Archive of Our Own

There are exactly three tells when Ilya Rozanov is getting sick. Not sick-sick; not hospital, not dramatic fall-on-the-ice collapse (although knowing Ilya, that would probably still come with a monologue) just the regular kind. The kind with a low fever and a sore throat and a slight hitch in his stride during drills. The kind of sick that normal people get but Ilya insists does not apply to him.

Tell number one: the sneezing. Not just any sneezes; full-body, rage-fuelled explosions that sound like the war horn of a cursed Siberian warlord. He sneezes with his whole chest, his whole spine and somehow blames the act of sneezing itself.

“Was not sneeze,” he’ll growl, wiping his nose like he’s just returned from battle. “Was dust explosion. Industrial sabotage.”

Tell number two: suspicious hydration. Not just drinking a normal amount of water. No. He gets defensive about it. Three bottles downed before practice, a hydration tablet dissolved in lemon water like he’s crafting an elixir and a faint air of superiority, like everyone else’s immune systems are cowardly and untrained.

Tell number three (Shane’s personal favourite, which is how he knows he’s doomed): the hoodie. Ilya refuses to take it off. At all. Not during warmups, not in bed, not when they’re watching TV and Shane’s already peeled down to a t-shirt and boxers. Ilya will remain swaddled in his oversized, apocalypse-proof fleece like a man prepared to ride out the next ice age. Or like someone actively running a fever and unwilling to admit it.

This morning? All three.

The kitchen is quiet when he walks in, barefoot and bleary, Centaurs t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, hair still crushed from sleep. The smell hits him first - sharp and herbal, definitely mentholated - but the real giveaway is Ilya himself.

He’s hunched over the kitchen counter, swaddled in his thickest hoodie like he’s barricading himself against emotional intimacy. A mug of lemon tea - tea, not coffee, that’s red flag number four - is clutched between both hands. His phone sits on the counter, open to what looks like an article about defensive zone coverage but he’s not reading. Just scrolling slow, eyes glassy, blinking hard every few seconds.

And then comes the sniffle. A sharp, damp inhale. Followed immediately by a cough.

Not a real cough; a decoy cough (which is somehow worse) that is meant to distract from the sniffle that came before it. As though pretending he didn’t just inhale a teaspoon of congestion will somehow erase it from existence. Shane leans against the doorway and crosses his arms.

“Morning,” he says, voice scratchy with sleep. “Why does it smell like menthol in here? Did you open a cough drop factory while I was asleep?”

Ilya doesn’t look up. Just mutters, “Smells like man.”

Shane blinks. “Smells like Vicks, you lunatic.”

Then he glances at the counter. Honey jar: open. Lemon wedge: drying out on a cutting board. Menthol vapor rub: uncapped, lying sideways like a crime scene victim. A pack of tissues: half-used and tucked behind the toaster like contraband.

Shane walks forward a few steps. “Man with a cold,” he says under his breath.

Ilya’s head lifts like a dog who’s just heard a gun cock.

“I don’t get sick,” he snaps and it would be more convincing if his voice didn’t crack halfway through. “My blood is strong. Is Russian blood.”

“Right. I forgot,” Shane says, moving to the fridge. “You’re built different.”

“Exactly.”

“You sound like a dying chainsaw.”

“I sound mysterious and sexy.”

“Sexy chainsaw.”

Ilya glares at him over the rim of his mug. His nose is just starting to pink at the edges. His eyes have that slight puffiness he always gets when his body’s fighting something off: barely there but visible if you know where to look. Shane knows.

“What’s the hoodie situation?” Shane asks, pulling orange juice from the fridge. “You sleeping in that now?”

“I sleep in this always,” Ilya says immediately, with full Slavic finality. “Is perfect balance of comfort and intimidation.”

“You’re sweating.”

“I am passionate.”

Shane raises an eyebrow. Ilya sniffs again. This one louder and when he reaches up to wipe at his nose, he tries to pass it off like he’s scratching his upper lip, but Shane sees it.

Then the real mistake happens: the sneeze. It barrels out of him like a gunshot: shoulders jerking forward and the whole thing ending in a low groan of betrayal and a sniff that sounds like someone stepped on a goose. Shane looks at him.

“That a dust explosion too?”

Ilya wipes his nose like a man betrayed by God. “Fuck off.”

~*~

Practice is much worse. It’s subtle at first, just a few seconds slower off the line, a little less bite in his stride, but Shane notices it immediately. He’s played with Ilya long enough now, trained with him every week, slept beside him and he can feel the drag in his pace like gravity.

Then the tells stack up. Ilya doesn’t chirp the rookies. Doesn’t yell at Dahl when he misses a clear. Doesn’t shout “Get out of my crease” at all, even when someone very much is in his crease. Plus he keeps doing that thing where he clears his throat like he’s trying to cough up a hairball.

By the third drill, Coach pulls him aside. Nothing dramatic; just a quiet talk, a hand on the shoulder, the kind of check-in meant for guys who’ve logged enough ice time to be stubborn about it. Ilya nods. Hard, too hard if you ask Shane (which no one does) and waves the coach off. Then goes out and misses a pass from Shane. A clean, perfect, gift-wrapped pass on a two-on-one. It slides right past his stick like it’s allergic to him.

Ilya just stares at it.

Shane glides in next to him, tapping the tip of his stick against Ilya’s skate. “You’re fine, huh?”

Ilya doesn’t look at him. “I was blinded by overhead lights.”

“It’s ten-thirty.”

“Canadian lights. Very aggressive.”

Shane sighs and skates off before he says something more honest.

~*~

By the time they get home, Ilya’s gone full trench coat. Hoodie zipped all the way up, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape, entire posture sagging into a dramatic slump as he drapes himself across the couch. He groans, long and theatrical, like a deathbed performance. One arm flung across his eyes.

“Don’t touch me,” he says.

Shane raises an eyebrow, stepping out of his shoes. “I wasn’t going to.”

“I will infect you.”

“I thought you weren’t sick.”

“I am not. But if I was, it would be highly contagious. Russian strain. Very dangerous.”

“You sound like a propaganda poster.”

“I am propaganda. Of resilience.”

Shane crosses the room and his hand on Ilya’s forehead. The hiss he gets in return is practically demonic.

“You’re burning up,” Shane says flatly.

“Is passion.”

“Your nose is running.”

“Is efficiency. Streamlined.”

“Your eyes are bloodshot.”

“I am Russian. Is my natural state.”

Shane grabs a pillow off the armchair and whacks him gently in the chest with it. Ilya wheezes in return.

“Go to bed.”

“No.”

“Ilya.”

“I will not surrender to capitalist virus. I will sweat it out. I will dominate my immune system with force of will.”

Shane doesn’t even answer this time just tosses the blanket up and over him entirely. A minute later, Ilya’s head pokes out, blinking slowly.

“I am warrior,” he says.

Then his eyes flutter closed. He’s out cold in five.

~*~

The thing about waking up next to a six-foot-three Russian tank of a man with a fever is that he generates approximately the same body heat as a malfunctioning space heater set to hell. Shane wakes tangled in sheets that smell like menthol and eucalyptus and man-sweat, with Ilya half on top of him, one arm flung over his chest like a sandbag. He’s radiating heat like a reactor core. His face is buried in Shane’s neck and when he exhales, it’s like someone opened a portable sauna directly under Shane’s jaw.

Shane shifts slightly, peels himself out from under Ilya’s weight and immediately regrets it because the second Ilya stirs, eyes still shut, brows furrowed, he lets out a groan so full of suffering it could be played at a funeral.

“Mmnnngh,” he mumbles.

Shane freezes mid-blanket-peel-back. “Good morning to you too.”

“Dead,” Ilya mutters, voice gravel.

“You’re not dead.”

“I am ghost.”

“Ghosts don’t sweat through their hoodies.”

Ilya grunts. It might be agreement, or a threat, the translation is unclear.

Shane sighs, sits up, scrubs a hand through his hair and peers down at him. Even half-asleep and flu-stunned, Ilya looks like a tragic painting: pale skin flushed at the cheeks, stubble dark across his jaw, curls sticking up in all directions. His eyes crack open for half a second, bloodshot and bleary, then immediately slam shut again. Shane presses the back of his hand to Ilya’s forehead. Still boiling.

Ilya groans and swats weakly at him. “Stop judging me.”

“I’m not judging.”

“You are thinking bad things.”

“I’m thinking you have a fever.”

“Is betrayal.”

“What is?”

“My body. I train like ox. I eat clean. I take cold plunge every day.”

“Yeah and then you spend half the night playing CS:GO shirtless on the couch like an idiot with a death wish.”

“Shhh.”

“You’re sick.”

“Shhh!”

“Say it.”

“No.”

“Say it.”

Ilya opens one eye and glares at him. Shane crosses his arms.

Ilya groans again. “You are cruel and heartless boyfriend.”

“I will get the thermometer.”

“Lies! Western propaganda!”

~*~

Shane does get the thermometer. He also gets Tylenol, a glass of water and a cool washcloth. When he returns, Ilya has migrated to the couch, wrapped like a medieval plague victim in the throw blanket, hoodie still fully on, sweat-damp and defiant. His nose is red, his lips are chapped and there’s a tissue stuck behind his ear. Shane plants himself in front of him.

“Open.”

Ilya glares. Shane raises the thermometer. Ilya grumbles something in Russian but lets Shane tuck it under his tongue anyway. They wait. Shane taps his foot. Ilya crosses his arms.

Beep.

Shane lifts it out, squints.

“103.9.”

“Is fine,” Ilya says immediately.

“That’s not fine.”

“Is acceptable heat. My body fighting. Winning.”

“Your body is losing.”

Ilya sniffles violently and wipes his nose with the back of his hand like a barbarian. Shane throws a tissue box at his chest.

“Use something, you animal.”

“Don’t like tissues,” Ilya mumbles, voice thick. “They betray nose. Fall apart. Weak paper.”

“You’re delirious.”

“I’m passionate.”

Shane kneels in front of him, holds out the Tylenol and the water. “Take this. Drink. Then you can lie here and whine all you want.”

Ilya narrows his eyes. “What else do I get?”

“A medal, maybe, for bravery in the face of viral illness.”

“Hand stuff?”

“You’ll sneeze on my dick.”

Ilya looks contemplative.

Shane groans. “Pills. Now.”

Ilya takes them like a martyr accepting his fate, dramatically tipping his head back and swallowing with a grimace. Shane kisses his forehead before standing.

“You are the worst nurse,” Ilya mumbles, curling deeper into the couch.

“Good thing I’m not your nurse,” Shane mutters, heading for the kitchen. “I’m your long-suffering boyfriend with better immune function.”

~*~

The rest of the day is a combination of the following:

Ilya refusing to stay in bed because “bed is symbol of weakness.”

Ilya making it through six minutes of a documentary about Viking warfare before falling asleep with his mouth open and snoring like a jet engine.

Ilya accusing Shane of poisoning him when he tries to give him NyQuil.

Ilya spilling soup on his own lap, swearing in two languages, then blaming “gravity and Shane’s sinful eyebrows” for his suffering.

Ilya texting their group chat a selfie with a hot water bottle and the caption:
“I am dying. Remember me with greatness.”
followed by:
“also tell Hollander to stop hoarding orange juice”
Shane sends back:
“He’s high on fever. Please ignore.”
Then, to Ilya directly:
“How much cold medicine did you take?”
The reply is immediate:
“Seven.”
“You mean millilitres?”
“Shane.”
“Ilya.”
“I see God.”

~*~

By nightfall, Ilya’s dozing again, curled up under a second blanket, hoodie still on, cheeks flushed and breathing soft through his mouth. The worst of the fever hasn’t broken but he’s not shivering anymore. Shane stands in the kitchen, sipping his tea, watching him like he’s some kind of feral bear cub that wandered into the house and demanded soup.

He sighs.

“Russian,” he mutters affectionately, “my ass.”

Shane knows immediately that something is wrong when he hears Ilya laughing. Not the usual sharp, mean little huff Ilya does when he’s being smug. Oh no, this is high-pitched, loose, absolutely unheard of. Shane freezes in the kitchen, mug halfway to his mouth.

The laugh comes again. Followed by murmured Russian. Then a very clear, very fond, “No, no, do not put your tail there you silly cat.”

Shane stares down the hallway. They do not have a cat. They have never had a cat. Ilya is violently allergic to cats. Shane sets his mug down slowly and walks toward the bedroom.

Ilya is propped up against the headboard, buried under almost every blanket they own, hoodie still on (of course), hair damp with sweat and sticking up like he’s been electrocuted. His cheeks are flushed bright pink. His eyes are glassy and unfocused in the way Shane recognises from exactly one other time: the year Ilya tried edibles and spent forty minutes insisting the couch was “breathing.”

He is staring very intently at the empty space near the foot of the bed. Smiling. Soft and fond.

“Hey,” Shane says carefully.

Ilya turns his head, squints a little and then grins, wide and unguarded.

“Shaaaane,” he says, delighted. “You are here too.”

“Yeah,” Shane says. “I live here.”

Ilya nods, satisfied. Then looks back toward the foot of the bed.

“Is good,” he says solemnly. “Cat is meeting family.”

Shane closes his eyes for one second. One.

“There is no cat,” he says gently.

Ilya gasps, clearly offended. “Do not lie to me in my time of need.”

“I’m not lying.”

“He is right there,” Ilya insists, pointing. His finger wobbles dramatically. “Grey. Very judgmental. Like coach but smaller.”

Shane looks. There is nothing there because of course there’s not; the man is hallucinating something fierce.

“What’s his name?” Shane asks, indulging his ill-as-balls boyfriend, because this is his life now apparently.

Ilya thinks and squints even harder, bordering on painful.

“Sergei,” he decides. “He is from Saint Petersburg.”

“Of course he is.”

Ilya beams. “He understands me.”

Shane sits on the edge of the bed. “Ilya, how much NyQuil did you take.”

Ilya’s eyes light up with mischief.

“Shane,” he says conspiratorially, leaning in. “Is blue.”

“That’s not an amount.”

“It is a vibe.”

Ten minutes later, Shane is on his phone, texting their team doctor.

Shane:
Hypothetically, how loopy is “too loopy” on cold meds

Doc:
Is he conscious?

Shane looks at Ilya, who is currently whispering to Sergei the imaginary cat.

“Да, да, ты очень хороший,” Ilya coos. “Very handsome. Like me but smaller.”

Shane:
Yes but barely

Doc:
He’s fine. Keep him hydrated. No more meds tonight.

Shane exhales. Ilya giggles, actually giggles, a soft, bubbling sound that Shane has never heard come out of him before.

Shane looks up. “What’s funny.”

Ilya presses his lips together, trying and failing to contain it.

“You have face like you are losing fight with ghost,” he says.

Shane snorts despite himself. “You’re hallucinating a cat.”

“He is not hallucination,” Ilya says firmly. “Is emotional support animal.”

He reaches out and very gently pats empty air.

“Good cat,” he whispers.

Then, abruptly, he turns back to Shane, eyes shining.

“I love you,” he says. Then, frowning: “Wait. Is that too much? No. Is correct.”

Just like that. Shane’s breath catches. Ilya smiles even wider, clearly pleased with himself.

“I love you so much,” he continues, words tumbling out loose and warm. “You are very good man. You make soup even when I insult it. You have strong legs. Very reliable.”

Shane laughs weakly. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Ilya nods, solemn. Then giggles again. “Also your ass is excellent.”

“Fantastic,” Shane mutters. “I’m glad the fever brought us here.”

Ilya leans forward suddenly and presses his forehead into Shane’s chest, nuzzling like a cat himself.

“I miss you when you leave the room,” he says, voice muffled. “Is very rude.”

“I went to pee.”

“Unacceptable.”

Shane wraps an arm around him automatically, hand rubbing slow circles into his back.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Ilya hums, pleased, then looks up at him with sudden seriousness.

“You know,” he says, carefully, “if cat bites you, it is because he trusts you.”

Shane nods. “That’s…good to know.”

Ilya yawns enormously, whole body sagging. His head lolls against Shane’s shoulder.

“Shane?”

“Yeah, baby.”

“You are my favourite person,” Ilya murmurs. “Don’t tell Sergei.”

“I won’t,” Shane says softly.

Ilya giggles one last time. Then he’s out: mouth open, breathing deep and even, one hand still curled like it’s resting on imaginary fur. Shane sits there for a long moment, heart doing something stupid in his chest. He presses a kiss to Ilya’s hair.

“Sleep it off, you menace,” he whispers.

From the foot of the bed, Sergei the imaginary cat says nothing at all.

~*~

By mid-afternoon on Day Four, Shane has physically peeled Ilya off of him three separate times. Once while trying to make tea. Once while trying to shower. Once, most alarmingly, while attempting to retrieve laundry from the dryer, at which point Ilya had pressed himself against Shane’s back and whispered, voice still destroyed and rasping like a haunted cello, “I will fold your socks if you let me see your nipples.”

Shane had shouted and dropped a dryer ball; Ilya had giggled like it was the funniest thing that had ever happened to him.

Shane is currently hiding in the hallway, wedged between the coat rack and the thermostat, with his phone pressed to his ear.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Oh no,” his mom says immediately. “What did he break this time?”

“His immune system,” Shane mutters. “Ilya has the flu.”

“Ohhh,” she breathes, sympathy and dread in equal measure. “Is he a dramatic sick person?”

Shane slides down the wall and sits on the floor, rubbing both hands over his face.

“He was in denial for the first day and a half. Claimed Russian blood can’t get sick. Now he’s post-fever and has decided he’s being punished and that the only cure is physical intimacy.”

Yuna snorts. “Oh no.”

“He keeps trying to kiss me. With cough drops in his mouth.”

“Oh no.”

“And when I told him he’s still contagious, he made a wounded sound and said, ‘But you are my comfort object.’”

His mom loses it; laughs so hard Shane has to hold the phone away from his ear.

“He keeps trying to get me into bed.”

“He’s still sick!”

“I know!”

“Have you told him no?”

“Repeatedly. He makes wounded puppy noises. Then starts complimenting my body in Russian.”

“Which you only understand half of.”

“Correct. But I know when he’s talking about my ass.”

“Well,” Yuna says after a pause, voice still warm with laughter, “you do have a nice ass.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“Too late.”

Shane drops his head back against the wall. There’s a muffled thump from the bedroom, followed by a hoarse, musical “Shaaaaane…?”

“Oh my God,” Shane whispers.

“I heard that,” Yuna says.

“I’m not even exaggerating. He’s worse than my high school drama club.”

“I raised you to pick strong partners.”

“I picked a six-foot-three flu-ridden nightmare.”

“You picked someone who loves you.”

Shane exhales and stares at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” he says. “He really does.”

“You sound exhausted.”

“I am.”

“Do you need me to send you soup? Ginger tea? A priest?”

Shane chuckles tiredly. “Just needed someone to tell me I’m not insane.”

“You’re not insane. You’re just dating a Russian bear with a head cold and no sense of boundaries.”

There’s a rustling from the bedroom. Then Ilya’s voice again, still hoarse, still dramatic, still far too close.

“If I cough on your mouth, it is kiss of passion!”

Yuna wheezes through the phone. Shane closes his eyes.

“I have to go,” he says. “I think he’s in my shirt drawer.”

“Godspeed, baby.”

“Tell Dad I love him.”

“Tell Ilya if he kisses you with a cough drop again I’ll come to Ottawa and put him in a medically induced coma.”

Shane grins, despite the exhaustion, despite the absurdity of everything.

“Love you, Mom.”

“Love you more.”

He hangs up, takes one deep breath and walks back into battle.

~*~

Shane had thought, foolishly, that the walk-in closet would be a safe zone. He’d made it there under the pretense of changing into clean sweats, which he’d earned, dammit. He’d spent the last hour being harassed by a man with the flu and the libido of a teenager. A man who, despite being covered in VapoRub and still blowing his nose like a cartoon elephant, had cornered Shane in the kitchen and whispered, “Do you want to suck on something warm, Hollander?” while holding a lozenge.

Shane had, quite reasonably, said no and fled. So now he’s in the closet, hoodie off, t-shirt halfway over his head, mid-change, when—

The door creaks. Shane freezes, arms tangled above his ears, eyes wide. Then a voice; raspy and smug and too close.

“I found you.”

Shane yanks the shirt down in a panic, catches it halfway on, stumbles slightly.

“Jesus, Ilya—”

He’s leaning on the doorframe like he didn’t have to pause halfway down the hallway to cough into the banister. His hair’s a mess, eyes still glassy but the grin on his face is pure trouble.

“Why are you hiding?” he asks, stepping inside.

“I’m not hiding.”

Ilya shuts the door behind him. Latches it.

“Liar.”

“I was getting dressed.”

“Why? Take it off again.”

Shane narrows his eyes. “You’re sweating through your hoodie.”

“Is proof of love.”

“You’re ill.”

“I am vital.”

“You just hallucinated a cat and tried to kiss me with a Hall’s in your mouth.”

“You are cruel.”

“You’re gross.”

Ilya steps closer, backing him gently against the shelving unit, his large body crowding into the narrow space like he knows exactly what he’s doing. His grin has gone dreamy.

“You smell nice.”

“I smell like dryer sheets.”

“Exactly. Is sexiest smell.”

Shane presses his hands to Ilya’s chest. “Do not kiss me.”

Ilya leans in, eyes heavy-lidded.

“I want to taste you,” he rasps.

Shane blinks. “You want to taste me.”

“Yes.”

“You taste like cold medicine and bad decisions.”

“Delicious.”

“Ilya—”

“Shane,” Ilya breathes, eyes locked on his mouth. “My fever is broken, only my heart is hot now.” He pauses, sniffles. “Also my sinuses. Fuck.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I want to do things to you. Carnal things.”

“You can’t even breathe through your nose.”

“I will adapt.”

“You’re leaning on the shelving unit because you’re lightheaded.”

“I am leaning because I am yearning.”

“You’re impossible.”

Ilya smiles. Then sniffles. Then, tragically, sneezes: a full-body, dramatic, nuclear sneeze that nearly folds him in half. He stumbles, grips Shane’s arms for balance and mutters something miserable in Russian. Shane sighs, reaches up and brushes his hair off his forehead.

“Back to bed,” he says.

“No,” Ilya says weakly. “Want to make love in linen closet.”

“This is a walk-in, not a linen closet.”

“Still romantic.”

“You’re congested.”

“I am Russian!”

Shane snorts, finally breaking. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Ilya leans his whole weight into Shane’s chest, arms wrapping around him like an oversized flu-blanket.

“You do?”

Shane pauses. Then, quietly, because it’s true, because it always has been, “You know I do.”

Ilya hums and snuffles into his neck. Then immediately tries to kiss him again. Shane yelps, shoving him back as gently as you can with an over amorous sex pest.

“Stop trying to tongue me with cough drops!”

“I am seducing you.”

“You’re contagious!”

“I am in love!”

Shane peels him off, turns him around, opens the door and begins marching him back toward the bedroom.

“You’re going to sleep for a thousand years and then we’ll revisit your seduction plan when you’re no longer oozing fever out of your pores.”

“I want to dry-hump you against laundry hamper.”

“Absolutely not.”

Ilya coughs.

“I want to suck—”

“BED, Rozanov.”

Day Four ends with Ilya passed out sideways across the bed, hoodie askew, one arm around an imaginary Sergei the Cat, mumbling “Shane has good thighs” into the pillow.

Shane puts in earplugs and prays for mercy or at least a swift death.

~*~

Shane wakes to the smell of actual, acrid, fuck-me-that’s-burning smoke. He bolts upright in bed, heart in his throat. The other side of the bed is empty. Which is worse; way worse, because Ilya Rozanov, now five days into the world’s most dramatic flu recovery, is not supposed to be upright. He’s supposed to be sleeping. Hydrating. Texting Shane selfies of his own pitiful hoodie-clad form.

Instead, Shane is now jogging barefoot into the hallway in yesterday’s underwear, eyes watering as he gets closer to the kitchen.

“Ilya!”

From the other side of the doorway: clatter—clang—ow— coughing. Then:
“Everything is under control!”

Shane rounds the corner and stops. And blinks. Ilya is standing in the middle of the kitchen, shirtless, wearing only a pair of Centaurs gym shorts and one (1) sock. His curls are damp, his chest still glows faintly pink from the fever, and there’s a smudge of something - maybe jam? maybe smoke? - on his cheekbone. He’s got a spatula in one hand, a tea towel in the other and a wild look in his eyes.

“You look like you escaped a sauna and joined a cult,” Shane says, staring at the mismatched sock.

Then, he looks at the stovetop. Looks at the smoking toaster. There’s a piece of bread sticking out of it that’s so blackened it looks like a tombstone. The fire alarm begins to beep. Ilya looks proud. Shane walks calmly over, hits the toaster’s cancel button, yanks the bread free and drops it directly into the sink.

“Jesus Christ—”

“I am making breakfast.”

“You are committing arson.”

“It is toast.”

“It’s charcoal.”

“Is rustic.”

Shane grabs a dish towel and waves it at the alarm. Ilya coughs. Then shrugs and opens the fridge like this is all part of the plan.

“There are eggs,” he says helpfully.

“Don’t touch them.”

“I feel strong now. My vitality is back.”

“You sneezed into your elbow not five minutes ago.”

“That was expression of power.”

Shane finally gets the alarm to stop. Drops the towel. Turns. Ilya is cracking an egg directly into a frying pan that is not hot. Also, he is using a spoon.

“Get. Out. Of. The. Kitchen.”

Ilya pouts. Shane herds him gently but firmly back toward the living room.

“You cannot seduce me with breakfast incompetence.”

“But I tried.”

“I know.”

“I made toast with love.”

“You made smoke with intent.”

Ilya sinks onto the couch, theatrically wounded. Shane sighs, returns to the kitchen and salvages something: a frozen breakfast sandwich, microwaveable. Safe. Contains zero threat of house fire. He brings it back and hands it to Ilya, who brightens immediately like a child handed candy.

“You are such a good boyfriend,” he says through his first bite. “I am lucky man.”

“You’re an unwell man,” Shane mutters, collapsing beside him.

Ilya grins and reaches for him, pulling Shane sideways into his lap like it’s nothing; like Shane weighs two pounds and they didn’t just survive five days of sickness, hallucinated pets and medical melodrama.

“You should kiss me now,” Ilya says, mouth full of sandwich.

Shane leans back. “You still sound like an air conditioner with a chest infection.”

“Voice is sexy. Like Bond villain.”

“You tried to cook eggs in a cold pan with a spoon.”

“Seduction tactic.”

“You nearly killed me.”

“Now you owe me life debt.”

Shane rolls his eyes then leans in and kisses him anyway; slow, long, messy in the best way. Ilya hums.

“See,” he whispers. “Is victory kiss.”

Shane pulls back just enough to look at him.

“Next time you want a victory kiss,” he says, “just tell me before you light the kitchen on fire.”

Ilya grins, eyes crinkling.

“Da. I promise.”

He’s lying: he absolutely does not promise. But Shane stays in his lap anyway because God help him, he missed this.

~*~

By the time Shane’s settled them on the couch for the evening, it’s the first time in five days that Ilya doesn’t look like a sick Victorian orphan. He’s freshly showered. Hair damp and curling just slightly at his temples. Eyes clear again: no fever glassiness, no cold-medicine hallucination lurking in the corners. His nose is still pink and he’s got the tail-end rasp of congestion in his voice but he looks like Ilya again. Which is to say: annoyingly handsome, focused and lying in wait for the next opportunity to be an unbearable little shit.

Shane sets the remote down. “Movie?”

“Anything,” Ilya says from the couch nest. “As long as you don’t leave.”

“Not going anywhere.”

Shane queues something quiet, nothing they haven’t seen before; some old heist movie Ilya half-remembers the ending of. Just noise and light to fill the room. The couch is a fortress of throw blankets and squashed pillows. Ilya’s under two of them, stretched long, one arm out, waiting. Shane lowers himself into the space and lets Ilya pull him close. Nestled like that - hips lined up, faces nearly touching, heat pressed full-body into him - Ilya doesn’t feel sick anymore. Just warm and solid.

“You’re clingy,” Shane murmurs.

“I was near death,” Ilya says. “Must be close to source of life.”

Shane snorts. “I’m a boyfriend, not a power outlet.”

Ilya presses a kiss to his neck. “Mmm. You are both.”

They lie there, movie flickering, low sound washing over them. Ilya runs his hand in lazy patterns down Shane’s back, over his ribs. Just…touching. Eventually, it dips lower.

Shane tilts his head. “You’re still recovering.”

“I have recovered.”

“You coughed on my foot three hours ago.”

“Cough was dramatic punctuation.”

“Ilya—”

Ilya hooks a knee over Shane’s thigh, drawing him just a little closer.

“Let me touch you,” he says, quieter now.

Shane breathes in then pauses. The word comes out rough but soft: “Okay.”

Ilya slides his hand under Shane’s waistband and just like that, it shifts. Shane’s cock hardens almost instantly at the contact; slow days of tension, teasing, all that heat and no outlet. Ilya’s hand is warm and sure, wrapping around him like he knows what Shane needs, which of course he does because he can read Shane like a fucking book. The blankets rustle as Shane shifts into it, letting his head fall against Ilya’s chest.

“Slow,” he breathes.

Ilya hums, kisses his temple and obeys. His hand moves in easy, steady strokes. Just the right pressure: his thumb brushing the head with every pass. Shane’s hips twitch once, involuntary. Ilya adjusts and cups him deeper.

“I missed this,” Shane mutters.

“I missed you.” Ilya’s voice is still hoarse but the way he says it? It ruins Shane.

They don’t talk much after that. Shane gasps softly, biting down on a moan, curling tighter into Ilya’s side. The blankets make it feel like they’re the only people in the world. The only movement is Ilya’s hand, his chest rising against Shane’s shoulder. His other hand smoothing over Shane’s hip, grounding him. And when Shane comes, his jaw slack, breathing ragged and hand gripping Ilya’s wrist, it’s not loud or wild. It’s just good. It feels right: a release they’ve both been waiting for, in one way or another.

Ilya kisses his hair and murmurs something too low to hear. Shane just breathes and lets himself be held.

~*~
Ilya

Ilya wakes to warmth. Real warmth this time. Not fever-heat, not the sick-sweat damp of six days ago. Just morning light spilling through the curtains and Shane’s body curled against his, soft and sleep-heavy, one leg thrown over his thigh. And Ilya? Hard. Ready. That thick, full ache of finally being back in his body. His chest feels lighter. Nose clearer. Skin no longer thrumming with sickness. And Shane, Shane is right there, shirtless, breathing warm against his neck, his hand curled just under Ilya’s hoodie, palm resting low on his stomach.

So close.

Ilya moves a little, just enough to roll onto his side, facing Shane now. His hips press forward into the blanket and into Shane, who shifts, just slightly, groaning faintly but not waking. Ilya exhales, long and quiet. Then reaches down, eases Shane’s hand under the waistband of his sleep shorts.

Shane twitches, mumbles something unintelligible, but his fingers curl around Ilya automatically, familiar and warm, and that first touch, fuck, Ilya bites down a sound, hips rolling into it. Shane blinks his eyes open a moment later, groggy, squinting, lips parted. Ilya looks at him. Waits.

“Good morning,” Shane says, voice still raw with sleep.

Ilya grins. “It is now.”

Shane smiles too, lazy and crooked, then his hand moves; that first stroke down his length, slow and confident, and Ilya shudders, forehead pressing into Shane’s.

“God,” he murmurs. “Was worth dying for.”

“You didn’t die.”

“I saw things.”

“You hallucinated a cat.”

“His name was Sergei. Don’t mock him.”

Shane snorts, strokes again, tighter this time. “You feel okay?”

Ilya nods, breath catching. “Better. Not perfect. But this…” He thrusts gently into Shane’s hand. “This is very healing.”

Shane grins. Then leans in and kisses him, slow and close-mouthed and warm, and keeps touching him the whole time.

When the kiss breaks, Ilya says, “Can I fuck your mouth?”

Shane raises an eyebrow.

Ilya huffs. “Please.”

Shane stretches out under the blankets, hand sliding out of Ilya’s waistband.

“Don’t be gross,” he says lightly.

Then he shifts down and the blankets shift with him. Ilya watches him disappear. Shane pulls his shorts down lazily, freeing him. Presses a kiss to the head of Ilya’s cock like it’s a blessing then opens his mouth and takes him in. Ilya groans, nearly choked on the pleasure. Shane’s mouth is warm. Slick. He sinks down slow, hand stroking what he can’t fit, eyes fluttered closed in concentration. His tongue presses just right; his jaw moves steady. Ilya’s fingers curl into the sheets and his thighs tense.

“Fuck, Shane…”

Shane hums. The vibration nearly wrecks him. Ilya’s hips twitch once and Shane lets him: lets him fuck into the heat of his mouth, groaning softly like he wants it. The blankets rustle. The sun creeps higher through the window. Ilya’s breathing sharpens, stuttering now.

“Don’t stop,” he rasps, voice still rough from the flu but steady with need. “Shane…”

Shane’s hand grips his hip. He bobs his head, deepens it, and Ilya, fuck, he loses it. He comes with a full-body tremor, hand in Shane’s hair, mouth open, back arched as cum spills out of him in pulse after pulse, Shane swallowing everything, slow and sure and fucking gorgeous.

When it’s over - when Ilya’s chest heaves and his hand drops limp and his cock twitches in oversensitive bliss - Shane climbs back up the bed, wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist and curls into him again like nothing happened.

Ilya looks at him: blown-out pupils, sleep mussed hair; smug, sleepy smile.

“I’m still mad about the toaster,” Shane murmurs.

Ilya kisses his temple. “I would burn it again for you.”

“You almost did.”

Ilya closes his eyes and contentedly.

“Best flu ever,” he mumbles.

He’s already drifting when he says it, voice thick with sleep. Shane watches his breathing even out; watches the way his mouth falls open just a little.

Five days of fever. One imaginary cat. A nearly destroyed toaster.

Shane presses a kiss to his temple.

“You’re such an idiot,” he says and means it in the best possible way.

He doesn’t move when Ilya curls closer.