Waistcoats & Handkerchiefs

*

After practice, Hayden was chatting at him by the lockers. Something aimless, about Jackie’s latest bird food recipe for him. Something that didn’t require a lot of participation on Shane’s part, thank God. He hadn’t been able to shake off this morning’s haziness quite yet, and practice had only made him feel slower, heavier in his bones.

“You good, bro?” Hayden interrupted himself to ask. He poked at Shane’s arm, as if imagining that Shane would deflate like a balloon. “You’re really pale over there. Like, more than usual. I think I can count all your freckles.”

Shane cleared his throat, shifting away from Hayden to avoid more poking. He picked up his water bottle and took a long gulp. “Just dehydrated, I think. Skipped my morning smoothie.”

Not because his throat had hurt. He just hadn’t been thirsty.

“Okay,” Hayden said cheerfully. “I bet you could find someplace around here that makes them just as disgustingly healthy as you do.”

Shane flipped him off and headed for the showers, ignoring Hayden’s cackle of laughter behind him. The water was cold when he stepped into the spray, and Shane couldn’t keep himself from immediately snapping forward with a sneeze.

“hh’esshht!”

He caught it in his elbow, thanking God that none of his other teammates were in the showers just yet. He hated when the cold made him… him…

This one, he managed to mostly stifle between his pinched thumb and forefinger. “hh’nkkt!”

And the next two. “hh’ngkt! …HAH’ngxxkk!”

The last one had come with a louder inhale than he’d wanted, and he knew he needed to blow his nose or risk this turning into a bigger fit. He fumbled to turn the shower off, reaching blindly for his towel.

“Hollander, you alr—?”

“HEHHT’sschhh!” he sneezed again, hastily into the palm of his hand, this time only partially keeping the sound of it contained. He could feel the congestion building up, and they were only going to get wetter. Reluctantly, he brought his towel up to his face and bullied his nose with the rough fabric until the tickle died down.

“Jesus, man,” Miitka said, giving him a wide berth as he went to another shower stall. “You don’t sound too good.”

“S’just from the cold water,” Shane muttered, wishing he still had the showers to himself so he could blow his nose without an audience. Giving up on the shower, he wrapped the towel around himself and booked it for the bathrooms so he could clear out his sinuses in peace.

*

Hayden talked him into lunch with the team, some poor eatery that wasn’t prepared for twelve hockey players and their humongous appetites. Shane was just grateful they had a single salad on the menu with his safe foods in it.

They didn’t have ginger ale, though. He was surprised by how actually upset he felt about that, having to push back the barest prick of tears in his eyes.

He felt… raw. Like an exposed nerve. His sensitivity surprised him. Practice had really worn him out.

“You’re shivering, dude,” a teammate told him.

Shane struggled to swallow his bite of salad. His throat was dry, the tiniest bit sore, and he chugged more water to fix it. “Yeah, we’re right under the vent,” he said, though it really wasn’t even that cold.

The next sip of water went down the wrong way, and he couldn’t keep from coughing, pressing his face into his elbow and praying he would stop before his teammates started thumping him on the back. His skin felt hypersensitive, probably from the cold of the vent plus overexercise at practice, and he suddenly couldn’t bear the idea of being touched.

He pushed his chair back, the sound of it scraping the floor hurting his ears, and mumbled an excuse before booking it to the bathrooms. In there, he coughed until tears burned at the corners of his eyes, swallowing tap water from the sink—which he usually avoided drinking on principle—to finally make himself stop.

Hands braced on the edges of the sink, Shane looked up and eyed himself in the mirror warily. He forced himself to take in the facts. A wet shimmer in his eyes from the tears. Dark under eye circles. Skin so pale he could see his freckles standing out. He sniffled—there was a thickness there, like inflammation and congestion both settling in. His throat still tickled a little bit. His skin still hurt, and maybe it wasn’t from overexertion after all.

His grip on the sink tightened. “No,” he told his reflection, firm and insistent. “This is not happening.”

*

He made it through the rest of lunch without doing anything to stand out or embarrass himself, which he was thankful for. Hayden had offered a hangout at his place afterward, a way to chill out before the game, but didn’t seem too pressed when Shane declined. He’d begged off for a nap at his place instead, which was a common thing for players to do before a game, thank God.

He slid into his car and rested his forehead against the steering wheel for a minute before forcing himself to sit up. Now that he wasn’t in the group, the pressure to act normal was off him, and he suddenly felt so tired that he thought he might actually nap once he got home. He hoped Ilya wouldn’t mind—he probably expected some marathon sex session, knowing him.

Shane had decided by the end of lunch that his moment in the bathroom had just been pre-game nerves. He was not sick. There was no way, he didn’t have time for it, and he hadn’t been around anyone sick. Well, Hayden’s crew always had some bug going around, but Hayden himself seemed fine, didn’t he? So it stood to reason that Shane had to be fine, too.

“hh’TSSCHH’sheww!” He flinched forward with a sudden sneeze before he could stop himself. His nose tingled, like he’d been dusting or something, and the sneeze felt wetter, heavier, than he was used to. Shane lifted a hand to his face to try to scrub the tickle away, only for it to abruptly transform into another sneeze that refused to be held back, forcing him to shield the spray with only a palm. “hh’TCCHHH!”

Once he’d recovered himself, sniffling into a takeout napkin that Ilya had probably left in his car, and regretting not having any tissues, he slumped back against his seat. “Fuck.”

He drove back to the apartment, suddenly overwhelmed with the proof of his immune system giving up. He kept having to stifle back little fits of sneezes, like he’d done in the shower that morning, so he wouldn’t wreck his car. His throat protested, too, but he wasn’t coughing. Yet, he thought ominously. And his skin ached, worse than this morning.

The drive itself was short and uneventful, aside from all his symptoms refusing to be dammed back anymore, and he’d spent the whole time daydreaming about his bed, but he found himself lingering in the car once he’d parked. He didn’t know what he’d say to Ilya once he got inside, Ilya who’d been waiting all day for him—“hey, thanks for making the inconvenient drive from your new apartment in Ottawa, but I’m sick, so leave me alone? I appreciate your eternal devotion, but my nose is stuffy, so get the hell out?”

He’d never been sick around Ilya before, not beyond little post-game sniffles they’d been able to ignore during hookups, and certainly nothing since they’d made their relationship official. His immune system’s sudden breakdown made him a little nervous for Ilya’s reaction. It was inconvenient, it was gross, and worst of all, it was weak.

Eventually, he had to force himself inside, knowing that he needed the nap before it got too late in the day. What he didn’t want was to go into the game tonight exhausted and… and sick. It was the playoffs, for God’s sake. He cursed, dragging his feet and making his way to his floor.

Ilya was lying on the couch, playing one of those stupid ad-ridden games on his phone that he was addicted to. “Good practice?” Ilya called out, not taking his eyes off his game.

For once, Shane was grateful not to have the weight of Ilya’s full attention on him. Usually he craved it, but today he felt like ducking notice as much as possible. He croaked out a, “Yeah,” and slunk into the kitchen like a dog trying to avoid getting into trouble. He was halfway through making his afternoon protein shake when he felt Ilya slide up behind him, wrapping his arms around Shane’s stomach and pressing his chin into Shane’s shoulder.

“Okay?” Ilya asked.

Shane couldn’t keep himself from smiling. He loved the way Ilya pronounced that word, so quintessentially Russian. “Tired,” he said, clinging onto the excuses that the team had bought wholeheartedly all morning. Just tired. Just dehydrated. Just cold. Really cold, actually, now that he’d stopped moving. He shivered.

Ilya seemed to read his mind, rubbing his hands up and down Shane’s arms to soothe the goosebumps. “Chilly,” Ilya said, an observation and not a question.

“The, uh, restaurant was kind of cold.”

“And the car on the way home?” Ilya asked.

Shane could feel Ilya’s raised eyebrows without turning around to look at him. He stayed very still, like a prey animal hoping to avoid the predator’s eye.

Ilya waited a beat, then sighed and rubbed Shane’s arms again, this time more to comfort than to warm. “Malyyysh,” he said, drawing the word out until it was almost a tease. It was one of Shane’s favorite pet names, and he knew it. “You are getting sick, I think? Yes?”

Shane felt caught, like the prey animal he’d imagined himself as. Maybe he needed to stop thinking in metaphors. “I’m fine,” he protested, but his voice broke awkwardly on the words, leaving him exposed in the lie, and he abruptly knew there was no point in it. Ilya always knew all the things he wanted to hide. His shoulders slumped in defeat and he nodded. “You can go whenever.”

“Go? Go where?” Ilya asked, actually sounding surprised. “You think I am going to leave, malysh?”

“I mean… yeah?” He let himself sniffle, feeling the drag as it caught uncomfortably in his swollen sinus passages. What was the point in hiding it anymore? “I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to catch this.”

Ilya shrugged and draped himself over Shane even harder, if that were possible. “I am out for the playoffs already. Does not matter if I get sick.”

Shane groaned at the reminder of tonight’s game. He brought up a hand and scrubbed at his eyes. They were so tired they were starting to pulse, but he was dreading lying down. There was no way he woke up feeling any better than he felt now—most likely, it would be even worse, and then he’d still have the game to play.

“You, though,” Ilya mused, reading his mind again. “We need to do something about this, yes?”

“Like what?” Shane snapped. Immediately, he sighed and rubbed at his nose, feeling it prickle at the touch uncomfortably. “Sorry. I’m… shit, I’m sorry. I don’t feel great. And I don’t have time to be sick right now. I have so much to do.”

Ilya huffed out a laugh and pressed a kiss to Shane’s shoulder over his shirt. “I do not think you get a choice in this, Hollander. It’s okay, though. We fix.”

Shane couldn’t help but feel curious. “How?”

He let Ilya take charge from there, leading him into the bedroom and gathering up comfy pajamas. “Ilya,” he put up a token protest when Ilya physically pushed him toward the bed, “I’m sorry, I really don’t feel like—”

“Thank you, Shane, I know this,” Ilya put in with patience, rolling his eyes with a fond smile. “I am not here to rock your world, at least not right now. But how will you nap with dress shirt, hm? Put on your pajamas.” Ilya shoved a soft pair of sweatpants in his direction, then disappeared into the en-suite bathroom.

Shane changed his pants and sat down on the bed while Ilya perused the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. The prickling in his nose had only grown more insistent, teasing and annoying in equal measure. He stripped out of his dress shirt, making to fold it as he sat there shirtless, but the teasing sensation abruptly transformed into the immediate, undeniable need to sneeze. Casting the shirt to the side, he ducked into his cupped hands, stifling the sneezes back as much as he could. “heh’kxxt! heh… hih’KGGXHHT!”

The two sneezes were rougher than he was used to. Drier, though that was because he’d been stifling; he could feel wetness begging to come out, congestion having thoroughly settled in his sinuses. They had hurt from the force of stifling, too, and he resisted the urge to groan.

“Bless you,” Ilya called out from the bathroom.

And after all that, they’d still been audible, making it hardly worth the effort.

Shane blushed, scrubbing at his nose until the lingering tickle died down. “Thangks,” he muttered, feeling now just how stuffy he was getting.

Ilya returned from the bathroom with a bottle of cold medicine in hand. “You should not hold them back like that,” he informed Shane, measuring out a dose. He handed it over matter of factly, leaving Shane feeling like he was six years old again.

“I’ll keep that ind mbind,” Shane mumbled, flushing again when he heard how congested he sounded in his n’s and m’s. “That’s what everybody says.”

“You will give yourself sinus infection,” Ilya said. He gestured at his own thrice-broken nose and deviated septum with lighthearted self-deprecation. “Take it from someone who gets one every year: they suck. Take your medicine.”

“Jeez,” Shane cracked a smile, unable to help himself. “I wouldn’t have pictured you as such a mother hen.” He downed the medicine like a shot, praying it worked quickly. Sitting down had let him relax a little, and all he could focus on now was the way his body ached. He hoped he wasn’t spiking a fever. He’d be useless tonight if he couldn’t even skate straight.

Ilya only grinned and took charge once again: hanging up the dress shirt so Shane wouldn’t fuss over folding it, putting away the rest of his clothes, and ushering him into bed. He even went to get Shane the protein shake he’d left behind in the kitchen.

By the time Ilya got back from the kitchen, Shane was sitting up against the headboard, trying to coax out the sneeze that had been taunting him for the last few minutes. He had grabbed a handful of tissues from the fresh box Ilya had left on the nightstand, but it just wouldn’t come. He dragged the tissue over his nose, featherlight this time, and felt his breath finally catch in the way he’d been waiting for. Too relieved to stifle, he let it come out a little louder than typical for him. “hehh… HEHHH… HEPT’SHHIEWW!”

“Bless you,” Ilya said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

But he wasn’t done. He rubbed at his nose through the tissue and hitched again, helpless until the itch was finished with him. “huhh—!” It was fighting him. Frustrated, he hovered over the tissue, feeling his breath catch again and again as the tickle teased him some more. “huhh… huhHH—!”

“Oh,” Ilya said, a little surprised but mostly teasing him, just as surely as the tickle was. “Oh, I see. One is not enough, you go again?”

Shane’s eyes were closed, so he was surprised to feel Ilya’s fingers brush against his cheek, the tips dragging at the bridge of his nose.

“You need help, hm?” Ilya murmured, gentle but ribbing him. “A little assist?”

The hockey pun wasn’t lost on him, but he didn’t have time to react as Ilya’s gentle touch, plus the tickle in his sinuses, overwhelmed him. He crashed forward into his lap, the tissue barely covering everything as he gave in and let the explosion burst out. “HUUSSCHHH’OOH!”

It was bigger than any sneeze he could remember having, huge and soaking and demanding. It sounded like one of Ilya’s sneezes, actually, loud and satisfying. Shane moaned, half relief and half embarrassment. Maybe a little bit turned on, too, though he couldn’t explain why. He was Pavloved to Ilya’s touch in all circumstances—even the snotty ones, apparently.

Ilya sucked in air against his teeth, surprised. “Big sneeze, moya lyubov.”

Shane’s shoulders hunched, the embarrassment belatedly winning out. “Sorry,” he mumbled into the tissue he’d sneezed into, feeling its dampness against his skin. Gross. He blew gently, trying not to be as loud as he knew he could be. Jeez, this cold was turning out wet. Just what he needed.

“Is okay,” Ilya said softly. His hands were suddenly everywhere on Shane, rubbing his shoulders and taking away the tissue to throw it away for him. “Lie on your stomach? I have idea.”

Those were usually Shane’s words—he’d have an idea, and Ilya would grumble and groan but eventually give in. The role reversal took Shane by surprise. This whole afternoon was taking him by surprise, honestly. Ilya was being so soft, so calm, so unexpectedly sincere.

It was… nice. So nice he didn’t even put up a token protest, only flopping back onto the bed and rolling onto his stomach. It was harder than usual, breathing in this position with his nose so stuffy, and he propped his chin on folded arms to make it a little easier.

Then Ilya sat on the backs of his thighs, and Shane didn’t breathe at all for a second. “I-Ilya,” he said, coughing a little with the shock. “I… I really dond’t thingk…”

“You don’t want back rub?” Ilya teased. “I will be gentle, solnyshko. Will help you sleep, I promise.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the back of Shane’s neck. His next words came out breathy, his exhale felt on Shane’s neck. “I promise, is all this is.”

Shane could feel the evidence of Ilya’s arousal against his ass, but he didn’t argue. A massage sounded amazing, if he didn’t fall asleep immediately. Why had he ever been against the thought of a nap? Now that he was horizontal, he could barely keep his eyes open. “Mmb… ogkay,” he said sleepily. “No funndy busindess.”

Ilya snorted at Shane’s congested words. “Sure, sweetheart. No funny business.”

For a moment, nothing. Then, Ilya’s hands were on Shane’s shoulders, gentle at first before he started to dig into the muscles. Several minutes of this passed peacefully before Ilya spoke again.

“Was going to do this for you anyway, what with the playoffs. Good for sore muscles,” Ilya mused out loud. He dug his thumb into a knotted spot that had Shane groaning into his folded arms. “But it will probably help you sleep off this bad cold, too, hm?”

Shane shivered a little, though he wasn’t cold, exactly. He felt warm, and hazy with sleep, and cared for even when he was being gross, and the combination was kind of intoxicating. His nose started to tickle, and all he could bring himself to do to fend it off was to rub it hard against his forearm.

“Tired yet, malysh?” Ilya murmured. His touch was firm but not painful, teasing and prying at all the knots of tension Shane carried in his shoulders and back until they simply fell apart. It felt better than any physio.

“Mmb…” Shane knew he’d made a sound in response, but right now he couldn’t bring himself to form words for a response. He felt so sleepy, and maybe a little hazy off the cold medicine starting to kick in, and abruptly ticklish… God, his nose felt so unbelievably sensitive with this cold…

“Shane?” Ilya asked, pressing hard at a stubborn knot in one shoulder.

He couldn’t focus long enough to say something, anything, to reassure Ilya. All of his concentration was suddenly on the tickle, but oddly enough, he didn’t feel like fighting it for once. He sucked in a hasty breath, letting the sneezes burst out of him in a wet, needy rush that felt so, so satisfying.

“heh… hehhh’shieww!” He sneezed, feeling the hot, damp air of it as he sprayed helplessly across his forearms and into the sheets. Immediately, he was inhaling for the next one, no time to even think of covering or stifling it, no desire to do so even if he’d had time. “huhh… huh’hupshhoohh! Oh…. I’mb… huhhsshheww! Ohhh…”

God, the relief of them had been intense. They’d been softer than his previous sneezes, but no less powerful. His nose still tingled, like it might need to sneeze again in a moment but was in no hurry to do so. He found himself completely uncaring of the fact that he’d sneezed so openly and wetly on himself, right in front of his boyfriend. Too tired and overwhelmed with this cold to even be embarrassed anymore.

“Oh, Shane,” Ilya said, a little hoarse. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Shane’s shoulder, chaste and sweet. “Bless you, sweetheart. Feel better?”

Shane smiled into his forearms, half-drunk on sleepiness and the cold medicine. “Bet-ter,” he said, gently mimicking Ilya’s accent. “Will you nap with me?”

Ilya smoothed his hands over Shane’s shoulders and back one more time, feeling for any remaining knots. Then, satisfied with his work, he dismounted and collapsed back onto the bed beside Shane, eyeing him with a lazy smile. “Nothing I’d rather do,” Ilya said genuinely. “Come here, malysh.”

Shane army crawled into Ilya’s arms, resting his head on his chest. With what little remained of his rationality, he hoped and prayed he wouldn’t sneeze into Ilya’s chest. He’d embarrassed himself enough for one afternoon, and even Ilya couldn’t possibly be so accepting after that. He’d already put up with Shane sneezing and sniffling all over himself.

Shane felt like he was dreaming already. He’d never imagined, this morning, that Ilya would stay through all this, would take care of him. “Thanks for staying,” he mumbled into Ilya’s skin. “You’re good at this.”

Ilya pressed a kiss into his hair, so quiet and gentle that Shane wouldn’t have known it had happened at all if he hadn’t felt the slight pressure. “I have been waiting a long time,” he said softly, “to take care of you in all the ways I want to.”

Shane felt a little overwhelmed by that—he was frequently overwhelmed by the depth of Ilya’s love, when he least expected it—and he couldn’t think of the right thing to say. He snuggled further into Ilya’s arms and pressed his own kiss into the skin just beside Ilya’s nipple. “Me too,” he whispered.

“I know,” Ilya said. His hands petted Shane absently, soothing over the nape of his neck and across his back. “Sleep, malysh. I will wake you when it’s time.”

*

It was getting to the end of the game by the time Shane really started flagging.

He’d woken up from his nap to another dose of meds already ready for him, along with hot tea and Gatorade. Ilya had kept him well-hydrated as he’d eaten a light dinner and prepped for the game, and it had done a lot to soothe his headache and growing cough. Keeping hydrated had also kept him with a permanently streaming nose, so Ilya had pushed bundles of tissues into his hands every few minutes to address it, until it was time for him to catch his ride for the game.

Shane had made it to the stadium feeling decently okay to play, though he couldn’t quit sniffling, to the point where Hayden had noticed. “Thought you were just dehydrated,” he’d said dryly in the locker room.

“Caught your Pike plague, I guess,” Shane responded snarkily, thumbing at his nose and praying it behaved itself during the game. He’d been feeling too annoyed and self-indulgent to even pretend not to be sick.

Hayden only rolled his eyes with a grin and shoved a water bottle at him. He’d been nice about it, at least.

Shane had played fairly well, though now as they wound down, he could feel himself starting to droop. There were only a couple of minutes left in the game, and Montreal had the lead by 1, which he felt confident in. They’d win tonight, putting them into the next round of the playoffs, which would earn Shane a couple of nights to rest off this cold. He could feel now how badly he needed it.

He finished his shift on the ice, collapsing readily onto the bench and watching his teammates play with bated breath.

“…hihh—!”

Okay, not so much bated breath, maybe. The sneeze had snuck up on him, but he’d been fighting them off all evening, increasingly more as the game went on. This tickle was insistent, though, and he was exhausted and worn down by all the energy he’d spent playing. Unable to help himself, he snapped forward with the sneeze, hastily buried into the elbow of his jersey. “hiiihh’tiisschhoohh!”

The sneeze was damp, airy, and not half as satisfying as he’d hoped it would be. He sniffled on the inhale of his next breath, and the tickle burst back into life, forcing him to immediately hitch and sneeze again on the exhale. “…sndff… huhh—tchh’shhuhh!”

Fuck, he could feel eyes on him. Maybe even the cameras. He prayed that this wasn’t being broadcast to the whole stadium. He couldn’t check himself, because his eyes were still shut tight, his head rearing back as he got ready for another one.

“hetchhshh!” he exploded for the third time, this sneeze wetter and heavier than the others.

It seemed to be the last, for now. He emerged from his elbow, feeling the redness in his cheeks as he caught the eyes of his teammates watching him. He sniffled, dragging his arm under his nose when that wasn’t enough to stop the flood, and he cringed at how disgusting that was.

The game ended soon after, wrapping up their advance to the next round of the playoffs like he’d hoped. Shane hurried his way through his shower and cool-down, ready to get home. He checked his phone first chance he got, seeing several texts from Ilya commentating on the game throughout.

And then, the most recent text, from the last few minutes of the game:

Lily: God bless you sweetheart! That looked like a strong fit. I will have tissues ready for you when you get home ❤️

Well, that was confirmation that the cameras had caught him all sick and sneezy for the audiences at home to see. Shane knew he was blushing down at his phone, and he hoped his teammates didn’t notice. He couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the text, only letting Ilya know in a brief message when he was leaving the stadium.

The car ride home was quick, or at least he thought it was, but he was really starting to fade now that the adrenaline from the game was wearing off. Time was losing its meaning. Before he knew it, he was stumbling out of the car and up to his apartment. The elevator ride was equally hazy, and by the time he made it to his door, all he could focus on was the idea of his bed, with Ilya in it. That, and the resurging tickle in his nose.

He pushed his way through the front door just as the tickle caught up to him. Helpless to stop it, and not really in the mood to try to crush it down, for once he just let himself sneeze as loudly as his body needed to. He bent forward at the waist, barely catching a pair of violent, huge sneezes in his cupped hands.

“HUUPPSSCHHOOHH! huhh… sndff… huh-huh… hh’HUUTTSSCHHOOOHH!”

Jesus Christ, that had felt agonizingly good. He panted into his hands for a second, trying to see if there would be more, and decided that that had been enough to satisfy his sinuses for now. He sniffled thickly and straightened.

Ilya, who’d been approaching, stood in front of him, a little frozen in shock from the outburst he’d just witnessed. He blinked and recovered, coming up to hug Shane and produce a handful of tissues for him from his pocket. “Big big sneezes, malysh!” he exclaimed. “Game wear you out? You played well.”

He’d have played much better healthy, but Shane wasn’t in the mood to diagnose his errors tonight. That was unusual for him, but he was just too tired, and Ilya’s arms around him were so warm…

He took the tissues and blew his nose, cringing when he filled the tissues immediately. “Ugh, thangks,” he said, his voice more of a congested rasp than it had been just an hour ago. “Umb, do you have andy mbore…?”

Ilya readily handed over more tissues, and Shane blew his nose again, coughing a little afterward. His nose felt clearer, though, and his head was not-unpleasantly foggy as his body and brain equally decided they were ready to give up for the night. “Bed?” he suggested hopefully.

Ilya laughed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, guiding him toward the bedroom. “Once you have your meds again,” he said, “you can lay down. And maybe, if you are good, I will rub your back again.”

Shane felt pretty sure he’d be asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, massage be damned, but he let Ilya talk up the prospect of it anyway as he put on pajamas and took a dose of the nighttime stuff that Ilya had carefully measured out for him. He could cash in on the massage tomorrow, maybe, when he undoubtedly woke up feeling achy and exhausted after exacerbating his cold with tonight’s game.

And maybe, in a couple of days when Ilya inevitably started sneezing and coughing himself, Shane could flip the tables around and return the favor. He was feeling pretty grateful, after all.

“Thangks for all this,” he said throatily, half from illness and half from emotion, as he curled into Ilya’s arms in bed. It couldn’t have even been midnight, but Ilya hadn’t protested the early bedtime at all, and that was making him feel more mushy than usual with this cold fucking with his emotions. “Taking care of mbe, I mbean. Staying.”

Ilya squeezed him a little tighter, like Shane was going to slip out of his arms. “I would not be anywhere else,” was his unusually serious response. “I love you, moya lyubov.”

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.

Early in their relationship, Kip used to fantasise about times like this. Wistful but in no way certain there’d ever actually be a day when they could be seen together in public without Scott skirting on the edge of a panic attack, never mind hold hands. Or press a kiss into each other’s cheek. Or cuddle up next to each other in the corner of a booth in a bar. Each gesture that once felt like an incriminating little snapshot inside their own heads, encased in barbed wire and branded a danger, repurposed into being, well, normal.

Even so, Kip’s heart still fluttered when he felt Scott’s hands on him where anyone was free to look. Tonight they’d done all three. He still went flush with pride at how far his man had come; felt joyful for everything they had because Scott finally gave himself permission to be happy.

“hhH’ESSSCHEUH’hh!”

Scott emerged from the crook of his elbow with a tight, sharp sniff.

It hadn’t been the first sneeze of the night. Having spent most of it practically tucked under his arm, Kip had felt each of them coming too, mentally pulled out of the conversation each time the other man’s chest began to shake against his shoulder. He’d chance a glance up and sure enough, Scott’s expression would be hazy and faraway, silently losing the fight against–

“Ble-”

“hh’aH’EHDTZZS’sssch’huh!”

Scott had brushed it all off at the bar, declaring to the group when it became unavoidable that he must be allergic to something in the air. Someone’s perfume, or some cleaning product randomly driving him nuts. Kip knew better, though. He could hear the gravel in his voice, the hint of stuffiness starting to bleed into the edges of his voice; the urgency in his sniffles in the aftermath of each sneeze.

Though not without some degree of difficulty, for Scott’s sake Kip dutifully refrained from openly acknowledging it each time it happened, despite how doing so went against every polite instinct his mom and dad had gone to great lengths to instill in him, the ‘nice Brooklyn boy’ that he is. Let’s just say they’d learned of the very unintended impact Kip’s blessing had on him the, uh, hard way. 

But now, wrapped in the shrouded, comfortable cocoon of their home, the peace afforded them safety. Ever since the door snicked shut the air had crackled with something live and anticipatory, heavy with unspoken possibility as they danced round each other a bit now. Kip hadn’t realised he’d been keyed up waiting for something, but apparently he had. The sneezes simply said the word ‘go’ from the director’s chair.

“Bless you,” he emphasised, face creased with sympathy. God, Scott looked affected even just at that. Kip closed the distance between them and cupped the nape of his neck, pulling himself up onto his toes so he could kiss the hinge of Scott’s jaw. Kip felt the shiver wrack through him. “Those sounded like they hurt. Are you okay?”

Scott let out a huff of laughter. They all sound like that – always. “Not any more so than usual. I-I’m fine,” he said, punctuated by a sniffle. He hadn’t been able to look Kip in the eye as he said it, which wasn’t like him, not if he was actually trying to convince him of something.

Kip bit back a smile.

Oh, that’s what we’re doing.

“Are you sure?” Kip replied seriously, playing along. “You’ve been so sneezy tonight. You’re all sniffly now, and your nose is going all pick at the edges…” His searching gaze pinned Scott in place, who squirmed a little under the scrutiny. “I think you’re catching a cold, sweetheart.”

Kip felt like he could guide Scott to the edge of the earth and have him stand on the very edge with the way he relaxed under the palm of his hand. Honestly, it still made his head spin to be confronted with the fact that he could have any kind of command over a man like Scott. That he trusted him with his vulnerability like this. It made him feel so incredibly special.

“I-I don’t know…” Scott stuttered. “Maybe? Do you… do you think so?”

Kip tilted upwards, moving in to kiss him properly, but at the last second Scott swerved before their lips could connect. Kip just smiled, unsurprised.

“See? I think you know.”

Scott’s head dipped down again and Kip brought a hand to his face, imploring it ever so gently upwards with a cupped hand to his cheek. He let his thumb swipe delicately over the other man’s cheekbone, as if kissing with its pad in lieu of his mouth. Led by an ember of mischievous impulse, he shifted the focus of his fingers’ attention. Experimentally, he pressed his thumb into the spot between Scott’s eyebrows, satisfaction warming him when his face crumpled in relief.

“Does that feel good?”

Scott’s eyes had fluttered closed and he nodded silently, obediently.

Kip would bet he could make it feel even better.

He hummed his approval, replacing his thumb with his forefinger and trailing it lightly down the bridge of Scott’s nose. He flinched a little at the pressure when Kip pressed in a smidge, wiggling the cartilage as if trying to shake something loose. Kip froze, worrying for a split second that he’d hurt him, but when Scott’s eyes opened again, they did so into a look that was decidedly more hazy than aggrieved. His nostrils flared.

“Oh no, what’s this?”

Scott’s breath scissored dangerously, eyes filling with moisture as they fluttered closed. Meanwhile, Kip’s lips found his neck, kissing around to his throat where his breath was contracting. The cologne he’d applied earlier was well-faded by now, overwhelmed at this point by the scent of Scott himself, and something spiked in Kip’s stomach. His hand, teasing and exploratory, skimmed up Scott’s shirt to settle on the firm ridges of his abdomen.

“hhhuhH’AEH’DZZSSSHhhhh’uh!”

Kip hummed, the sound dripping in sympathy. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just trying to ease some pressure, and look what happened. So sensitive.”

Caught between the urge to succumb to Kip’s ministrations or the still ever-pressing need to sneeze, though one hand had risen instinctively to press Kip in closer by the small of his back, the other he just managed to get to his face as he nudged it away, just over the top of Kip’s head.

“hhh’aH’EHTSSSCHhh’huh!”

“Bless you. Poor thing…”

Kip grabbed Scott’s cock through his jeans. Oh, he was rock hard; positively throbbing. It ripped a watery groan from the older man’s throat as he immediately rutted against Kip’s hand, chasing the friction as squeezed and rubbed with the practiced, expert rhythm of someone who knew his body like the back of his hand. Only–

“hhH’AEHHTCH’ssch’iew!”

The sneeze got away from him slightly, not quite as well covered as before, and the burst of spray glistened in the soft, warm lamplight.

“Oh, bless you, sweetheart – you don’t sound well at all.”

Each word Kip uttered was a precisely pointed jab at Scott’s resolve, the doting layered on intentionally thick. Left bleary-eyed and full of sniffles, but with the distinctly viral itch now seemingly ebbed, Scott appeared to only fall further into the heady encouragement of his attentions.

“I’mb sorry…” he mumbled, followed quickly by a thick sniffle. The sensation bothered him enough that he spared the back of a hand to mash his nose into, scrubbing it back and forth with a slick, congestion clicking sound.

Kip’s expression crumpled. “Hey – you have nothing to be sorry for, okay? Not a thing. It’s gonna be alright. Y’know why?”

Scott shook his head. “Ndo. Sdnfff. Why?”

“Because I’m going to take care of you.” Kip gave Scott’s erection a firm squeeze. “Starting with this, hm?”

Hooking his fingers down the waistband of Scott’s jeans, Kip directed him over to the edge of the couch. He popped open the button and shimmied them down a little on his hips, before gently coaxing Scott downwards. Feeling the heat of Scott’s gaze as he looked up at him from below, Kip wasted no time climbing into his lap and pulling his dick out of his pants. In a bit of a pinch, he spat into his own hand before taking Scott in hand, his stroke calm and rhythmic.

Scott’s eyes had glazed over slightly, gleaming as they took him in, openly adoring and worshipful but slightly unsure, begging for something he couldn’t give himself permission to vocalise. Kip couldn’t help himself. He started to move in, but Scott instinctively stiffened.

Kip held his gaze resolutely, bringing a hand round to the back of his head to hold it in place, and when he spoke his voice was low, warm, trickling like honey. “It’s okay…” he assured him, inching his face closer, closer, as he muttered it over and over again, quieter and quieter each time, like an incantation to lull Scott into a trance with. “It’s okay… this is okay… s’okay….”

Scott’s shoulders relaxed again as he eventually gave himself over to the moment with Kip’s insistence, sighing into his mouth as their lips slotted together. Time melted away as they kissed, Scott’s hands finding Kip’s ass as they tended to do, kneading and squeezing as Kip’s hand worked his length with consistent, maddening efficiency. Kip licked into his mouth, suckling on Scott’s bottom lip in the way that usually has him unable to keep from smiling against his face.

Instead, now, Kip feels him pull away, sucking in what sounded like a much-needed breath, sniffling back the audibly growing congestion settling in.

“Awww, you’re starting to get all stuffy, I can hear it…” Kip continued stroking him as he said it, letting his thumb circle, featherlight, over his red, swollen head, catching some of the pre-cum gathering in his slit. Scott whimpered. His eyes grew heavy lidded, his body tensing up as Kip felt him tiptoe closer and closer to the edge with each stroke, each word.

He had him in the palm of his hand.

Kip hummed. “You need a tissue, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll get you one when we’re done…” He huffed out a chuckle. “Won’t be too much longer, now. I can feel it. You’re so hard it must be painful, baby. Let me take care of you right… you can let go whenever you need to…”

As if to affirm his point, Kip picked up the pace, Scott’s body jolting in answer.

Kip, feeling his blood heat and his own cock harden in the face of just how turned on Scott evidently was, reattached himself to the side of Scott’s neck, laying kiss after indulgent, suckling kiss all the way across the hot, stubbled skin, right up under his ear. Fuck, Scott has to go to practice day after tomorrow and he should probably be more careful… Scott will never hear the end of it from the guys if he rocks up with a hickey.

Scott was shaking now, more so with every handful of seconds that passed as he got closer and closer to the precipice, even his sniffling growing all the more desperate as his breaths grew laboured and staccato.

“S-Sorry, I h’hhave to–”

“Again?”

Scott nodded, regretful. Kip sighed.

“Go ahead. Get it all out, sweetheart, you’ll feel better–” Kip’s lips found the shell of Scott’s ear, his next words hushed and uttered directly into it. “...but you’ll be going straight to bed after.”

“hhUH’IHHHDZSSTCHhh’uh!”

Scott came with a strangled moan on the tail end of that final sneeze as he spilled into Kip’s hand, the sound enunciating an edge of hoarseness to his voice Kip could tell was likely to stick around now for the next few days as he coaxed him through his orgasm, with utterings of ‘bless you…’ … ‘there you go…’ … ‘come for me…’ … ‘so good for me, look at you… so good…’.

God, he looked so hot when he came. He wasn’t sure he’d ever quite get over it.

With Scott’s body now lax and sated, he slumped back into the couch, the heaviness of lust gradually cleared away from his gaze with his release, sheepish gratitude rising to replace it in the aftermath as he rushed to thumb away where his nose was now running into the crease of his nostril.

“Sorry,” he repeated, appearing to be flirting with the idea of being ashamed, but not quite able to get there. Good, Kip thought, you absolutely shouldn’t.

“Hey– don’t. You’re totally fine. I wanted to help.” Kip joked, his tone light as he caught Scott’s averted eye, smiling in a way the other man was helpless but to mirror. Kip sat back a little in Scott’s lap and carded his, um, free hand through his hair. “I meant what I said, though– you don’t sound good and we’re getting you into bed pronto.”

Frankly, he couldn’t remember the trek to bed. He remembered Ilya cajoling him into drinking some tea, remembered letting Ilya dab at the corners of his wet eyes when the realization sunk in that Ilya was truly there. He remembered feeling sick yet comforted, and consequently so sleepy he had let Ilya gather him up in his arms and—

Oh. Apparently, Shane had been carried to bed. 

Ilya was beside him, his hair crushed flat on the side and unruly at the back. Shane shifted closer to Ilya, feeling the warmth of his bare back through the cotton of his own sweatshirt. He nuzzled his nose against the back of his neck and had never wished so vehemently for clear sinuses, just to breathe the familiar scent of love caught sleeping. 

Ilya stirred with a snort, then a cough, and Shane remembered Ilya was sick too—recovering, but still not well. It was almost romantic, in a deranged way, to be weathering the flu together in the same bed. It felt distinctly intimate, a rite of passage in a relationship.

He soothed Ilya with another nuzzle, a soft hush whispered right up against his spine, and snaked his arm around a body that eased into him. Ilya was still asleep, Shane knew, but always angled himself like a sunflower in search of its own solnyshko. 

Shane was nearly back to sleep when his breath hitched, the warmth of it puffing on the back of Ilya’s neck, trapped between them. The sensation of a sneeze in the works was crawling up his sinuses and making him take slow, shallow breaths through his mouth as he wrinkled his nose. 

“Hhehh… Hh’huuuh…” 

The center of his face was throbbing, his nose becoming impossible to ignore now that it had its own pulse. He didn’t want to wake Ilya, not when he was finally getting quality sleep, and he should have been running to the bathroom to sneeze, as quietly as possible, in private. But his concentration was threadbare at best, the immense tickle making it difficult to think anything beyond don’t sneeze, don’t sneeze, don’t sneeze. 

He ducked his chin down toward his chest, hot forehead finding the cool relief of Ilya’s bare back, and he carefully removed his arm from around Ilya so he could worm his hand between them, bringing it to his nose. 

“HhEHH—“

His breath hitched in a strangled vocalization, the worsening surge of the tickle sudden and undeniable. His nostrils flared as the bridge of his nose wrinkled hard. His eyes squeezed shut, whole face tightening. He closed his hand into a fist and pressed a knuckle tight into the right side of his nose where the tickle was at its worst, then he held his breath and stilled. 

“Shane?”

Apparently, Ilya had woken anyway—and swept away Shane’s effort to hold back his sneeze. He stuttered a surprised and overwhelmed gasp.

“Hh’hh’heh’ISSHOO!” 

It tore out of him, harsh and wet against his fist. Now that his nose had started, it didn’t want to stop. It almost felt like a punishment, a vengeful fuck you for ever being denied relief.

“Huh’ISSHHuh! Hh’ISSHHeuh-ESCHH’iuhh!”

Each sneeze seemed to make the feeling worse, like shaking around something fragile until it splintered further and further. His nose felt oversensitive and unsteady, the irritation of sneezing feeding back into the itch in a constant loop. When he heaved a breath, it stuttered in uneven gasps, already starting him on the next sneeze. 

“Hh’ehh’heEH’SHHIUH! EISHH’uhh! HUH’ISSHEUh-ISSHHGh’uh!” 

His body was trembling, muscles quaking with each snap forward that he didn’t have the energy for but was forced into. He was distantly aware of Ilya saying his name, of his back being rubbed, of his hand being forced away from his nose and replaced with a bundle of tissues. 

He couldn’t have said how long the fit went on, a cycle of gasping and sneezing and a few faint groans in between. When it finally began to taper, enough that he could drag in a fuller breath, there was Ilya tending to his nose with pinched rubs and telling him blowing his nose would help. 

“Try, malysh. Here, blow your nose.” Ilya pressed a fresh bundle of tissues to his nose, and Shane was far too exhausted to refuse the support. 

He blew his nose in short, breathless spurts that did indeed help to abate the tickle. Ilya continued rubbing his back through it and murmuring sweet nothings. 

Ilya waited until he was done, then wiped his nose clean with another tissue. He stared at Shane after, assessing him with a look that made Shane smile. He felt very valuable, perhaps a rare sight fit for gemological appraisal. Ilya looked at him as such, closely and carefully. Ilya’s hair still looked aggressively disheveled, almost windswept, and Shane couldn’t help but tug at it.

Ilya’s hand on the small of his back, which had still been rubbing soft strokes with his thumb, inched under his sweatshirt and touched his skin. Shane’s smile twisted into a wincing frown, his skin incredibly sore where Ilya touched. It felt like having a sunburn slapped, but without the smell of saltwater hair and the feeling of sand in shoes. That had happened to him before, at seven years old and during his first ever beach vacation. His cousin had slapped his sunburnt shoulder and reduced him to loud, messy tears.

“I cried odne tibe,” Shane mumbled, recalling the pain of the memory as Ilya’s fingers moved across his back carefully. “Frob a sudburd.” 

Ilya stilled, giving a frown of his own, then his hand moved from under Shane’s sweatshirt to his forehead. The backs of his fingers first, then flipped so his whole palm lay across it, finally to the side of his neck like he didn’t quite believe whatever he was feeling. 

Ilya pulled back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He coughed as he got up, sharp and encompassing and making him stumble a little on his way to the bathroom. 

Shane watched, distantly wondering if learning that his boyfriend had cried over a sunburn a lifetime ago was just too much for Ilya to bear, was the final and unforgivable straw for all the ways Shane could be so boring. 

Ilya came back from the bathroom with a thermometer in his hand, and Shane felt relief wash over him in waves. He had convinced himself Ilya had been packing his toothbrush with his heart already halfway out the door.

Instead, Ilya sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his leg, patiently asking, “How do you feel?” 

“Ubm… Sick,” he admitted uncertainly.  

Ilya made a quiet sound that might have been agreement, or dissatisfaction. He pressed the button on the thermometer and held it in front of Shane’s mouth. “Open.”

Shane blinked, and Ilya waited.

There was a pause in which Shane began to process that something was being asked of him, a request that he understood conceptually but wasn’t sure he needed to act on. It was as if Ilya’s command had slipped through one ear and gone clean out the other side, leaving him blissfully without thought but with the low, gravelly tone of Ilya’s voice still sitting warm in his mind. 

“Shane.” Ilya patted his thigh gently. “Open your mouth.”

With the thermometer set under his tongue, they waited in the quiet with only the sounds of Ilya’s short coughs catching on exhales and Shane’s congested, half breaths through his stuffy nose. They were a sight to be seen, or perhaps heard—a symphony composed of the sounds of sick men. 

Ilya removed the thermometer when it beeped and cursed under his breath, a phrase in Russian Shane hadn’t heard before but held familiar words, something like a plea for help. 

Ilya dropped the thermometer onto the bedside table and slipped his hand behind Shane’s neck, steering him upright with gentle insistence. “Come.” 

Shane let himself be guided out of bed. The stretch between the bed and bathroom became a journey of steps, careful heel-to-toe measurements like he was navigating unfamiliar space. Ilya stayed with him, a steady arm hooked around his waist. 

In the bathroom, Ilya turned him gently and pressed him down to sit on the closed toilet lid. Shane rested his elbows on his thighs and let his head hang. He noted the sound of the shower turning on, the roar of rushing water filling his ears.

Ilya came back into his space quickly, and Shane welcomed him with arms looped around his legs and his face pressed into his bare stomach. He was rewarded with a gentle stroke down his spine, then a tug at the hem of his sweatshirt. 

“Put your arms up,” Ilya said softly.

Shane lifted his arms, half with his own merit and half forced by his sweatshirt being dragged over his head. For a moment he was nowhere, blind and caught in fabric.

“Hh’ISSH’ehw!” 

It caught him by surprise, muffled awkwardly into the soft cotton still half over his face. His body jolted forward with it, and he grabbed blindly at Ilya from the shock of it. 

“Woah, okay, okay.” Ilya caught him immediately, one hand firm at his side as he finished pulling the sweatshirt free. “I got you.” 

Shane blinked, disoriented. “Sorry,” he mumbled thickly.

Ilya pressed a stray kiss to the top of his head before moving on. The rest of Shane’s clothes went the same way, removed carefully with one of Ilya’s hands keeping steady at his side all the while. 

“Fuck,” Ilya muttered suddenly, stopping in his tracks. Shane frowned, lips curving down until Ilya tapped his cheek and smiled warily. “Is nothing. Just, I forgot—wait here, okay? I will be right back.”

As if his plan had been to move at all. He wanted to say as much, but Ilya was gone faster than he could manage a single word. He felt horribly alone now, one hand bracing the counter beside him as he shivered, the air sliding unpleasantly against his overheated skin. 

“Huh’ISHHuh—‘TSH’uh!”

Two sudden, messy sneezes that had him curling forward, the second weaker and doing nothing to relieve the buzzing feeling suddenly taking hold of his sinuses. He stayed there for a moment, with his hand hovering uselessly in front of his face, breath stuttering in uneven hitches.  

“Have to sneeze?” 

Shane’s watering eyes shot up. Ilya had returned with a glass in one hand and his other closed in a loose fist, and he was taking in the sight of him. Shane nodded absently, then tilted his head to slide his gaze toward the bathroom light. 

“HH’ISHHoo—ISHH’uhh!” 

“Oh? That helps me too sometimes, looking at something bright.” Ilya gently nudged the glass of water into Shane’s hand, then offered him two tablets. “I learned something new about you.” 

Shane swallowed the pills down without fuss. His throat hurt with it, but he greedily drank half the glass of water, as if the first little sip had reminded him how parched he was. 

Ilya undressed, just his boxers, then helped Shane into the shower. When the water hit his skin, it sent a shudder up through him that made his teeth clack together. He flinched hard, pulling back instinctively. “It’s cold—“

“No,” Ilya said firmly, his arm tightening around his waist and effectively stopping his escape. “Is warm, Shane. Your skin is just warmer. Trust me, give it time.”

Shane obeyed, because that was what he did now—followed the path Ilya set, step by step, without needing to see where it led to. Letting Ilya tend to him, take care of him like Ilya had allowed Shane to do earlier in the week. What was love if not a give and take, if not an exchange of trust?

So Shane leaned into him and closed his eyes, letting his cheek rest on Ilya’s shoulder as Ilya adjusted the angle of the shower head so the water fell more evenly over Shane’s back. One arm stayed steady around Shane’s middle, anchoring him, and his other moved—a hand over his shoulders, down his arm, across his back. 

Shane’s consciousness narrowed down to sensation. The steady drum of water, the slide of Ilya’s hand, the quiet rhythm of breathing into each other. The steam seemed to be doing good for both of them, easing Ilya’s cough and Shane’s burning sinuses. The tension in him slipped away, muscles loosening as his body adjusted to the temperature of the water, his weight settling more fully into Ilya’s hold. 

At some point, Ilya pulled his shoulder back and took Shane’s cheek in his hand, fingers gentle but insistent as he forced him up a little straighter. “I will wash your hair, okay?” Shane made a vague sound that he hoped Ilya understood as a yes. “Close your eyes.”

Ilya placed a hand at the base of his skull, guiding him to tilt his head back to wet his hair. His fingers combed through gently, the drag of fingertips against Shane’s scalp. It made Shane sigh, long and loose. 

Shampoo came next, worked into a lather. Ilya’s fingers massaged careful circles and scratches, a firm pressure that wasn’t too hard but enough to make Shane feel hypnotized. His forehead drifted toward Ilya’s shoulder unconsciously. 

“Hey, no. No, stay up.” Ilya adjusted him again. “It’ll hurt if you get soap in your eyes.” 

“Feels so good,” he muttered drowsily. 

Shane knew Ilya must have been indulging him. It was slow and gentle work, certainly going on longer than necessary, but it was the best Shane had felt all night and Ilya seemed to recognize it. They stayed like this for a stretch of time, with Shane melting into Ilya’s touch, until his breath caught. 

“Hhuh!” Ilya’s fingers paused, and Shane lifted his wrist to his nose. “Hh’ISHHh!”

The sneeze caused him to jerk forward, the motion throwing off his balance just enough that he would have tipped if Ilya hadn’t tightened his hold.

“Hehh’ISHhuh! So-sooh’ISHHeuh! Sorry, fuck.”

“Easy, easy.” Ilya steadied him, holding him tightly to his chest. “Is okay, just sneeze.” 

Shane sniffled wetly, dragging his wrist firmly under his nose. “Doh, it’s okay… Thigk I’b donde.” 

Ilya waited a few more seconds, just enough to make sure, then helped Shane rinse his hair. Ilya’s fingers started at his forehead, swiping suds back carefully away from his face, then raked through his hair to help the water wash everything away. 

Ilya turned the shower off and they exited together. Cold air rushed around them, sharp against Shane’s wet skin. He shuddered hard, shoulders curling inward. The shower, which had been comforting, now felt like a trick. Perhaps this was a Herculean task. Maybe showering with the flu was one of the 12 Labours, with the act of standing wet and cold being the price to pay for working a fever down. 

But then Ilya was moving, reaching for a towel and wrapping it around Shane’s shoulders, drying him off with careful presses of the towel rather than dragging it in scratchy passes, and Shane felt soothed. Shivery, uncomfortable, but deeply loved. 

It settled somewhere deep in Shane’s chest, that kind of attention—in being learned so thoroughly by another person. Ilya, full of force and rough edges in so many corners of his life, was handling Shane with a kind of gentleness that made him feel frighteningly known. It was as though Ilya knew by instinct which parts of Shane needed softness without ever having to place it into words. 

Ilya managed to get them both dried and dressed, a pair of shorts hanging low off his hips purely for the convenience of them, and Shane more carefully tugged into a loose shirt and sweatpants. Once Shane was back in bed, propped up against the headboard, Ilya reached for the thermometer and held it out to him. 

Shane frowned, edging more towards a wince. “Agaid?” 

“Yes, again.” 

He put the thermometer under his tongue and watched Ilya while they waited. Really watched him—his damp, unruly hair; the crease between his brows; the way his hands rested on Shane’s thighs like he couldn’t not touch him; the way he looked at him, assessing from the top of his head, his face, the climbing numbers on the thermometer. 

The thermometer beeped, Ilya took it, and Shane quietly considered that the act of loving someone had less to do with grand declarations and a lot more to do with selecting soft, warm clothes and taking temperatures.

Ilya squinted at the thermometer, and his shoulders dropped with a sigh. “Better,” he said, sounding relieved. “Still high, but better.” Ilya set the thermometer aside and started adjusting Shane, guiding him lower down the bed, easing his head against the pillow, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders. 

Shane swallowed. He was, essentially, being tucked in. “Ilya.”

Ilya’s hands paused, now hovering over Shane. “Yes? Are you okay?” 

“You… I, umbb…” 

He could feel the words sitting somewhere in his gut, formed in intention but not taking the shape of language. It was the slow, aching pull of tenderness tangling up with the sharp sting of embarrassment. Now with a sound mind, or closer to one, he was painfully aware that he had been washed, dried, dressed. He had failed, even, to hold himself up. He had let his body become more an extension of Ilya’s, or a burden to him, than something within his own control.

The truth of it, though, was that something else was threaded through every moment. It had been care in motion, as if Shane was allowed to need him, as if Shane needing him wasn’t an inconvenience but a circumstance that Ilya met eagerly and entirely willingly. 

The hands that pressed him face-first into mattresses, that gripped him with the edge of a challenge, that stole touches at the worst moments just to prove they could—those same hands had held him upright under a shower, had tenderly wiped his nose clean, had generously washed his hair. This version of him, weak and unsteady and unable to care for himself, hadn’t changed anything fundamental. The world hadn’t come crashing down. In fact, the world felt a little lighter, like Ilya had decided to shoulder it with him without being asked. 

But how would he say any of that? The enormity of it, gratitude and vulnerability and love, sat somewhere in the aching center of him. He wouldn’t be able to find the words tonight, and maybe not ever—not in a way that would feel like enough. So instead, he croaked a soft, “Thagk you for helpig mbe.”

Ilya smoothed his hair back, palm flattening briefly against the crown of his head in a gentle, reassuring press. “Always.”

The rest of the dark, early morning hours passed in stretches of restless sleep and bouts of hazy consciousness. Sometimes Shane woke to find Ilya scrolling on his phone beside him; at others, he woke to fingers carding through his hair. Once, horrified, he woke to Ilya coaxing him up so he could change his shirt because he had apparently sweated through it. 

The day arrived somberly. There was no glowing sunrise, no hopeful sense of renewal—just weak, muddled light leaking around the curtains and Shane waking with the immediate realization that he still felt like absolute shit. 

The flu had settled into him completely now. His skin was oversensitive and hurt just from the rustle of his clothes. His body ached with a deep, heavy soreness. His sinuses throbbed and buzzed in miserable little waves, and he was so congested he had to breathe through his mouth, making his throat feel rubbed raw. 

Ilya was asleep on his side, one arm thrown over Shane’s waist protectively. Even now, still recovering and obviously exhausted, Ilya slept like he was holding the hope of the world in his arms, like rest was secondary to keeping Shane close and cared for. 

Shane loved him with such terrible force it seemed to circle back around into fear. Could you love someone so much that it stopped being healthy? Maybe there was some kind of recommended limit, beyond which devotion crossed a line and became pathological. 

Throughout the day, Shane’s house transformed. It carried signs of ill health. Tea mugs accumulated, half full and abandoned after naps between doses of cold medicine. Damp washcloths were left draped over the edge of the bathroom sink. Crumpled tissues bloomed in strange places (the bathroom counter, tucked into folds of blankets, inexplicably on the windowsill in the kitchen). 

“How mbady boxes do I have stashed away?” Shane asked hoarsely, blinking blearily at the fresh box of tissues Ilya placed on his lap. “That’s gotta be… What dumber is that?” 

Ilya flattened the empty box in his hands, probably for recycling. “Three,” he said. Then he glanced at Shane, his mouth twitching into a crooked little smirk. “There is two left, but with both of us… I should order grocery delivery, for tissues. And food.”

“Yeah, good idea.”

“Ten boxes of tissues, yes?”

Shane huffed a weak laugh that dissolved into grumbling coughs muffled into his sleeve. Ilya stepped closer and spread a warm hand over his chest, rubbing slowly while Shane coughed himself miserable. When the coughing eased, Ilya brushed his knuckles over Shane’s cheek. 

“You sound so bad, Shane.” 

“You soud worse.” 

Ilya raised a brow. 

“Doh, really,” Shane insisted. “Your cough really does soud bad.” 

“I’m getting better.” Ilya looked Shane over, pursing his lips. “You, well…”

Shane lowered his gaze, fixing it on the corner of the bed. Ilya hadn’t meant any harm, Shane knew, but the truth of it reminded him that Ilya had a life waiting. Soon, Ilya would stop spending entire days wrapped around Shane. He would leave for Ottawa and slide back into the rhythm of his normal life while Shane remained in Montreal. 

It was ridiculous how distressing the thought was, as if that hadn’t been their arrangement for the past couple years. 

Ilya sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth, palm cupping under his jaw. 

“You will get better too,” he said softly. “Maybe slower than me, because I am very strong. But your strong boyfriend will take care of you.” 

The joke should have calmed something in him. Instead, emotion climbed unexpectedly into Shane’s throat, hot and awful. 

“How logg?” he asked quietly. His voice strained despite his effort to steady it. “Udtil you go back?” 

“Hey.” Ilya’s expression softened. “Don’t worry about that right now.”

But Shane did worry. He worried because he wanted this horribly domestic version of them forever, wanted Ilya worrying about their stock of toiletries and asking him about grocery orders. He wanted to settle in bed at night without counting down days. He wanted—

“We have time,” Ilya said quietly. He brushed his thumb beneath Shane’s eye, stopping him from spiraling further. “I have to go to Ottawa on Tuesday to see my team doctor. Get cleared for light practice, probably. Maybe play game Wednesday.” He continued slow strokes over Shane’s skin. “So we still have a few days, okay?”

Shane nodded. A few days shouldn’t have felt as precious as it did, but relief still coursed through him. Relief that Ilya would have more time to rest, and selfishly, that Shane would have two more nights not spent alone.

Their conversation dissolved into murmured pillow talk, little sweet nothings and encouragements whispered back and forth until Ilya coaxed more water and medicine into him, and eventually guided him out to the couch with the promise that a change in scenery might make him feel better. 

By late evening, Shane had become part of the couch.

He lay cocooned under two blankets, his head propped up against one end of the couch and his legs resting in Ilya’s lap. A nearly unwatchable slapstick comedy played quietly on the TV, only really on for Ilya’s benefit while Shane dozed between bouts of coughing and sneezing. 

It had been funny at the time, when Ilya actually added ten boxes of tissues to the grocery order, but now Shane thought Ilya had demonstrated great foresight. 

“Huh’EISHH’uh!” His head throbbed with it, and he scrubbed weakly at his nose with a tissue. “Heh-! Hehh’ISHH’iehh! H’ITSHHooh! Ugghh.” 

Ilya assessed, watching him with the same low-level concern he’d been wearing on his face all day. Then, he carefully slid out from underneath Shane’s legs. “I will heat soup.”

Shane answered with another sneeze. 

“After we eat, I think we go to bed.” Ilya stroked his palm gently over the top of Shane’s head as he passed the couch. “You want chicken noodle? Or miso?”

Shane wanted neither. Really, all he wanted was to remove his entire respiratory system, and possibly his musculoskeletal system while he was at it; he was sore in places he didn’t even know he could hurt. But the instant miso cups Ilya bought were small, more drink than meal, and it sounded marginally less miserable than trying to choke down noodles. 

“Mbiso,” he croaked. 

Ilya returned a few minutes later, carrying two cups of instant miso soup. “Sit up,” he instructed. 

Shane struggled his way into something resembling a half sitting lounge. Every muscle protested the movement, but when he accepted the soup, he nearly groaned at the warmth of it in his hands. Ilya drank from his own soup cup while Shane slowly sipped at his. 

He was halfway through the cup when his nostrils flared. The tickle came on so suddenly he let out a strangled sound before he even registered he needed to sneeze. He pinched his nostrils tightly while his other hand reached blindly toward the coffee table, trying desperately to set the soup down lest he spill it all over himself and the couch. 

The cup disappeared from his hand at the last possible second.

“Hh’nnghk’uhh!” The first sneeze was forcibly contained behind his pinched fingers. It hurt everywhere. “Owwwhhuh-hEH’TSHH’iewhh—ISHH’ooh!” 

Tissues were pressed into his hand, and Ilya murmured a soft blessing while Shane groaned miserably as he cleaned himself up. He finished with a thorough blow. By the end of it he felt entirely drained, all the energy wrung out of him by half a cup of soup and three poorly timed sneezes. 

Quietly, Ilya gathered both soup cups, Shane’s still only half-finished, and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, he crouched in front of the couch and held his arms open toward Shane. 

Shane, without a word, sank into Ilya’s arms. He allowed himself to be gathered up, Ilya’s arms fitting securely around his shoulders while Shane buried his face against the slope of his neck. He let his eyes slip closed, all tension draining under familiar warmth. 

Ilya’s hand settled against the nape of his neck, thumb moving lazily through the short hair there. “We should go to bed now,” he murmured. “You need sleep.”

“You do too,” Shane countered grouchily, voice muffled against Ilya’s shoulder.

Normally Ilya would have struck back, would have found some way to beat Shane at his attempt to smart him, to tease Shane into smiling just for the sake of it. Tonight, he only hummed softly and pressed a lingering kiss into Shane’s hair before helping him carefully off the couch. 

He held Shane’s hand the entire walk to the bedroom. 

Shane leaned shamelessly against Ilya while they brushed their teeth, side by side at the bathroom sink. At one point, he caught Ilya watching him in the mirror with sleepy fondness, toothbrush hanging from the corner of his mouth. 

“What?” Shane mumbled around toothpaste foam.

“You are very cute when sick.”

Shane rolled his eyes and brushed his teeth a little more aggressively, if only to stop himself from smiling.

When he finished rinsing, Ilya wiped the corner of his mouth clean with his thumb before guiding him gently toward bed. The sheets were cool when Shane climbed in, a relief against his feverish skin. He curled toward Ilya, and Ilya gathered him close instinctively.

Shane rested his forehead against Ilya’s collarbone and listened to the slow rhythm of his breathing. It had deepened noticeably, slow and even. Apparently, Ilya had fallen asleep almost instantly. It struck Shane suddenly that Ilya must have been exhausted. The entire day had revolved around Shane and his temperature, and his liberal use of tissues, and his love of freshly brewed tea. 

Aching with the realization, he tilted his head up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the center of Ilya’s throat before he let sleep drag him under, too. 

Unfortunately, the flu rendered sleep very difficult, indeed. Shane surfaced abruptly from a shallow fever-dream less than an hour later because a cough caught at the back of his throat. It made his chest ache and his eyes water. 

Ilya stirred under him and passed a sluggish hand over his back. Shane stayed still, listening carefully. He desperately wanted Ilya to get more rest. 

When he was certain Ilya was still asleep, he carefully shifted off of Ilya and onto his back. He swallowed against the soreness in his throat and tried to settle back down, but his sinuses had packed themselves completely shut, as though cotton were stuffed deep into his skull. 

Slowly, cautiously, he reached for a tissue on the nightstand and attempted to blow his nose, one nostril at a time, with the smallest amount of pressure possible. The congestion remained stubbornly immoveable, but somehow his nose was still managing to run. 

Shane sighed miserably and, out of desperation, tore off two small pieces of tissue, stuffing them into his nostrils so he wouldn’t have to wipe at his nose every few seconds. The skin around his nostrils was rubbed raw and painful, anyway.

It felt deeply pathetic, but also incredibly effective. 

For a while, he lay on his back like this, staring into the darkness and trying to ignore the pressure throbbing behind his eyes. It was miserable business, but Ilya was at least sleeping soundly. 

“Hh-hIIH!”

He clamped a hand over his nose, trying to smother the tickle out before it worked into a sneeze, but the congestion only made the sensation worse, pressure building painfully. 

“Hhgh’SHHoo!”

Yeah, that fucking hurt. 

Sneezing while this congested felt genuinely agonizing, the force ricocheting painfully through his blocked sinuses. 

“Hh’GSHHiuh!”

“Shane?” Ilya mumbled drowsily. “You okay?”

Shane was beginning to suspect Ilya possessed some inexplicable biological reflex to react to the sound of Shane suffering. Perhaps a survival instinct, ancient and deeply coded in his DNA. Maybe Russian men had once survived brutal winters by instinctively waking whenever their lovers sounded ill, entire bloodlines preserved through aggressive caretaking and sheer emotional vigilance. 

“Mby dose…” Shane tried to sniff and immediately regretted it when he choked on a cough. 

Ilya made a soft sound of understanding and rolled toward him. Even half asleep, his hand found Shane’s face in the dark, broad palm nice and cool against his hot cheek. 

“Come here.”

Shane shifted closer beneath the blankets, and Ilya’s fingers moved over his face, carefully mapping it in the dark. His fingertips pressed gently beside Shane’s nose, then along his sinuses in slow practiced motions. The pressure hurt at first, making him wince, then slowly began to ease some of the tightness. 

Shane let out a low, appreciative groan.

“Mmh, feel good?” Shane could practically hear the little smile in Ilya’s voice.

Shane made a soft sound, and Ilya’s fingers continued to work carefully in touches more gentle than seemed possible for such strong hands. It wasn’t enough to clear the congestion completely, probably not even enough to be able to properly blow his nose, but enough that the throbbing behind his eyes lessened into a dull, nearly unnoticeable ache. 

“How do kndow how to do this?” Shane asked, bewildered. 

Ilya’s fingers slowed briefly as he answered, “My mother.” 

Ilya was able to say these things, late at night with the world quiet behind sleep and without the bright hours left to expose him. It was like he saved his sadness for the dark, when only its silhouette was visible in the low light, its details swallowed kindly by shadows.

And it had been stated so simply, not an invitation for probing or a request for comfort. It was an explanation, a humble offering of information caught between I trust you with this and I trust you won’t make me talk about it. It was a house of cards, a building without a proper frame, a structure one breeze away from catastrophe—of Ilya falling apart. And Ilya trusted Shane enough to chance it anyway. 

Ilya once had a mother, too. Once, Ilya had been loved freely and tenderly, by a woman who had pressed cool hands to feverish skin and learned the exact places to soothe pain from her son.

Shane could picture it, Ilya’s mother sitting beside him and teaching him care through patient hands, passing her love so ordinarily neither of them knew how important it would become later. People passed, and parts of them continued moving through the world. What Ilya kept for himself, the remnants of his mother’s love, lived on in his hands and was being selflessly handed over to Shane. 

Shane shifted closer, tucking himself warm against Ilya’s chest, and murmured in practiced yet still clumsy Russian, “я тебя люблю.” 

For the briefest moment, Ilya went very still. Shane felt the pause of his breathing, the way his body tightened sharply before relaxing again. Then, Ilya lowered his face into Shane’s hair with a gentle nuzzle. 

“Terrible accent,” Ilya whispered against the top of his head. 

Shane smiled weakly. “Dod’t lie, I’b very good. It’s… It’s just the codgestiod, that’s all.” 

“Wooorst accent.” But Ilya’s arms wrapped tightly around Shane, pulling him impossibly closer, then continued gentle rubs along Shane’s sinuses with his thumb. “But good effort.” 

Eventually, little by little, Shane’s breathing eased. He was halfway to sleep when he sneezed again, suddenly and helplessly right into Ilya’s chest. 

“Hh’ISHHuhh!”

The force of it startled both of them. Then, Shane realized with horror that he still had tissue stuffed in his nose.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, mortified. “I’b sorry… This is so gross.” 

He twisted away from Ilya and pulled the damp tissue free, quickly wrapping it in a clean tissue before abandoning it on the nightstand. He had the foresight to grab a few more tissues just to keep in his hand.

Beside him, Ilya laughed softly. “Yes,” he agreed. “Is very gross.”

Shane groaned again, but through a self-deprecating laugh, and Ilya pulled him back into his arms. 

“But,” Ilya continued, sounding awfully fond, “this is also love.”

Something warm spread through Shane’s chest. He pressed the tissues to his dripping nose and settled heavy into Ilya’s arms again, forehead finding the crook of Ilya’s neck on instinct. 

“I could do this agaid,” Shane admitted softly after a moment, voice edging on shy. “Every flu seasod, forever.”

Ilya made a quiet sound against his hair that might’ve been a laugh. “Every flu season? For the rest of our lives?”

Perhaps it was the fever, but he nodded. Shane considered that he was essentially proposing under the pretense of surviving future respiratory illnesses together, which honestly sounded perfectly reasonable to him at the moment.

“I like flu-Shane,” Ilya mused. “He loves me very much.”

“Healthy Shade loves you too,” Shane argued weakly. “Healthy Shade loves you without sdeezig od you.”

“Healthy Shane, sick Shane.” Ilya smoothed his fingers over Shane’s hair in gentle, slow pets. “All my Shanes.”

Love was a lot of things. Sometimes it was bright and cinematic and made Shane think happily-ever-afters weren’t only for fairytales. Sometimes it was mild summers spent in Lanaudière, or puzzles at his parents’ house during family dinner nights.