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Shane figured that once Ilya got sick on the ice, he probably wasn’t too far behind.
It was inevitable anyways. Once one of them caught something, the other was always soon to follow, even before their days of living together.
They had both woken that morning looking and feeling like shit, but neither said anything of it. Just quietly and quickly getting ready for practice after both sleeping through three alarms. Which should’ve been another sign in and of itself. Shane didn’t just sleep through his alarms.
In their rush, Shane had quickly made himself a smoothie that was mostly kale, perhaps just a desperate grasp in an attempt to feel normal, but he maybe only ended up having two or three sips. When he offered any to Ilya the man wrinkled his nose in disgust and shook his head. No funny quips, nothing. And once Shane set it down in the cupholder of his car it became utterly forgotten.
Shane feels himself pale now, at the image of Ilya's vomit being scraped off the ice, looking a lot like said smoothie despite not even drinking any. He shakes his head, swallows, and starts back towards the locker rooms with aching legs to collect his sick husband and drive them both home. One look from Ilya to Shane and Coach Wiebe was shaking his head and sending them packing.
Neither of them fought it.
The steering wheel was sweaty the entire drive home, and Shane could only focus on what was right in front of him. Each and every turn made his stomach jump up into his throat, but he stubbornly swallowed it down. Beside him, Ilya sulked miserably, a slightly used emesis bag gripped tightly in one hand, all while eyes closed and breathing as evenly as possible through his mouth. Shane tightens his grip on the wheel.
They make it home without further incident, but the second they get inside Shane makes a quick beeline for the kitchen. And while Shane didn’t even bother to take his off in his rush, Ilya's shoes are half-on-half-off by the time he hears choked gagging. With a sluggish sigh, Ilya shuffles his way into the kitchen and is welcomed by the sight of his husband hunched over the sink, Anya sniffing at his side.
Ilya spans a warm hand up under Shane's sweaty shirt, and rubs at his equally sweaty back. Though he keeps his head turned away as another gush of kale smoothie hits the stainless steel. It smells awful, and Ilya finds himself quickly turning on the tap to wash it away.
“Okay. Maybe we go back to bed,” Ilya swallows, hand moving down to gently pat at a curious Anya; to reassure her that things were okay. Shane hums something in agreement, rinses and spits into the running water, turns it off, and then straightens himself back up with a tight grip on the counter. Ilya flattens his hand at the base of Shane's spine, and gently urges him away from the sink regardless of their dizzy stumbles. “And maybe call Yuna.”
Shane won’t argue that.
───── ꩜ ─────
Once upstairs and locked away in their bedroom, Ilya has all but collapsed into bed, bucket clung to his side while Shane hovers in the ensuite. He always preferred being near the toilet rather than a trash can. Ilya had said that his ass and back will not forgive him.
“I think I tore something,” Shane moans, rubbing away at his lower abdomen all while lumbering out of the bathroom to lay down on the end of the bed. Considering how exhausted he definitely looks, Ilya is surprised at how Shane's legs keep carrying himself back and forth from the bathroom to the bed. Again, and again, and again. Ilya doesn’t understand why he does it to himself.
“Shane,” Ilya exhausts, “just use bucket and stay here, please. You are dead on your feet.”
Shane shakes his head, stills, and then briskly pushes himself back up. The slight whimper in the back of his throat is all Ilya needs to hear before he's back up and running to the bathroom. Again.
Ilya sighs and lays his woozy head back down. He can hear Anya whining outside the door just barely over Shane's heaves, and it breaks his heart to not let her in, but he figures that an anxious dog fretting about would only stress Shane out further. He hopes that Yuna doesn’t mind taking her for a few days…
The toilet flushes and then Shane is back on his feet—though he really shouldn’t be. “This sucks.”
Ilya waves a limp hand in the air above him. “Sucks for you? I am breaking many year streak of being vomit free while you…” he dangerously swallows, “...throw up all the time.”
“I do not,” Shane mumbles, into a pillow, once again back in bed.
“You have nervous stomach,” Ilya shrugs, “It’s endearing.”
Shane feels said stomach flip and he huffs indignantly. “Shut up. At least I didn’t puke on the ice.”
“Not my first time,” Ilya waves off. Sometimes you go to practice just a little bit too hungover. It happens to all the rookies. “And I could think of one way to shut me up…” Ilya continues, brow raising as he definitively looks at his husband's crotch. “But probably not good idea right now.”
Shane watches as the other man sits himself up and drags the bucket into his waiting lap, leaning over to spit an over-abundance of drool into—which then sets off a chain reaction of Shane's mouth starting to salivate. He looks away and tries to breathe through his mouth.
Considering that Ilya didn’t eat anything this morning, he’s not bringing up very much except for the last remnants of their dinner from the night before. Salmon and rice; cooked by yours truly. He shudders as the fish works its way back up his throat and into the bucket, shoulders hiked up to his ears and body tense. He burps before bringing up another mouthful, stringy and disgusting. It leaves him wishing that he had some water, but instead he just wipes his mouth off onto the back of his hand. When he finally pulls his head out of the bucket, he notices that Shane has retreated back into the bathroom.
“...Shane…” Ilya pathetically rasps.
The toilet flushes. An echo. “What?”
Ilya sighs, and leans his head back against the wall. The room feels like it's spinning. “Just making sure you are still alive.”
The tap turns on, and Ilya listens with eyes closed as Shane moves about the bathroom. “Barely,” Shane steps out, looking like he’s seen better days. His hair is messy but not in a fun sex way. And he has the glass kept by the sink in hand as he shuffles to Ilya's bedside. The blond squints an eye open, and graciously takes the glass to sip from. He watches as Shane crawls back onto the bed, his resolve crumbling as he curls up at Ilya's feet.
Ilya rinses and spits into the bucket before setting the glass down with a thunk. “You are shaking,” he observes.
Shane swallows, eye twitching as he wraps his hand around Ilya's ankle, thumb caressing his sock. He then gives a disapproving moan. “No more talking? ‘Kay?”
Ilya furrows his brows, but isn’t totally opposed to the idea himself. Still, he lowers his voice. “Headache?”
“Everything-ache,” Shane murmurs, hand now falling limp onto the sheets.
Ilya hums in agreement. He wishes he could lean over to reach Shane, just to touch him, soothe him, but he is also hurting everywhere. And very lightheaded. “Me too,” he yawns.
It’s at that moment that they hear the front door open downstairs, Anya's nails clicking on the hardwood as she races to go see who’s there. Ilya lets himself relax slightly at the knowledge that Yuna has finally arrived.
Though, she doesn’t seem to have much urgency in finding them, because ten minutes pass of quiet, pained, breathing until their bedroom door finally cracks open. Light from the hallway spills in and makes both men groan. Yuna quickly steps inside, two ginger-ales in hand as Anya squeezes her way in behind, immediately heading to Shane and sniffing his socked feet at the foot of the bed.
“Oh, boys,” she sighs, coming over to Shane and rubbing a warm hand down his bare, damp back. Anya is now preoccupied with Ilya, and she basks in the lazy scratches he gives to the top of her head, her tail slowly wagging.
“M’m?” Shane mumbles, lifting his head up just slightly to look back at her. She nods, handing him the cold can before casting her look over to a quickly paling Russian. Ilya barely gasps out an apology before he's hurling back into the bucket. Great timing. Yuna grimaces, and then suddenly she's rubbing his back too.
Ilya's head pounds, and his eyes water dangerously. Once the wave of bile and nausea has washed over him, he realizes that his mother-in-law has a hand buried in his curls, slowly massaging away at the crown of his skull.
“I think you have a fever,” she voices, hand briefly disappearing just to land back on his forehead. He shivers at how cold her fingers suddenly feel. He then scrapes his tongue along the front of his teeth and spits off into the ever filling bucket, grunting as he collapses back against the headboard. “M’ sorry,” he grumbles, vulnerable. “Gross.”
Yuna makes a small sound. “Don’t apologize. You’re sick, you can’t help it.” When Ilya opens his mouth to respond, she cuts in again. “Although, it was really dumb of both of you to go to practice when this sick—”
“Mom, stop,” Shane moans, his voice all crackly.
Yuna looks back at her son, and then back to her son-in-law. She takes a deep breath and clears her throat. “Alright, sorry. Thermometer?”
“Right drawer in the bathroom.”
She sets down the other ginger-ale onto Ilya’s nightstand, and then she’s off in a hunt.
Shane lets out a sigh, and his tired eyes meet his husband's. He wants to hold him so bad. He wants to be held. Swallowing back a creeping gag, Shane pushes up onto shaky arms and drags himself up the bed, collapsing down next to Ilya just in time for his mom to come back into the room.
Yuna gives the thermometer a quick clean before directing it under Ilya's tongue. She sits down on the bed while they wait, and gives Anya the attention that she is so desperately still craving. “I brought over ingredients for soup and tea,” she mentions before reaching for her purse, “and some of those ginger candies that you like,” she pulls out a familiar yellow bag and sets it down on the bed.
Both men horribly grimace.
“Thanks—but don’t bring up food right now,” Shane moans, hand coming up to pinch between his eyes.
Yuna’s lips tighten, then she looks at both un-opened ginger-ales. “Right, sorry,” she reaches over to rub his leg just as the thermometer beeps. She reaches back up and over to Ilya to extract it, and gives a low whistle at what she finds. “Thirty-nine point five. Fever.”
Ilya’s lips jut out on a slight pout, and he watches as she disinfects the thermometer before sliding the plastic in between Shane's lips, under his tongue.
“Thirty-eight point seven,” she sighs, giving the tool one last wipe before putting the cap back on and setting it down. “Have either of you taken anything yet?”
They both shake their heads.
“Alright,” she stands back up, but not before nodding to Ilya's bucket. “Care if I empty that while I hunt through your medicine cabinet?”
Ilya blinks down at it. He forgot that he even had it, smell notwithstanding; how intertwined they’ve become. He nods. “Be quick.”
Yuna then whisks it away, and Shane leans over to bump his warm head against Ilya’s even warmer arm. Ilya brings his hand up to comb through the dark, sweaty, hair.
“M’sorry,” Shane wobbles.
Ilya raises a brow. “For what?”
A wet sigh. “For getting you sick.”
Ilya chuckles briefly before a cramp tears through his stomach. He winces. “Did you hit your head? I literally puked all over the rink.” He brushes Shane's hair back, admiring his fever flush. “I got you sick I think.”
Shane makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. Guilty, heavy eyes look up at the Russian. “I felt off last night. Maybe we shouldn’t have—”
“What? Had sex?” Ilya interrupts. He refuses to feel guilty for banging his absolute smoke-show of a husband, regardless of the fact that they both felt ill and clearly hid it from each other. “Whatever,” Ilya hums, hand drifting from Shane's head down to his cheek. “Not like this is first time.” Shane scrunches his nose at him. A little virus wasn’t enough to stop them. Most of the time, at least. When their stomachs were staying where they should be.
“Alright,” Yuna walks back into the room, Tylenol in one hand and Ilya's safety bucket in the other. He happily accepts it back onto his lap, freshly rinsed, but wearily eyes the pills in her hand. It’s the same ones you always take, don’t be a baby. Just two pills. He does it all the time—okay, maybe not as often as he should considering how often he gets checked—however uneasily. But it’s fine.
Ilya watches first as Shane takes his, knocking them back with a sip of water that he prays will sit before miserably laying back down. Ilya clears his throat, and takes his two from Yuna, tossing them back and swallowing as quickly as he can. Why is he shaking?
Yuna looks back and forth between her boys, a bittersweet look on her face. She leans forward to brush her thumb over Shane's heated cheek, and then Ilyas. “Get some rest. I’ll be back to check on you guys in a few hours, but please call if you need anything.”
Ilya nods, and he catches a glimpse of brown fur at the side of the bed, tail wagging once again. “Could you…” he gestures down, “please take Anya? Just until we are better.”
“Of course,” Yuna smiles. “She is mine and David's favourite guest after all. I’ll grab some of her toys and a bit of her food before I leave, okay? Anything else?”
Ilya shakes his head no, ignoring the dizzy spell it causes as Shane gets comfortable against his side. “Thank you, though. For everything.” He looks down, eyes getting a bit misty again. Ilya hated being sick. It reminded him too much of his mother. The very faint memories of how she would care for him—and how abrupt the realization after she left. He happened to catch the flu that was going around a few weeks after she passed, and one of the only things that he remembers during was how obviously pathetic his father saw him as.
Ever since being accepted into the Hollander family, Ilya found the twine around his heart quickly unraveling. And while Yuna didn’t—couldn’t—replace Irina, Ilya was more whole than he had been in a very long time. His chest ached with it.
Yuna clicks her tongue, and Shane soothes a hand down Ilya's arm. “It’s alright,” she puts her hands on his shoulders, rubbing her thumbs along the tensed muscle. “Thank you,” she murmurs. Thank you for loving my son as fiercely as you do. Thank you for being there in ways that we couldn’t. Thank you for coming into my life. She presses a quick kiss to the top of his sweaty curls, and then pulls back just in time to watch Ilya scrub a hand under his eye.
“Sorry I can’t stay,” she explains while straightening herself back out, hands brushing any unlikely wrinkles out of her sweater.
“No. No, you do not want this,” Ilya clears his clogged throat, motioning to the miserable portrait that is him and Shane. Yuna smiles, though a bit tight-lipped. “I guess not. When I come back we’ll have an early dinner,” she decides. “I’ll make zosui.”
Ilya gives a bit of a wet chuckle. “Don’t know how fun that will be.”
Yuna waves her hand. “It’s good,” she reassures. “One of Shane's favourites.”
Shane grunts from his spot, fighting to stay awake. Ilya rubs his back with a smirk, and then says his goodbyes to Anya. He gives her one last chin scratch and blows a kiss, and then they are alone once more.
Shane lets out a heavy sigh, snuggling himself tight up against Ilya. His fever heat is like a siren call that Ilya can’t deny, and so for the first time since coming home and taking refuge in bed, he sets the bucket down onto the floor and gingerly lays back. Shane attaches himself and wraps an arm around him, securing him in place and settling in the curve of his neck.
Then the world fades into a dizzying black.
───── ꩜ ─────
When Shane comes to, he feels like he’s on fire. The sheets are wet with what he can only hope is sweat, and his stomach swirls like a whirlpool. It gives a nauseating lurch that has him anxiously sitting up and then immediately crawling over Ilya, who sleeps unruly beside him. His skin feels like it's writhing and the floor is undulating underneath him. He only manages one step before his whole body freezes, jolts on a gag, and then he’s racing a hand up to cover his mouth before it’s too late.
But it is too late.
A sourness floods his tastebuds, and then Shane is unfortunately doubling over and vomiting onto the rug. He sinks down onto his haunches, and coughs up another weak mess of bile before a bucket is getting hurriedly shoved under his chin—not that it does much in the grand scheme of things. Shane blinks the tears out of his eyes just in time for Ilya to start patting his back.
Shane coughs again, spitting, and Ilya shushes him gently. “Here,” Ilya hands him the bucket and tucks both hands under Shane's armpits to help leverage him back upright. “Sit, I will clean.”
Shane shakes his head, heart racing and brain mixed up. It all happened so fast. “N—” he clears his throat, spitting once more into the bucket now sitting in his lap. “I can do it.”
“Shane.”
Shane releases a breath, eyebrows drawn as he stares down at the floor. The gruffness in Ilya's voice makes him immediately feel guilty for waking him. “Baking soda under the sink,” his voice cracks, “just let it sit.” Ilya grunts and Shane listens as his feet drag on the floor. Then the bathroom light is on and spilling into his bubble, making Shane’s eyes water promptly. He squeezes them shut and instead tries to focus on not throwing up again.
A minute passes and then Ilya rests a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently from his stupor and nudging a glass of water into his hand. Shane swallows back an aborted heave, but he takes a small sip to rinse with. Ilya then pokes him to actually drink some. Shane takes a passable sip and swallows despite his throat clenching.
It then comes back up a few seconds later on a weak gag—still as cold as it was when it went down.
Ilya softly swears and rubs his back, murmuring “let it out” and other things that Shane can’t hear over his own dry heaving. Once he’s done this time, his stomach is a sore, pained mess. Where Shane first felt deathly hot when awoken, he is now left shivering and riddled with goosebumps.
And then Ilya is holding that fucking glass in front of him again—
“You don’t have to drink. Just rinse.”
Shane swallows. His dry lips part, and he allows the Russian to pour a small mouthful before swishing it around and spitting. He hands the bucket back off to Ilya once he catches a strong whiff of the smell inside, and scoots himself back towards the head of the bed. He looks absolutely dreadful, and Ilya’s heart pangs.
He can’t imagine that he looks much better though.
Before crawling back into bed himself, Ilya departs to clean the bucket and turn off the bathroom light. He narrowly misses stepping in the baking soda caked vomit on his way back, and all but collapses back into bed. Shane is curled away from him, skin tacky with cooling sweat. Ilya studies him for a few seconds, considering how standoff-ish he seems before deciding to drape an arm over his side anyway. Shane doesn’t push him away, and so that at least is a good sign. Ilya scoots himself a tad bit closer, enough to share their fever warmed air once again, and then rests his head just behind Shanes. He spends the time busy counting the freckles on the back of his neck until his eyes grow too heavy to keep open.
───── ꩜ ─────
Upon waking Ilya swears that he can smell something…cooking? It smells good, whatever it is, even though his stomach lazily lurches as he untangles himself from his husband. Shane is still asleep, and the sheets surrounding them are nearly drenched with what is hopefully a broken fever. Ilya leans over to press a quick kiss to Shane's temple, which is definitively not as hot as last time they were awake—thank god—and he can only hope that the same goes for himself.
Ilya drags his legs over the side of the bed, and just as his toes touch the ground their bedroom door peaks open. He meets eyes with Yuna, her head poking inside, and she promptly steps in.
“I was starting to think you two fell into a coma.”
Ilya clears his throat, dry and pained with disuse and vomiting. He digs the palm of his hand into his eye socket. His head still hurts dramatically. “How long?”
Yuna walks over, and now Ilya notices that she has two steaming mugs with her. If she notices the mess on the carpet she doesn’t say anything. And just as Ilya is about to bring attention to it, she sidesteps it and hands him one of the mugs—one that ironically says Puck You!—a house-warming gift from Hayden. “Let’s just say our plan for an early dinner is now more of a late dinner.”
Ilya holds the ceramic up to his nose and inhales its contents deeply. Some kind of tea. “Thanks,” he gruffs, taking an experimental sip. Ginger and…
“Ginger and lemon,” Yuna confirms. “With a bit of honey to help your throats.”
Ilya nods. Honey. He loved honey. “Was good call,” he murmurs before taking another warming sip.
“The soup should only be a little while longer. I can bring it up here if you’d like…” Her eyes flick to the right of Ilya, and the bed jostles slightly under him.
“Wha’s that smell?” Shane tiredly mumbles, already rolling over and only slightly surprised to see his mom. “Oh.”
“Oh?” she echoes. “I’m back and I’ve made you soup, don’t be so unhappy to see me.”
“Thanks, but I don’t know if I'm very hungry,” he slightly groans, laying back and running a hand down his face. “I feel disgusting.”
Ilya swallows another mouthful of tea. “Yes, fever broke too.” And just to make sure, Yuna places one hand onto each of their sticky foreheads. She hums slightly. “I wouldn’t say completely, but cooler than before.” She then wipes her now damp hands off onto the thighs of her jeans. “Maybe you two could shower if you’re up for it, while I finish up downstairs?”
Shane grumbles something, tired, sick, and desperately wanting to go back to sleep, but now that the gross feeling has been stated, it must be dealt with. Both Yuna and Ilya can read it so clearly on his pinched face that it hurts.
Ilya settles his warmed hand onto Shane's bare shoulder, nodding. “I will make sure he does not slip and get another concussion.”
Yuna grins. “Great, I’ll be back up in thirty?”
Ilya nods, but when the door shuts a knot forms in his stomach. It’s like Yuna took all the feel good out with her and back downstairs. The tea doesn’t even taste good anymore. He sets it down. The thought of standing and being in the shower for more than a minute sounds exhausting, let alone enough for them to get properly clean. Ilya lets out a sigh.
Shane looks up at him through squinted eyes.
“I feel like horse shit,” Ilya tiredly declares.
That surprises a small chuckle out of his husband at least, and Shane slowly sits himself up. “How’s your stomach?” He reaches up to bury a hand in Ilya's flat curls.
Ilya hums at the motion, eyes closing as he leans in closer to Shane. “Better. Maybe,” he shrugs. “I do not want to get up right now.”
Shane makes a sound, continuing to slowly massage at Ilya's scalp. “I don’t want to either.”
Ilya nods, eyes slowly opening to stare lazily at his husband. Now that the sun has set though, it makes it a lot harder to see each other. Ilya closes his eyes again, and leans further into Shane's hand, swaying in the direction of the bathroom. He is awfully sore. And a warm shower does sound wonderful despite the labour. “C’mon. Will be quick, I swear,” he mumbles.
The way the words grumble through his chest makes tiny goosebumps reappear on Shane's skin. He closes his eyes, and yearns to listen to him more. “Yeah?” He barely whispers. Ilya’s warm hand smoothes up his stomach, stopping just under his ribs, and a flash of heat sparks low in Shane's stomach—finally something other than nausea.
Ilya leans in, and Shane finds himself smiling at the scratchy peck placed just off the side of his mouth. When Ilya comes in for seconds, Shane directs his head so that their equally dry lips fully connect this time, sighing into the brief kiss before Ilya pulls back. “I will go start water,” he sighs, waiting until Shane has nodded to detach himself and swing his legs over the side of the bed. He pads his way over to the bathroom, cradling his stomach the entire way.
Shane hears the shower roar to life a few seconds later, and then Ilya promptly makes his way back into the room, digging haphazardly through their dresser to snag some fresh underwear and sweatpants for after. He then comes back around to the bed, and holds out his hand for Shane to take; to which he does.
The bathroom is warm and steamy already, and Shane watches as Ilya undresses before doing the same. The heat in the room is incredibly disarming, and Shane finds himself yawning as Ilya steps under the spray.
“What? Boring?”
Shane shakes his head, already following behind. “Just tired.”
Ilya hums, and grabs at Shane to direct him under the spray. The water soaks his hair, trickling down his face and neck. Ilya can’t help but press a few more smooches to his face before reaching around behind him for Shane’s algae and seaweed shampoo.
If Ilya gets a little hard at the sight of his husband's naked body, sue him. Nothing comes of it anyways—as drained as they both are—just a minor observation and some light teasing. It’s natural and expected of them.
And while the shower is nice, after a little while it leaves them wishing that they had a shower chair. Or just somewhere to sit that isn’t so far down to the literal ground. Maybe they should get a bench installed on the far end—it could have a multitude of uses. Ilya will have to talk to their contractor later.
Shane complains about being dizzy, and with the now turned mugginess of the room, the shower gets turned off. Ilya’s external appearance feels clean and softened now, but his insides feel like a melted goop. Shane isn’t the only one feeling a tad dizzy, and so Ilya is sure that Shane’s nausea has also come back with a small bit of vengeance.
They both breathe through it, sliding open the glass door before stepping off to drip onto the bath mat at their feet. The room is chilling now, and Ilya hands Shane his own towel before drying off as well.
When they are once again (partially) dressed, they step back out and into their bedroom. And they must have been in there for longer than originally thought, because somehow Yuna had the time to completely strip and remake their bed, with fresh sheets and everything. The ginger candies from earlier are strategically sat dead center of the bed, still unopened, and so Shane rips open the bag and pops one into his mouth, offering Ilya to do the same. Otherwise, Yuna hasn’t left a trace of anything else and is presumably downstairs plating up her soup.
Ilya blinks back the burning in his eyes, and gingerly sits down on the edge of the bed. She’s too good to me.
Meanwhile, Shane lets out a relaxed sigh, running his hand down the clean cotton—seemingly content for the first time all day.
Then there’s a knock at the door, and once Shane manages a squeaky come in, Yuna opens the door, carrying with her a tray with two bowls of soup, crackers, and two glasses of water. She makes her way over to the bed and gently sets it down before them. Then she flicks on one of the lamps so that they can actually see. They both wince but don’t complain.
“It’s a rice soup with veggies. I don’t expect you to eat all of it,” she nudges, “but you do have to eat something.”
Ilya reaches out first, scooping up the bowl as Shane alternates between sips of water and the now room temp ginger ale. He clearly looks displeased at the warmness of the drink, but doesn’t bother asking for a new one.
The soup looks…if Ilya were to be honest, a little bit like vomit. But it smells good, at least. He tries a spoonful, and gives an appreciative hum at the taste. “Is good,” he murmurs, already bringing another spoonful up to his mouth. Beside him Shane snacks on the saltines, only eventually having a bit of the soup himself.
“It was her go-to thing to make me whenever I was sick as a kid,” Shane nods, pausing to take another sip of water. Ilya mirrors him—he didn’t realize just how thirsty he was until right now.
“Mmm, I can see why,” Ilya hums, looking over to Yuna and giving her a thumbs up. She smiles while dismissively waving her hand.
“No, really.” Ilya swallows, taking another sip of water. “But I must say, I am stuffed.” He sheepishly smiles and sets the half-finished bowl back onto the tray. He figures he can go without mentioning that he might’ve overdone it with what little he did manage, and he hopes that neither of them can hear how his stomach bubbles.
After a few more minutes, Shane has had his fill, and then Yuna is taking the tray back downstairs and promising to refill their glasses. Being dehydrated only makes you feel ten times worse.
Ilya eases himself back with a groan, hand applying gentle pressure to his stomach while Shane observes.
“Over-do it?”
“Shut up.”
“If you’re gonna be sick, at least warn me first.”
Ilya rolls his eyes, and then sucks in a harsh breath at a surprise churn. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. A hot flash washes over his entire body from head to toe, a spike of panic unfurling in his chest. His face pales dramatically. Don’tpukedon’tpukedon’tpukedon’t—
A burp, and then Ilya is left scrambling for his bucket.
“Jesus—Ilya,” Shane swears before covering his ears, looking anywhere but to the right of him. His mom comes back upstairs then, and his eyes follow her until the corner of his vision as she presumably pats his husband's back. Shane figures that he should probably be the one doing that, but he would very much like to keep his dinner right where it is for the time being, thank you.
Once Ilya's stomach has been practically scraped cleaned and the heaves have tapered off, he collapses back against the bed with a slight groan and another mumbled apology to Yuna. Beside him, Shane still has his fingers in his ears, and so Ilya reaches a hand out to lightly squeeze at his side. “S’over,” he croaks. Though Yuna waits a few seconds to see that through before leaving to rinse out the bucket.
Shane releases a breath, and looks over to him with pinched brows. “I told you to warn me.”
Ilya almost laughs, then grimaces. “The burp was not enough?”
“No,” Shane weakly argues. He leans back beside his husband, sighing at the bloodshot look in his eyes. The blue looks muddied and dull. “You look awful.”
Ilya weakly pushes him back with a hand to the chest. “You look like shit.”
“At least I didn’t—”
“Enough,” Yuna announces, coming back into the room and setting the bucket back down. “You both look like shit.” She scans her eyes over both of them. “How about we get some more meds into you two, and then you can try and sleep the rest of this off.”
Shane grunts, and Ilya shrugs his shoulders. Yuna lets out an exasperated sigh but grabs the Tylenol bottle from where she left it on the nightstand earlier. The pills rattle as she opens it, and then she's depositing off two each once again. Ilya takes them with a bit more ease than he did earlier, and slumps back against the pillows with drooped eyes. Shane does the same.
“I’ll go clean up downstairs and then I’ll be out of your hair.” Yuna leans in to pull the covers up their bodies, and in a way, tucks them in. “At least text me in the morning so that I know you didn’t die in your sleep, okay?” She looks from Shane to Ilya. “Or I will come back to make sure myself.”
Shane gives a tired smile, finger fidgeting with the duvet seam as he nods. “Got it.”
Ilya pitifully groans, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards as he watches Yuna tidy up their bedsides. “But you are so good at holding my hair back,” he murmurs. “Please come back in morning.”
Yuna laughs, unable to help herself as she brushes back Ilya's still slightly damp hair. “I can do that,” she smiles before looking at Shane. He nods, his blinks becoming heavier by the second. “Just don’t come super early,” he yawns.
“Obviously. You two need your beauty sleep.”
Shane exhales a laugh through his nose while Ilya chuckles hoarsely. Yuna leans in to give them each a quick peck on the forehead, and then she's turning off the lights and saying her goodnights before heading back downstairs.
Ilya lets out a sigh at the now quiet dark of the room. And he’s just about to fully recline when Shane mutters something about brushing teeth.
They both begrudgingly get up and head into the bathroom, lazy on their feet as they brush their teeth side-by-side in the dark. They then hurry to get back into bed, their respective spots still warm as they meld together in the middle. This time Ilya lays on his back, and Shane rests with his head on his chest.
They drift off tangled together, and they’ll stay that way until one of them will inevitably wake to be sick.
It’s a vicious cycle after all, and the virus has yet to run its course.