Chapter Text
1.
Ilya has spent most of his life taking care of himself. After his mother died, he was mostly on his own— his father and brother causing him harm more often than providing any kind of comfort. So by the time he and Shane got together, he was entirely out of practice on allowing others to care for him, or care about him.
Ilya doesn’t get sick often, but when he does, it’s usually bad. Never just the sniffles or a cold, his body seems to save up for big-ticket illnesses— anything that would leave him home alone and miserable.
They’re already engaged the first time Shane sees him sick. He’d been feeling off for the past couple of days, slow and tired, but nothing overly concerning. It was the off-season, which meant that he and Shane were together at the cottage, mostly enjoying each other's company, but also planning hockey camps and foundation logistics.
He wakes up to Shane’s cold hands on his face, palms smoothing over his forehead and cheeks.
“Ilyusha,” he murmurs, “wake up.”
Ilya frowns at the sound of Shane’s voice, concerned and worried. Opening his eyes, he’s met with Shane’s face, leaned in close to his own— big brown eyes shining with worry, his mouth turned in a little frown.
“Hi,” Ilya rasps, surprised at the effort and pain it takes to get a single word out. He sits up, coughing roughly into the crook of his elbow as Shane pats his back.
“It’s okay, baby. Just breathe.” He coaches Ilya through the coughing fit, speaking slowly and gently as Ilya struggles to catch his breath. Shane hands off his water bottle, watching as Ilya gulps it down greedily.
“I’m okay,” Ilya manages to say, voice barely above a whisper. He knows he’s not, he just wants that look on Shane’s face to go away.
“You’re not okay. You’re sick, Ilyusha.”
Shane’s holding his hand gently, stroking his thumb over his knuckles in a slow rhythm meant to soothe. Ilya can’t remember the last time someone held his hand while he was ill; certainly, no one had since his mother died.
Before he knows it, his cheeks are wet. Fat tears rolling down his face as he sniffles, feeling raw, and empty, and weak.
“Oh, baby.” Shane croons, gathering Ilya’s limp form, pulling him into the circle of his arms, holding him close. “It’s okay, let it out.”
Ilya tries not to whine as he speaks. “Sorry. I’m sorry. We had things to do, yes? I will get ready…just give me some time.”
Shane lets out a deep sigh, suddenly finding himself frustrated– angry at whatever and whoever had come before him in Ilya’s life that made him feel so unworthy of care. Of genuine affection and gentle hands.
“Ilya. You’re not going anywhere– we’re not going anywhere. You’re sick, I’m gonna stay here and take care of you.”
Ilya shifts a little from where he’s scrunched under Shane’s chin, head tilting until their eyes meet. “I am big boy, Shane. Cough and sniffles are nothing,” He says casually—dismissive. “When I was thirteen, I spent weeks with pneumonia and went to hockey practice every day still. Won regional competition too.”
Shane hopes his face is neutral enough to disguise his horror. He can feel his eyes getting wet, and he blinks rapidly to will away the tears. “No one took care of you?”
Ilya looks at him as if the very notion is absurd. “In my house, being sick was weak…no excuse to miss school or hockey. My father would think I am lazy– skipping responsibilities. Was better for me to go to practice than to be home with my father.”
“What would have happened if you’d stayed home?” Shane asks, not sure if he wants the answer—or if Ilya will offer it.
Ilya closes his eyes for a long moment, pressing his face further into Shane’s chest. He’s quiet long enough that Shane almost thinks he’s fallen asleep. “Once…he made me sleep outside. I had a high fever, and I bothered him while he was working, so that was my punishment. He said I was being needy. After this, I did not tell him when I was sick.” His voice trails off at the end, as if caught up in the memory.
Shane squeezes him a little tighter, kissing his warm, sweaty forehead before resting his cheek against it. His heart hurts. Hurts thinking about this man, he loves so deeply, as a sick little boy– shivering in the cold as a punishment.
“You weren’t being needy, Ilya. Or weak. Or lazy.” Shane says emphatically. “You were a child– you were his child, and he should’ve taken care of you.”
Ilya doesn’t respond, just allows himself to be held– the pull of sleep irresistible when he’s so warm and comfy cradled in his husband's arms.
When Shane is sure that moving won’t wake him, he shifts Ilya out of his lap, tucking him back under the covers on his side of their bed. His face is flushed, cheeks red and puffy from the fever, making him look young and sweet. Shane watches him for a while, playing with the sweaty curls on his forehead, brushing gentle fingers over his nose, the bend of his cupid's bow, the pout of his lips. Ilya lets out a little noise of discomfort, but soothes easily as Shane continues stroking his hair, gentle and featherlight, murmuring to him quietly. “I’m always going to take care of you, baby. I’ll never let you be alone like that ever again.”
It’s a promise he makes to Ilya as much as to himself.