“Sorry love,” Ryosuke murmured, “but I can't afford this place, and my landlord still hasn't fixed the ceiling.”

“I'll kill him,” Sasha growled, briefly distracted.

“Well then I'd just get a new landlord,” Ryosuke chuckled. “They might be even worse.”

“I'll buy the -”

Sasha trailed off with a pained sound. Sweat trickled over the pulsing vein in his forehead. His insides screamed, burning and squeezing like the devil himself had gripped him round the middle. He knew he was going to be sick. He couldn't move. He could barely breathe. 

His stomach caved in, muscles contorting outside of his control. Ryosuke heaved him back up, one arm around his chest and the other catching his forehead just before it could crack against the toilet bowl. He heaved, grating, painful, and unproductive. A choked whimper squeezed out through his tensing throat. 

“Easy,” Ryosuke whispered, his body pressing close as the only source of comfort he could offer. 

Sasha was gentled by his soft tone. He didn't like the way that made him feel vaguely like a dog instead of a human. The next retch was building, he could feel it tightening his chest. Would a dog feel as ashamed as he did?

His mind was wiped clean as a burning pain seized his stomach again. He heaved, feeling his whole body tense. The tiniest trickle of bile dripped from his lips, the sour taste lingering in his mouth. He coughed it away, panting and spitting and blind. Each breath ended on an empty gag. He knew he was making a fuss, but he couldn't even start to get a grip on himself.

“Take a deep breath.” Ryosuke's voice echoed distantly, almost drowned out by the blood roaring in Sasha's ears.

Sasha obliged, sucking on a wheezing inhale. His stomach still spasmed, a small, involuntary heave cutting off the end of the breath, but he at least got enough oxygen in for his vision to begin to clear. After a few more breaths, the panic began to recede, the pain ebbing to a more manageable baseline. Ryosuke ripped off a square of toilet paper, holding it to Sasha's nose.

“Blow?” He instructed gently. “That's better, you're alright.”

“‘m not,” Sasha croaked, “‘m dying.”

“Uh huh?” Ryosuke took a fresh piece of tissue and wiped off Sasha's mouth. “Should I call a doctor? Or a priest?”

“Executioner. Put me out of my misery faster.”

“Sorry, I can't say I know any executioners.” Ryosuke chuckled.

“You know me,” Sasha said grimly. “I still think this is all karma.”

“Sweetheart,” Ryosuke sighed, running his fingers through Sasha's sweaty hair. It had started to curl slightly in the moist heat coming off his skin. “Would it make you feel better? To think you'd been punished?”

Sasha sighed, hoarse and shuddering. “No. There's not really any way I can atone.”

“You had no choice.” 

Ryosuke sounded so sure, so definite. Sasha couldn't find that same certainty in himself. Surely there was always a choice? Some third option he was simply too stupid to think of. Some other way to get out from under Boris’ thumb and still keep everyone safe. His stomach panged again, empty and angry and bilious. He wanted to lie down, but not here on the cold hard floor. He couldn't put Ryosuke through that, not when he had to be up for work in a few hours.

Sasha took another breath, deep and aching, and slumped back against Ryosuke's chest. His head was aching, both from the strain and the dehydration, and he swallowed a feeble whimper.

“Rinse your mouth out,” Ryosuke said, raising the forgotten glass of water to his lips. “And then if you can keep water down, I'll find you some painkillers.”

Sasha only groaned, but he took a small sip, swishing the water around in his mouth and slumping forward over the bowl to spit. The taste of acid lingered, too sharp to clear away with water alone, but he felt a little better without the excess phlegm and flecks of dinner. He was too tired to argue when Ryosuke coaxed him off the floor and onto the sofa, too sick to protest as Ryosuke climbed in behind him to be the big spoon for the first time ever. He passed out within minutes, a deep, dreamless sleep for the half hour his body let him rest. When he woke again he was disoriented and weak and only managed to throw up into the bucket by his head by the grace of Ryosuke's guiding hands. It didn't last as long this time - he didn't have much left in him - but the dry heaving was so bad that he worried he'd pull something in his abdomen.

“Just breathe,” Ryosuke murmured, stroking a hand over Sasha's trembling back. “I've got you.”

Sasha rolled back, half on top of Ryosuke in the small space, and fell back asleep. The next time he woke, the crunching pain was back. He shivered against Ryosuke, trying not to cry. Ryosuke stroked his hair, humming softly, the tune of one of the songs in his upcoming set. He tried not to think about how soon he would have to leave for that gig. 

When he did have to leave in the morning, neither of them had got more than thirty minutes of uninterrupted sleep. He snuck out from behind Sasha on the sofa, hoping not to wake him, but by the time he was dressed and back downstairs, Sasha was locked in the bathroom. The pained noises from behind the door made Ryosuke feel unbearably guilty, but he couldn't simply cancel and it was too late to find a dep.

Instead, he hovered outside the door, waiting for a silent moment to speak up. “Babe, I'm about to head out. Is there anything I can bring back for you?”

“No,” Sasha growled, too obviously pained for Ryosuke to be bothered by his vicious tone. “Just… call Jace. Tell him I can't make D&D. I left my phone out there.”

“Sure,” Ryosuke agreed. “I'll leave you some water and juice by the couch. Do you think you need electrolytes?”

“I take it back. Get cyanide while you're out,” Sasha grumbled, his voice growing tense as he struggled to keep his composure while they spoke.

“This cyanide obsession is getting out of hand,” Ryosuke said lightly. “I won't be back until after dinner, but text if you need anything, okay? Love you.”

“Love you too,” Sasha ground out, trailing off into a whimper.

Ryosuke sighed, lingering outside the door a moment longer before he could will himself to leave.

—

Vlad was supposed to be studying when his phone rang. He wasn't studying of course, simply lounging in the bay window of his cushy flat with a book sprawled across his lap and a mug of hot tea. He would still tell whoever dared to disturb him that they had interrupted his studies. Looking at the caller ID, he frowned in confusion - it wasn't spam, but he didn't recognize the number. His phone suggested it was a New York area code.

“Hello?” His tone was friendly, but confused.

“Vladimir Zakrevsky?” The voice on the other end was unfamiliar, deep, and distinctly Russian.

Vlad felt a stone drop in his stomach. Something must have happened to his father. He spoke much more solemnly, in Russian this time. “This is he.”

The caller immediately brightened, a jovial tone taking over his booming voice as he responded in Russian as well. “Oh, wonderful! I trust my contacts, of course, but I wasn't sure if this was your most current number. I have been told that you are notoriously flighty.”

Vlad laughed, relief flooding his chest though he was still wildly confused. “I prefer the term ‘eccentric’. But how can I help you? Who is this?”

“Oh, how rude! Forgive me. This is Vodyanov Romanovich. You have heard of me, no?”

Vlad wasn't sure his mind could handle the bewilderment that seemed to intensify with every sentence. “I believe so. You were an Olympic skater in the 90s, right? And now you've got some massive vodka empire. Or am I mixing up my middle aged oligarchs?”

It was Vody's turn to laugh now, booming and genuine. “That is me, yes! Now, down to business. You are Sasha Solodnikov’s best friend, yes?”

Vlad groaned.

“What did he do? Whatever it was, I had nothing to do with it. Really, it probably was nothing to do with him either, you should take it up with his father. Whatever it was, it was Boris’ fault.”

Vody snorted. “I do not care what that zopa s ruchkoy is doing. I need information about Sasha.”

“Oh no, he'd kill me,” Vlad said automatically. “He's a very private person. Very private. Paranoid and delusional some might say.”

“Yes, so I have heard,” Vody chuckled. “Luckily, the information I need is very banal. Do you know if he prefers Gatorade or Powerade? And what flavor?”

“Are you trying to poison him or something?” Vlad asked suspiciously.

“I would not need your help for that. No, he is sick and I want to send things that his stubborn ass will actually like.”

Vlad’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Um, no offense, Mr. Romanovich-”

“Please, call me Vody.”

“Okay, uh, no offense, Vody, but… why do you care? I thought you hated Boris.”

“Oh, I do. He is stupid and cruel and a waste of oxygen. That is why I went over his head to the Federation and got permission to coach his son. Because he will hate it!” Vody declared, almost giddy as he reported the news.

“I… Oh…,” Vlad fumbled for words. “Well in that case… He liked the lemon Lucozade Sport best but that’s been discontinued so the orange one will do. Or Coca Cola.”

Vlad could hear the scratch of a pen on paper through the phone. “Wonderful, thank you! And what sort of snacks will he eat when he is not feeling well?”

Vlad sniggered.

“He doesn’t. Not if he’s throwing up.”

For the first time, Vody sounded irritated. “How is he supposed to keep his strength up? He will wither away into nothing!”

“I mean…he’s a big guy,” Vlad shrugged. “It’ll take a while for that to happen.”

Vody sighed heavily. “This is deeply troubling news. I will have to speak with him. Okay, one more question. No, two. First, what is his favorite animal?”

“Wait, maybe try dill pickles. The ones in brine, not in vinegar. Sometimes he’ll eat those. He likes them with garlic and horseradish, no chilli,” Vlad suggested, remembering the jar that Sasha kept in their room at school that slowly dwindled after nights of heavy drinking. “And…it used to be the dogs, but now he won’t go near them. I’ve seen him watching those videos of bears, but he hides them if he thinks I’m watching.”

“Wonderful! This is fantastic news!” Vody brightened immediately. “What kind of bears?”

“Erm… whichever ones live in California?” Vlad said helplessly.

“I will do research.” Vody said, scribbling on his notepad again. “Last question. What is his favorite colour?”

Vlad let out a helpless yelp of laughter. 

“Black, obviously. Like his soul.”

Vody made a disapproving noise.

“Black is not a colour. It is the absence of colour.”

Vlad sighed. “Well, it's the only colour I've ever seen him wear, unless you count his skating costumes. But it's not like he picks those. But if we're going to split hairs, I think the one he looked the least miserable in was a deep blue, not quite navy but not as intense as ultramarine. It brings out his eyes.”

“Excellent. You have been very helpful. Thank you, Vladimir.” Vody said, full sincerity in his voice.

“Uh, just call me Vlad,” he said sheepishly.

“Very well, Vlad. I will send you vodka. You like vodka, yes?”

“Um… sure?”

“Perfect. I will send you vodka. Do svidaniya!” 

“Do svidaniya.”

Vody hung up, leaving Vlad to sit in still-stunned silence as he pondered the absurdity of the situation.

—

Sasha wasn't sure how long he'd been in the bathroom. All he knew was that he needed to lie down. The pain in his stomach had faded from unbearable to only miserable, and the cold porcelain of the toilet had leeched any warmth out of his shivering body. He had been sitting for so long, however, that his legs nearly gave way when he tried to stand, numb and clumsy and unreliable. Gripping the counter with both hands, he staggered to the sink to wash up before shambling back to the couch.

Even under the blankets, Sasha was freezing. He hadn't put on clothes in his mad dash downstairs earlier, and to his great annoyance, he was too diligent with his laundry to have any left atop or in the dryer. What a miserable life he lived.

He was still wallowing in his shivering self-pity when a knock at the door sent him into high alert. He hadn't ordered anything. Ryosuke had a key. Staying wrapped in his blanket, he climbed to his feet, retrieving the gun he kept stashed beneath the coffee table. Mind in overdrive, he wobbled his way towards the door. His thighs burned with the simple effort of walking, his legs and torso feeling oddly hollow. Peering through the one-way peephole he’d had installed when he’d disabled the doorbell camera, he saw no-one waiting outside. All the more suspicious.

An ambush, perhaps? Was this finally the retaliation for what had happened at the tattoo shop? He knew it was only a matter of time. Was he better off not checking and hoping they left? Should he go out and confront them?

No. Not like this. He would play dumb. No one was home. Keeping the gun on him, he shuffled back to the couch, grabbing his phone to warn Ryosuke before he came back. To his surprise, there was a text from Jace.

Check your front door.

Sasha frowned. The words swam a little bit so he had to read them several times. Even then, they didn’t seem to make sense. Was this Jace’s way of warning him? Had Vody changed his mind and come for payback? He struggled to string together his thoughts. In the end, he hit the call button clumsily and dropped the phone onto the table.

“There’s someone outside my apartment.”

“Oh man,” Jace chuckled. “You sound like shit.”

“I know. That's why it's a problem. I can't fight right now,” Sasha groaned.

“Bro, what are you talking about?”

“Whoever’s outside,” Sasha muttered. He shifted on the sofa, stifling a groan as his stomach burbled. So much for settling down. Oh God, what if he was in the bathroom when they finally broke in? What if he died on the toilet? Like Elvis?

“No-one’s outside,” Jace said confidently. “Dad was literally just there, he would have noticed if someone shady was lurking around.”

Now it was Sasha’s turn to be confused. “Your father was here? Why? Are you in on this, too?” Panic crept into his voice. He had been stupid to trust Jace. Of course he was secretly working for Vody. How could he not be? What a stupid way to die - trusting the enemy when he should've known better.

“Are you delirious?” Jace asked. “Did you fall and hit your head?”

“No! Stop making fun of me,” Sasha grumbled. 

Jace scoffed. “Okay, then stop acting like your second-best friend is out to get you. If Dad wanted you dead, he would've done it already. Now open your door and go get your present, you overwound asshole.”

“Wha’?”

“He left you a gift basket, oh my God…”

“Oh…”

Without saying goodbye, Sasha hung up the phone and hauled himself back to his feet. His guts had begun grumbling horribly again, and he hunched over in pain as he stumbled back to the door. Undoing the deadbolts took all of his concentration, and he had to lean against the doorframe to catch his breath once he finally got the door open.

The sight on the doorstep left him gobsmacked. When Jace had said ‘gift basket,’ he had expected a packet of saltines, a bottle of Gatorade, and maybe a get-well-soon card. Nothing could have prepared him for the monstrosity that sat in the hallway staring up at him.

Though it was technically a wicker basket, the receptacle, festooned with a massive blue ribbon and a tag that said “For Sasha,” was truly the size of a large laundry hamper. Filling most of the package was a stunning midnight blue fur blanket, and perched atop it a stuffed black bear, two and a half feet long, staring up at him with shiny plastic eyes. In front of the bear, half a dozen bottles with a label he hadn't seen in years - lemon lucozade sport. The bottles flanked a massive jar of pickles, though the packing seemed to indicate it came from a small batch rather than a big box store. Still reeling as he processed the whole ensemble, Sasha finally noticed the note tucked between the bear’s front paws. 

In tight Russian cursive, the message read: Your new coach needs you back on the ice! Rest up and feel better soon.

His dad was going to kill him. Sasha felt his stomach drop, dread turning into sudden nausea. His knees buckled, and he had to clutch the doorframe to stay up. Gulping back the next wave of vomit, he clapped a hand over his mouth and staggered to the bathroom. When he finally emerged, the door was still open, the basket still there.

A much deeper surge of fear gripped him. He left the door open? What was wrong with him? He was just asking to be killed. Snagging the edge of the basket, he dragged it inside and slammed the door. Half the locks fell into place and he quickly dealt with the rest. Now what? He needed to lie down. He was quickly becoming dehydrated, a dull, woozy throb drumming behind his eyes.

Using the last of his strength, he half-pushed, half-dragged the basket with him back to the couch. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with such an absurdly lavish gift, but at the very least, he would gladly inhale a lucozade to ease the bitter dryness in his mouth.

The sugary goodness felt glorious in his throat, clearing away for the first time the acidic aftertaste of vomit. While the first few sips sat heavily in his tender stomach, they didn't seem to threaten the delicate balance that had established itself. When they didn't come straight back up, he relaxed into the couch to work his way through the rest of the bottle.

By the time he had finished his lucozade, Sasha was in a state that he almost dared to consider relaxed. Sunken into the cushions of the couch, he eyed the massive blanket peeking out of the basket, weighing his current comfort with his desire to be comfier. It looked so warm, and he was still naked under the quilted blanket that Ryosuke favoured. Slithering like a clumsy dog, he leaned over to snag the blanket and tug it from under the rest of the gifts.

When his fingers dug into the fabric, Sasha froze for half a second, stricken by just how wildly soft it was. Though he didn't like to dress up the way Vlad or Irina did, he had grown up plenty rich enough to recognize the touch of real fur - expensive fur. Just the size and the color, much less the quality, made him feel a bit ill as he wondered how much money Vody must have spent. 

Pushing those worries to the back of his mind, he gave the blanket a forceful tug, successfully freeing it from the basket. In the process, the big stuffed bear was thrown to the ground, and Sasha felt an unexpected pang of guilt. His desire to set it back where it belonged was overridden by his desperate need to lie back down. Grabbing a second bottle of Lucozade to sip on, he wriggled back into the sofa and cuddled under the soft blanket. It was so obscenely warm and cozy that any guilt he felt about the price disintegrated instantly. Settling deeper into the cushions, he closed his eyes, hoping to finally rest.

How naive of him. Sasha had barely started to doze when the pain in his stomach returned, tight and dizzying and bringing the low-grade nausea that had never left up to an unbearable level. He groaned, curling onto his side and wrapping both arms around his middle. In the past, he'd been sceptical when Ryosuke gave himself food poisoning. He'd put a lot of the huffing and groaning down to melodrama - surely if it was that miserable, he'd simply stop eating dodgy takeout. But now, as his intestines liquified, he was less certain.

It wasn't fair. He didn't eat recklessly like Ryosuke did. In fact, he was being punished for trying to eat healthily. What cruel God was laughing at him? The next cramp crunched through his guts, and he suddenly remembered. Karma.

He wished he still believed in God. That he could go to church and confess and have done with it. The idea of absolution was so tempting, he supposed that was why people were religious in the first place. Or maybe it was to have a father that loved them. Neither of those things were for Sasha, he knew that.

Hot knives twisted in his belly, and Sasha eyed the bin still sitting nearby. He knew he was going to be sick, but he couldn't be confident that only a bin would suffice. The sudden remembrance of how expensive his new blanket was sent a whole new wave of fear through him, and his legs suddenly found the energy to stagger to the bathroom. The pressure in his stomach seized with new urgency about halfway across the living room, making him clench and strain for fear of making a mess. He had never been so glad not to be wearing underwear as he was when he finally collapsed onto the toilet.

Within moments of sitting down, however, Sasha realized his fatal error - he had left the bin in the living room. As the cramps in his stomach paralyzed him, the nausea rose in his chest. There was no time to think before his guts gurgled. After that, he couldn’t think. His bowels evacuated, burning liquid spurting stop-start into the bowl. The gorge rose in his throat and he swallowed stubbornly. Resting his elbows on his knees, he curled forwards to cover his mouth with both hands. The Lucozade had gone straight through him - he could still smell the chemical, citrus flavouring. He stifled a gag. A bolt of terror shot through him as he wondered whether he had locked the door, earlier thoughts of dying on the toilet flashing through his mind. It didn’t last long - his belly whined and all thoughts other than not throwing up and not passing out were erased.

Even those thoughts almost blacked out of his mind, agony lancing through his guts as he sucked in a strained breath. A hellish whimper squealed out of his chest, cramps threatening to drag him to hell straight through the pipes. More liquid sprayed out of him, his legs shaking with the unintentional strain. He understood why Vlad had called him, praying for death, when he’d eaten bad prawns at a conference in Venice. He’d laughed at him at the time, but now he knew better. Pressing his lips tightly closed, he heaved into his hands. There was a squelch as his mouth filled with vomit. Acid stung in his throat, and it took all his tenuous self control to swallow back down. His stomach cramped again, like a shotgunned beer can being crushed by the reckless hand of God, sick streaming up his throat and into the toilet with equal force. It took several attempts to swallow back, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he could fight it no longer.

Every second seemed to stretch for a thousand years, Sasha the Prometheus chained to the mountain of his toilet. The vultures of poorly cooked chicken pecked mercilessly at his abdomen, every cramp a violent screech. On and on it went, the muscles in his jaw straining as hard as the ones in his abdomen.

Just as he thought he might be sick into his hands, the groaning in his bowels eased off. As soon as he could get off the toilet, he stumbled to his shower and puked his guts out over the drain. His legs trembled, threatening to give out beneath him, and he braced a hand against the shower wall. Sour bile splattered the drain and he heaved violently again, retching repeatedly until spots swam in his vision. 

By the time this spate of vomiting finished, Sasha was shaking like a leaf, cold and achy and feeling absolutely disgusting. He knew he couldn't stay upright much longer, so his clumsy hands desperately searched to turn on the water while he could still reach. It was hot, perhaps hotter than necessary, shocking against his bare, clammy skin, but at least it was a distraction from how debilitatingly ill he felt. Leaning back against the shower wall, he slowly slid down into a sitting position, letting the hot water wash over him. It was tempting to just fall asleep. The warmth, thawing his cold insides for the first time in hours, made that a seductive possibility. Was there a way not to freeze that didn't involve turning into a prune? Sasha wasn't sure.