Sneezes? yes please

The Raiders have the practice slot before the Metros; the schedulers have left a short gap between the sessions for the photographs of him and Rozanov. So Shane arrives before the rest of his team, changes alone in the home-team locker room, and comes out to the ice just in time to see the last few minutes of the Boston skate. If he’s a little early for the call time, well, it’s only polite to be punctual. If it also lets him take a look at how his opponents are shaping up – maybe one opponent in particular – so much the better.

Rozanov isn’t on the ice. Instead, he’s behind the boards, locked in a intense discussion with two members of the coaching staff. But he has been skating. Though he’s removed his gloves and his helmet, sweat-soaked curls are still plastered to his skin and sticking out at odd angles and his cheeks are warm from exertion. He also looks much, much sicker than he’d looked that morning. The red flush that had previously coloured the tip of his nose has now spread downwards and outwards, and deepened to an angry scarlet. Probably a freezing rink, a head cold, and the rough polyester of hockey gloves and jerseys hadn’t proved an ideal combination over the last ninety minutes. The parts of Rozanov’s face that aren’t rubbed red-raw are strangely pale, as though someone has painted a grey wash under his usual year-round tan. His brow is furrowed, like he’s trying to push away a gnawing headache, and he’s leaning a little too heavily on the boards.

But the most obvious sign that Rozanov isn’t doing well is that everyone’s stopped pretending that he isn’t sick. One of the coaches is alternating between concerned looks at Rozanov and meaningful glances to another member of staff. Another folds his arms to draw a line under something. Rozanov himself is throwing heated gestures towards the players on the rink, though no one seems to be rising to his frustrations. All of which suggests that their conversation is about whether he can play tomorrow: a topic on which they seem to have very different opinions. And when an assistant coach blows a whistle for the end of the practice and the rest of the Raiders left the ice, Cliff Marleau stops to put a concerned hand on Rozanov’s shoulder. It’s immediately shaken off. Marleau shrugs, and heads back to the dressing room with the team and most of the staff, leaving Rozanov alone at the sideline, staring across the rink until his gaze finally falls on Shane, who is pretending to adjust his skates and trying to look like he isn’t watching Rozanov very closely. 

He’s not surprised that Rozanov is feeling worse; Shane's own cold has definitely come on since that morning. He’d skipped the run he’d had planned to take an afternoon nap on the sofa – something he rarely did – and woken up with an aching head, and congestion pressing between his eyes and under his ears. More worrying was the prickling feeling under the skin across his upper back, which, for him, was usually a sign of a fever coming on.  Luckily, more Tylenol was enough to mute the symptoms to a background annoyance. He’d sneezed a couple of times on the drive over but he can still breathe pretty well, even if the cold of the rink is already starting to make his nose run. Still, he looks pretty much like himself – which is more than anyone can say for Rozanov.

Thankfully, the photographer doesn’t have a whole shoot planned. He promises that he’s not going to take up too much time, that he just wants to get some quick shots as back up, in case he can’t get them at the game tomorrow. He has Shane skate a few quick laps with the puck at his stick – which feels pretty silly with no one chasing him - and then ask Rozanov to do the same.

Rozanov isn’t sloppy – he could never really be sloppy, with his near flawless stick handling – but he’s definitely slow. In the quiet of the arena – no fans, no teammates even – Shane can hear his breathing, and it doesn’t sound great. Of course, Rozanov isn’t trying his hardest… But he’s certainly trying a bit, and probably harder than he’d have liked to. Even in a performance for a photoshoot, Rozanov would still want to put on a good show. So even if Rozanov dialled it up tomorrow, if he’s winded like this now then you could catch him, you could totally catch him, and he definitely couldn’t catch you. Plus his recovery is going to be slow and…

Rozanov finishes his loop around the back of the goal and, probably just for something to do, fires the puck towards the open net. It hits the right hand side of the frame with an echoing clang, and ricocheting out towards the barriers, and spinning miserably to a halt in the lonely neutral zone. 

“You don’t look so good,” he ventures, under his breath.

The last shot the photographer needs is one of the two of them facing off with one another. As he takes a moment to swap his lens, Shane skates over to a few feet behind Rozanov, and then kneels down to pretend to adjust his skates.

“We can’t all be a pretty boy like you, Hollander.” It’s the type of response Shane has come to expect, but without Rozanov’s usual playfulness. Instead, he just sounds exhausted. Shane tries again.

“That looked like a pretty intense discussion.”

Rozanov sniffs, and mutters something towards the ice that might have been a curse in either English or Russian; Shane can’t tell through the muffled consonants.  Then he looks up at Shane, sniffs again, harder, and adds in an icily polite tone, “And how is your cold?”

At that precise moment, Shane’s gloved hand is been half-way to his damp nose. He deliberately lowers it, and fights back the urge to sniffle himself.

“No worse,” he lies. Rozanov rolls his eyes, and skates off – much quicker than is necessary, as if to show that he can – towards the centre face-off spot.

This isn’t the first time Shane has pretended to face off in front of a camera, but it never stops felt weird. It’s hard to fake the tension in his body when there’s nothing at stake, and feels stupid to be gripping his stick, holding it a few inches from the ground, as if ready to strike at a puck that’s never going to be dropped. That was why it has been so easy for Rozanov to make him laugh when they did that shoot in their rookie season. Shane hasn’t thought about that day in a long time, but now, when he does, he can still hear Rozanov’s laughter, can still remember how wonderful it had felt to hear his laughter. Does Rozanov ever think about it? Does he think about any of these moments they have together after they’ve passed? Sometimes, I wonder if I think about anything else.

The photographer wants a thousand little adjustments to their position. Tilt your head a little to the right, no not that much, now put your chin up, drop your shoulder, and so on, and so on. Through it all, and though the set of his jaw suggests he would clearly rather be anywhere than on the ice with a camera pointing at him, Rozanov keeps his gaze locked on Shane – that gaze that, even now, Shane struggles to read. Rozanov’s eyes are challenging him, teasing him, inviting him in and shutting him out, all in the same intense stare.

Shane isn’t good at this staring game. Facing off with other players he avoids it, fixing his gaze on a point on the ice, or staring at the bridge of their nose, because almost no one can tell you’re not actually making eye contact. But with Rozanov, as always, his body thrums with a hot determination to keep up. So Shane stares back, and he keeps staring, even as it starts to feel physically painful, to restrict the air he can force into his lungs. He keeps staring even as the photographer’s instructions, echoing around the empty ice rink, are stretched and compressed into a series of sounds without meaning.

Of course, he doesn’t just want to keep up with Rozanov. He wants to beat him, wants to thrash him, wants to leave Rozanov reeling in his wake. Though, whenever he’s tried to make sense of it afterwards –  lying in the darkness of nights in hotel rooms, cocooned in the white-noise of red-eye flights, caught breathless by the crisp chill of morning before an early practice in January –  it seems that it isn’t the moment of victory that he savours. No, it’s the competition itself, the struggle, both of them locked together in battle. And then he can’t tease apart any of the strands of this thing the two of them have, can’t work out whether the sex is an extension of the rivalry, or the rivalry is an extension of the sex. Whichever it is, that probably explains why neither of them can end it.

Suddenly, Rozanov blinks. Or rather, he closes his eyes deliberately, squeezing them shut as if pressing something back. When he opens them again, his intense stare has shifted to a dazed look into middle distance. The tension in his jaw has dissolved, his chapped lips part, and his poor abused nose scrunches upwards. Then, in a cyclone of balletic grace, Rozanov pushes himself backwards across this ice, and at the same time swings shoulders and stick up and over to his left and away from Shane.

“hahh’DGhtschh!... hhh’tXchhh!... hgh’TXSHHH!’Xtchhh!...hh-hh’Ngstchh!!”

It’s actually impressive that Rozanov manages to stay on his feet as each heaving sneeze rips through him. He jams his stick into the ice like an anchor, as he hunches over into his left arm, crumpling further in on himself with each successive explosion. Shane feels the involuntarily twitch of his muscles that is usually triggered by a puck skidding across the ice or another player racing past him, the instinctive urge to move towards something at pace. But he fights it back, because he can’t skate over to Rozanov and place a hand between his shoulder blades, can’t slip a steadying arm around Rozanov’s waist while he sneezes his head off.

The photographer laughs, which both breaks the tension, and reassures Shane that no one is going to be scanning his own features for traces of the expression of concern that he is sure must be plastered across them. He forces out a stilted “Bless you” and turns away while Rozanov clears himself up as best he can. The photographer says something throwaway about the flash doing that to lots of people, and starts asking them whether they can swap sides of the face-off spot, so he can get some other angles.

When they face each other again, Rozanov doesn’t stare at him again, but he does flick an exhausted, watery glance up at Shane as they reposition themselves.

“Fuck this,” he mutters, and Shane isn’t sure if he’s talking about the photoshoot, his cold, or both.

“You ok?” Shane mouths, raising his stick again. He’s starting to feel less than okay himself. Now that they’ve been standing still for some minutes, the cold of the rink is stabbing through his layers of clothing, and he’s having to sniffle almost constantly to stop his nose from running. 

Rozanov rolls his eyes, as he leans back into the face off position. What do you think?

Shane rubs at his nose and then shrugs, in what he hopes is a reasonably universal gesture for, I know, it sucks to play sick, and risks a small smile. For a second, Rozanov smiles back. Somewhere, far away it seems, the camera shutter clicks.

“Looking good, Hollander!” Hayden’s voice, bright with good-natured teasing, rings out across the ice. Shane turns towards the clatter of skate-blades, pads and helmets tumbling from the home end, a clatter that is quickly accompanied by more shouts, whoops, and the odd wolf-whistle. Shane huffs a sigh, which catches in his sore throat and ends up as a choked, spluttering cough. He really does not need this now.

Rozanov, never the most generous to Shane’s teammates, narrows his eyes. “Idiots,” he mutters, barely under his breath.  

“Jealous, Rozanov?”

Shane can’t identify the voice from the shout – there’s a handful of players it could plausibly be – and can’t turn quickly enough to see who it is, and can’t really tell if it’s a response to Rozanov’s mutterings or a random jab, sent out to see if it will land. On another day, Rozanov would probably have spun around and blown a kiss to his “adoring fans” – but not today. Today, Rozanov stands upright like his back aches, which it probably does, and says quietly but firmly, “We are done here, I think.” It’s not a question, and before the photographer can respond, Rozanov adds a short, “Thank you,” and skates off towards the away end.

He doesn’t look at Shane before he leaves.

By the time Shane has finished thanking the photographer himself, trying not to stare after Rozanov the whole time, Hayden is at his shoulder.

“Why do they always pick you for this stuff?” he grumbles.

Because I was the league’s second-top scorer last season. Because I have an Olympic silver medal. Because I’ve been Rookie of the Year, and the League’s MVP. But also because I’m not white and that makes them feel good about themselves, or hit some kind of target. Because I’m also the kind of not-white that won’t put off their readers. Because my mom’s been planning for this since I was in middle school. Because she makes a lot of phone calls even when I wish she wouldn’t, and then I feel ungrateful for wishing she wouldn’t. Because my jerseys sell. So many fucking reasons, Hayden, where do you want me to start?

Shane swallows. His throat hurts. There’s a low static in his ears, and that threatens a sharp pain whenever he moves his head. The cold of the rink is making his nose run. For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t want to be here: on the ice, with his team.

“I dunno, man. The rivalry, I guess,” he mutters, which at least gives him an excuse to look in Rozanov’s direction again.

“Oh, yeah,” Hayden agrees, his eyes also following Rozanov off the ice. “Is something up with him? He’s usually got better comebacks.”

“How should I know?” Shane lies without thinking about it. Lying about Rozanov is second-nature now. “Come on, let’s get on with practice.”

***

It takes Shane and CityMapper two minutes chooses a grocery store that is sufficiently distanced from the Metro’s stadium, his home and his investment property – and as long as he keeps thinking of it as that, then that’s what it is – that it doesn’t indicate any of those locations. A grocery store that Shane visits as quickly as possible, with his hood up, hoping all the time that no hockey fans are doing any evening shopping in the pharmacy aisle.

This cold probably wouldn’t feel too bad if he’d spent the evening at home on the couch, but after ninety minutes of drills in literally freezing stadium, it feels pretty fucking awful. Half-way through practice, his nose started playing this great trick of feeling clogged and on the verge of streaming all at once. And then it kept prickling with the urge to sneeze, an urge that he fought back by jamming it against his shoulder or his glove. But he’s paying for that, because there’s a constant buzzing underneath the bridge that’s making his eyes water, and occasionally provoking a pathetic shuddering gasp that fizzles away into nothing. And now the endorphins have worn off, he’s noticing that the meds he took before practice are wearing off too. His muscles ache, and it’s the ache of an oncoming fever rather than a successful work out.

The sensible thing to do would have been to drive back to his actual home, eat some take-out soup, and sleep until the last possible moment before he has to leave for the game tomorrow. The sensible thing to do would be to text Rozanov and tell him the plan is off; he’s a grown up, he can sort his own cold medicine out, or he can get someone else to do it, because professional hockey teams have people for that. But Shane stopped being sensible six or seven hotel rooms ago, or maybe even before that. Maybe he stopped being sensible that day in Saskatchewan when he saw Rozanov smoking outside the rink. Maybe he hasn’t been sensible for a long time, and nobody’s noticed yet.

Shane keeps apartment well provisioned for the one purpose for which he uses it. Besides that stuff, there’s some beer in the refrigerator, some coffee pods for the machine that Shane can’t remember actually ever using, and maybe a box of protein bars that he took out of his kit bag after arriving straight from a practice. But there’s nothing there that a sick person might need, let alone find comforting.

On his own, Shane would have grabbed the lemon-flavored medicine drink that is objectively the least disgusting thing in the cold-and-flu section, some ginger tea, and an extra box of tissues. But he has no idea what Rozanov prefers, so he also grabs another three vaguely familiar types of cold meds, both Tylenol and Advil, and a second box of tissues just in case. He draws the line at soup; he’s not sure he’s got any cooking equipment in the apartment anyway. But orange juice and tea, those seem like not-weirdly-intense things to provide for someone who is sick, and is also someone that he fucks on the regular, especially when Shane himself is sick too. Yeah, this seems ok.

Or it does until he’s at the automatic register and he remembers that there’s no kettle at this apartment. There’s a microwave – he’s pretty sure there’s a microwave? – but microwaving makes hot water taste weird to him. Maybe the coffee machine makes hot water, but maybe it doesn’t, because he’s never used it so he doesn’t know. So he’s buying tea that he’s not even sure he can make, and what looks like enough medicines to open a small pharmacy.

Jesus, this is ridiculous. He, Shane Hollander, is ridiculous. Rozanov is going to rip him to shreds for going shopping for cold supplies on the way to a hook up. All this for me, Hollander? You shouldn’t have… He’d be insufferable, and the thought nearly leads Shane to drop the grocery basket on the floor and walk right out of the store without it.

But he doesn’t. Because Rozanov had looked really, really sick at practice, and Shane is starting to feel pretty sick himself. So he’s going to take his medicine, and make Rozanov take his too, so they can both get the maximum enjoyment out of this monumentally fucked-up thing that they have going before they wake up feeling even shittier in the morning.

***

Rozanov is ten minutes late, which is enough to make Shane fidgety, but also not enough that a message asking where the fuck he is won’t sound stupidly desperate. It’s not that Shane wants to suggest he can play it cool – that ship sailed in a shower in Toronto half a decade ago – but Rozanov doesn’t need any more lead to make bullets from. At the same time, if Rozanov is too sick to come over, or he can’t get away, or he’s changed his mind, Shane would really like to know now, so he can go back to his real apartment, where he keeps real things like comfy sweaters and fresh fruit, and where his real bed is, and where he might try to sleep off his cold.

“hhh?’hhhh… huh-EISH’www!.. h’ISH’shww!” Shane twists the tissues away from his nose, and then swipes away a tear that’s spilled onto his cheeks, before tossing them to the pile that’s rapidly accumulated in the trashcan and snatching another handful of from the box he’s place on the coffee table. 

It’s his nose taking revenge for all the tickles he scrubbed away during practice; that’s the only explanation for why he’s been sneezing and sneezing since he stepped inside the apartment. Obviously it’s not actually that. It’s the dry air from the heat being on, or just that he’s caught what is rapidly turning into the worst cold he’s had in years.

He’s refreshed their chat twice, which fails to make any new messages magically appear. He tries resting on the couch with whatever ESPN has on playing mindlessly in the background, but his muscles, still wired from practice, are too twitchy to sit still. So all that’s left is for him to try to make an apartment that no one lives in seem the tiniest bit like it might be somewhere that would make a sick feel a little more comfortable. He’s put the medicine on the counter where its visible, and now he fetches a plaid blanket from the guest room, and drapes it over the back of the couch.

The buzzer to the apartment rings.

Rozanov looks better than he had a few hours earlier. Not better as in cured – the skin around the tip of his nose is still red raw, and he should really stop rubbing at it or he’s going to make it worse. But as he climbs the stairs towards the door, he looks less strung out, less like his benching tomorrow is an inevitability. He also looks fucking good, dressed for autumn weather in Montreal in a charcoal-coloured woollen coat that he’s buttoned over his hoodie, and a lighter grey scarf wrapped high around his throat. It pushes up the longer strands of his curly hair around his ears, in a way that makes Shane want to twist the spirals around his fingers and pull, hard until Rozanov gasps opens that pretty pink mouth of his.

“hh’tSSHHhew!....hhh’EIshhheugh!”

This makes it all the more embarrassing when Shane literally greets him with a sneeze.

“Fuck. Shit. Sorry.” Shane mumbles into the handful of tissues that he’s pressing hard against his nose. He knows he’s blushing, can feel the heat rising into the top of his cheeks. “Sorry,” he says again, wiping his nose and adding, “This cold is making me really sneezy.”

Good one, Shane. Smooth. Definitely not a phrase that’s going to immediately kill the mood.

Rozanov offers Shane a familiar lopsided grin and there’s a look in his eyes that Shane can’t parse. Then, he raises his hand, and strokes a thumb across the plane of Shane’s cheekbone, exactly where Shane knows that the skin has flushed pink. Rozanov’s fingers are chilled from the cold of the outside, and his touch sends a pleasurable shudder cannoning up Shane’s spine.

“Poor baby…”

Rozanov’s voice is shredded to a low growl that barely makes it out of his throat. The deeper pitch and roughened edges somehow make his accent seem stronger than usual, which would be enough to make Shane want to hum with pleasure. His comment is probably meant to be mocking – knocked on your ass by the sniffles, Hollander?  - but also maybe not, because the thumb that stroked across Shane’s cheek is now on the back of his neck, with the rest of Rozanov’s fingers tangled in and tugging on Shane’s hair. Rozanov’s other hand moves to Shane’s waist, slipping into the small of his back and then tugging their hips together sharply, as Rozanov presses his mouth urgently onto Shane’s own, and then traces kisses along Shane’s jawline.

“I can make you feel better,” he whispers into the hollow of Shane’s throat.

Shane moans softly, turning his head and leaning his cheek on to Rozanov’s. Oh. There’s a surface coldness from the walk to Shane’s backdoor. But underneath that is a latent heat, something more than the usual warmth of Rozanov’s skin against his own, that pulls a hiss of sympathy from Shane. It is a heat that is urgent; a sign that should be observed. Shane reaches his hand to the other cheek and presses it, half-conscious that he should be using the back and not his palm if he’s checking for a fever.

He’s no expert, but he’s pretty sure that’s what he finds. Hot, tight, pale skin that Shane wants to kiss and bathe and sooth until Rozanov feels like himself again.

But before Shane can say or do any of this, a shove to the chest sends him stumbling backward in the direction of the bedroom; he has to catch himself on the back of the couch so that he doesn’t lose his footing entirely. Rozanov snorts out a laugh, and tugs off his scarf and coat, abandoning both to the floor as he stalks towards Shane. He wraps his muscular arms around Shane’s body, drawing him upright with a force that almost lifts Shane off his feet, and crashes them together as their lips meet in a ferocious kiss.

Shane’s body is stirring to Rozanov’s, but when he catches a handful of Rozanov’s hair to pull him closer still, the heat radiating off his skin is distracting. Has he taken anything for it? Does he even know about it? As he catches Rozanov’s lower lip between his teeth and tugs gently, and then not so gently, Shane slides a hand up underneath Rozanov’s hoodie and the soft, well-worn t-shirt beneath it to see if he can feel the same burning heat from Rozanov’s torso.

Shit.

Shane presses the kiss more firmly before he breaks away to say, “Um… You feel really hot.”

Rozanov freezes for an instant, and laughs curiously at the choice of verb.

“You feel good, too,” he replies, and adds “You taste even better,” leaning in for another bruising kiss as he presses Shane backwards towards the threshold of the bedroom.

Clearly, Rozanov choose to interpret the sentence metaphorically. He’s also translating Shane’s hands running over the contours of his chest as an invitation to remove some more layers of clothing – something Shane doesn’t mind at all. He’s slipped the hoodie from his shoulders, and now leans away for a moment to pull his t-shirt over his head, which at least gives Shane an opportunity to clarify things.

“No, I mean, it feels like you’ve got a fever.”

Rozanov stares at Shane like he’s lost his mind (and maybe he has). He sniffs damply, scrubs a hand across his nose and then says, “Probably? I am sick, remember?” He starts to kiss Shane again, more tenderly this time, as though trying to remind him of exactly how badly he needs to be taken care of. As they fall through the door to the bedroom, Shane reluctantly pulls away once more.

“Yeah, no, I remember…” He’s a little breathless from the kissing. “I just meant, have you taken anything for it? Do you need to… um… lie down?”

Fuck. He actually said that.

Rozanov laughs out loud, though it’s only seconds before it dissolves into a crackling cough, that he smothers into a fistful of the t-shirt that he’s still holding.

“Yes, Hollander, I need to lie down,” he deadpans. Then his eyes flash and narrow, and he stares at Shane like he can know him absolutely. He drops his voice to a deep, hoarse, whisper and jerks his head over Shane’s shoulder towards the bed that is behind him. “I need to lie down on your bed, with you underneath me, and your legs open. Can you do that for me?”

 Yes. Yes. Whatever you want. I’d do anything for you.

“Only when you tell me whether you’ve taken any meds,” Shane insists.

Rozanov rolls his eyes. “This is very boring, Hollander.”

“Just fucking tell me then.”

“No, I haven’t.” Rozanov practically spits out the words, and then coughs. When he speaks again, his voice is like sandpaper. “You are happy? We can get on with it now?”

Shane sighs. “No, I’m not happy. You need to take something. I’ve got some Tylenol in the kitchen.” He goes to move past Rozanov, who catches him by the elbow.

“I don’t need it,” Rozanov replies tersely, only to have his body betray him with a shudder that runs through his shoulders. The room is definitely too warm for that. Reluctantly, Shane shakes off his touch.

“You’re shivering.”

“Because I’m standing here half-naked waiting to fuck!”

“Because you have a fever.”

Rozanov sniffs, likely more from necessity than derision, and tosses the t-shirt to the floor. He opens his arms, exposing his broad firm chest. “Come on…” He steps forward, arm outstretched to pull Shane back towards him, but Shane steps sideways, slipping his grasp. “Hollander.”

Rozanov says Shane’s name like a threat. His eyes are hungry now. They stare at each other in silence for a moment, until Rozanov snarls, “You playing nurse, Hollander – it doesn’t really do it for me.” One side of his mouth quirks upwards, and he drops his eyes meaningfully to the crotch of Shane’s sweatpants. “But maybe, for you...”

“Fuck off, Rozanov.” Eloquent. But in his own defence, Shane’s nose is running and his ears hurts, and every word he has to speak feels like he’s scraping his throat down a cheese grater. He doesn’t need to be making sure that Rozanov undertakes the bare minimum of self-care and he definitely doesn’t need to be fucked around while he does it. He huffs out a sigh, and pinches his nose. “I’m going to get you some meds. Then you’re going to take them. And then we’re going to fuck.”

Rozanov smirks at him again, sniffs again, and mutters under his breath, “So demanding.”

Pretending not to hear this, Shane moves back towards the kitchen. Rozanov doesn’t make eye contact with him, but he does check Shane with his shoulder as he passes. The contact is just hard enough to hurt deliciously, to make Shane’s squirm with the anticipation of the weight of Rozanov’s body on top of his own, and its all he can do to swallow the moan that rises in his throat. 

“Hurry back…” Rozanov calls after him.

Shane has every intention of hurrying back. His cold, however, has other ideas. He’s grabbed one of the blister packets and is about to fetch a glass of water when the creeping, prickling sensation that has barely left his sinuses since practice finished intensifies. Feeling his breath start to catch, Shane puts down the glass – because tissues seem like they would be a good idea, and sneezing with a glass full of water does not.

“hhuh’h?… hh-hhh-uhh…”

The tickle in his nose sharpens, the urge swells, but then backs away again, though not completely – which leaves Shane on the cusp of a sneeze that won’t materialize but also won’t disappear. Ugh, it really itches. Should he try blowing his nose? Will that make it better or…

“hehh’ihh.. uhhh….”

… worse. Shit, definitely worse. He rubs his nose, not to suppress the sensation, but to tease it out because now he desperately needs to sneeze, and the only saving grace is that Rozanov isn’t here to witness this whole sorry sight.

“Hollander, what the fuck is taking so long?”

Heavy footsteps on the wooden floors. Fuck. Shane turns towards them and through the blur of tears sees Rozanov, shirtless and beautiful, while Shane himself is clutching a handful of tissues like his life depends on it.

“Hollander?”

“I n’deed to suhh’hh-sdeeze…” he somehow manages to stutter between breaths that catch in the top of his lungs.

Rozanov snorts. “Sneeze then.”

Shane practically moans in frustration, unsure whether the cause of his imminent death is going to be his cold or the embarrassment he’s feeling right now. 

“I ca’hh’hhh…huuhhh.” Shane squeezes his eyes shut as another hitch of breath fizzles out into nothing. “You really don’dt have to watch this…” he mutters, eyes still closed.

Rozanov sniffs in amusement – because apparently even his cold symptoms are expressive – and the sound is closer than Shane expects it to be. Then, there is a hand on his waist and another on his shoulder, and then sensation of a too-warm body pressing into his back through his sweatshirt.

“Relax, Hollander.” Rozanov’s whisper is in his ear and everywhere, and Shane can feel the vibrations of his chest as he speaks, can hear the slight crackle every time he breathes out. His cold is probably going to his chest and that’s not great, but he also told Shane to relax, and so Shane tries to do that. He keeps his eyes closed, leaning his weight back slightly against the warm, familiar, mass behind him and matching his breath to Rozanov’s steadying inhales and exhales, until, after what seems like forever –

“huh-ISH’EWww!ISH’euh! ... hh’hhh’ISHhhoo! huh’hhISHH’ewh!”

Obviously, it isn’t actually possible to sneeze so hard that you fall over, but Shane really thinks that he might, if it wasn’t for the hand on his waist and the other one that was rubbing his back gently between his shoulder blades. He could lean back and stay there forever, wrapped up in Rozanov’s arms and against his chest, while Rozanov mutters into his ear things in Russia that Shane doesn’t understand. He could stay here forever, except that Shane really needs to blow his nose. Reluctantly, he presses away the hand that is still resting on his hip bone and stems out of the embrace.

“This is so gross,” he mumbles, the words mangled between congestion and tissues.

Rozanov makes a humming sound in the back of his throat, as though to suggest he’s seen worse – and yes, honestly, they both have seen worse, do see worse, on a weekly – no daily basis, in their dressing rooms. But to give Shane some space and a chance to regain a little bit of dignity, he steps back and pretends to be deeply absorbed in the packets of cold medicine that Shane has left on the counter.

He’s still looking at them when Shane has cleaned himself up, tossed the tissues in the trash that he wishes he could literally burn, and retrieved the glass that he set down an age ago.

“What is this?” Rozanov says suddenly, holding up the box of the lemon-and-honey drink that’s Shane’s preferred medicine of choice.

“Cold medicine. You mix it with hot water. You’re not supposed to take it with Tylenol so I guess it’s the same thing? It’s lemon flavour,” he adds, wondering if any of the answers that he’s given are what Rozanov wanted to know.

“It’s not tablets?”

“No, it’s a drink.”

Rozanov looks at the box again, eyebrows narrowing a little as he studies it. “I want this,” he says, pushing the box over to Shane.

“Um, sure.” Shane turns back to the cupboard to swap the glass for a coffee mug. “Oh, but I don’t have a kettle here so I’ll have to heat the water in the microwave.”

“Okay…?” Rozanov is giving him that look again – a look that most people who have known Shane long enough give him eventually, the look that means he’s acting like he’s from another planet altogether.

“I always think that water tastes different when it’s been heated in the microwave and not boiled in a kettle. I can always tell when someone makes tea that way and…” Shane stops, because he knows he’s babbling, but also because Rozanov is smiling at him, smiling properly now, so that his eyes crinkle in the corners and his whole body relaxes with it. “What?”

“You’re so weird,” Rozanov says, but it’s not an insult.

“And you’re an asshole,” Shane replies, and it’s not an insult either.

The microwave hums in the background, glowing warmly in the half-lit kitchen. Rozanov pulls himself into one of the stools on the other side of the counter and leans forward on his elbows, arms wrapped around his own torso. He kneads the heels of his hands into his eyes, and suddenly looks tired. It’s only when Rozanov shivers again that Shane remembers that he’s not wearing anything on his top half.

The throw from the guest room might come in useful after all.

“Here.”

Rozanov looks up in surprise as Shane drapes the blanket over his shoulders, but he gives a small smile, and nod of thanks as he gathers the folds together across his chest. His eyes are a little too bright, and he still doesn’t look warm.

Did you ever have a boyfriend who would feel your forehead to check if you had a fever, or put a blanket round your shoulders, and let you fall asleep in his lap?

And how is it possible that this feels so much more of a risk than anything else he’s done with Rozanov? But risks – calculated risks – are how you win hockey games: shots from angles that should be too tight, the check that might come too late, the pass that you hope your teammate will read. So Shane has taught himself not to be cautious; nothing ventured, nothing gained, as his dad would say. To the victor, the spoils. Maybe doesn’t work like that with Rozanov, but neither of them has any other metaphors than hockey tonight.

Shane reaches over and presses the back of his hand to Rozanov’s forehead and feels the fever burning there. Rozanov closes his pretty eyes and sighs, as though he’s been waiting a lifetime for someone to do this. They stay there still for a moment before the microwave pings.

“It’s better if you add honey to it, but I haven’t got any here.” Shane’s talking just to fill the space between them, as he tips a sachet of the powder into the water and begins to stir. He’s never understood how other people know exactly the right amount to talk in any given situation. He either says too much or not enough.

“hhgh’Nghchhh!” Rozanov’s sneezes so violently that it sounds physically painful, his head crashing forward onto the arms he has folded over in front of him. “hhh’EGNH’hh!” He lifts his head, lip curling toward his inflamed nose, as he catches his breath before snapping forward once again into steepled hands. “hhh’Ntschh!N’tschhh!djTschhh!”

“Bless you.” Shane slides the mug across the counter until at Rozanov’s left elbow, and then, as an afterthought slides the tissue box there as well. Rozanov still hasn’t lifted his head. “Hey, are you –“

“hhgh’Xtchhh!-hh’TXghhh!”

“Jesus,” Shane says, once he lifts his head to snatch some tissues from the box. “Are you still breathing?”

Rozanov blows his nose and chokes out a bitter laugh that quickly crumples like paper into a hacking cough. Shane nudges the drink again.

“You should drink that while it’s hot.”

 Rozanov sniffs, takes a large sip and then grimaces.

“This is disgusting,” he says. Shane shrugs sympathetically.

“I did say it’s better with honey. I can get the Tylenol, if you like.”

“No – is fine,” Rozanov says, steeling himself for another sip. He looks down at the lack of a mug in front of Shane. “You are not…?”

Shane shakes his head. “I can’t for another – two hours, maybe? I took something before practice.”

“Sucks to be you.” Rozanov takes another drink. The steam must be making his nose run, because he scrubs at it again.

“It does,” Shane agrees. “But sucks to be you, too. Being sick on the road is the worst.”

Rozanov looks at Shane, the thumb and finger of his left hand teasing the blanket that Shane draped over his shoulder. He sniffles and says, “I can think of worse.”

“Are they going to let you play tomorrow?"

Rozanov snorts. “You want to know so you can decide whether to call out sick?”

“No.” The anger prickles through Shane’s shoulders. “And fuck you. I’m playing.” He takes a sip of his water. “I’m asking because I hope they let you play, too. Like you said before, it’s – it’s more fun when you’re there.”

Rozanov sips his drink again, and draws out another tissue to scrub his nose with.

“I can play if I don’t have a fever,” he mutters.

“Oh.” Shane runs a finger around the rim of his glass. “Maybe tomorrow it will…” His voice trails off.

Rozanov shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Look, um…” Shane tries. “Um… we don’t have to… If you just want to – ”

“If I want to lie down?” Rozanov’s mouth quirks upwards. “I come all the way across this city, to your murder-alley, when it’s freezing cold, and I am sick, for the only thing that can make me feel better…”

He’s smiling properly now, as he gets to his feet, blanket draped over his chiselled shoulders like he’s a marble statue in a museum. His tongue darts out to moisten chapped lips that are, nevertheless, slightly parted, expectant. Lifting the mug to those lips, Rozanov drains the rest of the liquid.

“Now, I took medicine like a good boy, you will come and join me?” Rozanov raise one eyebrow, flicks his head back towards the bedroom. and leaves without another word.

“Is that right?” Ilya seeks out his eyes and his mouth is set firmly in that way where Shane knows he’s evaluating something. He doesn’t say anything more, just looks expectantly. 

“Yhhh—“ Shane flushes and puts an elbow over his nose because he thinks the sneeze is going to come. It doesn't and he sets down his arm again. He would really like to just sneeze now, to get this over with. but his sinuses are toying with him. 

Ilya is still staring. 

“Yeah, I really have to sneeze but I can't,” Shane amends, looking anywhere but into Ilya's gaze. He's sure he’s amused by this whole situation. Ilya makes a game out of teasing information out of Shane. It's probably one of the things that works well with them, if he really lets himself admit it, because otherwise he’d just never admit anything. 

“What else makes you sneeze, besides this unfortunate cologne I bought?” Ilya demands, fingers creeping their way over his thigh as he continues to stare him down. 

“Uh. I dunno. Like. Being sick? I don't really get allergies that much…” Shane wracks his brain, searching for an answer to this ridiculous question like his life depends on it. 

“I thought sun makes you sneeze, too.” 

Shane can’t even reply and just nods his head once. He can’t believe Ilya remembered that. 

“Ah. But it is dark out.” Ilya's hand creeps further up his thigh. 

Shane swallows. The fire pops softly, sending a brief spray of sparks into the air, and the smell of smoke curls around them. His nose prickles again, sharper now, probably offended at being talked about. He sniffs once, on reflex.

“I’m not going to–” he starts, then stops. He should really stop lying. He exhales through his mouth, slow and careful, negotiating with his own face. 

“I’m really close.”

“I can see that,” Ilya says mildly, but his fingers are inching higher and higher towards Shane’s half-hard cock.

Shane braves a glance at him and immediately looks away again. Ilya is calm, outwardly, in that infuriating way he is so often. Relaxed shoulders, knees angled toward Shane, gaze steady and unblinking. As if this is not happening to Shane by Ilya’s own making, but only exists for his observation. 

His nose burns again. He rubs just beneath it with the back of his knuckle, quick and embarrassed, then stills when Ilya’s thumb presses sharply into his inner thigh. A jolt of heat runs through him like lightning and he stifles a gasp.

“Don’t hide,” Ilya commands, but his tone is not unkind, only curious.

“I’m not hiding,” Shane mutters, which is… not convincing. To himself or other involved parties. 

He drops his hand to his lap, curling fingers finding purchase in his hoodie sleeve. Be fucking normal about this. He knows you get off to this. He’s okay with it. He’s asking for it. And it still feels strange and wrong, but calms him down.

The prickling beneath his face swells, cresting, and then backing off again, cruelly. His eyes sting with the feeling, and the smoke of the firepit.

“Mmm..” Ilya observes him some more, eyes dancing.

Shane huffs out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a whine before he can stop it. 

“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses, fighting back because it’s what they do. As if he’s not so turned-on he can barely think about anything else besides Ilya’s hand on his thigh, the pulsing in his cock, and the burning up in his nose.

Ilya’s mouth curves, just barely.

“I am enjoying you,” he corrects. “Being honest. Even when it is…” He pauses a moment, clicks his tongue, searching for the right English word, “Inconvenient.” 

That makes Shane’s heart thrum in a way that has nothing to do with his current predicament. He shifts on the bench, knees knocking lightly against Ilya’s. The contact sends a jolt through him, once again, and his nose flares, immediately, tattling.

“Oh.” Shane squeezes his eyes shut. “Oh, fuhh-ck.”

Ilya doesn’t move his hand away. If anything, his fingers settle more firmly, grounding. “Is it coming?”

“I think— hh’ngh— I thinkso,” Shane says, voice going thin in his ears. He brings his elbow up again, hovering this time, unsure. He hates the waiting most of all, the way it stretches him out, leaves him stuck in anticipation with nowhere to put it. Envisioning those two blue eyes on him.

He inhales.

Nothing.

He groans softly and drops his arm, scrubbing his face with both hands now. “No. False alarm.”

God, that’s humiliating.

“Why?” Ilya asks immediately.

Shane peeks at him through his fingers. 

“Stop it. You’re staring at me like I’m. I don’t know. A science experiment?”

Ilya hums. 

“I am studying Shane Hollander,” he agrees, entirely unapologetic. “You say your nose is calming down. But your body disagrees.” He quirks his lips at that and presses a finger hard below Shane’s cock again. God.

Yeah, well,” Shane exhales, shaky. He blinks back wetness as the burning in his nose once again reaches his eyes. 

Ilya’s thumb strokes once, slowly, just above Shane’s knee. His hand somehow moved there without Shane noticing. He’d been preoccupied. Still, the soft contact makes Shane’s breath hitch. 

And, traitorously, makes his nose flare again, the comfort of it all.

Shane freezes, tempering his inhales and exhales and staring at the fire without daring close his eyes. 

Ilya’s eyes sharpen. “What?”

“I… I think you just made ihht worse,” Shane says, mortified and helpless all at once. His breathing turns shallow, involuntary little sniffs breaking through no matter how hard he tries to stop them. 

His eyes water as he forces them to stay open, to fight against the pricking, lashes visibly clumping in front of his own gaze.

“Ah, this is good to know,” Ilya replies. His voice low and rumbling with concealed laughter as he ghosts his other hand over Shane’s cheek, his lips, his nose. 

“That’s not what I meant— hhh’ih—” Shane cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, chest stuttering, shoulders bunching up around his shoulders. His whole face scrunches, suspended there for just a beat too long. The touch to his nose has done it, he’s sure. 

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. He might come just from this alone. It’s so weird and fucked-up, but he wants Ilya to watch him sneeze, to feel his humiliation burn at his cheeks, to smirk at his cock as it leaks in his shorts.

Ilya leans just slightly closer. Not touching again, but waiting.

Shane barely gets his elbow up in time.

“Hh’, uhh, hhTSHh’uuuh—!”

It’s soft and shy, but completely uncontrollable at the same time. He folds forwards, the sound tearing out of him as gently as he can manage, leaving him unsatisfied. 

There’s a heartbeat of silence afterward, broken only by the popping of the fire. More smoke curls into his nose as he takes a deep inhale.

Shane stays bent, breathing hard, mortified. His ears burn, but not as fiercely as his cock wants. 

“…Sorry,” he mumbles, because he doesn’t know what else to say. What does a normal person say? There’s no textbook for this, because no normal person ends up in a situation where his partner wants to turn him on with his sneezing kink.

Ilya doesn’t laugh. That almost makes it worse. But, really, not at all. 

Instead, Ilya’s hand moves. Not higher, not lower, just a steadying weight on Shane’s thigh, brushing gently. 

“Feel better? Bless you, hmm?” Dirty talk to Shane’s ears.

Shane sniffles, wiping at his nose with his sleeve, too fucking horny to care about the mess. 

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Yeah, it did. I – uh – I feel good.”

Ilya nods, satisfied. “Good. Then you told the truth. I think I would like to see my Shane look so needy while he sneezes some more.”

Shane straightens slowly, blinking, cheeks still flushed. He’s not sure if it’s possible for someone to blush anymore than he is right now, but the heat is still rising. 

He risks another look at Ilya, finds him watching with that same intent focus – but hungrier now. Like a predator who has his prey fully cornered.

“…I might have to sneeze again,” Shane says, barely audible. It’s insane to listen to in his own ears. He really fucking wants Ilya to watch him sneeze again. To make him.