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.
Blurb: Ilya is under the weather and Shane is acutely aware of his inner forecast. Plot is spoiler-free!
Length: 3.6k words
TW: Cursing
**Please do not share to non-kink snz blogs and minors DNI! Feedback and formatting tips are always welcome <3**
“aa’HZSHH-!!”
When Ilya catches Shane staring at him out of the corner of his eyes, he inadvertently stiffens his lip and flashes a frown in his direction.
“It was a sneeze, Hollander.”
It was several, actually, Shane thinks but doesn’t say. Two when he’d entered the apartment, and four while he showered. But hey, who was counting?
Oh right. He was.
Shane sits up straighter on the couch, watching as Ilya enters the room, freshly cleaned and slightly damp following his shower. Ilya had only just returned from practice an hour ago (having gone against Shane’s wishes), and despite the obvious head cold he was battling, he’d managed to catch a ride to Shane’s, dodge his chastising, abandon his gear, shower, and change into his lounge-wear in record time.
All that was left to do was flop onto the couch, which he does with a resounding grunt and effort that has Shane nearly dropping the book in his hands. Removing his glasses, Shane gingerly places both his novel and spectacles on the coffee table beside him. Now that Ilya was here, he was the immediate center of his attention.
The minor migration from the bathroom to the couch must’ve been enough to stir something in Ilya’s sinuses, because the second his face hits the cushion he’s refurfacing with a hastened gasp. Shane can literally count down to the sneeze in his head.
One…two…three-
“aA’ZSCHH’hu!…hhy’ZZCHH-!! Fuck!”
“Bless you,” Shane chirps, adding: “again.”
“Is that all you can say now?” Ilya asks moodily.
“If all you do is sneeze, then yeah, I guess so,” Shane replies.
Ilya had been irritable all day, and it looked like this evening would be no different. Before he’d left for practice, he and Shane had gotten into an argument over whether it was really necessary he attend or not. Maybe “argument” was too strong a word, but chalking it up to a minor disagreement felt equally disingenuous.
Ilya had been stubborn as all Hell about going. On any other day Shane might’ve applauded his commitment to the sport. After all, of everyone either of them knew, it was Shane who understood just how vital it was for a captain to be present for his team. Today was different though. Shane knew Ilya wouldn't listen to reason when it came to his health, so he’d tried to convince him that if he went to practice and exacerbated his cold (or God forbid infect his whole team), his attendance would only work against him. Normally Ilya would listen to logic like that, but Shane was pretty sure he’d ignored the facts purely so he could get out of the house. Ilya didn't like to sit still for too long, and getting him to rest at all was like pulling teeth.
Deep down, Shane wasn’t angry or disappointed Ilya had gone; he was only frustrated over his flippant disregard for his own health. That, and parts of him worried that his persistent attempts at nursing Ilya had inadvertently chased him further away. He didn’t think that was the case, but the possibility bothered him. He couldn’t help it when the thought clung to him like an itch…and speaking of itch...
“hHH’ZZSHH’hu!”
Shane startles free of his own thoughts.
“Bless you,” he repeats more patiently this time. With a deliberate softness, he reaches for Ilya and pets the tops of his hair. It was his way of extending an olive branch after their earlier argument. “How was practice?”
“Fine,” Ilya grumbles. He sniffles and rubs his nose on the couch. “Fucking cold.”
“Is it getting worse?” Shane asks.
“What?”
“Your cold? Do you think it’s getting worse?”
Ilya tilts his head, squinting slightly.
“…I meant the rink, Hollander,” Ilya corrects. “The rink was cold.”
“…Oh.”
Ilya stares at his boyfriend, shaking his head while he murmurs something under his breath. He sighs, chest deflating as he sinks deeper into the cushions.
“I’m not dying, you know,” he murmurs. “You act like you’ve never heard me sneeze before.”
“Okay, but you don’t normally sneeze like that.”
Ilya immediately peeks at Shane, looking at him sideways in a way that has him feeling unusually nervous. It was like Ilya had suddenly flipped the script and Shane was now the one being studied.
“Oh? How do I usually sneeze then?” he asks.
Of all the ways he could’ve responded, Shane never would have guessed it’d be like that.
“W-Well,” Shane licks his lips, “it depends. Out on the ice, you tuck it because of the gloves. You know, sneezing into your jersey or your collar or whatever. But out in public or during your interviews, you pinch it; usually in twos. Not like when you’re alone with me.”
“Huh,” Ilya breathes, glancing Shane up and down, “and how long have you noticed this?”
“A while,” Shane admits. “Like…I don’t know; since rookie season?”
“Oh, so you were spying on me,” Ilya teases, his tone dry but gaze mischievous. “You are obsessed.”
“Fuck off,” Shane says, embarrassed but pleased to be reinstated as the subject of Ilya’s coy banter (as opposed to a reminder of his poor condition).
“You should be paparazzi,” Ilya proposes.
“And do what? Follow you around, take your picture? I do enough of that already,” Shane smirks. “Besides, you’re only saying that because you like being the center of attention.”
“Ah-ah — I like being the center of your attention,” Ilya amends. “Very important distinction. It’s where I belong; between the ice-“
Ilya inches closer via an army crawl and nudges his forehead against Shane’s thigh.
“-and you.”
Shane smiles and clicks his tongue. “Can’t argue that,” he concedes.
“Good, because I am sick of arguing with you,” Ilya sighs. “And I am actually sick.”
His confession catches Shane by surprise. “So you are sick?”
Ilya glances at Shane.
“Yes,” he answers, "aren't you the one who’s been saying it all day?”
“I guess, or I mean…” Shane swallows as he reorganizes his thoughts. He was used to Ilya speaking candidly, but not always with such honesty. He’d anticipated having to coax admission out of him, but once again, Ilya has usurped his expectations.
“I thought it was possible,” Shane says, finally. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” Why didn’t you just tell me, he thinks.
Ilya shrugs with a sniff. “It’s not important.”
He says it like it’s simple, but to Shane it's anything but. It was Ilya’s reasoning that bothered him. He may not understand Russian, but after ten years, he could speak Ilya with near fluency; so he knew deep down that “it’s not important” secretly (and heartbreakingly) translated to “I’m not important”…and that hurt him almost as much as he knew it hurt Ilya.
Shane clenches his jaw and stiffens his shoulders, his body bracing against the thought as a tough, painful feeling swirls around his chest.
“It’s important to me,” Shane responds; his tone is stern and serious, but lacks defensiveness. “How long do you think you've been sick?”
“A few days,” Ilya estimates, suddenly giving Shane an odd look. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” Ilya clarifies. “You seem bothered…am I bothering you?”
“What?” Shane asks, almost sounding offended by the suggestion. “No, you don’t ever bother me.”
“Then what is wrong?”
“Nothing, I-…-I just want to make sure you’re okay is all,” Shane says, swallowing again. “Are you? I mean, do you feel okay?”
Shane thought what he’d been asking was obvious, but then it occurs to him that Ilya wasn’t always used to being asked questions about himself; at least not outside his performance as an athlete (or who he was sleeping with). Asking Ilya about his health was always a tricky gamble. On one hand, it made Shane insecure. Ilya did always say he asked too many questions, and Shane could imagine why the questions he asked may feel more interrogative than intended — especially to someone so unfamiliar with being asked at all. Up until they’d met (and even years thereafter), Ilya had been reluctant to discuss any subject breaching the surface, so Shane was acutely aware this sort of attention was foreign to his boyfriend under most circumstances. He didn’t want to dismiss the progress they’d made by being too pushy.
Still, he also couldn't just ignore that something was wrong — not when it was sniffling in his face.
Thus, Shane shifts his weight on the couch and faces Ilya directly, lacing their fingers together and curling both their hands in his lap. Up close, and connected, he senses and sees a sort of hyper-vigilance shadowing Ilya’s features; an unease that he wasn’t comfortable expressing. Catching this, Shane instinctively hovers his thumb against Ilya’s knuckles, touch light and fleeting in hopes that in some way he can comfort him — remind him he’s not judging, only curious. Only caring.
Together they share the silence. Shane didn't need to repeat himself. He knew Ilya had heard him and was processing the question. The least he could do was be patient enough to await an answer.
Shane raises his other hand to cup Ilya’s cheek, which burns and flushes with fever. He tenderly brushes a stray curl out of Ilya’s icy blue eyes, then plants a kiss to where the lock lands, curtaining his face.
“You look so tired,” Shane murmurs, his touch reluctant to retreat from Ilya’s space as he moves on to stroking his beauty mark.
Ilya swallows, sniffling and allowing his eyes to fall shut while he leans into Shane’s touch. He pecks his palm, breath warm against the flesh.
“I am exhausted,” he whispers. “I feel disgusting."
“You’re not disgusting — you could never be,” Shane hums back dotingly. “You’re just sick and it’s been a long day.”
“Too long,” Ilya complains.
“I agree,” Shane nods. The heat emanating off Ilya’s skin is distracting, almost dizzying this close up. “You’re burning up, you know.”
“No, you are just cold,” Ilya disagrees, his speech half-muffled as he nuzzles into Shane’s palm and itches his nose. “It’s the Canada in your blood — icy.”
Shane smirks. “If either of us is cold blooded, shouldn’t it be you? You’re the one who’s survived Russian winters.”
“Barely,” Ilya murmurs, shaking his head. “And who told you I was Russian? That does not sound like me,” he jests.
“Right; except that is exactly how you sound,” Shane smiles back charmingly. He reluctantly pulls back his hand, earning him a pout and a whimper. “Shhh,” Shane consoles, locking on to Ilya’s needy gaze, “I’m not going anywhere.”
To satiate his partner, Shane extends his arms, spreading wide then beckoning for Ilya to fall into his chest. “Come here.”
He loves the way Ilya smiles at him; his features relaxing into a soft, fond look while he gladly takes up Shane’s offer. Together the two fall into place like dominos, with Shane tentatively grasping Ilya’s shoulders and reclining him back into his lap, and Ilya trusting Shane’s touch to guide him. He really wasn’t kidding about being exhausted, Shane thinks. On any other day, Ilya would put up some sort of playful resistance, begging for Shane to make him surrender while probably making some cheeky remark, calling him captain or accusing him of being unnecessarily handsy…but tonight, he wordlessly obliges his invite to shamelessly snuggle in his lap and unite in his warmth. Head against Shane’s thigh, Ilya turns on his side, stretches and yawns, his whole body releasing a tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.
“Mmm,” Ilya hums.
“What?”
“It’s nice.”
“My lap?” Shane asks. Ilya nods.
“Yes. Your thighs. They make good pillows,” he says, reaching overhead to grope and massage the flesh. “I am so used to gripping them while you ride me that I-“
“Woooow,” Shane interrupts. He scoffs despite feeling flustered, “okay.”
“What? Is a compliment,” Ilya drawls, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
“You’re such a flatterer,” Shane teases, “do perverts like yourself really not take sick days?”
Ilya hesitates, shifting his weight again so he’s on his back. He blinks up at Shane as the latter pets through his hair and wordlessly admires the hidden shades of seafoam drifting in Ilya’s eyes. Slowly, Ilya reaches up, pinching Shane’s chin and admiring him from his current angle. In his mind, he connects his freckles like constellations.
“No,” Ilya says, “and neither do boyfriends.”
Shane can't resist the smile that creeps up on him, and best of all, he doesn’t want to. He leans forward, attempting to kiss Ilya, but his partner catches him, netting his lips into the cusp of his hand.
“You will get sick,” Ilya chides, shaking his head. Shane kisses his palm, reciprocating his favor from earlier.
“I don’t mind,” Shane says.
“Yes, but I do,” Ilya confesses. “And I am not nice like you — you are whiny enough healthy; I won’t take care of you if you are sickly,” he adds, kneading at his nose with his other hand.
Shane grins, knitting kisses along Ilya’s palm lines. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he insists.
Ilya raises an eyebrow. “And how would you know this?”
Shane lands one last kiss before retreating back so he’s sitting upright again. “I’m going to sound weird if I say.”
“Weirder than when you talk about me sneezing?”
“Fuck you,” Shane scoffs, though his words are far from unkind. While he fights his creeping embarrassment, Ilya nods at him again, urging him to continue. It’s enough encouragement for Shane to brave a deep breath.
“Okay, so this might sound crazy because it is,” he starts, “but I’ve noticed you have a tell.”
“A tell?” Ilya repeats. He blinks, looking as confused as he sounds. “What is…?”
“It’s like a quirk o-or a signal that tells you something about someone. Usually it’s a trait or habit others would consider inconspicuous, but…it’s one that I notice because,” he pauses, swallows, “because I like you; and I notice you, obviously.”
“I think you do more than notice me, obviously,” Ilya says, lips twitching into a smirk as he shifts positions again. He likes the way Shane rolls his eyes at him. “Okay, okay,” he relents, “speak.”
“Right,” Shane exhales, feeling sweat springing to his palms, “so when you lie-“
“I never do this.”
“When you lie,” Shane restarts, chuckling, “you always touch your nose. Like you do this-,” Shane removes his right hand, then demonstrates by alternating between pinching and scrubbing at his own nose, “-that sort of thing,” he sniffs.
Ilya says nothing at first. Instead, he stares at Shane, lips slightly parted around questions he doesn’t ask, and eyebrows knit together in curiosity.
“I honestly thought maybe you just had allergies or something at first,” Shane continues, “but then I realized you do it whenever you lie about something.”
The silence from Ilya sustains, serving only to make Shane feel smaller and more insecure where he sits. Finally — after what feels like years — Ilya clicks his tongue.
“What?” Shane asks.
“Nothing that is just…” Ilya trails off, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, “learning these things; it makes me realize you are…what is the word…? Ah-! Yes!”
Ilya blinks again, snapping his fingers and settling his sights back on Shane.
“Neurotic,” he cheeses. “And a pervert for my nose.”
“Oh fuck off,” Shane laughs.
“Is the right word, yes?” he chuckles back. “Because Hollander, who the fuck notices a thing like that??”
“I do, asshole!”
“Yes, but why??”
“Because-!” Shane leans his head back, no longer laughing, but still left smiling. “See this is why I didn’t want to tell you; you think it’s weird — that I’m weird!”
“I already thought this-“
“Fuuuuck you.”
“-but that’s okay,” Ilya giggles. “You know why?”
“…Why?”
Ilya toys with Shane’s ear, his thumb grazing along its edge as it turns pink. He bites his lower lip, fighting the urge to spring up, suckle it and kiss Shane all over.
“Because I enjoy weird,” Ilya murmurs, breath as hot as his attitude.
“Whatever,” Shane blushes while swatting Ilya’s hand away. Any more fondling and he was going to squirm. “You’re the one who asked, you know,” he reminds him.
“I know, I wish I hadn’t,” Ilya chuckles, absentmindedly rubbing at his nose. He catches himself mid-act, both he and Shane immediately sharing exaggerated glances. “See??” Ilya exclaims, shaking his hands like they’re cursed, “now I will think of this forever…of you forever!”
“Oh what a terrible fate~!” Shane cries. Ilya reaches up his hands, breaking Shane into a fit of faux sputtering and genuine giggles as he pretends to choke him. “I’m innocent, I swear!” Shane howls.
“That is just what everyone thinks! They don’t know you like I do, Shane Hollander,” Ilya mocks, “and you are far from innocent!”
Shane throws his head back and begs for his freedom between saccharine laughs. That laughter is like music to Ilya’s ears, and the sight of Shane’s perfect smile is a feast for his eyes; the way his lashes bat so prettily against rosy cheeks, his teeth sparkle behind those lips he loves to greet, and how his freckles dance and wiggle, just as expressive as the rest of him. The sight of his happiness was an antidote to Ilya’s aches, even if just for a moment.
“Mercy! Mercy!” Shane pleads.
Eventually, Ilya releases his lover, both hands raised in generous surrender. Shane struggles to catch his breath, his laughter dying down as he blinks slowly back at Ilya.
“You are too attentive for your own good,” Ilya says, voice low and husky, but nonetheless bemused and bewildered by Shane’s bizarre interest in him. He reaches forth and fixes Shane’s bangs, pushing them out of his eyes. “And you are crazy, you know that?”
“What, about you?” Shane asks, sounding sleepy following his smothering.
“Mmm yes about me,” Ilya confirms, “and in general. But I will add myself to the list.”
“The list?”
Ilya nods. “Of all the things that make you crazy.”
“Oh yeah? And what else do you think is on that list?” Shane asks, entertaining Ilya’s banter and watching him dreamily while he curls his golden hair around his finger.
“Mmm…hockey, ugly cars, birds, real estate, and your boring, tasteless ginger ale.”
“It’s not tasteless,” Shane giggles, infectiously smitten by Ilya’s deceptively lazy wit and proud, precious grin. “You’re just saying that because you’re used to drinking vodka. Besides, I could’ve sworn you said you were starting to like it.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean it’s tasteful.”
“Then why do you drink it?”
“Because it is always around. That, and it tastes like you,” he smirks, “reminds me of your mouth.”
Shane can't decide whether he’s flattered or embarrassed or confused, but his expression must reflect a mix of all three because Ilya pokes his cheek and laughs.
“You’re blushing,” Ilya points out.
“Maybe,” Shane grins. “You say crazy things.”
“Sounds like someone else I know.”
“Right,” Shane rolls his eyes, “so you admit you’re also crazy?”
“Am I?” Ilya snickers. “How so?”
“I don’t know…because you like me?” Shane asks, his tone shrinking slightly. “Because you tolerate the things I notice and say, even if they’re somehow boring and crazy and weird all at the same time?”
Tolerate? How could someone so smart be so dense? Ilya thinks. He relished everything Shane noticed and said, even — no…especially when Ilya himself lacked the words to express as much.
Ilya mulls over his boyfriend’s inquiry. His mind searches for a remedy to his speechlessness, all the while his gaze remains restless; busy absorbing all the small details of Shane’s face. He memorizes the moonlit whites of his eyes to the freckles painting the bridge of his nose and smattering his cheeks like pixie dust. He fancies the cute curve of his lips, so plush and pink, and how they team up with his smile to light up the rest of his face. Shane wasn’t just beautiful…he was breathtaking, and Ilya felt lucky to bask in his glow.
But it was what lay past that perfect face that he was really attracted to. Shane’s kindness, his curiosity, and his vulnerability to ask questions Ilya could never pose, let alone answer without him. He was cautious, but he was also ridiculously brave, and that only made him shine brighter from Ilya’s perspective. For so long Ilya had only known a void of emptiness, and now he spent every day feeling blinded; eternally grateful to orbit a whole new world side by side with the light of his life — the sun newly adorning what had once been a relentlessly dark, cold, and isolated existence.
Words could never suffice nor do justice to the overwhelming feelings he had for Shane. They just bubbled up so naturally, as natural as breathing, as natural as-…!
Crying?
“Ilya…? Hey,” Shane coos as he swipes tears that have sprung from the corners of Ilya’s eyes. His expression mirrors the concern in his voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Ilya shakes his head, sniffles. Being so tired must’ve been making him emotional, but even while exhausted, he knew he could never tire of Shane’s company. It was simply impossible, even if he didn’t quite know how to say it. “I love your boring, your crazy, and your weird,” he says finally.
He blinks hard at Shane, freeing indecisive tears.
“You are too nice to me,” he whispers.
Shane swallows, taking both Ilya’s cheeks in his hands and holding him with reverence.
“I like being too nice to you,” Shane reassures, tilting Ilya’s head back and planting a kiss to his forehead. “You just hate hearing that.”
Ilya bites the inside of his cheek, then shakes his head, exhaling shakily and cupping his hands over Shane’s.
“Not when it’s from you.”
Shane’s chest melts. He smiles, then tilts his head, connecting both their noses in a silent gesture he hopes speaks to his endless adoration.
“Please let me kiss you,” he whispers.
“We shouldn’t,” Ilya whines, though it’s so obvious he wants to. “It’s not healthy; it’s to protect you.”
“But it’s torture,” Shane half-whimpers.
“Torture?” Ilya says, mirroring Shane’s smile back at him. “Is that what this is to you?”
The two share romantic stares until Shane breaks first, his smile irresistibly dreamy as the two lock hands.
“No,” he whispers. “Everything but.”
And that’s all it takes for Ilya to cave into a kiss. Lips colliding, he swears he’s seeing stars behind lidded eyes; a thousand little cosmos igniting in his chest and exploding into a dazzling fervor.
Well I haven’t written fanfiction in like 3 years BUT this hockey show has damaged my brain in incomprehensible ways so. Here is ~5k words of sick I/lya and S/hane being way too perceptive about it
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I/lya R/ozanov was having a horrible fucking day.
The Raiders were in Montreal for a game and I/lya had been looking forward to it for weeks. It had been months since he had been able to get H/ollander in his bed. They hadn’t been texting much - both of them were busy and I/lya knew S/hane was skittish when he was constantly around people. Now, I/lya sent his room number to H/ollander as soon as he was handed the key card, with a kissing emoji next to it for good measure.
Since I/lya had seen the schedule he’d been ready to not only fuck H/ollander into the hotel mattress, but to beat the Metros so badly they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. Mentally, physically, he was ready to go. He was at the top of his game. There was nothing he loved more than playing against H/ollander on the ice, except maybe fucking him and hearing the sweet whines that came from his lips after every game.
Until Ilya had woken late for practice to one of his teammates banging at his hotel door. He had slept badly that night, too hot then too cold, tossing and turning over and over. Ilya only really reached REM once the sun started coming up, and by then he should have been getting dressed already. He leapt out of bed and threw on whatever discarded clothes were in proximity. His head was fucking killing him and he was already in a bad mood, cursing as he hopped on one foot trying to yank his sweats on. Ilya missed breakfast, barely made it downstairs for the bus, and simply sucked ass during practice. His head wasn’t in it and no matter how hard he focused on the ice he just couldn’t find the tight groove he usually did.
By the time practice had finished, he was drenched in sweat and could barely catch his breath. Ilya had a hard time remembering ever being this tired after a pre-game practice on the ice. It soured his mood further, how out of routine he felt. This was not how game days went, especially not game days in Montreal. His headache hadn’t gone away; if anything it felt worse. He snapped at his teammates until they all got the hint and left him alone because honestly the last thing he wanted to do was speak or deal with someone asking him what the hell was wrong with him. Ilya didn’t even know himself what was going on and he’d rather chew concrete than try to put it into English.
During the afternoon Ilya tried to get back to feeling normal. He ate lunch with his team even though he had zero appetite, he went back to his room and showered, he chugged a couple of water bottles because maybe his problem was dehydration.
But by the time they were at the stadium in the locker room, he was beginning to think maybe he was fucked. His brain felt slow to process the information around him - English was suddenly so difficult that he stumbled through a rather short, embarrassing pre-game speech before just walking around and giving each teammate a shake or bump of helmets or punch on the arm to physically get them hyped instead. His vision felt a little off, a little out of focus, and god his head was killing him. The sound of the fans in the stadium nearly made him clamp his hands over his ears when they skated out for warmups.
Ilya couldn’t even get himself to look at Shane. Ilya was pissed off, he felt like shit, and the last thing he needed was Shane to pick up on that. Because of course Shane would. There was no way if he was even a hair off of his usual game that Shane wouldn’t notice and Ilya really didn’t want to fucking talk about it.
By the time the game was over, Ilya wanted nothing more to be magically transported to his hotel room where he didn’t have to do anything other than shower and sleep for the next twelve hours.
The Boston Raiders lost by one point, 4-3 for the Montreal Metros. He felt worse and worse as the game progressed. By the second period his throat was aching, not yet raw but uncomfortable when he swallowed, dry and irritated from all of his panting during the game. His nose was next to useless now. Ilya always was sniffly on the ice from the cold of it, but this was a new low. The congestion was bad enough his ears ached and muffled the sound around him. His head continued to pound. His gear felt hot and suffocating and he was constantly wiping sweat out of his stinging eyes. The harder he pushed, the faster he worked his legs, the more nauseated he became. By the fourth period he was benched - somewhere in the last few minutes of play is vision went a little sideways and he just couldn’t keep track of the puck and his coach knew it. Embarrassing.
Luckily he hadn’t been slammed around too bad, but he still felt like shit and he was pissed that he felt like shit. He was pissed that they lost, and he was pissed that he would probably have to tell Hollander he was coming down with something and couldn’t hook up. Of course. Ilya knew he was an asshole, but not that much of an asshole. But with the way Hollander squinted at him during the puck drop, he might already know.
Shane gave him a narrow-eyed, calculating look when they shook hands after the match. Ilya had seen him make this face at enough people that he didn’t take it personally, but did make him feel weirdly self conscious in a way only Shane was capable of. Ilya probably looked as bad as he felt. So he got the handshakes over with and skated back to the locker room where he peeled off layers of sweat-soaked fabric and protective gear to shower this fucking night off of him.
The steam didn’t help the issues he was having with his nose. The congestion began to shift in earnest, and before he knew it he was -
“Hih’Nxcht! HUH’ngkt! HAh’NXXNGT! Hngh… ”
Damn that hurt.
It was surprising to him how quickly he was going downhill. His headache has been steady all day, but over the course of just a few hours he had a full-blown head cold. Hopefully. Ilya was really and truly hoping this wasn’t the flu. Either way, his ears were blocked, nose packed full and running, and his throat felt like it was gearing up for laryngitis. Awesome.
Ilya showered quickly, dried off, and threw on his post-game clothes. He sniffled thickly, wiping his nose roughly with his hoodie sleeve. He’d have the team medic check him out tomorrow if he still felt like this, and either way he had a couple of days before he needed to catch a flight. Right now all he wanted was to just to go the fuck to bed.
Soon enough he was fumbling with his door key and stumbling inside his hotel room, closing it with a thud and leaning back against it. Ilya closed his eyes and took a deep breath, coughing weakly into his elbow on the exhale. Great. He rubbed his aching eyes and shuffled into the bathroom, rolling a copious amount of toilet paper around his hand and blowing his nose thoroughly. The noise was loud and gurgling, making him wince in disgust. He looked pretty terrible, hair still damp from the shower, face puffy and pale, nose already an irritated red with a mound of makeshift tissues tented around it.
He took a moment to mop up his nose, but the touch just made him -
Ilya groaned afterwards. This cold had just started and he was already over it. He finished cleaning up, dug through his bag for tylenol, and took a couple with several desperate gulps of water. The liquid didn’t really help with the dryness in his throat, just made it sting as it went down his esophagus. He took a whole spare roll of toilet paper to bed with him as he collapsed into it, clumsily sliding it onto the nightstand.
Ilya was so exhausted, sore and aching, head and sinuses pulsing when he moved. The bathroom light was still on and he needed to set his alarm for the morning. He was still fully dressed. But Ilya was too tired and felt too shitty to care about a single one of those things.
He did care about one thing though. Groggy and squinting, he quickly pulled out his phone and typed a message to Hollander.
Lily: Don’t come tonight. We will meet next time.
Satisfied that Shane both wouldn’t come over and wouldn’t freak the fuck out at his radio silence, Ilya tossed his phone to the bedside table and nuzzled deeper into the starchy pillow, sniffling thickly. He just needed to sleep, just for a little while…
~~~~~~~
Ilya jerked awake an indeterminate amount of time later to knocking at his door. His phone on the bedside table was vibrating incessantly and Ilya could basically feel the reverberation of it in his skull. He grumbled and swore and swatted at his phone until he knocked it to the carpet, fingers fumbling and failing to tug it towards him. He swore again and pushed himself up on trembling arms, confused and aching and pissed off.
He really truly now felt awful. He was freezing cold even as sweat plastered his shirt to his skin. As soon as Ilya left the warm pocket of air trapped between the blankets, he began to shiver. His head was pounding and his nose was running already, congestion packed so tight that even sniffling made his face bloom with pain. His throat was beginning to ache properly now after an indeterminate time of mouth breathing.
The knocking began at his door again, sharp and insistent. The phone on the ground stopped vibrating, then seconds later began again. Shaky, Ilya threw his legs over the side of the bed and wobbled to his feet. He was grateful in that moment he had left on the bathroom light so his balance wasn’t a hazard along with the lack of sight. Ilya, hunched over himself, arms tucked tight around his stomach as if that could ward off the chill, pulled on a discarded hoodie and swiped an arm under his leaky nose after trying and failing to sniffle away the mess.
Ilya didn’t know who was at his fucking door but they were about to regret it. The only thing in the world he wanted was to sleep, and Ilya swears to god if this is one of his idiot teammates-
The door is yanked open to reveal Shane Hollander, ball cap pulled low over his eyes, standing nervously in the hallway. He had a plastic shopping bag in one hand, the other holding his phone to his ear. Ilya saw Hollander’s shoulders visibly droop with relief as he pushed his way inside. Ilya felt stunned for several seconds, mouth working soundlessly, sluggish sick brain trying to put the pieces together as to why Shane Hollander was here right now. He had cancelled, hadn’t he? Had he dreamt that? Ilya didn’t have time to make sense of it before Shane was shutting the door behind him and sighing in relief. It took several seconds for Ilya to realize he was being spoken to. He felt like he was underwater, vision swimmy, thoughts slow.
“-really thought someone was going to see me. Are you okay? I’m sorry if you were sleeping. I just wanted to…” Shane trails off, looking nervous and embarrassed in that endearing way he always does when he meets Ilya’s silence with rambling. But then his eyes focus in on Ilya’s face again and his eyes narrow, bottom lip pursed in the prettiest frown Ilya’s ever seen. “God Rozanov, you look awful. No wonder you played like shit tonight.”
The insult seems to jolt Ilya back into the land of the living. Now it’s normal territory again, back where Ilya knows what song and dance to perform.
“So you have combe here just to insult mbe then?” Ilya has to fight to not cringe at the sound of his own voice. It’s beginning to sound raspy and raw, clogged with congestion. The concerned wrinkles in Shane’s face deepen.
“No, I just wanted…” Hollander paused for a second, averting his eyes and shuffling nervously, and Ilya takes the opportunity to move this conversation in a less tender direction. Ilya really didn’t want to talk about it, the vulnerability so vile he could feel it on his skin like a physical entity. If Shane got all soft and sweet with him right now Ilya knew he won’t be able to resist it like this. He could not do this, not with Hollander and his worried brown eyes, not while he felt so shitty.
“You have combe here for a fuck, hm? Are you so unable to resist mby dick even when I tell you ndo?”
The taunt works and Shane’s eyes snap back to his usual affronted squint he does when someone says something particularly stupid.
“Stop fucking around, I’m not here to sleep with you. What do you have, the flu?”
Ilya sniffled before he answered, which proved to be the wrong choice. The congestion shifted inside his already sensitive nose and the burning need to sneeze ignites in his sinuses. After he had broken it for the second time, Ilya’s nose became over-sensitive and reactive, even more than before. So now when he got sick it was always a constant struggle to fight the tingling, burning urge to sneeze.
He turned away immediately, ducking to try and hide his face in his below. His sinuses were packed full since Ilya hadn’t really thought to blow his nose before answering the door. He felt a small flare of panic, a lick of embarrassment; this was possibly the least sexy thing he could do in front of the one man he found to be the most attractive person on the planet. But still, his breath hitched on a shuddering inhale and his body gave him no choice.
“Hih’Ngxt! Hd’nGXT! Hngt’NXTSH-KNGT-NGXNT-uh!”
He stifled painfully, jerking forward one, two, five times, expulsions squelchy and squeaking. Thank god, no mess had escaped him. Ilya groaned quietly, face pinched with pain. His pulse roared in his head for a few seconds as the sinus pressure made his ears pop. He turned back towards the bedroom, going straight for the roll of toilet paper on the bedside table. He fumbled with the soft sheets and then blew his nose, going slowly to try to avoid the worst of the pain in his head. Ilya made sure he was presentable before he turned back around to face Hollander, nose beginning to feel raw and chafed from the frequent friction. At least now he felt a touch less clogged.
"Don't do that, you're going to give yourself an ear infection. I can't believe your medic cleared you to play tonight."
While Ilya was busy dealing with his nose, Shane had put his shopping bag down on the desk and was pulling things out of it. Bottles of medicines, sports drinks, water, a can of ginger ale (naturally), and two large cylindrical takeout containers. Ilya's nose was too stuffed up to smell anything, but he guessed from the shape that it was probably soup. Soup. This man was going to fucking kill him.
"He did not clear me," Ilya grumbled, pulling the hotel room's waste bin closer to chuck the sopping tissue he was still holding into it. Shane whipped his head around to ogle at him, eyes wide and outraged, freckles bunched up adorably. He quickly amended his statement before he got thoroughly chewed out. "I was okay before game, just headache and was tired. I will see team doctor tomorrow. I am okay, Hollander, Russians to not pass out and die just from ti-ihhh-ny coldsihhNGXT! Hih’NGngXT!”
Ilya ducked quickly into his elbow again to squash the angry expulsions there, strangled again into quiet, painful things.
Hollander just blinked at him as he blew his nose again. At least the blowing helped a little.
"Uh-huh. Tiny."
Ilya refused to feel embarrassed about the call-out.
"Why are you here, Hollander? I told you not to come yes? We cannot fuck, you will catch this and then you will blame me for ruining your perfect little winning streak." Ilya felt himself already losing the little energy he had from the shock of seeing his rival at the door. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed to look up at Shane, eyes heavy and hot. As if Shane were telepathically tuned into that thought, he stepped close into Ilya's space and put a palm against his forehead. Their eyes met, and Ilya felt his pulse jump into his throat at the zing! of contact. At the gentleness in Shane's eyes.
Shane must have felt something equally as vulnerable because he pulled away and turned away to open one of the pill bottles on the desk, ears red. Ilya tried not to mourn the contact. He really did feel pretty awful, head aching, throat sore, snuffling and miserable and cold.
"Well, I correctly assumed that you're shit at taking care of yourself. And I... wanted to see you." Shane admitted the last part softly, like he was unable to get his vocal cords to raise the volume past the nervous lump in his throat. Shane opened one of the boxes, pulled out the bottle inside, and then disassembled the box to fold it flat. Always so neat. "You probably have a fever, by the way."
Ilya was helpless to the smile that worked its way onto his face.
"Ah, so you do think I am hot."
Shane huffed and smiled softly, shaking his head.
"Shut up, Rozanov. You're not funny." He finished with his unboxing and counting of the pills he had brought, four capsules in the cupped palm of his hand. "Have you taken anything?"
Ilya leaned back on his palms, bed creaking beneath the new distribution of weight. He still kind of couldn't believe this was happening. Shane Hollander was here in his hotel room to feed him pills and soup and play nurse. Ilya hadn't even told him he was feeling bad, hadn't said much during their game together, and hadn't even been terribly symptomatic during the time he was on the ice. To anyone else he was just playing shitty. Was it that Hollander only had to look at him to know? Did Shane see the differences in him the way Ilya could see the differences in Shane? When Shane was playing on a tweaked ankle, when he pretended missing a goal didn't bother him, when his eyes just barely flashed anxiously while answering interview questions that were just a little too personal. Did Shane watch him like Ilya did?
Ilya took a deep breath, then stopped the train of thought where it was. He didn't need to be thinking of that when he was so tired and unwell, when his walls just weren't as strong, when he simply didn't have the resources to keep them tall.
"Umb," Ilya said, clearing his throat and turning away to cough weakly. "Tylenol only."
"Good," Shane said, holding out the handful of pills with a bottle of water. Ilya felt his heart do a insubordinate little flutter at the praise. He took the pills into his own palm, chasing them down with a swig of water. The bottle was cold, recently refrigerated, and it made him shiver. "This will fix you up. And it's nighttime too so it should help you sleep. I checked Boston's schedule so I know you don't fly out for a few days. If you have practice in the morning, don't go."
Right as Ilya was going to tell Hollander to fuck off and that he wasn't Ilya's boss and he could go to morning practice if he wanted to (he very much didn't), the itching from earlier came back to his sinuses full force. He brought up the back of his wrist to his nose, breath gasping.
“Hih’HnGT-nGXT-HNGKT! HAH’ngHHXT!”
He suppressed them as well as he could, unwilling to make a mess, to show further proof of his illness. To try and make it as small as possible.
Shane frowned at him again, eyebrows pulling together in displeasure.
“Seriously, Roz, knock it off. Stop doing that."
Ilya snuffled into more toilet paper he had pulled off the roll. "Doing whadt." He blew his nose with a painful honk before tossing the tissue into the trash. If anything he thought maybe Hollander would appreciate his attempts to keep his germs to himself, to be less gross. Shane was always so put together, so neat and tidy, so very much the opposite of whatever Ilya was right now and Ilya very clearly felt the imbalance of it. It made him feel a mix of embarrassment and self-consciousness and shame he didn’t often feel outside of interactions with his father.
"Holding them in. Your, uh, sneezes," Shane said, suddenly looking sheepish. "You'll make yourself worse. Or, like, explode your brain. It must hurt to stifle them."
"Whatever," Ilya grumbled, crawling further onto the bed and leaning his aching head against the headboard. He didn't love the idea of sneezing with a very full nose in front of the guy he fucks every other month, but Shane was right. It did hurt to stifle them. "You did ndot have to do all of this."
Even as he said it, Ilya was grateful Shane had come. It warmed something inside of him, that Hollander had thought of him, had noticed something was out of place, and had showed up unasked to fix it. Ilya struggled to remember a time someone had done this for him, especially without being asked. He couldn’t. The last person who must have done this for him was his mother, and he really didn’t want to think about that right now. It was a strange feeling to be grateful and content and miserable and exposed all at once.
Shane looked away with a half shrug, cheeks heating. God, he was so sweet Ilya could barely handle it.
“I wanted to.” Again uncomfortable with his own nervousness, Shane retrieved the takeout containers and dug around in the bottom of the bag for a pair of spoons. “Are you hungry? I brought soup. I don’t know what you like so I just got miso? It’s what I usually get when I’m sick but if you don’t like it-“
“Hollander.” Ilya smirked softly. Even sick and drippy and gross he couldn’t help the swell of affection in his chest. It was so Shane to fret so much, even about his rival, the guy he sometimes has sex with. Ilya had never had another hookup in his life care about him like this. Or look at him the way Shane sometimes does. “I’mb sure is fine. Bring here, we can eat.”
Ilya wasn’t really hungry at all, but an excuse to keep Hollander in his room was something he couldn’t make himself pass on. Shane just nodded quickly and fumbled with the food and utensils for a second before getting it together while Ilya took him in with hungry eyes.
They ended up side by side on the bed, bad hotel TV on, eating soup mostly in companionable silence. Ilya drank his soup while Shane ate his with a spoon. It was actually pretty good despite having no desire to eat, simple and savory and salty. The food was enjoyable, but the steam almost immediately made his nose begin to run. He sniffled through it for a few mouthfuls before the congestion shifted just so and ignited the tickle in his sinuses. Again.
He had just enough time to set his container of soup on the bedside table before he was snapping forward with several body-shaking sneezes.
He remembered at the last minute Hollander’s instructions to not hold it in. He was glad for it - even letting loose still made pain shoot through his sinuses and into his temples. Ilya didn’t want to know what the agony of stifling right now would feel like.
Ilya felt a little winded, a touch dizzy as he pulled away from his elbow. As he reached for the now half-used roll of paper on the nightstand, he saw there was a smattering of wet droplets on his hoodie sleeve. He felt himself blush a bit as he scrubbed at his sleeve with the tissues and blew his nose. But when he risked a glance over at the man next to him, Shane was looking at him with a little proud smile pulling at his lips, eyes soft and warm.
“Better,” Shane said before turning his attention back to the TV, still smiling.
Ilya for the first time felt too flustered to reply. That, and he was still exhausted and sick and his brain was slow. That’s why he just finished cleaning up his nose and turned back to the TV. It was just the cold medicine making his face warm, making his heart pound.
Ilya managed to finish most of the soup which he was rather proud about. He was glad that he was able to eat despite his lack of appetite, if only so Shane would be happy about it. And it was clear that Shane was; he made a little satisfied noise in his throat when he got up to throw their trash away and saw just an inch of broth left in Ilya’s container. And to Ilya’s great surprise, once Hollander finished tidying up, he got right back into the bed, just a touch closer than before.
Now full of warm soup and medicated, Ilya began to feel his eyes droop. He wanted more than anything to have just a little longer of this, a little more of Shane’s company, a little more of the creature comforts he usually denied himself. But sleeping off how terrible he felt was a close second.
Shane, of course, was quick to notice.
“Meds working already?” He looked at Ilya so sweetly, eyes soft, little concerned crease in his brow. He reached over again and felt Ilya’s forehead, then brushed the backs of his fingers against his flushed, warm cheek. Ilya sighed and leaned into it, sniffling thickly.
“Mm. Amberican medicines are insande. Is like I amb dreaming while awake.”
“We’re in Canada right now.” “Mmph. Whatever. Ndorth Amberica, is sambe thing.” Ilya yawned hugely and nuzzled down into his pillow, blinking slowly up at the man in his bed. Shane moved his hand up to play with Ilya’s hair. Ilya was rather enjoying it before he had to jerk away into his sleeve with another set of sudden, intense sneezes.
“Hih’IhhtSHUU! Hah’HRISHH’oo! HA’SESHHUH!”
He coughed and sniffled wetly after, eyes watering, head pounding, vision wobbly from the medicine. “Sorry,” he rasped, already turning away to clean himself up. His face felt hot with embarrassment, shame, vulnerability. His head swam as he tried to sit up.
But Shane just frowned and pulled Ilya’s face back towards him with a cupped hand.
“Don’t be. I’m sorry it hurts.” Shane’s fingers skidded across his face, gently pressing and massaging the swollen passages of his sinuses. Ilya shut his eyes so as not to cry. He felt both raw and soothed simultaneously as Shane moved his warm thumbs to trace firm circles at Ilya’s temples, slowly easing the ache there.
Ilya felt himself deflate against the pillows. He was well and truly in the depths of a nasty cold, but he was somehow the most content he had been all day - and he was also on the verge of tears. Shane Hollander was absolutely capable of making him feel complicated things. He was nothing but putty under Shane’s hands, helpless as the haze of cold medicine pulled him under.
“Is okay. You mbake it better.” Ilya was sure he was slurring, and maybe not even entirely sure he had spoken at all. Shane’s fingers froze at his temples for the smallest of moments before they began their ministrations again, somehow even more tender than before. Eyes drifting closed, Ilya let his body relax fully as the fuzzy sensation of sedation washed over him. Promptly, he fell asleep.
Whatever pills Shane had given him had knocked him out more than properly, but some time later Ilya was sure he felt the quick press of lips against his cheek before Shane whispered a soft ‘Goodnight’ just inches from his ear.
Ilya would wake alone the next morning, which was not a surprise. But it did make him smile when he saw all the supplies Shane had brought him lined up on the desk with a note set neatly before them.
Long time, no post! Remember this old fic of mine, about an office worker with quite spectacular spring allergies? I decided to follow the poor bastard home, to see what would happen after the incident at the office.
And if you thought the first fic was horny... well. I can confidently say that this is, hands-down, THE most indulgent, unapologetically horny thing I've ever written. I treated it as a kind of challenge, basically I wanted to see what it would take for me to be properly turned-on by my own writing. I've done similar experiments in the past, but practise makes perfect. (◕‿◕✿)
Anyway. You know the drill. No plot, only symptoms. A couple of mentions of mess, but nothing too graphic. Ridiculously long build-up, followed by ridiculous amounts of sneezing. Nose action-heavy to a pornographic degree.
Enjoy!
˖⁺‧₊˚❀˚₊‧⁺˖
The commute home is a nightmare. Not quite rush hour, the train car is still crowded enough for him to feel deeply self-concious about his near-constant sniffling and the stifled sneezes that he only barely manages to keep in check. It's equal parts humiliating and exhausting, pinching his nose closed for the tenth time in as many minutes and turning a would-be disastrous sneeze into a pathetic, wet little squeak. Like a drowning mouse, he thinks, bitterly, as he tries his best to wipe the resulting overflow with his already damp fingers. The stifled sneezes do less than nothing to soothe the burning urge in between his eyes, that hot, clinging, allergic itch that serves as a constant reminder that spring has sprung and he has at least two more months of this to look forward to.
"Heh'dnxgh!-uh."
He can't wait to get home. Once safely indoors, there are only two things on his agenda: taking his allergy meds, and getting in the shower.
- - -
By some miracle, he manages to make it home without accidentally sneezing on a fellow commuter. Front door barely shut behind him, he shudders out of his coat and makes a beeline for the bathroom. Stepping in front of the sink, he reluctantly looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. Certainly not a sight to instil confidence. It's worse than he had feared.
The culprit is there on full display, of course, front and center of his tired, bleary-eyed, slightly puffy face. For the past - god, what might it be? Eight hours now, at least? - he has known all too well what it feels like, but it's only now that he's had the chance to actually survey the damage, as it were.
He winces at the sight, but his expression quickly morphes into something less sharp, less intentional. Feeling the dreaded sensation pull at his facial muscles once more, he stubbornly fights to keep his eyes open as his mouth relaxes open and his eyelids droop.
"Huhh..."
The last thing he sees before his eyes fall involuntary shut is the star of this terrible show he has found himself in. His nose. Huge on his face. High in the air from his head tilting back, his nostrils take center stage. Scarlet ovals flared wide open, pulsing impatiently -
"Hh...! Huh...! H'DJSHNXGHiew!"
He sneezes uncovered, straight down toward the sink. Something between a bark and a wet snarl, the sound distinctly angry. He can feel the spray land on his hands that are gripping the sink.
"HEH'DJSCH! HIH'DDJSH! HEH, HEHH, -H'TJJSCHew!"
Horrible, awful, disgusting.
(Bliss.)
Leaning over the sink, shaking his head groggily, twin strings of drool and snot, thin as spider silk, slide from his nose and mouth into the drain. He sniffles, or tries to, and his nose gives a whistling squelch instead. He opens his eyes again, looks up. His gaze flickers across the mirror for a moment, as though searching in there for something other than his own reflection. His eyes soon revert back, however. Drawn by the sheer spectacle.
Fuck, but he looks a mess. His normally immaculate hair is standing every which way, his eyes are puffy pink slits, his lips chapped, his nose painful-looking, so red and inflamed it looks like he's taken a punch to it. He knows that, technically, it can't actually have swollen to twice its normal size, but it certainly feels like it. His nose isn't exactly small to begin with, and with all the rough treatment it's been put through lately... well. It definitely isn't pretty.
Hand not entirely steady, he reaches up against better judgement and touches the tip of his nose. Bright red bulb, shiny with inflammation, too warm to the touch. Itch immediately stirrs inside it, spidering up and down his nasal passages, making his eyes water.
Right. No time to waste.
Blinking hard and scrunching his nose to buy himself some time, he hurriedly reaches into the medicine cabinet behind the bathroom mirror and pulls out his antihistamine nasal spray.
Bracing himself, he gingerly inserts the nozzle tip into his left nostril, but his nose is already on such high alert that he doesn't have time to press down and release the spray to where it might, hypothetically, do some good. For the second time today, he sneezes full force without so much as a second's warning, a clipped double sneeze that echoes off the tiles in his bathroom. He opens his eyes and meets his own gaze in the mirror again. A look says more than a thousand curse words.
Next try he actually manages to push some spray up there, but again his nose rebels on him, violently evicting the medicine with a sharp "Eh'TDSHHjsh!" before he can contain it.
For fuck's sake.
Attempt number three. This time he pinches his nostrils closed before he can take another breath, squeezing tight as the repressed reaction shakes his diaphragm with strangled little "hdT-!, htTT-!, hdtT-!"-sounding sneezes. The action leaves him dizzy and his eardrums pop, but this time around the medicine stays put. He can't wait for it to start working. Even just the slightest bit of relief would be a massive improvement compared to his current situation. Sensing a small break in the ongoing fit, he lets go of his nose just long enough to push a second dose into his right nostril, then promptly squeezes it shut again. His nostrils twitch in his grip, the sharp menthol-y sting of the medication prickling horribly.
"heh'dt-! eh'dtj-! 'ttdjNXGH!"
Finally daring to loosen his grip of his nose, he looks at his reflection once more and cringes at the sight. Why couldn't he just have... moderate hayfever? Itchy eyes, runny nose, some sneezing here and there. Annoying, sure, inconvenient, absolutely, but not... not this. Not this embarrassing, crippling, dramatic spectacle of an allergy. A nose that demands him to drop everything to deal with its constant temper tantrums at having to breathe a little spring air. Speaking of breathing, his nostrils have begun to twitch again with little fluttering hitches. It's not that his nose has started to tickle again - it never stopped tickling in the first place - but rather that the ever-present irritation spreads and grows in intensity, its crawling, bristling needles of sensation blooming all throughout his nose, hijacking all other mental and physical functions. His breath stutters, his eyes overflow, his face twitches and contorts into all sorts of ridiculous expressions while his hands fan limply at the air in front of his face. For all he knows, the only thing this accomplishes is to waft even more pollen into his nose, but the action is reflexive, barely conscious. His chest heaves and expands, head rearing back, upper lip curling, baring teeth. His nose itches. God, it itches so bad. He wishes he could reach his fingers up there and just scratch, wildly rake his nails across the inside of his nasal passages with complete abandon. It's as if someone has packed his nostrils full to the brim with a mixture of dust, pepper and chili powder, or a million tiny feathers, or the world's most potent itching powder, or...
Or pollen. That hateful, inescapable stuff that seems to coat every surface outside in a powdery film. Just now, when walking up to the house, he had seen it floating on the surface of the rain puddles in his driveway, like watercolor splotches of pale yellow. So much of it. Everywhere. Sticking to everything. His coat, his hair, his eyelashes. Grass. Birch. Oak. Hazel. Riding on the breeze, infiltrating his every breath.
"hihuh... h'hih, hih, huhh...!"
Reddened eyelids drift to half-mast, his gaze goes unfocused, then cross-eyed. His nostrils spasm fitfully, seeming to flare wider with each consecutive breath until they're gaping open, perfectly circular, frozen in limbo. His head is thrown back, chest straining against his shirt, his lungs full to capacity, his face a cartoonish caricature of an allergy sufferer on the cusp of a truly devastating sneezing fit.
"huhh...! hhHHUH...!"
He can't think for itch. For a brief moment, his entire face seems to consist of itch, his nose its red-hot singularity. Stinging, burning, all-consuming. A crisis of itch.
"-AAHH...!!"
A beat. His body is so ready, so desperate to sneeze that it actually starts the process, producing a half-strangled "AH'DJh-...!" at the back of his throat, but then... it doesn't follow through!? His voice manages a pathetic, whispered "...tsheww"-sound, a toothless imitation of the release he was promised. His entire nose aches with disappointment. Fat, itchy tears spill down his face, adding their salt to the metallic taste in his mouth. Groaning, he grinds the lower part of his palm up against his nose, then again, and again, working the bulbous tip back and forth with aggressive fervor, attempting to ease the itch inside by rubbing his nostrils together. It barely makes a difference, and the screaming tickle high up in his sinuses threatens to drive him mad. He snatches a handful of tissues from the box on the sink and blows for all he is worth, immediately soaking the paper all the way through. Another handful, same result, but the blowing seems to be helping at least a fraction. Gasping and cursing, he buries his nose in a third wad of tissues, massaging the bridge of his nose through the paper all the while, giving a final, resounding blow... one that sets his nasal passages vibrating at just the wrong frequency. The resulting tickle goes off inside his head like a fire bomb:
Bliss. Torture. Bliss. Torture. The faint flicker of relief each sneeze grants him feels so good, even as the unbearable itch reignites immediately after. Goosebumps break out on his arms and his whole body tingles with sensory overload as he keeps sneezing and sneezing and snh... huhh-
He hates the rapid-fire sneezes the most. They make him feel so out of control, not to mention dizzy from the lack of air. Each frantic, breathless double-triple-quadrouple-quintuple bursting out of him only seems to aggrivate his nose further, triggering an endless chain reaction of allergic frenzy.
It's never-ending. That dreadful, squirming, crawling sensation of panicked nerve-endings writhing inside the tight confines of his swollen sinuses. Like a nest of angered ants, swarming and biting.
"AH'KGDJSHHIW!"
But maybe it's...
"GH'DTSCHEWW!-TCHEW!"
...finally starting to...?
"HP'TDSCHUH-TSCHUH!-tCHEW!"
Tingling lips parted, pouring eyes blindly shut, pulsing nose pointing at the ceiling -
"HAH'TDDJSCHHIEWW!!"
Bent over the sink, nose buried deep in his... fifth? six? handful of tissues, one hand gripping the side of the sink for support. Panting. Lightheaded. Exhausted. He tries to sniffle but is so brutally congested at this point that he barely makes a sound, his nose only manages a kind of wet squeak as he wipes it. Like a fucking clown nose, he thinks mirthlessly. Big, red, and making ridiculous noises.
"Guh..."
Please, that must be it, right? He has been sneezing non-stop for at least five minutes straight. His nose is so stuffed-up at this point that it feels physically heavy on his face, pulsating dully and aching with pressure. His abdominal muscles are sore, his throat raw, his eyes stinging, but his nasal passages don't feel like they are actively on fire anymore? Ever so carefully, he wrinkles his nose, scrunching his nostrils first to the left, then to the right. Waiting, breath withheld. It still tickles, of course. That feather-light buzzing tingle won't go away for at least another two months (god help him), but at least for the moment it seems his sinuses are no longer in absolute panic mode.
The meds must finally be starting to take effect. Either that, or his body is simply too exhausted to keep firing on all cylinders like that. Whatever the reason, he'll take any respite he can get.
At least now, he's able to keep his eyes open for long enough to find his way to the shower. He can't wait to get under the hot water and finally rinse all of that p... p-pollen off...
Don't think about it.
Of course he's still covered in the stuff. It's on his shirt collar. His sleeves. His hair. His face.
"Hh..."
No. He flat-out refuses.
"Huh... hh... "
Shirt, trousers, socks, underwear. In a mad scramble, he's shed them all and dropped them on the bathroom floor. Then he's in the shower, nearly slipping on the floor tiles in his haste to get in there before his nose can take him hostage yet again. Faceing the shower head, he doesn't even care that the water is freezing at first. If anything, the cold spray feels good and soothing against his flushed, itchy face.
"Hhuh --- djsh!"
The sneeze is weak, half-hearted, spray meeting spray, barely audible over the sound of the shower.
He might as well not have sneezed at all, the way his nose doesn't even register this sisyphean attempt to scratch at the itchiness inside.
Wincing deeply, he jams an outstretched forefinger up against his sore septum and starts to rub his nose again. Lightly at first, but soon he is applying more pressure, crushing his nose upwards, shortening the sloped bridge into a mass of crinkles. Finger sawing away, back and forth beneath his nostrils, pushing their inflamed insides together and grinding them against each other. The itch is a throbbing heat all throughout his nose, but searing sharpness has been replaced with a duller, more muted sort of irritation now, one that doesn't threaten to make him sneeze every two seconds. Instead, he's stood there scrubbing away at his face, not wanting to stop despite how tender and sore his nose is becoming. It feels so good to rub, to finally be able to scratch the itch that's been plaguing him for hours and actually feel it have a soothing effect rather than make it worse. A sigh of relief, then an almost sensual whimper escapes him, as he switches the position of his hand and starts pulling his nose up and down with his fingers wrapped around either side of it.
"Nnh... fuck..."
The squelching sounds are disgusting, and he couldn't care less. Eyes blissfully shut, fingers working away, loosened congestion mixing with the shower water and running down his lips.
All day he has been so. fucking. itchy. From the second he woke up and started off his morning by sneezing violently six times in a row into his pillow. All throughout his workday which ended with a disastrous sneezing fit and an humiliating early exit. Nine hours of this. Non-stop. Of the histamine-drenched nerves in his nose, eyes, ears and palate screaming bloody murder.
And now it's letting up.
One final, sensous pull on his nose, from brow to tip. He lets go of his grip just as the last remnant of a tickle sparks back to life in the raw depths of his sinuses. A pinprick stab of sensation, one big, quick gasp, and he is thrown forward with possibly the most satisfying sneeze he has ever experienced in his twenty-odd years of suffering from hayfever.
”AHH --- ! 'AATTDJSHOOohh!-ohhhh god.”
And so, for one, long, blissful moment there in the shower, his nose feels completely clear, calm, and unaffected by the raging springtime outside.
It may be temporary, but he'll enjoy it while it lasts.
I don’t know what gets me about flower allergies but it’s so GAHHHH. Someone can’t even be in the same room as the flowers they’re allergic to or they start sneezing? The closer they get the harsher and more rapid their sneezes become? They can’t do anything besides sneeze and sneeze, their poor nose is torturing them for something they can’t control.
Think of all the scenarios that could happen. All the settings that it could happen in. Flowers are so versatile, they’re literally everywhere.
Imagine someone walking in a garden, not being able to stop sneezing the entire time. Or only one specific section gets them in a very rapid fit, because only that section has flowers they’re incredibly allergic to. They can’t escape the flowers because that’s the whole point of the garden, so they just have to sneeze until they walk out. But each minute they’re around flowers makes the sneezing worse. By the time they’re out, they’ve been sneezing for 30 minutes straight.
Imagine someone being gifted a bouquet of flowers. They know that they’re allergic, but they lift it up to their face to smell them anyway, believing they maybe won’t sneeze as much just out of sheer willpower. Or maybe the affect is so immediate and vicious that the second they’re handed the flowers they start sneezing, and they have to hold it out away from them, desperately trying to get the person who gave it to them to take it back.
Imagine someone purposely inducing with flowers that they know they’re incredibly horribly allergic to. They sniff and sniff and can’t get enough, they need to sneeze so badly because it feels so good. They rub them all over their nostrils, maybe even going so far as to putting the pollen inside of their nose. All the pollen springs up into the air, and what if they regret their decision because they just can’t stop sneezing? But they can’t get away from it, they have to sneeze it all out. Even then, all the pollen is now floating around in the air, and they can’t seem to stop sneezing no matter what, it’s absolute torture at this point.
The possibilities are literally ENDLESS and it drives me insane. 
SUMMARY: I/lya comes over to S/hane's hotel room after a game with a bad cold. Kink!S/hane is found out. Set in a world where they don't run when they call each other by their first names, and where they can spend the night. 1.6k words.
Jane: 305
Lily: 👍🏻
“You played like shit today,” Shane remarked after he had shut the door behind Rozanov.
The blond rolled his eyes. “Fuck you, Hollander.”
Shane blinked. Rozanov’s thick accent was even harder to understand than usual through the congestion in his voice.
“Are you…feeling alright?”
Rozanov, who had already taken off his shoes and was leaning over stripping his pants off, nodded.
When he stood up, Shane could see the telltale glint under his nose from where it had dripped. Rozanov seemed utterly unconcerned, simply wiping it with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Shane really wanted to be grossed out. He wasn’t in the slightest.
The Russian took off his sweatshirt too, leaving him just in his underwear. He leaned in to kiss Shane, only to duck forward before he could make it there. He sprayed a violent “HURESHOOO!” towards the ground.
Oh my god.
Shane somehow maintained his composure, his “Bless you,” coming out steady.
He would’ve been able to handle it if Rozanov had stopped there. He didn’t though. As he straightened up, both of his hands came flying to his face and he let out two more, screaming out a “RESCHOOOO! HARASCHOOO!”
Rozanov opened his eyes and looked at Shane, but didn’t take his hands away from his face. Shane stared at him.
“Do you have tissue?” It came out so muffled by congestion that Shane could barely understand him, but he got the message. He practically ran to the bathroom to grab him a box. Bringing it back, he pulled out three and handed them all to Rozanov.
The wettest blow Shane had ever heard in his life came out. Rozanov went through all of the ones that Shane had given him, and then another. Swiping up at his nose, he trashed them all in the bin next to the bathroom door.
“Okay. Sorry. Now we start.”
Shane couldn’t stop himself. “Are you being serious? We’re not going to fuck, you’re on death’s door!”
“Am fine, Hollander. It is just nasmork. Is sniffles.”
Shane felt his dick twitch and start to fill. It really was unavoidable, with Rozanov saying that word in his awful (attractive) accent. He did his best to keep his face completely neutral, but Rozanov was a bloodhound with these things. His eyes narrowed and he examined Shane more closely.
“You…are blushing.”
Shane barely resisted the urge to clap his hands to his cheeks and hide his face.
“No, I’m not.”
Rozanov stepped closer, eyes never leaving Shane’s even as, with a congested sniff, he shoved his nose upward with his palm. Shane had known that he did that, not because he’d seen him do it but because of the little line across the tip of his nose. Still, it was totally different imagining it and seeing it three feet from you.
“I have eyes, Hollander. I see you.”
Shane was more turned on than he had ever been in his life. The embarrassment mixed with Rozanov and his red, irritated nose, were going to kill him.
Rozanov seemed to know it too, because he stepped forward and cupped Shane’s dick through his sweatpants. He found it hard, because of course he did. The man smirked at Shane, pleased.
“This does it for you, hm?”
Shane opened his mouth, to explain, to apologize, to say anything at all. Thankfully, he didn’t get the chance.
Rozanov’s eyes were still on Shane’s, but they were faraway now. He stepped back, rubbing furiously at his nose. Shane could practically hear him moving the cartilage around with how hard he was shoving at it.
Seemingly too taken by the tickle to even think about covering this time, Ilya’s face contorted. His eyebrows flew up, his mouth turned down, his eyes squeezed shut.
“HARASCHOOO!”
A thick warm mist landed on Shane’s face, and he quivered.
“Bless you,” he whispered, feeling a little faint.
Rozanov wasn’t done.
“HAAACHOOO! ESCHOO! REESCHOOO!”
Rozanov spun around so Shane couldn’t see his face, shaking his head as though that would clear the itch. He reared back and then he went lurching forward away from Shane with the force of a “HAAASCHOOOO!” that echoed through the small hotel room. Shane could hear his lips vibrate against each other with the force of it.
“Jesus!” Shane was breathless now, and moved forward to put his hand on Rozanov’s back and steady him. There was more warmth radiating off him than normal. Not enough to be concerned about, but enough that Shane knew Rozanov didn’t have “sniffles”.
“Why don’t you lie down?” he suggested quietly.
Rozanov scoffed at this, hands on his knees. “You lie down. All your blood is in your cock right now, you will pass away.”
Shane cocked his head. “Pass out?”
Rozanov nodded, and then went to straighten up and staggered a bit.
“Fuck, Ilya.” It came out of Shane’s mouth without thinking. He was worried, more worried than he should be for some asshole who had fucked him four times.
Ilya stiffened. “I am Ilya now?”
Shane was a deer in the headlights. He looked around, half unable to make eye contact, half hoping there was somewhere in the room he could hide.
“I didn’t-“
Ilya held up a finger, and tipped his head back to stare into the fluorescents above them. His nostrils flared a few times as he took long, steady breaths, but he ended up just sighing and returning his attention to Shane. All the fight had gone out of him.
“Is fine. I don’t care.”
This wasn’t the response Shane had hoped for, but it was better than what he had imagined: Ilya running out, leaving, never speaking to him again.
“Okay. Well then. You’re going to go to bed now.” Shane commanded, searching for some authority. Ilya gave a little laugh, and then, seemingly having decided to indulge Shane, nodded his assent. He flopped backwards onto the bed.
Shane went to go dig in his suitcase. He kept Dayquil, Nyquil, and Benadryl in his bag at all times, in hopes that being prepared would prevent him needing them. It didn’t really work that way, but it was nice to pretend. He popped out the two Nyquil tablets, filled one of the plastic cups that housekeeping had left in the bathroom with water, and came back out.
Ilya was scrolling on his phone, brow furrowed, nose bright red. “They are saying I was bad!”
Shane tutted. “You were. Although now I wonder how you even managed to skate straight sneezing like this.”
“I took something,” Ilya said absently, still on his phone. Shane grabbed it from his hands, turned it off, and plugged it in.
“You don’t need to be reading that right now. Also, why didn’t you take something before you came here?”
“Was…in a hurry. To get here.” Ilya was very studiously looking away. He cleared his throat. “Now I am glad I did not. Since you like so much.”
Shane wanted to defend himself, but Ilya was clearly distracted, rubbing at his nose again.
“You okay?” Shane asked, watching him closely.
Ilya started to nod, then gave yet another great “HAAAAESCHOOO!”, one that sprayed down his bare torso, and left him shivering.
Shane grabbed a tissue from the box Ilya had left on the side table, and cleaned his stomach off. Ilya gazed up at him, so trusting that it made Shane’s chest hurt a bit.
“Will you get up for a second? You need to get under the blanket.”
Ilya clucked at him. “Such a worrier.” He did what he was told though, climbing up for Shane to lift the covers and then crawling back in. Shane didn’t make eye contact when he pulled the blanket over him.
“Alright. Take this, and go to sleep. Maybe you’ll feel better with some rest.”
Ilya sat up the tiniest bit to take the pills that he handed him, and then laid down flat on his back. Shane was sure with how congested he was that Ilya would snore, but he knew he wasn’t getting any sleep that night anyways.
He turned off the big light, keeping the lamp on so he could finish his biography on Bobby Orr, and sat up next to Ilya. They stayed like that a while, in a quiet only broken by Ilya’s constant sniffling and Shane turning the pages.
“Heh…heh…”
Shane looked over to find Ilya’s eyes closed yet again, his nostrils wider than Shane had ever seen on anyone.
“Need…heh…to…RASCHOOO!”
Shane was, frankly, in awe, that one person could sneeze this much, and so wetly every single time.
He couldn’t help himself. He asked, “Are you always so…sneezy? When you’re sick?” His dick leapt in his pants, but he ignored it.
“Da. Yes. And other times. Is annoying.” He paused, and then smirked. “Am happy you like it though.”
“About that…” Shane was winding up to apologize for being weird, for making Ilya uncomfortable, for any litany of things, but Ilya interrupted him.
“Is okay, Shane. I am happy you…what is word? To get something from?”
“Benefit,” Shane said weakly. He had called him Shane.
“Yes. Benefit.” He rolled to the side facing Shane and closed his eyes.
Shane waited until he knew Ilya was close to falling asleep, his congested breaths lengthening, and then put the book on the nightstand. He turned over too, so he and Ilya were nose to nose. He would surely catch this, but he found he didn’t care.
“Is nice,” Ilya said sleepily.
“What’s nice?” Shane asked quietly, staring at Ilya’s closed eyelids.
hi! so here’s the handkerchief fic inspired by my lil head canon the other day. this is the first time i’ve written fic in a Minute and i haven’t written snz fic in even longer (like maybe 3-4 years lol). also have never written full on smut this is the closest i’ve gotten (& probably the most i’ll do) & i’m a bit nervous about that so please be gentle (but honest!!) . i’ll leave the russian translations at the bottom! enjoy 1.4k words of handkerchief sweetness featuring kink!shane & loverboy ilya
Shane has a love/hate relationship with his annual summer colds. On the one hand, he’s thankful they always hit him at the end of the season, so there’s no interfering with hockey. On the other hand, it sucks to start out his vacation while sick. He supposes he can’t complain too much though, with him and Ilya now being married and on the same team, it’s inevitable that Ilya would also catch what Shane has, they’ve never been good at keeping their hands to themselves.
Shane’s in bed cuddled up to Ilya for the night, his head on Ilya’s chest. They decided to head to bed early, Shane’s symptoms of the cold that he’s certainly coming down with getting worse as the day progressed. Shane’s reading a new book (surprisingly, not about hockey for once) and Ilya is scrolling through something on his phone. His glasses are on, the lights are dim, and his eyes are heavy. He feels himself starting to nod off when there’s suddenly a very telling itch in his nose, causing him to bolt up right.
“Shane? Is everything okay?” Ilya asks, moving to sit up right with him.
Shane nods and buries his face into his elbow. “I have to – hPNXTch! hehPNXTch! Sneeze… Excuse me.”
“Bud'te zdorovy,” Ilya says, pressing a kiss to the side of Shane’s neck.
Shane, who still has his face buried in his elbow, turns to his nightstand to grab a tissue, only to find that the box he normally has there is gone.
“Ilya, do you have tissues on your nightstand? I must have run out and not replaced the box.”
Ilya doesn’t answer, but turns to his nightstand. Instead of grabbing tissues, Shane hears him open the little drawer and pull something out. He gives Ilya a confused look when Ilya places a bunch of differently colored fabric squares on his lap.
“What are these?” Shane asks, face still buried in his elbow.
“Is… I don’t know English word. Like Cloth tissue?” Ilya sheepishly hands him one.
Shane takes it in his hand but doesn’t use it quite yet. “Do you mean a handkerchief?”
“Yes, is that. Handkerchief.” Ilya says the word slowly, but looks proud of himself after.
Shane laughs. “Ilya, why did you buy handkerchiefs?”
“For your nose. You buy fancy tissues with lotion but they still make your nose red and hurt after you use too many. These are much softer, better for your cute nose. Now use.”
Shane feels himself blush up to his ears. He finally takes the handkerchief in his hand, brings it to his nose, and blows. He has to admit, it's softer than any tissue he’s ever used and feels much better than them too.
“Much better, yes?” Ilya questions, giving Shane a knowing smile. Shane’s about to answer when his breath hitches and he feels like he’s about to sneeze again. Wordlessly, Ilya hands him a new handkerchief.
“HPNXTchoo! HeptSHiew! Fuck, excuse me,” Shane says with a sniffle. He puts down the handkerchief he just sneezed into and reaches back to the first handkerchief Ilya handed him, blowing his nose into that one. Ilya chuckles and Shane raises an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”
“I am very glad I bought larger pack. I thought you would need at least two, one to catch sneezes and one to blow your nose, and I was right. Bud'te zdorovy, moya lyubov'.”
“You know me very well,” Shane blushes. He wiggles his nose a few times trying to quell another set of sneezes.
“I do, moy zaichonok.” Ilya smiles and kisses Shane’s nose with a knowing smirk.
“Yes, sweetheart. You needed those, you were wiggling your nose. Bud'te zdorovy.”
“Thank you,” Shane finally lays back down as Ilya pulls him onto his chest, blowing his nose into the nose blowing handkerchief as he settles. “Wait a minute, you said you bought the larger pack. How many did you buy?”
“Pack has one hundred.”
Shane nearly sits up again to stare at his husband but Ilya’s arms are wrapped around him. “One hundred? Ilya, I do not need that many.”
“Is true, you do not. But I will also use when I am sick or am having allergies. Plus you will use a few once they get too wet for your liking, and considering what happens when we have sex–”
“Okay! Okay, I get it. Probably a smart decision,” Shane says, clearly flustered.
“Yes, I am full of those,” Ilya replies, and laughs when Shane playfully hits his chest. Ilya then hands Shane quite a few handkerchiefs. “Here, for your nightstand. Mine can barely fit them all.”
Shane takes the handkerchiefs after stealing a quick kiss and rolls to his side to put them away. As he does, Ilya grabs his ass and starts kissing the side of his neck.
“Ilya…”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“What are you doing?” Shane damn near purrs as Ilya starts biting at his neck.
“Loving my husband,” Ilya says into Shane’s neck.
“You were the one who suggested going to bed early tonight.” Shane reminds him.
“Ah, I suggested getting into bed early tonight. Not sleeping early tonight,” Ilya leans over Shane with a mischievous glint in his eyes, one Shane has come to know all too well. Ilya continues with his ministrations, and his hands start wandering up and down Shane’s chest.
“Ilya,” Shane warns, feeling himself start to get hard.
“Is something wrong, Shane?” Ilya questions, smirking. He’s too damn smug for his own good and Shane loves him for it.
“No, but if you’re not careful I’m going to start sneezing again and I don’t want it to get all over you.”
“Oh, but lyubimyy, you sound so stuffy and you will feel much better if you sneeze it out. Sex is good decongestant, yes?”
“How the hell do you know that?” Shane asks, eyes wide.
“Google,” Ilya responds, his hands traveling lower down Shane’s body.
“I don’t want you to get this cold either,” Shane moans. Ilya’s hand palms Shane through his boxers and Shane is positive he’s about to sneeze on his husband when a handkerchief is suddenly pressed to his nose. “In’gsh! Nn’gsh! Nn’gSH! Nn’gSH! In’gsh! Excuse me.”
“Bud'te zdorovy, solnishko. Do not worry about me, I will catch your cold anyway. I can hold handkerchief to your nose if it makes you feel better.”
“Spasibo,” Shane moans as Ilya palms him harder. The Russian thanks gets a rise out of Ilya, he practically growls as he pulls Shane’s boxers down. Ilya grabs lube that somehow got on the bed at some point and pours some in his hands, before taking Shane’s dick in them, which sends Shane into another fit.
“Am working on it sweetheart,” Ilya promises. “Bud' zdorov, bud' zdorov, bud' zdorov, bud' zdorov, bud' zdorov, bud’ zdorov, ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya whispers into his skin.
Shane moans and nods as Ilya moves from his dick to start opening him up, continuing to sneeze. “ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane says through his sneezes.
True to his word, Ilya holds a handkerchief to Shane’s nose the whole time, even grabbing new ones when the previous ones get too wet for what he assumes is Shane’s liking. Shane swoons at just how well Ilya knows him and his sensory needs and preferences. In his wildest dreams he could never imagine having all of this, being known so deeply that words are not needed.
Ilya grabs another new handkerchief and holds it to Shane’s nose once he’s cleaned them both up. “Blow, rodnaya, and bud'te zdorovy,” he instructs.
Shane does as Ilya says with a small shake of his head, making Ilya softly chuckle. “Thank you,” he whispers, once Ilya takes the handkerchief away. “For all of this. For knowing me and loving me and being you.”
Ilya looks at him with what can only be described as pure love in his eyes. “You are welcome, lyubimyy. Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
Shane pulls Ilya into one more kiss before Ilya shuts off the lamp on his nightstand. When Ilya lays back down Shane’s head finds its way to Ilya’s chest, as it always does. Shane feels a kiss pressed to the top of his head and hears something in Russian murmured into his hair, but he’s too spent and it’s too soft for him to understand what was said.
“ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane replies anyway.
“Spokoynoy nochi, ya lyublyu tebya bol'she vsekh na svete,” Ilya says.
russian translations:
bud'te zdorovy = bless you
moya lyubov = my love
moy zaichonok = my bunny
lyubimyy = beloved
solnishko = little sun
spasibo = thank you
bud' zdorov = bless you
ya tebya lyublyu = i love you
rodnaya = dear
spokoynoy nochi, ya lyublyu tebya bol'she vsekh na svete = goodnight, i love you more than anyone in the world
Is I/lya sniffing and itching at his nose more than usual? This is driving S/hane crazy. Meanwhile they still haven't admitted their feelings for each other.
CW: mess, teasing, slight nsfw
Shane Hollander knocked on the door to the hotel room and waited anxiously in the hall. 824. That was all the text from "Lily" had said, but it was all Shane needed to know.
The Boston Raiders had lost that night. Only by a few points. But still. Neither of them liked losing.
Ilya Rozanov opened the door and let Shane hurry in, looking down to flick at his nose and sniffle as he did so. Shane took in the room, a typical nice hotel room with Ilya's clothes strewn about.
"You want anything to drink? I have ginger ale." The Russian asked, looking at Shane as he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. He sniffed again, one eye squinting slightly.
Shane felt goosebumps form along the back of his neck. Why does he keep doing that? He thought to himself. But Ilya was looking at him expectantly - he still had to answer the question.
"Uh yeah, ginger ale. Thanks."
Ilya turned from him to get the drinks and Shane heard him sniff. Again? Well it wasn't that unusual. He'd seen Rozanov rub at his nose plenty of times. And seen how soft he looked with his nose scrunched against his hand, his nostrils flaring so slightly, maybe even turning a little pink...
"HH-hDTSChue!"
Ilya bent forward, barely turning from the drinks in time. The sudden sound snapped Shane back to reality.
"Bless you!" Shane blurted out. Was that too enthusiastic? Too fast?
Ilya sniffed and handed him his drink. Shane took it from him and looked up just in time to see Ilya's features crumple as he turned to let out another sneeze.
"huhhhh-DSHOO!"
"Woah! Bless you! Are you okay?"
Ilya rolled his eyes and looked at him incredulously. "Yes? It is only sniffles."
"Right well. There is a cold or flu or something going around."
"Are you so boring you worry about every sniffle?" Ilya was already bored of the topic. It had been weeks since they'd seen each other. The growing itch in his sinuses was the least of his concerns. Not compared to something else that would be growing soon. Especially with how easily flustered Hollander was tonight.
He pulled Shane's body close to him and like clockwork the two were back at it like no time had passed. Kissing passionately as searching hands pulled clothes off each other's bodies.
Shane couldn't help but notice how many times Ilya turned his head away to swipe or pinch at his nose. He couldn't help but blush when he heard him sniffle near his ear.
No, ignore it! It's like he said it's only sniffles.
After a long kiss had broken, they held their foreheads together with their noses touching. Shane gently nuzzled them together. He bit his lip as he felt Ilya sniff against him, and then leaned in to kiss him again.
...
After they'd finished they found themselves sitting shoulder to shoulder in the bed. Over his shoulder Shane heard Ilya sniff again. And again. And again? He looked over to see eyebrows furrowed and knuckles pressed against a red scrunched nose.
Ilya sniffed again... and then his chest heaved-
HUHHHTGXCHHH-
HuhhhhDDDTCHHH!
His nose was dripping onto his knuckles and clearly wasnt done. He pulled his fist away, mouth agape and unleashed.
HAAAHHHHDTSHHHOO!
Shane instinctively went for the tissue box on the night stand, and was relieved to have an excuse to look away, as much as he didn't want to. He pulled several out and handed them to Ilya, keeping his eyes averted.
Ilya took them and wiped his face, muttering curses in Russian under his breath. When he was done, he noticed a warm blush on his lover's cheeks, who was averting his eyes like he'd seen something shameful. Is this what has gotten Hollander so worked up tonight?
