Waistcoats & Handkerchiefs

Since his rookie years, he was understood to have the highest hockey IQ of any players, old or new. His talent was unquestionable, as was his work ethic, so he rose in rank until he led the team he had once admired from afar. He did everything right, to the point of obsession. He was in charge on the ice, in brand deals and interviews, in planning sessions and practices that ran overtime because he needed to iron out a few tricks until his team played flawlessly. 

He was, and is, a perfect captain. He knows how to be in charge, how to assert himself on the ice in ways he couldn’t imagine doing otherwise. He is not, however, in charge in the bedroom. Ilya makes sure Shane knows that, tonight especially. 

The Metros had beat the Raiders 3:2 that afternoon; Shane perfectly executed a goal in the last few minutes of the game, raising the crowd into a cacophony of elated cheers. When he shook Ilya’s hand afterwards, the Russian whispered, “1023,” and with that, Shane’s captaincy was relinquished. 

Now, in the privacy of the hotel, Shane listens to Ilya’s body without question; each push of his fingers or flick of his tongue is followed by sighs of pleasure, sounds of affirmation that Shane barely recognizes as his own. They’re low, drawn out, and intermixed with whispered, nonsensical praise. Sometimes it’s Ilya’s name, purred so sweet it makes him shiver. Other times, French and English pour from Shane’s mouth in a cascade of nothings, “oui, just like that, mon amour, please.” It isn’t a conscious decision, isn't performative like others Ilya had slept with. It’s pure, unadulterated desire. 

It’s addicting to see Shane slip into such a pleasurable state that his mind shuts off, his tongue speaking in a manner that he would otherwise be embarrassed by. When Ilya takes Shane apart, as he does tonight, all of Shane melts into something sweet, obedient—into loveliness. 

The most consistent marker of his pleasure begins with moans splintering into quick, sharp breaths. Shane’s chest expands with soft hitches, as if he’s winding up in anticipation for release. He’s then interrupted with staccato breaths, mouth falling agape and disrupting the kisses he presses to Ilya’s skin mindlessly. 

In the beginning, Shane would turn away from Ilya and shield himself from view to the best of his ability—whether he cupped a hand over his face or pulled away entirely was determined by how quickly the fits came on. Sometimes, he would take his nose between thumb and forefinger and pinch until the sneezes were squashed into submission, unnecessarily quiet. 

Ilya would bless him. In Russian first, and then English. Typically, a few niceties followed (“thank you, sorry, excuse me”) before Shane would let Ilya kiss him again. When Shane was especially embarrassed, Ilya would coax Shane’s hands away from his face and kiss both palms despite their dampness. Later, when the two of them would lay undone beside one another, Ilya might tease him (“So, you let me swallow your spit and your cum, but I cannot kiss you after sneezing? Is too much?”) and Shane would blush, call Ilya an idiot, and kiss him again. 

If they were rushed for time, Ilya worked efficiently, using Shane’s fits at a cue for which position he liked best that night. The fits became useful to him—they were praise of his skill, and they spurred him on, assuring him that Shane was close to release. 

Tonight, however, Ilya takes his time. He lets Shane devolve into sweet whispered nothings, kissing up and down his thighs before taking him in his mouth. Slowly, he undoes Shane’s carefully crafted captaincy. He allows Shane to tug at his hair and buck his hips upwards, rewarding his eagerness with the timely flick of his tongue. 

When Shane’s moans first catch—splintering into a trembling breath that falls short of a full hitch—Ilya hums his praise, and the sensation sends a shiver down Shane’s spine. His breath stacks atop itself again, building into a quiet crescendo, “hh—hih—,” and succumbing to nothing more than a breathy moan. 

Tease, Ilya thinks; if his mouth wasn’t preoccupied, he would have called Shane a tease himself. Those carefully restrained breaths are enough to make Ilya work more quickly. After years of experience, Ilya knows exactly how to make Shane come, be it with his hands, mouth, or cock. 

It takes less than a minute for Shane’s breath to stutter again, this time more urgently than the first. The hand he had tangled in Ilya’s hair is suddenly raised to his face, just barely managing to cover the first of many soft sneezes: “idt’sSch!” It hisses out between his teeth, damp but light. Unlike his typical routine, he suffers through no anticipation for the second sneeze. 

“hh’itsschh!-hsch!-itSChh!”

Shane’s body shudders with each expulsion, his torso clenching and his legs trembling as Ilya hums his praise once more. 

Ilya’s hands work their way up Shane’s  abdomen, squeezing and pinching wherever they please. His right hand settles over Shane’s pec, and he presses his fingers into the muscle. He works his tongue down Shane’s shaft once more, pulling back as he does so—a moment later, he lets his head bob down as he takes Shane fully again. 

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane moans. He places a hand over Ilya’s, grappling for some sort of capital. He can feel heat pulsing through his body, rippling beneath his skin as Ilya works to please him. The thought alone of the Russian working so carefully to unravel him is enough to make his hips buck up once more. Ilya retaliates, squeezing his pec and quickening his pace. 

“Fuck…. fuck— Ilya!” Shane's head falls back, hitting the pillow with a soft thump as he writhes. The pleasure seeps bone deep, easing the tension that has sat heavy in his stomach since the last time he had seen his rival. Warmth replaces the knot of anxieties, spurting out as he whispers delirious praise. Ilya swallows and pulls away with a lewd pop! 

Shane finds that the warmth has shifted from his abdomen to his nose—the pulsing thrum is now a buzz, deep seated and demanding release. His lashes flutter shut, eyes brimming with tears that refuse to fall, instead leaving his eyes glassy. Freckles crowd one another as his nose scrunches, and suddenly he’s curling a fist beneath the appendage. It presses to his septum, stopping a sneeze in its tracks for just a moment, and then a fit spills out in retaliation: “hng’SHxt!—ngSCh—hssch! h’sSchh’ew!” 

“Bud’te zdorovy.” Ilya rests his chin on Shane’s thigh, peering up at him, “Just four?” 

“Shut up.” Shane’s cheeks flush, and he reaches for a tissue from the nearby box; Ilya had made sure there was a box on the nightstand before Shane had come over that evening. He likes to watch when Shane falls into his typical post-sex routine: folding the tissue politely once, twice, and then tenting over his nose and wiping gently.  

“And the four before.” Ilya hums in observation. “In fours today.” 

Ilya’s hands once again roam over Shane’s body. One skirts down his side, collecting dampness from Shane’s sheen of sweat. It settles just above Shane’s hip, and Ilya can’t help but give his side a squeeze. 

Shane jerks in reaction, his body sensitive, every sensation heightened in the wake of his pleasure. He doesn’t oppose the touch, though. He watches Ilya’s hand move to his thigh next. Another squeeze, this time followed by a slight tremble from Shane. 

But also, the video already had a bunch of views, likes, and comments, so maybe it wasn’t a total disaster after all.

Harris sighed and then clicked play. Maybe if he watches it enough times, he will understand what the apparel is. Or not - but he liked to understand what viewers wanted because it made it easier to work on videos for the team’s social media. It’s not like he contributed to the rapidly growing follower base to his editing skills. He suspected it had more to do with both Ilya and Shane being on the team now.

The video started playing. Harris recorded this one like a month ago, but for some reason, it took way too long to edit. He remembered, clear as day, when they filmed it; it was during winter, and it was so cold outside that Harris was freezing even with his warmest clothes.

video transcript of ‘Cens vs sneezing’

<The camera is pointing at the bench from the back. It’s clear that there are a lot of people on the ice still, but a bunch of rookies are sitting next to each other, looking at the older players running drills on the ice. The camera gets closer and closer, and then suddenly it’s a side view at the end of the bench. The rookies look up; Nils Holmberg, Julian LaPointe, Alex Young, and Luca Haas are sitting like little kids. They are all wearing hockey gear and looking expectantly at the camera. It’s clearly visible that Luca is kicking his legs like a little kid.>

[LaPointe]: What is your question today, Harris?

[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?

<It doesn’t sound like a hard question, but the rookies all pause, and they look like they are deeply thinking. Young even starts to count something using his fingers.>

[LaPointe]: I don’t know, like 50?

[Holmberg]: You only sneeze 50 times a year?

[LaPointe]: I mean, yeah? Is that too much? Wait… how many days are in a year?

[Young]: Like 365?

<LaPointe looks like he is thinking very deeply; meanwhile, all of the other rookies look at him, amusement in their eyes.>

[LaPointe]: Okay, I mean, I guess my answer is around 300? I don’t know; I never counted, but I don’t sneeze every day, probably, but it’s not like I never sneeze, so…

[Holmberg]: Yeah, that sounds accurate. I will say 365. Like a sneeze every day, you know? Like, sometimes it’s zero, but sometimes it’s two, so?

<Luca Haas is still silent; he looks like he is deeply in his head, thinking about something. His blond hair is completely in his eyes, and he is squinting a little. He scratches his nose while he is thinking. Next to him, Young looks uncertain.>

[Young]: Mine’s like 700? I mean, I mostly sneeze two times in a row, so…

[Haas]: I mean… I honestly never thought about counting my sneezes, but it has to be triple digits. I feel like I sneeze every day and I always sneeze three times, so three times 365 is like… 1100?

<Haas looks uncertain, saying the number, and he’s clearly blushing. Next to his face, there is an edited photo of a calculator with the number 1095, and a classic, celebrating GIF.>

CUT

<The scene switches from the bench to outside the locker room. There is loud music and yelling coming from behind the closed doors, and it just gets louder when the door opens and then quickly shuts. The cameraman walks back a few steps as he realizes there are more people coming out of the locker room. Boyle, Dillon, and Chouinard stop and look at the camera, clearly expecting a question. All three of them look a little sweaty, bundled up in warm clothes.>

[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?

[Boyle]: Like, all year?

[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah, approximately.

[Dillon]: Is this like a trend?

[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah. The Admirals had a similar video.

[Chouinard]: It has to be around 200? Like, not one every day, but that’s like a pretty normal number.

[Dillon]: Yeah, I think mine is a little more, so I’m gonna say 250?

[Boyle]: Why are we acting like it’s a competition? Roz will win anyway.

[Chouinard]: I don’t know; it’s fun. What’s your number, Boyle?

[Boyle]: I don’t know. At least 200. Okay, you know what, I’m gonna say 250. I don’t sneeze that much.

CUT

<Some time clearly passed, maybe it’s even a day later because Boyle can be seen in the background, walking away. He’s clearly wearing different clothes from before. The locker room’s door opens, and Boodram walks out, laughing with Dysktra about something.>

[Dysktra]: Okay, Harris, I am ready for today’s question.

[Boodram]: It better be interesting.

[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?

<Pause. They clearly don’t expect this question, but it takes a little time, and Boodram is already laughing. He seemingly likes the question, or it just made him think of something funny.>

[Boodram]: Honestly, this feels like a targeted question. I don’t know, man? Like, once a day? Maybe a little less.

[Dysktra]: I don’t think you sneeze once a day. I think you are like… the least sneezy person I know.

[Boodram]: Hmm… maybe, yeah. You’re right, it’s definitely less. Fine, let’s go with 210.

[Dysktra]: That’s weirdly specific.

[Boodram]: I just gave a random number, smart***. Just say something.

[Dysktra]: Fine, if yours is 210, then mine is gonna be 283.

[Boodram]: And you say mine is specific…

CUT

<The video cuts back to the bench, except now it’s the cameraman sitting there, recording the ice. Troy Barrett skates over, and he looks all smiley and happy; there’s a faint blush on his cheeks.>

[Barrett]: Hey, b..

[Harris, off-camera]: I’m recording. I have an important question for today’s video.

<It’s clear on Troy’s face that he knows all about Harris’ important questions, and he definitely doesn’t think they are that important or exciting. He rolls his eyes and then rests his elbow on the barrier.

[Barrett]: Shoot.

[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?

[Barrett]: <laughing> Oh, yes, that definitely sounds like a really important question.

[Harris, off-camera]: What is your answer?

[Barrett]: I don’t know. What is my answer?

[Harris, off-camera]: I mean, I am asking you, so…

[Barrett]: Fine. Like, twice every day? What is that, like 700?

[Harris, off-camera]: <snorts> C’mon! You totally sneeze more than twice a day! Haasy said 1100, and you do sneeze more than him!

[Barrett]: I thought you were asking me?

[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah, but if you’re not gonna tell the truth, what can I do?

[Barrett]: Fine, okay. 1300. Happy.

[Harris, off-camera]: Happy.

CUT

<It’s clearly the end of practice. People are walking down the corridor, happily chatting with each other. Most of them look at Harris, expecting him to ask a question. Harris just shakes his head off-camera; he’s still missing three people from the next video.>

<Speaking of missing people. Wyatt Hayes gets stopped right in front of Harris. He looks really unhappy; his blond, curly hair is completely flat, and he looks really pale and tired. His nose is red, and he is clearly sniffling.>

[Harris, off-camera]: Ah, I was looking for you!

[Hayes]: <sniffs> Shoot. But hurry up, I need to get a tissue.

[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?

[Hayes]: This feels targeted.

[Harris, off-camera]: I asked everyone except you, Shane, and Ilya.

[Hayes]: Like, how many times do I sneeze in general, or right now?

[Harris, off-camera]: Yeah, like generally, per year.

[Hayes]: <his breath hitches, and he turns away from the camera, to direct a strong triple into his elbow. He stays like that for a few seconds, hitches again, and sneezes another two times.>

[Harris, off-camera]: Bless you! So, your final answer is?

[Hayes]: Thanks, sorry about that. Great, now people will think I did that on purpose. < He points at the camera, very seriously> I swear, I didn’t do that on purpose! I’m just sick! But yeah, I don’t know. I sneeze… like a lot? I think I’m a pretty sneezy guy, and I have allergies. Plus, every time I get a stupid cold it’s all in my nose, so… What was the most said?

[Harris, off-camera]: Troy said 1300, but I feel like you sneeze more like Troy. I mean… You sneeze a bunch in a row, so…

[Hayes]: Yeah, I do… Hmm, okay. You know what, I’m gonna say 2000. That sounds unrealistic, but it’s not, so.

CUT

<Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov step out of the locker room. They are holding hands and seemingly in deep conversation. They both stop once they notice Harris standing there with the camera. Ilya immediately smiles.>

[Rozanov]: Harris! Did you bring Chiron with you?

[Harris, off-camera]: No, not this time, sorry. I’m actually making a video, and you two are the only ones missing, so I wanna record that if that’s okay with you.

[Hollander]: Yeah, sure. What’s the question?

[Harris, off-camera]: How many times do you sneeze a year?

[Rozanov]: This is targeted!

[Hollander]: <blushing> Ilya…

[Harris, off-camera]: Roz, I asked everyone. You guys are the last ones.

[Rozanov]: I never sneeze. Russians do not sneeze. Shane, tell them.

[Hollander]: <still blushing> I mean, you do sneeze a lot.

[Rozanov]: Is lie.

[Hollander]: Ilya, oh my god, shut up and answer the question.

[Rozanov]: No, you answer it first.

[Hollander]: Oh my god, Ilya! Okay, fine. Like, probably around 1500? Maybe? I don’t sneeze that much when I’m healthy, but I have seasonal allergies, and I get pretty congested when I am sick. so. Yeah.

[Rozanov]: Fine. Yes. Mine is around that too.

[Hollander]: Ilya, you know that’s not true! If mine is 1500 yours is at least… I don't know! 4000! 5000! C’mon.

[Rozanov]: I don’t sneeze that much.

[Harris, off-camera]: You literally sneeze like… ten times in a row, Roz.

[Hollander]: At least.

[Rozanov]: I do not!

<Cut. First, there’s a clip from an older interview. It’s from when Ilya was still with Boston. To no one’s surprise, he is sneezing into closed fists, painfully stifling every little burst of sneeze.>

<After this, the video cuts back to Ilya and Shane, still bickering. An “one eternity later” meme fills the screen. When it disappears, Shane and Ilya are still on camera. Shane looks smug, while Ilya is clearly unhappy.>

[Rozanov]: Fine. My husband says I sneeze 5000 times a year, which is absolutely ridiculous, but I wanna **** *** tonight, so I gotta say what he says.

It feels like so many things in the moment. Release. Humiliation. Shame. Relief.

And he can’t take it back, afterward. Shane won’t let him—or maybe he won’t let himself. They use first names, hold hands at the beach, make tentative plans just to spend time together after their next game. It feels.. good. Terrifying, too. But he almost feels like he can settle into it, into the vulnerability.

Then he gets the call in the locker room. Alexei’s voice, cruel like always, throwing out the news of their father’s death like Ilya should’ve already known about it.

It feels like fate. Drawing him back to Russia, away from Shane, away from the emotional intimacy they were starting to build. It’s how it’s meant to be, he tells himself. Quit asking for things you’re not supposed to have. Quit wanting them.

The problem is that it seems like Shane is ready to get into an MMA fight with fate, or whatever else wants to keep them apart. He refuses to let Ilya disappear. He just… stays. In the periphery. Texting, calling, checking up on Ilya the whole time he’s in Russia. Never too much. Never too invasive. He lets Ilya draw the conversation back to FaceTime sex once he sees Shane in those glasses. He lets Ilya rant on the phone in Russian, pouring out his whole fucking heart, trusting that Shane won’t record this or translate it, because such subterfuge would never even occur to Shane.

He lets Ilya say I love you, even though admittedly he doesn’t really know that’s what’s happening. Even though they both know this could never be that.

And he calls again the night before Ilya’s return flight, just checking in. It’s a quick FaceTime call, where Ilya is mostly discussing his flight details and trying not to think about how he’s leaving Russia behind. He gave away his apartment, he cut off Alexei, he said goodbye to his mama’s grave. He may never come back here.

It hurts, but it feels like tugging at your stitches. A healing kind of hurt, maybe.

He’s still talking mindlessly about his plans when Shane interrupts him. “Are you feeling okay?”

Ilya rolls his eyes, endeared despite himself. “Yes, Hollander, you ask me this everyday.” He lies or talks around an answer most of the time, but no point in revealing that.

“No, I mean… you just sound weird, is all. Kind of congested. Are you feeling sick?” Shane sounds unsure of himself, hesitant to prod as ever, but being brave and doing it anyway.

Ilya blinks in surprise. “I’m fine, is just cold and snowing outside,” he says, not stopping to think about it. He bulldozes past Shane’s concern out of habit, bringing the conversation back to hockey in a way that he knows will entice Shane into letting it go.

That night though, in bed, he finds himself cataloguing a growing list of complaints. His throat feels a little sore, in a way that drinking a glass of water doesn’t touch. His skin aches. His face feels tight, the way it does when his sinuses are about to work overtime.

He tosses and turns, catches a couple of hours of poor sleep, and groans when his alarm wakes him for his stupid-early flight to Canada. He’d timed it perfectly, so he’ll get there a couple hours before the game with Montreal. It means leaving Svetlana behind, but she’ll catch her own flight home, and she’d known better than to protest at how little time he took off for his father’s death.

He drags himself to the airport, his suitcase somewhat heavier than it was, with everything he’s taken from his apartment and his father’s home. Mostly things to remind him of his mother. It’s very little—not enough—but it’s things he couldn’t leave behind, especially if he’s never coming back.

He’s feeling increasingly like he’s never coming back. Dread and relief sit equally heavy in his stomach at the thought of never seeing Russia again. But what’s left for him here, anyway?

By the time he gets to his gate in the airport, he’s got a cough and he can’t quit sniffling, and his throat feels like he’s been gargling glass. Whatever he’s caught decided to hit in full force during the little sleep he managed to get in the night. He buys a travel pack of tissues at a store by his gate, along with a Gatorade for hydration, and settles back to listen to music until his flight is called.

The FaceTime from Shane surprises him, about ten minutes before boarding. Ilya doesn’t even know what time it must be, back in Canada. He could do the math but that sounds exhausting. He looks around cautiously, but it’s still so early that the airport is fairly empty, and he has his earbuds in. He turns so that his back is to a wall, to ensure nobody peers over his shoulders, and answers.

“What are you doing up?” he asks, as soon as Shane’s face appears on his screen, and then he cringes when he hears himself. His voice sounds thick and heavy now, the congestion audible. In the little square on his screen, he can see himself, bundled up against the cold with weary eyes and pale skin.

Shane doesn’t point it out out loud, but anyone with eyes could see the concern on his face. “It’s not even eleven at night,” he protests easily. “I haven’t even gone to bed yet. It’s, what, 5AM there? What made you book such an early flight?”

“Wanted plenty of time to get to Montreal,” Ilya says, rubbing at his nose absently. “Will get there a couple hours before our game, as long as everything goes smoothly.”

“You’re going to play,” Shane says flatly. “After a transatlantic flight, and with a—with the week you’ve had.”

“Yes? I am not just there to sit and look pretty,” Ilya says. He can tease no matter how shitty he feels, it’s a gift. “That’s your job.”

“We’re going to beat your asses,” Shane retorts with a smile, but he still eyes Ilya with poorly-concealed worry. “Just… take it easy, okay?”

Ilya summons up every skill he’s honed over the years to avoid showing any weakness around others. It’s failed him lately, but he needs it now. “Relax, Hollander. I will sleep on plane, eat whatever horrible meal they feed me, show up just in time to beat you soundly.”

Shane’s smile is soft, illuminated by his bedside lamp, where he must be getting ready for bed. “It’s Shane, Ilya. Remember?”

Aaaand that instinct fails him once again, because he can’t deny Shane when he looks so sweet. “Okay, Shane.”

“Just… text me, okay? Let me know how your flight goes, layovers, stuff like that.”

His nose prickles, but he resists the urge to rub it again. Not while he’s still on FaceTime, anyway. He repeats himself, “Okay, Shane. They are boarding now, I go, okay?”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.” Ilya hangs up, a little annoyed with how relieved he is to be off-camera so he can scrub at his face to chase away the approaching tickle. He doesn’t do a very good job, and he fumbles to open the travel pack of tissues he bought so he can muffle a sneeze into a handful of them. “huhh… huksshhtt!”

An older woman nearby blesses him, and he thanks her, still sniffling into the tissues. He doesn’t feel like blowing—it’s too loud, and it would only trigger more sneezing, thanks to his thrice-broken nose’s irritating hypersensitivity—so he just rubs his nose through the tissues until the lingering tickle subsides.

His plane boards. The flight is tedious, long, freezing in spite of the layers he made himself wear. He tries to focus on the in-flight movies, but even that doesn’t provide much distraction from his symptoms, which only intensify over their hours in the air. The light cough turns heavier, more insistent, and his nose fills with congestion that only feels worse with the changes in air pressure. He tries to hold back his coughs—nobody wants to be that person on a long plane ride—but it gets harder and harder over time. He sniffles thickly, more and more frequently over the course of the flight, cringing each time the people seated near him turn to look at him.

Ilya ends up catching some sleep toward the end of the flight, but it isn’t very restful, and he finds himself half-waking up several times to cough or hold back a sneeze. Eventually the congestion gets annoying enough that he stumbles his way out of his seat and toward the plane’s lavatory, where he grabs handfuls of the provided tissues—thin, dry, scratchy and harsh on his nose. Even the mere touch of the tissues is enough to provoke his sinuses at this point. The second he brings them to his face, his breath is hitching, and the sneezes come so quickly that he can’t even try to hold them back. “hh’tsshhmphh! heh’schhmphh! heh… heh’EHHTTshhh!”

Muffled into the tissues, they’re quiet enough that he’s only a little embarrassed. He forces himself to blow his nose, knowing that he needs it, and winces when it shifts the congestion in his sinuses around. His nose tingles again, overwhelming and too sudden for him to stop it, and he helplessly muffles another sneeze. “hmphhsshh!”

He blows his nose again, thick and honking, and bullies his nostrils into submission by swiping at them harshly with a fresh handful of tissues. It keeps him from sneezing again, but his nose and upper lip are stinging and raw when he washes his hands and makes his way back to his seat.

Eventually, he settles enough again to drift back to sleep. His dreams are hazy and disconnected, hard to make sense of, but he knows his mother is part of it. His father, too, voice harsh and cold. Not confused and childlike, how he was by the end. Ilya’s chest hurts, from the memory and from the coughs he holds back in his sleep.

He wakes up to enormous pressure in his sinuses, and realizes they’re landing. The whole flight seems to have been simultaneously endless and shorter than he expected, and his vision swims. Probably the start of a fever. He curses to himself and tries to get ready for deplaning, but the stabbing pain in his sinuses from the air pressure change can’t be ignored or relieved. He ends up sitting completely still, fingers pressed to the sides of his nose and cheeks, trying to simply bear the pressure until they’ve landed.

Time passes—he has no idea how long—and when the pain finally fades enough for him to relax a little, the row in front of him is standing up and gathering their things. He scrambles to get his stuff and follows, praying he hasn’t left anything behind. He grabs at the seats in front of him in a dazed attempt to keep himself balanced as he moves toward the front of the plane.

Once he’s in the airport, the crowds surrounding him keep him feeling overwhelmed, plus confused and hazy. Definitely a fever. He groans and rubs at his face, taking a second to try to ground himself, then goes to get his luggage and call for a car to get him to the rink.

He doesn’t call Shane again from the cab. There’s no way he’d be able to hide the congestion and rasp in his voice, and the thick feeling in his throat only worsens when he imagines Shane fussing over him. Instead, he shoots off a quick text. Landed. See you at face-off.

Within seconds, he gets a text back. How was your flight?

He hesitates over the response. Long. Meet at your place after the game?

Sure. But then Shane sends him a new address.

Ilya: What happened to fuck apartment?

Shane: Don’t call it that. This is the address for my actual apartment. Let’s meet there tonight.

Ilya feels oddly touched. Maybe Shane was serious about all the things he said in Tampa about caring about him, about how he had shown up for Ilya even when he was a continent away while Ilya struggled in Russia. He lingers over the text, not sure what to respond with. “Thanks”? “Can we just do the fuck apartment, I’m uncomfortable with being cared for”? A crying emoji?

In the end, he doesn’t respond with anything. He just likes the message and puts his phone away.

But then not even an hour before the game, he gets scratched. Fucking Evan, the team doctor, hears him coughing in the locker room and pulls him aside for a checkup. “Your swab just came back positive for flu B. Although, I’m worried that cough sounds like it’s turning into bronchitis,” Evan tells him in the sick bay, scribbling into a clipboard and eyeing Ilya with obvious concern. “You’ve got a sinus infection, for sure, and the bronchitis is too soon to tell but I really think it’s going that way. I can’t believe you flew transatlantic like this.”

“Did not want to miss game,” Ilya says, ducking into his elbow with a round of harsh, scraping coughs that won’t back down.

“Well,” Evan says, the unsaid that’s what’s gonna happen obvious in his tone. “I don’t know if I want you going back to the hotel room alone. You could stay here with me until after the game, and I can check on you in the night. Our flight’s in the morning, though I’m not sure if you’ll be able to fly in your current condition. You and I might have a little layover here in Montreal until you’re cleared for it.”

Jesus Christ, no. He likes Evan—though not very much right now, when he’s getting denied his chance to play, the only potential escape he’s had from the stress of the last few days—but he doesn’t want to spend hours or possibly days with the guy fussing over him. “Ah, no. I have, um. Girlfriend? Kind of? In town. I can call her, go to her place.” He waits for Evan to nod and leave the room to tell Coach, then texts Shane.

Ilya: I have news. Don’t be mad.

Shane: Are you ditching me tonight?

Ilya: Scratched. They are saying flu, sinus infection.

Technically, they also said probably-bronchitis, but he doesn’t want to get in the details of that. Flu sounds a bit easier to manage, maybe.

Shane: And you flew like that?! I knew you sounded rough on the call.

Ilya: Was not so bad this morning.

Shane: Liar. Okay, what now?

Ilya: I told doctor I would go stay at my girlfriend’s place. Figure I will sleep it off in the hotel room. Sorry. I wanted—

He erases the last two words. Best not to get into what he wanted.

Ilya: Sorry to cancel on tonight.

His phone is silent for a moment, and he watches Shane type and erase repeatedly. Shane is probably busy getting ready, putting on his gear, maybe doing pre-game media.

Shane: No one’s canceling. You can go to my apartment. I’ll text you the codes.

He doesn’t have time to respond before his phone buzzes again.

Shane: I really want to see you tonight. And I don’t want you sick by yourself in a hotel room. Please.

Ah, fuck. He can just envision Shane with those Hollander puppy dog eyes, all big and brown and sweet.

Ilya: You are that horny, you want me over even with the flu?

Shane: Main door code 1221, front door code 8124. Try and sleep. I’ll bring you some medicine when I get home. There’s soup in the pantry I think.

Shane doesn’t take the bait, the way he normally would, which leaves Ilya feeling a little off-kilter without his chance to banter. If he’s being honest, though, he doesn’t really feel up to his normal level of bantering. He likes the message and doesn’t respond—starting to become a habit for him—just in time for Evan to come back with Coach in tow.

“We’ll miss having you out there tonight, Rozanov,” Coach tells him gruffly. “I’m sorry you’re having such a shitty month.”

Ilya shrugs and nods. What can you do? He doesn’t say anything; his throat’s feeling too sore at this point to make him much of a conversationalist.

Coach leaves after wishing for him to feel better soon, and Evan prescribes him a heavy-duty cough syrup and an antiviral. “Hear back from your girlfriend?”

“I am to take cab to her place,” he rasps out. “And let her take care of me upon pain of death. My Jane is stubborn.” His mouth ticks up in a smile, fond despite himself.

Evan laughs a little. “Lucky for you, these prescriptions should be ready quick. You should be able to pick them up on the way. Feel better, okay, Roz? Message me if things get worse, and go to the ER if you have trouble breathing or your fever spikes.”

He agrees, more to get away quicker than anything else, and stumbles out into the freezing Canadian spring air to get to his cab once Evan finally lets him go. He didn’t even have time to stop by the hotel earlier, so at least he still has his luggage to take with him and doesn’t need an extra stop. The cab driver recognizes him but is pretty nice about it for an obvious Montreal fan, clearly a bit gleeful now that the news has hit the airwaves that Ilya got scratched just before the game.

Ilya finds himself holding back sneezes all throughout the drive, hitching and pressing his gloves to his nose to fight off the insistent tickle. He convinces the driver to stop at the pharmacy, where his prescriptions are in fact ready, and then has the driver drop him off a block away from Shane’s apartment. Normally, he would do even farther, but he’s worried his lungs won’t let him manage any longer of a walk.

The door codes work just fine—and he snickers at 8124, belatedly realizing the meaning as he types it in—and he staggers into the apartment just as the long-threatened sneezing fit finally hits.

“hh’DSSCHhhwww! hah—HAHHDT’sshheww!” He sneezes into his gloves in the doorway, thanking God that Shane has this floor all to himself, so no neighbors in the hallway can recognize him and/or show concern over his fucked-up nose. He sniffles, which only forces out yet another horribly wet, throat-tearing explosion. “HAAHhh’DTTsshhieww! …guh. Fuck.”

Half-blind from the tears in his eyes that are streaming down his face, he takes a few unsteady steps into the living room, where he sees the faintly recognizable shape of a tissue box on the coffee table. He grabs at it with the hand that isn’t currently pressed to his face—which he would swear is holding him together while his brain tries to escape through his nose—and gathers a bouquet of tissues to bury his nose in.

He blows, long and loud, grateful that for the first time today he’s completely alone to be as loud as he needs. The sound and vibration hurt a little, and it makes him sneeze again, but the relief of having almost-cleared sinuses is worth it, for the whole two minutes that it lasts.

Once he recovers himself, he texts Shane, already knowing that the game has started and Shane won’t have his phone on him. He keeps it simple: Here. Good luck tonight.

He grabs a can of Coke from the fridge—does Hollander normally have Coke, or did he stock it for Ilya in preparation for tonight, he wonders with a thrill—and settles on the couch to watch the game. He watches the face-off, and the first couple of minutes, and then unintentionally sacks out.

When he drifts back into awareness, he’s curled up in a ball on the couch with drool on the cushion under his head, and the TV screen says it’s just after the second period. His sinuses feel heavy, and he can feel the congestion and swelling in his nose, built up with no way to escape. He groans and stretches, rubbing at his eyes that feel like they weight twenty pounds each.

He checks his phone. There’s a text from Evan asking if he got the prescriptions okay, and Ilya thumbs up the message. He should probably take the medicine, he can see it in sitting in a bag on the kitchen counter where he’d left it, but he can’t bring himself to get up. He manages to grab at the can of Coke on the coffee table, taking a sip to try to ease his sore throat that’s only been aggravated by the snoring he’s sure he’s been doing, but the carbonation only burns the whole way down, and he sets it aside with a groan.

There’s a text from Shane, too, and he must be keeping his phone near the bench, which Canadian good boy extraordinaire Shane Hollander would never normally do. Are you feeling okay? Is there anything special you want from the store before I get home?

Ilya watches the highlight reel for a few minutes, which shows Shane scoring a fantastic goal in the first period. Montreal’s going to win this one. He wonders if the team is mad at him, for missing tonight’s game when he’s already been gone a week, but the logical part of his brain knows they won’t be. Marly will probably be texting him as soon as they finish the game, to make sure he isn’t drowned in his own snot if nothing else.

Nice goal, he texts back. I am okay. Team doctor prescribed me some medicine that will fix me.

He tries to watch the rest of the game. Tries to wait for Shane to text him back. But he already knows it’s a losing fight. He barely manages to move a throw pillow under his head before his eyes are dragged closed again and he falls back asleep.

When he wakes up a second time, an indeterminate amount of time later, everything is dreamlike and hazy, and he immediately knows that something is different. Wrong. Everything hurts, and his sinuses are pounding, just like they had back on the plane. He doesn’t really know where he is. His vision is swimming, and he has that heavy painful feeling in his chest that could be the probably-bronchitis, or just as likely could be the way he knows he dreamed about his mother again. And his father, yelling, always yelling. Always with the cold voice and the harsh words and the cruel touch.

“Ilya,” he hears, the voice sounding muffled and distant but familiar, “Ilya, hey, English please. Okay? I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

He’s babbling, quiet and in Russian, and the realization that he’s doing so has him shutting up instantly. A hand brushes his hair back from his forehead, damp and hot with sweat, and he looks up.

Shane. Shane, here, looking tired and beautiful and with such concern in his big brown doe eyes, so sweet and perfect that Ilya wants to cry.

“Oh, hey,” Shane murmurs, swiping a thumb under Ilya’s eye and smearing liquid.

Fuck, he is actually crying, isn’t he? He swallows and tries to apologize, but he can’t find the word in English for a too-long second. “Sorry,” he finally says hoarsely, and the word catches in his throat, doubling him over with a coughing fit.

Shane is seated on the edge of the couch, by Ilya’s hip, and he helps Ilya sit up a little. He hands Ilya tissues, for wiping away his tears and for him to cough into. “It’s okay,” Shane says once the coughing has stopped. He rests a comforting hand on the back of Ilya’s neck and winces at the heat he must feel there. “God, you are burning up, Ilya. When’s the last time you took your medicine?”

Ilya only stares at him blankly. Shane is—is here. (Wherever here is.) With him. Looking so pretty and worried and tired from the game, but still here with Ilya.

After a moment, Shane gives him a patient smile and pats his knee and stands up, wandering off to the kitchen before Ilya can think of what to say to stop him from walking away. He’s not sure right now what the words would be in English, anyway.

Shane comes back holding the prescription cough syrup, the antiviral, and an unfamiliar painkiller bottle that must be from his own supply. “You didn’t even take anything, the cough syrup’s still unopened,” Shane says, and the words are scolding but his tone is endlessly gentle. “Medicine now, okay? We need to get your fever down, baby.”

The endearment has Ilya biting his lip to hold off more tears, and he nods unsteadily. Shane leaves him for the kitchen again and returns with a water bottle and a Gatorade. Then he disappears, further into the apartment than Ilya had dared explore before he fell asleep, and comes back with a thermometer and a wet washcloth.

“Come here,” Shane says softly, when Ilya doesn’t take the initiative, and Shane cups his jaw so carefully. Ilya’s mouth opens obediently when Shane’s thumb prods at it, and Shane slips the thermometer under his tongue. “Give that a minute,” Shane says, turning to measure out a dose of the cough syrup.

“Who won?” Ilya croaks out, once he’s reasonably sure those are the right words. His head feels so thick, like fog has taken up all the real estate in his brain, and his thoughts are treading water instead of swimming. He feels like a confused child, tongue clumsy in his mouth. English hasn’t been this hard for him in years. At least he remembers where he is now.

Shane gives him an amused look and points at the thermometer. “Don’t talk with that in your mouth. And, I did. Your team put up a good fight, though. You should be proud of them.”

Ilya nods, feeling his eyes slip shut. It’s too much effort to hold them open. He sinks back against the couch, abruptly feeling too heavy to hold himself upright anymore.

A hand cups his forehead, and Shane removes the thermometer. He sucks in air against his teeth once he’s read it. “Jeez, Ilya. Your brain is on fire. Should you call your team doctor?”

He shakes his head frantically, not even sure why the thought is so disconcerting, but he knows he doesn’t want to leave here. “No—no, no Evan. Please. Want to stay with you. Please.”

Shane is quiet for a second, then gives him a somewhat pleased look, though the worry is still clear in the furrowed line in his brow. “Okay. But if this gets any higher, we’re in emergency room territory, all right?”

Ilya can’t put some of those words together to make sense of them in his head, but he nods anyway. Whatever Shane wants. He obediently swallows the cough syrup and antiviral and Tylenol that Shane gives him. He drinks the water that Shane holds for him, since his hands are shaking too much to avoid spilling. He lets Shane put the wet washcloth on the back of his neck, and the cold feeling of it is so relieving that he moans quietly, unable to help himself.

“Did you sleep okay?” Shane asks him, wrapping an arm gently around Ilya’s back. He guides Ilya back to rest against the cushions, braced against Shane’s side. The TV blares on, showing footage of some other game, and Shane casually picks up the remote and lowers the volume without dislodging Ilya at all.

This is the most comfortable he’s felt since the Tampa hotel room, even with this horrible fever clouding his brain and making everything hurt. He shrugs and melts into Shane’s side, soaking in the wonderful, secure feeling of it like a sponge. He’s a little bigger than Shane, but right now he feels almost tiny in Shane’s hold. “Bad dream,” he says roughly, reaching up to swipe at his nose, like he sometimes does when he’s uncomfortable or feeling vulnerable.

Unfortunately, that habit of his works against him, now that his face is so sensitive, and even this casual touch sets him off. He hitches once, twice, then jolts away from Shane’s arm toward the other side of the couch to sneeze. He doesn’t have the coordination or forethought right now to aim it his elbow. He barely manages to bring up a hand in time to cover his nose and mouth with a cupped palm, before the fit bursts out of him, desperate and needy.

“hh… hp’nGKKtt! hah’NGKKSSHHhh! heh… heh—! hptsSSHHhh!”

He pants afterward, still feeling his nostrils flaring and twitching against his hand, which feels slick and damp with spray. He cringes at the feeling. He had tried to stifle, or at least muffle, but… well. Obviously his sinuses have had enough and are making their feelings known, because he was only somewhat successful.

After a long moment of Ilya breathing hard into his cupped hand, Shane exhales with what sounds like a repressed laugh. “Bless you,” he says, wrapping an arm around Ilya and reeling him back toward his side. “Need a tissue?”

Ilya nods, too embarrassed to speak aloud when he knows any words would come out unintelligible with congestion. Shane passes him a good handful of tissues, and he wipes fruitlessly at his nostrils for a few minutes. The sniffles keep coming out of him, thick and useless, and he finds it mortifying but he can’t stop. It’s like all the congestion in his head can’t decide whether it’s staying or going, so it’s doing both at once.

After a few minutes of this, Shane presses him gently. “You don’t need to blow your nose?”

Ilya can feel his cheeks heating under the weight of Shane’s calm, focused attention. He shrugs, most of his face still buried in the tissues.

Shane seems to get the hint. He detaches himself from Ilya and gets up. “I’ll make you some tea and give you a minute, okay? I think I just have green tea, but I’ll check.”

He disappears into the kitchen. It’s a mostly open floor plan, but the columns and partial walls create a concealing illusion, enough that Ilya feels comfortable giving a few soft blows into the tissues.

As always, that starts up a tingling sensation in his sinuses, too buzzy and ticklish to be ignored. He shudders into the tissues with a half-muffled, desperately wet sneeze, too eager for relief to even try to stop it. “hh’shhhhww!”

He manages to blow again afterward, finally clearing away the overflowing congestion for the time being without triggering any more sneezing. He glances around, feeling mildly more coherent and awake, and doesn’t see any trash cans nearby. Sensing that his legs will collapse like jelly if he stands, he contents himself with balling up the ruined tissues in one hand.

Shane returns from the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea. “Feeling better? Oh, let me have those,” Shane says, reaching for the tissues and plucking them out of Ilya’s grasp before he can protest or shy away. “I’ll throw them away. Hang on.”

He wanders back into the kitchen, and this time he’s only gone for a second. When he comes back, Ilya is relieved to note that Shane at least seems to be rubbing hand sanitizer into his hands. Shane is thorough in this like in everything else, scrubbing at his nails and the webbing between his fingers.

“I’mb gross,” Ilya says, and he’s briefly thrown off by how utterly blocked his nose sounds when he speaks. He sniffles uselessly. “You should ndot have to do that. Are you sure you wandt mbe here, with mby germbs?” He means for the words to come out lighthearted, his usual joking tone, but instead he sounds pathetically sad and needy.

Shane visibly softens and sits down beside him, pulling him close again. “I want you to stay,” he says into Ilya’s hair, and then he presses a kiss there. “We agreed, remember?”

Hesitantly, Ilya nods. He isn’t sure he technically agreed, but right now he definitely doesn’t want to argue. Doesn’t want to give Shane any reason to change his mind and make Ilya leave.

After a minute, Shane kisses the top of his head again and rubs his back, then sits up a little more. “You should drink your tea. I found the sleepytime kind, and I put some honey in it. It should be good for your throat,” he rambles awkwardly.

That makes Ilya feel like they’re closer to their normal footing, and he smiles fondly. “Thangk you,” he says hoarsely, taking the mug that Shane hands him. He blows on it at Shane’s urging and then sips. He can’t taste anything with his sinuses so blocked, but he nods anyway as if it tastes good. It slides down his throat easily, at least, and the heat of it is a comfort.

Shane watches him, like a hawk observing her chicks in the nest, or how Ilya imagines that would look anyway. Once Ilya’s drank most of the tea, for the soothing warmth of it on his throat if nothing else, Shane straightens and nods to himself. “Time for bed, I think?” he suggests. “Do you need anything else? Are you hungry?”

Ilya shakes his head, the thought of food making his stomach lurch with disgust. Probably the fever causing that. “Ndo, thangk you,” he rasps out.

“Save your voice,” Shane laughs, helping him to stand up with an arm wrapped around his waist. “You’re very polite when your brain is overheating, huh?”

He ignores his father’s voice in his head. Be polite, Ilya. Where are your manners. So lazy. “Mmb.”

He expects Shane to lead him to a guest room—surely, in an apartment this size, he must have one or two—but Shane guides him into a bedroom that’s clearly lived-in. The bed is immaculately made, and Shane peels back the covers one-handed so he can keep supporting Ilya.

Ilya almost protests that he can hold himself up, but there’s no way that’s true.

Shane forces him to sit on the bed, then kneels down to take Ilya’s shoes and socks off. He helps Ilya wriggle out of his pants and shirt, leaving him in only his underwear. The whole process takes far longer than it should, on account of Ilya struggling and sweating through each step even with Shane’s assistance. After that, Shane keeps him sitting upright so he can try to clear out his nose with handful after handful of tissues, which has Ilya blushing hard to have to do so in front of Shane.

Eventually, though, Shane lets Ilya collapse into the pillows. He drags the comforter up to Ilya’s chest and tucks it in like one would with a child. “I’ll be right back,” Shane says quietly, and he returns with more tea, plus the other drinks, the medicines, and the thermometer. He disappears again, and comes back with a fresh cool washcloth, draping it over Ilya’s forehead.

Ilya snickers, genuinely amused but also feeling somewhat loopy. What was in that cough syrup? He didn’t even think to check. But Shane would have, because Shane is responsible, and Shane wouldn’t let him take anything bad for him. “You are so… nursemaid,” he says, flapping his hand around when he can’t find the right words. He’s pleased to find that he doesn’t sound nearly as congested as before, for the moment at least. “Is cute.”

Shane turns pink. “I want you to feel better,” he says earnestly, which leaves Ilya with nothing to say, staring at him in heart eyes and mild shock. Shane doesn’t react to this, only smiling and propping him up against the pillows. “Drink more tea for me, okay? Liquids are good when you’re sick.”

Ilya ends up drinking another cup of tea, and half of the Gatorade, before Shane lets him lie down. Shane changes into sweatpants and lays next to him, whole body curled around Ilya, and plays with their entwined fingers. Long minutes pass in silence while Ilya tries to figure out what to say next.

“Thank you,” he finally manages. “Sorry I… ruined our night. I know we had plans.”

Shane shushes him and tucks an errant curl behind his ear. “It’s okay. Although…” He ducks his head down and blushes again. “I had this whole plan, you know, to ask you something.”

Normally, the very thought of that sentence would cause Ilya dread. Right now, though, he feels buoyed and lightheaded from the fever—and, fine, a little high on the cough syrup—so all he does is making an inquiring noise.

“So, I have this cottage,” Shane says. “It’s out by the lake, like two hours from here, and it’s beautiful. Very private, no neighbors for miles.”

“Mm.” Ilya shifts, his face buried in Shane’s side, and breathes deep. He can’t smell anything, but he knows Shane’s scent well enough to imagine it. He knows the cottage Shane is talking about, has watched that documentary enough times that Svetlana banned it from her home. It’s soothing, though he’d never admit that out loud.

“And I was thinking, for this summer. Maybe you could come? Instead of going to Russia,” Shane says. The rising panic is evident in his tone, and he quickly starts babbling. “I just, I know you were just there, and maybe you want to keep going back, but it seemed like maybe… you didn’t. Anyway, the cottage is super private, no one would know we were there, and there’s a lot of fun things to do. Like swimming, or grilling, or video games. Or resting. Whatever you want. We could just… be. Like, alone together. We could be together. And we could have a week, or maybe even two if we can both get that much time off after the playoffs—”

“Hollander,” Ilya says, because his brain is starting to swim with all this information. He knows what not-stoned-off-cold-medicine-him would say right now. Something noncommittal. Maybe something rude or risqué, to change the subject and make Shane refocus on calling him an asshole. But right now, he’s floating, and he can feel sleep tugging at him. “I like your cottage,” he mumbles, eyes closing, and he nestles into Shane’s side without further thought. “Watch the show a lot.”

“Oh,” Shane says. His hand moves in circles over Ilya’s back, long sweeping motions, soothing. There’s warmth in his voice when he speaks again. “Yeah? Well… Maybe we can talk about it more later. When you’re feeling better.”

“Mm,” Ilya agrees, dropping off to sleep without a second thought.

He wakes sometime in the night, feeling hot and wrong again. The time passes in quick flashes, everything seeming to change each time he opens his eyes, like a strobe light in a shitty club. He vaguely remembers more cold cloths, draped over his forehead and wedged in his armpits. He remembers someone holding more pills to his mouth and helping him drink water. Hazily, he recalls the sensation of coughing until he almost throws up, with that same someone bracing a trash can in front of him. He doesn’t think he actually vomited, small comfort.

He remembers a soft voice, quiet and familiar, murmuring gentle words to him in French. He remembers cold, steady hands, keeping him upright and guiding him into a cool shower. The water feels freezing, and his teeth chatter, but the moment is there and gone in another flash. When he blinks again, he’s been toweled dry and put back to bed, cuddled up against someone. It feels like even more time has passed without him being aware of it, and he has no sense of what time it must be, other than “the middle of the night.”

By the time his brain clears enough to let him make sense of where he is and who he’s with, Ilya feels so utterly drained and miserable that all he can do is continue to rest a hot cheek against Shane’s chest and let his hair be petted.

“Hey. I know,” Shane soothes, when he seems to notice that Ilya’s a little more aware of his surroundings. “That wasn’t fun, huh?”

The words are sympathetic, comforting, the way one would speak to a very sick person or a child, and abruptly he thinks of his mother again. She’s never very far from his mind when he’s feeling unwell. The way she would hold him and kiss him and reassure him. Always with the gentlest touches and tones of voice. The way she would cradle him to her chest like her baby, no matter how big he got, and call him her Ilyushenka.

The tears spill out of him helplessly, hot and streaming, and he can feel them puddling onto Shane’s chest under his cheek. He half-expects Shane to panic, to sit them up and fuss over his temperature again, but maybe Shane has been all panicked out by the events of earlier. Instead, Shane keeps a steady hand pressed to Ilya’s back, grounding him, while he uses the other hand to keep carding through Ilya’s hair. “I’m here,” Shane says softly, not sounding fazed at all. “It’s okay. I’m here, baby.”

His brain, stupid overheated thing, keeps flashing back to Tampa, to how he’s crying on Shane again. Instead of being charming and hot and sexy, like he’d intended to be to make up for Tampa, tonight he’s just been a wet, pathetic, feverish, sneezy mess. With fucking bronchitis, probably. Ilya lets a quiet sob escape him, muffled into Shane’s skin, and feels more tears drip down onto Shane’s chest.

Shane’s touch is cool and comforting, and Ilya only cries for a minute or two before the tears run dry. He has the vague worry that maybe he’s cried himself out so quickly because his fever is boiling him from the inside out, evaporating his tears. Then—and this worry seems more possible, not to mention absolutely mortifying—he has the thought that perhaps he’s already cried on Shane many times tonight, and the fever keeps wiping the memory from his head, only for him to do it all over again. He blinks up at Shane, trying to discern if they’ve done this already tonight.

Shane looks down at him, smiling even though he looks physically tired as hell, like he’s been up half the night caring for a feverish Russian after playing a full hockey game. There’s no frustration in his expression, though, like how Ilya might expect if they were repeating the same teary scenario over and over tonight. His hand leaves Ilya’s hair, and he drags a finger under Ilya’s left eye to wipe away the last of the tear tracks. “Feel a little better?”

Ilya sniffles and nods. The sniffle, plus the pressure of Shane’s finger pad against his face, pushes his sinuses into an uproar, and he flinches toward his arm with a sudden sneeze he can’t possibly hope to contain. He sprays across his forearm, not even managing to keep the damage out of Shane’s sight.

“hrsshh’SHHIEWW!” he sneezes, tickly and not nearly satisfying enough to keep him from immediately ducking back toward his arm for another outburst or two. They come out loud and wet, and much more vocal than he’s used to. “hahh… HAASSCHHEWW! hah’ASSHHHoohh!”

Another mortifying few seconds pass, where he’s all too aware of the spray drying on his skin and Shane’s eyes on him. Focused. Taking everything in.

Then, Shane is holding a tissue up to his nose. “Here, sweetheart,” Shane murmurs. He cups it around Ilya’s nose, seemingly unbothered by the mess, and rubs.

For a second, Ilya tries to resist. But he’s so fucking exhausted. And at no point in his plan has he actually succeeded recently in not showing vulnerability around Shane Hollander. And his arms hurt too much with feverish body aches to even think of lifting a hand to take the tissue.

So Shane Hollander wipes his nose for him, and presses it there for him while he blows, and holds him when Ilya builds up to another, much more quiet but just as wet, “heht’sshheww!” Shane just murmurs a bless you and wipes his nose dry again. The touch is exceedingly gentle, Shane being wary of the sensitive skin at Ilya’s nostrils and Cupid’s bow.

By the time Shane tosses the crumpled, sodden tissue onto the nightstand, Ilya can feel his eyes drooping. “Sorry,” he mutters, letting his cheek drop onto Shane’s chest again. His skin doesn’t feel burning hot against Shane’s anymore, at least. “Keep sndeezing ond you and falling asleep ond you.”

Shane laughs, the sound loose and a little wild from lack of sleep. “I think that’s just how being sick goes. It’s okay, I don’t mind. Rest, mon coeur.”

The hand on Ilya’s back is moving in slow, steady circles, and his nose is finally a little bit clearer, and his head aches from crying and coughing and fever. And he’s being cradled in Shane Hollander’s arms. He falls asleep before he even realizes his eyes are closing.

When he wakes up again, he feels less out of control. More rested. His body still feels out of whack, and he can tell that his temperature and sinuses are still screwed up, but it’s undeniably better. His internal clock is working again and says that it’s early morning, and he’s sleeping sprawled out on the bed and not on top of Shane, so Shane must already be up.

He’s content to keep dozing like this, but his body gets the memo that he’s awake. He drags himself half-upright to cough into an elbow, and that shifts the built-up congestion around. The tickle strikes him before he can even think to pinch it back, and he gasps helplessly before crumpling forward with an urgent, vocal sneeze.

“hih’DSSCHHHhh!”

He fumbles for a tissue, grabbing some from the box on the nightstand, and blows his nose, the sound productive and thick. Fuck, he’s definitely got a sinus infection. The long flight yesterday and the changes in air pressure probably didn’t help matters.

“Good morning,” he hears, a fond voice. “And bless you.”

When he’s able to pull himself away from the tissues, thanking God that blowing his nose didn’t set off another fit for once, he finds Shane in the doorway. Shane is dressing in his running gear, a little damp with sweat from his morning exercise, and he’s sipping at a smoothie that looks absolutely disgusting.

“Good mbording,” he says, cringing at his voice. He sounds absolutely wrecked, snotty and hoarse and like he cried all night long. He vaguely remembers crying and starts to panic. Did he actually cry on Shane all night long? Shit. Shit shit shit.

Some of the panic must show on his face, because Shane draws closer, a reassuring look on his face. “You had a little bit of a rough night,” he says, voice calm, “and your fever spiked around 3am, but I think the Tylenol finally got it down. Do you remember?”

Ilya nods. “Sombe,” he says cautiously, and sniffles. “Sorry.”

Shane shakes his head. “No more sorries,” he says firmly. “I told you that last night and I meant it. I want you here. I want to take care of you.”

God. Shane has been—is—so brave, ever since Tampa. Ilya could never say such things. Even the thought of it has his father’s voice—

Well. He elects to ignore his father’s voice inside his head. He’s already given up on Russia and fallen in love with his sworn rival. He is already an embarrassment to his family and a traitor to his country’s ideals, not that he particularly cares about either of those things.

Maybe…. Well. Maybe he wants Hollander to say those things. Maybe he wants to hear them, even say them back one day. Maybe, one day, he’ll even be able to say I love you to Shane in a language he’ll understand.

Ilya scrubs at his nose and nods. “Thangk you, thend,” he offers, slightly embarrassed, and Shane nods. “I kndow I amb ndot… easy to deal with, whend I amb sick.”

Shane sits on the edge of the bed. “You’re not at all hard to take care of, Ilya,” he says seriously. “I mean it. Even at 3am, carrying you into a cold shower to get your fever down, you were nothing but sweet. I think you were more worried about sneezing on me than you were about your brain cooking. Which, obviously the wrong priorities, but I appreciate it anyway.”

Helpless, Ilya barks out a laugh. It scrapes at his throat, and he coughs into his soaked tissues until it stops. “Okay,” he finally agrees, unsure what else to say. “Ndow what?”

“Well, you’re still pretty sick,” Shane says. He takes a water bottle from the nightstand and forces it into Ilya’s hands until he drinks some of it. “Your fever’s down, but it’s hanging around. Your team flies out in like an hour, you’re definitely missing that. Your team doctor messaged you earlier, I texted him back from your phone and told him you were with, uh, Jane. You can fly back to Boston in a couple days when you feel better, or meet them on the road if it takes longer than that. I’ve got a couple days before I fly out again, so no rush there. You stay here as long as you need.”

Shane is so beautifully, obsessively thorough. Ilya loves that about him. But his mind can’t process all of that, so he drags a hand down Shane’s chest. “Sooo… fever sex?” he teases. “Since we did not get to do last night?”

Shane frowns and pushes him off. “Ha ha,” he says. “No. You’re going to have something to eat and take a nap. And then we’ll see how you’re feeling.”

“Shaaaane,” he whines, collapsing against the pillows from Shane’s halfhearted push. “I did not get my kisses last night. You cannot deny me this.”

“You got plenty of kisses last night,” Shane snorts. “You just don’t remember them all because your brain was trying to cook itself.”

Well, now he has a vendetta against his brain and his immune system, because how dare he not remember getting kisses from Shane? If he focuses, he still can recall those strobe light flashes of memory. A cold shower, snuggles, crying on Shane’s chest. The memory is a little embarrassing, but mostly warm and nice. He remembers being held, feeling comforted.

For the first time since he was twelve, the thought of that isn’t completely terrifying. It almost feels like something he can have.

He gives in, the way he always does when Shane’s puppy eyes come into play. He eats oatmeal and drinks tea and naps. He wakes up, watches a little boring TV, drinks soup and Gatorade, and bugs Shane into reading aloud from his boring hockey book.

Eventually, Shane also gives in, because he always does that too when it comes to Ilya. Fever sex, Ilya is surprised to note, is kind of like being high. His fever is much lower than last night, but it’s left his skin feeling incredibly hypersensitive. It’s like the opposite of an out-of-body experience. He is so firmly in his body like this, so aware of every touch, burning up and freezing at the same time. Shane holds him until he comes, wipes him off with a clean cloth, and hand-feeds him Tylenol in the afterglow.

It’s possibly the slowest, gentlest sex they’ve ever had, and it still leaves Ilya feeling like a wrung out ragdoll afterward. He collapses back into the bed, sneezes another harsh, surprisingly loud, “ehttSSHHIEWW!” into the blankets, and sniffles until Shane hands him more tissues and feels his forehead again.

They don’t talk about the cottage. Ilya half-remembers the conversation from last night, the speech that Shane had obviously practiced—which is, God, just so endearing—but he doesn’t know how to approach it. No matter how much he wants it, how can he say yes? No matter how impossible it is, how could he say no?

The day passes in a haze of bed and couch, couch and bed, and eventually his fever lowers enough that he feels human enough to shower properly. Shane joins him, gets him off again but won’t let Ilya do the same for him because of how shoddy his balance still is, and washes his hair. Ilya tries not to cry at the sensation of being so fucking cared for. He’s pretty sure he fails, and he has been such a waterfall this week which is embarrassing, but at least the shower water helps cover up the tears this time.

Shane babies him and half-carries him to bed when the steam makes him dizzy again. It’s humiliating and makes his throat tight. He kind of loves it.

When the fever spikes again that night, Shane’s patient and calm. He holds Ilya tight and rubs his back and cleans his face for him with tissue after tissue when his nose won’t stop running and his eyes won’t stop leaking. Ilya can feel his brain overheating, and probably this isn’t the moment, but he can’t help it. If he isn’t brave now, he worries he never will be.

“Shane,” he croaks, face buried in Shane’s neck, during a quieter moment when he’s not crying and Shane’s not absorbed in shushing him and trying futilely to make it all better.

Shane strokes a hand up and down his spine. “Yeah?”

“The cottage. Do you still want?”

Shane’s hand goes stiff on his back, before ultra-casually resuming the same motion as before. “I do,” he says quietly. “And… and you?”

The hope and tension in Shane’s voice is impossible to ignore. How could he ever have even imagined disappointing this man? Ilya presses a kiss to the side of Shane’s throat at a known delicate spot, delighting in the shiver it causes. “I want,” he says, the words thick in his throat from fear. “I am terrified, but I want. Okay?”

“Okay,” Shane breathes, holding him tighter. He presses kisses to Ilya’s temples like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. “Then we’ll figure it out. We’ll make it work.”

The joy in Shane’s body language, the grin in his voice, is enough to put Ilya back to sleep with a matching smile on his face.

*

“Bless you. Again. Now go get high on Sudafed.”

“I won’t get high—“

“Dude, relax, I know. Breathing through your nose doesn’t count as performance enhancing, I checked.”

“Fuck off.”

Shane’s response was half-hearted, but he still wasn’t looking at Hayden. His eyes were watering, and his upper lip was already glistening with more moisture. It kind of looked like he was crying, but Hayden knew that any time he caught a bug, Shane’s whole face turned into a leaky faucet. He also knew that Shane absolutely hated both the sensation and the loss of control.

Despite all of it, pissy, overstimulated Shane was replaced by Captain Hollander the moment he got his shoes on. Hayden had seen the transformation hundreds of times over the years, but it still gave him the heebie-jeebies sometimes. 

“Right, I’m gonna go,” Shane said flatly. He still sounded undeniably sick. 

“Feel better, snot monster. I hope you manage to turn back into a human by the time we meet up.”

Hayden rolled in to the stadium an hour later, but Shane wasn’t in the dressing room. He was immediately cornered by a concerned J.J.

“Pikey! Où est notre capitaine?”

“Probably in medical still. Surprise, he’s sick,” Hayden shrugged. 

“Crisse, sa pa ka fèt,” J.J. swore, but he looked more worried than angry. 

“Shit, really?” Andropov looked up from taping his shin guards. “He seemed fine this morning.”

“Of course it had to happen in Boston,” Comeau grumbled, seeming more concerned about the game than his teammate. 

“I didn’t know cap could get sick,” Schneider, their rookie, marveled. “He’s never missed a game in his whole career. I thought he just ordered his immune system to wait for the off season.”

“Guys, chill. He’s not that sick,” Hayden reassured them. “He just has to get cleared for the game and take some meds.”

That seemed to do the trick, and the anxious tension in the room dissipated. Hayden awarded himself a point on his internal ‘nailing the alternate captain thing’ scoreboard.

“At least is not just us with a sick capitaine, eh? You hear about Rozanov?” J.J. commented. Hayden had no idea where J.J. picked up his real-time gossip, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

“Is that confirmed? I was pretty sure we heard him sneezing in the background on ESPN,” Hayden speculated. 

“Might not mean anything. That asshole is always sneezing all over the place, I remember from Russian junior team,” Andropov snickered. 

“Whatever. I hope he’s too sick to skate straight,” Hayden said. “I’m gonna go find Hollzy and see what’s taking so long.”

With that, Hayden made an about-face and left the rest of them to gossip in the dressing room. As expected, he found Shane in the medical clinic. Unfortunately, he looked just as bad as he had an hour ago. At least someone had found him a tissue box; he was holding on to it like a life raft.  

“Dude, I thought I told you to do drugs,” Hayden teased with an undercurrent of concern. 

“Hi, Hayd. I didn’t take anything yet, doc wants to time the meds so they last through the game,” Shane said tiredly, his voice raspier than before.

“So, what, you’ll sit in all the pre-scout sessions with your brain leaking out of your nose?” Hayden asked skeptically. “You hate when anything messes up your routine.”

“I’ll be fine. S’just a cold, my…hihhh! my brain isn’t going aehhhhnywhere except—hhh!—my s-skull— Ihhhh’DJSSHhhuuhh!”

As usual for Shane, the sneeze was a fucking mess, soaking the tissue he’d covered with. Hayden watched with morbid fascination as Shane pulled at least four tissues from the box and swapped them with the ruined one, then gave a sopping wet nose blow. He didn’t even bother folding them before dropping them in the trash can. 

“Bless you. Should I tell the equipment guys to have tissues on standby?” Hayden was only half joking.

“Fuck you,” Shane replied automatically. “I’ll be fine when we get on the ice.”

“Okay, okay. I guess we don’t want to jinx it,” Hayden conceded. 

“Right,” Shane said curtly, then coughed lightly into his elbow. 

There was a knock on the open door of the clinic. Matt McCann, one of the assistant coaches, poked his head in. 

“Oh, good, you’re both here. Hollzy, doc says you’re a bit under the weather?”

Shane looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, but he squared his shoulders. “Yeah, just a bit. I’m fine, really—heehh-kZSCH’ssshh! ehhh’khTJSshoou!”

Hayden winced. Two in a row, forceful and crackling with loose congestion, they sounded undeniably sick. Shane’s body was perfectly still as he mechanically wiped under his nose with a tissue, then folded it neatly into quarters and dropped it in the trash. 

“Excuse me,” Shane said, voice devoid of emotion. 

“Gesundheit,” McCann said jovially. “That looks like a hell of a cold. Theriault is not gonna be happy.”

“Is he ever happy?” Hayden wondered. “We won the fucking cup last year, he barely cracked a smile.”

McCann’s lips twitched upward, but he didn’t comment. Shane coughed again, then sat up straighter. 

“It’s not that bad. Doc will give me something before the game. He said I’m good to play as long as I stay hydrated,” Shane’s voice was hoarse but steady, and audibly congested.  

“Good, good. I’ll talk to Theriault about managing your minutes—don’t argue, Hollander,” McCann gave him a look born of years of experience with hockey players’ stubbornness. “It’s Boston, LeClaire’s gonna hard match you, there’s no point in wearing you out against their second line when you’re not at 100%. We’ll save you for Rozanov.”

Shane looked like he was about to correct what McCann was saying, but he bit his tongue at the last second. Something wasn’t adding up. As far as Hayden could tell, McCann was probably right about the line matching. Was this about the Rozanov illness rumors? What did Shane know that McCann didn’t, and why was he keeping it to himself?

* * *

On a hunch, Cliff decided to show up early at the arena and stop by medical. Not that Roz didn’t know his own body, but he had a wicked stubborn streak. Case in point. 

“Rozanov, how many times are we gonna have this argument? Take the goddamn decongestant,” Doug’s exasperated voice echoed down the hallway. The team doctor was a veteran of years’ worth of arguments on the topic. 

“Dod’t d’eed it. Is od’ly id’ by d’oze, I play like this all the tibe id sprid’g,” Rozanov said stonily, so congested that Cliff had a hard time making out the words from outside the room. 

“And every time you do it’s a bad idea,” Doug said matter-of-factly. “Seriously, Rozanov, why do you hate your own sinuses this much?”

“Is other way aroudd. By siduses are traitors that hate mb’e,” Roz grumbled, half a register lower than normal, just as Cliff reached the door of the clinic. 

“I had a feeling we’d be doing this again,” Cliff said, standing in the doorway. 

“And I was hoping you’d show up.” Doug looked genuinely happy to see him. “You’re better at convincing him.”

Roz glared at both of them. Cliff was unimpressed. Getting into a staring contest with Roz was usually a bad idea, but in this case his cold was on Cliff’s side. It didn’t take long before Roz’s scowl cracked, replaced by pure, irritated need. 

“Huh’GHXXDT’chh! yhH’KDTJ’zzhhh! huhhh… hYEH’KGXZz’hdtt!!”

He crunched forward over his lap, face obscured behind yet another t-shirt-turned-snot-rag. The sneezes sounded so painfully clogged up that Cliff felt phantom pressure behind his own eyes. Roz followed it up with an attempt at blowing his nose, but the pathetically choked-off sound made it clear that the gunk in his head wasn’t budging. God, his sinuses must feel like a lead brick. Cliff couldn’t for the life of him think of a reason to willingly spend any more time in that condition, let alone go out and play three periods of hockey. 

“Those were wicked gnarly, even for you,” Cliff commented. “Why do you put yourself through the ringer like this, Roz? That can’t be comfortable.”

“Do I look fuckigg cob’fortable?” Roz snapped. 

“No. But you will be if you take the goddamn pills,” Doug prodded. 

“I do nd’ot—“ Roz started, but was interrupted by Cliff and Doug completing him in unison: “take pills.”

The stony expression was back on Roz’s face. Whatever issue he had with pills made him obstinate to the point of stupidity, but Cliff could never get him to talk about it. 

“I would give you a nasal spray, but we all know it’ll just make you sneeze your head off,” Doug continued. “So unless your nose has magically gotten cooperative, you’re stuck with the pills.”

“Or I cad suffer ad’d suck it up,” Roz shrugged entirely too casually. 

Doug groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And get another sinus infection in the process.”

“B’aybe,” Roz conceded, but he didn’t look too concerned. Cliff wanted to slap him. 

“What about the actual game we’re playing tonight? You really want to drop two points to Montreal because you can’t breathe through your nose?” 

Roz had the nerve to smirk. “Ah, but is d’ot just mb’e. Hollad’der is also sick, reb’ember?”

“We don’t actually know that—“ 

Cliff was interrupted by someone knocking on the door of the clinic. 

“Doug, you there? I have a request for a medication from the Metros’ doc.” The unfamiliar woman’s voice was muffled by the door, but it sounded strained. Doug opened the door a crack, not letting her see inside.

“Sure thing, what do you need?” Doug was equally short. The league mandated that medical staff share resources when needed, but it could get awkward. Doug was probably eager to send her on her way before she got any intel on Roz. 

“Just Sudafed,” the woman said, impatient. 

Cliff exchanged a glance with a smug Roz as Doug busied himself fulfilling her request. The medication in question was already right in front of him, so it didn’t take long. 

The silence stretched after she left, broken only by Roz’s sniffling. The three of them looked at each other. Cliff spoke first. 

“Okay, so Hollander is sick, but he’s a big boy who takes his medicine,” Cliff taunted. 

Roz bristled, but didn’t manage a retort before his cold spoke for him. 

“yKGGHZXD’ttttch! hhh-GDJJCH’zhhh! Huhh- uh’GXXHJ’TCHeuh!!”

The sneezes sounded like they’d gotten trapped in his swollen sinuses before they could fully escape. They were followed by another honking nose blow, which ended in a defeated sigh. 

“Fide. Give mb’e the fuckigg pills.”

* * *

Look, Hayden got that Shane was self-conscious about being sick in front of the guys, but this was getting ridiculous. 

“Buddy, you planning on hiding in here until the team meeting?” Hayden pestered, trying to keep his voice light. “You’re not gonna have time to do your weird yoga stretches.”

That seemed to get through. Apparently, the thought of playing with tight ligaments was more horrifying than being seen with a runny nose. Shane sat up straighter, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shrug off his anxiety. 

“You’re right, Hayd, m’sorry. I just really hate…this,” Shane said weakly, gesturing vaguely at his face. “Especially in front of the guys.”

“It’ll be fine,” Hayden said dismissively. “I keep telling you, we’re all hockey players. Dealing with gross teammates is part of the job description, why else would I put up with Comeau’s B.O.?”

Shane wrinkled his nose in agreement, which seemed to set him off. He managed to grab a handful of tissues from the nearly-empty box, in time to bury his face in them.

“Hehh’dZZS’sshhhhh! Ihhh-djCH’sshoouh!! Fug’ck!” 

They were still uncharacteristically harsh, instantly soaking through the tissues. Shane dropped the soggy bundle in the trash, swapping it out for another handful. 

“Ugh, I feel like a leaky faucet,” Shane griped as he mopped up the remaining mess on his upper lip, wincing as the tissues brushed his chapped nostrils. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna go ask for another one of those,” Hayden gestured at the tissue box, which was now empty. 

With the critical supplies acquired, Hayden and Shane made their way back to the dressing room. 

“Capitaine! You live!” J.J. called out from across the room. 

“I wasn’t dying. It’s just a cold,” Shane said flatly, his illness as audible as ever. 

“Well, your cold has shitty timing,” Comeau complained. “Did you have to get sick right before a game?”

“Shut up, Comey. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s the middle of the season. We’re always right before a game,” Hayden retorted, earning a few snickers. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Shane said firmly. “I’m cleared, and it won’t affect how I play. If coach makes any adjustments, we’ll discuss it in the meetings.”

Shane turned sharply to face his stall, putting his back to the room like the matter was closed. But Hayden was right next to him and yeah, no, he could see the real story. Shane was just trying to hide his face as his nose overflowed again. 

No one on the team seemed eager to question Shane further. Messing with another guy’s rituals was taboo anyway, but doubly so when it came to their captain, who had his routine timed to the exact second. Shane seemed relieved to be left alone, keeping his back to the room as he wiped the mess off his upper lip yet again. Hayden had a feeling that the new tissue box was not long for this world. 

It was probably best to let Shane do his thing for now. Hayden grabbed a protein bar from his bag, then joined Andropov and J.J.’s recounting of the previous night’s exploits. Apparently Schneider had managed to leave the club with a girl, but refused to share any details. 

Hayden glanced over to check on Shane, who had completely zoned out the room as he stood on one foot, his other leg bent into an improbable position. Hayden was just in time to watch him almost lose his balance in his haste to grab a tissue.

“Hehh- yhH’DTSSSHhhooo! IHH’DZZSsshuhhh!”

Glances were exchanged around the room as the team collectively decided to look the other way. Definitely the right call. Shane hated to be interrupted when he was trying to lock in, and he’d basically told them to drop it. 

Theriault, who chose that moment to walk in early, apparently hadn’t gotten the memo. 

“À tes souhaits. Again,” the head coach said, looking Shane over with a critical eye. He huffed in displeasure. “That’s unfortunate.”

Shane’s face was impassive, his posture perfectly straight. 

“It’s not ideal, but I can play,” Shane still sounded like his vocal cords were in a battle with a river of snot, but his tone didn’t betray even a hint of discomfort. Still, he had to be pretty miserable. Whatever timing the doc was attempting, Hayden hoped he wouldn’t hold off on the meds for much longer.

“Of course you can. You’re not the type to be a little bitch about a head cold,” Theriault said gruffly. From him, that was almost a compliment. The head coach sighed again. “It had to be Boston.”

* * *

Cliff was seriously contemplating strangling Roz. Which would be a shame, considering all the work he’d put in to ensure that bastard could breathe during the game. 

“Fuck off! It’s my turn, we listen to Skrillex. End of the story,” St-Simon said angrily. 

“If I wad’t to liste’d to dial-up ind’terdet, I go back to 2005,” Roz drawled, his blasé tone at odds with the painfully distorted consonants. 

“You have listened to this song every day last week,” St-Simon argued.

“That was before mb’y head feels like is full of wet cod’crete,” Roz retorted, a bit more snappish this time. 

“Fine,” St-Simon threw up his hands in exasperation. “I’ll give the aux to Sebb, but next time we listen to the whole of Bangarang.”

Roz leaned his head back against his stall and closed his eyes without bothering to acknowledge the compromise. Cliff glanced at his watch to check how long ago Roz had taken the pills – just ten minutes. He was pretty sure Doug had said they had half an hour to wait. This was going to be a long twenty minutes. 

Sebbin, now in possession of the aux cable, put on a flat out boring pop song. Cliff had definitely heard it multiple times, but he didn’t remember a single lyric. 

“…Better.” Roz still had his eyes squeezed shut. 

The peace lasted exactly ten seconds. 

“Still terrible.”

“You just said it was better!” Sebbin protested. 

“Yes, I said better. Did d’ot say good,” Roz clarified without opening his eyes. 

Sebbin shot him a fearful glance, then wordlessly passed the cable to Feller. Cliff wished that he’d picked literally anyone else, but he kept his face-palm internal. Sure enough, a country song started playing. Half the room immediately groaned. 

“Seryozno?” Varkov ribbed his defensive partner. 

“It’s one song!” Feller said petulantly. 

“It’s the same one as this morning,” Cliff felt obliged to open his mouth, but he immediately regretted feeding the fire.

“It’s not—“

“Huhh’KGHDZZ’txhh! yyG’DJXX’Tdch!! Hhhh-! UH’hGDDHJJZ’dttt!!”

Their captain’s triple sneezes were background noise at this point, and the team usually ignored it. This time, he sounded so obviously sick that the whole room stopped to look at him. He was doubled over his lap, face buried in another spare t-shirt. Eyes closed, he made an attempt at blowing his nose, but only managed a grating squeak. He peeled open his eyes and scowled. 

“What are you all lookigg at?”

“Nothing,” Sebbin blurted out, at the same time as Cliff quipped: “Just want to see if any concrete comes out.”

Roz rolled his eyes. “You have nd’ever heard of mb’etafora? They do d’ot teach id’ Ab’ericad’ school?”

“I’m Canadian,” Cliff retorted. 

Roz waved a hand dismissively as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Cliff glanced at his watch again – seventeen more minutes. Nobody spoke for a few seconds, leaving the country song to play in the background. 

The silence was broken by Varkov. “Marly’s right, it is same song from this morning. Always singing about trucks.”

“This one’s about tractors,” Feller protested. 

“Is sab’e thid’g—ahh’KGHXX’Dtxhh!-hGDTJJ’ZHh!! HUH-YGKHX’Ttjj!! Blyad!”

The sneezes were, impossibly, even more pathetically congested. Roz stayed hunched over for a few seconds and let out a low groan, before straightening and tilting his head back. It hit the side of his stall with a soft thunk. 

“Jesus Christ, bless you,” Connors said uneasily, exchanging a glance with Cliff. Cliff shook his head slightly, hoping it came off as reassuring. 

“I dod’t thig’k he approves of b’y lifestyle,” Roz said tiredly, then pointed at Feller. “You do d’ot deserve mb’usic choice. Give to sobeod’e else.”

Without waiting for acknowledgement, Roz closed his eyes again and raised both hands to his face, massaging his cheekbones. Feller looked at Cliff, arms raised in a ‘what should I do?’ gesture. Cliff shrugged, which Feller apparently interpreted as a request for the aux cord. Well, it would probably be better if Roz directed his ire at the A, rather than the kids. He scrolled through his playlists, deciding on a hard rock mix that he knew Roz worked out to sometimes. 

As soon as he heard the opening riff of Seven Nation Army, Roz opened his eyes and looked around the room accusingly. “Who has aux nd’ow?” 

“Me,” Cliff said, crossing his arms.

“…Really?” Roz scoffed, the rolled R coming out stronger than usual. 

“What?” Cliff asked neutrally, inviting the challenge. 

“I expeg’cted better,” Roz narrowed his eyes. It was probably supposed to be threatening, but his flaring nostrils made it clear that he was actually holding off more sneezes. 

“I’ve known you for five years,” Cliff narrowed his eyes right back, biting his tongue to stop himself from laying into Roz. 

“Ad’d you’ve disappoid’ted—hhh!—m’be for f-faaahive—haA’KGHDJ’ttsch!- yGHXDT’Chh!-kGXDTT’xhjj!! huhh- ekh’GXDZZ’xheu!! HYEH’DGJXXZ’TChh!!”

The sneezes must have scraped something on the way out, because they immediately transitioned to a fit of hacking coughs. Fuck, that sounded wicked rough. Cliff was still annoyed, but he straight-up winced looking at the guy. The fit left Roz panting, t-shirt held over his lower face. He spat something into it, then pressed the palm of one hand into his eye socket. Finally, he looked up and met Cliff’s eyes. 

Cliff raised one eyebrow, trying his best not to look concerned. Roz responded better to being chirped than to being babied. 

“Roz. That soundtrack is flat out worse than anything we could put on the speaker. Go hang out in the showers, get some steam, come back when you can breathe.”

They stared each other down for a few seconds. Roz was usually a stone wall in a stare-down, but he lost it when he had to duck his head and cough into his shoulder. For a split second, he looked dead on his feet. But then his face remembered that he was supposed to be an asshole, and went right back to pouting. 

“So cruel, sed’digg ill captaid’n to exile. N’dow who will save aux cord frob’ your terrible b’usic?” Roz tried to make it seem like Cliff was twisting his arm, but when he stood up his feet were already pointed toward the showers. 

* * *

To the surprise of literally no-one, the Metros’ coaching staff had thrown a wrench in the line matching strategy. Shane had done his best to maintain that he was just ‘a little under the weather’. Hayden didn’t know who he thought he was kidding. Everyone already assumed the forwards would be called in for a last-minute extra meeting.

As a veteran, Hayden knew what to expect. It was too late to make any in-depth tactical changes, but the coaches could decide who to send out on the ice at any given time. Shane would be playing fewer minutes, which meant other lines would be getting more ice time than usual. The question was which of the Raiders’ lines they would be facing, and most importantly – who would have the pleasure of taking face-offs against Rozanov. 

The twelve forwards settled on the benches in the dressing room. The atmosphere was mostly boisterous and competitive, but Hayden noted an undercurrent of anxiety. He could only hope that Theriault’s buzzkill attitude wouldn’t drag the whole room down. Shane usually left the hype work to his alternates, so the damage control would be Hayden’s problem. He was already mentally prepping a speech for after the meeting. He was relieved to see McCann walk in. 

“Alright, boys, here’s the deal,” the assistant coach clapped his hands and rubbed them together, as chipper as ever. “LeClaire loves to hard match, and he’s been trying to contain our top line for years. Thing is, Hollzy is a beast.”

Hayden glanced at Shane, who had a tear leaking from one eye and a wad of tissues pressed under his nose. He looked about as far from a beast as a human could get. Well, maybe some kind of creature that got dragged out of a swamp. McCann was either completely blind, or, more likely, just playing dumb to give Shane some privacy. 

“Normally, we let LeClaire have his fun,” McCann said with some satisfaction. “He rolls the Carmichael line against our first line more than we’d like, but you three still find ways to score on them.”

Hayden made a face at the reminder. Rozanov would always be his number-one headache in Boston games, but the Raiders’ second line was a close second. Carmichael was one of the best shutdown centers in the league; trying for a zone exit with that guy on the ice was just a massive pain in the ass. 

He glanced at Shane again to catch his reaction, and found him completely distracted. His eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking from the outer corners, and his nose was pinched in a vise-like grip through the tissues. 

“Either way, Hollzy has enough minutes in him that there’s enough left to deal with Rozanov when we really need it—“

“Hihhh- ehh’DTJj’SSSsshhh! EH’DHJSSSsshhhhue! hnngh…”

McCann was interrupted when Shane lost his battle with his nose. He pitched forward into the tissues with two miserably wet sneezes. Hayden was pretty sure only he heard the soft groan that followed. 

“Bud’ zdorov,” Andropov said, sounding both sympathetic and grossed-out. 

Shane, who was in the process of swapping out his soaked tissues with a fresh handful, froze. Hayden was close enough to see the flush creeping up his neck. 

“What he said,” McCann added, still either ignoring or happily oblivious to his star center’s embarrassment. “Hollzy, I know you don’t want to hear this, but there’s no way you’re logging twenty-five minutes tonight.”

Shane scowled, but he didn’t argue. Or maybe he just wanted McCann’s attention off of him so he could tend to his nose in peace. Now that he’d lowered the tissues, Hayden could see that the rosy, chafed hue had spread from his nostrils to his philtrum and upper lip. That had to be painful, and it was the exact sort of discomfort that drove Shane up the wall. Hayden was pretty sure he would rather skate on a broken ankle than irritate his skin. 

Hayden felt a sudden flash of irritation at Boston Lily for making Shane so miserable, but he immediately felt like a jerk. It wasn’t her fault, and she was probably suffering just as much as Shane right now. He needed to save the hate for the real enemy – the Boston Raiders in general and Ilya Rozanov in particular. 

His train of thought was interrupted by McCann. “We have to manage your ice time, so when you’re out there, it needs to count. Here’s how the rest of you guys are gonna pick up the slack. ”

The changes were straightforward. No double shifts on the power play, fewer defensive zone starts, replacement on the penalty kill as needed. It all seemed pretty reasonable, so Hayden had no idea why Shane was chewing his lip like that. His musings were interrupted by a woman’s voice outside the dressing room. 

“Are you all decent? I have good news and bad news.” Hayden recognized the voice as one of the newer trainers. 

“Lovely,” McCann called back. “We’re good, come on in.”

The trainer entered and unceremoniously shoved two pills and a water bottle at Shane. “Enjoy breathing through your nose.”

“That does sound nice,” Shane said hoarsely. “Thanks.”

She nodded in acknowledgment, then turned to McCann. “So, the bad news: the Raiders definitely know about Hollander.”

“Goddamnit,” McCann swore. “I was hoping to keep LeClaire in the dark at least until puck drop.”

Shane’s eyes narrowed; he looked pissed. Which seemed a little ridiculous, honestly, because there was zero chance they were keeping his cold a secret. His nose was so red that any Raiders player who came within ten feet of him would immediately figure it out. 

“You haven’t heard the good news yet,” the trainer grinned. “Rozanov is also sick. Actually, he sounded worse than Hollander.” 

McCann actually laughed. Shane looked…nervous? Hayden wasn’t sure why. As far as he was concerned, anything that slowed Rozanov down was the opposite of nerve-wracking. 

“Oh, excellent,” McCann said, still laughing. “I swear, it’s like nature wants to keep the rivalry even.”

“I think is just karma,” Andropov shrugged. “Rozanov sleeps with a different girl each night, while half the city is sick. Is not surprising.”

“Then what happened to Hollzy? He never leaves his fucking house.” Comeau sounded like he was joking, but his tone rubbed Hayden the wrong way. Shane would probably shrug it off, but Hayden wasn’t gonna let it go. He knew exactly what had happened to Shane, so he could tell everyone Comeau was talking straight out of his ass. 

“Maybe not his house, but he definitely leaves the hotel sometimes,” Hayden smirked, elbowing Shane in the ribs. Big mistake. Hayden winced as the contact triggered a fit of wet coughing. 

“Shut up,” Shane croaked, red-faced and glaring at Hayden. It would have been intimidating if Shane’s nose hadn’t chosen that moment to start running again, forcing him to look away as he buried his lower face in yet another tissue.

“Alright, you can discuss Hollzy’s love life later,” McCann cut in, now a bit exasperated. “Piker, do us a favor and try not to kill your linemate.”

“Sorry,” Hayden said, meaning it. “So, Rozanov is sick. I’m guessing that changes things?”

“Yes, and no,” Shane piped up, hoarse but suddenly energized. Were the meds already working? Hayden was pretty sure that should take longer than two minutes. 

“I don’t like it, coach, but you’re right. The way you’re deploying me makes sense regardless of Rozanov. But since he’s also sick, the math changes. They have more defensive depth, so I’m guessing they pulled him off the PK completely. That means that even if you only give me one look on the PP, our conversion rate goes up. Plus, if they’re protecting him with heavy O-zone starts it actually works in our favor. It means I won’t be taking as many draws against him in our end, and he won’t be leaning on me all night.” 

Shane’s words spilled out in a flood of precise analysis. His voice was steady but sounded like sandpaper, his gaze fixed on the air to the left of McCann’s head. Hayden glanced around the room and saw that everyone was staring at him, their assistant coach included. Shane, completely in his own world, just kept right on rolling. 

“Of course, if they know I’m sick, they have ways to fuck with us. Their forecheck is nasty even without Rozanov, so they’ll dump and chase heavy to force board battles below the dots. They might try to get me to take more face-offs, but that would gas Rozanov just as fast. If it looks like he’s slowing down we could try driving down the middle lane on zone entries, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Our best bet is east-west plays. He’ll bite and chase the puck every time because it usually works, but tonight it’ll wear him out. Oh, and pressure Varkov on the breakout, he usually ices the puck if you force him onto his backhand.”

By the time he’d finished, Shane’s voice was basically hanging on by a thread. He gave a tiny shake of his head, eyes snapping back into focus and darting around the room. Everyone was still dead silent, staring at him. 

“Respectfully, cap, what the fuck?” Schneider, their rookie right winger, said incredulously. 

“I, uh—hihhh-!”

Hayden saw the disaster unfolding before it happened. Shane had been completely checked-out, distracted by the scouting report he’d apparently managed to do in his head in real time. He hadn’t noticed the tickle in his nose until it was too late. 

“Hehh-dJZZ’SSSSHhhhuh! Ehhd’TSCH’ZSSssshhh!!”

At the last second, Shane managed to get his hands up in front of his face. The pair of sneezes barreled out of him, forceful and audibly pretty messy. His hands did nothing to absorb it, but at the dozen or so people staring at him were spared the sight of snot spewing from his nose. Hayden winced. Even by hockey hygiene standards, that was kind of gross. Shane’s face was as red as it had been after Lily had called earlier. 

The silence stretched, so Hayden decided to break the tension. “Bless you, man. Maybe, uh, go take a break?”

Shane nodded behind his cupped hands, then fled in the direction of the bathroom. McCann cleared his throat. 

“Right. Good to know Hollzy’s IQ is still the best in the league, even if the rest of him isn’t at 100%,” McCann’s cheerfulness sounded a bit forced, but Hayden appreciated the effort.

“Is that what’s going on in his brain? All the time?” Schneider said, sounding slightly awed. 

“Yup. He’s just like that,” Hayden grinned. “That’s why we’re going back to back this year.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” McCann rebuked them. “We still have a game to win.”

* * *

Roz returned just as the boys were filing into the meeting room, and Cliff craned to get a look at him. The sounds that had echoed out of the showers after he’d left were kind of nasty. For his own sanity, Cliff had done everything in his power to tune them out. Hopefully all that sneezing, hacking and nose-blowing was a sign of the meds working to break up the congestion and not a preview for the rest of the night.

Cliff caught only a brief glimpse of Rozy’s face before LeClaire pulled him aside, clearly trying to see if he could actually go tonight. It seemed to be a mixed bag. His nose still looked like it had been to war, but the glassy, dead-eyed stare was gone. Cliff could only hope his attitude had cleared up in tandem with his sinuses. 

Apparently satisfied, LeClaire clapped Roz on the back and headed to the front of the room. Roz took his customary seat between Cliff and Connors in the first row. 

“So, how are you liking the benefits of modern medicine?” Cliff needled him. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Roz replied, but his earlier spitefulness was gone. He lowered his voice as he continued. “You were maybe kind of right. Is nice not to feel like my face will explode.”

Yeah, he sounded much less stuffed up, and he was actually, if grudgingly, conceding an argument. They might make it through tonight after all. 

“Glad to hear it, man. Really,” Cliff said earnestly. Sincerity wasn’t their usual style, but neither was Roz folding on an issue like this. 

Roz looked at him for a long moment, then smirked. “Of course you are. Is first and only time you will ehhh-ver w-win ahhh!-argumehhnt—Huhh’DJZSH’EUuh! yHH’DTZCH’SHUue! Haahh-PJZSCHhihh!”

Roz twisted away from Cliff at the last second, bending over double in his seat to sneeze openly at the ground. Well, it would be too much to hope that the meds would completely eliminate any sign of Roz’s cold. Especially his sneezes; Cliff kind of doubted that any drug in existence could do that. At least they didn’t sound like they had to punch through a brick wall on the way out. 

“Well, that sounds like a sign that we should get started,” LeClaire said dryly, but his voice carried enough to get the attention of the twenty unruly hockey players filling the room. “There have been some developments.”

The room stilled completely. “Rozy, please tell us you’re still cleared,” Connors begged. St-Simon nodded vigorously beside him. 

“Yes, yes, Doug is smart man, he says I can handle tiny cold,” Roz said airily. Cliff kept his mouth shut about the half-dozen other warnings the doc had tacked on to that sentence. The important part was true. 

“He did say that. He also said you’re getting less ice time, but you knew that already.” LeClaire said amiably, holding up one hand to forestall Roz’s objections. “Enough, Roz. We need you rested for the road trip next week more than we need you to pull double shifts tonight. Besides, you already got us a consolation prize.” 

Cliff grinned in anticipation. Roz’s mutinous expression melted into a small, private smile. 

“Are you talking about Hollander?” Connors asked excitedly. “Cap, what did you do? I thought you were joking about the biological warfare thing.”

“Yes, Connie. I invite captain of Metros to my house so I can sneeze on him and infect him with illness I did not know I have,” Roz said, dead-pan. 

Connors laughed delightedly. Cliff snorted, marveling at Roz’s ability to say the most ridiculous things with a completely straight face. Although, come to think of it, if Roz had actually hooked up with his Montreal girl last night, that was exactly what had happened to her. Wherever she was now, Cliff hoped she wasn’t too pissed off at Roz. 

LeClaire pinched the bridge of his nose. “What I meant to say is that Roz and Marly got us accidental intel. But yes, Hollander is also sick.”

“Great,” Carmichael said, for once not even slightly sarcastic. “I was not looking forward to taking extra face-offs against him.” 

“Too bad, you’re still taking them,” LeClaire declared with a resigned determination. Sure enough, Carmichael and Roz objected simultaneously. 

“But shouldn’t we save Roz for—“

“There is no need, I can take Hollander—”

“I said enough!” LeClaire barked, banging on the table to shut them up. He shot an annoyed look at Roz. “You’re getting less ice time, and so is Hollander. Theriault will avoid starting him in their defensive zone so he can focus on scoring. Which is exactly what I’m going to do with you. Mikey is perfectly capable of shutting down the Hollander line, that’s what we pay him for.”

It was mostly true. LeClaire’s current game plan against Montreal’s top line was to let Hollander and Roz have at it in the first period. In the second, he’d use the combined power of Carmichael and the long change to trap them in their zone and cycle them to death. That usually left them gassed and less dangerous by the third. It would be less effective without Roz out there to stir up shit, but not a total disaster. 

Carmichael looked a bit more compliant now that he’d had his tires pumped. Roz was still mutinous as he scrubbed his knuckles roughly under his nose. He closed his eyes for a beat, swallowing whatever complaint he had left, then shoved his game face back on.

“Is not bad idea, but there is one problem,” Roz said thoughtfully, his voice still a gravelly baritone. “If they know about me, then Hollander will expect this. Mikey slows down the game, is how he makes life hard for players who use speed for attack. Hollander will not do this tonight. If you give him space to think, he will play chess with Mikey. Is low-event game, but he is good at chess.”

LeClaire was still a bit ticked off, but he was listening. “Do you have a different idea?”

“Yes. We do not give him space to think. Hollander hates being sick, will be easy to annoy him. When he gets comfortable, send us out to rile him up, then let him waste energy on Mikey.” 

Roz’s face settled back into his trademark heavy-lidded stare. Combined with his accent in that low, guttural voice, he sounded like a movie villain laying out his master plan. The whole tough-guy image was immediately ruined when he scrunched up his nose and scrubbed it against the back of his hand like a toddler.

LeClaire gave Roz another long look. He seemed impressed that the guy’s brain was still firing on all cylinders, but Cliff could see the edge of concern in the coach’s eyes. “I’ll consider it. Moving on, we can’t know exactly how this will affect the Metros’ game plan. We put our heads together with the analytics guys to come up with a baseline. Let’s start with—“

“haA’kGXTJ’SHeuhh!”

Roz pitched forward with another sneeze. Thankfully, it was the normal loud kind and not the wicked blocked-up ones that sounded like they rattled his teeth. He drew a few nervous glances from the kids, but was mostly ignored. LeClaire, who was used to that particular disruption, just kept talking. 

“—their forwards. We expect them—“

“Huhh’PTXZSCHhh-eu!”

“—to shelter the Hollander line, which means Comeau—“

“Ihh’kGHX’SCHuhh!”

“—is going to swallow up more hard minutes and d-zone draws. That’s good news for you three,” LeClaire, still ignoring the interruption, nodded toward Cliff, Roz and Connors. 

Cliff exchanged a satisfied look with Connors over a  bent-double Roz, who had yet to look up after his latest sneeze. Cliff was definitely looking forward to running over Montreal’s fourth line. The Raiders had no qualms about playing a heavy, greasy game. But those three idiots took it too far, and it was galling to watch the Metros escape with their choirboy reputation intact every time. Cliff blamed Hollander and his picture-perfect media-trained captaincy. 

Of course, LeClaire wouldn’t let him have too much fun. “Marly, keep your nose clean tonight. No stupid penalties. I can’t have you in the box when we’re already down one of our best penalty killers.”

Several guys jeered, and Roz briefly stopped bullying his nose to blow a loud raspberry. LeClaire was obviously fighting a smile as he kept going. 

“Speaking of the PK, we’re not entirely sure what we’re up against. Their PP1 has Hollander running the point, so he can try to win with his brain instead of his legs. He won’t cycle down low, but he can still pick us apart from the blue line if—“

“yhH’KGDHx’schueh!”

“—we give him time. Pressure him up top, make him skate. He—“

“Huhh-PdTX’SSHhh!”

“—wants to log the full two minutes, but if we make him work he’s going to—“

“Aah’GDHXxt’SHIIIh!!”

“—gas out early, bless you. Bottom line, they’re still dangerous. We’ll get more detailed in the PK meeting.”

The sneezes drew more attention this time after LeClaire’s offhanded blessing, but everyone looked away before Roz could catch them. As Roz righted himself, Cliff nudged him and raised his eyebrows in a silent ‘you good?’

Roz rolled his eyes and flicked his wrist carelessly, then scrubbed his knuckles roughly under his nose. That was probably Roz-speak for ‘leave me alone, you should be used to this by now.’ Fair enough, as long as he stayed that way for the next four hours. 

* * *

Author’s notes:

Shane wants the ground to swallow him whole, and that was before his teammate blessed him in Russian. Ilya plans to do more than just annoy him. 

Ilya would rather piss everyone off than experience a single moment of emotional vulnerability. This is an airtight plan and Shane will definitely not disrupt it by existing in his general vicinity. 

Hockey analysis - I wrote my best attempt at analyzing how each team’s tactics would adjust to this situation. I’m just a hockey fan without personal experience so my knowledge is limited, hopefully some of it makes sense. There’s maybe too much jargon, but I erred on the side of keeping the discussion in character. Both coaches are doing fairly standard stuff, but with slightly different emphasis. McCann is focused on load management, LeClaire is playing chess with match-ups. Shane is being autistic detail-oriented about his special interest, Ilya is engaging in psychological warfare. 

ESL speakers - Ilya isn’t the only one. Varkov and Andropov are Russian, so they’re gonna drop articles and use weird prepositions. Victor St-Simon is the most Quebecois name ever. He definitely grew up speaking French, he’s been speaking English for a while but he messes up verb tenses and idioms sometimes. J.J. is Haitian-Canadian, so he’s also a francophone. Plus he can swear in a combination of Haitian creole and Quebecois sacres, which is fun. I made a whole meta of where I think players are from based on their names, if anyone’s interested I can post it. 

Nicknames - around their team, hockey players almost never refer to each other by their full surnames. The lack of nicknames in canon bugs me almost as much as the lack of Russian diminutives. Hockey nicknames usually have 1 or 2 syllables, based on the player’s last name with an ‘s’, ‘y’ or ‘er’ suffix. Sometimes it’s an inside joke or a reference to a distinctive attribute (a redhead could be Red or Rusty, a tall player could be Tiny, etc.) For the sake of clarity I went with the boring options here, but I love the silly ones. My irl favorite is A/rber X/hekaj, nicknamed WiFi because his surname looks like a default password you would find on the back of a router.