yeah title's not creative. trust me and read it. u trust me, right? :3
ive just had this working for so long i decided to full send it. this is before tuna melt happens. just the unfettered romantic tension between two men who have sex a lot.
CW: a lil sexually explicit, mess, contagion, gay people
The second Hollander thrusts open the grating metal of the door, Ilya rushes up the stairs. He's shoving him back as they race up the stairwell in tandem.
Fuck. He’s missed him so much. He never misses any hookup like this. That’s a very big problem for another day. Because tonight he’s going to fuck Hollander. He’s always so eager for him. Ilya would never say he was the best at sex, if that can be quantified. He’s not the most experienced. Still, somehow, Hollander has made his way to the top of Ilya’s chart of conquests.
His favourite, unquestionably.
He lets Hollander lead them into his place, fighting off a lingering shiver as he finally gets warm.
“Fuck, Rozanov,” Hollander has him pressed against the door immediately, hands searching. He can feel his breath over cheek and his calloused fingertips searching under his sweatshirt.
“You took so long to get me,” Ilya complains, not reciprocating quite yet. He swipes his nose on his hoodie sleeve, pressing it there another second and rubbing to get the itch out. It’s running almost as bad as it was on the ice earlier, cold air always turns his congestion to a faucet.
“Sorry. I was taking a shower...” Hollander trails off in lieu of further explanation. The shame in his voice paired with his hungry eyes means that Hollander has fully-prepped. He’s worked himself clean and open because he knew Ilya was coming.
Ilya leers at him, wolfish, mouth inches from Hollander. His perfect fucking lips and straight nose and constellation of freckles fill up his vision and he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
“You are always so excited for my cock,” he praises, compliment punctuated with a soupy sniffle.
Hollander’s sweet eyes glisten with want and he chases after Ilya’s mouth.
Too bad that Ilya has a moral compass, so he has to stop him.
“Ah–” Ilya shakes his head and holds his fingertips over Hollander’s mouth before he can reach his lips. “I am sick.”
This breaks every rule in Hollander’s book, surely. Hooking up with a sick person. Ilya has still come over, but he’s waiting to be pushed off and glared at. Maybe he will offer Ilya tea before he kicks him out. Polite Canadian Shane Hollander. He probably schedules his illnesses for the off-season. He definitely doesn’t invite them in from secret hook-ups.
Instead, Hollander surprises him. He frowns and doesn’t push him away. His eyes flick over Ilya’s face. He’s surely staring at the pinkened tip of his nose, the way it scrunches as Ilya has to sniffle again. Playing over their game in his mind, dissecting every time Ilya wiped his nose while on the bench.
“Do you have a fever?”
“Nyet.” Ilya confirms this with a shake of his head. “Is just in my nose. Headcold, they say,” he accentuates this for Hollander with a liquid sniffle and pouts at him.
“Worse now, maybe, because you made me stand outside so long. Waiting for you.”
Hollander gives him a long, nervous look. The racing thoughts are so visible on his face. Ilya thinks he might be able to reach out and read his mind if he only presses his fingers to his temples.
He tests this with a double-tap of his fingers to the side of Shane’s brow..
“Do not worry, Hollander. My dick still works perfectly.”
He watches for another moment as his expression changes from apprehensive to decidedly needy and smirks. Ah. Maybe it did work.
And Hollander is throwing himself against him so hard their teeth clack together.
__
Ilya is thrusting hard into Hollander, one hand bracing over his back and the other on the swell of his ass he fucks him into the mattress.
“Fuck,” he pants, mind swimming in pleasure. Not only English, but all language leaves him when they’re like this. Hollander is so perfect. He thinks he could fuck only him for the rest of his life. He’s so eager for it, so responsive under him. He groans again as he drags his cock back and then forces back in.
Hollander makes a pretty sound, so he tries to go for the same angle.
“Fuuck. Snff. Hollander.”
His nose is running. He knows. It’s running down over his cupid's bow and into his panting mouth. One brave drip comes off his chin and mixes with the sweat at the dimples of Hollander’s back. He sniffles fruitlessly in between gasps. Hollander feels so good. Perfect. Ilya’s felt his cock work inside countless holes, but Hollander’s always makes him need it more. He has never finished fucking him and not wanted to do it again.
He’s getting into the rhythm. Sniffle, gasp, babble out something coherent. He wishes he could kiss him.
Hollander’s affirmative moans of pleasure are driving him further into a heady pleasure when a sneeze overtakes him.
"Hheh-- a'dczh'UUoo!"
He ducks his head as it mists over Hollander’s back, not wanting to stop if he doesn’t have to.
He sniffles, launched into another three more sneezes. They spill out of him, each competing to be first. He ends on a truly pathetic gasp for breath and a dz'iew of a final sneeze.
Well. He sucks back his mucus. There are more important things to focus on.
“You’re gross,” Hollander mutters below him.
Ilya halts their movement and pulls his hand from its place at Shane’s hip so he can pinch and rub at his septum. It feels fucking euphoric and he allows an indulgent sniffle as he rubs the whole of his palm up at his nose.
“Oh, I am gross? Shane Hollander likes to lick my cum from his own fingers, but I am not allowed to sneeze?”
That said – he grabs a hand wildly over for the first article of clothing he can find and presses it to his face, releasing two – oh, no, three. Three more sneezes.
Wait.
His abdomen tenses with a fourth sneeze into the fabric. This broken nose is never satisfied. He groans to himself as he pinches his septum against the fabric.
He gasps, fighting off dizzying congestion. His head is so stuffy he almost feels bad, if he’s passing this to Hollander. But he said yes. And Ilya was able to play with this cold, so it should be nothing to the unstoppable force of Shane Hollander.
He blows his nose into the cloth and tosses it aside with cough to clear his throat, then presses his hands back into place.
“Bless you,” Hollander mumbles.
Ilya grips for the side of Hollander’s chin, squeezes it once. He still really wants to kiss him.
“Shut up.”
__
He’s noticeably more hoarse than when he arrived as he wipes Hollander down with a damp washcloth and murmurs praises. He’d been honest with him earlier – it’s really just a cold, barely an issue beyond a nuisance.
Still, he feels thoroughly wrung out as he flops back on the bed beside Hollander. Into sheets that he knows smell like him. Any other time, where his nose was working, he’d press his face into the pillowcase and drink him in. Hollander smells so good after sex. Sweaty. Musky. The distinct scent of man that Ilya wants to lap up. He wants to press his flat tongue over his armpits and the fold of his groin and the small expanse of skin where his pecs jut out over his chest.
Instead, he itches his wrist under his nose and presses up as he sniffles a few times. This cold has left him with much more of a drippy nose than he would like to admit.
“D’you need to go?” Hollander murmurs as he actively winds himself more around Ilya.
He should go. “Yes,” he laments, praying that the want doesn’t show in his voice.
“Goodnight, Hollander.” He detangles himself, stands up and collects his clothes.
As he’s slipping in his hoodie, Hollander sits up in bed, risen from the newly-fucked dead, and shoves a packet of tissues at him.
“For your cold,” Hollander says in one big breath. His hair is plastered to his forehead. His eyes are sincere.
Ilya laughs and waves him goodnight. He clutches his hand around the plastic of the tissues as he shoves it further into his pocket. He has a feeling he will carry it with him.
__
Shane heads to the team doctor. He does not want to, but he has to. He can count on less than one hand the amount of times he’s gotten sick during a season.
“Uh,” he sniffles and resents as the sound drags in his sinuses, “I have a cold? I think? Or, uh, rhinovirus?” His heart pounds his chest with a steady thrum of betrayal. You caught a cold from Ilya Rozanov of the Boston Bears.
Rozanov.
It makes him miss him, which is all kinds of weird and fucked up as he blows his nose and thinks Ilya did this when I saw him last.
The doctor is perfectly reasonable. Checks his temperature, listens to his chest. Confirms he’s good to go. Advises fluids, a decongestant before bed, doesn’t mince words and tells him he’s got a runny nose that’s only going to get worse on the ice and should have towels on hand.
It’s all the more embarrassing when Shane has to come back into the locker room. He’s been cleared for the game, but he’s late in.
“You good?” Hayden asks, thumping him on the back as they change into gear.
“Yeah,” Shane says, and has to sniffle or it will dribble onto his upper lip.
“Glad to hear it, man.”
“I’m good, yeah.”
“You sneezed so much earlier, man,” Hayden shakes his head, sifting through his bag. “Thought you were down for the count. Like, fuck. Flu or something.”
“All good,” Shane assures him.
He’s blushing everywhere. He doesn’t sneeze a lot. Like, ever. If he does, he knows the right way to press his knuckle to his nose or his tongue in his mouth and make it quiet. But Ilya never sneezes that way. And this is the cold he got from Ilya. It feels like he’s still around, even when he’s hundreds of miles away.
Impulsively, he shoots out a text.
Jane: I got your cold, asshole.
Immediately, a reply.
Lily: Sorry (((
Lily: but i did enjoy that asshole ))
Jane: fuck off
Lily: feel better Jane <3
During the game, his phone gets more texts, buzzing as it’s tucked into his bag.
Lily: maybe i did do biological warfare
Lily: you cannot stop sneezing. Funny they must have cleared you just for you to spend every pause like little scrunched up kitten
Lily: i almost feel bad.
Lily: but no. you wanted me to fuck you so bad you have to be sick now.
i keep having snz dreams about hockey players……. today it was about some kind of commercial shoot, except one of the players had caught a cold and couldn’t stop ruining everyone else’s takes with snzing and snorting and hitching……….
i’m just now getting around to reading heated rivalry and hello i’m gonna paraphrase smth shane said in his internal monologue “shane couldn’t sneeze in public without the hockey sites reporting that he was deathly ill, and how that should affect your sports betting”
so we’ve been ill in public shane👀 so we’ve been sneezing in public shane 👀
the concept of a my dinner with hayden rewrite where hayden gets sick and nobody believes him because obviously he just wants to find a way out of having dinner with ilya. ilya almost admires the dedication hayden has to trying to get rid of him when he starts showing actual symptoms during dinner
→ today, i come bearing plotless, highly indulgent, sk/ip pwp with kink!scott. dug out from the depth of my archives, dusted off, finished up, and given a fresh lick of paint. because that's apparently my coping mechanism now for dealing with real life hockey stress, lmao.
→ hope you enjoy!
→ 2.3kish
The apartment was dark when they arrived home, silent and still until they stumbled in.
Kip shrugged out of his coat as Scott set off on a circuit of the living room, flipping on each lamp he passed before returning to him. They were still giggling over the story Scott was telling in the elevator about some of the Admirals rookies’ misguided post-game celebrations on the road trip he wasn’t long back from.
They were both pleasantly tipsy, the whispers of alcohol and good company warming their blood. Scott had a rare day off from practice the next day and they’d taken full advantage of it, taking up an invitation to go meet Kip’s friends down at the Kingfisher for a drink. Honestly, for no other reason than to catch up, gossip, laugh, have a bit of a bitch and a moan about the little grievances in life like you just needed to sometimes.
It was nice. Shoved into a cozy, intimate little booth as they were, Scott’s thigh pressed into his own, hot and inescapably present, the whole evening. Sometime after Scott’s second pint, his hand had joined it.
Early in their relationship, Kip used to fantasise about times like this. Wistful but in no way certain there’d ever actually be a day when they could be seen together in public without Scott skirting on the edge of a panic attack, never mind hold hands. Or press a kiss into each other’s cheek. Or cuddle up next to each other in the corner of a booth in a bar. Each gesture that once felt like an incriminating little snapshot inside their own heads, encased in barbed wire and branded a danger, repurposed into being, well, normal.
Even so, Kip’s heart still fluttered when he felt Scott’s hands on him where anyone was free to look. Tonight they’d done all three. He still went flush with pride at how far his man had come; felt joyful for everything they had because Scott finally gave himself permission to be happy.
“hhH’ESSSCHEUH’hh!”
Scott emerged from the crook of his elbow with a tight, sharp sniff.
It hadn’t been the first sneeze of the night. Having spent most of it practically tucked under his arm, Kip had felt each of them coming too, mentally pulled out of the conversation each time the other man’s chest began to shake against his shoulder. He’d chance a glance up and sure enough, Scott’s expression would be hazy and faraway, silently losing the fight against–
“Ble-”
“hh’aH’EHDTZZS’sssch’huh!”
Scott had brushed it all off at the bar, declaring to the group when it became unavoidable that he must be allergic to something in the air. Someone’s perfume, or some cleaning product randomly driving him nuts. Kip knew better, though. He could hear the gravel in his voice, the hint of stuffiness starting to bleed into the edges of his voice; the urgency in his sniffles in the aftermath of each sneeze.
Though not without some degree of difficulty, for Scott’s sake Kip dutifully refrained from openly acknowledging it each time it happened, despite how doing so went against every polite instinct his mom and dad had gone to great lengths to instill in him, the ‘nice Brooklyn boy’ that he is. Let’s just say they’d learned of the very unintended impact Kip’s blessing had on him the, uh, hard way.
But now, wrapped in the shrouded, comfortable cocoon of their home, the peace afforded them safety. Ever since the door snicked shut the air had crackled with something live and anticipatory, heavy with unspoken possibility as they danced round each other a bit now. Kip hadn’t realised he’d been keyed up waiting for something, but apparently he had. The sneezes simply said the word ‘go’ from the director’s chair.
“Bless you,” he emphasised, face creased with sympathy. God, Scott looked affected even just at that. Kip closed the distance between them and cupped the nape of his neck, pulling himself up onto his toes so he could kiss the hinge of Scott’s jaw. Kip felt the shiver wrack through him. “Those sounded like they hurt. Are you okay?”
Scott let out a huff of laughter. They all sound like that – always. “Not any more so than usual. I-I’m fine,” he said, punctuated by a sniffle. He hadn’t been able to look Kip in the eye as he said it, which wasn’t like him, not if he was actually trying to convince him of something.
Kip bit back a smile.
Oh, that’s what we’re doing.
“Are you sure?” Kip replied seriously, playing along. “You’ve been so sneezy tonight. You’re all sniffly now, and your nose is going all pick at the edges…” His searching gaze pinned Scott in place, who squirmed a little under the scrutiny. “I think you’re catching a cold, sweetheart.”
Kip felt like he could guide Scott to the edge of the earth and have him stand on the very edge with the way he relaxed under the palm of his hand. Honestly, it still made his head spin to be confronted with the fact that he could have any kind of command over a man like Scott. That he trusted him with his vulnerability like this. It made him feel so incredibly special.
“I-I don’t know…” Scott stuttered. “Maybe? Do you… do you think so?”
Kip tilted upwards, moving in to kiss him properly, but at the last second Scott swerved before their lips could connect. Kip just smiled, unsurprised.
“See? I think you know.”
Scott’s head dipped down again and Kip brought a hand to his face, imploring it ever so gently upwards with a cupped hand to his cheek. He let his thumb swipe delicately over the other man’s cheekbone, as if kissing with its pad in lieu of his mouth. Led by an ember of mischievous impulse, he shifted the focus of his fingers’ attention. Experimentally, he pressed his thumb into the spot between Scott’s eyebrows, satisfaction warming him when his face crumpled in relief.
“Does that feel good?”
Scott’s eyes had fluttered closed and he nodded silently, obediently.
Kip would bet he could make it feel even better.
He hummed his approval, replacing his thumb with his forefinger and trailing it lightly down the bridge of Scott’s nose. He flinched a little at the pressure when Kip pressed in a smidge, wiggling the cartilage as if trying to shake something loose. Kip froze, worrying for a split second that he’d hurt him, but when Scott’s eyes opened again, they did so into a look that was decidedly more hazy than aggrieved. His nostrils flared.
“Oh no, what’s this?”
Scott’s breath scissored dangerously, eyes filling with moisture as they fluttered closed. Meanwhile, Kip’s lips found his neck, kissing around to his throat where his breath was contracting. The cologne he’d applied earlier was well-faded by now, overwhelmed at this point by the scent of Scott himself, and something spiked in Kip’s stomach. His hand, teasing and exploratory, skimmed up Scott’s shirt to settle on the firm ridges of his abdomen.
“hhhuhH’AEH’DZZSSSHhhhh’uh!”
Kip hummed, the sound dripping in sympathy. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just trying to ease some pressure, and look what happened. So sensitive.”
Caught between the urge to succumb to Kip’s ministrations or the still ever-pressing need to sneeze, though one hand had risen instinctively to press Kip in closer by the small of his back, the other he just managed to get to his face as he nudged it away, just over the top of Kip’s head.
“hhh’aH’EHTSSSCHhh’huh!”
“Bless you. Poor thing…”
Kip grabbed Scott’s cock through his jeans. Oh, he was rock hard; positively throbbing. It ripped a watery groan from the older man’s throat as he immediately rutted against Kip’s hand, chasing the friction as squeezed and rubbed with the practiced, expert rhythm of someone who knew his body like the back of his hand. Only–
“hhH’AEHHTCH’ssch’iew!”
The sneeze got away from him slightly, not quite as well covered as before, and the burst of spray glistened in the soft, warm lamplight.
“Oh, bless you, sweetheart – you don’t sound well at all.”
Each word Kip uttered was a precisely pointed jab at Scott’s resolve, the doting layered on intentionally thick. Left bleary-eyed and full of sniffles, but with the distinctly viral itch now seemingly ebbed, Scott appeared to only fall further into the heady encouragement of his attentions.
“I’mb sorry…” he mumbled, followed quickly by a thick sniffle. The sensation bothered him enough that he spared the back of a hand to mash his nose into, scrubbing it back and forth with a slick, congestion clicking sound.
Kip’s expression crumpled. “Hey – you have nothing to be sorry for, okay? Not a thing. It’s gonna be alright. Y’know why?”
Scott shook his head. “Ndo. Sdnfff. Why?”
“Because I’m going to take care of you.” Kip gave Scott’s erection a firm squeeze. “Starting with this, hm?”
Hooking his fingers down the waistband of Scott’s jeans, Kip directed him over to the edge of the couch. He popped open the button and shimmied them down a little on his hips, before gently coaxing Scott downwards. Feeling the heat of Scott’s gaze as he looked up at him from below, Kip wasted no time climbing into his lap and pulling his dick out of his pants. In a bit of a pinch, he spat into his own hand before taking Scott in hand, his stroke calm and rhythmic.
Scott’s eyes had glazed over slightly, gleaming as they took him in, openly adoring and worshipful but slightly unsure, begging for something he couldn’t give himself permission to vocalise. Kip couldn’t help himself. He started to move in, but Scott instinctively stiffened.
Kip held his gaze resolutely, bringing a hand round to the back of his head to hold it in place, and when he spoke his voice was low, warm, trickling like honey. “It’s okay…” he assured him, inching his face closer, closer, as he muttered it over and over again, quieter and quieter each time, like an incantation to lull Scott into a trance with. “It’s okay… this is okay… s’okay….”
Scott’s shoulders relaxed again as he eventually gave himself over to the moment with Kip’s insistence, sighing into his mouth as their lips slotted together. Time melted away as they kissed, Scott’s hands finding Kip’s ass as they tended to do, kneading and squeezing as Kip’s hand worked his length with consistent, maddening efficiency. Kip licked into his mouth, suckling on Scott’s bottom lip in the way that usually has him unable to keep from smiling against his face.
Instead, now, Kip feels him pull away, sucking in what sounded like a much-needed breath, sniffling back the audibly growing congestion settling in.
“Awww, you’re starting to get all stuffy, I can hear it…” Kip continued stroking him as he said it, letting his thumb circle, featherlight, over his red, swollen head, catching some of the pre-cum gathering in his slit. Scott whimpered. His eyes grew heavy lidded, his body tensing up as Kip felt him tiptoe closer and closer to the edge with each stroke, each word.
He had him in the palm of his hand.
Kip hummed. “You need a tissue, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll get you one when we’re done…” He huffed out a chuckle. “Won’t be too much longer, now. I can feel it. You’re so hard it must be painful, baby. Let me take care of you right… you can let go whenever you need to…”
As if to affirm his point, Kip picked up the pace, Scott’s body jolting in answer.
Kip, feeling his blood heat and his own cock harden in the face of just how turned on Scott evidently was, reattached himself to the side of Scott’s neck, laying kiss after indulgent, suckling kiss all the way across the hot, stubbled skin, right up under his ear. Fuck, Scott has to go to practice day after tomorrow and he should probably be more careful… Scott will never hear the end of it from the guys if he rocks up with a hickey.
Scott was shaking now, more so with every handful of seconds that passed as he got closer and closer to the precipice, even his sniffling growing all the more desperate as his breaths grew laboured and staccato.
“S-Sorry, I h’hhave to–”
“Again?”
Scott nodded, regretful. Kip sighed.
“Go ahead. Get it all out, sweetheart, you’ll feel better–” Kip’s lips found the shell of Scott’s ear, his next words hushed and uttered directly into it. “...but you’ll be going straight to bed after.”
“hhUH’IHHHDZSSTCHhh’uh!”
Scott came with a strangled moan on the tail end of that final sneeze as he spilled into Kip’s hand, the sound enunciating an edge of hoarseness to his voice Kip could tell was likely to stick around now for the next few days as he coaxed him through his orgasm, with utterings of ‘bless you…’ … ‘there you go…’ … ‘come for me…’ … ‘so good for me, look at you… so good…’.
God, he looked so hot when he came. He wasn’t sure he’d ever quite get over it.
With Scott’s body now lax and sated, he slumped back into the couch, the heaviness of lust gradually cleared away from his gaze with his release, sheepish gratitude rising to replace it in the aftermath as he rushed to thumb away where his nose was now running into the crease of his nostril.
“Sorry,” he repeated, appearing to be flirting with the idea of being ashamed, but not quite able to get there. Good, Kip thought, you absolutely shouldn’t.
“Hey– don’t. You’re totally fine. I wanted to help.” Kip joked, his tone light as he caught Scott’s averted eye, smiling in a way the other man was helpless but to mirror. Kip sat back a little in Scott’s lap and carded his, um, free hand through his hair. “I meant what I said, though– you don’t sound good and we’re getting you into bed pronto.”
Scott raised an eyebrow, nodding towards Kip’s crotch and the very obvious hard-on poking him in the leg. “Oh, I think I could be down for that.”
it’s so crazy to know that my favs have sneezed before. my favs have felt that burning in their noses and thought “ugh, not right now” before having to duck into their elbow. my favs have lost the sneeze after too many false starts. i love living on the same earth as my favs.
i hate vanillas what to you mean the new york islanders did a question of the day that was “how many times do you sneeze in a year” and a lot of them actually thought out their answers
I’m so into mess it’s not even funny. Yes use me as your tissue, yes we can use your snot as lube, yes cough on my face when you’re on top. Don’t cover or stifle a damn thing, because if you fill me with your virus we get to have double the fun
After the door closed behind Shane, Ilya dropped his seductive posture and laid back against the pillows. He'd been able to forget about his cold when he was with Shane, but now it was coming back to him -- how run down he felt, the cottony feeling in his head, the throbbing at his temples signaling an oncoming headache that hopefully wouldn't become a migraine, and, of course, how full and swollen his sinuses were. He pinched the bridge of his nose, slowly rubbing up and down the bony ridge. The slow massage broke the seal of his congestion and it started to leak slowly from his no doubt pinkened nostrils. Fuck, that tickled. He dragged the side of his index finger roughly against the base of his nose and his philtrum, wiping it off on the pillow behind his head. It would feel so good to get some of this shit out of his head...
Ilya grabbed a fold from the puddle of bedsheet at his side, bringing it to his nose. He took a deep inhale through his mouth in preparation, chest swelling, and blew, shoulders hunching and abs tensing with effort. He winced slightly at the volume and honking sound of it. The vibration of blowing had spread throughout his sinuses, generating a familiar buzzing tingle that meant he was going to sneeze soon. His face began to crumple; brows knitting together, eyes fluttering shut, nostrils flaring wide, lips parting.
"hhh... ahhh..." he hitched, willing his shitty sinuses to get on with it already. "hh'ahh? ...ahhHH!"
“–AHHZZSCHHhhooo!"
Fucking finally. And, of course, he never stopped at just one.
"hhh-RISSHHHhhue! hy'EISSSSHhhiew!"
llya crunched forward with each uncovered sneeze, the force of them lifting his head and shoulders from the pillow and spraying all over himself. His lips started to shape a fervent “Blyad” but he interrupted himself with another sneeze. “hhh’IDGTXCHhhuh!” He cringed internally, feeling a thick splatter hit his thighs, even as he started building up to another. “hhh… hih-ihh, ihhh, ihhHH–” It seemed to toy with him as he tilted his head back, keeping him on the brink for what felt like an eternity before an even wetter and messier “hhhDDZZ’JSSSSHH’Hhue!” sprayed out of him. The snot cascaded from his nose, running down his philtrum and chin, and he grimaced.
He took a dry spot of sheet and wiped his face, but the touch of the sheet was too much for the state his nose was in. “ehhggshooh–igch’CHOO–igh’IIISHHhew!” The sneezes themselves were smaller, but the way they tumbled out over each other felt just as exhausting.
His nose still itched deep inside, telling him that he wasn’t done yet.
“hhhuh-ahh?” Ilya breathed, trying to ignite the itch into a sneeze. “hh, hhh, hHh…” Almost. He rubbed the tip of his nose as he hitched some more, sliding his fingers up the crooked line of his nose until he reached the slight bump leftover from the third break. Was he desperate enough for that? …Fuck it.
Ilya tweaked that spot until–“ISSCHHuue! EEIIISHHHheeew! hhhESSHhhhoooh! ETSCHschhhooo! heh…hehd’ZZZZIIISSSHH’schheewwww!”
The sneezes barrelled out of him, loud and intense. He dabbed carefully at his leaking face afterward, trying to apply enough pressure to circumvent any tickles, and swallowed to check his throat. It felt raw, but at least it seemed like he was done sneezing. For now.
Reuploading my last fic bcs I do, in fact, still have a concussion and that thing was noooot done yet. I very much apologize, thank you to everyone in my dms and those who were vaguely concerned.
ANYWAY
3+1 (three times those around S/hane realized his real rival was dust + one time he found out he wasn't the only one)
Hayden Pike
When you have four kids, a full time professional hockey career, and a wife in desperate need of a spa week, you get your shit together pretty quick. At least, that’s what Hayden’s mostly sure he’s supposed to be doing right now with Jackie in North Shore for the week. To his own credit, he thinks he’s doing a pretty solid job, thank you very much! For the first three days anyway, then Wednesday morning hits like a 300 pound defenseman. Jade woke up with a sore throat, Ruby has decided she wants anything they don’t currently have, Amber is colicky, and Arthur…well, he’s fine actually.
By late afternoon, Hayden is hunched over the kitchen island with his phone off to the side, his eyes closed, waging a silent war. His kids are all screaming, sans Arthur, and he’s about to make a very dire call, one he may never live down. Like a man pre-writing his own eulogy, he calls the only person he can think of to save him; Shane Hollander.
“Yeah no, for sure.” Well…he agreed to that much more easily than Hayden had expected. He’s stunned into silence for a moment, mouth hanging slightly open with half-formed words. On the other line, he can hear bedsheets rustling and a hushed conversation between Shane and someone else’s voice that makes Hayden want to kick himself. Shit, of course perfect golden-boy Shane Hollander is taking their day off to relax with his parents.
“I just need you for a couple of hours so I don’t drive myself to the hospital for an impromptu vasectomy or something.” Running a hand through his disheveled hair, he tries to keep the explanation short and avoid the nervous urge to ramble. There’s a beat of silence where Hayden almost manages to talk himself into hanging up and getting in his car anyway. It only lasts a second, thankfully, before he hears Shane chuckle and lets out his breath.
“I think maybe that’d be a good idea anyway, Hayd. I’m on my way, be there in 20.” Finally feeling like he can unlock his muscles from crouching over the countertop, Hayden groans in relief. Help is on the way, and his heart can slow to a semi-normal patter in his chest as he turns and strides back into the living room.
True to his word, Hayden hears Shane knock at his door exactly 20 minutes later, freakishly punctual in a way he’s never been more grateful for. With Amber wailing in his arms, Jade whining over a glass of orange juice on the couch, Ruby trying to rival them both with her cries of general disdain, Hayden nearly throws open the door. He has half a mind to shove Amber at Shane before he’s even managed to toe his shoes off so he can go back to bargaining with his other daughters. Except Hayden Pike is a very polite Canadian boy, perhaps even enough to rival Hollander himself, so he doesn’t.
“I’m really sorry to ruin your day with your parents like this, man. Just need a couple hours to-” he takes a deep exaggerated breath, letting it out slowly through his mouth, “you know?” It’s probably true, hopefully, that this only needs to be a few hours. If he’s lucky, Hayden can spin this into just a ‘day-off dinner with my friend’ and not the catastrophe it is.
“My parents?” Shane furrows his brow for a moment as he follows Hayden into the living room before instantly straightening up again. “Oh yeah, yeah no worries, Hayd. They’re uh… they don’t mind.” Flopping down on the couch, Shane gently removes Amber from Hayden’s arms and starts cooing to her.
This is fine, better than fine actually, Hayden feels like he can breathe again as he gets up to appease Ruby and Jade in the kitchen. It’s fine because when Arthur wakes up from his nap, Shane is already moving, when Amber screams, he knows the exact pattern she needs to be rocked in until she settles again. Hayden has never been more grateful for another person, except for his wife, of course. There’s finally enough space in his brain to coax Jade into drinking a glass of juice and compromise Ruby’s outrage over chicken nuggets with a coloring book.
“When’s the last time you cleaned your carpets?” Blinking out of the comfortable daze he’d fallen into while helping Ruby color a unicorn, Hayden glances over at Shane. He has one baby in either arm taking probably 80% of his attention as he wrinkles his nose with a sniff. What the fuck? He’s here helping Hayden babysit his kids and he has a problem with a stain on the carpet? Even given Shane’s frankly long record of blunt statements, this one kind of stings.
“Uh, I don’t know, dude. I think-” “HNGX’tiew!” Hayden blinks in surprise, his mouth still open and forming an answer his brain has stopped writing. He watches Shane scramble to set Amber and Arthur on the couch gently before ducking into the crook of his elbow. “Hh’IIESHhuh!” At least he set the babies down first before allowing himself to sneeze fully
“Bless you?” Watching Shane scramble to the bathroom has Hayden furrowing his brow in surprise. He’s seen the guy sneeze maybe twice in their entire timeline of knowing each other and it had been totally one-off random both times. Is Shane allergic to his mother-in-law’s rug or something? To be fair, the damn thing is ugly and the stains of grape juice only help to elevate the eye-sore of it all.
Running the possibility over in his head, Hayden gets up with a promise to be right back and creeps slowly to the bathroom. As he gets closer, he can hear Shane’s muffled attempt at blowing his nose and the few soft sneezes that get mixed in. Okay, so definitely not a one-off random thing, add it to the list of things Hayden doesn’t really know what to do with. He clears his throat before knocking lightly- Jesus, in his own damn home.
“You alright in there?” Obviously not, fuck, he really should’ve just gotten that vasectomy.
“Yup, fine. Ju-hih-h’ESCHhuh! Just -snf- hold on.” There’s another breathless attempt at blowing his nose before Shane finally opens the door. A sheepish blush is already spreading down his neck as he stares at Hayden’s socked feet.
“Bless you. So uh, you must really hate polyester carpets, huh?” Lame, god he’s so fucking lame. When he dies from something dumb like imploding from stress, his tombstone will probably say ‘lame and awful best friend’. Except, Shane actually laughs, a little snicker that’s muffled by the square of toilet paper he’s pressing to his septum.
“I think I’m… pretty neutral on them actually.” He pauses for a split second, turning to toss the toilet paper into the trash and quickly tearing off a new piece. “Just, sometimes they get- snf- dusty.” Great, so Hayden’s lame choice in flooring meant to repel staining is going to kill his best friend, real smooth. To be fair, he doesn’t actually look too miserable, maybe a little teary eyed, and definitely sniffly, but not going into anaphylactic shock. Can dust put you in anaphylactic shock? Shit, he should look that up.
“And you’re-” He doesn’t finish the thought, Shane waves a hand at him to stop before ducking into his elbow.
“Hh’TSCH’hhu! ‘Scuse me. Allergic, to dust. Just a little.” This doesn’t seem like ‘just a little’ if Hayden is being so deadly serious. Then again, Shane knows his own body so well and keeps himself in such inhuman shape, Hayden thought maybe he was just immune to shit like allergies.
“Bless you. Okay, well, I have claritin? Or, you totally don't have to stay, dude.” Because killing Hockey’s #1 prodigy over babysitting really isn’t the headline Hayden wants to be cuffed under.
“Claritin, if you don't mind.” With a nod so sharp it nearly gives him whiplash, Hayden retrieves the pills from the space on top of the fridge. He also makes a mental note to get the house deep cleaned if either of them survive that long. Amber has gone back to wailing in the living room and Hayden forces himself not to sigh when he hears Shane reemerge to soothe her.
“Jesus man, get out of the living room!” Hayden barks, pulling Amber from Shane’s arms after the first flurry of stifled sneezes.
Rose Landry
Having dated an A-list celebrity and being an A-list celebrity herself, Rose can count on one hand the times she’s been able to peacefully sneak through Vancouver. Right now is not one of those times. It probably has something to do with that A-list celebrity previously mentioned sitting beside her. God, she’s going to punch the next cameraman that barges in front of her limo driver. Someone should really tell these people that they’ll get nothing from a photo posted after Fritz runs them over.
Four days into a week-long shoot, Rose decided she absolutely would not be leaving the country without a ‘date’ with her ex. Shane is currently trying to merge with the car to avoid the flashing cameras lined up outside his window. So much for their most peaceful night, they’d almost made it out unscathed too, that’s the worst part. They’d paid a frankly obscene amount for mediocre seafood and pasta without fanfare, but now it seems they’ll never leave.
One paparazzi had turned into two, then four, then eight, when she’d finally decided to call it a night. Shane had paid the check, of course he did, he was a perfectly sweet ex-boyfriend on a date with his ex-girlfriend, and also Canadian. She’d thought that was enough time to escape the slowly building crowd of paparazzi; it was not. Now they’re sitting in her limousine in the middle of a sketchy alley behind a very nice plaza circled like carcasses for the vultures.
Both crouched down as low as they possibly could be, eyes down, jaws tight, they look more like they’re running from the cops than the paparazzi. Not that Shane would know, he’s never run from the cops, for sure, Rose…had a childhood with multiple brothers. Expectedly, when she looks over at him, he looks like he wishes he could slip into the crease of his seat and vanish. Even with the window tinted so dark it’s practically reflective, the cameras are lighting up the limo and casting his grim expression in shadows.
“I’m really sorry about all this.” That at least catches Shane’s attention, even if he still looks partially suicidal, the way he’s hunched down in his seat. He’s used to it, of course he is, he’s objectively more famous than Rose is, but usually he has a pack of stadium security between himself and the public.
“No, no, it’s fine. I mean, not fine, but at least they didn’t jump us at the table.” There’s really no one Rose would rather be stuck in a limo with than Shane, if only because now she doesn’t feel like she’s suffocating. Yeah, the situation is pretty sucky, but if she just doesn’t look out the window, she can pretend they’re still just sitting in the restaurant, chatting about stupid shit.
“Ugh can you imagine? Well, I don’t know, one of them might be cute.” Tilting her head back, Rose grins conspiratorially over at him.
“Rose!” Shane gasps, looking absolutely scandalized with his bug eyed glare. The act would’ve been pretty convincing too, if he wasn’t grinning wide enough for his cheeks to turn pink.
“Oh right, I bet you’ve got a hot date waiting for you.” Rose regrets saying it instantly when Shane’s smile falters and he glances away with a quick sniff. That’s…weird, usually Shane is all over her jokes about his mystery lover, he usually can’t shut up if she brings him up. Watching his face fall in real time shatters her heart all over again.
“Oh my gosh, did you break up with the mystery guy? I’m so sorry, babe, please don’t cry.” God, she’s gonna have to kill this mystery guy isn’t she? That sucks, he was really doing it for Shane. Rose unbuckles and reaches up to place her hands on Shane’s cheeks. Fuck, if she’s going to make this man cry every time they go out then her brothers are going to murder her. ‘You put the God of hockey in a depressive episode!’ ‘Is it not enough to break his heart, you gotta rub it in too?’ ‘He’s going to fucking kill Michigan for this, Rosey!’ She can already hear them.
“No, no, ah, Rose. I’m not crying over the paparazzi!” Batting her hands away from his face, Shane sniffles sharply again as if actively trying to disprove his point. He brings his own hands up to his eyes and rubs at them hard enough to give her pause.
“Really? Because you look-” “NXG’tiew, fuck sorry.” Whatever she’d expected his retort to be, ducking aside into his elbow certainly wasn’t it. He reemerges looking sheepish, eyes slightly watery and the tip of his nose vaguely red where he’d pressed it against his jacket.
“Oh, bless you. If you hate my perfume that much you could’ve told me like an hour ago.” To be fair, she’d known Shane was at least mildly sensitive to perfumes, but in her defense, this one barely smells like anything. Leaning across him into the cubby in the car door, she pulls a pack of tissues and drops them in his lap with a knowing smile.
“No, I don’t! Hh’NGXtiew! fuck. I don’t hate it- snf- ugh, it’s nice, Rose. NXT’tiew! Fuck, I just don’t usually ride in limos -snf. The seats get d-huh-dusty H’hNXXTtiew! Hih… H’HIYYISH! fuck!” Well, good thing she got those tissues then. He rips into them almost instantly, burying his nose in a politely folded wad that instantly become useless. That’s so fucking Canadian, who the hell folds their tissues in the middle of an allergy fit? Shane Hollander would, honestly, that checks.
“Yea, fuck, bless you, babe. You’re not gonna, like, die are you?” Shane glares at her for that, which is probably fair. Rose gives him space for a moment, squinting through the camera flashes as he glares down at his tissues like they wronged him. She watches as his lower lip slowly pouts out. Without warning, he shifts in his seat to face her, his face downturned like he might actually cry now just to spite her.
“I could be getting fucked so good right now.” Sue her, she bursts into laughter, instantly clapping a hand over her mouth to disguise the squeal of delight. At least that answers her questions about mystery guy, apparently he’s alive and very very well.
“Oh my God, that’s what you’re thinking about?” Rose rolls her eyes so far back she worries for a moment that her grandmother was right and they’ll get stuck.
With a groan of faux exasperation, she reaches over to unbuckle Shane’s seatbelt and yank him after her as she leaps out of the car. The cameras go wild, zooming in where her hand is entangled with Shane’s, headlines already forming as she drags them both sprinting down the road. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registers that this is probably straight out of some romance film she’s starred in. None of that matters, not really, not when she hears Shane laughing so hard between sniffles that he’s practically tripping over himself. And really, what’s the point of having a gay best friend if you can’t run from the paparazzi with him so he can get laid?
Kip Grady
How the hell he ended up in a text chain with Shane fucking Hollander either needs to be studied or kept in an FBI high-security vault. It’s 45% Scott’s fault, of that much he’s certain, but the rest can only be blamed on his own inability to shut the fuck up. Elena had laughed at him when he’d shown her the text thread, calling it ‘two giraffes thrown into a lake and trying to swim out’. Maybe Kip needs better friends, he ponders this with a frown and throws back another shot of tequila.
“Holy shit, is someone dead? Did the Kingfisher close?” Kip swears right then and there that if he looks over and Scott is in anything less than full Arctic hiking gear, he’s getting jumped. Sue him, he’s spent the last three hours planning a tour of his campus for Shane fucking Hollander, he needs to blow off the steam. Considering it’s the third of August, though, the odds are looking very much in his favor.
~~~~
Respectfully, Shane Hollander is fucking gorgeous. Obviously he’s in great shape, all hockey guys are in great shape, but holy shit. When he walks up the stairs of the subway entrance in his dark jacket and even darker sunglasses, it’s like a choir of angels starts singing. This is the guy who gave him the most embarrassing three-day text exchange of his life? Seriously? Kip pulls himself together with a roll of his shoulders and strides forward when Shane pauses.
“Hi! Kip Grady, great to meet you.” Offering out his hand, Kip tries to keep his entire body from shaking with nerves. For a moment, Shane stays very still, looking from Kip to his hand, then carefully around the crowd behind him. Shit, do Canadians not shake hands? Is this like a thing?
“Sorry, yes. Shane Hollander.” With a frankly lethal smile, Shane finally steps in and shakes Kip’s hand. “I was expecting you to have more people. I, um, did some research from what Scott has said about you.” Oh perfect, his fiance apparently talks about him to the richest sports player to ever grace the planet. No pressure, Kip can feel his smile biting into his cheeks, yep, none at all.
“If you want I can call Scott and he’ll-” Reaching into his pocket for his phone, he almost jumps out of his skin when Shane grabs his wrist with wide eyes.
“No, no! That’s not what I meant. I just… I’ve seen all these pictures of college campuses and it’s like there’s never just one person.” There’s genuine confusion in Shane’s eyes that makes Kip’s face split into a smile that honestly hurts his cheeks. Fucking shit, is Shane Hollander funny? Scott can never learn about this, he’s going to be so insufferable if he finds out Kip’s laughing at shit like this.
“Are you asking where my multi-cultural friend group is?” That seems to stump Shane slightly, his eyes widening as he ponders.
There’s a moment of silence that makes Kip immensely and immediately regret opening his mouth. Was that offensive? It’s a pretty generic stereotype on college campuses, but Shane’s never been on a college campus. Now he probably thinks Scott is dating some insensitive white guy. He works at a smoothie shop, he literally can’t afford to be an insensitive white guy!
“Yes?” The confusion in the furrow of Shane’s brow rips Kip right out of his nervous spiral. Oh thank God, relief hits him so hard that he bursts into laughter that borders on performatively loud. “Or…no? Maybe! I barely finished my senior year of high school!” Finally, as if all the nerves have melted out of him, Shane relaxes enough to smile and lift his voice. Good, he talks too quietly to be in New York, it’s honestly refreshing to hear from a hockey player.
“Holy shit,” Kip has to wipe tears from his eyes, chuckling all over again at that, “fuck, okay. We gotta get you introduced to a library then, man.” That manages to pull a laugh from Shane, and it feels like winning an award.
As it turns out, Shane’s actually really easy to talk to, not to mention the guy has this bitchy quip humor that hits Kip in the gut. It turns out that he has a lot of opinions on the media’s portrayal of Scott, both as a person and in his relationship. Not many of them are positive, which heals something in Kip’s mind that whispers about how homophobic hockey players all are. Shane and ‘a friend’ of his have apparently talked about the Stanley Cup night and NHL Awards ceremony a lot.
What really throws Kip for a loop though, is that apparently Shane fucking Hollander is deeply invested in the Canadian real estate business. It starts as a throw-away comment about Scott’s high-rise having mismatched granite and suddenly Shane is lecturing him about cabinet marble or something. For all Kip thinks of himself as a scholar, he hasn’t the foggiest fucking idea what Shane is saying. He’s grateful to finally stop across the street from his university library so he can actually say something with conviction.
“Here she is. Thomas Shanahan Library, my home away from him.” For all intents and purposes, it’s a functional library, fulfilling its purpose of being a building with books and desks. Otherwise, there’s nothing at all remarkable about it; it’s not very tall compared to some New York libraries, it doesn’t stick out from the buildings around it. Sure, one of the faculty hung a row of resistance flags on the outside, but really that’s the only way you’d notice it.
Even the inside isn’t that different from the outside, there’s books, there’s study spaces, there’s a group of bitchy looking students crammed onto a sofa around a computer. Kip feels slightly self conscious bringing a millionaire into his little library, but he has nothing else to compare it to. Not like Shane’s going to judge him for a fucking library, it’s a library, it does what a library needs to do, and it’s free.
“It’s…nice?” Shane makes a face as he says it, glancing around like he’s trying incredibly hard to be kind.
“You don't have to spare my feelings, man. I have a very rich fiance, I know what an actually nice library looks like.” Kip rolls his eyes but relaxes when he notices the smile replacing the grimace on Shane’s lips.
He leads Shane around the main floor, pointing out the best places to sit for just enough sun to read but not cast a glare on your computer. It’s probably rambling, so sue him, it’s rare he gets to tell these stories to someone who wasn’t there with him. On the second floor, Shane actually has to slap a hand over his own mouth to keep from laughing at Kip’s story of thinking he saw the actual devil after a long week of sleepless nights.
“This is the very spot I found out I basically flunked a huge midterm my first semester.” Patting the sturdy wooden table in a secluded corner of the library, Kip watches a plume of dust lift into the air. Before he can crack a joke about how obviously underused the library is, Shane jerks away and presses his nose into the crook of his elbow.
“Hh’IYISCH’hu! Excuse me- snf-” He blinks blearily and sniffles.
“Shit, bless you, sorry. I should’ve warned you, it’s old and gross in here.” God, if he gives Shane Hollander a sinus infection over a stupid library, the Metros might show up at his door. To be fair, the few Admirals he has met might thank him for it, but he kind of has started to like the guy.
“No, no, it has- hhISCHhu! ‘Scuse me- it’s charming.” Shane rubs at his quickly reddening nose and offers a small smile to reassure Kip, it doesn’t work.
“Bless you, and no it absolutely is not. As an art history major, I assure you, this is far from ‘charming’.” Is ‘charming’ a Canadian thing? God knows no New Yorker has ever said anything is ‘charming’, at least not in Kip’s crowd. Is it a gay thing? Maybe, it’s a gay Canadian thing. Not that Shane ever said anything about being gay…other than the glaringly obvious fact that he is.
“It’s uh- snf-” he pauses for a moment, one eye squinting like he’s going to sneeze again. When he doesn’t, he just sniffles and shrugs “It’s quaint.”
“It’s ugly,” Kip amends, “are you okay?” He might not know about ‘charming’ but ‘quaint’ is definitely a gay thing to say. Maybe he should transfer to linguistics and write about ‘gay dialect’ for his PhD.
“F-Fine. Hh-heh-hIESCHhu!” So not fine, got it. Shane clears his throat from behind his elbow and Kip takes that as his signal to end the library tour.
“Bless you, I think that’s enough of Thomas Shanahan, cmon.” Kip leads them away from his Desk of Failure (he needs to get that trade marked) with a few quiet sniffles.
“What a shame, he seems like a nice guy.” Why did no one warn him that Shane’s fucking funny? Kip mourns this piece of information not being public as he drags him out of the library to the cafe across the street. It’s blunt, sure, but that’s so intensely juxtaposed to who he expected Shane Hollander to be, that it’s bordering on hilarious. God, he cannot tell Scott he’s laughing at shit like this, he’s going to be insufferable.
Ilya Rozanov
Shane loves Ilya, really he does! Hell, he married him because of how much he loves the guy, it’s in permanent ink in their safe how much he loves him. Just like he’d promised in his vows, that love has overcome every obstacle they’ve ever faced. And trust him, they’ve faced their fair share of obstacles and come out the other side somehow more in love. Except, maybe, there is one obstacle that may be their final one.
“Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov-Hollander!” Shane barks from the laundry room, stomping out and looming dangerously at the top of the stairs. He glowers down as Ilya slowly peeks his head around the corner, only half his face visible as he cowers. Good, he should be scared, Shane’s going to fucking kill him and maybe divorce him.
“Моя самая любимая, Моё самое драгоценное сокровище. What is wrong?” This adorable, sweet-talking, blue-eyed asshole! Shane seethes as his ears slowly redden to the tune of Ilya’s Russian endearments. No! No, he’s pissed! He will not be placated by a few words and those terribly wide puppy-eyes.
“How many times have I told you to empty the lint trap after you do laundry?” The tone Shane uses sounds more like a growl than any actual human speech.
“Umm, probably many, yes?” Ilya’s eyes go impossibly wider as he shrinks as much as his giant hockey-player build will allow, still using the wall as a shield. It would be funny if Shane wasn’t so singularly focused on being annoyed.
“Yes, many! Get over here before I file for divorce.” With a gesture eerily similar to how he used to drag Ilya into his apartment, Shane motions sharply towards the laundry room. Seeming not to even think about it, Ilya scrambles up the stairs after him, nearly losing his balance and tumbling down with his gusto. Sure, it seems like Shane means business, but it’s also kind of insanely hot when he gets bossy like this. There’s a faint buzzing in Ilya’s ears as he trails behind his husband, taking his verbal beating over the laundry with his head hung.
“You know, this is a fire hazard. You could burn the whole house down with your dog and husband both trapped inside because you didn’t just throw out the lint.” As soon as he opens the door to the laundry room, Shane is pointing to the open dryer like it’s a crime scene.
“This is dramatic! Anya is my smart Russian girl, she would not stay while the fire alarm goes off.” Ilya’s mildly offended tone makes Shane frown even harder, turning to face him with his hands on his hips.
“And what about me?” He asks.
“Eh, you’d probably be at practice or something, abandoning your family. You are like deadbeat husband, it is very sad.” The usual rush of fondness that bursts in his chest whenever Ilya jokes with him like this is quickly slapped down. He’s being stern, goddamnit!
“Oh and I’m the dramatic one? Clean the lint trap, Ilya.” Huffing something under his breath in Russian, Ilya leans down into the dryer. He makes a big show of scooping the lint from the trap with an exasperated sigh and holding the offending ball of lint out to Shane.
For a moment, Shane wants to slap the stupid thing out of Ilya’s hands and wring his neck like they’re in an episode of Tom and Jerry. This is insufferable! How can he be expected to live with this childish, pushy, whining, adorable, Greek sculpted specimen of a man? Before he has a chance to shout or jump his husband or some mix of both, Ilya’s nose gives a sharp twitch and he’s whipping away from Shane. In what can only be described as an incredibly poor snap judgment, Ilya lifts both his to his face.
“Eh’hESCHuh!” The outburst sends the lint in his hands flying across the room and, coincidently, straight into the air around Ilya’s head. Shane watches as his eyes squeeze shut, his nose scrunching and twitching, before he finally lifts his hands from his face. There’s a split second of confusion where Ilya seems to be lost without his hands to duck into, but the urge to sneeze overpowers any rational thought. “H’ESCHTuh! ESHTCHhuh” Instead, he sneezes freely towards the floor, the force of them causing the flying lint to leap up where it came to rest on the ground.
“Fuck! Ilya, what the fuck?!” Shane jumps out of his trance to actually grab Ilya by the wrist and yank him down the hall to the bathroom.
“I- ESCHhuu! Hih…h’HEECHuh! ESHHHuh! Господи, I- ETSCHhu! Hh’HYESCHhuu! Heh? hih…H’HESHCHuhhh! Ч-Чешется H’HESCH! H’hESCHuhh! ETSCHuhhh!” Those words, at least, Shane is all too familiar with. He rubs a hand up and down Ilya’s back as he guides him carefully to lean against the sink as each sneeze bursts from him. Ripping a few tissues from the box atop the toilet, he quickly shoves them between Ilya’s hands. In return, he gets a small glance of gratitude before those watery blue eyes squeeze shut again. “ESCHuhh! H’hESCHuhhh! Hih… stop, don't- HESCH-TSCHhuhh!”
“Jesus, okay, come here.” It must be exhausting, always sneezing in multiples, Shane muses as he carefully slides around Ilya to wet a cloth with cool water. Thinking back, the lint trap always did make him faintly stuffy white emptying it, obviously that would be worse for his ultra-sensitive husband. Fuck, that’s probably why he’d find the thing full most of the time even when Ilya would dutifully accept ‘laundry duty’. He’d thought he’d just been half-assing his chores, it’s a fairly common thing for him to do when he thinks it’s ‘unnecessary’.
It’s incredibly hard to think when your husband is sneezing so forcefully beside you, not bothering to blow his nose. Over the years, Shane has gotten more accustomed to it, especially since Ilya doesn’t actually like to be blessed all that much. That was yet another thing he’d deemed ‘unnecessary’, claiming if he was losing so much breath, everyone else should save theirs.
“Bless you, fucking hell, are you done?” Turning off the sink, Shane waits until there’s a pause in the sneezing before pulling Ilya’s hands away from his face. He tries not to look at the drenched tissues still in his hand as he drapes the damp cloth over Ilya’s eyes and the bridge of his nose. It’s usually enough to ease some of what Ilya calls the ‘tingling’ in his sinuses, since Shane has forbidden him to actually scrub his nose off.
Making a vague noise of discomfort, Ilya drags his fingers over the cloth roughly to try and scratch away the lingering itch. Well, it only works 65% of the time anyway.
“Don’t do that, hey, uh-uh. Leave it over your eyes, don’t rub.” Much like his own mother would, Shane makes a tutting noise and pulls Ilya’s arm down by his side. They stay there for a moment until Ilya’s breath calms its stuttering hitching rhythm to something more stable.
“I will- koff- vacuum the laundry room later.” Ilya offers softly, tossing his tissues in the general direction of the wastebin, unable to see if he reached it or not. He doesn’t, but Shane appreciates the effort even if he doesn’t appreciate his offer of ‘help’.
“Like hell you will.” It’s a gentle offer, the kind Shane is so used to hearing from Ilya when he thinks he’s made some sort of mistake. This though, is hardly a mistake, and he has half a mind to never let Ilya in the laundry room again.
“I made a mess.” Oh, Ilya. Sure, Shane hates messes, the kind of hate that makes his bones feel too large for his body and his skin itch. And of course Ilya knows that, he’s accommodated that more times than either of them can probably count. Not that Ilya would ever call it ‘accommodating’, but Shane knows no one else would do things like this for him. Only Ilya would think of the mess left behind after sneezing enough to surely be congested the next few days. Yeah, new rule in the Hollander-Rozanov household made just now by Shane himself; Ilya stays out of the laundry room indefinitely.
“Baby, I think there’s more important things you should be worrying about than that.” Like the hives can see already beginning to form on Ilya’s palms. It’s fine, really, it is. They have a special cream for moments like this, bought after one too many encounters with hotel fabric softeners. Still, Shane hates seeing those patches of little red bumps.
“You said- snf, snf- you will divorce me.” Ilya pouts, which is impressive considering his big blue eyes being covered at the moment.
“I said- I didn’t.” Working the words over in his head, Shane feels a pit of guilt opening in his stomach, he sighs and plants an apology kiss on those gorgeous red lips. “I wouldn't divorce you, ever, got it? And especially not over a fucking lint trap.” Ilya only pouts harder. “I was- maybe- being a little dramatic.” He relents at the sight, reaching up to pet reassuringly at Ilya’s jaw.
“Hm, no, is still me. I am the one with dramatic nose.” He huffs, his nose scrunching as if to prove the point.
“That’s not a competition. Bless you, by the way.” Shane can’t help it, he giggles. The sound earns him a small smile covering Ilya’s pouting lips.
“You bless me every day.” There’s a very high chance Ilya is wiggling his eyebrows at him where they’re hidden under the cloth. Shane just sighs and rolls his eyes, patting his husband’s thigh as if to say ‘at least you tried’.
“Keep this on for another five minutes, I have to finish the laundry.” He taps the damp cloth over Ilya’s eyes as he maneuvers past him, trying to pretend the chorus of whines he gets in return doesn’t make his stomach flip.
Cupping a tissue around their nose as they blow and blow. So much comes out it overflows the tissue into your hand. You pull it away to reach for another, their nose still shining.
