i found an earring and decided to try inducing with it and wtf my nose absolutely hates it. so i decided to do a little nose torture and only removed it to switch nostrils or blow my nose. it also got caught on my septum ring a couple times and locked it's movement completely - all in all the most sneezing i've maybe ever done.
Ilya always being vaguely sniffly, but Shane can always tell the difference between Ilya's sniffles. Whether or not it's just a little too damp for allergies or his normal sniffles.
i love this show. i cried, i blushed, i kicked my feet. i want to write them as one big polycule because i have free will (joking…kinda). enjoy these. im working on a fic. if anyone wants to discuss, message me!!! @poetic-illness thank you for brainstorming with me!!!!
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garrett graham:
a resounding, throat-scraping, husky sneeze.
notably forceful.
usually covers by pulling his collar (or bottom hem of his shirt) over his face.
doubles…triples
the first sneeze usually sneaks up on him, but he waits patiently (tucked into his collar) for the second, as the tickle waxes and wanes for a few moments before the second sneeze comes.
usually bends him in half, or makes him stumble, or makes his knees jerk towards his chest.
aggressive with his nose. rubs it often by pinching it and massaging it harshly.
wakes up congested, blows his nose most mornings. lots of throat clearing first thing.
victim of leisure sickness. he usually catches a cold whenever he gets a break.
he plays an attentive nurse. usually a worrywort. knows 2 home remedies and nothing else, so he feels pretty helpless.
fever nightmares!!!
mild late autumn hayfever (hay, ragweed, cedar, mugwort) (mowing the lawn sets him off like nothing else)
“—EH’DZSSCHoo! hH-? H’JYSSSZCHHoo!
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john tucker:
a few staccato hitches right before he sneezes.
tries to warn, but he cannot for the life of him get it out. gets stuck hitching the same consonant over and over again. “gonna sn—! sn—! sn—!”
so perfectly full of his voice. always audible from another room, but no question of who it was.
typically tries to stifle, and ALWAYS fails.
very embarrassed by the fact that he’s so boisterous
soooo polite. lots of apologies, or excuse me’s.
ALWAYS blesses others, without fail. if not verbally, will write/text it. or will remember and bring it up later.
most germ conscious
fantastic nurse. probably one of the best caretakers ever.
singles. unless he tries to stifle the first one. then, doubles.
allergic to a very specific candle one of the boys got and when they lit it, he started hitching wildly and everyone had a “take cover!” moment
one too many concussions: prone to migraines. a precursor event to migraine is a sneeze attack.
HNGGSHHT! (note: that’s his best stifle) AH’RJSSSHHOO!
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dean di laurentis:
vocal and high pitched.
sharp sounding.
NEVER covers.
rarely ever gets any warning before the sneeze. sneezes mid-word often and will keep speaking after while wiping his mouth.
expects/demands a blessing.
doesn’t really know how to stifle. he just…can’t.
singles.
allergic to cats AND dogs. not terribly, but pet dander makes him so itchy. unfortunate because he likes both, and will pet them to appear friendly and charming and then will forgot and touch his face.
photic!!!! sunglasses are keeping this a secret hidden from most
makes a big deal of other people’s sneezes too. plenty of commentary—especially if they sneeze more than once. he will make it a Thing. (see: allie)
charming caretaker—but mostly flirty. always has a sexual air to it.
hh’ISSHH—euw!
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hannah wells:
forceful, but not necessarily loud.
sneezes shudder through her. (see: shivery)
sneezes into her elbow, and then alternates into the collar of her shirt.
tries to fend off the sneeze while building up by pinching/rubbing
lots of vocal hitching and hitching (which embarrasses her SO MUCH).
pinch stifles on occasion, when she’s with groups of people/in class/orchestra.
stifling makes her sneeze again
always obvious when she stifles because of the huge vocal exhale on the release of the pent up air
doubles
SNEEZE KINK!!!
so shy about being sick/allergic, and when others are too
tries to bless people when they sneeze but she usually gets embarrassed and stutters before giving up.
awkward caretaker
super allergic to dust
susceptible to stress induced colds. finals week is always hell.
aHD’ZSCHyiew! NGHHKT!
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john logan:
naturally soft, breathy sneezes.
wet
not really a fan of stifling on account of having very sensitive ears, but he doesn’t have to stifle because he has such small sneezes
prone to sinus infections, especially around season changes. leaves his ears clogged and ticklish, and he gets a dry little cough. very pesky but never enough for him to stop working.
athlete chalk makes him sneeze like crazy without fail. he’s learned to step out of the gym when the boys break it out
temperature change leaves him sniffly for hours after
tries to be germ conscious but often forgets to be mindful when he’s sick, or when others are sick. he will always share his drinks or food.
fantastic nurse
multiples!!!! (3-4)
often displays ‘sleepy sneezes’ where he sneezes when he is over-tired/sleep deprived. usually the dry buzz behind his eyes tells him he needs to sleep.
hk’isshhu!—hdt’sssh! kzsshh!
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allie hayes:
rapids.
so itchy and airy.
warning shot sneezes: the first few sneezes are false exhalations, just trying to catch the edge of an actual sneeze. think like revving an engine. the first few “ch—… ch—… ch—?!” sounds aren’t actually real. the tickle is always so overbearing that her nose tries to expel it faster than she can actually gear up to a sneeze. the first sneeze is actually more substantial and audible, rather than pitiful chuffs of air.
often gets asked “what was that?” when she sneezes.
always directs them into her wrist or her elbow or a palm.
doesn’t come up for air between sneezes, it’s machine-gun pacing
fans her face frantically before a sneeze (during her false starts, where she hitching wildly)
multiples (4-9)
always the last to catch tech week crud (theater is very germy), but once she gets sick, she is OUT
Three Times the Centaurs Tried to Care for Their Captain, and the First Time they Succeeded
Two: Missed Approach Point
part one
hiii, I come bearing part two, in a setting that isn't an arena or s/hane's place (shocking, I know). this is me getting slightly braver and adding more centaurs to the mix, although we still don't have t/roy or l/uca yet. all in good time ;)
I hope you enjoy! ♡
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 7k
cw: sneezing, mess, snz kink implications
As he approached the front door of Boodram’s place, Ilya fought to keep his mind on his surroundings, forcing himself to take in the décor, the late afternoon sunlight glancing off the windows, anything to stop himself thinking of an excuse to turn sharply on his heel and get back in his car.
With a tense sigh, the blond slid his sunglasses off, tucking them over the collar of his top, the sun-warmed plastic digging into his chest slightly. He didn’t flinch from the discomfort, hardly noticing it over the battle going on in his mind, reaching out to rap softly on the door with the back of his hand. It swung inwards at the contact, no surprise to the captain, who knew he was to head straight through. Despite how he may behave on the ice, he hadn’t been raised just to push his way into places. He still had some concept of respect.
His footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor as he crossed the house, heading for the backyard. He could hear voices, laughter, music. It stirred something in his chest, like trepidation, and then guilt over the feeling. This is supposed to be fun, Ilya, remember fun? You know how to relax, you know how to have a good time, what the hell is the problem?
The problem, as he’d figured out in the car, was that Ottawa’s idea of a good time was pretty starkly different to Boston’s. Not that he’d really want to be out at a club at some obscene hour with a random woman’s tongue down his throat, but he could do that sort of thing without even thinking. Simple, mindless partying where no one wanted to talk to him, no one even could talk to him over the blasting music. That was socialising, unwinding, camaraderie, distilled. This was-
He stepped out into the yard, making eye contact with his host immediately, the winger shirtless with an apron on, all muscles and tattoos, and a wide grin.
“Cap! Glad you could make it, man.”
Ilya nodded agreeably, raising the case of beer he had in his other hand, some Belgian stuff that Kohn had hounded him into trying a good few years ago which had ended up being some of the best he’d ever drunk. “I bring beer.”
“Nice one,” Bood made his way over, taking the drinks and clapping the blond on the back, “Grab a seat wherever, I’ll be firing up the grill in a bit.”
He nodded again, raising a hand in greeting to the few other team members already there, and finding a plastic lawn chair that appeared to be in a good patch of shade, and a little ways away from everything else, and sitting down.
It took under five minutes for him to retreat to the safety of his phone screen, already feeling slightly distanced by the few references that had set the rest of the group laughing uproariously, but had seemed to pass him by, and wanting to check in with Shane.
YOU: He has nice house.
Extremely important information, which he’d absolutely had to convey to his boyfriend right that minute. Ilya sighed softly, hunger stirring in his stomach, boredom stirring in his soul. He glanced up and around the group again, gaze alighting on Hayes, sitting next to his wife and smiling at her affectionately, as Lisa made some quiet comment to him, behind her hand, the two of them breaking off laughing afterwards. Jealousy clenched Ilya’s jaw, and he turned his eyes back to his phone, seeing Shane had replied. He wouldn’t have had to wait so long for him to reply if he was actually fucking here with him. They could have stupid whisper conversations too, then.
JANE: Oh you’re there? Did they like the drinks?
JANE: What’s nice about it?
JANE: The house, not the beer.
The anxiety drained from the blond as he read the messages, replaced by the comforting reassurance that Shane was there, on the other end of the phone, knew where he was, and was interested enough to receive some probably over-regular updates from him about it.
YOU: They like beer I think. No one is drinking or eating yet. Just talking.
YOU: Is big new house, you would like.
“Yo, Roz.”
Ilya looked up. Dykstra was standing by the cooler, holding one of the beers.
“Where’d you get these?”
He shrugged, “Import from Belgium.”
“They good?”
His expression apparently conveyed his disbelief at the question, because LaPointe started to laugh. “Yes, is good. Why would I bring bad beer?”
“Ya never know.” The defenseman responded, faux-wisely, walking back to his seat with his drink.
He tracked him with his eyes, expression unchanging, to the younger player’s continued amusement, until his phone vibrated in his hand, earning his returned attention.
JANE: Are you talking too or just texting me?
JANE: Very descriptive, thanks (¬_¬)
…
Boodram had fired up the grill 20 minutes ago, and Ilya had resorted to replacing his sunglasses in the last five, approachable body language be damned. The smoke seemed to be blowing directly in his direction, and he could only get away with blinking every ten seconds for so long before someone would have asked if he was alright. So mysterious asshole mode it was.
Behind the tinted lenses, the captain squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, bringing the cool can of cola he’d been nursing, to his lips and relaxing as the liquid soothed the prickling in his throat. Although he would have killed for one of the beers he’d brought, the alcohol content was just slightly too high to risk it, since he had to drive himself back and he had no idea when that would be, so he was sticking to soda. Plus, he wasn’t sure how the alcohol would interact with the two separate kinds of antihistamines he was currently on.
Though the patches Shane had found for him had been a godsend, he still experienced breakthrough symptoms, particularly during long exposures, so he’d taken it upon himself to pick up some actual meds- some kind of kids’ syrup- for allergy symptoms, and take a dose of that as well. They were both the non-drowsy kind, so that didn’t seem to be an issue, and so far they’d been completely effective. Against his allergies. The smoke was a different story.
He wasn’t really allergic to smoke- that would have made his cigarette habit hard to keep up- but the stuff made everyone’s eyes burn and lungs ache. It just happened to also set his nose off. Like so fucking many things did.
The blond sniffled softly, the sharp stinging sensation in the back of his nose that had sprung up in response to the constant influx of smoke being dragged in with every inhale, spiking in warning. He scrubbed at the offending appendage irritably, glancing at his phone, which rested on his lap, void of new notifications.
Shane had stopped responding a few minutes ago, called away by something else. Something that was actually there, in front of him, to entertain him and draw his attention. Ilya took another sip of cola, stared at the distant trees along the horizon, vowed not to be jealous of what was probably just a bird that the Canadian had glimpsed out of the window and gotten caught up in trying to identify. You are better than a bird. You are smarter than a bird. You have more friends than a bird. Did he have more friends than a bird? You have more important things to do than compare yourself to a bird.
More important things like dealing with the sudden trickling sensation in his nose that let him know that he had about three seconds to find something to press under there, or it would start dripping down his face. Fuck. He was way too far from the stack of napkins sitting on the table beside the grill to casually snag one, he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and there were no towels or items of discarded laundry in the immediate vicinity. Ilya sniffled, stalling the inevitable, while he thought of a solution.
“-and then he fucking lost them!” The captain tuned in to the story Dykstra was telling right at the punchline, as everyone burst into laughter, and Young, apparently the subject of the tale, attempted to frantically defend himself. That made for a good enough cover.
Ilya ducked smoothly, dragging the collar of his shirt up over his mouth, and pressing the edge to the base of his nose, letting the fabric soak up the moisture there as he tilted his head away, making it look as if he were laughing. Really if any of the players actually knew him, it would have been a weak performance, since he didn’t make a habit of laughing at shitty stories when he was sober, nor hiding said laughter. But they didn’t fucking know him, did they?
He’d essentially finished the clean-up job, halfway through looking up to check he hadn’t been sussed out, when Young’s attention turned in his direction.
“I don’t know why you’re fucking laughing, Cap. Didn’t Boodram lend you his keys to the equipment room like a month ago?”
A sharp glare from Ilya silenced him, but his linemate had already begun to turn around from the grill, eyebrows raising, “Actually, yeah-”
“They are in my fucking car. I did not lose them.”
“Lost the first set, though.” Hayes pointed out perceptively, gesturing with his drink.
“That is not your business. My keys, I do what I want with them.” What he wanted, apparently was to mix them up with Shane’s keys, and then lose them forever when the Canadian’s panic over being called out for having the wrong set had resulted in a very stupid excuse that had led Pike- fucking stupid Pike- to helpfully put them in the Metro arena’s lost and found, where neither of them could ever claim them.
“Do you really have them in your car?” Bood had turned back to the grill, but the doubt in his voice was unmistakable.
“Yes, I fucking-” He’d sat back, preparing to take a swig of soda, the velar sound at the end of the curse word hitting at the exact angle to reverberate right through the congestion in his sinuses. There was absolutely no way his irritated, congestion-laden nasal passages were going to let him get away with sparking a vibrating, buzzing, bordering-on-tickly sensation like that without sneezing. “-I will prove to you.”
He placed the can by the leg of his chair and stood, to the sound of various passive ‘ooh’s, a snort from Dykstra, and a slow clap from Hayes.
“Odds that he actually has them, anyone?” Young asked as the captain headed back towards the house.
“Odds that he just gets in his car and drives home?” Was the first response. Now that was tempting.
The comment earned a smattering of laughter, though, and the thought of them seeing his swift departure as the result of an overconfident assertion rather than some mysterious captaincy-related responsibilities, was extremely off-putting. He’d be back, with the keys and with his nose under control.
…
From his cool, unruffled exit from the yard, to the walk through the house again, Ilya kept his pace slow and measured. Once he reached the front hall, though, all bets were off. He snagged two tissues from the box on the table by the door, suppressing the instinctive feeling of transgression- they aren’t going to fucking notice, dickhead, and if they do, they won’t know it was you- jabbing at the button on his keys in his pocket, and taking the short distance to his car at a jog, diving into the passenger seat without really thinking about it.
He pressed the stolen tissues to his nose and blew hard, spluttering afterwards at the mess dripping over his upper lip, scrubbing at his face violently to clean himself up and subdue the itching sensation. Chest heaving as he tried to take in the clean air, fight the urge to cough out all the lingering smoke particles, and furnish his lungs with enough airpower to fuel the sneezing fit he could feel approaching, he shoved the used tissues into the center console, and braced his hands on his thighs, eyes squeezing shut.
With a snort and a sniffle, he was reaching out to open the glove compartment, seeking one of Shane’s many tissue/napkin stashes, and the promised keys that he knew were in there. Before he could even begin to look, though, his breath caught again.
“hHh… yeshcho?” The blond questioned himself, exasperated, moving back into brace position as he geared up for- “hKk! hKk! Kkh! hKK-KSh! KSH! KSH! hKSH! … haHHKSH! hah…hAHSHHOo!”
Ilya blinked itchily, sunglasses now sitting under his chin, thrown from their perch on his nose by the fit. The upholstery between his spread legs was… wet, more than spritzed by tiny spray droplets, dotted with visible drips from his mouth and nose. His lip curled slightly in distaste.
Temporarily freed from the burdensome itch, he leaned forwards to start to search through the glove compartment, ignoring the tingling sensation on the backs of his hands, the ghost of the spray they’d been doused with moments before. He found the napkin stack first, neatly tucked away to one side. Thank God for his slightly obsessive boyfriend.
He pulled two from the stack, leaning back in his seat to blow forcefully, abs tensing from the exertion as he cleared himself out. That led to a rough, gravelly coughing fit, concluding with a very pitiful noise which resonated in his cupped hands, still pressing the napkins to his face. Ilya regained his self-control, and his manliness, with a few muttered curse words, finally locating Bood’s keys and swiping them from the mayhem he’d stirred up in his search for tissues, pocketing them, discarding the napkins, and stepping back out of the car. Okay, back into the-
The smell of smoke drifting from behind the house hit him immediately, followed by a brief hint of recently cut grass, wildflowers, and- he was reaching for the passenger side door handle again before he could really register it.
“hKk! HkK!-” Hand over his nose and mouth until he could get all the way in and get the door fully shut, Ilya tried not to suffocate, kneeing at the glove compartment until it opened and grabbing two more tissues to slap to his face. “-hKSH! hKSH! hMPH! hihMPHh!-” He reeled backwards as his breath caught in a series of progressively deeper hitches, “hihhIhHUH-” The feathery, slow-spreading tickle didn’t feel like just irritation anymore. “hKSH-kSH-KSHuH! hiHKSHH! hihAESHHOo!” It felt like an allergic reaction. Like his immune system had overpowered the- admittedly pretty pitiful- medication he’d sent in to subdue it, and was now seeking revenge on whoever had tried to suppress it’s wrath. Like he was totally fucking fucked.
…
Ilya had checked his face for any signs of his internal battle in the wing mirror of his car, the mirror in the Boodrams’ house’s hallway, and his reflection in the glass door out into the backyard. Satisfied that behind his replaced sunglasses, his bloodshot eyes weren’t visible, and that his nose seemed the regular amount of pink given the sun exposure and his constant abuse of the appendage, he returned to the rest of the group, keys held high in triumph.
“See. What I fucking tell you?” He tossed the keys to Bood, who caught them with an appreciative nod, dropping them into his pocket. Then, accompanied by the repeated slow claps from Hayes-dude seemed to only have one joke when he was at this ratio of beers to any kind of food- , various rekindling conversations, the sizzling of the grill, and laughter as some money changed hands- apparently they’d actually gone through with the betting talk- he returned to his seat.
The group’s focus moved on. Ilya toyed with the idea of letting Shane know that he was starting to have an actual reaction to the various allergens, the smoke apparently having given his body the excuse it needed to disregard the allergy medication and start a reaction anyway. But he didn’t want to worry his boyfriend unnecessarily, he reasoned with himself as he took the plate Cassie was holding out to him, all his attention immediately on the delicious-looking burger in front of him, he was fine, he could ride this thing out.
And ride it out he did. For all of fifteen minutes, breathing awkwardly through his mouth between bites of food and gulps of drink, feeling like a child who had not yet been taught table manners. Not that anyone noticed, all the attention now on the food, and plying Bood with complements in order to inspire the player towards the idea of cooking second and possibly third or fourth portions. The food was fucking incredible.
A lull had tentatively fallen, the team full and happy, a few smaller conversations taking place while Dykstra fucked around with Bood’s phone and the Bluetooth speaker, to everyone else’s chagrin. Ilya rubbed at his nose, the itch now feeling constant and all over, hyper-aware of the feeling that the slightest misstep would spark a sneeze. He wondered when he would be able to leave, and whether he would still be able to drive by then.
The misstep- which was inevitable really, his nose was nothing if not fault-finding and over-particular at the best of times- came in the form of a wry glance in the direction of the horizon, over the top of his sunglasses. The blond cursed himself for his brief moment of whimsy, wishing to admire the colors of the setting sun without the tinted barrier, when he should have been focused on placating his immune system. The light barely caught his eye, but it was more than enough to push him over the edge.
“hKk! Kk!-” Panic flooded him as he tried to regain control. Cover your fucking face. Breathe. He went for the back of his hand as a shield, knuckles pressed against his mouth and nose, and face half-turned away, towards his shoulder. “-hKSH! KSHuH! hHKSH!-” Just get it over with, finish up already, almost done. The words in his head were somewhere between the kind of placations Shane would have whispered to him and the indifferent admonishments of significantly less patient people who’d borne witness to his fits over the years. “-hihKSHh! KSH-SHh!-”
“Yo, Cap, you breathing over there?” He couldn’t place the voice, barely audible to him over the sound of his own hitching breaths and the music changing again as Dykstra remained absorbed in the endless music content available to him, and the captive audience. But he definitely could place the sound that came right after the question, a plastic cup bonking against someone’s head, likely thrown, from the sound of the impact. Ilya had no time to process either the question or the response, because he was still-
“-hiHSHH! kSHH! Ksh!” -sneezing? The fit trailed off into nothing in a way that it didn’t usually, but that Ilya was extremely grateful for, taking a moment to steel himself before raising his eyes to meet the several invested gazes trained on him. Definitely less than if he’d had his usual grand finale of a finish. Hayes certainly looked more alert now, though, eyes trained directly on the captain, unblinking. Fuck. Why was he always paying attention at the worst moments?
“Bless you ten-ish times.” Bood offered, amused. A glance at Dillon told Ilya the winger had apparently been counting on his fingers to aid his linemate’s stupid habit, both palms spread wide in front of him, like he’d only just noticed he had hands. Dickheads, both of them.
“Thanks.”
Most people who’d looked up when solo cups had started flying seemed to return to their drinks, phones, or conversations, Ilya pretending to do the same, rubbing at the side of his nose with his finger as he squinted at his phone screen.
YOU: going to fucking die
He regretted the text as soon as he’d sent it, knowing it would freak Shane out. Sure enough, ten short seconds later, his phone started to buzz with an incoming call. Ilya stood, unceremoniously walking back towards the house, seeing Hayes track his movements with his head in his peripheral vision and ignoring him. Everything was fine. No one thought anything was wrong. No one knew him well enough to know something was wrong.
…
“Is something wrong with Ilya?” Lisa elbowed Wyatt as they watched the captain stalk off into the house. The goaltender immediately turned to smile at her, ever enamoured by her perceptiveness and apparent mind-reading ability. Because that was exactly what he’d been thinking.
“Nah.” Boodram responded, leaning across to cut in before he could respond. “He always does that. It’s a lot, but he’ll be fine.”
Wyatt shook his head. “No, I was thinking he seemed off too. Besides the sneezing, I mean.”
“Oh.” Bood squinted in the direction the Russian had stalked off in. “Yeah, maybe?”
“Like, where did he go?” Lisa continued, with a sip of her drink, and the air of a 1940s private investigator.
“Bathroom, I guess.”
“Right, but-” She turned to look at their host, head tilted in that discerning way that made her husband’s heart rate climb even when it wasn’t directed at him, waiting for the revelation. “-how does he know where it is? Has he been here before?”
“Uh, no.”
“So, why would he leave to go somewhere he didn’t know how to get to, without telling anyone?”
“He… wouldn’t?”
“Right, unless something was wrong.”
“Or unless he wasn’t going there at all?” Bood countered. “Maybe I was wrong about the bathroom.”
“Right, maybe he’s going to his car, to leave, because something’s wrong.”
Bood’s eyes widened. “Oh shit.”
Wyatt fought not to openly grin. Bam. Theory, evidence, analysis. Perfectly argued. God, he loved this woman.
…
The first ten seconds of the call were rustling, and indecipherable muttering, and quickened footsteps echoing on wooden flooring.
“Hello?” Shane tried, finally, more concerned for his boyfriend’s wellbeing than he was that someone had taken his phone and was about to discover that his secret girlfriend was really a secret boyfriend.
“HRRRSHHH!” The brunet jumped slightly. “Oh my f-hUH…” The footsteps paused. “hAHKSHHyOo!” Okay, so he was definitely alone.
“Fucking hell- are you okay?”
No response, only more rustling and footsteps. Then-
“Nakonets-to. Yebat.”
And a door slammed, and a lock clicked shut.
“Ilya?”
“I could not find fucking bathroom.” His voice cracked slightly and the brunet felt his heartbeat, which had slowed down a bit at the sound of his boyfriend’s voice, speed up again at the thought that he might be crying.
“What happened? Are you okay?” With bitter regret, he forced himself to cut himself off before uttering the instinctive next sentence, ‘Do you need me to come and get you?’, because it didn’t matter if he needed it or not, he couldn’t have it.
Ilya moaned distantly, sounding like he had his shirt pulled over his face, “I am so fucking-” He dragged in a ragged breath and started to cough, the sound echoing cacophonously through the phone, productive and fitful, slowing before inevitably picking up again. Shane absently shoved the knuckle of his first finger into his mouth, biting down to distract himself from the vicarious ache in his chest. Please be okay. Please just say you’re okay.
The first word that he uttered in the wake of the fit didn’t register in any recognisable language to his fretful boyfriend, waiting patiently on the other end of the line, just a jumble of consonants and breathy little gaps that might once have been vowels. It sounded like a combination of several swear words in several languages to Shane- you pick up a lot when you play with and against people from so many different countries- and didn’t even begin to cover the coughing fit itself, which warranted an essay’s worth of expletives, if the Canadian was any judge.
“You’re okay.” He whispered in response, no idea yet if he was lying or not. “What happened?”
“Smoke and plants and-” The blond cut himself off with a rough sniffle that turned into a loud hitching breath, the itchiness even audible through the phone, Shane picturing his boyfriend’s eyes squeezed tightly shut and his mouth hanging open as he listened to him dragging tissues from a box.
“hKK! hkK! HkK! hihhKSH! KSH! kSh-KSH! huhhKSH!-” More tissues being grabbed, desperate, uncoordinated, a slight bump as the box itself apparently fell over. “-kKSHHh! huAHSHH! AHSCHOo! hrRSHH! hRRSHH!-” Some garbled curse word that he couldn’t quite make out. “-hrRSHHOo!”
“God bless you.” He inadvertently echoed the Russian’s typical response to him, mind having drifted to other times that this feeling had stirred in his stomach, similar displays from Ilya and less intense incidents with himself, his boyfriend’s constant, arresting, attention and care-
“Wow, Ilya. Bless you. Fuck, you’re really allergic, huh?” He was unsure whether he should focus on the concern that threatened to overwhelm him, for moral reasons, or whether the…other feeling that sat, immense and illicit, in his chest, would allow him to discard some of the blinding anxiety in favour of crude curiosity.
“Shut up.” Apparently his reverence had come off more as mockery. “Everythi-ihh-ing is itchy. How is worse with meds than with no meds?”
“I’m sure it’s not, you’ve been taking them for a while now, so maybe you’ve just forgotten how bad a full blown reaction can be.” Shane reasoned. “The smoke can’t be helping either. Maybe wash your face? You’re in a bathroom, right?”
“Yeah, okay.” He heard the click of the phone being set down on the countertop, moving fabric, and then rushing water, with intermittent splashing sounds as the blond tried to clean his face of irritants. After a minute, the splashing stopped, and Shane cringed as he heard the strained, extremely productive sound of his boyfriend blowing his nose. The noise echoed in the space, unencumbered by any kind of fabric barrier. He was just using his hands. Gross. Reasonable, given how desperately itchy he sounded, and with his hands and face soaking wet, but still kind of gross.
The faucet turned off, and for a few seconds there was just the quiet dripping of water from his face into the sink, and regular, panting breaths, the blond apparently focusing intently on something. Shane smiled slightly, despite the situation, the sound adorably familiar.
“What are you doing?” He asked, innocently, hearing himself reflected back tinnily, Ilya apparently having put him on speakerphone.
Another open-mouth, distracted breath. And then, “Hurts when I touch it.”
The Canadian’s endeared smile dropped to a frown of disappointed frustration, immediately. “What does?”
“My skin.”
He’d barely answered before Shane reprimanded him. “Then why are you touching it, Ilya? Leave it alone.” He processed the answer he’d been given. “Your skin hurts? Is it hives?”
“Mm.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“I swear to God if you don’t stop touching it-”
Ilya laughed. “How you know?”
“Because I can tell when you’re not paying attention.” Because it’s far too much of the time you annoyingly easily-distracted, unthinkably sexy, concerningly allergic man.
“You are so obsessed with m-ihh-”
Shane swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut as he waited for the inevitable, trying with all his willpower not to take any joy in his boyfriend’s suffering. And it REALLY sounded like he was suffering, so it would be REALLY bad to feel good about it…in any way.
“hKK! KK! Kkh! hKSH! hKSH-KSH! hKSHuh!-”
Suddenly the echoey, unrestrained quality of the sneezes was dampened, the noise slightly muffled as he continued.
“-hKSHH! KSHH! hihh… hIHKSHHOo!”
“Bless you.” He pretended not to notice the weight of the words as they left his lips and then echoed accusatorially back at him through the phone, resisting the shudder that threatened to run through him. Control yourself.
Ilya didn’t seem to have noticed. “Ah fuck. Stupid fucking-”
“What’s wrong?”
“I sneeze in my fucking shirt. I forget I have to put back on.” He clicked his tongue and sighed. “Stupid.”
The Canadian had no response to that, staring wide-eyed and empty-brained, into space as he listened to his boyfriend mutter in frustration and the sounds of him slipping the shirt back on and adjusting it.
“Is fine.” He’d picked the phone back up now, voice closer and clearer. “I feel bit better too.”
Shane smiled. “That’s good. What are you going to do now?” He was asking partially because he couldn’t tell whether this was a ‘I’m the captain, I have to stick it out.’ situation or a ‘run away and don’t let them see you like this’ situation, but also because he wasn’t sure Ilya had decided yet, and he thought it prudent to remind him that he couldn’t stay in Boodram’s washroom forever.
“I think I will leave.” The blond’s response was flat, devoid of emotion, but Shane could sense the regret regardless.
“Good, you need to take care of yourself.” He reaffirmed the decision confidently. “And I’m sure things would have finished out soon anyway. Well done for going.”
Ilya choked on a laugh that would have been bitter even if he’d managed to correctly get it out on the first try. “Because I am fucking shut-in, I need you to say ‘well done’ when I go out with my team for two hours? Fuck.”
“You’re not a shut-in, okay? You have a lot on your plate, and I know it’s hard to hang out with them because of… everything else in your life, so yeah, I’m proud of you. I would have gone home at the first symptom, so you’re better than me.”
There was a pause, during which time Shane gnawed on his hoodie drawstring with his back teeth and stared anxiously at the wall, imagining his boyfriend’s face, tired, swollen, disappointed, and wishing he could kiss it all over until it was probably still just as swollen, but more happy and relaxed instead.
“Okay, thank you. I go now.” Ilya said at last, the tragic emptiness still audible in his tone.
“Alright.” Though he was helpless to do anything meaningful about the emotional side of things from this distance, and fuck did he know it, he took some solace in the fact that his boyfriend would at least be about to feel physically better, and maybe that would lead to an improvement in his mood. “Drive safe, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
…
Lisa’s mind raced, in time with the beat of the- what was this, fucking country-electro-pop-punk?- that Evan was ‘trying out’. She’d met the Centaurs’ captain a few times, and he’d seemed polite, passionate about the sport, if slightly distant, like he was preoccupied. But today- today he’d been more than distant, sunglasses still on even in the dying light, sitting at a distance from even the more solitary members of the team, glued to his phone, taking frequent breaks from eating- not something she’d ever actually seen a healthy hockey player do- and gulping down soda like he hadn’t drunk in days. Something was wrong with that man, and Wyatt’s quiet but constant attention on him had confirmed as much.
“I think someone should go and check on him.” She said aloud, inadvertently intervening in an escalating bickering match between Evan and Zane over the music.
“Why?” Evan’s brief lapse in attention had allowed the alternate captain to snatch his phone back, the music coming to an abrupt halt. “Isn’t he just in the bathroom?”
“Maybe, or maybe he left.” Wyatt was already standing up. “I’ll go.”
“Yeah, I might come with you, actually.” Something told her that her medical knowledge might be needed here.
Apparently something also saw fit to tell Evan that his specific skillset- whatever that might be- was also necessary, because he stood too, Zane hardly noticing, busy scrolling through his music app, doing damage control.
“B-” The brunet went to get his attention, but was stopped by Wyatt holding up his hand.
“Maybe we should keep it just the three of us, Roz doesn’t love being crowded when he’s not doing his best. Remember Buffalo?”
At Lisa’s questioning look, he explained, “We… inquired after his health in the locker room and he just kind of yelled at us and then sulked for the rest of the evening.”
“He didn’t talk to anyone outside of games for four full days.” Evan added.
“Right. Just the three of us, then.” Lisa tried not to feel apprehensive about the undertaking. She’d dealt with some pretty combative patients in her time, but it sounded like this might hurt the captain more than it would hurt them. Not to mention the dubious idea of intervening with team dynamics…
Cassie shot them a brief, concerned little smile as they headed in, the rest of the attendees apparently oblivious to the search-and-rescue mission currently taking place. Probably for the better given Wyatt’s assertion about their target’s dislike of attention when he wasn’t feeling well.
The house was mostly dark, and seemed empty, the silence disturbed only by faint sounds of mirth echoing through from the backyard.
“Maybe we should check if his car’s gone?” Evan whispered without looking across at either of them, eyes scanning their surroundings like he expected Ilya to jump out at him from behind the furniture the moment he let his guard down.
Wyatt poked him, amused when the defenseman jumped slightly. “Why are you whispering?”
Before he could answer, a floorboard creaked in the hallway, and all three of them looked up to see Ilya walk into the room, eyes on his phone, sunglasses clutched in his other hand as he typed.
“Hey, Cap.” Evan raised a hand awkwardly in greeting.
The blond startled, face displaying unguarded alarm for under a second before it was a mask of annoyance again. “Hi.”
“Having a good time?” Wyatt asked.
“Yes. Is good food.” His voice sounded almost muffled, Lisa’s brain immediately documenting the change, wondering about vocal chord damage- acid or strain?- and nasal passageway obstruction- inflammation or maybe mucus build-up?-as she tried to subtly make her way towards some kind of tentative diagnosis. Of course it might not be a fully medical issue at all, he could get the same symptoms from crying…
“We’re lucky to have Bood, on and off the ice.” Evan agreed. “Do you-”
The captain’s reached up, habitually swiping at his nose. Suddenly, his expression shifted, and he held up a single finger to stop the defenseman mid-sentence, eyes flicking back and forth across the floor as though in thought as he appeared to bite his tongue or grit his teeth, definitely doing something that caused his jaw to pulse with tension and his nostrils to flare with… anger?
Switching his phone and sunglasses to the same hand, he dragged the collar of his shirt up over his nose and mouth and ducked into it.
“hkK! hKk! Kkh! hKSH! KSH!-”
Ilya stumbled a few steps backwards, voluntary or not, Lisa couldn’t really tell. She stepped closer, just in case he was going to fall over completely, or back into something. Evan and Wyatt moved with her.
“-hKSHuh! hihKSHH!-”
As he crunched in on himself, she found her gaze sticking on his exposed lower abdomen, and a slight colour alteration in the skin on one side. She stepped closer again, trying to get a good look despite the jolting and shuddering of the fit making it difficult. That was definitely urticaria. And pretty bad, too, though she could only really see the edge of it. This was looking like some kind of allergy. She could only hope it wasn’t to the shirt he currently had his face buried in.
“-hiHIHKSHH! hhH… aHSHHUh!”
The second he sounded like he was done, she reached across to briefly hold her hand in front of Evan’s mouth, not touching him, but still letting him know not to say anything for a moment.
“Bless you.” She offered, Wyatt having noticed her motion towards his teammate, keeping his own mouth shut as well.
“Thanks. Sorry.” He raised his head with a dissatisfying sounding sniffle, shirt falling back into place, avoiding eye contact. Lisa’s heart twisted in pity, but she steeled herself for the question she knew she had to ask anyway.
“Are you having an allergic reaction to something?”
Now he was looking at her, head turning so fast she almost didn’t catch it. “What?”
“The respiratory symptoms, the hives-”
He gripped the hem of his shirt, belatedly tugging it even further down, like he hadn’t realised that they’d been visible until she spoke.
“- I just wanted to make sure you knew?”
“Yeah, I know.” Ilya admitted in a voice that was hard and guarded, but still soft enough that she wasn’t totally sure the others could hear from two paces back. “Is not big deal.”
“Can I ask what you’re allergic to?” She pushed.
His eyes flicked towards the door, the backyard. His irritated, bloodshot eyes.
“Is it the smoke from the barbecue?”
“No- yes- is fucking everything. Who cares?”
Lisa hesitated. He was clearly on the defensive, hackles raised. And she didn’t really know this guy… but he was a Cen, and that made him family, right? “I mean… I do?”
“We kind of all do, bud.” Her husband appended.
The captain suddenly looked unusually genuine and concerned, “Is problem? I should leave?” And he tensed, like at the slightest confirmation, he would turn and walk away.
“No, it’s not a problem, Roz, you only need to leave if it’ll make you feel better.” Evan’s words seemed to calm him slightly, something about his tone, firm but kind, set the other man at ease.
“Dessert’s gonna be killer, though.” Wyatt added. “Might be worth staying for even if you sit inside. I’ll probably be here too, since the soundtrack out there kinda sucks.” Shockingly, Evan didn’t even retort, too focused on making Ilya comfortable enough to stay.
Lisa watched the captain’s eyes flick between them, considering the offers, the new information. “I might have antihistamines in my bag that could put a dent in this reaction.” She offered.
“Yeah, or I’m sure Bood has something somewhere.” The goaltender looked prepared to step back out into the yard and ask.
Ilya swallowed thickly, glancing away again. “No, nikakikh tabletok- no, thank you.” He spoke more quickly, accidentally slipping into Russian for a second, and then seeming more abstracted than ever when he returned to English. Damnit. One of them had messed something up there. They were losing him.
“Tabl-etok?” Wyatt repeated quietly under his breath, pulling out his phone, “Nikakikh… tabletok.”
Ilya seemed not to have noticed the goalie’s quest for translation, backing up with slow, tense steps, like a cornered animal. “I have to go now, anyway. I have meeting tomorrow. Tell Bood I say ‘thank you’.”
“Cap-”
“Was fun. See you.” His words were light-hearted but his tone was one of warning. Acquiescently, none of them spoke as he turned and stalked out of the house, a faint, familiar yet unidentifiable, sound audible just before the door slammed shut. Like a ‘fsh, fsh’ and then what sounded like the start of another sneezing fit. Poor thing.
“Well that went so much better than last time.” Evan sighed, disheartened, turning to Wyatt, expression switching to curiosity when he saw what the blond was still absorbed in. “What’d he say?”
He shook his head in response, expression identical to having missed saving an admittedly good shot- resigned but still disappointed. “We fucked up.”
…
The same players who’d huddled together in that hotel room in Buffalo, pooling items from their individual emergency kits to make the cold-and-flu themed gift basket for the captain, now stood in Boodram’s kitchen, with the addition of Lisa, staring at Wyatt expectantly.
The goalie smiled grimly, like a general about to deliver important news to his troops. How had he ended up the leader of this weird makeshift committee that cared about their captain? “So, uh, I think I figured out why Cap gets so mad when we try to help him out with health stuff.”
“Is that what today was?” Bood leaned against the counter, arms crossed frowning.
“Yeah, some kind of allergy attack, right?” He glanced at his wife -a consultation with their chief medic- fuck, he was getting too absorbed in this military metaphor- who nodded in confirmation.
“He wouldn’t say what specifically, but it looked pretty bad, so it might have been more than one trigger.”
There were simultaneous winces from the group.
“So, he said something in Russian, and I managed to translate it- essentially, he doesn’t take pills. I think that’s like a rule of his, and when we offer them to him, we’re offending him in some way?” Wyatt tried not to feel too awkward about how much it sounded like he was talking about some entirely new species with unthinkable customs. The captain was just kind of like nothing any of them had ever run into before. And it was definitely not a cultural divide, either. Just a ‘him’ thing.
“Shit, that makes sense.” Dykstra’s brow was furrowed, the defenseman deeply lost in thought. “Okay, I’ll remember that for next time.” Hopefully they’d all remember that for next time, since medication was a pretty common first offer, they didn’t want to immediately alienate him every time.
“You think we’ll ever make any headway with him?” Dillon asked, dejectedly.
“Yeah, we’ve just got to get it right.” Wyatt did his best to look positive, conveying some of the determination he felt to the players around him. “Those walls will come down eventually.”
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