bl3ssvous

They’re all named stupid English shit he can barely translate or pronounce in the small text on the bottle, like Tropical Oasis or Sandalwood Breeze or Mountain Escape, so he doesn’t even know what’s in the shit that makes him so miserable. He just knows that, at any given hotel, there’s about a 25% chance that whatever tiny little bottles they have innocently sitting in the shower are going to set him off like crazy. (Alright. 33%.)

And, hey. A 25% 33% chance isn’t all that bad considering how badly he feels the need to wash the sweat and grime of the game off his body. And, honestly, it hadn’t happened in a while. Maybe he should’ve taken that as a sign that his luck was running out. 

About 45 seconds after Ilya pops the small cap open and starts rubbing the bubbly body wash across his skin, he feels that tell-tale prickle high in his left nostril. The sensation is so sudden, it forces a suprised cough from his lungs as his eyes start to squint shut and his nose scrunches up of it’s own accord. 

“Ah, mohhtherfuck--khih! iH! ihH’dDZSSHH!--hEH! eEH’DJZSHHhuu! hh’dyISHHhuu!”

Somehow, though the echoing sound of himself bouncing around the ceramic walls of the shower, he hears muffled rustling outside the bathroom door. 

“Fucking hell, again, Roz?”

Ilya has the sense through this fit to roll his eyes at this. (And then promptly sneeze again.) Cliff has, unfortunately (and embarrassingly) been there for many of Ilya’s nose’s tantrums, especially considering they’re always rooming together on the road. 

As mortifying as it can be (like in this moment), Ilya’s grateful it’s him. Marlow’s always been kind to him, seeking him out to start conversation, and always seeming to have a sense of when Ilya’s not quite understanding something. He doesn’t make a big deal of it, which Ilya appreciates. With Marlow’s boisterous, loud kindness, they’ve started a friendship fairly quickly. 

“Ah, yes, SehhH?! H’JYSZZCHH! Serenity Mist. Of c-course, I know I am ahH! ahH’yIISHhhuU! snf! allergic to thing named Serenity Mist. How could I forget?” Ilya yells out sarcastically, his accent reverberating across the bathroom. Well, he hoped the sarcasm came across through the non-stop sneezing. 

“That’s why you look at the ingredients on the back, rook!” 

Ilya does not have the time, energy, or breath at this moment to explain to Cliff that one, he was not thinking hard enough to remember that; two, he’d be lucky if he knew one English word on that ingredient list; and three, he doesn’t even know what the hell’s in this shit that he’s allergic to. So, he just sneezes in response. 

A knock at the bathroom door cuts through the noise of his sneezing and the running water. He hears the door crack open and blinks his tears away to see Marlow’s large arm sticking through, holding a white bar of soap. 

They’ve done this exact music and dance (he knows he’s not using that one right) so many times, it’s routine. Ilya thinks at this point, Marlow probably brings an extra bar of soap just for him. He’s not going to think too deeply into the warmth that idea spreads through his chest. 

Scrubbing roughly at his nose with one hand, his other hand opens the shower door, letting a fresh, cool breeze of air in to scatter goosebumps across his skin. Ilya steps out carefully, droplets of water skittering down his body, leaving little puddles as he pads towards the door. 

His nose just can’t help itself, though, especially with the new addition of cold air making his sinuses shiver. “ehH? hiH’JZZSHHuU! hh! DSHHhU!--ehH-EH’TZZSHHuu!” His head snaps down as he shudders through a desperate trio of sneezes, pointedly directed away from Marlow’s arm outstretched in front of him. 

“If that was your snot on my arm, Roz, I’m going to kill you,” 

“Fuck off. Is not snot. Just water. And Serenity Mist soap, maybe”

He hears Marlow’s deep, booming laugh over the sound of the still-running water. “Fuckin’ Serenity Mist. I’m starting a list so you don’t forget, that’s goin’ at the top,” 

Ilya rolls his eyes. Marlow himself will forget to even start said list, he’s sure. “snf! Thanks,” Ilya lets out, grabbing the bar from his hand. 

“Gotcha, man. Got Claritin, medicine out here for you, too, once you’re done,” 

“I do not--”

“--Take pills, I know. It’s the liquid kind. Figured I should find some after the last time you decided to suffer through a 12-hour allergy attack instead of taking any meds,” 

Ilya doesn’t know how to respond in a way that doesn’t reveal that Marlow’s simple gesture is just about the nicest thing someone other than Svetlana’s done for him in a long time. Good thing his nose takes over for him. 

“EH! yYISSHHhhUU!”

“Jeeesus, rook, I get it. Go wash all that stuff off, quick, you’re hogging the good water,”

What Marlow means by ‘the good water’, Ilya’s got no idea. And he doesn’t think this is an weird English thing, he thinks it’s a weird Marlow thing. 

“Yes, fine, going,” He huffs out, shutting the door and shuffling back in the shower. And, if he’s not as much bothered by all the sneezing after that, well, maybe he’s learned he just needs a good Marlow to take care of him help him out during these reactions to make him feel a tiny bit better. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

2. Sochi, 2014

He’d really tried to be alone. Really, really tried his best. He was pissed, in the worst mood, and just wanted to wallow. Because, really, Latvia? His father was right, it was a disgrace. 

Oh, and on top of everything? Losing to Latvia, being a disgrace to his country, yelling at Shane Hollander, and being berated by his father? Ilya was sick. Of course. Maybe it was karma. For failing his country. For being an asshole. He did start to feel that congestion seeping in only one day after their loss. 

But, for some reason, Svetlana didn’t want to let him be alone. He tried to tell her not to come around him, that he’d get her sick, that he didn’t want any company. Tried to be an asshole (he felt like he was getting pretty good at that recently). Considering his pounding head was propped up against her side, both of their legs stretched out across her hotel bed…He definitely wasn’t enough of an asshole. Or, he was, and Sveta just didn’t care. Probably that one. 

“Damn, Canada is on fire. They’re about to get another power play. No way the U.S. gets through it without Hollander scoring. Maybe twice.”

Ilya groans against her side, muffled by the cotton of her shirt, eyes still squeezed shut. “Sveta, stop talking about-” Shane fucking Hollander. “-hockey. Do we have to watch this?” The Russian consonants fall easily from his lips, even muddled by his congestion. 

“Your eyes have been closed the whole time, you’re not even watching.”

“I feel like I am with your constant announcing,”

“I deserve to watch some beautiful hockey when you’re laying there sniffling your germs all over my bed,”

Ilya’s jaw and eyes pop open, squinting against the glow of the TV, shocked expression pointing up at his best friend. “You must be kidding. You practically forced me over here, and now you’re complaining about it?” He can’t help but to sniffle against the congestion building, even knowing he’s proving her point.

A laugh that reminds Ilya of wind chimes falls from her lips. “I wouldn’t mind so much if you actually watched with me. You’re my favorite person to watch hockey with,”

The compliment makes chest feel warm. Or, maybe that’s a fever. “Sveta, take two seconds and imagine why I wouldn’t want to watch Olympic hockey right now,” 

“Ilyusha, you’re sick. We always watch hockey when you’re sick,” She points out. And while she’s not wrong…

“Well, I’ve never been sick and lost to the worst fucking country in the Olympics at the same time. This is new territory,” 

“Exactly. I figured you’d want to watch some good hockey, since you hadn’t seen any yourself in the past few days,” 

The grin across her lips, reserved for when she’s purposefully pushing his buttons, catches his eye. And, he is sick, but hasn’t lost all his reflexes yet. 

He swiftly pushes up, rolling himself over her and capturing her wrists in his hands. He shakes her with each word he says, and that wind-chime laugh is already in his ears. “Too far, Sveta, too far! You know I am the best hockey player in the world, admit it!”

“You are, factually, not the best hockey player in the world! Once this game is over, we are going to see which country the best hockey player in the world is from, but he is not from Russia,” Svetlana nods at the television, which Ilya just knows is showing Shane Hollander right now, so he can not turn around. Again, karma is not on his side.

And he knows this for absolute certain because now is when his nose decides it has had enough quiet time. 

“Hh? heEH! nNGgtt!--nnGgkT! hh! nNGT’tshh!” He ducks off to the side, stifling three sneezes in quick succession as best he can hands-free. Ilya rolls off Svetlana, scrubbing at his nose in the aftermath, and pointedly not looking at her. 

“Ilya,” Fuck, he knows that tone. “Don’t do that,” 

He rolls his eyes, grumbling softly. “You were right there. What, you wanted me to sneeze all over y- hhn! nGKT’Chh! -snf! you?”

She swiftly ignores his excuse. “I thought we stopped doing that.”

A scoff leaves the back of his throat, and he ignores how just that slight vibration felt sore on the way up. “We? I did not know you, too, had a nose that was broken a million times and can not stop sneezing at every little thing,”

His attempts at distracting and baiting her are obviously not working. “I have not heard you do that in a long time, Ilyusha. Since you were a teenager, around your father,” 

He groans, obviously not escaping this conversation. And, she is trying to be sweet. He knows this, even if his melting-fever-brain is telling him that she’s simply being annoying and overreacting about holding in his sneezing of all things. “It’s just…Being back here. You know. Around everything. I guess just makes me think I have to…go back to that,” 

She hums softly, and he can feel her eyes on him, even though he’s deliberately avoiding hers. “You know you do not ever. Have to go back to that, yes?”

And, with his nose and brain already clogged, he can not start to release everything right now, that he does have to be tied here in some way, in some way, because of his mother’s grave, his father’s illness, his Russian passport and citizenship, his niece…He already feels pressure behind his eyes just at the thought of it all. 

So, instead, he goes with: “Yes, I know. I know, Sveta,” Finally, his eyes meet hers.

Another set of wide eyes scan across his face, full lips pressed together. With a soft breath, she hooks an arm around his shoulders, tugging him down to lay in her lap. He maneuvers his body with her, his head instinctively nuzzling deeper into the comfort of her warm legs as her lithe fingers tangle in his hair. 

Of course, the change of direction has his sinuses protesting yet again. His swimming brain doesn’t notice until he’s hitched a few times, the bridge of his nose crinkling tight. His instinct is to bring two fingers up to his nose, but he only makes it a few inches before he feels a soft, warm hand against his arm. 

“Ilya,” And it’s all she has to say. 

“hhiH! EH! dJJSHHhh! ehH’TSHhh! hh! yyISHhhhUU!” He still brings his elbow up, but more to try to save Sveta’s legs from the spray than to try to hold in the expulsions.  

“Bless you,” She hums. And, maybe as a little reward for letting go (of more things than just his sneezes, she thinks), she hands him the remote for the TV. 

He’ll be asleep in minutes anyway, and then she can go back to watching her hockey. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

3. Ottawa, 2018

He blames Shane not being here. If Shane had been here, he’d be the one insisting to man the sauce pan and stir. Ilya’s been told one too many times he over-mixes. Or, at the very least, he’d have had some brain to maybe inch Ilya away while adding the spices. 

Maybe he’s just pissy because he knows if Shane were here watching this all go down, he’d get to see those sprinkled freckled cheeks turn adorably red. And, if he was lucky, see Shane’s little eyebrows do their little motion as he tried to think of a valid excuse to drag Ilya back to his room and kiss the shit out of him. 

Either way, definitely not Shane’s fault. He does wish he was here to see it, though. 

“ehH?! eHH’DJJSHHhuU!”

It’s really Ilya’s obliviousness’ fault at this point. He knows his nose well enough, he should’ve known to make himself scarce when Yuna had mentioned she was adding the spices. But, to be fair, it usually wasn’t this bad. Or, was it? And he was just remembering wrong? 

He was 75% sure it wasn’t usually this bad. 

“heH! hH’DZZSHH! ehH’TSZHHhuU!!”

Blinking through streaming eyes, he tries to pull himself back together. But, his lashes are fluttering shut again within a few moments. Whatever steam that was rising from the pan, mixing all those spice particles and throwing them up at him had his nostrils prickling and his eyes squinting in irritation. Fuck, he hates that this had to happen around…

“God, sweetheart, you sound like you’re going for the record! Come on, sit, sit,” 

Yuna. 

He absently feels a small hand against his back, gentle pressure urging him towards what he can only imagine is the kitchen table. His eyes are apparently just as irritated as his nose. 

The hands move to his shoulders, pushing him down against a hard chair in the kitchen. He wants to tell her she shouldn’t be so close, that he’s really fine, but, again. 

“I-- iiH! yyIZZSSHhhU!”

Hard to do while your immune system is attacking itself. He coughs irritatedly when he finally gets a damn breath that doesn’t immediately feel like an incoming sneeze, wincing as he feels Yuna’s presence still hovering. Two fingers instinctively raise, and he pauses half-way to his face with a roll of his red, watering eyes. 

And that, that, is something he can actually blame Shane for. And Svetlana. Making him feel all safe, all comfortable to be imperfect, to show his ‘emotions’ and ‘feelings’. Insisting he just ‘lets it all out’ - sneezes included. 

Assholes, the both of them. He was pretty sure even if he wanted to hold in his sneezes like he used to, he wouldn’t be able to. Without significant effort. Those motherfuckers Pavloved him. (He’d been proud using that term for the first time to Shane). 

“Bless you, honey,”

Fuck, he’d forgotten about Yuna. His frame twitches with surprise as he feels paper in his free hand. Thankfully, the one not attached to the elbow he’s been sneezing into for dear life. 

Blindly, he fumbles to press the bundle of tissues to his nose, mopping up moisture he doesn’t want to think about the origins of…Eyes or nose…? Just pretending it’s all from the eyes.

“Yuna, I’m so- soHH! ahH’DJJSSHhuU! snf!“

“No need to apologize, Ilya, I promise,” Magic mom intuition apparently knew where he was going with that one. “Just blow when you can to get all that stuff out,”

At this point, Ilya isn’t sure if the flush high on his cheekbones is from the embarrassment of this happening in front of Shane’s mother of all people, or from exertion from sneezing so much. He starts feeling that itch in his chest, that he needs to hold it in, needs to just not be so fucking disgusting--

“No, no, I cannoht--eHG’TZSHHhhU! I shhhould just go outside for a s-sehH! second, clean--”

She cuts him off swiftly with a hand on his shoulder. “Ilya, honey, I don’t trust you could make it outside with your eyes watering like that. It’s not going to get better unless you blow,” 

In the end, it’s not really fully his choice. A particularly desperate double has him crunching down into the tissues tented over two hands, burying his overactive nose in the folds. The sneezes have him him sniffling frantically in the aftermath, feeling wetness snaking through every part of his sinuses. He feels the need to blow just to clear that sensation, immediately. 

And, loathe as he was to do that with Yuna right there (close enough she was touching his back, by the way), the next breath he takes in post-nose blow is the clearest breath he’s taken in minutes. Shit, did the Hollander genetics just have it written in that they had to be right all the time? 

After double, triple checking that he was sufficiently clean, he finally lowered the tissues from his nose with a sniffle, chancing a watery glance up at Yuna. And with that soft, fond smile she was giving him, well, no one could blame him if he saw a glimmer of Irina. Or if he had some water in his eyes having nothing to do with the spices. 

Yuna chuckled gently, dragging her hand across the side of his cheek, smoothing down the curls by his ear. “Maybe we find a new kitchen job for you, huh? At least while I’m finishing up this part,” She suggests, kindness and a little amusement in her tone. 

“Or, maybe…You know, because I am so helpful and I do the worst job that you do not want to do…snff! I go help David finish his puzzle,”

A bright laugh escapes her lips. “God, yes please. He’s too close, you know he’s not going to want to come until he’s finished--”

“--And, then we will be having dinner at 9:30pm. Yes, yes, I will go save family dinner from puzzle master,” Ilya stands, shoving a few clean tissues in his pocket, just in case, as he begins walking to the other room. 

“This is why you’re my favorite son!” Yuna calls out after him.

“I am telling your least favorite son you said this!” He calls back, over his shoulder. At the domesticity of it all, feels a sofy, mushy feeling in his chest, something he’s come to learn almost feels like healing. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

4. Ottawa, 2021

“So, it’s already recording, we’ll edit down all the content later, all you’ve gotta worry about is making sure the guys are in frame, audible, and making good content. Which, really, is never much of a problem with this grou--”

“Hey, what’s going on with them?”

Harris looked up and blinked, obviously too engrossed in his explanation. Or, maybe he was just too good at drowning the sound of his idiots out, at this point. It was his new social media assistant’s first day, hired to help take the load off of him with all the content and PR needs the Centaurs had. Well, it looked like she’d be starting off with a bang. 

“That’s two! And, looks like we’re headed for--”

“hiEH?! ehH’TSZHHUU! hUH! DJjjSHH--EH’YISHhhUU!”

“Three! Fou--Five!”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Harris muttered, unable to keep a lick of fond exasperation out of his tone. “They have this thing--”

“snf!! oh- aH! dyY’ISHHhhuU! kH! hh’TZSHHUUu!”

“Oh, and boys, the gloves are coming off! If we’ve learned anything this season, if the gloves come off, it’s at least another four to go!” Wyatt’s voice rung out, obviously emulating one of the many announcers they’d heard throughout their years in the league. 

“ShhuuH! uH’DJJZHH-uu! Shut the hell uuHP’IISCHHhU!, ugh--Hazy,”

And, sure enough, at the middle of the ice, was Ilya Rozanov, shaking out his hands to send his gloves flying. All the while, sneezing his fucking head off, bringing his newly freed fingers to scrub viciously at his nose. 

Harris shook his head, glancing back at his new partner-in-crime. “They’ve got this thing, with Ilya and his sneezing. Something about being out in the cold on the ice for this long sets him off, and every time he starts going off like this, they start counting to see if he’ll beat the record,” 

He receives a raised brow. “And, what’s the record?”

“hh! ehH’YIZZSCHHUU! Hh, ублю́док! hUH! uuH’TSSHHhhU!”

Harris sighs. “Too high,” 

“Ladies and gentleman, the Russian cursing has emerged! We’re in the home stretch! Will tonight be the night Mr. Rozanov beats his previously set record?” 

“djJ’SHHhhH--ehH’DJJZSHHU! snf! oh, отъебись, hhIH! yyISHHhuuh!”

“Who’s keeping count?” Bood asks, glancing around before clapping Luca on the back, watching the rookie tick one more finger up each time Roz--

“ehH’JJSHhhhuh! snff! Ohh, and you all like to have biih! iH’TShhhUU!-ngh, big ego about being kindest team in the league, so-called ‘good guys’, what will f-ahH! hH’ATTSHhh! fuck! What will fans do -snf! When they know their team is full of ahhAH! adD’JJSHhhUU! assholes?”

The players are all huddled around laughing, but Harris’s eyes drift to Troy (maybe they’ve been on him the whole time, unconsciously). He watches on as Luca, still diligently counting on his fingers, leans over and mutters something to Troy, which promptly makes him cackle so hard, Harris thinks he might double over. He isn’t surprised, Luca is sneaky-funny.

The group's collective attention splits to Troy for the moment, a few eyes still glancing back at Ilya as he continues sneezing and sniffling. It takes Troy a few moments to spit out what’s making him laugh so hard, Luca innocently standing beside him with a knowing smile. 

“He’s mic’d up today--!” 

The realization that this whole interaction is being recorded with the little microphone attached to Ilya’s jersey causes the guys to fall into hysterics, all thoughts of counting for the record tabled. 

Harris can’t help but to chuckle himself, watching as, of course, Rozanov’s watery, blinking eyes flit around to land on him.

Skating, sneezing, and ripping off a hot mic all at the same time was pretty impressive, in Harris’ book, even if said hot mic was getting shoved back into his hand by a very large, very sneezy hockey player. 

“Harris, I promise, if I see that shihH!--shit on Instagram...hhUH! uH’DJJSHhUU! --or Twitter or whatever Centaur page, I will make your PR life living hell. I will Tweet about favorite sex position, and comment on stupid American political posts I don’t uhh!--understand… ehH’JJZSHHuUU! and post not-classy ‘thirst trap’ of me with ‘too much skin’ and ‘too low angle’--”

Now, that last part, was a direct quote from Harris. He really didn’t think he’d be at a point in his life where he was vetting hockey player thirst traps. “You already do half of those things!”

“I can make it worse,” Ilya threatened, with not too much success considering the sniffling and the pawing at his red nose was cutting through his intimidation. It was making the Russian look, for lack of a better term, adorable. 

“I saw extra tissues in the supply cabinet if you’re out in your locker,” Harris sighed, ignoring the captain’s empty threats, switching off the tiny mic in his hands and sitting it on the table. He’d seen this happen enough times to know how to handle Ilya in the aftermath. 

As if he wasn’t still recovering from an all-intensive sneeze-attack, Ilya gave an enthusiastic nod at Harris, pounding him on the back thankfully before ducking forwards with another sneeze. “snff--Thank you!” 

Harris shook his head fondly, glancing back out at the guys still on the ice, still laughing and shoving each other around. And, if some clips of that video made it into Ilya’s birthday post that year, well…It was Troy’s idea. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

+1. Montreal, 2016

Shane stumbles into the bathroom, feeling all-too lightheaded to do anything more than just go through the motions. Grab paper towels, turn sink on, run towels under cold water, press on face…

A shaky breath escapes his chest. The cloud in his mind is slowly dispersing, allowing more thoughts in full sentences. God, he thinks, flipping the paper towels and pressing the cool side to the back of his neck, of course this would happen. He’s either severely angered some god looking down on him, or he’s their favorite human on the planet. He really can’t tell which one, because--

“hyEH! EH’DJJZHHhhU!! hh! TSHHhhhyUUU!”

Because that. Shane shifts his eyes up to look through the mirror, the door behind him swinging open to reveal a familiar blonde Russian. Of course.

“hh-hiH! yyYIZSSHHUUu!”

A sneezing, familiar blonde Russian. 

Shane feels that same stream of heat he’s been trying so hard to ignore for the length of the shoot trickle low in his stomach. He sighs out a flustered frustrated breath.   

Maybe Shane should be Ilya’s manager, because he’s positive that he could’ve told the man this would be a bad idea. Even in his fairly limited in-person interactions with Ilya in the past seven years, Shane had quickly picked up on the fact that the man’s nose was overly sensitive. To seemingly everything. 

The cold air of the rink, the pollen in Canada, the cleaning products used in hotels, and yes, what seemed like anything scented. So, why Ilya thought doing a cologne ad with 3 other hockey players was a good idea, Shane had no clue. He must’ve known it would end up like this. With him sneezing his head off throughout the shoot, and Shane attempting to not look like he was getting harder and harder with each and every sneeze. 

Well, hopefully he didn’t know that second part. But, that first part, Ilya must’ve known. 

“snf! I do not think you are so much of a polite Canadian, after all,” Shane blinks in surprise, glancing up at Ilya though the mirror as he spoke his first true words since entering the bathroom. Even through the reflection in the mirror, he must see the confusion written across Shane’s expression, because Ilya takes his pause to continue. 

“I have sneeze attack for whole shoot, sneeze ten, twenty, thirty times, and do not hear one bless you from Shane Hollander,” Big, brown eyes can’t help but to track large Ilya’s hand as he brings it up to scrub at his nose, sniffling uselessly before he continues. “Heard from all the other players, from nice producers and camera people…Is polite for at least one ‘bless you’, if you did not want to bless for the other twenty-nine,” 

Shane’s breath hitches deep in his throat, cheekbones rosy as he turns around to face his ‘rival’, the marble countertop of the sink cool against his back. It’s about the only part of him that feels cool right now. Since he can’t think straight, instinctive words he never has to think about fall out of his mouth without permission: “Fuck off, Rozanov,” 

And, right on time, Ilya ducks forwards with another triplet of sneezes, aiming towards his arm. Shane is decidedly not noticing that he half-misses his arm, and can see the evidence of that in the air between them…Fuck, he’s noticing, he’s definitely noticing, and he feels a pulse of energy between his legs. And a matching prickle high in his sinuses. No, no, they were not about to do this here. 

Ilya is sniffling wetly, blinking through irritation, his eyes falling on Shane again, flitting across his expression. God, is it possible that this allergic irritation makes his eyes look even more mesmerizing? “What, you are…What is it called? When you are scared of germs?”

“...Germaphobic?”

Ilya nods. “Ah, yes, you are germaphobic?” The way he says it, all stretched out and broken up, makes it sound like he’s pronouncing each sound alone, making sure he’s repeating it just as Shane told him. 

“Wha-no!” He’s getting whiplash from this conversation, more to do with the incessant sneezing from the Russian than any type of language barrier. 

Shane’s gaze trails from Ilya’s eyes to his nose, twitching and flaring seemingly of its own accord, definitely without Ilya’s permission. Shane takes a short sniffle in himself, wrenching his nose to the side instinctively. 

“So, then, if you are not germaphobic,” his accent sounds smoother this time across the unfamiliar word, “thehh…thEH! eEH’DJJZHHHUUuu! snf! Hoo…‘bless me’,” Ilya blesses himself in an expecting tone, brows raised and gazing over at Shane like he was waiting for him to do the same. Of course, leave it to Ilya Rozanov to turn this into some kind of power-play dynamic. He didn’t even know what he was getting himself into. 

At Rozanov’s low words, Shane gives another sharp, irritated sniffle before answering. He could do this, he could get a handle on it and do it without setting off that godforsaken reflex. “hh! Bl…Bless you--hh’TSHh--iIH’HTSHhh! oh--ehh’SHhh!--uhh…”

Fuck. 

Slowly straightening up from where he had ducked into his wrist, Shane’s eyes rise to meet Rozanov’s face. Hell, and of course Rozanov’s looking at him all confused, because the only times the man has heard him sneeze like that were when…

“...What, you are coming now? Untouched?” The ‘again’ is unspoken, but implied. 

Cheeks dusted pink, thumbing shyly at his nose, Shane replies with a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes. He can feel the pink turning into red, fast, and promptly ignores it. “No! Fuck off,” How eloquent, Shane.

Ilya raises a brow. “Well, you are not feeling scared or phobic, that is for sure. Opposite, maybe,” He’s looking curious now, which isn’t a good thing for either of them. For Shane, mostly. A large frame and blonde curls move closer into Shane’s space, bright eyes boring into his. Shane can feel warm breath against his skin, and he shakes his head needlessly.

“We can’t. Not here,” Shane insists. 

“Hollander. Shoot is over. Everyone is leaving,” Shane can feel his skin vibrating where Ilya’s body is ghosting over his skin, seemingly just getting closer and closer. 

“N-Not everyone, half the crew is probably still here!” He watches Ilya rolls his eyes, and Shane knows he’s probably about to call him boring again--

“Half the c-crew is ehh! exaggeration, and anyway, I locked the bathroom d…door on my my! iIH! iiH’DJJZHHUU! hHEH’EHHJJZZHuU!”

Shane tries. He really tries not to, but with Ilya so close he can practically feel the sneezes reverberating through his frame, Shane’s really got no choice in the matter. He feels his cock twitch, and his nose twitch in tandem. 

“hhN! nN’TSCHh!--iiHTSHh! iiH! ih’TSHhhh!!--ngh…”

Ilya blinks up at Shane with a sniffle, straightening back to full height in the aftermath of his own sneezes. Understanding smooths out his features, and Shane mutters a curse under his breath. 

“...Oh, it is this! Is my sneezing that is making you…Well. Sneezy, too,”

Fuck. Within their first two times together, Ilya had quickly put together that Shane couldn’t help but to sneeze when he was turned on. To be fair, it was a little hard not to put that together when he was a sneezy mess every time he came in front of Ilya. 

What Shane was carefully sure that Ilya hadn’t put together in all of their rendezvous was…The other part. The…kink of it all. And, he’d been doing a fine job at it so far, he thought! But, with Rozanov sneezing so desperately like that, inches away from him…Shane’s own nose obviously felt the need to betray his true feelings on the matter. 

Shane scrunches his eyes shut, letting out a shaky breath and dropping his forehead to clunk against his blonde counterpart’s shoulder. “Oh god…” Aaand, the lightheadedness is back. 

His reaction is apparently enough to confirm Ilya’s thoughts, and to his credit, he really only takes what feels like a few moments to blink in surprise down at Shane before he springs into action. 

“No, no, do not overthink, is perfect, actually,” Large, callused hands grip at Shane’s face, gently guiding him out from his hiding spot against Ilya’s own shoulder. “This is probably easiest way I could ever turn you on. Is adorable, really,” 

Shane blinks, cheeks blazing. “I-It is not adorable,” And, because he can’t help himself, “And you doing it over and over again is not helping,”

His lips twitch up with a soft shrug, as if to say ‘I can’t help it!’, his smirk dangerously attractive. “It is adorable, Hollander. And, you know, kind of works out. snf! I was going to throw all these stupid cologne samples away after the shoot, but…” The Russian trails off with a tilt of his head, eyes boring into Shane’s. 

“I think I will keep them around. The scent is kind of growing on me,”

“hhUH’IHHHDZSSTCHhh’uh!”

Scott pitches forward from the confines of the uncomfortable metal bench, catching the sneeze in the little nest of tissues he’d been clutching like a lifeline since before TSA.

It cuts clear through and echoes above the din of chatter that surrounds them, heavy and abrasive. A couple of nearby passengers turn their heads. He might have blushed if it was anywhere near the first time it’d happened today, but having blown right through the ‘suspiciously sore throat’ stage of this cold the previous evening, this morning had ushered the ‘stuffed up to his eyes and sneezing his brains out’ stage right on in.

No fever, though, so no excuse not to play. Especially not with the upward trajectory the team has been riding these last couple of weeks. As Captain, the weight of that bearing down on him is ever-present, the pressure and the expectations of fans, coaches, managers, agents, the team themselves. It only grows for every year that goes by without a cup win, particularly when they’ve been within touching distance so many times over the last number of years. It’s his job to finally see it done.

Beyond everyone else, though, he wants it for himself as well; desperately. Needs it, really. Setting aside career-long pipe dreams about his personal legacy, or whatever, what he’d now allowed to slip through his fingers made it absolutely imperative.

Carter Vaughn, his unfortunate roommate for this leg of the journey, and whose shoulder he’d just accidentally knocked, gives him a sympathetic pat. “Jesus, man. Bless you.”

Finally satisfied after a moment of uncertainty that it was to be just the one, Scott sniffles and slumps back in his seat. He isn’t properly done, though, not by a long shot. He can feel the need still buzzing around in his head, just not quite strong enough to manifest yet.

“Thadks, Vaughny. Sorry, agaid, though. I feel like you’ve drawn the short straw here.”

Minneapolis may not actually be a million miles away, but it may well feel like it if you were going to have to listen to him like this the whole way there. But Vaughn just shrugs, his smile easy-going with a hint of teasing, like nothing on earth could bother him too much. Scott could always rely on him for that and it takes the edge off his unease.

“Hey, so long as you score some goals and lead us to a win later, all is forgiven, man.”

I’m not sure you’ll be saying that if you do actually end up getting whatever the hell this is, Scott thinks to himself, but he appreciates the sentiment all the same. He’ll certainly do his best, but with the ability to score goals heavily dependent on one’s ability to regulate their own breathing, it remains to be seen just how much use he’ll be.

There’s a ringing chime over the tannoy, followed by a chirpy, but monotonous drone of announcements. Pulling his phone from his pocket to check the time, his stomach sinks. They’ll be boarding in no more than five minutes or so. He’s stalled long enough – if he was going to call Kip, it’d have to be now.

Scott pulls himself to his feet with a sigh. With how early he’d had to be up to make it to the airport, he was just going to text, and had even been putting that off all morning. But suddenly faced with the prospect of several hours on a plane with no service, the weighty thought of getting on the flight without having put this right sits heavy in his stomach. It was late enough now that Kip would definitely be up for work, and a text just didn’t seem like enough.

“Hey, mban, I’mb just gonna hit the bathroom before we board, you good watching mby bag?” he directs to Vaughn as he stands, the lie rolling off his tongue with a practiced ease. He paces far enough away through the bustling terminal that he just about loses sight of the team and is comfortably out of earshot, ducking into a quiet alcove.

This is Scott’s karma, he’s convinced. A nice big dose of karmic retribution for his lack of willpower because he couldn’t just let Kip go.

If he had anything to say in his own defence, when the temperature of what they’d had going on had accelerated to such an all-consuming fever pitch in such a short space of time, plunging back into the cold came as a bit of a shock to the system. It’s been hard, adjusting back to how his life was before. How it’s been for the last 20 or so years.

God, he’d spent a lot of his life alone. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t realised just how much that ached until he’d had someone fill the space and then vacate it again.

Kip was just so… big. So bright and so clever, unflinchingly kind and wickedly funny. His heart is so open, it’d embraced him right from the very beginning. His smile is like pure, undiluted sunshine in an open blue sky, and Elena was right. That’s where he belongs.

No matter how much time passes, though, or how much moving on is attempted, Scott knows himself very well and he knows he’ll always leave a door open for Kip. Maybe one day Scott will be worthy enough for him to walk back through it. He hopes so.

In the meantime, in order to lessen the blow of the separation for both of them, they’d agreed to try and remain friends. Platonic friends.

However, over the last six months since the official break-up, they’d seen each other no less than three times. Though they tried to limit how much they spoke outside of these instances, the offer of meeting up was admittedly like a token they each kept, hidden and cherished in their back pockets, available to cash in in a moment of weakness.

At first, it had taken three months. Scott broke first.

Then, two. Kip’s turn to buckle.

Then one month after that. That’d been the day before yesterday.

In Scott’s defence, Kip had reposted a picture from Maria’s Instagram story, one in which he was sitting on a bench at what looked like a bustling outdoor public ice rink, lacing up a pair of skates. It was like fate had dropped the circumstance in his lap purely for the purpose of allowing him to strike up conversation, and that’s genuinely all he’d intended for it to be. It was too tempting to resist. Scott had fantasised before about getting Kip into a pair of skates, inviting him and his family and friends to one of the family skate nights the team held sometimes at Madison Square Garden. He could recall Kip mentioning that his sister had a kid, even, who might’ve gotten a kick out of it.

Scott takes no real interest in his own official public Instagram profile, nor that of any social media platform for that matter, leaving access and periodic posting responsibilities in the dutiful hands of his comms team. His grid remains an impersonal mosaic of carefully curated, contractually obligated ad posts. Which is why when he swipes up on Kip’s story it’s from the burner account (‘sfromrochester_77’) they’d sat on his couch and made together while they were dating, so Scott could watch Kip’s stories and privately keep up with his life there.

sfromrochester_77: Those generic rental skates are death traps, btw, so be careful. I’d even struggle to stay upright on them.

The reply doesn’t come until a couple of hours later, presumably after they got done with whatever they were up to. Scott’s heart leaps in time with the chime of the notification.

kipstopher_g: I fear any skates are likely to be death traps simply by virtue of being worn by me 😅 Can confirm though: I’m alive and well.

kipstopher_g: Ego only slightly bruised, knees and elbows also.

That manages to get a chuckle out of him. He has no doubt Kip looked cute as hell bambi-ing out on the ice.

sfromrochester_77: Tsk. Call yourself a New Yorker.

kipstopher_g: Says the man from Rochester!

sfromrochester_77: What are you doing out at a public rink, anyway?

kipstopher_g: Straw+Berry holiday staff ‘party’. Skating, then dinner and drinks. However we’ve now learned that the tab for the latter two are not included in management’s festive spirit of generosity, lol.

sfromrochester_77: Harsh. Your great work all year is worth at least a nice burger some place where the waiters come to you.

kipstopher_g: Yeah, I’m not holding out hope.

sfromrochester_77: Holiday bonus?

kipstopher_g: I wish. Your tips were my holiday bonus.

kipstopher_g: And hey, if my ‘work’ set the Admirals in good stead for the season this year, then I can live with that.

Oh, fuck, I like you.

Scott catches himself smiling at his phone. He’s been on the road so much lately and he’s so worn out, even if being away from his apartment has become somewhat of a welcome reprieve of late, it doesn’t make travelling any less tiring. Feeling the familiar warmth of Kip’s glow within arms reach is almost too much to bear resisting, but he shouldn’t give in to it. Scott definitely shouldn’t (after insisting that he can absolutely say no), imply to Kip that if he wanted to come round to his place after he gets done with his work party, then the invitation was open.

He does it anyway.

They were really going to have to try and get better at being, well, not together.

If anything reinforced that, it was now having to reckon with the mortifying possibility that said moment of weakness could have led to him having accidentally given Kip the plague, and then immediately skipped town and simply left him with it.

Steeling himself as best he could, Scott presses Kip’s contact and brings the phone to his ear.

From somewhere between the monotonous, anticipatory rings of the dial tone, that tingling buzz of irritation he’d been left with before flares suddenly back to life, this time with a vengeance. He isn’t sure what’s set it off – someone walking by wafting a perfume sample that didn’t agree with him, or wearing clothes layered in cat hair from last minute cuddles before leaving for the airport, or even nothing at all, his sinuses are so sensitive right now it really wouldn’t have taken much of anything.

It all happens so fast and he doesn’t get time to ponder it in any real depth before his eyes are full of tears and he’s hurrying to press the handful of tissues to his nose, which has swiftly started to stream. He grips the phone tighter and turns away even further into the alcove.

‘Hi, this is Kip! Please leave a message-’

Pervasively aware of how little time he has, Scott has no other choice but to power on.

“Hey, hodey– umb…”

And promptly stumble at the first petname-shaped hurdle. He winces at the slip up, clearing his throat to try and dispel some of the awkwardness he felt flood his system. They didn’t talk on the phone much nowadays, and he hadn’t had the chance to get himself out of the habit.

“...sdnffff. I, uh, I hope you’ve beed havidg a good day. I hope work’s ndot beed too awful after last ndight-”

He smothers a string of coughs into his fist, his breath threatening to snag on them. Jesus Christ.

“Hhihh… what it is, I just wadted t-t’hhh-.... wadted to, ub… sdnrrff. I just wadted’hhh-”

How many goddamn times is he going to have to try that sentence?

“....hhhuhH’AEH’DZZSSSHhhhh’uh!… sdnnngk… ugh, sorry… I wadted to check how…. h-how… hhh? how you’re feeli’g, b-because’hHH… h’aH’EHDTZZS’sssch’huh!...”

Blinking against his swimming vision, Scott jams his phone between his ear and his shoulder, leaving him with both hands to try and wring the very last ounce of use out of the now thoroughly soaked, very useless tissues in the aftermath of those sneezes. He sounds vile, he knows that, but there’s no turning back now.

“...sorry– sdnrrfff. As you cad hear, I, uh, thidk I’ve cobe dowd with sobethidg really…” He huffs out a humourless laugh. “...ndot ndice. Defiditely ndot pretty, by ady mbeans. I just wanted to… check id, I guess? Ward you, just id case? I really hope you dod’t get it, though. And I’b… I’b so so sorry. If I’d knowd I was getti’g sick, I wouldn’t have-”

He heaves out a heavy sigh. Maybe the cold had just left him feeling particularly vulnerable, but to be honest, even just speaking to the vast, silent, empty abyss of his voicemail inbox, Scott can’t help but tell Kip the truth, even if he instinctively lowers his voice to do so. “It was great seei’g you. I just wish–… yeah.”

Scott shakes his head, unsure of where exactly he was going with that thought, but it makes him sad regardless. “Yeah, ub, for sure get sobe vitabid C into you if you cad. Irodically you’re i-id…hhhi’h?... the perfect place for that– sdnrffff. A-A’hhhnd….” Not again. He tucks his face firmly into the crook of his elbow, holding the phone slightly away. “hhuH’AEHHTCH’ssch’iew!... Fuck, excuse mbe…”

Vaguely aware of movement in his peripheral vision, Scott pauses, stepping out of the alcove far enough to catch the team in the distance, en masse, beginning to stir.

Shit, he definitely doesn’t have time to delete the message and try it again.

“Look, I have to go, I thidk we’re getting ready to board…”

He pauses, considering. Should he ask to him to–

Fuck it. He’s come this far.

“But, ub, mbaybe give mbe a call back sobetime later, if that’s okay? Alright–” He stutters a beat, managing this time to catch the habitual ‘love you’ before it could spill out. “Bye.”

—-

Once again, Kip is hungover at work. Because he never fucking learns his lesson.

He has no one to blame but himself, either. They’d all been out for Shawn’s birthday the night before and he arrived at the Kingfisher full of assurances that, because of the whole “I have to open the shop at 6am and I’m stuck commuting from Brooklyn again” thing, he was only going to have a couple of drinks. He was then going to switch to Diet Coke, go home at a reasonable hour, and get a half decent amount of sleep.

Did he expect to actually follow through on such sensible plans? Honestly, not really.

Did he expect himself to abandon them quite as quickly or as wholeheartedly as he had done? No. He did not.

What could he say? The music was great. Kyle, though not on duty, was jumping behind the bar anyway and had a very generous pour. It did his heart good to be around his friends. He’d been leaning on them a lot more since he and Scott stopped seeing each other, happy to be distracted by their joyful, colourful chaos, even if he couldn’t even fully talk about the situation to them.

So as stupid as it was, with all those factors conspiring together, his arm hadn’t been difficult to twist into staying out. Even if he was paying for it now, suffering through an opening shift on three hours sleep (Thank God Elena had let him crash at her place so he didn’t have to traipse all the way back out to Brooklyn, only to have to pretty much come right back in again), a killer headache, and incurable dry mouth that probably hadn’t been helped by the Taco Bell they’d all picked up after stumbling out of the bar.

His throat was aching with it, too. No matter how much water he’d been gulping down over the course of the morning.

With his phone battery drained after last night’s escapades, he’d left it on to charge face down under the counter as they just about made it through the morning rush from hell. Between said rush and having to basically restock the whole prep area to account for the rush, it’s like 10:30 before the shop is empty again, they’ve done everything they need to do, and they can finally take a breath.

Only two and a half more hours.

Maria, who is somehow looking remarkably less worse for wear than him despite being out just as late, flutters around while Kip finishes refilling the last of the fruit containers that’d been decimated, concocting herself an improvised, off-menu smoothie. Mango, passionfruit and… probably some other things, he thinks.

“Mmmm!” she exclaims. Her eyes are a tired reflection of his own, but they light up when the smoothie hits her tongue. “Not to ride my own dick, but I swear, this might actually be my calling in life. That tastes awesome. Here, try–”

Kip is quick to oblige, desperate to quench his apparently unquenchable thirst, and takes the cup from her waiting hands.

“Mmmm,” he repeats, a little caught off guard by just how good it really is. Not that Maria’s not a proven and extremely proficient ‘smoothie artiste’, but he could swear he even feels his headache recede a little with the sugary hit. “It’s really good. Did you crush up some Advil into this? If not, could you?”

He grabs the straw and takes a second, longer, admittedly rather audacious, sip before she can snatch it off him again.

“Hey! Give me that back and I’ll make you your own. Jeez…” She sucks up another mouthful of her masterpiece through the straw, as if in protest of his audacity.

Kip turns back to the counter and unhooks his phone from the charger. It’s the first opportunity he’s had to look at it since the whole of Manhattan, their wives, and their dogs too, woke up deciding they wanted smoothies on a random Wednesday morning. Smoothies that, at some point, had managed to drip down onto the back of his phone case. His brow furrowing in disapproval, he licks thumb, rubbing it away before turning the screen face-up.

Oh. He has a missed call. From Scott.

And a new voicemail message.

Kip’s heart lurches. For many reasons, probably, but primarily because nowadays, they never call; just text. Even in and around these little liaisons they’d been allowing themselves to indulge in. Call it a futile attempt at holding in place some kind of boundary, no matter how feeble, but either way, this is unavoidably strange. Something must be wrong. Scott would have been at the airport when he’d called, about to fly to Minnesota for the start of another string of away games. He’d said as much the other night.

Kip swallows painfully against the worry starting to churn in his stomach.

“Hey,” he calls across to Maria, “Are you okay if I step out here and make a call? Just for a sec, promise.”

She gives him a deadpan look. “Um, no. How will I cope with all these customers all by myself?” she says, gesturing dramatically to the empty shop. 

Kip rolls his eyes, playfully flipping her off, and her face breaks into the smile she’d just about been holding at bay as he made his way towards the back storeroom.

Nestled away safely amongst boxes of cleaning supplies and plastic cup lids, he hurries to hit play on the voicemail.

He isn’t entirely sure what he was expecting to hear, but straight out of the gates, the first three syllables are a swift one-two punch to his resolve.

‘Hey, honey–’

The endearment washes over him like deep heat on a blossoming bruise; a pleasant, pleasant kind of hurt. In that deep, low, familiar gravel of his voice, too, and–

Oh. Oh, wait, no. It isn’t just gravelly, it’s wrecked. He’s sick. Kip doesn’t need to wait for him to confirm as much himself, the hopelessly stuffy sniffles and eye-wateringly raw, forceful sneezes he couldn’t even hold back long enough to get through a minute long voicemail saying all that needed to be said.

Scott sounded awful. Not even in a placating ‘Aww, you sound awful. Here, wrap up warm, pack some extra tissues into your pocket and get on with your day’ kind of way. The kind of awful that should be tucked away in bed and not flying across the country to go play a major league contact sport, involving ice and blades and sticks and a rubber projectile travelling at over 100mph.

“As you cad hear, I, uh, thidk I’ve cobe dowd with sobethidg really ndot ndice. Defiditely ndot pretty, by ady mbeans. I just wanted to… check id, I guess? Ward you, just id case? I really hope you dod’t get it, though. And I’b… I’b so so sorry. If I’d knowd I was getti’g sick, I wouldn’t have-”

Kip feels all mixed up, his immediate feelings a strange cocktail of sympathy, appreciation of the fact that he’d gone out of his way to let him know and check up on him, perhaps a touch of regret for just how sorry he sounded, like it was all his own singular fault that he’d gotten sick in the first place.

Then, just as a hint of an essence in the mix, a seed of foreboding.

Kip swallows experimentally, that ache in his throat suddenly recontextualising in his mind in real time as a third sneeze rings in his ear, and Scott’s hoarse, thoroughly cold-ridden voice closes out the message.

No. It’s fine. I’m hungover, but it’s fine. I’m fine. Shawn’s party had been kind of rowdy, I was yelling quite a bit. I was out the night before, too. There’s absolutely no need to jump to conclusions.

If he did end up getting sick though… maybe it was his punishment from the universe. For being the one to insist that they take a break, as deeply as it had pained him to do so, regardless of the strength of how they felt about each other. Of how blissfully happy they’d been when things were good, how effortless they clicked, and the potential of what they could be if he’d had the patience to wait for it…

In a few years, maybe.

To set that aside and then not even having the decency to hold true to his own convictions or fully close that door.

Kip should probably get back to work. Text Scott later– tell him he feels fine, wish him luck for the game, and that he hopes he feels better soon. Scott would probably be busy right now anyway, in warm ups or even fully into the practice session. A practice session he probably shouldn’t even really be in at all. Would he get benched at some point before the game? Probably not, all-star player and captain that he is, as much as Kip wishes he would.

What’s more likely to happen is that he’ll play, push himself harder to compensate for not feeling well, sustain some sort of minor injury and then be left tending to himself in some cold, impersonal hotel room so far from home.

Kip presses ‘call back’ instead. It picks up on the third ring.

“Hey,” Scott’s voice comes through the receiver as hoarse as he was in the voicemail but now a little breathless as well, and slightly surprised. “How, um… how’s it going?”

When the line connects whatever environment he’s in sounds bustling and busy, punctuated by loud, accented voices and the sound of lockers slamming. It’s quick to die off and quieten, though, like he’s moved rooms to take the call. It takes Kip a second to realise he isn’t sure what he’d intended on saying. It feels like new territory.

“Good! It’s– it’s going good. Well, alright, really,” he has to swallow back the urge to keep rambling. “I got your message.”

He could almost hear Scott cringe over the phone. “Ndot mby finest mboment, I kndow. I’mb sorry. I dod’t know whether I’mb hoping at least sobe of it was intelligble, or…”

He trails off, with the faint sound of his breath starting to hitch, like he’s trying to hold back a sneeze that inevitably, imminently, needs to come. For Scott, that tended to be a rather pointless exercise though, as it rarely ever succeeded. So Kip politely waits, wincing in sympathy at coarse, devastating fierceness of the sound, even evidently muffled.

“Hhih–  h’AH’EHDTZSS’sshh’ue! Ugh, sorry…”

“Bless you. And it’s okay; don’t be, honestly. For any of it, by the way. You didn’t know–”

Didn’t change the fact that you shouldn’t been at his house in the first place–

Kip shook his head, clearing the unhelpful thought away. “I can’t believe you’re actually playing tonight. You really don’t sound good.”

Scott dismisses the concern with a huff of humourless laughter. “Dod’t worry, I’mb mbade of sturdy stuff, mbost hockey players are–”

“...except for the ones from Boston.”

Now that gets a real laugh out of him. Kip enjoys the sound very much; of the brief reprieve from his discomfort.

“Exactly, you get it,” Scott says. “I’mb ndice and dosed up with cold mbedicine and I’ve played with a lot worse. Dod’t eved have a fever, so.” Kip swears he can hear him shrug, so nonchalant. So a team doctor actually checked him out and signed off on him playing in this state?

“Alright, ednough about mbe, though. You’re okay, right? You sound okay, but please tell mbe I’ve ndot gived you this.”

Kip swallows, unable to ignore the definite twinge in the back of his throat, one no amount of water, nor coffee, nor smoothie has been able to quell. He’s sure it’s just the power of suggestion, listening to Scott speak to him all stuffed up and sniffly, but he’s suddenly feeling the urge to sniff? Even though his nose isn’t running. To reflexively test the resistance against some non-descript, incrementally increasing pressure.

He was a very suggestible person, clearly, hence how he’d ended up in this situation. Of course he’s fine. He’s hungover but he’s fine.

“Oh yeah, no, I’m okay. You’re good,” Kip lies. “Well, about as much as I physically can be, though it’s all self-inflicted. I told you it was Shawn’s birthday party last night, right? And I had to be here for 6am, and, well, you know me,” he sighs, though his lips twitch at the corners, his and Scott’s first meeting flitting through his mind like a sun-soaked daydream.

“I never learn my fucking lesson, do I? I’m hard-headed like that.”

Scott groans, but it’s unmistakably fond, an air of relief clear in the sound. Kip wonders if he’s thinking about that day as well. “Apparently ndot– sdnffff. You odly have, what, a couple of hours left, right?”

“Two hours and fifteen minutes exactly. I’m counting ‘em down. I’m going to get a bagel on the way home, and oh my God, the nap I’m going to take…” Kip groans in pre-emptive pleasure at the thought.

Scott chuckles. “Stop, I’mb jealous. You’re mbaking mbe mbiss Ndew York. And sleep.”

The pleasure twists in Kip’s stomach the thought that Scott still technically has a full, physically strenuous work day ahead of him now. 

“Well, be sure to get plenty of it when you get back later,” Kip says, his voice soft.

God, he sounds way too much like he’s still Scott’s boyfriend right now. Like he has a right to be concerned. He bites his lip, looking to the storeroom door as if the real world was beckoning him back.

“Sorry, I left Maria on her own out on the floor and I think she’s calling me back. She’s meant to be making me a smoothie ‘of her own creation’ – sounds ominous, but she let me try some and it’s actually really good, lots of vitamin C, so I’m sure I’m covered. But look, good luck for the game later, and thanks for the, uh, the heads up…”

For a second he thinks he might be imagining it, but no, an errant tickle is in fact flaring to life in the back of his throat, radiating upwards into his sinuses and embedding right in.

No. No. Absolutely not.

His eyes screw shut against the sensation, and he jams the side of his fingers underneath his nose, massaging away the itch as silently as he can.

“Thadks, Kip. Yeah, you mbanaged to catch mbe just after warb-ups here– thidk we’re heading into full practice now, so I’ll let you go. I know what you said, but just… sorry. Agaid. If I’d kdnown, I wouldn’t have, well…”

Scott pauses, and for a second Kip worries he’s clocked him and his struggle, as he finally manages to wrangle the urge to sneeze into some kind of temporary submission. When he continues, though, his voice is pitched lower, into something altogether more intimate, more exposing.

“Could I mbaybe give you a call sobetime toborrow? Just to mbake sure you’re definitely okay.”

“Hey, that’s my line, right? You’re the one who’s sick,” Kip says, weak and non-committal.

How fucking sad he feels at the prospect of turning him down only further reveals how much he probably should.

But yet again, he can’t quite bring himself to do so.

They leave things in that weird, up-in-the-air space as they say goodbye. As if Kip’s body was primed and waiting for that ‘end call’ button being hit, a slight loosening on the grip of control he’d exerted to keep the itch in check, it instantly expanded, overwhelming his senses until–

“hih’IH’txss’chue!......huh’EH’dtxssh’iew!”

Right as the door swings open and Maria appears, a very full, very refreshing, very delicious looking smoothie in-hand.

“Are you– oh, bless you, damn” she chirps. “Here–”

Handing him the drink, she gives him an assessing look, not looking overly pleased with what she sees. “You flagging? You look like you need it. But anyway, it’s still empty out there and I’m so bored, please come back.”

Kip takes the smoothie gratefully and gives his nose one final scrub, hoping that clears away the irritation threatening to linger there, before following Maria back out into the shop.

Two hours and seven minutes left to go.

—--------------------------

Waking up later from the nap he’d been so looking forward to, honestly, it was kind of a disappointment.

Rather than feeling restored, or refreshed, or in any way better at all, all Kip really wants to do is just go right back to sleep and write the day off entirely. That distinctive ‘head caught in a vice’ type of hangover headache has eased off at least, which would be welcome if it hadn’t left this throbbing pressure behind his eyes and a fledgling sinus headache in its wake. And as much as he’d like to continue denying it, he was for sure feeling a bit congested now.

As much as he’d love to continue rotting in bed in peace– he’d come home from work, gone straight to his bedroom, and hasn’t been downstairs since. And that’s after having pretty much only shown his face here in the last two days to change for Shawn’s party before heading out and not coming home. Again. So even if mom’s probably already left for her night shift, he knows if he doesn’t show his face downstairs soon his dad will be coming up to investigate.

It’s probably just easier to bite the bullet and go down of his own volition. Anyway, there’s a heady scent of garlic and tomatoes wafting from down there, which means his dad must be making his famous baked ziti and he was definitely not missing out on that.

After much ribbing about how much he’s been out recently, they eat dinner together in comfortable companionship and Kip fills him in on all the gossip and goings on with his friends and the guys at work from the last couple of days. Whilst his dad has his moments, and can impart some sage wisdom in response to even the silliest of misadventures, a lot of the time he just lives for the drama. However, Kip tactfully leaves out that part where he’d ended up staying the night at the place of ‘the closeted public figure’ he’d been seeing before, at the behest of an impromptu Instagram DM conversation.

Having come clean about everything (minus Scott’s actual identity, because hey– still wasn’t his information to be giving out), after rather dramatically sobbing into his arms the night it all ended, Kip doesn’t exactly reckon he’d be too impressed to hear it.

If one good thing has come out of all this though, he supposes it’s maybe being able to share in his dad’s passion for hockey and for the Admirals as his team, and how they now regularly carve out time to sit and watch the games together. Kip regularly wonders if perhaps he simply stopped watching, whether he’d have an easier time moving on or not.

Of course he had to tonight, though. Just to make sure Scott is holding up okay. Because he totally couldn’t trust the teammates, friends, coaches, and the medical professionals he was surrounded by in-person, and who were in a position to actually do something, to do so. So he follows his dad to the living room and settles in as he flips the channel over.

Caught occasionally by the camera’s close-up, both pre-match and during the first shift, Scott’s looking rather worse for wear, though he was doing his best to mask it. Quite honestly, he’s playing like it too. Not to the point that he’s playing bad necessarily, just distinctly average, which isn’t like him; definitely not his best. The commentators are annoyingly quick to point it out, too.

Kip finds it difficult to reconcile sometimes, the tall, broad, proud figure on the TV screen, broadcast to millions, being the same man he’d been on the phone to a few mere hours ago, sounding sick and vulnerable and so achingly familiar.

The same man whose head he’d held in his lap, running his fingers through his hair after a long, gruelling day. Whose apartment he knew the layout of by heart, right down to exactly how he liked his cupboards organised. Whose bed he’d shared not 48 hours ago, tongues down throats, gasping for breath straight from each other’s mouths, like there was a limited supply of air and they had no choice but to share it.

“hhiH’IH’gxtss’chiew!.......hah’EH’txcsssh’iue!”

Kip sniffles, the pressing need to do so a development which has been gradually unfurling over the course of the evening, no matter how unwelcome it was. He’s not even aware he’s doing it half the time, and from what he is aware of, even that is starting to feel excessive. Not to mention the sneezing. It was at least once per period now (twice accounting for the fact they’re pretty consistently coming in two’s), and going into the third, his dad turns to him, his gaze shining with concern.

He’s such a worrier.

He reaches across to the coffee table and helpfully chucks the box of tissues that’d been sitting there in the vague direction of Kip’s lap. His reflexes are a little rusty, but he just barely grabs it before it bounces right of him and onto the floor.

In all honesty, he’s been fantasising about getting up and snagging that box for the better part of an hour now, held back only by the inclination that by doing so he would be admitting defeat. It’s actually kind of a relief to have the decision taken out of his hands. He plucks a couple out.

“Bless you. Sounds like you need those, bud,” his dad says kindly. “You coming down with something?”

He’s aware his dad’s eyes steadfastly aren’t leaving him, waiting on an answer or at least an acknowledgement, while Kip’s own are focused solely on the screen. They’ve panned back to the away bench, where Scott’s got the bottom half of his flushed, sweaty face buried in a towel, blowing his nose, seemingly, before his attention snaps back to the game in front of him, following the puck and the movements of his players with what was usually a laser-like focus, now rendered sluggish but determined. He’s got his helmet off, so he must be pretty sure he’s not likely to get tapped back in.

He looks about as good as Kip’s beginning to feel.

In an aberrant, almost taboo sense, it feels almost intimate, if Kip’s ready to fully accept reality. The one in which he does in fact have Scott’s cold, the one he’s heard over the phone and is seeing play out right now on a TV screen over a thousand miles away, leftover from the time spent together right here in New York they probably shouldn’t have. He should probably feel annoyed and inconvenienced by the whole situation– he wasn’t sure he wanted to face why he didn’t, not completely.

It’s endearing. In a stuffy, snotty, sweaty, humbling kind of way. If it’s a punishment it’s a tender one; one that’s shared.

That’ll at least be something to hold onto when tomorrow comes around and I have to work on grad school assignments with a streaming head cold.

“Mmm, maybe…” Kip finally answers through a sigh, still watching the screen, giving his nose a soft blow. “Probably, yeah.”

His dad seems to accept his admission, turning back to the game with a tut. “See, that’s what you get, staying out ‘til all hours of the night partying.”

Honestly, he felt kind of bad for Rantzen, the rookie that’d been assigned to room with him for this leg of the roadtrip. He was a sweet enough kid, but no matter how friendly and approachable Scott tried to make himself, it was inevitably always a bit awkward and intimidating rooming with the captain. They’d pretty much all been there on their way up the ladder in the league, a rite of passage practically everyone had had to endure at some point during their first year out. However, at – freshly – 19 years old and having just been snatched up by the NHL straight out of high school, with a whole new world of freedom and opportunity opened up in front of him, Scott understood why the kid spent the vast majority of his time out and about with the younger guys.

He couldn’t exactly say he wasn’t grateful that he’d had the room mostly to himself, either.

Now, if he could just get him to pick up his damn shoes and put them in a place Scott wasn’t destined to trip on them…

“Christ…” Scott muttered to himself, setting the sneakers down neatly on top of Rantzen’s messy, half-unpacked suitcase. He was starting to sound like someone’s father.

Settling down on his bed, he let out a sigh as heavy as his quads and the muscles at the base of his back were feeling, despite having made sure to work through all the cool down stretches he’d been recommended by the team physio after the game. However, the hot shower he’d jumped into the second he’d got back to the room had gone a long way in helping loosen things up, the heat from the remnant steam still leaking through into the main room like a ghostly whisper.

See, that’s why he waited and showered in the hotel rather than at the stadium straight after a game – unlimited access to consistently hot water, on top of blessed, blessed privacy. He’d be fine by the morning, even if their 6am wakeup call felt all too soon for his liking. However, they needed to be in Toronto in enough time to fit in a quick practice session before their last game of the road trip that evening. Then they’d be on their way back home to New York the day after that.

Frankly, it couldn’t come soon enough.

In the meantime, with wistful thoughts of his apartment, his own bed, his boyfriend freshly conjured to the front of his mind, Scott grabbed his iPad from the nightstand and got himself comfortable. When he checked Kip’s channel, though, he wasn’t live yet. His brow furrowed in confusion, Scott pulled up his messages to check the time Kip had indicated he’d be on at, scrolling back up through the chat log to when he’d first gotten his hands back on his phone after they got off the ice earlier.

Kip: Omg, I feel like I need a benzo after watching that.

Kip: That was clooooooose, my heart’s still racing.

Kip: Good call on Eric for MVP. 100% deserved. All those pot shots they tried to sneak in in the last 5 minutes 😬 He earned it big time.

God, Scott loved when Kip talked puck.

He wasn’t wrong, either. Winnipeg were out for blood and they’d been pretty evenly matched with the Admirals on the ice right from the outset. Whenever one team went up, the other quickly equalized, barely giving each other room to breathe and leaving everyone feeling like they were fighting for air. So by the third period and with the score standing at 3-3, it all became a bit of a dogfight. Gloves down, punches thrown, penalties out the wazoo. Scott had managed to make it 4-3 to the Admirals with seven minutes still left on the clock, and everything after that was a bit of a blur.

Kip: All that to say: congrats!!!! 🥳 🏆

Kip: You were amazing, of course.

Kip: Now just do it all again in Toronto tomorrow and get tf home ❤️

You: If that’s how you felt watching it, imagine how we felt actually playing it!

You: Bennett says thank you, by the way - says your recognition “means more to him than any accolade.”

You: So, naturally, I told him to keep his eyes off my man.

Kip: Oooooh, toxic.

Kip: That’s kind of hot.

You: And thank you, btw ❤️ Thursday can’t come soon enough.

Kip: Are you guys going out to celebrate?

You: Yeah, a bunch of people are heading out just for a couple of drinks. All a bit too wired to turn in yet.

You: That 6am wakeup call’s gonna be fun 🫠 I did remind everyone of that, too, so we’ll see.

Kip: Oh, RIP 💀

Kip: Well, tell everyone I said to have fun. As much fun as their glorious captain has mandated as being acceptable, of course.

Kip: I think I’m gonna stream for a little bit here in like an hour or so, then head to bed. I can kind of already feel it calling me 😴

Kip: Just in case I don’t get to speak to you again before then - goodnight! Have a good time. Love you ❤️

You: They’ve been warned many times now about just how early we’re heading out in the morning. What they do with that information is up to them.

You: Alright, I’ll talk to you later. Night, sweetheart. Have fun + sleep well. Love you too ❤️

When Kip had first mentioned, a few months ago now, that he was thinking about live streaming himself playing video games, admittedly, Scott wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He’d explained that it was something he and his friends sort of goofed around doing in college, resulting in them accidentally gathering a bit of a small online following, partly on account of how easily Kip got jumpscared and just how hilarious that often was. It was a whole ‘thing’, apparently.

It wasn’t serious, but it’d been a lot of fun at the time. Now, in the last few months, he’d been looking for more ways to unwind from work and just have fun, especially during the stretches of time Scott was away on the road and he was alone in the house in the evenings. This seemed like an interesting idea.

Scott’s opposition was immediate, maybe a little reactive, sitting heavy in his chest like a lead weight. He just couldn’t help but feel protective. He’d tried so hard to shield Kip from the worst of the scrutiny and the attention that he begrudgingly accepted as part of his own life as much as he possibly could.

At the end of the day, though, the internet was the internet. It hadn’t taken people, fans and journalists alike, long after the Stanley Cup Final to find Kip’s social media and start scouring for any information they could get around who he is and what his story was about. Dying, as they apparently were, to know who exactly was so special to Scott Hunter that he decided to make history and become the first ever active openly gay player in the history of the NHL about it.

Kip, though, in no uncertain terms, had assured Scott that he was in this for the long haul, and had argued that by choosing Scott he chose everything that came with him, his position in the public eye included. If people were going to dig through his online presence anyway looking for clues about who he was, if he and Scott were truly living openly now and without shame, he may as well crack open the door and let people peer in. Invite them to know him on his own terms, in a way he had some level of control over, and whilst doing something he enjoyed.

With that in mind, Scott could do nothing but support him.

The streams actually ended up going really well. Kip was one of those people who could talk your ear off about just about anything, chat with anyone at all and make them feel like they were talking to a friend within the space of only a couple of minutes, so it came to him really naturally. Not that Scott was surprised by any means, but it did catch him off-guard just how proud he was to see Kip in the spotlight, knowing other people saw him too, and could at least partly share in how warm, and sweet, and funny he is – see what Scott had the privilege of seeing every day.

There’d obviously been a lot of hype around the first couple when Kip had announced them and the viewcounts reflected that. But since then, helped by the fact that he tended to ignore questions that tried to pry too deeply into his and Scott’s relationship, they’d tempered out into a much less chaotic, much more chill and manageable, but consistent, viewership.

He went live a lot after the Admirals’ away games finished up, so he ended up picking up a lot of hockey fans that also happened to be into gaming, and who liked to pick his brain on both the sport and on whatever he was playing. There were also LGBTQ+ gamers as well, who knew nothing really about hockey, but who’d seen one of the queer online news articles that’d discussed him, and the streams, when he’d announced them. Then, there were people who just simply liked watching streamers before bed and ended up stumbling upon him from the trending pages. Kip attracted a broad church.

It probably didn’t hurt that he was also, objectively, one of most beautiful men most people were likely to have ever come across playing video games online, but hey. Scott may be biased.

Setting aside his initial reservations, if it made Kip happy and gave Scott the excuse to be able to relax, just sitting and listening to his partner talk for an hour or so at the end of a long day when he was away from home and missing him, he would happily weather it.

He refreshed the page, set to text Kip and make sure everything was okay, even though he’d intended to just watch covertly for a bit without letting him know he was in the chat. But when it reloaded, the stream appeared, and he clicked into it quickly.

Kip appeared on-screen and something automatically soothed in Scott’s chest. 

“...I’ll just hang out here for a couple of minutes, let people filter in. Hi guys, how are we all this fine Tuesday night?”

He’d always said Kip’s smile was like sunshine, and what he saw tonight was no different, but he did look… tired? Scott could see it in his eyes, how his face was lit up starkly by the bright glare of a ring light against the muted dimness that bathed the rest of the study behind him. He was wearing his glasses, bundled up in that extra soft red Admirals hoodie they regularly battled to claim ownership of (the one that Kip swore up and down was in the laundry basket when Scott had been looking for it as he was packing to leave), and held a large, steaming mug in hand.

So cozy. So stinkin’ cute. It was like a balm on a wound Scott hadn’t realised had been aching quite like it evidently had. They talked on the phone at least once a day at minimum while he was on the road, but being able to see him, see his smile, see how his face shifted as he spoke, it didn’t compare.

Kip cleared his throat, taking a cautious sip as his eyes scanned the chat, before getting to work opening his last save file.

“Sorry I’m a liiiiittle bit late getting started,” he said, rubbing his nose with the side of his thumb. “I wish I could say it was technical difficulties, but either way, we’re here now. So let’s hang out.” A pause, a glance at the chat. “I know, I know, I’m also sorry about the glare coming off my glasses. I’ve had my contacts in all day and it’s been a bit of a long one. They were practically screaming at me to take ‘em out.”

After finally coming out the other side of grad school, working on some networking opportunities through his old faculty, and keeping an ear to the ground, Kip finally had his foot in the door at one of the museums downtown as one of their ‘Junior Educators’. He came home every day exhausted, but more fulfilled than Scott had ever seen him. He couldn’t have been prouder.

“‘How blind are you without them?’...” Kip recited, an amused twitch to his lips, squinting slightly as the comment quickly disappeared again. “Oh, the devil works hard, but my prescription works harder, trust me.”

Scott chuckled fondly. It brought to mind the sweet little pocket of time after they wake up  in the morning and are just laying in bed together. The amount of times Kip, still a little dazed and half-asleep, has leaned over and just ever so slightly miscalculated his aim, accidentally kissing the corner of Scott’s mouth, or just under his bottom lip. It’s alright, though, Scott always made sure to correct his course. Thoroughly.

In any case, however, the glasses were always more than welcome.

He let himself be lulled by Kip’s tone as he talked with the audience while he played, answering questions from the chat about this and that; what game he was playing (some zombie apocalypse ‘run a survivor camp and test people for bites/infection’ type of thing – definitely calmer, more methodical and a bit slower-paced than usual), where they could get it, who suggested it to him, among other things.

At some point it occurred to Scott that there was a certain… dissonance in Kip’s voice; a heaviness. The more he spoke, the rougher it got, inch by inch the words starting to sound like they were grating more and more against the back of his throat. For as much as he was clearing it, whether he was aware of it or not, it didn’t seem to help. He needed some more of whatever’s in that mug – decaf coffee? He’s really not a tea person the way Scott has somehow become in the course of his adulthood.

Then, as if he could actually somehow read Scott’s mind, Kip reached for the mug again, indulging in a long sip.

“Okay, so did we all see the Admirals game earlier? I’ll give you five seconds to mute if you haven’t heard the score yet or you haven’t had a chance to watch and don’t want spoilers, okay? 5… 4… 3…”

The topic change was jarring, Scott’s brain still stuck on whether the state of Kip’s voice was anything that warranted concern or if the concussions were just catching up with him and he was imagining things.

“Oh. My. God. It was insane, wasn’t it? Scrappy as hell. I spent the whole thing on the edge of my seat. Actually, no, in fact I spent a lot of it crouched on the floor for some reason. I don’t know why, I just had this weird feeling like if I wasn’t fully looking at some points, then maybe we’d start pulling ahead? Do you–hhh… do any of you ever get that? I’ve had people say it’s normal…”

He scanned the chat through a vaguely irritated squint, scrubbing his nose with a now needful determination. A comment suddenly caught his attention, and his face lightened a shade, even through the strange look.

Ah, Scott realised quickly. He knew what was happening.

“Yeah, Scott was g-great, wasn’t-hhh… wasn’t he? Winnipeg were’hh- weren’t giving up that l-last… g’hhh’oal, and he… sorry, I’m-” He cupped his hands to his face and swiveled away from the camera as he breath continued to scissor. “hhhIH’ngnxt’chiew!........ huh’ihNXT’shue!.....hhh’uhngxstch’yue!”

It wasn’t unusual for him to hold sneezes in like that, despite how they may wrangle to get free in that pitchy, exaggerated exhale, but tonight they almost sounded painful. Like there was actual power behind them, leaving him visibly bleary and full of sniffles.

Kip recovered quickly and turned back to the camera, blushing slightly. “Whew, sorry. Hold on, I’ll be right back…” he uttered distractedly, pulling off his headphones and rising from the chair before disappearing off-camera.

Scott couldn’t even preen under the praise Kip had been trying to lavish on him like he maybe would’ve done. His brain barely allowed it to permeate, in favour of ruminating over the niggling concerns he’d had before, ones he’d set aside because, hey, he knew he was a worrier. But it was like the last puzzle piece had just slotted into place and revealed a clear and undeniable conclusion.

Oh, no, he’s definitely-

Kip appeared back in frame and dropped back into the chair, less bleary, but with his nose tinged lightly pink and a tissue in hand. The chat was flooded with ‘bless you!’s and other assorted well-wises or good-natured chirps.

He smiled sheepishly, and when he spoke his voice, at least to Scott’s ear, was noticeably deeper – more nasal. “Thank you, thank you. Sorry, again. I think I’m good ndow… sdnf,” he said, giving his nose one last swipe before turning his attention back to the game.

“Anyway, what was I saying before? Oh yeah – Scott’s goal. Winnipeg really weren’t for giving that last one up, but he always sneaks in there and finds a spot when we need him to, doesn’t he?” A proud smile crept its way onto Kip’s face as he recalled the goal that clinched their win without having to go to overtime. Scott felt the warmth of it, of how Kip spoke about him when he didn’t even think he was listening, and grabbed it, held it close.

“I will say, though, Bennett was absolutely outstanding in goal tonight. I lost count of the amount of times he saved our asses in that last period especially. He was totally deserving of that MVP tonight – 100% agree.

For as much as Scott could and did kid about Kip’s fondness for Eric, he was in total agreement with that assessment. Despite how close the score ended up being, he’d been a beast tonight when you looked at the stats and how many shots he successfully blocked compared to how many were taken at him over the course of the game.

“Oh here’s some tea for you, by the way. My first ever Admirals jersey that I got right back when Scott and I first started dating… Bennett, #30.”

Scott felt highly vindicated by the frenetic stream of energy in the chat as many came to his defence with claims of betrayal.

Kip couldn’t help playing up his offence. “Oh my God, we weren’t out yet! And aside from that, for my first ever team jersey… the captain’s jersey, right off the bat? Is that not kind of tacky, no? It is, right?”

He let out a low, throaty chuckle as he directed his attention fully back towards the game. It caught in his throat, though, and quickly choked back a short cough. His breath stuttered for a second, eyelids fluttering, building up rapidly–

“hhih’EHXTss’chue.......hehh’CXTss’shiue!’”

Scott winced in sympathy, wanting nothing more than to reach out and pull him into a hug. Then promptly put him to bed.

Kip sighed in what looked like acquiescence, clutching the now limp tissue like a lifeline. He was about to bring it to his nose one more time, but seemed to think better of it halfway through the motion, resorting to sniffling against the back of his hand, massaging away any lingering irritation with the rather bruising, unrelenting force of his knuckle. Thousands of miles away, Scott had no choice but to bite back the urge to pull his hand away.

Done playing the voyeur, he was about to finally just text him when Kip’s reluctant voice stayed his hand. He’d already turned back to the game, forgoing looking at the camera directly as he spoke.

“Yeah, I’m sorry if I sound kind of gross tonight, by the way. As you can probably tell, I feel like I might be getting a cold, or something, I don’t know…”

Oh, honey, I think we’re passed ‘might’.

“But it’s all good! I’m all set up here, I’ve got my tea…” he added, holding up the mug.

Of course it was tea. He only ever passed on coffee and raided Scott’s blend when he wasn’t feeling well.

Kip shrugged. “It’s just that time of year, I guess, right? I feel like everyone at work – scratch that, everyone in New York – is sick right now, and we work with the general public, so maybe it’s inevitable. But, that being said, if any of you have any airtight, absolutely foolproof methods, remedies, recommendations, whatever, for nipping something like this – if it’s something – in the bud, please drop them in the chat. The guys are obviously back in town on Thursday, Scott and I have a nice dinner reservation, and I’ve missed him a lot. So I’d really rather not be sick for that, y’know?”

A pressing weight clenched in behind Scott’s sternum, compounded by the glimmer of vulnerability shining through in the confession. He’d missed him too, like crazy. They’d been looking forward to trying this particular place – Kip in particular, hooked by claims from Elena that they did ‘theee best’ natural orange wine. They’d booked it a couple of weeks before Scott headed off, intended as a sort of reward for getting through the separation.

A slew of messages rolled in, ranging between blunt realism, “By the sounds of it, I fear you’re already cooked, friend”, the ingredients to the most disgusting-sounding ‘wellness shot’ Scott’s ever heard, and the actually very sensible-sounding “Get a good night’s sleep!!! Hope it’s nothing bad :(((“

Unable to help himself anymore, Scott pulled out his phone.

You: Don’t even worry about that. If you’re not feeling good, we can reschedule it, it’s really no big deal.

He looked at the clock, brow furrowed. Accounting for the hour’s time difference, it was nearly 11:30pm back home.

You: And I’d personally like to recommend finishing up and getting into bed.

He felt uneasy, sad in that simmering, abstract kind of way, and really, he didn’t have to probe too deeply to know where it came from. He felt bad that he wasn’t able to steer Kip to bed himself and look after him in person like he should be. He takes care of Scott so well and in so many different ways every day of their life together, but he also really struggles with asking for things in return, or vocalising that he needs Scott for something. Which boggles Scott’s mind when, as first pointed out by his therapist and unpacked subsequently in sessions since, he actively wanted so badly to be needed. It was something core and fundamental to who he was. Not that he’d find any kind of joy in Kip being unwell, but he would take any opportunity he could to give him back all that love and care that’s, frankly, changed Scott’s life, actually. Irrevocably.

Suddenly, his hotel room felt colder than he’d realised, and yawningly empty. The thought that Kip would be in bed, their bed, alone tonight didn’t sit right with him at all.

Scott watched him notice the message notifications in real time. In the space of about three seconds, Kip’s expression cycled from confusion to shock, his eyes darting up to the camera as if he’d be able to see Scott watching, catching him out, and then to eventual resignation. He didn’t lift his phone to respond, likely to save himself from the inevitable ‘Oooooh, who are you texting? Who’s that?’ comments, but he did spare a wry look directly down the lens that Scott knew was meant for him, the corner of his lips quirking affectionately.

Kip played on for a little bit, having bought and organised all the supplies he’d need to keep his camp running and the survivors he’d let in ticking over, he then moved dutifully on to the main objective – the line of people at the gates needing to be inspected for zombie infection. He bantered with the audience as he worked through it person by person, deciding their destiny, whether it was admission to the camp, temporary 48hr quarantine, or straight to the ominously titled ‘liquidation’. He earned and lost money based on whether he made the right call or not, so each case inspired some fierce debate. The audience were ruthless.

He was trying to keep the energy up, but Scott could tell he was flagging. Between Kip’s growing hoarseness and heavy eyelids that were threatening to droop, Scott’s fingers were twitching with the need to do something about it, but having nowhere to put that energy.

Halfway through debating with someone in the chat about whether or not ‘hiccups’ were a definite sign of infection, or just possible (what even was this game…), Kip’s breath started to catch. Very much against his will, if the genuinely vexed expression that crossed his face was anything to go by. He turned to the side, rushing to stammer out a breathy, fluttering “...s-s’hhhorryi’mgon- hhhheh’IHXT’chuhh.......hhih’EHNGXt’chue......hhuh’NGSTX’shiew!’”

Each one sounded harder to contain than the last, each aggressive squeak they were squashed into jolting his body forward with the effort it took. Scott couldn’t help but wince. God, he needed to stop that.

You: Bless y-

Scott stopped typing when he looked up and saw that Kip hadn’t turned back around, his face still caught in anticipatory struggle. After a couple seconds he scooted back around, if only, seemingly, to direct his watery gaze deliberately into the glow of the ringlight, before pitching into the shield of his hands.

“huH’IHHJDZsssh’uh’!”

Unstifled, the sneeze was raw, permeated with sickness. He looked embarrassed and a little fed up in the aftermath, his cheeks tinged with a rosy flush, and fuck, Scott just wanted to turn off the camera, pull him into his chest and keep him there.

“Ow, that hurt a little– sdnfff. Excuse me.” Kip joked weakly, trying to play it off, though it had clearly knocked him a little off kilter. He pressed his thumb into the bridge of his nose, before nudging his glasses back up from where they’d managed to slip down. Still plagued with sniffles, he brought his knuckle up to rub at his nose, only to end up grimacing. “Sorry, bear with me a sec…”

Scott backspaced what he’d had written, then started again.

You: Jesus. Bless you, baby. 

You: You should really be in bed, you don’t sound good.

You: Be sure to take some medicine before you go to sleep. There’s definitely some in the big cabinet in the bathroom.

Kip was nothing if not stubborn though, so Scott knew in his heart of hearts he’d finish no sooner than when he decided he was done. When he appeared back in-frame, it was with a couple of tissues this time. He didn’t look at his phone, but apparently he didn’t need to.

“Okay, official five minute warning,” Kip said through a sigh. “I’mb going to finish up this last girl in line, then I’m gonna hop off for the night.” There was a little bit of congestion creeping in now on certain syllables, crackling through in the self-deprecating little chuckle he let out. He was good at that – making fun of himself to lighten the mood. “I’d say you’ll probably agree that it’s for the best. I also wouldn’t blame any of you if you never watched mbe again, by the way. Truly, no hard feelings.”

Kip clicked to call forward the last ‘subject’ in the line to be inspected, pulling up the pie chart menu of diagnostic equipment. She was as white as a ghost with red, glassy eyes. “Do I look as bad as her right now, or is there still hope for me? Be honest, you can tell mbe. Mby ego can take it.”

Looking directly into the camera, he shook his head, silently mouthing ‘no it can’t’. Scott couldn’t help but laugh.

“Let’s see…” He cycled through all the required tests, narrating each set of results she ended up turning up, though remained sceptical. “I don’t know, guys. She’s looking, well, how she’s looking, her temperature’s slightly elevated and she is coughing up a lung all up in my face. But there aren’t any actual bite marks that I can see, and no unequivocal symptoms that prove she’s actually zombie infected and not just sick, sdnff. There’s only one spot left in the quarantine bay. I think I’m going to send her to…”

The chat flooded with comments, ranging from ‘LIQUIDATE!!!’ to ‘oh she infected fr fr’, to ‘you missed a wholeass bite mark out of her left leg, my guy’ (he hadn’t) to ‘do ittttttt, we crave violence xxx’.

Kip gaped, not quite able to fully stifle a laugh. “She’s going to quarantine, you mbonsters!” No sooner had he clicked on the button to send her there, however, than his features were arrested in another tortuous build-up, one that teased him for an itchy, maddening few seconds, before he snapped to the side and rushed the tissues to his face.

“hhhIH’ihtchsss’chue!”

Oh yeah, they were definitely coming thicker and more frequent now, poor thing. Like the cold was properly starting to bed in now, somehow hastened on by that one sneeze before that had managed to escape confinement. Like by allowing it, he’d opened the floodgates.

“Alright,” Kip conceded through a tired exhale, saving his progress and exiting the game. His homescreen appeared, the picture a pretty panoramic shot he’d taken on a warm, sunny day from the summer just past when they went hiking up in the Catskills. The PC desktop was deceptively clean and free of clutter, only because it was occasionally on show like it was right now.

Now, the desktop on Kip’s laptop? Different story entirely.

“I think that’s my cue to go. Thank you so much for coming and hanging out, sdnff. I’mb going to go knock back at least twice the recommended dose of cold medicine, pray, and then probably pass out. Um, I think I’ll probably be live again at some point later in the week? Maybe the weekend? Either way, I’ll give people as much notice as possible when I know what’s happening. Have a great rest of your week, and I’ll see you later.”

The stream ended and Scott locked his iPad again, setting it to one side. Though he was sincerely glad to see Kip finally signing off to go get some rest, especially when he was coming down with something, there was a gnawing feeling in the pit of stomach; the sudden silence in the dim light of his hotel room heady and oppressive.

He picked up his phone, but before he could even do anything with it the screen flashed to life with an incoming call. He smiled, the gnawing instantly abated. He answered on the second ring, but barely even got out a greeting before–

“I thought you were out with the guys! You didn’t say you were joining.”

Kip’s voice was incredulous, echoing from somewhere away from the receiver. Accompanied by the sounds of cupboards opening and closing, Scott deduced he must be on speaker while Kip got ready for bed.

Simply content to let his voice wash over him, only him now, regardless of whether he was getting told off or now, Scott got comfortable in bed. “I said they were going out, I never said I was going with them.”

Kip made a sceptical noise. “I don’t think that’s what you said.”

“Roll the tapes, baby, the messages are on the record,” Scott retorted, his voice then softening a touch. “Sounds like that cold’s muddling your brain already. Bless you, by the way.”

Kip didn’t answer for a second, though he could hear movement on the other end of the line that indicated he was still there, before a playful-sounding groan of acknowledgement. “I don’t think it’s a proper cold yet. It’s kind of just… the sniffles, I guess? It may turn out to be nothing, I could sleep it off tondight…”

He didn’t even sound like he was convincing himself at this point, so Scott let it be.

“Either way, I was serious – you should take something for it tonight, just to be safe. There’s definitely some Nyquil in the bathroom cabinet–”

Kip scoffed, cutting him off. “Nyquil?! Scott, I have work in the mborning. I can’t afford to slip into a coma.”

“Okay! Okay,” Scott managed out through a chuckle. “Dayquil, then. It should be in there too. Though you sound like you could use a good sleep.”

He heard Kip sigh. “Probably…” Then, long, pregnant pause. The sound of the tap running, then shutting off. When he continued, his voice had melted into something much softer, more delicate. “I’m holding out on that until you get back. That first night you’re home’s going to hit different. Always does.”

Scott bit his lip against the emotion welling in his chest. He knew the feeling.

(It was kind of embarrassing, honestly, to be pushing 30 and still dealing with the ritual humiliation that was freshers’ flu. But at least he’d graduated from having to suffer through it in some cramped, dingy college dorm room he had to share with a stranger to a penthouse apartment with a super hot N/H/L all star boyfriend).

If anything was bound to humble him and bring him back down to earth, though, it was this cold. It hadn’t even been overly bad this morning, which was the last time he’d seen S/cott or talked to him properly, and would be the last time he’d see him until after the game.

But now?

His eyes are watering so much he doesn’t even try putting his contacts in, glasses having had to suffice.

He’s blown, wiped, and scrubbed his nose so much today it’s red raw and hot to the touch. Even now, particularly with the cold, dry air of the rink, it feels like there aren’t enough tissues in the world that would be enough to keep up with how badly his nose was running. Despite being stuffed up to the eyeballs. How is that fair?

The sneezes are coming in commanding, insuppressible waves now, thick and wet and just about able to be stifled. Most of the time.

Where up until now it’d remained fairly concentrated in his head, he’s even starting to feel an ominous tickle take root in his lungs, coaxing out little, reactive smatterings of coughs if he dared breathe too deeply.

Ugh, why couldn’t he have just held out gotten sick next week instead? And not the one night he may end up with a camera pointed at him? He couldn’t have just been hot and cool and healthy for this one thing?

It was meant to be a fun, glamorous kind of night but as it stands he feels very un-fun and un-glamorous and just, like, gross.

S/cott puts in a great shift in the first period, though. When they show him close-up on the big screen he looks so happy. K/ip’s so insanely proud him he could burst. So that makes it all significantly more bearable.

His fellow WAGs, who’d been quick to reach out and bring him into the fold in the weeks leading up to the start of the season, were so sweet. Someone was always checking up on him, and each period break his depleted takeaway cup of tea was replaced with another before he even thought about getting up to get it himself. Carter’s girlfriend Gloria even slips him a miniature of Jameson with a cheeky little wink, claiming that he “…could decide for himself if spiking it would help.” He can’t help but smile back at her. She reminds him so much of Maria and it makes him that little bit more comfortable.

Long story short: K/ip may have been caught on the jumbotron mid-sneeze (he obviously wasn’t looking and he had no desire to confirm either way).

The Admirals win comfortably.

S/cott’s horrified when they meet back up after and he sees how sick and miserable K/ip is. He insists they’re going straight home and he’s getting straight into bed. He’s meant to be out celebrating with the rest of the team and K/ip puts up a decent fight trying to get him to still go, even if his voice is starting to fail him at this point. That oh no, don’t worry, he’ll be fine! He feels shitty but it’s just a cold, everyone at school has it right now. It’s his big night, he totally shouldn’t let it-

S/cott, already locking into all-out fussing mode, just looks at him like he’s lost his mind if he thinks he’d rather be anywhere else than with K/ip when he needs him.

Somewhere deep inside K/ip breathes a sigh of relief. Maybe he does need him right now. Or maybe he just wants him. Maybe that’s selfish, or maybe it’s okay, but it’s S/cott’s choice and he’s made it and K/ip’s relieved.

He’s shivering before they even reach the players’ entrance/exit, a creeping chill he hadn’t noticed before suddenly clinging to him. S/cott notices, because of course he does, and stops him up short, taking off his nice suit jacket and drapes it around K/ip’s shoulders, over the top of the ‘Hunter 21’ captain’s jersey he had on, with a soft “here…” muttered under his breath. As if that isn’t quite enough to satisfy him, S/cott pulls him in tight and holds him close as they walk out, sort of half-shielding him with his body.

Tonight, the NHL’s gathered in Las Vegas to celebrate the Art Ross Trophy, awarded to Ilya Rozanov for his impressive numbers he’s put on the board throughout the season. It seems like estranging Shane has only improved Rozanov’s game lately, while Shane’s team keeps asking if he plans on showing up to games anymore. Maybe Shane was just a distraction. 

Maybe it’s for the best. 

Hockey isn’t the only thing Rozanov’s absence seems to be impacting. 

Shane uses the motion and noise of everyone standing to muffle a cough into the sleeve of his suit jacket. 

He’s been feeling run down for weeks now, tired and hazy, sure, but now it’s blossomed into a cold that he just can’t seem to shake. 

Everyone begins to migrate to the ballroom for the after party but Shane lingers behind to cough in peace and tug at the sweaty, chafing collar of his dress shirt (and catch a glimpse of Ilya). 

He watches Hayden pass in front of the stage and towards the banquet hall. (The stage is empty). 

“You haven’t congratulated me on my victory yet.” 

Shane startles, soul ejecting right out of his body, like Ilya had jabbed him with a cattle prod. It scares him shitless. He whirls around and Ilya is standing behind him, hands clasped behind his back. He looks smug, but Shane can’t be entirely sure because he starts coughing before he can speak. His nose is starting to run again. 

There are a lot of things Shane could say to Ilya. Fuck off, why haven’t you answered my texts, I missed you, I’m so lonely without you, I hate you, I need you, please please please please please don’t disappear on me again, fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou, and so on. But people are watching, because they are always watching but their gaze is especially heavy when it is the two of them. 

(Rozanov is a mess. Curls stick to his forehead. He’s sweaty all over, sticky and flushed down his chest. He’s smiling, tenting himself above Shane by caging him in with his arms. Shane’s left leg fell asleep an hour ago and lightning tingles in his toes but he doesn't want to move. Rozanov lowers himself and kisses Shane’s eyebrow and then his nose. 

“Your freckles. They are like stars. The Moon will get jealous.” 

Shane feels a little less self conscious about his freckles after that.)

Tears spring into his eyes with immediacy, brimming and waiting there for permission to fall. If they do, Shane will not give Rozanov the satisfaction of watching them. He really has to blow his nose now too.

“I’ll see you at the after party, Rozanov.” 

── ♡︎.

“We want you to be the face of our winter catalogue. A photoshoot to launch our new cologne, and then feature you in a series of sweaters and watches, all Hermès, all for our 2014 collection…”

The ice in Ilya’s drink has melted, now it is flat. He takes a sip anyway, affording him a glance across the room at What’s-His-Fuck One, Two and Shane Hollander. What’s-His-Fuck One is so loud, he keeps laughing for the entire room to hear and throwing his arm around Hollander which seems to jostle him out of a stupor every time. 

Hollander is disassociating, neither listening to his friends or to anything happening around him at all. He looks sad, but more than that, he looks tired. Hollander coughs into his fist, which he has been doing all night. Not that Ilya has been paying him any attention though.   

What’s-His-Fuck makes another joke, which riles up their entire pod again, and Ilya watches Shane wince and step away from the group. He says something quickly, and no one even acknowledges it, they just close the circle to accommodate for his absence. 

“Mr. Rozanov?” The brand ambassador he cannot remember the name of is looking at him expectantly. 

“Talk with my manager,” says Ilya, already halfway across the room before he realizes that he probably should’ve thanked him for his time. Whatever. 

Hollander almost beats him to the bar, but Ilya intercepts him a foot from the last open stool at the island. 

“Shane Hollander,” mutters Ilya. ”Are you enjoying the party?” 

There is a rosy flush to Hollander’s cheeks as though he’s been drinking but Ilya hasn’t known Hollander to drink before. The bridge of his nose is particularly pink, and the rest of his face is decidedly…puffy. 

“Fuck off.” Shane snaps. Ilya’s eyebrows raise at his tone. It is surprisingly callous for Hollander, who is typically so reserved. His voice is hoarse, like he’s an hour or two from losing it. Hollander looks miserable, ruffled in his very handsome suit, but uncomfortable and tired most of all. Like he’s sick. Hollander is so affected by Ilya. It’s addictive (he’s terrified). 

Ilya feels like a cat, playing with its food. He takes a sip of his watered down drink, because ruined vodka is a better flavor than guilt. 

“Ah.” Ilya grins around the lip of his cup, resting his teeth atop the glass. “Are you angry at me?” 

Hollander’s eyes bug out of his head, teeming with a poorly contained frustration. If smoke could come out of his ears, it would. 

“Are you sure you want to do this here?” He hisses through his teeth. He takes a step closer so only Ilya can hear. “People are starting to stare.” 

(For a rookie, Shane is surprisingly proficient in sucking dick. Ilya is trying his hardest not to thrust into his mouth and hurt him, but it’s growing more difficult as Shane learns what feels best. And Shane is a fast learner. 

Suddenly, Shane pulls off of him with the most lewd pop! His lips glisten with spit, plump and perfect. Ilya worries that he’s hurt, that his hair has been pulled too hard or Ilya’s squirming hips are too much to take, or that he’s simply unengaged. 

“Did you know you have a heart shaped mole on your thigh? Right here?” Between panting breaths, Shane manages a smile and points at the mark on Ilya’s leg. “Look. You’re not looking at it.” 

“I was about to cum and you were studying my marks?” 

Shane ducks his head, sheepish. “They’re cute.” 

Ilya drags Shane to his feet so he can kiss him again.)

They have attracted the attention of Hollander’s groupies at least. A few of them glance over at them, and then whisper amongst themselves. Are they waiting for a fight to break out? Or are they wondering when the best time to ask for an autograph is? (Can they smell the lust on him? Or worse, can they hear Ilya’s heart carving itself in the likeness of Shane Hollander?)

“What are you drinking?” 

Hollander looks foreignly at the glass in his hand. He clears his throat once and then again a little harder, behind a neatly closed fist. He sniffles softly. “Um, snf! Ginger Ale.” 

Ilya laughs breathlessly. Charmed, he pats Hollander on the bicep and steps around him to the bar. Ilya pats the bar top. “A shot of vodka for myself, and a glass of water for the captain.” 

Ilya motions to the singular stool open for Shane to take: a truce. This is neutral ground, too many people around, he’s sorry, he wishes he were better, he will do this again. 

Hollander stares at him for a while. Ilya wonders what he sees. His bottom lip quivers and Ilya’s body aches with the desire to kiss that tremor of uncertainty away. Hollander accepts the truce, and sits.  

The bartender sets the shot glass and the water down side by side. Ilya reaches over his rival’s shoulder for the shot glass, breathing in as he does. Hollander smells like his usual cologne, which is warm and earthy but there is also a medicinal undertone as well. Minty. 

Ilya takes the shot, no chaser, and returns his shot glass with the lukewarm cocktail from earlier. Shane takes a sip of his water. 

“Finish your water,” purrs Ilya, into his ear. Shane’s breath comes out soft and uneven and perfect. He registers the command, and blinks slowly, balancing on the brink of submission. Ilya continues. “Then go to the bathroom in the west wing hallway. Lock the door behind you.” Ilya steps closer until his front is fully flush against Shane’s back. “I will meet you there in two minutes. I will knock twice.” 

Ilya steps away from Shane, taking all the warmth with him by the way Shane shivers. 

“Yes?” 

Shane nods shakily, his brown eyes sparkling with obedience. 

“Good.”

Ilya turns on his heels and makes his way over to Marleau and his girlfriend. Behind him, What’s-His-Fuck Two rushes over and asks Shane what he wanted. 

Shane’s voice shakes when he whispers, “he told me to finish my water.” 

── ♡︎.

The time limit on Shane’s cold and flu medicine has run out. He tried battering his cold into submission but its breached containment. There is nothing more he can do but submit to the full weight of this cold until he can mercifully dose himself with another round of medicine. 

“ng’hieww!” 

Even stifled, the single stall bathroom makes the sneeze ring louder than Shane appreciates. He tears a paper towel free, and blows his nose. He’s done that far too often tonight, with thin bar napkins and rough paper towels. His nose is beginning to sting. 

He throws the paper towel away and washes his hands. 

He finished his water, like Ilya told him to. 

“h’sxch—yew!”

And now he’s standing in the bathroom waiting for Ilya to come collect him. Just because he said so. 

Is he an idiot? They haven’t spoken in months, even after Shane sent numerous texts to check in and yet, he still blindly followed Ilya’s orders to stand in the bathroom for him. Shane clearly hasn’t learned his lesson. 

Shane washes his hands and dries them again. 

He followed Ilya blindly into this and the likelihood of getting caught is far too high for this to even be worth it. He’s too sick for a hook up, and he’s angry at himself for even wanting it.

Pressure pulses behind Shane’s eyes. His head aches from the offensive overhead light. The mirrors are not kind and magnify how sick and gross he looks. The sound of his own breathing diagnoses him, phlegm crackling on each inhale and whistling on the exhale. He wouldn’t even be here if his mom hadn’t said it was so important. Maybe it’s best if Ilya doesn’t show up and leaves him alone to his misery in this lonely bathroom stall. 

“ngch—hew!”

Shane sneezes into his elbow first, leaving the crook of his arm wet, then frantically waves his hand in front of the automated paper towel dispenser. He rips a paper towel free and folds it over his nose. It scratches and rubs his upper lip raw. A miserably itchy tear rolls down his cheek. It hurts. 

“hh’ishhue! —tssh!” 

The paper towel is soaked. He tosses it away, and unevenly tears the next piece before the dispenser has even finished whirring out the entire piece. 

“tsshiu!” 

There is a knock at the door, two strong raps. 

(Totally totally totally totally totally this is totally fine.)

“Uh, h-hang odn,” croaks Shane. He needs to wash his hands, he still needs to sneeze, he needs Ilya to not find him like this but Ilya lingering in the hall is an even worse outcome so—

Shane unlocks the door.

Ilya saunters in, locks the door behind him and then turns to lean against the door. He folds his arms and watches Shane expectantly. 

“You thought I would not come.” 

Shane glares at him over the edge of his wet, crumpled paper towel. “Ndo.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows. He waves noncomittally at Shane’s face. “You are just crying, then?” 

“Ndo…I’m not…hh…oh God…” Shane puts as much distance between him and Ilya as possible, turning towards the sink. He crumples the abused paper towel in his fist and tucks his face into the crook of his elbow instead. He can feel the sneeze coming from far off, needling at a spot along the wall of Shane’s nose that makes his eyes water. His breath comes in trembling, shallow pants but doesn't snag into a deeper precursor hitch. 

Ilya’s dress shoes click on the tile as he crosses the room. Shane glances into the mirror and sees Ilya sidling up behind him. The tickle retreats mercifully. Ilya settles behind him, arms bracing either side of the counter so Shane is caged between the sink and Ilya. (Ilya is warm and the width of his chest is familiar). 

Ilya’s hand finds his waist, and even through a suit jacket his touch is searing. He rubs his thumb across the dip of Shane’s back. His blue eyes are piercing, watching Shane intently through the mirror. 

Shane steadies his elbow with a free hand over his face. “nG!” 

Ilya breaks into a wide grin. 

Shane uses his free hand to try and shove Ilya away from him but Ilya smacks his hand away with a laugh and presses into his back, pinning his crotch to the sink. If he blushes any hotter, he will incinerate himself.  

(Shane Hollander dies from hot, steamy, kinky sex! More on that and the weather at 7 PM!)

“hcH—yiew! hH? h’tss—yew!”

Ilya squeezes his hip, in lieu of a blessing. Shane appreciates it. 

“You are in the weather.” Rozanov says, gravely serious.  

The prickling in his sinuses evaporates enough for Shane to trust his ability to lower his arm. He feels like he is covered in germs. Still, Ilya manages to coax a small, crunchy laugh out of him. He turns in Ilya’s arms to face him, against the counter.

“Under the weather.” 

“Under?…” Ilya pauses and considers the correction, like he’s trying to make sense of the idiom further. He frowns, before he accepts the phrase for what it is and lets it go. “You have done one hundred sneezes tonight. They are too small, yes? Not so useful. But your nose? Very cute.” 

Ilya hums fondly and taps the side of his knuckle to the tip of Shane’s nose.

It’s suddenly all too tender. Ilya is here for sex, that much he has made clear and Shane has romance weaved into his DNA. He believes in the fairytale of love. He is wrung dry for Ilya Rozanov and this facsimile of care is a farce.  Ilya does not care about Shane, Ilya does not love him (but it is dawning on him with nightmarish clarity that Shane just might love Ilya). He has a weak spot in the shape of his initials. Parading around like it is anything less is going to kill him. 

A tidal wave of emotion cleaves Shane in two and tears rush into his eyes. Again. 

Shane is too tired to raise his voice, his chest aches too bad. He pushes Ilya’s hand away. He hiccups through the emotion, chest wrenching. “What do you want, Rozanov? I’m not in the mood to be toyed with tonight.” 

Ilya is quiet but his jaw continues to tick, the muscle flexing and pulsing. He is clearly thinking about something, but he doesn’t share. Shane doesn’t let the tears fall, he doesn’t share. 

“I want to kiss you.” 

Shane prays that one day he will have a firmer resolve. He’s dizzy. 

“Yeah, well, I’m sick so you can’t.” 

“I know I should not, but I want to.” Ilya’s hand slips up the nape of Shane’s neck, threading in his hair. “You make logic very difficult, yes?” 

Tension turns Shane rigid. He lowers his head until it rests on Rozanov’s sternum; he can't see Shane cry. It doesn’t even feel like he’s crying, tears just slip out of his eyes and roll down his cheeks and drip onto Ilya’s very nice jacket. He’s very tired.

“Shh…shh…” Rozanov pets his cheek with the back of his hand. He brushes the wetness from each of his cheek, muttering hushed phrases that Shane cannot understand but they sound reverential, like a promise or a vow. Shane’s lashes flutter shut, his pulse racing as the rest of the world fades away and he is reduced to the sensation of Ilya’s heart beat thumping under his cheek. “Shh.” 

Ilya’s ministrations pause and his hand abruptly cups the back of his neck again. It almost startles Shane, but Ilya doesn’t stop moving, slipping a few fingers beneath the sweaty collar of his dress shirt. Shane lifts his face, curiously. Ilya grumbles, and then completely startles Shane when he presses his cool lips to his forehead. 

Ilya hums. “You have fever, you know this?”

Oh. Well that would explain the…everything. 

Shane groans. Ilya leans back, and Shane’s eyes don’t track him. He’s mentally floating in the middle of nowhere, far away. 

“Let me—no, I am not going anywhere. I am just grabbing this, look.” Ilya places a hand on the back of Shane’s head when he whimpers. Ilya reaches past him to the paper towel dispenser and rips a long section off. He folds it into a neat square and nudges the faucet on. He soaks the paper towel and then squeezes out the excess water. 

Shane doesn’t particularly care to look. He is at the height of his misery for the day. His eyes are grainy and itch, which is neither better or worse than the stinging burn in his throat. Congestion is cemented in his head, which makes breathing alone a herculean task and the quiet reprieve of the bathroom has been the least overwhelming place he’s been all day. Ilya brushes the cold towel down the bridge of his nose which makes Shane’s eyes fly open with a gasp. 

“Izvinit,” Ilya apologizes. He uses it enough that Shane can recognize it now. He wipes the flimsy makeshift cloth over Shane’s brow bone, and then down his temple. He wipes the tear tracks from his cheeks, and then down his chin. “Only you make being sick cute. Being sick is gross, everyone else? Ew, gross. But you are cute.” 

Like magic, all the tension, the fear, the insecurity, the anger; it stops. 

Shane wants to share this with the entire NHL. He wonders how many of them are loved behind closed doors. It is an award to be seen. 

“Tip your head up,” he taps his chin. Shane complies automatically. Ilya makes a pleased sound. “You listen so well for me.” 

Shane sniffles and Ilya folds the paper towel over his pointer finger and wipes beneath Shane’s nose for him. It is cold but feels nice on his abused nostrils. He feels untethered, fuzzy and light. 

“h’eschh! hH…cH—yew!”

“Bless.”

With his dry hand, Ilya kneads his knuckles into Shane’s cheeks. He pets circles up and down his neck and up to his hair line. Shane turns his head this way and that, following Ilya’s movements, hungry for praise. 

Shane’s head feels too heavy to hold up. He lets it drop unceremoniously against Ilya’s shoulder. 

“Look at me,” whispers Ilya. He pets his finger down the length of Shane’s nose. He’s fixated, petting the bridge over and over again. “Don’t fall asleep. No, no, no, you cannot sleep on me here. Look at me.” Ilya grips him by the chin, forcing him upright. It takes a moment for Shane’s eyes to focus, and when they do, Ilya is doing a poor job of concealing a smile. Shane sniffles a few times, then frowns. 

“Go tell your teammates goodbye.” Ilya sandwiches Shane’s cheeks in his hand, forcing his lips to pucker. “My hotel is two blocks over, room 1608.” 

Shane worries if Ilya lets him go, he will topple over right on to the bathroom floor. His face feels cooler, head a little clearer. He wipes his wrist beneath his nose to keep it from running and then grimaces when he remembers his shirt costs nearly as much as a car payment. 

“I’m too sick to do anything tonight. I’m sorry.” 

Ilya shakes his head. “No, no, I want to…”

(Ilya declines four separate calls before he decides maybe he should answer the fifth. He takes it in the bathroom, and by the sound of his tone, it isn’t a very happy conversation but what did Shane know? When he comes back, the mood of the night shifts and a hook up doesn't really feel appropriate anymore. 

His eyes are sad but Shane isn’t brave enough to ask why. 

Shane pushes up and motions to his lap. “C’mere.”

“What?” 

“Let me rub your shoulders.”

“Why?”

Shane pats his lap more insistently. “What is this? Twenty questions? Just trust me. Come here.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes theatrically, but crawls up the length of the bed. He settles over Shane’s legs like an oversized cat. When Shane begins to knead his back, Ilya lets out a heavy, guttural sigh. He tucks his face safely in Shane’s thigh and doesn’t say anything. Shane doesn’t ask anything of him, and holds no expectations. It’s quiet.  

Ilya falls asleep like that. 

Shane leaves before he wakes up, but knowing he is able to put Ilya to sleep is like a badge of honor.)

Ilya's throat bobs, and he wets his lips. The bathroom feels very small and hot. “Just come.” 

Shane wants him so bad his teeth ache with it.

Shane struggled slightly as Ilya pushed him against the wall. He was trying not to let the feeling of the Russian’s tongue in his mouth freak him out. Obviously this always slightly freaked him out, but right now… was it wrong not to tell the other man he was sick? Was he not telling him because he didn't want him to stop kissing him or because he didn't want him to know? Would he even stop kissing him if he knew? Probably not.

As though reading his mind, Ilya stopped kissing him and pulled back. Shane licked his lips and tried to be subtle about gasping for air. He couldn't really breathe through his nose anymore.

“What is wrong with you?” The blond asked, bluntly.

Shane's heartbeat quickened, and he saw on Ilya’s face that he could feel the speed of his pulse change with his hand still wrapped around the Canadian’s throat. His eyes narrowed, searching Shane's face for answers.

“Nothing.” And after a second he added “Fuck you.” But he really meant ‘move on’. Either keep kissing me or leave, this is the last thing I want to talk about. Shane tried to convey that message with his eyes as Ilya inched closer again.

“You're lying, Hollander.” His words were a whisper, low, dangerous, almost a warning.

It was too late to tell him now, he'd essentially sabotaged the other man's ability to play at his best by infecting him. Technically that didn’t matter that much for this weekend, but he knew the Russian needed to be perfect and to set records like he needed the wins on regular games, always proving he deserved to be there. “Shut up.” He spun them around so Ilya was the one pressed against the wall, leaning in to kiss him aggressively as emphasis for his words.

Ilya, to his credit, shut up. He took a fistful of Shane's shirt, kissing him back as he pulled him in to grind against his hip bone needily.

This time there was no room for gasped breaths in between kisses, Ilya keeping their faces so tightly pressed together that Shane couldn't pull away. He could feel the Russian's warm breath coming in pants through his nose against Shane's cheek. Must be nice to take full breaths like that.

They kept kissing until the Canadian’s lungs started to burn and he pushed hard on Ilya's shoulders until he was able to pull back.

Ilya kept his grip on Shane's shirt, though he let him step back a pace or two, watching like a hawk as the brunet caught his breath.

Just as he felt like he could breathe again, his heart dropped as he felt his nose start to itch. He couldn't attend to it with him standing right there, watching.

“Uh I'm gonna go-” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the bathroom “-clean up.“

“No need.” Ilya said, grip unwavering, “I like…dirty.”

Shane rolled his eyes on purpose and wrinkled his nose involuntarily. “Let go.”

“No.”

The itch was starting to become a problem now. Shane felt his nostrils flare, and hoped to hell it read as anger. “Fuck you, man. Let m-” He gasped as the itch flared, one hand coming up to try to rip the blond’s hand from his shirt as the other scrubbed over his face as if he was frustrated.

Ilya only held on tighter. “What is wrong with you? Tell me or I don't let you go.”

Shane, utterly helpless to resist, twisted as far from his rival as he could with him holding on to the front of his shirt, pinched his nose tightly, and ducked in the direction of his far shoulder.

“hhEhNGT!”

He didn't turn back. He didn't need to see that look on Ilya's face, and besides, he knew he was blushing, which would just be another thing for the Russian to tease him about.

“God bless you.” He said the words slowly, savouring them. There was intrigue in his tone, and it sent fiery anger through Shane's veins. He felt like an animal in a zoo, trapped, observed, ridiculed. How stupid of him to think this was a good idea, something to take his mind off how shitty he felt. As if Ilya wasn't going to notice.

“Thanks. Fuck, I’m sorry.” He muttered, chancing a look back at him.

The blond’s face was unreadable, and his grip loosened on Shane's shirt as he spoke. “You don't have to apologise. If you didn't have to do it, clearly you would not have.”

Shane felt his face heat up again, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. It snapped sharply back up though, when he felt Ilya's cool palm push back his hair to rest on his forehead. How he could keep a hold of his stick on the ice when his hands ran cold anyway was a mystery. The gloves only did so much. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed it either. Every time their hands touched it sent a shock through him, for multiple reasons.

“The fuck are you doing?” He ducked away.

Ilya remained unbothered. “You're warm. You're sick.”

“I'm…I'm flushed. I'm fine.”

Ilya cocked his head. “I am making you blush, then?”

“No.” Shane stared back at him, defiantly, caught between a rock and a hard place. And unfortunately the hard place wasn't-

“You are sick, then.”

“No.”

“People do not turn pink for no reason, Hollander.”

“I’m not- this was a bad idea.” He smoothed down his hair one handed, walking towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Ilya pushed himself off the wall, starting to follow. “This is your room.”

Shane hunched his shoulders, scrubbing at his nose where he was reasonably sure the Russian couldn’t see. “I’m walking you out.”

“So polite.” Ilya’s tone was impassive, even as he closed the gap between them, spinning Shane around by the shoulder and pressing him up against the door.

The Canadian felt like his nose was a massive neon sign in the middle of his face, screaming ‘I’m sick as hell, look at me!’. Ilya’s eyes were fixed on it, making him mentally kick himself for abusing it so violently on his way to the door. It was probably bright red. Fuck. He could feel it still prickling with itchy desperation, the instinct to expel this shit from his system almost irresistible.

The blond reached up, totally mesmerised, and drew a finger, feather light, around one of the brunet's flaring nostrils. And now the instinct was completely irresist-

“heh-” Shane panted, trying to fit his arm between their chests so he could reach his face.

“Something wrong?” Ilya’s eyes flashed with amusement as he blocked him.

“M-hh-ove.” He gritted his teeth, fighting with every muscle in his body to hold it together.

“Or what?”

Shane looked at him as incredulously as he could with his eyes half shut and his nostrils flaring and then shifted all his weight onto one foot…on top of one of Ilya’s.

“Ow!” The Russian looked down, pulling his foot away and taking a step back. “You could have just-”

“hEHNGTt!”

“-said ‘please’.” He waited for Shane to turn back from where he’d ducked off to one side. “God bless you.”

“You don’t have to say that every time.” He sighed, reaching for the door handle.

“What, ‘please’? I think you do.” Ilya reached a hand over his head to press on the door, keeping it from opening.

“Just go. I'm not going to fuck you.” The energy was draining from Shane fast, and with it his patience.

“Why? Because you are sick?”

Shane snapped immediately, willing to try anything to get this asshole out of his room. “So what if I am? Why do you care?”

Ilya’s expression didn’t shift. “First, you just put your tongue in my mouth. Second, we are teammates right now. I need to know if you are going to pull your weight.”

Shane scoffed, and then swallowed clumsily, trying not to cough. “Of course I’m going to pull my fucking weight. I’m fine.” It was not a particularly witty defence, but he wasn’t in the mood to go back and forth endlessly.

“Yeah, right.” A flicker of roguishness crossed his face, and he leaned in, kissing the Canadian deeply, tongue quickly making a circuit of his mouth before Shane could push him away.

“What-”

“Now I am ‘fine’ too.” Ilya smiled wickedly, taking his hand off the door and letting Shane open it.

“You’re such an idiot.” He muttered, as though his heart wasn’t pounding in his ears.

“Don’t die, okay? It won’t be boring enough playing without you.”

“I’m not gonna die,” Shane started to shut the door, ignoring the jab. “It’s just a cold.”

“Ha!” Ilya pointed a triumphant finger at him. “You admit it!”

“Fuck off.” And he shut the door, frustration at himself for the slip rising in his chest. Shane sighed, his tongue tracing the path Ilya’s had taken as if trying to replicate the feeling it had given him. This game was going to be a shitshow. If both of them made it that far, that was.

…

A knock on the door roused Shane from a feverish slumber on top of the covers. He’d blown off the days activities, getting up just long enough to send a few apologetic messages, order room service that he barely ate, and stretch on the balcony for all of 30 seconds before he got too cold and tired. Who the fuck-? Actually, he didn’t care. He needed every second of rest he could get before the events started. He wasn’t getting up unless the building was on fire.

Shane was just burrowing back under the hoodie he was using as a makeshift blanket, being too hot to put it all the way on but too cold to leave it all the way off, when his phone dinged.

“Ughh.” He groaned, fumbling around for it without looking.

Lily: Answer the fucking door.

Shane stared blankly at the screen. Shouldn’t he be at the bar? Or the gym? Or picking up some random woman just for the fun of it? Or picking up some random woman because his usual booty call was utterly disgusting right now. Did Ilya even know the phrase ‘booty call’?

Lily: I hear you groaning. Answer the door.

With another sigh that he immediately regretted, wondering if Ilya had heard that too, Shane pushed himself to his feet and staggered in the direction of the door. The second it was open, Ilya was pushing past him and staring at himself in the mirror.

“What the fuck did you do to me, Hollander?”

“Wha- nothing, you did it to yourself!”

“Yes,” Ilya spun to face him, eyes darkly contrasted hollows that made Shane’s widen, “After you did it to me.”

His accent was stronger than usual, and coupled with the congestion and apparent shortness of breath, the words were barely discernible. Shane wondered if he’d run up the stairs rather than taking the elevator or if the illness was just hitting him that hard.

“I’m… sorry.” He really didn’t know what else to say, wondering why this hadn’t just been a text. Or a few days of the silent treatment. Something more distant. More Ilya.

“I’ll forgive you,” He grabbed his hoodie by the bottom, pulling it up and over his head. Shane shivered, watching him immediately break out in goosebumps. “After we fuck.”

“Right now?” The Canadian frowned, thinking of the ache in his muscles, and the prickling in his skin at the thought of taking his clothes off, despite the perfectly temperate room.

“Yes, right now. I can’t breathe with my nose. We can use the shower if you’re cold.” Ilya started walking decisively in the direction of the bathroom.

“…yeah alright.” Shane headed after him, drawn in by the idea of steam and heat, and someone to hold him up if he got dizzy this time. Although actually, Ilya might be equally likely to pass out under the warm water if he was anywhere near as sick as he looked.

…

The sound of the water drumming on the tile was irritating. It felt like it was physically tapping on his ears, and Shane wanted to recoil, to turn the shower off, to block the water. A quick glance at Ilya told him the Russian was probably thinking the same thing, brow furrowed in frustration. Was this awkward? Waiting here together? Should he have said something, or taken his clothes off or-?

Shane glanced back at the shower, still no steam rising from within. As annoying as the sound may be, it was a whole lot better than standing under freezing water. Although maybe not for his fever, which was probably the thing causing him to be so damn sensitive to the sound in the first place.

“Do you have more towels?” Ilya broke the annoyingly-not-silence.

“Oh uh, yeah. In the wardrobe probably.” His mind was too full of fog to think that far ahead. He just wanted to be warm and satiated, with no ‘afterwards’.

Ilya stepped out of the bathroom to get the necessary linen, and Shane used the time to glare at the shower and give himself a once over in the mirror. It was hard to say which one of them looked worse.

“H-Hollander-” Shane looked to the doorway, to see the blond had returned, and was holding out the towels to him with a frantic look on his face. Well that certainly seemed worse.

“What?”

“T-ahh-ake them.” He insisted.

Shane took the towels obediently, startling at the speed with which Ilya snapped away from him, leaning out of the doorframe, only visible from the neck down as he-

“hihKk! Kkh! hhKkh! hiHKSHhh! huUHSHhh! hhuhKSHhOo!”

The Canadian watched mesmerised as his abs contracted with each sneeze, and he shifted his grip on the doorframe from one hand to two, almost clinging on for dear life.

“Fuck.” They said in unison, once Ilya was finished.

“Bless you. Are you-”

“Don’t.” Ilya waved a hand, dismissing the question before it had even been asked. “It’s always like that.”

Shane watched him unceremoniously strip down the rest of the way, pressing past him with a meaningful look on his way to get into the shower.

“You getting in? It’s warm.” Ilya held out an inviting hand.

“Uh, yeah.” He put the towels down, fumbling his own clothes off, partially uncoordinated from the fever, partially rushing to not be standing naked in the cold for too often, partially longing to fall into Ilya’s waiting hands.

…

The two rivals lay splayed flat on the bed side by side, both breathing noisily through their mouths, with the occasional sniffle as the congestion the shower had dislodged shifted around.

With a slight groan of effort, Ilya pushed himself up so he was resting on his elbow, studying Shane, who got busy studying the ceiling and pretending like he hadn’t noticed. After a few seconds, the Russian moved closer, leaning in until Shane was forced to look. He grinned triumphantly at the small victory, prompting the Canadian to try to kiss the smirk off of his face.

Ilya rolled over so he was on top of Shane, pinning him to the bed, and deepened the kiss, both of them sniffling desperately, neither wanting to pull away to breathe. It was a competition now, who could go the longest-

Apparently Shane could go the longest at the undefined challenge, because Ilya pulled back before he could finish the thought, sitting straight up, knees either side of his rivals hips, and head tilted back slightly. Shane wondered if he was just dizzy from the limited oxygen the kiss had permitted, or if Ilya was swaying slightly.

“You okay?”

“I h-huh-have t-uhh-ikKH! hKk! hiHKk!- snee- iHKSHh! - sn- kKSHh! KSHhuh! hhUHKSHHoO! Fuck.” Ilya lowered the fist he’d been sneezing into, or at, really, and sniffled forcefully.

“Bless you.” Shane smiled, amused by the sight of his rival overtaken by desperation, unable to even get his words out without sneezing. That was unreasonably adorable.

“Thank you.” The Russian looked down, noticing his grin. “What? My suffering makes you happy?”

Shane stretched up, lacing his fingers together behind Ilya’s neck and pulling him back in, the fever and the vulnerability of it all making him forward. “You don’t look like you’re suffering. Are you?”

“Never.” Ilya kissed him, before wrinkling his nose and rolling off him, frustrated. “Ugh, fuck, this angle.” He rubbed at his nose, sniffling again as he tilted his head back to the ceiling.

“There’s tissues somewhere.” Shane tried to look helpful rather than captivated, sitting up to look.

“No.” The blond reached out, smacking passively at his chest with a cold hand to stop him from getting up. “Switch.”

“No, because then I’ll…I’ll be at that angle.” The Canadian said, awkwardly.

“So what? Your turn to suffer, my turn to be happy about it.”

“Shut up.” Shane lay back down, going back to staring at the ceiling. He could practically feel Ilya pouting in his direction.

They lay side by side for a little longer, the heat from the shower lingering enough that they didn’t feel the need to get under the covers. After a minute, Shane noticed the congestion in his head was beginning to shift, giving him a welcome reprieve from the headache he’d been noticing on and off all morning, but also sparking a feather light tickle in the back of his nose.

Shane stopped breathing for a moment, assessing the intensity of the itch, before suddenly pushing himself out of bed.

“Where are you going?” Ilya caught his wrist as he went past, gripping tightly.

“I- heHNGTt! I’m sorry, I have to-.”

For reasons unknown to Shane, the blond let go of his wrist easily, not pushing the issue, never taking his eyes off him, though, Shane able to feel his gaze on his back on his rapid route to the bathroom. As he shut the door, the Canadian took a shaky breath, raising his hand in preparation to stifle again and then startling at Ilya’s voice calling through from the bedroom.

“God bless you, by the way.”

He rolled his eyes, debating replying when his nose decided for him. Shane took a couple of steps away from the door, as though the short distance would make a difference in Ilya’s ability to hear him. He pinched his nose, avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he turned away for additional privacy.

“hhNGTt!” To his surprise, he found the itch not quelled after the single sneeze. His nose was practically buzzing with the need. Shane reached out, fumbling for the faucet and flicking it on. “hehNGTt!” This one bent him double, and he had no time to straighten up before, “hEhNGTchuh!”

Shane winced, blinking dizzily as he steadied himself on the sink. After a second he reached out and turned the tap off, staring at himself in the mirror exhaustedly. There was near silence, just the faucet dripping into the sink and his own breathing echoing off the tile, before Ilya’s muffled voice was audible through the door again.

“Bless you again, I assume.”

“Fuck you.” He called back, passively, though anxiety welled in his chest at the thought of Ilya imagining what he was doing in there. Why couldn’t he just pretend not to know, like a normal person?

Shane grabbed some tissues from the counter, blowing his nose as softly as possible before washing his hands and reluctantly leaving the bathroom.

“So, you come in my mouth, but you will not sneeze in front of me.” Ilya tilted his head to study Shane as he slinked back to bed.

The Canadian's brain took a second to catch up with that insane sentence, freezing at the side of the bed when he'd processed it. “What?”

“You are always trying to run away. Why? It is natural.”

“It’s-” Shane shook his head, slipping under the covers with a shiver.

“It’s what?”

His eyes closed automatically as he got comfortable, a welcome respite from Ilya’s discerning stare. “It’s nothing. Now either shut up or fuck off, I’m going to sleep.”

“You will eat, right?” Shane felt the bed move as the blond slipped out. Why had he hoped Ilya would pick ‘shut up’ rather than ‘fuck off’?

“Mmyeah.” He mumbled.

“What will you eat?”

“When will you wear wigs?” Shane responded, with a laugh that didn’t feel entirely like himself.

“What?”

“Shut up, I’m thinking.” He found himself halfway through mentally cataloguing the available food at his apartment before he remembered where he was. “Room service I guess.”

“You want me to order it?”

“No.”

“It took you two minutes just to decide you want ‘room service’ to eat, Hollander. You think you can hold a phone conversation?”

Ilya had a point, and Shane proved it by groaning incoherently in response.

“Okay. I will order, and then go. I have to ‘arrive’ soon.”

Shane went silent, remembering that technically, Ilya wasn’t even supposed to be in the state yet. They’d managed to get there early enough for a little fun before the events were due to begin, but now he was kind of wishing he’d spent the extra time resting at his apartment, and Ilya had spent the time as far away from him as possible. That way at least one of them would have been on top of their game for this week. Through the comforter over his head, he heard Ilya talking to the front desk, a muted thrill of anxiety running through him at the thought that they might notice the different accent from the last time he’d called.

The Russian hung up, and walked over to ruffle Shane’s barely visible hair. “Is done. See you for press, tomorrow.”

“See you.” The Canadian responded, although it was barely audible. He waited sullenly for Ilya’s footsteps to cross the room, and the door to open and shut before poking his head out. Wait, what the fuck had he actually ordered him?

…

Shane shifted his position against the wall for the fourth time in as many minutes, the fever and the anxiety combining to make him the most uncomfortable in a suit that he’d ever felt. And that was saying something. Situations where he had to dress up like this were not exactly his favourite. He sighed, rolling his shoulders back as he adjusted his stance again, the starched fabric of the suit rustling irritatingly as he did so.

“What?” Ilya almost snapped, studying him with a frown that was half focused scrutiny, half a defence against his headache.

Shane met his eyes immediately, unable to stop himself from voicing his anxieties now that he’d been prompted, “Just- what if they figure it out? Like we're sharing a fucking cold and we're not even on the same team normally. That's pretty fucking obvious, right?”

They were about to go into a press conference, just the two of them standing out in the corridor, waiting for someone to come out and bring them in. They could hear chairs shifting and the hubbub of reporters catching up with one another from inside the room. It was the waiting that was the problem, really. If they could just go in and get it over with… but no, they had to stand out here waiting, with nothing to do. Not a great setup considering their reported animosity for each other. What if they’d gotten into a fight and bludgeoned each other to death with the sponsored metal water bottles they were both currently sporting?

“Maybe.” Ilya's gaze turned distant as he thought for a moment. “It would be easier if more people were sick, yes?”

“Sure, but suddenly everyone's got immune systems of steel, seems like.” Shane sniffled softly as he lamented the lack of contagion resulting from their camaraderie.

“Maybe you should put your tongue down more of their throats.” Ilya cleared his own to make a point.

“Fuck off.”

The Russian moved closer in defiance, making the most of the pillar between them and the press room that partially shielded then from the view of anyone walking out that way.

Shane said nothing, inhibitions fever-dulled, desire to be touched, comforted magnified by the malaise, swallowing thickly as Ilya's face moved closer and closer to his, hands squeezed tightly around his water bottle as if holding it was an excuse not to move away. The blond captured his lips softly with his own before pulling back again. They shouldn’t be doing this. Not here.

His hand closed around the Canadian’s, tugging it away from the cool metal, and for a second Shane thought he was trying to be romantic. But no, he was just pressing his own water bottle into his other hand, freeing up both of his own so he could cup Shane's face as he kissed him. Fuck, they really shouldn’t be doing this.

It was daring, dangerous, and completely exhilarating, and as much as it chased away the nerves with something brighter and sharper, it didn't particularly help with how he was feeling physically, and Shane found himself sniffling helplessly against Ilya's cheek, trying to keep himself together. In more ways than one.

When they broke apart, he turned in the direction of his shoulder to sniff a little more forcefully, turning back with a wince, “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Ilya pressed a single finger under his chin, tilting it upwards and then poking experimentally at his septum with his other hand. “We are both sick. It doesn’t matter.”

“D-hh-on’t do that!” Shane twisted his head out of Ilya's hands, crinkling his nose in an attempt to fight back against the automatic response.

“Why?” If he hadn't been so caught up in the need to sneeze, he would have been absolutely infuriated by the question, he was sure.

“B-ihh-ecause, it's gonna-” Shane attempted to shove Ilya's water bottle back into his hands, but the blond made no move to take it, “-make me sn-ihh-eeze you f-uhh-cking idiot.”

Ilya didn't respond, and his eyes were fluttering shut automatically, so he couldn't even see the Russian's expression as he fought the building urge, tooth and nail. Could he drop the bottles? There was nowhere to put them down and Ilya was clearly not going to be decent and take them. He could still feel the blond standing in front of him, keeping him trapped against the wall. Would it be more noticeable if he dropped the water bottles on the floor and sneezed silently or if he held on to them and sneezed aloud? But no hands to stifle meant no hands to cover, either, and with the Russian right in front of him…There was no good option here.

Just when Shane thought it was all over, and there was no way he could breathe without coming apart, he felt Ilya’s cold fingers suddenly pinching his nose shut. He opened his eyes to see that intense, daring look in the Russian’s gaze, but before he could process what was happening the shock washed away and the itch returned full force.

“hHNGGTt!”

Ilya’s hand retreated, but Shane’s eyes stayed closed, breath still catching and stuttering.

“Another?” He questioned, intrigued, attentive to the brunet’s stricken expression.

Shane could only nod. The strong, supportive grip returned. The urge to sneeze competed for attention with the butterflies in his stomach. Don’t think about it. Don’t fucking think about it.

“hHNGTTch! Sorry.” He muttered on the exhale, unable to stifle perfectly without the comfort of his own hands in control.

Ilya moved his hand to hold Shane’s chin instead, pulling him closer, forcing him to meet his gaze. “God.” He kissed him. “Bless.” And again. “You.” The third kiss was deeper, and the Canadian could feel him smirking into his mouth. Heat rushed to his face at the realisation of what had just happened, what he’d just done. He willed the blood away. Literally go anywhere else, he couldn’t walk into this thing blushing. Or wait, no- not anywhere else.

Ilya pulled back, immediately glancing over the hand he’d used to pinch Shane’s nose with passive curiosity. “How the fuck do you do that? I thought your head was going to explode.”

Shane shrugged, trying to regain the concept of 'casual'. “Practice.”

“Will you teach me?” Ilya took a step back, straightening his tie. “It looks useful.”

“Fuck no.” He was glad to already be flushed, because the image in his brain was enough to send all the blood to his head three times over, “I think it’s pretty bad for you anyway.”

“Then why-”

The door of the press room starting to open cut Ilya off. He snatched his water bottle back, taking a big step backwards as Shane ran a hand under his nose, checking he was presentable. He felt like he was still blushing. Fuck, was he blushing?

“Alright, we're ready for you guys now.”

“Thank you.” And without a glance backwards, Ilya was walking in. Shane took a staccato breath, suppressed a shudder, and followed him.

…

It was the same questions as usual, essentially. The expected questions, anyway. He answered them with barely a second thought, mind still out in the hallway. Until-

“Shane, somebody mentioned that you were feeling a little under the weather recently, is that going to affect your game at all?”

Shane’s heartbeat thumped in his chest, the lights suddenly ten times brighter, accusatory. Somebody had mentioned? Who the hell would even know that? He'd barely hinted at it when he'd cancelled yesterday. “Uh-”

“You heard wrong.” Ilya interrupted, leaning forward pointedly into his microphone. “I am sick. Not Hollander.” He punctuated the statement with a rough sniff, and a cough that he had the grace to direct slightly away from the microphone.

Floating outside of his body, Shane heard himself mutter, “Yeah.” into the mic before Ilya started saying something about what could and couldn’t affect his game. As far as Shane could tell, there was very little in the ‘could’ list.

He slowly returned to inhabiting his physical body again over the next few questions, and was halfway through some bullshit about camaraderie, when Ilya twisted sharply away in his seat.

“kKH! hiHKk! KKHh! hhihAGHKkh! hhAHSHHhoo!”

The first few sneezes were almost coughs, but the force with which they shook him was unmistakeable. He caught the first few against his fist before switching to using his hand simply to shield his face from the press, palm towards the cameras as he sneezed in the direction of the floor.

Shane leaned forward into the mic as he watched him sit back in his seat. “Uh, bless you.”

The room of reporters echoed his sentiment and Ilya nodded tiredly. “Thank you. Please, continue.”

Honestly, he wasn’t sure he could, his mind back to racing at a million miles an hour. Now that Ilya had confirmed his rumoured illness, Shane had to try even harder to keep from showing a single symptom. They were on the same team, it wasn’t unlikely that they would catch this shit from each other, but when they were only supposed to have been in the same state, let alone the same room for like 20 hours…

“So, yeah. Probably the most important element of performance.” He finished lamely, unable to fully recall the question.

“Great, thank you.” The reporter acknowledged him, before the next question started.

It wasn’t a long conference, as there were other players to fit in, and since they hadn’t actually played anything yet, there wasn’t too much to talk about. Shane found subtle ways to rest his aching throat and sniff back the congestion that the microphones and cameras wouldn’t pick up. Ilya frequently excused himself mid-sentence to clear his throat or drink some water or sniffle against the back of his hand, Shane’s knee softly knocking into his in wordless comfort when he seemed to be struggling.

They stood, nodding in response to the reporters’ thanks, Shane following Ilya back to the door. He was so focused on getting out of there, he barely noticed when the blond stopped abruptly, and almost crashed into the back of him.

“You okay?” He muttered, mindful of the still hot mics and lenses in their vicinity.

“ihHKk! KKkh! hKk! hhiHKKh! huhHKSHh! KSHh! hhAHPSHhOo!” Was Ilya’s only response, starting by ducking slightly away from the cameras and winding up setting his water bottle down on the table they were still standing behind so he could cup both hands over his nose and mouth.

“Bless you, man.” Shane awkwardly clapped the Russian on the back as he slipped around in front of him to open the door, the instinct to be more familiar with him, more caring, fighting against his logical attempts to repress it.