Salamander's lair

They always end up near the back of Fabian's shows because of Ryan. He's so tall, it's the only place where he doesn't block anyone's view. And frankly, Shane is okay with it because it also allows a certain amount of anonymity. Every since he and Ilya were outed and became teammates for the Centaurs, his public profile has risen to a level higher than ever before. Now, it's not only hockey fans that recognize the pair, but anyone who watches the news. The media can't get enough of the fact that two professional athletes play on the same team (literally and metaphorically). 

As if on cue, Shane sees Ilya stop and exchange a few brief words with a guy in the crowd, leaning in to pose for a selfie. The man, a lithe redhead, roars with laughter at something Ilya has said, and Shane feels a little tinge of jealously flare in his stomach. It’s not that he would ever suspect Ilya of cheating; they're still as obsessed with each other as ever. And it's easy to see why Ilya is drawing attention from the crowd. He's wearing a tight mesh black top that clings to every inch of his chest in a way that had Shane suggesting they skip the concert altogether when they'd started to get ready earlier that evening. 

“Hi,” Ilya says in Shane's ear, finally reaching their spot. He presses a cold glass into Shane's hand as he tucks himself behind his back. “Sorry – too many people.”

Shane sips at the cold beer, trying to ignore the sweat pooling along his spine in the closeness of the room. Ilya's hips are tucked against his and Shane can feel the muscle of Ilya's chest against his shoulder blades. He leans back a little against his husband and Ilya tucks his head over Shane's shoulder.

“I'm glad we came,” Ilya says over the opening act's final notes. “I'm excited to hear his new stuff.”

The lighting in the club shifts dramatically as an electronic hum fills the speakers. The crowd chatters with excitement as a technician swaps a few cables onstage and sets out Fabian's violin. There's another flourish of lights, a burst of stage haze, and Fabian emerges to a thunderous cheer from the crowd. 

And then the hush. The crowd goes quiet as the first notes fill the air and Shane relaxes a little, trying to get lost in the sound of the strings and Fabian's voice. 

There's a slight jostle of people still as the crowd inches forward and latecomers try to get a better view of the stage. Someone hits Shane's elbow and he barely manages to not spill his beer. A group of giggling women pass in front of them, trying to get to the bar but they're blocked by the roped-off soundboard. They pause to survey the scene and Shane nearly chokes when it hits him – the scent of a flowery perfume applied so heavily that he can practically taste it.

From behind him, there's an irritated sniffle from Ilya, inhaled close to Shane's ear.

Instantly, the blood rushes to Shane's cheeks. The sound of Ilya's sniffles is not novel. In fact, come springtime, it's so present that it reaches the point of annoyance. But here, in the closeness of this club and with Ilya pressed against his back, it portends the inevitable – Ilya is going to start sneezing.

And, the thing is, Ilya's sneezing does something to Shane. Something primal and inexplicable and embarrassing and sweet and all together too overwhelming to happen in a crowded club.

“Christ,” Ilya mutters into Shane's ear and his nose presses against Shane's shoulder, giving a sharp rub against the fabric of Shane's t-shirt. “Did she take a bath in that shit?”

Shane can already hear the falter in Ilya's voice and he doesn't need to turn around to know the expression that's forming on his husband's face. He can see it so clearly in his mind: the slight furrow of his brows, the barely parted lips, the fluttering eyelashes. 

Ngh-TXGHT! Ilya jerks into Shane, his head bobbing in and out of Shane's peripheral vision. 

The crowd of women have moved on, but the damage is done.

Hehh—eh'TSGHT! There's a low rumble of Ryan's voice offering a “bless you” and Shane nearly tells him not to bother. There's going to be no end in sight to this.

Shane stares at Fabian, trying desperately to focus on the performance. He takes a deep, steadying breath even as he feels Ilya's own breath rush in and then – Nhhh-TSGHT! Tsh'GGHT!

Ilya's vodka glass is now on a nearby ledge, abandoned in favour of one hand around Shane's waist and the other rubbing at his offended nose. Ilya tucks his head back against Shane's neck and trails the edge of nose briefly along the skin there.

Shane closes his eyes, fighting the building desire. Ilya knows exactly what effect his sneezes have on Shane by this point and he's clearly trying to take advantage of it.

“Not here,” Shane growls softly. “Jesus, Ilya.”

“Can't help it,” Ilya whines into his ear. “So itchy...I....heh...ehh-TSGHT!”

Mercifully, Ilya is stifling the sneezes but Shane feels a small rush of warm air as Ilya sneezes against his t-shirt. 

Concussion recognition tools, Shane thinks, trying to bring his focus to the most boring thing he can think of at present. They'd recently reviewed concussion protocols for their Game Changers hockey camps. What are the reasons you should immediately call an ambulance? Neck pain...double vision...loss of consciousness...

TSHH! Hehh'khtshh!—eh’tsghtt!

Ilya's hips are pressing against Shane's ass as he sneezes and Ilya is holding on to Shane...he is fucking doing it on purpose. And it's working. Shane can feel the insistent press against the fly of his jeans. Thank god the club is dark.

“Are you alright?” Ryan asks, staring at Ilya. 

There's a thick sniffle next to Shane's ear and then the low rumble of Ilya's voice, now congested-sounding.

“Some had on too much perfume. Sorry – this happens -I just – I –ehh—hehh'TSGHTT!”

Shane has to bite his lip to stop a moan as Ilya bumps against his ass again.

“Maybe we should step outside?” he says through gritted teeth. “Get some air?”

“Yes, good idea,” Ilya agrees.

They make their way across the back of the club – Ilya still occasionally shuddering with suppressed sneezes and Shane trying to subtly hold his hands over his crotch.

Ilya shoulders open an exit door past the bathrooms that leads out to an alley behind the club. It's a warm summer night and insects buzz around a nearby utility light mounted by the door.

“Oh my god,” Shane groans, leaning against the brick wall of the building. “You can't do that in public, Ilya.”

“Do what?” Ilya says innocently, coming towards Shane and reaching down to palm over his jeans. “Make you so hard you nearly cry?”

“I swear, either you stay out here until you stop...until you stop doing you know what...or we might as well just call it a night and go home now,” Shane says, pushing Ilya's hand away even though he wants nothing more than to be touched.

“Or we could -”

“I am not letting you give me a hand job in a back alley downtown, Ilya.”

Shane looks up at his husband for the first time since the perfume assault, and a rush of affection and desire washes over him. Ilya's nose is pink at the edges and his eyes are starting to water.

“Especially not like this,” Shane adds, reaching up to thumb a bit of irritation away from Ilya's eyelashes. 

Ilya sniffles and shrugs.

“Fine. Longer we wait, less I sneeze.”

“I know that isn't true,” Shane says with a smirk as he takes out his phone to call their car service. He taps a few buttons on an app and pockets the phone again. “They'll be on the side street in two minutes.”