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.
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.
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.
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.>
All you need to know is that scientist Ryan Gosling is on his spaceship and decides to investigate an alien material from his little alien buddy.
Disclaimer, I have read the book and not seen the movie. Contains mild mention of mess and cheesy snz tropes. 1.2k words.
I woke up with a jolt. For a second, I felt like I’d recalled something important in my dreams, like a memory of my missing years on Earth. Back home, I would wake up from vivid dreams and briefly wonder if they’d really happened. Now, if I remember my dreams, I have no clue whether they were events that occurred in the past or if they were tales that my brain created to fill in the gaps.
I couldn’t recall any details, but I still felt anxious. Maybe some more research in the lab would help burn it off.
“You’re awake,” Rocky hummed. He was sitting in almost the exact same place in his tunnel from when I fell asleep.
I greeted him back. “Sort of,” I said, rubbing the grogginess from my eyes. It still weirded me out to have him there when I slept and woke. But we’d accepted each others’ culture. “Culture” was like playing a trump card for determining our living arrangements.
I rolled out of bed and floated towards the dorms. “Coffee,” I said to the open air. The robotic arm appeared and handed me a pouch of liquid. It was nice to have a routine, even if there was no morning out in space.
Once I got ready for the “day,” I headed up towards the lab, Rocky scuttling through the tunnels and pulling himself along with the rails. I had grabbed a chunk of xenonite from Rocky’s supply surplus downstairs. He assured me there was plenty to spare and that the materials cluttered in the bottom of my ship were only a fraction of his supply remaining on the Blip A.
I’d messed with the xenonite when Rocky first came over, but I wanted to do some more testing. Maybe some other tools could make a dent in it, or I could gauge its influence on the stuff I did have. I gently pulled open a drawer, careful not to send any of the instruments floating in the cabin. They were always a pain to chase down and reorganize. I learned my lesson from the last time we left gravity.
“What is Grace doing, question?” Rocky asked.
“Well, I hit this stuff with a chisel last time and it didn’t make a dent. But I wanted to see if there was anything else I could do with Earth materials to affect the xenonite.”
Rocky paced side to side, pondering. “Fire damage xenonite. Earth has fire.”
I knew he was just trying to be helpful, but the suggestion was frustrating. I already figured that from the torches he used in assembling his rooms. The fact that the impossible material withstood anything I threw at it puzzled me.
“Why sad face, question?”
“No, I’m not sad,” I shook my head. “I’m thinking. If I think really hard, sometimes it looks like I’m frowning.” For an alien, he was very observant of human emotions.
Rocky clicked his claws together, his carapace lowering slightly as he relaxed. “Understand.”
Xenonite was completely inert, but I could at least see how other materials interacted with this foreign one from a physical standpoint. I pulled out a pack of chalk and opened it, retrieving a stick. Simple calcium carbonate, a very familiar material.
I rubbed it across the surface. Xenonite was so smooth, it didn’t cause any chunks to break off, instead leaving an incredibly fine layer across the material. When I rubbed my thumb across it, it left the surface completely unmarred, no trace of chalk remaining. With this xenonite stuff, chalkboards could make a comeback.
I rubbed my fingers together, trying to get rid of the chalk. And then I immediately remembered why that was a terrible idea in zero gravity. When I inhaled, the chalk dust floated up my nostrils. I coughed, waving a hand in front of my face to clear the powder away, but it was too late.
After months of breathing in ultra-purified ship air, the tiny particles from the chalk felt like an assault on my nostrils. On Earth, I was used to the air pollution, and a bit of chalk would have been unnoticeable. I didn’t realize how sensitive my nose had become in space.
The itch to sneeze was unbearable, but I didn’t want to deal with the… mess that might float around as a result. I gasped, fighting the urge.
“What is wrong, question?” Rocky asked, moving between his bars a bit frantically.
I shook my head slightly, unable to speak. I held up one finger to Rocky while keeping the other pressed against the underside of my nose.
Rocky remembered exactly what that one raised finger meant and slowed his pacing, still tilting forward in anticipation and puzzlement.
Unfortunately for me, it seemed like I might not have a choice in the sneezing matter. I pinched my nose, but if anything, the forceful touch antagonized it. I doubt being gentler would have made a difference, though. “Hihh-! H-HEH’nNGHXX-guh!”
Rocky hummed a follow-up question, still concerned.
I blinked back tears. I guess the little guy had never heard me sneeze before. It certainly wasn’t something an Eridian would need to do, with their bodies designed to be completely self-contained.
“It’s called a sneeze,” I answered. And it was the least satisfying sneeze I’d ever experienced in my entire life. Now my nose was itchy and leaky and stuffy. “Nothing’s wrong, humans do it automatically to get irritants out of their nose.”
“Chalk is irritant!” He put it together now. “But you hold nose closed, question?”
He had a good point. It defeated the purpose, and I probably wouldn’t get anywhere like this.
“B-because,” I stammered. My breath caught as the urge to sneeze started to overpower me. I glanced around the room, looking for a cloth or tissues, but everything was stowed away. Curse my foresight to be tidy. I couldn’t even remember where the Kimwipes were kept. “Noses have… ha–EH’hNGCH! Heh’mpch!” I wasn’t giving up yet.
“Noses have mucus inside to protect it. And I don’t want it to g-gehh.. get all over my lab.”
Darn, this was getting really annoying. I could feel another one building. There would probably be something useful in the storage bins, or I could start tearing apart drawers, but I could barely focus through the hitching.
Rocky pondered the information. “Nose hold isn’t working,” he observed. Again, helpful.
“Hehh’mNGXt!’ The itch in my nose was starting to go from mildly irritating to almost burning, which was even more uncomfortable. It seems like I might not have a choice at this point. I dropped my hand and quickly raised the neckline of my jumpsuit, pressing it tightly over my nose. “Oh god…heh Hyihh’CSHhuh! Hh’EHCHhmph! Heh…ngGCHOO!”
Ugh. I kept the collar against my face, sniffling thickly. Not very dignified, but it did a pretty good job at containment.
“Noses are strange. They smell and make humans explode. Weird.”
I rolled my eyes, then blinked. “HYEH’ZCHHioo!” I might have to keep the makeshift mask over my nose until the ship cycled out the air.
“You know, on Earth, the polite thing to say when someone sneezes is ‘bless you.’” Another bit of human culture for him to analyze and question. I pushed off the lab bench in search of some Kleenex.
Okay I'm on a roll today so what about an interrogation snz scenario? 👀
The kidnapped victim is bound to a chair and anxiously waiting for the person who will come to pull the info out of him, but when the door opens - it's just a woman in high heels wearing a fur shawl? This has to be a way to mess with him, or some other trick
Skip to ten minutes later where the woman is straddling the man's lap, kissing him, caressing his face and gently whispering sweet nothings in his ear... all while he's shaking like a fucking LEAF, and literally every single breath through his nostrils is completely congested by the oppressive, tingling perfume she's literally drowning him with
And as his eyes, tear-stricken and red weakly open to try and focus, a gentle brush of that shawl, a nice cloud of smoke blown right into his face, or a couple of strands of silky hair, makes the itchy irritation increase tenfold, followed by the most desperate, wet, WHIMPERING inhale possible and a sneeze so powerful it nearly blows her off of his lap, as well as droplets of snot and tears to scatter in the air around
But it doesn't. And with a little praise for that big sneeze, the torturer simply kisses the tip of his burning, quivering nose before soliciting another hour or so of ruinous allergy-driven sniffling 💖
the one where a cold gets passed through the b/oston raiders and i/lya catches it last & the worst
5.1k includes light snzfet caretaker s/hane, a little bit of mess and implied contagion,, leave me some reqs in my anon box if u like this : ‘) i’m a new writer so sorry if this is slop
Winter 2015, New York
As soon as Ilya stepped into the locker room that the Admirals provided as part of their rink, he knew this wouldn't be a good game.
First of all, he ran into a 5000-year-old Scott Hunter in the streets of New York on his first day off the plane. Nightmare.
Second of all, his team seemed defeated already. The air in the locker room was still, no music or water being thrown anywhere, no puck bunnies in sight. Not even one for Marleau. Huh.
Ilya decided to brighten the mood by connecting his phone to the Bluetooth speakers, blasting a team favourite; 'Black and Yellow', by Wiz Khalifa. Instead, Ilya was met by several groans— some of them even covering their ears. Dramatic fucks, Ilya thought.
"Jesus. What is wrong with everyone? Come on, we have game to win! We need hype!" Rozanov had hollered, furrowing his brow at his teammates.
Marleau sniffled from his left, a few scattered chesty coughs from the room. "Haven't you heard? Kane passed his fucking... super flu to most of us," Marleau had nodded towards a sickly looking Kane.
Ilya eyed Kane. Then Marleau. Then the whole room.
Shit, they did look sick.
"Fucking— блядь! We cannot lose this game," Ilya had spat, not necessarily angry at anyone in particular but stressed out about facing the Admirals. Losing to them. The thought of Scott Hunters shit eating grin when the last puck—
"Give us a break, Rozy. We're dying here," Feller had spoken up, his voice all weak and hoarse already.
"You look perfectly alive to me. Breathing."
Ilya shrugged on his jersey, fixing the position of his shoulder pads so they sat more comfortably under his jersey. He knew he was considered an asshole, but he really wanted to win. "Actually no, fuck that. We're winning, ok? Da? Little colds or not. This is our fucking game."
Ilya had faced all of the guys to say that but nobody seemed to be as focused on him as usual, mostly blowing their noses or tucking tissues into their gloves.
"aAH'KSHHiuhh!" Someone had sneezed at Ilya's right, not even bothering to cover.
"Fucking disgusting. All of you," Ilya had snarked, finding the situation to be amusing.
* * *
Shane had some downtime between practice and games, so he thought he would catch up on one of Ilya's games.
Shane knew Ilya was facing Scott Hunter's team today, those games were always interesting.
He got himself comfortable on the couch in the safety of his home, waiting for the game to start. Loud music played as the Raiders entered the ice, along with the Admirals. The crowd was louder for the Admirals but that was expected, this was a home game.
Plus, New York hated Ilya Rozanov. As did most places.
Shane watched Ilya's form as he was set up for a faceoff against none other than Scott Hunter. Ilya— of course— had the advantage. Ilya managed to swoop the puck and gain possession, passing it down to a teammate he knew wasn't as sick as the rest. He was surprised this game didn't get cancelled with the state of his team.
Shane nodded to himself as Ilya took possession, eyeing the Russians' technique and body language. Shane couldn't help but notice how shitty the rest of the Raiders were doing.
The commentary was swift to give some context on tonight's performance.
"Great start from Rozanov, as always. Seems like the crowd isn't too happy that Scott didn't gain the first puck— but hey. Who can blame him?"
"Ooh! Kane missed that shot. Bummer. Word has spread that the Boston Raiders are mostly under the weather tonight. Don't look so happy, New York. Unfortunately for you, their best player Ilya Rozanov is unaffected, confirmed by Coach LeClair."
Shane had sat a little more attentively at the newfound information.
He decided to get his phone out, popping 'Lily' a text even though he knew Ilya couldn't read it right now.
* * *
The Raiders ended up winning with a score of 3-2. Not their best, but a win.
The Raiders did a group hug, high fives being given through their hockey gloves as everyone made their way off the ice and into the locker room once again. The crowd was cheering, some booing.
Ilya cackled at how shitty everyone looked as he got his gear off, having no problem with making fun of anyone.
"I knew you guys had it in you. Good boys. Love everyone," Ilya had said loudly, still riding the wave of adrenaline that came with winning a game.
"Ughhhnnnn..." Marleau had groaned, no attempts to get his gear off yet. "I feel like absolute shit. Like Scott Hunter. Absolute cow balls."
Ilya knocked on Marleau's helmet, patting his shoulder. "We won't celebrate our win tonight, then. All of you boring fucks deserve some sleep after beautiful, beautiful win."
There were some nods of approval from most of the guys, Feller and Kane stomping into the showers for some cold water. Ilya snooped at his cellphone to see if anyone texted.
(1) 14:37 Montreal Jane
Better not catch that, we have a game on Friday. Wash your hands!
Ilya scoffed at the text, scratching his chin in thought.
15:25 Boston Lily
You watched? & ok
A text soon came back as Ilya was now out of his gear,
15:29 Montreal Jane
Good playing btw.
* * *
Friday morning came around.
Ilya had woken up in a hotel in Montreal, no roommate this time. Thank God.
Ilya didn't like having to room with his teammates. It wasn't that he didn't like them— he just valued his alone time.
Ilya had no time to visit Shane last night as it was a late flight. They'd have this weekend anyway. The Raiders were due to leave on Sunday morning.
Before Ilya had even sat up, he immediately noticed something was off. His head felt full of cement, his nose was dripping down his lip, and his body felt weak. As if Scott Hunter had come in the night for revenge and scooped out all of Ilya's muscle mass from his body.
"No," he mumbled to himself, rolling over and trying to go back to sleep. His voice didn't sound like his own, raspy and hoarse and heavy. This wasn't happening, he wasn't sick. He was Russian, for fuck sake. He couldn't get sick. It must be new allergies or something. Yeah. Allergies in the winter. Canadian air.
* * *
Ilya was dreaming, he subconsciously knew.
He could see Shane and a woman sitting on a beach. The beach looked quite familiar. Shane was in Russia?
Shane turned to him and smiled in the dream, the lady turning too. It was his mama. Shane was meeting Ilya's mama.
Ilya smiled at the pair, but his legs couldn't seem to move. Was he stuck in quicksand? He tried to get free but nothing would work.
He could hear the gentle waves of the ocean, and the banging of a drum. More than one drum. Was a band playing near?
The banging increased, and he was jolted into the land of consciousness.
Oh. The banging wasn't a band, but someone at his hotel door.
"Rozy wake the fuck up! We have a game in an hour. You missed practice. Rozyyyy! Open this fucking door!"
Marleau? Oh fuck. Oh fuckfuckfuck— practice. The game. Why the fuck did he go back to sleep?
He seemed to answer his own question as he went to sit up and immediately clenched his eyes shut, head swimming as coughs wracked through his body. Fuck.
He caught his bearings as he used the wall to locate the door, looking in the mirror to check he wasn't naked. He had his Boston shirt on and shorts.
Ilya unlocked his door with shaky hands, squinting out through the corridor light to see an angry-looking Marleau, joined by Coach LeClair.
"Whoa," was all that Marleau could say as he and Coach took in the sight of Ilya.
Ilya hadn't been sick in front of his team, ever. He always managed to get sick in time for the Christmas holidays in Russia, where he could hide away from everyone. That was rare for him tho, sickness in general. It just didn't happen.
So this was definitely new.
"Allergies," Ilya managed to say, his voice sounding foreign to his brain. His accent seemed thicker, his voice box abused and sore. It had all happened so fast. He had been fine coming off the plane, what the fuck did he manage to catch? No, no. Nothing. Allergies.
Coach LeClair just nodded, eyeing Marleau. It took him one look at Ilya for him to decide; "Yeah, no. He's not playing today."
"No!" Ilya had said, immediately regretting it as his lungs barked out a cough which was narrowly caught in his elbow. "Nyet, we beat Montreal— with me. Me only. I am best."
Ilya was making no sense, his accent was so thick and his voice sounded like it was going any minute now.
Coach shook his head at the outburst. "You're a mess. Even more than Kane was. No fucking way, alright?"
Ilya just shook his head, taking in only half of the sentence.
"I'll write you off with my word, so you don't need to worry about getting a note from the team doc. Stay in bed and hydrate, Roz."
Ilya blinked, the English sounding like nonsense right now. "Bed. Yes."
Marleau pursed his lips, feeling sorry for his captain. He patted Ilya on the shoulder, backing up from the door. "We got this without our captain, don't worry. Go to bed fucker."
* * *
16:56 Montreal Jane
Room number?
Shane decided to be bold this time and ask Ilya via text. He hadn't had a text from Ilya today but he didn't think about it too much. Everyone had been so busy with practice today, and then the hotel situation got all messed up with people being given the wrong keycards.
They were on in five minutes and there was still no answer from Ilya. Shane would be seeing him on the ice, though, so it didn't matter all that much.
As soon as the Metros hit the ice, the crowd roared with excitement. They always did for home games, especially when the opposing team was Boston. Shane drank up the crowd, skating to the side benches as coach barked orders to who was starting the faceoff today. Shane let his eyes linger over to the Raiders bench to catch a glimpse of Ilya. Except, there was no Ilya.
Shane tried to avoid making his eyes linger too much, he didn't want to be caught searching for something. For someone. But Shane had never played against Boston without Ilya.
"No Rozanov?" Shane had mumbled to coach, schooling his expression to one of nonchalance.
"No Rozanov tonight, no," Coach had said loud enough so the bench could hear. Shane nervously chewed on his mouth guard. "Has he been traded?"
"Hopefully," Coach snarked, nodding to Shane as he was the first at the bench, motioning for him to line up.
Shane hopped the barrier first and set his team up. Shane was now facing off Kane, which would have been Ilya. They would have shared a smile right here, or an insult.
The game went by pretty quickly, mostly a blur to Shane. It wasn't fun playing against the rival team without his main opponent. His efforts felt half-hearted.
Montreal still won though. Most of Boston had recovered from their colds but they were still a little sloppy today— they were missing their best player though.
Shane led his teammates into the locker room and went straight to his cellphone to see if there had been any new messages from Rozanov. No new messages.
Well fuck, okay. There were only two valid options for his absence.
1. Rozanov was sick.
2. Rozanov was hurt.
Option one made the most sense to Shane's brain after witnessing how sick most of the Raiders were on television last Tuesday night.
He had to get to Ilya, that's all he knew.
Shane sighed in frustration, starting to take off his jersey. He sat to take off his skates, eyeing Hayden to his right. "I feel bad for whoever has to room next to Rozanov."
Smooth. Calm.
Give food to the right fish and he'll bite the bait.
"Oh— don't even start. Glad it's not me. This dude got blessed with that burden. Isn't that right J.J.?"
In that moment, Shane was so glad to be best friends with an oversharing know-it-all. He bit the bait.
"Yeeeep... he's 1107, I'm 1106. Don't fucking remind me Pike. Eugh," J.J. spat, stripping out of his sweaty clothes to have an after-game shower. "I don't wanna hear him fucking his little puck bunnies all night."
Scratch that— two oversharing best friends.
Shane pursed his lips, taking off his knee guards. Now he knew which room Ilya was in. "Right," Shane mumbled, taking off the rest of his hockey uniform.
* * *
Shane made up an excuse for why he wasn't going to the after-party to celebrate their home win. Hayden gave him a nod and dismissed it, which Shane was thankful for.
Shane swiftly split after his shower, heading out to drop off his equipment at his hotel room. Shane decided to sleep in the hotel for the weekend with his team instead of using his rental. It would be easier if everyone were in one place for Sunday's game departure.
After dropping off his kit, Shane decided to nip back out to go to the local drugstore. He didn't even know what Rozanov had— he just got a bit of everything. Cough drops, Tylenol, something for nausea, some cold medicine and some Gatorade. God, he was so much like his mother.
Shane didn't even know if the man was sick or not. Was he being stupid? They aren't even together. Oh fuck— is this too domestic?
Shane had never been comfortable taking care of anyone when they were sick. He always felt... dirty. Shane started to notice signs in his late teens of arousal at the sound of sneezing, specifically more masculine ones. He hated feeling like a pervert for it. He'd take this secret, this— whatever it is to the grave.
Shane continued his little shop, picking up some reusable ice packs before heading back to the hotel with the bag in hand.
There's a first for everything.
Shane hastily made his way into the hotel and took the stairs, not wanting to risk running into one of Ilya's teammates on the elevator. At least on the stairs he could quickly walk by instead of being in a confined space with a Boston Raider. He was overthinking.
He found floor eleven, remembering how J.J. said Ilya was in room 7. Hopefully, the guy was right or this could potentially be messy.
Shane rapped his knuckles on the door, eyeing the corridor up and down for any potential Raiders. Shane knew J.J. and the rest of the Metros were out celebrating, so they weren't a concern right now.
A minute of lip biting and nervous shuffling passed before Shane took a risk and knocked on the door again. This was definitely Ilya's room and he wasn't answering.
"Fuck," Shane suddenly swore under his breath as someone was coming down the corridor, he could hear the footsteps. He tried to keep to himself, keep his face hidden as the footsteps approached.
"Are you quite alright, honey?" Came a softer voice, which frightened Shane out of his skin. Much better than a "Is that Hollander?" though.
Shane turned to the sound and was met with the sight of a little old lady wearing a bib with the hotel's logo on, gloves on her hands and keycards in her pocket.
Oh. Okay?
"Errr.. ehm. I lost my keycard," Shane squeaked, eyeing the keypad. He didn't like lying to people, much less a sweet old lady.
"Oh dear. Ah! You're with the hockey guys, right? My nephew is a huge fan. Here, let me open this up for you young man."
Shane breathed out as the lady beeped an admin card on the door, the lock clicking as the door beeped open a little bit.
"Thank- thank you so much. You're a lifesaver, ma'am," he managed to get out as he stepped into the room, offering the lady a little wave as he softly closed the door.
Fuck, okay. He made it inside. There weren't any lights on and the room was quite luxurious. Shane had to walk around to find a sign of life, specifically one that pointed to Ilya.
He could see some cigarettes and gum on the table by the door, a pair of aviator sunglasses next to them. Ah, bingo.
"Rozanov?" He tried, stepping around until he found a bedroom. There wasn't a response.
Instead, there was an Ilya-shaped lump under a white quilt in what seemed to be the main bedroom. It had a beautiful view, but the curtains had been drawn. The only light source was from the opposite buildings, and the sound of the city flowing through an open window.
Shane continued into the room, taking in the situation. It was a little tricky to see in the dark but he managed to figure out what was happening.
There were tissues scattered around with some liquid cold medicine on his bedside table, Ilya had the quilt covering his face though. Shane put his hand on what he assumed to be the man's shoulder, giving it a little shake.
"Rozanov.." he whispered, rubbing at his shoulder. Unbeknownst to Shane, this frightened Ilya. Ilya jumped a little, a low whine escaping his throat. "Robbery?" The Russian mumbled, trying to sit up.
Ilya was shaky and warm, his voice was thick with sickness.
"Hey, hey- it's just me. Shane," he put his hands up, even though Ilya probably couldn't see with how dark it was in the room.
"H'dyget' in?" Ilya sniffled, his body melting back into bed.
"The uh— the door. Are you okay?" Shane said, keeping his voice quiet to talk to Ilya.
Ilya just nodded, a hum of agreement. "Da. Yes. Just.. allergies. Coach didn't let me play," he mumbled, his Russian accent much thicker with illness. "I would have otherwise."
It took Shane a good minute to comprehend what the man just said, but he got it eventually. "It's December. This doesn't seem like allergies."
Ilya felt around his nightstand to flick on a lamp, turning to eye Shane. Ilya looked much worse now that Shane could see him.
He was pale, his eye bags looked more prominent and his nose was glistening with moisture, pink around the rims of his nostrils.
"There you are... shit. You caught that cold going around your team, didn't you?"
Ilya shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut as it triggered his blooming headache. "Nyet. No. Allergic. Not sick."
"I'm not stupid," Shane had squinted, looking through the plastic bag he still had in his hand.
"Mm, get your clothes off," Ilya mumbled, assuming Shane was getting lube out of the bag.
Shane's head shot up, staring at Ilya like he was crazy. He couldn't help the flush that now coated his cheeks. "What? No— I've got medicine for you, asshole. I kinda put the pieces together on why you were absent today for our game. Well— from two conclusions."
Ilya cocked his head a little, sniffling thickly with a little cough. The idea of being taken care of was so foreign to him. "Ehh, very nice but. Am not sick."
Shane just nodded, getting some Gatorade out and resting the bag at the foot of Ilya's bed. "Right, right."
Ilya sniffled, resting himself on his elbows as he eyed Shane. Ilya's whole face felt itchy and sore, his nose buzzing. His throat felt as if he had spent all night pleasing Hollander. Now he understood why his team was being so boring in the locker room.
"Alright, I've got you some Tylenol for you. I can see you, uh- squinting so I'm guessing your head hurts?"
Ilya blinked, lapping his lips. "No pills."
"They'd make you feel a lot better," Shane tried, placing them on his bedside table with the bottle of Gatorade.
"Mm, you went shopping. How sweet," Ilya said, trying to shift the subject.
Shane just nodded with a little shrug, keeping his eyes on Ilya. "You really don't look well at all," He mumbled, reaching a hand out to check Ilya's forehead for warmth.
"You are so... what is the word. Mothering? I don't know," Ilya babbled, slightly leaning into the touch although he'd never admit that.
Shane shook his head, dismissing what Ilya said. "You're warm. Feverish. This must be the flu, then. Shit."
"Nyet."
"Don't give me that nyet," Shane mocked Ilya, pressing his nostrils together to mimic a stuffy voice, "you have the flu. I'm looking at the evidence right now."
Ilya scoffed, which triggered a cough, which made his sinuses hurt and tickle. Ilya swiftly brought the hotel duvet over his lower face, ducking his head down from sight and saving Shane from his germs, "Hnn'gtt! Nn'gshh! In'gsh—!! haaH'TSHH! B'lyad! Hnngh... sorry."
Shane blinked in surprise at the show in front of him, "Bless you, bless you," those first stifles sounded painful. He tossed Ilya some tissues he brought from his bag, "Don't— apologise. You're so sick..." Shane mumbled, feeling empathetic for the Russian. He had never seen Ilya this vulnerable before.
Ilya scowled behind the tissues, weakly blowing his nose although nothing came out. His nose was crooked with hockey injuries and that made it almost impossible to get any sinus movement.
"Mm, whatever. Don't look at me like thadt. You look like a kicked puppy," Ilya had attempted to snark, sounding more sick than confident.
Shane shrugged, taking off his jacket. The room felt extremely warm, Ilya acted like a human fireplace. "I can't help my concern. Have you eaten today?"
Ilya shook his head, tossing a tissue to his nightstand. Shane fought back a grimace at that. "Nyet, no appetite. I am hydrated tho," Ilya sniffled, pointing to the Gatorade Shane brought and a cup of clear liquid.
"Oh, that's good at least. You're drinking water," Shane stepped forward a little, fixing the bedsheet back over Ilya's shoulders.
"It's my medicine, Hollander. Not water. Beautiful vodka to make me better."
Shane took a breath, eyeing Ilya. "No fucking way."
Ilya just sniffled, his nose unable to stop running with all of his sinus issues. "What? You Canadians wouldn't understand."
"Alcohol isn't any good for the flu, okay? Don't drink that shit," Shane had mumbled, checking Ilya's forehead again.
Ilya pulled at Shane's wrist, blinking at him. "Join me, I am lonely. You have nothing better to do I assume. Since you're already here."
Shane stepped by the bed, letting Ilya hold onto his wrist. "Sounds like a good offer, but. I really can't afford to catch what you have..." Shane had mumbled, a smile breaking out on his face once he saw a flicker of distress on Ilya's face.
"I'm joking. I'm not so horrible," Shane mumbled, getting into bed next to Ilya.
"Not funny," Ilya snipped, rubbing at his nose with his wrist as he shuffled over to give Shane some space. "Are you going to be a germ freak or can we get close?"
Shane's breathing stuttered at the question from Rozanov. He tried to make it come off as a joke but Shane knew he was actually asking for consent. As if Shane would say no.
"C'mere, sneezy. I'm here to look after you," Shane mumbled, leaning over to Ilya.
Ilya folded, moving himself to weakly nuzzle into Shane's chest. He took a deep breath to try smell Hollander's scent but instead got a nose full of congestion. He let out a frustrated huff which turned into small coughs targeted at his elbow.
"Easy," Shane mumbled, rubbing Ilya's back. "Take your medicine, alright? That's all you gotta do for me right now."
Ilya just nodded, too tired to deny the sickness anymore. He reached over to the bedside and sipped the liquid medicine, shutting his eyes to take one of the Tylenols.
"There you go. Good," Shane rubbed Ilya's neck crook to his shoulder blade, watching him for any sign of discomfort.
Ilya melted back into Shane, head weighing down. "Yuck. Gross. Tastes like ginger ale."
Ilya made a strange noise, moving to sit up away from Shane as he covered his nose and mouth with a cupped hand. "Hhh.. heHH— Hhh.. hnngg fuck. Embarrassing," Ilya mumbled, sounding more stuffy as he had what looked like a failed sneeze.
Shane rubbed at Ilya's shoulder, sitting up with him. "You okay?"
"Itchy," Ilya mumbled, gesturing vaguely to the centre of his face.
Shane nodded, anxiously biting at his lip. "You should try to blow your nose again. Maybe that would, uh. Help you out?"
Ilya shook his head, "Nyet, my nose is all fucked. Ugh. This is so stupid."
"It's fine, honestly. Please don't be embarrassed... you're sick, you can't help it," Shane said, ignoring his inner thoughts as he tried to get through to Ilya.
"Sore," Ilya had sniffled, resting backwards against the head frame and pillows.
"Your nose is sore?" Shane questioned.
"Da. Fucking itchy and... I don't know. Bothersome," Ilya rubbed at it in frustration.
Shane reached out to hold Ilya's hands still, "no, none of that. That'll only cause more irritation."
Ilya made a sound of defiance, eyeing Shane. "What am I supposed to do? It fucking- it's annoying me."
Shane stretched out like a cat, taking the opportunity to gently straddle Ilya's hips. "Is this okay?"
Ilya raised his brows, holding Shane's waist steady. "Yes..."
"I just wanna help, okay? Tell me if it irritates you more," Shane explained, trying to swallow down his kink to make Ilya feel somewhat less stuffy.
Shane rubbed a careful finger up the crooked bridge of Ilya's nose, watching for any discomfort. "Is this where you feel stuffy?"
"Mm, da. Think so," Ilya mumbled, eyes closing at the touch.
Shane let his thumbs gently massage Ilya's cheeks to clear his sinuses, trailing his pointer finger back to the bridge of the Russian's nose, down to the tip.
Ilya opened his eyes a little, blinking up at the man above him. The room was dim but Ilya still managed to get a look at Shane's face. Ilya loved it when Shane looked comfortable.
Shane rubbed at the tip of Ilya's crooked nose, dusting his fingertip on the rims of Ilya's nose.
"No, I'll sneeze," Ilya warned weakly, a hand coming up to grasp at Shane's wrist.
"That's the point," Shane had chuckled, a little out of his comfort zone. "Didn't you just complain about how you couldn't sneeze?"
"Just let it happen. It's just me n' you here, so. You don't have to act so tough all the time," Shane said, schooling his expression to one of nonchalance as he continued his gentle touch on the rims of the Russian's stubborn nose.
Ilya smirked a tiny bit, nose flaring from the tickle. "You're so cringe."
"Who taught you that word?" Shane mumbled, giving some attention to the other rim and the section between both rims.
"Hhhh.. your mmmhh- mom. Hh—! Fuck—! hHHNNgggshw! HhAAatsshw! Hih.." Ilya quickly sniffled up his mess, face burning with humiliation. His chest ached with regret. Now Hollander would see him as weak— submissive. They'd never fuck again.
"Bless you twice," Shane said, tissues already in his hand as he gave them to Ilya. "Was that okay? That helped?"
Ilya just nodded, wiping his nose as he looked anywhere but Shane. That had surprisingly helped. Ilya didn't think his nose was that sensitive to just a simple touch.
"How'd you know to do that?" Ilya grumbled, reaching to his nightstand to sip at his vodka.
Shane raised an unimpressed brow at the sight, rubbing at Ilya's forearm. "I get allergies in the summer and, uh. I just get kinda itchy as you described, so I just prod around my nose one day and boom." Shane always felt so shy whenever the topic of his allergies came up, he never knew why.
"You're so weird," Ilya sniffled, putting his glass back down as he examined Shane.
"I'd rather weird techniques over sinus infections..."
Ilya pursed his lips in agreement, feeling pretty exhausted now. His nose was still buzzing. "Was that supposed to stop the itchiness? It didn't..."
Shane sighed, feeling bad for the Russian. Shane was horny, but his empathetic side was almost bigger. Almost.
"Hmm.. I can keep doing it if you'd like? Then you could get some sleep. You look half asleep already.."
Ilya nodded, allowing himself to indulge. This would be okay.
Ilya closed his eyes, trying not to think about it too hard. About what his father would say if he could see.
Shane brought his fingertip back at the bridge of Ilya's nose, venturing back down to the tip at a slow pace. Shane could already feel Ilya's breath stuttering under him. "You're so sensitive."
Ilya opened an eye to glare, closing it again. He was hitching by the time Shane got to his left rim, lips parting. He tilted his head right so he wouldn't spray Shane, "hH-! huh'ESSHHhuhh- hah'EDTcCH'iu— HAAESSHHUuu!"
"Fuck, bless you. That sounded like it hurt," Shane snipped some tissues from the tissue box, subconsciously passing them to Ilya. Ilya was left slightly gasping as he coughed, holding the tissues from Shane to blow his nose.
"Eeeeh, fuck. That was interesting," Ilya snarked, feeling utterly spent. His nose was now red and irritated, constantly running.
"Mmh, poor you. Fuck, I don't wanna leave you like this. Did they write you off for tomorrow?"
Ilya nodded, eyes closing. "Da. I'll probably be okay with some sleep tho."
Shane scoffed, fixing Ilya's hair. "You're serious? Fuck no. You're gonna be out for at least a week."
Ilya groaned, pulling Shane down to cuddle. Ilya knew Shane was right but didn't want to acknowledge that.
"I hate Kane for infecting us all. Stupid American germs. Not funny. Not fair."
Shane couldn't help but smile at the babbling, letting Ilya rest in the crook of his neck. "I know. I warned you, remember? This is on you."
