dennis (who didn’t hear Jack come in in the slightest), is busy tidying his and Robby’s bedroom while his boyfriend sleeps. He’s also ignoring the telltale ache in the back of his throat, and the fact that his nose is starting to get just a little bit itchier than normal, as well as the occasional need to sniffle more than he usually does. It’s probably just the pollen from outside, that’s all, and it’ll dissipate soon. He glances outside at the late afternoon sun, immediately regretting it as the sunbeam hits his eyeline and he dives into his elbow.
‘hhh’iTShhiew! ‘tShh! ‘yyYiew!’ Dennis frowns, sniffling and rubbing his nose with the cuff of Robby’s hoodie he’s still wearing. Oops. It’s fine, he’ll wash it later.
With a quiet huff of frustration, he wanders back into the living room to check on Robby, at the exact same time that Jack decided to do the same. And, having not known he was here this whole time, Dennis yelps in fright — clasping his hands over his mouth to try and diminish the sound once he realises what he’s doing.
“Shit, I’m sorry—“ Jack whisper-yells, not entirely sure what to do.
“No, no, no, it’s fine!” Dennis squeaks, the pair glancing at the couch as they hear Robby start to stir slightly.
Both of them are interrupted momentarily, as Robby sneezes… twice. ‘HHH’uH—YYYSSHHHEEH! HH’YYRSHIEW!’ Directly into the blanket covering him… yeah, they’ll be washing that later.
Dennis jumps, and even Jack flinches, their attention now solely focused on their sick boyfriend fumbling to reach for the tissue box on the coffee table. “Bless you—“ both of them say in unison, and Dennis is quick to step back when he realises Jack is also going over to check on the man. Suddenly, he feels a little out of his depth.
“Hey, you,” Jack greets, handing him the tissue box and sitting by Robby’s feet. “You feel as shitty as y’look?” He grins, glancing at his boyfriend with a chuckle.
“I don’t look that bad,” Robby rolls his eyes, pausing their playful bickering session to blow his nose. He throws the used tissue into the trash can Dennis had placed beside the couch earlier on, reaches for the bottle of sanitiser and rubs his hands together to ensure they stay clean. “But, I guess I feel pretty awful to have slept since…”
“Uh, two thirty. You fell back to sleep at two thirty.” Dennis hates how he suddenly sounds so small, and feels himself shrink even more as both older men turn to stare at him. “It’s… almost four now.”
Robby’s expression softens, and he gestures for Dennis to come over, but he shakes his head. “I, uh, was about to order soup for dinner, um—“
“Hey, no need. I’m making us some. You come and keep Robby company and I’ll be the chef for the night. Pretty good deal, if you ask me.” Jack jests lightly, standing and offering Dennis his seat.
Hesitantly, he walks over, sitting by Robby’s feet.
“Why don’t you both stay for a bit?” It was no secret to the two other men that Dr. Robby, the stubborn and stoic man when at work, was actually a lover of some soft caretaking and a little fussing every now and then once behind closed doors. Jack has known for many years, and kept it under wraps for him, yet teased him endlessly all the same. Dennis has only learned this recently, but adores the way Robby smiles at him when he brings him tissues and kisses his forehead. Very endearing, indeed.
Robby shuffles into the middle of the couch, so that Jack can sit on the other side of him. “The biggest softie, isn’t he?” Jack smirks, wrapping an arm around Robby and squeezing Dennis’ shoulder slightly. Dennis smiles at the display of affection, already feeling himself start to blush.
“Hey, I’m right here, you know.” Robby sniffles, leaning his head against Jack’s shoulder and reaching out to hold Dennis’ hand.
“Sounds like the congestion is settling in,” Dennis says quietly, rubbing his thumb across his boyfriend’s palm. “Do you need anything?”
As much as Dennis wants to offer Robby whatever he needs or wants, he’s also itching to make himself of use. He’s grown used to it just being him and Robby, and while he takes no issues with Jack, he’s not exactly familiar with the attending outside of professional settings. Sure, he’s seen Jack exchange affection with his boyfriend, and Robby was quick to explain the circumstances of the situation when he and Dennis first started flirting. He takes no issue with Robby and Jack’s relationship – in fact, he rather enjoys getting to hear Robby talk about their past dates and stories that the older man is so endeared with.
But it’s always been just that: stories, brief exchanges, nights where Dennis stays with Trinity because Jack doesn’t have a shift. It had always felt hypothetical to some extent, and now it’s very, very real.
Which means that, naturally, all of Dennis’s anxiety has taken a front row seat in his chest, nestled behind his ribs. It’s not just ‘what do I say’ and ‘is my body language decent’ but also ‘how do I prove to the man that’s loved Robby for years that I’m capable of doing the same?’
And, worst of all, the question of ‘am I capable of doing the same?’
He’s broken from his reverie as Robby answers with a simple, “no, thank you sweetheart,” and a shake of his head. He gives Dennis’s hand a little squeeze, smiling at the way their fingers slot together so perfectly.
Dennis relaxes slightly, his lips quirking into a smile as they always do at the sound of the petname. He can do this, right?
“Should we watch something?” Jack suggests as a silence fills the room, broken only by stuffy breaths from Robby. “Or we can just sit here listening to you sniffle all night.”
“I’d say the latter, you could learn some patience for once,” Robby teases, but he leans forwards to grab the remote.
Dennis can’t help but steal a glance at Jack, and to his surprise, he finds the older man looking right at him. His breath catches in his throat, a quiet noise slipping out as his cheeks flush pink. Jack just smirks, placing a hand on Robby’s thigh and noting, “no rom coms. I don’t want you getting sappy.”
The teasing – light, affectionate, quick – comes so easily for the two of them, and it dawns on Dennis that they must know each other through and through. There’s an air of comfort between them that Dennis has observed before at work, but this feels different, closer; it’s the kind of intimacy that he’s just grown used to with Robby.
Dennis pulls his knees to his chest as he watches Robby flick through their recently watched shows – they’ve both fallen into a slight Friends addiction over the past few weeks. He barely registers the fact that he’s started rubbing at his nose with his hoodie’s sleeve. The fabric collects a bit of moisture against its surface, leaving a small damp patch. Unfortunately, the rubbing does nothing more than spark a shock of irritation from the tip of Dennis’s nose to his sinuses. It festers in the left side, taking root and prickling stubbornly with every breath.
No problem, right? Dennis just has to hold his breath, press his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and – ‘hh’ – a little hitch breaks through, the itch growing with unexpected strength. His lashes flutter and his eyes fill in itchy, dewy anticipation as another hitch catches on his tongue, and another.
Dennis is quick to tent his elbow over the lower half of his face, clamping his jaw shut and swallowing as the next hitch tries to slip out. He knows without a doubt that he’s attracted Robby’s attention by now – afterall, the man is used to this whole ordeal by now – but that’s much less embarrassing than the fact that he can feel Jack’s eyes on him too.
His eyes squeeze shut just as his head bobs down with the first stifled ‘ngG’St!’ The itch sears through his sinuses in protest of the suppression, forcing another few back to back sneezes, ‘hnNGt’ngsxch!isch!’
The stifles do absolutely nothing to appease the burning sensation, and he hiccups into a few quick, quiet gasps before falling into another flurry of sneezes, ‘ngck! hk’Kxt! ih’nsXt!’
He barely registers Robby’s little admonishment of, “don’t hold them in,” through his body’s need to rid itself of the itch. Whether or not Dennis intended to stifle the last sneeze, it slips out in a high pitched, ‘h’iTtschH’yiew!’
The fit leaves him breathless for a moment, and he keeps the lower half of his face shrouded in the hoodie sleeve. He can feel his embarrassment flushing pink up to the tips of his ears, and it only worsens when he hears, “jesus, bless you kid,” from Jack. It’s not rude or judgemental, but shocked – it’s a reaction he’s accustomed to after sneezing like this all his life, and it’s much preferred to the teasing he gets from Trinity.
Robby offers a soft blessing as well, and Dennis nods his thanks, wordlessly reaching for a tissue from the box he’d opened for Robby. He misses the silent communication that happens behind his back: an eyebrow raise from Jack followed by a concerned but affectionate smile from Robby.
“You always sneeze that much?” Jack asks as he shifts on the couch, adjusting his posture and crossing his legs. If possible, Dennis flushes an even darker shade of red.
“Uhm, yeah. Usually, I guess. Sometimes it’s only two or three, if I’m lucky,” he wipes his nose with the tissue as he replies, determined not to look back at either Jack or Robby.
“Damn.” Jack leans closer to Robby, dropping his voice to mumble a quiet, “and here I was thinking you were exaggerating.”
“I’ve never exaggerated a day in my life,” Robby whispers back, unable to stop himself from laughing at the blatant lie — catching a ticklish cough into the crook of his elbow closest to Jack.
Dennis is snuggling himself close to Robby again, eyes half lidded and feeling warm and cosy. The embarrassment from his sneezing habits have subsided for now and all he really wants to do is rest, and hope that his symptoms will keep at bay for as long as possible.
•
Dennis knew he couldn’t stay undetected for long, because by dinner his nose is starting to run from the steam that the soup kicks up and although he could simply blame it on that alone, he’s sniffling even after excusing himself to the bathroom where he blows his nose. He tries not to, but minutes after leaving the bathroom he can feel the dampness return and he has no choice, unless he wants a consistently damp Cupid’s bow. They’ve all been sat on the couch in the same order as before — Dennis, Robby, Jack — and watching old reruns of Friends. He had been hoping the TV and the pair’s idle conversation would have them distracted from Dennis and his own goings on, but sadly, he hoped wrong.
“Hey, you okay?” Robby turns, looking down at his boyfriend, who’s just sniffled once again. He notes the slight pinkness on his cheeks, and around his nostrils, and frowns.
“Huh? Me? Yeah. Why?” The answer probably sounds suspicious, especially the way his voice raises an octave higher with each word. Dennis clears his throat, blinking a few times to try and reset himself.
“Sniffling a lot,” Robby notes.
“Oh, that. Yeah… soup was really steamy, sorry. It was really good though!” He leans across to catch Jack’s eye, who smiles in response.
Seemingly pleased with that answer, Robby goes back to discussing the current episode’s storyline with Jack, bickering quietly about something or other seconds later. Dennis just focuses on staying undetected for as long as possible, reaching for a tissue to softly blow his nose. He leans against Robby’s arm afterwards, letting the other men’s voices slowly soothe him, starting to doze before he can stop himself.
When he wakes, it’s to the sky turned to a rosy pink shade of dusk outside, so he hasn’t slept too long, but maybe… two? Three hours? The next thing he registers is that he’s no longer leaning against Robby, but there’s a cushion in his place and he’s been covered by a blanket. There’s distant voices somewhere nearby, maybe in the kitchen, and Dennis rubs his eyes before sitting up. The ache in his throat has gotten a little worse, and when he breathes in through his nose, it’s accompanied by a liquid sniffle, followed by a dissapointed groan.
“Oh, hey, sleepy head,” Jack reappears in the living room, Robby following after him with a mug of tea in his hands. “We made tea — you want some?”
“Um—“ his voice cracks. Brilliant. Fantastic. “No, thanks. I’m okay.” Dennis clears his throat, covering a yawn with the back of his hand. “Sorry, it’s been a long week.”
Robby sits down beside him, silently desperate to kiss his forehead but refraining due to his germs. Dennis notices that his nose is even redder, and that he’s officially resorted to mouth breathing. He curls closer, not caring about his cold (mostly because he knows he already has it.)
“You sure you’re okay?” It’s Jack that asks, taking the words right out of Robby’s mouth. “It’s fine if you aren’t.”
Dennis swallows. “I’m good. Did I sleep long?” He subtly runs the cuff of his hoodie sleeve under his nose, hiding it before anyone can see the dampness that forms, and then he sniffles.
“About two hours,” Jack replies, pressing play on the remote again, “it’s not too late. Although I might need some convincing to get Robby to go to bed early — before he falls asleep on here after telling us he’s not tired.” He smirks slightly, glancing at them both.
“I’m not tired. My head hurts like a bitch, and I can’t breathe, but I’m not tired. I practically napped the day away.” Robby rolls his eyes, and continues to drink his tea.
Dennis can’t help but laugh softly at that, but also feel a little sorry for his boyfriend. “You don’t have a fever, do you?” He asks instinctively, looking up.
“No fever. A full exam has been carried out.” Jack insists, and Dennis isn’t too sure of what he’s implying and suddenly feels a lot out of his depth again. Although, he doesn’t get to dwell on the anxious feeling for long, because the tickle has reignited inside his nose and his entire attention is now focused on not sneezing. But, even when he’s coming down with something, his nose doesn’t usually get that kind of memo.
“hh-“ he shakes his head, as if that’ll will the sneezes away. ‘hHhh’ii’ehhh-excuse m- hh’nGgTt’chu! ‘mmxx’ch! ‘iTtxxchHuh! hhh’h-ITtzzYshiew!’ He squeaks out a half-stifled fit against Robby’s sleeve, too overwhelmed with the itch and perhaps a little more under the weather than he thought; because he neglects to move and the realisation settles in just moments after. He shuffles away from Robby immediately, sweater-paw hands coming up to his face to cover his mouth and nose. “Sorry—!” Dennis yelps, sniffling helplessly. “I-I’m still half asleep, Robby, I—“
And, suddenly all of his fears and anxieties from the evening and the dull ache behind his eyes are all becoming too much and Dennis feels his eyes starting to sting with the threat of tears — and, it’s all silly, really, because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that he sneezes like this, it doesn’t matter that he already caught the stupid cold, or that he feels so tiny in the presence of Jack. They’ve tried to tell him that none of this matters, yet now he’s overcome with the creeping guilt that they’re going to have to take care of him now when all he’d wanted was to take care of Robby, and hell, apparently he can’t even do that.
“Dennis?” Robby treads carefully. “Baby?” He reaches a hand out and touches his knee.
“So, uh, I don’t — I don’t feel well.” Is all Dennis manages to mumble, gaze trained downwards at his own hands and feet. He feels stupid, and small, and everything he’s always felt before he met the most amazing people he has in his life right now.
“Hey,” he doesn’t notice Jack get up from the couch and kneel down beside him, until he has two hands resting against his knee. “You wanna talk about it?” The elder man clearly senses that something more is wrong, but Dennis lightly shakes his head.
“You wanna sneeze about it?” Jack risks a small joke, and grins when it successfully makes Dennis laugh a little.
“Probably,” Dennis sniffles, swiping the fabric of the hoodie at his eyes and underneath his nose.
Robby wraps a careful arm around him, “you know, tissues were invented for that purpose.” It’s not a harsh tone at all, but Dennis still blushes with embarrassment, going to apologise before Jack’s finger meets his lips. Fuck, now he’s blushing even harder.
“No more saying sorry. I’m going to go grab some things from the store, and you and Robby are going to be good boys and stay right here, cuddling, or something.” He stands with a small grunt of effort. “If you try to exert yourselves in any way shape or form while I’m gone, there’ll be a hard ban on forehead kisses.” He points at them both with a faux stern look on his face.
Dennis finally gives in once Jack is gone, flopping his body against Robby’s chest. A few tears fall down his cheeks, and he tries to be as quiet as possible in the ordeal, but crying isn’t often a silent task. He sniffles a few times in succession, drawing his boyfriend’s attention back to him.
“Hey. You’re holding it all in, I can feel it. Just let it go.” Robby rubs gentle circles against his back, and continues to do so until Dennis has stopped crying and reaches the sniffly hiccups stage. “There,” he coos. “Better?”
Actually, he does feel a lot better. Pent up emotions are one of Dennis’ specialities, and Robby can most definitely relate. “Yeah, but I feel like an idiot.” Dennis murmurs, completely stuffed up now, blunting each and every consonant. “And—“ he hitches softly, going to move, but Robby holds him close still.
“Can’t catch my own cold, sweetheart. Just let it out.” He places a kiss atop of Dennis’ head, seconds before he falls victim to another ticklish fit of sneezes.
‘hh’iiitishhiew! hh’yyZzshiew! ‘iTTshhH-tSH! hehh’tzzYysHhiew! ‘chuH!’ It feels good not to stile, but he’s still left with a lingering tickle at the end of it, and sits up in a small daze.
“Bless you. Dizzy?” Robby asks, sympathy dripping from his words.
Dennis nods. His ears are stuffy now, the cold starting to properly take hold. “I didn’t want you to feel guilty about all this.” He murmurs, rubbing his sleeve over his face; the fabric truly messy now, but Dennis is too emotionally exhausted to really care. “I just wanted to take care of you, and I felt… I don’t know. It’s different — not bad different — but, with Jack. Y’know?” He peers up at Robby, who’s listening sincerely with those warm, brown eyes trained on his sniffly boyfriend.
“Neither of us expect you to be used to it. It’s new, we both know that. And if it’s ever too much, you just let me know, okay?” He holds Dennis’s gaze, every word spoken with a genuine care. One of his hands makes its way to the back of Dennis’s neck, providing a grounding, warm touch that Dennis definitely needs in that moment.
He nods and sniffles again. “I know. I guess I’m just… used to being the last choice in my family. I’m the youngest, so I was always just… there.” He has to pause to sniffle again, digging his knuckles against his right nostril – which has resigned itself to be entirely blocked. Robby waits patiently; he’s always been good at lending Dennis the time to compose and express his thoughts, and now is no different. “It’s not fair to compare this to being at home, but I guess I’m nervous that things will change? Maybe that’s selfish, I don’t know.”
His uncertainty is almost tangible, creasing between his brows in an anxious twinge. A small breath in hits the wall of nervousness in his chest and forces a light cough directed towards his wrist.
“Dennis,” Robby’s voice cuts through his anxious haze, even as it’s seeped in congestion, “I’m not going anywhere, alright? Not unless you want me to–”
“I don’t,” Dennis interjects, earning a smile from his boyfriend.
“Well, that’s always a good sign,” he jokes, his fingers applying a gentle pressure to Dennis’s neck and rubbing the tension away, “we’ll take this one day at a time, okay? We can always go back to the way things are, Jack and I are happy to keep our relationship separate.”
Dennis nods a little, blinking away the sleepiness that’s lingering in his body and brain; it dulls his senses, as if a fog has taken residence in his mind. “Can we talk about it another time?”
“Of course.” Robby shifts on the couch. He pulls Dennis closer, wrapping his arms around the smaller man’s waist now that he knows Dennis has already caught his cold. Dennis’s head ends up nestled on his chest, tucked just beneath his chin. “Comfy?”
Dennis nods, “comfy.”
“I’m sorry you ended up catching this,” Robby adds, rubbing Dennis’ back.
“I’m not,” Dennis responds, a smirk toying at the corners of his mouth whilst he looks up. “Means I can do this, now.” He shifts and presses a kiss to Robby’s mouth, though it’s short lived due to the fact that neither can breathe well enough through their noses.
“Oh, yeah?” Robby chuckles, pressing his palms against Dennis’ lower back to better support him. “Jack said don’t exert ourselves.” He pecks Dennis’ forehead.
Giggling, the younger man leans in again, yet this time Robby’s facial hair tickles at the skin near his nose, and Dennis has to break apart the kiss to duck into his elbow. ‘Hh’tshh’iew! ‘ssyzzShHiew! ‘tch, ‘tch, -tTchHh’uh’isHhiew!’ He sniffles thickly, rubbing his nose against his sleeve. A small groan falls from parted lips.
“Bless you,” Robby lets Dennis lean back against his chest, clearly a little tired out from the latest fit.
“I should take a shower,” he hums quietly, “I feel kinda gross.” He’s definitely used less tissues than he should have, which isn’t usually like him, but sometimes he just gets so fatigued from fit after fit. Plus, Robby’s a very comfortable pillow.
“Can I come?” Robby’s already grinning, and Dennis laughs softly.
“No exerting ourselves.” He reminds his boyfriend, glancing up at him.
Dennis carefully rises to his feet. “I won’t be long,” he reassures, “maybe when Jack’s back, we could watch a movie? I don’t think I can sleep just yet, after accidentally sleeping, like, the whole day.” He stretches his arms above his head, Robby appreciating the view it gives him as Dennis’ shirt rides up slightly.
Robby watches without complaint, grinning as Dennis continues to stretch, oblivious to his attentiveness. After a moment, Dennis catches Robby’s eye, immediately recognizing his expression and flushing pink. He drops his hands to his sides, but he can’t help but smile. He steps closer to his boyfriend, pulling him in for another brief kiss – he always gets greedy about kisses when he feels bad – before saying, “I’ll be back soon. You okay here?”
“I’d be better in the shower with you,” Robby says smoothly, and it takes every ounce of self restraint Dennis has for him to shake his head; how Jack ever says no to his brown eyes, Dennis isn’t sure.
“I just want to rinse off,” Dennis excuses, which isn’t entirely false, though he mostly wants to stand under the steam until the congestion blocking his nose eases. Robby’s already witnessed enough sniffling from him in the past half hour, he doesn’t need to be privy to whatever sneezes the shower coaxes out.
“Okay.” The older man concedes with a tired grin, “hollar if you need anything.”
Dennis hadn’t intended for his shower to end up being too long. ‘Ten, fifteen minutes tops,’ is what he’d initially told himself; just long enough for him to work out some of his congestion, wash the feeling of sick off his skin, and maybe use one of Robby’s nice conditioners.
Somewhere along the way, he finds himself standing brainlessly beneath the water’s stream, his skin gradually turning a darker shade of red as the hot water pelts against it. The entire bathroom is filled with a thick, hot cloud of steam, and it’s working wonders on Dennis’s congestion. Sure, he’s spent a good amount of his shower stumbling in and out of fits, but each of them leaves his sinuses a bit looser than before.
He vaguely registers the sound of talking from the living room, although he can’t actually make out any words, just the distant lull of Jack and Robby. It feels nice, domestic almost, to know that there are not one but two people awaiting his return from the shower – two ridiculously hot people who also happen to be his boss's bosses.
Dennis stays in the shower until he’s dizzyingly warm, but the comfort of the hot water disappears as soon as he steps out and starts toweling himself dry. A small shiver works its way up his spine, and he hurries to pull on the pajamas he’d nabbed from his drawer in Robby’s dresser. And, he doesn’t hesitate to pick up a clean hoodie from the laundry pile, belonging to his boyfriend of course.
He walks back into the living room, painfully aware of how the couple already sat down seem to go silent almost immediately, yet their smiles are warm at least. “Hey,” Robby’s voice sounds rough. “Good shower? Help ease up the congestion any?” He pats the space that he and Jack make between them on the couch.
Dennis nods, yet sniffles still. “Yeah, a lot, thanks.” He says quietly, sitting in the middle and feeling a little unsure of where to lean. He naturally gravitates towards Robby, but doesn’t want to offend Jack, yet the issue is solved when Robby pulls him gently into his arms.
“I see you’ve commandeered another one of my jackets, huh?” He teases lightly, running his fingers through Dennis’ curls.
“Too hot to wear it yet.” So, apparently, he’s just cuddling it.
“You two sickly lovebirds wanna choose a movie?” Jack interjects, but it’s not out of spite, and he chuckles softly. “Like I said before, though — no rom-coms.” He holds the remote out towards Dennis.
Dennis is slow to react, his brain eventually kickstarting enough that he accepts the remote with a little, “sorry,” mumbled under his breath. Maybe the shower had made him more disoriented than he’d initially recognized…
He sniffles as he flicks through various tv shows, movies, and advertisements. His nose is apparently less than happy with its sudden change in climate, working to undo all his progress in decongesting. After a minute or so of mindless scrolling and endless sniffling, he feels Robby gently coax the remote from out of his hand. His grip loosens within an instant, and he feels Robby’s other hand settle over his hip with a little squeeze – a silent ‘is this okay?’
Dennis nods, pressing himself further against his boyfriend’s side and watching as Robby takes over in deciding what to watch. The warmth of the shower seems to have washed a new layer of sleepiness over him, too, because he doesn’t really remember much of the movie Robby ends up choosing. He somewhat recalls Jack enticing him to stretch his legs out across his lap, and then he must’ve dozed in and out throughout the entire thing. So much for not being sleepy anymore.
•
Dennis leans against the doorframe of the bedroom, watching Jack tease Robby and pretend to tuck him in, before rubbing vapour rub all over the sick man’s chest. His gaze travels to Robby’s exposed skin, watching the gentle and tender strokes Jack makes and —
“Dennis?”
Maybe he was watching a little too intensely.
“Huh?” He straightens himself up, clearing his throat.
“You coming to bed?” Jack has climbed off of Robby now, and is standing a few feet away.
He shakes his head. “Oh, umm… no, thanks. I was thinking of…” he scrunches his nose, the effects of the medicinal lotion already getting to him. “Um…” he avoids Jack’s eyes as the man gets closer, still holding the little pot of sneeze inducing nightmares.
“Robby said your chest gets pretty congested with colds, so—“
“No, thank you! That stuff usually really m..mhh-makes me- hh’Mmm’Ishiew! ‘KkshHiew! hh’nGxT! ‘xXkjShH-SHiew! Guhhh…” Dennis succumbs to an itchy fit, trying his best to muffle them and stifle against the sleeve of Robby’s hoodie he’s since put on.
“Sneeze?” Jack finishes off for him, eyebrow quirked upwards and a smirk to match.
“Mhm.” Dennis sniffles pitifully, soft little hitches teasing him before he gets the chance to properly recover.
‘hhh-‘
‘hh’iiH-‘
‘hhhh-?’
Jack watches, slightly entranced by the way Dennis’ seems caught in that pre-sneeze limbo, temporarily tortured by the itch, yet with no relief. He watches him flutter his eyelashes, blinking away tears and sniffling again; he drops his arm back by his side, after no relief comes.
“Stuck?” Robby asks from the bed, and both of the other men jump slightly; having been interrupted from their different trances.
Robby’s eyes flick over Jack’s expression knowingly before he turns his attention to Dennis. He pats the spot beside him in bed, willing Dennis to forgo his previous denial, “c’mon. It might be good for you to work out some of your congestion.”
Wordlessly, Dennis steps around Jack and pads over to the bed. Seeing the clear sheen of vapor rub over Robby’s chest is enough to make his nostrils flare again. The unmistakable scent of menthol permeates the area around the older man, but Dennis is too tired to deny taking the spot beside Robby. It’s not his typical place in bed; usually, he and Robby have a relatively equal split between the bed’s sides – that is, until Dennis inevitably works his way onto Robby’s side. Tonight, however, Robby’s laying in the center of the bed, and Dennis opts for choosing the far left side.
He doesn’t even get the opportunity to sit down before another hitch teases at his senses, imploring his eyes to slip shut, ‘hhH’ih?’
He stands, expression pinched and hazy, at the bedside. After a few seconds of remaining frozen in anticipation, his breath falls in a disappointed exhale. When he opens his eyes, he’s immediately met with Jack’s gaze glued to him from the other side of the bed. Dennis flushes pink and looks away – if he hadn’t, he’d have realized that Jack looked almost as sheepish as he did about being caught.
Robby pushes the blanket and the sheets down, patting the bed once again to prompt Dennis, who slips into bed and practically melts into the mattress. It hugs at his sore limbs, the warmth of Robby’s body nearby easing some of the discomfort lingering in his body. Unfortunately for him, the proximity also gives his nose what it needs to finally break past the point of hitching – ‘kSSchH! hh?!-isch’iSCHhyi!’
He only gets a second of reprieve before his body forces another pitchy gasp and a few itchy sneezes, ‘szSCHh!… ih’yhSXchi! itTsSChhyu!’
“Bless you, although, I have a feeling you’re not done.” Robby hums, turning away a little to cough into his fist.
Dennis shakes his head, still entrapped by the pre-sneeze limbo; soft little hitches spilling from his lips. ‘hh’yYzzsHhiew! ‘ishhiew! ‘kk’sHh-ShHtt-Yysh’oo!’ He doesn’t try and stifle this time, tired out and dizzy, the rapid triple coming at the end with practically no chance to breathe in between.
“Bless you,” Robby whispers softly, listening to Dennis wheeze for a few moments, regaining his composure. “You okay?”
He doesn’t say anything in response, a slightly bark-like cough being caught against the sleeve of his hoodie, that’s already a little damp from the sneezes. Dennis looks up, noting that Jack has disappeared. Great, he’s managed to gross him out already. Or annoy him. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Your cold sucks, by the way.” He smirks slightly — more confident since the first time Robby took care of him when he was sick.
“It does,” Robby agrees. “How’re you feeling, though? Symptom check? I’m going for throat feeling like it has shards of glass inside, ears sounding like I’m underwater and nose blocked up to the nines.” He chuckles quietly.
“Uh, same, I guess. Itchy.” Dennis sniffles, scrubbing at his nose a second later, as if to prove his point. “Very itchy.”
Dennis continues to scrub at his nose, scrunching it up in protest of its irritation. The scent of menthol still hangs in the air, thick and bothersome. Beside him, Robby tugs his shirt back on in an attempt to lessen the vapor rub’s scent.
“Sorry, I know it doesn’t agree with your nose,” Robby offers sympathetically, noting the frustrated pinch of Dennis’s brows. The younger man continues to berate his nose, doing his best to fight back the little hitches threatening to surface, as if his previous fit hadn’t been enough.
His breath stutters into a few light coughs directed towards his elbow and a teasingly close false start, ‘hhDt–’ A huff of disappointment falls from his lips instead, and the pawing at his nose begins again.
“Hey, stop,” Robby chastises lightly, “you’re just gonna make it sore.”
Dennis huffs dramatically at that, but does as he’s told, resorting to simply wriggling his nose instead.
“Handkerchiefs,” Jack’s voice travels back into the room, “I’ll leave them beside the bed.”
He climbs into the bed, leaving Robby comfortable in the middle. “I’m going to turn off the light now, you two get some rest.” He announces, leaning to switch off the lamp on Dennis’ side, his hand lightly grazing the younger man’s shoulder. Shivering a little in response, Dennis curls against Robby and shuts his eyes.
•
Somehow, despite the amount of sleep he’s already had, Dennis falls asleep first. Jack isn’t really tired, so he’s more than happy to lie awake softly talking to Robby about work, and asking him idle questions to get to know the sleeping, sickly beauty beside them a little better. Dennis snores, stuffy breaths punctuating the pauses in the pair’s conversation, and it isn’t long until he’s hitching in his sleep.
“Is he…?”
“Oh, yeah. He can sleep sneeze. If he’s tired enough.” Robby smirks slightly, trying to get a glance at his elder partner’s reaction. Jack’s eyes are glued on Dennis’s face, taking in every detail as his features scrunch together in anticipation.
“You’re kidding,” he comments despite the very obvious build up that proves Robby is not, in fact, kidding.
Dennis doesn’t allow Robby time to reply. His breath hitches into a final soft gasp before he’s sneezing softly against his pillow, ‘hh’kKshiew! ‘ksHh-shiew…’ Robby sits up slowly, careful not to jostle Dennis as he reaches over him for the tissue box on the nightstand. ‘itsSchu!’
Pinching the tissue between two fingers, Robby wipes away the moisture pooling at Dennis’s philtrum as gently as possible, trying to avoid triggering more sneezes. The younger man’s nose twitches in protest, and he stirs in his sleep, to which Robby whispers, “it’s okay. It’s just me.”
Dennis’s nose twitches again and he rolls over partially, burying his face in his pillow and throwing an arm carelessly to the side. It falls over Robby’s waist, draping itself in an awkward – and certainly uncomfortable – position. After a few seconds, his stuffy snoring returns, this time muffled into the pillow.
Robby grins and tosses the tissue in the general direction of Dennis’s nightstand before giving Jack another glance. “You’ll get used to it.”
“Does he do this every night?” Jack whispers back, lying back on his pillow.
“Not every night. If he’s sick… or his allergies are playing up. So, yeah actually. Most nights.” Robby chuckles to himself.
After a heavy exhale, Jack runs a hand down his face. “You think he’ll wake up if we’re gone for a few?” He murmurs, considering… things.
Although his partner can’t see him, he can practically hear Robby’s smirk in response. “If we’re quiet.”
“Which is impossible when it comes to you, can I add.” Jack scoffs slightly.
“Now, that’s just rude, considering you like it like that.” Robby’s shit-eating grin causes Jack to just roll his eyes in response.
The pair are as quiet as possible whilst getting out of bed, and Robby ensures Dennis is properly covered over and still asleep whilst Jack fetches his prosthetic. They leave their snoring third fast asleep under the covers, none the wiser.
He’s not sure exactly what time it is when he wakes, but Dennis certainly knows he feels ten times worse. He must’ve developed a low grade fever, and mouth breathing has made his throat a lot more sore. To make things even worse? When he rolls over expecting Robby to embrace him, he’s not there. “R’bby?” Dennis murmurs pathetically, his hoarse voice cracking slightly.
Nothing. “Jack?” He pushes himself into a sitting position, sniffing and immediately regretting the action. ‘hh’KkKshiew! ‘kkyYzzZsh! ugh… ‘tchieW!’ Three itchy sneezes leave a mark against the cuff of his hoodie, and he groans at the pain they cause his throat.
“Robby?” He calls out again, a little louder this time.
‘—YYDSHHhHh’HHYUE!’ Somewhere in the distance of the apartment he hears Robby sneeze. Well, that explains his absence.
“Bless you,” Dennis mumbles, forgetting that Robby most definitely can’t hear him. He sniffles again, curling into the covers and hoping Robby will be back soon; fully aware he’s reached the clingy stage of his illness.
He must’ve drifted back off, because the next thing he knows is there’s a slight dip on both sides of the bed, and somehow Dennis is now in between both Jack and Robby, instead of at the edge of the mattress. He grumbles softly at the intrusion, his mind foggy, and rolls over directly into Jack’s chest. “Where’d y’go?” Dennis slurs, voice still sleepy, not even opening his eyes.
“I… had to sneeze,” Robby’s voice sounds from the other side, and suddenly the half-asleep Dennis in the middle is blushing, realising where he is instead of against his usual person.
He rolls onto his back, coughing slightly. “Heard you,” Dennis admits, “did you… were you sneezing?” The sentence makes more sense in his head, but Jack catches on before Robby does.
“Four times. He’s got nothing on you, though. Don’t worry, kid.” Jack reaches for Dennis hand,’ giving it a soft squeeze, making the younger man giggle slightly.
There’s a small pause, whilst Jack looks at Robby, still lightly holding onto Dennis’ hand, when the aforementioned owner of said hand begins to hitch. ‘Hh-‘ once, ‘hhhiih-‘ twice, ‘hiH-hhnnnghhh…’ thrice, yet nothing. It’s something that tends to happen at the beginning of a cold for him, and it drives him insane every damn time. Not to mention the fact that there’s still a fair amount of pollen outside, and now that the storm has settled the rain will have washed it all down. Thankfully, Robby has AC and so there’s usually no need to sleep with the windows open.
Instead of a sneeze, Dennis moves his hand from Jack’s grasp and coughs into his elbow, scraping his throat and emitting a sound somewhat akin to croup. Something Dennis has been acquainted with at various times in his life, embarrassingly also as an adult.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Abbot hums, “should probably get that checked out tomorrow.”
“You’re a doctor. I’m a doctor. Can’t I just… fix it myself?” He mutters, and Robby can’t help but chuckle at the grumpiness in his tone.
“Oh, yeah? With what equipment and medicine?” Robby teases, pulling Dennis into his arms to distract him from any plans of an argument.
He just whines into Robby’s chest, which is a clear mistake because he had forgotten all about the vapour rub residue on the man’s shirt and —
‘hh’mm’tTsHh! ‘tsSH! ‘iiZzZzsShH! haH-guh… hhh’zyShHh’kiiEeewwW!’ At least his sneezes have finally been coaxed out, yet at what cost? His head is spinning slightly now, nose running against his boyfriend’s shirt and an irritated cough slips past his lips once again. “‘M sorry-“ Dennis squeaks, leaning back and realizing what he’s done.
“No harm done,” the elder man reassures gently, “this thing will be in the laundry tomorrow anyway.” He reaches out, brushing some hair from Dennis’ forehead and feeling the sticky heat.
“Bless you,” Jack adds, having somewhat been silent a second before. “Handkerchief incoming.” He leans back over, deciding first to offer the material to Dennis instead of immediately doing it for him; they’re not quite at that level of intimacy yet, at least in his mind, and he doesn’t want to scare him in any way.
“I’m gonna grab some Tyleno…” Robby trails off, caught in just a second’s pre-sneeze haze warning, before crumpling forwards into the vague direction of his elbow as he’s half sat up. ‘HUHH-DZZSHhHhHOOH!’ The sneeze hits him harder now that his cold has progressed a little more, leaving him a little dizzy and groaning at the pain in his back.
The sneeze sets off a chaotic chain of events — Dennis startles, his body jolting at the sudden interruption, and in Jack’s momentary lack of focus and amongst his own mild fright… Dennis’ face collides with the hovering hand Jack was holding above him. A soft ‘oof!’ followed by an “uh oh-“ alert Robby to something happening, and he reaches to switch on the light, which only further aggravates the matters at hand.
Dennis is sitting up now, but has to fold once again into the sleeve of his jacket as the sudden burst of light triggers more sneezes from his already worn out nose; ‘-ttshHyiew! ‘kShhH-hh’TtchKiew! oh, ow—‘ it’s then that he pulls away, and Jack and Robby realise his nose is bleeding, running past his slightly parted lips and down his chin.
“Oh, fuck—“ Jack reaches forwards, covering the lower half of Dennis’ face with the handkerchief as quickly and as gently as he can.
“‘M sorry,” his voice is muffled and much stuffier from the hold Jack has against him, in order to slow the blood, “that happens sometimes.”
“You bumped into my hand, I’m sorry, I must’ve moved the wrong way and—“
“It’s okay!” Dennis reassures, “I’m honestly due a nose bleed, to be honest. Uh… I said honest twice, didn’t I?” He frowns, trying to bring his hand up to cover an incoming cough, but Jack tsks him softly — he’s got it covered.
Robby, having regained his composure after the small domino effect from his sneeze, is now rubbing soft circles against Dennis’ back. “I startled you both,” he points out, and Jack shoots him a look that says ‘don’t blame yourself for this.’
“It’s okay! Hot weather makes this happen anyways. I pro’bise, I’mb fi’dne!” The sentence sounds extra nasally, and Robby smiles slightly from endearment.
Jack slowly removes the handkerchief a moment later to assess the bleeding, satisfied that it’s slowed down enough to carefully clean Dennis’ face; all the while trying not to trigger anymore sneezes for the moment. “There,” he hums, “good as new.”
Dennis’s eyes flit around as Jack gently wipes the blood from his face, doing his best not to meet the other man’s eyes. Until today, his touches with Jack had been reserved to smaller motions – the kind Robby used to enact at the beginning of their flirtation: a hand on the shoulder, a brush against his waist, and playful nudges. This is entirely new terrain, though not unwelcome.
“You okay?” Jack confirms, his voice soft. He positions two fingers beneath Dennis’s chin, prompting him to meet his gaze. Dennis blushes crimson at the action, nodding wordlessly and finding himself unable to look away. Jack’s eyes soften around the edges, creasing as he smiles. It’s a little strange to see him look so… soft. Dennis knows just enough about Jack’s past to understand that he’s been hardened by a multitude of experiences; he sees it at work whenever he works overtime and bleeds into the nightshift.
Robby breaks Dennis from his trance with a rough cough, directed loosely towards a raised fist. His chest rattles with the expulsion, followed by a shaky breath as his throat constricts painfully, clearly unhappy with his body’s need to expel whatever’s taken hold of him. Robby barely manages the single breath before he’s doubling over again. Jack acts more quickly than Dennis, sitting up and reaching across the smaller man so he can rub Robby’s back.
His hand works from between Robby’s shoulder blades up to the nape of his neck and back down in small circular motions. Once the coughing fit seems to be calming down, Jack lets his fingers make their way up to Robby’s neck once again. They press themselves just below his hairline, working to ease out some of the pent up tension.
Without thinking, Dennis finds himself leaning into Jack’s close proximity. He wishes he wasn’t so stuffed up – maybe he would have been able to smell Jack’s cologne. It’s a scent that he’s noted all too often in the pitt. Whenever he crosses paths with Jack, he gets a whiff of it. On occasion, he’ll smell it on Robby after the two of them exchange goodnights or goodmornings when switching shifts.
Dennis’s body seems intent on breaking him from his thoughts once again. His breath catches in a soft hitch as the steady buzzing in his sinuses rears its head again. A prickling itch blooms in the base of his nose, taking root in its left side and urging him to scrunch up the appendage. With hoodie covered hands, he reaches up to paw at his nose, mixing the action with a few damp sniffles.
If he hadn't been so preoccupied with the itch, Dennis might have noticed the way Jack’s attention snapped to him at the sound of his hitching. With his nose buried beneath his sleeves and burning in anticipation, however, he misses the older man’s movement. He only notices when Jack brings a hand to his wrists, tugging his hands down and replacing them with the handkerchief.
Dennis startles at the contact, and it’s just enough to break through the build up, forcing a quick ‘hh’ followed by a little flurry of sneezes. “itSSch!hh?!-kSch!iSXhyi!” They tumble out one after the other, casting a light spray against the cloth steepled over the bottom half of his face.
Whether his fever has dulled his senses or he’s just grown more comfortable sneezing around Jack, Dennis isn’t sure, but he doesn’t feel nearly as embarrassed as he had earlier. Realistically, his rising fever and the fact that it’s nearing 2AM are probably the leading factors. Even then, he goes to apologize, as if by instinct, “sorhhy’yYsSCHhiew!itTsXCh!”
“Bless you.” Robby and Jack murmur in unison, and Dennis clears his throat before trying again.
“Sorry. That was…”
“Completely unintentional?” Jack supplements when Dennis pauses.
“I was thinking more along the lines of gross.” Dennis’s sheepish admission is accompanied with a little smile as Jack brushes his hand over his side.
“Robby was right. You apologize too much.”
Dennis blinks in surprise as he processes Jack’s words. He turns to Robby, his affronted expression earning a little grin from his boyfriend.
“Don’t start. It’s too late for this.” Robby’s teasing deflection is in part true. They should all be asleep, especially if the two sickies want to kick this cold soon. Dennis huffs, but lets his complaints go unsaid. Jack flicks off the lamp on the nightstand and shifts closer so Dennis is perfectly wedged between the two attendings – God, Trinity would have a field day if she saw him like this.
“I’ll start tomorrow then,” Dennis mutters indignantly, but Robby can tell that he’s smiling after saying it.
There’s a pause, just as Dennis starts to feel incredibly cosy and safe, when Robby curses under his breath. “Tylenol,” he remembers aloud, moving slightly in an attempt to sit.
“Oh, no you dont—“ Jack sits up, grabbing his crutches and prepping himself to leave the room instead. “You’re sick too. I’m getting you both some. Maybe some cough syrup too, actually.”
“What flavour?” Dennis asks, groaning extra dramatically as Jack leaves the bed; taking away half of the comfort and warmth he was gaining so accustomed to.
There’s no answer, so he fears the worst… although, he’s so stuffy he won’t really be able to taste it much. Dennis stays lying down, curling up against Robby now, who wraps his arms around him and mumbles something about how they’re going to have to sit up soon and the light will be back on.
A few minutes later Jack returns, giving a gentle pre-warning about the incoming burst of light… which, even though he hides his eyes, sends Dennis into a small fit once again. ‘hh’ishHyYiew! ‘kshiew! ‘tsH-ShhH-!’ Caught against the pillow he had been trying to use as a shield against the enemy (the lamp.)
“Bless you, darling,” Robby hums, his voice sweet like honey to Dennis’ ears.
Jack, who had been busy opening up the cough syrup, smiles. “What he said.”
Dennis shakes his head a little, sniffling as the itch persists. He pushes himself into an upright position, blinking rapidly as his eyes flutter shut, “hhih–” he ducks into his elbow just in time to catch a quick double, “schHhew! t’chhiew!’
“You done?” Jack asks with a little smirk and upon receiving a nod from Dennis, he adds, “Good. Bless you.”
“Thangk you.” Dennis pauses as he registers the congestion in his voice, sniffling to try to combat the discomfort settling in his sinuses.
“Here,” he’s handed a clean handkerchief by Jack, “blow your nose while I force meds into Robby.” He jests slightly, smiling.
Robby, who is very good and does as he’s told, takes the Tylenol he is handed and then the spoonful of cherry flavoured cough syrup; only pulling a slight face of disgust afterwards. “Was that really so bad?” Jack chastises, a smirk on his lips.
“Personally, I prefer the blackcurrant stuff,” Robby replies, lying back down.
“Yeah, well they were all out, wise ass.”
Grumbling, Robby lies back down, but they both know he isn’t really upset about it. “Good boy,” Jack teases, tucking the covers over him, before moving on to Dennis.
Despite having just reassured Jack that he’s done sneezing, Dennis is waiting with a hazy expression, the handkerchief half raised as his brows knit together. His nose is twitching again, the itch just present enough to demand his attention. After a few seconds of enduring its teasing, Dennis scrunches up his nose in an attempt to lessen the buzzing of his sinuses.
The itch dances to the tip of his nose, forcing his nostrils to flare outwards and his breath to stutter into a little hitch. The gasp falls lamely into a light cough before building up once again. He waits, sitting in that irritating, inexplicable limbo as his sinuses tease him.
Jack watches with bated breath, his mouth going dry as he observes Dennis’s expression be so utterly desperate. Robby follows his gaze, letting out a quiet noise of sympathy as he notes Dennis’s evident need to sneeze.
“Stuck again?”
Dennis nods, his mouth falling further agape with a sharp ‘hhH–’ that once again forms nothing more than an exhale and a quiet whine. Moisture clings to the ends of his lashes, collecting at their base and threatening to slip down over rosy cheeks. In sum, he looks just as miserable as he does desperate.
Robby shifts closer just as Dennis starts hitching again, breaths stacking on top of each other more quickly than he can handle. “You’re okay,” Robby hums, his hand finding the nape of Dennis’s neck – it’s warmer than it should be, he notes. “Can you take a deep breath in?”
Dennis shakes his head, curls bouncing as he wordlessly expresses his inability to do anything aside from hitch. Robby’s fingers apply a light pressure to the back of his neck in an attempt to ground him. “M’kay,” he acknowledges, “we can wait it out.”
His thumb rubs little circles over Dennis’s spine, and Robby can feel each gasp and hitch. They’re occasionally interrupted by a small cough or a false start that leaves Dennis whining at the false promise of relief.
Once Jack breaks himself from his trance, he follows Robby’s lead, placing a hand on Dennis’s knee and giving it a little squeeze. He meets Robby’s gaze, brows knit in concern at the younger man’s evident discomfort and receives a small nod of encouragement from Robby. Jack shifts closer to Dennis, his eyes remaining glued to his face.
He racks his brain trying to remember the details and stories Robby has told him, filing through his memory in an attempt to find something, anything that might inform him how to help. His mind falls short, and he’s left with the uncomfortable truth that this is uncharted, very much unknown territory.
With Robby, Jack knows what to say, what buttons to push, which boundaries never to cross, when to touch, when to tease, how to comfort, how to protect. With Dennis, Jack knows only what he’s learned in their brief encounters and the stories Robby tells. He must’ve done something right though because even in Dennis’s desperation to sneeze, some of the tension in his leg eases as Jack touches him.
After another excruciatingly long minute of hitching, Dennis’s breath finally stutters into a flurry of soft, congested sneezes, “id’dSCh! ngKSxCh!idSSCh! k’tTzZXch’ew! ihHsSSCH!-tsch-tssh!”
“Bless you,” Robby’s hand slips down to Dennis’s lower back just as his breath catches again, his body apparently unappeased by the fit. Robby raises a brow. “Again?”
Dennis isn’t even granted the opportunity to reply. He dives deeper into the handkerchief, shoulders hunching with the second wave. “hgKsChh!hih–idDtTSCHh’ksch! ih-hHh…” he pauses briefly, faltering with a false start and a whine of utter frustration.
“Jesus.” Jack can’t help but comment; it falls somewhere between sympathy and surprise.
“Sorry,” the younger man sniffles, silently contemplating whether or not to get up to the bathroom to hide away and blow his nose; and most likely sneeze more, away from the extra pair of eyes. He knew Jack meant no harm, but sometimes just one extra person who wasn’t Robby being around when he was like this felt all too much.
“Hey,” Jack begins, moving his hand up to Dennis’ shoulder, “you don’t have to apologise. You can’t help it — is there anything we can do to help?” He offers gently, still feeling a little lost and in uncharted territory.
Dennis shakes his head, keeping the handkerchief steepled over the lower half of his face. “No, it just gets like this when I’m sick. There’s not much to do aside from hh–” his sentence stops with an abrupt hitch, earning an another irritated whine followed by a few quick sneezes, “idSCh–kzZxdch–it’sSChh!”
Luckily, the itch abides after the soft triple; they’re barely even full expulsions, just breathy, damp aftershocks from the fit.
“Bless you,” Robby hums again – how he hasn’t gotten tired of saying it today, Dennis isn’t sure.
Dennis finally lowers the handkerchief, his nose a darker pink than it had been before, and mumbles, “thank you.”
Word count: 530. (I should’ve split it up better, but I only have one brain cell, so there we go.)
It reaches three am, and this time both Robby and Dennis are asleep, which only means there’s double the snoring, snuffling and general noises of congestion there to keep Jack awake. He doesn’t actually mind it all that much — it lets him know his partners are doing okay, and it’s all rather endearing. But, come four am when he’s still struggling to drift off, he contemplates his choices; search the nightstand as quietly as possible for some ear plugs, go and sleep on the couch or… just wait it out.
He chooses the latter, because he’d rather hear better in case one of them needs him, and being in the living also makes that difficult — not to mention lonely — and, it must eventually work, because the next thing Jack knows is that he’s being dragged out of his slumber by quiet whimpering coming from beside him. Jack rolls over gently enough so as not to disturb anyone, and reaches out for Dennis.
“Hey,” he whispers, “you’re okay.” Assuming he’s having a nightmare, Jack rubs the man’s shoulder, moving down to the small of his back; the smaller man curling into the touch, the whimpering and quiet sounds of distress beginning to dissipate already at the comfort.
Dennis goes quiet (well, aside from the obvious symphony of general cold noises) for a moment or two, staying still, before turning his body again and beginning to hitch a little as he rolls toward Robby. Jack isn’t sure if he’s asleep, awake, or somewhere in between, but tries to reach out to him all the same.
“Dennis?” He whispers, drawing him carefully away from Robby so as not to wake him, too. “You okay?”
“hhmmnnnghh..” is the only reply, which Jack supposes is potentially a clue to the fact he’s definitely somewhere in between wakefulness and sleep right now.
“Bad dream,” Dennis whispers against Jack’s chest, as he seems to become a little more lucid. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” Jack lies, “you need anything? Sounding a little wheezy there.” Their close proximity has Dennis’ body heat radiating against him, and… each and every part of the pair is close, but Jack’s too tired to properly consider that; as is Dennis, clearly.
“Mmm… deal with it tomorrow?” He murmurs, sniffling. “‘S’okay.”
Jack slips a hand over Dennis’s back, resting it between his shoulderblades and feeling the unsteady rise and fall of his breathing. “You sure?” He asks doubtfully, only receiving a nod in response.
Dennis all but melts against Jack as he starts to doze off again, apparently unbothered by the sticky warmth trapped between the two of them. Dennis’s fever must have risen, his skin wouldn’t be radiating heat if it hadn’t.
Against his better judgement, Jack drops the subject, letting Dennis cling to him and hoping that a few more hours of sleep will help his body recover. “Alright,” he murmurs, “sleep well.” Just as Dennis returns to his state of stuffy snoring.
Jack smiles. He’ll keep an eye on them both, listening out for any signs of worsening, but for now they all seem to be comfortable. Maybe himself the least so, but would he trade it for anything else? God no.
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.
A is annoyed at B for being in the shower for ages and using all the hot water. Unbeknownst to them, B has come down with something, and the shower was the only thing relieving their congestion. Not to mention comforting and warm against their achy body.
A goes to confront them, but their whole demeanor softens when they find B perched on the edge of the bed, towel pulled tightly around them. Still naked and damp, shivering, and sneezing pathetically.
→ today, i come bearing plotless, highly indulgent, sk/ip pwp with kink!scott. dug out from the depth of my archives, dusted off, finished up, and given a fresh lick of paint. because that's apparently my coping mechanism now for dealing with real life hockey stress, lmao.
→ hope you enjoy!
→ 2.3kish
The apartment was dark when they arrived home, silent and still until they stumbled in.
Kip shrugged out of his coat as Scott set off on a circuit of the living room, flipping on each lamp he passed before returning to him. They were still giggling over the story Scott was telling in the elevator about some of the Admirals rookies’ misguided post-game celebrations on the road trip he wasn’t long back from.
They were both pleasantly tipsy, the whispers of alcohol and good company warming their blood. Scott had a rare day off from practice the next day and they’d taken full advantage of it, taking up an invitation to go meet Kip’s friends down at the Kingfisher for a drink. Honestly, for no other reason than to catch up, gossip, laugh, have a bit of a bitch and a moan about the little grievances in life like you just needed to sometimes.
It was nice. Shoved into a cozy, intimate little booth as they were, Scott’s thigh pressed into his own, hot and inescapably present, the whole evening. Sometime after Scott’s second pint, his hand had joined it.
Early in their relationship, Kip used to fantasise about times like this. Wistful but in no way certain there’d ever actually be a day when they could be seen together in public without Scott skirting on the edge of a panic attack, never mind hold hands. Or press a kiss into each other’s cheek. Or cuddle up next to each other in the corner of a booth in a bar. Each gesture that once felt like an incriminating little snapshot inside their own heads, encased in barbed wire and branded a danger, repurposed into being, well, normal.
Even so, Kip’s heart still fluttered when he felt Scott’s hands on him where anyone was free to look. Tonight they’d done all three. He still went flush with pride at how far his man had come; felt joyful for everything they had because Scott finally gave himself permission to be happy.
“hhH’ESSSCHEUH’hh!”
Scott emerged from the crook of his elbow with a tight, sharp sniff.
It hadn’t been the first sneeze of the night. Having spent most of it practically tucked under his arm, Kip had felt each of them coming too, mentally pulled out of the conversation each time the other man’s chest began to shake against his shoulder. He’d chance a glance up and sure enough, Scott’s expression would be hazy and faraway, silently losing the fight against–
“Ble-”
“hh’aH’EHDTZZS’sssch’huh!”
Scott had brushed it all off at the bar, declaring to the group when it became unavoidable that he must be allergic to something in the air. Someone’s perfume, or some cleaning product randomly driving him nuts. Kip knew better, though. He could hear the gravel in his voice, the hint of stuffiness starting to bleed into the edges of his voice; the urgency in his sniffles in the aftermath of each sneeze.
Though not without some degree of difficulty, for Scott’s sake Kip dutifully refrained from openly acknowledging it each time it happened, despite how doing so went against every polite instinct his mom and dad had gone to great lengths to instill in him, the ‘nice Brooklyn boy’ that he is. Let’s just say they’d learned of the very unintended impact Kip’s blessing had on him the, uh, hard way.
But now, wrapped in the shrouded, comfortable cocoon of their home, the peace afforded them safety. Ever since the door snicked shut the air had crackled with something live and anticipatory, heavy with unspoken possibility as they danced round each other a bit now. Kip hadn’t realised he’d been keyed up waiting for something, but apparently he had. The sneezes simply said the word ‘go’ from the director’s chair.
“Bless you,” he emphasised, face creased with sympathy. God, Scott looked affected even just at that. Kip closed the distance between them and cupped the nape of his neck, pulling himself up onto his toes so he could kiss the hinge of Scott’s jaw. Kip felt the shiver wrack through him. “Those sounded like they hurt. Are you okay?”
Scott let out a huff of laughter. They all sound like that – always. “Not any more so than usual. I-I’m fine,” he said, punctuated by a sniffle. He hadn’t been able to look Kip in the eye as he said it, which wasn’t like him, not if he was actually trying to convince him of something.
Kip bit back a smile.
Oh, that’s what we’re doing.
“Are you sure?” Kip replied seriously, playing along. “You’ve been so sneezy tonight. You’re all sniffly now, and your nose is going all pick at the edges…” His searching gaze pinned Scott in place, who squirmed a little under the scrutiny. “I think you’re catching a cold, sweetheart.”
Kip felt like he could guide Scott to the edge of the earth and have him stand on the very edge with the way he relaxed under the palm of his hand. Honestly, it still made his head spin to be confronted with the fact that he could have any kind of command over a man like Scott. That he trusted him with his vulnerability like this. It made him feel so incredibly special.
“I-I don’t know…” Scott stuttered. “Maybe? Do you… do you think so?”
Kip tilted upwards, moving in to kiss him properly, but at the last second Scott swerved before their lips could connect. Kip just smiled, unsurprised.
“See? I think you know.”
Scott’s head dipped down again and Kip brought a hand to his face, imploring it ever so gently upwards with a cupped hand to his cheek. He let his thumb swipe delicately over the other man’s cheekbone, as if kissing with its pad in lieu of his mouth. Led by an ember of mischievous impulse, he shifted the focus of his fingers’ attention. Experimentally, he pressed his thumb into the spot between Scott’s eyebrows, satisfaction warming him when his face crumpled in relief.
“Does that feel good?”
Scott’s eyes had fluttered closed and he nodded silently, obediently.
Kip would bet he could make it feel even better.
He hummed his approval, replacing his thumb with his forefinger and trailing it lightly down the bridge of Scott’s nose. He flinched a little at the pressure when Kip pressed in a smidge, wiggling the cartilage as if trying to shake something loose. Kip froze, worrying for a split second that he’d hurt him, but when Scott’s eyes opened again, they did so into a look that was decidedly more hazy than aggrieved. His nostrils flared.
“Oh no, what’s this?”
Scott’s breath scissored dangerously, eyes filling with moisture as they fluttered closed. Meanwhile, Kip’s lips found his neck, kissing around to his throat where his breath was contracting. The cologne he’d applied earlier was well-faded by now, overwhelmed at this point by the scent of Scott himself, and something spiked in Kip’s stomach. His hand, teasing and exploratory, skimmed up Scott’s shirt to settle on the firm ridges of his abdomen.
“hhhuhH’AEH’DZZSSSHhhhh’uh!”
Kip hummed, the sound dripping in sympathy. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just trying to ease some pressure, and look what happened. So sensitive.”
Caught between the urge to succumb to Kip’s ministrations or the still ever-pressing need to sneeze, though one hand had risen instinctively to press Kip in closer by the small of his back, the other he just managed to get to his face as he nudged it away, just over the top of Kip’s head.
“hhh’aH’EHTSSSCHhh’huh!”
“Bless you. Poor thing…”
Kip grabbed Scott’s cock through his jeans. Oh, he was rock hard; positively throbbing. It ripped a watery groan from the older man’s throat as he immediately rutted against Kip’s hand, chasing the friction as squeezed and rubbed with the practiced, expert rhythm of someone who knew his body like the back of his hand. Only–
“hhH’AEHHTCH’ssch’iew!”
The sneeze got away from him slightly, not quite as well covered as before, and the burst of spray glistened in the soft, warm lamplight.
“Oh, bless you, sweetheart – you don’t sound well at all.”
Each word Kip uttered was a precisely pointed jab at Scott’s resolve, the doting layered on intentionally thick. Left bleary-eyed and full of sniffles, but with the distinctly viral itch now seemingly ebbed, Scott appeared to only fall further into the heady encouragement of his attentions.
“I’mb sorry…” he mumbled, followed quickly by a thick sniffle. The sensation bothered him enough that he spared the back of a hand to mash his nose into, scrubbing it back and forth with a slick, congestion clicking sound.
Kip’s expression crumpled. “Hey – you have nothing to be sorry for, okay? Not a thing. It’s gonna be alright. Y’know why?”
Scott shook his head. “Ndo. Sdnfff. Why?”
“Because I’m going to take care of you.” Kip gave Scott’s erection a firm squeeze. “Starting with this, hm?”
Hooking his fingers down the waistband of Scott’s jeans, Kip directed him over to the edge of the couch. He popped open the button and shimmied them down a little on his hips, before gently coaxing Scott downwards. Feeling the heat of Scott’s gaze as he looked up at him from below, Kip wasted no time climbing into his lap and pulling his dick out of his pants. In a bit of a pinch, he spat into his own hand before taking Scott in hand, his stroke calm and rhythmic.
Scott’s eyes had glazed over slightly, gleaming as they took him in, openly adoring and worshipful but slightly unsure, begging for something he couldn’t give himself permission to vocalise. Kip couldn’t help himself. He started to move in, but Scott instinctively stiffened.
Kip held his gaze resolutely, bringing a hand round to the back of his head to hold it in place, and when he spoke his voice was low, warm, trickling like honey. “It’s okay…” he assured him, inching his face closer, closer, as he muttered it over and over again, quieter and quieter each time, like an incantation to lull Scott into a trance with. “It’s okay… this is okay… s’okay….”
Scott’s shoulders relaxed again as he eventually gave himself over to the moment with Kip’s insistence, sighing into his mouth as their lips slotted together. Time melted away as they kissed, Scott’s hands finding Kip’s ass as they tended to do, kneading and squeezing as Kip’s hand worked his length with consistent, maddening efficiency. Kip licked into his mouth, suckling on Scott’s bottom lip in the way that usually has him unable to keep from smiling against his face.
Instead, now, Kip feels him pull away, sucking in what sounded like a much-needed breath, sniffling back the audibly growing congestion settling in.
“Awww, you’re starting to get all stuffy, I can hear it…” Kip continued stroking him as he said it, letting his thumb circle, featherlight, over his red, swollen head, catching some of the pre-cum gathering in his slit. Scott whimpered. His eyes grew heavy lidded, his body tensing up as Kip felt him tiptoe closer and closer to the edge with each stroke, each word.
He had him in the palm of his hand.
Kip hummed. “You need a tissue, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll get you one when we’re done…” He huffed out a chuckle. “Won’t be too much longer, now. I can feel it. You’re so hard it must be painful, baby. Let me take care of you right… you can let go whenever you need to…”
As if to affirm his point, Kip picked up the pace, Scott’s body jolting in answer.
Kip, feeling his blood heat and his own cock harden in the face of just how turned on Scott evidently was, reattached himself to the side of Scott’s neck, laying kiss after indulgent, suckling kiss all the way across the hot, stubbled skin, right up under his ear. Fuck, Scott has to go to practice day after tomorrow and he should probably be more careful… Scott will never hear the end of it from the guys if he rocks up with a hickey.
Scott was shaking now, more so with every handful of seconds that passed as he got closer and closer to the precipice, even his sniffling growing all the more desperate as his breaths grew laboured and staccato.
“S-Sorry, I h’hhave to–”
“Again?”
Scott nodded, regretful. Kip sighed.
“Go ahead. Get it all out, sweetheart, you’ll feel better–” Kip’s lips found the shell of Scott’s ear, his next words hushed and uttered directly into it. “...but you’ll be going straight to bed after.”
“hhUH’IHHHDZSSTCHhh’uh!”
Scott came with a strangled moan on the tail end of that final sneeze as he spilled into Kip’s hand, the sound enunciating an edge of hoarseness to his voice Kip could tell was likely to stick around now for the next few days as he coaxed him through his orgasm, with utterings of ‘bless you…’ … ‘there you go…’ … ‘come for me…’ … ‘so good for me, look at you… so good…’.
God, he looked so hot when he came. He wasn’t sure he’d ever quite get over it.
With Scott’s body now lax and sated, he slumped back into the couch, the heaviness of lust gradually cleared away from his gaze with his release, sheepish gratitude rising to replace it in the aftermath as he rushed to thumb away where his nose was now running into the crease of his nostril.
“Sorry,” he repeated, appearing to be flirting with the idea of being ashamed, but not quite able to get there. Good, Kip thought, you absolutely shouldn’t.
“Hey– don’t. You’re totally fine. I wanted to help.” Kip joked, his tone light as he caught Scott’s averted eye, smiling in a way the other man was helpless but to mirror. Kip sat back a little in Scott’s lap and carded his, um, free hand through his hair. “I meant what I said, though– you don’t sound good and we’re getting you into bed pronto.”
Scott raised an eyebrow, nodding towards Kip’s crotch and the very obvious hard-on poking him in the leg. “Oh, I think I could be down for that.”
I know I’m in such a weird niche because I’m literally inspired by a book no one gives a fuck about, but also, I’m like one of the few people here that make gay old men snz content. </3 Where are all the people with old men OC’s at? I’m so sorry I’m sorta obsessed with old lovers and I need to find more of this very specific content. 
Im also super into time period specific work, I’ve noticed little bits and pieces but I need to find the secret gems. There has to be someone bro…
Fic: Versus (H/eated R/ivalry, 5/5 (!), 8k (!!), NSFW)
Or maybe Rozanov had nothing to do with it. After all, they’ve always come as a pair, ever since the draft. First and second; second and first. Rozanov and Hollander; Hollander and Rozanov. Only, not like that, not… coupled. No, it’s Hollander versus Rozanov, now and always.
[I finished it!! I had this this realisation half way through writing this final chapter that I may have written an entire hockey match to put off writing the sex scenes. But written they are. I don't usually write explicit stuff but this is - though nothing more so than the show or the books. And I did enjoy doing it. Anyway, thank you if you left comments, or reblog notes, or clicked like on any other parts, because the responses made me truly happy and I am ever so grateful.
Happy May Day, if you celebrated or are celebrating tomorrow; join your union, up the workers.]
The buzzer for the end of the game is sounding. But that’s impossible. The game is still going on. Shane knows the game is still going on, because, alone in the home locker room, he can hear Coach yelling at him to get the fuck onto the ice. He’s late – the rest of the team have been out there for ages. But Shane can’t join them that because it’s not his Metros kit that’s hanging in the locker room; it’s his juniors kit. It’s his Kingston juniors kit, in the size that Shane wore when he was twelve – so comically small that none of it will come close to fitting. He can’t even get his feet into the skates, and it’s ridiculous to try but he’s trying anyway, because what else is there to do? And Theriault is still yelling that they’re losing the game – and the buzzer is going again – and that’s even weirder because the end game buzzer doesn’t ring twice – and now it’s ringing again, again, over and over and…
Shane opens his eyes. He’s not in the locker room anymore. He’s in his investment apartment, on the couch, where he meant to sit down just for a minute because he felt so exhausted after changing out of his suit. He sniffles, heavy and wet, because his nose hasn’t stopped running since he left the arena, and swallows painfully. He must have drifted off for… Shit. Half an hour, according to the time on his phone, which says ten minutes after ten, and he’s got five missed calls, and the buzzer is going again. But he realises now that it’s not the buzzer for the end of the game; it’s the buzzer for the apartment.
Rozanov. Shit.
He leaps off the couch far too quickly, and nearly collides with the coffee table, his proprioception shot from his body still being half-asleep and his head being full to the brim with congestion. He really needs a tissue, but he also really needs to get Rozanov – who is probably freezing cold, trying not to be noticed, and increasingly angry about what the fuck Shane is playing at. So the first thing he does is press the button to open the front door; he hears the thud of it closing seconds later. Then, he takes a moment to wipe away the crud that’s gathered in the corner of his eyes, and to slow his heartrate and breathing, because apparently being woken abruptly and sprinting a few paces is enough to make him feel like his chest is about to burst open.
The unfortunate consequence of being more awake is that Shane is more aware that he feels like shit. He was supposed to take cold meds before Rozanov arrived, but he hasn’t, and whatever little effect remained from the painkillers and decongestants that he took before the game has now gone completely. There is a stabbing headache behind his eyes, and a dull pain below his ears and across his cheeks. He’s cold, even though the apartment is heated to its usual temperature and he’s wearing a fleece-lined hoodie. So cold, in fact, that he shivers which is hell on his aching muscles – especially on the shoulder that took the brunt of the hit, and is already starting to stiffen. He should see the physio tomorrow, except that he almost certainly can’t because now that it’s not being held back by the meds, his cold is obviously and virulently contagious. He’s having to sniffle every few seconds to stop his nose from overflowing completely. And every time that he does, it triggers a prickling deep in the back of his sinuses that makes his eyes water.
Once his heart feels like it will stay inside his ribcage, Shane reaches into his pocket for a tissue that isn’t there, and then remembers there’s a box on the counter in the kitchen counter. But before he can grab some, he hears the approach of footsteps and a notably sharp knock on the door.
Rozanov wears the coat that he wore last night, and the red-rimmed eyes and pale colour that he wore during the game. His cheeks are flushed too, but whether that’s from the temperature outside or the temperature he’s running, Shane doesn’t know. He steps through the door that Shane is holding open without saying anything, just swiping the back of his wrist under is nose with a congested snuffle.
And then, it happens all at once. Shane has closed the door, and is turning back around, ready to ask Rozanov whether he’d like a drink, when he feels his shoulders slam into the wall of his apartment. It’s not enough to wind him, but, because of his body’s response to the virus and because he’s spent an hour being a punchbag on skates, it hurts. More embarrassingly, it draws a yelp of surprise from him, that the congestion in his head quickly turns into a damp splutter.
“… the fuck!”
Rozanov’s eyes are dark. His mouth is set into an insouciant expression that is entirely at odds with the force at which he has just accosted Shane. He has a fistful of Shane’s hoodie, and apparently no inclination to let it go. As Shane tries to shake off his grasp, Rozanov slams another palm into Shane’s right delt, pinning him back against the wall.
“You told your team that I am sick,” he snarls. His voice is a cracked rumble that resonates in Shane’s chest cavity.
“No.” Suddenly, the half-truths in which Shane has dwelt all day don’t seem to be providing him with the same protection. Technically, he didn’t tell JJ, or Hayden, or anyone else that Rozanov was sick, and so technically he’s not lying now. But he sounds like child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, especially because he has to punctuate his protest with a sniffle, and then because he decides to add. “You told your team about me, too.”
Rozanov snorts scornfully, or perhaps just because he can’t breathe through his nose.
“You miss easy pass from Pike. My teammates are not stupid like him. They would have noticed.”
“Hayden’s not stupid,” Shane snaps. “And you dodged every check that came at you in the first period – you think Boiziau wouldn’t have noticed that?” He sniffs, the pressure between his eyes almost painful now, but he’s not going to back down from this. “I didn’t have to tell him you were sick; he worked that out by himself once I’d pointed out how shit your skating was.”
Rozanov’s whole body tenses and Shane can something dangerous radiating through the heel of the hand that pushes deeper into his shoulder. If it was anyone else, Shane would think that he was about to get a punch to the jaw. But he knows instinctively that Rozanov won’t, would never, do that to him. He doesn’t even really do it on the ice. He doesn’t need to when he leaves most players reeling in his wake, and he prefers to give lashings with his tongue.
That’s kind of what happens now.
Rozanov pulls tighter on the fabric of Shane’s hoodie, and crashes his hungry lips into Shane’s. The kiss that Shane returns contains everything that he’s been holding back all day, through the game.
“I expect it,” Rozanov rasps, mostly into Shane’s mouth. He breaks the kiss, but tilts his head upwards, inviting Shane to pay some attention to his open throat. Shane happily obliges, trailing kisses down his throat, exploring Rozanov with his mouth, sucking and catching his teeth on the too-warm skin he finds there. Rozanov gasps, and chokes out a laugh. There is a damp note to it, and a crackle to his exhale. They really shouldn’t have let him play tonight.
“Everyone thinks Hollander is such a good boy. Hockey prince. But I know better.” Rozanov jerks his head back to centre so that Shane is forced to break off his kisses and look into his eyes. “I know what you’ll do to get what you want. I know what you’re like when you’re… desperate.”
Rozanov takes a step back, and looks down at Shane’s crotch, where the evidence of his desperation is already unmissable.
“Are you mad at me?” Shane asks, hoarse, breathless. He sniffs again, putting more energy to it, in the hope that it might stop his nose running for a few moments at least. The thick, wet sound makes him cringe.
“Of course.” Rozanov releases the hand that is pinning Shane’s shoulder, and rubs the cuff of his sleeve against his own nose. Then he tugs Shane’s hoodie upwards, exposing the waistband of his pants, and slips his hand beneath it. “But only because I know you like it.”
Through his underwear, Rozanov’s hand cups Shane’s hard-on, and Shane feels his hips buck forwards into his touch. Rozanov smiles now, his real smile, the one that changes his whole face; makes his sharp features seem gentler, makes his eyes twinkle and their corners crinkle in with surprising warmth. So Shane smiles too, even though his body still aches and his nose is still streaming.
Rozanov gives a final squeeze on his dick and then whips his hand away, placing it back at Shane’s shoulders.
“Don’t get too excited, Hollander. You need to make it up to me first.”
Shane is about to ask Rozanov just how he can do that when his nose decides that it’s finally had enough of the creeping itch that’s been building and retreating inside of it since he woke up. It starts to tickle more insistently, and when Shane sniffs to try to quiet it, this only triggers the tickle into a burning that makes his eyes fill with tears. There’s no time to slips out of Rozanov’s grasp. It’s all he can do to tuck his head into his left shoulder – the one that Rozanov isn’t pinning down – and pull the cuff of his hoodie over his wrist before he smothers the sneezes into the heel of his hand as best he can.
“huht’ISSHhoo!’ihSHhh’uu!”
The sneezes barrel into one another, Shane’s torso twisting painfully as his head snaps forward with each explosion. He’s making a mess of himself and his hoodie, but doesn’t have time to apologize before two more sneezes follow hard behind the first.
The expletive is mangled by congestion and the damp cuff of the sweatshirt that Shane’s forced to sniff frantically into. He doesn’t dare to lift his head and he can barely look at Rozanov, whose usual expression of cool indifference has taken on an unusual softness, but hasn’t morphed into the disgust Shane had expected.
“Bless you.” Rozanov’s voice is uncharacteristically hesitant, as though he learnt the phrase from a text book years ago but has only just had the chance to try it out.
Shane tries to communicate gratitude with a tight nod. Anyone else would have stepped back by now – anyone sensible would have run a mile because Shane is being objectively disgusting – but Rozanov is still standing there, still holding a fistful of Shane’s hoodie, his hand perilously close to where Shane is trying to stem the flood now coming from his nose and preserve the last of his dignity.
“Sorry,” Shane mumbles, trying to extricate himself again, wincing at how full his head sounds. “I really d’eed a tissue.”
Rozanov finally lets go of Shane’s clothing, and while in any other situation Shane would be disappointed about this, it feels like a mercy. But because Rozanov cannot behave like a normal human being ever, he doesn’t let Shane leave to hide in the bathroom where he can blow his nose and get over the mortification of sneezing all over himself in the middle of their foreplay. Instead, Rozanov reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a handful of clean tissues.
For one terrible, inexplicable moment, something in Rozanov’s expression and the way he’s dancing the tissues from side to side in front of Shane’s face makes Shane think that he might be about try to wipe Shane’s nose for him. Thankfully, it doesn’t come to this. After one round of keep-away, and a satisfied grin when it elicits the desired “Fug’k off!” from Shane – Rozanov allows the tissues to be snatched from his fingertips.
Shane closes his eyes as he tries to clear his nose both thoroughly and quietly. He succeeds in doing neither, and he’s pretty sure that Rozanov is staring at him the entire time, with that cool, unreadable gaze that Shane thinks might haunt him for the rest of his life. He’s certainly staring when Shane lowers the tissues, more because they’re so damp as too be useless than because he can actually breath normally again, his dark eyes shining with what might be fever.
“You are a mess.”
Probably it’s the unusual cadences of his English, but Rozanov makes the phrase sounds curious, as though he hadn’t known that Shane could be like this. Even though Rozanov reduces Shane to a begging, panting, spent mess every time they are together; even though he’s devoted a good ninety percent of his interactions with Shane to precisely that end. And Shane’s dick twitches again just thinking about that – about how much of a mess he is for Rozanov, how much more of a mess he’s going to be by the end of the night.
Not that he’s going to tell Rozanov that.
“You’re not looking so great yourself.” That’s a lie, of course. Shane isn’t sure Rozanov could ever look truly unattractive, but he certainly isn’t now. Even with what seems to be a very heavy chest cold, Rozanov looks fucking hot. His curls are tousled from the wind outside, and with his flushed cheeks, he reminds Shane of the angels in those old Italian paintings that his parents dragged him round on trips to the National Gallery. The redness around his nose seems to make his lips look even pinker, which makes Shane even more wild about the thought of them on his own lips, his chest, his thighs, his cock.
Rozanov must know it’s a lie because he laughs and shakes his head as he takes off his coat, throwing it behind him so that it lands in a crumpled heap on the back of the couch. He’s dressed for warmth. No low-v t-shirt tonight, or shirt made from some delicate, silky material that makes Shane’s mind go pleasantly blank when he strokes his hands across it. Instead, he’s wearing an Addidas sweater that looks soft from washing and wearing, and sweatpants that are tenting in the same area as Shane’s own.
Well, clearly he hasn’t put Rozanov off.
The thought of what he’s doing to Rozanov, the fever he’s running, or some combination of the two sends a shiver cascading though Shane’s body. He hisses slightly as it grips his sore shoulder, the seizing of the joint sending an unexpected jolt of
“You are cold?”
“I… I think I have a fever,” Shane admits, with a sniffle that sounds pathetic even to his own ears.
“Do you want me to check?”
Shane’s no doctor, but he’s pretty sure the medically advised method of taking someone’s temperature doesn’t involve tugging off their clothing, and running your hands up and down their body. Nor does it involve slipping your tongue inside their mouth, as your lips press against theirs almost frantically. It definitely doesn’t involve placing your hands on someone else’s hips and grinding them forward into your own, so that your rock-hard dicks rub against each other through fabric that feels, at once, far too much of a barrier, and put under so much strain that it might tear any second.
But Shane doesn’t complain about any of this, because his mouth is too full of Rozanov’s lips, Rozanov’s tongue, Rozanov’s name – the last one escaping in a hoarse moan as he breaks their kiss to draw breath.
Rozanov is smiling at him. He leans back at little, eyes dark and dangerous. Shane can feel a familiar heat rising to his face. It’s not his fever; this happens every time Rozanov’s eyes dance over Shane’s body, like Shane is something that Rozanov wants to devour entirely, to possess immediately and for all time. Shane’s always hated that he blushes so easily, that his feelings appear as a pink flush across his cheeks, like the ink in those toy pens that gives up its secrets the instant a light shines on it.
Rozanov really likes it when he blushes. Shane can see the desire building in him, in the way that Rozanov’s tongue darts over his chapped lips, the way his eyes widen further, like he wants to see all of Shane so that he might know him completely. It should be awful, standing in front of Rozanov, feverish, sniffling and weak. Shane ought to hate being seen like that by anyone, but especially by Rozanov: the only person whom Shane has ever really thought of as competition, who Shane – in moments of gut-churning 3am honesty with himself – has ever worried might only not be better than he is, but better than Shane could ever be. Shane Hollander with a red nose, and sore throat, and a cold that is bad now and will be worse in the morning, is not a version of Shane Hollander than Ilya Rozanov should ever get to see.
But now that Rozanov is seeing it, it only feels awful in the good ways, in the ways that Shane always hates himself for wanting more of. Which means that maybe it’s not just ok that Rozanov sees him like this, but maybe that Shane wants Rozanov to see him like this - if only because Shane wants to know what it will make Rozanov do to him next.
“How’s my fever?” Shane asks, meeting Rozanov’s gaze and enjoying how much it burns.
“Bad, I think.” Rozanov teases his bottom lip in his teeth, runs a thumb across his nose, and then presses Shane hard against the wall, so that he can hook Shane’s hips over his own and take Shane’s weight, his impossibly strong arms wrapping round Shane’s torso, his fingers digging into Shane’s thighs. “Time to put you to bed.”
Shane is propped against the headboard, legs open wide, with Rozanov straddling him, their clothes scattered like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs, a trace of their path to the bedroom. Rozanov’s mouth is exploring the swoop of Shane’s clavicle. Shane tightens his hands around the bedsheets, squeezing them until his knuckles hurt to make sure that he stays in the room, to stop himself from slipping off into some hazy, shimmering cloud of overstimulation.
Fevers always make his skin too sensitive, so right now, the brush of Rozanov’s lips, fingers, curls across his feverish skin is almost too much. He wonders if Rozanov feels the same, if fevers make him dread any contact but make his body more needy, so that any graze from someone else’s is almost unbearable but not being touched would be worse? Because that’s how this is making Shane feel, like Rozanov hands caressing his chest and his dick might make him scream out in pleasure and pain all at once.
Will a fever do the same thing to his cock? Shane’s never had sex when he’s been ill before, so he doesn’t know. But maybe it. Shit. That’s probably not what Shane needs. Sometimes just being with Rozanov, being this close to him, being allowed to touch him – fuck it, just being allowed to look at him without second guessing every which way that his looks might be read – sometimes it was hard enough for Shane to keep it together through all of that. The soft, wet, heat of Rozanov’s mouth on his chest is almost too much for Shane to stand, he can’t imagine what it would feel like if Rozanov placed it around his dick.
Rozanov doesn’t offer that, which is probably a good thing consider that he’s barely able to breathe through his fucked up nose. But he does wrap a slicked hand around Shane’s cock, before stroking up and down with practised tenderness. The moan slips from Shane’s lips almost before he’s realised, and he closes his eyes and throws his head backwards.
No, no, stop, stop, stop…
For a minute, Shane thinks that he must have said the words out loud, because Rozanov does stop – has stopped – nibbling at his throat. His hand is still curled round Shane’s dick, but it’s teasing strokes have paused. But no, Shane definitely didn’t say it out loud, not least because Rozanov would never have passed up with opportunity to laugh at him if he had. And now, even with his eyes closed, Shane is suddenly aware that the weight of Rozanov’s body has shifted, and there is a distance between the two of them that wasn’t there before. So what the fuck is going on?
“ngh’uhTSCHhhhh!”
At that sound, and Rozanov’s hand jerking tight around him and tugging sharply, Shane opens his eyes. Rozanov is sitting a bit more upright, his hand still on Shane, but his torso twisted away. His left arm is thrown up haphazardly across the lower half of his face, and he raises his head above it to take a shuddering breath before the next sneeze hits.
“huhh…hhh’GHHh’chuhh!”
For a moment, Shane held captive by the outline of Rozanov’s shoulders, the perfect v of his torso down to his waist. He can’t do anything but stare at how the muscles in Rozanov’s shoulders and stomach contract and release as the sneeze rips through him. Shane isn’t sure he’s ever seen anyone sneeze that hard. His whole body is taken over with it, and then with the snuffling and tight gasps of breath that suggests the fit clearly far from over.
It an unusual sensation, yeah, but not an unenjoyable. Quite enjoyable, actually, when the sneezes jerk Rozanov forwards so that his hips crash forwards into Shane’s, the base of his shaft rubbing into the underside of Shane’s erection. Especially because, unconsciously, Rozanov’s grip on Shane tightens with each sneeze, enough to make Shane squirm and shift, to rub himself against Rozanov’s hand. And even when practically incapacitated by his sneezes, Rozanov notices that, managing a crooked half smile through hitching breaths and watery eyes, before sneezes again.
“hhh’DJJISHHH’ughhhh!”
Jesus, that one was strong. So strong that when Rozanov’s head snaps forward and takes his body with it, Shane presses up an arm to catch Rozanov’s shoulder, and wraps his other arm around Rozanov’s waist to brace him in position. And if this means that Rozanov’s hips are pulled even closer, up against his own, well that’s just a happy coincidence.
At Shane’s touch, Rozanov’s eyes blink open in surprise. His eyes are damp and dazed as they meet Shane’s, slipping away from focus for a second until Rozanov scrubs his nose into his forearm with determined violence. And then he coughs, with the deep crackling sound that Shane remembers from the rink earlier than night, though its worse now that Shane is closer to it, and there’s no noise to drown it out. When he finally lowers his arm, after swiftly ducking into it again for another wrenching “hhhh’GHHshhhhuh!”, his face is flushed, cheeks tear-stained, and nose scrunching with near-constant sniffles.
“Are you…”
Before Shane can finish, Rozanov pounces forwards to silence him with a very snuffly kiss.
“Hollander,” he growls, mostly mumbling the words into Shane’s lips. “If you ask me again if I want to lie down I will…”
This time, its Rozanov’s turn to be interrupted, not by a kiss but by Shane’s spur of the moment decision to combine the leverage he has at Rozanov’s shoulder with a sharp upward thrust from his hips at the same side. Off balance from leaning forward for the kiss, and definitely not expecting Shane to try something like this, Rozanov topples over to his left, which makes it easy enough for Shane to end up on top of him.
Rozanov looks up at Shane from where he is now lying on the bed, pupils blown, and with a smile registering unexpected pleasure – and, Shane lets himself think, a touch of admiration.
“I’m not asking this time,” Shane says, almost surprising himself when the words slip from his mouth.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov growls. “You have been practisi’ihhh’ hhhh’YSHHHughhh!” It’s all Rozanov can do to turn his head to one side and direct the sneeze into the comforter that neither of them bothered to pull off the bed. “Nghh…” The groan follows hard behind desperate sniffs and Rozanov clearing his throat harshly. “Can’t fucking stop…”
“I don’t care.” Shane grabs Rozanov’s dick, and enjoys the moan of pleasure that he gets in return. Maybe he is supersensitive after all. Rozanov’s hand is still loosely on Shane’s cock, and so, Shane places his other hand on top and begins to move them both in the same rhythm, indulging in a sigh of pleasure as Rozanov follows his lead.
“hhh’uhhh’?...Uhh’TSCHhh’EUGH!”
“Fuck!” It slips out without Shane meaning it to, because every time that Rozanov sneezes the grip he has on Shane unconsciously tightens, a squeeze and a jerk that is a deliciously sharp interruption to his otherwise sweeping strokes.
Rozanov laughs. “You like that, when I…”
“Shut up,” Shane growls, speeding up the pace of hand on Rozanov’s shaft. But he does, like it. Not the sneezing exactly, though they are both, he thinks, way, way past caring about the dubious hygiene of this whole encounter. But the side effects of the sneezing are… pleasurable. And judging by the way that Rozanov is looking at him, pleased with himself and brimming with desire, Shane knows that he is blushing again.
“Do it for me,” Rozanov says.
“What, sneeze?” Shane laughs, because he assumes he’s misunderstood. But Rozanov is nodding as he’s jerking Shane off, picking up his speed to match Shane’s own.
“Want to know what it feels like,” Rozanov breaths. “So do as you’re… nghh’GHTSchhh!… told.”
Rozanov’s request is patently ridiculous, not just because its not something that anyone asks for during sex, but also because it’s not possible for someone to sneeze on demand. Except that it doesn’t take much to make Shane sneeze when his nose feels as sensitive as every other inch of him right now. It’s itched and prickled every time that Rozanov has sneezed, as though in sympathy with the tickle he can’t seem shake. And Shane really, really wants to do as he’s told, wants to do that so badly that his body feels like its vibrating with the urge. So, feeling less stupid about it than he ought to, Shane tilts his head back slightly, closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose where bone meets cartilage, and rubs.
From somewhere beneath him on the bed, Shane hears Rozanov whisper an almost reverent, “Wow,” which sends a shudder of pleasure thrilling through Shane’s body. Apparently, even if this doesn’t work, Shane’s eagerness to please is enough to please Rozanov, which also pleases Shane and so…
Fuck, though, it is working. The itch in the back of his nose is building, slowly but surely, teasing tears from Shane’s eyes as it does so. Concentrating on the sensation, and on the tension growing in his cock as Rozanov edges him closer and closer to release, and on the feeling of Rozanov in his hand doing the same, makes everything else in the room go black. After what feels like an age, but can only really have been seconds, Shane feels his breath catch once, twice, and then…
“hhh’EISSHHuu! hhuh'huh-YISHHuuh!”
“Fuck!” Rozanov yells, which must be from some combination of the way Shane’s grasp has tightened round his shaft, and the way that Shane’s hips have bucked against Rozanov’s dick with the force of the releases. “Oh, fuck Hollander, make me come…”
Not caring that his eyes are watering and his nose is streaming, Shane speeds up the motion of his hand even more, rotating his wrist as he does so in a way that draws a rough his from deep in Rozanov’s throat. And then all it takes is for Shane to rub his own cock against Rozanov’s, for everything to blur between their hands, and their dicks, and their moans, before Rozanov comes, with a strangled cry. The release splashes all over his and Shane’s stomach where, seconds later, it is joined by Shane’s as he comes and collapses forward into Rozanov’s arms.
It is a while before either of them moves, other than to place feverish, fucked-out kisses on the other one’s mouths. Shane is nestled into the crook of Rozanov’s shoulder, his limbs tangled round Rozanov’s body. Now the thrill of his organism is receding and the sweat on his body is beginning to dry, Shane can feel that he’s starting to shiver again. He should get under the covers, or put some clothes on, or maybe take a hot shower. But his instinct is to simply pull himself closer to Rozanov, as though the other man could provide all the warmth that he needs.
Rozanov, however, has other plans. He places a tender kiss on Shane’s temple but at the same time lifts Shane’s leg from where it lies across his thigh. Then he carefully sits up, depositing Shane’s head gently onto a pillow.
“Ngghh…Where’re you going…” Shane mumbles. “C’m’back…”
“Just a minute, sweetheart,” Rozanov whispers. Shane feels another kiss being pressed to his lips, and then hears footsteps are padding across the bedroom carpet.
Beneath the haze of head cold and afterglow, Shane hears water running. Not enough water for a shower, so maybe Rozanov is just cleaning himself up. Shane wriggles himself upwards until he’s half-sitting against the headboard, and studies the mess that remains on his skin. Maybe he’ll clean Shane up too. Shane secretly loves when he does that, or maybe not so secretly because he’s pretty sure he’s moans every time Rozanov wipes a warm flannel over his stomach and his dick and wherever else has ended up sticky and salty.
But when Rozanov does come back, its not a washcloth that he hands to Shane, but a mug of something warm, and with a familiar, cutting scent – acidic and medicinal – that cuts through even Shane’s stuffed head. It’s the same cold medicine that Shane made for Rozanov last night.
“You made this for me?” Shane says, which is stupid because who else is going to have done it. And yeah, Rozanov rolls his eyes.
“No, I make it for all the other hockey players with colds that I fuck tonight,” he says, which makes Shane laugh. Normally, this would be fine – good even, because the corners of Rozanov eyes crinkle when he manages to make Shane laugh, in a way that is utterly adorable and that Shane rarely gets to see to otherwise. Except now that his nose is so itchy, and his sinuses are protesting his movement to a semi-seated position, and so now Shane is going to sneeze while clutching a mug of very hot liquid.
The only thing Shane can do is thrust it back towards Rozanov, whose athlete’s reflexes allow him to take it without thinking.
“It’s not right?” he says, for a moment – maybe for the first time Shane has ever heard – sounding genuinely disappointed. “You don’t want it?”
The feeling of a sneeze building is not easy for Shane to speak through, but Rozanov sounds so crestfallen that Shane feels he has to try.
Shane feels something land in his lap, and opens his eyes to find the tissue box that was on the nightstand has been deposited there.
“So many sneezes,” Rozanov says, settling next to Shane as he blows his nose, and tries not to wince at the sound. “Though not as many as me, I think,” he adds, as he hands the mug back to Shane for a second try.
Shane gives a huff before taking a sip of his drink. Of course, Ilya Rozanov could even turn their colds into a competition.
“Is ok?” Rozanov asks, and Shane notices, approvingly, that he’s cradling a cup of his own, too.
“Yeah, it’s good.”
Rozanov nods. “I hear, better with honey,” he says, which makes Shane smile into his cup, until Rozanov adds, “And someone told me that you can’t microwave the water or it tastes funny, but I think he is a liar. And also boring.”
Shane is about to jab his elbow into Rozanov’s side when he remembers that they are both holding scalding drinks. So he settles for flipping Rozanov the bird instead. Rozanov grins in response, but it falters slightly as he looks at Shane, and Shane knows what he must be seeing. The pale skin, reddened nose, and inflamed eyes that Shane himself is seeing when he looks at Rozanov. Still, it is a surprise when Rozaonov reaches over and presses the back of his hand against Shane’s forehead.
Did you ever have a boyfriend who would feel your forehead to check if you had a fever? And did your boyfriend ever do that for you?
“I think you do have a fever,” Rozanov says, unusually serious. Shane nods and shrugs.
“Probably,” he agrees, allowing himself a little bit of a self-pitying sniffle. He hates being sick – who doesn’t – but he really, really hates how having a fever makes him feel. Like everything that usually stays so well hidden is suddenly right beneath the surface, and the cloth that is hiding it might be pulled off at any time. And so because it’s easier not to think about himself right now, he adds, “I think you have one too.”
Rozanov shrugs as well. “This will help, yes?” he says, holding up the mug as a gesture.
“Yeah, it will,” Shane says, taking another large sip from the mug. “Thanks.”
Rozanov looks down at his own drink, and smiles.
They lie there quietly, side by side, for several moments, their shoulders and upper arms touching. Rozanov must have retrieved his phone from his coat when he went to fetch the medicine, because he’s scrolling through messages and the Raiders Instagram account; Shane pointedly keeps his eyes on his mug so as not to see anything he shouldn’t. For his own part, Shane is content to lie and listen to the muted traffic outside, nowhere near dying away yet, and the snuffling, wheezing sounds of Rozanov’s breathing. Hopefully someone on the Raiders team would make him see a doctor before they flew back.
And suddenly, almost before Shane can think about the consequences of them, the beginning of a phrase is on his lips, almost spilling over before Shane can catch up with it.
“I wish - ”
I wish you didn’t have to leave. I wish you never had to leave. I wish we could stay together all night, and every night after that.
But he can’t say that. Because this is what they do; they fuck and they leave before morning.
So, instead, Shane tries, “I wish I hadn’t gotten sick this week.”
Rozanov’s teasing huff comes out probably more congested than he’d intended. “So it’s ok if I am sick?”
“Shut up.” Shane swallows the last of the medicine and puts his cup on the nightstand. Then he curls himself into Rozanov, returning his head to its place on the other man’s chest. “Obviously, I wish that you hadn’t gotten sick either.”
It’s not true though. Or rather, it’s not that Shane wants Rozanov sick, but that he wouldn’t mind Rozanov being sick if he could stay and let Shane take care of him. Lying in the dark, as Rozanov starts to thread his fingers through Shane’s hair, Shane lets himself think about a version of the past few days where they weren’t having stolen whispered conversations, weren’t sneaking around at night, weren’t having to leave before the morning. Where instead of being in this stupid show-home, they were in his real apartment, where there was a kettle for tea, and pans to make soup. Where Shane could have tucked Rozanov up in blankets on the couch, and put on a stupid movies, and checked his temperature, and rubbed his back when his cough sounded bad, and played with his hair until he fell asleep. Something like that could be… nice.
Shane’s so busy thinking about this that he almost doesn’t notice that Rozanov is speaking again.
“But better we were both sick, than just one of us.”
Shane hums his assent, and is ready to let the silence fall again. But Rozanov, it seems, is not done with talking, even if his fingers have quieted their soothing motion across Shane’s forehead. When he speaks, he doesn’t look at Shane as he does so, staring off instead into middle distance at somewhere far away, or perhaps, somewhere a long time ago.
“I think I am not very good at being a sick person,” he says.
Shane laughs; even to his own ears it sounds thick and heavy, dragged from his lungs like a dull skate blade.
“No one is good at being sick,” he says.
Rozanov shakes his head, as though Shane has misunderstood something.
“I think,” he says again, “I am not easy to care for.”
It is such a strange phrase – not easy to care for – that, not for the first time, Shane wonders what is being lost in translation when Rozanov speaks to him. Not just because he is speaking English, but because there is so much context for who Rozanov is that Shane doesn’t know. Who made him feel this way, and how did they do it?
Those aren’t questions Shane can ask now; even if he could, Rozanov probably wouldn’t answer them. All Shane can do is hold him a little tighter, and press another kiss to his cheek
“I don’t think that’s true,” he says, forcing out the words as steadily as he can. “I… I want to take care of you.”
Even as he hears himself saying the words, Shane knows that he’s gone too far. This isn’t the kind of thing they say to one another. This is dangerous. And if Rozanov started it, then Shane’s taken it further. They are out in the middle of the thin ice they’ve been skating on for a while now, far from the shoreline, and if it cracks, and there is nothing beneath but drowning.
Luckily, Rozanov finds a branch to drag them back to familiar, safe, grounds. With another huff - half amusement and half derision, and, tonight, also mostly the congestion in his head - he looks down at his softening cock and then back up to Shane, one eyebrow raised with suggestive menace.
“That what you call this? Taking care of me?”
Shane, at least, can follow his lead.
“Oh, fuck you.”
“Or maybe it was ‘taking care’ when you build whole gameplan around your teammates fucking with me because I’m sick? Make me skate so hard that stupid cold turns into nuumoneeya?”
“Pneumonia?” Shane replies, checking his translation.
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“That’s not a thing that happens!” And it wasn’t, right? “Anyway, you did the same to me.”
“Or when you leave me outside on freezing cold street for an hour?”
An hour? Fuck no, is he getting away with this.
“It was ten minutes!”
Rozanov tilted his head to one side as though he were considering this, and then said cooly, “I think more.”
“Shut up – no, it wasn’t. And I bought you cold medicine.”
“Which I make for you,” Rozanov responds, waving his mug as he places it on the other nightstand.
Shane is about to point out that he made medicine for Rozanov yesterday when he was ignoring the fact he was running a fever for Christ’s sake. But he’s interrupted by an annoyingly familiar sensation in his nose, that leaves him scrambling for the tissue box that – even more annoyingly – is only in his reach because Rozanov put it there.
“hhh’EISHHhhhh!’ISSHHhhhh!”
“And now you sneeze on me to try to win argument.”
Shane blows his nose sharply, and drags himself to a sitting position. Rozanov is grinning at him, and Shane knows there’s no point in continuing the back and forth, except that he can’t let Rozanov win after saying something so completely stupid.
“That doesn’d even make sense,” he grumbles.
“Yes, it does. And you are going to sneeze again,” he adds, matter-of-factly.
“What? No, I’b…” But he is. Right now. “hhh-IShhheuhh!... hhh’ISHHhhhewhh!
“Bless you,” Rozanov replies in a sing-song tone, his confidence with the phrase obviously increasing.
“Oh, fug’k off.” Shane gives Rozanov’s hamstring a soft kick, and shakes off the hand that is resting on his hip bone. He’s not sure where he’s going – shower maybe, or the kitchen for some tea, or to see if there’s something – anything - else in what he bought that might help him stop sneezing. But he doesn’t have to listen to this in his own… well, not actually his apartment, but a building that he owns.
“No, no, Hollander…” Rozanov’s wheedling tone can’t disguise the laughter in his voice, as he grabs Shane’s forearm, tugging him back towards the bed. “You cannot leave. This is not ‘taking care’. I will be cold.”
He pouts, and its adorable. Annoying adorable.
Shane is still about to tell Rozanov to go fuck himself when he realises, suddenly, that Rozanov has grabbed the arm furthest from him – so the arm that has the shoulder that didn’t get slammed into the boards, and so isn’t beginning to stain with indigo and burgundy bruises. The tenderness is so unexpected from Rozanov, who is a professional asshole first and a hockey player second, that it snatches the air from Shane’s lungs, and he thinks that the only way to get it back might be to kiss Rozanov and never stop.
As their eyes meet, he thinks Rozanov can see it. There’s something about the way that his grip loosens a little, about the tremble in his breathing as they are both frozen in the moment, trying to work out what the hell they are supposed to do next.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. You have got to stop this, Hollander. Sell your fucking apartment. Delete Rozanov’s number. Don’t ever think about what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, whether he’s thinking about you. This has got to stop.
It’s not going to stop.
A familiar sick feeling is back in Shane’s stomach, and he’s about to shake off Rozanov’s grasp, when he realises that he doesn’t have to, because Rozanov’s grip on him has already loosened. His upper lip curls, his nose scrunches upwards and his whole body crumples forward.
“Jesus Christ, do you always sneeze like that?” Shane mutters, extending the tissues to him.
Rozanov snatches a handful and blows his nose loudly. Then, he looks at Shane balefully over the tissues, and gives a reluctant nod.
“Well then, bless you, I guess.”
Rozanov finishes wiping his nose, though he’s still sniffling. He meets Shane’s eyes, and he’s not grinning now, and nor does he look like he’s about to rip into Shane again. It’s not even the cool, studied indifference that Shane is used to from Rozanov. It’s something quieter, less performed, more… sincere.
“Thank you,” he says. “And thank you for the tissues. And thank you for… ‘taking care’.”
He opens his arm, an invitation for Shane to return his head to Rozanov’s chest. It’s the worst idea in the world, and Shane doesn’t need asking twice.
“It’s ok. I… I don’t mind.”
I like it. I love it, actually. I would do it forever, if you would let me. Would you let me, Rozanov?
Rozanov tightens the arm around his shoulder, as Shane nestled his head back into Rozanov’s shoulder. Rozanov doesn’t say anything, but it feels, somehow, like he understands. They are silent like this for a moment, Rozanov teasing his fingers through Shane’s hair, Shane stroking the back of his knuckles across Rozanov’s bicep.
Oh, fuck it.
Shane clears his throat.
“Next time you’re sick… I mean, if you’re sick again, and… and you want someone to complain to, or I dunno… Well, you can, um, let me know.”
“You will ‘take care’ again?”
“Yeah, I’ll ‘take care’ again.”
Rozanov laughs again, and it’s still horribly congested – enough that Shane does start to worry that skating yourself into pneumonia might be a thing. But it’s also warm and kind. It’s laughter to wrap yourself up in against a cold day, and a colder world. Shane wonders who else knows that Rozanov’s laughter can sound like that.
“You will ‘take care’ from Montreal, when I am in Boston?”
“We can text. Or whatever.”
“Or whatever.” Rozanov leans down, and kisses Shane gently on the forehead. “Is your fever talking?”
“No,” Shane says, looking back up at him. “No, I mean it.”
“Ok.” Rozanov smiles, and it is beautiful. He is beautiful. Sick, and exhausted, and beautiful. “Ok. Maybe I do that.”
----
The interview and the photographs are published two weeks later. Shane discovers this when he arrives at practice to find the magazine’s front cover stuck on the wall in his usual stall. It’s someone’s – probably, JJ’s – idea of a good joke. Chirping their captain for being a pretty boy apparently never gets old.
Shane glances at the cover. By now he can pretty much guess the straplines word for word.
Hollander v. Rozanov - Head-to-Head with the Eastern Conference’s Greatest Rivals!
The cover photo is one that was taken at the practice: he and Rozanov facing off against one another. Because, like, they’re rivals? Really fucking original.
Carefully giving the picture only the most cursory glance, Shane turns back to his assembled teammates and their howls of laughter. He rolls his eyes, curses them playfully – whichever of you motherfuckers did this is skating laps – and makes a show of pulling down the cover, to some really old lines about when he’s giving up hockey for modelling – “because the pay is nearly as good and your workmates are hotter!”.
But Shane doesn’t screw up the cover and toss it in the trash, like he’s done on other occasions where his teammates have tried this gag. Instead, when no one is looking, he tucks in inside his kit bag in a space where it won’t get crumpled.
After practice, he’s deliberately slow getting changed, so that he’s the last one left in the locker room, once he’s told Hayden to go ahead and get them both a coffee, that he’ll be right out. And then, once the room is empty, Shane takes a deep breath and pulls out the picture.
Someone must have done some touching up or whatever, because neither he nor Rozanov looks anywhere near as sick as they actually were. The only real evidence is a tiny bloom of pink around the tip of Rozanov’s nose, and a pinched flush on Shane’s cheeks, both of which might be down to nothing more than the cold of the rink. Nothing that any one would notice. Almost like the two of them being sick never happened.
In fact, the more notable thing about the picture is that the two of them are smiling at each other. Not really smiling, or laughing, not like they were the day of the CCM shoot all those years ago, like they must be in some pictures that were on a photographer’s hard drive, but probably don’t even exist anymore. But they are smiling, lips quirking upwards in a way that might be read as confidence, or a playful challenge, or enjoyment of competition for its own sake, even though Shane knows that it was none of those things at all. And Rozanov knows it, too.
All at once, it strikes Shane that, aside from his parents, Rozanov probably knows Shane better than anyone else. And of everything fucked up about this whole fucked up thing they have, that might be the most fucked up thing of all.
He lays the cover on the bench, pulls out his phone and snaps a picture – to send to his mom and dad, if anyone asks. But he doesn’t send it to them; he sends it to Lily.
The read notification flicks up and immediately the three dots start flickering on the screen.
Lily: Congratulations. You are second hottest hockey player in the picture
Shane huffs, and types his reply.
Good job they had Photoshop to make you look like you weren’t dying from a cold.
Shane is about to put his phone away, because Hayden’s going to start wondering where he is, but then something comes over him and before he can think too hard about it, he adds:
You survived, then? No pneumonia?
Lily: No. I was not going to die before we could beat you in December
December. Six weeks. Nineteen games. Not that he’s counting. Shane taps his response with particular fervour.
You wish
Lily: You wish 😉
Shane stares at the message for a while. He knows it’s a dumb joke, in response to another dumb joke. It doesn’t mean anything. It can never mean anything. But still… But still.
You wish.
I do.
Shane rubs his eyes, suddenly overcome with tiredness. Swallowing hard, he locks his phone screen, the messages disappearing to black. Then he takes one last look at the cover photo, and folds it carefully away.
that suddenly excessively messy snz that happens after multiple false starts or congested snzs that ends with the most relieved look on the person's face as all that mess pours down their face and maybe down to their chest
amandla
baratheonpilled
prguitarman
