Chapter Text
"This is so fucking stupid," Shane mutters. Ilya tuts at him and doesn't let go of his wrist. The faucet is on and tepid water is running over Shane's elbow, and has been for the last ten minutes. His first aid kit is open and spilling band-aids over the counter.
"Is not as stupid as letting your skin fall off," Ilya says. He has his other hand on Shane's shoulder and is rubbing his thumb back and forth over the fabric, which is annoyingly soothing.
"My skin's not gonna fall off," he snipes. His arm is getting really cold, which is probably a better feeling than his skin falling off — which he's got a really vivid mental image of now, thanks Ilya — but isn't exactly comfortable. His back kind of hurts because he has to lean at a weird angle to get his elbow in the sink. "The burn isn't that bad."
Shane suspects Ilya is going to chirp him about grill discipline for the next week, but it's hardly Shane's fault his boyfriend decided to make out with him mere feet away from the still-smouldering grill. Then Shane took one step too far backwards and tripped, sending him elbow-first into the stupid thing.
"Twenty minutes," says Ilya. He takes his hand back and presses a kiss to Shane's shoulder instead, which at least distracts him a bit from the pain in his arm. He's never burned himself on the grill before and it's pretty fucking embarrassing to do it for the first time because he was being gay and distracted.
"Twenty minutes is an insanely long time," Shane replies. And it really is. Ilya set a timer on his phone and it's only just reached single digits. His arm is really cold. Ilya insisted on wrapping a blanket round him, at least, so most of him is pretty warm. It's mid-summer in Ottawa but the evenings can still get a little chilly.
Ilya rolls his eyes. "Oh, sorry, I'll just let you get infection, huh? Let my handsome boyfriend's arm fall off?"
"My arm's not gonna fall—" Shane stops himself. The water keeps running over his arm. The pain has dulled to a low throb. "You're distracting me on purpose."
"Yes, obviously," says Ilya. He kiss Shane's shoulder again. "Is working?"
Shane wishes it wasn't. "No," he lies. Ilya laughs and kisses him, briefly, before checking the timer.
"Few more minutes," he says. "Then my poor boyfriend will have to suffer horrible fate, plastic wrap and cuddles on the couch."
"Oh no," says Shane, monotone. "How will your poor boyfriend ever cope?"
The last minutes pass in comfortable silence. Shane cranes his neck to look at the burn, which is just below his elbow. It's about two inches wide and one deep, and doesn't look that serious. He thinks maybe they could've got away with less time shoving his arm under running water and more cuddling, but Ilya found a website and is following the instructions to the letter.
Usually Ilya teases Shane for doing that, but Shane gets it. Whenever Ilya gets hurt he has to resist the urge to memorise the WebMD page for the injury.
Ilya turns the faucet off the second the timer beeps. Shane hits the button to silence it and then, with complete patience and grace, waits while Ilya wrestles with the roll of plastic wrap. Shane hates using it, both for the little spike of anxiety he gets over single use plastics and also because it's stupid how hard it is to find the edge with his fingernails, but he has to admit it's pretty funny watching Ilya struggle.
"You need some help, Rozanov?"
That earns him a glare. Shane laughs, then Ilya laughs, then they're stood there with a roll of plastic wrap giggling hysterically. Ilya's beautiful when he laughs, even when it's this sort of laughter where you can't make yourself stop, and that makes it funnier than it has any right to be.
"This stuff is garbage," Ilya says, when they've calmed down a little. Shane's elbow is starting to throb more insistently, and he thinks a little plastic wrap and cuddles on the couch sound pretty fucking good. "Stupid plastic shit." He finds the end and half of it tears away, leaving half still on the roll as he pulls away a long, narrow rectangle.
Shane hands him the medical tape from the first aid kit, then holds his arm out so Ilya can smooth the plastic over the burn and then stick down the edges. He's gentle with it, obviously, so careful that Shane sort of wants to cry. It's crazy that he gets to see Ilya Rozanov, scourge of the MLH, acting this way.
"Good boy," mutters Ilya, mouth curved up in a smirk, as he lets go of Shane's arm. Shane flushes, like he always does, and turns his head away. "So brave."
"Fuck off," says Shane. He knows he's gone red, but he'll have to suffer through it. The couch is calling his name.
Ilya checks his phone and swears under his breath. "Painkillers," he mutters, before heading for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Shane moves to the couch while he waits for Ilya to come back, burrowing into the corner with a throw blanket over his legs. It's getting late and the sun is setting over the lake, a pleasant golden glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Shane loves the view here.
He turns when Ilya comes down the stairs, holding a glass of water and two Tylenol. "Take your medicine," Ilya instructs, mock stern, then hands them over.
Shane drains the glass and swallows the pills. The placebo effect kicks in immediately, thank fuck. Ilya slumps down next to him on the couch and drags Shane into his side, arm curled around his shoulders.
"You're a good nurse," he mumbles, muffled by Ilya's shirt. It's one of about six Raiders shirts he packed for a two week stay, and Shane thinks it's probably his favourite. It's definitely the softest to rub his face on.
Ilya snorts and rests a hand on Shane's head, cupping the base of his skull, then starts fidgeting with a flyaway strand of hair. Shane presses further into Ilya's side, feeling warm and tired, his elbow throbbing but getting better. "You are a terrible patient."
"But you love me," Shane replies.
"But I love you," Ilya agrees.