"Maybe" - Part 4/? - Heated Rivalry
phewwww MAN you guys, my life is getting busy, which has made writing painfully slow. It didn't help that I couldn't resist expanding this section more and more - it just felt right. Did NOT expect to torture sweet Shane quite to this level, but hey, it just happened. (and I let it lol) I really hope y'all like this long boy chunk! Your reblogs, comments, and tags have kept me motivated to keep going! It may take me a bit for the next section (and I may allow myself to indulge in some other lil drabbles first) but I do plan to follow Ilya on his travels next. Poor guy. (evil laugh) Anyway, if you need to catch up, here's Part 1, Part 2, & Part 3!! CW: productive coughing, anxiety, angst, fever Oh and the . . . are just meant to denote a long pause between texts! Fic under the cut! <3 * * *
Ilya brought a kitchen towel out with the plate of simple toast with butter. Shane hated eating on the couch, and was always griping at Ilya about spills and mess and blah blah blah. So, he laid the kitchen towel across Shane's lap under the plate to catch any crumbs. Then he planted a sloppy kiss to the top of his head and commanded, "Eat."
Shane picked up a piece of toast, ever obedient.
After making sure everything was in easy reach (tissues and water, TV remote, latest boring book) Ilya headed to the kitchen to start prepping his ingredients.
He fell into the old routine of rinsing and chopping with ease - it always calmed him to cook. Sometimes a home recipe like this brought on a rush of confusing and overwhelming emotions - a touch of homesickness for something that didn't exist anymore, unease, anger...sorrow.
But today, with the background noise of British Bake Off and Shane's quiet sniffles and throat clears, he felt at peace. Like maybe every time he made something like this for his boyfriend, the negative memories were gradually being replaced by something positive, the light pushing out the dark.
Ilya heard the clink of the water glass being set back down, followed by the sound of Shane sneezing a couple of times, groaning softly, and blowing his nose.
Ilya smiled, "Bud'zdorov!" “Thagks!” Shane called back.
Shane's sneezes were usually so controlled - tight, half-stifled things that didn't sound satisfying at all. He was always trying to go unnoticed, spread as few germs as possible and avoid any attention. So, of course, Ilya loudly blessed him if they happened to be in public. In private, he'd successfully berated his boyfriend out of the habit of strangling his sneezes around him - he was proud of that. Shane had been missing out on the satisfaction of simply letting a good sneeze fly. Ilya could tell that he got more relief that way...plus it still made him shy and embarrassed afterward, which was fucking cute. His sick sneezes were different - wetter and stronger, like they really took over his whole body. Like he couldn’t restrain them if he tried. And that was, somehow, pretty fucking cute, too. To be fair, he found pretty much everything Shane did to be basically adorable.
Including when Shane wandered over as Ilya was chopping potatoes - blanket wrapped around his shoulders and held in place with his left hand, tissue box in his right. He looked sleepy, all warm and fuzzy - his lids heavy and movements slow as he took a seat at the kitchen counter. He stopped Ilya before he could even try to scold, “I just d’needed to stad up for a bit, I was getti’g restless…besides, I wadt to see how you bmake this fambous Russiad soup.” He turned to cough lightly into his elbow and then settled in further, arranging the blanket more comfortably and leaning his elbows on the granite, “So, what step are you od? Ilya sighed. He just sounded so…stuffy and miserable. It was virtually impossible to say no to him. So, instead of insisting he go back to resting more comfortably on the couch, or even teasing him about the state of his voice, Ilya began explaining each part of the process, checking the recipe on his phone now and then to be sure he wasn’t forgetting anything.
Shane was watching each step attentively, as if he were trying to file the information away for later use. He’d pulled a couple of tissues from the box and was wiping his nose every now and then, sometimes simply holding the clump of tissues there as if it took too much effort to pull them away. Ilya was adding the cabbage and sauerkraut to the broth when he glanced up to see a far away look in Shane’s eyes - he had a couple of tissues pressed to his face, and seemed to be trying to rub the sensation away, even as his breath faltered. “So- hihh- *hkm* what uhb, i’gredients did you say yooo-ihh? Sorry, say you could’t fihh - fide?” This was clearly a losing battle. Ilya just waited, brows raised. Shane gave in, spinning fully around on the kitchen stool, “Hh’MPSH'shhuh! HHih- NngsSSHh’ieww!!” The sneezes came back to back in a rush, so powerful as they jerked him forward that Shane almost tipped forward off the stool. Ilya dropped the ladle into the pot, alarmed, and reached up to steady him by both shoulders just in time. He continued to hold him there as Shane got his bearings and blew his nose. “Okay?” he asked, spinning his blushing boyfriend around to face him. Shane looked down, “Yeah” He cleared his throat, keeping the tissues to his face until he could swap them for a fresh bundle, “Sorry, I-” He gasped again, but this time Ilya was ready, leaving one hand on his shoulder in unspoken reassurance, and to keep him from spinning around again. “Ngk'zzsSHhewwh! Ghh - fuck, I- HiIH-!? HihH’zzSSHhieww!!” “My poor boyfriend,” Ilya said, knowing that the word always brought a smile to Shane’s face, “You’re like that dwarf from that story, the movie with the…what is it?” Shane gave into a waterlogged chuckle, despite himself, “S’dow White? Yeah, uh *hkm* Sdeezy, right? Sorry, I just cad’t seeb to…” his gaze went hazy again, and he shook his head before dipping down with a softer, almost subdued, “Hh’chsSH’iew!” He cleared his throat, cheeks flushing under his freckles, “umb, stop.” Shane looked like he might start apologizing again, so Ilya cut him off with a Russian blessing, the more formal, reverent version this time, and passed him more tissues. Shane kept his gaze averted, gently blowing his nose. That seemed to quell the fit at last. Ilya could sense Shane’s discomfort at the growing pile of tissues he kept tucking away in his lap, so he stooped to reach for the trashcan, holding it out casually as he stirred the soup and began adding the chicken. Shane smiled gratefully, tossing his trash into the offered bin. He settled back into his seat to watch the soup simmer and bubble, the house slowly filling with the rich smell. Not that he could actually smell, not fully. But, there was a hint getting through after that last noseblow, at least. Ilya gave the soup one more stir before turning the stove to low and placing the lid on top, “It has to um…simmer for about half an hour. Let’s go back to the couch.” “Okay…” Shane stood, grabbing the tissue box as Ilya tugged a falling corner of blanket back up for him, “NHL rembatch to pass the timbe?” Ilya cocked a brow, “You feeling up to it?” When Shane nodded, he smirked,unable to resist “Are you sure? I’d feel bad destroying you like this - you know, in your weakened state.”
Shane pretended to be offended, but he was a breath away from a laugh “You wish!” Ilya fought the urge to race him to the controllers, instead getting them comfy and cozy and refilling Shane’s water before mock-cannonballing onto the couch, making Shane laugh again. For once he wasn’t annoyed when he was reminded, once again, that he actually really sucked at stupid video game made-up hockey. He gained a small lead once when Shane had to turn away to sneeze (“Rozanov! Not fair!!”) but it never stuck. He had happily lost to his boyfriend twice when the kitchen timer buzzed. Shane insisted on helping Ilya ladle out the bowls of soup, carrying one back to his nest of blankets on the couch. Ilya grabbed the remote on his way, starting up Great British Bake Off where Shane had left off. Shane smiled fondly at him, “We don’t have to watch this, you can put something else on.” But Ilya just shook his head, getting comfy hip to hip with Shane and reaching for his spoon, “No, I want to see who will win - the woman with the 10 cats or scary mustache man.” “Oh, so you’ve completely ruled out the divorced gym teacher??” Ilya scoffed, “Please. He has no chance, you know this.” They lapsed into a comfortable silence, eating their soup and watching the show. Even though Shane was sure Ilya had been kidding, he was watching attentively, and gave him a cocky look when the gym teacher did, in fact, get eliminated. “This is really good, Ilya, by the way.” Ilya looked up, almost shyly, “You think so?” “Definditely. I bead, I cad’t eved taste that well right dow add it’s still delicious.”
Ilya practically glowed from the praise - it made Shane’s heart ache with love. “I can’t believe this is the first time I’ve made it for you.” “Right? I guess we’ve…dever had the timbe while I’ve beed sick.” “Yeah…” Suddenly their soup bowls had been set aside and Ilya was gently repositioning Shane beneath him on the couch, laying him on his back before allowing some of his weight to press down as he kissed him - letting the overwhelming tenderness he was suddenly brimming with flow through his every touch. Shane sighed beneath him, pushing his hands up and into Ilya’s hair with a slight tug. They lost themselves in each other for a while, moving languidly together without their typical frenzied sense of urgency - content with gentle kisses, slow caresses, and murmured words. Eventually, Shane’s breath caught and he turned away, this time to cough into his elbow - the sound was deeper now, and it took him a moment to stop. Ilya pulled back to sit up, reaching for the water glass on the coffee table with a sympathetic hum, “Moya lyubov, it sounds like it is going to your chest.” Shane cleared his throat, taking the glass gratefully. “Sor-” His apology was cut short by Ilya’s exaggerated glare. “Thagks,” he said instead. They finished their soup then, and Ilya quickly deposited both bowls in the dishwasher. He knew Shane wouldn’t relax if he left them out, even exhausted and distracted as he was. When he returned to his spot on the couch, he pulled Shane down to lay his head on his lap, where he closed his eyes and sighed. Ilya ruffled his hair affectionately, “Take a nap, Hollander.” “But…it’s the middle of the…day,” Shane said, already drifting. Ilya just smiled, running his hands through Shane’s hair as his breath evened out into soft snores, letting the last episode of the British Bake Off show play on. …The cat lady won. Of course.
* * *
6:30 PM: Ilya: Hi Yuna I’m sorry to bother you. Do you have a thermometer I could borrow?
Yuna: Of course! Are you sick, honey?
Ilya: No, I am fine.
Yuna: Ilya…does that mean what I think it does?
Ilya: ?
Yuna: Is Shane there?
.
.
.
Ilya: Yes But I made him come, please don’t be mad at him.
Yuna: Are you at least being careful and keeping your distance?
Ilya: If I said yes would you believe me? Yuna: No…probably not.
.
.
.
I’ll be there in half an hour. * * *
Shane slept restlessly, in fits and starts - he wasn’t clear on exactly where reality ended and his dreams began. He had vague memories of a pillow being slid under his head, sweating and kicking the blankets off one moment and shivering the next - someone pulling the blankets back up to his chin. At some point, he dreamt he heard his mother’s quiet, concerned voice, the front door opening and closing in the background. Then his dreams shifted again. When he awoke later, from a dream where a demented version of his junior league mascot showed up on the ice at an olympic game, he had no sense of how much time had passed, only that it was even darker in the room…and that his head was pounding. He fought a wave of panic as he freed his arms from the tangle of blankets and moved to sit up. Why was he so clammy? What time was it? Was Ilya still here or had he left? He hadn’t gone to practice already had he? No, that made no sense - he couldn’t have slept through the whole night…could he? He opened his mouth to call out into the quiet house, but his breath caught on the inhale and suddenly his lungs were seizing, his chest heaving. He brought the blanket up belatedly and shook his head, disgusted. The coughs were much more productive now, crackling with phlegm. He tried to slow down his breathing, to get a break so he could find the tissue box, which had to be around here somewhere…but he just couldn’t stop. Accepting defeat, he squeezed his eyes shut and gave himself over fully to the fit. But then there was a warm hand rubbing soothing circles on his back, and a bundle of tissues being pressed into his free hand. Ilya murmured soft encouragement as Shane exchanged the blankets for tissues. In his fuzzy state, Shane wasn’t even sure if the words were in English or Russian, but either way the meaning was clear, “Breathe. You’re ok. I’m here.” Finally, the fit passed. Shane spit into the tissues, too exhausted and relieved in the moment to be embarrassed. He was cold again, chills running up and down his spine. “What tibe is it?” he croaked. Ilya tsked, “Only 8, don’t worry - we’re fine. You sound terrible, moya lyubov.” Ilya’s brows were furrowed with worry as he cupped Shane’s face in one hand. Shane wanted to reach up and smooth the lines there, to tell him it was okay, he was fine. But, the truth was, he felt miserable - achy and shaky and SO tired. Plus…it hurt to talk. Instead he just let Ilya take him fully into his arms, his cheek resting just above Ilya’s collar bone, his eyes drifting shut. They stayed there for several moments, rocking ever so slightly, ever so slowly, until Shane felt a twinge deep in his sinuses and tried to pull back. But Ilya squeezed him tighter, placing a kiss to the top of his head. So Shane just tucked his face down, freeing one arm so he could cup a sleeve-covered hand over his nose and mouth. “hh’tchshh! Hh’dTSHh-euhh!” The pair of sneezes were small, but heavy and laden with exhaustion. Ilya blessed him, pulling back to brush some sweaty hair off his forehead, “Hang on.” Shane gave a little whine as his boyfriend pulled away, not caring how pathetic he sounded - he wanted to shrink down to a tiny size and crawl into Ilya’s shirt, fall asleep there curled up against his chest for the foreseeable future…maybe forever. “Shane? Shane.” Wait, when had he closed his eyes again? Ilya was crouched in front of him, holding a thermometer and gently tipping Shane’s chin up. Despite himself, Shane felt a hot rush of lust at the familiar gesture - he opened his mouth immediately and Ilya guided the thermometer under his tongue. Shane sighed, leaning his temple against Ilya’s shoulder, trying to keep his eyes open. * beep beep beep *
Shane fumbled for the thermometer, redirected Ilya’s hand so he could see the number on the tiny screen: 38.9 Ilya inhaled sharply, cursed under his breath, and then seemed to rally, “Ok. More medicine, then shower, then bed.” He reached over to the coffee table, into a shopping bag that Shane hadn’t noticed before, (Had that been there since the afternoon? He didn’t think so.) and pulled out an unopened bottle of theraflu. “Wait,” Shane rasped, “where did you get that?” But Ilya just shh’d him, pouring out a full dose of the dark liquid, following it quickly with a cool glass of water. The rest of the night passed in a blur - shivering in the shower while Ilya held him close and apologized quietly in his ear for the lukewarm temperature of the water, sounding almost pained - Ilya helping him to towel off afterward, bringing him soft and comfy clothes to sleep in - being tucked into the bed and feeling a cool cloth laid on his forehead - gentle hands stroking his back and carding through his hair. Then…nothing.
* * * He woke again a few hours later, appalled to find himself drenched in sweat, the comforter bunched down around his feet and the sheets beneath him damp. He was relieved to find that, other than the sensory nightmare of the sweaty clothes and bedsheets, he felt better. Still a little weak, completely stuffed up and slightly achy, but no longer shaking with chills, his headache reduced to a dull ache. Ilya was asleep beside him, fully clothed and on top of the covers, sitting up against the headboard as if he’d just paused to rest for a moment. Shane hated to wake him, but his head was lolling at an angle that was sure to leave him with a stiff and aching neck if he stayed like that much longer. Plus, he really could NOT stay in this bed for one more minute with these sweaty sheets. Ilya came awake at Shane’s touch with a start, clearing his throat and scrubbing a hand over his face as he rolled his head to stretch his neck, “What’s wrong?” he mumbled, groggy, then shook his head to clear it, eyes focusing on Shane, “Are you ok? Is your fever worse??” Shane, more lucid now than he’d been in hours, felt a sudden jolt of guilt seize him - Ilya was obviously tired, and so worried for him. He had to get on a plane this evening. He should be getting rest before his next round of games, not fretting over his fully grown boyfriend, who should be capable of taking care of himself. Shane swallowed, sniffled some of the congestion back, as if it did any good, “Ndo, ndo, I uh…I thig’k it broke actually. I’mb sorry,” he blushed, “I’mb so gross. Add the bed…” He found himself unable to describe his sensory discomfort in detail, “I just ndeed to chadge the sheets, get clea’d up a bit.” Ilya was still trying to wake up, his mind slow to translate Shane’s muddled, stuffy words, “Wait- it what?” Oh. Right. Ilya might never have heard that word used in this context, “Sorry, I mead - I thig’k it’s better. It just mbade mbe sweat a lot, so…do you have ad extra set of sheets?” He looked down at his hands where they rested, feeling thoroughly ashamed, “If you just tell mbe where they are, I’ll go get theb add-”
“Shane,” Ilya’s voice was steady and soothing now as he cupped Shane’s cheek, fingers moving up into his dark hair and thumb rubbing ever so lightly back and forth over his freckles, “Go shower.”
“But-” “Ah-ah - I have extra sheets, will take me 5 minutes to change them. Go rinse off and I will be done by the time you come back.
And he was right. Shane had showered slowly, unable to resist a full lather, loitering as the steam helped to loosen some of the junk in his sinuses and chest. Once he was out and towel dried, he was able to blow his nose to the point of some relief, finally. He could ALMOST breath through it now, though he knew it wouldn’t last.
The bed was made up, comforter pulled back a bit so he could slide right in. Ilya was finally getting ready for bed, changing out of the clothes he’d worn all day. He stopped by to give Shane a lingering kiss on his forehead (clearly gauging his temp) on his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
Shane meant to stay awake until Ilya came back, but the relief from the hot shower, his body’s fatigue after fighting the fever, the comfort of the fresh clean sheets - it was all too much. He fell into a deep sleep moments after his head hit the pillow.
*~*~*~ End of Part 4 ~*~*~*
