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 :)
ALSO: THIS IS AN 18+ SNZ BLOG PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT IF YOU'RE A MINOR OR NOT A KINK BLOG PLS AND THANK YOU!
Below you can (hopefully) find links to the stuff I've written based on my pairing of OCs and/or any fandoms! Thanks for hangin' around :)
Fandom (H/eated R/ivalry, O/ff C/ampus)
Three Times the Centaurs Tried to Care for Their Captain, and the First Time they Succeeded
+ One: On Final Approach
part one, part two, part three
ta-da! the final part of this cute lil series. I definitely heard ppl say less angst, and then I definitely did not listen, so I am sorry for that. I'll have some cute fluffy s/kip out next tho, I promise.
I hope you enjoy! âĄ
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 7.5k
cw: sneezing, mess, general illness, negative self-talk, blood
Sometimes, Ilya found that he just couldnât stop making bad decisions. Maybe there was a word for it, âself-sabotageâ or something, but he never noticed it early enough to name it before one bad decision had led to another, and another, and another. Which was what had happened that week. And after being hit in the face by consequence after consequence after consequence, he didnât really have the energy to try and fix anything by himself anymore. And who was going to fix it for him? No one.
The blond sat in his car, staring blankly at the dashboard, fingertips just barely clinging to the bottom of the wheel. Heâd been there for five minutes already, engine off, but unable to muster the desire to get out. Maybe if he just sat there, zoned out, hardly moving, barely breathing, time wouldnât move at all, and he would never have to go out and face his own inadequac-
His next shallow breath caught on something, and suddenly he was jerking forward, so suddenly that he almost hit his face on the steering wheel, coughing phlegmily from deep in his chest. Each cough tore at his throat, strained at his already almost empty lungs, and made his head throb with pressure. Each tiny, crackly inhale in-between only served to move the congestion around his chest, very little air actually getting in. Static started to dance in front of his eyes.
Ilya pounded on his chest, squeezing his eyes shut, visualising the mucus breaking up as if that would make a difference. Or maybe heâd just die in his car in the parking lot? Jesus fucking-
Finally afforded some oxygen, he tipped his head all the way back, sucking in a deep, grateful breath, and blowing it back out shakily. He shuddered involuntarily, feeling the malaise creep back in as the adrenaline of fighting for his life ebbed away. He was only able to stand the initially restorative position for a few more seconds before his neck started to ache and he began to feel lightheaded, forced to lean forwards again just to keep himself conscious.
Heâd intended to take one more deep breath and just brave the stupid freezing cold Ottawa weather, but the change in position also changed the lay of the land in his sinuses- congestion wise- and he found himself gasping in a desperate breath,
âhKk! Kkh! hKk! hKsh!-â The tickle was momentarily overwhelmed by irritation in his lungs and he coughed roughly a few times to settle that before his breath caught again, restarting the fit where heâd left off, âhKSHh! Kshuh! hAHKSHh! huh⊠huhAHKXSh! huAHSHHhOo!â
Having ducked all the way forwards, aiming towards his own chest, the blond sat up slowly, breathing jaggedly. He smacked at the visor to flip it down and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, mucus was pooling in his cupidâs bow, and his forehead shone with sweat. Overall, he looked a fucking mess.
Ilya let his gaze rove over his destroyed countenance for a masochistically long time, taking in what heâd done to himself in its full, thoughtless, disgusting glory. What the hell had happened to him?
Realistically, he knew exactly what had happened to him, and it was literally entirely his own fault. Several days before, he and Shane had had a fight about something that Ilya had said. Heâd kind of known that it wasnât the right thing to say at the time, but heâd been tired, coming off back to back losses, and knowing the opposite was true for the Canadian, and maybe his jealousy had come out sounding like criticism. And then he hadnât clarified, or apologised. They hadnât really talked at all, actually.
Ilya had vented his feelings- or punished himself, depending on how you looked at it- with a 18-mile run, the last 6 miles of which had been in a torrential downpour- why the fuck did people choose to run outside anyway?- and then lain on his kitchen floor and sobbed in wordless self-hatred until he felt empty enough to strip down and stand and sip at a glass of vodka while staring into space before falling into bed and sleeping through to the next morning. Coping was one of the many things that he was not excellent at.
And when heâd realised, two days later, that he was getting sick, he hadnât thought, like a normal person, âMight be time to slow down a bit, take care of this before it takes care of meâ. No, heâd wondered if being scratched, or maybe even hospitalised, would be a good way of getting Shaneâs attention, and maybe, just maybe, the brunet would make the drive over to see him, sit by his bedside, and forgive him. And then, of course, by the time heâd come to his senses and realised that that was a horrible, selfish idea, and the team would never survive without him, heâd been- heâd been halfway to the arena, actually. Keeping yourself sleep-deprived, overworked, and/or slightly tipsy at all times was an excellent way to impair your critical thinking skills.
The blond coughed again as he scrubbed his face dry with a napkin that he was currently pretending he had put into the glove compartment- or maybe they had just magically appeared in there on their own- and forced himself to take several deep breaths. Glancing back in the mirror, he saw that heâd managed to repair most of the damage, a slight flush still visible on his nose and cheeks, but that could easily be attributed to the bitterly cold wind. Speaking of which- Ilya opened the car door slightly, just enough to let the outside air in.
He knew it would take him a few seconds to acclimate, and heâd much rather do that at least mostly out of sight than standing in the middle of the car park where anyone could see him.
The cold air burned his nose, his throat, his lungs, made goosepimples break out all up his exposed forearms, but also cooled the raging hot fire sitting somewhere below his ribcage. He was pretty sure heâd already sweated through his shirt- it was the main reason he wasnât wearing his jacket yet, actually- and the reminder that he wouldnât feel this hot forever was an extremely welcome one. Okay- he told himself as he sniffled against the drip that was starting in response to the temperature change- you got yourself into this mess, you get yourself through it. Youâre going to play, youâre going to give a good speech and a mediocre interview, youâre going to go in there and be the fucking captain, okay?
His response to himself was, predictably, a fit of desperate, damp little sneezes that he caught half of in his hand, âhKk! Kk! hKsh! hKSH! KShh! KSHHuh!-â and half of in another âmagical gift from the universeâ napkin that he hastily retrieved at the first sign that his palm wouldnât be able to contain the expulsions, âhKSHH! KXSChH! hiHKSHh! hrRSHh! huhRSHHuH! hSHHOo!â
Trying not to let himself wallow in the discomfort too much- concerned that he might not end up going in at all- the Russian blew his nose forcefully, coughed with his eyes squeezed shut against the pain, dropped the napkin in the footwell- fuck it-, snagged his jacket and phone and stepped out of the car.
He greeted the Canadian climate with a muttered curse word and a scowl that was undermined by his watering eyes, courtesy of the wind, and started towards the arena. His calves were sore, just enough to make him second guess every step, the result of overworking at the gym that morning- which he knew better than to do before a game- but he was frustrated by how quickly the pain melted away as he walked. Now there was nothing to ground him, keep him out of his head.
Ilya blanked the press as he walked by them on his way to the locker room, thankful for the years heâd spent maintaining that severe, intense reputation, knowing that his attitude today would go unnoticed. Maybe everything about him that day would go unnoticed, he wasnât exactly feeling positive about his anticipated performance.
âŠ
The energy in the locker room had been off since heâd entered, Ilya just hadnât really been able to figure out why. The team seemed wired, but not just with excitement, it was like- it was like there was some rumor going around that he wasnât privy to. The captain frowned, trying to tune in to the closest conversation from where he sat in his stall, halfway dressed.
âItâs kind of rude, right?â
âIâll say. Were they this badly organised under Roz?â
âWhat?â The blond instinctively responded at the sound of his name, and the players whoâd been conversing to his left, turned to look at him.
âJust saying, cap, were Boston this late when you ran things?â Oh fuck, that was right. They were playing fucking Boston.
âWhat do you mean?â He asked, frowning.
âDid you not hear?â Hayes smiled widely at him, delighted to be the one to impart the news. âTheyâre not here yet.â
Ilya glanced down at his phone. âHow the fuck are they not here? Game starts in like two hours. They should not have left after morning skate.â
Boodram snorted. âNo, man. They werenât here for that either. Theyâre not in the province yet.â
âWhat?â The Russian wondered how the fuck everyone else seemed to know this except him, when he was the one whoâd used to play for the opposing team. âWhere are they?â
Bood shrugged and pointed skywards. âUp there, I guess. Their flight was crazy delayed. This weatherâs no joke.â
âFuck.â Ilya sat back in his stall, trying to adjust to the new possibilities of a delay, a significantly less fearsome opponent for this game, or even no game at all. He had been dreading facing his old teammates like⊠this, but heâd also kind of been hoping to get some words in with Marly, knowing a conversation with his old linemate would probably make him feel better. But it had to be a chance encounter on the ice, he couldnât just reach out to him. That would be fucking pathetic, and also pretty useless since the older man was usually across the border and out of helping distance anyway.
Ten minutes later, Coach Wiebe entered the locker room, the look on his face silencing the various conversations and the slightly questionable background music, the pick of one of the rookies -whoâd apparently taken a DJ apprenticeship under Dykstra- within seconds.
âAlright, sorry to have made you all come out here for nothing, but the storm hasnât moved off like weâd hoped, so the teamâs plane has been redirected, and thereâs just no way theyâll be here, and set up in time. So, no game tonight. Really sorry guys. Iâll let you know as soon as thereâs any news about rescheduling.â
Ilya tried to remind himself that he hadnât actually been looking forward to the game anyway, so there was no reason for him to feel crushed by its cancellation. This did nothing to help. Since pushing his body to- and probably slightly past- its limits that morning, heâd been slowly feeling that restless tension building back up, expecting to unload it on the ice. But now, he couldnât. And he couldnât vent at Marleau, and he couldnât go home and Facetime Shane, and-
Chest tightening dangerously, the captain fumbled in his bag for his phone, headphones, water bottle- the final object taking just slightly too long to find- fuck it-and stalking out of the locker room. He took the hallways of the arena at a jog, praying no one had, or would have, the same idea as him. These guys werenât exactly hardcore about conditioning in the same way that he was, though, having found their training and playing rhythms, and not too bothered by a slight disruption to it.
Mercifully, he found the gym to be empty, and immediately made his way to a treadmill- as if he could outrun his mind and his body at once- the thought only making the claustrophobic sensation pressing down on him, infinitely stronger. He was hitting the button to up the speed before heâd even put his headphones on, and struggled to navigate through his phone to find the most strident, distracting, adrenaline-stirring playlist possible. âЧŃĐŸ, ŃŃŃĐČĐ°Đ”ŃŃŃŃ?â seemed to be calling to him.
The feeling of his already aching muscles fighting to keep him moving fast enough not to trip, the rush of adrenaline that hit perfectly in time with the first beat drop, and the burn in his lungs as he fell into an oxygen deficit, were exactly what he needed. He felt gratified by the pain, numbed against the bitter emotions that had been lingering for days by endorphins flooding his system, and the music and almost unachievable pace served to completely shut out his thoughts. It wasnât quite as medicinal as an actual game, but it was certainly making a dent.
He ran until he felt like he was actually about to die, hardly able to suck in breath anymore, passively acknowledging the black spots showing up in his vision but not stopping or slowing down until he stumbled, and felt his heart rate- already high from the exertion- spike sharply as he almost fell face first onto the rapidly moving belt. The interruption to his rhythm threw everything off, and suddenly he could hardly keep his feet hitting the right spots, almost stepping off entirely as he smacked the âcooldownâ button and felt the pace start to decrease.
Ilya kept his hands on the handrails and his eyes shut until the machine came to a stop. He was breathing heavily, and completely disorientated between the music blaring in his ears and the impaired vision. He removed his headphones, wincing at the sound of his breath rasping loudly in the otherwise silent room, and stumbling off to kneel on the floor. He couldnât tell if everything was actually spinning around him or if he was swaying back and forth. It was making him feel even more dizzy and nauseated, though, but every time he shut his eyes, he felt as though he were falling into a void of nothingness, so he kept them uncomfortably open. He wasnât about to let himself pass out and be found unconscious on the floor of the gym by the arenaâs security team or something.
Breathing deeply was painful, so he kept his breaths shallow for a bit, just until he felt a little less like triggering a coughing fit would make him throw up. The captain had no idea how much time passed before he felt like he could get up and stagger across to grab a towel, wiping the copious sweat from his face and neck, and then collapsing back to his knees and coughing into it. He coughed until the burn in his lungs came back, until he felt the phlegm build into what felt like a baseball sized lump in his throat, until he tasted the coppery tang of blood so strongly that he felt his teeth must be flecked with red.
Only then could he muster the energy to swallow, to sit up relatively straight, blink at himself in the mirror across the room, âYa seychas, blyadâ, umru.â
âŠ
The look the captain had sent Wyatt as heâd limped back through the door of the locker room had been somewhere between extreme disdain and blind panic. Clearly he hadnât expected anyone to still be hanging around, but a few of them had, talking over the idea of going out for a meal, maybe even drinks. And startling Roz, apparently.
Rozanov had made his way to his stall and was sitting there, staring at the floor, the only one still in any of his gear- a compression shirt and his entire bottom half, bar skates and pads- seemingly totally soaked in sweat. The Russian had yet to say anything, or even look at anyone, something that had not gone unnoticed, Wyatt throwing several looks in Dykstra and Boodâs directions, silently communicating his intrigue.
Not yet having been added to the Centaursâ telepathic group-chat, Barrett continued with the conversation as though the captainâs silent entrance wasnât a cause for alarm. He was mid-joke about Bostonâs defensive line, and metaphorically tossed the mic to the blond, â-right, Rozanov?â
The Russian didnât respond, gaze still firmly fixed on the floor as if he were making sure it wasnât about to run away from underneath them all. Unease started to awaken in the goaltender, the behaviour uncharacteristic even for the frequently distant and brooding captain. Something wasnât right here. It wasnât even like Rozanov to stick around after a sudden freeing-up of the schedule like this anyway, now that he thought of it. So why was he still here? Did he even know where he was? The look on his face said possibly not.
The silence seemed to throw Barrett somewhat too, a flicker of self-doubt crossing his face before he opted to double down. âWow, Roz missing a chance to chirp his ex-teammates, whatâre you dying or something?â Wyatt watched in what felt like slow motion as Troyâs palm moved towards the captainâs forehead and⊠made contact? He hadnât expected him to get that far.
âFuck,â The winger looked thrown. âYouâre⊠burning up.â Suddenly all the bravado evaporated at once, and Wyatt could sense the question that was about to be asked. Apparently so could Boodram, who swooped in and pulled his linemate away.
âBarrett, I think I heard Harris say something about wanting replacement content to make up for no game, you should probably-â Bood was already at the door, steering the shorter man carefully out of it, â-go check in with him, see what he needs from us.â
Troy, to his credit, had also apparently sensed that something was wrong, eyes wide and apprehensive as he backed up into the hall with no protest, like he instinctively knew to get the hell out of there. Someone should probably update him on the whole âCaptain doesnât act like a normal guy when heâs sickâ thing.
The others all stood, too, making pointed eye contact with each other as they strolled not-so-casually en masse towards the door. The question on everyoneâs minds âWhoâs going to be the first to poke the tiger?â went temporarily unanswered as they all exited together, Rozanov not even looking up as the room emptied out.
âŠ
Dykstra was the first to make his way back in, after a brief but intense conversation in the hallway, which Chouinard had accidentally almost exposed halfway through by leaning on the locker room door, just enough to crack it back open. The sound of the captain coughing violently, muffled by some kind of fabric, had made it through the gap, alerting them to the security breach.
âHe sounds like you, D.â Bood had muttered with a wince, as the doors were hastily tugged shut again.
Before Dykstra could protest that he wasnât the only man on planet Earth to get bad coughs with his colds, Hayesâ eyes had alighted on him meaningfully, and so now here he was, slipping through the doors with an energy that he hoped was nonchalant but was probably more like a kid pretending to be a spy, theme music playing in his head and all.
Rozanov was still struggling to breathe without choking on his own lungs- he sounded like heâd been sick for a while, why the hell had he showed up in the first place? If he was gonna sit in the fucking press box he should have a) mentioned it, and b) not gotten changed, right?- so he strolled coolly on past to his own stall and fished through his bag for the reason heâd been sent in.
Waiting patiently for the Russian to finish the aggressive sounding fit, Evan watched him out of the corner of his eye, watched his shoulder blades judder and his hands shake trying to keep the towel pressed to his mouth. It was a tough listen, the Canadianâs own lungs aching in sympathy as he mentally rooted for the blond to win the battle with his breath.
Eventually, Rozanov surfaced, just barely lifting his face away from the material, and breathing shallowly. Evan took slow steps towards him, letting him process his presence and his approach, so as not to startle him or piss him off, and also not wanting to seem like he was rushing over, just casually sidling up.
âHere ya go.â He held out the tube of throat sweets like the captain had asked for them, no fuss, no sympathy, no judgement. It was sort of a wordless question now, like they were presenting their assumption- âYouâre sick, right?â, and if he took it, it was a good sign that he was, and that heâd be kind of amenable to help. Evan was the sacrifice that Hayes sent in to check they were all good to move on to further stages of help. He didnât mind, though, heâd rather it was him getting his head bitten off than anyone who needed to cooperate with Roz for actual game reasons, like Boodram or Barrett. The Russian could stay pissed at him for a week, no problem.
Rozanov took the offering without looking up, and, to Dykstraâs surprise as he started to walk away, opened it immediately, and put one in his mouth. His throat must be fucking killing him if heâs willing to do that in front of someone.
Evan messed around with his bag for another few seconds, waiting to see if the captain would say anything. When he didnât, the defenseman figured his part was done, and strolled back in the direction of the door, eyes flicking in the blondâs direction as he passed. What he glimpsed almost made him stop dead in his tracks, but he forced himself to keep a neutral face and keep walking.
Up close, Rozâs face was ashen, so pale it bordered on a blueish gray, but with a red flush across his cheeks and up the bridge of his nose like heâd been sunburnt. He was glistening with sweat as well, visible beads on his face and drips falling from his chin. His eyes were slightly sunken, though it was almost masked by the swelling around them, and his nostrils and upper lip were rubbed red raw, probably from the towel. The towel itself, though, was what had struck a flicker of panic into Dykstra. Because the visibly sweat- and saliva-soaked towel that Rozanov clutched in one hand, was flecked with tiny spots of bright red blood.
âŠ
Wyatt wasnât particularly bothered about being casual, entering and grabbing his bag from his stall before moving to sit in the one next to the captainâs and dropping it on the floor. They both knew why he was here, it was pointless to keep up the charade, especially if something really serious was going on.
âWhere are you heading after this, then?â He asked casually. Because from what Dykstra had said, it sounded like the answer should be âthe hospitalâ.
Rozanov didnât respond, towel now balled up in one hand, so the goaltender couldnât confirm the blood that Dykstra had glimpsed. He was leaning forwards, too, blinking slowly at his own feet as if they were the only thing keeping him grounded- which technically they kind of were, thatâs how feet worke- Wyatt shook his head, trying to lock into caretaking mode, the energy heâd built up in advance of the game keeping his mind whirring away unhelpfully. He needed to take things slow, not spook the captain. He had a feeling that this was an important one, and if he failed, there might not be anyone else to help him out.
They sat in silence for a few seconds, Wyatt mentally perfecting his next attempt to get some kind of information out of the Russian, when the latter sniffled abruptly. It brought the goaltender out of his head, because up until then, heâd kind of just been letting intermittent drips fall from his nose and soak into his shorts-clad thigh- not a particularly attractive sight, but a sign of how bad he was feeling, maybe- why the change? Was he pulling himself together to acknowledge the goalieâs presence? Was he about to say something?
Instead, the captain let out a rapid burst of coughs, curling in on himself. Wyatt remained hopeful that this was the prelude to some kind of speech, raising his eyebrows expectantly as Rozanov took a deep, preparatory breath in.
âhKk! Kk! hKk!-â Nope, just more coughing.
â-KSHh!-â Ah, not coughing, sneezing. Those first ones were deceptively close to coughs, so it was an easy mistake to make. Also, there was the fact that heâd made absolutely no effort to cover his face, seemingly far too focused on gripping the bench, and tensing every muscle in his body in an attempt not to fall off of it.
â-hKSHh! KSHhuh! KXSHh! hUhSHH! huAHSHH! hhHâŠâ He swayed, dizzily, âhAHSCHHuh!â
âBless you.â He fought to keep the concern out of his tone, and off of his face. But it didnât really seem like Rozanov cared, because there was no sharp discerning look shot his way, no verbal admonishment for acknowledging the sneezes, no response at all, really. Was he too sick to protest- because that would mean some kind of ambulance, Wyatt was pretty sure- or was there something else going on?
Hoping to replicate Dykstraâs success, the goalie reached into his bag, tugging out a travel pack of tissues, and removing one to hand across to the captain. Roz took it, apparently on instinct, still white-knuckling the bench with his other hand. The towel had fallen to the floor in the chaos of the fit, Wyatt squinting in its direction to discern whether it was only sweat soaking the fabric. No, he could definitely see a few flecks of red on there. That was concerning enough that he ached to be able to message Lisa, get some kind of estimate of just how bad of a sign it was.
âDo y-â
Roz interrupted him with a sharp gasp, âhKk! Kk! hKk!-â Okay, fine, so this wasnât going to be a conversation. At least he didnât seem to be trying to hide his symptoms though, although that might be more a sign of flat-out exhaustion than trust.
â-hkSH! KSH! hUAHKSHhUh!â Apparently having winded himself with the force of that one, Rozanov sucked in a desperate breath, tilting forwards like he was about to fall off the bench entirely, eyes distant like his vision had cut out. Not good. He couldnât just sit there and watch that.
Wyatt lunged across, catching the captain around the chest with one arm, other one dragging the Russian back upright by the back of his shirt like he was a puppy.
â-hMPHh! MPHH!-â Apparently just lucid enough to note the Canadianâs increased proximity, Rozanov made an uncoordinated attempt to press the tissue heâd been given to his face, upper body juddering in the goalieâs grip.
Once heâd gotten him stable enough to be held up with one arm, Wyatt switched to gently patting him on the back with his free hand, encouraging him to submit to the fit, although the Russian didnât really seem capable of doing anything else. âhRSHHh! KSHh! hHRSHH! rRSHHHuh! hihh⊠huhH⊠huHRRSHhUh!â
âGod bless you, Roz.â Wyatt frowned over his shoulder, where the captain couldnât see him, unable to stop himself from breathing out a soft, âFuck.â
Rozanov didnât respond again, his breathing shaky and purposeful, like he was trying to steady himself, but he made no move to push the goalie away. After a few moments his breath started to waver again, and Wyatt braced himself for another fit. He really should have given the captain the whole pack of tissues, but would he even have been able to get one out by himself? Right now the typically invincible player was a trembling mess in his arms, so it was really anybodyâs guess.
But another fit didnât come, and after a few seconds of wondering if he was going to hitch himself unconscious, Wyatt realised. Oh no. No. No, heâs fucking crying.
âCaptain?â He tendered.
This only seemed to make the Russian cry harder, jagged breaths intercut with quiet moaning noises as he tried and failed to pull himself together.
âListen, I donât think-â He persisted over the noise of his teammate completely falling apart in his arms. â-you should drive yourself home. Or drive at all, uh, or go home actually.â
The more he spoke, the quieter Rozanov became, as though the sound of the goalieâs voice was relaxing him, or captivating him, or something. âI think you should come over to mine, Roz. I got a spare room and- you know, itâs not a big deal- but itâll be just us, and if you n- want anything I can grab it for you- or if you wanna be alone you can just-â
âOkay.â
The word startled him slightly, thick and gravelly and so accented that Wyatt wasnât totally sure he hadnât just said something that sounded like âokayâ in Russian.
âYeah?â He asked, incredulous that the offer had been accepted so easily.
âYeah.â Roz muttered, sniffling and shifting his weight so he was sitting up on his own.
Wyatt pulled back, looking him over briefly before digging back into his bag for that travel pack of tissues, and handing the entire thing over. The captain took it, leaning against the side of his stall, tears still intermittently dripping down his face, eyes shut, looking the picture of exhaustion. Poor kid. How heâd lasted this long on his own was absolutely beyond Wyatt.
âIâll be right back, alright?â He stood, walking slowly to the door, as though he didnât feel like sprinting and jumping and punching the air in victory. Holy hell, had they actually managed it?
âŠ
The rest of the players who were hanging out in the hallway had been updated by an ecstatic Wyatt, who felt almost like heâd just made some kind of scientific breakthrough, and then heâd orchestrated their individual entrances back into the locker room to grab their stuff and leave until it was only his stuff and Rozanovâs in there. And Barrettâs, actually. Where had the winger wandered off to? Heâd seemed a little freaked out by the sudden evacuation of the locker room, hopefully he hadnât abandoned his stuff entirely and run for the hills.
Dykstra, last out, clapped Wyatt on the shoulder, âGood work and good luck, bud. If you need anythingâŠâ
âThanks, man.â The blond nodded, waiting until the defenseman was at least halfway down the corridor before heading back in himself.
Rozanov had his elbows on his thighs, both hands wrapped around his water bottle, head dipped and eyes shut. He was stiller than Wyatt had really ever seen him before, like the slightest movement would make him collapse to the floor in a pile of sand.
âGood to go?â The goaltender asked, starting to zip his own bag and glance over his stall for anything he might have left.
âYeah.â The captain replied, still not moving. You donât look it, bud, but alright.
âAlright, Iâll grab your bag- just cause I can.â Finding ways to explain his sympathetic gestures casually was actually kind of hard.
He re-zipped the bag, swung it onto his shoulder and stared at Rozanov. What if he couldnât walk? Maybe he should take the bags to the car and come back for him?
Before he could think of a way to explain that idea though, the center was grunting and rolling his shoulders back and pushing himself up to stand. Wyatt watched, poised to spring forwards and catch him if he started to slump towards the floor, but after a few seconds of squinting into the middle distance with one eye shut, Roz blinked, and started to walk towards the door.
It had taken a while to make it to the exit, and Wyattâs shoulders ached from carrying both of the heavy bags, but it seemed like every single part of Roz ached ten times worse, so he wasnât going to complain. The goalie held the door for his captain as the latter limped slowly out into the late afternoon sunlight
Wyatt had no sooner joined him than the Russian was stumbling to one side, arm outstretched to find and brace himself against the wall of the building, other hand raised to cover his face,
The violent expulsions dragged him forwards, fingers clawing at the brickwork to keep himself upright as his other hand fought a losing battle against bursts of spray that glowed golden in the setting sunlight.
âBless you.â
The Russian straightened silently, though a shudder ran through him when he reached his full height. The reality of the situation hit Wyatt in the face at a hundred miles an hour. Heâd taken the guy outside in just his fucking base layers, and they were soaked in sweat. It literally had to be minus 5 degrees out here, maximum, and here he was, in his nice wool coat, watching the captain shiver and sniffle and sneeze because he was dripping wet and barely clothed. What was he trying to kill the guy?
Wyatt dropped the bags carefully on the floor, and started to shrug out of his coat, holding it out to Rozanov the second he had it in one hand.
âHere. Itâs fucking fr- I mean, Iâm boiling, dude. You should wear this.â
âŠ
Ilya stared blearily at the item being held out to him. He was pretty sure it was the violent sneezing fit heâd just had that had earned him the offering, and he could attempt to tell Hayes that it was the sun, not the wind that had caused that, but honestly he was freezing, possibly to death, and he wasnât sure he could remember any of the stupid words to describe the photic reflex.
So, he took the coat. âThank you.â
Slipping it on, he could feel the heat of Hayesâ body still lingering in the fabric, and it made him think about succumbing to his agony in the goalieâs arms back in the locker room, which was something that he was pretty sure had happened. But not totally sure, because he also had a fairly vivid memory of putting on his skates, which had inexplicably needed to be laced all the way up to his thighs, and he certainly wasnât wearing skates of any kind now.
The goaltender had picked up their bags again, and started to walk in the apparent direction of his car, slow enough that Ilya could catch him up once heâd gathered his thoughts, and match pace without too much trouble. His nose was dripping again, and he was loath to touch it, the skin painfully sensitive from too much scrubbing and pressing and swiping with various items of varying softness and absorbency. Being slightly behind Hayes, Ilya decided to just let it run down his lip, he was far too frozen through from the wind, and achingly stiff from the workout and the fever to coordinate cleaning himself up while walking anyway.
They made it to the car in what Ilya felt had been no time at all, but from the slight shiver the goalie suppressed as he hit the button to unlock it, theyâd apparently been out in the elements for quite a while. The captain ducked as he climbed in, hiding the mess on his face from Hayes, who was pretty occupied loading the bags in anyway.
Once he was in and seated, he dragged the collar of his compression shirt up, dropping his head as low as possible to get close enough to wipe his face down, wincing as the stitching scraped across his skin, and muffled a cough into his fist, not wanting to be heard or to actively contaminate the goaltenderâs coat. God, he was fucking disgusting. Why the hell did the goalie want him in his house like this? Really, all that mattered was that he did want him, because the most lucid part of Ilyaâs brain had been non-stop screaming at him since heâd left the gym that he shouldnât- couldnât be left alone.
Hayesâ first move upon turning the car on, was to turn the heat up as high as it would go, before he even put his seatbelt on, rubbing his hands together for a few seconds before pulling his phone out of his pocket and typing away for almost a minute, apparently sending multiple messages. He leant away from Ilya slightly, but the captain wasnât sure he would have been able to read anything anyway, the way the world was swimming in front of his eyes. He was exhausted, and they hadnât even played.
As they drove, and the temperature slowly moved back towards a more manageable number, Ilya started to sniffle again, warmth encouraging the congestion to shift and loosen. Hayes glanced his way, but didnât speak for almost a minute.
âThereâs napkins in the glove compartment, or a towel in my bag in the back, if you need.â The Canadian offered, finally.
Ilya, to his own surprise, was initially relieved at the information, rather than frustrated by the acknowledgement of his struggle. Something about the heat, and the quiet music from the radio, and the smooth movement of the car, had relaxed him. He felt safe, weirdly, safer than he would have felt in his own car, with his own music blaring from the speakers, driving himself home. He felt calm and amenable but with this twinge of nostalgia threatening to make him cry if he focused on any one thing for too long. The road passing by, the coat Hayes had given him, the goaltenderâs fingers drumming on the wheel. It was all fuel for that stupid part of his brain that linked the present to particularly emotional memories when it was scrambled from sickness. Or from being concussed. Or from being sick and concussed- he winced at the memory.
âThanks.â The captain said, quietly, contemplating the options for a second and then leaning forwards and opening the glove compartment to get the napkins- they were closer, and he wasnât sure his equilibrium would cope with twisting around to grab the towel anyway.
Ilya pinched his nose through the napkin several times, with a squelching sound that was so awkward on its own that he decided to blow anyway, because he couldnât possibly be any more disgusting. He filled the napkin immediately, and fumbled for another to catch the excess. Trying to breathe in through his nose as he reached for a third, led to an uncomfortable vacuum sensation in his left nostril, which made him cough a few times- though he kept his mouth shut, having no hands free- and then, as he frantically brought the tissue to his face-
âhKk! Kk! Kkh! hKSh-KSH! ⊠KSHh! hhuhHKSHh! hhih⊠hihKSHh!-â This was getting messier than he could really deal with, he thought as he pressed the utterly destroyed napkins pointlessly to his face, only feeling like the pressure and the mess were exacerbating the itch.
Wordlessly, Hayes leaned across, eyes still on the road, and pulled the rest of the napkins out of the glove compartment, setting them in Ilyaâs lap, and patting his knee supportively, before putting his hands back on the wheel, and continuing to drum his fingers absently on the leather. Ilya snatched another tissue from the, now accessible, stack, and pressed it to his face.
â-hrRSHH! kKSH! hHRSHHUh! hhH⊠hAHSCHhuh!â
âBless you, Roz.â The emphasis hurt, sent a stinging prickle of anxiety across his fever-sensitive skin, but it also soothed some sharp ache in his chest that heâd forgotten was there until the words laid across it like cool salve.
âThank you.â He muttered. Obviously he knew that it felt nice when Shane expressed care or concern for him, even if that sometimes came with a heaped serving of guilt as well, and heâd kind of learned to live with check-ins and reality checks from Marleau, but this was the first time he was feeling this with his new team, and not feeling like he didnât deserve it. He couldnât help but feel like if heâd pushed them away this many times and they still wanted to help him, that it wasnât obligation, and they actually cared. They felt like he was a member of the team even if he himself didnât, and they were determined to treat him as such. And now, maybe heâd be okay with letting them, because heâd learned that it didnât mean pity, or ridicule, or disappointment, just a helping hand when he really needed it. Which is what the team was for, really. Maybe understanding that would make him a better captain, and a better team member, and a better friend. Or maybe this fever was just getting him really high and nothing he was thinking would make sense or be remembered once it came down again. Either way, he definitely hadnât cried for the last time that night.
âŠ
âHayes.â
The goalie turned at the sound of his name, seeing Barrett in the hallway behind him, shifting from foot to foot awkwardly.
âWhatâs up?â He responded, evenly, wondering what had the winger so antsy, because he knew it wasnât their relationship. They were essentially chill now, heâd sort of found his place within the team, Wyatt was keeping an eye on him, but Barrett didnât know that, so there was no reason for him to feel nervous.
âThat whole thing with Rozanov at the Boston game, what happened? He wonât talk to me about it, and I just thought, if it happened again-â Oh. Yeah, that was a much better reason to be nervous. His lack of predictability could be slightly scary.
âAlright, man, but you canât tell Roz what Iâm about to say.â Wyatt pulled him to the side of the corridor and stared at him intently. He didnât trust Barrett fully yet, but the way him and Roz had started to get on- was something else entirely. The two just seemed to understand each other. So if Barrett could get some important information and experience the inner workings of the team, and Wyatt could maybe get them an inside man who knew how to approach Roz when he wasnât doing his best, that would be a win-win, right?
âFor sure.â Troy nodded.
âHe was sick, like really badly sick, and he gets a bit⊠closed off when that happens. Weâve been trying to figure out how to help for a while now, it was just pure coincidence that he was open to it this time, I think his girlfriend and he fought or something-â Wyatt could see Barrett processing, eyes flicking between him and the corridor as he thought through his words. â-anyway, he wasnât doing great. Thereâs a really specific way to approach him, when heâs like that-â Wyatt pulled his phone from his pocket, navigating to the notes app and flipping it around to show the forward.
The note was titled ERIS (standing for Emergency, Roz Is Sick), and the first line, which was about all he gave Barrett time to read, read- âAvoid the 3 Pâs- Publicity, Pills, Pityâ. They could brief him on the rest if it actually came down to it.
âThe three Pâs?â The winger looked doubtful.
âYeah. Itâs the golden rule, everything else is luck and tact, I think. And trust. He really trusts you, so next time he comes down sick, you might be our best bet.â The goaltender sniffled, knuckling at his nose before suddenly taking a step back and bringing his elbow up, âhHTCHyhOO! God, excuse me, Iâm still getting over the shit that Roz had.â
âBless.â Barrett shifted his weight onto his back foot, as if that small amount of additional distance would save him from this, âIs it really a whole team thing? Like you coordinate to look after him? Heâs an adult.â
Hayes shrugged, clearing his throat. âHeâs also our friend, and our captain. Itâs nice to have people to lean on, or people to look after you, when youâre sick, right? Even as an adult. He just needs to be reminded of that.â And from the look on Barrettâs face, it kind of seemed like he might need to be, too.
After a silent moment of thought, the forward ran a hand through his hair and sent Wyatt a serious look. âYou guys are like⊠a real team. Like you really care about each other.â
âYeah.â The goaltender replied, like it was obvious, nudging Barrettâs shoulder. âWe do. All of us.â
ward of the week (and the weaker) [o/ff c/ampus] 3/3
hello imaginary gay people in my phone, here is the final part of WOTW!!! it took much longer than i expected to write LOL oops. i have been cursed with work disease so i work like 45 hrs a week rn. sorry i put extra torture sauce in this part, im feeling extra whump-y lately. i literally get fueled by logan sneezing himself dizzy so like letâs keep that going. love you all. as always, no beta bc i canât Read, stay hydrated and be kind to yourselves !!!! pt one | pt two | pt three
áŻâ ËËË
Friday
A great plague has befallen the House of Hockey, or at least thatâs what Hannah said last night on the phone. Garrett laughed, and then he coughed and coughed until he wheezed, so heâs tried to refrain from laughing again since then.Â
Itâs the first Friday night that isnât spent hosting a party or at Maloneâs in their time at Briar U.
The air in the living room is stale. Itâs warm inside too, and so dry, the hallmark of doors sealed shut to the rest of the world. The living room is a nice change of scenery from his bedroom ceiling, which heâs seen plenty of in the last five days. Garrett feels fuzzy, and all weird, not quite sleep-tired but bone-tired in a way that he canât seem to reach by napping.Â
Heâs got his shirt off, and his socks off, he even had his plaid pajama pants off before he decided to enter the common spaceâheâs hot underneath the skin, sweltering sticky heat.
Heâs got a nice tapestry of purple-yellow bruises on the right side of his ribs. He presses the cool metal of his Hydroflask to his torso, because all the ice packs are melted and being hoarded by Logan and his black eye which resembles smudged eyeliner now without all the swelling.
Garrett meets the couch with gratitude, sinking into the worn cushions with a groan. Heâs sore all over, through his shoulders and lower back. The thermometer rests hauntingly on the coffee table next to a half empty mug of something dark and an ominous, unraveling roll of paper towels.Â
He figures most of the aching is the fever, but heâs sure the residual damage from the game isnât helping.Â
The door to the back patio slides open and Dean saunters in, raggedly coughing into his elbow. Behind him, Tucker slides the door shut, wafting in the ripe tang of marijuana. Deanâs eyes are heavy lidded and red at the corners, useful hints that heâs high as a fucking kite.Â
The coughing carries on long enough for Dean to make it to the couch, and snatch up the mug and lift it to his lips. Tucker makes a noise like a squawk and shakes his head violently.Â
âDonât drink that, itâs cold. At least, let me make you a fresh cup of tea.âÂ
Dean concedes with an huff and settles on the couch, at Garrettâs feet. He lifts his heavy feet and slides beneath them, before placing them back in his lap. Tucker collects the mug and disappears into the kitchen, but Garrett can hear the sound of his distant coughing and then the abrupt shift into nose blowing. The poor guy has been hugging a paper towel roll to his chest all day, and his face is pink and raw to show for it.Â
âAre you sure you should be smoking?â Garrett knocks his foot against Deanâs stomach.Â
Garrett only ever indulges during off-season. Between the pressure of the school, and his father, it has sucked all the fun out of partying for him. He wants to succeed, not for his father, but for himself. Getting drunk with his friends is a luxury he cannot afford. He needs to be in the best shape of his life.Â
He received a text from his father after their match from hell yesterday. All it read was:Â
[ 8:22 pm ] Phil
Rest.
Garrett didnât bother to dignify him with a response, but the comment has been eating at him ever since.Â
Especially since he canât even disobey the order. He doesnât have energy to do anything but lay on the couch and, case-in-point, rest.Â
Dean, blinking in slow motion, seems to register Garrettâs question in even slower motion. He gives a small smile, which quickly turns to a grimace when he clears his throat to speak.Â
Whatever cold, or flu theyâve got has hit everyone in their own specific way.Â
Garrettâs aching down to the marrow of his bones. Every part of him pulses with a throbbing discomfort, and it makes his skin feel tight and uncomfortable. He canât keep his eyes open either. Every time he sits down, he seems to be dozing to sleep almost immediately.Â
Everything has settled into Deanâs throat. After the game, everyone piled into the upstairs bathroom after the steam cleared from the mirror and shined their phone flashlight into his mouth. His throat is a gnarled, enraged red. The sprinkling white dots lining his tonsils are a familiar sightâtonsillitisâwhich often accompanies most of his colds, or now, the flu. Violently recurrent and his doctor has been begging him to get them removed. If Dean could just get over his fear of needles, this would be handled already.Â
If he had to guess, Tucker is at the mercy of gravity. His ears are tender, and inflamed which has thrown off his entire equilibrium. Garrett has been playing hockey for a long time, and he hasnât seen someone crash and burn as many times as Tuck did on the ice yesterday. Had he not played alongside him for many years, he mightâve thought it was Tuckerâs first time lacing up some skates. He squints at bright lights, winces when sound gets too loud (even his own sneezes, which is maybe the saddest sight Garrett has ever witnessed). Itâs like a Sarah McLaughlin puppy commercial, watching Tucker stumble over his own feet as his headache causes the room to tilt and sway and then look down at his own body with betrayal.Â
He knows Logan the best, and this is a top contender for the worst shape Garrett has ever seen him in.Â
The stairs creak behind the couch and Garrett cranes his neck to see Logan coming down the stairs, dragging sleep along with him. Itâs wrapped tightly around him, like a weighted blanket. His hair is air dried and half of his curls stick up, endearingly messy. His t-shirt is wrinkled, creased from his warm sleeping body. He has lost his pants somewhere along the way, but his boxers are wrinkled in the same spot as his shirt. In fact, his cheek is pink with sleep lines on the same side too.Â
He stops on the last step, frozen in his pursuit and squints into the distance in front of him. Garrett watches his chest rise and fall, lips agape, eyes fluttering and fluttering. His eyelashes are long, fanning his high cheekbones and itâs such a desperate facial expression that he canât help but watch in a mix of horror, amusement, and erotic curiosity.Â
âS-Shit,â mutters Logan, as he swiftly snatches his grey t-shirt collar over his mouth.Â
âhnâkdtschh! iSCHh! kNâtSCHh!â
Here he goes.Â
âNkâtschh! ââshhh! âshhht!âÂ
Whatever they had caught had ravaged Loganâs sinuses. Not that itâs particularly difficult, with how sensitive he tended to be. Heâs known Logan a long time and a plethora of things make him sneeze: dust, grass, coming into a cold rink from a hot day, when he pulls an all-nighter, alcohol, and above all else, sickness.Â
Heâs never been the type of guy to sneeze once and be finished like he or Dean or Tucker can. It is always relentless, an entire production and epilogue. He sneezes until heâs gasping for air and still goes back for more.Â
Itâs impressive.Â
Logan makes his way down the rest of the stairs while heâs panting, and only makes it as far as the arm of the couch before heâs twisting his upper body away from the crowd and sneezing loosely towards his hip, hand lingering uselessly a few inches away from his face.Â
Logan looks out of breath, lips parted and glistening. He takes a huge breath and then blows it out slowly.Â
âThatâs been happedniâg every few mbinutes since last ndight. Iâbm soâsnf!âtired.âÂ
Dean grimaces sympathetically. Logan trudges sadly to the arm chair and drops himself into it heavily.Â
âYikes. I do not envy you.â Garrett reaches over and pats his knee. Loganâs wet sniffle is sad.Â
From the kitchen, mugs clink and chime. Garrett isnât even aware that heâs hearing it until it abruptly pauses.Â
âAll good in there, Tuck?â
âRRRSHHâOOHh!âÂ
The sound of dishes clattering into the sink makes such a boisterous crash that everyone jumps.Â
âBless you.âÂ
Tucker groans loudly. The kitchen faucet switches on.Â
âGâbless.â Garrett sits up and tucks himself into the corner of the couch. He pats the cushion next to him and Logan scrambles over to join the fray.Â
Tucker enters from the kitchen with a two mugs in each hand and a package of frozen blueberries tucked underneath his armpit.Â
He sets a mug in front of each one of them before settling into the cushion on the other side of Dean. Once heâs sat, he passes the packet of frozen fruit to Logan who opens the ziplock and pops a frozen blueberry in his mouth before he seals it shut and presses it to his eye.Â
This is it. This is the pitiful motley crew. In his opinion, theyâve either reached a new level or friendship or this is a new low for them and he canât decide which. Maybe itâs both.Â
âhHâZSSHHâuh!â Garrett doesnât even feel the sneeze coming before it announces itself. He catches spray all over his chest in surprise, when his head snaps forward suddenly. âGuh, sorry.âÂ
âDo we have any mbore NdyQuil?â Logan asks.Â
Dean reaches into the front pouch of his hoodie and pulls out an empty bottle of NyQuil.Â
âNo,â he croaks. The empty bottle hits the edge of the coffee table and skids to the floor, landing a few feet in front of them.Â
Damn.Â
Garrett snuffles a few times, wiping the underside of his nose on his wrist. They desperately need to put in a delivery order for the essentials: cough drops, daytime and nighttime medicine, soup, Liquid IV because he finally used their last packet yesterday evening, and then tissues.Â
Garrett fishes his phone out of his pocket, but a quick knock at the front door distracts him from getting his order started.Â
Dean groans loudly, which pretty accurately encapsulates the way they all seem to be feeling about getting up and answering the door. Logan finds the solution before the rest of them.Â
He twists over the back of the couch, and with the last dredges of his energy, hollers for whoever it is to enter.Â
Itâs always been an open door policy. (See: They never remember to lock the door.)
âITâS OPEDN!â
The door creaks open, Allie Hayes steps past the threshold�
Then, Hannah steps in behind her with grocery bags hanging off each arm.Â
Allie steps over the duffel bag of sweaty undergarments like itâs a live bomb. A comical amount of disgust is written across her features, as she steps over Loganâs germ-riddled basketball shorts which are bunched at the base of the steps. She is careful to avoid bumping or brushing anything until she lands in front of the couch.Â
She frowns. âEw.âÂ
Dean looks like heâs about to crawl into the split between the couch cushions and die.Â
Hannah trudges through their den of sickness with familiarity, kicking aside any obstacle in her path and settles beside Allie on the far side of the coffee table.Â
âHannah thinks you all are incapable of taking care of yourselves, and I agree. So, here we are.âÂ
Allie is a breath of fresh air in the stale room. Tucker laughs a little and Garrett pushes himself up to sit up straighter. He wasnât expecting to host anyone, but heâs glad to see them here.Â
Hannah doesnât react to the comment though. She studies each of them thoroughly, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. She slowly lowers the bags onto the floor and by the way the weight settles, they sound heavy.Â
Her smile slips off of her face. Itâs replaced by a slight frown, and a wrinkle between her eyebrows that Garrett loves to kiss away when sheâs worried.Â
Are they such a sorry sight that it stole her smile in seconds?Â
âYou guys lookâŠâ Hannah hesitates, weighing the outcome of her words. Allie doesnât care, she rummages around in the grocery bags.
âBad. They look bad. Youâre allowed to say that, Han.âÂ
âSick,â she exhales a soft chuckle. âI was going to say âsickâ.â
Allie gives a noncommittal hum, neither impacted nor impressed. She was right, they did look bad.Â
âWe thought you guys could use a care package, so we ran to the store on our way over,â says Hannah and grabs a few things from Allie. First, she rips open a three-pack of tissues, and then tosses the box to Logan. The surprise causes him to fumble the cardboard but eventually he catches it.Â
Allie retrieves a family size bag of cough drops, cherry-flavored and numbing and tosses them into Deanâs lap.Â
Dean loves cherry-flavored medicine. He whines the entire time he has to choke down any other flavor, and Allieâs attention to detail means as much to Garrett as it does to Dean.Â
Dean, usually so sharp, struggles to school his expression. His lips part, his eyes widen and shimmer with emotion. Garrett turns his head away to grant them the illusion of privacy.Â
Hannah sets up her own pharmacy right in front of their eyes. A packet of decongestants, a brand new bottle of NyQuil, a bottle of Tylenol, a tube of muscle pain reliever, and then a container of Vicks Vapor rub.Â
âWellsy,â Garrett whispers. Hannah shakes her head immediately, dismissing any commentary he has.Â
âI couldnât just sit around knowing you all were so sick, and do nothing.âÂ
âNo, literally.â Allie pauses and gives Garrett a look. She does that a lot these days, like theyâre sharing an inside joke. He hasnât figured out what it means yet. âShe almost didnât sleep last night. It was very cute.â
The final thing Allie pulls out of a grocery bag is a wide paper sack. Itâs stapled shut with a receipt in the front, but over the print is a hand-scrawled message âGet well soon!âÂ
âWe picked up a few quarts of tomato soup and grilled cheese from Maloneâs. Figured you needed to eat.âÂ
Hannah ducks into the kitchen briefly and returns with bowls and spoons.Â
âThis isâŠexceptionally kind.â Tucker breathes, frozen by the weight of their thoughtfulness.Â
Allie extends a parchment wrapped grilled cheese to him, and everyone watches him shudder from the warmth rolling off the sandwich. âI am just starting to like hockey, so if my favorite team died from the flu, Iâd be pretty pissed.â
Then she ruffles Tuckâs hair and his smile is almost blinding.
Garrett stands, because he canât stomach sitting idly by, or being taken care of. He doesnât know how to accept gentility without a price tag. Not entirely, not yet. He takes the bowls from Hannah, and holds them out while she pours tomato soup into each bowl.Â
Dean holds the bowl to his face and inhales the steam, and the sound of him trying to inhale through his nose is suffocating. He tucks into the bowl immediately. Heâs been having a hard time swallowing much of anything with his shredded throat, so something liquid and warm is heavenly to him.Â
Garrett sets a grilled cheese in front of his and Loganâs seat, and then extends a bowl of soup to Logan. Logan reaches for the bowl, and then hesitates.Â
He quickly jerks his hands back, with a desperate shake of his head. His breath snags in rapid staccato, in-in-inhale, and Garrett knows to pull the bowl directly out of his line of fire before he starts sneezing.Â
Before Logan can even begin sneezing, Dean slams the bowl onto the coffee table and startles the tickle right out of him.Â
âGânnasneeâzDSSCHHhâyiew!âÂ
Dean manages to muffle the majority of the sound into the thick sleeve of his hoodie. Allie frowns and rounds the table. She presses her palm to his forehead, and he peeks up at her through his messy fringe, his eyes wide and guilty. Garrett hands Logan his rightful bowl of soup.Â
âNext time, just tell me youâre sick,â Allie says. Garrett glances at Hannah, who is grinning again. He wonders if sheâs ever seen Allie this soft for someone. By the look on her face, he doesnât think this is very common. âIf you ever do that again, Iâll kick your ass.âÂ
There she is.Â
Dean grimaces. âI knâwâŠkHM! Iâm sââŠâ He twists away from her and begins coughing, the deep barking coughs that rattle his frame and tend to wake the entire house.Â
Allie coos, brushes his sweaty bangs back from his forehead and kisses this warm temple. âI know youâre sorry. Shh.â
âSit down.âÂ
Garrettâs attention is turned back to Hannah, who is glowering up at him sternly. Unfortunately for her, sheâs got the widest, sparkliest eyes in the entire world, so she entirely misses intimidating and lands on cute. Garrett bites back a smile.Â
âIâbm just helpiâg,â says Garrett, all charm and snot. He sounds so audibly sick, he probably wouldnât even recognize his own voice on record.Â
âYouâre swaying,â scolds Hannah. She gently pushes her hand over his marbled canvas of bruising and he canât stop the sharp hiss of pain from the touch. Her fingers are blessedly cold, which is like a million needles on his tender, feverish skin. It hurts so good. âYouâre not in any shape to help. Sit.â
Garrett ducks his head, craving nothing more than the feeling of her lips. He hasnât kissed her in almost an entire week, in fear of getting her sick. A kiss from her would heal every ache and pain in him now. Instead, she rocks onto the very tips of her toes and kisses the highest point of his cheekbone and then presses their foreheads together.Â
Just as Garrett is about to melt into her, mould them into one, she pats his jaw and then motions him away to the couch. Only a few more days and then he can have as many kisses as he wants.Â
Dragging his feet, Garrett trudges back to the couch and plops down next to Logan to await being served his portion of soup. Just as Hannah is handing Garrett his bowl and spoon, Loganâs abandoned sneeze returns with a vengeance.Â
Logan manages to get his bowl onto the table in time, hitching the entire time. He gets two, three precursors sneezes, desperate chuffs of air that donât even count as full, real sneezes but warn him of whatâs to come.Â
He quickly pulls his collar to his mouth. âhHânGKsh!âŠâschu! nDTâchu! âSHHht!âÂ
Allie and Hannah both giggle, but Logan doesnât lift his head to acknowledge him.Â
âGive him a minute,â Tucker instructs, around a mouthful of grilled cheese.Â
Dean nods âIt usualâly goes on fârâŠa whiâle.â
âIâbm sure ndow.â Logan snatches three tissues from the new box, and tents them over his nose. He blows softly, timid and careful not to aggravate his own nose.Â
âBless you,â Allie giggles again, sounding impressed alongside her amusement. âAnd I thought I was bad.âÂ
Hannah freezes, face suddenly flush a rosy pink, darkest at her ears and stretching to her throat. She clears her throat, and side steps the topic entirely.Â
Garrett squints at her.Â
âBlâmhn.â Her voice trembles. âHâuh, how about we watch a movie?âÂ
They decide on Ferris Buellerâs Day Off, as it feels most fitting for the occasion. It takes everyone a minute to get settled, Garrett and Hannah sprawled across the couch, tangled in one another, Hannah tucked to Garrettâs side. Logan sits at the other end of the couch, with a quilt around his shoulders. Dean and Allie settle into the armchair, reclining it as far back as it will go, so there is room for the both of them. Allie wraps her arms around Dean, and Dean wraps his arms around the family size cough drops.Â
Tucker sits between Loganâs legs on a worn bean bag, sunken into the malleable folds, swallowed up by the soft material. Together, they look as content as could be.Â
Now fed and medicated, the house has settled into a comfortable rhythm that it hasnât seen for days.Â
The opening credits begin to roll, and Garrett shifts beneath Hannah, pushing himself onto his elbow so he can create a fraction of distance.Â
âAre you alright?âÂ
Garrett pulls in a shallow, steely breath. âYeah, I think Iâm going t-tuHhâŠâ He loses his ability to speak, the tickle teetering on the precipice of coming to fruition or disappearing entirely. Itâs delicate and precious. He squints at the bright screen in the dark. âhAHhâ?!âÂ
The gasp scrapes at his throat, before it drastically peters off, leaving him wanting and feeling lost.Â
Logan snorts. âBruuutal.âÂ
Garrett stamps the heel of his foot against his thigh which makes Logan laugh harder.Â
He settles back down, muttering an apology for interrupting their comfortable position, wrapping his arms around Hannah.Â
The attention returns to the movie, silence settling back over the room.Â
Then he sneezes. âHâJYSSSZCHHoo!â
Dean opens his mouth to retort, or maybe even bless him, but his throat has other plans. His voice squeaks, nothing but a strangled noise coming out which devolves into sharp, piercing coughs.Â
Logan nudges his socked foot against Tucker. âThese guys are a fucking disaster, huh?âÂ
Tuckerâs head lolls to the side, and a stuffy snore is Loganâs only response. He leans down and adjusts Tuckerâs blanket so it covers both of his shoulders.Â
Garrett pinches away the wetness around his nostrils, and collapses back onto the couch. Hannah takes a moment to settle back against his chest, her blue eyes sparkling with something he canât name.Â
He pushes her hair behind her ear, brushing his thumb along her jaw. Her eyes flutter shut and he tips her head down to kiss her forehead. âThangk you.â
Her eyes spring open, and sheâs smiling again, big and unencumbered. âFor what?âÂ
âEverything.â Maybe if he keeps practicing, like this, he could get used to love. He could learn that love is all itâs cracked up to be, the tangible, breathing thing thatâs between them. The gentle touches, the soup, the thoughtfulness of cherry lozenges. That's love. Maybe he could learn that. âFor taking care of us.âÂ
Hannah shakes her head, slowly and fondly like heâs not grasping something. Like there is a point to this all and he isnât getting it. âYou donât have to thank me. Wanna know why?âÂ
Garrett smirks. âWhy?âÂ
âBecause I loHhve!âoHhh noâ eHhpTSCHhâyiew!âÂ
His sweet, sweet girlfriend, and her bleeding heart. Garrett just might get the opportunity to practice loving her to his fullest potential very, very soon. Her thoughtfulness and bleeding heart have brought her before the jury, calling her immune system into question.Â
If it managed to tear through the entire hockey team, then Hannah and the entire theater troupe probably donât stand a chance.Â
Garrett canât help himself. He barks a laugh, catching Hannahâs face in his hands.Â
âGod bless you, Wellsy.â Garrett leans in and presses their mouths together, softly humming into the kiss. Her lips are warm and sticky, flavored like cherry cough syrup. âThat doesnât sound so good.âÂ
When he pulls away, Hannah is blushing like she did when they first met, all those months ago when she was easier to fluster and couldnât untie her tongue. Itâs cute to see again, like being visited by an old friend.Â
Hannah frantically shakes her head. âI just snâuh. It was only aâhm.â She canât seem to organize her thoughts, stammering awkwardly through her own feelings. Itâs very endearing to watch, though Garrett isnât sure where itâs coming from. âIâm okay.âÂ
Garrett pecks her lips again. âYeah?âÂ
Hannah breaks the kiss to sniffle. She doesnât meet his eyes. âYeah.âÂ
âYouâre positive?âÂ
Hannah drops her head to his shoulder, hiding her face. She makes a frustrated noise, unintelligible but very clear in intention.Â
âOoh, grumble, grumble.â Garrett whispers into her hair. He squeezes his arms around her a little tighter. Itâs slow, like learning to ride a bike, practicing this. But the forward momentum will come, and he will adapt, and soon he will know the way she takes her tea or how to massage all the aches and pains from her body too. âIâve got you. Iâm not going anywhere.âÂ
i/lya r/ozanov who develops honeymoon rhinitis when he breaks his nose for the second time. his nose was already sensitive before, but this time the break was just right and now he canât control his nose at all when heâs horny
Sooo, I hopped from one hockey show to another...If you're looking for some cheesy fun and sweet friendships, you're in the right place! @themiseryandcompany has some lovely HCs about these guys here, and mentioned Logan mowing the lawn and trying to go to practice...and Garrett just laying down the law and I couldn't get it out of my brain.
So, here this is! Definitely not the best written thing in the world, but it is fun and full of whimsy, so I had to share :) Read and have fun with me!
Logan hadnât thought twice about it. Really, he hadnât. All four of the guys have their job, the thing they contribute to the house. Tuckerâs is the cooking, Deanâs got a handle on any and all parties, Garrettâs the one thatâs handed them multiple Frozen Four hockey wins across their past years at Briar, so heâs pretty sure theyâre all in agreement that Garrettâs captainship can count for his jobâŠ
And Logan, well, heâs always the one doing the âblue collarâ jobs for the household. Repairing cars if they break down, changing tires, installing (and bettering) anything electronic, building furniture, fixing plumbing mishaps, and anything else that might fall in that same category.
It feels like second nature to him, at this point. Growing up, Logan was always the one responsible for doing those jobs around his childhood home. But, his family owned an auto-body shop. It was kind of par for the course to know how to do those things.
But now, living with the other guys that didnât know what their carâs engine was supposed to sound like, werenât sure how to tighten up the plumbing under the sinkâŠheâd be lying if he said he didnât find an enjoyment in it. He likes being the one to be able to take care of his friends in this way. To take something off of their plate, so they donât have to worry about bringing in their car to the shop and getting a rental car, or calling in an electrician for the light in the bathroom when it starts flickering too much.Â
So, of course, when he notices the grass in the front yard getting too long one morning, he grabs his headphones and heads into the garage to start up the mower.Â
Maybe he shouldâve thought twice about it. Thought about why Garrett usually had someone come to mow the lawn for them. Thought about checking the weather app. Specifically the pollen section that he definitely doesnât have pinned to the top of said weather app. But, Logan hasnât actually mowed the lawn in so long that he sort of justâŠ
Forgot the effect that mowing the lawn, kicking all that cut up grass and pollen into the air -- âkKTSHhU! iH! iHâDJZzzhU!â -- has on his over-sensitive nose.Â
Whiiiiiich is how he ends up walking into the locker room for practice with toilet-paper-tissue bundles shoved into his jacket pockets, actively attempting to hold back an onslaught of sneezes, with sunglasses across his rapidly-blinking eyes.Â
Now, the problem is, that his friends are too good of friends. He knows, he knows, heâs very grateful for that to be his complaint. But, really, they just know him too well. They know that when he gets particularly set off, that itâs a whole performance of not one, not two, not threeâŠYeah, heâs not gonna go through all the numbers, but itâs a shit ton of sneezes.Â
But, really, thatâs not a total issue. Heâs not too shabby at quieting his sneezes, if he does say so himself. The real issue is his damn eyes. Hence the sunglasses.
He swears, the minute that anything thatâs not pure oxygen gets within five feet of his eyes, theyâll start watering. Itâs annoying as hell. And obvious as hell. And it makes his plight a hell of a lot more evident when heâs wandering around with tears clumping to his eyelashes or dripping down his cheeks.Â
And, his too-good friends that know too damn much about him also know about this particular symptom.Â
So, heâs just going to walk in casually, not say anything to anyone, turn to his locker, casually take the sunglasses off and hope no one forces him to turn around before they get on the ice, andâŠand! pinch his nose quick because--
âehHâDSHhhtt! hh! kSHhhu!--ehHâTSHhhU!â
Shit. Good thing heâs already facing (see: practically hiding in) his locker, because he feels the tears hit his cheeks almost instantaneously. His face swiftly ducks to meet his clothed shoulder, quickly swiping up the moisture before he blinks his eyes open again with a sniffle.Â
Jesus, heâs gotta get himself together before he goes out on the ice. He canât even think about how shitty practice is going to go if heâs still blinking tears out of his eyes, but at least heâll be on the ice.
Thatâs the hard part, getting past his over-aware teammates and onto the ice. Garrett shouldnât be a problem, heâs always at practice early, so heâs probably on the ice already. Soft fabric tickles his skin as he pulls his jersey over his head, tuning into the conversations going on behind him.Â
There are only a few other guys in the locker room at this point, most already having made their way out to warm-ups on the ice. With some focus, he hears Tuckerâs thick Southern accent somewhereâŠgetting softer and softerâŠand the locker room door closing. Alright, another target down. With the slam of the locker room door, heâs suddenly plunged into silence. Slowly, Loganâs head turns to finally come out from hiding in his locker, glancing around the now-empty locker room.Â
A sigh of relief escapes his throat, and he pulls out one of the many crumpled tissue piles he stored away, bringing it to his nose. He knows itâs going to make it worse for a moment to blow his nose, but he also knows thereâs no way heâs going to get through practice on the chilly ice without blowing his nose beforehand.Â
Okay, blow nose, tie skates, and get on the ice. Hope you donât sneeze yourself into an injury. Go home and take some damn Benadryl. Good plan, Logan.Â
As predicted, after angering his nose with the constant vibrations, the lingering itch blooms into a fiery tickle, snaking through his sinuses. Whatever, better to happen here before practice than out on the ice. Wet lashes flutter shut, his nose bridge scrunches and he lets his breath catch dramatically as the tickle takes over.Â
â--Iâm so sorry! I know Iâm late, I swear, Iâll be laced up in thirty seconds--â
Fuck. Dean.Â
Even if he wanted to (which he absolutely does want to), Logan canât stop halfway through this all-consuming fit. All he can do is press his tissue bundle ever-tighter to his nose and mouth, hoping that itâll muffle the sound just the tiniest bit more, and between that and Deanâs obvious frantic demeanor about being late, that he just wonât notice h--
âLogan?â
Well. There goes that plan. And heâs still. Fucking. Sneezing.Â
âehHPTSHhh!--kKSHhhH! eh-hIH! iiHTZZHhhuU!â
Footsteps increase in volume behind him, and he feels a large hand land on his shoulder. âWhatâs the matter with you?â
If he was capable of scoffing right now, he would. âN-nDSCHhh! hiHâDJjSHhh!--Nothing!â
Finally, the tickle is satisfied and tear-streaked eyes wrench open, gazing up at his blonde-headed roommate as Logan is left cleaning himself up.Â
Dean just blinks down at him, critically. Looks down at his jersey, then back up to his surely red and irritated eyes. âYouâre about to practice like this?âÂ
âY--ehHâTZSHhhU!...Yes.âÂ
Another blink from Dean. Then, faster than Logan can blink, Deanâs turning on his heels and sprinting towards the entrance to the rink. âGarrett! Cap! Graham, come here!!â
Loganâs feet must be faster than his brain, or maybe heâs just conditioned at this point to follow when his roommates start to run. Itâs not until a few seconds into the chase that Logan realizes what his asshole roommate is doing. Tattling to their captain. âMotherf--Dean!âÂ
Now, Deanâs got height, but Logan has speed. By the time theyâre in sight of the ice, Loganâs caught up with his asshole roomate (And, yes, heâs going to keep calling him that). His asshole roommate whoâs still yelling out for their captain, by the way.Â
When Logan reaches up to try to slap a hand over Deanâs (sorry, asshole roommateâs) mouth, they end up in a tangle of limbs, where Dean unfortunately has the upper hand. Logan finds his back pinned to Deanâs front, the blondeâs arms locking him in place across his chest.Â
âGraham! Come here!â A soft wince crinkles Loganâs features at Deanâs yell in his ear. Struggling against the hold or giving a comeback isnât even possible, because all Logan can do is mumble a soft âFuuuuckâŠâ as he, one, sees his captain and best friend pause in his skate across the rink to look their way, and two, feels that fucking itch spark up again.Â
An instinctive arm attempts to come up to scrub at his nose, but is stopped in its tracks by Deanâs hold, unable to reach above his chest. Dark eyes start to squint shut against the irritation.Â
Itâs either the surprise of the first sneeze that gets Dean to let go, or the disgust of being sneezed on. To save his ego, Loganâs gonna pretend itâs the former, and forget the latter is even an option.Â
âhH! dâJShhHh!--aHâTShhhhU! h-hh--âÂ
The attempts to hear through his sneezes what Dean and newly-arrived Garrett are talking about are futile. His hair-pin-trigger nose going off every five seconds is not helping his mission, and he can only catch a few clips of their sentences between each sneeze.Â
âWha----ong with him?â
âkâKSHh--dJZHhh--hH!!â
â---nât know----locker roo---â
âDJZHhhHU! hHTZShhh!â
âWhy----sk him anyth----â
âhh? hhIH! iHâDZSCHhhU!â A low groan escapes his throat without permission, sniffling back congestion with a clumsy arm swiping across his eyes, then under his nose. When he gazes up, itâs just at Garrett, who mustâve sent Dean off to suit up for practice.Â
âDude, how the fuckâd you get sick so fast? I saw you this morning!â
Ah, right. They still had no idea what was wrong with him. Well, maybe this was better. When they realized he wasnât actually sick, theyâd let him on the ice. Maybe.Â
âIâm not sick, Iâm fine--â
â--Youâre not fine--â
âI mean, okay, Iâm not perfect, but Iâm not sick,â Logan insists, sniffling back congestion.Â
Garrett raises a brow. âYouâre doing a hell of an impression of a sick person, Lo.â
Christ, he doesnât even want to look in a mirror to see what Garrettâs talking about, because heâs sure his best friend is absolutely right. With the sandpaper feeling in his eyes and the perpetual itch in his sinuses, he can only imagine how he looks right now.Â
âI know, but itâs just...I just mowed the lawn, swear, I wouldnât have come if I wasâŠfuuh--Fuck. snf! Ihf I wh--hH! wassick!--kâSHhh!--KSHhhuU! hh! dJSHhhtt!â
Crap, and there he goes again, starting the whole minute-long-production all over again. After the surprise of the first two, clumsy hands manage to pull the collar of his jersey over his nose and mouth. He winces at the moisture he already feels on the material, but surely thatâs better than nothing.Â
He feels heavy hands drop to his shoulders, spinning him around and shoving him back towards the entrance to the locker room. His feet try to dig into the floor, attempting to stop whatever journey Garrettâs trying to take him on, but heâs definitely not agile enough to do that while flinching forwards with sneezes every three seconds.
 âS-Stohhp! pSHHhhU! --Garr--rrSHhh!--TZCHhhH! --Whhh! hTSHhhhu!--whehh! hhDJZHhhuh! WherrRâSHhhhu!!â
Garrett silences his attempts at talking with a shushing sound and another shove towards the locker room. âYou just said you mowed the lawn. Why, Iâm not sure, because anyone couldâve told you that was a shitty idea, but either way, you need meds.âÂ
A congested sniffle and a soft groan escape Loganâs throat as he harshly pinches his nose with the rough material of his jersey. âN-No, meds are juhH! just gonna mahhke meâŠmake me--! kSHhhhtT! Ugh, snf!...make me drowsy. Canât practice like that.â He brings up the hem of his jersey to sop up stray tears that have made their way across his cheekbones.Â
Garrett barks out an incredulous laugh. âYouâre not practicing! You canât be out on the ice while going off like a machine-gun every fourty-five seconds, Logan.â
Through the mesh of the material heâs still dabbing at his streaming eyes with, he can make out the locker room door opening, Garrett guiding the both of them inside.Â
âIt-Itâs just sneezing, Graham. I can still skate fine!â Though heâs still trying, he knows deep down that itâs futile. Garrettâs stubborn as hell, and not gonna give up on this one. He hates how good a friend he is, sometimes.Â
  Large hands press down on his shoulders to guide him to take a seat at the lockers. A quick glance up tells Logan heâs sitting at Garrettâs locker, whoâs currently digging through his duffle as he speaks.Â
âYeah, but--fuck, whereâŠYou know itâs just gonna get worse when you get out on the ice. All the cold air and temperature change and shit--Ah, there!â His best friend emerges victorious with a blister-pack of Benadryl. âItâs not gonna get any better unless you take something.â
Logan blinks for a momentâŠbefore groaning and swiping the blister-pack from Garrettâs outstretched hand. He looks far too satisfied with himself. âYouâre an asshole,â Logan mumbles, popping the pill through the foil, dropping it in his mouth, and gesturing for Garrettâs water bottle. Over the sound of Garrettâs laughter, Logan squeezes the bottle, flooding his mouth with water before swallowing the pill.Â
His best friend takes the bottle back, hoisting Logan to his feet and shoving him towards his own locker. âAlright, lace up.âÂ
Surprise and hesitation washes over his features. âLace up?â He had assumed Garrett would insist he sit his ass out.Â
âLace up.â Garrett nods. âWhen you can stop sneezing for a minute thirty, Iâll put you on the ice.â He grins, holding up his phone -- opened up to the stopwatch app -- before walking out, leaving Logan calling after him.Â
âI was right, you are an asshole!âÂ
ââŽïžËïœĄââïžâïœĄËâŽïžâ
âhehâyiiHSSHh! That wuH! uhHTSHhhh! was n-nih! DZSHhhu! --ninety seconds!â
âEhh, youâre not gonna wanna hear this, Logan. Eighty-seven.â
âUgghhâŠGZSHHhhu! Come on, TuckâŠâ
âHey, take it up with Garrett! He was very clear. Ninety seconds, not a millisecond before that.â Tuckerâs soft features crinkle up apologetically.Â
Coach Jensenâs voice cuts through the rink. âNext line, switch it up!!â
Tucker stumbles through tossing Garrettâs phone onto Loganâs lap and throwing his own body over the boards, off to the races on the crisp ice. The previous line takes their spots, collapsing onto the bench. Mid-sneeze, Loganâs attention prickles with the feeling of someone sitting in his periphery, grabbing the phone from his lap.Â
âghH! uhâKSHhhuU!--uhhâŠAlright, snf! Start it over, Iâm done,â Logan sighs out, swiping at his eyes before leaving them closed, tipping his head to lean back against the wall behind the bench.Â
âBless yaâ, sneezy. Whatever you say.âÂ
Logan rolls his eyes under closed eyelids. Dean. âYou donât have to say that every time, yâknow.â Translation: Stop fucking saying it every time.
âCome on, Logan, Iâm just being polite. If you sneeze seventeen times in a row, Iâm positive that deserves seventeen âbless youâs.âÂ
âYouâre an ass.â
âIâm trying to save you from demons entering your body. Who knows whatâll happen if Iâm not around to bless your every sneeze?â
âMy headache will magically go away, probably.âÂ
Dean snorts out a laugh, bumping his side into Loganâs body in a gentle shove.
Logan sniffles carefully, eyes still blissfully shut. âIs the time going?âÂ
âMhmm.â
âDo I wanna know how much tim--â
â--Nope.â
Alright then. Probably only been around thirty seconds, then.Â
He sits, zoning out into some exhausted haze until he realizes heâs been sniffling against a sharp tickle for the past fifteen seconds. A low groan vibrates through his throat on the way out. He knows heâs not going to make it to ninety this time.
Dean, of course, canât let it go without a comment. âAh, here he goes again! How many this time? Five? Six? Sixteen?âÂ
Even with his eyes closed, he feels irritated tears escaping his waterline as he hitches up, up, uhHP--!
âDSCHhhhU! hh! hHâTShhh--djJSZHhhu!âÂ
Too late, he feels a hand nudging at his forearm. He canât put together enough brain power to figure out what that means right now. Whoever it is must get fed up with Loganâs lack of a response (other than sneezing, thereâs plenty of that), because they stop nudging and start grabbing Loganâs forearm, dragging it up towards his face.Â
Giving a sliver of thought to something other than his constant sneezing, he realizes he has a tissue clutched in that hand. Oh. Right. Haphazard movements clutch the tissue to his mouth and nose, directing the last bout of this fit into the soft white paper. He tunes in to Deanâs voice in his ear again.Â
â--Logan, you good?â
Another snuffle, another swipe at his cheeks that really only serves to spread the tears into his skin. âMhmm.â He sinks into the bench and flutters his eyes shut. Loganâs not sure how long they sit there before Dean says something back.Â
â...Alright.âÂ
Jensenâs voice cuts through the moment, yet again indicating a line change. Logan feels a warm hand ruffling his hair, and Deanâs voice is back. âSee you in a minute.â He hears, before Deanâs presence is gone, and Loganâs back in the zoned-out haze.Â
At the cutting sound of the whistle to halt the play, Dean skates over to Garrett, breathing heavily. âLogan looks like heâs about to pass out or some shit,â He gets out in between breaths.Â
Garrettâs head swivels over to the bench. âWhat do you mean?âÂ
âHeâs justâŠout of it,â Dean details. âNot really saying much. Keeping his eyes closed. Forgot he even had tissues in his hand.â
Garrett gives a soft hum. âAh, gotcha. Heâll probably fall asleep in the next five minutes, then.â He nods.
Dean pauses for a moment. His captain seems ratherâŠcontent with his best friendâs current hazy state. He thinks for a secondâŠNarrows his eyesâŠÂ
â...This was your plan the whole time, wasnât it? Keep him occupied while the medicine kicks in until he falls asleep?â Dean inquires. Â
A smirk pulls at Garrettâs lips as he sends a knowing shrug Deanâs way. The blonde canât help but to laugh, pounding his captain affectionately on the back as they skate back over to the benches.Â
âAlright, Evil Mastermind, but youâre the one that has to deal with getting him in the car like that when practice is over,â Dean lets out.Â
Laughter spills from Garrettâs lips. âUh, no. Thatâs gonna be a three person job for all the roommates,â He insists.Â
Dean glances back over to where Logan is stationed on the bench, head tipped backwards against the wall, lips parted and eyes fluttered shut. The irritated creases between his brows and around his eyes have smoothed out, and he wouldnât be surprised if soft snores were escaping his lips. This is probably the longest heâs gone without sneezing since he got the damn mower out this morning.Â
âAlright, fine,â He concedes. âBut, youâre calling the landscapers when we get back and setting up a schedule for the lawn. So this doesnât happen again,â Large hands gesture in Loganâs direction.Â
âYeah, yeah, I will,â Garrett agrees, heaving out a sigh. âThen, what will you be doing to help this situation? Dealing with delirious Logan?â
Dean scoffs. âNo, absolutely not. Thatâs Tuckerâs job.â He canât help the grin that snakes across his lips. âIâll be hiding the mower from Logan. Obviously,âÂ
ward off the week (and the weaker) 2/3 [o/ff c/ampus]
A/N: it has taken every ounce of self control not to post this part early. dean having this sopping wet, high pitched loud sneeze means something to me. and tuck. oh my sweet baby tuck i am so sorry for hurting you. I Will Do It Again. anyways, commentary is my fuel so thank you for all the reblogs on the last part. i am finishing the 3rd and final entry to this and then i am going to beat logan over the head with a sneeze machine xx yayyy [pt one | pt two | pt three]
áŻâ ËËË
Wednesday
[5:26 pm] allie cat
still down to go stargazing in an hr?
[5:38 pm] maverickÂ
canât. busyÂ
[5:38 pm] allie catÂ
busy????
lol
fuck u if u think thatâs good enough excuse di laurentisÂ
Dean rolls onto his back, hovering his phone over his face. His thumbs idle in the air, unsure of how to respond next.Â
He has to cancel, that much heâs sure. Otherwise, heâs flying by the seat of his pants. His goal, ultimately, is to piss her off, just enough so she would leave him alone. Not permanently or anything, just for three or four days so he had time to shake this cold in private.Â
The cheerful ping of his ringtone cuts through his miserable silence. His screen brightens with a facetime call. He shouldâve anticipated that she wouldnât take being dismissed very well. Dean really doesnât want to admit that heâs sick though.Â
He didnât get sick.Â
In the last three years, heâs only been sick a handful of times. He manages to dodge whatever crud passes through campus with a strict diet of ground turkey, tequila shots and sex.Â
He doesnât want her to see him like this.Â
Dean scrambles to decline the call, tapping the button until the screen goes blank. It vibrates immediately with a text message,
[5:42 pm] allie cat
bitch???
answer the phone
[5:43 pm] maverickÂ
allie <pensive_face_emoji>
letâs just go next week babyÂ
[5:43 pm] allie cat
answering awfully quick for someone âbusyâÂ
oh my godnÂ
who do you have over right now
what is her name
Dean stares at the message, blinks and stares some more. He loves to rile Allie up until sheâs red in the face, steam coming from her ears. Sheâs so cute like that.Â
But he doesnât actually want to hurt her feelings, to ruin something good while he has it. He props himself up in bed, clears his throat to remove the cobwebs but it doesnât do anything for the muddy resonance; his head is full of cement.Â
With a steadying breath, Dean clicks her name and the line rings. She picks up automatically.Â
âOh! I thought you were busy.â
Dean smiles, he canât help himself. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine the scene playing on the other end. Sheâs pacing a hole in her bedroom carpetâno, Hannahâs carpet. She is using her emotional support bag of hot cheetos as a lifeline. She certainly sounds like sheâs to the point of chip-consuming stress.Â
âI abm busy!âÂ
âI bought new lingerie for this date,â she hisses. He hears the crinkle of a chip bag being set down. He imagines she stopped walking and put her hands on her hips for emphasis. âAnd I already shaved from head to toe, so Iâm going to need a better excuse than âIâm busy,â Di Laurentis.â
Deanâs mouth goes dry.Â
Is it too late to take it back? Heâs fine, heâs healed, all better. The only thing he needs is to rip off her new set of lingerie.Â
His voice quivers as he asks, âwhat color?âÂ
âBaby blue,â she purrs and Dean moans right into the speaker. Thatâs his favorite color. âSo, whatâs it gonna be?â
Dean mutes himself to cough into his elbow. Luckily, he recovers quickly rather than descending into this coughing jag that has been growing progressively more barking and wet as the day goes on. His voice is sandpaper rough, and growing weaker the more he speaks. Itâll be gone by morning.Â
He unmutes.Â
âOkay, look,â he shifts so heâs sitting up against his headboard. He prays she canât hear the shuffle of his sheets. âIâbm sorry Iâbm cancelling at the last mbinute. I really do wântâŠkHm!â Fuck. His throat is on fire. ââŠwant to see you, and I promise, ndext Wednesday, I abm all yours. I just had something pop up last minute, and ndow, Iâbm busy.â
Allie is quiet for a long time. He hopes his apology is accepted as sincere as it was intended. If Allie gave him the boot for this, he would never forgive Garrett Graham and his stupid fucking germs ever again.Â
Dean pulls the phone far away from his face so he can sniffle. Changing positions has been making his nose run for hours now, but Logan commandeered the last box of tissues, so theyâre rationing out toilet paper, trying to assure they still have some left for bathroom-based function. Heâs on his last four squares.
Finally, Allie hums softly. âBusy with?âÂ
âSârry?âÂ
âBusy with? You still arenât saying what youâre doing.âÂ
Dean thumps the back of his head against the headboard. He needs to think of something specific that he would be doing, that the other boys wouldnât, that Hannah couldnât report back to her.Â
His mind draws up blank. He thinks and thinksâŠand thinks heâsâŠgoing to sneeze?Â
Next, his chest is expanding, before heâs even had time to process the itch.Â
âheHhâYIISHHâieu!â The sneeze tears through him, scraping along the sides of his throat. It snaps his head down, aiming more for the blankets but catches his phone screen instead. The dark surface reflects his pallid, weary face amidst a fine sheen of mist and spittle. He reaches for the mute button but his finger slides and misses it.Â
He doesnât even have a moment to be surprised, because a second follows closely behind. âhYeHhâŠâ! HEHYIZSSHHâieuu!âÂ
Pressure mounts in his head, squeaking as his sinuses swell.Â
âThis is a suspiciously convenient time for you to have a sneeze attack.âÂ
Dean wants to agree, he knows this looks so suspicious. He just doesnât want her to see him like this, when heâs utterly un-fuckable and gross, or worse, for her to come anyways and catch this.Â
âhHâHhPâZSSHHHâyiew!â
âWhatever.â Allie deflates with a long sigh. âAre you okay?âÂ
He doesnât even have remotely enough toilet paper left to sop up the mess heâs made of his phone. âUmbâŠsnf! Yeah.âÂ
âDonât think Iâm not mad at you just âcause you have the sneezes.âÂ
âWaitâ!â
âBye.â The line goes dead.Â
Dean stares at his screensaver, beneath the wetness that warps the image. Heâs dead meat next time he sees her, he knows it.Â
[5:57 pm] allie catÂ
bless u <kissy_face>
áŻâ ËËË
Thursday
âWhat the fuck is your deal?âÂ
Great question.
Somewhere between second and third period, Coach Jensen stops looking angry and is overcome by an air of profound sadness.Â
It reminds Tucker of a kid learning that the Tooth Fairy isnât real. His face contorts through varying degrees of betrayal and concern, but now he simply looks dejected. Quiet. Thoughtful.Â
What the hell is their deal?Â
Did it start when the forward from Grand Beacon College shoulder-checked Graham into the boards, jutting his elbow into his ribs, leaving him gagging and bruised purple?Â
Or did their decline begin before that, when a high velocity puck caught Logan just right beneath his eye, painting it the shade of blueberry jam.Â
Or were they doomed from the start? Tucker started running a low grade fever last night and canât discern up from down, and Dean no longer has a voice to call out any plays so they keep slamming into one another from the lack of direction.Â
Itâs the last period and the Briar U bench is looking more like an urgent care waiting room than a hockey team.Â
âWeâre good, Jensen,â Garrett wheezes, because he never really got his breath back after such a violent hit. Dean attempts to co-sign, but doubles over coughing.Â
Logan is suspiciously quiet but he seems preoccupied with keeping his ice pack on his eye so it doesnât swell any further.Â
Tucker wraps his arms around himself to chase away the shivers. His teeth are beginning to chatter. âWeâll lock in. Right, guys?âÂ
No one responds, and the silence of the huddle feels like defeat already. All the hope drains out of Tucker. âRight?â
Logan lowers his ice pack, and aside from his new shiner, and his red nose, and chapped lips, and dark circles, he almost looks himself. âUnless weâre miracle workers, I donât know how weâre going to turn around one-to-seven in six minutes.âÂ
Dean clears his throat, and gestures towards Logan. Everyone has to lean in to make out his hoarse rasp. âIâŠbâlieveâŠin yâu.â
Itâs so touching that it grants them a moment of levity.Â
Tucker ruins it immediately.Â
âh-HheiâWFFFSZZSHHH!âÂ
Youâd think after years of friendship, they wouldnât startle quite so easily but the entire Briar U hockey team jumps, muttering expletives under their breath.Â
âJesus, Tuck.âÂ
âFucking hell, dude.âÂ
âMy ears.â An underclassman he doesnât remember the name of glares at him.
âIâm sorry. Iâm so sorry.âÂ
It serves as a catalyst to actionâhuddle dismissedâso everyone skates back on the ice to finish the game.Â
Dean catches Tucker by the elbow.Â
âAre yâsick?â croaks Dean.Â
Tucker twists away from him, though itâs moot at this point and cups his hands over his face.Â
ââTSSCHHOOH!âÂ
Tucker emerges from his neatly clasped prayer hands to see Jules swing their camera away from him, animatedly narrating his cold to this entire campus.Â
Dean grimaces, his question thoroughly answered.Â
They skate onto the ice together, feeling no more inspired or prepared than before.Â
They lose the game (obviously). Brutally, too.
Itâs a total and complete massacre.Â
The march to the showers is silent, sans the coughing and sniffling. Garrett groans every time he takes off another piece of his uniform, holding himself with rigidity in his muscles, like he might fall apart if he relaxes. Sweat pours down his temples.Â
Logan collapses onto the bench next to Garrett and rips off his helmet, just in time to sneeze.Â
âiihâTZsshh!â He isnât sure whether to apply pressure to his throbbing eye or to cover his mouth so he ends up with his hands hovering in the air and sneezing down at his lap. He hisses and presses the heel of his palm to his eyebrow. Heâs going to have a gnarly bruise for days. âFuck, ow.âÂ
His nose gives an unsatisfied twitch, and he squints his working eye, like he really needs to sneeze again but heâs fighting it off with all his might.Â
âItâs coming whether you like it or not. Just let it happen,â grumbles Garrett.Â
Logan fights to the best of his ability. He objects miserably, as his breath catches a few times in a row. When he loses the fight, he jerks the bottom hem of his jersey over his face, pinching it roughly over his nose.Â
âgZSChh!âŠHhâŠdSHhâu!âdSHht!â!â He desperately clamps a hand over his other balled up fist, sealing his mouth and nose closed with the jersey, but all it does is mute the sound. From what Tucker can tell, heâs still sneezing, just trembling silently into his hands.Â
Next to Tucker, Dean barks a cough and tosses his helmet unceremoniously on the bench. He storms to the showers and turns it on. He quickly strips each piece of sweaty clothing from himself and drops it onto a pile. Garrett stands and follows in behind him and soon the sound of his shower joins Deanâs in the background.Â
Logan pinches away the wetness around his nose, but lets his eyes stream openly. He sniffles, and heâs so full of congestion it resembles gargling. He might drown. âIâmb goiâg home.âÂ
He stands, nods at Tucker and leaves without another word.Â
The rest of the team either clambers to the showers, or heads out. The locker room begins to fill with steam. He should shower too, but standing is proving to be harder than he anticipated.Â
Tuckerâs has his fair share of concussions, but heâs gotten knocked around one too many times today. Heâs dizzy and his chest is tight. The thought of moving from this spot is a devastating thing.Â
The haze is thickening and makes him sniffle back the loosening flow of congestion. He hates the feeling, and he always tries to excuse himself to blow his nose. Thatâs the problem with having a coldâhis are never polite.Â
The steam shifts the congestion, which tickles like hell. He has the sense to know heâs going to sneeze this time before it comes, but he dreads it all the same.Â
He roots around in his gym bag at his feet until he unearths an old bandana. This will have to do until he can get his hands on some toilet paper.Â
Tucker tucks the fabric neatly under his nose, too dainty a gesture for such a big sneeze.Â
âWFFSSZHHHH!â
The tickle pulses, squirms and the ragged gasp he sucks in sounds so erotic and noisy in the echoey bathroom.Â
âMâPFFSSSHHH!â
Tucker attempts to clear his head in a singular trumpeting blow, but when heâs finished, all he finds is his nose pulsing with irritation.Â
âEHhâdJZSSCHHOOH!âÂ
âJesus Christ, Tuck!â
Dizzy, and panting, Tucker rests his head against the tile wall behind him. All he wants is a cup of green tea and to put on his softest pair of pajamas.Â
Thereâs a functional shower at home. He will shower there where he can sneeze himself dizzy peacefully.Â
âSorry. Iâmb so sorry.âÂ
He drags himself to his feet, and shuffles out of the locker room with his banana wrapped securely around his nose. Just in case disaster strikes again.Â
ward off the week (and the weaker) 1/3 [o/ff c/ampus]
happy pride tiny gay people in my phone. hereâs my humble offerings to sacrifice for your pleasure. in a very atypical manner, i have written m/f. i donât do this often but off campus resonated with me in a way that was so jarring. i started it to make fun of the shitty writing with my roommates and ended it sobbing and teeming with romantic whimsy again so that was awesome. in a very typical manner though, i made it kinda gay and weird. nothing crazy, i just gave hannah a sneeze fetish, multiplied the homoerotic undertones between all the boys, and made them all miserable. pls reference my snzcanons list. i havenât read the books, and ive only watched the show once so keep that in mind with any major character things that may have been missing. also no beta cuz i cant Read. remember to drink water, be unsettling and have a great week. enjoyyy !!!!
[ pt one | pt two | pt three]
áŻâ ËËË
Monday
Lethargy meets Garrett on the ice. It waits for him at the door, and follows him into the locker room. It helps him lace his skates, and don his helmet. After practice, he tries to leave it on the ice, butâŠ
It follows him home.Â
Soreness greets him on the front porch of his house. The porch light makes his eyes burn.
The soft, luring strum of a guitar guides Garrett up the dark staircase like a lighthouse to a ship in the night. He didnât shower at the gym tonight; he carries the weight of practice home with him.Â
He nudges his bedroom door open with the side of his duffel bag, displaying Hannah perched at the top of his bed with her guitar in her lap.Â
Her strumming pauses, and her face splits with a warm smile. Then she takes him in, unshowered, and flushed. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. She immediately props her guitar against the nightstand, then levels Garrett with a concerned frown.
She extends her hand to him.Â
Garrett presses one knee into the mattress and gravity does the rest. His duffel bag thumps noisily to the floor as he is hauled into bed.Â
Hannahâs lap welcomes him without judgement. His cheek squishes against her knee, and her hands find the back of his sweaty curls immediately. She begins to caress, brush, and comb him. Itâs an even tempo, something to lull him.Â
âTired?â Hannah lowers her hand to his neck and squeezes the knotted mess of muscles at the base of his skull. The sound he makes would be considered lewd if it wasnât tinged with sadness.Â
âYeah, kinda,â his voice is muffled by the fabric of her pajama pants, but it isnât difficult to catch the rattling grind of his overworked vocal cords. âAchy.â
Hannah acknowledges him with a hum. She kneads his neck roughly, which hurts like a bitch while simultaneously feeling like a dream. She travels lower, digging the pads of her fingers into his tight shoulder blades.Â
He vows to never get up from this spot again.Â
âYou,â Hannah pauses to untangle a curl at the nape of his neck. âShould go shower.âÂ
Garrett grunts his disapproval and doesnât stir an inch.Â
âOoh, grumble, grumble,â Hannah mocks. âCâmon,â she needles her finger into his side. âGo.âÂ
Garrett cranes his head and regards Hannah sourly.Â
He doesnât feel the sneeze coming, but it surges forward all at once, snagging his voice on a particularly loud gasp with sudden ferocity.Â
With only a second to spare, he rolls off of Hannahâs lap, onto his back and yanks his sweatshirt collar over his nose.Â
âGraham?â Hannah sounds concerned. Heâs not sure, he canât see her.Â
âhHuh-?!â He is helpless to stop it, but canât encourage it to be over any faster. âHEH!âŠGHZZSSHâIUH!âÂ
Hannah starts, which causes the headboard to thump into the wall. Garrett wouldâve laughed if his breath wasnât see-sawing in preparation of the next sneeze.Â
âWhoa,â breathes Hannah, in awe. Garrett isnât sure if sheâs surprised by the size of his sneeze or the fact that the second one is taking its sweet time to make an appearance. Either way, itâs an appropriate response.Â
ââIHhâJZSCHHâIUHh!âÂ
Garrett flops pitifully beside her thigh, pinching his nose roughly with his collar to collect the moisture around his nostrils and then continues to massage away the lingering tickle by roughly scrubbing his nose.Â
His nose makes a squelching click with each rub. It dawns on him then that he might be catching something.Â
âBless you,â Hannah says, petting the back of her hand against his cheek. He finally lowers his collar and stares up at his girlfriend. Her eyes scan across his face, and she wets her lips. Her face is flushed, and it takes her a few times of opening her mouth before she actually speaks. âNever heard you do that before.âÂ
Garrett snorts, and the sound is unmistakably clogged. âPeople sneeze Wellsy, Iâm not reinventing the wheel here.â He is aware of the sticky, blunted consonants that change the quality of his voice. At least he still has the energy to tease her.Â
Hannah hears it too, but she doesnât comment. She shifts her hips from side to side, squeezing her thighs together and flexes her hands at her sides but she doesnât reach for anything. Itâs something she does often when she wants Garrett, craves him, but isnât brave enough to initiate anything yet.Â
âRight.â Itâs strange to see her do it here and now, but she runs a hand through her hair and the tension rushes out of the room as quickly as it builds. âYou should go shower.âÂ
Garrett throws an arm over his face, blocking Hannah and the light from view. The thought of getting up from this new comfortable position could make him cry. âInâŠa minute.âÂ
Hannah chuckles softly and reaches over him. The sound of her grabbing the guitar makes the strings sing off-key, but she quickly settles it into her lap. âWell, Iâm going to practice this for ten more minutes, then you have to get up. Okay?âÂ
Garrett doesnât respond, just breathes deeply, his lungs crackling noisily with each inhale.Â
âOkay?âÂ
His lips smack, already starting to chap from dehydration.Â
âGarrett?âÂ
His snore is almost as loud as his sneeze, and it startles Hannah again. She chuckles, bashful even in her lonesome, and brushes Garrettâs hair back from his face.Â
âOkay, nap time first,â she whispers, and begins to pluck a quiet tune, a lullaby to underscore his feverish sleep.Â
áŻâ ËËË
Tuesday
Fleetwood Mac has often been the soundtrack to Loganâs questionable decisions and tonight is no different. He wipes the condensation from the side of his bottle with a hum of the familiar song and picks at the gold sticker around the neck with his thumb. The brand is a name he canât pronounce.Â
He takes a sip, and itâs the first thing thatâs been able to itch his dry throat all day.Â
He bites the orange wedge that came with the drink, then tosses the rind on the table. He licks his fingers clean from the juice.Â
Beside him, Tucker materializes and plucks the bottle out of his hand. âWhatâs this?âÂ
âDonât know. You speak Czech?âÂ
Tucker takes a sip, hums appreciatively. Dean shoulders into the booth beside Tucker, precariously balancing a plate with 4 shots on it.Â
Rather than hand it back, Tucker slides the bottle over to Dean. He sniffs it, makes a curious face and then takes a sip.
âI hate it.â Dean says, and hands it back to Logan.Â
âFigured,â Tucker says with no small amount of enthusiasm. Logan shrugs and takes a long drag. Itâs cold and it goes down easily. His requirements for beer are very short.Â
In his periphery, a lumbering figure approaches the table and collapses into the booth next to Logan.Â
Garrett Graham, hidden entirely by a black hoodie and grey sweatpants, props his head up on the table with a wheeze that sounds like a broken carburetor. He smells like Vicks and lemons, and thereâs a sheen around his blistered red nostrils that hallmarks ointment for his poor chapped nose.Â
No one expected him here tonight, celebrating Fall Break, which heralds in their first and second game of the season. Heâs sick as a dog, that much has been clear this morning when his barking cough woke the entire house, but heâs also the captain, and itâs always good for team morale to make an appearance.Â
Plus, Maloneâs supplies a free pizza for every three beers bought, and Logan loves a deal so he wouldnât miss it for the world either.Â
âYo! Captain!â Tucker drums his knuckles against the table.Â
Dean wolf whistles and points at Garrett with a wide grin. âMy man. Looking like absolute dog shit tonight.âÂ
Logan canât refute that, not even a little. He gently grips Garrettâs bicep. âYeah man, not that I want to agree with Dean butâŠwhat are you doing here? You look awful.âÂ
âYeah, I know.â If Garrett looks bad, he sounds worse. âI wonât be here long, I just wanted to congratulate everyone on two solid games and tell the freshmen to Venmo request me if they need Uberâs home tonight.â
âYouâre so sweet, Grams,â Dean coos in his most patronizing tone.Â
Unlike Dean, Tucker looks actually touched. He places his hand over his heart, eyes sparkling in that puppy dog way of his. âSpoken like a true champion.â
Logan tips his beer towards Garrett. âAmen. Iâll drink to that.âÂ
Dean cheers and distributes the shots around the table. Logan snatches the one headed towards Garrett and shoots Dean an incredulous look.Â
âWhat? Itâll take the edge off.âÂ
Logan tuts, patting Garrett mock-sympathetically on his shoulder. âGar-bear here is far too sick. Arenât you, Graham?âÂ
Itâs hard to tell between the dim lighting and the fever, but it looks like Garrett is blushing. He twists his hoodie strings around his fingers and groans.
âThen,â Tucker lifts his shot high in the air. âTo Garrettâs health!âÂ
âCold and flu seasonâs got nothing on you, Cap!â Dean roars, and the look Garrett shoots Logan is so scathing, and perfect that Logan almost chokes on his cinnamon whisky as laughter bursts from him.Â
The shot is sweet and assaulting on his senses. The bite of alcohol is immediate, which makes tears prick his eyes and singe his throat on the way down.Â
Then the aftershock of cinnamon burns right through his sinuses. It's fragrant and warm, and stings his nose in all the wrong ways.Â
The boys are also groaning in their recovery from the shot, ribbing each other to take the final shot, but Logan canât even join in because heâs consumed by the fact that heâs 100% about to sneeze.Â
He has three seconds to snatch a napkin from the dispenser on the table before heâs pitching forward into his hands.Â
âhkâishhu!âÂ
Tears gather immediately on his lashes. Spray collects on his pink lips. His nose had already been running since the weather was swinging wildly between sweltering and rainy, and now the scorch of alcohol isnât helping. Heâs drippy and canât get ahead of it.Â
His breath trips, stumbles.Â
âhHâ!â He folds the tissue over his nose again, less frantic and more prepared for the next sneeze. âhdtâssshh!âkâSHht!â Sneeze(s).
Itâs just his luck that Tucker and Dean decide now to pause their rowdy celebration, and tune into Logan in the corner of the booth.Â
âThree is good luck,â chirps Tucker, entirely sweet and unhelpful.Â
Logan wants to tell them to mind their business so he can wipe his glistening mouth and blow his nose in private but he canât seem to get control of himself long enough to speak.Â
The burn has shifted from a blaze to a deep seated, consistent buzz. Like the alcohol was a catalyst but itâs not necessarily the cause for his sensitivity. Like his nose is already irritated.Â
âhGKSHhhu!âÂ
âYeah, well, whatâs four mean,â asks Dean. The last shot sits between them all, mocking him. It glitters in the low light, untouched and begging to be consumed. Logan swears heâll never drink again.Â
âWill yoHhu both shHuhtââ
Logan breath catches in a rapid staccato rhythm that prohibits him from continuing. The crumpled wet napkin finds its way back to his face.Â
âhkZSHHhâiuh!â
The sneeze reverberates through his throat, leaving him tender.Â
Oh no.Â
Garrett grimaces and gives Logan a once over. âUh-oh.â
Suddenly the table is very still. They know what five sneezes means. No one has the heart to ask Logan if heâs getting sick.Â
Garrett breaks the silence by sitting upright. âAlright boys, Iâm heading out. See you at home.â He gently knocks on the table and points at Dean. âDonât get too crazy.âÂ
He juts his chin at Tucker. âDonât let him get too crazy.âÂ
Dean sputters wildly while Tucker salutes him, giggling maniacally.Â
Logan slides out of the booth directly behind Garrett. âIâm uh, pretty tuckered out myself. Iâm gonna head out with G, here. Iâll catch you guys later.âÂ
Tucker groans and calls him boring but is quickly sucked into trying to split the final shot between glasses evenly with Dean so Logan takes it as a clue that heâs free to go.Â
He falls in step beside Garrett.Â
âThink youâre sick?â Garrett asks, wrapping his arms around himself when they step outside. It was hot earlier but now that the sun has set, the wind has picked up. He leads the way towards the parking lot.Â
âNo,â says Logan, more as a wish than anything. The wind is biting and makes a shiver crawl up on spine. He only has a beat to stick his wrist beneath his nose. âikTSHhu! âhHâDSHHht!â
um thinking about someone getting new glasses that are a slightly different weight, and sit in a slightly different position, on the bridge of their nose. and even though it's such a small difference, they're just a little extra sensitive to the pressure that day, and it leads to the most indecisive, hitching, wavering sneezes until they get used to it... they keep receiving compliments on their new glasses, too (as if they needed the extra attention!!) and can only blushingly mumble a "thank you" between small, unsteady breaths...
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.
***
âI donât like this,â Nass complains as he helps Bellamy shove a rolled-up tent into the back of their rental car.
âOnly rich people would willingly sleep outside on thin blankets,â 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.
âI will make you like camping. I am sure of it.â Bellamy says neatly folding both of their jackets and setting it into the trunk.
âDoubtful,â Nass snorts, though heâs grinning.
âWell,â Bellamy pauses, bringing his hand to rest on the small of Nassâs back. He squeezes, his breath hot against Nassâs neck. âAt the very least, Iâm sure youâll enjoy what I plan to do to you in complete privacy.â
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 â 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 Nassâs stomach flutter.
Their relationship had been going well â really well â 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.
âI sort of have a boyfriend I think,â heâd heard. âA Southerner.â
Nass had nearly dropped the tea he was holding.
âHe hates the North,â Bellamy continued, deep voice muffled through his bedroom door. âItâs complicated. But he really likes me. Well, actually he says he loves me.â
Nassâs throat had gone dry at that.
Thereâd been a pause.
âYou canât meet him, Jorge. I c-canât bring him to our village.â Bellamy said finally, tone flattening in that careful way it always did when he was upset. âHeâd freak out.â
Nass had stood frozen in the hallway staring at the wall.
âI know itâs probably a bad idea,â Bellamy said, an air of finality to his voice. âBut when has anything in my life ever been easy?â
The entire conversation had lodged itself beneath Nassâs 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 Bellamyâs past. He wants to see Bellamyâs home. And he sure doesnât want to freak out or be a bad idea.
He wants to prove to Bellamy heâs easy to be with. Even if the idea of stepping foot in Northern province â hearing their language everywhere, seeing Northern soldiers like the one that killed his motherâ 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 heâs determined to find out more. Â
âDid you pack your tincture for motion sickness?" Bellamy asks as he slides into the driverâs seat. Â
âYeah, I packed it. And took some already.â Nass drops into the passenger seat. Being in cars, boats, trains â any form of transportation really â always made him horribly motion sick. It was incredibly embarrassing and inconvenient. âI donât travel without itt â HihâGnxtâShuu!â
The sneeze pitches him forward.
Ugh. He sniffles thickly rubbing at his tickling nose.
âAnd your allergy tincture?â Bellamy asks as he starts the car. âIn case that continues?â
A smile tugs at Nassâs mouth. Bellamyâs concern is sweet. Ridiculously sweet.
âI have it,â 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 itâs 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.
âGood,â Bellamy pulls onto the main road as Nass settles onto a Southern radio channel.
âWhere did you learn to drive?â Nass leans back into the cushiony leather seat.
Heâs somehow unsurprised that Bellamy knows how to drive. Heâs 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.
âI got lessons when I was a teenager,â Bellamy says, as he merges onto a main road. âI never liked my fatherâs staff doing things for me.â
Bellamy doesnât seem comfortable with anyone doing anything for him, but Nass doesnât say this. Â
âWhy do you never speak of your friends from the North?â Nass asks, watching as Bellamy pulls sunglasses over his light eyes. âDid you not have any?â
âYou really think my social skills to be so poor, Nass?â Bellamy raises an eyebrow, but Nass can tell heâs teasing.Â
âOf course I have friends.â Bellamy says. âYou saw one of my friends in fact. Camille.â
A sharp stab of jealousy hits Nass instantly.
Camilleâs hands in Bellamyâs curls flashes through his head. Bellamy kissing her under the red lights of Hookahâs Sex Lounge.
âShe didnât look like your friend that night at the sex club,â Nass says flatly.
Bellamy chuckles at Nassâs tone. âCamille is a very good friend.â He continues. âAfter 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.â Â Â
âWhy?â Nass frowns.
His fingers tighten slightly against the steering wheel.
âMy 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.â
Nass feels immediate disgust crawl up his spine. Jason Velaquez being a bully as a teenager is the least surprising thing heâs heard all month.
âCamille was never afraid of him,â Bellamy continues. âHer father is a trusted palace advisor. So Jason had no real power over her. Though he certainly tried.â
âAnd then?â Nass presses.
Bellamy gives a small shrug. âEventually we dated for a few years. But Camille is not a mage and has no interest in living anywhere but the North.â
He doesnât elaborate further. He doesnât need to.
âAnd your friends from before you were a prince? From the orphanage?â Nass asks. He canât even imagine it. To Bellamy, that time must feel like a past life.
Bellamyâs jaw tightens. Nass thinks he isnât going to answer but then he does.
âJorge and Amira,â he finally answers. âThey are more like my family.â Â
Jorge. The person Bellamy was speaking to on the phone.
âJorge was born with a degenerative illness and uses a wheelchair. Amira is albino. And I have the kingâs eyes,â he waves at his face. âInvalids they called us. And so, we were never adopted. Though I suppose I was technically adopted by the king.â
Something twists painfully in Nassâs chest.
âYou must miss them,â Nass comments.
âVery much,â Bellamy says quietly. âI donât see them often.â
âWhy not?â Nass frowns.
Bellamy goes still.
âBecause I am the prince,â he says finally, voice clipped. âAnd my father forbids me and my brother to associate with invalids.â
The words are so cruel Nass almost thinks he misheard them.
Bellamy sniffles softly, rubbing at his nose with the back of his wrist.
âAnd if anyone saw us together and word got back to the palace,â he continues, âit could make their lives⊠difficult. So, when I do see them I must be very discreet.â
Silence settles heavily between them.
Nass stares out the window, throat tight. He canât imagine being forbidden from seeing Marwa. The thought alone makes him feel ill.
âIâm sorry,â he says quietly.
âYeah.â Bellamy clears his throat. âAnyway. Itâs hot in here.â
He presses the button for the windows. Warm spring air immediately whips through the car, tangling Nassâs braids together.Â
The sharp scent of pine and something sweet he canât exactly name hits him. Nass inhales, spraying his lap with an itchy and uncovered âHihâTttâShuuyiew!â
âBless you,â Bellamy says. âDo you want to take your allergy tincture?â
Nass rubs his face. âNo. Itâll only make me sleepy.â
âIt will be a three-hour drive,â Bellamy says kindly. âItâs okay if you sleep.â
âThat doesnât make me a very good c-company â âHih-EsshHUE!â,â Nass wrenches forward with the uncharacteristically loud sneeze, his seatbelt pulling against his chest.
He clears his throat thatâs beginning to itch.
âYou are good company awake or asleep, Nass,â Bellamy smiles. Itâs almost shy.
The sincerity in his voice makes warmth spread through Nassâs 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 âhHHhâDZZSSCHhâ'uH-!â echoing through the car. He startles awake, neck aching from the awkward angle heâd fallen asleep in, just in time to see Bellamy snap forward with a second uncovered and equally loud âhh! Hâuh! hih! IIESHHh'YEUh!â
It sprays all over the steering wheel, the mist sparkling in the sunlight. Bellamy sniffles, face twisted in irritation.
âSkies,â Nass struggles to sit up, âBless you.â
âSorry to wake you,â Bellamy pants, knuckling at his nose. Nass can see that his boyfriend had removed his sunglasses, blue eyes red and watering. âGods, I couldnât sth! Stifle anymore⊠hh! â âheHâSCHEUGâHiih-!â
The car jerks slightly as Bellamy makes a right. He gives another irritated snuffle, his eyes glassy. âCan you check if there are any tissues in here?â
Nass doesnât think there will be tissues anywhere in a rental car, but he checks anyway.
âNothing,â he says, poking around the center console. âAnd Iâve told you many times you donât need to stifle your sneezes, Bellamy. I donât care if it wakes me up or ââ
"Heh- hHâIYSChhiuEH!!â 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.
âBless you,â Nass says, trying not to stare.
âSorry,â Bellamy coughs. âI canât stop sneezing for some reason.â
âYou donât need to apologize, Bellamy,â Nass blinks, growing flustered.
 âUgh,â he gives a stuffy sounding sniffle. âI think I should blow my nose. Do you have an extra handkerchief?â
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 â
âN-Nass?â Bellamy asks. Shit. He mustâve have zoned out for a second longer than appropriate.
âDo you have one? Weâre on this highway for a while and I donât know where I can bu! Buy âhâIEGHkSsHâhue!!â
It sprays absolutely everywhere. The steering wheel, the dashboard, Nass even feels some of the mist settle on his arm.
âNo â shit â Iâm sorry, yes I have an extra one,â he twists over towards the backseat, pulling the soft fabric out from the bottom of his backpack.
âHere.â He hands it out to him. âDo you want to pull over or â,â
âItâs fine,â 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.
âBless you,â Nass squeezes his shoulder trying to sound normal. His erection is so stiff heâs nearly throbbing. âWhatâs setting you off? Hay fever?â
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.
âI â I donât have hay fever,â Bellamy sniffles, sounding a little bewildered. âIn fact, I spend most of the spring and summer outside.â
âYouâre living in a new place,â Nass shrugs. âYou could be allergic to something here that isnât in the North. My seasonal allergies are way worse here than back home in the South.â
Bellamy shrugs at this, though he raises the crumpled handkerchief to his face to blow his nose again.
âHow was your nap?â Bellamy asks, lowering the handkerchief onto his lap. He rubs at his nose with his wrist.
âGood,â Nass cracks his sore neck. âAre we almost there?â
He is suddenly very desperate to get there and take care of the⊠problem in his pants. Plus, he can tell theyâre 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.
âIn about thirty minutes,â 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.
âYou donât like Southern music?â he asks, the question coming out a little defensive.
He itches to change the station back to the Southern channel, but he doesnât. That would be incredibly rude and selfish. Besides, he started seeing a therapist a few weeks ago to work on hisâŠissues with the North and she advised to him to stop and breathe before acting.
He takes a deep breath.
âOf course I do,â Bellamyâs answer comes out polite and diplomatic, just like everything Bellamy says.
âBut I also enjoy the music of my people Nass.â 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 isnât so bad.
Itâs good even.
He closes his eyes, listening to the sound of the flute and Bellamy humming along. He canât tell how much time has passed, when the distinct sound of Bellamy sniffling has Nass opening his eyes at full attention again.
Bellamyâs 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.
âBellamy,â Nass clears his throat. âYou should close the windows. Youâre clearly allergic to something and having the windows open is probably making it â,â
âAEHDâSSCHhyâuuh!" Bellamy gasps, splattering the steering wheel with an irritated sounding sneeze. Â
âWorse,â Nass says barely able to finish the word before Bellamy explodes with â
The sound tears through the car so loudly Nassâs heart lurches into his throat.
A silver car tears past them in the opposite lane, missing the driverâs side by what feels like centimetres. Nass catches a flash of terrified faces through the window.
His stomach lurches violently.
âBellamy!â Nass shouts, lunging forward and wrenching the steering wheel back into place. The movement jolts painfully through his shoulder. âPull over!â
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  "hâIEGHkSsHâhueY!â sprays across the side of Nassâs 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.
âBrake! Brake!â 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 doesnât 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 â
âhh! ehhâHTSSHHâYueuh!â 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 driverâs side door.
Bellamy is still trapped in the seatbelt, sunglasses discarded, handkerchief crushed to his face as relentless sneeze after sneeze wracks through him.
ââAhehDTSSSâshuh! hhH! Â âhhh... hhAATCHSHhhâuye!!â
âGods,â Nass mutters, fumbling with the buckle. âCome here.â
He drags Bellamy upright by the arm. Bellamy stumbles out of the car, disoriented, eyes streaming so badly he can barely keep them open.
âHere,â Nass presses the water bottle into his hands. âWash your face.â
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 loverâs face twists again, full lips parting as he lurches to the ground with another helpless and uncovered â âhh! hhKâIISCHhhâYue!â
Bellamy swears under his breath, eyebrows pinched together in allergic frustration.
âHere,â Nass says quickly, unscrewing the allergy tincture. âLean your head back. Iâm giving you six drops instead of three, okay?â
Bellamy answers with another strangled sneeze, though this time itâs only one. The fit must finally be slowing.
Nass moves fast, tipping the herbal drops beneath Bellamyâs tongue.
He would never say this out loud to his boyfriend, unless he wished to horrify him to no end, but Bellamyâs nose was profusely running, watery rivulets running over his lips and down his chin.
âHere,â Nass says, softer now, pulling his own handkerchief from his pocket. âUse this.â
Itâs slightly used, which is pretty unhygienic, but Nass supposed theyâd 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 Nassâs 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. Heâs 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. âSkies, bless you. Are you okay, Bellamy?â
âYes,â Bellamy sniffles, sounding a bit dazed. âWell. Besides bmy dignity, which I fear did ndot survive that experience.â
His face is bright red down to the very tips of his ears.
âIâm so sorry for scaring you,â Bellamy dabs at his watery eyes with the edges of Nassâs soiled handkerchief.
âItâs fine,â Nass squeezes his arm. âNothing happened. Weâre fine. Are you sure youâre okay? Iâve never seen you sneeze like that before.â
Bellamy flushes even darker.
âNeither have I,â he takes a stuffy congested breath. âA-andyway, I just need a minutde. Thend we cand g-go.â
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.
âAre you crazy?â Nass stares at him. âIâm driving the rest of the way.â
âBut itâll just make you even more motion sick,â Bellamy says faintly, scrubbing at his nose with the underside of his wrist. Clearly whatever he is allergic to is still bothering him.
âBellamy!â Nass says aghast. âI took medicine. Iâll survive. Besides, what if you start sneezing like that again? We nearly drove into incoming traffic!â
Bellamy pinches the bridge of his nose again. Closes his watery red eyes. âYouâre right, of course. That mustâve been terrifying for you. Iâm sorry.â
âYou donât need to apologize for being a human being Bellamy,â Nass crosses his arms.
âOkay,â Bellamy swallows.
Then â
âI have no idea what set me off like that. Skies.â Â
Frustrated, he kicks a stone near his shoe. It goes skidding across the roadside shoulder, flattening a cluster of bright red fireweed.
 Thereâs a brief silence.
Then Bellamyâs expression shifts.
âNass,â he says slowly. âWhat are those?â
âWhat?â
âThose red flowers.â He points at them.
âThere not flowers. You donât have those in the North?â Nass raises an eyebrow.
Bellamy shakes his head.
âTheyâre weeds. Called fireweed because of their red colour.â
âI see,â Bellamy shifts. âAnd they grow here?â
âThey grow everywhere this time of year,â Nass says, squinting against the sun.
âRight,â Bellamy nods, looking at them thoughtfully. âOkay then.â
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 â
âhh-hhh-HA! HhâAEDTSSCCHâHYâueeH!â that sprays his trousers in messy droplets.
Bellamy swears, shuddering to the left with another uncovered, equallly massive âheHâSCHEUGâHiiyUhH-!â Â Â
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 Nassâs handkerchief. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs. The sound is soft and a little sad around the edges.
âMaybe itâs a signd to go back to the North,â he says as he rejoins Nass against the hood of the car. âClearly the people do not want bme here.â He sniffles. âOr the land.â
Nass stomach twists.
âWell, I want you here,â he bumps Bellamyâs shoulder. âAnd I enjoy your⊠sneezing. Not when you almost drive us into oncoming traffic. But otherwise,â Nass leans in, pressing his lips to the side of Bellamyâs temple, âI enjoy it very much.â
âOh, I have noticed,â Bellamy sniffs again, then gives a real laugh at this. The musical sound makes Nassâs stomach flutter.
âI thought I was more discreet than that,â Nass scratches his head.
âYou certainly attempbt discretion,â Bellamy turns to him with a shit eating grin. âBut the sexual endergy that pours out of you, I must say, Nass, is quite loud.â
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 â and person â than he ever will be.
Still to hear that Nassâs sexual energy is⊠loud? Well, that gets his cheeks warming.
âAndyway,â Bellamy clears his throat, but it does nothing to ease the congestion in his voice. âIf I have to suddenly suffer spring allergies, I am at least glad itâs not wasted.â
âDefinitely not wasted, Your Majestyâ He can practically hear the lust in his own voice. His eyes drag over Bellamyâs 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.
Nassâs dick can hardly stand the thought.
âLetâs go,â he nudges Bellamy. âI am suddenly quite inpatient to get there already.â
Bellamy gives him an amused knowing look, tossing him the car keys. âIâm sure you are.â
They switch seats, Nass sliding into the driverâs side, adjusting the seat and mirrors.
âCan we stop at the next road stall to buy some tissues?â Bellamy asks, stuffing Nassâs sodden handkerchief into his pocket.
 âIn caseâŠwell⊠in case that happens again?â He rubs at his red nose.
Nass swallows hard against the thought of Bellamy doing that again.
âOf course,â He says with a laugh. âIt seems that tissues are a camping necessity, Your Highness,â
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 doesnât like being perceived, or that the new attending, who seems to have wormed his way into Robbyâs 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 heâs 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 manâsharpen his eye, hone his pattern recognition. So he really couldnât 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 didnât 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 Robbyâs little quirks, the rain one started as a coincidence. At least, thatâs what Abbot told himself the first six times.
But by the seventhâwell, 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).
âHhâhâKkxtchâTCHhhâehâEHTCHUUuâ
âBless you, bless you, bless youâ Abbot said, with a very careful neutrality, like he didnât 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. âIâm fine.â
âYouâve said that every time,â Abbot replied mildly.
âMaybe thatâs because I am fihhâhhahâtIUSHHââ Another sneeze escaped, seeming to have snuck up on himâsharp, sudden, violent enough that he folded slightly forwards in his chair.
Abbot tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. âMm.â
Robby glared at him through watery eyes. âDonât âmmâ me.â
âI didnât say anything.â Abbot pushed a tissue box toward him.
He snatched up a tissue with more force than strictly necessary. âYou mmâd. Thatâs worse.â
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 linesâgray sky, slick pavement, the whole dreary package. He looked back at Robby. Then back at the rain. Then back at Robby.
âWhatever youâre thinking,â Robby said immediately, âkeep it to yourself.â
Abbot couldnât help but bark a laugh at that. âI didnât say anything.â
âYouâre about to.â
âIâm just thinking, Robby.â
âThatâs worse.â
Abbot stood up again, clasping his hands behind his back and starting to pace the length of the hub. âOut of curiosity,â he said, in the tone of someone who was absolutely not asking out of curiosity, âhave you noticed any correlation betweenââ
âNo.â
ââyour symptoms andââ
âNo.â
ââprecipitation patternsââ
âAbsolutely not.â
ââbecause Iâm starting to notice thatââ
âHâeHHsTCHUUââ
Abbot stopped pacing to arch an eyebrow at him. âYou did that on purpose.â
Robby sniffled indignantly. âHow could I have possiblyâ?â
âThat was eight, by the way.â
âYouâre counting?â
âI started after the third.â
âWhy would youââ Robby broke off, pinching the bridge of his quickly reddening nose. âItâs just allergies.â
âTo what?â
âI donât know. Dust. Pollen. Life.â He looked up from his crossword with a rare wry smile. âYou, probably.â
âYouâve never had allergies like this because of pollen.â Abbotâs mouth twitched. âOther than when it rainsââ
âI am not allergic to rain, Jack.â His usual edge was undermined by the congestion in his voice.
âI didnât say you were.â
Robby blew his nose (rather obnoxiously in Abbotâs opinion, but thatâs neither here nor there). âYouâre certainly implying it.â
âIâm considering it.â
Robby opened his mouth, probably for another snippy retort, but was cut off byâ âhahhâTCHHUUhâHâhâhihâtCHKxâuhâ
Abbot didnât even bother hiding his interest now. âBless you again. Thatâs ten, Rob.â
âJesus Christ, stop counting!â
âIâm collecting data,â Abbot replied easily with a small shrug.
âI am not yourâhehâdahhtaâhihhâhâetrUSHCHU!â Robby scrubbed at his nose, more frustrated with the misbehaving appendage than with Abbot.
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. âI just have a cold or something.â
âOnly when it rains?â 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. âItâs a coincidence.â
âEight instances is not a coincidence.â
That gave Robby pause. He looked back at Abbot, an odd expression on his face. âYouâve been tracking this for eight instances?!â
Abbot shrugged, indifferent, reaching out for Robbyâs glass for a sip of his water. âItâs been rainy in Pittsburg.â
Robby stared at him for a minute. âThatâs deeply weird.â
Abbotâs eyebrows shot up, slightly startled by the force of them. ââŠBless you.â
Robby sniffled weakly. âI hate you.â
âI think the traditional response is âthank you,ââ Abbot replied drily, holding out the tissue box heâd (rather cleverly) brought with him like an olive branch. Then added with a a smirk, âAnd you donât hate me.â
Robby snatched the box, bringing another handful of tissues to his streamy face. âI hate this conversation.â
âWhich is about your possible hypersensitivity toââ
âDonât say it.â
âârain.â
Robby made a sound somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh, throwing the (now empty) tissue box at his head. âYou cannot be serious.â
Abbot stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing something confidential. âThink about it.â
âI refuse.â
âEvery time it rainsââ
âIâm leaving.â
ââyou exhibit acute nasalââ
âI am actively leaving.â Robby, voice thick, brushed past him to the hallway towards the back storage room.
Abbot followed immediately. ââsymptoms consistent withââ
Robby stopped short just outside the storage room and turned on him. âIf you say ârain allergyâ one more timeââ
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 elbowâ
ââhEHâeStCHUUU!! rETCHHUuââ he gasped slightly, folding at the waist, one hand braced against the wallâ âhHEHâTRUSHHUU! Fucking Christ.â
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 heâd just put on). âDonât.â
âHey, I didnât say anything.â
Robby sniffled again. âYouâre thinking it.â
âI am.â
âWell, stop thinking it.â Robbyâs 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. âI canât.â
Robby dragged a hand down his face, trudging into the storage room with a defeated resignation. âIâm transferring departments.â
Abbot trailed after him, still smiling more than he really ought to be. âYouâd still encounter rain.â
âIâll move to a desert.â 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. âDonât worry, Iâll visit.â
âDonât.â 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. âWeâll need to design a study.â
âWe will be doing no such thing.â
âI already have a framework.â
Robby plowed back into the break room, all but collapsing onto the sofa. âIâm begging you to delete it.â
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.
âYou know,â Abbot said, softer now, voice somewhere between gentle and conspiratorial, âfor the sake of medical advancementââ
âAbbot.â
ââand your own well-beingââ
âJack.â
ââyou might considerââ
âJack, pleahhhâhehhââ
Robby squinted at the overhead lights, eyes watering and nose quivering, trapped for a moment in the limbo.
âhhâhehhâcome ohhhnââ
A beat of silence while Abbot watched, waited for the inevitable while Robby resisted in vain untilâ
âHheHâteCHRUUâ! HâHheTCHHUUâuH!!â
Abbot nodded to himself, as if that settled it. âAnd that makes one hundred sneezes, folks,â he said to no one in particular.
âHaHâiRRISHUU!â
âOur lucky winner is Dr. Michael Robinavitchââ
âhn'HUHâheHâetCHHUu! Hahâhhhââ
ââwhose grand prizeââ
âHh'ETSCHHhâETSCHHâuh!â
ââis an antihistamine and a nap.â Abbot paused, shutting the door and setting down on a chair in front of the couch. âSeriously, brother. Take a benadryl and draw the blinds. I promise Iâll wake you if anything good comes through.â
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. âYou promise youâll wake me?â His voice was gravelly (even more so than usual) and congested.
Abbot made an X over his heart. âScoutâs honor. Trust me,â 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 Iâve 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 partâ
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.Â
Now, Shane was wholeheartedly regretting it.Â
He had taken Ilyaâs 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).Â
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 hadnât 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 Ilyaâs essence and left his body behind, flushed and sweat soaked.Â
This was much more frustrating than Ilyaâs 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.Â
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 heâd ever known he could be. It was inexplicable, the power of caring for someone so much.Â
I love you, he thought. I love you, I love you, I love you.
âI need to get the sheets changed,â he said accordingly. âCome on, Iâll help you up.â
He leaned in, sliding an arm behind Ilyaâs shoulders to help him upright. Ilya seemed awfully uncoordinated but no less made the effort to lean into Shaneâs 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. Â
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.Â
(Ilya wasnât 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 Ilyaâs chest from a thankful and thoroughly loved Shane.)
Shane stripped the bed and tossed the damp sheets on the floor because he didnât 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.Â
âDo you think you can handle a quick shower? Just to rinseââ
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.Â
âNever mind,â he said gently, more for himself. âBless you.âÂ
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 Ilyaâs hand. Ilya blinked down, only curling his fingers around the tissues.
âIlya? Hey.â Shane kneeled, catching Ilyaâs eyes just for the sake of making sure he was still in there. He took the tissues back from Ilyaâs hand and wiped his nose for him with a gentle touch. Ilyaâs head tipped forward, following the touch automatically, and Shane couldnât remember a time heâd ever seen Ilya so pliant. âAlright, bed. You need to be in bed.âÂ
Ilya made a sound of agreement, a thick grumble sticking in his throat, but it eased Shaneâs anxiety by a hairline. At least Ilya wasnât totally lost to the fever, at least he could still appreciate the idea of resting comfortably.
He kept his arm anchored around Ilyaâs bare waist as he guided him back to bed. The fever was doing a number on him, but Shane figured being next to naked wasnât 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.Â
He settled on a loose long-sleeve and pulled it over Ilyaâs 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.
âRRHâSCHOooh!â
âOh, fuckââ
The sneeze broke loose against Shaneâs 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 Ilyaâs stomach.
And the reality that he was still being sneezed on.
There was a brief, horrible pause in which Ilya looked at Shaneâs arm, then up at his face, and then Ilyaâs expression shifted. He looked completely crestfallen, guilty in a way that looked wrong on on him, and Shane hovered his hands near Ilya nervously.Â
âOh, no, itâsâIlya, itâs fine. Youâre fine.âÂ
Ilya turned his head, still looking stricken, and Shane placed his hands on Ilyaâs shoulders.Â
âItâs fine,â he said firmly.
âIâb sorrââ
âI know,â Shane cut in, softer but no less certain. Just to prove a pointâto both of them, probably, but he would dissect that laterâhe pressed a placating kiss to the top of Ilyaâs head and squeezed his shoulders. âI know, itâs okay.â
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.Â
âGet some rest.â He squeezed Ilyaâs shoulders one more time. âMy momâs coming by soon with some soup. Call if you need me, okay?âÂ
_________________________
Okay, so he was still dramatically scrubbing his hands under hot water, but he was doing so in the kitchen and out of Ilyaâs 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.Â
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.Â
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 didnât believe in God, but he could still set his gratitude in places he didnât understand. With Irina, maybe, and wherever she watched from.Â
He hadnât really planned on sleeping in bed with Ilya because it seemed like an unnecessary (and very germy) risk, but he hadnât really planned on this evening at all. It was unfamiliar, a little scary, but Ilya made Shaneâs 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 Ilyaâs blanket-clad thigh.Â
âHhahâDZSHHooh! Ugh⊠Snndfff!â Shane wordlessly passed Ilya a tissue even though the box sat between them, within Ilyaâs reach. He listened as Ilya blew his nose and continued thumbing over his screen. âShade?â
âHmm?â
âShirt.â
âWhat?â He frowned and turned his head to look over.
âHot. Help mbe take this off.âÂ
âOhâyeah? Thatâs good, I think.â He set his phone down and gently swatted Ilyaâs hands away from the bottom hem of his shirt, deciding it would be easier if he did it without clumsy, flu-fatigued help. âI think that means your feverâs coming down.â
âGood.â Ilya coughed into his bare arm after his shirt was off. âI hate fever. Terrible.â
âTerrible,â Shane agreed, reaching for the thermometer on the nightstand. âHave you ever been this sick before?â
âProbably. Whed I was yougg, baybe. Dnot sindce... Siâihhhâhahhââ
Shane had more tissues readyâ
âHhâaAHDZCHUuh! YhhâHIDDSCHhh!â
âto push into Ilyaâs waiting hand, who was anticipating Shane would answer to the callâ
ââGDZTCHhuhh-hhâhuuhâdZZSsh-ETSCHhoo!â
âof his nose fucking losing it.
âHhehH-HEHâJDSHhooh!â
âHoly shit.â
Ilya blew his nose after Shane handed him another fresh handful of tissues, then again when Shane gave him more.Â
âUgghh. Sorry.â
âNo, I just⊠That just sounded like it hurt. Are you okay?â
âMby dose is goig to break agaid probably.â
âI donât think thatâs possââ
âIs a joke, Shade. You thigk I ab stupid? You thigk this fever cooked mby braidn, huh?âÂ
It was more like Ilya than heâd 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.
âIâb really glad you are here.âÂ
âMe too.â
_________________________
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.Â
Ilya was snoring louder than usual, which he couldnât help, and Shane also couldnât 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 wasnât 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.Â
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.Â
âFuck, fuck, Ilya.â
That was a fucking terrible cough.Â
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.Â
âIlya, breathe. You need to breathe.â
Which wasnât likely helpful to say, but if he meant it enough, if it helped even marginally, he would keep saying it until he went hoarse.
âShhh, shh. Breathe.â
The coughing slowed, but Ilyaâs breaths took on a staccato quality, a sign that he was either building up to a sneeze or, worse, crying.Â
âHhuhâddjshh!â
A sneeze, then.
Ilyaâs 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.
âYouâre really hot, Ilya.â 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 Ilyaâs hair, smoothing it back just so he could press his cheek flush against Ilyaâs 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 Ilyaâs throat vibrating messages of help me, help me, help me into his chest.Â
He held Ilyaâs 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, Ilyaâs and a few of his own when he really couldnât help it.Â
ââihhdjâshh! Nnghâjdshh!â
Shane knew that would keep happening, Ilya sneezing into his bare chest, and it didnât matter. It didnât 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.
âDdzhâishhuh!â
A lot of sneezing, perhaps, but the point remained unchanged.
He checked Ilyaâs temperature four times over the course of the next hour, in 15 minute increments, just to make sure it wasnât 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 didnât complain, but Shane wished he would.Â
It took time, and some patience, and some (all) frayed nerves to get through the worst of it, but Ilyaâs 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.Â
âWow, Shade, you look like shit.â Ilya raised a brow, a glint in his eye. âWhat, could dnot sleep?âÂ
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. âYourâfuckingâfault,â he grouched between kisses.
Ilya laughed, coughed, and laughed again. He rolled them over, pinning Shane under him, and trailed quiet thank youâs from the right side of Shaneâs neck, over the front of his throat, and to the left.Â
_________________________
By Friday morning, Ilya was well enough to lounge on the couch and groan over Shaneâs 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 youâre 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 Shaneâs phone because he had wanted a second Clash Royale account to test decks or practice clan formations or whatever heâd rambled on about until Shane gave in.Â
âWait, wait, Shane.â
âYeah?â
âWhat is this?â
Shane craned his neck forward, seeing that Ilya wasnât tapping at the game anymore and was now on his browser.Â
âHey, no! Give me my phone!â
âOh, no-no-no. No, I must see this.â
âIlya!â
âThis is⊠Woooow, Shane. This is bad for you even.â
âGod, fucking leave me alone.â
âNo, 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?â Ilya laughed, a brazen and wheezy and gloriously happy kind of sound. âYou looove me.âÂ
Shane, aching with something overwhelmingly tender, smiled with a shy laugh of his own. âYeah. Yeah, I do.â
Maybe in a weekâs 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 didnât truly matter in the grand scheme of things. He didnât worry about it, because Ilya would find him human all the same and love him for it.Â
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.
Thatâs 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!!). đ 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
âââ
âAESZCHHHââ
âShane could hear the beginning of Ilyaâs enormous sneeze from outside his front doorâ
ââHHhhhâooo!â
âand the tail end as he entered to the sight of his scarlet-nosed boyfriend laying on the couch, wearing one of Shaneâs 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.
âBless you. Oh my god, are you okay?â
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 Ilyaâs arm to steady him. The poor man was practically rocking back and forth from the expansion and contraction of his breaths.
âMenthol cough drops?â
Ilya gave a final high-pitched gasp before crumpling forward. âhHAâDZCHhhoo!â
ââbless you, arenât those the ones thatââ
â-DZCHHhhhoo! hrRISHHHhhuhh!â
ââbless you. Make you sneeze likeââ
âhrâISCHhhh, rrâISHHhhhh, hRISHHhhuhh!â
ââbless you! Make you sneeze like crazy?â
âWhhhat do you fucking thiihh-! haâdszchhh! AHâDZCHhhhoo! ah, hahH! hyâADSZHHHhâhooo!â
âJesus. Bless you, Ilya. Donât be a dick, itâs not my fault you decided to murder yourself. Why do you even still have these?â 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. ââŠIs the only thing that helps my throat,â he admitted, shrugging and looking a little sheepish. âWorth all the sneezing.â
âWell, okay. Next time I go out Iâm getting you Throat Coat tea. Throat Coat, you pervert,â he said, laughing when Ilyaâs eyes and smile began to grow very wide.
âMm, is not what I want down my throat.â
âJesus, dude.â Shane rolled his eyes with a smile, smacked away the grabby hands that were inching towards his pecs, and opened his bag. âYouâre a dork. Okay, weâve got more honey, some Jolly Ranchers for your cough - guess we donât need those anymore - and more tissues.â Shane pulled out one of the three boxes heâd bought. Ilya, whoâd once again started to sound like he needed a tissue or ten, took a few out of the box, then looked perplexed.
âWhy are these so soft?â
âTheyâre tissues with lotion, so your nose doesnât get more red and chapped. AlthoughâŠmaybe we should test if youâre allergic to them first. That would be bad if tissues made you sneeze.â Knowing Ilya, that was definitely a possibility.
Ilya had started to shake his head before Shane even finished speaking. He handed the box back. âI do not need these,â he said.
âUm. Why?â
âI have plenty of tissues here. Do not need a new box.â He started to pull tissues out of the box in his lap to demonstrate, face falling when only two came out. Shane couldnât help but giggle as Ilya determinately pushed his hand deeper into the box to look for more.
âWell, I hate to tell you this, butâŠâ
Ilya, who now had his hand stuck in the box, waved his other hand at Shane. âYeah, yeah, I need new tissue box for stupid nose, blah blah blah.â
Shane grabbed Ilyaâs trapped hand and helped pull it free. âHey. Donât call your nose stupid.â
âFine. My smart nose, then.â Ilya crossed his arms in an absolutely adorable pout that somehow made the 6â3â pro athlete look like an oversized curly-haired teddy bear. He eyed the tissue box Shane passed back over to him warily. âI have plenty of other tissues in the bedroom, no need for these.â
Shane narrowed his eyes. âIlyaâŠâ
Ilya raised a brow. âShadeâŠâ
ââShade?â You sound like you need some more tissuesâŠâ Shane plucked one out. âThese are right here...â
Ilyaâs silliness evaporated. He averted his gaze and looked very embarrassed. Shane had no clue why.
He put a hand on Ilyaâs arm. âWhatâs wrong, Ilya?â
Ilya cleared his throat. âIâŠthese are for you, not me.â
Huh? âWhat are you talking about?â
âThey areâŠtoo nice. I donât needâŠnice things.â Ilya said the last part so softly that Shane almost missed it.
âWhat does that mean?â
âYou should have them. I donâtâŠâ Ilya looked very sad, and Shane put a hand to his forehead. He was very warm. Is that why heâs being so honest?
âYou thinkâŠyou donât deserve nice things? But I do?â Shane was simultaneously furious and worried and horrified.
Ilya bit his lip and scratched the side of his nose with a sniffle. He still wouldnât look Shane in the eye. âYou deserve everything,â he said.
âIlya, look at me,â 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.
âYou deserve everything. You deserve nice things.â
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 evenâŠworse? The thought made Shane want to wring the already-dead manâs throat.
âHey. Iâm here now,â Shane said, doing his best not to let his voice waver. âIâm going to give you what you need.â He pulled Ilya into a long hug, holding him tighter when he felt the wetness from Ilyaâs silent tears on his shoulder. âItâs okay,â he murmured.
Ilya eventually pulled away, eyes glassy, and gave a full-body shiver. âMâ cold,â he said.
âLetâs get you to bed. But firstâŠâ Shane handed Ilya a tissue. âYour nose looks like itâs in pain. Use this, please.â
Ilya took it and blew his nose, and though the honking sounded painful, he had a relieved expression on his face.
âBetter?â
Ilya nodded. âYes. Thank you,â 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.
âhyehhâŠ! HhâRUSHhooo, hrâUSHHhhhoo, HAADTâCHOO!â He blew his nose, the relief returning to his face.
âBless you.â 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 fuckâs sake.
He wasnât alone anymore. He never would be again. Shane would make sure of it, forever.
âhyâESHhhhahhh! hESHHHhhoo! hyâAGHTâshooo!â 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, theyâve all been around him, theyâve all been witnesses in his noseâs attempt at escaping his face. Everyone rolls their eyes when Ilya insists itâs only because heâs louder that they think heâs worse. What Shane will never admit is that Ilyaâs 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.
âLooking good, Barrett. I am sorry hockey disturbed beauty sleep.â Ilya, ever the instigator, is the loudest voice in the crowd despite being entirely across the rink skating bags with the rookies.
âThatâs the number three pretty face in hockey, you might wanna ask for some tips, five.â 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. Itâs 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 doesnât see Ilya barrelling towards him. Much like a puppy who doesnât know his own size, his husband has this (frankly adorable) habit of not remembering heâs 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 mightâve 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 Troyâs chest as the lineman holds his elbow in what is supposed to be a steadying gesture. Except, right now it felt more like heâs caging Shaneâs nose against a bundle of horrifically expensive flowers.
âHihâIYISCHhuh!â 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. âISCHâiuh!â Thereâs 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. âHhâNGXâtiew! KDTâiew!â
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 âavenge Shaneâs honorâ or something, and thatâs evidently more entertaining than Shane himself having an allergy attack. Despite the lack of anyoneâs attention, the quivering of his sinuses doesnât let up, intent on being acknowledged fully. âGNXTâiew! NXKâtchiew!â For some unfortunate reason, Troy is the only one who actually seems to notice Shaneâs dilemma. That would usually be fine since Troy is usually one of the few people Shane can tolerate when heâs overwhelmed. Other than the fact that the universe apparently hates him today because the winger decides to go against his usual âleave it beâ tactics and starts fucking talking.
âJesus, man-â âT-Troy-hhâEXKâschew! TXGâtiew!â âSorry, didnât have time to shower after-â âItâs f-hih-fine. N-huh-not youâre- NGXDâtiew! EDGâtiew!â âYeah, it fucking reeks.â Interrupting Troyâs attempted apologies definitely isnât helping assure him that âyeah, man, itâs whateverâ. Except the idiot keeps trying to glide slightly closer to pat Shaneâs shoulder, which is really going to fuck that up. Itâs like an awkward dance, Shane shakily pushing backwards with both hands now covering his face as he convulses into himself.
âGive the guy some breathing room, damn.â 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.
âYou trying to kill our center, Barrett?â 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.
âFuck, how much of that shit did they use? You smell fucking sterile.â 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. Somebodyâs stupid rich uncle is probably having a field day âdissecting the notesâ or whatever that means. God, Ilyaâs going to be sleeping on the fucking couch and the entire team is skating bags. That is, as soon as heâs lucid and stable enough to actually reprimand anyone.
âHollander?â 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, heâs sneezing so much heâs starting to get light headed. He sniffles sharply and turns so his shoulder is touching Ilyaâs chest and he can use him as a human shield.
âIâve got you, get it out. No oneâs looking, just one big sneeze and itâs over.â Ilyaâs assurances are whispered gently into his husbandâs hair as he manages to drag them back to the player bench.
âHih-hhâIYISCHeuh! Fuck, thatâs better.â Shane sniffles a few times to be sure, his nose definitely still tingles but in a farther off way than it did seconds ago.
âYouâre worse than Cap, Holly!â 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 âpissed off noseâ department, thank you very much. Itâs just that on the off chance something does bother him, he goes all in.
âTroy! Go shower!â Weibe claps Ilyaâs 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. Thereâs 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.
âIâm surprised that stuff didnât bother you at all,â Shane admits with a tilt of his head.
âNo, was not like flowers, soâŠâ 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 Barrettâs actual cologne. âBut I think we will maybe not do ads with Sauvage now. Is a shame, those ads are usually very sexy.â
âIlya,â Shane chuckles, pushing lightly at his husbandâs hip and earning a displeased huff.
âIs true! They are very European, your mom would like them for my branding.â She probably would, now that Shane really thinks about it.
Out of all the phrases to dub someone as âsickâ, there is something particularly delicious about the term âunwellâ or any variation of.
Iâm imagining a person gently cupping the side of a sickieâs 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 Iâll get you the nice seasonal hot drink with the whipped cream if youâre good stop grinning at me with those big wet allergic eyes go wipe your nose yes Iâll get you a pastry too âyouâre the bestâ WHATEVER
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hi yes itâs me Iâm back sorry I scared you why is the air purifier still off who opened the window. you?? okay itâs fine god your eyes are so gorgeous and puffy letâs close that fucker okay? bless you yes thatâs for you, bless you bless you yes Iâll get the fan itâs hot as balls in here.
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what did you say? ..what? itâs okay, Iâm not asleep yet. bless you. where are you going? itâs okay, come back. bless you. here, these should be better. stop that. Iâll wash them, itâs okay. lean back for me. bless you. oh, it hurts. okay. Iâll get you drugs. how does that sound? just sit tight. ..no? Iâll⊠okay. Iâll stay. yeah. yeah, no, Iâm actually not tired. Iâm serious. I was wide awake just now, thinking about things. Iâm glad youâre up with me, now I have someone to torture relentlessly with my deep philosophical wonderingsâŠ
