SkullySniffles

Until Ilya had woken late for practice to one of his teammates banging at his hotel door. He had slept badly that night, too hot then too cold, tossing and turning over and over. Ilya only really reached REM once the sun started coming up, and by then he should have been getting dressed already. He leapt out of bed and threw on whatever discarded clothes were in proximity. His head was fucking killing him and he was already in a bad mood, cursing as he hopped on one foot trying to yank his sweats on. Ilya missed breakfast, barely made it downstairs for the bus, and simply sucked ass during practice. His head wasn’t in it and no matter how hard he focused on the ice he just couldn’t find the tight groove he usually did. 

By the time practice had finished, he was drenched in sweat and could barely catch his breath. Ilya had a hard time remembering ever being this tired after a pre-game practice on the ice. It soured his mood further, how out of routine he felt. This was not how game days went, especially not game days in Montreal. His headache hadn’t gone away; if anything it felt worse. He snapped at his teammates until they all got the hint and left him alone because honestly the last thing he wanted to do was speak or deal with someone asking him what the hell was wrong with him. Ilya didn’t even know himself what was going on and he’d rather chew concrete than try to put it into English. 

During the afternoon Ilya tried to get back to feeling normal. He ate lunch with his team even though he had zero appetite, he went back to his room and showered, he chugged a couple of water bottles because maybe his problem was dehydration. 

But by the time they were at the stadium in the locker room, he was beginning to think maybe he was fucked. His brain felt slow to process the information around him - English was suddenly so difficult that he stumbled through a rather short, embarrassing pre-game speech before just walking around and giving each teammate a shake or bump of helmets or punch on the arm to physically get them hyped instead. His vision felt a little off, a little out of focus, and god his head was killing him. The sound of the fans in the stadium nearly made him clamp his hands over his ears when they skated out for warmups. 

Ilya couldn’t even get himself to look at Shane. Ilya was pissed off, he felt like shit, and the last thing he needed was Shane to pick up on that. Because of course Shane would. There was no way if he was even a hair off of his usual game that Shane wouldn’t notice and Ilya really didn’t want to fucking talk about it. 

By the time the game was over, Ilya wanted nothing more to be magically transported to his hotel room where he didn’t have to do anything other than shower and sleep for the next twelve hours. 

The Boston Raiders lost by one point, 4-3 for the Montreal Metros. He felt worse and worse as the game progressed. By the second period his throat was aching, not yet raw but uncomfortable when he swallowed, dry and irritated from all of his panting during the game. His nose was next to useless now. Ilya always was sniffly on the ice from the cold of it, but this was a new low. The congestion was bad enough his ears ached and muffled the sound around him. His head continued to pound. His gear felt hot and suffocating and he was constantly wiping sweat out of his stinging eyes. The harder he pushed, the faster he worked his legs, the more nauseated he became. By the fourth period he was benched - somewhere in the last few minutes of play is vision went a little sideways and he just couldn’t keep track of the puck and his coach knew it. Embarrassing. 

Luckily he hadn’t been slammed around too bad, but he still felt like shit and he was pissed that he felt like shit. He was pissed that they lost, and he was pissed that he would probably have to tell Hollander he was coming down with something and couldn’t hook up. Of course. Ilya knew he was an asshole, but not that much of an asshole. But with the way Hollander squinted at him during the puck drop, he might already know. 

Shane gave him a narrow-eyed, calculating look when they shook hands after the match. Ilya had seen him make this face at enough people that he didn’t take it personally, but did make him feel weirdly self conscious in a way only Shane was capable of. Ilya probably looked as bad as he felt. So he got the handshakes over with and skated back to the locker room where he peeled off layers of sweat-soaked fabric and protective gear to shower this fucking night off of him. 

The steam didn’t help the issues he was having with his nose. The congestion began to shift in earnest, and before he knew it he was - 

“Hih’Nxcht! HUH’ngkt! HAh’NXXNGT! Hngh… ”

Damn that hurt. 

It was surprising to him how quickly he was going downhill. His headache has been steady all day, but over the course of just a few hours he had a full-blown head cold. Hopefully. Ilya was really and truly hoping this wasn’t the flu. Either way, his ears were blocked, nose packed full and running, and his throat felt like it was gearing up for laryngitis. Awesome. 

Ilya showered quickly, dried off, and threw on his post-game clothes. He sniffled thickly, wiping his nose roughly with his hoodie sleeve. He’d have the team medic check him out tomorrow if he still felt like this, and either way he had a couple of days before he needed to catch a flight. Right now all he wanted was to just to go the fuck to bed. 

Soon enough he was fumbling with his door key and stumbling inside his hotel room, closing it with a thud and leaning back against it. Ilya closed his eyes and took a deep breath, coughing weakly into his elbow on the exhale. Great. He rubbed his aching eyes and shuffled into the bathroom, rolling a copious amount of toilet paper around his hand and blowing his nose thoroughly. The noise was loud and gurgling, making him wince in disgust. He looked pretty terrible, hair still damp from the shower, face puffy and pale, nose already an irritated red with a mound of makeshift tissues tented around it. 

He took a moment to mop up his nose, but the touch just made him - 

“Hih’AAUSHHuhh! Hur’IESSHuhh! HAAH’DSHOO-INGTSHHU!!”

Ilya groaned afterwards. This cold had just started and he was already over it. He finished cleaning up, dug through his bag for tylenol, and took a couple with several desperate gulps of water. The liquid didn’t really help with the dryness in his throat, just made it sting as it went down his esophagus. He took a whole spare roll of toilet paper to bed with him as he collapsed into it, clumsily sliding it onto the nightstand. 

Ilya was so exhausted, sore and aching, head and sinuses pulsing when he moved. The bathroom light was still on and he needed to set his alarm for the morning. He was still fully dressed. But Ilya was too tired and felt too shitty to care about a single one of those things. 

He did care about one thing though. Groggy and squinting, he quickly pulled out his phone and typed a message to Hollander. 

Lily: Don’t come tonight. We will meet next time. 

Satisfied that Shane both wouldn’t come over and wouldn’t freak the fuck out at his radio silence, Ilya tossed his phone to the bedside table and nuzzled deeper into the starchy pillow, sniffling thickly. He just needed to sleep, just for a little while… 

~~~~~~~

Ilya jerked awake an indeterminate amount of time later to knocking at his door. His phone on the bedside table was vibrating incessantly and Ilya could basically feel the reverberation of it in his skull. He grumbled and swore and swatted at his phone until he knocked it to the carpet, fingers fumbling and failing to tug it towards him. He swore again and pushed himself up on trembling arms, confused and aching and pissed off. 

He really truly now felt awful. He was freezing cold even as sweat plastered his shirt to his skin. As soon as Ilya left the warm pocket of air trapped between the blankets, he began to shiver. His head was pounding and his nose was running already, congestion packed so tight that even sniffling made his face bloom with pain. His throat was beginning to ache properly now after an indeterminate time of mouth breathing. 

The knocking began at his door again, sharp and insistent. The phone on the ground stopped vibrating, then seconds later began again. Shaky, Ilya threw his legs over the side of the bed and wobbled to his feet. He was grateful in that moment he had left on the bathroom light so his balance wasn’t a hazard along with the lack of sight. Ilya, hunched over himself, arms tucked tight around his stomach as if that could ward off the chill, pulled on a discarded hoodie and swiped an arm under his leaky nose after trying and failing to sniffle away the mess.

Ilya didn’t know who was at his fucking door but they were about to regret it. The only thing in the world he wanted was to sleep, and Ilya swears to god if this is one of his idiot teammates- 

The door is yanked open to reveal Shane Hollander, ball cap pulled low over his eyes, standing nervously in the hallway. He had a plastic shopping bag in one hand, the other holding his phone to his ear. Ilya saw Hollander’s shoulders visibly droop with relief as he pushed his way inside. Ilya felt stunned for several seconds, mouth working soundlessly, sluggish sick brain trying to put the pieces together as to why Shane Hollander was here right now. He had cancelled, hadn’t he? Had he dreamt that? Ilya didn’t have time to make sense of it before Shane was shutting the door behind him and sighing in relief. It took several seconds for Ilya to realize he was being spoken to. He felt like he was underwater, vision swimmy, thoughts slow.  

“-really thought someone was going to see me. Are you okay? I’m sorry if you were sleeping. I just wanted to…” Shane trails off, looking nervous and embarrassed in that endearing way he always does when he meets Ilya’s silence with rambling. But then his eyes focus in on Ilya’s face again and his eyes narrow, bottom lip pursed in the prettiest frown Ilya’s ever seen. “God Rozanov, you look awful. No wonder you played like shit tonight.” 

The insult seems to jolt Ilya back into the land of the living. Now it’s normal territory again, back where Ilya knows what song and dance to perform.

“So you have combe here just to insult mbe then?” Ilya has to fight to not cringe at the sound of his own voice. It’s beginning to sound raspy and raw, clogged with congestion. The concerned wrinkles in Shane’s face deepen. 

“No, I just wanted…” Hollander paused for a second, averting his eyes and shuffling nervously, and Ilya takes the opportunity to move this conversation in a less tender direction. Ilya really didn’t want to talk about it, the vulnerability so vile he could feel it on his skin like a physical entity. If Shane got all soft and sweet with him right now Ilya knew he won’t be able to resist it like this. He could not do this, not with Hollander and his worried brown eyes, not while he felt so shitty. 

“You have combe here for a fuck, hm? Are you so unable to resist mby dick even when I tell you ndo?” 

The taunt works and Shane’s eyes snap back to his usual affronted squint he does when someone says something particularly stupid. 

“Stop fucking around, I’m not here to sleep with you. What do you have, the flu?” 

Ilya sniffled before he answered, which proved to be the wrong choice. The congestion shifted inside his already sensitive nose and the burning need to sneeze ignites in his sinuses. After he had broken it for the second time, Ilya’s nose became over-sensitive and reactive, even more than before. So now when he got sick it was always a constant struggle to fight the tingling, burning urge to sneeze. 

He turned away immediately, ducking to try and hide his face in his below. His sinuses were packed full since Ilya hadn’t really thought to blow his nose before answering the door. He felt a small flare of panic, a lick of embarrassment; this was possibly the least sexy thing he could do in front of the one man he found to be the most attractive person on the planet. But still, his breath hitched on a shuddering inhale and his body gave him no choice. 

“Hih’Ngxt! Hd’nGXT! Hngt’NXTSH-KNGT-NGXNT-uh!”

He stifled painfully, jerking forward one, two, five times, expulsions squelchy and squeaking. Thank god, no mess had escaped him. Ilya groaned quietly, face pinched with pain. His pulse roared in his head for a few seconds as the sinus pressure made his ears pop. He turned back towards the bedroom, going straight for the roll of toilet paper on the bedside table. He fumbled with the soft sheets and then blew his nose, going slowly to try to avoid the worst of the pain in his head. Ilya made sure he was presentable before he turned back around to face Hollander, nose beginning to feel raw and chafed from the frequent friction. At least now he felt a touch less clogged.

"Don't do that, you're going to give yourself an ear infection. I can't believe your medic cleared you to play tonight."

While Ilya was busy dealing with his nose, Shane had put his shopping bag down on the desk and was pulling things out of it. Bottles of medicines, sports drinks, water, a can of ginger ale (naturally), and two large cylindrical takeout containers. Ilya's nose was too stuffed up to smell anything, but he guessed from the shape that it was probably soup. Soup. This man was going to fucking kill him.  

"He did not clear me," Ilya grumbled, pulling the hotel room's waste bin closer to chuck the sopping tissue he was still holding into it. Shane whipped his head around to ogle at him, eyes wide and outraged, freckles bunched up adorably. He quickly amended his statement before he got thoroughly chewed out. "I was okay before game, just headache and was tired. I will see team doctor tomorrow. I am okay, Hollander, Russians to not pass out and die just from ti-ihhh-ny coldsihhNGXT! Hih’NGngXT!”

Ilya ducked quickly into his elbow again to squash the angry expulsions there, strangled again into quiet, painful things. 

Hollander just blinked at him as he blew his nose again. At least the blowing helped a little.

"Uh-huh. Tiny."

Ilya refused to feel embarrassed about the call-out. 

"Why are you here, Hollander? I told you not to come yes? We cannot fuck, you will catch this and then you will blame me for ruining your perfect little winning streak." Ilya felt himself already losing the little energy he had from the shock of seeing his rival at the door. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed to look up at Shane, eyes heavy and hot. As if Shane were telepathically tuned into that thought, he stepped close into Ilya's space and put a palm against his forehead. Their eyes met, and Ilya felt his pulse jump into his throat at the zing! of contact. At the gentleness in Shane's eyes. 

Shane must have felt something equally as vulnerable because he pulled away and turned away to open one of the pill bottles on the desk, ears red. Ilya tried not to mourn the contact. He really did feel pretty awful, head aching, throat sore, snuffling and miserable and cold. 

"Well, I correctly assumed that you're shit at taking care of yourself. And I... wanted to see you." Shane admitted the last part softly, like he was unable to get his vocal cords to raise the volume past the nervous lump in his throat. Shane opened one of the boxes, pulled out the bottle inside, and then disassembled the box to fold it flat. Always so neat. "You probably have a fever, by the way."

Ilya was helpless to the smile that worked its way onto his face.

"Ah, so you do think I am hot." 

Shane huffed and smiled softly, shaking his head.

"Shut up, Rozanov. You're not funny." He finished with his unboxing and counting of the pills he had brought, four capsules in the cupped palm of his hand. "Have you taken anything?"

Ilya leaned back on his palms, bed creaking beneath the new distribution of weight. He still kind of couldn't believe this was happening. Shane Hollander was here in his hotel room to feed him pills and soup and play nurse. Ilya hadn't even told him he was feeling bad, hadn't said much during their game together, and hadn't even been terribly symptomatic during the time he was on the ice. To anyone else he was just playing shitty. Was it that Hollander only had to look at him to know? Did Shane see the differences in him the way Ilya could see the differences in Shane? When Shane was playing on a tweaked ankle, when he pretended missing a goal didn't bother him, when his eyes just barely flashed anxiously while answering interview questions that were just a little too personal. Did Shane watch him like Ilya did? 

Ilya took a deep breath, then stopped the train of thought where it was. He didn't need to be thinking of that when he was so tired and unwell, when his walls just weren't as strong, when he simply didn't have the resources to keep them tall. 

"Umb," Ilya said, clearing his throat and turning away to cough weakly. "Tylenol only." 

"Good," Shane said, holding out the handful of pills with a bottle of water. Ilya felt his heart do a insubordinate little flutter at the praise. He took the pills into his own palm, chasing them down with a swig of water. The bottle was cold, recently refrigerated, and it made him shiver. "This will fix you up. And it's nighttime too so it should help you sleep. I checked Boston's schedule so I know you don't fly out for a few days. If you have practice in the morning, don't go." 

Right as Ilya was going to tell Hollander to fuck off and that he wasn't Ilya's boss and he could go to morning practice if he wanted to (he very much didn't), the itching from earlier came back to his sinuses full force. He brought up the back of his wrist to his nose, breath gasping. 

“Hih’HnGT-nGXT-HNGKT! HAH’ngHHXT!”

He suppressed them as well as he could, unwilling to make a mess, to show further proof of his illness. To try and make it as small as possible.

Shane frowned at him again, eyebrows pulling together in displeasure.

“Seriously, Roz, knock it off. Stop doing that." 

Ilya snuffled into more toilet paper he had pulled off the roll. "Doing whadt." He blew his nose with a painful honk before tossing the tissue into the trash. If anything he thought maybe Hollander would appreciate his attempts to keep his germs to himself, to be less gross. Shane was always so put together, so neat and tidy, so very much the opposite of whatever Ilya was right now and Ilya very clearly felt the imbalance of it. It made him feel a mix of embarrassment and self-consciousness and shame he didn’t often feel outside of interactions with his father.

"Holding them in. Your, uh, sneezes," Shane said, suddenly looking sheepish. "You'll make yourself worse. Or, like, explode your brain. It must hurt to stifle them." 

"Whatever," Ilya grumbled, crawling further onto the bed and leaning his aching head against the headboard. He didn't love the idea of sneezing with a very full nose in front of the guy he fucks every other month, but Shane was right. It did hurt to stifle them. "You did ndot have to do all of this." 

Even as he said it, Ilya was grateful Shane had come. It warmed something inside of him, that Hollander had thought of him, had noticed something was out of place, and had showed up unasked to fix it. Ilya struggled to remember a time someone had done this for him, especially without being asked. He couldn’t. The last person who must have done this for him was his mother, and he really didn’t want to think about that right now. It was a strange feeling to be grateful and content and miserable and exposed all at once.

Shane looked away with a half shrug, cheeks heating. God, he was so sweet Ilya could barely handle it.

“I wanted to.” Again uncomfortable with his own nervousness, Shane retrieved the takeout containers and dug around in the bottom of the bag for a pair of spoons. “Are you hungry? I brought soup. I don’t know what you like so I just got miso? It’s what I usually get when I’m sick but if you don’t like it-“

“Hollander.” Ilya smirked softly. Even sick and drippy and gross he couldn’t help the swell of affection in his chest. It was so Shane to fret so much, even about his rival, the guy he sometimes has sex with. Ilya had never had another hookup in his life care about him like this. Or look at him the way Shane sometimes does. “I’mb sure is fine. Bring here, we can eat.”

Ilya wasn’t really hungry at all, but an excuse to keep Hollander in his room was something he couldn’t make himself pass on. Shane just nodded quickly and fumbled with the food and utensils for a second before getting it together while Ilya took him in with hungry eyes.

They ended up side by side on the bed, bad hotel TV on, eating soup mostly in companionable silence. Ilya drank his soup while Shane ate his with a spoon. It was actually pretty good despite having no desire to eat, simple and savory and salty. The food was enjoyable, but the steam almost immediately made his nose begin to run. He sniffled through it for a few mouthfuls before the congestion shifted just so and ignited the tickle in his sinuses. Again.

He had just enough time to set his container of soup on the bedside table before he was snapping forward with several body-shaking sneezes.

“Hah’ADSCHH’uhh! Hih’ISHH’OO! Hih’AAUSHHuhh-EIISH’UU-RUSSHH-HA’DZCHHH-IEWW! Nghhh.”

He remembered at the last minute Hollander’s instructions to not hold it in. He was glad for it - even letting loose still made pain shoot through his sinuses and into his temples. Ilya didn’t want to know what the agony of stifling right now would feel like.

Ilya felt a little winded, a touch dizzy as he pulled away from his elbow. As he reached for the now half-used roll of paper on the nightstand, he saw there was a smattering of wet droplets on his hoodie sleeve. He felt himself blush a bit as he scrubbed at his sleeve with the tissues and blew his nose. But when he risked a glance over at the man next to him, Shane was looking at him with a little proud smile pulling at his lips, eyes soft and warm.

“Better,” Shane said before turning his attention back to the TV, still smiling.

Ilya for the first time felt too flustered to reply. That, and he was still exhausted and sick and his brain was slow. That’s why he just finished cleaning up his nose and turned back to the TV. It was just the cold medicine making his face warm, making his heart pound.

Ilya managed to finish most of the soup which he was rather proud about. He was glad that he was able to eat despite his lack of appetite, if only so Shane would be happy about it. And it was clear that Shane was; he made a little satisfied noise in his throat when he got up to throw their trash away and saw just an inch of broth left in Ilya’s container. And to Ilya’s great surprise, once Hollander finished tidying up, he got right back into the bed, just a touch closer than before.

Now full of warm soup and medicated, Ilya began to feel his eyes droop. He wanted more than anything to have just a little longer of this, a little more of Shane’s company, a little more of the creature comforts he usually denied himself. But sleeping off how terrible he felt was a close second.

Shane, of course, was quick to notice.

“Meds working already?” He looked at Ilya so sweetly, eyes soft, little concerned crease in his brow. He reached over again and felt Ilya’s forehead, then brushed the backs of his fingers against his flushed, warm cheek. Ilya sighed and leaned into it, sniffling thickly.

“Mm. Amberican medicines are insande. Is like I amb dreaming while awake.”

“We’re in Canada right now.” 

“Mmph. Whatever. Ndorth Amberica, is sambe thing.” Ilya yawned hugely and nuzzled down into his pillow, blinking slowly up at the man in his bed. Shane moved his hand up to play with Ilya’s hair. Ilya was rather enjoying it before he had to jerk away into his sleeve with another set of sudden, intense sneezes.

“Hih’IhhtSHUU! Hah’HRISHH’oo! HA’SESHHUH!”

He coughed and sniffled wetly after, eyes watering, head pounding, vision wobbly from the medicine. “Sorry,” he rasped, already turning away to clean himself up. His face felt hot with embarrassment, shame, vulnerability. His head swam as he tried to sit up.

But Shane just frowned and pulled Ilya’s face back towards him with a cupped hand.

“Don’t be. I’m sorry it hurts.” Shane’s fingers skidded across his face, gently pressing and massaging the swollen passages of his sinuses. Ilya shut his eyes so as not to cry. He felt both raw and soothed simultaneously as Shane moved his warm thumbs to trace firm circles at Ilya’s temples, slowly easing the ache there.

Ilya felt himself deflate against the pillows. He was well and truly in the depths of a nasty cold, but he was somehow the most content he had been all day - and he was also on the verge of tears. Shane Hollander was absolutely capable of making him feel complicated things. He was nothing but putty under Shane’s hands, helpless as the haze of cold medicine pulled him under.

“Is okay. You mbake it better.” Ilya was sure he was slurring, and maybe not even entirely sure he had spoken at all. Shane’s fingers froze at his temples for the smallest of moments before they began their ministrations again, somehow even more tender than before. Eyes drifting closed, Ilya let his body relax fully as the fuzzy sensation of sedation washed over him. Promptly, he fell asleep.

Whatever pills Shane had given him had knocked him out more than properly, but some time later Ilya was sure he felt the quick press of lips against his cheek before Shane whispered a soft ‘Goodnight’ just inches from his ear.

Ilya would wake alone the next morning, which was not a surprise. But it did make him smile when he saw all the supplies Shane had brought him lined up on the desk with a note set neatly before them.

Don’t go to practice! Stay hydrated!!

Ilya lets his head lull back against his seat. He’s fucking exhausted.

The Boston Bears are all exhausted tonight.

A moment like this is rare. One in which the team is so subdued after a win. Even in situations like tonight’s— a quick turn around between games, hopping on a flight only a couple hours after getting off the ice— usually the guys are hyped up on the adrenaline of their victory.

So, this quiet atmosphere on the team jet is indeed unique. Most everyone on the flight is trying to squeeze in some shut eye, whereas they’d usually be pouring drinks and blasting music.

Ilya pinches between his brows, digging deep circles to try to rub away the headache settling in right there, just behind his eyes.

He’s grateful for the silence surrounding him, because he’s really starting to feel like crap. Of course, the reason for the peacefulness, is also the reason for his crummy ailments. A nasty bug that has made its way through, at minimum, half of the team. And now it’s stretched its icky tentacles around Ilya’s immune system too.

Thankfully, Ilya was able to play a solid game this afternoon. Two goals against Florida of his own, and one by Marleau. It wasn’t pretty by any means— guys deliberately snotting on the ice, using jerseys as tissues, hacking up a lung after tiring plays. The arena cleaning staff is probably entering in hazmat suits at this very moment, with an arsenal of Lysol by their sides.

The image behind his eyelids of CDC workers rushing into the stadium is doing a good job of putting Ilya to sleep, until an irritating twinge burns in the back of his nose.

He cracks an eye open at the same time as he presses his knuckle against the itching nostril, but the intense tingle only grows stronger. His closed eye begins to tear at the sensation, wetting his lashes.

After a few seconds, Ilya drops his hand and gives into the urge, too tired to keep fighting it. He breathes slowly, gently, lips parted and eyes squinted, until his breath catches. He times one final inhale accurately, able to successfully subdue the reflex into a silent head-jerk. Two more follow, just as they always do. He lets out a soft sigh after the third.

He sniffles audibly, glancing around at the collective misery happening around him, and catches Marleau’s gaze across the isle.

“God bless,” Cliff says quietly, with an assured nod. “You good?” He more so mouths than says.

Ilya nods and waves him off, resettling into his seat. Luckily it’s not long before he’s snoring.

——

Ilya’s never found a hotel bed as comfortable as he does the next evening. Another win under the Bears’ belt (barely), this time in Detroit, and a blessed reprieve from their hectic schedule— it had snowed too much during the day for the team to fly out until the following morning.

Some of the guys who weren’t sick and a couple who were already on the mend took the opportunity to go out. Ilya had passed, and for once it wasn’t suspicious that lady-killer Rosanov was turning in instead of enjoying a night of partying.

Ilya had been skipping out on the party scene fairly often these days, ever since he and Shane had become an official (secret) couple. He still joined the guys out occasionally— it would probably be his last season with them if his plans for Ottawa panned out, and he wanted to try to enjoy that.

This time, Ilya’s rejection was met with ‘feel better’s and ‘get some sleep, Cap’s and so on. A stark contrast to the usual ensuing unconvincing speeches as to why he’s missing out on the best night of his life.

Now, as he lays out flat on his back, head propped up against three pillows and eyes barely open, Ilya has to fight to keep himself awake.

Shane would be calling momentarily, and Ilya, even feeling as crummy as he does, isn’t going to miss an opportunity to talk to his boyfriend.

But this bug is something nasty, because he accidentally dozes off for a couple minutes. Thankfully his phone is resting on his stomach, and startles him out of his stupor when it begins to buzz. Ilya forces himself to sit up straight and pulls his knees towards his chest so he has somewhere to rest his arm, phone in hand.

Finally he accepts the facetime. Shane’s worried face fills his screen.

“Aww, you look so sick, Ilya,” Shane coos, brows furrowed, glasses reflecting his bright phone screen.

“Da, yes. I feel terrible,” he grumbles. His brain feels like mush.

Shane bites his lip. Ilya can see the background changing behind him. He must be walking to his bedroom. “What are your symptoms?”

Ilya shrugs and sniffles pitifully before mustering up the energy to respond. “Stuffy nose, sore throat, headache.” He clears his throat. “Maybe a fever,” he says uncertainly.

Shane tsks. “I’m sorry. I wish I could take care of you,” he says sweetly, though Ilya knows that in the midst of hockey season Shane might secretly be glad to be many miles away from his germs.

Ilya sniffs again. He glances around the room until he spots a tissue box on the TV stand. He wishes he’d sought it out sooner. He groans as he pulls the covers down and gets hit with chilly air.

“Whatcha doin?” Shane asks casually, but based on Ilya’s state, he’s probably not feeling casual about this at all.

“Getting tissue box,” Ilya says plainly, moving as quickly as possible to get back beneath the blankets.

Shane starts talking again, and Ilya tries to listen, but his sinuses start burning again, and it’s too hard to focus. His eyes glaze over and his chin droops, enough so that Shane’s voice tapers off mid-sentence.

After a few seconds of silence, Ilya buckles silently with the first sneeze, then the second two, closer together. Then he stalls for a minute, before snapping down with a fourth, that escapes him partially.

“nXK’shhh!”

“Done?” Shane waits a moment. Ilya nods. “Bless you.”

A quiet, breathed out, “Thank you.” He gives his nose a weak blow, and tries to remember a time when his head didn’t feel like it was about to implode.

“That looked painful. I thought you stopped doing that. It’s not good for you,” Shane points out.

He’s right. Still, Ilya rolls his eyes a little. He used to stifle no matter what. It was sort of a learned behavior in a house where imperfection was not acceptable. Being sick was weakness, and being loud (even if the loudness wasn’t that loud and the cause of it was an unavoidable reflex) was impolite. So, keeping something as trivial as a sneeze quiet was just another way to stay under the radar.

Sometime after moving to Boston, that habit began to die out. But Ilya remembers Shane commenting on it once, many years ago.

“Jesus, how do you sneeze so quietly?”

A lot has changed since then. Ilya discovering new freedoms and ways to clash with his father, even if the man was back in Russia unable to see it. And now, he doesn’t usually consider stifling— not unless there’s an explicit purpose for it.

“Oh. Yes, I forgot I am finally alone. I’ve been trying to keep the sickness to myself,” he explains mildly.

Shane frowns. “Doesn’t half the team already have it?”

“Yes. Half. The other fifty percent still have a chance,” Ilya counters, tone weary.

Shane snorts. “Whatever you say. Just don’t do that anymore, kay?”

Ilya shrugs, but nods. “What is new with you, moya lyubov'?”

Shane nearly laughs at how hard Ilya’s trying to keep his eyes open to hold a conversation right now. “Not much. How about you call me tomorrow morning and I’ll tell you. I think—”

“HH! hih’TDSCHHHh! huh’DTSCHHHhiew!”

“—jeez, bless you.”

“hhhd’TSZCHHHuh!”

“Bless.” Shane frowns. “You okay?”

Ilya shakes his head through another uncontrollable inhale.

“huhgt’SCHHHieww!”

Ilya’s got his arm up, vaguely near his chin, though it's doing nothing to cover anything. Shane watches his nostrils flare again.

“hhd’TSCHHHHuh! huh’TDSCHHHiewww!”

“Bless you,” Shane sighs. He watches Ilya’s head leave frame, then reappear with a new tissue, sniffling.

He swipes at his nose, a tear running belatedly down his cheek. “Thank you,” he practically whispers.

At a loss for words, Shane frowns deeper. Then, “I’m sorry you’re so sick.”

Ilya sighs through chapped lips. He misses being able to breathe through his nose. “Me too.”

A minute of silence passes, Shane just watching Ilya flight sleep before he speaks again.

“I’m gonna let you go, okay? I want you to get some sleep,” Shane says. Ilya would laugh at how similar he is to Yuna if he wasn’t so caught up in his own misery.

“Will you—” Ilya coughs. “Will you stay on the phone until I am asleep,” he meekly requests.

An adoring look creeps over Shane’s face.

“Of course I will.”

Ilya’s eyes slip closed. “Thank you. I love you.”

Shane smiles fondly. “I love you too, Ilya. Goodnight.”

Jane: 305

                                     Lily: 👍🏻

“You played like shit today,” Shane remarked after he had shut the door behind Rozanov. 

The blond rolled his eyes. “Fuck you, Hollander.” 

Shane blinked. Rozanov’s thick accent was even harder to understand than usual through the congestion in his voice. 

“Are you…feeling alright?”

Rozanov, who had already taken off his shoes and was leaning over stripping his pants off, nodded. 

When he stood up, Shane could see the telltale glint under his nose from where it had dripped. Rozanov seemed utterly unconcerned, simply wiping it with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Shane really wanted to be grossed out. He wasn’t in the slightest. 

The Russian took off his sweatshirt too, leaving him just in his underwear. He leaned in to kiss Shane, only to duck forward before he could make it there. He sprayed a violent “HURESHOOO!” towards the ground. 

Oh my god. 

Shane somehow maintained his composure, his “Bless you,” coming out steady. 

He would’ve been able to handle it if Rozanov had stopped there. He didn’t though. As he straightened up, both of his hands came flying to his face and he let out two more, screaming out a “RESCHOOOO! HARASCHOOO!” 

Rozanov opened his eyes and looked at Shane, but didn’t take his hands away from his face. Shane stared at him. 

“Do you have tissue?” It came out so muffled by congestion that Shane could barely understand him, but he got the message. He practically ran to the bathroom to grab him a box. Bringing it back, he pulled out three and handed them all to Rozanov.

The wettest blow Shane had ever heard in his life came out. Rozanov went through all of the ones that Shane had given him, and then another. Swiping up at his nose, he trashed them all in the bin next to the bathroom door. 

“Okay. Sorry. Now we start.”

Shane couldn’t stop himself. “Are you being serious? We’re not going to fuck, you’re on death’s door!”

“Am fine, Hollander. It is just nasmork. Is sniffles.”

Shane felt his dick twitch and start to fill. It really was unavoidable, with Rozanov saying that word in his awful (attractive) accent. He did his best to keep his face completely neutral, but Rozanov was a bloodhound with these things. His eyes narrowed and he examined Shane more closely. 

“You…are blushing.”

Shane barely resisted the urge to clap his hands to his cheeks and hide his face. 

“No, I’m not.”

Rozanov stepped closer, eyes never leaving Shane’s even as, with a congested sniff, he shoved his nose upward with his palm. Shane had known that he did that, not because he’d seen him do it but because of the little line across the tip of his nose. Still, it was totally different imagining it and seeing it three feet from you. 

“I have eyes, Hollander. I see you.”

Shane was more turned on than he had ever been in his life. The embarrassment mixed with Rozanov and his red, irritated nose, were going to kill him. 

Rozanov seemed to know it too, because he stepped forward and cupped Shane’s dick through his sweatpants. He found it hard, because of course he did. The man smirked at Shane, pleased. 

“This does it for you, hm?”

Shane opened his mouth, to explain, to apologize, to say anything at all. Thankfully, he didn’t get the chance.  

Rozanov’s eyes were still on Shane’s, but they were faraway now. He stepped back, rubbing furiously at his nose. Shane could practically hear him moving the cartilage around with how hard he was shoving at it. 

Seemingly too taken by the tickle to even think about covering this time, Ilya’s face contorted. His eyebrows flew up, his mouth turned down, his eyes squeezed shut. 

“HARASCHOOO!”

A thick warm mist landed on Shane’s face, and he quivered. 

“Bless you,” he whispered, feeling a little faint. 

Rozanov wasn’t done. 

“HAAACHOOO! ESCHOO! REESCHOOO!”

Rozanov spun around so Shane couldn’t see his face, shaking his head as though that would clear the itch. He reared back and then he went lurching forward away from Shane with the force of a “HAAASCHOOOO!” that echoed through the small hotel room. Shane could hear his lips vibrate against each other with the force of it.

“Jesus!” Shane was breathless now, and moved forward to put his hand on Rozanov’s back and steady him. There was more warmth radiating off him than normal. Not enough to be concerned about, but enough that Shane knew Rozanov didn’t have “sniffles”.

“Why don’t you lie down?” he suggested quietly. 

Rozanov scoffed at this, hands on his knees. “You lie down. All your blood is in your cock right now, you will pass away.”

Shane cocked his head. “Pass out?”

Rozanov nodded, and then went to straighten up and staggered a bit. 

“Fuck, Ilya.” It came out of Shane’s mouth without thinking. He was worried, more worried than he should be for some asshole who had fucked him four times. 

Ilya stiffened. “I am Ilya now?”

Shane was a deer in the headlights. He looked around, half unable to make eye contact, half hoping there was somewhere in the room he could hide. 

“I didn’t-“

Ilya held up a finger, and tipped his head back to stare into the fluorescents above them. His nostrils flared a few times as he took long, steady breaths, but he ended up just sighing and returning his attention to Shane. All the fight had gone out of him. 

“Is fine. I don’t care.”

This wasn’t the response Shane had hoped for, but it was better than what he had imagined: Ilya running out, leaving, never speaking to him again. 

“Okay. Well then. You’re going to go to bed now.” Shane commanded, searching for some authority. Ilya gave a little laugh, and then, seemingly having decided to indulge Shane, nodded his assent. He flopped backwards onto the bed.

Shane went to go dig in his suitcase. He kept Dayquil, Nyquil, and Benadryl in his bag at all times, in hopes that being prepared would prevent him needing them. It didn’t really work that way, but it was nice to pretend. He popped out the two Nyquil tablets, filled one of the plastic cups that housekeeping had left in the bathroom with water, and came back out. 

Ilya was scrolling on his phone, brow furrowed, nose bright red. “They are saying I was bad!”

Shane tutted. “You were. Although now I wonder how you even managed to skate straight sneezing like this.”

“I took something,” Ilya said absently, still on his phone. Shane grabbed it from his hands, turned it off, and plugged it in. 

“You don’t need to be reading that right now. Also, why didn’t you take something before you came here?”

“Was…in a hurry. To get here.” Ilya was very studiously looking away. He cleared his throat. “Now I am glad I did not. Since you like so much.”

Shane wanted to defend himself, but Ilya was clearly distracted, rubbing at his nose again. 

“You okay?” Shane asked, watching him closely.

Ilya started to nod, then gave yet another great “HAAAAESCHOOO!”, one that sprayed down his bare torso, and left him shivering.

Shane grabbed a tissue from the box Ilya had left on the side table, and cleaned his stomach off. Ilya gazed up at him, so trusting that it made Shane’s chest hurt a bit. 

“Will you get up for a second? You need to get under the blanket.”

Ilya clucked at him. “Such a worrier.” He did what he was told though, climbing up for Shane to lift the covers and then crawling back in. Shane didn’t make eye contact when he pulled the blanket over him. 

“Alright. Take this, and go to sleep. Maybe you’ll feel better with some rest.”

Ilya sat up the tiniest bit to take the pills that he handed him, and then laid down flat on his back. Shane was sure with how congested he was that Ilya would snore, but he knew he wasn’t getting any sleep that night anyways. 

He turned off the big light, keeping the lamp on so he could finish his biography on Bobby Orr, and sat up next to Ilya. They stayed like that a while, in a quiet only broken by Ilya’s constant sniffling and Shane turning the pages. 

“Heh…heh…”

Shane looked over to find Ilya’s eyes closed yet again, his nostrils wider than Shane had ever seen on anyone.

“Need…heh…to…RASCHOOO!” 

Shane was, frankly, in awe, that one person could sneeze this much, and so wetly every single time. 

He couldn’t help himself. He asked, “Are you always so…sneezy? When you’re sick?” His dick leapt in his pants, but he ignored it. 

“Da. Yes. And other times. Is annoying.” He paused, and then smirked. “Am happy you like it though.”

“About that…” Shane was winding up to apologize for being weird, for making Ilya uncomfortable, for any litany of things, but Ilya interrupted him. 

“Is okay, Shane. I am happy you…what is word? To get something from?”

“Benefit,” Shane said weakly. He had called him Shane. 

“Yes. Benefit.” He rolled to the side facing Shane and closed his eyes. 

Shane waited until he knew Ilya was close to falling asleep, his congested breaths lengthening, and then put the book on the nightstand. He turned over too, so he and Ilya were nose to nose. He would surely catch this, but he found he didn’t care. 

“Is nice,” Ilya said sleepily. 

“What’s nice?” Shane asked quietly, staring at Ilya’s closed eyelids. 

Shane grimaces a little as he makes his way up the stage to sit at the table in front of the press. Half of the grimace is from the thought of dealing with the press; the other half is that he can hardly believe he just thought of Rozanov as “cute”. Hot, sure, sexy, yeah, but “cute”? Rozanov would probably kick his ass if he heard that. And Shane much prefers the other things Rozanov does to his ass, thanks very much.

He wipes the grimace off his face quickly, though, because he doesn’t want the press to think he’s unhappy to be there, even if he is. He can already hear his mother on the phone later, lecturing him for not controlling his face. She had called earlier, reminding him to mention the cologne that’s recently started sponsoring him. He can’t even remember the brand name; something fancy and expensive. Shane prefers something a little more understated, but he had reluctantly dabbed some on his wrists and neck, if only so he can reassure his mom that he did so when she calls again tomorrow.

Shane gives Rozanov a nod as he takes his seat. He can already hear the press whispering, trying to decipher the meaning behind that little gesture. Is there real respect between the famed rivals, or is it just a show for the cameras and they loathe each other behind closed doors? Neither, he thinks, just a little friendly ass play in discreet hotel rooms. But of course he could never say that out loud.

Rozanov nods back, seeming distracted as he rubs the bridge of his nose with the center of his palm. “We get started, yes?” he asks shortly.

Shane shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he watches Rozanov rub at his pink, irritated nose. It’s already hard enough to be around Rozanov, without thinking about… that. He just hopes Ilya doesn’t start—

“hh’KNXSHTT!”

Shane flinches, unable to help himself from a visible reaction to Ilya’s first sneeze. It’s crushed into Ilya’s knuckles, painfully stifled.

It’s kind of funny. He’s never seen Ilya try to stifle before. On the ice, he usually just aims off to the side. Same with when they’re having sex afterward. Luckily, Shane having a boner isn’t very out of place when they’re having sex and Ilya starts sneezing. When they’re on the ice, on the other hand…

Shane resists the urge to cross his legs and reminds himself that the tablecloth is covering him from the reporters’ hungry eyes. “Bless you,” he mumbles, wildly uncomfortable just saying the words out loud.

Ilya waves a hand—the hand he’d just stifled against—dismissively. “Not dyig. Just allergic.” He sniffles and rubs at his nose again. The tip of it is starting to turn pink even under the makeup, Shane notices, swallowing hard.

“What are you allergic to, Ilya?” A brave reporter calls out. The mics must be picking up their words.

Ilya glares, seemingly unaware of all the cameras and reporters taking in his every microexpression. Or, more likely, he just doesn’t care. “Canada, apparently,” he says, with a waving gesture to encompass the entire nation.

The crowd of reporters obediently lets out a rumbling laugh, but Ilya doesn’t look like he’s kidding. His nose twitches, and he looks like he barely has time to shield his face before he’s ducking back into his knuckles with two barely-stifled, much wetter-sounding sneezes. “hh’GNXXSHHT! heh’DSSHHHT!”

Shane can feel the tips of his ears burning red. Is he blushing? God, he hopes not. He needs to take control of the conversation and redirect it. “The birch in Canada isn’t for the faint of heart,” he says with the fakest laugh he’s ever done. Maybe that will be enough to get the press to be satisfied and move on, he hopes.

Instead, one reporter calls out to Ilya, “Think all that sneezing will distract you from the game? Are you worried about winning tomorrow?”

Ilya is rubbing at his nose fiercely, but he manages to wink at the reporters in a way that seems effortless. “No, I never worry about beating Montreal,” he says lightly.

“Maybe you should, given how Boston’s been doing against us lately,” Shane bites out. His eyes lock onto the way Ilya is rubbing at his nostrils, all red and shiny and irritated. He can’t help himself from looking for a too-long second, before he finally is able to drop his eyes.

The reporters “ooh” obediently at the chirp and start asking Shane a question about his prep for tomorrow’s game. It’s easy enough to answer. He’s heard the same questions a dozen times before.

But he can’t keep himself from noticing the way that Ilya is watching him, from the corner of his eye. Like Ilya is studying him. Seeing the things that Shane would rather keep hidden.

*

After the press interview, Shane almost holds out. Almost resists the urge.

“Almost.” Who’s he kidding? He books it for Ilya’s hotel room, which had been texted to him this morning, as soon as he can. He doesn’t even change out of his suit first. The idea of Ilya tearing it off him has major appeal, anyway.

Ilya is slow to open the door, looking hazy and itchy. For once, Shane doesn’t scold him for making him wait in the hallway, too absorbed in studying the delicious discomfort that’s obvious on Ilya’s face. Now that the makeup is scrubbed off, it’s obvious that he’s been rubbing his nose nonstop all day. It’s all red and irritated-looking, and he can’t stop scrunching his nose as if to fight off a tickle.

“Couldn’t wait, no?” Ilya teases dryly, a hint of congestion in his voice.

Shane is on him like a puck bunny going after a clueless rookie. Ilya makes a surprised noise into Shane’s mouth mid-kiss, then cups the back of his neck and licks into his mouth. Their hands are everywhere, rubbing, squeezing, touching, impossible to keep track.

Shane finds his hands drifting upward, and he cups the other man’s face. He strokes a thumb across Ilya’s left cheek.

Ilya breaks the kiss and tears away from Shane, his face twitching. He starts to say something, breaks off with an insistent hitch, and sneezes violently into hastily-cupped palms. “hih’HETSSCHH!”

The sneeze sounds harsh and itchy. Shane swallows hard and steps closer. “Bless you,” he offers up, tentative. He can feel his face burning.

Ilya waves a hand at him dismissively, eyes watering as he continues to hitch. “S-sorry… s’just… fuck,” he stumbles over his words. Before he can say anything else, he sneezes two more times into his hands, both sounding as rough and unsatisfying as the first one. “Hh’ESSCHHHTT! heh… heh’IISSCHHTT’uhh!”

After a few seconds of sniffling, Ilya looks up at Shane awkwardly. “Sorry. This, um… ‘birch’ thing is killing my nose. Is not so sexy, right?” he cracks a self-deprecating smile.

Shane feels like his brain is broken. His dick is fine, though. He steps closer and, taking one of Ilya’s damp hands, presses it to the tent in his pants. “I really need you to fuck me right now,” he says earnestly.

Ilya grins.

Within seconds, he’s got Ilya undressed, barely resisting the need to get down on his knees and blow him. It’s very tempting, but he’s holding out. Still, he can’t resist licking a wide stripe on his palm so he can wrap a hand around Ilya’s cock and start to pump it, slow and agonizing.

Ilya barks out a laugh, half from sheer surprise and half from lust, and tips his head forward into the crook of Shane’s neck, enjoying the lazy handjob. “You are… enjoying my torture this evening,” he says, the words coming slow in English. “I like it.”

“Do you?” Shane murmurs. He feels overdressed, still in full suit and tie, but there’s something unusual in him being fully clothed while Ilya is naked. A change in their power dynamic that he’s very open to, tonight.

Ilya makes a noise of assent, then sniffles into Shane’s neck. “Gah, you smell different,” he says, but he doesn’t sound annoyed. “Like… trees?”

“Some kind of cologne deal my mom made,” Shane says, wanting to address any topic involving his mother as quickly as possible while he has his hand on another man’s dick. “I don’t remember the… oh.”

Ilya’s sniffles have progressed into heavy, unsteady breathing, and he rubs his nose side-to-side in Shane’s neck. “Itches,” he mumbles, but he doesn’t lift his hands off Shane’s hips, content to use Shane’s skin as his tissue. “Sorry, I… hih! I need…”

Shane tries frantically to think of what a normal person would do or say in his situation, instead of moaning over Ilya’s perfect, beautiful red nose. “Um, are you okay? Do you need, like, a Benadryl or something—?”

His question gets cut off by Ilya’s sharp inhale, and then Ilya is trying desperately to back away. Their bodies are tangled together, though, and Shane doesn’t catch up quickly enough to let go of Ilya. Ilya’s hands come up to cover, a hair too late, and he sneezes helplessly, openly, over Shane’s chest. “huhh… hhrr’IISSSHHH’uhh!”

The spray is sparkling in the hotel room lamplight, and Shane feels a cool dampness on his jaw. He feels himself freeze a little with shock, before abruptly coming back to himself with Ilya’s next loud hitch.

Desperate to cover, Ilya lurches forward and buries his nose into Shane’s tie, the closest thing available, before he can stop himself. With a needy hitch, he lets out a wet, strong, uncontrolled sneeze into the fabric. “hh’DJSSCHHH!”

Shane’s heart abruptly stops, then starts pounding in his chest again.

Ilya rears back and scrubs at his nose, trying to push back the next explosion, but Shane can already tell that that will be a failure. He looks too needy, too desperate. It’s driving Shane fucking wild. His hands drop from Ilya’s back and dick, and he brings them up to—what? He doesn’t even know.

He ends up pulling Ilya’s hands away from his face, and Ilya squints at him through watery eyes, breathing uneven. “What?” he asks, sounding annoyed. “Stop, I… heh! I don’t want to sn—” He doubles over, spraying a thick, wet sneeze toward the carpet to avoid getting Shane. “hh’DSSSCHHHTT! Ugh. Fuck! I don’t want to sndeeze on you againd, Hollander.”

His last name sounds so congested coming out of Ilya’s mouth.

Shane’s mouth is so dry. He keeps Ilya’s hands trapped in his own, stepping forward into Ilya’s space where he can’t duck away. “Don’t worry about it.”

Ilya gives him an “are you crazy” look and sniffles, barely damming back the encroaching explosion. “S’gross. Can’t stop fucking sndeehh—snf! Sndeezing.”

“Really not a problem right now,” Shane says, too turned on to be worried about how he’s presenting himself right now. “I want you so bad. You are so fucking hot tonight.”

Ilya’s eyes dip down, caught on the tent in Shane’s dress pants. His eyebrow raises for half a second, then he sniffles again, catching Shane’s eyes. “You like this?”

“…I like you,” Shane says eventually, not sure how to answer that. “Even when you’re gross. Can we fuck now, please?”

Ilya smiles, a little unsurely, then nods his head down at their joined hands. “Will need my hands, yes?”

Shane lets go of Ilya’s hands, feeling embarrassed for some reason. “Sorry. Are you like… okay?” he says, feeling like he should ask. “Do you need a break? A tissue?”

Ilya lets out a hoarse laugh, then takes the opportunity to scrub at his face. His nose looks so irritated. It makes Shane want to… what? Take care of him? Ridiculous. Not to mention impossible.

“No tissue, no break,” Ilya says after a moment of rubbing his face. “Will not help. Besides, I have your tie, yes? Is good tissue.”

Shane’s face goes hot. He looks down at his tie, visibly wet from its stint as a tissue, then looks back up at Ilya. He lets out a slow breath, and goes for cool. “Depends. Are you gonna keep me standing here, fully dressed, all night?”

Ilya makes a face, unimpressed. “Smooth. Get over here and let me rip your clothes off.”

And he does, rough with tearing off Shane’s suit in a way that Shane loves. Ilya is still sniffling a little, his nostrils flaring, but he doesn’t seem on the edge of a fit anymore. He’s too focused on getting Shane naked.

Once the suit has been laid carefully over the back of a chair—he may be out of his mind with need, but Shane is still a creature of order and habit—Ilya throws him onto the bed, then crawls in after.

The sheets are already messed up, and Shane finds himself wondering if Ilya took a nap here before the press interview. Were his allergies already bothering him? Did he stifle a fit into the pillows, rub his nose against the comforter? He swallows hard at the imagery.

“You were hot for me in the interview,” Ilya murmurs lowly. “Yes?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Enough teasing, just fucking, please.”

Ilya taps a finger into Shane’s chest. “Impatient.”

“Yes!” Shane steals a kiss, ducking in and out before Ilya can stop him. “So hurry up!”

Ilya laughs and gets to work.

Within a few minutes, they’re laying on their sides. Ilya is inside Shane, rocking slow and steady while they get used to the rhythm. For all his desperation earlier, Shane feels content like this, in no rush to orgasm. Once they’re done, he’ll be expected to leave Ilya’s hotel room and pretend this never happened. He’s not really ready for that yet.

Ilya hooks his chin over Shane’s shoulder, so that they can almost make eye contact. His front is plastered to Shane’s back, firm and sweaty and perfect. He strokes his fingertips over Shane’s dick, teasing, and laughs when Shane curses at him for it. “Okay?”

“Yes, god, okay. You?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. He ducks his head down and rubs his nose into Shane’s shoulder. “I think, though, this cologne your mother picked out. It does not agree with me so much.”

Shane groans and thrusts himself backward onto Ilya’s cock. “I’ll throw it out! Please, Jesus, just fuck me already.”

“I will think about it,” Ilya says mockingly, but his movements speed up, both of them ready for the endgame now. He fists Shane’s dick, the way Shane likes it, and presses open-mouthed kisses to the side of Shane’s neck.

After a moment, the two of them are both close, moaning and whimpering in a way that has Shane wondering who Ilya’s hotel neighbors are tonight. It’s probably fine. Normally he would never allow for sex in a hotel room, they’re too loud, but tonight he feels out of control, burning up from the inside out with the way that Ilya’s breathing staggers with every tickle.

Ilya takes his hand off Shane’s dick, and Shane whines, low and needy. “Sorry, sorry, I…” Ilya sniffles and rubs his nose against the back of his hand. “Is itchy again.”

“Rozanov, put it back or so help me God—” Shane arches into a thrust and groans. “I will never let you fuck me again!”

Ilya puts his hand back and strokes Shane’s dick. In the light, Shane catches a glimpse of wetness on the back of Ilya’s hand, and it drives him fucking crazy. He fucks himself back onto Ilya’s cock, crying out. “Rozy, I’m gonna come I’m gonna come I’m—!”

Ilya’s rapidly hitching breath stops him short, and Ilya only has a second to decide what to do before he buries his face into Shane’s shoulder to sneeze. The sneezes come muffled and quieter, but undeniably strong, wet against Shane’s skin.

“hh’djjsschh’uhh! heh… heh’isschhuhh! husshh’ooh!”

Shane almost screams when he comes. A second later, Ilya groans and goes boneless behind him.

Ilya sniffles through the aftershocks, rubbing his nose helplessly into Shane’s back and neck. His hands remain at Shane’s sides, holding on for dear life even though they’ve both orgasmed. Still, his nails dig into Shane’s skin as he holds back another sneeze.

Eventually, Shane’s haze lifts enough that he can sense what’s going on. “Just sneeze already,” he murmurs, bringing a hand back to cup Ilya’s curls. The angle is uncomfortable but worth it. “S’not like I mind.”

Ilya chuckles, and something about that must loosen the tickle, because he ducks into Shane’s back with a sudden, loud, “hh’IISSHHOOHHH!”

“Bless you,” Shane says. He can feel a smug smile forming on his face. “Feel better?”

“No. Your mother’s cologne f-fuhhcking sucks,” Ilya groans, already sounding tickly again.

“It’s not hers, it’s a product endorsement contract—“

“hh’ESSSHHH’uhh!”

The sneeze is cool and wet on Shane’s skin, and he shivers a little. He turns over in Ilya’s arms to face him. Ilya looks itchy, still pink-faced especially around the nose, but content. Like the orgasm drove the urgency out of him when it came to sneezing.

Shane brings up a hand and drags his thumb over Ilya’s cheek. The movement makes Ilya sniffle, but that’s all. “So sensitive. It’s kind of cute,” he says with a low laugh.

“I am not cute. Russians, we do not do this,” Ilya says with a growl, but it’s teasing, and he kisses Shane, fierce and needy.

Shane breaks off the kiss, still panting a little from the sex, and digs his fingers into Ilya’s curls. “Very cute. Especially when you’re allergic.”

Ilya lets out an irritated sigh and ducks his head under Shane’s chin, cuddling into his chest. “Is very annoying. I sneeze ever since plane touches down this morning. Is like burning in my face and it will not go away. Very frustrating.”

Shane cups the back of Ilya’s head and resists the urge to kiss the crown of his forehead. That’s not something they do. “Poor baby,” he teases. “Want me to kiss it, make it better?”

“If you kiss my nose, will definitely end with me sneezing on you.”

“Again.”

Ilya groans and buries his face into Shane’s chest. His hands come up to cup Shane’s tits, one of his favorite spots to hold. “Embarrassing.”

“You don’t get embarrassed,” Shane says. “A few weeks ago I watched you sneeze all over the ice in the second period. Like you didn’t even notice.”

Ilya shakes his head, rubbing his face into Shane’s chest. “Is not the same. You are not ice. You are pretty, pretty man with freckles who does not want to be human tissue.”

Shane laughs. “I don’t know about that.”

He’s too loose from the experience to care about his words, about Ilya learning way too much about him from this encounter. And so what if Ilya knows about his… more unusual tastes? They already can’t tell anyone about this. It’s as safe as it can ever get.

Ilya snuffles into Shane’s chest, inhaling sharply before abruptly sneezing and muttering a curse in Russian. “hh’ISSSHH’uhh!”

“Come on,” Shane says fondly. His smile is hurting his face. “Let’s take a shower. Get all that cologne and pollen off of you.”

Ilya groans and squeezes Shane tighter. “Five more minutes.”

Practice had been taxing as ever, leaving Shane with sore, exhausted muscles and the desire to burn away the rest of the day in the confines of his apartment. So he does exactly that, putzing around and falling into the familiarity of his routine. He showers, cooks himself the same meal he has most nights, cleans the kitchen, starts a load of laundry, and finally sinks into the plush cushions of his too-expensive couch as he listens to the swish swish swish of his washing machine hard at work. 

He used to find solace in these moments: quiet, well-earned moments of rest. But now he does his best to avoid them, to keep himself busy enough that he can’t think about the fact that all his brain can do is churn uselessly and spit out the same name every night: Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. 

He hasn’t received a text from ‘Lily’ in months, and despite his insistence that he doesn’t mind, he finds himself rereading their messages more often than he’d like to admit, reminiscing on the tightness in his chest that would catch and coil whenever he got a notification. He often finds himself running his hands over his body, handling himself roughly and pretending it isn’t his touch, but Ilya’s. He wonders if his rival ever does the same, if the hours spent with one another after they’d fucked meant anything more than a warm bed. 

A tired sigh interrupts Shane’s internal spiral, his fingers working over his thighs, pressing themselves into the taught muscles and rubbing. With his other hand, Shane turns on his phone and stalls, staring at the screen before flicking his thumb to the left without second thought. The screen swipes to the side, now showcasing an array of different apps, some hidden in bubbles so as not to risk being found. 

YouTube is one of them, as stupid as that may sound. It’s filed away with whatever apps he dubbed most useless: compass, calculator, voice memos, and a few others— the ones that no one would think twice about opening. He had definitely overthought the whole ordeal; no one ever uses his phone aside from him, but the thought of someone opening the app and seeing his search history was anxiety-inducing enough for him to have reorganized his homepage multiple times. 

So it sits hidden in plain sight, always logged in to Shane’s personal account where he watches breakdowns of hockey games, strategies, or whatever other rabbit-holes he finds himself going down. Tonight, however, he navigates to his account and switches to one attached to a fake email he’d created, one that couldn’t be connected back to him, one that had a collection of almost four hundred liked videos all related to a niche-fetish he’d tried and failed to outrun. 

He’s come to terms with it for the most part— at least, he thought he had. Until Rozanov had to fuck it up, like he fucks everything up. Because of course his rival has to be constantly touching his nose, rubbing and pawing at the appendage like it never stops itching. Shane wonders if that’s true, if it’s as itchy as it seems. His hand works its way further up his leg, settling between his thighs.

Eager fingers hover over the keyboard as he stares at his search history with bated breath. He should just find the videos that always do it for him and get it over with— something familiar, known, habitual almost. 

“Fuck.” Shane mutters to himself, tossing his phone to the side and rolling onto his stomach. The pillow offers a much needed refuge for him to bury his face and question how he ended up in this position, turned on by Ilya fucking Rozanov once again. Clutching the pillow tighter, as if to suffocate himself rather than admit to the hard on he’s beginning to sport. He finds himself revisiting his most recent memory of his face being pressed into his bed. 

Except this time, Ilya’s hand isn’t roaming over his back, his waist, his ass, his bare skin that screamed for more contact every time Ilya drew his hand away. It’s just Shane, rutting uselessly against his mattress as his breathing turns to quick, hot puffs and whines that fall flat without Ilya’s praise. 

After a few minutes, he’s worked up enough to pick up his phone again, pushing himself into a sitting position and leaning against the backboard as he kicks off his underwear. Habitually, he moves to fold the discarded undergarments and set them neatly on the other edge of his bed. Once they’re properly set aside, he slumps back again, taking himself in his hand and re-opening the app. 

He hesitates again, biting his lip as he begins to type: Ilya Rozanov Sneeze Compilation. Freckled cheeks flush red when he hits search, his mind stalling as the screen loads. ‘What the fuck am I doing? This is so—’

It loads, and to Shane’s surprise and great pleasure, there are multiple videos of varying length with that title. The thumbnails alone are enough to get Shane riled up, his left hand already working to release the pressure of arousal sitting hard between his thighs: Ilya with a reddened, dripping nose; Ilya caught with a desperate expression, moments away from sneezing; Ilya bent in two, partially turned away from the camera. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. Shane clicks on the first video available, settling into a more comfortable position as it begins. 

At first, he’s met with just a black screen, but then white text dashes across it: “These are all the clips I could find in random order! I hope you enjoy, and bless you Ilya!” Brown eyes skim over the words impatiently, skin prickling as his eyes flick down to the bottom of the screen. Five minutes and twelve seconds of the Russian sneezing— that’s all that has been captured on video since their rookie season. 

When the first clip begins, he recognizes the setting quicker than he should. Not from the text reading “MLH 2010 Season. Boston Raiders VS Montreal Metros” in the bottom right hand corner, but from the shirt Ilya wears in the video. The pullover isn’t anything spectacularly fashionable; it’s a simple, dark blue athletic top. But just hours after that interview, it had ended up strewn on the floor of Shane’s hotel room. 

Shane watches with rapt attention as Ilya berates the underside of his nose with two fingers, his eyes beginning to squint as the reporter finishes up her question: “How does it feel to win against the Montreal Metros yet again?”

Ilya smirks, lips curling upwards into a satisfied grin. “Good. It is always good.” His shit-eating expression works Shane up more than he’d like to admit. He had been furious after that game— the teams had been tied almost the entire time until Ilya had made a miraculous score within the last few minutes. It was a well-earned victory, and that made the loss all the more irritating for Shane. 

“You and Hollander are neck and neck in your race for points this season. Are you still confident in your…” The rest of her question is lost to Shane as Ilya shoves his fist against his nose again, crushing it into submission. 

“I know I will win. Hhhollander knows—” the hitch at the beginning of “Hollander” drags the ‘h’ out a second too long, forcing Ilya’s expression into a half-dazed grimace. He blinks once, twice with fluttering lashes as his lips curve in irritation, nostrils flaring outwards in picture-perfect ovals. “hHDT’SZZSChuh!” His torso twists to the side, snapping forwards as he directs the sneeze against his fist. A few blessings are given from behind the camera, but Ilya pays them no mind. He remains bent over, his eyes unfocussed as he waits for another “h’YhSSCXHHTt’eh!” Loose curls bounce as he shakes his head, straightening back up and continuing as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just done the most jawdroppingly arousing thing Shane could imagine, and the fact that he had hitched while saying his name. Fuck. 

Shane’s mind flashes to that night. The two of them had been exhausted from the game, from the cheering and jeering of the crowded stadium. Still, as soon as Ilya had crossed through Shane’s front door, he was steering him towards the bed. “Shirt off.” Ilya had planted his hands on Shane’s chest, squeezing the toned muscle before shoving him down onto the bed. He’d dropped down with a sharp breath, his rival stepping closer, closer, until he was sat on Shane’s upper legs. 

Then, a blur of movement, constant and consuming as they devoured one another. Broad hands claimed their place on Shane’s shoulders, kneading, rubbing, molding until they earned a moan. “Good.” Ilya had hummed, head dipping down and finding itself in the crook of Shane’s neck. Lips kissed at each and every freckle, tongue lapping at the spots of red irritation where Ilya’s teeth had caught the skin and pulled. Never before had Shane been so malleable at the hands of another man— of anyone, really.

Now, he’s left desperate, his own hand working to provide the same pleasure that Ilya’s had granted him as the next clip starts to play. It’s much blurrier than the previous one, lacking the professional quality of a reporter’s camera. The rectangular, upright frame gives away that it’s recorded by a phone— a fan’s phone, Shane deduces, as he notices the distinctly Ilya-shaped man walking down the street. 

He doesn’t recognize the scenery: cobbled streets lined with restaurants and shops illuminated by streetlamps that flicker, causing the light to dance haphazardly over Ilya’s form. A woman’s voice sounds from behind the camera in Russian, and Shane struggles to make out anything aside from his rival's name. ‘It sounds better when I say it’, Shane thinks, as if this fan doesn’t have the right to address Ilya, to say the name that belongs to Shane’s tongue. 

Ilya’s voice is distant and muddled in poor audio quality as he turns to face the fan, but even then, the congestion in his voice is evident as he responds. Shane’s cock twitches in his grip, aching with arousal as he waits for the imminent sneeze. The conversation continues, every few words followed with a liquid sniffle from the hockey player. Impatient, Shane taps his thumb against the screen, skipping forward ten seconds. The video momentarily stalls, lagging for a few seconds and earning a frustrated huff from Shane before it starts again, catching the end of a sneeze in a sharp “–CHhh’ugh!” that leaves Ilya bent in two. Shane scrambles to rewind, his left hand resuming its motions with renewed vigor, stroking and teasing along his hard shaft. 

This time, he forces himself to be patient. He watches with rapt attention, every sniffle from Ilya drawing him in more and more. His eyes slip shut momentarily. The image of Ilya’s sick, dripping nose pressed to his collarbone rouses another breathless moan. His tongue flicks out over his lips, wetting them as he opens his eyes just in time to catch the moment Ilya’s breath snags. The sick man cups two hands over his nose, one of the rare occurrences in which Ilya makes an effort to cover, turning on his heel and snapping forwards. “h’DJJZCHhh’ugh!”

As strong as it is, the sneeze is clearly held back to some capacity. The first syllable is caught behind his teeth, vocal, but not entirely uncontrolled. The second syllable is more of a throaty exhale than anything else— an irritated, useless addition to the sneeze, failing to relieve any of the pent up pressure in Ilya’s head. 

The woman recording offers a polite “oh! Bud’ zdorovy!” but Ilya remains hunched over, hands steepled over his nose. Shane swallows a moan and works to stroke himself harder, faster, as he mimics her words, purring “bud’ zdorovy”. The blessing sits heavy and sweet on his tongue. Ilya raises his head, chest swelling beneath his tight long sleeve before he doubles over with renewed force. “dHDTSZZSXHh’uh!” One of his knees bucks up with the power of it, resulting in a little stumble before he straightens up. 

Shane’s hips rock up against his fist, desperate to grind against something, anything— against Ilya. He swallows hard, slowing down with the reminder to pace himself; he’s not even a minute into the video. It helps that the fan and Ilya return to their conversation, mostly led by the fan’s rambling and accompanied with monosyllabic additions or grunts from the hockey player. His speech is drowned in thick congestion, making his accent even stronger than usual. 

Much to Shane’s disappointment, the fan turns the camera to herself, beginning to walk away as she continues to speak loudly to the camera. He’s about to skip ahead again when a muffled “hHMPDDZXHhhu!” sounds from the background followed by a round of barking coughs. His head tilts back, nearly hitting the backboard as he arches upwards, his hips once again rutting against nothing but his own hand. 

In one fluid motion, Shane flips onto his stomach. With his free hand, he fumbles to prop up his phone against his pillows, hips already bucking into his mattress. Once he’s confident his phone won’t slip, he props himself up with one elbow, his other hand still continuing its motions, now synced with the grinding of his hips. Need burns through his body and with it, all of Shane threatens to melt into sticky sweetness.

Eager teeth sink into his bottom lip when a fourth “a’hHDD’ZXCJCHhh! Fugk!!” interrupts the fan’s rambling, loud and distinctly desperate despite being further in the background. Shane pants helplessly into his sheets, ignoring the fact that the recently-washed cloth is being smeared with pre-cum. 

The scene shifts again; the video quality is similarly terrible, if not worse. It’s evidently a clip from another fan’s phone, the focus bobbing around as the person recording jumps and cheers. The camera swivels around the room to reveal a small, but incredibly packed space with none other than Ilya Rozanov standing in the corner with a few of his teammates and a security guard who’s evidently in over his head. 

The crowd is a blur of black and yellow jerseys, some of which have signatures cast on their backs in a messy scrawl. Shane scours the small screen for another sign of Ilya, and his wish is granted as the person filming pushes their way closer. Despite the swell of people swaying against one another, Ilya is remarkably calm— a trait of his that Shane envies. He can handle the crowds, the noise, the constant overstimulation that comes with the job, or at least he can swallow his discomfort enough to pretend he’s fine. Except now, there’s an evident crack in his mask, one revealed through flaring nostrils and two fingers that pinch and rub at his nose incessantly as he signs a woman’s shirt with his other hand. 

The fan holding the camera steps forward again, and suddenly they’re feet away from Ilya, earning his attention. He braces one hand on their shoulder so he can sign their jersey even as they’re both shoved side to side with the lull of the crowd. Dewy lashes flutter shut, and before the fan can so much as step back, Ilya pitches forwards, spraying the space between them with an itchy “ihZZZSCHHHtch!”

The camera jumps dramatically halfway through the expulsion. Shane’s eyes practically roll back into his head with a porno-worthy moan. God, what he would give to feel the showering of that sneeze against his skin as Ilya fucks him into his mattress; how beautiful it would be to have the casting of spray intermix with the freckles adorning his back. 

The crowd has a mixed reaction to the sneeze, none as pleased as Shane. Ilya’s teammates laugh and clap him on the back if they’re within reach. Some fans bless him loudly whereas others do their best to give him a wide berth as he gears up for another. Unfortunately, it seems to be almost impossible for them to navigate the room, and any attempt to step away is just met with a shove back towards Ilya. 

“hh—H’iTDSCHHh’huh!” Spray falls delicately over Ilya’s extended wrist, held just far enough away from his nose that it doesn’t succeed in covering the sneeze at all, though it gets doused in the process. 

“Jesus man, bless you!” A teammate jeers. 

“Fuck you.” Ilya pinches away the moisture resting above his cupid's bow and holds up his paint pen. “Who is next?”

‘A few sneezes must not be enough to dissuade fans’ Shane deduces as the screen shakes and then ends suddenly in an uproar, though his mind is primarily occupied with how productive the sneezes had been. Not to mention how itchy they’d seemed, catching against Ilya’s teeth before hissing out in a sharp “ZSCHHH” and warranting an irritated exhale in their wake. 

“Fuck.” The moan sits heavy in the empty bedroom, the stagnant air hot and sticky as sweat begins to gather on Shane’s skin. He bucks into his mattress harder, losing himself in the sensation of dizzying arousal. Trembling fingers clutch at his once-clean sheets, twisting them into a tight bunch as he returns his gaze to the screen. 

The video turns black momentarily before white text skirts over it again: “Podcast audio. No visuals :(“ It acts as an excuse for Shane to finally let his eyes flutter shut. Images of Ilya’s hands are plastered to his inner eyelids, accompanied with memories of his face, his lips, his tongue— so detailed Shane can almost taste them. He can almost feel the pressure of Ilya above him, rolling his body, tidal, over Shane’s. Claiming him with hands that grabbed and kneaded relentlessly all while asking “is this okay?” in that fucking accent. 

The audio clip begins mid conversation with the podcast host asking “as we jump back into a new season, how do the Boston Raiders feel about this weekend’s upcoming game?”

There’s a moment of silence, perhaps radio lag, before a simple “good” is offered in answer. If he weren’t so worked up, Shane might have been snarky enough to think ‘and people say I’m not sociable’, but his attention is currently claimed by Ilya.

“Right. Well, you’re playing against the Boston Bears, who performed remarkably well last season, making an unexpected comeback from their previous slump. Do you anticipate it being a difficult match?”

“No. I do not.” Again, Ilya’s response is brief, confident, self-assured in the way that gets under every one of his opponent's skins. 

His teammate tries to offer the podcast host more than unhelpful, monosyllabic arrogance. “What he means to say is that we have strategies that we do our best to employ, but it’s a complex game. We can’t always—” 

“I meant to say as I said.” Ilya interrupts. “We will win.”

“Yes, but—”

“No ‘but’. We are better team. We are better players.” 

The commentary momentarily lapses into silence. Just as the host begins with another question, there’s a sharp inhale and a “hH’yYDSHCHHhui!” that cuts through the audio in a vocal expulsion. With his eyes closed, Shane’s imagination surges forwards: Ilya above him, hands roaming over his sides, drifting to his hips and holding him firm. He shudders, pressing himself against his mattress again, as if Ilya’s fingers had found his upper back and shoved him downwards. Ilya’s lips parting to press soft against the smooth of his skin. 

The interviewer and Ilya’s teammate bless him before moving on, but the Raiders captain remains silent. Shane strains his ears to listen for something, anything from Rozanov. His attentiveness is rewarding as a quiet clicking intermixes with the dialogue—- a sound Shane has heard countless times when Ilya tries bullying his nose into submission. Ilya’s hand reaching upward to tangle in Shane’s hair, to work its way down his neck and back as he lets himself be grappled into submission. 

“Rozanov, as the team’s captain, how do you navigate—”

“hht’kTSZZCHhuhh!”

“—games like these, where—” 

“hHHh’uh…hR’DGSXHCHh’ugh!”

“Bless you! Where you’re playing against—”

Ilya’s hand, gripping his chin and forcing his gaze up. Warm fingers slipping through his kiss-swollen lips and pressing against his wet tongue. He imagines sucking on Ilya’s skin, hard enough to draw out his taste, to feel his pulse. Ilya’s nose, wet and irritated, flaring in agitation between Shane’s thighs. 

A change in audio quality cues to Shane that the scene has changed, urging him to open his eyes, to come back to reality. A whine slips out before he can help it— the kind of whine that would have Ilya purring his praises and leaning closer, letting his soft curls brush against Shane’s pulsing throat. Shane’s met with the sight of Ilya in a suit, sitting centered behind a rectangular table. He almost chokes as he registers the figure seated next to the Raider’s captain; it’s him, though much younger and looking decidedly uncomfortable as he tugs at his too-tight tie. 

“Fuuck,” the curse falls from his tongue when the memory dawns on him, dick twitching as he registers what he’s about to watch. He knew it was recorded. Of course it was, all their press conferences were, but he’d never considered the fact that Ilya’s sneezes would have been included in the recording. 

The screen only shows the two of them at the table, berated by flashing lights and a flurry of questions thrown at them from various reporters. What it doesn’t show is the scene off camera: the lights, makeup crew, film crew, journalists, and a few lucky fans who paid a shit ton of money to be an audience. Shane substitutes the limited visuals with his own memory, adding details that the camera had failed to show, like the way his and Ilya’s feet had bumped against one another the entire time. 

This time, the clip begins not with Ilya speaking, but with Shane: “—it’s an honor to play against any team, of course. I know there’s a— uh— a history.” The falter. A second’s hesitation, easily interpreted as an act of anxiety. Shane knows otherwise. Ilya’s foot had brushed against his ankle, maneuvering so the firm leather of his shoe pushed up the fabric of his pant leg. “—between our teams. But it’s just like any other game. We play to the best of our ability—”

At the time, Shane had been so focussed on his own words that he hadn’t seen Ilya’s expression shift. He’d missed the line of frustration that sketched itself between Ilya’s eyebrows, oblivious as his rival's lips had parted in a soundless exhale before broad hands fumbled to cup themselves over his nose. 

“hnGZst’ch!” 

The stifle, tight and insignificant, sends bursts of heat across Shane’s skin. He’s close now, he knows it. Damp, tangled sheets lay beneath him, made a mess by his leaking cock and the sheen of sweat clinging to his skin. Hips arch higher, the sleek curvature of his back craving Ilya’s hands. 

“n’DtSXch’uh!” Just seconds after the first, another stifle forces Ilya’s shoulders to hunch in on themselves, body almost falling concave with a third, stuttered “hhHTS'Xdch!"

He remembers the dryness of his mouth, how his tongue had sat limply in his mouth. How his unfinished sentence had hung limply in the air. The leather toe of Ilya’s shoe met Shane’s ankle again, harder this time, and roused him enough for him to utter “bless you. Uhm— right. In every game, we give all we’ve got—”

Fist curled and pumping, Shane’s breath is diminished to nothing more than a mix of whines and moans. Heavy lids threaten to slip shut, but he forces them to remain open, to watch as Ilya curls himself away from the cameras as best as he can, towards his shoulder. Towards Shane. 

“hHj'Xnt!” So close his head nearly collides with Shane’s shoulder. “hhSCH’GXxt-shw!”

After a few heavy, slow blinks, Ilya straightens again. “Exguse mbe” is all he offers in reference to the little fit he’d tried and failed to stifle into submission. 

Something in Shane’s chest shatters. He exhales sharp, like the breath had been knocked out of him. His body collapses hot and heavy against the mattress, and just like that, the tension coiling through his muscles eases, unraveling itself in sticky spurts. 

The video continues to play in the background while Shane lets the waves of arousal wash over him, a pleasant aftermath of his orgasm leaving him docile and content. It takes a few minutes for his breathing to even. When it does, he fumbles to pause the video, briefly noting the timestamp at its base: 2:15. He hadn’t even made it halfway through the compilation. 

“Fuck.”