I/lya is bad at leaving used tissues in places they shouldn’t be he cant help it but the damn things just disappear out of his hands it seems meanwhile s/hane is always the one finding the crumpled discarded balls. He started growing accustomed to finding them tucked underneath his or Ilya’s pillows
another member of the people here.. Shane sub space snz is in fact something we desperately need and we have full faith of your ability to step up to the plate…. No pressure also but also I have dreamed for fic like this 🥹 the people are ready and waiting for sub Shane snz
snowed in hollanov in montreal. ilya walked two blocks from his cab before he got to shane’s because Discreet. and he’s cold and shivering and sniffly now. they did it for a fuck, but the weather turns even worse and now shane’s stuck taking care of ilya’s burgeoning cold until the weather clears up.
ilya is denying at every turn, playing it off even as he starts to shiver with a sudden fever. even as he has his third sneezing fit of the hour, ducked into the leather of his jacket he’d walked here in, concealing nothing.
but they’re snowed in, so he can’t exactly run off.
hi, as a member of the people 🙋 i would like to represent us and say we are ready for the sub space shane snz fic. you should write it. no pressure if you aren’t ready but. we are ready
random idea/‘drabble’ (is this still a thing) for kink!shane in subspace. (not a fic just an idea for D/S hollanov)
-
Shane is on his knees as Ilya sits on the bed above him, patiently misting cologne slowly, diligently against his wrist.
“Please, Ilya,” he pants, eyes watering as the scent only faintly reaches his nose, “make me sneeze.”
Ilya glances down, his hand without the cologne on it grasping firmly around Shane’s jaw. “You are so eager. But —“ he clicks his tongue and presses the pad of his thumb into the side of Shane’s nose. Shane presses his face against it, wriggles his nose, desperate for the relief.
“—what we will do, is that you will try very hard not to sneeze.”
Shane moans, squirming and trying to force his face towards Ilya’s other wrist. “I’ll be a good boy,” he promises, “anything, please. Make me sneeze.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t let go of Shane’s jaw, but slowly raises his other wrist down. Shane sniffs hungrily, chasing the scent as it prickles faintly before growing stronger in the back of his nose.
It’s finally so good, so strong that — his breath hitches and Ilya’s other hand moves in a blink, clamping down over his nostrils.
“I said,” and Ilya loosens his grip over Shane’s nose as he presses his scented wrist closer, “don’t sneeze.”
this is a ilya cold/shane caretaker/boodram party fic. i want to let u know there are NO spellings. i leave this to reader imagination in his fits. pls drop da replies and reblogs i love comments.
CW: mess, colds, accidental contagion, drinking, weed smoking. discussions of sex no explicit scenes.
see the tags for more notes.
“Is okay, Shane, you worry too much,” Ilya rolls his eyes and sniffs as he dutifully helps Shane out of the passenger seat. Not a necessity, a courtesy of their dynamic.
It’s a Boodram team party. The best of the best. Bood can grill like nobody’s business and he also invites any and all WAGS (or otherwise plus ones). There’s no better Centaur’s bonding than a Bood party.
As captain, Ilya has no problem admitting this. Previously, the whole secretly dating Shane Hollander-thing really put a damper on his abilities to host. Now that they’re both on the team, he’s found that he still prefers a Boodram kickback. If it was their place – (they’ve fucked on every surface of their home, so it would become Oh, no, the rookies are playing poker where we fucked doggy that night) – then Shane would get too anxious about the clean-up, really, he means.
So, the A hosts, and the C arrives with his husband.
They’ve been doing this for their first year as husbands. The only difference of note tonight is that Ilya has a cold. It’s nothing that would concern the team doctors, but there is a level of casually under the weather that Ilya is forced to bring to the party along with the case of beer under his arm. And, simultaneously, not be too casual or else be scolded by his husband for brazenly spreading it. His cold, specifically.
Unfortunately for his husband – he’s surely caught whatever cold Ilya is down with already. He’s had to hold his tongue all day from giving him gentle reminders such as we sleep in the same bed or you had my spit in your mouth last night every time Shane makes him wash his hands or scoots marginally away from him.
“I am cleared,” Ilya reminds Shane as they head towards Bood’s front door. He can hear the thumping bass and general chatter from the backyard. “Good to go for games, just the sniffles?”
Shane sighs and grasps for his waist as they walk up to the door. “I know. But, if you feel bad, let me know, promise?”
“Yes, yes,” Ilya groans back, pinching the bridge of his nose. It doesn’t escape him that his exasperated sniffle is heavy, and wet. He knows he has a cold, but he isn’t coughing and doesn’t have a fever. So Shane should leave him alone.
This response hasn’t satisfied his husband, who is giving him a stern look. “I promise,” Ilya adds, “and I also promise I will not feel too bad when I fuck you when we get home after.”
Shane jabs his side and then raps twice with his knuckles. The door falls open in front of him. Shane insists on knocking every time even though this is always the result. Never locked, never closed.
They step inside and Ilya eyes a corner of Bood’s kitchen counter as they step inside, “Want to get drunk?”
__
Ilya ends up with a beer in his hand and a husband on his left thigh, out at the campfire.
He’s been doing well tonight, but the smoke and the lack of tissues has been admittedly making him sound worse and worse.
“Wyat’d!” he exclaims at one point, voice husky and low in the back of his throat. He sniffles and points at him with the rim of his bottle, “you are such a fucki’g nerd! Literally nobody in the world knows tha’dt much about comics, so you are arguing with a wall.”
The conversation continues, but his throat kind of hurts and he clears it only once before Shane is producing a cough drop. He watches from his peripherals as his husband pulls it from his pocket, unwraps it, and offers it against Ilya’s lips.
He takes it, enjoying the menthol and blowing the scent at Shane’s ear to piss him off, thankful.
His burning throat immediately starts to recede and he gives Shane a squeeze on his hip, where he’s holding him in his lap.
__
Ilya only realizes he might be congested to ears other than his own when someone makes fun of his accent.
He’s been used to it since North America, more than half his life, but he’s never heard it from the Centaurs before. So it must mean something, if they’re bringing it up.
It’s Dykstra, who teases first. “I’b Rozanob an’ I’b our captain”, he remarks with an obvious accent and nasality, interrupting whatever Ilya had been saying.
He baulks. “Fuck you, I soud fin’d,” he remarks, disproving his own point as the syllables reach his ears. He sniffles, reflexively, and thumbs at the side of his nose.
Shane shifts on his lap and cups a hand around his ear, “Do you want to go?”
He shakes his head.
Despite this, Shane produces a tissue from somewhere and whispers, “do you need to blow your nose?” as he presses it into his hand.
His brain short-circuts. He does. He’s been sniffling around this cold for the past hour and something. He’s sneezed a few times and it’s been getting more frequent. Still, a non-issue, really, more like an annoyance. But it’s so sweet that Shane had a tissue for him. But it’s also so embarrassing that Ilya apparently needs to blow his nose so bad that his husband is telling (he asks, but he tells) him to.
He takes the tissue and pinches at his septum, gathering up the wetness waiting there. He doesn’t blow as instructed.
__
The tissue is forgotten in his hand, held between his index and middle finger, the other three wrapped around his beer. He only remembers it when he gets up to get a refill, accidentally tossing it into the recycling along with his empty bottle. And he decides maybe he should blow his nose after all.
He goes into the bathroom, pisses, and then blows his nose into a handful of toilet paper. Huh, he can actually almost take in a full breath through his nose now.
He tweaks the side of his nose with his thumb to tease out an indulgent sneeze, see if he can get rid of the lingering congestion. It works too well. One success turns into three, turning the toilet paper cupped in his hands to mush. He tosses them and grabs another wad before washing his hands.
He goes to grab another beer, then stares at the cooler for too long and grabs a water in case Shane wants one, and heads back outside to check if Shane is hiding any more cough drops in his pockets that he can steal.
__
It takes another half-hour or so before Shane starts to get really serious. Ilya had been talking with the guys (couple hits off the shared blunt in, now, loose and warm), before Shane asserts himself.
“Ilya,” he says, stalking up to him as he, Bood, Dykstra, and Hayes are lounging on the back porch, “let’s go home.”
“Ughhh,” Ilya groans, through a sniffle and a wipe of his nose on the back of his hand, “the missus,” he stage-whispers to their teammates.
“No,” Shane says crossly, as if this is actually a point that needs correcting. “Your husband.”
Ilya grins at him. He loves hearing Shane say that in public. “Yes, my husband.” He grabs the closest water bottle off the table and takes a quick sip as he hears his voice crack. He’s getting cotton-mouthy from the weed and his throat is irritated.
Shane doesn’t like this response. “Your husband is currently clinging to the last of his energy of this night and doesn’t want his sick, cross-faded husband to get worse.” Shane has his high-and-mighty look on. His arms are crossed, but his tone makes it seem like he should have them on his hips. He’s so cute.
Ilya hears himself giggle. His Shane is sooo cute. “да - мой зайчик,” he drags himself out of the lawn chair he’d been sprawled across.
He goes to give his beautiful, adorably strict husband a kiss, but gets dodged. Or maybe he missed. He tries again and confirms Shane is being intentional. He whines unhappily at this, interlocking their fingers absentmindedly.
“You’re gross. Your nose is running,” Shane informs him, but he sounds sort of fond.
“I know,” Ilya agrees, but pulls the bottom hem of his tank up to wipe at it because he would like to kiss his husband. “I sneezed earlier and WOOSH!” he gestures emphatically at his face, “I am dripping like a leaky faucet now.”
“You’re gross,” Shane repeats, grumbling, but presses a chaste kiss to the side of Ilya’s mouth.
“Yes! Victory!” Ilya scoops Shane up in his arms, planting a kiss to the side of his head.
“Hear that?” he asks, head tilted back to their teammates as he clings his arms around the small of Shane’s back. “I am gross and I still have a very sexy husband who loves me. None of you could be so lucky.”
This very satisfying moment is lessened when he turns into his shoulder with a spraying sneeze, forcing him to release Shane as he stumbles.
He feels Shane’s arm catch him across the waist as he grabs the neck of his tank and releases – some many number of times more. He loses count. His shirt is going to need a good wash after this. Stark-white, one of his favorites, and he can feel the evidence of his cold seeping through it. He pinches off the mess as he withdraws from it.
“Go home, Roz,” Hayes says, not unkind. Lisa had at some point reminded him that Ilya got a sinus infection last time he had a cold, so now he’s turned into a concerned citizen.
Ilya is very proud of the way he manages to balance bitching and moaning with politely saying goodnight to his friends, allowing Shane to push him inside and snag them some leftovers.
He will let everyone else be right, even though he’s fine. They’re right only because he knows they say it because they care about him. Not because they’re concerned about the team or think he is weak.
__
He’s stretching crackling tinfoil over a plate to take home as they stand alone in the kitchen when, “Is it, uh, morally wrong that I think you sound hot right now?”
Ilya glances sideways at Shane and chuckles, low. “No, I do not think it is morally wrong to be attracted to your husband.”
He jerks his head towards the door as he walks to Bood’s entranceway.
“No, I mean,” Shane says, avoiding eye contact as he holds the front door for Ilya, “Like, your, uh, sick voice? It’s doing things to me.”
“Eh,” Ilya shrugs, grinning, as he beeps their keys in his hand before passing them to Shane, who is always their after driver. His nose is prickling again and he pinches it, hard, trying to stave off the feeling. “If your husband must suffer, at least you can enjoy. I see no issue.”
___
They settle into their sensible Jeep and Ilya can start to lay his I’m going to fuck you when we get get back trap.
He leans over and says low in Shane’s ear, “You did so good tonight, sweetheart.” He purposefully scratches at his stomach, exposing a strip of skin between the hem and his waistband.
Shane is probably flushing, but he can’t tell in the dim light of the driveway. He waits until they’re pulling out onto the main road, street lamps illuminating him in flashes.
“You take such good care of me, my Shanya,” said leaned over the center console and against his ear, again. He even flicks his tongue out to his earlobe. He accidentally sniffles before he pulls back.
There’s quiet for a long moment.
“I like taking care of you. Even if I know you don’t need it, I want to.”
Ilya knows this. Shane knows he feels the same, the vice-versa, whatever. Still, it’s melting him down to his sappy bits to hear out loud and he grabs for Shane’s right hand, desperate to squeeze him as he dissolves against the passenger seat. “I know. I love you. But is just a cold, I swear.”
“Also, I love you, but you sniffle, like. All the time,” Shane sighs.
Ilya frowns, drawing their joined hands to his heart. “I have a cold!” he exclaims. “I am a victim!”
“Yes, baby, I know. Sorry.” Shane squeezes their hands together like a heartbeat, sparing a glance his way. There’s no heat behind it. “But you’re actually incessant. I wanted to strangle you halfway through when we were sitting at the firepit.” Shane squeezes again.
“Incessant. Hmm. I will take this English word to mean sexy?” Ilya presses a kiss into their joined hands, biting lightly at a few of Shane’s knuckles. He knows what it means. He makes a mental note to blow his nose more if he needs to and thunks his head against the window again, closing his eyes.
__
The moment they’re back through their own door, Ilya is searching for more Shane, dragging his hair between his fingers, kissing him desperately. Shane is returning, putty in his mold, grasping desperately for handfuls of his ass and biting at his lower lip.
Ilya pulls back for air as he starts to get congested and notes, “Seems like you don’t mind if I am gross after all,” because Shane is swiping Ilya’s mess off his lips with a very irritated glare.
“Go shower. You smell like weed,” Shane commands, shoving him lightly in the direction of their staircase.
__
The warm steam of the shower is nice. Probably too nice. Now that he’s alone, the heavy thrum of the water onto the floor blocking out the world, he can admit he doesn’t feel … great.
His head hurts. He’s surely still somewhere between high and tipsy, but he’s come down enough that he has to feel the headache he’s been avoiding.
His throat is ragged. Too much talking and smoking and clearing it over and over and over against the phlegm dripping down from his ever-suffering nasal passageways.
Speaking of his sinuses — he hadn’t realized how much they burned until now, fraught with overuse from his constant sniffling, surely. Shane was right, he does do this too much.
The sneezes run freely now, down over his cupid’s bow and onto the tile of the shower where he’s pressed his face for some reason, and then mix with the rest of the clean, warm water. He’s folded over, gasping for breath as each release frees him, but also makes him more dizzy as the steam builds.
Mostly, he just feels a little buzzy and a lot tired.
He strokes his dick a few times, ensuring it’s still in working order. It starts to swell up, assuring him he’s still good to make his husband cry with pleasure.
Good.
But – there’s not usually a but.
He’s very tired.
__
“Okay, I took a shower. Now we can fuck?” Ilya announces, the line three-times rehearsed in his head as he exits their bathroom.
Shane is sitting on their bed, criss-crossed legs balancing his laptop. His hair is damp. Oh. He showered, then. In the guest bath. The last time they used the guest bedroom was some months ago after some fight which ended with Shane joining Ilya there because assholes get to sleep in the guest room, so I realized I should because I’m also —
“I made you tea.” Shane barely looks up as he says it, interrupting whatever horrible train of thought Ilya had been about to go down.
He approaches his side of the bed and peers at the waiting warm mug. He lifts it to his face, but he can tell before he smells it that it’s his kind of tea. Jammy. Shane prefers earthy teas for himself. Hojicha is his favorite, he remembers.
He takes a blissful sip. “Thank you,” he tells his husband as he flops down in bed, grasping a hand around his thigh to squeeze it properly. The tea soothes his throat and follows warm down into his stomach.
He clears his throat and rolls over more towards Shane. “You are too busy with laptop drama, won’t let me make good on my promise?”
Shane looks at him, confused, for some reason. “Uh, I just thought we’d go to sleep.”
Ilya must have pouted at him for too-long because he follows up, “You’re sick, Ilya. I can tell you’re tired.”
He sniffles, because he needs to, but he’s exaggerating. “I know. But, I want my Shanya to feel good too,” he can hear the pouting in his voice and doesn’t shy away from it. He pulls out his widest, most shining, pleading eyes he can manage and looks up at Shane.
Shane reaches a hand into Ilya’s curls and scratches. He loves to do this. Ilya loves it, too, like he’s Shane’s overgrown puppy. “I’d feel better if you rested, sweetheart.”
“Ah, he has pulled out the big guns,” he says, gasping before he sneezes, pinched between two fingers. He doesn’t like to suppress them, but he wants to rest and not be bugged about a tissue or medicine by Shane.
“‘Sweetheart,’ he said,” Ilya continues, attempting at frustration, but takes little coaxing before he’s burying his head deeper against his pillow and closing his eyes as Shane continues to massage at his scalp.
It’s right when he’s on the edge of sleep, fighting between breathing clearly and exhaustion, that he hears Shane voice, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
terrible and update re: my teaser. shane and ilya decided to turn it into a vanilla-adjacent fic about love and care-taking. i might cross-post or doll it up for snzblr who knows.
my boss texts me on my personal number sometimes but this is the first time it’s happened with a sneeze fic open and my hand down my pants :/ BONER KILLED.
January 2016. The day before the Metros-Raiders game, Shane tells Hayden he totally isn't meeting up with Boston Lily and Ilya assures Marleau that he's not that sniffly. In a totally unrelated turn of events, both As are dealing with sick captains on game day.
inspired by this post from @perseaphoneaa
This fic wouldn’t exist without a ton of help and encouragement @snzivore, who is the best beta reader ever and also wrote most of Hayden’s POV in this part. I’d also like to thank the Habs for winning game 1 against Tampa, thus motivating me to actually write hockey stuff.
* * *
It was late afternoon and the Metros’ plane had just touched down in Boston for tomorrow’s game against the Raiders. It had been a long fucking roadie, but at least they would get to go home after this game and they had tonight off. Truly, a goddamn miracle. Maybe Coach Theriault remembered that his players aren’t hockey-playing robots?
The rookies were stoked; they’d been planning for tonight the whole ride. Boston’s nightlife was less exciting for the veterans, but they were clearly looking forward to a night off. Hayden was too, but he was also exhausted. He swore he could feel each and every bruise he’d gotten over the past nine days, getting body checked by D-men at least half a foot taller than he was. And he imagined that Shane, the team’s star center and a fellow undersized forward, didn’t feel much better.
“What do you say, capitaine?” said J.J, poking his head in between their seats. He was trying to lure Shane into some team bonding. Hayden could've told him not to bother when they're in Boston because–
Shane's phone buzzed with an incoming text, right on cue. Shane glanced down and his lips stretched into a small yet bright smile even before he unlocked the screen. Hayden affectionately called it Shane's Boston Lily face.
“Sorry man,” Shane responded to J.J., “I’m beat. Gonna turn in early.” He was saved from J.J.’s cross-examination when the flight crew indicated they could deplane. Still, Hayden wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to rib Shane. They stood up, stretched, and went to grab their bags. Hayden shifted his weight closer to Shane as he hauled his bag out of the overhead bin.
“Turn in early, my ass,” Hayden said, lowering his voice slightly. He might be ribbing Shane, but he knew that Shane was sensitive about Boston Lily. “You don’t have plans with Lily?” He waggled his eyebrows at Shane.
“Get fucked,” Shane said, and scowled at Hayden, but there wasn’t any heat in his response.
“I hope you do,” Hayden said, grinning broadly. “Need you in top form tomorrow!”
This wasn’t the first time they’d gone through this song and dance, but Shane still sighed and denied his thing with Lily. “It’s not like that, Hayd.” Hayden flashed Shane a cheerfully exaggerated wink as they crossed over to the jet bridge.
“Whatever you say, buddy.”
* * *
Cliff Marleau laughed as he pulled off his helmet and pushed his sweaty hair off his forehead. He went all-out at every practice, but the days leading up to a game against the Metros were sometimes too much even for him.
Rozanov, on the other hand, was in rare form. Playing against the Metros always energized him, like he was gearing himself up to match skills with Hollander. He was dialed in to the details of each drill, hunted the puck relentlessly in every 1-on-1, and played in the scrimmage with an intensity that normal people reserved for the postseason. He was also sniffling.
“Damn, Roz, you’re gonna kill me,” Cliff grinned as he skated up to his captain and playfully shoved him. “Maybe save some of that energy for Hollander?”
“I always have enough energy for Hollander,” Roz smirked, then sniffled again. He sounded slightly congested.
From this closer vantage, Cliff could see that Rozy’s nose was definitely bugging him. A sniffly Roz wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence, but today seemed…excessive. His nose had been visibly running for most of practice. His nostrils were shaded an irritated pink, probably rubbed raw by the rough fabric of his jersey. As Cliff watched, Roz shucked off one glove and raised his hand to bully his nose, squishing his nostrils upward with his knuckles and scrubbing at them roughly. His hand was glistening as he lowered it, then wiped it off on his jersey. He was already sniffling again, but he seemed to be in a good mood.
“Come on, I need shower. I have places to be,” Roz said cryptically, then skated away.
Cliff furrowed his brow and followed Rozanov across the rink to the tunnel, then ducked into the dressing room. As usual, Roz paused on the threshold.
The sneezes were huge and spraying, his face a mask of desperation before each one. Roz never made an effort to cover, he just doubled over and directed them at the floor.
“Bless you, cap! Are the two more for extra luck?” Connors called across the room. Rozanov flipped him off.
It didn’t necessarily mean anything. Something about the change in temperature made Roz sneeze every time they got off the ice. But it was usually three sneezes, except in allergy season. And was he imagining it, or were they harsher than usual?
“You good?” Cliff asked as they began the familiar ritual of stripping off their gear. “It looks like your nose is bothering you. More than usual, I mean.”
Roz shrugged as he pulled off one shoulder pad. “Yes, is annoying. Allergies, probably.” His nose was dripping again. He tugged the other shoulder pad off, sniffling wetly in a futile attempt to contain the mess.
“It’s January, Roz,” Cliff argued.
“Maybe they changed laundry soap again, or something,” Rozanov shrugged again, then swiped at his nose with one hand.
“Oh yeah, don’t remind me,” Cliff grimaced. Before seeing it with his own eyes, he’d never have believed it was possible to maintain consciousness while sneezing that many times in a row. To this day it’s official policy for the equipment staff to stick to non-scented cleaning products. At least the current situation didn’t seem anywhere near that bad.
Roz was still sniffling as he tugged off his hockey pants and leaned forward to tackle his shin guards. Cliff watched with a mix of disgust and concern as the snot breached containment and flooded onto his upper lip. With a dissatisfied grunt, Roz abandoned his efforts and grabbed a clean towel off the bench. He blew his nose thoroughly, then switched to a dry section and blew again. He was definitely stuffed up, but at least it sounded like his sinuses were draining properly. For now, the ominous thought flashed through Cliff’s mind. He cursed himself for jinxing it.
Apparently satisfied, Roz returned to tearing the tape off his socks with more force than was strictly necessary. Did he feel worse than he was letting on, or was he just impatient to get out of here?
Cliff’s question was answered immediately when Roz reached for his phone and typed out a quick text, smirking to himself the whole time. He’d seen that expression enough times to know what it meant.
“Looks like you’re not planning on getting much sleep tonight,” Cliff teased. “Making bedroom eyes at your phone like we’re in the visitors’ locker room in Montreal. Is your girl flying in to watch the game or something?”
Rozanov just winked enigmatically. “Something like that, yes.” Before Cliff could say anything else, Roz had stripped down to his briefs and headed for the showers.
* * *
Hayden woke up to his phone buzzing… and nothing else. Weird. Normally there’d be the sounds of someone getting ready, like the shower running or clothes rustling. He sat up, looking over to his left, and was surprised to see Shane still fast asleep under the covers. Shane was always up on time, which meant earlier than Hayden. Did Boston Lily tire him out that much last night? He didn’t remember Shane coming in, so maybe.
Whatever, Shane would probably be up soon. Hayden rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Once he was sufficiently groomed, he walked back into the bedroom and… what the hell, Shane was still out. If it was someone else, he’d probably let them sleep, but he’d been Shane’s best friend long enough to know that even that much deviation from his routine would be upsetting.
“Shaaaaane. Shane, buddy, time to wake up,” Hayden called, walking over to the bed. Shane barely stirred. Hayden rested a hand on Shane’s shoulder over the blanket, shaking him gently. “Wakey wakey!”
“Wha’? Stoppit,” Shane slurred, his voice a little rough with sleep, not even opening his eyes. Jesus, waking up his children was easier than this.
“Shane,” Hayden repeated louder and shook Shane’s shoulder with more emphasis. “Dude, wake up!”
“Huh?” Shane said blearily, blinking up at Hayden. “Hayd?”
“Yeah man, it’s me,” Hayden said. “What, were you expecting Lily?” He grinned at Shane.
Shane took a second to process that, then shoved Hayden away. “Shut up,” he groaned and reached for his own phone. His eyes widened when he saw the time and he swore under his breath. “Give me a sec to get ready and we can head down for breakfast.”
Hotel breakfasts were all the same to Hayden by now. The only thing different about this one was the cup of tea on their table next to Shane.
“Tea?” Hayden asked.
“It’s that kind of morning,” Shane said, his tone faintly defensive.
“Yeah, you could probably use the caffeine,” Hayden nodded sagely. Good thing Shane had gotten it in a to-go cup, since they needed to leave for morning skate soon.
They had just entered the rink when Hayden startled at a loud, echoing noise. He started to glance furtively at Shane to see if he was the only one who’d freaked out when the noise happened again. This time, his brain was able to interpret it as a sneeze and so he wasn’t startled – well, not much, anyway – when the third sneeze rang through the air.
“Wasn’t expecting that, eh?” Hayden said, companionably nudging Shane with his shoulder. “Someone sounds rough.”
“Um, yeah,” Shane agreed, his voice cracking slightly on the ‘yeah.’ He cleared his throat, then nudged Hayden back. “We’d better get going, don’t want to be late.”
* * *
Cliff was both disappointed and unsurprised by the unmistakable sound of Rozanov sneezing in the hallway.
Moments later, his suspicions were confirmed by the sight of Roz walking through the door. There were dark circles under his eyes and his nostrils were a tell-tale shade of pink. Mentally preparing himself for what was sure to be an interesting day, he reached over to grab the tissue box from the center of the table.
“Bless you, Roz!” St-Simon called from across the room, then frowned as he took in their captain’s appearance. “Oh, shit.”
“What?” Rozanov retorted, congestion making his accent more pronounced than usual.
“I think you know, man,” Cliff said dryly, then threw the tissue box at him. He barely caught it in time, reflexes notably slow.
“I do not know anythihh—yH’DGJZH’SCHeuh! Huhh- DJJZCH’ttt! EHH’KGXXDTCHIhhh!”
Roz twisted sharply to the side, his torso curling forward as he directed the sneeze towards the floor. It was evidently messy, and he quickly threw up his free hand in front of his face. As expected, he immediately sneezed twice more, his hand hiding the view but not actually covering them.
The chatter in the room immediately died. Roz stayed still for a few seconds, making sure there were no more incoming before his hand darted down to grab a handful of tissues from the box. Cliff only caught a quick glimpse of his face, but it did not look pretty. Roz expertly ignored their teammates’ stares as he blew his nose productively. Cliff grimaced at the gurgling sound of it, but he was actually relieved on behalf of Roz’s sinuses. He lowered the tissues, nostrils now a shade darker, and met Cliff’s eyes before glancing around the room.
“So you were right, I have a cold. Is fine, I don’t feel too much like shit. Can still outplay Montreal.” Rozy’s assurance was somewhat undercut by his inability to pronounce ‘Bodtreal’. Cliff raised his eyebrows.
“Let’s hope you’re right, Rozanov,” Coach LeClaire cut in before Cliff could respond. “But either way, you’re heading down to medical. I want to know if you’re cleared for tonight before we get on the ice, so we know what we have to work with.”
Rozanov scowled, but didn't argue as he headed back out the door. Cliff could hear him sneezing again from down the hallway. The energy of the room had gone from amped to uncertain, everyone aware that tonight’s chances had just gotten much more precarious.
“Come on boys, it’ll be fine,” Cliff said in his best alternate captain voice. “It’s Rozy, he can handle a few extra sneezes.”
That got a chuckle out of everyone. Cliff let out a relieved breath as LeClaire started going over the Metros’ expected lines for tonight. Now they just had to hope that Roz managed to break his unfortunate habit of turning ‘a few extra sneezes’ into a sinus infection.
* * *
Hayden clapped Shane on the back as they headed off the ice. “Forget what I said about your energy this morning, you were a fucking beast just now. Clearly whatever plans you had last night were good for you.”
He expected Shane’s usual flustered denial, but he didn’t react at all. He stopped in place instead, clearly zoned out as his face slackened into a weird expression.
“Dude, you okay?”
Shane blinked, then wrinkled his nose and flushed bright red. “Yeah, sorry. Had to sneeze, but it went away.”
“Ugh, I hate it when that happens,” Hayden commiserated. “Let’s hope it stays gone.”
In the dressing room, Shane methodically removed his gear, setting each piece neatly in his stall. Unusually, he stopped in the middle, leaving him in just his hockey pants and compression shirt. He sat down on the bench, leaned back against his stall and closed his eyes.
Hayden nudged him, concerned. “Buddy, you gotta hit the showers before the team meeting. You stink.”
Shane’s eyes blinked open, and he sniffled lightly. “You also stink. Go shower, I’ll be there in a minute. Just, uh, gassed from the scrimmage.”
Hayden eyed Shane skeptically, but he went along for now and hit the showers. His concern abated when Shane joined him two minutes later. After a quick shower, the Metros filed into the visitors’ dressing room for a team meeting.
Theriault got right down to business, calling out mistakes they’d repeated during practice and predicting how Boston would take advantage of each one. It was an efficient, brutally honest approach. Laying out a player’s weaknesses in front of the team allowed for contingency planning, but it also lit a fire under their ass. Hayden wasn’t sure he was a fan, but he couldn’t deny that it was effective.
Hayden was distracted by a soft, sharp inhale beside him. He was momentarily alarmed before his gaze darted to Shane’s face and found it slackened into that same expression. The sneeze didn’t stay gone, apparently.
Theriault was in the middle of picking apart the third line. “Passing was adequate, Comeau. You’re leaning too much on brute force, but we’re in Boston. We expect Varkov and Miller to eat most of your minutes today. If you try to muscle past those two you’ll run into a brick wall at the blue line…”
Another gasp, choked off this time. Hayden glanced at Shane again and found him desperately trying to suppress another sneeze. His eyes were screwed shut, and he had two fingers pressed hard against his septum. Hayden knew Shane had a thing about losing control in situations like this, but holding it in like that looked painful. His attention snapped back to Theriault when he heard his own name.
“…and Pike, you have the opposite problem. You rely on Hollander to draw defensemen because most teams cover him 2-v-1. Boston aren’t that desperate, and Marleau likes to pick on you. I don’t want you taking hits, these guys will have you pinned every time and that lets them set the pace. Hollander, same goes for you—are you even listening?”
“Yeah, sorry, I just—hehd’TSHHhuhhh!!”
Shane managed to get his elbow up in time to cover the sneeze, but it sounded wet. And, Hayden guessed, messy, since Shane had yet to look up and was blushing furiously. Luckily, having young children meant that Hayden had a habit of carrying tissues in his bag, even when he was on the road.
He fished one out, wrinkled but clean, and passed it over. Shane took it gratefully without meeting Hayden’s eyes, trading his elbow for the tissue, and pinch-wiped his nose a few times. Hayden winced at the increasing sogginess of the tissue each time Shane folded it in half. He couldn’t figure out how to pass Shane another one without further embarrassing his friend.
“Excuse me.”
Shane was still staring at the floor, looking like he hoped it would swallow him whole.
Theriault sighed. “A tes souhaits. Now, let’s discuss the power play…”
forever impressed by people who can bang out a clean 5k like it’s nothing. i have been literally anguishing over (checks word count) 850 words for a week. mind u this is a sneeze fetish fanfic.
just read a vanilla (?) sickfic from a popular author with 110 comments on it. it was soooooo snz fetish im sooo sure. and lo and behold. there’s one brave soul on page 4 saying fyi i have a sneeze fetish and i liked this.
lowkey i feel like there’s so many of us out there who haven’t been Unlocked yet.
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