#snzfic

“Bud’ zdorov, bud’ zdorov, bud’ zdorov, bud’ zdorov,” Ilya repeated dutifully, rubbing up and down Shane’s back with a guilty look in his eyes.  

Shane wiped at his eyes with a tissue and coughed itchily. “You don’t have to say that every time I sneeze.”

Ilya frowned. “Yes, I do. It’s my fault that you sneeze.” He pulled the blankets up a little higher on Shane’s lap. 

Shane snuffled and reached for another tissue. “It’s not your fault, Ilya. Besides, it’s just a little cold.” He turned to the side and blew gently, then, when the pressure in his head refused to subside, blew a little harder. The effort made something in his chest twinge and he started to cough again, which made Ilya even more frowny.

“This cold does not seem so little,” he said before turning away with a few rumbly coughs of his own. 

Speak for yourself, Shane wanted to say. This cold had been a doozy for Ilya since day one, leaving him sneezing in breathless bursts several times an hour. At this point, Shane wasn’t too far behind him, and there was an empty tissue box on his side of the bed to prove it. Now there was a new record for the NHL - Most Combined Sneezes by Hart Trophy-Winning Secret Centerman Boyfriends. The stats nerds would have a field day with that one. The thought made Shane snort, then duck back into his tissue as his nose started to burn with irritation. 

“hish’shiew! ahh’IShhhew!”

“Bud’ zdorov, bud’ zdorov,” Ilya, who had a supportive arm wrapped tightly around Shane, said with a defeated sigh.

Shane blinked away his tears - god, colds made him so impossibly fucking drippy - and touched Ilya’s shoulder. “Ilya. I’m okay. Stop feeling guilty.”

Ilya took a tissue and dabbed all around Shane’s leaking face. “I feel bad that you feel bad,” he said plainly, and Shane felt his heart skip a beat. 

He leaned in and kissed Ilya then - one good thing about sharing a cold was that they no longer had to worry about contagion…not that they’d ever been able to fully keep their hands off each other when one of them was sick. “It’s okay. I guess we get to just relax a little longer.” At this point, even though Shane’s routine had been knocked entirely off-kilter, he was simply too exhausted to let himself be burdened by anxieties about missing his morning run or not eating salmon-comma-brown rice for lunch. Now he just got to be extra snuggly with Ilya, and on a chilly September day when he didn’t feel well, that was all he wanted. 

Ilya pressed the back of his hand to Shane’s forehead and cheeks to check for fever. “Hm, you are capable of relaxing? What has happened to my Shane?”

Shane laughed and swatted Ilya’s hand away. “Fuck you.” 

——

As with many facets of their personalities, Shane and Ilya handled having a cold very differently. 

Shane tried to keep tidy, making sure to have a trash can near his bed to deposit his used tissues into. Ilya, meanwhile, would use a tissue and drop it carelessly next to him on the blankets, surrounding himself with a little flurry of damp crumpled snowballs until Shane scolded him to throw those away, you gross monster. So Ilya would try to make free throws into the trash and, more times than not, miss. The flurry would then stay on the ground until one of them, usually Shane, had the energy to pick them up while out of bed. 

Shane sneezed neatly into his elbow or a tissue. Ilya did his best to cover…which, for him, usually meant aiming loosely at his shoulder or into his hands. With the way he had barely bothered to cover when he’d first caught this cold, despite his initial attempt to hide his symptoms from Shane, it was no wonder that Shane had caught it too. (Would contagion normally disgust him? Yes. But because it was Ilya who had gotten him sick…well. There was something dizzyingly intimate about sharing a cold with the love of his life. But it might have been a different story if it wasn’t the off-season.) Sometimes Ilya would be overtaken by a bout of sneezes so fierce that he forgot to cover altogether, leading to another mini-lecture from Shane about his gross-monsterness. But Shane did take the opportunity when it happened to watch Ilya’s pre- and post- sneeze faces in glorious detail.

Shane blew his nose as unobtrusively as possible, just enough to rid himself of the fullness in his sinuses. Ilya blew like a fucking foghorn at all times, stuffed up as he was. Had Shane not been absurdly attracted to Ilya’s honking blows, it would have driven him absolutely insane. It did still scare him half to death when he tried to drift off to sleep and an unaware Ilya blew like the Titanic setting sail next to him. 

Shane was still a little self-conscious and shy about having this bad of a cold, blushing whenever he had a particularly strong (for him) fit that Ilya would coo over him for. Ilya, meanwhile, didn’t give a fuck that he was a congested mess, allowing himself to sneeze and blow as loudly as he needed to relieve himself of a tickle. Speaking of which…

“AESCHhhhh! hy’AAASHHhhhuh! AESCHHhhooo!”

“Bless you,” Shane croaked as he recovered from another bout of his own little “tish’hew! ishhuhh! hish’shue! ahh’shhiew!” sneezes. 

Despite his lethargy, Shane couldn’t help the jolt of excitement that went through him whenever Ilya sneezed. His sneezes were just so…loud. Powerful. Uncontrollable. Deep and vocal and rough and masculine. They never failed to make Shane’s toes curl, whether the two of them were on the ice or in the bedroom. Seeing his big broad boyfriend at the mercy of an itch…nostrils flaring and breath gasping and brows knitting and eyes closing…body frozen in place as he became consumed by the all-encompassing need to let out at least three huge sneezes in a row, every single time…fuck. Shane swallowed. If he didn’t feel like his body was stuck in mud, Shane would have pounced on Ilya twenty-five sneezes ago.

While he never wanted Ilya to feel unwell, he just couldn’t help but drool over the man when he was sick and sneezy like this. 

And Ilya knew this full well. Case in point, he was winking at Shane right fucking now as he rubbed at his nose with a tissue in a way that could only be described as sensually. He was moving it in slow, methodical motions as he stared directly into Shane’s eyes, even fluttering it a little to expose his red nose like a performer with a feather boa before a striptease. 

Oh god. Shane wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to survive their colds before he was incinerated by horniness.

——

A day later, the pair were both still sick and sneezing their heads off. Shane was frankly impressed with how Ilya’s other cold symptoms had seemingly disappeared into the ether, leaving only his nose to give him trouble.

Shane had woken that morning to the sound of Ilya sneezing loudly and harshly in the shower, the sound of the water and the closed bathroom door both doing a terrible job of hiding the volume and ferocity of the outbursts. Shane was too sleepy to do anything but smile and rub at himself a little, not entirely sure if he was awake or in the middle of a very pleasant dream. When Ilya came back to bed, looking pale and sleepy himself, Shane clung to him and yawned against his chest. “Good morning, obez'yánka,” Ilya said with a sniffle, covering them both with the blankets they’d taken from the couch for extra warmth.

Shane woke later in the day to find himself alone. Not feeling any more refreshed than before his nap, he got out of bed and went downstairs to get more water to take with his cold meds. He couldn’t believe how wiped out he was, and how chilled and shivery he felt. He found one of Ilya’s old Raiders sweatshirts in the hall closet and wore it into the kitchen, instantly feeling warmer, his fingertips peeking out from under the longer sleeves.

Ilya was chopping something on the counter next to the stove, where a huge pot was bubbling. Shane peeked around his large body to see what he was making, and saw onions, carrots, celery, broth, pre-shredded chicken. All of the ingredients Shane had bought to make Ilya soup before he’d caught the same cold and become too tired to cook.

Ilya made a huge snorting sound and scrubbed mercilessly at his face. “Are you okay?” Shane said, concerned at the wetness he saw glimmering all over Ilya’s sleeve.

Ilya whirled around, and his eyes and nose were streaming. “Gospodi,” he said, the Russian word deeper in his congested voice. “You are so quiet, lyubimyy.”

“Sorry. Why are you crying?” Shane took the cuff of his own sweatshirt sleeve and ran it across Ilya’s cheeks and under his nose, not caring that it would feel damp afterward. As he came closer, however, he could smell the answer to his question. The onions were so pungent that it made him pull away with a little cough. “Jesus, those are strong.”

Ilya nodded, then rested his cheek against Shane’s palm and closed his eyes. He looked about ready to drop just standing there. “I could go without, but…it makes difference, I think.”

“Ilya, you’re so tired. Go back to sleep, don’t worry about cooking.”

“Need to make my boyfriend soup,” Ilya said softly, turning away to grab the knife and resume chopping the onions. “So he can feel better. Since I got him sick.”

“Ilya…” Shane’s eyes and throat were starting to feel very hot and tight, and he went to give him a big kiss when Ilya suddenly gave a great heaving gasp and stepped away from the food.

“hyihh…! hgy’ihh…! haaAAASHHHhh! gy’AAASHHhhoo! HAAAhhhooo!” His upper body spasmed in the direction of his shoulder in huge jerks, curls bouncing wildly as the punishing sneezes kept coming. “AAASHHhhhooo! GY’ISHHHhtt! GY’IHHSHHHhhhoo!”

“Oh my god, Ilya, put the knife down,” Shane said, ignoring how shrill his voice sounded.

Ilya dropped the knife and it clattered against the cutting board as he curled even further into himself. “AESZCHHHhuh! GY’IZSCCHH’hhhuh! HAADT’SZChhhuhh!”

“Bless you, oh my god.” Shane put one hand between Ilya’s shoulder blades and used the other to turn off the stove before guiding the both of them to the couch. He made Ilya, who was panting and snorting and snuffling and coughing, sit down while he hunted for a box of tissues. “Here,” he said when he found one, and the blow Ilya gave into a huge stack was so long and loud that the rest of Shane’s sentence about ordering in was completely drowned out. Oh, the poor thing, he was so miserable…and Shane was on fucking fire.

Ilya rubbed and rubbed and rubbed his nose against his palm. “Agh, zudyashchiy,” he grumbled. Itchy. (Shane may have secretly googled the translations of Russian words related to colds and sneezing and allergies to keep in his brain. For science.) He looked over at Shane, and whatever expression he saw on his boyfriend’s face made him grin like the Cheshire Cat.

“Shaneeee,” he whined, moving closer until they were nose-to-nose. “Why is this cold making me so snuhh-huhh-heezy…” And oh god, just hearing Ilya say that word while his tongue tripped over hitchy breaths was nearly enough to make Shane, already fully hard from watching Ilya’s fit, cum in his damn pajama pants. The next thing he knew he was straddling Ilya’s lap, and Ilya had his hands full from cupping and kneading at his ass. Ilya’s face was awestruck, his pupils huge against the blue of his irises.

“Tell me,” Shane said huskily, grinding his crotch over Ilya’s and making them both groan. “Tell me how it feels. Your…nose.” He hesitated over the word, but there was no judgment in Ilya’s eyes. Only love, and lust.

Ilya sniffled wetly, scrunching his red crooked nose right in Shane’s face. “So itchy…”

“Tell me in Russian. Please,” Shane damn near begged.

Ilya put his lips up to Shane’s ear, sniffled again, the sound stronger and wetter, and sighed, “Zudyashchiy, malysh.”

“Oh, fuck…” Shane gasped desperately. He made quick work of pulling down both of their sweatpants - of course Ilya’s were tight and grey, and of course his beautiful hard dick had already been showing through them - and taking them both in hand. He was consumed by thoughts of the last few days, of sharing colds and kisses and laying in bed together all day, all sniffly and sneezy at the same exact time…of Ilya’s adorable attempts at caretaking despite his cold-ridden nose having other ideas…it was so overwhelming, and so fucking good.

“Sh-Shane…” Shane looked up from where his head had been pressed downward against Ilya’s chest as he jerked them both off, and saw that Ilya’s nose was running past his Cupid’s bow. He wasn’t normally one for mess, but when it came to Ilya Rozanov…

…nothing was off the table.

“I deed, uh.” In the middle of his panting and stuffy voice and dripping nose, Ilya was turning bright red. Shane, feeling the warm sunshiney sensation of release already creeping up on him, moaned and grabbed a few tissues from the box next to them. He held them to Ilya’s nose, and the sound of his enormous honking blows made Shane’s orgasm hit him like a bolt of lightning. 

“Oh fuck, Ilya!” He cried out as he shuddered in Ilya’s arms and collapsed against him. Ilya was still stroking himself and panting faster and faster before coming as well, with a shout of Shane’s name. Shane stayed in the crook of Ilya’s neck for a while, sniffly and overheated from all the action, feeling Ilya’s hands caressing his back, not quite believing that this was his life. 

Eventually, he peeled himself off of his boyfriend and started to clean them both up with some tissues. As Shane blew his nose afterward, Ilya looked at him with a smug expression and said, “Wow. That did not take you long at all.”

Shane turned brick red. “Fuck you.” He tossed his balled-up tissue at him, which Ilya batted out of midair with a grin.

Ilya lay against the couch cushions, stretching his arms behind his head and crossing one ankle over the other, looking perfectly, infuriatingly relaxed. “I am just too irresistible like this, hm? It makes you always want to jump my bones?”

“More like crush your bones,” Shane muttered with an annoyed huff. 

“I am ignoring the mean words coming from your cute face,” Ilya said before he reached over to kiss Shane’s closed lips. He pulled away with a serious expression on his face and gently put his hands on Shane’s biceps. “Shane. I am very happy that I can sneeze for you, milyy. I love to make you feel good. It is what you deserve.”

Shane buried his head in his hands, his cheeks burning. “God, Ilya…What the fuck. How can you go from being an asshole to saying something so romantic in two fucking seconds.”

“I have many talents.” Ilya kissed Shane again, who was much more eager to reciprocate this time, then grabbed his phone. “Now let’s order some soup. It will help your headache and sore throat.”

“How did you—”

“Because I had same thing.”

——

Later, Shane shot up with a gasp in the middle of the night, his heart pounding, his pillow sweat-soaked. He panted heavily with a hand to his chest as the fuzzy remnants of a nightmare (fever??) clung to him. Then the tingling in his nose, which he’d felt even before he drifted off to sleep in Ilya’s arms, spiked and left him gasping for a different reason. 

He was faintly aware of Ilya stirring next to him. “Mm…Shane?”

Still dazed and sleepy, Shane raised his hands and stared into the distance, waiting to sneeze. His eyes were filling with tears, and he let out a few audible “hih-ihh-iHh” breaths as Ilya made a soft, sympathetic sound and put a hand to his back. The touch somehow triggered something in Shane’s nose and he fell forward into his cupped hands. 

“huhh-ischh! -ish! -iSHh! ihh-shooo! ihSHhoo! -shoo! ISHhuhh! hah…! hadt’schoo!”

“Bless you. Oh, bless you,” Ilya was murmuring as Shane was overtaken with rapid sneezes that scraped at his throat and made tears stream from his eyes. 

With a final “ihh-SCHIEW!” Shane lay back, coughing and sniffling and rubbing at his chest and wiping his eyes. “Thagk you,” he rasped when Ilya handed him a wad of tissues, blowing harshly. 

Ilya pet Shane’s dark hair. “Bless you, sweetheart. Your cute little nose is so red…this cold really is all in our noses, mm?”

Shane groaned loudly beneath the tissue and looked at Ilya pointedly through his wet eyes. “Fuck, dude, you can’t just…say things like that.”

“Like what? About how sneezy we are? I bet you would like me to start sneezing again, wouldn’t you? I always enjoy a good sneeze, Shane,” Ilya said in his ear, laughing when it made Shane shiver all over. “Stop,” Shane said, voice strained. “You’re taking advantage of a weak sick person.”

“‘Weak’ is never the right word to describe you,” Ilya replied. “‘Sick’? Yes. But ‘weak’? No. You are strongest person I’ve ever met.” He cupped Shane’s cheek as Shane lingered in the sweetness of his words. “How are you feeling, dorogy?” Ilya, for his part, was looking and sounding a bit better, thankfully. 

“Awful,” Shane sighed. “Tired. Achy. Nose won’t stop running.” 

“Do you want a massage?”

“aa’HZSHH-!!”

When Ilya catches Shane staring at him out of the corner of his eyes, he inadvertently stiffens his lip and flashes a frown in his direction.

“It was a sneeze, Hollander.”

It was several, actually, Shane thinks but doesn’t say. Two when he’d entered the apartment, and four while he showered. But hey, who was counting? 

Oh right. He was.

Shane sits up straighter on the couch, watching as Ilya enters the room, freshly cleaned and slightly damp following his shower. Ilya had only just returned from practice an hour ago (having gone against Shane’s wishes), and despite the obvious head cold he was battling, he’d managed to catch a ride to Shane’s, dodge his chastising, abandon his gear, shower, and change into his lounge-wear in record time.

All that was left to do was flop onto the couch, which he does with a resounding grunt and effort that has Shane nearly dropping the book in his hands. Removing his glasses, Shane gingerly places both his novel and spectacles on the coffee table beside him. Now that Ilya was here, he was the immediate center of his attention.

The minor migration from the bathroom to the couch must’ve been enough to stir something in Ilya’s sinuses, because the second his face hits the cushion he’s refurfacing with a hastened gasp. Shane can literally count down to the sneeze in his head.

One…two…three-

“aA’ZSCHH’hu!…hhy’ZZCHH-!! Fuck!”

“Bless you,” Shane chirps, adding: “again.”

“Is that all you can say now?” Ilya asks moodily.

“If all you do is sneeze, then yeah, I guess so,” Shane replies.

Ilya had been irritable all day, and it looked like this evening would be no different. Before he’d left for practice, he and Shane had gotten into an argument over whether it was really necessary he attend or not. Maybe “argument” was too strong a word, but chalking it up to a minor disagreement felt equally disingenuous. 

Ilya had been stubborn as all Hell about going. On any other day Shane might’ve applauded his commitment to the sport. After all, of everyone either of them knew, it was Shane who understood just how vital it was for a captain to be present for his team. Today was different though. Shane knew Ilya wouldn't listen to reason when it came to his health, so he’d tried to convince him that if he went to practice and exacerbated his cold (or God forbid infect his whole team), his attendance would only work against him. Normally Ilya would listen to logic like that, but Shane was pretty sure he’d ignored the facts purely so he could get out of the house. Ilya didn't like to sit still for too long, and getting him to rest at all was like pulling teeth.

Deep down, Shane wasn’t angry or disappointed Ilya had gone; he was only frustrated over his flippant disregard for his own health. That, and parts of him worried that his persistent attempts at nursing Ilya had inadvertently chased him further away. He didn’t think that was the case, but the possibility bothered him. He couldn’t help it when the thought clung to him like an itch…and speaking of itch...

“hHH’ZZSHH’hu!”

Shane startles free of his own thoughts.

“Bless you,” he repeats more patiently this time. With a deliberate softness, he reaches for Ilya and pets the tops of his hair. It was his way of extending an olive branch after their earlier argument. “How was practice?”

“Fine,” Ilya grumbles. He sniffles and rubs his nose on the couch. “Fucking cold.”

“Is it getting worse?” Shane asks.

“What?”

“Your cold? Do you think it’s getting worse?”

Ilya tilts his head, squinting slightly.

“…I meant the rink, Hollander,” Ilya corrects. “The rink was cold.”

“…Oh.”

Ilya stares at his boyfriend, shaking his head while he murmurs something under his breath. He sighs, chest deflating as he sinks deeper into the cushions.

“I’m not dying, you know,” he murmurs. “You act like you’ve never heard me sneeze before.”

“Okay, but you don’t normally sneeze like that.”

Ilya immediately peeks at Shane, looking at him sideways in a way that has him feeling unusually nervous. It was like Ilya had suddenly flipped the script and Shane was now the one being studied.

“Oh? How do I usually sneeze then?” he asks.

Of all the ways he could’ve responded, Shane never would have guessed it’d be like that.

“W-Well,” Shane licks his lips, “it depends. Out on the ice, you tuck it because of the gloves. You know, sneezing into your jersey or your collar or whatever. But out in public or during your interviews, you pinch it; usually in twos. Not like when you’re alone with me.”

“Huh,” Ilya breathes, glancing Shane up and down, “and how long have you noticed this?”

“A while,” Shane admits. “Like…I don’t know; since rookie season?”

“Oh, so you were spying on me,” Ilya teases, his tone dry but gaze mischievous. “You are obsessed.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says, embarrassed but pleased to be reinstated as the subject of Ilya’s coy banter (as opposed to a reminder of his poor condition).

“You should be paparazzi,” Ilya proposes.

“And do what? Follow you around, take your picture? I do enough of that already,” Shane smirks. “Besides, you’re only saying that because you like being the center of attention.”

“Ah-ah — I like being the center of your attention,” Ilya amends. “Very important distinction. It’s where I belong; between the ice-“

Ilya inches closer via an army crawl and nudges his forehead against Shane’s thigh.

“-and you.”

Shane smiles and clicks his tongue. “Can’t argue that,” he concedes.

“Good, because I am sick of arguing with you,” Ilya sighs. “And I am actually sick.”

His confession catches Shane by surprise. “So you are sick?”

Ilya glances at Shane.

“Yes,” he answers, "aren't you the one who’s been saying it all day?”

“I guess, or I mean…” Shane swallows as he reorganizes his thoughts. He was used to Ilya speaking candidly, but not always with such honesty. He’d anticipated having to coax admission out of him, but once again, Ilya has usurped his expectations. 

“I thought it was possible,” Shane says, finally. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” Why didn’t you just tell me, he thinks.

Ilya shrugs with a sniff. “It’s not important.”

He says it like it’s simple, but to Shane it's anything but. It was Ilya’s reasoning that bothered him. He may not understand Russian, but after ten years, he could speak Ilya with near fluency; so he knew deep down that “it’s not important” secretly (and heartbreakingly) translated to “I’m not important”…and that hurt him almost as much as he knew it hurt Ilya.

Shane clenches his jaw and stiffens his shoulders, his body bracing against the thought as a tough, painful feeling swirls around his chest.

“It’s important to me,” Shane responds; his tone is stern and serious, but lacks defensiveness. “How long do you think you've been sick?”

“A few days,” Ilya estimates, suddenly giving Shane an odd look. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” Ilya clarifies. “You seem bothered…am I bothering you?”

“What?” Shane asks, almost sounding offended by the suggestion. “No, you don’t ever bother me.”

“Then what is wrong?”

“Nothing, I-…-I just want to make sure you’re okay is all,” Shane says, swallowing again. “Are you? I mean, do you feel okay?”

Shane thought what he’d been asking was obvious, but then it occurs to him that Ilya wasn’t always used to being asked questions about himself; at least not outside his performance as an athlete (or who he was sleeping with). Asking Ilya about his health was always a tricky gamble. On one hand, it made Shane insecure. Ilya did always say he asked too many questions, and Shane could imagine why the questions he asked may feel more interrogative than intended — especially to someone so unfamiliar with being asked at all. Up until they’d met (and even years thereafter), Ilya had been reluctant to discuss any subject breaching the surface, so Shane was acutely aware this sort of attention was foreign to his boyfriend under most circumstances. He didn’t want to dismiss the progress they’d made by being too pushy.

Still, he also couldn't just ignore that something was wrong — not when it was sniffling in his face.

Thus, Shane shifts his weight on the couch and faces Ilya directly, lacing their fingers together and curling both their hands in his lap. Up close, and connected, he senses and sees a sort of hyper-vigilance shadowing Ilya’s features; an unease that he wasn’t comfortable expressing. Catching this, Shane instinctively hovers his thumb against Ilya’s knuckles, touch light and fleeting in hopes that in some way he can comfort him — remind him he’s not judging, only curious. Only caring.

Together they share the silence. Shane didn't need to repeat himself. He knew Ilya had heard him and was processing the question. The least he could do was be patient enough to await an answer.

Shane raises his other hand to cup Ilya’s cheek, which burns and flushes with fever. He tenderly brushes a stray curl out of Ilya’s icy blue eyes, then plants a kiss to where the lock lands, curtaining his face.

“You look so tired,” Shane murmurs, his touch reluctant to retreat from Ilya’s space as he moves on to stroking his beauty mark.

Ilya swallows, sniffling and allowing his eyes to fall shut while he leans into Shane’s touch. He pecks his palm, breath warm against the flesh.

“I am exhausted,” he whispers. “I feel disgusting."

“You’re not disgusting — you could never be,” Shane hums back dotingly. “You’re just sick and it’s been a long day.”

“Too long,” Ilya complains.

“I agree,” Shane nods. The heat emanating off Ilya’s skin is distracting, almost dizzying this close up. “You’re burning up, you know.”

“No, you are just cold,” Ilya disagrees, his speech half-muffled as he nuzzles into Shane’s palm and itches his nose. “It’s the Canada in your blood — icy.”

Shane smirks. “If either of us is cold blooded, shouldn’t it be you? You’re the one who’s survived Russian winters.”

“Barely,” Ilya murmurs, shaking his head. “And who told you I was Russian? That does not sound like me,” he jests.

“Right; except that is exactly how you sound,” Shane smiles back charmingly. He reluctantly pulls back his hand, earning him a pout and a whimper. “Shhh,” Shane consoles, locking on to Ilya’s needy gaze, “I’m not going anywhere.”

To satiate his partner, Shane extends his arms, spreading wide then beckoning for Ilya to fall into his chest. “Come here.”

He loves the way Ilya smiles at him; his features relaxing into a soft, fond look while he gladly takes up Shane’s offer. Together the two fall into place like dominos, with Shane tentatively grasping Ilya’s shoulders and reclining him back into his lap, and Ilya trusting Shane’s touch to guide him. He really wasn’t kidding about being exhausted, Shane thinks. On any other day, Ilya would put up some sort of playful resistance, begging for Shane to make him surrender while probably making some cheeky remark, calling him captain or accusing him of being unnecessarily handsy…but tonight, he wordlessly obliges his invite to shamelessly snuggle in his lap and unite in his warmth. Head against Shane’s thigh, Ilya turns on his side, stretches and yawns, his whole body releasing a tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.

“Mmm,” Ilya hums.

“What?”

“It’s nice.”

“My lap?” Shane asks. Ilya nods.

“Yes. Your thighs. They make good pillows,” he says, reaching overhead to grope and massage the flesh. “I am so used to gripping them while you ride me that I-“

“Woooow,” Shane interrupts. He scoffs despite feeling flustered, “okay.”

“What? Is a compliment,” Ilya drawls, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

“You’re such a flatterer,” Shane teases, “do perverts like yourself really not take sick days?”

Ilya hesitates, shifting his weight again so he’s on his back. He blinks up at Shane as the latter pets through his hair and wordlessly admires the hidden shades of seafoam drifting in Ilya’s eyes. Slowly, Ilya reaches up, pinching Shane’s chin and admiring him from his current angle. In his mind, he connects his freckles like constellations.

“No,” Ilya says, “and neither do boyfriends.”

Shane can't resist the smile that creeps up on him, and best of all, he doesn’t want to. He leans forward, attempting to kiss Ilya, but his partner catches him, netting his lips into the cusp of his hand.

“You will get sick,” Ilya chides, shaking his head. Shane kisses his palm, reciprocating his favor from earlier.

“I don’t mind,” Shane says.

“Yes, but I do,” Ilya confesses. “And I am not nice like you — you are whiny enough healthy; I won’t take care of you if you are sickly,” he adds, kneading at his nose with his other hand.

Shane grins, knitting kisses along Ilya’s palm lines. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he insists.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “And how would you know this?”

Shane lands one last kiss before retreating back so he’s sitting upright again. “I’m going to sound weird if I say.”

“Weirder than when you talk about me sneezing?”

“Fuck you,” Shane scoffs, though his words are far from unkind. While he fights his creeping embarrassment, Ilya nods at him again, urging him to continue. It’s enough encouragement for Shane to brave a deep breath.

“Okay, so this might sound crazy because it is,” he starts, “but I’ve noticed you have a tell.”

“A tell?” Ilya repeats. He blinks, looking as confused as he sounds. “What is…?”

“It’s like a quirk o-or a signal that tells you something about someone. Usually it’s a trait or habit others would consider inconspicuous, but…it’s one that I notice because,” he pauses, swallows, “because I like you; and I notice you, obviously.”

“I think you do more than notice me, obviously,” Ilya says, lips twitching into a smirk as he shifts positions again. He likes the way Shane rolls his eyes at him. “Okay, okay,” he relents, “speak.”

“Right,” Shane exhales, feeling sweat springing to his palms, “so when you lie-“

“I never do this.”

“When you lie,” Shane restarts, chuckling, “you always touch your nose. Like you do this-,” Shane removes his right hand, then demonstrates by alternating between pinching and scrubbing at his own nose, “-that sort of thing,” he sniffs.

Ilya says nothing at first. Instead, he stares at Shane, lips slightly parted around questions he doesn’t ask, and eyebrows knit together in curiosity.

“I honestly thought maybe you just had allergies or something at first,” Shane continues, “but then I realized you do it whenever you lie about something.”

The silence from Ilya sustains, serving only to make Shane feel smaller and more insecure where he sits. Finally — after what feels like years — Ilya clicks his tongue.

“What?” Shane asks.

“Nothing that is just…” Ilya trails off, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, “learning these things; it makes me realize you are…what is the word…? Ah-! Yes!”

Ilya blinks again, snapping his fingers and settling his sights back on Shane.

“Neurotic,” he cheeses. “And a pervert for my nose.”

“Oh fuck off,” Shane laughs.

“Is the right word, yes?” he chuckles back. “Because Hollander, who the fuck notices a thing like that??”

“I do, asshole!”

“Yes, but why??”

“Because-!” Shane leans his head back, no longer laughing, but still left smiling. “See this is why I didn’t want to tell you; you think it’s weird — that I’m weird!”

“I already thought this-“

“Fuuuuck you.”

“-but that’s okay,” Ilya giggles. “You know why?”

“…Why?”

Ilya toys with Shane’s ear, his thumb grazing along its edge as it turns pink. He bites his lower lip, fighting the urge to spring up, suckle it and kiss Shane all over.

“Because I enjoy weird,” Ilya murmurs, breath as hot as his attitude.

“Whatever,” Shane blushes while swatting Ilya’s hand away. Any more fondling and he was going to squirm. “You’re the one who asked, you know,” he reminds him.

“I know, I wish I hadn’t,” Ilya chuckles, absentmindedly rubbing at his nose. He catches himself mid-act, both he and Shane immediately sharing exaggerated glances. “See??” Ilya exclaims, shaking his hands like they’re cursed, “now I will think of this forever…of you forever!”

“Oh what a terrible fate~!” Shane cries. Ilya reaches up his hands, breaking Shane into a fit of faux sputtering and genuine giggles as he pretends to choke him. “I’m innocent, I swear!” Shane howls.

“That is just what everyone thinks! They don’t know you like I do, Shane Hollander,” Ilya mocks, “and you are far from innocent!”

Shane throws his head back and begs for his freedom between saccharine laughs. That laughter is like music to Ilya’s ears, and the sight of Shane’s perfect smile is a feast for his eyes; the way his lashes bat so prettily against rosy cheeks, his teeth sparkle behind those lips he loves to greet, and how his freckles dance and wiggle, just as expressive as the rest of him. The sight of his happiness was an antidote to Ilya’s aches, even if just for a moment.

“Mercy! Mercy!” Shane pleads.

Eventually, Ilya releases his lover, both hands raised in generous surrender. Shane struggles to catch his breath, his laughter dying down as he blinks slowly back at Ilya.

“You are too attentive for your own good,” Ilya says, voice low and husky, but nonetheless bemused and bewildered by Shane’s bizarre interest in him. He reaches forth and fixes Shane’s bangs, pushing them out of his eyes. “And you are crazy, you know that?”

“What, about you?” Shane asks, sounding sleepy following his smothering.

“Mmm yes about me,” Ilya confirms, “and in general. But I will add myself to the list.”

“The list?”

Ilya nods. “Of all the things that make you crazy.”

“Oh yeah? And what else do you think is on that list?” Shane asks, entertaining Ilya’s banter and watching him dreamily while he curls his golden hair around his finger.

“Mmm…hockey, ugly cars, birds, real estate, and your boring, tasteless ginger ale.”

“It’s not tasteless,” Shane giggles, infectiously smitten by Ilya’s deceptively lazy wit and proud, precious grin. “You’re just saying that because you’re used to drinking vodka. Besides, I could’ve sworn you said you were starting to like it.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean it’s tasteful.”

“Then why do you drink it?”

“Because it is always around. That, and it tastes like you,” he smirks, “reminds me of your mouth.”

Shane can't decide whether he’s flattered or embarrassed or confused, but his expression must reflect a mix of all three because Ilya pokes his cheek and laughs.

“You’re blushing,” Ilya points out.

“Maybe,” Shane grins. “You say crazy things.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

“Right,” Shane rolls his eyes, “so you admit you’re also crazy?”

“Am I?” Ilya snickers. “How so?”

“I don’t know…because you like me?” Shane asks, his tone shrinking slightly. “Because you tolerate the things I notice and say, even if they’re somehow boring and crazy and weird all at the same time?”

Tolerate? How could someone so smart be so dense? Ilya thinks. He relished everything Shane noticed and said, even — no…especially when Ilya himself lacked the words to express as much.

Ilya mulls over his boyfriend’s inquiry. His mind searches for a remedy to his speechlessness, all the while his gaze remains restless; busy absorbing all the small details of Shane’s face. He memorizes the moonlit whites of his eyes to the freckles painting the bridge of his nose and smattering his cheeks like pixie dust. He fancies the cute curve of his lips, so plush and pink, and how they team up with his smile to light up the rest of his face. Shane wasn’t just beautiful…he was breathtaking, and Ilya felt lucky to bask in his glow.

But it was what lay past that perfect face that he was really attracted to. Shane’s kindness, his curiosity, and his vulnerability to ask questions Ilya could never pose, let alone answer without him. He was cautious, but he was also ridiculously brave, and that only made him shine brighter from Ilya’s perspective. For so long Ilya had only known a void of emptiness, and now he spent every day feeling blinded; eternally grateful to orbit a whole new world side by side with the light of his life — the sun newly adorning what had once been a relentlessly dark, cold, and isolated existence.

Words could never suffice nor do justice to the overwhelming feelings he had for Shane. They just bubbled up so naturally, as natural as breathing, as natural as-…!

Crying?

“Ilya…? Hey,” Shane coos as he swipes tears that have sprung from the corners of Ilya’s eyes. His expression mirrors the concern in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ilya shakes his head, sniffles. Being so tired must’ve been making him emotional, but even while exhausted, he knew he could never tire of Shane’s company. It was simply impossible, even if he didn’t quite know how to say it. “I love your boring, your crazy, and your weird,” he says finally.

He blinks hard at Shane, freeing indecisive tears.

“You are too nice to me,” he whispers.

Shane swallows, taking both Ilya’s cheeks in his hands and holding him with reverence.

“I like being too nice to you,” Shane reassures, tilting Ilya’s head back and planting a kiss to his forehead. “You just hate hearing that.”

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek, then shakes his head, exhaling shakily and cupping his hands over Shane’s.

“Not when it’s from you.”

Shane’s chest melts. He smiles, then tilts his head, connecting both their noses in a silent gesture he hopes speaks to his endless adoration.

“Please let me kiss you,” he whispers.

“We shouldn’t,” Ilya whines, though it’s so obvious he wants to. “It’s not healthy; it’s to protect you.”

“But it’s torture,” Shane half-whimpers.

“Torture?” Ilya says, mirroring Shane’s smile back at him. “Is that what this is to you?”

The two share romantic stares until Shane breaks first, his smile irresistibly dreamy as the two lock hands.

“No,” he whispers. “Everything but.”

And that’s all it takes for Ilya to cave into a kiss. Lips colliding, he swears he’s seeing stars behind lidded eyes; a thousand little cosmos igniting in his chest and exploding into a dazzling fervor.

Shane was practically vibrating with excitement. He woke up bright and early the day Ilya was supposed to fly into Ottawa to spend Christmas with the Hollanders. It was their last Christmas technically apart since, next Christmas, Ilya would be living in Ottawa. Shane had been so excited all week as he prepared everything he needed to show Ilya all of the Christmas traditions his family had kept up since his childhood. He was helping his parents make sure everything looked immaculate as they would be spending the majority of the holidays at Shane’s childhood home and only really going to the cottage to sleep.

Ilya woke up the morning he was supposed to fly to Ottawa regretting many of his life decisions. About a week prior, there had been a nasty cold working its way through the Boston locker room. Ilya had mentioned it to Shane when he commented that nearly everyone was playing like shit. Shane had immediately freaked out, worrying that Ilya was going to get sick and it was going to disrupt their holiday plans. He started hovering; repeatedly telling Ilya to wash his hands more often, making sure he was taking extra Vitamin-C, drinking orange juice, and trying to tell Ilya to stay away from the infected group as much as he could.

He’d complied so he wouldn’t have to look at the angry kitten look on Shane’s face, but apparently it had been pointless. The second he woke up, he knew he was going to be in for a hell of a day.

His sinuses felt like they were packed full of concrete, his throat felt like he’d spent the last several hours gargling with gravel, and his head was pounding behind his eyes. Ilya tried to huff out a frustrated breath, but it immediately made him double over coughing. He clutched at his throat and his chest as he fought for breath, tears springing to his eyes with the effort.

Ilya immediately knew he was going to have to find some way to hide this from Shane. He didn’t want to see the disappointed look on Shane’s face because Ilya fucked up their holiday plans and he didn’t want to deal with the guilt of being the cause of Shane’s disappointment.

Even though the last thing Ilya wanted to do was get out of bed, he managed to drag himself to his feet and throw his exhausted body into the shower. Thankfully, the hot water managed to loosen some of the congestion. Unfortunately, that meant his nose was streaming down his face. It wasn’t so bad at first since all of the mess was immediately washed down the drain. It became impossible to ignore when the shifting in his sinuses ignited a sharp tickle deep in his nose. He had practically no warning before he was snapping forward at the waist, barely avoiding smacking his head on the shower wall.

“H’JYSZZCHH! ahH’yIISHhhuU! ehH? ehH-EH’TZZSHHuu! Ublyudok!” he groaned, sniffling frantically after the fit. He grit his teeth as he tented both hands over his nose and mouth and blew productively, letting the mess wash down the drain, cringing to himself as a voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Shane muttered, “Gross".

He finished his shower quickly after that, desperately needing a tissue and to dose himself with as much cold medicine as he could before boarding a plane. He shivered as the cool air hit his overheated body and quickly pulled on his warmest sweatpants and a hoodie he’d stolen from Shane, whining softly to himself when he realized he couldn’t smell the traces of his boyfriend through his stuffy nose.

Thankfully, Ilya had the foresight to pack the night before and the only things he needed to shove in his suitcase this morning were his toothbrush and toothpaste. He dropped his duffle bag in the kitchen as he went to rifle through his cabinets for any kind of cold medicine he might still have. He managed to find some liquid Dayquil that wasn’t expired and he downed a bit more than the recommended dose, washing it down with the last dregs of a Coke he had open in the fridge.

Right before he left the house, he pulled out his phone and texted Shane.

Lily 09:47:

            “Leaving the house now. Flight leaves at 11:30. I’ll see you soon. I love you”

Jane 0949:

            “Be safe. I’ll see you soon. I love you too.”

On a whim, Ilya shoved a handful of tissues and cough drops into the pocket of his sweatpants and walked out the door to wait for his cab.

~~~

            Ilya slept through the entire plane ride from Boston to Ottawa but he was still visibly drooping as he got off the plane. Thankfully, since he slept through the entire flight, he wasn’t forced to deal with all of his symptoms in front of the fleet of other passengers, except that meant they all felt exacerbated as he exited the plane. Even through the haze of his cold medicine, he could feel the tickle in his nose buzzing through the wall of congestion and the urge to cough was constantly there. It was only because he kept popping cough drops and drinking water that he wasn’t hacking up a lung as he slipped into the airport bathroom to try and make himself slightly more presentable before he saw Shane. He slipped into a stall to blow his nose, having to quickly stifle a sneeze into the bundle of tissues. Which quickly turned into three. Then six. He stopped counting after that. By the time he finally finished, he was panting and the tissues had become a sodden wad in his hand. He grabbed a handful of toilet paper and blew one more time, managing a squeaking breath through his nose for the first time that day after the effort. He unlocked the stall door, tossed the wad of tissues into the trash, washed his hands, and splashed water on his face before heading out into the parking lot to find Shane.

Shane was waiting in the car for him, wearing a hoodie and a pair of sunglasses so he wouldn’t be recognized. Ilya opened the back passenger door and thew his bags inside before dropping down into the passenger seat with a sigh. Thankfully, Ilya didn’t have to find an excuse not to kiss Shane right then since neither of them would chance it in the airport parking lot.

“How was your flight?” Shane asked once they’d pulled out onto the main road.

“Good. Short.” Ilya muttered, trying to avoid any words that would put his congestion on full display for Shane.

“Good. I can’t wait for you to see the house. Mom did a great job; it’s beautiful. We’re supposed to bake cookies when we get there, too, so they’ll be ready for the weekend.” Shane started, going through the entire list of tasks that were expected of them upon their arrival. Ilya leaned his head back against the headrest as he listened to Shane’s excited rambling. The soft sound of Shane’s voice would’ve been enough to lull Ilya to sleep if he wasn’t in a battle with himself to keep his sniffles to a minimum and his cough under control. He drank so much water on the drive to quell the itch in his throat that he practically had to run inside when they finally arrived to use the restroom.

While he was in the restroom, he splashed more water on his face to try and get rid of the flush that was slowly spreading across his face and down his neck and blew his nose softly.

When he walked out, greeting Yuna and David with a smile and a hug, he saw that Shane was already in the kitchen with a myriad of ingredients in front of him for making cookies. From scratch. Like they’d done since Shane was born. Ilya’s only experience with making cookies in his adult life came in the form of a tube of dough from the grocery store.

Shane quickly began instructing Ilya to mix the dry ingredients together while he dealt with the wet ingredients. Ilya nodded dutifully and grabbed the bag of flour to begin measuring.

That’s about how long he lasted in the kitchen. He measured out the required amount of flour, but when he dumped it into the large mixing bowl, a cloud of the white powder flew up into his face. It immediately sent Ilya coughing and spluttering. He took several steps back away from the food, holding his elbow tight to his face as he fought for breath. He stopped coughing after a moment, but as if the universe had it out for him, he hadn’t even caught his breath before his eyes were fluttering shut as his breath hitched.

“heEH! nNGgtt! – nnGgkT! Hh! nNGT'tshh!” he started, not bothering to lower his arm from his face after the first initial wave, knowing he wasn’t done.

“Bless you, sweetheart.” Yuna muttered, surprised at the reaction from a simple cloud of flour. Ilya just shook his head quickly, trying to signal that he wasn’t finished.

“hhn! nGKT'Chh! Ugh.” Ilya let out a pained moan during the brief reprieve, the effort it took to stifle his sneezes making his head pound even worse.

“Hey, stop that.” Shane muttered softly, coming up behind Ilya and rubbing a reassuring hand between his shoulder blades as his breath continued to catch. Shane’s touch was enough to ground Ilya for the moment, plus he was getting too tired to keep holding them in.

“hhiH! EH! dJJSHHhh! eh’H’TSHhh! hh! yyISHhhhUU!”

By the time Ilya finally finished, he was backed all the way against the cabinets opposite the counter they were baking at, he was panting, his eyes were streaming, and everyone was staring at him, concern written all over their faces.

“Bless you, baby.” Shane mumbled, pressing himself closer to Ilya so he could reach up and swipe the irritated tears off of his cheeks.

“I think, maybe, you should sit out of baking duty. It’s kind of inevitable that you get clouds of all the dry ingredients in the air, and that definitely doesn’t seem to agree with you.” Yuna reasoned, and Ilya nodded eagerly.

“Why don’t we work on this puzzle and watch them bake.” David offered, making Ilya smile softly and nod.

“Sure. Just… first…” Ilya muttered, trailing off as he gestured vaguely to the bathroom and his nose, which was running again after that display.

No one stopped him as he scurried off, embarrassed, to blow his nose. When he returned, his nose was pinker around the edges, but his voice was a bit clearer as he sat down on the couch to help David with the puzzle that was laid out on the coffee table.

Ilya only managed to get a few pieces in before he resorted to watching Shane and Yuna bake in the kitchen. His gaze kept trailing to his boyfriend; content to watch him laughing and happy in the kitchen with his mother. He leaned back on the couch, getting in a more comfortable position to quietly observe, a soft smile on his face.

Ilya didn’t realize he’d dozed off until he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. When his eyes fluttered open, Shane was waving a cookie in his face while he had one in his mouth. Holidays seemed to be the only time that Shane indulged in eating a few sweets, so Ilya wasn’t going to discourage him. He took the cookie from Shane, smiling sleepily up at him as he bit into it.

“Very good.” Ilya mumbled, shoving the whole thing in his mouth when he realized it was still warm and the chocolate chips were still melty. Shane smiled proudly and flopped down next to Ilya on the couch, tugging him closer until Ilya’s head was resting on his chest.

~~~

            After dinner, they all curled up on the couch to watch one of Shane’s favorite Christmas movies that they, apparently, watched every year. Shane had balked at him when Ilya admitted he’d never seen Home Alone and went on an at least ten-minute rant about why Ilya had to see it.

Shane had draped a blanket across their laps and dragged Ilya’s head down to rest on his shoulder so he could run his fingers through Ilya’s curls. Ilya managed to watch the first few minutes of the movie through half lidded eyes until Shane’s fingers in his hair and the lingering exhaustion managed to lull him back to sleep. Shane didn’t notice right away that Ilya had dozed off, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to wake him once he did, even though he’d been so excited for Ilya to experience all of their Christmas traditions. He just continued to run his fingers through Ilya’s hair as he let him sleep.

When the movie finally went off, Yuna and David announced that they were going to bed. Yuna pressed a kiss to the top of Shane’s head as she passed and David ruffled his hair.

“We made up your room for you boys. Just in case.” David commented, gazing pointedly at Ilya, who was still snoring softly on Shane’s chest.

“I think we’ll probably stay tonight.” Shane whispered, gazing down at Ilya, who looked so peaceful he hated to wake him, but they couldn’t sleep on the couch all night. David nodded with a smile before turning to follow his wife.

Once they were alone, Shane gently shook Ilya awake.

“Hey, Ilya. It’s time for bed.” He mumbled softly once Ilya’s eyes fluttered open. He nodded slowly, turning his head to muffle a yawn into Shane’s shoulder. He stood up first and stretched before starting to turn toward the front door, but Shane caught his hand and shook his head. “Let’s just stay here tonight.” He proposed, smiling when Ilya just nodded and turned toward Shane’s room. Shane stood up off the couch and followed him, finding Ilya already pulling back the covers to slide into bed.

That made Shane pause, furrowing his brows curiously. Ilya always wanted to shower before bed after being on a plane. He began to wonder if maybe there was something Ilya wasn’t telling him, especially with how tired he’d been today. Shane didn’t say anything, not wanting to spook him. He just went to quickly brush his teeth before sliding into bed next to Ilya, who was blinking slowly at Shane, like he was already half asleep. Shane leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead.

When he wasn’t met with any unnatural heat, he shook off his suspicions and figured Ilya was just tired from so much traveling and that he’d be fine in the morning.

“I love you.” Shane mumbled softly, leaning back in to brush a gentle kiss to Ilya’s lips.

“I love you, too.” Ilya mumbled, and it was clear that he was barely hanging onto consciousness, because it couldn’t have been more than two minutes since the words left his mouth before he was snoring. Shane grinned down at his adorable boyfriend. He dropped one last kiss to Ilya’s curls before snuggling up to him under the blankets and sighing happily as sleep overtook him.

~~~

The next morning, Shane woke before Ilya and went to help his dad start making breakfast. They were making omelets while Yuna gathered up all of the gifts so they could wrap everything together. They’d been doing it this way since Shane stopped believing in Santa as a child. His parents would put all of the gifts into boxes with whoever it was for written in sharpie on the side and then they would wrap gifts as a family. While father and son were busy cooking, Yuna continuously appeared and reappeared in the living room as she dropped off rounds of packages.

When Ilya finally emerged from Shane’s bedroom, he was still in his sweatpants but he’d pulled on a different one of Shane’s hoodies. He was scrubbing at his eyes and his curls were all over the place.

“Good morning.” Shane greeted brightly, kissing Ilya’s cheek as he passed, smiling softly when Ilya stayed in the kitchen to wrap his arms around Shane’s waist while he cooked, his head resting on Shane’s shoulder.

“Good mborndig.” Ilya mumbled into Shane’s shoulder, making him pause. Ilya’s voice was thick with congestion, which wasn’t necessarily abnormal. The man always woke up stuffy after having broken his nose so many times; but this was different. He sounded sick. Shane furrowed his brows slightly and turned around in Ilya’s arms to kiss his forehead. He felt a little warm but he mostly felt sleep warm, not fever warm. Shane sighed, hoping that if something was wrong, Ilya would come out and say it.

“Breakfast is almost ready. We’re having omelets.” Shane said, watching Ilya’s face for any hint that he didn’t want one. He nodded agreeably and wordlessly went to sit down at the table after retrieving a glass of juice and a ginger ale for Shane.

After their breakfast, it was time to wrap packages. Yuna briefed Ilya on the tradition over breakfast and he seemed excited to participate. They all piled in the floor in a circle with the wrapping paper and bows in the middle. David joined them last after putting on some Christmas music to play over the speakers. They each grabbed a package and a roll of paper and began wrapping.

Shane was still keeping a close eye on Ilya as they wrapped which was how he noticed that Ilya kept sniffling. They were soft, unobtrusive little noises that could barely be heard over the Christmas music, but Shane could also see how Ilya kept pressing the cuff of his sweatshirt against his septum and wrinkling his nose. No one else was paying attention, too wrapped up in their tasks, but Shane was only really watching Ilya. That was also how he noticed when Ilya gasped softly and ducked into the cuff of his sweatshirt. Shane watched as Ilya’s head bobbed eight times as he stifled his sneezes into silence. When he was finally finished, he sniffled softly and shook his head, his curls fluttering around his ears.

He glanced at Yuna and David first to see if they’d noticed. When he decided they hadn’t, his gaze shifted to Shane and he blushed when they locked eyes.

“Are you okay?” Shane mouthed to him, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention. Ilya nodded wordlessly and continued to wrap the present he was working on. When he finished, placing it into the pile with the rest, he stood up, stretched, and retreated to the bathroom. Shane listened carefully to see if he could hear the toilet flush. When he didn’t, but heard the sink turn on, he knew Ilya had gone to blow his nose in private.

He came back and resumed his position, not saying a word to anyone. Shane dropped the matter for the moment, knowing that he was going to circle back later when he and Ilya were alone.

He only lasted about half an hour before Ilya’s soft gasps drew his attention again. His brows were furrowed, his eyes were fluttering shut, and his pink nostrils were flaring wildly as he tucked his head into his shoulder. This time, Shane counted a whopping fifteen head bobs before Ilya practically scrambled up and retreated to the bathroom again.

“Is he okay? He doesn’t seem like himself?” David asked after Ilya’s quick disappearance drew his attention. Shane shrugged, having had enough.

“I’m gonna go check.” Shane said, getting up himself and following Ilya into his childhood bedroom, which was the bathroom he’d disappeared into this time.

As soon as Shane stepped through the door, he could hear Ilya coughing softly through the door before blowing his nose. Shane sighed heavily, silently shutting the door behind him and sitting down on the edge of the bed.

When Ilya emerged, his nose pinker than ever, he froze when he caught sight of Shane, who wordlessly held out his hand to Ilya to tug him down into his lap.

“Ilya, please be honest with me. I can tell you’re not feeling well. I just want you to tell me what’s wrong.” Shane pleaded, gazing at Ilya with open concern. Shane’s arms wrapped around Ilya’s back while Ilya’s hung limply at his sides. He glanced away from Shane, not making eye contact until Shane turned his head back to face him with a finger under his chin. His heart broke when he saw tears shining in Ilya’s eyes. “Baby.” Shane whispered softly, and that’s when Ilya broke.

“I'm sorry. Feel like garbage. Tried so hard not to get sick. Did not want to ruin your Christmas plans. You were so excited. I did not mean to fuck it all up.” Ilya cried into Shane’s shoulder, finally wrapping his arms around Shane, who was holding him tight and rocking him slightly. Shane craned his head back slightly to kiss Ilya’s forehead and, yep, definitely a fever.

“Baby, you haven’t ruined anything. You never could. I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me how you were feeling. I – we just want to look after you.” Shane told him softly, rubbing Ilya’s back as he let out soft, hiccupping sobs into Shane’s shoulder.

“I could not bake with you yesterday, did not even make it through wrapping presents, or your Christmas movie. I ruined everything.” He cried, still not looking up at Shane.

If Ilya’s father could die twice, Shane would be going to prison for murder in the next few hours.

“But you’re here. Spending Christmas with us. With me. That’s all I wanted, Ilya. I wanted you here. Everything else was just a bonus. I wanted you to have a good family Christmas. I didn’t want you to torture yourself and make yourself miserable because you were scared to tell me you were sick.” Shane whispered softly to him, moving one hand up to run his fingers through Ilya’s curls as his sobs tapered off into soft sniffles.

“But…” Ilya started, but Shane shook his head.

“No but’s. That’s the truth. I promise. I just want you here.” Shane adamantly told him, removing both hands to hold Ilya’s face, making him look into Shane’s eyes to see that he was serious. He studied Shane’s expression carefully and, finally, seemed to realize that he was being truthful.

“You promise?” Ilya asked softly, suddenly seeming much younger than he was. Shane smiled up at him and wiped the tears from Ilya’s cheeks with his thumbs before leaning in to kiss the tear tracks.

“I promise.” Shane repeated, then waited until Ilya nodded to continue. “Now, can you tell me how you’re feeling?” he asked softly, still stroking Ilya’s face.

“Stuffy. Head hurts. Throat hurts. Cold. Tired.” He listed, which thankfully just sounded like a bad cold rather than the flu or something worse.

“Okay. Can we give you some medicine? I think you have a fever.” Shane requested, but Ilya shook his head frantically.

“No pills.” He protested, but Shane shushed him softly.

“I know, baby. I know. I can see if we have any liquid medicine, and run to the store if not.” Shane offered, but Ilya shook his head again.

“Don’t want you to leave.” He mumbled, leaning to tuck his face into the crook of Shane’s neck again.

“Okay. What if I do a delivery order? I can get whatever you want, and it’ll come straight here.” Shane suggested next, which seemed to appease Ilya, who nodded, and rolled off of Shane’s lap and onto the bed next to him so he could pull out his phone and scroll through the delivery options.

Once he’d finished putting everything into his cart, he handed the phone to Ilya to look over it. He’d added liquid cold medicine, liquid fever reducer, tea, cough drops, lots of tissues, and some popsicles. Ilya nodded and handed the phone back.

“Okay. It’ll be here in about an hour. Do you wanna take a nap in here?” Shane asked, but Ilya shook his head.

“Don’t want to take you from your parents on Christmas.” He protested, clearly still feeling guilty.

“Okay. Why don’t we go curl up on the couch and watch a movie. They’re probably done wrapping presents by now.” Shane suggested, and Ilya smiled and nodded. Shane stood up and took Ilya’s hand, helping him to his feet before wrapping him in a hug. “I love you.” Shane mumbled, then kissed the side of Ilya’s neck. He felt Ilya droop further into his embrace.

“Ya tebya lyublyu.” Ilya mumbled back, following it up with a heavy sigh as he allowed Shane to lead him back out into the living room.

“Everything okay?” Yuna asked as they piled up on the couch and Shane draped a blanket over their laps. Shane glanced at Ilya, who nodded shyly and let his head drop onto Shane’s shoulder.

“Ilya’s got a little bit of a cold, so I think we’re just gonna rest here for a bit.” Shane said, immediately getting sympathetic looks from both parents.

“Can we get you anything, son?” David asked. Shane felt Ilya smile into his shoulder.

“I don’t think so. I’ve got a pharmacy order being delivered in a little bit.” Shane told them, which seemed to appease them. They both went back to putting the finishing touches on their last few packages and Shane turned to Ilya. “See. Nothing’s ruined. They just want to make sure you’re okay, too.” Shane whispered, kissing the top of Ilya’s head after. He nodded sleepily and gazed up at Shane lovingly, who took the opportunity to press a kiss to the tip of Ilya’s nose. He blushed and wrinkled it in response before ducking down to scrub his nose into Shane’s shoulder when the touch made him itchy.

“Sorry.” Shane apologized, but he was giggling softly when Ilya had to bring both hands up to his face.

“nN’TSCHh! – iiHTSHh!” Ilya grumbled when he finished and poked Shane in the side accusingly.

“Asshole.” He grumbled, while Shane continued to giggle.

“Sois béni.” Shane mumbled while both Yuna and David blessed him in English. The French made Ilya’s entire body flush red hot. “You like it when I speak French?” Shane asked teasingly, still giggling when Ilya nodded shyly. “Je t'aime.” Shane whispered into Ilya’s ear, grinning proudly when it pulled a full-body shiver out of him.

“Shane, stop teasing him.” Yuna admonished, making David chuckle.

“Yes, Shane. Stop being mean to your dying boyfriend.” Ilya added, making everyone laugh.

“You’re not dying, you drama queen.” Shane poked Ilya’s cheek, leaning in to kiss the spot he’d just poked when Ilya grinned.

“Boys, aren’t you supposed to be resting?” David asked, ever the voice of reason.

“I am trying, David. Talk to your other son.” Ilya replied with a pointed sniffle, then another. Shane just rolled his eyes.

They finally managed to sit quietly on the couch and watch Home Alone 2, which made more sense to Ilya after Shane explained the plot of the first, until the doorbell rang, indicating the arrival of Shane’s pharmacy order.

He hopped off the couch to retrieve the bags and came back with his arsenal, including a thermometer he’d pulled out of the kitchen cabinets.

“Under your tongue.” Shane instructed, tapping the underside of Ilya’s chin until he complied. He sat there looking all pathetic with the device under his tongue until it beeped and Shane swiped it from his mouth. “38.3°. Not too bad. Still need some Tylenol.” Shane mumbled as he started to pull items from the bag.

First, he handed Ilya a capful of liquid Tylenol, taking it like a shot. Then, he got a capful of liquid Dayquil and swallowed it down quickly.

“Gross.” Ilya grumbled, giving his head a shake.

“Popsicle?” Shane asked, offering him a neon green one. He nodded happily and took it, crunching down on the ice and sighing happily as it slid down his throat, the cold numbing the pain slightly. Shane tossed a box of tissues onto the couch next to Ilya and finally sat down next to him, draping an arm around his shoulders.

“Shane? I think your father and I are gonna start cooking for tomorrow. You two just hang out on the couch. We’ve got this.” Yuna told them, ruffling Shane’s hair as she passed and leaning down to kiss Ilya’s forehead, humming softly as if she didn’t trust the thermometer. “We may need to rethink the lightshow tonight. If he’s already not feeling well, we don’t need to drag him out in the cold.” Yuna mumbled softly to David as she walked into the kitchen, making Ilya’s head whip around.

“No! Please! I want to go!” Ilya exclaimed, which sent him coughing into his elbow. Shane rubbed circles on his back as he caught his breath and tossed a skeptical look over his shoulder at his parents.

“Ilya, are you sure that’s a good idea? You’re already shivering on the couch; do you really want to sit in the car for an hour with the windows down just to look at some lights?” Shane asked, starting to run his fingers through Ilya’s curls.

“I never had anything like this in Russia. I want to see what your Christmases are like. I will be fine. I promise.” Ilya reassured them all, before flashing Shane his pleading baby blues.

“We’ll see.” Shane finally mumbled after a brief standoff. Ilya seemed appeased at least for the moment and they settled back in to finish the movie.

Normally, Shane would be in the middle of the kitchen, preparing the food for Christmas Day, but he found himself perfectly content to lay on the couch with Ilya, even though he was periodically coughing and sniffling into Shane’s chest. Ilya also finally seemed content, snuggling with Shane and watching Christmas movies even though he felt like garbage.

After a while, the delicious scent of Christmas dinner began to fill the house. It wasn’t long after the smell began permeating that David came into the living room carrying turkey sandwiches.

“Lunch?” he offered, handing a plate to both of them.

“Thank you, dad.” Shane said, taking both and handing Ilya one. “They always do the turkey early and reheat it for lunch the day before. We usually have leftover turkey for Christmas and a fresh ham.” Shane told him.

“Good leftovers.” Ilya mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich. Shane snorted but didn’t say anything as he started eating his own sandwich. David and Yuna joined the pair on the couch with their own sandwiches. They all ate lunch together as they started watching A Christmas Story.

Once Ilya and Shane had finished their lunch, they stretched out on one side of the couch, Shane laying out across the couch with Ilya splayed out on top of him. Their feet were tangled together and Shane reached up to pull the throw blanket from the back of the couch and drape it across Ilya. Ilya sighed happily and tucked his face into the crook of Shane’s neck. It wasn’t long before his breathing evened out and he was snoring softly.

“What’re we thinking about going to see the lights tonight?” Yuna asked softly once Ilya started snoring. Shane hummed softly and turned his head to press a lingering kiss to Ilya’s forehead.

“He’s cooler now with the medicine in him than he was earlier. I think if he feels up to it, we can bundle him up and go.” Shane reasoned, knowing Ilya would be more upset if they didn’t go. He didn’t want Ilya to get worse, but he really didn’t want to see his boyfriend crying again, wracked with guilt over ruining Christmas.

“We can crank the heat up in the car, too. I think he’ll be okay.” David chimed in, smiling at Shane, who sighed in relief.

“Okay. As long as he’s not doing worse when he wakes up, we’ll plan to leave a little after dark.” Yuna stated before getting up, grabbing the lunch dishes and heading back into the kitchen. “Ready to get back to cooking, honey?” she called to David, who nodded and got up to follow her.

Shane sighed and relaxed into the couch, letting Ilya’s warm weight soothe him into an afternoon nap of his own.

~~~

            When Shane woke up, it was to the feeling of a gentle finger tracing lines across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His eyes fluttered open and met Ilya’s bright blue ones. He grinned when he saw that Shane was awake.

“Hi.” Shane mumbled, turning to muffle a yawn into his shoulder.

“Hi. You’re very pretty.” Ilya mumbled, leaning closer to Shane to kiss his freckled cheeks.

“You’re delirious.” Shane teased, lifting a hand to press the back of it against Ilya’s forehead and cheeks. Thankfully, he wasn’t any warmer than he was earlier. “How was your nap?” Shane asked as he pushed himself up into a seated position.

“Good. Ready to see the lights.” Ilya whispered excitedly, his grin lighting up his face.

“You’re sure you’re up for it?” Shane asked, still skeptical as he gazed at Ilya with his pink cheeks and nose. He shot Shane a halfhearted glare.

“Shane, I’m fine. I want to go.” He promised, gazing earnestly at Shane.

“Ugh, fine. If you insist.” Shane muttered teasingly, then turned to glance outside to see that the sun was going down. “It’s probably almost time to go. Let’s get dressed.” Shane said, tugging Ilya up from the couch and leading him to the bedroom.

Shane quickly tugged on a pair of jeans and a hoodie on over his long-sleeved shirt. Then, he began rummaging through their bags. He pulled out a pair of sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt, a hoodie, and a beanie for Ilya.

“This is dramatic.” Ilya muttered as Shane also pulled a pair of fuzzy socks out of a drawer. When Shane shot him a withering glare, Ilya nodded wordlessly and began dressing. He rolled his eyes but he did sit down on the edge of the bed to pull the socks onto his feet. When he stood back up, Shane tugged the beanie down over his curls.

“You are hovering. Like mother hen.” Ilya grumbled, but Shane could see that the corners of his lips were fighting not to turn up into a smile. Shane just grinned then turned to pluck a handful of tissues out of the box on his nightstand and stuffed them into Ilya’s pockets.

“If you get too cold or start feeling bad, we can turn around and come back. Promise me you’ll tell me if you need to come back.” Shane requested, flashing Ilya his best puppy-dog look.

“Yes, I promise. Let’s go.” Ilya grinned excitedly, turning on his heel and heading for the door. Shane rolled his eyes and followed after Ilya, who’d been waylaid in the living room by Yuna, who was looking him over one last time before agreeing to let him out the door.

“One more dose of medicine before we leave, I think.” She said, quickly moving to pour out a dose of both the fever reducer and decongestant. Ilya took them both like a champ before practically skipping out the door.

“Is he always like this?” Yuna asked, her gaze jumping between Shane and the door Ilya had just walked out of.

“Stubborn? Absolutely.” He grumbled, rolling his eyes again before following after Ilya, who was waiting out in the cold by the locked car door. Even though Shane could already hear Ilya sniffling from the cold, he was practically bouncing with excitement on the balls of his feet. “Get in the car! Are you trying to give yourself pneumonia?” Shane grumbled once he’d heard the two beeps of the car doors unlocking. Ilya rolled his eyes and climbed in. Shane settled in behind the driver’s seat and Ilya shimmied himself into the middle seat, pressing himself against Shane’s side.

Before David and Yuna had even made it out of the house, Ilya was frantically fishing one of the tissues out of his pocket.

“heht-tissch’uh! Ihhsch’oo! …hhh? Ihhh’ischhh!” Ilya sniffled frantically and scrubbed his itchy, runny nose into the tissues before doubling over again with a surprise fourth. “eih’yishhshiew!”

He blew his nose quickly to head off any more while Shane rubbed his back.

“Bless you, baby.” Shane mumbled, moving his hand up to give the back of Ilya’s neck a gentle squeeze.

“Fuck. Sorry.” He mumbled, sniffling like he was still itchy. Shane knew him well enough to know that he was probably going to spend the whole light show sneezing. Being cold made his nose run, his nose running made his whole face itch, and any minor irritation tended to make him sneeze his head off.

“We’re still in the driveway. We can still go back inside.” Shane offered one last time, but Ilya was shaking his head before Shane could even finish his sentence.

“Might need more tissues, though.” Ilya admitted, but that was his only indication that anything was wrong. Shane grinned victoriously and pulled a travel pack of tissues out of his own pocket. Ilya grinned bashfully and ducked his head.

“I know you.” Shane replied simply right as David and Yuna climbed into the car. Ilya blushed and snuggled his head into the crook of Shane’s shoulder.

“Ready, boys?” Yuna asked, turning to glance at them before David threw the car into drive and started to pull away. They both nodded and settled in to watch the world go by as they drove toward their destination.

Ilya spent the car ride with his head on Shane’s shoulder, observing as much of the scenery of Shane’s hometown as he could in the dark until, finally, they turned off the main road onto a side road and the world immediately exploded into technicolor. Shane glanced down at Ilya to see that he’d lifted his head and was gazing at the lights with a childlike innocence. His mouth was slightly open in both disbelief and necessity, and Shane could see the colorful lights reflected in Ilya’s eyes.

Yuna began messing with the radio until she got to the right station to correspond with the light show, and cheery Christmas music filled the car.

“Ilya, honey, we’re rolling the windows down now. If you get cold, tell us and we’ll turn the heat up.” Yuna said as David pressed the buttons to roll all 4 windows down. Ilya nodded blankly as he continued to stare at the lights.

Although this was one of Shane’s favorite traditions, this year, he spent his time watching Ilya instead of the lights. He would mouth along to the words of some of the Christmas songs he recognized as they came on the radio and he kept his head on the swivel so he wouldn’t miss any of the lights.

“How do they do that?” Ilya finally asked after a particularly intricate display where the lights danced around to the beat of the song on the radio.

“I have no idea. I’ve always wondered that, too.” David chimed in from the front seat as they creeped along behind the line of cars ahead of them.

“It is beautiful.” Ilya mumbled softly and Shane couldn’t help but lean in and press a soft kiss to his forehead. “Thank you for bringing me.” Ilya whispered, gazing up at Shane.

Shane wanted nothing more than to shrink Ilya down and carry him around in his pocket. Sometimes, he couldn’t believe this huge, normally stoic, Russian hockey player had the capacity to be so cute.

Thankfully, Ilya’s cold symptoms seemed to be held at bay by all of the clothing Shane had bundled him up in coupled with Shane’s body heat and the heat blasting through the car. He did have to keep a few tissues clutched in his hand to swipe at his runny nose and to muffle the occasional, “heht-tissh’uh!” when the cold air became too much for him, but thankfully he was able to stay warm enough to avoid any full-fledged fits.

When they got home, Shane immediately shoved Ilya into a warm shower while he helped his parents make hot cocoa. When Ilya emerged in clean sweatpants and one of Shane’s hoodies, curls dripping, they all piled onto the couch under blankets to watch The Santa Clause.

Ilya managed to stay awake through the entire movie, even though he started blinking sleepily at the screen about halfway through. Once it was over and everyone had finished their drinks as well as a few cookies, it was almost midnight and, therefore, time to retire to bed. David carried the mugs to the kitchen and Yuna took the dirty plates while Shane pulled Ilya to his feet.

“Night boys. We’ll see you in the morning. Merry Christmas.” David called from the kitchen since he’d started rinsing the dishes before placing them in the dishwasher. Yuna made her way over to the two boys, wrapping Shane in a hug and whispering something in his ear before moving on to Ilya.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” She whispered to Ilya as she wrapped him in a hug as well and kissed his forehead. “Feeling any better?” she asked, unable to resist mothering him.

“Much better. Thank you. Merry Christmas, Yuna.” Ilya whispered, trying not to tear up from the motherly display he’d missed so much.

“Goodnight, boys.” She told them both as they turned to head to Shane’s room.

Once they were behind closed doors, Shane wrapped Ilya in a tight hug, where he let out a huge yawn into the crook of Shane’s neck.

“Sleepy?” Shane asked softly as he ran gentle fingertips across Ilya’s back.

“Mmhm. And happy. Thank you for sharing this with me.” Ilya mumbled, pulling back slightly from the hug only so he could wrap his arms around Shane’s shoulders. They stood in the middle of Shane’s childhood bedroom, swaying slightly from side to side.

“Thank you for letting me.” Shane replied, pushing himself up slightly on his toes to press a kiss to Ilya’s forehead before planting a lingering kiss to his lips.

“You are wanting me to give you my cold for Christmas?” Ilya teased, but he didn’t pull back from where his grin was pressed against Shane’s mouth.

“I want to kiss my boyfriend on Christmas.” Shane reasoned, making Ilya’s entire body flush hot and he ducked bashfully into Shane’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get another dose of medicine into you and go to bed.” Shane instructed, giving Ilya’s back a pat before pulling away to go dose out the medicine. Ilya just nodded and joined Shane in the bathroom. He quickly swallowed down both capfuls then brushed his teeth side-by-side with Shane.

He whipped his hoodie off before crawling into bed but held his arms out for Shane to snuggle into when he fell into bed next to Ilya so he could steal his body heat.

They laid nose-to-nose for a bit, just breathing each other in.

“Merry Christmas, mon bien-aimé.” Shane whispered, tucking a stray curl behind Ilya’s ear. Predictably, he flushed a pretty pink at Shane’s use of French, but quickly steeled himself.

“Merry Christmas, dorogoy.” Ilya replied, leaning in to press a lingering, sweet kiss to Shane’s lips before nuzzling into his chest, tucking his head under Shane’s chin, and wrapping his arms tightly around Shane’s torso. “Ty luchshee, chto kogda-libo sluchalos so mnoy.” Ilya muttered into Shane’s chest.

Shane had been working on his Russian, but he wasn’t quite that advanced. He knew, though, that Ilya liked to express his more vulnerable thoughts in Russian. This time, Shane gave him a pass and didn’t ask for him to translate. He could tell by the tone of Ilya’s voice that whatever he’d said was something incredibly sappy that would probably bring Shane to tears.

Shane craned his neck down to kiss the top of his head, nuzzling his nose into Ilya’s curls and sighing contently. He began trailing his fingers up and down Ilya’s back, letting the rhythmic movement of his hand lull them both to sleep.

Shane hated that Ilya hadn’t been feeling well for their first Christmas together, but here, wrapped up in the arms of his love, he couldn’t help but feel like this had already been the best Christmas of his life. He fell asleep with a smile on his face at the thought that it wasn’t even over yet.

Translations:

Ublyudok - Motherfucker

Ya tebya lyublyu - I love you

Sois béni - Bless you

Je t'aime - I love you

Mon bien-aimé - My beloved

Dorogoy - Sweetheart

Shane ran his thumb back and forth across the bottom of his phone, staring at Ilya's contact, debating calling. He had only a few minutes before he'd need to head into the arena for the game and he would really like his anxiety level by then to be about half of what it was now.

When they'd spoken last night, Ilya had mentioned having a pretty bad headache, half his face scrunched up against the dim light of the lamp he seemed to have turned on only to talk to Shane, two fingers rubbing incessantly at his temples. He'd been sniffly too, although he was almost always at least a little sniffly, and it hadn't taken either of them very long to connect the dots to a flu that was making the rounds in their conference, principally because of the fact that a good quarter of the Centaurs were currently out with it.

So the fact that Shane couldn't get him to reply to a text currently was more than a little worrying. The last three texts he'd sent- “Ilya. Ilyaa. ILYA.”- had been more than 30 minutes ago, and the blond hadn't so much as read them.

Shane glanced over his shoulder into the back of the car, checking he had everything he'd need this evening. Nope, clearly he didn't because there wasn't a gorgeous blond Russian man curled up asleep there. Not that he’d feel particularly good about leaving his probably sick boyfriend in the fucking car while he amused himself on the ice for a few hours. Which is what this game would be, amus-

The phone buzzing in his hand came as such a shock that he almost dropped it, head whipping back to the device to read the notification.

LILY: whatttttt

LILY: I am alive

He sighed in relief, double checking the time before typing out a quick response.

YOU: Ok good. Stay that way. I love you. Keep me updated on how you’re doing, please.

And then with a click, the phone was off, and he was hopping out of the car to grab his bags, the pre-game adrenaline already starting to flood into his system. Kit? Check. Boyfriend? Alive. Win? Incoming.

…

He didn’t get a chance to check his phone again until after warm-ups, having been the mostly unwilling mediator in a stupidly heated debate about if it would be better to be reincarnated as a hockey puck or a stick. These guys seriously had too many concussions under their belts.

Despite the extended departure from his phone, it hadn’t been that long, and Shane was borderline alarmed to find he had more text messages than his lock screen would provide a specific number for, having resorted to a simple “10+”.

He unlocked the device, scrolling through to see a plethora of short messages from Ilya.

LILY: i love you toooo

LILY: update- doing ok

LILY: update- still doing ok

LILY: update- drinking water

LILY: update-lost fucking tv remotw

LILY: update- found

And so on. For over 30 messages. Some of them Shane couldn’t decipher however, either due to misspellings or Romanized versions of Russian words that he couldn’t quite translate. One however, appeared many times over.

LILY: update- chikh

LILY: update- stolko chikhhhh

Shane frowned.

YOU: I’m glad you’re okay. What is ‘chikh’?

Ilya read the text immediately.

LILY: timing is crazy. you are psychic?

LILY: is like spxhhi

What the fuck did that mean?

“Hollander! He’s making the stupid tape point again, you gotta come tell him he’s wrong!” Fuck.

With an anxious glance back to the still bouncing ‘typing’ bubbles, Shane tossed his phone back into his stall and returned to his captain duties.

…

He hadn’t had a spare second to consider what the last messages had meant in the whole of the first period, their opponents coming out strong and not letting up the entire time. A stupid fight had left them shorthanded, and Shane was so focused on not letting the disadvantage tip the score, that he’d forgotten all about his boyfriend’s ‘condition’ until he was lining up for a face off, flying high off the relief of a goal.

His stick clicked against the ice, and he kept his eyes down, uninterested in meeting the opposing center’s fiery hot gaze. Before the puck could drop, he heard Hayden, off to his left, say, “The fuck are you doing, dude?”, and then a sound that snapped his attention across to the wing.

“hEh…Kkf- hUhTNGKk! hhUh…hHTNGXhoo!”

It seemed that the illness that had the Centaurs flat on their backs was also running rife through the Raiders. So it would have gotten Ilya even if he hadn’t move- Oh, fuck, Ilya! He was watching, probably, although how much of the actual game he was taking in with the distraction of his symptoms was anyone’s guess. And the symptoms themselves, echoing through his empty house, no one to acknowledge them, acknowledge him… it was a tragic mental image. Or at least that was what he was forcing himself to think. Because he’d give anything to be a fly on the wall in that house right about-

Head still tilted to the left, eyes distant, stick hovering nowhere particularly useful, Shane, unsurprisingly lost the face-off. Fucking-

He turned fast, sharp, anger and embarrassment creating a flush high on his cheeks, ready to give chase. Thankfully, the defense had closed ranks behind him, and, with their right winger still flagging, Boston had lost possession.

After thirty seconds of what was essentially just keep-away, and Shane glaring hard at the puck, and the players around him, and trying to stay focused, he was heading back to the bench, turning to Hayden as they sat down, seeing the frown on the winger’s face.

“Sorry.” He muttered.

“Huh?” Pike looked like he’d been pulled from deep thought, “For what?”

“I fucked up the puck drop.” He confessed, shocked that the alternate captain hadn’t already picked him up on it.

Hayden reached for the nearest bottle, skying the liquid into his mouth as he stared absently at the jumbotron, swallowing before responding, “It’s no big deal, we can’t win ‘em all, right?”

“…right.” He doubted that he’d take the same attitude to the game itself, so he needed to get it together. They all did. For the love of fuck, Coach had better yell some sense into them at intermission, or they’d be losing to a team of invalids who would probably pass along this flu for their trouble.

…

Trudging into the locker room at what barely remained a 1-1 draw, Shane felt his heart rate pick up, knowing he’d get to answer those questions that had been building up in his mind ever since he’d lost half his focus to his boyfriend just over halfway through the period. Nowhere near the ice and still stealing his attention. Remind him not to tell Ilya that when he saw him.

“He literally sneezed like, right in my face, I mean, can you believe that?” Hayden was still complaining as they made it to their stalls.

“Yeah- or, no, that’s wild.” The captain was more focused on retrieving his phone and checking for updates, stripping off the unnecessary layers one handed as he unlocked it.

“I think that counts as biological warfare, for real. I hate that dude. I think I’m starting to get the way you feel about Rozanov.”

“What?” He looked up, having been just about to click on the aforementioned player’s contact when his name was voiced.

Pike looked slightly taken aback by the speed with which he’d met his eyes. Well, he wasn’t exactly known for his love of eye contact at the best of times. He actually couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked into Hayden’s. “I’m just saying, who does that? Like yeah, he looked really pathetic about it afterwards, but like, cover your face, man. I almost feel sorry for him, but instead it’s just like pure…hatred.”

“Yeah.” You keep telling yourself that, buddy.

As Hayden considered his ‘hate’ for the opposing winger more quietly, Shane finally opened the message thread, and started back up where he’d left off.

LILY: I type wrong

LILY: still chikh

LILY: can not see

LILY: *apchhi

LILY: apchhi! apchhi! you know?

LILY: you know bc I do all fucking summer

Shane’s eyes went wide.

“You okay, man?” Hayden nudged him, lightly, but Shane almost dropped his phone all the same.

“Yeah, I- sorry, I have to take a call.” He headed out into the hallway, eyes skimming back over the messages. No way Ilya was…live texting him his fucking sneezes?

…

It had taken him a good minute to get his breathing under control enough to hit call on the contact and even as it rang, he found himself leaning back against the wall of the corridor to try and stop his head from spinning.

“Hello?” Ilya’s voice was destroyed, so muffled and broken that it sounded like the phone line was bad. Which it wasn’t because he could hear the TV playing commercials in perfect clarity in the background.

“Hi. I uh, just finished the first period.” He knows that, dumbass, he’s watching the game.

“I know.”

“Some of the stuff you were saying, I couldn’t understand it, so I just wanted to call and check you’re okay.”

“I am good. What couldn’t you understand?” He broke off to cough throatily away from the receiver.

“The um-” It was slightly easier, saying it in a different language, if he was saying what he thought he was saying, that was. “-the ‘chick’ thing?”

“Oh, chikh. I explain already, Shane, is like- wait. I will do for you.”

He would fucking WHAT?

There was a snorting sound on the other end of the line, and then some kind of soft tapping noise. Shane waited silently, breath baited.

“hH-here I go-hKk! Kkh! hHKSH! KKh! hKSHuH! hrRSH! HRSHH! hhAHSHhOo!”

“Bless you.” He whispered, pressing his back against the wall in the corridor as though he could disappear into it, stomach flipping so intensely he worried it would get caught in his ribs somehow. Why did the idea of Ilya doing…that… on purpose make him feel like he was about to pass out?

“Thank you. How you not understand, though? I spell it out and everything.”

“You said ‘apchi’. That’s not a sneeze.” He hissed. If he framed it like an argument, he could ignore the words coming out of his mouth, right?

“What is it in English then?” Ilya sounded less than bothered, vaguely interested but also like his real focus was elsewhere.

Shane clenched his jaw, heartbeat thudding in his ears at the thought of having to verbalise the stupid sound, “It’s like… it’s like ‘achoo’.” He wished for the ground to open up and swallow him.

“What? Who the fuck says ‘a-choo’? That’s stupid.”

“You literally did five seconds ago.”

“No, I didn’t.” He paused, evidently playing back the sounds he’d just made, in his head before conceding. “Is because I spend so long listening to idiot Americans and Canadians doing this, now I sound like idiot too.”

“Fuck off.” Shane pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to get his thoughts and his heartbeat and his dick under control. The idea of the sound of a sneeze being contagious… he could only hope Ilya hadn’t caught that strangled sounding thing that he’d just heard from their winger. “I have to go now.”

“Okay, I keep you updated.” There was a clear smile in his tone, and it did nothing to help the snowballing panic that was overwhelming the Canadian. Ilya was taking over his fucking brain, and he needed that to play. Not everyone did, clearly, but for him hockey was a mind game, which kind of necessitated showing up with your mind there in your skull and not over a hundred kilometres away with its metaphorical dick out, laser focused on your secret, sickly, so so sexy, boyfriend.

He’d walked about five steps down the corridor when his ringtone rang out again.

LILY: update- finish tissue box

Oh, god, this was actually going to be the death of him.

…

During one of the previous flu outbreaks in the league, the Metros had started a policy where they’d take all the players temperatures before they hit the ice; warmup, first period, second, third, like clockwork, and Shane was exceedingly glad that they weren’t doing that now- not that they’d ever actually scratched anyone based on the results- because he was full of a fire that was part anger part lust, and that had beads of sweat rolling down his face before he even had his gear all the way back on.

He considered the feeling while benched between shifts, the furnace-like heat in his chest, making every breath feel hot enough to start melting the ice- he was almost sure he could feel his mouthguard turning soft and pliable between his teeth- and then that tightening feeling slightly higher up than the fire, like a rope being pulled taught, like at the slightest slash of a blade, it would snap. And he wasn’t sure what snapping would involve, but it would almost definitely end with him in the penalty box or back in the dressing room, regretting the entire night.

On autopilot, he stood as the receding line approached the bench, vaulting the boards and hunting down the puck, focused, ruthless, ready. He took possession, finding Pike and passing to free himself of the three Raiders who’d immediately descended upon him the second his skates hit the ice- clearly their intermission speech had involved the instruction ‘stay on Hollander’- trying to find space to receive it back.

Before he could make the pass, Hayden disappeared into a sea of white and gold as the puck got trapped against the boards. Shane joined the mass of players, trying to get eyes on the puck, and his winger, whom he couldn’t actually see among the taller Raider players.

Normally he’d leave this stupidity to happen on the other side of the ice, while he found a nice open area, ready to receive or intercept depending on who came out in possession, but right now he could not be left alone with his thoughts for the amount of time that that might take. So here he was.

His thoughts, as he realised belatedly, one weak swipe in the puck’s direction in, did not wait politely outside of the huddle, they clung to him with sharp, spiteful grips, and at the slightest invitation, would most certainly be taking back over his mind. He was surrounded by Raiders, and, right as the group shifted, and his balance was thrown, pressing him against the player to his left, said player sniffled pretty urgently and muttered a curse word in what definitely sounded like Russian. And even though he knew it wasn’t Ilya, and he could have turned to stare into the idiot’s face to confirm that, had he so wished, he froze, a shiver running down his spine, mouth going dry and gaze going distant as his mind ran away with him for a moment- Ilya draped over his back like a blanket, sniffling in his ear while he made lunch for the two of them, Ilya trying to speak through his typical early morning fit and cursing his nose out as it interrupted him, Ilya pressed against him in a hotel elevator, heat radiating off of him as he breathed noisily through his mouth, accent tinting each exhale-

The puck was freed. The puck had been freed somewhere close to four full seconds ago, and here Shane still was, staring at his own reflection in the glass, seeing someone entirely different. Once again cursing his own imagination, and his lack of concept of time passing, he spun, barely a millisecond behind the player ahead of him, but several crucial seconds behind the one in possession, opting to sprint rather than bother to push off and try to pick up speed, making it out to center ice just in time to see the flash of a stick and the crack of impact and then be promptly deafened by the goal horn. Fucking great work.

Shane never noticed it before, but the sound effect that played in the Metro’s arena when the opposing team scored had this ‘ding’ to it that kind of sounded like a phone notification. Like his phone notification. And as he was skating back to the bench, face blank, head down, all he was thinking about was his phone lighting up over and over in his bag in the locker room with notifications of every single development in his boyfriend’s illness. Every cough, every noseblow, every sneeze. He felt like he was visibly flinching every time the sound repeated, because it was definitely making his heart skip a beat each time. How quickly was it possible to become conditioned by a noise? He was pretty sure he had either just broken a record or at the very least tied that dog with the fucking bell. At least the dog actually got its food, while he was just imagining the reward- there was definitely something seriously wrong with getting gratification from your boyfriend’s flu symptoms right?

“Hey, game’s not over yet.” JJ clapped him on the back as he passed by.

In lieu of responding ‘get your fucking hands off me, I’m too fucking riled up to deal with this shit’. Shane nodded silently, following him through the door and slumping down on the bench, pretending not to notice how that impact felt as it jarred through him.

The jumbotron, which he’d glanced up at as a distraction, kindly displayed a shot of the opposing bench, players grinning and banging their sticks against the boards, and on the edge of frame, a player with his head down, apparently emptying his sinuses into a towel, glancing up, massaging his nose, and flushing when he saw himself on the screen.

Shane swallowed dryly, gratefully accepting the water bottle as it came his way and taking several gulps as though it would cleanse him of the endless temptation towards distraction that this game had apparently decided to present.

…

Period two had stayed 2-1, both teams starting to flag slightly, the Raiders, it seemed, out of pure exhaustion, and the Metros falling apart as their first line went to pieces for no apparent reason. Shane had made his way back to the locker room with his head down, not even attempting to offer the rest of the team any words of encouragement, because deep down, he knew he was the problem. Or, one of them at least. Pike was inexplicably all over the place, too, missing passes, and almost falling face first over the boards as he hopped over for one shift, not to mention the attempt to pull Drapeau that had seen the goaltender head halfway to the bench and then immediately have to sprint- or as close as he could get to it- back to the crease to field away a shot.

Shane, against his better instincts, dropped down into his stall and unlocked his phone. Maybe if he could just check what Ilya had said, he wouldn’t spend the entire time thinking about it, right? He’d know for sure, and then he could stop imagining things.

The latest two (or really three) messages, though, stopped him in his tracks.

LILY: Voice message. 00:41

LILY: did not mean send that 🫵

LILY: *👍

What the fuck could be in this voice note? Oh, this was a hundred times worse than just not knowing what the texts said. He wasn’t about to pull out his headphones and listen to what very well might be actual fucking audio porn in the middle of the damn locker room. But there was… another option…

Unconsciously gritting his teeth as though the button had a fifty-fifty chance of exploding the entire planet, Shane clicked ‘view transcription’.

0:05 stop

0:08 [Music]

0:13 harsh

0:14 [Music]

0:15 fight it

0:16 his shoe

0:22 oh wait

0:24 Shane

0:25 I do not mean to do this

0:27 what the fuck is

0:32 okay I don’t know what it is doing

0:34 how do I delete

0:36 ha I send you this as update

0:39 so you know what I am doing

0:41 okay love you miss you bye

An accidental voice note, then, so it wouldn’t necessarily be too…salacious. But his eyes were drawn to the notation at 16 seconds, reading it over and over in his mind, considering how it sounded…

“Hollz.” The voice in his ear was unexpectedly quiet, and he looked up into Hayden’s wide, focused eyes. “Is everything alright?”

“Uh-” Shane struggled to adjust to the conversation, feeling like the untoward thoughts in his brain were visible in his eyes, audible at the close distance, obvious to anyone who even glanced his way. But no one knew. No one knew what this was. What he was. “-yeah.”

“You sure, bud? You look pretty stricken there, and you have every time you’ve touched your phone tonight. Is someone in your family sick or something?”

What a fucking question Hay’. Yeah, he considered Ilya a part of his family now, even if it wasn’t something that he could really declare to anyone beyond the man himself, and his own parents, and yes he was sick, but… “It’s kinda complicated.”

“Okay, well you know, if there’s anything you need, or you wanna talk about it…”

“Thanks.” He was standing before he’d even really processed the desire to leave. “I’ll be back.”

Hayden nodded, with this disquieting look of ‘understanding’ on his face. Shane grabbed his headphones from his bag and walked quickly towards the door. He’d made it a single step into the corridor when he heard JJ’s voice from behind him,

“Where the fuck is the capitaine running off to again? We are falling apart here, people!”

And Pike’s response, “Shut the fuck up Boiziau.”

…

Shane was fumbling the earbuds into his ears before he’d even shut the door of the bathroom stall, fingers hovering over the play button the moment he’d realised he was alone, breath coming in embarrassingly urgent little puffs as the various combatant feelings within him swelled to a crescendo, heart thumping so loudly in his ears he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear whatever this turned out to be.

He slammed the bolt across, leaning against the wall and not even bothering to try and calm himself down this time- he had like no time at all before he’d have to be back out there, and he needed every single second of that time for calming himself down AFTER he’d listened to it.

With a final strangled-sounding attempt at a deep breath, his thumb came down on the screen and his ears were filled with static. And then-

“hKk! Kkh! KSH!” Oh this was exactly what he’d hoped and dreaded it would be.

“Stop.” Ilya pleaded with, apparently himself, in the recording, to no avail, “hKSH! KSHH! hhih… hKSH! hh… hhAHSHh! KSH! KXSH! hRSHH! Khvatit. Ple-hihh… hhIHSHOo!”

Shane shuddered, the sweat-drenched material of his compression shirt sticking to the tiled wall he was leaning against, almost holding him up. Ilya panted, loud and unrestrained in his ears, catching his breath. The Canadian shut his eyes, imagined the blond’s head pressed against his chest as he recovered, pressed his hand there just to make it feel a tiny bit more real.

“Oh, wait.”

He let his hand drop again, pressing his damp palm against the cool tile, trying to regulate his body temperature a little.

“Shane?”

The brunet pretended that his heart hadn’t just ejected itself from his chest to sit disobediently in his mouth, leaving an aching, unappeasable pit of desire in its place, at the sound of his name. God, he couldn’t last another second without him, right now. He couldn’t play without him, couldn’t live without him, couldn’t- apparently he couldn’t stand without him either, as his legs crumpled beneath him and he fell to his knees on the floor, eyes opening to stare up into that unyielding gaze, that stony expression that so poorly hid his boyfriend’s adoration for him now that he’d seen it fall so many times, that face, of the man he loved. And he saw only ceiling tiles, harsh lighting, the cold empty walls of the room he’d locked himself in to let down walls of his own. The prison of his own making.

“I do not mean to do this.” Ilya inadvertently apologised for the false hope the audio had given his boyfriend, brow somehow audibly furrowed as his voice got closer to the phone.

“What the fuck is-?” He was silent for a moment and then, “Okay, I don’t know what it is doing. How do I delete?”

More silence, and then, in stark contrast, giggling. “I send you this as update-” He broke off laughing again, the sound wheezing faintly in his chest as he struggled for breath, “-so you know what I am doing.” His voice was playful, but there was nothing lucid about it.

“Okayyy.” Ilya stretched the word out long, like they were on the phone and he didn’t want to be the one to hang up. Shane told himself that the sheen over his eyes was from staring into the ceiling lights, and blinked it away. “Loveyoumissyoubye!” He half-yelled, all as one word, and then there was a slight popping sound and the audio came to an end.

Shane took a shaky breath in, checked how much time he had left, and started to respond.

YOU: Bless you. The voice note was cute, even if it was an accident.

YOU: Do you know if you have a fever?

And then he typed, and promptly deleted, ‘I want to leave the arena right now and drive straight to Ottawa. I want to fucking hold you, I want to fucking fuck you, I want to devour you.’ He swallowed, watching the letters disappear again. No, there was definitely a less aggressive way to say that.

YOU: I love and miss you too.

…

The next hour had passed so quickly, he wasn’t sure it had happened at all, a blur of adrenaline and ice and yelling, and drinking unthinkable amounts of electrolytes as though that would help the time pass quicker, and staring at the clock, and scoring- nice- and then back to a blur again.

Shane took his post game interview- shot from the collarbones up essentially- rhythmically clenching his gloved hands into fists and then flexing them all the way out again, out of sight of the camera, while he gave some pointless answers that really could have been supplied by any of the other players’ kids just as well as they were by the captain.

“What the fuck did he ask you?” Pike had called after him as he’d walked in, already half stripped down, sorted his gear from his jersey and his compression clothes at an eyebrow raising speed- or so he gathered from the look on the winger’s face as he turned- and headed straight for the showers.

“The usual shit!” He’d yelled back, clearly not answering the underlying question- ‘why are you so pissed off?’ and throwing himself under the nearest free jet of water.

Having deftly dodged all other responsibilities for the night, he was now speedwalking out of the building, and navigating to Ilya’s contact, heart rate picking up again at the realisation that he’d made it, he was free from the purgatory of a game that he really should have been enjoying, and now he was-

“H’lo?”

“I’m coming to see you.” He delivered the words forcefully, no room for argument.

“Ok-ehhKk! KKh! hKSH! KSH! KSHUh! hAHKSHh! WhoahH…hKSH! hrRSH! hRRSHHOo!”

“Bless you.” This response was softer, spoken more closely to the receiver, and his fast pace across the parking lot faltered too, mental resolve weakened by the audio display of weakened physical resolve he’d been presented with.

“Thank you.” A thud.

“Are you okay?”

Ilya moaned. “Remote fell. I think I sleep through end of game.”

“Did I wake you?” He was fumbling for his keys, trying to force himself to visualise the inside of his bag pockets rather than the sweet, sleepy expression that was probably gracing his boyfriend’s face right now.

“Yeah.” The Russian’s voice broke on the single word, and he broke off coughing, not moving away from the phone, though Shane could hear him shifting his position on the couch.

He finally managed to find his keys and unlocked the car, jogging the final few steps, opening the back passenger side door and shoving his bag in before slamming it shut again and rounding the vehicle towards the driver’s side like he was trying to outrun a hoard of zombies. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to let you know I was on my way.”

“’S good.” The blond was whispering now, whether because his throat hurt, his voice was gone entirely, or he was simply too tired to make any effort to speak louder, Shane couldn’t discern. “I look forward to meeting you.”

“What?” When he was really out of it, but still coherent enough to retain some English, he’d noticed that his boyfriend seemed to revert to textbook phrasing, sentences he’d probably had drilled in before anything else, and they’d stuck. That was his theory for the overly formal blessing habit, too. And he wouldn’t change that for the world, no matter what it did to him.

“Love you.” Ilya continued, “Have a driving license.” From the tone he could only assume he meant something along the lines of ‘have a safe drive’ , but the first collocation that had come to mind for ‘driving’ was ‘license’. The man really was full of linguistic phenomena.

“L-” He began to reply, only to be abruptly cut off.

“hKk! KKh! hKSH! Kkh! hKSHUh! hKSHooh!” Cutee, why was there no ‘record’ button on phone calls for moments like this? He could have gotten weeks of teasing out of this clip, and months of… other amusement. “hhiHKSHh! KSHUh! huAHSXHh-ugh.”

“Bless you.” He winced slightly at the sound of that last one, “Love you. See you later.”

“Loooove you.” Ilya coughed, what sounded like the start of a whole fit, but put the phone down before he could hear it get to that point.

They’re all named stupid English shit he can barely translate or pronounce in the small text on the bottle, like Tropical Oasis or Sandalwood Breeze or Mountain Escape, so he doesn’t even know what’s in the shit that makes him so miserable. He just knows that, at any given hotel, there’s about a 25% chance that whatever tiny little bottles they have innocently sitting in the shower are going to set him off like crazy. (Alright. 33%.)

And, hey. A 25% 33% chance isn’t all that bad considering how badly he feels the need to wash the sweat and grime of the game off his body. And, honestly, it hadn’t happened in a while. Maybe he should’ve taken that as a sign that his luck was running out. 

About 45 seconds after Ilya pops the small cap open and starts rubbing the bubbly body wash across his skin, he feels that tell-tale prickle high in his left nostril. The sensation is so sudden, it forces a suprised cough from his lungs as his eyes start to squint shut and his nose scrunches up of it’s own accord. 

“Ah, mohhtherfuck--khih! iH! ihH’dDZSSHH!--hEH! eEH’DJZSHHhuu! hh’dyISHHhuu!”

Somehow, though the echoing sound of himself bouncing around the ceramic walls of the shower, he hears muffled rustling outside the bathroom door. 

“Fucking hell, again, Roz?”

Ilya has the sense through this fit to roll his eyes at this. (And then promptly sneeze again.) Cliff has, unfortunately (and embarrassingly) been there for many of Ilya’s nose’s tantrums, especially considering they’re always rooming together on the road. 

As mortifying as it can be (like in this moment), Ilya’s grateful it’s him. Marlow’s always been kind to him, seeking him out to start conversation, and always seeming to have a sense of when Ilya’s not quite understanding something. He doesn’t make a big deal of it, which Ilya appreciates. With Marlow’s boisterous, loud kindness, they’ve started a friendship fairly quickly. 

“Ah, yes, SehhH?! H’JYSZZCHH! Serenity Mist. Of c-course, I know I am ahH! ahH’yIISHhhuU! snf! allergic to thing named Serenity Mist. How could I forget?” Ilya yells out sarcastically, his accent reverberating across the bathroom. Well, he hoped the sarcasm came across through the non-stop sneezing. 

“That’s why you look at the ingredients on the back, rook!” 

Ilya does not have the time, energy, or breath at this moment to explain to Cliff that one, he was not thinking hard enough to remember that; two, he’d be lucky if he knew one English word on that ingredient list; and three, he doesn’t even know what the hell’s in this shit that he’s allergic to. So, he just sneezes in response. 

A knock at the bathroom door cuts through the noise of his sneezing and the running water. He hears the door crack open and blinks his tears away to see Marlow’s large arm sticking through, holding a white bar of soap. 

They’ve done this exact music and dance (he knows he’s not using that one right) so many times, it’s routine. Ilya thinks at this point, Marlow probably brings an extra bar of soap just for him. He’s not going to think too deeply into the warmth that idea spreads through his chest. 

Scrubbing roughly at his nose with one hand, his other hand opens the shower door, letting a fresh, cool breeze of air in to scatter goosebumps across his skin. Ilya steps out carefully, droplets of water skittering down his body, leaving little puddles as he pads towards the door. 

His nose just can’t help itself, though, especially with the new addition of cold air making his sinuses shiver. “ehH? hiH’JZZSHHuU! hh! DSHHhU!--ehH-EH’TZZSHHuu!” His head snaps down as he shudders through a desperate trio of sneezes, pointedly directed away from Marlow’s arm outstretched in front of him. 

“If that was your snot on my arm, Roz, I’m going to kill you,” 

“Fuck off. Is not snot. Just water. And Serenity Mist soap, maybe”

He hears Marlow’s deep, booming laugh over the sound of the still-running water. “Fuckin’ Serenity Mist. I’m starting a list so you don’t forget, that’s goin’ at the top,” 

Ilya rolls his eyes. Marlow himself will forget to even start said list, he’s sure. “snf! Thanks,” Ilya lets out, grabbing the bar from his hand. 

“Gotcha, man. Got Claritin, medicine out here for you, too, once you’re done,” 

“I do not--”

“--Take pills, I know. It’s the liquid kind. Figured I should find some after the last time you decided to suffer through a 12-hour allergy attack instead of taking any meds,” 

Ilya doesn’t know how to respond in a way that doesn’t reveal that Marlow’s simple gesture is just about the nicest thing someone other than Svetlana’s done for him in a long time. Good thing his nose takes over for him. 

“EH! yYISSHHhhUU!”

“Jeeesus, rook, I get it. Go wash all that stuff off, quick, you’re hogging the good water,”

What Marlow means by ‘the good water’, Ilya’s got no idea. And he doesn’t think this is an weird English thing, he thinks it’s a weird Marlow thing. 

“Yes, fine, going,” He huffs out, shutting the door and shuffling back in the shower. And, if he’s not as much bothered by all the sneezing after that, well, maybe he’s learned he just needs a good Marlow to take care of him help him out during these reactions to make him feel a tiny bit better. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

2. Sochi, 2014

He’d really tried to be alone. Really, really tried his best. He was pissed, in the worst mood, and just wanted to wallow. Because, really, Latvia? His father was right, it was a disgrace. 

Oh, and on top of everything? Losing to Latvia, being a disgrace to his country, yelling at Shane Hollander, and being berated by his father? Ilya was sick. Of course. Maybe it was karma. For failing his country. For being an asshole. He did start to feel that congestion seeping in only one day after their loss. 

But, for some reason, Svetlana didn’t want to let him be alone. He tried to tell her not to come around him, that he’d get her sick, that he didn’t want any company. Tried to be an asshole (he felt like he was getting pretty good at that recently). Considering his pounding head was propped up against her side, both of their legs stretched out across her hotel bed…He definitely wasn’t enough of an asshole. Or, he was, and Sveta just didn’t care. Probably that one. 

“Damn, Canada is on fire. They’re about to get another power play. No way the U.S. gets through it without Hollander scoring. Maybe twice.”

Ilya groans against her side, muffled by the cotton of her shirt, eyes still squeezed shut. “Sveta, stop talking about-” Shane fucking Hollander. “-hockey. Do we have to watch this?” The Russian consonants fall easily from his lips, even muddled by his congestion. 

“Your eyes have been closed the whole time, you’re not even watching.”

“I feel like I am with your constant announcing,”

“I deserve to watch some beautiful hockey when you’re laying there sniffling your germs all over my bed,”

Ilya’s jaw and eyes pop open, squinting against the glow of the TV, shocked expression pointing up at his best friend. “You must be kidding. You practically forced me over here, and now you’re complaining about it?” He can’t help but to sniffle against the congestion building, even knowing he’s proving her point.

A laugh that reminds Ilya of wind chimes falls from her lips. “I wouldn’t mind so much if you actually watched with me. You’re my favorite person to watch hockey with,”

The compliment makes chest feel warm. Or, maybe that’s a fever. “Sveta, take two seconds and imagine why I wouldn’t want to watch Olympic hockey right now,” 

“Ilyusha, you’re sick. We always watch hockey when you’re sick,” She points out. And while she’s not wrong…

“Well, I’ve never been sick and lost to the worst fucking country in the Olympics at the same time. This is new territory,” 

“Exactly. I figured you’d want to watch some good hockey, since you hadn’t seen any yourself in the past few days,” 

The grin across her lips, reserved for when she’s purposefully pushing his buttons, catches his eye. And, he is sick, but hasn’t lost all his reflexes yet. 

He swiftly pushes up, rolling himself over her and capturing her wrists in his hands. He shakes her with each word he says, and that wind-chime laugh is already in his ears. “Too far, Sveta, too far! You know I am the best hockey player in the world, admit it!”

“You are, factually, not the best hockey player in the world! Once this game is over, we are going to see which country the best hockey player in the world is from, but he is not from Russia,” Svetlana nods at the television, which Ilya just knows is showing Shane Hollander right now, so he can not turn around. Again, karma is not on his side.

And he knows this for absolute certain because now is when his nose decides it has had enough quiet time. 

“Hh? heEH! nNGgtt!--nnGgkT! hh! nNGT’tshh!” He ducks off to the side, stifling three sneezes in quick succession as best he can hands-free. Ilya rolls off Svetlana, scrubbing at his nose in the aftermath, and pointedly not looking at her. 

“Ilya,” Fuck, he knows that tone. “Don’t do that,” 

He rolls his eyes, grumbling softly. “You were right there. What, you wanted me to sneeze all over y- hhn! nGKT’Chh! -snf! you?”

She swiftly ignores his excuse. “I thought we stopped doing that.”

A scoff leaves the back of his throat, and he ignores how just that slight vibration felt sore on the way up. “We? I did not know you, too, had a nose that was broken a million times and can not stop sneezing at every little thing,”

His attempts at distracting and baiting her are obviously not working. “I have not heard you do that in a long time, Ilyusha. Since you were a teenager, around your father,” 

He groans, obviously not escaping this conversation. And, she is trying to be sweet. He knows this, even if his melting-fever-brain is telling him that she’s simply being annoying and overreacting about holding in his sneezing of all things. “It’s just…Being back here. You know. Around everything. I guess just makes me think I have to…go back to that,” 

She hums softly, and he can feel her eyes on him, even though he’s deliberately avoiding hers. “You know you do not ever. Have to go back to that, yes?”

And, with his nose and brain already clogged, he can not start to release everything right now, that he does have to be tied here in some way, in some way, because of his mother’s grave, his father’s illness, his Russian passport and citizenship, his niece…He already feels pressure behind his eyes just at the thought of it all. 

So, instead, he goes with: “Yes, I know. I know, Sveta,” Finally, his eyes meet hers.

Another set of wide eyes scan across his face, full lips pressed together. With a soft breath, she hooks an arm around his shoulders, tugging him down to lay in her lap. He maneuvers his body with her, his head instinctively nuzzling deeper into the comfort of her warm legs as her lithe fingers tangle in his hair. 

Of course, the change of direction has his sinuses protesting yet again. His swimming brain doesn’t notice until he’s hitched a few times, the bridge of his nose crinkling tight. His instinct is to bring two fingers up to his nose, but he only makes it a few inches before he feels a soft, warm hand against his arm. 

“Ilya,” And it’s all she has to say. 

“hhiH! EH! dJJSHHhh! ehH’TSHhh! hh! yyISHhhhUU!” He still brings his elbow up, but more to try to save Sveta’s legs from the spray than to try to hold in the expulsions.  

“Bless you,” She hums. And, maybe as a little reward for letting go (of more things than just his sneezes, she thinks), she hands him the remote for the TV. 

He’ll be asleep in minutes anyway, and then she can go back to watching her hockey. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

3. Ottawa, 2018

He blames Shane not being here. If Shane had been here, he’d be the one insisting to man the sauce pan and stir. Ilya’s been told one too many times he over-mixes. Or, at the very least, he’d have had some brain to maybe inch Ilya away while adding the spices. 

Maybe he’s just pissy because he knows if Shane were here watching this all go down, he’d get to see those sprinkled freckled cheeks turn adorably red. And, if he was lucky, see Shane’s little eyebrows do their little motion as he tried to think of a valid excuse to drag Ilya back to his room and kiss the shit out of him. 

Either way, definitely not Shane’s fault. He does wish he was here to see it, though. 

“ehH?! eHH’DJJSHHhuU!”

It’s really Ilya’s obliviousness’ fault at this point. He knows his nose well enough, he should’ve known to make himself scarce when Yuna had mentioned she was adding the spices. But, to be fair, it usually wasn’t this bad. Or, was it? And he was just remembering wrong? 

He was 75% sure it wasn’t usually this bad. 

“heH! hH’DZZSHH! ehH’TSZHHhuU!!”

Blinking through streaming eyes, he tries to pull himself back together. But, his lashes are fluttering shut again within a few moments. Whatever steam that was rising from the pan, mixing all those spice particles and throwing them up at him had his nostrils prickling and his eyes squinting in irritation. Fuck, he hates that this had to happen around…

“God, sweetheart, you sound like you’re going for the record! Come on, sit, sit,” 

Yuna. 

He absently feels a small hand against his back, gentle pressure urging him towards what he can only imagine is the kitchen table. His eyes are apparently just as irritated as his nose. 

The hands move to his shoulders, pushing him down against a hard chair in the kitchen. He wants to tell her she shouldn’t be so close, that he’s really fine, but, again. 

“I-- iiH! yyIZZSSHhhU!”

Hard to do while your immune system is attacking itself. He coughs irritatedly when he finally gets a damn breath that doesn’t immediately feel like an incoming sneeze, wincing as he feels Yuna’s presence still hovering. Two fingers instinctively raise, and he pauses half-way to his face with a roll of his red, watering eyes. 

And that, that, is something he can actually blame Shane for. And Svetlana. Making him feel all safe, all comfortable to be imperfect, to show his ‘emotions’ and ‘feelings’. Insisting he just ‘lets it all out’ - sneezes included. 

Assholes, the both of them. He was pretty sure even if he wanted to hold in his sneezes like he used to, he wouldn’t be able to. Without significant effort. Those motherfuckers Pavloved him. (He’d been proud using that term for the first time to Shane). 

“Bless you, honey,”

Fuck, he’d forgotten about Yuna. His frame twitches with surprise as he feels paper in his free hand. Thankfully, the one not attached to the elbow he’s been sneezing into for dear life. 

Blindly, he fumbles to press the bundle of tissues to his nose, mopping up moisture he doesn’t want to think about the origins of…Eyes or nose…? Just pretending it’s all from the eyes.

“Yuna, I’m so- soHH! ahH’DJJSSHhuU! snf!“

“No need to apologize, Ilya, I promise,” Magic mom intuition apparently knew where he was going with that one. “Just blow when you can to get all that stuff out,”

At this point, Ilya isn’t sure if the flush high on his cheekbones is from the embarrassment of this happening in front of Shane’s mother of all people, or from exertion from sneezing so much. He starts feeling that itch in his chest, that he needs to hold it in, needs to just not be so fucking disgusting--

“No, no, I cannoht--eHG’TZSHHhhU! I shhhould just go outside for a s-sehH! second, clean--”

She cuts him off swiftly with a hand on his shoulder. “Ilya, honey, I don’t trust you could make it outside with your eyes watering like that. It’s not going to get better unless you blow,” 

In the end, it’s not really fully his choice. A particularly desperate double has him crunching down into the tissues tented over two hands, burying his overactive nose in the folds. The sneezes have him him sniffling frantically in the aftermath, feeling wetness snaking through every part of his sinuses. He feels the need to blow just to clear that sensation, immediately. 

And, loathe as he was to do that with Yuna right there (close enough she was touching his back, by the way), the next breath he takes in post-nose blow is the clearest breath he’s taken in minutes. Shit, did the Hollander genetics just have it written in that they had to be right all the time? 

After double, triple checking that he was sufficiently clean, he finally lowered the tissues from his nose with a sniffle, chancing a watery glance up at Yuna. And with that soft, fond smile she was giving him, well, no one could blame him if he saw a glimmer of Irina. Or if he had some water in his eyes having nothing to do with the spices. 

Yuna chuckled gently, dragging her hand across the side of his cheek, smoothing down the curls by his ear. “Maybe we find a new kitchen job for you, huh? At least while I’m finishing up this part,” She suggests, kindness and a little amusement in her tone. 

“Or, maybe…You know, because I am so helpful and I do the worst job that you do not want to do…snff! I go help David finish his puzzle,”

A bright laugh escapes her lips. “God, yes please. He’s too close, you know he’s not going to want to come until he’s finished--”

“--And, then we will be having dinner at 9:30pm. Yes, yes, I will go save family dinner from puzzle master,” Ilya stands, shoving a few clean tissues in his pocket, just in case, as he begins walking to the other room. 

“This is why you’re my favorite son!” Yuna calls out after him.

“I am telling your least favorite son you said this!” He calls back, over his shoulder. At the domesticity of it all, feels a sofy, mushy feeling in his chest, something he’s come to learn almost feels like healing. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

4. Ottawa, 2021

“So, it’s already recording, we’ll edit down all the content later, all you’ve gotta worry about is making sure the guys are in frame, audible, and making good content. Which, really, is never much of a problem with this grou--”

“Hey, what’s going on with them?”

Harris looked up and blinked, obviously too engrossed in his explanation. Or, maybe he was just too good at drowning the sound of his idiots out, at this point. It was his new social media assistant’s first day, hired to help take the load off of him with all the content and PR needs the Centaurs had. Well, it looked like she’d be starting off with a bang. 

“That’s two! And, looks like we’re headed for--”

“hiEH?! ehH’TSZHHUU! hUH! DJjjSHH--EH’YISHhhUU!”

“Three! Fou--Five!”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Harris muttered, unable to keep a lick of fond exasperation out of his tone. “They have this thing--”

“snf!! oh- aH! dyY’ISHHhhuU! kH! hh’TZSHHUUu!”

“Oh, and boys, the gloves are coming off! If we’ve learned anything this season, if the gloves come off, it’s at least another four to go!” Wyatt’s voice rung out, obviously emulating one of the many announcers they’d heard throughout their years in the league. 

“ShhuuH! uH’DJJZHH-uu! Shut the hell uuHP’IISCHHhU!, ugh--Hazy,”

And, sure enough, at the middle of the ice, was Ilya Rozanov, shaking out his hands to send his gloves flying. All the while, sneezing his fucking head off, bringing his newly freed fingers to scrub viciously at his nose. 

Harris shook his head, glancing back at his new partner-in-crime. “They’ve got this thing, with Ilya and his sneezing. Something about being out in the cold on the ice for this long sets him off, and every time he starts going off like this, they start counting to see if he’ll beat the record,” 

He receives a raised brow. “And, what’s the record?”

“hh! ehH’YIZZSCHHUU! Hh, ублю́док! hUH! uuH’TSSHHhhU!”

Harris sighs. “Too high,” 

“Ladies and gentleman, the Russian cursing has emerged! We’re in the home stretch! Will tonight be the night Mr. Rozanov beats his previously set record?” 

“djJ’SHHhhH--ehH’DJJZSHHU! snf! oh, отъебись, hhIH! yyISHHhuuh!”

“Who’s keeping count?” Bood asks, glancing around before clapping Luca on the back, watching the rookie tick one more finger up each time Roz--

“ehH’JJSHhhhuh! snff! Ohh, and you all like to have biih! iH’TShhhUU!-ngh, big ego about being kindest team in the league, so-called ‘good guys’, what will f-ahH! hH’ATTSHhh! fuck! What will fans do -snf! When they know their team is full of ahhAH! adD’JJSHhhUU! assholes?”

The players are all huddled around laughing, but Harris’s eyes drift to Troy (maybe they’ve been on him the whole time, unconsciously). He watches on as Luca, still diligently counting on his fingers, leans over and mutters something to Troy, which promptly makes him cackle so hard, Harris thinks he might double over. He isn’t surprised, Luca is sneaky-funny.

The group's collective attention splits to Troy for the moment, a few eyes still glancing back at Ilya as he continues sneezing and sniffling. It takes Troy a few moments to spit out what’s making him laugh so hard, Luca innocently standing beside him with a knowing smile. 

“He’s mic’d up today--!” 

The realization that this whole interaction is being recorded with the little microphone attached to Ilya’s jersey causes the guys to fall into hysterics, all thoughts of counting for the record tabled. 

Harris can’t help but to chuckle himself, watching as, of course, Rozanov’s watery, blinking eyes flit around to land on him.

Skating, sneezing, and ripping off a hot mic all at the same time was pretty impressive, in Harris’ book, even if said hot mic was getting shoved back into his hand by a very large, very sneezy hockey player. 

“Harris, I promise, if I see that shihH!--shit on Instagram...hhUH! uH’DJJSHhUU! --or Twitter or whatever Centaur page, I will make your PR life living hell. I will Tweet about favorite sex position, and comment on stupid American political posts I don’t uhh!--understand… ehH’JJZSHHuUU! and post not-classy ‘thirst trap’ of me with ‘too much skin’ and ‘too low angle’--”

Now, that last part, was a direct quote from Harris. He really didn’t think he’d be at a point in his life where he was vetting hockey player thirst traps. “You already do half of those things!”

“I can make it worse,” Ilya threatened, with not too much success considering the sniffling and the pawing at his red nose was cutting through his intimidation. It was making the Russian look, for lack of a better term, adorable. 

“I saw extra tissues in the supply cabinet if you’re out in your locker,” Harris sighed, ignoring the captain’s empty threats, switching off the tiny mic in his hands and sitting it on the table. He’d seen this happen enough times to know how to handle Ilya in the aftermath. 

As if he wasn’t still recovering from an all-intensive sneeze-attack, Ilya gave an enthusiastic nod at Harris, pounding him on the back thankfully before ducking forwards with another sneeze. “snff--Thank you!” 

Harris shook his head fondly, glancing back out at the guys still on the ice, still laughing and shoving each other around. And, if some clips of that video made it into Ilya’s birthday post that year, well…It was Troy’s idea. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

+1. Montreal, 2016

Shane stumbles into the bathroom, feeling all-too lightheaded to do anything more than just go through the motions. Grab paper towels, turn sink on, run towels under cold water, press on face…

A shaky breath escapes his chest. The cloud in his mind is slowly dispersing, allowing more thoughts in full sentences. God, he thinks, flipping the paper towels and pressing the cool side to the back of his neck, of course this would happen. He’s either severely angered some god looking down on him, or he’s their favorite human on the planet. He really can’t tell which one, because--

“hyEH! EH’DJJZHHhhU!! hh! TSHHhhhyUUU!”

Because that. Shane shifts his eyes up to look through the mirror, the door behind him swinging open to reveal a familiar blonde Russian. Of course.

“hh-hiH! yyYIZSSHHUUu!”

A sneezing, familiar blonde Russian. 

Shane feels that same stream of heat he’s been trying so hard to ignore for the length of the shoot trickle low in his stomach. He sighs out a flustered frustrated breath.   

Maybe Shane should be Ilya’s manager, because he’s positive that he could’ve told the man this would be a bad idea. Even in his fairly limited in-person interactions with Ilya in the past seven years, Shane had quickly picked up on the fact that the man’s nose was overly sensitive. To seemingly everything. 

The cold air of the rink, the pollen in Canada, the cleaning products used in hotels, and yes, what seemed like anything scented. So, why Ilya thought doing a cologne ad with 3 other hockey players was a good idea, Shane had no clue. He must’ve known it would end up like this. With him sneezing his head off throughout the shoot, and Shane attempting to not look like he was getting harder and harder with each and every sneeze. 

Well, hopefully he didn’t know that second part. But, that first part, Ilya must’ve known. 

“snf! I do not think you are so much of a polite Canadian, after all,” Shane blinks in surprise, glancing up at Ilya though the mirror as he spoke his first true words since entering the bathroom. Even through the reflection in the mirror, he must see the confusion written across Shane’s expression, because Ilya takes his pause to continue. 

“I have sneeze attack for whole shoot, sneeze ten, twenty, thirty times, and do not hear one bless you from Shane Hollander,” Big, brown eyes can’t help but to track large Ilya’s hand as he brings it up to scrub at his nose, sniffling uselessly before he continues. “Heard from all the other players, from nice producers and camera people…Is polite for at least one ‘bless you’, if you did not want to bless for the other twenty-nine,” 

Shane’s breath hitches deep in his throat, cheekbones rosy as he turns around to face his ‘rival’, the marble countertop of the sink cool against his back. It’s about the only part of him that feels cool right now. Since he can’t think straight, instinctive words he never has to think about fall out of his mouth without permission: “Fuck off, Rozanov,” 

And, right on time, Ilya ducks forwards with another triplet of sneezes, aiming towards his arm. Shane is decidedly not noticing that he half-misses his arm, and can see the evidence of that in the air between them…Fuck, he’s noticing, he’s definitely noticing, and he feels a pulse of energy between his legs. And a matching prickle high in his sinuses. No, no, they were not about to do this here. 

Ilya is sniffling wetly, blinking through irritation, his eyes falling on Shane again, flitting across his expression. God, is it possible that this allergic irritation makes his eyes look even more mesmerizing? “What, you are…What is it called? When you are scared of germs?”

“...Germaphobic?”

Ilya nods. “Ah, yes, you are germaphobic?” The way he says it, all stretched out and broken up, makes it sound like he’s pronouncing each sound alone, making sure he’s repeating it just as Shane told him. 

“Wha-no!” He’s getting whiplash from this conversation, more to do with the incessant sneezing from the Russian than any type of language barrier. 

Shane’s gaze trails from Ilya’s eyes to his nose, twitching and flaring seemingly of its own accord, definitely without Ilya’s permission. Shane takes a short sniffle in himself, wrenching his nose to the side instinctively. 

“So, then, if you are not germaphobic,” his accent sounds smoother this time across the unfamiliar word, “thehh…thEH! eEH’DJJZHHHUUuu! snf! Hoo…‘bless me’,” Ilya blesses himself in an expecting tone, brows raised and gazing over at Shane like he was waiting for him to do the same. Of course, leave it to Ilya Rozanov to turn this into some kind of power-play dynamic. He didn’t even know what he was getting himself into. 

At Rozanov’s low words, Shane gives another sharp, irritated sniffle before answering. He could do this, he could get a handle on it and do it without setting off that godforsaken reflex. “hh! Bl…Bless you--hh’TSHh--iIH’HTSHhh! oh--ehh’SHhh!--uhh…”

Fuck. 

Slowly straightening up from where he had ducked into his wrist, Shane’s eyes rise to meet Rozanov’s face. Hell, and of course Rozanov’s looking at him all confused, because the only times the man has heard him sneeze like that were when…

“...What, you are coming now? Untouched?” The ‘again’ is unspoken, but implied. 

Cheeks dusted pink, thumbing shyly at his nose, Shane replies with a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes. He can feel the pink turning into red, fast, and promptly ignores it. “No! Fuck off,” How eloquent, Shane.

Ilya raises a brow. “Well, you are not feeling scared or phobic, that is for sure. Opposite, maybe,” He’s looking curious now, which isn’t a good thing for either of them. For Shane, mostly. A large frame and blonde curls move closer into Shane’s space, bright eyes boring into his. Shane can feel warm breath against his skin, and he shakes his head needlessly.

“We can’t. Not here,” Shane insists. 

“Hollander. Shoot is over. Everyone is leaving,” Shane can feel his skin vibrating where Ilya’s body is ghosting over his skin, seemingly just getting closer and closer. 

“N-Not everyone, half the crew is probably still here!” He watches Ilya rolls his eyes, and Shane knows he’s probably about to call him boring again--

“Half the c-crew is ehh! exaggeration, and anyway, I locked the bathroom d…door on my my! iIH! iiH’DJJZHHUU! hHEH’EHHJJZZHuU!”

Shane tries. He really tries not to, but with Ilya so close he can practically feel the sneezes reverberating through his frame, Shane’s really got no choice in the matter. He feels his cock twitch, and his nose twitch in tandem. 

“hhN! nN’TSCHh!--iiHTSHh! iiH! ih’TSHhhh!!--ngh…”

Ilya blinks up at Shane with a sniffle, straightening back to full height in the aftermath of his own sneezes. Understanding smooths out his features, and Shane mutters a curse under his breath. 

“...Oh, it is this! Is my sneezing that is making you…Well. Sneezy, too,”

Fuck. Within their first two times together, Ilya had quickly put together that Shane couldn’t help but to sneeze when he was turned on. To be fair, it was a little hard not to put that together when he was a sneezy mess every time he came in front of Ilya. 

What Shane was carefully sure that Ilya hadn’t put together in all of their rendezvous was…The other part. The…kink of it all. And, he’d been doing a fine job at it so far, he thought! But, with Rozanov sneezing so desperately like that, inches away from him…Shane’s own nose obviously felt the need to betray his true feelings on the matter. 

Shane scrunches his eyes shut, letting out a shaky breath and dropping his forehead to clunk against his blonde counterpart’s shoulder. “Oh god…” Aaand, the lightheadedness is back. 

His reaction is apparently enough to confirm Ilya’s thoughts, and to his credit, he really only takes what feels like a few moments to blink in surprise down at Shane before he springs into action. 

“No, no, do not overthink, is perfect, actually,” Large, callused hands grip at Shane’s face, gently guiding him out from his hiding spot against Ilya’s own shoulder. “This is probably easiest way I could ever turn you on. Is adorable, really,” 

Shane blinks, cheeks blazing. “I-It is not adorable,” And, because he can’t help himself, “And you doing it over and over again is not helping,”

His lips twitch up with a soft shrug, as if to say ‘I can’t help it!’, his smirk dangerously attractive. “It is adorable, Hollander. And, you know, kind of works out. snf! I was going to throw all these stupid cologne samples away after the shoot, but…” The Russian trails off with a tilt of his head, eyes boring into Shane’s. 

“I think I will keep them around. The scent is kind of growing on me,”