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Shane couldn’t keep his eyes open for very long. He was very bruised, his arm hurt, and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights above him was starting to raise homicidal thoughts. He was floating on pain meds and love, still dopey after Ilya had stopped in to check on him. Now, though, he was supposed to go home. They needed his bed, and he hated hospitals anyways, free jello be damned. The issue was the fact that he definitely couldn’t drive, and staring at his phone to text felt like sticking his head in a metal bowl and banging on it with a wooden spoon. He’d managed to send his location to one of his top contacts, but his head was pounding too much to know who he’d sent it to. He dragged himself outside, moving to sit on the curb outside the hospital, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to ignore the clamor of the parking lot. All he could hope was that he wouldn’t be kidnapped.
About 15 minutes later, someone helped him into the passenger seat of a car.
“Don’t kill me,” he muttered weakly, eyes still squeezed shut.
“I’ll try not to,” they muttered, closing the door without slamming it. Inside the car, it wasn’t too hot or too cold, and the speakers crooned soft French music.
“I have headphones, if you need,” the driver said, climbing back into the car. He blinked. Ilya, with big dark glasses, and a toque covering all his curls. His jaw was clenched tight, and his fingers drummed the steering wheel.
“Why are you here?” Shane croaked, still barely managing to keep his eyes open.
“You sent me your location. I’m assuming you don’t have anyone else coming to get you?” He shook his head, bringing a hand up to cover his eyes, and leaning forward over his knees. Ilya softened, and reached into the back seat of the car. A thick jacket and noise cancelling headphones were held out. “The jacket is for the light,” he said softly, almost anxiously. “I didn’t know what you might need.” Shane couldn’t manage a response beyond a nod, and pulling the headphones over his ears. The jacket blocked all the light, making it worth the loss of neutral temperature. They didn’t hit any potholes as they drove, barely sped up, and didn’t take any sharp turns. The pounding behind Shane’s skull was almost entirely gone by the time they reached Ilya’s house.
Instead of touching him, Ilya patted the dash of the car to get Shane’s attention. He had already gotten out of and rounded the car, prepared to help Shane get out.
“Hey,” he said softly. “We’re here.” It was not only the second time he’d ever been to Ilya’s house, it was the second time in the past few months. It wasn’t comfortable, per se, but it was recognizable. Most importantly, the bed he was led to smelt like Ilya. The older man tugged the blinds down, closed all the windows and doors, and shuffled anxiously in the corner. Shane was lying face down in his bed, on his bad arm, while breathing the scent of the man he loved. He could hear the older man wandering about, fixing things, and pressing buttons on the AC, while hovering near the edge of the bed.
“Do you want help to change?”
“I don’t have clothes,” he muttered, rolling to the side to look in Ilya’s general direction. He ended up staring at the mole on his neck, close enough to his face that it might be able to pass for eye contact. Either way, the other man turned to face his dresser, excusing him from what still felt like bad manners.
“Take mine.” Shane blinked, watching Ilya carefully select old, worn out clothes that would still be soft, before placing them on the bed.
“Do you need help?” He nodded weakly. It was an awkward shuffle, pulling off the temporary sling and holding his arm in place while shirts were switched out, and the equally awkward one-handed removal of his boxers, but eventually, he was in clean, soft clothes. Ilya went back to bustling around the house, getting him a can of ginger ale in case his fracture made him nauseous, water for when he needed to take meds, and a pot of brown rice on the stove in case he got hungry. ‘Bird food’ Hayden had called it, and yet, Ilya knew what he could eat of his own volition. Shane fell asleep on Ilya’s bed, somehow more in love than he had been before.
When he woke up, it was to Ilya gently tapping the nightstand, one lip caught between his teeth. He had a small bottle of pills and an orange gatorade in his hand.
“You need to take another,” he said softly, crouching down.
“And eat something. I stewed vegetables to go with your, ah, diet.” Shane’s head was pounding, and his heart was thumping like a jackhammer.
“How’d you know?” He croaked, carefully sitting himself up. The older man unscrewed the gatorade for him, and passed him two small pills.
“Know what?”
“How to handle me. With the lights, the headphones. My food.” Ilya looked unimpressed, watching as the younger man drowned his medication in orange electrolytes.
“I’m not handling shit, Hollander. I’m taking care of you. Now come, you need to eat something.” He grabbed ahold of Shane’s wrist, gently tugging until he stood. Ilya was in his space, broad and all consuming. Still, there was the buzz in the back of his brain that longed to hide under a blanket for the next 5 to 7 business days, somewhere dark and quiet so he could reset while he healed. There was a bigger, louder part of his brain that told him to grab Ilya and kiss him. The older man let out a soft hum of surprise, and pressed a hand to his lower back to bring him closer. His broken arm was cradled between their torsos, and Ilya’s hand was touching his elbow, holding it in place. Shane suddenly couldn’t tell if he preferred the older man when he was pinning him to a bed and refusing to give him alcohol, or when he was whispering and holding him softly so he didn’t overwhelm him. He drew away with one final peck, before smiling softly, and continuing to lead him towards the kitchen.
Ilya hovered behind him at the raised counter, sipping a beer and watching as the younger man picked through the bowl. His presence wasn’t intimidating, and didn’t feel like a hint to eat faster. If anything, it was like a solace.
“Is it not good?”
“Yeah, no, yeah, it’s good. Just. Eating is overwhelming.” He nodded slowly, leaning forward to press his chest against Shane’s back. He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of his head, and peered over his shoulder at the food. It wasn’t wholly appetizing, but neither were any sort of ‘biotic’ diets. They were meant to weigh energy levels, and gather protein, and whatever other bullshit his mother had spouted while throwing out all his favourite foods. He’d kill for a donut right about now, but his mother would likely kill him. He piled the rest of his food onto his fork, shoved it in his mouth and soaked it in cold water to make it easier to swallow. He choked on it slightly, but got it down with a proud hum from Ilya.
“Good, Hollander.” He slid the half empty bottle of gatorade along the counter to Shane’s hand, pressing yet another kiss to his head. Shane tipped the bottle back, flushing the taste of the rice and vegetables out of his mouth.
“Is my cooking that bad?” He shook his head weakly. “It’s not you, I’m just-”
“Overwhelmed?” He smiled, and nodded, again, weakly. “Well, it’s over, you finished it.” He took his dishes, and dumped them into the sink.
“Do you want to go back to bed? Or we could watch hockey reruns?” Shane stared up at him, once again overcome with the urge to kiss him. This time, the urge to hide was much smaller, and now, it was coupled with yet another: to hide with Ilya.
“Hockey sounds nice,” he said instead.
On the couch, the very couch he’d had a much-needed crisis, they settled together. Shane let his head rest on Ilya’s lap, while Ilya’s hands fell into Shane’s hair. It was still one of the first nights spent over at his house, overnight together at all. So of course it was imperfect, of course Shane was trying to keep from crying and Ilya was scared to breathe, of course there were broken bones and overstimulation, and shitty food. But it was oh so perfect with all of its cracks, because more than anything, that night was theirs.