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It is possible that Shane has miscalculated.
The Montreal Metros are down bad – not in points, thank god, but definitely in players currently able to breathe through their nose.
Shane is pretty confident it started with Hayden sniffling last week, but he’s too loyal a friend to bring that up, especially now that half the team is down with whatever cursed germs have entered their locker-room and decimated their starting line-up.
Still, Shane was very confident. Shane eats well and exercises regularly. His body is finely honed. He is a professional athlete. He would not, he repeatedly assured everyone in his life, get sick.
It is possible that science has failed him.
Coach canceled practice today, with dire warnings for everyone to be on the ice tomorrow, finally giving in to the torrent of “I’m dying, coach” messages he was getting. The team doctor was sending emails and offering ways to minimize symptoms, but Shane was at the point where he felt like it might be best to just let the illness take him. He had morosely updated Ilya, who was going to come spend the night, letting him know that his home is now a biohazard and it was probably for the best if Ilya stayed put.
When he first learned to skate he’d been told that falling on the ice has a particular trick to it: a controlled fall. There are good ways to mitigate damage, of course, but one of the ways people get injured is most often in the way they try to catch themselves. Often, the safest and least damaging thing is just…letting it happen.
So. He is curled up on his couch, surrounded by used tissues and wrapped in a large duvet. His mom has been texting to check in on him, as has the team commiserating in the group chat, but he’s pretty annoyed that the sexy-ish plans he had for Ilya to visit on his day off are toast. Ilya was super nice about it, obviously, but it feels shitty that they’ve lost the chance to see eachother because Shane’s immune system can’t get it the fuck together.
This is why it is surprising when Shane’s security system cheerily chimes, telling him that someone has used his access code. Shane sits up from where he has capsized on the couch. It’s an effort. His entire body is made of lead and mucus.
“Ilya?” he asks weakly. No one hears this, because he currently has no ability to project his voice. He tries to clear his throat, then croaks again “Ilya, is that you?”
“No, is other boyfriend with doorcode.” llya barely pauses to take in the scene, weighed down by two grocery bags he takes into the open plan kitchen. Shane doesn’t think colds cause hallucinations, but if he were going to hallucinate Ilya, it might be in those jeans.
“You have a fever?” Ilya, having deposited the bags on the counter, approaches to touch Shane’s forehead. “You are sweaty.”
Shane half-hearted bats his hand away. “Don’t touch me. You’ll get sick.”
“Russians do not get sick,” Ilya says dismissively. “I do not think it is a fever. You have taken cough medicine?”
“I meant to order some,” Shane says helplessly, while Ilya opens one of the grocery bags and pulls out a bottle of liquid in an unnatural looking color. “What is that?”
“Is for children,” Ilya explains, breaking the seal, “who do not listen to their team doctor or boyfriend and practice too hard when entire team is full of germs.” He carefully pours some of the neon liquid into the included cup. “Is cherry flavor.”
“You’re on the road next week,” he croaks hoarsely, half heartedly moving the blankets around to sit up as Ilya approaches. “You can’t get sick. You’re the c –” He pauses to take the cup Ilya is waving in front of his lips. He winces at the syrupy sweetness. “I thought we agreed you were going to stay home and not witness –” he gestures to himself – “this.”
“No, you agreed this. I am excellent boyfriend, so I let you text me nonsense, and then I call your father. He made you soup.”
“I’m going to feel so bad if you get sick,” he says, an internal thought that he can’t quite summon the energy to contain. “You’ll get it, and then your team will get it, and you’ll be in Missouri…”
“Oh no,” Ilya says flatly. “Whatever will I do if I can’t party in St. Louis.”
“It’s not funny,” Shane insists. His head throbs. His hair is greasy and disgusting. “I don’t – I didn’t want you to see me like this.” His hand reaches out on the blanket and takes a probably-cleanish tissue from the pile. “I’m pretty sure this is not in the boyfriend contract.”
“I wiill re-negotiage, if so.” Ilya’s tone is soft, and Shane hears, rather than sees, him settle on the opposite side of the couch from his tissue pile. He should probably be wearing gloves.
Ilya is summarily dismissing all of his extremely valid concerns, and ordinarily Shane would be fighting this, but. “It’s sweet that you’re here. But I meant it, you didn’t have to come –” Ilya flicks his hands in the air, annoyed, and Shane powers through. “I didn’t want you to see me looking gross, okay, that too.” He groans. “We could have had a great night, and now you’re just watching my immune system get its ass kicked.”
“Open your mouth,” Ilya orders, and Shane does automatically, grimacing at the metallic taste of the pill Ilya shoves onto his tongue. “Is zinc. Good for shortening colds.”
Shane’s research was largely inconclusive on whether that was true, but Shane chews anyway. “You don’t have to –”
“You want to fight about this?” Ilya asks, skeptical. “We can do this, but it is waste of your time and mine.” He takes Shane’s deeply disgusting hand. “I am here now, so is done. I am best boyfriend, and you are very cute –” he searches for the word. “What is the thing that is for growing germs, like in science class?”
“Petri dish,” Shane offers automatically. Ilya pulls him by the hand until he’s settled with his head on Ilya’s lap. It’s nice.
“Yes, you are cute and handsome one of these dishes. Is not your fault.” The hans running through his hair is nice too, actually. “Is Pike’s fault.”
Shane wheezes. “Ilya.”
“Is true. Patient nothing.”
“Zero.”
“Stop talking. Your voice sounds like bad engine.” Shane means to argue, but he’s actually really comfortable.
“His kids are sweet. It’s not their fault.” He could probably fall asleep here, actually. He didn’t sleep well, and although he knows the medicine can’t be kicking in already, his chest doesn’t feel quite as phlegmy.
“I would never blame children. Is always Pike’s fault. He breathed on you with his horrible germs, and now –”
Shane feels like he’s drifting. “Shhhhh.” He may not have a fever, but he’s been wrapped in blankets all day and Ilya’s cool wrist on his neck feels heavenly.
It’s maybe a mark of how much Ilya loves him, he thinks, that Ilya falls silent.
Shane lets himself fall.
***
He wakes up to hot soup and a lemon-honey drink he remembers his Dad making for him when he stayed home from school as a kid. Ilya bullies him into sitting up to eat, gives him another dose of the cherry stuff, and then sits on the couch scrolling on his phone while Shane eats. Occasionally he uses a hand to dig a thumb into the arch of Shane’s foot, the spot where his tendons feel tightest. It’s slightly pornagraphic, the way Shane moans around a mouthful of broth and carrot.
Ilya grins, but keeps scrolling through instagram and doesn’t comment. Shane’s phone is on the coffee table, but he has never had less of a desire to check it. At a guess, the Metros groupchat is 100+ new messages deep of the guys not dealing well with not being at the peak of physical fitness (something Shane would know nothing about), the coaching staff wanting to know if he’ll be back tomorrow (yes, obviously), and one or both of his parents checking in (Ilya will have updated them, and is probably providing intel at this very moment).
“How was the barbecue thing?” he says eventually, his throat soothed by honey and broth. He almost sounds human. “Did everyone show?”
“Almost.” Ilya had gone on a team outing, an increasing rarity with their frantic schedule coordination. “Was good. One of the rookies has a new girlfriend. He is very nervous she will not like us.” He flicks through photos on his phone for a moment, then shows Shane a group picture that includes Wyatt Hayes, Hayes’ doctor wife Lisa (who he met briefly in passing at an MLH Awards party a few years ago and was incredibly impressed by), Luca Haas, and two of the newest Ottawa picks with their arms wrapped around women Shane doesn’t recognize.
“That’s nice.” Shane means it. He sips and lets the sharpness of the lemon dull his jealousy. “It’s good they have you guys to ask for advice.” Shane imprinted on Ilya at eighteen and spent the subsequent decade becoming increasingly and maddeningly obsessed with his everything, so he is particularly unqualified to give anyone advice on their love life, probably.
Ilya laughs. “Oh yes, I am sure we are very helpful. Not at all… what is it you call me? Menacing?”
“A menace,” Shane corrects, but he can’t quite work up the energy to explain the difference. “You’re a menace.” He realizes his eyes have been closed for a few seconds, and notices upon opening them that Ilya’s t-shirt is riding up on his stomach. He licks his overly dry lips. “You know, we could…” His mouth is so dry.
Ilya glances up and clocks him immediately. He raises both eyebrows. “We could what?”
Shane ignores the tickle starting in his throat. “I know this isn’t super sexy, or anything, but –” He clears his throat. “You could like…”
“Ah, you want me to do a show for you.” Ilya looks gratified. “Sexy nurse.” Shane’s lungs choose that moment to object, and Ilya’s brow creases. “I will get you more hot drink. And water.”
“I have a cold. I’m not dying.” Shane uses Ilya’s leg as leverage to sit up, which Ilya unfortunately uses as an opportunity to get up and get Shane more things for his stupid well-being.
“This is not what you were telling me earlier.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“You are very sexy right now, when you argue with me while coughing” Ilya says flatly, putting a glass of water into his hand and urging him to drink. “I am overcome with lust, truly.”
It takes a moment before Shane can get enough breath to speak. “You can leave anytime, you know.”
“Ah, but who will remind you to eat yummy medicine?” The kettle clicks off, and Ilya moves back to the kitchen. “Is almost time for vitamins. Then I think we take a nap during New York game, will put us right to sleep.”
“Leave the Admirals alone,” Shane admonishes.
“This is what I am saying, everyone should leave them alone. Is ageism in sport.” There is the sound of a spoon in a mug. “Do you want cough drops?”
“Mmmnooo.” A few moments later Shane is cradling the mug in his hands. “Thank you.” A quiet sniff, eyes closed. “Thank you for coming here.”
Ilya settles next to him again, brushing hair off his forehead. “Moya lyubov…” Shane knows that one. “All the time I wish I could do this.” His hand finds Shane’s cheek as he makes eye contact. “Know this, in your big and overworking brain, okay?”
He lets himself close his eyes and fall the rest of the way into his boyfriend’s chest.