im sorry

call me spirit. 25. she/her. non-kink blogs dni. minors dni.

[snzity]

Hi I’m Spirit

I’ll say it a lil nicer this time, but. PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT WITH MY POSTS FROM NON-KINK BLOGS. Also do not interact here if you are under the age of 18.

My general writing tag is here . My fics are pretty mid, but if you’d like to see them in a masterlist, that is here

My art tag is here (there’s only 2 posts there…)

Umm

My DMs are always open for chatting about fictional characters and fic writing!

[kotyonoksnz]

💢 PLEASE DO NOT REBLOG TO NON-KINK BLOGS 💢

commissions  /  ko-fi ♥

[a-fever-pitch]

not in my wheelhouse but in case anyone out there is interested, and since i don't think i've seen it posted, t/om h/olland sneeze from a recent interview 👍

[xennouswrites]

Stubborn

I love @snzity's headcanon that Dabi rarely sneezes because the receptors around his face are damaged. And I add that, he is incredibly susceptible to chest infections due to his injuries and burn trauma.

This is my first ever published sneezefic. It is over 5.5k with very little snz pay off, sorry :(

Content warning: illness, sneezing, nudity, sexual themes and implications

Keigo had been tasked with infiltrating the League of Villains about seven months ago, yet he was barely any closer than when he started. He was yet to have earned anyone’s trust, and still hadn’t met anyone except Dabi, Twice, and Spinner.

Communication was incredibly rare. Physical interactions, even less so. All Keigo had was Dabi’s burner number and an incomplete mission report that was looking smaller by the day.

Frustratingly, he met with Dabi the most. Even the bastard’s voice got under Keigo’s skin. Like maggots eating beneath the flesh of a corpse. A wriggling, writhing sensation that buried deep into his chest.

Dabi would request information, at the order of someone else (likely Shigaraki but Keigo wasn’t supposed to know that name yet), and Keigo would provide it to him. It went like this each time, the meetings never lasting more than a few minutes. Not nearly long enough for him to get any useful information.

Tonight, they’re meeting in an alleyway - Dabi’s idea. In the middle of the night - also Dabi’s idea. So that Keigo can give him a highly confidential security file - Probably not Dabi’s idea. It was just Keigo’s luck that it started to pour around sunset, and the sky has shown no signs of stopping.

Keigo wore three layers of clothing, on top of a thermal shirt, and still shivered to the meeting spot. The rain racketed against his umbrella like bullets, only muffled by the beanie pulled so far on his head it reached down to his neck.

He rounds the corner into the alleyway, walking past the large rubbish bins to see Dabi. In a drenched hoodie; Thin pants; Completely soaked.

Is he serious? He’s going to freeze to death.

Keigo doesn’t voice his concerns– nope. 

Keigo doesn't voice his thoughts aloud. Even in the rain, Dabi is a formidable villain when pushed, and Keigo doesn’t feel like adding fire burns to his frostbite tonight.

Dabi spots him, hands in his pockets looking miserable beneath his hood that is dripping thick droplets of water onto his face.

“What, too cool for an umbrella?” Keigo teases.

Dabi narrows his eyes. “Shut up. Do you have it?”

Keigo noted how Dabi’s voice sounds rougher than usual. If he couldn’t see that Dabi’s hands were empty, he would assume the guy had smoked just before he arrived.

“Always one for pleasantries,” Keigo mutters, blanketed by the sound of the rain. He pulls out a thin file from his coat and holds it out. “Yes, I have it.”

Dabi steps under the umbrella, forcing Keigo to step back and expose his neck to the downpour. He shivers but Dabi pays him no mind, opening the file to the first page, avoiding getting the pages soaked beneath the thick polyester.

Keigo can feel the heat radiating from Dabi’s body as they’re pressed almost against each other. He wonders if it’s the guy’s quirk that makes his body run that hot. The scent of smoke and debris cling to him like a layer of skin, the aroma drying Keigo’s throat even with the damp rain.

Now that he’s looking, Dabi’s pale skin is flushed by the cold. Beneath his eyes, before the scar tissue takes over, the colour looks pink and tender. Dabi clears his throat and sniffs, adjusting his hold on the file to allow one hand to raise up and rub his nose.

Keigo goes rigid. Stop. No. Whywhywhy? The sound of the sniffle from Dabi echoes in his head. The slight wetness, the clicks of congestion as he scrubs at his nostril. Keigo feels his face flush as he begs his body not to react.

All of which, unfortunately, doesn’t go unnoticed by Dabi, who looks up with a raised brow.

Shit. Dabi’s knuckle is still under his nose, squishing against pink rimmed nostrils. Keigo could die right here.

“Um.” Keigo clears his throat when his voice comes out thin and croaky. It’s fine. He tells himself. Dabi will just think it’s the rain. “Everything look okay?”

Dabi looks at Keigo’s hand clutching the umbrella, knuckles white. He then turns his attention to the distance Keigo has tried to put between them. He grins, “Uncomfortable being this close to a villain, huh? You didn’t seem to mind last time.”

Right, last time. Keigo was handing over a microchip to Dabi at a bar two weeks ago. They had a few beers, and one thing led to another and Keigo was on his knees in the back alleyway between Dabi’s legs.

They hadn’t talked about it since. Keigo thought maybe they’d just forget it ever happened. He certainly wasn’t going to include it in his report to the Commission.

At worst: A momentary lapse of judgment from the alcohol. At best: a way to establish a deeper connection and uncover more about Dabi’s identity.

Dabi flicks the file shut, unaware of Keigo's dilemma that was getting harder to hide with each second he spent looking at Dabi’s perfectly flushed face.

“Everything looks good.” Dabi says, tucking away the file and passing Keigo with a pat to his shoulder. “Looks like you’re still of some use to us, Number Two. Till next time.”

Keigo waits for him to disappear into the downpour. His heart is beating a million miles an hour, and now that he’s alone in the alleyway, the blood in his body has settled in a rather unfortunate place.

His body shudders. From the rain. He tells himself. 

It’s dark. It’s raining too hard to see more than a few feet in front of him. He would probably be safe walking the four blocks back to his apartment without anyone witnessing his predicament. 

(He stayed in that alleyway another twenty minutes before getting the courage to leave.)

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The next time he meets with the League is a week later. 

He was messaged to meet at one of their smaller bases on the outskirts of the city to discuss another trial. One step further to gaining their trust and meeting Shigaraki.

He expected mindgames, and annoyance, and Dabi’s smug face. What he didn’t expect was Spinner and a blonde teenage girl to be waiting for him.

He looked around the small room. Cold brick walls, cement floor. “Where’s Dabi?”

Spinner rolls his eyes. “None of your business.”

He only gets an answer hours later, when Spinner leaves to take a call and Keigo is left with the girl - Toga, so he can be ‘surveilled’.

She is young, and annoying, but extremely chatty. So Keigo tries his luck once again, “So where’s Dabi?”

“He’s too busy being sick and miserable in his room,” Toga says, kicking her feet on the barstool. She continues talking about something else, but Keigo’s head is stuck on two words.

Dabi. Sick. They play in his head like a record, spinning round and round till he’s dizzy on the idea. Was it because of the other night in the rain?

Later, in the privacy of his own apartment, Keigo pulls out his phone to the familiar number.

Hawks

21:54 >> You’re sick?

Dabi

Read at 22:34

No reply. Honestly, Keigo wasn’t really expecting one.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

It was a few weeks until he saw Dabi again. This time, the message came in the early afternoon on his day off. 

He had just finished the final set of his workout, an episode of a trashy reality show playing in the background while he enjoys the serenity of the calm evening.

Dabi

19:05 >> Meet me at [[XX]] in an hour. This time I have something for you.

Keigo stared at the message, ignoring the excitement in his chest at the prospect of seeing the arsonist.

(He lingered by his door longer than he'd like to admit, eager for the time to pass and for him to make his way to the location.)

Turns out, Dabi had messaged him the address to a small bar in the middle of the city. Only a few minutes walk from Keigo’s apartment, which he was thankful for as goosebumps rose on his arms from the nighttime wind.

He walks down the stairs into the dimly lit space, spotting Dabi in the back booth almost immediately. The man is dressed casually. Gone is the long coat, replaced by a loose gray shirt rolled up to his elbows. A dark face mask is pulled down to his chin, exposing the scarred skin below his eyes to the warm lighting. Keigo can’t help but notice the slight pink around his nostrils.

Keigo stands above him, placing a hand on the table. “Long time no see, stranger.”

Dabi glares at him. “Just sit down.”

Keigo laughs, “So what’s this about?” His eyes land on the two beers on the table, one placed directly in front of him. “A friendly drink?” he guesses.

“More like a final chance for you to slip up and expose your secrets, hero.” Dabi says, taking a sip from his pint with a small sniffle. “The boss has finally decided he wants to meet you, so consider this a final test of sorts.”

Keigo eyes the drink. “You didn’t spike this did you?”

Dabi's smile grows wide, the staples on his cheeks click with the movement. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

Probably not. Keigo thinks, but he decides to take the risk anyway. Dabi has had hundreds of chances to drug him over the months, and never has he (even after all the threats) done anything that actually seriously put Keigo in harm's way.

The drink is cold going down his throat. He’s still careful of any strange taste or consistency.

“So the boss, huh?” Keigo asks, “What can you tell me about him?”

Dabi shrugs, his biceps stretch under the thin fabric of his shirt. Keigo takes another sip of the beer to avoid looking. “He’ll want to introduce himself.”

“Still as secretive as ever, hot stuff.”

Dabi shrugs again, another sharp sniffle permeates the heavy space.

“Are you ever actually going to tell me anything about yourself?” Keigo pries, leaning back against the booth. “We’ve been meeting for months, and I still know shit about you.”

Dabi laughs, “Careful, birdie. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to interrogate me.”

The jukebox behind them stalls, and the music cuts as a blonde woman changes the song. It’s much slower, and melodic. Keigo closes his eyes, saying “I thought maybe we could become friends.”

“You don’t want to be friends with me.”

With his eyes closed, Keigo can almost imagine Dabi as someone else. That he would open his eyes and across from him would just be an ordinary civilian that he was drinking with. Somebody he could walk next to on the street, without face masks and hoodies. A real friend.

In another universe where Keigo wasn't a hero, and Dabi wasn’t a villain. A universe where Keigo didn’t know manipulation tactics to get information. Where he could get to know Dabi, really get to know Dabi. Without deciding what he was going to put in his report, and what he was going to keep to himself in a locked vault in his mind that he refused to admit was there.

He opens his eyes, “How about we play a little game then? You get to ask me any question you like, and I have to tell you the truth.”

Dabi expression pinches wearily. “That doesn't sound much like a game. What do you gain from–”

“For every question I answer, I get one in return,” Keigo offers, taking the final sip of his drink. The slight buzz is hitting the tips of his fingers and lips.

He holds the empty glass up to the bar, making eye contact with the bartender and motioning for two more to be brought to the table. The dark haired man across the room nods while Dabi grunts, “Nice try. But no.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“I said no.”

“Here, we’ll start simply,” Keigo says, paying Dabi’s hesitation no mind. “What’s your favourite colour?”

“Really?” Dabi snorts. Keigo can hear slight congestion in the sound.

“Really.”

Dabi sighs, two pints are set down in place of the empty glasses and Dabi takes a long drink before answering. “Black.”

Predictable. Keigo thinks. “Boring.”

Dabi doesn’t miss a beat, “My turn. Why do you want to join the League?”

“I’ve already told you this,” Keigo says. And it’s true. 

Since starting his mission, it’s been one of the most asked questions. Which makes sense, the League of Villains isn’t exactly in a position to be trusting the word of the Number Two Pro-Hero (and rightfully so considering his actual motivations). Still, Keigo wonders what Dabi is trying to gain from asking it once again.

Maybe Dabi thinks with a little alcohol in him, Keigo’s answer may change. He knows he can lean into that to benefit him.

“Then you should have no problem answering,” Dabi says.

Hawks blinks heavier than he needs to, he takes a long look at his glass and pretends he can’t see Dabi watching him in his peripheral vision. “The Hero Commission’s corrupt.” He shrugs. “They churn out little soldiers to do their bidding and use them to keep people in line.” 

Keigo tells himself he’s saying what Dabi wants to hear. But what he doesn't want to admit, even to himself, is that the truth and lies are blurring together the more time he spends on this mission - the closer he gets to Dabi. “Besides, despite what you guys call yourselves, you’re not villains. You’re doing what you think is right for everyone. You want to…” he hesitates on the words, “Help people. I want to help people too.”

Dabi glares at him, letting the silence hang in the air for a few seconds while the song plays out. Another one begins, almost drowning out the arsonist's voice. “We do want to help people. But don’t get it wrong, we’re villains.”

“Not to me,” Keigo says.

If he wasn’t looking for it, he would have missed the surprise in Dabi’s face. The slight widening of his eyes. The twitch of his fingers. The flare of his nostrils.

Dabi sniffles another time, taking a sip of his drink. Keigo is done pretending he’s not noticing it.

Not sober enough to hold his tongue, Keigo perks up. “My next question.” He motions his hand to Dabi’s face. “What’s with all the sniffling?”

This time, nothing in Dabi’s expression could hide how taken off guard he was at the question. He sniffs again, then blinks like he didn’t realise he was doing it. He pushs the back of his palm to his nose, wiping beneath the steadily darkening nostrils. “Nothing.

“That’s not how this works,” Keigo insists. “You’re supposed to tell the truth.”

“It is the truth,” Dabi defends, lowering his hand.

Keigo studies the man's face. The flush of Dabi’s cheeks that had been there long before the embarrassment had settled on his face from Keigo pointing out his nasal plight. The way his nose scrunches under Keigo’s watchful eyes. The slight dampness around his upper lip.

Fine. If Dabi wants to play this game. Keigo was going to play dirty.

He relaxes into his seat. “I guess we’ll just sit here in silence until you do it again.”

“Wha–”

“Uh uh! Silence. Come on.”

Dabi furrows his face in displeasure. Keigo relishes in the almost arousing enjoyment it brings him to see the villain squirm in his presence. Something about taking Dabi off guard and drawing his attention to an involuntary bodily function is incredibly erotic to Keigo’s inebriated mind.

A few seconds pass. Dabi’s nose scrunches, and he brings his hand up to rub the itch away. 

However, not fast enough to stop Keigo grabbing his wrists and holding them to the table.

“What the hell are you–”

“Nope. Come on.”

“Get off me.”

Keigo ignores the heat radiating from Dabi’s hands. He knows he won’t do anything with so many witnesses. And a few burns on his hands was far from the worst pain Keigo had ever experienced. 

What does keep his mind occupied however, is Dabi’s face. Or, more accurately, his nose.

With his hands bound, a drop of moisture falls from his nostril to his upper lip. With no way for him to wipe it away, Dabi sniffs sharply. 

Taking the win, Keigo let go of the man's wrists, and watches him rub his nose into submission.

“Fuck you, bird brain.”

“Are you sick again?” Keigo asks. “Is that what this is about?”

He could understand if Dabi was being closed off because he wasn’t feeling well. What he couldn’t understand was why Dabi would ask him out for drinks if he clearly wasn’t at his best. There was no reason for them meeting tonight, no information to exchange, just the promise of an evening in each other’s company.

Dabi clears his throat behind his hand, rubbing his knuckle a final time against his nose. “If you have to know, yes.”

“Why did you come out for drinks then?”

“I’m not here for the pleasure of your conversation.”

Oh. Keigo realises. Oh. 

He plasters a grin onto his face. He won’t pretend he’s not interested. But he will pretend he’s not curious. “You sly bastard. You know you can just ask right? I have a nice cozy apartment five minutes from here we could have met at. You don’t have to wine and dine me first.”

Keigo’s far from an idiot. He was certain Dabi knows where he lives. It’s probably why he chose this bar over the other hundreds of others in Fukuoka that are much closer to the League’s base.

Still, he gives Dabi the decency of ignorance as the man looks at their finished glasses on the table, then looks at Keigo. “Five minutes, huh?”

Keigo already has bruises on his hips before they make it inside his apartment. They clumsily make their way in the dark to the bed, Keigo’s clothes being discarded along the way, replaced by Dabi’s warm breath and tongue.

Dabi’s mouth moves down Keigo’s chest as he settles against the bedframe. He feels Dabi’s weight over his hips as the arsonist unbuckles his belt and kicks his pants onto the floor hastily, mouth and body eager to please.

The sensation of tongue and teeth are erotic to Keigo. He grips Dabi’s hair as the man’s warm, rough fingers pull down his boxers. At least, until the grip falters, and Keigo’s hand lets go of Dabi as the man abruptly sits up.

Keigo opens his eyes to Dabi dropping his weight onto him. The man's legs either side of his hips as his breath catches, face scrunched.

Keigo sits up slightly, “You okay?”

Dabi raises a hand to his face, turning his head away. His abs clench on top of Keigo in anticipation, his body flickering with a rapid inhale, “Fhihine~”

Keigo’s ears perk at the hitch, his dick twitches at the sound. But as soon as it appears, it leaves Dabi unsatisfied. Keigo watches the arsonist curl his nose and sniff heavily before turning back, his lips already re-finding their place on Keigo’s neck.

And if Keigo gets off twice as quickly listening to Dabi’s wet sniffles in his ear, nobody has to know.

Keigo wakes up alone the next morning. The space next to his bed is cold and empty.

Hawks

06:17 >> You didn’t have to leave.

Dabi

Read at 08:57

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Keigo stops looking for it after a while. The flare of Dabi’s nostrils, the slight hitch of his breath. Dabi recovers from his illness and months go by without Keigo seeing the man so much as sniffle.

It’s fine. It’s not like Keigo pictures Dabi’s scrunched up face, his dark lashes fluttering, eyes watery and red, nose on the brink of release on top of him. The feeling of warm, sweaty biceps clenching. Nope. Not at all. It’s not like he had been profusely masturbating to Dabi’s almost sneeze for months after.

But he can’t help it. With Dabi’s no allergies and no sensitivities, he gave Keigo’s interest very little to work with. He was bound to be a little pent up. Especially now since they’ve been hooking up more regularly. But nothing got him off like imagining Dabi, straddling him and sneezing messily onto his bare chest.

He doesn’t know when he stopped looking at other people. Sure, the barista at the coffee shop near his agency is still hot. But he didn’t lean over the counter and flirt with her every time he went to order anymore. 

Nor did he wink at the cute interviewers who batted their lashes and licked their lips between questions. Or banter with the interns who would bring him his paperwork wearing deep cut necklines and short skirts.

What was originally a ploy to get closer to Dabi, had shifted. And Keigo found his stomach genuinely fluttering when he received a message from him. 

It felt a little too real. Which wasn’t at all helped by Dabi getting sick again.

Hawks

19:32 >> Usual time?

Dabi

19:58 >> Not tonight.

19:59 >> I’m sick.

Keigo stares at his phone for a minute. Fingers hesitating on the screen. He’s sick again? 

Keigo wonders what could have brought it on this time. It hadn’t rained in Fukuoka in weeks. In fact, the weather had been nothing but clear skies and warm sun. Sure, a few people got summer colds, but Keigo wonders how Dabi is that susceptible to picking up illnesses.

What’s stranger, is that Keigo still wants to see him. Sex or not. Plus, he isn’t going to lie that the thought of Dabi, shivering and shaking, wasn’t at least a little enticing.

Hawks

20:06 >> Come over anyway.

Dabi

20:09 >> Why?

Hawks

20:24 >> I have something for you.

Dabi didn’t respond to that. And enough hours pass that the sun has long since set and Keigo wonders if he’s coming at all.

But just before midnight, the familiar sound of Dabi landing on his balcony hits Keigo’s ears. A little more sluggish and heavy than he was used to hearing. Being a villain, Dabi had mastered moving stealthily. But upon seeing him, Keigo could understand why that wasn’t the case this evening.

Dabi shuffles through in a thick hoodie and sweater, a scarf covering the lower half of his face, but not enough to hide the angry red below his eyes and at the tips of his ears. There is sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, and his hands are flushed and splotchy like he has held them in snow.

As always when it came to Dabi, Keigo didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Warm enough, hot stuff?” He teases.

Dabi glares at him, pulling off his scarf to expose his pale lips and pink rimmed nose to Keigo. He clears his throat, which does nothing for how dry and painful his words come out, “You’re the one who asked me to come over.”

If his appearance didn’t betray how bad he felt, his voice definitely did. Keigo can hear the illness settling in the back of his throat, and the way his words click around phlegm and inflammation. He listens to Dabi let out a few rattling coughs into the back of his hand and feels a slight pang of guilt for asking him over.

“Shit, Dabs. That sounds bad.”

Dabi unzips his hoodie, revealing another warm layer beneath, and a line of sweat at the neckline. The warmth of the room must shift the congestion in Dabi’s head, as Keigo watches him bring a hand to his nose, groan, and wipe at it. “Ugh, do you have any tissues?”

Keigo forces himself to look away from the frankly erotic sight of Dabi squishing his nose back and forth. He focuses on grabbing a box of tissues and not listening to the quiet squelching and whistling noises in Dabi’s breaths.

“Yeah, here.” He holds out the box. Dabi grabs two and blows his nose loudly. Balling the tissue in his hand and pressing it a final time to his nostrils before tucking it away in his pocket. “So, what did you have for me?”

Only then does Keigo double guess himself. As nice as it is (and it’s really nice) seeing Dabi in this state, he doesn’t actually have anything to give him. Well… apart from–

Keigo steps to the side, showing off the kitchen table. “I have dinner?” He tries.

Dabi blinks at the table, then at Keigo. He sighs, which leads into another round of wet coughs that he catches in his fist. “Seriously, birdie? You made me come all the way out here for nothing?”

“In my defense, I didn’t think you would be this bad,” Keigo says, making his way back to the kitchen where he’d packed everything away into his fridge hours ago. “But now that I see you, you definitely shouldn’t leave. Come on, sit down and eat. I made soup.”

It’s strange seeing Dabi sitting at his kitchen table. It’s the first time the arsonist has been over and they hadn’t immediately moved to the bedroom. The only time Keigo can think that Dabi has been in the kitchen, is when they got a little too wasted and he bent him over the counter.

He notices Dabi shuffling in his seat while he reheats the soup, looking around the apartment like he was seeing it for the first time, and not the dozenth. 

“There’s no way you’re comfortable in that,” Keigo says. Capturing Dabi’s attention and pointing to the heavy layers of clothing Dabi was still bundled into. “I’ll turn up the heating if you take off some layers.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Dabi raises an eyebrow, but begins unbuttoning one of the thick sweaters.

“Yeah, you look so sexy like this,” Keigo says. Not for the first time, using sarcasm to mask the truth in his words.

Dabi takes off his top layers, going down to a shirt and sweatpants. His face is somehow more flushed the more exposed it gets. His cheeks have settled to a rosy pink, spreading up his cheekbones until they reach the charred skin below his eyes. And his lips and underside of his nose are red and puffy like he’s been scratching them with something rough.

Keigo sets the soup in front of him, placing his own serving on the opposite end of the small table. “So, you get sick a lot?” He asks.

Dabi shrugs, taking a cautious sip. “Something like that. My immune system’s shit cause of… well, you can guess.”

Right. His injuries. Keigo doesn’t know why he thought the burns wouldn’t have a significant effect on Dabi’s health. Of course, as a Pro-Hero he knew all about injuries, fire trauma, and long-term health risks, but for some reason he never saw Dabi like that.

He always seems so much larger. So much more powerful. Not somebody who can be brought down by the shortcomings of their own body. And not for the first time, he wonders how Dabi got his scars.

He doesn’t ask. Part of him thinks he does it because he’s a kind person. The other half of him knows that he wants a reason not to answer the Commission's questions. If he doesn’t know who Dabi really is, he can’t betray him.

But it scares him how much he wants to know the man.

“Is it always this bad?” Keigo asks instead.

Dabi laughs, then coughs. It’s thick and rattles in his chest. “Sometimes it’s worse. I’ll be fine though.”

“Does anything help?”

Dabi looks up. “Like what?”

“I don’t know?” Keigo tries to think of his own remedies when he’s sick. But with his immune system he’s drawing a blank. “A hot bath?” He suggests. “Steam therapy?”

Dabi looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “The League doesn’t exactly have a five star bathroom, bird brain.”

Before he can stop himself, Keigo offers, “I have a tub?”

Dabi looks over to the bathroom door. Keigo watches a thousand thoughts cross his mind. Frustratingly, he can’t place a single one of them. “Look, birdie. I’m flattered, but I don’t think I’m up for–”

Oh. Nonono.

“I’m just offering you a bath, hot stuff,” Hawks laughs, shaking his head. He opens his eyes to Dabi watching him skeptically, and winks. “Nothing more. Scouts honour.”

“You weren’t a scout,” Dabi grumbles around the phlegm in his throat. “...No strings attached?”

“No strings attached.”

Keigo watches Dabi hesitate, before the arsonist's body wracks with an involuntary shudder, ‘Fine.”

Keigo has to fight his instincts not to watch Dabi strip down in his bathroom. He promised him no strings attached, and he plans to stick to it. No matter how aroused it made him to think of Dabi, naked and shivering in his bathtub.

His skin flushed from the warm water, hair sticking to the back of his neck. The droplets of condensation running down his exposed skin, mixing with sweat and sickness that drips off him.

Keigo starts the dishes to keep his mind off it. He’s drying the bowls when he finally hears it. Followed by a round of wet coughs and splashing water.

“hH’EyYESSShhh!!”

Hawks stops what he’s doing, feeling exposed in his own house.

The sneeze was loud, sounding like it came from the back of Dabi’s throat. It was scratchy and rough, and didn’t sound satisfying in the slightest.

Keigo cranes his ears to hear sniffling. Wet snorts and the sound of Dabi clearing his throat take over his entire apartment, and Keigo imagines his face.

The slow buildup. Hours, maybe days, of the teasing itch. Always sitting too far back in his nose to bring any relief. Being teased out by warm soup, and thick stream, bringing the tingling sensation to the brink until his breath catches in his throat.

Keigo closes his eyes, picturing the scrunch of his strong nose. The squint of his dark eyes, how his lashes would clump from tears and bath water, the splash of the tub with the final desperate release.

Keigo hurriedly finishes the dishes. Finding a comfortable shirt and pants and knocking on the bathroom door.

“Combe in.” Dabi’s voice sounds heavy. But the painful roughness from earlier has subsided.

The bathmat and floor are soaked, as the arsonist shows little concern to contain the water to the tub. It almost overflows the rim, hot enough that steam rises in the humid room.

Dabi lifts his head where it is leant back on the porcelain tub. His face and skin are flushed a deep red. From the cold, or the water. Or both. His eyes are bleary when they land on Keigo, and his nose runs with the movement of his head.

He sniffles thickly, wiping his nose with a wet knuckle, “I could gedt used to tdhis, bhirdie. sngkff!”

Oh. Keigo likes that a little too much. How the stupid nickname Dabi uses to get under his skin sounds around the congestion in his sinuses.

“Uh– I brought you these,” he says. Setting the clothes down on the bench.

Dabi looks at them, wiping at one of his eyes that has started watering with his running nose, “Whadt’s wrogng width my clodthes?” 

“Nothing,” Keigo shrugs. Fighting to keep his eyes from lowering to Dabi’s bare chest and… other exposed body parts.

Dabi blinks, he sniffles again. This time much harsher as he sits up and pinches the moisture from his nose with his fingers. Spilling bath water across his upper lip and forcing an erotic image of a wet faced Dabi to the front of Keigo’s mind.

He watches Dabi’s nostrils flare with the contact, his ears and dick twitching at the thick squelching sounds. “Ygou tryna trabp mbe indto sdtayigng?”

Keigo almost short circuits. “I’m just saying it’s late. There’s food in the fridge for breakfast, a warm bed, and I don’t mind if you don’t want to go all the way back.”

Dabi gives him a final look over before dropping his hand from his nose. Thank God. Because Keigo was doing everything in his power not to get erect at the sight of a naked, fever induced Dabi slowly rubbing nose to a deeper shade.

The scarred skin on Dabi’s hands working only to further rub his nose raw. Keigo can see his septum is now a chapped, wet disaster.

“Fidne… sngkk,” he sniffles quietly. “But only begcause of tdhe breagkfhast.”

Keigo sighs, “Of course.”

He is about to leave when it happens again. This time, Keigo sees it all. 

Dabi inhales suddenly and sharply, with no time to prepare as his breath catches on an inhale and his head jerks forward. His hands have no time to catch the outburst as his face crumbles, thick lashes fluttering close as his nose gives a final twitch towards its ticklish release.

“eyHD’ZZZASshh!!”

The bathwater splashes with the force of the sneeze, a sheen of spray trickles in the steamy air.

Dabi groans, lifting a wet hand to his nose way too late to cover anything, and sniffles back the congestion that was knocked loose.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry, and his brain stalls. 

He saves the image of a wet, shivering, post-sneeze Dabi in his mind for later.

Dabi is grumbling, a thick mess dribbling down his chin, the spraying residue on his hand. “Ugh, gross.”

Keigo excuses himself before the man could notice his reaction, offering a quick, “Bless you,” over his shoulder.

He doesn’t let Dabi respond before he closes the door behind him and sits on the edge of his bed.

He can hear Dabi sniffling once again in the tub. The humidity and steam loosening the stuffiness in his head and draining out the fluid through his nose one ticklish and illness induced outburst at a time.

It doesn’t sound like he’s making any movements to get out of the tub, however. Which is probably good for Keigo as he looks down, gnawing at his bottom lip.

I’ll make this quick. He tells himself, pulling down the waistband of his pants.

… I hope y'all liked it. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve been a lurker for a few years. Suuuper nervous about posting for the first time!!

[aprilshowersbringmayflowers27]

I spent an embarrassing amount of time on this and it looks blurrrrryyy so sad but oooo mysterious peek at what i think could be an extremely type b i have prompts already bc i was like im bored

i have a game idea actually where it's like guess the prompt and i put out a poll based on that and if theres a better prompt than the original we vote to change. but i thought it would be cool to do a sneeze community specific one.

[snzzzzz420]

guys is this anything or did i waste my time. Did i eff up the order things should be and did i miss something Huge. Let me know. Also has someone made this before ?

[gentle-sniffles]

[quosterking]

ALL MY JARS KEEP BLOWING UP

[snzity]

[silentsneezes]

sh/ane writing a grocery list and mealprepping... meanwhile, il/ya’s bumbling from room to room (waiting for sh/ane to finish being fussy over his list) and sneezing every few minutes

sometimes they come in threes or sets of two. on occassion, they’re intermixed with nose blows

sh/ane blesses il/ya under his breath and adds “tissues x3” to his list

[lipsmind]

ilya wakes up feeling particularly sneezy. he does in fact sneeze, but just once. he waits, and then is like okay, guess the next two aren’t coming this time. but as the day goes on, he keeps sneezing only in singles. after each one, the itch lingers, but it doesn’t set off any others, just dissipates after a few seconds. shane is equally confused and also kind of bothered by it, because ilya (barring extenuating circumstances) always has three sneezes. it kind of weirdly throws off their day.

but oh well. there have been times that ilya wished he could sneeze a simple normal one sneeze and be over with it. but now that he feels like his nose is constantly tickling in the aftermath of the singles, he kind of misses his usual, maybe not-so-excessive three sneezes.

the whole thing can sort of be explained when the next day, ilya wakes up with a full blown head cold. all of his missed sneezes want out. he’s back to sneezing his triples and half the time he’s getting six or nine in a row instead of just the three. and it’s completely miserable, but at least balance has been restored.

[snzity]

I am so embarrassed to admit this and at the risk of sounding like an utter bum ass idiot I will confess that I was today years old when I learned it’s pronounced “STYfle” and not “stifle”

It’s not like I am ever saying this word out loud ok😭

[lilies-and-hyacinths]

Scratched (H/eated R/ivalry, I/lya)

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.

“hh… hp’nGKKtt! hah’NGKKSSHHhh! heh… heh—! hptsSSHHhh!”

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.

[furfevers]

feeling like this rn

[snzity]

Do yall have a trusted pollen website bc every time i try to check all the top websites have wildly different answers??? So is it suuuper low or suuuper high bc i know it can’t be both???

[sleepysoftsnz]

Thinking about colds in the summer … popsicles for sore throats … not being able to tell if they’re sweating from the heat or a fever … the chill of the air conditioner making them shiver …

[hurt-care]

Also napping outside in a hammock with a blanket and sunhat. Or by the pool covered in a towel with an umbrella and a frozen drink/smoothie.

[sneezy-sleepy-froggie]

Are we W/itch H/at A/telier sneeze fans so desperate for content that this is appreciated?

[hollanovsnz]

H/R One-Shot #5

Thinking about Ilya Rozanov’s nose (what else is new?). Sorry I’m a little behind on some asks and reblogs here, will get to those soon! :)

——

Ilya Rozanov’s nose is itchy.

This isn’t exactly unusual - after three separate breaks, Ilya’s sinuses have become an absolute wreck - but it is notable enough that he needs to pause his day to tend to the stupid thing. He tells Marleau that he will join him downstairs for breakfast in a minute, then grabs the tissue box from his nightstand as soon as his roommate leaves their hotel room.

He’s not exactly sure why he’s sneezing, which is extremely frustrating. It’s been over an hour since he woke up, so his typical morning fit has long passed, and he’d blown his nose thoroughly both before and after his regular hot shower. It doesn’t seem to be allergies or a cold; his eyes aren’t bothering him, nor is his throat. It’s just his fucking nose, which has been buzzing with little pinpricks of itchiness all the way around his nostrils and down to his septum for the last five minutes. An absolute eon in Ilya’s world.

Cradling the tissue box in the crook of his arm, Ilya plucks one out and holds it to his nose, which twitches the moment the paper brushes against it. He pinches a bit at his nostrils, letting out an involuntarily snrf against the contact. The sneeze isn’t coming, but the itch is moving upward now, and he rubs at the bump on the bridge of his nose in quick circles. Fuck, this is frustrating. His nose is on fire with the need to sneeze, yet none of his normal tricks are working.

What would Shane do?

For himself? Probably just hitch and hitch and hide his face in his arm until the sneezes either burst out of him in cute little doubles, or got shy and disappeared entirely. Even in the throes of his own nasal plight, Ilya smiles while imagining his boyfriend with tears in his eyes, a sniffle in his nose and a blush high on his cheeks.

For Ilya? …Well. Shane knows plenty of ways to induce a sneeze or twelve out of him. But Ilya doesn’t have a feather, or some pepper, or that sneezing powder Shane bought online; how fun that would be to explain at customs. But he does have a tissue that he can twist into a point. He sniffles loudly and thickly as he grabs another tissue, as if his nose is preparing him for what’s coming. As he sets to twirling the tissue between his thumb and pointer finger, Ilya continues to think of Shane.

He imagines Shane licking his fingers the tiniest bit to get a sharper tissue point, glancing up at Ilya with shy smiles all the while. Then, he’s sitting in Ilya’s lap, entire body flushed a deep red, erection straining against his thigh. Ilya cannot take his eyes off of him as he determinedly takes the tissue and gently inserts it into one of Ilya’s nostrils, and they stare into each other’s eyes, brown and blue and both heavy-lidded. Each begin to pant heavily, Shane from arousal and Ilya from the immediate need to sneeze. But the sneezes aren’t ready just yet. Shane swirls the tissue around, gently, with just the right speed and amount of pressure to leave Ilya gasping with high-pitched hitchy breaths. Tears fill his eyes, and when Shane touches his shoulder and asks if he’s okay, Ilya nods. “Ihhht’s right…th-here…” Shane moans and moves the tissue back and forth like he’s a bell-ringer in a church tower, and right now, he’s the only God that Ilya knows. “hHhhahh—! ahHhh—!”

“—AESZCHHHhhhhh’iew!” Back in his hotel room, the first sneeze barrels out of him, and he stumbles backwards until he is sitting on the bed. “HAESHHhHhhhUHH!” Ilya is taken aback by how strong the sneezes are, even for him, and they knock the breath out of him. The tissue lays forgotten on the ground as he buries his head in his hands for a third, even more vicious, “AAADSZCHHHhh’hooo!” that tears from his nose and throat and has his hairs standing on edge. He sits back up, shocked, and jumps when someone pounds on the wall next to his ear.

“The hell, Cap?!” he hears one of his teammates cry out from the next room.

“Have you snf never heard sneezing before?!” he shouts back.

“Not like that, man!”

“Insubordidation!” he cries out, cringing at the congestion in his voice. In retaliation, he moves right next to the wall and blows his nose as loudly as he can, deliberately taking huge breaths in between to make them lengthier. He hears a short groan, but no other noise complaints are raised, so Ilya considers Mission Shut Up the Hungover Dickhead Teammate Next Door a success. Huffing a laugh, Ilya scrubs at his nose with his wrist and realizes that he is very, very hard. All that thinking about Shane, how sweet and sexy he is when he’s asserting his control over Ilya’s nose…he swallows.

He can see why this gets his boyfriend so riled up.

He sends him a text after another round of nose blowing: I had very loud sneezing fit just now. Someone yelled at me through the wall. Wish you could have heard it 😏

He gets a text back not even a minute later: Fucking tease. How many?

He texts back: Only three. Will record some if it happens again, then cackles when Shane sends him back a Thank you. Only Shane Hollander would thank Ilya for sexting him. He shakes his head with a smile, then sends back a kiss emoji and heads downstairs, his nose satisfied for now.

[sherbet-shivers]

Fever VS Fervor

Series: H/eated R/ivalry

Characters: I/lya R/osanov, S/hane H/ollander

Blurb: Ilya is under the weather and Shane is acutely aware of his inner forecast. Plot is spoiler-free!

Length: 3.6k words

TW: Cursing

**Please do not share to non-kink snz blogs and minors DNI! Feedback and formatting tips are always welcome <3**

“aa’HZSHH-!!”

When Ilya catches Shane staring at him out of the corner of his eyes, he inadvertently stiffens his lip and flashes a frown in his direction.

“It was a sneeze, Hollander.”

It was several, actually, Shane thinks but doesn’t say. Two when he’d entered the apartment, and four while he showered. But hey, who was counting? 

Oh right. He was.

Shane sits up straighter on the couch, watching as Ilya enters the room, freshly cleaned and slightly damp following his shower. Ilya had only just returned from practice an hour ago (having gone against Shane’s wishes), and despite the obvious head cold he was battling, he’d managed to catch a ride to Shane’s, dodge his chastising, abandon his gear, shower, and change into his lounge-wear in record time.

All that was left to do was flop onto the couch, which he does with a resounding grunt and effort that has Shane nearly dropping the book in his hands. Removing his glasses, Shane gingerly places both his novel and spectacles on the coffee table beside him. Now that Ilya was here, he was the immediate center of his attention.

The minor migration from the bathroom to the couch must’ve been enough to stir something in Ilya’s sinuses, because the second his face hits the cushion he’s refurfacing with a hastened gasp. Shane can literally count down to the sneeze in his head.

One…two…three-

“aA’ZSCHH’hu!…hhy’ZZCHH-!! Fuck!”

“Bless you,” Shane chirps, adding: “again.”

“Is that all you can say now?” Ilya asks moodily.

“If all you do is sneeze, then yeah, I guess so,” Shane replies.

Ilya had been irritable all day, and it looked like this evening would be no different. Before he’d left for practice, he and Shane had gotten into an argument over whether it was really necessary he attend or not. Maybe “argument” was too strong a word, but chalking it up to a minor disagreement felt equally disingenuous. 

Ilya had been stubborn as all Hell about going. On any other day Shane might’ve applauded his commitment to the sport. After all, of everyone either of them knew, it was Shane who understood just how vital it was for a captain to be present for his team. Today was different though. Shane knew Ilya wouldn't listen to reason when it came to his health, so he’d tried to convince him that if he went to practice and exacerbated his cold (or God forbid infect his whole team), his attendance would only work against him. Normally Ilya would listen to logic like that, but Shane was pretty sure he’d ignored the facts purely so he could get out of the house. Ilya didn't like to sit still for too long, and getting him to rest at all was like pulling teeth.

Deep down, Shane wasn’t angry or disappointed Ilya had gone; he was only frustrated over his flippant disregard for his own health. That, and parts of him worried that his persistent attempts at nursing Ilya had inadvertently chased him further away. He didn’t think that was the case, but the possibility bothered him. He couldn’t help it when the thought clung to him like an itch…and speaking of itch...

“hHH’ZZSHH’hu!”

Shane startles free of his own thoughts.

“Bless you,” he repeats more patiently this time. With a deliberate softness, he reaches for Ilya and pets the tops of his hair. It was his way of extending an olive branch after their earlier argument. “How was practice?”

“Fine,” Ilya grumbles. He sniffles and rubs his nose on the couch. “Fucking cold.”

“Is it getting worse?” Shane asks.

“What?”

“Your cold? Do you think it’s getting worse?”

Ilya tilts his head, squinting slightly.

“…I meant the rink, Hollander,” Ilya corrects. “The rink was cold.”

“…Oh.”

Ilya stares at his boyfriend, shaking his head while he murmurs something under his breath. He sighs, chest deflating as he sinks deeper into the cushions.

“I’m not dying, you know,” he murmurs. “You act like you’ve never heard me sneeze before.”

“Okay, but you don’t normally sneeze like that.”

Ilya immediately peeks at Shane, looking at him sideways in a way that has him feeling unusually nervous. It was like Ilya had suddenly flipped the script and Shane was now the one being studied.

“Oh? How do I usually sneeze then?” he asks.

Of all the ways he could’ve responded, Shane never would have guessed it’d be like that.

“W-Well,” Shane licks his lips, “it depends. Out on the ice, you tuck it because of the gloves. You know, sneezing into your jersey or your collar or whatever. But out in public or during your interviews, you pinch it; usually in twos. Not like when you’re alone with me.”

“Huh,” Ilya breathes, glancing Shane up and down, “and how long have you noticed this?”

“A while,” Shane admits. “Like…I don’t know; since rookie season?”

“Oh, so you were spying on me,” Ilya teases, his tone dry but gaze mischievous. “You are obsessed.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says, embarrassed but pleased to be reinstated as the subject of Ilya’s coy banter (as opposed to a reminder of his poor condition).

“You should be paparazzi,” Ilya proposes.

“And do what? Follow you around, take your picture? I do enough of that already,” Shane smirks. “Besides, you’re only saying that because you like being the center of attention.”

“Ah-ah — I like being the center of your attention,” Ilya amends. “Very important distinction. It’s where I belong; between the ice-“

Ilya inches closer via an army crawl and nudges his forehead against Shane’s thigh.

“-and you.”

Shane smiles and clicks his tongue. “Can’t argue that,” he concedes.

“Good, because I am sick of arguing with you,” Ilya sighs. “And I am actually sick.”

His confession catches Shane by surprise. “So you are sick?”

Ilya glances at Shane.

“Yes,” he answers, "aren't you the one who’s been saying it all day?”

“I guess, or I mean…” Shane swallows as he reorganizes his thoughts. He was used to Ilya speaking candidly, but not always with such honesty. He’d anticipated having to coax admission out of him, but once again, Ilya has usurped his expectations. 

“I thought it was possible,” Shane says, finally. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” Why didn’t you just tell me, he thinks.

Ilya shrugs with a sniff. “It’s not important.”

He says it like it’s simple, but to Shane it's anything but. It was Ilya’s reasoning that bothered him. He may not understand Russian, but after ten years, he could speak Ilya with near fluency; so he knew deep down that “it’s not important” secretly (and heartbreakingly) translated to “I’m not important”…and that hurt him almost as much as he knew it hurt Ilya.

Shane clenches his jaw and stiffens his shoulders, his body bracing against the thought as a tough, painful feeling swirls around his chest.

“It’s important to me,” Shane responds; his tone is stern and serious, but lacks defensiveness. “How long do you think you've been sick?”

“A few days,” Ilya estimates, suddenly giving Shane an odd look. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” Ilya clarifies. “You seem bothered…am I bothering you?”

“What?” Shane asks, almost sounding offended by the suggestion. “No, you don’t ever bother me.”

“Then what is wrong?”

“Nothing, I-…-I just want to make sure you’re okay is all,” Shane says, swallowing again. “Are you? I mean, do you feel okay?”

Shane thought what he’d been asking was obvious, but then it occurs to him that Ilya wasn’t always used to being asked questions about himself; at least not outside his performance as an athlete (or who he was sleeping with). Asking Ilya about his health was always a tricky gamble. On one hand, it made Shane insecure. Ilya did always say he asked too many questions, and Shane could imagine why the questions he asked may feel more interrogative than intended — especially to someone so unfamiliar with being asked at all. Up until they’d met (and even years thereafter), Ilya had been reluctant to discuss any subject breaching the surface, so Shane was acutely aware this sort of attention was foreign to his boyfriend under most circumstances. He didn’t want to dismiss the progress they’d made by being too pushy.

Still, he also couldn't just ignore that something was wrong — not when it was sniffling in his face.

Thus, Shane shifts his weight on the couch and faces Ilya directly, lacing their fingers together and curling both their hands in his lap. Up close, and connected, he senses and sees a sort of hyper-vigilance shadowing Ilya’s features; an unease that he wasn’t comfortable expressing. Catching this, Shane instinctively hovers his thumb against Ilya’s knuckles, touch light and fleeting in hopes that in some way he can comfort him — remind him he’s not judging, only curious. Only caring.

Together they share the silence. Shane didn't need to repeat himself. He knew Ilya had heard him and was processing the question. The least he could do was be patient enough to await an answer.

Shane raises his other hand to cup Ilya’s cheek, which burns and flushes with fever. He tenderly brushes a stray curl out of Ilya’s icy blue eyes, then plants a kiss to where the lock lands, curtaining his face.

“You look so tired,” Shane murmurs, his touch reluctant to retreat from Ilya’s space as he moves on to stroking his beauty mark.

Ilya swallows, sniffling and allowing his eyes to fall shut while he leans into Shane’s touch. He pecks his palm, breath warm against the flesh.

“I am exhausted,” he whispers. “I feel disgusting."

“You’re not disgusting — you could never be,” Shane hums back dotingly. “You’re just sick and it’s been a long day.”

“Too long,” Ilya complains.

“I agree,” Shane nods. The heat emanating off Ilya’s skin is distracting, almost dizzying this close up. “You’re burning up, you know.”

“No, you are just cold,” Ilya disagrees, his speech half-muffled as he nuzzles into Shane’s palm and itches his nose. “It’s the Canada in your blood — icy.”

Shane smirks. “If either of us is cold blooded, shouldn’t it be you? You’re the one who’s survived Russian winters.”

“Barely,” Ilya murmurs, shaking his head. “And who told you I was Russian? That does not sound like me,” he jests.

“Right; except that is exactly how you sound,” Shane smiles back charmingly. He reluctantly pulls back his hand, earning him a pout and a whimper. “Shhh,” Shane consoles, locking on to Ilya’s needy gaze, “I’m not going anywhere.”

To satiate his partner, Shane extends his arms, spreading wide then beckoning for Ilya to fall into his chest. “Come here.”

He loves the way Ilya smiles at him; his features relaxing into a soft, fond look while he gladly takes up Shane’s offer. Together the two fall into place like dominos, with Shane tentatively grasping Ilya’s shoulders and reclining him back into his lap, and Ilya trusting Shane’s touch to guide him. He really wasn’t kidding about being exhausted, Shane thinks. On any other day, Ilya would put up some sort of playful resistance, begging for Shane to make him surrender while probably making some cheeky remark, calling him captain or accusing him of being unnecessarily handsy…but tonight, he wordlessly obliges his invite to shamelessly snuggle in his lap and unite in his warmth. Head against Shane’s thigh, Ilya turns on his side, stretches and yawns, his whole body releasing a tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.

“Mmm,” Ilya hums.

“What?”

“It’s nice.”

“My lap?” Shane asks. Ilya nods.

“Yes. Your thighs. They make good pillows,” he says, reaching overhead to grope and massage the flesh. “I am so used to gripping them while you ride me that I-“

“Woooow,” Shane interrupts. He scoffs despite feeling flustered, “okay.”

“What? Is a compliment,” Ilya drawls, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

“You’re such a flatterer,” Shane teases, “do perverts like yourself really not take sick days?”

Ilya hesitates, shifting his weight again so he’s on his back. He blinks up at Shane as the latter pets through his hair and wordlessly admires the hidden shades of seafoam drifting in Ilya’s eyes. Slowly, Ilya reaches up, pinching Shane’s chin and admiring him from his current angle. In his mind, he connects his freckles like constellations.

“No,” Ilya says, “and neither do boyfriends.”

Shane can't resist the smile that creeps up on him, and best of all, he doesn’t want to. He leans forward, attempting to kiss Ilya, but his partner catches him, netting his lips into the cusp of his hand.

“You will get sick,” Ilya chides, shaking his head. Shane kisses his palm, reciprocating his favor from earlier.

“I don’t mind,” Shane says.

“Yes, but I do,” Ilya confesses. “And I am not nice like you — you are whiny enough healthy; I won’t take care of you if you are sickly,” he adds, kneading at his nose with his other hand.

Shane grins, knitting kisses along Ilya’s palm lines. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he insists.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “And how would you know this?”

Shane lands one last kiss before retreating back so he’s sitting upright again. “I’m going to sound weird if I say.”

“Weirder than when you talk about me sneezing?”

“Fuck you,” Shane scoffs, though his words are far from unkind. While he fights his creeping embarrassment, Ilya nods at him again, urging him to continue. It’s enough encouragement for Shane to brave a deep breath.

“Okay, so this might sound crazy because it is,” he starts, “but I’ve noticed you have a tell.”

“A tell?” Ilya repeats. He blinks, looking as confused as he sounds. “What is…?”

“It’s like a quirk o-or a signal that tells you something about someone. Usually it’s a trait or habit others would consider inconspicuous, but…it’s one that I notice because,” he pauses, swallows, “because I like you; and I notice you, obviously.”

“I think you do more than notice me, obviously,” Ilya says, lips twitching into a smirk as he shifts positions again. He likes the way Shane rolls his eyes at him. “Okay, okay,” he relents, “speak.”

“Right,” Shane exhales, feeling sweat springing to his palms, “so when you lie-“

“I never do this.”

“When you lie,” Shane restarts, chuckling, “you always touch your nose. Like you do this-,” Shane removes his right hand, then demonstrates by alternating between pinching and scrubbing at his own nose, “-that sort of thing,” he sniffs.

Ilya says nothing at first. Instead, he stares at Shane, lips slightly parted around questions he doesn’t ask, and eyebrows knit together in curiosity.

“I honestly thought maybe you just had allergies or something at first,” Shane continues, “but then I realized you do it whenever you lie about something.”

The silence from Ilya sustains, serving only to make Shane feel smaller and more insecure where he sits. Finally — after what feels like years — Ilya clicks his tongue.

“What?” Shane asks.

“Nothing that is just…” Ilya trails off, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, “learning these things; it makes me realize you are…what is the word…? Ah-! Yes!”

Ilya blinks again, snapping his fingers and settling his sights back on Shane.

“Neurotic,” he cheeses. “And a pervert for my nose.”

“Oh fuck off,” Shane laughs.

“Is the right word, yes?” he chuckles back. “Because Hollander, who the fuck notices a thing like that??”

“I do, asshole!”

“Yes, but why??”

“Because-!” Shane leans his head back, no longer laughing, but still left smiling. “See this is why I didn’t want to tell you; you think it’s weird — that I’m weird!”

“I already thought this-“

“Fuuuuck you.”

“-but that’s okay,” Ilya giggles. “You know why?”

“…Why?”

Ilya toys with Shane’s ear, his thumb grazing along its edge as it turns pink. He bites his lower lip, fighting the urge to spring up, suckle it and kiss Shane all over.

“Because I enjoy weird,” Ilya murmurs, breath as hot as his attitude.

“Whatever,” Shane blushes while swatting Ilya’s hand away. Any more fondling and he was going to squirm. “You’re the one who asked, you know,” he reminds him.

“I know, I wish I hadn’t,” Ilya chuckles, absentmindedly rubbing at his nose. He catches himself mid-act, both he and Shane immediately sharing exaggerated glances. “See??” Ilya exclaims, shaking his hands like they’re cursed, “now I will think of this forever…of you forever!”

“Oh what a terrible fate~!” Shane cries. Ilya reaches up his hands, breaking Shane into a fit of faux sputtering and genuine giggles as he pretends to choke him. “I’m innocent, I swear!” Shane howls.

“That is just what everyone thinks! They don’t know you like I do, Shane Hollander,” Ilya mocks, “and you are far from innocent!”

Shane throws his head back and begs for his freedom between saccharine laughs. That laughter is like music to Ilya’s ears, and the sight of Shane’s perfect smile is a feast for his eyes; the way his lashes bat so prettily against rosy cheeks, his teeth sparkle behind those lips he loves to greet, and how his freckles dance and wiggle, just as expressive as the rest of him. The sight of his happiness was an antidote to Ilya’s aches, even if just for a moment.

“Mercy! Mercy!” Shane pleads.

Eventually, Ilya releases his lover, both hands raised in generous surrender. Shane struggles to catch his breath, his laughter dying down as he blinks slowly back at Ilya.

“You are too attentive for your own good,” Ilya says, voice low and husky, but nonetheless bemused and bewildered by Shane’s bizarre interest in him. He reaches forth and fixes Shane’s bangs, pushing them out of his eyes. “And you are crazy, you know that?”

“What, about you?” Shane asks, sounding sleepy following his smothering.

“Mmm yes about me,” Ilya confirms, “and in general. But I will add myself to the list.”

“The list?”

Ilya nods. “Of all the things that make you crazy.”

“Oh yeah? And what else do you think is on that list?” Shane asks, entertaining Ilya’s banter and watching him dreamily while he curls his golden hair around his finger.

“Mmm…hockey, ugly cars, birds, real estate, and your boring, tasteless ginger ale.”

“It’s not tasteless,” Shane giggles, infectiously smitten by Ilya’s deceptively lazy wit and proud, precious grin. “You’re just saying that because you’re used to drinking vodka. Besides, I could’ve sworn you said you were starting to like it.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean it’s tasteful.”

“Then why do you drink it?”

“Because it is always around. That, and it tastes like you,” he smirks, “reminds me of your mouth.”

Shane can't decide whether he’s flattered or embarrassed or confused, but his expression must reflect a mix of all three because Ilya pokes his cheek and laughs.

“You’re blushing,” Ilya points out.

“Maybe,” Shane grins. “You say crazy things.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

“Right,” Shane rolls his eyes, “so you admit you’re also crazy?”

“Am I?” Ilya snickers. “How so?”

“I don’t know…because you like me?” Shane asks, his tone shrinking slightly. “Because you tolerate the things I notice and say, even if they’re somehow boring and crazy and weird all at the same time?”

Tolerate? How could someone so smart be so dense? Ilya thinks. He relished everything Shane noticed and said, even — no…especially when Ilya himself lacked the words to express as much.

Ilya mulls over his boyfriend’s inquiry. His mind searches for a remedy to his speechlessness, all the while his gaze remains restless; busy absorbing all the small details of Shane’s face. He memorizes the moonlit whites of his eyes to the freckles painting the bridge of his nose and smattering his cheeks like pixie dust. He fancies the cute curve of his lips, so plush and pink, and how they team up with his smile to light up the rest of his face. Shane wasn’t just beautiful…he was breathtaking, and Ilya felt lucky to bask in his glow.

But it was what lay past that perfect face that he was really attracted to. Shane’s kindness, his curiosity, and his vulnerability to ask questions Ilya could never pose, let alone answer without him. He was cautious, but he was also ridiculously brave, and that only made him shine brighter from Ilya’s perspective. For so long Ilya had only known a void of emptiness, and now he spent every day feeling blinded; eternally grateful to orbit a whole new world side by side with the light of his life — the sun newly adorning what had once been a relentlessly dark, cold, and isolated existence.

Words could never suffice nor do justice to the overwhelming feelings he had for Shane. They just bubbled up so naturally, as natural as breathing, as natural as-…!

Crying?

“Ilya…? Hey,” Shane coos as he swipes tears that have sprung from the corners of Ilya’s eyes. His expression mirrors the concern in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ilya shakes his head, sniffles. Being so tired must’ve been making him emotional, but even while exhausted, he knew he could never tire of Shane’s company. It was simply impossible, even if he didn’t quite know how to say it. “I love your boring, your crazy, and your weird,” he says finally.

He blinks hard at Shane, freeing indecisive tears.

“You are too nice to me,” he whispers.

Shane swallows, taking both Ilya’s cheeks in his hands and holding him with reverence.

“I like being too nice to you,” Shane reassures, tilting Ilya’s head back and planting a kiss to his forehead. “You just hate hearing that.”

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek, then shakes his head, exhaling shakily and cupping his hands over Shane’s.

“Not when it’s from you.”

Shane’s chest melts. He smiles, then tilts his head, connecting both their noses in a silent gesture he hopes speaks to his endless adoration.

“Please let me kiss you,” he whispers.

“We shouldn’t,” Ilya whines, though it’s so obvious he wants to. “It’s not healthy; it’s to protect you.”

“But it’s torture,” Shane half-whimpers.

“Torture?” Ilya says, mirroring Shane’s smile back at him. “Is that what this is to you?”

The two share romantic stares until Shane breaks first, his smile irresistibly dreamy as the two lock hands.

“No,” he whispers. “Everything but.”

And that’s all it takes for Ilya to cave into a kiss. Lips colliding, he swears he’s seeing stars behind lidded eyes; a thousand little cosmos igniting in his chest and exploding into a dazzling fervor.

Fever be damned. His fervor won this round.

[faethall]

men who let out little whines + moans when they build up (ㅅ´ ˘ `)✧

[snzity]

and and and, men who let little whiny grunts after the sneeze \o/