Hiii <3 After @gardenerian and @catgrassplantdad got me all in my feelings yesterday thinking about brothers and the past and the future and all the things, so I thought I'd set up a cute little ask game for everyone to mess around with.
Engage with this however you want! You can reblog it for people to send you ask requests for specific numbers, or you can just pick whichever ones speak to you and start chatting, no asks required. You can just pick some questions and send them to people whose takes you want to hear. There are no rules! Enjoy ✨
Ten general questions:
Do they ever see Fiona again?! When?
Where does Liam attend college and what does he study?
How many kids does each Gallagher end up having?
Which sibling is Carl's favourite and why?
Which Milkovich brother (cousin uncle who even knows how they're related) has Fiona fucked?
What does Lip end up doing for a job?
Do Debbie and Sandy get back together?
What do Franny's teen years look like?
What song do they spontaneously end up group singing at Frank's funeral?
Does everyone get together for family dinners? How frequently? At whose house?
And ten gallavich questions 🥰
When did Mickey first notice Ian in more than a background neighbourhood kid way?
When did Ian first notice Mickey in more than a filthy scary Milkovich way?
Did Ian visit Mickey more than that first time he was in juvie?
How long was Ian calling Mickey his boyfriend in his head for before he said it out loud to Ned? Was Ned the first person he'd ever called Mickey his boyfriend to?
How long do they stay in their apartment and where do they move to once they leave?
What is their nickname among the other residents of their apartment complex and what did they do to earn it?
What's their favourite bedroom toy? Is the answer the same for both of them?
Do they ever completely denounce a life of crime? Or will they always be up for a little cash-in-hand wheeling and dealing?
During the proposal debacle, Mickey seemed pretty adamant that he'd never murdered anyone, but young Mickey was a pretty violent little guy, and he spent a couple of years working for cartels in Mexico. Do you think he ever has? Or come close? Is that a line he would never cross?
What's a cute little thing that one of them does for the other just to make them smile?
She's nice and objectively very beautiful, but that's where it ends. His last failed date was at least into baseball - something they could pass the time with after realizing they weren't gonna be A Thing. But tonight...Christ.
They also won’t be A Thing, only it’s obvious in less of a 'haha oh well - anyway did you catch that save in the fifth inning' way and more of a '...........' way, on account of the fact that Shane's blasted through all his prepared talking points, and now has nothing to do but notice all the other elements of the evening that continue to taunt him.
The soup is a weird consistency. The little candle at their table snuffed out fifteen minutes ago, sitting dead beside the clump of lettuce he somehow managed to drop between the bowl and his plate. There's a tiny bit of brussels sprout caught between his lower back molars that's driving him fucking crazy, refusing to be dislodged by each subtle poke of his tongue.
And he thinks, maybe, that he wouldn't care so much about this trainwreck of an evening if he didn’t feel like it’s being broadcast to the rest of the restaurant. Not that people are watching, really. Just one. Just the mean looking security guy who's posted up on the back wall, keeping an eye on the room with an easy, almost bored gaze that somehow keeps landing at Shane's table.
Or...well...less Shane's table, and more just Shane himself.
The restaurant is drenched in dim mood lighting, so he can't be positive it's a look of pity this guy's giving him. But realistically, he's not sure what else it could be. Shane's blowing it, after all. Hard. This whole thing has turned into some sort of lowkey humiliation ritual, each pass of the guy's attention over him causing heat to crawl up the back of his neck.
Whatever. They're about halfway done with their entrees. And he's willing to bet she won't be taking the dessert menu when it comes around, which is fine by him. They’re in the home stretch.
Shane wipes his mouth with the weirdly scratchy cloth napkin. Pokes his tongue at his lower molars as he goes for his glass of wine. Can't help but flick his attention over to the back wall, warmth settling in his belly as he takes in, not for the first time, how that black uniform shirt snugly stretches over a tight chest, sleeves clinging around big biceps. Security guy works out. Obviously. He's a fucking security guy. And he's looking right at Shane again, just close enough to catch how his eyes dip down the front of Shane's dress shirt and then back up.
It's got something fluttering in Shane's chest as he pulls his gaze away, bringing his wine glass right back up before he can set it down again. Right. Okay.
"Are you nearby?"
They’re the first words out of his date's mouth in what feels like twenty minutes, and to be quite fucking honest it throws Shane, his brow pinching in light confusion.
"Sorry?" Such a hot thing to say. He couldn't be nailing this more, could he?
"Your place..." she says again, and there's this insistence in it that finally gets the cobwebbed wheels turning, "is it close?"
Shane blinks.
Schools a quick lift of his eyebrows before they can fly up.
Oh.
She thinks-...
"Uh..." Right, right right. "Yeah, about...half hour maybe?"
So, no.
That doesn't seem to deter her. She simply nods, then goes back to eavesdropping on the date that's going much better at the table behind her.
They’re laughing it up back there. Clinking their glasses. There’s lots to laugh about here too, but it’d be in a pathetic way that he just can’t get himself to concede to yet. So, Shane tops off his date’s glass. Eats his salmon. Shakes off the little flutter of interest that skips from his chest down into his lap as he once again catches eyes with security guy, who seems to be finding this all very entertaining. Doesn’t seem mean at all, actually. The more Shane looks. The more he looks back.
More wine. They’re finishing the bottle. His date thanks him and is, to her credit, being very cool about how the metaphorical candle has clearly snuffed out between them before their meal is even done. Now they just need to get on the same page about metaphorical dessert.
Shane takes a gigantic swig, letting it sit in his mouth for a second before gulping it down - warm, warm, warm in his belly.
She thinks he’s gonna take her home and fuck her.
Maybe he should. To make it up to her.
Except Shane hasn’t been hitting any homeruns on those lately either, has he?
Fuck.
The bottom of his wine glass clatters loudly against the edge of his plate as he sets it down too rough, movements suddenly unsteady. It pulls attention from all around, because of course it does. Everyone look at the idiot who can't hold his alcohol.
What a nightmare. Security guy must be fucking loving this one.
But when he glances over, the wall is empty. No silent, teasing eyes. No intriguing presence. No muscles, thick and sturdy and big enough that Shane could really put up a-
“Be back.”
In a single blink, his date has pulled herself up from the booth and made her way towards the bathroom, already digging into her purse without looking back.
Right. Actually, a break to reset sounds better than any dessert they could offer him here. So, with a little nod to inform their server that he’ll be back too, he gathers himself and steps away from the table.
It's not until the cool October breeze washes over Shane's face that he realizes how warm he was getting.
Probably from the wine.
And the embarrassment.
And the impending doom settling in his guts, another realization not too far behind.
Whatever, he decides, using the privacy to slip a finger into his mouth and finally free his molars of the offensive feeling - thank god. Stupid brussels sprouts. They weren't even cooked right.
It's dark around the back of the restaurant. Nice and quiet too, tucked away from the busy road out front. Shane takes in the moment with a grounding tip of his head toward the moon with his eyes closed. Deep breath. Hold it. Don't think about why all his dates with women have been absolute dogshit. Aaaaand release.
Only when he breathes out, it's not alone.
He breathes out, and it's paired, horrifyingly, with a gentle huff of laughter from further down the building. The smell of fresh cigarette smoke.
Holy shit, he’s not alone.
Shane attempts to settle the startle in his heart, but it's no use when he turns to see the figure leaning up against the brick wall, those familiar eyes now watching him in the cool moonlight.
"Jesus Christ..." It slips out. Just on the end of Shane's breath. And suddenly he could really use another cool breeze for his face.
Because the security guy is as imposing as he was inside, simply trading moody burgundy for darkened brick. But his face is softer up close. Sweeter, somehow. And very, very handsome.
Shane tears his gaze away the second those lips curl into a teasing grin, shaking his head. All that red wine is really doing a number on him.
“When is big day?”
Oh god, his voice is deep.
Shane’s gotta get it together. And yet, it’s impossible to keep from being drawn right back into that grin, even as he seeks clarification. “Big day?”
“Mm, your wedding,” he says, nodding casually back inside without looking away. “Love at first sight, yes?”
It's...
Okay, so he really is an asshole. And what’s that accent? Russian?
Shane hangs his head, but can't hold back the breathy chuckle that falls from him. No use in denying it, he guesses. Especially when he kinda wants to hear this guy talk to him some more. "Really funny stuff, man..."
"Mm."
"Won’t haveta worry about a wedding gift, at least."
"Oh, no? You were doing so well."
Something weirdly giddy flips through Shane's chest as he straightens to throw the security guy a look. Because now that it's just the two of them, he's out here openly fucking with him. And Shane knows that. So why is it making his body light up from head to toe?
It's the wine probably. Sweet red historically gets him acting stupid. Or maybe it's the way the guy holds Shane so comfortably in his attention, as he draws his cigarette up to his lips to take a lazy drag.
Shane swallows. Wets his bottom lip. Pulls his heavy gaze up from the glowing tip to meet those intriguing, sparkling eyes as smoke fills the air between them.
Wow.
"I uh-... I'm usually...better..." he hears himself say. The short noise of curiosity floating on the smoke’s coattails prompts him to clarify. "I like-...you know...have game."
It's not a lie. And yet Shane has somehow never felt more stupid than he does in this moment, the need to clarify to this man that he's not actually a loser suddenly very very important to him.
Which is why his body doesn't know what the fuck to do when it's getting hit by that smile again. That tease. The sweetly shitty headnod he gets as the guy gives him a little "Mm...okay."
Oh god Shane wants... Much more than he wanted when he was sitting across from his literal date. "Alright, fuck you..."
It shouldn't be this easy. He shouldn't be smiling so big with a stranger. Playing so much.
He should go inside. Capitalize on this feeling and use it to turn his date around.
Or he could stay right here, feet planted to the asphalt, acknowledging the wanting tug of his own body.
If he moves right now, it’s not gonna be in the direction of the door.
“What is your name.”
Shane swallows, nostrils flailing with a big breath in. “Shane…?” He watches, with another one of those flutters under his rib cage, as his answer seems to satisfy. And before he can stop himself he hears it - from his own mouth - each word clung with the worst Russian accent possible. “What ees your name?”
Oh god what the fuck. He’s never touching red wine again.
Not even the genuine grin curling across those tempting lips can make up for the embarrassment - the laughter. “Wow. This is your best try?”
“No,” Shane insists over a scowl. And to be honest he doesn’t even know what he’s answering. His best accent? No. His best attempt at flirting? Also no.
Wait a minute. Is he flirting?
“I’m-… I should go back. …inside.” Never mind how something’s kicking and screaming in him at the thought. Never mind how he stays exactly where he stands.
A concept not lost on security guy. Who never did actually give him his name, by the way. “Okay, Shane.”
It’s noticeably kinder than he could be. He’s still teasing, obviously, but he says nothing about his date. No predictions on how the rest of his night will go. He just brings his cigarette up to his lips, pulling in a hit that hollows his cheeks in the dark as he keeps their eye contact.
It’s the first time Shane’s ever craved nicotine.
He needs to go inside bad.
With a huff, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. Half past eight. He has no idea how long he’s been out here. Only that it’s too long when he’s got someone waiting at the table for him. So they can pay. So they can leave. So they can-…
Shane shifts uncomfortably, jaw squaring. And he’s not exactly sure how he lets it slip out, but it does all the same, the question far too genuine for the situation. “How do I tell her I’m not gonna fuck her?”
It’s the setup of a lifetime. The perfect pitch for a grand slam. And yet the man in front of him doesn’t swing.
No. Instead, he keeps Shane in his sights, eyes roaming up and down the blush hopefully hidden by the shadows back here. And then he answers. “Simple. You tell her you are fucking someone else tonight.”
Shane can feel the exact moment his stuttery little heart sinks from his chest to his dick - to his voice, quiet but undeniably curious. “Someone else…?”
Because the atmosphere rushes forward with the guy, adrenaline spiking in his core as his phone is slipped out of his hand.
Shane watches him thumb something in with breaths that won’t fill his lungs. Swallows down whatever’s trying to fight its way out of his mouth right now, before it can shatter the tension and ruin the moment.
And when his phone is being handed back to him, Shane’s heart is fucking pounding, eyes hungrily taking in what’s been left on his screen.
A phone number. And a name.
Ilya.
He shoots his attention back up, but it’s too late. Security guy is making his way to the back door, snuffing out his cigarette on the brick.
Chatter and light and clinking glasses seep into the dark, easy vibe they’ve made themselves back here as he opens the door. A break in the trance. A pop of the bubble.
Shane pulls in a breath again, lungs burning.
And then Ilya tosses him a wink, voice low, “See you soon.”
The door shuts behind him.
Everything grows dark and still again.
And…
Shane blinks, tossing glances to the right and left of him in borderline shock because what the fuck. What just happened to him? That was all real?
There’s a very good chance the brussels sprouts actually killed him and they’re trying to resuscitate his lifeless body in the booth right now, his date long gone. But…
Another gust of October breeze…
Excitement, potent and real in a way he hasn’t felt for a long time now…
A smile works its way across Shane’s lips as he double-checks the number on his screen, and then he pockets his phone, inspired to make his way back inside to-
All movement stops for a moment as he looks down at himself. Or, more specifically, the front of his pants.
Oh.
…wow.
Okay, a few more minutes and then he’ll go back inside.
shane discovers cockwarming completely of his own accord, of course. it's for comfort reasons, but it's hot, too. it feels good in so many ways. it happens when they're watching a movie in the dark on the couch, and he's lounging against ilya while holding ilya's hand in his, his arm wrapped around shane's shoulders while shane presses his index finger into his mouth. he alternates between rubbing it against his teeth and fully sucking on it before he decides to just stick it in there and leave it. it's a comfort thing which ilya indulges him in fully, endeared as always, wrapping his other fingers around shane's jaw so he can hold his finger in there for him. which frees shane's hands. and allows them to drift, like he's hypnotized, to ilya's lap.
holding ilya's dick in his hand is its own comfort, but as he floats, almost sleepy with how comfortable he is, he's struck by urge that he's shocked has never hit him before. he opens his mouth, pulling ilya's spitty finger out and licking his lips. he frees ilya's soft cock from the waistband of his sweats, pulling them down just enough past his hips. he readjusts and lowers himself to ilya's lap and fits his dick in his mouth. settles it on his tongue. closes his lips around it, but not fully sealed. loose and comfortable. perfect. better. warm. filled. maybe his favorite way to be. he hums a little sigh, contented as hell to have something in his mouth, to have it be ilya, ilya's cock, breathing ilya's scent while his mouth fills with saliva.
ilya wipes his hand on shane's shirt before settling it on his waist, watching shane curiously, his chest clenching at the intimacy of it. the movie plays on. shane sucks the tiniest bit, just intermittently, just because it feels good for him to do that, and ilya steadily hardens in his mouth. he can't help it. shane tongues at the shape of him, deeply enjoying and drawing so much comfort. 'you don't have to,' ilya tells him softly, but shane doesn't know what he's talking about. he joyfully keeps him there. his head is all cottony and he's hardly paying attention to the movie at all anymore. he's drooling and making these tiny sounds of contentment, and eventually ilya can't stop it. he cums in his mouth from hardly anything.
and shane stays right there. he takes it all in stride, he barely moves when he swallows it all. he keeps ilya's softening dick in his mouth, because it still feels so good to have him inside. it always feels good to have this, so why not keep it? why cut it short? he can just hold him here. he can just keep himself filled. ilya grits his teeth through it at first after he cums, but shane isn't moving so he lets him have it. in fact, he makes it nicer for him after a while when he tilts them, laying on his side and guiding shane to do the same, his face still in ilya's crotch, and he tucks a throw pillow under his head for him. he gets shane settled and pets his fingers through his hair. it's so sleepy and soft. everything is so slow. shane is so warm. ilya is so warm in his mouth. everything feels so good here, in every possible way. it's not until later that shane tells ilya that he almost came, too. <3
shane and ilya looove making each other jealous and riling each other up over mundane shit: Husband Edition
Ilya: Call me pls and tell me to come home
Shane: What are you trying to get out of? You’re with Marlow and the guys right?
Ilya: Questions are unimportant
Ilya: Please call
Shane: Aren’t you the one who invited them to hang out?
Ilya: Yes and now I want to be home with my handsome husband who is very kind to me and gives me excuse
Shane: Why do I have to be the bad guy?
Ilya: ENOUGH QUESTIONS PLEASE CALL
Shane: Fine after I shower. Got 5 miles in.
Shane: I’m all sweaty and nasty.
Shane: Wouldn’t be able to handle yourself if you were here.
Ilya: NO DONT SHOWER WAIT FOR ME
Shane: Be good ttys
Ilya: 😫😫😫😫😫
_ _ _
Shane: I already got meal prep stuff on Sunday. What’s this second charge on the card for?
Ilya: Why are u on phone at physical therapy again
Shane: Twice the food is gonna go bad.
Ilya: Not for u
Ilya: For rookie
Shane: What do you mean?
Shane: Ilya what does this mean?
Ilya: He asks his very smart captain for healthy diet and of course I know one plan very well
Shane: Wait sorry you’re using my meal prep with someone else?
Ilya: Is good plan. Good for rookie too. He needs help very bad.
Ilya: I am so nice yes?
Shane: Maybe a little too nice.
Ilya: Don’t be jealous I will still prep with u like always ❤️
Shane: I'm not jealous.
Ilya: Jealous and lying about it. My favorite Shane.
Ilya: U probably look very sweet rn
Shane: Fuck you. I’m gonna kill and eat you.
Ilya: 😍
[45 minutes pass]
Shane: Please tell me this edible arrangement coming into the PT building isn’t from you.
[two minutes pass]
Shane: Ilya Jesus Christ.
Ilya: 😘
Shane: 🙄💙
_ _ _
Ilya: Husband
Shane: Esteemed colleague...
Ilya: Did u forget something this morning?
[solid 30 seconds of radio silence]
Shane: I don’t think so? Did I?
Shane: I have everything.
Ilya: OK
[additional 30 seconds of radio silence]
Shane: Fuck I forgot to tell you I was leaving again, didn’t I?
Ilya: 😒
Shane: I’m sorry. My brain was going really fast this morning I was thinking of a lot of stuff.
Ilya: But not of ur husband.
Shane: I’m sorry baby.
Ilya: Do not baby me Shane u have grown tired of me.
Shane: Oh my god no I haven’t. You can’t keep saying that every time I forget to say goodbye.
Ilya: More interested in ur silly shoe photoshoot.
Shane: It’s not silly.
Ilya: Not even a kiss on ur way out of door.
Shane: You were still in bed! I said I’m sorry!
Ilya: 😒
Shane: I’m sorry. I love you. What can I pick up for you on the way home?
Ilya: A husband that chooses me over foot fetish clown shoes
Shane: Okay so McDonalds? Do you want a shake?
Ilya: Goodbye Shane.
[10 seconds of radio silence]
Ilya: Chocolate shake.
Ilya: Hashbrown.
Shane: I don't think they'll still be honoring their breakfast menu by the time I get there.
Ilya: OMG you hate me
_ _ _
Shane: Dad wants to know if you’re going to the car show.
Ilya: Yes I will text him.
Ilya: Are u still pissed about this?
Shane: I was never pissed about this.
Ilya: Lol
Ilya: OK
Shane: I don’t even like cars.
Ilya: Exactly
Shane: You like cars. It makes sense for him to give his extra ticket to you.
Shane: And not his own son.
Shane: Who had to reschedule lunch with him on that day.
Shane: After already making the reservation.
Shane: And will now be sitting at home alone while his dad and husband hang out instead to look at stupid ugly fucking cars together.
Ilya: Wow glad ur not still pissed.
_ _ _
Ilya: The cat is scratching again.
Shane: Yeah they do that.
Shane: An old guy responded to the post so I'll reunite her with him once I get home, since you have some sort of drama with her.
Shane: And then I'll text my upholstery guy. What is it, the couch?
Ilya: ME
Shane: What?
Ilya: She is scratching me Shane!
Shane: Oh.
Shane: I don't think he can do anything about that.
Ilya: Yes I am OK thank u for asking!!
Shane: ...are you okay?
Ilya: No! I will be glad when she's gone!
Shane: We found her in a parking lot. She's had a tough time. We should be lenient with her I think.
Ilya: Easy for u to say when u are not the one bleeding.
Shane: I don't get your beef with her.
Shane: Just a couple more hours.
Ilya: She hisses and makes scary face and claws me and you love her so much!
Shane: I do not love her so much.
Ilya: Yes you do. She takes all of your time.
Shane: That's not true. She'll be reunited in a couple hours and then you can go back to getting all of my attention okay?
Ilya: 😑
Shane: Okay I'm gonna drive ttys ily
Ilya: Buckle up kitten
Shane: Don't call me that.
_ _ _
Shane: I wanna go home.
Shane: Do some captain shit and make the meeting end.
Shane: Please.
[three minutes pass]
Shane: I know you feel your phone going off.
[one minute passes]
Shane: Hello???
[two excruciating minutes pass]
Shane: Ilya please this plug is a nightmare.
Shane: You knew it was a nightmare when you told me to put it in.
Shane: Call it so we can go home and you can fuck me.
[thirty seconds pass]
Shane: Ilya
Shane: Look at your phone.
Shane: !
Shane: !
Shane: !
Shane: !
Shane: !
Shane: !
Shane: Don't laugh! I see you laughing, asshole!
Shane: Take me home!
Shane: Please
Shane: I see you reading these.
Shane: No way he's saying anything more important than me.
Shane: Your husband
Shane: Wearing a plug for you
Shane: You fucking dick
Shane: Stop talking to him.
Shane: Please baby I'm gonna die if you don't fuck me soon.
Shane: I saw that!
Shane: If you end the meeting right now I'll let you fuck me in the car.
Shane: You can cum inside me.
Shane: Plug me back up with it for the drive home.
Shane: I'll suck your cock.
Shane: Ilya
Shane: I'm not gonna stop until you call the meeting.
Shane: Maybe I should send you one of the pictures I took this morning.
Shane: Don't look at me like that. You're not the only one who can play dirty.
Shane: Or you could just tell him to fuck off and call the meeting and fuck me in the car like you want to.
Shane: It'd be so easy.
Shane: I'm so wet and ready for your cock.
Shane: You would just sink right in.
Shane: Please Ilya I need you. Not him.
Shane: Okay fuck you I tried to be nice.
Shane: [One New Photo]
shane hollander VS his stubborn strep throat husband
after being around each other for so long, shane and ilya have seen each other sick with paltry ailments a few times. (colds. light food poisoning. non-debilitating hockey injuries.) but it’s not until they get married that shane first experiences ilya sick sick. and to say he doesn’t know what to do about it is an understatement.
when ilya’s courting a mild illness he’s all ham. he’s draping himself across shane’s lap. he’s groaning and demanding attention and to be serviced.
this is not that.
shane can tell, because one day ilya is fine, and then the next he just…disappears. like a dog crawling under the porch to die alone. in this case, the porch is the three heavy blankets in the guest room bed. and judging by the several failed attempts to connect, he really wants shane to leave him alone.
shane of course will not fucking do that.
he doesn’t accept that his husband has burrowed himself like some sort of unreachable stoat because he’s “tired” and “wants a nap”. it’s not napping hours. and anyway this man is a furnace - even if he was napping, there’s no scenario where shane’s ever seen him willingly subject himself to three blankets. not even those times when he’s very very sad.
it has to be sickness.
even if ilya leans heavy on denial.
“what are your symptoms,” shane asks on round four of Not Being Able To Stay Away. ilya grumbles, “nagging pest husband.” and even under the blankets shane can hear his irritation. it’s contagious. like whatever he’s caught. and speaking of, “if it’s bacterial we should get you antibiotics.” “you’re bacterial.” and finally shane is just like, whatever. because fuck him, you know? if ilya wants to be a mean, sick asshole then he can be a mean, sick asshole. he’s not gonna bend over backwards to help him.
which is obviously not true. this lasts for twelve and a half minutes before he’s returning to the edge of the guest bed.
“i’m just back to feel your forehead-” “(pathetic rumbly bear noise)” “stop it. let me feel and i’ll leave you alone.” this processes slowly, but finally, the weak strangle-hold around the blankets that shane’s been doing a very good job respecting loosens in quiet defeat. he carefully pulls down the puffy cocoon that ilya’s made for himself to see that he’s caught him somewhere in the slimy midway point between caterpillar and butterfly. his skin is pale and clammy and sweaty and shane taps into those muscle memories from when he was in ilya’s position as a kid, sweating through his hockey puck sheets as his mom sits at the edge of his bed, needling him with affection-driven action points.
ilya’s sweaty curls have fallen and pressed over his head in the process, so he brushes them out of the way. lays his palm over his forehead. and wow. “ilya, you’re sick.” “...no.” “you’re boiling lava hot.” out of habit, he waits for the joke that’s supposed to follow, something like ‘you always think i am hot, hollander’ and the fact that it doesn’t come only seals the deal. ilya is dying, probably. “i’m gonna bring you some ibupr-” the groaning returns, blankets rising back up over his head in a not so subtle display that shows shane has overstayed his welcome. again. “you’re cooking yourself alive!”
but he is starting to feel extra bad now. naggy. maybe he should just let him rest for a little bit like he’s been whining for. ilya shrimps up underneath the blankets and shane sighs. “fine. you win.” not that he’s fucking happy about it. neither of them are happy about anything right now, to be clear. but. “i’ll be in the living room if you need anything.” he leans forward and plants a kiss somewhere at the top of the blanket shrimp, hoping he’s in the general range of his head. and then he begrudgingly gives ilya what he wants.
dude sleeps for three hours and shane is fighting tooth and nail all three not to make a google doc about it. there’s nothing to plan if he doesn’t know what ilya’s sick with. but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t sit and ruminate, book open in his lap but eyes hazing out somewhere above and to the left of it. when ilya does finally emerge, he’s wet. less in the sweating-to-death way and more in the just-showered way, and shane holds perfect control of every muscle group he can manage to not immediately spring forward and get all up on him with questions and assessments and love.
he simply watches from the couch. doesn’t say a damn word, as his husband clears his throat in the kitchen and then does it again. swallows weird. gets some water from the fridge and gets one drink down with a subtle wince, before going at it again. ‘throat thing…’ shane jots down in his mental google doc. and then, when he can’t possibly stand it any longer, “how do you feel?” ilya shrugs him off not unkindly, but nonchalantly. “fine,” he says, “needed nap.” shane hums in a way that he hopes is just as nonchalant, and then says, “sit with me?” because maybe ilya will interpret it as shane just being needy, which is not entirely incorrect anyway.
he doesn’t get a lot more out of him the rest of the day, but just seeing him out of bed and acting “normal”, no matter how feigned, works shane down from his tizzy. he’s definitely taking notes though. they sit and ilya’s got another blanket draped over his chest and shane rests his arm over the back of the couch, softly playing with ilya’s curls while he reads - feeling them transition from shower-damp to sweat-damp again - the heat radiating off ilya despite the slight shiver in him. shane drops his hand to the back of his neck and he is so fucking hot. shane’s pretty sure his skin should be sizzling right now. but he does note how ilya seems to subconsciously press back into it a little, like shane’s cold hand comes as a beautiful relief. so he keeps it there.
ilya doesn’t eat much dinner. “big lunch,” he explains, as if shane wasn’t right there analyzing the three chilled cucumber slices he ate and nothing else. before they go to sleep he does end up 4D chessing ilya into taking ibuprofen, under the guise of pain relief for his shoulder. he feels at least a little better that there’s something in his system to take his fever down.
sleep isn’t great for either of them if you can even believe it. so shane is more than happy to pull himself from the furnace-sheets and putter around downstairs while his husband sleeps well into late morning. he still doesn’t know what to do. which is driving him crazy. a thread he can finally pull comes via his very good friend hayden pike, who calls to bullshit but also casually drops the bomb that arthur is finally getting over being sick. the words “strep throat” vibrate louder and louder and grow in size in shane’s brain until they’re knocking off the sides of his head like some sort of cartoon because !!!! sorry to hayden but he does not hear a single word that man says after that.
cue detective-style montage of shane combing the web with his glasses and little things of espresso as an hour ticks by on the wall clock. his mental google doc is filling in. he remembers having strep as a kid, and that shit was NOT fun. honestly he had no idea you could get it as an adult? kind of fucked up? maybe that’s what ilya has. the timing of it lines up annoyingly well with their visit with the pikes last weekend. god, does ilya have strep? he stares at him through the crack in the bedroom door like some sort of michael myers situation, trying to visually assess as ilya scrolls on his phone with the blankets up to his chin.
that afternoon he watches his husband try and fail to act as if his throat isn’t killing him from the inside out. talking is not fun for him anymore. or moving. when he does, shane has to physically stop himself from asking why he keeps spitting in the sink. because he’s like, hyperaware of being a nag now, and how being a nag directly correlates to ilya not cooperating. so instead he tries to float some lowkey questions his way. real under the radar shit. like “doesn’t ice cream sound good right now?” and “do you wanna take a cold shower with me?” and “ilya do you have your tonsils still?”
smash cut to after dinner where ilya has made an excuse about eating later and will definitely not be doing that, and shane is just about fed up with it. ilya’s been dodging his extremely casual and lowkey suggestions all day and he’s done, he thinks! ilya is sick! with strep! he’s like 99% sure! and strep is bacterial which means this beautiful asshole needs medicine and holy fuck, he can’t ID the specific reason why he’s being such a stubborn prick, but shane is ready to drop the hammer!
maybe wrestling him into the couch and mounting him is not using his best bedside manners, but it gets ilya pinned on his back, his scowl raging as shane wrangles his hands down with one while brandishing his tiny emergency flashlight in the other. “open your mouth ilya.” three guesses if ilya opens his mouth. did you guess that he does? are you stupid? “ilya i’m serious. you’re sick.” and he’s pretty sure he knows with what, he just needs to check off the final box in his mental google doc. but that requires a cooperative husband.
fine. “i’m gonna make you a deal,” he says instead. “if you have white spots on your throat, you’re going to the doctor and getting antibiotics. if you don’t, i’ll leave you alone the rest of the night.” a high stakes gamble. but shane is so confident bitch oh god this motherfucker has strep throat - he just knows it.
the deal is too good to pass up. he can see ilya’s entire soul chomping onto the freedom shane dangles in front of him. too bad he’ll never get it. with an annoyed blink, ilya opens his mouth. shane clicks on the flashlight, shining it far back so it illuminates the red, swollen tonsils and that shit is not pretty but… but…
shane blinks. clicks the flashlight off. immediately plunges back into his mental google doc, trying to figure out where he went wrong. because… “well…?” ilya prompts. gruffly. and shane checks again. just to be sure. what the fuck.
it’s answer enough. ilya tips his whole body to the left, successfully depositing his failed nurse-husband off of him and onto the carpet (gently.) it’s a night to himself, for him.
so. ilya doesn’t have spots and shane is like, so fucking pissed dude. there’s no way it’s not strep. but now ilya’s even more emboldened by shane fumbling the bag so hard and like… fuck. he sits up, criss cross applesauce on the floor. crosses his arms. son of a bitch. something’s gotta give.
the Something is practice. shane hard-launches the return of nag mode but for very good reason, he thinks. there’s no way ilya should be going to practice the next day. he’s dying. and if he goes, they’ll have a team of strepped up centaurs. shane's already made peace with the fact that he’ll be getting it - it’s only a matter of time with the way he was all up in ilya’s tonsils like that. difference is, at the first sign of sickness, he’ll be hitting the amoxicillin hard, sniping it from his body before it can fully get him. unlike his husband, who is dead on his feet but still showing up to practice (shane went so far as to drive separately because 1) he refused to be an accomplice to the crime, and 2) he thought maybe the protest would register in ilya’s brain as significant. but he guesses not much registers in a brain that’s been cooking with a fever for three days.)
everyone is dressing in the locker room except for shane, who is leaving the team doc’s office feeling like the biggest narc on the planet, but also his blood is pumping with sour, horrified adrenaline. they breach the locker room and he’s power walking a few steps ahead of the doc toward ilya like his life depends on it, arriving to preface ilya’s confusion about his approach with a quick solemn “i’m sorry” before “rozanov. let’s go.”
ilya looks at the doc. then shane. the doc, realization connecting in his head very quickly so that when he fixes shane with his next look, it’s tired but undoubtedly betrayed. “snake,” he croaks at him. shane frowns. “i know.” “rat.” “i’m sorry.” ilya disappears into the hallway and shane doesn’t see or hear from him the entire rest of practice and he feels like he condemned him to the shadowlands or something. the worst fucking husband on the planet. he would be beyond pissed if someone snitched on him to the team doctor to keep him off the ice, so he can understand where ilya’s coming from. except for the fact that he’s saving ilya’s throat. and however else untreated strep can fuck up a person’s insides. but that doesn’t mean he isn’t skating around like a sad, guilty puppy the entire practice.
when it’s over, he showers and dresses quickly and makes several stops before coming home, returning with ice cream and throat drops and a large chocolate milkshake, hoping that perhaps he won’t find his husband hunched over divorce paperwork, fresh, beautiful amoxicillin now coursing through his system.
ilya is not filing for divorce. but he is giving him the silent treatment. which is new. it appears the man’s throat has to be literal millimeters away from closing for him to shut up. shane helps himself to the space next to him on the couch anyway, olive branch milkshake in hand. the bottle of meds is on the coffee table. next to it is a sticky note and pen - the time he took it jotted down pointedly. ilya probably knows shane’s gonna wanna know. and that alone kind of makes shane wanna cry in a not so bad way.
“is it strep…?” he quickly asks. ilya nods. shane nods too, deciding to leave it at that, instead of feeding into the immense sense of justification that floods him. it’s not about that now. it’s about fluffing and folding his ailing husband.
“i’m sorry i snitched on you,” he says. “i love you and i don’t want you to die.” perhaps a little dramatic, but true all the same. “and also you should probably not infect the entire team if you can help it.” ilya floats a look over to him, and it’s not exactly in disagreement. he holds it for a second, doing a little assessment of his own on shane. then he takes the chocolate shake from his hand and gives it a sip.
shane can’t help the little smile that tugs at his mouth as ilya’s eyes close in bliss, probably from the relief of the cold ice cream and the delight at the chocolate. “does this mean you’re done being a hardass now?” he has to ask. ilya shrugs, but tosses him a microscopic look of appreciation from the corner of his eye. which means… “yeah…?” oh no, shane’s just full on smiling now, “you get to be my baby…?” they could both definitely go for some affection right about now.
and that’s how shane finds himself trapped on the couch for the rest of the day, ilya resting back on him between his legs with his milkshake while they watch a movie. it's all cold foods and ice chips and love, ilya succesfully transitioning from dog crawling under the porch to dog very territorial about his spot in shane's lap, letting his eyes close as he hangs lightly onto shane's wrists, indulging in the cold hands that he casually holds his face with.
