🧪👾🕷️

Jane: practice over i’ve got time before our game 

Jane: [image attached]

Lily: [missed FaceTime call from Jane] 

Jane: [image attached] [image attached]

Jane: for you for later

__

Jane: they just announced you’re a late scratch tonight? 

Lily: [2 missed calls from Jane] 

Jane: call me when you can please 

__

Lily: sorry was asleep 

Lily: watching game now

Lily: saw your goal

Lily: good assist to u from Pike 🤮

__

Lily: going to sleep again 

Lily: game is basically over so i will jinx it and say good win

Lily: will keep my phone on so you can call 

— 

The FaceTime request goes through and Shane squints as Ilya floods into view. Or rather, doesn’t. The screen is dark as Ilya murmurs a greeting. 

“Hey, sorry — you were asleep? I can’t see you. Are you okay?” 

“Sorry,” the dark screen sniffles and sheets shift. There’s some fumbling and then a click of bedside lamp and now Shane can see him. 

Ilya’s adjusting to lie down on his side. He must have turned over once Shane called because he’s got pillow-lines on his cheek and his curls are angled flat, pressed against invisible surface in the air. His eyes are sleepy, visible even through a video call, and there’s a flush to his cheeks and around his nose. 

He snuffles and itches two fingers under his nose, then coughs sharply. He doesn’t seem to be about to say anything else, even though Shane was waiting. 

“Are you okay?” he repeats, watching as Ilya’s fingers move from under his nose to press at the corner of his eye socket, massaging in circles. 

“Mmm. Will be fine,” he sounds hoarse, clearing his throat as he pauses, “just sick. I can sleep it off, yes?” 

“How sick? They wouldn’t let you play?” 

Ilya shakes his head, almost imperceptively. “You are asking information about players from other teams, Hollander? I will have to write the Commissioner about this.” 

He coughs, and Shane’s view shifts, presumably being placed down as he stares at Ilya’s ceiling. 

The sound of a tissue being pulled from a box, the flash of an arm across his screen, and then a muffled sneeze. It’s loud through the tinny speaker of his phone, and Shane hurries to turn down his volume as Ilya sneezes more, devolving into a fit offscreen. 

A relieved gasp for breath as Shane sees Ilya’s face for a second. His upper lip is shiny and the corners of his eyes are wet. Then all sound cuts out and he’s got a nice view of the ceiling again. Crown moulding him and Mom liked for Ilya’s place. 

“Bless you,” Shane says to the silence. He’s pretty sure Ilya muted his end of the call.

 Another tissue flashes across the screen. 

Then, the bottom of a glass. Clear liquid. Shane hopes faintly it’s water and not vodka. 

A beat and then the screen is tilting to Ilya’s face again as he settles back against his pillows. 

“Sorry. Thought you would not want to hear that,” he says, voice and background noise flooding back in. He sniffles again. Shane doesn’t think he’s imagining a glassy look, even through the screen.

“Are you okay?” Shane repeats again, distinctly annoyed somewhere under his concern; he hears how it leaks into his voice. 

Ilya groans, “I am fine, Hollander. Just sick, okay? Fever was what they would not let me play because.” 

He sounds so sick. His English is coming apart. Shane knows exactly what he means, but it’s something he flags sometimes. Sometimes he worries that Ilya intentionally or carelessly fumbles his words when he’s trying to keep him out. He can be very closed off like that. 

And he looks so sick. Shane’s heart aches. I’m Shane. Call me Shane. I love you. 

“I just wish I could be with you,” he whispers. He knows Ilya isn’t about to reply honestly right now, because Shane’s too far away to help. (That’s the easiest one to blame.) And Ilya hurts all the time, but hates to feel it. 

Ilya’s glance flicks back to the screen, face unexpectedly open. He rubs at his nose. “Me too, Shane.” 

Then he breathes, shaking off sentimentality forcefully, scrubbing his nose with a click click, “But you would hate to be with me. You would complain about me getting you sick and —“ he shakes his head harder, “—you know. You don’t miss me right now.” 

I would still miss you. I miss you right now so badly I’m afraid I might explode. But Shane isn’t sure he can say that. He’s worried it will make Ilya more sad. And it will make him more sad, too. 

He swallows. “Okay, just — sorry for calling, then. Get some sleep. I love you.” 

“Love you. Я Тебя Люблю.” 

Ilya looks at him for another long second, and Shane can’t hang up, even though that’s the social cue where he’s supposed to. 

After a brief eye-scrunch, Ilya gasps, “G – ghdd – nigh– hh–” 

And then the call ends abruptly. 

Shane takes a look at his reflection in his phone screen, blinks. Okay.

He can’t help texting him after. 

__

Jane: Goodnight.

Jane: I love you and feel better. 

Jane: I’m sorry you’re sick. 

__ 

Jane: I really wish I could hold you. 

__

The next morning, Shane is awakened before his alarm. 

“Hi?” he asks blearily in response to Ilya’s call. 

“Hi,” Ilya coughs down the other end of the line, “was just saying good morning. Couldn’t sleep that well. Sorry.” 

Shane starts to reply, but Ilya has hung up. Well, fuck. He might as well get up. 

__

An couple hours later –

Lily: fever broke now

Lily: sorry about this morning, wanted to hear you 

Jane: I like to hear you. I’m glad you’re feeling better. 

Lily: 🥹🥹

__

Jane: you were sneezing a lot last night. 

Jane: and how is your cough? 

Lily: better

Lily: kind of

Shane watches his screen bounce with ellipses from Ilya for much too long. He watches anyways.

Lily: i hate being sick

Jane: me too

Jane: i hate seeing you sick 

Lily: sorry

Jane: no 

Jane: i mean i guess i miss you a lot

Jane: fuck 

Lily: i miss you too 😙

__

Jane: i’m trying to say i hate when you’re sick because i want to make it better and i can’t because i’m far away

Jane: but i really want to. 

Jane: i don’t like 

Jane: wrong phrasing, sorry. 

Jane: i’m anxious about how you won’t tell me your symptoms and stuff

__

Lily: well, what would you like or

Lily: in your words, be anxious to know about? 

Lily: i cannot stop sneezing at all

Lily: i am coughing up half the lung i have left

Lily: you know because i smoke, not much there to work with 

Lily: i feel gross and sick and i miss you

Lily: i miss you so much i cried to sleep last night. thats why i called. 

Lily: just really really wanted to hear you

As he approached the front door of Boodram’s place, Ilya fought to keep his mind on his surroundings, forcing himself to take in the décor, the late afternoon sunlight glancing off the windows, anything to stop himself thinking of an excuse to turn sharply on his heel and get back in his car.

With a tense sigh, the blond slid his sunglasses off, tucking them over the collar of his top, the sun-warmed plastic digging into his chest slightly. He didn’t flinch from the discomfort, hardly noticing it over the battle going on in his mind, reaching out to rap softly on the door with the back of his hand. It swung inwards at the contact, no surprise to the captain, who knew he was to head straight through. Despite how he may behave on the ice, he hadn’t been raised just to push his way into places. He still had some concept of respect.

His footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor as he crossed the house, heading for the backyard. He could hear voices, laughter, music. It stirred something in his chest, like trepidation, and then guilt over the feeling. This is supposed to be fun, Ilya, remember fun? You know how to relax, you know how to have a good time, what the hell is the problem?

The problem, as he’d figured out in the car, was that Ottawa’s idea of a good time was pretty starkly different to Boston’s. Not that he’d really want to be out at a club at some obscene hour with a random woman’s tongue down his throat, but he could do that sort of thing without even thinking. Simple, mindless partying where no one wanted to talk to him, no one even could talk to him over the blasting music. That was socialising, unwinding, camaraderie, distilled. This was-

He stepped out into the yard, making eye contact with his host immediately, the winger shirtless with an apron on, all muscles and tattoos, and a wide grin.

“Cap! Glad you could make it, man.”

Ilya nodded agreeably, raising the case of beer he had in his other hand, some Belgian stuff that Kohn had hounded him into trying a good few years ago which had ended up being some of the best he’d ever drunk. “I bring beer.”

“Nice one,” Bood made his way over, taking the drinks and clapping the blond on the back, “Grab a seat wherever, I’ll be firing up the grill in a bit.”

He nodded again, raising a hand in greeting to the few other team members already there, and finding a plastic lawn chair that appeared to be in a good patch of shade, and a little ways away from everything else, and sitting down.

It took under five minutes for him to retreat to the safety of his phone screen, already feeling slightly distanced by the few references that had set the rest of the group laughing uproariously, but had seemed to pass him by, and wanting to check in with Shane.

YOU: He has nice house.

Extremely important information, which he’d absolutely had to convey to his boyfriend right that minute. Ilya sighed softly, hunger stirring in his stomach, boredom stirring in his soul. He glanced up and around the group again, gaze alighting on Hayes, sitting next to his wife and smiling at her affectionately, as Lisa made some quiet comment to him, behind her hand, the two of them breaking off laughing afterwards. Jealousy clenched Ilya’s jaw, and he turned his eyes back to his phone, seeing Shane had replied. He wouldn’t have had to wait so long for him to reply if he was actually fucking here with him. They could have stupid whisper conversations too, then.

JANE: Oh you’re there? Did they like the drinks?

JANE: What’s nice about it?

JANE: The house, not the beer.

The anxiety drained from the blond as he read the messages, replaced by the comforting reassurance that Shane was there, on the other end of the phone, knew where he was, and was interested enough to receive some probably over-regular updates from him about it.

YOU: They like beer I think. No one is drinking or eating yet. Just talking.

YOU: Is big new house, you would like.

“Yo, Roz.”

Ilya looked up. Dykstra was standing by the cooler, holding one of the beers.

“Where’d you get these?”

He shrugged, “Import from Belgium.”

“They good?”

His expression apparently conveyed his disbelief at the question, because LaPointe started to laugh. “Yes, is good. Why would I bring bad beer?”

“Ya never know.” The defenseman responded, faux-wisely, walking back to his seat with his drink.

He tracked him with his eyes, expression unchanging, to the younger player’s continued amusement, until his phone vibrated in his hand, earning his returned attention.

JANE: Are you talking too or just texting me?

JANE: Very descriptive, thanks (¬_¬)

…

Boodram had fired up the grill 20 minutes ago, and Ilya had resorted to replacing his sunglasses in the last five, approachable body language be damned. The smoke seemed to be blowing directly in his direction, and he could only get away with blinking every ten seconds for so long before someone would have asked if he was alright. So mysterious asshole mode it was.

Behind the tinted lenses, the captain squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, bringing the cool can of cola he’d been nursing, to his lips and relaxing as the liquid soothed the prickling in his throat. Although he would have killed for one of the beers he’d brought, the alcohol content was just slightly too high to risk it, since he had to drive himself back and he had no idea when that would be, so he was sticking to soda. Plus, he wasn’t sure how the alcohol would interact with the two separate kinds of antihistamines he was currently on.

Though the patches Shane had found for him had been a godsend, he still experienced breakthrough symptoms, particularly during long exposures, so he’d taken it upon himself to pick up some actual meds- some kind of kids’ syrup- for allergy symptoms, and take a dose of that as well. They were both the non-drowsy kind, so that didn’t seem to be an issue, and so far they’d been completely effective. Against his allergies. The smoke was a different story.

He wasn’t really allergic to smoke- that would have made his cigarette habit hard to keep up- but the stuff made everyone’s eyes burn and lungs ache. It just happened to also set his nose off. Like so fucking many things did.

The blond sniffled softly, the sharp stinging sensation in the back of his nose that had sprung up in response to the constant influx of smoke being dragged in with every inhale, spiking in warning. He scrubbed at the offending appendage irritably, glancing at his phone, which rested on his lap, void of new notifications.

Shane had stopped responding a few minutes ago, called away by something else. Something that was actually there, in front of him, to entertain him and draw his attention. Ilya took another sip of cola, stared at the distant trees along the horizon, vowed not to be jealous of what was probably just a bird that the Canadian had glimpsed out of the window and gotten caught up in trying to identify. You are better than a bird. You are smarter than a bird. You have more friends than a bird. Did he have more friends than a bird? You have more important things to do than compare yourself to a bird.

More important things like dealing with the sudden trickling sensation in his nose that let him know that he had about three seconds to find something to press under there, or it would start dripping down his face. Fuck. He was way too far from the stack of napkins sitting on the table beside the grill to casually snag one, he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and there were no towels or items of discarded laundry in the immediate vicinity. Ilya sniffled, stalling the inevitable, while he thought of a solution.

“-and then he fucking lost them!” The captain tuned in to the story Dykstra was telling right at the punchline, as everyone burst into laughter, and Young, apparently the subject of the tale, attempted to frantically defend himself. That made for a good enough cover.

Ilya ducked smoothly, dragging the collar of his shirt up over his mouth, and pressing the edge to the base of his nose, letting the fabric soak up the moisture there as he tilted his head away, making it look as if he were laughing. Really if any of the players actually knew him, it would have been a weak performance, since he didn’t make a habit of laughing at shitty stories when he was sober, nor hiding said laughter. But they didn’t fucking know him, did they?

He’d essentially finished the clean-up job, halfway through looking up to check he hadn’t been sussed out, when Young’s attention turned in his direction.

“I don’t know why you’re fucking laughing, Cap. Didn’t Boodram lend you his keys to the equipment room like a month ago?”

A sharp glare from Ilya silenced him, but his linemate had already begun to turn around from the grill, eyebrows raising, “Actually, yeah-”

“They are in my fucking car. I did not lose them.”

“Lost the first set, though.” Hayes pointed out perceptively, gesturing with his drink.

“That is not your business. My keys, I do what I want with them.” What he wanted, apparently was to mix them up with Shane’s keys, and then lose them forever when the Canadian’s panic over being called out for having the wrong set had resulted in a very stupid excuse that had led Pike- fucking stupid Pike- to helpfully put them in the Metro arena’s lost and found, where neither of them could ever claim them.

“Do you really have them in your car?” Bood had turned back to the grill, but the doubt in his voice was unmistakable.

“Yes, I fucking-” He’d sat back, preparing to take a swig of soda, the velar sound at the end of the curse word hitting at the exact angle to reverberate right through the congestion in his sinuses. There was absolutely no way his irritated, congestion-laden nasal passages were going to let him get away with sparking a vibrating, buzzing, bordering-on-tickly sensation like that without sneezing. “-I will prove to you.”

He placed the can by the leg of his chair and stood, to the sound of various passive ‘ooh’s, a snort from Dykstra, and a slow clap from Hayes.

“Odds that he actually has them, anyone?” Young asked as the captain headed back towards the house.

“Odds that he just gets in his car and drives home?” Was the first response. Now that was tempting.

The comment earned a smattering of laughter, though, and the thought of them seeing his swift departure as the result of an overconfident assertion rather than some mysterious captaincy-related responsibilities, was extremely off-putting. He’d be back, with the keys and with his nose under control.

…

From his cool, unruffled exit from the yard, to the walk through the house again, Ilya kept his pace slow and measured. Once he reached the front hall, though, all bets were off. He snagged two tissues from the box on the table by the door, suppressing the instinctive feeling of transgression- they aren’t going to fucking notice, dickhead, and if they do, they won’t know it was you- jabbing at the button on his keys in his pocket, and taking the short distance to his car at a jog, diving into the passenger seat without really thinking about it.

He pressed the stolen tissues to his nose and blew hard, spluttering afterwards at the mess dripping over his upper lip, scrubbing at his face violently to clean himself up and subdue the itching sensation. Chest heaving as he tried to take in the clean air, fight the urge to cough out all the lingering smoke particles, and furnish his lungs with enough airpower to fuel the sneezing fit he could feel approaching, he shoved the used tissues into the center console, and braced his hands on his thighs, eyes squeezing shut.

“hhuH…hUh…hKk! hKk! hihKkh! KSH! hKSHh! hKSHHuH! hihh… hrRSHH! hrRRSHHUh!”

With a snort and a sniffle, he was reaching out to open the glove compartment, seeking one of Shane’s many tissue/napkin stashes, and the promised keys that he knew were in there. Before he could even begin to look, though, his breath caught again.

“hHh… yeshcho?” The blond questioned himself, exasperated, moving back into brace position as he geared up for- “hKk! hKk! Kkh! hKK-KSh! KSH! KSH! hKSH! … haHHKSH! hah…hAHSHHOo!”

Ilya blinked itchily, sunglasses now sitting under his chin, thrown from their perch on his nose by the fit. The upholstery between his spread legs was… wet, more than spritzed by tiny spray droplets, dotted with visible drips from his mouth and nose. His lip curled slightly in distaste.

Temporarily freed from the burdensome itch, he leaned forwards to start to search through the glove compartment, ignoring the tingling sensation on the backs of his hands, the ghost of the spray they’d been doused with moments before. He found the napkin stack first, neatly tucked away to one side. Thank God for his slightly obsessive boyfriend.

He pulled two from the stack, leaning back in his seat to blow forcefully, abs tensing from the exertion as he cleared himself out. That led to a rough, gravelly coughing fit, concluding with a very pitiful noise which resonated in his cupped hands, still pressing the napkins to his face. Ilya regained his self-control, and his manliness, with a few muttered curse words, finally locating Bood’s keys and swiping them from the mayhem he’d stirred up in his search for tissues, pocketing them, discarding the napkins, and stepping back out of the car. Okay, back into the-

The smell of smoke drifting from behind the house hit him immediately, followed by a brief hint of recently cut grass, wildflowers, and- he was reaching for the passenger side door handle again before he could really register it.

“hKk! HkK!-” Hand over his nose and mouth until he could get all the way in and get the door fully shut, Ilya tried not to suffocate, kneeing at the glove compartment until it opened and grabbing two more tissues to slap to his face. “-hKSH! hKSH! hMPH! hihMPHh!-” He reeled backwards as his breath caught in a series of progressively deeper hitches, “hihhIhHUH-” The feathery, slow-spreading tickle didn’t feel like just irritation anymore. “hKSH-kSH-KSHuH! hiHKSHH! hihAESHHOo!” It felt like an allergic reaction. Like his immune system had overpowered the- admittedly pretty pitiful- medication he’d sent in to subdue it, and was now seeking revenge on whoever had tried to suppress it’s wrath. Like he was totally fucking fucked.

…

Ilya had checked his face for any signs of his internal battle in the wing mirror of his car, the mirror in the Boodrams’ house’s hallway, and his reflection in the glass door out into the backyard. Satisfied that behind his replaced sunglasses, his bloodshot eyes weren’t visible, and that his nose seemed the regular amount of pink given the sun exposure and his constant abuse of the appendage, he returned to the rest of the group, keys held high in triumph.

“See. What I fucking tell you?” He tossed the keys to Bood, who caught them with an appreciative nod, dropping them into his pocket. Then, accompanied by the repeated slow claps from Hayes-dude seemed to only have one joke when he was at this ratio of beers to any kind of food- , various rekindling conversations, the sizzling of the grill, and laughter as some money changed hands- apparently they’d actually gone through with the betting talk- he returned to his seat.

The group’s focus moved on. Ilya toyed with the idea of letting Shane know that he was starting to have an actual reaction to the various allergens, the smoke apparently having given his body the excuse it needed to disregard the allergy medication and start a reaction anyway. But he didn’t want to worry his boyfriend unnecessarily, he reasoned with himself as he took the plate Cassie was holding out to him, all his attention immediately on the delicious-looking burger in front of him, he was fine, he could ride this thing out.

And ride it out he did. For all of fifteen minutes, breathing awkwardly through his mouth between bites of food and gulps of drink, feeling like a child who had not yet been taught table manners. Not that anyone noticed, all the attention now on the food, and plying Bood with complements in order to inspire the player towards the idea of cooking second and possibly third or fourth portions. The food was fucking incredible.

A lull had tentatively fallen, the team full and happy, a few smaller conversations taking place while Dykstra fucked around with Bood’s phone and the Bluetooth speaker, to everyone else’s chagrin. Ilya rubbed at his nose, the itch now feeling constant and all over, hyper-aware of the feeling that the slightest misstep would spark a sneeze. He wondered when he would be able to leave, and whether he would still be able to drive by then.

The misstep- which was inevitable really, his nose was nothing if not fault-finding and over-particular at the best of times- came in the form of a wry glance in the direction of the horizon, over the top of his sunglasses. The blond cursed himself for his brief moment of whimsy, wishing to admire the colors of the setting sun without the tinted barrier, when he should have been focused on placating his immune system. The light barely caught his eye, but it was more than enough to push him over the edge.

“hKk! Kk!-” Panic flooded him as he tried to regain control. Cover your fucking face. Breathe. He went for the back of his hand as a shield, knuckles pressed against his mouth and nose, and face half-turned away, towards his shoulder. “-hKSH! KSHuH! hHKSH!-” Just get it over with, finish up already, almost done. The words in his head were somewhere between the kind of placations Shane would have whispered to him and the indifferent admonishments of significantly less patient people who’d borne witness to his fits over the years. “-hihKSHh! KSH-SHh!-”

“Yo, Cap, you breathing over there?” He couldn’t place the voice, barely audible to him over the sound of his own hitching breaths and the music changing again as Dykstra remained absorbed in the endless music content available to him, and the captive audience. But he definitely could place the sound that came right after the question, a plastic cup bonking against someone’s head, likely thrown, from the sound of the impact. Ilya had no time to process either the question or the response, because he was still-

“-hiHSHH! kSHH! Ksh!” -sneezing? The fit trailed off into nothing in a way that it didn’t usually, but that Ilya was extremely grateful for, taking a moment to steel himself before raising his eyes to meet the several invested gazes trained on him. Definitely less than if he’d had his usual grand finale of a finish. Hayes certainly looked more alert now, though, eyes trained directly on the captain, unblinking. Fuck. Why was he always paying attention at the worst moments?

“Bless you ten-ish times.” Bood offered, amused. A glance at Dillon told Ilya the winger had apparently been counting on his fingers to aid his linemate’s stupid habit, both palms spread wide in front of him, like he’d only just noticed he had hands. Dickheads, both of them.

“Thanks.”

Most people who’d looked up when solo cups had started flying seemed to return to their drinks, phones, or conversations, Ilya pretending to do the same, rubbing at the side of his nose with his finger as he squinted at his phone screen.

YOU: going to fucking die

He regretted the text as soon as he’d sent it, knowing it would freak Shane out. Sure enough, ten short seconds later, his phone started to buzz with an incoming call. Ilya stood, unceremoniously walking back towards the house, seeing Hayes track his movements with his head in his peripheral vision and ignoring him. Everything was fine. No one thought anything was wrong. No one knew him well enough to know something was wrong.

…

“Is something wrong with Ilya?” Lisa elbowed Wyatt as they watched the captain stalk off into the house. The goaltender immediately turned to smile at her, ever enamoured by her perceptiveness and apparent mind-reading ability. Because that was exactly what he’d been thinking.

“Nah.” Boodram responded, leaning across to cut in before he could respond. “He always does that. It’s a lot, but he’ll be fine.”

Wyatt shook his head. “No, I was thinking he seemed off too. Besides the sneezing, I mean.”

“Oh.” Bood squinted in the direction the Russian had stalked off in. “Yeah, maybe?”

“Like, where did he go?” Lisa continued, with a sip of her drink, and the air of a 1940s private investigator.

“Bathroom, I guess.”

“Right, but-” She turned to look at their host, head tilted in that discerning way that made her husband’s heart rate climb even when it wasn’t directed at him, waiting for the revelation. “-how does he know where it is? Has he been here before?”

“Uh, no.”

“So, why would he leave to go somewhere he didn’t know how to get to, without telling anyone?”

“He… wouldn’t?”

“Right, unless something was wrong.”

“Or unless he wasn’t going there at all?” Bood countered. “Maybe I was wrong about the bathroom.”

“Right, maybe he’s going to his car, to leave, because something’s wrong.”

Bood’s eyes widened. “Oh shit.”

Wyatt fought not to openly grin. Bam. Theory, evidence, analysis. Perfectly argued. God, he loved this woman.

…

The first ten seconds of the call were rustling, and indecipherable muttering, and quickened footsteps echoing on wooden flooring.

“Hello?” Shane tried, finally, more concerned for his boyfriend’s wellbeing than he was that someone had taken his phone and was about to discover that his secret girlfriend was really a secret boyfriend.

“HRRRSHHH!” The brunet jumped slightly. “Oh my f-hUH…” The footsteps paused. “hAHKSHHyOo!” Okay, so he was definitely alone.

“Fucking hell- are you okay?”

No response, only more rustling and footsteps. Then-

“Nakonets-to. Yebat.”

And a door slammed, and a lock clicked shut.

“Ilya?”

“I could not find fucking bathroom.” His voice cracked slightly and the brunet felt his heartbeat, which had slowed down a bit at the sound of his boyfriend’s voice, speed up again at the thought that he might be crying.

“What happened? Are you okay?” With bitter regret, he forced himself to cut himself off before uttering the instinctive next sentence, ‘Do you need me to come and get you?’, because it didn’t matter if he needed it or not, he couldn’t have it.

Ilya moaned distantly, sounding like he had his shirt pulled over his face, “I am so fucking-” He dragged in a ragged breath and started to cough, the sound echoing cacophonously through the phone, productive and fitful, slowing before inevitably picking up again. Shane absently shoved the knuckle of his first finger into his mouth, biting down to distract himself from the vicarious ache in his chest. Please be okay. Please just say you’re okay.

The first word that he uttered in the wake of the fit didn’t register in any recognisable language to his fretful boyfriend, waiting patiently on the other end of the line, just a jumble of consonants and breathy little gaps that might once have been vowels. It sounded like a combination of several swear words in several languages to Shane- you pick up a lot when you play with and against people from so many different countries- and didn’t even begin to cover the coughing fit itself, which warranted an essay’s worth of expletives, if the Canadian was any judge.

“You’re okay.” He whispered in response, no idea yet if he was lying or not. “What happened?”

“Smoke and plants and-” The blond cut himself off with a rough sniffle that turned into a loud hitching breath, the itchiness even audible through the phone, Shane picturing his boyfriend’s eyes squeezed tightly shut and his mouth hanging open as he listened to him dragging tissues from a box.

“hKK! hkK! HkK! hihhKSH! KSH! kSh-KSH! huhhKSH!-” More tissues being grabbed, desperate, uncoordinated, a slight bump as the box itself apparently fell over. “-kKSHHh! huAHSHH! AHSCHOo! hrRSHH! hRRSHH!-” Some garbled curse word that he couldn’t quite make out. “-hrRSHHOo!”

“God bless you.” He inadvertently echoed the Russian’s typical response to him, mind having drifted to other times that this feeling had stirred in his stomach, similar displays from Ilya and less intense incidents with himself, his boyfriend’s constant, arresting, attention and care-

“Thank y-ihh-hkK! Kk!- no- hKk!- I bare-hKSH!-barely touch- ihHKSH! KSHH! hihKSH!- fuck- hihHKSHH! KSH! KSH! hihh… hAHKSHHH!”

“Wow, Ilya. Bless you. Fuck, you’re really allergic, huh?” He was unsure whether he should focus on the concern that threatened to overwhelm him, for moral reasons, or whether the…other feeling that sat, immense and illicit, in his chest, would allow him to discard some of the blinding anxiety in favour of crude curiosity.

“Shut up.” Apparently his reverence had come off more as mockery. “Everythi-ihh-ing is itchy. How is worse with meds than with no meds?”

“I’m sure it’s not, you’ve been taking them for a while now, so maybe you’ve just forgotten how bad a full blown reaction can be.” Shane reasoned. “The smoke can’t be helping either. Maybe wash your face? You’re in a bathroom, right?”

“Yeah, okay.” He heard the click of the phone being set down on the countertop, moving fabric, and then rushing water, with intermittent splashing sounds as the blond tried to clean his face of irritants. After a minute, the splashing stopped, and Shane cringed as he heard the strained, extremely productive sound of his boyfriend blowing his nose. The noise echoed in the space, unencumbered by any kind of fabric barrier. He was just using his hands. Gross. Reasonable, given how desperately itchy he sounded, and with his hands and face soaking wet, but still kind of gross.

The faucet turned off, and for a few seconds there was just the quiet dripping of water from his face into the sink, and regular, panting breaths, the blond apparently focusing intently on something. Shane smiled slightly, despite the situation, the sound adorably familiar.

“What are you doing?” He asked, innocently, hearing himself reflected back tinnily, Ilya apparently having put him on speakerphone.

Another open-mouth, distracted breath. And then, “Hurts when I touch it.”

The Canadian’s endeared smile dropped to a frown of disappointed frustration, immediately. “What does?”

“My skin.”

He’d barely answered before Shane reprimanded him. “Then why are you touching it, Ilya? Leave it alone.” He processed the answer he’d been given. “Your skin hurts? Is it hives?”

“Mm.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“I swear to God if you don’t stop touching it-”

Ilya laughed. “How you know?”

“Because I can tell when you’re not paying attention.” Because it’s far too much of the time you annoyingly easily-distracted, unthinkably sexy, concerningly allergic man.

“You are so obsessed with m-ihh-”

Shane swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut as he waited for the inevitable, trying with all his willpower not to take any joy in his boyfriend’s suffering. And it REALLY sounded like he was suffering, so it would be REALLY bad to feel good about it…in any way.

“hKK! KK! Kkh! hKSH! hKSH-KSH! hKSHuh!-”

Suddenly the echoey, unrestrained quality of the sneezes was dampened, the noise slightly muffled as he continued.

“-hKSHH! KSHH! hihh… hIHKSHHOo!”

“Bless you.” He pretended not to notice the weight of the words as they left his lips and then echoed accusatorially back at him through the phone, resisting the shudder that threatened to run through him. Control yourself.

Ilya didn’t seem to have noticed. “Ah fuck. Stupid fucking-”

“What’s wrong?”

“I sneeze in my fucking shirt. I forget I have to put back on.” He clicked his tongue and sighed. “Stupid.”

The Canadian had no response to that, staring wide-eyed and empty-brained, into space as he listened to his boyfriend mutter in frustration and the sounds of him slipping the shirt back on and adjusting it.

“Is fine.” He’d picked the phone back up now, voice closer and clearer. “I feel bit better too.”

Shane smiled. “That’s good. What are you going to do now?” He was asking partially because he couldn’t tell whether this was a ‘I’m the captain, I have to stick it out.’ situation or a ‘run away and don’t let them see you like this’ situation, but also because he wasn’t sure Ilya had decided yet, and he thought it prudent to remind him that he couldn’t stay in Boodram’s washroom forever.

“I think I will leave.” The blond’s response was flat, devoid of emotion, but Shane could sense the regret regardless.

“Good, you need to take care of yourself.” He reaffirmed the decision confidently. “And I’m sure things would have finished out soon anyway. Well done for going.”

Ilya choked on a laugh that would have been bitter even if he’d managed to correctly get it out on the first try. “Because I am fucking shut-in, I need you to say ‘well done’ when I go out with my team for two hours? Fuck.”

“You’re not a shut-in, okay? You have a lot on your plate, and I know it’s hard to hang out with them because of… everything else in your life, so yeah, I’m proud of you. I would have gone home at the first symptom, so you’re better than me.”

There was a pause, during which time Shane gnawed on his hoodie drawstring with his back teeth and stared anxiously at the wall, imagining his boyfriend’s face, tired, swollen, disappointed, and wishing he could kiss it all over until it was probably still just as swollen, but more happy and relaxed instead.

“Okay, thank you. I go now.” Ilya said at last, the tragic emptiness still audible in his tone.

“Alright.” Though he was helpless to do anything meaningful about the emotional side of things from this distance, and fuck did he know it, he took some solace in the fact that his boyfriend would at least be about to feel physically better, and maybe that would lead to an improvement in his mood. “Drive safe, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

…

Lisa’s mind raced, in time with the beat of the- what was this, fucking country-electro-pop-punk?- that Evan was ‘trying out’. She’d met the Centaurs’ captain a few times, and he’d seemed polite, passionate about the sport, if slightly distant, like he was preoccupied. But today- today he’d been more than distant, sunglasses still on even in the dying light, sitting at a distance from even the more solitary members of the team, glued to his phone, taking frequent breaks from eating- not something she’d ever actually seen a healthy hockey player do- and gulping down soda like he hadn’t drunk in days. Something was wrong with that man, and Wyatt’s quiet but constant attention on him had confirmed as much.

“I think someone should go and check on him.” She said aloud, inadvertently intervening in an escalating bickering match between Evan and Zane over the music.

“Why?” Evan’s brief lapse in attention had allowed the alternate captain to snatch his phone back, the music coming to an abrupt halt. “Isn’t he just in the bathroom?”

“Maybe, or maybe he left.” Wyatt was already standing up. “I’ll go.”

“Yeah, I might come with you, actually.” Something told her that her medical knowledge might be needed here.

Apparently something also saw fit to tell Evan that his specific skillset- whatever that might be- was also necessary, because he stood too, Zane hardly noticing, busy scrolling through his music app, doing damage control.

“B-” The brunet went to get his attention, but was stopped by Wyatt holding up his hand.

“Maybe we should keep it just the three of us, Roz doesn’t love being crowded when he’s not doing his best. Remember Buffalo?”

At Lisa’s questioning look, he explained, “We… inquired after his health in the locker room and he just kind of yelled at us and then sulked for the rest of the evening.”

“He didn’t talk to anyone outside of games for four full days.” Evan added.

“Right. Just the three of us, then.” Lisa tried not to feel apprehensive about the undertaking. She’d dealt with some pretty combative patients in her time, but it sounded like this might hurt the captain more than it would hurt them. Not to mention the dubious idea of intervening with team dynamics…

Cassie shot them a brief, concerned little smile as they headed in, the rest of the attendees apparently oblivious to the search-and-rescue mission currently taking place. Probably for the better given Wyatt’s assertion about their target’s dislike of attention when he wasn’t feeling well.

The house was mostly dark, and seemed empty, the silence disturbed only by faint sounds of mirth echoing through from the backyard.

“Maybe we should check if his car’s gone?” Evan whispered without looking across at either of them, eyes scanning their surroundings like he expected Ilya to jump out at him from behind the furniture the moment he let his guard down.

Wyatt poked him, amused when the defenseman jumped slightly. “Why are you whispering?”

Before he could answer, a floorboard creaked in the hallway, and all three of them looked up to see Ilya walk into the room, eyes on his phone, sunglasses clutched in his other hand as he typed.

“Hey, Cap.” Evan raised a hand awkwardly in greeting.

The blond startled, face displaying unguarded alarm for under a second before it was a mask of annoyance again. “Hi.”

“Having a good time?” Wyatt asked.

“Yes. Is good food.” His voice sounded almost muffled, Lisa’s brain immediately documenting the change, wondering about vocal chord damage- acid or strain?- and nasal passageway obstruction- inflammation or maybe mucus build-up?-as she tried to subtly make her way towards some kind of tentative diagnosis. Of course it might not be a fully medical issue at all, he could get the same symptoms from crying…

“We’re lucky to have Bood, on and off the ice.” Evan agreed. “Do you-”

The captain’s reached up, habitually swiping at his nose. Suddenly, his expression shifted, and he held up a single finger to stop the defenseman mid-sentence, eyes flicking back and forth across the floor as though in thought as he appeared to bite his tongue or grit his teeth, definitely doing something that caused his jaw to pulse with tension and his nostrils to flare with… anger?

Switching his phone and sunglasses to the same hand, he dragged the collar of his shirt up over his nose and mouth and ducked into it.

“hkK! hKk! Kkh! hKSH! KSH!-”

Ilya stumbled a few steps backwards, voluntary or not, Lisa couldn’t really tell. She stepped closer, just in case he was going to fall over completely, or back into something. Evan and Wyatt moved with her.

“-hKSHuh! hihKSHH!-”

As he crunched in on himself, she found her gaze sticking on his exposed lower abdomen, and a slight colour alteration in the skin on one side. She stepped closer again, trying to get a good look despite the jolting and shuddering of the fit making it difficult. That was definitely urticaria. And pretty bad, too, though she could only really see the edge of it. This was looking like some kind of allergy. She could only hope it wasn’t to the shirt he currently had his face buried in.

“-hiHIHKSHH! hhH… aHSHHUh!”

The second he sounded like he was done, she reached across to briefly hold her hand in front of Evan’s mouth, not touching him, but still letting him know not to say anything for a moment.

“Bless you.” She offered, Wyatt having noticed her motion towards his teammate, keeping his own mouth shut as well.

“Thanks. Sorry.” He raised his head with a dissatisfying sounding sniffle, shirt falling back into place, avoiding eye contact. Lisa’s heart twisted in pity, but she steeled herself for the question she knew she had to ask anyway.

“Are you having an allergic reaction to something?”

Now he was looking at her, head turning so fast she almost didn’t catch it. “What?”

“The respiratory symptoms, the hives-”

He gripped the hem of his shirt, belatedly tugging it even further down, like he hadn’t realised that they’d been visible until she spoke.

“- I just wanted to make sure you knew?”

“Yeah, I know.” Ilya admitted in a voice that was hard and guarded, but still soft enough that she wasn’t totally sure the others could hear from two paces back. “Is not big deal.”

“Can I ask what you’re allergic to?” She pushed.

His eyes flicked towards the door, the backyard. His irritated, bloodshot eyes.

“Is it the smoke from the barbecue?”

“No- yes- is fucking everything. Who cares?”

Lisa hesitated. He was clearly on the defensive, hackles raised. And she didn’t really know this guy… but he was a Cen, and that made him family, right? “I mean… I do?”

“We kind of all do, bud.” Her husband appended.

The captain suddenly looked unusually genuine and concerned, “Is problem? I should leave?” And he tensed, like at the slightest confirmation, he would turn and walk away.

“No, it’s not a problem, Roz, you only need to leave if it’ll make you feel better.” Evan’s words seemed to calm him slightly, something about his tone, firm but kind, set the other man at ease.

“Dessert’s gonna be killer, though.” Wyatt added. “Might be worth staying for even if you sit inside. I’ll probably be here too, since the soundtrack out there kinda sucks.” Shockingly, Evan didn’t even retort, too focused on making Ilya comfortable enough to stay.

Lisa watched the captain’s eyes flick between them, considering the offers, the new information. “I might have antihistamines in my bag that could put a dent in this reaction.” She offered.

“Yeah, or I’m sure Bood has something somewhere.” The goaltender looked prepared to step back out into the yard and ask.

Ilya swallowed thickly, glancing away again. “No, nikakikh tabletok- no, thank you.” He spoke more quickly, accidentally slipping into Russian for a second, and then seeming more abstracted than ever when he returned to English. Damnit. One of them had messed something up there. They were losing him.

“Tabl-etok?” Wyatt repeated quietly under his breath, pulling out his phone, “Nikakikh… tabletok.”

Ilya seemed not to have noticed the goalie’s quest for translation, backing up with slow, tense steps, like a cornered animal. “I have to go now, anyway. I have meeting tomorrow. Tell Bood I say ‘thank you’.”

“Cap-”

“Was fun. See you.” His words were light-hearted but his tone was one of warning. Acquiescently, none of them spoke as he turned and stalked out of the house, a faint, familiar yet unidentifiable, sound audible just before the door slammed shut. Like a ‘fsh, fsh’ and then what sounded like the start of another sneezing fit. Poor thing.

“Well that went so much better than last time.” Evan sighed, disheartened, turning to Wyatt, expression switching to curiosity when he saw what the blond was still absorbed in. “What’d he say?”

He shook his head in response, expression identical to having missed saving an admittedly good shot- resigned but still disappointed. “We fucked up.”

…

The same players who’d huddled together in that hotel room in Buffalo, pooling items from their individual emergency kits to make the cold-and-flu themed gift basket for the captain, now stood in Boodram’s kitchen, with the addition of Lisa, staring at Wyatt expectantly.

The goalie smiled grimly, like a general about to deliver important news to his troops. How had he ended up the leader of this weird makeshift committee that cared about their captain? “So, uh, I think I figured out why Cap gets so mad when we try to help him out with health stuff.”

“Is that what today was?” Bood leaned against the counter, arms crossed frowning.

“Yeah, some kind of allergy attack, right?” He glanced at his wife -a consultation with their chief medic- fuck, he was getting too absorbed in this military metaphor- who nodded in confirmation.

“He wouldn’t say what specifically, but it looked pretty bad, so it might have been more than one trigger.”

There were simultaneous winces from the group.

“So, he said something in Russian, and I managed to translate it- essentially, he doesn’t take pills. I think that’s like a rule of his, and when we offer them to him, we’re offending him in some way?” Wyatt tried not to feel too awkward about how much it sounded like he was talking about some entirely new species with unthinkable customs. The captain was just kind of like nothing any of them had ever run into before. And it was definitely not a cultural divide, either. Just a ‘him’ thing.

“Shit, that makes sense.” Dykstra’s brow was furrowed, the defenseman deeply lost in thought. “Okay, I’ll remember that for next time.” Hopefully they’d all remember that for next time, since medication was a pretty common first offer, they didn’t want to immediately alienate him every time.

“You think we’ll ever make any headway with him?” Dillon asked, dejectedly.

Ilya was not, in his own opinion, particularly well-versed in the virtues of patience and grace. He didn’t see any need to be. Hockey was not a patient game, nor a graceful one. It was about being fast, and being aggressive, and being in tune with your team. Which he had a feeling that today, he wasn’t particularly. Because he was being betrayed by every single thing he typically depended upon.

His stick had just broken, and his winger hadn’t been in the right place for a pass, and now the referees were taking fucking forever to decide if they’d actually scored their last goal. Which was a problem because here he was, stuck on the bench, several hundred eyes on him, fighting the urge to cough his lungs out. So no, he had absolutely no patience for the decision being made, nor would he afford the officials the slightest amount of grace to make it, especially if they disallowed the goal, and he had less than no patience or grace for his own body. That was the biggest betrayal of all, that his immune system had allowed him to spend the week bragging about how it was better and stronger than those of the rest of the team, who’d all gone down sick with this stupid cold before he had, and then given up the ghost at the last minute.

Anything that held up the game like this had everyone on edge. The coaches were worrying about the decision, the refs were worrying about how it would be received, the players were worrying about staying warm enough to get right back to the game, and the audience were worrying about getting back to their cars, homes, and babysitters on time. So Ilya wasn’t alone in gnawing frustratedly on his mouthguard, tapping his stick on the boards and just generally looking like the epitome of impatience.

He sniffled, snorted, blinked up at the screen overhead in an attempt to stop his nose from dripping everywhere. The back of his hand, sans glove, had just made contact with his face and started to rub irritably, only two clicks of his nose into what probably would have been twenty, when a rolled up towel was tapped on his shoulder. Ilya glanced up at the equipment manager standing behind him.

“Thangks.”

Settling for pinching his nose through the fabric, fearing that blowing would only enable one of the urges lurking ominously in the back of his nose and throat, and using the excess to wipe the sweat from his brow, he scanned the ice, eyes drifting over to the huddle of officials still reviewing the play. How long could this possibly take? It wasn’t like the goal would make that much difference to the outcome anyway.

Boodram, on his right, held out a water bottle to the Russian without looking, still engaged in conversation with whoever was on his other side. Ilya took it gratefully, replaced his mouthguard, and skied the water into his mouth, taking gulp after gulp, until his throat felt relatively normal again, and then passed it on.

Finally feeling slightly more human, he surveyed the crowd, mostly adorned in the colours of the opposing team, since it was their arena, and mostly absorbed in their own conversations, or their phones, since the ice provided so little entertainment currently. He sniffled, and then sniffled again as he apparently dislodged the precarious balance of mucus filling his nose. It took three more sniffs to keep the tide at bay, and by then he could feel an insistent tickling sensation beginning. Maybe one more sniffle would quell the itch?

Of course one more sniffle only fuelled the itch, as he probably should have predicted, but he had no time to really chasten himself for the stupid choice, as he was immediately, “hKk! kKH!-” sneezing uncovered into open air, as the fit onset without warning. “-hKK! Kkh!-” Confident that he couldn’t be heard over the general noise of the stadium, and that it probably just looked like he’d choked on the water, the blond raised the towel to his face and ducked to conceal the more evidentiary subsequent sneezes. Unfortunately for him, he heard the foreboding swish of skates approaching the bench, and the crowd quieting as he succumbed. “-hKSH! KSHh! hihKSHh!-” The players around him audibly shifted as the official spoke with the coach, trying to hear what the call was going to be. “-hihh…KSHuh! hrrRSHh! hHRSHhUh!”

“Geez, bro,” Bood was facing towards him now, apparently having heard the commotion in the quieted arena, “Bl-”

But the blond had made the stupid decision to look right up at the blinding white ice at the conclusion of the fit, breath immediately stuttering prepensively again.

“hKk! hKK!-” God, it would be nice if he could get the towel over his face before he started doing that, because chances were, he’d be up on the screen at some point, expected to react to the call, and he knew it was far from his most attractive facial expression. “-hKSHh! hihKSHh!-”

“Damn, Roz.”

“-hAHKSHhuh! hihhAHSCHh!”

“Bless you. A lot.” Great, now he’s startled, distracted, and definitely mad because he can’t do his stupid little ritual. Not something that would affect their game in the slightest. It was bad enough that he was playing below his usual level, but did he have to drag the rest of the team down with him?

He straightened, slower this time, panting softly through his mouth, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light before he looked up.

“You alright? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before.”

“Is fine.” When it became clear that the winger was not going to leave him alone, Ilya graced him with a short, gruff answer.

“Don’t tell me you’re coming down with this shit that’s been ploughing through the rest of us. What happened to your-”

“Shh.” Anticipating the chirp, the Russian pointed out to center ice, where the referee was standing. “He will announce call.”

“After reviewing the video-”

…

The goal had been disalllowed. And, as Ilya had predicted, it didn’t matter, they would have lost with or without it. Most of the players still weren’t at 100 percent after succumbing to the illness, and with practices being sparsely populated as people recuperated, they were less of a well-oiled machine, and more of a rusty, misassembled one.

The captain entered the locker room dejected, though his face was its usual mask of neutrality. He dreamed of the hotel room, ordering shitty takeout comfort food, and sitting on the floor of a steamy shower until his skin wrinkled and his sinuses drained, calling Shane, and letting the Canadian’s monotone voice lull him to sleep. But first he had to debrief these dumbasses.

“Okay.” He only bothered to strip out of his skates, jersey, gloves, and helmet before he began, anticipating that undressing might take him a little longer on account of the aching muscles, exhaustion, and slight lightheadedness that had started to characterise any fast or demanding movements. “Was bad game. We know this. You know this. I know this. They-” He pointed in the vague direction of the opposition’s dressing room, “-know this.” Maybe not one of his better speeches but he’d like to see any of the team try and do better under his conditions. “We are sloppy, out of practice, not coordinated. No one is in right place, no one is ever in right place. So many fucking offsides-” It was a rant now, or spiralling into one, and he needed to pull it back. “But we work on this at next practice, we wa-hh-tch-”

He broke off, surprised by the sudden appearance of the tickle, and the concerning way it had interrupted his speech, as though it could strike at any time. “We watch-” Keep going, no one fucking noticed, no one fucking cares. “-for this at next game. You know where the lines a-ahh-” Ah fuck, he’d totally lost it.

For a brief moment he considered turning and running directly back out of the doors to the locker room, inexplicably sprinting for the showers, or just hiding in his stall and holding a towel over his face until he suffocated. But he had no time to do any of those things. And they all seemed pretty panic-inducing for his already out-of-sorts team, and he’d have to explain them afterwards. Also everyone else in the room had been doing this sort of thing, essentially unaddressed, for two weeks. Wasn’t he supposed to be showing them that he was one of them, or human too, or something anyway?

So, he stood his ground, and just- “hKk! Kkh! Kkh!-” Initially he directed the expulsions down at his chest, shoulder shrugging inwards to further cover his face with each jolt, but in the small gap between the third and fourth, he’d looked up and seen a look of total confusion and alarm on the face of the closest player, and realised that it probably looked more like he was choking than sneezing, and so raised his fist performatively to jam under his nose, “-hKk! KSHh! hihKSHHh! hihh… hHSHH! hrRSHh!-”

Dizzy as the lack of oxygen started to get to him, faster than it usually did, probably lingering breathlessness from the game, he bent double and placed his hands on his knees, too tired to even fight it anymore, spraying the floor of the visitors’ locker room, with vitriolic apathy, “hAHISHH! hHAHSHH! hhihh…HEAHSCHOo!”

With a forceful swallow, and a sniff that he intended to restore his sense of self-control and authority, but kind of sounded like he was attempting not to cry, the captain straightened. The faces surrounding him brought back with agonising clarity what Bood had said to him on the bench, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before.” Fuck. And what an introduction to his most chirp-worthy trait. The biggest fit he’d had in a good while, right in the middle of a speech when everyone’s attention was centred on him and only him. Jesus fucking- way to pick the moment, Ilya.

“God bless you, Roz.” Hayes offered. The Russian couldn’t turn to glare at him fast enough, a chorus of blessings, emboldened by the goalie, filled the room.

He sighed, tensely, waiting for the niceties to be over so he could get on with his debrief and head home. But no sooner had the last blessing been voiced, than “You good, cap?”

“Shut the fuck up, Dykstra.”

“I’m just saying. That was a lot.”

“Yeah, I saw him do it on the bench as well, scary stuff,” Bood interjected, “Thought he was gonna stop breathing.”

“I am not going to stop fucking breathing, everything is fine, everyone shut the fuck up.” His hackles were up now, brow furrowed, eyes flashing dangerously.

There was silence for a second, and he was just about to restart the sentence that he totally remembered the end of, when Hayes interrupted again.

“You finally get that bug that we’ve been passing about? Is that why you’re so prickly?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with you? We do not lose because of just me, okay? I come here, I play, I score, why the fuck you so critical?”

And he stormed off into the showers. With his clothes on. And no towel. And they all knew it. Fuck.

…

Ilya scrubbed his hands over his face, eyes squeezed shut as they flooded with warm shower water. He didn’t fight the stinging sensation the foreign liquid left under his eyelids, focusing on dragging his fingertips down his face as hard as he could, imagining the red marks he was leaving, imagining he could cleanse the humiliation and frustration of the evening from his mind, his soul, his reputation.

The steam was making his nose run. He didn’t care, picking up the fallout on his next angry swipe of his hands past his upper lip, holding his hands out ahead of him in the spray for a second to wash it off, and starting again at his forehead. He wasn’t really trying to get clean, just killing time until the awkwardness of the post-game speech dissipated, and a few more people filtered through to shower, so that he could walk back stark naked like he didn’t care that every single other player was watching him. Fucking foresight, Ilya, why do you never think before you do anything?

He startled when the shower next to him turned on, suddenly feeling vulnerable with his burning, waterlogged eyes, audibly rasping breath as the steam loosened the congestion in his lungs, and lack of a proper exit strategy. Ilya tilted his head down, letting the water hit the back of his head, wiped his eyes, blinked through the pain, and squinted at the figure beside him.

“Just me.” Hayes. Nice of him to announce himself after Ilya had gone to all the effort of trying to see for himself who it was.

He didn’t respond, starting to wash his body off instead, staring straight ahead as the water plastered his hair to his forehead.

The silence rang between them. More people filtered through to shower. Ilya counted each entry as the showers kicked on, one after another. He had no idea who specifically had joined them-

“hyEHSCHH! AHSCHUh!”

Okay, so one of them was Dykstra, but apart from that-

“Bless you and bless you.” Fine, and Boodram. Anyway, as he’d been trying to think, before he’d been interrupted, it didn’t matter. It was a numbers game. He needed more people in here or out in the corridor than in the locker room. Less people to see his walk of shame-

“I brought you a towel.” The goaltender spoke up again, jerking his thumb towards the hooks behind them.

“Thanks.” Now shut the fuck up and shower.

“Pretty essential part of showering.” He joked, tentatively.

Ilya snorted, amusement acting as passive approval, Hayes’ expression immediately turning more serious.

“Listen, cap, if you’re sick-”

The blond slapped the handle to turn the spray off, suddenly seething with anger, the goalie’s face changing again to betray how taken aback he was. “I am fucking fin-” The word caught harshly in his throat, a sudden coughing fit overpowering him, echoing off the tiled walls. Ilya slammed his fist over his mouth, muffling the sound, bending double as his lungs spasmed violently, and he hacked harsh breaths against his damp knuckles.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hayes’ hand move. It occurred to him, at about the same time, that he could barely see the movement, noticing a fuzzy, hazing effect on the edges of his vision, that left his peripheral blurry and unclear. Mind split between the observation and the agonisingly endless fit, Ilya reverted to instinct and flinched away from him.

Wyatt froze. The captain tensed. Fuck. He wasn’t going to hit you, idiot. He probably wasn’t even going to touch you, given you’re both buck naked and soaking wet and you’re known for acting like a cornered animal at the best of times. And now he thinks you’re scared to be hit, like some kind of fucking pathetic little child. You get hit for a living, asshole, toughen up.

Ilya straightened, swallowing the tail end of the fit. He didn’t look at Hayes, face a steely mask of anger that he hoped looked like it was directed at the goaltender, rather than its real target, himself.

“Rozanov-”

“Fuck off. Is not your fucking business.” He retrieved the towel Wyatt had brought him, wrapped it around his waist, and stalked back to his stall, pulling his water bottle from his bag and sitting down heavily to half-drain it without looking at anyone.

…

Most of the team had showered and changed, falling easily into their own conversations and distractions once it became clear that the captain was done with any kind of drama for the evening, by the time that Ilya started to think about putting his clothes back on. His skin had long since air dried, his hair about halfway there, the ends still dripping cold water onto his neck, and arms, and phone screen.

He stared at the text thread with Shane blankly. They hadn’t messaged since the first intermission, and he knew that Montréal had won their game. So he wasn’t overly eager to interrupt the celebrations with his woeful complaints of embarrassment and humiliation.

“Hey.”

Ilya pressed the button to turn the phone screen off at a speed that felt like it outdid any of his shots on the ice that game, head snapping up to look at the man who’d just spoken. Dykstra sat in the stall to his left, its owner having already left for the shuttle back to the hotel. The captain relaxed a tiny, imperceptible amount. The defenseman was not someone he’d be overly worried about snooping on his phone conversations.

“What?” He responded, guardedly.

“Just wanted to make sure you’re all good. Not in front of everyone, this time.”

“I am good.” He swallowed dryly, eyes wandering the rest of the room to check that the check-in really wasn’t in front of everyone, but no one else seemed to be paying the two of them any mind.

“Alright, man. But as someone who’s had this shit that’s been going around- not that you’ve got it- it hits pretty hard, so, it might be helpful to-” He held out his hand, closed around something. Reluctantly, Ilya presented him with an open palm to take it.

The defenseman dropped a cut off section of a blister pack of pills into his hand, four. Ilya stared at the orange capsules, distastefully. He didn’t like their weight in his hand, the unnatural shade that looked like it wasn’t intended for human consumption, didn’t like the idea of being expected to take them, to thank him for them, didn’t like the immediate sensations his brain conjured up, plasticky casing buckling on his tongue, acrid chemicals in the back of his throat, images he’d tried to forget flooding his mind- he sniffled as his tear ducts stung, staring blankly at his hand as Evan stared patiently at him.

A few short, silent seconds passed. Ilya floated a thousand miles from his mind, so far removed from his body that he no longer had any idea where he was, lost in the fog of dissociation. Flickers of the past day, week, year appeared and then vanished as his consciousness searched for some kind of anchor to keep him from drifting into more dangerous memories. Then his lungs stuttered back to life, a long, staggered breath drawn in sharply. His surroundings came back into focus. Faced with only a few moments to discern the automated reason behind his abrupt inhale, the blond panicked. Was he about to say something? To yell at the defenseman for his presumption? Was he about to break into full-blown panic? To cry? Or-?

“KKh!” The only reason he hadn’t sneezed directly on, or really at, Dykstra, was because his head had subconsciously started to turn away a few seconds earlier, responding on impulse to a pain in his neck at keeping his head craned at that angle for so long. “-hKk! Kkh! Kk!-”

He faintly heard the other man mutter, “Oh.” and then some moving and shifting that he assumed was him getting up to leave. He was wrong.

“-hKSHh! Ksh!-”

And then there was a tissue pressed in his free hand. The Russian forced his eyes open mid-fit to check. Yeah, definitely a tissue. And Dykstra’s hand retreating in his peripheral. What the fuck?

“-hKSHH!-” It took him one more sneeze to realise that he should probably be using the tissue, rather than just holding on to it as though he’d been told to keep it safe at all costs, and the rest of the fit to realise that, “-hKSHuh!-” to place the tissue in Ilya’s hand, the defenseman had had to, “-hihKSH!-” reach over him, “-hihh… sSCHh!-” and so he’d almost definitely, “-hRSHH! rRRSHHuH!” had his arm…

“G’ bless you.” The captain looked up, seeing that the Canadian was occupied holding a tissue of his own, swiping nonchalantly at his wrist …directly in the line of fire. Fuck. Fucking disgusting, Ilya.

“Sorry.” The word came out thick with congestion, and swathed in his accent, so strong that it was noticeable even to himself.

“No worries, man. Just, you know- maybe you’ll feel better if you take the-” He nudged the hand that still held the blister pack of pills, indicatively. Feel better? Feel fucking better? What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Would the drugs make him play better too?

“No!” Ilya spoke louder than he needed to, drawing the eyes of even those who’d politely deigned to look away during the fit, though the locker room was almost empty now, anyway. “Take your fucking shit-” He threw the pills back at him, muscles clenched to stop himself from shaking, “-and leave me the fuck alone.”

He stood, praying the towel would hold as he turned to rifle through his bag, dragging out a hoodie, and pulling it on, drawing a hand through his damp hair to try to calm himself, feeling his heart pumping hard in his chest, ignoring the careful way the defenseman backed away in his peripheral vision, returning to his own stall. Feeling painfully out of place, he finished changing, retrieved his things and stormed from the room, chest tight with anxiety, alternating between dropping his head to his chest in dejection and tilting it back to try and glean a tiny amount more oxygen as he walked. He could not imagine a worse way for that fucking game to have ended if he tried. And he had a sinking feeling that he’d be spending most of the night trying.

…

“Hang on.”

Ilya stared at the smooth, white, hotel room ceiling as he listened to Shane fiddling with a tupperware of some kind on the other end of the line. Once all the clips had been snapped back into place, his voice became less distant again.

“Alright, sorry, I’m back. Mom gave me these wholewheat cracker things, I think Dad baked them, and they’re pretty good, but there’s a lot of them.” The blond heard him pad softly through into the living room, and flop down on the sofa. “I tried to give some to Hayden, but he said-”

Evidently not keen to find out what bullshit Pike had said in response to the offer, Ilya ducked away from the phone, coughing roughly against his fist. Lying on his back had not done wonders for the congestion lingering in his chest. He forced himself upright over the course of the unexpectedly long fit, gradually, vertebra by vertebra, until he was hunched forwards.

Fifteen full seconds of violent coughing later, the Russian swallowed phlegmily, and raised the phone back to his ear, ignoring the darkness that had sprung up at the edges of his vision.

“Fucking hell,” Shane sounded shaken. “Are you okay?”

“Pike said this? Rude.” Ilya smiled weakly. “Could have just said ‘no’.”

“Shut up, stop joking around. What’s wrong?”

“Is nothing.” He stood, breathing heavily through his mouth as dizziness swelled within him, and the congestion shifted in his head with a click that he was sure was audible through the phone. “Same thing team had last week.”

“Fuck. Why didn’t you say anything? You played, right? How the hell did you play?”

“Badly.” He mumbled, dragging his feet the short distance to the bathroom and filling a glass with water from the tap.

“That’s not what I meant.” The ‘and you know it’ went unsaid, but Ilya still felt it, and the accompanying pang of guilt for twisting his boyfriend’s words. “You have the same thing that fucked LaPointe over so badly you had to leave him in Florida for two extra days, and you played through?”

The blond finished chugging his glass of water and refilled it, phone held between his shoulder and his ear. “Is not so bad.”

There was a long pause. Ilya downed a second glass of water. “Does the team know?” The brunet asked finally.

“Yes.” He scowled at his reflection. “Did not want them to, but-” The rest of the sentence was lost to a huffed out breath as the memory of the locker room flashed through his mind.

“Was it okay?” If anyone would understand the stress of letting his team know he was sick, it was Shane. They had the same pressure on them, as captains, as star players, as the cornerstones of their respective teams. They had the same weird wall of secrets between them and their fellow players that stopped them from getting close enough for admissions of vulnerability to feel normal or comfortable. Plus, the Canadian was always kind of weird when he talked about illness anyway, even with Ilya, cagey in the same way he got about his sexuality or their relationship, or-

“I do not know. Maybe they are mad, or disappointed? Is not helpful.” He filled the glass again, more out of habit than desire this time.

“What’s not helpful? Their response, or the illness?”

“Illness, yes. They were very…helpful.” Guilt clawed up his throat again at the memory of all the outstretched hands he’d smacked away, in the showers, in his stall, on the bus to the hotel…

“It’s not your fault you’re sick, you know? It can’t be helped.”

“I fucking wish it c-hh-” Ilya froze, glass halfway to his mouth again, as the tickle that he hadn’t been able to fully shake since the first fit in the locker room, made its presence known again. Focusing on lowering it back to the counter without spilling any water, he attempted to update his boyfriend through jagged breaths, “I h-ahh-ave t-uhHh-o sn-iHHhihh-snee-”

“Okay, I got it, you don’t have to tell me.” Shane sounded strangely ruffled, “You can…you can go ahead and-”

“Snee-ihHKK!-ze. kKh! hKk!-” He dragged the collar of his hoodie up over his mouth, first knuckle under his nose, phone still absently pressed to his ear, “hKSH! KSHh! hKSHh! hihKSHhuh!-” He broke off to cough, bent double now, trying to square his stance as he swayed, disorientated, breath catching again before he could catch it himself and, “hihhkSHH! hrRSHh! hihh…hhH…hyAHSHHhOo!”

The final sneeze had him crashing to his knees, curled in a ball on the bathroom floor, breathing heavily through his mouth as his nose dripped all over his hand, still loosely holding his collar over his spray-glazed lips.

“Bless you. Fuck, you sound awful.” The brunet whispered through the phone as though afraid to disturb the silence that had fallen in the wake of the fit.

“Feel awful.” He responded before he could stop himself.

“I bet. God I wish I was there with you.”

“Me too.” And he really did wish, visualising his boyfriend with his eyes squeezed shut and his breath baited in his chest, making himself believe that when he looked up at the bathroom doorway, he’d see the brunet standing there, making that awful, pitying face at him.

There was a knock on the door. Ilya startled, eyes flying open, phone falling from his hand. Shane?

He fumbled for a face towel, running it under his nose, scrubbing at his hand as he rose to his feet, wincing at the pins and needles in his legs, hobbling to the door. Fuck, how long had he been sitting there?

Ilya unlocked the hotel room door, heart quickening, not bothering to look through the peep hole before he flung it open. His wish had come true, he wouldn’t have to go through this alone, he had Shane, he had-

The hallway was empty. The blond’s stomach rolled with dread. Had he misheard? Was this some kind of prank? But then his gaze drifted downwards, to the small, rectangular container sitting in front of the door. One of the baskets for the face towels, from the en suite bathroom, and it was filled with-? Ilya bent down. A bunch of random stuff? Trash?

He looked closer. On top sat a piece of paper from the notepad that sat beside the beds, the hotel name and logo at the top, scrawly writing beneath. ‘Captain. The essentials, just in case you don’t have any.’ and then, in different handwriting, ‘If you need anything, you know where we are.’ and finally, in block capitals that could have been either of the two priors or another person entirely, ‘WE’RE A TEAM.’

Ilya snatched the basket from the floor, glanced in both directions, checking if he was being watched, and ducked back inside his room, walking over to the bed, heart pounding in his chest, and emptying the container onto the clean, white, backdrop of the comforter.

He’d been provided with; two travel packs of tissues, different brands- possibly different people’s contributions?-; the exact cut off corner of cold meds Dykstra had tried to give him earlier; a second sheet, of blue pills that he assumed were the night-time version; a packet of throat lozenges that loudly proclaimed they contained vitamin c and zinc; two teabags with labels in French; and several loose smelling salt ampules. What the fuck?

Impulsive and uncoordinated as a wild animal, he swiped angrily at the array, sending items flying across the bed and tumbling to the floor. This was a joke, a mockery, an insult. They were chirping him, provoking him- no, worse…could they be… pitying him? The blond snarled at the empty room, the note lying face up on the floor, closing message mocking him. They were a team, so he needed to pull himself together and do his part. Or, they were a team, and he wasn’t a part of it, some tacked on extra, the figurehead that no one really connected with, a misfit.

The dissonance of multiple interpretations crowded his mind, and he unconsciously backed away from the bed, the humiliating necessities that had been thrust upon him, the blame, the pity, the anxiety. He hardly noticed his breathing pick up, harsh, ragged breaths as adrenaline flooded his system. Two emotions fought for monopoly in his chest, anger winning out. How fucking dare they? How dare they assume he was sick, assume he was helpless, give him things like he was a child, an invalid, an idiot. How dare they- he stumbled into the bathroom, seeking his abandoned cup of water, but being confronted by his phone on the floor, screen still illuminated with the ongoing call. Fuck, Shane.

“-can hear me, you’d better fucking reply-” He was saying as Ilya fumbled the device to his ear, voice quick with anxiety, audibly pacing the kitchen as the blond could hear the sound of his bare feet against the tile.

“I’m here.”

“Fuck, Ilya, what happened? I thought you passed out or something!”

“No, I went to answer door.”

“There was someone at your door?”

Now that he was having to slow down and explain what had happened, forcing his brain through the achingly elongated process that was translating it back to comprehensible English, the anger and adrenaline were beginning to ebb away, leaving a drained, overwhelming exhaustion in their place. “No, was just- team leave me stupid sick person stuff.”

“What?”

“Does not matter. I am fine. You had big game, should rest. Talk tomorrow.”

“Wait, Ily-”

“Love you.” He hung up, not even giving Shane the chance to say it back.

Ilya turned his phone off and slumped to the floor, hiking his knees up and resting his forehead against them. Fuck this whole day, fuck the game, fuck him for thinking things would get better once he left the arena, fuck this illness, fuck everything.

He sniffled, unsurprised to discover that his eyes were…watering. He wasn’t crying, he was just tired and sick and sometimes that made your eyes water…right. It made his eyes water and his chest ache and his breathing all juddery and his nose run, and- he sniffled again, head immediately tilting back at the sharp itching sensation that the movement had awoken.

“hKk! HkK! Kk! hKk! hhKSH!-” He let his head snap forwards against his bicep, hating the way the sound echoed in the small room, but still feeling like he’d be less likely to be heard in here than out in the bedroom, “hKSHh! KSHH! hihSHHh! huHSHhh! hihhuhH…” The last sneeze was temporarily delayed by the tears sliding down his cheeks, face aimed towards the ceiling, breath hitching with what were undeniably sobs as he inadvertantly increased his own discomfort, saltwater dripping into his ears and down his neck, every tiny pitiful noise reflected back at him mockingly by the tiled walls, “hhihh…hhiEhh… hAHKSHHhoo!”

And he buried his face in the sleeve of his hoodie and sobbed, silently. Every breath tore at his raw throat, burdened his aching lungs, every shudder of his frame jolted his damaged muscles and swollen joints, and his face was totally soaked in tears and snot, the fabric pressed against it having done all it could to mop up the endless tide. And Ilya felt nothing but torment, and his mind went nowhere but to everything he’d done to deserve it- the game, the speech, snapping at his teammates, pushing Shane away- and even before that, every mistake he could remember making, that had garnered him this bad karma, warranted this punishment.

His sobs slowed through the methodical search for wrongdoing, more focused on his mistakes than his misery, until it finally all came to a shuddering stop. And his mind strayed to the team, the offering. Maybe he should stop wallowing in this and try to fix it. That seemed to be what they wanted him to do. The captain dragged himself to his feet, ignoring the pressure in his chest, the way his heart skipped up to a higher rate uncomfortably quickly, the wave of unbearable heat that washed over him, and stumbled through into the bedroom. He could fix this. He would fix this. And he would play the next game, and they would win. And then no one would be mad anymore, and they could all forget that this had ever happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TSHH! Hehh'khtshh!—eh’tsghtt!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, good idea,” Ilya agrees.

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

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

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

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

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

“Or we could -”

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

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

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

Ilya sniffles and shrugs.

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

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