#dusty15

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.”

“Medicine's probably long worn off. Have you taken anything else?”

Ilya shakes his head and curls up against Shane. “No. I want to be asleep.”

“Medicine will make you sleep better,” Shane says. “Did you bring some home in your bag?”

Ilya sniffles thickly and muffles a cough into his pillow before he can answer.

“Yes, but I don't think it's the sleeping kind.”

Shane glances at his phone on the nightstand. It's three in the morning. 

“I can run to the 24 hour pharmacy,” he offers tentatively but as soon as he's said it, Ilya's arms are clinging to him and his face is against Shane's chest.

“No,” Ilya grumbles. “Don't go. I will sleep.”

His breath is hot on Shane's skin and his face is clammy where his forehead rests on Shane's pec.

“At least take one of the daytime ones so you're less congested,” Shane says, extracting himself from Ilya's grip and slipping out of the bed. “I'll be right back.”

He finds the Tylenol Cold packet in Ilya's gym bag and brings it back to the bedroom, popping out two of the tablets and passing them to Ilya along with his water bottle. Ilya reluctantly swallows the pills before disappearing under the blankets again. 

Ehh-CXHTT! Ilya's form under the duvet shudders with a harsh sneeze and he groans and says something in Russian that Shane recognizes as a curse word. 

Ehh-et’TCXHTT!!

Shane plucks a tissues from the box on Ilya's bedside table and slides it under the blanket.

Heh—ehh'TSGHHhhHH!

There's a shuddery breath and the sound of a congested nose blow before Ilya tosses the tissue from under the blanket on to the nightstand where several other used tissues are already strewn.

Shane rolls his eyes and grabs the trashcan by the door, gingerly using the tissue box to knock the used Kleenex into the bin.

“Bless you,” he says gently, circling to the other side and climbing back into bed. Ilya immediately snuggles against him, seeking warmth. Shane strokes his back until Ilya has fallen back to sleep, snoring again.

When morning comes, Shane wakes to the sound of Ilya coughing. It's a chesty, barking sound that instantly makes Shane's heart ache with sympathy. Ilya reaches for the water bottle on his nightstand and takes a sip, trying to stop the fit, but he can't seem to get the coughs to settle. He swings his legs out of bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress and bending forward, coughing harshly. 

Shane shifts, reaching to touch his back comfortingly, feeling Ilya's strained breath as he struggles to stop the coughs. Finally Ilya has one last harsh cough and spits into a tissue before he's quiet, slumped over at the edge of the bed and gulping for air.

“Baby,” Shane murmurs, kneeling behind him and wrapping his arms around the ill man. “That sounded painful.”

Ilya's face is flushed and his eyes are red and rheumy when he looks up at Shane with a groggy, dazed expression. He doesn't look like a man who just had a solid ten hours of sleep. 

Shane puts the back of his hand against Ilya's forehead, checking for fever. Ilya's skin is sweaty, but not noticeably feverish. 

“I think you need some stronger medicine,” Shane says gently, pressing kisses along Ilya's shoulders. “Can I go get some?”

Ilya's eyes flutter closed and he reclines against Shane.

“Okay,” he mumbles, defeated. He's clearly feeling no better than last night.

Shane settles him back into bed, supported more upright by a stack of pillows behind Ilya's upper back. Ilya then watches him through glazed eyes as Shane moves about, getting dressed.

“I'll be back as quick as I can,” Shane says, moving to press a kiss on Ilya's forehead.

Ilya swallows with a wince and nods. He lays in bed, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, until he hears Shane return. 

“I got a bunch of things,” Shane is saying as he unpacks a reusable bag from Shopper's. He deposits a bottle of Gatorade on the nightstand; the blue one, Ilya's favourite flavour. 

“I got the stronger cold medicine,” he continues, popping out two yellow gel capsules from a box and handing them to Ilya to take with a swig of the Gatorade.

“And, some other stuff,” he says, setting a bag of lozenges on the nightstand alongside a small dark blue jar and a tube of medicated chapstick. 

“What's that?” Ilya croaks, gesturing to the jar.

“It's Vicks,” Shane says. “It helps with coughs I think? You're meant to rub it on your chest.”

Ilya's mouth curves into a small smile.

“Rub it on the chest?” he repeats. “Kinky.”

Shane laughs. “You pervert. It's like a menthol thing. Helps you breathe easier.”

“But will you?” Ilya asks. “For me?”

He tugs at the collar of his sweatshirt, sitting up a little more in bed.

“Yeah, okay,” Shane agrees, uncapping the jar and taking a healthy scoop out.

He shifts to sit across Ilya's lap, straddling his legs. He rubs the cream between his hands, trying to warm it up a little, and then he slides his hands up and under Ilya's sweatshirt.

Ilya's breath rushes in with a small gasp as the cooling gel hits his chest and Shane's hands skim across his pecs, rubbing the Vicks in. The smell is soothing, but it is Shane's touch that feels the best. Ilya lets his head loll back against the headboard, luxuriating in the tender ministrations.

“Hollander,” Ilya murmurs, his hands coming to rest on Shane's hips where he sits on Ilya's lap.

“You're sick,” Shane says, though his thumb grazes one of Ilya's nipples and doesn't move away, slowing circling it as the tender skin rises to his touch.

“I cannot forget that,” Ilya says hoarsely. “But....I want you to try to make me forget.”

Ilya's nose is dripping down his lip and he presses the back of his hand there, smearing the dampness across to his wrist. Shane would find the action nauseating if it were anyone else, but Ilya is looking so very sweet, all flushed and vulnerable and at Shane's mercy...and there's something in him that stirs at the situation.

“You are wanting too,” Ilya says, feeling the sudden press of Shane against his leg.

“Yeah, well,” Shane stammers, flustered for a moment before he wrestles back control of the situation. “That can wait. First, you.”

He leans over, kissing up the side of Ilya's neck where it is exposed beyond the collar of his sleep-wrinkled hoodie. His hands massage Ilya's pecs, occasionally stopping to tease at his nipples. Ilya grunts and snorts back congestion, sometimes making a strange half-cough to clear his throat. The sounds would typically make Shane's skin crawl, but he ignores them, pressing more kisses along Ilya's jaw.

“Please,” Ilya sighs, his hips pressing upward against Shane. It's clear he's hard, even through the duvet and sweatpants.

“I have to wash my hands,” Shane says, pulling them out from under Ilya's hoodie. “I don't think Vicks down there is a sensation you want to experience.”

“Hurry,” Ilya says as Shane goes to the washroom to scrub his hands. When he returns, Ilya has his hand down his sweatpants, idly stroking himself with half closed eyes. Shane pulls back the duvet and sits across Ilya's hips again before wrapping the blanket across both of them. In the warmth of the sheets, he guides Ilya's sweatpants down and then his own. 

Ilya sighs contentedly as Shane takes them both in his hand and thumbs across Ilya's tip.

Once Shane has added some lube to the equation, Ilya is flopped against the pillows, curls wild and stuck to his forehead, looking like some kind of angelic painting. Shane strokes them both slowly as he leans in, kissing Ilya's neck and sucking at his ear. Ilya tucks his head against Shane's shoulder, eyes closed, focused on the sensations in his body that aren't a raging sinus headache and persistent post-nasal drip. 

“Shane,” he sighs against Shane's neck, kissing the rough patches of stubble that have emerged overnight. His runny nose drips against Shane's shirt, leaving a small damp spot. 

Shane increases his pace, murmuring encouragement into Ilya's ear. 

“Hollander -” Ilya says, voice trembling.

“That's right...come for me, baby,” Shane murmurs.

“No – Hollander...I...I—hehh...”

Ilya's breath hitches wildly and he sneezes sharply against Shane's shoulder.

Hehh-ehh-SCHOO! Nhh—heh'TSGHHHT!

His body jerks with the outbursts, thrusting himself against Shane. 

“Fuck,” he growls, both intensely aroused and uncomfortable all at once. “Sorry.”

Shane doesn't seem bothered. His eyes are half-closed and his breath is coming in rapid pants.

“I'm close,” he groans.

“Me too,” Ilya says, trying to focus on the sensations instead of the congestion dripping down the back of his throat. He snorts thickly and resumes kissing Shane's neck.

A moment later, Shane shudders and grunts, coming hard before turning his focus solely to Ilya, working his hand until Ilya is undone, going boneless with a long, hoarse sound.

Shane presses kisses into Ilya's hair.

“Feel any better, baby?” he asks.

Ilya's mouth quirks an little hint of a smile.