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.
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)
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.
Ok but what about the handsome, kind (or handsome, nasty?) regency gent who spends his summers at the manor house of a rich aunt or great aunt in the middle of meadows and pastures and lush gardens and he has massive hayfever...
...and he is both mortally embarrassed and turned on by it. And turned in by the embarrassment and embarrassed of how turned on he is.
Starting every morning with a ludicrous sneezing fit, sneezing as he gets up, just sits on the bed and sneezes and blows his nose for a good while, conscious of the fact that he's being heard through the door by anyone who happens to pass by and so embarrassed by the thought. Another guest knocking the door and asking if he's alright, he blushes up to his ears. "Don't mind!" he pipes with a stuffy voice, and sneezes. "Thank you!"
And he's embarrassed by the fact that the servants have obviously been told to keep his nighstand stacked with neat piles of handkerchiefs because he has a streaming hayfever. His hayfever is accounted in how the household is run. Embarrassed, and shamefully turned on.
Perhaps he's adamant about dressing himself because he can't just sneeze all over a manservant first thing in the morning. Or perhaps he just holds a handkerchief to his nose through the whole process, switching hands when needed.
And then there's the breakfast to get through, all the comments, the inquiries about his health, the gentle frowns from the women and jokes from the men, friendly or crass. The smartass cousin who will bless him as she's leaving: "Bless you times thirty-eight" because she counts to vex him. What she doesn't know is that she's also getting him painfully hard.
The well meaning chaps trying to arrange him a meeting with a lady in the garden. Just generally being constantly perceived and commented, though sometimes it's even worse when he's alone, fully gives in to sneezing and blowing his nose, then remembers how easy it is to hear him through the door.
And that one time he stays for a visit during winter he immediately comes down with the worst cold.
And the handkerchiefs appear neatly stacked on the nightstand again. Everyone must be thinking he's just always sneezing. Mortifying. (So turned on...)
sorry, another poll, but i would love to know the overlap of snzfuckers who are also into dacryphilia. those are my only âstrangeâ kinks that i donât always think of in terms of sex. i am into it in the same way i am sneezing, i mostly (but not always) enjoy it in a causal setting, not a sexual one, just getting to take care of someone in everyday life is hot to me. if you are a dacryphiliac who only enjoys it in only sexual situations, this is for dacryphiliacs of any kind, let me know how many of us there are out there!
Summary: S/hane gets sick during the playoffs and tries like hell not to be. I/lya gets big gooey heart eyes about it and gives him a massage. Set during their first year as a couple, right after I/lya switches teams and moves closer. (Contains possible kink I/lya, if you squint.)
*
âYou okay, H/ollander? Moving slow this morning.â
S/hane could feel his brain moving at a glacial pace as he fought to comprehend the words that had been tossed at him carelessly by a teammate. Heâd woken up this morning feeling like he was half-underwater, like everything was hazy and dreamlike, but not in a nice way.
Heâd dragged himself slowly to morning practice, even when I/lyaâalready out of the playoffs this year, and sleeping at S/haneâs apartmentâhad teased that he should just come back to bed âif he was going to be such a slowpokeâ.
By the time heâd processed JJâs words, JJ had skated off, leaving him behind. âIâm just tired,â S/hane said, protesting to no one. He swiped a glove under his nose, which had started running from being out on the ice.
That was all it was. Just tired.
He picked up his hockey stick and kept moving.
*
After practice, Hayden was chatting at him by the lockers. Something aimless, about Jackieâs latest bird food recipe for him. Something that didnât require a lot of participation on Shaneâs part, thank God. He hadnât been able to shake off this morningâs haziness quite yet, and practice had only made him feel slower, heavier in his bones.
âYou good, bro?â Hayden interrupted himself to ask. He poked at Shaneâs arm, as if imagining that Shane would deflate like a balloon. âYouâre really pale over there. Like, more than usual. I think I can count all your freckles.â
Shane cleared his throat, shifting away from Hayden to avoid more poking. He picked up his water bottle and took a long gulp. âJust dehydrated, I think. Skipped my morning smoothie.â
Not because his throat had hurt. He just hadnât been thirsty.
âOkay,â Hayden said cheerfully. âI bet you could find someplace around here that makes them just as disgustingly healthy as you do.â
Shane flipped him off and headed for the showers, ignoring Haydenâs cackle of laughter behind him. The water was cold when he stepped into the spray, and Shane couldnât keep himself from immediately snapping forward with a sneeze.
âhhâesshht!â
He caught it in his elbow, thanking God that none of his other teammates were in the showers just yet. He hated when the cold made him⊠himâŠ
This one, he managed to mostly stifle between his pinched thumb and forefinger. âhhânkkt!â
And the next two. âhhângkt! âŠHAHângxxkk!â
The last one had come with a louder inhale than heâd wanted, and he knew he needed to blow his nose or risk this turning into a bigger fit. He fumbled to turn the shower off, reaching blindly for his towel.
âHollander, you alrâ?â
âHEHHTâsschhh!â he sneezed again, hastily into the palm of his hand, this time only partially keeping the sound of it contained. He could feel the congestion building up, and they were only going to get wetter. Reluctantly, he brought his towel up to his face and bullied his nose with the rough fabric until the tickle died down.
âJesus, man,â Miitka said, giving him a wide berth as he went to another shower stall. âYou donât sound too good.â
âSâjust from the cold water,â Shane muttered, wishing he still had the showers to himself so he could blow his nose without an audience. Giving up on the shower, he wrapped the towel around himself and booked it for the bathrooms so he could clear out his sinuses in peace.
*
Hayden talked him into lunch with the team, some poor eatery that wasnât prepared for twelve hockey players and their humongous appetites. Shane was just grateful they had a single salad on the menu with his safe foods in it.
They didnât have ginger ale, though. He was surprised by how actually upset he felt about that, having to push back the barest prick of tears in his eyes.
He felt⊠raw. Like an exposed nerve. His sensitivity surprised him. Practice had really worn him out.
âYouâre shivering, dude,â a teammate told him.
Shane struggled to swallow his bite of salad. His throat was dry, the tiniest bit sore, and he chugged more water to fix it. âYeah, weâre right under the vent,â he said, though it really wasnât even that cold.
The next sip of water went down the wrong way, and he couldnât keep from coughing, pressing his face into his elbow and praying he would stop before his teammates started thumping him on the back. His skin felt hypersensitive, probably from the cold of the vent plus overexercise at practice, and he suddenly couldnât bear the idea of being touched.
He pushed his chair back, the sound of it scraping the floor hurting his ears, and mumbled an excuse before booking it to the bathrooms. In there, he coughed until tears burned at the corners of his eyes, swallowing tap water from the sinkâwhich he usually avoided drinking on principleâto finally make himself stop.
Hands braced on the edges of the sink, Shane looked up and eyed himself in the mirror warily. He forced himself to take in the facts. A wet shimmer in his eyes from the tears. Dark under eye circles. Skin so pale he could see his freckles standing out. He sniffledâthere was a thickness there, like inflammation and congestion both settling in. His throat still tickled a little bit. His skin still hurt, and maybe it wasnât from overexertion after all.
His grip on the sink tightened. âNo,â he told his reflection, firm and insistent. âThis is not happening.â
*
He made it through the rest of lunch without doing anything to stand out or embarrass himself, which he was thankful for. Hayden had offered a hangout at his place afterward, a way to chill out before the game, but didnât seem too pressed when Shane declined. Heâd begged off for a nap at his place instead, which was a common thing for players to do before a game, thank God.
He slid into his car and rested his forehead against the steering wheel for a minute before forcing himself to sit up. Now that he wasnât in the group, the pressure to act normal was off him, and he suddenly felt so tired that he thought he might actually nap once he got home. He hoped Ilya wouldnât mindâhe probably expected some marathon sex session, knowing him.
Shane had decided by the end of lunch that his moment in the bathroom had just been pre-game nerves. He was not sick. There was no way, he didnât have time for it, and he hadnât been around anyone sick. Well, Haydenâs crew always had some bug going around, but Hayden himself seemed fine, didnât he? So it stood to reason that Shane had to be fine, too.
âhhâTSSCHHâsheww!â He flinched forward with a sudden sneeze before he could stop himself. His nose tingled, like heâd been dusting or something, and the sneeze felt wetter, heavier, than he was used to. Shane lifted a hand to his face to try to scrub the tickle away, only for it to abruptly transform into another sneeze that refused to be held back, forcing him to shield the spray with only a palm. âhhâTCCHHH!â
Once heâd recovered himself, sniffling into a takeout napkin that Ilya had probably left in his car, and regretting not having any tissues, he slumped back against his seat. âFuck.â
He drove back to the apartment, suddenly overwhelmed with the proof of his immune system giving up. He kept having to stifle back little fits of sneezes, like heâd done in the shower that morning, so he wouldnât wreck his car. His throat protested, too, but he wasnât coughing. Yet, he thought ominously. And his skin ached, worse than this morning.
The drive itself was short and uneventful, aside from all his symptoms refusing to be dammed back anymore, and heâd spent the whole time daydreaming about his bed, but he found himself lingering in the car once heâd parked. He didnât know what heâd say to Ilya once he got inside, Ilya whoâd been waiting all day for himââhey, thanks for making the inconvenient drive from your new apartment in Ottawa, but Iâm sick, so leave me alone? I appreciate your eternal devotion, but my nose is stuffy, so get the hell out?â
Heâd never been sick around Ilya before, not beyond little post-game sniffles theyâd been able to ignore during hookups, and certainly nothing since theyâd made their relationship official. His immune systemâs sudden breakdown made him a little nervous for Ilyaâs reaction. It was inconvenient, it was gross, and worst of all, it was weak.
Eventually, he had to force himself inside, knowing that he needed the nap before it got too late in the day. What he didnât want was to go into the game tonight exhausted and⊠and sick. It was the playoffs, for Godâs sake. He cursed, dragging his feet and making his way to his floor.
Ilya was lying on the couch, playing one of those stupid ad-ridden games on his phone that he was addicted to. âGood practice?â Ilya called out, not taking his eyes off his game.
For once, Shane was grateful not to have the weight of Ilyaâs full attention on him. Usually he craved it, but today he felt like ducking notice as much as possible. He croaked out a, âYeah,â and slunk into the kitchen like a dog trying to avoid getting into trouble. He was halfway through making his afternoon protein shake when he felt Ilya slide up behind him, wrapping his arms around Shaneâs stomach and pressing his chin into Shaneâs shoulder.
âOkay?â Ilya asked.
Shane couldnât keep himself from smiling. He loved the way Ilya pronounced that word, so quintessentially Russian. âTired,â he said, clinging onto the excuses that the team had bought wholeheartedly all morning. Just tired. Just dehydrated. Just cold. Really cold, actually, now that heâd stopped moving. He shivered.
Ilya seemed to read his mind, rubbing his hands up and down Shaneâs arms to soothe the goosebumps. âChilly,â Ilya said, an observation and not a question.
âThe, uh, restaurant was kind of cold.â
âAnd the car on the way home?â Ilya asked.
Shane could feel Ilyaâs raised eyebrows without turning around to look at him. He stayed very still, like a prey animal hoping to avoid the predatorâs eye.
Ilya waited a beat, then sighed and rubbed Shaneâs arms again, this time more to comfort than to warm. âMalyyysh,â he said, drawing the word out until it was almost a tease. It was one of Shaneâs favorite pet names, and he knew it. âYou are getting sick, I think? Yes?â
Shane felt caught, like the prey animal heâd imagined himself as. Maybe he needed to stop thinking in metaphors. âIâm fine,â he protested, but his voice broke awkwardly on the words, leaving him exposed in the lie, and he abruptly knew there was no point in it. Ilya always knew all the things he wanted to hide. His shoulders slumped in defeat and he nodded. âYou can go whenever.â
âGo? Go where?â Ilya asked, actually sounding surprised. âYou think I am going to leave, malysh?â
âI mean⊠yeah?â He let himself sniffle, feeling the drag as it caught uncomfortably in his swollen sinus passages. What was the point in hiding it anymore? âI wouldnât blame you for not wanting to catch this.â
Ilya shrugged and draped himself over Shane even harder, if that were possible. âI am out for the playoffs already. Does not matter if I get sick.â
Shane groaned at the reminder of tonightâs game. He brought up a hand and scrubbed at his eyes. They were so tired they were starting to pulse, but he was dreading lying down. There was no way he woke up feeling any better than he felt nowâmost likely, it would be even worse, and then heâd still have the game to play.
âYou, though,â Ilya mused, reading his mind again. âWe need to do something about this, yes?â
âLike what?â Shane snapped. Immediately, he sighed and rubbed at his nose, feeling it prickle at the touch uncomfortably. âSorry. Iâm⊠shit, Iâm sorry. I donât feel great. And I donât have time to be sick right now. I have so much to do.â
Ilya huffed out a laugh and pressed a kiss to Shaneâs shoulder over his shirt. âI do not think you get a choice in this, Hollander. Itâs okay, though. We fix.â
Shane couldnât help but feel curious. âHow?â
He let Ilya take charge from there, leading him into the bedroom and gathering up comfy pajamas. âIlya,â he put up a token protest when Ilya physically pushed him toward the bed, âIâm sorry, I really donât feel likeââ
âThank you, Shane, I know this,â Ilya put in with patience, rolling his eyes with a fond smile. âI am not here to rock your world, at least not right now. But how will you nap with dress shirt, hm? Put on your pajamas.â Ilya shoved a soft pair of sweatpants in his direction, then disappeared into the en-suite bathroom.
Shane changed his pants and sat down on the bed while Ilya perused the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. The prickling in his nose had only grown more insistent, teasing and annoying in equal measure. He stripped out of his dress shirt, making to fold it as he sat there shirtless, but the teasing sensation abruptly transformed into the immediate, undeniable need to sneeze. Casting the shirt to the side, he ducked into his cupped hands, stifling the sneezes back as much as he could. âhehâkxxt! heh⊠hihâKGGXHHT!â
The two sneezes were rougher than he was used to. Drier, though that was because heâd been stifling; he could feel wetness begging to come out, congestion having thoroughly settled in his sinuses. They had hurt from the force of stifling, too, and he resisted the urge to groan.
âBless you,â Ilya called out from the bathroom.
And after all that, theyâd still been audible, making it hardly worth the effort.
Shane blushed, scrubbing at his nose until the lingering tickle died down. âThangks,â he muttered, feeling now just how stuffy he was getting.
Ilya returned from the bathroom with a bottle of cold medicine in hand. âYou should not hold them back like that,â he informed Shane, measuring out a dose. He handed it over matter of factly, leaving Shane feeling like he was six years old again.
âIâll keep that ind mbind,â Shane mumbled, flushing again when he heard how congested he sounded in his nâs and mâs. âThatâs what everybody says.â
âYou will give yourself sinus infection,â Ilya said. He gestured at his own thrice-broken nose and deviated septum with lighthearted self-deprecation. âTake it from someone who gets one every year: they suck. Take your medicine.â
âJeez,â Shane cracked a smile, unable to help himself. âI wouldnât have pictured you as such a mother hen.â He downed the medicine like a shot, praying it worked quickly. Sitting down had let him relax a little, and all he could focus on now was the way his body ached. He hoped he wasnât spiking a fever. Heâd be useless tonight if he couldnât even skate straight.
Ilya only grinned and took charge once again: hanging up the dress shirt so Shane wouldnât fuss over folding it, putting away the rest of his clothes, and ushering him into bed. He even went to get Shane the protein shake heâd left behind in the kitchen.
By the time Ilya got back from the kitchen, Shane was sitting up against the headboard, trying to coax out the sneeze that had been taunting him for the last few minutes. He had grabbed a handful of tissues from the fresh box Ilya had left on the nightstand, but it just wouldnât come. He dragged the tissue over his nose, featherlight this time, and felt his breath finally catch in the way heâd been waiting for. Too relieved to stifle, he let it come out a little louder than typical for him. âhehh⊠HEHHH⊠HEPTâSHHIEWW!â
âBless you,â Ilya said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
But he wasnât done. He rubbed at his nose through the tissue and hitched again, helpless until the itch was finished with him. âhuhhâ!â It was fighting him. Frustrated, he hovered over the tissue, feeling his breath catch again and again as the tickle teased him some more. âhuhh⊠huhHHâ!â
âOh,â Ilya said, a little surprised but mostly teasing him, just as surely as the tickle was. âOh, I see. One is not enough, you go again?â
Shaneâs eyes were closed, so he was surprised to feel Ilyaâs fingers brush against his cheek, the tips dragging at the bridge of his nose.
âYou need help, hm?â Ilya murmured, gentle but ribbing him. âA little assist?â
The hockey pun wasnât lost on him, but he didnât have time to react as Ilyaâs gentle touch, plus the tickle in his sinuses, overwhelmed him. He crashed forward into his lap, the tissue barely covering everything as he gave in and let the explosion burst out. âHUUSSCHHHâOOH!â
It was bigger than any sneeze he could remember having, huge and soaking and demanding. It sounded like one of Ilyaâs sneezes, actually, loud and satisfying. Shane moaned, half relief and half embarrassment. Maybe a little bit turned on, too, though he couldnât explain why. He was Pavloved to Ilyaâs touch in all circumstancesâeven the snotty ones, apparently.
Ilya sucked in air against his teeth, surprised. âBig sneeze, moya lyubov.â
Shaneâs shoulders hunched, the embarrassment belatedly winning out. âSorry,â he mumbled into the tissue heâd sneezed into, feeling its dampness against his skin. Gross. He blew gently, trying not to be as loud as he knew he could be. Jeez, this cold was turning out wet. Just what he needed.
âIs okay,â Ilya said softly. His hands were suddenly everywhere on Shane, rubbing his shoulders and taking away the tissue to throw it away for him. âLie on your stomach? I have idea.â
Those were usually Shaneâs wordsâheâd have an idea, and Ilya would grumble and groan but eventually give in. The role reversal took Shane by surprise. This whole afternoon was taking him by surprise, honestly. Ilya was being so soft, so calm, so unexpectedly sincere.
It was⊠nice. So nice he didnât even put up a token protest, only flopping back onto the bed and rolling onto his stomach. It was harder than usual, breathing in this position with his nose so stuffy, and he propped his chin on folded arms to make it a little easier.
Then Ilya sat on the backs of his thighs, and Shane didnât breathe at all for a second. âI-Ilya,â he said, coughing a little with the shock. âI⊠I really dondât thingkâŠâ
âYou donât want back rub?â Ilya teased. âI will be gentle, solnyshko. Will help you sleep, I promise.â He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the back of Shaneâs neck. His next words came out breathy, his exhale felt on Shaneâs neck. âI promise, is all this is.â
Shane could feel the evidence of Ilyaâs arousal against his ass, but he didnât argue. A massage sounded amazing, if he didnât fall asleep immediately. Why had he ever been against the thought of a nap? Now that he was horizontal, he could barely keep his eyes open. âMmb⊠ogkay,â he said sleepily. âNo funndy busindess.â
Ilya snorted at Shaneâs congested words. âSure, sweetheart. No funny business.â
For a moment, nothing. Then, Ilyaâs hands were on Shaneâs shoulders, gentle at first before he started to dig into the muscles. Several minutes of this passed peacefully before Ilya spoke again.
âWas going to do this for you anyway, what with the playoffs. Good for sore muscles,â Ilya mused out loud. He dug his thumb into a knotted spot that had Shane groaning into his folded arms. âBut it will probably help you sleep off this bad cold, too, hm?â
Shane shivered a little, though he wasnât cold, exactly. He felt warm, and hazy with sleep, and cared for even when he was being gross, and the combination was kind of intoxicating. His nose started to tickle, and all he could bring himself to do to fend it off was to rub it hard against his forearm.
âTired yet, malysh?â Ilya murmured. His touch was firm but not painful, teasing and prying at all the knots of tension Shane carried in his shoulders and back until they simply fell apart. It felt better than any physio.
âMmbâŠâ Shane knew heâd made a sound in response, but right now he couldnât bring himself to form words for a response. He felt so sleepy, and maybe a little hazy off the cold medicine starting to kick in, and abruptly ticklish⊠God, his nose felt so unbelievably sensitive with this coldâŠ
âShane?â Ilya asked, pressing hard at a stubborn knot in one shoulder.
He couldnât focus long enough to say something, anything, to reassure Ilya. All of his concentration was suddenly on the tickle, but oddly enough, he didnât feel like fighting it for once. He sucked in a hasty breath, letting the sneezes burst out of him in a wet, needy rush that felt so, so satisfying.
âheh⊠hehhhâshieww!â He sneezed, feeling the hot, damp air of it as he sprayed helplessly across his forearms and into the sheets. Immediately, he was inhaling for the next one, no time to even think of covering or stifling it, no desire to do so even if heâd had time. âhuhh⊠huhâhupshhoohh! OhâŠ. Iâmb⊠huhhsshheww! OhhhâŠâ
God, the relief of them had been intense. Theyâd been softer than his previous sneezes, but no less powerful. His nose still tingled, like it might need to sneeze again in a moment but was in no hurry to do so. He found himself completely uncaring of the fact that heâd sneezed so openly and wetly on himself, right in front of his boyfriend. Too tired and overwhelmed with this cold to even be embarrassed anymore.
âOh, Shane,â Ilya said, a little hoarse. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Shaneâs shoulder, chaste and sweet. âBless you, sweetheart. Feel better?â
Shane smiled into his forearms, half-drunk on sleepiness and the cold medicine. âBet-ter,â he said, gently mimicking Ilyaâs accent. âWill you nap with me?â
Ilya smoothed his hands over Shaneâs shoulders and back one more time, feeling for any remaining knots. Then, satisfied with his work, he dismounted and collapsed back onto the bed beside Shane, eyeing him with a lazy smile. âNothing Iâd rather do,â Ilya said genuinely. âCome here, malysh.â
Shane army crawled into Ilyaâs arms, resting his head on his chest. With what little remained of his rationality, he hoped and prayed he wouldnât sneeze into Ilyaâs chest. Heâd embarrassed himself enough for one afternoon, and even Ilya couldnât possibly be so accepting after that. Heâd already put up with Shane sneezing and sniffling all over himself.
Shane felt like he was dreaming already. Heâd never imagined, this morning, that Ilya would stay through all this, would take care of him. âThanks for staying,â he mumbled into Ilyaâs skin. âYouâre good at this.â
Ilya pressed a kiss into his hair, so quiet and gentle that Shane wouldnât have known it had happened at all if he hadnât felt the slight pressure. âI have been waiting a long time,â he said softly, âto take care of you in all the ways I want to.â
Shane felt a little overwhelmed by thatâhe was frequently overwhelmed by the depth of Ilyaâs love, when he least expected itâand he couldnât think of the right thing to say. He snuggled further into Ilyaâs arms and pressed his own kiss into the skin just beside Ilyaâs nipple. âMe too,â he whispered.
âI know,â Ilya said. His hands petted Shane absently, soothing over the nape of his neck and across his back. âSleep, malysh. I will wake you when itâs time.â
*
It was getting to the end of the game by the time Shane really started flagging.
Heâd woken up from his nap to another dose of meds already ready for him, along with hot tea and Gatorade. Ilya had kept him well-hydrated as heâd eaten a light dinner and prepped for the game, and it had done a lot to soothe his headache and growing cough. Keeping hydrated had also kept him with a permanently streaming nose, so Ilya had pushed bundles of tissues into his hands every few minutes to address it, until it was time for him to catch his ride for the game.
Shane had made it to the stadium feeling decently okay to play, though he couldnât quit sniffling, to the point where Hayden had noticed. âThought you were just dehydrated,â heâd said dryly in the locker room.
âCaught your Pike plague, I guess,â Shane responded snarkily, thumbing at his nose and praying it behaved itself during the game. Heâd been feeling too annoyed and self-indulgent to even pretend not to be sick.
Hayden only rolled his eyes with a grin and shoved a water bottle at him. Heâd been nice about it, at least.
Shane had played fairly well, though now as they wound down, he could feel himself starting to droop. There were only a couple of minutes left in the game, and Montreal had the lead by 1, which he felt confident in. Theyâd win tonight, putting them into the next round of the playoffs, which would earn Shane a couple of nights to rest off this cold. He could feel now how badly he needed it.
He finished his shift on the ice, collapsing readily onto the bench and watching his teammates play with bated breath.
ââŠhihhâ!â
Okay, not so much bated breath, maybe. The sneeze had snuck up on him, but heâd been fighting them off all evening, increasingly more as the game went on. This tickle was insistent, though, and he was exhausted and worn down by all the energy heâd spent playing. Unable to help himself, he snapped forward with the sneeze, hastily buried into the elbow of his jersey. âhiiihhâtiisschhoohh!â
The sneeze was damp, airy, and not half as satisfying as heâd hoped it would be. He sniffled on the inhale of his next breath, and the tickle burst back into life, forcing him to immediately hitch and sneeze again on the exhale. ââŠsndff⊠huhhâtchhâshhuhh!â
Fuck, he could feel eyes on him. Maybe even the cameras. He prayed that this wasnât being broadcast to the whole stadium. He couldnât check himself, because his eyes were still shut tight, his head rearing back as he got ready for another one.
âhetchhshh!â he exploded for the third time, this sneeze wetter and heavier than the others.
It seemed to be the last, for now. He emerged from his elbow, feeling the redness in his cheeks as he caught the eyes of his teammates watching him. He sniffled, dragging his arm under his nose when that wasnât enough to stop the flood, and he cringed at how disgusting that was.
The game ended soon after, wrapping up their advance to the next round of the playoffs like heâd hoped. Shane hurried his way through his shower and cool-down, ready to get home. He checked his phone first chance he got, seeing several texts from Ilya commentating on the game throughout.
And then, the most recent text, from the last few minutes of the game:
Lily: God bless you sweetheart! That looked like a strong fit. I will have tissues ready for you when you get home â€ïž
Well, that was confirmation that the cameras had caught him all sick and sneezy for the audiences at home to see. Shane knew he was blushing down at his phone, and he hoped his teammates didnât notice. He couldnât bring himself to acknowledge the text, only letting Ilya know in a brief message when he was leaving the stadium.
The car ride home was quick, or at least he thought it was, but he was really starting to fade now that the adrenaline from the game was wearing off. Time was losing its meaning. Before he knew it, he was stumbling out of the car and up to his apartment. The elevator ride was equally hazy, and by the time he made it to his door, all he could focus on was the idea of his bed, with Ilya in it. That, and the resurging tickle in his nose.
He pushed his way through the front door just as the tickle caught up to him. Helpless to stop it, and not really in the mood to try to crush it down, for once he just let himself sneeze as loudly as his body needed to. He bent forward at the waist, barely catching a pair of violent, huge sneezes in his cupped hands.
Jesus Christ, that had felt agonizingly good. He panted into his hands for a second, trying to see if there would be more, and decided that that had been enough to satisfy his sinuses for now. He sniffled thickly and straightened.
Ilya, whoâd been approaching, stood in front of him, a little frozen in shock from the outburst heâd just witnessed. He blinked and recovered, coming up to hug Shane and produce a handful of tissues for him from his pocket. âBig big sneezes, malysh!â he exclaimed. âGame wear you out? You played well.â
Heâd have played much better healthy, but Shane wasnât in the mood to diagnose his errors tonight. That was unusual for him, but he was just too tired, and Ilyaâs arms around him were so warmâŠ
He took the tissues and blew his nose, cringing when he filled the tissues immediately. âUgh, thangks,â he said, his voice more of a congested rasp than it had been just an hour ago. âUmb, do you have andy mboreâŠ?â
Ilya readily handed over more tissues, and Shane blew his nose again, coughing a little afterward. His nose felt clearer, though, and his head was not-unpleasantly foggy as his body and brain equally decided they were ready to give up for the night. âBed?â he suggested hopefully.
Ilya laughed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, guiding him toward the bedroom. âOnce you have your meds again,â he said, âyou can lay down. And maybe, if you are good, I will rub your back again.â
Shane felt pretty sure heâd be asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, massage be damned, but he let Ilya talk up the prospect of it anyway as he put on pajamas and took a dose of the nighttime stuff that Ilya had carefully measured out for him. He could cash in on the massage tomorrow, maybe, when he undoubtedly woke up feeling achy and exhausted after exacerbating his cold with tonightâs game.
And maybe, in a couple of days when Ilya inevitably started sneezing and coughing himself, Shane could flip the tables around and return the favor. He was feeling pretty grateful, after all.
âThangks for all this,â he said throatily, half from illness and half from emotion, as he curled into Ilyaâs arms in bed. It couldnât have even been midnight, but Ilya hadnât protested the early bedtime at all, and that was making him feel more mushy than usual with this cold fucking with his emotions. âTaking care of mbe, I mbean. Staying.â
Ilya squeezed him a little tighter, like Shane was going to slip out of his arms. âI would not be anywhere else,â was his unusually serious response. âI love you, moya lyubov.â
Shane felt his eyes drifting shut. âLove you too,â he mumbled, just as he fell asleep.
Reblog if you have a sneeze kink and you're from the UK!
Hands up if you're British with a snz kink? It can be hard to find each other in such a small group, what with all the Americans and all *shakes fist* There must be a few more Brits with this special interest. So if youâre part of the sneeze kink community and youâre based in the UK, please reblog this post đ
iâm just now getting around to reading heated rivalry and hello iâm gonna paraphrase smth shane said in his internal monologue âshane couldnât sneeze in public without the hockey sites reporting that he was deathly ill, and how that should affect your sports bettingâ
so weâve been ill in public shaneđ so weâve been sneezing in public shane đ
Reblogging because I need more people to see this. Also, I have thoughts that I put in the notes I want to add.
Imagine this is why Shane hates being noticeably sick in public. The media is always making a spectacle of it.
Waking up to his phone notifications going crazy as friends and family blow up his phone with well-wishes. Disoriented and confused because he's positive he hasn't told anyone he's sick.
Turns out, a fan caught him buying cold medicine and snapped a photo of him. Probably posted it with some lame caption that says: Guess even Hockey Gods catch colds. đ
Shane is so grumpy because how dare people perceive him.
Meanwhile, Ilya's using this opportunity to absolutely abuse his delivery app to send his boyfriend things. A little salty that he has to find out about his boyfriend being sick through strangers on the internet.
iâm just now getting around to reading heated rivalry and hello iâm gonna paraphrase smth shane said in his internal monologue âshane couldnât sneeze in public without the hockey sites reporting that he was deathly ill, and how that should affect your sports bettingâ
so weâve been ill in public shaneđ so weâve been sneezing in public shane đ
Three Times S/hane Hid Something From I/lya, and One Time I/lya Helped Him
+ One: The Confession
part one, part two, part three
hiiii, I am back, I am free, I have finished my dissertation! I was so hyped to return to this series that I accidentally made this part a little too long, so it's going to be two parts, but still focused on the same incident, if that makes sense? and then I was honored with an incredible prompt for an epilogue to the series (tysm anon!) so expect that soon as well. if you are in line with a request, stay in line! bc I am very much working through them again :) I also wanted to thank everyone for their patience and kind words, you all are the sweetest ever!
I hope you enjoy! âĄ
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 7.6k
cw: sneezing, general illness, anxiety, a genuinely annoying amount of interrupted sleep
Ilya stirred from a light sleep at the waning of a long midsummer night to his boyfriend looming over him. It was dark, still, but he could make out Shane's outline, and hear him breathing. He was breathing quite fast, Ilya realised slowly, and fumbling around the blond's nightstand, though his legs remained on his own side of the bed.
The Russian wondered if he should interrupt, wondered what he should say, wondered if his boyfriend had been possessed by some kind of demon with a hunger for half-used chapstick. He settled for, âAre you lost?â
Shane's sharp shallow breaths were abruptly cut off with a jagged inhale of surprise. He froze for a moment before continuing his search with renewed frenzy and no justification.
A few short seconds later, Ilya heard the familiar sound of a tissue being dragged from the box before Shane sat back on his haunches, crunching forward with a violent,
âhEhTDXSCHh!â
It was more forceful and productive sounding than his usual sneezes, and Ilya winced sympathetically, reaching out to turn on the light, blinking away the resultant tickle that sparked somewhere between his eyes, as Shane repeated himself.
âEHtCHuh!â
âGod bless you moya lyubov.â He crooned, ignoring the chaos of his nightstand in favour of tending to his crumpled husband and his crumpled tissue.
âTried not to wake you.â Shane muttered. âDidn't realise I was out of ti-hih- hHNGtch!â
âBudÊčzdorovâ
âheHTDSHhew!â
âGod bless you.â
âThank you. Sorry. Thank you.â Shane gratefully accepted the additional tissues Ilya thrust upon him, and blew his nose aggressively.
âYou are sick.â
âNooo.â The word was elongated so far it could be considered a whine by most definitions, and the Canadianâs voice wavered in and out, only stopping when the strain on his throat made him cough. It was no real denial, he clearly just didn't want it to be happening.
âYes. You are so so sick,â Ilya pulled him into his arms, dotting kisses over his shoulders and head, âand I make you⊠better.â He was entirely too tired to placate his boyfriend in any more detail than that, having almost replaced âbetterâ with âbutterâ and only deciding heâd chosen the right word when the Canadian didnât burst out laughing. Was butter good for sick people? Wasnât better to do with gambling? Why were words so fucking stu-
âFuck. My parents are coming tomorrow.â Shane groaned in a much more serious voice, pushing his face into Ilyaâs sternum so hard it almost hurt the blond, and he was half worried about his boyfriend suffocating himself.
âThey will help me, then.â
âNo.â Shane sat bolt upright, almost cracking his head on Ilya's chin. âI don't want them to know. I don't like freaking them out.â
âI do not think they will freak ou-â
âNo, Ilya. You donât get it, I canât just-â Ilya could see him shrinking in on himself as his muscles tensed up, hands fisting in the sheets, eyes flitting back and forth across the bedspread as he spoke. â-make them worry for no reason. I canât-â His voice had been growing progressively tauter with each word, the start of the next sentence the final straw for his throat as he broke off into a coughing fit, shuffling away from Ilya as he practically suffocated himself with his elbow.
âOkay, okay.â Ilya reached out and took the brunet by the hips, dragging him back until he was almost sitting in his lap and rubbing his back, applying just enough pressure to bring him out of his head, ground him back in the moment, but not enough that the contact would hurt. Which was a fine balance with how sensitive his boyfriendâs skin was to touch when he was really sick, but it was an art Ilya had all but mastered now. âWe do not tell them. I understand.â He really didnât. Not completely, anyway, but what he could understand was that talking about it was working his boyfriend up far more than was really good for him with his body trying to fight off illness. And that was good enough for him for the moment.
Shane surfaced from his elbow, breathing heavily, a slight flush visible on his cheeks in the lamplight, from exertion or embarrassment or some cold-related cause, Ilya couldnât be sure. âThank you.â
The blond reached out to cup his face, drawing a thumb over his cheek before moving his grip down to his boyfriendâs neck and pulling him gently back down to rest his head on his chest again. Shane melted against him like butter on hot toast, every ounce of tension draining from his body as he sighed deeply, Ilyaâs fingers starting to skim gently through his hair, pausing to draw soft circles at the edge of his temples, as though he could draw out the spiralling thoughts and lull him into a peaceful, anxiety-free sleep.
A crease appeared in the brunetâs brow, worries having apparently continued to plague him, as his eyes opened and his face fell into a regretful expression. âIâm sorry I woke you up.â
âNo, is good.â Ilya reassured him without hesitation, before his mind flicked back to the abrupt awakening. âWas scary, though, I thought you wanted to kill me.â
âReally?â Shaneâs tone was quickly taking on the soft awed quality of a child being told a bedtime story as sleep swallowed the more critical corners of his mind.
âNo.â
âWell, I was out of tissues, and I didnât have time to get out of bed and go round.â The explanation was slightly slurred and less monotone than the Canadian usually sounded when he was sober. It was very endearing, but some evil little part of Ilya wanted to see how far he could push it with his boyfriend in this state.
âWhy not use the sheet? Is same thing.â
A moment of hesitation as the cogs whirred, and then, âIt is not the same thing!â No further than the vague idea of improper manners apparently.
âI think it is.â He argued, heatlessly.
âI fucking know you do.â The crease in his brow was back, and deeper now. âGod, I canât believe I let myself share a bed with you before training those habits out.â
âSo what, I am dog now? Maybe I want to train weird Canadian habits out of you too.â
The brunet looked up, intrigued. âLike what?â
Ilya stared into his eyes, took in the way his lashes glowed golden brown in the lamplight, and suddenly couldnât think of a single thing heâd ever found annoying about the man. There definitely were things, he was sure of it, and Shane had somehow managed to erase them from his mind with his crinkly little half-asleep expression. Witchcraft.
âhNGTt! hEHNGT!â As quickly as heâd looked up, the subject of Ilyaâs infatuated gaze ducked down again, body jolting against the Russianâs as he pinched his nose tightly with fatigue-feebled fingers. âFuck, sorry.â
âMm. BudÊčzdorov. Like that, actually. Stop holding it in.â
Shane shook his head. âI donât wanna infect you.â
âOh yes, I will get sick bad if you sneeze in same bed as me. If we have sex in every room of house I will get just a little sick.â
âFuck, Ilya.â He sat up a little, pulling back so he was leaning mostly on the Russianâs shoulder but they were eye to eye, so the blond could see his honestly guilty expression in full. âI didnât know.â
He met him right back with an openly unbothered expression. âI donât care. I would fuck you anyway. Is fine.â
Shane made a small noise like it wasnât fine, but he didnât want to argue about it, as he slumped down against his boyfriendâs shoulder, and then sniffled, sleepily nudging at his nose with the back of his hand. This sparked another sniffle, a retaliatory nudge again, and a flicker in his slightly affronted expression- Ilya could have watched this, rapt, for hours- and then a panted hitching breath.
âhEhâŠâ He turned away with the sharp inhale, internally wrestling for control for a moment before he looked up at the Russian. âCan you pa-ah-ss me another-â He hesitated for a moment, face scrunching against the itch. â-ti-ihH-issue please.â
Ilya pulled up a section of the sheet, holding it out with a goading look. Shane smacked his chest weakly, shaking his head.
As amusing as dragging the issue out was, it was impossible to deny the helpless expression he was being fixed with for a moment longer. The blond reached out and tugged another tissue from the box, bringing it back, but just out of reach. Really Shane could have reached up and taken it without much difficulty, but they were both entirely too stubborn for this to be a simple hand-off.
âI-ihh-lya.â
âYou have to do it properly, okay?â
âF-uhh-ine.â The Canadian appeared to be genuine about the response, as far as Ilya could discern, so he handed over the tissue, surprised as his breath made a sharp switch from periodic snags to erratic hitching the second it was in his hand. He really was incredible at keeping the reflex under his control. Maybe Ilya should push the issue of learning how to do that slightly harder, it really would come in useful.
âhEhhâŠhhHâŠâ Shane fumbled with the fabric, folding it haphazardly before bringing it to his face, eyes squeezing shut.
âhEHtTDSHh!â
âGod bless you.â
âhHTDSCHhew!â
âGod bless you.â He was already reaching for another tissue to hand over, the damp, forceful nature of the expulsions not having gone unnoticed.
âThank you. Sorry, I wasnât expecting them to be quite thatâŠyou knowâŠâ Shane took the next tissue, avoiding eye contact as he pressed them both to his face, the last word coming out muffled, âbig.â
âMm, me too. Is going to be big cold, clearly.â He pressed a kiss into his boyfriendâs hair as the brunet ducked in on himself slightly to blow his nose, coughing softly into the tissues afterwards, with a muttered âSorry.â
Ilya wasnât completely sure what he was apologising for this time and he was definitely not going to ask, knowing it would be something completely unnecessary, as usual. Instead he settled for stroking his thumb over the back of his boyfriendâs neck as he let himself drift towards slumber again, slightly slower than usual, just in case Shane wasnât done with the prolog of his âbig coldâ and needed anything else.
It appeared that he didnât, because within minutes they were both sleeping deeply, dead to the world even as the first rays of sunlight started to slice around the blinds.
... When Ilya awoke for the second time, it was from a far deeper sleep. His phone alarm dragged him into consciousness against his will, an aching heaviness weighing on his eyelids, and an uncooperative clumsiness plaguing his limbs as he smacked at the screen in a frustrated bid to stop the noise.
Mind full of the swirling remnants of one of those dreams that felt like youâd lived an entire lifetime in the space of a few hours, he extricated himself from under Shaneâs splayed form and padded through to the bathroom to piss. Why the hell was he so tired? Theyâd gone to bed at what Shane would call a âreasonableâ hour right?
He stared at his slightly puffy face in the mirror, brow furrowed low over his eyes, debating going back to bed. After a few seconds of blank staring while the last coherent memories of the not-quite-nightmare dissolved before his mindâs eye, he dragged open the drawer in the counter, pulling out the box of antihistamine patches and shaking one out into his hand. Even if he was going to go back to sleep after this, it was still better to put one on before he forgot.
As he applied it to his arm, a rustling from the bedroom told him Shane was stirring, the sound of bedsheets rumpling as his boyfriend turned over. And at the sound, a tiny blaring alarm in the back of Ilyaâs brain was silenced. That was what had been throwing him off. He never woke up first. And if he did, he most certainly didnât get up first. It wasnât their routine.
Ilya stepped back into the doorway of the bedroom, watching the Canadian greeting the morning by pushing himself up onto his elbows and staring blankly at the opposing wall, like he had no idea where he was or why.
âGood morning.â The low words drew puffy half-shut eyes to him immediately, as Shaneâs confused gaze was given a new target to examine. Ilya swallowed a smile, knowing what his morning voice did to his boyfriend, the deeper, more thickly accented words never failing to earn him a passionate kiss.
âMorning.â In contrast, the brunetâs voice today sounded like his best attempt to provide a voice for some kind of lethargic, animated frog character, betraying a bubble in his throat that seemed to pop in synchronicity with the blissful ignorance that had been encapsulating Ilya, as Shane ducked to one side with a fit of productive coughs muffled into his bare elbow. Fuck, so that hadnât been part of the dream.
Ilya turned abruptly back into the bathroom, filling a glass usually reserved for rinsing oneâs mouth, with water from the faucet and bringing it back to the bed. He held it out, waiting as the brunet wrestled with his lungs, finally surfacing to look at the glass with a reluctant expression.
âDrink.â He encouraged.
âItâs bathroom water.â
âItâs what?â
âYou got it from the bathroom.â He swallowed thickly at the end of the sentence, as the coughing threatened to start again.
âYes, from sink, not from toilet. Drink.â
âItâs gross.â
âIt is same thing as in kitchen. You have fucking well. Drink.â
Shane stared at him obstinately. Ilya stared back, outstretched arm unwavering. He would stand here for as long as it took to get his boyfriend to drink some damn water and let himself feel better. The only thing more stubborn than Ilya on a regular day, was Ilya when something was wrong with Shane, and they both knew that.
âDrink.â
âŠ
The only thing more stubborn than Ilya when something was wrong with Shane, the Russian thought as he tugged open the fridge, was Shane himself.
He could hear the brunet succumbing to another coughing fit back in the bedroom, though it was audibly muffled, and couldnât help mentally cursing himself for not retrieving some suitable water sooner. He grabbed a bottle from the door, and took off at a jog, letting the appliance close on its own.
âHere.â Ilya twisted the cap off, holding out the bottle before he was even remotely close enough for Shane to take it from him, desperate to provide him with some relief.
The blond watched in exasperation as Shane took the water, fought to catch his breath, swallowed dryly, and turned sincere, bloodshot eyes up to him, âThank you.â Only then would he allow himself to begin to rehydrate, chugging the water with a fervor he usually saved for the bench, between shifts in the third period.
âSlow.â Ilya instructed, tapping on the side of the bottle to get his attention.
Shane did slow a little in response, lengthening the time between desperate, hungry swallows, finally pulling the bottle from his lips with a shaky sigh.
âHow do you feel?â
The brunet stared blankly at the bottle in his hand, resting against the covers, as though he were too tired to hold it unassisted, despite it being more than half empty. After a moment he shook his head.
âNot good?â Ilya guessed.
âMm.â
âYou want food? Medicine?â He carded a hand softly through Shaneâs hair, smoothing the chaos left over from a night of tossing and turning.
âNot really.â He held the bottle back out to Ilya, the Russian moving it carefully to the nightstand for him. âBut I should probably eat something anyway.â
âOkay.â Without really realising why, the blond started to walk away, only questioning his action when heâd made it to the other side of the bed. He didnât intend to get back in, so why-
âhhH-â
The sharp breath in drew Ilyaâs focus, and he realised that he was already reaching out to retrieve the box of tissues from his nightstand. He had just enough time to make it back around the bed and hold out the box, Shane dragging a couple free and folding them over his lower face.
âhTDSH! TDSHh! heHh⊠hEHTSHh! hTCHhew!â
âGod bless you.â He cupped the nape of the brunetâs neck with his free hand, feeling each jolt as it tensed up the muscles there.
Shane blew his nose, and cringed, either at the sound or the sensation, Ilya couldnât tell. âThank you.â He murmured, eyes drifting shut for a moment as he drew in a deep breath and sighed it back out again. Then his gaze turned slightly sharper, and he looked up at his boyfriend, curious. âDid you know that was going to happen before I did?â
âI donât know.â Ilya responded honestly. âMaybe.â Maybe heâd just remembered that Shane didnât have any tissues in his nightstand and gone to fetch them pre-emptively, or maybe heâd noticed some small signal, too small even to recall, that had warned him of the imminent need for something that wasnât a bedsheet to cover his face with.
âWow, thatâs pretty romantic.â
âYou know what else is romantic?- Fuck, vinovat, sorry.â Heâd dragged the covers back as he spoke, only for the brunet to shudder like heâd been doused in ice water, pulling his knees up to his chest. âWait.â
Ilya stepped over to the closet, retrieving one of his hoodies and shaking it out so it wouldnât feel as stiff and cold. He wished he could have given Shane one heâd been wearing but it was far too hot for him to sleep with any sort of shirt on, or even to think of dressing for the first few hours of being awake.
âArms.â
Shane obediently raised his arms, though he visibly tried to keep the rest of his body as compact as possible to stay warm. The blond rolled up the sleeves and body of the hoodie until he could easily slip it over his boyfriendâs hands and tug it down over his head and chest. Shane sunk into the material with another shudder.
âWhat else is romantic?â He asked, face buried in the collar of the hoodie, either trying to warm it up with his breath or soaking in Ilyaâs scent, if the Russian had to guess.
âAh.â His train of thought restored itself. âMaking you breakfast. Come on.â
Unable to bear watching his boyfriend crawl out of bed like he hadnât moved in a hundred years, both because he knew it would embarrass him and because the painfully slow, exhausted movements made Ilya want to scoop him up and carry him everywhere for the rest of his life- and he knew Shane would have some pretty serious qualms about that- he retrieved his phone from his nightstand and stood in the doorway scrolling aimlessly through it until the raspy congested breaths got close enough to make him look up on instinct.
Shane stood, glassy eyed, somehow appearing to drown in a hoodie that Ilya knew he had the muscular capacity to fill out as well as the blond did, breathing slowly through cracked lips, a dissatisfied little frown on his face.
âReady?â
He nodded slowly, and, with a deep sigh, started to shuffle down the hall towards the kitchen.
âŠ
Shane stared blankly out at the water as he moved oatmeal that he couldnât really taste around in his mouth. There was an aching heaviness lingering in his head, waxing and waning in his temples, throbbing behind his eyes, like gravity had been turned up on one specific lobe of his brain and it was dragging him down towards the table.
He swallowed, lifted another spoonful. It was so quiet, so peaceful, the trees barely stirring in the wind, wildlife muted by his clogged ears, that he wasnât totally sure heâd notice if time stopped entirely. That would be nice. Give him as much time as he needed to kick this stupid cold before his parents came around tomorrow.
The daydream of infinite stillness and silence, no time pressure, no responsibilities screaming in his ears, felt so tangible, so possible. He let his eyes drift closed as the spoon touched his tongue, imagining the birds in the trees freezing in place, the ripples in the water paused perfectly, refusing to decohere, clouds hovering hesitant in the sky, nothing in the world moving but him and-
âhhAHKk!-â Ilya.
Shane opened his mouth instinctively to gasp in surprise at the sudden noise, eyes darting to his boyfriend, who was leaning back over one shoulder, hands gripping the edge of the table to keep himself upright. The spoon fell from his mouth, hitting his thigh with a resounding slap, before bouncing onto the floor.
â-hKk! KKh! hKK!-â It was rare for his fits to start with anything but the tiny cough sneezes, but it happened, mostly when heâd been trying to keep himself under control for a while, or if the sneeze had eluded him for too long. The Canadian swallowed his mouthful of oatmeal, the bite going down agonisingly slowly as his digestive system kicked back in in the wake of the scare, and reached out an uncoordinated hand, placing it on Ilyaâs shoulder as he continued.
â-hKSHuh! hhhKSHH! haHKSH! hrRSHHOo!â
âBless you.â
âThank you.â The Russianâs eyes scanned the table, Shaneâs legs, and then the floor, alighting on the fallen spoon with a slightly guilty expression. âI tried not to, you looked so peaceful.â He leaned forward, retrieving the piece of cutlery. âI will get new spoon.â
Shane squeezed his shoulder lightly to get his attention as he straightened back up. âMaybe we should go inside.â
âNo, is fine. You need air.â He waved his hand in the vague direction of the landscape surrounding them.
âNot if itâs bothering you, I donât.â
âIs not bothering me. I always sneeze in morning, you know this.â Ilya tapped the antihistamine patch on his bicep. âWill work soon.â
Shane did know this, obviously. He also knew that his boyfriendâs morning sneezes were typically limited to one or two fits, three if either of the first had been particularly unsatisfying. And heâd watched him pause once while cooking, taking several nimble steps out of the kitchen to shower the floor in the hall with a violent fit, and heard him succumbing to a second in the bathroom when he was retrieving meds for the brunet to take with his breakfast. So this fit was clearly just because they were eating outside. So, because of him.
Before he knew it, Ilya was back, nose slightly redder than when heâd left, most likely the mark of the unforgiving paper towels in the kitchen, holding out a clean spoon.
âThank you. If you want to go inside, just say, okay?
Ilya looked at him unblinkingly, eyes roving Shaneâs form. Shane termed this his âtrap detectorâ look, when the Russian appeared to be staring into his very soul, searching for the meaning behind his words, figuring out exactly how Shane could use them to trip him up. It wasnât panicked, like a wild animal already caught, it was cunning, like something that had learned to pre-empt capture, and with a hint of enjoyment, as if these feeble word cages heâd set up were amusing to escape.
âI will say.â He answered at last.
âGood.â He used his new spoon to bring another mouthful of oatmeal to his lips. Ilya watched him in silence.
âSo, tomorrow-â The blondâs knee nudged his, as if to make sure he was listening, â-we need plan or what?â
âA plan?â
âFor your parents. You do not want them to know, soâŠâ
âOh fuck, yeah probably.â
âI have excuse, for if we need them to leave completely. What if you need break, though?â
âWhatâs the excuse?â
Ilya shook his head. âIs not for you, so you donât need to know.â
Wasnât the entire point of a plan to get on the same page about stuff? Whatever. âI guess if I need a break, Iâll just go to the bathroom? Or pretend to take a call.â
âCall from who?â
Shane took another spoonful of his breakfast and shrugged. Did it matter?
âIs all in details. You will not be able to think tomorrow. Plan ahead.â
âMm. Let me think about it.â
Ilya stroked his thumb along the back of Shaneâs hand. âIs all going to go fine. Everyone loves you.â
He felt his shoulders tense, gaze flicking from the bowl in front of him, out to the distant treetops as a pit opened in his stomach. That only made the pressure worse. Why couldnât everyone be ambivalent about him instead?
The Russian withdrew his hand, sensing his mistake. âStop thinking about it and eat. Is getting cold.â
He was grateful for the bluntness. It brought him back to reality, and he turned his focus back to his breakfast again, running over mundane information about the season in his brain to keep his mind from wandering to the next day, icing the intrusive thoughts over to the far side of his brain until his spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl.
Then he allowed himself to return to the moment, relieved to discover that his headache had withdrawn somewhat, the medicine heâd taken just before the meal apparently having kicked in. With a final deep breath in of the fresh air, he stood, glancing over Ilya who appeared to be lost in thought, as he opened the door to head back into the house.
âHollander.â There was a flicker of urgency in Ilyaâs voice, and the brunet spun around immediately.
âWhat?â
âI want to go inside.â The smile was picking up the edges of his mouth before heâd even finished the sentence.
âWh- fuck off.â Shane turned back, stepping over the threshold and heading to rinse his dishes in the sink.
âYou say to tell you!â The Russianâs voice echoed after him. âI am just doing what you say!â
âFuck-â He paused to cough harshly into his elbow. â-off!â
âŠ
The day had been far from peaceful for Shane. His mind spun back around to the next day and all sorts of hideous worst case scenarios, every time there was a slight lull in other things to think about. The only way heâd managed to get some rest was by having a random European hockey match playing on mute on the TV while he laid on Ilyaâs chest on the couch, watching, the blond delivering what appeared to be sarcastic commentary in Russian into the top of his head, punctuated with kisses.
So, to say he was exhausted now would be the understatement of the year. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the shifting shapes of the bedroom in the light from the bathroom, enthralled by whatever misperceptions his mangled mind was regaling him with, like a fatigue-driven version of shadow puppets.
âTired?â Ilyaâs fingertips lifted Shaneâs chin, his face turning obediently before he could drag his eyes along with it.
âMmf.â He slumped his face into the blondâs palm until he was holding the entire weight of his head, taking a partially obstructed breath in, faintly able to detect the scent of his own soap and the Russianâs aftershave.
âSo tired.â It was almost praise-like, the words spoken reverently from low in Ilyaâs throat, sending a shiver through Shane.
âMmf.â Was his only response, again.
Ilya sat down next to him, gently moving his head back up so he could take its burdensome weight on his neck again, and moving his hand around to massage lightly at Shaneâs shoulders, starting on one side of his neck and moving around to the other, as the Canadianâs gaze got lost in the things that werenât there again.
âYou will sleep so good, and your body will kill the cold while you sleep, and you will wake up and feel so much better, yes?â
It was less of a question or suggestion than an instruction, and though Shane knew he had no control over the microorganisms that made him up, he felt inclined to obey in every way he could. He nodded.
âAnd you will-â Though he wanted to listen, his focus was pulled away by an irritatingly sharp tickle in his nose, the first active feeling in a sea of sluggish sensations which had been lazily plaguing him for hours without drawing much notice.
He reached out and plucked a tissue from the box that remained on his nightstand, only aware of Ilya talking once the action drew him to a sudden halt. Instant regret washed over him, though he had no time to express it, raising the tissue and ducking away apologetically.
âhTSHhh!â
âGod bless you.â
âhhEhtDSHhhew!â The sneezes were weak, lacking the punch needed to be satisfying, entirely too feeble to have really earned the way they dragged him forward and left him drained afterwards.
âGod bless you.â
âSorry, I interrupted you.â He breathed into the tissue, too tired to sit back up, bent double still in the picture of exhausted remorse.
âNo, was just your body telling me âshut up so we can go to bedâ.â Ilya drummed his fingers on Shaneâs back. âCan you get in by yourself?â
The Canadian straightened. âYes. Iâm not eighty. And I donât want you to shut up.â
âOkay. I will talk for another hour, then.â He inhaled deeply, as though to begin some sort of monologue.
Shane didnât give him the satisfaction of trying to stop him, instead turning over to crawl slowly into bed, slumping down against the pillow with his back to him.
âYou are sure you are not eighty?â Ilya asked, poking his ass. âYou get into bed at same speed.â
âDid you sleep with a lot of eighty year olds before me, or is this based on just one or two observations?â He shot back, kicking weakly in the direction of his boyfriendâs hand.
âFuck you.â The mattress shifted as Ilya stood up, and with a click, the bathroom light turned off.
âNot before you fuck a bunch of grandpas, apparently.â Shane laughed, giddy in the sudden darkness, the sound quickly morphing into a cough that had him curling in on himself, elbow pressed to his mouth, feeling the whole bedframe shake with him.
âOkay, okay, you cannot die laughing at this shitty joke.â The Russian climbed in opposite him, hands coming to his boyfriendâs shoulders to steady him, though they felt around his head and the pillow and at least one of his knees before both finding their purchase. Not funny, not funny, donât start laughing again or youâll die.
The breath he drew in in the wake of the fit was long and ragged, stinging in his throat and aching in his lungs. Though he knew speaking would hurt even worse, he braved the decimation of his vocal cords anyway.
âIlyaa.â
âI know, moya lyubov. I know.â
âHurts.â
âIâm sorry.â Shane felt him let go, heard him shifting around, felt the covers being pulled up over them both, and finally heard slow calm breaths just in front of his face, before a soft kiss was pressed to his forehead. âTry to sleep, okay? I am here, and I will wake up if you need me.â
âI love you.â This he whispered, hoping to preserve his throat for the next day, and also fearing that the emotion that was making his eyes prick with unseen tears might extend to his voice.
âI love you too. Now rest.â
âŠ
Ilya was once again awoken by his boyfriend looming over him, though this time he wasnât in the bed at all, and when the blondâs eyes flew open, it was to blinding light.
âAgh!â He startled backwards, arms coming up defensively. Shane didnât move. âhhAH-!â He bit his tongue forcefully against the reflex, finding it easier than usual to quell, as fight-or-flight kicked in halfway through, flooding his system with adrenaline. Shane didnât react. âAre you okay?â Ilya managed finally, starting to push himself up to more of a sitting position. Shane said nothing, staring at him with wide blank eyes.
The Russian forced himself to slow down, heart racing from the horror movie scenario heâd woken to find himself in, forced himself to take in the scene. Shane stood, almost imperceptibly swaying, right by Ilyaâs side of the bed, breathing heavily again, though his expression was mostly neutral. Heâd abandoned the long-sleeve heâd gone to bed in, standing, shivering, in pyjama trousers, upper body covered in goosepimples, pecs glistening with sweat in the light of Ilyaâs bedside lamp, a single droplet running down his neck in a way that normally would have taken the blondâs breath away but instead opened a cold pit of dread in his stomach.
ââŠShane?â Ilya reached out to touch his face, poised to spring back if he accidentally startled him. Was he even conscious? Was he sleepwalking or something?
âIâm scared.â
The sentence came out of nowhere, nothing changed on the brunetâs face, and he spoke right as Ilyaâs hand grazed his burning hot cheek, making the Russian flinch in surprise. His voice was gravelly and obstructed, sounding discomposingly unlike himself as though he were only miming along to another personâs voice, the deep shadows cast on his face from the single light source not helping the terrifying image.
Ilya forced himself to reply with some semblance of stability, rather than echoing his boyfriendâs fear, as instinct drove him to. âWhy are you scared moy lyubimy? Is all okay.â
âTomorrow.â He replied simply.
âWith your parents?â Ilya tugged on his wrist, trying in vain to get him to sit down on the bed, only succeeding in making the Canadian stumble awkwardly towards him, bumping into the edge of the mattress and then stepping back again.
âWhat if they figure it out? And they know that IâmâŠâ He breathed heavily for a moment, a clumsy attempt to calm himself. â-sick.â
âThen-â
âThen,â Shane interrupted before he could be placated, âtheyâll know I hid it from them. They hate when I hide things.â
Ilya glanced down for a single second to free his legs from the covers, and when he looked up again, tears were pouring down his boyfriendâs face. Fuck. This was a bad fever. He could tell.
âOkay, okay, we have options, yes? We have plan and excuses, we have medicine, and we can move to other day if is really bad.â He swung his legs out of bed and stood up as he spoke, gently taking hold of his boyfriendâs arms- not missing the slight wince as he touched the fever-raw skin- and steering them around to the other side of the bed.
âBut I didnât sleep well, and I donât want to cancel because I might get worse, or you might get it, and we canât just keep moving it back.â Shane sniffled as Ilya snagged a tissue from the box on his nightstand and started to wipe away the tears.
âWe still have time to sleep.â In reality he had no fucking idea what time it was, but right now his boyfriend didnât seem capable of thinking straight, let alone reading and comprehending any kind of clock. âAnd I- what is it?â The brunetâs face had suddenly turned from absent distress to frustration.
âWe canât sleep in the bed anymore.â
Ilya fought the urge to sigh, entirely too tired to be picking apart Shaneâs incomprehensible lines of logic. âWhy not?â
The Canadian reached out and unceremoniously drew back the covers to reveal his own side of the bed, sheets rumpled from tossing and turning. He frowned at Ilya, as if to say âSee?â
He did not see. âWhat? Is just uhâŠâ What was the fucking word? âCrumbled? Crunkled? Look.â The blond reached out to tug the sheets taut, withdrawing his hand almost immediately. âOh. Why is it-?â
The entire side that Shane had been sleeping on was at least moderately damp, the pillow too, now that Ilya was actually looking at it. For a moment he had no idea how this had happened, but, glancing back at his boyfriend, skin still glistening in the warm lighting, he knew. If heâd sweat all the way through the sheets and was still feverish, he was definitely completely delirious and dehydrated.
As Ilya watched, the brunet shivered, arms pressed tight against his torso as if he were fighting against a bitterly cold wind that the Russian somehow couldnât feel. The tiniest amount of anxiety stirred in his chest. He was really sick. Like if Ilya didnât do something he might be doctor sick, hospital sick, accidentally-out-themselves-trying-to-get-him-medical-care sick.
âOkay.â He straightened up, retrieving Shaneâs phone, the box of tissues, and the bottle of water heâd made sure was on the brunetâs nightstand this time, rounded the bed to grab his own phone, and made a mental note to come back for medicine and some kind of washcloth from the bathroom. âWe sleep in other room.â
Shane stared at him blankly for a moment from across the room, and Ilya was just mentally running back the words that had left his mouth to check that they were in English and generally comprehensible, when the Canadian snapped forwards.
âhEISHh! huHITCHhew!â
âGod bless you.â The Russian stared at him with wide, wary eyes, the tiny flicker of anxiety fanned into a flame by the scene heâd just observed. Shane had made absolutely no effort to cover his face, suppress the sneezes, turn away, or in any way interfere with the process. It was uncannily unlike him, and it sent a shiver down Ilyaâs spine, that innate sense of âwrongnessâ like an optical illusion or one of those humanoid robots, screaming a warning in his mind.
The brunet didnât respond, frowning as he raised a hand to run his fingers under his nose, as though confused by the intractable expulsions that had just overwhelmed him. Ilya nodded towards the door, reminding him of their destination, and with a soft sniffle, Shane dropped his hand back to his side and headed for the hallway.
They walked through slowly, Ilya watching his boyfriend walk as though he could feel every single muscle and tendon involved in moving, and each one ached in a different way. The journey was steady though, excepting the small pause theyâd had to take when the plastic water bottle had briefly slipped from the Russianâs grasp, hitting the floor with a liquid-y thud. Shane had slammed his hands over his ears, shoulders hunching protectively as he growled low in the back of his throat a barely audible âToo fucking loud.â Theyâd continued shortly after, though the Canadianâs shoulders never untensed in the wake of the incident, and Ilya found himself gripping the bottle with a newfound tightness, berating himself for his clumsiness.
When theyâd made it to the other room ,he flicked on the overhead light without thinking, both of them reeling back from the sudden assault on their eyes. Ilyaâs breath started to hitch immediately, fiercely, the trigger awoken for the second time that night and not eager to be denied. He nudged Shane into the room, tongue between his teeth as he sidestepped his boyfriend, tossed the contents of his arms gently onto the bed, and ducked back out into the hallway, turning his back to the room and clamping a hand over his lower face.
âhKk! hKk! KKh! hMPH! hihMPH! hhMPHoo!â
With a sniffle and a frustrated glare at nothing in particular, since he was actually just mad at whatever stupid connection in his brain caused that reflex, and it was pretty hard to glare at your own brain, he spun back around to see Shane staring at him with glistening wet eyes again.
âWhat happened?â He moved closer immediately, watching the brunetâs lips twist into a pout as the tears started to fall.
âYouâre hurting yourself.â He was what? If his boyfriend wasnât doing an excellent imitation of someone at deathâs door right now, Ilya would definitely point out the hypocrisy in that statement.
âNo. Does not hurt. I am fine. I did not want to make loud noise, because it hurts you.â This explanation only made things worse as Shane drew in a shuddering breath, tears flowing incessantly down his cheeks again. He was going to dehydrate himself even more if he kept that up.
âYou hurt yourself because of me?â
âNo, no. I-â Ilya struggled to explain, not wanting to worsen the situation but sensing that his boyfriend could and would twist whatever he said into some devastating misinterpretation in his current state. âWait here.â
He jogged back through to the master en suite, retrieving cold medicine, a cool soaked washcloth, and the thermometer, and returning to find his boyfriend sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.
âOkay, look at me.â He knelt in front of him, waiting patiently as Shane lifted his head and blinked stuck-together lashes at him.
âYou left.â
âYes.â He was in no-nonsense mode now, knowing that placating the fatigued Canadian was a never-ending quest. âTo get things to help. Put this in your mouth.â He held out the thermometer, watched Shane dejectedly place it between his lips.
While they waited for the beep, Ilya started to gently clean the sweat from his skin, swiping the cool washcloth over his face, chest, neck, arms, and moving around behind him to reach his back. The brunet didnât move throughout the process, sitting still, pliable, patient, letting himself be helped.
The device reached a conclusion just as the Russian decided heâd gotten enough of the sweat off that Shane wouldnât be uncomfortable when it dried, plucking the thermometer from his mouth and frowning at the number.
39.1. It was about what heâd expected, but that didnât make it any more comforting to see. âTake two of these,â He doled out the medicine into his boyfriendâs waiting hands, âAnd I will put this back, okay? I come back in two minutes.â
The brunet nodded, Ilya ducking out of the room, and heading to toss the washcloth in the laundry and retrieve an electrolyte drink before he had to watch him putting the pills in his mouth. By the time heâd gotten back, Shane had drunk a third of the bottle of water, and shuffled around the bed to partially climb in, only under the covers up to his ankles.
âCan you drink some of this, too?â Ilya handed him the open drink, relieved to see him starting to sip it eagerly. He retrieved their phones and the tissue box from the end of the bed and placed them on the nightstands, pulling back the covers so Shane could get further in, and taking the electrolytes from him when it seemed like he didnât want to drink any more.
âBetter?â He asked, turning the lamp beside the bed on before heading to turn the main light off.
âYes. Thank you.â The Canadian still didnât sound totally lucid, voice slightly dreamy and distant, gaze not quite focused, but he wasnât crying or shivering or staring through Ilya like he didnât exist anymore, so that was definitely progress.
âGood.â Ilya joined him in bed, unsurprised when Shane immediately slumped over to lie against him, taking the opportunity to cup his cheek and kiss his forehead, checking whether his fever had started to wane yet. It hadnât.
âTomorrow-â He began again, in a small voice.
âTomorrow is for tomorrow. We talk in morning.â The blond replied, firmly, staring unwaveringly into his eyes as they drifted closed, as if to scare away the recurring thoughts that were making his boyfriend so anxious.
âYeah, okay.â Shane finally conceded as his breathing began to deepen, expression slackening as sleep began to take hold on his consciousness again.
Ilya remained sitting up, watching him relax, bit by bit, wanting to make sure he was completely asleep, totally at peace, before he drifted off himself. The total unguarded lethargy in his expression was somewhat arresting, the Russian realised, feeling like he was privileged to be privy to the sickness that was visible up so close. The way his mouth was slightly cracked, and he seemed to be alternating between sucking in raspy breaths between his chapped lips, and inhaling stuffily through his nose. The slight flush high on his cheeks that appeared to be fading now as the medicine began to work, making the similar flush on his nose that much more stark in contrast. The puffiness around his eyes from crying and the lack of rest, eyelashes clinging together in small clusters like the bristles of a damp paintbrush. He really was beautiful. Like this and always.
For all he knew, it could have been hours that he waited, lost in his own thoughts, mindlessly watching his boyfriend sleep, occasionally pressing a kiss or the back of his hand to the brunetâs forehead or the back of his neck, to check the progress on bringing down his temperature. But as soon as Shaneâs skin became imperceptibly warmer to Ilya than his own, and he was sure that the Canadian was truly immersed in slumber, his own eyes closed and his head tipped over to rest on Shaneâs as he joined him in a deep, desperately needed sleep.
â today, i come bearing plotless, highly indulgent, sk/ip pwp with kink!scott. dug out from the depth of my archives, dusted off, finished up, and given a fresh lick of paint. because that's apparently my coping mechanism now for dealing with real life hockey stress, lmao.
â hope you enjoy!
â 2.3kish
The apartment was dark when they arrived home, silent and still until they stumbled in.
Kip shrugged out of his coat as Scott set off on a circuit of the living room, flipping on each lamp he passed before returning to him. They were still giggling over the story Scott was telling in the elevator about some of the Admirals rookiesâ misguided post-game celebrations on the road trip he wasnât long back from.
They were both pleasantly tipsy, the whispers of alcohol and good company warming their blood. Scott had a rare day off from practice the next day and theyâd taken full advantage of it, taking up an invitation to go meet Kipâs friends down at the Kingfisher for a drink. Honestly, for no other reason than to catch up, gossip, laugh, have a bit of a bitch and a moan about the little grievances in life like you just needed to sometimes.
It was nice. Shoved into a cozy, intimate little booth as they were, Scottâs thigh pressed into his own, hot and inescapably present, the whole evening. Sometime after Scottâs second pint, his hand had joined it.
Early in their relationship, Kip used to fantasise about times like this. Wistful but in no way certain thereâd ever actually be a day when they could be seen together in public without Scott skirting on the edge of a panic attack, never mind hold hands. Or press a kiss into each otherâs cheek. Or cuddle up next to each other in the corner of a booth in a bar. Each gesture that once felt like an incriminating little snapshot inside their own heads, encased in barbed wire and branded a danger, repurposed into being, well, normal.
Even so, Kipâs heart still fluttered when he felt Scottâs hands on him where anyone was free to look. Tonight theyâd done all three. He still went flush with pride at how far his man had come; felt joyful for everything they had because Scott finally gave himself permission to be happy.
âhhHâESSSCHEUHâhh!â
Scott emerged from the crook of his elbow with a tight, sharp sniff.
It hadnât been the first sneeze of the night. Having spent most of it practically tucked under his arm, Kip had felt each of them coming too, mentally pulled out of the conversation each time the other manâs chest began to shake against his shoulder. Heâd chance a glance up and sure enough, Scottâs expression would be hazy and faraway, silently losing the fight againstâ
âBle-â
âhhâaHâEHDTZZSâssschâhuh!â
Scott had brushed it all off at the bar, declaring to the group when it became unavoidable that he must be allergic to something in the air. Someoneâs perfume, or some cleaning product randomly driving him nuts. Kip knew better, though. He could hear the gravel in his voice, the hint of stuffiness starting to bleed into the edges of his voice; the urgency in his sniffles in the aftermath of each sneeze.
Though not without some degree of difficulty, for Scottâs sake Kip dutifully refrained from openly acknowledging it each time it happened, despite how doing so went against every polite instinct his mom and dad had gone to great lengths to instill in him, the ânice Brooklyn boyâ that he is. Letâs just say theyâd learned of the very unintended impact Kipâs blessing had on him the, uh, hard way.Â
But now, wrapped in the shrouded, comfortable cocoon of their home, the peace afforded them safety. Ever since the door snicked shut the air had crackled with something live and anticipatory, heavy with unspoken possibility as they danced round each other a bit now. Kip hadnât realised heâd been keyed up waiting for something, but apparently he had. The sneezes simply said the word âgoâ from the directorâs chair.
âBless you,â he emphasised, face creased with sympathy. God, Scott looked affected even just at that. Kip closed the distance between them and cupped the nape of his neck, pulling himself up onto his toes so he could kiss the hinge of Scottâs jaw. Kip felt the shiver wrack through him. âThose sounded like they hurt. Are you okay?â
Scott let out a huff of laughter. They all sound like that â always. âNot any more so than usual. I-Iâm fine,â he said, punctuated by a sniffle. He hadnât been able to look Kip in the eye as he said it, which wasnât like him, not if he was actually trying to convince him of something.
Kip bit back a smile.
Oh, thatâs what weâre doing.
âAre you sure?â Kip replied seriously, playing along. âYouâve been so sneezy tonight. Youâre all sniffly now, and your nose is going all pick at the edgesâŠâ His searching gaze pinned Scott in place, who squirmed a little under the scrutiny. âI think youâre catching a cold, sweetheart.â
Kip felt like he could guide Scott to the edge of the earth and have him stand on the very edge with the way he relaxed under the palm of his hand. Honestly, it still made his head spin to be confronted with the fact that he could have any kind of command over a man like Scott. That he trusted him with his vulnerability like this. It made him feel so incredibly special.
âI-I donât knowâŠâ Scott stuttered. âMaybe? Do you⊠do you think so?â
Kip tilted upwards, moving in to kiss him properly, but at the last second Scott swerved before their lips could connect. Kip just smiled, unsurprised.
âSee? I think you know.â
Scottâs head dipped down again and Kip brought a hand to his face, imploring it ever so gently upwards with a cupped hand to his cheek. He let his thumb swipe delicately over the other manâs cheekbone, as if kissing with its pad in lieu of his mouth. Led by an ember of mischievous impulse, he shifted the focus of his fingersâ attention. Experimentally, he pressed his thumb into the spot between Scottâs eyebrows, satisfaction warming him when his face crumpled in relief.
âDoes that feel good?â
Scottâs eyes had fluttered closed and he nodded silently, obediently.
Kip would bet he could make it feel even better.
He hummed his approval, replacing his thumb with his forefinger and trailing it lightly down the bridge of Scottâs nose. He flinched a little at the pressure when Kip pressed in a smidge, wiggling the cartilage as if trying to shake something loose. Kip froze, worrying for a split second that heâd hurt him, but when Scottâs eyes opened again, they did so into a look that was decidedly more hazy than aggrieved. His nostrils flared.
âOh no, whatâs this?â
Scottâs breath scissored dangerously, eyes filling with moisture as they fluttered closed. Meanwhile, Kipâs lips found his neck, kissing around to his throat where his breath was contracting. The cologne heâd applied earlier was well-faded by now, overwhelmed at this point by the scent of Scott himself, and something spiked in Kipâs stomach. His hand, teasing and exploratory, skimmed up Scottâs shirt to settle on the firm ridges of his abdomen.
âhhhuhHâAEHâDZZSSSHhhhhâuh!â
Kip hummed, the sound dripping in sympathy. âOh, Iâm sorry. I was just trying to ease some pressure, and look what happened. So sensitive.â
Caught between the urge to succumb to Kipâs ministrations or the still ever-pressing need to sneeze, though one hand had risen instinctively to press Kip in closer by the small of his back, the other he just managed to get to his face as he nudged it away, just over the top of Kipâs head.
âhhhâaHâEHTSSSCHhhâhuh!â
âBless you. Poor thingâŠâ
Kip grabbed Scottâs cock through his jeans. Oh, he was rock hard; positively throbbing. It ripped a watery groan from the older manâs throat as he immediately rutted against Kipâs hand, chasing the friction as squeezed and rubbed with the practiced, expert rhythm of someone who knew his body like the back of his hand. Onlyâ
âhhHâAEHHTCHâsschâiew!â
The sneeze got away from him slightly, not quite as well covered as before, and the burst of spray glistened in the soft, warm lamplight.
âOh, bless you, sweetheart â you donât sound well at all.â
Each word Kip uttered was a precisely pointed jab at Scottâs resolve, the doting layered on intentionally thick. Left bleary-eyed and full of sniffles, but with the distinctly viral itch now seemingly ebbed, Scott appeared to only fall further into the heady encouragement of his attentions.
âIâmb sorryâŠâ he mumbled, followed quickly by a thick sniffle. The sensation bothered him enough that he spared the back of a hand to mash his nose into, scrubbing it back and forth with a slick, congestion clicking sound.
Kipâs expression crumpled. âHey â you have nothing to be sorry for, okay? Not a thing. Itâs gonna be alright. Yâknow why?â
Scott shook his head. âNdo. Sdnfff. Why?â
âBecause Iâm going to take care of you.â Kip gave Scottâs erection a firm squeeze. âStarting with this, hm?â
Hooking his fingers down the waistband of Scottâs jeans, Kip directed him over to the edge of the couch. He popped open the button and shimmied them down a little on his hips, before gently coaxing Scott downwards. Feeling the heat of Scottâs gaze as he looked up at him from below, Kip wasted no time climbing into his lap and pulling his dick out of his pants. In a bit of a pinch, he spat into his own hand before taking Scott in hand, his stroke calm and rhythmic.
Scottâs eyes had glazed over slightly, gleaming as they took him in, openly adoring and worshipful but slightly unsure, begging for something he couldnât give himself permission to vocalise. Kip couldnât help himself. He started to move in, but Scott instinctively stiffened.
Kip held his gaze resolutely, bringing a hand round to the back of his head to hold it in place, and when he spoke his voice was low, warm, trickling like honey. âItâs okayâŠâ he assured him, inching his face closer, closer, as he muttered it over and over again, quieter and quieter each time, like an incantation to lull Scott into a trance with. âItâs okay⊠this is okay⊠sâokayâŠ.â
Scottâs shoulders relaxed again as he eventually gave himself over to the moment with Kipâs insistence, sighing into his mouth as their lips slotted together. Time melted away as they kissed, Scottâs hands finding Kipâs ass as they tended to do, kneading and squeezing as Kipâs hand worked his length with consistent, maddening efficiency. Kip licked into his mouth, suckling on Scottâs bottom lip in the way that usually has him unable to keep from smiling against his face.
Instead, now, Kip feels him pull away, sucking in what sounded like a much-needed breath, sniffling back the audibly growing congestion settling in.
âAwww, youâre starting to get all stuffy, I can hear itâŠâ Kip continued stroking him as he said it, letting his thumb circle, featherlight, over his red, swollen head, catching some of the pre-cum gathering in his slit. Scott whimpered. His eyes grew heavy lidded, his body tensing up as Kip felt him tiptoe closer and closer to the edge with each stroke, each word.
He had him in the palm of his hand.
Kip hummed. âYou need a tissue, donât you? Donât worry, Iâll get you one when weâre doneâŠâ He huffed out a chuckle. âWonât be too much longer, now. I can feel it. Youâre so hard it must be painful, baby. Let me take care of you right⊠you can let go whenever you need toâŠâ
As if to affirm his point, Kip picked up the pace, Scottâs body jolting in answer.
Kip, feeling his blood heat and his own cock harden in the face of just how turned on Scott evidently was, reattached himself to the side of Scottâs neck, laying kiss after indulgent, suckling kiss all the way across the hot, stubbled skin, right up under his ear. Fuck, Scott has to go to practice day after tomorrow and he should probably be more careful⊠Scott will never hear the end of it from the guys if he rocks up with a hickey.
Scott was shaking now, more so with every handful of seconds that passed as he got closer and closer to the precipice, even his sniffling growing all the more desperate as his breaths grew laboured and staccato.
âS-Sorry, I hâhhave toââ
âAgain?â
Scott nodded, regretful. Kip sighed.
âGo ahead. Get it all out, sweetheart, youâll feel betterââ Kipâs lips found the shell of Scottâs ear, his next words hushed and uttered directly into it. â...but youâll be going straight to bed after.â
âhhUHâIHHHDZSSTCHhhâuh!â
Scott came with a strangled moan on the tail end of that final sneeze as he spilled into Kipâs hand, the sound enunciating an edge of hoarseness to his voice Kip could tell was likely to stick around now for the next few days as he coaxed him through his orgasm, with utterings of âbless youâŠâ ⊠âthere you goâŠâ ⊠âcome for meâŠâ ⊠âso good for me, look at you⊠so goodâŠâ.
God, he looked so hot when he came. He wasnât sure heâd ever quite get over it.
With Scottâs body now lax and sated, he slumped back into the couch, the heaviness of lust gradually cleared away from his gaze with his release, sheepish gratitude rising to replace it in the aftermath as he rushed to thumb away where his nose was now running into the crease of his nostril.
âSorry,â he repeated, appearing to be flirting with the idea of being ashamed, but not quite able to get there. Good, Kip thought, you absolutely shouldnât.
âHeyâ donât. Youâre totally fine. I wanted to help.â Kip joked, his tone light as he caught Scottâs averted eye, smiling in a way the other man was helpless but to mirror. Kip sat back a little in Scottâs lap and carded his, um, free hand through his hair. âI meant what I said, thoughâ you donât sound good and weâre getting you into bed pronto.â
Scott raised an eyebrow, nodding towards Kipâs crotch and the very obvious hard-on poking him in the leg. âOh, I think I could be down for that.â
Despite being Mr. Healthy, I think Shane Hollander sucks at taking care of himself when he's sick. I also think that while Ilya gets sinus infections, Shane regularly gets ear infections when he's sick.
Which he'll often try to push through, because he's been told so many times that it's just an ear infection, you'll be fine, or don't only little kids get those?
Even though it's messing with his balance, and he's so dizzy that it's making him a bit nauseous, but yeah, it's just an ear infection.
Awh yes! I headcanon that Ilya's colds go to his chest (smoking will do that to you) and Shane's sit in his head and make his ears hurt. Sometimes it's not even a proper infection, just that his tubes are all blocked up, but it still hurts and that feels extra pathetic.
And Shane's version of taking care of himself is definitely taking meds, taking extra supplements/juice shots/kale smoothies, and then going about his usual routine, with the result that he crashes sooner rather than later, and crashes hard.
(Of course, all this changes when he and Ilya get together properly, and Ilya finds all sorts of ways to remind/convince Shane that, whatever remedies you take, your body needs rest to heal itself.
"And I am very lazy so I can show you how to do that."
"Shut ub'. You're dot lazy. And rest is ibportant."
"Ah ha! So he admits it! Then back to bed with you.")
inspired by @coldexposure's excellent post. i don't know where these two came from, but this prompt was too good to resist! early 20th century, artsy, libertine, international crowd, imagine something similar to the bloomsbury group. m/m. as usual for me, too much exposition for my own good.
(i was also intrigued to discover, after some cursory research, that medicinal cigarettes actually worked in some cases, even to the point of the benefits outweighing, in the moment at least, the inflammation caused to the lungs by the act of smoking. it seems counterintuitive, but the more you know!)
Lounging around after sex was a most agreeable occupation, Llewellyn thought â particularly when the sex had taken place mid-afternoon, a fair amount of energy had been expended by both parties and the bed was the well-worn double that took up almost all of Willem's attic room.
He stretched, relishing the feeling of cool sheets on his skin, and rolled over. With his chin propped on a hand, it was the perfect position in which to ogle his companion.
Willem was a lovely creature when clothed; he was even more divine stretched stark naked amongst a rumple of bedclothes, sunlight spilling through the window to limn the languid curve of his hip in gold. Moles were scattered across his body, silent instructions, kiss me here, and here, and here. They formed a trail that led up to his throat. Llewellyn was not by nature a possessive man â willingness to share was a virtue in their circles â but something about seeing his friend like this, a glimpse inside a locket that was usually kept tightly shut, made him want to set a guard by the door.
"Htsshhuhhh!"
There was also that.
Dragging himself upright, Willem rubbed the tip of his nose. It was as lovely as the rest of him, straight and perhaps a touch too large for his face. Currently it was also red, particularly around the quivering nostrils, and glistening slightly on its underside. His eyes were the same, red-rimmed and leaving shiny tear-tracks down his flushed cheeks. Most everything set Willem off, from Llewellyn's cologne (which he had foregone) to the lush, yellow-dusted catkins of the tree outside his window. It was mid-May, and the room was unbearable with the window closed, but Willem was suffering for it. The catkins, and his most delightful sensitivity: the tendency to sneeze when aroused.
"Verdomme..." Willem muttered. He tilted his head back so a tear ran off his dew-damp eyelashes and down his face, lingering on his jaw. A hand went back to his nose, rubbing it thoughtlessly. The action made it run, and he sniffled hard, but he'd done so much sniffling and sneezing while they fucked that his sinus were audibly packed tight, the sound a painful, blocked squelch. It seemed to provoke his nose again; he snapped forward: "Ht'issshhuhhh! Itsschh! Snff!"
Llewellyn inched up the bed and caressed Willem's thigh. "You sound awfully bunged up."
"It's the damned... trees..." Willem gestured towards the window while blinking rapidly, red, twitching nostrils glowing in the light. "Huhhh... hhiHH'Huhtssch! Atschsshh'uhh..!"
There was a catch to the last sneeze, a slight wheeze in the gasp that followed it. Llewellyn sat up more and studied Willem closely. Since last winter he'd been unable to dismiss his friend's asthma as easily as Willem clearly wished everyone would.
As if he could sense his thoughts, Willem gave him a look. Llewellyn tilted his head meaningfully; Willem sighed, but there was a rattle in the sound, and he reluctantly fumbled on the bedside table for a handkerchief.
"Here." Llewellyn passed him the one that had been under a pillow, but had been put in as much disarray as the rest of the bedding by their activities.
Willem sat forward to blow his nose; from the sound of it, he was putting more effort into it than he was getting relief. He folded the handkerchief and coughed into it afterwards. Llewellyn's hand went to his shoulder, steadying, instinctually, which meant he felt the tremors as Willem's chest began to jerk again â
"Uhhh... hhiHhh... ohHh, for God's saHhh-Atsschh! Ehhtschhh! Atsschh!! Huhh... EHhhhtschhh!"
"Bless you, love." Llewellyn squeezed Willem's shoulder while he tried to blow his nose again. He got much the same result, and resorted to squeezing and wiping it while snuffling uselessly, knuckling at one eye. "Are you sure your head isn't going to fall off?"
"Sorry..." Willem said faintly. "I think I need to..."
He went back to the bedside table, this time fumbling a cigarette from a small red carton. Had he a lighter to hand, Llewellyn would've offered it; instead he revelled in the sight of Willem's eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he looked down in concentration, lighting the cigarette.
The first drag made him cough; a distinctly herbal, medicinal scent, like a menthol cough drop, reached Llewellyn's nostrils. He was amused to notice Willem's twitching frantically almost immediately.
"Oh dear," he murmured, smiling. Willem scowled at him, pulling on the cigarette more deliberately, but the next smoky exhale had already sealed his fate:
"Etschh!" It burst from him with no prelude, snapping him forward, so itchy it sounded unfinished. "Huhh'Etschhuhh! HahhHh- Tssch! Ihhtssh! Etsschuh! Hhih... ihHh... Itsschh!! Itsschh! Itsshh!!'tsshh!'tsshh!"
Llewellyn's hand was still on Willem's shoulder throughout the convulsive fit, and he could feel every shudder, see the the muscles in his stomach tense over and over again as he curled in on himself. Despite it all, the cigarette burned undisturbed between Willem's fingers; it was somehow that maddening display of elegance that made arousal pool in Llewellyn's stomach.
"Good God, that was quite a production," he said, with a nonchalance he certainly didn't feel.
Willem unfurled and blinked up at him. His eyes, bloodshot around deep brown irises that always reminded Llewellyn of a baby deer, were streaming. As was â oh. His nose was running over his lips; moving as if in a dream, he brought the handkerchief to it and gave a long, liquid blow. A gasp of relief followed it that was almost obscene; Llewellyn had to wrestle down the urge to kiss this delightful man. Not least because he'd probably suffocate him.
After a few more blows, and an awful lot of rubbing his nose through the fabric, Willem emerged, scrunching his irritated eyes and sighing. His cheeks pinkened as he took another drag of the cigarette.
"Sorry," he said again. "It's a bit dramatic, but it's the only thing that clears my head."
"So I see." Llewellyn grinned as Willem lightly hit him in the arm with the hand his handkerchief was balled in. "Don't apologise; I should be sorry for the part I played in getting you to that state."
"No, you should not." Willem leant in, looking up at Llewellyn through his lashes in a puckish way, and he really couldn't resist pressing a kiss to those parted lips. Just a fleeting contact. He could almost taste the medicinal cigarette.
"Htsshhuhhh!!" Willem barely managed to move, sneezing freely into the space between them. Some of the spray ghosted over Llewellyn's thigh. "Oh god..."
"Spring really isn't your season, is it, love?"
Willem glared. Then he let his head rest against Llewellyn's shoulder with a long sigh.
welp⊠I think this is more indulgent than anything because I love a suffering shane. what can I say, I like to see the guy miserable and unable to hide it, especially with ilya around to make it better :â) I NEEEEEEDED to follow my whumpy lil heart with this.
very hard for me to assess the quality of my writing when my brain is just going *heart eyes heart eyes heart eyes* over sick shane. luckily I had the absolutely invaluable help of @silklined, who kindly offered to beta this second part for me. they did such an AMAZING job, and I feel a thousand times more confident about this thanks to their expertise. please know they had a huge hand in this ;) you should go read all their stuff, what an incredibly talented writer!
pt. 1
here we goooo:
shane is strong. shane is 200lbs of sharp skill and grit. shane has a tightly packed schedule that would make other grown men cry, and heâs very proud of the fact. shane is also presently down with the flu and learns what it means to be seen at his worst and held close anyway. he learns that, perhaps, the only thing he needs to do in return is not pull away from it.
When Shane woke, the offensive clock on his nightstand informed him it was far too early to be checking the time at all, just a few minutes past three in the morning. He had chosen the clock because of the soft blue numbers and how easy they were on the eyes, but the flu seemed to challenge his choice and made him rethink having a clock at all.Â
Frankly, he couldnât remember the trek to bed. He remembered Ilya cajoling him into drinking some tea, remembered letting Ilya dab at the corners of his wet eyes when the realization sunk in that Ilya was truly there. He remembered feeling sick yet comforted, and consequently so sleepy he had let Ilya gather him up in his arms andâ
Oh. Apparently, Shane had been carried to bed.Â
Ilya was beside him, his hair crushed flat on the side and unruly at the back. Shane shifted closer to Ilya, feeling the warmth of his bare back through the cotton of his own sweatshirt. He nuzzled his nose against the back of his neck and had never wished so vehemently for clear sinuses, just to breathe the familiar scent of love caught sleeping.Â
Ilya stirred with a snort, then a cough, and Shane remembered Ilya was sick tooârecovering, but still not well. It was almost romantic, in a deranged way, to be weathering the flu together in the same bed. It felt distinctly intimate, a rite of passage in a relationship.
He soothed Ilya with another nuzzle, a soft hush whispered right up against his spine, and snaked his arm around a body that eased into him. Ilya was still asleep, Shane knew, but always angled himself like a sunflower in search of its own solnyshko.Â
Shane was nearly back to sleep when his breath hitched, the warmth of it puffing on the back of Ilyaâs neck, trapped between them. The sensation of a sneeze in the works was crawling up his sinuses and making him take slow, shallow breaths through his mouth as he wrinkled his nose.Â
âHhehh⊠HhâhuuuhâŠâÂ
The center of his face was throbbing, his nose becoming impossible to ignore now that it had its own pulse. He didnât want to wake Ilya, not when he was finally getting quality sleep, and he should have been running to the bathroom to sneeze, as quietly as possible, in private. But his concentration was threadbare at best, the immense tickle making it difficult to think anything beyond donât sneeze, donât sneeze, donât sneeze.Â
He ducked his chin down toward his chest, hot forehead finding the cool relief of Ilyaâs bare back, and he carefully removed his arm from around Ilya so he could worm his hand between them, bringing it to his nose.Â
âHhEHHââ
His breath hitched in a strangled vocalization, the worsening surge of the tickle sudden and undeniable. His nostrils flared as the bridge of his nose wrinkled hard. His eyes squeezed shut, whole face tightening. He closed his hand into a fist and pressed a knuckle tight into the right side of his nose where the tickle was at its worst, then he held his breath and stilled.Â
âShane?â
Apparently, Ilya had woken anywayâand swept away Shaneâs effort to hold back his sneeze. He stuttered a surprised and overwhelmed gasp.
âHhâhhâhehâISSHOO!âÂ
It tore out of him, harsh and wet against his fist. Now that his nose had started, it didnât want to stop. It almost felt like a punishment, a vengeful fuck you for ever being denied relief.
âHuhâISSHHuh! HhâISSHHeuh-ESCHHâiuhh!â
Each sneeze seemed to make the feeling worse, like shaking around something fragile until it splintered further and further. His nose felt oversensitive and unsteady, the irritation of sneezing feeding back into the itch in a constant loop. When he heaved a breath, it stuttered in uneven gasps, already starting him on the next sneeze.Â
His body was trembling, muscles quaking with each snap forward that he didnât have the energy for but was forced into. He was distantly aware of Ilya saying his name, of his back being rubbed, of his hand being forced away from his nose and replaced with a bundle of tissues.Â
He couldnât have said how long the fit went on, a cycle of gasping and sneezing and a few faint groans in between. When it finally began to taper, enough that he could drag in a fuller breath, there was Ilya tending to his nose with pinched rubs and telling him blowing his nose would help.Â
âTry, malysh. Here, blow your nose.â Ilya pressed a fresh bundle of tissues to his nose, and Shane was far too exhausted to refuse the support.Â
He blew his nose in short, breathless spurts that did indeed help to abate the tickle. Ilya continued rubbing his back through it and murmuring sweet nothings.Â
Ilya waited until he was done, then wiped his nose clean with another tissue. He stared at Shane after, assessing him with a look that made Shane smile. He felt very valuable, perhaps a rare sight fit for gemological appraisal. Ilya looked at him as such, closely and carefully. Ilyaâs hair still looked aggressively disheveled, almost windswept, and Shane couldnât help but tug at it.
Ilyaâs hand on the small of his back, which had still been rubbing soft strokes with his thumb, inched under his sweatshirt and touched his skin. Shaneâs smile twisted into a wincing frown, his skin incredibly sore where Ilya touched. It felt like having a sunburn slapped, but without the smell of saltwater hair and the feeling of sand in shoes. That had happened to him before, at seven years old and during his first ever beach vacation. His cousin had slapped his sunburnt shoulder and reduced him to loud, messy tears.
âI cried odne tibe,â Shane mumbled, recalling the pain of the memory as Ilyaâs fingers moved across his back carefully. âFrob a sudburd.âÂ
Ilya stilled, giving a frown of his own, then his hand moved from under Shaneâs sweatshirt to his forehead. The backs of his fingers first, then flipped so his whole palm lay across it, finally to the side of his neck like he didnât quite believe whatever he was feeling.Â
Ilya pulled back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He coughed as he got up, sharp and encompassing and making him stumble a little on his way to the bathroom.Â
Shane watched, distantly wondering if learning that his boyfriend had cried over a sunburn a lifetime ago was just too much for Ilya to bear, was the final and unforgivable straw for all the ways Shane could be so boring.Â
Ilya came back from the bathroom with a thermometer in his hand, and Shane felt relief wash over him in waves. He had convinced himself Ilya had been packing his toothbrush with his heart already halfway out the door.
Instead, Ilya sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his leg, patiently asking, âHow do you feel?âÂ
âUbm⊠Sick,â he admitted uncertainly. Â
Ilya made a quiet sound that might have been agreement, or dissatisfaction. He pressed the button on the thermometer and held it in front of Shaneâs mouth. âOpen.â
Shane blinked, and Ilya waited.
There was a pause in which Shane began to process that something was being asked of him, a request that he understood conceptually but wasnât sure he needed to act on. It was as if Ilyaâs command had slipped through one ear and gone clean out the other side, leaving him blissfully without thought but with the low, gravelly tone of Ilyaâs voice still sitting warm in his mind.Â
âShane.â Ilya patted his thigh gently. âOpen your mouth.â
With the thermometer set under his tongue, they waited in the quiet with only the sounds of Ilyaâs short coughs catching on exhales and Shaneâs congested, half breaths through his stuffy nose. They were a sight to be seen, or perhaps heardâa symphony composed of the sounds of sick men.Â
Ilya removed the thermometer when it beeped and cursed under his breath, a phrase in Russian Shane hadnât heard before but held familiar words, something like a plea for help.Â
Ilya dropped the thermometer onto the bedside table and slipped his hand behind Shaneâs neck, steering him upright with gentle insistence. âCome.âÂ
Shane let himself be guided out of bed. The stretch between the bed and bathroom became a journey of steps, careful heel-to-toe measurements like he was navigating unfamiliar space. Ilya stayed with him, a steady arm hooked around his waist.Â
In the bathroom, Ilya turned him gently and pressed him down to sit on the closed toilet lid. Shane rested his elbows on his thighs and let his head hang. He noted the sound of the shower turning on, the roar of rushing water filling his ears.
Ilya came back into his space quickly, and Shane welcomed him with arms looped around his legs and his face pressed into his bare stomach. He was rewarded with a gentle stroke down his spine, then a tug at the hem of his sweatshirt.Â
âPut your arms up,â Ilya said softly.
Shane lifted his arms, half with his own merit and half forced by his sweatshirt being dragged over his head. For a moment he was nowhere, blind and caught in fabric.
âHhâISSHâehw!âÂ
It caught him by surprise, muffled awkwardly into the soft cotton still half over his face. His body jolted forward with it, and he grabbed blindly at Ilya from the shock of it.Â
âWoah, okay, okay.â Ilya caught him immediately, one hand firm at his side as he finished pulling the sweatshirt free. âI got you.âÂ
Shane blinked, disoriented. âSorry,â he mumbled thickly.
Ilya pressed a stray kiss to the top of his head before moving on. The rest of Shaneâs clothes went the same way, removed carefully with one of Ilyaâs hands keeping steady at his side all the while.Â
âFuck,â Ilya muttered suddenly, stopping in his tracks. Shane frowned, lips curving down until Ilya tapped his cheek and smiled warily. âIs nothing. Just, I forgotâwait here, okay? I will be right back.â
As if his plan had been to move at all. He wanted to say as much, but Ilya was gone faster than he could manage a single word. He felt horribly alone now, one hand bracing the counter beside him as he shivered, the air sliding unpleasantly against his overheated skin.Â
âHuhâISHHuhââTSHâuh!â
Two sudden, messy sneezes that had him curling forward, the second weaker and doing nothing to relieve the buzzing feeling suddenly taking hold of his sinuses. He stayed there for a moment, with his hand hovering uselessly in front of his face, breath stuttering in uneven hitches. Â
âHave to sneeze?âÂ
Shaneâs watering eyes shot up. Ilya had returned with a glass in one hand and his other closed in a loose fist, and he was taking in the sight of him. Shane nodded absently, then tilted his head to slide his gaze toward the bathroom light.Â
âHHâISHHooâISHHâuhh!âÂ
âOh? That helps me too sometimes, looking at something bright.â Ilya gently nudged the glass of water into Shaneâs hand, then offered him two tablets. âI learned something new about you.âÂ
Shane swallowed the pills down without fuss. His throat hurt with it, but he greedily drank half the glass of water, as if the first little sip had reminded him how parched he was.Â
Ilya undressed, just his boxers, then helped Shane into the shower. When the water hit his skin, it sent a shudder up through him that made his teeth clack together. He flinched hard, pulling back instinctively. âItâs coldââ
âNo,â Ilya said firmly, his arm tightening around his waist and effectively stopping his escape. âIs warm, Shane. Your skin is just warmer. Trust me, give it time.â
Shane obeyed, because that was what he did nowâfollowed the path Ilya set, step by step, without needing to see where it led to. Letting Ilya tend to him, take care of him like Ilya had allowed Shane to do earlier in the week. What was love if not a give and take, if not an exchange of trust?
So Shane leaned into him and closed his eyes, letting his cheek rest on Ilyaâs shoulder as Ilya adjusted the angle of the shower head so the water fell more evenly over Shaneâs back. One arm stayed steady around Shaneâs middle, anchoring him, and his other movedâa hand over his shoulders, down his arm, across his back.Â
Shaneâs consciousness narrowed down to sensation. The steady drum of water, the slide of Ilyaâs hand, the quiet rhythm of breathing into each other. The steam seemed to be doing good for both of them, easing Ilyaâs cough and Shaneâs burning sinuses. The tension in him slipped away, muscles loosening as his body adjusted to the temperature of the water, his weight settling more fully into Ilyaâs hold.Â
At some point, Ilya pulled his shoulder back and took Shaneâs cheek in his hand, fingers gentle but insistent as he forced him up a little straighter. âI will wash your hair, okay?â Shane made a vague sound that he hoped Ilya understood as a yes. âClose your eyes.â
Ilya placed a hand at the base of his skull, guiding him to tilt his head back to wet his hair. His fingers combed through gently, the drag of fingertips against Shaneâs scalp. It made Shane sigh, long and loose.Â
Shampoo came next, worked into a lather. Ilyaâs fingers massaged careful circles and scratches, a firm pressure that wasnât too hard but enough to make Shane feel hypnotized. His forehead drifted toward Ilyaâs shoulder unconsciously.Â
âHey, no. No, stay up.â Ilya adjusted him again. âItâll hurt if you get soap in your eyes.âÂ
âFeels so good,â he muttered drowsily.Â
Shane knew Ilya must have been indulging him. It was slow and gentle work, certainly going on longer than necessary, but it was the best Shane had felt all night and Ilya seemed to recognize it. They stayed like this for a stretch of time, with Shane melting into Ilyaâs touch, until his breath caught.Â
âHhuh!â Ilyaâs fingers paused, and Shane lifted his wrist to his nose. âHhâISHHh!â
The sneeze caused him to jerk forward, the motion throwing off his balance just enough that he would have tipped if Ilya hadnât tightened his hold.
âEasy, easy.â Ilya steadied him, holding him tightly to his chest. âIs okay, just sneeze.âÂ
Shane sniffled wetly, dragging his wrist firmly under his nose. âDoh, itâs okay⊠Thigk Iâb donde.âÂ
Ilya waited a few more seconds, just enough to make sure, then helped Shane rinse his hair. Ilyaâs fingers started at his forehead, swiping suds back carefully away from his face, then raked through his hair to help the water wash everything away.Â
Ilya turned the shower off and they exited together. Cold air rushed around them, sharp against Shaneâs wet skin. He shuddered hard, shoulders curling inward. The shower, which had been comforting, now felt like a trick. Perhaps this was a Herculean task. Maybe showering with the flu was one of the 12 Labours, with the act of standing wet and cold being the price to pay for working a fever down.Â
But then Ilya was moving, reaching for a towel and wrapping it around Shaneâs shoulders, drying him off with careful presses of the towel rather than dragging it in scratchy passes, and Shane felt soothed. Shivery, uncomfortable, but deeply loved.Â
It settled somewhere deep in Shaneâs chest, that kind of attentionâin being learned so thoroughly by another person. Ilya, full of force and rough edges in so many corners of his life, was handling Shane with a kind of gentleness that made him feel frighteningly known. It was as though Ilya knew by instinct which parts of Shane needed softness without ever having to place it into words.Â
Ilya managed to get them both dried and dressed, a pair of shorts hanging low off his hips purely for the convenience of them, and Shane more carefully tugged into a loose shirt and sweatpants. Once Shane was back in bed, propped up against the headboard, Ilya reached for the thermometer and held it out to him.Â
Shane frowned, edging more towards a wince. âAgaid?âÂ
âYes, again.âÂ
He put the thermometer under his tongue and watched Ilya while they waited. Really watched himâhis damp, unruly hair; the crease between his brows; the way his hands rested on Shaneâs thighs like he couldnât not touch him; the way he looked at him, assessing from the top of his head, his face, the climbing numbers on the thermometer.Â
The thermometer beeped, Ilya took it, and Shane quietly considered that the act of loving someone had less to do with grand declarations and a lot more to do with selecting soft, warm clothes and taking temperatures.
Ilya squinted at the thermometer, and his shoulders dropped with a sigh. âBetter,â he said, sounding relieved. âStill high, but better.â Ilya set the thermometer aside and started adjusting Shane, guiding him lower down the bed, easing his head against the pillow, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders.Â
Shane swallowed. He was, essentially, being tucked in. âIlya.â
Ilyaâs hands paused, now hovering over Shane. âYes? Are you okay?âÂ
âYou⊠I, umbbâŠâÂ
He could feel the words sitting somewhere in his gut, formed in intention but not taking the shape of language. It was the slow, aching pull of tenderness tangling up with the sharp sting of embarrassment. Now with a sound mind, or closer to one, he was painfully aware that he had been washed, dried, dressed. He had failed, even, to hold himself up. He had let his body become more an extension of Ilyaâs, or a burden to him, than something within his own control.
The truth of it, though, was that something else was threaded through every moment. It had been care in motion, as if Shane was allowed to need him, as if Shane needing him wasnât an inconvenience but a circumstance that Ilya met eagerly and entirely willingly.Â
The hands that pressed him face-first into mattresses, that gripped him with the edge of a challenge, that stole touches at the worst moments just to prove they couldâthose same hands had held him upright under a shower, had tenderly wiped his nose clean, had generously washed his hair. This version of him, weak and unsteady and unable to care for himself, hadnât changed anything fundamental. The world hadnât come crashing down. In fact, the world felt a little lighter, like Ilya had decided to shoulder it with him without being asked.Â
But how would he say any of that? The enormity of it, gratitude and vulnerability and love, sat somewhere in the aching center of him. He wouldnât be able to find the words tonight, and maybe not everânot in a way that would feel like enough. So instead, he croaked a soft, âThagk you for helpig mbe.â
Ilya smoothed his hair back, palm flattening briefly against the crown of his head in a gentle, reassuring press. âAlways.â
The rest of the dark, early morning hours passed in stretches of restless sleep and bouts of hazy consciousness. Sometimes Shane woke to find Ilya scrolling on his phone beside him; at others, he woke to fingers carding through his hair. Once, horrified, he woke to Ilya coaxing him up so he could change his shirt because he had apparently sweated through it.Â
The day arrived somberly. There was no glowing sunrise, no hopeful sense of renewalâjust weak, muddled light leaking around the curtains and Shane waking with the immediate realization that he still felt like absolute shit.Â
The flu had settled into him completely now. His skin was oversensitive and hurt just from the rustle of his clothes. His body ached with a deep, heavy soreness. His sinuses throbbed and buzzed in miserable little waves, and he was so congested he had to breathe through his mouth, making his throat feel rubbed raw.Â
Ilya was asleep on his side, one arm thrown over Shaneâs waist protectively. Even now, still recovering and obviously exhausted, Ilya slept like he was holding the hope of the world in his arms, like rest was secondary to keeping Shane close and cared for.Â
Shane loved him with such terrible force it seemed to circle back around into fear. Could you love someone so much that it stopped being healthy? Maybe there was some kind of recommended limit, beyond which devotion crossed a line and became pathological.Â
Throughout the day, Shaneâs house transformed. It carried signs of ill health. Tea mugs accumulated, half full and abandoned after naps between doses of cold medicine. Damp washcloths were left draped over the edge of the bathroom sink. Crumpled tissues bloomed in strange places (the bathroom counter, tucked into folds of blankets, inexplicably on the windowsill in the kitchen).Â
âHow mbady boxes do I have stashed away?â Shane asked hoarsely, blinking blearily at the fresh box of tissues Ilya placed on his lap. âThatâs gotta be⊠What dumber is that?âÂ
Ilya flattened the empty box in his hands, probably for recycling. âThree,â he said. Then he glanced at Shane, his mouth twitching into a crooked little smirk. âThere is two left, but with both of us⊠I should order grocery delivery, for tissues. And food.â
âYeah, good idea.â
âTen boxes of tissues, yes?â
Shane huffed a weak laugh that dissolved into grumbling coughs muffled into his sleeve. Ilya stepped closer and spread a warm hand over his chest, rubbing slowly while Shane coughed himself miserable. When the coughing eased, Ilya brushed his knuckles over Shaneâs cheek.Â
âYou sound so bad, Shane.âÂ
âYou soud worse.âÂ
Ilya raised a brow.Â
âDoh, really,â Shane insisted. âYour cough really does soud bad.âÂ
Shane lowered his gaze, fixing it on the corner of the bed. Ilya hadnât meant any harm, Shane knew, but the truth of it reminded him that Ilya had a life waiting. Soon, Ilya would stop spending entire days wrapped around Shane. He would leave for Ottawa and slide back into the rhythm of his normal life while Shane remained in Montreal.Â
It was ridiculous how distressing the thought was, as if that hadnât been their arrangement for the past couple years.Â
Ilya sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Shaneâs mouth, palm cupping under his jaw.Â
âYou will get better too,â he said softly. âMaybe slower than me, because I am very strong. But your strong boyfriend will take care of you.âÂ
The joke should have calmed something in him. Instead, emotion climbed unexpectedly into Shaneâs throat, hot and awful.Â
âHow logg?â he asked quietly. His voice strained despite his effort to steady it. âUdtil you go back?âÂ
âHey.â Ilyaâs expression softened. âDonât worry about that right now.â
But Shane did worry. He worried because he wanted this horribly domestic version of them forever, wanted Ilya worrying about their stock of toiletries and asking him about grocery orders. He wanted to settle in bed at night without counting down days. He wantedâ
âWe have time,â Ilya said quietly. He brushed his thumb beneath Shaneâs eye, stopping him from spiraling further. âI have to go to Ottawa on Tuesday to see my team doctor. Get cleared for light practice, probably. Maybe play game Wednesday.â He continued slow strokes over Shaneâs skin. âSo we still have a few days, okay?â
Shane nodded. A few days shouldnât have felt as precious as it did, but relief still coursed through him. Relief that Ilya would have more time to rest, and selfishly, that Shane would have two more nights not spent alone.
Their conversation dissolved into murmured pillow talk, little sweet nothings and encouragements whispered back and forth until Ilya coaxed more water and medicine into him, and eventually guided him out to the couch with the promise that a change in scenery might make him feel better.Â
By late evening, Shane had become part of the couch.
He lay cocooned under two blankets, his head propped up against one end of the couch and his legs resting in Ilyaâs lap. A nearly unwatchable slapstick comedy played quietly on the TV, only really on for Ilyaâs benefit while Shane dozed between bouts of coughing and sneezing.Â
It had been funny at the time, when Ilya actually added ten boxes of tissues to the grocery order, but now Shane thought Ilya had demonstrated great foresight.Â
âHuhâEISHHâuh!â His head throbbed with it, and he scrubbed weakly at his nose with a tissue. âHeh-! HehhâISHHâiehh! HâITSHHooh! Ugghh.âÂ
Ilya assessed, watching him with the same low-level concern heâd been wearing on his face all day. Then, he carefully slid out from underneath Shaneâs legs. âI will heat soup.â
Shane answered with another sneeze.Â
âAfter we eat, I think we go to bed.â Ilya stroked his palm gently over the top of Shaneâs head as he passed the couch. âYou want chicken noodle? Or miso?â
Shane wanted neither. Really, all he wanted was to remove his entire respiratory system, and possibly his musculoskeletal system while he was at it; he was sore in places he didnât even know he could hurt. But the instant miso cups Ilya bought were small, more drink than meal, and it sounded marginally less miserable than trying to choke down noodles.Â
âMbiso,â he croaked.Â
Ilya returned a few minutes later, carrying two cups of instant miso soup. âSit up,â he instructed.Â
Shane struggled his way into something resembling a half sitting lounge. Every muscle protested the movement, but when he accepted the soup, he nearly groaned at the warmth of it in his hands. Ilya drank from his own soup cup while Shane slowly sipped at his.Â
He was halfway through the cup when his nostrils flared. The tickle came on so suddenly he let out a strangled sound before he even registered he needed to sneeze. He pinched his nostrils tightly while his other hand reached blindly toward the coffee table, trying desperately to set the soup down lest he spill it all over himself and the couch.Â
The cup disappeared from his hand at the last possible second.
âHhânnghkâuhh!â The first sneeze was forcibly contained behind his pinched fingers. It hurt everywhere. âOwwwhhuh-hEHâTSHHâiewhhâISHHâooh!âÂ
Tissues were pressed into his hand, and Ilya murmured a soft blessing while Shane groaned miserably as he cleaned himself up. He finished with a thorough blow. By the end of it he felt entirely drained, all the energy wrung out of him by half a cup of soup and three poorly timed sneezes.Â
Quietly, Ilya gathered both soup cups, Shaneâs still only half-finished, and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, he crouched in front of the couch and held his arms open toward Shane.Â
Shane, without a word, sank into Ilyaâs arms. He allowed himself to be gathered up, Ilyaâs arms fitting securely around his shoulders while Shane buried his face against the slope of his neck. He let his eyes slip closed, all tension draining under familiar warmth.Â
Ilyaâs hand settled against the nape of his neck, thumb moving lazily through the short hair there. âWe should go to bed now,â he murmured. âYou need sleep.â
âYou do too,â Shane countered grouchily, voice muffled against Ilyaâs shoulder.
Normally Ilya would have struck back, would have found some way to beat Shane at his attempt to smart him, to tease Shane into smiling just for the sake of it. Tonight, he only hummed softly and pressed a lingering kiss into Shaneâs hair before helping him carefully off the couch.Â
He held Shaneâs hand the entire walk to the bedroom.Â
Shane leaned shamelessly against Ilya while they brushed their teeth, side by side at the bathroom sink. At one point, he caught Ilya watching him in the mirror with sleepy fondness, toothbrush hanging from the corner of his mouth.Â
âWhat?â Shane mumbled around toothpaste foam.
âYou are very cute when sick.â
Shane rolled his eyes and brushed his teeth a little more aggressively, if only to stop himself from smiling.
When he finished rinsing, Ilya wiped the corner of his mouth clean with his thumb before guiding him gently toward bed. The sheets were cool when Shane climbed in, a relief against his feverish skin. He curled toward Ilya, and Ilya gathered him close instinctively.
Shane rested his forehead against Ilyaâs collarbone and listened to the slow rhythm of his breathing. It had deepened noticeably, slow and even. Apparently, Ilya had fallen asleep almost instantly. It struck Shane suddenly that Ilya must have been exhausted. The entire day had revolved around Shane and his temperature, and his liberal use of tissues, and his love of freshly brewed tea.Â
Aching with the realization, he tilted his head up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the center of Ilyaâs throat before he let sleep drag him under, too.Â
Unfortunately, the flu rendered sleep very difficult, indeed. Shane surfaced abruptly from a shallow fever-dream less than an hour later because a cough caught at the back of his throat. It made his chest ache and his eyes water.Â
Ilya stirred under him and passed a sluggish hand over his back. Shane stayed still, listening carefully. He desperately wanted Ilya to get more rest.Â
When he was certain Ilya was still asleep, he carefully shifted off of Ilya and onto his back. He swallowed against the soreness in his throat and tried to settle back down, but his sinuses had packed themselves completely shut, as though cotton were stuffed deep into his skull.Â
Slowly, cautiously, he reached for a tissue on the nightstand and attempted to blow his nose, one nostril at a time, with the smallest amount of pressure possible. The congestion remained stubbornly immoveable, but somehow his nose was still managing to run.Â
Shane sighed miserably and, out of desperation, tore off two small pieces of tissue, stuffing them into his nostrils so he wouldnât have to wipe at his nose every few seconds. The skin around his nostrils was rubbed raw and painful, anyway.
It felt deeply pathetic, but also incredibly effective.Â
For a while, he lay on his back like this, staring into the darkness and trying to ignore the pressure throbbing behind his eyes. It was miserable business, but Ilya was at least sleeping soundly.Â
âHh-hIIH!â
He clamped a hand over his nose, trying to smother the tickle out before it worked into a sneeze, but the congestion only made the sensation worse, pressure building painfully.Â
âHhghâSHHoo!â
Yeah, that fucking hurt.Â
Sneezing while this congested felt genuinely agonizing, the force ricocheting painfully through his blocked sinuses.Â
Shane was beginning to suspect Ilya possessed some inexplicable biological reflex to react to the sound of Shane suffering. Perhaps a survival instinct, ancient and deeply coded in his DNA. Maybe Russian men had once survived brutal winters by instinctively waking whenever their lovers sounded ill, entire bloodlines preserved through aggressive caretaking and sheer emotional vigilance.Â
âMby doseâŠâ Shane tried to sniff and immediately regretted it when he choked on a cough.Â
Ilya made a soft sound of understanding and rolled toward him. Even half asleep, his hand found Shaneâs face in the dark, broad palm nice and cool against his hot cheek.Â
âCome here.â
Shane shifted closer beneath the blankets, and Ilyaâs fingers moved over his face, carefully mapping it in the dark. His fingertips pressed gently beside Shaneâs nose, then along his sinuses in slow practiced motions. The pressure hurt at first, making him wince, then slowly began to ease some of the tightness.Â
Shane let out a low, appreciative groan.
âMmh, feel good?â Shane could practically hear the little smile in Ilyaâs voice.
Shane made a soft sound, and Ilyaâs fingers continued to work carefully in touches more gentle than seemed possible for such strong hands. It wasnât enough to clear the congestion completely, probably not even enough to be able to properly blow his nose, but enough that the throbbing behind his eyes lessened into a dull, nearly unnoticeable ache.Â
âHow do kndow how to do this?â Shane asked, bewildered.Â
Ilyaâs fingers slowed briefly as he answered, âMy mother.âÂ
Ilya was able to say these things, late at night with the world quiet behind sleep and without the bright hours left to expose him. It was like he saved his sadness for the dark, when only its silhouette was visible in the low light, its details swallowed kindly by shadows.
And it had been stated so simply, not an invitation for probing or a request for comfort. It was an explanation, a humble offering of information caught between I trust you with this and I trust you wonât make me talk about it. It was a house of cards, a building without a proper frame, a structure one breeze away from catastropheâof Ilya falling apart. And Ilya trusted Shane enough to chance it anyway.Â
Ilya once had a mother, too. Once, Ilya had been loved freely and tenderly, by a woman who had pressed cool hands to feverish skin and learned the exact places to soothe pain from her son.
Shane could picture it, Ilyaâs mother sitting beside him and teaching him care through patient hands, passing her love so ordinarily neither of them knew how important it would become later. People passed, and parts of them continued moving through the world. What Ilya kept for himself, the remnants of his motherâs love, lived on in his hands and was being selflessly handed over to Shane.Â
Shane shifted closer, tucking himself warm against Ilyaâs chest, and murmured in practiced yet still clumsy Russian, âŃ ŃĐ”Đ±Ń Đ»ŃблŃ.âÂ
For the briefest moment, Ilya went very still. Shane felt the pause of his breathing, the way his body tightened sharply before relaxing again. Then, Ilya lowered his face into Shaneâs hair with a gentle nuzzle.Â
âTerrible accent,â Ilya whispered against the top of his head.Â
Shane smiled weakly. âDodât lie, Iâb very good. Itâs⊠Itâs just the codgestiod, thatâs all.âÂ
âWooorst accent.â But Ilyaâs arms wrapped tightly around Shane, pulling him impossibly closer, then continued gentle rubs along Shaneâs sinuses with his thumb. âBut good effort.âÂ
Eventually, little by little, Shaneâs breathing eased. He was halfway to sleep when he sneezed again, suddenly and helplessly right into Ilyaâs chest.Â
âHhâISHHuhh!â
The force of it startled both of them. Then, Shane realized with horror that he still had tissue stuffed in his nose.
âOh, fuck,â he groaned, mortified. âIâb sorry⊠This is so gross.âÂ
He twisted away from Ilya and pulled the damp tissue free, quickly wrapping it in a clean tissue before abandoning it on the nightstand. He had the foresight to grab a few more tissues just to keep in his hand.
Beside him, Ilya laughed softly. âYes,â he agreed. âIs very gross.â
Shane groaned again, but through a self-deprecating laugh, and Ilya pulled him back into his arms.Â
âBut,â Ilya continued, sounding awfully fond, âthis is also love.â
Something warm spread through Shaneâs chest. He pressed the tissues to his dripping nose and settled heavy into Ilyaâs arms again, forehead finding the crook of Ilyaâs neck on instinct.Â
âI could do this agaid,â Shane admitted softly after a moment, voice edging on shy. âEvery flu seasod, forever.â
Ilya made a quiet sound against his hair that mightâve been a laugh. âEvery flu season? For the rest of our lives?â
Perhaps it was the fever, but he nodded. Shane considered that he was essentially proposing under the pretense of surviving future respiratory illnesses together, which honestly sounded perfectly reasonable to him at the moment.
âI like flu-Shane,â Ilya mused. âHe loves me very much.â
âHealthy Shade loves you too,â Shane argued weakly. âHealthy Shade loves you without sdeezig od you.â
âHealthy Shane, sick Shane.â Ilya smoothed his fingers over Shaneâs hair in gentle, slow pets. âAll my Shanes.â
Love was a lot of things. Sometimes it was bright and cinematic and made Shane think happily-ever-afters werenât only for fairytales. Sometimes it was mild summers spent in LanaudiĂšre, or puzzles at his parentsâ house during family dinner nights.Â
And sometimes love looked like this, curled together in the middle of the night with fever sweat cooling against Shaneâs skin, crumpled tissues gathering on the nightstand, and Ilya holding him like there was nowhere else heâd rather be.Â
A shy and nerdy botanist with debilitating hay fever working in a greenhouse. Gardening gloves in one pocket, a pollen-coated handkerchief in the otherâŠ
someone who doesnât realise just how heavy their cold has become until theyâre bent over doing work, or perhaps reading, and their nose starts to drip.
