Working on some requests this week, but here’s a little short one of my baby boy Shane with a dust allergy and a broken finger.
Ilya was heading towards the bedroom when he heard a breathy little sneeze from Shane.
Hm. So far it hadn’t seemed like his allergies were bothering him today. Was he coming down with something?
Ilya frowned at the sound of the stronger sneeze. When he came in the room, Shane was by their bookshelf, holding a feather duster in one hand and a balled-up tissue in the other. Ilya could see the dust particles floating in the air from his spot by the door. Shane gasped and smushed his nose into the tissue. “ahh’YISHhew!” He wiped at his eyes with the hand that had his finger in a splint.
“Bud’ zdorov. Izvini,” Ilya apologized when Shane startled, making the feather duster quiver - and release more particles into the air. “Shane, what are you doing?”
Shane turned to the side. “-ishhew! snf. This bookshelf is so dusty.” He sniffled and rubbed his nose with his tissue, then tossed it and grabbed for another. “It needs to be cleaned.”
Four days ago, while playing against Carolina, a deflected puck had hit Shane in the hand and broken his index finger. He was expected to miss three more weeks, and he was buzzing with restlessness and anxiety while sidelined. This morning alone, he had gone for his customary six-mile run, made his breakfast smoothie, chopped veggies for lunch and prepped a tofu marinade for dinner (his, not Ilya’s), and done two loads of laundry - all well before 9am. Ilya hadn’t even woken up until 10.
Ilya put a hand to Shane’s shoulder. “You need to stop, honey. You are so allergic.”
Shane opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, then opened it again. “I know. I just need to do something,” he said, the weary frustration in his voice palpable. He gave a pitiful sniffle and ducked his nose back into the tissue to blow quietly.
Ilya put a hand on his back, stroking gently as he blew. “You have done plenty today, sweetheart. Come relax a little.”
“I…” Shane sighed and ran his uninjured hand over his face. Ilya knew what he wanted to say: I can’t. I have to be productive. I have to get things done. Because if I can’t, then who am I?
“It’s all right,” Ilya said. “I know you are not happy but maybe we can do something nice together? Watch a movie, get something for lunch—”
“I already made lunch,” Shane said, then accepted the tissues Ilya handed him when his breath started to hitch again. “hy’ishhyew! hy’YISHhhew!”
“Bud’ zdorov. I know.” Ilya paused for a moment, trying to think of a solution, then took Shane into his arms instead. “I am sorry,” he said next to Shane’s ear, feeling him sigh against his neck.
“Out because of a little fucking broken finger. -snf- I feel so useless.”
“Well, you do need fingers to hold your stick,” Ilya reasoned. “Is important to take care of it.” Shane gave a grumble of discontent and tightened his arms around Ilya’s back, then hissed and released his injured hand. “Fuck.”
Shane nodded against Ilya’s shoulder.
“Bednyazhka. You need more ice. And some kisses.” Ilya grabbed Shane’s face and started peppering him with kisses, Shane laughing as Ilya pecked at his forehead, his freckled cheeks, his cute little nose. “Waiiiiht…!” He stepped out of Ilya’s hold and held the tissue he’d been clutching to his nose. “tschieww! izschhhew! -shoo! -shoo! Ugh, excuse me,” he said, completing the small fit with another soft blow. Ilya wanted to put him in his pocket.
“God bless you. Come, let’s get you some medication to stop this sneezing. And then we can find something fun for us to do.”
“Thank you, Ilya.” He smiled as Ilya brushed a tear from his eye, then scowled down at his bandage. “Stupid finger.”
Ilya touched Shane’s affected hand, very gently, rubbing at the back of it with his thumb. “Hey, don’t be so mean to this poor finger. I love this finger. It is very skilled.”
Shane grinned and raised an eyebrow. “-snf- You mean at hockey, or at—”
