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Ilya stepped through the front door of the Cottage and let his bags fall to the floor with a thud, a long, weary groan escaping as his eyes slipped closed, heavy and surprisingly sore.
It had been a long season, and an even longer end with their chase towards the finals, followed by what felt like a never ending string of parties for him as he wrapped up his time in Boston. He’d never drunk so much in his life this past week and was absolutely ready to just stop and relax with Shane as soon as he arrived that next night.
Montreal had pulled ahead of them a few weeks back, and so Shane had only wrapped his season a few days prior when Detroit knocked them out in game two. Much to Ilya's dismay, Shane had been delayed in the city with a few meetings before he could come up to the cottage, where they could finally, finally be together for the entire summer.
Ilya had admittedly been frustrated and a bit sad that he couldn’t take his team to the playoffs in his final season with them, but it had given him time to sort out his affairs in Boston and pack up his life in preparation for his move to Ottawa, where his new life, his life closer to Shane, was about to begin.
His team mates were still perplexed as to why he had signed with the Centaurs, but Ilya had merely smiled, told them he was ready for a new challenge and a boring life in Canada and they had seemed to accept that the best they could. Though it hadn’t lessened the confusion from them, especially Marleau, who had taken it harder than the others.
He’d miss Cliff, and told him so pretty frankly, surprise flickering across his now ex-teammates face at the candidness from his now ex-captain. He’d been a good friend over the years, a steady presence in the team, someone who always had his back.
He’d thought countless times he may have told him about Shane and about the fucked up thing they had been doing that was now the most beautiful and important thing in his life.
And one day he would— Cliff deserved that.
Still, he had given Boston everything he had for the last nine years and so his teammates had celebrated him enthusiastically, and perhaps a little too hard, for Ilya had yet to bounce back from it all.
It was late now, and the world around him was dark and still and perfectly quiet in the way that it only could be up here. Quiet that is, bar the howling loons, and the trilling undertow of crickets that wrapped around everything like a persistent, calming breeze.
But that was the type of quiet that Ilya longed for now. He welcomed it, lived for it like it was the air that he needed to survive, taking in as much of it as he could every time he was here and letting it fill him up till he was almost bursting.
That and the sweet sound of his boyfriend moaning underneath him of course…
Ilya shut the door wearily, his feet suddenly feeling like lead now that he’d actually arrived at his destination— the only place that now felt like a physical home.
Home had always been a distant concept for him. After his mother died, Russia ceased to feel like a home, and then even though he’d settled himself in Boston from a young age, he was still a foreigner there.
He did feel a little like a drifter right now, living out of a suitcase, no brick and mortar abode for him to rest his soul a little while.
But…he supposed…If he really thought about it, wherever Shane was, that was his real home. So he’d take every second of warm arms and cosy cuddles with his boyfriend that he could get, letting it build up around him until they could finally settle somewhere, together.
He locked up and heaved himself up to the bedroom, slowly kicking his shoes off and clothes, letting them rest where they fell. He wearily dragged on some sweats and very ungracefully, flopped down onto the bed.
He knew he should eat some dinner, or shower even, or at least fish out the box of pop-tarts he knew he left here last time, but there was this bone deep exhaustion coursing through him, all hot and slow like molasses that weighed him down into the mattress. And as he sunk further into the soft sheets that still somehow smelled exactly like Shane, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to move from this spot anytime soon.
He knew he should call Shane, let him know he arrived safely. But maybe he should just shut his eyes for a second first— take a quick nap, recharge his weary brain, and then unpack and sort himself out.
“Spat” Ilya mumbled into the bed covers, convincing himself into a nap as he closed his eyes and let the darkness seep in and claim him.
…
Ilya woke to a soft hand sweeping back the curls from his forehead and the distant hum of a voice that was usually the undercurrent of his dreams.
It took a moment for his brain to catch up and push aside how nice it felt and how familiar the hands were, before his body jolted upright in panic as he finally realised he was not alone in the bed.
“Hey, hey it’s okay.”
“Shane…” Ilya gasped, heart racing as he clutched a hand to his heaving chest, eyes raking frantically over his boyfriend, who in turn was holding up his hands like he’d just startled a wild animal. He rattled off a series of words in Russian as he tried to get his heart rate back under control and he could return to English. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry I scared you,” He edged forward, taking Ilya's still quivering hands in his, entangling their fingers. “My meeting got cancelled so I decided to just come straight here. I couldn’t bear not being with you any longer, fuck I’ve missed you so much.”
Ilya melted at this, heart aching as he took in the man before him. Shane’s hair was longer than normal, flopping over his head and perfectly rumpled like he’d ruffled a hand through it too many times. His eyes were dark and bright, burning with obvious desire and Ilya drank it up greedily.
God he’d missed him so much, every inch of him. From the freckles that danced across his rosy cheeks and the dip of his eyebrows as he glowered fondly at Ilya, to the perfect curve of his ass as he arched into him and the feel of Shane’s arms around him.
It had been a long few weeks getting through the season end and they’d barely managed to scrape in a full day together in what felt like months.
“You never have to apologise for that,” Ilya shook his head, eyes soft and wanting, his hands reaching up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Shane’s ear. “You just scared me, I was gone to the world.”
“Dead to the world?” Shane smirked, offering up the phrase easily and Ilya waved his hand in the air as he conceded to the correction. “I’m surprised you were still asleep though, it’s almost lunchtime. Are you hungry, shall I make us something?”
Lunchtime. That surprised Ilya as well. He’d been tired, but he hadn’t expected to sleep well over 12 hours. And even more surprisingly, he didn’t feel the least bit hungry. In fact, he was fairly certain if he laid back down, he'd go right back to sleep.
“No,” Ilya shook his head, eyes heavily lidded as he pulled Shane to him, arms wrapping around his body firmly. Shane huffed out a laugh into his chest relaxing into Ilya's hold. “I don’t want your healthy smoothie.”
“I wasn’t going to make that,” Shane rolled his eyes, tipping his head upwards and pressing into his lips, kissing Ilya deeply, an edge of urgency wrapped around the weight of it.
Ilya took his time as he rolled on top of him, exploring his boyfriend's face and neck and collarbone, peppering kiss after kiss drawing out perfect little moans from Shane as he tried to reciprocate the attention while slowly being undone where he lay.
Shane eventually managed to take back control and Ilya gave it up easily, letting Shane flip them so he could straddle his body as he took the lead. After a few breathless, blissful moments though he pulled back, pausing to search Ilya’s face, a worry settled across the plane of his brows.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asked, a soft tilt to his head in question.
“Of course. Just….tired probably. Spent many days partying.” Ilya mumbled, a deep sigh escaping as he melted into the touch of Shane’s thumbs as they swept small circles over his cheeks, something he’d been dreaming of for weeks. The motion was so relaxing he worried it might put him back to sleep.
“You look terrible actually.”
“Well I am not pretty like you, this is something I must live with everyday.” Ilya retorted sleepily.
“Ilya.”
“Hmmm.” Ilya stirred as he heard his name called, and it sounded like it may not have been the first time Shane had said it.
“You actually feel like you may have a temperature.” Shane's voice hovered above him somewhere, blurry around the edges and laced with worry.
“I’m fine.” Ilya responded immediately, but his voice broke in betrayal and he knew it didn’t sound very convincing.
“You’re hot.” Shane responded, hand now pressing against Ilya’s forehead.
“Of course I am.” Ilya swatted his hand away, and tried his best to look perfectly fine. Because he was fine. Totally fine. Maybe he did just need to get up and eat something.
Shane narrowed his eyes at him. “No, like you feel like you have a fever, you idiot.”
Ilya waved him off, but as he pushed himself up he had to pause for a moment as the room spun and his stomach rolled unpleasantly. He yawned, feigning tiredness and hoping Shane didn’t notice the way he’d swayed ever so slightly.
“Where are you going? Maybe you should just stay in bed?” Shane winced and Ilya reached out to gently pat his boyfriend's leg reassuringly.
“I’ll be okay. Food may be a good idea, moy lyubovnik, and then I want to ravage you.”
“Ravage me?” Shane asked in amusement, a dangerous glint in his eyes, all bright with desire.
“Yes, it is my right as your poor, deprived boyfriend, but first… bathroom.” Ilya explained easily, but as he pulled himself up and walked slowly toward the ensuite, he struggled to ignore the way the world felt incredibly off kilter. He could feel Shane’s eyes on his retreating form, the weight of his gaze so heavy, like he couldn't bear to let him out of his sight. He worried too easily though.
He held on the best he could, he truly did, that much he should be commended for.
As Ilya was on his way back from the bathroom and he realised how much he longed…no needed, to be lying down again, the floor seemed to tilt and he felt himself listing heavily into the wall. Strong hands were on him quickly though, Shane holding him upright and taking him up in his arms.
“Fuck, Ilya.” Shane was immediately guiding him to the bed, half carrying him as he sagged far too dramatically for Ilya’s own liking— he was Russian, he was stronger than this. Russians didn’t swoon for fucks sake.
“I’m fine…just…need…” Ilya tried to protest as Shane quickly pushed him back down into their bed, tucking him in like he was five. He willed his arms to shove off Shane, but they were already buried tight beneath the blankets, too weighed down in a blanket burrito to engage in any protest.
“Uhuh, and that’s why you just clung onto the wall for dear life, looking like you were moments away from passing out? Soooo fine.” Shane shook his head, holding Ilya down until he finally relented and sunk back into the pillows weakly.
“You worry too much Hollander...” He mumbled, succumbing finally to the woolly feeling in his head, his body heavy like he’d just run a marathon. “I still need you…I need…It’s been so long…”
“I know, baby.” Shane hummed in response, hands running through his curls, gentle and soft as always, lulling him back into the depths of sleep that had been reaching out to him.
Ilya exhaled, long and weary, and let the darkness pull him back in as warm lips pressed into his forehead, feeling safe with his boyfriend close by once more.
*
Shane isn’t sure, now that he really thinks about it, that he’s ever seen Ilya sick.
Over the many years they'd been together, officially or not, he’d never seen the Russian knocked down this hard and just so…visibly unwell.
At the beginning of the season when Boston had played in Montreal, Shane had been struck down by a silly seasonal flu. Ilya had brought him soup after the game that he’d missed and they’d done nothing but lie on the couch watching movies while Shane dozed in Ilya’s lap, his strong, large hands combing through his hair, bringing him more comfort than he realised he’d needed.
It had been foreign for them to not meet up and fuck each other senseless, but since their time at the cottage last year, those softer moments were become more frequent. Their relationship had taken on a new state— something stronger, more rooted in the quiet moments, the beautiful moments, the moments that made them stronger.
Still, it surprised Shane to see Ilya in this state, and he couldn't help but worry for his boyfriend.
He removed the thermometer from Ilya's mouth as it beeped quietly with its reading, the man in question barely conscious as he shivered, all unsettled and pale, a thin film of sweat coating his skin.
“Shit.” He muttered as he stared down at the screen, trying to keep his heart steady as 38.9 flashed at him warningly. “I swear Ilya, if this turns out to be the plague, you can sleep outside with the loons.”
“Wolf…birds…” Ilya stirred in his sleep, trembling ever so slightly where he was huddled into the covers.
Shane couldn’t help but just stare down at him for several minutes as he tried to get his head straight.
“Come on, you’re a fully grown adult and a professional athlete who has been sick before. You’re very capable of looking after someone who is now sick.” He muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair as he tried to regroup and pivot.
And so after 30 minutes of rapid googling, and letting himself be freaked out by doctor google, he did the next rational thing any 27 year old would do in a moment like this— he called his mother.
“Hi darling, did you make it okay?” Yuna answered on the third ring, and her warm voice brought immediate comfort to him, and to his horror, he almost cried down the line at her. “Are we still seeing you boys for dinner tomorrow night, I got salmon and salad and those cherry tart things that Ilya loves and—”
“Mom, hi.” He breathed out quickly, cutting off her food rambling. “I need your help… please.”
“Of course, anything Shane.” Something flipped in her voice immediately as Yuna heard the worry thick upon Shane’s plea. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Ilya is sick,” He frowned at his shivering boyfriend, whose mouth was parted a little as he dragged in ragged breaths. Shane reached out for his wrist and pressed his fingers into it, feeling for a pulse he already knew was there but brought him comfort nonetheless. “Like really sick.”
“Okay.” Yuna was all business, voice steady as ever. “What kind of sick?”
Shane raked a hand over his face. “He has a fever, 38.9. He’s pale, clammy and shivering like crazy and I know it’s just a flu or something, but that’s high right, like this is bad isn’t it? I’ve never seen him like this, he nearly passed out just before and I’m just worried that he—”
“Okay, Shane sweetheart, stop!” His mom cut him off sharply as he spiralled. “Take a deep breath for me.”
“Sorry.” He mumbled as he did just that, sniffling back the emotions that were threatening to overtake him at the moment. He hated seeing Ilya like this and he was so damn worried. “I don’t know what to do, I can’t just take him to a doctor.”
He hated that this thing between them, this beautiful thing, was still a secret to the world. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what would happen if he dragged Ilya into urgent care with dozens of eyes on them.
“Don’t think about that yet,” Yuna tried to pacify him. “That reading is high, yes. We don’t want it to get any higher so you need to try and cool him down and see if you can get him to take some Tylenol, can you do that?”
Shane knew she was phrasing it like a question to keep his mind on track and he was grateful for the focus.
“Yes, of course.” He nodded and put the phone on speaker, laying it down on the bedside table.
He pulled the covers off of his boyfriend, the tall man groaning in protest to lose the cosy, warm cocoon that he’d been wrapped up in.
“I’m sorry,” Shane whispered as he pulled him up and tried to tug off Ilya’s hoodie. His eyes narrowed as the movement hiked up his shirt underneath, exposing his unfairly sculpted abdomen, and the skin across his chest. “Uhhh…mom?”
“Yes?” She answered slowly, noting the change in his tone.
“I had chickenpox as a kid, right?”
“When you were 6, yes….why?” Yuna answered hesitantly.
“I think Ilya has chickenpox.” He sat back on his heels with a sigh, his eyes darting from one raised, red sore to the next, his creamy skin peppered with angry dots.
Things changed pretty quickly after that.
Yuna let him panic for a total of 10 seconds before she demanded his attention once more, putting him to work. She talked him into a Virtual Care call with a doctor, insisting that Ilya needed a medical professional’s opinion on the matter, that this was beyond what she could advise him on.
She reminded Shane that privacy is not just their right but also the law and that above all, Ilya's health was more important. He knew that, of course he did.
He wouldn’t ever let their secret get in the way of his boyfriend getting the care he needed, but it still filled him with anxiety when he had to give over all their details.
And as Ilya shivered in their bed, tossing and turning, lost in a fever dream, and Shane relayed information to the doctor on the other end of the line, he reminded himself what was most important in this moment— Ilya deserved the best care he could get, and Shane was going to make sure that happened.
He told his parents to keep their distance, no point getting anyone else sick and he was already exposed to it. But Yuna and David dropped off supplies and food for them both, which Shane was eternally grateful for.
And so he entered a new phase of their relationship— keep Ilya alive. Ply him with medication, and fluids, check temperature, don’t freak out, bring him broth, tea, gatorade, check temperature again, and keep it the fuck together.
Safe to say, he barely slept.
2 days later when Ilya’s fever spiked at 39.1, and he was sweating profusely through the sheets, his teeth chattering harshly, body writhing, Shane was seriously beginning to wonder if their secret was about to be blown…once and for all.
He was having a hard time getting Ilya’s fever to respond to the medication that had been dropped off to his door after the telehealth appointment, and he was worried that Ilya was getting too dehydrated. He was going to have to take him to the hospital soon.
Trying to force water into him was like asking a toddler to sit perfectly still and eat a 3 course meal without complaining. But he was managing….just.
Ilya, in his brief moments of lucidness, was quick to brush his hand away and to snap something in Russian first, before it followed with usually far less gusto, in English.
Shane tried to tell him he had Chickenpox multiple times, but in his fever dream state, Ilya was deep in denial.
“Chickenpox?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible.” Ilya croaked out.
“Why?”
“I am Russian. Russian children survive winter, wolves, and copious amounts of vodka. We do not get chicken disease.”
Generally though it was mumbles about not needing help, that he was going to be fine on his own and to just let him sleep.
“You stubborn ass Russian, I’m not letting you just sleep it off alone.” Shane shook his head fondly, eyes burning with emotion as he helped Ilya back down into the pillows and sat the cup of water and straw he’d been drinking from back on the bedside table.
“You love me.” Ilya mumbled back through a sleep ridden sigh, like he was half pulled back into a dream already.
“Yeah, I do,” Shane leant over him so he could hear. “So fucking let me love you and look after you.”
“No one….” Ilya mumbled, trailing off as sleep claimed him again, his body still quivering with heat.
“I’m here Ilya.”
“So long…” He mumbled again.
“What am I going to do with you?” Shane ran his fingers gently through his boyfriend's hair, pushing the damp curls back before grabbing a new, cool washcloth.
And when he checked his temperature again an hour later and saw that it had fallen back down to 38.2, he sat back and cried with relief.
*
Ilya woke up, head thick with fog, a relentless itch skittering across his body.
He raked his hands over his skin harshly, wincing at the stinging pain that met him, his skin feeling raw and maddeningly irritated.
“Hey, no.” Warm hands took his, pulling them away where they had begun to scratch incessantly.
Ilya let out a desperate whine at the loss of contact, His skin screaming at him like it was on fire.
“Ilya...hey calm down.”
Ilya finally cracked open an eye to find Shane above him, a soft glow from the bedside lamp cast across his worried face, brows furrowed anxiously.
“Itches.” He mumbled, smacking his lips, his throat scratchy and dry.
“I know,” Shane replied sympathetically, grabbing a bottle of gatorade from nearby and guiding him up slightly so he could drink.
The cool drink brought momentary relief from the war raging around his body, but it soon returned in full force and Ilya found himself crying out in frustration, wriggling where he lay. What the fuck was happening to him?
“You have chickenpox.” Shane must have read his mind, his warm hand now gently pushing back the curls on his forehead.
“Chickenpox?” He asked, his brain struggling to understand what Shane was telling him. “Chick- what? What are these words, I dont—”
“Vetryanaya ospa,” Shane clarified in heavily accented Russian. “I looked it up, sorry if I said it wrong.”
Despite this news, Ilya couldn’t help but weakly smile up at his boyfriend upon hearing him speak. He’d been learning Russian in every spare moment he had and it just did something to Ilya that he had a hard time explaining.
But also… fuck.
“You never had it as a child?” Shane asked, his fingers light on Ilya’s cheeks and he shook his head.
“No, I think my brother did…probably. I don’t remember.” He mumbled back, brain struggling to conjure memories from his childhood— things he’d locked away and tried to forget. God he felt like shit.
“When did you get here?” He croaked out, and Shane immediately frowned down at him.
“A few days ago,” he said slowly. "You've been pretty out of it though.”
“Oh...” Ilya closed his eyes, hand finding Shane’s on his face as flashes of moments started flickering back into his mind. “No, I remember, sorry. My head is like soup.”
“Soup?” Shane chuckled fondly before tangling his fingers in Ilya’s, his face settling into something more serious. “But yes, I imagine you don’t feel so great. I…I had a hard time getting your fever down to be honest. Almost had to cart you off to the Emergency Room, but it finally broke yesterday. God Ilya, I’ve never felt so relieved."
“I’m sorry.” He replied as an automatic reflex, not enjoying that he’d been the one to put that look on Shane’s face, his dark eyes shining with worry.
Shane however shook his head fiercely. “Don’t be sorry, you can’t help being sick.”
“I know, but you shouldn’t have to nurse me back to health,” He shrugged. “What a waste of good cottage days.”
Shane’s frown deepened and Ilya wanted to just reach up and ease out the crease in his brows, but his arms still felt a lot like lead.
“You said a few things when you were out, well…mumbled, pretty incoherently, I guess.” Shane began. “But I got the impression that you….that you haven’t had someone look after you like this before, or not in a long time?”
Ilya let his eyes drop to his hands, unable to bear the look that Shane was giving him right now, knowing it would just make him break. He took a moment to inhale deeply, blowing it out loudly when it became too much to keep in.
“It’s been a while, da.” He nodded. “But, does not matter anymore. I have you now.”
He finally glanced up and took in Shane’s rather wet smile, his eyes glassy but not yet spilling over. He wanted to tell Shane that no, he hadn’t had anyone care for him like this since his mother had died. That he can’t remember what it’s like to let someone in like this, and he knows he’s probably not the best patient because of that.
He was grateful for having rarely been sick over the years, because he doesn't know what he would have done if he had been. Maybe Svetlana would have been around? Yes, he thought, she would have been if he’d asked her. She loves him, and he her, but it is not quite the same as this.
“You do.”
Shane shifted a little closer where he sat at Ilya's hip, and Ilya adjusted in return to let him edge in further. He picked up the thermometer and Ilya let him do his thing, eyes never leaving Shane's face as it grew serious, full of concentration as he took the reading. Only when the thermometer beeped at him, did his shoulders actually drop and he nodded.
“37.6. Still low grade, but better…way better than it has been.” Shane smiled at him softly, setting the thermometer back down.
"Why don't you look like diseased potato too?” Ilya asked, nodding towards him.
Shane laughed, something easy and warm that filled Ilya right up. “I had it when I was 6. It’s pretty rare to catch it again. Not impossible, but rare. We’ll quarantine here for a little while though, just in case.”
“Oh, maybe don’t kiss me then, we can't both be ugly.”
Shane merely shook his head, fondness seeping right out of him like a wave. “Other than the itching, how are you feeling?”
“Like ass.” He replied easily and Shane snorted. “Like I've been sweating for days in hockey gear and then taken skate, poured drink into boot and consumed it.”
“That is…oddly specific, and disgusting.” Shane raised an eyebrow. “Well, if you feel up for it, I can run you a bath, let you brush your teeth and then we can put some lotion on your body.”
“Da, please make me feel human again, Hollander.” Ilya was quick to agree, holding out his arms like a zombie so his boyfriend could pull him upright.
*
“No, I change mind, I will just itch.”
“Ilya.” Shane gritted his teeth, holding him down where he sat at the edge of the bed.
He was freshly bathed, his teeth were no longer furry, and despite the brief moment where he’d almost passed out on Shane as he stood to get out of the bath, he was feeling way more alive than before.
But now, as Shane stood over him with the most fowl smelling, pink lotion in his hands, Ilya was drawing a line.
“I swear, you come near me with that stuff and I will throw myself in the lake.” He squirmed out of Shane’s reach. “It smells like strawberry died in pharmacy.”
“Not dramatic at all.” Shane rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Come on, this is the stuff that works. Mom dropped it off especially.”
Ilya glared at him, hands crossed against his chest, face twitching as he concentrated on not reaching for the itch that was starting up across his chest.
“Ilya.” Shane sighed, pouring some of the lotion onto a cotton ball.
“Shane.” he challenged, groaning as he finally reached for his itchy chest, unable to hold the scratch back anymore.
“Hey, I'll make you a deal,” Shane gave him a look, something devious and challenging. “If you let me apply this, I’ll do that thing you wanted us to try last time we were here.”
“Wait what?” Okay Ilya was listening now. Shane nodded. “The thing?”
“I’ll try it, for you…but only if you let me apply this lotion to your skin.”
Ilya scrunched up his nose, so ready to continue in protest, but unable to help himself now with this new ballgame.
“You will try the thing, even though you did not want to?” Ilya pressed.
“Yes,” Shane laughed. “I will try it, for you. But you do this first.”
Ilya just stared at him for a few moments before throwing up his hands, a scoff eliciting from the back of his throat.
“Fine, get it over with then.” he clamped two fingers over his nose and let Shane attack him with the sickly, pink lotion. “If this stains my skin pink, we sue Yuna.”
Shane merely smirked as he got to the task at hand.
“You’re staring,” Shane narrowed his eyes several minutes later, his own gaze not wavering from his efforts of gently dabbing lotion across Ilya’s chest.
“I am evaluating your technique.”
“Uh huh.”
“You have very nice hands.” he said sweetly, and Shane bit back a smirk.
He didn’t dare admit that it did in fact help a lot— instead merely kissing Shane deeply in silent thanks after they ate soup and sank back under the covers.
Ilya woke the next morning, his head feeling clearer than it had in days.
Shane was snoring softly beside him, hand outstretched toward Ilya’s body, like he’d been trying to keep him close throughout the night, checking for him.
He looked tired, deep rings around his eyes, and Ilya felt guilty as all hell. He knows Shane would have barely slept a wink while he tried to nurse Ilya back to life. And though of course he was grateful for it, it was still all his fault.
He slowly sat upright, legs swinging over the side of the bed, feet planting on the cold floor. He eased himself to a standing position, revelling in the fact that his head didn’t spin.
He carefully made his way to the kitchen, determined to make coffee and breakfast for Shane. It was the least he could do.
He pulled out a box of poptarts he knew were safely stashed away (Shane would never) and ripped open the silver packet. He was hungry, like actually hungry, and in desperate need of something comforting and sweet.
But as he finished off the first pop tart and pulled out the tin of coffee, black spots started to speckle across his vision. His breathing quickened as he leaned heavily against the counter, and he found himself sliding down to the floor, settling on the plush runner beneath him as he willed the room to stop spinning.
It didn’t stop all that quickly though, and he found himself with his head between his knees for far longer than he would have liked, coffee making long forgotten.
“Hey, what are you doing down here?”
Ilya glanced up as Shane lowered himself down onto the floor beside him, hand immediately running over his thigh and he sighed into the touch.
“I thought I'd make you coffee, and breakfast,” He grimaced, resting his head back against the kitchen cabinet behind him. “Got a little light headed though.”
“As much as I appreciate the thought, you definitely should still be resting.” Shane squeezed his leg.
“Is all I've done for days, my brain was bored of bed.”
“Ilya…It’s all you’ve done,” Shane leant into him, hand snaking around his arm now, fingers tapping against his warm skin. “Becuase you’ve been very sick.”
Ilya huffed out a frustrated sigh and scratched at his chest, but Shane quickly slapped it away, without an ounce of hesitation.
“They’re so itchy.” He whined, feeling so pathetic and tired of the pain.
“I know, but they’ll scar if you scratch at them,” Shane’s voice was thick with sympathy. “I can put some more lotion on them though, to help ease the pain and irritation.”
“Scars are sexy though.” He responded belligerently with a pout.
“Mmm, yes so very sexy, all these little pox marks all over you.” Shane confirmed, tugging down the collar of his sleep shirt. “This one here looks like Saskatchewan.”
“I do not want to look like Saskatchewan.” Ilya huffed, stretching out his legs in front of him, limbs all loose and boneless like he was a puppet being laid out. “Would you still love me, if I had these forever?”
“Hmm I don’t know,” Shane considered seriously. “Are you still a hockey player in this scenario, cause that’s all I'm here for really. Someone strong to beat on the ice and fuck me later.”
“Asshole.” Ilya shoved him, but a gentle grin eased into his full lips.
Shane leant into him, nuzzling into Ilya’s neck for a few moments, pressing soft kisses, before he got to his knees and straddled himself over Ilya’s lap. “You could be covered from head to toe in scars, and I would love you. Nothing will change that, no matter how perfectly hideous you are.”
“Hideous!?” You wound me.” Ilya huffed, grabbing the meat of Shane's ass, causing his boyfriend to squawk in surprise.
“I did say perfectly hideous.” came the quick reply and Ilya mocked being shot in the chest, a wounded creature.
Shane smiled down at him though, a softness in his eyes that Ilya would never get tired of seeing. He leant down and pressed his lips gently into Ilya’s, so careful and tender and Ilya felt himself melt into a puddle on the kitchen floor, right beneath his boyfriend's strong thighs. He still couldn’t believe that this was his life some days. That he got this man all to himself, just like this.
Shane sat back in Ilya’s lap, hand sweeping through his hair and lingering a moment against his forehead. Ilya let his eyes flutter shut, sighing into the touch as his boyfriend checked for fever.
“You do sound and look a lot better today,” He confirmed, pecking a quick kiss to his cheek. “I guess I’ll allow you to rest on the couch instead of forcing you back into bed.”
“Oh, will you now?”
“Yes, I’m very charitable like that.” Shane replied seriously.
“Oh so very.” Ilya grinned lazily. “Let’s sit here a little while longer though, it’s rather comfortable. And don’t think I've forgotten about your promise.”
“When you’re better.” Shane merely shook his head, eyes flashing.
“Fine.” Ilya sighed, reaching up behind him and felt around for the pop tart packet he’d abandoned on the counter before his head had decided to get woozy. “Can you get Loonpox you think?”
“What?”
“You can get Chickenpox, why not Loonpox?”
“You’re an idiot.”
Ilya merely grinned, plucking out the last, blueberry poptart and broke it down the middle, handing half to Shane who absolutely looked like he was going to protest at what he called desert and not breakfast food.
“You know we have eggs and toast and normal breakfast foods.” he grimaced at the pastry in his hand.
“Egg’s do not have frosting, and I'm sick.” He coughed forcefully and not at all dramatically.
Shane rolled his eyes, and to Ilya’s delight, took a careful nibble at the desert, a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, a content softness in his dark eyes as Ilya did the same.
He could get used to this— These silly, quiet, pathetically, wonderful domestic moments with Shane, and he’s pretty certain he’d give up anything for them if asked to.
He’d been on his own for too long before Shane came into his life and upended it with his beautiful freckles, competitive flair, perfectly Canadian ways, and large heart that loved him so much.
And as he sat there on the kitchen floor, Shane still straddled over him as they munched away on untoasted Pop-tarts, after days of his boyfriend caring for him, he knew in his heart he wouldn't ever have to be alone again.