be the thing that buries me;

Shane taps his fingers on his chest as he stares at the ceiling of his hotel room, listening to doors opening down the hall, muffled conversations through the walls, and the hum of the air conditioning kicking on and off. It’s like the bed is too big, Hayden once lamented, and I miss the heat of her body, you know? The smell of her perfume. She’s probably grateful for the break, he had laughed, she gets to sleep in the middle of the bed, which is her favorite spot. The implication there is unspoken—that they’re usually both in the center of the bed, together, tangled up in one another. Shane had smiled, nodded, and empathized. But he didn’t feel that aching twisting behind his ribs that kept Hayden up. That had him going to the gym at odd hours of the night, or doomscrolling, or putting the TV on low because he just couldn’t sleep. 

His arm stretches out across the sheets, to the empty spot beside him. The last time Shane looked at the time on his phone he swore the numbers were mocking him. 

The bed feels way too big. He misses the heat of Ilya’s body. He misses the scent of his skin mixed with laundry detergent and remnants of cologne. 

He tries closing his eyes, he puts a podcast on, he watches sports highlights, he even attempts to tire himself out at the gym—but he can’t seem to fall asleep. 

—

When Shane travels back home, he drops his bag near the door and toes off his shoes, seeking Ilya out like a beacon. He finds him in the kitchen cooking dinner and regardless that he’s hungry from a long flight of sub-par snacks, he’s exhausted in a bone-deep way that overruns anything else. 

Ilya barely has time to turn before Shane is molding himself into his back, wrapping his arms around his middle. He can feel the rumble of a laugh in Ilya’s chest as his hand smooths over his forearm; Shane pressing his nose and lips to the back of his husband’s shoulder. He breathes him in, closes his eyes and memorizes him all over again. 

“Good, yes. This should be reaction to me cooking whatever this food is,” Ilya picks up one of Shane’s macro diet recipes, a few sheets of paper he keeps tucked into their junk drawer, “I think it’s supposed to be chicken parm. But no cheese.” He can picture the crinkle of Ilya’s nose, “What is point without cheese?” 

Shane lets go, allowing Ilya to turn to face him. There’s a soft, familiar smile pulling the corner of his mouth when Shane opens his eyes. Ilya’s showered recently; he can smell his body wash and his curls are full and bouncy, still a bit damp. Fuck. He missed him so much. 

It must show on his face because Ilya picks up his hand and places it on Shane’s cheek, running his thumb over his freckles. Shane dips his nose into his palm and places a kiss there, “Do not take this wrong way, but you look like shit.” 

A laugh bursts from Shane’s chest, “Jesus Ilya, really?” 

“I should lie next time?” Ilya hums, shifting his hand so that his thumb paints over Shane’s lower lip. He regrettably lets go so he can check on the chicken in the oven, giving the sauce on the stove a good stir afterwards. 

“Games were good—the other team stood no chance.” 

Shane chews on the inside of his cheek, knowing that Ilya is fishing. He can tell something is a little off, but that it’s not about hockey, so he’s seeing if Shane will admit it on his own. He’s debating whether he should admit the truth, feeling like he’s toeing that line of being pathetic. Shane’s never been in a long-term relationship before like this. Of course there was Rose but, as much as he loves her as a good friend, he never had trouble sleeping without her. 

He licks his lips, eyes traveling down the long lines of Ilya’s body as he moves fluidly in the kitchen, “I’m just tired.” He finally says, but doesn’t elaborate. He has such a headache pinching between his eyes. 

Ilya turns his head and looks at him, giving him a onceover before letting out a soft hum. He takes a step forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek, hand brushing his thumb along his temple, “Shower—dinner will be ready soon.” 

—

The night unravels lazily. They eat dinner after Shane takes a shower and end up in front of the TV on the couch, dishes momentarily forgotten about. Ilya mentions that he’ll get everything loaded into the dishwasher after the movie is over, but somewhere between the opening credits and rising action, Shane falls asleep on Ilya’s chest. 

He probably should have seen that coming. He feels utterly boneless after they eat; full and sated, warm and home. Ilya’s in a pair of black sweatpants and Shane’s Montreal Metros long-sleeved tee, stretched out and tucked into the corner of the couch. He gravitates towards him like a black hole, Ilya’s legs automatically opening to accommodate Shane’s body. Shane presses his face into his sternum, resting his ear over his heartbeat, listening to the gentle thumps as he tries to follow along to the plot of whatever film they’ve put on. 

Ilya’s hands lazily trace circles into his back and thread through his hair and he’s gone, so gone. He only wakes up because something loud happens on the screen and Ilya is reaching for the remote on the coffee table to turn it down, 

“Snova lozhis' spat',” He whispers, pressing his lips to Shane’s forehead. 

He’s distantly aware that Ilya’s telling him to go back to sleep but he’s disoriented with what time it is. How long had he passed out for? He rubs at one of his eyes, “I didn’t mean to crash.” 

Ilya just smiles knowingly, tipping Shane’s chin up to press a kiss to his jawline, “I don’t sleep well without you either.” 

Which is how Ilya knows he’s particularly frustrated with himself when he manages to get sick, because how could his body betray him in this way, when he takes such good care of it? Shane tries, usually in vain, to curb his symptoms before they fully appear—he drinks extra orange juice and gets more sleep and makes this tea concoction that Yuna suggests like it might save his life. 

He usually just ends up prolonging the inevitable. 

Ilya does not think it’s amusing in the slightest, he doesn’t…even if Shane being sick means a bitchier version of himself. He doesn’t dare smile over the fact that Shane pouts like he’s the only person in the history of ever to feel at his worst—he doesn’t allow Ilya to take care of him, he doesn’t like to be touched or fussed over, he hides out in their bedroom or a completely different room in the house to avoid his husband even looking upon the blanket monster he’s turned into. When Ilya manages to catch glimpses, Shane’s hair is a nest for birds, his cheeks are flushed, and his nose is red-rimmed, he wears his glasses a bit more than usual over a slightly glazed stare…

As if the glasses aren’t bad enough, Ilya tries not to get turned on when Shane resembles a prickly cactus when he tries to ask if he needs anything. 

“Let me make you tea.” Ilya offers to the mound of blankets that shuffles into the kitchen. The fabric slips down off Shane’s head, resting in a pool around his shoulders. He’s a bit pale, sweat kissing his brow and the back of his neck. 

“No.” 

“You need more tissues?” 

“I need a lobotomy." Shane mumbles, but his speech is so congested that Ilya can barely understand what he’s saying. 

He tries not to smile, “Was that English?” 

“Fuck off.” 

Well he definitely understood that. Ilya pulls himself from a chair at the island counter, taking his coffee cup over to the sink to set it nearby. He tilts his head at Shane, wanting to reach for him but knowing better not to. While being…bitten is certainly arousing, it’s decidedly not in this context. 

Ilya isn’t saying that he’s exactly nice when he doesn’t feel well himself, but he also knows he leans into being a category ten clinger when whatever sickness he has takes a turn for the worst—resting, pressed up against Shane’s body, feeling his fingers in his hair, his lips against his forehead, a strong hand rubbing up and down his back…it helps. It helps more than Ilya thought was possible. He just wishes Shane would relax, to allow him to do something (anything) to help too. 

“I can wash the sheets,” Ilya says after a moment. He knows that they’re probably a bit gross according to Shane’s standards. He can put the clean sheets in the drier beforehand, warm them up for him and then put them on the bed. 

Shane crinkles his nose and Ilya thinks he almost succumbs to that suggestion, but then he realizes he’s just getting ready to sneeze. He buries his face into the blanket, which is so un-Shane like that Ilya shakes his head in soft amusement. Clearly he’s past the point of giving a fuck. He sneezes twice, pulling back to blink, slightly dazed. 

“Bud'te zdorovy.”

“Don’t bother,” Shane hitches, waving off the bless you before a soft groan leaves his chest, “There’s more.” 

Ilya hums lightly, reaching to tug the blanket away from his face. He brushes his fingers through his hair, trying to discreetly check his temperature. Shane reads him a mile away, tugging his wrist back, 

“I’m fine,” He sniffles, “It’s just a cold.” 

“You sound like angry beehive.” 

A laugh slips out of his mouth, unguarded, like Shane wasn’t expecting it. Ilya’s lips pull into a small smile, wishing his husband wasn’t so stubborn. He wants so badly to do something and doesn’t know what; he hates feeling so helpless. 

Just a tiny bit of the wall Shane has built between them crumbles, Ilya can see it when he’s allowed to cup his cheek, running his thumb over his freckles. Shane keens into the touch, opening his mouth to say something—but then drastically pulls back to sneeze again. It’s a harsh sounding double and Ilya winces because he knows that had to hurt. 

“Moya lyubov',” Ilya whispers, taking a step towards him but Shane lifts a hand to stop him. 

“I’m just gonna…shower.” And disappears through the doorway before Ilya can say anything else. 

—

Ilya does what he doesn’t want to do, which is give Shane space. He knows that sometimes Shane is very particular about what he needs—silence versus sound, touch versus space, venting versus coming up with a plan. He gets it. It doesn’t make it any less frustrating but…he understands. So while Shane showers, Ilya plants himself into the corner of the couch in the living room, mindlessly watching hockey highlights in a pair of black sweats and a zip-up hoodie. He runs a hand over the lower half of his face and tries not to listen for sounds of Shane moving around the house. 

About an hour later, when Ilya’s close to getting up and calling it a night, Shane shuffles into the living room. There’s no blanket around his shoulders, but he’s wearing a pair of sweats and Ilya’s Boston hoodie, cheeks still pink from the shower (hopefully not a fever) and hair slightly damp. Some of the strands bow over his forehead and Ilya wonders if he bypassed a brush because it was too much effort and just accepted a towel dry instead. 

He sniffles loudly and plops himself down on the couch and Ilya holds his breath, counts to ten, and then Shane turns and molds himself against his side. He doesn’t try to hold the entire world on his shoulders, he doesn’t allow stubbornness to dig its claws in—he relaxes, he allows, finally, for someone to take care of him. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane mutters, his face finding the crook of Ilya’s neck. 

Ilya is quick to shake his head because he’s got nothing to apologize for. He wraps an arm around his shoulders, feeling the restlessness that’s been behind his ribcage all day finally settle when he registers his husband’s warm body tucked against his own. Shane draws his legs up onto the couch, resting his full weight on him, a small shiver sliding down his spine as he tucks his one arm along Ilya’s waist, underneath his open zip hoodie. Ilya presses his nose and lips into Shane’s damp hair, breathing him in. 

“Are you cold?” 

Shane nods, a pathetic sound leaving his throat, “I hate this.” 

“I know, malysh,” He presses a kiss to his forehead, tugging the blanket down off the back of the couch. He drapes it over Shane’s body, his hand rubbing up and down his arm to create as much friction as he can. 

They’re both pretty used to being self-sufficient, at being strong, at not needing anyone else’s help. That stubbornness is hard to bypass; it’s difficult to allow someone in, to let someone else see you so vulnerable. Ilya isn’t claiming to be perfect in that, it’s something he’s been learning to live with every day. But Shane always helps him feel like he can be whatever version of himself he needs to be, no matter what it is. 

“Do you need anything?” Ilya asks after a moment, reaching for the remote to turn the volume down in case Shane has a headache. 

His arm bends so that his hand can rest along Shane’s head, threading his fingers through his hair. He strokes at his scalp, trying to lull him to sleep, peppering slow kisses to his forehead, his hairline and the bridge of his nose.