#reader's choice

Shane struggled slightly as Ilya pushed him against the wall. He was trying not to let the feeling of the Russian’s tongue in his mouth freak him out. Obviously this always slightly freaked him out, but right now… was it wrong not to tell the other man he was sick? Was he not telling him because he didn't want him to stop kissing him or because he didn't want him to know? Would he even stop kissing him if he knew? Probably not.

As though reading his mind, Ilya stopped kissing him and pulled back. Shane licked his lips and tried to be subtle about gasping for air. He couldn't really breathe through his nose anymore.

“What is wrong with you?” The blond asked, bluntly.

Shane's heartbeat quickened, and he saw on Ilya’s face that he could feel the speed of his pulse change with his hand still wrapped around the Canadian’s throat. His eyes narrowed, searching Shane's face for answers.

“Nothing.” And after a second he added “Fuck you.” But he really meant ‘move on’. Either keep kissing me or leave, this is the last thing I want to talk about. Shane tried to convey that message with his eyes as Ilya inched closer again.

“You're lying, Hollander.” His words were a whisper, low, dangerous, almost a warning.

It was too late to tell him now, he'd essentially sabotaged the other man's ability to play at his best by infecting him. Technically that didn’t matter that much for this weekend, but he knew the Russian needed to be perfect and to set records like he needed the wins on regular games, always proving he deserved to be there. “Shut up.” He spun them around so Ilya was the one pressed against the wall, leaning in to kiss him aggressively as emphasis for his words.

Ilya, to his credit, shut up. He took a fistful of Shane's shirt, kissing him back as he pulled him in to grind against his hip bone needily.

This time there was no room for gasped breaths in between kisses, Ilya keeping their faces so tightly pressed together that Shane couldn't pull away. He could feel the Russian's warm breath coming in pants through his nose against Shane's cheek. Must be nice to take full breaths like that.

They kept kissing until the Canadian’s lungs started to burn and he pushed hard on Ilya's shoulders until he was able to pull back.

Ilya kept his grip on Shane's shirt, though he let him step back a pace or two, watching like a hawk as the brunet caught his breath.

Just as he felt like he could breathe again, his heart dropped as he felt his nose start to itch. He couldn't attend to it with him standing right there, watching.

“Uh I'm gonna go-” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the bathroom “-clean up.“

“No need.” Ilya said, grip unwavering, “I like…dirty.”

Shane rolled his eyes on purpose and wrinkled his nose involuntarily. “Let go.”

“No.”

The itch was starting to become a problem now. Shane felt his nostrils flare, and hoped to hell it read as anger. “Fuck you, man. Let m-” He gasped as the itch flared, one hand coming up to try to rip the blond’s hand from his shirt as the other scrubbed over his face as if he was frustrated.

Ilya only held on tighter. “What is wrong with you? Tell me or I don't let you go.”

Shane, utterly helpless to resist, twisted as far from his rival as he could with him holding on to the front of his shirt, pinched his nose tightly, and ducked in the direction of his far shoulder.

“hhEhNGT!”

He didn't turn back. He didn't need to see that look on Ilya's face, and besides, he knew he was blushing, which would just be another thing for the Russian to tease him about.

“God bless you.” He said the words slowly, savouring them. There was intrigue in his tone, and it sent fiery anger through Shane's veins. He felt like an animal in a zoo, trapped, observed, ridiculed. How stupid of him to think this was a good idea, something to take his mind off how shitty he felt. As if Ilya wasn't going to notice.

“Thanks. Fuck, I’m sorry.” He muttered, chancing a look back at him.

The blond’s face was unreadable, and his grip loosened on Shane's shirt as he spoke. “You don't have to apologise. If you didn't have to do it, clearly you would not have.”

Shane felt his face heat up again, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. It snapped sharply back up though, when he felt Ilya's cool palm push back his hair to rest on his forehead. How he could keep a hold of his stick on the ice when his hands ran cold anyway was a mystery. The gloves only did so much. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed it either. Every time their hands touched it sent a shock through him, for multiple reasons.

“The fuck are you doing?” He ducked away.

Ilya remained unbothered. “You're warm. You're sick.”

“I'm…I'm flushed. I'm fine.”

Ilya cocked his head. “I am making you blush, then?”

“No.” Shane stared back at him, defiantly, caught between a rock and a hard place. And unfortunately the hard place wasn't-

“You are sick, then.”

“No.”

“People do not turn pink for no reason, Hollander.”

“I’m not- this was a bad idea.” He smoothed down his hair one handed, walking towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Ilya pushed himself off the wall, starting to follow. “This is your room.”

Shane hunched his shoulders, scrubbing at his nose where he was reasonably sure the Russian couldn’t see. “I’m walking you out.”

“So polite.” Ilya’s tone was impassive, even as he closed the gap between them, spinning Shane around by the shoulder and pressing him up against the door.

The Canadian felt like his nose was a massive neon sign in the middle of his face, screaming ‘I’m sick as hell, look at me!’. Ilya’s eyes were fixed on it, making him mentally kick himself for abusing it so violently on his way to the door. It was probably bright red. Fuck. He could feel it still prickling with itchy desperation, the instinct to expel this shit from his system almost irresistible.

The blond reached up, totally mesmerised, and drew a finger, feather light, around one of the brunet's flaring nostrils. And now the instinct was completely irresist-

“heh-” Shane panted, trying to fit his arm between their chests so he could reach his face.

“Something wrong?” Ilya’s eyes flashed with amusement as he blocked him.

“M-hh-ove.” He gritted his teeth, fighting with every muscle in his body to hold it together.

“Or what?”

Shane looked at him as incredulously as he could with his eyes half shut and his nostrils flaring and then shifted all his weight onto one foot…on top of one of Ilya’s.

“Ow!” The Russian looked down, pulling his foot away and taking a step back. “You could have just-”

“hEHNGTt!”

“-said ‘please’.” He waited for Shane to turn back from where he’d ducked off to one side. “God bless you.”

“You don’t have to say that every time.” He sighed, reaching for the door handle.

“What, ‘please’? I think you do.” Ilya reached a hand over his head to press on the door, keeping it from opening.

“Just go. I'm not going to fuck you.” The energy was draining from Shane fast, and with it his patience.

“Why? Because you are sick?”

Shane snapped immediately, willing to try anything to get this asshole out of his room. “So what if I am? Why do you care?”

Ilya’s expression didn’t shift. “First, you just put your tongue in my mouth. Second, we are teammates right now. I need to know if you are going to pull your weight.”

Shane scoffed, and then swallowed clumsily, trying not to cough. “Of course I’m going to pull my fucking weight. I’m fine.” It was not a particularly witty defence, but he wasn’t in the mood to go back and forth endlessly.

“Yeah, right.” A flicker of roguishness crossed his face, and he leaned in, kissing the Canadian deeply, tongue quickly making a circuit of his mouth before Shane could push him away.

“What-”

“Now I am ‘fine’ too.” Ilya smiled wickedly, taking his hand off the door and letting Shane open it.

“You’re such an idiot.” He muttered, as though his heart wasn’t pounding in his ears.

“Don’t die, okay? It won’t be boring enough playing without you.”

“I’m not gonna die,” Shane started to shut the door, ignoring the jab. “It’s just a cold.”

“Ha!” Ilya pointed a triumphant finger at him. “You admit it!”

“Fuck off.” And he shut the door, frustration at himself for the slip rising in his chest. Shane sighed, his tongue tracing the path Ilya’s had taken as if trying to replicate the feeling it had given him. This game was going to be a shitshow. If both of them made it that far, that was.

…

A knock on the door roused Shane from a feverish slumber on top of the covers. He’d blown off the days activities, getting up just long enough to send a few apologetic messages, order room service that he barely ate, and stretch on the balcony for all of 30 seconds before he got too cold and tired. Who the fuck-? Actually, he didn’t care. He needed every second of rest he could get before the events started. He wasn’t getting up unless the building was on fire.

Shane was just burrowing back under the hoodie he was using as a makeshift blanket, being too hot to put it all the way on but too cold to leave it all the way off, when his phone dinged.

“Ughh.” He groaned, fumbling around for it without looking.

Lily: Answer the fucking door.

Shane stared blankly at the screen. Shouldn’t he be at the bar? Or the gym? Or picking up some random woman just for the fun of it? Or picking up some random woman because his usual booty call was utterly disgusting right now. Did Ilya even know the phrase ‘booty call’?

Lily: I hear you groaning. Answer the door.

With another sigh that he immediately regretted, wondering if Ilya had heard that too, Shane pushed himself to his feet and staggered in the direction of the door. The second it was open, Ilya was pushing past him and staring at himself in the mirror.

“What the fuck did you do to me, Hollander?”

“Wha- nothing, you did it to yourself!”

“Yes,” Ilya spun to face him, eyes darkly contrasted hollows that made Shane’s widen, “After you did it to me.”

His accent was stronger than usual, and coupled with the congestion and apparent shortness of breath, the words were barely discernible. Shane wondered if he’d run up the stairs rather than taking the elevator or if the illness was just hitting him that hard.

“I’m… sorry.” He really didn’t know what else to say, wondering why this hadn’t just been a text. Or a few days of the silent treatment. Something more distant. More Ilya.

“I’ll forgive you,” He grabbed his hoodie by the bottom, pulling it up and over his head. Shane shivered, watching him immediately break out in goosebumps. “After we fuck.”

“Right now?” The Canadian frowned, thinking of the ache in his muscles, and the prickling in his skin at the thought of taking his clothes off, despite the perfectly temperate room.

“Yes, right now. I can’t breathe with my nose. We can use the shower if you’re cold.” Ilya started walking decisively in the direction of the bathroom.

“…yeah alright.” Shane headed after him, drawn in by the idea of steam and heat, and someone to hold him up if he got dizzy this time. Although actually, Ilya might be equally likely to pass out under the warm water if he was anywhere near as sick as he looked.

…

The sound of the water drumming on the tile was irritating. It felt like it was physically tapping on his ears, and Shane wanted to recoil, to turn the shower off, to block the water. A quick glance at Ilya told him the Russian was probably thinking the same thing, brow furrowed in frustration. Was this awkward? Waiting here together? Should he have said something, or taken his clothes off or-?

Shane glanced back at the shower, still no steam rising from within. As annoying as the sound may be, it was a whole lot better than standing under freezing water. Although maybe not for his fever, which was probably the thing causing him to be so damn sensitive to the sound in the first place.

“Do you have more towels?” Ilya broke the annoyingly-not-silence.

“Oh uh, yeah. In the wardrobe probably.” His mind was too full of fog to think that far ahead. He just wanted to be warm and satiated, with no ‘afterwards’.

Ilya stepped out of the bathroom to get the necessary linen, and Shane used the time to glare at the shower and give himself a once over in the mirror. It was hard to say which one of them looked worse.

“H-Hollander-” Shane looked to the doorway, to see the blond had returned, and was holding out the towels to him with a frantic look on his face. Well that certainly seemed worse.

“What?”

“T-ahh-ake them.” He insisted.

Shane took the towels obediently, startling at the speed with which Ilya snapped away from him, leaning out of the doorframe, only visible from the neck down as he-

“hihKk! Kkh! hhKkh! hiHKSHhh! huUHSHhh! hhuhKSHhOo!”

The Canadian watched mesmerised as his abs contracted with each sneeze, and he shifted his grip on the doorframe from one hand to two, almost clinging on for dear life.

“Fuck.” They said in unison, once Ilya was finished.

“Bless you. Are you-”

“Don’t.” Ilya waved a hand, dismissing the question before it had even been asked. “It’s always like that.”

Shane watched him unceremoniously strip down the rest of the way, pressing past him with a meaningful look on his way to get into the shower.

“You getting in? It’s warm.” Ilya held out an inviting hand.

“Uh, yeah.” He put the towels down, fumbling his own clothes off, partially uncoordinated from the fever, partially rushing to not be standing naked in the cold for too often, partially longing to fall into Ilya’s waiting hands.

…

The two rivals lay splayed flat on the bed side by side, both breathing noisily through their mouths, with the occasional sniffle as the congestion the shower had dislodged shifted around.

With a slight groan of effort, Ilya pushed himself up so he was resting on his elbow, studying Shane, who got busy studying the ceiling and pretending like he hadn’t noticed. After a few seconds, the Russian moved closer, leaning in until Shane was forced to look. He grinned triumphantly at the small victory, prompting the Canadian to try to kiss the smirk off of his face.

Ilya rolled over so he was on top of Shane, pinning him to the bed, and deepened the kiss, both of them sniffling desperately, neither wanting to pull away to breathe. It was a competition now, who could go the longest-

Apparently Shane could go the longest at the undefined challenge, because Ilya pulled back before he could finish the thought, sitting straight up, knees either side of his rivals hips, and head tilted back slightly. Shane wondered if he was just dizzy from the limited oxygen the kiss had permitted, or if Ilya was swaying slightly.

“You okay?”

“I h-huh-have t-uhh-ikKH! hKk! hiHKk!- snee- iHKSHh! - sn- kKSHh! KSHhuh! hhUHKSHHoO! Fuck.” Ilya lowered the fist he’d been sneezing into, or at, really, and sniffled forcefully.

“Bless you.” Shane smiled, amused by the sight of his rival overtaken by desperation, unable to even get his words out without sneezing. That was unreasonably adorable.

“Thank you.” The Russian looked down, noticing his grin. “What? My suffering makes you happy?”

Shane stretched up, lacing his fingers together behind Ilya’s neck and pulling him back in, the fever and the vulnerability of it all making him forward. “You don’t look like you’re suffering. Are you?”

“Never.” Ilya kissed him, before wrinkling his nose and rolling off him, frustrated. “Ugh, fuck, this angle.” He rubbed at his nose, sniffling again as he tilted his head back to the ceiling.

“There’s tissues somewhere.” Shane tried to look helpful rather than captivated, sitting up to look.

“No.” The blond reached out, smacking passively at his chest with a cold hand to stop him from getting up. “Switch.”

“No, because then I’ll…I’ll be at that angle.” The Canadian said, awkwardly.

“So what? Your turn to suffer, my turn to be happy about it.”

“Shut up.” Shane lay back down, going back to staring at the ceiling. He could practically feel Ilya pouting in his direction.

They lay side by side for a little longer, the heat from the shower lingering enough that they didn’t feel the need to get under the covers. After a minute, Shane noticed the congestion in his head was beginning to shift, giving him a welcome reprieve from the headache he’d been noticing on and off all morning, but also sparking a feather light tickle in the back of his nose.

Shane stopped breathing for a moment, assessing the intensity of the itch, before suddenly pushing himself out of bed.

“Where are you going?” Ilya caught his wrist as he went past, gripping tightly.

“I- heHNGTt! I’m sorry, I have to-.”

For reasons unknown to Shane, the blond let go of his wrist easily, not pushing the issue, never taking his eyes off him, though, Shane able to feel his gaze on his back on his rapid route to the bathroom. As he shut the door, the Canadian took a shaky breath, raising his hand in preparation to stifle again and then startling at Ilya’s voice calling through from the bedroom.

“God bless you, by the way.”

He rolled his eyes, debating replying when his nose decided for him. Shane took a couple of steps away from the door, as though the short distance would make a difference in Ilya’s ability to hear him. He pinched his nose, avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he turned away for additional privacy.

“hhNGTt!” To his surprise, he found the itch not quelled after the single sneeze. His nose was practically buzzing with the need. Shane reached out, fumbling for the faucet and flicking it on. “hehNGTt!” This one bent him double, and he had no time to straighten up before, “hEhNGTchuh!”

Shane winced, blinking dizzily as he steadied himself on the sink. After a second he reached out and turned the tap off, staring at himself in the mirror exhaustedly. There was near silence, just the faucet dripping into the sink and his own breathing echoing off the tile, before Ilya’s muffled voice was audible through the door again.

“Bless you again, I assume.”

“Fuck you.” He called back, passively, though anxiety welled in his chest at the thought of Ilya imagining what he was doing in there. Why couldn’t he just pretend not to know, like a normal person?

Shane grabbed some tissues from the counter, blowing his nose as softly as possible before washing his hands and reluctantly leaving the bathroom.

“So, you come in my mouth, but you will not sneeze in front of me.” Ilya tilted his head to study Shane as he slinked back to bed.

The Canadian's brain took a second to catch up with that insane sentence, freezing at the side of the bed when he'd processed it. “What?”

“You are always trying to run away. Why? It is natural.”

“It’s-” Shane shook his head, slipping under the covers with a shiver.

“It’s what?”

His eyes closed automatically as he got comfortable, a welcome respite from Ilya’s discerning stare. “It’s nothing. Now either shut up or fuck off, I’m going to sleep.”

“You will eat, right?” Shane felt the bed move as the blond slipped out. Why had he hoped Ilya would pick ‘shut up’ rather than ‘fuck off’?

“Mmyeah.” He mumbled.

“What will you eat?”

“When will you wear wigs?” Shane responded, with a laugh that didn’t feel entirely like himself.

“What?”

“Shut up, I’m thinking.” He found himself halfway through mentally cataloguing the available food at his apartment before he remembered where he was. “Room service I guess.”

“You want me to order it?”

“No.”

“It took you two minutes just to decide you want ‘room service’ to eat, Hollander. You think you can hold a phone conversation?”

Ilya had a point, and Shane proved it by groaning incoherently in response.

“Okay. I will order, and then go. I have to ‘arrive’ soon.”

Shane went silent, remembering that technically, Ilya wasn’t even supposed to be in the state yet. They’d managed to get there early enough for a little fun before the events were due to begin, but now he was kind of wishing he’d spent the extra time resting at his apartment, and Ilya had spent the time as far away from him as possible. That way at least one of them would have been on top of their game for this week. Through the comforter over his head, he heard Ilya talking to the front desk, a muted thrill of anxiety running through him at the thought that they might notice the different accent from the last time he’d called.

The Russian hung up, and walked over to ruffle Shane’s barely visible hair. “Is done. See you for press, tomorrow.”

“See you.” The Canadian responded, although it was barely audible. He waited sullenly for Ilya’s footsteps to cross the room, and the door to open and shut before poking his head out. Wait, what the fuck had he actually ordered him?

…

Shane shifted his position against the wall for the fourth time in as many minutes, the fever and the anxiety combining to make him the most uncomfortable in a suit that he’d ever felt. And that was saying something. Situations where he had to dress up like this were not exactly his favourite. He sighed, rolling his shoulders back as he adjusted his stance again, the starched fabric of the suit rustling irritatingly as he did so.

“What?” Ilya almost snapped, studying him with a frown that was half focused scrutiny, half a defence against his headache.

Shane met his eyes immediately, unable to stop himself from voicing his anxieties now that he’d been prompted, “Just- what if they figure it out? Like we're sharing a fucking cold and we're not even on the same team normally. That's pretty fucking obvious, right?”

They were about to go into a press conference, just the two of them standing out in the corridor, waiting for someone to come out and bring them in. They could hear chairs shifting and the hubbub of reporters catching up with one another from inside the room. It was the waiting that was the problem, really. If they could just go in and get it over with… but no, they had to stand out here waiting, with nothing to do. Not a great setup considering their reported animosity for each other. What if they’d gotten into a fight and bludgeoned each other to death with the sponsored metal water bottles they were both currently sporting?

“Maybe.” Ilya's gaze turned distant as he thought for a moment. “It would be easier if more people were sick, yes?”

“Sure, but suddenly everyone's got immune systems of steel, seems like.” Shane sniffled softly as he lamented the lack of contagion resulting from their camaraderie.

“Maybe you should put your tongue down more of their throats.” Ilya cleared his own to make a point.

“Fuck off.”

The Russian moved closer in defiance, making the most of the pillar between them and the press room that partially shielded then from the view of anyone walking out that way.

Shane said nothing, inhibitions fever-dulled, desire to be touched, comforted magnified by the malaise, swallowing thickly as Ilya's face moved closer and closer to his, hands squeezed tightly around his water bottle as if holding it was an excuse not to move away. The blond captured his lips softly with his own before pulling back again. They shouldn’t be doing this. Not here.

His hand closed around the Canadian’s, tugging it away from the cool metal, and for a second Shane thought he was trying to be romantic. But no, he was just pressing his own water bottle into his other hand, freeing up both of his own so he could cup Shane's face as he kissed him. Fuck, they really shouldn’t be doing this.

It was daring, dangerous, and completely exhilarating, and as much as it chased away the nerves with something brighter and sharper, it didn't particularly help with how he was feeling physically, and Shane found himself sniffling helplessly against Ilya's cheek, trying to keep himself together. In more ways than one.

When they broke apart, he turned in the direction of his shoulder to sniff a little more forcefully, turning back with a wince, “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Ilya pressed a single finger under his chin, tilting it upwards and then poking experimentally at his septum with his other hand. “We are both sick. It doesn’t matter.”

“D-hh-on’t do that!” Shane twisted his head out of Ilya's hands, crinkling his nose in an attempt to fight back against the automatic response.

“Why?” If he hadn't been so caught up in the need to sneeze, he would have been absolutely infuriated by the question, he was sure.

“B-ihh-ecause, it's gonna-” Shane attempted to shove Ilya's water bottle back into his hands, but the blond made no move to take it, “-make me sn-ihh-eeze you f-uhh-cking idiot.”

Ilya didn't respond, and his eyes were fluttering shut automatically, so he couldn't even see the Russian's expression as he fought the building urge, tooth and nail. Could he drop the bottles? There was nowhere to put them down and Ilya was clearly not going to be decent and take them. He could still feel the blond standing in front of him, keeping him trapped against the wall. Would it be more noticeable if he dropped the water bottles on the floor and sneezed silently or if he held on to them and sneezed aloud? But no hands to stifle meant no hands to cover, either, and with the Russian right in front of him…There was no good option here.

Just when Shane thought it was all over, and there was no way he could breathe without coming apart, he felt Ilya’s cold fingers suddenly pinching his nose shut. He opened his eyes to see that intense, daring look in the Russian’s gaze, but before he could process what was happening the shock washed away and the itch returned full force.

“hHNGGTt!”

Ilya’s hand retreated, but Shane’s eyes stayed closed, breath still catching and stuttering.

“Another?” He questioned, intrigued, attentive to the brunet’s stricken expression.

Shane could only nod. The strong, supportive grip returned. The urge to sneeze competed for attention with the butterflies in his stomach. Don’t think about it. Don’t fucking think about it.

“hHNGTTch! Sorry.” He muttered on the exhale, unable to stifle perfectly without the comfort of his own hands in control.

Ilya moved his hand to hold Shane’s chin instead, pulling him closer, forcing him to meet his gaze. “God.” He kissed him. “Bless.” And again. “You.” The third kiss was deeper, and the Canadian could feel him smirking into his mouth. Heat rushed to his face at the realisation of what had just happened, what he’d just done. He willed the blood away. Literally go anywhere else, he couldn’t walk into this thing blushing. Or wait, no- not anywhere else.

Ilya pulled back, immediately glancing over the hand he’d used to pinch Shane’s nose with passive curiosity. “How the fuck do you do that? I thought your head was going to explode.”

Shane shrugged, trying to regain the concept of 'casual'. “Practice.”

“Will you teach me?” Ilya took a step back, straightening his tie. “It looks useful.”

“Fuck no.” He was glad to already be flushed, because the image in his brain was enough to send all the blood to his head three times over, “I think it’s pretty bad for you anyway.”

“Then why-”

The door of the press room starting to open cut Ilya off. He snatched his water bottle back, taking a big step backwards as Shane ran a hand under his nose, checking he was presentable. He felt like he was still blushing. Fuck, was he blushing?

“Alright, we're ready for you guys now.”

“Thank you.” And without a glance backwards, Ilya was walking in. Shane took a staccato breath, suppressed a shudder, and followed him.

…

It was the same questions as usual, essentially. The expected questions, anyway. He answered them with barely a second thought, mind still out in the hallway. Until-

“Shane, somebody mentioned that you were feeling a little under the weather recently, is that going to affect your game at all?”

Shane’s heartbeat thumped in his chest, the lights suddenly ten times brighter, accusatory. Somebody had mentioned? Who the hell would even know that? He'd barely hinted at it when he'd cancelled yesterday. “Uh-”

“You heard wrong.” Ilya interrupted, leaning forward pointedly into his microphone. “I am sick. Not Hollander.” He punctuated the statement with a rough sniff, and a cough that he had the grace to direct slightly away from the microphone.

Floating outside of his body, Shane heard himself mutter, “Yeah.” into the mic before Ilya started saying something about what could and couldn’t affect his game. As far as Shane could tell, there was very little in the ‘could’ list.

He slowly returned to inhabiting his physical body again over the next few questions, and was halfway through some bullshit about camaraderie, when Ilya twisted sharply away in his seat.

“kKH! hiHKk! KKHh! hhihAGHKkh! hhAHSHHhoo!”

The first few sneezes were almost coughs, but the force with which they shook him was unmistakeable. He caught the first few against his fist before switching to using his hand simply to shield his face from the press, palm towards the cameras as he sneezed in the direction of the floor.

Shane leaned forward into the mic as he watched him sit back in his seat. “Uh, bless you.”

The room of reporters echoed his sentiment and Ilya nodded tiredly. “Thank you. Please, continue.”

Honestly, he wasn’t sure he could, his mind back to racing at a million miles an hour. Now that Ilya had confirmed his rumoured illness, Shane had to try even harder to keep from showing a single symptom. They were on the same team, it wasn’t unlikely that they would catch this shit from each other, but when they were only supposed to have been in the same state, let alone the same room for like 20 hours…

“So, yeah. Probably the most important element of performance.” He finished lamely, unable to fully recall the question.

“Great, thank you.” The reporter acknowledged him, before the next question started.

It wasn’t a long conference, as there were other players to fit in, and since they hadn’t actually played anything yet, there wasn’t too much to talk about. Shane found subtle ways to rest his aching throat and sniff back the congestion that the microphones and cameras wouldn’t pick up. Ilya frequently excused himself mid-sentence to clear his throat or drink some water or sniffle against the back of his hand, Shane’s knee softly knocking into his in wordless comfort when he seemed to be struggling.

They stood, nodding in response to the reporters’ thanks, Shane following Ilya back to the door. He was so focused on getting out of there, he barely noticed when the blond stopped abruptly, and almost crashed into the back of him.

“You okay?” He muttered, mindful of the still hot mics and lenses in their vicinity.

“ihHKk! KKkh! hKk! hhiHKKh! huhHKSHh! KSHh! hhAHPSHhOo!” Was Ilya’s only response, starting by ducking slightly away from the cameras and winding up setting his water bottle down on the table they were still standing behind so he could cup both hands over his nose and mouth.

“Bless you, man.” Shane awkwardly clapped the Russian on the back as he slipped around in front of him to open the door, the instinct to be more familiar with him, more caring, fighting against his logical attempts to repress it.

“You know what? I’m sick of my job. I wish I could just quit,” you said, narrowing your eyes when your friend giggled. “I’m serious. I’m tired of it. I work my ass off, but I'm not going anywhere. I don't feel accomplished when I’m done at the end of the day and I dread hearing my alarm because it’s just another day of having to push through it. But I can't quit because I have to pay my bills. And I'm tired of being tired.”

Even saying the words wore you out.

She asked once your rant was over, “What’s the solution then?”

“I wish I knew,” you answered. You couldn't exactly quit without a plan in place. “If someone could just... I don't know, take me away, it would solve my problem.”

“Take you away?” She raised an eyebrow when you nodded. “How would that solve your problem? Sure, someone takes you away for a bit, but you’d have to go right back to work after your vacation because you'd still have bills. That or you'd have to find another job if you're gone for too long.”

“No, because it wouldn't be a vacation. It would be something more permanent,” you said, a dreamy look taking over your expression. “He would decide my new job is just taking care of myself. And taking care of him, of course.”

She blinked. It sounded crazy to your own ears, but you meant it. “So, you'd be a housewife?”

“Sort of. I guess? Housewife, sugar baby, whatever he needs.” She stared as you paused to take a drink. “He'd let me have hobbies because he wants me to be happy, but I wouldn't have to stress about a job I hate and I'd actually sleep and feel rested when I wake up. I wouldn't have to worry about anything.”

“A guy like that is probably married or a serial dater.”

“This one wouldn't be. He’d be devoted to me,” you said before you corrected yourself. “We’d be devoted to each other.”

Your friend playfully rolled her eyes. “And you think some guy is just going to show up and decide, 'Yeah! I'll make her my little housewife or sugar baby or whatever and I’ll be faithful and worship her!' Really?”

Your head hung for a moment. “A girl can dream, okay?”

“Look. You don't actually want that. You just hate your job right now. Maybe you'll find something else and it'll get better.”

“I've tried finding something else,” you reminded her, doing your best not to whine. “I've been trying for months and the light at the end of the tunnel is only getting further away.”

“Well, not to shit on your dream, but no one is going to show up and take you away,” she said, finishing the rest of her drink. She was being logical, of course, but why couldn't she let you fantasize for a moment? “That's reality. It sucks, I know.”

You deflated a bit and pushed the remainder of your food around your plate. You shouldn't have said anything. “It would still be nice if someone did,” you muttered.

But it was a dream, nothing more.

Someone clearing their throat at the table beside you pulled you from your thoughts. You gasped when you looked his way. He was one of the most handsome men you had ever seen. “Sorry for interrupting, but what’s your name?”

You shrugged at your friend before you answered him.

“That’s a beautiful name,” he smiled, making your cheeks feel hot. “I couldn't help but overhear your problem. I think I can help if you're serious.”

Your friend's eyes were as large as saucers, no doubt noticing just how hot he was. “Wait. Really?” You asked.

This gorgeous man heard everything you said and wanted to make your fantasy a reality?

Your heart fluttered when he smiled more. “Really.”

“You're fucking with her right?” Your friend scoffed. “You thought it'd be a funny joke to say that? That's pretty fucked up. You should mind your own business.”

His gaze flickered toward her. “And I think it's pretty fucked up that this beautiful gem is on the verge of tears because she's unhappy and you'd rather roll your eyes and brush off her feelings,” he said, directing his gaze back at you once he finished.

Both of you gasped, you from shock that he defended you and her from offense. “That. That's not what I did!” She argued.

“She’s just trying to keep my feet on the ground,” you said to keep the peace. There was no reason to make a scene.

He softly smiled. “Well, I'd like to pay for your meal, if you'll let me,” he said, flagging the server down before he leaned over to hand you a business card with a wink. There was no ring on his ring finger, which was a good sign. “And I really can help you with your problem. So, if you're interested, call me.”

You glanced at the card in your hand and ran your thumb along the name…

Whose name is it?

you didn't expect anything at first. he was cute, he was talkative, he was gentle. you liked his vulnerability, his openness, his judgement-free zone, his carefree and childlike attitude. he was super fucking dope!

you had sex a couple times and it blew your fucking mind. better than anyone you had ever been with. as you started to get to know him more and better than before, you started to fall in love with him. albeit, there were growing feelings anyway from his plans for his life and the way he talked to you as if you had known each other for years. the chemistry was truly unparalleled.

he was everything you asked and more.

after a while, you began to notice subtle changes. small, but noticeable enough. and for a while, you said nothing.

until one night, he said something that made you realize something absolutely startling. it had you on the edge of your mental seat. physically, you were calm. or you'd hoped you looked calm.

he noticed how uneasy you got even if you were damn near unreadable. the part of him that became apparent to you, the version of himself that he tried hard to bury had come through in subtle ways. he knew it scared you, but it was hard for him to hold that part of himself back. he knew that only one of two things would happen whether you left or not.

his insanity would get the best of him and you would accept it, or he would wake up and realize you were gone. as if you had never existed. but the residuals were there. a mark left that could never be removed.

he was obsessed with you. you gave him something no one has given him in a very long time; kindness, vulnerability, friendship, everything he asked and more. you weren't afraid of him in the beginning like most were before. some say they saw someone in him that scared them beyond return. some say it was just his energy. but he wasn't sure what you saw. maybe you were naive. or maybe you knew it but shoved the thoughts and feelings down because you were going through a drought and needed it bad.

but he knew deep down and so did the part of himself he hid: you were the perfect one for him.

he didn't know how long this would last. hell, he didn't even think it would last this long. but he knew he wanted it. he knew he couldn't let you leave him. he knew he couldn't stay away from you. he needed you in every possible way.

he often wondered in the wee hours of the night and the morning if you knew how good it felt to be needed. to be desired. he wondered if you felt the same deep desire for him. he knows it was rather soon, too soon perhaps, that he liked you from the beginning. he was infatuated, but that soon grew to something longer-lasting, something more serious. he had truly never been so compatible with someone before. there were too many similarities and even with other people he knew and was compatible with, knew them for longer too, just never could compare to what he felt with you.

he had been alone so long he just couldn't fathom someone like this existed. someone who was... a universe inside of a human body. alone so long he didn't even know how to act right around someone else. he wasn't a great texter, or phone person in general. he preferred to be in person. he wanted the physical intimacy without the sex that you provided, the safe space, the ability to say nonsensical things and still be appreciated and laughed with and cared for and... loved.

so you visited him again after that night. it was about two weeks later, barely texted or called him this time. he wondered why. if it was something he did, if it was... the energy. if you saw the part of him he didn't want anyone to see.

the switch was slow, where normally it is quick. like a light switching off. but he had been holding onto the spotlight for so damn long... he could feel it switching but it was too late to tell you not to come over. you had already sent your eta and when he checked... you were right around the corner. he didn't want you to waste your trip, but he didn't have enough time to tell you to go back home. he barely had enough time to form the coherent thought before he took over. it was too late. he could only watch from the darkness surrounding him. he clawed, and screamed, and fought and tried his hardest to take the spotlight back but over that period of time, those years he held back, he had been weakened slowly but surely. he lost this time, but he had everything to gain through this. he just didn't know yet.

and when you arrived, he opened the door for you as he normally would and greeted you. he took your jacket, your shoes, your bag and he placed it on the racks by the door for you.

he was taller, you noticed, maybe a posture thing. he had a certain aura around him that was different than the aura you were used to. but otherwise, nothing out of the ordinary.

you wondered if he had done something different somewhere somehow. but you couldn't place your finger on it. the apartment was the same as usual. his hair was the same as usual. his eyes were a little darker, but everything else was the same. except for the mischievous smile as you turned your back to him to sit on his sofa.

it was a two seater, a slightly larger love-seat across from you and you expected him to sit there as he normally did. he said he always sat across from you because he wanted you to feel comfortable and because you were so pretty he wanted to see you at all times.

it was charming at first. but now, you wonder if there was something else... something behind the real reason he sat so far away.

he sat next to you. you wondered if he was alright, he was so quiet, so... calculative, it seemed.

"how are you tonight? you haven't texted or called as much as you usually do. you seeing someone else already?"

it was shocking hearing that. you wondered if he was alright but you were a bit too startled to voice it. you took a moment to look into his eyes. he seemed very serious about it despite his next comment.

"just kidding. i know you have a life outside of hanging out with me. you thirsty?"

you smiled and nodded, "no, i brought water."

he smirked, "good. if you change your mind, i've got plenty of drinks."

"thanks... how are you?"

"i'm good. even better now that you're here."

his smile was genuine this time, nothing wild about it. it was beautiful as usual, somehow even sexier. like a grown man, not a random uni student with nice features. this had to be someone different entirely.

and as you sat and stared at him more while he filled you in further on his past couple weeks of not speaking to you often--which he greatly emphasized--you realized just how different he did look when you stared closely, observed, and heard some things. they weren't the usual comments, usual witty remarks and the occasional whimsy responses.

"yuji, are you sure you're alright?"

and the smile you watched grow from normal to really big to verging on deranged shook you to your core.

"not yuji."

the hand on your thigh grew tighter, threatening to break through the fabric of your stockings and tear through your skin. you weren't sure why or how it was possible, but the look he was giving you, the feeling of the pressure on your body --even in places untouched-- really turned you on. he looked positively fucked out...

"i... don't understand..."

"dissociative identity... you should know that, miss psych major. but perhaps you haven't been able to focus lately because you were so focused with this... idea of who we really are... not talking to us for weeks... being scarce... making our chest hurt... you should know better, princess. we don't take lightly to being ignored. under any circumstances."

your heart nearly beat out of your chest. you couldn't focus properly on anything for some reason. it was like he was putting you in a trance with his voice and touch alone. and it took you a moment to realize his hand slowly started running upward, pressing into your sensitive spots, never touching where you needed him most, just smooth, subtle back and forth very close and too far.

"oh."

a breathless response was all you could offer... and in turn, it was all he needed. he knew you wanted him even more after figuring this out. he knew you liked this "hurt little lamb with a side of wolf" idea of him. he knew exactly what you wanted, what you liked, and what you needed. he had plenty of time to learn you through the lenses of the child he shared a body with.

he just needed you pliant and willing, which you already were. he liked that, less effort for him to sway your mind.

because if princess treatment was what you wanted, he would serve it on a golden platter. he already knew you liked the other version of him enough, he knew you were ready for the switch even if you thought you weren't ready for the switch. but you would assimilate accordingly. right?

he would give you what you wanted and what you needed. he would pretend he needed saving so you could... heal him. he would be everything you needed him to be. and he would trap you with the baby he would help you raise. you were... breedable. he liked that a lot. he needed it.

his touches were needier, he grew closer, his lips whispering sweet promises of what was to come in your ear, kissing lightly up and down your neck, sucking on that sensitive little spot on your neck. pulled you closer so he could trail those kisses and bites down your shoulder.

he pulled that cute sweater off so he could see your beautiful body, he was gentle with a hint of aggression. he wanted you to feel comfortable yet desired fiercely. he needed to spear you. he needed to feel every part of you.

usually there was a condom readily available. but oh, so conveniently... "i ran out."

you were too turned on and turned out by him at this point to stop him. he was clean... and so were you... so there wasn't a problem. right?

he made quick work of your bra, licking your chest and making sure to leave those hickies you both loved so dearly. he made the sweetest love to your breasts. licking, sucking, kneading the other in one hand and switching between each nipple, each mound of flesh.

he loved your breathlessness, your soft moans, your fingers in his hair, the one rubbing up and down his arm to his back. the wet lips, the heavy breaths... and most of all those eyes... so fucked and barely touched... so sensitive...

he wanted to steal all of you from everyone you knew, everything you did daily, he wanted to have you all to himself every day in every kind of way.

he needed to see you from sun up to sun down.

he made quick work of your skirt and stockings, the pretty thong soaked in your nectar was a sight to behold. he took a mental screenshot, one he would recreate later... if you were willing.

he removed the thong, slowly being sucked between those beautiful lips with every growing second of your arousal. he made sure to pull from the center of the thing, pushing his finger between your lips purposely as he pulled the center back and tugged, leaving his finger soaked and your pussy wanting...

he lifted your legs as he pulled the thong down, but he liked the residue of your arousal nearby, so he left it wrapped around one thigh. entirely naked for him, open and ready and he barely touched you.

he wasn't sure if he wanted to eat you out, fuck you silly, or watch you do it all yourself and struggle to take all of him without his help...

he knew yuji liked doing all the work, pure princess treatment. but this time, he wanted to remove those privileges... punishment for his pretty princess this time...

which one?