Thought it was time I put together a little intro post! (even though i've been around for a while shhhh this is for my own sake of mind lol)
You can call me stormy, s, pretty any variation of my user that floats your boat lol - I'm in my 20s and use she/her pronouns!
I write sometimes when I get the time/motivation lol, but mostly reblog things I like on here. Also love to chat and have RPed in the past, so feel free to send any asks or dms to talk snzarios or to set up an rp :)
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Below you can (hopefully) find links to the stuff I've written based on the pairing of OCs! Thanks for hangin' around :)
Grayson/Sage
Hi! I'm back with my stupid allergic guys! Happy spring!
Summary: 4.3k words. OC enemies to lovers M/M. Bellamy and Nass go camping. Both sneeze. Prince Bellamy discovers a new allergy.
TW: Sneezing fit while driving. Light mess.
My Ko-fi is linked here. If you enjoy my content and feel called to offer something, it is deeply appreciated. Either way, thank you to everyone who reads and enjoys this universe. <3
Part two will be very spicy. But for now, enjoy the buildup ;)
Authors note: Yekitiverse is a magical OC universe inspired by the culture/relationship between Spain and Morocco. It takes place akin to our early 20th century. So there are cars and technology but society is in a transitional stage.
***
“I don’t like this,” Nass complains as he helps Bellamy shove a rolled-up tent into the back of their rental car.
“Only rich people would willingly sleep outside on thin blankets,” Nass grumbles.
He rubs absently at his lower back, like his body remembers too well the years he and Marwa shared a mattress so thin it may as well have been the floor. The best their parents could afford at the time.
“I will make you like camping. I am sure of it.” Bellamy says neatly folding both of their jackets and setting it into the trunk.
“Doubtful,” Nass snorts, though he’s grinning.
“Well,” Bellamy pauses, bringing his hand to rest on the small of Nass’s back. He squeezes, his breath hot against Nass’s neck. “At the very least, I’m sure you’ll enjoy what I plan to do to you in complete privacy.”
Now that got Nass packing up the rest of the car in no time.
The university had a long weekend and for the first time in the history of them knowing each other, neither of them had anywhere to be. No royal obligations, exams, or illness. And the weather was perfect.
It was finally spring in central province, all warm wind and red weeds beginning to bloom along the highways and city streets. Bellamy had suggested a two-night camping trip in the Aylean Woods — three hours from the city, isolated enough that no one would bother them.
Nass knows Bellamy loves being in nature. The prince practically wilted if he spent too long trapped inside. And selfishly, the thought of having Bellamy entirely to himself for three uninterrupted days made Nass’s stomach flutter.
Their relationship had been going well — really well — the past few weeks.
Which honestly terrified him a little.
A few days ago, Nass had accidentally overheard Bellamy on the phone through his bedroom door.
“I sort of have a boyfriend I think,” he’d heard. “A Southerner.”
Nass had nearly dropped the tea he was holding.
“He hates the North,” Bellamy continued, deep voice muffled through his bedroom door. “It’s complicated. But he really likes me. Well, actually he says he loves me.”
Nass’s throat had gone dry at that.
There’d been a pause.
“You can’t meet him, Jorge. I c-can’t bring him to our village.” Bellamy said finally, tone flattening in that careful way it always did when he was upset. “He’d freak out.”
Nass had stood frozen in the hallway staring at the wall.
“I know it’s probably a bad idea,” Bellamy said, an air of finality to his voice. “But when has anything in my life ever been easy?”
The entire conversation had lodged itself beneath Nass’s ribs ever since. Half butterflies and half dread.
Nass had never had a boyfriend before. Just messy hookups in the back of clubs or in cramped dorm rooms.
Now he was dating the prince of Yekiti.
He wants to meet people from Bellamy’s past. He wants to see Bellamy’s home. And he sure doesn’t want to freak out or be a bad idea.
He wants to prove to Bellamy he’s easy to be with. Even if the idea of stepping foot in Northern province — hearing their language everywhere, seeing Northern soldiers like the one that killed his mother— makes nausea curl in his stomach.
And who the hell was Jorge anyway? Bellamy had never mentioned him. Or anyone from his past really.
But this weekend he’s determined to find out more.
“Did you pack your tincture for motion sickness?" Bellamy asks as he slides into the driver’s seat.
“Yeah, I packed it. And took some already.” Nass drops into the passenger seat. Being in cars, boats, trains — any form of transportation really — always made him horribly motion sick. It was incredibly embarrassing and inconvenient. “I don’t travel without itt — Hih’Gnxt’Shuu!”
The sneeze pitches him forward.
Ugh. He sniffles thickly rubbing at his tickling nose.
“And your allergy tincture?” Bellamy asks as he starts the car. “In case that continues?”
A smile tugs at Nass’s mouth. Bellamy’s concern is sweet. Ridiculously sweet.
“I have it,” he says, flipping on the radio. His hay fever is significantly worse in the early fall, but the pollen levels have been so high this week it’s affecting him even now in early spring.
Yesterday Bellamy had noticed Nass sniffling halfway through first period and had disappeared to the apothecary before lunch to buy him allergy tincture.
Bellamy notices everything.
“Good,” Bellamy pulls onto the main road as Nass settles onto a Southern radio channel.
“Where did you learn to drive?” Nass leans back into the cushiony leather seat.
He’s somehow unsurprised that Bellamy knows how to drive. He’s learned by now Bellamy knows how to do most things, despite living half his life as a prince.
Nass himself, just learned how to drive last year. Only the wealthiest Yekitians owned cars and in the South transit was still mainly camel or horse.
“I got lessons when I was a teenager,” Bellamy says, as he merges onto a main road. “I never liked my father’s staff doing things for me.”
Bellamy doesn’t seem comfortable with anyone doing anything for him, but Nass doesn’t say this.
“Why do you never speak of your friends from the North?” Nass asks, watching as Bellamy pulls sunglasses over his light eyes. “Did you not have any?”
“You really think my social skills to be so poor, Nass?” Bellamy raises an eyebrow, but Nass can tell he’s teasing.
“Of course I have friends.” Bellamy says. “You saw one of my friends in fact. Camille.”
A sharp stab of jealousy hits Nass instantly.
Camille’s hands in Bellamy’s curls flashes through his head. Bellamy kissing her under the red lights of Hookah’s Sex Lounge.
“She didn’t look like your friend that night at the sex club,” Nass says flatly.
Bellamy chuckles at Nass’s tone. “Camille is a very good friend.” He continues. “After I moved to the palace and had to go to private school, she was one of the only people who dared to socialize with me.”
“Why?” Nass frowns.
His fingers tighten slightly against the steering wheel.
“My brother did not take kindly to suddenly discovering he had a secret half sibling threatening his future throne. At school he made it very clear that speaking to me would have consequences.”
Nass feels immediate disgust crawl up his spine. Jason Velaquez being a bully as a teenager is the least surprising thing he’s heard all month.
“Camille was never afraid of him,” Bellamy continues. “Her father is a trusted palace advisor. So Jason had no real power over her. Though he certainly tried.”
“And then?” Nass presses.
Bellamy gives a small shrug. “Eventually we dated for a few years. But Camille is not a mage and has no interest in living anywhere but the North.”
He doesn’t elaborate further. He doesn’t need to.
“And your friends from before you were a prince? From the orphanage?” Nass asks. He can’t even imagine it. To Bellamy, that time must feel like a past life.
Bellamy’s jaw tightens. Nass thinks he isn’t going to answer but then he does.
“Jorge and Amira,” he finally answers. “They are more like my family.”
Jorge. The person Bellamy was speaking to on the phone.
“Jorge was born with a degenerative illness and uses a wheelchair. Amira is albino. And I have the king’s eyes,” he waves at his face. “Invalids they called us. And so, we were never adopted. Though I suppose I was technically adopted by the king.”
Something twists painfully in Nass’s chest.
“You must miss them,” Nass comments.
“Very much,” Bellamy says quietly. “I don’t see them often.”
“Why not?” Nass frowns.
Bellamy goes still.
“Because I am the prince,” he says finally, voice clipped. “And my father forbids me and my brother to associate with invalids.”
The words are so cruel Nass almost thinks he misheard them.
Bellamy sniffles softly, rubbing at his nose with the back of his wrist.
“And if anyone saw us together and word got back to the palace,” he continues, “it could make their lives… difficult. So, when I do see them I must be very discreet.”
Silence settles heavily between them.
Nass stares out the window, throat tight. He can’t imagine being forbidden from seeing Marwa. The thought alone makes him feel ill.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“Yeah.” Bellamy clears his throat. “Anyway. It’s hot in here.”
He presses the button for the windows. Warm spring air immediately whips through the car, tangling Nass’s braids together.
The sharp scent of pine and something sweet he can’t exactly name hits him. Nass inhales, spraying his lap with an itchy and uncovered “Hih’Ttt’Shuuyiew!”
“Bless you,” Bellamy says. “Do you want to take your allergy tincture?”
Nass rubs his face. “No. It’ll only make me sleepy.”
“It will be a three-hour drive,” Bellamy says kindly. “It’s okay if you sleep.”
“That doesn’t make me a very good c-company — “Hih-EsshHUE!”,” Nass wrenches forward with the uncharacteristically loud sneeze, his seatbelt pulling against his chest.
He clears his throat that’s beginning to itch.
“You are good company awake or asleep, Nass,” Bellamy smiles. It’s almost shy.
The sincerity in his voice makes warmth spread through Nass’s chest so quickly it almost embarrasses him.
Maybe Bellamy is right.
Besides, even with the motion sickness tincture already in his system, the rolling highway has nausea beginning to churn low in his stomach.
With a sigh, Nass reaches into his bag, retrieves the allergy tincture, and lets a few bitter drops fall beneath his tongue before washing the awful herbal taste away with water.
After another forty five minutes and half a dozen sneezes later, both tinctures start to kick in. Nass leans back in his seat, letting the steady sound of the car and the drumming of Southern music lull him to sleep.
The next thing he knows, Nass is woken up to a thunderous “hHHh’DZZSSCHh—'uH-!” echoing through the car. He startles awake, neck aching from the awkward angle he’d fallen asleep in, just in time to see Bellamy snap forward with a second uncovered and equally loud “hh! H’uh! hih! IIESHHh'YEUh!”
It sprays all over the steering wheel, the mist sparkling in the sunlight. Bellamy sniffles, face twisted in irritation.
“Skies,” Nass struggles to sit up, “Bless you.”
“Sorry to wake you,” Bellamy pants, knuckling at his nose. Nass can see that his boyfriend had removed his sunglasses, blue eyes red and watering. “Gods, I couldn’t sth! Stifle anymore… hh! — “heH’SCHEUG’Hiih-!”
The car jerks slightly as Bellamy makes a right. He gives another irritated snuffle, his eyes glassy. “Can you check if there are any tissues in here?”
Nass doesn’t think there will be tissues anywhere in a rental car, but he checks anyway.
“Nothing,” he says, poking around the center console. “And I’ve told you many times you don’t need to stifle your sneezes, Bellamy. I don’t care if it wakes me up or —”
"Heh- hH’IYSChhiuEH!!” Bellamy interrupts as if his body agrees, a loose frizzy curl flying into his eyes from the force of it.
Bellamy mutters what Nass presumes is a curse in Northern tongue.
“Bless you,” Nass says, trying not to stare.
“Sorry,” Bellamy coughs. “I can’t stop sneezing for some reason.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Bellamy,” Nass blinks, growing flustered.
“Ugh,” he gives a stuffy sounding sniffle. “I think I should blow my nose. Do you have an extra handkerchief?”
Nass flushes, all of the blood in his body rushing to his pants. He blinks, adjusts his jeans against his erection then blinks again. Fuck why is Bellamy so hot, how can he say things like this and not have a clue what it does to him —
“N-Nass?” Bellamy asks. Shit. He must’ve have zoned out for a second longer than appropriate.
“Do you have one? We’re on this highway for a while and I don’t know where I can bu! Buy —h’IEGHkSsH’hue!!”
It sprays absolutely everywhere. The steering wheel, the dashboard, Nass even feels some of the mist settle on his arm.
“No — shit — I’m sorry, yes I have an extra one,” he twists over towards the backseat, pulling the soft fabric out from the bottom of his backpack.
“Here.” He hands it out to him. “Do you want to pull over or —,”
“It’s fine,” Bellamy makes a face of brief disgust at using a handkerchief, but takes it anyway, calmly removing one hand off the wheel to blow his nose. The aftermath of the blowing wrestles another tickly sounding sneeze from him.
Bellamy groans.
“Bless you,” Nass squeezes his shoulder trying to sound normal. His erection is so stiff he’s nearly throbbing. “What’s setting you off? Hay fever?”
Bellamy always sneezes multiple times in a row so it could just be that. But his blue eyes look very red and irritated. Though as far as Nass knows, the only thing Bellamy is allergic to are cats.
“I — I don’t have hay fever,” Bellamy sniffles, sounding a little bewildered. “In fact, I spend most of the spring and summer outside.”
“You’re living in a new place,” Nass shrugs. “You could be allergic to something here that isn’t in the North. My seasonal allergies are way worse here than back home in the South.”
Bellamy shrugs at this, though he raises the crumpled handkerchief to his face to blow his nose again.
“How was your nap?” Bellamy asks, lowering the handkerchief onto his lap. He rubs at his nose with his wrist.
“Good,” Nass cracks his sore neck. “Are we almost there?”
He is suddenly very desperate to get there and take care of the… problem in his pants. Plus, he can tell they’re getting close. Huge old growth trees dot the sides of the highway, their gnarled roots woven in between flashes of bright red fireweed.
Bellamy nods at the map on the dashboard.
“In about thirty minutes,” he says with a punctuated sniff.
Nass leans back in his seat. Bellamy had changed the radio station, while he was sleeping. Soft Northern flute music blares through the speakers.
“You don’t like Southern music?” he asks, the question coming out a little defensive.
He itches to change the station back to the Southern channel, but he doesn’t. That would be incredibly rude and selfish. Besides, he started seeing a therapist a few weeks ago to work on his…issues with the North and she advised to him to stop and breathe before acting.
He takes a deep breath.
“Of course I do,” Bellamy’s answer comes out polite and diplomatic, just like everything Bellamy says.
“But I also enjoy the music of my people Nass.” Nass has spent enough time with Bellamy to hear the slight hardening in his voice.
And with that, he leans forward and increases the volume. And Nass would never say it out loud, but the Northern music isn’t so bad.
It’s good even.
He closes his eyes, listening to the sound of the flute and Bellamy humming along. He can’t tell how much time has passed, when the distinct sound of Bellamy sniffling has Nass opening his eyes at full attention again.
Bellamy’s right hand is off the steering wheel, scrubbing at the underside of his reddening nose. He has his sunglasses back on again, but Nass is willing to bet his eyes are probably just as irritated as his nose looks. He hears Bellamy take a shaky breath, then exhale.
“Bellamy,” Nass clears his throat. “You should close the windows. You’re clearly allergic to something and having the windows open is probably making it —,”
“AEHD’SSCHhy’uuh!" Bellamy gasps, splattering the steering wheel with an irritated sounding sneeze.
“Worse,” Nass says barely able to finish the word before Bellamy explodes with —
The sound tears through the car so loudly Nass’s heart lurches into his throat.
A silver car tears past them in the opposite lane, missing the driver’s side by what feels like centimetres. Nass catches a flash of terrified faces through the window.
His stomach lurches violently.
“Bellamy!” Nass shouts, lunging forward and wrenching the steering wheel back into place. The movement jolts painfully through his shoulder. “Pull over!”
Bellamy gasps out, clearly unable to say anything at all. One hand is clamped over his nose and mouth now, the other hand white-knuckling the wheel.
Nass reaches across Bellamy, nearly climbing over the center console to flick on the turn signal just as another itchy "h’IEGHkSsH’hueY!” sprays across the side of Nass’s face.
Nass jerks the steering wheel hard, pulling them out of the lane and onto the shoulder of the road. Gravel explodes beneath their wheels. Another angry horn sounds somewhere behind them.
“Brake! Brake!” Nass yells over the sound of three more strangled sneezes.
Bellamy slams on the brakes hard enough to throw both of them forward against their seatbelts. The car skids unevenly before jolting to a stop.
Nass leans over, putting the car in park with shaking hands. For a second, he doesn’t move, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He blinks against a wave of nausea.
Gods, they almost got into an accident.
This is why his father and grandmother tell him not to mess with cars. Cars are not safe, they always say. Travelling the good old fashioned way by camel or horse is much safer and —
“hh! ehh’HTSSHH’Yueuh!” Nass blinks again, finally registering that Bellamy is still sneezing his head off. A miserable stuttered gasp from his lover gets him springing into action.
He shoves open the passenger door, grabs the allergy tincture and water bottle from the backseat, then rushes around the car and yanks open the driver’s side door.
Bellamy is still trapped in the seatbelt, sunglasses discarded, handkerchief crushed to his face as relentless sneeze after sneeze wracks through him.
“—AhehDTSSS’shuh! hhH! “hhh... hhAATCHSHhh’uye!!”
“Gods,” Nass mutters, fumbling with the buckle. “Come here.”
He drags Bellamy upright by the arm. Bellamy stumbles out of the car, disoriented, eyes streaming so badly he can barely keep them open.
“Here,” Nass presses the water bottle into his hands. “Wash your face.”
Bellamy leans against the hood of the car as he unscrews the lid, not hesitating as he dumps cool water over his eyes and nose with a shaky groan. Water drips from his curls, down the sharp line of his throat, soaking into the collar of his pressed green shirt.
Bellamy glances down at the soiled handkerchief in his other hand and makes a disgusted look. Instead, he lifts the hem of his linen shirt to scrub at his wet face.
Nass is so concerned the part of his brain that would otherwise be enjoying this has gone completely silent.
Instead, he watches helplessly as Bellamy pants from the exertion, bringing the water bottle to his lips for a few desperate sips. Then his lover’s face twists again, full lips parting as he lurches to the ground with another helpless and uncovered — “hh! hhK’IISCHhh’Yue!”
Bellamy swears under his breath, eyebrows pinched together in allergic frustration.
“Here,” Nass says quickly, unscrewing the allergy tincture. “Lean your head back. I’m giving you six drops instead of three, okay?”
Bellamy answers with another strangled sneeze, though this time it’s only one. The fit must finally be slowing.
Nass moves fast, tipping the herbal drops beneath Bellamy’s tongue.
He would never say this out loud to his boyfriend, unless he wished to horrify him to no end, but Bellamy’s nose was profusely running, watery rivulets running over his lips and down his chin.
“Here,” Nass says, softer now, pulling his own handkerchief from his pocket. “Use this.”
It’s slightly used, which is pretty unhygienic, but Nass supposed they’d swapped their fair share of bodily fluids by now. And clearly Bellamy must be feeling quite desperate because he does not hesitate at all before snatching the handkerchief out of Nass’s hand, burying his abused nose in the fabric with a relieved groan.
Nass gives him some privacy as Bellamy blows his nose. When he turns back, Bellamy is leaning heavily against the hood of the car, pinching the bridge of his nose between damp fingers. He’s taking slow breaths through parted lips between careful sips of water.
Thankfully, the sneezing finally seems to be easing.
Nass approaches him cautiously, laying a hand on his arm. “Skies, bless you. Are you okay, Bellamy?”
“Yes,” Bellamy sniffles, sounding a bit dazed. “Well. Besides bmy dignity, which I fear did ndot survive that experience.”
His face is bright red down to the very tips of his ears.
“I’m so sorry for scaring you,” Bellamy dabs at his watery eyes with the edges of Nass’s soiled handkerchief.
“It’s fine,” Nass squeezes his arm. “Nothing happened. We’re fine. Are you sure you’re okay? I’ve never seen you sneeze like that before.”
Bellamy flushes even darker.
“Neither have I,” he takes a stuffy congested breath. “A-andyway, I just need a minutde. Thend we cand g-go.”
He can hear Bellamy trying to hide the lingering shock in his voice. Trying to appear calm and collected for Nass.
His stomach twists again.
“Are you crazy?” Nass stares at him. “I’m driving the rest of the way.”
“But it’ll just make you even more motion sick,” Bellamy says faintly, scrubbing at his nose with the underside of his wrist. Clearly whatever he is allergic to is still bothering him.
“Bellamy!” Nass says aghast. “I took medicine. I’ll survive. Besides, what if you start sneezing like that again? We nearly drove into incoming traffic!”
Bellamy pinches the bridge of his nose again. Closes his watery red eyes. “You’re right, of course. That must’ve been terrifying for you. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize for being a human being Bellamy,” Nass crosses his arms.
“Okay,” Bellamy swallows.
Then —
“I have no idea what set me off like that. Skies.”
Frustrated, he kicks a stone near his shoe. It goes skidding across the roadside shoulder, flattening a cluster of bright red fireweed.
There’s a brief silence.
Then Bellamy’s expression shifts.
“Nass,” he says slowly. “What are those?”
“What?”
“Those red flowers.” He points at them.
“There not flowers. You don’t have those in the North?” Nass raises an eyebrow.
Bellamy shakes his head.
“They’re weeds. Called fireweed because of their red colour.”
“I see,” Bellamy shifts. “And they grow here?”
“They grow everywhere this time of year,” Nass says, squinting against the sun.
“Right,” Bellamy nods, looking at them thoughtfully. “Okay then.”
And before Nass can tell him not too, Bellamy takes a few steps forward plucking a few fireweeds from the grass. He raises them to the underside of his nose, inhaling experimentally.
He blinks, eyelashes still damp from earlier. And maybe not less than a minute later, Bellamy chest shudders, exploding down with a violent —
“hh-hhh-HA! Hh’AEDTSSCCH’HY’ueeH!” that sprays his trousers in messy droplets.
Bellamy swears, shuddering to the left with another uncovered, equallly massive “heH’SCHEUG’HiiyUhH-!”
The fireweed tumbles from his hand.
Clearly, he has found the culprit of his allergic misery.
Bellamy blinks rapidly, blowing his nose hard on the leftover available real-estate of Nass’s handkerchief. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs. The sound is soft and a little sad around the edges.
“Maybe it’s a signd to go back to the North,” he says as he rejoins Nass against the hood of the car. “Clearly the people do not want bme here.” He sniffles. “Or the land.”
Nass stomach twists.
“Well, I want you here,” he bumps Bellamy’s shoulder. “And I enjoy your… sneezing. Not when you almost drive us into oncoming traffic. But otherwise,” Nass leans in, pressing his lips to the side of Bellamy’s temple, “I enjoy it very much.”
“Oh, I have noticed,” Bellamy sniffs again, then gives a real laugh at this. The musical sound makes Nass’s stomach flutter.
“I thought I was more discreet than that,” Nass scratches his head.
“You certainly attempbt discretion,” Bellamy turns to him with a shit eating grin. “But the sexual endergy that pours out of you, I must say, Nass, is quite loud.”
Nass blinks.
Bellamy has always been much more observant and perceptive of energies than he is. And Nass would rather eat cotton than admit it, but he fears that is exactly what makes Bellamy a far better mage — and person — than he ever will be.
Still to hear that Nass’s sexual energy is… loud? Well, that gets his cheeks warming.
“Andyway,” Bellamy clears his throat, but it does nothing to ease the congestion in his voice. “If I have to suddenly suffer spring allergies, I am at least glad it’s not wasted.”
“Definitely not wasted, Your Majesty” He can practically hear the lust in his own voice. His eyes drag over Bellamy’s tight green t-shirt. His mouth waters.
He wants to pleasure that man senseless. Even if it is in the woods in a stupid tent. It seems the sex gods have answered his deepest, darkest sexual fantasies. He has his tall, extremely sexy lover, suddenly ridden with hay fever, all to himself for three whole days.
Nass’s dick can hardly stand the thought.
“Let’s go,” he nudges Bellamy. “I am suddenly quite inpatient to get there already.”
Bellamy gives him an amused knowing look, tossing him the car keys. “I’m sure you are.”
They switch seats, Nass sliding into the driver’s side, adjusting the seat and mirrors.
“Can we stop at the next road stall to buy some tissues?” Bellamy asks, stuffing Nass’s sodden handkerchief into his pocket.
“In case…well… in case that happens again?” He rubs at his red nose.
Nass swallows hard against the thought of Bellamy doing that again.
“Of course,” He says with a laugh. “It seems that tissues are a camping necessity, Your Highness,”
And with that, he starts the engine and pulls their car back onto the road.
Jack notices an odd pattern in Robby every time it rains. Robby doesn’t like being perceived, or that the new attending, who seems to have wormed his way into Robby’s heart, thinks he knows him better than Robby knows himself. (Or, Jack follows Robby around the ED on a slow night trying to convince him he’s allergic to rainstorms.)
Set pre-C19!! Sometime during the early 2010s
Writing this was my self-gift for surviving another finals season. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I did writing! Also special thanks to @softblesses for letting me yap about my ideas for this one :p
Dr. Jack Abbot considered himself a touch more observant than the average guy. Years of military and ED experience tends to do that to a man—sharpen his eye, hone his pattern recognition. So he really couldn’t help but notice how consistent Dr. Michael Robinavitch was. He was certainly a bit of an stickler, very particular about everything from arriving at the hospital at least 20 minutes before his shift actually started, to religiously using hand sanitizer every chance he could, to the way he knotted his boot laces. And yes, the man was introverted on a good day and downright antisocial on a bad one (although always friendly and compassionate with his patients), but Abbot made it a personal goal to wear him down until the pair was teaming up for traumas, working in easy tandem, and eventually even spending most free evenings together.
So it was really just proximity that made Abbot start noticing those little things, the things that even Robby himself didn’t seem to notice. Quirks, mostly. Like how he always took his third coffee of the day black, no sugar, but always chased it with something sweet. Or the way he rotated between his two most well-loved zip-ups in three-day intervals. Or perhaps the fact that he really did try not to smoke, but always found himself bumming one off of Dana after losing a kid to a trauma. And like most of Robby’s little quirks, the rain one started as a coincidence. At least, that’s what Abbot told himself the first six times.
But by the seventh—well, by the seventh, he was leaning against the central hub, arms folded over the counter, watching Robby try (and fail) to stifle his fourth sneeze in under a minute into the shoulder of his hoodie (because God forbid he put down his newspaper for a second).
“Hh—h’Kkxtch—TCHhh—eh’EHTCHUUu”
“Bless you, bless you, bless you” Abbot said, with a very careful neutrality, like he didn’t want to scare the other man off.
It was a slow shift, around 2 a.m. on a summer night cooled by the unexpected precipitation. These moments, the slow ones between the thrilling rush of multiple traumas and back to back to back patients that seemed to stream in endlessly during day shifts, were the ones when Abbot really got to know his fellow attending in the first year or so of working together. When they could pass off the odd walk-ins to residents and pass the time by catching up on charting and reorganizing the staff room snack stash.
Robby scrubbed at his nose with the back of his wrist, not looking up from the crossword he was working on. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve said that every time,” Abbot replied mildly.
“Maybe that’s because I am fihh—hhah’tIUSHH—” Another sneeze escaped, seeming to have snuck up on him—sharp, sudden, violent enough that he folded slightly forwards in his chair.
Abbot tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Mm.”
Robby glared at him through watery eyes. “Don’t ‘mm’ me.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Abbot pushed a tissue box toward him.
He snatched up a tissue with more force than strictly necessary. “You mm’d. That’s worse.”
Abbot pushed off the counter and stepped around the desk to where Robby was seated, taking a stool closer to him, gaze flicking briefly to the window. Outside, rain streaked down the glass in thin, steady lines—gray sky, slick pavement, the whole dreary package. He looked back at Robby. Then back at the rain. Then back at Robby.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” Robby said immediately, “keep it to yourself.”
Abbot couldn’t help but bark a laugh at that. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re about to.”
“I’m just thinking, Robby.”
“That’s worse.”
Abbot stood up again, clasping his hands behind his back and starting to pace the length of the hub. “Out of curiosity,” he said, in the tone of someone who was absolutely not asking out of curiosity, “have you noticed any correlation between—”
“No.”
“—your symptoms and—”
“No.”
“—precipitation patterns—”
“Absolutely not.”
“—because I’m starting to notice that—”
“H’eHHsTCHUU—”
Abbot stopped pacing to arch an eyebrow at him. “You did that on purpose.”
Robby sniffled indignantly. “How could I have possibly—?”
“That was eight, by the way.”
“You’re counting?”
“I started after the third.”
“Why would you—” Robby broke off, pinching the bridge of his quickly reddening nose. “It’s just allergies.”
“To what?”
“I don’t know. Dust. Pollen. Life.” He looked up from his crossword with a rare wry smile. “You, probably.”
“You’ve never had allergies like this because of pollen.” Abbot’s mouth twitched. “Other than when it rains—”
“I am not allergic to rain, Jack.” His usual edge was undermined by the congestion in his voice.
“I didn’t say you were.”
Robby blew his nose (rather obnoxiously in Abbot’s opinion, but that’s neither here nor there). “You’re certainly implying it.”
“I’m considering it.”
Robby opened his mouth, probably for another snippy retort, but was cut off by— “hahh—TCHHUUh’H—h’hih’tCHKx’uh”
Abbot didn’t even bother hiding his interest now. “Bless you again. That’s ten, Rob.”
“Jesus Christ, stop counting!”
“I’m collecting data,” Abbot replied easily with a small shrug.
“I am not your—heh—dahhta—hihh’h’etrUSHCHU!” Robby scrubbed at his nose, more frustrated with the misbehaving appendage than with Abbot.
Abbot hummed sympathetically. “Bless you, Robby.”
Robby just grunted in response, not looking at him as he attacked his nose with a fresh tissue.
Abbot tapped his chin thoughtfully. “We could test it.”
That made Robby look up. “No.”
“Controlled exposure—”
“No.”
“Short intervals—”
“Jack, stop talking.”
“Indoor versus outdoor variables—”
“Dr. Abbot.”
He finally paused, looking at Robby with wide, innocent eyes. “Yes, Dr. Robinavitch?”
“If you try to walk me outside in a storm like a lab rat, I will report you.”
Abbot considered that. “Ethics board might frown, yes.”
“Might?”
“They’re notoriously anti-rain-allergy research.”
Abbot was rewarded by a short, surprised laugh for that one. He grinned back at Robby widely.
Robby stood, slamming his pencil down on the desk like he was betrayed by his own expression of amusement, and started stalking off. “I just have a cold or something.”
“Only when it rains?” Abbot trailed after him into the staff room, where Robby was pouring himself a glass of water.
Robby glared at him over the rim of his cup. “It’s a coincidence.”
“Eight instances is not a coincidence.”
That gave Robby pause. He looked back at Abbot, an odd expression on his face. “You’ve been tracking this for eight instances?!”
Abbot shrugged, indifferent, reaching out for Robby’s glass for a sip of his water. “It’s been rainy in Pittsburg.”
Robby stared at him for a minute. “That’s deeply weird.”
Abbot’s eyebrows shot up, slightly startled by the force of them. “…Bless you.”
Robby sniffled weakly. “I hate you.”
“I think the traditional response is ‘thank you,’” Abbot replied drily, holding out the tissue box he’d (rather cleverly) brought with him like an olive branch. Then added with a a smirk, “And you don’t hate me.”
Robby snatched the box, bringing another handful of tissues to his streamy face. “I hate this conversation.”
“Which is about your possible hypersensitivity to—”
“Don’t say it.”
“—rain.”
Robby made a sound somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh, throwing the (now empty) tissue box at his head. “You cannot be serious.”
Abbot stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing something confidential. “Think about it.”
“I refuse.”
“Every time it rains—”
“I’m leaving.”
“—you exhibit acute nasal—”
“I am actively leaving.” Robby, voice thick, brushed past him to the hallway towards the back storage room.
Abbot followed immediately. “—symptoms consistent with—”
Robby stopped short just outside the storage room and turned on him. “If you say ‘rain allergy’ one more time—”
A cold gust of air swept through the corridor as the automatic doors at the far end slid open. Someone rushed in, dripping, shaking water from their coat.
Robby inhaled, burying his face in his sleeved elbow—
“—hEH—eStCHUUU!! rETCHHUu—” he gasped slightly, folding at the waist, one hand braced against the wall— “hHEH—TRUSHHUU! Fucking Christ.’
Impeccably timed. Abbot placed a gentle hand at the small of his back, steadying him. Robby straightened carefully, eyes glistening with irritated tears and nose red. He looked at Abbot with a dignified levelness (particularly valiant considering the display he’d just put on). “Don’t.”
“Hey, I didn’t say anything.”
Robby sniffled again. “You’re thinking it.”
“I am.”
“Well, stop thinking it.” Robby’s usually kind brown eyes were red-rimmed but cold as ice. His withering glare, of course, was weakened by the fact that his nose was red, slightly drippy, and (believe it or not) twitching.
Abbot barked a laugh, unable to help himself. His 6-foot-1, motorcycle-riding, medical-stunt-pulling, objectively badass (and occasionally terrifying) colleague had a nose twitching like a bunny rabbit. “I can’t.”
Robby dragged a hand down his face, trudging into the storage room with a defeated resignation. “I’m transferring departments.”
Abbot trailed after him, still smiling more than he really ought to be. “You’d still encounter rain.”
“I’ll move to a desert.” He reached up to the top shelf for a new box of tissues. The bottom of his scrub top lifted with his arm, revealing a trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the hem of his pants. (Not that Abbot was looking. The redness creeping up his ears had nothing to do with Robby and the warmth of their proximity and the fact that they were so close now that Jack would smell the cigarette smoke clinging to hhis shirt. Obviously not.)
Abbot just poked him in the side. “Don’t worry, I’ll visit.”
“Don’t.” Robby, having retrieved his chosen prize, left the room, not even looking to see if Abbot had followed.
Abbot clasped his hands behind his back again, insufferably pleased, still tailing him like an overexcited puppy. “We’ll need to design a study.”
“We will be doing no such thing.”
“I already have a framework.”
Robby plowed back into the break room, all but collapsing onto the sofa. “I’m begging you to delete it.”
Abbot lingered in the doorway, blocking the view of any stray passers-by. He tilted his head, watching as Robby scrubbed at his nose again, eyes watering, dignity rapidly eroding under the weight of relentless, poorly timed sneezing.
“You know,” Abbot said, softer now, voice somewhere between gentle and conspiratorial, “for the sake of medical advancement—”
“Abbot.”
“—and your own well-being—”
“Jack.”
“—you might consider—”
“Jack, pleahhh—hehh—”
Robby squinted at the overhead lights, eyes watering and nose quivering, trapped for a moment in the limbo.
“hh—hehh—come ohhhn—”
A beat of silence while Abbot watched, waited for the inevitable while Robby resisted in vain until—
“HheH’teCHRUU—! H’HheTCHHUU’uH!!”
Abbot nodded to himself, as if that settled it. “And that makes one hundred sneezes, folks,” he said to no one in particular.
“HaH’iRRISHUU!”
“Our lucky winner is Dr. Michael Robinavitch—“
“hn'HUH—heH’etCHHUu! Hah—hhh—”
“—whose grand prize—“
“Hh'ETSCHHh—ETSCHH’uh!”
“—is an antihistamine and a nap.” Abbot paused, shutting the door and setting down on a chair in front of the couch. “Seriously, brother. Take a benadryl and draw the blinds. I promise I’ll wake you if anything good comes through.”
Robby, breathing through his mouth and looking absolutely spent for the fit, stared at him with wet eyes. He looked exhausted and maybe a bit bewildered. “You promise you’ll wake me?” His voice was gravelly (even more so than usual) and congested.
Abbot made an X over his heart. “Scout’s honor. Trust me,” he added, softer, genuine now.
I have consumed an ungodly amount of caffeine and not enough food over the past two days and I texted an ex at 1am. either I’ve reached a state of nirvana or am on the brink of a total crashout. or both? no wonder so many novelists lose their ever loving minds. how do they do this day after day, how how how?
shoutout to everyone who has encouraged me along the way with likes and tags and replies. seriously, I could cry just thinking about it :) this community's willingness to lift each other up is so special to me. and very special shoutout to @hollanovsnz for inspiring me to try out narration-interrupting sneezing
I had this gif of ilya crying on shane looping in the background the ENTIRE time I wrote this part. please take a look, it's so worth it.
without further ado, here is the final part—
in which ilya is very sick, and shane struggles with words but excels in physical touch (and google searches).
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6
Ilya was being scarily compliant.
How many times had Shane asked Ilya to grow up, to listen to his advice because sometimes he knew what he was talking about, to fall in line when a situation required a more delicate approach? Ilya was a mischievous kind of person who really enjoyed setting Shane on edge, and Shane spent a lot of time halfheartedly scolding him for it.
Now, Shane was wholeheartedly regretting it.
He had taken Ilya’s temperature (39.2), made him eat a bit of yogurt (3 spoonfuls, something easy on his throat and to settle his stomach for medication), dosed him up with cold and flu tablets (2) and ibuprofen on top of it (400mg), and got him to drink half a glass of water (to wash down said medication, around 200ml).
Shane accomplished all of this within fifteen minutes, down to the haphazard notes on his phone for tracking, if only because Ilya was ragdolling around and giving Shane absolutely no pushback. He hadn’t even asked Shane why he was suddenly in his house, feeding him medicine and throwing caution to the wind. It was as if the flu had taken all of Ilya’s essence and left his body behind, flushed and sweat soaked.
This was much more frustrating than Ilya’s tendency to lean provocateur over passive lover, or maybe it was just that now Ilya was stripped bare and Shane selfishly wanted it all back.
Or maybe Shane just always had something to complain about.
He surprised himself with the thought. Shane had never been a very introspective person, but Ilya shaped him into more of a human than he’d ever known he could be. It was inexplicable, the power of caring for someone so much.
I love you, he thought. I love you, I love you, I love you.
“I need to get the sheets changed,” he said accordingly. “Come on, I’ll help you up.”
He leaned in, sliding an arm behind Ilya’s shoulders to help him upright. Ilya seemed awfully uncoordinated but no less made the effort to lean into Shane’s stable hold. Ilya was heavy, muscles whipcord tight in a way that always made Shane question how junky breakfast sandwiches and ice cream could amass into such a body, but Shane was strong too.
He helped Ilya onto the chaise near the window. Ilya gave a full body shiver, looking uncomfortable and fully absent, his rheumy-eyed stare fixed on nothing in particular. Shane covered Ilya with the throw at the end of the chaise as an afterthought.
(Ilya wasn’t the type to have an extra set of sheets, and Shane had complained about it just days after Ilya moved in. A week later, there had been three identical sets waiting in the linen closet, courtesy of Ilya caring so much, and three separate hickeys on Ilya’s chest from a thankful and thoroughly loved Shane.)
Shane stripped the bed and tossed the damp sheets on the floor because he didn’t have time to put things in their proper place, then redressed the bed with clean sheets. He did a sloppy job with his shaking hands, but he desperately wanted to get Ilya back in bed.
“Do you think you can handle a quick shower? Just to rinse—“
“—zZdshooh! RrHh’sSCHuuh! Hh-hehh-gd’schhiuuh!”
Shane turned to Ilya and watched him curl into the thin throw blanket, aiming his sneezes down at it with no real intention other than that his head snapped down with them.
“Never mind,” he said gently, more for himself. “Bless you.”
Ilya sniffled in response, a congested sound that made Shane reach for the box of tissues on the nightstand. He pulled a couple out and moved to the chaise, pressing them into Ilya’s hand. Ilya blinked down, only curling his fingers around the tissues.
“Ilya? Hey.” Shane kneeled, catching Ilya’s eyes just for the sake of making sure he was still in there. He took the tissues back from Ilya’s hand and wiped his nose for him with a gentle touch. Ilya’s head tipped forward, following the touch automatically, and Shane couldn’t remember a time he’d ever seen Ilya so pliant. “Alright, bed. You need to be in bed.”
Ilya made a sound of agreement, a thick grumble sticking in his throat, but it eased Shane’s anxiety by a hairline. At least Ilya wasn’t totally lost to the fever, at least he could still appreciate the idea of resting comfortably.
He kept his arm anchored around Ilya’s bare waist as he guided him back to bed. The fever was doing a number on him, but Shane figured being next to naked wasn’t helping. He got Ilya get settled in bed, propped against the pillows and duvet pulled up to his waist, then set out to find something comfortable for Ilya to wear.
He momentarily considered if it was even worth getting Ilya dressed. He would undoubtedly sweat through any clothes, but he supposed it was much easier to change his clothes than to keep changing the sheets.
He settled on a loose long-sleeve and pulled it over Ilya’s head, guiding his arms through and tugging the fabric down into place. His fingers brushed over fever heated skin all the while, mentally clocking that he should check his temperature again soon, just to make sure the medicine was at least keeping it steady.
“RRH’SCHOooh!”
“Oh, fuck—“
The sneeze broke loose against Shane’s arm, and the expletive slipped out in tandem. It took a moment for his mind to catch up, to process the sensation, warm and damp against the back of his hand that was still braced on Ilya’s stomach.
And the reality that he was still being sneezed on.
“Ggh’ZDSCHuuh! YhH’SHhh-ISHhuh-ghH’SHOo!”
There was a brief, horrible pause in which Ilya looked at Shane’s arm, then up at his face, and then Ilya’s expression shifted. He looked completely crestfallen, guilty in a way that looked wrong on on him, and Shane hovered his hands near Ilya nervously.
“Oh, no, it’s—Ilya, it’s fine. You’re fine.”
Ilya turned his head, still looking stricken, and Shane placed his hands on Ilya’s shoulders.
“It’s fine,” he said firmly.
“I’b sorr—“
“I know,” Shane cut in, softer but no less certain. Just to prove a point—to both of them, probably, but he would dissect that later—he pressed a placating kiss to the top of Ilya’s head and squeezed his shoulders. “I know, it’s okay.”
Had Ilya not been sick, they probably would have laughed it off quickly enough. Shane would have complained and dramatically scrubbed his hands under hot water, Ilya would have made a joke about the honor of being baptized by a hockey god, but they both knew the parameters were different during flu season. Shane would have been just as, if not more, mortified if the tables were turned.
“Get some rest.” He squeezed Ilya’s shoulders one more time. “My mom’s coming by soon with some soup. Call if you need me, okay?”
_________________________
Okay, so he was still dramatically scrubbing his hands under hot water, but he was doing so in the kitchen and out of Ilya’s line of sight. He used a healthy four pumps of soap and scrubbed up to his elbows. His sweatshirt had already been tossed in the laundry room with the dirty sheets.
Feeling sufficiently clean, he sat at the table with the packets and bottles of medication, crosschecking as he set alarms for doses. He was in the middle of searching the maximum dose of ibuprofen appropriate for an adult when his mom texted, indicating she had arrived.
He tried to make it a quick affair. His mom, for all her good intentions, had a very hard time relinquishing control. He let her ask questions, answered as kindly as he could manage, and rushed her out with a promise to call her in the morning.
The evening crawled on. He changed Ilya into a clean shirt when the one he had put on him earlier grew too damp. He pushed fluids and kept the bed clear of used tissues. He even convinced Ilya to have a few bites of soup.
Two hours and a few rewetted cool cloths later, Ilya held a cognizance in his eyes that made Shane want to fall to his knees in a belated prayer because he didn’t believe in God, but he could still set his gratitude in places he didn’t understand. With Irina, maybe, and wherever she watched from.
He hadn’t really planned on sleeping in bed with Ilya because it seemed like an unnecessary (and very germy) risk, but he hadn’t really planned on this evening at all. It was unfamiliar, a little scary, but Ilya made Shane’s muted voice of instinct speak up. So Shane sat up in bed with Ilya, scrolling through an article about the workings of fevers and keeping his free hand on Ilya’s blanket-clad thigh.
“Hhah’DZSHHooh! Ugh… Snndfff!” Shane wordlessly passed Ilya a tissue even though the box sat between them, within Ilya’s reach. He listened as Ilya blew his nose and continued thumbing over his screen. “Shade?”
“Hmm?”
“Shirt.”
“What?” He frowned and turned his head to look over.
“Hot. Help mbe take this off.”
“Oh—yeah? That’s good, I think.” He set his phone down and gently swatted Ilya’s hands away from the bottom hem of his shirt, deciding it would be easier if he did it without clumsy, flu-fatigued help. “I think that means your fever’s coming down.”
“Good.” Ilya coughed into his bare arm after his shirt was off. “I hate fever. Terrible.”
“Terrible,” Shane agreed, reaching for the thermometer on the nightstand. “Have you ever been this sick before?”
“Probably. Whed I was yougg, baybe. Dnot sindce... Si’ihhh’hahh—“
Shane had more tissues ready—
“Hh’aAHDZCHUuh! Yhh’HIDDSCHhh!”
—to push into Ilya’s waiting hand, who was anticipating Shane would answer to the call—
“—GDZTCHhuhh-hh’huuh’dZZSsh-ETSCHhoo!”
—of his nose fucking losing it.
“HhehH-HEH’JDSHhooh!”
“Holy shit.”
Ilya blew his nose after Shane handed him another fresh handful of tissues, then again when Shane gave him more.
“Ugghh. Sorry.”
“No, I just… That just sounded like it hurt. Are you okay?”
“Mby dose is goig to break agaid probably.”
“I don’t think that’s poss—“
“Is a joke, Shade. You thigk I ab stupid? You thigk this fever cooked mby braidn, huh?”
It was more like Ilya than he’d sounded all night, and Shane kissed him for it. On his forehead, far away from his running nose, but happily. Ilya looked notably happy about it, too.
“I’b really glad you are here.”
“Me too.”
_________________________
Shane dozed intermittently. He found it difficult to sleep deeply even on an average night, despite his daily dose of the magnesium supplement his nutritionist swore by, and tonight proved to be more of a challenge.
Ilya was snoring louder than usual, which he couldn’t help, and Shane also couldn’t help the way it ground his nerves to dust. On the other hand, snoring meant Ilya was getting sleep, which he desperately needed if he had any hope of feeling better come morning. Maybe the dichotomy between relief and distress wasn’t so stark, after all. Or maybe Shane was really losing it and could no longer tell the difference between the two.
All he knew was that Ilya was snoring, the feverish heat was so stifling that Shane had done away with his own shirt some time ago, his head was starting to hurt from the lack of sleep, and if he could go back in time, he still would have forgone a quiet bedroom and chosen a two hour drive with all that followed.
He held onto that thought and kept his eyes closed.
It was nearly four in the morning when Shane woke with a start.
He had been half-dreaming of growling engines, of machines struggling to power on and push through their work, and it all seemed so out of left field until he realized that the grating noise was happening in real time right beside him.
“Fuck, fuck, Ilya.”
That was a fucking terrible cough.
Shane reached to turn on the bedside lamp. Ilya was faced away from him, curled in on himself and shaking the bed with it. Shane grabbed at him in a panic, pulling him to his chest to raise him up and firmly rub his back.
“Ilya, breathe. You need to breathe.”
Which wasn’t likely helpful to say, but if he meant it enough, if it helped even marginally, he would keep saying it until he went hoarse.
“Shhh, shh. Breathe.”
The coughing slowed, but Ilya’s breaths took on a staccato quality, a sign that he was either building up to a sneeze or, worse, crying.
“Hhuh’ddjshh!”
A sneeze, then.
Ilya’s cheek settled on his collarbone, and Shane finally registered how immensely warm he was. His fever was back up, and Shane felt torn between measuring it with the thermometer and holding Ilya a little longer, at least until his own heart settled.
“You’re really hot, Ilya.” For a brief moment, Shane held hope on the cusp of his breath. He was waiting for Ilya to agree, to make an innocuous joke Shane could roll his eyes at. It was the Ilya whom Shane was trying to carefully coax out of fever.
All he got was another stuttered breath, only this time it was tears that followed.
It broke his fucking heart. He would have preferred being sneezed on again.
He threaded his fingers through Ilya’s hair, smoothing it back just so he could press his cheek flush against Ilya’s forehead. His other arm wrapped around Ilya, keeping him close and holding him in place. He could feel the heat of him sinking into his skin, could feel the gentle stridor of weak crying straight from Ilya’s throat vibrating messages of help me, help me, help me into his chest.
He held Ilya’s head in his hands, his face against his chest, and he kissed, and he kissed, and he kissed because it was all he could do. He thumbed away loose tears, Ilya’s and a few of his own when he really couldn’t help it.
“—ihhdj’shh! Nngh’jdshh!”
Shane knew that would keep happening, Ilya sneezing into his bare chest, and it didn’t matter. It didn’t fucking matter, because Ilya was sick enough he was crying about it, and it made Shane feel like his world was crumbling in consequence. He could withstand a little sneezing if it meant keeping Ilya close for the end of the world.
“Ddzh’ishhuh!”
A lot of sneezing, perhaps, but the point remained unchanged.
He checked Ilya’s temperature four times over the course of the next hour, in 15 minute increments, just to make sure it wasn’t getting any higher. He made Ilya take more medicine, made him shiver his way through cool cloths being gently wiped over his neck and back. Ilya didn’t complain, but Shane wished he would.
It took time, and some patience, and some (all) frayed nerves to get through the worst of it, but Ilya’s temperature calmed. Ilya slept soundly now, and Shane still had the address of the nearest emergency department set on his navigation app just in case. He fell asleep somewhere around the tenth re-check of the estimated arrival time.
Hours later, he woke to Ilya blowing his nose (very loudly, and very obnoxiously), looking pale and bedraggled and still unwell, but noticeably better.
“Wow, Shade, you look like shit.” Ilya raised a brow, a glint in his eye. “What, could dnot sleep?”
Shane, with his relief palpable and needing a place to go, climbed on top of Ilya and kissed all over his clammy but much cooler face. “Your—fucking—fault,” he grouched between kisses.
Ilya laughed, coughed, and laughed again. He rolled them over, pinning Shane under him, and trailed quiet thank you’s from the right side of Shane’s neck, over the front of his throat, and to the left.
_________________________
By Friday morning, Ilya was well enough to lounge on the couch and groan over Shane’s obsessive need to watch tapes of his last game on Tuesday.
Shane had missed optional practice yesterday and was skipping mandatory practice today, with the fabricated excuse of a brand deal commitment and a promise that he would be more than ready for their pre-game practice tomorrow. And Theriault had been more than pissed, tearing into him with you’re a hockey player first and brand whore second, and Shane knew he would be paying for it further tomorrow.
Still, it was hard to feel ashamed about it when Ilya was sprawled over his lap, still sniffly and just slightly flushed, using Shane’s phone because he had wanted a second Clash Royale account to test decks or practice clan formations or whatever he’d rambled on about until Shane gave in.
“Wait, wait, Shane.”
“Yeah?”
“What is this?”
Shane craned his neck forward, seeing that Ilya wasn’t tapping at the game anymore and was now on his browser.
“Hey, no! Give me my phone!”
“Oh, no-no-no. No, I must see this.”
“Ilya!”
“This is… Woooow, Shane. This is bad for you even.”
“God, fucking leave me alone.”
“No, I love it. You are so crazy about me, you have to search every crazy question for my health. Medicine dose, even. You know it says on the box, yes?” Ilya laughed, a brazen and wheezy and gloriously happy kind of sound. “You looove me.”
Shane, aching with something overwhelmingly tender, smiled with a shy laugh of his own. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
Maybe in a week’s time he would be back to nagging Ilya over his choice of breakfast, or admonishing him for a second-day wear of his favorite shirt, or something else that didn’t truly matter in the grand scheme of things. He didn’t worry about it, because Ilya would find him human all the same and love him for it.
Ilya, in turn, would quip back twice as hard. He would find something unrelated to tease Shane about, trying on which insult of the day would make Shane most irritated and wear it proudly, would get on his nerves just to come back with a kiss to make it better.
That’s His Baby (Part 2/3) (H/eated R/ivalry, Ilya)
Based on more ideas by/conversations with @softsicknose. Everything she comes up with is absolutely GOLDEN (Ilya's menthol cough drop sensitivity!!). 💖 Set a few months after Hollanov officially start being boyfriends. More angst than I expected to write. But sometimes we need to read and write that, eh? ;)
Part 1
———
“AESZCHHH—”
—Shane could hear the beginning of Ilya’s enormous sneeze from outside his front door—
“—HHhhh’ooo!”
—and the tail end as he entered to the sight of his scarlet-nosed boyfriend laying on the couch, wearing one of Shane’s sweatshirts, lap covered by a wool blanket, surrounded by balls of tissues. Before Shane could say hello and put down his Shoppers bag, Ilya began to huff and gasp towards another sneeze.
“Bless you. Oh my god, are you okay?”
Ilya nodded and pointed at the small bag laying next to him, his eyes closing as he built back up, stuttering and hitching. Shane peeked at it while placing a hand over Ilya’s arm to steady him. The poor man was practically rocking back and forth from the expansion and contraction of his breaths.
“Menthol cough drops?”
Ilya gave a final high-pitched gasp before crumpling forward. “hHA’DZCHhhoo!”
“—bless you, aren’t those the ones that—“
“-DZCHHhhhoo! hrRISHHHhhuhh!”
“—bless you. Make you sneeze like—“
“hr’ISCHhhh, rr’ISHHhhhh, hRISHHhhuhh!”
“—bless you! Make you sneeze like crazy?”
“Whhhat do you fucking thiihh-! ha’dszchhh! AH’DZCHhhhoo! ah, hahH! hy’ADSZHHHh’hooo!”
“Jesus. Bless you, Ilya. Don’t be a dick, it’s not my fault you decided to murder yourself. Why do you even still have these?” He grabbed the cough drops, the menthol so strong he could smell it without even opening the bag.
Ilya needed to blow his nose multiple times before he could answer. “…Is the only thing that helps my throat,” he admitted, shrugging and looking a little sheepish. “Worth all the sneezing.”
“Well, okay. Next time I go out I’m getting you Throat Coat tea. Throat Coat, you pervert,” he said, laughing when Ilya’s eyes and smile began to grow very wide.
“Mm, is not what I want down my throat.”
“Jesus, dude.” Shane rolled his eyes with a smile, smacked away the grabby hands that were inching towards his pecs, and opened his bag. “You’re a dork. Okay, we’ve got more honey, some Jolly Ranchers for your cough - guess we don’t need those anymore - and more tissues.” Shane pulled out one of the three boxes he’d bought. Ilya, who’d once again started to sound like he needed a tissue or ten, took a few out of the box, then looked perplexed.
“Why are these so soft?”
“They’re tissues with lotion, so your nose doesn’t get more red and chapped. Although…maybe we should test if you’re allergic to them first. That would be bad if tissues made you sneeze.” Knowing Ilya, that was definitely a possibility.
Ilya had started to shake his head before Shane even finished speaking. He handed the box back. “I do not need these,” he said.
“Um. Why?”
“I have plenty of tissues here. Do not need a new box.” He started to pull tissues out of the box in his lap to demonstrate, face falling when only two came out. Shane couldn’t help but giggle as Ilya determinately pushed his hand deeper into the box to look for more.
“Well, I hate to tell you this, but…”
Ilya, who now had his hand stuck in the box, waved his other hand at Shane. “Yeah, yeah, I need new tissue box for stupid nose, blah blah blah.”
Shane grabbed Ilya’s trapped hand and helped pull it free. “Hey. Don’t call your nose stupid.”
“Fine. My smart nose, then.” Ilya crossed his arms in an absolutely adorable pout that somehow made the 6’3” pro athlete look like an oversized curly-haired teddy bear. He eyed the tissue box Shane passed back over to him warily. “I have plenty of other tissues in the bedroom, no need for these.”
Shane narrowed his eyes. “Ilya…”
Ilya raised a brow. “Shade…”
“‘Shade?’ You sound like you need some more tissues…” Shane plucked one out. “These are right here...”
Ilya’s silliness evaporated. He averted his gaze and looked very embarrassed. Shane had no clue why.
He put a hand on Ilya’s arm. “What’s wrong, Ilya?”
Ilya cleared his throat. “I…these are for you, not me.”
Huh? “What are you talking about?”
“They are…too nice. I don’t need…nice things.” Ilya said the last part so softly that Shane almost missed it.
“What does that mean?”
“You should have them. I don’t…” Ilya looked very sad, and Shane put a hand to his forehead. He was very warm. Is that why he’s being so honest?
“You think…you don’t deserve nice things? But I do?” Shane was simultaneously furious and worried and horrified.
Ilya bit his lip and scratched the side of his nose with a sniffle. He still wouldn’t look Shane in the eye. “You deserve everything,” he said.
“Ilya, look at me,” Shane replied fiercely. When Ilya looked, his eyes were wet, and Shane cupped his face in both hands.
This was about more than just tissues.
“You deserve everything. You deserve nice things.”
What the fuck had that bastard Grigori Rozanov done when little Ilya was sick? Tell him, drink some vodka and shut the fuck up? Or even…worse? The thought made Shane want to wring the already-dead man’s throat.
“Hey. I’m here now,” Shane said, doing his best not to let his voice waver. “I’m going to give you what you need.” He pulled Ilya into a long hug, holding him tighter when he felt the wetness from Ilya’s silent tears on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he murmured.
Ilya eventually pulled away, eyes glassy, and gave a full-body shiver. “M’ cold,” he said.
“Let’s get you to bed. But first…” Shane handed Ilya a tissue. “Your nose looks like it’s in pain. Use this, please.”
Ilya took it and blew his nose, and though the honking sounded painful, he had a relieved expression on his face.
“Better?”
Ilya nodded. “Yes. Thank you,” he said, almost shyly, smiling when Shane pressed a kiss to his forehead. When Shane got off the couch and turned back to give Ilya his hand, Ilya had a handful of tissues raised to his face.
“hyehh…! Hh’RUSHhooo, hr’USHHhhhoo, HAADT’CHOO!” He blew his nose, the relief returning to his face.
“Bless you.” God, Shane wanted to protect this man. He wanted to make him soup and cuddle him and rub his back and kiss him all over. He wanted him to feel better, and to know that he was loved. That he deserved nice soft tissues, for fuck’s sake.
He wasn’t alone anymore. He never would be again. Shane would make sure of it, forever.
“hy’ESHhhhahhh! hESHHHhhoo! hy’AGHT’shooo!” Ilya sneezed an enormous uncovered triple, sniffling and shaking his head like a dog after, curls flying back and forth.
Sigh. If only Shane could convince him to hold the nice soft tissues to his face when he sneezed, too...and maybe pick them up after.
a forefinger desperately placed under red, runny noses. they've sneezed so much already in a short period of time, they need a break, just for a mohmehHh--!!
i would like to request seasonal allergies Sh/and Holla/nder please !!
Only if you want . He'd be so flustered and try to hide it from Il/ya and his teammates
Hope ur doing well !!
Im doing much better with these asks in my inbox!!! Thank you for the request, your wish is granted.
Featuring- allergic!S/hane and a not-so-clueless I/lya
If anyone were to ask, Ilya is the one between them that has worse allergies. Normally, anyone on the Centaurs (or even within a ten mile radius of him on a spring morning) would agree. No one believes Ilya when he tries to defend himself, they’ve all been around him, they’ve all been witnesses in his nose’s attempt at escaping his face. Everyone rolls their eyes when Ilya insists it’s only because he’s louder that they think he’s worse. What Shane will never admit is that Ilya’s technically right. Until today, when Troy stumbles onto the ice half an hour late to practice, fresh out of a Dior Sauvage ad filming. Everyone wolf whistles and jeers as he hops over the barrier and almost eats shit trying to skate into position.
“Looking good, Barrett. I am sorry hockey disturbed beauty sleep.” Ilya, ever the instigator, is the loudest voice in the crowd despite being entirely across the rink skating bags with the rookies.
“That’s the number three pretty face in hockey, you might wanna ask for some tips, five.” That gets an even louder roar of approval from the team as Ilya playfully launches himself after Boodram. It is funny, almost every bout of teasing amongst the Centaurs is funny. It’s so unlike the atmosphere Shane remembers with the Metros that his chest fucking aches.
Unfortunately, Shane is too wrapped up in fondly surveying his team that he doesn’t see Ilya barrelling towards him. Much like a puppy who doesn’t know his own size, his husband has this (frankly adorable) habit of not remembering he’s built solidly of muscle. In his chase of Boodram, he makes a tight loop around where Shane and Luca are loitering at center ice and spots a much more enticing target. With a dopey grin and enough gusto that anyone could practically see his tail wagging, Ilya hip checks Shane right into Troy.
On any other day, this would be fine. On any other day, Shane would swing around Troy and give chase. On any other day, Troy Barrett would not be dripping with Dior Sauvage cologne. It was probably a nice scent, something sharp and fancy, very Troy. Whatever it might’ve been, Shane only recognized it as unbearably fucking strong. He tried to push himself back with a frenzied shake of his head, as if that alone would nullify the sudden buzzing in his sinuses. Both of his arms brace against Troy’s chest as the lineman holds his elbow in what is supposed to be a steadying gesture. Except, right now it felt more like he’s caging Shane’s nose against a bundle of horrifically expensive flowers.
“Hih’IYISCHhuh!” The first bursts from him before he can get his hands up to cover or try to suppress it into something that doesn't echo around the arena. Troy is startled enough to pull his hand away, Shane is eternally grateful as he doubles over again. “ISCH’iuh!” There’s just enough of a breath between what is surely going to be an embarrassingly steady fit, for Shane to shake his gloves off and pinch his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Hh’NGX’tiew! KDT’iew!”
A couple of the guys toss blessings over their shoulders, more of an after thought to the shenanigans still holding their attention. The rookies took chase after Ilya and Boodram to ‘avenge Shane’s honor’ or something, and that’s evidently more entertaining than Shane himself having an allergy attack. Despite the lack of anyone’s attention, the quivering of his sinuses doesn’t let up, intent on being acknowledged fully. “GNXT’iew! NXK’tchiew!” For some unfortunate reason, Troy is the only one who actually seems to notice Shane’s dilemma. That would usually be fine since Troy is usually one of the few people Shane can tolerate when he’s overwhelmed. Other than the fact that the universe apparently hates him today because the winger decides to go against his usual ‘leave it be’ tactics and starts fucking talking.
“Jesus, man-” “T-Troy-hh’EXK’schew! TXG’tiew!” “Sorry, didn’t have time to shower after-” “It’s f-hih-fine. N-huh-not you’re- NGXD’tiew! EDG’tiew!” “Yeah, it fucking reeks.” Interrupting Troy’s attempted apologies definitely isn’t helping assure him that ‘yeah, man, it’s whatever’. Except the idiot keeps trying to glide slightly closer to pat Shane’s shoulder, which is really going to fuck that up. It’s like an awkward dance, Shane shakily pushing backwards with both hands now covering his face as he convulses into himself.
“Give the guy some breathing room, damn.” Thank fucking God for Wyatt Hayes. The goalie floats over and puts a giant hand on Troy's shoulder, holding him in place so Shane can escape a few paces back.
“You trying to kill our center, Barrett?” Chouinard barks out a laugh from the other side of the ring, too caught up in effortlessly holding both Holmberg and Young back from Bood to actually care. Which, good for fucking him, because Shane is all too aware of the situation on this side of the ice right now.
“Fuck, how much of that shit did they use? You smell fucking sterile.” Dykstra coughs through his teasing as he skates over. Their teasing is mostly background noise as Shane doubles over again, and again, and again, and again.
Whatever new cologne this is fucking burns. Somebody’s stupid rich uncle is probably having a field day ‘dissecting the notes’ or whatever that means. God, Ilya’s going to be sleeping on the fucking couch and the entire team is skating bags. That is, as soon as he’s lucid and stable enough to actually reprimand anyone.
“Hollander?” Right, the only voice that sounds slightly concerned is the idiot that got him into this mess.
Glaring at Ilya as he passes Dykstra, Hayes, and Barrett is a much more difficult task to accomplish between stifles than it usually is. Too busy ducking back into his hands, Shane feels rather than sees his husband as a steadying hand lands on his shoulder. Took him fucking long enough, fuck, he’s sneezing so much he’s starting to get light headed. He sniffles sharply and turns so his shoulder is touching Ilya’s chest and he can use him as a human shield.
“I’ve got you, get it out. No one’s looking, just one big sneeze and it’s over.” Ilya’s assurances are whispered gently into his husband’s hair as he manages to drag them back to the player bench.
“Hih-hh’IYISCHeuh! Fuck, that’s better.” Shane sniffles a few times to be sure, his nose definitely still tingles but in a farther off way than it did seconds ago.
“You’re worse than Cap, Holly!” Rude, he glares at Dykstra in obvious resentment and straightens out of his husband's grasp. Objectively speaking, he is decidedly not worse than Ilya in the ‘pissed off nose’ department, thank you very much. It’s just that on the off chance something does bother him, he goes all in.
“Troy! Go shower!” Weibe claps Ilya’s shoulder in passing as he strides onto the ice to wrangle his team into doing something actually productive. Everyone groans as they skate back into positions, sans Troy who quickly hops the boards opposite Shane and Ilya and vanishes.
No one even mentions it when Shane sits heavily on the bench and takes the water bottle proffered by his husband. He sprays some directly on his face, attempting to wash the last of the lingering itch away, before offering it back. There’s an engraved expectation for Ilya to do the same, that if anything bothered Shane, it would obviously bother him as well. Except, Shane only watches Ilya take a swig of water and place the bottle back on the wall.
“I’m surprised that stuff didn’t bother you at all,” Shane admits with a tilt of his head.
“No, was not like flowers, so…” Despite his assurance, Ilya scrunches his nose with a faint sniff; though the reaction seems to be more from the mere mention of anything floral than Barrett’s actual cologne. “But I think we will maybe not do ads with Sauvage now. Is a shame, those ads are usually very sexy.”
“Ilya,” Shane chuckles, pushing lightly at his husband’s hip and earning a displeased huff.
“Is true! They are very European, your mom would like them for my branding.” She probably would, now that Shane really thinks about it.
Out of all the phrases to dub someone as “sick”, there is something particularly delicious about the term “unwell” or any variation of.
I’m imagining a person gently cupping the side of a sickie’s face, taking in their sweat-dappled brow, their loss of color aside from flushed cheeks and a red nose, the sheen across their eyes that tells of a mild fever potentially getting worse.
They frown as the sickie melts into their palm, and they coo out:
yeah okay whatever I’ll get you the nice seasonal hot drink with the whipped cream if you’re good stop grinning at me with those big wet allergic eyes go wipe your nose yes I’ll get you a pastry too “you’re the best” WHATEVER
-
hi yes it’s me I’m back sorry I scared you why is the air purifier still off who opened the window. you?? okay it’s fine god your eyes are so gorgeous and puffy let’s close that fucker okay? bless you yes that’s for you, bless you bless you yes I’ll get the fan it’s hot as balls in here.
-
what did you say? ..what? it’s okay, I’m not asleep yet. bless you. where are you going? it’s okay, come back. bless you. here, these should be better. stop that. I’ll wash them, it’s okay. lean back for me. bless you. oh, it hurts. okay. I’ll get you drugs. how does that sound? just sit tight. ..no? I’ll… okay. I’ll stay. yeah. yeah, no, I’m actually not tired. I’m serious. I was wide awake just now, thinking about things. I’m glad you’re up with me, now I have someone to torture relentlessly with my deep philosophical wonderings…
This monster fic bought to you by me, Dr. Frankenstein, stitching multiple posts together: allergic!Ilya hc by @diamond-pixie-dust, cottage allergies by @feverfcking, service top!Ilya by @lavsnz, and sexy tease Ilya by anon and @perseaphoneaa.
Featuring "who, me? I'm not allergic" Ilya and "please don't figure out I have the kink" Shane.
Thanks again to @diamond-pixie-dust for the feedback and encouragement! This fic is loads better (and way hotter) than it would've been without you.
Posting this part (3.9k) first because the second part will be very NSFW ;)
----
Ilya slowly rises to consciousness, but he's not sure why he’s awake. The bedroom is just starting to reclaim colors from the night’s darkness, so it’s still early. Shane’s still asleep next to him on the bed. He has some sore spots, which is to be expected; his ribs are still on the mend and yesterday was his first time having sex in months. He’s not any more congested than usual. After breaking his nose as many times as he has, it seems like he always is, a little. So what -- oh. A familiar twinge runs through his sinuses and his chest jumps with an involuntary inhale. He needs to sneeze. He’s able to stifle his usual triple into silence, hands-free, so as not to wake Shane, but he can’t help the brief quake that runs through his body with each sneeze.
He sniffs quietly, rubbing his nose against the wrist that’s opposite Shane. There’s a lingering feathery tickle at the forefront of his nose, like he’s going to maybe sneeze again. He breathes slowly and steadily, hoping to outlast the feeling and go back to sleep. He’s just starting to drift off when the tickle flares suddenly and he finds himself hitching almost before he realizes it, but he’s able to contain the sneeze itself and the second too. But after the third, a soft, stuffy exhale escapes him, “–uhh.”
Shane makes a soft sound and tenses. Ilya freezes, knuckle pressed flush against his septum. After a long second, Shane’s body relaxes, his breathing resuming a sleepy cadence. Ilya relaxes too, using his knuckle to firmly rub his nose, flicking the tip up as he finishes and sniffs again. The tickle from before has faded, but a softer, teasing itch seems to have taken its place, settling farther back in his nose. He scrunches his face around his nose, trying to itch the tickle without moving too much, to no avail. Fuck. This will-or-won’t-he-sneeze feeling is one of his least favorites. His lips part, tongue pressing against the back of his front teeth, as he focuses on the sensation.
Luckily (or unluckily), it resolves after a few more breaths into, of course, a sneeze. As with the previous sneezes, he’s able to completely hold in the first one. On the second, however, he’s able to suppress the release, but the ending sighs out of him. “–shhieww…” They’re getting stronger, more insistent. The third sneeze is entirely voiced. “...tsch’ngkk!” And he’s not done, what? “nnn’gxxtzz! hih’kngzt!” Ilya’s mouth hangs open as he waits for the sixth sneeze… which… doesn’t come. Fuck.
He startles, badly, when he hears a half-yawned, sleepy, “Bless you,” from Shane.
“Thank you,” Ilya replies automatically, voice raspy with congestion. He sniffs it back, swallows, then adds, “Sorry, I did not mean to wake you.”
“S’okay,” Shane mumbles, stretching, and rolls over to face Ilya. Looking adorably sleepy, he snuggles in close, and rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder, then tilts his face up towards Ilya’s. “Good morning.” His voice sounds more alert than he looks.
“Good morning,” Ilya agrees, blinking against the sunbeam cutting over his face. Its brightness seems to re-awaken the tickle, which isn’t surprising, and the congestion has crept back, so he wrinkles his nose and sniffs sharply. Looking at Shane, his entreaty from yesterday, to be honest about how they think and feel, floats through Ilya’s mind. He’d been excited yet nervous to spend more than a few hours at a time with Shane. They’d all but admitted to liking each other in Tampa, but there’s a difference between liking someone and enjoying their company.
He sniffs again, then puts it out there against the background noise of nature: “I like you.”
“I like you too,” Shane concurs, unhesitating. Ilya trails his fingers across Shane’s forehead and back through Shane’s hair as Shane tilts his face back down towards Ilya’s pec, closing his eyes, a content smile on his face. Even though Shane’s awake, he looks so relaxed and happy that Ilya just wants to stare at him forever. Too bad he can’t take a picture, because the tickle hasn’t let up and he’s going to sneeze again. Soon.
Ilya opens his mouth to warn Shane, the thought of untangling from Shane not having crossed his mind, but what comes out instead is a series of hitching breaths. “hhh! hih... ihhh’huh?” After so many years playing MLH hockey, Ilya’s usually not self-conscious about sneezing anymore, but he feels a little embarrassed about sneezing while in such close proximity to Shane. At least the hitches give him enough time to turn away from Shane, towards his opposite shoulder. “hhh-NK’ZXtch’ue! ahh’ntschooo! –kschht’uhh!” He sniffles loosely in the aftermath and roughly swipes at the tears that have gathered in the corners of his eyes.
“Fuck, sorry,” Ilya apologizes damply, sniffling again, “they surprised me.” Shane, stretched out along Ilya’s side, feels tense, where he was boneless before. His eyes dart quickly away from, then back to, Ilya’s.
“You, uh, you don’t need to do… that,” Shane says, gesturing vaguely at Ilya’s face.
“Sneeze, Hollander?” Ilya deadpans, arching his eyebrows at Shane.
“Fuck you,” Shane responds automatically. “I meant,” he pauses, swallowing visibly, “You don’t have to hold them back like that.”
“Ah. I will try to remember,” Ilya says, internally reserving the right to ignore those instructions.
-----
Ilya’s maybe a little more congested and sniffly than usual as they lazily get up and get ready for the day, but since there are no further sneezes he doesn’t think much of it. After breakfast, they settle in for some gaming. Shane’s sitting back into the couch and Ilya’s leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees.
“You can’t pick Montreal!” Shane protests, but he’s smiling.
“Yes I can!” Ilya retorts, throwing a look behind him at Shane before returning his gaze to the screen. Maybe something shifts with the quick movement, because there’s a sudden, fluttering itch in his sinuses. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a Metro,” he muses, twitching his nose. It doesn’t help. “You know, historically they’re the best team in sport.” The tickle builds as he makes his final selections.
Resignedly, Ilya tucks his face into his elbow. “heht–tissch’uh!” It’s wetter than he expected but there’s no time to sniffle before he’s leaning into the next sneeze. “ehh’heh’kkscht!” He’s not holding them in entirely, but yes, he is trying to contain them somewhat. It’s actually doable without bursting any veins, unlike his monster sneezes during allergy season. “hih’KSShh’ue!” Ilya squints into the middle distance. Is he… going to… fuck, he is– “ahhhISHHew! ihhschh’oo! eih’yishhshiew!” He wasn’t able to suppress the sixth sneeze, but still finds himself gearing up for another. “…hhh? ihhh’ischhh!”
“...fuck,” he pants with feeling, waiting for an eighth. But the need-to-sneeze feeling fades enough that he knows it’s not going to come, even though his sinuses are still tingling. His arm is wet and he grimaces, wiping it onto his shorts while sniffling the loosened congestion back. He should probably blow his nose, but there aren’t any tissues in sight.
Ilya expects Shane to chirp him for hygiene or something, but Shane just huffs an exhale through his nose and rolls the hem of his sweatshirt between his fingers. “Better than the fucking Yankees!” he declares after a beat, reviving their banter with forceful enthusiasm.
Ilya cedes control of the setup menu to Shane. “Oh, I know so,” he agrees, aggressively rubbing at his nose while Shane works his controller.
“Well, I’m gonna be Boston,” Shane sasses, thumbing at his joystick and pressing buttons with unnecessary force.
“Good choice,” Ilya drawls.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Shane promises.
“I am you,” Ilya points out, his right hand releasing the controller and gesturing for emphasis. It detours to his nose, pinch-rubbing before drifting back to his controller.
Shane looks at Ilya. His gaze flickers slightly down, like he’s looking at Ilya’s lips, and lingers there for a second before snapping back up. “Well, you’re not anything,” Shane retorts.
Ilya can’t let that stand. He picks up the case and holds it next to his face, angling himself toward Shane. “I’m on the cover of the fucking game!” he huffs.
They’re about to start playing when Shane’s phone buzzes. Pike. Boring. Ilya falls dramatically back onto the couch cushions, but Shane pays him no mind, focused on the call. He sits up again, intending to pout at Shane, but something delightful catches his eye. Shane’s half-hard. Ilya walks his hand up Shane’s thigh only to get smacked aside. Rude. He keeps trying, leaning into Shane’s space until Shane pauses the call.
“What are you doing?” Shane demands expectantly.
“I think you know,” Ilya murmurs, flicking his gaze back and forth between Shane’s eyes and his crotch.
“Please stop,” Shane requests, tilting his head slightly down toward Ilya’s hand.
Ilya purses his lips, makes a show of looking down, and raises his eyebrows at Shane. “I don’t think is what you want,” he demurs, faux earnest, with a slight shake of his head.
“Later, okay?” Shane says pointedly.
“Okay, I make you a deal,” Ilya proposes magnanimously, “I won’t touch you, but if you get hard–”
“I won’t get hard,” Shane asserts with a shake of his head.
“Okay, so no problem then,” Ilya says smoothly, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
“Ilya…” Shane reprimands.
“Shane…” he counters, irrepressible, raising his eyebrows.
Shane turns away from Ilya, rejoins the call, and hoists himself up to sit on the back of the couch. Not his best tactical move, since that puts his crotch basically on a line with Ilya’s face. He flicks his gaze toward it, then leans forward to rest his chin on Shane’s thigh. As he does, an itch swiftly unfurls in the back of his nose. He was going to plant a kiss above Shane’s knee anyway, so he seizes the opportunity to quickly itch his nose against Shane’s quad. His lips part and nostrils flare instinctively as he looks up at Shane and lightly scratches at Shane’s inner thigh. And then he sees, as he predicted, that Shane’s fully hard.
Ilya ignores the flowering itch, gives Shane a gleeful thumbs up, and sternly commands his nose to not sneeze until he’s done blowing Shane. For once, his nose obeys. Mostly. Almost to the second after Shane comes in his mouth, his nose pointedly reminds him that it’s waited long enough. He takes in a quick breath as he pulls off, then presses his face against Shane’s inner thigh, helpless to do anything but yield. He does, however, ignore Shane’s directive to stop holding the sneezes in because, gospodi, another inch to the left and he’d be sneezing all over Shane’s shorts.
“NGXSHT! heh’JXKTZsch! eh’nnGTSH-uh!” The insistent triple triggers all the congestion that he hasn’t been able to sniff back over the last few minutes to start flooding down. He can’t even try to stem the flow because he’s already breathing in, in, in for the next sneeze. “hih’dJSTchuh! huhhMMPT’shew!” As he hitches his way to the sixth and hopefully last, “hhh, hah’ahh-,” which he’s definitely not letting out, “...ahh? hhh, hh, h’ahh,” he feels Shane’s thigh tremble against his cheek. “ahh-NNGXKT’jshh! -snnrrff!”
Ilya stays in between Shane’s legs, still sniffling every few breaths, uncharacteristically unsure what to do next. He’s a hot mess and he’s definitely gotten some of it on Shane. Fuck, he really needs a tissue… or something. He peeks up at Shane, who’s staring shell-shocked at him, and immediately looks back down, his cheeks starting to heat. Ilya reaches down towards the hem of his tank top, which seems to restart Shane, who hastily leans back, peels out of his Metros sweatshirt, and shoves it at Ilya.
“Here, you can, um, use this,” Shane stammers, blushing and looking everywhere but at Ilya, “while I, I need to,” he brandishes the phone, just in case Ilya’s forgotten.
Ilya, confused, accepts the sweatshirt and swipes it over Shane’s thigh, quick but gentle, cleaning him up. He brings it to his own face, scrubbing roughly at his watery eyes before rising. Keeping the sweatshirt over the lower half of his face, he flops back onto the couch. As he steeples his hands over his nose, setting up to blow, he hears the little ping of Shane unmuting. He might have been able to blow his nose quietly enough to go unheard right after sneezing, but now that he’s back to being congested, he knows blowing his nose will get loud. Instead, Ilya presses his fingers down, massaging his still itchy nose through Shane’s sweatshirt in slow up and down strokes. A wet spot blooms on the fabric, growing with each pass of his fingers.
“Ah, sorry, man,” Shane apologizes, still catching his breath. “I just– I have to run. Someone’s at the door.” Ilya pauses, letting out a breathless chuckle and grinning wide under the sweatshirt.
“Fuck,” Shane pants, shooting a look at Ilya, “No, it’s just… it’s just, just Amazon. But, um, I’ll–I’ll call you next week, and… Yeah, yeah, so… totally. And um… All right, yes, love you man. And, uh, give my best to Jackie and the kids.” Shane hangs up and tosses his phone aside, then looks at Ilya.
As Ilya inhales deeply to blow his nose, he sees Shane’s gaze skitter away from him. Did he misread Shane? Fuck, it’s too late if he did, because now he really needs to blow. So he does, first one side, then the other, each accompanied with a loud honk. He blows twice more, equally as loud, shoulders hunching with effort. He can feel his sinuses vibrating, but risks a fifth blow. Predictably, the vibration escalates.
“EHSCHHH’huh!” He lets himself sneeze freely, pitching forward. “hih’ETSCHOO! hhh… hih’EDJJSSSCHHH’uue!” The first two must have loosened everything up, because the third sneeze sluices out of him, swiftly soaking through the fabric. He shifts to a dry spot and blows, long and gurgling, then blows again and again until he’s squeaking. Ilya rubs around his nose a couple more times, just to make sure he’s presentable, before looking up sheepishly. He’s not sure what to do with the sodden mess he’s made of the sweatshirt. Shane’s not giving Ilya any hints either; he’s hunched forward, tension radiating from the set of his shoulders, and his head is lowered, hiding his expression.
The sound of birds chirping and leaves rustling feels extra loud in the silence between them. Ilya’s about to say something when Shane sits up, inhales his shoulders to his ears, drops them with his exhale, and shakes his head. Ilya can see Shane’s somewhat more relaxed after that, which soothes some of his own tension.
“Fuck you,” Shane huffs, amused and… maybe nervous? He leans forward, plucks the thoroughly used sweatshirt from Ilya’s hands, and lets it drop to the floor. “Fuck you,” he repeats, bracing his right hand on Ilya’s shoulder and swinging his right leg over Ilya’s lap. He touches their foreheads and noses together as he brackets Ilya’s body with his own. Ilya releases the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Why was that so hot?” Shane asks rhetorically, his gaze darting to the sweatshirt. Maybe Shane likes it when Ilya uses his clothes? Ilya files the thought away for later contemplation even as relief washes over him.
“Because you,” Ilya taps Shane’s pec and lightly pushes Shane away as he sniffles, “like to be bad.”
Shane’s lingering mirth sombers as he looks at Ilya. He puts a hand against Ilya’s jaw, rubs Ilya’s cheek with his thumb. “Hey, that’s–that’s not what this is. You and me. Maybe it was at first, but…” Shane pauses briefly. Ilya sucks his lips in and scrunches his nose up, his tongue sneaking out to rub over his lower lip before releasing his lips. “Not now, and not for a long time,” Shane finishes, earnest and tender.
“Oh, so now you like when it’s messy?” Ilya intones, deflecting Shane’s sincerity.
“All right,” Shane grumbles, but he’s smiling as he rolls off Ilya. Ilya grins, sits up, and plays a few drum beats on Shane’s thigh before they pick up their controllers.
-------------
“I do not understand soccer,” Ilya complains as they head outside. “You kick ball with foot, football!”
“Actually,” Shane says, opening the door and holding it for Ilya, “the term soccer originated in Britain as a shortened version of association football.”
Ilya cuts Shane an incredulous glance before stepping over the threshold. “How do you,” he begins, but cuts himself off with a sudden flurry of sneezes. “hh’ITSCHHoo! ihhh’isssch–itsch–isshoo! hihht’SZSSSHHHiew! –djssch’ue! …heh, ehhh? ehhhGGISSHHhuh!” He waits a second to make sure he’s really done, then straightens up with a muttered, “Pizdets,” in between sniffs.
Shane, notably, says nothing. He just shoves the hand not holding the ball into his pocket and keeps walking. To Ilya’s eye, Shane’s stride looks choppy and tense – yet another Shane-related oddity in a day full of them. He’d mulled it over all through lunch and concluded that Shane’s weirdness lines up with his sneezes, but he can’t figure out why that should be the case. The taut silence stretches between them, punctuated only by Ilya sniffling every few breaths, until after they reach the back lawn and Shane tosses the ball towards Ilya.
“Ilya, are you–do you… have allergies?” Shane asks haltingly, his gaze somewhere over Ilya’s shoulder, like he thinks that might be a stupid question.
“Yes,” Ilya affirms. Is Shane blushing slightly, or is the light playing tricks on him? “But is not the season for them,” he continues, using the heel of his hand to swipe at his nose.
“You can, um, develop allergies whenever,” Shane points out, passing the ball to Ilya. His expression and tone are carefully neutral, but his fingers are worrying at the hem of his shorts.
A frown teases at the corners of Ilya’s mouth as he observes Shane’s unease. “Okay, sure, but it does not feel like them. I can still breathe through my nose,” he pauses to pointedly inhale through his nose, only wincing slightly at the accompanying whistle, then amends, “kind of. Also, the sneezes are smaller.” Shane’s eyebrows lift and his eyes widen for a split second. Ilya flicks his wrist dismissively, changing the topic and passing the ball to Shane. “So I was thinking I’m, ah, I’m free agent next season.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You wouldn’t re-sign with Boston?”
Ilya sniffs, briefly knuckles at his nose, then fools around with the ball instead of answering. Shane gets in close, making Ilya work for possession. Ilya’s breathing a little harder than he ought to be and ends up kicking the ball behind himself. It collides with one of the lawn chairs and Ilya laughs, a touch throaty.
Shane goes to retrieve the ball and Ilya, resignedly, cups his hands over his face for a trio of soft but spraying sneezes. “hhh’kisschue! et’KISHhhh! hhahh…hah-tischhhuh!” He grimaces behind his hands, sniffles the leading edge of the mess back, and wipes his hands on his shorts.
“Then where?” Shane probes, positioning the ball for his next kick.
“I don’t know, I was thinking maybe a Canadian team,” Ilya says. Shane looks back to Ilya and passes the ball.
“Not Montreal, ah?” Ilya points at Shane for emphasis.
“No, I mean, I know.”
“But I would, snnff, love to not have Russian passport,” Ilya admits, bouncing the ball before kicking it towards Shane.
Shane barely has the ball for a second before Ilya swoops in, kicks the ball away from Shane, and goes after it. He extends a hand behind him, his palm landing squarely on Shane’s abs. Ilya means for it to be a playful deterrent, but it turns urgent as he snaps forward with an insistent uncovered sneeze. “ISSCCHHHooo!” Of course, it’s never just one. “heh’ISCH-hh’ITSCH-ahh’ITSCHhhue!” A rapid triple is next, the sneezes practically tripping over each other as they spray out of him, followed by a set of surprised coughs. Fuck this shit. Ilya grabs the hem of his tank top, lifts it to his face, and blows his nose, long and loud. Afterward, he wrinkles his nose at the dark patch and strips the tank top off.
“Okay,” Shane declares, overly loud, “I think it’s time to go back inside.” He takes Ilya by the arm, his palm clammy against Ilya’s skin, and steers them into the kitchen. This close to Shane, Ilya can see that his pupils are dilated even though they’ve just come inside and he’s definitely flushed. Ilya knows that look. Knows it so well that he doesn’t even second-guess himself.
“Also, you should at least try taking something…” Shane says, a faint wobble in his voice, but Ilya doesn’t hear any of it. All of today’s off moments are flickering through his mind’s eye, reevaluating them in light of the arousal he just recognized on Shane’s face. Shane’s sudden tension and not meeting Ilya’s gaze this morning as they cuddled. Shane’s blushing and stammering after Ilya’s post-blowjob fit. Shane’s plaintive “Why was that so hot?” accompanied by a glance at his sweatshirt. Shane’s stilted inquiry into Ilya’s allergies while fidgeting and his sweaty palms just now. And, Ilya’s just now realizing, Shane hasn’t blessed him all day. Ilya’s certain he’s come to the right conclusion; after all, he’s good at reading people and he’s spent almost a decade studying Shane, but he wants to hear Shane say it.
“Earth to Ilya?” Shane asks. “Meds?”
Ilya sniffles purposefully, trying to convince the ever present tickle in his nose to grow into a sneeze. The tickle does grow, but it’s not quite there yet. If he just concentrates and breathes… “hhh, hhh…” Ohhh, there it goes. He turns his head away slightly, so he’s not sneezing right at Shane, but so Shane still has a good view. “hHhh, hhh! hhhEISCHooo! ahhSSCHHeww!” During the usual pause before his third sneeze, he makes sure to hitch audibly. “huh-uh… hhhh’TTSCHHhhuhh!”
“Sorry,” Ilya apologizes mischievously, briefly swiping under his nose with the back of his fingers, “I had to sneeze.”
“Meds,” Shane repeats, blinking rapidly.
“Is what you want?” Ilya says innocently.
“Yeah, for sure,” Shane blurts, not meeting Ilya’s eyes. Holy shit, he really is into this.
A wicked smile spreads across Ilya’s face. “Hollander, snnf, you are still a really bad liar,” he purrs, echoing his words from the locker room years ago.
“Wha–what?” Shane stammers, eyes wide, blush out in full force.
“I don’t think you want me to take anything,” Ilya says, slower, as he edges into Shane’s space.
“I… I can’t stop you if you want to feel like shit,” Shane rejoins weakly.
“Oh, this is nothing,” Ilya says, his smile turning predatory. “No migraines, no sinus infection, not so congested I can barely breathe… Only some sneezes and–snff, snnf–sniffles.” As Ilya talks, Shane’s pupils dilate further and his lips part. Ilya pauses for a deliberate second, like he’s actually needing to think about this, and scrunches his nose. “And itchy.” He sniffles again, and rubs his nose slowly back and forth along his index finger. “And runny.” He’s playing it up a little, yes, but it’s not untrue.
“Tell me, Shane,” Ilya leans closer into Shane’s space, tracing the shell of Shane’s ear with the tip of his nose, “what do you want?”
i/lya is definitely not sensitive to smoke. at least that’s what he’s always telling himselt
sure, he has to stifle a sneeze or two (or a whole fit) every time he’s out smoking, but he usually has to sneeze when he’s out anyway, so it’s not like it’s cus the smoke is bothering him
sure, back in Russia, he always had those suppressed fits around his father and family friends, but surely it was because of the exotic plants and flowers all around the house
so obviously he expects a sneeze or two when he’s in the cottage with s/hane, during the first campfire.
what he does not expect is him not being able to stop sneezing to the point where he can’t get enough air inside his lungs to properly inhale for a bigger sneeze (hoping that a harsh, forceful let out will help him stop sneezing)…
so he’s just kind of stuck and sure S/hane finds it amusing at first but then he gets more and more worried when he realizes that I/lya is not really stopping and continues to have those little bursts of sneezes while trying to act casual and talk at the same time
person A being sick while also having bruised/cracked ribs. the only relief they get when coughing or sneezing is bracing their ribs with a pillow, but this means they can't cover their nose and mouth very well. person B has the option to either sit behind A and wrap around their middle so that A can focus on covering their coughs and sneezes or B can sit in front and cover for A while A braces their ribs.
Ilya is sensitive to temperature changes, so he sneezes whenever goes from the ice to the locker room. His teammates notice, shenanigans ensue.
AKA: Five times Ilya Rozanov was chirped for his locker room sneezes + one time he chirped Shane.
This is my first time writing fanfic in over a decade, I’m so excited! Thanks to @snzivore for beta reading and general encouragement.
1 - Boston, September 2010
The first time it happened, Marleau didn’t assign any significance to it. The locker room was buzzing with the electric energy of the first day of training camp. He entered alongside St-Simon, their conversation immediately drowned out by a clamor of chirping and friendly obscenities.
Ilya Rozanov was right behind them, thoroughly engaged in bickering with Connors about a missed pass during the scrimmage. He paused on the threshold, head lifting with a sharp inhale before doubling over.
The forceful, spraying sneezes were loud enough to be heard above the noisy room. Rozanov made no attempt to cover or contain the spray. Typical locker room behavior, but the cocky rookie somehow made the action particularly self-indulgent. He let out a satisfied exhale, then straightened up and rubbed his nose roughly with the back of his hand.
“Bless you, Rozy,” Connors commented. Rozanov made a nonverbal sound in acknowledgment before immediately picking up their argument, and the incident was quickly forgotten.
***
The second time it happened was much the same - Rozanov paused by the door of the locker room and let out three loud, unrestrained sneezes. He barely paused to acknowledge the act before continuing about his business.
The third time it happened, Marleau sensed a pattern.
“Are you gonna do that every time, Roz?” Marleau’s tone was somewhere between curious and teasing.
“Probably, yes,” Rozanov replied noncommittally, then sniffled hard.
“Why? Are you allergic to the locker room or something?” St-Simon chimed in.
“Not allergic. Just…sensitive?” Rozanov paused for a moment, unsure of the word. “After I broke my nose, it does not like when air changes from cold to warm.”
Huh. Marleau wasn’t exactly surprised, nasal issues were an occupational hazard in their line of work. Still, for a pro athlete who played almost exclusively in indoor ice rinks, that particular trigger was kind of funny.
“Whatever you say, sneezy,” Marleau jabbed at him and was rewarded with a shit-eating grin.
“Next time you call me that, I will sneeze on you,” Rozanov threatened cheerfully as he crossed the room towards his stall.
“Gross, man,” Marleau’s mock offense was undermined by his laughter. What a piece of work. At least he’s charming enough to pull it off.
2 - Buffalo, November 2011
The Raiders’ second season with Rozanov on the roster was off to a smooth start. At this time last year they were working through initial frictions as the team integrated their new star center into their system. This year they had put the pieces together, and the first line was a fucking machine.
Carmichael was grateful for the turnaround. Really, he was. But he couldn’t pretend that his demotion to 2C didn’t sting a little.
The visitors’ locker room was rowdy in the aftermath of a 4-3 victory against the Swords. The first goal had been Carmichael’s, and he’d been quietly satisfied. So of course Rozanov had to score his first hat trick.
Carmichael turned his back to the room, facing his locker as he methodically stripped off his gear. The familiar ritual was interrupted by a sudden tickle in his nose. He quickly set down his armful of shoulder pads and raised his elbow to cover his face.
“Huh- Eh’tshoo!”
“Bless y–” Hammersmith’s acknowledgment was interrupted by the now-familiar sound of Rozanov entering the locker room.
“Yeah, yeah, you too Rozy,” Hammersmith sounded exasperated. “You don’t have to remind us that you’re the sneezy one.”
“He always has to one-up me,” Carmichael complained lightheartedly, mostly managing to keep his underlying bitterness from showing. Rozanov’s eyes narrowed, though he didn’t seem offended. Great, he’s onto me. One more thing to add to this stupid ego conflict.
“We’ll call it a Rozanov hat trick! Three goals, three sneezes. The crowd should throw tissues on the ice or something,” Marleau joked, oblivious to Carmichael’s bad mood.
Rozanov preened. “Yes, is good idea. Everyone must know I am better than them at sneezing and at hockey.”
“Fuck off, Rozy,” Carmichael groaned, now visibly annoyed.
“You are not so bad, Carmy. You open first period with shot in five hole, was embarrassing for Nilsson. I chirp him for this all night, he gets sloppy, I score.” Rozanov’s tone was so condescending that it took Carmichael a few seconds to notice that the insult was directed at the Swords’ goalie and not him.
The kicker was, Rozanov was right. His uncanny skill at mind games had tipped the score in their favor, but it was Carmichael who had given him the opening. And now Rozanov had turned that perceptiveness on him, subtly offering an olive branch while maintaining the asshole demeanor. Fuck, he’s good at this. If he keeps it up he’ll be captain within the next three years.
Carmichael smiled reluctantly. “Sometimes it’s about quality and not quantity, right?” The comeback was weak, but it was enough to let the conversation move on.
“I don’t know about goals, but Rozy is definitely going for quantity with the sneezing,” Connors piped up from behind Marleau’s massive frame.
“True. In your entire life, have you ever sneezed just once?” Marleau sounded genuinely curious.
“You can all go fuck yourselves,” Rozanov said with no heat in his tone. He started to walk away, then looked back with a crooked smile to add: “And the answer is no.”
3 - Sochi, February 2014
It was Team Russia’s first practice, and Vasilev could already tell this was going to be a shit show. KHL stars liked to gossip about the massive egos of anyone who “defected” to North America, but in reality they were just as bad if not worse. It turned downright vicious when Ilya Rozanov was selected as team captain. His notoriety in the west had the older crowd whispering about convenient optics, while the younger players either loved or hated him based on personal experience.
Vasilev had actually been looking forward to reuniting with Rozanov and their other teammates from juniors. Playing on a team with old friends alongside their childhood idols was a dream come true. Instead, he got an hour of blown assignments and incoherent systems, followed by bag skates.
“That circus act was an absolute embarrassment to the sport of hockey and to Russia,” Coach Borisovsky snarled. “I’ve seen more cohesion in my son’s U8 team. You think because you have a German car and a fat American contract you are too big for the system?”
The expressions in the locker room ranged from furious to dejected. The exception was Rozanov, the obvious target of the last dig. The captain was standing behind Borisovsky and staring at nothing, his face completely blank. His silence felt wrong somehow. Vasilev was filled with an odd sense of expectation, like he was waiting for Rozanov to complete a pattern. He’s supposed to do…something. When we go into the locker room.
Borisovsky directed his continued tirade at the forwards, somehow deriding them for being puck hogs and lazy skaters at the same time. The uncertain energy of the room turned definitively sour. Behind him, life returned to Rozanov’s face. His eyelids fluttered shut, brow furrowed and nose wrinkling as his head tilted backwards. Vasilev instantly recognized the expression. Oh, right. He didn’t sneeze yet.
Vasilev expected his captain to break the tension with his usual loud sneezes. He was surprised to see Rozanov’s head jerk towards his chest three times in quick succession, the action somehow forceful but completely silent. Apparently no part of this practice would live up to his expectations. At least he still sneezes in threes.
The coach’s cascade of insults continued. Vasilev privately thought that some of them were deserved, but the effect on morale was counterproductive. He tried to focus, but was distracted by a sudden movement as Rozanov whipped one hand up to pinch his nose. His eyes slammed shut as he gasped sharply, then crunched forward into another trio of sneezes.
“Ngk! Hh-ngkt! NnGKx’tshuh!”
The painful, choked sounds made Vasilev wince. It seemed like Rozanov was having more difficulty holding them in. They were obviously unsatisfying, because his nose was still twitching.
Borisovsky scowled at the interruption and whipped around to face Rozanov. “You have something to say, Captain?”
“No. My apologies for the interruption,” Rozanov said dully, then sniffled.
“Since when do you sneeze like that? So polite and boring, you’ve been spending too much time with Canadians,” someone sneered. Rozanov looked oddly stricken by the comment.
“I’m sure my reactive broken nose is the most important thing to discuss right now,” Rozanov’s tone was acerbic, but somewhat undercut by said nose twitching sharply again. “Maybe we should be talking about that shitshow on the forecheck– hihh-!!”
A thunderous Borisovsky looked ready to interrupt, but Rozanov’s sneezes beat him to the punch. Apparently abandoning his attempt at restraint, he turned his back to the room. His whole body folded forward as he sneezed openly at the floor.
There he is. Vasilev let his lips quirk up in a tiny smile at the familiar sound of three loud, unrestrained and audibly congested sneezes.
“Disgusting,” Borisovsky sneered. “But he unfortunately has a point about the forecheck. If I see one more showy no-look pass…”
The rain of criticism was directed back at the other forwards. Rozanov’s face slowly stilled back into that deadened expression. Vasilev quietly moved to stand next to him.
“Bud’te zdorovy, Ilyukha,” he said quietly. Rozanov snapped out of his stupor, seemingly startled by the diminutive. Then one corner of his mouth twitched upward.
4 - New York, December 2014
The game wasn’t going well, and Sebbin was pretty sure he knew why. With only three minutes left in the second period, the Raiders had yet to score a single goal. Nothing in particular had gone wrong, but it hadn’t gone right, either. Touch passes they’d pulled off without a hitch last night were just a fraction of a second off. Every rebound went in the exact wrong direction. The Raiders’ growing frustration had them overthinking plays and racking up minutes in the penalty box, and the Admirals were taking full advantage.
Sebbin wasn’t superstitious, really. Or at least not that much more superstitious than the average hockey player. Everyone had their rituals. Consistency, repeating the same actions before each game, was just science. And if there was one thing that was consistent about the Raiders’ locker room, it was this: Ilya Rozanov had to sneeze after warm-ups. The veterans said he’d been doing it since his rookie season, and the Raiders had never missed the playoffs since. Connors even told him about the time Rozy broke his nose two years ago, and they’d gone on a nine game losing streak.
But Rozanov hadn’t sneezed. Not after warmups, and not in the first intermission. Really, they were doomed from the start.
Sebbin’s thought spiral was interrupted when the buzzer went off. He shuffled off the bench with the rest of the team and headed for the tunnel. The usual rowdiness was replaced by dejected squabbling.
“Alright you motherfuckers, shut up!”
Sebbin’s head whipped around. He was surprised to find Rozanov standing in the middle of the locker room. Their captain usually reserved speeches for the important, do-or-die moments, but he was apparently frustrated enough to make an exception. He waited for the dissatisfied chatter to die down, sniffling and swiping a hand under his nose.
“I should not have to tell you this is the MLH, not beer league. This team is too good to hand the fucking Admirals a shutout.”
Sebbin watched his captain like a hawk. He was still sniffling between sentences, but that wasn’t unusual. Did his nostrils always flare that much when he got fired up?
“I’m serious. Bennett is so old he is falling asleep while we play hot potato in front of the crease. All these pretty passes are worth shit if—hihh! if no one will ahhh-actually… Hh-!! shoot the p-puck—Hehhhh…”
Rozanov made a valiant effort to continue, but it seemed to be a lost cause. For once, rooting against the captain actually seemed like a good bet.
Rozanov was doubled over in the aftermath, sniffling as his nose dripped onto the floor. He cursed in Russian, then wiped it roughly with his sleeve. He stood up abruptly and noticed Sebbin staring at him.
“Fucking finally! The rooks were getting nervous,” Marleau said, mercifully distracting the captain.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Rozanov sounded annoyed, but there was a hint of genuine confusion. Sebbin cringed as his captain looked at him again.
“You, um… You didn’t sneeze. After warmups.” Sebbin said hesitantly.
Rozanov turned his trademark unsmiling stare on him. “So I didn’t sneeze. So what?”
Marleau clapped him on the shoulder. “You always sneeze before games, man. Connie convinced the rookies that it’s good luck.”
“This night has been shit so far, maybe I was right,” Connors said, only half joking.
Rozanov was quiet for a few seconds, his expression unchanged and unreadable.
“Okay. You’re all idiots, but if you will get your shit together then I don’t care.”
“But it’s fine now, right?” Sebbin asked cautiously, looking from Rozanov to Connors. “Roz sneezed, so we’re back to normal.”
“I mean, it can’t hurt,” St-Simon said from behind him. Sebbin startled, then looked around the locker room. Weirdly, morale had actually improved.
Coach LeClaire chose that moment to walk through the door. “After that period, I expected to find you all moping. Love the energy, but where did it come from?”
“Cap made a very convincing speech. Right, Rozy?” Connors was obviously trying not to laugh.
“Yes. Is very easy to convince you people, you have too many concussions,” Rozanov rolled his eyes but didn’t entirely manage to suppress his smirk.
LeClaire sighed. “What did you—never mind, I don’t need to know right now. We have twenty more minutes left out there, let’s focus on our plan to turn this around.”
***
One hour later, the tunnel echoed with victorious whooping, glove slaps and sticks banging on the walls. Sebbin was grinning as the team poured into the locker room. They had gone to overtime after scoring twice in the third period. Then Marleau scored off a beautiful pass from Rozy, and the game was theirs.
“I fucking told you!” Connors shouted. “Marly, you fucking legend, don’t ever doubt me again!”
“Fuck off, you didn’t believe it until Sebby brought it up,” Marleau shot back.
“Sebb is a man of faith, you should learn from him,” Connors flung his arm around Sebbin. He flushed, still grinning.
It took several minutes for the chaos to die down enough that LeClaire could be heard.
“I know I said I didn’t need to, but I have to ask. What the hell did you say, Rozanov?”
Rozanov smiled lopsidedly. “Ask Sebb.”
Sebbin probably should have been embarrassed when all the eyes in the room turned to him, but he was too amped to care.
“It wasn’t what he said, exactly. He just…sneezed.”
LeClaire was usually pretty unflappable, but that seemed to throw him. Sebbin tried not to laugh or shift uncomfortably at his perplexed expression.
Thankfully, Marleau took mercy on him. “You know, Roz always sneezes when we get off the ice. The kids are convinced it’s good luck.”
“And…what, you didn’t sneeze this time?” LeClaire said dubiously.
“No, he did,” Connors replied, then turned to smirk at Rozanov. “You just took your sweet time about it.”
“Yes, I have failed in my duty as captain,” Rozanov said sarcastically. “From now on I will always make sure my nose is misfiring properly before every game.”
LeClaire sighed, but he was obviously holding back laughter. “Well, if it works it works. I know better than to mess with anyone’s rituals.”
“Whatever you gotta do, Roz,” Marleau drawled. “As long as there’s no repeat of the detergent thing.”
Rozanov snorted. “I hope we do not ever need that much good luck.”
Most of the team chuckled or groaned at the shared memory. Sebbin leaned towards Connors to whisper.
“What’s the detergent thing?”
“S-tier Roz story. I’ll tell you later.”
5 - Boston, February 2016
Ashley was kind of nervous about this, even though it was her plan. Being hired as the Boston Raiders’ first social media manager was basically her dream job as a lifelong fan and recent recipient of a degree in communications. She’d spent the first few months posting typical announcements and highlight reels. Last week she’d screwed up her courage and suggested some ideas for more authentic behind-the-scenes content, and gotten the go-ahead.
And so she found herself psyching herself up in the hallway outside the Raiders’ locker room.
A few minutes later, she forgot why she had worried. The team was mostly enthusiastic, and immediately caught on to her ‘locker-room bingo’ idea. They were all too happy to inform her (and the internet at large) about their teammates’ quirks.
“Carmy can never find his gloves.” “If you leave Hammer alone for too long he starts singing oldies.” “Marly and Connie argue like an old married couple. Bonus points if the fight is about Marly’s latest ex.” “Vicky drinks so much blue gatorade that his mouth turns blue by the end of practice.” As expected of a goalie, Oregan had a long list of odd and occasionally hilarious habits. Surprisingly, Rozanov’s list of meme-able behaviors was even longer.
“‘Russians do not do this.’ But, like, right after he just did whatever it was.” “Roz says ‘okay’ like he’s judging you while also ignoring you.” “If a guy’s chirps get too gross, Rozy will start flirting to fuck with him. It never fails.” “His reactions when someone brings up Hollander are so funny. Roz always calls him boring, but then the shit-talking is weirdly specific so you know he pays attention.” “I’ll give you a guaranteed win for Rozy - just write down ‘triple sneeze’. He does it every time we get off the ice.”
Ashley found most of their ideas entertaining and very in line with Rozanov’s public persona, but the last one was…odd. Sneezing just seemed so innocuous, she wasn’t sure why it was a big deal. And did he actually do it every time?
It didn’t take long for Ashley to find out. While the team was out on the ice, she set up her camera in the corner of the locker room. Now she just had to wait for the real fun to begin - filming the team’s post-practice antics, and hopefully catching them in the act.
Hammersmith walked in first, humming the melody of “Stand by Me”. He wasn’t actually singing it, so Ashley gave him partial credit. Carmichael came next, but sadly he appeared to have both gloves. The rest of the team trickled through, and Ashley mentally checked them off. St-Simon’s mouth was, in fact, blue. Marleau was bickering with Connors about the ranking of Fast and Furious movies - full points, but no bonus. Bringing up the rear, Rozanov paused just inside the doorway with an unmistakable expression on his face. Bingo.
Rozanov aimed the three sneezes at the floor, each one knocking his body forward like someone had shoulder-checked him. He didn’t make any attempt to contain the sound or the spray. Ugh, hockey boys are so gross. But I can’t blame him, if my sneezes were that gnarly I wouldn’t hold them in either. Ashley realized she was staring and mentally shook herself.
“Oh my god, you said he would sneeze but I wasn’t expecting that!” she exclaimed. A wave of laughter swept through the room, but it was more affectionate than malicious.
Marleau turned to her with a smug grin. “I told you. Every damn time.”
“If you think that was bad, just wait a month and come back to do a sequel,” Connors crowed, prompting more laughter.
“Shut your idiot face, Connie,” Rozanov snapped, but the rest of the room was still laughing.
“Oh yeah? What’s gonna happen next month?” Ashley ventured, her curiosity overpowering her fear of pissing off Rozanov.
Marleau grinned even wider, his tongue poking out between his teeth. “Allergy season.”
+1 - Nashville, January 2020, NSFW
Shane should have expected this. Ilya had told him about the locker room thing years ago. It had even come up in a social media post back when Ilya played for the Raiders that he definitely hadn’t jerked off to multiple times between hookups. But they were finally going to play together again, and he had just beaten Ilya at the fastest skating competition, and he tried his best to never even think about them sharing a locker room, and—
All that to say, Shane was completely unprepared for the sight of Ilya in the eastern conference team’s locker room, naked from the waist up and sneezing uncovered like he was putting on a performance.
The sneezes were acknowledged by a few scattered “bless you”s and one “fuck off, Rozy”. No one seemed to be paying much attention. Shane immediately felt his cheeks grow warm and stayed silent. Ilya’s eyes blinked open and found his own, locking gazes. He kept up the bedroom eyes as he sniffled deliberately and slowly rubbed one finger under his nostrils. That fucker. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Shane knew by now that Ilya could only pull off that particular trick when his nose was already irritated. Maybe I’ll get lucky and it won’t work? Or maybe he knows it will because his nose was already bothering him? Or he could have bothered his nose earlier on purpose… Fuck. He ruthlessly suppressed that train of thought before it could send any more heat rushing southward.
His efforts went to waste when Ilya managed to surreptitiously tease out another triple.
Shane’s breath caught at the sight of Ilya’s abs clenching and relaxing as each sneeze flung him forward. His flush deepened when Ilya followed it up with a congested little groan that was practically obscene.
“Jesus, bless you!” Scott Hunter looked over in concern. “You’d better not be getting sick.”
Shane stared at the floor, hoping his flushed face would be attributed to lingering exertion from skating. He was thankful that the layers of hockey gear were enough to conceal the evidence of his growing arousal. For now, anyway.
“Oh, he always does that. Something about getting out of the cold air,” Wyatt Hayes explained enthusiastically.
Ilya nodded in affirmation, then pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger. His thumb shifted ever so slightly to scratch the side of his nostril. He glanced at Shane under hooded eyelids, smirking at whatever he saw. Shane bit his lip in an effort to suppress a moan. I should really look away before I embarrass myself. He was too mesmerized by the sight of Ilya tracing the rim of his nostril with his thumbnail.
Marleau chimed in, entirely oblivious to the scene unfolding right in front of him. “Happens every time, since his rookie year. We used to think—”
“—Now you’re just showing off. Anyway, it was a good luck thing. I kinda missed it after you abandoned us for Ottawa.”
Shane felt like an electric current was tingling through every nerve in his body. His pulse was rushing in his ears, his mouth so dry he could taste it. His erection strained painfully against the cup in his jock strap, but at least that made it less visible. Fuck you. I’ve never wanted you so badly. Please do that on my cock next time. Go fuck yourself. I need your dick in my mouth while you sneeze on me. Please fuck me. I’m going to murder you in your sleep.
Ilya sniffled hard and stood back up, interrupting Shane’s filthy reverie. His eyes met Shane’s for a moment, pupils blown wide. At least I’m not the only one. The thought just made it worse. Ilya broke eye contact and turned to Marleau and Hayes. Shane let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“Yebat kopat, that was a lot. Look how much luck I gave us,” Ilya said airily. He looked back at Shane, then switched to the familiar infuriating tone that made most of the league want to punch him. “And our captain won’t even say ‘bless you’. Aren’t you supposed to be polite? Good Canadian boy?”
Shane’s glare was fueled by all the heat currently simmering in his veins.
“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.”
Ilya smirked. “And people say I’m the asshole.”
***
(probably too many) author’s notes:
Stifled vs. uncovered - Ilya’s behavior changes in different contexts. His locker room persona is obnoxious hockey bro, so he would be at peak gross. Except for Sochi because angst.
Sneeze spellings - in my headcanon Ilya breaks his nose at the end of 2012. After that his sneezes get a bit more congested and consonant-y. In +1 he’s being performative, so they sound a bit closer to ‘Aptchi!’ because that’s the “classic” sneeze sound in Russian. (Can confirm this is a real phenomenon, my native language uses the same sound.)
Allergy season - I headcanon Ilya as allergic to tree pollen, so it would be March through May.
The Detergent Incident - currently a very unfinished WIP. The Raiders’ equipment staff switched detergent over the summer of 2012. It sets Ilya off on an insane sneezing fit on the first day of training camp.
Kink!Shane timeline - in my headcanon Ilya had a sneezy day during one of their hookups in 2015 and clocked Shane immediately. Maybe I’ll write it someday if I figure out how to write more explicit smut.
Book continuity - I had the idea for the +1 scene before I figured out where it goes on the timeline. By coincidence it fits perfectly in the middle of chapter 27 of The Long Game, aka one of the horniest chapters in the series. The chapter ends with them having slightly exhibitionist sex in a hotel room while other players can hear them from outside. Very hot, would definitely be improved by making Ilya sneeze.
Idk if anyone send you an idea like this but something where i/lya has a cold/allergies whatever, but he absolutely refuses to take the pill form of medicine and S/hane is really amused by this (until he thinks of reasons why he might be like this)
dear god i'm sorry for how angsty i've made this. you quite literally said "he's amused!!" and i went "no :)" so like. my fucking bad lmao. additionally, i've now used russian in fic for the first time and holy shit the english orthographization of russian is actually so terrible. like, nobody is going to know how to pronounce anything.
show of hands, how many of you think it's "ya tehbya lyublyu"? wrong. the 'e' is long! it's 'ee'! in the ipa, the saying is [ja tɪbja ljʊblju], although technically the palatal approximants aren't their own symbol but a part of the preceding consonant and should be in superscript but whatever. i'm not a linguist
anyway. presenting 2.1K of sick, miserable i/lya and s/hane lowkey just doing his best. he's doing a pretty good job, though. i'm tired ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
The body, first, lithe but fragile in standing: tight shoulders, muscle bunching together beneath the dampened collar of a tank top, gray and ribbed and worn thin by two years of use; the valleys of sinew are sticky with half-dried sweat, skin mole-speckled and rendered pale by the drear of early, sunless January. Thinned waist, stomach vacuuming in with a hitch in breath, sturdy legs ceasing their passage through the kitchen. Ilya’s fingers splay out against the fridge to steady himself, the other hand rising instinctively to hover around his sternum, motion aborted by the branded-in desire to stifle. It’s only half-realized, his eyes pinching shut and chin dipping toward his chest. “nHKT’ZSH’uh!”
His lips part around the next inhale as it shudders through him, traveling from collarbone to stomach. The other arm moves, lifts from his side, protruding bone of his wrist landing just beyond the tip of his nose. The skin is red from sustained abuse, chapped at the rims.
“ESSH’hih! hH’KSCH’ikt!”
“Ilya,” Shane interrupts, his voice gentle. His hand trips from outstretched to laying on the cool surface of the counter, desperate for his boyfriend to stop looking afraid of him. “Baby, you have to take something.”
Ilya, for the second time, shakes his head, curls dark and damp, eyes bright with a fever he won’t confess to. The crucifix at his throat glints like a tooth beneath the white-crusted lights. Not a warning, but a reminder. “Ndo. I dond’t—”
“—take pills, I know.” The sigh that leaves him isn’t exasperated, but weary; the weight of it settles in his chest like cold air. Tight enough to constrict his breathing, so much of it wasted on an argument he can’t win, not with Ilya this sick.
Three days of no contact from his boyfriend had yanked him west, positive sprinting toward negative, magnetic. He’d pulled into the rain-slick driveway of Ilya’s house half an hour ago, slid his key into the lock, and found the poor guy pillbugged on the staircase. The body, then, shivering and glazed, cheekbone pressed to bicep, knees tucked and doing nothing to ease his breathing. He didn’t stir at the noise of the door, only when the stair tread shifted beneath him. Then, Ilya had morphed into wide, bloodshot eyes and lips perching to apologize before the presence registered as Shane’s and his shoulders tensed even as his face crumpled.
He’s made Ilya drink a glass of water, but the kitchen is far too clean. Ilya forces migration like geese, and in doing so, slits open the carapace he’s been covering himself with since opening the door. He’s not eaten, as evidenced by the lack of dishes capitalizing the sink. It’s impossible to tell how long it’s been from an empty sink, but judging by the way Ilya’s hands are shaking when they finally drop back to his sides, Shane would say way too fucking long. Were he less panicked, he would have thought to add an electrolyte package.
“At least,” he attempts, once Ilya’s looking at him, “let me take you back to the couch.”
Another shake of his head that resettles his curls into a new pattern of askew. “Ndeed to wash the glass,” he rasps, gesturing toward the offending object.
“You’re going to use it again. It doesn’t need to be cleaned right now.”
“Ndo…?”
His gaze skids to the cabinet behind Shane, crashes into the wall, and sits in the wreck for half a moment. His pupils are slightly dilated, flickering back and forth, back and forth, like he’s searching for something. Whatever it is, Ilya doesn’t find it, and he whimpers quietly.
The sound recognizes something in Shane’s chest, and he steps around the counter between them, intending to—
Well, nothing specific, but to comfort him somehow.
Instead, the second he moves, Shane watches the flinch roll through Ilya’s entire body, eyes first, as always. Shane doesn’t know anyone else who can flinch with only their pupils, but it’s rare Ilya lets it break containment. That, more than anything, is his primary concern.
He freezes.
“I’m sorry,” gushes through his teeth instantly, sincere and heartbroken. Ilya’s eyes narrow in on him, on his hands. Fuck.
Shane takes a step back, then another. He doesn’t shrink behind the counter again, making sure Ilya can see his whole body, assure himself that Shane can’t do anything from where he is. “Ilya.”
An eyes-only flinch, now. Predictable, at least; they’ve gone through these before, usually when Ilya wakes up from a nightmare and believes that anyone asking for his attention equates to a threat. It’s a good excuse for Shane to use pet names on him, at least.
(He made the mistake of using one in French, once, that first summer in the cottage. Ilya had gone motionless so quickly Shane actually worried he was passing out from lack of oxygen, and then Ilya had scrambled off the bed, away from him, and started apologizing in Russian. They’ve yet to fully unpack that.)
“Love,” he starts. “You’re alright. We’re in the kitchen at your house in Ottawa, yeah? You’re sick.”
Ilya doesn’t relax. His eyes are still shiny, hard as flint.
“You weren’t responding to your texts, so I came over to take care of you, darling. I used the key you gave me, found you on the stairs, and made you wake up and go to the living room to lie down on the couch instead. I gave you a glass of water and Tylenol. You drank the water; the glass is just behind you on the counter, alright? Moy lyubimyy,” tries Shane, finally daring to inch closer. Ilya’s breath pinches, but he doesn’t flinch again, nor does he tense further.
The kitchen lights are too bright for this kind of fragility. Shane’s used to dealing with it in the dark. Never before has Ilya been so exposed, not to him.
His breath snags again, and then he twists slightly, angling his body to be perpendicular to Shane. Ilya suspends for just a second before he cringes tightly into his chest four times, inhales again, then a fifth, sixth, seventh. Paring himself down to perfect silence.
“Bless you,” Shane murmurs. He waits for Ilya to look at him, sniffling and watery-eyed, before moving closer again. “Those must hurt.”
Ilya shakes his head. “Ndo. Is—finde,” he says, and English is slipping, understandably. What he would give to be fluent in Russian, to provide Ilya one more comfort he’s sorely lacking. “I—kgh’nNZT! nKTSCH!”
“Bless you,” he repeats. Ilya’s face is flushed, now more than just fever, a faint carmine that speaks to shame. He sways where he stands. Shane barely makes it in time to steady him as his balance gives out.
Ilya whines, high and distressed, steps faltering as he tries to move away from Shane. He clings fast to his boyfriend, even as Ilya tries to fight him. Fighting being a loose term for what he’s doing; it’s closer to squirming restlessly, hoping Shane will get tired of him and let go. Because that’s what most people have done: slowly given up on breaking him and allowed him to retreat and lick his wounds in silence.
The heel of his palm snags in the divot of Shane’s collarbone, pressing, pushing, pulsing with a heartbeat far too agitated for his current state to handle. Unsurprising, but not ideal.
“You’re okay,” he soothes, adjusting his hold. He’s caught Ilya under the arms, and doubts that it’s comfortable for the younger man, considering his lymph nodes. “I know you feel like shit right now, but I promise, you’re okay. I’m here, I’m going to take care of you. Alright?”
“Ledt go ’f me,” Ilya manages, barely attempting to escape while Shane adjusts his grip.
“You’re going to fall over if I do, milyy,” he apologizes. “Once we’re in the living room, though, I can let you lie down on the couch.”
Ilya’s shaking his head limply, eyes distant. “Ndo…”
He’s so confused, poor thing. They really need to get a read on his temperature. And make him blow his nose.
Shane takes pity and starts dragging him out of the kitchen, thankfully without Ilya putting up further effort against him other than a soft huff of annoyance when his socked foot catches the edge of the carpet. He’s not fully picking up his feet to walk, Shane observes, and he sets his boyfriend down on the couch as gently as possible. Exhausted, Ilya sags into him, head landing on Shane’s thigh. Good enough; Shane can take what he’s given. He passes him a tissue from the box on the coffee table, waits for Ilya to use it, and then brings a hand up.
“Hey,” he says, gently petting Ilya’s hair and trailing his hand down the back of his neck, heedless of the stick of his skin from dried sweat, tracing circles like koi fish in a pond. Ilya shudders with it, groaning quietly. The underlying emotion is impossible to decipher.
“Shane?” he asks.
“Yeah, darling?”
“Don’ feel good,” he confesses, then squishes his face even further into Shane’s leg. Honestly, in any other circumstance, it would be adorable. Ilya fucking Rozanov, the MLH’s own Russian Menace, hiding in his boyfriend’s sweatpants like a little kid. Except, he’s burning up and probably has been for the past sixty-some hours and didn’t say anything until now.
Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Shane manages to say, “I know you don’t.”
“Mby head hurdts,” Ilya continues.
“Yeah, I think you’ve been pretty dehydrated.”
“An’ my skin.”
“That’s the fever, love.”
“’M too warm.”
“That’s still the fever.” He tries to pull away, intending to go sit next to Ilya and get him to lie down, but Ilya whines and one trembling hand reaches out to fist in Shane’s pant leg, effectively anchoring him right where he is.
“Please don’ leave me.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Ilya, I promise. I just want to help you feel better.” He inhales, bracing himself for the potential reaction. But Ilya’s just admitted to… what’s hopefully most of his symptoms, or at least, the most pressing ones. There’s likely not going to be a better time. “Think you can take some Motrin? It’ll help you feel better.”
Of course, Ilya shakes his head slowly against the fabric. Then gasps, fails to pull away, and half-muffles, half-stifles a miserable triple into Shane’s sweatpants. “hih–hHh’uh! hHH’TZZsh! KZSCHH’uh! nKSHh’iu!”
“Bless you, bless you, bless you.” Shane winces sympathetically at the stuffy whimper that trips over the heels of the last sneeze. “Jesus Christ, Ilya.”
“’M sorry.”
“What? No, baby, don’t be sorry.” Ilya sniffles weakly, then pulls back just to dodge Shane’s gaze. “Why’re you sorry?”
“Being gross. And loud.”
If Grigori Rozanov weren’t already dead, Shane would have to hunt down the man and demand to know just how Ilya ended up believing that a bodily function was annoying. That, they actually have had a conversation about, because Ilya kept stifling when he and Shane were at the cottage over the summer, to the point where he’d burst a blood vessel in his eye from a fit of sixteen. But still, the fact that it’s this deeply ingrained in Ilya utterly enrages Shane on his behalf.
“You’re not loud,” he starts, reaching out and squeezing Ilya’s shoulder. “I promise, you’re not loud. I’m louder than you, even when you’re not keeping them in. And Ilya, Ilyushka, you’re not annoying. This is part of being sick.”
“Still gross.”
“It’s a little gross,” Shane admits. He’s been resolutely not thinking about the damp patch now adorning the seam. “But, that’s still just a part of being sick. And as your boyfriend, I get to take care of you when you don’t feel well.”
Ilya sniffles. “Do you actually want to?”
“Of course! How could you think that I wouldn’t?” Ilya shrugs, drops his gaze further, and starts picking at a loose feather on the pillow next to him. “Ilya, lyubimyy, it’s a privilege to take care of you. But I still want you to feel better.”
“I can’t take pills,” he whispers. “I can’t.”
His mother, he remembers. Overdose.
Things slip into place with startling clarity. And he’s been pushing Ilya about it for nearly forty-five minutes, now.
“Okay,” Shane replies, nodding slowly to himself. “That’s alright, baby. We can get you liquid medication, if that’s better.”
Ilya gives a tentative nod.
“Great.” He cups Ilya’s face with his hands, wipes away a stray tear with his thumb, and presses a kiss to his forehead.
“Love you,” Ilya murmurs.
“I love you, too,” he whispers back, his voice feather-light, stroking a line down from Ilya’s cheek, to his jaw, to his collarbone. Ilya shudders with it, leaning closer, breathing raspy and skin overhot and utterly, tragically beautiful in the midst of it.
Summary: Shane Hollander always finds himself sneezing when he's really turned on. Ilya Rozanov wonders why this boring Canadian boy's nose is always running.
This is like the first episode of the series rewritten through the lens of Shane having honeymoon rhinitis up until the first time they meet in Shane's hotel room
Tags/Warnings: smut, nudity, blowjobs, shower scene, some spray descriptions, getting sneezed on
A/N:
I realized while I was writing this that 1. It was so hard to balance like, the book, the show, and my own head going from scene to scene and 2. This is really just not a smut scene writing time in my life so it's very unlikely that I will write another part and if that does happen it will not be any time soon :( But I did really want to finish and at least post what I had in the hopes that someone might enjoy it. Thank you so much to my extremely kind anons (this fic is finished because of you for real) and anyone who has expressed support for this over the course of the past like 3 months <3
-
It’s not something that Shane really talks about because it’s not something that comes up often. As a matter of fact, in all of his past relationships it hasn’t come up at all. Not when he’s closed his eyes through blowjobs and imagined other people, not when he’s suffered through penetrative sex with women, counting each second, each thrust before it was finally over. Certainly not when his ex girlfriends sent him racy photos. Nope.
One of Shane Hollander’s best kept secrets, honest to god, is that getting horny makes his nose run, makes his eyes water, makes him sneeze if he’s truly worked up.
He doesn’t really understand it himself. He just knows that it happens sometimes, when he’s alone and his hands wander beneath the waistband of his shorts, images of… things he’d rather keep to himself flitting through his arousal drenched thoughts.
He also knows that it’s never happened in front of any of his girlfriends. So maybe he’s just allergic to men. Yeah. That’s it. He’s just allergic to really hot men.
After Ilya Rozanov is announced as first draft pick, Shane can hardly mask his disappointment. He wears it on his face all night, spacing out during conversations he should be paying attention to, sulking while his mom does all the talking. The reception area becomes a blur of suits, chatter, and clinking glasses, all while he thinks, between the light churning of his loss, of how he can be better. Of what he has to do to make sure that next time, he’s the one giving Ilya Rozanov that infuriating ‘better luck next time buddy’ half smirk.
His parents seem lost in another conversation with a potential sponsor, and he’s glad that they’re the ones who take care of things like brand deals and marketing because that’s the furthest thing from his mind right now.
Hands shoved deep in his pockets, he lets his eyes wander, freezing when he notices the sharp gaze directed at him from someone on the upper floor.
Ilya Rozanov. That prick.
They hold eye contact for longer than necessary, before Shane breaks it.
He doesn’t need someone like Ilya Rozanov looking down on him.
-
Later that night when Shane’s mind is racing, he heads to the gym in search of a different kind of quiet. He doesn’t mind spending nights alone, but he gets antsy, restless, when he’s worked up about things like, for instance, his future.
Usually, it’s hockey that takes his mind off of things. When he’s on the ice, he feels like the best version of himself. He loves hockey season because it means that the rest of the world fades away, that it’s just him and his team and the ice. The roar of the crowds, the hype from his team, the burn in his muscles from giving it his all and then some.
The problem is that the next season is a few weeks away, which leaves him alone in this fancy hotel room while time moves like molasses and his thoughts are everywhere at once.
He decides to go work out.
After changing into clothes more suitable to exercise in, he takes the elevator down to the floor with the hotel’s gym. It’s humble, but at least it has a treadmill and a stationary bike, which is all he needs right now.
He realizes, belatedly, that he forgot to bring headphones and decides it doesn’t matter. He steps onto the stationary bike, content with only the whir of the pedals, the steady cadence of his pumping legs as he builds up a sweat. Eyes closed, he loses himself for a few, precious, too short minutes.
Somewhere behind him, he hears the door opening. He blinks, letting the room come back into view, and catches a pale flash of skin as someone gets on the bike right next to him. He glances over and — great. It’s fucking Rozanov. And not only that, but Rozanov’s resistance is like, three levels higher than his, and his legs are moving faster.
What an asshole.
Shane rolls his eyes, ups the resistance on his own machine, kicks up his own performance.
Less than ten seconds later, Rozanov is doing the same thing.
That’s fine. Shane loves a challenge, and he’d love to beat this guy, this fucking dickwad, in anything. Even something as pointless as what they’re doing now. He pedals until his legs are burning, his chest heaving, until sweat stings at his eyes and everything hurts.
-
Rozanov, while fast and insanely sculpted, is no superhero. He might have lasted longer and been faster but he’s still ended up just like Shane, gasping for breath on the gym floor.
The only sound in the room is their heavy breathing, and because Rozanov is right across from him, Shane watches his chest rise and fall, mesmerized by the strain of the sweat soaked fabric. A bead of sweat rolls down Rozanov’s neck, and Shane traces it with his eyes.
Rozanov pushes the sole of his shoe against Shane’s. When Shane looks up, he takes a long pull from his water bottle, maintaining half lidded eye contact the whole time, as if he’s sizing Shane up. Deciding something.
Water rolls down his chin, and Shane looks away. Finds his eyes wandering to Rozanov’s shimmering biceps.
Then there’s a water bottle being shaken in his face, and Rozanov is cocking his head, nodding impatiently. Shane reaches for it, and Rozanov’s damp fingers trail across his knuckles as they exchange. The contact travels like a ghost up his arm, running like a current through his veins and ending in the realization that he’s… starting to get hard?
He nods his thanks to Rozanov, trying to keep a straight face as he hands the water bottle back. Again, Rozanov makes their hands collide in a way that feels completely unnecessary.
Shane’s nose is starting to run.
This whole thing is just really fucking weird.
-
Sometime later, Shane is back in his hotel room. The lights are dim, the view of the city skyline glimmers across from him. He’s so hard that it hurts, and his nose won’t stop running.
He’s thankful that he’s got the hotel room to himself, because he can’t stop sniffling, little trickles of moisture wetting his upper lip every few seconds, waiting to be swept away by a stray knuckle. It’s annoying as hell, and he doesn’t know how he’d even begin to explain to anyone why it’s so incessant. He can hardly explain it to himself, because all he can think about is Ilya Rozanov. Ilya fucking Rozanov.
The way the overhead lights drew attention to all the sweat glistening on his biceps. The contraction of abs as they caught their breath in tandem. Water, dripping down his chin, his neck, disappearing into his too tight sleeveless shirt. The outline of his dick, that Shane had seen, only for a second before forcing his eyes elsew—
“Huhh’EschhhUH!” His body jackknifes from sneezing so hard— harder than he’d let himself if he’d had any company. It leaves a light dusting of moisture, leading from his bicep to the elbow he was too slow to turn into. His brow crumples in frustration.
He hadn’t even noticed the shift in his breathing, but he sure as hell notices the sting in his sinuses now, along with the tightness in his shorts, and the hot, greedy feeling in his lower abdomen, begging him to do something about it.
He can’t fucking jerk off to Ilya Rosanov right after losing first pick to him. That would be insane. Humiliating. Pathetic. And Shane Hollander is none of those things.
With a sigh, he leans back. Closes his eyes. Pictures the outline between Rozanov’s thighs.
His own hands creep lower, until he’s massaging his own erection through his boxers.
Then it’s all over, and he starts jerking off to Ilya Rozanov.
He strokes himself fervently, all while thinking about Ilya’s body, his eyes, what he must have looked like from behind as they fought to keep pace with each other. How good it felt to compete.
In his depraved little fantasies, the last guy he couldn’t look away from when he tried to watch porn of suddenly has Ilya’s face and his body and his deep Russian accent. And they’re fucking the shit out him.
His orgasm builds and crests like it has a mind of its own. When he comes, it’s white hot, blinding. His jaw slackens as he spills into his hand, breathing way harder than he’d ever like to admit.
There are tissues, courtesy of the hotel, on the nearby nightstand, which he strains for while trying not to get any come on the sheets. He cleans himself up, one finger at a time, and in his post orgasm clarity realizes that his nose is running profusely.
He sniffles, tentative and loose, and flinches as a wildfire ignites in his sinuses. Certain that he’s going to sneeze, he scrambles for more tissues. He snags a cluster of them, and holds it near his mouth, shoulders trembling as his breath hitches softly.
“hi’tshhew! hh.. hh…” he squints upwards, blinks a few times. “h’ischhhhHew! … H’mmffshhh! —Mmph’shhuh!”
The feeling backs off, and Shane exhales a shivering sigh, blows his nose one final time, and crumples the tissue pile in his hands.
He really just did that, huh? Jerked off…to Ilya Rozanov.
Suddenly everything feels so still, like the world has frozen just so he can sit in what this betrayal of his own integrity.
He collects everything he used to clean up in a neat pile, eyes sweeping over the sheets in the hopes that he didn’t get them dirty.
This is, he thinks as he tidies up, movements slow and precise as if that will ease the shame, a secret he can easily take to the grave.
-
Shane heads into the locker rooms to shower, grateful for some time to rinse off and collect his thoughts.
His mom had been more than excited to secure a deal with CCM, and since she actually kept up with which brand we’re approaching which players, had let him know that they’d also contracted with Ilya Rosanov.
Shane just can’t get away from him. And honestly, he’s not sure if that’s such a bad thing.
He strips just outside the entrance to the showers, leaving both his change of clothes and his sweaty clothes folded neatly on a nearby bench. The showers are open, showerheads flanking the walls on each side. He picks one further from the entrance, turns the water on, and waits until it starts to steam before stepping into the stream.
Eyes closed, he lets the warm water run down his face, sluice down his entire body. He wonders if what Rosanov said to him earlier was true, if it really was his idea for Shane to be part of this ad campaign or if he was just fucking with him, which seemed a lot more likely.
When he hears the locker room door swing open a few seconds later, Shane can’t help but tense up. His dick twitches with the memory of the last time he was alone with Ilya, and he clenches his jaw, as if that will keep blood from rushing between his thighs.
A few moments later, Rozanov pads in, taking a shower stall two away from him on the same side of the room. Shane bites the inside of his cheek. That’s… unnecessarily close. And then he can’t help himself. He’s curious. His eyes wander to Rozanov’s naked body.
To his horror, he feels himself getting hard, feels the familiar, damning sensation of his nose starting to run too. He looks up, as if to ask a higher being why the fuck this is happening to him. Then he blinks as his nose really starts to run, letting his lips fall open so he can breathe softly through his mouth.
If he starts sniffling, that’s going to give Rozanov a reason to look over, and then Rozanov is going to see his erection, and then he’s going to have to live with that for the rest of his life.
Tentatively, he glances towards Rozanov, wanting to reassure himself that his rival is minding his business, totally unaware of how turned on he is. When he finds Rozanov staring at him, he can’t help but think he should’ve known better.
Rozanov meets his eye, looks down, and then raises an eyebrow. Damn.
Every muscle in his body locks up, goes rigid.
“Fuck off,” Shane mutters, embarassed as hell. He shifts his weight, so that the water is hitting his upper lip.
His will is normally pretty strong, but with his eyes trained on the ground, he notices that Rozanov’s stance has shifted. That Rozanov’s feet are now planted firmly in his direction. He looks up once more, incredulous, another fuck off ready on his tongue, only to have his breath completely stolen away.
Rozanov is stroking himself, moving his hand with a steady, sure rhythm while he looks at Shane with sex drunk eyes. He didn’t think it was possible, but Shane’s body reaches a new level of immobility.
“What are you thinking of?” Ilya murmurs, and Shane’s eyes are glued to Rozanov’s dick, mesmerized by the long, hard, length of it. The backs of his sinuses start to prickle, little traitors, so he stops breathing, feels the sensation redirect itself and bloom underneath his eyelids.
“You,” he whispers, like he’s in a trance.
A few seconds later, when he finds himself able to look up, Rozanov is looking at him expectantly. He nudges with his chin, saying with only his half lidded eyes and his lazily moving hand, now you.
“Do you want to touch me, Hollander?”
Yes. So bad.
“Not here,” Shane says, his brain resurfacing for long enough to wrest the wheel from his dick. He forces himself to look away then, commits to keeping his eyes to the side and away from Rozanov until he’s done showering.
He can only hope that Rozanov isn’t still paying attention to him as he blinks hard, turning his head slightly so that he can wriggle his nose to the side. Irritation crests in the center of his face anyways, as if his body isn’t already doing enough to remind him how hot Rozanov is.
He holds his breath so that when it finally, inevitably hitches, it’s soft, hidden by the sound of water hitting the ground. Angling away, Shane concentrates hard on sneezing as unobtrusively as possible.
“hehHh… —’nt!” He shudders with a tightly controlled, near imperceptible spasm. Even though he needs to, he doesn’t let himself sniffle, so when he blinks, he can still feel the itch between his eyes. He shivers again. “hihHh—! -nt’tiew!”
Oblivious to the perplexed look he’s being given from behind, Shane exhales, slow and measured. If anyone were paying close enough attention, they’d be able to see tension easing itself from the muscles in his back. And Rozanov is paying attention, making an amused mental note of how tightly wound Shane Hollander is.
Shane steps out soon after, hurrying to the far corner of the locker room to quietly blow his nose where Rozanov can’t hear it.
-
Ilya knew, as soon as he saw Shane Hollander in the shower, that he was going to try to fuck him. Not just going to try, actually, but going to succeed.
Hollander has, over these past few months, endeared himself to Ilya by being both so naive and so hopelessly awkward underneath all of that talent. It helps that he’s trying and failing to put on stoic, unbothered appearances each time they’re alone, and failing spectacularly. It’s pretty clear that Hollander wants him too, and Ilya saw the boner to prove it, just seconds ago.
He smiles to himself, cupid’s bow lips curving into a wicked grin, and turns the shower off. The water overhead slows to a trickle, pooling around the drain, catching one final flash of his receding reflection.
Predictably, Hollander is sulking on a bench when Ilya emerges with a towel draped low around his waist. His eyes are trained on the ground, but his cheeks are pink, highlighting his freckles. There’s a flushed tint to his nostrils too, like they’ve just been rubbed harshly and haven’t yet had time to recover.
“Can we just forget that happened?”
Ilya considers Hollander’s words, shrugs.
“Is what you want?”
“Yes,” answers Hollander, too quickly. His ears are turning the same color as his face. He’s hunched protectively over his knees, so Ilya can’t say for sure if Hollander is hard right now, but he has a pretty good guess.
Ilya takes a few steps closer, amusement bleeding into his words. He can feel the tension in his blood right now, the certainty that if he leaned in and kissed Shane Hollander on the mouth that Hollander would kiss him back, if only for a little bit before pushing him away.
“You are a very bad liar.”
In response, Hollander says nothing, only presses a knuckle to his septum while staring at the lockers as if willing them to open up and swallow him whole. Ilya lets them sit in silence for a beat, then asks,
“What is your room number?”
Hollander replies instantly, a domino falling, and Ilya lets him know he might knock.
After that, Ilya dresses himself and collects his things, while Hollander scrolls through his phone, sniffling intermittently. He hasn’t moved at all since Ilya asked for his room number, and Ilya’s not a complete monster. One look at Hollander, and it’s easy to tell that his heart is in danger of beating straight out of his chest.
Ilya throws his bag over his shoulder and leaves without saying goodbye, catching a soft sigh as he weaves through the lockers towards the exit. He opens the door and pauses without walking out, wondering if Hollander is going to take care of himself right then and there. Instead he hears two soft, breathy sneezes bouncing off the concrete walls and a muttered, “fuck.”
Ilya steps out into the fluorescent lights of the empty hallway, shaking his head.
Not exactly the show he was hoping for.
-
Shane is a fucking wreck.
He’s been on edge since Rozanov asked for his room number, nervous that Rozanov might actually show up, nervous about how much he wants him to. Currently, he’s pacing around the room with his arms clasped behind his head. He’s already changed outfits twice, made and unmade his bed (it should look like he’s at least slept in it, right?), brushed his teeth, messed with his hair, debated on whether or not it looks more casual if the TV is on or off— he’s overthinking things. Clearly. Fuck!
He’s never even fucked around with a guy before. What if he’s no good? What if he messes something up?
It’s all fine. It’s all completely fine.
Then someone knocks, two raps echoing through too much empty space. It sucks all of the air out of the room.
Everything is not fine.
-
Iyla breaks into a wide grin when Hollander opens the door, looking so doe eyed and eager that Ilya could devour him whole. He steps in, and, how sweet, Hollander moves to the side fluidly to accommodate. He leans in for a kiss as the door clicks shut, and that’s where their dance goes awry, and Hollander starts to step on his toes.
“Do you want to sit or anything?”
“No,” Ilya says, closing in on Hollander, pressing kisses along his neck. Hollander lets out a shivery breath.
“I think we should, like, at least talk or something—“ Hollander’s words hike up as Ilya continues to kiss him, driving him towards the wall.
“No,” Ilya says again, pulling back so that he can look Hollander in the eye. He cups the side of Hollander’s face, using his thumb to tilt Hollander’s chin up while he tilts his hips so that he can feel Hollander’s excitement against him. “I don’t think so.”
He kisses Hollander then, plush lips tentative against his, then welcoming, then hungry. They make out for a bit, before Hollander breaks the kiss, staring pointedly off to the side with his lips drawn tight.
“What?” asks Ilya, impatiently. “Is not what you want?”
“No,” Hollander shakes his head quickly, giving Ilya a pleading look. He nods, though it looks mostly like it’s for himself than for Ilya’s sake. “I do want this, it is what I want.”
“Okay.”
Hollander sniffs, concentrating hard on what seems to be Ilya’s shoulder.
“Okay?”
“Okay.” Ilya raises an eyebrow, “So then what is problem?”
Hollander only shakes his head, awkwardly mumbling, something about there being no problem. Cautiously, Ilya sets a hand on Hollander’s chest, skimming his fingers down Hollander’s torso until he reaches the waistband of Hollander’s shorts. He toys with the elastic for a second before reaching in and taking Hollander in his hand, watching with satisfaction as Hollander whimpers and tips his head toward the ceiling while.
That’s more like it.
“Fuck,” Hollander breathes, coming undone so quickly. His eyebrows pinch together, and then he sets a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, nudging him away instead of pulling him in.
Frustrated and horny, Ilya’s expression morphs into one of unbridled confusion. Why game is Hollander playing? What wars are going on inside of him, and why weren’t they settled before he let Ilya into his hotel toom? He’s about to ask, but holds his tongue, because Hollander isn’t looking at him even though his dick is still in Ilya’s hand and nothing about this moment is making any sense.
Abruptly, Hollander’s chest rises with two shaky breaths, and then he jerks into his shoulder.
“h’isshhyu! hyht’tzzihew!”
When he emerges, his face is redder than Ilya’s ever seen it and there’s a dark, sneezed on blotch on his shirt sleeve.
“Sorry,” Hollander murmurs.
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
“Are you sick? Is that it?”
“No.”
“Because that would be dirty trick, Hollander.”
“No, no that’s not it,” corrects Hollander, almost like he’s offended. “Sometimes when I… you know,” he gestures to his erection and then sniffles.
“You are allergic to sex? Is that what you are telling me?”
“No!” This time, Hollander is defiant. He glances towards the ceiling and huffs. “Its not all sex. I sneeze sometimes when I’m like…”
Ilya widens his eyes expectantly, waiting for Hollander to supply the words he already suspects, but all Hollander does is make vague nodding gestures.
“you know…”
“I get it, I get it.” Ilya takes his hand out of Hollander’s pants so he can wave it around. “Just good sex.”
He smiles. He’s never had sex with anyone like this before, and the possibility of catching a stray sneeze from Hollander isn’t enough to keep him from wanting to. There’s something that intrigues and excites him, the idea of this additional tell he can exploit, a new kind of challenge he’s never faced.
“Bud’ zdorov, Hollander.”
“What?”
Ilya dives back in then, taking Hollander in his hands and kissing all along Hollander’s neck as he strokes. It earns him a surprised moan, certainly a sound Hollander wouldn’t be proud to make in front of others. Music to Ilya’s ears.
He loses himself in the quick, heavy rhythm of Hollander’s uneven gasps, the shaky rise and fall of his chest, until Hollander dips down, sneezing openly into the space between them.
“f-fuckhhy’GXxshhu! iesschh’ew!”
Mist prickles against Ilya’s forearm. He finds that he doesn’t mind. There’s something surprisingly hot about it even, this unconventional confirmation of how little he has to do to get Hollander off.
Hollander slips from his arms and sinks to his knees, taking Ilya in his mouth, dear god, his mouth. He sucks Ilya off with a sloppy fervor, not practiced but still so warm, so good.
“Stop, stop,” he instructs, breathlessly yanking the reins on his building orgasm. When Hollander pulls away, his lips are bright and wet, lines of spit smeared across his chin. Messy, Ilya thinks. Pretty.
“Am I doing something wrong?”
Ilya shakes his head, wanting to wipe the doubt from Hollander’s brow.
“No, you’re doing good. A little too good.”
He heads towards the bed and begins to take his clothes off, throwing them wherever haphazardly in his haste to get laid. He has to direct Hollander into taking his own clothes off, waiting patiently while Hollander takes his time folding his clothes one by one into tidy squares and fussing with his nose in between.
Ilya has had plenty of sex. He has never had sex with someone like Shane Hollander.
“Okay.” Hollander stands at the foot of the bed, looking adorably lost. Ilya gives himself a second just to take Hollander in, mapping the plains and the hard ridges of Hollander’s torso, committing the shape of his dick to memory. Eyes roving greedily, he feels himself getting harder.
“Come here,” he says in a low murmur. And then Hollander is on him, crawling between his thighs and taking all of him in his mouth, hands digging into either side of Ilya’s waist, sucking and teasing his tongue up the flat of Ilya’s shaft until Ilya sees stars.
Ilya moans, hiking himself up so that he can see how Hollander looks as he sucks him off, captivated by the bright, swollen lips of such a pretty face wrapped around his dick.
“Da, Hollander,” he purrs. “Just like that.”
His legs start to tremble, breath coming harder, faster and ragged. Just before he comes, he urges Hollander off of him, finishing the job himself while Hollander watches rosy cheeked and panting softly, perched by his bicep.
Clarity descends over the room as he comes down. He reaches to the side where there’s already a conveniently placed box of tissues, and starts to wipe his fingers off.
Beside him, Hollander sits up abruptly, his hand flying to his face. Ilya pauses mid swipe to observe Hollander flinching painfully into his knees.
“H’XSsst!” Hollander resurfaces for a second, blinking. “eh’ngSHh’hu!” His gaze flickers, settling into a faraway glance at the wall, tension in his curled upper lip. He shudders forward, shaking his head like a dog. “-E’gSHhhHyIUwh!”
Ilya nabs the rest of the tissues, jostling the box in front of Hollander.
“You need?”
“Oh, fuck off.” Hollander sniffles adamantly. The light catches on his chest, a dotted sheen of moisture glimmering on smooth skin. And Ilya has hardly even touched him.
Ilya lets his face settle into something practiced, appraising Hollander with a raised eyebrow.
“Alright, well,” he sits up, reaching for the nearest of his haphazardly tossed clothing items. “Was fun.”
“Wait.” Ilya has to hide his smile behind his bicep. Hollander sounds pissed. “Are you serious?”
Letting the stray sock in his hands fall to the wayside, Ilya meets Hollander’s stern gaze. He takes his sweet time crawling on top of Hollander, inching his way down until his thigh is pressed against Hollander’s erection, until his breath is fluttering against one of Hollander’s pink earlobes. He laughs.
“So you think I’m asshole?”
The look Hollander gives him is flushed and watery, yet still, it conveys that he thinks Ilya has just said something glaringly obvious.
“I know you’re an asshole.”
Ilya’s smile glitters with mischief. Hollander will have to pay for that.
“Let me show you how it’s done, kid.”
He slides down, anchoring himself using Hollander’s chest, and takes Hollander into his mouth, playing Hollander with the flat of his tongue, his head bobbing up and down. His mouth is full of Hollander’s erection, but the corners still stretch with satisfaction as Hollander starts to writhe underneath him, gasping like he’s never been touched like this in his life.
“Shit,” Hollander whines, quite the poet. “Holy fucking shit.”
And Ilya drinks it in, observing through hooded eyes how Hollander’s face collapses, how his muscles strain and constrict as he bucks into the warmth of Ilya’s mouth, gripping the sheets so hard that his knuckles are losing color. He meets all of Hollander’s crests and waves with ease, lavishing the show, marveling at how quickly Hollander’s thighs have begun to tremble underneath him. He’ll show Hollander something real. Something revelatory.
“Fuck, Rozanov fuck thatssogood,” Hollander slips on his own words, an arm coming up to grade his chin, blocking Ilya’s view. Ilya doesn’t know Hollander well enough to distinguish the cause of his gasps. Which are from pleasure, which are from his flaring sinuses, how different those things even are under Ilya’s care. But he feels it as Hollander jerks underneath him, into him.
They’re soft, wet, spraying things, different from what he’d heard in the locker room earlier. An after effect of Hollander’s shaky control? Ahh, hang on. So Hollander had wanted him so terribly, even then?
The moment is so heated, Hollander so captivating, that Ilya doesn’t even question the curious stir of arousal that re-emerges within him. Despite Hollander’s efforts to shield him, Ilya feels a light mist settle against his browbone. He should mind— getting sneezed on has never exactly been his idea of sexy— but he doesn’t.
Ilya peeks around Hollander’s elbow, catches a glimpse of Hollander with the palm of his hand pressed desperately against his septum, nostrils flaring wildly. He reaches up and bats at Hollander’s arm, a string of saliva glimmering on his chin as he withdraws his mouth.
“Move this. Let me see you.”
“No, I might sneeze on you.” Hollander resists his grip, wrestling Ilya to keep his arm in place.
“Is fine, Hollander. You already have. ”
“Fuck.” Hollander sounds concerned. “Seriously?”
“Is whatever.” Ilya is getting impatient now, He takes advantage of the split second he feels Hollander’s resolve wavering, inching his arm off until he can see a sliver of Hollander’s face again. “Sneeze on me, whatever, I don’t care. I want to see you.”
Hollander’s lips pinch tight, considering. He sniffles, and Ilya takes that as his cue to give Hollander an encouraging double tap on his pec before diving back in.
It’s music to his ears, the way Hollander whines.
It doesn’t take long before Hollander’s hands gravitate to Ilya’s curls, tugging at the roots of his scalp as Ilya sucks him, licks him.
And Ilya watches as his eyebrows contort and his bottom lip buoys, never ceasing in his rhythm, even as Hollander-
“-IhTSSschH!”
“-hIhd’zZischhw!”
“-hh…. HehhhH’NGShhhH’HU!”
—sneezes, sneezes, sneezes into his bicep, unable to keep Ilya fully out of the line of fire, no matter how hard he tries. Ilya comes to think of them like praise, delayed kisses, unfiltered encouragement where someone as awkward and stilted as Hollander’s words start to fail.
Hollander arches sharply and gasps, the tension he’s been collecting reaches a fever pitch. He moans, scrambling to create distance.
“Holy shit Rozanov, get off I’m going to— I can’t stop—“
Steady, jaw tender, Ilya keeps Hollander in his mouth as he grows more frantic.
“Seriously, Rozanov, fuck fuck fuckfuckfuhhH—“
Then, Hollander shudders and moans, waves of his orgasm rolling through him. Once he’s finished, Ilya gives him another quick pat and rolls off of him.
“Oh my god,” Hollander sniffles. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think that I-“
“What? that you would come so quick?
“Fuck you.”
Ilya stretches one arm behind his head, sinking into the mountain of plush pillows provided by the hotel now that his head is clear enough to appreciate them. With the other, he reaches for the tissues again, waving them lazily in front of Hollander.
“You want?” Hollander’s nose is quite red, scrunching with frequent sniffles, Ilya observes. He looks pretty.
“Fuck you,” Hollander sighs out as he sits up. “Yes.”
He takes the entire box from Ilya, then only presses them to his face, silently massaging his nostrils instead of blowing. Suddenly unwilling to let Ilya witness him doing something undignified, reserved once again.
“You didn’t have to,” mumbles Hollander eventually. “And I’m sorry if I— that I—“
“Oh,” Ilya shakes his head. “I didn’t mind. Was interesting. To blow someone who is allergic to sex.”
“That’s not true.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow and laughs, sure Hollander would be pissed at his expression if his back weren’t turned.
“Is a little true.” In the silence, he can feel Hollander rolling his eyes.
“So this is…uh…”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
They both start to laugh then, acknowledging the gravity of what they’ve just done. Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. The MLH’s upcoming stars, rivals of generational talent, laying naked in a sex soaked hotel room. Because they blew each other.
Hilarious.
Now that his mind is no longer clouded by the raw need to come, Ilya starts to search for his clothes. He assures Hollander that this is their little secret, leaves him with the promise that they’ll be seeing each other soon. He finds as he’s walking away that he’s already excited for it, the chance to see Hollander again, to finally have someone that he has to work to show up on the ice.
This isn’t the last they’ll be seeing of each other, and he can feel it, somewhere in his bones, that together they’ve started a fire.
Despite the risk of being seen, Ilya waits with his ear pressed to the wall in the empty hall for a second after the door clicks shut behind him, laughing to himself when he hears it— the sound of Hollander sneezing. Unable to disguise the fact that he feels it too.
Hazards of Our Occupation (Part 2/2) (H/eated R/ivalry, Ilya)
Second half of collab with the GOAT @softsicknose. This is me taking back the pain of having previously sprained both of my ankles at once. We get our power where we can, right? (I feel psychic when it's about to rain and my joints fucking hurt.) Set during T/he L/ong G/ame, feat. PUPPY <33
cw: sprained ankle
Hockey terms: IR is injured reserve; the Lady Byng Memorial Trophy is given each year to the NHL player deemed to have “the best sportsmanship/gentlemanly conduct" (Shane's definitely won this at least once, right?); five for fighting is, well, the five minutes you and the other guy would get in the penalty box for fighting.
Part 1
____
Pierre Beaulieu @ hockeytalkie:
Ilya Rozanov (ankle) placed on IR, out for at least six weeks, per #OTTCentaurs camp
--
“For fuck’s sake, Ilya, will you sit the fuck down?!”
Shane had been making his morning smoothie when he’d heard the familiar cli-click, cli-click of Ilya’s crutches. He’d turned to say hello but paused when Ilya had tried to bend down to pet Anya which, naturally, pissed off his sprained ankle. “Fuck!”
And that had only been the start to this absolutely ridiculous morning.
Ilya was refusing to acknowledge the fact that he could barely walk, courtesy of a fall he’d taken after a heavy hit from a Boston goon on the ice days before. He was already bored as hell, full of energy, pretending that he hadn’t been told by the Ottawa medical staff that he especially needed the “R” in the acronym “RICE” - rest.
Not only that, but he’d caught a cold and was an absolute wreck of sneezy misery.
Now, Shane was placing another of Anya’s squeaky toys into the designated pile by the fireplace, lest his boyfriend trip over it and injure himself even more. It would have fucking helped if Ilya hadn’t been the one who’d strewn the toys all over the floor, worried that Anya would need “company” while he was laid up in bed. As if he even knew where his bed was, Shane thought as he almost tripped over a large Lamb Chop stuffy himself. Considering he hasn’t been in it for days.
“Shade,” came a congested voice, “have you seen mby phone?” Ilya was standing by, not sitting on, the couch, his leg slightly bent to keep his massively swollen and bruised ankle off the ground. Infuriatingly, he wasn’t wearing his bandage. That was when Shane had gone off on him and told him to sit (the fuck) down, and that he would call his phone if it would get him off his feet. Ilya rolled his eyes like Shane was the crazy one, placing his hands on the middle handles of his crutches so he could move himself to the couch cushions, when his mouth dropped open with hitching breaths. The poor man hadn’t stopped sneezing for more than a few minutes all day.
"haaAASHHhh’ioo! -AASHhhhuhh!” he stumbled from the force of his huge sneezes, and Shane rushed forward to grip his upper arms so he wouldn’t fall. Ilya’s head snapped to the side to avoid sneezing on Shane, but with how big and wet his sneezes were, there was no way for Shane to escape from a bit of spray landing on his hand. “HAASHOOO! snrf…hHAADT’chhoo! AESCHHHh!” They both waited for the inevitable sixth sneeze, Ilya blinking and looking up at the light to get something in his nose going, before making a strangled gasp and curling into his side. “hh’ISHHhoo! -YESCHHhhoo!”
“Bless you…bless you…bless you…” Shane repeated, his anger at Ilya’s complete disregard for his health mingling with concern for his wellbeing. The germaphobe in him barely reacted to the fact that he’d been caught in the crossfire of one of Ilya’s sneezes. He was sure, in the throes of a bad cold himself, he’d accidentally sneezed on Ilya once or twice too. Why was that weirdly…domestic and sweet? God, his eighteen-year-old self could never have imagined what that night in an LA hotel gym, swapping a water bottle with the man who had stolen his number-one draft pick spot, would lead to all these years later.
“Sit down, you monster. I’ll find your phone.” He helped Ilya get off his crutches and prop his leg up on some pillows to keep it elevated. “And I’m wrapping your ankle back up,” he called out as he walked to grab some tissues and Ilya’s cell. Ilya groaned in response. “Feels weird,” he grumbled. “Too fucking bad!” Shane shouted back, taking some pleasure in watching Ilya jump, clearly not expecting to have been heard.
When Shane returned, Ilya was gearing up for another sneezing fit, reddened nostrils flaring against the paleness of his face. He tossed the tissue box next to him as Ilya gasped and gasped. “y’ihh! ISZCHHHhhuhh! AZSCHHH’yuhh! hy’YISZCHHHhhhoo! hah, ahh…ahhhh,” he sighed in relief as his need to sneeze went away. Shane had noticed how the sneezes had rocked his whole body back and forth, including his ankle, and judging by the pinched look in his face, it had left him in pain. Shane wanted to punch that Boston goon in the face. Or, at the very least, trip him on the ice. He’d give up his chance to win the Lady Byng again for an extra two minutes in the box.
“You can’t even rest like a normal person, can you?”
Ilya tossed the ball from his spot on the couch, grinning when Anya zoomed across the room to grab it. “I don’t know what you mean.”
This fucking man. “You’re hurting yourself, Ilya.”
And he was: every time he threw the ball, Anya would bring it back to him and hop into his lap, jostling his ankle. Shane had been out of the room for two goddamn minutes to pee, and when he’d come back, Ilya was wincing in pain as Anya ran into him, then back, rinse and repeat.
“Don’t let Anya jump on you!”
“Anya is taking care of me,” Ilya said, scritching behind her ears. “Aren’t you, milaya devochka?” Shane had never heard his boyfriend speak in a higher pitch than he did when he was with his dog. It was cute as hell, but it also made him worry a bit for his vocal chords. Ilya tossed the ball again, and Anya caught it midair as it bounced off the wall, then hopped back onto the couch and into Ilya’s lap. He hissed out an "Aiaiaiai” as the impact jerked his leg to the side, but he took the ball and threw it again. “Ow. snf.”
Shane had tried his best to be patient with Ilya, knowing that he was struggling with this cold on top of being upset about not being able to play, but he’d had more than enough. He wrenched the ball from Ilya’s hand before he could throw it again. “Jesus fucking Christ, Ilya! Stop it, you idiot, you’re hurting yourself.”
Ilya stared at Shane in shock. He gestured to Anya, who looked tensed and ready to leap into the air again. “Look at this little girl, Shane. You would tell her I will not throw her the ball? For shame.” He snuffled and ran a hand beneath his scarlet nose. Shane resisted the urge to smack his hand out of the way and tell him to leave his poor nose alone. He wouldn't listen; he never did.
Shane rolled his eyes, but he did feel bad at the expectant look in Anya’s shiny brown eyes. “I’ll throw it for her outside.”
“Nooo. I want her right here.” He snatched the ball back and threw it again - “Ow” - and while Shane facepalmed, Anya sat herself back in Ilya’s lap and lay down with the ball still dangling in her mouth. “Who is the best girl? You are the best girl,” Ilya cooed with delight.
Shane sighed. He was dealing with two puppies here. He checked his watch. “Will you at least let me get you some ice? It’s time for more.”
Ilya nodded, still grinning, then froze in place, smile fading, his whole face scrunching with what looked to be an all-consuming itch. “hy’ehh…! hahh-!” At Ilya’s hitches, which pumped his chest back and forth, Anya jumped off his lap - smart girl, she knew that Ilya would have blown out her eardrums had she stayed where she was - and he rocketed forward into his cupped hands. “haaAAASHhhooo! hhhy’ASHHHhhoo! hy’YASHHhhooh! haughh,” he moaned, breath half-pained and half-sneezy, “YASHHHh’uhh! hy’YESHHuhh-ESCHHuhh!”
By the second sneeze, Shane had taken his place next to Ilya to rub his back and bless him after every punishing sneeze. After the final one (for now), he handed Ilya some tissues and frowned as he honked viciously into them before burying his face into Shane’s neck. “Bless you. Oh, Ilya,” he murmured as Ilya made a soft sobbing sound. “Ssh. I’m gonna get you that ice, okay? Then you’ll feel better, I promise.” Ilya lifted his head and Shane brushed away the tear welling in his eye.
When Shane came back, Anya was back in Ilya’s lap, her head perched on one knee, acting as an excellent protector in Shane’s absence. Shane helped lift Ilya’s other leg and wrap the ice around his ankle, babbling anxiously all the while about how he would be able to take more cold medicine in a few hours and, hopefully, have a restful nap. He set the timer on his phone for twenty minutes, watching Ilya’s loving gaze dart from him to the dog and back.
“Room for one more?” Shane sat down next to Ilya and reached over to pet Anya’s silky fur. “Hi, little one,” he said quietly, “are you taking good care of your papa? Yeah?” He smiled at her, and he could swear that she was smiling back. When he looked up, Ilya was smiling at him too, warmly and gently, his eyes soft and full of emotion. Shane rubbed his thumb against Ilya’s cheekbone, feeling a fondness deep in his core when it made Ilya’s nose twitch. “Are you feeling any better?”
Ilya pecked him on the cheek, then put his head on his shoulder. “Yes. Thank you.” There was a slight wobble in his voice, and Shane knew that he was thinking about the past, when he was a boy in Russia who felt lonely and empty and unloved. Shane was never, ever going to let him feel that way again. He stroked Ilya’s golden curls, pressing little kisses into them, as Ilya gave a small sigh of contentment.
“You take such good care of me, my love.”
“I always will,” Shane promised. Anya nuzzled into Shane’s hand, desperate for more pets, and as Ilya joined in, baby-talking at his “Annushka,” Shane marveled at their beautiful little family.
