Chapter Text
January 2018
Dark, except a wall of red Netflix glow where some witch show had timed out, and someone in his kitchen. Someone in his kitchen. Bolting up jarred him into hacking his windpipe inside out.
"Ilya? Oh, honey."
Probably a murderer wouldn't call him honey. His voice didn't work anyway; he waited.
"My turn to break in, I'm sorry. I'm going to turn on a light, okay?"
Yuna, in the dim doorway with a mug and an unnerved knot of a face, all of which Ilya processed on delay. As soon as it coalesced he was standing, and dizzy.
"Yuna, hi, I." Swallowing his cough didn't work. Covering it with his elbow, Ilya bent to gather the radius of dirty tissues, but ended up in the corner of his sectional again instead. God, empty takeout and water bottles everywhere. He couldn't look at her.
"Do the Raiders know you're this sick?" She stepped forward.
Ilya waved her back. "Promise, you don't want this." He hadn't spoken since the phone with Shane this morning and it fucking hurt. "Team sent someone last night." When the chest contractions stopped he tried again with the tissues, which went better sitting down. Yuna was in his house, not in the seat on the glass Shane had gotten her, where she was supposed to be cheering for Ilya's evisceration. Every Montreal game meant a meal with the Hollanders now.
Yuna was in his house. God. "Welcome, sorry about," he said. "Can I get you—" The cough brought actual tears to his eyes, which did at least snap the situation from dire to a little funny. Why not weep through snot in front of his discerning and refined someday-mother-in-law, sure. Boston's two Metros games so far had been in Montreal; three weeks ago Ilya had people come buff the scratches out of his foyer's hardwood and re-level the driveway gravel. Lunch today had been canceled ever since he coughed blood yesterday afternoon.
The light hand on his shoulder made him jump, which made him cough, but Yuna didn't withdraw. "Okay, honey, enough. Tea, no talking. Nod if you've had meds in the last eight hours." Ilya tapped his phone—6:15, a pile of texts and three missed calls from Shane, one from Yuna. He shook his head. She said, "Right. I saw in the Walgreens bag in the kitchen. I'm going to get the soup on the stove and bring back your Robitussin. Stay upright so stuff can drain, okay?"
Ilya nodded, but Yuna lingered long enough he looked up. Same tight face like she wasn't sure about him. After a pause and a quick small smile, she circuited down the sectional for pillows. It took him far too long to figure out what she meant by "Can I?", at which point his limbs decided to go stiff and awkward: she made him a little pillow-buttress on each side so he could lean into the couch corner and put a cushion on the coffee table for his calves. Ilya clenched his abs to keep from coughing, sure she could smell his third-day-sick sourness. She had said not to talk—did that mean don't say thank you? The house was so quiet. On the way to the kitchen she put his tea in arm's reach on the backrest and tucked a pillow behind his shoulders, too.
Fuck; fuck. Ilya poured water into his cupped hand and rubbed his face, wiping it inside the collar of his sweatshirt and raking his damp hands through his hair. Pointless, but the pillows and everything—he couldn't go to the bathroom and clean up now. Should he—Netflix? Just sit here in the silence? What was the least rude thing to do while a woman he needed to impress looked for a saucepot in his sickhouse kitchen?
Yuna had found the light switches and called someone. David, it seemed like. Ilya had nothing to do but listen: "Hi, honey. Yeah, Shane was right about the end of the whining being a pretty bad sign. He's really not breathing well. Mhm. I picked up soup but he does not have the basics here. Yep, exactly. Oh, good idea. He said the team sent someone yesterday. Mhm. Well, Shane said the strep test was negative, so. No, I know, you'd think. I mean, he should have someone...right, at least checking in. Not a good look. Can you take care of the—yeah, better make it day after tomorrow. Shane will be..." The clatter as she found the pot blocked the sentence, and then she was quiet for a minute. "Okay, honey, yeah. Yep, book it. I'll call—yeah. Love you too. Okay, bye. Yep. Bye, love you."
Ilya shut out the living room light and let the phlegm rumble in his chest. He should have someone to check on him, yes, and now Yuna knew what he was asking of her son. What Ilya brought to the table. It hadn't been—it wasn't how he handled things, having people around, he never got sick, and now it, it. In a whole American decade nobody had picked him to really take care of and he hadn't picked anybody either; whatever having no family said about him, he didn't want Yuna to—to—
"All right. I'm doing a half dose of this so you can hit the NyQuil hard around 9:30 and sleep through the night." She held out the little white cup, and his phone. "I've updated him, but Shane's going to worry if you don't text him too, and maybe you should talk to your trainers, or whoever's keeping track of you over there. I would bet you're going to be out for the start of your road trip." She took the empty dose cup and passed him water. "Are you okay if I propose a plan for the night?"
A plan? What in the surreal fuck was happening. She brought soup all the way out to Needham, she was heating it up, it was already too much. She had seen—.
Ilya almost wiped his nose on his sleeve and then grabbed a tissue and nodded. The amount this lady must love Shane, Christ above.
They were going to watch the game. Ilya was going to eat soup, digest, then take a really hot shower. After the second frame Yuna was going to do a run for Gatorade and meds and anything cold Ilya wanted for his throat, and then he could pass out and Yuna would wake him for his NyQuil at 9:30. David had told Yuna to get Ilya a steam inhaler, which she thought was a good idea. She handed Ilya the remote and went to ladle soup. Ilya shut his eyes and breathed through his mouth.
For an hour he suppressed his cough pretty well. He kept the shell of his sweat-sour body on the couch while the tape of getting up and going to his bedroom and shutting the door played on a relentless loop in his head. He could go; it would be rude; he needed to go away. Meals he could do, cottage afternoons he could do, he could pick out Christmas presents and anniversary presents and make Shane blush on group FaceTimes. Yuna liked peonies in-season and otherwise dahlias, but only the big messy informal decorative type, and very dark chocolate. He could be good; he would have stopped her if he'd known she was coming. The whole evening, she was staying, three hours at least. She was about to leave for the pharmacy to go buy him things, and they hadn't said a word since the game went on. She had her laptop open to do emails while they watched Shane whip the Raiders. He wanted more than anything to know what to say to her. To have her hand on his shoulder again. He could go away.
--
Lily, 6:52 pm
i m ok, i dont want ur mom to miss seeing u/the game
or get her sick
i know u wont see this til after anyway but
Jane, 7:47 pm
I'm glad you're okay. Scared me when the bitching stopped and the thumbs-ups started.
Sounds like it was the right call to send her.
Lily, 7:48 pm
?? ur on ur phone?
Jane, 7:48 pm
We were worried. I'm checking between periods.
Don't stay up if you're tired. I told her which guest room she should use and where everything is.
Lily, 7:49 pm
???????? ur flying back to mtl tonight
Jane, 7:50 pm
I am, and Dad is. You're sick. She had Dad rebook her flight for Thursday. I would stay if we weren't on the road tomorrow morning.
Did she not ask you?
She's like this. I'm sorry. She doesn't think the Raiders are taking care of you.
And she's right. If you're this sick they should be sending someone to check on you or stay with you.
Don't worry. She's very very good at this. The best, really.
Jane, 7:59 pm
Ilya?
Jane, 8:01
I'm heading back out. I love you. Sorry for the shutout. I hope you're sleeping.
--
Yuna in the dim doorway again, darker. Ilya couldn't stop coughing these wracking, foul hacks, sitting up in bed, and it was probably three in the morning; he'd woken her and wanted to vomit. To go in the closet or the bathroom. More doors. She came and put her cool hand on his forehead and Ilya wasn't old enough for this.
Steam inhaler held to his face between coughs until he could breathe; Yuna's hand rubbing his back; Ilya could not stand the—the—one fucking second longer and bent away from her, coughed and coughed. She didn't touch him again and she didn't go. In a minute or two she turned on his bedside lamp.
"Ilya, Ilya. Honey, water, at least, and then let's get you back into the shower. Okay?"
Honey. Who was she to—. "Could you just—a minute—" It was too much and he kept hacking. He wanted his stomach out of his fucking body. "I don't want to get this all over you," he said. A folded lie: he couldn't suffer her, and he would fall into her shoulder if he could.
She stayed quietly beside him as the coughs ran themselves down. He had ruined it, flinching away, snapping. He wanted her hand in his hair, which he had no right to want and no way to ask for. That was okay, those were familiar terms. Next time he’d know: he wouldn’t flinch and the math would be different. Eventually air came back.
When Ilya looked, she had his phone in one hand and her own in the other. She asked, "Do you have your NDA ready on this, or hard copies here at the house?"
"What?"
The polished smile was back. Right, Ilya had failed and failed and failed, of course. "I'm calling your team doctor and getting clearance for a house visit from a doctor and an IV fluids nurse before morning. I don't like that you couldn't sleep through the night, honey. Walking pneumonia usually comes with a fever but I'm not playing about it." She extended his phone to him. "The NDA is probably overkill, except I'd like to be in the room. If you're comfortable with it. Would you pull it up, and the team contact too, please?"
It so peculiarly punctured the airtight sphere of the room that Ilya could simply and convincingly obey. She made to move, would go make the call in the hallway. Ilya could try something else.
He reached but didn’t touch. "You are being so kind to me," he said. "Thank you. Of course I want you to yell at my doctors." The wheezing undercut the line somewhat.
Her smile got firmer, a little meaner. “I haven’t been known to mess around about my family’s health.” She tucked the fall of her slipping overnight bun behind her ear. “Shane says I should apologize for not asking you whether it was okay to stay, but I think you would have told me no, so he can shove it. Both of you, actually. Go get in the shower.”
An odd doubling: on one side the rift in him, the lack yawning wide, and on the other, the simple facts of a really shitty cold and his boyfriend’s overbearing, wonderful mother. No hour of his life had ever been so middle-of-the-night strange, lamplit in a quiet house. Ilya wanted to tell her he didn’t know to say yes. He’d forgotten, or forgotten how.