Obsessed with the idea that stifling, which is meant to retract attention, can bring more of it. Like, aww, pooor baby, what’s the matter? You can’t stop sneezing now? Your eyes are watery? You have to gasp for air in between fits? They keep getting louder and louder and louder? It’s too itchy to stop once you’ve started? I thought you were trying to keep them secret, not let everyone know.
ok, sooo I have been writing this one on and off since like february, as my lil self-indulgent background piece, and I thought it should finally see the light of day. it's very overtly snzkink s/hane, especially the second part, so if that's not your vibe, I would maybe skip these (lol skip). I wanted to play with the whole text based relationship thing, and I originally wrote out a lot more of i/lya's update texts but then cut them bc it was kinda tedious to read, by which I mean I actually fell asleep proofreading it. anywayyy, here's part one.
part two, part three
I hope you enjoy! ♡
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 5.1k
cw: sneezing, snz kink, general illness, mentions of contagion
Shane ran his thumb back and forth across the bottom of his phone, staring at Ilya's contact, debating calling. He had only a few minutes before he'd need to head into the arena for the game and he would really like his anxiety level by then to be about half of what it was now.
When they'd spoken last night, Ilya had mentioned having a pretty bad headache, half his face scrunched up against the dim light of the lamp he seemed to have turned on only to talk to Shane, two fingers rubbing incessantly at his temples. He'd been sniffly too, although he was almost always at least a little sniffly, and it hadn't taken either of them very long to connect the dots to a flu that was making the rounds in their conference, principally because of the fact that a good quarter of the Centaurs were currently out with it.
So the fact that Shane couldn't get him to reply to a text currently was more than a little worrying. The last three texts he'd sent- “Ilya. Ilyaa. ILYA.”- had been more than 30 minutes ago, and the blond hadn't so much as read them.
Shane glanced over his shoulder into the back of the car, checking he had everything he'd need this evening. Nope, clearly he didn't because there wasn't a gorgeous blond Russian man curled up asleep there. Not that he’d feel particularly good about leaving his probably sick boyfriend in the fucking car while he amused himself on the ice for a few hours. Which is what this game would be, amus-
The phone buzzing in his hand came as such a shock that he almost dropped it, head whipping back to the device to read the notification.
LILY: whatttttt
LILY: I am alive
He sighed in relief, double checking the time before typing out a quick response.
YOU: Ok good. Stay that way. I love you. Keep me updated on how you’re doing, please.
And then with a click, the phone was off, and he was hopping out of the car to grab his bags, the pre-game adrenaline already starting to flood into his system. Kit? Check. Boyfriend? Alive. Win? Incoming.
…
He didn’t get a chance to check his phone again until after warm-ups, having been the mostly unwilling mediator in a stupidly heated debate about if it would be better to be reincarnated as a hockey puck or a stick. These guys seriously had too many concussions under their belts.
Despite the extended departure from his phone, it hadn’t been that long, and Shane was borderline alarmed to find he had more text messages than his lock screen would provide a specific number for, having resorted to a simple “10+”.
He unlocked the device, scrolling through to see a plethora of short messages from Ilya.
LILY: i love you toooo
LILY: update- doing ok
LILY: update- still doing ok
LILY: update- drinking water
LILY: update-lost fucking tv remotw
LILY: update- found
And so on. For over 30 messages. Some of them Shane couldn’t decipher however, either due to misspellings or Romanized versions of Russian words that he couldn’t quite translate. One however, appeared many times over.
LILY: update- chikh
LILY: update- stolko chikhhhh
Shane frowned.
YOU: I’m glad you’re okay. What is ‘chikh’?
Ilya read the text immediately.
LILY: timing is crazy. you are psychic?
LILY: is like spxhhi
What the fuck did that mean?
“Hollander! He’s making the stupid tape point again, you gotta come tell him he’s wrong!” Fuck.
With an anxious glance back to the still bouncing ‘typing’ bubbles, Shane tossed his phone back into his stall and returned to his captain duties.
…
He hadn’t had a spare second to consider what the last messages had meant in the whole of the first period, their opponents coming out strong and not letting up the entire time. A stupid fight had left them shorthanded, and Shane was so focused on not letting the disadvantage tip the score, that he’d forgotten all about his boyfriend’s ‘condition’ until he was lining up for a face off, flying high off the relief of a goal.
His stick clicked against the ice, and he kept his eyes down, uninterested in meeting the opposing center’s fiery hot gaze. Before the puck could drop, he heard Hayden, off to his left, say, “The fuck are you doing, dude?”, and then a sound that snapped his attention across to the wing.
“hEh…Kkf- hUhTNGKk! hhUh…hHTNGXhoo!”
It seemed that the illness that had the Centaurs flat on their backs was also running rife through the Raiders. So it would have gotten Ilya even if he hadn’t move- Oh, fuck, Ilya! He was watching, probably, although how much of the actual game he was taking in with the distraction of his symptoms was anyone’s guess. And the symptoms themselves, echoing through his empty house, no one to acknowledge them, acknowledge him… it was a tragic mental image. Or at least that was what he was forcing himself to think. Because he’d give anything to be a fly on the wall in that house right about-
Head still tilted to the left, eyes distant, stick hovering nowhere particularly useful, Shane, unsurprisingly lost the face-off. Fucking-
He turned fast, sharp, anger and embarrassment creating a flush high on his cheeks, ready to give chase. Thankfully, the defense had closed ranks behind him, and, with their right winger still flagging, Boston had lost possession.
After thirty seconds of what was essentially just keep-away, and Shane glaring hard at the puck, and the players around him, and trying to stay focused, he was heading back to the bench, turning to Hayden as they sat down, seeing the frown on the winger’s face.
“Sorry.” He muttered.
“Huh?” Pike looked like he’d been pulled from deep thought, “For what?”
“I fucked up the puck drop.” He confessed, shocked that the alternate captain hadn’t already picked him up on it.
Hayden reached for the nearest bottle, skying the liquid into his mouth as he stared absently at the jumbotron, swallowing before responding, “It’s no big deal, we can’t win ‘em all, right?”
“…right.” He doubted that he’d take the same attitude to the game itself, so he needed to get it together. They all did. For the love of fuck, Coach had better yell some sense into them at intermission, or they’d be losing to a team of invalids who would probably pass along this flu for their trouble.
…
Trudging into the locker room at what barely remained a 1-1 draw, Shane felt his heart rate pick up, knowing he’d get to answer those questions that had been building up in his mind ever since he’d lost half his focus to his boyfriend just over halfway through the period. Nowhere near the ice and still stealing his attention. Remind him not to tell Ilya that when he saw him.
“He literally sneezed like, right in my face, I mean, can you believe that?” Hayden was still complaining as they made it to their stalls.
“Yeah- or, no, that’s wild.” The captain was more focused on retrieving his phone and checking for updates, stripping off the unnecessary layers one handed as he unlocked it.
“I think that counts as biological warfare, for real. I hate that dude. I think I’m starting to get the way you feel about Rozanov.”
“What?” He looked up, having been just about to click on the aforementioned player’s contact when his name was voiced.
Pike looked slightly taken aback by the speed with which he’d met his eyes. Well, he wasn’t exactly known for his love of eye contact at the best of times. He actually couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked into Hayden’s. “I’m just saying, who does that? Like yeah, he looked really pathetic about it afterwards, but like, cover your face, man. I almost feel sorry for him, but instead it’s just like pure…hatred.”
“Yeah.” You keep telling yourself that, buddy.
As Hayden considered his ‘hate’ for the opposing winger more quietly, Shane finally opened the message thread, and started back up where he’d left off.
LILY: I type wrong
LILY: still chikh
LILY: can not see
LILY: *apchhi
LILY: apchhi! apchhi! you know?
LILY: you know bc I do all fucking summer
Shane’s eyes went wide.
“You okay, man?” Hayden nudged him, lightly, but Shane almost dropped his phone all the same.
“Yeah, I- sorry, I have to take a call.” He headed out into the hallway, eyes skimming back over the messages. No way Ilya was…live texting him his fucking sneezes?
…
It had taken him a good minute to get his breathing under control enough to hit call on the contact and even as it rang, he found himself leaning back against the wall of the corridor to try and stop his head from spinning.
“Hello?” Ilya’s voice was destroyed, so muffled and broken that it sounded like the phone line was bad. Which it wasn’t because he could hear the TV playing commercials in perfect clarity in the background.
“Hi. I uh, just finished the first period.” He knows that, dumbass, he’s watching the game.
“I know.”
“Some of the stuff you were saying, I couldn’t understand it, so I just wanted to call and check you’re okay.”
“I am good. What couldn’t you understand?” He broke off to cough throatily away from the receiver.
“The um-” It was slightly easier, saying it in a different language, if he was saying what he thought he was saying, that was. “-the ‘chick’ thing?”
“Oh, chikh. I explain already, Shane, is like- wait. I will do for you.”
He would fucking WHAT?
There was a snorting sound on the other end of the line, and then some kind of soft tapping noise. Shane waited silently, breath baited.
“hH-here I go-hKk! Kkh! hHKSH! KKh! hKSHuH! hrRSH! HRSHH! hhAHSHhOo!”
“Bless you.” He whispered, pressing his back against the wall in the corridor as though he could disappear into it, stomach flipping so intensely he worried it would get caught in his ribs somehow. Why did the idea of Ilya doing…that… on purpose make him feel like he was about to pass out?
“Thank you. How you not understand, though? I spell it out and everything.”
“You said ‘apchi’. That’s not a sneeze.” He hissed. If he framed it like an argument, he could ignore the words coming out of his mouth, right?
“What is it in English then?” Ilya sounded less than bothered, vaguely interested but also like his real focus was elsewhere.
Shane clenched his jaw, heartbeat thudding in his ears at the thought of having to verbalise the stupid sound, “It’s like… it’s like ‘achoo’.” He wished for the ground to open up and swallow him.
“What? Who the fuck says ‘a-choo’? That’s stupid.”
“You literally did five seconds ago.”
“No, I didn’t.” He paused, evidently playing back the sounds he’d just made, in his head before conceding. “Is because I spend so long listening to idiot Americans and Canadians doing this, now I sound like idiot too.”
“Fuck off.” Shane pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to get his thoughts and his heartbeat and his dick under control. The idea of the sound of a sneeze being contagious… he could only hope Ilya hadn’t caught that strangled sounding thing that he’d just heard from their winger. “I have to go now.”
“Okay, I keep you updated.” There was a clear smile in his tone, and it did nothing to help the snowballing panic that was overwhelming the Canadian. Ilya was taking over his fucking brain, and he needed that to play. Not everyone did, clearly, but for him hockey was a mind game, which kind of necessitated showing up with your mind there in your skull and not over a hundred kilometres away with its metaphorical dick out, laser focused on your secret, sickly, so so sexy, boyfriend.
He’d walked about five steps down the corridor when his ringtone rang out again.
LILY: update- finish tissue box
Oh, god, this was actually going to be the death of him.
…
During one of the previous flu outbreaks in the league, the Metros had started a policy where they’d take all the players temperatures before they hit the ice; warmup, first period, second, third, like clockwork, and Shane was exceedingly glad that they weren’t doing that now- not that they’d ever actually scratched anyone based on the results- because he was full of a fire that was part anger part lust, and that had beads of sweat rolling down his face before he even had his gear all the way back on.
He considered the feeling while benched between shifts, the furnace-like heat in his chest, making every breath feel hot enough to start melting the ice- he was almost sure he could feel his mouthguard turning soft and pliable between his teeth- and then that tightening feeling slightly higher up than the fire, like a rope being pulled taught, like at the slightest slash of a blade, it would snap. And he wasn’t sure what snapping would involve, but it would almost definitely end with him in the penalty box or back in the dressing room, regretting the entire night.
On autopilot, he stood as the receding line approached the bench, vaulting the boards and hunting down the puck, focused, ruthless, ready. He took possession, finding Pike and passing to free himself of the three Raiders who’d immediately descended upon him the second his skates hit the ice- clearly their intermission speech had involved the instruction ‘stay on Hollander’- trying to find space to receive it back.
Before he could make the pass, Hayden disappeared into a sea of white and gold as the puck got trapped against the boards. Shane joined the mass of players, trying to get eyes on the puck, and his winger, whom he couldn’t actually see among the taller Raider players.
Normally he’d leave this stupidity to happen on the other side of the ice, while he found a nice open area, ready to receive or intercept depending on who came out in possession, but right now he could not be left alone with his thoughts for the amount of time that that might take. So here he was.
His thoughts, as he realised belatedly, one weak swipe in the puck’s direction in, did not wait politely outside of the huddle, they clung to him with sharp, spiteful grips, and at the slightest invitation, would most certainly be taking back over his mind. He was surrounded by Raiders, and, right as the group shifted, and his balance was thrown, pressing him against the player to his left, said player sniffled pretty urgently and muttered a curse word in what definitely sounded like Russian. And even though he knew it wasn’t Ilya, and he could have turned to stare into the idiot’s face to confirm that, had he so wished, he froze, a shiver running down his spine, mouth going dry and gaze going distant as his mind ran away with him for a moment- Ilya draped over his back like a blanket, sniffling in his ear while he made lunch for the two of them, Ilya trying to speak through his typical early morning fit and cursing his nose out as it interrupted him, Ilya pressed against him in a hotel elevator, heat radiating off of him as he breathed noisily through his mouth, accent tinting each exhale-
The puck was freed. The puck had been freed somewhere close to four full seconds ago, and here Shane still was, staring at his own reflection in the glass, seeing someone entirely different. Once again cursing his own imagination, and his lack of concept of time passing, he spun, barely a millisecond behind the player ahead of him, but several crucial seconds behind the one in possession, opting to sprint rather than bother to push off and try to pick up speed, making it out to center ice just in time to see the flash of a stick and the crack of impact and then be promptly deafened by the goal horn. Fucking great work.
Shane never noticed it before, but the sound effect that played in the Metro’s arena when the opposing team scored had this ‘ding’ to it that kind of sounded like a phone notification. Like his phone notification. And as he was skating back to the bench, face blank, head down, all he was thinking about was his phone lighting up over and over in his bag in the locker room with notifications of every single development in his boyfriend’s illness. Every cough, every noseblow, every sneeze. He felt like he was visibly flinching every time the sound repeated, because it was definitely making his heart skip a beat each time. How quickly was it possible to become conditioned by a noise? He was pretty sure he had either just broken a record or at the very least tied that dog with the fucking bell. At least the dog actually got its food, while he was just imagining the reward- there was definitely something seriously wrong with getting gratification from your boyfriend’s flu symptoms right?
“Hey, game’s not over yet.” JJ clapped him on the back as he passed by.
In lieu of responding ‘get your fucking hands off me, I’m too fucking riled up to deal with this shit’. Shane nodded silently, following him through the door and slumping down on the bench, pretending not to notice how that impact felt as it jarred through him.
The jumbotron, which he’d glanced up at as a distraction, kindly displayed a shot of the opposing bench, players grinning and banging their sticks against the boards, and on the edge of frame, a player with his head down, apparently emptying his sinuses into a towel, glancing up, massaging his nose, and flushing when he saw himself on the screen.
Shane swallowed dryly, gratefully accepting the water bottle as it came his way and taking several gulps as though it would cleanse him of the endless temptation towards distraction that this game had apparently decided to present.
…
Period two had stayed 2-1, both teams starting to flag slightly, the Raiders, it seemed, out of pure exhaustion, and the Metros falling apart as their first line went to pieces for no apparent reason. Shane had made his way back to the locker room with his head down, not even attempting to offer the rest of the team any words of encouragement, because deep down, he knew he was the problem. Or, one of them at least. Pike was inexplicably all over the place, too, missing passes, and almost falling face first over the boards as he hopped over for one shift, not to mention the attempt to pull Drapeau that had seen the goaltender head halfway to the bench and then immediately have to sprint- or as close as he could get to it- back to the crease to field away a shot.
Shane, against his better instincts, dropped down into his stall and unlocked his phone. Maybe if he could just check what Ilya had said, he wouldn’t spend the entire time thinking about it, right? He’d know for sure, and then he could stop imagining things.
The latest two (or really three) messages, though, stopped him in his tracks.
LILY: Voice message. 00:41
LILY: did not mean send that 🫵
LILY: *👍
What the fuck could be in this voice note? Oh, this was a hundred times worse than just not knowing what the texts said. He wasn’t about to pull out his headphones and listen to what very well might be actual fucking audio porn in the middle of the damn locker room. But there was… another option…
Unconsciously gritting his teeth as though the button had a fifty-fifty chance of exploding the entire planet, Shane clicked ‘view transcription’.
0:05 stop
0:08 [Music]
0:13 harsh
0:14 [Music]
0:15 fight it
0:16 his shoe
0:22 oh wait
0:24 Shane
0:25 I do not mean to do this
0:27 what the fuck is
0:32 okay I don’t know what it is doing
0:34 how do I delete
0:36 ha I send you this as update
0:39 so you know what I am doing
0:41 okay love you miss you bye
An accidental voice note, then, so it wouldn’t necessarily be too…salacious. But his eyes were drawn to the notation at 16 seconds, reading it over and over in his mind, considering how it sounded…
“Hollz.” The voice in his ear was unexpectedly quiet, and he looked up into Hayden’s wide, focused eyes. “Is everything alright?”
“Uh-” Shane struggled to adjust to the conversation, feeling like the untoward thoughts in his brain were visible in his eyes, audible at the close distance, obvious to anyone who even glanced his way. But no one knew. No one knew what this was. What he was. “-yeah.”
“You sure, bud? You look pretty stricken there, and you have every time you’ve touched your phone tonight. Is someone in your family sick or something?”
What a fucking question Hay’. Yeah, he considered Ilya a part of his family now, even if it wasn’t something that he could really declare to anyone beyond the man himself, and his own parents, and yes he was sick, but… “It’s kinda complicated.”
“Okay, well you know, if there’s anything you need, or you wanna talk about it…”
“Thanks.” He was standing before he’d even really processed the desire to leave. “I’ll be back.”
Hayden nodded, with this disquieting look of ‘understanding’ on his face. Shane grabbed his headphones from his bag and walked quickly towards the door. He’d made it a single step into the corridor when he heard JJ’s voice from behind him,
“Where the fuck is the capitaine running off to again? We are falling apart here, people!”
And Pike’s response, “Shut the fuck up Boiziau.”
…
Shane was fumbling the earbuds into his ears before he’d even shut the door of the bathroom stall, fingers hovering over the play button the moment he’d realised he was alone, breath coming in embarrassingly urgent little puffs as the various combatant feelings within him swelled to a crescendo, heart thumping so loudly in his ears he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear whatever this turned out to be.
He slammed the bolt across, leaning against the wall and not even bothering to try and calm himself down this time- he had like no time at all before he’d have to be back out there, and he needed every single second of that time for calming himself down AFTER he’d listened to it.
With a final strangled-sounding attempt at a deep breath, his thumb came down on the screen and his ears were filled with static. And then-
“hKk! Kkh! KSH!” Oh this was exactly what he’d hoped and dreaded it would be.
“Stop.” Ilya pleaded with, apparently himself, in the recording, to no avail, “hKSH! KSHH! hhih… hKSH! hh… hhAHSHh! KSH! KXSH! hRSHH! Khvatit. Ple-hihh… hhIHSHOo!”
Shane shuddered, the sweat-drenched material of his compression shirt sticking to the tiled wall he was leaning against, almost holding him up. Ilya panted, loud and unrestrained in his ears, catching his breath. The Canadian shut his eyes, imagined the blond’s head pressed against his chest as he recovered, pressed his hand there just to make it feel a tiny bit more real.
“Oh, wait.”
He let his hand drop again, pressing his damp palm against the cool tile, trying to regulate his body temperature a little.
“Shane?”
The brunet pretended that his heart hadn’t just ejected itself from his chest to sit disobediently in his mouth, leaving an aching, unappeasable pit of desire in its place, at the sound of his name. God, he couldn’t last another second without him, right now. He couldn’t play without him, couldn’t live without him, couldn’t- apparently he couldn’t stand without him either, as his legs crumpled beneath him and he fell to his knees on the floor, eyes opening to stare up into that unyielding gaze, that stony expression that so poorly hid his boyfriend’s adoration for him now that he’d seen it fall so many times, that face, of the man he loved. And he saw only ceiling tiles, harsh lighting, the cold empty walls of the room he’d locked himself in to let down walls of his own. The prison of his own making.
“I do not mean to do this.” Ilya inadvertently apologised for the false hope the audio had given his boyfriend, brow somehow audibly furrowed as his voice got closer to the phone.
“What the fuck is-?” He was silent for a moment and then, “Okay, I don’t know what it is doing. How do I delete?”
More silence, and then, in stark contrast, giggling. “I send you this as update-” He broke off laughing again, the sound wheezing faintly in his chest as he struggled for breath, “-so you know what I am doing.” His voice was playful, but there was nothing lucid about it.
“Okayyy.” Ilya stretched the word out long, like they were on the phone and he didn’t want to be the one to hang up. Shane told himself that the sheen over his eyes was from staring into the ceiling lights, and blinked it away. “Loveyoumissyoubye!” He half-yelled, all as one word, and then there was a slight popping sound and the audio came to an end.
Shane took a shaky breath in, checked how much time he had left, and started to respond.
YOU: Bless you. The voice note was cute, even if it was an accident.
YOU: Do you know if you have a fever?
And then he typed, and promptly deleted, ‘I want to leave the arena right now and drive straight to Ottawa. I want to fucking hold you, I want to fucking fuck you, I want to devour you.’ He swallowed, watching the letters disappear again. No, there was definitely a less aggressive way to say that.
YOU: I love and miss you too.
…
The next hour had passed so quickly, he wasn’t sure it had happened at all, a blur of adrenaline and ice and yelling, and drinking unthinkable amounts of electrolytes as though that would help the time pass quicker, and staring at the clock, and scoring- nice- and then back to a blur again.
Shane took his post game interview- shot from the collarbones up essentially- rhythmically clenching his gloved hands into fists and then flexing them all the way out again, out of sight of the camera, while he gave some pointless answers that really could have been supplied by any of the other players’ kids just as well as they were by the captain.
“What the fuck did he ask you?” Pike had called after him as he’d walked in, already half stripped down, sorted his gear from his jersey and his compression clothes at an eyebrow raising speed- or so he gathered from the look on the winger’s face as he turned- and headed straight for the showers.
“The usual shit!” He’d yelled back, clearly not answering the underlying question- ‘why are you so pissed off?’ and throwing himself under the nearest free jet of water.
Having deftly dodged all other responsibilities for the night, he was now speedwalking out of the building, and navigating to Ilya’s contact, heart rate picking up again at the realisation that he’d made it, he was free from the purgatory of a game that he really should have been enjoying, and now he was-
“H’lo?”
“I’m coming to see you.” He delivered the words forcefully, no room for argument.
“Bless you.” This response was softer, spoken more closely to the receiver, and his fast pace across the parking lot faltered too, mental resolve weakened by the audio display of weakened physical resolve he’d been presented with.
“Thank you.” A thud.
“Are you okay?”
Ilya moaned. “Remote fell. I think I sleep through end of game.”
“Did I wake you?” He was fumbling for his keys, trying to force himself to visualise the inside of his bag pockets rather than the sweet, sleepy expression that was probably gracing his boyfriend’s face right now.
“Yeah.” The Russian’s voice broke on the single word, and he broke off coughing, not moving away from the phone, though Shane could hear him shifting his position on the couch.
He finally managed to find his keys and unlocked the car, jogging the final few steps, opening the back passenger side door and shoving his bag in before slamming it shut again and rounding the vehicle towards the driver’s side like he was trying to outrun a hoard of zombies. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to let you know I was on my way.”
“’S good.” The blond was whispering now, whether because his throat hurt, his voice was gone entirely, or he was simply too tired to make any effort to speak louder, Shane couldn’t discern. “I look forward to meeting you.”
“What?” When he was really out of it, but still coherent enough to retain some English, he’d noticed that his boyfriend seemed to revert to textbook phrasing, sentences he’d probably had drilled in before anything else, and they’d stuck. That was his theory for the overly formal blessing habit, too. And he wouldn’t change that for the world, no matter what it did to him.
“Love you.” Ilya continued, “Have a driving license.” From the tone he could only assume he meant something along the lines of ‘have a safe drive’ , but the first collocation that had come to mind for ‘driving’ was ‘license’. The man really was full of linguistic phenomena.
“L-” He began to reply, only to be abruptly cut off.
“hKk! KKh! hKSH! Kkh! hKSHUh! hKSHooh!” Cutee, why was there no ‘record’ button on phone calls for moments like this? He could have gotten weeks of teasing out of this clip, and months of… other amusement. “hhiHKSHh! KSHUh! huAHSXHh-ugh.”
“Bless you.” He winced slightly at the sound of that last one, “Love you. See you later.”
“Loooove you.” Ilya coughed, what sounded like the start of a whole fit, but put the phone down before he could hear it get to that point.
Ah, yes, also he was very much full of the flu. Linguistic phenomena, adoration for Shane, apparently, and the flu, that was most of what made up Ilya Rozanov right now. And his boyfriend, though it made his gut twist with guilt, couldn’t imagine a better combination.
or, four times I/lya R/ozanov was the most sensitive person in the room, and one time he wasn't alone. 5.6k
truly, this is just an excuse for me to get out all the sappy scenarios bouncing around my brain curtesy of all of your lovely posts. i know multiple of these are inspired by hcs of @perseaphoneaa and @sleptwithinthesun and probably more that i can't remember lol. probably slightly ooc, probably timeline mistakes, but we will just have to deal!! enjoy i/lya being a mess through the years and some people around him cleaning him up with love! with a little kink/honeymoon rhinitis s/hane at the end as a treat :)
Ottawa, 2011
Ilya really needs to start bringing his own fucking toiletries on the road. But, he’s not thinking all that hard when he packs (partly due to the fact that he’s chronically late, even on airport days), just shoving clothes and socks and shoes in his duffle before rushing out just in time to not get left behind.
And, he’s definitely not thinking all that hard after a game, a game they just had their lights knocked out of them, by the way (is that the expression?). All he’s thinking about is getting under the hot, steady stream of water in the hotel shower and washing this night off of his skin. Throughout his rookie season, he’s been mindlessly categorizing the cities he’s been through in many ways: best coffee, hottest women, most people that hate him, and best hotel showers. The hotel they stay at in Ottawa has a shower that cracks the top 3. Maybe top 2.
What he maybe needs to start making a mental list of, though, is which hotel toiletries make him the most miserable. (On second thought, maybe that needs to be a physical list.)
They’re all named stupid English shit he can barely translate or pronounce in the small text on the bottle, like Tropical Oasis or Sandalwood Breeze or Mountain Escape, so he doesn’t even know what’s in the shit that makes him so miserable. He just knows that, at any given hotel, there’s about a 25% chance that whatever tiny little bottles they have innocently sitting in the shower are going to set him off like crazy. (Alright. 33%.)
And, hey. A 25% 33% chance isn’t all that bad considering how badly he feels the need to wash the sweat and grime of the game off his body. And, honestly, it hadn’t happened in a while. Maybe he should’ve taken that as a sign that his luck was running out.
About 45 seconds after Ilya pops the small cap open and starts rubbing the bubbly body wash across his skin, he feels that tell-tale prickle high in his left nostril. The sensation is so sudden, it forces a suprised cough from his lungs as his eyes start to squint shut and his nose scrunches up of it’s own accord.
Somehow, though the echoing sound of himself bouncing around the ceramic walls of the shower, he hears muffled rustling outside the bathroom door.
“Fucking hell, again, Roz?”
Ilya has the sense through this fit to roll his eyes at this. (And then promptly sneeze again.) Cliff has, unfortunately (and embarrassingly) been there for many of Ilya’s nose’s tantrums, especially considering they’re always rooming together on the road.
As mortifying as it can be (like in this moment), Ilya’s grateful it’s him. Marlow’s always been kind to him, seeking him out to start conversation, and always seeming to have a sense of when Ilya’s not quite understanding something. He doesn’t make a big deal of it, which Ilya appreciates. With Marlow’s boisterous, loud kindness, they’ve started a friendship fairly quickly.
“Ah, yes, SehhH?! H’JYSZZCHH! Serenity Mist. Of c-course, I know I am ahH! ahH’yIISHhhuU! snf! allergic to thing named Serenity Mist. How could I forget?” Ilya yells out sarcastically, his accent reverberating across the bathroom. Well, he hoped the sarcasm came across through the non-stop sneezing.
“That’s why you look at the ingredients on the back, rook!”
Ilya does not have the time, energy, or breath at this moment to explain to Cliff that one, he was not thinking hard enough to remember that; two, he’d be lucky if he knew one English word on that ingredient list; and three, he doesn’t even know what the hell’s in this shit that he’s allergic to. So, he just sneezes in response.
A knock at the bathroom door cuts through the noise of his sneezing and the running water. He hears the door crack open and blinks his tears away to see Marlow’s large arm sticking through, holding a white bar of soap.
They’ve done this exact music and dance (he knows he’s not using that one right) so many times, it’s routine. Ilya thinks at this point, Marlow probably brings an extra bar of soap just for him. He’s not going to think too deeply into the warmth that idea spreads through his chest.
Scrubbing roughly at his nose with one hand, his other hand opens the shower door, letting a fresh, cool breeze of air in to scatter goosebumps across his skin. Ilya steps out carefully, droplets of water skittering down his body, leaving little puddles as he pads towards the door.
His nose just can’t help itself, though, especially with the new addition of cold air making his sinuses shiver. “ehH? hiH’JZZSHHuU! hh! DSHHhU!--ehH-EH’TZZSHHuu!” His head snaps down as he shudders through a desperate trio of sneezes, pointedly directed away from Marlow’s arm outstretched in front of him.
“If that was your snot on my arm, Roz, I’m going to kill you,”
“Fuck off. Is not snot. Just water. And Serenity Mist soap, maybe”
He hears Marlow’s deep, booming laugh over the sound of the still-running water. “Fuckin’ Serenity Mist. I’m starting a list so you don’t forget, that’s goin’ at the top,”
Ilya rolls his eyes. Marlow himself will forget to even start said list, he’s sure. “snf! Thanks,” Ilya lets out, grabbing the bar from his hand.
“Gotcha, man. Got Claritin, medicine out here for you, too, once you’re done,”
“I do not--”
“--Take pills, I know. It’s the liquid kind. Figured I should find some after the last time you decided to suffer through a 12-hour allergy attack instead of taking any meds,”
Ilya doesn’t know how to respond in a way that doesn’t reveal that Marlow’s simple gesture is just about the nicest thing someone other than Svetlana’s done for him in a long time. Good thing his nose takes over for him.
“EH! yYISSHHhhUU!”
“Jeeesus, rook, I get it. Go wash all that stuff off, quick, you’re hogging the good water,”
What Marlow means by ‘the good water’, Ilya’s got no idea. And he doesn’t think this is an weird English thing, he thinks it’s a weird Marlow thing.
“Yes, fine, going,” He huffs out, shutting the door and shuffling back in the shower. And, if he’s not as much bothered by all the sneezing after that, well, maybe he’s learned he just needs a good Marlow to take care of him help him out during these reactions to make him feel a tiny bit better.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
2. Sochi, 2014
He’d really tried to be alone. Really, really tried his best. He was pissed, in the worst mood, and just wanted to wallow. Because, really, Latvia? His father was right, it was a disgrace.
Oh, and on top of everything? Losing to Latvia, being a disgrace to his country, yelling at Shane Hollander, and being berated by his father? Ilya was sick. Of course. Maybe it was karma. For failing his country. For being an asshole. He did start to feel that congestion seeping in only one day after their loss.
But, for some reason, Svetlana didn’t want to let him be alone. He tried to tell her not to come around him, that he’d get her sick, that he didn’t want any company. Tried to be an asshole (he felt like he was getting pretty good at that recently). Considering his pounding head was propped up against her side, both of their legs stretched out across her hotel bed…He definitely wasn’t enough of an asshole. Or, he was, and Sveta just didn’t care. Probably that one.
“Damn, Canada is on fire. They’re about to get another power play. No way the U.S. gets through it without Hollander scoring. Maybe twice.”
Ilya groans against her side, muffled by the cotton of her shirt, eyes still squeezed shut. “Sveta, stop talking about-” Shane fucking Hollander. “-hockey. Do we have to watch this?” The Russian consonants fall easily from his lips, even muddled by his congestion.
“Your eyes have been closed the whole time, you’re not even watching.”
“I feel like I am with your constant announcing,”
“I deserve to watch some beautiful hockey when you’re laying there sniffling your germs all over my bed,”
Ilya’s jaw and eyes pop open, squinting against the glow of the TV, shocked expression pointing up at his best friend. “You must be kidding. You practically forced me over here, and now you’re complaining about it?” He can’t help but to sniffle against the congestion building, even knowing he’s proving her point.
A laugh that reminds Ilya of wind chimes falls from her lips. “I wouldn’t mind so much if you actually watched with me. You’re my favorite person to watch hockey with,”
The compliment makes chest feel warm. Or, maybe that’s a fever. “Sveta, take two seconds and imagine why I wouldn’t want to watch Olympic hockey right now,”
“Ilyusha, you’re sick. We always watch hockey when you’re sick,” She points out. And while she’s not wrong…
“Well, I’ve never been sick and lost to the worst fucking country in the Olympics at the same time. This is new territory,”
“Exactly. I figured you’d want to watch some good hockey, since you hadn’t seen any yourself in the past few days,”
The grin across her lips, reserved for when she’s purposefully pushing his buttons, catches his eye. And, he is sick, but hasn’t lost all his reflexes yet.
He swiftly pushes up, rolling himself over her and capturing her wrists in his hands. He shakes her with each word he says, and that wind-chime laugh is already in his ears. “Too far, Sveta, too far! You know I am the best hockey player in the world, admit it!”
“You are, factually, not the best hockey player in the world! Once this game is over, we are going to see which country the best hockey player in the world is from, but he is not from Russia,” Svetlana nods at the television, which Ilya just knows is showing Shane Hollander right now, so he can not turn around. Again, karma is not on his side.
And he knows this for absolute certain because now is when his nose decides it has had enough quiet time.
“Hh? heEH! nNGgtt!--nnGgkT! hh! nNGT’tshh!” He ducks off to the side, stifling three sneezes in quick succession as best he can hands-free. Ilya rolls off Svetlana, scrubbing at his nose in the aftermath, and pointedly not looking at her.
“Ilya,” Fuck, he knows that tone. “Don’t do that,”
He rolls his eyes, grumbling softly. “You were right there. What, you wanted me to sneeze all over y- hhn! nGKT’Chh! -snf! you?”
She swiftly ignores his excuse. “I thought we stopped doing that.”
A scoff leaves the back of his throat, and he ignores how just that slight vibration felt sore on the way up. “We? I did not know you, too, had a nose that was broken a million times and can not stop sneezing at every little thing,”
His attempts at distracting and baiting her are obviously not working. “I have not heard you do that in a long time, Ilyusha. Since you were a teenager, around your father,”
He groans, obviously not escaping this conversation. And, she is trying to be sweet. He knows this, even if his melting-fever-brain is telling him that she’s simply being annoying and overreacting about holding in his sneezing of all things. “It’s just…Being back here. You know. Around everything. I guess just makes me think I have to…go back to that,”
She hums softly, and he can feel her eyes on him, even though he’s deliberately avoiding hers. “You know you do not ever. Have to go back to that, yes?”
And, with his nose and brain already clogged, he can not start to release everything right now, that he does have to be tied here in some way, in some way, because of his mother’s grave, his father’s illness, his Russian passport and citizenship, his niece…He already feels pressure behind his eyes just at the thought of it all.
So, instead, he goes with: “Yes, I know. I know, Sveta,” Finally, his eyes meet hers.
Another set of wide eyes scan across his face, full lips pressed together. With a soft breath, she hooks an arm around his shoulders, tugging him down to lay in her lap. He maneuvers his body with her, his head instinctively nuzzling deeper into the comfort of her warm legs as her lithe fingers tangle in his hair.
Of course, the change of direction has his sinuses protesting yet again. His swimming brain doesn’t notice until he’s hitched a few times, the bridge of his nose crinkling tight. His instinct is to bring two fingers up to his nose, but he only makes it a few inches before he feels a soft, warm hand against his arm.
“Ilya,” And it’s all she has to say.
“hhiH! EH! dJJSHHhh! ehH’TSHhh! hh! yyISHhhhUU!” He still brings his elbow up, but more to try to save Sveta’s legs from the spray than to try to hold in the expulsions.
“Bless you,” She hums. And, maybe as a little reward for letting go (of more things than just his sneezes, she thinks), she hands him the remote for the TV.
He’ll be asleep in minutes anyway, and then she can go back to watching her hockey.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
3. Ottawa, 2018
He blames Shane not being here. If Shane had been here, he’d be the one insisting to man the sauce pan and stir. Ilya’s been told one too many times he over-mixes. Or, at the very least, he’d have had some brain to maybe inch Ilya away while adding the spices.
Maybe he’s just pissy because he knows if Shane were here watching this all go down, he’d get to see those sprinkled freckled cheeks turn adorably red. And, if he was lucky, see Shane’s little eyebrows do their little motion as he tried to think of a valid excuse to drag Ilya back to his room and kiss the shit out of him.
Either way, definitely not Shane’s fault. He does wish he was here to see it, though.
“ehH?! eHH’DJJSHHhuU!”
It’s really Ilya’s obliviousness’ fault at this point. He knows his nose well enough, he should’ve known to make himself scarce when Yuna had mentioned she was adding the spices. But, to be fair, it usually wasn’t this bad. Or, was it? And he was just remembering wrong?
He was 75% sure it wasn’t usually this bad.
“heH! hH’DZZSHH! ehH’TSZHHhuU!!”
Blinking through streaming eyes, he tries to pull himself back together. But, his lashes are fluttering shut again within a few moments. Whatever steam that was rising from the pan, mixing all those spice particles and throwing them up at him had his nostrils prickling and his eyes squinting in irritation. Fuck, he hates that this had to happen around…
“God, sweetheart, you sound like you’re going for the record! Come on, sit, sit,”
Yuna.
He absently feels a small hand against his back, gentle pressure urging him towards what he can only imagine is the kitchen table. His eyes are apparently just as irritated as his nose.
The hands move to his shoulders, pushing him down against a hard chair in the kitchen. He wants to tell her she shouldn’t be so close, that he’s really fine, but, again.
“I-- iiH! yyIZZSSHhhU!”
Hard to do while your immune system is attacking itself. He coughs irritatedly when he finally gets a damn breath that doesn’t immediately feel like an incoming sneeze, wincing as he feels Yuna’s presence still hovering. Two fingers instinctively raise, and he pauses half-way to his face with a roll of his red, watering eyes.
And that, that, is something he can actually blame Shane for. And Svetlana. Making him feel all safe, all comfortable to be imperfect, to show his ‘emotions’ and ‘feelings’. Insisting he just ‘lets it all out’ - sneezes included.
Assholes, the both of them. He was pretty sure even if he wanted to hold in his sneezes like he used to, he wouldn’t be able to. Without significant effort. Those motherfuckers Pavloved him. (He’d been proud using that term for the first time to Shane).
“Bless you, honey,”
Fuck, he’d forgotten about Yuna. His frame twitches with surprise as he feels paper in his free hand. Thankfully, the one not attached to the elbow he’s been sneezing into for dear life.
Blindly, he fumbles to press the bundle of tissues to his nose, mopping up moisture he doesn’t want to think about the origins of…Eyes or nose…? Just pretending it’s all from the eyes.
“Yuna, I’m so- soHH! ahH’DJJSSHhuU! snf!“
“No need to apologize, Ilya, I promise,” Magic mom intuition apparently knew where he was going with that one. “Just blow when you can to get all that stuff out,”
At this point, Ilya isn’t sure if the flush high on his cheekbones is from the embarrassment of this happening in front of Shane’s mother of all people, or from exertion from sneezing so much. He starts feeling that itch in his chest, that he needs to hold it in, needs to just not be so fucking disgusting--
“No, no, I cannoht--eHG’TZSHHhhU! I shhhould just go outside for a s-sehH! second, clean--”
She cuts him off swiftly with a hand on his shoulder. “Ilya, honey, I don’t trust you could make it outside with your eyes watering like that. It’s not going to get better unless you blow,”
In the end, it’s not really fully his choice. A particularly desperate double has him crunching down into the tissues tented over two hands, burying his overactive nose in the folds. The sneezes have him him sniffling frantically in the aftermath, feeling wetness snaking through every part of his sinuses. He feels the need to blow just to clear that sensation, immediately.
And, loathe as he was to do that with Yuna right there (close enough she was touching his back, by the way), the next breath he takes in post-nose blow is the clearest breath he’s taken in minutes. Shit, did the Hollander genetics just have it written in that they had to be right all the time?
After double, triple checking that he was sufficiently clean, he finally lowered the tissues from his nose with a sniffle, chancing a watery glance up at Yuna. And with that soft, fond smile she was giving him, well, no one could blame him if he saw a glimmer of Irina. Or if he had some water in his eyes having nothing to do with the spices.
Yuna chuckled gently, dragging her hand across the side of his cheek, smoothing down the curls by his ear. “Maybe we find a new kitchen job for you, huh? At least while I’m finishing up this part,” She suggests, kindness and a little amusement in her tone.
“Or, maybe…You know, because I am so helpful and I do the worst job that you do not want to do…snff! I go help David finish his puzzle,”
A bright laugh escapes her lips. “God, yes please. He’s too close, you know he’s not going to want to come until he’s finished--”
“--And, then we will be having dinner at 9:30pm. Yes, yes, I will go save family dinner from puzzle master,” Ilya stands, shoving a few clean tissues in his pocket, just in case, as he begins walking to the other room.
“This is why you’re my favorite son!” Yuna calls out after him.
“I am telling your least favorite son you said this!” He calls back, over his shoulder. At the domesticity of it all, feels a sofy, mushy feeling in his chest, something he’s come to learn almost feels like healing.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
4. Ottawa, 2021
“So, it’s already recording, we’ll edit down all the content later, all you’ve gotta worry about is making sure the guys are in frame, audible, and making good content. Which, really, is never much of a problem with this grou--”
“Hey, what’s going on with them?”
Harris looked up and blinked, obviously too engrossed in his explanation. Or, maybe he was just too good at drowning the sound of his idiots out, at this point. It was his new social media assistant’s first day, hired to help take the load off of him with all the content and PR needs the Centaurs had. Well, it looked like she’d be starting off with a bang.
“That’s two! And, looks like we’re headed for--”
“hiEH?! ehH’TSZHHUU! hUH! DJjjSHH--EH’YISHhhUU!”
“Three! Fou--Five!”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Harris muttered, unable to keep a lick of fond exasperation out of his tone. “They have this thing--”
“snf!! oh- aH! dyY’ISHHhhuU! kH! hh’TZSHHUUu!”
“Oh, and boys, the gloves are coming off! If we’ve learned anything this season, if the gloves come off, it’s at least another four to go!” Wyatt’s voice rung out, obviously emulating one of the many announcers they’d heard throughout their years in the league.
“ShhuuH! uH’DJJZHH-uu! Shut the hell uuHP’IISCHHhU!, ugh--Hazy,”
And, sure enough, at the middle of the ice, was Ilya Rozanov, shaking out his hands to send his gloves flying. All the while, sneezing his fucking head off, bringing his newly freed fingers to scrub viciously at his nose.
Harris shook his head, glancing back at his new partner-in-crime. “They’ve got this thing, with Ilya and his sneezing. Something about being out in the cold on the ice for this long sets him off, and every time he starts going off like this, they start counting to see if he’ll beat the record,”
He receives a raised brow. “And, what’s the record?”
“Ladies and gentleman, the Russian cursing has emerged! We’re in the home stretch! Will tonight be the night Mr. Rozanov beats his previously set record?”
“Who’s keeping count?” Bood asks, glancing around before clapping Luca on the back, watching the rookie tick one more finger up each time Roz--
“ehH’JJSHhhhuh! snff! Ohh, and you all like to have biih! iH’TShhhUU!-ngh, big ego about being kindest team in the league, so-called ‘good guys’, what will f-ahH! hH’ATTSHhh! fuck! What will fans do -snf! When they know their team is full of ahhAH! adD’JJSHhhUU! assholes?”
The players are all huddled around laughing, but Harris’s eyes drift to Troy (maybe they’ve been on him the whole time, unconsciously). He watches on as Luca, still diligently counting on his fingers, leans over and mutters something to Troy, which promptly makes him cackle so hard, Harris thinks he might double over. He isn’t surprised, Luca is sneaky-funny.
The group's collective attention splits to Troy for the moment, a few eyes still glancing back at Ilya as he continues sneezing and sniffling. It takes Troy a few moments to spit out what’s making him laugh so hard, Luca innocently standing beside him with a knowing smile.
“He’s mic’d up today--!”
The realization that this whole interaction is being recorded with the little microphone attached to Ilya’s jersey causes the guys to fall into hysterics, all thoughts of counting for the record tabled.
Harris can’t help but to chuckle himself, watching as, of course, Rozanov’s watery, blinking eyes flit around to land on him.
Skating, sneezing, and ripping off a hot mic all at the same time was pretty impressive, in Harris’ book, even if said hot mic was getting shoved back into his hand by a very large, very sneezy hockey player.
“Harris, I promise, if I see that shihH!--shit on Instagram...hhUH! uH’DJJSHhUU! --or Twitter or whatever Centaur page, I will make your PR life living hell. I will Tweet about favorite sex position, and comment on stupid American political posts I don’t uhh!--understand… ehH’JJZSHHuUU! and post not-classy ‘thirst trap’ of me with ‘too much skin’ and ‘too low angle’--”
Now, that last part, was a direct quote from Harris. He really didn’t think he’d be at a point in his life where he was vetting hockey player thirst traps. “You already do half of those things!”
“I can make it worse,” Ilya threatened, with not too much success considering the sniffling and the pawing at his red nose was cutting through his intimidation. It was making the Russian look, for lack of a better term, adorable.
“I saw extra tissues in the supply cabinet if you’re out in your locker,” Harris sighed, ignoring the captain’s empty threats, switching off the tiny mic in his hands and sitting it on the table. He’d seen this happen enough times to know how to handle Ilya in the aftermath.
As if he wasn’t still recovering from an all-intensive sneeze-attack, Ilya gave an enthusiastic nod at Harris, pounding him on the back thankfully before ducking forwards with another sneeze. “snff--Thank you!”
Harris shook his head fondly, glancing back out at the guys still on the ice, still laughing and shoving each other around. And, if some clips of that video made it into Ilya’s birthday post that year, well…It was Troy’s idea.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
+1. Montreal, 2016
Shane stumbles into the bathroom, feeling all-too lightheaded to do anything more than just go through the motions. Grab paper towels, turn sink on, run towels under cold water, press on face…
A shaky breath escapes his chest. The cloud in his mind is slowly dispersing, allowing more thoughts in full sentences. God, he thinks, flipping the paper towels and pressing the cool side to the back of his neck, of course this would happen. He’s either severely angered some god looking down on him, or he’s their favorite human on the planet. He really can’t tell which one, because--
“hyEH! EH’DJJZHHhhU!! hh! TSHHhhhyUUU!”
Because that. Shane shifts his eyes up to look through the mirror, the door behind him swinging open to reveal a familiar blonde Russian. Of course.
“hh-hiH! yyYIZSSHHUUu!”
A sneezing, familiar blonde Russian.
Shane feels that same stream of heat he’s been trying so hard to ignore for the length of the shoot trickle low in his stomach. He sighs out a flustered frustrated breath.
Maybe Shane should be Ilya’s manager, because he’s positive that he could’ve told the man this would be a bad idea. Even in his fairly limited in-person interactions with Ilya in the past seven years, Shane had quickly picked up on the fact that the man’s nose was overly sensitive. To seemingly everything.
The cold air of the rink, the pollen in Canada, the cleaning products used in hotels, and yes, what seemed like anything scented. So, why Ilya thought doing a cologne ad with 3 other hockey players was a good idea, Shane had no clue. He must’ve known it would end up like this. With him sneezing his head off throughout the shoot, and Shane attempting to not look like he was getting harder and harder with each and every sneeze.
Well, hopefully he didn’t know that second part. But, that first part, Ilya must’ve known.
“snf! I do not think you are so much of a polite Canadian, after all,” Shane blinks in surprise, glancing up at Ilya though the mirror as he spoke his first true words since entering the bathroom. Even through the reflection in the mirror, he must see the confusion written across Shane’s expression, because Ilya takes his pause to continue.
“I have sneeze attack for whole shoot, sneeze ten, twenty, thirty times, and do not hear one bless you from Shane Hollander,” Big, brown eyes can’t help but to track large Ilya’s hand as he brings it up to scrub at his nose, sniffling uselessly before he continues. “Heard from all the other players, from nice producers and camera people…Is polite for at least one ‘bless you’, if you did not want to bless for the other twenty-nine,”
Shane’s breath hitches deep in his throat, cheekbones rosy as he turns around to face his ‘rival’, the marble countertop of the sink cool against his back. It’s about the only part of him that feels cool right now. Since he can’t think straight, instinctive words he never has to think about fall out of his mouth without permission: “Fuck off, Rozanov,”
And, right on time, Ilya ducks forwards with another triplet of sneezes, aiming towards his arm. Shane is decidedly not noticing that he half-misses his arm, and can see the evidence of that in the air between them…Fuck, he’s noticing, he’s definitely noticing, and he feels a pulse of energy between his legs. And a matching prickle high in his sinuses. No, no, they were not about to do this here.
Ilya is sniffling wetly, blinking through irritation, his eyes falling on Shane again, flitting across his expression. God, is it possible that this allergic irritation makes his eyes look even more mesmerizing? “What, you are…What is it called? When you are scared of germs?”
“...Germaphobic?”
Ilya nods. “Ah, yes, you are germaphobic?” The way he says it, all stretched out and broken up, makes it sound like he’s pronouncing each sound alone, making sure he’s repeating it just as Shane told him.
“Wha-no!” He’s getting whiplash from this conversation, more to do with the incessant sneezing from the Russian than any type of language barrier.
Shane’s gaze trails from Ilya’s eyes to his nose, twitching and flaring seemingly of its own accord, definitely without Ilya’s permission. Shane takes a short sniffle in himself, wrenching his nose to the side instinctively.
“So, then, if you are not germaphobic,” his accent sounds smoother this time across the unfamiliar word, “thehh…thEH! eEH’DJJZHHHUUuu! snf! Hoo…‘bless me’,” Ilya blesses himself in an expecting tone, brows raised and gazing over at Shane like he was waiting for him to do the same. Of course, leave it to Ilya Rozanov to turn this into some kind of power-play dynamic. He didn’t even know what he was getting himself into.
At Rozanov’s low words, Shane gives another sharp, irritated sniffle before answering. He could do this, he could get a handle on it and do it without setting off that godforsaken reflex. “hh! Bl…Bless you--hh’TSHh--iIH’HTSHhh! oh--ehh’SHhh!--uhh…”
Fuck.
Slowly straightening up from where he had ducked into his wrist, Shane’s eyes rise to meet Rozanov’s face. Hell, and of course Rozanov’s looking at him all confused, because the only times the man has heard him sneeze like that were when…
“...What, you are coming now? Untouched?” The ‘again’ is unspoken, but implied.
Cheeks dusted pink, thumbing shyly at his nose, Shane replies with a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes. He can feel the pink turning into red, fast, and promptly ignores it. “No! Fuck off,” How eloquent, Shane.
Ilya raises a brow. “Well, you are not feeling scared or phobic, that is for sure. Opposite, maybe,” He’s looking curious now, which isn’t a good thing for either of them. For Shane, mostly. A large frame and blonde curls move closer into Shane’s space, bright eyes boring into his. Shane can feel warm breath against his skin, and he shakes his head needlessly.
“We can’t. Not here,” Shane insists.
“Hollander. Shoot is over. Everyone is leaving,” Shane can feel his skin vibrating where Ilya’s body is ghosting over his skin, seemingly just getting closer and closer.
“N-Not everyone, half the crew is probably still here!” He watches Ilya rolls his eyes, and Shane knows he’s probably about to call him boring again--
“Half the c-crew is ehh! exaggeration, and anyway, I locked the bathroom d…door on my my! iIH! iiH’DJJZHHUU! hHEH’EHHJJZZHuU!”
Shane tries. He really tries not to, but with Ilya so close he can practically feel the sneezes reverberating through his frame, Shane’s really got no choice in the matter. He feels his cock twitch, and his nose twitch in tandem.
“hhN! nN’TSCHh!--iiHTSHh! iiH! ih’TSHhhh!!--ngh…”
Ilya blinks up at Shane with a sniffle, straightening back to full height in the aftermath of his own sneezes. Understanding smooths out his features, and Shane mutters a curse under his breath.
“...Oh, it is this! Is my sneezing that is making you…Well. Sneezy, too,”
Fuck. Within their first two times together, Ilya had quickly put together that Shane couldn’t help but to sneeze when he was turned on. To be fair, it was a little hard not to put that together when he was a sneezy mess every time he came in front of Ilya.
What Shane was carefully sure that Ilya hadn’t put together in all of their rendezvous was…The other part. The…kink of it all. And, he’d been doing a fine job at it so far, he thought! But, with Rozanov sneezing so desperately like that, inches away from him…Shane’s own nose obviously felt the need to betray his true feelings on the matter.
Shane scrunches his eyes shut, letting out a shaky breath and dropping his forehead to clunk against his blonde counterpart’s shoulder. “Oh god…” Aaand, the lightheadedness is back.
His reaction is apparently enough to confirm Ilya’s thoughts, and to his credit, he really only takes what feels like a few moments to blink in surprise down at Shane before he springs into action.
“No, no, do not overthink, is perfect, actually,” Large, callused hands grip at Shane’s face, gently guiding him out from his hiding spot against Ilya’s own shoulder. “This is probably easiest way I could ever turn you on. Is adorable, really,”
Shane blinks, cheeks blazing. “I-It is not adorable,” And, because he can’t help himself, “And you doing it over and over again is not helping,”
His lips twitch up with a soft shrug, as if to say ‘I can’t help it!’, his smirk dangerously attractive. “It is adorable, Hollander. And, you know, kind of works out. snf! I was going to throw all these stupid cologne samples away after the shoot, but…” The Russian trails off with a tilt of his head, eyes boring into Shane’s.
“I think I will keep them around. The scent is kind of growing on me,”
much like clicker training, snzfet shane accidentally trains ilya that sneezing = rewards
6.3k includes intentional contagion, allergies, light nsfw
Ilya found out in the February of 2018.
Well— he didn't necessarily find out anything himself. Ilya thought he knew Shane better than himself, but Shane had managed to keep one thing locked away. It eventually had to come out.
Shane had been mentally preparing himself all morning to tell Ilya about his kink. He couldn't hold it back anymore, not when it wouldn't go away. Shane tried to will away the thoughts and fantasies but they wouldn't budge, even after a whole decade.
He really tried, though.
He started with a harsher workout than usual, really putting his all into the equipment, so he wouldn't have any second thoughts. He needed to feel the buzz from all of the movement that helped still his brain.
After that, he had some light oats with some small cut-up bits of a banana. Nice, simple and healthy. Less stress.
He even deep-cleaned his house, hoovering the carpets and scrubbing his bathroom clean. The chemicals sure helped dull that mess in his head.
Shane was stiffly lounging on his couch when he heard the familiar beeps of his front keypad being unlocked, Ilya stepping into his threshold.
Shane jumped to his feet, feeling more nervous than he had in months. Ilya never made him nervous anymore, because they were each other's to finally enjoy.
"You wanted to talk?" Ilya began, padding into Shane's home after taking off his shoes by the door. They hadn't seen each other in a month, but Ilya was in town for hockey.
Shane nodded, not knowing what to do with his hands. "Yeah— I did. Sit, please."
Ilya raised his brows, flopping down on Shane's couch. "This sounds extremely serious. Who died?"
"Nobody died," Shane took a breath, pacing for a second before sitting down with Ilya. Fuck, could he lose Ilya over this kink? Maybe this was a bad idea.
Ilya could sense Shane's internal spiral, placing a cautionary hand on his boyfriend's shoulder. "Hey. It's okay, don't think. Let's talk."
Shane nodded swiftly, rubbing his eyes. He could barely even look at Ilya.
Shane cleared his throat, the couch feeling suddenly too uncomfortable even though Shane carefully picked out each piece of his furniture to his liking.
"I have.. a thing," He started, squinting as he rubbed his temples.
"A dildo? Yes, you've already told me this before," Ilya scoffed softly.
"Don't be an asshole right now, please. Don't laugh. I seriously don't know what the fuck I'd do if you were to laugh in my face right now, fuck— "
Ilya frowned, Shane was so nervous. "I was joking, Hollander. I'm sorry. I won't laugh, yes? Nobody is laughing."
Shane nodded at the reassurance, trying to think of how to say what he needed to say. Trying to think of how much he should say. Would Ilya even understand?
"There's something I haven't told you about myself. A kink," Shane used his hands to help him speak, looking at the coffee table in front of him.
Ilya blinked, fiddling with his golden crucifix. "Okay.."
Shane glanced at Ilya to attempt to get a read on the Russian's expression, quickly looking away after succeeding. Ilya looked relaxed, not judgmental or humorous.
"It's.. basically— I enjoy.. sneezes?" Shane mumbled, his face heating up against his will as he side-eyed Ilya.
It was silent for a minute too long before Ilya spoke. "Sneezes? Like achoo achoo? Those?"
"Yes," Shane gritted weakly, rubbing the cluster of muscles in his forearm. "It's a kink— I've looked it up. There's a whole forum of people online. I've known for a long time, actually."
Ilya nodded, rubbing at his chin. "This is it?"
"What do you mean 'this is it'? You don't care?" Shane's voice wobbled a little, now looking at Ilya. "You're not disgusted?"
Ilya shook his head, looking genuinely confused. "Why would I be disgusted? At least you're not into.. shit, or something. Is fine, Shane." Ilya blinked, rubbing the chain of his crucifix. "This is nothing compared to what I hear the guys in locker room say."
Shane raised his brows, disbelief painting his features. "You're just— okay. It's seriously okay with you?"
Ilya nodded, shrugging. "Tell me more, though. What gets you going about it?"
Shane couldn't help but flush, scrubbing at his eyes. He'd never had the opportunity to verbalise his kink to anyone. He hadn't been able to connect with the people in the forum out of shame.
"I don't think I could put it into words, but. I like.. I don't know. Colds. Allergies. How it all seems like such a dirty thing, yet everyone sneezes. Sickness isn't erotic. My brain just decided to enjoy them."
Ilya grinned a little, rubbing his crucifix on his lower lip. "Who knew Shane Hollander could be such a little freak?"
"Oh, fuck you. You're the freak," Shane mumbled, crawling over to Ilya.
"I wouldn't mind if you got off to my sneezes, or, whatever. What do you fantasise about?" Ilya mumbled into Shane's neck, holding him on his lap.
The conversation continued into late night— which mostly just consisted of Shane loosening up and telling Ilya some of his fantasies. Ilya seemed okay with it all. Maybe he was more okay with it than Shane ever thought he'd be.
* * *
Ilya's first allergic reaction since finding out about Shane’s kink unfortunately had to happen without Shane.
His nose had been buzzing ever since he stepped foot into the Raiders locker room to play a home game. They were scheduled to play against Ottawa today, which was easy work.
Ilya pawed at his nose as he got his uniform out of his duffel bag, sniffling and grunting as he went.
Someone's cologne was not being so friendly to his nose this evening, but that obviously wasn't going to stop Ilya Rozanov from playing. Especially as team captain.
Once Ilya's uniform was on correctly, he sat on the bench and eyed the rest of the guys as they took their time getting on their own uniforms. Ilya couldn't help but continue to prod and rub at his nose, sniffling as he chewed on his mouth guard.
His original dull tickle swiftly moved into the tip of Ilya's nose, triggering some itchy sneezes. "Hah'tsHH!! Hahh...haaH'TSHH!! Hah'ktSHH! Snndf."
He directed them down to the floor in between his legs. He wasn't sick, so there was no point in covering. Nobody even blessed him anymore, Ilya had been known for his pre-game sneezes.
He found himself immediately thinking of the private conversation between himself and Shane. Shane's kink.
Ilya's cheeks grew unnecessarily hot as he imagined Shane's face if he were to witness Ilya's little fit just then. His dick felt suddenly all too restrained in his compression shorts.
Fuck, he was getting hard. Did his own sneezing just turn him on? No, no. God, he had gotten soft. The thought of turning Shane on turned him on beyond belief, and if sneezing was the thing to do it? So be it.
Pleasing him pleases me, is what Ilya told himself.
He alternated between pushing down on his bulge subtly and wiping at his nose. Now wasn't the time for these thoughts, they had a game to win.
Ilya's hockey headspace clicked as soon as his skates hit the ice, winning the faceoff against a who-knows-who Ottawa rookie and scoring two pucks in the first two periods.
Needless to say, he was doing amazing. He took some opportunities to swipe at his itchy— now runny nose whenever he passed the puck to a teammate.
* * *
Shane was currently in a hotel room in New York, accompanied by Hayden. Well— not currently. Hayden was out somewhere doing god knows what before they had mandatory practice later at 7 pm before tomorrow's big game.
So, this gave Shane some time for himself. He decided to hop on some random sports channel to catch a hockey game and little did he know, Boston was currently playing against Ottawa.
He put on his glasses, clicking on the livestream. He'd seen Ilya play one hundred thousand times before, but it never got old to analyse the Russian's elegance on the ice. Or his brutality.
The livestream greeted Shane with some commentators.
"—The Eastern Conference with 21 games to play, will continue their attempt to climb it when they face the slumping Toronto Maple Leafs at Prudential Center. Don't miss that."
"Rozanov is looking pretty good on the ice tonight. Those gloves keep coming up to tend to his nose, though. He needs to focus on the puck, not that nose."
The other commentator spoke up. "Cut the guy some slack, he's already scored two for Boston."
Shane squinted at the screen, looking for the familiar 81 to see what the commentators were talking about. Ilya did seem to be touching his nose whenever he wasn't in the thick of it. Huh.
As Shane witnessed a live Boston win, he sent Ilya a text.
Montreal Jane :
16:57 Is your nose broken or something? Congrats on beating my hometown, I guess.
Shane put his phone to the side, not expecting a text back for a while. Ilya would surely be off celebrating a hometown win.
His phone dinged several minutes later.
Boston Lily :
17:09 Not broken, allergic. 😇
Shane stared at the text. The emoji. Then the text again.
He didn't even know how to respond, especially with last week's conversation. He ended up leaving the text read, getting up to change into gym clothes for practice later. Anything to keep his mind occupied.
His phone dinged again after Shane had finished changing into his gym clothes. Shane cautiously eyed the notification. Boston Lily.
Shane sighed dramatically, picking up his phone to look at whatever Ilya had sent him.
Boston Lily :
17:16 (1 Attachment)
This is me because you left me on read.
The photo that Ilya attached showed the Russian taking a mirror selfie in the locker room of the TD Garden arena.
Ilya was jersey-less, wearing his hockey pants with a pout on his lips looking into his own eyes. What really stood out to Shane was Ilya's pink, irritated-looking nose with some tissue tucked in the fingers that held his phone. The Russian had sent that with intent. On purpose. Fully knowing and aware.
Shane silently cursed, zooming in on the photo. He could feel his abdomen tighten just from looking at the picture. His pecs were turning pink. His nose— fuck.
Montreal Jane :
17:20 Were you expecting a compliment?
Shane snickered at his own text, his thumb pressing send as he rested back in bed. Catching a glimpse of Ilya's allergy-ridden nose without the blockage of a helmet should not be turning him on this much.
Boston Lily :
17:20 You looked at my picture for 4 minutes, so yes. 🙄
"Oh, this asshole.." Shane mumbled to himself in the quiet of his New York hotel room as he eyed the text, holding his phone in one hand. Out of spite, he wouldn't send a compliment over text.
Shane ended up coming from just looking at the picture, along with his hand and his wonderful imagination. Totally out of spite for Ilya. Totally. Absolutely not from his nose.
And if Ilya was getting himself off to the thought of Shane coming to his picture? Shane would never find out.
* * *
The next time it happened, Ilya was unfortunately not with Shane for the second time.
He was currently sat in front of an audience of about 150 people for a press conference, cameras and lights blocking his view of the faces in the crowd.
He was sitting with three other guys on his team that he wasn't close with, but could definitely praise them. They were better sportsmen than Hayden Pike, that is.
Ilya watched as three makeup artists scuttled around, patiently waiting for his turn. He didn't even know why he got chosen for these things anymore, he couldn't perform a detailed response the way his English teammates could. It made him feel less than.
Ilya had been quite sniffly all morning, but that wasn't weird for him. Sometimes he had days where his nose wouldn't leave him alone, he was used to the familiar feeling.
One of the makeup artists eventually made her way to Ilya, not giving him any warnings as she dabbed a brush along his cheekbones.
He blinked, trying not to make a snarky comment on it. Sit still and don't talk where the instructions the boys were given, and he would listen. Ilya hated upsetting the higher ranks. Especially his coach.
The makeup lady tapped some powder onto his forehead and chin, moving to dust the brush along his nose. Unfortunately, she caught him on a very sensitive day.
He moved his head down, cupping a hand over the lower half of his face, "Ht'ks— Hnn'gtt! Nn'gshh! In'gsh!" He sniffled desperately, ears turning red as he heard his own sneezes loudly mirrored back to him by the amplifiers around the room. He had forgotten he had a mic strapped to his chest. He managed to stifle against his hand, fortunately.
"That's enough, Rozanov. Maria? Thank you," Coach LeClair quipped, sending away the makeup artist as he glared at Ilya. As if he could help a natural human reaction, Jesus Christ.
"Sorry.." Ilya caught his bearings, sniffling profusely as he wiped his hand on his dress pants under the table. He blinked over at the cameras, seeing that the livestream for the MLH had not yet started.
Ilya felt disappointed. He wanted Shane to see that fit, live on television. Ilya knew Shane was bundled up somewhere waiting for the stream to commence, as always.
He furrowed his brow at his own train of thought. What?
And then, naturally, he couldn't help but imagine the look on Shane's face if he witnessed that fit.
Fuck. He was getting hard again.
Ilya squeezed his legs together under the privacy of the table and its covering, trying his very best not to think about Shane right now.
If Ilya was going to pop a boner after every sneeze, this would be a problem. He never would have thought sneezing could do this to him. Had Shane's kink rubbed off on him? Surely not.
* * *
The third time was finally something.
Ilya had invited Shane over to his Boston house, since their schedules finally seemed to line up.
Ilya was up on his feet as he heard the expected knock, opening the door for Shane. Shane's eyes lit up every time he entered Ilya's home, as if he was seeing it for the first time over and over again.
"We have not seen each other in forever. Or called," Ilya tried not to whine but his speech still came off as needy as he walked Shane to the couch, taking Shane's jacket from his hands to hang it up.
"It's only been about two weeks. You went six months without contacting me once," Shane mumbled with a little smile, sitting himself down on the familiar couch.
"No, you lie," Ilya mumbled, coming to join Shane on his couch. Ilya felt slightly— nervous? A total foreign feeling for the normally confident Russian.
"I'm.. sorry if I scared you away. With photograph," Ilya eyed Shane, fixing his crucifix on his neck even though it didn't need fixing.
Shane's face remained blasé as he shook his head, lapping at his lips. "What? No. No, why would that scare me away?" Shane asked, genuinely dumbfounded.
Ilya blinked, eyes assessing Shane's body language. "Well, I don't know. You didn't text me after my press conference."
"I've just been busy," Shane explained, fixing the neckline of his shirt. "I actually thoroughly enjoyed your photo."
"Ah, you are perverted. I like it," Ilya snickered, rubbing his face with relief. So he hadn't read the situation wrong? Great.
"Can't say I expected photographic evidence, though," Shane smiled, moving to straddle Ilya as if it was natural.
Ilya shrugged, eyeing Shane's neck pulse. "I just want to get this right. Your kink."
Shane exhaled softly, holding onto Ilya. "That's more than enough. You're doing way more than most people would."
Ilya just smiled, pulling Shane closer to hide the fact that he was close to tearing up. Shane was so appreciative over the bare minimum, it was insane.
Ilya took a deep breath through his nose as he fit into Shane's neck crook like a missing puzzle piece, holding the Canadian by his waist through his hoodie. "You smell nice. New cologne?"
Shane nodded against Ilya, thumbs rubbing small circles into Ilya's shoulders. "I picked it up at an airport somewhere last week."
"Mmm," Ilya pressed kisses to Shane's neck, feeling saliva slide down Shane's throat as he swallowed against Ilya's lips. "Vanilla is good. Not many men choose this scent."
Shane chuckled lightly, kissing into Ilya's curls. "Don't go calling me a girl now."
"My wife," Ilya mumbled into Shane's neck, his lower abdomen beginning to warm up in a way that felt comfortable. The sensation was soon mentally disregarded as an odd tickle flared in the back of Ilya's nose. "Pretty.. hih.."
Ilya pressed his nose into Shane's neck as a poor attempt at quelling the tickle, only to make it unnecessarily worse. The sudden pressure to the front of his nose was like a trigger. "Ht'kshht!" Ilya's head jolted forward into Shane's neck crook, which only triggered more. "Hnn'gtt! Nn'gsh— Huh-tschh! Ah.."
Shane couldn't help the way his hips involuntarily bucked down against Ilya, both of their bodies rocking with each one of Ilya's sneezes.
"Are you okay? Bless you.." Shane mumbled, voice shaking as he pulled away to look at Ilya. Shane could feel the spray— the wetness on his neck. Shane also knew that Ilya could feel his dick gluttonously filling with aroused blood as their crotches sat together, confined by layers of clothing.
"Sndff.. I'm okay. Strong cologne," Ilya mumbled, a sly smirk easing its way onto the Russian's lips. "Vanilla makes me quite tickly," Ilya said, vaguely gesturing to his nose and neck.
"Right," Shane breathed out, shifting his hips a little. No amount of pretending could hide how much Shane wanted Ilya right now.
Ilya pressed back into Shane's neck crook, holding Shane by his biceps. "We could take advantage of it," The Russian had said quietly.
"Fuck," Shane whispered, hips looking for a hint of friction as they seemed to take a mind of their own at Ilya's words. "You're sure?"
Ilya took a deep inhale of Shane's oesophageal skin, the same skin that got doused with cologne an hour before because Shane hated the idea of smelling bad in the company of Ilya. "So sure, Hollander."
A broken whine from Shane slipped through the cracks as he got to work on unbuttoning his jeans, tugging at the waistband of Ilya's sweatpants.
"It's crazy how worked up you get.." Ilya mumbled, watching with fascination as Shane got his and Ilya's dicks out by himself. Ilya hissed through his teeth with a spike of unexpected pleasure as Shane shuffled forward in Ilya's lap, stroking their dicks together with one hand.
* * *
Shane and Ilya somehow made their way into Ilya's bed throughout their scrambling of hands and kisses, now left catching their breath together with an occasional sniffle from Ilya.
Ilya eyed the ceiling, hand on his chest as he breathed out. "I can't believe you waited this long to tell me."
Shane scoffed to himself, casting his eyes to the Russian. "There have been multiple times that I've tried, but."
"Like when?" Ilya moved to his side so he could see Shane, basking in post orgasm bliss.
Shane shrugged, judgment clouded as he examined Ilya's features. "I remember.. you had a cold back in 2010 or something. I was watching that game and— fuck. I couldn't keep my hands off myself."
Ilya's jaw dropped comically as his eyes lit up. "What?"
"Yeah, it was crazy. I was worried too, obviously. But it was the first time I'd seen you in a state of anything less than perfect health," Shane mumbled, his shyness creeping out.
"You should have called or something! What the fuck," Ilya sighed, fingers scrunching his curls. "We could have had so much fun."
Shane squinted, "As if Ilya back then would have taken it seriously. You were so mean and scary.." Shane trailed off, tone teasing as he took one of Ilya's hands.
Ilya gave Shane's hand a little squeeze, thinking about too much at once.
* * *
As the next week of hockey games commenced, Ilya found that his mind was.. distracted. To put it bluntly.
The thought of Shane unable to stop getting turned on while watching one of Ilya's hockey games on television while he was sick— it was messing with his head.
Why did Ilya find the thought so hot? How many times did Shane cum while Ilya was— fuck. Not here.
Ilya glanced around the locker room in hopes that there was no mind reader among them, his cheeks must be beet red. Whatever.
He got into his uniform as clockwork, tying his laces with precision. That's when he heard—
"SnnNNDDFFFDDXX ugh! This fucking cold, man," Marleau huffed as he trudged into the locker room, getting his uniform out right next to Ilya.
"You are ill?" Ilya mumbled, stomping his skates onto the ground to lock the blade in tighter.
Marleau coughed a little, undressing out of his civilian clothes. "Yeah. Fuckin' shuuuucks."
Ilya hummed, pulling on his gloves. "Don't let it ruin your performance, da? We win tonight."
* * *
Ilya let his eyes wander around the arena after Boston had won. It was a Wednesday night and the crowd was happy with a home win. Many were drinking and celebrating already.
Ilya could see Marleau off to the side drinking from one of the blue Gatorades provided by the league, and a sick idea flooded his head.
Maybe if Ilya managed to catch a cold, Shane would like it again? Ilya could actually experience it with his own eyes instead of hearing about Shane's fantasies.. Ilya wanted to be good for something. He wanted to please Shane. He wanted the attention.
"What the fuck am I doing?" He had mumbled to himself, skating to the side after Marleau went into the locker room with some of their other Boston teammates.
Ilya's eyes found the unattended Gatorade bottle that Marleau had just put down, grimacing slightly before taking a swig from it. And then another swig just to be sure. "Fucking freak. Blyat. New low. Okay," He said to himself, skating offside to undress in the locker room.
What Ilya woke up to on that following Friday morning was absolutely gnarly.
His throat was on fire and there was a little wet spot on his pillow from where his nose had run while he slept.
He subconsciously reached out to the other side of his bed where Shane normally slept while he had the Canadian over, but was met with an empty bed. Ilya heard himself involuntarily whine. Ilya got himself up, throwing on a Boston Raiders sweatshirt from the floor.
His body felt heavy already, the cold had come on hard and fast. His brain wasn't too upset about it, though.
Thank the hockey gods that Ilya had no games for the rest of his weekend.
Ilya picked up his phone with squinted eyes, sending Shane a text.
Boston Lily :
9:47 Call? I am lonely 🙁
Nice and simple. Nothing that gave away Shane's special surprise. Ilya put his phone down to give Shane some time to respond as he flopped back down into bed. His body didn't agree to being vertical today.
Ilya jumped as his phone dinged, coughing a little into a fist before reaching out again for his phone.
Montreal Jane :
9:49 Can't, sorry. About to play an early morning game against Ottawa, and then I'm having lunch with my parents after. Dad's birthday.
Ilya sighed out a whine, tossing his phone to the side. Of course Shane was super busy with some random events on the first day of Ilya's cold. The one he had specifically caught for Shane.
"Stupid.. fucking.. Ottawa. Stupid David Hollander. Why is your birthday today? Fuck," Ilya babbled to himself, patting a rhythm on his chest as he stared up at the ceiling. "Stupid,"
Ilya felt himself slipping into a state of unconsciousness from how tired he was, but suddenly jolted awake with an idea. Another sick idea.
Ilya remembered back to when Shane recorded a little video of himself on a run when Ilya wasn't able to answer the phone, just simply talking him through his morning. What if he did something like that for Shane? Shane only did that because Ilya had told him he liked the way Shane pants while running.
Shane did all that for Ilya in mind.
Fuck, he must be feverish. He isn't thinking clearly.
But he didn't particularly care. Nobody was around to tell him no.
Ilya got up, swooping his phone into his hand as he looked around in his attached bathroom for some tissues.
Once he had a box of tissues to clean himself up with, he situated himself back in bed. The curtains were still drawn, but he could see himself fine on the little rectangular screen of his phone.
Ilya sniffled, admiring his muscles for a moment as he flexed before pressing record. Oh my god, what the fuck was he doing?
"Okay.. it is currently— " Ilya leaned over to the side off camera to get a look at his bedside clock. "10:06 in the morning. Jesus," Ilya grimaced at the sound of his own voice. His accent sounded heavier as his vowels sounded congested with sickness. "And I've woken up sick."
"I wanted to record for you.. because.. you won't call me right now," Ilya pulled his blanket aside, looking at himself on the screen. "If this is weird, just click off now. And we can forget about it."
Ilya sniffled, rubbing at his nose. "I feel so crazy for talking to myself, but.. snddff. I don't know. I thought that maybe you would like this.." Ilya mumbled, feeling slightly self-conscious as his English was a little more sloppy with his cold.
"I'm going to put your hockey game on and laugh when you trip," Ilya sent a little smile to the camera, switching on the TV in his room with a remote. He changed to his main hockey channel, finding that the Montreal vs Ottawa game was 6 minutes into the first period.
"Okay, I see you," Ilya sniffled, eyes on the tv as he left his phone recording. Ilya shook his head, trying to keep his focus on the game and the recording at the same time. "Someone just blocked your hit.. too bad. Hhih.."
Ilya's breath hitched before he could bully Shane anymore, hand coming up to cover. "Hih-tschh! Hihh.. hih-tschhhuh— Huh-tshh! Fuck," Ilya swore, hands now covered in spray as his nose ran down his lips. He felt a weird pang of arousal in his abdomen, too strong to ignore.
Ilya hurried to clean the mess off his hands with his tissues, his boner now in plain sight to see through his sports shorts. "Ah, sorry. I look like a pervert now," Ilya mumbled, blowing his nose into the tissue. "I'm just imagining your reaction if you made it this far.."
Ilya blinked, eyeing the television once he could see again. "Ooh shit, I missed a Montreal goal. Fuckfuck- stupid cold. You'll have to tell me about it.. over the phone later," Ilya sniffled, looking at his camera. All for Shane.
"Fuck, I need to jerk off. Okay," Ilya breathed out as he palmed himself through his shorts, coughing into his shoulder.
"Mmh.. snndf. I wish you were here," Ilya said to himself, getting his dick out of the waistband of his shorts as he kneeled on his sheets for the camera.
"I feel like a whore," He mumbled quietly, a hand coming to wrap around his hardening dick as the other fumbled for more tissues. He started to stroke himself as his other hand wiped his nose, abs clenching for the camera.
Ilya groaned softly, spreading his thighs a little more for the camera to see. For Shane to see. "Aah.. snddxff sndff," Ilya sniffled, glancing up at the television.
He saw Shane on the livestream, watching as he dodged an Ottawa guy trying to elbow him into the boards. Ilya rested on his ankles as he began to feel lightheaded from being vertical for so long.
"I feel like shit," Ilya groaned to the camera, spurting a little over his stomach. "You better win this game. Will make me— ah! feel better."
Ilya doubled over as he came, painting his stomach as he moaned weakly. His throat was really starting to hurt from how vocal and sneezy he had been.
Ilya sighed, mopping the mess up with a tissue as he looked at the camera. He sniffled obnoxiously, sounding like a complete mess.
"I hope you like.." Ilya breathed out, nose burning as he shuffled up his shorts. "And I hope you have.. nice time. With parents. Hh! Hih-tschh! Oh, fuck."
Ilya coughed, elbow coming up to cover after sneezing down at his lap, his spray glowing with the hint of sun in his room. "Okay.. I end this here. I go to sleep now.. blegh. Hope you like," Ilya waved a hand to the camera, ending the recording.
11 minutes of material for Shane.
Boston Lily
10:23 (1 Video Attachment)
* * *
Shane didn't check his phone after his game, nor at any time throughout lunch with his parents. He liked to be respectful like that, he didn't have time to check his phone between the taxi and keeping his attention on his dad.
Once Shane got home to his Montreal apartment after a long afternoon of conversations and calorific dinner, he had to cool down.
Shane got into comfortable clothes and got himself an ice-cold ginger ale from the fridge. Once he had situated himself on his bed with a good hockey book, he decided to pick up his phone for the first time since before his game.
He was met with his usual notifications, Hayden, Mom, a vitamin supplement reminder and— a video notification from Ilya? Huh.
He ignored his other notifications and clicked on the one that led to his text thread with Ilya. He was met with an 11-minute-long video, which had an option to press play.
Shane furrowed his brow. What was this? He couldn't exactly tell from the blurry little thumbnail.
Shane's thumb pressed on the play button, putting his book aside and sliding his glasses on his nose to help him see the video better.
It looked like a recording with the front camera, Ilya was setting his phone up so he was in view of the whole screen.
Shane turned up his volume, taking in the sight of Ilya. That's when Ilya started to talk. "Okay, it is currently.. 10:06 in the morning, Jesus," Shane sat up a little, holding the phone in both hands. Ilya sounded.. off. "— and I've woken up sick."
Shane could feel his blood run cold. What the fuck was this?
Ilya continued, "I wanted to record for you.. because.. you won't call me right now, If this is weird, just click off now. And we can forget about it."
"Oh my fucking god," Shane said to himself in the quietness of his home, his body starting to get his nervous tremors, pausing the video as he took in the words.
Ilya had recorded a whole ass video. For Shane. Because he knew Shane would like it. Oh my god. Oh fuck.
Shane had to squeeze his legs together as he continued through the video, his head getting dizzy. Ilya looked so sick, but was performing a whole show for the camera. All for Shane? This was unreal.
Shane came three times to the video before he had to tap out, his lower abdomen burning as he was left flushed and panting. All from a fucking video.
Shane took a quick shower, drying himself off so he could text Ilya. Call him— anything.
Montreal Jane :
17:28 Oh my god.
17:29 What the fuck.
17:32 You look so good.
17:33 Are you okay tho? 😅
17:33 Fuck, Ilya. I can't believe you recorded all that for me.
17:47 Please call when you can.
* * *
Ilya woke up with a stuffy nose, glancing up to catch a look at his little clock. 19:02 blinked back to him.
Fuck, he slept for a while. Ilya stretched out his aching limbs like a little house cat, resting himself up on an elbow to check his phone.
Shane had finally seen the video.
Ilya's heart sank ever so slightly as he saw six notifications from Shane. Shane rarely double texts, even now. He either loved it or was spreading it all over Twitter. No, Shane wouldn't do that. Shut up brain.
Ilya swiped his passcode in, clicking on their text thread. He had to squint to see whatever Shane had said, eyes still sore from his long afternoon nap.
Ilya felt his lips curl up with a smile, a genuine one. His plan had been successful. Shane obviously enjoyed the video.
Ilya sat himself up in bed, clicking on the FaceTime option as he flicked on his bedside lamp.
Shane answered on the second ring, his face filling Ilya's screen. Shane immediately scrambled for his glasses, standing up to focus better. "Fuck- hey. How are you feeling?"
"Fine. Sndff," Ilya sniffled, appreciating the view of Shane in his glasses.
"Are we gonna mention how fucking insane that video is? Oh my god," Shane breathed out, pacing his room.
Ilya chuckled stuffily, blinking away sleep. "I'm glad you like.. was nervous. That you wouldn't like."
"Fuck. It was so hot, I can't. While watching my game, too? It's burnt into my memory forever."
Ilya's stomach felt warm, the words sending soft waves of dopamine to his brain. "I caught it just for you."
"What?" Shane's brow furrowed on Ilya's screen, his lips looking pink and puffy from what Ilya could only assume to be from Shane biting them. Shane had a habit of doing that while jerking off.
"Da.. I did. I won't go into details.. I know you said you hate germs," Ilya mumbled, eyes glistening from the light of his little lamp.
Shane rubbed his temples. "I can't pretend like that's not hot. Fuck. You're such an idiot."
Ilya scoffed, a rare teeth smile slipping from his lips. "Worth it.. look at you. You look fucked out. And I sent it hours ago."
Shane swallowed, eyes flickering somewhere off-screen. "Well, yeah. I haven't been able to stop thinking about the video. Fuck you."
Ilya cooed as an act of false sympathy, sniffling. "You think about it.. and then get hard.. and then need relief. And the cycle continues? Poor little Shane. How will you ever get through your game tomorrow?"
Shane groaned softly, sitting down on his bed as he eyed Ilya through the screen. "You're sick. Physically and mentally."
Ilya just shook his head, propping himself up. "You'll step foot on the ice and think about the video. About how sneezy I was watching your game. Da?"
Shane palmed himself as Ilya spoke with his stuffy voice, listening to how thick his Russian sounded. Thinking about how sneezy Ilya was in his recording. "Fuck.. fuck. Stop."
"Stop what?" Ilya asked innocently. "You know I'm right. I bet you're hard again, aren't you? Sndff. You're so easy, it's sad."
Shane audibly groaned, bucking into his own palm as he leaned back in bed, holding his phone with his free hand to see Ilya. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know enough. I see it right now," Ilya purred, wiping his nose on the back of his hand as he could see the familiar expressions of Shane receiving some much-needed pleasure.
"Good luck for tomorrow's game.. sndff hhih.. maybe you'll get another video? Only if you win."
Shane's lips fell parted, eyes closing as he was pathetically close to coming and he hadn't even gotten naked yet. "You promise?"
Ilya nodded, watching Shane. "Mm. Make sure to win. Fuck— I need to.. hih! K'hihtsHH!" Ilya winced at how chesty it felt.
"Bless you.." Shane groaned, swivelling a hand underneath his boxers desperately. Shane gave himself approximately 10 tugs before he was dirtying his clean chest with more come. "Oh god, Ilya. Oh shit.. ah."
"How many times have you come today?" Ilya asked, his own shorts uncomfortably tight as he stayed watching Shane.
Shane shook his head, taking off his glasses with quivering hands. "Seven.. times. I think. Maybe."
Ilya raised his brows, wiping his nose on his hand. "I'm impressed, Hollander."
Shane just sighed, head back on his pillows. "You really caught a cold.. on purpose.. to please me? Seriously though?"
"Yup," Ilya popped the P, sniffling to no avail. "I don't regret it. You look amazing right now. Sndff. You play better when you come, too." Ilya rasped, resting his head down.
"You sound so sick," Shane ignored what Ilya said, a frown now on his bitten lips. "You should sleep, alright? I don't want you hurting yourself."
"Oh, how nice. You'd like it if I got worse, Hollander," Ilya snickered to himself, getting all excited again at the idea.
Shane scoffed weakly. "Fuck off. Get well soon and keep the videos coming."
There was a moment of stillness before they both laughed together, Ilya's ending in a fit of chesty coughing.
hi! so here’s the handkerchief fic inspired by my lil head canon the other day. this is the first time i’ve written fic in a Minute and i haven’t written snz fic in even longer (like maybe 3-4 years lol). also have never written full on smut this is the closest i’ve gotten (& probably the most i’ll do) & i’m a bit nervous about that so please be gentle (but honest!!) . i’ll leave the russian translations at the bottom! enjoy 1.4k words of handkerchief sweetness featuring kink!shane & loverboy ilya
Shane has a love/hate relationship with his annual summer colds. On the one hand, he’s thankful they always hit him at the end of the season, so there’s no interfering with hockey. On the other hand, it sucks to start out his vacation while sick. He supposes he can’t complain too much though, with him and Ilya now being married and on the same team, it’s inevitable that Ilya would also catch what Shane has, they’ve never been good at keeping their hands to themselves.
Shane’s in bed cuddled up to Ilya for the night, his head on Ilya’s chest. They decided to head to bed early, Shane’s symptoms of the cold that he’s certainly coming down with getting worse as the day progressed. Shane’s reading a new book (surprisingly, not about hockey for once) and Ilya is scrolling through something on his phone. His glasses are on, the lights are dim, and his eyes are heavy. He feels himself starting to nod off when there’s suddenly a very telling itch in his nose, causing him to bolt up right.
“Shane? Is everything okay?” Ilya asks, moving to sit up right with him.
Shane nods and buries his face into his elbow. “I have to – hPNXTch! hehPNXTch! Sneeze… Excuse me.”
“Bud'te zdorovy,” Ilya says, pressing a kiss to the side of Shane’s neck.
Shane, who still has his face buried in his elbow, turns to his nightstand to grab a tissue, only to find that the box he normally has there is gone.
“Ilya, do you have tissues on your nightstand? I must have run out and not replaced the box.”
Ilya doesn’t answer, but turns to his nightstand. Instead of grabbing tissues, Shane hears him open the little drawer and pull something out. He gives Ilya a confused look when Ilya places a bunch of differently colored fabric squares on his lap.
“What are these?” Shane asks, face still buried in his elbow.
“Is… I don’t know English word. Like Cloth tissue?” Ilya sheepishly hands him one.
Shane takes it in his hand but doesn’t use it quite yet. “Do you mean a handkerchief?”
“Yes, is that. Handkerchief.” Ilya says the word slowly, but looks proud of himself after.
Shane laughs. “Ilya, why did you buy handkerchiefs?”
“For your nose. You buy fancy tissues with lotion but they still make your nose red and hurt after you use too many. These are much softer, better for your cute nose. Now use.”
Shane feels himself blush up to his ears. He finally takes the handkerchief in his hand, brings it to his nose, and blows. He has to admit, it's softer than any tissue he’s ever used and feels much better than them too.
“Much better, yes?” Ilya questions, giving Shane a knowing smile. Shane’s about to answer when his breath hitches and he feels like he’s about to sneeze again. Wordlessly, Ilya hands him a new handkerchief.
“HPNXTchoo! HeptSHiew! Fuck, excuse me,” Shane says with a sniffle. He puts down the handkerchief he just sneezed into and reaches back to the first handkerchief Ilya handed him, blowing his nose into that one. Ilya chuckles and Shane raises an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”
“I am very glad I bought larger pack. I thought you would need at least two, one to catch sneezes and one to blow your nose, and I was right. Bud'te zdorovy, moya lyubov'.”
“You know me very well,” Shane blushes. He wiggles his nose a few times trying to quell another set of sneezes.
“I do, moy zaichonok.” Ilya smiles and kisses Shane’s nose with a knowing smirk.
“Yes, sweetheart. You needed those, you were wiggling your nose. Bud'te zdorovy.”
“Thank you,” Shane finally lays back down as Ilya pulls him onto his chest, blowing his nose into the nose blowing handkerchief as he settles. “Wait a minute, you said you bought the larger pack. How many did you buy?”
“Pack has one hundred.”
Shane nearly sits up again to stare at his husband but Ilya’s arms are wrapped around him. “One hundred? Ilya, I do not need that many.”
“Is true, you do not. But I will also use when I am sick or am having allergies. Plus you will use a few once they get too wet for your liking, and considering what happens when we have sex–”
“Okay! Okay, I get it. Probably a smart decision,” Shane says, clearly flustered.
“Yes, I am full of those,” Ilya replies, and laughs when Shane playfully hits his chest. Ilya then hands Shane quite a few handkerchiefs. “Here, for your nightstand. Mine can barely fit them all.”
Shane takes the handkerchiefs after stealing a quick kiss and rolls to his side to put them away. As he does, Ilya grabs his ass and starts kissing the side of his neck.
“Ilya…”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“What are you doing?” Shane damn near purrs as Ilya starts biting at his neck.
“Loving my husband,” Ilya says into Shane’s neck.
“You were the one who suggested going to bed early tonight.” Shane reminds him.
“Ah, I suggested getting into bed early tonight. Not sleeping early tonight,” Ilya leans over Shane with a mischievous glint in his eyes, one Shane has come to know all too well. Ilya continues with his ministrations, and his hands start wandering up and down Shane’s chest.
“Ilya,” Shane warns, feeling himself start to get hard.
“Is something wrong, Shane?” Ilya questions, smirking. He’s too damn smug for his own good and Shane loves him for it.
“No, but if you’re not careful I’m going to start sneezing again and I don’t want it to get all over you.”
“Oh, but lyubimyy, you sound so stuffy and you will feel much better if you sneeze it out. Sex is good decongestant, yes?”
“How the hell do you know that?” Shane asks, eyes wide.
“Google,” Ilya responds, his hands traveling lower down Shane’s body.
“I don’t want you to get this cold either,” Shane moans. Ilya’s hand palms Shane through his boxers and Shane is positive he’s about to sneeze on his husband when a handkerchief is suddenly pressed to his nose. “In’gsh! Nn’gsh! Nn’gSH! Nn’gSH! In’gsh! Excuse me.”
“Bud'te zdorovy, solnishko. Do not worry about me, I will catch your cold anyway. I can hold handkerchief to your nose if it makes you feel better.”
“Spasibo,” Shane moans as Ilya palms him harder. The Russian thanks gets a rise out of Ilya, he practically growls as he pulls Shane’s boxers down. Ilya grabs lube that somehow got on the bed at some point and pours some in his hands, before taking Shane’s dick in them, which sends Shane into another fit.
“Am working on it sweetheart,” Ilya promises. “Bud' zdorov, bud' zdorov, bud' zdorov, bud' zdorov, bud' zdorov, bud’ zdorov, ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya whispers into his skin.
Shane moans and nods as Ilya moves from his dick to start opening him up, continuing to sneeze. “ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane says through his sneezes.
True to his word, Ilya holds a handkerchief to Shane’s nose the whole time, even grabbing new ones when the previous ones get too wet for what he assumes is Shane’s liking. Shane swoons at just how well Ilya knows him and his sensory needs and preferences. In his wildest dreams he could never imagine having all of this, being known so deeply that words are not needed.
Ilya grabs another new handkerchief and holds it to Shane’s nose once he’s cleaned them both up. “Blow, rodnaya, and bud'te zdorovy,” he instructs.
Shane does as Ilya says with a small shake of his head, making Ilya softly chuckle. “Thank you,” he whispers, once Ilya takes the handkerchief away. “For all of this. For knowing me and loving me and being you.”
Ilya looks at him with what can only be described as pure love in his eyes. “You are welcome, lyubimyy. Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
Shane pulls Ilya into one more kiss before Ilya shuts off the lamp on his nightstand. When Ilya lays back down Shane’s head finds its way to Ilya’s chest, as it always does. Shane feels a kiss pressed to the top of his head and hears something in Russian murmured into his hair, but he’s too spent and it’s too soft for him to understand what was said.
“ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane replies anyway.
“Spokoynoy nochi, ya lyublyu tebya bol'she vsekh na svete,” Ilya says.
russian translations:
bud'te zdorovy = bless you
moya lyubov = my love
moy zaichonok = my bunny
lyubimyy = beloved
solnishko = little sun
spasibo = thank you
bud' zdorov = bless you
ya tebya lyublyu = i love you
rodnaya = dear
spokoynoy nochi, ya lyublyu tebya bol'she vsekh na svete = goodnight, i love you more than anyone in the world
i desperately need to have sex with another snzfucker, like oh my god do y'all just ever imagine that..???? literally would be the best sex in my LIFE.
Is I/lya sniffing and itching at his nose more than usual? This is driving S/hane crazy. Meanwhile they still haven't admitted their feelings for each other.
CW: mess, teasing, slight nsfw
Shane Hollander knocked on the door to the hotel room and waited anxiously in the hall. 824. That was all the text from "Lily" had said, but it was all Shane needed to know.
The Boston Raiders had lost that night. Only by a few points. But still. Neither of them liked losing.
Ilya Rozanov opened the door and let Shane hurry in, looking down to flick at his nose and sniffle as he did so. Shane took in the room, a typical nice hotel room with Ilya's clothes strewn about.
"You want anything to drink? I have ginger ale." The Russian asked, looking at Shane as he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. He sniffed again, one eye squinting slightly.
Shane felt goosebumps form along the back of his neck. Why does he keep doing that? He thought to himself. But Ilya was looking at him expectantly - he still had to answer the question.
"Uh yeah, ginger ale. Thanks."
Ilya turned from him to get the drinks and Shane heard him sniff. Again? Well it wasn't that unusual. He'd seen Rozanov rub at his nose plenty of times. And seen how soft he looked with his nose scrunched against his hand, his nostrils flaring so slightly, maybe even turning a little pink...
"HH-hDTSChue!"
Ilya bent forward, barely turning from the drinks in time. The sudden sound snapped Shane back to reality.
"Bless you!" Shane blurted out. Was that too enthusiastic? Too fast?
Ilya sniffed and handed him his drink. Shane took it from him and looked up just in time to see Ilya's features crumple as he turned to let out another sneeze.
"huhhhh-DSHOO!"
"Woah! Bless you! Are you okay?"
Ilya rolled his eyes and looked at him incredulously. "Yes? It is only sniffles."
"Right well. There is a cold or flu or something going around."
"Are you so boring you worry about every sniffle?" Ilya was already bored of the topic. It had been weeks since they'd seen each other. The growing itch in his sinuses was the least of his concerns. Not compared to something else that would be growing soon. Especially with how easily flustered Hollander was tonight.
He pulled Shane's body close to him and like clockwork the two were back at it like no time had passed. Kissing passionately as searching hands pulled clothes off each other's bodies.
Shane couldn't help but notice how many times Ilya turned his head away to swipe or pinch at his nose. He couldn't help but blush when he heard him sniffle near his ear.
No, ignore it! It's like he said it's only sniffles.
After a long kiss had broken, they held their foreheads together with their noses touching. Shane gently nuzzled them together. He bit his lip as he felt Ilya sniff against him, and then leaned in to kiss him again.
...
After they'd finished they found themselves sitting shoulder to shoulder in the bed. Over his shoulder Shane heard Ilya sniff again. And again. And again? He looked over to see eyebrows furrowed and knuckles pressed against a red scrunched nose.
Ilya sniffed again... and then his chest heaved-
HUHHHTGXCHHH-
HuhhhhDDDTCHHH!
His nose was dripping onto his knuckles and clearly wasnt done. He pulled his fist away, mouth agape and unleashed.
HAAAHHHHDTSHHHOO!
Shane instinctively went for the tissue box on the night stand, and was relieved to have an excuse to look away, as much as he didn't want to. He pulled several out and handed them to Ilya, keeping his eyes averted.
Ilya took them and wiped his face, muttering curses in Russian under his breath. When he was done, he noticed a warm blush on his lover's cheeks, who was averting his eyes like he'd seen something shameful. Is this what has gotten Hollander so worked up tonight?
fandom: H/eated R/ivarly
wc: 1.8k
disclaimer: Inspired by a video I saw on YouTube. There are no snz spellings in this, but it's full of sneeze talk. It's also mostly a transcript style. If any of the numbers sound unrealistic... Well, we can't all have a sneeze kink which helps us to know how many times do we sneeze a year.
I eventually plan to make a second part, maybe of just of the comments under the video BUT if you guys are up to it, you can also comment under this like you would comment if it was a video; I think that would be a really funny game.
Honestly, H/arris thought making this video was stupid enough, but people on YouTube seemed to love it when another team made something similar. So, overall, H/arris was pretty happy with how he edited the short. It was fine, really; it just… seemed weird. He wasn’t really sure if the question was interesting enough, and honestly, it wasn’t a question he ever thought of asking someone.
But also, the video already had a bunch of views, likes, and comments, so maybe it wasn’t a total disaster after all.
Harris sighed and then clicked play. Maybe if he watches it enough times, he will understand what the apparel is. Or not - but he liked to understand what viewers wanted because it made it easier to work on videos for the team’s social media. It’s not like he contributed to the rapidly growing follower base to his editing skills. He suspected it had more to do with both Ilya and Shane being on the team now.
The video started playing. Harris recorded this one like a month ago, but for some reason, it took way too long to edit. He remembered, clear as day, when they filmed it; it was during winter, and it was so cold outside that Harris was freezing even with his warmest clothes.
video transcript of ‘Cens vs sneezing’
<The camera is pointing at the bench from the back. It’s clear that there are a lot of people on the ice still, but a bunch of rookies are sitting next to each other, looking at the older players running drills on the ice. The camera gets closer and closer, and then suddenly it’s a side view at the end of the bench. The rookies look up; Nils Holmberg, Julian LaPointe, Alex Young, and Luca Haas are sitting like little kids. They are all wearing hockey gear and looking expectantly at the camera. It’s clearly visible that Luca is kicking his legs like a little kid.>
[LaPointe]: What is your question today, Harris?
[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?
<It doesn’t sound like a hard question, but the rookies all pause, and they look like they are deeply thinking. Young even starts to count something using his fingers.>
[LaPointe]: I don’t know, like 50?
[Holmberg]: You only sneeze 50 times a year?
[LaPointe]: I mean, yeah? Is that too much? Wait… how many days are in a year?
[Young]: Like 365?
<LaPointe looks like he is thinking very deeply; meanwhile, all of the other rookies look at him, amusement in their eyes.>
[LaPointe]: Okay, I mean, I guess my answer is around 300? I don’t know; I never counted, but I don’t sneeze every day, probably, but it’s not like I never sneeze, so…
[Holmberg]: Yeah, that sounds accurate. I will say 365. Like a sneeze every day, you know? Like, sometimes it’s zero, but sometimes it’s two, so?
<Luca Haas is still silent; he looks like he is deeply in his head, thinking about something. His blond hair is completely in his eyes, and he is squinting a little. He scratches his nose while he is thinking. Next to him, Young looks uncertain.>
[Young]: Mine’s like 700? I mean, I mostly sneeze two times in a row, so…
[Haas]: I mean… I honestly never thought about counting my sneezes, but it has to be triple digits. I feel like I sneeze every day and I always sneeze three times, so three times 365 is like… 1100?
<Haas looks uncertain, saying the number, and he’s clearly blushing. Next to his face, there is an edited photo of a calculator with the number 1095, and a classic, celebrating GIF.>
CUT
<The scene switches from the bench to outside the locker room. There is loud music and yelling coming from behind the closed doors, and it just gets louder when the door opens and then quickly shuts. The cameraman walks back a few steps as he realizes there are more people coming out of the locker room. Boyle, Dillon, and Chouinard stop and look at the camera, clearly expecting a question. All three of them look a little sweaty, bundled up in warm clothes.>
[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?
[Boyle]: Like, all year?
[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah, approximately.
[Dillon]: Is this like a trend?
[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah. The Admirals had a similar video.
[Chouinard]: It has to be around 200? Like, not one every day, but that’s like a pretty normal number.
[Dillon]: Yeah, I think mine is a little more, so I’m gonna say 250?
[Boyle]: Why are we acting like it’s a competition? Roz will win anyway.
[Chouinard]: I don’t know; it’s fun. What’s your number, Boyle?
[Boyle]: I don’t know. At least 200. Okay, you know what, I’m gonna say 250. I don’t sneeze that much.
CUT
<Some time clearly passed, maybe it’s even a day later because Boyle can be seen in the background, walking away. He’s clearly wearing different clothes from before. The locker room’s door opens, and Boodram walks out, laughing with Dysktra about something.>
[Dysktra]: Okay, Harris, I am ready for today’s question.
[Boodram]: It better be interesting.
[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?
<Pause. They clearly don’t expect this question, but it takes a little time, and Boodram is already laughing. He seemingly likes the question, or it just made him think of something funny.>
[Boodram]: Honestly, this feels like a targeted question. I don’t know, man? Like, once a day? Maybe a little less.
[Dysktra]: I don’t think you sneeze once a day. I think you are like… the least sneezy person I know.
[Boodram]: Hmm… maybe, yeah. You’re right, it’s definitely less. Fine, let’s go with 210.
[Dysktra]: That’s weirdly specific.
[Boodram]: I just gave a random number, smart***. Just say something.
[Dysktra]: Fine, if yours is 210, then mine is gonna be 283.
[Boodram]: And you say mine is specific…
CUT
<The video cuts back to the bench, except now it’s the cameraman sitting there, recording the ice. Troy Barrett skates over, and he looks all smiley and happy; there’s a faint blush on his cheeks.>
[Barrett]: Hey, b..
[Harris, off-camera]: I’m recording. I have an important question for today’s video.
<It’s clear on Troy’s face that he knows all about Harris’ important questions, and he definitely doesn’t think they are that important or exciting. He rolls his eyes and then rests his elbow on the barrier.
[Barrett]: Shoot.
[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?
[Barrett]: <laughing> Oh, yes, that definitely sounds like a really important question.
[Harris, off-camera]: What is your answer?
[Barrett]: I don’t know. What is my answer?
[Harris, off-camera]: I mean, I am asking you, so…
[Barrett]: Fine. Like, twice every day? What is that, like 700?
[Harris, off-camera]: <snorts> C’mon! You totally sneeze more than twice a day! Haasy said 1100, and you do sneeze more than him!
[Barrett]: I thought you were asking me?
[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah, but if you’re not gonna tell the truth, what can I do?
[Barrett]: Fine, okay. 1300. Happy.
[Harris, off-camera]: Happy.
CUT
<It’s clearly the end of practice. People are walking down the corridor, happily chatting with each other. Most of them look at Harris, expecting him to ask a question. Harris just shakes his head off-camera; he’s still missing three people from the next video.>
<Speaking of missing people. Wyatt Hayes gets stopped right in front of Harris. He looks really unhappy; his blond, curly hair is completely flat, and he looks really pale and tired. His nose is red, and he is clearly sniffling.>
[Harris, off-camera]: Ah, I was looking for you!
[Hayes]: <sniffs> Shoot. But hurry up, I need to get a tissue.
[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?
[Hayes]: This feels targeted.
[Harris, off-camera]: I asked everyone except you, Shane, and Ilya.
[Hayes]: Like, how many times do I sneeze in general, or right now?
[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah, like generally, per year.
[Hayes]: <his breath hitches, and he turns away from the camera, to direct a strong triple into his elbow. He stays like that for a few seconds, hitches again, and sneezes another two times.>
[Harris, off-camera]: Bless you! So, your final answer is?
[Hayes]: Thanks, sorry about that. Great, now people will think I did that on purpose. < He points at the camera, very seriously> I swear, I didn’t do that on purpose! I’m just sick! But yeah, I don’t know. I sneeze… like a lot? I think I’m a pretty sneezy guy, and I have allergies. Plus, every time I get a stupid cold it’s all in my nose, so… What was the most said?
[Harris, off-camera]: Troy said 1300, but I feel like you sneeze more like Troy. I mean… You sneeze a bunch in a row, so…
[Hayes]: Yeah, I do… Hmm, okay. You know what, I’m gonna say 2000. That sounds unrealistic, but it’s not, so.
CUT
<Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov step out of the locker room. They are holding hands and seemingly in deep conversation. They both stop once they notice Harris standing there with the camera. Ilya immediately smiles.>
[Rozanov]: Harris! Did you bring Chiron with you?
[Harris, off-camera]: No, not this time, sorry. I’m actually making a video, and you two are the only ones missing, so I wanna record that if that’s okay with you.
[Hollander]: Yeah, sure. What’s the question?
[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?
[Rozanov]: This is targeted!
[Hollander]: <blushing> Ilya…
[Harris, off-camera]: Roz, I asked everyone. You guys are the last ones.
[Rozanov]: I never sneeze. Russians do not sneeze. Shane, tell them.
[Hollander]: <still blushing> I mean, you do sneeze a lot.
[Rozanov]: Is lie.
[Hollander]: Ilya, oh my god, shut up and answer the question.
[Rozanov]: No, you answer it first.
[Hollander]: Oh my god, Ilya! Okay, fine. Like, probably around 1500? Maybe? I don’t sneeze that much when I’m healthy, but I have seasonal allergies, and I get pretty congested when I am sick. so. Yeah.
[Rozanov]: Fine. Yes. Mine is around that too.
[Hollander]: Ilya, you know that’s not true! If mine is 1500 yours is at least… I don't know! 4000! 5000! C’mon.
[Rozanov]: I don’t sneeze that much.
[Harris, off-camera]: You literally sneeze like… ten times in a row, Roz.
[Hollander]: At least.
[Rozanov]: I do not!
<Cut. First, there’s a clip from an older interview. It’s from when Ilya was still with Boston. To no one’s surprise, he is sneezing into closed fists, painfully stifling every little burst of sneeze.>
<After this, the video cuts back to Ilya and Shane, still bickering. An “one eternity later” meme fills the screen. When it disappears, Shane and Ilya are still on camera. Shane looks smug, while Ilya is clearly unhappy.>
[Rozanov]: Fine. My husband says I sneeze 5000 times a year, which is absolutely ridiculous, but I wanna **** *** tonight, so I gotta say what he says.
<Harris laughing can be heard in the background. Shane looks completely red, he is blushing hard, while he looks at Ilya, scandalized. The video starts to darken, and then it completely blacks out.>
