#rika writes

Ilya brought a kitchen towel out with the plate of simple toast with butter. Shane hated eating on the couch, and was always griping at Ilya about spills and mess and blah blah blah. So, he laid the kitchen towel across Shane's lap under the plate to catch any crumbs. Then he planted a sloppy kiss to the top of his head and commanded, "Eat." 

Shane picked up a piece of toast, ever obedient. 

After making sure everything was in easy reach (tissues and water, TV remote, latest boring book) Ilya headed to the kitchen to start prepping his ingredients. 

He fell into the old routine of rinsing and chopping with ease - it always calmed him to cook. Sometimes a home recipe like this brought on a rush of confusing and overwhelming emotions - a touch of homesickness for something that didn't exist anymore, unease, anger...sorrow. 

But today, with the background noise of British Bake Off and Shane's quiet sniffles and throat clears, he felt at peace. Like maybe every time he made something like this for his boyfriend, the negative memories were gradually being replaced by something positive, the light pushing out the dark. 

Ilya heard the clink of the water glass being set back down, followed by the sound of Shane sneezing a couple of times, groaning softly, and blowing his nose. 

Ilya smiled, "Bud'zdorov!" “Thagks!” Shane called back.

Shane's sneezes were usually so controlled - tight, half-stifled things that didn't sound satisfying at all. He was always trying to go unnoticed, spread as few germs as possible and avoid any attention. So, of course, Ilya loudly blessed him if they happened to be in public. In private, he'd successfully berated his boyfriend out of the habit of strangling his sneezes around him - he was proud of that. Shane had been missing out on the satisfaction of simply letting a good sneeze fly. Ilya could tell that he got more relief that way...plus it still made him shy and embarrassed afterward, which was fucking cute. His sick sneezes were different - wetter and stronger, like they really took over his whole body. Like he couldn’t restrain them if he tried. And that was, somehow, pretty fucking cute, too. To be fair, he found pretty much everything Shane did to be basically adorable.

Including when Shane wandered over as Ilya was chopping potatoes - blanket wrapped around his shoulders and held in place with his left hand, tissue box in his right. He looked sleepy, all warm and fuzzy - his lids heavy and movements slow as he took a seat at the kitchen counter. He stopped Ilya before he could even try to scold, “I just d’needed to stad up for a bit, I was getti’g restless…besides, I wadt to see how you bmake this fambous Russiad soup.” He turned to cough lightly into his elbow and then settled in further, arranging the blanket more comfortably and leaning his elbows on the granite, “So, what step are you od? Ilya sighed. He just sounded so…stuffy and miserable. It was virtually impossible to say no to him. So, instead of insisting he go back to resting more comfortably on the couch, or even teasing him about the state of his voice, Ilya began explaining each part of the process, checking the recipe on his phone now and then to be sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. 

Shane was watching each step attentively, as if he were trying to file the information away for later use. He’d pulled a couple of tissues from the box and was wiping his nose every now and then, sometimes simply holding the clump of tissues there as if it took too much effort to pull them away. Ilya was adding the cabbage and sauerkraut to the broth when he glanced up to see a far away look in Shane’s eyes - he had a couple of tissues pressed to his face, and seemed to be trying to rub the sensation away, even as his breath faltered. “So- hihh- *hkm* what uhb, i’gredients did you say yooo-ihh? Sorry, say you could’t fihh - fide?” This was clearly a losing battle. Ilya just waited, brows raised. Shane gave in, spinning fully around on the kitchen stool, “Hh’MPSH'shhuh! HHih- NngsSSHh’ieww!!” The sneezes came back to back in a rush, so powerful as they jerked him forward that Shane almost tipped forward off the stool. Ilya dropped the ladle into the pot, alarmed, and reached up to steady him by both shoulders just in time. He continued to hold him there as Shane got his bearings and blew his nose. “Okay?” he asked, spinning his blushing boyfriend around to face him. Shane looked down, “Yeah” He cleared his throat, keeping the tissues to his face until he could swap them for a fresh bundle, “Sorry, I-” He gasped again, but this time Ilya was ready, leaving one hand on his shoulder in unspoken reassurance, and to keep him from spinning around again. “Ngk'zzsSHhewwh! Ghh - fuck, I- HiIH-!? HihH’zzSSHhieww!!” “My poor boyfriend,” Ilya said, knowing that the word always brought a smile to Shane’s face, “You’re like that dwarf from that story, the movie with the…what is it?” Shane gave into a waterlogged chuckle, despite himself, “S’dow White? Yeah, uh *hkm* Sdeezy, right? Sorry, I just cad’t seeb to…” his gaze went hazy again, and he shook his head before dipping down with a softer, almost subdued, “Hh’chsSH’iew!” He cleared his throat, cheeks flushing under his freckles, “umb, stop.” Shane looked like he might start apologizing again, so Ilya cut him off with a Russian blessing, the more formal, reverent version this time, and passed him more tissues. Shane kept his gaze averted, gently blowing his nose. That seemed to quell the fit at last. Ilya could sense Shane’s discomfort at the growing pile of tissues he kept tucking away in his lap, so he stooped to reach for the trashcan, holding it out casually as he stirred the soup and began adding the chicken. Shane smiled gratefully, tossing his trash into the offered bin. He settled back into his seat to watch the soup simmer and bubble, the house slowly filling with the rich smell. Not that he could actually smell, not fully. But, there was a hint getting through after that last noseblow, at least. Ilya gave the soup one more stir before turning the stove to low and placing the lid on top, “It has to um…simmer for about half an hour. Let’s go back to the couch.” “Okay…” Shane stood, grabbing the tissue box as Ilya tugged a falling corner of blanket back up for him, “NHL rembatch to pass the timbe?” Ilya cocked a brow, “You feeling up to it?” When Shane nodded, he smirked,unable to resist “Are you sure? I’d feel bad destroying you like this - you know, in your weakened state.”

Shane pretended to be offended, but he was a breath away from a laugh “You wish!” Ilya fought the urge to race him to the controllers, instead getting them comfy and cozy and refilling Shane’s water before mock-cannonballing onto the couch, making Shane laugh again. For once he wasn’t annoyed when he was reminded, once again, that he actually really sucked at stupid video game made-up hockey. He gained a small lead once when Shane had to turn away to sneeze (“Rozanov! Not fair!!”) but it never stuck. He had happily lost to his boyfriend twice when the kitchen timer buzzed. Shane insisted on helping Ilya ladle out the bowls of soup, carrying one back to his nest of blankets on the couch. Ilya grabbed the remote on his way, starting up Great British Bake Off where Shane had left off. Shane smiled fondly at him, “We don’t have to watch this, you can put something else on.” But Ilya just shook his head, getting comfy hip to hip with Shane and reaching for his spoon, “No, I want to see who will win - the woman with the 10 cats or scary mustache man.” “Oh, so you’ve completely ruled out the divorced gym teacher??” Ilya scoffed, “Please. He has no chance, you know this.” They lapsed into a comfortable silence, eating their soup and watching the show. Even though Shane was sure Ilya had been kidding, he was watching attentively, and gave him a cocky look when the gym teacher did, in fact, get eliminated. “This is really good, Ilya, by the way.” Ilya looked up, almost shyly, “You think so?” “Definditely. I bead, I cad’t eved taste that well right dow add it’s still delicious.” 

Ilya practically glowed from the praise - it made Shane’s heart ache with love. “I can’t believe this is the first time I’ve made it for you.” “Right? I guess we’ve…dever had the timbe while I’ve beed sick.” “Yeah…” Suddenly their soup bowls had been set aside and Ilya was gently repositioning Shane beneath him on the couch, laying him on his back before allowing some of his weight to press down as he kissed him - letting the overwhelming tenderness he was suddenly brimming with flow through his every touch. Shane sighed beneath him, pushing his hands up and into Ilya’s hair with a slight tug. They lost themselves in each other for a while, moving languidly together without their typical frenzied sense of urgency - content with gentle kisses, slow caresses, and murmured words. Eventually, Shane’s breath caught and he turned away, this time to cough into his elbow - the sound was deeper now, and it took him a moment to stop. Ilya pulled back to sit up, reaching for the water glass on the coffee table with a sympathetic hum, “Moya lyubov, it sounds like it is going to your chest.” Shane cleared his throat, taking the glass gratefully. “Sor-” His apology was cut short by Ilya’s exaggerated glare. “Thagks,” he said instead. They finished their soup then, and Ilya quickly deposited both bowls in the dishwasher. He knew Shane wouldn’t relax if he left them out, even exhausted and distracted as he was. When he returned to his spot on the couch, he pulled Shane down to lay his head on his lap, where he closed his eyes and sighed. Ilya ruffled his hair affectionately, “Take a nap, Hollander.” “But…it’s the middle of the…day,” Shane said, already drifting. Ilya just smiled, running his hands through Shane’s hair as his breath evened out into soft snores, letting the last episode of the British Bake Off show play on. …The cat lady won. Of course.

* * *

6:30 PM: Ilya: Hi Yuna I’m sorry to bother you. Do you have a thermometer I could borrow? 

Yuna: Of course! Are you sick, honey? 

Ilya: No, I am fine. 

Yuna: Ilya…does that mean what I think it does?

Ilya: ?

Yuna: Is Shane there? 

.

.

.

Ilya: Yes         But I made him come, please don’t be mad at him.

Yuna: Are you at least being careful and keeping your distance? 

Ilya: If I said yes would you believe me? Yuna: No…probably not. 

.

.

.

          I’ll be there in half an hour. * * *

Shane slept restlessly, in fits and starts - he wasn’t clear on exactly where reality ended and his dreams began. He had vague memories of a pillow being slid under his head, sweating and kicking the blankets off one moment and shivering the next - someone pulling the blankets back up to his chin. At some point, he dreamt he heard his mother’s quiet, concerned voice, the front door opening and closing in the background. Then his dreams shifted again. When he awoke later, from a dream where a demented version of his junior league mascot showed up on the ice at an olympic game, he had no sense of how much time had passed, only that it was even darker in the room…and that his head was pounding. He fought a wave of panic as he freed his arms from the tangle of blankets and moved to sit up. Why was he so clammy? What time was it? Was Ilya still here or had he left? He hadn’t gone to practice already had he? No, that made no sense - he couldn’t have slept through the whole night…could he? He opened his mouth to call out into the quiet house, but his breath caught on the inhale and suddenly his lungs were seizing, his chest heaving. He brought the blanket up belatedly and shook his head, disgusted. The coughs were much more productive now, crackling with phlegm. He tried to slow down his breathing, to get a break so he could find the tissue box, which had to be around here somewhere…but he just couldn’t stop. Accepting defeat, he squeezed his eyes shut and gave himself over fully to the fit. But then there was a warm hand rubbing soothing circles on his back, and a bundle of tissues being pressed into his free hand. Ilya murmured soft encouragement as Shane exchanged the blankets for tissues. In his fuzzy state, Shane wasn’t even sure if the words were in English or Russian, but either way the meaning was clear, “Breathe. You’re ok. I’m here.” Finally, the fit passed. Shane spit into the tissues, too exhausted and relieved in the moment to be embarrassed. He was cold again, chills running up and down his spine. “What tibe is it?” he croaked. Ilya tsked, “Only 8, don’t worry - we’re fine. You sound terrible, moya lyubov.” Ilya’s brows were furrowed with worry as he cupped Shane’s face in one hand. Shane wanted to reach up and smooth the lines there, to tell him it was okay, he was fine. But, the truth was, he felt miserable - achy and shaky and SO tired. Plus…it hurt to talk. Instead he just let Ilya take him fully into his arms, his cheek resting just above Ilya’s collar bone, his eyes drifting shut. They stayed there for several moments, rocking ever so slightly, ever so slowly, until Shane felt a twinge deep in his sinuses and tried to pull back. But Ilya squeezed him tighter, placing a kiss to the top of his head. So Shane just tucked his face down, freeing one arm so he could cup a sleeve-covered hand over his nose and mouth. “hh’tchshh! Hh’dTSHh-euhh!” The pair of sneezes were small, but heavy and laden with exhaustion. Ilya blessed him, pulling back to brush some sweaty hair off his forehead, “Hang on.” Shane gave a little whine as his boyfriend pulled away, not caring how pathetic he sounded - he wanted to shrink down to a tiny size and crawl into Ilya’s shirt, fall asleep there curled up against his chest for the foreseeable future…maybe forever. “Shane? Shane.” Wait, when had he closed his eyes again? Ilya was crouched in front of him, holding a thermometer and gently tipping Shane’s chin up. Despite himself, Shane felt a hot rush of lust at the familiar gesture - he opened his mouth immediately and Ilya guided the thermometer under his tongue. Shane sighed, leaning his temple against Ilya’s shoulder, trying to keep his eyes open. * beep beep beep *

Shane fumbled for the thermometer, redirected Ilya’s hand so he could see the number on the tiny screen: 38.9 Ilya inhaled sharply, cursed under his breath, and then seemed to rally, “Ok. More medicine, then shower, then bed.” He reached over to the coffee table, into a shopping bag that Shane hadn’t noticed before, (Had that been there since the afternoon? He didn’t think so.) and pulled out an unopened bottle of theraflu. “Wait,” Shane rasped, “where did you get that?” But Ilya just shh’d him, pouring out a full dose of the dark liquid, following it quickly with a cool glass of water. The rest of the night passed in a blur - shivering in the shower while Ilya held him close and apologized quietly in his ear for the lukewarm temperature of the water, sounding almost pained - Ilya helping him to towel off afterward, bringing him soft and comfy clothes to sleep in - being tucked into the bed and feeling a cool cloth laid on his forehead - gentle hands stroking his back and carding through his hair. Then…nothing.

* * * He woke again a few hours later, appalled to find himself drenched in sweat, the comforter bunched down around his feet and the sheets beneath him damp. He was relieved to find that, other than the sensory nightmare of the sweaty clothes and bedsheets, he felt better. Still a little weak, completely stuffed up and slightly achy, but no longer shaking with chills, his headache reduced to a dull ache. Ilya was asleep beside him, fully clothed and on top of the covers, sitting up against the headboard as if he’d just paused to rest for a moment. Shane hated to wake him, but his head was lolling at an angle that was sure to leave him with a stiff and aching neck if he stayed like that much longer. Plus, he really could NOT stay in this bed for one more minute with these sweaty sheets. Ilya came awake at Shane’s touch with a start, clearing his throat and scrubbing a hand over his face as he rolled his head to stretch his neck, “What’s wrong?” he mumbled, groggy, then shook his head to clear it, eyes focusing on Shane, “Are you ok? Is your fever worse??” Shane, more lucid now than he’d been in hours, felt a sudden jolt of guilt seize him - Ilya was obviously tired, and so worried for him. He had to get on a plane this evening. He should be getting rest before his next round of games, not fretting over his fully grown boyfriend, who should be capable of taking care of himself. Shane swallowed, sniffled some of the congestion back, as if it did any good, “Ndo, ndo, I uh…I thig’k it broke actually. I’mb sorry,” he blushed, “I’mb so gross. Add the bed…” He found himself unable to describe his sensory discomfort in detail, “I just ndeed to chadge the sheets, get clea’d up a bit.” Ilya was still trying to wake up, his mind slow to translate Shane’s muddled, stuffy words, “Wait- it what?” Oh. Right. Ilya might never have heard that word used in this context, “Sorry, I mead - I thig’k it’s better. It just mbade mbe sweat a lot, so…do you have ad extra set of sheets?” He looked down at his hands where they rested, feeling thoroughly ashamed, “If you just tell mbe where they are, I’ll go get theb add-”

“Shane,” Ilya’s voice was steady and soothing now as he cupped Shane’s cheek, fingers moving up into his dark hair and thumb rubbing ever so lightly back and forth over his freckles, “Go shower.”

“But-”  “Ah-ah - I have extra sheets, will take me 5 minutes to change them. Go rinse off and I will be done by the time you come back.

And he was right. Shane had showered slowly, unable to resist a full lather, loitering as the steam helped to loosen some of the junk in his sinuses and chest. Once he was out and towel dried, he was able to blow his nose to the point of some relief, finally. He could ALMOST breath through it now, though he knew it wouldn’t last.

The bed was made up, comforter pulled back a bit so he could slide right in. Ilya was finally getting ready for bed, changing out of the clothes he’d worn all day. He stopped by to give Shane a lingering kiss on his forehead (clearly gauging his temp) on his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Shane meant to stay awake until Ilya came back, but the relief from the hot shower, his body’s fatigue after fighting the fever, the comfort of the fresh clean sheets - it was all too much. He fell into a deep sleep moments after his head hit the pillow.

you, on the other hand, did not care one bit. it was starting to annoy you. he was fidgeting with his ID, the sound of his keychain hitting the frame making an irritating sound. why did you have to be seated beside him? his only redeeming quality is his intelligence. people only talked to him if they needed help with academics.

although yoru was smart, he knew no one would pick him. he was a loser, after all. people found him unapproachable and awkward. he had weird, messy, black hair, a lot of ear piercings, and his outfits were just.. weird.

as you looked to the side, you noticed the poor boy beside you, still feeling anxious. it was baffling how someone could be this stressed over pairings. yoru watched as people were picking partners while he was sitting there in silence.

he was scared—not only on behalf of his dignity, but his academics too. if no one chose him, how would he do the project? if no one chose him, how will his grades be—

“yoru, do you wanna partner up?” you asked him.

that sentence made him shiver a bit from the unexpectedness. you? out of all people? were asking to be partners with someone like him? oh, he'd just consider you his savior.

he turned to face you but quickly looked down out of shame. he almost forgot how to speak a coherent sentence when he looked in the same direction as you. you were just wondering if he knew how stupid he looked. his hair was basically covering his eyes as he was looking at the floor. “uh. . yoru?”

“ 'm sorry! yes, i would gladly appreciate if you were partners with me. in fact, i'm so grateful you gave me this oppurtunity to—”

you interrupted him. why does he only have 2 sides. . ? not talking at all or talking too much. you wished yourself goodluck as you realized what you got yourself into. your hands ran through his hair and you pat his head. “yeah, yeah, whatever. let's meet at my place to start it.”

oh, his face was red. he's never had anyone touch him like that before. he nodded at your remark and mumbled a little “thank you.”

people, including your friends, looked at you weirdly after finding out you decided to pair with yoru.

you and your friends were eating at a cafe for lunch. they decided to bring up the topic. “did you feel bad for, you know. . yoru?” one of them giggled. “or are you just planning to use him? you know, good idea. he knows you're a hot shot right? maybe you can—”

“yeah, i did feel bad. what's your deal? just shut up and eat.” you said while stirring your drink. it wasn't that big of a deal, actually. and why would you use him? yoru seemed like a nice guy despite your earlier impressions. he did weird you out in a way, but you didn't wanna embarrass him in front of your friends.

your drink was half finished. you wanted to order another one but you saw a familiar face outside the café. it was yoru, waiting for you outside nervously.

6pm. you were walking with yoru outside the campus to your place. on the way out, yoru was slightly annoyed on how much people were interrupting your walk. multiple people would greet you which causes you to start small talk and waste time. did you not understand how serious a research assignment was? you didn't get him at all! he wanted to complain, but he had no room to. he was nothing compared to you.

“you going to the party tomorrow?” an acquaintance of yours asked.

“i'll see. got a research to do and, well.” you gestured at yoru and giggled, hoping she would get the memo. you were kinda chained to this responsibility of finishing the project as soon as possible. yoru would probably want the project finished in a few days. he was that type of person. i mean, it was your fault for picking an academically attached loser.

after a few minutes of walking in silence, you two finally reached your place.

“place your laptop wherever.” yoru was looking around awkwardly. your place was nice for sure. . he felt a bit scared to sit down anywhere as he might ruin something and get you upset. no, no. anything but that. .

he sat on your couch and you followed suit. you were so close to him. yoru was tensing up. you two were usually seated beside each other during lectures, but this felt different. it felt. . strangely intimate. the two of you were alone, at night. anything could happen.

the two of you got to researching. it was too awkward. the silence was loud. you decided to play some music to “lighten up the mood” a bit and clear up the air.

it's been an hour, and you looked to the side. yoru was focused. he was typing quickly. his hands swiftly moved the mouse from one tab to another. while looking at his hands, your eyes locked onto the multiple golden rings on them. his hands were pretty long and veiny too.

the silence was getting to you. you decided to ask him to check your progress so far.

he flinched. it's been a while since the both of you said anything so he was quite surprised. “huh? okay.” he checked the google docs where the both of you started your draft on.

he had a. . confused expression while reading your part of the essay. the boy looked almost disappointed. he let out a sigh.

“oh.. well, it's not that bad..” he was trying so hard to be nice. to be fair, your work wasn't that bad. his standards were just high. he got back to work a bit drained as now, he had to fix your work too.

your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you struggled to read his expression. why did he look so down? you did your work anyways. “what's up with it? is there something wrong?”

he cleared his throat, “your grammar in these parts are wrong, you spelt this wrong, you didn't cite your sources properly—” he continued talking for what felt like an hour. he just had so much to say, didn't he?

he was typing quickly, fixing all your errors. his fingers didn't catch a break.

it was somewhat pissing you off how much he was correcting your work when it was completely unnecessary. he could've just let you fix it, now he's stressed out. yoru ruffled his hair and let out a groan under his breath, hoping you didn't hear him.

you just wanted to help, but he's so stressed he won't even listen to your suggestions.

you, being the worst comforter there is possible, decided to tap his shoulder. “yoru, you need to calm down a bit.”

the poor boy turned to face you. his eyebrows were furrowed and he just looked so sad. you wanted to kiss him so bad, but that's not the time for that stuff. instead, you buried him in between your breasts. okay, maybe that was a worse option, but it was just an innocent hug.

yoru leaned into the hug, oblivious to the hard-on you were starting to feel against your leg. he nuzzled his cheek against the top part of your breast. it was comfy—warm and soft. it was comforting in contrast to the stress of academics he was experiencing.

“t-thank you, again.” his voice was muffled as he said that due to him being pressed up against you.

you've done this multiple times, with different boys, but why, why does it feel so different this time around? your heart fluttered and it never did for anyone before.

yoru, on the other hand, was also having the time of his life. it was showing. his cheeks were red and he refused to show his face to you. he was starting to feel his pants tighten as he grew self aware of his erection.

“how about this? i'll give you a massage so you can take a small break.” you suggested. you both felt the growing sexual tension between you two—it was getting hard to ignore.

yoru nodded. he didn't know how else to react. how was he supposed to react when a popular girl basically smothered him in her tits and now is offering him a massage? he was winning in life. this was coming from a guy with no pull at all!

as soon as you got the go signal from him, you got on your knees. your fingers were above his zipper when he stopped you and grabbed your hand. “no, no, wait! i-i'm—” he was expecting an actual massage from you, not this. “i'm not experienced when it comes to this stuff! i-i've jerked off before but, i've never done the actual thing. i'm sorry if i don't satisfy yo—” here he goes again with the endless yapping.

that was even better for you. “dont be silly, yoru. i don't care.”

you looked so, so hot from yoru's point of view. his cock was starting to hurt from how hard he was. he unzipped his pants for you in order not to be an inconvenience. this exposed his hard, pulsating cock. his cock was long and thick, and i mean thick. it left you wondering how you'll be able to fit that in your mouth at all. .

the mushroom shaped head glistened with precum, the white fluid drooling from the slit. it was twitching with every touch of your finger. even a slight budge made him shiver, how cute.

“ungh— please don't tease me..” yoru pleaded. he couldn't contain his whines and whimpers that much. you were barely even touching him, but he was so hard it made him so sensitive. he was loud—you hoped none of your neighbors were hearing his moans.

he let out a strangled moan as you tried to stuff his cock in your mouth. his hips bucked involuntarily, pushing himself deeper into your throat. the sensation of your tongue swirling around the sensitive head was almost too much to bear.

yoru was gripping the couch as he fought the urge to control your movements. he was scared he'd hurt you if he got a hold of your hair, but oh, how he wanted his entire cock in your mouth. his other hand shakily tried to cover his mouth. “fuck.. please. please please—” poor boy was scared of being “rough.”

he felt you gag on his cock which just made his hips buck once again. he was trying his best to control himself, really. yoru held your hair as gently as he could as he tried pulling his cock out of your mouth to see if you were okay. he thought you were genuinely struggling.

“y-you don't need to force yourself to take it all.” he tried to reach out to you but you kept going. your hands started stroking him. each stroke made him grow closer and closer to cumming.

as you sped up your hands and licked his tip, you felt the familiar warm liquid spilling in your throat. yoru's eyes were filling up with tears as the sensation was too much for the poor boy to handle.

“such'a good boy. my baby boy.” you kissed his tip. you weren't done with him though.

you pulled your top down enough to reveal your tits. his favorite ever.

“oh, this is..” the sight of your breasts made him grow harder. your hard nipples practically begging to be sucked made him drool. he was in a daze.

he grabbed your tits and fondled them. your right nipple was being sucked, as the other one was being played with. yoru just refused to pull away from them.

he bit down on your breast, leaving a mark. “yoru baby.. umph.” your hand pushed him deeper in between them. you felt warm liquid spilling down your thighs. he was.. cumming, again.

he was too busy being a baby as he sucked and licked on your breasts. “mmf.. mmh. they're so soft.” his voice was muffled as he moaned. “they're so warm and soft, i wish i could be here forever.” you stroked his hair.

it was about time. you got on your knees once more and this time snuggled his cock in between your tits. it was so warm, it almost felt like a pussy. it was close enough.

yoru groaned as you wrapped your soft breasts around his throbbing cock, the sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced before. the warmth of your flesh enveloped him and it has him over the edge.

“unghmf! it feels so good! shit— it's so warm!” he whined. his head fell back and his eyes squeezed shut. yoru imagined it was your pussy instead, as he tried to thrust up and down your tits.

he was getting close again. it didn't take long for him to cum all over your tits.

“that was quick. .” the sticky white substance covered your tits. yoru was still trying to recover from his high, but you got on his lap. before you could do anything, he interrupted you.

“no, no. not yet! no penetration yet. . we still have work to do.” yoru buried his face in your cum covered tits. “i'll be fine with just sucking on your tits while working.” he was so red again. his horniness made him bolder than he usually was, which totally made you forget how shy he was.

“if you don't wanna fuck, that's totally fine with me.” you said.

yoru immediately protested. “no! you got it all wrong. i do wanna have sex with you— i-i wanna be inside of you but.. we have something more important to do.”

yoru felt less stressed now. tits in his mouth, a hot popular girl as his partner, and a half finished essay. what more could he ask for?

- Your sister scowls at you. “Um, trying to find books for a research paper?” She turns her attention back to Douxie, leaning on the counter. “We were told we can’t use books from our school’s library. Think you can help me?” She bats her eyelashes and drums her fingers against the counter, her long fake nails clacking on the surface.

- “Sure, of course,” Douxie says, smiling. You swallow, actually wishing for once that Douxie wasn’t such a sweetheart.

- “(Name)?” Douxie says when you suddenly gather your things and head for the door. 

- “Sorry, Douxie, I’m...” Your sister glares at you, leaning and waiting against the bookshelves you’ve been associating with warmth and comfort and belonging. “I’m not feeling great all of a sudden. I’ll see you later.”

- Douxie frowns, stepping towards you. “(Name) -” But you’re already out the door.

- “Forget her,” your sister sighs, touching Douxie’s arm. “She has these moments or whatever. She’ll be fine. So....books?”

- “Um...Yes, right. We have some interesting volumes over here...” Douxie makes a note to text you later.

- The feeling of absolutely not being fine at all burns deeper and deeper, under your skin and into your bones, no matter how many times you say the opposite. Your sister’s been making it a point to pay Douxie a visit everyday for the past week. And not just at the bookstore. Now’s she’s infiltrated Benoit’s, always asking for Douxie to be her server.

- She keeps touching Douxie’s arms and shoulders. Stop touching him.

- Your sister’s so pretty and you’ve always known it and seen it and she makes sure Douxie notices. No...Not you, too. Don’t look at her. Please look at me.

- “Oh my gosh, I love cats, too!” She’s such a liar.

- “Can I hear you play sometime? Sing a song for me?” No, no, no. Anything but that.

- You look at yourself in the mirror. You don’t know who or what you’re looking at. Who does Douxie see? What does Douxie see? And does he deserve it? Is it good enough for someone so beautiful and amazing as him?

- She’s everything you’re not. She’ll win. She’ll take it all like she always has.

- It doesn’t go unnoticed, how troubled and distressed you are. How your eyes go downcast as soon as your sister approaches Douxie. The stiffness of your smiles. The passive mean-spirited comments your sister makes about you. No, Douxie doesn’t miss any of it.

- “Hi Douxie!” Douxie’s heart jumps into his throat when a weight crashes down into his lap. He staggers where he sits. Your sister’s thrown herself at him, giggling and linking her fingers around the back of his neck. Her calves hang off the armrest of the couch, her legs swinging. “Wanna help me look for books again today?”

- You’re not even fully in the door when you see it. You don’t hear Douxie ask what on earth your sister is doing. You don’t register him actually trying to squirm out from under her. No, you just see your sister all over the boy you’re pretty sure you’ve fallen in love with. The boy you so desperately don’t want to lose.

- She’s trying to land a kiss on his cheek and the next thing you know, you’re storming up to the couch, visibly shaking. 

- “Get off of him,” you seethe.

- Your sister gives you an incredulous look. “Um, excuse me?”

- “I said get off of him!” You’re on the brink of screaming. “Can’t you see he’s uncomfortable?”

- Douxie’s resolutely standing up from the couch, forcing your sister off of his lap. He goes to your side, feeling flustered and annoyed like he has all week with this girl.

- “Oh my gosh, lighten up,” your sister sneers. “I was just having fun. Right, Doux?” Her seductive smile evaporates when Douxie backs away from her touch.

- “Look, I’m glad I could help you,” Douxie says to your sister, genuine but dry. “But I think we’re done here, love.”

- She scoffs, crossing her arms. “What do you mean done?”

- “You’re smart. I’m sure you can figure it out.” Douxie’s glowering at her, meeting her gaze evenly. You don’t realize it, but he’s put himself between you and your sister. A protective shadow.

- Eventually your sister breathes out a mirthless laugh, rolls her eyes, and pushes past Douxie. Before she leaves, she takes one last glance at the two of you and her face utterly sours with disgust.

- “Whatever. I’m over this. Clearly neither of you have good taste.” With that, she stomps out the door.

- You put your fists over your eyes and walk away from Douxie, suddenly overcome with shame. Douxie doesn’t hesitate to go after you, gently turning you to face him.

- “(Name), what is it?” he asks, hoping that you’ll look at him. You’re so upset and he just doesn’t like it at all. “Don’t listen to her. You’re-”

- “I’m a possessive jerk,” you say, voice strained as you feel the tears coming. “I’m sorry....I just...You’re just....I didn’t want her to take you away from me...”

- “Take...me away?” Douxie repeats. “Please look at me, (Name).” His large hands encircle your wrists, tugging gently. “I don’t....” Then he understands. He smiles softly. “No one’s taking me anywhere.”

- “Over and over and over...It’s always been the same,” you say, unable to hide your tears when Douxie manages to tug your hands away. “You were the only thing she never touched and now...”

- “(Name). Look at me.” And you do, overwhelmed by the tenderness in Douxie’s golden eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.” His hands slide up from your wrists and now he’s loosely holding your hands. “I didn’t go with her. I’m here. With you. Where...” Douxie feels a strange sensation in his chest, a warm swell. “Where I want to be.”

- You hug him, pressing into his chest. Douxie hugs you back, resting his cheek against the top of your head. He reassures you for the next several moments, holding you close.

- “You...want to be with me?”

- “Of course.”

- “You like being my friend?”

- “I most certainly do.”

- “You don’t hate me?”

- “Never.”

- “...I’m...not invisible, right?”

- You feel his arms tighten around you. “Not at all.”

- You feel your tears dampen Douxie’s collarbone, and a dam break loose inside of you like liquid fire, overpowering you because Douxie sees you. Douxie, the boy you love, sees you. And chose you over her. The relief is virtually unbearable.

- Cradling you in his arms, Douxie can only wonder how anyone could overlook you, so lovely and pure.

- “You’re mine...” It’s a feeble utterance, just barely above a whisper, not meant to be heard. But it is.

- And Douxie finds that he doesn’t disagree. 

- He presses his mouth into your hair, murmuring despite himself.

Sometime in the early morning, Shane felt lips pressed gently to his forehead and fought to open his eyes. “You’re leaving already?” he croaked, Ilya’s face coming into focus slowly inches away from his own. “Da. Conditioning at 7, practice at 9.” “Boooo,” Shane whined, his eyes already closing. Ilya chuckled, the sound soft and low in his chest, “I’ll be back this afternoon. Go back to sleep.” And Shane was already fading. * * * Shane reached over to the nightstand to flip his phone up to check the time - 10:00AM He bolted upright, panic seizing him immediately, making his chest tight. He’d missed practice, he hadn’t gone for his morning run, he was letting the team down - wait…. Reality came back in slow and steady drips. That’s right - his season was over, he wasn’t home or on the road, but at Ilya’s place in Ottawa. As the adrenaline faded gradually from his system, his body reminded him exactly WHY he’d slept in until this unheard-of hour. He swallowed experimentally, tried to sniffle, and winced. The ache in his throat was sharper than ever, and his sinuses were packed tight, forcing him to breathe through his mouth…which he’d probably been doing all damn night. On top of all this wonderfulness, the pressure that had been building last night had settled firmly into a heavy headache. He grimaced and stumbled out of bed long enough to pull the curtains shut on the sunlight pouring in through the large bedroom windows. And then, he replayed scenes from last night on repeat, thinking of Ilya at practice, the little viruses Shane had gifted him slooowly multiplying even now. Try as he might to push the thoughts away, they remained - compulsive, intrusive reprimands on a loop in his mind. Shane groaned, rubbing his hands over his face and leaving them there for a moment, miserable with guilt and shame. His wallowing was cut short by a sharp twinge in the very back of his nose. He gasped, eyes already closing, trying to feel for the tissues on the nightstand beside him, then panicking and pulling his crew neck over his nose and mouth to cover the sudden (and very wet) sneeze, “hiHH—ntsSHH’iehww!!” This time, his groan was a mix of frustration and disgust as he scooted back toward the headboard, twisting to grab the entire box of tissues and wrench a few free. As soon as they touched his nose, he gasped again, “-IiSCHHH’iheww! Hihh? HhiHSSCHh’iehw!!” Shane blew his nose before he could hitch into another one, the sound thick and gurgling and ugh…gross. He did it twice in a row, but a second after he’d gathered the clump of kleenex and threw them away, he was already sniffling again.

This was ridiculous. Standing there in the dark room, his skin felt clammy - he was cold and he could feel the damp patch on his shirt from where he’d sneezed into it. He felt, to put it plainly, disgusting. With a growl of frustration - at his team for infecting him, at the world for its horrible timing, and most of all himself for not possessing even an ounce of will power - he ripped the shirt over his head and headed toward the bathroom for a hot shower. * * *

Ilya, gym towel slung low around his hips, frowned as he reached his locker and checked his phone for the fourth time since practice had ended. He’d texted Shane on his short break between conditioning and team practice, and then again after practice and before his shower. 8:45am: Do you think I could convince some doctor to write a note to excuse me from cardio? Because I already have that covered with all the fucking, da? 😉 12:45pm: Hollander, we are doomed. This team sucks. Is a miracle we made it this far. 1:00pm: How do you feel?   Did you take more medicine?   I left the daytime one out on the counter in the kitchen. He still hadn’t gotten an answer. It wasn’t like Shane to leave him ‘at read’ …or however that saying went - at least not intentionally. Every once in a while, Shane got hyperfocused on something - his workout, studying other players during their games, replaying his own mistakes from the day’s game. But…he shouldn’t be doing any of those things today. Ilya swallowed the small knot of worry in his throat and shook some remaining water from his hair. Every time he let himself start worrying about Shane, no matter how small the initial nugget of concern was, he ended up replaying the sight from years ago - Shane crumpling to the ice, his body going completely still. Ilya squeezed his eyes shut, pulling the towel from his waist to rub roughly at his hair, trying to banish the image. It almost worked. This was stupid. Shane Hollander was one of the best hockey players in the world. It was just a little cold. Of course he was fine. Ilya dressed quickly, putting his foot in the wrong shoe once before successfully finishing the job. He threw his towel in the general direction of the hamper in the corner, and then walked (quickly, efficiently, it definitely wasn’t basically a jog) to his car.  * * *

The house was quiet when Ilya slipped in 20 minutes later, some show droning on at a volume that prompted him to close the door carefully behind him. Almost all of the lights were off, the curtains drawn. He found Shane in the living room, Great British Bake Off playing on the tv, the unfamiliar sound of soft snoring underneath it. Shane was laying on the couch, his head resting on a pillow from the bed, mouth open and glasses askew on his slightly flushed face, all tucked up tight in multiple blankets like a burrito. Stupid fucking cute - honestly, almost offensively so. Ilya felt a grin split his face. He took out his phone to snap a picture before kneeling in front of the couch to carefully remove Shane’s glasses, setting them on the coffee table next to an empty glass and the rapidly depleting tissue box. He took the glass to the kitchen to refill it with water, pleased to find that the daytime medicine had been opened, the little cup resting, rinsed and face down of course, on a paper towel next to the sink. He snagged the meds on his way back along with the water and brought them back to the coffee table, then tried and failed to resist leaning down to place a soft kiss to Shane’s temple…was he warm? Definitely a bit, but was that just from being wrapped up in this ridiculous way, like a baby in one of those…what was the word?

Ilya was snapped out of his search for the English word as Shane shifted beneath him, his face (and freckles) scrunching up adorably, still very much half asleep. His brow furrowed and he looked…pained? Concerned? Oh…no he was just -

“Hihh-”

Shane hitched in his sleep, then his eyes fluttered open and he fumbled to free one hand to scrub at his nose, and ended up just bringing multiple layers of blanket up over his head, “Hehh-?…Hhihh-AatZZSSsh’iheww!!”

The sneeze was sleepy and loose and decidedly very UN-Shane, so much so that Ilya let out a surprised (slightly delighted) laugh, “God BLESS you! You are sounding like me.”

Shane froze, apparently coming fully awake and realizing what he’d just done. He groaned, still fully hidden beneath the blankets. He sniffled, mortified to find that he was definitely going to sneeze again. He wiggled to loosen the blankets a bit more, but stayed hidden, and clapped both hands over his face, “NnGTt-SSchh’ew! Hhih-nGXT’shhuh!” The failed stifle petered out on a shaky exhale as a burst of pain flared through his sinuses. Shane felt his ears burning.

Ilya whined, “Nooo, Hollander, do not do that.” He tsked, “Your head will explode and then who will I gloat to when I win the Stanley??”

Shane just shifted in his tunnel of blankets to face the back of the couch, hands still firmly planted over his face.

Ilya poked him, pleased when he got his ass on the first try, “Helloo? Is my boyfriend there or am I dating giant, sneezing blanket burrito now?”

Shane tried to shove Ilya’s groping finger away (with the same ass that was being prodded) as his breath scissored. He really couldn’t stifle again, “Hihh-? IiHzZSSChh’HIHEWww!!”

“Much better!” Ilya declared, taking pity on Shane and grabbing a generous pile of tissues and pushing them through the gap in the top of the blankets.

Shane snatched them and brought them needily to his face to clean up the considerable damage, muttering something that sounded like “such an asshole” before blowing his nose. He tried to will his blush to fuck off, but the sound was just so sick and pathetic that he couldn’t help it.

“Bud'zdorov”

Ilya’s voice had gone tender and low. Shane wriggled out from beneath his blankets to see him sitting on the ground in front of him, all traces of humor gone. But when he tried to lean in for a kiss, Shane yelped and pulled the blankets up to stop him. Which was stupid, because how many times had he sneezed into the damn things…oh, yeah and how many times had they ALREADY kissed less than 24 hours ago?? Shane huffed, furious with himself all over again.

Ilya gently pulled the blankets away and cupped his face with one hand, “Hey.”

Shane kept his eyes shut.

“Look at me.”

And Shane did. The habit of obeying, especially when Ilya’s voice sounded like that, was just too strong.

“It will be ok,” Ilya leaned forward to press his lips to Shane’s forehead, and left them there for a moment before pulling away to search his eyes for…something, “How do you feel? You didn’t answer my messages.”

Shane looked around him for a second before realizing, “Crap! I left mby phonde ind the other roomb, chargi’g, I did’t evend thingk about it.”

‘I was…” Ilya trails off, and while he doesn’t blush exactly, he does look away for a moment.

And now Shane was finally smiling, “Worried? Aw, I’mb sorry, I didn’t mbeand to.” He moved to squeeze Ilya’s hand, before remembering that he had JUST sneezed into it, so he leaned into the hand still pressed to his jaw instead. “I prombise, I’m finde.” He cleared his throat, trying not to focus on just how miserably stuffy he sounded.

Ilya hummed, low in his throat, “You’re warm.” He turned to the coffee table, “You should take more meds, yes?”

Shane felt that particular warmth, the one he only ever felt around this man, spread through his chest and clog his throat. His eyes burned slightly, which was stupid. Maybe he DID have a fever. He listened to Ilya mutter something in Russian (he was still very much a beginner but he THOUGHT he was berating himself for forgetting to buy a thermometer) and then ramble on about practice while he prepped a dose of medicine, waiting for Shane to toss it back, handing him a glass of water to wash it down with when he was done.

He felt impossibly fond in that moment, taking in this man in front of him that he couldn’t believe was HIS.

“Shane?”

It took him a moment to realize that Ilya was waiting for an answer, “Hmmb?”

Ilya frowned slightly - yes, definitely a fever - “I asked - have you eaten anything yet?”

“Oh…umb - I was goi’g to, I swear, I just - well, I got sleepy add-”

Ilya muttered something else in Russian before standing, hands on hips in a way that made Shane want to laugh - he looked more like an anxious mother than the intimidating brute most people thought of him as. This “asshole” on the ice, normally an absolute terror, looking down at him with such tender exasperation.

“Okay, I will bring you toast to eat for now, while I make shchi. I should have made you eat something before I gave you more meds.”

Shane just smiled up at him, slowly working to free his limbs from their self-imposed prison so he could sit up on the couch, “Okay.”

8:34AM Shane: Shit.   Woke up with a sore throat. Shane’s phone rang immediately. Before he could say hello, Ilya asked, “Is this your way of telling me you have been sucking someone else’s dick?” “Wha-” Shane blushed furiously, distracted enough to let out a small laugh, “No!” The last time they’d been together, he’d gotten a little enthusiastic just as Ilya had bucked up, similarly enthusiastic, resulting in a coughing fit followed by a laughing fit that had left him hoarse and drinking tea for the following 2 days. Ilya had teased him mercilessly about it. “Oh okay, so what’s the problem?” Shane rolled his eyes - Ilya could never resist fucking with him. “It’s me telling you I finally caught the stupid team plague.” Montreal’s playoff attempt had been damn near pathetic, largely in part to a nasty bug that had flattened most of the players in a frighteningly fast domino pattern that started at the beginning of their first matchup. Their last game had been 2 nights ago, with half their players fighting through the crud with sluggish desperation. Shane had been so frustrated he nearly snapped his stick over his thigh countless times during the game. The one silver lining was that he, somehow, downright miraculously, had made it out healthy. Or so he’d thought. He’d chalked up the heavy fatigue yesterday to weeks of carrying his team, plus the disappointment of such a let down to a promising season. But this morning, he’d woken to his throat burning in that telltale and undeniable way. It was a whole new level of adding insult to injury.

Ottawa had surprised everyone by making it to the playoffs this year. Despite the fact that Ilya loved ragging on his new team, he had fought like hell to pull them up and carry them to the end. And he’d done it. After winning 4-1 in their first round, they now had a couple days at home to plan and train, and then they were moving on. Shane had been planning on heading to Ottawa today, to stay there throughout the rest of the series. It was the only thing cheering him up after the embarrassing losses - he’d be closer to his family for a while AND he’d get to spend 2 days with his boyfriend before he was on the road again. Plus he’d be there every time Ilya came back after away games - it would be the most time they’d gotten to spend together in months. And now he’d ruined it. It was too much - disappointment layered upon disappointment again and again. His eyes burned and he shook his head, furious with himself. There was a beat of silence. “Okay. So I will come to you,” Ilya said it casually, matter-of-fact, like it was the obvious answer. “What? No!” “You should not drive if you feel bad. I will come to you,” he said again, even more definitive. 

“That's not what I - I don’t feel bad yet, I just -” Shane let out a huff of frustration, then cleared his throat as it ached in response to the abuse, “I can’t get you sick…the playoffs. Besides, you have practice!” “I will go back and forth, sleep there and come back in the mornings.” Okay, now he was just being stubborn. And stupid. Shane wasn’t laughing now, “That’s ridiculous, and you know it. You need to stay healthy!” Ilya was silent for a moment. “I need to see you.” There was an earnestness, a desperation to the simple statement that made Shane’s eyes burn all over again. “I know,” he said, his voice gone quiet. “So,” Ilya said, back to his casual tone, “I will come to you. Besides, maybe is just allergies…or too much crying over pathetic playoffs performance.” “Fuck you,” Shane said, but without any real heat. (Ilya had been the first one to comfort him after their elimination) He chewed his lip, “Why don’t we give it a day then, see if I’m really getting sick.” He was just stalling, putting off the inevitable, and it was painfully obvious. “Mmm…” Ilya pretended to consider this for a moment, “No. You come here today to stay, or I will drive there tonight.” Shane snorted, “Seriously?” “Da. If we wait a whole day we will have hardly any time together, and you will just find excuse to stay there. I do not want you to wait and then drive once you are really sick. IF you are getting sick.” Shane sighed, defeated. Why was it, after over a damn decade, that he could never simply say NO to this man, “Fine.” 

“You will come?” Shane heard the smile in his voice, “Yes, I’ll come later today.” He sighed again, running a hand over his face, then through his hair, “My mom is gonna kill me. Ottawa hasn’t made it to the playoffs since the 90s.” “She will get over it.” “That’s a lie and you know it.” Ilya chuckled, “See you tonight, let me know when you leave.” “Ok, love you.” “Love you, too.” Shane hung up, feeling relieved...and selfish. The idea of postponing their reunion by weeks or even days made him more than miserable. He knew he shouldn’t have given in, should have made some excuse, but he just…couldn’t. He needed to see him…he ached for it. He took a moment to shake it off. He’d carry on today as planned - a workout and shower, then packing and starting the 2 hour drive. Maybe Ilya was right and he was fine, just worn down from the season. Maybe he’d feel better as the day went on. He cleared his throat, grabbed his water bottle, and headed to the gym to run off some anxiety. *     *     * Shane felt better after a stretchy yoga and a 5 mile run on the treadmill, more focused and alert. His nose was running a bit, but he’d done the yoga out on the terrace and it was pretty chilly outside. Plus, he’d worked up a good sweat on his run and that sometimes made him a little sniffly. He was pretty sure his throat felt a little better, too - especially after the hot shower he took. Maybe he’d just been paranoid. He felt lighter as he pulled out his duffel bag. Though he’d NEVER be happy about losing, there was some relief in being done and free for the season. More than anything, he kept thinking about how he would be in Ilya’s arms tonight. He smiled to himself as he packed - enough for a couple of weeks and then some - and loaded up his car. He picked out the playlist both he and Ilya were adding to on Spotify (he was pretty sure there were a few new additions), sent a quick text to let his boyfriend know he was hitting the road, and pulled out of his garage, still smiling. *     *     * An hour into the drive, Shane’s smile was gone. The fatigue had returned - Shane had given into a guilty pleasure and turned on a gossipy sports podcast, letting the rage at their commentary keep him more alert. Even more concerning was the return of the sharp ache in his throat and the fact that his nose was STILL running. He felt a little stab of annoyance each time he had to sniffle, eventually putting on the cruise control and reaching over to the glovebox for the travel tissue pack he kept there (mostly for Ilya). He gave his nose a soft, one-handed blow and then tested it - clear. Okay, not too bad. Maybe it was fine - the season was starting to change, after all. Spring was on its way and it wasn’t unusual for Shane to get a little sniffly and itchy during this time. Maybe…just maybe, this was nothing after all. 

10 minutes later, his hopes were dashed. The sniffles were back. And there was a slight tingling, burning sensation in the back of his sinuses that he kept trying to rub away, with no success. Finally, one sniff seemed to have shifted the mucus there in just the right way, and before he could think of riding the sensation out, he was gasping and pitching forward into his right hand. “Hhp’ngXT-shhuh!” His eyes widened as his attempt to stifle failed miserably, but he couldn’t dwell for long because he was already gasping again, “HhzzSSHh’iieehww!!” Oh. Well that had been…wet. He sniffled reflexively and then grimaced at how wet THAT was. Trying not to panic, or catch a glimpse of himself and the potential mess in his rearview mirror, Shane used one knee to carefully keep the steering wheel straight as he dug for the tissues again, pulling a couple out to wipe his hand and blow his nose. He could almost ALWAYS stifle his allergy sneezes. And they NEVER felt that…violent. With just two sneezes, his hope that this was a fluke combo of post-season malaise and early allergies was shot. Those had just felt unmistakably….sick. Well, shit. Shane spent the rest of the drive self-evaluating, obsessing over every symptom, over how quickly he’d had to start sniffling again after clearing his sinuses. Maybe he could convince Ilya to keep his distance until he left town. Shane could wear a mask and they could still hang out, watch movies (on OPPOSITE sides of the couch), and the current playoff games, play NLH. He could sleep in one of the guest rooms. It would be fine. Yeah….it would be…. Shane thought about every single time they’d hooked up in hotel rooms, the many risks they’d taken, how they couldn’t keep their hands off each other even now after all these years. He thought of his clingy boyfriend and how he’d latch onto him in his sleep any time Shane tried to get up to take a piss or got overheated and tried to break away just for a minute - he was like a damn octopus. 

Shane took a deep breath before unlocking the front door and stepping into Ilya’s place in Ottawa, closing the door gently behind him, as if making too much noise would make his current predicament worse. He heard the rustle of shopping bags, cabinets opening and slamming shut - Ilya must have his headphones in, he was always extra noisy when he did. Shane paused at the perimeter of the living room - the house featured an open floor plan, and from there he could see straight through to the kitchen, where Ilya was puttering around, head bobbing slightly to whatever music he was listening to. Shane  felt unsure about what to do, frozen with indecision. He took one more step, dropping his bags to one side. When he looked up, Ilya was smiling, pulling his headphones off and walking around the counter toward him. But Shane froze again, and looked away, down at his shoes. Ilya sensed his mounting anxiety and stilled, the smile fading from his face to something soft, “How is your throat?” he asked. “Umb,” Shane sniffled reflexively when he heard the congestion in his voice, “It still hurts a little.” 

...It actually hurt worse. Ilya made a small noise of sympathy and pouted slightly. It was such an adorable face, so rare on his tough, take-charge boyfriend that Shane was almost tempted to laugh. “And you are getting…” Ilya trailed off as he searched for the English word, gesturing vaguely to the center of his own face. Shane looked down again, “Stuffy, yeah.” There was a beat of awkward silence as he fought to find the willpower to make all the (very solid) points he’d thought of in the last half hour of his drive - to lay out the plans he’d made to keep his boyfriend healthy through playoffs. But he took too long. And maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Ilya was chewing his bottom lip, and Shane saw the exact moment he thought “fuck it” - a small shrug of his shoulders and a determined set to his expression. And then he was striding toward him with single-minded focus. Shane brought his hand up just in time to block his face from an enthusiastic kiss, “Ilya!!”

Ilya was undeterred, and went for Shane’s neck instead, wrapping his arms around him and breathing him in before sighing indulgently. The sound made Shane’s head spin for a moment before he tried to push the slightly larger man away. “You can’t- we shouldn’t!” “Shhh…” Ilya murmured against his neck, then sighed again before placing a series of gentle kisses against his throat that ended with him grazing his teeth along Shane’s jaw. Shane shuddered slightly, trying to ignore the way his cock twitched. Ilya pulled away slightly to look him in the eyes, “I have not seen my boyfriend in a month. Four. Weeks.” He gave Shane a little shake on the two words, for emphasis, “I have to touch you, be close to you.” Shane tried to dip his head away. He was overly conscious of the germs on his breath, their proximity…his own desperation to squeeze this man within an inch of his life. But Ilya tilted his chin back up, forcing eye contact, “Listen,” he said, “I do not care.”

And now Shane couldn’t look away, couldn’t blink. Ilya’s curls were chaotic and perfect, and he was so warm and close and his gaze so intense. Without thinking, his eyes flitted down to Ilya’s lips. He might even have leaned forward slightly… And suddenly they were crashing into each other, mouths working, hands in each other's hair, pulling and pressing in closer and closer, as if they could simply become one, never separated again. The magic of the moment was shattered when Shane had to break the kiss to breathe fully. He turned away to sniffle and fumble for a well-used tissue in his pocket, bringing it up with clumsy hands to wipe at his running nose. Ilya pulled him close once more to give him a quick kiss on the side of the head, then trailed his hand down Shane's left arm until he was loosely holding his hand, guiding him further into the house. “Come. I got us huge grocery order. Medicine - you should take some, yes? That minty shit you are always making me use when I get sick, lots of food - I will make you shchi, if you want…”

Shane couldn’t help but smile as Ilya gestured to the pile of sick supplies on the kitchen counter, then opened the fridge so he could see it fully stocked, chock-full of everything they’d need, including the greens Shane used in his “gross” smoothies. He knew what his boyfriend was doing, keeping a current of low chatter going, talking about nothing interesting in particular. He was trying to distract Shane’s obsessive mind from overthinking, from spiralling into anxiety about the fact that they’d just swapped spit while he was likely highly contagious and Ilya and his team were in the middle of a historic playoff season. It was…sort of working. Ilya was gorgeous (as always) but he was downright adorable in this domestic setting. If only Hayden could see him now, explaining how he couldn’t get all the exact ingredients to make the authentic Russian soup, but that he’d done this a few times in the city and it was actually pretty close to what he could make at home and… The spell was once again broken as Shane felt a sharp twinge in the back of his sinuses. He tried to reach up and rub the sensation away, but it only grew. So he turned his back to Ilya and took a couple of steps in the opposite direction, gasping once before burying his face in his right elbow.

“Hh’mPSHh’shuhh!” He stayed there, using his left hand to anchor his right elbow in place as he gasped again, “Nnng’TSCH-ieww!” He heard the sound of plastic unwrapping behind him, the rip of cardboard and the sound of a few tissues being pulled out, then felt a warm hand on his shoulder. “Bud'zdorov” Ilya’s voice was impossibly tender. It…did something to the center of Shane’s chest, sent a radiating warmth that spread to his cheeks and ears in an embarrassing flush. Ilya didn’t force Shane to turn around, only held out a handful of tissues in front of him. Shane, sniffled, taking them gratefully as his breath hitched - god, again??? - and he pitched forward once more. “HHhi—hiiIh’NTSCHh’iehww!!” Ilya hugged him from behind, blessing him again and placing a kiss to the back of his head, before moving back to give Shane, who was still blushing furiously, a little space. He took pity on him, stepping away to focus on putting the last of the groceries away, but not before placing the tissues within reach. Shane sighed and pulled a few more out, turning away to blow his nose. God, why was he still so embarrassed by this kind of thing, this kind of attention. And the better question…why did he NEED it at the same time?? He tossed the tissues in the trash and sniffled experimentally. He could breathe again…for now. That was nice. He moved to the sink to wash his hands, ignoring the way Ilya smirked at him. Was this attempt at good hygiene absolutely pointless?? Had they just had their tongues down each other’s fucking throats?? Yes. Did washing his hands in hot water still somehow make Shane feel better?? Also yes. And Ilya knew it. So he kept his mouth shut. Shane dried his hands on the dishtowel, turned around…and this time he honestly couldn’t even tell who initiated things, but he and Ilya were tangled together again. And then he was being lifted up and set on the counter, and oops - his boyfriend’s tongue was in his mouth again. When he sniffled, Ilya pulled away to check in, “Are you feeling bad? Do you want to stop?”

Shane just shook his head and leaned back in, where he felt Ilya grin against his mouth, “Bedroom then,” he said, his accent gone slightly thicker like it always did when he was turned on. And Shane nodded, “Yes, please” Ilya grabbed the tissue box on the way, just in case. 

* * * Ilya was very, very good at distracting Shane. They passed a couple of hours in bed, slowly exploring and teasing and simply reveling in the pleasure of finally occupying the same space. At first Shane was embarrassed by his runny nose and sniffles. He kept pulling away to make sure he wasn’t leaking, leaning back slightly to keep from dripping, shaking his head in annoyance. But Ilya didn’t seem to care - he pulled his face down for rough kisses, murmuring assurances in Russian and English. Once, with his mouth around Shane’s cock, he passed Shane tissues after a particularly wet sniffle, not even breaking his rhythm. The sight was so achingly sweet and somehow sexy as fuck, that Shane lost focus and didn’t think to actually wipe his nose, instead throwing his head back and letting out a cry of release.

Ilya crawled back up his body and kissed him, slow and sensual, then feral and messy until Shane snapped back to reality, pulling away to wipe at his upper lip and blow his nose. But the orgasm seemed to have shifted something, cleared his sinuses, and the relief mixed with the immediate return of his boyfriend’s hands in his hair pulled him away from yet another anxiety spiral. They moved to the shower to clean up after a while, got distracted again…then cleaned up again. It seemed there was an unspoken agreement to stay as close as humanly possible to each other. They made a simple, quick dinner of sandwiches in the kitchen side by side and then ate sitting hip to hip at the coffee table, a comfort show droning on in the background. Shane felt his sinuses gradually fill back up, his focus returning to the ache in his throat and the steadily building pressure behind his eyes and cheeks. Ilya grabbed their plates to clean up, brushing off Shane’s attempts to help - instead he wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and guided him to the couch. After a minute, he came back from the kitchen with the bottle of Nyquil and a spoon.

It was hard to tell when his own fatigue ended and the Nyquil stupor began as they watched one more episode cuddled up on the couch, Shane’s head resting on Ilya’s chest. Some time later, he heard Ilya murmuring his name and tapping him gently, “Come. Bed.” They brushed their teeth side by side and fell into bed the same way, where Shane dropped into unconsciousness before his overactive mind could even start to question what they’d done tonight…and the consequences that may follow.