Mint Tea Cutie

Ilya woke first again, blinking in the mid-morning sunlight as his eyes alit on Shane curled into a tiny ball halfway down the bed, gripping onto the covers in his sleep like the Russian would try to drag them away. He was breathing through his mouth, rasping short breaths like he had just exerted himself, though the lines the comforter had left imprinted on his face attested that he’d been sound asleep for hours.

The blond let himself take in his boyfriend’s form for a few moments, noting the signs of illness, exhaustion, distress, estimating just how tired, symptomatic, and anxious he’d be when he awoke, and then swung his legs out of bed, stretching and grabbing his phone to check the time. They had three hours until Shane’s parents would arrive.

He padded softly back to the master bedroom, stared at himself in the mirror again as he stepped out of his boxers. He looked tired. He felt fucking tired. After this, they would both sleep for a week straight, he decided.

With a yawn, he turned the shower on, stepping in and letting the cool water run over him. Sharing a bed with his very feverish boyfriend all night had left him seriously overheated and clammy, though he couldn’t tell if it was his sweat or Shane’s that had left his skin with a tacky sheen.

He lathered up soap in his hands, starting to massage it into his skin, watching as the bubbles were washed away just as quickly as he swiped them across himself. Ilya took extra time with his upper body, an ache throbbing in the back of his neck from the awkward angle he’d spent most of the night in, sitting up to watch over Shane, and the acidic, throbbing tenderness in his shoulder that always arose in recent injuries when he was stressed or sick or sleep-deprived.

His shoulder was the latest victim, having taken a puck right under the padding at one of the final games of the season, injuring the joint badly. He’d stayed out, though, god knew they needed him to, up until the point where he’d hit the boards with another player on top of him and his shoulder had given up the ghost and dislocated. Even then he’d only missed the last two minutes of second period, and returned with a relocated arm and a taste for the blood of the opposing enforcer in the third. And they’d won.

Ilya dug his fingers into his trapezoids, drawing firm circles in the tense muscle, thumb grazing over the outside of his shoulder as he worked, mostly willing the pain away. It was almost fully healed, and he wasn’t eager to interfere with that by kneading the ligaments the wrong way.

He snorted in aggressively, morning congestion finally beginning to shift as the steam from the shower filled the room. Predictably, a tickle arose in the absence of the blockage, Ilya watching his distorted reflection in the fogged up faucet contort as his face scrunched and his nostrils flared. He kept his hands on his shoulders, losing focus on the itch as he hit a particularly tense spot close to the base of his neck.

Moments later, though, his fingers stuttered to a halt as his attention was sharply ensnared by the actualization of the tickle, eyes slamming shut as his breath wavered.

“hKK! hKk! Kkh! hKSH! hKSHuh!-” He squared his stance, making sure he wouldn’t be knocked over by the coming sneezes, continuing to press his fingers into his upper back, jerking forward with each tiny expulsion, as though imitating the shower head in front of him. “-hKSHh! hihHKSHh!” Ilya snorted again, fighting the approaching threat of emptying his sinuses all down his face, “hAHSCHhUH! ASCHhOo!” The final two sneezes were directed upwards, the blond forcing his head to remain tilted back as he sprayed the tiled wall, keeping the contents of his face where they were until he was finished with his massage.

Accordingly, once he’d loosened his taut muscles and washed his hair and face, Ilya gripped his nose halfway up, pressing on alternating nostrils and blowing forcefully, emptying himself out into his palm, and then allowing the evidence to be washed away before turning off the water.

He wrapped a towel around his waist, using another to swipe his upper body dry enough to slap an antihistamine patch on, on his stomach this time, not wanting to garner questions from Yuna and David. Then he stepped back into the bedroom, intending to walk through and check on Shane, but having his mission immediately voided as he found his boyfriend tugging at the rumpled bedsheets, trying, with little logic or technique, to strip the bed.

“Good morning.”

Shane looked up. “Can you help me? I should have done this last night.”

He looked calm, lucid and focused, but Ilya could tell that he was terrified, and barely even present. There was an underlying air of panic that he couldn’t help but sense immediately, though it was absent from the brunet’s tone, and his face. Also his gaze hadn’t strayed to Ilya’s shower water dropleted abs for even a single second, so clearly something was wrong. Hollander had never had that kind of willpower.

“Yes.” Was his only reply, deciding to take things slow, let Shane explain what he was feeling and why in his own time.

The blond walked quickly to the closet to grab some clothes, dressed himself, and then met him at the opposite side of the bed, patiently starting to untuck the sheets from the mattress, and strip the comforter, as his boyfriend collected the bedding and struggled to accumulate it all into a manageable bundle in his arms. He wasn’t thinking straight. Maybe he wasn’t thinking at all. Normally, Hollander moved with logic, organisation, forethought. He would have stripped the sheets top to bottom, folding each item as he went, moving the pillows and comforter out of the way to get to the next item. This approach was haphazard, distracted, like he was trying to distract himself from some underlying anxiety, with a task he couldn’t even seem to perform on autopilot.

Eventually, the bed was stripped, and Shane started off in the direction of the laundry room, sheets trailing behind him like a wedding veil. Ilya let him go, heading through to the other bedroom to pick up his phone, and the thermometer, slipping it into his pocket so he wouldn’t forget to check. As he walked back into the corridor, he could still hear Shane shuffling through the house, apparently not having made a whole lot of progress in the time it had taken the Russian to make the short detour.

He’d just entered the kitchen when there was a loud thump from near the front door. Adrenaline spiking, the blond ran in the direction of the sound immediately. As he rounded the corner, he saw, to his relief, that the Canadian was still upright, though he’d inexplicably dropped all of the bedsheets in a pile at his feet. Before Ilya could say anything, though, the brunet snapped forwards, away from him.

“hEHTDSHh! hihESHHew!” Ilya could hear the sound ricochet off his cupped hands, and stared curiously at the back of his boyfriend’s head as he stepped closer. That was…unusually careless of him. Normally he could predict, and to some extent control, his sneezes, giving himself enough time to acquire something to cover with. Something more suitable than his hands…?

“God bless you.” He announced himself.

Shane turned. “Sorry.” He gestured at the sheets at his feet, and then flexed his palms towards the blond guiltily. “I couldn’t do both.”

“Is fine.” Ilya stepped deftly to one side, snagging a couple of tissues from the box on the hall table- an addition Shane had definitely made for his sake- and holding them out, pre-empting the expression of self-disgust that the brunet’s face took on as he observed the way his palms glistened in the sunlight.

The Canadian took the tissues, cleaning off his hands, and pressing them between his palms, balling them up absent-mindedly as he stared into space, original mission forgotten in favor of letting himself be carried off on some other train of thought.

Ilya moved imperceptibly closer, but still somehow managed to startle his boyfriend out of his trance, the brunet’s eyes dropping down to the pile of laundry discarded on the floor of the front hall.

“Right. I’ll take these…to be washed.” He still looked slightly confused by his purpose, and the Russian took his hesitation as an opportunity to retrieve the condensed ball of tissues from his hands, so that it wouldn’t accidentally get thrown in with the sheets.

“Okay.” He at least trusted him to do the laundry by himself. “I will make breakfast.”

…

Ilya watched Shane not watching the TV as he fiddled with the belt loops of his shorts. The Russian had heard a car pull up on the driveway almost two minutes ago, but it appeared that his boyfriend hadn’t. He seemed anxious, but not imminently so. His eyes were fixed on the screen, not flitting in the direction of the door as Ilya found his own eyes doing.

Not wanting the brunet to be startled, he reached out a hand, laying it on the nape of his neck. Shane looked at him immediately.

“I think your parents are-”

There was a knock at the door. The Canadian sprang to his feet with a soft gasp. For a moment, his face contorted as though he had to cough, but he swallowed hard, ran his tongue over his lips, and straightened his shirt.

Ilya stood up too, brushing a thumb over his boyfriend’s cheek. “You are okay?”

“Don’t ask me that right now.” Shane said.

“Okay. You remember the signal?”

“Yes.”

The brunet side stepped him before he could ask any more questions, climbing the stairs, crossing the kitchen and pausing just before he’d reach the sight of the front door.

Ilya followed him, placing a hand on the small of his back, but saying nothing. Shane took a deep, slightly shaky breath in, muttered something that sounded slightly self-contemptuous, and moved forward to open the door.

“Hello.” He said, the picture of unreadable neutrality, stepping back to let his parents inside.

“Hi, darling.” Yuna crossed the threshold first, pulling her son into a brief hug and smiling over his shoulder at Ilya. “Hi, Ilya, how are you?”

“Good, thank you.” He stood awkwardly, waiting, as she moved forwards to hug him as well. He loved it, loved the two of them, but that didn’t mean he was used to it. “How was drive?” The question was directed at both of them, David also having entered now, and handed off a bottle of wine to his son, with a muttered “It’s mostly for your mother and I, I assume.” at his slightly dubious look.

“It was great, beautiful weather for it.” He responded as Shane shut the door behind them, Ilya leading the way into the kitchen.

“Yes, we sit outside for lunch?” He offered, feeling his boyfriend’s hand on his arm, a soft warning, don’t push yourself for my sake.

…

They were sitting in the living room, Shane and Ilya on one side, Yuna and David on the other, peacefully catching up before the preparation of lunch would have to begin.

“I read an article about it,” Shane’s mother was saying, “and there’s some speculation that-”

“Sorry, I forgot to empty the washer.” Shane interrupted suddenly, standing.

“You should do that now.” Ilya backed him instinctively, knowing that this wasn’t about the sheets. “Before clothes go… gross.”

“Uh, okay.” Yuna looked thrown for a moment, watching her son exit the room and jog across the kitchen with an urgency that seemed unwarranted for laundry, before returning to her story, “Anyway, Ilya, I don’t know what you’ve heard about it-”

He listened to her explain whatever conspiracy was currently making the rounds regarding the league, how it could affect either of the two of them, and what she’d thought and done and said to David about it. He assumed that Shane actually had gone to take the laundry out of the washer, knowing how much he disliked lying, and also knowing that he’d put the wash on several hours ago. But where was he now?

The conversation moved on. Ilya did not.

“So, you had a fair season, didn’t you? Really whipped Ottawa into shape. They’re starting to get quite good under your leadership.”

“Yes.” Ilya said flatly, looking at the two of them without really seeing. “Is good.” All he could think about was Shane, probably hunched in the furthest corner of the bathroom, sneezing in jerky little bursts with his nose held in that death grip that always looked so painfully remorseless, muzzling himself into silence. And for who? The three people in the world who cared about him most? It made no sense to Ilya.

“Not as good as Boston, though.” Yuna probed.

“Mm.” She could have said absolutely anything at that moment and he’d have agreed, mentally setting himself a timer for how long he would leave his boyfriend to his own devices before he let himself check on him. Five minutes? Seven? He barely gave enough of a fuck about manners not to go right now, but he could already hear Shane’s hissed reproach, “You left them on their own to check on me? Now they’re going to know something’s wrong!”

“Does that bother you?”

“Yuna.”

“What? I just want to know where his head’s at.”

“Does not bother me.” Ilya interjected. “I like challenge.” He had no concept of whether the move bothered him or not, currently. He had no concept of anything except Shane. The blond was merely allowing the conversation to follow whatever path it would, giving instinctive answers while he allowed the rest of his brain power to be devoted to his boyfriend.

They discussed more of the ins and outs of the season, though Ilya had no idea which ins or which outs, almost treating the conversation like an interview.

Just as he was bracing his hands against the edge of the couch to get up, footsteps re-entered the room.

Shane padded over and sat down next to him, listening attentively to his mother explaining exactly why a goal that Ilya hadn’t even been on the ice for, which had been waved off, had in fact been a goal, and should have been treated as one.

He glanced subtly over at his boyfriend, who looked, miraculously, much the same as when he’d left. No redness around his nose, no bloodshot eyes, same clothes, same hair, same man. But Ilya knew something had happened. And it was driving him crazy to not be able to ask.

…

Twenty minutes of casual conversation later, Ilya glanced at his watch. “I will start lunch.”

He stood up, Shane standing with him. The brunet’s gaze turned distant, face imperceptibly paling. Ilya reached over, fisting a hand in the back of his boyfriend’s shirt, where his parents couldn’t see.

“Maybe you move outside? Is so nice.” The blond said, voice smooth and calm, and pointed in a way that only Shane could hear. He leaned in, kissing the Canadian on the cheek, and muttering “Fresh air.”

The brunet nodded, blinked. “Right, yeah. We can go sit outside.”

Ilya let him take the steps first, under the pretence of pausing to check his phone. But his eyes never left his boyfriend’s back as he walked, ready to spring forwards and catch him at any second.

His vigilance was unnecessary, as it turned out, but he would much rather have been vigilant than careless, and let his boyfriend collapse halfway up the stairs right in front of his parents.

The Russian watched them walk out onto the patio, making their way to sit out facing the water, Shane facing the opposite way, Ilya watching him stare blankly at the glass, knowing his boyfriend was watching them, but unable to see him through the sun glancing off the windows.

He frowned, before turning to the fridge, retrieving the ingredients Shane had had him prepare the day before, some extremely boring salad that inspired absolutely no appetite in the blond. He placed them on the counter before returning to the fridge to retrieve a cola, opening the can and taking a long sip of the cool, bubbly liquid, before setting it down beside the ingredients and setting a frying pan on the heat.

He was too in the flow of cooking to notice the door sliding open again, masked by the sizzling of mushrooms in the pan. He only became aware that he wasn’t alone when he took a few steps away from the oven and heard something from behind him.

There was a soft noise, a tiny displacement of air like half of a hiccup, and Ilya turned to see Shane standing a few steps past the doorway, pouting absently at nothing. At Ilya’s questioning look, he smiled tightly and started walking towards the fridge.

“I’m just grabbing a drink for mom.”

The blond caught his arm as he went past, pulling him in to face him. “What happened?”

Shane’s pout was back, accompanied this time by glistening tears in the corners of his eyes. “I bit my tongue.”

Ilya winced sympathetically, connecting the dots in his mind. “Sneeze?” Shane nodded his confirmation, Ilya’s heart breaking at the regret on his face. “Budʹzdorov, lyubimy. I’m sorry. Does it hurt still?”

He shook his head before butting it into the Russian’s shoulder. “I hate this.” He whispered.

“I hate it too.” Ilya inched them closer to the fridge, hands around Shane’s waist. “I want to wrap you up like tiny burrito and kiss you-” He paused to press a kiss into the brunet’s hair, “-until you are better.”

“I wouldn’t be a tiny burrito.” Shane corrected as Ilya tugged the fridge door open. “Burritos are usually smaller than me.”

“Okay.” The blond fought against a laugh at the ‘usually’ he’d added. “Get drink before they wonder what we are doing in here.”

“Ugh.” The Canadian stared out through the windows at his parents’ backs. “What if we just hid in the bedroom and never came out?”

“We starve.” Ilya’s gaze drifted to the salad ingredients and he wrinkled his nose slightly. “Maybe we starve anyway.”

Shane paid him no heed, still in his own head. “That’s awful of me, though. They love me. God, why can’t I just be normal?”

The blond frowned, surprised. “What?”

“I don’t know.” He sniffled, retrieving the drink and nudging the door closed. “I just feel ungrateful.”

Ilya pressed the back of his hand to the side of Shane’s face. He was slightly warm. They’d dosed him up as close to the time of arrival as possible, obviously, and he had been sitting in the sun out there, but still, it made the Russian uneasy.

The brunet pulled away with another little sniff, eyes focused out the window again, checking his parents hadn’t seen the check-up.

“You should blow your nose.” Ilya commented. “You are sniffly.”

“Can’t.” Shane started back towards the door. “Don’t want to set myself off again.”

And from the look on his face, the previous time he’d ‘set himself off’ had been bad. Disquietude crawled under Ilya’s skin like a parasite, wondering how much his boyfriend was inhibiting himself from divulging, not wanting the blond to visibly worry while his parents were here.

He pulled the pan off the heat, retrieving a large bowl to mix the salad in, filled with a sense of triviality. The complete inanity of having to make this fancy, disgusting meal, and talk about the season, and the summer, like everything was fine, when his boyfriend was suffering. It almost made him angry. But if he was angry, he had no idea at whom. Because it felt seriously wrong to be mad at Shane right now. Like he was confirming the brunet’s deepest dread.

…

Ilya shoved a forkful of leaves into his mouth, and stared angrily at his salad as he chewed them. His angry stare would be easily written off as being the result of the glaring sunlight getting in his eyes, so he allowed himself to indulge.

“This is delicious, Ilya.”

No, the fuck it isn’t. “Thank you.”

He glanced at Shane, wondering if the brunet could even taste the food, wondering if he still found it appetising in his languescent state, wondering if there was something else he’d prefer. He seemed to be eating normally.

Several more forkfuls did nothing to quell his hunger, his stress over his boyfriend, or his body’s protest to their surroundings. An antihistamine patch, sometimes two if the count was high, usually kept his symptoms to a minimum, so long as they stayed indoors, or showered after going outside. The allergy was manageable. But manageable was entirely different from eradicable, even temporarily, and what he would consider to be unremarkable levels of sneezing and sniffling and scrubbing at his eyes, was probably markedly different to what would be considered unremarkable by Shane’s parents.

“Oh, by the way, Ilya,” Yuna said, “I know you were talking about a new sponsorship, and that they’d sent over a contract? If you wanted me to look over that, just to be sure they’re giving you everything you need, I’d be happy to.”

Ilya swallowed what felt like a mouthful of nondescript Canadian flora. “Okay, thank you. Sounds usefu-hh-l.” Something about speaking, maybe the vibration of the vocalisations, maybe the pause in breathing through his nose, had incited a fire about halfway up his nose, that he was quickly realising wouldn’t be easy to subdue.

He could see that the hitch in his breath had been noticeable, the other three all looking attentively at him in mild surprise, where Shane’s focus had previously been deep in his bowl. So really, it wouldn’t be that unexpected if he-

“hKK!-” He barely raised the back of his hand in time, crunching hard into his shoulder as he tried to shrink away from the table without leaving his chair. “-hKK! Kkh! hKSH! hKSHh! hhih…hrRSHH!”

“Bless you, darling.” Yuna patted the hand he’d left on the table.

“Thank you.” Ilya didn’t meet her gaze, electing to stare into his glass of water instead, as he straightened up.

That really should be it. One little fit, and he’d be fine for the rest of the visit. He didn’t want to make a scene, or rather, he didn’t need to. Although it could take some of this imagined heat off of his boyfriend… that would be the only thing that could induce Ilya to give in any further to his body’s little temper tantrum about the new environment it found itself in.

They finished the meal in calm silence, each allowing their gaze to wander across the beautiful landscape, Shane and Ilya both also throwing little concerned glances at each other every so often, when they were convinced that the other wasn’t looking.

Ilya debated whether he could get away with sidling back into the kitchen to grab himself something else to eat, craving slightly more substance than the meal had afforded him. He rubbed at his still itching nose with his knuckle, glancing up to see Shane looking at him intensely. Instinctively, he lowered his hand, assuming he was being chided for being impolite. But as he watched, Shane raised one hand open, fingers splayed, and held up the first finger on his other hand. He held the signal for barely a second, before his hands were back in his lap again. That was the signal.

Serendipitously, the tickle in Ilya’s nose was unfazed by his nervous system shifting towards fight-or-flight mode. He sniffed, glanced up at the windows, letting the bright sunlight shrink his pupils and trigger that one misplaced wire in his brain.

An hour’s worth of pollen exposure, urged on by the purposeful enactment of his photic reflex, generated a tripping, sharp, staccato breath, that pulled the blond’s head back slightly, squinted eyes focused on the roof of the house as he ducked away from the table against his forearm.

“hKK! hKk! KKh! hhih…hKSHh! KSHh! hihKSHh-SHh! hKSHHuh! hahSHHhOo!”

“Bless you.” Shane’s parents responded in synchronicity.

Ilya turned back, standing immediately with a sniffle and a wince. “Thank you. I have to…” He nodded towards the house nonspecifically. “Shane?”

“Uh sure, yeah.” The Canadian stood too, letting himself be taken by the arm as his boyfriend marched them both back inside.

…

“Are you okay?” Shane tried to turn to look at him, but Ilya was on an uninterruptable path to the bathroom, not pausing for a moment. He had his game face on. Like the exact expression that Shane had seen so many times during face-offs. Was this the plan he’d talked about? What the fuck was he going to do?

They made it to the bathroom, the blond shutting and locking the door behind them. He spun back to Shane with focused, attentive eyes.

“It is bad? You need them to leave?”

“I think so.” He bit his lip guiltily, wondering if he really did feel that bad after all. Maybe he’d just been sitting in the sun for too long. He could stomach a little more conversation, wait for them to open the wine his parents had brought. Couldn’t he?

“Okay.” Ilya reached out and took him by the arms, grounding him. “I can get them to leave.” He reached up to cup his boyfriend’s face reassuringly, but Shane saw the flicker of pain in his expression.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Is nothing. My shoulder. No big deal.”

“Yes, big deal. How long has it been hurting?”

“Since it got hit with the puck.”

“Il-” He broke off coughing, at first trying to choke it back, but then giving in, elbow pressed to his face, bending forwards. His throat felt chalky and raw, his lungs encumbered by mucus and fatigue, every inch of his respiratory system intent on dragging out this fit until it worked properly again. And who knew how long that would be?

There were firm hands on his back, two initially, but then one vanished and he heard the tap running. This time he couldn’t reject the water on the basis of its origin, no matter how much disgust it sparked within him. He raised his head, took the glass in a shaky hand, and downed it, horribly aware of its not-quite-cold, metallic-tasting nature.

“You are okay? You can breathe?” Ilya asked.

“Mm.” Shane didn’t know if he could. He was exhausted, the effort of being a person in front of his family, pretending not to be sick, and his body fighting this infection tooth and nail had completely drained him. He hardly had the energy to take a full breath, ending up with short, raspy half-breaths that made him lightheaded.

Ilya’s breathing was off too. The blond turned away slightly, one hand still on Shane’s upper arm, and scrubbed angrily at his nose, horrible clicking sounds emanating from the abused appendage.

The brunet watched through blurry, honeycombed vision. “I…Ilya.” He breathed, finding it impossible to put any real weight or power behind the word.

“Yebat. One se-ehh-cond. Fucking Canad- ahKK! Kk! hKSH!-”

Shane could no longer really feel the bathroom tile beneath his feet. He had a sense that it had originally been a firm, reliable presence, pressing up against his soles with the same force that he’d been pressing down on it with. That was how physics worked, anyway. But now, it felt softer, like he was standing in quicksand, or clay, and the longer he stood there, the deeper he was sinking.

“-hKSHh! hiHSHh!-”

The sounds Ilya was making were starting to slow and echo in his ears, beyond the effects of the tile surrounding them, playing over and over until Shane wasn’t sure if the fit was still going, or if his ears were just stuck on a loop.

“Help?” He whispered, unsure if the sound even left his lips, if his lips even moved. But the blond turned back, squinting at him, even as his expression was pulled into desperate itchiness again.

And as Shane’s vision faded to black, and his legs were swallowed up by the undulating mass of the tiled floor, and he found himself tilting forwards into the firm mass of Ilya’s chest, the last thing he heard, was a violently hitching breath, suddenly cut off, as though by extreme force.

…

When his eyes opened, meaningless colors swirling before them before solidifying into the familiar surroundings of his bathroom, he felt as though he’d been asleep. Like 8 full hours had just passed, like he’d had dreams.

“Shane.”

He twisted his neck to look up into his boyfriend’s steely gaze, brow furrowed, nose and cheeks slightly flushed. He went pink sometimes, when he panicked. It was something Shane had never actually mentioned, knowing that it would either make for a very endearing private moment, or a useful chirp, at some point in the future.

“How long?” He muttered, turning back to press his cheek into Ilya’s thigh again.

“A minute. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.” He started to push himself up, drawing his legs up until they were kneeling opposite each other. “Sorry I didn’t have much warning.” His head felt fuzzy and distant, like he was drunk, or overtired. It felt dangerous. He definitely couldn’t go back and face his parents like this.

“I should have noticed anyway.” Ilya frowned further. “How do you feel?”

“Dizzy. Uh…” He tried to think of another descriptor for the endless list of discomforts plaguing him. “I guess achy too.”

“Okay.” The blond pulled out his phone. Shane faintly wondered if he was going to call his parents in order to get them to leave, or if he’d just remembered a particularly important text that he had to respond to. “You will be okay for few minutes while I am talking to your parents?”

“Yes.” The Canadian huddled in on himself, suddenly slightly cold in his summer clothes, sitting on the cool tiled floor. He sniffled as Ilya scrolled through some app or another, blinking in discomfort as a sharp pain started in the back of his nose, making his eyes water.

Shane coughed softly, taken aback as his boyfriend’s gaze immediately fixed on his face.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not.” He swiped at his eyes, coughing again as the pain switched tracks and became a tickle. “Can you get the-” He gestured up at the counter they were kneeling next to, “-tissues down, please.”

Ilya stretched out obediently, retrieving the box and setting it down between them.

“Thanks.” He rushed the word out, tugging one free, folding it, and pressing it to his nose as he drew in a deep breath. “hTSHhh!”

“God bless you.” Ilya’s eyes stayed on his phone.

“hTDSHHh!”

“God bless you.”

Shane couldn’t reply, face so full of pressure and pain and itchiness that it was all he could do to drag another tissue from the box and fold it over the first, rushing it to his face as his breath caught again.

“hEHTSHH!”

“God b-”

“hEHTSHhew!”

Ilya looked up. “God bless you. What is-”

“HEISHh!”

Face flushing, the brunet grabbed another tissue, surprised and embarrassed at his own volume.

“hehh…hEh…”

His boyfriend shuffled forwards, placing a hand on Shane’s shoulder. “God bless you.”

He sniffled, panted, immediately stopped panting because it made him feel ten times dizzier. “hHh…”

“Is stuck?”

“YeahH…”

“Mm.” Ilya leaned closer, grazing the edge of the brunet’s nostril with the pad of a calloused finger. “You know, when you fell, I stopped sneezing.”

The Canadian couldn’t reply, consumed by the tickle, and his boyfriend’s attempts to tame it into something actionable.

“I do not think,” The blond continued, tilting his finger so that the edge of his short nail ran along one side of his septum, “I have ever stopped in middle before.”

Shane absolutely did not give out a tiny moan, so fever-addled and uncomfortable that he couldn’t tell whether the salience was sexual or not.

“Once I start,” Ilya hovered directly in the centre of the brunet’s flaring nostril, letting his fingertip brush against the hairs, “I have to finish.”

“hyEHTDSHh!” Shane covered his entire face with the handful of tissues he’d been accumulating as his boyfriend spoke. “hEHTSHh! EHHTSHh! huhH…TSHh! tSHeW!”

“God bless you.” Ilya kissed him right at the hairline, one hand cupping the back of his neck.

The brunet swallowed thickly, tired and light and empty in the wake of the fit, blinking heavy eyes up at his boyfriend, only to see a phone screen, opened to some kind of website, held in front of his face. His vision was too blurry, from tiredness, the proximity, and the water that had flooded his eyes as he’d sneezed, to read any of the content.

“What?”

“You have looked, yes?”

“I can’t read it.”

“Good.” Ilya smiled at him mischievously as he stood up. “I come back. Stay here.”

“Wait, Ilya.” Shane sat upright, hand holding the tissues dropping into his lap. “What are you going to say to them?”

The Russian only shook his head, eyes locked on Shane’s until the door was closed all the way, and the brunet was alone in the bathroom.

…

He stepped out slowly, arms folded and cradling each other at the elbow, walking around the table to where both Yuna and David could see him.

“Ilya?” Yuna glanced around, noting the absence of her son. “Is everything alright?”

“Is…” He hesitated, feeling that looming, terrifying possibility of an unknown response. They could say anything right now. It didn’t really matter, because he was doing this for his boyfriend, not himself, and he didn’t care about what they thought of him. But still. He had the unignorable sensation that he was about to drop something precious between the slats of a sewer grate. “Is my shoulder. I hit last season.”

“I remember.” Yuna’s eyes were fixed on his upper arm, though David’s remained attentively on Ilya’s face.

“Has been not good, recently. I am not supposed to shock it, you know. But earlier…”

“You jolted it when you were sneezing?” She offered.

“Yes.” He admitted. He had, and it had hurt badly, but not reinjury badly. “Shane looks at emergency physio.” He nodded back towards the house, explaining the brunet’s absence. Not a lie. The page he’d shown his barely conscious boyfriend had been for an emergency physiotherapist that he’d seen like once in Boston, and had bookmarked on his phone ever since.

“Are you going to go to one now?” David asked.

“Trainer said go as soon as possible if is problem.” Also true.

“Okay, honey. Do you need anything? Do you want us to drive you?” Yuna stood up, moving closer to brush his curls back from his face.

“No, thank you. I think is fine.”

“We’ll get out of your hair then.” David collected the plates left on the table, a gesture Ilya was grateful for as he wasn’t sure he’d have remembered them otherwise, and headed back into the kitchen.

Yuna stepped in behind Ilya, a guiding hand on his back as though it were his legs or his eyes that had ceased to work. Shane’s father placed the dishes carefully in the sink, before moving back to where his wife and Ilya were standing on the other side of the kitchen island. The three of them stood there awkwardly for a moment before the blond realised they must be waiting for Shane. Fuck.

“Sorry we had to cut short.” He muttered, taking a tentative half-step towards the door.

“It’s not your fault, Ilya, darling, don’t feel you have to apologise.” She smiled, patting him on his non-injured shoulder. A small part of him was still surprised that she remembered which one it was that he’d hurt, that she’d been watching the game, and had cared enough to internalise the mechanism of injury.

“Okay.” He stared in the direction of the bathroom, wondering how he could explain his boyfriend’s absence in a way that wasn’t a complete lie, and settling for, “I do not think he is coming.”

He delivered the sentence with enough exhaustion in his tone to show he didn’t want to continue standing there waiting, but not enough that Shane’s parents would feel encouraged to go looking for their son in his stead.

“That’s fine.” David moved back towards the front door. “Tell him we said goodbye.”

“I will.” Ilya fought a relieved smile at the realisation that they were leaving.

“Alright, honey, keep us updated. I hope the physio helps.” Yuna smiled, stroked his cheek softly, and then exited the door that her husband was holding open.

David left after her, “The salad was great, Ilya. See you soon, kid.”

“Bye.” He raised a hand, watching them walk to the car, before slowly shutting the door, and sprinting back to the bathroom as fast as he could without tripping.

…

Shane had gone back to lying down in his boyfriend’s absence. The tile was cool beneath him, and he shut his eyes, imagining himself laying on the ice in an empty rink, visualising the arena from the smooth white surface he lay on, all the way up to the rafters. It was a combination of many different arenas he’d played at, the layout shifting and changing around him as alternate settings arose in his memory. It was a very relaxing exercise. With a sniffle, he shifted his position, trying to stop the ache the hard floor was imbuing in his bones. The sound echoed in the small space, breaking the illusion of the empty arena somewhat.

He shuddered slightly, suddenly a little cold. Shane wondered where Ilya was. Had his parents seen straight through whatever excuse he’d given? What if he hadn’t given one at all and was just telling them? Hadn’t he understood that this was an important area of non-disclosure for him? Should he get up and go help? Could he get up and go help? He inadvertently visualised himself rising to his feet on the isolated ice, and immediately slipping, skateless, and cracking his head off of the surface.

Shane frowned, trying to erase the image from his mind, only serving to make his mind expand to also begin to play Ilya gasping for breath, overexposed to the disagreeable Canadian air, cradling his injured shoulder as Shane’s parents watched on helplessly. He squeezed his eyes shut harder. Now his parents and Ilya were huddled together at the table, discussing Shane with anxious, disappointed tones, conspiratorial, careworn, critical.

“Shut up.” He muttered to himself.

Attempting to ground himself once again, he focused on the arena even harder. The cool air rising from the ice, the bright lights up above, the darkened stands… But as he visualised them, the stands filled with people. Everywhere he looked, every face he tried to make out, was one of his parents; his teammates; friends he used to play with when he was younger; players he hardly knew but still really looked up to; the first coach he’d had a real connection with; Ilya.

Maddened, the brunet visualised himself getting up to skate off. If he couldn’t picture himself on the ice in peace, then he’d picture himself in the tunnel, or the locker room, or locked in a bathroom stall. But again, his brain refused to imagine skates on his feet, and he was slipping, and slamming his face into the ice. And the crowd of people he cared about, gasped. And though he wanted to do anything else in the world, he found himself looking up, taking in all those concerned, worried, put-upon faces turned towards him. Stop it. Stop fucking looking.

“Stop it.” He whispered, the real sound silencing the imagined noise of the crowd, Shane grounded back in the silence of the bathroom again for a moment.

And then the door slammed open.

With wide panicked eyes, he looked up to see Ilya in the doorway, panting for breath.

“They are gone. Did you faint again?” He was on his knees in a moment, leaning over Shane upside down, smoothing hair from his face.

“No. It’s just colder down here.” He fought the urge to laugh at the odd angle.

“You are too hot, moya sverkhnovaya?”

“Mhm.”

“Can you sit up?”

Shane didn’t respond, providing his boyfriend with the answer he needed by pushing himself carefully back up into a sitting position instead. When he met Ilya’s eyes the right way up, he saw how unbearably fretful he looked.

“I’m okay.” He immediately tried to placate the blond.

“Good.” Ilya’s expression didn’t change, and he reached into his pocket to pull the thermometer back out. Shane’s mind skipped through a trifecta of awful scenarios where the device had fallen out in front of his parents and they’d had to explain it away, before flicking back to the present moment, his heartbeat maybe 10bpm faster for his trouble, and opening his mouth to take the thermometer in it.

The silence as they waited seemed to stretch on forever, the brunet watching his boyfriend rub absently at his nose, and after a moment, mirroring the action himself, breaking the stillness with simultaneous sniffles and clicks as their respective immune systems protested to the respective invasions.

Shane’s mind wandered again, his parents in the car, driving home, probably talking about how sullen and quiet he’d been that day, how he hadn’t helped Ilya with lunch, how he hadn’t said goodbye…

The thermometer beeped. Ilya took it.

“38 point-”He glanced up, face dropping suddenly, “Oh, vzglyani na sebya.”

The brunet blinked at the pitying tone, staring blankly at his boyfriend until the Russian plucked a tissue from the box on the floor and swiped at Shane’s cheek. Oh, he was crying. The realisation was confusingly slow, Ilya having made one full go over of his face with the tissue by the time the Canadian had processed what was happening. But then, with his cheeks newly dry again, the floodgates opened.

He raised his hands to cover his face, suddenly hiccupping and gasping for breath as the exhaustion of the day finally won over the last dregs of determined adrenaline, and he felt the ache deep in his bones, the painful tenderness of his skin, the weight and pressure of congestion in his head, and the itch that ran from his nostrils, all the way down his throat.

“Shane, Shanya, moye vse,” Ilya placed his hands on the brunet’s shoulders, leaning in closer, “What is it?”

“’m not okay.” He managed, between gasping breaths.

“I know, I see this, why?”

“Feel bad…my skin…and because I sent them away… and so hot… my body and… and fucking can’t even… I was so mean, ‘lya, so mean… bad fucking person… everything feels bad… every single thing… everything… feels… it feels bad.” He knew he was incoherent, barely able to form thoughts in his distressed state, let alone sentences, so he focused on the phrases that seemed relevant and would probably be easily understood by his boyfriend, intercutting the declarations with little groaning noises and writhing movements as he resisted the agonies that plagued him, emotional and physical.

“Alright, okay.” Ilya removed his hands, apparently noticing that Shane had enough going on right now, and didn’t need any extra anything on his body. “You are very overwhelmed, yes?”

“Yes.” The Canadian suddenly realised that crying was only making his face more uncomfortable, as the tears left his skin sticky and irritated, and the pressure in his sinuses was building tenfold. “It hurts, though. I want to stop.” He looked up at his boyfriend pleadingly. “Help me.”

A fresh wave of tears filled his eyes, despair amassing in his chest as he failed to stop himself from continuing to cry.

“What hurts? Stress? Or crying?”

Shane nodded at the second prompt, swiping angrily at his cheeks with the back of his hand.

“We take deep breath, okay? Watch me and copy.” He mimicked a deep breath in. The brunet tried not to glare at him. He didn’t want to breathe, it was going to hurt his lungs. He didn’t want to try and stop the feelings, he just wanted them to stop. He didn’t want to do a dumb breathing exercise, he wanted to be fucking sedated so his decelerated brain would stop spitting out nightmare scenarios in agonising slo-mo and freaking him out.

Against his own wishes, Shane mimicked his boyfriend and took a semi-deep breath in. It was shakier than Ilya’s and it did indeed hurt his lungs, and feel like having ice water dumped directly into his nervous system as the therapeutic effect of the tears dwindled. But the tears themselves did also start to slow.

He copied Ilya through three more breaths before his anxiety was usurped by antsy frustration. Apparently this change was visible on his face, too.

“Better?”

Shane nodded slowly. “Some.” He still felt like shit, and he still felt stressed and guilty, but there was only so much that breathing could do for you.

“You have fever. I get you medicine, then we go to bed.” Ilya reconsidered for a moment. “I get snack as well. You want something to eat?”

“No, I don’t think…no.” The brunet pressed his hands hard against the floor in front of him, trying to distract himself from the other sensations.

“Okay, fine. We go to bedroom first. And you are not,” Ilya placed his own hand in between Shane’s on the floor, getting his attention without touching him, “A bad fucking person. You are maybe only good person here.”

“Here? Canada?”

“No, cottage. Maybe Ottawa.”

Shane smiled weakly, regretful that he couldn’t quip back in some way, but his brain was just too slow, and before he knew it, Ilya was climbing to his feet.

“Come on.” He held out his hands to help him up.

…

Ilya stood in the doorway and watched his boyfriend cross the room towards the closet. He said nothing as Shane pulled out one of his own hoodies, stared at it with intensity that suggested that it was either speaking to him or covered with invisible text that Ilya couldn’t see, put it back, and retrieved one of the blond’s instead.

He said nothing as the brunet accumulated a full outfit’s worth of clothes and headed slowly back towards the bed. He said nothing as Shane dumped the clothes on the end of the bed Ilya had remade earlier, further antagonising his shoulder- not that he would be telling his boyfriend that-and started to shimmy out of his shirt.

But when he tried to strip off his shorts and started to stumble dangerously around the room, trying to keep his balance, Ilya stepped in.

“Sit. I will do it.”

The lack of protest from the Canadian momentarily spurred the thought in Ilya’s mind that he’d been acting that hapless on purpose to garner some assistance, but once he got close enough to start to help with the changing process, he could see how glazed over Shane’s eyes were, and knew this was no performance.

As he pulled the hoodie over his boyfriend’s head, the blond asked, “You could not go to bed in these-” He nodded in the direction of the discarded outfit at his feet, “-clothes?”

“No.” Shane responded firmly, muffled by the neck of the hoodie still half covering his nose and mouth, eyes barely visible enough to discern the disparaging glare he was directing at Ilya.

“Okay.” He didn’t bother to ask why not, unsure whether the brunet could actually express why at this current moment, and further unsure whether the answer would make sense to him on a regular day.

Hand hovering a small way from his boyfriend’s back just in case he lost his balance, Ilya shepherded him into bed, watching him snuggle into the sheets with an endeared half-smile.

Once it looked like Shane was comfortable, he let himself refocus on the things he had to do before he could join him in bed. Medicine was the first, then something more substantial for himself to eat, he’d need to check they had everything they’d need in the bedroom, make sure Yuna hadn’t messaged either of them seeking physiotherapy updates, and-”

Suddenly, his nose started to itch sharply again with an imminent need that he’d just barely noted before he was stepping back and dragging his shirt up over his face.

“hHAHKSHh! KSHh! KSHh! hhihKSHh! hRRSHHhOo!”

“Mm, bless you.” Shane snagged a tissue and scrubbed at his own nose in sympathy. “That’s the other half of the fit from earlier, right?”

The Russian was nonplussed. He’d never had a fit cut itself in half like that before so he had literally no idea if that was how it worked. “Maybe.”

…

One dose of medication for Shane and one suitable snack for Ilya, and they were both back in bed, the blond stripped naked in order to counteract the effects of his bundled-up, feverish boyfriend laying beside him.

The Canadian looked exhausted, Ilya watching as he brought a wavering elbow to his face, blinking haphazardly and involuntarily as he coughed, whole face puckering for the millisecond that each expulsion took over him. It was adorable, but it made him want to bite the brunet and suck out this illness like some kind of medicinal vampirism spurred by his hatred to see the man he loved suffering in any way. And it almost seemed that Shane hated to be seen suffering just as much, he mused.

“I do not get it.” He voiced his thoughts on an impulse, prompting his boyfriend to look across in surprise.

“Don’t get what?” His voice was totally shot, thin and strained, while also being significantly deeper than usual, in a way that was borderline attractive to Ilya.

He knew the topic was a sensitive one, and the brunet was only just relaxed and medicated and lucid enough not to be crying over it on his own, so it was a risk to bring it up, but the thought weighed heavy and confusing on the Russian’s mind. “Your parents. They are nice, no? They are nice to you. They want you to be okay, but they are not mad if you are not.”

“Mm.” Shane could clearly see where this conversation was going.

“So why can they not see you like this?”

There was silence for a moment, while Ilya waited for an answer, and then waited for his boyfriend to start crying or hyperventilating or screaming, and then waited for a meteorite to fall from the sky and crush him where he lay to stop him from asking any more stupid questions.

“It’s really complicated.” The brunet said at last. “It’s not really their fault, I guess I just… I hate worrying people. I just want to be normal, I want to be okay, I want the people I love to feel happy and proud, not stressed and disappointed.” He sighed shakily. “There’s other stuff too, but I’m too tired right now. I guess basically it’s just that my brain sucks and my parents don’t.”

It was a lot for Ilya to process. There was a lot he wanted to say, to refute, obviously Shane was normal, and everyone was happy and proud of him, and illness didn’t spur disappointment in Ilya, though he’d known it to do that in other people, worse people, but he could tell, by the gradually increasing length of time the Canadian’s eyes remained shut each time he blinked, that now was not the time.

“I understand.” He said, slightly more truthfully now. “I hope you don’t feel these things as much with me, though. Like you have to hide. Because I love you, and I never want you to hide.” The exhaustion was contagious, it seemed, because as he leaned closer to press a kiss to the brunet’s temple, he felt a wave of exhaustion crash over him, slumping his head down afterwards to rest on Shane’s shoulder.

“Itshhh’uuh! Hh uh HUHTshoo!”

“‘M fucking… I’m fucking wet. What the hell happened?”

Ben’s voice is gradually beginning to sound more coherent, which is great, because maybe he can figure things out himself soon; there’s already another buzzing sensation traveling through Arlo’s sinuses.

Tilting his head back, he’s stuck in what seems to be a perpetual inhalation. His chest heaves and heaves until finally he jerks forward.

“EHH’Idtzshoooo!”

There’s shuffling and the sounds of sheets being moved. But Arlo can’t focus on what’s happening around him because he’s too busy drawing in another deep breath. 

“HhhhhhhHHHHHH!”

Tears trickle down his cheeks as his chest expands and his shoulders tense. 

“HHH ick’shooo! Ickshooo! IHHghhshoo!”

Those last three shifted something inside his head. Congestion loosened, he suddenly has a new, messier problem to deal with.

He reaches for the tissue box on the bedside table, but it falls off the edge of table right as — 

“HHTgshhhhuh! Ehtshhhhoo!”

A light comes on, which Arlo would have been thankful for moments ago, but now he wishes he weren’t seeing the damp spray on his pajama pants. 

Suddenly there’s a horrible yelp from across the room. 

“Well, if you don’t want to get stepped on, then don’t walk underneath my feet, Jesus Christ!  Fuck!” Ben yells.

“Ben, don’t yell at her. She — HUHH! Huh’ngt! Huhhngt’shoo! Het’tshh! Hehtsssh! Tshhh! Tshooo! HHH — Hand them to me, please,” Arlo says, his voice quavering with the urge to keep sneezing. Ben’s standing in front of him, holding a box of tissues.

“Here,” Ben says, tossing the box of tissues.

He blows slowly, at first. Experimentally. Everything seems fine. He just needs to be careful so that he doesn’t trigger another — 

“Hhhtshhh! HHTSSHoo! ETsshh! HEHTSHH! Etshhoo! HH! Mpshooo! Mpshhh!”

“Holy shit, you are sneezing so much,” Ben says.

“I know. Sorry for waking you up,” Arlo mumbles before taking in another huge breath. “AHHihhtshooo!” 

“Didn’t say that to get you to apologize. Just making an observation. What time is it?” Ben asks. 

“Hhhhhhhh! Oh my god, still?” Arlo asks, staring at the ceiling, more tears trailing down his cheeks. “Hddtshoooo!”

There’s more moving around before Ben says, “2 am? Holy shit.”

“Sorry,” Arlo says again, grabbing more tissues.

“No sorrys. I’m just… disoriented.” Ben reaches out his hands for Arlo to take. After noticing Arlo’s expression, though, he rolls his eyes and smiles. “Get off the bed, silly. It’s wet for some reason.”

“I dumped water on it,” Arlo says, taking Ben’s hands, wincing as he tries to not think how many germs he’s passing on. He knows Ben can’t catch this cold, but the thought is repulsive, nevertheless. 

“... Why would you do that?”

“Why would I do what?” Arlo jerks away from Ben to aim a sharp, “hHTSHHoo!” at the ground.

“Why would you dump water on me? Oh my god, come here. Let’s go sit in the living room for a minute.” An arm wraps around Arlo’s waist, and part of him wants to lean into Ben, but there’s another prickle sparking inside his nose, so he snaps forward into his elbow, not even having time to regret the pain it causes.

“Huhhngt’shoo Ngt’shhh! Shh! SHhh! EtSHooo! Hh! Hhh!”

“Whoa, okay, let’s get you sitting or you’re going to get dizzy.”

Arlo does get dizzy, but thankfully he’s already at the couch when it starts. He practically collapses onto it. 

“HhhhHHHH! Hhh! HHH!”

“Press your tongue to the roof of your mouth.” Ben’s now next to Arlo on the couch, lightly rubbing his thigh.

“Wh — hh? What?” So much liquid is trying to escape his nostrils. He feels like a rabbit as he takes five quick sniffs in effort to keep it all from spilling out.

“Your tongue. To the roof of your mouth.”

As Arlo follows the command, Ben suddenly pinches the bridge of Arlo’s nose. 

The urge to sneeze flares full force. He feels the pressure build behind his cheekbones and in the center of his forehead.

“Ben — sthh-op — stop, stop, I — Ekmphsshhhhhh! KCHMpgsthhoo! Mmpgktshhhh! Mkptkshhhhh!”

“Shit!” Ben’s exclamation is hardly noticeable. All of Arlo’s focus is fully on alleviating the burning sensation in his nose. 

Although he’s not been awake for long at all, his joints have already made it clear that today is not going to be a good day. Regardless, he reaches to rub vigorously at his nose, but winces, letting his hand fall almost immediately. 

“Hey, don’t mind me, just gonna help out super quick.” Before Arlo can question what this means, Ben is pressing a tissue against his nose. 

And because there was never going to be another outcome to this situation, Arlo sneezes.

“NGT’sh! HEHNgx’tshh! HEHNGT! Eshhhooo! EHHshooo! Emkpt’shh! Beh-hh-en! Ben,” Arlo moans from behind the now extremely soaked tissue. 

“No worries, it’s all good. Everything’s fine. Just need more tissues,” Ben says, removing the current one. 

Arlo reaches his hand out to stop his boyfriend from pressing more tissues against his pouring nose. The problem, though, is how stiff his fingers are. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Let me help you.” Ben’s voice is soft. Soothing. “I know how fucked up your hands are in the mornings, okay? And your nose, uh, seems to be a pretty pressing issue. And, I absolutely hate to say this — I really do. But, you’ve kind of already sneezed all over me. So the damage is done.”

Before Arlo can say anything, Ben’s already grabbing the tissues and reaching them up to Arlo’s face. There’s a short moment where Ben hesitates, but after Arlo says nothing, he swiftly runs the tissues over Arlo’s nostrils. He also wipes away the liquid that had come close to dripping onto Arlo’s lips. 

“See? No biggie. Now — oh, okay, you’re gonna sneeze again.”

“Mkptkshh! Eshhhooo! GNt’shhhh!”

This time, when the tissue comes, instinct takes over and Arlo blows. It’s a raw need that overrides any embarrassment. After the first tissue, a second comes. Then a third. Then an entire clump.

When he’s finished, the buzzing in his nose has finally abated. He relaxes against the couch, closing his eyes. His abdomen aches as though he’s just completed a workout and his head is splitting. 

“Come here,” Bens says, softly. 

“Why did you tell me to put my tongue against the roof of my mouth?” Arlo asks, his eyes half-shut as he nestles into Ben’s hold, resting his head on his shoulder.

Ben’s chuckle is warm and soft. “I was Googling ways to stop a sneezing fit. That’s what it said to do. To press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, then pinch the bridge of your nose.”

“It didn’t work,” Arlo mumbles. 

Laughing again, Ben says, “No. It absolutely did not. I should’ve known. I think I’ve tried that a time or two, myself. Seems like when the body really wants to sneeze, it’s just gonna sneeze.” 

“That was all, um, really, really gross. I’m so sorry.”

“Mm, yes, it was so gross and repulsive, which is why I’m holding you right now and kissing your curls.” He plants an especially hard kiss to Arlo’s head as if to demonstrate. 

“Sorry about the water.”

“Did you spill it on purpose?” Ben asks.

“No. I was just tired… and couldn’t stop sneezing. But still. It’s not fair that you’re losing sleep, too.”

“It’s not fair that either of us have to lose sleep. But you’re sick and these things happen. It’s a normal part of life.”

“Dropping a glass of water onto one’s sleeping boyfriend is a normal part of life?”

Ben breathes out a laugh. “It appears it’s a normal part of your life. And your life is basically my life, which means it’s a normal part of our lives. Which is honestly all I’m concerned with.”

“But then you're disregarding the definition of ‘normal,” Arlo mumbles, frowning against Ben’s shoulder.

“Yeah, you know what? I am. Fuck that word, honestly. We can make our own normal.”

“So you want me to wake you up every morning by spilling water or —”

“Okay, well, no. Let’s refrain from doing that again. For a little while at least.” 

“Okay, I’ll try.” The words come out as a sleepy mumble.

“Strech out. I’ll go get some pillows and we can just crash here for the next few hours,” Ben says. 

So that’s what they do.

* * * 

It’s Ben’s alarm that wakes him up first. Then his own. Then, Ben’s second alarm. Then Ben’s third alarm. By the time Ben’s fourth alarm sounds, Arlo must resign himself to the fact that dozing time is over and he needs to actually get up, and probably wake up Ben while he’s at it.

After several minutes of hoarsely whispering for Ben to untangle himself from Arlo’s body, the two are both finally awake. Ben, though, is hunched forward rubbing his palms against his eyes. 

“I want to die,” Ben proclaims before letting out a dry cough, which is hopefully the last remnant of his cold.

 “I’m sorry I kept you up,” Arlo mutters, rubbing a hand over his throat in an attempt to soothe the soreness there.

“If you’re sorry, stay home with me today.”

Frowning, Arlo shakes his head. “We… we can’t. We both have to work.”

“Fuck work.” Ben wraps an arm around Arlo, pulling him into an embrace.

“We can’t, Ben.”

“We can. We’re sick.”

A small smile curves at the corner of Arlo’s mouth. “You’re being purposefully obtuse.”

“Nope, can’t be true,” Ben says, now resting his head against Arlo’s shoulder. How effortless it would be right now to let his own eyes close and sink into this comfort.

“Why can’t it be true?” Arlo asks, sniffling slightly. 

“I’m not a triangle.”

When the meaning hits, Arlo’s eyes roll in that profoundly dramatic way they often do when speaking to his boyfriend.

“I know you know ‘obtuse’ has multiple meanings. You’re just being….” Arlo lets the sentence hang in the air as his eyes narrow.

“Being purposefully obtuse?” Ben offers, flashing a smile.

“HHt’sshhhoo!”

The sneeze is small, but so unexpected and completely wet. That’s… unusual. No warning at all is not normal and definitely not ideal.

“Sorry for, um, not covering. I — I didn’t know it was coming.” 

“And this is why we need to stay home,” Ben says, giving Arlo’s back a gentle rub. Arlo partly feels bad for ruining the morning cuddle by jerking away with the sneeze, but also, they both really do need to get ready for work.

“Hmpt’sshh!”

This one sprays against the back of the hand that barely made it up in time. He imagines standing in front of his students all day sneezing like mad, unable to stifle or even cover. The wince he feels taking over his features can’t be stopped.

“Are you okay? How’s your throat?” Ben asks, his voice unmistakably concerned. “You look like you’re in pain.” 

“No… I was just thinking about…” He pauses to sigh, letting his head fall back against the couch. “I don’t think I can work.”

“That’s what I was saying,” Ben says, the concern replaced by something that sounds like excitement. “You’re sick. I’m still a little sick.” He stops to punctuate his sentence with another dry cough. “Let’s stay home and sleep.”

His brows knitting together, Arlo asks, “You never miss work. You hate missing work.”

“Normally I have more than three hours of sleep.”

“I’ve seen you go to work in far worse shape.”

“Maybe I want to take care of you,” Ben says, his voice soft, a hint of vulnerability there. “I don’t like when you’re not feeling well. I know you’re a grown man and I know you can take care of yourself. Even when you’re having a bad RA day. And, I know you’re going to say that all you’ll be doing is spending the day in bed anyway and that there’s nothing I can do to help. But… there was yesterday and…” His voice trails off, gaze fixed on this floor.

Arlo focuses his own gaze on his bare feet. “I don’t see what yesterday has to do with anything.”

“Yesterday,” Ben begins, then hesitating in that kind of way people do around delicate subjects. And Arlo hates that something so stupid and meaningless has become a delicate subject.

“It just reminded me that I worry about you. That’s all,” Ben finally finishes.

“I know you do.” Arlo rubs Ben’s thigh in a way he hopes is soothing. “But what happened yesterday… um, won’t happen again. Obviously. So, there’s not really anything to — hHtshh! HHtshhoo!” After two quick liquidy sniffs, Arlo continues. “There’s nothing to worry about, I mean.”

Ben stares at Arlo for a long moment before he lets out a breath. “Yeah, sure, I’ll agree that the, um… confrontation that happened yesterday isn’t likely to happen again, but still, you’re sick and, yeah okay, it’s a cold. But sometimes colds get worse. I mean, it can turn into bronchitis or pneumonia, or even something as simple as an ear infection. But, if you don’t treat an ear infection, Arlo, you can end up with hearing loss. Permanent hearing loss. And life’s already hard enough without having that challenge added to it, you know?”

For a moment, all Arlo can do is blink before he chews on his lip, trying to keep the creeping smile at bay. “Let me clarify. You want to stay home with me so you can protect me from permanent hearing loss? From an ear infection I don’t have, I want to add. And what exactly, may I ask, is your plan?”

Ben huffs out a breath in such a way that images of dragon smoke pop into Arlo’s head, which only makes the smile harder to hide. 

“Force you to stay in bed so you don’t work on that paper I know you’re planning to work on.”

Stomach sinking, Arlo groans. “I forgot about the paper.”

“Ask for an extension.”

Squeezing his eyes shut against a sudden, unprompted memory of Jeremy’s smiling face, Arlo shakes his head. “No… No, I need to work on it. Keeping busy is good.” He stops at Ben’s expression. “I mean, it’s better to do something productive than just lying in bed all day.”

“Lying in bed all day is productive, silly. At least, when you’re recovering from an illness, it is.” 

Since articulating the actual reason for why he wants to keep busy isn’t an option, he instead smiles a tight smile, before reaching for his phone. “I’m going to call in.”

Ben nods, then begins extricating himself from the tangle of blankets he’d wound up in. 

Dialing his boss's number and then having to continue holding up the phone is not a fun activity when he’s in the middle of an RA flareup, but he manages.

“Hi, Mr. Simpson,” Arlo croaks when the school’s principal finally answers. “I’m, uh, calling because I’m still not feeling well. I know it’s not a good time, but I really don’t think I can make it in today.”

There’s a long pause then a long sigh. Then another long pause. Arlo can practically see his boss running a frantic hand through his hair.

“How sick do you feel?”

“Uh… Pretty sick?” He feels himself blush. The conversation was not supposed to go like this. 

“Do you have a fever?”

“A… a slight one, maybe? I honestly haven’t taken my temperature. But I — HHt’shhoo! HEHNgt’shh! HEH’SHoo!”

“Bless you. I’m sorry to have to ask. You’re obviously not well, but… We have somewhat of a situation going on.”

“What kind?”

“You know about the PD conference half the staff is at today, right?”

Arlo dabs at his nose with a tissue as he thinks, remembering Felix mentioning something about it. “I do,” he says. “I went to it last year.” This is a detail that is completely unnecessary to share, but phone calls discombobulate Arlo at the best of times, and these are certainly not the best of times.

“Yes, that’s good. You never have a problem getting in your PD hours. But, my point is that half the upper grades staff is out because of this PD. That wouldn’t be an issue, except —  Well, several of the subs – all but one, actually – have called out. Two are sick. Another had a family emergency. So, that leaves one substitute teacher and, you know, with this kind of staff shortage, we usually combine classes and have the students work on homework or watch a movie, or something. But for one substitute to handle that….”

Arlo sneezes wetly against his wrist as his murky brain connects the dots. “That does sound like it has potential for calamity, yes.”

There’s a light, nervous laugh on the other end of the phone line. “Yes. Calamity is a good word for it. So you understand. I wouldn’t ask, normally. I mean, if you’re sick, you’re sick. But, we really are in a kind of ‘survive the day situation,’ if you know what I mean. I can try to get some emergency subs, but… well, you know how that goes. And even then, I don’t want to subject a substitute to the behavior issues that will certainly arise from this kind of arrangement. I would like someone experienced there, is what I’m saying.”

“HH’tshhh! Hhh hhhngnt’shhff! Sorry, uhmb, cad you give mbe a second?” Muting the phone, Arlo blows his nose, trying to ignore the aching in his wrists as well as the embarrassment and dread settling within him. “Excuse me, sorry about that. I understand what you’re saying. And, yes, I see the issue. I…um, I guess, I can come in.” 

“Thank you,” Mr. Simpson says, his relief palpable even over the phone. “Again, I want to reiterate. Today is about survival. I shouldn’t say this, probably, but I think it’s obvious that there’s no expectation for any actual meaningful learning today.” There’s another nervous laugh. “I mean, it’d be great, of course, if the kids learn something. But, if all you can do is hand out worksheets, or play a movie, I, well, I won’t object to that, is what I’m saying.”

“I understand,” Arlo manages to say, as all his hopes for spending the day taking it easy are vanished. 

* * * 

Arlo began the day craving distraction, and distraction is what he got, so he supposes he has no right to complain. However, when Felix calls him from his conference, curious about how the school day went, he can’t exactly not complain.

“I’m not feeling my best, and this may have been the worst day at work I’ve ever had,” he says, his voice weak and cracking after he spent the day projecting it almost constantly. 

“Not feeling your best? Is that an understatement? Because your voice is, like, frighteningly bad,” Felix says. 

“I guess I’m feeling pretty rough.”

“You sound like Palpatine.” 

“I hate Star Wars,” Arlo mutters before turning to cough into his shoulder.

“That’s something we will discuss later when you sound a little bit less like you’re dying. It's after four, so you can go home right? You should do that.”

“Yeah, just waiting until I can drive,” Arlo mumbles, closing his eyes against the bright, fluorescent classroom lights. 

“You can’t drive?”

“I don’t think it’d be safe. Can’t really see well.” Arlo winces, instinctively rubbing at the center of his forehead, then wincing again at the pain it causes his knuckles. 

“Elaborate maybe?” Felix says, a dubious note to his voice.

“Headache. Or, I don’t know, I’d guess it’d technically classify as a migraine, since there’s an aura.” He sighs. “The lights… all the loud noises from the students. On top of being sick. I guess all of it together triggered one.”

“Oh that is not a fun time. Have you taken anything?” 

“Yes. Waiting for it to kick in. But, it’s been a while. And, no progress. May just lay my head down on this desk and fall asleep.” He laughs to show he’s joking, but the prospect is not as unappealing as it should be. Maybe he can rest for twenty minutes? Then he may be in a suitable condition to drive. 

“Can you call someone to pick you up? You should really get home.”

“I thought about it, but there really isn’t anyone who I wouldn’t be posing a major imposition upon.” Addy was a possibility, but when he’d texted her earlier, she’d been starting her evening shift at the hair salon. “I’ll be fine.”

“Arlo you are literally incapable of getting yourself home. You are not fine. I assume Ben’s working?”

“He is.” Staring at the bookshelf at the back of the room, Arlo’s forced to come to the realization that not only is the migraine not getting better — it’s getting worse. Half of the bookshelf has been taken over by a cloud of gray. He closes his eyes and when they open, more of the bookshelf is obscured. 

“You sound miserable. Oh my god, Arlo, you can’t die. You are one of the only coworkers I get along with.”

“Dorothy’s all right,” Arlo mumbles, finally giving into the urge to put Felix on speaker so he can rest his head on the desk.

“Dorothy’s over seventy years old and batshit crazy,” Felix says, sounding incredulous. 

The smallest of smiles manages to form on Arlo’s lips. “Sure, but you like her.”

“I do,” Felix says, fondly. “Never a dull day when Dorothy’s around.” There’s a pause as though Felix is finally remembering the point of this call had nothing to do with their school’s

 Calculus teacher. “This still does not mean you can die. I will call Ben and make him — oh. Oh, wait.  I have an idea!”

* * * 

“Do you want me to stop anywhere and get you something? Tea, maybe? For your throat? Or soup? You should probably eat.”

The voice should probably be soothing to Arlo. It’s deep and warm and all the other good adjectives people usually use to describe nice voices. But between the pounding in his skull and the part of him that associates masculine voices with something akin to fear… it’s anything but soothing.

“I don’t think I can eat.” It’s now to the point that Arlo’s own voice is exacerbating his migraine. Nausea swirls through him and he squeezes his eyes shut as he takes careful, controlled breaths. 

“My bad, sorry,” Connor says, lowering his voice. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a migraine. Eating is probably the last thing you’re thinking of.”

Arlo acknowledges the comment with a small grunt.

“You do need to stay hydrated, though. You’ll only be in worse pain, otherwise. Once we get you home, I’ll make sure you have plenty of water. Unless you want me to stop and get tea? Like I said, it’ll feel nice on your throat. May as well try to alleviate one aspect of your misery, right?”

When Felix had suggested Connor pick him up, Arlo had been adamant that it was completely unnecessary and that he’d rather sleep in his classroom than be subjected to that level of embarrassment. Then he’d thrown up into the classroom trash can — still on speakerphone — and wanted nothing more than to be home in bed. So when Felix insisted again, after expressing understandable disgust at the noises Arlo emitted, he couldn’t decline. He couldn’t do much except groan and wallow in self-pity, actually. 

Not only was there the ever increasing severity of his migraine, but his cold was putting up an absurdly valiant fight. His throat was beyond sore and, after spending an entire day sneezing with no warning, his nose had decided to switch things up.  There was a constant, insistent buzzing that would never culminate in any actual release. So Arlo was forced to sometimes spend a single minute, breath hitching endlessly, until finally he was left with tears running down his face without a sneeze ever surfacing. And of course, there was his RA, which had taken root in his wrists, elbows, and knuckles. So even if he hadn’t been suffering from the migraine, it’d still be challenging to drive.

But even with these reasons, he’s extremely close to regretting the decision. He couldn’t possibly be more of a nuisance if he tried.

“If you’re —” Arlo has to stop to clear his throat and can’t hold back a wince as he does so. “If you’re going to stop somewhere anyway, then, a tea would be good, yes. But, um, only if you’re getting yourself something.”

“I could go for some coffee, honestly,” Connor says, his voice still low. It’s only hurting Arlo’s head a little now. “I’ve spent the day writing, and my brain’s a bit on the foggy side, so caffeine sounds perfect. We’ll stop at the Starbucks up ahead.”

“Plain tea, please. Nothing with, um — it needs to be —” Arlo trails off, completely unable to articulate his thoughts. “Nothing from an animal, I mean,” he finally manages, then mentally reprimands himself for being unable to think of the word ‘vegan.’

“No dairy, got it,” Connor says.

“Or honey.”

“All right. Dairy free and honey free. No problem.”

The two fall into a comfortable silence for the rest of the car ride, except when Connor places the order and hands the tea over. If there’s one positive to being in a state of complete, abject misery, it’s that there’s no expectation for Arlo to feign the ability to hold a conversation like a regular human. 

He finds himself falling into a bit of a doze, so it's slightly jarring when Connor states, “We’re here.”

Blinking open his eyes, Arlo has the stomach sinking realization that his vision is still completely obscured by giant gray splotches. So, he closes them again. 

“Have you taken anything?” Connor asks, his voice practically a whisper.

Arlo manages a humming sound that he hopes conveys his affirmation. 

“You’re not going to be sick are you? You’re white as a sheet.”

Another hum. This time, Arlo doesn’t even know what he means by it.

“Okay…. So, here’s the plan. We’ll get you inside. Maybe you can try to sip some of the tea? Or a little water. I’ll make sure all the lights are off, all the blinds are down, etcetera. Sound good?”

Arlo’s silent for a while as he tries to make sense of Connor’s words. When it clicks, he knows he must grow even paler than before. “Nope. No. No. You don’t — you don’t need to come in.” 

There’s a beat of silence. “I understand that you don’t want me to come in, and I can understand why expressing vulnerability in front of someone you don’t know all too well is… less than desirable. But, we should be reasonable about this. You can’t even open your eyes. How are you going to get to bed?”

Another wave of nausea takes hold of Arlo. He manages to jerk open the car door before proceeding to be violently sick.

This quite possibly may be the worst day of Arlo’s life. It’s certainly the most humiliating. 

The worst part isn’t the now searing pain in his throat, or that his nose is streaming uncontrollably, or that he can’t stop coughing. Or even that Connor witnessed the entire thing and is now trying patting him on the back and guiding him to a standing position. No, it’s that Arlo is in such a pitiful state, that he has no choice but to accept the assistance. With the sun shining brightly, causing glares to bounce off each car in sight, keeping his eyes open is simply not an option. So he lets Connor guide him around the puddle of vomit and onto the front porch.

He continues to cough while his nose still buzzes with stuck sneezes. He digs out his housekey from his pocket with a shaking, aching hand. Connor wordlessly takes it and opens the door far more quickly than Arlo could.

Cracking his eyes open, he spots the couch, and makes to hurry over to it, but stumbles and knocks his knee against the coffee table instead. 

“Easy,” Connor says, voice gentle. “Go slowly, you’re almost there.” 

After this experience, there better never be another instance of Arlo breaking out in hives during a social situation because he has surely reached the pinnacle of embarrassment. This has to count as exposure therapy. 

With Connor’s hand on his back as a guide, he does manage to make it to the couch. He’s immediately horizontal, burying his head into one of the bed pillows left there from last night. 

His  nose is running so much, though, that he is rendered incapable of becoming comfortable. 

A particularly sharp tickle flares in Arlo’s sinuses, and his breath hitches and — 

Nothing. 

“Here’s some tissues,” Connor says, handing over a box that Arlo has no choice but to accept. 

Aching fingers grip the tissues over his nose as he releases an obscene amount of mucus.

“Okay, so,” Connor begins, sounding hesitant. “I texted Ben and he has to work late.”

That statement should not cause his eyes to prickle with tears, yet here he is, blinking them back. 

“I don’t feel great about leaving you alone, is the thing. I know you’ll probably be fine, but it’s hard not to feel like a dick, you know? If I just left you here, I mean. You’re obviously not in a good state, and all my work obligations are finished, and with Felix away — well, there’s no reason for me not to stay. So, I’ll just hang around for a few hours until Ben gets here.”

An objection begins to bubble to the surface, but unfortunately, so does another bout of nausea so he grits his teeth and stays silent as Connor shuffles around the room.

Arlo’s not sure how much time goes by — maybe ten minutes? Twenty? — when he finally opens his eyes. It seems the pain medication may be finally kicking in. Or it may simply be that he’s finally somewhere quiet and dark. Connor, true to his word, made sure all the blinds were down and curtains pulled. The only sound he hears is the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. As he has the thought, he hears another noise, something he can’t quite identify. Then he hears it again.

“Ht’chh!”

A sneeze?

“Ht’chiew! Hh hh’chh! Ht’chiew! HHtchiew!”

Definitely sneezes. He can hear Connor moving around the kitchen, but it’s obvious he’s trying to be as quiet, his steps soft and controlled. The sneezes, though….

“HHTCHIEW! HEH! HETCHIEW!”

They’re only getting louder. 

Thankfully Connor doesn’t sneeze in that obtrusive way a lot of men do. They’re far from scream-sneezes. The last couple did sound forceful, though. Hopefully whatever is bothering Connor’s nose gives him a  break soon because the only way Arlo can survive this evening without combusting from embarrassment is to pretend Connor’s not here in his house — a hard feat to manage when the man’s letting out sneeze after sneeze.

“HEH’CHIEW!”

And it goes on like that for a while. Arlo’s own nose teases him again as though encouraged by the sound of someone else letting loose their sneezes. But his sinuses remain stubborn, refusing to grant him relief.

“You’re awake. That’s good,” Connor says, making his way into the living room. “Do you - hh - have any….” He stops, closing his eyes, holding a finger in the air in the universal sign for “wait a minute.” Then he reaches into his pockets, pulling out a tissue that he wraps carefully around his nose. “Hmp’shh! Hmp’shh! Hehchiew! HEhchiew! Etchiew!” 

“You look worse than I feel,” Arlo says before being able to stop himself. Connor’s grip remains tight around the tissues, ensuring no spray escapes, but his eyes are swollen and leaking uncontrollably. 

“I forgot you had a cat,” Connor admits from behind the tissues. “That’s what I came to ask about. Do you keep - hh - do you keep any antihistamines?” 

Oh.

 There’s been a time or two where Ben or Arlo’s fur-covered clothes have been enough to set off Connor’s cat allergy. Since realizing, the two always make sure to lint roll the fur off as much as possible when they know they’ll be meeting Connor. Aside from that, it’s not something Arlo’s ever needed to think much about, so he’d forgotten.

It’s, however, now at the forefront of his mind.

“HEH’chiew! It’s not - ht’chh! - it’s not gonna stop until I take s-hh-somethihh -hitchhiew!”

Somehow even in the middle of a brutal sneezing fit, Connor manages to maintain a certain composure; every single sneeze makes it into the tissues.

“You don’t have to stay here and poison yourself. Just go home,” Arlo says. But the last words catch in his throat and he’s left coughing desperately into his elbow. When he’s able to breathe again, the stars in his vision force him  to close his eyes again.

“I’m not leaving a sick friend to suffer alone when he can barely move. I’m not an asshole.”

Arlo’s cheeks flush for a different reason. “You don’t have to do that,” he says, fixing his gaze on the hardwood floor. 

“What?” Connor asks.

“Say… that. That I’m, you know.” The blush intensifies and Arlo’s one step away from burying his face beneath the blanket. “A friend. I’m barely even Felix’s friend. It’s just — you don’t have to do that.” 

Connor looks like he wants to say something, but he’s occupied with another set of sneezes that he deftly catches into the tissues. “HT’shh! T’chiew! HHtchiew! Holy shit, I forgot how bad this can be,” he says, as if to himself. “Anyway, I don’t understand what you’re talking about. You don’t feel like Felix is your friend?”

This conversation is making him feel like he’s five years old. “He’s a work friend.”

With the aura clouding his vision finally fading, he can see Connor’s brows raise. “I think he’d be disappointed to hear that.”

“What? He wouldn’t.” The words replay through Arlo’s mind and his eyes widen. “I’m not trying to be mean. It’s just that’s — that’s how it is, I think. I don’t really make friends.”

“Arlo, please look me in the eyes as I say this,” Connor says, sternly.

Not realizing he’d even been looking away, he forces himself to meet Connor’s gaze. 

“Felix one hundred percent views you as his friend. He has never referred to you as an ‘acquaintance’ or even a colleague. You’re just Arlo. Or, on occasion, ‘the best thing that’s ever happened to Ben.’ So, I promise, there is no reason to be dubious about calling Felix a friend. Or, myself, for that matter,” he adds, rubbing a knuckle against his nose. “I’ve told you before that I want to get to know you better. You’re very, uh, what’s a good word for it? Calm. You’re very calm compared to everyone else Felix spends time with, which is something I appreciate.”

“Oh,” Arlo says after a moment. “Uh, thank you.”

As inadequate of a response it is, it’s surprising when Connor actually laughs. “Succinct. I also appreciate that about you.” He pauses, breath hitching again. “I’d appreciate you even more if you could tell me whether or not there’s any antihistamines in this house.” That last part comes out rushed and it only takes a second to realize the reason.

Connor’s tissues are back and he continues letting out sneeze after sneeze into them. After about the ninth one, it occurs to Arlo that he should probably mention that there are antihistamines in the house.

He sits up with every intention to stand, but the world starts spinning before he makes it up. So he squeezes his eyes shut for the thousandth time today. 

“You okay?” Connor asks in what is probably only a brief respite of sneezing.

“Dizzy,” Arlo mutters, then leans forward, with his head between his knees.

“Do you need a garbage can?”

Shaking his head, Arlo mumbles a “no,” then immediately regrets moving his head at all. “Uh, maybe?” he adds. “Oh, and there’s something in the bathroom cabinet. The medicine cabinet. For your allergies, I mean.”

Connor hums, then disappears out of the room. Deciding there’s no imminent threat of puking or passing out, he relaxes back into the couch, curling up on his side.

“Found the Benadryl,” Connor states when he returns a few minutes later. He has a wastebasket in hand that he worldlessly sets down in front of Arlo. “Also found the reason for why I’ve been sneezing my head off. She was sitting next to the bathtub. Does she get scared of new people?”

“Yeah, terrified. Surprised you managed to see her at all.”

“Well, after I said hello, she rubbed herself all over my leg, so I think I won her over.” He takes what Arlo hopes is a fresh tissue and folds it over his nose in that same careful way. “HHT’shiew! Hhh’tshiew! Shh! ETshiew! Ht’shhiew! ‘Shiew!”

“Sorry she’s having such an effect on you. I knew you were allergic, but, uh, I didn’t realize it was like this.”

“Yes, I’ve been cursed. That's why instead of having a nice fluffy cat in our house, Felix and I have a snake.”

“He does love snakes,” Arlo says, laughing. 

His phone’s ringtone interrupts the conversation. It’s an unknown number, but the area code checks out, and since he’s been waiting on a call from his doctor’s office about rescheduling an appointment, he reluctantly accepts the call. There’s a split moment where he realizes the phone is still on speaker mode before he hears the voice on the other end.

“Arlo?”

If he hadn’t been lying down on his side, it may have been easier to maintain his grip on his phone, but he’s spent the entire day straining his joints. So, it’s not surprising when the phone slips out of his fingers and onto the hardwood. 

“Arlo? Hi, listen, don’t hang up.”

This can’t be happening again.

“Arlo. Hey, I know you blocked me. I know. But, I’m using a buddy’s phone because, well, I wanted to check on you. I know we didn’t leave on the best of terms yesterday.”

Once again, instead of doing something productive like grabbing the phone or telling Jeremy to leave him alone, he simply freezes. He stares at the device as Jeremy’s voice continues to come through the speaker. 

“And I didn’t want to part ways when we still had such a misunderstanding.”

“Arlo, who is that?” This voice is different. 

Connor.

Connor, of all people, is still in the room witnessing this. Arlo needs to grab the phone.

“Arlo, who is that?” Connor asks again. “You’re shaking.”

Before Arlo can answer the question, Connor’s already picking the phone up off the floor. 

“Hi, there,” Connor says into the phone. “Arlo’s busy. May I ask why you are calling?”

He sounds as though it’s a run of the mill work call, as though nothing is amiss. As though he answers Arlo’s phone every day.

There’s a long silence, and then, “I don’t know who you are, but this is between me and Arlo. So just hand the phone over to him.”

“I would do that, but the fact that you’re using a ‘buddy’s phone’ after he blocked your number is enough for me to infer that you’re a piece of shit, so, I’ll pass on that.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Let Arlo speak.”

The speakerphone conversation unfolds like a play, like Arlo is nothing more than an audience member with no agency, no ability to change anything. 

“There’s some pretty clear evidence showing me that he doesn’t want to speak with you. So, I think I’ll do everyone a favor and disconnect this c —”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Jeremy’s voice is venomous. “Listen, you can’t, you can’t —” He stops, taking in a deep breath before letting it out slowly. “You can’t judge the situation by what he tells  you. Exes say things. They’re not always true. I want to apologize. You’re keeping me from doing something that would make him feel better. Just give me one minute.”

Brow furrowed, Connor gives Arlo a meaningful look. Without making the conscious decision to, Arlo gives a barely perceptible shake of his head.

Turning his full attention to the phone, he says, “Not happening. Listen, I work in law enforcement. If we need to take legal action to arrange a restraining order, I can assure you it won’t be a problem. And if you violate that restraining order, well… Let’s just say I advise you not to do that.” Connor’s voice is even and calm, but the underlying threat is impossible to miss. 

There’s some frustrated huffing noises on the other end of the phone before the line finally goes dead. 

Connor sets the phone down onto the coffee table before taking a place next to Arlo on the couch. When Connor’s gaze meets his, he looks away, lightly pulling at a loose thread on a throw blanket. The wall clock audibly ticks away for several minutes while the two sit in silence.

“Do you think he believed me?” Connor’s question finally causes Arlo’s gaze to shift away from the blanket. “About the law enforcement thing? I don’t know shit about filing for a restraining order. Is that even what you say — filing? Fuck, I really know nothing.” He laughs, running a hand through his hair. 

A startled laugh breaks free from Arlo. “You sounded confident enough. I think he bought it.”

“Good. The guy’s obviously a dick.” Arlo gives a tight smile and nods before Connor continues. “So, clearly, there’s a story there. One I’m not interested in. Unless you want to tell me, of course; I’d gladly listen. But seeing how just  a few minutes ago, you couldn’t even call me a ‘friend,’ I’m leaning toward you not being comfortable with that.” 

“Um….” Arlo begins, but no other words follow. “Uh, I —” He tries again before shaking his head.

The corners of Connor’s eyes crinkle when he smiles this time; he’s not offended. Arlo’s shoulders relax. “Like I said, you don’t have to. It’s extremely personal; I get it. But, I don’t need details to know that I loathe that guy. If I see his face, I think I’d happily punch it.”

Eyebrows shooting up, Arlo asks, “I didn’t take you for the kind of guy to get into fights.” 

“I wouldn’t provoke one, but, I’m also not going to let an abusive asshole take advantage of someone just because he can.”

Once again, Arlo’s gaze finds the throw blanket. Connor knows nothing about Jeremy aside from the minute long phone call. How is everyone so quick to call him abusive when Arlo dated the man for eight years and still isn’t sure the word applies? 

“How’s your migraine?” Connor asks, and for once Arlo is glad to have attention drawn to his health.

“Fading,” he says. “As long as I stay still.” 

“Good. Your voice still sounds wrecked, though, and you’re incredibly pale. But that could be from the —” Connor stops, chews his lip, then continues. “Could be from a few things, I guess. Anyway, I think I’ll still stay for a while. And the antihistamines seem to be working pretty well, so I won’t be sneezing my head off anymore, which is a plus. Is it okay if I cook something? I saw a few things in the kitchen I could use. I’d replace the ingredients, of course. It’s just that I’m feeling pretty hungry myself and you should probably eat, too.”

“Help yourself to whatever you like,” Arlo says, before curling back up on his side, resting his head on the bed pillow. “Good luck, though. There’s not much to work with.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

* * * 

“You let him sleep in his shoes! His fucking shoes. Not to mention he’s still wearing jeans and a polo.”

“I’m sorry, but are you implying you wanted me to undress your boyfriend? Because that’s what I’m hearing.”

“What. The. Fuck. Of course not. But if he was so sick that he’d been puking, you could have fucking encouraged him to do it himself.”

“Right, because I don’t know about you, but when I’m so sick that I’m throwing up, my first concern is definitely clothing.”

“That’s why you should have encouraged him! That was my entire point, but god forbid you ever listen.”

“Jesus, Ben, he’s not a toddler. He doesn’t need encouragement, and he’s fine. You just want to always make things as dramatic as possible and —”

“Hmppsshh! P’shh! Hep’shhhhoo!”

The sneezes spray wetly against the pillow, but Arlo’s still groggy brain is finding it difficult to muster any concern.

“Bless you.” Ben manages to convey so much concern in those two words. 

“Thanks,” Arlo whispers. He swallows, then winces.

“Fuck, you keep sounding worse and worse every time I see you.” 

Finally cracking open his eyes, he sees Ben heading toward him. He promptly takes a seat on the couch and lays a hand against Arlo’s forehead, then his cheeks. “You’re warm.”

“Hmmpshoo!” The sneeze is buried into the pillow, but he’s awake enough now to grimace at the grossness of being ill in front of people.

“I’m so sorry you had to work today. And that you got a migraine. And then threw up. And — worse of all — had to spend your evening with Connor.” 

“For fuck’s sake,” Connor says, groaning. He’s, oddly, rearranging items on the coffee table. 

Arlo wants to say that the evening was surprisingly nice. The two spent an hour watching Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory before Arlo’s body had given into the need for sleep. It turns out that Connor is the perfect person to watch a movie with. He didn’t talk through the entire thing, but he also didn’t stay completely quiet. He laughed at all the appropriate places and rarely needed to pause the film. It was relaxing. All that to say — he was a far better movie partner than Ben, not that Arlo would admit that to him.

Most importantly, Connor never brought up the conversation with Jeremy. They just watched the movie while they ate vegetable soup. When Arlo had finished his soup, Connor wordlessly took the bowl, then brought back some water and more tissues. While it was slightly embarrassing, of course, to be fussed over by someone who wasn’t Ben, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Connor’s demeanor is so confident and assured that it was as though he wasn’t giving any  thought at all to what he was doing; there was no judgement or even pity. He saw a problem — such as Arlo running out of tissues —and he solved it. Simple.

So, yes, Arlo wants to tell Ben the evening wasn’t bad at all, and he shouldn’t give Connor a hard time about it. But when he opens his mouth, that’s not what comes out.

“Hht’shooo! Hh’shh!”

“Here take some tissues,” Ben says, handing a few over. But when Arlo tries to take them, he finds his fingers have completely stiffened. He can’t keep the grimace off his face.

“We’ll use the hand warmer thingy in a minute. That always helps,” Ben says in a gentle voice, carding his hand through Arlo’s curls. 

“Htt’SHHH!” Arlo says in response, because this is apparently all he can do now. 

‘Okay, everything’s cleaned up,” Connor states. “So I’m going to head out. Arlo, I put my number in your phone, so please feel free to reach out. About anything.”

“Oh,” he says, feeling the urge to rub the back of his neck. “Um. Th- hhtshh!”

Connor chuckles softly. “Feel better soon. And, Ben, uh… bye, I guess,” he says, before turning toward the door.

“Bye, I guess,” Ben mumbles.

Once Connor’s gone, Ben curls onto the couch, facing Arlo. 

“You’re very brave, getting that close. I have no control over my nose today,” Arlo says, voice still a whisper.

“I give no shits. Just wanna lay with you. I’m so fucking tired, oh my god.”

“Sorry you had to work late.”

“And I’m sorry you threw up,” Ben says.

“You already said that. And, anyway, I’m sorry I kept you up all night.”

Smiling, Ben says, “And, again, I’m sorry that you got stuck with Connor. Your turn.”

Arlo feels his own smile forming. “I’m sorry that basically all the tissues are gone. And some of your Benadryl. It turns out Connor is very allergic to Classy.”

Ben grins smugly. “That’s my girl! Classy!” he calls out, turning his head away from Arlo. “There’s my baby!”

Classy saunters in as though she hadn’t spent the last few hours hiding in the bathroom. 

She stares at the two for one moment before hopping onto Ben’s side.

“Ow. You have claws, sweetheart. Be careful.”

In response, Classy purrs and rubs her face against Ben’s. 

“What was that shit about Connor giving you his number?” Ben asks, though Arlo notices his eyes are shut.

“Uh.”

Ben snorts. “You have to give more than that. You can’t just coast through life saying ‘uh’ to everything, you know,” he teases.

“Um…”

“Or ‘um,’ for that matter. Oh my god. You are an impossible person.”

“I think he wants us to be friends,” Arlo confesses.

“Connor?” Ben’s eyes are now opened and there’s an alertness there that wasn’t there before. “Well, of course he does. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with you? But, why would you want to be friends with him?”

“He’s very….” He searches for the word. “Calming. And he’s fun to watch movies with. And he may have threatened Jeremy over the phone to have a restraining order put on him if he ever contacts me again.” He’d buried his head into Ben’s chest as he said this, hoping they’d be muffled. 

They aren’t.

“He… how does he — When? How? Why did they even talk? What events led up to that? What the fuck, Arlo?”

“Ben?”

“What?”

“I don’t feel well.” He makes sure to say it in his most pitiful sounding voice, which isn't hard to do, given it’s been reduced to a rasp.

“I know, baby.”

“So, is it okay if I just sleep? For a bit? And talk about everything later?”

There’s a long sigh from Ben before he says, “Fine, but we do have to talk about it.”

Aside from Arlo’s frequent sniffles and Classy’s rhythmic purrs, they fall into a silence. 

“You’re not working tomorrow, right?” Ben asks. “I mean, surely not.”

“I really wanted to. If I miss tomorrow, that’ll be three days I missed in just this week ....”

“Mm hmm, I hear you, but here’s something to consider: you are literally dying.”

Arlo laughs, then winces at how phlemy it sounds. “Not literally dying. Just….” He chews his lips, considering. “Slightly incapacitated.” 

“Is that something you can be slightly?” Ben asks with a raised eyebrow. 

“Sure,” Arlo mutters. “Hp’ngt!” 

“Holding it in like that is bad,” Ben mumbles half-heartedly. He’s clearly close to sleeping, himself.

“So is sneezing on your cheek,” Arlo retorts.

“Rather you do that than get a sinus infection.”

And how that statement has Arlo’s heart twisting with an almost unbearable fondness. “I know you would,” he says softly, and even though his fingers feel unusable, he uses them anyway to lightly stroke Ben’s cheek. “You know, you got mad at Connor for ‘letting me’ fall asleep in my clothes. You realize we’re both about to do that, right? You still have your shoes on.”

“Shoes shmoes.”

“I… don’t have a rebuttal to that.”

“‘Course not. It’s a classic defense for a reason.”

“Let’s make a deal, maybe? If you get up and go to bed, I’ll stay home from work tomorrow.”

Just as Arlo expected, Ben’s eyes snap open. “Okay, you’re playing dirty.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m playing extremely fairly. My intent is for you to get some good rest.”

“And I hate you for that.” Ben’s yawn is huge as he stretches. Classy doesn’t seem to mind the movement, adjusting to the new position rather quickly. “But fine. I’ll go to bed, and you’ll stay home tomorrow. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Ilya stirred from a light sleep at the waning of a long midsummer night to his boyfriend looming over him. It was dark, still, but he could make out Shane's outline, and hear him breathing. He was breathing quite fast, Ilya realised slowly, and fumbling around the blond's nightstand, though his legs remained on his own side of the bed.

The Russian wondered if he should interrupt, wondered what he should say, wondered if his boyfriend had been possessed by some kind of demon with a hunger for half-used chapstick. He settled for, “Are you lost?”

Shane's sharp shallow breaths were abruptly cut off with a jagged inhale of surprise. He froze for a moment before continuing his search with renewed frenzy and no justification.

A few short seconds later, Ilya heard the familiar sound of a tissue being dragged from the box before Shane sat back on his haunches, crunching forward with a violent,

“hEhTDXSCHh!”

It was more forceful and productive sounding than his usual sneezes, and Ilya winced sympathetically, reaching out to turn on the light, blinking away the resultant tickle that sparked somewhere between his eyes, as Shane repeated himself.

“EHtCHuh!”

“God bless you moya lyubov.” He crooned, ignoring the chaos of his nightstand in favour of tending to his crumpled husband and his crumpled tissue.

“Tried not to wake you.” Shane muttered. “Didn't realise I was out of ti-hih- hHNGtch!”

“Budʹzdorov”

“heHTDSHhew!”

“God bless you.”

“Thank you. Sorry. Thank you.” Shane gratefully accepted the additional tissues Ilya thrust upon him, and blew his nose aggressively.

“You are sick.”

“Nooo.” The word was elongated so far it could be considered a whine by most definitions, and the Canadian’s voice wavered in and out, only stopping when the strain on his throat made him cough. It was no real denial, he clearly just didn't want it to be happening.

“Yes. You are so so sick,” Ilya pulled him into his arms, dotting kisses over his shoulders and head, “and I make you… better.” He was entirely too tired to placate his boyfriend in any more detail than that, having almost replaced ‘better’ with ‘butter’ and only deciding he’d chosen the right word when the Canadian didn’t burst out laughing. Was butter good for sick people? Wasn’t better to do with gambling? Why were words so fucking stu-

“Fuck. My parents are coming tomorrow.” Shane groaned in a much more serious voice, pushing his face into Ilya’s sternum so hard it almost hurt the blond, and he was half worried about his boyfriend suffocating himself.

“They will help me, then.”

“No.” Shane sat bolt upright, almost cracking his head on Ilya's chin. “I don't want them to know. I don't like freaking them out.”

“I do not think they will freak ou-”

“No, Ilya. You don’t get it, I can’t just-” Ilya could see him shrinking in on himself as his muscles tensed up, hands fisting in the sheets, eyes flitting back and forth across the bedspread as he spoke. “-make them worry for no reason. I can’t-” His voice had been growing progressively tauter with each word, the start of the next sentence the final straw for his throat as he broke off into a coughing fit, shuffling away from Ilya as he practically suffocated himself with his elbow.

“Okay, okay.” Ilya reached out and took the brunet by the hips, dragging him back until he was almost sitting in his lap and rubbing his back, applying just enough pressure to bring him out of his head, ground him back in the moment, but not enough that the contact would hurt. Which was a fine balance with how sensitive his boyfriend’s skin was to touch when he was really sick, but it was an art Ilya had all but mastered now. “We do not tell them. I understand.” He really didn’t. Not completely, anyway, but what he could understand was that talking about it was working his boyfriend up far more than was really good for him with his body trying to fight off illness. And that was good enough for him for the moment.

Shane surfaced from his elbow, breathing heavily, a slight flush visible on his cheeks in the lamplight, from exertion or embarrassment or some cold-related cause, Ilya couldn’t be sure. “Thank you.”

The blond reached out to cup his face, drawing a thumb over his cheek before moving his grip down to his boyfriend’s neck and pulling him gently back down to rest his head on his chest again. Shane melted against him like butter on hot toast, every ounce of tension draining from his body as he sighed deeply, Ilya’s fingers starting to skim gently through his hair, pausing to draw soft circles at the edge of his temples, as though he could draw out the spiralling thoughts and lull him into a peaceful, anxiety-free sleep.

A crease appeared in the brunet’s brow, worries having apparently continued to plague him, as his eyes opened and his face fell into a regretful expression. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“No, is good.” Ilya reassured him without hesitation, before his mind flicked back to the abrupt awakening. “Was scary, though, I thought you wanted to kill me.”

“Really?” Shane’s tone was quickly taking on the soft awed quality of a child being told a bedtime story as sleep swallowed the more critical corners of his mind.

“No.”

“Well, I was out of tissues, and I didn’t have time to get out of bed and go round.” The explanation was slightly slurred and less monotone than the Canadian usually sounded when he was sober. It was very endearing, but some evil little part of Ilya wanted to see how far he could push it with his boyfriend in this state.

“Why not use the sheet? Is same thing.”

A moment of hesitation as the cogs whirred, and then, “It is not the same thing!” No further than the vague idea of improper manners apparently.

“I think it is.” He argued, heatlessly.

“I fucking know you do.” The crease in his brow was back, and deeper now. “God, I can’t believe I let myself share a bed with you before training those habits out.”

“So what, I am dog now? Maybe I want to train weird Canadian habits out of you too.”

The brunet looked up, intrigued. “Like what?”

Ilya stared into his eyes, took in the way his lashes glowed golden brown in the lamplight, and suddenly couldn’t think of a single thing he’d ever found annoying about the man. There definitely were things, he was sure of it, and Shane had somehow managed to erase them from his mind with his crinkly little half-asleep expression. Witchcraft.

“hNGTt! hEHNGT!” As quickly as he’d looked up, the subject of Ilya’s infatuated gaze ducked down again, body jolting against the Russian’s as he pinched his nose tightly with fatigue-feebled fingers. “Fuck, sorry.”

“Mm. Budʹzdorov. Like that, actually. Stop holding it in.”

Shane shook his head. “I don’t wanna infect you.”

“Oh yes, I will get sick bad if you sneeze in same bed as me. If we have sex in every room of house I will get just a little sick.”

“Fuck, Ilya.” He sat up a little, pulling back so he was leaning mostly on the Russian’s shoulder but they were eye to eye, so the blond could see his honestly guilty expression in full. “I didn’t know.”

He met him right back with an openly unbothered expression. “I don’t care. I would fuck you anyway. Is fine.”

Shane made a small noise like it wasn’t fine, but he didn’t want to argue about it, as he slumped down against his boyfriend’s shoulder, and then sniffled, sleepily nudging at his nose with the back of his hand. This sparked another sniffle, a retaliatory nudge again, and a flicker in his slightly affronted expression- Ilya could have watched this, rapt, for hours- and then a panted hitching breath.

“hEh…” He turned away with the sharp inhale, internally wrestling for control for a moment before he looked up at the Russian. “Can you pa-ah-ss me another-” He hesitated for a moment, face scrunching against the itch. “-ti-ihH-issue please.”

Ilya pulled up a section of the sheet, holding it out with a goading look. Shane smacked his chest weakly, shaking his head.

As amusing as dragging the issue out was, it was impossible to deny the helpless expression he was being fixed with for a moment longer. The blond reached out and tugged another tissue from the box, bringing it back, but just out of reach. Really Shane could have reached up and taken it without much difficulty, but they were both entirely too stubborn for this to be a simple hand-off.

“I-ihh-lya.”

“You have to do it properly, okay?”

“F-uhh-ine.” The Canadian appeared to be genuine about the response, as far as Ilya could discern, so he handed over the tissue, surprised as his breath made a sharp switch from periodic snags to erratic hitching the second it was in his hand. He really was incredible at keeping the reflex under his control. Maybe Ilya should push the issue of learning how to do that slightly harder, it really would come in useful.

“hEhh…hhH…” Shane fumbled with the fabric, folding it haphazardly before bringing it to his face, eyes squeezing shut.

“hEHtTDSHh!”

“God bless you.”

“hHTDSCHhew!”

“God bless you.” He was already reaching for another tissue to hand over, the damp, forceful nature of the expulsions not having gone unnoticed.

“Thank you. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting them to be quite that…you know…” Shane took the next tissue, avoiding eye contact as he pressed them both to his face, the last word coming out muffled, “big.”

“Mm, me too. Is going to be big cold, clearly.” He pressed a kiss into his boyfriend’s hair as the brunet ducked in on himself slightly to blow his nose, coughing softly into the tissues afterwards, with a muttered “Sorry.”

Ilya wasn’t completely sure what he was apologising for this time and he was definitely not going to ask, knowing it would be something completely unnecessary, as usual. Instead he settled for stroking his thumb over the back of his boyfriend’s neck as he let himself drift towards slumber again, slightly slower than usual, just in case Shane wasn’t done with the prolog of his ‘big cold’ and needed anything else.

It appeared that he didn’t, because within minutes they were both sleeping deeply, dead to the world even as the first rays of sunlight started to slice around the blinds.

... When Ilya awoke for the second time, it was from a far deeper sleep. His phone alarm dragged him into consciousness against his will, an aching heaviness weighing on his eyelids, and an uncooperative clumsiness plaguing his limbs as he smacked at the screen in a frustrated bid to stop the noise.

Mind full of the swirling remnants of one of those dreams that felt like you’d lived an entire lifetime in the space of a few hours, he extricated himself from under Shane’s splayed form and padded through to the bathroom to piss. Why the hell was he so tired? They’d gone to bed at what Shane would call a ‘reasonable’ hour right?

He stared at his slightly puffy face in the mirror, brow furrowed low over his eyes, debating going back to bed. After a few seconds of blank staring while the last coherent memories of the not-quite-nightmare dissolved before his mind’s eye, he dragged open the drawer in the counter, pulling out the box of antihistamine patches and shaking one out into his hand. Even if he was going to go back to sleep after this, it was still better to put one on before he forgot.

As he applied it to his arm, a rustling from the bedroom told him Shane was stirring, the sound of bedsheets rumpling as his boyfriend turned over. And at the sound, a tiny blaring alarm in the back of Ilya’s brain was silenced. That was what had been throwing him off. He never woke up first. And if he did, he most certainly didn’t get up first. It wasn’t their routine.

Ilya stepped back into the doorway of the bedroom, watching the Canadian greeting the morning by pushing himself up onto his elbows and staring blankly at the opposing wall, like he had no idea where he was or why.

“Good morning.” The low words drew puffy half-shut eyes to him immediately, as Shane’s confused gaze was given a new target to examine. Ilya swallowed a smile, knowing what his morning voice did to his boyfriend, the deeper, more thickly accented words never failing to earn him a passionate kiss.

“Morning.” In contrast, the brunet’s voice today sounded like his best attempt to provide a voice for some kind of lethargic, animated frog character, betraying a bubble in his throat that seemed to pop in synchronicity with the blissful ignorance that had been encapsulating Ilya, as Shane ducked to one side with a fit of productive coughs muffled into his bare elbow. Fuck, so that hadn’t been part of the dream.

Ilya turned abruptly back into the bathroom, filling a glass usually reserved for rinsing one’s mouth, with water from the faucet and bringing it back to the bed. He held it out, waiting as the brunet wrestled with his lungs, finally surfacing to look at the glass with a reluctant expression.

“Drink.” He encouraged.

“It’s bathroom water.”

“It’s what?”

“You got it from the bathroom.” He swallowed thickly at the end of the sentence, as the coughing threatened to start again.

“Yes, from sink, not from toilet. Drink.”

“It’s gross.”

“It is same thing as in kitchen. You have fucking well. Drink.”

Shane stared at him obstinately. Ilya stared back, outstretched arm unwavering. He would stand here for as long as it took to get his boyfriend to drink some damn water and let himself feel better. The only thing more stubborn than Ilya on a regular day, was Ilya when something was wrong with Shane, and they both knew that.

“Drink.”

…

The only thing more stubborn than Ilya when something was wrong with Shane, the Russian thought as he tugged open the fridge, was Shane himself.

He could hear the brunet succumbing to another coughing fit back in the bedroom, though it was audibly muffled, and couldn’t help mentally cursing himself for not retrieving some suitable water sooner. He grabbed a bottle from the door, and took off at a jog, letting the appliance close on its own.

“Here.” Ilya twisted the cap off, holding out the bottle before he was even remotely close enough for Shane to take it from him, desperate to provide him with some relief.

The blond watched in exasperation as Shane took the water, fought to catch his breath, swallowed dryly, and turned sincere, bloodshot eyes up to him, “Thank you.” Only then would he allow himself to begin to rehydrate, chugging the water with a fervor he usually saved for the bench, between shifts in the third period.

“Slow.” Ilya instructed, tapping on the side of the bottle to get his attention.

Shane did slow a little in response, lengthening the time between desperate, hungry swallows, finally pulling the bottle from his lips with a shaky sigh.

“How do you feel?”

The brunet stared blankly at the bottle in his hand, resting against the covers, as though he were too tired to hold it unassisted, despite it being more than half empty. After a moment he shook his head.

“Not good?” Ilya guessed.

“Mm.”

“You want food? Medicine?” He carded a hand softly through Shane’s hair, smoothing the chaos left over from a night of tossing and turning.

“Not really.” He held the bottle back out to Ilya, the Russian moving it carefully to the nightstand for him. “But I should probably eat something anyway.”

“Okay.” Without really realising why, the blond started to walk away, only questioning his action when he’d made it to the other side of the bed. He didn’t intend to get back in, so why-

“hhH-”

The sharp breath in drew Ilya’s focus, and he realised that he was already reaching out to retrieve the box of tissues from his nightstand. He had just enough time to make it back around the bed and hold out the box, Shane dragging a couple free and folding them over his lower face.

“hTDSH! TDSHh! heHh… hEHTSHh! hTCHhew!”

“God bless you.” He cupped the nape of the brunet’s neck with his free hand, feeling each jolt as it tensed up the muscles there.

Shane blew his nose, and cringed, either at the sound or the sensation, Ilya couldn’t tell. “Thank you.” He murmured, eyes drifting shut for a moment as he drew in a deep breath and sighed it back out again. Then his gaze turned slightly sharper, and he looked up at his boyfriend, curious. “Did you know that was going to happen before I did?”

“I don’t know.” Ilya responded honestly. “Maybe.” Maybe he’d just remembered that Shane didn’t have any tissues in his nightstand and gone to fetch them pre-emptively, or maybe he’d noticed some small signal, too small even to recall, that had warned him of the imminent need for something that wasn’t a bedsheet to cover his face with.

“Wow, that’s pretty romantic.”

“You know what else is romantic?- Fuck, vinovat, sorry.” He’d dragged the covers back as he spoke, only for the brunet to shudder like he’d been doused in ice water, pulling his knees up to his chest. “Wait.”

Ilya stepped over to the closet, retrieving one of his hoodies and shaking it out so it wouldn’t feel as stiff and cold. He wished he could have given Shane one he’d been wearing but it was far too hot for him to sleep with any sort of shirt on, or even to think of dressing for the first few hours of being awake.

“Arms.”

Shane obediently raised his arms, though he visibly tried to keep the rest of his body as compact as possible to stay warm. The blond rolled up the sleeves and body of the hoodie until he could easily slip it over his boyfriend’s hands and tug it down over his head and chest. Shane sunk into the material with another shudder.

“What else is romantic?” He asked, face buried in the collar of the hoodie, either trying to warm it up with his breath or soaking in Ilya’s scent, if the Russian had to guess.

“Ah.” His train of thought restored itself. “Making you breakfast. Come on.”

Unable to bear watching his boyfriend crawl out of bed like he hadn’t moved in a hundred years, both because he knew it would embarrass him and because the painfully slow, exhausted movements made Ilya want to scoop him up and carry him everywhere for the rest of his life- and he knew Shane would have some pretty serious qualms about that- he retrieved his phone from his nightstand and stood in the doorway scrolling aimlessly through it until the raspy congested breaths got close enough to make him look up on instinct.

Shane stood, glassy eyed, somehow appearing to drown in a hoodie that Ilya knew he had the muscular capacity to fill out as well as the blond did, breathing slowly through cracked lips, a dissatisfied little frown on his face.

“Ready?”

He nodded slowly, and, with a deep sigh, started to shuffle down the hall towards the kitchen.

…

Shane stared blankly out at the water as he moved oatmeal that he couldn’t really taste around in his mouth. There was an aching heaviness lingering in his head, waxing and waning in his temples, throbbing behind his eyes, like gravity had been turned up on one specific lobe of his brain and it was dragging him down towards the table.

He swallowed, lifted another spoonful. It was so quiet, so peaceful, the trees barely stirring in the wind, wildlife muted by his clogged ears, that he wasn’t totally sure he’d notice if time stopped entirely. That would be nice. Give him as much time as he needed to kick this stupid cold before his parents came around tomorrow.

The daydream of infinite stillness and silence, no time pressure, no responsibilities screaming in his ears, felt so tangible, so possible. He let his eyes drift closed as the spoon touched his tongue, imagining the birds in the trees freezing in place, the ripples in the water paused perfectly, refusing to decohere, clouds hovering hesitant in the sky, nothing in the world moving but him and-

“hhAHKk!-” Ilya.

Shane opened his mouth instinctively to gasp in surprise at the sudden noise, eyes darting to his boyfriend, who was leaning back over one shoulder, hands gripping the edge of the table to keep himself upright. The spoon fell from his mouth, hitting his thigh with a resounding slap, before bouncing onto the floor.

“-hKk! KKh! hKK!-” It was rare for his fits to start with anything but the tiny cough sneezes, but it happened, mostly when he’d been trying to keep himself under control for a while, or if the sneeze had eluded him for too long. The Canadian swallowed his mouthful of oatmeal, the bite going down agonisingly slowly as his digestive system kicked back in in the wake of the scare, and reached out an uncoordinated hand, placing it on Ilya’s shoulder as he continued.

“-hKSHuh! hhhKSHH! haHKSH! hrRSHHOo!”

“Bless you.”

“Thank you.” The Russian’s eyes scanned the table, Shane’s legs, and then the floor, alighting on the fallen spoon with a slightly guilty expression. “I tried not to, you looked so peaceful.” He leaned forward, retrieving the piece of cutlery. “I will get new spoon.”

Shane squeezed his shoulder lightly to get his attention as he straightened back up. “Maybe we should go inside.”

“No, is fine. You need air.” He waved his hand in the vague direction of the landscape surrounding them.

“Not if it’s bothering you, I don’t.”

“Is not bothering me. I always sneeze in morning, you know this.” Ilya tapped the antihistamine patch on his bicep. “Will work soon.”

Shane did know this, obviously. He also knew that his boyfriend’s morning sneezes were typically limited to one or two fits, three if either of the first had been particularly unsatisfying. And he’d watched him pause once while cooking, taking several nimble steps out of the kitchen to shower the floor in the hall with a violent fit, and heard him succumbing to a second in the bathroom when he was retrieving meds for the brunet to take with his breakfast. So this fit was clearly just because they were eating outside. So, because of him.

Before he knew it, Ilya was back, nose slightly redder than when he’d left, most likely the mark of the unforgiving paper towels in the kitchen, holding out a clean spoon.

“Thank you. If you want to go inside, just say, okay?

Ilya looked at him unblinkingly, eyes roving Shane’s form. Shane termed this his ‘trap detector’ look, when the Russian appeared to be staring into his very soul, searching for the meaning behind his words, figuring out exactly how Shane could use them to trip him up. It wasn’t panicked, like a wild animal already caught, it was cunning, like something that had learned to pre-empt capture, and with a hint of enjoyment, as if these feeble word cages he’d set up were amusing to escape.

“I will say.” He answered at last.

“Good.” He used his new spoon to bring another mouthful of oatmeal to his lips. Ilya watched him in silence.

“So, tomorrow-” The blond’s knee nudged his, as if to make sure he was listening, “-we need plan or what?”

“A plan?”

“For your parents. You do not want them to know, so…”

“Oh fuck, yeah probably.”

“I have excuse, for if we need them to leave completely. What if you need break, though?”

“What’s the excuse?”

Ilya shook his head. “Is not for you, so you don’t need to know.”

Wasn’t the entire point of a plan to get on the same page about stuff? Whatever. “I guess if I need a break, I’ll just go to the bathroom? Or pretend to take a call.”

“Call from who?”

Shane took another spoonful of his breakfast and shrugged. Did it matter?

“Is all in details. You will not be able to think tomorrow. Plan ahead.”

“Mm. Let me think about it.”

Ilya stroked his thumb along the back of Shane’s hand. “Is all going to go fine. Everyone loves you.”

He felt his shoulders tense, gaze flicking from the bowl in front of him, out to the distant treetops as a pit opened in his stomach. That only made the pressure worse. Why couldn’t everyone be ambivalent about him instead?

The Russian withdrew his hand, sensing his mistake. “Stop thinking about it and eat. Is getting cold.”

He was grateful for the bluntness. It brought him back to reality, and he turned his focus back to his breakfast again, running over mundane information about the season in his brain to keep his mind from wandering to the next day, icing the intrusive thoughts over to the far side of his brain until his spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl.

Then he allowed himself to return to the moment, relieved to discover that his headache had withdrawn somewhat, the medicine he’d taken just before the meal apparently having kicked in. With a final deep breath in of the fresh air, he stood, glancing over Ilya who appeared to be lost in thought, as he opened the door to head back into the house.

“Hollander.” There was a flicker of urgency in Ilya’s voice, and the brunet spun around immediately.

“What?”

“I want to go inside.” The smile was picking up the edges of his mouth before he’d even finished the sentence.

“Wh- fuck off.” Shane turned back, stepping over the threshold and heading to rinse his dishes in the sink.

“You say to tell you!” The Russian’s voice echoed after him. “I am just doing what you say!”

“Fuck-” He paused to cough harshly into his elbow. “-off!”

…

The day had been far from peaceful for Shane. His mind spun back around to the next day and all sorts of hideous worst case scenarios, every time there was a slight lull in other things to think about. The only way he’d managed to get some rest was by having a random European hockey match playing on mute on the TV while he laid on Ilya’s chest on the couch, watching, the blond delivering what appeared to be sarcastic commentary in Russian into the top of his head, punctuated with kisses.

So, to say he was exhausted now would be the understatement of the year. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the shifting shapes of the bedroom in the light from the bathroom, enthralled by whatever misperceptions his mangled mind was regaling him with, like a fatigue-driven version of shadow puppets.

“Tired?” Ilya’s fingertips lifted Shane’s chin, his face turning obediently before he could drag his eyes along with it.

“Mmf.” He slumped his face into the blond’s palm until he was holding the entire weight of his head, taking a partially obstructed breath in, faintly able to detect the scent of his own soap and the Russian’s aftershave.

“So tired.” It was almost praise-like, the words spoken reverently from low in Ilya’s throat, sending a shiver through Shane.

“Mmf.” Was his only response, again.

Ilya sat down next to him, gently moving his head back up so he could take its burdensome weight on his neck again, and moving his hand around to massage lightly at Shane’s shoulders, starting on one side of his neck and moving around to the other, as the Canadian’s gaze got lost in the things that weren’t there again.

“You will sleep so good, and your body will kill the cold while you sleep, and you will wake up and feel so much better, yes?”

It was less of a question or suggestion than an instruction, and though Shane knew he had no control over the microorganisms that made him up, he felt inclined to obey in every way he could. He nodded.

“And you will-” Though he wanted to listen, his focus was pulled away by an irritatingly sharp tickle in his nose, the first active feeling in a sea of sluggish sensations which had been lazily plaguing him for hours without drawing much notice.

He reached out and plucked a tissue from the box that remained on his nightstand, only aware of Ilya talking once the action drew him to a sudden halt. Instant regret washed over him, though he had no time to express it, raising the tissue and ducking away apologetically.

“hTSHhh!”

“God bless you.”

“hhEhtDSHhhew!” The sneezes were weak, lacking the punch needed to be satisfying, entirely too feeble to have really earned the way they dragged him forward and left him drained afterwards.

“God bless you.”

“Sorry, I interrupted you.” He breathed into the tissue, too tired to sit back up, bent double still in the picture of exhausted remorse.

“No, was just your body telling me ‘shut up so we can go to bed’.” Ilya drummed his fingers on Shane’s back. “Can you get in by yourself?”

The Canadian straightened. “Yes. I’m not eighty. And I don’t want you to shut up.”

“Okay. I will talk for another hour, then.” He inhaled deeply, as though to begin some sort of monologue.

Shane didn’t give him the satisfaction of trying to stop him, instead turning over to crawl slowly into bed, slumping down against the pillow with his back to him.

“You are sure you are not eighty?” Ilya asked, poking his ass. “You get into bed at same speed.”

“Did you sleep with a lot of eighty year olds before me, or is this based on just one or two observations?” He shot back, kicking weakly in the direction of his boyfriend’s hand.

“Fuck you.” The mattress shifted as Ilya stood up, and with a click, the bathroom light turned off.

“Not before you fuck a bunch of grandpas, apparently.” Shane laughed, giddy in the sudden darkness, the sound quickly morphing into a cough that had him curling in on himself, elbow pressed to his mouth, feeling the whole bedframe shake with him.

“Okay, okay, you cannot die laughing at this shitty joke.” The Russian climbed in opposite him, hands coming to his boyfriend’s shoulders to steady him, though they felt around his head and the pillow and at least one of his knees before both finding their purchase. Not funny, not funny, don’t start laughing again or you’ll die.

The breath he drew in in the wake of the fit was long and ragged, stinging in his throat and aching in his lungs. Though he knew speaking would hurt even worse, he braved the decimation of his vocal cords anyway.

“Ilyaa.”

“I know, moya lyubov. I know.”

“Hurts.”

“I’m sorry.” Shane felt him let go, heard him shifting around, felt the covers being pulled up over them both, and finally heard slow calm breaths just in front of his face, before a soft kiss was pressed to his forehead. “Try to sleep, okay? I am here, and I will wake up if you need me.”

“I love you.” This he whispered, hoping to preserve his throat for the next day, and also fearing that the emotion that was making his eyes prick with unseen tears might extend to his voice.

“I love you too. Now rest.”

…

Ilya was once again awoken by his boyfriend looming over him, though this time he wasn’t in the bed at all, and when the blond’s eyes flew open, it was to blinding light.

“Agh!” He startled backwards, arms coming up defensively. Shane didn’t move. “hhAH-!” He bit his tongue forcefully against the reflex, finding it easier than usual to quell, as fight-or-flight kicked in halfway through, flooding his system with adrenaline. Shane didn’t react. “Are you okay?” Ilya managed finally, starting to push himself up to more of a sitting position. Shane said nothing, staring at him with wide blank eyes.

The Russian forced himself to slow down, heart racing from the horror movie scenario he’d woken to find himself in, forced himself to take in the scene. Shane stood, almost imperceptibly swaying, right by Ilya’s side of the bed, breathing heavily again, though his expression was mostly neutral. He’d abandoned the long-sleeve he’d gone to bed in, standing, shivering, in pyjama trousers, upper body covered in goosepimples, pecs glistening with sweat in the light of Ilya’s bedside lamp, a single droplet running down his neck in a way that normally would have taken the blond’s breath away but instead opened a cold pit of dread in his stomach.

“…Shane?” Ilya reached out to touch his face, poised to spring back if he accidentally startled him. Was he even conscious? Was he sleepwalking or something?

“I’m scared.”

The sentence came out of nowhere, nothing changed on the brunet’s face, and he spoke right as Ilya’s hand grazed his burning hot cheek, making the Russian flinch in surprise. His voice was gravelly and obstructed, sounding discomposingly unlike himself as though he were only miming along to another person’s voice, the deep shadows cast on his face from the single light source not helping the terrifying image.

Ilya forced himself to reply with some semblance of stability, rather than echoing his boyfriend’s fear, as instinct drove him to. “Why are you scared moy lyubimy? Is all okay.”

“Tomorrow.” He replied simply.

“With your parents?” Ilya tugged on his wrist, trying in vain to get him to sit down on the bed, only succeeding in making the Canadian stumble awkwardly towards him, bumping into the edge of the mattress and then stepping back again.

“What if they figure it out? And they know that I’m…” He breathed heavily for a moment, a clumsy attempt to calm himself. “-sick.”

“Then-”

“Then,” Shane interrupted before he could be placated, “they’ll know I hid it from them. They hate when I hide things.”

Ilya glanced down for a single second to free his legs from the covers, and when he looked up again, tears were pouring down his boyfriend’s face. Fuck. This was a bad fever. He could tell.

“Okay, okay, we have options, yes? We have plan and excuses, we have medicine, and we can move to other day if is really bad.” He swung his legs out of bed and stood up as he spoke, gently taking hold of his boyfriend’s arms- not missing the slight wince as he touched the fever-raw skin- and steering them around to the other side of the bed.

“But I didn’t sleep well, and I don’t want to cancel because I might get worse, or you might get it, and we can’t just keep moving it back.” Shane sniffled as Ilya snagged a tissue from the box on his nightstand and started to wipe away the tears.

“We still have time to sleep.” In reality he had no fucking idea what time it was, but right now his boyfriend didn’t seem capable of thinking straight, let alone reading and comprehending any kind of clock. “And I- what is it?” The brunet’s face had suddenly turned from absent distress to frustration.

“We can’t sleep in the bed anymore.”

Ilya fought the urge to sigh, entirely too tired to be picking apart Shane’s incomprehensible lines of logic. “Why not?”

The Canadian reached out and unceremoniously drew back the covers to reveal his own side of the bed, sheets rumpled from tossing and turning. He frowned at Ilya, as if to say ‘See?’

He did not see. “What? Is just uh…” What was the fucking word? “Crumbled? Crunkled? Look.” The blond reached out to tug the sheets taut, withdrawing his hand almost immediately. “Oh. Why is it-?”

The entire side that Shane had been sleeping on was at least moderately damp, the pillow too, now that Ilya was actually looking at it. For a moment he had no idea how this had happened, but, glancing back at his boyfriend, skin still glistening in the warm lighting, he knew. If he’d sweat all the way through the sheets and was still feverish, he was definitely completely delirious and dehydrated.

As Ilya watched, the brunet shivered, arms pressed tight against his torso as if he were fighting against a bitterly cold wind that the Russian somehow couldn’t feel. The tiniest amount of anxiety stirred in his chest. He was really sick. Like if Ilya didn’t do something he might be doctor sick, hospital sick, accidentally-out-themselves-trying-to-get-him-medical-care sick.

“Okay.” He straightened up, retrieving Shane’s phone, the box of tissues, and the bottle of water he’d made sure was on the brunet’s nightstand this time, rounded the bed to grab his own phone, and made a mental note to come back for medicine and some kind of washcloth from the bathroom. “We sleep in other room.”

Shane stared at him blankly for a moment from across the room, and Ilya was just mentally running back the words that had left his mouth to check that they were in English and generally comprehensible, when the Canadian snapped forwards.

“hEISHh! huHITCHhew!”

“God bless you.” The Russian stared at him with wide, wary eyes, the tiny flicker of anxiety fanned into a flame by the scene he’d just observed. Shane had made absolutely no effort to cover his face, suppress the sneezes, turn away, or in any way interfere with the process. It was uncannily unlike him, and it sent a shiver down Ilya’s spine, that innate sense of ‘wrongness’ like an optical illusion or one of those humanoid robots, screaming a warning in his mind.

The brunet didn’t respond, frowning as he raised a hand to run his fingers under his nose, as though confused by the intractable expulsions that had just overwhelmed him. Ilya nodded towards the door, reminding him of their destination, and with a soft sniffle, Shane dropped his hand back to his side and headed for the hallway.

They walked through slowly, Ilya watching his boyfriend walk as though he could feel every single muscle and tendon involved in moving, and each one ached in a different way. The journey was steady though, excepting the small pause they’d had to take when the plastic water bottle had briefly slipped from the Russian’s grasp, hitting the floor with a liquid-y thud. Shane had slammed his hands over his ears, shoulders hunching protectively as he growled low in the back of his throat a barely audible “Too fucking loud.” They’d continued shortly after, though the Canadian’s shoulders never untensed in the wake of the incident, and Ilya found himself gripping the bottle with a newfound tightness, berating himself for his clumsiness.

When they’d made it to the other room ,he flicked on the overhead light without thinking, both of them reeling back from the sudden assault on their eyes. Ilya’s breath started to hitch immediately, fiercely, the trigger awoken for the second time that night and not eager to be denied. He nudged Shane into the room, tongue between his teeth as he sidestepped his boyfriend, tossed the contents of his arms gently onto the bed, and ducked back out into the hallway, turning his back to the room and clamping a hand over his lower face.

“hKk! hKk! KKh! hMPH! hihMPH! hhMPHoo!”

With a sniffle and a frustrated glare at nothing in particular, since he was actually just mad at whatever stupid connection in his brain caused that reflex, and it was pretty hard to glare at your own brain, he spun back around to see Shane staring at him with glistening wet eyes again.

“What happened?” He moved closer immediately, watching the brunet’s lips twist into a pout as the tears started to fall.

“You’re hurting yourself.” He was what? If his boyfriend wasn’t doing an excellent imitation of someone at death’s door right now, Ilya would definitely point out the hypocrisy in that statement.

“No. Does not hurt. I am fine. I did not want to make loud noise, because it hurts you.” This explanation only made things worse as Shane drew in a shuddering breath, tears flowing incessantly down his cheeks again. He was going to dehydrate himself even more if he kept that up.

“You hurt yourself because of me?”

“No, no. I-” Ilya struggled to explain, not wanting to worsen the situation but sensing that his boyfriend could and would twist whatever he said into some devastating misinterpretation in his current state. “Wait here.”

He jogged back through to the master en suite, retrieving cold medicine, a cool soaked washcloth, and the thermometer, and returning to find his boyfriend sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

“Okay, look at me.” He knelt in front of him, waiting patiently as Shane lifted his head and blinked stuck-together lashes at him.

“You left.”

“Yes.” He was in no-nonsense mode now, knowing that placating the fatigued Canadian was a never-ending quest. “To get things to help. Put this in your mouth.” He held out the thermometer, watched Shane dejectedly place it between his lips.

While they waited for the beep, Ilya started to gently clean the sweat from his skin, swiping the cool washcloth over his face, chest, neck, arms, and moving around behind him to reach his back. The brunet didn’t move throughout the process, sitting still, pliable, patient, letting himself be helped.

The device reached a conclusion just as the Russian decided he’d gotten enough of the sweat off that Shane wouldn’t be uncomfortable when it dried, plucking the thermometer from his mouth and frowning at the number.

39.1. It was about what he’d expected, but that didn’t make it any more comforting to see. “Take two of these,” He doled out the medicine into his boyfriend’s waiting hands, “And I will put this back, okay? I come back in two minutes.”

The brunet nodded, Ilya ducking out of the room, and heading to toss the washcloth in the laundry and retrieve an electrolyte drink before he had to watch him putting the pills in his mouth. By the time he’d gotten back, Shane had drunk a third of the bottle of water, and shuffled around the bed to partially climb in, only under the covers up to his ankles.

“Can you drink some of this, too?” Ilya handed him the open drink, relieved to see him starting to sip it eagerly. He retrieved their phones and the tissue box from the end of the bed and placed them on the nightstands, pulling back the covers so Shane could get further in, and taking the electrolytes from him when it seemed like he didn’t want to drink any more.

“Better?” He asked, turning the lamp beside the bed on before heading to turn the main light off.

“Yes. Thank you.” The Canadian still didn’t sound totally lucid, voice slightly dreamy and distant, gaze not quite focused, but he wasn’t crying or shivering or staring through Ilya like he didn’t exist anymore, so that was definitely progress.

“Good.” Ilya joined him in bed, unsurprised when Shane immediately slumped over to lie against him, taking the opportunity to cup his cheek and kiss his forehead, checking whether his fever had started to wane yet. It hadn’t.

“Tomorrow-” He began again, in a small voice.

“Tomorrow is for tomorrow. We talk in morning.” The blond replied, firmly, staring unwaveringly into his eyes as they drifted closed, as if to scare away the recurring thoughts that were making his boyfriend so anxious.

“Yeah, okay.” Shane finally conceded as his breathing began to deepen, expression slackening as sleep began to take hold on his consciousness again.

Ilya remained sitting up, watching him relax, bit by bit, wanting to make sure he was completely asleep, totally at peace, before he drifted off himself. The total unguarded lethargy in his expression was somewhat arresting, the Russian realised, feeling like he was privileged to be privy to the sickness that was visible up so close. The way his mouth was slightly cracked, and he seemed to be alternating between sucking in raspy breaths between his chapped lips, and inhaling stuffily through his nose. The slight flush high on his cheeks that appeared to be fading now as the medicine began to work, making the similar flush on his nose that much more stark in contrast. The puffiness around his eyes from crying and the lack of rest, eyelashes clinging together in small clusters like the bristles of a damp paintbrush. He really was beautiful. Like this and always.