#sfdrabbles

——

Shane crashes the day after his first All-Star Weekend as a Centaur.

What was supposed to be silly fun has left him miserably overstimulated.

Practicing with people he’s never played with before. The unseasonable winter heat of Los Angeles that chokes him every time he goes outside, followed by the freezing cold of the airplane that takes him and Ilya back to Ottawa. The press conferences, where everyone and everything is loud and flashy and exhausting. Where reporters have been warned by the NHL to keep questions about Shane and Ilya’s relationship to a minimum but clearly want to ask about it anyway. Ilya gives them all death glares, but really, it’s the league’s fault for having a joint presser with just the two of them.

They’ve just gotten back from the airport, and Shane’s daylong headache has only gotten worse. The ache behind his right orbital bone is unceasing, leaving him squinting even behind his sunglasses. He can’t even get himself to sleep on the car ride home, trying his best to just lean against the window in such a way that the bumps of the road won’t slam his fucking head around too much. Ilya is driving, quietly, and when he puts his hand over Shane’s, Shane pulls his own away, even that small touch being too much for his oversensitive skin. Ilya keeps to himself the rest of the ride, and Shane appreciates the silence. His brain needs it.

It’s all too much right now.

“Too much?” Ilya says as they walk through the front door and Shane kicks his shoes off haphazardly, rather than stacking them neatly on the rack.

Shane looks at him even though his eyes, and his temples, are fucking screaming at him. “Mm,” he says in agreement, sniffling, then goes to curl up in the corner of the couch, trying to meld with the cushions.

Ilya goes into the kitchen, then comes back with a glass of water and some pain pills. He hands them to Shane wordlessly, then turns to leave, when Shane snags his hand.

“Stay,” he says weakly.

“You are sure?”

“Mm,” he says again. He doesn’t want to risk nodding and making his head explode.

“Okay.” Ilya sits next to him and guides Shane’s head into his lap. Shane shivers and fists his hands around his sweatshirt sleeves. Why does he switch so quickly between feeling like touch will burn him and craving constant, crushing amounts of contact?

He feels all the pain pool in the right side of his head where it rests against Ilya’s thigh, but he doesn’t care so long as he can stay like this forever. Or, for now, at least.

Ilya runs a soothing hand over his shoulder, petting him slowly and gently. Shane’s head throbs with every heartbeat. He tries to clear his mind, to ignore everything but the feeling of his husband’s big hand on him. An itch tickles his nose, and he hitches quietly into his covered hand.

“hih..ihHh! hip’schiew! hadt’choo!”

“Bud’ zdor—”

“hahIDTSCHhew! mnguhh,” Shane moans as the stronger sneeze sledgehammers a jolt of pain into his brain.

“Bud’ zdorov. Uh-oh. Sweetheart,” Ilya coos. “I know that sneeze.”

Shane is busy recovering from the feeling of stars exploding behind his eyes. “Huh?” He slurs out.

“You are getting sick,” Ilya says worriedly. “You only sneeze like that when you have a cold.”

Shane doesn’t know what to say other than, “Oh.” That last sneeze had hurt more than the others. And sure, the temperature change had made him a bit sniffly all day today. But a cold?…Hm. Well, maybe. Fuck.

Ilya resumes petting him for a bit, until Shane takes in a sharp breath that catches embarrassingly. “ah-ghHihh…!”

“Oh, Shane…”

“hadt’shuhh!”

Ilya tightens his hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Bless you. One more?”

“HISHhuhh! ah’ISHhoo!”

“Oh, two,” Ilya says with surprise. “Bud’ zdorov, lyubov moya.”

“I thigk I need to lie dowd,” Shane says stuffily.

Ilya presses a kiss to the top of his head - coincidentally, right where another flare of pain has taken root. “Of course. Let’s go.”

Shane whimpers at the jostling of his head as he lifts it from Ilya’s leg, then takes Ilya’s hand. He covers his eyes with his other hand as they walk, Ilya guiding him to the guest bedroom so he doesn’t have to walk upstairs.

In bed, he snuggles under the covers and is faintly aware of Ilya padding around the room, closing the curtains and turning the fan on, leaving a box of tissues next to him. He hands him the water and pills. “Just drink, and then you can sleep, yes?”

Shane takes a small sip, then guzzles down the rest of the glass, feeling the liquid cool something in his burning head. He puts the glass down and smushes his face into his pillow, sleepily rubbing a little at his nose. “Thagk you,” he mumbles out.

Ilya has finally convinced him to see a doctor even though his limbs feel like sludge and he doesn’t even know if he can make it out the front door.

After he finally gets out of bed and finds his bearings, Shane goes to blow his nose a few more times while Ilya heads outside to warm up the car. The blows are embarrassingly productive, and his cheeks warm even though he’s all by himself. He feels so fucking gross.

Shane gets into the car, shivering even though the walk to the driveway is only a few feet, and Ilya immediately drapes a blanket over his shoulders. The car is toasty and Shane leans back into his seat with a weary sigh. Ilya turns up the heat a bit more and Shane’s already-irritated nostrils prickle from the air blasting into his face. He ducks into his arm with a few vocal hitches.

“hyihh! ihh, hih-! IH’DTSZChhh’u! hy’ITSCHhhh’ew! hh, hh, HTSChhhh’uh! —DSZCHHIEW!”

Ilya looks over, shocked at the sneezes exploding their way out of his poor sick husband, less kittenish and more…lionish. “Bless you, lyubov moya!”

“Sihh…sorry, cad you turn the air dowd a little?” Shane takes a crumpled tissue from his sweatshirt pocket and scrubs at his nose. Fuck, it’s so itchy. So sensitive just from a little bit of heat.

“Of course, malysh.” Ilya turns down the air and, after another thorough, wet noseblow, Shane feels much less tickly. “Thagk you,” he says huskily.

—

On a freezing cold evening in Ottawa, Shane Hollander pressed a tissue to his nose with a sniffle and rolled his eyes at the TV screen. “Jesus Christ,” he said as Colorado gave the puck away to the other team for the third time in the two minutes since overtime had started.

Ilya came into the bedroom, and Shane was unsurprised to see that he was barefoot and wearing a black tee and sweats. One thing Shane had learned since he and Ilya had started living together was that Ilya would not allow the weather to impede upon his personal style. As in, he wouldn’t wear a long-sleeved shirt in the house unless he was sick or icicles were growing out of his nostrils.

Ilya gave him a knowing smile. “You just cannot stay away from work even when you are sick, hm?”

Shane turned his attention back to the screen and shook his head as Colorado tried to capitalize on a sloppy line change by Arizona. “These guys have no fucking clue how to play three-on-three.”

“Mm. Not every player can be you or me. Too bad for them.” Ilya stood next to Shane and stroked a hand through his hair, wincing as the Arizona goal went in on a wraparound that the goalie should have easily stopped.

“You can say that again,” Shane muttered, automatically leaning into his husband’s touch.

“Wow. You are very polite at chirping.”

“Yeah, well, not always.”

Ilya raised a brow. “Oh?”

Shane felt a flash of annoyance at his amused face. “Yeah. One time, Scott Hunter—”

“Oh, right, I saw that. It was adorable. You looked like angry kitten.”

Shane scoffed. “Fuck off.” He ignored Ilya’s chuckle and looked back at the screen. Two grown adults in the crowd were fighting over a stick the goalie had tossed over the glass for one of their kids.

Ilya sat down next to him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “My grumpy little kotik…”

“Fuck off.” Shane shut the TV and turned to smush his face into Ilya’s chest, sighing happily when Ilya wrapped his arms around him in response.

“Your color is much better,” Ilya said. “How are you feeling?” He pressed a kiss to the top of Shane’s head.

“Better,” Shane said with a sniffle. His nose definitely felt less blocked up. “Glad I’m not on Colorado.”

Ilya laughed at that, and Shane grinned as he felt the vibration from the sound against his cheek. “My Shane is such a hater.”

Shane was about to say “fuck off” for a third time when the tickle that had been bothering him for days flared back up in his nose. “hih-!” He started to get up when Ilya tightened one hand around him and used the other to gently maneuver his head back to his chest. “Ilyaaah! hih! hip’schhh! hdt’shiew!” He felt himself blush as he sneezed directly into Ilya’s shirt, his failed attempts at stifles coming out in wet bursts that just felt so…cold-y. “hIDT’schiew! ISshuhhh! hy’ISHHhhiew! snf! Fuck—ISHhuh! I can’t— ISHHhhoo! Fucking stohhhp,” he said, adding another, “hy’ishoo!” for good measure.

“Wow, bud’ zdorov, lyubov moya,” Ilya said, sounding surprised. He released Shane and passed him some tissues. “Your cute little nose is still so full of sneezes, sweetheart.”

Shane had taken in a breath to blow his nose, but he paused at Ilya’s words and felt his entire body shiver. How—how—could this huge fucking hockey player with the physique of a Greek god and the personality of a rambunctious golden retriever with the zoomies say the sweetest and most tender things to him? God, it stopped him in his tracks every single time. (Also, this kind of talk made the part of Shane that enjoyed sneezing perk up - in more ways than one. Ilya knew just what to say to get him to melt AND want to fuck. He had quite the gift.)

He’d just let Shane sneeze into his fucking shirt, then been so gentle and attentive with him. If Shane Hollander was expected to be polite, then Ilya Rozanov was expected to be an asshole, and this was not asshole behavior.

Shane knew that better than anyone.

“I love you,” he said, pride and gratitude seeping into his voice. Ilya looked a little confused at Shane’s intensity but kissed his forehead and told him he loved him, too. Now that Shane knew what love felt like, he never wanted to let it go.

He lay back down against Ilya’s chest, then jerked his head away. “Wait. Ew. You should wash this shirt.”

“Later. After we take a nap.” Ilya started to lay down, but at Shane’s horrified face, he said, “Fine, fine, I will put Shane Germs Shirt in the laundry.”

When Ilya came back from the laundry room, Shane was blowing his nose softly and wincing at the popping it caused in his ears. Ilya noticed his look of discomfort and said, “Are you all right, sweetheart? Can I get you anything?” His beautiful blue eyes were full of worry and of love, and it made Shane forget his pain.

——

“‘tchiew!”

Ilya was heading towards the bedroom when he heard a breathy little sneeze from Shane.

“-shhiew!”

Hm. It hadn’t seemed like his allergies were bothering him today so far. Was he coming down with something?

“hy’ISSHhew!”

Ilya frowned at the sound of the stronger sneeze. When he came in the room, Shane was by their bookshelf, holding a feather duster in one hand and a balled-up tissue in the other. Ilya could see the dust particles floating in the air from his spot by the door. Shane gasped and smushed his nose into the tissue. “ahh’YISHhew!” He wiped at his eyes with the hand that had his finger in a splint.

“Bud’ zdorov. Izvini,” Ilya apologized when Shane startled, making the feather duster quiver - and release more particles into the air. “Shane, what are you doing?”

Shane turned to the side. “-ishhew! snf. This bookshelf is so dusty.” He sniffled and rubbed his nose with his tissue, then tossed it and grabbed for another. “It needs to be cleaned.”

Four days ago, while playing against Carolina, a deflected puck had hit Shane in the hand and broken his index finger. He was expected to miss three more weeks, and he was buzzing with restlessness and anxiety while sidelined. This morning alone, he had gone for his customary six-mile run, made his breakfast smoothie, chopped veggies for lunch and prepped a tofu marinade for dinner (his, not Ilya’s), and done two loads of laundry - all well before 9am. Ilya hadn’t even woken up until 10.

Ilya put a hand to Shane’s shoulder. “You need to stop, honey. You are so allergic.”

Shane opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, then opened it again. “I know. I just need to do something,” he said, the weary frustration in his voice palpable. He gave a pitiful sniffle and ducked his nose back into the tissue to blow quietly.

Ilya put a hand on his back, stroking gently as he blew. “You have done plenty today, sweetheart. Come relax a little.”

“I…” Shane sighed and ran his uninjured hand over his face. Ilya knew what he wanted to say: I can’t. I have to be productive. I have to get things done. Because if I can’t, then who am I?

“It’s all right,” Ilya said. “I know you are not happy but maybe we can do something nice together? Watch a movie, get something for lunch—”

“I already made lunch,” Shane said, then accepted the tissues Ilya handed him when his breath started to hitch again. “hy’ishhyew! hy’YISHhhew!”

“Bud’ zdorov. I know.” Ilya paused for a moment, trying to think of a solution, then took Shane into his arms instead. “I am sorry,” he said next to Shane’s ear, feeling him sigh against his neck.

“Out because of a little fucking broken finger. -snf- I feel so useless.”

“Well, you do need fingers to hold your stick,” Ilya reasoned. “Is important to take care of it.” Shane gave a grumble of discontent and tightened his arms around Ilya’s back, then hissed and released his injured hand. “Fuck.”

“Does it hurt?”

Shane nodded against Ilya’s shoulder.

“Bednyazhka. You need more ice. And some kisses.” Ilya grabbed Shane’s face and started peppering him with kisses, Shane laughing as Ilya pecked at his forehead, his freckled cheeks, his cute little nose. “Waiiiiht…!” He stepped out of Ilya’s hold and held the tissue he’d been clutching to his nose. “tschieww! izschhhew! -shoo! -shoo! Ugh, excuse me,” he said, completing the small fit with another soft blow. Ilya wanted to put him in his pocket.

“God bless you. Come, let’s get you some medication to stop this sneezing. And then we can find something fun for us to do.”

“Thank you, Ilya.” He smiled as Ilya brushed a tear from his eye, then scowled down at his bandage. “Stupid finger.”

Ilya touched Shane’s affected hand, very gently, rubbing at the back of it with his thumb. “Hey, don’t be so mean to this poor finger. I love this finger. It is very skilled.”

Shane grinned and raised an eyebrow. “-snf- You mean at hockey, or at—”

(also, remember one of the greatest moments in NHL history? because I sure do)

——

Ilya is writing a grocery list in the kitchen when Shane finally emerges from the guest bedroom, looking just as tired as he did before his nap. The tufts of dark hair peeking out from beneath his sweatshirt hood are messy and sticking to his forehead. He has the stumbling gait and pinched expression of someone emerging from a deep slumber into the brightest of lights. His nose is already dusted pinker than his cheeks. He looks fucking miserable.

It hasn’t been the easiest weekend for Shane, but honestly, he’s personally caused the majority of his stress. Nobody really cared about the All-Star Game or Skills Competition - it was all just an excuse for the league to garner ratings and for the players to dick around for a little bit (pun not intended) before the season started to ramp up. It was pretty much a slumber party with the NHL’s best.

But Shane didn’t give a shit about any of that. He wanted to play actual hockey, contribute to his actual team, instead of sit around and watch some guys hit a puck at 100 miles per hour. “It’s a who-has-the-biggest-dick competition,” he’d complained once to Ilya, who politely had not mentioned that Shane himself was the owner of one of those biggest-dick All-Star records, and proud of it.

Despite his disinterest, Shane still took the All-Star Game seriously - way, way too seriously. The fans had voted in some random goon to play for the Pacific team, a cruel practical joke against a guy who could hardly even fucking skate. And yet, somehow, that goon had helped demolish the Atlantic team with a hat trick and an assist. At the final buzzer, Ilya had looked over and seen his husband’s face twist, very briefly, with fury and disgust. No matter the importance of the game…Shane loved to win and hated to lose.

He’s paying the price now for the intensity of his emotions. This looks like it is becoming the cold from hell, and it’s only been a day. Still half-asleep, he gives a scrunched-up snrf that crinkles his nose adorably while staring dazedly at Ilya. “Tibe’s it?” He says, his voice deeper than before, and a little hoarse.

“6-ish,” Ilya says. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Doh,” Shane sighs out, looking irritable and defeated. Despite this, Ilya can’t help but melt at how cute Shane looks when he’s all tired and sniffly. No masking, no politeness, just his mildly grumpy self getting full up with a cold.

Ilya holds out his arms, and Shane shuffles over to faceplant into his chest. Ilya lets out a little “oof,” surprised at the ferocity of Shane’s cuddling. “You are so out of it, lyubov moya,” he says with a chuckle.

“Warm,” Shane mumbles.

“Are you cold? Let me get you a blanket.”

“Mmh, no, stay,” Shane says, pressing his cheek harder into Ilya’s sternum.

“Want to go on the couch? It will be more comfortable.” Shane allows Ilya to walk him over so long as he keeps an arm around him. And Ilya does, because he could never deny such a sweet request from his Shane. (The request is asked in more of a gruff, grumbly manner than a sweet one, but Ilya is happy to oblige anyway.)

On the couch, Shane pulls Ilya’s arms around him. “Tighter,” he says, and Ilya complies. Shane sighs and his head lolls back onto Ilya’s shoulder. “So good,” he says, before his breath hitches and he snaps his head to the side. “ahh’ishhew! ky’IShhuhh!”

Ilya doesn’t tell Shane that he felt some of the spray hit his arm. He’d be fucking mortified. Instead, he kisses his temple. “God bless you,” he says, and Shane shivers when he lays back in Ilya’s arms. Ilya presses his wrist to his forehead - no fever, just shivery from his little sneezes taking everything out of him? Oh god, how fucking adorable - and says, “Are you hungry?”

Shane shakes his head. “Maybe later.” He turns into Ilya’s chest. “hmph’choo! hn’isschmff!”

“Bud’ zdorov,” Ilya says, a complete pile of mush. Just when he thought his man couldn’t get any cuter, he does that.

“Fuck, this is a cold,” Shane mutters. “I hate it when you’re right.”

Ilya cracks a smile. “I am always right.”

“Shut up.” Shane reaches into his hoodie pocket, pulls out a crumpled tissue, and turns away from Ilya’s hold to blow wetly. Ilya frowns and runs a hand over his back. “You sound terrible already, sweetheart.”

“Goddammit,” Shane says. “Road trip this week.”

“You need medicine and plenty of rest, then. Can’t have our best player feeling bad.”

Something lights up in Shane’s eyes, his ego responding to the praise. “Mmkay. Come to bed with me?”

Ilya nods. “Okay, malysh. Let me just get some things together for you.”

“Love you,” Shane says as he makes his way upstairs. Ilya hears two more itchy “hy’IPTSChhh! hy’isshiew!” sneezes as he climbs.