Ghost

“Oh, fuck. It’s Hayden.” 

The look Ilya gives him is utterly offended. 

“He just had a baby, I haven’t talked to him in weeks,” Shane argues, swiping his thumb across his phone screen to answer the call. Ilya groans. “Hey, buddy.” 

“Hey! Is this a good time?” Hayden asks, voice cheerful and tinny from the receiver. 

“Yeah, uh—uh, how’s, um…” 

“I haven’t spoken to you in, like, a month,” he goes on, talking over Shane’s stammering. “I mean, the season ended and you just… vanished.” 

“I know, I’m so sorry.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes and flops back onto the couch, only to crunch back up a moment later to crush a sneeze into his fist. And then, because he’s Ilya, another double, and one more after a moment’s hesitation. Shane glances over to mouth bless you at him, and Ilya waves him off. He’s been sensitive all day, nose twitchy and pink around the edges from irritation, and he’s not been able to go more than fifteen minutes without sneezing. He’s blamed it on the (in his words) “stupid fucking Canadian foliage,” and while he’s taken a dose of antihistamines, they’ve not kicked in yet. Or aren’t doing shit. Come to think of it, they’re probably expired. 

He shifts his attention back over to Hayden, resolving to end the conversation as quickly as possible. Part of him squeezes guiltily at the thought of trying to head off his best friend, but he and Ilya don’t really get to have time with each other. It’s always a calculation, and now that they’re not fighting the rest of the world to be together, he doesn’t want anything to interfere. 

“But how’s—Amber, right? How is she?” He slaps Ilya’s hand away when he starts walking his fingers up his thigh, then glares at him. If he can just wait five minutes… 

Ilya brings his hand up to rub at his nose again, and immediately flinches into his chest with two sneezes, and then a third after a moment’s hesitation. His jaw drops slightly, eyes hazy, and fuck, he’s not done. 

“She’s doing great!” Hayden is saying, and from his voice, it’s clear that he’s beaming. “Perfectly healthy, and just adorable. You got the pics I sent you, right?” 

“Oh, yeah, the pics are cute.” 

Next to him, Ilya chokes through another silent triple. He’s flushed a faint pink from embarrassment across his cheeks and the tips of his ears, his eyes starting to water from allergic irritation, and his tongue is poking out of his mouth just slightly as he squints vaguely. 

“She’s been feeding really well, too. Latching consistently and everything; she’s been much easier than Arthur.” 

“Aw, good, good,” says Shane, angling his torso away from Ilya and doing his best to ignore the apparent allergy attack occurring five feet from him. “And, uh, Jackie’s good, too?” 

“Yeah! Definitely tired, but nothing unexpected.” 

“Is it better than, um…” 

Ilya, having decided that he does, in fact, need Shane’s attention immediately, weaponizes the downtime between sneezing and moves closer to Shane, pressing his face into the back of Shane’s hoodie and making a soft whining noise that makes him grit his teeth. 

Oblivously, Hayden continues talking. “This is going much better than Arthur’s, yeah. Jackie’s been in touch with her doctor about it, so…” 

Whatever else he says disappears under the static that consumes his mind once Ilya twitches with another fit, mashing his nose directly into Shane’s spine and apparently relying on the fabric to muffle the sound for him. “h’Mptsh! mp’tsHh–tshh! mK’iew!” 

“Oh my God,” Shane exhales. 

“What?” 

“Yeah, no, I–I remember that, that was a tough time,” Shane chokes out. “Look, Hayd, I’m so sorry, but I–I’ve gotta run, I’m supposed to be handling a couple of things for my mom—” 

“No, yeah, of course! Just text me when you actually have time, I’ll make sure you can talk to Ruby and Jade, too.” 

“That’d be great. Talk to you later.” 

He cannot hang up fast enough. Shane twists and is met with an eyeful of amused, albeit allergic, Russian. 

“Not very Canadian of you,” he observes. 

“You know exactly what you’re doing.” 

“Oh, it’s my fault that my immune system does not like your country’s stupid plants?” 

“Ilya.” 

“Shane,” he repeats, mocking. It’s undercut by another little gasp, and then Ilya raises his fist and ducks into it with a set of itchy, utterly ineffective half-stifles. “ihy’schh–tshh–shh’uh! kh’gKT!” 

“Bless—” 

“gk’TSH’uh! ih’yshh–shh–shhiu!” 

“Bless—” 

“TSHH! hy’KSHH—eh’tshh!” 

“Are you done?” 

Ilya sniffles. “Mbaybe.” 

Shane raises his eyebrows.