i largely use this blog to post snz scenarios and fics.
my writing tag is whoranwrites
i prefer colds, stifles, and angst so that is a lot of what you will find and i largely prefer to write for dabihawks
all of my sickfics are posted on ao3 at the same user if you’re interested in those. i’m working on getting all of my fics transferred over here with snz added but it’s a work in progress
i do take requests but right now i’m only taking them for snzfic drabbles. just send me a prompt and i will work on getting it posted
Three Times S/hane Hid Something from I/lya, and One time I/lya Helped Him
+ One: The Assist
part one, part two, part three, part four
at long last I bring you the culmination to this series (excepting the epilogue of course which will be next), with a refreshing theme of teamwork and communication rather than my typical angst and misunderstandings (although there is still an angsty undertone, because I'm incapable of leaving it out entirely).
I hope you enjoy! ♡
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 8.7k
cw: sneezing, general illness, anxiety, mentions of injury
Ilya woke first again, blinking in the mid-morning sunlight as his eyes alit on Shane curled into a tiny ball halfway down the bed, gripping onto the covers in his sleep like the Russian would try to drag them away. He was breathing through his mouth, rasping short breaths like he had just exerted himself, though the lines the comforter had left imprinted on his face attested that he’d been sound asleep for hours.
The blond let himself take in his boyfriend’s form for a few moments, noting the signs of illness, exhaustion, distress, estimating just how tired, symptomatic, and anxious he’d be when he awoke, and then swung his legs out of bed, stretching and grabbing his phone to check the time. They had three hours until Shane’s parents would arrive.
He padded softly back to the master bedroom, stared at himself in the mirror again as he stepped out of his boxers. He looked horrifically tired. He felt horrifically fucking tired. After this, they would both sleep for a week straight, he decided.
With a yawn, he turned the shower on, stepping in and letting the cool water run over him. Sharing a bed with his very feverish boyfriend all night had left him seriously overheated and clammy, though he couldn’t tell if it was his sweat or Shane’s that had left his skin with a tacky sheen.
He lathered up soap in his hands, starting to massage it into his skin, watching as the bubbles were washed away just as quickly as he swiped them across himself. Ilya took extra time with his upper body, an ache throbbing in the back of his neck from the awkward angle he’d spent most of the night in, sitting up to watch over Shane, and the acidic, throbbing tenderness in his shoulder that always arose in recent injuries when he was stressed or sick or sleep-deprived.
His shoulder was the latest victim, having taken a puck right under the padding at one of the final games of the season, injuring the joint badly. He’d stayed out, though, god knew they needed him to, up until the point where he’d hit the boards with another player on top of him and his shoulder had given up the ghost and dislocated. Even then he’d only missed the last two minutes of second period, and returned with a relocated arm and a taste for the blood of the opposing enforcer in the third. And they’d won.
Ilya dug his fingers into his trapezoids, drawing firm circles in the tense muscle, thumb only grazing over the outside of his shoulder as he worked, mostly willing the pain away. It was almost fully healed, and he wasn’t eager to interfere with that by kneading the ligaments the wrong way.
He snorted in aggressively, morning congestion finally beginning to shift as the steam from the shower filled the room. Predictably, a tickle arose in the absence of the blockage, Ilya watching his distorted reflection in the fogged up faucet contort as his face scrunched and his nostrils flared. He kept his hands on his shoulders, losing focus on the itch as he hit a particularly tense spot close to the base of his neck.
Moments later, though, his fingers stuttered to a halt as his attention was sharply ensnared by the actualization of the tickle, eyes slamming shut as his breath wavered.
“hKK! hKk! Kkh! hKSH! hKSHuh!-” He squared his stance, making sure he wouldn’t be knocked over by the coming sneezes, continuing to press his fingers into his upper back, jerking forward with each tiny expulsion, as though imitating the shower head in front of him. “-hKSHh! hihHKSHh!” Ilya snorted again, fighting the approaching threat of emptying his sinuses all down his face, “hAHSCHhUH! ASCHhOo!” The final two sneezes were directed upwards, the blond forcing his head to remain tilted back as he sprayed the tiled wall, keeping the contents of his face where they were until he was finished with his massage.
Accordingly, once he’d loosened his taut muscles and washed his hair and face, Ilya gripped his nose halfway up, pressing on alternating nostrils and blowing forcefully, emptying himself out into his palm, and then allowing the evidence to be washed away before turning off the water.
He wrapped a towel around his waist, using another to swipe his upper body dry enough to slap an antihistamine patch on, on his stomach this time, not wanting to garner questions from Yuna and David. Then he stepped back into the bedroom, intending to walk through and check on Shane, but having his mission immediately voided as he found his boyfriend tugging at the rumpled bedsheets, trying, with little logic or technique, to strip the bed.
“Good morning.”
Shane looked up. “Can you help me? I should have done this last night.”
He looked calm, lucid and focused, but Ilya could tell that he was terrified, and barely even present. There was an underlying air of panic that he couldn’t help but sense immediately, though it was absent from the brunet’s tone, and his face. Also his gaze hadn’t strayed to Ilya’s shower water dropleted abs for even a single second, so clearly something was wrong. Hollander had never had that kind of willpower.
“Yes.” Was his only reply, deciding to take things slow, let Shane explain what he was feeling and why in his own time.
The blond walked quickly to the closet to grab some clothes, dressed himself, and then met him at the opposite side of the bed, patiently starting to untuck the sheets from the mattress, and strip the comforter, as his boyfriend collected the bedding and struggled to accumulate it all into a manageable bundle in his arms. He wasn’t thinking straight. Maybe he wasn’t thinking at all. Normally, Hollander moved with logic, organisation, forethought. He would have stripped the sheets top to bottom, folding each item as he went, moving the pillows and comforter out of the way to get to the next item. This approach was haphazard, distracted, like he was trying to divert himself from some underlying anxiety, with a task he couldn’t even seem to perform on autopilot right now.
Eventually, the bed was stripped, and Shane started off in the direction of the laundry room, sheets trailing behind him like a wedding veil. Ilya let him go, heading through to the other bedroom to pick up his phone, and the thermometer, slipping it into his pocket so he wouldn’t forget to check. As he walked back into the corridor, he could still hear Shane shuffling through the house, apparently not having made a whole lot of progress in the time it had taken the Russian to make the short detour.
He’d just entered the kitchen when there was a loud thump from near the front door. Adrenaline spiking, the blond ran in the direction of the sound immediately. As he rounded the corner, he saw, to his relief, that the Canadian was still upright, though he’d inexplicably dropped all of the bedsheets in a pile at his feet. Before Ilya could say anything, though, the brunet snapped forwards, away from him.
“hEHTDSHh! hihESHHew!” Ilya could hear the sound ricochet off his cupped hands, and stared curiously at the back of his boyfriend’s head as he stepped closer. That was…unusually careless of him. Normally he could predict, and to some extent control, his sneezes, giving himself enough time to acquire something to cover with. Something deemed more suitable than his bare hands.
“God bless you.” He announced himself.
Shane turned. “Sorry.” He gestured at the sheets at his feet, and then flexed his palms towards the blond guiltily. “I couldn’t do both.”
“Is fine.” Ilya stepped deftly to one side, snagging a couple of tissues from the box on the hall table- an addition Shane had definitely made for his sake- and holding them out, pre-empting the expression of self-disgust that the brunet’s face took on as he observed the way his palms glistened in the sunlight.
The Canadian took the tissues, cleaning off his hands, and pressing them between his palms, balling them up absent-mindedly as he stared into space, original mission forgotten in favor of letting himself be carried off on some other train of thought.
Ilya moved slightly closer, purposefully slow, but still somehow managing to startle his boyfriend out of his trance, the brunet’s eyes dropping down to the pile of laundry discarded on the floor of the front hall with a frown.
“Right. I’ll take these…to be washed.” He still looked slightly confused by his purpose, and the Russian took his hesitation as an opportunity to retrieve the condensed ball of tissues from his hands, so that it wouldn’t accidentally get thrown in with the sheets.
“Okay.” He at least trusted him to do the laundry by himself. “I will make breakfast.”
…
Ilya watched Shane not watching the TV as the brunet fiddled absently with the hem of his shorts. The Russian had heard a car pull up on the driveway almost two minutes ago, but it appeared that his boyfriend hadn’t, either too lost in his own thoughts or his hearing muffled by the illness. He seemed anxious, but not imminently so, eyes fixed on the screen, not flitting in the direction of the door as Ilya found his own gaze doing.
Not wanting the brunet to be startled, he reached out a hand, laying it on the nape of his neck. Shane looked at him immediately, eyes suddenly attentive and focused.
“I think your parents are-”
There was a knock at the door. The Canadian sprang to his feet with a soft gasp. For a moment, his face contorted as though he had to cough, but he swallowed hard, ran his tongue over his lips, and straightened his shirt, pushing the sensation down as he ran through the motions to make himself presentable.
Ilya stood up too, brushing a thumb over his boyfriend’s cheek, subtly double-checking that the meds he'd taken at breakfast had brought his fever down. “You are okay?”
“Please don’t ask me that right now.” Shane said tightly.
“Okay. You remember the signal?”
“Yes.”
The brunet side stepped him before he could ask any more questions, climbing the stairs, crossing the kitchen and pausing just before he’d reach the sight of the front door.
Ilya followed him, placing a hand on the small of his back, but saying nothing. Shane took a deep, slightly shaky breath in, muttered something that sounded slightly self-contemptuous, and moved forward to open the door.
“Hello.” He said, the picture of unreadable neutrality, stepping back to let his parents inside.
“Hello, darling.” Yuna crossed the threshold first, pulling her son into a brief hug and smiling over his shoulder at Ilya. “Hi, Ilya, how are you?”
“Good, thank you.” He stood awkwardly, waiting, as she moved forwards to hug him as well. He loved it, loved the affection he'd missed out on for so long, but that didn’t mean he was used to it. “How was drive?” The question was directed at both of them, David also having entered now, and handed off a bottle of wine to his son, with a muttered “It’s mostly for your mother and I, I assume.” at his slightly dubious look.
“It was great, beautiful weather for it.” He responded as Shane shut the door behind them, Ilya leading the way into the kitchen.
“Yes, we sit outside for lunch?” He offered, feeling his boyfriend’s hand on his arm, a soft warning. Don’t push yourself for my sake.
…
They were sitting in the living room, Shane and Ilya on one side, Yuna and David on the other, peacefully catching up before the preparation of lunch would have to begin.
“I read an article about it,” Shane’s mother was saying, “and there’s some speculation that-”
“Sorry, excuse me for a minute, I forgot to empty the washer.” Shane interrupted suddenly, standing.
“You should do that now.” Ilya backed him instinctively, knowing that this wasn’t about the sheets. “Before clothes go… gross.”
“Uh, okay.” Yuna looked thrown for a moment, watching her son exit the room and jog across the kitchen with an urgency that seemed unwarranted for laundry, before returning to her story, “Anyway, Ilya, I don’t know what you’ve heard about it-”
He listened to her explain whatever conspiracy was currently making the rounds regarding the league, how it could affect either of the two of them, and what she’d thought and done and said to David about it. He assumed that Shane actually would go and take the laundry out of the washer, knowing how much he disliked lying, and also knowing that he’d put the wash on several hours ago, without having returned to it, Ilya remaking the bed with fresh linen once it looked like the sheets wouldn't be dry in time. But what had called him away so urgently?
The conversation moved on. Ilya did not.
“So, you had a fair season, didn’t you? Really whipped Ottawa into shape. They’re starting to get quite good under your leadership.”
“Yes.” Ilya said flatly, looking at the two of them without really seeing. “Is good.” All he could think about was Shane, probably hunched in the furthest corner of the bathroom, sneezing in jerky little bursts with his nose held in that death grip that always looked so painfully remorseless, muzzling himself into silence. And for who? The three people in the world who cared about him most? It made no sense to Ilya.
“Not as good as Boston, though.” Yuna probed.
“Mm.” She could have said absolutely anything at that moment and he’d have agreed, mentally setting himself a timer for how long he would leave his boyfriend to his own devices before he let himself check on him. Five minutes? Seven? He barely gave enough of a fuck about manners not to go right now, but he could already hear Shane’s hissed reproach, “You left them on their own to check on me? Now they’re going to know that something’s wrong!”
“Does that bother you?”
“Yuna.”
“What? I just want to know where his head’s at.”
“Does not bother me.” Ilya interjected. “I like challenge.” He had no concept of whether the move bothered him or not, currently. He had no concept of anything except Shane. The blond was merely allowing the conversation to follow whatever path it would, giving instinctive answers while he allowed the rest of his brain power to be devoted to his boyfriend's suppressed suffering several rooms away.
They discussed more of the ins and outs of the season, though Ilya had no idea which ins or which outs, almost treating the conversation like an interview, agreeing with whatever he was asked to corroborate, spitting out the same few talking points, short circular sentences that made it sound like he'd recently suffered a concussion.
Just as he was bracing his hands against the edge of the couch to get up, familiar footsteps re-entered the room, Ilya's shoulders dropping immediately as the tension of his Schrödinger's boyfriend situation was resolved. Hollander was both alive and dead until Ilya could lock eyes on him again.
Shane padded over and sat down next to him, listening attentively to his mother explaining exactly why a goal that Ilya hadn’t even been on the ice for, which had been waved off, had in fact been a goal, and should have been treated as one, and how that would have affected their season overall. It was actually a kind of fascinating hypothetical.
He glanced subtly over at his boyfriend, who looked, miraculously, much the same as when he’d left. No redness around his nose, no bloodshot eyes, same clothes, same hair, same man. But Ilya knew something had happened. And it was driving him crazy to not be able to ask.
…
Twenty minutes of casual conversation later, Ilya glanced at his watch. “I will start lunch.”
He stood up, Shane standing with him. The brunet’s gaze turned distant, face imperceptibly paling. Ilya reached over, fisting a hand in the back of his boyfriend’s shirt, where his parents couldn’t see.
“Maybe you move outside? Is so nice.” The blond said, voice smooth and calm, and pointed in a way that only Shane could hear. He leaned in, kissing the Canadian on the cheek, and muttering “Fresh air.”
The brunet nodded, blinked. “Right, yeah. We can go sit outside.”
Ilya let him take the steps first, under the pretence of pausing to check his phone. But his eyes never left his boyfriend’s back as he walked, ready to spring forwards and catch him at any second.
His vigilance was unnecessary, as it turned out, but he would much rather have been vigilant than careless, and let his boyfriend collapse halfway up the stairs right in front of his parents.
The Russian watched the three of them walk out onto the patio, making their way to sit at the table, Yuna and David facing the water, Shane facing the opposite way. Ilya watched him stare blankly at the glass, knowing his boyfriend was looking back, but unable to see the blond through the sun glancing off the windows.
He frowned, before turning to the fridge, retrieving the ingredients Shane had had him collate the day before, some extremely boring salad that inspired absolutely no appetite in the blond. He placed them on the counter before returning to the fridge to retrieve a cola, opening the can and taking a long sip of the cool, bubbly liquid, before setting it down beside the ingredients and setting a frying pan on the heat.
He was too in the flow of cooking to notice the door sliding open again, masked by the sizzling of mushrooms in the pan. He only became aware that he wasn’t alone when he took a few steps away from the oven and heard something from behind him.
There was a soft noise, a tiny displacement of air like half of a hiccup, and Ilya turned to see Shane standing a few steps past the doorway, pouting absently at nothing. At Ilya’s questioning look, he smiled tightly and started walking towards the fridge.
“I’m just grabbing a drink for mom.”
The blond caught his arm as he went past, pulling him in to face him. “What happened?”
Shane’s pout was back, accompanied this time by glistening tears in the corners of his eyes. “I bit my tongue.”
Ilya winced sympathetically, connecting the dots in his mind. “Sneeze?” Shane nodded his confirmation, Ilya’s heart breaking at the regret on his face. “Budʹzdorov, lyubimy. I’m sorry. Does it hurt still?”
He shook his head before butting it into the Russian’s shoulder. “I hate this.” He whispered.
“I hate it too.” Ilya inched them closer to the fridge, hands around Shane’s waist. “I want to wrap you up like tiny burrito and kiss you-” He paused to press a kiss into the brunet’s hair, “-until you are better.”
“I wouldn’t be a tiny burrito.” Shane corrected as Ilya tugged the fridge door open. “Burritos are usually smaller than me.” What fucking burritos had he seen that were bigger than him?
“Okay. Get drink before they wonder what we are doing in here.”
“Ugh.” The Canadian stared out through the windows at his parents’ backs, Ilya feeling his boyfriend's muscles tense up under his hands. “What if we just hid in the bedroom and never came out?”
“We starve.” Ilya’s gaze drifted to the salad ingredients and he wrinkled his nose slightly. “Maybe we starve anyway.”
Shane paid him no heed, still in his own head. “That’s awful of me, though. They love me, and I just- God, why can’t I just be normal?” He thunked his head against his boyfriends chest.
The blond frowned, surprised. “What?”
“I don’t know.” He straightened and sniffled, retrieving the drink and nudging the door closed. “I just feel ungrateful.”
Ilya pressed the back of his hand to the side of Shane’s face. He was slightly warm. They’d dosed him up as close to the time of arrival as possible, obviously, and he had been sitting in the sun out there, but still, it made the Russian uneasy.
Shane pulled away with another little sniff, eyes focused out the window again, checking his parents hadn’t seen the brief check-up.
“You should blow your nose.” Ilya commented. “You are sniffly.”
“Can’t.” Shane started back towards the door. “Don’t want to set myself off again.”
And from the look on his face, the previous time he’d ‘set himself off’ had been bad. Disquietude crawled under Ilya’s skin like a parasite, wondering how much his boyfriend was inhibiting himself from divulging, not wanting the blond to visibly worry while his parents were here.
He pulled the pan off the heat, retrieving a large bowl to mix the salad in, filled with an overwhelming sense of triviality. The complete inanity of having to make this fancy, disgusting meal, and talk about the season, and the summer, like everything was fine, when his boyfriend was enduring such discomfort. It almost made him angry. But if he was angry, he had no idea at whom. Because it felt seriously wrong to be mad at Shane right now. Like he was confirming the brunet’s deepest dread, fulfilling some awful anxiety-fuelled prophecy that Hollander had set for him, becoming the very thing he'd sworn to protect him from. So maybe he was just angry at the situation, or the salad, or the virus ravaging his boyfriend's body. That seemed like a suitable target for his rage.
…
Ilya shoved a forkful of leaves into his mouth, and stared angrily into his bowl as he chewed them. His angry stare could be easily written off as being the result of the glaring sunlight getting in his eyes, so he allowed himself to indulge.
“This is delicious, Ilya.” He looked up at Yuna's sunny smile. No, the fuck it isn’t.
“Thank you.”
He glanced at Shane, wondering if the brunet could even taste the food, wondering if he still found it appetising in his languescent state, wondering if there was something else he’d prefer. He seemed to be eating normally.
Several more forkfuls did nothing to quell his hunger, his stress over his boyfriend, or his body’s protest to their surroundings. An antihistamine patch, sometimes two if the count was high, usually kept his symptoms to a minimum, so long as they stayed indoors, or showered after going outside. The allergy was manageable. But manageable was entirely different from eradicable, even temporarily, and what he would consider to be unremarkable levels of sneezing and sniffling and scrubbing at his eyes, was probably markedly different to what would be considered unremarkable by Shane’s parents.
“Oh, by the way, Ilya,” Yuna said, “I know you were talking about a new sponsorship, and that they’d sent over a contract? If you wanted me to look over that, just to be sure they’re giving you everything you need, I’d be happy to.”
Ilya swallowed what felt like a mouthful of nondescript Canadian flora. “Okay, thank you. Sounds usefu-hh-l.” Something about speaking, maybe the vibration of the vocalisations, maybe the pause in breathing through his nose, had incited a fire about halfway up his nose, that he was quickly realising wouldn’t be easy to subdue.
He could see that the hitch in his breath had been noticeable, the other three all looking attentively at him in mild surprise, where Shane’s focus had previously been deep in his own bowl of assorted plants.
“hKK!-” He barely raised the back of his hand in time, crunching hard into his shoulder as he tried to shrink away from the table without leaving his chair. “-hKK! Kkh! hKSH! hKSHh! hhih…hrRSHH!”
“Bless you, darling.” Yuna patted the hand he’d left on the table.
“Thank you.” Ilya didn’t meet her gaze, electing to stare into his glass of water instead, as he straightened up.
That really should be it. One little fit, and he’d be fine for the rest of the visit. He didn’t want to make a scene, or rather, he didn’t need to. Although it could take some of this imagined heat off of his boyfriend… that would be the only thing that could induce Ilya to give in any further to his body’s little temper tantrum about the new environment it found itself in.
They finished the meal in calm silence, each allowing their gaze to wander across the beautiful landscape, Shane and Ilya both also throwing little concerned glances at each other every so often, when they were convinced that the other wasn’t looking.
Ilya debated whether he could get away with sidling back into the kitchen to grab himself something else to eat, craving slightly more substance than the meal had provided. He rubbed at his still itching nose with his knuckle, glancing up to see Shane looking at him intensely. Instinctively, he lowered his hand, assuming he was being chided for being impolite. But as he watched, Shane raised one hand open, fingers splayed, and held up the first finger on his other hand. He held the pose for barely a second, before his hands were back in his lap again. That was the signal. He needed them to leave.
Serendipitously, the tickle in Ilya’s nose was unfazed by his nervous system shifting towards fight-or-flight mode as the instinct to protect his boyfriend kicked in. He sniffed, and glanced up at the windows, letting the bright sunlight shrink his pupils and trigger that one misplaced connection in his brain.
An hour’s worth of pollen exposure, urged on by the purposeful enactment of his photic reflex, generated a tripping, sharp, staccato breath, that pulled the blond’s head back slightly, squinted eyes focused on the roof of the house as he ducked away from the table, against his forearm.
“Bless you.” Shane’s parents responded in synchronicity.
Ilya turned back, standing immediately with a sniffle and a wince. “Thank you. I have to…” He nodded towards the house nonspecifically. “Shane?”
“Uh sure, yeah.” The Canadian stood too, letting himself be taken by the arm as his boyfriend marched them both back inside.
…
“Are you okay?” Shane tried to turn to look at him, but Ilya was on an uninterruptable path to the bathroom, not pausing for a moment. He had his game face on. Like the exact expression that Shane had seen so many times during face-offs. Was this the plan he’d talked about? What the fuck was he going to do?
They made it to the bathroom, the blond shutting and locking the door behind them. He spun back to Shane with focused, attentive eyes.
“It is bad? You need them to leave?”
“I think so.” He bit his lip guiltily, wondering if he really did feel that bad after all. Maybe he’d just been sitting in the sun for too long. He could stomach a little more conversation, wait for them to open the wine his parents had kindly brought. Couldn’t he?
“Okay.” Ilya reached out and took him by the arms, grounding him. “I can get them to leave.” He reached up to cup his boyfriend’s face reassuringly, but Shane saw the flicker of pain in his expression.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Is nothing. My shoulder. No big deal.”
“Yes, big deal. How long has it been hurting?”
“Since it got hit with puck.” He responded evasively.
“Il-” Shane broke off coughing, at first trying to choke it back, but then giving in, elbow pressed to his face, bending forwards. His throat felt chalky and raw, his lungs encumbered by mucus and fatigue, every inch of his respiratory system intent on dragging out this fit until it worked properly again. And who knew how long that would be?
There were firm hands on his back, two initially, but then one vanished and he heard the tap running. This time he couldn’t reject the water on the basis of its origin, no matter how much disgust it sparked within him. He raised his head, took the glass in a shaky hand, and downed it, horribly aware of its not-quite-cold, metallic-tasting nature.
“You are okay? You can breathe?” Ilya asked.
“Mm.” Shane didn’t really know he could. He just assumed. He was exhausted, the effort of being a person in front of his family, pretending not to be sick, and his body fighting this infection tooth and nail had completely drained him. He hardly had the energy to take a full breath, ending up with short, raspy half-breaths that made him lightheaded.
Ilya’s breathing was off too, now that he was listening to the breathing patterns echoing in the small room. The blond turned away slightly, one hand still on Shane’s upper arm, and scrubbed angrily at his nose, horrible clicking sounds emanating from the abused appendage.
The brunet watched through blurry, honeycombed vision. “I…Ilya.” He breathed, finding it impossible to put any real weight or power behind the word, despite the urgency that he knew he needed to convey.
“Yebat. One se-ehh-cond. Fucking Canad- ahKK! Kk! hKSH!-”
Shane could no longer really feel the bathroom tile beneath his feet. He had a sense that it had originally been a firm, reliable presence, pressing up against his soles with the same force that he’d been pressing down on it with. That was how physics worked, anyway. But now, it felt softer, like he was standing in quicksand, or clay, and the longer he stood there, the deeper he was sinking.
“-hKSHh! hiHSHh!-”
The sounds Ilya was making were starting to slow and echo in his ears, beyond the effects of the tile surrounding them, playing over and over until Shane wasn’t sure if the fit was still going, or if his ears were just stuck on a loop.
“Help?” He whispered, unsure if the sound even left his lips, if his lips even moved. But the blond turned back, squinting at him, even as his expression was pulled into desperate itchiness again.
And as Shane’s vision was swallowed by nothingness, and his legs were swallowed by the undulating mass of the tiled floor, and he found himself tilting forwards into the firm mass of Ilya’s chest, the last thing he heard, was a violently hitching breath, suddenly cut off, as though by extreme force.
…
When his eyes opened, meaningless colors swirling before them before solidifying into the familiar surroundings of his bathroom, he felt as though he’d been asleep. Like 8 full hours had just passed, like he’d had dreams.
“Shane.”
He twisted his neck to look up into his boyfriend’s steely gaze, brow furrowed, nose and cheeks slightly flushed. He went pink sometimes, when he panicked. It was something Shane had never actually mentioned, knowing that it would either make for a very endearing private moment, or a useful chirp, at some point in the future.
“How long?” He muttered, turning back to press his cheek into Ilya’s thigh again.
“A minute. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.” He started to push himself up, drawing his legs up until they were kneeling opposite each other. “Sorry I didn’t have much warning.” His head felt fuzzy and distant, like he was drunk, or overtired. It felt dangerous. He definitely couldn’t go back and face his parents like this.
“I should have noticed anyway.” Ilya frowned further. “How do you feel?”
“Dizzy. Uh…” He tried to think of another descriptor for the endless list of discomforts plaguing him. “I guess achy too.”
“Okay.” The blond pulled out his phone. Shane faintly wondered if he was going to call his parents in order to get them to leave, or if he’d just remembered a particularly important text that he had to respond to. Or if he was calling an ambulance? He really had only been out for a minute, right? “You will be okay for few minutes while I am talking to your parents?”
“Yes.” The Canadian huddled in on himself, suddenly slightly cold in his summer clothes, sitting on the cool tiled floor. He sniffled as Ilya scrolled through some app or another, blinking in discomfort as a sharp pain started in the back of his nose, making his eyes water.
Shane coughed softly, taken aback as his boyfriend’s gaze immediately snapping up to fix on his face.
“Why are you crying?”
“I’m not.” He swiped at his eyes, coughing again as the pain switched tracks and became a tickle. “Can you get the-” He gestured up at the counter they were kneeling next to, “-tissues down, please.”
Ilya stretched out obediently, retrieving the box and setting it down between them.
“Thanks.” He rushed the word out, tugging one free, folding it, and pressing it to his nose as he drew in a deep breath. “hTSHhh!”
“God bless you.” Ilya’s eyes stayed on his phone.
“hTDSHHh!”
“God bless you.”
Shane couldn’t reply, face so full of pressure and pain and itchiness that it was all he could do to drag another tissue from the box and fold it over the first, rushing it to his face as his breath caught again.
“hEHTSHH!”
“God b-”
“hEHTSHhew!”
Ilya looked up. “God bless you. What is-”
“HEISHh!”
Face flushing, the brunet grabbed another tissue, surprised and embarrassed at his own volume.
“hehh…hEh…”
His boyfriend shuffled forwards, placing a hand on Shane’s shoulder. “God bless you.”
He sniffled, panted, immediately stopped panting because it made him feel ten times dizzier, “hHh…”
“Is stuck?”
“YeahH…”
“Mm.” Ilya leaned closer, grazing the edge of the brunet’s nostril with the pad of a calloused finger. “You know, when you fell, I stop sneezing.”
The Canadian couldn’t reply, consumed by the tickle, and his boyfriend’s attempts to tame it into something actionable.
“I do not think,” The blond continued, tilting his finger so that the edge of his short nail ran along one side of his septum, “I have ever stopped in middle before.”
Shane absolutely did not give out a tiny moan, so fever-addled and uncomfortable that he couldn’t tell whether the salience was sexual or not.
“Once I start...” Ilya hovered directly in the centre of the brunet’s flaring nostril, letting his fingertip brush against the hairs, a powerful, concentrated itch building at the point of contact, and travelling through Shane's nose like wildfire, “I have to finish.”
“hyEHTDSHh!” Shane covered his entire face with the handful of tissues he’d been accumulating in preparation as his boyfriend spoke. “hEHTSHh! EHHTSHh! huhH…TSHh! tSHeW!”
“God bless you.” Ilya kissed him right at the hairline, one hand cupping the back of his neck.
The brunet swallowed thickly, tired and light and empty in the wake of the fit, blinking heavy eyes up at his boyfriend, only to see a phone screen, opened to some kind of website, held in front of his face. His vision was too blurry, from tiredness, the proximity, and the water that had flooded his eyes as he’d sneezed, to read any of the content.
“What?”
“You have looked, yes?”
“I can’t read it.”
“Good.” Ilya smiled at him mischievously as he stood up. “I come back. Stay here.”
“Wait, Ilya.” Shane sat upright, hand holding the tissues dropping into his lap. “What are you going to say to them?”
The Russian only shook his head, eyes locked on Shane’s until the door was closed all the way, and the brunet was alone in the bathroom.
…
He stepped out onto the patio slowly, arms folded and cradling each other at the elbow, walking around the table to where both Yuna and David could see him, serious as a surgeon coming to deliver post-op news.
“Ilya?” Yuna glanced around, noting the absence of her son. “Is everything alright?”
“Is…” He hesitated, feeling that looming, terrifying possibility of an unknown response. They could say anything right now. It didn’t really matter, because he was doing this for his boyfriend, not himself, and he didn’t care about what they thought of him. He definitely didn't care. He couldn't. But still. He had the unignorable sense that he was about to drop something precious between the slats of a sewer grate with his next words. “Is my shoulder. I hit last season.”
“I remember.” Yuna’s eyes were fixed on his upper arm, though David’s remained attentively on Ilya’s face.
“Has been not good, recently. I am not supposed to shock it, you know. But earlier…”
“You jolted it when you were sneezing?” She offered.
“Yes.” He admitted. He had, and it had hurt badly, but not reinjury badly. “Shane looks at emergency physio.” He nodded back towards the house, explaining the brunet’s absence. Not a lie. The page he’d shown his barely conscious boyfriend had been for an emergency physiotherapist that he’d seen like once in Boston, and had bookmarked on his phone ever since.
“Are you going to go to one now?” David asked.
“Trainer said go as soon as possible if is problem.” Also true.
“Okay, honey. Do you need anything? Do you want us to drive you?” Yuna stood up, moving closer to brush his curls back from his face.
“No, thank you. I think is fine.”
“We’ll get out of your hair then.” David collected the plates left on the table, a gesture Ilya was grateful for as he wasn’t sure he’d have remembered them otherwise, and headed back into the kitchen.
Yuna stepped in behind Ilya, a guiding hand on his back as though it were his legs or his eyes that had ceased to work. Shane’s father placed the dishes carefully in the sink, before moving back to where his wife and Ilya were standing on the other side of the kitchen island. The three of them stood there awkwardly for a moment before the blond realised they must be waiting for Shane. Fuck.
“Sorry we had to cut short.” He muttered, taking a tentative half-step towards the door.
“It’s not your fault, Ilya, darling, don’t feel you have to apologise.” She smiled, patting him on his non-injured shoulder. A small part of him was still surprised that she remembered which one it was that he’d hurt, that she’d been watching the game, and had cared enough to internalise the mechanism of injury.
“Okay.” He stared in the direction of the bathroom, wondering how he could explain his boyfriend’s absence in a way that wasn’t a complete lie, and settling for, “I do not think he is coming.”
He delivered the sentence with enough exhaustion in his tone to show he didn’t want to continue standing there waiting, but not enough that Shane’s parents would feel encouraged to go looking for their son in his stead.
“That’s fine.” David moved back towards the front door. “Tell him we said goodbye.”
“I will.” Ilya fought a relieved smile at the realisation that they were leaving. Every second that Shane was alone was another opportunity for him to cough himself unconscious again.
“Alright, honey, keep us updated. I hope the physio helps.” Yuna smiled, stroked his cheek softly, and then exited the door that her husband was holding open.
David left after her, “The salad was great, Ilya. See you soon, kid.”
“Bye.” He raised a hand, watching them walk to the car, before slowly shutting the door, and sprinting back to the bathroom as fast as he could without tripping.
…
Shane had gone back to lying down in his boyfriend’s absence. The tile was cool beneath him, and he shut his eyes, imagining himself laying on the ice in an empty rink, visualising the arena from the smooth white surface he lay on, all the way up to the rafters. It was a combination of many different arenas he’d played at, the layout shifting and changing around him as alternate settings arose in his memory. It was a very relaxing exercise. One of his favorites. With a sniffle, he shifted his position, trying to stop the ache the hard floor was imbuing in his bones. The sound echoed in the small space, breaking the illusion of the empty arena somewhat.
He shuddered slightly, suddenly a little cold. Shane wondered where Ilya was. Had his parents seen straight through whatever excuse he’d given? What if he hadn’t given one at all and was just straight-up telling them? Hadn’t he understood that this was an important area of non-disclosure for him? Should he get up and go help? Could he get up and go help? He inadvertently visualised himself rising to his feet on the isolated ice, and immediately slipping, and cracking his head off of the surface.
Shane frowned, trying to erase the image from his mind, only serving to make his mind expand to also begin to play Ilya crouching on the patio, gasping for breath, overexposed to the disagreeable Canadian air, cradling his injured shoulder as Shane’s parents watched on helplessly. He squeezed his eyes shut harder. Now his parents and Ilya were huddled together at the table, discussing Shane with anxious, disappointed tones, conspiratorial, careworn, critical.
“Shut up.” He muttered to himself.
Attempting to ground himself once again, he focused on the arena even harder. The cool air rising from the ice, the bright lights up above, the darkened stands… But as he visualised them, the stands filled with people. Everywhere he looked, every face he tried to make out, was one of his parents; his teammates; friends he used to play with when he was younger; players he hardly knew but still really looked up to; the first coach he’d had a real connection with; Ilya.
Maddened, the brunet visualised himself getting up to skate off. If he couldn’t picture himself on the ice in peace, then he’d picture himself in the tunnel, or the locker room, or locked in a bathroom stall. But again, his brain refused to imagine skates on his feet, and he was slipping, and slamming his face into the ice. And the crowd of people he cared about, gasped. And though he wanted to do anything else in the world, he found himself looking up, taking in all those concerned, worried, put-upon faces turned towards him. Stop it. Stop fucking looking.
“Stop it.” He whispered, the real sound silencing the imagined noise of the crowd, Shane grounded back in the silence of the bathroom again for a moment.
And then the door slammed open.
With wide panicked eyes, he looked up to see Ilya in the doorway, panting for breath.
“They are gone. Did you faint again?” He was on his knees in a moment, leaning over Shane upside down, smoothing hair from his face.
“No. It’s just colder down here.” He fought the urge to laugh at the odd angle.
Ilya's panic faded, affection taking its place. “You are too hot, moya sverkhnovaya?”
“Mhm.”
“Can you sit up?”
Shane didn’t respond, providing his boyfriend with the answer he needed by pushing himself carefully back up into a sitting position instead. When he met Ilya’s eyes the right way up, he saw how unbearably fretful he still looked.
“I’m okay.” He immediately tried to placate the blond.
“Good.” Ilya’s expression didn’t change, and he reached into his pocket to pull the thermometer back out. Shane’s mind skipped through a trifecta of awful scenarios where the device had fallen out in front of his parents and they’d had to explain it away, before flicking back to the present moment, his heartbeat maybe 10bpm faster for his trouble, and opening his mouth to take the thermometer in it.
The silence as they waited seemed to stretch on forever, the brunet watching his boyfriend rub absently at his nose, and after a moment, mirroring the action himself, breaking the stillness with simultaneous sniffles and clicks as their respective immune systems protested to the respective invasions.
Shane’s mind wandered again, his parents in the car, driving home, probably talking about how sullen and quiet he’d been that day, how he hadn’t helped Ilya with lunch, how he hadn’t said goodbye…
The thermometer beeped. Ilya took it.
“38 point-”He glanced up, face dropping suddenly, “Oh, vzglyani na sebya.”
The brunet blinked at the pitying tone, staring blankly at his boyfriend until the Russian plucked a tissue from the box on the floor and swiped at Shane’s cheek. Oh, he was crying. The realisation was confusingly slow, Ilya having made one full go over of his face with the tissue by the time the Canadian had processed what was happening. But then, with his cheeks newly dry again, the floodgates opened.
He raised his hands to cover his face, suddenly hiccupping and gasping for breath as the exhaustion of the day finally won over the last dregs of determined adrenaline, and he felt the ache deep in his bones, the painful tenderness of his skin, the weight and pressure of congestion in his head, and the itch that ran from his nostrils, all the way down his throat.
“Shane, Shanya, moye vse,” Ilya placed his hands on the brunet’s shoulders, leaning in closer, “What is it?”
“’m not okay.” He managed, between gasping breaths.
“I know, I see this, why?”
“Feel bad…my skin…and because I sent them away… and so hot… my body and… and fucking can’t even… I was so mean, ‘lya, so mean… bad fucking person… everything feels bad… every single thing… everything… feels… it feels bad.” He knew he was incoherent, barely able to form thoughts in his distressed state, let alone sentences, so he focused on the phrases that seemed relevant and would probably be easily understood by his boyfriend, intercutting the declarations with little groaning noises and writhing movements as he resisted the agonies that plagued him, emotional and physical.
“Alright, okay.” Ilya removed his hands, apparently noticing that Shane had enough going on right now, and didn’t need any extra anything on his body. “You are very overwhelmed, yes?”
“Yes.” The Canadian suddenly realised that crying was only making his face more uncomfortable, as the tears left his skin sticky and irritated, and the pressure in his sinuses was building tenfold. “It hurts, though. I want to stop.” He looked up at his boyfriend pleadingly. “Help me.”
A fresh wave of tears filled his eyes, despair amassing in his chest as he failed to stop himself from continuing to cry.
“What hurts? Stress? Or crying?”
Shane nodded at the second prompt, swiping angrily at his cheeks with the back of his hand.
“We take deep breath, okay? Watch me and copy.” He mimicked a deep breath in. The brunet tried not to glare at him. He didn’t want to breathe, it was going to hurt his lungs. He didn’t want to try and stop the feelings, he just wanted them to stop. He didn’t want to do a dumb breathing exercise, he wanted to be fucking sedated so his decelerated brain would stop spitting out nightmare scenarios in agonising slo-mo and freaking him out.
Against his own wishes, Shane mimicked his boyfriend and took a semi-deep breath in. It was shakier than Ilya’s and it did indeed hurt his lungs, and feel like having ice water dumped directly into his nervous system as the therapeutic effect of the tears dwindled. But the tears themselves did also start to slow.
He copied Ilya through three more breaths before his anxiety was usurped by antsy frustration. Apparently this change was visible on his face, too.
“Better?”
Shane nodded slowly. “Some.” He still felt like shit, and he still felt stressed and guilty, but there was only so much that breathing could do for you.
“You have fever. I get you medicine, then we go to bed.” Ilya reconsidered for a moment. “I get snack as well. You want something to eat?”
“No, I don’t think…no.” The brunet pressed his hands hard against the floor in front of him, trying to distract himself from the other sensations.
“Okay, fine. We go to bedroom first. And you are not,” Ilya placed his own hand in between Shane’s on the floor, getting his attention without touching him, “A bad fucking person. You are maybe only good person here.”
“Here? Canada?”
“No, cottage. Maybe Ottawa.”
Shane smiled weakly, regretful that he couldn’t quip back in some way, but his brain was just too slow, and before he knew it, Ilya was climbing to his feet.
“Come on.” He held out his hands to help him up.
…
Ilya stood in the doorway and watched his boyfriend cross the room towards the closet. He said nothing as Shane pulled out one of his own hoodies, stared at it with intensity that suggested that it was either speaking to him or covered with invisible text that Ilya couldn’t see, put it back, and retrieved one of the blond’s instead.
He said nothing as the brunet accumulated a full outfit’s worth of clothes and headed slowly back towards the bed. He said nothing as Shane dumped the clothes on the end of the bed Ilya had remade earlier, further antagonising his shoulder- not that he would be telling his boyfriend that-and started to shimmy out of his shirt.
But when he tried to strip off his shorts and started to stumble dangerously around the room, trying to keep his balance, Ilya stepped in.
“Sit. I will do it.”
The lack of protest from the Canadian momentarily spurred the thought in Ilya’s mind that he’d been acting that hapless on purpose to garner some assistance, but once he got close enough to start to help with the changing process, he could see how glazed over Shane’s eyes were, and knew this was no performance.
As he pulled the hoodie over his boyfriend’s head, the blond asked, “You could not go to bed in these-” He nodded in the direction of the discarded outfit at his feet, “-clothes?”
“No.” Shane responded firmly, muffled by the neck of the hoodie still half covering his nose and mouth, eyes barely visible enough to discern the disparaging glare he was directing at Ilya.
“Okay.” He didn’t bother to ask why not, unsure whether the brunet could actually express why at this current moment, and further unsure whether the answer would make sense to him on a regular day.
Hand hovering a small way from his boyfriend’s back just in case he lost his balance, Ilya shepherded him into bed, watching him snuggle into the sheets with an endeared half-smile.
Once it looked like Shane was comfortable, he let himself refocus on the things he had to do before he could join him in bed. Medicine was the first, then something more substantial for himself to eat, he’d need to check they had everything they’d need in the bedroom, make sure Yuna hadn’t messaged either of them seeking physiotherapy updates, and-”
Suddenly, his nose started to itch sharply again with an imminent need that he’d just barely noted before he was stepping back and dragging his shirt up over his face.
“hHAHKSHh! KSHh! KSHh! hhihKSHh! hRRSHHhOo!”
“Mm, bless you.” Shane snagged a tissue and scrubbed at his own nose in sympathy. “That’s the other half of the fit from earlier, right?”
The Russian was nonplussed. He’d never had a fit cut itself in half like that before so he had literally no idea if that was how it worked. “Maybe?"
…
One dose of medication for Shane and one suitable snack for Ilya, and they were both back in bed, the blond stripped naked in order to counteract the effects of his bundled-up, feverish boyfriend laying beside him.
The Canadian looked exhausted, Ilya watching as he brought a wavering elbow to his face, blinking haphazardly and involuntarily as he coughed, whole face puckering for the millisecond that each expulsion took over him. It was adorable, but it made him want to bite the brunet and suck out this illness like some kind of medicinal vampirism, spurred by his hatred to see the man he loved suffering in any way. And it almost seemed that Shane hated to be seen suffering just as much, he mused.
“I do not get it.” He voiced his thoughts on an impulse, prompting his boyfriend to look across in surprise.
“Don’t get what?” His voice was totally shot, thin and strained, while also being significantly deeper than usual, in a way that was borderline attractive to Ilya.
He knew the topic was a sensitive one, and the brunet was only just relaxed and medicated and lucid enough not to be crying over it on his own, so it was a risk to bring it up, but the thought weighed heavy and confusing on the Russian’s mind. “Your parents. They are nice, no? They are nice to you. They want you to be okay, but they are not mad if you are not.”
“Mm.” Shane could clearly see where this conversation was going.
“So why can they not see you like this?”
There was silence for a moment, while Ilya waited for an answer, and then waited for his boyfriend to start crying or hyperventilating or screaming, and then waited for a meteorite to fall from the sky and crush him where he lay to stop him from asking any more stupid questions.
“It’s really complicated.” The brunet said at last. “It’s not really their fault, I guess I just… I hate worrying people. I just want to be normal, I want to be okay, I want the people I love to feel happy and proud, not stressed and disappointed.” He sighed shakily. “There’s other stuff too, but I’m too tired right now. I guess basically it’s just that my brain sucks and my parents don’t.”
It was a lot for Ilya to process. There was a lot he wanted to say, to refute, obviously Shane was normal, and everyone was happy and proud of him, and illness didn’t spur disappointment in Ilya, though he’d known it to do that in other people, worse people, but he could tell, by the gradually increasing length of time the Canadian’s eyes remained shut each time he blinked, that now was not the time.
“I understand.” He said, slightly more truthfully now. “I hope you do not feel these things as much with me. Like you have to hide. Because I love you, and I do not want you to hide. Ever.” The exhaustion was contagious, it seemed, because as he leaned closer to press a kiss to the brunet’s temple, he felt a wave of exhaustion crash over him, slumping his head down afterwards to rest on Shane’s shoulder.
“I love you too.” His boyfriend slurred sleepily. “And I know I don’t have to hide from you. Not anymore.”
a character who truly, legitimately goes “but why does that matter?” about their feelings when someone who cares about them asks. and the sudden falling of everyone around them’s faces as they realize that this person doesn’t recognize themself as someone who needs or should be taken care of. i want Everyone to hurt. surprise at the idea, worry for them, horror at not having noticed. do you see this person who doesn’t think of themselves as a person?
hollanov and vashwood were in a very close tie that has been shifting back and forth all day. i’ll write both fics but i’m choosing to write vashwood first because i’m just now getting around to finishing the show and these guys are consuming me
A reaching over to feel B’s forehead after a particularly harsh-sounding sneeze, but just as they make contact, B sneezes again and pitches A’s hand forward along with it
Dabi has been sleeping on Hawks’ couch for a few days without the hero’s knowledge as he tries to beat an illness without help. What will happen when Hawks’ finds him?
———————————————————————
Hawks simply lies down beside Dabi, not touching him because the man just fell asleep and he’s not crazy. Close to him though, the villain won’t wake up alone.
After about an hour of flipping through channels and restlessly settling on a show about people who were cooking fancy dishes with limited time. Dabi hated watching cooking shows with him.
(“I don’t know why you like this so much, you can just watch me cook. I’d do a way better job than them” Dabi says bitterly.
“Aw, jealous hot stuff?” the hero asks innocently. “You don’t even watch me while I’m cooking” he retorts.
“That’s because I’m not allowed in the kitchen.”
“You aren’t allowed in the kitchen because you dumped an entire jar of salt into the noodles I was making.”
“That was one time!” he replies indignantly.
“I’m not taking any chances, you could always watch from the door.”
“No I’m tired and that’s too much work.” Hawks whines
“You are a child.”
The hero just rolls his eyes in response, choosing to focus his attention on the TV in order to spite Dabi. The villain snatches the remote, holding it like a stubborn child before turning the show off and locking eyes with Hawks.
The hero turns to him, amused, “Got something to say hot stuff.” Dabi grabs his chin, pulling Hawks forward and closer to him so that he can press their lips together. It only lasts for a second before the hero smirks and says “Could’ve just said you wanted to do this instead.”)
So yes cooking shows were a luxury now despite the extremely pleasant alternative that Dabi had introduced him to that night.
Hawks tries in vain to keep his eyes on the screen, but he can’t help but be distracted by the arsonist lying under his covers. Dabi isn’t lying as still as he was a few minutes ago, instead shifting slightly and breathing heavier.
Hawks’ brows furrow together in confusion. Is he okay? It’s only been about two hours since he got medicine so it’s too early for another dose.
The villain should be sleeping peacefully still.
“Dabs?” he asks warily.
A muffled grunt is all that he hears before Dabi is sitting up, eyes bloodshot and hair messy.
“Hey, are you alright? Anything I can get you? You were moving around a lot.” Hawks asks quietly.
“No, no, I’m okay. Sorry I’m gonna keep you up though so I should move to the couch.” Dabi responds hoarsely. His voice crackling from disuse. “hhh..eshh, h’etshh, -etshhh” He shakes his head after sneezing, and Hawks tries not to melt from how adorable he looks right now.
“Woah, that’s not what I meant hot stuff. I’m not kicking you to the living room. What can I do?”
“Nothing, I just can’t sleep, feel sick.”
“Do you want me to grab my humidifier, we can also try some cough drops or maybe some tea?” Hawks feels lost in his own room. Theres a villain sitting in front of him, clearly miserable, whose entire mission seems to be getting away from him and hiding any desires he might have.
“No, it’s okay. I promise, I’m just going to try and go back to sleep.” Dabi says. His voice breaks in the middle as he tries to hold back tears. Hawks is right there, if there was ever a time to ask for it, it would be now.
But that’s too far, he can’t expect that of the hero. Plus the last thing he wants is for his birdie to get sick because he can’t sleep by himself. He’s not a child, he can fall asleep on his own. He shouldn’t need anything else. The hero has done enough.
Whether it’s the fever or the vulnerability of the situation, Hawks sees a singular bloody tear run down Dabi’s face.
Oh shit.
He hasn’t realized how emotionally taxing this was for the villain. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. I can sleep on the couch for the night. That way you can get some sleep without me shifting around or watching a show.”
Dabi almost bursts into tears.
The last thing he wants is for the hero to leave. Shit he should’ve just stayed quiet and still. Another sneeze sneaks up on him, only leaving time for the villain to pinch his fingers around his nose, “-…ngt!,-…kt, ….’engt”
Maybe if he wasn’t so fucking ungrateful for having a bed to sleep in and a man beside him, then Hawks would stay.
His throat burns.
He just wants Hawks to stay, he doesn’t want to be alone right now. However he isn’t going to force the hero to remain by his side when it’s clear that he just wants an easy escape.
Dabi should’ve expected it. Theres no reason for Hawks to stay.
He’s sticky with sweat and covered in burns, not to mention the fact that he can’t go five minutes without coughing or blowing his nose. God, the villain would want to get away from himself too. Spoiled, lying in someone else’s bed and yet still wanting more.
Unnerved by Dabi’s silence, the hero shifts closer to him. It looks like he’s trying so hard to keep it together. Those walls are back up, thick and unmoving.
He’s shaking, skin quivering under the weight of unsaid words. Dabi finally looks at him, fear and desperation in his eyes.
“Please,” he whispers.
Hawks leans closer, “Yeah? What’s up?”
The villain freezes, words on the tip of his tongue. “Anything you want Dabi. Anything, I promise you.” He says reassuringly.
“Can you just” he pauses again “Stay?”
It’s said so quietly that Hawks would’ve missed it if he wasn’t looking right at the villain. Dabi immediately backtracks.
“Sorry, sorry, I know you want to go to the couch. That’s okay, I’m fine I swear just” His voice breaks, trembling almost violently as he tries to finish his sentence.
“No, hey I’m here I’ll stay. Of course I’ll stay.” Hawks promises. “I’m not going to leave you. I said I wasn’t going anywhere in the bathroom remember? I’m right here.”
He crosses the distance between them, holding Dabi in his arms. It’s so clear to him now, he doesn’t know how he missed it.
“You said you wanted to go to the couch” the arsonist chokes out between sobs over being cradled so gently. He never knew touch could feel this sweet, that he would crave it like this.
“I only wanted you to be more comfortable, I’d much rather stay here with you.” He murmurs softly. “Shhh, it’s alright. I’ve got you. I’m not leaving.” Dabi becomes limp in his arms.
“Don’t wanna get you sick.” He protests weakly. “I’m worried about you right now. Let’s focus on getting you to sleep.”
Reassured for the time being, the villain lets himself relax. Breathing in stuffily with his head against Hawks’ chest.
He gets pushed even closer to sleep when the hero begins to brush his hands through his hair. Letting them pour over his head, soothing and mesmerizing.
He’s safe here. Safe beneath blankets and the gaze of a winged man with golden eyes.
“Hawks” he says, barely audible. “Yeah? You need anything else.” Dabi shakes his head softly before opening his mouth, “I love you too birdie.”
Hawks simply kisses his forehead, gentle in all that he does. “Pretty” he whispers to the arsonist lying on his chest. “My pretty Dabi.” He starts to hum. A soft rhythmic noise that ebbs and flows. Coaxing the villain closer and closer to sleep.
Dabi has been sleeping on Hawks’ couch for a few days without the hero’s knowledge as he tries to beat an illness without help. What will happen when Hawks’ finds him?
———————————————————————
The blood rolling down Dabi’s face only makes Hawks panic for a second before he’s wiping the tears away. He honestly doesn’t know how it took him so long to notice, Dabi’s never cried in front of him, but he still feels guilty for not knowing something so simple about the man sobbing on his couch. Out of all the sad things he’s learned about the villain, this one hurts him the most. He can’t even cry without being in pain.
Dabi turns away trying to hide from him, cowering while still holding his ramen. The hero grabs the bowl from his hand, replacing it with a tissue. “It’s okay Dabs I promise”.
When he doesn’t get a response Hawks puts his arm around the villain. He flinches, violently, twisting to remove the hand from his back. “Don’t touch me” he sobs. Inconsolable. Despite how bad he wants Hawks to hold him it just feels wrong.
He needs it, craves it like nothing else and yet it doesn’t feel right. Dabi stands, shaking fiercely. They stare at each other, desperately searching for direction.
It’s too much, blinded by fever and exhaustion the villain backs up against the wall, close to the front door but not touching it. He wants to leave, to run as far away as he can.
But he can’t slip out the door now, not with Hawks looking at him like that. He drops his head, letting the tears fall softly onto the floor. Dabi is so distracted he doesn’t notice the winged hero walking up to him.
Hawks pulls him away from the wall, wrapping his wings around them both as he hugs the villain. “I’ve got you baby, it’s okay”.
And with those words, Dabi relaxes in his arms, letting himself be cocooned by the man in front of him. Crying into his chest, not even caring about the blood that’s staining his shirt. He chokes out sobs that shake them both, hopelessly giving into the desire to be held.
Oh, it feels so good to just let go. To feel safe and at home with someone else. He doesn’t have to hide here; the hero will hide them both. Together. Him and his pretty bird.
After a few minutes of letting himself just melt into Hawks, the hero feels him start to waver more on his feet and moves them back to the couch. He wipes Dabi’s face gently with the hem of his shirt, softly soaking up the majority of tears.
Hawks just holds him, blanket wrapped around their legs as Dabi calms down. Slowly the sniffling into the hero’s shirt becomes a byproduct of his cold instead of the tears and Hawks grabs him a tissue from the box, shifting them both upwards so he can blow his nose.
Which he does, very reluctantly but all the same allowing himself to take advantage of the hero’s kindness. Unfortunately it losses the congestion in his sinuses causing a small fit “hh…etchhh, hH’ETCHH, hk’inCHIEW”
“Here let’s take your temperature hot stuff” Hawks murmurs.
And Dabi has to fight tears back again. How his pretty bird can call him hot in this state is beyond comprehension, but he’ll try to take his words for what they are.
While the villain has the thermometer in his mouth, Hawks takes the chance to speak freely. “Dabi, I want to help you. Through all of this, the sickness and the sadness and everything. I don’t want you to have to run anymore. You can stay here as long as you want, whether you’re sick or just tired you can stay.”
He pauses briefly, “I want you here. I’m gonna take your temperature and then we’re gonna take a shower, and you’re gonna sleep here tonight.” The thermometer beeps, 102, that’s not horrible.
It was probably higher earlier but Hawks hands Dabi two pills either way. “Thanks” he whispers in response. A rare thing to come from Dabi but the hero is being so nice he can’t just say nothing back.
After he swallows some cough syrup, Hawks helps him stand up, leading them both to the bathroom. He only leaves for a second to grab clean clothes for them both.
When he returns Dabi is staring at the ground, hair in front of his eyes. “I’m sorry” the villain says quietly.
“Hey no you’ve got nothing to be sorry for”
“I snuck into your house without telling you”.
“My house is always open to you”.
“That isn’t realistic” Dabi groans.“What if I’m a dick, is it open then?”
“You’re always a dick.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Kidding, kidding, no I dont care if you’re being a dick. I want you to come to me in any state.”
Dabi just shrugs, dropping his clothes and lazily getting into the shower. He hasn’t let go of Hawks since their moment in the living room. The hero doesn’t seem too eager to disconnect either, stripping down to join him even though he showered earlier.
The water is boiling and Hawks yelps as it hits his skin. “Fucking hell Dabs, this is gonna fry your skin”
“It’s a bit late for that pretty bird.”
“Shut up and turn around” the hero says gently, subtly turning the temperature down.
He grabs the shampoo bottle and pours some into his hands, lathering them together before rubbing it into Dabi’s hair. One thing he had learned early in the relationship was that Dabi loved his head to be touched.
(“Mornin birdie.”
“Go back to sleep hot stuff.”
“No can do, it’s 11am.” Hawks groans, turning over and facing the villain that’s lying shirtless in his bed. His purple scars look mesmerizing in the gentle light that’s flickering through his curtains.
Dabi has been up for hours, doing God knows what to his kitchen and pantry. But here he is again, sitting on top of the hero’s blankets, staring down at him.
“C’mere Dabs” he says quietly, reaching wildly for the arsonist’s face. Thankfully, Dabi moves within touching range just for Hawks to run his fingers through his thick black hair.
He practically moans at the sensation. It’s one of the few pieces of skin that isn’t regularly scorched by flames and the hand running through it right now is heaven. The hero smiles in surprise as Dabi practically shoves his head underneath Hawks’ hand, fully enjoying the warmth of the gesture.)
The villain relaxes again when Hawks starts to condition his hair, letting himself be soothed.
Suddenly, Hawks feels the other tense under his hands. The hero pauses, a question on the tip of his tongue, when Dabi flinches forward.
“hhH’nkt, …’gt, …’knt”
Hawks continues his ministrations, deciding not to comment on the way that his lover is continuing to stifle sneezes.
Dabi’s muscles ache, burning with fever as he struggles to pull on new clothes. When Hawks moves his dirty shirt into the hamper by the door, the villain catches sight of it.
“I ruined your shirt”
“It’s okay I’m going to wash it.”
“It’ll stain.”
“I can buy more shirts. I care about you hot stuff.”
“Don’t call me that right now.”
Hawks heart breaks. “Hey Dabi, I still think you’re hot like this.”
“That’s not a funny joke. I thought heroes were supposed to be nice”
“I’m not joking Dabs, you look pretty.”
“I’m sweaty, covered in blood and snot and I can’t go five minutes without choking on my own spit.”
“And I,” the hero pauses, “think you’re pretty.”
Dabi turns and flicks the light switch off, looking up at Hawks when they’re only illuminated by a small night light in the corner of the room.
“I don’t want you to see me like this. It’s too much.”
“You’re never too much for me Dabi. Me taking care of you doesn’t change anything”
“Yes it does, I’m a lot of work.”
“I don’t care, I still want you. It’s that simple.”
“Taking care of me isn’t easy, being in my life isn’t easy, knowing me isn’t easy birdie.”
“I didn’t say it was easy, I said it was simple.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Easy is something people search for when they’re lazy, simple is something you find when you aren’t looking.”
“This isn’t a one time thing, I’m sick almost every month.”
“And I am happy to stay by your side.”
“My side is miserable.”
“No, it’s not, not to me.”
“Im a mess Hawks. You’ve got pretty fucking wings and pretty fucking hair and millions of people who adore you, go pick someone else.”
“I don’t want them.”
“Hawks please, I’m not good for you. I’m weak and moody and toxic and you’re” he trails off, lost for words.
“And I’m in love with you.”
They both freeze, the hero recovering quicker. “I love you, Dabi.”
“You’re fucked.”
“Maybe so” he laughs “but I’m fucked with you.”
He wraps another towel around the villain’s hair, drying him off quickly. “We’ve gotta get you dry or we’ll be even more fucked.” Dabi just lets him, melting into his tender touch, heart pounding with those words.
Hawks loves him.
They’d never said before, hadn’t needed to. But there were definitely moments where the unspoken words burned on his tongue.
(It was movie night at the villains’ hideout. These intel meetings had quickly shifted from cold conversations to Hawks just randomly hanging out with them.
Tonight, it was Toga’s turn to pick the movie, and it was some American film about a boat and love according to her enthusiastic rant about it a few seconds earlier.
“Oh neat, I’ve never seen Titanic.”
“What!” Dabi, Twice and Toga all exclaim.
“Well then you have to pay attention.” Toga says.
And he does, for about two hours of the movie, until she falls asleep on his shoulder and Twice moves her to a bedroom.
Then Dabi stands, box of cigarettes in hand, and walks to the door. “Coming pretty bird?” Hawks, admittedly, gets up way faster than is appropriate, eager to be alone with the arsonist.
“Okay don’t look too excited, we can’t fuck in this alley. Theres like twenty STDs on this wall alone.”
Hawks rolls his eyes. “Maybe I just wanna kiss you.”
“Sap, how long until you start imprinting on me birdie.”
“The bird puns have been up recently when we go somewhere alone. Got a kink to tell me about hot stuff.”
“I’m not the one who just tried to undress a villain in an alley, you whore.”
“I said I wanted to kiss you not fuck you”
“And I never said no so what’s stopping you.”
Hawks leans forward and pecks him on the cheek.
“Cmon that wasn’t a kiss, barely even felt your lips.”
“Oh who’s the whore now”
“Just shut up.” Dabi pulls him forward, pressing their lips together sweetly. It’s gentle and domestic.
When Hawks pulls away the villain has to force himself not to whine. Staring at the winged angel in the moonlight makes his chest ache, unspoken secrets trapped on his tongue. So he just smiles and kisses him again.)
Once they both are fully clothed, Hawks picks him up and carries him to the bedroom.
“Oh, that’s okay birdie, I was going to sleep on the couch. You have work in the morning, I’m just gonna keep you up.”
“I’m off tomorrow actually.” Dabi’s eyebrows raise in mock amusement.
“Well still I don’t want to keep you up.”
“You’re crazy if you think you’re sleeping on the couch.” Admittedly Dabi is relieved to hear that he’s not being kicked to the living room like a cheating husband.
Just being near Hawks helps calm his nerves and with the anxiety building up in him right now he needs that soothing presence.
The hero helps him to bed, putting a blanket over his body that’s still shivering slightly. Dabi almost reaches out when he sees that Hawks is leaving the room but stops himself before he can make contact.
Dabi has been sleeping on Hawks’ couch for a few days without the hero’s knowledge as he tries to beat an illness without help. What will happen when Hawks’ finds him?
———————————————————————
An alarm beeped in the distance. Heavy and annoying, right beyond Hawks’ consciousness. He groaned, these mornings never got easier, no matter how many times he did them.
Despite the tiredness weighing him down, the hero forced himself to get up. His wings felt stiff like they usually did when he got up and he deposited the feathers on his bed while he got dressed.
Hawks didn’t have much time. Dabi had joked that he only gave himself enough time in the morning to wake up and breathe before rushing to work. This wasn’t exactly an incorrect observation. He worked more than twelve hours a day and preferred to rush while getting ready than wake up earlier.
After he’s fully clothed, only missing his heavy flight coat, he walks to the living room. Taking quiet steps as to not wake the villain sleeping on his couch, Hawks comes to the unfortunate revelation that Dabi is not there.
Panic spreads through him like wild fire. Shit. Where could he have gone, the hero doesn’t have time to chase down a villain right now.
The bathroom and kitchen are both empty. Fucking hell where did he go. Tears start to prick at Hawks eyes.
Dabi is gone.
He walks out his front door, breathing nervously as he checks the grocery bag that was forgotten the night before. As much as Hawks prayed that Dabi would take something from it, the bag is full and untouched.
He can’t spend anymore time here though. The winged hero is already going to be ten minutes late and the commission will take away his off day tomorrow if he doesn’t leave now.
With this final hesitant thought, Hawks drops a feather on the table by his balcony door. He steps out onto the terrace, feeling the wind whip at his face despite the visor that should protect it.
The balcony door is left unlocked in the hopes that Dabi will come back and find his way back onto the hero’s couch. Hawks can only pray he’s coherent enough to do so.
Every breath feels like it’s stabbing his lungs. Dabi can’t go more than five minutes without coughing or sneezing. Tissues are scattered over the floor and the Tylenol bottle that he found in a corner of the closet is empty.
There were only two pills to begin with so they didn’t do much, but the idea was nice. He’s exhausted. Cycling between dreams and reality. The two are becoming blurred as he tries to stay awake to avoid the nightmares that are plaguing him.
Lost between desire and pain he stares at the ceiling, reminiscing about another time where he felt this want in his heart.
(“Smoke drifted peacefully off of the cigarette that Dabi was holding. Leaning out a window as he came down from his post sex high, calming his nerves from the intensity of the moment.
A figure moves behind him, with bright scarlet wings and golden hair. His personal angel, sent from God or the devil, Dabi didn’t care.
What mattered is that he had the beautiful man to himself. Hawks comes to sit next to him, shirt still off, talons glistening in the moonlight, eyeliner captivating beyond reason. A winged hero, with honey for eyes, and a smile that Dabi wanted to devour.
He was fucked, hopelessly and utterly falling for a hero. Oh but this hero wouldn’t let him fall. No, his birdie would catch him before he could hit the ground.
Hawks traces the staples on Dabi’s face. “Pretty” he whispers just to the villain in front of him. And Dabi knows he’d say yes to anything the hero asks of him if he just hears that one more time. “Pretty” Hawks says again, reading his mind like no one else can. “Pretty”.
No one has ever called Dabi pretty before)
His birdie, oh how he wanted him right now. Wanted him to hold Dabi and promise to never leave him. But you can’t make a lover out of a hero. Not when you’re a villain.
They were doomed to begin with, even if Dabi did know how to love someone, he wasn’t the one who should love Hawks.
Tiredness wracks his body again and he pushes those thoughts away. He’s alone right now. And he’s okay. Well not really, but he will be okay at some point. He’ll never be fully healed, the scars on his body show that, but he won’t be sick anymore and that’s all the improvement that he can ask for.
A restless sleep falls over the villain, trapping him in fever dreams once again.
Hawks shift couldn’t go by fast enough but now he’s finally off for the rest of today and tomorrow. Perfect for the rescue mission he’s planning.
As sneaky as Dabi thinks he’s being. The hero always notices where he goes when he leaves the apartment. There’s an abandoned building just down the street, they had a meet up there one night and Dabi goes to it on the mornings where he’s extra worn out but refuses to communicate that to Hawks.
After picking up the grocery bag he didn’t unpack that morning, he flies to the building. Praying with everything in him that Dabi is there.
A door opens below him, jolting the villain out of restless sleep. Shit someone was here. He rushes to push the tissues into a rusty trash can and wipes his face quickly.
Unfortunately his coordination is long gone and he just succeeds in making a pile of tissues near the trash and smearing the blood and mucus on his face. He stands up, wavering as he walks to the doorway of the living room.
“Dabs?” Fuck is that Hawks? This is worse than he expected. “Dabi are you here?” Comes the call again. Before he can respond the hero is at the foot of the stairs, gazing up at him.
He probably looks like shit but Hawks’ face doesn’t wrinkle in disgust or wince away, instead he runs up the stairs with a bag in his hand. A bag Dabi remembers seeing just last night, right in front of Hawks door.
“Shit hot stuff. You really scared me there” he laughs. “What are you doing here birdie” “I missed you” he says in that cheery upbeat tone. “Why don’t we go sit down, you’re looking a bit pale”
Hawks saunters across the hall, still holding onto Dabi like he’s going to run away. Honestly that’s an possibility right now, with all his wishing that Hawks would come and save him, he doesn’t know what to do now that he’s here.
“Please leave” he says quietly. “Huh?” Hawks turns and stares at him.
“Hey Dabi, it’s okay”. Dabi turns and coughs thickly, unable to hold back anymore. In response the hero pulls out a bottle of cough syrup. Fuck he can’t handle this. “Hawks please leave”.
The winged hero’s smile falters. Dabi never pleads with him. “I can’t leave you here like this hot stuff, who’s gonna make sure I don’t burn my house down?”. “I’m going to burn your house down if you don’t leave right now” Dabi’s tone is harsh and cruel.
He walks into the living room, trying to ignore the symptoms he has just while Hawks is present. “hh..kngt, -nt!”, two sneezes slip out as the hero comes up behind and continues speaking
“Look I know I’m a minimalist but my house is nicer than here. I can leave you alone while you’re there. I won’t even talk to you if you don’t want me to”
Dabi’s silence speaks volumes and Hawks simply turns him around so that they’re facing each other. “Let’s sit for a second” he whispers, leading the villain over to the couch he’s likely been sleeping on for a couple hours, unbothered by the tissues and blankets thrown haphazardly onto it.
“Don’t need your pity birdie”
“It’s not pity, I want to help you”
“Don’t want your help” he groans.
“Okay but you’re sick, you clearly need some help”
“M’fine, I’ll be okay”.
The hero speaks softly, “I want you to be better than okay. Even if you feel like shit, I want you to feel better than you would alone. Let me help. I’m not going anywhere”
A silence descends onto the room, heavy and depressing. Hawks opens his mouth to say another few comforting words but Dabi flinches forward with yet another set of almost silent sneezes, “-kgt , hh..engt”
“Fine”, it’s quiet, barely even audible but he hears it all the same.
And with that Hawks stands, giving Dabi a hand as he struggles to stand up. “Here let me pick you up, I’m gonna have to do it to fly anyway” he says laughing, as if every second of this isn’t scaring him.
Dabi allows it, curving into the hero’s body heat, soaking up the warmth that he exudes. Hawks sighs, thankful that he’s being more cooperative. He holds the villain closer as they take off, trying to be careful with his long limbs.
Thankfully the flight is short, only about five minutes in the air before he’s touching down on the balcony.
A sense of deja vu washes over Dabi as he thinks back to kneeling here not even 24 hours ago. Things have gone from bad to worse so quickly, and he has no idea how he’s going to get out of this mess.
To say that Hawks was put off by the villain’s silence would be an understatement. He’s terrified that if he isn’t holding onto Dabi with both hands, he’ll disappear like before
In order to keep him here though, he has to give him space like he promised. So Hawks carefully deposits the arsonist onto the farthest corner of his couch where he was sleeping yesterday.
Dabi doesn’t look at him, instead curling up his legs and staring at the tv which isn’t currently playing anything.
The hero sets the still unpacked grocery bag on the coffee table and walks down the hall to his room to remove his gear. After his visor, headphones, and compression shirt get pulled off, he returns to the living room to find that the arsonist hasn’t moved an inch.
That alone is worrying. The villain routinely waltzes into Hawks’ apartment uninvited, switching the channel to whatever he wants to watch, and asks Hawks to order some food.
Right now, however, he looks like he’s trying not to breathe too hard for fear that he’ll be kicked out. Despite this, the hero turns one of Dabi’s favorite baking shows, hoping it’ll keep him occupied while he showers.
The villain shivering on the couch feels his heart warm when the tv is put to his favorite channel because he was willing to sit in silence for the rest of the night if Hawks didn’t want it on.
After a short period of time where Dabi half listens to the bakers running around trying to finish their desserts, the winged hero sits down on the other end of the couch.
Usually he would crawl over and pull Hawks onto him, but he’s sick right now and needs to limit how close they get to each other. If the hero gets this, Dabi will be even more fucked than he is now.
Without his focus on the fact that he’s still sick and holding back sneezes, the iron grip he had on his nose wavers “hH..ingkt, -engkt , -ngt’ch” Thankfully they don’t slip through unstifled but they’re much more audible than the last ones and he catches Hawks’s worried eyes when he looks back up. “Bless you”, comes the soft acknowledgement but Dabi doesn’t say a word in response. Another shiver breaks through him. He’s been able to suppress them for a bit so he starts to panic when Hawks rises to grab a blanket. “Hey hot stuff, I’m kinda cold” he says pitifully, blanket over his shoulder as he offers his arm to the villain.
Dabi freezes but then moves a bit closer. Not nearly close enough to cover them both with it, but he’s too afraid to cover the whole distance. Hawks isn’t thinking this through, he doesn’t want this.
“Come here Dabs, I don’t mind”
“You’re gonna get sick” he says harshly.
“Nah I have a good immune system, but right now I’m cold so come here”.
And with that, Dabi does move closer, sitting shoulder to shoulder with the hero. Letting himself melt into the warmth of the blanket and the man he’s lying with. The peace doesn’t last long before he feels a strange sensation that forces him to turn as far away from Hawks as he can “hH’enCHH, hhh’ignt, -kngtch, -eKNchh, ‘kGt” The poorly restrained sneezes leave him sniffing until the hero hands him a tissue.
Dabi wipes his nose with embarrassment clear on his face before murmuring “sorry” to Hawks. The hero is so taken aback by the apology that he forgets to respond for a second. “No it’s okay you don’t have to apologize. And it might help to let them out you know?”
Dabi freezes, casting his eyes downward as an awkward silence fills the room.
It only lasts a few minutes before Hawks begins to speak again “Want some food?”
“I’m okay, but if you need to eat something that’s fine”
The hero sighs, he wasn’t asking for himself. “I’m gonna make some ramen, I’ll make you some too. Just in case you feel hungry in a bit”
Dabi tenses at the kind gesture but allows Hawks to get up. He returns several minutes later with two bowls of store bought ramen.
Not that the villain minds. Anything the hero cooks on his own should be eaten with heavy caution.
He lets his bowl warm his fingers and face before taking a couple bites. It’s good, despite the fact that he can’t really taste it.
The only side effect is the way the steam is making the congestion in his lungs loosen. He coughs lightly, muffling in it the crook of his arm before stifling two sneezes as well “-ngt, hh’enkt”
Hawks rubs his back gently but Dabi involuntarily flinches away from the touch. “Here have a bit more of your ramen” he says softly, removing his hand from between Dabi’s shoulders.
But the villain is frozen, his throat hurts from more than just his cold and his eyes prick with unshed tears. “Why do you care if i eat.”
It isn’t asked like a question, it’s a statement.
He’s waiting for Hawks to realize that he doesn’t actually care. He doesn’t want a reason because Dabi can’t see why someone as good as Hawks would want to help him.
“Oh well you can’t take these meds without eating, it’ll burn your stomach lining or something and you already have enough to deal with right now” he rambles uneasily, picking up the bottle of fever reducers to read the back.
Turning towards Dabi again, he shifts so that the villain can read it. But he isn’t looking at Hawks, hands pressed over his eyes in a defensive action.
“Dabs” he says softly, trailing off as he tries to pull the arsonist fingers away from his face. They come back covered in blood. Dabi is desperately trying to wipe away the droplets but they keep coming.
Dabi has been sleeping on Hawks’ couch for a few days without the hero’s knowledge as he tries to beat an illness without help. What will happen when Hawks’ finds him?
———————————————————————
Hawks blearily opened his eyes, glancing around the living room as he caught his bearings. Dabi’s legs were still on his lap and the villain was still sleeping soundly.
He breathed out a sigh of relief, checking the time to find that he’d only been asleep for about thirty minutes. While on his phone the hero pulled up his delivery app. The commission now allowed him to order takeout and groceries straight to his home after realizing Hawks wasn’t eating nearly enough to satisfy his intense schedule.
He would love to think that this was a genuine gesture of kindness for him but it was just a way to keep him in the field longer.
Either way, now he has the means to get the things that Dabi needs without even leaving his house. There was no doubt in his mind that Dabi wouldn’t take his help at first. But hopefully, by giving him some space and slowly introducing new things, the villain would allow himself to accept the care. It had worked before.
(Hawks carefully added aloe scented burn cream to his medicine cabinet. He already kept simple things for cuts and bruises, but since his one night stand had turned into more of an occasional roommate, he wanted to be well prepared.
The moment came a week later. Dabi walked in smelling like smoke and ashes falling off his clothes, and with a small burn on his hand. Hawks quickly went to get the burn cream, not offering it to the villain but setting it on the counter in their… his… someone’s kitchen.
He left the top slightly ajar, praying that Dabi would take this as an invitation. An hour later as they sat, practically laying on top of each other, Hawks grabbed Dabi’s hand, settling it on his own chest where he caught the unmistakable scent of aloe coming from it.)
So giving him the care outright wouldn’t help, but he could buy things. The hero added cold medicine, cough syrup, tea, tissues, and fever patches to his cart.
They would be delivered soon but in the meantime he needed to eat something. He had work tomorrow, a grueling twelve hour shift that would suck him dry of life and leave Dabi alone. But he couldn’t focus on that right now, or else he wouldn’t get anything done.
Picturing his lover curled up with no one to comfort him or hold him close made Hawks’ heart twist uncomfortably. To soothe this ache he stood, gathering a blanket in his arms and draping it over the villain shivering below him.
The hero refused to wake Dabi for something as small as taking his temperature, but he did press his hands to the arsonist’s cheeks. This only left his hand warm and bloody, questions on whose blood it was and why it was there saved for another day.
Hawks straightened up, allowing his wings to stretch out briefly before he walked to his room. As much as he wanted to curl up with Dabi it wouldn’t help him to be woken up by an alarm at six in the morning.
The villain needed as much sleep as he could get and Hawks was the last person to stand in the way of that. He was exhausted on his own, barely making it his bed before falling asleep again
Dabi awoke with a gasp, panting breathlessly as coughs wracked his frame.
When the air finally returned to his lungs, he was conscious enough to realize that every bone in his body hurt. The villain gasped, inhaling sharply before “h’etchh, h’itshh, ‘etchiew, hh’eTCHH.” Fuck his head ached and he couldn’t breathe through his nose. His throat felt like sandpaper and nothing sounded better than lying down again.
He grabbed his phone from the coffee table, checking to see how much time he has left before dropping it in shock.
It was four in the morning.
He had slept through his alarm and Hawks had seen him like this. His eyes dart down, just now noticing the blanket that tenderly covers his frame.
When his gaze shifts to the table again, his heart stops, locking eyes with the thermometer and presumably cold tea sitting on it.
Hawks knew.
He knew and he let Dabi stay. And for what? Yeah Hawks was a spy, but this was going a bit far. And sure they’d fucked a couple times, but this was way beyond what he was capable of returning.
Dabi wasn’t a caretaker, and he certainly wasn’t someone who was easy to take care of. Hawks didn’t want this, and Dabi wasn’t going to make him have it. He needed to leave.
Now.
He threw the blanket off of himself, shivering in the cool air. Planting his feet firmly on the ground, he still managed to sway a bit as he stood up.
This had gotten so much worse way so fast, he never should’ve come to Hawks house, never should’ve let himself fall asleep on his couch, never should’ve let himself become so pathetic.
Hawks didn’t need that. He didn’t deserve it. Fuck that hero needed everything but Dabi right now.
And with that thought he struggled to pull his combat boots on, wincing as they yank on his already sore muscles. One glance back at the couch is all he needs to convince himself that he should leave.
He turns to the hallway, almost tripping over a paper grocery bag that’s sitting on Hawks’ doorstep. A single glance into the bag confirms his worst fear, Hawks ordered shit for him.
It would feel so good to take a couple of the cold pills or even the cough syrup because he can’t seem to get his throat clear.
But taking anything would make Hawks feel like he was right to do this. And that can’t be farther from the truth.
Stupid birdie. Trying to save a villain from his own mistakes.
Stupid Dabi. For wanting to be saved by him.
And with that he exits, stepping around the bag carefully and walking down the hall to the elevator.
Theres a villain hideout not too far away from here. A small place, running water in one of the rooms, no central heating but the couch has a bunch of blankets. It’s close to Hawks so Dabi usually crashes there after they hook up.
He’s never regretted having sex with Hawks but sometimes he’s just spent in the mornings. No fault to his birdie, Dabi uses him as a way to blow off steam more than he should and sometimes not even a couple hours curled up next to a guy he should want to murder can fix that. So instead of taking up space in Hawks house while his head hurts and his late nights catch up to him, he goes a block away.
(“I don’t have much food here but I can make you some eggs?” Hawks offers hesitantly.
“Oh? Cannibalism this early has to be a crime” “Ha ha very funny, now eggs? Yes or no?” “I’ve got other things to do birdie than watch you burn your kitchen to ashes faster than I probably could” Dabi jokes.
It’s not that he doesn’t want the eggs. He wants to watch Hawks struggle not to get shells in the pan and then look to him with a pitiful look that would make Dabi run away with him if he did it long enough.
However the pounding behind his eyes begs for another thing and Dabi is sauntering towards the door without a second glance.
“Hot stuff? Dabi? Hey, where you going?” “I’ve got jobs to do pretty bird. People to kill, buildings to burn. I’m a villain. And evil doesn’t rest.” “Pretty sure evil just had eight hours of sleep in a king size bed.”
Dabi leaves without another word, too tired to continue the conversation any longer. Much to Hawks’ dismay, who watches him go with the same expression of a mother watching her son go off to war)
Dabi knows his way to the hideout. It’s out of the way, secluded and private. Exactly what he needs right now. Another cough tears through him, leaving him panting in the back of an alley.
Just a couple more yards and he’ll make it. The wind whips through his thin clothes and he regrets not grabbing the cough medicine as he looses his breath once again.
Once he finally stumbles to the door it takes him a second to open it and shuffle inside. The best room is the upstairs living room. It’s away from windows with a bathroom near the couch. Almost everything Dabi needs to make it through this is stored in a closet in that same living room.
Slowly climbing up the stairs in pure darkness, he lets the tears fall down his face. Times like these remind him of just how lonely he is. He usually doesn’t mind it. Opting to ignore the fact that he doesn’t really have close friends.
When he makes it onto the second floor he grabs the singular box of tissues he had in the closet and collapses onto the dirty couch, sobbing heavily. Some congestion is loosened by his tears and he sneezes twice in the aftermath “hhh’eTCHew, HH’ieSHHH” The tears are falling quickly and he can’t wipe them away fast enough. Red, hot, sticky blood pours from his eyes. No matter how many calming breaths he takes, one thought back to that hero with crimson wings sends him spiraling again.
He wants Hawks here. Wants to cry in his arms. Wants to hear his stupid cheerful voice through the pain of his headache. Wants to feel his fingers ease the tension from his shoulders. And on that couch, surrounded by dust and bloody tissues, Dabi lets himself want so deeply and throughly that it hurts.
He allows himself to need this care so badly because he will never get it.
He’s cursed to only want the things he will never receive.
Dabi has been sleeping on Hawks’ couch for a few days without the hero’s knowledge as he tries to beat an illness without help. What will happen when Hawks finds him?
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Dabi kneeled right in front of Hawks’ balcony door, hand poised upwards as he struggled to pick the lock. Usually the number two hero would leave a door or window open for him if he was expecting Dabi but great care had been taken to make sure that Hawks wouldn’t see him today or even know he had stopped by.
Finally hearing the tell tale click of the lock, Dabi let himself into the apartment carefully. He had been inside enough times to not be put off by the lack of decorations or general personality in Hawks’ home.
Besides he wasnt here to admire the hero’s interior design choices, instead looking for a place to crash for a few hours while Hawks remained busy at work.
He had been dealing with a minor headache for the past few days but it had quickly spiraled out of control, mutating into a gruesome fever accompanied by body aches and worsening congestion. Hawks got off at 10pm, giving Dabi the chance to sleep for a couple of hours in peace.
Collapsing onto the couch, the arsonist blearily set an alarm on his phone, praying that it would be enough to wake him up when the time came.
This was the fourth day that he had snuck into Hawks’ living room to take a nap while the winged hero presumably saved civilians outside. The alarm wasn’t even necessary until now but he had barely gotten out onto the balcony yesterday before Hawks was walking into his own house. Way too close of a call for him to take the same risk and Dabi would rather let Toga braid his hair again than allow Hawks to see him like this.
A tickle disrupts his thoughts, climbing up through his sinuses. Dabi freezes, shoving a hand over his mouth as he muffles a few sneezes into his sleeve. “hhHEmphshh, hHh-hHMPshew, heH’NGshew”
So here he was, breaking and entering the apartment of a top hero for what? A couple hours of sleep? No it was more than that but Dabi wasn’t ready to face the truth, especially not in this state. He had worked through enough fevers and illnesses on his own, asking for help or even letting one of his friends? Fuckbuddies? Lovers? Know about this sickness that had redered him useless was way too much.
Surely they couldn’t be just friends anymore but the black haired boy laying on another mans couch just to feel closer to him when he was unwell certainly wouldn’t be the one to bring their relationship to the next level.
Groaning Dabi turned onto his back. He couldn’t get comfortable anymore and had long since given up the idea of it getting better for him. In this moment all he wished for was for it to not get worse.
He knew how this worked. A few miserable days in the beginning where he can pretend its all fine, a simple headache or sore muscles, then the unrelenting burn of a fever, and hopefully recovery if he makes it through this stage. He’s shivering again, logically knowing he isnt cold but struggling either way.
As Dabi’s eyes close he feels a single wet, bloody tear drift down his cheek, sticking in the strands of hair that have managed to curl in front of his face.
Hawks unlocks his door quietly, he can feel a heartbeat through his wings as soon as he opens it. Cautiously, and weilding a sharpened feather, he rounds the corner to his living room, sighing in relief as he notices its just Dabi.
Having not heard from him in a couple days, a smile jumps to Hawks’ lips, uninvited and warm, almost like the villain himself. All the same he takes extra care to remain silent as he takes off his coat and shoes.
He had been lucky enough to get off work a bit earlier than he was scheduled, and seeing the arsonist curled up on his couch only amplifies that feeling.
He tears his eyes away reluctantly walking down the hall to change out of his work clothes. As he pulls his sweaty clothes off himself, cringing in disgust, Hawks thinks back to why Dabi is appearing now.
Usually Dabi will text him if he’s going to pop in and he’s never, to Hawks knowledge, shown up while Hawks is working to take a nap on his couch. In fact it’s been a struggle to get Dabi to sleep at the apartment at all, on the nights when his insomnia reaches unbearable levels he ends up staring at the ceiling or watching mindless shows while curled up in bed with Hawks.
This thought alone is enough to make Hawks wander back down the hall to find that Dabi hasnt moved an inch since he arrived. This makes his eyebrows furrow in concern, not only is Dabi a notorious insomniac but he’s also an incredibly light sleeper, even yelling at Hawks one morning because he swore he could hear the water running in the kitchen from his place buried under 3 blankets in Hawks’ bedroom.
(“Birdie I can hear you washing your hands!” Dabi yelled from across the house. Hawks tensed slightly, both incredibly freaked out and impressed that Dabi had managed to hear him. “The water Hawks!” Dabi shouted again and this time the hero turned it off, returning to Dabi who was sitting smugly in his bed. )
He reaches for Dabi’s arm, not exactly knowing what he’ll do when he gets there but hoping it’s a comforting gesture nontheless.
Before he can make contact though, a loud noise starts to blare behind him. Hawks, like any reasonable person, jumps clamping a hand over his mouth as he quickly silences the alarm on Dabi’s phone.
After a few moments of quiet where he has confirmed that Dabi is still fast asleep, his mind gains the clarity it lacked just a second before.
The alarm said “Leave”.
Hawks heart leaps to his throat. “Leave”? Did Dabi set an alarm so that he could use the hero’s apartment but then dissappear without even having a conversation with him. Hurt boils inside of him before he realizes that this is still an odd situation.
Everything about this is weird, the way he hasnt seen Dabi in days, the way Dabi’s sleeping so soundly but with a pained expression on his face, and the way he’s shivering despite being covered in sweat.
The blood still stuck to his cheeks makes the hero panic instinctively as well. He crouches down, gently wiping it away before relaxing when he sees there’s no cut. That’s when he notices just how warm the villain is.
It all clicks together after Hawks lightly presses his hand to Dabi’s forehead and realizes he is in fact running a fever. The hero sighs, no longer offended by Dabi’s strange actions, he probably just didnt want Hawks to know that he was struggling. Damn pride.
With this new revelation clear in his mind, Hawks turns and slowly walks back to his bedroom. Three things strikingly clear to him in this moment.
1. Dabi didn’t want Hawks to know he was sick
2. Dabi is extremely tired and needs all the help he can get
3. If he tries to help Dabi he will likely be shut down immediately
It is these intense and rapid fire thoughts that cause Hawks to simply pivot and return to his room. Still covered in sweat from his work day, he won’t be even slightly helpful until he showers. Praying that Dabi doesn’t awaken in the next fifteen minutes Hawks hurriedly bathes himself while trying to come up with a plan. He can’t outright help Dabi, the villain would be rushing for the door before he could even express some sympathy.
So he has to be discreet. He’ll order some cold medicine and supplies when he gets out of the shower but for now he has tea and a thermometer which he’ll have to convince Dabi into accepting.
The hot water pours over him in shimmery rivulets as he struggles to bathe himself quickly, not wanting to leave one of Japan’s top villains alone too long. How ridiculous.
The absurdity of the situation doesn’t stop the winged hero from drying himself off faster so that he can be by his lovers side once more. The irony of him calling Dabi a lover also isn’t lost on him. In fact it’s glaringly obvious that the romantic feelings he has for Dabi extend beyond sex. And a dirty selfish part of him wants to believe that Dabi showing up tonight proves that these feelings are reciprocated.
Hawks isn’t dumb though. Delusional? Maybe. But not stupid. Although falling for someone he should be turning into the police right now isn’t exactly the best decision he’s ever made, it probably isn’t the worst.
With this conclusion reached he quietly slips back into the living room, relived to find that Dabi is still asleep. In fact he’s almost gotten cuter from the twenty minutes they spent apart, one hand tucked in front of his face while the other rests underneath his chin. Yeah Hawks is fucked. He can enjoy this moment for now though. Gain some pleasure from seeing his sex partner curled up while he isn’t feeling well. Taken care of for once. Hawks knows all too well how little care Dabi gets.
(“Shit is your arm good” “Shut it birdie, I’m fine”. “You don’t look fine, here just let me help”. After a short trip to a pharmacy to pick up bandages and disinfectant, Hawks and Dabi sit on a bench together, quietly observing each other. Hawks gazing into the villain’s eyes, captivated by a single glance until Dabi winces at the tension and looks away.
“Sorry, guess I should patch you up now”. He laughs wearily “Do what you need to”. An arrogant attitude, like Hawks couldn’t see the tears welling in his eyes as he gently cleaned and wrapped the wound. However the hero has watched Dabi rip out and replace his staples without as much as a wince so the vulnerability of this moment isn’t lost on him.)
Yes Dabi was not used to such intense care. This wouldn’t stop Hawks from pulling Dabi’s legs onto his lap though. The arsonist had confessed one night, after a particularly hard day that he didn’t feel touch while asleep.
In slightly sharper words of course. He worded it like a flaw, like it was stupid that someone with as many sleep issues as he had wouldn’t be awakened by a simple touch. But Hawks had also learned that Dabi was clingy, opting to be closer to him if at all possible.
Telling him, without words, that he loved being touched in his sleep even if he couldn’t feel it. The hero runs lazy patterns over Dabi’s legs, nonsensical and winding. Putting rivers and roads all over his skin, like a fantasy map come to life. Hawks finally lets himself relax, trapped beneath the weight of Dabi’s feet and his own exhaustion, he closes his eyes.
