🧪👾🕷️

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.”

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.”

“Oh, fuck. It’s Hayden.” 

The look Ilya gives him is utterly offended. 

“He just had a baby, I haven’t talked to him in weeks,” Shane argues, swiping his thumb across his phone screen to answer the call. Ilya groans. “Hey, buddy.” 

“Hey! Is this a good time?” Hayden asks, voice cheerful and tinny from the receiver. 

“Yeah, uh—uh, how’s, um…” 

“I haven’t spoken to you in, like, a month,” he goes on, talking over Shane’s stammering. “I mean, the season ended and you just… vanished.” 

“I know, I’m so sorry.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes and flops back onto the couch, only to crunch back up a moment later to crush a sneeze into his fist. And then, because he’s Ilya, another double, and one more after a moment’s hesitation. Shane glances over to mouth bless you at him, and Ilya waves him off. He’s been sensitive all day, nose twitchy and pink around the edges from irritation, and he’s not been able to go more than fifteen minutes without sneezing. He’s blamed it on the (in his words) “stupid fucking Canadian foliage,” and while he’s taken a dose of antihistamines, they’ve not kicked in yet. Or aren’t doing shit. Come to think of it, they’re probably expired. 

He shifts his attention back over to Hayden, resolving to end the conversation as quickly as possible. Part of him squeezes guiltily at the thought of trying to head off his best friend, but he and Ilya don’t really get to have time with each other. It’s always a calculation, and now that they’re not fighting the rest of the world to be together, he doesn’t want anything to interfere. 

“But how’s—Amber, right? How is she?” He slaps Ilya’s hand away when he starts walking his fingers up his thigh, then glares at him. If he can just wait five minutes… 

Ilya brings his hand up to rub at his nose again, and immediately flinches into his chest with two sneezes, and then a third after a moment’s hesitation. His jaw drops slightly, eyes hazy, and fuck, he’s not done. 

“She’s doing great!” Hayden is saying, and from his voice, it’s clear that he’s beaming. “Perfectly healthy, and just adorable. You got the pics I sent you, right?” 

“Oh, yeah, the pics are cute.” 

Next to him, Ilya chokes through another silent triple. He’s flushed a faint pink from embarrassment across his cheeks and the tips of his ears, his eyes starting to water from allergic irritation, and his tongue is poking out of his mouth just slightly as he squints vaguely. 

“She’s been feeding really well, too. Latching consistently and everything; she’s been much easier than Arthur.” 

“Aw, good, good,” says Shane, angling his torso away from Ilya and doing his best to ignore the apparent allergy attack occurring five feet from him. “And, uh, Jackie’s good, too?” 

“Yeah! Definitely tired, but nothing unexpected.” 

“Is it better than, um…” 

Ilya, having decided that he does, in fact, need Shane’s attention immediately, weaponizes the downtime between sneezing and moves closer to Shane, pressing his face into the back of Shane’s hoodie and making a soft whining noise that makes him grit his teeth. 

Oblivously, Hayden continues talking. “This is going much better than Arthur’s, yeah. Jackie’s been in touch with her doctor about it, so…” 

Whatever else he says disappears under the static that consumes his mind once Ilya twitches with another fit, mashing his nose directly into Shane’s spine and apparently relying on the fabric to muffle the sound for him. “h’Mptsh! mp’tsHh–tshh! mK’iew!” 

“Oh my God,” Shane exhales. 

“What?” 

“Yeah, no, I–I remember that, that was a tough time,” Shane chokes out. “Look, Hayd, I’m so sorry, but I–I’ve gotta run, I’m supposed to be handling a couple of things for my mom—” 

“No, yeah, of course! Just text me when you actually have time, I’ll make sure you can talk to Ruby and Jade, too.” 

“That’d be great. Talk to you later.” 

He cannot hang up fast enough. Shane twists and is met with an eyeful of amused, albeit allergic, Russian. 

“Not very Canadian of you,” he observes. 

“You know exactly what you’re doing.” 

“Oh, it’s my fault that my immune system does not like your country’s stupid plants?” 

“Ilya.” 

“Shane,” he repeats, mocking. It’s undercut by another little gasp, and then Ilya raises his fist and ducks into it with a set of itchy, utterly ineffective half-stifles. “ihy’schh–tshh–shh’uh! kh’gKT!” 

“Bless—” 

“gk’TSH’uh! ih’yshh–shh–shhiu!” 

“Bless—” 

“TSHH! hy’KSHH—eh’tshh!” 

“Are you done?” 

Ilya sniffles. “Mbaybe.” 

Shane raises his eyebrows.