beep beep silly lil kink blog comin in

Early in their relationship, Kip used to fantasise about times like this. Wistful but in no way certain there’d ever actually be a day when they could be seen together in public without Scott skirting on the edge of a panic attack, never mind hold hands. Or press a kiss into each other’s cheek. Or cuddle up next to each other in the corner of a booth in a bar. Each gesture that once felt like an incriminating little snapshot inside their own heads, encased in barbed wire and branded a danger, repurposed into being, well, normal.

Even so, Kip’s heart still fluttered when he felt Scott’s hands on him where anyone was free to look. Tonight they’d done all three. He still went flush with pride at how far his man had come; felt joyful for everything they had because Scott finally gave himself permission to be happy.

“hhH’ESSSCHEUH’hh!”

Scott emerged from the crook of his elbow with a tight, sharp sniff.

It hadn’t been the first sneeze of the night. Having spent most of it practically tucked under his arm, Kip had felt each of them coming too, mentally pulled out of the conversation each time the other man’s chest began to shake against his shoulder. He’d chance a glance up and sure enough, Scott’s expression would be hazy and faraway, silently losing the fight against–

“Ble-”

“hh’aH’EHDTZZS’sssch’huh!”

Scott had brushed it all off at the bar, declaring to the group when it became unavoidable that he must be allergic to something in the air. Someone’s perfume, or some cleaning product randomly driving him nuts. Kip knew better, though. He could hear the gravel in his voice, the hint of stuffiness starting to bleed into the edges of his voice; the urgency in his sniffles in the aftermath of each sneeze.

Though not without some degree of difficulty, for Scott’s sake Kip dutifully refrained from openly acknowledging it each time it happened, despite how doing so went against every polite instinct his mom and dad had gone to great lengths to instill in him, the ‘nice Brooklyn boy’ that he is. Let’s just say they’d learned of the very unintended impact Kip’s blessing had on him the, uh, hard way. 

But now, wrapped in the shrouded, comfortable cocoon of their home, the peace afforded them safety. Ever since the door snicked shut the air had crackled with something live and anticipatory, heavy with unspoken possibility as they danced round each other a bit now. Kip hadn’t realised he’d been keyed up waiting for something, but apparently he had. The sneezes simply said the word ‘go’ from the director’s chair.

“Bless you,” he emphasised, face creased with sympathy. God, Scott looked affected even just at that. Kip closed the distance between them and cupped the nape of his neck, pulling himself up onto his toes so he could kiss the hinge of Scott’s jaw. Kip felt the shiver wrack through him. “Those sounded like they hurt. Are you okay?”

Scott let out a huff of laughter. They all sound like that – always. “Not any more so than usual. I-I’m fine,” he said, punctuated by a sniffle. He hadn’t been able to look Kip in the eye as he said it, which wasn’t like him, not if he was actually trying to convince him of something.

Kip bit back a smile.

Oh, that’s what we’re doing.

“Are you sure?” Kip replied seriously, playing along. “You’ve been so sneezy tonight. You’re all sniffly now, and your nose is going all pick at the edges…” His searching gaze pinned Scott in place, who squirmed a little under the scrutiny. “I think you’re catching a cold, sweetheart.”

Kip felt like he could guide Scott to the edge of the earth and have him stand on the very edge with the way he relaxed under the palm of his hand. Honestly, it still made his head spin to be confronted with the fact that he could have any kind of command over a man like Scott. That he trusted him with his vulnerability like this. It made him feel so incredibly special.

“I-I don’t know…” Scott stuttered. “Maybe? Do you… do you think so?”

Kip tilted upwards, moving in to kiss him properly, but at the last second Scott swerved before their lips could connect. Kip just smiled, unsurprised.

“See? I think you know.”

Scott’s head dipped down again and Kip brought a hand to his face, imploring it ever so gently upwards with a cupped hand to his cheek. He let his thumb swipe delicately over the other man’s cheekbone, as if kissing with its pad in lieu of his mouth. Led by an ember of mischievous impulse, he shifted the focus of his fingers’ attention. Experimentally, he pressed his thumb into the spot between Scott’s eyebrows, satisfaction warming him when his face crumpled in relief.

“Does that feel good?”

Scott’s eyes had fluttered closed and he nodded silently, obediently.

Kip would bet he could make it feel even better.

He hummed his approval, replacing his thumb with his forefinger and trailing it lightly down the bridge of Scott’s nose. He flinched a little at the pressure when Kip pressed in a smidge, wiggling the cartilage as if trying to shake something loose. Kip froze, worrying for a split second that he’d hurt him, but when Scott’s eyes opened again, they did so into a look that was decidedly more hazy than aggrieved. His nostrils flared.

“Oh no, what’s this?”

Scott’s breath scissored dangerously, eyes filling with moisture as they fluttered closed. Meanwhile, Kip’s lips found his neck, kissing around to his throat where his breath was contracting. The cologne he’d applied earlier was well-faded by now, overwhelmed at this point by the scent of Scott himself, and something spiked in Kip’s stomach. His hand, teasing and exploratory, skimmed up Scott’s shirt to settle on the firm ridges of his abdomen.

“hhhuhH’AEH’DZZSSSHhhhh’uh!”

Kip hummed, the sound dripping in sympathy. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just trying to ease some pressure, and look what happened. So sensitive.”

Caught between the urge to succumb to Kip’s ministrations or the still ever-pressing need to sneeze, though one hand had risen instinctively to press Kip in closer by the small of his back, the other he just managed to get to his face as he nudged it away, just over the top of Kip’s head.

“hhh’aH’EHTSSSCHhh’huh!”

“Bless you. Poor thing…”

Kip grabbed Scott’s cock through his jeans. Oh, he was rock hard; positively throbbing. It ripped a watery groan from the older man’s throat as he immediately rutted against Kip’s hand, chasing the friction as squeezed and rubbed with the practiced, expert rhythm of someone who knew his body like the back of his hand. Only–

“hhH’AEHHTCH’ssch’iew!”

The sneeze got away from him slightly, not quite as well covered as before, and the burst of spray glistened in the soft, warm lamplight.

“Oh, bless you, sweetheart – you don’t sound well at all.”

Each word Kip uttered was a precisely pointed jab at Scott’s resolve, the doting layered on intentionally thick. Left bleary-eyed and full of sniffles, but with the distinctly viral itch now seemingly ebbed, Scott appeared to only fall further into the heady encouragement of his attentions.

“I’mb sorry…” he mumbled, followed quickly by a thick sniffle. The sensation bothered him enough that he spared the back of a hand to mash his nose into, scrubbing it back and forth with a slick, congestion clicking sound.

Kip’s expression crumpled. “Hey – you have nothing to be sorry for, okay? Not a thing. It’s gonna be alright. Y’know why?”

Scott shook his head. “Ndo. Sdnfff. Why?”

“Because I’m going to take care of you.” Kip gave Scott’s erection a firm squeeze. “Starting with this, hm?”

Hooking his fingers down the waistband of Scott’s jeans, Kip directed him over to the edge of the couch. He popped open the button and shimmied them down a little on his hips, before gently coaxing Scott downwards. Feeling the heat of Scott’s gaze as he looked up at him from below, Kip wasted no time climbing into his lap and pulling his dick out of his pants. In a bit of a pinch, he spat into his own hand before taking Scott in hand, his stroke calm and rhythmic.

Scott’s eyes had glazed over slightly, gleaming as they took him in, openly adoring and worshipful but slightly unsure, begging for something he couldn’t give himself permission to vocalise. Kip couldn’t help himself. He started to move in, but Scott instinctively stiffened.

Kip held his gaze resolutely, bringing a hand round to the back of his head to hold it in place, and when he spoke his voice was low, warm, trickling like honey. “It’s okay…” he assured him, inching his face closer, closer, as he muttered it over and over again, quieter and quieter each time, like an incantation to lull Scott into a trance with. “It’s okay… this is okay… s’okay….”

Scott’s shoulders relaxed again as he eventually gave himself over to the moment with Kip’s insistence, sighing into his mouth as their lips slotted together. Time melted away as they kissed, Scott’s hands finding Kip’s ass as they tended to do, kneading and squeezing as Kip’s hand worked his length with consistent, maddening efficiency. Kip licked into his mouth, suckling on Scott’s bottom lip in the way that usually has him unable to keep from smiling against his face.

Instead, now, Kip feels him pull away, sucking in what sounded like a much-needed breath, sniffling back the audibly growing congestion settling in.

“Awww, you’re starting to get all stuffy, I can hear it…” Kip continued stroking him as he said it, letting his thumb circle, featherlight, over his red, swollen head, catching some of the pre-cum gathering in his slit. Scott whimpered. His eyes grew heavy lidded, his body tensing up as Kip felt him tiptoe closer and closer to the edge with each stroke, each word.

He had him in the palm of his hand.

Kip hummed. “You need a tissue, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll get you one when we’re done…” He huffed out a chuckle. “Won’t be too much longer, now. I can feel it. You’re so hard it must be painful, baby. Let me take care of you right… you can let go whenever you need to…”

As if to affirm his point, Kip picked up the pace, Scott’s body jolting in answer.

Kip, feeling his blood heat and his own cock harden in the face of just how turned on Scott evidently was, reattached himself to the side of Scott’s neck, laying kiss after indulgent, suckling kiss all the way across the hot, stubbled skin, right up under his ear. Fuck, Scott has to go to practice day after tomorrow and he should probably be more careful… Scott will never hear the end of it from the guys if he rocks up with a hickey.

Scott was shaking now, more so with every handful of seconds that passed as he got closer and closer to the precipice, even his sniffling growing all the more desperate as his breaths grew laboured and staccato.

“S-Sorry, I h’hhave to–”

“Again?”

Scott nodded, regretful. Kip sighed.

“Go ahead. Get it all out, sweetheart, you’ll feel better–” Kip’s lips found the shell of Scott’s ear, his next words hushed and uttered directly into it. “...but you’ll be going straight to bed after.”

“hhUH’IHHHDZSSTCHhh’uh!”

Scott came with a strangled moan on the tail end of that final sneeze as he spilled into Kip’s hand, the sound enunciating an edge of hoarseness to his voice Kip could tell was likely to stick around now for the next few days as he coaxed him through his orgasm, with utterings of ‘bless you…’ … ‘there you go…’ … ‘come for me…’ … ‘so good for me, look at you… so good…’.

God, he looked so hot when he came. He wasn’t sure he’d ever quite get over it.

With Scott’s body now lax and sated, he slumped back into the couch, the heaviness of lust gradually cleared away from his gaze with his release, sheepish gratitude rising to replace it in the aftermath as he rushed to thumb away where his nose was now running into the crease of his nostril.

“Sorry,” he repeated, appearing to be flirting with the idea of being ashamed, but not quite able to get there. Good, Kip thought, you absolutely shouldn’t.

“Hey– don’t. You’re totally fine. I wanted to help.” Kip joked, his tone light as he caught Scott’s averted eye, smiling in a way the other man was helpless but to mirror. Kip sat back a little in Scott’s lap and carded his, um, free hand through his hair. “I meant what I said, though– you don’t sound good and we’re getting you into bed pronto.”

They’d returned home last night after a week in Las Vegas, which had itself come after a week of nonstop parades and clubbing and bar crawls all around Ottawa. Shane didn’t think he’d ever been so exhausted. Somehow he’d slept on the plane for a solid five hours, only waking when the smell of the herbal tea Ilya got him from a flight attendant wafted past his nostrils. There wasn’t much better than being soothed by warm tea and the cuddles of an even warmer husband, that Shane knew for certain.

Ilya’s side of the bed was empty, and, as Shane found when he reached a hand over to brush against the sheets, cold. He scrunched up his face, hoping to relieve the lead-weight tension that was sitting in the middle of his forehead and around his eyes, but didn’t feel much of a difference. He sighed, still frustrated with himself for getting up so late, then rubbed at his nose and went downstairs.

Ilya was sitting at the kitchen table, humming along to some heinous Russian pop music and scrolling on his phone, a piece of toast on a plate beside him. “Good morning, Mr. Conn Smythe,” he said warmly when Shane sat down next to him. “I made some toast for you, but you have been sleeping so long that I ate almost the whole thing.”

Shane would tell people that while he was honored to have been awarded the Conn Smythe (again), the most important accomplishment was the trophy he’d won with his teammates. And while yes, that was true, he was secretly so fucking proud of himself. After the year from hell he and his husband had been subjected to, including having been disowned by his former team - those he’d considered family - he’d clawed his way back to the top. He’d left everyone who’d scorned him lying in a heap at the bottom of the pyramid. And snowed them in their faces with his skates.

He picked up the toast, which had a huge bite taken out of it. “Gee, thanks,” he said dryly, then finished it off, savoring the salty taste despite the fact that he was probably dehydrated. Ilya always made the best toast. (He probably soaked it in butter, but Shane didn’t really care about that right now.)

When Shane looked over after his finishing bite, Ilya was watching him with a gentle smile on his face. Shane put an arm around him and squeezed. “We fucking did it,” he said, ignoring the slight twinge in his throat when he spoke.

“We fucking did it.” Ilya guided Shane’s head down to rest against his shoulder, then pressed some kisses to it. They were quiet, Ilya no doubt reliving the same memories as Shane.

——

1-1 after the third. After all this team had been through - the punishing seven-game series in the first round, pushing through injuries and exhaustion and stress, everyone giving it their all on the ice in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, this would finally be the year - they were dying to get it done now. Today. If worse came to worst, they could lose this game and start all over again in Game 6. But the Centaurs did not want to go back to Oregon. “I want to hear OUR fans. I want to hear THEM scream,” Ilya shouted at the boys before the beginning of OT.

And so they fucking did.

Everything became madness after Ilya scored by beating the goalie on his far side. Shane had played and won in Montreal, one of the biggest hockey markets on Earth, and still he’d never heard an arena get as loud as this one. Then there was the team pile-up against the glass…Hayes zooming across the ice towards them, whooping, goalie stick flying in the air…the confetti, the crowd, Ilya’s sweaty curls sticking to Shane’s cheek, the WAGs kissing their men like they’d returned from war…none of the three other times Shane had been here were anything like this. This was unencumbered happiness like he’d never felt before, cranked up to a deliriously high level. When he looked into Ilya’s eyes, he knew why.

And then, the parade. Ilya, drunk on joy (and beer. Lots of beer), speaking eloquently to the crowd (until the “WE FUCKING LOVE YOU, OTTAWA!” which got the biggest cheer of the day) as tears streamed down his, Shane’s, and many of their teammates’ faces. This was more than just a win, but a beacon of hope for a city that had become a punching bag amongst NHL fans. “Ottawa Centaurs: There’s Always Next Year” was a slogan Shane had heard many times, even seen in person on more a few t-shirts around town. Nobody shit on a team like its own fans, but then again, the Centaurs hadn’t given them much to be optimistic about. Until now.

Finally, Vegas. Bood commandeering karaoke with a group of tourists from Guatemala, Ilya walking around the casinos doing his best De Niro face, Luca Haas making sure their younger teammates were staying hydrated and managing their liquor to a (semi-)sensible degree. Shane kissed his husband beneath the palm trees every chance he got, the most beautiful trophy in sports casually photobombing them in the background. Harris was thrilled to get some of this on camera, and for once, Shane wasn’t being shy about it. He had a husband, and he could kiss him! In public! (The champagne was helping, too.)

——

“It’s like a dream,” Shane mumbled, closing his eyes against the gentle carding of Ilya’s hand through his hair. How could he possibly feel sleepy again after he’d just woken up? Then again, he’d been up throughout the night from the sound of Ilya’s rumbling snores in his ear, as well as to frequently adjust the blankets and pillows. Nothing had quite felt correct against his body for the last few days for some reason. Even the sweats he was wearing right now felt strangely restrictive and a little itchy.

“It’s no dream. Not anymore,” Ilya replied, and Shane heard a little wobble in his voice. “It’s even better.”

Shane was about to tell Ilya that he loved him when he felt an itch tickle at his nostrils, then lodge deep inside his nose with an alarming quickness. He lifted his head and raised his elbow at the same time, muffling a soft “hd’tschh! ht’shiew!” and an involuntary little sigh into the fabric of his soft, comfortable Rozanov Centaurs tee. Immediately his eyes filled with tears, and he wiped them away with his thumbs. “Fuck, excuse me.”

“Ah, bless you,” Ilya said, sounding disappointed. He shook his head and muttered to himself, “I knew it.”

“Knew what? -snrf-” Shane winced at the stuffy snuffle that escaped him.

Ilya put an arm around Shane’s shoulders and rubbed gently at his bicep. “You are catching a cold, lyubimyy.”

“Ugh, no, don’t say that,” Shane complained, squeezing his eyes shut as if it could help him avoid his husband’s words. It didn’t do anything other than make the pain in his head intensify. “I’m just a little tired.”

Ilya frowned. “Being tired doesn’t hurt your throat. Or make you sneeze.”

How the fuck did he know…? Shane sighed again. Ilya was a fucking prognosticator, often able to tell how Shane was feeling just by looking at him. He was right every single time he voiced that Shane was getting sick - He’s just on a lucky streak, Shane thought, knowing deep down that luck wasn’t a part of this, especially judging by the discomfort in his throat and the everpresent tickle in his nose. Motherfucker.

Shane was determined to ignore his symptoms. They were going to have a great fucking day today, goddammit. “I’m fine, don’t worrihh…!” But the strong tickle returned, cutting Shane’s reassurance short as his breath began to hitch…and hitch…and hitch. As he stayed stuck in limbo, he was faintly aware of Ilya hopping out of his chair and power-walking out of the room. What the hell? Irritated and desperate for relief, Shane looked into the fan light above the table, hoping it would trigger—“hy’ih! h’ehh-? hsshiew! ah’ishhoo!”—something in his nose. He felt some wetness trickle out of his right nostril after the second sneeze, and he quickly covered his nose with a hand. Ugh, disgusting. He needed a—

Ilya returned with a box of tissues and set it on the table next to Shane. “Bless you, sweetheart.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Fuck, Ilya had even known that Shane was going to need tissues. Blushing, he took one with his free hand and dabbed beneath where he had shielded his nose from view. He felt himself turn even redder when he caught Ilya’s amused little gaze. “You don’t need to be shy around me. I think you have seen me blow my nose five billion times,” he joked, and Shane laughed and blew gently into the tissue. A kind of creeping exhaustion, the same he’d felt on the plane, was coming over him, and he couldn’t hold back the huge yawn that escaped him. “Aw,” he heard Ilya say softly, then warm arms wrapped around his shoulders and another kiss was pressed to the top of his head. “Too much fun. It’s catching up to you.”

Shane groaned. He’d take one extra night of being hungover over having a cold for a goddamn week. (Although…he was learning that it was harder to recover quickly from a hangover in your thirties than in your twenties, even as a world-class athlete. Especially when you slept next to a chainsaw-jackhammer hybrid of a man at night.)

“Wanted to make us breakfast,” he mumbled.

Ilya chuckled. “I think you’ve missed your window. But I could have pancakes and bacon any time of the day. When you feel better, of course.” He paused, looking contemplative. “I think I’ll get a McGriddle before I pick up Anya.”

Shane grimaced. “You’re gross.”

Ilya shrugged. “I know what tastes good.”

“You don’t know anything.”

Ilya tsked. “I know that my husband is a big meanie when he’s not feeling well. Lucky for him that his husband is so good to him anyway.” He kissed behind Shane’s ear, and Shane grinned and sighed happily. God, Ilya’s kisses always felt so good.

“I am lucky,” he replied. “Not everybody gets to marry an OT-goal-scoring-Stanley-Cup-winning hockey player.” He grabbed another tissue to blow into as the insufferable fullness filled his sinuses again. It…didn’t help much, and it made his ear pop a little.

“Yes. Is you and a bunch of very blonde women.”

Shane smiled beneath the tissue. “Lucky us, then.”

Against his better judgment, Shane lay back down in bed as Ilya got ready to pick up Anya from Shane’s parents’ house. He sleepily watched his husband change with an appreciative hum that came out beyond his control. Ilya winked at him and flashed him his six-pack beneath his tank top. “Woo,” Shane said softly as his eyes begin to droop.

“Back soon, milyy,” Ilya said in a hushed voice. Shane felt the blankets being pulled up to his chest, then lips pressing against his forehead as he drifted off.

——

The next day, laying in bed and watching Anastasia, Shane felt his nose begin to drip. He grabbed for some tissues and blushed furiously when Ilya paused the movie (again) so Shane could focus on tending to his nose. “There’s subtitles,” he mumbled before he blew, the sound soft and snuffly.

“Yes, but then you could not hear her singing, Shane,” Ilya said, stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth (Shane was too tired to scold him for eating in bed) and turning to Anya in her enormous dog bed. “Who knew you had such a beautiful voice, my sweet girl?” he cooed as the Anya on screen sang “Once Upon a December.”

Shane laughed hoarsely, then coughed a little and rubbed at his chest, which had begun to ache a little. Ilya was at his side immediately, fussing with the blankets and petting a hand through his hair. “Make sure you’re drinking your tea, sweetheart,” he said, worry alight in his eyes. “It will keep you warm. Do you want a jacket?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said for about the twenty-fourth time that day. “I’m warm enough.”

Ilya searched his face for a few moments, then nodded. “Okay. But if you start sneezing again, I’m getting you another blanket.”

“Ilya. It’s July.”

“You can be chilly in July.”

“Yeah, maybe in Antarctica.”

Ilya reached over and cupped Shane’s face in both hands. “Shane. You are sick. Let me take care of you.”

Shane felt his cheeks warm again, and he realized that he was unable to relent. Not with those big sweet baby blues trained on him like this. “Okay.”

He felt himself wilting more and more as the movie progressed, and eventually he had to lay his heavy head against Ilya’s broad shoulder, then sit back up when it made his nose start to drip again. “Fuck,” he grumbled as something in his sinuses shifted, and he had to duck forward into a hastily-grabbed tissue. “hy’ITSChh’uu! hip’schiew! ISHhhuhh! hyihh-! hy’ishhhew!”

“Bud’ zdorov.” Ilya, who had paused the damn movie again, was true to his word and grabbed Shane another jacket because of course he’d been wracked with a full-body shiver after the sneezes. Shane drew the line when Ilya attempted to zip it up for him, however. “I can put on my own jacket,” he argued, then immediately sneezed into his elbow with a rapid “hy’ischh-ISHhuhh!”

“Mhm, okay. Bless you,” Ilya said, then continued zipping the jacket up to Shane’s neck. He…felt a lot warmer and cozier, actually, and he tipped his head back on Ilya’s shoulder and snuggled close in response.

“So what do you think of the movie so far?”

Ilya shook his head. “Is very unrealistic. That bat should at least be wearing a fur hat in this snowy weather.”

Shane giggled. Being sick wasn’t so bad when it was like this.

“I think I had a crush on Dimitri when I was a kid,” he commented a few minutes later.

Ilya gasped dramatically and put a hand to his chest. “Shane Hollander, you have a type? Are you trying to make me jealous of other hot Russian men with crooked noses?”

Despite the aforementioned sweater, Scott looked freezing. He had dark circles under his eyes indicating a sleepless night and a headache. He also had a slight flush to his cheeks that probably wasn’t just from the cold winter breeze. And his nose… Kip cringed. Scott’s poor nose looked like he’d been messing with it all morning, all pink and puffy and irritated.

Scott sniffled as he made it to the counter, which Kip might not have noticed, were it not for all the other signs that Scott was clearly sick. “Hey, baby,” Scott said thickly, clearing his throat like that would help. Since they were alone in the shop this morning, it was fine to use pet names and be a little more affectionate than they usually would be in public. “I’m good, how are you?”

Kip raised an eyebrow and looked Scott up and down. “Well, when I left my boyfriend at his apartment two days ago so I could study for my tests without any gorgeous distractions, I was great! But now I’m realizing that was a major mistake, since he apparently caught the plague while I was gone.”

Scott did another little throat clear that seemed like it was intended to cover up a cough. “Kip, I really am—hkkm!—good.”

“I don’t think so,” Kip said tentatively. It was weird. He and Scott had been dating for a while, long enough to know the ins and outs of each other’s behavior, but he’d never seen Scott sick before. He wasn’t sure exactly how far he could push on this before he risked pissing Scott off. “You look like you feel pretty awful, sweetheart.”

For a moment, Scott’s eyes looked a little glossy. Then he blinked and looked down at the counter, and when he looked back up, his eyes just seemed tired. “I’m really fine, Kip, I… appreciate the concern. I’m just ready for this season to be over, I think. Been a rough one.”

“Yeah,” Kip nodded. “I heard a lot of guys on all the teams have been passing a bad flu around. Making it harder to play, huh?”

Scott narrowed his eyes at him, smiling a little. “I know what you’re doing, and I’m not sick.” He sniffled again, not seeming to notice the contradiction between his words and his actions. “Just need my smoothie fix and I’ll be good to go.”

Kip waited a beat, trying to figure out where to go from here. But Scott was a grown man who could determine for himself if he was sick enough to need a day off. Besides, other than the shivers and the sniffling, he didn’t seem to be feeling too bad. Maybe it looked worse than it was, and maybe Kip was just too eager to fuss. “Okay, I’ll set it up,” he said finally. “Want to have a seat while I get it ready?”

“Thanks,” Scott flashed him a grin, and Kip recognized it as the fake one Scott used for interviews, “but I don’t want to get too comfortable. Last-minute practice in an hour, then the game tonight. Will you be watching from the bar?”

“You know it,” Kip promised. He usually attended home games when he could, but Elena had begged him for a night out at the sports bar, and when he’d asked Scott about it a couple weeks ago, Scott had said it would be fine.

He set about making the smoothie while Scott sniffled and cleared his throat in the background. While the blender worked, he made up another cup of a less popular beverage on the menu. “Here,” he said, pushing both cups forward for Scott to take. “This one’s just a hot tea. The wind’s pretty biting today, might be nice to have, huh?”

Scott took it, looking mildly surprised but not offended, which was what Kip had worried about briefly before deciding, Fuck it, better to ask forgiveness than beg permission. He’d even stuck a drizzle of honey in there. Good for sore throats, he figured.

Scott’s mild reaction had Kip feeling brave, so he asked with a wink, “Am I meeting you at your apartment tonight after the game?”

Scott hesitated, holding the cup of hot tea in both hands as if to warm himself up. “I don’t know, babe. I know you’re meeting your friends tonight, and it’s gonna be a long game. I… I might not be much for company, afterward.”

“Oh.” Kip couldn’t help the obvious disappointment in the one word, but he smiled up at Scott anyway. “No worries, we’ll figure out another day, right?”

“Right.” Scott paid, slipping an extra $20 in the tip jar when Kip wouldn’t let him pay for the hot tea. “See you later.”

“Bye, sweetheart. Kick ass tonight, huh?” Kip teased, winking again. He leaned against the counter waiting for a kiss.

But Scott just stepped away, both cups in hand. “Sorry, I—I don’t wanna be late. Love you, bye!”

Kip watched as Scott walked quickly out of Straw+Berry. He watched as Scott stepped outside into the whipping breeze—Kip hadn’t been lying about the wind earlier—and then abruptly froze on the sidewalk.

“What is he—?”

Quickly, Scott transferred his smoothie into the crook of the arm that was already holding his tea. His eyes were closed and his chest was visbly gasping as he tilted his head back, waiting for what was clearly an oncoming sneeze. After a second of hitching, he crashed forward into his free elbow, nearly bending in half and almost dropping both cups with the force of the explosion.

Through the glass windows, Kip couldn’t hear anything, but based off the way a nearby pedestrian jumped, it had been loud as hell.

“Okay,” Kip muttered to himself as he watched Scott shake himself off and walk away. “This might be pretty difficult.”

*

“Your man’s not looking too good tonight, Kip.”

“Shh!” Kip hissed, looking around at the mostly-empty gay bar around them. He looked up at the TV from his barstool and squinted at the game coverage. “Firstly, he’s not my man, not when we’re in public. Secondly, he looks fi—oh… wait, shit. He does look kinda bad.”

If Scott had looked rough this morning, he looked even worse out on the ice, with heavy lights and high-quality cameras trained on him. His eyes looked exhausted, and he kept bending down with his hands on his knees to brace himself to cough. Before the game even fully started, he was having to crumple into his jersey elbow to cover a couple of sneezes. They looked huge and heavy, shaking him so hard that he would slide on the ice a little with the force of them.

He’d been non-responsive to Kip’s texts all afternoon, but Kip had hoped he was just focused on his practice. Now he was worried that Scott had been too sick to even think about checking his phone.

Elena shrugged. “I never lie, babe. Did he swing by for his morning smoothie? You didn’t notice then?”

“He looked pretty peaky and sniffly, but wouldn’t really let me fuss. I made him a tea, that was all he’d let me do.” Kip took a swig of his beer and winced in sympathy when Scott took a hit pretty early in the game. “Fuck, he looks like shit.”

“Getting hit probably won’t do him any favors if he’s already sick,” Elena agreed.

They watched as Scott picked himself back up from the hit and rejoined the game. Kip couldn’t help but notice things; he’d never been much of a hockey expert, but he was starting to be. He noticed how Scott was moving slower than usual, missing shots he should’ve made, skating with less precision than normal. When the camera focused specifically on Scott, he could see the sweat dripping down Scott’s neck, way too early in the game for that.

Most of all, he could see the way Scott’s nose was running. That wasn’t unusual for the players while they were on the ice; thick, heavy padding plus a cold environment was a great place for a persistently runny nose. But Scott seemed too tired and sluggish to even swipe at his face.

Elena sucked her tongue and muttered a curse. “Poor guy. Flu season is rough this year.”

Kip couldn’t remember if Scott had gotten his flu shot this year. The team probably made him, right? But those things were never 100% effective. “He didn’t want to let me come over tonight,” he told her. “Guessing now he probably wants to lick his wounds in private.”

“Might not be an option,” Elena said, a little distress peeking through in her tone. “Look.”

*******Kip looked up at the TV just in time to see another player from the opposing team smash Scott into the boards. It was a rough hit, and Kip could tell that Scott had mostly taken it in the chest and stomach. Scott fell to his knees, gagging while he clutched at his ribs, and—

The TV cut away quickly to another angle of the game, but not before Kip could see the thin stream of puke falling from Scott’s lips. The subtitles on the bottom of the screen were slow to catch up, but eventually the transcription showed up.

[COMMENTATOR: Uh-oh, and it looks like Hunter just took a rough fall on the ice. He got checked real hard by Santos over there. Vomit on the ice—that’s never fun. They’ll have to close down for a minute to clean up, and—uh-oh. Things keep getting worse for the Admirals. Hunter is not getting up on his own. Looks like that hit really got to him.]

*******

Kip could feel the panic swell in his throat like a stone. “Fuck,” he said emphatically. “Oh my god, that looked so rough.”

Elena put a hand on his arm, gentle. “Probably some messed up ribs, just by the way he was holding them,” she said. “I’m thinking you’re going to have to spend the night at his apartment after all.”

Kip watched two teammates help escort Scott off the ice, where a medic was waiting at the bench. “I think you might be right. Are you okay if I…?”

“Go,” Elena told him. “Go get your man.”

*

He was getting close to the arena when his phone started buzzing. He answered without checking the caller ID. “Scott?”

Scott’s voice was even more congested than it had been this morning, sounding tight with pain. “Hey. Umb…”

“I had the game on at the bar,” Kip said, saving Scott from using up any energy to explain. “I saw you go down. Are you okay, sweetheart?”

He could hear Scott swallow over the phone. “They said I have bruised ribs,” he answered, avoiding the actual question. “And, uh, a positive flu test. They won’t let mbe drive myself home. Could you…? I’mb sorry to even ask.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Kip said automatically. “Besides, I’m already in a cab on the way to get you and we’re about five minutes out. I thought I could drive you back to the apartment in your car, once I get there. I figured they’d send you home early after that hit, and you could use a pickup.”

“Th-thanks… hih—HIHH’TSSHHGHH!” Scott burst with a thick, messy sneeze, the sound reverberating loudly over the phone. He panted for a second, groaned at presumably the pain in his ribs, and sniffled. “S-sorry again. Hope I didn’t deafen you.”

“Bless you, sweetheart,” Kip said. He could feel the sympathy leaking into his voice. Poor thing sounded so sick. And now with bruised ribs on top.

There was some silence on the phone, interrupted by periodic sniffling. “Thanks for coming to get mbe,” Scott said finally. His voice was so hoarse, sounding like it was over halfway gone. “Umb… mbedical cleared mbe to go hombe, I can just tell themb a friend is combing and wait outside. Gambe’s still going so there’s ndo mob of traffic at least.”

“All right. Just hang tight, Scott. I’ll be there soon.”

*

The cab dropped Kip off at the players’ parking lot, and it only took him a minute to find Scott, hanging around his car, looking listless. The expression on his face was pained, and he had one hand hovering protectively over his middle.

“Hey,” Kip murmured when he walked up. He leaned up for a kiss.

Only for Scott to back away a step, his back hitting the side of the car. He winced at the impact. “Sorry,” he said, looking miserable. His voice sounded like his throat was made of gravel now. “I don’t want to give you the flu.”

“Oh, baby,” Kip said sympathetically. But he didn’t see the point of arguing it right now. “Where are your keys?”

Scott handed them to him, and from there they got in the car and started on the way to Scott’s apartment—the place Kip was already calling “home” in his head. It had felt weird to go back to his dad’s for a few days to study, but Scott had encouraged it, joking that he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off Kip if he stayed. “I don’t want to be a distraction,” Scott had said at the time, cracking a grin. Scott so rarely wanted to be a distraction or a bother or a burden. It made Kip’s heart hurt a little.

Kip reached across the console to touch Scott’s hand. His skin was too warm. “Did the medics take your temperature?” Kip asked.

Scott had pressed his forehead into the coolness of the passenger seat window before the car had even started. It took him a few seconds to lift his head, and he blinked over at Kip like he was trying to parse through all the words. “Umb,” he said after a long moment, “I kndow they did, but I… I can’t really remember it, sorry.”

“That’s okay. You have a thermometer back at your place?”

Scott nodded, then winced in the way that indicated a headache.

Okay. Headache, definitely some fever, sneezing, congestion, coughing, sore throat. Plus bruised ribs. Kip bit his lip. Scott was in for a rough few days. “Do you have medicine, too, or should I stop and pick some up?”

Scott shrugged. “I don’t… really get sick that often,” he said, sounding unsure of himself. “When I do, it hits hard. I know I have, like, Tylenol.”

“You need some real cold and flu medicine, though. Okay if I stop and get some?”

Scott just shrugged again, pressing his forehead back against the glass. His eyes slid closed, and it was hard to tell if he was actually dozing or not.

Kip stopped at a pharmacy near to Scott’s apartment. He left Scott in the car with the heat running, Scott still resting his head against the window and looking mostly asleep. Kip made it as quick of a trip as he could, picking up the things he knew almost for sure that Scott wouldn’t have: NyQuil and DayQuil, tea, tissues, cough drops, Vick’s. He hesitated, then got some anti-nausea meds. It had probably just been the hit to his ribs that had made Scott sick, but there was no point in taking chances.

As he approached the car, he could see Scott sitting up in the passenger seat, definitely awake now. He had both hands hovering in front of his face, his chest heaving. The look on his face, even from farther away, plainly showed imminent, ticklish need.

He opened the car door, and at the same time, Scott crumpled into his hands with an explosive, painfully stuffy-sounding sneeze. “HGHH’TSSHHH!”

Kip rested a hand on Scott’s shoulder once he had sat down and shut the car door. Scott’s face was still buried in his hands, panting with the force of the sneeze, and he didn’t quite look like he was done. “You okay?”

Scott shook his head, still not withdrawing his face from his hands. “Did… did you get tissues?” he mumbled, and Kip could see his ears turning red from embarrassment, even in the dark.

Kip scrambled for the bag in his lap and extracted a box of Kleenex. He opened it and grabbed a handful, passing them over to Scott. He tried to ignore the wetness on Scott’s hand when their fingers brushed. “Sorry,” he said. “I should’ve already had them ready for you.”

Scott blew his nose as softly as he could, which sounded like it wasn’t doing much. “Ndot your fault,” he croaked out. “I can’t… ugh, c-can’t—huh… huh’USSHHHOOO! Fuck, I can’t stop.”

The second sneeze was wetter, looser, and Scott blew his nose again, this time sounding like it was actually helping. Kip patted his shoulder again. “Good, get all that crap out of you. It’ll help.”

“But I’ve been doing it all day,” Scott groaned, voicing a real complaint for the first time. “It hasn’t h-helped… herrUSSHHOOOHH! Ugh.”

“Bless you,” Kip said. He tossed the bag of supplies into the backseat, and drove them the rest of the way home.

Scott kept sneezing throughout the drive, loud, soaking explosions that made a heavy dent in the tissues. Kip was glad he’d bought more than one box. When he wasn’t sneezing, he was coughing, each muffled convulsion sounding like it scraped at his throat and tore at his busted ribs.

“I can’t believe you were able to go out on the ice like this,” Kip said as they pulled into their parking spot at the apartment complex. “Nobody on your team noticed?”

“Not the only one sick,” Scott rasped out, fresh out of a bad coughing fit. “I hate they sent me home in the first fucking period. Everybody else had to play through it.”

“Everybody else didn’t have bruised ribs and a fever,” Kip retorted. “You don’t need to be playing right now. I’m worried about you, you sound rough.”

Scott didn’t say anything immediately, just looked at Kip with tired, feverbright eyes. “Okay,” he said finally, sounding like he had more to say, but the one word immediately triggered another coughing fit.

While Scott got his lungs under control, Kip got himself out of the car, got the bag of supplies, and circled the car to open the passenger door. Scott was still coughing into a fist, looking pained while he braced his ribs with his other hand, so Kip reached around him and unbuckled his seatbelt. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, once Scott’s coughing reached a lull. “Let’s get you inside, this cold air can’t be helping.”

Scott braced himself wordlessly on Kip’s arm while they walked inside—which was good, Kip was insistent on being a support and hadn’t wanted to argue about it—and into the elevator. They didn’t run into anybody, but Kip could still feel the tightness of anxiety in Scott’s shoulders. Once the elevator doors closed on the two of them, Scott automatically relaxed and slumped down, resting his cheek against Kip’s arm. He felt heavy and too-warm. Scott muffled a cough into Kip’s shirt and mumbled an apology, and Kip only petted the back of his neck, the short hairs back there cool and stiff with dried sweat, a wordless forgiveness.

Kip guided Scott into the apartment and into the bedroom. Scott moved like he was sleepwalking, mindless and reliant on Kip’s touch to get him there. He sat on the edge of the bed hard, already coughing again as soon as he sat down, and his expression was pained.

“They didn’t give you anything for your ribs?” Kip asked.

Scott shook his head tiredly. “Jus’ said take Tylenol for the pain.”

That sounded like bullshit medicine practice to Kip, but he didn’t say anything. He left Scott to rest on the bed and went to run the bath. He came back into the bedroom with the thermometer he’d found tossed into a drawer, looking like a relic from the 90s, which it probably was. “Temp time,” he said, waving it cheerily.

Scott looked at it warily, but let Kip put it under his tongue. Kip resisted the urge to tell Scott how cute he looked with flushed cheeks and a thermometer sticking out from his pouting lips. It probably wouldn’t be well-received, even if it was true.

“And then I thought a bath might be nice,” Kip said, stacking his purchases on the nightstand where they’d be within easy reach during the night. “You’re kind of sweaty, no offense, babe.”

The thermometer beeped, and Kip turned to take it, only to see Scott’s eyelids fluttering shut with an air of finality, from a tickle that had evidently been torturing him for a few minutes now. Scott managed to fling the thermometer out of his mouth and onto the bedspread, but he wasn’t able to get any tissues up to his face before he was sneezing, loud and harsh and painful-sounding.

“heh’RISSHHHIEWW! hh’GTSSCHHH’uhh! heh…” Scott’s breath caught, the hitch toying with him, and he brought his hands up to his face to cover just in time. “heh’DJSSSCHHH’huhh! Ohhhmbygod…” he groaned.

Loud, harsh, painful-sounding, and wet. Kip cringed at the snuffling noises Scott was making into his hands. He pulled a handful of tissues from the box and pushed them into Scott’s hands until Scott took them and pressed them to his nose. “Bless you. Jesus, baby, your ribs,” Kip said worriedly.

Scott used one hand to mop up his face and sniffle into the tissues. He used the other to knead at his ribs, trying to force away the pain. “Yeah, they’re ndot too happy with mbe right ndow,” he said, face tight with pain when he pulled the tissues away. His nose twitched, threatening another fit, and he scrubbed at it mercilessly with the tissues. After a few seconds of unsteady breathing, he lowered the tissues. He seemed to have staved off any more sneezing, for now at least.

Disaster averted, Kip picked up the thermometer from where Scott had hastily thrown it on the bed. He studied the number and winced. “Just over 102. Definitely high enough to make you feel like shit.”

“I’ll take somb Tylenol,” Scott said with a low sigh. He continued to knuckle at his sternum, discomfort plain on his face. He kept darting looks at Kip and then glancing away, like even the eye contact was uncomfortable. “I’mb sorry you had to combe get mbe… I’mb finde whendever you have to go.”

Kip could tell he was making a face, although he wasn’t sure if it appropriately expressed his disbelief. “Yeah, I’m not going anywhere. Nice try,” he said, scoffing a little. “Come on, let’s dose you up, then you can get in the bath.”

“But—”

“No arguments, sweetheart,” Kip said. He stood in front of Scott and touched his chin, gently directing his gaze up until they were locking eyes. Scott’s looked exhausted, watery and red-rimmed. “I’m not leaving you here by yourself. You need a little caretaking, okay? That’s what I’m here for.”

Scott closed his eyes and let out a little huff. “You shouldn’t have to do that.”

Kip leaned down and kissed Scott’s temple. “No ‘have to’ about it,” he responded. “I’m right where I wanna be. Now, meds?”

Scott’s shoulders slumped as soon as the kiss connected. It was like a string holding up a marionette broke. “Yeah, okay,” he murmured, eyes downcast.

Kip fed him NyQuil and cough drops and half a bottle of Gatorade—Glacier Cherry, Scott’s favorite flavor—and then sat on the edge of the bed with him for a minute, just petting his hair. “Okay, sweetheart, time for that bath,” Kip said, when he started to worry that the tub was going to overflow soon. “I’ll wash your hair, okay?”

Scott shuffled into the bathroom, stifling coughs the whole way, and let Kip do just that. It was kind of alarming, watching Scott deteriorate from an embarrassed, stubborn independence, into a half-awake obedient quietness, giving no protest at all.

Kip didn’t mention it for a while, because he wasn’t sure Scott could explain it either. Instead, they sat—Scott in the tub, and Kip on the step-stool they’d had to buy for him to reach Scott’s ridiculously high cabinets—and breathed in the warm steam of the bath. “Okay?” he asked finally, after he’d washed Scott’s hair and done a cursory scrub of his body.

“Mm.” Scott was curled forward, head resting in his knees and arms wrapped around his legs. He looked and sounded half asleep. “Yeah. Tired. Water feels good.”

“Okay. Good. You’re just… kind of worrying me, baby,” Kip said, unable to keep a tinge of that worry from coloring his voice. “Are you feeling okay, like, emotionally? You’ve been kind of weird all day.”

Scott muffled a cough into his legs, and Kip rested a hand on his back before he could stop himself. The touch made Scott shiver a little. “I’mb sorry,” he croaked out. “I wasnd’t trying to worry you.”

“Honey. It’s okay, really. Just tell me what’s going on, yeah?”

Scott was still for a minute, forehead still pressed into his knees, his eyes hidden from Kip.

Then, “I guess I’mb… just ndot used to it,” Scott said, his voice more of a rasp than anything. “No one’s really… taken care of mbe since mby parents. I, uh… was kind of expecting you to go back to your dad’s house after this. Avoid the creeping crud. Which,” he added, a little audibly anxious, “is still okay, if you wandt to go do that.”

Kip ran his hand up and down Scott’s back, a few times, light, slow touches. Just enough to make Scott feel his presence. “Sweetheart,” he said gently. The pet name that always made Scott crumble, and he used it without mercy when it came to convincing Scott it was okay to accept help. “I am not going to leave you here alone when you need me. And even if you don’t really ‘need’ me, I am still not going to leave you here alone when you’re sick. Okay? I just… don’t think I have it in me to do that. If I left you here, sick and alone, when I could be taking care of you, I would feel… horrible. I won’t do it. Now,” he added firmly, “for the last time, I’m staying, okay?”

Scott was silent for a moment, then gave a sudden rush of an exhale, face still hidden.

Kip couldn’t tell if that was a sigh or a sob. He trailed his hand up and down Scott’s back a few times, leaving it to rest on the back of Scott’s neck. “Nobody’s really taken care of you since you were twelve?” he asked, unable to help himself from asking.

The thought of it broke his heart. Scott, alone at boarding school with freshers’ flu. Scott during his first hockey season, down with strep. Every road trip with a cold, every off-season bug. Alone. There had been nobody to even make sure he took more than a Tylenol? Nobody to wash his hair or buy him tissues?

Scott didn’t answer, but his breaths rose and fell so unsteadily that that was an answer in and of itself. He sniffled a little.

Kip also felt like crying a little. “Okay,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level. He had to be the steady one right now. “Well, I’m taking care of you today, and every day after. Got it?”

Sniffling some more, Scott lifted a hand back behind his head and laid it over Kip’s, still resting on the back of his neck. “Thanks,” he said, voice hoarse. He lifted his head off his knees, and his eyes were damp. His smile looked wrecked but sincere, and his whole demeanor gave off exhaustion.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” Kip said, and his voice almost broke from how much he meant it. He cleared his throat and tucked a wet strand of hair out of Scott’s face. “Come on, the bath’s gonna get cold in a minute. I bet that NyQuil’s kicking in, too. Time for all beat-up hockey players to go to sleep.”

Scott moved with Kip’s direction and assistance, sticking close by as he got out of the tub and toweled his hair dry. Scott let Kip change them both into sleepwear, looking at Kip with sleepy, trusting eyes. What Kip had thought of before as Scott acting like a sleepwalker, he now recognized as Scott being… clingy, and a little feverish. It was adorable, though still a little worrying. He liked when Scott was clingy, though.

Kip guided Scott to bed, where he crawled in and promptly gave Kip the biggest puppy eyes he’d ever seen. “Okay, okay,” Kip laughed. “I will join you, once I’ve made you some tea. And you need an ice pack for those ribs.”

Scott nestled into the blankets, looking domestic and snuggly and threatening to make Kip’s heart explode. “Liked the tea you made this morning,” he murmured, eyes closed. The bath seemed to have helped with his congestion, loosening his consonants.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Scott answered, sounding half-asleep. “Smoothie hurt my throat. Tea was warm, though.”

Kip smiled and made himself walk away before he could no longer stop himself from joining Scott in bed. He brewed the fastest cup of chamomile tea he’d ever made in his life, drizzled some honey in it, and grabbed a few bottled waters and the aforementioned ice pack, before returning to the bedroom.

Still seeming barely awake, Scott watched him silently as he organized the nightstand. Kip put all the medicine together, followed by the drinks. “Come on, sit up,” he said, easing Scott to rest mostly-upright against the pillows. “Drink some tea before you sleep. It’s good for sore throats.”

“Thank you,” Scott said, reaching for the tea. The taste must’ve been fine because Scott drank most of it, only handing it back when the steam made him sniffle and cough. “Sorry. It’s good, I promise,” he said, rubbing at the red, tender area at the tip of his nose. His eyes watered.

“You’re fine, baby,” Kip said. He prepped a handful of tissues for good measure, recognizing the look on Scott’s face. “Gonna sneeze?”

Scott took the offered tissues with a nod, cut off by a sharp inhale. “hehh—!”

The sneeze didn’t come. Instead, Scott kept hitching, little, tiny, unproductive things. Unsatisfying.

“Uh-oh,” Kip said fondly. “Stuck?”

Scott’s nostrils flared, and he plied them with tissues, scrubbing hard at his septum.

“Easy, easy,” Kip said, pulling Scott’s hands away from his face. “You’re too rough, Scott, jeez. You’re going to chase it away.”

“S’fine,” Scott mumbled, with the same frustration as before. “Just want it to go away.”

“You need to be gentler,” Kip told him. “Let me?”

Either as a sign of trust or immense weariness, Scott did in fact let him. Kip took the tissues and brought them back up to Scott’s face, tracing them gently under his reddened, angular nose. “Gentle,” he said again. “You’re gonna give yourself a sinus infection.”

Scott hitched again, helpless, and Kip tried to repeat the motion that had caused it, stroking his septum. “M’gonna,” Scott said, a bit of urgency entering his voice. His eyes fluttered closed. “hehh…”

“Okay,” Kip said. “So sneeze.”

“HEHT’SHHIEWW!” Scott burst out, a lighter, wetter noise than his sneezes before had been. It had been damp in the handful of tissues Kip still held to his face. Scott raised a hand as if to take them himself, but Kip ignored it. Scott didn’t have time to argue the point, since his breath was already catching for another one. “huh’EHHTTSCHHIEWW!”

“Bless you,” Kip said, when it seemed like two was going to be enough. He wiped gingerly at Scott’s nose, not trying to trigger him again.

Scott barked out a hoarse laugh. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“What? Caught your sneezes like the perfect, loving boyfriend I am?” Kip joked. He disposed of the tissues in the nearby wastebasket and collected another handful, for next time. He grabbed the ice pack, too, and helped Scott ease it against his ribs to help with the pain.

“Yeah,” Scott said, coughing into a fist. When he was done, he laid back down, curling up into Kip’s arms. “You are perfect, y’know,” he said sleepily, eyes already closed. “And I always need you. For the record.”

Kip carded a hand through Scott’s mostly-dry hair and kissed his forehead. “Glad to hear it,” he said softly. “I need you, too. Love you, sweetheart.”

Scott didn’t say it back, because he was nodding off.

Kip kept stroking Scott’s hair until he was definitely asleep, then removed the ice pack and turned off the lamp, ready to fall asleep himself. Between the flu and the busted ribs, they were going to need all the sleep they could get—it was going to be a miserable few days.