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“Erugh,” groaned Ilya, the bleating of the alarm clock shredding his ears. Reaching for his phone to stop the racket, he coughed and shook his head, before flopping back onto the bed, nestling deeper into the pillow. Closing his eyes, he felt around for Shane, but found his side of the bed empty and cold – he’d been up for a while. Ilya shivered slightly, pulling the blankets up over his head and relishing the last few moments he could enjoy the warmth of bed, and wishing that Shane was there to enjoy it with him. Being perfect for each other is one thing, but that compatibility did not extend to their ideas about mornings.
He heard the door open quietly and a whispered “Go get Papa!” followed by the tappy-tap-taps and woosh of Anya launching herself across the room and onto the bed. Grinning to himself, Ilya lay very still, barely breathing, to let Anya try and find him among the lumps of the bedclothes. Within moments, he felt her cold nose press to his cheek, and she licked his face triumphantly, while trying to burrow more deeply into the blankets and his embrace. “Good morning, Anya,” he laughed, and then coughed, sitting up and picking her up. She wiggled furiously to be put down, so she could lead him to her toys strewn all over the living room. “And good morning Hollander,” he called, louder, into the rest of the house. Standing, he ambled over to the dresser and retrieved a pair of underwear and put them on, followed by his bathrobe. Shane had carelessly flung that garment over a chair the night before in his hunger to get to Ilya’s bare chest and celebrate their home hockey blowout the night before. He smiled to himself, remembering his husband squirming and moaning around Ilya’s hard cock as it thrust inside him. He again heard Shane’s helpless pleas for Ilya to stroke his dick as Shane’s own hands had been restrained and tied to the headboard out of the way. Walking up to the kitchen, Ilya smiled contentedly to himself and then grinned broadly as he lay eyes on Shane.
“Hi,” said Shane shyly, looking up from the frying pan. “She didn’t bother you too much, did she?” he asked about Anya.
“No, no, is nice way to wake up… is in top five best ways to wake up,” said Ilya, approaching his husband. Wearing athletic gear and his glasses, Shane must have been for a run before breakfast, but how he could even walk from last night Ilya didn’t know. “The smell of bacon is also in top five,” he whispered to Shane, wrapping his long arms and broad shoulders around the man from behind, and kissing the spot where Shane’s neck and shoulder met and then gently placing his chin on his shoulder.
Shane concealed a shudder at the tiny kiss and the firework sensation that followed down his spine. “What else is in the top five?” he asked, flipping the bacon in the pan and adjusting the temperature, but making no move to exit Ilya’s warm embrace.
“Maybe if you stayed in bed longer you could find out,” said Ilya, very quietly, his mouth close to Shane’s ear. This time, he felt Shane shudder, and as Ilya placed a tiny nibble on his ear, a soft moan escaped Shane’s lips. They stayed in this position for one more moment before Ilya let go, and went over to the coffee pot, smiling to himself in a very self-satisfied way. He stole a glance at the front of Shane’s running pants and saw the erection he knew he would find. As his eyes traced up his husband’s rippled body, he also saw a red face and hazy eyes behind his glasses. “Fuck,” mumbled Shane quietly, “how do you do that to me? After all this fucking time?” He looked up and smiled at Ilya and just said, “I fucking love you, so fucking much.” Ilya opened his mouth, intending to return the sentiment, but instead had a coughing fit. He cleared his throat, about to dare Shane to demonstrate his devotion with his wet mouth. Before he could, Shane announced “Breakfast is ready. Let’s eat, we have to get going.”
***
Fuck, thought Ilya as practice began, I must be getting old. After breakfast, he and Shane had dressed and driven to morning practice. There was a mid-day home game tomorrow, which meant an extra grueling practice today. Usually outgoing and boisterous, Ilya was subdued getting into the locker room, and despite being in the best shape of his life – Shane’s moderated nutritional plan actually did have something to offer – his gear felt unusually heavy and cumbersome on his body. By the time he was dressed for practice, he was sweating. But, it was coming into spring and the later part of the season, so it stood to reason that the locker room was a little warmer than usual. Shane noticed Ilya moving more slowly than he would have expected, but reminded himself that they had a late night the night before and that Ilya was probably tired. His personality already takes so much energy to maintain, thought Shane, that of course adding that kind of exertion for half the night after winning the game for us; he is bound to be exhausted. Shane smiled at the memory of Ilya’s teasing words from the previous night, reminding him that he had done a good job on the goal assists, him and that the reward would be worth the wait – it was.
***
“Roz, you ok?” Wiebe asked little while later, as the team worked their way through skating drills. Usually among the fastest on the team, Ilya was in the middle of the pack and panting hard.
“Sorry coach, I feel very old today,” smiled Ilya as he stopped to get some water. “Maybe I should take it easy on Hunter if this is how is knees feel... maybe.” It wasn’t just Ilya’s knees, though. His whole body ached deeply, as if he had been in a fight with half the opposing team during the previous night’s game. He didn’t need Wiebe to know this, but he most certainly didn’t need Shane to know. For all his charm, Shane Hollander was a worrier – he was as good of a worrier as he was a hockey player, and Shane Hollander had more than a couple of Stanley Cup rings. They dreamed of having their whole careers together, from being drafted first and second, to retiring at the same time – and that time wasn’t meant to be soon. But maybe he thought, squirting some more water into his mouth and all over his face, dreams change. More than 12 seasons in the NHL is a suitable career, and maybe - well, certainly - if he felt like this more days than not, he needed to think about stepping back and working full-time with the Foundation. Shane would not like this, Ilya knew. Shane loved that they worked together, and that hockey was a common language between them. Ilya knew that he worried that if one of them were to retire first, they would grow more distant from the travel and that it would go back to how things were before they came out. Secretly, Ilya feared those things, too.
Ilya shook his head, which ached now, suddenly, and tried to snap himself out of the fog of his mood and ignore the aches in his bones. His muscles were just not warm enough, he decided, and so he skated over to Troy Barrett and tapped him with his stick. “Conditioning,” he said, and took off, knowing it would goad Barrett into a race. “What the fuck!” barked Barrett, and took off after him up the ice. Shane watched from in front of the far goal, amused and content. He looked around the arena at the team and smiled widely, he couldn’t wait to take a turn racing Ilya.
Shane’s excitement was short lived, as he watched Ilya skate away, trip, get back up and throw himself off the ice down the tunnel back towards the locker room. Concerned but not yet consumed with worry, Shane skated back and to the boards and peered around for Ilya. Where there was no sign or sounds of him, Shane headed towards the locker room. It too was empty.
“Rozanov?” Shane called tentatively. They tried to remain professional at work even though they were both Centaurs now. Not getting a response, he called louder. That time, he heard movement from the direction of the bathroom and showers.
As he approached, he saw Ilya on the bathroom floor, retches rolling through his body. Shane hastened over to him, but Ilya tried to wiggle away.
“Hollander, I am fine,” he said, panting, and wiping his mouth with a glove. “Too much for breakfast I think, probably.” Ilya knew how much Shane hated messes or gross things, and he knew that watching his husband vomit counted as something both gross AND messy. Ilya lay back against the wall next to the farthest stall trying to steady himself and his stomach. He did not want Shane to worry, and he also did not want him to come any closer. Shane looked around, dropped his gloves, took of his helmet and left the room. Ilya did not have the energy to be offended that Shane would just wordlessly walk away, and instead focused on his breathing, and wrestling off his helmet, wondering if it was causing his worsening headache. By the time he had it off, Shane was returning, sock-footed and concerned, bringing with him a couple of towels he'd dug out of his hockey bag. He turned on a nearby faucet and soaked one in cool water. Crossing the room to Ilya, Shane dropped to his knees. He handed Ilya the dampened towel to wipe his face and used the other one to try and dry some of the sweat that had plastered Ilya’s golden curls to his head and was dripping down the back of his neck.
“I am sorry Shane,” said Ilya quietly, turning his face away, shy and embarrassed.
“Moya lyubov'” whispered Shane, trying out some of the little Russian he knew, “ya zdes'; my love, I am here” Shane reached out and cupped Ilyas cheek and gently turned his face back towards his. “Hey – look at me,” he murmured, looking for Ilya’s brilliant blue eyes. Slowly, they turned up to his, and Shane saw that the were heavily lidded and cloudy.
“Hollander,” Ilya moaned quietly, “I am fine. Go back to the team. I will be there soon.” Shane made no moves to get up, only leaning in closer to hear Ilya’s breathing. He moved his hand from Ilya’s cheek to forehead, with a small frown on his face. Ilya felt like shit, yes, but he did not want Shane to spin up or come any closer. He was hot and tired, he felt his stomach muscles shivering but could also not stop sweating. His whole body felt like it had been steam-rolled and his head throbbed, harder now with his helmet off.
“Asshole,” said Shane even more quietly. “You are radiating heat. Are you feeling ok? Are you sure it was just too much breakfast?” Shane knew it wasn’t food or exercise related. They were professional athletes, and though Ilya’s diet was questionable at times, he knew better than to try practice on a full stomach. Thinking on it, Shane remembered Ilya putting his second egg in the compost before they left. While Shane thought, he dabbed the damp towel over Ilya’s face and wrapped it around the back of his neck.
“Heat you, say, Hollander? I mean,” he smiled a cocky smile, “I know how hot I am, but I appreciate your reminder.” The smile didn’t reach his eyes, which looked pained and tired. Before Shane could correct him, Ilya coughed hard, until he retched again, launching himself back towards porcelain. Wiping his mouth, he sat back again.
“Rozanov, I think,” said Shane tentatively, “that you are sick.”
“No, is mid-season, I never sick this time of year. Just over-tired, probably. Honestly, feeling much better now.” With that, Ilya shakily stood and wobbled back to the locker room with everyone’s stalls. Shane tired to offer support, but stubborn as always, Ilya refused his hand. Once he got back to his stall though, he teetered over and sat down heavily, trying to turn a loss of balance into an intentional sit.
Ilya was sure he looked pathetic. He felt pathetic – emotionally and physically. His nausea had subsided, and was replaced with burning shame and anxiety, feelings he considered usually reserved for Shane – feelings he took pride in helping Shane face. Feeling them for himself, he wanted to retreat. He heard his father’s voice in his head, calling him old, undisciplined, a disgrace to Mother Russia. And then he saw what he took for a disgusted look in Shane’s eyes at how gross he was being. Sitting on the bathroom floor, vomiting, sweating – all things Shane considered disgusting. That’s me, seeping, disgusting and failing. He took a shuddering breath, smiled as warmly as he could at Shane, and said, “My good boy, go back to practice. I will be there soon.” Ilya did not do this, he did not use Shane’s drive to please, his desperation to be good, for things like this. He used it to make Shane happy, to make them happy, not to be alone with his thoughts. He felt worse, like he was using his power over Shane for evil, but he also was desperate to be alone. To feel this shitty alone.
Shane bristled, the internal conflict playing clearly on his face. He did not look disgusted, nor he did not feel it. In fact, he wanted nothing other than to crawl into Ilya’s body and feel every terrible sensation with him. However, his sole focus could often be simply being good boy, in every part of his life, in every molecule of his body. These two opposites ripped at his heart. The idea of being given an order in this way – in public, with pet names and so directly – made something inside of him prickle with need. Despite the circumstances, Shane found that his cock got a little hard. This was not the time or place though, he knew that. Decision made, he took a step closer to Ilya, and dropped to his knees. “No, I won’t be doing that.” Ilya was looking even more pale and sweaty than only a few minutes ago, and Shane had decided they were going home. They were the two best players on the team, maybe in the whole league – they did not need to stay at practice when one of them looked like they were dying. Shane had readied a comment to Wiebe if he protested, though he knew he wouldn’t. This wasn’t Montreal.
“Hollander,” chucked Ilya as Shane’s knees hit floor, “I do want to do this here one day, but I do not think this is the moment.” The exhaustion was audible in his voice, as was the frustration; he really did want to have his cock worshiped by Hollander while the team was on the ice. The idea of Shane debasing himself here was one that made Ilya moan to himself in the shower sometimes. The risk of getting caught was sexy, especially now that the stakes were smaller - they were out and their entire professional lives were not on the line. Ilya would never let them be caught, but the idea of Shane coming undone despite the risk was something he needed to experience.
“No, we are done working today, Ilya,” Shane said firmly, as he untied Ilya’s skates and eased them off his feet. He stood and pulled Ilya’s practice jersey over his head, “arms up,” he commanded. Surprised, Ilya complied and let Shane help him with removing the rest of his gear until he was in a soaked t-shirt, compression pants, and two pairs of socks. He shivered uncontrollably as his layers came off, arms wrapping around himself for warmth. “Do you want to shower here now” Shane asked quietly, “or wait until we get home?”
Eyes unfocused and refusing to look at Shane, Ilya whispered “Home.”
“Good,” said Shane. He hated that he himself did not have the chance to shower before leaving, but he wanted to get Ilya home as soon as he could. “Did you bring more than just a t-shirt?” asked Shane, as he dug through Ilya’s bag and cubby. Finding nothing, he reached into his own and withdraw his warmest sweater – his Team Canada fleece from the Sochi Olympics. “Arms up again,” Shane instructed, and still refusing to meet his eyes, Ilya raised his arms, allowing the softness to cling to him. It was too small for his heavily muscled frame, but he liked the idea of belonging to Team Canada. One of the first things he and Shane did after getting married was file for Ilya’s citizenship. The idea of wearing the Canadian flag at an Olympics alongside Shane one day filled his chest with warmth and pride, temporarily distracting from how shitty he felt. He hoped that his body held up that long. The soreness really did make him think about retirement.
Sitting still, the nausea retreated and Ilya felt less frantic about getting Shane back on the ice. He felt foggy, hardly noticing that Shane had him out of his gear, feet tucked into fresh socks and sneakers, and a toque on his head. “Stay,” said Shane forcefully, holding up a finger to Ilya the same way he did to Anya.
“I am good dog, I will stay,” laughed Ilya wearily. Shane left the dressing room, presumably to inform coach Wiebe that they were leaving, and Ilya shook himself back into the present. He took stock of his body: sore throat, aches everywhere, sweating and shivering – probably a fever, migraine, and nausea. The flu, he concluded with some dread seeping into his chest. Ilya prided himself on not getting sick. It was one of the last stupid Russian things he struggled with. Sickness is weakness, and Ilya Rozanov was not weak. He was not fragile, and he did not need anyone else. He had survived his mother’s death and his father’s abuse. He survived burying his second parent and his piece-of-shit brother Andrei. He moved to North America to play in the NHL, he learned English from movies and old hockey tapes. He was disciplined, determined and driven. He did not want to give up one inch of the ground he had worked hard for to some fucking germs. He knew the flu would not kill him, but it would derail part of the season - he would lose some mass, it would mean missing time in the room with his team, and it would freak Shane out. Ilya does not need a freaked-out Shane Hollander. It was still too safe and special and new – they had been outed less than a year ago, gotten married, and started to build a cozy life; Shane was a mess with the changes, and he relied on Ilya for grounding and care. Ilya did not need anyone else, but Shane Hollander did, and Ilya was already beating himself up about how much he did not want Shane to see him like this.
“Sweetheart, let’s go” murmured Shane, suddenly standing in front of Ilya again. Ilya jumped, he had been so in his own head that he had not hear the man approach. He looked up and smiled.
I was wrong, he thought, the moment he saw Shane’s freckles. I need one person.
“Uh, where is your sweetheart, Shane?” Ilya looked around in mock disgust, “That is my word. “You don’t own it,” scoffed Shane, extending a hand to Ilya to help him stand. “Plus, you have all of those romantic Russian words. This one is a free-use pet name.” They grinned at each other, as Ilya stood.
“We are going home?” he asked, following Shane, slowly, tentatively, trying not to move in any way that might jostle his stomach. Shane slowed to walk alongside him, reaching out to give his hand a squeeze.
“Yes,” he said firmly. Relief washed over Ilya’s face; he immediately tried to hide it, but it was replaced with only embarrassment. Seeing this, Shane tugged him to a halt just inside the door to the arena. “Hey,” he said, “look at me.” Shane traced the knuckles of his free hand over Ilya’s cheek. “You are ok, no one is mad at you, everyone gets sick sometimes.” Even though they are the same height, Shane stood on tippy toes to kiss Ilya softly on the forehead. Ilya leaned gently into Shane’s lips, and gave his hand a squeeze back, allowing himself to be led to the car and for Shane to buckle him in.
***
By the time they were home, Ilya felt worse. His breathing was more laboured and shallower, and the world was tilted every time he opened his eyes. Mostly, he kept them shut, forehead pressed into the window, focusing on the warmth of Shane’s hand, resting on his thigh, grounding him.
“Ya tebya lyublyu - I love you.” he mumbled, resting his hand on top of Shane’s, hoping it was not as clammy as the rest of his body felt. “Thank you for bringing me home,” and he meant it. “We could have stayed, you know. Probably should have. Is you first year on team and we cannot be seen as favourites or caring less about hockey than each other,” which he also meant. The guys on the Centaurs were his boys and he loved them, but he was nervous about how they would accept having a “couple” on the team. This was uncharted territory for all of them, including the league, and Ilya was very aware of how he and Shane interacted.
“I know you worry about that, sweetheart,” said Shane, “but I honestly don’t care, I don’t think? I mean, of course I care, but we wasted so much time pretending, you know?” Shane flipped over his hand and interlaced his fingers with Ilya’s. “We can’t change the narrative about fucked up hockey culture unless we do it intentionally. And, I think,” he swallowed, “that means putting each other – all of us players – first. Plus, it’ll make the game better, people not playing through sickness and injuries and stuff.” Ilya weakly squeezed Shane’s hand and thought about this. Shane lived and breathed two things: hockey and Ilya. Ilya was pleased he spoke with such confidence about changing the game; the Shane of ten or five or even two years ago would not have had the clarity and objectivity to make that statement and Ilya was very proud of him. More quietly, Shane spoke again, “I just hope everyone else agrees with me.” Ah, thought Ilya, there is my Shane.
“Shane,” said Ilya weakly as they pulled into the driveway, “if you tell that to people, they will listen. Your voice matters in the sport. Now please…” he faltered, “let’s go back to bed?”
Shane threw the car into park and flew to the passenger side door to help Ilya out of the car. “What are you doing?” scoffed Ilya “You think I am crippled?” He swung his feet out and rose unsteadily, Shane immediately tucked into his side for support. “Ok, maybe a little crippled,” he sighed.
***
Shane guided Ilya into the house, and walked him directly through to their bedroom, not even waiting to kick off his shoes. Ilya's heart sank at this - he knew he must look near death – this was not a shoes-on household. He smiled despite himself. Feeling like shit was terrible, but he was glad to have an extra reason to be in bed with Shane.
As they reached the bedroom, Shane released Ilya in favour of running into the bathroom while Ilya wobbled over to the bed. His head really did hurt. Shane emerged with an armload of things – cough lozenges, decongestants, Tylenol for the fever, and a fresh box of the lotion infused tissues they saved more for sickness than clean-ups. Ilya was dimly aware of Shane bustling off to the rest of the house, as he put his aching head in his hands, slumping over.
“You want some te–?” Shane stopped mid sentence, coming back into the bedroom, seeing the slouched Ilya. He quickened his pace, dropping to his knees in front of his husband again. “Hey,” he said softly, worried that volume would make it worse, “hey, Ilya. You ok? I got you some water.” Shane tugged a water bottle from under his arm and set it on the nightstand. He gently placed his hands on Ilya’s temples and began rubbing gentle circles.
“Mmmmm, that is nice,” murmured Ilya, sitting back up and opening his eyes. Shane saw they were greyer than normal, watery and unfocused. Ilya coughed into his elbow, and looked back at Shane, pathetically. “I think,” he whispered, “I think I am sick. I do not feel good.”
“I know,” said Shane, rising and placing a gentle kiss on the top of his head. He stood close to Ilya, but busied himself, measuring out doses of medication and checking for interactions on the sides of pill bottles, “but I… am going to help with that.” As he said that, reading the side of a box of decongestant, he felt Ilya tip forward and wrap his long arms around Shane’s hips – the only part of him, he could reach. Ilya’s forehead pressed into his waist and he felt the warmth radiating off of him immediately. Shane’s heart split open and his eyes prickled.
“My Shane,” Ilya whispered to himself. Shane ran one hand gently through Ilya’s hair, and when he was ready, stepped backwards. “Mpppffffhhh” whined Ilya, arms outstretched, “come back.”
“I will, but first,” and he tipped some red syrup into Ilya’s mouth, and gave him two tablets to take. Shane quickly toed off his shoes, and then crouched again to get Ilya out of his. He got Ilya and himself stripped down to boxers, and then, finally, crawled into bed on the other side of his husband. Ilya looked elated.
“Where is Anya?” Ilya asked, as he rolled to face away from Shane, while also grabbing the other man’s arm to pull him closer, as if instructing the cuddle he wanted.
“Dog walker has her; I saw on the doorbell camera before we left the arena.”
“Mmmm.” Ilya closed his eyes and snuggled back into his Shane-sized backpack. He was ready for a nap; it would be a good reprieve from feeling this way. But he thought, at least he did not have to feel this way by himself. Alone is not better, maybe.
“Illy,” Shane said quietly right into his ear. “Illy” was what Shane called Ilya when he himself was sick or injured and feeling small and pathetic, the way Ilya felt now. “Illy, I got you. Is there anything you need?”
“Just you.”
***
When Ilya woke up, Shane was gone. He knew why immediately, realizing he had been roused by Anya barking, undoubtedly delighted to see her Dad. Ilya loved the sound, even though it had woken him, and he lay briefly, relishing the joy of having a dog.
His happiness was short lived. It was quickly overtaken by the roll of headache, and the realization he was drenched. Not “maybe we should turn on the AC” drenched, more like “turned the bed into a swamp” drenched. The sheets clung to his sticky body, and he could feel his hair plastered to his head. He felt too slick and too cold despite being under a sheet, duvet and another blanket he guessed Shane had pulled up sometime after he drifted off. “Yech,” he growled, trying to disentangle himself from the soggy mess he had become, but not having the energy to much other than kick his feet helplessly. His new plan, he decided was to roll onto Shane’s side of the bed and solve the other problem later. Before he summoned the strength to execute that manoueuver, he heard a small whine from the ground next to him. Peering down, he saw Anya, and looking up, he saw Shane striding into the room arms outstretched to grab her. He was still just in his briefs.
“M sorry,” he said to Ilya, picking up the dog. “She really wanted to come see you so I was trying to distract her with her rope but also, she is a dog, and doesn’t seem to understand what ‘Papa is sick, we need to give him his space to rest’ means.”
Ilya wanted to say the dog could stay, but he couldn’t get out the words, he was too hot and too cold and English was too hard when it brain felt like it was being drilled into with a hammer and chisel. Looking at the scene, Shane realized how wet everything was.
“Illy,” he gasped, instinctively reaching out to touch a piece of Ilya's exposed skin. “One sec.” Ilya didn’t hear him; he just lay as still as he could. The next thing he knew, the sheets were being ripped back, the dog locked out of the bedroom, and Shane was putting a cold facecloth against his skin. He slid his eyes up to meet Shane’s, wondering how pathetic he must look to this beautiful man. He did not deserve this doting, he knew, but he was powerless to do anything but accept it. He saw concern in Shane’s face, and though he could not muster the energy to roll over, he lifted his hand to cup it and rub his thumb gently across Shane’s perfect freckles.
“Nyet,” he said quietly. “No, do not worry your pretty head about me. I am okay. Just… cold. And also somehow, too hot.”
“Illy, you’re too warm, way too warm. We have to cool you down. Can you let me do that?”
Ilya shook his head no, but stopped quickly – it hurt. “Why not?” Shane asked, looking confused but stopping immediately.
“It feels like my skin hurts,” he mumbled.
“Ah, ok. A bath then maybe? No friction?”
Ilya didn’t say anything, just remained motionless for a moment, he moved his hands from Shane’s face and grasped his hand, tugging at it. “English too hard right now,” he whispered. He looked in Shane’s eyes and tugged at his hand again. “Cold.”
Shane felt the tears stinging his eyes again and felt stupid. He squeezed Ilya’s hand and bent over to brush his lips across his forehead. “I know sweetheart,” he whispered, “I know.” People got sick all the time, Shane knew, but rarely Ilya – Shane couldn’t even remember the last time he had the sniffles. Seeing him so helpless was disarming and broke something inside of Shane, who wanted nothing more than to take the way Ilya was feeling on himself, to ease some of the pain and discomfort from this man who does everything for him. The best he could do was, well – whatever Ilya wanted. “Can you tell me what would make you feel better?” he cooed.
Ilya looked at him with his foggy, watery eyes and a tear leaked out of Shane’s. He wanted to look away but the intensity of Ilya’s gaze held him. He wiped his tear, leaned in close, putting his lips next to Ilya’s ear asked him again. Ilya whined, reach up and pulled Shane to his chest.
Before Shane’s feet went out from beneath him, he tried to harness a little momentum to have them both roll to the other side of the bed – it was not very effective, but he did not want to make it any harder for Ilya to breathe. The two men lay like that, for several minutes until Shane heard Ilya murmur very quietly. “Need… Would help I think… But I don’ want to make you…”
“What do you need, Illy? I will get it. Anything.”
Ilya mouthed something and Shane rolled off of him, onto his back next to his husband. He propped pillows up behind him on the headboard, and asked again, “Illy?”
“…you.”
Shane ran his hands gently over Ilya’s shoulders and forehead. “Does that hurt like the cloth did?”
“No, is soft. Your skin so soft.” Ilya’s eyes were closed now, enjoying the sensation of being touched so tenderly.
“Ok, I have an idea. Can you wiggle over? I know it’s hard work, but I think it’ll help.” Ilya did so immediately, and Shane tucked himself out of the way. Once Ilya was situated on Shane’s dry side of the bed, Shane went back to his position, back against pillows and headboard legs akimbo with Ilya tucked in between them. Ilya leaned up to make room for him and put his head on Shane’s thigh. “Almost there,” said Shane. Both men are strong professional athletes, but Shane knew Ilya wasn’t moving well under his own power. “Is it ok if I move you a little bit more?”
“Da.”
Reaching down, snaking his hands under Ilya’s armpits and clasping them, in front of his chest, Shane hauled Ilya into a semi seated position. The cool air immediately made Ilya shiver and start to fold in on himself, but Shane held him tightly against his own warm exposed chest. “Hey, hey, hey we are cooling down, remember?” Shane said before peppering the back of Ilya’s neck and shoulders with very gentle kisses. Slowly, Ilya relaxed back into Shane. Shane continued to press soft kisses into Ilya’s neck and shoulders, telling him how much he was loved, and how Shane was there with him. Ilya put his hands against Shane’s still-clasped in front of his chest and squeezed them. They lay like this for a long time, and before falling asleep again, Ilya’s last thought was that no one in the world was as lucky as he was, because only he had his Shane.
***
It was dark when Shane nudged Ilya awake. He had been restless in Shane’s arms, head lolling across his chest, coughing and sniffling and wincing at his achy joints. Shane had tried to arrange Ilya more comfortably, but he let out a sound like a sob at absence of Shane’s touch. Shane had held him more firmly after that, but had felt the fever rise and fall for the last few hours. He hated to wake Ilya, but his body heat and the lack of blankets over his chest were doing nothing to help. As the flu medication began to wear off, Shane felt Ilya’s body stay warmer than he was okay with, so it was time for more drugs. “Hey,” he whispered quietly, nuzzling his face into Ilya’s neck. “Illy, can you open your eyes for me?”
Ilya shook his head back and forth against Shane’s head.
“No, let me see them, come on Illy, sweetheart. I’ll give you a kiss if you open them.”
Ilya’s eyes shot open, and he sat up, turning slowly back to look at Shane. “No kisses. You do not want… this,” he said, gesturing to himself vaguely, pouting.
Shane leaned forward and kissed Ilya. “No, but I would rather get the flu than miss any opportunity to kiss you,” and he brushed his lips over Ilya’s pout, unable to resist giving his bottom lip a nibble.
“When you are feeling gross,” said Ilya after Shane leaned back, “I will not listen to your complaints. I will not make the soup you love. Self-inflicted germs get no sympathy.” He was smiling as he said this, leaning back and tilting his face up to Shane’s to kiss him again. “Who am I kidding?” he said more quietly, more to himself than Shane “You could ask for artifact from stupid Titanic and I would swim to get.”
After another moment of slow, tender kisses, Ilya sat abruptly upright with a wince. “Where is Anya?! I have been asleep for a while, is dark now!”
Seizing the moment, Shane scooted out from behind Ilya and got out of bed “I texted my mom to come get her. I told her Anya needed a sleepover with her Babushka, and she asked no additional questions. I heard her come and go a few hours ago.” Shane said this wandering around to the other side of the bed and beginning to measure out the next round of medication. “How do you feel?”
“Terrible,” said Ilya simply. “But better, probably. Still hot-cold but less dizzy. My head does not hurt as much, so I can think better, maybe.”
“Good,” Shane said, tipping more syrup down Ilya’s throat. “More fluids,” he continued, shoving the water bottle into Ilya’s hands, and standing expectantly, watching to make sure Ilya drank the rest, and feeling the electricity flutter through him when their fingers touch as Ilya handed it back.
“Before, you mention something about… bath?” said Ilya shyly. Fuck, Shane loved this gooey Ilya. Of course Ilya was always soft on the inside, soft to him, but he rarely let himself be uninhibited with his softer emotions on the outside; he did not ask for sweet things. “You will join me, yes?”
“Bath sounds nice,” Shane agreed. “Stay here, let me get it started. Do you want bubbles?”
“Of course!” Ilya grinned. “Bubbles are good medicine, I think probably.”
Shane knew Ilya would spend the whole time constructing them both elaborate bubble beards, moustaches and pompadours rather than resting, but he decided he would allow it. Ducking into the bathroom, Shane started filling up the tub and grabbed bubble bath from under then sink. He took out a pair of the biggest, softest fluffiest towels they owned, and got both of their pyjamas out and set them on the counter. Once the water was a good temperature, he let it run, heading to the kitchen for more water, snacks and Ilya’s favourite candle. Ilya was reluctant to admit that he liked candles, but this one, he had told Shane, reminded him of his mother’s perfume; and he burnt it when he was particularly happy or sad. Dumping everything into a basket he returned to the bathroom, ignoring Ilya’s puppy-dog eyes from the bed.
It was perfect, Shane decided a few moments later. There were just the right amount of bubbles in the tub, he had dimmed the lights to not bother Ilya’s eyes, he had some quiet jazz standards playing from his phone, and he lit the Irina candle.
“Illy, are you ready?” he asked quietly, emerging back into their bedroom, leaving the door only ajar behind him.
Ilya coughed and nodded, “Da.” Some of his post-nap energy had waned and he swayed a little as he sat up and put his feet on the ground.
“Don’t!” said Shane, rushing over to him before he tried to stand. Ilya looked at him quizzically, but Shane deftly tucked one forearm under Ilya’s knees, lifted his legs and spun the large man, wrapping his other behind Ilya’s back. Standing up, Shane lifted Ilya as easily as if he were Anya (a small dog) rather than a professional athlete. “I’ve got you,” he said, looking down at his husband in his arms, hair still stuck to his head, cheeks flushed with fever, eyes glassy and tired. “You have never been more beautiful,” he said to Ilya. “I mean it,” he said as Ilya shot him a look, “I understand now why you say it to me when I am a wreck.” Ilya reached and arm around Shane’s back, pulling himself up to kiss Shane. It was so slow and vulnerable Shane thought he might die; Ilya’s warm lips and hunger for more of Shane’s touch and tenderness froze him in time for a moment; he wished he could bottle the feeling; he loved being a place where Ilya could be vulnerable.
After their lips parted, Shane put his forehead against Ilya’s and said, “I love you so fucking much.”
“I love you too,” Ilya whispered. “But now I am cold,” he added, louder.
Shane turned them around and headed to the bathroom, using one of Ilya’s feet to kick the door further open. He heard Ilya breathe in sharply. “Oh.”
Leaning over the tub, Shane placed Ilya gently into the warm water and made sure he was fully submerged. Perfect, he thought, while he heard Ilya make a contented hum. The only part of him visible above the bubbles was his head, eyes closed and face peaceful.
“You wanted my Mama here tonight?” Ilya asked a moment later, seeing the candle. It then suddenly occurred to Shane that Ilya might not be able to smell while he was congested.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I thought it would be nice, but if you can’t smell it, then it’s being wasted, I’m sorry I’ll just - ”
“Shane. Shane. Shane.” Ilya stopped the spiral as quickly as he could without being able to grab Shane. “Stop. Is nice, you, today and all of this,” he gestured at the ambiance and effort Shane had put in, “remind me is ok to not feel bad things alone. Is ok for the strong one to need – ah – what is word… softness.” He wait a moment and continued with a lilt in his voice; “My Mama was so strong, too strong for me. She could not ask for softness and… we know what happened. I, maybe, not too good at asking,” he smiled and reached for Shane now, “but my Shane - my Shane is very good at knowing.”
Shane perched on the side of the tub and pet Ilya’s head with his free hand. “Do you still want me to joint you? Is there room?”
“Yes, please.”
Shane stripped off his underwear and got in the tub. Ilya moved so that Shane could sit behind him and tuck Ilya close to his chest again. Ilya hummed again happily, settling more into Shane’s body, letting him bear his weight. Shane loved it, and sprinkled kisses all over Ilya’s curls and drew wiggly lines down his shoulders and arms.
“Ok” said Ilya seriously a few minutes later, “what shape beard you want?”