His Russian Weighted Blanket (Part 3/3) (H/eated R/ivalry, Shane)
Last part of this fic for the amazing @feverfcking! <3 Finally, the title will make sense ;)
I want to thank whoever of us wrote the fic Team Player over on AO3; it’s one of my favorite Hollanov sick/snzfics and I love how it portrays Shane as anxious/desperate to prove his worth to the Centaurs (you dont have to, baby! You’re Shane fucking Hollander!), and feeling like he’s worthless when he’s sick (you’re not, baby! You’re SHANE FUCKING HOLLANDER!!!). I’ve been wanting to incorporate something similar into a fic ever since, so thank you for the inspiration! Also thank you to the GOAT @softsicknose for all the incredible conversations we’ve been having lately about Anya’s love and concern for her daddy and papa when they’re sneezy <333 I felt it was appropriate to add here :)
(P.S.: It’s only game. Why you heff to be mad?)(The fact that I’m using my fav hockey meme in a snzfic thrills me in a way I cannot adequately describe.)
Part 1 | Part 2
————
Ilya drove down the highway in silence after the loss. After giving a few perfunctory soundbites in his locker room interview — shutting a reporter’s question about Shane’s health down quick — he’d hastily left the building. None of the boys had asked if he was coming out tonight, (rightly) understanding that he had much a more important place to be: home.
Ilya had grown to enjoy the quiet drive at night from the rink to the house, so much more peaceful than driving anywhere in Boston. There were few cars out this late, so it was mostly just him and a long stretch of road for twenty-odd minutes. He liked to put the top down in his convertible and let the wind beat up his face a bit. It helped him destress after tough games and worries about his husband’s wellbeing.
It was like how, in the early days of boyfriendhood, he’d originally grown to love the ride from Ottawa to Montreal. He loved any route that led him to Shane.
The house was still when Ilya walked in, other than Anya’s tail thumping against the wall as she greeted him. “Ssh, sweet girl, do not hurt yourself,” he said softly in Russian as her bottom continued to wiggle. “How is your dad?”
Anya bounded upstairs in response, and Ilya rushed to catch up to her so she wouldn’t wake Shane. She’d been clingy towards him before they’d left for the game, climbing into his lap and refusing to let him off the couch, then became nervous and tetchy as he prepared to walk out the door. Their brilliant girl; she was so good at reading emotions that she was able to tell when one of them was feeling ill, often before he even knew himself.
When Ilya walked into the bedroom, Shane was lying facedown, snoring loudly into his pillow, as Anya looked on. She gave her papa a little worried look and he returned it. Shane never snored unless he was stuffed up to hell, and though his little breathy snuffles were cute, Ilya knew he probably felt absolutely miserable.
Ilya watched Shane for a moment, unsure if he should wake him. He knew from his texts that Shane had taken meds before he’d left the arena, so he didn’t need anything for a little while. Ilya settled for leaving a glass of water on his nightstand and going to take a short shower. When he returned, Shane was sitting up, looking bleary and confused, cheeks and nose flushed, dark hair an absolute mess. “Did we wid?” was the first thing out of his mouth, raspy and stuffy and exhausted-sounding.
Ilya shook his head and Shane froze, looking crestfallen. “Oh.” He looked down towards the blankets, scrunching up his nose and sniffling thickly. He was quiet for a moment, and as Ilya took a step forward to kiss away the devastation on his face, Shane’s eyes filled and he dissolved into tears. Ilya, shocked, sat on the bed in nothing but his towel and gently placed his hands on Shane’s arms to steady him. Fuck, he was burning hot to the touch. “Ssh, is okay, Shanya,” he soothed as Shane rubbed at his leaking eyes with little hiccups and shudders. “Hey, sweetheart, is okay, don’t cry…” he gathered Shane into his arms, pressing kisses into his hair as he cried into Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya felt panic rise through his chest and into his throat. Fuck. Shane could get a little emotional when he had a fever, but this was on another level. “Shane,” he said as the man rubbed his nose into Ilya’s collarbone, “I need to take your temperature, okay?” He started to get up to head for the thermometer in the bathroom but Shane held onto him tighter. “I fucked up,” he said weakly in response.
Ilya stopped short, an icy feeling trickling down his spine. “What?”
Shane pulled back, and Ilya immediately began to wipe at his eyes and nose, both dripping fiercely, with his fingers, not even bothering to grab for a tissue. “I’b sigck,” he croaked out. “I could have helped us, we could have wod…”
Oh. So that’s why he was so upset.
Ilya hadn’t wanted to take his obviously-feverish husband to the arena to go through the rigmarole of getting his temperature taken and being told to go home. But they were an A and the C, and needed to be there in support of their team. Plus, Shane was nothing if not frustratingly stubborn and still desperate to show his team that he was capable of showing up under any circumstance. A flash of anger surged through Ilya. After all of the bullshit the Metros had put him through, Shane Hollander, one of the hardest-working players in the league and the strongest man Ilya had ever met, felt like he couldn’t show any kind of weakness to his new teammates and coaches. He was an athlete who needed to act as a representative for his club, to be sure, but not when he was almost falling over on the ice during practice from sneezing so hard.
Hockey players in general hated to be perceived as soft, weak, incapable. Ilya had seen the condescending memes: “soccer players pretend they’re hurt, hockey players pretend they’re not.” Shane was certainly not soft, weak, or incapable, but when he was hurt, physically or emotionally, he took it as a sort of moral failing. He was a serious, intense person, which Ilya didn’t fault him for — the drive he had to be successful was one of the things Ilya loved most about him. (And his intensity was incredible in bed.) But Ilya wished that Shane would allow himself to realize that he was valuable to his team whether he had the sniffles or not. And, in reality, Shane had more talent in his sniffly red nose than most guys had in their entire bodies.
As Ilya thought of a way to express this to Shane, Anya, panting heavily with nerves, hopped onto the bed and squirmed her way into Shane’s lap just as she had this afternoon, like she wanted to protect her daddy from his sadness. He buried his face in her fur, and the thought of him soaking Anya’s coat with his tears made Ilya’s heart feel like it was going to crack in two. He had to make him realize how important he was, and how beloved.
He massaged the back of Shane’s neck. “Shane. Love. How many games are in a season?”
“-hic-! I…-hic!-” Shane was crying so hard he could barely catch his breath, but Ilya wanted to make sure that he understood. He put his hands on Shane’s arms and patted gently until Shane straightened up looked him directly in the eye. “How many games, malysh?”
Shane took in a huge gasp of air and let it out in a stuttering breath. “Eigh…eighty-two.”
Ilya nodded. “That is right. Eighty-two. You have missed only one. Sweetheart,” he said as Shane kept his big watery eyes on him, sniffling and twitching his nose like the cutie pie zaychik he was, “you are allowed break once in a while. You are human. You do not matter to your team any less if you cannot play a few games. You work so fucking hard,” he said, his voice cracking. “So fucking hard. And everyone knows and everyone loves you for it, Shane. I love you for it.”
He leaned in and kissed Shane on the mouth, and instead of pulling away in horror at the thought of Ilya catching his cold, Shane kissed back and watched him, flushed and tired-looking but attentive. He leaned forward and hugged Ilya, snuffling and letting out a few more tears as Ilya held him tight. And then, because he could tell that Shane could use a laugh, Ilya just couldn’t resist adding in, “It’s only game. Why you heff to be mad?” Shane laughed hugely, breath puffing hot against Ilya’s skin, and Ilya laughed, too. That crazy Russian bastard had been right.
When they parted, Shane, still smiling, started to pat around the bed for the tissue box, too distracted to cover his nose as wetness dripped down to his Cupid’s bow. It was as vulnerable and real as he could get, and Ilya thought his heart might fucking explode from the intimacy that only he would ever be privy to. Shane was private, guarded, and his. Just as he was Shane’s.
After wiping over his face, Shane kept a few more tissues in hand as his breath began to hitch. He raised them to his nose and kept them there for a good while, until Ilya touched his thigh lightly to hopefully help speed things along for him.
“hy’ihh-? hy’IDTSChhhh’oo! aDTCHHhiew! hKSCHhhh’iew! ih’KSHhh’hew! hahhh,” Shane moaned in relief, shoulders sagging and mouth opening in a huge yawn.
“Bud’ zdorov, dorogy,” Ilya sighed, sounding just as relieved as Shane for those rough sneezes to be over and done with. “Come, let’s go to bed, hm?”
“Ilya?”
“Hm?”
“Can you lay on me for a little bit?”
Sometimes, Shane liked when Ilya put his weight on top of Shane, like one of those weighted blankets he used during the winter months. Ilya knew it made him feel safe, comforted, protected. And he always wanted to make sure that Shane felt those things. By now he knew just how to position his body so he wouldn’t suffocate his husband, something he’d been quite afraid of the first time Shane had requested this. So he put on some sweats, then carefully draped his body over Shane and felt the ill man sigh happily against his neck. They lay like that for a while, Shane with his face pressed into Ilya’s curls, as Anya lay by Shane’s side on the bed. When Ilya eventually rolled off, Shane looked over at him with sleepy, loving eyes.
“Can Anya sleep up here tonight?”
Ilya smiled. “Yes, sweetheart. She can sleep up here tonight.”
——
Ilya made himself coffee the next morning as Anya ate her breakfast and observed him. She loved to watch his and Shane’s every move. (Was she collecting some kind of anthropological evidence to share with the rest of her species at the dog park? Or was she just waiting for them to stop all their boring human tasks and give her treats? A combination of both? Ilya didn’t know.)
“Silly puppy,” he teased, and she reached up to nudge her nose against his hand. They both turned at the sound of someone coming down the stairs.
And there is my bunny.
“Ugh…bordidg,” Shane said huskily as he reached the last step.
“Hi,” Ilya responded, unable to keep the pity out of his voice. His poor husband sounded like he’d been gargling with glass, swallowing gravel…and every other sick-person-voice cliche combined.
Shane blushed and shrugged, looking defeated. “I k’dow. It’s bad.” His hair was even more rumpled than yesterday, he was pale-yet-flushed, and he was rubbing at one eye like he did when he had a headache.
“It sounds awful,” Ilya replied, walking closer and hugging Shane to his chest. “Lyubov moya, how did you get so sick?” he said as Shane barked a few concerningly harsh coughs into his shirt.
“Dhh-Dunno,” he said breathily, and Ilya knew what that was going to lead to….Shane attempted to pull away but Ilya kept him close as his breath hitched.
“ahhISHhhhuhh! TSCHhhiew! hp’TSCHHhh! IDT’Shhhew! Ugnhhh…” His entire body seemed to deflate.
Ilya’s shirt felt damp from Shane’s strong, wet sneezes, but that didn’t matter one bit. “Bless you,” he said adoringly as Shane turned red, covered his nose and reached for a tissue.
“Jesus, Ilya,” he mumbled after a few soft nose blows, “It’s like you want to get sigck…” he sighed, looking completely depleted of energy.
Ilya rubbed a hand over Shane’s muscular back, smiling when he let out a relaxed-sounding “mmh...” and tipped his head on Ilya’s shoulder. “If I were going to get a cold from anyone, I would only want it to be from you.”
Shane lifted his head and gave Ilya his patented crinkly-scrunchy-confused face. “You’re weird.”
“I am not. I am romantic. See, I would kiss all the germs away from you if I could.” He pressed kisses all over Shane’s face, with quite a few to his ruby-red nose. “Get out of my husband, germs!”
Shane laughed giddily, swatting Ilya away as he continued with his kiss attack. “You’re so weird!” Ilya was about to chirp him back with the highly original, “You’re so weird!” when Shane’s breath snagged on a cough and he had to bury his face in his elbow, his whole body jerking violently forward as he struggled to calm his body down. Ilya rubbed up and down his back again, alarmed at how quickly his normally-hale husband had succumbed to such a terrible-sounding illness.
Ilya pressed a hand to Shane’s chest. “Does this hurt?”
Shane shrugged.
“If it does not feel better after some more medicine I am taking you to doctor,” Ilya said, then gave Shane a pointed look when he groaned an “ughhhh.” Ilya put his hands on his hips, feeling very much like his mother on the rare occasions when she’d needed to be stern with him as a child. “Husband’s orders.”
Shane shook his head. “No, I’m…I’m not…” he gesticulated with his hands as he tried to explain that he was fine, he wasn’t that sick, but he gave up with a frustrated little noise and thunked his head against Ilya’s shoulder. “…Fine.”
Ilya took that as a win. He kissed into Shane’s hair. “I’ll make us breakfast and then get you into a hot shower.”
Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya’s waist with a little shiver. “With you?”
Ilya rubbed up and down Shane’s arms to chase away his goosebumps, hoping he wasn’t feeling feverish again. He himself was feeling all warm and fuzzy from just how adorable Shane was, all drowsy and pliant and sweet. “Who would hold you if I did not join?”
——
Shane woke on the living room couch a few hours later to unbearable warmth. He tried at first to wriggle his way out of his blankets before full-on wrestling them off of his body. Sweat dripped down his temples as he gasped for air, unable to take any kind of breath through his completely blocked nose. His eyes felt gritty, and he had to blink rapidly against the irritating sensation, which made his eyes teary, which made his nose runny, which made him…
“Oh, bud’ zdorov,” came Ilya’s deep voice from the kitchen, where he was stirring something on the stove. He came behind the couch and wrapped his arms around Shane’s shoulders. “You say ‘tissue’ when you sneeze sometimes. Is the cutest thing I have ever heard.”
Shane blushed, craning his neck up to see Ilya’s lovestruck expression. “Wait…are you serious?”
“I never joke about how cute you are.” That left Shane speechless, and before he could really process it Ilya came around to him with a bowl of some kind of rice dish.
“Is this…okayu?”
Ilya smiled. “Yuna gave me your grandmother’s recipe.”
That was the cutest thing Shane had ever heard. Jesus fucking Christ. Shane took a bite; he could barely taste anything, but the comforting feeling of warm porridge going down his throat made his entire body relax. “It’s really good.”
“Good.” Ilya kissed the top of his head and sat on the couch next to him with his own bowl in his hands. “Will keep you cozy enough to sleep tonight, I hope.”
Shane’s heart warmed at that adorable statement, then melted when he heard the familiar jingle of a dog collar approaching. Anya hopped on the couch next to him and put her head on his knee. Shane felt tears spring to his eyes. Oh god, he loved his family so much.
“What is wrong, sweetheart?”
Shane didn’t quite know how to voice the big feelings he was having, so he shook his head and reached for a tissue to blow his stuffy nose into. When Ilya grabbed another and started to move it towards Shane’s nose, Shane shook his head and averted his eyes. “Ilya, don’t…I’m so disgusting…”
Now Ilya was the one to shake his head. “You are not disgusting. You are beautiful, always.”
Shane blushed again. “Shut up,” he grumbled.
“No. Is true, Shanya, you are so beautiful. All the time. Drives me crazy, actually.” Ilya grinned and looked at Shane like he was hypnotized, unable to look away. “It must be difficult being so beautiful. Exhausting.”
Shane was trapped between replying You would know and Tell me I’m beautiful again, please, but was a little too delirious to say either of those things. Plus, he needed to blow his nose again. Ilya noticed his wet sniffles, and held the tissue he’d been holding back to Shane’s nose. He blew, wet and squeaky, and when he was done Ilya kissed his forehead.
“No wonder you became sick. Your immune system is tired from keeping you so beautiful.” He brushed a lock of hair from Shane’s forehead. “And yet you are still beautiful, so it does a very good job even with a cold.”
“Ilya.”
“No, I will not stop. You are beautiful even when you are sick. I like it,” he said, and Shane was surprised to see Ilya’s cheeks turn pink. “I like how my name sounds from your sore throat. I like your cute little red nose and how you sneeze like kitten. I like when you get sleepy and snore on me — yes, you snore,” he said when Shane opened his mouth to argue. “I like you whether you are sick or well.”
Shane could say the same right back. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, not wanting to cry again. It exhausted him, and he wanted to stay up and listen to Ilya continue to tell him all kinds of sweet things. No matter how often Ilya expressed his affection like this, it always hit Shane like an elbow to the dome.
He could win the Stanley Cup every year for the rest of his career (hell, his life) and it still wouldn’t feel anywhere near as good as being loved by Ilya Rozanov.
——
“Holy shit, another breakaway?”
Shane had put on the highlights of the last game to see what he’d missed. He…didn’t seem too happy with what he was seeing. It was a toss-up whether or not he was going to be able to play in the next game, but his cough was getting better and he was definitely in better spirits.
“Oh, and of course he scores on that one,” Shane groused. “How did you let that guy get past you, Ilya?”
Well. He was in some kind of spirits. Pissy spirits, mostly.
Ilya shook his head and placed a palm to Shane’s cool forehead. “I think you still have a fever. I would never make such a weak defensive play.”
Shane hummed sleepily and rested his head back against the reclined head of the couch. “Hmnh…you’d be a sieve if you were a goalie...”
Ilya actually gasped. “Hollander. Take that back.”
“Hollander-Rozanov…” Shane said through a mighty yawn. As he curled into his pillow and started to snore, Ilya massaged a hand through his hair. He watched the rest of the game highlights — now showing Ilya’s fuckup in slow-mo — by himself and muttered, “You’d be a sieve.”
But he knew that wasn’t really true, because Shane Hollander-Rozanov could do fucking anything. And now Ilya was dying to see him in the massive shoulder pads goalies wore, and nothing else. Hm…maybe the equipment manager wouldn’t notice if one of Hayesy’s temporarily went missing.
Be the change you want to see in the world or whatnot,
This is a snippet from a very incomplete imaginary 5+1 A/rmand teasing snz!kink D/aniel.
“He’ll awaken when the sun sleeps.” Armand murmured, gently rubbing a fingernail across the bridge of his nose.
Daniel nodded and averted his gaze. The graph leveled to nothing.
The silence continued as Armand tended to his nose and Daniel looked intently at his notes, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
Finally, Armand’s breath caught and he brought his wrist to his nose. “kkk-shiue! HeiSHoo! Hkshh!!” He gave a deep sigh before lifting his head to meet Daniel’s unimpressed gaze.
“Cut the shit.”
“I believe ‘bless you’ is more customary.” Armand lifted an eyebrow as he brought a very old looking handkerchief to his nose to dab at it.
“Get out of my head.” Daniel slammed the laptop shut. “You’ve been doing this on purpose.”
“I couldn’t possibly know what you mean. Perhaps Rashid has been neglectful in dusting.” Armand waved a hand dismissively before giving his nose a soft blow into the handkerchief.
“A vampire with.. allergies. Give me a break. ‘They’re just like us!’” Daniel rolled his eyes as he subtly adjusted himself in his chair, refusing direct eye contact.
Armand smirked and continued massaging his nostrils through the thin fabric. “Well, perhaps not like you.”
Daniel blanched and immediately starting gathering his things. “Let me know when Louis is ready to continue. We’re done!”
The only response was a delicate “heh-shiue” followed by a light chuckle.
Hi fellow snzy Hollanov fans! The mega-talented, sneeze-speller extraordinaire @snzivore and I are back with our next part! In this installment, Ilya decides to tease the hell out of his boyfriend by being very, very sneezy. It’s starting to make sense to him why Shane finds this kink so very hot… >:)
---
Ilya had been curious about Shane’s sneezing kink ever since he’d confessed it on that warm summer day at the cottage.
He’d indulged Shane often, of course – it wasn’t hard with his nose and sinuses, and it turned him on to turn Shane on. Seeing Shane become aroused by sneezing, something Ilya could so easily do…to see the desire in his eyes, the crimson blush dusting his freckled cheeks, the dazed stare he gave when Ilya sneezed over and over and over again…
It reminded Ilya of the day he’d blown Shane while he was on the phone with Pike. He knew the danger of that situation had absolutely thrilled Shane. (“Why was that so hot?” he’d giddily confessed afterward.) Knowing that Shane had never explored his kink with another person – in any way, really – made Ilya want to experiment with just how far he could push and still get Shane going. Ilya strongly suspected that Shane, being Shane, felt like Ilya’s willingness to indulge his kink was more than he could’ve asked for and therefore wouldn’t think to dream bigger.
Their relationship had been built on risk, so why not be a little bit risky with this? After all, how would Shane know what he did and didn’t enjoy if they didn’t try things?
So one day when Shane was on a business call, Ilya decided to have a little fun. Smiling to himself, he picked up a tissue and rolled it into a point.
-
“Yeah, but look at the third paragraph on page ten,” Shane said, leaning forward intently in his desk chair. Something flickered at the edge of his awareness, distracting him for a second, but he wasn’t sure what exactly it’d been. It wasn’t long before the ‘something’ happened again. And again.
“hrr’ishhuhh!...hrr’USHhhoo!...”
Now that his focus had been broken, he was able to catalog the sound. It was his boyfriend, sneezing. That was a relatively common occurrence, fortunately for Shane. Well, sometimes unfortunately. Like right now, since he was on a business call–
“uhhSSSHhh’uh!”
“Um, sorry, could you repeat that?”
Shane swallowed nervously as he realized that the sneezes were getting louder and louder, like Ilya was getting closer. And closer–
“huh’ISSCH’shhue!”
–until… were those footsteps? Fuck, was he right outside the door? Could the brand reps hear him? Shane swung around and saw Ilya peeking through the doorway with a shit-eating grin on his face. He was holding a tissue rolled into a point in his hand, and Shane watched in horror as the curly-haired menace inserted it back into his nostril. His look of mirth turned into one of agonized desperation, and then–
“AH’ISCHHUHhhh!” –an enormous sneeze that seemed to bounce off the walls of the room.
“Bless you!” chirped a chorus of voices in Shane’s ear. His brain short-circuited. Growing warmth in his cheeks told him he was starting to blush.
“No, I,” Shane said without thinking, grimacing as his brain came back online. “I mean, thank you. Sorry. Excuse me for a minute.” He hit the mute button and lowered the phone.
“What are you doing?” he hissed at Ilya.
Ilya scrunched up his reddening nose with a huge sniff. “You have been on this call for so long, and I am so bored, Shane,” he whined. “Don’t you want to get off…” – he paused for dramatic effect – “...the phone? And spend time with your poor boyfriend?” He held up the wilting tissue with an impish smile. “I am much more exciting than some losers in suits…”
“Jesus– fucking–” Shane caught his lower lip between his teeth, blushing deeper. He was no stranger to handling the bleedthrough of Shane into Captain Hollander, especially with Ilya’s penchant for sexting him before Boston-Montreal games, but usually Captain Hollander didn’t have Ilya fucking Rozanov sneezing right in fucking front of him.
“Moy pomidor, you are so red,” Ilya cooed, his smile growing wicked. “You look very wound up tight. I am thinking you need to loosen up, sweetheart.” He slowly reinserted the tissue into his right nostril, and immediately his face went slack, his mouth dropping and his eyes glazing over. His breath hitched once, twice, three times, then he was jutting forward violently in Shane’s direction. “AESZCHhhh’uh! hhaah-! AESHH’uhhhh, hAESHHhhh’ue! -snrf-” Ilya straightened up with a little moan, leaning against the wall with a look of relief on his face. “Fuck, that feels good.”
Shane couldn’t take his eyes off Ilya even if he’d wanted to, staring hungrily. Would he ever get used to how stunning Ilya was? A strangled moan of his own escaped Shane’s clenched teeth, the heat of desire overtaking the confusing mix of feelings swirling in his gut. Lust was going three rounds with embarrassment and it was winning.
Ilya put his nose up to Shane’s ear and snuffled thickly, and Shane felt a shiver run through his entire body. “Get back on the call and tell them that you have something better to do.”
Shane picked up the phone, marshalled his last vestiges of professionalism, and unmuted. “Something’s come up. I’ll have my team reach out to reschedule.” He hung up without waiting for a reply, then flung himself at Ilya, who looked downward at Shane’s crotch and said, with a breathless laugh, “Yes, something has come up.”
“Shut up, Rozanov.”
Ilya laughed again. He’d been right – Shane definitely liked a little bit of danger.
***
It was already May, but it was the first sunny spring day they’d been able to spend together in Montreal, so Shane had suggested they do their morning run in a nearby park.
They were about two miles in when Shane heard Ilya mutter a swear and begin to slow to a jog. Shane matched Ilya’s pace as he stopped in front of a cherry blossom tree and bent down to tie his undone shoelace. Shane took a moment to sip from his water bottle and admire how the muscles in his boyfriend’s arms and calves flexed as he retied the laces with his long, deft fingers.
Ilya straightened up and picked up a pink petal from where it had fallen into his golden curls. Hm. Cherry blossom season in Montreal had been wreaking havoc on his allergies, as if Canada didn’t make him sneezy enough already. Shane (and his dick) had certainly taken notice, as Ilya knew by the number of times he’d caught him staring post-sneezing fit, eyes wide and pants tented with a massive boner. Now, Ilya looked down at the petal, then up at Shane, and grinned.
“It’s such a beautiful day outside, Shane,” he said, and something in his tone of voice made Shane’s “Ilya senses” tingle. Instead of warning him of imminent danger, they signaled that Ilya was about to go into menace mode.
“Yes…?” Shane said, eyes narrowing slightly as he searched Ilya’s expression. “That’s why I suggested this.”
“Mm, good choice,” Ilya said. He reached an arm up and delicately tugged at a branch covered in flowers. “Look at how pretty these flowers are. I bet that they smell so good.” He brought them right up to his nose and inhaled deeply.
Fucking. Hell. Was Ilya trying to kill him? Shane rolled his eyes at himself; of course Ilya was. He loved doing this shit to Shane… and, very deep inside, Shane had to admit he maybe, sort of, kind of liked it too.
Ilya snorted sharply and pulled back a little from the branch, his eyes blinking hard. “Mmm, d-delicious,” he said with a slight waver in his voice. “You have to smell these too, Shhhane.”
Shane clocked the hitch in Ilya’s voice mid-word, looked at Ilya, and frowned. Ilya looked back at Shane, angelic, like he’d never heard of the term “ulterior motive.”
Shane glowered at Ilya. He wanted to tell Ilya off, but there were enough other people enjoying the park to make him self-conscious. So instead, he leaned forward until his face was brushing the petals. They did smell nice, but judging from the events of the past minute, he suspected that they were amongst the many flowers that made Ilya sneeze.
“Don’t they -snf- smell good? Mahhhybe I should smell them agaihhhn…” Ilya leaned in close, pressing a sneaky kiss to Shane’s flushed cheek before burying his nose back in the blooms. He breathed them in once more, and it wasn’t long before he took in a huge hitching gasp, turned to the side and braced his hands on his knees.
He sneezed loudly, powerfully, and so, so itchily, judging by the irritation on his face and the sound of his sneezes. Shane was somewhat of a connoisseur by that point; he knew that the higher pitch and drawn out releases meant Ilya’s sinuses were desperate to expel the pollen. Tears began streaming down his cheeks, and he hastily wiped them away with his arm as the sneezes kept coming and coming.
In almost any other situation, Shane would have tissues within reach for Ilya. But not here, not out on a run. He just hadn’t thought about it, since tissues weren’t in his pre-run checklist. Rookie move; he’d need to change that. And, to add insult to injury, he was already chubbing up and these particular shorts weren’t going to hide that for long. He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, rolling it between his fingers as he watched Ilya.
The man’s eyes and nose were streaming, and with his typical tank top lacking sleeves, he began rubbing his face onto his bare shoulder to try and mop up the mess. Then, panting, he held the lower half of his shirt to his face and gave a long blow, exposing his abs. Shane swallowed, his mouth dry even though he’d just had some water, and tugged down on his shirt in a feeble attempt to obscure his rapidly hardening dick.
“À tes souhaits!” a voice cried out. Shane turned in its direction, spotting an elderly woman on a bench with scatters of birdseed around her.
Ilya smiled at her. “Berci,” he said stuffily. “Pardoddez-boi.” Shane bit his lip, hard. He didn’t think he’d heard Ilya speak French before; he was sure he’d remember, since it was definitely doing it for him. And with the congestion dulling Ilya’s consonants? His dick throbbed. Fuck, he was probably going to get arrested for public indecency any time now.
“Oh, you poor dear,” The woman said in French. “Allergies are so bad this time of year. The pollen count has been very high lately.”
Ilya looked a little confused. “Excusez-moi,” he directed politely at the woman, then: “Shane,” he said with an amused smile and a cheery voice, “could you translate, please?”
Shane’s eyes widened with consternation, but he couldn’t even say anything because it was an objectively reasonable request. “Um,” he had to clear his throat before continuing, “she said… Poor thing, all–” His brain had, with its usual efficiency, already translated her words, but his mouth stumbled over them. “Allergies,” he mumbled, blushing, “are terrible this time of year. The, the pollen has been, um, high.”
“Oh,” Ilya said, his smile growing wider. “Could you tell her that she’s right, and that my allergies are making me very itchy?”
Shane stared incredulously at Ilya, trying to beam the message “Seriously?!” into his boyfriend’s brain.
Ilya returned his gaze, incorrigible. “It’s not polite to keep her waiting, Shane,” he said with a wink.
Shane exhaled sharply, unable to resist discreetly elbowing Ilya before turning toward the woman. “Apologies, ma’am, my… friend, he does not speak French. He agrees with you and says that… ah, his allergies are making him very itchy.” Despite his embarrassment and unease, the idea of saying something else didn’t even cross his mind.
The woman nodded sympathetically. “Your friend needs an antihistamine and a cup of peppermint tea.”
“She says you need meds and some peppermint tea,” Shane relayed smoothly. This sentiment, at least, didn’t make him want to squirm out of his skin.
Ilya nodded back to her and put a hand to his chest, looking ever the gallant (pain-in-the-ass) gentleman, and for a moment Shane thought he might actually bow to her. “Merci beaucoup, Madame.” As the woman blushed, Ilya turned to Shane and said, loudly, “So true, Shane, a Benadryl would probably help these horrible allergies I have that make me sneeze and sneeze–”
Instead of doing what he wanted to do, which was shout, “Oh my God, are you fucking kidding me,” at Ilya, Shane flashed Ilya his best murder eyes, grabbed his shirt, and started towing him back towards the apartment as fast as he could manage with his dick hard enough to drill diamonds.
Ilya smiled widely as Shane dragged him along. He always enjoyed getting Shane worked up, but lately he’d especially liked doing it the sneezy way. The parallels between sneezing and sex were obvious – the release of a satisfying sneeze (or six) could be surprisingly orgasmic – but after spending so much time planning how to indulge Shane and then doing so, he was starting to understand Shane’s attraction.
He could see how hitching breaths and sighs of relief could sound sexy. After all, Ilya loved how Shane gasped and moaned and sighed during sex, how his breaths grew higher pitched and more erratic when he was about to come. Sneezing involved a lot of noises like that, actually.
He’d felt the intimacy in being known. Although he’d never paid much attention to his own sneezes, now he noticed that his sneezes sounded and felt different when he was inducing manually than when his allergies were acting up. And Shane had noticed that, too. Ilya flashed back to a hookup from a few years ago…
“Bless you. Do you want me to close the window?”
Ilya wiped his hand beneath his runny nose after his latest triple and, blinking away allergic tears, turned towards the man on the other side of the bed. “What?”
“It’s been really windy and the pollen’s super high, so…” Shane turned dark red. “...I can close the window if you want.”
Ilya stared at Shane for a moment. He looked so beautiful when he blushed, not that Ilya would ever admit it out loud. “I mean, sure. If is what you want.” He rubbed at his nose, which was definitely growing itchy again. Stupid fucking Canadian air.
Shane looked down at Ilya’s nose, took in a breath, and nodded before getting out of bed. Ilya was pleased to notice that he was already hard again.
It was as if he’d been telling Ilya “I know you, and I love you,” all those years ago.
“Bless you!” Shane looked at Ilya with concern, reaching out to brush his hand against Ilya’s cheek. He’d felt awkward about blessing Ilya before he confessed his kink and for a while after, but it finally felt like second nature. And, honestly, he loved saying it now. Well, not when his boyfriend was trying to see how hard he could make Shane blush in public, but when they were alone.
Despite how terrible he looked - dark circles cratered beneath his tired eyes, tangled curls askew, nose bright scarlet from all the sneezing and blowing and rubbing he’d been doing - Ilya smiled at Shane’s blessing. “Thagk you,” he said croakily, reaching for yet another tissue to blow his nose loudly into.
“You didn’t sound this bad on the phone yesterday,” Shane said, frowning.
Ilya shrugged. “Is not so bad,” he said, but both of them knew that he was lying.
“Well, I’m glad I brought you these, then.” Shane went over to his bag, dug around inside it, and emerged with a stack of plaid handkerchiefs. He returned to the couch and held them out to Ilya. “I, um, don’t know if you like using these, but when I’m sick, I do. So, I thought…” Shane trailed off awkwardly, starting to blush.
Ilya looked a little skeptical but took one of the handkerchiefs and used it to wipe his nose. The look of relief on his face was palpable. “Better,” he said softly, then looked at Shane with adoration and gratitude in his eyes. “Doesn’t hurt my nose at all.”
Shane smiled, relieved. “Good, your nose looks like it could use a break. How else are you feeling?”
Sitting up a little straighter, Ilya took a stuffy-sounding breath in and out, as if to evaluate how else he was feeling. He ended up looking a little exhausted from the effort. “Heavy?” he said, questioning. “I think. Not sure.” He scrunched up his gorgeous nose with a huge snuffle.
Shane nodded like that made perfect sense, then looked Ilya up and down, doing his own evaluation. “I’m gonna make you some soup. You stay on the couch, baby.”
Ilya perked up at the mention of soup, which eased Shane’s worry a bit. He couldn’t have been feeling as miserable as he looked if he was still hungry. Shane rose, pressed a kiss to the top of Ilya’s head, and went to the kitchen. Shane wasn’t a great cook, but he’d been making miso soup since he was a kid. The groceries he’d picked up on his way over were still in their bags on the island. First he set some water to boil, since that would take the longest, then started unpacking. He knew that Ilya didn’t have any Asian-style soup spoons, so he’d bought a couple. He washed and dried those, then grated some ginger, which he added to the heating water along with a sprinkle of instant dashi. Next, he drained and diced some soft tofu, chopped some green onion, and spooned some miso into a bowl, glancing over at Ilya in between tasks. When the water started boiling, he added the tofu and lowered the heat. He ladled some water over the miso to loosen the thick paste and began stirring.
Partway through dissolving the miso, a high-pitched gasp made Shane startle and turn towards his boyfriend. Ilya was holding one of the handkerchiefs in both hands, his face screwed up in irritation, mouth wide open as he practically whined out hitching breaths.
“hy’ihh! hahh! ahh, hah, haAAESHHhhmff! hy’AASHHHH’uhmf! hy’ESSCHHhhmff!” The sneezes were muffled into the handkerchief but still loud enough for Shane to hear every dragged-out syllable, every ragged intake of breath between them, every ounce of desperation shouting its way out of his body.
God, those were hot, Shane thought, a warm twinge of arousal snaking through his body. Of course he would rather that Ilya was feeling better… but he also couldn’t deny how incredibly sexy he found his boyfriend like this. He swallowed to make sure his voice would be strong and steady enough to carry over the space between them before calling, “Bless you, bless you, bless you!” Maybe Ilya was still out of it enough that he wouldn’t clock Shane’s reaction to all of him? Shane realized that he’d stopped stirring and took a second to be grateful he hadn’t dropped the bowl before scraping the mixture back into the pot.
“gy’uhh,” Ilya groaned. “Spasibo,” he mumbled before blowing his nose with a honk that echoed throughout the living room and into the kitchen.
Shane stirred everything together, a shiver running down his spine as Ilya blew his nose, then ladled soup into two bowls and topped them each with a generous handful of green onion. He left the clean up for later, when he was pretty sure Ilya would be napping, and brought the bowls over to the couch.
He put one on the coffee table, started to hand the other to Ilya, then paused. “Do you have any, uh… any sneezes coming? Before…” Shane looked down at the gently steaming bowl in his hands, then at his gorgeously cold-ridden boyfriend. It wasn’t that he’d ever actually given someone a cup of tea and then had to snatch it back before it spilled because they were about to sneeze, but he’d (fuck, he was almost blushing just from thinking about it) read enough kink erotica that the question had just popped into his mind.
Ilya gave an experimental sniff, paused for a moment, then shook his head. “I ab okay.”
“Well,” Shane said, handing the bowl over, “let me know if you do, okay?”
Ilya held the bowl closer to his face, chapped nostrils flaring wide as he breathed in the steam. For a brief moment, the ill man’s eyes slipped closed and a little smile played out on his face. Then, his brows began to furrow and his eyes began to narrow, and he was looking over at Shane with a mixture of confusion and fear on his face. He pushed the bowl back into Shane’s hands with a gasping series of “ihh-hiHhh…” noises that conveyed his absolute, unavoidable need to sneeze.
Shane accepted the bowl, fully on auto-pilot, eyes locked on Ilya’s face. Holy shit. Was this cliche scenario from sneeze fiction actually happening?
Ilya buried his face into his shoulder with a strong, wet triple. “hhhGGXHhhhuh! ehh’RRRIIISSsshhh! huhIISSSSCHHooo!” He grabbed for the handkerchief, which had been lying draped over his thigh, and used it to wipe at the tears in the corners of his eyes. Then he held it to his nose and blew with another enormous congested honk. When he lay back against the couch cushions with a huge sigh, his entire body seemed to deflate.
Apparently it was…. or, well, it had. Shane, still dazed with disbelief, looked between the bowl and Ilya. Ilya looked back at him, wet-eyed and red-nosed, and raised an eyebrow. “Zayyy-chik?” he said in a singsong tone with a smile that instantly brightened his pallid complexion. Embarrassingly, it made Shane a little weak in the knees. “Are you not going to bless mbe, Shade?”
“Fuck, sorry,” Shane said apologetically, then gave his a head a little shake. “Bless you, baby.” He didn’t often call Ilya that when blessing him, but the endearment had felt right this time. And he didn’t even mind how fucking breathy he sounded.
Ilya’s eyes grew very wide, and a flush spread over his cheeks. “Thagk you,” he said, sounding just as breathy as Shane, then snuggled in a little closer and put his head on Shane’s shoulder. “You take such good care of me, lyubimyy.”
“I like taking care of you,” Shane admitted, leaning his head against Ilya’s and wrapping his arm around the blond. “And I want to make up for all the times I couldn’t.”
Ilya was quiet for a moment, then sniffled thickly and took a shaky breath in and out. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he replied, sounding like he was trying his best not to cry. Shane turned his head and murmured, “I love you too,” in between pressing kisses against Ilya’s curls.
Tears sprung to Ilya’s eyes. Shane was so sweet and thoughtful, so gentle and tender with him - it was overwhelming, but in the best way. The fact that the man Ilya loved so deeply loved him back, with the same amount of fervor, still shocked him. But here he was, a gross, snotty mess, and Shane was holding him tight like that didn’t even matter. He’d blessed Ilya dozens of times, kissed his forehead to check for fever, made him soup; hell, he’d even bought him nice soft handkerchiefs because he’d been worried about Ilya’s nose getting sore. Ilya let out a sob into Shane’s chest. He had never, ever thought that he could have a love like this.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Shane said softly into Ilya’s hair and started to rub slow, soothing circles on the blond’s back. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”
Ilya sniffled again, cringing at just how liquid the sound was. “S-sorry,” he mumbled, feeling his cheeks heat.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Shane said sincerely. “You’re so sick, baby, you can’t help it.” He picked up the handkerchief from where it was laying, sifting the fabric through his fingers to find a dry patch, and brought it up to Ilya’s nose, hovering just above the irritated skin. “Here, blow.”
Even though he was a little embarrassed, Ilya’s nose was definitely going to start dripping soon if he didn’t do something about it. When he moved his face to nuzzle into the cloth, he felt his stomach flip as Shane placed his fingers over his nose, comfortable and assuring and practiced. Ilya blew, and when he paused to take a breath before blowing again, Shane adjusted the handkerchief to a fresh dry spot before holding it back to his nose. It was like the two of them had choreographed the motions, they were so in sync. Like two hockey players on the same line, passing the puck back and forth without even needing to look across the ice at each other. Knowing what the other’s next move would be.
As Ilya blew again, something at the bridge of his nose twinged. His face scrunched against it, but the tickle only grew stronger, and with a flash of panic he realized that he was going to sneeze into Shane’s hand. “Sh-Shhhane…!” he tried to warn him.
“It’s okay,” Shane reassured him. “Go ahead, baby, get those sneezes out. I’ve got you.” He was absurdly proud of himself for how steady he’d managed to keep his voice, sensing that Ilya needed that from him right now.
Ilya had been doing his best to hold back, to stop being disgusting, to avoid looking weak in the eyes of the one person who meant more to him than anyone in the world, but something in Shane’s voice put his mind at ease. Allowing himself to let go, he pitched forward into Shane’s cloth-covered hand. “heHh…eHhh…! hy’ESZCHHhhhmfff! gy’AASHHhhh’umfff! hAAASHHHhh’mfff!”
Maybe Ilya was delirious with fever, but he felt like now he understood the inherent vulnerability in sneezing. When he had to sneeze, his body was completely at the mercy of his nose and he was unable to concentrate on anything but the sensations coursing through him. He was… exposed. Letting Shane see him and being rewarded with Shane’s desire? Undeniably sexy.
And Shane helping Ilya blow his nose…that was undeniably sexy, too. Ilya had felt so vulnerable, yet so taken care of in his boyfriend’s capable hands. Shane had held the handkerchief to Ilya’s nose like he’d done it a thousand times before, looking so confident and in control. Though Shane was obviously turned on, his breathing heavy and his pupils dialated (and his boner visible) as he cleared away the soup bowls, Ilya knew that Shane wasn’t purely doing this just to get his rocks off. He cared about Ilya, and wanted him to feel better. That was one of the hottest things of all. Ilya felt adored. And he adored Shane right back.
I was going to have this be two parts, but then I had the idea to split the nsfw stuff and the contagion stuff into separate parts so now it's three shorter parts. but the next part will be out sooner, so if you think about it, it's better (or something).
part one
I hope you enjoy! ♡
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 4.3k
cw: sneezing, general illness, overtly sexual content, snz kink
Unwanted thoughts crowding his brain, Shane tensed his shoulders against the onslaught, gripped the wheel, tried to focus on the warm headlights slicing through the cold darkness ahead of the car, the rumbling of the engine, the whoosh of passing cars on the other side of the road. Every single text from Ilya flashed in front of his eyes, snippets of sickness from their phone calls echoed in his ears, and then, in between all of that, was Hayden’s concerned expression, the sound of the puck hitting the post as he missed a stupidly easy shot, JJ ranting at him in the hallway before the final period, the blatant signs of malaise running throughout Ilya’s old team as they lined up to shake hands. It was a cacophony of contradictory emotions, and it was completely overwhelming.
‘-feel like my nose will fall off… everything alright?… hrrRSHH!… clang… look pretty stricken… hiHKSHh!… good gambe, mban… clang… heHh hhIH… since when do we have a problem with fucking Boston?… run out of tissues… clang… anything you need… KSH! kSH! KshUh!… absence de concentration nous casse les putains de pieds!… hope things get better, bud!… when are you comi- ihKSH!-ng to see mbe?-”
“Shut up!” He said aloud, to the silence of the car.
He honestly couldn’t tell if he was having a panic attack or if he was just so full of pent up lust that it was making it hard to breathe. Either way, he probably shouldn’t be driving.
Shane mentally picked out the next stopping place in the route he was driving, and then counted down the kilometres as he got closer and closer, flicking on his turn signal the second it appeared ahead of him, and pulling over. He unbuckled his seatbelt as he turned the engine off, pushing out his chest like removing the small barrier would make it easier to breathe. It didn’t. It really didn’t. He still felt like he was suffocating. And there was another pressure that he felt the urge to relieve, too.
He rested a hand on his thigh, alongside the problem at hand, weighing the decision up in his mind. If he left it alone, nothing would improve and then he’d be on his ailing boyfriend’s doorstep in the middle of the night, noticeably hard for no accountable reason. But if he dealt with it now, in the car, he’d have to fend off those intrusive thoughts the entire time, and then every time anyone else sat in the driver’s seat he’d be thinking about what he’d done there… but then, driving was starting to become pretty uncomfortable, and he didn’t want to be distracted from the road, because that could be dangerous-
Having given himself all the rationale he needed, Shane leaned across and opened the glove compartment, pulling a few napkins free, and reluctantly reaching for the pot of lip balm he’d started keeping in there after his lips had inexplicably betrayed him last winter and started being chapped non-stop, a sensation he hated more than almost any other.
For reasons he couldn’t quite properly justify, the brunet found himself averting his eyes as he unzipped his pants, clearing his throat awkwardly as he checked that he was indeed alone in the turnout, and slipped his dick out over the waistline of his underwear. He was not going to get caught jacking off on the side of the road, no one ever had to know that this had happened. Breathe.
Shane swiped two fingers into the makeshift lube, methodically softening it, warming it up, spreading it across his hand, before letting his fingers curl around his dick. His eyes slipped shut, and instantly Ilya was in front of him, in workout clothes, stretching one arm behind his head, fingertips linked as he tugged with his other hand. His extended bicep tensed and relaxed with each pull, the blond wincing at the stretch. Shane let his own hand slide slowly upwards, softly squeezing for a single second when he reached the head, before slipping down to the base again.
His mouth fell open, breathing growing heavier. ‘Take it off.’ He willed him, in his mind. Ilya reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it slowly up, and then off. His abs were beaded with sweat, undulating with short, sharp breaths, like he’d only just come to a halt after a full out sprint.
‘Come closer.’
The Russian obeyed, shirt casually trailing from one hand, sweat-darkened curls overhanging his forehead, eyes intensely fixed on the brunet. ‘You like this, Hollander? You like telling me what to do?’
Without noticing himself doing it, he picked up the pace, not desperately fast, but something a little closer to his rapidly thudding heart rate. His hips drew upwards slightly, seeking more, and he shifted his weight so that his back was pressing hard into the seat, allowing himself to thrust slightly into each stroke. ‘More.’ Was his next power-hungry command. ‘Take the shorts off.’
Ilya slipped his thumbs into the elasticated waistband of the exercise shorts he was wearing, and tugged them down, stepping out of them and kicking the item of clothing off to one side theatrically, like a stripper. Shirt still in one hand, dick visibly outlined through his boxer briefs, the blond sniffled, and surveyed his boyfriend. ‘Wh-hH-at now?’
No. No, this was not going to be some weird thing. He was just a normal guy, pulling his car over to jack off to normal thoughts of his secret boyfriend stripping for him. He didn’t need to think about anything else. He found Ilya attractive even when he was healthy- or more when he was healthy- or the same or whatever. He could get off to him without him having to be a sneezy mess.
‘Are you sure?’ Mind-Ilya scrubbed at his nose with his knuckles, the back of his hand, his wrist.
‘Yes I’m- shut up and take your underwear off.’ Shane stopped himself from mentally arguing with the representation of his boyfriend who was supposed to get him off, not piss him off.
The Russian looked at him stubbornly. ‘I think you get off even if I keep them on. I thi-ihh-”
“Don’t.” He protested, aloud by mistake, realising as the action brought him back into his body that his hand had stopped moving, and his body was full of tension again. Fuck. This was the opposite of what he needed right now. Time was slipping away and the longer he sat here, the more chance he’d be caught. He just needed to get this over with, however would be the fastest.
Shane shut his eyes again. ‘Okay fine, go ahead.’
‘hhHh hKk! hKSH!’ The blond sneezed into his fist, struggling to maintain eye contact, ‘You know- hKSH! KSHhUh!- I would do this even i- ihhKSH!- if you di-ihhKSHUH!- didn’t give me perm-ISHHUh-ission.’ He lifted the shirt to his face, still conveniently clutched in one hand, and let loose, ‘hKSH-kSH! hMPHOo! hrRMPH! hRSHHOo! hrRSHH! Oh my fucking-hrRSH-SHh! haEHSHH! hRRAESHOO!”
‘Bless you, Ilya, fuck.’
The brunet’s teeth found purchase in his lower lip, digging in deep as the hedonistic pleasure rolled over him.
‘Are you okay?’ Something about the question was jarring, and Shane hesitated for a moment, having been about to request a repeat performance. Was his accent gone?
‘What?’
Ilya removed his face from his shirt, looking down at him as he repeated the question. ‘Are you okay, bud?’
‘W- Hayden?”
And suddenly it was, their two faces merging together, the generic hotel room backdrop turning into the locker room, other players appearing around them- Shane’s eyes flew open. No, NO, this wasn’t what he wanted- fuck, why couldn’t he just keep his mind on one thing?
He rolled his shoulders back, scanned his surroundings again, still nothing, still no one. He was in control of his brain, he was in control of his thoughts, he chose what he saw. The Canadian sucked in a deep breath, pushed it out, and shut his eyes again.
‘Jesus Christ, Hollzy, what the hell are you doing?’
‘Why the fuck is your dick out?’
‘Je fucking savais que tu étais un genre de pervers, capitaine, tu as l’air d’un freak.’
“Okay, no.” He needed to stay on track, or he’d never be able to finish and then he’d be pissed off all night- he needed some kind of… anchor.
Shane considered searching for porn on his phone, either the regular kind or something a little more in line with his current train of thought, something that most people wouldn’t consider to be porn in the first place. But as he unlocked his phone with his free hand, the message thread with Ilya lit up the screen, right where he’d left off, and… well, it was convenient, and he didn’t really have time to go trawling through the internet for some actually good porn, so…
He started scrolling back, drawing his hand up and down the length of his dick every time he saw the word ‘tissues’ or ‘nose’ or ‘chikh’, letting himself imagine the symptoms as they were being described to him. And then, he made it back to the voice message.
The brunet hesitated for a single moment before impulsively hitting play, eyes slamming shut as the static started to play again. This time there was no locker room, just Ilya sitting on his couch, the game playing in the background unattended, forearms resting on his knees as his shoulders shook with uneven breaths.
“hKk! Kkh! KSH!” The expulsions snapped his head forward, unrealistically visible spray ejected towards the floor. Shane started moving his hand again, feeling the possibility of release on the horizon, caught in a helpless spiral of lust.
“Stop.” Ilya spat the word out, caught in his own helpless spiral, “hKSH! KSHH! hhih…” He tilted his head upwards slightly, Shane catching a glimpse of his expression for the first time, tongue hovering between his teeth, brows pinching together urgently, eyelashes fluttering. He didn’t look at the brunet at all, like he wasn’t even there, just a fly on the wall. Maybe that was for the best.
And then the anticipation ended, his head snapping back towards the ground again, Shane watching lecherously as the resulting mist of droplets spritzed the coffee table in front of him,“hKSH! hh… hhAHSHh! KSH! KXSH!”
Watching the force ripple through him, the brunet moaned softly, feeling a single droplet of precum start to trickle down the length of him, before it was abruptly bulldozered by his rapidly moving hand, chasing the full release. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware that the fit would end eventually, and he fumbled, eyes still shut, to hit replay before that would happen.
“hRSh-” The silent static began again, the Ilya in his mind freezing for a moment before starting to hitch again. “hKk! Kkh! KSH!”
Shane moaned aloud, undeterred by the acoustics of the sound undermining his immersion in his mental approximation of Ilya’s living room.
“Stop.”
“No. Keep fucking going.”
“hKSH! KSHH!” Spray bursting from his lips, starkly visible against the couch, his shorts, his shirt- which he wasn’t wearing anymore- maybe he took it off because he was too feveri- shut up, stop trying to analyse your own fantasy- “hhih…” He raised his head. Shane stared into his distant, unseeing eyes, watched the need build on his face, back arching in his seat. “hKSH! hh… hhAHSHh!”
And Ilya drew the back of his hand under his nose, sneezing again before he’d even finished swiping it, spraying down his arm, “KSH! KXSH!” He shivered. Shane gasped, on the precipice. “hRSHH! Khvatit.” He looked up again, eyes watering, nose pink, lip curling at the itch as he tried to speak. Ple-hihh… hhIHSHOo!”
Shane came, head smacking back against the headrest, as his mind went blank with pure, focused pleasure. He moaned through it, drowning out the voice note as Ilya sniffled and fumbled for his phone. “Fucking bless you.” He panted to the empty car, eyes still shut, shuddering on the come-down as all his muscles relaxed and exhaustion drew over him.
He was just starting to think about opening his eyes, cleaning himself up, moving on from what no one had to know had just happened, when the silence was broken.
“Shane?”
The Canadian's heart rate skipped up again, so fast that it felt wrong. His stomach dropped as his visualisation of Ilya, previously flopped back on the couch, spent, like him, was suddenly sitting up again, staring startled into his eyes. The Russian's gaze started to drift downwards, towards where his hand was still occupied, and Shane felt a wave of shame crash over him, opening his eyes and sucking in a tense breath, fighting the pressure suddenly compressing his chest.
Glancing down at himself, the cum he’d at least mostly kept contained in his palm, the message chat open accusatorially reminding him of what he'd just orgasmed to. Had he only asked Ilya to update him so he could make himself feel good in the first place? Did he really care about him, or was the whole thing some immoral sexual crusade? If he hadn't meant to send the voice note in the first place then was it wrong to have-? The voice note. Fuck. No.
Shane's eyes had zeroed in on the voice message as he went to pause it, something looking slightly different to the last time he'd looked at it. In his stupid tapping at it with his eyes shut, trying to get it to replay, he'd somehow managed to like it.
The red heart in the corner of the message stood out unflinchingly, an uncomfortably candid betrayal of Shane's real reaction to the audio. What was happening to him? He didn’t make mistakes like this… he didn’t use to make mistakes like this.
“Fuck this. You don’t have time for this.” He couldn’t sit here on the side of the road with his dick out forever. He’d relieved the pressure, given in to the urge, and now he had to move on from it. He had to get to Ilya.
…
The rest of the drive had been a mishmash of emotions, Shane trying four separate radio stations, pulling over to connect his phone so he could listen to his own stuff instead, trying his locker room playlist, his workout playlist, a history of hockey podcast that he’d listened to over twenty times before but kept coming back to, some extremely loud playlist Ilya had made him, called ‘непрерывной гребаной хитов’, and silence again. None of it made a difference, his brain too exhausted to fight the intrusive thoughts, the guilt, the self-reproach.
So, when he finally pulled up to Ilya’s house, he grabbed only the grocery bag of supplies his boyfriend had requested, and his phone, speed-walking to the door and knocking borderline frantically. The blond had given him a key the moment he’d been given one himself, but Shane was far too paranoid to keep it on his own keyring- what if people online compared the cuts from paparazzi pictures and saw that it was the same key?- a decision which had led him to turn up without it more than once already. It wasn’t that he was forgetting to take it with him, he just didn’t think he’d need it, and then when he did he was already too far from his own place to turn back and pick it up.
He knocked again, straining his ears to hear if his boyfriend was approaching the door. The wood was too thick for him to be able to tell, and so he startled slightly when it abruptly jolted inwards a few inches.
Shane had half a second of confusion as to why Ilya hadn’t opened the door the entire way, and then was met with a sound that explained better than the Russian could have.
“hKSHHuh!”
Oh. Fuck. Already? He wasn’t even inside yet.
The door moved again, unassisted this time, and now he could see him, leaning against the wall in the hallway, a blanket around his shoulders and held up over his lower face with one splayed out hand, otherwise clothed only in low-riding sweatpants.
“kKXSHh! hKK! hrRSHh!-” He paused, breaths tripping over themselves as he stumbled into a coughing fit and then just as suddenly back out into the sneezing fit again, “hAHSCXHh! hihh…hUHXSHhOo!”
Shane stared at him, dumbfounded by the display. Blessss. “Fuck you.” Wait no. “Wait, no.”
The blond surfaced, fixing him with mournful eyes, though there was a hint of combativeness there, waiting, just in case the Canadian had meant what he said and was about to start a fight, “The fuck I do?”
“I meant bless you, sorry, it just came out wrong.”
Unruffled, Ilya knuckled at his nose and coughed. “So did sneezes. Ugh.”
“I'm sorry. Bless you.” Fuck.
“Thanks.” The blond continued to stare at him. “You come in, or you want me to come out?”
“Sorry, I was waiting for- no, yeah, I’ll come in.” He stepped in awkwardly, as though it was his first time, shifting from foot to foot, glancing around the hallway.
Ilya sniffled. “You are weird tonight. What you bring?”
“Uh, what you asked for.” He was glad to have something to do, lifting the bag and pulling things out to show his boyfriend. “I got more tissues, cough drops, I didn’t get the energy drink because- Ilya.”
The Russian had started to walk away from him down the hallway. At Shane’s admonishment, he waved a hand over his shoulder. “I go to lie down. Keep talk.”
“Okay, um, I didn’t get the energy drink because it’s not good for you to drink that stuff right now-” Or ever “-but I got the instant noodles you wanted, so maybe that’s some kind of compromise.” He dropped the bag on the coffee table as Ilya dropped down onto the couch, sniffling productively as his head fell back onto the backrest and the congestion in his sinuses shifted.
“You won.” The blond announced in a drained celebratory tone.
Shane’s confusion lasted several seconds longer than it really should have, mind lingering on the instant noodles, and then the car ride, the text thread, the game- oh, right, the game. “Yeah, we did.”
“I watch recap. And interviews. You look mad after though-”
“Mhm.” The brunet shrugged noncommittally, using the new tissue box to poke at the layer of used tissues on the surface of the table, seeking out the thermometer. The slurred words, the smile tugging on the corner of his lips, the thicker accent, all pointed to a fever, and he wanted to check how high it was.
“-but not as mad as Marly.” Ilya laughed.
“Yeah, I don’t think he was feeling too well either, so losing probably wasn’t what he needed.” Shane found the device, picking it up between finger and thumb, and turning back to his boyfriend.
“I know, he could not speak, he sounded like mouse with throat slit, they had to talk to Cadyn instead. And could hear Marly in background whole time, just- ‘hEHGGKK! NGKCHUH!’.” He laughed thickly.
“Mm.” Shane avoided eye contact, unsure how to feel about his boyfriend mimicking one of his closest friends sneezing with a less than functional voicebox. Was this attractive or just really awkward? He held out the thermometer “Open your mouth, please.”
There was a flicker of challenge in Ilya’s eyes for half a second, and then it was gone, and he was sticking out his tongue semi-obediently. His breath rasped audibly in the back of his throat as the brunet leaned in to place the thermometer in his mouth.
Ilya closed his lips around it, shuffling along the couch a little way and patting the seat cushion beside him to encourage Shane to sit down, which he did, stiffly at first, but quickly relaxing as the blond leaned into him, tension draining from both of them at the long awaited first contact. Ilya’s arm wrapped around his waist and he shifted around, trying to get comfortable, and then fell into stillness.
They remained quiet, bar the occasional liquid sniffle or discontented hum from the Russian, waiting for the telltale beeps of the device between his chapped lips. Shane carded a hand through the blond’s hair, feeling the slight dampness of sweat at the roots, and the tangles from tossing and turning on the couch all evening at the tips, methodically beginning to tackle the knots with gentle fingers.
It didn’t seem to bother Ilya, who was entirely subdued now that he was unable to ramble about the game for a few minutes, and appeared to have half drifted off against the Canadian’s shoulder.
The beeping roused them both, Shane surprised by the efficiency with which his boyfriend removed the thermometer from his mouth, handed it over, took the tissue box that he’d still been absently clutching in return, ripped away the cardboard, pulled a few sheets free and, in his most uncoordinated effort of the short routine, mashed them against his face.
“hKk! Kkh! HkK! ksh! KSHuh! hKXSH! Ohh-”
Shane’s eyes widened at the moan, which seemed more motivated by some kind of strange pleasure than pain or distress, a flash of panic running through him at the idea that Ilya knew and was teasing him.
“-hKSHhOo! hRRSHOo! hhih-” The blond stalled for a moment, clearly interrupted by some kind of realisation, and then his eyes darted towards his boyfriend for the millisecond preceding their abrupt closure once again and he finished out with a pointed, “hhuhAHpPCHhee!”
“Bless you.” The Canadian deadpanned, concealing the inner shock at the fact that he not only remembered their phone conversation, but had internalised it, apparently. And also the self-restraint to be able not to sneeze the entire time the thermometer had been in his mouth?
Ilya blew his nose emphatically, switching sides three times before deciding he was satisfied and balling up the tissues to toss onto the table with the rest. “Thanks. Good timing.”
“What was good timing?” He was busy trying to read the thermometer screen, and didn’t think about the implications of the question until Ilya responded.
“Thermometer. It beep, I ‘apchii’, very good timing.”
Oh, so not self-control, pure luck. “Okay. Or- good. Nice.” How was he even supposed to respond to that?
Before he could pull himself out of his head and back into the moment enough to read the numbers on the tiny device, Ilya interrupted him again.
“hhUHEH-”
Shane’s head snapped up, apparently disturbing his boyfriend’s focus on the tickle in his nose, because the sneezy expression was already dissipating as they made unintentional eye contact.
“What?” The blond asked.
“I um- thought you were going to say something.”
“Was going to sneeze.”
“Oh.” Shane watched his eyes squint slightly as the tickle apparently started to grow again, the Russian’s nostrils flaring, and his mouth dropping further open to take in a shaky breath. After a moment, though, nothing had happened, so he tentatively asked, in a pitch slightly too high to be casual, “Are you still going to?”
“No.” Ilya concluded, dejected, sniffling as he let his face fall back to neutrality. “Is gone.”
Overwhelmed with a myriad of positive, paralyzingly intense feelings for his boyfriend, Shane reached out abruptly and took his face with both hands. The blond looked startled for a moment, and then his eyes strayed downwards to Shane’s lips, tongue running over his own, train of thought clear on his face.
It was all the confirmation the brunet needed, leaning in and kissing him, more authoritatively than he typically would have done, the firm, passionate style the result of over four hours of craving and daydreaming and longing for this in the back of his mind when he should have been focusing on the game or the road or absolutely anything else. But all of that was melting away now that he had his tongue down his boyfriend’s throat. Or more accurately wrestling with Ilya’s own tongue, tasting the lingering flavors of cough drops and cola, feeling the blond panting out breaths every few seconds, tensely holding his breath for as long as he could in between to draw out the kiss.
Eventually, Shane took pity on him and pulled back. Ilya’s pupils were blown, his gaze fixed on the Canadian with hypnotic intensity, panting through pink, swollen lips as they both pretended to ignore his nose running into his cupid’s bow.
“You will-” The blond stared into space, blinking slowly as he searched his brain for the term, “-take this with you.”
“I don’t care.” Shane, equally love-drunk, stared back at him earnestly and didn’t bother to consider the subsequent words before they tumbled from his lips, “I want to.”
“You want?” This awoke Ilya somewhat. “Is not fun. Is cough, and fever, and sneeze-” He sniffled again, rubbing the side of his hand against his nose. “-so much sneeze, and you no play-”
His grasp on English seemed to be backsliding, and the mention of fever had the Canadian glancing back at the thermometer again, interrupting his boyfriend abruptly, “Oh fuck, Ilya, 39.8?”
Ilya frowned distantly. “Only 39 point? Is so late in season, though. Stariya utratil svoi navyki.”
“What? No, your temperature is- forget it, I’m going to get you some medicine, okay?” He stood, starting down the hallway towards the bathroom, praying that his boyfriend hadn’t run out, because he really did not want to make another run out to the store for supplies. He wasn’t sure he could face the car again just yet.
“Wait,” Ilya called after him, “Now I zarazil you, eto predresheno, so we kiss more, yes?”
Shane wasn’t one hundred percent sure what that meant, it had involved more kissing, so, “Sure!”
Disclaimer! I know nothing about any sports of any kind, least of all hockey. I will attempt to make it believable but any mistakes are a product of my ignorance.
“-And if Rozanov could keep his hands on the stick rather than on his face, the Raiders have a good chance of advancing in the fight for the cup”
Drawn by the commentator’s jab at his boyfriend, Shane tore his attention away from his meal prepping stations and turned towards the game he had admittedly been watching with only a small portion of his attention. He knew Ilya was never one to be bashful, so to cover his (second, after his ass- his brain added) most valuable asset mid game was a sign that something was off. Had he been hiding some sort of injury from Shane, or worse his team members, hiding behind his gloves to avoid letting the camera see a wince? The cameras panned away from the center, bringing attention to Marleau as he advanced with the puck towards the opposing goalie, though Shane barely noticed the play over his worries. Immediately Shane reached for his phone and texted the Russian.
“Are you ok?”
He didn’t expect an answer immediately but the lack of response did nothing to quell his concerns as the camera zoomed in on a tense, distant expression that passed through Ilya’s face that dispersed soon enough, giving through to frustration, but not before the commentators had the opportunity to mock him for his apparent distraction. At this Shane abandoned his meal prepping and migrated to the couch, worried he might miss something glaringly concerning about Ilya. He still seemed to be skating with his usual force, but Shane knew Ilya better than to assume he couldn’t be hiding something deeper.
As the second period ran to a close and the players exited the ice, Shane turned a worried glance to his phone. Logically, he knew it might be unlikely that Ilya would even see the message knowing he only had a handful of minutes till he had to skate back out. He didn’t need to worry for long however, as soon after the game cut to commercial, a three-dotted bubble appeared in their chat.
“Da,” Ilya replied. “Am fine. Nose is… How you say? Scratching?”
“You mean itchy?”
Normally, seeing the usually stoic player flub a word in English would bring a smile to Shane’s face, but the topic at hand made him unusually nervous.
“Yes, that. Been sneezing all day, headcold is annoying.”
Shane stared at the screen, a sudden, familiar heat blooming low in his chest,
He flushed at the thought of Ilya, usually an unstoppable force on the ice struggling with such a small crack in his facade.
“Oh be careful on the ice then, don’t want you to get worse.” Shane replied, though secretly he wished his condition would improve for selfish reasons first.
“You worry too much.” Ilya replied, but before Shane could craft anything approaching a clever retort, intermission was over and the teams were called to return to the ice.
Shane sank deeper into the couch cushions as the third period officially got underway, his focus completely narrowed down to number eighty-one. The heat that had sparked in his chest during their brief text exchange only intensified now that he knew exactly what to look for. Ilya was out there playing high-stakes playoff hockey while silently battling a miserable head cold.
It didn't take long for the cracks in Ilya's armor to show.
During his first shift, the camera tracked Ilya as he raced down the boards to fight for a loose puck. He won the battle with a vicious shove, but as he turned to pass it back to the blue line, he suddenly stiffened. Mid-stride, his head snapped down into his shoulder twice in rapid succession. Even through the grainy television feed, Shane recognized the violent, full-body jerk of a suppressed sneeze. The momentary lapse in his rhythm cost him; an opposing defenseman easily intercepted his pass, and Ilya let out a visible, frustrated snarl, his jaw hanging open as he forced a heavy, congested breath through his mouth.
Shane swallowed hard, his throat dry as he watched Ilya skate back to the bench. His hand inevitably reached for his boxers, cupping the bulge that had silently been growing as he watched. Ilya constantly worked to portray himself as a paragon of strength, and in this moment of weakness, the contrast was utterly intoxicating.
Once on the bench, Ilya immediately ripped off his helmet and gloves. Instead of leaning back to rest, he buried his face in a white trainer's towel, blowing his nose with a harsh, unbothered roughness. When he pulled the towel away, the camera caught a tight close-up of his face. His cheekbones were sharply flushed, a feverish, beautiful pink that stood out starkly against his sweat-dampened hair and the white ice behind him. His eyes looked glossy, heavy-lidded, and clearly irritated by the bright arena lights.
Shane wouldn’t have been able to control himself if he had tried, he had never seen Rozanov look more gorgeous. He reached into his pants and released the pressure that the waistband was placing on his achingly hard dick, taking the precum that had started beading at the tip and spreading it all over his penis. He couldn’t help but imagine that it was Ilya’s snot as he twisted around the head and he had never felt more ecstasy running through his veins.
On his next shift, things got messier. Positioned right in front of the opposing goalie to screen his vision, Ilya was a wall of muscle. But as the whistle blew to halt play, Ilya didn't have a towel. Shane watched, a sudden thrill spiking in his stomach, as Ilya lifted his heavily padded forearm and messily wiped the back of his wrist right across his nose, trying to clear the inevitable snot before his next sprint. Shane’s hand quickened around his member, chasing the peak of his arousal desperately. Ilya looked completely drained of his usual prickly pride, operating entirely on pure, stubborn adrenaline and a rising temper fueled by his own physical misery.
He was a lethal, terrifying athlete, but right now, he was also just a sick, feverish mess who was going to be completely exhausted the second his skates hit the locker room floor.
The commentators praised his "gritty, physical play" and noted how aggressive he seemed tonight, but Shane knew the truth. Ilya wasn't just mad at the opposing team, he was furious at his own congested sinuses, leaking snot onto his face and disrupting his concentration as his body tried to sneeze out the virus that had lodged itself in him. Shane leaned back against the pillows, a heavy, restless anticipation settling deep in his core as he watched Ilya's chest rise and fall in hitchy stuttered breaths as he lost what little control he had left over his body. Both of them were building up their release, and as the camera chose that inopportune moment to zoom in on the raiders’ captain, Ilya’s nose finally succumbed to the tickle that had been erratically building in his sinuses and, making eye contact with the camera, he released a loud uncovered sneeze straight onto the ice, unable to bring his arms up fast enough once he realised he wasn’t going to be able to shake the itch. At the sight of this Shane finally lost control of the coil that had steadily been building in his abdomen while watching Ilya lose control and he came harder than he had in months, shooting ropes of cum over his stomach and his hips.
The announcers commented on Rozanov’s unhygienic practices, but Shane was too far in the afterglow of his release to even notice. He reached for his phone.
“I have to see you. Tonight.”
He sent the text, then got up to clean himself off. He wasn’t sure what he’d say or do when Ilya came over, but he knew he couldn’t wait longer than absolutely necessary to see him. His phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Well here it is! Sorry for the wait, but I really enjoyed working on this and I have zero control over a wordcap apparently lol. CW for contagion, mess, graphic NSFW scenes, and some minor dacrophilia if you squint. Enjoy!
With Shane drowsing on his chest, it was remarkably easy for Ilya to fall into sleep as well. He had been up since five to get packed into the team bus, drive to the airport, and catch a flight home. Admittedly, he was a little exhausted. Ilya had planned on arriving to the cottage, getting in a quick fuck, and promptly taking a nap in Shane’s bed or Shane’s couch or honestly wherever Shane was. It wasn’t often that his boyfriend joined him in napping, but Ilya had a way of getting Shane to play with his hair as he drifted under. And that was nearly as good as sex itself.
Ilya drifted in and out of sleep for maybe an hour and a half, listening to the sounds of people on television bickering over off-white paint. Shane was snoring softly against Ilya’s chest, the sound making his heart squeeze - this was the first time he had heard his boyfriend make such a sound. Firsts were always something he treasured. Shane was soft and relaxed against him, features slack, occasionally snuffling and sighing and burrowing closer.
They hadn’t really been sick in front of one another before. Hundreds of miles were somehow always between them whenever one of them was down and out. Ilya was pleasantly surprised that Shane was rather sweet and needy when he wasn’t feeling good.
Shane’s brow furrowed, restless as he coughed softly in his sleep. Ilya rubbed his back with the flat of his palm until he stilled and quieted, soothed back into rest. He felt a bubble of fondness swell in his chest so large it was near to bursting inside of him. The feeling coaxed Ilya into waking fully, tuning back into the weight of Shane on top of him, the gentle sound of the outside wind against the windows, and the afternoon light turning the room golden around them. He continued to stroke Shane’s back slowly, pressing a quick, gentle kiss to his head.
Although he couldn’t say he enjoyed the extents of Shane’s anxiety, his boyfriend was so endearing in how much he cared about everything. Shane had come a long way from when Ilya had first met him in terms of confidence and excessive worrying, but obviously it still could get to him. The crease in his brow and shining brown eyes when he looked at Ilya earlier, the way he nervously bit his lip, eyes searching for permission to just fucking relax already. As if Ilya would be upset that Shane was getting sick - all Ilya really cared about was being there and, well, he had achieved that.
Ilya honestly had honestly been insistent about kissing him so Shane wouldn’t spend the rest of the next few days freaking out about contamination. The worst had already been done. Additionally, there were worse things in the world than getting sick. And Ilya really wasn’t kidding about the sexy nurse thing either - that would definitely make him feel better no matter what kind of state he was in.
It was about twenty minutes before Shane stirred. His gentle, congested snoring was cut off by a deep inhale, a sigh, a gentle reverberation in his throat as he began to wake. His face scrunched up adorably as he registered wakefulness, freckles bunching together as he wrinkled his nose. Shane groaned softly as he blinked to awareness, brows pulled together as he registered the miseries of being awake with a cold.
Shane lifted his head, eyes widening a little as he saw the the way the light had changed in the room.
“…Fuck. How long did I sleep?” he rasped, voice beginning to turn gravelly and sore.
“Almost two hours?” Ilya said, glancing at his watch. “I thought maybe you had died.”
Shane groaned again and ran a hand over his face, thumb putting pressure on his temple like he had a headache.
“God, I’m sorry, I didn’t think I’d be out so long. You must be bored,” he lamented, sighing and pushing his cheek into Ilya’s chest. He sniffled and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand.
Ilya smiled and hugged him tight.
“Is okay. I was tired after the flight, I took a nap with you.”
Shane sighed and deflated. “Okay. Good.” He sniffled and turned away to cough into the crook of his arm, far away from Ilya. As if that would make a difference at this point.
Shane looked a little miserable already, brow pinched, mouth in a tiny little frown, nose pink and sniffly. Ilya thought he kind of looked like a pitiful kitten, brown eyes big and watery, hair a mess, pout on his lips. And, like a pitiful kitten, he clung to Ilya like he might not make it otherwise. It always amazed Ilya that all six feet and 180 some-odd pounds of his boyfriend was able to look so small and kissable.
So, of course, Ilya leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Shane sighed with content and wriggled closer.
“You’re very adorable,” Ilya murmured, so very fond.
“Mmph. I don’t feel adorable,” Shane mumbled, following it up with a soupy sniffle as if to prove his point. His face was scrunched up in some mixture of disagreement and discomfort, eyes barely open.
“No, is adorable. You are like a baby animal, so cuddly and sleepy and sweet.” Shane groaned and rolled over to hide his face in the back of the couch, but Ilya could see from his ears that he was blushing. Ilya laughed and continued, “Now is my little kotonok hungry now? I am starving.”
Shane rolled back over to face him, sighing. “Not really, but I probably need to eat.”
He slowly peeled himself off of Ilya and sat up on the couch, reaching for the box of tissues on the coffee table. He took one and sheepishly turned away, blowing his nose as quietly as possible. It wasn’t as effective as it should have been, leaving him still sniffly and pink-cheeked, desperately avoiding eye contact.
Ilya patted him on the thigh and got up to look in the fridge, giving Shane a moment to clean himself up in private. It was endearing to Ilya how Shane still managed to get embarrassed at such mundane things. Ilya understood to a degree, as anyone would after growing up with his father, but he did not feel ashamed about most bodily functions around Shane.
Still, it was cute.
It was very quickly apparent there wasn’t much to work with in the fridge in terms of sick people food. It was stocked full of vegetables and healthy lean protein and even more vegetables on top of that.
Ilya groaned and dug through to the back of the fridge, calling over his shoulder to Shane. “You eat like insane person. The insides of this fridge are a disgrace to all kitchens.”
He turned at the sound of footsteps to see Shane trailing in sleepily, affronted frown on his face.
“Shut up. I eat healthy. It’s better than the shit you eat,” Shane grumbled, coming to stand beside his boyfriend to peer into the fridge.
“I am ordering more groceries, there is no food for sick people in here. I know it is not diet-approved but I will make you some borsht later, yes?“ Ilya said, rummaging around and pulling a few things out of the fridge.
Ilya expected Shane to deny, to interrogate him about the ingredients, to ask for changes here and there to cut back on carbs or fat or whatever. But he just nodded, sniffling, keeping his eyes away from Ilya’s. He still looked sheepish, embarrassed about something. Being sick, maybe. Ilya kissed the side of his head and shooed him over to a stool.
“Sit, I will make us sandwiches. I will make yours with gluten-free bread and everything. Does that sound good? Okay for your throat?”
Shane settled onto the stool, leaning onto the counter, nodding in agreement. “Sounds great, thank you.”
They talked idly while Ilya put everything together, sliding a cold can of ginger ale for Shane to drink while he waited. Ilya plated everything, cut the sandwiches into neat triangles, and hopped into the seat next to his boyfriend with a can of coke. They ate, talked, laughed. Ilya told him about his trip, stupid shit his teammates said, chirps towards players from his last game. Shane let Ilya talk as he ate slowly, stopping now and then to cough softly or pull a tissue from his pocket and dab at his pink nose.
Once they had finished eating, Ilya took their plates to the sink and began washing them. He looked up at the quiet sound of Shane’s breath catching. Ilya watched as his nose twitched, eyes blinking several times in rapid succession. Memorizing every micro-expression. Noticing how similar they were to the ones he made during sex. The way his eyebrows pulled together, floating up and up and up, lips beginning to part. Shane’s chest shuddered with a few near-silent hitches before his expression scrunched up. He turned to the side, ducking away from Ilya and into his elbow.
“Hih… hehH-hTDSH! Hih-iITChiew! ETshoo!”
Shane pulled away from his elbow slowly, immediately bringing up the tissue from his pocket to pinch and swipe at the moisture left behind. His cheeks were pink, and he was definitely still avoiding eye contact.
“Bud'te zdorovy. Did that feel good?” Ilya teased, finishing with the plates and drying his hands on a nearby towel. Shane’s blush deepened as he brought his eyes up to Ilya’s to glare.
Ilya could see the panicked arousal behind it.
“Is it possible for you to not be an asshole right now?” Shane scowled and busied himself with shoving the tissue back into his hoodie pocket. Ilya did feel a little bad for teasing - Shane’s voice was going rough and he was getting more sniffly by the minute. But also he was blushing, so maybe Ilya didn’t feel too bad.
“I thought you were very fond of assholes the last time I had you bent over and-" Ilya was cut off as Shane groaned loudly into his hands, ears red.
He was so much more reactive than usual, so much more affected. Maybe because he was trying not to share his germs, Ilya thought, trying to make it seem like he didn’t want. Usually by now Shane be all over him. But either way Ilya was going to make sure his boyfriend was well taken care of, in more ways than one.
Ilya just chuckled and made his way to the bedroom, tugging Shane along with him.
“Come, it’s time for more medicine, yes? I will stop teasing you.”
“I don’t believe you,” Shane grumbled, which was a fair point, but he followed anyway.
Ilya stepped into the en-suite, pulling open the medicine cabinet. Shane followed in after, sniffling and clearing his throat as he leaned against the counter. He still seemed shy, sheepish.
“What have you taken?” Ilya asked, opening the bathroom cabinet to rummage through the medicine shelf. Thankfully, this was Shane’s cottage, so he was stocked up with absolutely fucking everything. Ilya’s place wouldn’t have had nearly as fruitful findings.
“Just some Advil earlier.”
Ilya pulled out a thermometer, capsules of DayQuil, name brand decongests, and a large bottle of ibuprofen. He then ducked down to rummage under the sink for a new box of tissues. He rose and dumped his findings on the bathroom counter.
“It is your nose that is giving you the most trouble, yes?” Ilya asked, choosing to talk about Shane’s nose just because he could, because it was the easiest tease in the world, because it always got Shane so worked up so fast. His cute shy boyfriend with his cute horny sneezes.
The current circumstances were technically uncharted territory as this is his first time experiencing Shane with a cold, so Ilya continuously kept an eye on his body language. And by his findings it looked like Shane was battling to keep his restraint intact. Ilya watched hungrily as the question registered, then promptly choked him until he could gather back his bearings. Shane blinked twice, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and brought a hand up to tug at his earlobe nervously. His face was still pink, eyes absolutely anywhere but on Ilya.
“Um— uh, yeah,”Shane choked out after a brief moment of obvious internal struggle.
Ilya frowned at him, feigning ignorance.
“You look flushed, lubimyy, do you have a fever?”
“I don’t think so,” he replied. Ilya stepped closer into his boyfriend’s space, cupping Shane’s cheek with one hand and lighting up with desire as he watched the blush there darken.
“It is okay if you are feeling bad. I want to take care of you,” Ilya said, aiming for earnest and caring and much less horny than he actually felt. He wanted to get to the root of whatever was working Shane up so much, wring it out with his bare hands until the answer was at his feet.
“I’m. Uh, I’m okay,” Shane said, still struggling to maintain eye contact. He sniffled again, sound wet and thick, and it made him wince. Shane dabbed at his rapidly-reddening nose with the tissue from his pocket, too embarrassed to blow.
“Let’s check just in case.”Ilya drops the hand from Shane’s face to pop the plastic cap off of the thermometer, shaking it. “You know how to do this part - open.”
Shane did as he was told, letting Ilya slip the thermometer under his tongue before the words really registered. Ilya saw the moment they did as Shane froze, eyes finally snapping up to meet Ilya’s. His eyes were the perfect deep brown they always were, gaze that familiar curious mix of anger and embarrassment and lust.
Ilya patted his cheek.
“Good boy. You always look pretty with something in your mouth,” Ilya purred. Even under the circumstances it was true. Shane looked unbearably lovely even in the midst of a cold - cheeks gently flushed, nose red and twitchy, freckles prominent. His brown eyes were ever so slightly glassy, much like they were when he was sex drunk and sated.
Ilya saw the moment Shane was about to open his mouth and yell at him a little, so he put a finger to the underside of Shane’s chin, firmly holding his jaw shut with the pad of his finger. Shane could have easily fought it, but his lips stayed sealed, bowing to the faintest pressure.
“Ah-ah. No talking. We need your temperature.” Ilya continued to look him directly in the eye, still holding his chin so Shane couldn’t tilt his head away. Shane’s face was flushed with embarrassment, but his eyes betrayed him. His pupils were blown wide, a longing look of lust seeping through the seams of his expression.
They both knew he didn’t have a fever but they played along anyway just for the sake of the game. Ilya was aware Shane knew he was just playing this shit up, but Shane let him anyways. He was malleable and perfect like he always was when Ilya laid it on this heavy.
Then suddenly, Shane’s eyes fluttered shut. Ilya thought that maybe he was lost in the pleasure of the moment, about to finally give in and reach out and take, but then his breath hitched.
Oh, Ilya thought.
Ilya caught Shane’s arm as he brought it up to rub at his nose, lowering it back down to his side. No touching unless I say so, it said. Shane’s eyes snapped open, still squinty and itchy, giving Ilya a questioning glare. The thermometer still poked out from between his pouting lips.
“Don’t sneeze. We will have to start all over. You can hold it back for me, lubimyy.”
The command landed as they always did. Shane shuddered, eyes squeezing shut again as his brows knitted in concentration, all confusion and frustration replaced by focus. He kept his mouth firmly shut, breathing slowly through his nose only to be interrupted by a hitch in his breath. He scrunched and wiggled his nose, chest rising and falling with each scissoring breath. Shane clenched his jaw, blinking furiously as irritated tears gathered at his lash line.
There was a second that Ilya thought Shane might loose it, teetering on the very edge of a sneeze - his chest swelled high and stayed there, eyebrows pinched upwards, head tilted back and giving Ilya a perfect view of damp, flaring nostrils.
But, after a few wavering moments, the urge passed. Shane blinked his eyes open slowly to meet Ilya’s, glassy and teary, still with the thermometer under his tongue. He shifted his weight, bulge now obvious in those grey sweatpants that always drove Ilya fucking insane. Ilya held Shane pinned with his gaze for a couple of long seconds before he leaned forward to whisper directly into Shane’s ear.
“Good.”
Shane let out the quietest shaky breath through his nose, eyes rolling up and slipping shut like one word alone was too arousing to handle. Ilya ran a feather-light touch over Shane’s clothed dick just to watch him shiver.
The thermometer, finally finished with its reading, beeped and flashed numbers on the small digital screen. Ilya stepped back and plucked it from Shane’s lips, not missing as Shane chased his touch with his hips, making a soft noise of protest.
“Ugh, fuck you,” Shane grumbled, sniffling and rubbing at his nose with the tissue from his pocket. Ilya was unsure which part of the last two minutes he was being cursed at for specifically.
To Ilya’s surprise, Shane did actually have a low-grade fever: 99.8. He flipped the instrument around to show his boyfriend the reading.
“You’re warm. Will be a fever later, maybe. We will keep an eye on it,” Ilya purred, setting the thermometer aside and cupping a hand to Shane’s cheek to feel the warmth there.
Shane was about to respond when his breath caught on a huge inhale, sudden and aggressive. He barely had time to bring up his elbow before he was sneezing harshly.
Shane stayed tucked into his elbow, panting and blinking away the moisture in his eyes. Ilya was a little bit shocked - he had never in his life heard Shane sneeze like that. It was fittish like how it was when he was aroused, but also heavy, harsh, and visibly uncontrollable. Shane’s head had jerked forward with each one, pulled down again and again with the force of the fit. He had to cough several times after like the congestion had shifted wrong and choked him.
Ilya quickly pulled a handful of tissues out of the new box and pressed them into Shane’s free hand. He quickly brought them up to his nose, still hiding in the crook of his arm.
“‘Scuse mbe, sorry. Thangk you.” Shane’s voice came out clogged and hoarse and once again, embarrassed. He avoided Ilya’s eyes as he cleaned up and tossed the evidence into the bathroom trash. He started to cough again and ducked back into the crook of his elbow. As if that would save Ilya from the germs he had already kissed right from Shane’s mouth.
The giveaway that Shane was still enjoying it all was the straining fabric of his sweatpants. Ilya was a little surprised at that - if anyone was a big enough horndog to want to fuck while unwell it was himself. But Shane still looked painfully riled up. Even despite the mess and the sore throat and the headache and the sneezing. If Ilya could have taken a guess before, he would’ve thought Shane would be uptight, overstimulated, and cranky when he was sick. But so far he’s turned out to be needy and panting and pliant, and Ilya is absolutely not complaining.
Shane was so turned on, and Ilya wanted to get him so desperate that Shane finally broke and went for it, took it with his own two hands for his own pleasure, his own want.
“Oh, lubimyy, you really don’t feel good do you? Bud'te zdorovy, I have never heard you sneeze like that before. My poor malysh. Someone needs to take care of you, yes?” Ilya brought his hands from Shane’s shoulders, sliding down to his hands, passing over the backs of them to rest on his hips where he rubbed slow, slow circles with his thumbs, arching ever closer to where Shane clearly wanted touch the most.
Shane’s breath caught as he shuddered. He didn’t speak, currently too overwhelmed for words.
Ilya wanted him to say it anyway.
“Yes? Is what you want?”
Shane nodded, eyes hazy.
“Tell me,” Ilya purred, thumbs still rubbing circles in the divots of his boyfriend’s hips.
“I wandt you to take care of mbe,” Shane said, voice hoarse and wavering, increasingly clogged with congestion. Ilya felt through the stretch of fabric under his fingers as Shane’s dick twitched.
It was then Ilya began to figure out where this heady, needy arousal of Shane’s was coming from.
“Yes? Because you’re feeling bad? Tell me why.”
Shane noded again, eager, waiting for Ilya to touch him, to kiss him, to do something.
“I… I wandt you to mbake mbe feel better. Mbake mbe forget. Take care of mbe. Please,” Shane said, voice wavering and nearing a whine. He was panting now, staring blatantly at Ilya’s mouth. His face was beautifully flushed, eyes wanting and glassy, expression so painfully longing that Ilya wished he could take a picture of this moment to have it forever. To sear into his memory.
Ilya, still holding him by the hips, leaned in and kissed Shane with an open mouth. Shane sighed into it, eyes fluttering shut as he tilted his head for best access to Ilya’s lips. Their noses brushed, and Ilya was surprised to find he didn’t mind the transfer of moisture that occurred as a result. Not when Shane was gasping into his mouth, unable to breathe through his nose but still desperate to kiss. It was like Shane was starving for it, for the feeling of Ilya’s tongue in his mouth, oxygen deprivation be damned. He was puffing breath into Ilya’s mouth, panting, yet still ravenous with his intensity.
When Ilya broke away to give him a fucking chance to breathe, Shane chased him with his mouth, making a low displeased noise in his throat. His eyes were dark and hungry, covered by a glassy, watery sheen.
“Fugck, Ilya, cobe on,” Shane whined, still short of breath, almost more worked up and desperate than Ilya had ever seen him. He sniffled thickly and ran a hand under his now-red nose, too distracted to care about how gross he usually found it and that tissues were literally within his reach. On top of all of that, he had a slight wobble to him like he was dizzy.
“You can’t breathe, milyy, you need to blow your nose,” Ilya replied, hands roaming up and down his boyfriend’s ribs.
Shane visibly reddened all the way down to his neck. If Ilya looked, it would probably be deliciously spread over his chest. In Ilya’s peripheral vision, he saw Shane’s dick twitch again. Proof that he was on the right track whether Shane would verbally tell him that or not.
Still making eye contact, Ilya reached over and drew a few tissues from the box. Shane reached for them but Ilya pulled back, making a tutting sound
“I am taking care of you, remember? This is for me to do.”
Shane visibly struggled for a second, embarrassment beginning to creep back in, but it was stopped by a furrow in his brow and a twitch of his nose. He hitched, expression tortured and itchy, gearing up for however many sneezes his body decided was enough to express his arousal. He loved Shane’s little fits. They were like music to his ears, visual and auditory proof that Ilya was turning him on just right.
“Hah- Ilyaahh, I-,”
Ilya reached out and cupped the tissues around his nose. Shane’s hands flew up to meet them, clamping Ilya’s hand firmly in place.
Shane sneezed harshly, over and over again, breath warm and damp against Ilya’s palm. The tissues flooded with warmth as the expulsions forced the congestion to shift and loosen and expel itself. He finished the fit with a noise between a groan and a whine, equal parts relief, mortification, and arousal.
“Bud'te zdorovy,” Ilya purred, pinching the mess away from Shane’s nose with one hand while the other plucked a few more tissues from the box. Shane’s hands slowly withdrew from his face as he let Ilya do the work, face beautifully flushed. Ilya was quick to tent the fresh tissues against Shane’s nose, holding them tightly in place. “Now blow.”
Shane for a second looked like he would protest, but something in Ilya’s expression stilled it. Instead he took a trembling inhale and blew, a couple hours worth of congestion flooding outward into the folds of the soft paper, warm against the pads of Ilya’s fingers. While Ilya clearly understood this was foreplay (Was it weird? Yes. Did he really give a shit? No.), it also felt sweetly intimate and trusting. Like a skittish kitten eating out of your hand. Or something. Maybe Shane just always reminded him of a kitten.
Ilya had him blow one more time before cleaning him up, murmuring sweet praise into his ear while he did so. Shane looked so fucking blissed out it was insane and Ilya wanted to swallow him whole.
Thankfully, it did seem like he could breathe a little better after blowing, which made Ilya feel better about accidentally suffocating his boyfriend during a makeout. Ilya nuzzled into Shane’s collarbone, gently teething on the skin there. Shane shivered and swayed, fingers tightening on Ilya’s shoulders as he moved in for another kiss.
“You should be lying down,” Ilya breathed into his mouth, kissing him and walking Shane out of the bathroom and towards the bed, pulling their shirts off as they went. Shane fell back on the bed once the back of his knees hit the edge of it, propped up on his elbows and looking up at Ilya through his lashes with dark, glassy eyes. He was breathing hard, chest heaving, and nose beautifully red.
Ilya went for the drawstring of his boyfriend’s sweats with fast, nimble fingers, tugging them down and off in a single practiced motion. Shane shivered as Ilya ran his fingers up his thighs and to the seam of his boxers, throwing his head back and exposing his neck.
“You have been so reactive to me. So tense, so nervous. But I can see that you like it. I told you, I can always tell when you want,” Ilya said lowly, leaning down to mouth at the skin of Shane’s inner thigh. Shane trembled, sighing, twisting the bedsheets with tight fists at his sides. “You just want someone to take care of you, yes? Fuck the cold out of you?”
The man beneath him groaned at that, dick twitching in his boxers. And the next moment Shane was sneezing again, gasping once and twisting to the side.
Ilya watched, mouth watering as his boyfriend’s abs contracted and released over and over. With the next breath he was begging, panting, sniffling thickly, pulling Ilya closer by hooking his heels around Ilya’s ass and tugging.
Ilya chuckled and kissed a line up Shane’s throat.
“Oh, I know that sound. So eager even when you don’t feel good.” Ilya pulled back to look Shane in the eye for a second, savoring the tension and want in his boyfriend’s gaze. His nose was running already, eyes dark, embarrassed flush blooming down his neck at the intense attention. He sniffled thickly then turned to cough into his wrist. Ilya ran his hands over Shane’s ribs. “My poor Shanya, you are so sick.”
Shane made a keening noise in his throat, reaching up and pulling Ilya down for the neck to mash their mouths together.
Soon enough Ilya had Shane on his back in the middle of the bed, the both of them naked, kissing a line down Shane’s body until he reached his groin, dick straining and untouched. Like the rest of him, it was flushed red. Precome gleamed at the tip. Ilya licked a slow, sensual stripe up his cock before swallowing it to the base in one smooth slide.
Shane moaned loudly and tried not to writhe, both hands balled into fists in Ilya’s hair. His voice was fully hoarse now, but that didn’t seem to be interfering with his need to be vocal. Ilya took the opportunity and reached up to put his fingers in Shane’s mouth. Shane groaned and sucked on the digits dutifully, coating them with saliva. Ilya focused back on the cock in his mouth, bobbing his head and laving his tongue along the underside of it, pausing to suck at the tip with each slide. He was startled out of his rhythm when Shane caught him by he wrist and tore Ilya’s fingers from his mouth, grip tight and desperate. But then he was gasping, twisting to the side and -
Shane’s dick thrusted into Ilya’s mouth with each sneeze, fingers tightening on Ilya’s wrist in time with the expulsions. Ilya stilled and relaxed his throat, feeling as the sneezes forced Shane to fuck forward into his throat again and again. Shane had never let Ilya do this before, too afraid of being rough and choking him. He had this irrational fear he’d make Ilya throw up... as if Shane could be rough enough cause anything other than a ghost of a gag. Ilya groaned at the sensation, eyes rolling back into his skull. Fuck this was hot. He couldn’t believe a cold is what got Shane to finally fuck his face.
He didn’t give Shane a chance to think about it too hard though, quickly taking his slicked fingers to work his boyfriend open at the conclusion of the fit. Shane was clearly in no mood to wait - as soon as Ilya’s fingers were inside him he was groaning and squirming and pulling at Ilya’s hair, murmuring fever-drunk pleas all the while.
Ilya was never one to say no to him.
Ilya pulled Shane closer by the thighs, reaching up and making sure his beautiful head was propped up by a pillow so he at least had a chance at breathing properly. He smoothed a hand down Shane’s chest and stomach, admiring. Shane looked so wrecked already and he had only had a few fingers in his ass. He appeared as though he had already gone a couple rounds, face red, hair a mess, body slick with sweat. Shane’s nose was glistening and he couldn’t go a handful of seconds without sniffing. Ilya put a few tissues to his nose for him to blow, then kissed his forehead.
Ilya slicked himself up with lube and pushed in slowly, giving time for Shane to adjust. He felt warmer than usual, hot muscle tight around Ilya’s cock. It felt so unbelievably good that he had to stop and breathe for a second one he was fully seated. He was glad he did because seconds later Shane was succumbing to another fit of sneezes, squeezing him tight over and over.
Shane usually had a fit right when Ilya bottomed out, but just how good and warm and tight his boyfriend’s ass was nearly made him forget. The spray fell cool on his overheated, sweat-slick skin.
Once he was able to access coherent thought again, Ilya said, “Bud'te zdorovy. So sneezy. Does your nose really like this?”
“Shitd,” Shane whispered, dropping his head back and clenching down on Ilya’s dick as he began to thrust. “Yes.”
Ilya pulled Shane’s legs up over his shoulders for a deeper angle, to which his boyfriend cried out. Ilya kept his pace steady and thorough, hands roaming and groping every bit of flesh they could find - his boyfriend’s stomach, his pecs, his thighs, his ass. Shane shivered underneath his touch, overwhelmed tears gathering in his eyes and rolling in fat drops down his cheeks. Every time Shane had to stop to cough or sniffle it seemed to push himself ever closer to the edge. He was moaning and slurring words in that beautiful congested voice of his.
Ilya was getting close. The feverish heat of him combined with just the sight of his lover was ruining him forever. Shane was a fucking mess - sweaty and fever flushed, lips dry and mess gleaming on his top lip as he’d stopped caring about appearances some time ago. His eyes were hazy, far-off and glassy, with tears leaking steadily over his cheekbones.
But Shane had to come first. This wasn’t about him.
Ilya kept his pace steady, bringing one hand down to wrap around Shane’s dick. Shane’s legs clenched around him. He groaned as Ilya thumbed at the precome-wet slit at the apex of each stroke. Shane was fuck-drunk and lost in it, brow pinched with pleasure, mouth open as he continued to lose his voice around the moaning and incoherent babbling for mbore, yes, blease, Ilya, righdt there.
Shane gasped, breath hitching and catching around his desperate panting, and Ilya knew he was close.
“Come for me, Shanya. I will take care of you, come for me, good boy, yes, fuck-“
Shane climaxed with a cry, squeezing Ilya tight with his cry. The come on his stomach was immediately joined by the spray of his desperate, aroused fit of sneezes.
Ilya wanted to keep going, wanted to fuck Shane through it, but Jesus fucking Christ the way Shane looked and sounded and clenched down on his cock with each sneeze was too much.
Quickly, he pulled out so Shane didn’t have to clean out, and was coming hard over Shane’s stomach with three quick stokes of his hand. Shane gasped, threw his head back, and snapped forward with another predictable fit. Ilya shuddered with pleasure as his dick was drenched in it.
Shane’s face was a mess. His nose was an irritated red, wetness spilling over his cupid’s bow and down his chin. But in the post-coital bliss he didn’t seem to care yet. He was boneless and panting, staring at the come on his stomach and chest with drowsy, leftover arousal. It was unbearably sexy when Ilya made Shane a mess, when he fucked him so good that he didn’t care about the sweat or the come or the spray. That he alone was able to have this, to see this, to make this happen. That he was able to get Shane so fucked out that he didn’t care if he sneezed all over himself or all over Ilya. He cherished the fact that he was the only one who knew how much Shane Hollander liked to be covered in come and sweat, disheveled and messy.
“Fuck,” Ilya breathed. It felt extremely well-spoken all things considered.
“Yeah,” Shane agreed, just as out of breath. “Fuck.”
Ilya sat back on his heels on the bed and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. “So,” he started. “You will catch a cold again soon, right?”
Shane burst into surprised, hoarse laughter and Ilya thought it was maybe the sweetest sound he had heard all day.
…
After Ilya had cleaned Shane up with a warm cloth and fed him a handful of various medicines from the discarded pile in the bathroom, he pulled Shane on top of him for a cuddle before he began to insist on a shower. Shane sounded a lot less congested after the sex and multiple rounds of blowing his nose. Ilya filed this away for later when he eventually caught this - oh Shane, a blowjob would make my nose feel better, don’t you think? But for the moment he was just content to hold his boyfriend and run a hand through his damp hair. His skin seemed to be more sensitive than usual so Ilya kept the pressure firm until Shane stopped squirming at every touch. He still had a bit of a cough and his voice was definitely going out, but Shane didn’t seem to be too bothered by it.
“So,” Ilya said, “Will we talk about this now or later?”
Shane groaned and turned red, burying his face between Ilya’s pecs.
“Never,” he groaned.
Ilya chuckled.
“Later, then. I have never seen you so worked up, lyubov.”
“This is so embarrassing,” Shane replied, still hiding his face.
Ilya rolled them over so they were both lying on their sides, nose to nose. Ilya kissed the freckles on his face, then his eyelids, then his nose until Shane was relaxed and giggling.
“Never. You are the hottest man alive and it isn’t fair you kept this kind of sex from me.”
Shane laughed. “It’s not like I meant to. This is like, our first time really together when I…” He gestured vaguely - he couldn’t get himself to finish the sentence.
“Have a cold? You are very sweet and needy when you’re sick, it’s very nice. I thought you would be a big asshole.”
“Hey!” Shane punched his arm. “I’m never an asshole. You’re the asshole.”
“Shane Hollander, that is a lie. You and me are the same amount of asshole,” Ilya said, grabbing Shane and rolling on top of him, trying to tickle his sides.
Shane groaned and tried to push him off. “Ew, Ilya, you’re so sweaty. We need to shower.”
“You did not care about this five minutes ago.”
“Well five minutes ago you had my dick in your hand. Things have changed.”
Ilya waggled his eyebrows, smirk pulling at his lips. “That can be arranged.”
ok, sooo I have been writing this one on and off since like february, as my lil self-indulgent background piece, and I thought it should finally see the light of day. it's very overtly snzkink s/hane, especially the second part, so if that's not your vibe, I would maybe skip these (lol skip). I wanted to play with the whole text based relationship thing, and I originally wrote out a lot more of i/lya's update texts but then cut them bc it was kinda tedious to read, by which I mean I actually fell asleep proofreading it. anywayyy, here's part one.
I hope you enjoy! ♡
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 5.1k
cw: sneezing, snz kink, general illness, mentions of contagion
Shane ran his thumb back and forth across the bottom of his phone, staring at Ilya's contact, debating calling. He had only a few minutes before he'd need to head into the arena for the game and he would really like his anxiety level by then to be about half of what it was now.
When they'd spoken last night, Ilya had mentioned having a pretty bad headache, half his face scrunched up against the dim light of the lamp he seemed to have turned on only to talk to Shane, two fingers rubbing incessantly at his temples. He'd been sniffly too, although he was almost always at least a little sniffly, and it hadn't taken either of them very long to connect the dots to a flu that was making the rounds in their conference, principally because of the fact that a good quarter of the Centaurs were currently out with it.
So the fact that Shane couldn't get him to reply to a text currently was more than a little worrying. The last three texts he'd sent- “Ilya. Ilyaa. ILYA.”- had been more than 30 minutes ago, and the blond hadn't so much as read them.
Shane glanced over his shoulder into the back of the car, checking he had everything he'd need this evening. Nope, clearly he didn't because there wasn't a gorgeous blond Russian man curled up asleep there. Not that he’d feel particularly good about leaving his probably sick boyfriend in the fucking car while he amused himself on the ice for a few hours. Which is what this game would be, amus-
The phone buzzing in his hand came as such a shock that he almost dropped it, head whipping back to the device to read the notification.
LILY: whatttttt
LILY: I am alive
He sighed in relief, double checking the time before typing out a quick response.
YOU: Ok good. Stay that way. I love you. Keep me updated on how you’re doing, please.
And then with a click, the phone was off, and he was hopping out of the car to grab his bags, the pre-game adrenaline already starting to flood into his system. Kit? Check. Boyfriend? Alive. Win? Incoming.
…
He didn’t get a chance to check his phone again until after warm-ups, having been the mostly unwilling mediator in a stupidly heated debate about if it would be better to be reincarnated as a hockey puck or a stick. These guys seriously had too many concussions under their belts.
Despite the extended departure from his phone, it hadn’t been that long, and Shane was borderline alarmed to find he had more text messages than his lock screen would provide a specific number for, having resorted to a simple “10+”.
He unlocked the device, scrolling through to see a plethora of short messages from Ilya.
LILY: i love you toooo
LILY: update- doing ok
LILY: update- still doing ok
LILY: update- drinking water
LILY: update-lost fucking tv remotw
LILY: update- found
And so on. For over 30 messages. Some of them Shane couldn’t decipher however, either due to misspellings or Romanized versions of Russian words that he couldn’t quite translate. One however, appeared many times over.
LILY: update- chikh
LILY: update- stolko chikhhhh
Shane frowned.
YOU: I’m glad you’re okay. What is ‘chikh’?
Ilya read the text immediately.
LILY: timing is crazy. you are psychic?
LILY: is like spxhhi
What the fuck did that mean?
“Hollander! He’s making the stupid tape point again, you gotta come tell him he’s wrong!” Fuck.
With an anxious glance back to the still bouncing ‘typing’ bubbles, Shane tossed his phone back into his stall and returned to his captain duties.
…
He hadn’t had a spare second to consider what the last messages had meant in the whole of the first period, their opponents coming out strong and not letting up the entire time. A stupid fight had left them shorthanded, and Shane was so focused on not letting the disadvantage tip the score, that he’d forgotten all about his boyfriend’s ‘condition’ until he was lining up for a face off, flying high off the relief of a goal.
His stick clicked against the ice, and he kept his eyes down, uninterested in meeting the opposing center’s fiery hot gaze. Before the puck could drop, he heard Hayden, off to his left, say, “The fuck are you doing, dude?”, and then a sound that snapped his attention across to the wing.
“hEh…Kkf- hUhTNGKk! hhUh…hHTNGXhoo!”
It seemed that the illness that had the Centaurs flat on their backs was also running rife through the Raiders. So it would have gotten Ilya even if he hadn’t move- Oh, fuck, Ilya! He was watching, probably, although how much of the actual game he was taking in with the distraction of his symptoms was anyone’s guess. And the symptoms themselves, echoing through his empty house, no one to acknowledge them, acknowledge him… it was a tragic mental image. Or at least that was what he was forcing himself to think. Because he’d give anything to be a fly on the wall in that house right about-
Head still tilted to the left, eyes distant, stick hovering nowhere particularly useful, Shane, unsurprisingly lost the face-off. Fucking-
He turned fast, sharp, anger and embarrassment creating a flush high on his cheeks, ready to give chase. Thankfully, the defense had closed ranks behind him, and, with their right winger still flagging, Boston had lost possession.
After thirty seconds of what was essentially just keep-away, and Shane glaring hard at the puck, and the players around him, and trying to stay focused, he was heading back to the bench, turning to Hayden as they sat down, seeing the frown on the winger’s face.
“Sorry.” He muttered.
“Huh?” Pike looked like he’d been pulled from deep thought, “For what?”
“I fucked up the puck drop.” He confessed, shocked that the alternate captain hadn’t already picked him up on it.
Hayden reached for the nearest bottle, skying the liquid into his mouth as he stared absently at the jumbotron, swallowing before responding, “It’s no big deal, we can’t win ‘em all, right?”
“…right.” He doubted that he’d take the same attitude to the game itself, so he needed to get it together. They all did. For the love of fuck, Coach had better yell some sense into them at intermission, or they’d be losing to a team of invalids who would probably pass along this flu for their trouble.
…
Trudging into the locker room at what barely remained a 1-1 draw, Shane felt his heart rate pick up, knowing he’d get to answer those questions that had been building up in his mind ever since he’d lost half his focus to his boyfriend just over halfway through the period. Nowhere near the ice and still stealing his attention. Remind him not to tell Ilya that when he saw him.
“He literally sneezed like, right in my face, I mean, can you believe that?” Hayden was still complaining as they made it to their stalls.
“Yeah- or, no, that’s wild.” The captain was more focused on retrieving his phone and checking for updates, stripping off the unnecessary layers one handed as he unlocked it.
“I think that counts as biological warfare, for real. I hate that dude. I think I’m starting to get the way you feel about Rozanov.”
“What?” He looked up, having been just about to click on the aforementioned player’s contact when his name was voiced.
Pike looked slightly taken aback by the speed with which he’d met his eyes. Well, he wasn’t exactly known for his love of eye contact at the best of times. He actually couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked into Hayden’s. “I’m just saying, who does that? Like yeah, he looked really pathetic about it afterwards, but like, cover your face, man. I almost feel sorry for him, but instead it’s just like pure…hatred.”
“Yeah.” You keep telling yourself that, buddy.
As Hayden considered his ‘hate’ for the opposing winger more quietly, Shane finally opened the message thread, and started back up where he’d left off.
LILY: I type wrong
LILY: still chikh
LILY: can not see
LILY: *apchhi
LILY: apchhi! apchhi! you know?
LILY: you know bc I do all fucking summer
Shane’s eyes went wide.
“You okay, man?” Hayden nudged him, lightly, but Shane almost dropped his phone all the same.
“Yeah, I- sorry, I have to take a call.” He headed out into the hallway, eyes skimming back over the messages. No way Ilya was…live texting him his fucking sneezes?
…
It had taken him a good minute to get his breathing under control enough to hit call on the contact and even as it rang, he found himself leaning back against the wall of the corridor to try and stop his head from spinning.
“Hello?” Ilya’s voice was destroyed, so muffled and broken that it sounded like the phone line was bad. Which it wasn’t because he could hear the TV playing commercials in perfect clarity in the background.
“Hi. I uh, just finished the first period.” He knows that, dumbass, he’s watching the game.
“I know.”
“Some of the stuff you were saying, I couldn’t understand it, so I just wanted to call and check you’re okay.”
“I am good. What couldn’t you understand?” He broke off to cough throatily away from the receiver.
“The um-” It was slightly easier, saying it in a different language, if he was saying what he thought he was saying, that was. “-the ‘chick’ thing?”
“Oh, chikh. I explain already, Shane, is like- wait. I will do for you.”
He would fucking WHAT?
There was a snorting sound on the other end of the line, and then some kind of soft tapping noise. Shane waited silently, breath baited.
“hH-here I go-hKk! Kkh! hHKSH! KKh! hKSHuH! hrRSH! HRSHH! hhAHSHhOo!”
“Bless you.” He whispered, pressing his back against the wall in the corridor as though he could disappear into it, stomach flipping so intensely he worried it would get caught in his ribs somehow. Why did the idea of Ilya doing…that… on purpose make him feel like he was about to pass out?
“Thank you. How you not understand, though? I spell it out and everything.”
“You said ‘apchi’. That’s not a sneeze.” He hissed. If he framed it like an argument, he could ignore the words coming out of his mouth, right?
“What is it in English then?” Ilya sounded less than bothered, vaguely interested but also like his real focus was elsewhere.
Shane clenched his jaw, heartbeat thudding in his ears at the thought of having to verbalise the stupid sound, “It’s like… it’s like ‘achoo’.” He wished for the ground to open up and swallow him.
“What? Who the fuck says ‘a-choo’? That’s stupid.”
“You literally did five seconds ago.”
“No, I didn’t.” He paused, evidently playing back the sounds he’d just made, in his head before conceding. “Is because I spend so long listening to idiot Americans and Canadians doing this, now I sound like idiot too.”
“Fuck off.” Shane pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to get his thoughts and his heartbeat and his dick under control. The idea of the sound of a sneeze being contagious… he could only hope Ilya hadn’t caught that strangled sounding thing that he’d just heard from their winger. “I have to go now.”
“Okay, I keep you updated.” There was a clear smile in his tone, and it did nothing to help the snowballing panic that was overwhelming the Canadian. Ilya was taking over his fucking brain, and he needed that to play. Not everyone did, clearly, but for him hockey was a mind game, which kind of necessitated showing up with your mind there in your skull and not over a hundred kilometres away with its metaphorical dick out, laser focused on your secret, sickly, so so sexy, boyfriend.
He’d walked about five steps down the corridor when his ringtone rang out again.
LILY: update- finish tissue box
Oh, god, this was actually going to be the death of him.
…
During one of the previous flu outbreaks in the league, the Metros had started a policy where they’d take all the players temperatures before they hit the ice; warmup, first period, second, third, like clockwork, and Shane was exceedingly glad that they weren’t doing that now- not that they’d ever actually scratched anyone based on the results- because he was full of a fire that was part anger part lust, and that had beads of sweat rolling down his face before he even had his gear all the way back on.
He considered the feeling while benched between shifts, the furnace-like heat in his chest, making every breath feel hot enough to start melting the ice- he was almost sure he could feel his mouthguard turning soft and pliable between his teeth- and then that tightening feeling slightly higher up than the fire, like a rope being pulled taught, like at the slightest slash of a blade, it would snap. And he wasn’t sure what snapping would involve, but it would almost definitely end with him in the penalty box or back in the dressing room, regretting the entire night.
On autopilot, he stood as the receding line approached the bench, vaulting the boards and hunting down the puck, focused, ruthless, ready. He took possession, finding Pike and passing to free himself of the three Raiders who’d immediately descended upon him the second his skates hit the ice- clearly their intermission speech had involved the instruction ‘stay on Hollander’- trying to find space to receive it back.
Before he could make the pass, Hayden disappeared into a sea of white and gold as the puck got trapped against the boards. Shane joined the mass of players, trying to get eyes on the puck, and his winger, whom he couldn’t actually see among the taller Raider players.
Normally he’d leave this stupidity to happen on the other side of the ice, while he found a nice open area, ready to receive or intercept depending on who came out in possession, but right now he could not be left alone with his thoughts for the amount of time that that might take. So here he was.
His thoughts, as he realised belatedly, one weak swipe in the puck’s direction in, did not wait politely outside of the huddle, they clung to him with sharp, spiteful grips, and at the slightest invitation, would most certainly be taking back over his mind. He was surrounded by Raiders, and, right as the group shifted, and his balance was thrown, pressing him against the player to his left, said player sniffled pretty urgently and muttered a curse word in what definitely sounded like Russian. And even though he knew it wasn’t Ilya, and he could have turned to stare into the idiot’s face to confirm that, had he so wished, he froze, a shiver running down his spine, mouth going dry and gaze going distant as his mind ran away with him for a moment- Ilya draped over his back like a blanket, sniffling in his ear while he made lunch for the two of them, Ilya trying to speak through his typical early morning fit and cursing his nose out as it interrupted him, Ilya pressed against him in a hotel elevator, heat radiating off of him as he breathed noisily through his mouth, accent tinting each exhale-
The puck was freed. The puck had been freed somewhere close to four full seconds ago, and here Shane still was, staring at his own reflection in the glass, seeing someone entirely different. Once again cursing his own imagination, and his lack of concept of time passing, he spun, barely a millisecond behind the player ahead of him, but several crucial seconds behind the one in possession, opting to sprint rather than bother to push off and try to pick up speed, making it out to center ice just in time to see the flash of a stick and the crack of impact and then be promptly deafened by the goal horn. Fucking great work.
Shane never noticed it before, but the sound effect that played in the Metro’s arena when the opposing team scored had this ‘ding’ to it that kind of sounded like a phone notification. Like his phone notification. And as he was skating back to the bench, face blank, head down, all he was thinking about was his phone lighting up over and over in his bag in the locker room with notifications of every single development in his boyfriend’s illness. Every cough, every noseblow, every sneeze. He felt like he was visibly flinching every time the sound repeated, because it was definitely making his heart skip a beat each time. How quickly was it possible to become conditioned by a noise? He was pretty sure he had either just broken a record or at the very least tied that dog with the fucking bell. At least the dog actually got its food, while he was just imagining the reward- there was definitely something seriously wrong with getting gratification from your boyfriend’s flu symptoms right?
“Hey, game’s not over yet.” JJ clapped him on the back as he passed by.
In lieu of responding ‘get your fucking hands off me, I’m too fucking riled up to deal with this shit’. Shane nodded silently, following him through the door and slumping down on the bench, pretending not to notice how that impact felt as it jarred through him.
The jumbotron, which he’d glanced up at as a distraction, kindly displayed a shot of the opposing bench, players grinning and banging their sticks against the boards, and on the edge of frame, a player with his head down, apparently emptying his sinuses into a towel, glancing up, massaging his nose, and flushing when he saw himself on the screen.
Shane swallowed dryly, gratefully accepting the water bottle as it came his way and taking several gulps as though it would cleanse him of the endless temptation towards distraction that this game had apparently decided to present.
…
Period two had stayed 2-1, both teams starting to flag slightly, the Raiders, it seemed, out of pure exhaustion, and the Metros falling apart as their first line went to pieces for no apparent reason. Shane had made his way back to the locker room with his head down, not even attempting to offer the rest of the team any words of encouragement, because deep down, he knew he was the problem. Or, one of them at least. Pike was inexplicably all over the place, too, missing passes, and almost falling face first over the boards as he hopped over for one shift, not to mention the attempt to pull Drapeau that had seen the goaltender head halfway to the bench and then immediately have to sprint- or as close as he could get to it- back to the crease to field away a shot.
Shane, against his better instincts, dropped down into his stall and unlocked his phone. Maybe if he could just check what Ilya had said, he wouldn’t spend the entire time thinking about it, right? He’d know for sure, and then he could stop imagining things.
The latest two (or really three) messages, though, stopped him in his tracks.
LILY: Voice message. 00:41
LILY: did not mean send that 🫵
LILY: *👍
What the fuck could be in this voice note? Oh, this was a hundred times worse than just not knowing what the texts said. He wasn’t about to pull out his headphones and listen to what very well might be actual fucking audio porn in the middle of the damn locker room. But there was… another option…
Unconsciously gritting his teeth as though the button had a fifty-fifty chance of exploding the entire planet, Shane clicked ‘view transcription’.
0:05 stop
0:08 [Music]
0:13 harsh
0:14 [Music]
0:15 fight it
0:16 his shoe
0:22 oh wait
0:24 Shane
0:25 I do not mean to do this
0:27 what the fuck is
0:32 okay I don’t know what it is doing
0:34 how do I delete
0:36 ha I send you this as update
0:39 so you know what I am doing
0:41 okay love you miss you bye
An accidental voice note, then, so it wouldn’t necessarily be too…salacious. But his eyes were drawn to the notation at 16 seconds, reading it over and over in his mind, considering how it sounded…
“Hollz.” The voice in his ear was unexpectedly quiet, and he looked up into Hayden’s wide, focused eyes. “Is everything alright?”
“Uh-” Shane struggled to adjust to the conversation, feeling like the untoward thoughts in his brain were visible in his eyes, audible at the close distance, obvious to anyone who even glanced his way. But no one knew. No one knew what this was. What he was. “-yeah.”
“You sure, bud? You look pretty stricken there, and you have every time you’ve touched your phone tonight. Is someone in your family sick or something?”
What a fucking question Hay’. Yeah, he considered Ilya a part of his family now, even if it wasn’t something that he could really declare to anyone beyond the man himself, and his own parents, and yes he was sick, but… “It’s kinda complicated.”
“Okay, well you know, if there’s anything you need, or you wanna talk about it…”
“Thanks.” He was standing before he’d even really processed the desire to leave. “I’ll be back.”
Hayden nodded, with this disquieting look of ‘understanding’ on his face. Shane grabbed his headphones from his bag and walked quickly towards the door. He’d made it a single step into the corridor when he heard JJ’s voice from behind him,
“Where the fuck is the capitaine running off to again? We are falling apart here, people!”
And Pike’s response, “Shut the fuck up Boiziau.”
…
Shane was fumbling the earbuds into his ears before he’d even shut the door of the bathroom stall, fingers hovering over the play button the moment he’d realised he was alone, breath coming in embarrassingly urgent little puffs as the various combatant feelings within him swelled to a crescendo, heart thumping so loudly in his ears he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear whatever this turned out to be.
He slammed the bolt across, leaning against the wall and not even bothering to try and calm himself down this time- he had like no time at all before he’d have to be back out there, and he needed every single second of that time for calming himself down AFTER he’d listened to it.
With a final strangled-sounding attempt at a deep breath, his thumb came down on the screen and his ears were filled with static. And then-
“hKk! Kkh! KSH!” Oh this was exactly what he’d hoped and dreaded it would be.
“Stop.” Ilya pleaded with, apparently himself, in the recording, to no avail, “hKSH! KSHH! hhih… hKSH! hh… hhAHSHh! KSH! KXSH! hRSHH! Khvatit. Ple-hihh… hhIHSHOo!”
Shane shuddered, the sweat-drenched material of his compression shirt sticking to the tiled wall he was leaning against, almost holding him up. Ilya panted, loud and unrestrained in his ears, catching his breath. The Canadian shut his eyes, imagined the blond’s head pressed against his chest as he recovered, pressed his hand there just to make it feel a tiny bit more real.
“Oh, wait.”
He let his hand drop again, pressing his damp palm against the cool tile, trying to regulate his body temperature a little.
“Shane?”
The brunet pretended that his heart hadn’t just ejected itself from his chest to sit disobediently in his mouth, leaving an aching, unappeasable pit of desire in its place, at the sound of his name. God, he couldn’t last another second without him, right now. He couldn’t play without him, couldn’t live without him, couldn’t- apparently he couldn’t stand without him either, as his legs crumpled beneath him and he fell to his knees on the floor, eyes opening to stare up into that unyielding gaze, that stony expression that so poorly hid his boyfriend’s adoration for him now that he’d seen it fall so many times, that face, of the man he loved. And he saw only ceiling tiles, harsh lighting, the cold empty walls of the room he’d locked himself in to let down walls of his own. The prison of his own making.
“I do not mean to do this.” Ilya inadvertently apologised for the false hope the audio had given his boyfriend, brow somehow audibly furrowed as his voice got closer to the phone.
“What the fuck is-?” He was silent for a moment and then, “Okay, I don’t know what it is doing. How do I delete?”
More silence, and then, in stark contrast, giggling. “I send you this as update-” He broke off laughing again, the sound wheezing faintly in his chest as he struggled for breath, “-so you know what I am doing.” His voice was playful, but there was nothing lucid about it.
“Okayyy.” Ilya stretched the word out long, like they were on the phone and he didn’t want to be the one to hang up. Shane told himself that the sheen over his eyes was from staring into the ceiling lights, and blinked it away. “Loveyoumissyoubye!” He half-yelled, all as one word, and then there was a slight popping sound and the audio came to an end.
Shane took a shaky breath in, checked how much time he had left, and started to respond.
YOU: Bless you. The voice note was cute, even if it was an accident.
YOU: Do you know if you have a fever?
And then he typed, and promptly deleted, ‘I want to leave the arena right now and drive straight to Ottawa. I want to fucking hold you, I want to fucking fuck you, I want to devour you.’ He swallowed, watching the letters disappear again. No, there was definitely a less aggressive way to say that.
YOU: I love and miss you too.
…
The next hour had passed so quickly, he wasn’t sure it had happened at all, a blur of adrenaline and ice and yelling, and drinking unthinkable amounts of electrolytes as though that would help the time pass quicker, and staring at the clock, and scoring- nice- and then back to a blur again.
Shane took his post game interview- shot from the collarbones up essentially- rhythmically clenching his gloved hands into fists and then flexing them all the way out again, out of sight of the camera, while he gave some pointless answers that really could have been supplied by any of the other players’ kids just as well as they were by the captain.
“What the fuck did he ask you?” Pike had called after him as he’d walked in, already half stripped down, sorted his gear from his jersey and his compression clothes at an eyebrow raising speed- or so he gathered from the look on the winger’s face as he turned- and headed straight for the showers.
“The usual shit!” He’d yelled back, clearly not answering the underlying question- ‘why are you so pissed off?’ and throwing himself under the nearest free jet of water.
Having deftly dodged all other responsibilities for the night, he was now speedwalking out of the building, and navigating to Ilya’s contact, heart rate picking up again at the realisation that he’d made it, he was free from the purgatory of a game that he really should have been enjoying, and now he was-
“H’lo?”
“I’m coming to see you.” He delivered the words forcefully, no room for argument.
“Bless you.” This response was softer, spoken more closely to the receiver, and his fast pace across the parking lot faltered too, mental resolve weakened by the audio display of weakened physical resolve he’d been presented with.
“Thank you.” A thud.
“Are you okay?”
Ilya moaned. “Remote fell. I think I sleep through end of game.”
“Did I wake you?” He was fumbling for his keys, trying to force himself to visualise the inside of his bag pockets rather than the sweet, sleepy expression that was probably gracing his boyfriend’s face right now.
“Yeah.” The Russian’s voice broke on the single word, and he broke off coughing, not moving away from the phone, though Shane could hear him shifting his position on the couch.
He finally managed to find his keys and unlocked the car, jogging the final few steps, opening the back passenger side door and shoving his bag in before slamming it shut again and rounding the vehicle towards the driver’s side like he was trying to outrun a hoard of zombies. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to let you know I was on my way.”
“’S good.” The blond was whispering now, whether because his throat hurt, his voice was gone entirely, or he was simply too tired to make any effort to speak louder, Shane couldn’t discern. “I look forward to meeting you.”
“What?” When he was really out of it, but still coherent enough to retain some English, he’d noticed that his boyfriend seemed to revert to textbook phrasing, sentences he’d probably had drilled in before anything else, and they’d stuck. That was his theory for the overly formal blessing habit, too. And he wouldn’t change that for the world, no matter what it did to him.
“Love you.” Ilya continued, “Have a driving license.” From the tone he could only assume he meant something along the lines of ‘have a safe drive’ , but the first collocation that had come to mind for ‘driving’ was ‘license’. The man really was full of linguistic phenomena.
“L-” He began to reply, only to be abruptly cut off.
“hKk! KKh! hKSH! Kkh! hKSHUh! hKSHooh!” Cutee, why was there no ‘record’ button on phone calls for moments like this? He could have gotten weeks of teasing out of this clip, and months of… other amusement. “hhiHKSHh! KSHUh! huAHSXHh-ugh.”
“Bless you.” He winced slightly at the sound of that last one, “Love you. See you later.”
“Loooove you.” Ilya coughed, what sounded like the start of a whole fit, but put the phone down before he could hear it get to that point.
Ah, yes, also he was very much full of the flu. Linguistic phenomena, adoration for Shane, apparently, and the flu, that was most of what made up Ilya Rozanov right now. And his boyfriend, though it made his gut twist with guilt, couldn’t imagine a better combination.
Armand having trauma over being unwell and he's so wet and pathetic about it that Daniel has to be sweet and gentle to him. Like, he's trembling with his eyes all big, saying shit like "I know it is probably unfathomable to you, Daniel, that an illness would unmoore me so. Such an inconsequential existence, the virus that has invaded me body and soul. I would... understand if you no longer find any worth in me."
And Daniel is like "christ" cause it's the smallest of sniffles and they've been through this like three times already during cold and flu season. But Daniel still sighs and pulls Armand to him and holds him and rubs his back and mutters about maybe vetting the blood a little better.
NSFW this is a honeymoon rhinitis fic, so it mostly centers around sexual pleasure. sh/ane receives a blow job ~ if that's not something you enjoy reading, this might not be the fic for you! 1.3k words!
thank you @stifledfreek for beta reading!! grammar has never been my friend, and your advice made the fic read much smoother :3 (also thank you to others who offered to read, i really appreciate it!)
Being Captain, in any capacity, carries a weight that no one truly understands until they experience it firsthand. Leading a team to victory or consoling them during a loss falls to one person—one singular stronghold who faces expectations that can, at times, feel impossible. For the Metros, Shane is that stronghold.
Since his rookie years, he was understood to have the highest hockey IQ of any players, old or new. His talent was unquestionable, as was his work ethic, so he rose in rank until he led the team he had once admired from afar. He did everything right, to the point of obsession. He was in charge on the ice, in brand deals and interviews, in planning sessions and practices that ran overtime because he needed to iron out a few tricks until his team played flawlessly.
He was, and is, a perfect captain. He knows how to be in charge, how to assert himself on the ice in ways he couldn’t imagine doing otherwise. He is not, however, in charge in the bedroom. Ilya makes sure Shane knows that, tonight especially.
The Metros had beat the Raiders 3:2 that afternoon; Shane perfectly executed a goal in the last few minutes of the game, raising the crowd into a cacophony of elated cheers. When he shook Ilya’s hand afterwards, the Russian whispered, “1023,” and with that, Shane’s captaincy was relinquished.
Now, in the privacy of the hotel, Shane listens to Ilya’s body without question; each push of his fingers or flick of his tongue is followed by sighs of pleasure, sounds of affirmation that Shane barely recognizes as his own. They’re low, drawn out, and intermixed with whispered, nonsensical praise. Sometimes it’s Ilya’s name, purred so sweet it makes him shiver. Other times, French and English pour from Shane’s mouth in a cascade of nothings, “oui, just like that, mon amour, please.” It isn’t a conscious decision, isn't performative like others Ilya had slept with. It’s pure, unadulterated desire.
It’s addicting to see Shane slip into such a pleasurable state that his mind shuts off, his tongue speaking in a manner that he would otherwise be embarrassed by. When Ilya takes Shane apart, as he does tonight, all of Shane melts into something sweet, obedient—into loveliness.
The most consistent marker of his pleasure begins with moans splintering into quick, sharp breaths. Shane’s chest expands with soft hitches, as if he’s winding up in anticipation for release. He’s then interrupted with staccato breaths, mouth falling agape and disrupting the kisses he presses to Ilya’s skin mindlessly.
In the beginning, Shane would turn away from Ilya and shield himself from view to the best of his ability—whether he cupped a hand over his face or pulled away entirely was determined by how quickly the fits came on. Sometimes, he would take his nose between thumb and forefinger and pinch until the sneezes were squashed into submission, unnecessarily quiet.
Ilya would bless him. In Russian first, and then English. Typically, a few niceties followed (“thank you, sorry, excuse me”) before Shane would let Ilya kiss him again. When Shane was especially embarrassed, Ilya would coax Shane’s hands away from his face and kiss both palms despite their dampness. Later, when the two of them would lay undone beside one another, Ilya might tease him (“So, you let me swallow your spit and your cum, but I cannot kiss you after sneezing? Is too much?”) and Shane would blush, call Ilya an idiot, and kiss him again.
If they were rushed for time, Ilya worked efficiently, using Shane’s fits at a cue for which position he liked best that night. The fits became useful to him—they were praise of his skill, and they spurred him on, assuring him that Shane was close to release.
Tonight, however, Ilya takes his time. He lets Shane devolve into sweet whispered nothings, kissing up and down his thighs before taking him in his mouth. Slowly, he undoes Shane’s carefully crafted captaincy. He allows Shane to tug at his hair and buck his hips upwards, rewarding his eagerness with the timely flick of his tongue.
When Shane’s moans first catch—splintering into a trembling breath that falls short of a full hitch—Ilya hums his praise, and the sensation sends a shiver down Shane’s spine. His breath stacks atop itself again, building into a quiet crescendo, “hh—hih—,” and succumbing to nothing more than a breathy moan.
Tease, Ilya thinks; if his mouth wasn’t preoccupied, he would have called Shane a tease himself. Those carefully restrained breaths are enough to make Ilya work more quickly. After years of experience, Ilya knows exactly how to make Shane come, be it with his hands, mouth, or cock.
It takes less than a minute for Shane’s breath to stutter again, this time more urgently than the first. The hand he had tangled in Ilya’s hair is suddenly raised to his face, just barely managing to cover the first of many soft sneezes: “idt’sSch!” It hisses out between his teeth, damp but light. Unlike his typical routine, he suffers through no anticipation for the second sneeze.
“hh’itsschh!-hsch!-itSChh!”
Shane’s body shudders with each expulsion, his torso clenching and his legs trembling as Ilya hums his praise once more.
Ilya’s hands work their way up Shane’s abdomen, squeezing and pinching wherever they please. His right hand settles over Shane’s pec, and he presses his fingers into the muscle. He works his tongue down Shane’s shaft once more, pulling back as he does so—a moment later, he lets his head bob down as he takes Shane fully again.
“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane moans. He places a hand over Ilya’s, grappling for some sort of capital. He can feel heat pulsing through his body, rippling beneath his skin as Ilya works to please him. The thought alone of the Russian working so carefully to unravel him is enough to make his hips buck up once more. Ilya retaliates, squeezing his pec and quickening his pace.
“Fuck…. fuck— Ilya!” Shane's head falls back, hitting the pillow with a soft thump as he writhes. The pleasure seeps bone deep, easing the tension that has sat heavy in his stomach since the last time he had seen his rival. Warmth replaces the knot of anxieties, spurting out as he whispers delirious praise. Ilya swallows and pulls away with a lewd pop!
Shane finds that the warmth has shifted from his abdomen to his nose—the pulsing thrum is now a buzz, deep seated and demanding release. His lashes flutter shut, eyes brimming with tears that refuse to fall, instead leaving his eyes glassy. Freckles crowd one another as his nose scrunches, and suddenly he’s curling a fist beneath the appendage. It presses to his septum, stopping a sneeze in its tracks for just a moment, and then a fit spills out in retaliation: “hng’SHxt!—ngSCh—hssch! h’sSchh’ew!”
“Bud’te zdorovy.” Ilya rests his chin on Shane’s thigh, peering up at him, “Just four?”
“Shut up.” Shane’s cheeks flush, and he reaches for a tissue from the nearby box; Ilya had made sure there was a box on the nightstand before Shane had come over that evening. He likes to watch when Shane falls into his typical post-sex routine: folding the tissue politely once, twice, and then tenting over his nose and wiping gently.
“And the four before.” Ilya hums in observation. “In fours today.”
Ilya’s hands once again roam over Shane’s body. One skirts down his side, collecting dampness from Shane’s sheen of sweat. It settles just above Shane’s hip, and Ilya can’t help but give his side a squeeze.
Shane jerks in reaction, his body sensitive, every sensation heightened in the wake of his pleasure. He doesn’t oppose the touch, though. He watches Ilya’s hand move to his thigh next. Another squeeze, this time followed by a slight tremble from Shane.
“Maybe,” Ilya purrs, not taking his eyes off Shane, “I can make it five.”
Ilya: There is nothing to do in Denver, so good we made it a long game
The reply is almost instant.
Jane: I think Denver is ok.
Ilya’s response almost writes itself. Of course Hollander thinks Denver is “ok” because it’s boring like him. Come on, Hollander, you are giving me an empty net. But then Ilya pauses. The speed of the replies means that Shane is somewhere awake with his phone. But it’s 11:30pm in Denver, which means that it’s 1:30am in Montreal. Way past good boy Shane Hollander’s bedtime.
Ilya: You are up late
Jane: Can’t sleep.
A/N: I've merged book and tv show canon as I've found them the most useful here. The only thing to note, if you care, is that the book leaves an ambiguous number of weeks between the phone calls from Moscow and the Raiders/Metros game in which Shane gets injured, whereas in the show Ilya comes back from Moscow and immediately goes to Montreal: this fic follows the book timeline. Also in the book, Ilya is convincing himself he needs to break up with Shane at this point. On the other hand, I like Shane asking Ilya to come to the cottage when he's in his hospital bed, so (unlike the book) that conversation hasn't happened yet. This is way too much detail for a kink!fic, I know.
Huge, huge thanks to @pyronomous for beta reading and catching my many, many typos and pointing out where my references got obtuse. Any mistakes that remain are my own.
Ilya rolls his eyes. The game shouldn’t have gotten anywhere near overtime, let alone beyond it. Colorado were six games without a win going in, and their starting goalie was out. Boston should have wrapped it up easily, but something wasn’t working tonight. Nothing was wrong, but nothing was especially right either. Perhaps it was just that this was the second of their back-to-back away games at the end of a ten day road trip – and fuck whoever scheduled that – so the whole team was exhausted, but the Raiders’ plays failed to connect as often as they succeeded. Marleau and Hammersmith never seemed to be quite where Ilya needed them to be; they’d probably have had the same gripe about him.
Jane: Just watched the highlights of your game with Colorado. Good job in the shootout.
So yeah, Ilya did do a good job in the shootout, but only after playing the kind of game that his father would have had some choice words about, once upon a time. Mediocre. Second-rate. Lazy.
Still, he doesn’t have to worry about that anymore.
Ilya: There is nothing to do in Denver, so good we made it a long game
The reply is almost instant.
Jane: I think Denver is ok.
Ilya’s response almost writes itself. Of course Hollander thinks Denver is “ok” because it’s boring like him. Come on, Hollander, you are giving me an empty net. But then Ilya pauses. The speed of the replies means that Shane is somewhere awake with his phone. But it’s 11:30pm in Denver, which means that it’s 1:30am in Montreal. Way past good boy Shane Hollander’s bedtime.
Ilya: You are up late
Jane: Can’t sleep.
There are a hundred ways for Ilya to reply to this. Someone keeping you up? So what else are you doing in your bed, all alone? But his fingers are typing without him really telling them what to do, which almost never happens when he messages in English because he still has to think so fucking stupidly hard about every sentence. Now, however, his body seems to have bypassed his brain: his text back is an automatic nervous response that he can’t fully control.
Ilya: Everything ok?
For a few moments, nothing appears on the screen. But Shane must have his phone in his hand – he’d been so quick to reply to every other message. So he’s thinking about what he’s going to say. Well, ok. Actually talking to each other is still a pretty new thing. Ilya can be patient.
The dots appear, then disappear. They flicker on and off again a few times. Then, the message suddenly arrives.
Jane: I’m sick. I think I can tell you that since we’re not playing for another two weeks.
Even as Ilya is reading the message, the dots dance again.
Jane: Don’t tell anyone. I got sent home from practice and told to stay home and not let anyone see me, in case Pittsburgh finds out.
For fuck’s sake, Hollander. Who would he tell? And how would he explain knowing this very specific bit of information about Shane Hollander’s immune system? Ilya grins, as his thumbs tap out a response.
Ilya: Too late. I already tweeted that you are texting me from your bathroom floor. But I will cancel the Instagram post I scheduled.
Jane: Ha ha. Very funny.
Jane: But not that kind of sick. I just have a cold.
He has a cold. He just has a cold. How strangely intimate that Ilya knows this. It’s the kind of mundane detail that he always wants to know about Hollander, like the colour of his bedsheets, or how he takes his coffee, or whether he got stuck in traffic on the way home that day. The kind of knowledge that most people have about the person that they’ve been fucking for years – all right, the person they are probably in love with – without even thinking about it, but that Ilya can only ever acquire by accident. Every time one of these details about Shane falls into his hands, Ilya wants to tuck it away in some secret place where he can possess it forever: how Shane folds his clothes before he gets into bed, that he wears glasses for reading.
So Shane Hollander has turned him into a сорока – he’ll look up the English word later – collecting tiny, glittering scraps and hoarding them jealously in its nest.
Because he’s tired and grumpy about the game, either of which on its own could put Ilya in the mood for some self-flagellation, he considers that it’s not normal to find yourself in this deep, for this long with another person without seeing them sick. Hollander must have been sick a handful of times since they’ve known each other, maybe more. Maybe he’s one of those professional athletes who combines being super fit with having a terrible immune system – it happens more than people think. Or maybe he gets sick at the same time every year: right after the playoffs end and his body can finally give out, or around now, when the seasons are changing and spring becomes something more certain than a promise. And maybe Hollander has never really noticed these patterns in himself, and he’s never had anyone else to notice them for him. No one to brush his hair back from his forehead, and say, моя любовь, you always catch the worst colds this time of year.
But that won’t happen because you are going to do the right thing next time you meet. You’re going to end it - right after the next time you play Montreal. No more hotels, no more sexting, definitely no more phone calls. Two weeks. That’s all.
The problem is that Ilya can picture exactly what Shane would look like with a cold. He’d be a little paler than usual, with a slight flush on his freckled cheeks. His stupidly cute nose would be red at the tip from tending it with tissues (far too polite to use his sleeve, of course). He’d allow himself a nap in the day time, and so his hair would be mussed up – kind of like the way it often is after Ilya’s finished with him – and he’d wear those button down pyjamas that Ilya always imagines that Shane wears to bed, maybe with a sweater over the top if he’s chilled and can’t stay warm. And he’d make himself tea – green, probably, or camomile, something caffeine-free and healthy – and he cradles the mug in both his hands, so that the steam rises up, and makes him sniffle.
Ilya lets himself linger on the image he conjured for a few moments, stretching an arm up behind his head as he readjusts his position on the hotel bed, and it’s then that it strikes him. He doesn’t only have to imagine it. Because, since that last trip – last ever trip – to Russia, there is something else that they’ve allowed themselves to do together. And ok, that time it was just for sex, but that doesn’t mean that it can’t be for other things too. Because he talks to Hollander now, too. They’re friends.
Ilya: Did you want to Skype? You’re awake. I have hotel room to myself.
Nothing, for a moment, and then dots.
Jane: Sure. But I’m kind of gross.
Ilya: I will try not to run screaming
Jane: Fuck you.
Ilya grins to himself, and then pulls his iPad from his bag to send the video call request. It rings once, twice and then…
Shane’s face appears on the screen and, oh, he does look sick. In the low light of his bedside lamp he looks… well, exactly like Ilya had imagined he would: pale, tired, a bit sad, and like someone who has spent the better part of the day with a tissue pressed to his nose. The rectangle of the iPad screen frames his face in landscape, dark hair teased across the pillows he’s piled against the headboard of his bed; he must have propped his own device up on the bedside table. The close-up highlights the dark shadows under his eyes and the skin rubbed raw at the tip of his nose. Somehow, the pink flush on his cheeks makes his freckles even more beautiful.
The one detail that Ilya had forgotten was Shane’s glasses. Is he wearing them because he’s been reading to distract himself, or because the cold is making his eyes sore and his head ache? At first, the light bounces off the lenses, masking the dark eyes underneath. But then Shane sniffles and adjusts his position slightly. When he looks at his screen again, their magnification makes his liquid brown eyes even larger and easier to get lost in, even now, when they’re actually liquid: damp with tears, red around the rims, and a little bit swollen, as though Shane has just been rubbing them.
In his mind, Ilya presses a screenshot button, saving this image and filing it away with all the others he has of Shane as he’s pretty sure no one else has ever gotten to see him.
“Hey,” Shane says. He sounds as bad as he looks, his voice lowered and scuffed by his cold.
“Hey.”
Silence.
It’s not that there aren’t things Ilya wants to say. You look fucking awful, Hollander. No wonder they sent you home from practice. Did you know your nose is twitching like a little bunny rabbit? Is someone looking after you? And he’d be able to say them in Russian; make the words sound teasing but not cruel, caring but not sappy, tender but not vulnerable. In Russian, he could make Shane feel better without dropping his own guard. But English is too complicated, and so Ilya doesn’t say anything at all.
Hollander blinks first, an anxious look creeping into his liquid eyes.
“You’re not really going to run screaming are you?”
“No…” He lets himself draw out the syllable, making Hollander wait for what will follow. “But you were very stupid to go to practice.”
In the rectangle frame, Shane’s face visibly relaxes, his lips quirking upwards into a half-smile.
“I am not joking, Hollander.” He keeps his mouth stern but hopes that Hollander can see that his eyes are teasing. “Is not good captaining to die in front of your teammates. Sets very bad example to the rookies.”
Hollander laughs at this, and then seems to immediately regret it when it sets off a damp congested cough. He smothers it into the sleeve of his – yes, Ilya called it – Metros sweater, even though there’s no one there he could possibly infect.
“Don’t,” Hollander protests, congestion dulling his consonants. “Theriault already tore me a new one. Asked me what the fuck I thought I was doing turning up too sick to skate.” He sighs, and sniffs. When he wrinkles his nose, his freckles cluster and constellate like stars.
Hearing Theriault’s remarks sparks a tense feeling in the back of Ilya’s neck that he recognises as irritation. All right, clearly Hollander was too sick to skate. And Theriault wasn’t known for pulling punches; “old school,” was what a winger who’d been traded from Montreal to Boston had called him, which pretty much tallied with what Ilya had seen himself across the benches. Still, a little sympathy for his most valuable player wouldn’t have gone amiss.
Oh well. Ilya would make Theriault’s team pay for that when Boston played Montreal.
Now, he asks, “What did you think you were doing?”
“Hiding that I was sick.” Hollander sniffles again in a way that sounds truly miserable without being self-pitying. “I was doing an ok job until I stepped onto the rink and sneezed four times in a row.”
Probably not an ok job, not possible really, not if Hollander looked anything near as bad as he does now. And so Ilya takes a moment to redirect his anger towards the rest of the Montreal Metros for not telling him to go home and sleep it off. You’d have had to be… well, you’d have had to be Hayden Pike not to have noticed how unwell Hollander was.
“Are you benched for the game?” he asks. Hollander shrugs.
“I don’t think they’ll decide until Friday. I can probably shake this thing before then. They just don’t want it to get out that I’m sick to, um -” Another sniffle. “I think Theriault’s phrase was ‘to avoid unnecessary speculation’.”
“Unnecessary speculation that you are about to die?”
That earns half a laugh from Hollander. “You know how it is. People post all sorts of shit on Twitter.”
That was true. Ilya had once made the mistake of going to buy a new suitcase, and someone took a photo and put it online; by the end of the day at least three of his teammates had texted him to ask if the rumour was true that he was being traded.
“So yeah,” Hollander adds, filling the silence. “I’m not going anywhere for the next couple of days.”
He reaches up under his glasses to pinch the spot on the bridge of his nose where they rest. Ilya feels like his heart literally squeezes in his chest. Shane’s head must hurt. He looks so tired. If Ilya were a better person, he’d wish Shane get well soon, and hang up, to let him try to get back to sleep. But he’s not.
“You feel like shit?”
“Um…” Hollander pauses for a moment, and Ilya thinks that he’s going to deny it. But then, perhaps because less than a month ago, he’d listened to Ilya being a sad sack in Moscow, he doesn’t. “Um, yeah. Pretty much.” Hollander sighs, and shakes his shoulders, as though some internal voice just told him to pull himself together, and adds, “I just… I hate when my nose is blocked, and then I can’t sleep because I can’t breathe right, you know?”
Ilya does, indeed, know. As far as he knows, he’s definitely broken his nose three times: once from a high stick, once when playing football – ironic – and once as a result of a punch that he deserved. But there had been at least a couple more occasions when a broken nose was a strong possibility but the hospital visit didn’t seem worth it. All of which had left him with a nose that is very crooked, and mildly congested at the best of times. It’s nothing more than an annoyance, except when he catches cold (thankfully not often) or when something irritates his nose (more often than he’d admit). Then, breathing through it became… well, exactly what Shane is dealing with now.
“You have taken medicine?” Ilya asks. “American stuff works - or knocks you out until your cold is gone.”
“Well, I’m Canadian.” Hollander’s smile is smug, teasing; the kind that makes Ilya want to pin him to the bed, cold or no cold. “No, that stuff makes me feel weird. I took some Tylenol and a decongestant the team doctor gave me.”
“Did it help?”
Hollander seems to be genuinely thinking about the question. “Maybe? I - ”
At first, Ilya wonders if Hollander has stopped mid-sentence because the connection is bad, which would also explain the frozen, distant expression in his eyes. But then those eyes narrow in something like panic, and Shane’s perfect nose scrunches upwards, and Ilya works it out. He’s about to sneeze.
Logically, he must have seen Shane Hollander sneeze before. On the basis of probability alone, it would have happened at some point. He and Hollander have known each other for nearly ten years, give or take. It’s a lot of time. Time on the ice, and time in press conferences; All-Star weekends, and Vegas Awards nights. Time that Ilya has spent studying Hollander in VT sessions he feigned boredom through, in YouTube highlight reels he deleted from his history, in that fucking ESPN documentary that he definitely hadn’t watched over and over. And the time they’ve spent alone together? Two weeks, maybe, if you added it all up.
So don’t add it up, you fucking idiot. Arithmetic is not supposed to be a gut punch.
Enough time, then, to see someone do something as mundane as sneezing. Except that, although Ilya is sure it must have happened, he can’t actually remember it happening. Which makes it very, very important that Ilya is now going to be able to add it to his Shane Hollander collection.
The videocall creates a strange proximity even though they’re really so far apart. The screen frames Shane’s face, showing every eyelash damp with tears, every twitch and wrinkle of his unfeasibly straight nose. The only other time that he’s this close to Shane is when they’re facing off or fucking, and yes, he understands the significance of this pairing – he’s not fucking stupid.
And there aren’t many chances left to be close like this. Hollander must know it, too - that this thing can’t go on much longer. It’s gone on long enough. There’s only one ending and it’s stupid to prolong it. So he should take this moment, add it to a collection of memories that will fade when they don’t even see each other a few times a season, when Shane Hollander will just be a name alongside his own in the record books, and whatever they had together might just as well have never existed.
And then, just as Shane snatches a quivering breath, there is a sound like the movement of fabric, and the screen goes dark.
What the fuck? Has the iPad run out of battery? It was fully charged when he turned it on. Perhaps it crashed? But then the darkness on the screen ripples a little. Not dead, then. The screen is still on, the device still connected to the call, the camera still showing what’s in front of it. So Hollander must have – what, thrown something dark over the top of it? No, not that. As Ilya’s eyes adjust, he can see the outline of something vaguely Hollander shaped shuddering underneath what must be his blanket.
“hh’Tchhheuwh!!”
“Hollander?”
“huh-ISHHeuwh!”
“We are playing hide and seek now?”
“Isshhhh!... huh-IESHhhh’eugh!” Those two are harsher. Not loud, precisely, but strong, as though Hollander’s body is determined to use all of its superior aerobic capacity to rid itself of the germs that had broken down his carefully maintained defences.
“You are very bad at hiding.”
“Fugck off.” They were followed by what sounds to Ilya like the rustle of some tissues, and some very damp snuffling noises.
“You ok in there?” he asks, half-amused, half-concerned.
From the blankets comes a noise that falls somewhere between assent and a groan. It’s followed by more snuffling before the pile manages to speak. “Sorry, I was gonna mu’dte when thad happened. Save your ear drumbs.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. Hollander’s sneezes were not loud, especially not through tissues and a blanket-cocoon. Ilya spends his time with hockey players: a giant breed, not known for their attention to hygiene or decorum. He’s heard worse.
“I think I can survive your sneezes.” More silence; the blanket doesn’t move. “Are you going to hide in there all night?”
“Baybe?”
“Hollander…”
“Ok, doh.” The blanket-pile gives a heavy sigh. “Bud I really need to blow my nose, so I ab going to put you on hold.”
“You don’t…”
“One seg’ond…”
The blanket shuffles again. A clattering sound rattles through the speakers, loud enough to make Ilya wince; maybe Hollander knocked the nightstand. Then, the sound cuts and a green pause sign looms on Ilya’s screen. All at once, the room is quiet and empty – just him, alone with his thoughts. Far too many thoughts.
“Hurry the fuck up, Hollander.”
For something to do, Ilya moves the iPad from where it’s balanced on his thighs, knees drawn up to the ceiling, to his own nightstand. More comfortable that way, he’d have said, if anyone was there to ask. But it also means that he can lie on his side and look at Shane, who will look at him, so that it feels like they’re lying next to each other. Then, Ilya can believe, just for a moment, that if he stretches his fingers out then he will press through the screen and touch Shane – smooth down his hair, and tease out the headache from behind his forehead like there aren’t thousands of miles between them.
He reaches a finger forward and lets it hover just above the glass, just as the pause sign disappears and the screen goes black.
Ilya’s first thought is that Hollander has hung up on him. But then a voice, small and far away says “Ilya?” and it takes his breath away. A second later, the screen flickers, pixels reorganizing themselves, and Hollander appears again. The pink spots on his cheeks are brighter, and his hair is ruffled in different directions.
“I’m here. You ok?” Ilya adds, before he could think better of it.
Hollander nods. “Sorry about that.” His voice sounds clearer, but not altogether steady, as though blowing his nose has left him a little breathless.
“Is fine. You are sick,” Ilya says, pleased when Shane gives a small, shy smile of acceptance in response. “Is someone bringing you food while you are under home arrest?”
Shane’s eyes sparkle, which is enough to tell Ilya he’s got something in that last phrase wrong. Fucking English. Still, Hollander clearly finds it charming enough. Maybe he can make a few more mistakes before their call is through.
“Hayden offered, but I’ve got stuff in the apartment.”
“No, that is your team meals. You need soup – sick person food.”
On the screen, from far away in Montreal and right here in the room with Ilya, Shane smiles.
“You’d bring me soup, Rozanov?” he asks, sniffling softly.
“Sure. What kind do you want?” Shane’s smile gets bigger, warmer, and it’s such a rush, making him smile like that, that Ilya presses the joke further. “Might be cold when it gets there from Denver.”
It’s only once he’s said the words that he realises that the joke wasn’t supposed to be funny because he’s in Denver. It was funny because Ilya Rozanov doesn’t send soup to his hook ups when they’re sick. Shit.
But Hollander probably doesn’t notice because he’s too busy ducking under the blanket to sneeze again.
“huh?- ISHH’euhhh!... huh’IISHHhheuh!”
“Будь здоров.” He knows the English phrase; doesn’t use the Russian one unless he’s with another native speaker. But he pulls it out now because Shane said he likes it when Ilya speaks Russian – it’s sexy, is what he’d actually said – and Ilya aims to please. It does seem to pull Shane out from under the covers a little quicker this time. His eyes are still damp with fresh tears, and he still has tissues pressed to his face. Taking his moment, Ilya changes the subject. “Your mom, she will come to take care of you?”
Hollander wipes his nose and scowls, which is strange because it’s not weird of Ilya to think she’ll be there. Hollander’s mother always seems to be there, when Boston play in Montreal, and when the tv cameras flick to the audience in Hollander’s home games. His dad, too. But Mrs Hollander is the presence; she’s the one that people make space for, the one whose hand they shake first. And she seems steely, determined, disciplined like her son, but Ilya also sees the warmth with which they embrace, how she lets her hand rest on Shane’s elbow when they speak, grounding him and guiding him. She seems like the sort of mother who would turn up when her only child was sick - yes, he knows Hollander doesn’t have any siblings. The kind of mother who would turn up even when that child is now a two hundred pound hockey god, even when it meant driving two hours from Ottawa - yes, he remembers where they live - even when it’s just a cold.
Hollander apparently disagrees, because he’s shaking his head.
“No, fuck off. I didn’t call my mom to come tuck me in. I’m not eight years old.” He pouts and adds a note of indignation to his sniffle, both of which are quite eight-year-old things to do, but Ilya doesn’t mention that. Then Shane’s expression crumples and he groans again. “She’ll probably just know I’m sick by tomorrow, though, so I guess she’ll want to come and make sure I’m eating or whatever. How do moms do that – just know stuff?”
The question grips Ilya’s body like a vice, forcing the air from his lungs, and that, in itself, is unexpected. The sharp arrows of other people talking like this don’t usually pierce his armour these days; he can withstand the casual way that they dismiss the generosity and kindness of their families. Anyway, he gets it. He remembers when his own mother’s fussing was humdrum, even annoying. He remembers telling her to go away, leave him alone, stop hovering so much. He also remembers when she did stop hovering so often, and then when the hovering stopped for good. But reminders don’t usually hurt like this.
Hmmm. His father did just die. Perhaps his body is learning how to absorb that loss, like the blood that pools and swells near the skin in a particularly nasty bruise. Or maybe it’s because he’s tired and his team played like shit tonight. Or maybe it’s because Hollander is saying these things and, deep down, he’s glad that Shane can just brush off how much his mother loves him, and how she’s still there to love him, and Ilya hopes it’s a long time before he has to know otherwise.
Anyway, this is a normal thing for Hollander to say. Normal people talk about their normal, not-dead mothers like this all the time. So he doesn’t get to be weird about it. And with that thought, Ilya swallows down everything that seems to be rising in him, shrugs and says, “I don’t know.”
There’s a beat, and then Ilya gets to witness the exact moment that Shane realises why Ilya doesn’t know.
“Oh, fuck, Rozanov – Ilya – I didn’t… Your mom… I shouldn’t…”
“It’s fine,” Ilya says quickly, because Hollander doesn’t know the half of it and it’s not a conversation they are going to have right now, on Skype, with two hours, a land border, and a few thousand miles between them. Also, he’s supposed to be cheering Hollander up, and right now he’s not doing a very good job of it.
And so, yet again, it’s time for a clever bit of work with the puck before he passes the conversation back over.
“How many goals are you going to score against Pittsburgh?” Ilya asks.
Shane smiles, though Ilya can tell it’s mostly relief that his misstep didn’t land harder. But it still makes Shane’s reddened nose wrinkles, and his watery eyes crease at the corners, and it’s tooth-achingly sweet.
“Two,” he says, like he’s already planned out the plays in his head, can already see the back of the net catching the puck as he scores them. He probably does all that visualization shit after he finishes his wholesome yoga on his beautiful deck, which Ilya, for the record, has only watched five times, and definitely doesn’t ever think about when he jerks himself off.
Ilya tuts. “Scott Hunter got two against them last week, and he is twice your age. You should score at least four.”
“He is not twice our age,” Shane says, rolling his eyes theatrically as he presses a tissue to the underside of his nose again. “Hunter’s having a good season, isn’t he?”
“We beat them,” Ilya reminds him. “But yes. Sometimes he plays good hockey. For an old man.”
“Do you think he’s got a new regime or something?”
“I think he is having some very good sex,” Ilya replies. Mostly because he knows it will make Shane squirm – which it does – but also because it has the advantage of being true. Since Christmas, Hunter has had the look of someone getting a regular railing, lucky bastard.
“I cannot just believe you just made me think about Scott Hunter having sex.” Shane is pouting again but through the glasses and the tears his eyes are smiling.
“What do you think his sex face is like?”
“No! No! Stop!” Shane’s stuffy nose makes his shouts of protest impossibly cute, and he’s laughing now – no, giggling. Ilya’s never heard him giggle before, and all he can think is that he wants to hear it again.
“Like this I think?” And Ilya pulls the most grotesque imitation of a sex face he can imagine, eyes half-closed, head tipping back, mouth open, tongue teasing across his lips. He’s not going to make Hollander come this evening; the least he can do is make him laugh.
“Fuck no, Rozanov!” Hollander yells, only with his sore throat, it’s more like a choked squeal. Ilya stores the memory, so he can wheel it out for an impression next time he needs to rib Hollander about something. That how you talk dirty to me, Hollander? He doesn’t need to do that now because Hollander is laughing so much his eyes are watering, though that probably doesn’t take a lot right now. And Ilya is laughing too, and it's so nice to be laughing, to be silly like this after the game and his father, and the fucking shit show of a funeral and…
Hollander’s laughter catches and halts, and a familiar, pained, itchy, expression crosses his face, as looks down desperately, and then pulls up a tissue that must have been from a box just out of frame.
“No hide and seek this time,” Ilya says calmly, firmly. Shane looks nervous for a moment, lips parted, nose twitching, as his hands hover at his chest, tissues open over both of them like a prayer book. But as his eyes flutter closed, he does as Ilya says.
“uhh’ITSCHhh’ghh!” His head snaps forward into the waiting tissues, palms pressed tightly to his nose and anchored on his cheekbones. He holds the tissues in place, through another quivering inhale. “hehh?... iiIH’CHHHhheuh!!”
Shane exhales unsteadily, pinches the tissues around his nose and carefully rubs and lowers them. He opens his eyes for just long enough to throw Ilya a look that is both mortified and brimming with apology, even though there’s no good reason for either. But there’s barely an instance before Shane’s breath catches again.
“hhIHh’YISShhh’EUhhh!” Stronger again, the tissues and his hands barely muffling the sound. Strong enough to pull a breathless, “Ohmygod…” from Shane before the final sneeze hits. “hihh?--JIHHishhh’EUHh!”
The sneeze is strong enough to drag his whole upper chest forward, and snap his head sharply towards his chest. The sigh that follows tells Ilya exactly how exhausted he must feel.
“Будь здоров.”
“You said that before.” Shane has snatched up a fresh handful of tissues, and pressed them roughly up against the underside of his nose again. “What does it mean?”
“Be healthy,” Ilya replies.
“Ok. Well. I’m trying.” Shane’s mouth is set, but eyes are twinkling; Ilya feels the corners of his own mouth turning upwards.
“It’s what you say in Russia when someone sneezes,” he explains.
“Like, ‘bless you’?”
“Yeah, like that. But makes more sense.”
It’s Shane’s turn to smile at this.
“I guess it does,” he agrees. “Tell me how you say it again.” Exhausted as he is, Shane’s eyes are wide, eager. If Ilya didn’t know better, he’d think Shane had a pen in his hand, ready to take notes.
Ilya says, slowly and deliberately, “Будь здоров.” And then he adds, because it’s useful information and because he wants Shane to know this, “Is the informal version. What you say to a friend.”
Shane’s eyes sparkle, and then, diligent student that he is, he repeats, “Bud-zdor-rohv.” His eyebrows furrow adorably as he strings together the unfamiliar syllables. Ilya tucks the image away in the vault, along with the thought that maybe he, Ilya Rozanov, is the sole witness to the one thing at which Shane Hollander isn’t instantly perfect.
Except, of course, it is. He is. Perfect.
Shane must notice Ilya’s smile because he adds, “Was that bad?”
“No,” Ilya says, softly, truthfully. And then, because he needs to pull this game they’re playing back under his control, he adds, laying the accent on a little thicker, “Your Russian very good. You go play in KHL next season. Make many roubles.”
Hollander rolls his eyes.
“I think I’ll pass, thanks.” He scrunches his nose and closes his eyes, and for a moment Ilya thinks he’s going to sneeze again, but instead, it’s a large yawn that he smothers behind his fist.
“I am boring you?”
Shane blushes at this. Jackpot.
“Ngh… Sorry.” Shane takes off his glasses, and carefully folds back the arms before reaching out to place them somewhere beyond the frame. “Just tired.” He sighs. “But also all… stuffed up. And itchy. Like I’m going to sneeze a billion more times.”
Моя любовь, are your colds always like this – all in your nose? Do they always make it hard for you to sleep? Come and lie on me, prop your head up, you’ll breathe more easily. Now tell me how you’re feeling. Tell me what helps. I want to know it all.
“You should try to sleep,” is what Ilya actually says.
“I know.” Shane sighs. “But trying to sleep and failing is the worst.”
Yes. Another thing Ilya knows too well. But there are late night drives on the Pike for that, out into the stony and unyielding Massachusetts countryside and the huge dark forests that he’s rarely seen in daylight. There are night clubs, too, and hook-up apps, even if he’s lost his taste for the latter lately. None of these are useful suggestions right now, and none of them have actually cured his insomnia. He knows what the cure would be, though, and if he can’t ask for it himself, he can at least offer it to Shane.
“Want me to stay on the call?” he asks.
Shane sniffles, and says, sweetly, “You must be tired though. Long game.”
Ilya shrugs.
“Is ok. Not tired yet.”
Hollander looks so grateful, and it’s almost unbearable - the distance between them, the inevitable ending that they’ve only been delaying all this time, the impossibility of it all, and how much, despite all that, he wants it. Not just what they have now - though Ilya would take it, a lifetime of it - but what in his wildest, stupidest fantasies, they could be if they weren’t who they are.
He and Shane stare at one another for a moment – or, that is, they stare at the screens that contain each other. The glass they can’t reach through; the thing they can’t touch.
“Could you talk to me for a bit?” Shane says, with another yawn that folds into a damp cough. “Tell me about the game. Tell me how it went.”
“You watched it. You know how it ended.”
“Well then it doesn’t matter if I fall asleep.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “Okay…”
Shane smiles, sweetly, sleepily and his eyes flutter closed. Until Ilya begins speaking in Russian, and they open again, wide and full of wonderment. No one’s ever looked at Ilya quite like that before, and maybe no one will again. So it takes all of Ilya’s willpower to say, “закрой глаза… Close your eyes, Hollander.”
Shane does as he’s told, nestling a little deeper into the blankets, and Ilya wonders if it’s possible for a heart to swell so much that it bursts.
He talks about the game with Denver; tries to work out by speaking it aloud, pass by pass, play by play. Lays it on thick when he describes his goal in the first. Tries to get to the bottom of why they fucked up the powerplay in the third. Wonders whether LeClaire will change the timing of the lines for the next game, in three days’ time. Wonders if he should take Marleau out for a drink when they get back to Boston, because it seems like he hasn’t known how to talk to Ilya since he’s been back from Moscow, how to handle the fact that Ilya doesn’t seem like he’s sad. Or maybe he could take him to go look at a car he’s thinking of buying, but he probably won’t buy, and…
A snuffly sound, half snore-half sigh, comes from Ilya’s iPad. On the screen, the tension has left Shane’s forehead, and he has the blankets pulled up to his chin, the lower half of his face lost between them, and the pillows, and the dim light. He’s asleep.
For a moment, Ilya considers not doing anything – keeping the call connected, and closing his eyes, so that they can both fall asleep alongside one another. But it feels like too much, much more than what Hollander asked for. Besides, they couldn’t wake up like this; couldn’t be this way in the daylight.
“Goodnight, Shane,” he whispers. “Feel better soon.”
He reaches over, taps the picture of the red phone, and Hollander is gone.
As do I, friend. As do I. ;) (also this is the BEST and MOST RELATABLE ask ever, put it on a tshirt!!!)
Long story short I’ve been struggling with this part for TWO MONTHS and I am grateful for @lilies-and-hyacinths’s perfect post for helping me come up with an idea for a (similar-yet-different) ending. Super NSFW <3333
Warming Up (Part 2/2) (H/eated R/ivalry, Shane)
Part 1
———
“Fuhhhuck…!”
Day three of this cold was absolutely killing Shane.
The fever that had kept him sweating and shivering throughout the night had broken, thankfully; he was glad that it no longer felt like his bedsheets were trying to rub his skin off. But he’d woken the next day with a voice so garbled by congestion from his stuffy nose that Ilya had wordlessly handed him the tissue box after he’d said “Good bordidg.”
His morning nose blows were nothing more than pitiful little squeaks that had Ilya cooing at him and calling him mysh. “Mice can bite too, y’kdow,” Shane grumbled. “Not this little mouse of mine,” Ilya replied with a few kisses to his cheek. “Try mbe,” Shane threatened, rubbing a finger under his nose against a growing itch. He had to pull away with three breathy, dazing “issh’Heww!” sneezes; Ilya took pity on him and didn’t push his teasing, pulling him close to his chest as Shane blew his nose productively.
Hours later, the two of them were on the couch in the living room. Shane had far given up the pretense that he was feeling okay, and had spent the entire day slumped against Ilya’s side, tissues pressed to his leaky eyes and nose. His coughs and sneezes were harsh and had Ilya brushing his disheveled hair out of his eyes. Not such a little mouse now, Shane thought as he buried his face in his handful of tissues while building up for more wrenching sneezes.
“Bud’ zdorov.” Ilya rubbed his thumb against Shane’s thigh as Shane blew more loudly than usual, desperate to force out his congestion. Ilya had been scrolling through Instagram, showing Shane pictures of their teammates’ continued celebrations. Baker had proposed to his girlfriend. Jimenez was in Maui. Luca Haas was back in Zurich with his family, grinning like a madman in one picture, his pale face flushed red with drunkenness. Good for him, the kid needed to let loose a little. (Shane ignored the irony of that statement.)
“More medicine for you soon. In…” Ilya checked his phone. “…twenty-five minutes.” He put an arm around Shane, squeezed, then kissed the top of his head. “And I will heat some soup if you are hungry, it will warm up your chest and help that terrible cough.” He frowned and placed a warm hand against Shane’s sternum.
Shane swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat. God, he couldn’t quite believe Ilya sometimes. He could be the ultimate pain in the ass - stubborn, impulsive, likely to grab Shane’s controller when he was beating him in FIFA and make him chase him around the house for it - but when it came to Shane’s well-being, Ilya was a better caretaker than Shane could have ever imagined. He kept track of when Shane needed to take cold medicine, blessed him sweetly after every sneezing fit, gave him foot and back rubs to help him relax, and kept him fed and hydrated. Sometimes, Shane reminisced about the times when he’d thought he could never have something like this. He wanted to give his younger self a hug sometimes. The kid had been so wound up tight. (Shane ignored the irony of that statement.)
Ilya placed a hand at the nape of Shane’s neck and rubbed gently. “What do you think we should do for our days with the Cup?”
Shane paused as he reached for another tissue. He’d been thinking about that a lot. “We’ll have to take it to Game Changers at least once,” he said after blowing his nose again. “And then, maybe—”
“I was thinking I could fuck you while it watches,” Ilya interrupted.
Shane’s breath caught, and he coughed and sputtered as Ilya placed a hand on his back. He had to scramble for another tissue to wipe at his nose for about the eighty-first time that day before he cried out, “The Stanley Cup?!”
Ilya shrugged. “This is so blasphemous to you? Is just a shiny piece of metal.”
“It’s made of a silver and nickel alloy,” Shane corrected, then: “there is no way in hell we are fucking in front of the Stanley Cup, Ilya.”
“Why not?”
“B-because it’s the Stanley Cup!”
“And you are Shane, and I am Ilya. Besides…” Ilya got very close to Shane’s ear and whispered, “I think you would like to.”
“I…wouldn’t,” Shane said, crossing his arms. His cheeks were growing very warm.
“No?” Ilya trailed his fingertip against the shell of the ear he’d just whispered into. “You do not want to be filled up by your husband with the greatest trophy in all of sports in the room?”
“Ilya,” Shane said weakly.
“The trophy we earned together? Hm, we could get the Conn Smythe in there too…that one, you earned all by yourself,” he purred. “All your greatest achievements in one room. Your trophies, and your trophy husband.”
Shane found himself getting very, very hard.
Ilya’s eyes flicked downward, because he was so goddamn psychically in tune with Shane’s dick. “Oh…you do want this,” he said, not sounding surprised at all. “You want this very much.” He traced the lightest touch down Shane’s tummy and brushed his fingers just against his crotch, and Shane whined. He barely even noticed that his nose was leaking. But Ilya did, and his blue eyes flashed with concern.
“Oh, your nose,” he murmured. He grabbed for a tissue and delicately dabbed beneath Shane’s nostrils. Shane froze in place, mesmerized by Ilya’s low voice and the care in his touch.
“Your beautiful nose…” Ilya’s mischevious smile returned. “It is so red too…I wonder if it will feel hot if I kiss it…” He leaned in pressed a long but gentle kiss to a stupefied Shane’s nose. “Mm, yes, very hot. Sore too? From all the tissues?” Shane nodded, eyes wide. “My poor Shanya…” Ilya cupped a hand to Shane’s cheek, kissed between his eyes, then rested his chin atop Shane’s head.
Feeling overheated and overwhelmed by how goddamn sensual Ilya was being, Shane let out a shaky breath into Ilya’s neck to calm himself. Instead, it sent him into a rough coughing fit that had him curling into his shoulder and Ilya rubbing up and down his arm.
“Okay, sweetheart?” Ilya said, and Shane blinked his tears away to find Ilya once again looking very worried at him.
“Okay,” Shane said, and, not wanting Ilya to stop his indulgent teasing, he rubbed at himself a little to reach full hardness again.
Ilya immediately caught on, eyes widening before he resumed speaking in the husky voice that drove Shane absolutely fucking insane with desire. “Tell me the truth, Shane. Do you feel very bad?”
Shane, not sure if he could speak, swallowed and nodded once more.
“Do you need someone to help you feel better?”
Shane nodded a third time, more vigorously, then sniffled and scrunched up his nose. Ilya’s eyes followed the movement of it, and he grinned wickedly. “Moy malen’kiy krolik…”
Shane thought he might melt from the heat that had overtaken him, body and soul. “Ilya,” he said again, voice cracking.
Ilya hooked his thumbs into Shane’s pajama pants. “You are definitely feeling up for this?” he confirmed, looked at Shane with such care that he felt like a fucking treasure.
Like a trophy.
Shane’s nodded for a fourth time, feeling like one of those bobbleheads given to fans during a game, then sighed deeply as Ilya pulled his pants down. Ilya looked at Shane’s dick and made an impressed-sounding noise that made Shane’s cheeks heat with pleasure. “Eager,” he said. “So wet and so eager for me, Shane…even when you are not feeling at your best…”
Ilya took Shane in hand, and the feeling seemed to ignite something in Shane’s nose. “Ihh-Ilyahh—!” he warned, feeling itchy and horny and sneezy and loved all at once, and Ilya immediately released him as Shane turned to the side.
“God bless you,” Ilya said, grabbing a handful of tissues from the box and holding them to Shane’s flushed face. “Blow.”
Shane obeyed, dizzy from the tender eroticism on display from his husband. He winced at how wet his blows were, and how he needed multiple rounds to clear his nose. Ilya kept swapping out tissues, somehow realizing every time Shane needed more (although - oh god - he could probably feel how soaked through the paper was). He didn’t seem to care at all that he was handling Shane’s snotty tissues. He seemed to be happy to do it, actually, judging by how he encouraged Shane to keep blowing, then kissing his forehead when he was done. And through all of this, Shane’s pants were still down and he was still hard as a rock.
Fuck, who knew that being taken cared of could be so…hot?
“Ilya?” He said in a gravelly, wrecked voice once Ilya had wiped Shane’s nose clean. Ilya raised a brow.
“If I, uh. If I sneeze again…” Shane took a breath in and out through his less-congested nose. “Can you…can you hold me while I…”
“Hold you…? Oh.” Ilya looked down at Shane’s dick and grinned back up at him. “You are filthy, Shane Hollander.” He gripped Shane again and started to pump up and down. “So, so filthy…”
“Ohh…Ilya, please,” he groaned, allowing himself to be as loud as his throat would let him as Ilya jerked him off. “I-I need…”
“I will give,” Ilya promised with a sharklike grin. “And if you sneeze again, I will give more. Won’t be long, I think…” He was watching Shane’s face, and before Shane could ask him what he meant, his breath was hitching against an itch that was tickling the tip of his nose like a feather. Ilya kept his hand around him, not stopping how fast he was going as Shane—
“HIZSCHhhew! a-ahh!” Ilya squeezed him as he sneezed, and for a moment Shane thought he might pass out from the ecstasy of it. “Oh ghh-god! ISHhhhuhh! hy’ISHhhh, hihh-hihh-hISHhhhew!” Ilya squeezed him during every sneeze, praising him with “yes, honey”s and “one more, kotyonok”s as he sneezed helplessly, without the usual foresight to sneeze into his elbow, and so Ilya was almost certainly getting sprayed as Shane rocked forward and back.
“aschhh’ooo! ahh’hhiew! hah, ah—!” One more squeeze, and Shane would—would—! “AHH’CHOO!”
Shane cried out as his orgasm hit him like a puck to the face, and he rode it out until he was completely smushed into Ilya’s shoulder, heaving gasps and coughs and heavy breathing the only sounds in the room. When Shane finally lifted his head, having wiped both his nose and his tears on Ilya’s shirt, his husband immediately began tending to him. Ilya cleaned both his upper and lower body with tissues, then kissed him all over. “Bless you,” he said tenderly, and Shane bit his lip to stop his tears (he’d had enough drippage for one day).
“Thagk you. Thagk you,” he repeated when Ilya took his hands. “I love you so buch.”
“Ya tebya lyublyu bol’she.”
“Ndot possible.” Shane moved to stand up, but stopped dead when he saw the damp spot at the crotch of Ilya’s shorts. “Wait, did you…?”
Ilya blushed. “You are not the only one who is feeling better after that,” he said with a shy smile.
10.3k includes sick ilya, concerned centaurs & caretaker shane
August 7th, 2025
Friday morning
Ilya was currently standing at the entrance of the Hollander-Rozanov household, attempting to delay the inevitable. He was excited for the hike, he really was. He didn't prepare for how hard it would be to say goodbye to his Shane for three days. He also didn't prepare for Shane to buy him a 3-pack of cargo shorts for the hike. He looked like someone's father at Disney.
"Alright, you got everything?" Shane asked, adjusting the straps on Ilya's backpack as if he were Ilya's mother.
Ilya nodded. "Got everything."
Shane continued to pretend to fix Ilya's shirt, also delaying the inevitable. They hadn't slept without each other for a while now. "Okay. You'll be fine. Remember what I said? Keep your eyes —"
"— on the ground, I know. I won't fall, Shane," Ilya grinned, leaning to plant a kiss on Shane's cheek. "Fuck, I'll miss you. Shane. Oh my god. Maybe I should stay."
Shane let a laugh slip, his cheeks warming. "Nooo, I've already made a ton of plans for my me time.."
Ilya feigned a look of sadness, his hand going to his heart. "Oh, wow. Okey. Okey. You have fun with your other men."
Shane snickered, rolling his eyes. "You're the one leaving me for other men, don't get this twisted."
Ilya pursued his lips, pulling at Shane's earlobes gently. "Ehh, no. You're the one who insisted I join them."
Shane smiled, sniffling a little. "It'll be fun! Okay, go on. I'm sure Troy will be here any minute, right?"
Ilya stood still and whined, squishing Shane's bicep. "What if your cold comes back? Who will look after you? Not Anya.. I should stay."
Shane let out an amused breath through his nose. "I'm all better now. I promise. You've been looking after me all week, you need a break."
"Okey," Ilya mumbled, wetting his lips. "Fine, fine. I go. Don't miss me too much, yes?"
Ilya jumped at a car honking outside, indicating that Troy was here to pick him up. Ilya frowned, holding the straps of his backpack as a little attempt to ground himself.
"I'll see you on Sunday, okay?"
Ilya nodded, giving Shane a soft kiss to his awaiting lips. "Okey.. bye. I love you. I'll miss you."
Shane smiled, his eyes creasing as he did. "I love you. Go have fun."
Ilya gave Shane one more kiss before turning and walking down the little pathway to their house. Lo and behold, Troy was waiting at the foot of their driveway in his black Camaro V8.
Troy rolled down his window as he saw Ilya approaching, leaning on his steering wheel to give Ilya a wave. Ilya stepped up to the passenger side, plopping himself down on the expensive leather seat.
"That backpack looks way too small to be carrying a tent and sleeping bag," Troy greeted with a little smile, grabbing Ilya's bag for him and tossing it on his back seat.
"Shane got vacuum sealer for Christmas last year," Ilya said, pulling his seat a little forward. Whoever sat there last must have had enormous legs. "From his mother."
"Of course he did." Troy started up his engine, skipping his usual acceleration roar. He didn't want to frighten Anya inside.
"Whoooo," Ilya howled out a breath as the car sped down their foresty driveway. "Fucking beast. Would look better in orange, though."
Troy grimaced as he drove, eyeing the little GPS he had up on his phone that was fixed onto the windshield. "Said no one ever."
"Said by me, just now." Ilya smiled at Troy, glancing back out the window. "We are picking up others or what? You are taxi driver now?"
Troy's expression remained blank as he took a moment to eye Ilya. "You haven't read the group chat, have you?"
Ilya blew out a breath. "Yes, I looked. We climb multiple mountains and camp."
Troy grinned a little, approaching the first signs of humanity as multiple buildings passed instead of trees. "Well, yeah. The guys are all going to meet us there. Which you would have known if you had read our texts."
"Mm," Ilya raised his brows with an unenthusiastic nod. "Had a busy week, leave me alone."
Troy breathed out a laugh, checking the GPS route. Bood had booked them in for a three-day hike-camp at Jacques Cartier National Park. Ilya had never been, nor had Troy. Bood insisted that they all go together for some 'team bonding time.'
Ilya felt his lips curl as Troy turned up the music that he didn't even notice was playing. His head had been bopping along to it subconsciously. Ilya eyed Troy's phone, reading its title. Doschitai by Locked Club.
"We are going to club or what?" Ilya said, making his head move more dramatically. "Better than Wyatt's music, maybe."
Troy scrunched up his face, coming to a stoplight. "Just wanted to up the vibes! Assumed you wouldn't be too excited to go hiking, city boy."
"Whaaaat?" Ilya gawked at Troy, shaking his head. "Am no city boy! Hiking is shallow water for me."
Troy let out a laugh as he drove, keeping his eyes on the road. "Alright man. I'll believe it when I see it."
—
After 30 more minutes of driving and techno music, Ilya and Troy finally made it to the site.
"Arrêt!" Ilya called, pointing to the red sign right by the entrance. "Alright! Yeah! That's what I'm talking about."
"That means stop, idiot, not 'alright'," Troy snickered, feeling equally as excited as they finally pulled into the parking lot. Troy spotted the guys before Ilya did thanks to their tanks of cars. Bood, Dykstra, Wyatt and Luca were all standing by two massive Jeeps, helping each other unload the trunks. Luca rode with Wyatt, and Bood drove Dykstra.
Troy pulled up opposite them into a free parking spot, smiling as he saw the group's faces light up as they caught sight of him and Ilya. Ilya was out of the car as soon as Troy parked, giving the guys some aggressive back pats.
"Are you ready to get your asses eaten by nature, gentlemen?" Ilya grinned, scruffing at Luca's hair. Troy got out of his car, giving handshakes after Ilya was done messing everyone up.
"Hey!" Dykstra shot back. "Says the guy who's wearing a pair of tourist shorts," he said, motioning to Ilya's cargo shorts.
Ilya's cheeks warmed as everyone but Luca began to cackle playfully at him. They were comfortable, okay? Shane had chosen the best for him. The material was nice and breathable, not too heavy and also waterproof. "Alright, okey. Laugh it up. I get it."
Bood patted Dykstra's back. "You got him with that one, man. Fuck."
"If I searched up 'hiker' on Getty Images, you would come up," Hayes added, making Dykstra start to cackle again.
"Oh my god, okey!" Ilya called, looking down at his outfit. Fine, maybe he did look a little bit too textbook. "What does it fucking matter?"
"Alright, leave him be," Bood grinned, patting Ilya's shoulder. "You look fine. We're practically decked out in the same shit, they're just acting like assholes because they're excited to hike."
"Aye, come help me!" Troy called to Ilya, popping open the trunk to get out their belongings for the hike.
"Yes, save me from the bullies. My hero." Ilya stepped over to Troy and his Camaro. Troy handed Ilya his backpack, waiting for Ilya to put it on before handing him another random bag. Ilya held the bag with one arm as he helped Troy get on his own backpack, making sure they were both secure.
Ilya stayed back with Luca as the four Canadians went to go talk to the information booth. Ilya tuned out the multiple conversations in French going on around him as he pointed out some beautiful mountains in the distance to Luca. This really was a beautiful sight. Bood always knew the best places.
"Okay," Bood's gravely voice rang out, slightly startling Ilya from his mountain viewing. "We're all set to go. You guys ready?"
"We're good," Luca said, walking to follow the four men. Ilya fell into step with them, looking at the map in Dykstra's hands.
"If you need a piss or whatever, I suggest you go now," Bood spoke to the group, pointing to the toilet stalls that were inside a weird little trailer.
"No, I'm good. I shit in Troy's car on the way," Ilya mumbled, keeping his expression serious to sell his joke.
Troy grimaced, shoving weakly at Ilya's shoulder. "You dirty dog. Shut the fuck up."
The group chuckled along as they continued walking, assuming nobody needed to go pee since nobody spoke up. Next to the trailer were two wooden statues. A mama moose and her baby in front.
"Ooh, we need a picture!" Bood spoke up, yet again. "This would look perfect for the gram. Group pic?"
The guys agreed, so naturally, Ilya did too.
Bood stepped off the pavement, holding up his iPhone. "Alright, everyone gather up. Make sure we can see the moose. Nice big smiles."
Ilya and Troy crouched in the centre; in front of the moose. Ilya's left arm went around Dykstra's shoulder, Troy's right arm on Haas. Dykstra grabbed Wyatt, all smiling for the photo. As soon as Ilya saw Bood take as many as he was satisfied with, he stepped up to him.
"Okey, I take your picture now. You go on the end. Harris edits them together, yes?" Ilya said, eyeing Troy for confirmation if his boyfriend would be able to do that. Troy nodded, making a thumbs-up on Luca's shoulder.
"That's a great idea! Thank you, man," Bood beamed, handing Ilya his phone. Bood crouched by Luca, slinging an arm over his shoulder.
"Yes, I have those sometimes," Ilya mumbled, holding up the phone to the group to take a picture. "Smile. Say 'we love Ilya!'"
There was a 5-second silence before everyone fell into a soft wave of laughter. Ilya took that opportunity to take the picture, smiling along with the group. Great. He got the perfect picture. "Beautiful. Our wives will cream their panties when they see."
A family of four walked past as Ilya said that. The mother covered her daughter's ears with a glare directed at Ilya, meanwhile, the father was grinning with a baby in his arms.
Troy snickered, coming to stand on the pavement to stretch out his legs from the crouched position, as did the rest of the guys. "Perv."
Bood took his phone back, swiping through the pictures with a smile. Hayes came over to pat Ilya's back. "A pity Shane couldn't make it. Heard he loves a hike."
Ilya nodded, pursing his lips with a little shrug. God, he was adopting all of Shane's mannerisms day by day. Maybe he will be fluent in loon by the time he's 40. "I know. He is so busy. Also recovering from cold, so. Thought it would be better for him to be home."
Bood nodded in agreement. "Maybe next time, yeah? This won't be our last group hike."
"Да, maybe," Ilya smiled at the thought of hiking with Shane. He'd probably get irked at the thought of sleeping in a crinkled-up sleeping bag. His brow would gain a wrinkle by day 2. Poor Shane.
"Okay, Ándale, ándale! ¡Arriba, arriba!" Wyatt clapped his hands, way too enthusiastically for 11 am. "Are we going straight to the campsite?"
Bood shook his head at Wyatt's words. "No, man. I was thinking we could get a feel for the area first, and then leave our stuff at the campsite. Nothing will get stolen, it's private property. We're paying customers."
Everyone mumbled their own agreements, following Bood as he went in the direction of the trail. Bood led them up the road that Troy and Ilya had entered, pointing at a sign to the right. "Chemin de la Vallée. Down here, okay? There's a cool river."
"Ooh, okay," Wyatt said, looking down the path as they turned the corner. The trees were enchanting at this time of the year. Each tree was a different shade of green, not one the same. It looked like something out of a painting. Ilya needed to go outside more. He was way too awestruck by some trees.
"No dogs," Ilya pointed to the little sign at the corner of the 'Le Belleau' sign that had a picture of a dog with a red cross on it. "Booooriiiiing. What did dogs ever do here to be banned?"
"They shit everywhere!" Dykstra said, nose scrunching. "I mean, fine, whatever, they're animals. Some people don't pick up after their dogs, though."
Luca hummed in agreement. Ilya frowned. "That's why poo bags exist. People are lazy. Canadians."
"Watch your mouth, boy," Troy mumbled in an exaggerated Canadian accent. "4 against 2."
"Heyyy, leave Haasy out of this," Ilya grinned, putting an arm around Luca. "You Canadians are mean. Is okey Luca, they won't hurt us."
Troy and Wyatt snickered, Bood was too busy looking at his map. Dykstra grinned at Ilya's words. Luca chuckled a little, looking down at his shoes as they walked.
"River upcoming," Bood announced, leading the group off the path and down the little hill past a little random shack.
The group followed Bood, padding along after him. Ilya scoffed as he eyed his surroundings. There was a sad little playground, two slides with some monkey bars. "Haasy, is perfect for you!"
Luca shook his head as he followed Dykstra to the lake. "Hilarious. I'm not a kid!"
"He's a little baby," Ilya said to Troy, walking to the playground. Wyatt ran past him and Troy, leaping on the monkey bars.
"Oh my god," Troy mumbled. "He's gonna fall and eat shit, watch."
"Behave!" Bood yelled to the three men, standing as he waited for them to join the rest of them to see the river.
Troy, Ilya and Wyatt snickered to themselves, padding away from the playground to join the group. The river was quite shallow, Ilya could see the floor of it from where he stood. Dykstra took off his shoes and socks, getting into the water. "Ooh, it's nice and cold. Come on, guys."
Bood was next to get in. Then Wyatt, Troy, and Ilya. The rocks felt a little slimy under Ilya's feet. Shane would have writhed at the sensation.
"Haasy? You scared?" Ilya chirped, keeping his tone lighthearted as he eyed Luca who was still on land, standing by everyone's shoes.
"Won't the fish bite?" he mumbled, eyeing the water.
Bood shook his head, walking over to where Ilya and Luca were talking. "C'mon, bud. All the fish are upstream."
Luca toed off his shoes at that, stepping into the shallow water. Ilya held out his arm, helping Luca adjust to the unexpected slipperiness. "No piranhas, yes? Breathe, kid."
Luca let out an amused breath through his nose, managing to walk more without Ilya's arm. "I gathered that, thank you, Ilya."
Ilya grinned, stepping over to the rest of the guys. He got out his phone to snap some photos to show Shane when he got home. The reflection of the trees in the water was absolutely entrancing. It danced with every movement from the ripples made by the men.
Ilya shook his head, pointing to everyone's rolled-up pants. "See? You all make fun of me. My cargo shorts will always win."
Dykstra snorted, cleaning his hands in the water. "You'll take that back when we're walking through the nettles later on. When the mosquitoes eat your calves."
Ilya furrowed his brow, swishing his feet around in the cold stream, opening his toes. "No, don't manifest that for me. No."
Troy splashed Dykstra a little. "There are no mosquitoes in Canada."
"Yes there are!" he shot back, eyeing the other guys for some backup.
"Alright, no one gives a fuck if there are or aren't," Bood spoke. "Campsite time? Less weight to carry."
There were multiple sounds of agreement. It wasn't fun carrying around your sleeping bag and tent, plus all the other little things that came with the tents.
—
Bood got them into the Le Grand-Duc campsite. The name sounded fancier than the actual plot of land. The site came with two toilet cubicles, a place to chop wood, and a river. And a warning sign of nearby bears.
Ilya set up his tent in under 30 minutes, walking around to help the others after he was finished. For some reason, Dykstra's tent needed the help of 4 grown men. The nails were refusing to stab into the soil. Bood had to be the one to jump on all of them for them to go in as the others held it up.
Ilya sat on the wooden benches as everyone's tents stood. He fished out the bottle of vodka he had secretly stuffed into his backpack without Shane's permission, popping open the cap with practised precision.
"You alcoholic," Troy chirped, coming to sit opposite Ilya. Bood was talking with Troy, and Dykstra was wandering the site with Wyatt.
Ilya grinned, pouring a little into Troy's flask without needing to be asked. "Cheers to dying on a random mountain."
"We're not dying." Troy clinked his flask to Ilya's bottle, taking a swig. Ilya took his swig, scrunching his face up at the swallow. Geez, that burned. That never normally burns. He's been drinking this stuff since he was practically a baby.
Troy gawked as if he just witnessed the Second Coming of Christ. "Did you just wince? Well well well.."
Ilya scrunched up his nose, trying to rid the burn. "Shut your face. Is strong vodka, don't act surprised."
"I have never seen you wince after drinking anything.. ever! Crazy. I didn't even wince."
Ilya made a little chatter hand motion, rolling his eyes. "Yup, I got it the first time. I winced, whatever. Big deal."
Troy smiled, shaking his head as he fished his phone out from his backpack. Nobody had service, so all they could do was take pictures. Ilya had luckily downloaded some mobile apps that required no internet.
He wasn't really interested in his phone right now though. His throat still felt tender from that one swig of vodka. Hm. He was getting old.
"Dang, it's already 4 pm," Troy mumbled, showing Ilya his home screen as if Ilya would doubt him.
Ilya raised his brows, rubbing his chin. "The day has gone by so fast. Well, not over yet."
"Y'all tired already?" Dykstra joined them on the bench, sitting next to Troy.
Troy shook his head, fixing his hair. "Nope. Are we going to see a trail today, or..?"
"Yeah. Bood's just waiting for everyone to be ready," Evan said, nodding over to Bood who was sitting in his tent with Luca and Wyatt.
"We better join them, then," Ilya stood, shaking off the wood chips from his cargo shorts.
—
Day one was the Les Loups Trail. Bood and Dykstra led the way, holding down the branches in the way for the team to get through. Luca loved pointing out each squirrel that trod through the path, snapping a picture of each one.
Ilya was giggling every single time Troy's foot slipped off a rock, which earned him a little swat on the arm each time. Wyatt was looking at the route on Pokémon Go, having to stop every 5 minutes to aggressively rub at his screen. Everyone minded their own business.
The top was beautiful. They got a group photo, managing to get everyone in one shot with the help of Bood's long arm. They all looked happy.
Ilya took some photos for Shane, capturing the water below, the trees, and the mountains in the distance. Fuck, he really needed some water. Ilya took off his backpack, getting out his water bottle. The water was a little lukewarm, but that was fine. It did nothing to quench the odd pain coming from his throat. His glands felt sore, almost.
Well, that wasn't ideal. Why was his throat closing up? He hadn't had a hay fever flare-up since he was 22.
Ilya continued without complaining. The group took the 4-hour retreat back to the campsite, occasionally laughing as someone tripped. Everyone's social batteries had definitely deflated throughout the afternoon. Bood murmured small encouragement every couple of minutes and that was it.
The sky was dark blue by the time they made it back to the campsite. Ilya's top lip had also gathered a hefty amount of moisture. His nose would not stop running.
Bood snapped a few pictures of everyone in their tents for Instagram, ignoring some tired groans of protest. Ilya had made himself into a human burrito with his sleeping bag by the time Bood came around to him. He jumped at the flash, closing his eyes at the intrusion.
"Whoops, sorry, Roz!" Bood laughed, putting his hands up in surrender. "Have a good sleep, alright bud?"
Ilya held back from producing a tired curse, instead, offering the same energy. "Is okay. You too."
Bood zipped up Ilya's tent. Ilya listened to the gravel crunching underneath the other man's sneakers as he padded away to his own tent no more than 10 feet away.
Lying on his side was making his runny nose worse. Lying on his back was making it all go back into his throat. Fuck.
Ilya sat up, freeing himself from his comfort burrito with a frown. He grabbed his backpack, rummaging through it for something, anything, to help stop his mucus from escaping. Thank god he still had some napkins in the side pocket from McDonald's.
He scrunched them in his fist, gently shoving the concoction into his right nostril. Now he could sleep peacefully.
—
Saturday morning
Ilya managed to get 4 hours of sleep. He kept alternating between staring at the blur of a far light through the material of his tent, listening to the crickets, reaching out to his left for Shane's vacant body, swiping at his nose, and falling asleep for an hour in between those things.
As morning came, he definitely knew his hay fever wasn't back for vengeance. His head felt packed with marshmallows. His body felt like one big bruise. His lymph nodes felt fatter than a happy dog. What the fuck had he managed to catch? He was fine this time yesterday.
If he thought logically, this could definitely be Shane's cold. Shane had forbidden him from kissing for the first two days, but the pair could never stay away. But.. Shane hadn't been this sick. Or had he? No. Shane would have been complaining if he felt as bad as Ilya currently felt, right?
Ilya stifled a groan, sitting himself up. The tissue that had helped stop the dam was now soaked all the way through with snot and on the floor of his tent. Fucking disgusting.
Ilya got himself into a clean pair of cargo shorts, shrugging on a hoodie he had packed just in case. Oh, sunglasses. Those might make him look less like a corpse. Thank god there were no mirrors around.
Ilya stumbled out of his tent, padding over to the wooden benches where Bood was enthusiastically pointing at the map under his fingers to a sleepy-looking Luca. Everyone else must be asleep.
"Mornin' cap!" Bood smiled at Ilya, sipping from a silver flask. Ilya offered his hand up, sitting himself at the bench. He leaned his head in his hand, eyeing the map.
"Okay! So!" Bood slapped the map, making Ilya visibly jump in his seat. "We're checking out the Le Scotora loop from RI route today. Moderate. 5 hours up and 5 hours down. Sound good?"
Ilya blinked, taking a full minute before he realised that the question was directed towards him. "Mmmyeah."
Bood gave him a funny look, eyeing Luca. "And you? Good route?"
Luca nodded, pawing at his eyes. "Yeah, no. Sorry. Tired. It's so early."
Bood chuckled at the pair. "It's only 8, c'mon. I can't believe the other guys are still sleeping. Yesterday's trail must have worn you all out."
Ilya hummed in agreement, grimacing at how it felt in his throat. "Maybe we do shorter trail t'day."
"Hmm," Bood looked down at his map, trailing his finger along his different highlighted routes. "Shit, how about the Les Érables trail? Sautauriski Bridge? That's only 4 hours up. 4 down."
Ilya gave a little nod, having no idea what that route was. All he knew was that he was really fucking tired.
Ilya padded back to his tent once Bood was making coffee. His eyelids felt like they weighed one million pounds. He got back into his burrito, only to rest his eyes. Yeah. Just for a minute.
Two hours passed before Ilya was awoken. Troy had unzipped his tent, gently tapping at his shoulder. "— oz? Roz? Ilya? We're going to check the trail out soon. You okay?"
Ilya's hand came up to cover his eyes from the light. He had two options. Option one = surrender. Tell Troy how bad he felt, and stay back and rest some more. Option two = endure. Don't disappoint Bood. Don't disappoint Shane. Option two definitely felt more palatable.
Ilya sat himself up, shrugging out of his sleeping bag burrito with a soft grimace. His head was aching with each pump of blood through his body. "M'comin'."
—
Ilya managed to hobble along with the group for the whole 4 hours up to the viewpoint, muffling stifles into his wrist. The bridge was admittedly gorgeous. They got a group photo, thanks to a random hiker who offered to take one for them. Ilya tried his best smile, closing his eyes behind his sunglasses. He would kill a man to be in bed beside his Shane right now.
And that man just might be Wyatt.
"Alright, truth or dare!" Wyatt hollered, scuffling his way back down the trail. The path bled into a slight scramble at times. Ilya did not like that.
"Truth," Troy spoke first, padding behind Dykstra as he eyed where his feet were landing.
"Alright, what's your favourite type of cheese?"
Ilya tuned out the stupid discussion around him, focusing on keeping his snot in his nose. He was so blocked up, he could barely get a good breath in. He was going back to his mouth breathing Russian baby roots.
"Ilya, truth or dare?" Troy called, one foot up on a rock as he re-tied his shoelaces.
Ilya huffed a little breath, rubbing at his chest. His lungs felt packed with jelly beans. "Uhh, truth."
Troy kept going with the group, taking a moment to think about his question. "What has been the happiest day of your life?"
Everyone's eyes were on him at the same time as he hobbled behind everyone, sunglasses over his eyes. Well, that was an easy question. "Weddi'g day."
The group cooed which made his cheeks warm up a little. "That's great, Ilya," Dykstra added.
Ilya grumbled with a little smile, sniffling a little bit. Hiding his symptoms was starting to get impossible. Why was he even trying to hide —
"Now you ask!" Luca spoke to Ilya, washing off a little bit of dirt from his shoe in a small stream.
Ilya hummed a little, thinking about what words wouldn't make him sound congested. Whose name was easier to say?
"Luca."
Luca beamed a little, looking down at his now clean shoe. "Truth."
Ilya scratched at his curls, needing to keep up his personality. "Do you still have tha'dt poster of m'be?" ..so much for not sounding congested.
Luca grimaced as he hid his face in his hands. The group laughed to themselves. "Ooooooh!" Wyatt toyed with Luca's hair, scruffing at it.
"No! That was years ago," Luca whined, glaring lightheartedly at Ilya. A smile on his lips made his false anger hard to believe.
Ilya just smiled, having no more energy to make fun of him. Nobody seemed to pick up on his congestion. He naturally had a more nasally tone at times, anyway. That's what happens when you're not careful with your nose when getting thrown into the boards.
—
They made it back to their campsite at 7 pm. Ilya and Luca were the sleepiest out of the bunch. Bood, Troy, Dykstra and Wyatt were currently building themselves a little fireplace to sit by. They weren't ready to go to sleep quite yet.
"C'mon, boys, join us! Don't be boring!" Wyatt called out, to which Ilya assumed was directed at Luca and himself inside their own tents. Fuck, he really didn't feel like socialising. He also knew that they wouldn't leave this alone if he were to not join them.
Ilya pulled on the red Hawaiian shirt that he had packed, along with some grey Adidas sweats. He was definitely a fashion guy. Top-notch outfits for every occasion.
Ilya pulled himself out of his tent, eyeing the group. Luca was also now sitting at the fireplace.
Troy beamed at Ilya as soon as he was close. There was a bottle of vodka being shoved into his hands. Ilya perched next to Troy and Boodram, taking a swig of the bottle. His now. His germs.
Fuck. Fuck, that burned. Oh, even his nose felt that.
"Hh'd! HH'Dds!" Ilya stifled down to his lap with great effort, shoving his left fist into his nose. "hH'Dj! Sshw! Is'hw!"
The conversations around him came to a stop, now met with concerned eyes reflected by the fire. "Bless you, cap," Bood reached over to pat Ilya's back.
Ilya breathed through parted lips. "Th'nks."
"You all good?" Troy nudged him, leaning his head down a little to see Ilya from where he was ducked over. Ilya nodded, spluttering a phlegmy cough into his elbow.
This felt like a humiliation ritual. It felt like he had just burst all of the blood vessels in his face with the effort it took to stifle a sneeze with a stuffy nose. That couldn't be too good for him. Shane would have probably yelled at him for stifling.
Shane. He really missed Shane.
"I go slee'b," Ilya murmured to Troy, standing without another word nor glance back as he booked it for his tent. His eyes were heavy, but not for sleep.
Ilya zipped himself up in his tent, tugging off his stupid floral shirt. He would be safe in his sleeping bag. He wouldn't cry in his sleeping bag.
He got himself zipped up in his sleeping bag, scooting over to the corner of his tent. No tears.
He tuned out the murmuring from the group, clamping his eyes shut. Maybe if he ignored his symptoms, they would go away.
Not even 10 minutes later, he was fumbling for the zipper on his sleeping bag. He needed his hands, like, right now. "HhH! hH'Ds HH'DShw! HHIH'dsw! D'shw! D'sHGjw! kK-KKHH'M! Mmh.."
The murmurs went silent. Someone was at his tent. A tall, wide shadow. Fuck, was that a bear? He was going to get mauled. He was going to die. He'd never see Shane again. Shane would be all alone.
"Hel'b!" Ilya tried to call, but his voice was already shot. He couldn't alert the guys. He was going to die from some stupid fat fucking bear. Oh my god.
The bear entered the tent, leaning over Ilya. Ilya attempted to kick, but it was more of a wiggle. He was trapped in his sleeping bag with snotty hands, for God's sake. What a perfect situation for a bear to eat him.
"L'v m'be alo'de!" Ilya sobbed, flailing around in his sleeping bag. Suddenly, the bear multiplied into three bears. A fourth joined.
A flashlight shone into the tent, directed at the bear's face. Whoa, the bear looked a lot like Bood. And there was a Troy bear. Also a Wyatt one. And a Dykstra bear.
"Buddy, it's okay! It's me! It's us!" Bood spoke, a hand covering his mouth. They all looked fucking petrified. Had they seen the bear too?
"Мне страшно!" Ilya spluttered, his face wet with tears. What were they doing? They needed to run from the bear that was in Ilya's tent. "Be'r.." Ilya tried to warn, his head glancing around for the beast and its friends.
"No, no bear, Ilya. Fuck, boys. Get me some water, and wet a rag. Try get some fucking signal, go down to the information box!" Bood barked out orders left and right, making Ilya's head dizzy. Ilya went to get up to obey Bood and get a rag, but he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.
Ilya closed his eyes with furrowed brows. He was so confused. What just happened? Why wasn't Shane here? Why was nobody running from the bear? They were all fucking idiots.
Bood sat with Ilya, a hand going from his forehead to his cheeks. "Fuck, bud. You're really warm. I wish you had told me you were this unwell."
Ilya blinked at Bood, rubbing at his eyes. Everything had happened too swiftly. He didn't feel like talking, his throat felt coated in slime.
Footsteps began to approach once more, rushing on the gravel. A cold towel was placed on the back of his neck. Whoa. That felt amazing. He leaned into the touch, allowing his head to loll back.
A cup was placed to his lips, and a hand was lifting the back of his head back up. Ilya allowed himself to indulge, drinking from the hand of whoever was offering the water.
"Z!" Wyatt came running back, his feet pounding on the ground making Ilya's head throb with every beat. "The park rangers advised us to drive him to Urgent Care. Said it'll be faster than getting an ambulance all the way out here."
Bood gave a singular nod, rubbing at his neck. "Fuck, okay. Alright. Troy can take him. We'll follow their car. Dykstra with me, you with Luca. Got it?"
Wyatt nodded, scrambling to help pack up everyone's tents.
—
Ilya dissociated for the whole car ride over to the hospital. He was laid horizontally on the back seat of Troy's car as he drove. Bood had somehow managed to buckle Ilya in even like this. He didn't remember any of it. Some random jacket had been put on him at some point, saving him from having his chest out.
Ilya babbled to himself, unable to open his eyes. "If I d'e.. DO'DN'T le'd Sha'de ge'd d'ew husba'd.. Tr'yyy.. pl'eas.."
As Troy pulled up to a hospital that Ilya didn't recognise, two other cars pulled up next to them. The back doors were yet again being opened and Bood was there again. How had Bood teleported here with them? Wow. That man could do anything.
Bood and Wyatt helped Ilya out of the car, his arms over their shoulders. Troy, Dykstra and Luca were ordered to stay put. Bood didn't want to crowd the hospital with too many celebrities dressed in dirty hiking gear.
As soon as they stepped foot into the lobby, Ilya was being whisked away by a little nurse. Fancy. In Boston, it would have taken a lot longer.
Bood stayed with Ilya while Wyatt stayed back in the waiting area. It felt like Ilya was now also teleporting with the number of location changes.
The nurse was holding a little clipboard, a pair of glasses perched on her nose under her eyes. Ilya was laid out on the examination bed, with Bood sitting in the little chair in the corner.
"What seems to be the problem today?" She started, assessing Ilya's body with her eyes for any immediate injuries.
Bood cleared his throat. "He's got a fever, and he's disoriented. The symptoms came on really fast."
The nurse nodded, scribbling on her paper. "Has he taken any medication?"
Bood shook his head. "No. Nobody brought any medicine. He.. hasn't taken any drugs. If that's what you're asking."
The nurse didn't respond as she continued to jot down something on her paper. She then moved to a drawer, pulling out a stethoscope and a forehead thermometer.
She checked Ilya's lungs, her expression staying still. "He's congested. How long has he been feeling unwell?"
Bood blinked, eyeing Ilya. "Bud?"
Ilya grumbled, closing his eyes underneath the harsh light. "Y'strd'y."
The nurse pursed her lips, scribbling on her paper. After taking his temperature and checking the thermometer, she spoke. "It seems that Mr Rozanov previously had Influenza, which then progressed into Viral Pneumonia. I'm going to prescribe him some acetaminophen for his fever, and oseltamivir." the nurse spoke, eyeing Bood. "Make sure he gets plenty of fluids and rest."
Bood nodded, wide-eyed as he took in all of the information at once. "Shit, okay. I meant.. wow. Sorry. Thank you."
The nurse nodded, stepping out of the room to get Ilya's medicine. Bood blew out a breath, rubbing his face. "Viral Pneumonia. Buddy, oh my god. You must feel like hell."
Ilya sniffled, stretching out a little. "Wh're Sh'de?"
Bood frowned. "Kid, I can hardly understand you. Save your voice, okay? The nurse will be back soon, then we can get you home."
Ilya coughed into his elbow, his lungs producing a pathetic rattle. The nurse came back into the room, passing a little pharmacy bag to Bood. "Bring him back if he doesn't feel better in 3-4 days."
Bood nodded, standing from his little chair. He grabbed the bag with an uneasy smile. "Yes, ma'am. C'mon, cap."
Ilya grimaced, forcing himself to get off the examination bed. He held onto Bood's arm, attempting to will away the humiliation.
Bood yet again manhandled Ilya into the backseats of Troy's car so he was horizontal and buckled in. Every moment was a blur. Ilya was blinking and being teleported to a different location every 10 minutes. This was so weird. He'd have to remember to tell Shane about his newfound powers.
—
Zane B. 👨🍳
17:32 Hi Shane. I don't want to overwhelm you with multiple notifications — so I'll make this one message. There's no need to panic, but we've had to cut the trip short. Ilya got really sick really fast; seemingly out of nowhere so we were advised to take him to the hospital by the park rangers. He's now on his way home to you with Troy. I've sent Troy off with a list of everything that the nurse informed me about his condition. I hope he gets better soon. ❤️😔
Shane was on his feet as soon as he got the notification, pacing the living room as he read the rest of the message from his notification. Ilya was sick? Ilya had to go to the hospital?
Shane's hand was in his hair before he could spiral, scrunching at the roots to self-regulate. Okay. Ilya is on his way home, everything is fine. Why wasn't he contacted the second that Ilya felt ill? Fuck.
Shane's teeth ground together subconsciously, a nervous childhood habit that he grew out of. Shane padded to their bathroom, collecting all of their sick supplies. Bood was pretty vague in his message, and Shane didn't even know what Ilya had. Did Ilya catch Shane's cold? Did Ilya get bitten by a snake? Did he eat a poisonous berry? Did he fall off a cliff?
Shane plucked out all of their cold medicines, grabbed the thermometer, Vicks VapoRub, nasal spray, and some cold packs. And a bucket.. just in case. Shane set up everything in their room, placing the bucket on the floor of Ilya's side of the bed. Shane fluffed up Ilya's pillow, plugging in the humidifier so it was on Ilya's nightstand and not his. He didn't need it anymore, he was better now. Okay, perfect. So what if his hands were shaking the whole time?
Shane grabbed Ilya's towel, setting it by their bathtub with a set of clean clothes. Ilya loved a bath when he felt gross. Shane's ears perked up at the sound of a low groan from a vehicle outside. It took everything in him not to bolt down the stairs. Breaking his ankle right now would not be ideal.
Shane got himself down the stairs in one piece, grabbing a random cardigan as he went. He stepped out onto the porch, wrapping the cardigan around himself as he watched the car approach. He really was his mother's son.
Shane padded to the car as he saw Troy getting out of the driver's seat. Where the fuck was Ilya? Shane couldn't see him sitting in the car.
Just as Shane was about to ask a thousand questions, Troy opened up the passenger door on the left side. "C'mon, cap. You're home."
Shane went to Troy's side, peering into the car. Ilya was still horizontal, all buckled up in the seatbelts.
"Oh my god," Shane breathed, helping Troy get Ilya out of the car. Once Ilya was upright, Shane held his waist. He was burning through the jacket on his shoulders. "Troy, what the fuck happened? I — he's.."
"I know," Troy said, helping Shane help Ilya up the steps and into their house. "Viral Pneumonia. I've got a little note for you about it. Sorry, Bood barely told me shit, man."
Shane nodded, getting Ilya onto their couch. His eyes were barely open as he flopped back into a horizontal position, curling up.
"Oh, baby," Shane sighed, not giving a fuck about being sappy in front of Troy. Shane crouched down by Ilya's side, pressing his hand to Ilya's forehead.
Troy left the note on the coffee table, along with the pharmacy bag. "His backpack and tent are in Wyatt's car. I'll bring them over for you whenever, alright? Shoot me a message."
Shane nodded, trying his best not to be rude to Troy. He was just trying to help. "Okay. Yeah — thank you. Thank you for bringing him home."
Troy nodded. "Of course. Okay, I'm off. Text me."
"Yeah," Shane called back, not really listening. How could he focus on anything but Ilya? His poor boyfriend who looked like shit on their couch. Who was fine not even 3 days ago.
"Baby, oh my god. Don't sleep yet, I need — to get medicine into you. Or something. Fuck," Shane breathed, grabbing the note on their coffee table. Ilya was barely awake.
The Ottawa Hospital | L'Hôpital d'Ottawa
* Flu > Viral Pneumonia
* Patient is a smoker
* High temperature 39.8°C (103.6°F)
* Cough, lungs (mucus)
* Wheeze
* Disoriented
* Acetaminophen & oseltamivir
* Do not smoke
* Get vaccinated
Shane felt his lower lip wobble as he read the note. Ilya was basically passed out on the couch and for once in his life, he didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to make Ilya better. He couldn't fix the situation. He couldn't fix Ilya.
Shane grabbed his phone off the coffee table, pressing on his mom's contact without a second thought. Even though it was approaching 6 pm (Yuna Hollander's 'Bath & Self Care Time'), she answered after two rings. "Hi, Shane. Are you okay? How's your cold?"
Shane's throat felt tight at her natural maternal tone, forcing an unpleasant sob out of his throat. He didn't plan on sobbing into the microphone, but here he was.
The line was silent for a split second. "Shane? Breathe, baby," Yuna ordered softly, followed by some whispering, probably to his dad. She was probably freaking out now, too. Fuck. He shouldn't have called. His anxiety is contagious.
Shane forced some air into his lungs, stopping his pacing to crouch back down to Ilya and check his forehead again with his free hand. "Mom?" Shane croaked.
"I'm right here," she spoke into the phone. "What's happened, Shane? Take your time, baby.."
Shane swiped at his tears, looking back at the note on the coffee table. "Ilya's, like, — really sick. It's all my fault. He was — on the trip I told you about, and — and," Shane took a minute, tugging at the skin of his throat to try to get some air. "I don't know. I don't know what to do, mom."
"Okay. Okay, baby. Do you want me and your father?" She asked, her voice tender and earnest.
Shane swallowed the lump in his throat down, closing his eyes. "Fuck. I don't know. He has pneumonia, Mom. That's bad for — for older people."
There was a slight sound of ruffling on Mom's end. "Shane, we're not that old, baby. We're vaccinated. I'm sure you could use our help. Is that okay?"
Shane grimaced, balling his free hand into a weak fist to hit at his knee. Stupid stupid Shane. "I don't know!" he spat. "Fuck. Wait. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell, I just — he's really not well. Okay. Please come over, Mom."
"Okay," Yuna breathed, the ruffling on her end continuing. "Dad is getting the car ready, okay? We'll be by your side before you know it."
Shane let out a sob, feeling grateful for his parents. How lucky was he to have all of the help that he could need right at his fingertips. "Okay. Thank you."
—
Mom had helped Shane make a schedule for Ilya's medicine while Dad had gotten some water and liquid flu medicine into Ilya and got the bath running. It felt like Shane could finally breathe with their presence.
"He hates pills," Shane mumbled, still crouched at Ilya's side. "I don't know if he'll take them. He might not."
Mom nodded, sat on an armchair. "Push comes to shove, we hide them in some peanut butter."
Shane grimaced. "Mom, he's not a dog."
Mom smiled. "Honey, I know that. I'm just suggesting things, okay? We can try different techniques. See what works."
Shane took a moment to breathe, rubbing at Ilya's pronounced brow. "He needs a bath. He's all dirty. He doesn't like being dirty."
Mom hummed, glancing over to Dad. "I can make you lunch while you do that, okay?"
Shane pursed his lips, pressing a gentle thumb to the jugular vein in Ilya's neck. "I'm fine. I've had all of my meal preps scheduled for today."
Mom sighed a little. "Well, alright. I think your father is hungry. Would it be okay for us to use the stove?"
Shane made a face, eyeing Mom. "..of course. You don't need to ask — ever. What's ours is yours."
Mom smiled, getting up from her armchair and disappearing into the kitchen with Dad.
Shane rubbed Ilya's shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze. "Ilya? Baby?"
lya stirred slightly, furrowing his brow as his nose twitched. He was like a little bunny.
Shane's heart warmed at the thought. "Bath time. Can you sit up for me?"
Ilya squinted, his eyes vacant and tired. "S' eeeehhgghkkhmmm.."
Shane worried at his lower lip, unable to understand Ilya. "You'll feel better.. with the steam. I'll wash you."
Ilya grumbled a little, lifting his head weakly. Shane helped him sit up, holding his shoulder until he was successfully in an upright position. Ilya's curls were flat to his head on one side, and crazy on the other.
"Bunny.." Shane mumbled, just for them to hear.
Ilya's eyes opened a little more with interest, eyeing Shane as if he were something precious. Ilya produced a gnarly sniffle, his mucus having to adjust to the new position.
Shane grabbed the tissue box that was placed on the coffee table by his Mom, ripping a few out and swiping the bundle to Ilya's nostrils. Ilya just let it happen, squishing his eyes closed at the weird sensation. Shane's bunny.
"Bath, then bed. Sleep. That sounds good, huh?" Shane mumbled, getting to his feet with a little groan. His knees were stiff from how long he had been crouched. Shane sighed as Ilya stared at the floor.
Shane reached down, getting one arm under Ilya's legs and one arm on his back. "Arm around my neck, please."
Ilya absentmindedly complied, his hand latching onto Shane's shoulder. Well, here goes nothing.
Shane stood to his full height, lifting Ilya as if he were a barbell. Whoa. Okay. He was carrying Ilya. His spine didn't immediately snap in half.
Shane murmured soft nothings into Ilya's temple, carrying up the stairs with carefulness. His baby.
Shane helped Ilya sit onto the closed lid of the toilet seat, unzipping the jacket from Ilya. Shane couldn't recognise the jacket. Maybe it was Troy's?
"Okay, c'mere," Shane lifted the underneath of Ilya's pits, shuffling down Ilya's sweats and boxers so he could get into the bath. Ilya leaned into Shane's neck, taking a crackly little inhale.
Shane frowned, getting Ilya into the warm bubbly water. Damn, he had gotten stronger. "Is that warm enough?"
Ilya hummed, melting into the porcelain as he closed his eyes. Shane crouched by the bath, ignoring his achy knees and reached for Ilya's hand. "Sweet boy."
Ilya smiled at that, his now open eyes assessing Shane's face. "Mmh."
Shane smiled, grabbing a scrubber brush. "I missed you. I'm sorry you had a bad trip."
Ilya frowned, picking at a hangnail on Shane's thumb. "W's g'd 't fi'rs."
Shane couldn't stop the coo that left his lips. Ilya couldn't even talk. Ilya loved to talk. Shane loved to listen. "Save your voice, it's okay."
Ilya hummed, spluttering a little. The splutter turned into a lung-rattling cough, Ilya covering it with two hands, then switching to his elbow. He sounded absolutely awful.
"Fuck, okay," Shane got to his knees, not knowing what to do with his hands. "Get it all out. Atta boy. Mom said you have to cough to get better, baby."
Ilya continued to cough, his body shaking in the water with each one. All Shane could do was watch. God, he felt fucking useless.
A nervous whine erupted from Ilya as he jolted upright off the porcelain, curling into himself. He looked like he needed to throw up.
Shane moved swiftly, cupping his hands under Ilya's mouth. "Get it out, it's okay. It's alright."
Another little whine left Ilya before he spluttered again, being forced to cough up a little bit of phlegm from his lungs into Shane's hands. Shane didn't even flinch as he dunked the mess into the sink, washing his hands and coming right back to Ilya's side.
There was a grimace on Ilya's face. He could even look at Shane anymore.
"Ilya.." Shane mumbled. "It's okay. You're sick. I want to look after you, okay? I don't care if you — you spit on me. Or cough in my face. I'm here for you."
Ilya eyed Shane with a shy little smile. "Eghhhh.."
Shane chuckled at the little noise, grabbing the scrubber brush again to wash off the dirt on Ilya's skin. "It isn't gross. Not to me."
Ilya went still for a minute. Shane stopped his scrubbing, preparing to catch more phlegm. Ilya's lungs began to swell with crackly inhales. "hH'SHw! Hh'sHIU!"
"Bless you, bless you!" Shane rubbed circles into Ilya's back with a little frown. The flu paired with pneumonia. Fuck. "No stifling, okay? I know you didn't just then, but. For future reference. Gotta get everything out of your lungs."
Ilya nodded, closing his eyes again. The pinkness of his husband's nose now matched his chest. Shane could admit that he did look a little cute. He was so sleepy.
"No sniffling, also," Shane added, moving to grab some shampoo. "Mom did some research for me. You've gotta cough that phlegm out, and blow the snot out."
Ilya hummed. Shane knew he wasn't listening, but Shane also knew that Ilya liked to hear him talk when he was tired. Shane also needed to verbally remind himself.
—
Once Ilya was all clean and in his new clothes, Shane helped him sit on the closed toilet lid again. Shane crouched down so he could look up at Ilya, holding his hands. "Okay. Give me one squeeze for bed, and two for the couch."
It took Ilya a minute, but he eventually squeezed both of Shane's hands once. Shane nodded, agreeing with the choice. "You're sleepy, huh? Okay. We can go to sleep," Shane mumbled, hooking an arm underneath Ilya's legs yet again.
Shane hoisted Ilya up, taking him to their bedroom for the first time in days. Thank God that Shane had gotten the bedroom ready.
Shane tucked Ilya under the covers, making sure he was comfortable and safe. Okay. Great. Ilya was okay.
Oh, his parents. Right. Shane had almost forgotten about them. Whoops!
Shane decided to send his mom a text instead of going downstairs. He didn't want to leave Ilya's side even for a minute, just in case.
Mom ❤️
21:03 Ilya is clean & ready to sleep. Feel free to take the guest room. Goodnight! :) Thank you for coming.
Okay, good enough. Shane put his phone to the side, crawling into bed next to Ilya after taking off his clothes and folding them with precision.
Ilya sniffled, reaching for Shane.
"No, no.." Shane cooed, combing back Ilya's hair between his fingers. "No sniffling, remember? Tissues — " Shane reached over to Ilya's bedside, grabbing the box " — are right here."
Ilya frowned, plucking three out. He gave his nose a weak blow, setting the tissue on his bedside as he kept the box between them.
Suddenly, Ilya's chest was swelling and deflating rapidly. Ilya was so sleepy that his arms couldn't get the memo. Shane watched as his husband drenched the tissue box and their fitted sheet. "hH'JSshiu! hHa'TSHu!"
"Bless you so much!" Shane said, chest aching for his husband. Shane didn't have it in him to care about how Ilya didn't cover. "Are you okay?"
Ilya gave a little nod, his nose now dripping down his lips.
Shane plucked some of the tissues out, swiping them against Ilya's nose as he did earlier. "Ooh, there you go. All better."
Ilya grimaced, moving the tissues aside to nuzzle into Shane's chest. Shane held him, digging his fingers into his warm scalp. "Shh. 'M here."
Ilya's yawns bled into wheezy breaths, indicating his asleep state. Shane, on the other hand, could not sleep. Ilya was on his chest, but he couldn't allow himself to sleep. What if Ilya needed him? What if there was a change to Ilya's breathing pattern?
Yeah, no. He had to stay up. Shane reached his arm out for his phone, tapping in the passcode. He should probably message Troy. And Bood.
Mom ❤️
21:08 Goodnight both ❤️ I love you.
Shane smiled at the message. He swiped out of iMessages, clicking on Instagram. He needed a distraction.
Oh. Harris sure did work fast.
@OttawaCentaurs
[ 3 images ]
Moments before disaster.. 🏕️🗻🤒 #getwellsoonroz #maybenextyear
Shane's eyes found the caption before the pictures. There were 3 images attached to the post that correlated to the caption.
The first image was.. weirdly cute. How 6 grown men could be described as 'cute' was beyond comprehension. But they were. Especially his Ilya.
[ 📷 1st attached image : (From Left to Right) Bood, Luca, Troy, Ilya, Dykstra and Wyatt were all crouched down in-front of a 2D statue of a moose with its baby. They all smiled at the camera, caps and sunglasses on at the ready. Ilya made a peace sign behind Troy's head to make it look like he had bunny ears. ]
Shane had to cover his laugh with his hand at how cute Ilya looked. He was all ready for his hike in his brand new cargo shorts, his fat backpack on his shoulders. Very bittersweet.
Shane swiped left on the next one after taking a screenshot.
[ 📷 2nd attached image : The group was posed on a bridge that Shane couldn't recognise. The view behind them was beautiful. The sun was setting, leaving red and orange hues on the treetops that hugged the surrounding mountains. Everyone was smiling, with fewer teeth smiles than in the last image. They looked happy but tired. Ilya wore sunglasses, his nose a little pink. ]
Shane sucked on his teeth, using two fingers to zoom in on Ilya. Nobody else could tell, but Shane definitely could. Ilya must have been feeling sick right there. Poor baby. Screenshot.
Shane cast a glance down at his sleeping husband, looking back up at his phone. Shane swiped to the last picture, unable to hold in his coo this time.
[ 📷 3rd attached image : Ilya was in his sleeping bag, his hands looking as if they attempted to cover his face mid-image. Ilya was engulfed by his sleeping bag, only his face and hands visible. His brows were furrowed and eyes closed, the moisture on his upper lip caught by the camera's flash. ]
Shane frowned, rubbing his thumb over the picture. Ilya looked like a distraught caterpillar. Screenshot.
"You're okay now," Shane mumbled, making sure to keep quiet so as not to wake Ilya. Shane rubbed at the small of Ilya's neck, kissing his hair.
Shane could feel himself dozing off. To prevent this, he clicked on one of the mobile apps that Ilya had downloaded on his phone without his knowledge. Fruit Ninja. Nice..
Slashing the fruit was quite therapeutic. Shane swiped his finger across his screen, fighting for his life to stay awake. His finger swiped on a bomb, which made him flinch. Why would they put bombs in a fruit game? Not fun.
Shane felt Ilya stirring on his chest, halting his hand on his phone. Don't wake up. Don't wake up. He needs the sleep.
"Y' pl'ai wi'ou' m'be.." Ilya whined, grabbing for Shane's phone. Shane let out a little startled laugh, not expecting that reaction. It was charming how Ilya still managed to be himself even with a nasty virus.
"Baby, you're supposed to be sleeping," Shane hushed, watching as Ilya made shitty attempts at slicing the fruit.
Ilya frowned, swiping out of the game. Shane kept watching as Ilya clicked on his own contact, sending himself a message.
'hi ilya i Lov yo usooo muc h. from shane ❤️,..❤️💙🐰.'
Shane snickered, scrunching at Ilya's curls. "Are you me, baby? Are you Shane?"
Ilya hummed, turning off Shane's phone to cuddle back into his chest with a little nod. "Mmmhm."
Shane cooed lightly, scratching Ilya's scalp. Shane put on his best reporter voice, "How does it feel to be the best hockey player, Mr Hollander?"
Ilya grunted, pressing his nose into Shane's chest. "A'bazi'gghhh.."
Shane gave Ilya's hair more kisses, feeling the heat at the back of his neck. "Amazing? Wow. You have such a way with words."
Ilya whined, pinching at Shane's waist. Shane squeaked a little, pushing at Ilya's hands. Ilya pushed himself away from Shane's chest, curling into his pillow with some sudden barking coughs.
Shane sat himself up quickly, patting Ilya's back. "You're okay.. you're good, baby. I'm here."
Ilya continued to cough away from Shane, the whole bed shaking with each cough. Shane swore when he heard Ilya begin to gag through his fit, pushing himself off their bed and onto his knees by Ilya's bedside. Shane grabbed the bucket he placed on the floor by Ilya's side, holding it under Ilya's chin where he could see it in the moonlight. "Cough it up, baby. Get that gunk out."
Ilya coughed and gagged into the bucket, spitting up multiple mouthfuls of mucus. Shane rubbed circles into Ilya's back, giving it pats now and then. "Fuck, you're okay. Good boy."
Ilya's coughs turned into little sobs as he weakly gripped onto the bucket over Shane's hands, his whole body quivering. To say Shane was terrified was an understatement.
There was a soft knock at their bedroom door.
"Yeah?" Shane called, staying by his husband's side. Mom poked her head in, holding her phone that had the flashlight option on.
"Everything okay in here?" she asked, stepping closer. She had a mug in the other hand, placing it on Ilya's bedside. "Warm honey tea."
Shane nodded, taking his time to look at Ilya now that there was a source of good light. "Thank you, mom. He's okay. Coughing it all up."
"Okay," Mom mumbled, shuffling her feet to release some nervous energy. "You're doing great, Shane. He'll be okay."
Ilya made a little sound at that, spitting into the bucket. Shane nodded, looking at Mom. "Thank you. Get some rest, okay? We're okay in here."
Mom nodded without another word, stepping out of the room. Shane continued rubbing Ilya's back in the quiet darkness, staying on the floor holding the bucket. "You're okay."
Ilya took a shaky inhale, ducking into the bucket. "aT'tshiu!"
Shane jumped, his hand leaving the bucket to fish around blindly for Ilya's bedside tissues. "Bless you, baby."
Ilya made a little grunting sound, lying back down on the bed. Shane swiped Ilya's nose with a little bit of tissue, taking the bucket into the bathroom to clean out. Once all was good, Shane retreated to their room with the clean bucket.
"Mom made you tea, Ilya," Shane mumbled, coming back to Ilya's bedside on his knees. "Can you be so good and drink it for me? It has honey. You love honey."
Ilya moved himself up on his elbows, closing his eyes. "Sh'de.."
"I know. I know you're so sleepy," Shane mumbled, holding the cup to Ilya's lips. "Big sip."
Ilya drank with Shane's help, sighing happily at the taste of the tea.
"Great job," Shane smiled into the darkness, placing the cup back down. It's okay if Ilya couldn't finish it.
Shane padded around their bed, getting into his side of the bed. Ilya gravitated towards him like a little magnet, gripping onto Shane's waist.
"G'night, baby. Feel better tomorrow." Shane felt Ilya's face, finding his temple to place a kiss on.
Summary: Episode 5 AU. I/lya gets sick on the way back from Russia, gets scratched from the game, and recovers at S/hane’s apartment. S/hane doesn’t get knocked out at the game that night; instead, he gets to ask I/lya to the cottage, just like he planned. (Outside of I/lya having the flu and a raging fever, of course.) Contains quite a bit of crying, sorry not sorry.
Emeto warning: One small v-word mention, nothing actually takes place in the fic.
*
I/lya considers himself to have been lucky so far.
He’s had his slip-ups over the years, sure, but he’s done relatively well when it comes to not showing vulnerability around S/hane H/ollander. He’s careful. Doesn’t flinch away from touches. Doesn’t tell the childhood stories that he had told laughingly, but that had made his teammates eye him sympathetically. Doesn’t give too much anyway.
It’s dangerous, around H/ollander. S/hane is so full of love and support and gentleness, it practically leaks out of him. I/lya can’t have any part of that. At just the thought of it, he can hear his father’s cold voice in his ear; Alexei’s shouting insults; the fading memory of his mother’s voice, which had been dull and resigned by the end. It’s just for the best if he avoids any kind of shows of weakness around S/hane. He thinks he’s doing well at it.
And then he falls apart and cries on S/hane in Tampa.
It feels like so many things in the moment. Release. Humiliation. Shame. Relief.
And he can’t take it back, afterward. Shane won’t let him—or maybe he won’t let himself. They use first names, hold hands at the beach, make tentative plans just to spend time together after their next game. It feels.. good. Terrifying, too. But he almost feels like he can settle into it, into the vulnerability.
Then he gets the call in the locker room. Alexei’s voice, cruel like always, throwing out the news of their father’s death like Ilya should’ve already known about it.
It feels like fate. Drawing him back to Russia, away from Shane, away from the emotional intimacy they were starting to build. It’s how it’s meant to be, he tells himself. Quit asking for things you’re not supposed to have. Quit wanting them.
The problem is that it seems like Shane is ready to get into an MMA fight with fate, or whatever else wants to keep them apart. He refuses to let Ilya disappear. He just… stays. In the periphery. Texting, calling, checking up on Ilya the whole time he’s in Russia. Never too much. Never too invasive. He lets Ilya draw the conversation back to FaceTime sex once he sees Shane in those glasses. He lets Ilya rant on the phone in Russian, pouring out his whole fucking heart, trusting that Shane won’t record this or translate it, because such subterfuge would never even occur to Shane.
He lets Ilya say I love you, even though admittedly he doesn’t really know that’s what’s happening. Even though they both know this could never be that.
And he calls again the night before Ilya’s return flight, just checking in. It’s a quick FaceTime call, where Ilya is mostly discussing his flight details and trying not to think about how he’s leaving Russia behind. He gave away his apartment, he cut off Alexei, he said goodbye to his mama’s grave. He may never come back here.
It hurts, but it feels like tugging at your stitches. A healing kind of hurt, maybe.
He’s still talking mindlessly about his plans when Shane interrupts him. “Are you feeling okay?”
Ilya rolls his eyes, endeared despite himself. “Yes, Hollander, you ask me this everyday.” He lies or talks around an answer most of the time, but no point in revealing that.
“No, I mean… you just sound weird, is all. Kind of congested. Are you feeling sick?” Shane sounds unsure of himself, hesitant to prod as ever, but being brave and doing it anyway.
Ilya blinks in surprise. “I’m fine, is just cold and snowing outside,” he says, not stopping to think about it. He bulldozes past Shane’s concern out of habit, bringing the conversation back to hockey in a way that he knows will entice Shane into letting it go.
That night though, in bed, he finds himself cataloguing a growing list of complaints. His throat feels a little sore, in a way that drinking a glass of water doesn’t touch. His skin aches. His face feels tight, the way it does when his sinuses are about to work overtime.
He tosses and turns, catches a couple of hours of poor sleep, and groans when his alarm wakes him for his stupid-early flight to Canada. He’d timed it perfectly, so he’ll get there a couple hours before the game with Montreal. It means leaving Svetlana behind, but she’ll catch her own flight home, and she’d known better than to protest at how little time he took off for his father’s death.
He drags himself to the airport, his suitcase somewhat heavier than it was, with everything he’s taken from his apartment and his father’s home. Mostly things to remind him of his mother. It’s very little—not enough—but it’s things he couldn’t leave behind, especially if he’s never coming back.
He’s feeling increasingly like he’s never coming back. Dread and relief sit equally heavy in his stomach at the thought of never seeing Russia again. But what’s left for him here, anyway?
By the time he gets to his gate in the airport, he’s got a cough and he can’t quit sniffling, and his throat feels like he’s been gargling glass. Whatever he’s caught decided to hit in full force during the little sleep he managed to get in the night. He buys a travel pack of tissues at a store by his gate, along with a Gatorade for hydration, and settles back to listen to music until his flight is called.
The FaceTime from Shane surprises him, about ten minutes before boarding. Ilya doesn’t even know what time it must be, back in Canada. He could do the math but that sounds exhausting. He looks around cautiously, but it’s still so early that the airport is fairly empty, and he has his earbuds in. He turns so that his back is to a wall, to ensure nobody peers over his shoulders, and answers.
“What are you doing up?” he asks, as soon as Shane’s face appears on his screen, and then he cringes when he hears himself. His voice sounds thick and heavy now, the congestion audible. In the little square on his screen, he can see himself, bundled up against the cold with weary eyes and pale skin.
Shane doesn’t point it out out loud, but anyone with eyes could see the concern on his face. “It’s not even eleven at night,” he protests easily. “I haven’t even gone to bed yet. It’s, what, 5AM there? What made you book such an early flight?”
“Wanted plenty of time to get to Montreal,” Ilya says, rubbing at his nose absently. “Will get there a couple hours before our game, as long as everything goes smoothly.”
“You’re going to play,” Shane says flatly. “After a transatlantic flight, and with a—with the week you’ve had.”
“Yes? I am not just there to sit and look pretty,” Ilya says. He can tease no matter how shitty he feels, it’s a gift. “That’s your job.”
“We’re going to beat your asses,” Shane retorts with a smile, but he still eyes Ilya with poorly-concealed worry. “Just… take it easy, okay?”
Ilya summons up every skill he’s honed over the years to avoid showing any weakness around others. It’s failed him lately, but he needs it now. “Relax, Hollander. I will sleep on plane, eat whatever horrible meal they feed me, show up just in time to beat you soundly.”
Shane’s smile is soft, illuminated by his bedside lamp, where he must be getting ready for bed. “It’s Shane, Ilya. Remember?”
Aaaand that instinct fails him once again, because he can’t deny Shane when he looks so sweet. “Okay, Shane.”
“Just… text me, okay? Let me know how your flight goes, layovers, stuff like that.”
His nose prickles, but he resists the urge to rub it again. Not while he’s still on FaceTime, anyway. He repeats himself, “Okay, Shane. They are boarding now, I go, okay?”
“Okay. Bye.”
“Bye.” Ilya hangs up, a little annoyed with how relieved he is to be off-camera so he can scrub at his face to chase away the approaching tickle. He doesn’t do a very good job, and he fumbles to open the travel pack of tissues he bought so he can muffle a sneeze into a handful of them. “huhh… huksshhtt!”
An older woman nearby blesses him, and he thanks her, still sniffling into the tissues. He doesn’t feel like blowing—it’s too loud, and it would only trigger more sneezing, thanks to his thrice-broken nose’s irritating hypersensitivity—so he just rubs his nose through the tissues until the lingering tickle subsides.
His plane boards. The flight is tedious, long, freezing in spite of the layers he made himself wear. He tries to focus on the in-flight movies, but even that doesn’t provide much distraction from his symptoms, which only intensify over their hours in the air. The light cough turns heavier, more insistent, and his nose fills with congestion that only feels worse with the changes in air pressure. He tries to hold back his coughs—nobody wants to be that person on a long plane ride—but it gets harder and harder over time. He sniffles thickly, more and more frequently over the course of the flight, cringing each time the people seated near him turn to look at him.
Ilya ends up catching some sleep toward the end of the flight, but it isn’t very restful, and he finds himself half-waking up several times to cough or hold back a sneeze. Eventually the congestion gets annoying enough that he stumbles his way out of his seat and toward the plane’s lavatory, where he grabs handfuls of the provided tissues—thin, dry, scratchy and harsh on his nose. Even the mere touch of the tissues is enough to provoke his sinuses at this point. The second he brings them to his face, his breath is hitching, and the sneezes come so quickly that he can’t even try to hold them back. “hh’tsshhmphh! heh’schhmphh! heh… heh’EHHTTshhh!”
Muffled into the tissues, they’re quiet enough that he’s only a little embarrassed. He forces himself to blow his nose, knowing that he needs it, and winces when it shifts the congestion in his sinuses around. His nose tingles again, overwhelming and too sudden for him to stop it, and he helplessly muffles another sneeze. “hmphhsshh!”
He blows his nose again, thick and honking, and bullies his nostrils into submission by swiping at them harshly with a fresh handful of tissues. It keeps him from sneezing again, but his nose and upper lip are stinging and raw when he washes his hands and makes his way back to his seat.
Eventually, he settles enough again to drift back to sleep. His dreams are hazy and disconnected, hard to make sense of, but he knows his mother is part of it. His father, too, voice harsh and cold. Not confused and childlike, how he was by the end. Ilya’s chest hurts, from the memory and from the coughs he holds back in his sleep.
He wakes up to enormous pressure in his sinuses, and realizes they’re landing. The whole flight seems to have been simultaneously endless and shorter than he expected, and his vision swims. Probably the start of a fever. He curses to himself and tries to get ready for deplaning, but the stabbing pain in his sinuses from the air pressure change can’t be ignored or relieved. He ends up sitting completely still, fingers pressed to the sides of his nose and cheeks, trying to simply bear the pressure until they’ve landed.
Time passes—he has no idea how long—and when the pain finally fades enough for him to relax a little, the row in front of him is standing up and gathering their things. He scrambles to get his stuff and follows, praying he hasn’t left anything behind. He grabs at the seats in front of him in a dazed attempt to keep himself balanced as he moves toward the front of the plane.
Once he’s in the airport, the crowds surrounding him keep him feeling overwhelmed, plus confused and hazy. Definitely a fever. He groans and rubs at his face, taking a second to try to ground himself, then goes to get his luggage and call for a car to get him to the rink.
He doesn’t call Shane again from the cab. There’s no way he’d be able to hide the congestion and rasp in his voice, and the thick feeling in his throat only worsens when he imagines Shane fussing over him. Instead, he shoots off a quick text. Landed. See you at face-off.
Within seconds, he gets a text back. How was your flight?
He hesitates over the response. Long. Meet at your place after the game?
Sure. But then Shane sends him a new address.
Ilya: What happened to fuck apartment?
Shane: Don’t call it that. This is the address for my actual apartment. Let’s meet there tonight.
Ilya feels oddly touched. Maybe Shane was serious about all the things he said in Tampa about caring about him, about how he had shown up for Ilya even when he was a continent away while Ilya struggled in Russia. He lingers over the text, not sure what to respond with. “Thanks”? “Can we just do the fuck apartment, I’m uncomfortable with being cared for”? A crying emoji?
In the end, he doesn’t respond with anything. He just likes the message and puts his phone away.
But then not even an hour before the game, he gets scratched. Fucking Evan, the team doctor, hears him coughing in the locker room and pulls him aside for a checkup. “Your swab just came back positive for flu B. Although, I’m worried that cough sounds like it’s turning into bronchitis,” Evan tells him in the sick bay, scribbling into a clipboard and eyeing Ilya with obvious concern. “You’ve got a sinus infection, for sure, and the bronchitis is too soon to tell but I really think it’s going that way. I can’t believe you flew transatlantic like this.”
“Did not want to miss game,” Ilya says, ducking into his elbow with a round of harsh, scraping coughs that won’t back down.
“Well,” Evan says, the unsaid that’s what’s gonna happen obvious in his tone. “I don’t know if I want you going back to the hotel room alone. You could stay here with me until after the game, and I can check on you in the night. Our flight’s in the morning, though I’m not sure if you’ll be able to fly in your current condition. You and I might have a little layover here in Montreal until you’re cleared for it.”
Jesus Christ, no. He likes Evan—though not very much right now, when he’s getting denied his chance to play, the only potential escape he’s had from the stress of the last few days—but he doesn’t want to spend hours or possibly days with the guy fussing over him. “Ah, no. I have, um. Girlfriend? Kind of? In town. I can call her, go to her place.” He waits for Evan to nod and leave the room to tell Coach, then texts Shane.
Ilya: I have news. Don’t be mad.
Shane: Are you ditching me tonight?
Ilya: Scratched. They are saying flu, sinus infection.
Technically, they also said probably-bronchitis, but he doesn’t want to get in the details of that. Flu sounds a bit easier to manage, maybe.
Shane: And you flew like that?! I knew you sounded rough on the call.
Ilya: Was not so bad this morning.
Shane: Liar. Okay, what now?
Ilya: I told doctor I would go stay at my girlfriend’s place. Figure I will sleep it off in the hotel room. Sorry. I wanted—
He erases the last two words. Best not to get into what he wanted.
Ilya: Sorry to cancel on tonight.
His phone is silent for a moment, and he watches Shane type and erase repeatedly. Shane is probably busy getting ready, putting on his gear, maybe doing pre-game media.
Shane: No one’s canceling. You can go to my apartment. I’ll text you the codes.
He doesn’t have time to respond before his phone buzzes again.
Shane: I really want to see you tonight. And I don’t want you sick by yourself in a hotel room. Please.
Ah, fuck. He can just envision Shane with those Hollander puppy dog eyes, all big and brown and sweet.
Ilya: You are that horny, you want me over even with the flu?
Shane: Main door code 1221, front door code 8124. Try and sleep. I’ll bring you some medicine when I get home. There’s soup in the pantry I think.
Shane doesn’t take the bait, the way he normally would, which leaves Ilya feeling a little off-kilter without his chance to banter. If he’s being honest, though, he doesn’t really feel up to his normal level of bantering. He likes the message and doesn’t respond—starting to become a habit for him—just in time for Evan to come back with Coach in tow.
“We’ll miss having you out there tonight, Rozanov,” Coach tells him gruffly. “I’m sorry you’re having such a shitty month.”
Ilya shrugs and nods. What can you do? He doesn’t say anything; his throat’s feeling too sore at this point to make him much of a conversationalist.
Coach leaves after wishing for him to feel better soon, and Evan prescribes him a heavy-duty cough syrup and an antiviral. “Hear back from your girlfriend?”
“I am to take cab to her place,” he rasps out. “And let her take care of me upon pain of death. My Jane is stubborn.” His mouth ticks up in a smile, fond despite himself.
Evan laughs a little. “Lucky for you, these prescriptions should be ready quick. You should be able to pick them up on the way. Feel better, okay, Roz? Message me if things get worse, and go to the ER if you have trouble breathing or your fever spikes.”
He agrees, more to get away quicker than anything else, and stumbles out into the freezing Canadian spring air to get to his cab once Evan finally lets him go. He didn’t even have time to stop by the hotel earlier, so at least he still has his luggage to take with him and doesn’t need an extra stop. The cab driver recognizes him but is pretty nice about it for an obvious Montreal fan, clearly a bit gleeful now that the news has hit the airwaves that Ilya got scratched just before the game.
Ilya finds himself holding back sneezes all throughout the drive, hitching and pressing his gloves to his nose to fight off the insistent tickle. He convinces the driver to stop at the pharmacy, where his prescriptions are in fact ready, and then has the driver drop him off a block away from Shane’s apartment. Normally, he would do even farther, but he’s worried his lungs won’t let him manage any longer of a walk.
The door codes work just fine—and he snickers at 8124, belatedly realizing the meaning as he types it in—and he staggers into the apartment just as the long-threatened sneezing fit finally hits.
“hh’DSSCHhhwww! hah—HAHHDT’sshheww!” He sneezes into his gloves in the doorway, thanking God that Shane has this floor all to himself, so no neighbors in the hallway can recognize him and/or show concern over his fucked-up nose. He sniffles, which only forces out yet another horribly wet, throat-tearing explosion. “HAAHhh’DTTsshhieww! …guh. Fuck.”
Half-blind from the tears in his eyes that are streaming down his face, he takes a few unsteady steps into the living room, where he sees the faintly recognizable shape of a tissue box on the coffee table. He grabs at it with the hand that isn’t currently pressed to his face—which he would swear is holding him together while his brain tries to escape through his nose—and gathers a bouquet of tissues to bury his nose in.
He blows, long and loud, grateful that for the first time today he’s completely alone to be as loud as he needs. The sound and vibration hurt a little, and it makes him sneeze again, but the relief of having almost-cleared sinuses is worth it, for the whole two minutes that it lasts.
Once he recovers himself, he texts Shane, already knowing that the game has started and Shane won’t have his phone on him. He keeps it simple: Here. Good luck tonight.
He grabs a can of Coke from the fridge—does Hollander normally have Coke, or did he stock it for Ilya in preparation for tonight, he wonders with a thrill—and settles on the couch to watch the game. He watches the face-off, and the first couple of minutes, and then unintentionally sacks out.
When he drifts back into awareness, he’s curled up in a ball on the couch with drool on the cushion under his head, and the TV screen says it’s just after the second period. His sinuses feel heavy, and he can feel the congestion and swelling in his nose, built up with no way to escape. He groans and stretches, rubbing at his eyes that feel like they weight twenty pounds each.
He checks his phone. There’s a text from Evan asking if he got the prescriptions okay, and Ilya thumbs up the message. He should probably take the medicine, he can see it in sitting in a bag on the kitchen counter where he’d left it, but he can’t bring himself to get up. He manages to grab at the can of Coke on the coffee table, taking a sip to try to ease his sore throat that’s only been aggravated by the snoring he’s sure he’s been doing, but the carbonation only burns the whole way down, and he sets it aside with a groan.
There’s a text from Shane, too, and he must be keeping his phone near the bench, which Canadian good boy extraordinaire Shane Hollander would never normally do. Are you feeling okay? Is there anything special you want from the store before I get home?
Ilya watches the highlight reel for a few minutes, which shows Shane scoring a fantastic goal in the first period. Montreal’s going to win this one. He wonders if the team is mad at him, for missing tonight’s game when he’s already been gone a week, but the logical part of his brain knows they won’t be. Marly will probably be texting him as soon as they finish the game, to make sure he isn’t drowned in his own snot if nothing else.
Nice goal, he texts back. I am okay. Team doctor prescribed me some medicine that will fix me.
He tries to watch the rest of the game. Tries to wait for Shane to text him back. But he already knows it’s a losing fight. He barely manages to move a throw pillow under his head before his eyes are dragged closed again and he falls back asleep.
When he wakes up a second time, an indeterminate amount of time later, everything is dreamlike and hazy, and he immediately knows that something is different. Wrong. Everything hurts, and his sinuses are pounding, just like they had back on the plane. He doesn’t really know where he is. His vision is swimming, and he has that heavy painful feeling in his chest that could be the probably-bronchitis, or just as likely could be the way he knows he dreamed about his mother again. And his father, yelling, always yelling. Always with the cold voice and the harsh words and the cruel touch.
“Ilya,” he hears, the voice sounding muffled and distant but familiar, “Ilya, hey, English please. Okay? I can’t understand what you’re saying.”
He’s babbling, quiet and in Russian, and the realization that he’s doing so has him shutting up instantly. A hand brushes his hair back from his forehead, damp and hot with sweat, and he looks up.
Shane. Shane, here, looking tired and beautiful and with such concern in his big brown doe eyes, so sweet and perfect that Ilya wants to cry.
“Oh, hey,” Shane murmurs, swiping a thumb under Ilya’s eye and smearing liquid.
Fuck, he is actually crying, isn’t he? He swallows and tries to apologize, but he can’t find the word in English for a too-long second. “Sorry,” he finally says hoarsely, and the word catches in his throat, doubling him over with a coughing fit.
Shane is seated on the edge of the couch, by Ilya’s hip, and he helps Ilya sit up a little. He hands Ilya tissues, for wiping away his tears and for him to cough into. “It’s okay,” Shane says once the coughing has stopped. He rests a comforting hand on the back of Ilya’s neck and winces at the heat he must feel there. “God, you are burning up, Ilya. When’s the last time you took your medicine?”
Ilya only stares at him blankly. Shane is—is here. (Wherever here is.) With him. Looking so pretty and worried and tired from the game, but still here with Ilya.
After a moment, Shane gives him a patient smile and pats his knee and stands up, wandering off to the kitchen before Ilya can think of what to say to stop him from walking away. He’s not sure right now what the words would be in English, anyway.
Shane comes back holding the prescription cough syrup, the antiviral, and an unfamiliar painkiller bottle that must be from his own supply. “You didn’t even take anything, the cough syrup’s still unopened,” Shane says, and the words are scolding but his tone is endlessly gentle. “Medicine now, okay? We need to get your fever down, baby.”
The endearment has Ilya biting his lip to hold off more tears, and he nods unsteadily. Shane leaves him for the kitchen again and returns with a water bottle and a Gatorade. Then he disappears, further into the apartment than Ilya had dared explore before he fell asleep, and comes back with a thermometer and a wet washcloth.
“Come here,” Shane says softly, when Ilya doesn’t take the initiative, and Shane cups his jaw so carefully. Ilya’s mouth opens obediently when Shane’s thumb prods at it, and Shane slips the thermometer under his tongue. “Give that a minute,” Shane says, turning to measure out a dose of the cough syrup.
“Who won?” Ilya croaks out, once he’s reasonably sure those are the right words. His head feels so thick, like fog has taken up all the real estate in his brain, and his thoughts are treading water instead of swimming. He feels like a confused child, tongue clumsy in his mouth. English hasn’t been this hard for him in years. At least he remembers where he is now.
Shane gives him an amused look and points at the thermometer. “Don’t talk with that in your mouth. And, I did. Your team put up a good fight, though. You should be proud of them.”
Ilya nods, feeling his eyes slip shut. It’s too much effort to hold them open. He sinks back against the couch, abruptly feeling too heavy to hold himself upright anymore.
A hand cups his forehead, and Shane removes the thermometer. He sucks in air against his teeth once he’s read it. “Jeez, Ilya. Your brain is on fire. Should you call your team doctor?”
He shakes his head frantically, not even sure why the thought is so disconcerting, but he knows he doesn’t want to leave here. “No—no, no Evan. Please. Want to stay with you. Please.”
Shane is quiet for a second, then gives him a somewhat pleased look, though the worry is still clear in the furrowed line in his brow. “Okay. But if this gets any higher, we’re in emergency room territory, all right?”
Ilya can’t put some of those words together to make sense of them in his head, but he nods anyway. Whatever Shane wants. He obediently swallows the cough syrup and antiviral and Tylenol that Shane gives him. He drinks the water that Shane holds for him, since his hands are shaking too much to avoid spilling. He lets Shane put the wet washcloth on the back of his neck, and the cold feeling of it is so relieving that he moans quietly, unable to help himself.
“Did you sleep okay?” Shane asks him, wrapping an arm gently around Ilya’s back. He guides Ilya back to rest against the cushions, braced against Shane’s side. The TV blares on, showing footage of some other game, and Shane casually picks up the remote and lowers the volume without dislodging Ilya at all.
This is the most comfortable he’s felt since the Tampa hotel room, even with this horrible fever clouding his brain and making everything hurt. He shrugs and melts into Shane’s side, soaking in the wonderful, secure feeling of it like a sponge. He’s a little bigger than Shane, but right now he feels almost tiny in Shane’s hold. “Bad dream,” he says roughly, reaching up to swipe at his nose, like he sometimes does when he’s uncomfortable or feeling vulnerable.
Unfortunately, that habit of his works against him, now that his face is so sensitive, and even this casual touch sets him off. He hitches once, twice, then jolts away from Shane’s arm toward the other side of the couch to sneeze. He doesn’t have the coordination or forethought right now to aim it his elbow. He barely manages to bring up a hand in time to cover his nose and mouth with a cupped palm, before the fit bursts out of him, desperate and needy.
He pants afterward, still feeling his nostrils flaring and twitching against his hand, which feels slick and damp with spray. He cringes at the feeling. He had tried to stifle, or at least muffle, but… well. Obviously his sinuses have had enough and are making their feelings known, because he was only somewhat successful.
After a long moment of Ilya breathing hard into his cupped hand, Shane exhales with what sounds like a repressed laugh. “Bless you,” he says, wrapping an arm around Ilya and reeling him back toward his side. “Need a tissue?”
Ilya nods, too embarrassed to speak aloud when he knows any words would come out unintelligible with congestion. Shane passes him a good handful of tissues, and he wipes fruitlessly at his nostrils for a few minutes. The sniffles keep coming out of him, thick and useless, and he finds it mortifying but he can’t stop. It’s like all the congestion in his head can’t decide whether it’s staying or going, so it’s doing both at once.
After a few minutes of this, Shane presses him gently. “You don’t need to blow your nose?”
Ilya can feel his cheeks heating under the weight of Shane’s calm, focused attention. He shrugs, most of his face still buried in the tissues.
Shane seems to get the hint. He detaches himself from Ilya and gets up. “I’ll make you some tea and give you a minute, okay? I think I just have green tea, but I’ll check.”
He disappears into the kitchen. It’s a mostly open floor plan, but the columns and partial walls create a concealing illusion, enough that Ilya feels comfortable giving a few soft blows into the tissues.
As always, that starts up a tingling sensation in his sinuses, too buzzy and ticklish to be ignored. He shudders into the tissues with a half-muffled, desperately wet sneeze, too eager for relief to even try to stop it. “hh’shhhhww!”
He manages to blow again afterward, finally clearing away the overflowing congestion for the time being without triggering any more sneezing. He glances around, feeling mildly more coherent and awake, and doesn’t see any trash cans nearby. Sensing that his legs will collapse like jelly if he stands, he contents himself with balling up the ruined tissues in one hand.
Shane returns from the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea. “Feeling better? Oh, let me have those,” Shane says, reaching for the tissues and plucking them out of Ilya’s grasp before he can protest or shy away. “I’ll throw them away. Hang on.”
He wanders back into the kitchen, and this time he’s only gone for a second. When he comes back, Ilya is relieved to note that Shane at least seems to be rubbing hand sanitizer into his hands. Shane is thorough in this like in everything else, scrubbing at his nails and the webbing between his fingers.
“I’mb gross,” Ilya says, and he’s briefly thrown off by how utterly blocked his nose sounds when he speaks. He sniffles uselessly. “You should ndot have to do that. Are you sure you wandt mbe here, with mby germbs?” He means for the words to come out lighthearted, his usual joking tone, but instead he sounds pathetically sad and needy.
Shane visibly softens and sits down beside him, pulling him close again. “I want you to stay,” he says into Ilya’s hair, and then he presses a kiss there. “We agreed, remember?”
Hesitantly, Ilya nods. He isn’t sure he technically agreed, but right now he definitely doesn’t want to argue. Doesn’t want to give Shane any reason to change his mind and make Ilya leave.
After a minute, Shane kisses the top of his head again and rubs his back, then sits up a little more. “You should drink your tea. I found the sleepytime kind, and I put some honey in it. It should be good for your throat,” he rambles awkwardly.
That makes Ilya feel like they’re closer to their normal footing, and he smiles fondly. “Thangk you,” he says hoarsely, taking the mug that Shane hands him. He blows on it at Shane’s urging and then sips. He can’t taste anything with his sinuses so blocked, but he nods anyway as if it tastes good. It slides down his throat easily, at least, and the heat of it is a comfort.
Shane watches him, like a hawk observing her chicks in the nest, or how Ilya imagines that would look anyway. Once Ilya’s drank most of the tea, for the soothing warmth of it on his throat if nothing else, Shane straightens and nods to himself. “Time for bed, I think?” he suggests. “Do you need anything else? Are you hungry?”
Ilya shakes his head, the thought of food making his stomach lurch with disgust. Probably the fever causing that. “Ndo, thangk you,” he rasps out.
“Save your voice,” Shane laughs, helping him to stand up with an arm wrapped around his waist. “You’re very polite when your brain is overheating, huh?”
He ignores his father’s voice in his head. Be polite, Ilya. Where are your manners. So lazy. “Mmb.”
He expects Shane to lead him to a guest room—surely, in an apartment this size, he must have one or two—but Shane guides him into a bedroom that’s clearly lived-in. The bed is immaculately made, and Shane peels back the covers one-handed so he can keep supporting Ilya.
Ilya almost protests that he can hold himself up, but there’s no way that’s true.
Shane forces him to sit on the bed, then kneels down to take Ilya’s shoes and socks off. He helps Ilya wriggle out of his pants and shirt, leaving him in only his underwear. The whole process takes far longer than it should, on account of Ilya struggling and sweating through each step even with Shane’s assistance. After that, Shane keeps him sitting upright so he can try to clear out his nose with handful after handful of tissues, which has Ilya blushing hard to have to do so in front of Shane.
Eventually, though, Shane lets Ilya collapse into the pillows. He drags the comforter up to Ilya’s chest and tucks it in like one would with a child. “I’ll be right back,” Shane says quietly, and he returns with more tea, plus the other drinks, the medicines, and the thermometer. He disappears again, and comes back with a fresh cool washcloth, draping it over Ilya’s forehead.
Ilya snickers, genuinely amused but also feeling somewhat loopy. What was in that cough syrup? He didn’t even think to check. But Shane would have, because Shane is responsible, and Shane wouldn’t let him take anything bad for him. “You are so… nursemaid,” he says, flapping his hand around when he can’t find the right words. He’s pleased to find that he doesn’t sound nearly as congested as before, for the moment at least. “Is cute.”
Shane turns pink. “I want you to feel better,” he says earnestly, which leaves Ilya with nothing to say, staring at him in heart eyes and mild shock. Shane doesn’t react to this, only smiling and propping him up against the pillows. “Drink more tea for me, okay? Liquids are good when you’re sick.”
Ilya ends up drinking another cup of tea, and half of the Gatorade, before Shane lets him lie down. Shane changes into sweatpants and lays next to him, whole body curled around Ilya, and plays with their entwined fingers. Long minutes pass in silence while Ilya tries to figure out what to say next.
“Thank you,” he finally manages. “Sorry I… ruined our night. I know we had plans.”
Shane shushes him and tucks an errant curl behind his ear. “It’s okay. Although…” He ducks his head down and blushes again. “I had this whole plan, you know, to ask you something.”
Normally, the very thought of that sentence would cause Ilya dread. Right now, though, he feels buoyed and lightheaded from the fever—and, fine, a little high on the cough syrup—so all he does is making an inquiring noise.
“So, I have this cottage,” Shane says. “It’s out by the lake, like two hours from here, and it’s beautiful. Very private, no neighbors for miles.”
“Mm.” Ilya shifts, his face buried in Shane’s side, and breathes deep. He can’t smell anything, but he knows Shane’s scent well enough to imagine it. He knows the cottage Shane is talking about, has watched that documentary enough times that Svetlana banned it from her home. It’s soothing, though he’d never admit that out loud.
“And I was thinking, for this summer. Maybe you could come? Instead of going to Russia,” Shane says. The rising panic is evident in his tone, and he quickly starts babbling. “I just, I know you were just there, and maybe you want to keep going back, but it seemed like maybe… you didn’t. Anyway, the cottage is super private, no one would know we were there, and there’s a lot of fun things to do. Like swimming, or grilling, or video games. Or resting. Whatever you want. We could just… be. Like, alone together. We could be together. And we could have a week, or maybe even two if we can both get that much time off after the playoffs—”
“Hollander,” Ilya says, because his brain is starting to swim with all this information. He knows what not-stoned-off-cold-medicine-him would say right now. Something noncommittal. Maybe something rude or risqué, to change the subject and make Shane refocus on calling him an asshole. But right now, he’s floating, and he can feel sleep tugging at him. “I like your cottage,” he mumbles, eyes closing, and he nestles into Shane’s side without further thought. “Watch the show a lot.”
“Oh,” Shane says. His hand moves in circles over Ilya’s back, long sweeping motions, soothing. There’s warmth in his voice when he speaks again. “Yeah? Well… Maybe we can talk about it more later. When you’re feeling better.”
“Mm,” Ilya agrees, dropping off to sleep without a second thought.
He wakes sometime in the night, feeling hot and wrong again. The time passes in quick flashes, everything seeming to change each time he opens his eyes, like a strobe light in a shitty club. He vaguely remembers more cold cloths, draped over his forehead and wedged in his armpits. He remembers someone holding more pills to his mouth and helping him drink water. Hazily, he recalls the sensation of coughing until he almost throws up, with that same someone bracing a trash can in front of him. He doesn’t think he actually vomited, small comfort.
He remembers a soft voice, quiet and familiar, murmuring gentle words to him in French. He remembers cold, steady hands, keeping him upright and guiding him into a cool shower. The water feels freezing, and his teeth chatter, but the moment is there and gone in another flash. When he blinks again, he’s been toweled dry and put back to bed, cuddled up against someone. It feels like even more time has passed without him being aware of it, and he has no sense of what time it must be, other than “the middle of the night.”
By the time his brain clears enough to let him make sense of where he is and who he’s with, Ilya feels so utterly drained and miserable that all he can do is continue to rest a hot cheek against Shane’s chest and let his hair be petted.
“Hey. I know,” Shane soothes, when he seems to notice that Ilya’s a little more aware of his surroundings. “That wasn’t fun, huh?”
The words are sympathetic, comforting, the way one would speak to a very sick person or a child, and abruptly he thinks of his mother again. She’s never very far from his mind when he’s feeling unwell. The way she would hold him and kiss him and reassure him. Always with the gentlest touches and tones of voice. The way she would cradle him to her chest like her baby, no matter how big he got, and call him her Ilyushenka.
The tears spill out of him helplessly, hot and streaming, and he can feel them puddling onto Shane’s chest under his cheek. He half-expects Shane to panic, to sit them up and fuss over his temperature again, but maybe Shane has been all panicked out by the events of earlier. Instead, Shane keeps a steady hand pressed to Ilya’s back, grounding him, while he uses the other hand to keep carding through Ilya’s hair. “I’m here,” Shane says softly, not sounding fazed at all. “It’s okay. I’m here, baby.”
His brain, stupid overheated thing, keeps flashing back to Tampa, to how he’s crying on Shane again. Instead of being charming and hot and sexy, like he’d intended to be to make up for Tampa, tonight he’s just been a wet, pathetic, feverish, sneezy mess. With fucking bronchitis, probably. Ilya lets a quiet sob escape him, muffled into Shane’s skin, and feels more tears drip down onto Shane’s chest.
Shane’s touch is cool and comforting, and Ilya only cries for a minute or two before the tears run dry. He has the vague worry that maybe he’s cried himself out so quickly because his fever is boiling him from the inside out, evaporating his tears. Then—and this worry seems more possible, not to mention absolutely mortifying—he has the thought that perhaps he’s already cried on Shane many times tonight, and the fever keeps wiping the memory from his head, only for him to do it all over again. He blinks up at Shane, trying to discern if they’ve done this already tonight.
Shane looks down at him, smiling even though he looks physically tired as hell, like he’s been up half the night caring for a feverish Russian after playing a full hockey game. There’s no frustration in his expression, though, like how Ilya might expect if they were repeating the same teary scenario over and over tonight. His hand leaves Ilya’s hair, and he drags a finger under Ilya’s left eye to wipe away the last of the tear tracks. “Feel a little better?”
Ilya sniffles and nods. The sniffle, plus the pressure of Shane’s finger pad against his face, pushes his sinuses into an uproar, and he flinches toward his arm with a sudden sneeze he can’t possibly hope to contain. He sprays across his forearm, not even managing to keep the damage out of Shane’s sight.
“hrsshh’SHHIEWW!” he sneezes, tickly and not nearly satisfying enough to keep him from immediately ducking back toward his arm for another outburst or two. They come out loud and wet, and much more vocal than he’s used to. “hahh… HAASSCHHEWW! hah’ASSHHHoohh!”
Another mortifying few seconds pass, where he’s all too aware of the spray drying on his skin and Shane’s eyes on him. Focused. Taking everything in.
Then, Shane is holding a tissue up to his nose. “Here, sweetheart,” Shane murmurs. He cups it around Ilya’s nose, seemingly unbothered by the mess, and rubs.
For a second, Ilya tries to resist. But he’s so fucking exhausted. And at no point in his plan has he actually succeeded recently in not showing vulnerability around Shane Hollander. And his arms hurt too much with feverish body aches to even think of lifting a hand to take the tissue.
So Shane Hollander wipes his nose for him, and presses it there for him while he blows, and holds him when Ilya builds up to another, much more quiet but just as wet, “heht’sshheww!” Shane just murmurs a bless you and wipes his nose dry again. The touch is exceedingly gentle, Shane being wary of the sensitive skin at Ilya’s nostrils and Cupid’s bow.
By the time Shane tosses the crumpled, sodden tissue onto the nightstand, Ilya can feel his eyes drooping. “Sorry,” he mutters, letting his cheek drop onto Shane’s chest again. His skin doesn’t feel burning hot against Shane’s anymore, at least. “Keep sndeezing ond you and falling asleep ond you.”
Shane laughs, the sound loose and a little wild from lack of sleep. “I think that’s just how being sick goes. It’s okay, I don’t mind. Rest, mon coeur.”
The hand on Ilya’s back is moving in slow, steady circles, and his nose is finally a little bit clearer, and his head aches from crying and coughing and fever. And he’s being cradled in Shane Hollander’s arms. He falls asleep before he even realizes his eyes are closing.
When he wakes up again, he feels less out of control. More rested. His body still feels out of whack, and he can tell that his temperature and sinuses are still screwed up, but it’s undeniably better. His internal clock is working again and says that it’s early morning, and he’s sleeping sprawled out on the bed and not on top of Shane, so Shane must already be up.
He’s content to keep dozing like this, but his body gets the memo that he’s awake. He drags himself half-upright to cough into an elbow, and that shifts the built-up congestion around. The tickle strikes him before he can even think to pinch it back, and he gasps helplessly before crumpling forward with an urgent, vocal sneeze.
“hih’DSSCHHHhh!”
He fumbles for a tissue, grabbing some from the box on the nightstand, and blows his nose, the sound productive and thick. Fuck, he’s definitely got a sinus infection. The long flight yesterday and the changes in air pressure probably didn’t help matters.
“Good morning,” he hears, a fond voice. “And bless you.”
When he’s able to pull himself away from the tissues, thanking God that blowing his nose didn’t set off another fit for once, he finds Shane in the doorway. Shane is dressing in his running gear, a little damp with sweat from his morning exercise, and he’s sipping at a smoothie that looks absolutely disgusting.
“Good mbording,” he says, cringing at his voice. He sounds absolutely wrecked, snotty and hoarse and like he cried all night long. He vaguely remembers crying and starts to panic. Did he actually cry on Shane all night long? Shit. Shit shit shit.
Some of the panic must show on his face, because Shane draws closer, a reassuring look on his face. “You had a little bit of a rough night,” he says, voice calm, “and your fever spiked around 3am, but I think the Tylenol finally got it down. Do you remember?”
Ilya nods. “Sombe,” he says cautiously, and sniffles. “Sorry.”
Shane shakes his head. “No more sorries,” he says firmly. “I told you that last night and I meant it. I want you here. I want to take care of you.”
God. Shane has been—is—so brave, ever since Tampa. Ilya could never say such things. Even the thought of it has his father’s voice—
Well. He elects to ignore his father’s voice inside his head. He’s already given up on Russia and fallen in love with his sworn rival. He is already an embarrassment to his family and a traitor to his country’s ideals, not that he particularly cares about either of those things.
Maybe…. Well. Maybe he wants Hollander to say those things. Maybe he wants to hear them, even say them back one day. Maybe, one day, he’ll even be able to say I love you to Shane in a language he’ll understand.
Ilya scrubs at his nose and nods. “Thangk you, thend,” he offers, slightly embarrassed, and Shane nods. “I kndow I amb ndot… easy to deal with, whend I amb sick.”
Shane sits on the edge of the bed. “You’re not at all hard to take care of, Ilya,” he says seriously. “I mean it. Even at 3am, carrying you into a cold shower to get your fever down, you were nothing but sweet. I think you were more worried about sneezing on me than you were about your brain cooking. Which, obviously the wrong priorities, but I appreciate it anyway.”
Helpless, Ilya barks out a laugh. It scrapes at his throat, and he coughs into his soaked tissues until it stops. “Okay,” he finally agrees, unsure what else to say. “Ndow what?”
“Well, you’re still pretty sick,” Shane says. He takes a water bottle from the nightstand and forces it into Ilya’s hands until he drinks some of it. “Your fever’s down, but it’s hanging around. Your team flies out in like an hour, you’re definitely missing that. Your team doctor messaged you earlier, I texted him back from your phone and told him you were with, uh, Jane. You can fly back to Boston in a couple days when you feel better, or meet them on the road if it takes longer than that. I’ve got a couple days before I fly out again, so no rush there. You stay here as long as you need.”
Shane is so beautifully, obsessively thorough. Ilya loves that about him. But his mind can’t process all of that, so he drags a hand down Shane’s chest. “Sooo… fever sex?” he teases. “Since we did not get to do last night?”
Shane frowns and pushes him off. “Ha ha,” he says. “No. You’re going to have something to eat and take a nap. And then we’ll see how you’re feeling.”
“Shaaaane,” he whines, collapsing against the pillows from Shane’s halfhearted push. “I did not get my kisses last night. You cannot deny me this.”
“You got plenty of kisses last night,” Shane snorts. “You just don’t remember them all because your brain was trying to cook itself.”
Well, now he has a vendetta against his brain and his immune system, because how dare he not remember getting kisses from Shane? If he focuses, he still can recall those strobe light flashes of memory. A cold shower, snuggles, crying on Shane’s chest. The memory is a little embarrassing, but mostly warm and nice. He remembers being held, feeling comforted.
For the first time since he was twelve, the thought of that isn’t completely terrifying. It almost feels like something he can have.
He gives in, the way he always does when Shane’s puppy eyes come into play. He eats oatmeal and drinks tea and naps. He wakes up, watches a little boring TV, drinks soup and Gatorade, and bugs Shane into reading aloud from his boring hockey book.
Eventually, Shane also gives in, because he always does that too when it comes to Ilya. Fever sex, Ilya is surprised to note, is kind of like being high. His fever is much lower than last night, but it’s left his skin feeling incredibly hypersensitive. It’s like the opposite of an out-of-body experience. He is so firmly in his body like this, so aware of every touch, burning up and freezing at the same time. Shane holds him until he comes, wipes him off with a clean cloth, and hand-feeds him Tylenol in the afterglow.
It’s possibly the slowest, gentlest sex they’ve ever had, and it still leaves Ilya feeling like a wrung out ragdoll afterward. He collapses back into the bed, sneezes another harsh, surprisingly loud, “ehttSSHHIEWW!” into the blankets, and sniffles until Shane hands him more tissues and feels his forehead again.
They don’t talk about the cottage. Ilya half-remembers the conversation from last night, the speech that Shane had obviously practiced—which is, God, just so endearing—but he doesn’t know how to approach it. No matter how much he wants it, how can he say yes? No matter how impossible it is, how could he say no?
The day passes in a haze of bed and couch, couch and bed, and eventually his fever lowers enough that he feels human enough to shower properly. Shane joins him, gets him off again but won’t let Ilya do the same for him because of how shoddy his balance still is, and washes his hair. Ilya tries not to cry at the sensation of being so fucking cared for. He’s pretty sure he fails, and he has been such a waterfall this week which is embarrassing, but at least the shower water helps cover up the tears this time.
Shane babies him and half-carries him to bed when the steam makes him dizzy again. It’s humiliating and makes his throat tight. He kind of loves it.
When the fever spikes again that night, Shane’s patient and calm. He holds Ilya tight and rubs his back and cleans his face for him with tissue after tissue when his nose won’t stop running and his eyes won’t stop leaking. Ilya can feel his brain overheating, and probably this isn’t the moment, but he can’t help it. If he isn’t brave now, he worries he never will be.
“Shane,” he croaks, face buried in Shane’s neck, during a quieter moment when he’s not crying and Shane’s not absorbed in shushing him and trying futilely to make it all better.
Shane strokes a hand up and down his spine. “Yeah?”
“The cottage. Do you still want?”
Shane’s hand goes stiff on his back, before ultra-casually resuming the same motion as before. “I do,” he says quietly. “And… and you?”
The hope and tension in Shane’s voice is impossible to ignore. How could he ever have even imagined disappointing this man? Ilya presses a kiss to the side of Shane’s throat at a known delicate spot, delighting in the shiver it causes. “I want,” he says, the words thick in his throat from fear. “I am terrified, but I want. Okay?”
“Okay,” Shane breathes, holding him tighter. He presses kisses to Ilya’s temples like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. “Then we’ll figure it out. We’ll make it work.”
The joy in Shane’s body language, the grin in his voice, is enough to put Ilya back to sleep with a matching smile on his face.
*
Author’s Note: And then Shane catches the flu and then they both get knocked out of the playoffs and then they watch The Kiss and then they go to the cottage with EVEN MORE hope and security in their relationship. It takes Ilya about two hours into the trip to say “I love you” in English, instead of two days. And then they live happily ever after with many more cold and flu incidents THE END.
