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Shane knew something was wrong when Ilya didn't answer his phone.
They'd planned this carefully—a rare three-day stretch where both their schedules aligned, where Ilya would fly to Montreal after Ottawa's game against the Islanders and they'd have seventy-two uninterrupted hours together. Shane had already stocked the fridge with Ilya's preferred brand of Russian beer, bought the dark rye bread Ilya complained he couldn't find in Ottawa, and changed the sheets on his bed even though he'd just done it two days ago.
But Ilya's flight had landed forty minutes ago, and Shane had heard nothing.
He tried again, pacing his kitchen, listening to the phone ring and ring before going to voicemail. Ilya's voice, recorded and sarcastically clipped: "Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail."
"Hey, it's me," Shane said, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. "Just checking that you landed okay. Call me when you get this."
He hung up and stared at his phone. Ilya was many things—infuriating, stubborn, occasionally impossible—but he wasn't careless about this. About them. Not anymore. They'd fought too hard, risked too much, to be cavalier with their stolen time together.
Shane checked the flight status online. Landed on time at 10:47 PM. It was now 11:34.
His phone buzzed with a text.
Ilya: sorry. sick. still coming.
Shane's stomach dropped. He called immediately.
This time, Ilya answered on the third ring. "Hi."
His voice sounded wrong—rough and congested, stripped of its usual cockiness.
"You're sick?" Shane said. "How sick? Ilya, you don't have to—"
"Is just cold," Ilya interrupted, and Shane could hear him trying to inject his usual bravado into the words. It didn't work. "I come. Already in taxi."
"You should have told me. You should be in bed."
"In bed with you." Even sick, Ilya managed to make it sound suggestive, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the coughing fit that followed.
Shane winced, pressing the phone closer to his ear. The cough sounded wet and deep, like it was coming from Ilya's chest. "That sounds worse than a cold."
"Is fine. Be there soon." Ilya hung up before Shane could argue further.
Twenty-three minutes later, Shane heard the key in the lock—the key he'd given Ilya six months ago, after a long conversation about what it meant, what they were really doing here. Ilya had taken it without comment, but Shane had seen the way his throat worked, the careful neutrality of his expression that meant he was feeling too much.
Shane was already at the door when it opened.
Ilya looked like absolute shit.
His skin was pale beneath the remnants of his summer tan, a feverish flush high on his cheekbones. His eyes were glassy and red-rimmed, his hair damp with sweat despite the October chill. He'd clearly made an effort—he was wearing the dark jeans Shane particularly liked, a leather jacket over a thin black henley—but he was shivering, his duffel bag hanging limply from one hand.
"Oh, baby," Shane said softly, the endearment slipping out before he could stop it. They didn't usually do endearments. Too dangerous, too revealing. But Ilya looked so miserable that Shane couldn't help himself.
Ilya's expression did something complicated—surprise, vulnerability, something almost like relief—before he seemed to catch himself. He straightened slightly, attempting his usual swagger. "Is not so bad. I just need—"
He swayed.
Shane caught him, one arm around his waist, the other taking the duffel bag. "Jesus Christ, you're burning up."
"Maybe little bit fever," Ilya admitted, and the fact that he was admitting anything told Shane exactly how bad this was.
"Come on." Shane kicked the door shut behind them and guided Ilya toward the bedroom, acutely aware of how heavily Ilya was leaning on him. "Let's get you into bed."
"Usually you say that different way," Ilya mumbled, and Shane couldn't tell if he was attempting humor or if the fever was making him loopy.
"Usually you're not about to collapse," Shane countered, steering them down the hallway.
In the bedroom, Shane set the duffel bag down and turned to find Ilya swaying slightly, staring at the bed like he wasn't quite sure how to get there. His face had gone from flushed to alarmingly gray, and he was blinking slowly, like he was having trouble focusing.
"Okay," Shane said gently, moving back to his side. "Let's get this jacket off."
Ilya tried to help, fumbling with the zipper, but his hands were shaking too badly to grip it properly. Shane brushed them aside and unzipped the jacket himself, easing it off Ilya's shoulders. The henley underneath was damp with sweat, clinging to Ilya's chest and back.
"This too," Shane said, reaching for the hem.
For a moment, Ilya just stood there, arms at his sides, letting Shane undress him. It was oddly intimate—more intimate, somehow, than sex. Shane had seen Ilya naked hundreds of times, had mapped every inch of his body with hands and mouth, but this was different. This was Ilya completely unguarded, too sick to maintain his usual defenses.
Shane pulled the henley over Ilya's head carefully, trying not to jostle him too much. Ilya's skin was radiating heat, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. There was a sheen of sweat across his collarbones, his shoulders, the defined muscles of his abdomen.
"Pants too?" Ilya asked, his voice small.
"Can you manage it, or do you need help?"
Ilya's hands went to his belt, but they were trembling badly enough that Shane stepped in again, unfastening the belt and the button of his jeans with clinical efficiency. Ilya stepped out of them unsteadily, left in just his boxer briefs, and Shane had to resist the urge to check him over for other injuries, for any sign that this was more than just the flu.
"Sit down before you fall down," Shane instructed.
Ilya sat on the edge of the bed heavily, then flopped backward with a groan that seemed to come from his bones. "Everything hurts."
"I know." Shane grabbed the thermometer from the bathroom and came back to find Ilya curled on his side, knees drawn up, shivering despite the sweat cooling on his skin. "Let me take your temperature."
"Is bad idea," Ilya mumbled into the pillow. "Will be high number. You will worry."
"I'm already worried. Open."
Ilya rolled onto his back with obvious effort and opened his mouth obediently, letting Shane slip the thermometer under his tongue. While they waited for it to beep, Shane took in the full picture: Ilya's glazed eyes, the way he kept swallowing like his throat hurt, the sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the chills wracking his body. His lips were dry and cracked, his breathing shallow and quick.
The thermometer beeped. Shane pulled it out and looked at the display.
102.4°F.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Is bad number?" Ilya's eyes had drifted shut.
"It's not great." Shane set the thermometer aside and pressed the back of his hand to Ilya's forehead, confirming what he already knew. The heat was alarming, radiating off Ilya's skin in waves. "When did this start?"
"Yesterday. Morning." Ilya's words were starting to slur. "Thought was just tired from game. Then got worse. Got worse on plane. Everything started spinning."
"And you still got on a plane."
"Want to see you."
The simple honesty of it hit Shane squarely in the chest. Ilya, who guarded his emotions like state secrets, who deflected and joked and hid behind bravado—admitting that he'd dragged himself onto a plane with a 102-degree fever because he wanted to see Shane.
"I'm going to get you some water and Tylenol," Shane said, his voice rougher than he intended. "Don't move."
"Not going anywhere," Ilya mumbled. "Too tired. Bed is nice. Smells like you."
Shane felt something warm and painful expand in his chest. He headed to the kitchen, filled a glass with cold water and found the Tylenol in the cabinet above the sink. His hands were steadier than he felt. He'd seen Ilya injured before—had held ice to a split lip after a fight, had helped him limp off the ice after a bad hit—but this felt different. More vulnerable, somehow. More real.
When he came back, Ilya had managed to burrow under the duvet despite still wearing his underwear, only his face visible above the covers. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and quick. Small sounds were escaping him—not quite whimpers, but close. Little catches of breath that suggested discomfort.
"Ilya. Come on, you need to take these." Shane sat on the edge of the bed and touched Ilya's shoulder gently.
Ilya's eyes fluttered open, unfocused. "Mm?"
"Medicine. Sit up a little."
It took some maneuvering, but Shane got him propped up against the pillows. Ilya's head lolled slightly, like it was too heavy for his neck, and Shane had to steady him with a hand on his back. He pressed two Tylenol into Ilya's palm.
Ilya stared at them for a moment like he wasn't quite sure what they were, then dry-swallowed them both.
"Water," Shane said, holding out the glass.
Ilya drank obediently, his hand coming up to steady the glass along with Shane's. He managed about half before pulling back with a grimace and a pained sound.
"Throat hurts," he rasped unnecessarily.
"I know. The Tylenol should help." Shane set the glass on the nightstand and stood. "I'm going to—"
Ilya's hand shot out and caught his wrist. His grip was weak but insistent. "Don't go."
Shane looked down at him, at the unusual openness in Ilya's expression, the unguarded need. "I'm just getting a washcloth. You're really warm."
"Then stay warm with me." Ilya tugged weakly at Shane's wrist. "Come to bed."
"I haven't brushed my teeth yet. I'm still wearing jeans."
"Don't care." Another tug, more insistent. "Please."
Shane had never heard Ilya say please quite like that—without irony, without seduction, just simple want. It did something to him, made his chest feel too tight and too full at the same time.
"Okay," he said softly. "Let me just change. Two minutes."
Ilya released his wrist reluctantly, watching through half-lidded eyes as Shane changed into sleep pants and a t-shirt, brushed his teeth in record time, and returned to the bedroom. He'd barely climbed into bed before Ilya was moving, pressing close with a full-body shiver.
"You're freezing," Shane said, even though Ilya was anything but.
"Am cold," Ilya insisted, contradicting the evidence of his fever-hot skin. He plastered himself against Shane's side, one arm sliding around Shane's waist, his face pressing into the curve of Shane's neck. His skin was burning where it touched Shane's, damp with sweat. "You're warm."
This was unprecedented. Ilya was never clingy. He liked his space after sex, would sprawl dramatically across whatever bed they were sharing, one arm thrown over his eyes, perfectly content in his own skin. He'd curl close sometimes in the early morning, still half-asleep, but it was always casual, easily abandoned when full consciousness returned.
This was different. This was Ilya burrowing into Shane like he was trying to climb inside his skin, one leg hooking over Shane's, his breath hot and congested against Shane's throat.
"Is this okay?" Ilya mumbled, even as he tightened his grip.
Shane wrapped both arms around him, one hand settling at the small of Ilya's back, the other sliding into his hair. Ilya's hair was damp, almost wet, with sweat. "Yeah. This is okay."
Ilya made a sound that might have been relief or might have been the fever talking, pressing impossibly closer. He was radiating heat, his skin slick with sweat, his body trembling with chills he couldn't control. Shane could feel his heart racing, the quick thud-thud-thud against his own chest. Could feel every exhale, hot and congested against his collarbone.
"Try to sleep," Shane said quietly, his fingers carding through Ilya's damp hair.
"Mm. Okay." But Ilya didn't relax. If anything, he held on tighter, like he was afraid Shane might disappear. His fingers curled into Shane's shirt, gripping the fabric.
Shane lay there in the dark, one hand stroking slow circles on Ilya's back, and tried to reconcile this version of his boyfriend with the one he knew. Ilya, who gave press conferences dripping with arrogance. Ilya, who picked fights with rival players just because he could. Ilya, who'd once told Shane, early on, that he didn't do feelings, didn't do soft—just sex and competition and the occasional shared cigarette afterward.
And yet here he was, clinging to Shane like a child with a nightmare, his defenses completely stripped away by illness.
"Shane?" Ilya's voice was small and scratchy.
"Yeah?"
"Your hand. Keep doing that."
Shane realized he'd stopped the gentle circles on Ilya's back. He started again, and felt Ilya's entire body sag with relief, going heavier against him.
"Feels good," Ilya mumbled. "You always make things feel good."
"Even when you're delirious with fever?"
"Especially then." Ilya's laugh turned into a wet cough that wracked his whole body. Shane held him through it, feeling the sharp angles of Ilya's shoulder blades, the stuttering rise and fall of his ribs. The cough sounded horrible—deep and rattling, like something had settled in Ilya's lungs.
When the coughing subsided, Ilya stayed pressed against Shane's chest, breathing hard, each inhale whistling slightly. "Sorry," he whispered.
"For what?"
"For being sick. For ruining your weekend."
"You didn't ruin anything." Shane pressed his lips to the top of Ilya's head, tasting salt and fever-sweat. "I'd rather have you here sick than not have you here at all."
Ilya went very still. Then: "You would?"
"Of course I would."
"Oh." A pause. "That's good. Because I would rather be here sick than be home alone."
It was such a simple admission, but Shane knew what it cost Ilya to say it. Knew how hard Ilya worked to maintain his independence, his image as someone who didn't need anyone.
"You don't have to be alone," Shane said quietly. "Not anymore."
Ilya's response was muffled against Shane's chest, but it sounded like agreement. His breathing was starting to even out, the tremors in his body beginning to settle. Shane thought he might be drifting off, finally, and was careful to keep his movements slow and soothing.
But then Ilya spoke again, so quietly Shane almost missed it. "I feel like shit."
"I know, baby. I know."
There it was again—that endearment Shane couldn't seem to stop. But Ilya just sighed and burrowed closer, apparently too sick to mock him for it. His nose was running, leaving a damp spot on Shane's shirt that should have been gross but somehow wasn't.
They lay like that for a long time, Shane tracking the minutes by the changes in Ilya's breathing. The Tylenol must have been kicking in because Ilya's skin felt fractionally less like a furnace, though he was still far too hot. The shivering had mostly stopped, replaced by a heavy lassitude that had Ilya's weight pressing Shane deeper into the mattress.
Shane didn't mind. He'd stay here all night if that's what Ilya needed, would stay perfectly still if it helped him rest. His arm was already starting to go numb where Ilya's head rested on it, but he didn't dare move.
"Shane?" Ilya's voice was thick with approaching sleep.
"Mm?"
"Love you."
Shane's breath caught. They'd said it before—a handful of times, always in the dark, always in the safety of post-coital vulnerability. But never like this. Never so simple and unprompted, offered up like it was just a fact, like Ilya couldn't help but say it.
"I love you too," Shane whispered back.
Ilya made a soft, pleased sound and finally—finally—went slack in Shane's arms, his breathing deepening into something that might actually be sleep. It was congested and uneven, occasionally interrupted by a cough or a sniff, but it was sleep.
Shane lay awake a while longer, listening to the congested rattle of Ilya's breathing, feeling the too-hot weight of him, memorizing this moment. This unguarded, undefended version of Ilya that illness had revealed. He knew it wouldn't last—that by tomorrow, or the day after, when the fever broke and Ilya started feeling human again, the walls would go back up. The swagger would return. Ilya would make some joke about being pathetic, would deflect and dodge until this vulnerability was safely buried again.
But for now, Shane had this: Ilya soft and needy in his arms, admitting without words that he trusted Shane to take care of him. That he wanted to be taken care of.
Shane tightened his arms around Ilya's sleeping form and pressed another kiss to his forehead, feeling the heat of fever against his lips.
He'd take it.
Shane woke to the sound of retching.
He bolted upright, momentarily disoriented in the pre-dawn darkness, before his brain caught up. Ilya. Sick.
The bathroom light was on, the door half-open. Shane could hear Ilya coughing, then the unmistakable sound of vomiting—a wet, horrible heaving that made Shane's stomach clench in sympathy. He threw back the covers and headed for the bathroom, his heart rate already elevated.
Ilya was on his knees in front of the toilet, one hand braced on the seat, his whole body heaving. His skin had taken on a grayish cast, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. As Shane watched, he retched again, bringing up what looked like mostly water and bile, the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles.
"Fuck," Ilya gasped between heaves, his voice raw. "Fuck fuck fuck—"
Shane crouched beside him, one hand on his back. He could feel Ilya's muscles contracting under his palm, his whole body working to expel what little was in his stomach. "It's okay. I've got you."
"Don't—" Ilya started, but another wave of nausea cut him off. He vomited again, the sound wet and miserable in the small bathroom. His knuckles were white where he gripped the toilet seat, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up.
Shane had seen plenty of people throw up—you didn't play professional hockey without witnessing your share of post-game nausea and locker room illness. But something about this felt more visceral, more intimate. Maybe because it was Ilya, who prided himself on always being in control, now losing that control in the most basic way.
When the heaving finally subsided, Ilya slumped back on his heels, breathing hard. His face was blotchy, tears tracking down his cheeks from the force of vomiting. A string of saliva hung from his bottom lip. He looked young and miserable and completely wrecked.
"Sorry," he croaked, not looking at Shane. "Woke you."
"Don't apologize." Shane grabbed a washcloth from the towel rack, ran it under cold water, and pressed it to the back of Ilya's neck. Ilya shuddered at the contact but didn't pull away. "How long have you been in here?"
"Few minutes. Felt sick, tried to make it—" He gestured vaguely at the toilet. "Made it."
"Good." Shane kept the washcloth in place with one hand and used the other to flush the toilet. "Think you're done?"
"Maybe. Don't know." Ilya's voice was shaking. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing. "Stomach hurts. Everything hurts."
"I know. Let's get you cleaned up."
Shane helped him stand slowly, steadying him when he swayed dangerously. Ilya was pale and clammy, his legs unsteady beneath him. Shane guided him to the sink, where Ilya braced his hands on the counter and stared at his reflection with obvious disgust.
"Look like death," he muttered.
"You look sick." Shane dampened the washcloth with fresh cold water and gently wiped Ilya's face—his forehead, his cheeks, around his mouth. Ilya closed his eyes and let Shane minister to him, swaying slightly on his feet.
"Need to brush teeth," Ilya said. "Mouth tastes like dead animal."
"Okay. Can you manage it?"
Ilya reached for his toothbrush with a shaking hand, squeezed toothpaste onto it with exaggerated concentration, and started brushing. Shane stayed close, ready to catch him if he started to go down. After about thirty seconds, Ilya spat into the sink and rinsed his mouth, then immediately gripped the counter again.
"Dizzy," he announced.
"Let's get you back to bed."
"What if I throw up again?"
"Then you throw up again. I'll get you a bucket." Shane wrapped an arm around Ilya's waist and helped him shuffle back to the bedroom. Ilya was leaning heavily on him, taking slow, careful steps like he wasn't sure his legs would hold.
Shane got him settled on the bed, propped up slightly with extra pillows—Ilya had whimpered when he tried to lie flat, clutching his stomach—and fetched the small trash can from the bathroom.
"If you feel sick again, use this," Shane said, setting it within easy reach. "Don't try to get up."
Ilya looked at the trash can with undisguised misery. "Is gross."
"Is practical." Shane sat on the edge of the bed and pressed his palm to Ilya's forehead. Still burning. Possibly hotter than before. "How's your stomach now?"
"Bad. Like—" Ilya made a rolling gesture with his hand. "Everything is moving. Like on boat in storm."
"The fever's probably not helping." Shane checked his phone. "It's been about five hours since the Tylenol. I can give you more in an hour."
"Hour is long time when you feel like dying."
Despite everything, Shane felt a smile tug at his mouth. "You're not dying."
"Feel like I am. Dramatic death. Very sad. You will cry at funeral."
"I'm not going to your funeral because you're not dying from the flu."
"But if I was dying," Ilya pressed, his eyes fever-bright and stubborn, "you would cry?"
"Yes, you absolute disaster, I would cry."
Ilya seemed satisfied with this answer. He shifted restlessly on the pillows, one hand pressing to his stomach. A thin sheen of sweat had already broken out on his forehead again. "Ugh. Hate this. Hate feeling like this."
"I know." Shane smoothed the hair back from Ilya's forehead. It was soaked with sweat, sticking up at odd angles. "Try to rest. I'll stay right here."
"Promise?"
The vulnerability in that single word made Shane's chest ache. "I promise."
Ilya's eyes drifted shut, but he didn't seem able to settle. He'd lie still for a few seconds, then shift positions, then shift again, clearly uncomfortable. His breathing was congested and labored, occasionally interrupted by harsh coughing fits that left him gasping and clutching his ribs. Each cough seemed to hurt, and Ilya would curl around himself protectively afterward.
Shane watched helplessly, wishing there was more he could do. He'd fought opponents twice his size on the ice, had thrown punches and taken hits that should have broken bones, but none of that prepared him for this—for the particular helplessness of watching someone he loved suffer from something he couldn't fight.
"Shane?" Ilya's eyes opened again, glassy and unfocused.
"Right here."
"Can you—" Ilya gestured vaguely. "Like before. When we were sleeping."
It took Shane a moment to understand. "You want me to hold you?"
A tiny nod.
Shane stretched out on the bed beside him, careful not to jostle him too much, and pulled Ilya against his chest. Ilya came willingly, tucking his face into the curve of Shane's neck with a shaky exhale. His skin was burning against Shane's, his body trembling.
"Better," he mumbled.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You're good at this."
"At what?"
"Taking care." Ilya's words were starting to slur again. His hand found Shane's shirt and gripped it weakly. "Always so good. So patient. Even when I'm being asshole."
"You're not being an asshole right now."
"Give me time. Fever will break, asshole will return." But there was no heat in it. Ilya sounded exhausted, wrung out.
Shane huffed a quiet laugh and pressed a kiss to Ilya's temple, tasting salt and sickness. "I look forward to it."
They lay there in the growing dawn light, Shane holding Ilya through the restless discomfort of fever, his hand moving in slow circles on Ilya's back. At some point, Ilya's breathing evened out slightly, though Shane could hear the congestion in his lungs, the slight wheeze on every exhale. It didn't sound good.
Shane made a mental note to check Ilya's temperature again as soon as the hour was up. If it had climbed higher, if this got worse, he was calling a doctor whether Ilya liked it or not.
For now, he just held him and waited for morning.
Morning brought no relief.
By 8 AM, Ilya's fever had climbed to 103.1, and Shane was seriously considering calling a doctor.
"No doctor," Ilya mumbled from his nest of pillows, where he'd been drifting in and out of feverish sleep for the past hour. His eyes were half-lidded, his skin flushed and damp. "Is just flu. Just need to sleep."
"Just flu doesn't usually come with a fever this high."
"I have strong constitution. Russian constitution. Will survive."
"Your Russian constitution is currently trying to cook your brain."
Ilya cracked one eye open. "Is not cooking. Is only... lightly sautéing."
Despite his worry, Shane had to smile. Even delirious with fever, Ilya couldn't resist being a smartass.
"I'm going to get you some ice water," Shane said, standing. "And maybe a cold compress."
"And crackers?"
"You think you can keep crackers down?"
Ilya considered this with the gravity of someone pondering a complex philosophical question. His brow furrowed. "Maybe. Stomach is less angry now. Still angry, but less."
"Okay. I'll bring crackers."
In the kitchen, Shane filled a glass with ice water and grabbed the sleeve of saltines from the pantry. He was rummaging in the freezer for an ice pack when his phone buzzed on the counter.
Hayden: dude are you alive? you never miss sunday morning skate
Shane had completely forgotten about their standing tradition—he and Hayden hitting the public rink on Sunday mornings when they were both in town.
Shane: Sorry. Ilya's sick, I'm staying with him
There was a long pause. Then:
Hayden: how sick?
Shane: Flu. High fever, can't keep anything down
Hayden: shit man that sucks. tell him i hope he feels better
Hayden: also you're such a good boyfriend it's disgusting
Shane felt himself flush, even though Hayden couldn't see him.
Shane: Shut up
Hayden: i'm serious. he's lucky to have you
Shane: I'm lucky to have him too
Hayden: ugh GROSS
Hayden: but also yeah. you guys are good together
Shane stared at the message for a moment, feeling that familiar swell of gratitude mixed with disbelief. That he got to have this—Ilya in his bed, even sick and miserable. Friends who knew and accepted them. A life where he didn't have to hide the most important parts of himself.
Shane: Thanks H
Hayden: go take care of your man. i'll kick your ass at skate next week
Shane pocketed his phone and headed back to the bedroom with his supplies. Ilya hadn't moved, but his eyes tracked Shane's movement across the room with unusual focus.
"Who texting?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Hayden. I was supposed to meet him for skate this morning."
Something complicated crossed Ilya's face—guilt, maybe, or regret. "You should go."
"I'm not leaving you like this."
"I'm fine. Just sleeping."
"You're not fine. You have a 103-degree fever and you threw up an hour ago." Shane sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the cold compress to Ilya's forehead. Ilya's eyes fluttered closed immediately, a small sound of relief escaping him. "I'm staying."
"Mm. That's good."
"The compress or me staying?"
"Both." Ilya's hand came up to cover Shane's, holding the compress in place. His fingers were clammy and weak. "You have nice hands. Did I ever tell you that?"
"You might have mentioned it. Usually in different context."
"Mm. Different context is nice too. But this context is also nice. Your hands are cool. Everything else is so hot."
Shane smiled despite himself. The fever was definitely making Ilya loopy. "Here, try to drink something."
He held the glass to Ilya's lips, and Ilya managed a few small sips before turning his head away.
"Enough," he mumbled. "Stomach is complaining."
"Okay." Shane set the glass aside. "Want to try a cracker?"
Ilya's face did something complicated. "Maybe one. Very small piece."
Shane broke off a corner of a saltine, barely bigger than his thumbnail, and held it out. Ilya took it between his lips like it was medicine, chewing slowly and deliberately. Shane watched him swallow, saw the effort it took, the way Ilya's throat worked.
"Good?" Shane asked.
"Not bad. Not good. Just... is." Ilya's eyes had drifted shut again. "Everything tastes weird. Mouth tastes like metal and sad."
"Like sad?"
"Yes. Is taste of sadness. You don't know this taste?"
"I can't say that I do."
"Lucky you." Ilya shifted restlessly, the compress sliding off his forehead. Shane caught it and repositioned it. "Thank you. For staying. For doing all this."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I do though." Ilya's hand found Shane's and held on weakly. "You could be playing hockey with Hayden. You could be doing fun things. Instead you're here with gross sick boyfriend."
"You're not gross."
Ilya opened one eye and looked at him skeptically. "I am covered in sweat. I threw up. I probably smell bad. I am definitely gross."
"Okay, you're a little gross," Shane admitted. "But you're my gross boyfriend, and I love you even when you're gross."
"That's very romantic. You should write poetry."
"I should not write poetry."
"'Ode to My Gross Boyfriend,'" Ilya continued, as if Shane hadn't spoken. "'He is sweaty and disgusting, but I love him anyway.'"
"That's terrible."
"Is beautiful. You are poet and don't even know it."
Shane laughed despite himself. "You're definitely delirious."
"Maybe." Ilya's good humor faded, his expression going serious. "But even delirious, I know I'm lucky. To have you. To have this."
Shane's throat felt tight. "I'm lucky too."
They fell quiet, Ilya's breathing growing heavier. Shane thought he might be drifting off again when Ilya spoke, his voice small.
"Shane? I think I'm going to throw up again."
Shane grabbed the trash can and held it in front of Ilya just as he lurched forward. This time there was even less to bring up—just bile and that tiny piece of cracker, but Ilya heaved and heaved, his whole body convulsing with the effort. Shane held the trash can steady with one hand and rubbed Ilya's back with the other, murmuring soft reassurances.
When it was over, Ilya collapsed back against the pillows, tears streaming down his face, his breathing ragged.
"I hate this," he whispered. "Hate being sick. Hate being weak."
"You're not weak. You're sick. There's a difference."
"Feels weak." Ilya wiped at his face with the back of his hand. "Feels like I can't do anything. Can't even keep down one tiny cracker."
"Hey." Shane set the trash can aside and cupped Ilya's face gently, making him look up. "Listen to me. You flew here on a plane with a high fever because you wanted to see me. You're still fighting this thing even though you feel like shit. That's not weak. That's stubborn and stupid, maybe, but not weak."
Ilya's mouth twitched. "Stubborn and stupid is kind of my brand."
"Exactly." Shane brushed his thumb across Ilya's cheekbone, catching a tear. "Now let me get you some water to rinse your mouth out, and then you're going to try to sleep."
"Bossy boyfriend is also kind of hot."
"You're too sick to think anything is hot right now."
"Never too sick for that." But Ilya's eyes were already drifting closed again, exhaustion pulling him under.
Shane cleaned out the trash can in the bathroom, brought Ilya water to rinse with, and then settled back on the bed. Within seconds, Ilya had migrated toward him, pressing his fever-hot face against Shane's side with a sigh.
"Okay?" Shane asked.
"Mm. Better when I'm touching you."
And Shane couldn't argue with that, so he didn't try.
The afternoon was worse.
Ilya's fever spiked to 103.7, and with it came the fever dreams.
Shane first noticed something was wrong when Ilya started mumbling in Russian, his eyes open but unfocused, staring at something Shane couldn't see. His hands were plucking at the sheets, his movements agitated.
"Ilya? Hey, can you hear me?" Shane touched his shoulder gently.
Ilya flinched away, still speaking in rapid Russian. Shane caught a few words he recognized—nyet, otets (father), something that might have been hockey—but most of it was too fast, too slurred to follow.
"Ilya, baby, you're okay. You're in Montreal, in my apartment. You're safe."
Ilya's eyes swung toward him, but they didn't quite focus. "Shane?"
"Yeah, it's me. I'm right here."
"We have to—" Ilya struggled to sit up, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. "Game. We have game. Can't be late."
"There's no game. You're sick, remember?" Shane tried to ease him back down, but Ilya fought him, surprisingly strong even in his weakened state.
"No, no, you don't understand." Ilya's voice was rising, panicked. "Father is watching. Have to play well. Have to—" He broke off, coughing hard enough that his whole body shook.
Shane's heart clenched. He'd heard stories about Ilya's father, about the pressure, the impossible expectations. He'd seen the scars that relationship had left, even if Ilya rarely talked about it directly.
"Your father's not here," Shane said softly, firmly. "It's just us. You're safe."
"Safe," Ilya repeated, like he was testing the word. His eyes finally found Shane's face, and some of the panic receded. "Shane. You're here."
"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
"I promise. Now lie down before you fall down."
This time Ilya let Shane guide him back to the pillows. His skin was burning, the heat coming off him in waves. Shane grabbed the thermometer and checked again: 103.7. Too high. Definitely too high.
"I'm calling the doctor," Shane announced, reaching for his phone.
"No—" Ilya caught his wrist. "Please. Just need to sleep. Will be better."
"Ilya—"
"Please." Ilya's eyes were clearer now, focused on Shane with desperate intensity. "No doctor. I just need... need you here. Need to sleep."
Shane wavered. He hated this, hated feeling helpless. But Ilya was looking at him with such raw need that he couldn't deny him.
"Okay," he said finally. "But if it goes any higher, or if you start hallucinating again, I'm calling. Non-negotiable."
"Okay. Fair." Ilya's grip on Shane's wrist loosened, his hand sliding down to lace their fingers together. "Don't let go?"
"I won't let go."
Shane settled beside him, their hands clasped between them. He used his free hand to press a fresh cold compress to Ilya's forehead, to stroke through his sweat-damp hair. Ilya's eyes drifted shut, but his grip on Shane's hand remained firm.
"Tell me something," Ilya mumbled. "Something good. So I can think about good things instead of bad things."
"What kind of good things?"
"Anything. Your voice is nice. Like listening to your voice."
Shane thought for a moment. "When I was a kid, maybe seven or eight, my dad built this rink in our backyard. Nothing fancy, just flooded grass and some boards, but to me it was perfect. I'd go out there every day after school, even when it was so cold my fingers went numb."
"Mm. Baby Shane on his backyard rink. Is cute."
"One day I was out there practicing—I was trying to perfect this wrap-around move I'd seen on TV—and I fell. Hit my head on the ice pretty hard. I just laid there for a minute, seeing stars, and then my mom came running out. She'd been watching from the window."
"Was you hurt?"
"Just my pride. But my mom, she sat down right there on the ice with me in her lap, didn't even care that she was getting wet and cold, and she held me until I stopped crying. And then you know what she said?"
"What?"
"She said, 'The ice doesn't care if you're the best player or the worst player. It only cares that you keep getting back up.' And then she helped me to my feet and watched while I did the move again. Perfectly, that time."
Ilya made a soft sound. "Your mom is good person."
"She is. She'd like you, you know. She already does, but she'd like you even more if she saw you like this."
"Like this? Gross and sweaty?"
"Honest," Shane corrected gently. "Real. Not trying to be anything you're not."
Ilya was quiet for a long moment. "Is scary. Being like this with you."
"Why?"
"Because you see everything. All the weak parts. All the parts I usually hide."
"Those aren't weak parts. They're just... parts. Everyone has them."
"Not everyone shows them."
"No," Shane agreed. "Not everyone does. But I'm glad you're showing them to me."
Ilya's fevered eyes opened, finding Shane's face. "Even though I'm disaster right now?"
"Especially because you're a disaster right now." Shane squeezed his hand. "This is when you need someone the most. And I want to be that someone for you."
"You are," Ilya whispered. "You really are."
They stayed like that, hands clasped, Shane telling quiet stories about his childhood until Ilya's breathing evened out into something approximating sleep. It was restless and broken, interrupted by coughing fits and small sounds of discomfort, but it was sleep.
Shane kept the compress cool, kept his stories coming in a low murmur even after Ilya couldn't hear them anymore. He told Ilya about his first hockey trophy, about the time he broke his wrist and tried to hide it from his parents so he could keep playing, about the moment he realized he might actually be good enough to go pro.
And if his voice cracked sometimes, if he had to stop and clear his throat, well. Ilya was asleep. No one had to know.
Evening brought a turning point.
Shane had dozed off at some point, his head propped awkwardly against the headboard, still holding Ilya's hand. He woke to the sound of his name.
"Shane. Shane, wake up."
Ilya's voice sounded different. Clearer. More present.
Shane's eyes flew open. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I'm—" Ilya paused, taking stock. "I think fever is breaking."
Shane pressed his hand to Ilya's forehead and felt the difference immediately. Still warm, but not the terrifying furnace of before. "Thank god. How do you feel?"
"Like I was hit by truck," Ilya admitted. "But less like I'm dying. More like I might survive."
"That's progress." Shane couldn't help the relief that flooded through him. "Are you thirsty? Hungry?"
"Thirsty. Maybe." Ilya pushed himself up slowly, wincing. "Ugh. Everything aches."
"That's the fever. It'll take a while to go away completely." Shane helped him sit up, propping pillows behind him. "Let me get you some water."
But when he tried to extract his hand from Ilya's grip, Ilya held on.
"Wait. Before you go." Ilya was looking at him with an expression Shane couldn't quite read. "Was I... did I say things? When fever was high?"
"You had some fever dreams. Talked about your father, about hockey. Why?"
"Because I woke up a little while ago and you were telling me stories. About your childhood. About your mom." Ilya's thumb stroked over Shane's knuckles. "Was nice. Even in fever dream, was nice to hear your voice."
Shane felt his cheeks warm. "You asked me to tell you something good."
"Did I say anything embarrassing?"
"You called me beautiful."
"That's not embarrassing. Is just fact."
"You also said listening to my voice is nice."
"Also fact." Ilya was smiling now, soft and genuine. "You have very nice voice. Is one of first things I noticed about you. At World Juniors."
"My voice?"
"Everything, really. But voice especially. The way you talked to press, so polite, so careful. Made me want to make you lose control. Make you not so careful."
"You succeeded at that," Shane said dryly.
"I did, didn't I?" Ilya looked pleased. Then his expression sobered. "Shane. I need to say thank you. Really say it, not fever-thank-you. You didn't have to do all this."
"Of course I did."
"No. You didn't." Ilya held his gaze. "You could have put me in guest room. Could have let me deal with this alone. But you stayed. You held me. You—" His voice cracked slightly. "You took care of me even when I was disgusting mess."
"You weren't—"
"I was. I know I was. But you didn't care. You just... you were here." Ilya swallowed hard. "No one has ever done that for me before. Taken care of me like that."
Shane's chest felt too full. "Well, someone should have. And now someone will. I will."
"Promise?"
"I promise. Next time you get sick, next time you need someone, I'm here. Whether you want me or not."
"I will always want you." The words came out fierce, certain. "Even when I'm trying to pretend I don't, I want you. You know that, right?"
"I'm starting to," Shane said softly.
They looked at each other for a long moment, something unspoken passing between them. Then Ilya's stomach growled, loud enough to echo in the quiet room.
Shane laughed. "I guess that's my cue to get you some food."
"Maybe soup? Real soup this time?"
"I only have canned soup."
Ilya sighed dramatically, but he was smiling. "Fine. American soup. But you still owe me real soup."
"I'll make you all the soup you want once you're better."
"Is promise?"
"It's a promise."
Shane stood, but Ilya caught his wrist one more time.
"Shane?"
"Yeah?"
"Love you. In case fever-me didn't say it enough."
Shane bent down and kissed his forehead, his lips lingering on Ilya's too-warm skin. "Fever-you said it plenty. But I like hearing it from regular-you too."
"Good. Because I mean it."
"I know you do." Shane straightened. "Now let me go heat up some shitty American soup for my dramatic Russian boyfriend."
"Am not dramatic."
"You literally said you were dying about fifteen times today."
"Was fever-talking! Doesn't count!"
Shane was still laughing as he headed to the kitchen.
By the time Shane came back with soup, Ilya had managed to drag himself to the bathroom. Shane found him leaning against the sink, brushing his teeth with single-minded determination.
"Should you be up?" Shane set the soup on the nightstand.
"Needed to brush teeth," Ilya said around a mouthful of toothpaste. "Mouth tasted like something died in it."
"Fair enough. But if you pass out and crack your head open, I'm not going to feel bad about saying I told you so."
Ilya spat into the sink and rinsed his mouth. "Will not pass out. Am feeling much better."
He was lying. Shane could see it in the white-knuckled grip Ilya had on the sink, the way his legs were shaking. But Shane also understood the need to feel human again, to do normal things after being sick.
"Okay," Shane said. "But I'm standing right here in case your legs decide to quit on you."
"My legs are fine." To prove it, Ilya let go of the sink and immediately swayed.
Shane caught him around the waist. "Yeah, they look real fine."
"Is not my fault. Floor is moving."
"The floor is not moving."
"Is too. Is doing little dance."
Despite himself, Shane smiled. He guided Ilya back to bed, helped him settle against the pillows, and handed him the bowl of soup. "Think you can manage this, or do you need help?"
Ilya took the bowl with both hands, studying it like it was a complex puzzle. "I can do it."
He managed three spoonfuls before his hands started shaking too badly. Shane took the bowl from him without comment and picked up the spoon.
"Not a word," Ilya warned.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"I was thinking that you're stubborn and I love you."
"Oh." Ilya blinked. "That's okay then."
Shane fed him slowly, letting him set the pace, pausing whenever Ilya needed to rest. They made it through about half the bowl before Ilya waved him off.
"Enough. Stomach is saying maybe don't push luck."
"That's probably smart." Shane set the soup aside. "You did good."
"Did I?"
"You kept down half a bowl of soup. That's huge compared to this morning."
"Morning was disaster," Ilya agreed. He slid down in the bed, curling on his side. "Shane?"
"Yeah?"
"Will you—" Ilya gestured vaguely. "The holding thing. Can we do that again?"
"The holding thing?"
"You know. Where you hold me and I..." Ilya trailed off, his cheeks flushing. "Never mind. Is stupid."
"It's not stupid." Shane climbed into bed beside him. "Come here."
Ilya came willingly, tucking himself against Shane's chest with a sigh that sounded like relief. He was still too warm, his skin still damp with fever-sweat, but he was solid and real in Shane's arms.
"This is good," Ilya mumbled into Shane's shirt. "This is my favorite."
"Being sick and gross?"
"Being with you. Not having to pretend." Ilya's arm tightened around Shane's waist. "Can we just stay like this? For long time?"
"As long as you want."
"Forever?"
Shane felt his heart skip. "Are you asking me something?"
"Maybe. Maybe I'm just fever-talking again." But Ilya tilted his head up, meeting Shane's eyes. "Or maybe I'm saying that this weekend, even though I was disaster, even though I ruined all your plans—this was good. This was what I want."
"Being sick in my bed?"
"Being here. Being taken care of. Being allowed to need you without having to pretend I don't." Ilya's voice dropped to a whisper. "Being your person."
"You are my person," Shane said fiercely. "Fever or no fever. Gross or not gross. You're my person, and I'm yours."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Ilya smiled, soft and unguarded, and pressed his face back into Shane's chest. "Okay good. Because I think I'm falling asleep again and want to make sure you'll still be here when I wake up."
"I'll be right here."
"Love you."
"Love you too, disaster."
Ilya's laugh turned into a yawn. "Best disaster though."
"Best disaster," Shane agreed.
Within minutes, Ilya was asleep, his breathing deep and even for the first time since he'd arrived. The fever wasn't completely gone, but it had broken. The worst was over.
Shane lay there in the dimming evening light, holding Ilya close, and thought about everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. The fear when Ilya showed up barely able to stand. The tenderness of taking care of him. The vulnerability of seeing Ilya stripped of all his defenses, reduced to his most basic needs.
The way Ilya had let him in. Really let him in, for maybe the first time.
This wasn't how he'd planned to spend their three days together. There had been no sex, no going out, no doing any of the things they usually did when they managed to steal time together.
But somehow, this felt more intimate than any of that. More real. More like the future Shane had been too afraid to let himself want.
He pressed a kiss to the top of Ilya's head and whispered into his hair, "You can be sick in my bed anytime you want. Just maybe not this sick."
Ilya snored softly in response.
Shane smiled and closed his eyes.
Yeah. He could get used to this.