I Write Here?

It had taught him the humbling reality that an adult relationship under a shared roof mostly consisted of planning meals, laundry cycles, and standing in the kitchen discussing whether they were out of olive oil. Marriage also transformed everything that was supposed to be communal into territory ripe for possession eventually—drawers became claimed, blankets accrued ownership, and taking his husband’s favorite seat at the dining table was akin to a criminal offense. Even a banal discussion about landscaping options somehow became a debate over financial priorities, a question of morality, and an exercise in international diplomacy until they both remembered they could compromise. 

It had not, however, taught Ilya that Shane could turn literally any bad experience into a personal failure. Ilya had learned that lesson long before vows and rings and shared home insurance. 

The Centaurs had played Montreal last night. 

The Centaurs had lost. 

Which meant Ilya woke alone. The space beside him had long since cooled, blanket straightened and smoothed. Pale, early morning sunlight stretched around the curtains. It was the sort of morning that invited laziness and going back to bed. 

Ilya remained sprawled beneath the blankets for a moment, staring at the ceiling, his heart heavy with disappointment. Truthfully, he had known better than to expect Shane to waste the morning in bed with him. After particularly ugly games, Shane was a creature possessed. But some indulgent part of Ilya had still imagined another hour or two tangled together under the covers, sunlight crawling slowly across freckles while they kissed each other awake. 

Ilya sighed and dragged himself out of bed. There would be no practice today, no meetings, no obligations other than surviving Shane’s mood.

He could picture it perfectly. Clipped replies, distant eyes, compulsive productivity. Shane would spend the day treating himself like a problem to solve. He would bleed guilt over everything he touched, and he would quietly punish himself through absurd little acts of self-denial—like rejecting sleeping in on a day off.

Today, Ilya decided, he would be patient. Today, Ilya would be understanding. Ilya would be whatever calm, stabilizing force Shane needed while he dissected every mistake he thought he’d made, the majority of which weren’t his fault. And then Ilya would drag him back to bed and kiss him until he forgot about hockey entirely. 

Then a smell hit him. 

Ilya stopped halfway out the bedroom. The odor creeping through their home was bitter and earthy, as though someone had taken the entirety of a forest and boiled it down into concentrate. He followed the smell to the kitchen where Shane stood at the stove, hunched over a steaming pot. 

Ilya demanded, “What the fuck is that smell?”

The words escaped him automatically, a reflexive blow. It was like getting hit in the knee during a checkup in exactly the right place, kicking out before your brain could catch up.

So much for being patient. 

“Fuck off,” Shane muttered without turning around. He looked wrong, somehow. Curled inward at the shoulders, tense up through his neck. His hair was a mess, like he’d been dragging his fingers through it for the better part of the early morning. 

Ilya took a breath and rolled his shoulders. “Seriously. What is that?” The smell truly was awful, medicinal in a way that suggested Shane was attempting to make soup using ingredients gathered from the yard. 

“Go away.” 

The words would have had more impact if Shane hadn’t punctuated them with a wet little sniffle. 

Ilya approached slowly, gaze sharpening as he came to stand beside Shane. Shane sniffled again, nose slightly wrinkled, and his eyes held a wet shine. Ilya stepped behind Shane and slid both arms around his waist, pressing an absent kiss beneath his ear.

“Ilya, stop,” Shane groused. “Get off me.”

Instead, Ilya tightened his hold. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, gentler now. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying.” Shane knuckled irritably at the side of his nose. “It’s just alleehh-! hh’ISHHh’uh!” He jerked his head sharply to the side, burying the sneeze into the crook of his arm. “snnf! Allergies.” 

Ilya closed his eyes briefly, remembering his vow to prioritize Shane and all his idiosyncrasies. Especially after a grueling, embarrassing loss. “Mmh,” he hummed agreeably. “Allergies, of course.”

Shane went still, surely suspicious at how quickly Ilya accepted his excuse. 

Ilya swallowed his amusement and peered over Shane’s shoulder, inspecting the steaming pot. Floating within the dark water were citrus peels, ginger, and what genuinely appeared to be pieces of the shrubs in their yard. “What is this?” he asked. “You make gross soup for allergies?”

Shane made an exhausted noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “It’s tea.” His voice cracked faintly on the word, and he cleared his throat afterward. “It’s supposed to help with allergies. I found the recipe online.”

“Online where?” Ilya scoffed. “Medieval doctor blog?” 

“Ugh, shut up.” Shane sniffled again, thicker this time, and pulled a tissue from his pocket to wipe at his nose.

“What if this… tea kills you?”

“Then I won’t have allergies anymore,” he snapped.

Ilya barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. Shane, though huffing, relaxed a little into Ilya’s hold.  

So Shane wasn’t sick. He just had allergies bad enough to wake early on what was supposed to be a slow Sunday and brew forest tea while looking seconds away from a mental breakdown. 

“You sound bad,” Ilya probed gently. 

“It’s allergies,” Shane insisted, clearly aware that he did, indeed, sound bad. 

Ilya smiled against Shane’s shoulder, then kissed it. This was all too familiar, Shane trying to outmaneuver his own body through denial and stubborn insistence. Shane preferred suffering privately whenever possible, which in practice meant acting annoyed at Ilya when he noticed Shane was clearly having a terrible time. 

It was fine, really, because Ilya could wait. There was no need to corner Shane about it now when his nose was pink and his eyes were wet and his voice was nasally. Nature was building Ilya’s case against Shane quite well. 

“Right, right.” Ilya settled his chin on Shane’s shoulder and peered once more into the pot with a brow raised. “Does allergy tea taste better than it smells?”

Shane stared down into the murky brew for a long moment, clearly weighing whether honesty was worth the humiliation. He finally admitted, “…Probably not.”

Ilya bit the inside of his cheek and kept quiet, deciding Shane deserved some reprieve.

Ten minutes later, Shane drank his questionable tea while Ilya busied himself with making breakfast. Ilya had cracked eggs one-handed against the edge of the counter and watched Shane take the first sip from the corner of his eye.

Shane had raised the mug with cautious resolve, taken exactly one swallow, then gone utterly motionless in the way prey did upon realizing danger was near. His expression had tightened, and a tiny, tortured flare of his nostrils followed. 

Shane was stubborn, however, and he continued drinking with small sips. He swallowed with visible effort, and Ilya kindly continued stirring the scrambled eggs on the stove, pretending not to notice. 

Ilya set the bar counter at the kitchen island, complete with eggs and yogurt and fruit cut into neat little pieces because he wanted Shane to actually eat. Shane continued his brave battle against his allergies, taking meager bites of breakfast interspersed with wet sniffles. Ilya noticed every single one and kept his mouth shut. 

“Huh’ISHh’oo! -ISHH’uh!” 

The sneezes burst out suddenly and hard enough to pitch Shane into an awkwardly angled curl away from the counter. He caught them into the crook of his arm just in time. For a moment, Shane remained frozen there. Then came a slow, defeated reach for another tissue (from a box that had somehow ended up on the counter when Ilya hadn’t been looking).

Ilya lifted his coffee to his mouth to hide his smug smile. 

Shane blew his nose gently and looked up just to find Ilya watching. Ilya widened his eyes innocently, while Shane narrowed his, and Ilya took a loud, slurping sip.

After breakfast, they stood at the sink, shoulder to shoulder, while Shane rinsed his mug and Ilya helpfully organized their dirty dishes for maximum soakage. Ilya joked about his excellent dish engineering, and Shane couldn’t help but laugh. A rough cough followed the laugh, and Shane turned it into his shoulder.

Ilya nudged him lightly with an elbow. “Come shower with me.”

Shane looked at him, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. 

Ilya feigned offense, arranging his face into wounded innocence, because he had only partly meant for it to be taken as a proposition for sex. If Shane wanted, maybe. Which he would, probably. 

“For allergies!” he clarified. “Hot water, steam, touching you. All very good for allergies.”

“Touching me,” Shane repeated flatly. “For allergies.”

“Oh, yes.” Ilya turned and leaned back against the counter with his arms crossed, all smiles and warmth. “I can heal you.”

Shane sniffed and averted his gaze. “I already showered.” He turned the faucet off and stepped away from the sink. “Maybe after we work out.”

Ilya stared at him in genuine disbelief, just for a brief moment. He had already suffered six straight days of practices, games, and Shane’s morning yoga routines. Some days had stacked all three. 

“No.” Ilya pushed off of the counter and left the kitchen with complete peace, abandoning Shane to his compulsive exercise regimen while Ilya claimed his rightful place on the couch. “Today is for rest.”

By the time Shane wandered into the living room, Ilya had already spread himself on the couch beneath a blanket with Anya tucked against his legs.

Shane stopped short at the sight. “Seriously?”

“You should try resting. Will fix your allergies problem, maybe.”

Shane looked scandalized. “You always feel better with active recovery.” His voice was slipping into his captain cadence, an old habit Ilya wished Shane would have left back in Montreal (which wasn’t true, but he much preferred when Shane used that voice in the bedroom). “Ilya, it’s basic condition-… ihh-ing… hh’ISHH’uh!“

Ilya smiled, positively coy. “We can actively recover in the shower,” he offered sweetly. “But nooo, you need to do some scary bosu ankle shit.”  

“It’s for stabilization,” Shane gritted through his teeth, rubbing irritably beneath his nose with a tissue procured from his pocket. “You had that high ankle sprain just last season—“

Ilya waved a hand dismissively. ”Aahh, whatever. Healed in a week.”

“It absolutely did not heal in a week.”

“Well I played after a week. Was fine.”

Shane stared at him incredulously, seeming to weigh whether this argument was worth expending energy over. Somewhere beneath the internal battle and oncoming definitely-not-a-cold, affection flickered helplessly through the exasperation on his face. 

Ilya, of course, found this adorable. 

“I love you, and I love your strong ankles,” Ilya conceded. “But I am going to rest and watch Youtube.”

Shane prepared for the home gym alone by filling his water bottle and arming himself with pockets full of tissues. Ilya watched this preparation from beneath his blanket on the couch and released a long-suffering, dramatic sigh.

Shane lifted one hand behind himself in a gesture that made Ilya laugh loudly and long enough to follow Shane all the way down the hallway. 

Ilya remained sprawled over the couch with Anya curled against him in a warm little crescent while a nostalgic Vine compilation played on the television—an old comfort. The video had started as actual entertainment, the strange humor of a bygone but familiar era, and gradually devolved into background noise while his mind wandered elsewhere.

Mostly, it wandered toward Shane. Specifically, he was imagining Shane sneezing through calisthenics and growing increasingly more frustrated. 

He didn’t have to wonder about Shane and his failing workout for long. Footsteps sounded down the hallway far too soon. Ilya glanced at the time on his phone. Shane couldn’t have been gone for even an hour, likely closer to half that.

Usually Shane returned from workouts flushed with heat and self-satisfaction, loosened with the restless static worked out of his system. Exercise settled Shane in a way Ilya envied sometimes. Ilya always emerged from hard training with energy crawling under his skin, but Shane always seemed sated and relieved.

Now, however, Shane just looked pale. 

He would probably still pass a cursory public outing. No stranger on the street would stop to ask after his wellbeing. He didn’t look awfully ill, but Ilya knew Shane’s face too intimately. Shane’s eyes were always easy for Ilya to read, and they were presently glazed with fatigue. The skin beneath them had begun to shadow faintly violet. Even his posture looked wrong, sagging under the weight of feeling unwell. 

“How was your workout?” Ilya asked casually, fixing his attention back on the television. 

“Fine,” Shane insisted, but he ruined the illusion by ducking into the crook of his arm. “Huh’ISHH’ooh!”

Ilya muted the television.

Shane narrowed his eyes as Ilya unfolded himself from the couch. “Don’t start.”

“I say nothing,” Ilya replied with saintly calm. He crossed the room slowly, enjoying the suspicion gathering across Shane’s face. 

Ilya slid both hands over Shane’s hips. Shane looked downright silly, averting his gaze and taking a slow drink from the water bottle still in his hand, trying to appear unaffected. Ilya slipped his fingers beneath the hem of Shane’s shirt, spreading his hands over warm skin and feeling the subtle flex of muscle beneath them. 

“Mmh,” he hummed approvingly. “Thank you, exercise.”

Shane rolled his eyes. Ilya took the water bottle from his hand, pushed the mouthpiece closed against his hip, and tossed it onto the couch. 

Ilya kissed just beneath Shane’s ear and smiled against the skin when Shane exhaled softly. Ilya followed the line of his throat downward with slow kisses, feeling Shane’s pulse thrum hard and quick against his mouth. Bit by bit, Shane loosened under his hands. Triumph stirred warm and pleasant inside Ilya’s chest. 

“Shower now?” Ilya murmured against Shane’s neck.

Shane huffed a weak laugh. “It would be faster if I just rinsed off alone.”

“Maybe true.” Ilya hooked a finger beneath the collar of Shane’s shirt and tugged it aside, just enough to mouth lazily at his collarbone. “But I think maybe you need a little more exercise first.”

“That’s not even—“ The protest dissolved as Ilya kissed his throat again. Shane tipped his head to the side automatically, allowing Ilya better access even as he muttered, “You’re so annoying.”

“Mmh, definitely true.”

The matter of the shower became less an invitation and more an inevitability as Shane’s arms looped around Ilya’s neck, pulling him even closer. 

Not that Shane had been trying especially hard to resist.

In the shower, Shane melted under Ilya’s touch. He braced both hands against the tiled wall with his head tipped forward, breath catching in ragged moans. Every sound pulled from him carried a roughness now. His nose ran unchecked over his philtrum in a way he either genuinely didn’t notice or had decided to ignore in favor of more important matters.

There was something sacred in these moments. Shane spent so much of his life wound tight, holding himself in a perfectly polite package. But here, flushed and shaking and reduced to primal instincts beneath Ilya’s hands, he became raw and open. It was deeply intimate, watching Shane unravel like this with Ilya buried deep inside him. 

Through it all, Shane never once kissed him on the mouth. Jaw, yes. Throat, repeatedly. Once to Ilya’s nipple with so much lust behind it that Ilya nearly forgot his own name.

It was absurdly transparent. Apparently Shane believed he was conducting infection control measures all while wrapped around Ilya in a cloud of steam and desire. The earnestness of it charmed Ilya so thoroughly he could hardly decide whether it made him want to laugh or ruin Shane completely—or both, more likely. 

After their shower, Shane dressed in clean clothes (dark jeans, oddly, maybe he thought dressing up made him appear in better health?) and stood before the bathroom mirror, going through his routine of toner and some kind of sunscreen he always nagged Ilya to use. Ilya leaned shirtless against the closet doorway and watched him quietly. 

Shane looked exhausted now that adrenaline had worn off. His nose remained stubbornly pink, eyes heavy lidded. Every few moments he sniffled softly, yet he stood determined, as though refusing to let an oncoming cold compromise proper skincare. The sight filled Ilya with such unbearable affection he nearly proposed another round in the shower. 

By the time noon rolled around, Shane announced he was going to do a working lunch so he could relax later in the afternoon. 

“A lunch date with your laptop?” Ilya teased from the kitchen. He waited impatiently beside a pot of water refusing to boil, a box of pasta in his left hand. “I’m much hotter than emails.”

Shane popped his pre-prepped meal into the microwave, not even sparing Ilya a glance. “Debatable.”

“Wow. Shower Shane would agree with me.”

Ilya made pasta drowning in butter sauce and parmesan while Shane sat at the table answering emails between bites of salmon, increasingly congested sniffles, and periodic pauses to tend to his nose with tissues. 

“Nngkh!”

Ilya’s back was turned as he plated his pasta. The noise had come strangled, but Ilya was certain Shane had sneezed—and probably been dangerously close to blowing out his eardrums trying to silence it. There followed one careful sniffle, and by the time Ilya reached the table, Shane had schooled his expression into bland composure.

Shane finished eating first but lingered at the table with his laptop while Ilya worked through his pasta. Halfway through his meal, Shane went into the kitchen to rinse his meal prep container and returned carrying a clean fork. 

“Can I have a bite?”

Ilya looked up, brow raised. “You want some?”

“It’s a day off,” Shane replied seriously. “I can have one bite. Two, if I want.”

Ilya had to work especially hard to keep himself from grinning while Shane twirled exactly one modest forkful. Under normal circumstances, he would have stolen a bite using Ilya’s fork without hesitation, but Ilya kept this thought to himself.

Ilya finished his lunch while Shane puttered around the house in restless little circuits, tidying areas that already looked clean and repeatedly vanishing down hallways to blow his nose in private, maybe because he hoped that being out of sight would place him truly out of mind—or at least out of range of sound (it didn’t). 

Ilya kept easy conversation speckled between Shane’s self-directed tasks. Upcoming games, next week’s road trip. He reminded Shane to add some snacks to their grocery list, easy and dry things to pack for their next flight. Shane tapped on his phone while he stood at the back door, waiting while Anya sniffed around the yard. 

This kind of normalcy mattered to Shane, as did his image of good health, apparently. Ilya allowed him to keep both for now.

By mid-afternoon, after the dishes were loaded and the lap blankets on the couch had been rearranged to look effortlessly draped and home decor catalogue ready, Shane announced, “I’m going to lie down for a few. I need to decompress my spine.”

Ilya nearly choked holding back a snort. 

The excuse was absurd on its own, but they were married. They spent plenty of time existing separately in the same house without reporting their movements to each other like coworkers clocking breaks. But Shane had a funny habit of narrating his behavior when he knew it would appear suspicious. 

Five minutes later, Ilya wandered into the bedroom and found Shane fast asleep.

He had collapsed awkwardly atop the blankets, curled on his side in a way that surely wasn’t helpful for his spine. One arm was trapped beneath the pillow, a crumpled tissue still held loosely in the hand resting under his chin. 

Frankly, he looked sick. 

The tension was gone from his face, leaving behind the exhausted reality underneath. His mouth was parted to compensate for congestion, and he was breathing noisily. He looked warm and worn out and painfully human in a way that tugged hard at something protective in Ilya’s chest. 

Ilya quietly backed out of the room. He found Anya’s leash and took her on the long route through the neighborhood to give Shane uninterrupted peace and quiet. Crisp fall air bit pleasantly at his cheeks while Anya trotted happily beside him. Ilya carried one-sided conversation as they went.

“Your dad is pretending he’s not sick,” Ilya informed her gravely as they walked. “Very embarrassing for him. He’s a terrible liar, you know.”

Anya looked up at him. 

“Exactly,” Ilya said, feeling affirmed. He rewarded her with a treat from the pouch at his waist because Anya’s trainer had stressed the importance of consistent reinforcement, and Ilya took fatherhood extremely seriously. Eye contact on walks, apparently, ranked among the top five most important behaviors to instill in dogs. Ilya had initially been a little dubious, but he had also very thoroughly checked the trainer’s credentials and trusted expertise where his daughter was concerned. 

At the next crosswalk, he told Anya to sit.

“Smart girl,” he murmured warmly, crouching down to scratch behind her ear. Then, more solemnly, he said, “When we go home, you leave Dad alone, yes? No jumping, no making him throw your toy one million times. He needs rest. You only bother Papa.” 

Anya tilted her head, and Ilya chose to interpret this as agreement. 

Ilya returned with Anya expecting a quiet home. He knew it wouldn’t be completely silent. Anya’s nails skittered excitedly across the tile the moment he opened the front door (he needed to book an appointment with her groomer at the spa), and he heard the low, muffled hum of the washing machine in the mudroom leading to the garage. But he had expected the particular stillness of his husband asleep upstairs, napping his way through a cold he refused to acknowledge as anything more than allergies. 

Instead, he heard cabinets closing in the kitchen. 

Ilya stopped in the wide passage to the kitchen and crossed his arms. 

Shane stood at the island, hair rumpled and sweatshirt sleeves pushed up his forearms, while he aligned the corners of a kitchen towel. Ilya cleared his throat, and Shane looked up slowly at the sound. 

“You are folding towels,” Ilya observed calmly. 

Shane glanced down at the towel, frowning, then looked at Ilya again. “Uh… Yeah?”

“Why?”

Shane rolled his eyes weakly. “They were clean.” Halfway through smoothing the folded towel, he stopped and wrenched to the side. “Hh-! Hh’ISHH’uh!” He had caught it in the crook of his arm, but he still washed his hands after. Then he grabbed another clean towel from the small basket on the island and resumed folding. 

Ilya watched it all with a soft smile. Earlier Shane had been sharp and defensive, but sometime during his afternoon nap his cold had sunk deeper into him, blunting all that nervous energy and leaving him fogged over. 

“I took Anya on a walk,” Ilya said casually while shrugging off his jacket. He laid it over the back of a barstool at the island counter. “Your back feels better?”

“Yeah. Laying down helped.”

“You nap?” Ilya eyed the red sleep wrinkle still pressed across Shane’s cheek. 

“No.” Shane sniffed thickly, then cleared his throat. “Just... laid down for like ten minutes? Maybe fifteen.”

Ilya crossed the kitchen under the excuse of heading toward the refrigerator for a drink, and he let his hand slide briefly along the back of Shane’s neck as he passed, thumbing at the hair at the nape with gentle affection. Shane was warm, probably from his nap, but not fever-hot. Relieved, Ilya grabbed a can of coke from the fridge and retreated to the living room. 

The rest of the afternoon passed in domestic bliss, unremarkable in the best way. It was the kind of ordinary Ilya had once assumed life could never possibly become for him. A decade ago he’d imagined spending his thirties much the same as his early twenties, drinking his way around cities and keeping warm in unfamiliar beds. Instead, it was this, tossing Anya’s toy lazily across the room whenever she dropped it into his lap while his husband disinfected already clean countertops and snuffled into tissues.

This was, truthfully, much better. 

By evening, it was impossible to miss that Shane was getting worse. His entire nose had gone pink now, a flush spreading delicately over the bridge and sides of it. Congestion won steady ground, leaving his lips faintly parted with quiet breaths through his mouth. His voice roughened, too. Even his sneezes had changed, sounding tired. 

“Hh’ISHhh-‘ISH’uh!” 

Shane no longer seemed embarrassed about them, either. Earlier he had politely buried them into his elbow, and now he halfheartedly caught them in tissues. 

What truly convinced Ilya that Shane felt awful, however, was that he didn’t hover over Ilya when he had said he would handle dinner. 

Normally Shane supervised Ilya’s cooking. At his best, he tried to be helpful. At his worst, he moaned and groaned about nutritional value. He had eased up on his strict diet over time, but he still liked their meals to be reasonably balanced. 

Tonight, Shane simply leaned against a wall nearby, staring off and looking miserable. 

“I was thinking baked chicken,” Ilya announced. Anya’s head perked up from her food bowl, chicken apparentlyfar more enticing than her specially tailored meals Ilya paid too much for. “Roast vegetables on the side?”

Shane blinked at him. “Huh?”

“Chicken. Vegetables. Healthy things.” Ilya motioned to the ingredients he’d been steadily gathering on the counter. “For dinner.” 

“Oh. Yeah?” Shane nodded, rubbing at his nose. “That sounds… really good, actually.” 

What Ilya truly wanted wasn’t anything Shane would want to eat. Chicken parmesan, Chinese takeout, last night he had even thought about ordering from the new chicken wing place in town. He wanted something glutinous, a meal the team’s dietitian certainly wouldn’t have planned for them while on the road these next two weeks. But Shane looked terrible and certainly didn’t need to fret over poor dinner choices, so Ilya took pity on him. 

“Go sit on the couch.” Ilya nudged lightly at Shane’s hip as he passed him, heading for the cabinet where they kept the baking sheets. “Don’t bother the chef.”

Shane narrowed his eyes faintly but definitely seemed too tired to argue. “Fine,” he surrendered.

Ilya prepared dinner while Shane suffered in the living room. 

From the kitchen, Ilya periodically passed the wide passage leading to the living room. Every time Ilya chanced a look, Shane was further sunk into the couch. At first, Shane had been sitting upright, some forgettable home renovation show playing in the background. Soon after, he had curled into the corner piece. By the time Ilya had the chicken and vegetables in the oven, Shane was nearly horizontal, only his dark hair peeking over one of the cushions. 

“Hh… H’ISHHh!” 

A muffled groan followed several seconds later.

Ilya sat in a stool at the island and scrolled through his phone. Twice while dinner cooked, Shane disappeared upstairs.

The first time, Ilya caught movement from the corner of his eye and looked up just in time to see Shane trudging slowly toward the staircase. A minute later, muffled sneezing echoed faintly down the hallway overhead. Shane returned soon after with a fresh box of tissues and the small wastebasket from their bedroom. 

The second trip upstairs happened barely fifteen minutes later. Ilya hadn’t seen Shane leave, but he heard Shane climbing the stairs and stopping halfway up while he coughed. 

Ilya frowned down at the vegetables he was turning over on the baking sheet. He wondered how much more miserable Shane needed to be before he would admit to his cold outright. 

It was a double-edged sword, really. Shane’s stubbornness over this cold irritated Ilya, but it also reassured him. If Shane felt truly awful, he would eventually stop pretending otherwise. Shane still trying to salvage dignity meant he probably felt well enough to push through. 

When dinner finished, Ilya worked on piling two plates and called Shane’s name. 

He didn’t answer. 

Ilya expected to find Shane asleep on the couch but instead found him curled under a blanket with the tissue box on his lap, awake but thoroughly wilted. 

He looked awfully exhausted, staring off with his gaze unfocused. His eyes were dull with fatigue and were watering. And congestion had settled heavily across his face now, the space around his sinuses appearing almost puffy. 

His nose, especially, looked worked into the ground. His nostrils were rubbed raw and swollen, the kind of angry red one might expect to see played up with makeup in a commercial for cold medicine. His nose looked sore enough that sympathetic pain prickled over Ilya’s skin just looking at it.

Ilya had the overwhelming urge to gather Shane up in his arms and carry him straight upstairs. Change him into warm pajamas and put him to bed properly, press kisses into his hair until he fell asleep. 

Instead, Ilya crouched in front of Shane and put a hand on his shoulder. “Shane.”

Shane blinked at him, sleepy and embarrassed. 

“You look so sick.”

A miserable groan escaped Shane instantly. He dragged both hands over his face and left his palms pressed against his cheeks. “I know, I know,” he rasped. “I thought it was nothing.”

“No, you thought it was allergies,” Ilya taunted, and Shane closed his eyes briefly in shame. Ilya pressed the back of his hand to Shane’s forehead and found it warm, maybe, but still not feverish. He asked softly, “How bad do you feel?”

“Not that bad.” Shane sighed softly and leaned into Ilya’s touch. “No fever.” 

Ilya raised a brow, encouraging him to continue.

“I, uh… checked already.” Shane hesitated just long enough to sniffle. “While you were making dinner.”

“Ah, sneaky.” Ilya brushed a thumb softly under Shane’s eye. “I thought you didn’t want me to hear you sneeze your brains out.”

Shane huffed a weak laugh and ducked his head shyly. “No, I’m sure you… heard that anyway.” 

Rather than confirm, Ilya pressed a chaste kiss to Shane’s forehead and stood. “You should eat. I will bring it here.”

Shane nodded once and murmured a tired, “Okay.”

Shane wasn’t normally one to eat full meals on the couch, nothing beyond a light snack, and the simple compliance stirred concern inside Ilya’s chest. He supposed he was glad, however, that Shane was up to eating at all. 

Shane leaned fully into his cold now that he acknowledged it. He ate in small and distracted bites between sniffles and coughs, rough little things he muffled dutifully into crumpled tissues. Once, with the fork halfway to his mouth, his breath hitched warningly. He dropped the fork and fumbled for a tissue. 

“Heh’ISHHh’iew! Fu-uuh’ISHH’uh!”

“Wow.” Ilya rubbed a firm hand over Shane’s back. “Your allergies are really terrible.”

Shane shot him a bleary glare over the tissue held to his nose. “Shut up.” His voice came out wrecked, cracking at the end. 

“You want some more allergy tea? I think we have so many ingredients outside.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but the irritation behind them had dissolved completely now that he no longer had to defend himself. He was embarrassed, maybe, but definitely relieved. He looked tired and soft and willing (open, vulnerable, loved).

Ilya took the blanket from his own lap and wrapped it around Shane’s shoulders, cocooning him further in warmth. Shane accepted this without protest, even offering Ilya a shy little smile. When Ilya scooted closer, so that their thighs pressed together, Shane didn’t move away. 

Shane might have asked Ilya to keep his distance, when he was younger and struggled to give into simple pleasures in the face of more responsible choices. Tonight, Shane merely sniffled and leaned subtly closer. A year of safety, held in Ilya’s arms with the world watching and coming out better for it, had made it easier for him to give in and claim what he wanted.

By the time Ilya finished his plate, Shane had managed a little over half of his own. It wasn’t ideal, with their busy week ahead, but it was enough, especially given that Shane was fully leaned into Ilya’s side now and flagging hard.

“You are done?” Ilya asked quietly.

Shane nodded, drifting somewhere closer to sleep.

Ilya carefully helped Shane back against the couch, tucked the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He gathered their dishes and carried them to the kitchen, listening to muffled television punctuated by the occasional cough while he rinsed the plates. He started the dishwasher before he returned to the living room and dimmed the lights low, then sat on the couch, opening one arm invitingly toward Shane. 

Shane looked at Ilya for approximately two seconds before practically crawling into his lap.

He wasn’t particularly graceful about it, either. It was a desperate grapple, frantic in his reach as his fingers curled at the front of Ilya’s shirt. Shane buried his face in the crook of Ilya’s neck and shuddered out a sigh that signaled a homecoming. 

Ilya had been waiting for this, watching Shane white-knuckle his way through the day. Gathering Shane closer, Ilya shifted to bear the brunt of Shane’s surrender. 

“Good,” Ilya murmured into Shane’s hair. “Much better.”

Shane only coughed softly in reply.

For a long while, they stayed like this. Ilya scratched his fingertips gently over the hair at Shane’s nape. Shane tucked his head lower, giving Ilya more access. 

“Huhh-! Heh’INGSH’ieh!”

The sneeze burst suddenly, directed at a bunch of blanket clutched in Shane’s fist that rested on Ilya’s chest. He groaned into the blanket after, muffled and miserable. 

“Bless you,” Ilya murmured into Shane’s hair. “You are allergic to me, I think.” 

Shane’s fingers halfheartedly pressed into his ribs. 

Ilya smiled and kissed the crown of Shane’s head. “Practice tomorrow is optional. You should stay home.” 

Shane stiffened, and Ilya soothed him with a pass of his fingers through Shane’s hair. 

“I’m probably okay,” Shane murmured after a beat, though even he sounded unconvinced. 

“Mmh.” Ilya continued stroking gently through his hair. “We have a road trip soon. Better you rest now.” 

Shane’s shoulders rounded just slightly, a subtle tensing Ilya had learned meant Shane was preparing to shoot back yet was bracing for a retaliation to follow. He was two steps ahead in everything he did, on and off the ice. 

“Hih’ISHHh’uh! -ISHH’uh!” 

Except when his cold sent him five steps back.

Ilya waited, and Shane eventually sighed against his chest. Embarrassment hung heavy in his voice when he croaked, “Yeah, maybe…” 

Ilya brushed his lips, perched in a soft smirk, over Shane’s hair in slow passes back and forth, a sort of drawn out kiss disguised nuzzle. He breathed Shane’s scent as he took stock of the home around him. Anya slept curled nearby on the rug, paws twitching faintly in dreams. The dishwasher hummed distantly in the kitchen. Shane’s breathing warmed steadily through the fabric of Ilya’s shirt, growing slower and softer yet a tad noisier the closer Shane drifted toward sleep.

Married life, Ilya thought, had so many lessons.

Today, it had reminded him how love settled into ordinary places—into grocery lists and lap blankets, and eating dinner on the couch. Into open arms, and letting your husband crawl into them without needing words. 

Maybe years from now marriage would teach him other things, too. It would teach him how Shane’s hair would silver at the temples first, how his laugh lines would be earned, which insecurities would soften over time and which would stubbornly survive. 

Maybe it would teach him that head colds wouldn’t always be eased into with the excuse of allergies. One day Shane might wake up with a catch in his throat and climb into Ilya’s arms unabashed before even getting out of bed.

It would teach him every version of Shane through time. In turn, it would offer Shane the same.

That thought frightened him a little. He would reach an age he never imagined for himself, with a person he loved there to witness it. It was a terrifying thought, loving someone long enough to have decades of him remembered. The proud moments, and the lowest.

That, he realized, was marriage’s greatest lesson. 

It was learning, over and over again, how Shane would show Ilya that he wanted to see it all, and that he trusted Ilya to watch him grow and change, too. It was spending thousands of ordinary days learning each other by heart, only to find there was always something new to love. It was coming to understand he would never really reach the end of knowing Shane, and being grateful that there would always be more to learn. 

“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 felt 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?”

Ilya found out in the February of 2018.

Well— he didn't necessarily find out anything himself. Ilya thought he knew Shane better than himself, but Shane had managed to keep one thing locked away. It eventually had to come out.

Shane had been mentally preparing himself all morning to tell Ilya about his kink. He couldn't hold it back anymore, not when it wouldn't go away. Shane tried to will away the thoughts and fantasies but they wouldn't budge, even after a whole decade.

He really tried, though.

He started with a harsher workout than usual, really putting his all into the equipment, so he wouldn't have any second thoughts. He needed to feel the buzz from all of the movement that helped still his brain.

After that, he had some light oats with some small cut-up bits of a banana. Nice, simple and healthy. Less stress.

He even deep-cleaned his house, hoovering the carpets and scrubbing his bathroom clean. The chemicals sure helped dull that mess in his head.

Shane was stiffly lounging on his couch when he heard the familiar beeps of his front keypad being unlocked, Ilya stepping into his threshold.

Shane jumped to his feet, feeling more nervous than he had in months. Ilya never made him nervous anymore, because they were each other's to finally enjoy.

"You wanted to talk?" Ilya began, padding into Shane's home after taking off his shoes by the door. They hadn't seen each other in a month, but Ilya was in town for hockey.

Shane nodded, not knowing what to do with his hands. "Yeah— I did. Sit, please."

Ilya raised his brows, flopping down on Shane's couch. "This sounds extremely serious. Who died?"

"Nobody died," Shane took a breath, pacing for a second before sitting down with Ilya. Fuck, could he lose Ilya over this kink? Maybe this was a bad idea.

Ilya could sense Shane's internal spiral, placing a cautionary hand on his boyfriend's shoulder. "Hey. It's okay, don't think. Let's talk."

Shane nodded swiftly, rubbing his eyes. He could barely even look at Ilya.

Shane cleared his throat, the couch feeling suddenly too uncomfortable even though Shane carefully picked out each piece of his furniture to his liking.

"I have.. a thing," He started, squinting as he rubbed his temples.

"A dildo? Yes, you've already told me this before," Ilya scoffed softly.

"Don't be an asshole right now, please. Don't laugh. I seriously don't know what the fuck I'd do if you were to laugh in my face right now, fuck— "

Ilya frowned, Shane was so nervous. "I was joking, Hollander. I'm sorry. I won't laugh, yes? Nobody is laughing."

Shane nodded at the reassurance, trying to think of how to say what he needed to say. Trying to think of how much he should say. Would Ilya even understand?

"There's something I haven't told you about myself. A kink," Shane used his hands to help him speak, looking at the coffee table in front of him.

Ilya blinked, fiddling with his golden crucifix. "Okay.."

Shane glanced at Ilya to attempt to get a read on the Russian's expression, quickly looking away after succeeding. Ilya looked relaxed, not judgmental or humorous.

"It's.. basically— I enjoy.. sneezes?" Shane mumbled, his face heating up against his will as he side-eyed Ilya.

It was silent for a minute too long before Ilya spoke. "Sneezes? Like achoo achoo? Those?"

"Yes," Shane gritted weakly, rubbing the cluster of muscles in his forearm. "It's a kink— I've looked it up. There's a whole forum of people online. I've known for a long time, actually."

Ilya nodded, rubbing at his chin. "This is it?"

"What do you mean 'this is it'? You don't care?" Shane's voice wobbled a little, now looking at Ilya. "You're not disgusted?"

Ilya shook his head, looking genuinely confused. "Why would I be disgusted? At least you're not into.. shit, or something. Is fine, Shane." Ilya blinked, rubbing the chain of his crucifix. "This is nothing compared to what I hear the guys in locker room say."

Shane raised his brows, disbelief painting his features. "You're just— okay. It's seriously okay with you?"

Ilya nodded, shrugging. "Tell me more, though. What gets you going about it?"

Shane couldn't help but flush, scrubbing at his eyes. He'd never had the opportunity to verbalise his kink to anyone. He hadn't been able to connect with the people in the forum out of shame.

"I don't think I could put it into words, but. I like.. I don't know. Colds. Allergies. How it all seems like such a dirty thing, yet everyone sneezes. Sickness isn't erotic. My brain just decided to enjoy them."

Ilya grinned a little, rubbing his crucifix on his lower lip. "Who knew Shane Hollander could be such a little freak?"

"Oh, fuck you. You're the freak," Shane mumbled, crawling over to Ilya.

"I wouldn't mind if you got off to my sneezes, or, whatever. What do you fantasise about?" Ilya mumbled into Shane's neck, holding him on his lap.

The conversation continued into late night— which mostly just consisted of Shane loosening up and telling Ilya some of his fantasies. Ilya seemed okay with it all. Maybe he was more okay with it than Shane ever thought he'd be.

* * *

Ilya's first allergic reaction since finding out about Shane’s kink unfortunately had to happen without Shane.

His nose had been buzzing ever since he stepped foot into the Raiders locker room to play a home game. They were scheduled to play against Ottawa today, which was easy work.

Ilya pawed at his nose as he got his uniform out of his duffel bag, sniffling and grunting as he went.

Someone's cologne was not being so friendly to his nose this evening, but that obviously wasn't going to stop Ilya Rozanov from playing. Especially as team captain.

Once Ilya's uniform was on correctly, he sat on the bench and eyed the rest of the guys as they took their time getting on their own uniforms. Ilya couldn't help but continue to prod and rub at his nose, sniffling as he chewed on his mouth guard.

His original dull tickle swiftly moved into the tip of Ilya's nose, triggering some itchy sneezes. "Hah'tsHH!! Hahh...haaH'TSHH!! Hah'ktSHH! Snndf."

He directed them down to the floor in between his legs. He wasn't sick, so there was no point in covering. Nobody even blessed him anymore, Ilya had been known for his pre-game sneezes.

He found himself immediately thinking of the private conversation between himself and Shane. Shane's kink.

Ilya's cheeks grew unnecessarily hot as he imagined Shane's face if he were to witness Ilya's little fit just then. His dick felt suddenly all too restrained in his compression shorts.

Fuck, he was getting hard. Did his own sneezing just turn him on? No, no. God, he had gotten soft. The thought of turning Shane on turned him on beyond belief, and if sneezing was the thing to do it? So be it.

Pleasing him pleases me, is what Ilya told himself.

He alternated between pushing down on his bulge subtly and wiping at his nose. Now wasn't the time for these thoughts, they had a game to win.

Ilya's hockey headspace clicked as soon as his skates hit the ice, winning the faceoff against a who-knows-who Ottawa rookie and scoring two pucks in the first two periods.

Needless to say, he was doing amazing. He took some opportunities to swipe at his itchy— now runny nose whenever he passed the puck to a teammate.

* * *

Shane was currently in a hotel room in New York, accompanied by Hayden. Well— not currently. Hayden was out somewhere doing god knows what before they had mandatory practice later at 7 pm before tomorrow's big game.

So, this gave Shane some time for himself. He decided to hop on some random sports channel to catch a hockey game and little did he know, Boston was currently playing against Ottawa.

He put on his glasses, clicking on the livestream. He'd seen Ilya play one hundred thousand times before, but it never got old to analyse the Russian's elegance on the ice. Or his brutality.

The livestream greeted Shane with some commentators.

"—The Eastern Conference with 21 games to play, will continue their attempt to climb it when they face the slumping Toronto Maple Leafs at Prudential Center. Don't miss that."

"Rozanov is looking pretty good on the ice tonight. Those gloves keep coming up to tend to his nose, though. He needs to focus on the puck, not that nose."

The other commentator spoke up. "Cut the guy some slack, he's already scored two for Boston."

Shane squinted at the screen, looking for the familiar 81 to see what the commentators were talking about. Ilya did seem to be touching his nose whenever he wasn't in the thick of it. Huh.

As Shane witnessed a live Boston win, he sent Ilya a text.

Montreal Jane :

16:57 Is your nose broken or something? Congrats on beating my hometown, I guess.

Shane put his phone to the side, not expecting a text back for a while. Ilya would surely be off celebrating a hometown win.

His phone dinged several minutes later.

Boston Lily :

17:09 Not broken, allergic. 😇

Shane stared at the text. The emoji. Then the text again.

He didn't even know how to respond, especially with last week's conversation. He ended up leaving the text read, getting up to change into gym clothes for practice later. Anything to keep his mind occupied.

His phone dinged again after Shane had finished changing into his gym clothes. Shane cautiously eyed the notification. Boston Lily.

Shane sighed dramatically, picking up his phone to look at whatever Ilya had sent him.

Boston Lily :

17:16 (1 Attachment)

This is me because you left me on read.

The photo that Ilya attached showed the Russian taking a mirror selfie in the locker room of the TD Garden arena.

Ilya was jersey-less, wearing his hockey pants with a pout on his lips looking into his own eyes. What really stood out to Shane was Ilya's pink, irritated-looking nose with some tissue tucked in the fingers that held his phone. The Russian had sent that with intent. On purpose. Fully knowing and aware.

Shane silently cursed, zooming in on the photo. He could feel his abdomen tighten just from looking at the picture. His pecs were turning pink. His nose— fuck.

Montreal Jane :

17:20 Were you expecting a compliment?

Shane snickered at his own text, his thumb pressing send as he rested back in bed. Catching a glimpse of Ilya's allergy-ridden nose without the blockage of a helmet should not be turning him on this much.

Boston Lily :

17:20 You looked at my picture for 4 minutes, so yes. 🙄

"Oh, this asshole.." Shane mumbled to himself in the quiet of his New York hotel room as he eyed the text, holding his phone in one hand. Out of spite, he wouldn't send a compliment over text.

Shane ended up coming from just looking at the picture, along with his hand and his wonderful imagination. Totally out of spite for Ilya. Totally. Absolutely not from his nose.

And if Ilya was getting himself off to the thought of Shane coming to his picture? Shane would never find out.

* * *

The next time it happened, Ilya was unfortunately not with Shane for the second time.

He was currently sat in front of an audience of about 150 people for a press conference, cameras and lights blocking his view of the faces in the crowd.

He was sitting with three other guys on his team that he wasn't close with, but could definitely praise them. They were better sportsmen than Hayden Pike, that is.

Ilya watched as three makeup artists scuttled around, patiently waiting for his turn. He didn't even know why he got chosen for these things anymore, he couldn't perform a detailed response the way his English teammates could. It made him feel less than.

Ilya had been quite sniffly all morning, but that wasn't weird for him. Sometimes he had days where his nose wouldn't leave him alone, he was used to the familiar feeling.

One of the makeup artists eventually made her way to Ilya, not giving him any warnings as she dabbed a brush along his cheekbones.

He blinked, trying not to make a snarky comment on it. Sit still and don't talk where the instructions the boys were given, and he would listen. Ilya hated upsetting the higher ranks. Especially his coach.

The makeup lady tapped some powder onto his forehead and chin, moving to dust the brush along his nose. Unfortunately, she caught him on a very sensitive day.

He moved his head down, cupping a hand over the lower half of his face, "Ht'ks— Hnn'gtt! Nn'gshh! In'gsh!" He sniffled desperately, ears turning red as he heard his own sneezes loudly mirrored back to him by the amplifiers around the room. He had forgotten he had a mic strapped to his chest. He managed to stifle against his hand, fortunately.

"That's enough, Rozanov. Maria? Thank you," Coach LeClair quipped, sending away the makeup artist as he glared at Ilya. As if he could help a natural human reaction, Jesus Christ.

"Sorry.." Ilya caught his bearings, sniffling profusely as he wiped his hand on his dress pants under the table. He blinked over at the cameras, seeing that the livestream for the MLH had not yet started.

Ilya felt disappointed. He wanted Shane to see that fit, live on television. Ilya knew Shane was bundled up somewhere waiting for the stream to commence, as always.

He furrowed his brow at his own train of thought. What?

And then, naturally, he couldn't help but imagine the look on Shane's face if he witnessed that fit.

Fuck. He was getting hard again.

Ilya squeezed his legs together under the privacy of the table and its covering, trying his very best not to think about Shane right now.

If Ilya was going to pop a boner after every sneeze, this would be a problem. He never would have thought sneezing could do this to him. Had Shane's kink rubbed off on him? Surely not.

* * *

The third time was finally something.

Ilya had invited Shane over to his Boston house, since their schedules finally seemed to line up.

Ilya was up on his feet as he heard the expected knock, opening the door for Shane. Shane's eyes lit up every time he entered Ilya's home, as if he was seeing it for the first time over and over again.

"We have not seen each other in forever. Or called," Ilya tried not to whine but his speech still came off as needy as he walked Shane to the couch, taking Shane's jacket from his hands to hang it up.

"It's only been about two weeks. You went six months without contacting me once," Shane mumbled with a little smile, sitting himself down on the familiar couch.

"No, you lie," Ilya mumbled, coming to join Shane on his couch. Ilya felt slightly— nervous? A total foreign feeling for the normally confident Russian.

"I'm.. sorry if I scared you away. With photograph," Ilya eyed Shane, fixing his crucifix on his neck even though it didn't need fixing.

Shane's face remained blasé as he shook his head, lapping at his lips. "What? No. No, why would that scare me away?" Shane asked, genuinely dumbfounded.

Ilya blinked, eyes assessing Shane's body language. "Well, I don't know. You didn't text me after my press conference."

"I've just been busy," Shane explained, fixing the neckline of his shirt. "I actually thoroughly enjoyed your photo."

"Ah, you are perverted. I like it," Ilya snickered, rubbing his face with relief. So he hadn't read the situation wrong? Great.

"Can't say I expected photographic evidence, though," Shane smiled, moving to straddle Ilya as if it was natural.

Ilya shrugged, eyeing Shane's neck pulse. "I just want to get this right. Your kink."

Shane exhaled softly, holding onto Ilya. "That's more than enough. You're doing way more than most people would."

Ilya just smiled, pulling Shane closer to hide the fact that he was close to tearing up. Shane was so appreciative over the bare minimum, it was insane.

Ilya took a deep breath through his nose as he fit into Shane's neck crook like a missing puzzle piece, holding the Canadian by his waist through his hoodie. "You smell nice. New cologne?"

Shane nodded against Ilya, thumbs rubbing small circles into Ilya's shoulders. "I picked it up at an airport somewhere last week."

"Mmm," Ilya pressed kisses to Shane's neck, feeling saliva slide down Shane's throat as he swallowed against Ilya's lips. "Vanilla is good. Not many men choose this scent."

Shane chuckled lightly, kissing into Ilya's curls. "Don't go calling me a girl now."

"My wife," Ilya mumbled into Shane's neck, his lower abdomen beginning to warm up in a way that felt comfortable. The sensation was soon mentally disregarded as an odd tickle flared in the back of Ilya's nose. "Pretty.. hih.."

Ilya pressed his nose into Shane's neck as a poor attempt at quelling the tickle, only to make it unnecessarily worse. The sudden pressure to the front of his nose was like a trigger. "Ht'kshht!" Ilya's head jolted forward into Shane's neck crook, which only triggered more. "Hnn'gtt! Nn'gsh— Huh-tschh! Ah.."

Shane couldn't help the way his hips involuntarily bucked down against Ilya, both of their bodies rocking with each one of Ilya's sneezes.

"Are you okay? Bless you.." Shane mumbled, voice shaking as he pulled away to look at Ilya. Shane could feel the spray— the wetness on his neck. Shane also knew that Ilya could feel his dick gluttonously filling with aroused blood as their crotches sat together, confined by layers of clothing.

"Sndff.. I'm okay. Strong cologne," Ilya mumbled, a sly smirk easing its way onto the Russian's lips. "Vanilla makes me quite tickly," Ilya said, vaguely gesturing to his nose and neck.

"Right," Shane breathed out, shifting his hips a little. No amount of pretending could hide how much Shane wanted Ilya right now.

Ilya pressed back into Shane's neck crook, holding Shane by his biceps. "We could take advantage of it," The Russian had said quietly.

"Fuck," Shane whispered, hips looking for a hint of friction as they seemed to take a mind of their own at Ilya's words. "You're sure?"

Ilya took a deep inhale of Shane's oesophageal skin, the same skin that got doused with cologne an hour before because Shane hated the idea of smelling bad in the company of Ilya. "So sure, Hollander."

A broken whine from Shane slipped through the cracks as he got to work on unbuttoning his jeans, tugging at the waistband of Ilya's sweatpants.

"It's crazy how worked up you get.." Ilya mumbled, watching with fascination as Shane got his and Ilya's dicks out by himself. Ilya hissed through his teeth with a spike of unexpected pleasure as Shane shuffled forward in Ilya's lap, stroking their dicks together with one hand.

* * *

Shane and Ilya somehow made their way into Ilya's bed throughout their scrambling of hands and kisses, now left catching their breath together with an occasional sniffle from Ilya.

Ilya eyed the ceiling, hand on his chest as he breathed out. "I can't believe you waited this long to tell me."

Shane scoffed to himself, casting his eyes to the Russian. "There have been multiple times that I've tried, but."

"Like when?" Ilya moved to his side so he could see Shane, basking in post orgasm bliss.

Shane shrugged, judgment clouded as he examined Ilya's features. "I remember.. you had a cold back in 2010 or something. I was watching that game and— fuck. I couldn't keep my hands off myself."

Ilya's jaw dropped comically as his eyes lit up. "What?"

"Yeah, it was crazy. I was worried too, obviously. But it was the first time I'd seen you in a state of anything less than perfect health," Shane mumbled, his shyness creeping out.

"You should have called or something! What the fuck," Ilya sighed, fingers scrunching his curls. "We could have had so much fun."

Shane squinted, "As if Ilya back then would have taken it seriously. You were so mean and scary.." Shane trailed off, tone teasing as he took one of Ilya's hands.

Ilya gave Shane's hand a little squeeze, thinking about too much at once.

* * *

As the next week of hockey games commenced, Ilya found that his mind was.. distracted. To put it bluntly.

The thought of Shane unable to stop getting turned on while watching one of Ilya's hockey games on television while he was sick— it was messing with his head.

Why did Ilya find the thought so hot? How many times did Shane cum while Ilya was— fuck. Not here.

Ilya glanced around the locker room in hopes that there was no mind reader among them, his cheeks must be beet red. Whatever.

He got into his uniform as clockwork, tying his laces with precision. That's when he heard—

"SnnNNDDFFFDDXX ugh! This fucking cold, man," Marleau huffed as he trudged into the locker room, getting his uniform out right next to Ilya.

"You are ill?" Ilya mumbled, stomping his skates onto the ground to lock the blade in tighter.

Marleau coughed a little, undressing out of his civilian clothes. "Yeah. Fuckin' shuuuucks."

Ilya hummed, pulling on his gloves. "Don't let it ruin your performance, da? We win tonight."

* * *

Ilya let his eyes wander around the arena after Boston had won. It was a Wednesday night and the crowd was happy with a home win. Many were drinking and celebrating already.

Ilya could see Marleau off to the side drinking from one of the blue Gatorades provided by the league, and a sick idea flooded his head.

Maybe if Ilya managed to catch a cold, Shane would like it again? Ilya could actually experience it with his own eyes instead of hearing about Shane's fantasies.. Ilya wanted to be good for something. He wanted to please Shane. He wanted the attention.

"What the fuck am I doing?" He had mumbled to himself, skating to the side after Marleau went into the locker room with some of their other Boston teammates.

Ilya's eyes found the unattended Gatorade bottle that Marleau had just put down, grimacing slightly before taking a swig from it. And then another swig just to be sure. "Fucking freak. Blyat. New low. Okay," He said to himself, skating offside to undress in the locker room.

What Ilya woke up to on that following Friday morning was absolutely gnarly.

His throat was on fire and there was a little wet spot on his pillow from where his nose had run while he slept.

He subconsciously reached out to the other side of his bed where Shane normally slept while he had the Canadian over, but was met with an empty bed. Ilya heard himself involuntarily whine. Ilya got himself up, throwing on a Boston Raiders sweatshirt from the floor.

His body felt heavy already, the cold had come on hard and fast. His brain wasn't too upset about it, though.

Thank the hockey gods that Ilya had no games for the rest of his weekend.

Ilya picked up his phone with squinted eyes, sending Shane a text.

Boston Lily :

9:47 Call? I am lonely 🙁

Nice and simple. Nothing that gave away Shane's special surprise. Ilya put his phone down to give Shane some time to respond as he flopped back down into bed. His body didn't agree to being vertical today.

Ilya jumped as his phone dinged, coughing a little into a fist before reaching out again for his phone.

Montreal Jane :

9:49 Can't, sorry. About to play an early morning game against Ottawa, and then I'm having lunch with my parents after. Dad's birthday.

Ilya sighed out a whine, tossing his phone to the side. Of course Shane was super busy with some random events on the first day of Ilya's cold. The one he had specifically caught for Shane.

"Stupid.. fucking.. Ottawa. Stupid David Hollander. Why is your birthday today? Fuck," Ilya babbled to himself, patting a rhythm on his chest as he stared up at the ceiling. "Stupid,"

Ilya felt himself slipping into a state of unconsciousness from how tired he was, but suddenly jolted awake with an idea. Another sick idea.

Ilya remembered back to when Shane recorded a little video of himself on a run when Ilya wasn't able to answer the phone, just simply talking him through his morning. What if he did something like that for Shane? Shane only did that because Ilya had told him he liked the way Shane pants while running.

Shane did all that for Ilya in mind.

Fuck, he must be feverish. He isn't thinking clearly.

But he didn't particularly care. Nobody was around to tell him no.

Ilya got up, swooping his phone into his hand as he looked around in his attached bathroom for some tissues.

Once he had a box of tissues to clean himself up with, he situated himself back in bed. The curtains were still drawn, but he could see himself fine on the little rectangular screen of his phone.

Ilya sniffled, admiring his muscles for a moment as he flexed before pressing record. Oh my god, what the fuck was he doing?

"Okay.. it is currently— " Ilya leaned over to the side off camera to get a look at his bedside clock. "10:06 in the morning. Jesus," Ilya grimaced at the sound of his own voice. His accent sounded heavier as his vowels sounded congested with sickness. "And I've woken up sick."

"I wanted to record for you.. because.. you won't call me right now," Ilya pulled his blanket aside, looking at himself on the screen. "If this is weird, just click off now. And we can forget about it."

Ilya sniffled, rubbing at his nose. "I feel so crazy for talking to myself, but.. snddff. I don't know. I thought that maybe you would like this.." Ilya mumbled, feeling slightly self-conscious as his English was a little more sloppy with his cold.

"I'm going to put your hockey game on and laugh when you trip," Ilya sent a little smile to the camera, switching on the TV in his room with a remote. He changed to his main hockey channel, finding that the Montreal vs Ottawa game was 6 minutes into the first period.

"Okay, I see you," Ilya sniffled, eyes on the tv as he left his phone recording. Ilya shook his head, trying to keep his focus on the game and the recording at the same time. "Someone just blocked your hit.. too bad. Hhih.."

Ilya's breath hitched before he could bully Shane anymore, hand coming up to cover. "Hih-tschh! Hihh.. hih-tschhhuh— Huh-tshh! Fuck," Ilya swore, hands now covered in spray as his nose ran down his lips. He felt a weird pang of arousal in his abdomen, too strong to ignore.

Ilya hurried to clean the mess off his hands with his tissues, his boner now in plain sight to see through his sports shorts. "Ah, sorry. I look like a pervert now," Ilya mumbled, blowing his nose into the tissue. "I'm just imagining your reaction if you made it this far.."

Ilya blinked, eyeing the television once he could see again. "Ooh shit, I missed a Montreal goal. Fuckfuck- stupid cold. You'll have to tell me about it.. over the phone later," Ilya sniffled, looking at his camera. All for Shane.

"Fuck, I need to jerk off. Okay," Ilya breathed out as he palmed himself through his shorts, coughing into his shoulder.

"Mmh.. snndf. I wish you were here," Ilya said to himself, getting his dick out of the waistband of his shorts as he kneeled on his sheets for the camera.

"I feel like a whore," He mumbled quietly, a hand coming to wrap around his hardening dick as the other fumbled for more tissues. He started to stroke himself as his other hand wiped his nose, abs clenching for the camera.

Ilya groaned softly, spreading his thighs a little more for the camera to see. For Shane to see. "Aah.. snddxff sndff," Ilya sniffled, glancing up at the television.

He saw Shane on the livestream, watching as he dodged an Ottawa guy trying to elbow him into the boards. Ilya rested on his ankles as he began to feel lightheaded from being vertical for so long.

"I feel like shit," Ilya groaned to the camera, spurting a little over his stomach. "You better win this game. Will make me— ah! feel better."

Ilya doubled over as he came, painting his stomach as he moaned weakly. His throat was really starting to hurt from how vocal and sneezy he had been.

Ilya sighed, mopping the mess up with a tissue as he looked at the camera. He sniffled obnoxiously, sounding like a complete mess.

"I hope you like.." Ilya breathed out, nose burning as he shuffled up his shorts. "And I hope you have.. nice time. With parents. Hh! Hih-tschh! Oh, fuck."

Ilya coughed, elbow coming up to cover after sneezing down at his lap, his spray glowing with the hint of sun in his room. "Okay.. I end this here. I go to sleep now.. blegh. Hope you like," Ilya waved a hand to the camera, ending the recording.

11 minutes of material for Shane.

Boston Lily

10:23 (1 Video Attachment)

* * *

Shane didn't check his phone after his game, nor at any time throughout lunch with his parents. He liked to be respectful like that, he didn't have time to check his phone between the taxi and keeping his attention on his dad.

Once Shane got home to his Montreal apartment after a long afternoon of conversations and calorific dinner, he had to cool down.

Shane got into comfortable clothes and got himself an ice-cold ginger ale from the fridge. Once he had situated himself on his bed with a good hockey book, he decided to pick up his phone for the first time since before his game.

He was met with his usual notifications, Hayden, Mom, a vitamin supplement reminder and— a video notification from Ilya? Huh.

He ignored his other notifications and clicked on the one that led to his text thread with Ilya. He was met with an 11-minute-long video, which had an option to press play.

Shane furrowed his brow. What was this? He couldn't exactly tell from the blurry little thumbnail.

Shane's thumb pressed on the play button, putting his book aside and sliding his glasses on his nose to help him see the video better.

It looked like a recording with the front camera, Ilya was setting his phone up so he was in view of the whole screen.

Shane turned up his volume, taking in the sight of Ilya. That's when Ilya started to talk. "Okay, it is currently.. 10:06 in the morning, Jesus," Shane sat up a little, holding the phone in both hands. Ilya sounded.. off. "— and I've woken up sick."

Shane could feel his blood run cold. What the fuck was this?

Ilya continued, "I wanted to record for you.. because.. you won't call me right now, If this is weird, just click off now. And we can forget about it."

"Oh my fucking god," Shane said to himself in the quietness of his home, his body starting to get his nervous tremors, pausing the video as he took in the words.

Ilya had recorded a whole ass video. For Shane. Because he knew Shane would like it. Oh my god. Oh fuck.

Shane had to squeeze his legs together as he continued through the video, his head getting dizzy. Ilya looked so sick, but was performing a whole show for the camera. All for Shane? This was unreal.

Shane came three times to the video before he had to tap out, his lower abdomen burning as he was left flushed and panting. All from a fucking video.

Shane took a quick shower, drying himself off so he could text Ilya. Call him— anything.

Montreal Jane :

17:28 Oh my god.

17:29 What the fuck.

17:32 You look so good.

17:33 Are you okay tho? 😅

17:33 Fuck, Ilya. I can't believe you recorded all that for me.

17:47 Please call when you can.

* * *

Ilya woke up with a stuffy nose, glancing up to catch a look at his little clock. 19:02 blinked back to him.

Fuck, he slept for a while. Ilya stretched out his aching limbs like a little house cat, resting himself up on an elbow to check his phone.

Shane had finally seen the video.

Ilya's heart sank ever so slightly as he saw six notifications from Shane. Shane rarely double texts, even now. He either loved it or was spreading it all over Twitter. No, Shane wouldn't do that. Shut up brain.

Ilya swiped his passcode in, clicking on their text thread. He had to squint to see whatever Shane had said, eyes still sore from his long afternoon nap.

Ilya felt his lips curl up with a smile, a genuine one. His plan had been successful. Shane obviously enjoyed the video.

Ilya sat himself up in bed, clicking on the FaceTime option as he flicked on his bedside lamp.

Shane answered on the second ring, his face filling Ilya's screen. Shane immediately scrambled for his glasses, standing up to focus better. "Fuck- hey. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Sndff," Ilya sniffled, appreciating the view of Shane in his glasses.

"Are we gonna mention how fucking insane that video is? Oh my god," Shane breathed out, pacing his room.

Ilya chuckled stuffily, blinking away sleep. "I'm glad you like.. was nervous. That you wouldn't like."

"Fuck. It was so hot, I can't. While watching my game, too? It's burnt into my memory forever."

Ilya's stomach felt warm, the words sending soft waves of dopamine to his brain. "I caught it just for you."

"What?" Shane's brow furrowed on Ilya's screen, his lips looking pink and puffy from what Ilya could only assume to be from Shane biting them. Shane had a habit of doing that while jerking off.

"Da.. I did. I won't go into details.. I know you said you hate germs," Ilya mumbled, eyes glistening from the light of his little lamp.

Shane rubbed his temples. "I can't pretend like that's not hot. Fuck. You're such an idiot."

Ilya scoffed, a rare teeth smile slipping from his lips. "Worth it.. look at you. You look fucked out. And I sent it hours ago."

Shane swallowed, eyes flickering somewhere off-screen. "Well, yeah. I haven't been able to stop thinking about the video. Fuck you."

Ilya cooed as an act of false sympathy, sniffling. "You think about it.. and then get hard.. and then need relief. And the cycle continues? Poor little Shane. How will you ever get through your game tomorrow?"

Shane groaned softly, sitting down on his bed as he eyed Ilya through the screen. "You're sick. Physically and mentally."

Ilya just shook his head, propping himself up. "You'll step foot on the ice and think about the video. About how sneezy I was watching your game. Da?"

Shane palmed himself as Ilya spoke with his stuffy voice, listening to how thick his Russian sounded. Thinking about how sneezy Ilya was in his recording. "Fuck.. fuck. Stop."

"Stop what?" Ilya asked innocently. "You know I'm right. I bet you're hard again, aren't you? Sndff. You're so easy, it's sad."

Shane audibly groaned, bucking into his own palm as he leaned back in bed, holding his phone with his free hand to see Ilya. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know enough. I see it right now," Ilya purred, wiping his nose on the back of his hand as he could see the familiar expressions of Shane receiving some much-needed pleasure.

"Good luck for tomorrow's game.. sndff hhih.. maybe you'll get another video? Only if you win."

Shane's lips fell parted, eyes closing as he was pathetically close to coming and he hadn't even gotten naked yet. "You promise?"

Ilya nodded, watching Shane. "Mm. Make sure to win. Fuck— I need to.. hih! K'hihtsHH!" Ilya winced at how chesty it felt.

"Bless you.." Shane groaned, swivelling a hand underneath his boxers desperately. Shane gave himself approximately 10 tugs before he was dirtying his clean chest with more come. "Oh god, Ilya. Oh shit.. ah."

"How many times have you come today?" Ilya asked, his own shorts uncomfortably tight as he stayed watching Shane.

Shane shook his head, taking off his glasses with quivering hands. "Seven.. times. I think. Maybe."

Ilya raised his brows, wiping his nose on his hand. "I'm impressed, Hollander."

Shane just sighed, head back on his pillows. "You really caught a cold.. on purpose.. to please me? Seriously though?"

"Yup," Ilya popped the P, sniffling to no avail. "I don't regret it. You look amazing right now. Sndff. You play better when you come, too." Ilya rasped, resting his head down.

"You sound so sick," Shane ignored what Ilya said, a frown now on his bitten lips. "You should sleep, alright? I don't want you hurting yourself."

"Oh, how nice. You'd like it if I got worse, Hollander," Ilya snickered to himself, getting all excited again at the idea.

Shane scoffed weakly. "Fuck off. Get well soon and keep the videos coming."