here for the sneezing

By some miracle, he manages to make it home without accidentally sneezing on a fellow commuter. Front door barely shut behind him, he shudders out of his coat and makes a beeline for the bathroom. Stepping in front of the sink, he reluctantly looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. Certainly not a sight to instil confidence. It's worse than he had feared.

The culprit is there on full display, of course, front and center of his tired, bleary-eyed, slightly puffy face. For the past - god, what might it be? Eight hours now, at least? - he has known all too well what it feels like, but it's only now that he's had the chance to actually survey the damage, as it were.

He winces at the sight, but his expression quickly morphes into something less sharp, less intentional. Feeling the dreaded sensation pull at his facial muscles once more, he stubbornly fights to keep his eyes open as his mouth relaxes open and his eyelids droop.

"Huhh..."

The last thing he sees before his eyes fall involuntary shut is the star of this terrible show he has found himself in. His nose. Huge on his face. High in the air from his head tilting back, his nostrils take center stage. Scarlet ovals flared wide open, pulsing impatiently -

"Hh...! Huh...! H'DJSHNXGHiew!"

He sneezes uncovered, straight down toward the sink. Something between a bark and a wet snarl, the sound distinctly angry. He can feel the spray land on his hands that are gripping the sink.

"HEH'DJSCH! HIH'DDJSH! HEH, HEHH, -H'TJJSCHew!"

Horrible, awful, disgusting.

(Bliss.)

Leaning over the sink, shaking his head groggily, twin strings of drool and snot, thin as spider silk, slide from his nose and mouth into the drain. He sniffles, or tries to, and his nose gives a whistling squelch instead. He opens his eyes again, looks up. His gaze flickers across the mirror for a moment, as though searching in there for something other than his own reflection. His eyes soon revert back, however. Drawn by the sheer spectacle.

Fuck, but he looks a mess. His normally immaculate hair is standing every which way, his eyes are puffy pink slits, his lips chapped, his nose painful-looking, so red and inflamed it looks like he's taken a punch to it. He knows that, technically, it can't actually have swollen to twice its normal size, but it certainly feels like it. His nose isn't exactly small to begin with, and with all the rough treatment it's been put through lately... well. It definitely isn't pretty.

Hand not entirely steady, he reaches up against better judgement and touches the tip of his nose. Bright red bulb, shiny with inflammation, too warm to the touch. Itch immediately stirrs inside it, spidering up and down his nasal passages, making his eyes water.

Right. No time to waste.

Blinking hard and scrunching his nose to buy himself some time, he hurriedly reaches into the medicine cabinet behind the bathroom mirror and pulls out his antihistamine nasal spray.

Bracing himself, he gingerly inserts the nozzle tip into his left nostril, but his nose is already on such high alert that he doesn't have time to press down and release the spray to where it might, hypothetically, do some good. For the second time today, he sneezes full force without so much as a second's warning, a clipped double sneeze that echoes off the tiles in his bathroom. He opens his eyes and meets his own gaze in the mirror again. A look says more than a thousand curse words.

Next try he actually manages to push some spray up there, but again his nose rebels on him, violently evicting the medicine with a sharp "Eh'TDSHHjsh!" before he can contain it.

For fuck's sake.

Attempt number three. This time he pinches his nostrils closed before he can take another breath, squeezing tight as the repressed reaction shakes his diaphragm with strangled little "hdT-!, htTT-!, hdtT-!"-sounding sneezes. The action leaves him dizzy and his eardrums pop, but this time around the medicine stays put. He can't wait for it to start working. Even just the slightest bit of relief would be a massive improvement compared to his current situation. Sensing a small break in the ongoing fit, he lets go of his nose just long enough to push a second dose into his right nostril, then promptly squeezes it shut again. His nostrils twitch in his grip, the sharp menthol-y sting of the medication prickling horribly.

"heh'dt-! eh'dtj-! 'ttdjNXGH!"

Finally daring to loosen his grip of his nose, he looks at his reflection once more and cringes at the sight. Why couldn't he just have... moderate hayfever? Itchy eyes, runny nose, some sneezing here and there. Annoying, sure, inconvenient, absolutely, but not... not this. Not this embarrassing, crippling, dramatic spectacle of an allergy. A nose that demands him to drop everything to deal with its constant temper tantrums at having to breathe a little spring air. Speaking of breathing, his nostrils have begun to twitch again with little fluttering hitches. It's not that his nose has started to tickle again - it never stopped tickling in the first place - but rather that the ever-present irritation spreads and grows in intensity, its crawling, bristling needles of sensation blooming all throughout his nose, hijacking all other mental and physical functions. His breath stutters, his eyes overflow, his face twitches and contorts into all sorts of ridiculous expressions while his hands fan limply at the air in front of his face. For all he knows, the only thing this accomplishes is to waft even more pollen into his nose, but the action is reflexive, barely conscious. His chest heaves and expands, head rearing back, upper lip curling, baring teeth. His nose itches. God, it itches so bad. He wishes he could reach his fingers up there and just scratch, wildly rake his nails across the inside of his nasal passages with complete abandon. It's as if someone has packed his nostrils full to the brim with a mixture of dust, pepper and chili powder, or a million tiny feathers, or the world's most potent itching powder, or...

Or pollen. That hateful, inescapable stuff that seems to coat every surface outside in a powdery film. Just now, when walking up to the house, he had seen it floating on the surface of the rain puddles in his driveway, like watercolor splotches of pale yellow. So much of it. Everywhere. Sticking to everything. His coat, his hair, his eyelashes. Grass. Birch. Oak. Hazel. Riding on the breeze, infiltrating his every breath.

"hihuh... h'hih, hih, huhh...!"

Reddened eyelids drift to half-mast, his gaze goes unfocused, then cross-eyed. His nostrils spasm fitfully, seeming to flare wider with each consecutive breath until they're gaping open, perfectly circular, frozen in limbo. His head is thrown back, chest straining against his shirt, his lungs full to capacity, his face a cartoonish caricature of an allergy sufferer on the cusp of a truly devastating sneezing fit.

"huhh...! hhHHUH...!"

He can't think for itch. For a brief moment, his entire face seems to consist of itch, his nose its red-hot singularity. Stinging, burning, all-consuming. A crisis of itch.

"-AAHH...!!"

A beat. His body is so ready, so desperate to sneeze that it actually starts the process, producing a half-strangled "AH'DJh-...!" at the back of his throat, but then... it doesn't follow through!? His voice manages a pathetic, whispered "...tsheww"-sound, a toothless imitation of the release he was promised. His entire nose aches with disappointment. Fat, itchy tears spill down his face, adding their salt to the metallic taste in his mouth. Groaning, he grinds the lower part of his palm up against his nose, then again, and again, working the bulbous tip back and forth with aggressive fervor, attempting to ease the itch inside by rubbing his nostrils together. It barely makes a difference, and the screaming tickle high up in his sinuses threatens to drive him mad. He snatches a handful of tissues from the box on the sink and blows for all he is worth, immediately soaking the paper all the way through. Another handful, same result, but the blowing seems to be helping at least a fraction. Gasping and cursing, he buries his nose in a third wad of tissues, massaging the bridge of his nose through the paper all the while, giving a final, resounding blow... one that sets his nasal passages vibrating at just the wrong frequency. The resulting tickle goes off inside his head like a fire bomb:

"AHDTJSHCH-HIH!! -ADTJSCHIH!! -ATJCHIH!! - - - h'ddtjTTJSCHSCHHIIH!-djshIH!dschIH!tjshIH! dtjSHIH! ddtjiSSCHIEW! 'DTJSHIH! -dtsh!-djish!-ddtsch!-tsh!-ttsh!-djshdshtjsh'TTSCHH!!"

Bliss. Torture. Bliss. Torture. The faint flicker of relief each sneeze grants him feels so good, even as the unbearable itch reignites immediately after. Goosebumps break out on his arms and his whole body tingles with sensory overload as he keeps sneezing and sneezing and snh... huhh-

"HUH'D---tjshih!-ttjsh!-dtjsh!-ttgsh!tsh!ttsh!dsh!ddjsh!---"

He hates the rapid-fire sneezes the most. They make him feel so out of control, not to mention dizzy from the lack of air. Each frantic, breathless double-triple-quadrouple-quintuple bursting out of him only seems to aggrivate his nose further, triggering an endless chain reaction of allergic frenzy.

"---DDJSHih!-TDJJIH!-ATTJIH!-TJSHIH! AH'TSH!DJSH!DDJSH!DSHTJSH'TSH'GKSH!!"

He has to stop -

"---GTDJ'XSH! HZDJSH! ---DTSH!DTSH!TTJSH! Huh.... huh, huh, huhh...!"

He can't stop.

"AAH'GDJSHIEW! AH-AH-ACKDJSHHEW! ---JJSHU! NXJSHUH! TJSHIEW!"

It's never-ending. That dreadful, squirming, crawling sensation of panicked nerve-endings writhing inside the tight confines of his swollen sinuses. Like a nest of angered ants, swarming and biting.

"AH'KGDJSHHIW!"

But maybe it's...

"GH'DTSCHEWW!-TCHEW!"

...finally starting to...?

"HP'TDSCHUH-TSCHUH!-tCHEW!"

Tingling lips parted, pouring eyes blindly shut, pulsing nose pointing at the ceiling -

"HAH'TDDJSCHHIEWW!!"

Bent over the sink, nose buried deep in his... fifth? six? handful of tissues, one hand gripping the side of the sink for support. Panting. Lightheaded. Exhausted. He tries to sniffle but is so brutally congested at this point that he barely makes a sound, his nose only manages a kind of wet squeak as he wipes it. Like a fucking clown nose, he thinks mirthlessly. Big, red, and making ridiculous noises.

"Guh..."

Please, that must be it, right? He has been sneezing non-stop for at least five minutes straight. His nose is so stuffed-up at this point that it feels physically heavy on his face, pulsating dully and aching with pressure. His abdominal muscles are sore, his throat raw, his eyes stinging, but his nasal passages don't feel like they are actively on fire anymore? Ever so carefully, he wrinkles his nose, scrunching his nostrils first to the left, then to the right. Waiting, breath withheld. It still tickles, of course. That feather-light buzzing tingle won't go away for at least another two months (god help him), but at least for the moment it seems his sinuses are no longer in absolute panic mode.

The meds must finally be starting to take effect. Either that, or his body is simply too exhausted to keep firing on all cylinders like that. Whatever the reason, he'll take any respite he can get.

At least now, he's able to keep his eyes open for long enough to find his way to the shower. He can't wait to get under the hot water and finally rinse all of that p... p-pollen off...

Don't think about it.

Of course he's still covered in the stuff. It's on his shirt collar. His sleeves. His hair. His face.

"Hh..."

No. He flat-out refuses.

"Huh... hh... "

Shirt, trousers, socks, underwear. In a mad scramble, he's shed them all and dropped them on the bathroom floor. Then he's in the shower, nearly slipping on the floor tiles in his haste to get in there before his nose can take him hostage yet again. Faceing the shower head, he doesn't even care that the water is freezing at first. If anything, the cold spray feels good and soothing against his flushed, itchy face.

"Hhuh --- djsh!"

The sneeze is weak, half-hearted, spray meeting spray, barely audible over the sound of the shower.

He might as well not have sneezed at all, the way his nose doesn't even register this sisyphean attempt to scratch at the itchiness inside.

Wincing deeply, he jams an outstretched forefinger up against his sore septum and starts to rub his nose again. Lightly at first, but soon he is applying more pressure, crushing his nose upwards, shortening the sloped bridge into a mass of crinkles. Finger sawing away, back and forth beneath his nostrils, pushing their inflamed insides together and grinding them against each other. The itch is a throbbing heat all throughout his nose, but searing sharpness has been replaced with a duller, more muted sort of irritation now, one that doesn't threaten to make him sneeze every two seconds. Instead, he's stood there scrubbing away at his face, not wanting to stop despite how tender and sore his nose is becoming. It feels so good to rub, to finally be able to scratch the itch that's been plaguing him for hours and actually feel it have a soothing effect rather than make it worse. A sigh of relief, then an almost sensual whimper escapes him, as he switches the position of his hand and starts pulling his nose up and down with his fingers wrapped around either side of it.

"Nnh... fuck..."

The squelching sounds are disgusting, and he couldn't care less. Eyes blissfully shut, fingers working away, loosened congestion mixing with the shower water and running down his lips.

All day he has been so. fucking. itchy. From the second he woke up and started off his morning by sneezing violently six times in a row into his pillow. All throughout his workday which ended with a disastrous sneezing fit and an humiliating early exit. Nine hours of this. Non-stop. Of the histamine-drenched nerves in his nose, eyes, ears and palate screaming bloody murder.

And now it's letting up.

One final, sensous pull on his nose, from brow to tip. He lets go of his grip just as the last remnant of a tickle sparks back to life in the raw depths of his sinuses. A pinprick stab of sensation, one big, quick gasp, and he is thrown forward with possibly the most satisfying sneeze he has ever experienced in his twenty-odd years of suffering from hayfever.

”AHH --- ! 'AATTDJSHOOohh!-ohhhh god.”

And so, for one, long, blissful moment there in the shower, his nose feels completely clear, calm, and unaffected by the raging springtime outside.

Wyatt was unsurprised by the captain’s absence from the locker room, which he noted as he walked in, nodding greetings to the players who were present. The Russian had been known to dip right before practice, games, meetings, to take covert phone calls, or stand outside, downwind of the smoking area, staring at it longingly. So, as usual, he only glanced into his stall to see that his stuff was there on his way past. Which it was. Good, he was here, he was probably fulfilling one of his two cravings, this would be a good practice.

But when he stepped out into the hall, on his way to hit the head before donning his goalie gear, he caught sight of the captain, unexpectedly exiting the physio room, walking backwards, talking to the team doctor about something. Wyatt hesitated, watching the conversation, though he couldn’t make anything out. Rozanov was doing a lot of nodding, and Terry was doing a lot of firm staring as he delivered what seemed like instructions.

The captain took a half step in Wyatt’s direction, about to turn, and the goalie quickly averted his gaze, starting back towards the bathroom again as though he hadn’t stopped to stare in his direction in the first place. A tiny, shrill alarm started to sound in the back of his brain, part warning, part muster call. And what had seemed like it would be a typical practice was shifting, a new mission appearing in his metaphorical peripheral vision. Look out for Roz.

…

The rhythmic clicking of skates down the hallway as they headed for the ice struck calm into Ilya’s chest. There was nothing quite as therapeutic to him as practice, working out, or a really easy game. Anything with a lot of exertion, predictability, and adrenaline. Practice was maybe his favourite of those, though. He’d been something of a rink rat as a kid, which was only partially his choice, his father pushing him to be the best, train the hardest, stay the longest. But what little autonomy he’d had had only been used to reinforce that message. He loved every second spent on skates.

So now, heading back for their first real practice in a while, feeling the chill blowing off the ice before he could even begin to see it, he felt every ounce of tension drop from his shoulders. The cool air also made his nose start to run a bit, not unusual, still annoying. He sniffled, frustratedly inhibiting the urge to swipe at it with his glove, as the appendage was already raw and sensitive, and the thought of the rough material against the damaged skin was…

Tilting his head back slightly seemed to keep the flow at bay, and he kept his eyes on the helmet in front of him as they walked to maintain the unnaturally high eyeline. It took no time at all for the clicks to be replaced by the swish of blades and the clattering of pucks to the ice as the players began to warm-up. Also sounds that healed something deep within him.

The barrier in front of Ilya was suddenly removed as the player ahead of him took off rapidly across the ice. He squinted at the bright white expanse, fighting the powerful itch that had sprung up in the center of his face. It usually wasn’t enough to set him off, especially during games, when his adrenaline was too high and his focus too occupied to enable the reflex. But today-

Aware of the queue behind him, the captain stepped out onto the ice, passively skating a few strides to one side to get out of the way of the next few players.

“huhHih-” His breath juddered ominously, and he felt his eyelids instinctively start to flicker shut. Resigned, he dragged his jersey up over his lower face,

“hKK! hKk! Kkh! hKSH! KSH!-”

Though he usually balanced in skates on ice just as well as he balanced in sneakers on concrete, the combination of closed eyes, involuntary jerks of his torso, and returning to the ice after a little while away combined to make him unsteady. He reached out for the boards, gloved fingers greeting the plexiglass and slipping slightly on the surface as he grounded himself, trying not to drop his stick.

“-hKSHuh! KSHuh! hhAHKShh!”

Ilya cleared his throat as he let his jersey drop back into place, pushing off and starting to skate a lap the moment his eyes were fully open again, letting his gaze drift across the rest of the team, checking for observers.

Those closest to him were looking away, absorbed or faux-absorbed in their stretches, but as he turned the first corner, he made eye contact with Hayes, paused halfway through scuffing up his crease, watching him unabashedly.

They maintained eye contact for the entire time it took Ilya to skate the length of the ice, and the second he got close enough for his expression to really be visible, he threw a challenging look at the goalie, raising his eyebrows, daring him to confront him. What little of the Canadian’s face that he could see, seemed to smirk back. Fuck him and his stupid ability to get under Ilya’s skin.

The temptation to stop and yell at him was there, but he could also feel the tickle stirred up moments ago threatening an encore performance, so he continued his lap, skidding to a halt behind the goal and surveying the rink, checking no one was approaching him, or really looking his way, and then, with a desperate, “hiHH-” he started up again.

“hKk! Kkh! Kk!-” His gloved fingers fumbled clumsily with his jersey, the threat of slipping overwhelming his concentration. “-hKSH!-” The sneeze sprayed out into open air and he realised he’d run out of time to try and get the material to his face. Ilya slapped his free hand up against the glass again, cupping the other, glove and all, over his face, stick knocking against his helmet like it was admonishing him for his ill-thought-out form. “-hKSHuh! KSHH! hAHKSHh! huAHSHH!”

He didn’t even look at his hand as he lowered it, shifting his weight to head off again, leave the scene of the crime, when-

“Bless you.”

Hayes only looked at him for a second this time, before his eyes dropped back to the ice again. That just barely took the edge off of Ilya’s anger, but the wrath that the goaltender had spared himself from, only turned right back around and smacked the captain in the face, full force. Fucking idiot, why’d you stop to lose control right behind the exact guy who’s going to call you out for it?

He didn’t reply to the blessing, picking up speed as he finished the first lap, and started a second. He’d always had some pretty heavy emotions circling expressions of vulnerability like that, mainly self-reproach and frustration because he was out of control, being disgusting, being dramatic, blah blah blah. But now, it was different. He hadn’t really been chided for those kinds of things since getting drafted, chirped sure, in Boston, but here there was none of that energy. It was more like trepidation, concern, worry. And Ilya hated that.

He broke off the lap before he got close to the goal Hayes was occupying, again, snagging an unclaimed puck and turning fast to take it back the way he’d come, eyes on the boards at the far end, watching the black circle bob back and forth in his peripheral vision. The admonishment, punishment, vitriol, he could deal with. It struck him hard, but it didn’t cut deep, feeling like he’d earned it, and like he would end up a stronger, tougher person at the end because of it. Plus no one who had just called you disgusting wanted to stick around and continue to watch you being disgusting. But pity… that was something else entirely. It was like ice cold water poured over his head, soaking through his defences, chilling him to the core. He felt like a child again, too small, too weak, too helpless, too soft. And people who pitied you wanted to keep pitying you, watching you like a car crash, too hideous to look away from.

The captain shot the puck ahead of him, along the boards, ricocheting it off the wall behind the goal when he caught up with it and spinning quickly to catch the rebound on the tip of his stick, before starting back the other way again. Disdain felt normal. Disdain felt like his father. Disdain felt like the walls going up, being reinforced by layers of concrete, steel beams, jagged edges, broken glass, harsh internal architecture that hurt whichever side of it you pushed from. Pity felt eerily familiar. Pity felt…like his mama. Pity felt like phantom fingers, reaching through his walls to drag him out into the open and expose the terrified, weak little child that still hid itself inside of him. Pity was dangerous.

…

They’d moved into starting-stopping drills, rapid back-and-forth stuff, just to start. They were rotating lines, and to stop the guys who weren’t in the midst of it from tuning out, the coach had set up a peer monitoring system, where anyone who didn’t stop within a reasonable distance of the line, had to skate three laps. It was chaos, but it was firing them up.

It was also, Ilya thought frustratedly, finishing out his third lap after a mistake that had led to at least six guys calling out his name in amused unison, fucking exhausting. He headed for the bench, retrieving a water bottle and making his way back so he was almost standing in the tunnel before starting to sky it into his mouth in short bursts, turning to watch the drill continuing as he did so.

The whistle blew and the players in the center of the ice started to make their way off as well, Dykstra coming to stand nearby the captain, panting for breath and leaning against the wall. The Russian eyed him, but determined that he wasn’t there for any untoward reason, watching as the next group lined up to start.

Two sets in, one of the younger players, who’d rather cockily been trying to beat everyone else back to the line by stopping especially fast, placed his weight wrong and fell. Ilya had just been taking another sip of water, and the sight of the kid faceplanting and then immediately scrambling to his feet, red in the face, had drawn a half-laugh out of him that had drawn the water half-way into his windpipe.

His throat was clear of the irritant in three short coughs, but he couldn’t stop, once again grabbing at his jersey and pressing it to his face to muffle the sound, although the raucous laughter at the kid’s mistake probably would have drowned him out regardless. The fit felt reflexive, his body overreacting in a frustratingly unstoppable manner. By the time he’d managed to bring it to a stop, his lungs ached, and his throat felt raw, though the whole ordeal had only lasted about 7 seconds.

With a sigh that was significantly more shaky than he would have really liked, Ilya raised his head, taking an immediate swig of water, and then looking sharply across at Dykstra, whose eyes were on the ice, but he strongly suspected had only just made their way over there. The Canadian said nothing, though, which he was appreciative of. Not as appreciative as he would have been if the other player had walked away entirely, but he’d take what he could get.

The captain blinked slightly watery eyes back at his team, watching the drill again, suddenly really wanting to get back out there, because he could feel the warmth and energy draining out of him with every second he stood still there. He sniffled, the tears of exertion, having been turned away at his lashline, apparently having decided to make their way into his nose instead. Their second exit plan would, it appeared, be the successful one, as the sniffle immediately made his nostrils flare with irritation, and he angrily reached out to grab a towel from a nearby stack, pressing it over his nose and mouth. Two fits right on top of each other he could probably brush off as coincidence, but three would be too much. The less people that witnessed this one, the better.

“hKk! KK! hKK! HKSH! hKSH! hMPHH! hhihhMPHH! hrRMPH! hihh… hRRMPHHoo!” He very nearly broke off coughing again, managing to keep it to just two, and a rough rub at his nose with the fabric before he looked up to be repaid for his troubles with,

“G’ bless you.” Dykstra was already moving back towards the ice as he spoke, which was the only thing that saved him from the conflagrating gaze that Ilya was sending him. Finally the defenseman had gotten the message about walking away… after he’d already made a fool of himself, wonderful.

…

“Hey.”

Wyatt looked up from where he was lounging on the bench, excused from the current drill for obvious reasons. Technically he was supposed to be doing his own exercise but watching and chirping the others every time they messed up was much more fun. Dykstra sat down beside him, staring out at the ice but with the air that he wasn’t really watching anything. This felt like a spy meet.

“Hi.” The goaltender replied.

“You think there might be something going on with Roz?” He asked, straight to the point, not turning towards Wyatt in the slightest.

“Yeah. Do you?”

“I just watched him cough his way into a sneezing fit and then nearly sneeze his way back into a coughing fit, so yeah.”

The blond nodded, making a grim facial expression that Dykstra didn’t bother to look over at. “I don’t think he wants anyone to know-”

“As usual.”

“Mm. But I’ve been keeping an eye on him-”

“As usual.”

“Yes. And I guess at some point we should probably try to see if he needs anything, although I don’t know how well that will go-”

“As usual.” What had him so snappish today?

Wyatt smacked him on the arm with the back of his glove. “We know him better now, we’ve got experience, it doesn’t have to be a trainwreck.”

“Alright.” The defenseman turned to look at him, finally, as he stood up to climb over the boards, “If you think it will help him, consider me in, but if it all goes to shit again, consider yourself warned.”

“Fine.” He watched the groups switch out, eyeing Rozanov as he stepped back onto the ice, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment, face twitching for a brief moment with a sniff that Wyatt imagined he could hear even though he definitely couldn’t, the sound so characteristic of their captain that he probably could have picked it out of a line-up despite not having been teammates for all that long.

The Russian glanced in his direction, and he was quick to shift his gaze to the shaft of his stick, faux scrutinising it just to look preoccupied. This whole thing made him kind of nervous, but third time was the charm, right? Things weren’t looking overly good so far, he’d tried to send the captain a casual smile earlier, but had been meet only with vitriol. And then he’d sort of known the blessing was a mistake, but it’d been just the two of them up that end and he was right there, so he’d obviously heard, and it would have been weird not to have said anything, right?

He ran through the last few tough times with Roz in his head, noting their mistakes, the revelations that followed, searching for anything that would guide how he should approach the issue this time. No pills, that was the main thing. He didn’t even know what the dude’s symptoms were, other than sneezing, which he did reasonably frequently anyway- Wyatt often found himself following the captain out of the arena after practice and had noted the effect that the change of setting seemed to have on him, for whatever reason- and coughing, and a mean attitude that didn’t seem all that removed from his typical personality. So he’d have to try and get him to communicate. The goaltender sighed, more resolve than frustration, but not blind to the futility of the operation. The operative word being ‘try’.

…

The drill they were working on was a new one for the Centaurs, but it was similar to something Ilya remembered working well in Boston. They were training line cohesion, awareness, precision- passing back and forth in place with their eyes shut. He was paired with Dillon to start, though he knew the exercise would probably go slightly easier with Boodram. There was more of a connection there. If he had to pick between the two wingers, Bood and he were just a little more in sync, usually.

He’d been getting into a good rhythm with the right winger, though, and they were starting to build confidence. It was definitely a useful skill to have on the ice, Ilya thought as the puck hit his stick with a ‘CLICK’ and left it again with a forceful push in his linemate’s direction.

He did not hear the satisfying ‘clack’ of it meeting Dillon’s stick, though and when he opened his eyes, frustrated, he saw the winger chasing the puck down the boards. Ah, forget it, they were so fucking out of sync.

There was barely a second for him to even think that, before a violent, unignorable tickle started to grow, responding to the sudden, rudely unprecedented, influx of light, thrashing between the very back of his nose and between his eyes, snagging his upper lip, face twisting and twitching in helpless itchiness as his breathing faltered.

“hHh-” He swallowed, gritted his teeth, snorted out a half-breath through his nostrils like a compromise, the function of a sneeze without all of the drama. Shut up. Stupid fucking reflex. Stupid fucking sensitive nose and stupid burning, aching lungs, and stupid oxygen-

“My bad. You ready?” Dillon had returned.

Without thinking, Ilya nodded, grateful for the excuse to clench his eyes shut, trying to focus on their positions, and the sound of the puck moving across the ice, to meet- CLICK- his stick, perfect. He sent it back- clack-

Lungs at capacity, he let out a shaky breath, the sensation of it leaving his chapped lips somehow stirring the tickle back up. Seriously? How was his mouth even relevant to an itch in his nose caused by a light in his eyes? Said eyes flew open as the blond panicked, trying to control the situation, catching a glimpse of black skidding towards him, shifting his grip on his stick-CLICK-

“hHuAHKK!-” Apparently he could only focus on so many things at once, and, given an inch of opportunity to sneeze, his nose had taken a mile, “-hKK! KKh!-” and didn’t seem intent on stopping. Accidentally getting his wires crossed between the drill and his instincts, Ilya timed his next sneeze with a haphazard swipe at the puck still in front of him, “-hKSHH!-”, hearing it thwack off the boards as he finally thought to drag his jersey over his face, “hKSH! KSHhUh! hhRSHHH! RSHHUh!”

“Bless.” Dillon had retrieved the puck, apparently, moving it absently from side to side in front of him, and had also closed the distance between them, eyes fixed on the captain, warily.

Before Ilya could tell him to move back to his spot so they could keep going, the coach’s voice rang out across the rink, “Rozanov! C’mere a second.” Fucking wonderful.

…

Hayes watched with interest from the goal, where he was fielding backhand shots from Boodram, as Rozanov skated off towards the bench. Bood paused, slightly insulted, as Wyatt let two shots pass by uninterrupted, and glanced over his shoulder at the scene that had drawn the goaltender’s attention.

“What’s going on?”

Wyatt snapped back to the exercise, not wanting to create additional focus on a situation that the captain probably already felt was too public, retrieving the two pucks from behind him, and passing them back towards the winger as he answered, “Something’s up with Roz. Guess Coach has picked up on it.”

They both watched as the two conversed, the captain removing his gloves and knuckling at his nose as he spoke. Their coach looked concerned, but not completely worried, Rozanov’s words apparently placating him somewhat. He started to reply, but the Russian cut him off, pulling his shirt over his face, the fit still faintly audible from the other end of the rink-

“…-ksh! -ksh! -kshUh! -ahksh! -aehshh!”

Wyatt winced slightly. Oof, God bless him, that looked rough- the last few had bent him double.

“He sick?” Bood asked, lining up and taking another shot, which the goaltender caught easily, both of them preoccupied with their own thoughts.

“Yeah, think so.” He tossed the puck back.

“Jesus, he just never stops, does he?”

“Showing up to practice, or sneezing?” The blond dropped to his knees, blocking the shot that Bood had apparently been trying to distract him from noticing he was lining up. “Either way, no.”

To Wyatt’s surprise, Rozanov skated back out to his spot opposite Dillon moments later, rather than taking a seat on the bench, or heading down the tunnel, as he’d expected after the conversation. How the hell had he talked his way out of that? It was one thing to push through for a game, but for practice when they had games coming up soon? That wasn’t just tenacity, it was actual stupidity.

“You gonna try and help him?”

“Always.” Always up for a long shot, that was.

Bood nodded, clearly equally as unoptimistic as Dykstra, but less keen to voice that opinion. “Alright, well, if you-” He launched the puck into the top corner of the goal, beating Wyatt’s lunge to redirect it by barely a second, “-ha! If you need anything…”

What he needed was an actual miracle, probably. “Thanks, man.”

…

Ilya was about halfway to the locker room, having been the last off the ice, drinking in the final dregs of adrenaline as the post-exertion exhaustion started to kick in, when he met Dykstra coming back the other way.

The defenseman didn’t look him in the eyes at all, but moved close enough to him in the not-really-all-that-narrow corridor to slip something into his hand. The captain paused, watching him walk away with about as much purpose as a remote control car being piloted by a three year old with no concept of U-turns. What the fuck was that? No, literally, what the fuck had he given him? Also where was was he going?

He opened his hand to be confronted by a familiar looking tube of lozenges. He was pretty sure Dykstra always carried them, being known for destroying his throat yelling, and for some impressively awful coughing fits when he came down sick. And now here they were in his hand. Was this some kind of weird chirp that he hadn’t stuck around to deliver the punchline for? Because if it had anything to do with the captain’s health, the line would definitely be followed by a punch.

Ilya glanced over his shoulder again, the defenseman already around the corner and out of sight. Fuck, why were these guys so complicated? Everything with Boston was exactly as one-dimensional as it seemed, no one gives a fuck about your private life, get on with the games, get drunk, get girls. or at least pretend to. But here, things were all open and friendly and attentive and fucking terrifying. He felt like he wasn’t keeping up, and there wasn’t even anything to really keep up with. People got on with their lives and left him to his own devices, and they trained and they played and they talked, and it still felt like nothing he was doing was enough. Because he had no idea what they expected of him.

Mind whirring angrily, he continued on his way to change, rolling the cylinder back and forth in his palm. More focused on his surroundings now, vigilance awakened, he saw the next figure approaching from further away, tracking them as they headed towards him. He kept his face stoic, but his stomach roiled with anxiety. What if this was the whole team banding together to tell him to shut up and get out or something? That felt more warranted after a game than practice, but still, maybe it had been brewing over the off-season. He hadn’t exactly been particularly present with the team in that time. Maybe they wanted a captain who was more-

“Hey.” It was Hayes, slightly out of breath, stripped to just his compression gear and shorts, footsteps silent in socked feet against the smooth flooring.

Ilya only nodded in response, guard up against whatever this was about to be. If it was some kind of joke, he had no doubt that the goalie would have taken great pleasure in volunteering to deliver the payoff.

“Just uh- good practice.” He smiled easily, though the words were awkward, like he’d only started thinking of what to say once he’d already called out for the captain’s attention.

“Yes.” If you give him nothing, he’ll probably go away. Ilya ignored the bitter regretful feeling that the assertion stirred in his chest. Everyone went away. Because he never gave anyone anything.

“So, I wanted to ask-”

The captain shifted his stance, trying to find a comfortable way to stand that didn’t make him feel like he was about to fall over. God, he was so fucking tired.

At the same time, he ran a finger under his nose, only for his knuckle to collide with his septum, exhaustion and multitasking making his spatial awareness dip, creating a buzzing sensation that he didn’t even try to fight- Hayes had probably already seen it happen three or four times that day so what was another one on top of that?- taking a half step backwards so he could turn away towards the floor.

“hKK! KKh! hKk! hKSH! hKSHH!-” His hands immediately fell into position, bracing against his knees to keep his upper body at least somewhat upright, the stick still clutched in his off hand clattering against the wall behind him. “-hKSH! hihKXSH!-” Unexpectedly forceful, the latest sneeze spritzed significantly more than just miniscule droplets in the direction of the floor. Ilya dragged his jersey up again hurriedly, belatedly noticing it was still damp from the last time he’d done that, “hKXSHH! haHKSHH! huAHSCHHUh!

When he raised his head again, the goaltender’s gaze was averted, as though he couldn’t even bear to look at him. Fuck, he was such a mess he’d even managed to disgust pretty much the most unbothered guy he knew.

…

“God bless.” Wyatt looked away slightly as he spoke, wondering if it was the staring that was the problem, waiting for the captain to take the pack of tissues before glancing back at him, neutral. He looked exhausted, though, like the practice had really drained him, shoulders slumped, blinking slowly as though he were half asleep. And the sweat beaded on his brow made the goaltender start to worry about a fever, and how on earth he’d get the other player to let him check for one.

“Thanks.” Rozanov said, carefully, pulling one out and scrubbing angrily at his lower face with it.

“You need anything else?” He nodded towards the tissues, and the lozenges Dykstra had left the locker room with, both now clutched defensively in one of the Russian’s hands.

He frowned in response, glancing between said hand and the goalie before a look of exasperated realisation took over his face. “I am not fucking sick.” Oh. Really? That sort of put a hole in his plan.

“Uh, right. So, this is…?” What, allergies or something? He’d seemed a lot worse last time Wyatt had seen him allergic to something, and there weren’t exactly a whole lot of prevalent triggers in the area.

“Is just lights and air and stupid shit.” He gestured around wildly, throwing blaming hands at the environment surrounding them.

“That doesn’t normally bother you this much.” He knew he was pushing it, but if this was already a failed attempt, he was absolutely going to use it to gather more information. He was nothing if not determined, and once he’d set his sights on a goal, he wasn’t going to drop it.

Rozanov looked slightly thrown by the assertion, and his response was quieter, almost unresistant, “I know,” He thumbed at his nose, “Is still- nevermind.”

Wyatt saw the walls starting to go back up, and unknowingly made his biggest mistake so far in an attempt to keep them down. He made a sympathetic face, and a stupid guess. “You just getting over something, then?”

The responding expression on the Russian’s face was initially shock, and then recognition, and then pure, unadulterated rage. “Why the fuck you care? I am not sick now. You think I am weak or something? Like you are better than me because you are never sick? You are. I have seen you-” He paused, seemingly coming to the realisation that this line of defense was thin and sounded petty.

“Roz-” Wyatt took the chance to interrupt. “-I’m not heckling you here, bud. I just want to help.”

“I do not need help.” His face flickered from scorn to regret for a moment. “I am supposed to help you, no? But I don’t, so you think we do this other way round. That is not how this works.”

“I kind of think it is.” The goalie proposed, hesitantly. “Yeah, you’re the captain, but we’re a team, right? We’re equals, we help each other.”

“But captain is not supposed to need help.” Rozanov insisted, body tensing as though he was trying to physically put himself behind the points he was making to bolster them. “That is why they get position.”

‘Who told you that?’ was how he wanted to answer, but instead he simply shook his head. “None of us need you to be perfect, Roz. You’re human and that’s fine. We check in with you because you’re one of us, and we want to make sure you’re comfortable. It-”

The captain interrupted him, ducking to one side to cough, and when he looked back, the anger seemed to roar back into full fledged fury again, Wyatt suddenly aware of the concerned expression he’d unintentionally donned, because Rozanov’s gaze was roving all over it in enraged disbelief. Damn, he needed to learn how to control his face.

“See? Is not equal.” He surged forwards, getting up in the goaltender’s face, finger extended accusatorially, “You make face, you fucking pity me. You look down on me. You try help me, and I don’t fucking need it. Not equal.”

The Canadian flushed, swallowing the angry words that threatened to burst out of him in response, ‘Maybe that wouldn’t happen if you fucking communicated with us, idiot.’ Fighting to keep his face neutral, he took a breath before responding, “I’m not looking down on you, I’m looking out for you. You can’t keep this macho shit up, it’s not sustainable, you’ve gotta let someone in.”

The captain wasn’t really that scary close up, not when you kind of knew him. His rage was overwhelming, all-consuming, but if you really looked at it, stared into the heart of the fire, he was just a kid having a tantrum because he didn’t feel like an adult. He didn’t want to be respected, or feared, or whatever bullshit he was saying, he clearly just wanted to be treated like his problems didn’t make him any less of a person, handled at arm’s length until he knew he could trust them. So Wyatt would do just that, and then Rozanov would trust him. Right?

The latter wasn’t responding, just staring at him blankly, though Wyatt could see the thoughts flitting around behind his eyes. And then he shrugged, sidestepped him, and continued down the corridor towards the locker room. It was like he’d flicked a switch in his mind, remembered some other place he had to be, some more important thing in his life than standing here yelling at his teammate, and calmly headed off to seek it out. Maybe he had let someone in, then, and he was off to go confide in them. It was kind of all Wyatt could hope for, that even if he couldn’t successfully be of assistance to the captain, that at least someone could.

…

“-so yeah, he wasn’t exactly grateful for the help, but hey, at least he’s not actually sick.” Wyatt concluded his debrief of the other team members who’d also noted and voiced their concerns about the captain’s less than stellar-seeming health.

“I really thought he was.” Bood mused.

“We know him better now.” Dykstra parroted what Hayes had said earlier, slightly mocking.

The goaltender rolled his eyes, “Alright, so it was a false alarm.”

“And now we look like we’re waiting for it.”

“We kind of are waiting for it, D.” Boodram nudged him. “Why’re you so cranky?”

Dykstra shrugged, not looking at him.

“He’s definitely gonna be pissed if we look like we’re hovering.” Wyatt continued, “I really don’t think he likes the coddling shit, he said something along those lines.”

“So, what, we’re just gonna yell at him next time?” Dillon asked with a smirk, “FEEL BETTER SOON CAP!”

Bood snorted, “Yeah, PUNCH THAT ILLNESS IN THE FACE, ROZ!”

They unconsciously all turned to look at Dykstra, expecting him to have an even louder rallying cry for the captain’s next hypothetical battle locked and loaded. Instead,

“hyYESCHH! hHh… huUESCHHh!”

“Bless you and bless you.”

Wyatt, not having been particularly invested in the yelling encouragement bit, still trying to puzzle out the pity issue in his head, frowned at the defenseman, still barely visible behind a bandana he’d whipped out of nowhere. “God bless, buddy. You alright?”

“You order one of whatever the captain’s just had?” Dillon tacked on, unhelpfully.

Canada, in Ilya’s opinion, is a terrible country. 

It is boring, for one. Ilya will easily say the people in America are more exciting, particularly in the larger cities. Canadians, in contrast, are too polite. Their temperaments are probably as soft as the mattress in the Raiders’ hotel in St. Paul, and they keep smiling at him, even though they do not know him. He cannot understand why they act like they do. 

(He is mostly over the culture shock. America had been an adjustment, but he does think he handled it well. Boston is a rowdy city, and they love him. You’re a Masshole at heart, one of his teammates had told him with a grin. You’ll fit right in, Rozanov.  

Ilya did not want to ask him what he meant by “Masshole.” He could guess at it, sure, but it still did not make sense. Marleau had seen the confusion on his face, and leaned over to quietly explain it to him. Ilya would consider that to be the beginning of their friendship.) 

The other awful thing about Canada is the pollen. When he was in the country for both Prospect tournaments, it was late December. Everything that could have bloomed was dead. But they are deep into March, and Ilya wrinkles his nose the second he steps off the team bus that brought them to the hotel. 

“Not to your liking?” Marleau, three steps ahead of him, raises an eyebrow. 

Ilya grunts in response, slinging a duffel bag over his shoulder. His gear, along with everyone else’s, is being transported to the rink for tomorrow’s practice and evening game, and the bag would be inaccessible until morning. Ilya had discovered that at their first away game of the season, and Marleau had taken pity on him and started explaining how the Raiders worked. And while Ilya does not enjoy being coddled like a child, he appreciates Marleau’s assistance too much to ask him to stop. 

“Toronto’s nice,” Marleau goes on, oblivious to Ilya’s lack of interest. “Very multicultural.” He gestures vaguely at the surrounding area, then to Ilya, who suppresses a wince. It definitely is not unusual for international hockey players to get scooped into North American leagues, but the reminder is not necessary. His chest tightens further with displacement. 

Thankfully, Marleau seems to get the hint, and just claps him on the back instead of saying anything more. Ilya continues not flinching. 

As usual, they end up rooming together. While the MLH has a lot of money, they do not seem to have an endless amount, and the easiest way to solve that is, apparently, having them share hotel rooms. Ilya does not trust his team quite yet—their number is greater than his team back at home, and they all speak English at him, often too quickly for his still-developing skill to keep up with—but Marleau is patient. And does not care when Ilya takes a moment to translate his speech back to Russian in his head, come up with a response, and then translate that over to English before opening his mouth. That, in his opinion, is a good sign. He has spent more than enough time around impatient men. 

So, he does not protest when Marleau claims the bed closest to the door, even though he will not sleep well if he is vulnerable in the room. He crosses behind the elder, puts his bag on the ground next to the farther bed, and rubs at his nose. Then, he casts a glance to Marleau for guidance, because he still doesn’t know what to do with himself if they’re not in an arena. 

Marleau laughs. The sound would likely startle Ilya if he was not looking directly at him. “Come on, Rozanov,” he says. “Let’s go find dinner.” 

-

Taking Rozanov out for a meal is always interesting. Cliff’s been following his career since the International Prospect Cup in 2008, right when he started playing for the Raiders at the ripe old age of twenty-five. Two years later, he’s thrilled that the Raiders actually managed to draft him. Letting a rookie play as the starting center is probably the best decision the franchise made in a long time. 

Plus, he definitely acts like it in the public eye. Brazen and blunt and brilliant, Rozanov can attract attention as easily as a moth flies to a flame. It’s a good reputation to have, honestly, because when he chooses to withdraw, he’s unrecognizable. 

Cliff is, admittedly, worried about the kid. For all the shit Rozanov can talk on the ice, he’s quiet in the locker room unless someone expects something from him. Which, to be fair, is most of the time, so Cliff is pretty sure he’s the only one on the Raiders who realizes how quiet Ilya can be. For example, now; they’re practically sitting knee-to-knee at a bartop table outside, enjoying the sunlight while it lasts and hoping to have some privacy. Rozanov’s eyes are flicking over the menu, his brow furrowed with confusion that he definitely doesn’t realize he’s showing. 

“What’re you thinking?” Cliff asks. Rozanov glances up, his expression shuttering back to something neutral. Cliff sighs internally. 

“The wings,” he replies. 

Rozanov’s had them once before, if Cliff remembers correctly. Vic and Brad had dragged the kid out after their first win of the season, since he’d scored two of their three goals. Rozanov had been thrilled, eagerly joshing and shoving at the rest of the team and picking food off of their plates instead of ordering for himself. No one had protested, obviously—it’s commonplace, and they usually cut the international guys some slack in the beginning anyway—but Cliff’s pretty sure it’s because Rozanov’s only been in North America for a few months; he probably still can’t understand half the menu. 

But, fair enough. Why is their burger called “The Gobbfather”? They’re in Canada. 

“Regular or spicy?” 

“Uh—” Rozanov pauses, rubbing at his nose. His gaze unfocuses, and Cliff’s about to ask if he’s okay when he twists, hiking a shoulder up, and his whole torso jerks downward. “nNTsc’hyh!” His breath hitches again, and Cliff watches as his eyes pinch shut with another three spasms in quick succession as he gets his elbow up, relaxes for a moment, and then shudders with a final double. 

“Bless you,” he says. “Times, what, six?” 

Predictably, Rozanov ignores him. Except, it’s not just to not acknowledge it, it’s so that he can stay facing away from Cliff, as if he’s unsure if he’s done. 

Fascinating. Surely not what Cliff would have bet on being his weakness. 

Finally, the kid opens his eyes again. There’s apprehension in his gaze for half a second, but it dissipates when he catches on Cliff. He sits up straight, clears his throat, and says, “Sorry.” 

Cliff waves a hand. “Roz, if you think that’s worth apologizing for, then you have no idea how North American hockey works.” 

That wins him a little smile. “We were not very sanitary back in Russia, either,” he says. 

“I’m sure you weren’t,” Cliff responds, then drops the topic. “Back to your wings. Spicy? You have spice in Russia, right? Like, in the—borscht?” He cringes at himself. Probably should have done some research beforehand… 

Christ have mercy, Rozanov actually seems amused. “We have spice, yes, but Russians do not really…” he gestures vaguely, “make use of it. Borscht is, uh, tangy? Like…” 

“Sour?” 

“Yes, sour.” Rozanov’s face scrunches as he says it, like it’s still not the word he wants, but Cliff isn’t a mindreader. 

“Wings’ll be tangy,” he says, and Rozanov nods. The server arrives to take their order less than a minute later, and most of their meal passes in silence. 

-

Ilya wakes just as the sun is beginning to filter through the curtains to an unbearable itch crawling around his sinuses. He barely has time to sit up and cup his hands around his face before he’s juddering into them, touching the tip of his tongue against his front teeth and stifling the first seven in sudden succession. He gasps, throwing his head back as his breath catches once, twice, and then he dives back into his palms for the next… one? No, there’s the second, and the consecutive triple. Balance restored. 

He can never tell where it’s going to end up. He’s never sneezed just one time in his life, but the patterning switches between groups of three to four, though they rarely cluster together in a manner that is easy for him to predict. His father hated it, and Ilya does not want to know what Marleau will think if he sees the true severity. 

Oh. And the itch rises again. Ilya presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth to try and hold it back, but his breath hitches regardless of the effort. He barely has enough time to lift the comforter before he’s sneezing again. It is far too early, and he cannot muster the willpower to stifle them fully. 

“ngt’CHh–tsZCH’yh! nTCHshh’eu! N–nuh! iHhy’KTtch!” He can’t help the whine that slips into the last one, nor the way it nearly escapes his fragile control. Ilya curses into the fabric, wiping at his nose with it before pulling away and sniffling wetly. Eugh. 

“Shit, bless you.” Marleau’s voice is groggy, but he has definitely been awake for longer than Ilya. He is sitting up in his bed when Ilya looks at him, book in hand, eyes pinched. 

Ilya freezes. 

His chest lurches with fear, and before he can process it, he tosses the comforter aside to bolt for the bathroom. The door shuts behind him with a violence Ilya does not allow himself to display off the ice. A part of him is waiting for Marleau to burst in and berate him, even though he is not in Russia. His brain is aware of that fact, but his body refuses to relax. 

A minute passes, and Marleau is quiet. From what Ilya can hear, he is still in bed. 

He is better than many of his teammates, in that way. 

Ilya gathers his composure enough to blow his nose with some of the toilet roll and check on the hives that must have started developing overnight. There are only a few of them, clusters of bumps on his stomach and shoulders and one on his back. They are manageable in their current state, but it will not take long before they spread. 

He sighs, dropping his shirt. He will deal with them later. He rubs at his nose once more to try and kill the prickle lurking there. 

Finally opening the door earns him a bottle to the chest, and Ilya almost misses it through his flinch. Marleau nods at it, and Ilya turns it over to look at the label. Allegra, it reads. 

“What is this?” he asks. 

“Antihistamine. It’ll help with your symptoms, since you’re apparently allergic to Canada.” 

Ilya shakes the bottle, then his head. “I do not take pills.” 

“It won’t do anything but help you. This isn’t the drowsy kind.” 

“I do not take pills,” Ilya says again, and tosses the bottle back to him. 

“Christ, Rozanov, they don’t make this in a kid’s syrup or whatever shit you’d prefer,” Marleau groans. “Just take the medicine.” 

Ilya sets his jaw. “No.” 

He glares back at Marleau when the older player tries to stare him into submission, and eventually, he gives up. “Fine! Whatever. Don’t complain when Coach makes you take it later.” 

Ilya opens his mouth to protest, only to have to turn away. It is thankfully just a triple, and with Marleau right in front of him, he squashes them all into painful silence. 

“And don’t hold them in. You’re going to rupture an eardrum.” 

Ilya’s eyebrows narrow further, and Marleau puts his hands up in mock-surrender. But even then, his gaze tracks Ilya around the room as he gathers his clothing, and eventually, Ilya goes into the bathroom again to change. He does not need Marleau seeing the hives and forcing the pills down his throat. 

-

The game ends at 3–2 in favor of Boston, and despite being inside for most of the day, Ilya’s sinuses feel about ready to explode. They’re stuffier than they should be, after how much he was sneezing on the ice. Granted, he was stifling—he did not want the cameras to pick up the sight of him rendered so helpless—but Marleau kept looking at him and whispering to whichever teammates had noticed how badly he was playing when they were on the bench together. 

To anyone else, he might have just seemed tired. A bit slower than usual, a bit sloppier. It is not as if he forgot how to play hockey; the sport is branded into his body. But he was not playing like Ilya Rozanov, and he can already hear the commentary in his head: 

And let’s discuss Rozanov’s performance tonight! Talk about a lack of discipline; Rozanov clearly needs to spend more time on the ice. 

He’s definitely not showing himself to be worthy of starting. We were told he was lazy, and maybe he’s finally given up on disproving the idea. 

Maybe he should have just stayed in Russia. After all, Hollander’s beating him in goals. 

Marleau catches up to him in the tunnel. Ilya’s helmet is still on, visor down, hoping that it is enough to hide the slight puffiness of his eyes. “Are you holding up alright?” 

Ilya keeps his gaze trained straight ahead. 

“Rozanov, I’m not trying to—I’m just worried,” Marleau goes on, grabbing Ilya’s shoulder to stop him from continuing after the rest of their teammates. Ilya comes to a dead stop. “Listen, kid, you’re having a bad reaction. Seriously, if you’re not going to take the meds, please let me check on you.” 

“Marleau,” Ilya says, then coughs to clear his throat. He tugs off his helmet and tucks it underneath his right arm. “I am fine. Stop worrying.” 

“I have to worry about you, since you’re clearly not doing it.” 

“Why does everybody insist on caring about me?” Ilya snaps, shrugging Marleau’s hand off his shoulder and striding down the hallway. 

Marleau walks after him, of course. It is his locker room, too. “Because, Rozanov. You—you’re worth caring about.” 

Ilya snorts derisively. The action causes his nose to spasm with the oncoming itch, and he just gets his left elbow to his face before folding in half and stifling a sneeze. Then another. And a third, fourth, and fifth, tripping over each other. The sixth and seventh thin the congestion in his sinuses, and by the ninth, his nose is dripping onto his sleeve. The next three only make the matter worse, and by the time he is finished, he does not want to lower his arm. 

“Christ, kid,” Marleau comments. He pauses in the corridor so that he does not pass Ilya when his arm stays up, peeking over his elbow. “Rozanov?” 

“I, um, need the… little face paper,” he mumbles. He’s embarrassed, and English is slipping through his fingers with the stress. “The—serviette. Napkin. Fuck.” 

Marleau cringes. “Alright, come on.” 

He guides Ilya to the locker room by the elbow. Any protests Ilya might have had dissolve in his mouth with the threat of another sneezing fit, and he focuses his attention on suppressing the urge instead of the surprised gazes of his teammates as he allows Marleau to drag him past. Marleau stops at their lockers, reaching into the overhead cabinet and pulling out a box of tissues, right. He plucks a handful out and shoves them into Ilya’s unoccupied hand. 

“Are you going to live if I leave you alone for three minutes?” he asks. Ilya nods, then waits for him to leave before lowering his arm and wiping at his nose before quietly blowing it into the already-damp wad. He grabs another couple, folds them over, and wipes at the sleeve of his jersey next. It is enough for now; the jersey needs to go into the wash anyway. 

Now that he is off the ice, Ilya can feel the full effect of the allergic reaction he is having. His eyes are starting to swell, the back of his throat aches, and his nose has not stopped dripping since morning practice. 

He glares at Feller, who is still looking at him with wide eyes, and the older goalie just gives him a pitying glance that only makes Ilya more upset at the whole situation. What is it with these Americans and their unnecessary concern? Ilya turns his back on the rest of the room, methodically pulling off his gear until he is down to his athletic shirt and compression pants. Then, he strips out of his shirt, gritting his teeth against the sensation of the snug fabric brushing against his inflamed skin. The sight is as he expected; mottled patches of angry pink are raised all over his torso, and there are more he cannot see on his back. The worst one, winding across his right side, is nearly half as long as his forearm and wraps around the majority of his ribcage. 

Ilya sighs. He cannot even say he is surprised. 

-

“Holy shit, Rozanov,” Lukas swears from across the locker room, audibly horrified. “Jesus Christ. Are you going to live? Vic, get a fucking EpiPen—” 

Cliff glances back over to the kid, his concern spiking again from the fear in Lucas’s voice even before he catches sight of the massive wheals stretching across Ilya’s shoulders, chest, back, and it seems like they’re descending past his hips, too. And, yeah, holy fucking shit isn’t nearly enough to cover it. 

The kid is utterly covered in hives. More of his skin is colored a vivid red and swollen than isn’t. Cliff didn’t even know they could get that big, or that one person’s body could sustain that many without going into anaphylactic shock, or something. Rozanov’s back alone is painful to look at, and Cliff’s breath hisses through his teeth when Ilya twists around to glare at Lukas, pulling the irritated skin tight. The worst of them is nearly eight inches long and stencils across his ribcage, but the rest of them aren’t much better. 

The entire locker room is staring at Ilya. Most of their mouths have dropped in horror, because there really isn’t anything that can prepare you to see your teammate in such a state. 

“Whh–at the fuck is an EpiPen?” Ilya demands, breaking the spell. 

Victor springs into action at the reminder, darting out of the locker room, presumably to find the trainer. The rest of them launch into “fix-it” mode, as they’re wont to do when one of their teammates is injured or struggling after a rough game. Brad grabs a clean towel and beelines to the sink to run water over it; Connor, three inches taller and forty pounds heavier than Ilya, fishes a loose T-shirt out of his bag; Kellen somehow produces calamine lotion from his locker; and Cliff steps into the meter and a half of distance between them and gently, gently pushes Ilya down until he’s sitting on the bench. 

His skin is warm beneath Cliff’s hands, and he’s careful not to touch any of the hives. “Told you,” he whispers, hoping to provoke anything but the wounded, deer-in-headlights look Ilya’s wearing right now. Lukas meets Cliff’s eyes when he glances up at his teammates, and gestures to their star rookie’s hunched figure with a questioning head tilt. Cliff shrugs, accepts the towel Brad passes him, and tries to figure out where to put it. 

“Drape it over his back,” Isaac suggests, already preparing another one. “And don’t move it once it’s down. We don’t want to irritate his skin any further.” 

Cliff obliges. Ilya’s breath hitches when the fabric touches him, but mercifully, he doesn’t raise any protests. He doesn’t look any more at ease, but he lets Cliff touch him again without flinching away, so Cliff mentally files away a point for himself. Isaac wrings out the next towel before walking over, and kneels next to Ilya. He’s thirty-two, one of the most senior players on the Raiders, and Cliff steps out of the way to let him deal with the teenager in front of them. Yes, Ilya will be nineteen in December, but still. Christ. 

“Rozanov,” Isaac says, and Ilya raises his gaze to him. His eyes are teary and scared. “What’s going on?” 

Ilya replies in Russian, but the second word—“allergii”—is obvious enough. 

“English if you can, Roz. I know you’re stressed.” 

Ilya hunches in on himself, ducking his head again. He swallows once before saying, “Allergic reaction. It is… common.” 

Isaac’s lips twist unhappily, and he glances back at Cliff. 

“He wouldn’t take antihistamines this morning; I didn’t realize it was this bad.” 

“Roz…” 

“No pills,” Ilya says, but his firmness from that morning is gone, replaced by pleading. His breath catches, and he sniffles. 

“Alright,” Isaac concedes. Vic returns, empty-handed. “Vic? The EpiPen?” 

“They said if he’s not going into anaphylaxis, we can’t use it. I got cream, though.” Vic holds up a three-ounce tube of hydrocortisone, as if it’ll make a dent. 

“What is… EpiPen?” Ilya asks, forcing himself to sit up so Isaac can put the other towel across the hives on his chest. His eyes are red in the corners. 

“It’s an epinephrine auto-injector,” Cliff says. “Dilates your blood vessels. You don’t have them in Russia?” 

Ilya shakes his head. Then gasps, lifts a hand, and pinches his nose shut before juddering forward. He must be exhausted; Cliff’s seen him stifle fits before with no assistance. The first double makes itself known with a head bob, and then another before Ilya has time to fully recover, and the towel on his front peels away and drops to his lap. The rest of the fit squeaks out despite the vicelike grip he’s using. “–ngKT-kht-chsh! nNGT’sh! TSCH’h! nHh… tsCHhyk!” 

“Bless you,” Cliff says. Most of the team chorus. 

“Let’s not do that,” Isaac says at the same time. Ilya sniffles miserably, and tears—either born of effort or embarrassment—well in his eyes. “Can I ask you to take an antihistamine?” 

Ilya’s silent for a long while, long enough that Vic steps closer to the bench, having taken Kellen’s bottle of lotion as well. The rest of the team is mostly just watching, concern evident in all of their gazes. Rozanov’s never shown even a sliver of weakness before, and although Cliff is probably the closest to him, he’s still being thrown off. He doesn’t really know how Isaac’s handling the kid right now. 

Wordlessly, Vic opens the lotion and pours some into his palm, then rests the pink bottle on the bench next to Ilya and dips two fingers from the opposite hand into it. Carefully, he starts applying it to the biggest welt on Ilya’s shoulder, covering his clavicle and the side of his throat. Brad sits him up, then puts the first towel on his chest again. 

“…Okay,” Ilya concedes, his voice so quiet Cliff barely hears it. But Isaac nods; Cliff passes him Ilya’s water bottle and Kellen steps forward with a blister pack of Benadryl. Yeah, knocking the kid out is probably the best call. 

Isaac pops the pills out. Ilya’s hand is shaking when he accepts the medication. They all pretend not to notice it. 

The next few minutes are quiet. Their collective focus is on their rookie, careful fingers swiping calamine lotion and hydrocortisone over his skin, then drowning him in Connor’s shirt, loose enough that it hopefully won’t stick to the drying cream, since Ilya’s clearly sick of them looking at him. He must be drained, because he starts wilting five minutes after taking the meds, eyelids drooping and muscles slowly unbunching. Lukas begs off to let Coach Reilly know what’s going on, since they’re playing a series and are getting on a plane tomorrow morning. 

Cliff eventually takes over for Isaac, giving the goalie a break to look up Ilya’s symptoms and if they need to do anything more. Ilya’s eyes are unfocused, aimed somewhere at the floor. 

“Hey,” Cliff murmurs. “You doing alright?” 

Ilya nods. His nose twitches, and he brings up a sluggish hand to rub at it. He misses, brushes against the hive next to his throat, and sucks in a reflexive breath between his teeth. 

Cliff shifts over as Ilya’s breath hitches, and doesn’t say a word as he just sneezes openly toward the ground. In his current state, Ilya could punch Cliff, and he simply wouldn’t have the heart to hold it against him. 

“aHhTZS’chh! hih’iH… htZ’SCHh–chshh!” His eyes are still glassy, mouth half-open as his tongue pokes out between his teeth. Ilya gasps again, and his head jerks down with a final “eh’TSCH! ngh…” 

“Bless you,” Cliff says, copied by Isaac, Vic, and Kellen, who’ve remained in the vicinity. 

Ilya sniffles. “Sorry.” 

“Nothing to apologize for,” Isaac reassures. “We’re going to take care of you.” 

“Oh, fuck. It’s Hayden.” 

The look Ilya gives him is utterly offended. 

“He just had a baby, I haven’t talked to him in weeks,” Shane argues, swiping his thumb across his phone screen to answer the call. Ilya groans. “Hey, buddy.” 

“Hey! Is this a good time?” Hayden asks, voice cheerful and tinny from the receiver. 

“Yeah, uh—uh, how’s, um…” 

“I haven’t spoken to you in, like, a month,” he goes on, talking over Shane’s stammering. “I mean, the season ended and you just… vanished.” 

“I know, I’m so sorry.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes and flops back onto the couch, only to crunch back up a moment later to crush a sneeze into his fist. And then, because he’s Ilya, another double, and one more after a moment’s hesitation. Shane glances over to mouth bless you at him, and Ilya waves him off. He’s been sensitive all day, nose twitchy and pink around the edges from irritation, and he’s not been able to go more than fifteen minutes without sneezing. He’s blamed it on the (in his words) “stupid fucking Canadian foliage,” and while he’s taken a dose of antihistamines, they’ve not kicked in yet. Or aren’t doing shit. Come to think of it, they’re probably expired. 

He shifts his attention back over to Hayden, resolving to end the conversation as quickly as possible. Part of him squeezes guiltily at the thought of trying to head off his best friend, but he and Ilya don’t really get to have time with each other. It’s always a calculation, and now that they’re not fighting the rest of the world to be together, he doesn’t want anything to interfere. 

“But how’s—Amber, right? How is she?” He slaps Ilya’s hand away when he starts walking his fingers up his thigh, then glares at him. If he can just wait five minutes… 

Ilya brings his hand up to rub at his nose again, and immediately flinches into his chest with two sneezes, and then a third after a moment’s hesitation. His jaw drops slightly, eyes hazy, and fuck, he’s not done. 

“She’s doing great!” Hayden is saying, and from his voice, it’s clear that he’s beaming. “Perfectly healthy, and just adorable. You got the pics I sent you, right?” 

“Oh, yeah, the pics are cute.” 

Next to him, Ilya chokes through another silent triple. He’s flushed a faint pink from embarrassment across his cheeks and the tips of his ears, his eyes starting to water from allergic irritation, and his tongue is poking out of his mouth just slightly as he squints vaguely. 

“She’s been feeding really well, too. Latching consistently and everything; she’s been much easier than Arthur.” 

“Aw, good, good,” says Shane, angling his torso away from Ilya and doing his best to ignore the apparent allergy attack occurring five feet from him. “And, uh, Jackie’s good, too?” 

“Yeah! Definitely tired, but nothing unexpected.” 

“Is it better than, um…” 

Ilya, having decided that he does, in fact, need Shane’s attention immediately, weaponizes the downtime between sneezing and moves closer to Shane, pressing his face into the back of Shane’s hoodie and making a soft whining noise that makes him grit his teeth. 

Oblivously, Hayden continues talking. “This is going much better than Arthur’s, yeah. Jackie’s been in touch with her doctor about it, so…” 

Whatever else he says disappears under the static that consumes his mind once Ilya twitches with another fit, mashing his nose directly into Shane’s spine and apparently relying on the fabric to muffle the sound for him. “h’Mptsh! mp’tsHh–tshh! mK’iew!” 

“Oh my God,” Shane exhales. 

“What?” 

“Yeah, no, I–I remember that, that was a tough time,” Shane chokes out. “Look, Hayd, I’m so sorry, but I–I’ve gotta run, I’m supposed to be handling a couple of things for my mom—” 

“No, yeah, of course! Just text me when you actually have time, I’ll make sure you can talk to Ruby and Jade, too.” 

“That’d be great. Talk to you later.” 

He cannot hang up fast enough. Shane twists and is met with an eyeful of amused, albeit allergic, Russian. 

“Not very Canadian of you,” he observes. 

“You know exactly what you’re doing.” 

“Oh, it’s my fault that my immune system does not like your country’s stupid plants?” 

“Ilya.” 

“Shane,” he repeats, mocking. It’s undercut by another little gasp, and then Ilya raises his fist and ducks into it with a set of itchy, utterly ineffective half-stifles. “ihy’schh–tshh–shh’uh! kh’gKT!” 

“Bless—” 

“gk’TSH’uh! ih’yshh–shh–shhiu!” 

“Bless—” 

“TSHH! hy’KSHH—eh’tshh!” 

“Are you done?” 

Ilya sniffles. “Mbaybe.” 

Shane raises his eyebrows.