I try to tag all writing, however short, #silk scribbles, but I'm also terrible for forgetting to do this.
For anyone stumbling on this blog, I only really write sick fic/sneeze fic. Everything below is (max) PG13, unless otherwise specified. I haven't listed any really short drabbles/ideas but they can be found under the tag #briefly.
Original Fiction
Chronicles
In 1875, Fred Inchcombe and Robert Hexham work at the British Museum, dig up the past, and fall in love. Posts about them are tagged #archaeologist boyfriends
The lovely @cravatsandcolds did a wonderful drawing of Fred and Robert which is here.
In roughly chronological order:
Finds (in four parts; all linked from the first post)
Dusk
The Garsett Dig: Socks
Pleased as Man with Man to Dwell
The Pleasures of a Cold
The Lecture
Finsbury Park
Arrivals and Home, Sick
Coincidence and Coda
The Coast and True To One Another
Mud Angels
In the wake of a devastating flood in November 1966, students from all over Europe and the rest of the world travelled to Florence to help with the recovery of documents, books and art works damaged by the water.
In Translation - January, damp studios, and Félix has a cold that's going to his chest.
Misreadings - Elena has a party to get ready for. Félix (still) has a cold. Ruth hasn't learnt to hold her tongue.
Other Historical Fiction
Caught (i): a scene from a never-made, Golden Age of Hollywood, screwball comedy. On a balcony outside a party, two friends conspire to get the girl.
Caught (ii): LA, late 1930s. A hard-boiled detective walks into a bar.
Washed Up: The same hard-boiled detective walks into a laundromat
An Evening in November: Late Victorian England, a gentleman returns home with a cold.
Fan Fiction
Heated Rivalry
Versus: Situationship era. Because the universe is determined to tangle Shane and Ilya together, they are both sick for the Montreal/Boston game. (Explicit; 5 parts linked from part 1)
Magpie: Ilya is in Denver; Shane is in Montreal. Shane is sick; Ilya is yearning. (One shot)
The Magnus Archives
Burning Up: Tim is sick and wants attention (Season 1)
Alone Together: Tim returns from his unauthorized absence rather under the weather. Martin tries to be a good friend. No one is fine. (Season 3)
Murdle
The Common Cold Problem: Deductive Logico has an unexpected, esoteric visitor in need of tea, sympathy, and a puzzle solution
Please do ask me anything about my writing, my characters, period settings generally.
i wrote this purely for fun. it's also kind of hot. indirect sequel to hollander and rozanov share a cold. the people of the internet realize shane hollander is sick? voyeurism?
~ i think hollander is sick
[Video footage clearly shot from a phone camera, shakily zooming in on the Metro’s bench. Hollander is talking to his winger, then suddenly, as if struck by lightning, stiffens and turns away. He’s had a towel in his hand, but he brings it up now over his face. His body shakes a few times before he lowers the towel, blinks, and turns back to Pike. Pike puts a hand on his shoulder and jostles him lightly. Says something. Hollander shifts and looks apologetic.]
~ omg he’s so cute. was he sneezing????
[Quote-tweet of the video of Hollander and Pike.]
there’s a rumor holzy has bad allergies, maybe something was bothering him
yeAH i think he was
no def, i think he’s fighting something rn. im looking and there’s a clip of him at warmups someone took where he sounds kinda congested my poor baby
omg he’s so polite with it im going to die
~ Go Metros!! hollander def sick. still won the game, that’s our fucking boy.
[screenshot of Hollander talking to press post-game. He’s pressing a knuckle to the side of his nose and his face is scrunched up as he looks at the reporter.]
i bet he’s pissed. holzy literally never gets sick
24 fuckin killed it this game
Hollander is a fucking god
yeah he has a cold or something
~ when the rivalry is too good that u both have to catch colds to even it out.
[Quote-tweet of Rozanov from last week.] [Rozanov is leaving a restaurant, looking decidedly annoyed as he throws his sleeve over his face and sneezes. He’s clearly intended to keep walking, but he stumbles as he continues to sneeze and stops, bending forward. He eventually retreats from his elbow and growls at the camera, “You don’t even say bless you after filming me?” Rozanov continues towards an orange sportscar, hands in his pockets, muttering in Russian.]
he’s so fucking hot. i’d take care of him. give me a thermometer and a box of tissues (and a very slutty nurse costume) and i’ll take very good care...
rozanov sneezes a lot i don’t think he was sick here
are u new to hockey? roz sneezes all the time lol. <link> Ilya Rozanov Sneezing Compilation
thought he would have dad sneezes. but he sounds more like he’s moaning
oh, to be his puck bunny.
No one has so far, so i’ll say it. bless you! bless you!! mr. ilya rozanov. Bless you, sir.
~ my shaneeeee. his nose is so cute
[Picture of Hollander smiling. It’s wide enough that the bridge of his nose is wrinkled and his freckles are coming together.] [Picture of Hollander itching under his nose, turned away from the camera so it’s a full side-profile.] [Picture of Hollander at the latest game walkout, suited-up, pinching the bridge of his nose and angling into his shoulder.]
i’m going to put his nose in a museum
they write books about faces like this
awww i think he was about to sneeze in the third pic.
—
Trending:
Taylor Swift
#LoveWins
Hollander trending with sneeze.
Caitlyn Jenner.
#WorldCup
__
Jane: we won so shut up
Lily: but u had to sneeze so much... poor Jane.
Lily: the cold i give you is trending on twitter, did you know that?
Jane: i’m fine asshole. you barely even got me sick.
One thing I love about being in a different time zone to so many of you is that sometimes loads of you post amazing stuff overnight and I get to wake up and have a really nice quiet horny time on a Sunday morning enjoying the fruits of your labour.
Well here it is! Sorry for the wait, but I really enjoyed working on this and I have zero control over a wordcap apparently lol. CW for contagion, mess, graphic NSFW scenes, and some minor dacrophilia if you squint. Enjoy!
With Shane drowsing on his chest, it was remarkably easy for Ilya to fall into sleep as well. He had been up since five to get packed into the team bus, drive to the airport, and catch a flight home. Admittedly, he was a little exhausted. Ilya had planned on arriving to the cottage, getting in a quick fuck, and promptly taking a nap in Shane’s bed or Shane’s couch or honestly wherever Shane was. It wasn’t often that his boyfriend joined him in napping, but Ilya had a way of getting Shane to play with his hair as he drifted under. And /that/ was nearly as good as sex itself.
Ilya drifted in and out of sleep for maybe an hour and a half, listening to the sounds of people on television bickering over off-white paint. Shane was snoring softly against Ilya’s chest, the sound making his heart squeeze - this was the first time he had heard his boyfriend make such a sound. Firsts were always something he treasured. Shane was soft and relaxed against him, features slack, occasionally snuffling and sighing and burrowing closer.
They hadn’t really been sick in front of one another before. Hundreds of miles were somehow always between them whenever one of them was down and out. Ilya was pleasantly surprised that Shane was rather sweet and needy when he wasn’t feeling good.
Shane’s brow furrowed, restless as he coughed softly in his sleep. Ilya rubbed his back with the flat of his palm until he stilled and quieted, soothed back into rest. He felt a bubble of fondness swell in his chest so large it was near to bursting inside of him. The feeling coaxed Ilya into waking fully, tuning back into the weight of Shane on top of him, the gentle sound of the outside wind against the windows, and the afternoon light turning the room golden around them. He continued to stroke Shane’s back slowly, pressing a quick, gentle kiss to his head.
Although he couldn’t say he enjoyed the extents of Shane’s anxiety, his boyfriend was so endearing in how much he cared about everything. Shane had come a long way from when Ilya had first met him in terms of confidence and excessive worrying, but obviously it still could get to him. The crease in his brow and shining brown eyes when he looked at Ilya earlier, the way he nervously bit his lip, eyes searching for permission to just fucking relax already. As if Ilya would be upset that Shane was getting sick - all Ilya really cared about was being there and, well, he had achieved that.
Ilya honestly had honestly been insistent about kissing him so Shane wouldn’t spend the rest of the next few days freaking out about contamination. The worst had already been done. Additionally, there were worse things in the world than getting sick. And Ilya really wasn’t kidding about the sexy nurse thing either - that would definitely make him feel better no matter what kind of state he was in.
It was about twenty minutes before Shane stirred. His gentle, congested snoring was cut off by a deep inhale, a sigh, a gentle reverberation in his throat as he began to wake. His face scrunched up adorably as he registered wakefulness, freckles bunching together as he wrinkled his nose. Shane groaned softly as he blinked to awareness, brows pulled together as he registered the miseries of being awake with a cold.
Shane lifted his head, eyes widening a little as he saw the the way the light had changed in the room.
“…Fuck. How long did I sleep?” he rasped, voice beginning to turn gravelly and sore.
“Almost two hours?” Ilya said, glancing at his watch. “I thought maybe you had died.”
Shane groaned again and ran a hand over his face, thumb putting pressure on his temple like he had a headache.
“God, I’m sorry, I didn’t think I’d be out so long. You must be bored,” he lamented, sighing and pushing his cheek into Ilya’s chest. He sniffled and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand.
Ilya smiled and hugged him tight.
“Is okay. I was tired after the flight, I took a nap with you.”
Shane sighed and deflated. “Okay. Good.” He sniffled and turned away to cough into the crook of his arm, far away from Ilya. As if that would make a difference at this point.
Shane looked a little miserable already, brow pinched, mouth in a tiny little frown, nose pink and sniffly. Ilya thought he kind of looked like a pitiful kitten, brown eyes big and watery, hair a mess, pout on his lips. And, like a pitiful kitten, he clung to Ilya like he might not make it otherwise. It always amazed Ilya that all six feet and 180 some-odd pounds of his boyfriend was able to look so small and kissable.
So, of course, Ilya leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Shane sighed with content and wriggled closer.
“You’re very adorable,” Ilya murmured, so very fond.
“Mmph. I don’t feel adorable,” Shane mumbled, following it up with a soupy sniffle as if to prove his point. His face was scrunched up in some mixture of disagreement and discomfort, eyes barely open.
“No, is adorable. You are like a baby animal, so cuddly and sleepy and sweet.” Shane groaned and rolled over to hide his face in the back of the couch, but Ilya could see from his ears that he was blushing. Ilya laughed and continued, “Now is my little kotonok hungry now? I am starving.”
Shane rolled back over to face him, sighing. “Not really, but I probably need to eat.”
He slowly peeled himself off of Ilya and sat up on the couch, reaching for the box of tissues on the coffee table. He took one and sheepishly turned away, blowing his nose as quietly as possible. It wasn’t as effective as it should have been, leaving him still sniffly and pink-cheeked, desperately avoiding eye contact.
Ilya patted him on the thigh and got up to look in the fridge, giving Shane a moment to clean himself up in private. It was endearing to Ilya how Shane still managed to get embarrassed at such mundane things. Ilya understood to a degree, as anyone would after growing up with his father, but he did not feel ashamed about most bodily functions around Shane.
Still, it was cute.
It was very quickly apparent there wasn’t much to work with in the fridge in terms of sick people food. It was stocked full of vegetables and healthy lean protein and even more vegetables on top of that.
Ilya groaned and dug through to the back of the fridge, calling over his shoulder to Shane. “You eat like insane person. The insides of this fridge are a disgrace to all kitchens.”
He turned at the sound of footsteps to see Shane trailing in sleepily, affronted frown on his face.
“Shut up. I eat healthy. It’s better than the shit you eat,” Shane grumbled, coming to stand beside his boyfriend to peer into the fridge.
“I am ordering more groceries, there is no food for sick people in here. I know it is not diet-approved but I will make you some borsht later, yes?“ Ilya said, rummaging around and pulling a few things out of the fridge.
Ilya expected Shane to deny, to interrogate him about the ingredients, to ask for changes here and there to cut back on carbs or fat or whatever. But he just nodded, sniffling, keeping his eyes away from Ilya’s. He still looked sheepish, embarrassed about something. Being sick, maybe. Ilya kissed the side of his head and shooed him over to a stool.
“Sit, I will make us sandwiches. I will make yours with gluten-free bread and everything. Does that sound good? Okay for your throat?”
Shane settled onto the stool, leaning onto the counter, nodding in agreement. “Sounds great, thank you.”
They talked idly while Ilya put everything together, sliding a cold can of ginger ale for Shane to drink while he waited. Ilya plated everything, cut the sandwiches into neat triangles, and hopped into the seat next to his boyfriend with a can of coke. They ate, talked, laughed. Ilya told him about his trip, stupid shit his teammates said, chirps towards players from his last game. Shane let Ilya talk as he ate slowly, stopping now and then to cough softly or pull a tissue from his pocket and dab at his pink nose.
Once they had finished eating, Ilya took their plates to the sink and began washing them. He looked up at the quiet sound of Shane’s breath catching. Ilya watched as his nose twitched, eyes blinking several times in rapid succession. Memorizing every micro-expression. Noticing how similar they were to the ones he made during sex. The way his eyebrows pulled together, floating up and up and up, lips beginning to part. Shane’s chest shuddered with a few near-silent hitches before his expression scrunched up. He turned to the side, ducking away from Ilya and into his elbow.
“Hih… hehH-hTDSH! Hih-iITChiew! ETshoo!”
Shane pulled away from his elbow slowly, immediately bringing up the tissue from his pocket to pinch and swipe at the moisture left behind. His cheeks were pink, and he was /definitely still avoiding eye contact.
“Bud'te zdorovy. Did that feel good?” Ilya teased, finishing with the plates and drying his hands on a nearby towel. Shane’s blush deepened as he brought his eyes up to Ilya’s to glare.
Ilya could see the panicked arousal behind it.
“Is it possible for you to not be an asshole right now?” Shane scowled and busied himself with shoving the tissue back into his hoodie pocket. Ilya did feel a little bad for teasing - Shane’s voice was going rough and he was getting more sniffly by the minute. But also he was blushing, so maybe Ilya didn’t feel too bad.
“I thought you were very fond of assholes the last time I had you bent over and-" Ilya was cut off as Shane groaned loudly into his hands, ears red.
He was so much more reactive than usual, so much more affected. Maybe because he was trying not to share his germs, Ilya thought, trying to make it seem like he didn’t want. Usually by now Shane be all over him. But either way Ilya was going to make sure his boyfriend was well taken care of, in more ways than one.
Ilya just chuckled and made his way to the bedroom, tugging Shane along with him.
“Come, it’s time for more medicine, yes? I will stop teasing you.”
“I don’t believe you,” Shane grumbled, which was a fair point, but he followed anyway.
Ilya stepped into the en-suite, pulling open the medicine cabinet. Shane followed in after, sniffling and clearing his throat as he leaned against the counter. He still seemed shy, sheepish.
“What have you taken?” Ilya asked, opening the bathroom cabinet to rummage through the medicine shelf. Thankfully, this was Shane’s cottage, so he was stocked up with absolutely fucking everything. Ilya’s place wouldn’t have had nearly as fruitful findings.
“Just some Advil earlier.”
Ilya pulled out a thermometer, capsules of DayQuil, name brand decongests, and a large bottle of ibuprofen. He then ducked down to rummage under the sink for a new box of tissues. He rose and dumped his findings on the bathroom counter.
“It is your nose that is giving you the most trouble, yes?” Ilya asked, choosing to talk about Shane’s nose just because he could, because it was the easiest tease in the world, because it always got Shane so worked up so fast. His cute shy boyfriend with his cute horny sneezes.
The current circumstances were technically uncharted territory as this is his first time experiencing Shane with a cold, so Ilya continuously kept an eye on his body language. And by his findings it looked like Shane was battling to keep his restraint intact. Ilya watched hungrily as the question registered, then promptly choked him until he could gather back his bearings. Shane blinked twice, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and brought a hand up to tug at his earlobe nervously. His face was still pink, eyes absolutely anywhere but on Ilya.
“Um— uh, yeah,”Shane choked out after a brief moment of obvious internal struggle.
Ilya frowned at him, feigning ignorance.
“You look flushed, lubimyy, do you have a fever?”
“I don’t think so,” he replied. Ilya stepped closer into his boyfriend’s space, cupping Shane’s cheek with one hand and lighting up with desire as he watched the blush there darken.
“It is okay if you are feeling bad. I want to take care of you,” Ilya said, aiming for earnest and caring and much less horny than he actually felt. He wanted to get to the root of whatever was working Shane up so much, wring it out with his bare hands until the answer was at his feet.
“I’m. Uh, I’m okay,” Shane said, still struggling to maintain eye contact. He sniffled again, sound wet and thick, and it made him wince. Shane dabbed at his rapidly-reddening nose with the tissue from his pocket, too embarrassed to blow.
“Let’s check just in case.”Ilya drops the hand from Shane’s face to pop the plastic cap off of the thermometer, shaking it. “You know how to do this part - open.”
Shane did as he was told, letting Ilya slip the thermometer under his tongue before the words really registered. Ilya saw the moment they did as Shane froze, eyes finally snapping up to meet Ilya’s. His eyes were the perfect deep brown they always were, gaze that familiar curious mix of anger and embarrassment and lust.
Ilya patted his cheek.
“Good boy. You always look pretty with something in your mouth,” Ilya purred. Even under the circumstances it was true. Shane looked unbearably lovely even in the midst of a cold - cheeks gently flushed, nose red and twitchy, freckles prominent. His brown eyes were ever so slightly glassy, much like they were when he was sex drunk and sated.
Ilya saw the moment Shane was about to open his mouth and yell at him a little, so he put a finger to the underside of Shane’s chin, firmly holding his jaw shut with the pad of his finger. Shane could have easily fought it, but his lips stayed sealed, bowing to the faintest pressure.
“Ah-ah. No talking. We need your temperature.” Ilya continued to look him directly in the eye, still holding his chin so Shane couldn’t tilt his head away. Shane’s face was flushed with embarrassment, but his eyes betrayed him. His pupils were blown wide, a longing look of lust seeping through the seams of his expression.
They both knew he didn’t have a fever but they played along anyway just for the sake of the game. Ilya was aware Shane knew he was just playing this shit up, but Shane let him anyways. He was malleable and perfect like he always was when Ilya laid it on this heavy.
Then suddenly, Shane’s eyes fluttered shut. Ilya thought that maybe he was lost in the pleasure of the moment, about to finally give in and reach out and take, but then his breath hitched.
Oh, Ilya thought.
Ilya caught Shane’s arm as he brought it up to rub at his nose, lowering it back down to his side. No touching unless I say so, it said. Shane’s eyes snapped open, still squinty and itchy, giving Ilya a questioning glare. The thermometer still poked out from between his pouting lips.
“Don’t sneeze. We will have to start all over. You can hold it back for me, lubimyy.”
The command landed as they always did. Shane shuddered, eyes squeezing shut again as his brows knitted in concentration, all confusion and frustration replaced by focus. He kept his mouth firmly shut, breathing slowly through his nose only to be interrupted by a hitch in his breath. He scrunched and wiggled his nose, chest rising and falling with each scissoring breath. Shane clenched his jaw, blinking furiously as irritated tears gathered at his lash line.
There was a second that Ilya thought Shane might loose it, teetering on the very edge of a sneeze - his chest swelled high and stayed there, eyebrows pinched upwards, head tilted back and giving Ilya a perfect view of damp, flaring nostrils.
But, after a few wavering moments, the urge passed. Shane blinked his eyes open slowly to meet Ilya’s, glassy and teary, still with the thermometer under his tongue. He shifted his weight, bulge now obvious in those grey sweatpants that always drove Ilya fucking insane. Ilya held Shane pinned with his gaze for a couple of long seconds before he leaned forward to whisper directly into Shane’s ear.
“Good.”
Shane let out the quietest shaky breath through his nose, eyes rolling up and slipping shut like one word alone was too arousing to handle. Ilya ran a feather-light touch over Shane’s clothed dick just to watch him shiver.
The thermometer, finally finished with its reading, beeped and flashed numbers on the small digital screen. Ilya stepped back and plucked it from Shane’s lips, not missing as Shane chased his touch with his hips, making a soft noise of protest.
“Ugh, fuck you,” Shane grumbled, sniffling and rubbing at his nose with the tissue from his pocket. Ilya was unsure which part of the last two minutes he was being cursed at for specifically.
To Ilya’s surprise, Shane did actually have a low-grade fever: 99.8. He flipped the instrument around to show his boyfriend the reading.
“You’re warm. Will be a fever later, maybe. We will keep an eye on it,” Ilya purred, setting the thermometer aside and cupping a hand to Shane’s cheek to feel the warmth there.
Shane was about to respond when his breath caught on a huge inhale, sudden and aggressive. He barely had time to bring up his elbow before he was sneezing harshly.
Shane stayed tucked into his elbow, panting and blinking away the moisture in his eyes. Ilya was a little bit shocked - he had never in his life heard Shane sneeze like that. It was fittish like how it was when he was aroused, but also heavy, harsh, and visibly uncontrollable. Shane’s head had jerked forward with each one, pulled down again and again with the force of the fit. He had to cough several times after like the congestion had shifted wrong and choked him.
Ilya quickly pulled a handful of tissues out of the new box and pressed them into Shane’s free hand. He quickly brought them up to his nose, still hiding in the crook of his arm.
“‘Scuse mbe, sorry. Thangk you.” Shane’s voice came out clogged and hoarse and once again, embarrassed. He avoided Ilya’s eyes as he cleaned up and tossed the evidence into the bathroom trash. He started to cough again and ducked back into the crook of his elbow. As if that would save Ilya from the germs he had already kissed right from Shane’s mouth.
The giveaway that Shane was still enjoying it all was the straining fabric of his sweatpants. Ilya was a little surprised at that - if anyone was a big enough horndog to want to fuck while unwell it was himself. But Shane still looked painfully riled up. Even despite the mess and the sore throat and the headache and the sneezing. If Ilya could have taken a guess before, he would’ve thought Shane would be uptight, overstimulated, and cranky when he was sick. But so far he’s turned out to be needy and panting and pliant, and Ilya is absolutely not complaining.
Shane was so turned on, and Ilya wanted to get him so desperate that Shane finally broke and went for it, took it with his own two hands for his own pleasure, his own want.
“Oh, lubimyy, you really don’t feel good do you? Bud'te zdorovy, I have never heard you sneeze like that before. My poor malysh. Someone needs to take care of you, yes?” Ilya brought his hands from Shane’s shoulders, sliding down to his hands, passing over the backs of them to rest on his hips where he rubbed slow, slow circles with his thumbs, arching ever closer to where Shane clearly wanted touch the most.
Shane’s breath caught as he shuddered. He didn’t speak, currently too overwhelmed for words.
Ilya wanted him to say it anyway.
“Yes? Is what you want?”
Shane nodded, eyes hazy.
“Tell me,” Ilya purred, thumbs still rubbing circles in the divots of his boyfriend’s hips.
“I wandt you to take care of mbe,” Shane said, voice hoarse and wavering, increasingly clogged with congestion. Ilya felt through the stretch of fabric under his fingers as Shane’s dick twitched.
It was then Ilya began to figure out where this heady, needy arousal of Shane’s was coming from.
“Yes? Because you’re feeling bad? Tell me why.”
Shane noded again, eager, waiting for Ilya to touch him, to kiss him, to do /something./
“I… I wandt you to mbake mbe feel better. Mbake mbe forget. Take care of mbe. Please,” Shane said, voice wavering and nearing a whine. He was panting now, staring blatantly at Ilya’s mouth. His face was beautifully flushed, eyes wanting and glassy, expression so painfully longing that Ilya wished he could take a picture of this moment to have it forever. To sear into his memory.
Ilya, still holding him by the hips, leaned in and kissed Shane with an open mouth. Shane sighed into it, eyes fluttering shut as he tilted his head for best access to Ilya’s lips. Their noses brushed, and Ilya was surprised to find he didn’t mind the transfer of moisture that occurred as a result. Not when Shane was gasping into his mouth, unable to breathe through his nose but still desperate to kiss. It was like Shane was starving for it, for the feeling of Ilya’s tongue in his mouth, oxygen deprivation be damned. He was puffing breath into Ilya’s mouth, panting, yet still ravenous with his intensity.
When Ilya broke away to give him a fucking chance to breathe, Shane chased him with his mouth, making a low displeased noise in his throat. His eyes were dark and hungry, covered by a glassy, watery sheen.
“Fugck, Ilya, come on,” Shane whined, still short of breath, almost more worked up and desperate than Ilya had ever seen him. He sniffled thickly and ran a hand under his now-red nose, too distracted to care about how gross he usually found it and that tissues were literally within his reach. On top of all of that, he had a slight wobble to him like he was dizzy.
“You can’t breathe, milyy, you need to blow your nose,” Ilya replied, hands roaming up and down his boyfriend’s ribs.
Shane visibly reddened all the way down to his neck. If Ilya looked, it would probably be deliciously spread over his chest. In Ilya’s peripheral vision, he saw Shane’s dick twitch again. Proof that he was on the right track whether Shane would verbally tell him that or not.
Still making eye contact, Ilya reached over and drew a few tissues from the box. Shane reached for them but Ilya pulled back, making a tutting sound
“I am taking care of you, remember? This is for me to do.”
Shane visibly struggled for a second, embarrassment beginning to creep back in, but it was stopped by a furrow in his brow and a twitch of his nose. He hitched, expression tortured and itchy, gearing up for however many sneezes his body decided was enough to express his arousal. He loved Shane’s little fits. They were like music to his ears, visual and auditory proof that Ilya was turning him on just right.
“Hah- Ilyaahh, I-,”
Ilya reached out and cupped the tissues around his nose. Shane’s hands flew up to meet them, clamping Ilya’s hand firmly in place.
Shane sneezed harshly, over and over again, breath warm and damp against Ilya’s palm. The tissues flooded with warmth as the expulsions forced the congestion to shift and loosen and expel itself. He finished the fit with a noise between a groan and a whine, equal parts relief, mortification, and arousal.
“Bud'te zdorovy,” Ilya purred, pinching the mess away from Shane’s nose with one hand while the other plucked a few more tissues from the box. Shane’s hands slowly withdrew from his face as he let Ilya do the work, face beautifully flushed. Ilya was quick to tent the fresh tissues against Shane’s nose, holding them tightly in place. “Now blow.”
Shane for a second looked like he would protest, but something in Ilya’s expression stilled it. Instead he took a trembling inhale and blew, a couple hours worth of congestion flooding outward into the folds of the soft paper, warm against the pads of Ilya’s fingers. While Ilya clearly understood this was foreplay (Was it weird? Yes. Did he really give a shit? No.), it also felt sweetly intimate and trusting. Like a skittish kitten eating out of your hand. Or something. Maybe Shane just always reminded him of a kitten.
Ilya had him blow one more time before cleaning him up, murmuring sweet praise into his ear while he did so. Shane looked so fucking blissed out it was insane and Ilya wanted to swallow him whole.
Thankfully, it did seem like he could breathe a little better after blowing, which made Ilya feel better about accidentally suffocating his boyfriend during a makeout. Ilya nuzzled into Shane’s collarbone, gently teething on the skin there. Shane shivered and swayed, fingers tightening on Ilya’s shoulders as he moved in for another kiss.
“You should be lying down,” Ilya breathed into his mouth, kissing him and walking Shane out of the bathroom and towards the bed, pulling their shirts off as they went. Shane fell back on the bed once the back of his knees hit the edge of it, propped up on his elbows and looking up at Ilya through his lashes with dark, glassy eyes. He was breathing hard, chest heaving, and nose beautifully red.
Ilya went for the drawstring of his boyfriend’s sweats with fast, nimble fingers, tugging them down and off in a single practiced motion. Shane shivered as Ilya ran his fingers up his thighs and to the seam of his boxers, throwing his head back and exposing his neck.
“You have been so reactive to me. So tense, so nervous. But I can see that you like it. I told you, I can always tell when you want,” Ilya said lowly, leaning down to mouth at the skin of Shane’s inner thigh. Shane trembled, sighing, twisting the bedsheets with tight fists at his sides. “You just want someone to take care of you, yes? Fuck the cold out of you?”
The man beneath him groaned at that, dick twitching in his boxers. And the next moment Shane was sneezing again, gasping once and twisting to the side.
Ilya watched, mouth watering as his boyfriend’s abs contracted and released over and over. With the next breath he was begging, panting, sniffling thickly, pulling Ilya closer by hooking his heels around Ilya’s ass and tugging.
Ilya chuckled and kissed a line up Shane’s throat.
“Oh, I know that sound. So eager even when you don’t feel good.” Ilya pulled back to look Shane in the eye for a second, savoring the tension and want in his boyfriend’s gaze. His nose was running already, eyes dark, embarrassed flush blooming down his neck at the intense attention. He sniffled thickly then turned to cough into his wrist. Ilya ran his hands over Shane’s ribs. “My poor Shanya, you are so sick.”
Shane made a keening noise in his throat, reaching up and pulling Ilya down for the neck to mash their mouths together.
Soon enough Ilya had Shane on his back in the middle of the bed, the both of them naked, kissing a line down Shane’s body until he reached his groin, dick straining and untouched. Like the rest of him, it was flushed red. Precome gleamed at the tip. Ilya licked a slow, sensual stripe up his cock before swallowing it to the base in one smooth slide.
Shane moaned loudly and tried not to writhe, both hands balled into fists in Ilya’s hair. His voice was fully hoarse now, but that didn’t seem to be interfering with his need to be vocal. Ilya took the opportunity and reached up to put his fingers in Shane’s mouth. Shane groaned and sucked on the digits dutifully, coating them with saliva. Ilya focused back on the cock in his mouth, bobbing his head and laving his tongue along the underside of it, pausing to suck at the tip with each slide. He was startled out of his rhythm when Shane caught him by he wrist and tore Ilya’s fingers from his mouth, grip tight and desperate. But then he was gasping, twisting to the side and -
Shane’s dick thrusted into Ilya’s mouth with each sneeze, fingers tightening on Ilya’s wrist in time with the expulsions. Ilya stilled and relaxed his throat, feeling as the sneezes forced Shane to fuck forward into his throat again and again. Shane had never let Ilya do this before, too afraid of being rough and choking him. He had this irrational fear he’d make Ilya throw up... as if Shane could be rough enough cause anything other than a ghost of a gag. Ilya groaned at the sensation, eyes rolling back into his skull. Fuck this was hot. He couldn’t believe a cold is what got Shane to finally fuck his face.
He didn’t give Shane a chance to think about it too hard though, quickly taking his slicked fingers to work his boyfriend open at the conclusion of the fit. Shane was clearly in no mood to wait - as soon as Ilya’s fingers were inside him he was groaning and squirming and pulling at Ilya’s hair, murmuring fever-drunk pleas all the while.
Ilya was never one to say no to him.
Ilya pulled Shane closer by the thighs, reaching up and making sure his beautiful head was propped up by a pillow so he at least had a chance at breathing properly. He smoothed a hand down Shane’s chest and stomach, admiring. Shane looked so wrecked already and he had only had a few fingers in his ass. He appeared as though he had already gone a couple rounds, face red, hair a mess, body slick with sweat. Shane’s nose was glistening and he couldn’t go a handful of seconds without sniffing. Ilya put a few tissues to his nose for him to blow, then kissed his forehead.
Ilya slicked himself up with lube and pushed in slowly, giving time for Shane to adjust. He felt warmer than usual, hot muscle tight around Ilya’s cock. It felt so unbelievably good that he had to stop and breathe for a second one he was fully seated. He was glad he did because seconds later Shane was succumbing to another fit of sneezes, squeezing him tight over and over.
Shane usually had a fit right when Ilya bottomed out, but just how good and warm and tight his boyfriend’s ass was nearly made him forget. The spray fell cool on his overheated, sweat-slick skin.
Once he was able to access coherent thought again, Ilya said, “Bud'te zdorovy. So sneezy. Does your nose really like this?”
“Shitd,” Shane whispered, dropping his head back and clenching down on Ilya’s dick as he began to thrust. “Yes.”
Ilya pulled Shane’s legs up over his shoulders for a deeper angle, to which his boyfriend cried out. Ilya kept his pace steady and thorough, hands roaming and groping every bit of flesh they could find - his boyfriend’s stomach, his pecs, his thighs, his ass. Shane shivered underneath his touch, overwhelmed tears gathering in his eyes and rolling in fat drops down his cheeks. Every time Shane had to stop to cough or sniffle it seemed to push himself ever closer to the edge. He was moaning and slurring words in that beautiful congested voice of his.
Ilya was getting close. The feverish heat of him combined with just the sight of his lover was ruining him forever. Shane was a fucking mess - sweaty and fever flushed, lips dry and mess gleaming on his top lip as he’d stopped caring about appearances some time ago. His eyes were hazy, far-off and glassy, with tears leaking steadily over his cheekbones.
But Shane had to come first. This wasn’t about him.
Ilya kept his pace steady, bringing one hand down to wrap around Shane’s dick. Shane’s legs clenched around him. He groaned as Ilya thumbed at the precome-wet slit at the apex of each stroke. Shane was fuck-drunk and lost in it, brow pinched with pleasure, mouth open as he continued to lose his voice around the moaning and incoherent babbling for mbore, yes, blease, Ilya, righdt there.
Shane gasped, breath hitching and catching around his desperate panting, and Ilya knew he was close.
“Come for me, Shanya. I will take care of you, come for me, good boy, yes, /fuck/-“
Shane climaxed with a cry, squeezing Ilya tight with his cry. The come on his stomach was immediately joined by the spray of his desperate, aroused fit of sneezes.
Ilya wanted to keep going, wanted to fuck Shane through it, but Jesus fucking Christ the way Shane looked and sounded and clenched down on his cock with each sneeze was too much.
Quickly, he pulled out so Shane didn’t have to clean out, and was coming hard over Shane’s stomach with three quick stokes of his hand. Shane gasped, threw his head back, and snapped forward with another predictable fit. Ilya shuddered with pleasure as his dick was drenched in it.
Shane’s face was a mess. His nose was an irritated red, wetness spilling over his cupid’s bow and down his chin. But in the post-coital bliss he didn’t seem to care yet. He was boneless and panting, staring at the come on his stomach and chest with drowsy, leftover arousal. It was unbearably sexy when Ilya made Shane a mess, when he fucked him so good that he didn’t care about the sweat or the come or the spray. That he alone was able to have this, to see this, to make this happen. That he was able to get Shane so fucked out that he didn’t care if he sneezed all over himself or all over Ilya. He cherished the fact that he was the only one who knew how much Shane Hollander liked to be covered in come and sweat, disheveled and messy.
“Fuck,” Ilya breathed. It felt extremely well-spoken all things considered.
“Yeah,” Shane agreed, just as out of breath. “Fuck.”
Ilya sat back on his heels on the bed and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. “So,” he started. “You will catch a cold again soon, right?”
Shane burst into surprised, hoarse laughter and Ilya thought it was maybe the sweetest sound he had heard all day.
…
After Ilya had cleaned Shane up with a warm cloth and fed him a handful of various medicines from the discarded pile in the bathroom, he pulled Shane on top of him for a cuddle before he began to insist on a shower. Shane sounded a lot less congested after the sex and multiple rounds of blowing his nose. Ilya filed this away for later when he eventually caught this - oh Shane, a blowjob would make my nose feel better, don’t you think? But for the moment he was just content to hold his boyfriend and run a hand through his damp hair. His skin seemed to be more sensitive than usual so Ilya kept the pressure firm until Shane stopped squirming at every touch. He still had a bit of a cough and his voice was definitely going out, but Shane didn’t seem to be too bothered by it.
“So,” Ilya said, “Will we talk about this now or later?”
Shane groaned and turned red, burying his face between Ilya’s pecs.
“Never,” he groaned.
Ilya chuckled.
“Later, then. I have never seen you so worked up, lyubov.”
“This is so embarrassing,” Shane replied, still hiding his face.
Ilya rolled them over so they were both lying on their sides, nose to nose. Ilya kissed the freckles on his face, then his eyelids, then his nose until Shane was relaxed and giggling.
“Never. You are the hottest man alive and it isn’t fair you kept this kind of sex from me.”
Shane laughed. “It’s not like I meant to. This is like, our first time really together when I…” He gestured vaguely - he couldn’t get himself to finish the sentence.
“Have a cold? You are very sweet and needy when you’re sick, it’s very nice. I thought you would be a big asshole.”
“Hey!” Shane punched his arm. “I’m never an asshole. You’re the asshole.”
“Shane Hollander, that is a lie. You and me are the same amount of asshole,” Ilya said, grabbing Shane and rolling on top of him, trying to tickle his sides.
Shane groaned and tried to push him off. “Ew, Ilya, you’re so sweaty. We need to shower.”
“You did not care about this five minutes ago.”
“Well five minutes ago you had my dick in your hand. Things have changed.”
Ilya waggled his eyebrows, smirk pulling at his lips. “That can be arranged.”
Gonna be hanging out here tonight because the stress of the football is too much... And I'm storing up emotional reserves for the result. So feel free to distract me!
NSFW this is a honeymoon rhinitis fic, so it mostly centers around sexual pleasure. sh/ane receives a blow job ~ if that's not something you enjoy reading, this might not be the fic for you! 1.3k words!
thank you @stifledfreek for beta reading!! grammar has never been my friend, and your advice made the fic read much smoother :3 (also thank you to others who offered to read, i really appreciate it!)
Being Captain, in any capacity, carries a weight that no one truly understands until they experience it firsthand. Leading a team to victory or consoling them during a loss falls to one person—one singular stronghold who faces expectations that can, at times, feel impossible. For the Metros, Shane is that stronghold.
Since his rookie years, he was understood to have the highest hockey IQ of any players, old or new. His talent was unquestionable, as was his work ethic, so he rose in rank until he led the team he had once admired from afar. He did everything right, to the point of obsession. He was in charge on the ice, in brand deals and interviews, in planning sessions and practices that ran overtime because he needed to iron out a few tricks until his team played flawlessly.
He was, and is, a perfect captain. He knows how to be in charge, how to assert himself on the ice in ways he couldn’t imagine doing otherwise. He is not, however, in charge in the bedroom. Ilya makes sure Shane knows that, tonight especially.
The Metros had beat the Raiders 3:2 that afternoon; Shane perfectly executed a goal in the last few minutes of the game, raising the crowd into a cacophony of elated cheers. When he shook Ilya’s hand afterwards, the Russian whispered, “1023,” and with that, Shane’s captaincy was relinquished.
Now, in the privacy of the hotel, Shane listens to Ilya’s body without question; each push of his fingers or flick of his tongue is followed by sighs of pleasure, sounds of affirmation that Shane barely recognizes as his own. They’re low, drawn out, and intermixed with whispered, nonsensical praise. Sometimes it’s Ilya’s name, purred so sweet it makes him shiver. Other times, French and English pour from Shane’s mouth in a cascade of nothings, “oui, just like that, mon amour, please.” It isn’t a conscious decision, isn't performative like others Ilya had slept with. It’s pure, unadulterated desire.
It’s addicting to see Shane slip into such a pleasurable state that his mind shuts off, his tongue speaking in a manner that he would otherwise be embarrassed by. When Ilya takes Shane apart, as he does tonight, all of Shane melts into something sweet, obedient—into loveliness.
The most consistent marker of his pleasure begins with moans splintering into quick, sharp breaths. Shane’s chest expands with soft hitches, as if he’s winding up in anticipation for release. He’s then interrupted with staccato breaths, mouth falling agape and disrupting the kisses he presses to Ilya’s skin mindlessly.
In the beginning, Shane would turn away from Ilya and shield himself from view to the best of his ability—whether he cupped a hand over his face or pulled away entirely was determined by how quickly the fits came on. Sometimes, he would take his nose between thumb and forefinger and pinch until the sneezes were squashed into submission, unnecessarily quiet.
Ilya would bless him. In Russian first, and then English. Typically, a few niceties followed (“thank you, sorry, excuse me”) before Shane would let Ilya kiss him again. When Shane was especially embarrassed, Ilya would coax Shane’s hands away from his face and kiss both palms despite their dampness. Later, when the two of them would lay undone beside one another, Ilya might tease him (“So, you let me swallow your spit and your cum, but I cannot kiss you after sneezing? Is too much?”) and Shane would blush, call Ilya an idiot, and kiss him again.
If they were rushed for time, Ilya worked efficiently, using Shane’s fits at a cue for which position he liked best that night. The fits became useful to him—they were praise of his skill, and they spurred him on, assuring him that Shane was close to release.
Tonight, however, Ilya takes his time. He lets Shane devolve into sweet whispered nothings, kissing up and down his thighs before taking him in his mouth. Slowly, he undoes Shane’s carefully crafted captaincy. He allows Shane to tug at his hair and buck his hips upwards, rewarding his eagerness with the timely flick of his tongue.
When Shane’s moans first catch—splintering into a trembling breath that falls short of a full hitch—Ilya hums his praise, and the sensation sends a shiver down Shane’s spine. His breath stacks atop itself again, building into a quiet crescendo, “hh—hih—,” and succumbing to nothing more than a breathy moan.
Tease, Ilya thinks; if his mouth wasn’t preoccupied, he would have called Shane a tease himself. Those carefully restrained breaths are enough to make Ilya work more quickly. After years of experience, Ilya knows exactly how to make Shane come, be it with his hands, mouth, or cock.
It takes less than a minute for Shane’s breath to stutter again, this time more urgently than the first. The hand he had tangled in Ilya’s hair is suddenly raised to his face, just barely managing to cover the first of many soft sneezes: “idt’sSch!” It hisses out between his teeth, damp but light. Unlike his typical routine, he suffers through no anticipation for the second sneeze.
“hh’itsschh!-hsch!-itSChh!”
Shane’s body shudders with each expulsion, his torso clenching and his legs trembling as Ilya hums his praise once more.
Ilya’s hands work their way up Shane’s abdomen, squeezing and pinching wherever they please. His right hand settles over Shane’s pec, and he presses his fingers into the muscle. He works his tongue down Shane’s shaft once more, pulling back as he does so—a moment later, he lets his head bob down as he takes Shane fully again.
“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane moans. He places a hand over Ilya’s, grappling for some sort of capital. He can feel heat pulsing through his body, rippling beneath his skin as Ilya works to please him. The thought alone of the Russian working so carefully to unravel him is enough to make his hips buck up once more. Ilya retaliates, squeezing his pec and quickening his pace.
“Fuck…. fuck— Ilya!” Shane's head falls back, hitting the pillow with a soft thump as he writhes. The pleasure seeps bone deep, easing the tension that has sat heavy in his stomach since the last time he had seen his rival. Warmth replaces the knot of anxieties, spurting out as he whispers delirious praise. Ilya swallows and pulls away with a lewd pop!
Shane finds that the warmth has shifted from his abdomen to his nose—the pulsing thrum is now a buzz, deep seated and demanding release. His lashes flutter shut, eyes brimming with tears that refuse to fall, instead leaving his eyes glassy. Freckles crowd one another as his nose scrunches, and suddenly he’s curling a fist beneath the appendage. It presses to his septum, stopping a sneeze in its tracks for just a moment, and then a fit spills out in retaliation: “hng’SHxt!—ngSCh—hssch! h’sSchh’ew!”
“Bud’te zdorovy.” Ilya rests his chin on Shane’s thigh, peering up at him, “Just four?”
“Shut up.” Shane’s cheeks flush, and he reaches for a tissue from the nearby box; Ilya had made sure there was a box on the nightstand before Shane had come over that evening. He likes to watch when Shane falls into his typical post-sex routine: folding the tissue politely once, twice, and then tenting over his nose and wiping gently.
“And the four before.” Ilya hums in observation. “In fours today.”
Ilya’s hands once again roam over Shane’s body. One skirts down his side, collecting dampness from Shane’s sheen of sweat. It settles just above Shane’s hip, and Ilya can’t help but give his side a squeeze.
Shane jerks in reaction, his body sensitive, every sensation heightened in the wake of his pleasure. He doesn’t oppose the touch, though. He watches Ilya’s hand move to his thigh next. Another squeeze, this time followed by a slight tremble from Shane.
“Maybe,” Ilya purrs, not taking his eyes off Shane, “I can make it five.”
+ bonus question, do you include spellings as you're writing/doing art, or do you go back and write them afterwards? It breaks my flow if I stop to spell out sneezes, so I always mark a highlighted "x1 stifled" or whatever in the text and then come back and write them all out at once at the end.
fandom: H/eated R/ivarly
wc: 1.8k
disclaimer: Inspired by a video I saw on YouTube. There are no snz spellings in this, but it's full of sneeze talk. It's also mostly a transcript style. If any of the numbers sound unrealistic... Well, we can't all have a sneeze kink which helps us to know how many times do we sneeze a year.
I eventually plan to make a second part, maybe of just of the comments under the video BUT if you guys are up to it, you can also comment under this like you would comment if it was a video; I think that would be a really funny game.
Honestly, H/arris thought making this video was stupid enough, but people on YouTube seemed to love it when another team made something similar. So, overall, H/arris was pretty happy with how he edited the short. It was fine, really; it just… seemed weird. He wasn’t really sure if the question was interesting enough, and honestly, it wasn’t a question he ever thought of asking someone.
But also, the video already had a bunch of views, likes, and comments, so maybe it wasn’t a total disaster after all.
Harris sighed and then clicked play. Maybe if he watches it enough times, he will understand what the apparel is. Or not - but he liked to understand what viewers wanted because it made it easier to work on videos for the team’s social media. It’s not like he contributed to the rapidly growing follower base to his editing skills. He suspected it had more to do with both Ilya and Shane being on the team now.
The video started playing. Harris recorded this one like a month ago, but for some reason, it took way too long to edit. He remembered, clear as day, when they filmed it; it was during winter, and it was so cold outside that Harris was freezing even with his warmest clothes.
video transcript of ‘Cens vs sneezing’
<The camera is pointing at the bench from the back. It’s clear that there are a lot of people on the ice still, but a bunch of rookies are sitting next to each other, looking at the older players running drills on the ice. The camera gets closer and closer, and then suddenly it’s a side view at the end of the bench. The rookies look up; Nils Holmberg, Julian LaPointe, Alex Young, and Luca Haas are sitting like little kids. They are all wearing hockey gear and looking expectantly at the camera. It’s clearly visible that Luca is kicking his legs like a little kid.>
[LaPointe]: What is your question today, Harris?
[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?
<It doesn’t sound like a hard question, but the rookies all pause, and they look like they are deeply thinking. Young even starts to count something using his fingers.>
[LaPointe]: I don’t know, like 50?
[Holmberg]: You only sneeze 50 times a year?
[LaPointe]: I mean, yeah? Is that too much? Wait… how many days are in a year?
[Young]: Like 365?
<LaPointe looks like he is thinking very deeply; meanwhile, all of the other rookies look at him, amusement in their eyes.>
[LaPointe]: Okay, I mean, I guess my answer is around 300? I don’t know; I never counted, but I don’t sneeze every day, probably, but it’s not like I never sneeze, so…
[Holmberg]: Yeah, that sounds accurate. I will say 365. Like a sneeze every day, you know? Like, sometimes it’s zero, but sometimes it’s two, so?
<Luca Haas is still silent; he looks like he is deeply in his head, thinking about something. His blond hair is completely in his eyes, and he is squinting a little. He scratches his nose while he is thinking. Next to him, Young looks uncertain.>
[Young]: Mine’s like 700? I mean, I mostly sneeze two times in a row, so…
[Haas]: I mean… I honestly never thought about counting my sneezes, but it has to be triple digits. I feel like I sneeze every day and I always sneeze three times, so three times 365 is like… 1100?
<Haas looks uncertain, saying the number, and he’s clearly blushing. Next to his face, there is an edited photo of a calculator with the number 1095, and a classic, celebrating GIF.>
CUT
<The scene switches from the bench to outside the locker room. There is loud music and yelling coming from behind the closed doors, and it just gets louder when the door opens and then quickly shuts. The cameraman walks back a few steps as he realizes there are more people coming out of the locker room. Boyle, Dillon, and Chouinard stop and look at the camera, clearly expecting a question. All three of them look a little sweaty, bundled up in warm clothes.>
[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?
[Boyle]: Like, all year?
[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah, approximately.
[Dillon]: Is this like a trend?
[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah. The Admirals had a similar video.
[Chouinard]: It has to be around 200? Like, not one every day, but that’s like a pretty normal number.
[Dillon]: Yeah, I think mine is a little more, so I’m gonna say 250?
[Boyle]: Why are we acting like it’s a competition? Roz will win anyway.
[Chouinard]: I don’t know; it’s fun. What’s your number, Boyle?
[Boyle]: I don’t know. At least 200. Okay, you know what, I’m gonna say 250. I don’t sneeze that much.
CUT
<Some time clearly passed, maybe it’s even a day later because Boyle can be seen in the background, walking away. He’s clearly wearing different clothes from before. The locker room’s door opens, and Boodram walks out, laughing with Dysktra about something.>
[Dysktra]: Okay, Harris, I am ready for today’s question.
[Boodram]: It better be interesting.
[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?
<Pause. They clearly don’t expect this question, but it takes a little time, and Boodram is already laughing. He seemingly likes the question, or it just made him think of something funny.>
[Boodram]: Honestly, this feels like a targeted question. I don’t know, man? Like, once a day? Maybe a little less.
[Dysktra]: I don’t think you sneeze once a day. I think you are like… the least sneezy person I know.
[Boodram]: Hmm… maybe, yeah. You’re right, it’s definitely less. Fine, let’s go with 210.
[Dysktra]: That’s weirdly specific.
[Boodram]: I just gave a random number, smart***. Just say something.
[Dysktra]: Fine, if yours is 210, then mine is gonna be 283.
[Boodram]: And you say mine is specific…
CUT
<The video cuts back to the bench, except now it’s the cameraman sitting there, recording the ice. Troy Barrett skates over, and he looks all smiley and happy; there’s a faint blush on his cheeks.>
[Barrett]: Hey, b..
[Harris, off-camera]: I’m recording. I have an important question for today’s video.
<It’s clear on Troy’s face that he knows all about Harris’ important questions, and he definitely doesn’t think they are that important or exciting. He rolls his eyes and then rests his elbow on the barrier.
[Barrett]: Shoot.
[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?
[Barrett]: <laughing> Oh, yes, that definitely sounds like a really important question.
[Harris, off-camera]: What is your answer?
[Barrett]: I don’t know. What is my answer?
[Harris, off-camera]: I mean, I am asking you, so…
[Barrett]: Fine. Like, twice every day? What is that, like 700?
[Harris, off-camera]: <snorts> C’mon! You totally sneeze more than twice a day! Haasy said 1100, and you do sneeze more than him!
[Barrett]: I thought you were asking me?
[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah, but if you’re not gonna tell the truth, what can I do?
[Barrett]: Fine, okay. 1300. Happy.
[Harris, off-camera]: Happy.
CUT
<It’s clearly the end of practice. People are walking down the corridor, happily chatting with each other. Most of them look at Harris, expecting him to ask a question. Harris just shakes his head off-camera; he’s still missing three people from the next video.>
<Speaking of missing people. Wyatt Hayes gets stopped right in front of Harris. He looks really unhappy; his blond, curly hair is completely flat, and he looks really pale and tired. His nose is red, and he is clearly sniffling.>
[Harris, off-camera]: Ah, I was looking for you!
[Hayes]: <sniffs> Shoot. But hurry up, I need to get a tissue.
[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?
[Hayes]: This feels targeted.
[Harris, off-camera]: I asked everyone except you, Shane, and Ilya.
[Hayes]: Like, how many times do I sneeze in general, or right now?
[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah, like generally, per year.
[Hayes]: <his breath hitches, and he turns away from the camera, to direct a strong triple into his elbow. He stays like that for a few seconds, hitches again, and sneezes another two times.>
[Harris, off-camera]: Bless you! So, your final answer is?
[Hayes]: Thanks, sorry about that. Great, now people will think I did that on purpose. < He points at the camera, very seriously> I swear, I didn’t do that on purpose! I’m just sick! But yeah, I don’t know. I sneeze… like a lot? I think I’m a pretty sneezy guy, and I have allergies. Plus, every time I get a stupid cold it’s all in my nose, so… What was the most said?
[Harris, off-camera]: Troy said 1300, but I feel like you sneeze more like Troy. I mean… You sneeze a bunch in a row, so…
[Hayes]: Yeah, I do… Hmm, okay. You know what, I’m gonna say 2000. That sounds unrealistic, but it’s not, so.
CUT
<Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov step out of the locker room. They are holding hands and seemingly in deep conversation. They both stop once they notice Harris standing there with the camera. Ilya immediately smiles.>
[Rozanov]: Harris! Did you bring Chiron with you?
[Harris, off-camera]: No, not this time, sorry. I’m actually making a video, and you two are the only ones missing, so I wanna record that if that’s okay with you.
[Hollander]: Yeah, sure. What’s the question?
[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?
[Rozanov]: This is targeted!
[Hollander]: <blushing> Ilya…
[Harris, off-camera]: Roz, I asked everyone. You guys are the last ones.
[Rozanov]: I never sneeze. Russians do not sneeze. Shane, tell them.
[Hollander]: <still blushing> I mean, you do sneeze a lot.
[Rozanov]: Is lie.
[Hollander]: Ilya, oh my god, shut up and answer the question.
[Rozanov]: No, you answer it first.
[Hollander]: Oh my god, Ilya! Okay, fine. Like, probably around 1500? Maybe? I don’t sneeze that much when I’m healthy, but I have seasonal allergies, and I get pretty congested when I am sick. so. Yeah.
[Rozanov]: Fine. Yes. Mine is around that too.
[Hollander]: Ilya, you know that’s not true! If mine is 1500 yours is at least… I don't know! 4000! 5000! C’mon.
[Rozanov]: I don’t sneeze that much.
[Harris, off-camera]: You literally sneeze like… ten times in a row, Roz.
[Hollander]: At least.
[Rozanov]: I do not!
<Cut. First, there’s a clip from an older interview. It’s from when Ilya was still with Boston. To no one’s surprise, he is sneezing into closed fists, painfully stifling every little burst of sneeze.>
<After this, the video cuts back to Ilya and Shane, still bickering. An “one eternity later” meme fills the screen. When it disappears, Shane and Ilya are still on camera. Shane looks smug, while Ilya is clearly unhappy.>
[Rozanov]: Fine. My husband says I sneeze 5000 times a year, which is absolutely ridiculous, but I wanna **** *** tonight, so I gotta say what he says.
<Harris laughing can be heard in the background. Shane looks completely red, he is blushing hard, while he looks at Ilya, scandalized. The video starts to darken, and then it completely blacks out.>
I will come back to drop proper love and amazement and comments about Magpie but just know that it is a work of art and I am obsessed with your writing. You write them both so unbelievably well
Oh, Anon! This was such a nice note to receive - thank you. I was really into the idea of the strange intimacies/distances/fragmentations of video calls (something that @snifflybabe also does super well in their fic here) and was listening to a lot of old Talking Back Sunday ("if it's not keeping you up nights / then what's the point"). But ultimately this got written and rewritten a lot, in part because Ilya was hard to pin down. So I'm really glad it worked for you :)
il/ya getting sick during tlg and deciding not to tell sh/ane because there’s nothing he could do anyways…
the two of them won’t see one another for ten days, and by then il/ya will be over his cold
feverish and miserable and hurt over his and his boyfriends circumstances, he somehow manages to convince himself that it’s better this way— suffering in silence
because no matter how much he wants to hold sh/ane, to press so close to his chest that the two seem inseperable, they are hours away from one another
he sleeps away a couple of days, replying to sh/ane’s texts (though distantly, and with less and less coherence as his fever gets worse). he’s barred from practices, the team doing their best to provide him support— which, naturally, backfires. every plan of theirs splinters into something that il/ya construes as pity or disgust rather than care
sh/ane only finds out that il/ya is sick when it’s announced that he won’t be playing in the centaurs upcoming game
immediately, his boyfriend’s recent behavior clicks: dodging calls, answering texts with less and less enthusiasm, reverting back to caution rather than allowing himself to be vulnerable
the worst part is that il/ya concerns had come true. as much as sh/ane wanted to care for his boyfriend, there was little he could do aside from call and listen to il/ya’s misery. sh/ane could bless il/ya, use sweet pet names, let soft spoken reassurances fall from his tongue in both english and french…
but he couldn’t hold him. he couldn’t make him feel better. he couldn’t provide him any comfort beside the distant promise that they’d see each other soon
Ilya: There is nothing to do in Denver, so good we made it a long game
The reply is almost instant.
Jane: I think Denver is ok.
Ilya’s response almost writes itself. Of course Hollander thinks Denver is “ok” because it’s boring like him. Come on, Hollander, you are giving me an empty net. But then Ilya pauses. The speed of the replies means that Shane is somewhere awake with his phone. But it’s 11:30pm in Denver, which means that it’s 1:30am in Montreal. Way past good boy Shane Hollander’s bedtime.
Ilya: You are up late
Jane: Can’t sleep.
A/N: I've merged book and tv show canon as I've found them the most useful here. The only thing to note, if you care, is that the book leaves an ambiguous number of weeks between the phone calls from Moscow and the Raiders/Metros game in which Shane gets injured, whereas in the show Ilya comes back from Moscow and immediately goes to Montreal: this fic follows the book timeline. Also in the book, Ilya is convincing himself he needs to break up with Shane at this point. On the other hand, I like Shane asking Ilya to come to the cottage when he's in his hospital bed, so (unlike the book) that conversation hasn't happened yet. This is way too much detail for a kink!fic, I know.
Huge, huge thanks to @pyronomous for beta reading and catching my many, many typos and pointing out where my references got obtuse. Any mistakes that remain are my own.
Ilya rolls his eyes. The game shouldn’t have gotten anywhere near overtime, let alone beyond it. Colorado were six games without a win going in, and their starting goalie was out. Boston should have wrapped it up easily, but something wasn’t working tonight. Nothing was wrong, but nothing was especially right either. Perhaps it was just that this was the second of their back-to-back away games at the end of a ten day road trip – and fuck whoever scheduled that – so the whole team was exhausted, but the Raiders’ plays failed to connect as often as they succeeded. Marleau and Hammersmith never seemed to be quite where Ilya needed them to be; they’d probably have had the same gripe about him.
Jane: Just watched the highlights of your game with Colorado. Good job in the shootout.
So yeah, Ilya did do a good job in the shootout, but only after playing the kind of game that his father would have had some choice words about, once upon a time. Mediocre. Second-rate. Lazy.
Still, he doesn’t have to worry about that anymore.
Ilya: There is nothing to do in Denver, so good we made it a long game
The reply is almost instant.
Jane: I think Denver is ok.
Ilya’s response almost writes itself. Of course Hollander thinks Denver is “ok” because it’s boring like him. Come on, Hollander, you are giving me an empty net. But then Ilya pauses. The speed of the replies means that Shane is somewhere awake with his phone. But it’s 11:30pm in Denver, which means that it’s 1:30am in Montreal. Way past good boy Shane Hollander’s bedtime.
Ilya: You are up late
Jane: Can’t sleep.
There are a hundred ways for Ilya to reply to this. Someone keeping you up? So what else are you doing in your bed, all alone? But his fingers are typing without him really telling them what to do, which almost never happens when he messages in English because he still has to think so fucking stupidly hard about every sentence. Now, however, his body seems to have bypassed his brain: his text back is an automatic nervous response that he can’t fully control.
Ilya: Everything ok?
For a few moments, nothing appears on the screen. But Shane must have his phone in his hand – he’d been so quick to reply to every other message. So he’s thinking about what he’s going to say. Well, ok. Actually talking to each other is still a pretty new thing. Ilya can be patient.
The dots appear, then disappear. They flicker on and off again a few times. Then, the message suddenly arrives.
Jane: I’m sick. I think I can tell you that since we’re not playing for another two weeks.
Even as Ilya is reading the message, the dots dance again.
Jane: Don’t tell anyone. I got sent home from practice and told to stay home and not let anyone see me, in case Pittsburgh finds out.
For fuck’s sake, Hollander. Who would he tell? And how would he explain knowing this very specific bit of information about Shane Hollander’s immune system? Ilya grins, as his thumbs tap out a response.
Ilya: Too late. I already tweeted that you are texting me from your bathroom floor. But I will cancel the Instagram post I scheduled.
Jane: Ha ha. Very funny.
Jane: But not that kind of sick. I just have a cold.
He has a cold. He just has a cold. How strangely intimate that Ilya knows this. It’s the kind of mundane detail that he always wants to know about Hollander, like the colour of his bedsheets, or how he takes his coffee, or whether he got stuck in traffic on the way home that day. The kind of knowledge that most people have about the person that they’ve been fucking for years – all right, the person they are probably in love with – without even thinking about it, but that Ilya can only ever acquire by accident. Every time one of these details about Shane falls into his hands, Ilya wants to tuck it away in some secret place where he can possess it forever: how Shane folds his clothes before he gets into bed, that he wears glasses for reading.
So Shane Hollander has turned him into a сорока – he’ll look up the English word later – collecting tiny, glittering scraps and hoarding them jealously in its nest.
Because he’s tired and grumpy about the game, either of which on its own could put Ilya in the mood for some self-flagellation, he considers that it’s not normal to find yourself in this deep, for this long with another person without seeing them sick. Hollander must have been sick a handful of times since they’ve known each other, maybe more. Maybe he’s one of those professional athletes who combines being super fit with having a terrible immune system – it happens more than people think. Or maybe he gets sick at the same time every year: right after the playoffs end and his body can finally give out, or around now, when the seasons are changing and spring becomes something more certain than a promise. And maybe Hollander has never really noticed these patterns in himself, and he’s never had anyone else to notice them for him. No one to brush his hair back from his forehead, and say, моя любовь, you always catch the worst colds this time of year.
But that won’t happen because you are going to do the right thing next time you meet. You’re going to end it - right after the next time you play Montreal. No more hotels, no more sexting, definitely no more phone calls. Two weeks. That’s all.
The problem is that Ilya can picture exactly what Shane would look like with a cold. He’d be a little paler than usual, with a slight flush on his freckled cheeks. His stupidly cute nose would be red at the tip from tending it with tissues (far too polite to use his sleeve, of course). He’d allow himself a nap in the day time, and so his hair would be mussed up – kind of like the way it often is after Ilya’s finished with him – and he’d wear those button down pyjamas that Ilya always imagines that Shane wears to bed, maybe with a sweater over the top if he’s chilled and can’t stay warm. And he’d make himself tea – green, probably, or camomile, something caffeine-free and healthy – and he cradles the mug in both his hands, so that the steam rises up, and makes him sniffle.
Ilya lets himself linger on the image he conjured for a few moments, stretching an arm up behind his head as he readjusts his position on the hotel bed, and it’s then that it strikes him. He doesn’t only have to imagine it. Because, since that last trip – last ever trip – to Russia, there is something else that they’ve allowed themselves to do together. And ok, that time it was just for sex, but that doesn’t mean that it can’t be for other things too. Because he talks to Hollander now, too. They’re friends.
Ilya: Did you want to Skype? You’re awake. I have hotel room to myself.
Nothing, for a moment, and then dots.
Jane: Sure. But I’m kind of gross.
Ilya: I will try not to run screaming
Jane: Fuck you.
Ilya grins to himself, and then pulls his iPad from his bag to send the video call request. It rings once, twice and then…
Shane’s face appears on the screen and, oh, he does look sick. In the low light of his bedside lamp he looks… well, exactly like Ilya had imagined he would: pale, tired, a bit sad, and like someone who has spent the better part of the day with a tissue pressed to his nose. The rectangle of the iPad screen frames his face in landscape, dark hair teased across the pillows he’s piled against the headboard of his bed; he must have propped his own device up on the bedside table. The close-up highlights the dark shadows under his eyes and the skin rubbed raw at the tip of his nose. Somehow, the pink flush on his cheeks makes his freckles even more beautiful.
The one detail that Ilya had forgotten was Shane’s glasses. Is he wearing them because he’s been reading to distract himself, or because the cold is making his eyes sore and his head ache? At first, the light bounces off the lenses, masking the dark eyes underneath. But then Shane sniffles and adjusts his position slightly. When he looks at his screen again, their magnification makes his liquid brown eyes even larger and easier to get lost in, even now, when they’re actually liquid: damp with tears, red around the rims, and a little bit swollen, as though Shane has just been rubbing them.
In his mind, Ilya presses a screenshot button, saving this image and filing it away with all the others he has of Shane as he’s pretty sure no one else has ever gotten to see him.
“Hey,” Shane says. He sounds as bad as he looks, his voice lowered and scuffed by his cold.
“Hey.”
Silence.
It’s not that there aren’t things Ilya wants to say. You look fucking awful, Hollander. No wonder they sent you home from practice. Did you know your nose is twitching like a little bunny rabbit? Is someone looking after you? And he’d be able to say them in Russian; make the words sound teasing but not cruel, caring but not sappy, tender but not vulnerable. In Russian, he could make Shane feel better without dropping his own guard. But English is too complicated, and so Ilya doesn’t say anything at all.
Hollander blinks first, an anxious look creeping into his liquid eyes.
“You’re not really going to run screaming are you?”
“No…” He lets himself draw out the syllable, making Hollander wait for what will follow. “But you were very stupid to go to practice.”
In the rectangle frame, Shane’s face visibly relaxes, his lips quirking upwards into a half-smile.
“I am not joking, Hollander.” He keeps his mouth stern but hopes that Hollander can see that his eyes are teasing. “Is not good captaining to die in front of your teammates. Sets very bad example to the rookies.”
Hollander laughs at this, and then seems to immediately regret it when it sets off a damp congested cough. He smothers it into the sleeve of his – yes, Ilya called it – Metros sweater, even though there’s no one there he could possibly infect.
“Don’t,” Hollander protests, congestion dulling his consonants. “Theriault already tore me a new one. Asked me what the fuck I thought I was doing turning up too sick to skate.” He sighs, and sniffs. When he wrinkles his nose, his freckles cluster and constellate like stars.
Hearing Theriault’s remarks sparks a tense feeling in the back of Ilya’s neck that he recognises as irritation. All right, clearly Hollander was too sick to skate. And Theriault wasn’t known for pulling punches; “old school,” was what a winger who’d been traded from Montreal to Boston had called him, which pretty much tallied with what Ilya had seen himself across the benches. Still, a little sympathy for his most valuable player wouldn’t have gone amiss.
Oh well. Ilya would make Theriault’s team pay for that when Boston played Montreal.
Now, he asks, “What did you think you were doing?”
“Hiding that I was sick.” Hollander sniffles again in a way that sounds truly miserable without being self-pitying. “I was doing an ok job until I stepped onto the rink and sneezed four times in a row.”
Probably not an ok job, not possible really, not if Hollander looked anything near as bad as he does now. And so Ilya takes a moment to redirect his anger towards the rest of the Montreal Metros for not telling him to go home and sleep it off. You’d have had to be… well, you’d have had to be Hayden Pike not to have noticed how unwell Hollander was.
“Are you benched for the game?” he asks. Hollander shrugs.
“I don’t think they’ll decide until Friday. I can probably shake this thing before then. They just don’t want it to get out that I’m sick to, um -” Another sniffle. “I think Theriault’s phrase was ‘to avoid unnecessary speculation’.”
“Unnecessary speculation that you are about to die?”
That earns half a laugh from Hollander. “You know how it is. People post all sorts of shit on Twitter.”
That was true. Ilya had once made the mistake of going to buy a new suitcase, and someone took a photo and put it online; by the end of the day at least three of his teammates had texted him to ask if the rumour was true that he was being traded.
“So yeah,” Hollander adds, filling the silence. “I’m not going anywhere for the next couple of days.”
He reaches up under his glasses to pinch the spot on the bridge of his nose where they rest. Ilya feels like his heart literally squeezes in his chest. Shane’s head must hurt. He looks so tired. If Ilya were a better person, he’d wish Shane get well soon, and hang up, to let him try to get back to sleep. But he’s not.
“You feel like shit?”
“Um…” Hollander pauses for a moment, and Ilya thinks that he’s going to deny it. But then, perhaps because less than a month ago, he’d listened to Ilya being a sad sack in Moscow, he doesn’t. “Um, yeah. Pretty much.” Hollander sighs, and shakes his shoulders, as though some internal voice just told him to pull himself together, and adds, “I just… I hate when my nose is blocked, and then I can’t sleep because I can’t breathe right, you know?”
Ilya does, indeed, know. As far as he knows, he’s definitely broken his nose three times: once from a high stick, once when playing football – ironic – and once as a result of a punch that he deserved. But there had been at least a couple more occasions when a broken nose was a strong possibility but the hospital visit didn’t seem worth it. All of which had left him with a nose that is very crooked, and mildly congested at the best of times. It’s nothing more than an annoyance, except when he catches cold (thankfully not often) or when something irritates his nose (more often than he’d admit). Then, breathing through it became… well, exactly what Shane is dealing with now.
“You have taken medicine?” Ilya asks. “American stuff works - or knocks you out until your cold is gone.”
“Well, I’m Canadian.” Hollander’s smile is smug, teasing; the kind that makes Ilya want to pin him to the bed, cold or no cold. “No, that stuff makes me feel weird. I took some Tylenol and a decongestant the team doctor gave me.”
“Did it help?”
Hollander seems to be genuinely thinking about the question. “Maybe? I - ”
At first, Ilya wonders if Hollander has stopped mid-sentence because the connection is bad, which would also explain the frozen, distant expression in his eyes. But then those eyes narrow in something like panic, and Shane’s perfect nose scrunches upwards, and Ilya works it out. He’s about to sneeze.
Logically, he must have seen Shane Hollander sneeze before. On the basis of probability alone, it would have happened at some point. He and Hollander have known each other for nearly ten years, give or take. It’s a lot of time. Time on the ice, and time in press conferences; All-Star weekends, and Vegas Awards nights. Time that Ilya has spent studying Hollander in VT sessions he feigned boredom through, in YouTube highlight reels he deleted from his history, in that fucking ESPN documentary that he definitely hadn’t watched over and over. And the time they’ve spent alone together? Two weeks, maybe, if you added it all up.
So don’t add it up, you fucking idiot. Arithmetic is not supposed to be a gut punch.
Enough time, then, to see someone do something as mundane as sneezing. Except that, although Ilya is sure it must have happened, he can’t actually remember it happening. Which makes it very, very important that Ilya is now going to be able to add it to his Shane Hollander collection.
The videocall creates a strange proximity even though they’re really so far apart. The screen frames Shane’s face, showing every eyelash damp with tears, every twitch and wrinkle of his unfeasibly straight nose. The only other time that he’s this close to Shane is when they’re facing off or fucking, and yes, he understands the significance of this pairing – he’s not fucking stupid.
And there aren’t many chances left to be close like this. Hollander must know it, too - that this thing can’t go on much longer. It’s gone on long enough. There’s only one ending and it’s stupid to prolong it. So he should take this moment, add it to a collection of memories that will fade when they don’t even see each other a few times a season, when Shane Hollander will just be a name alongside his own in the record books, and whatever they had together might just as well have never existed.
And then, just as Shane snatches a quivering breath, there is a sound like the movement of fabric, and the screen goes dark.
What the fuck? Has the iPad run out of battery? It was fully charged when he turned it on. Perhaps it crashed? But then the darkness on the screen ripples a little. Not dead, then. The screen is still on, the device still connected to the call, the camera still showing what’s in front of it. So Hollander must have – what, thrown something dark over the top of it? No, not that. As Ilya’s eyes adjust, he can see the outline of something vaguely Hollander shaped shuddering underneath what must be his blanket.
“hh’Tchhheuwh!!”
“Hollander?”
“huh-ISHHeuwh!”
“We are playing hide and seek now?”
“Isshhhh!... huh-IESHhhh’eugh!” Those two are harsher. Not loud, precisely, but strong, as though Hollander’s body is determined to use all of its superior aerobic capacity to rid itself of the germs that had broken down his carefully maintained defences.
“You are very bad at hiding.”
“Fugck off.” They were followed by what sounds to Ilya like the rustle of some tissues, and some very damp snuffling noises.
“You ok in there?” he asks, half-amused, half-concerned.
From the blankets comes a noise that falls somewhere between assent and a groan. It’s followed by more snuffling before the pile manages to speak. “Sorry, I was gonna mu’dte when thad happened. Save your ear drumbs.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. Hollander’s sneezes were not loud, especially not through tissues and a blanket-cocoon. Ilya spends his time with hockey players: a giant breed, not known for their attention to hygiene or decorum. He’s heard worse.
“I think I can survive your sneezes.” More silence; the blanket doesn’t move. “Are you going to hide in there all night?”
“Baybe?”
“Hollander…”
“Ok, doh.” The blanket-pile gives a heavy sigh. “Bud I really need to blow my nose, so I ab going to put you on hold.”
“You don’t…”
“One seg’ond…”
The blanket shuffles again. A clattering sound rattles through the speakers, loud enough to make Ilya wince; maybe Hollander knocked the nightstand. Then, the sound cuts and a green pause sign looms on Ilya’s screen. All at once, the room is quiet and empty – just him, alone with his thoughts. Far too many thoughts.
“Hurry the fuck up, Hollander.”
For something to do, Ilya moves the iPad from where it’s balanced on his thighs, knees drawn up to the ceiling, to his own nightstand. More comfortable that way, he’d have said, if anyone was there to ask. But it also means that he can lie on his side and look at Shane, who will look at him, so that it feels like they’re lying next to each other. Then, Ilya can believe, just for a moment, that if he stretches his fingers out then he will press through the screen and touch Shane – smooth down his hair, and tease out the headache from behind his forehead like there aren’t thousands of miles between them.
He reaches a finger forward and lets it hover just above the glass, just as the pause sign disappears and the screen goes black.
Ilya’s first thought is that Hollander has hung up on him. But then a voice, small and far away says “Ilya?” and it takes his breath away. A second later, the screen flickers, pixels reorganizing themselves, and Hollander appears again. The pink spots on his cheeks are brighter, and his hair is ruffled in different directions.
“I’m here. You ok?” Ilya adds, before he could think better of it.
Hollander nods. “Sorry about that.” His voice sounds clearer, but not altogether steady, as though blowing his nose has left him a little breathless.
“Is fine. You are sick,” Ilya says, pleased when Shane gives a small, shy smile of acceptance in response. “Is someone bringing you food while you are under home arrest?”
Shane’s eyes sparkle, which is enough to tell Ilya he’s got something in that last phrase wrong. Fucking English. Still, Hollander clearly finds it charming enough. Maybe he can make a few more mistakes before their call is through.
“Hayden offered, but I’ve got stuff in the apartment.”
“No, that is your team meals. You need soup – sick person food.”
On the screen, from far away in Montreal and right here in the room with Ilya, Shane smiles.
“You’d bring me soup, Rozanov?” he asks, sniffling softly.
“Sure. What kind do you want?” Shane’s smile gets bigger, warmer, and it’s such a rush, making him smile like that, that Ilya presses the joke further. “Might be cold when it gets there from Denver.”
It’s only once he’s said the words that he realises that the joke wasn’t supposed to be funny because he’s in Denver. It was funny because Ilya Rozanov doesn’t send soup to his hook ups when they’re sick. Shit.
But Hollander probably doesn’t notice because he’s too busy ducking under the blanket to sneeze again.
“huh?- ISHH’euhhh!... huh’IISHHhheuh!”
“Будь здоров.” He knows the English phrase; doesn’t use the Russian one unless he’s with another native speaker. But he pulls it out now because Shane said he likes it when Ilya speaks Russian – it’s sexy, is what he’d actually said – and Ilya aims to please. It does seem to pull Shane out from under the covers a little quicker this time. His eyes are still damp with fresh tears, and he still has tissues pressed to his face. Taking his moment, Ilya changes the subject. “Your mom, she will come to take care of you?”
Hollander wipes his nose and scowls, which is strange because it’s not weird of Ilya to think she’ll be there. Hollander’s mother always seems to be there, when Boston play in Montreal, and when the tv cameras flick to the audience in Hollander’s home games. His dad, too. But Mrs Hollander is the presence; she’s the one that people make space for, the one whose hand they shake first. And she seems steely, determined, disciplined like her son, but Ilya also sees the warmth with which they embrace, how she lets her hand rest on Shane’s elbow when they speak, grounding him and guiding him. She seems like the sort of mother who would turn up when her only child was sick - yes, he knows Hollander doesn’t have any siblings. The kind of mother who would turn up even when that child is now a two hundred pound hockey god, even when it meant driving two hours from Ottawa - yes, he remembers where they live - even when it’s just a cold.
Hollander apparently disagrees, because he’s shaking his head.
“No, fuck off. I didn’t call my mom to come tuck me in. I’m not eight years old.” He pouts and adds a note of indignation to his sniffle, both of which are quite eight-year-old things to do, but Ilya doesn’t mention that. Then Shane’s expression crumples and he groans again. “She’ll probably just know I’m sick by tomorrow, though, so I guess she’ll want to come and make sure I’m eating or whatever. How do moms do that – just know stuff?”
The question grips Ilya’s body like a vice, forcing the air from his lungs, and that, in itself, is unexpected. The sharp arrows of other people talking like this don’t usually pierce his armour these days; he can withstand the casual way that they dismiss the generosity and kindness of their families. Anyway, he gets it. He remembers when his own mother’s fussing was humdrum, even annoying. He remembers telling her to go away, leave him alone, stop hovering so much. He also remembers when she did stop hovering so often, and then when the hovering stopped for good. But reminders don’t usually hurt like this.
Hmmm. His father did just die. Perhaps his body is learning how to absorb that loss, like the blood that pools and swells near the skin in a particularly nasty bruise. Or maybe it’s because he’s tired and his team played like shit tonight. Or maybe it’s because Hollander is saying these things and, deep down, he’s glad that Shane can just brush off how much his mother loves him, and how she’s still there to love him, and Ilya hopes it’s a long time before he has to know otherwise.
Anyway, this is a normal thing for Hollander to say. Normal people talk about their normal, not-dead mothers like this all the time. So he doesn’t get to be weird about it. And with that thought, Ilya swallows down everything that seems to be rising in him, shrugs and says, “I don’t know.”
There’s a beat, and then Ilya gets to witness the exact moment that Shane realises why Ilya doesn’t know.
“Oh, fuck, Rozanov – Ilya – I didn’t… Your mom… I shouldn’t…”
“It’s fine,” Ilya says quickly, because Hollander doesn’t know the half of it and it’s not a conversation they are going to have right now, on Skype, with two hours, a land border, and a few thousand miles between them. Also, he’s supposed to be cheering Hollander up, and right now he’s not doing a very good job of it.
And so, yet again, it’s time for a clever bit of work with the puck before he passes the conversation back over.
“How many goals are you going to score against Pittsburgh?” Ilya asks.
Shane smiles, though Ilya can tell it’s mostly relief that his misstep didn’t land harder. But it still makes Shane’s reddened nose wrinkles, and his watery eyes crease at the corners, and it’s tooth-achingly sweet.
“Two,” he says, like he’s already planned out the plays in his head, can already see the back of the net catching the puck as he scores them. He probably does all that visualization shit after he finishes his wholesome yoga on his beautiful deck, which Ilya, for the record, has only watched five times, and definitely doesn’t ever think about when he jerks himself off.
Ilya tuts. “Scott Hunter got two against them last week, and he is twice your age. You should score at least four.”
“He is not twice our age,” Shane says, rolling his eyes theatrically as he presses a tissue to the underside of his nose again. “Hunter’s having a good season, isn’t he?”
“We beat them,” Ilya reminds him. “But yes. Sometimes he plays good hockey. For an old man.”
“Do you think he’s got a new regime or something?”
“I think he is having some very good sex,” Ilya replies. Mostly because he knows it will make Shane squirm – which it does – but also because it has the advantage of being true. Since Christmas, Hunter has had the look of someone getting a regular railing, lucky bastard.
“I cannot just believe you just made me think about Scott Hunter having sex.” Shane is pouting again but through the glasses and the tears his eyes are smiling.
“What do you think his sex face is like?”
“No! No! Stop!” Shane’s stuffy nose makes his shouts of protest impossibly cute, and he’s laughing now – no, giggling. Ilya’s never heard him giggle before, and all he can think is that he wants to hear it again.
“Like this I think?” And Ilya pulls the most grotesque imitation of a sex face he can imagine, eyes half-closed, head tipping back, mouth open, tongue teasing across his lips. He’s not going to make Hollander come this evening; the least he can do is make him laugh.
“Fuck no, Rozanov!” Hollander yells, only with his sore throat, it’s more like a choked squeal. Ilya stores the memory, so he can wheel it out for an impression next time he needs to rib Hollander about something. That how you talk dirty to me, Hollander? He doesn’t need to do that now because Hollander is laughing so much his eyes are watering, though that probably doesn’t take a lot right now. And Ilya is laughing too, and it's so nice to be laughing, to be silly like this after the game and his father, and the fucking shit show of a funeral and…
Hollander’s laughter catches and halts, and a familiar, pained, itchy, expression crosses his face, as looks down desperately, and then pulls up a tissue that must have been from a box just out of frame.
“No hide and seek this time,” Ilya says calmly, firmly. Shane looks nervous for a moment, lips parted, nose twitching, as his hands hover at his chest, tissues open over both of them like a prayer book. But as his eyes flutter closed, he does as Ilya says.
“uhh’ITSCHhh’ghh!” His head snaps forward into the waiting tissues, palms pressed tightly to his nose and anchored on his cheekbones. He holds the tissues in place, through another quivering inhale. “hehh?... iiIH’CHHHhheuh!!”
Shane exhales unsteadily, pinches the tissues around his nose and carefully rubs and lowers them. He opens his eyes for just long enough to throw Ilya a look that is both mortified and brimming with apology, even though there’s no good reason for either. But there’s barely an instance before Shane’s breath catches again.
“hhIHh’YISShhh’EUhhh!” Stronger again, the tissues and his hands barely muffling the sound. Strong enough to pull a breathless, “Ohmygod…” from Shane before the final sneeze hits. “hihh?--JIHHishhh’EUHh!”
The sneeze is strong enough to drag his whole upper chest forward, and snap his head sharply towards his chest. The sigh that follows tells Ilya exactly how exhausted he must feel.
“Будь здоров.”
“You said that before.” Shane has snatched up a fresh handful of tissues, and pressed them roughly up against the underside of his nose again. “What does it mean?”
“Be healthy,” Ilya replies.
“Ok. Well. I’m trying.” Shane’s mouth is set, but eyes are twinkling; Ilya feels the corners of his own mouth turning upwards.
“It’s what you say in Russia when someone sneezes,” he explains.
“Like, ‘bless you’?”
“Yeah, like that. But makes more sense.”
It’s Shane’s turn to smile at this.
“I guess it does,” he agrees. “Tell me how you say it again.” Exhausted as he is, Shane’s eyes are wide, eager. If Ilya didn’t know better, he’d think Shane had a pen in his hand, ready to take notes.
Ilya says, slowly and deliberately, “Будь здоров.” And then he adds, because it’s useful information and because he wants Shane to know this, “Is the informal version. What you say to a friend.”
Shane’s eyes sparkle, and then, diligent student that he is, he repeats, “Bud-zdor-rohv.” His eyebrows furrow adorably as he strings together the unfamiliar syllables. Ilya tucks the image away in the vault, along with the thought that maybe he, Ilya Rozanov, is the sole witness to the one thing at which Shane Hollander isn’t instantly perfect.
Except, of course, it is. He is. Perfect.
Shane must notice Ilya’s smile because he adds, “Was that bad?”
“No,” Ilya says, softly, truthfully. And then, because he needs to pull this game they’re playing back under his control, he adds, laying the accent on a little thicker, “Your Russian very good. You go play in KHL next season. Make many roubles.”
Hollander rolls his eyes.
“I think I’ll pass, thanks.” He scrunches his nose and closes his eyes, and for a moment Ilya thinks he’s going to sneeze again, but instead, it’s a large yawn that he smothers behind his fist.
“I am boring you?”
Shane blushes at this. Jackpot.
“Ngh… Sorry.” Shane takes off his glasses, and carefully folds back the arms before reaching out to place them somewhere beyond the frame. “Just tired.” He sighs. “But also all… stuffed up. And itchy. Like I’m going to sneeze a billion more times.”
Моя любовь, are your colds always like this – all in your nose? Do they always make it hard for you to sleep? Come and lie on me, prop your head up, you’ll breathe more easily. Now tell me how you’re feeling. Tell me what helps. I want to know it all.
“You should try to sleep,” is what Ilya actually says.
“I know.” Shane sighs. “But trying to sleep and failing is the worst.”
Yes. Another thing Ilya knows too well. But there are late night drives on the Pike for that, out into the stony and unyielding Massachusetts countryside and the huge dark forests that he’s rarely seen in daylight. There are night clubs, too, and hook-up apps, even if he’s lost his taste for the latter lately. None of these are useful suggestions right now, and none of them have actually cured his insomnia. He knows what the cure would be, though, and if he can’t ask for it himself, he can at least offer it to Shane.
“Want me to stay on the call?” he asks.
Shane sniffles, and says, sweetly, “You must be tired though. Long game.”
Ilya shrugs.
“Is ok. Not tired yet.”
Hollander looks so grateful, and it’s almost unbearable - the distance between them, the inevitable ending that they’ve only been delaying all this time, the impossibility of it all, and how much, despite all that, he wants it. Not just what they have now - though Ilya would take it, a lifetime of it - but what in his wildest, stupidest fantasies, they could be if they weren’t who they are.
He and Shane stare at one another for a moment – or, that is, they stare at the screens that contain each other. The glass they can’t reach through; the thing they can’t touch.
“Could you talk to me for a bit?” Shane says, with another yawn that folds into a damp cough. “Tell me about the game. Tell me how it went.”
“You watched it. You know how it ended.”
“Well then it doesn’t matter if I fall asleep.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “Okay…”
Shane smiles, sweetly, sleepily and his eyes flutter closed. Until Ilya begins speaking in Russian, and they open again, wide and full of wonderment. No one’s ever looked at Ilya quite like that before, and maybe no one will again. So it takes all of Ilya’s willpower to say, “закрой глаза… Close your eyes, Hollander.”
Shane does as he’s told, nestling a little deeper into the blankets, and Ilya wonders if it’s possible for a heart to swell so much that it bursts.
He talks about the game with Denver; tries to work out by speaking it aloud, pass by pass, play by play. Lays it on thick when he describes his goal in the first. Tries to get to the bottom of why they fucked up the powerplay in the third. Wonders whether LeClaire will change the timing of the lines for the next game, in three days’ time. Wonders if he should take Marleau out for a drink when they get back to Boston, because it seems like he hasn’t known how to talk to Ilya since he’s been back from Moscow, how to handle the fact that Ilya doesn’t seem like he’s sad. Or maybe he could take him to go look at a car he’s thinking of buying, but he probably won’t buy, and…
A snuffly sound, half snore-half sigh, comes from Ilya’s iPad. On the screen, the tension has left Shane’s forehead, and he has the blankets pulled up to his chin, the lower half of his face lost between them, and the pillows, and the dim light. He’s asleep.
For a moment, Ilya considers not doing anything – keeping the call connected, and closing his eyes, so that they can both fall asleep alongside one another. But it feels like too much, much more than what Hollander asked for. Besides, they couldn’t wake up like this; couldn’t be this way in the daylight.
“Goodnight, Shane,” he whispers. “Feel better soon.”
He reaches over, taps the picture of the red phone, and Hollander is gone.
Scrumptiously polite Shane is totally my favourite Shane too - the thinking a sneeze is lost and putting the elbow down before IMMEDIATELY needing to bring it back is just glorious, I can picture it
Oh I know, Anon - I have to give @lipsmind credit for that perfect little detail in the tags.
I also think that the hockey world/fandom collectively thinks Shane's perfectly polite sneezes are adorable, so they appear in YouTube compilations of him doing other wonderfully mundane polite things like carrying people's bags, holding doors open, picking up litter on the street etc.
When Ilya isn't teasing Shane about this, he definitely takes Shane raising his elbow as a signal to place a hand in the small of Shane's back. Shane might lower his arm thinking the sneeze is gone, but Ilya's hand stays right where it is.
i feel like it’s been mentioned a few times recently around here and i need to reiterate my love for the hc that shane is an elbow hover-er before he sneezes. like even if he’s not hitching yet but feels that distant prickling he puts his arm up and waits for as long as it takes.
So the Guardian runs a blind date column in which two strangers go on a date and then answer a series of questions about it/each other. And this week's contains...
Summary: Episode 5 AU. I/lya gets sick on the way back from Russia, gets scratched from the game, and recovers at S/hane’s apartment. S/hane doesn’t get knocked out at the game that night; instead, he gets to ask I/lya to the cottage, just like he planned. (Outside of I/lya having the flu and a raging fever, of course.) Contains quite a bit of crying, sorry not sorry.
Emeto warning: One small v-word mention, nothing actually takes place in the fic.
*
I/lya considers himself to have been lucky so far.
He’s had his slip-ups over the years, sure, but he’s done relatively well when it comes to not showing vulnerability around S/hane H/ollander. He’s careful. Doesn’t flinch away from touches. Doesn’t tell the childhood stories that he had told laughingly, but that had made his teammates eye him sympathetically. Doesn’t give too much anyway.
It’s dangerous, around H/ollander. S/hane is so full of love and support and gentleness, it practically leaks out of him. I/lya can’t have any part of that. At just the thought of it, he can hear his father’s cold voice in his ear; Alexei’s shouting insults; the fading memory of his mother’s voice, which had been dull and resigned by the end. It’s just for the best if he avoids any kind of shows of weakness around S/hane. He thinks he’s doing well at it.
And then he falls apart and cries on S/hane in Tampa.
It feels like so many things in the moment. Release. Humiliation. Shame. Relief.
And he can’t take it back, afterward. Shane won’t let him—or maybe he won’t let himself. They use first names, hold hands at the beach, make tentative plans just to spend time together after their next game. It feels.. good. Terrifying, too. But he almost feels like he can settle into it, into the vulnerability.
Then he gets the call in the locker room. Alexei’s voice, cruel like always, throwing out the news of their father’s death like Ilya should’ve already known about it.
It feels like fate. Drawing him back to Russia, away from Shane, away from the emotional intimacy they were starting to build. It’s how it’s meant to be, he tells himself. Quit asking for things you’re not supposed to have. Quit wanting them.
The problem is that it seems like Shane is ready to get into an MMA fight with fate, or whatever else wants to keep them apart. He refuses to let Ilya disappear. He just… stays. In the periphery. Texting, calling, checking up on Ilya the whole time he’s in Russia. Never too much. Never too invasive. He lets Ilya draw the conversation back to FaceTime sex once he sees Shane in those glasses. He lets Ilya rant on the phone in Russian, pouring out his whole fucking heart, trusting that Shane won’t record this or translate it, because such subterfuge would never even occur to Shane.
He lets Ilya say I love you, even though admittedly he doesn’t really know that’s what’s happening. Even though they both know this could never be that.
And he calls again the night before Ilya’s return flight, just checking in. It’s a quick FaceTime call, where Ilya is mostly discussing his flight details and trying not to think about how he’s leaving Russia behind. He gave away his apartment, he cut off Alexei, he said goodbye to his mama’s grave. He may never come back here.
It hurts, but it feels like tugging at your stitches. A healing kind of hurt, maybe.
He’s still talking mindlessly about his plans when Shane interrupts him. “Are you feeling okay?”
Ilya rolls his eyes, endeared despite himself. “Yes, Hollander, you ask me this everyday.” He lies or talks around an answer most of the time, but no point in revealing that.
“No, I mean… you just sound weird, is all. Kind of congested. Are you feeling sick?” Shane sounds unsure of himself, hesitant to prod as ever, but being brave and doing it anyway.
Ilya blinks in surprise. “I’m fine, is just cold and snowing outside,” he says, not stopping to think about it. He bulldozes past Shane’s concern out of habit, bringing the conversation back to hockey in a way that he knows will entice Shane into letting it go.
That night though, in bed, he finds himself cataloguing a growing list of complaints. His throat feels a little sore, in a way that drinking a glass of water doesn’t touch. His skin aches. His face feels tight, the way it does when his sinuses are about to work overtime.
He tosses and turns, catches a couple of hours of poor sleep, and groans when his alarm wakes him for his stupid-early flight to Canada. He’d timed it perfectly, so he’ll get there a couple hours before the game with Montreal. It means leaving Svetlana behind, but she’ll catch her own flight home, and she’d known better than to protest at how little time he took off for his father’s death.
He drags himself to the airport, his suitcase somewhat heavier than it was, with everything he’s taken from his apartment and his father’s home. Mostly things to remind him of his mother. It’s very little—not enough—but it’s things he couldn’t leave behind, especially if he’s never coming back.
He’s feeling increasingly like he’s never coming back. Dread and relief sit equally heavy in his stomach at the thought of never seeing Russia again. But what’s left for him here, anyway?
By the time he gets to his gate in the airport, he’s got a cough and he can’t quit sniffling, and his throat feels like he’s been gargling glass. Whatever he’s caught decided to hit in full force during the little sleep he managed to get in the night. He buys a travel pack of tissues at a store by his gate, along with a Gatorade for hydration, and settles back to listen to music until his flight is called.
The FaceTime from Shane surprises him, about ten minutes before boarding. Ilya doesn’t even know what time it must be, back in Canada. He could do the math but that sounds exhausting. He looks around cautiously, but it’s still so early that the airport is fairly empty, and he has his earbuds in. He turns so that his back is to a wall, to ensure nobody peers over his shoulders, and answers.
“What are you doing up?” he asks, as soon as Shane’s face appears on his screen, and then he cringes when he hears himself. His voice sounds thick and heavy now, the congestion audible. In the little square on his screen, he can see himself, bundled up against the cold with weary eyes and pale skin.
Shane doesn’t point it out out loud, but anyone with eyes could see the concern on his face. “It’s not even eleven at night,” he protests easily. “I haven’t even gone to bed yet. It’s, what, 5AM there? What made you book such an early flight?”
“Wanted plenty of time to get to Montreal,” Ilya says, rubbing at his nose absently. “Will get there a couple hours before our game, as long as everything goes smoothly.”
“You’re going to play,” Shane says flatly. “After a transatlantic flight, and with a—with the week you’ve had.”
“Yes? I am not just there to sit and look pretty,” Ilya says. He can tease no matter how shitty he feels, it’s a gift. “That’s your job.”
“We’re going to beat your asses,” Shane retorts with a smile, but he still eyes Ilya with poorly-concealed worry. “Just… take it easy, okay?”
Ilya summons up every skill he’s honed over the years to avoid showing any weakness around others. It’s failed him lately, but he needs it now. “Relax, Hollander. I will sleep on plane, eat whatever horrible meal they feed me, show up just in time to beat you soundly.”
Shane’s smile is soft, illuminated by his bedside lamp, where he must be getting ready for bed. “It’s Shane, Ilya. Remember?”
Aaaand that instinct fails him once again, because he can’t deny Shane when he looks so sweet. “Okay, Shane.”
“Just… text me, okay? Let me know how your flight goes, layovers, stuff like that.”
His nose prickles, but he resists the urge to rub it again. Not while he’s still on FaceTime, anyway. He repeats himself, “Okay, Shane. They are boarding now, I go, okay?”
“Okay. Bye.”
“Bye.” Ilya hangs up, a little annoyed with how relieved he is to be off-camera so he can scrub at his face to chase away the approaching tickle. He doesn’t do a very good job, and he fumbles to open the travel pack of tissues he bought so he can muffle a sneeze into a handful of them. “huhh… huksshhtt!”
An older woman nearby blesses him, and he thanks her, still sniffling into the tissues. He doesn’t feel like blowing—it’s too loud, and it would only trigger more sneezing, thanks to his thrice-broken nose’s irritating hypersensitivity—so he just rubs his nose through the tissues until the lingering tickle subsides.
His plane boards. The flight is tedious, long, freezing in spite of the layers he made himself wear. He tries to focus on the in-flight movies, but even that doesn’t provide much distraction from his symptoms, which only intensify over their hours in the air. The light cough turns heavier, more insistent, and his nose fills with congestion that only feels worse with the changes in air pressure. He tries to hold back his coughs—nobody wants to be that person on a long plane ride—but it gets harder and harder over time. He sniffles thickly, more and more frequently over the course of the flight, cringing each time the people seated near him turn to look at him.
Ilya ends up catching some sleep toward the end of the flight, but it isn’t very restful, and he finds himself half-waking up several times to cough or hold back a sneeze. Eventually the congestion gets annoying enough that he stumbles his way out of his seat and toward the plane’s lavatory, where he grabs handfuls of the provided tissues—thin, dry, scratchy and harsh on his nose. Even the mere touch of the tissues is enough to provoke his sinuses at this point. The second he brings them to his face, his breath is hitching, and the sneezes come so quickly that he can’t even try to hold them back. “hh’tsshhmphh! heh’schhmphh! heh… heh’EHHTTshhh!”
Muffled into the tissues, they’re quiet enough that he’s only a little embarrassed. He forces himself to blow his nose, knowing that he needs it, and winces when it shifts the congestion in his sinuses around. His nose tingles again, overwhelming and too sudden for him to stop it, and he helplessly muffles another sneeze. “hmphhsshh!”
He blows his nose again, thick and honking, and bullies his nostrils into submission by swiping at them harshly with a fresh handful of tissues. It keeps him from sneezing again, but his nose and upper lip are stinging and raw when he washes his hands and makes his way back to his seat.
Eventually, he settles enough again to drift back to sleep. His dreams are hazy and disconnected, hard to make sense of, but he knows his mother is part of it. His father, too, voice harsh and cold. Not confused and childlike, how he was by the end. Ilya’s chest hurts, from the memory and from the coughs he holds back in his sleep.
He wakes up to enormous pressure in his sinuses, and realizes they’re landing. The whole flight seems to have been simultaneously endless and shorter than he expected, and his vision swims. Probably the start of a fever. He curses to himself and tries to get ready for deplaning, but the stabbing pain in his sinuses from the air pressure change can’t be ignored or relieved. He ends up sitting completely still, fingers pressed to the sides of his nose and cheeks, trying to simply bear the pressure until they’ve landed.
Time passes—he has no idea how long—and when the pain finally fades enough for him to relax a little, the row in front of him is standing up and gathering their things. He scrambles to get his stuff and follows, praying he hasn’t left anything behind. He grabs at the seats in front of him in a dazed attempt to keep himself balanced as he moves toward the front of the plane.
Once he’s in the airport, the crowds surrounding him keep him feeling overwhelmed, plus confused and hazy. Definitely a fever. He groans and rubs at his face, taking a second to try to ground himself, then goes to get his luggage and call for a car to get him to the rink.
He doesn’t call Shane again from the cab. There’s no way he’d be able to hide the congestion and rasp in his voice, and the thick feeling in his throat only worsens when he imagines Shane fussing over him. Instead, he shoots off a quick text. Landed. See you at face-off.
Within seconds, he gets a text back. How was your flight?
He hesitates over the response. Long. Meet at your place after the game?
Sure. But then Shane sends him a new address.
Ilya: What happened to fuck apartment?
Shane: Don’t call it that. This is the address for my actual apartment. Let’s meet there tonight.
Ilya feels oddly touched. Maybe Shane was serious about all the things he said in Tampa about caring about him, about how he had shown up for Ilya even when he was a continent away while Ilya struggled in Russia. He lingers over the text, not sure what to respond with. “Thanks”? “Can we just do the fuck apartment, I’m uncomfortable with being cared for”? A crying emoji?
In the end, he doesn’t respond with anything. He just likes the message and puts his phone away.
But then not even an hour before the game, he gets scratched. Fucking Evan, the team doctor, hears him coughing in the locker room and pulls him aside for a checkup. “Your swab just came back positive for flu B. Although, I’m worried that cough sounds like it’s turning into bronchitis,” Evan tells him in the sick bay, scribbling into a clipboard and eyeing Ilya with obvious concern. “You’ve got a sinus infection, for sure, and the bronchitis is too soon to tell but I really think it’s going that way. I can’t believe you flew transatlantic like this.”
“Did not want to miss game,” Ilya says, ducking into his elbow with a round of harsh, scraping coughs that won’t back down.
“Well,” Evan says, the unsaid that’s what’s gonna happen obvious in his tone. “I don’t know if I want you going back to the hotel room alone. You could stay here with me until after the game, and I can check on you in the night. Our flight’s in the morning, though I’m not sure if you’ll be able to fly in your current condition. You and I might have a little layover here in Montreal until you’re cleared for it.”
Jesus Christ, no. He likes Evan—though not very much right now, when he’s getting denied his chance to play, the only potential escape he’s had from the stress of the last few days—but he doesn’t want to spend hours or possibly days with the guy fussing over him. “Ah, no. I have, um. Girlfriend? Kind of? In town. I can call her, go to her place.” He waits for Evan to nod and leave the room to tell Coach, then texts Shane.
Ilya: I have news. Don’t be mad.
Shane: Are you ditching me tonight?
Ilya: Scratched. They are saying flu, sinus infection.
Technically, they also said probably-bronchitis, but he doesn’t want to get in the details of that. Flu sounds a bit easier to manage, maybe.
Shane: And you flew like that?! I knew you sounded rough on the call.
Ilya: Was not so bad this morning.
Shane: Liar. Okay, what now?
Ilya: I told doctor I would go stay at my girlfriend’s place. Figure I will sleep it off in the hotel room. Sorry. I wanted—
He erases the last two words. Best not to get into what he wanted.
Ilya: Sorry to cancel on tonight.
His phone is silent for a moment, and he watches Shane type and erase repeatedly. Shane is probably busy getting ready, putting on his gear, maybe doing pre-game media.
Shane: No one’s canceling. You can go to my apartment. I’ll text you the codes.
He doesn’t have time to respond before his phone buzzes again.
Shane: I really want to see you tonight. And I don’t want you sick by yourself in a hotel room. Please.
Ah, fuck. He can just envision Shane with those Hollander puppy dog eyes, all big and brown and sweet.
Ilya: You are that horny, you want me over even with the flu?
Shane: Main door code 1221, front door code 8124. Try and sleep. I’ll bring you some medicine when I get home. There’s soup in the pantry I think.
Shane doesn’t take the bait, the way he normally would, which leaves Ilya feeling a little off-kilter without his chance to banter. If he’s being honest, though, he doesn’t really feel up to his normal level of bantering. He likes the message and doesn’t respond—starting to become a habit for him—just in time for Evan to come back with Coach in tow.
“We’ll miss having you out there tonight, Rozanov,” Coach tells him gruffly. “I’m sorry you’re having such a shitty month.”
Ilya shrugs and nods. What can you do? He doesn’t say anything; his throat’s feeling too sore at this point to make him much of a conversationalist.
Coach leaves after wishing for him to feel better soon, and Evan prescribes him a heavy-duty cough syrup and an antiviral. “Hear back from your girlfriend?”
“I am to take cab to her place,” he rasps out. “And let her take care of me upon pain of death. My Jane is stubborn.” His mouth ticks up in a smile, fond despite himself.
Evan laughs a little. “Lucky for you, these prescriptions should be ready quick. You should be able to pick them up on the way. Feel better, okay, Roz? Message me if things get worse, and go to the ER if you have trouble breathing or your fever spikes.”
He agrees, more to get away quicker than anything else, and stumbles out into the freezing Canadian spring air to get to his cab once Evan finally lets him go. He didn’t even have time to stop by the hotel earlier, so at least he still has his luggage to take with him and doesn’t need an extra stop. The cab driver recognizes him but is pretty nice about it for an obvious Montreal fan, clearly a bit gleeful now that the news has hit the airwaves that Ilya got scratched just before the game.
Ilya finds himself holding back sneezes all throughout the drive, hitching and pressing his gloves to his nose to fight off the insistent tickle. He convinces the driver to stop at the pharmacy, where his prescriptions are in fact ready, and then has the driver drop him off a block away from Shane’s apartment. Normally, he would do even farther, but he’s worried his lungs won’t let him manage any longer of a walk.
The door codes work just fine—and he snickers at 8124, belatedly realizing the meaning as he types it in—and he staggers into the apartment just as the long-threatened sneezing fit finally hits.
“hh’DSSCHhhwww! hah—HAHHDT’sshheww!” He sneezes into his gloves in the doorway, thanking God that Shane has this floor all to himself, so no neighbors in the hallway can recognize him and/or show concern over his fucked-up nose. He sniffles, which only forces out yet another horribly wet, throat-tearing explosion. “HAAHhh’DTTsshhieww! …guh. Fuck.”
Half-blind from the tears in his eyes that are streaming down his face, he takes a few unsteady steps into the living room, where he sees the faintly recognizable shape of a tissue box on the coffee table. He grabs at it with the hand that isn’t currently pressed to his face—which he would swear is holding him together while his brain tries to escape through his nose—and gathers a bouquet of tissues to bury his nose in.
He blows, long and loud, grateful that for the first time today he’s completely alone to be as loud as he needs. The sound and vibration hurt a little, and it makes him sneeze again, but the relief of having almost-cleared sinuses is worth it, for the whole two minutes that it lasts.
Once he recovers himself, he texts Shane, already knowing that the game has started and Shane won’t have his phone on him. He keeps it simple: Here. Good luck tonight.
He grabs a can of Coke from the fridge—does Hollander normally have Coke, or did he stock it for Ilya in preparation for tonight, he wonders with a thrill—and settles on the couch to watch the game. He watches the face-off, and the first couple of minutes, and then unintentionally sacks out.
When he drifts back into awareness, he’s curled up in a ball on the couch with drool on the cushion under his head, and the TV screen says it’s just after the second period. His sinuses feel heavy, and he can feel the congestion and swelling in his nose, built up with no way to escape. He groans and stretches, rubbing at his eyes that feel like they weight twenty pounds each.
He checks his phone. There’s a text from Evan asking if he got the prescriptions okay, and Ilya thumbs up the message. He should probably take the medicine, he can see it in sitting in a bag on the kitchen counter where he’d left it, but he can’t bring himself to get up. He manages to grab at the can of Coke on the coffee table, taking a sip to try to ease his sore throat that’s only been aggravated by the snoring he’s sure he’s been doing, but the carbonation only burns the whole way down, and he sets it aside with a groan.
There’s a text from Shane, too, and he must be keeping his phone near the bench, which Canadian good boy extraordinaire Shane Hollander would never normally do. Are you feeling okay? Is there anything special you want from the store before I get home?
Ilya watches the highlight reel for a few minutes, which shows Shane scoring a fantastic goal in the first period. Montreal’s going to win this one. He wonders if the team is mad at him, for missing tonight’s game when he’s already been gone a week, but the logical part of his brain knows they won’t be. Marly will probably be texting him as soon as they finish the game, to make sure he isn’t drowned in his own snot if nothing else.
Nice goal, he texts back. I am okay. Team doctor prescribed me some medicine that will fix me.
He tries to watch the rest of the game. Tries to wait for Shane to text him back. But he already knows it’s a losing fight. He barely manages to move a throw pillow under his head before his eyes are dragged closed again and he falls back asleep.
When he wakes up a second time, an indeterminate amount of time later, everything is dreamlike and hazy, and he immediately knows that something is different. Wrong. Everything hurts, and his sinuses are pounding, just like they had back on the plane. He doesn’t really know where he is. His vision is swimming, and he has that heavy painful feeling in his chest that could be the probably-bronchitis, or just as likely could be the way he knows he dreamed about his mother again. And his father, yelling, always yelling. Always with the cold voice and the harsh words and the cruel touch.
“Ilya,” he hears, the voice sounding muffled and distant but familiar, “Ilya, hey, English please. Okay? I can’t understand what you’re saying.”
He’s babbling, quiet and in Russian, and the realization that he’s doing so has him shutting up instantly. A hand brushes his hair back from his forehead, damp and hot with sweat, and he looks up.
Shane. Shane, here, looking tired and beautiful and with such concern in his big brown doe eyes, so sweet and perfect that Ilya wants to cry.
“Oh, hey,” Shane murmurs, swiping a thumb under Ilya’s eye and smearing liquid.
Fuck, he is actually crying, isn’t he? He swallows and tries to apologize, but he can’t find the word in English for a too-long second. “Sorry,” he finally says hoarsely, and the word catches in his throat, doubling him over with a coughing fit.
Shane is seated on the edge of the couch, by Ilya’s hip, and he helps Ilya sit up a little. He hands Ilya tissues, for wiping away his tears and for him to cough into. “It’s okay,” Shane says once the coughing has stopped. He rests a comforting hand on the back of Ilya’s neck and winces at the heat he must feel there. “God, you are burning up, Ilya. When’s the last time you took your medicine?”
Ilya only stares at him blankly. Shane is—is here. (Wherever here is.) With him. Looking so pretty and worried and tired from the game, but still here with Ilya.
After a moment, Shane gives him a patient smile and pats his knee and stands up, wandering off to the kitchen before Ilya can think of what to say to stop him from walking away. He’s not sure right now what the words would be in English, anyway.
Shane comes back holding the prescription cough syrup, the antiviral, and an unfamiliar painkiller bottle that must be from his own supply. “You didn’t even take anything, the cough syrup’s still unopened,” Shane says, and the words are scolding but his tone is endlessly gentle. “Medicine now, okay? We need to get your fever down, baby.”
The endearment has Ilya biting his lip to hold off more tears, and he nods unsteadily. Shane leaves him for the kitchen again and returns with a water bottle and a Gatorade. Then he disappears, further into the apartment than Ilya had dared explore before he fell asleep, and comes back with a thermometer and a wet washcloth.
“Come here,” Shane says softly, when Ilya doesn’t take the initiative, and Shane cups his jaw so carefully. Ilya’s mouth opens obediently when Shane’s thumb prods at it, and Shane slips the thermometer under his tongue. “Give that a minute,” Shane says, turning to measure out a dose of the cough syrup.
“Who won?” Ilya croaks out, once he’s reasonably sure those are the right words. His head feels so thick, like fog has taken up all the real estate in his brain, and his thoughts are treading water instead of swimming. He feels like a confused child, tongue clumsy in his mouth. English hasn’t been this hard for him in years. At least he remembers where he is now.
Shane gives him an amused look and points at the thermometer. “Don’t talk with that in your mouth. And, I did. Your team put up a good fight, though. You should be proud of them.”
Ilya nods, feeling his eyes slip shut. It’s too much effort to hold them open. He sinks back against the couch, abruptly feeling too heavy to hold himself upright anymore.
A hand cups his forehead, and Shane removes the thermometer. He sucks in air against his teeth once he’s read it. “Jeez, Ilya. Your brain is on fire. Should you call your team doctor?”
He shakes his head frantically, not even sure why the thought is so disconcerting, but he knows he doesn’t want to leave here. “No—no, no Evan. Please. Want to stay with you. Please.”
Shane is quiet for a second, then gives him a somewhat pleased look, though the worry is still clear in the furrowed line in his brow. “Okay. But if this gets any higher, we’re in emergency room territory, all right?”
Ilya can’t put some of those words together to make sense of them in his head, but he nods anyway. Whatever Shane wants. He obediently swallows the cough syrup and antiviral and Tylenol that Shane gives him. He drinks the water that Shane holds for him, since his hands are shaking too much to avoid spilling. He lets Shane put the wet washcloth on the back of his neck, and the cold feeling of it is so relieving that he moans quietly, unable to help himself.
“Did you sleep okay?” Shane asks him, wrapping an arm gently around Ilya’s back. He guides Ilya back to rest against the cushions, braced against Shane’s side. The TV blares on, showing footage of some other game, and Shane casually picks up the remote and lowers the volume without dislodging Ilya at all.
This is the most comfortable he’s felt since the Tampa hotel room, even with this horrible fever clouding his brain and making everything hurt. He shrugs and melts into Shane’s side, soaking in the wonderful, secure feeling of it like a sponge. He’s a little bigger than Shane, but right now he feels almost tiny in Shane’s hold. “Bad dream,” he says roughly, reaching up to swipe at his nose, like he sometimes does when he’s uncomfortable or feeling vulnerable.
Unfortunately, that habit of his works against him, now that his face is so sensitive, and even this casual touch sets him off. He hitches once, twice, then jolts away from Shane’s arm toward the other side of the couch to sneeze. He doesn’t have the coordination or forethought right now to aim it his elbow. He barely manages to bring up a hand in time to cover his nose and mouth with a cupped palm, before the fit bursts out of him, desperate and needy.
He pants afterward, still feeling his nostrils flaring and twitching against his hand, which feels slick and damp with spray. He cringes at the feeling. He had tried to stifle, or at least muffle, but… well. Obviously his sinuses have had enough and are making their feelings known, because he was only somewhat successful.
After a long moment of Ilya breathing hard into his cupped hand, Shane exhales with what sounds like a repressed laugh. “Bless you,” he says, wrapping an arm around Ilya and reeling him back toward his side. “Need a tissue?”
Ilya nods, too embarrassed to speak aloud when he knows any words would come out unintelligible with congestion. Shane passes him a good handful of tissues, and he wipes fruitlessly at his nostrils for a few minutes. The sniffles keep coming out of him, thick and useless, and he finds it mortifying but he can’t stop. It’s like all the congestion in his head can’t decide whether it’s staying or going, so it’s doing both at once.
After a few minutes of this, Shane presses him gently. “You don’t need to blow your nose?”
Ilya can feel his cheeks heating under the weight of Shane’s calm, focused attention. He shrugs, most of his face still buried in the tissues.
Shane seems to get the hint. He detaches himself from Ilya and gets up. “I’ll make you some tea and give you a minute, okay? I think I just have green tea, but I’ll check.”
He disappears into the kitchen. It’s a mostly open floor plan, but the columns and partial walls create a concealing illusion, enough that Ilya feels comfortable giving a few soft blows into the tissues.
As always, that starts up a tingling sensation in his sinuses, too buzzy and ticklish to be ignored. He shudders into the tissues with a half-muffled, desperately wet sneeze, too eager for relief to even try to stop it. “hh’shhhhww!”
He manages to blow again afterward, finally clearing away the overflowing congestion for the time being without triggering any more sneezing. He glances around, feeling mildly more coherent and awake, and doesn’t see any trash cans nearby. Sensing that his legs will collapse like jelly if he stands, he contents himself with balling up the ruined tissues in one hand.
Shane returns from the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea. “Feeling better? Oh, let me have those,” Shane says, reaching for the tissues and plucking them out of Ilya’s grasp before he can protest or shy away. “I’ll throw them away. Hang on.”
He wanders back into the kitchen, and this time he’s only gone for a second. When he comes back, Ilya is relieved to note that Shane at least seems to be rubbing hand sanitizer into his hands. Shane is thorough in this like in everything else, scrubbing at his nails and the webbing between his fingers.
“I’mb gross,” Ilya says, and he’s briefly thrown off by how utterly blocked his nose sounds when he speaks. He sniffles uselessly. “You should ndot have to do that. Are you sure you wandt mbe here, with mby germbs?” He means for the words to come out lighthearted, his usual joking tone, but instead he sounds pathetically sad and needy.
Shane visibly softens and sits down beside him, pulling him close again. “I want you to stay,” he says into Ilya’s hair, and then he presses a kiss there. “We agreed, remember?”
Hesitantly, Ilya nods. He isn’t sure he technically agreed, but right now he definitely doesn’t want to argue. Doesn’t want to give Shane any reason to change his mind and make Ilya leave.
After a minute, Shane kisses the top of his head again and rubs his back, then sits up a little more. “You should drink your tea. I found the sleepytime kind, and I put some honey in it. It should be good for your throat,” he rambles awkwardly.
That makes Ilya feel like they’re closer to their normal footing, and he smiles fondly. “Thangk you,” he says hoarsely, taking the mug that Shane hands him. He blows on it at Shane’s urging and then sips. He can’t taste anything with his sinuses so blocked, but he nods anyway as if it tastes good. It slides down his throat easily, at least, and the heat of it is a comfort.
Shane watches him, like a hawk observing her chicks in the nest, or how Ilya imagines that would look anyway. Once Ilya’s drank most of the tea, for the soothing warmth of it on his throat if nothing else, Shane straightens and nods to himself. “Time for bed, I think?” he suggests. “Do you need anything else? Are you hungry?”
Ilya shakes his head, the thought of food making his stomach lurch with disgust. Probably the fever causing that. “Ndo, thangk you,” he rasps out.
“Save your voice,” Shane laughs, helping him to stand up with an arm wrapped around his waist. “You’re very polite when your brain is overheating, huh?”
He ignores his father’s voice in his head. Be polite, Ilya. Where are your manners. So lazy. “Mmb.”
He expects Shane to lead him to a guest room—surely, in an apartment this size, he must have one or two—but Shane guides him into a bedroom that’s clearly lived-in. The bed is immaculately made, and Shane peels back the covers one-handed so he can keep supporting Ilya.
Ilya almost protests that he can hold himself up, but there’s no way that’s true.
Shane forces him to sit on the bed, then kneels down to take Ilya’s shoes and socks off. He helps Ilya wriggle out of his pants and shirt, leaving him in only his underwear. The whole process takes far longer than it should, on account of Ilya struggling and sweating through each step even with Shane’s assistance. After that, Shane keeps him sitting upright so he can try to clear out his nose with handful after handful of tissues, which has Ilya blushing hard to have to do so in front of Shane.
Eventually, though, Shane lets Ilya collapse into the pillows. He drags the comforter up to Ilya’s chest and tucks it in like one would with a child. “I’ll be right back,” Shane says quietly, and he returns with more tea, plus the other drinks, the medicines, and the thermometer. He disappears again, and comes back with a fresh cool washcloth, draping it over Ilya’s forehead.
Ilya snickers, genuinely amused but also feeling somewhat loopy. What was in that cough syrup? He didn’t even think to check. But Shane would have, because Shane is responsible, and Shane wouldn’t let him take anything bad for him. “You are so… nursemaid,” he says, flapping his hand around when he can’t find the right words. He’s pleased to find that he doesn’t sound nearly as congested as before, for the moment at least. “Is cute.”
Shane turns pink. “I want you to feel better,” he says earnestly, which leaves Ilya with nothing to say, staring at him in heart eyes and mild shock. Shane doesn’t react to this, only smiling and propping him up against the pillows. “Drink more tea for me, okay? Liquids are good when you’re sick.”
Ilya ends up drinking another cup of tea, and half of the Gatorade, before Shane lets him lie down. Shane changes into sweatpants and lays next to him, whole body curled around Ilya, and plays with their entwined fingers. Long minutes pass in silence while Ilya tries to figure out what to say next.
“Thank you,” he finally manages. “Sorry I… ruined our night. I know we had plans.”
Shane shushes him and tucks an errant curl behind his ear. “It’s okay. Although…” He ducks his head down and blushes again. “I had this whole plan, you know, to ask you something.”
Normally, the very thought of that sentence would cause Ilya dread. Right now, though, he feels buoyed and lightheaded from the fever—and, fine, a little high on the cough syrup—so all he does is making an inquiring noise.
“So, I have this cottage,” Shane says. “It’s out by the lake, like two hours from here, and it’s beautiful. Very private, no neighbors for miles.”
“Mm.” Ilya shifts, his face buried in Shane’s side, and breathes deep. He can’t smell anything, but he knows Shane’s scent well enough to imagine it. He knows the cottage Shane is talking about, has watched that documentary enough times that Svetlana banned it from her home. It’s soothing, though he’d never admit that out loud.
“And I was thinking, for this summer. Maybe you could come? Instead of going to Russia,” Shane says. The rising panic is evident in his tone, and he quickly starts babbling. “I just, I know you were just there, and maybe you want to keep going back, but it seemed like maybe… you didn’t. Anyway, the cottage is super private, no one would know we were there, and there’s a lot of fun things to do. Like swimming, or grilling, or video games. Or resting. Whatever you want. We could just… be. Like, alone together. We could be together. And we could have a week, or maybe even two if we can both get that much time off after the playoffs—”
“Hollander,” Ilya says, because his brain is starting to swim with all this information. He knows what not-stoned-off-cold-medicine-him would say right now. Something noncommittal. Maybe something rude or risqué, to change the subject and make Shane refocus on calling him an asshole. But right now, he’s floating, and he can feel sleep tugging at him. “I like your cottage,” he mumbles, eyes closing, and he nestles into Shane’s side without further thought. “Watch the show a lot.”
“Oh,” Shane says. His hand moves in circles over Ilya’s back, long sweeping motions, soothing. There’s warmth in his voice when he speaks again. “Yeah? Well… Maybe we can talk about it more later. When you’re feeling better.”
“Mm,” Ilya agrees, dropping off to sleep without a second thought.
He wakes sometime in the night, feeling hot and wrong again. The time passes in quick flashes, everything seeming to change each time he opens his eyes, like a strobe light in a shitty club. He vaguely remembers more cold cloths, draped over his forehead and wedged in his armpits. He remembers someone holding more pills to his mouth and helping him drink water. Hazily, he recalls the sensation of coughing until he almost throws up, with that same someone bracing a trash can in front of him. He doesn’t think he actually vomited, small comfort.
He remembers a soft voice, quiet and familiar, murmuring gentle words to him in French. He remembers cold, steady hands, keeping him upright and guiding him into a cool shower. The water feels freezing, and his teeth chatter, but the moment is there and gone in another flash. When he blinks again, he’s been toweled dry and put back to bed, cuddled up against someone. It feels like even more time has passed without him being aware of it, and he has no sense of what time it must be, other than “the middle of the night.”
By the time his brain clears enough to let him make sense of where he is and who he’s with, Ilya feels so utterly drained and miserable that all he can do is continue to rest a hot cheek against Shane’s chest and let his hair be petted.
“Hey. I know,” Shane soothes, when he seems to notice that Ilya’s a little more aware of his surroundings. “That wasn’t fun, huh?”
The words are sympathetic, comforting, the way one would speak to a very sick person or a child, and abruptly he thinks of his mother again. She’s never very far from his mind when he’s feeling unwell. The way she would hold him and kiss him and reassure him. Always with the gentlest touches and tones of voice. The way she would cradle him to her chest like her baby, no matter how big he got, and call him her Ilyushenka.
The tears spill out of him helplessly, hot and streaming, and he can feel them puddling onto Shane’s chest under his cheek. He half-expects Shane to panic, to sit them up and fuss over his temperature again, but maybe Shane has been all panicked out by the events of earlier. Instead, Shane keeps a steady hand pressed to Ilya’s back, grounding him, while he uses the other hand to keep carding through Ilya’s hair. “I’m here,” Shane says softly, not sounding fazed at all. “It’s okay. I’m here, baby.”
His brain, stupid overheated thing, keeps flashing back to Tampa, to how he’s crying on Shane again. Instead of being charming and hot and sexy, like he’d intended to be to make up for Tampa, tonight he’s just been a wet, pathetic, feverish, sneezy mess. With fucking bronchitis, probably. Ilya lets a quiet sob escape him, muffled into Shane’s skin, and feels more tears drip down onto Shane’s chest.
Shane’s touch is cool and comforting, and Ilya only cries for a minute or two before the tears run dry. He has the vague worry that maybe he’s cried himself out so quickly because his fever is boiling him from the inside out, evaporating his tears. Then—and this worry seems more possible, not to mention absolutely mortifying—he has the thought that perhaps he’s already cried on Shane many times tonight, and the fever keeps wiping the memory from his head, only for him to do it all over again. He blinks up at Shane, trying to discern if they’ve done this already tonight.
Shane looks down at him, smiling even though he looks physically tired as hell, like he’s been up half the night caring for a feverish Russian after playing a full hockey game. There’s no frustration in his expression, though, like how Ilya might expect if they were repeating the same teary scenario over and over tonight. His hand leaves Ilya’s hair, and he drags a finger under Ilya’s left eye to wipe away the last of the tear tracks. “Feel a little better?”
Ilya sniffles and nods. The sniffle, plus the pressure of Shane’s finger pad against his face, pushes his sinuses into an uproar, and he flinches toward his arm with a sudden sneeze he can’t possibly hope to contain. He sprays across his forearm, not even managing to keep the damage out of Shane’s sight.
“hrsshh’SHHIEWW!” he sneezes, tickly and not nearly satisfying enough to keep him from immediately ducking back toward his arm for another outburst or two. They come out loud and wet, and much more vocal than he’s used to. “hahh… HAASSCHHEWW! hah’ASSHHHoohh!”
Another mortifying few seconds pass, where he’s all too aware of the spray drying on his skin and Shane’s eyes on him. Focused. Taking everything in.
Then, Shane is holding a tissue up to his nose. “Here, sweetheart,” Shane murmurs. He cups it around Ilya’s nose, seemingly unbothered by the mess, and rubs.
For a second, Ilya tries to resist. But he’s so fucking exhausted. And at no point in his plan has he actually succeeded recently in not showing vulnerability around Shane Hollander. And his arms hurt too much with feverish body aches to even think of lifting a hand to take the tissue.
So Shane Hollander wipes his nose for him, and presses it there for him while he blows, and holds him when Ilya builds up to another, much more quiet but just as wet, “heht’sshheww!” Shane just murmurs a bless you and wipes his nose dry again. The touch is exceedingly gentle, Shane being wary of the sensitive skin at Ilya’s nostrils and Cupid’s bow.
By the time Shane tosses the crumpled, sodden tissue onto the nightstand, Ilya can feel his eyes drooping. “Sorry,” he mutters, letting his cheek drop onto Shane’s chest again. His skin doesn’t feel burning hot against Shane’s anymore, at least. “Keep sndeezing ond you and falling asleep ond you.”
Shane laughs, the sound loose and a little wild from lack of sleep. “I think that’s just how being sick goes. It’s okay, I don’t mind. Rest, mon coeur.”
The hand on Ilya’s back is moving in slow, steady circles, and his nose is finally a little bit clearer, and his head aches from crying and coughing and fever. And he’s being cradled in Shane Hollander’s arms. He falls asleep before he even realizes his eyes are closing.
When he wakes up again, he feels less out of control. More rested. His body still feels out of whack, and he can tell that his temperature and sinuses are still screwed up, but it’s undeniably better. His internal clock is working again and says that it’s early morning, and he’s sleeping sprawled out on the bed and not on top of Shane, so Shane must already be up.
He’s content to keep dozing like this, but his body gets the memo that he’s awake. He drags himself half-upright to cough into an elbow, and that shifts the built-up congestion around. The tickle strikes him before he can even think to pinch it back, and he gasps helplessly before crumpling forward with an urgent, vocal sneeze.
“hih’DSSCHHHhh!”
He fumbles for a tissue, grabbing some from the box on the nightstand, and blows his nose, the sound productive and thick. Fuck, he’s definitely got a sinus infection. The long flight yesterday and the changes in air pressure probably didn’t help matters.
“Good morning,” he hears, a fond voice. “And bless you.”
When he’s able to pull himself away from the tissues, thanking God that blowing his nose didn’t set off another fit for once, he finds Shane in the doorway. Shane is dressing in his running gear, a little damp with sweat from his morning exercise, and he’s sipping at a smoothie that looks absolutely disgusting.
“Good mbording,” he says, cringing at his voice. He sounds absolutely wrecked, snotty and hoarse and like he cried all night long. He vaguely remembers crying and starts to panic. Did he actually cry on Shane all night long? Shit. Shit shit shit.
Some of the panic must show on his face, because Shane draws closer, a reassuring look on his face. “You had a little bit of a rough night,” he says, voice calm, “and your fever spiked around 3am, but I think the Tylenol finally got it down. Do you remember?”
Ilya nods. “Sombe,” he says cautiously, and sniffles. “Sorry.”
Shane shakes his head. “No more sorries,” he says firmly. “I told you that last night and I meant it. I want you here. I want to take care of you.”
God. Shane has been—is—so brave, ever since Tampa. Ilya could never say such things. Even the thought of it has his father’s voice—
Well. He elects to ignore his father’s voice inside his head. He’s already given up on Russia and fallen in love with his sworn rival. He is already an embarrassment to his family and a traitor to his country’s ideals, not that he particularly cares about either of those things.
Maybe…. Well. Maybe he wants Hollander to say those things. Maybe he wants to hear them, even say them back one day. Maybe, one day, he’ll even be able to say I love you to Shane in a language he’ll understand.
Ilya scrubs at his nose and nods. “Thangk you, thend,” he offers, slightly embarrassed, and Shane nods. “I kndow I amb ndot… easy to deal with, whend I amb sick.”
Shane sits on the edge of the bed. “You’re not at all hard to take care of, Ilya,” he says seriously. “I mean it. Even at 3am, carrying you into a cold shower to get your fever down, you were nothing but sweet. I think you were more worried about sneezing on me than you were about your brain cooking. Which, obviously the wrong priorities, but I appreciate it anyway.”
Helpless, Ilya barks out a laugh. It scrapes at his throat, and he coughs into his soaked tissues until it stops. “Okay,” he finally agrees, unsure what else to say. “Ndow what?”
“Well, you’re still pretty sick,” Shane says. He takes a water bottle from the nightstand and forces it into Ilya’s hands until he drinks some of it. “Your fever’s down, but it’s hanging around. Your team flies out in like an hour, you’re definitely missing that. Your team doctor messaged you earlier, I texted him back from your phone and told him you were with, uh, Jane. You can fly back to Boston in a couple days when you feel better, or meet them on the road if it takes longer than that. I’ve got a couple days before I fly out again, so no rush there. You stay here as long as you need.”
Shane is so beautifully, obsessively thorough. Ilya loves that about him. But his mind can’t process all of that, so he drags a hand down Shane’s chest. “Sooo… fever sex?” he teases. “Since we did not get to do last night?”
Shane frowns and pushes him off. “Ha ha,” he says. “No. You’re going to have something to eat and take a nap. And then we’ll see how you’re feeling.”
“Shaaaane,” he whines, collapsing against the pillows from Shane’s halfhearted push. “I did not get my kisses last night. You cannot deny me this.”
“You got plenty of kisses last night,” Shane snorts. “You just don’t remember them all because your brain was trying to cook itself.”
Well, now he has a vendetta against his brain and his immune system, because how dare he not remember getting kisses from Shane? If he focuses, he still can recall those strobe light flashes of memory. A cold shower, snuggles, crying on Shane’s chest. The memory is a little embarrassing, but mostly warm and nice. He remembers being held, feeling comforted.
For the first time since he was twelve, the thought of that isn’t completely terrifying. It almost feels like something he can have.
He gives in, the way he always does when Shane’s puppy eyes come into play. He eats oatmeal and drinks tea and naps. He wakes up, watches a little boring TV, drinks soup and Gatorade, and bugs Shane into reading aloud from his boring hockey book.
Eventually, Shane also gives in, because he always does that too when it comes to Ilya. Fever sex, Ilya is surprised to note, is kind of like being high. His fever is much lower than last night, but it’s left his skin feeling incredibly hypersensitive. It’s like the opposite of an out-of-body experience. He is so firmly in his body like this, so aware of every touch, burning up and freezing at the same time. Shane holds him until he comes, wipes him off with a clean cloth, and hand-feeds him Tylenol in the afterglow.
It’s possibly the slowest, gentlest sex they’ve ever had, and it still leaves Ilya feeling like a wrung out ragdoll afterward. He collapses back into the bed, sneezes another harsh, surprisingly loud, “ehttSSHHIEWW!” into the blankets, and sniffles until Shane hands him more tissues and feels his forehead again.
They don’t talk about the cottage. Ilya half-remembers the conversation from last night, the speech that Shane had obviously practiced—which is, God, just so endearing—but he doesn’t know how to approach it. No matter how much he wants it, how can he say yes? No matter how impossible it is, how could he say no?
The day passes in a haze of bed and couch, couch and bed, and eventually his fever lowers enough that he feels human enough to shower properly. Shane joins him, gets him off again but won’t let Ilya do the same for him because of how shoddy his balance still is, and washes his hair. Ilya tries not to cry at the sensation of being so fucking cared for. He’s pretty sure he fails, and he has been such a waterfall this week which is embarrassing, but at least the shower water helps cover up the tears this time.
Shane babies him and half-carries him to bed when the steam makes him dizzy again. It’s humiliating and makes his throat tight. He kind of loves it.
When the fever spikes again that night, Shane’s patient and calm. He holds Ilya tight and rubs his back and cleans his face for him with tissue after tissue when his nose won’t stop running and his eyes won’t stop leaking. Ilya can feel his brain overheating, and probably this isn’t the moment, but he can’t help it. If he isn’t brave now, he worries he never will be.
“Shane,” he croaks, face buried in Shane’s neck, during a quieter moment when he’s not crying and Shane’s not absorbed in shushing him and trying futilely to make it all better.
Shane strokes a hand up and down his spine. “Yeah?”
“The cottage. Do you still want?”
Shane’s hand goes stiff on his back, before ultra-casually resuming the same motion as before. “I do,” he says quietly. “And… and you?”
The hope and tension in Shane’s voice is impossible to ignore. How could he ever have even imagined disappointing this man? Ilya presses a kiss to the side of Shane’s throat at a known delicate spot, delighting in the shiver it causes. “I want,” he says, the words thick in his throat from fear. “I am terrified, but I want. Okay?”
“Okay,” Shane breathes, holding him tighter. He presses kisses to Ilya’s temples like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. “Then we’ll figure it out. We’ll make it work.”
The joy in Shane’s body language, the grin in his voice, is enough to put Ilya back to sleep with a matching smile on his face.
*
Author’s Note: And then Shane catches the flu and then they both get knocked out of the playoffs and then they watch The Kiss and then they go to the cottage with EVEN MORE hope and security in their relationship. It takes Ilya about two hours into the trip to say “I love you” in English, instead of two days. And then they live happily ever after with many more cold and flu incidents THE END.
Somebody who can tell their partner must be getting sick because they're suddenly trying to hold back their sneezes. They wouldn't normally care about sneezing in front of their partner, but they're obviously trying to avoid it. Almost as though they're trying to hide something...
