Archive of Our Own

Shane knew something was wrong the moment their foreheads touched.

It was their thing - had been since the early days when they were still figuring out how to be together, how to show affection without words. A quiet moment of connection, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air. Sometimes it was after sex, both of them boneless and sated. Sometimes it was before a big game, a wordless exchange of strength and reassurance. Sometimes it was just because, just them existing in the same space, grounding each other.

Tonight it was supposed to be goodnight. They were standing in the bathroom, Shane brushing his teeth while Ilya washed his face. Ilya had straightened, water still dripping from his chin, and leaned in with that familiar tilt of his head. Shane met him halfway, eyes closing as their foreheads pressed together.

And immediately pulled back.

"Jesus, Ilya."

Shane's hand came up to cup Ilya's cheek, and the heat radiating from his skin made Shane's breath catch. Ilya's eyes were glassy, unfocused in a way that had nothing to do with tiredness. Even in the bathroom's soft lighting, Shane could see the flush high on his cheekbones, the slight glaze of sweat on his temples.

"You're burning up."

Ilya blinked slowly, like he was processing Shane's words through a fog. "Am fine. Just warm from shower."

"You took your shower an hour ago."

"Long shower. Very hot water." Ilya tried to pull away, but Shane's hand stayed firm on his cheek. "Shane, is nothing. Let's go to bed."

"How long have you felt like this?"

"Like what?"

"Ilya."

Something in Shane's voice - the concern, the quiet insistence - made Ilya's shoulders drop. He leaned into Shane's palm, just a little, and closed his eyes. "Since this afternoon. Maybe. Is just tired. Long day."

They'd had an uncharacteristically lazy day, actually. Lounged around the apartment, watched a movie, ordered takeout. Nothing that should have exhausted Ilya to the point where he could barely keep his eyes open at nine-thirty at night.

"Come here." Shane guided him to the bed, one hand on the small of Ilya's back. Ilya went without protest, which was its own red flag. "Sit."

Ilya sat on the edge of the mattress, swaying slightly. Shane crouched in front of him, hands on Ilya's knees, studying his face. The flush had spread down Ilya's neck, and when Shane pressed the back of his hand to Ilya's forehead, he had to resist the urge to swear again.

"We need to check your temperature."

"Is fine. Is just—" Ilya cut himself off with a cough, wincing as it rattled in his chest. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher. "Is just small cold. Nothing to worry about."

Shane was already moving to the bathroom, digging through the medicine cabinet for the thermometer. When he came back, Ilya had curled onto his side on top of the covers, his eyes closed.

"Hey." Shane touched his shoulder gently. "Sit up for a second."

Ilya groaned but complied, propping himself up on one elbow. Shane slipped the thermometer under his tongue and waited, watching the seconds tick by on his watch. When it beeped, he pulled it out and looked at the display.

102.4°F.

"Okay," Shane said, keeping his voice calm even as worry twisted in his gut. "That's a fever. A pretty significant one."

"What is it?"

"102.4."

Ilya squinted at him. "In real temperature, please."

"That is a real temperature. Fahrenheit."

"Shane. Normal temperature."

Despite everything, Shane felt his mouth twitch. "39.1 Celsius."

"Oh." Ilya considered this. "Is not so bad."

"It's a fever, Ilya. You need to take something and get some rest."

"Is rest time now. Am resting. Very good at resting." To prove his point, Ilya collapsed back onto the mattress and pulled the covers up to his chin. Within seconds, he'd wrapped himself in the blanket like a burrito, cocooning so tightly that only his face was visible.

Shane stood there for a moment, watching Ilya's eyes flutter closed, his breathing already evening out into something that might have been sleep. He looked young like this, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed anyone to see. The fever flush made his features stand out sharper, more delicate.

Shane grabbed the Tylenol from the bathroom and a glass of water, then sat on the edge of the bed. "Ilya. You need to take these first."

"Mm. Later."

"Now."

"Shane, am trying to sleep. You are interrupting quality sleep time."

"You have a 39-degree fever. Take the pills."

Ilya cracked one eye open, glaring with significantly less heat than usual. "You are very bossy when I am sick."

"Someone has to be." Shane held out the pills. "Come on."

With a dramatic sigh that turned into another cough, Ilya struggled to free one arm from his blanket cocoon. He took the pills and the water, swallowed them down, then immediately wrapped himself back up.

"Happy now?" he mumbled, already half-asleep.

"Thrilled." Shane set the water glass on the nightstand and brushed Ilya's hair back from his forehead. The strands were damp with sweat. "Try to sleep. I'll check on you in a bit."

"Mm. You worry too much."

Shane pressed a kiss to Ilya's temple - hot enough to make him wince - and stood. "Probably."

Shane woke at 3am to the sound of labored breathing.

For a moment, he lay in the darkness, disoriented, trying to figure out what had pulled him from sleep. Then he felt it - the heat radiating from beside him, so intense it was like lying next to a furnace.

He rolled over and his heart nearly stopped.

Ilya was wrapped so tightly in blankets that Shane could barely see him. The comforter, the duvet, the throw blanket from the foot of the bed - all of it twisted around Ilya's body in layers so thick it looked suffocating. His face, what little Shane could see of it, was flushed dark red, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. His breathing came in short, harsh gasps, like he couldn't quite get enough air.

"Shit. Ilya. Ilya, wake up." Shane's hands went to the blankets, trying to find where they ended and Ilya began. "Come on, you need to—"

"Cold," Ilya mumbled, his voice thick and slurred with sleep. His eyes didn't open. "So cold, Shane."

"You're not cold, you're burning up. I need to get these off you."

But when Shane tried to pull the first layer of blanket away, Ilya's hands shot out, gripping the fabric with surprising strength. "No. Cold. Leave it."

"Ilya, you're drenched in sweat. You're going to overheat."

"Already cold. Can't be more cold." Ilya's teeth were chattering now, his whole body shaking under the mountain of blankets. "Need to be warm."

Shane's hands stilled. Ilya's eyes were still closed, his face scrunched in discomfort, and he was shivering so hard the whole bed was shaking. The fever was confusing his body's temperature regulation, making him feel freezing when he was actually dangerously hot.

"Okay," Shane said softly. "Okay, I know you're cold. But we need to cool you down a little, alright? I'm going to take some of these blankets off, but I'll stay with you. I promise."

"Don't want blankets off."

"I know. But we have to."

It took nearly ten minutes to untangle Ilya from the layers he'd wrapped himself in. Every time Shane removed a blanket, Ilya would whimper and reach for it, half-asleep and confused. Shane worked as gently as he could, murmuring reassurances, until finally Ilya was down to just a sheet and one light blanket.

The t-shirt Ilya wore was soaked through, clinging to his skin. Shane could see him shaking, his teeth chattering so hard it had to hurt.

"I'm going to change your shirt, okay? This one's wet."

Ilya made a sound that might have been agreement or protest—Shane couldn't tell. He worked quickly, peeling off the damp shirt and replacing it with a clean, dry one. Ilya's skin was blazing hot to the touch, and Shane could feel his heart racing when his hand brushed Ilya's chest.

"Cold," Ilya said again, curling into himself. "Shane, m'so cold."

"I know, baby. I know." The endearment slipped out without thought, and Shane didn't take it back. He grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom, dampened it with cool water, and pressed it gently to Ilya's forehead.

Ilya's eyes finally opened, glassy and unfocused. "What're you doing?"

"Trying to bring your fever down."

"Don't like it. Is cold."

"That's the point."

Ilya reached up with one trembling hand and pushed weakly at Shane's wrist. "Stop. Want to be warm."

"I'll warm you up, I promise. But we need to cool you down first."

Shane wiped the cloth over Ilya's face, his neck, behind his ears. Ilya shivered and whimpered, but he'd stopped fighting it. His hand had fallen back to the mattress, and his eyes were drifting closed again.

"Stay awake for me," Shane said quietly. "Just for a few more minutes."

"Tired."

"I know."

Shane checked the thermometer again. 103.2°F. Higher than before. He pressed his lips together and continued with the cool cloth, trying to keep the worry off his face.

After twenty minutes, Ilya's temperature had dropped to 102.6. Still high, but not as dangerous. The shivering had eased slightly, though Ilya still looked miserable, curled on his side with his knees pulled up to his chest.

"Okay," Shane said softly. "I'm going to cover you back up now. Just one blanket, alright?"

He pulled the blanket up to Ilya's shoulders, tucking it around him carefully. Ilya immediately burrowed into it, making a small sound of relief.

Then Shane climbed into bed behind him and wrapped his arms around Ilya's waist, pressing his chest against Ilya's back. Ilya was still hot to the touch, still trembling, but Shane held him close, trying to give him warmth without overheating him.

"Better?" he murmured into Ilya's hair.

"Mm." Ilya's hand found Shane's and gripped it weakly. "Yeah. Better."

"Try to sleep."

"Kay."

Shane stayed awake for a long time after Ilya's breathing evened out, his hand pressed against Ilya's chest to feel his heartbeat, his other arm wrapped protectively around him. The fever would break eventually. It had to. Until then, Shane would be right here, holding him through it.

By the next afternoon, Ilya had migrated to the couch.

It had taken him twenty minutes to make the journey from the bedroom, stopping twice to catch his breath and once to lean against the wall when a wave of dizziness hit. Shane had hovered the entire time, hands out and ready to catch him if he fell, until Ilya had snapped that he wasn't "made of glass, Hollander" and could walk ten feet by himself, thank you very much.

Now he was buried under blankets on the couch, the TV on but ignored, his eyes closed. He'd managed half a piece of toast for breakfast and a few sips of ginger ale. His fever was down to 101.2, which was an improvement, but he still looked like hell—pale except for the fever flush, dark circles under his eyes, his hair a mess.

Shane had been trying to work on his laptop at the kitchen table, answering emails and reviewing contract details, but he kept glancing over at the couch every few minutes to make sure Ilya was still breathing.

When Ilya's phone buzzed on the coffee table for the third time in ten minutes, Shane got up to silence it. He picked it up, intending to just turn on Do Not Disturb mode, but the screen was still unlocked from when Ilya had been scrolling through it earlier.

And Shane saw the Spotify notification.

"Currently playing: 'Guilty Pleasure Bangers'"

He stared at the screen. Then, unable to help himself, he tapped the notification.

The playlist that opened was... not what he'd expected. At all.

"Barbie Girl" by Aqua. "MMMBop" by Hanson. "I Want It That Way" by the Backstreet Boys. "...Baby One More Time" by Britney Spears. It kept going - song after song of late 90s and early 2000s pop, the kind of music that Ilya openly mocked whenever it came on the radio.

Shane felt his mouth curve into a grin. He looked over at the couch, where Ilya was still motionless under his blankets, oblivious.

"Hey, Ilya?"

"Mm."

"What's 'Guilty Pleasure Bangers'?"

Ilya's eyes shot open. He struggled to sit up, blankets falling away, his gaze zeroing in on the phone in Shane's hand. "What are you—give me that."

"Is this your playlist?" Shane was openly grinning now, scrolling through the songs. "Oh my god, you have the entire Spice Girls discography on here."

"Shane. Give phone back."

"'Wannabe'? 'Spice Up Your Life'? You listen to this?"

"Is for workout," Ilya said, his face flushing darker—though whether from fever or embarrassment, Shane couldn't tell. "Very motivating music."

"You work out to the Spice Girls."

"Is good beat. Good for running."

"Uh-huh." Shane scrolled further. "'I'm a Barbie Girl' is good for running?"

"Give me phone." Ilya tried to stand, made it halfway up, and promptly sat back down with a slight groan. He held out one hand, making grabbing motions. "Shane. Please."

"Hold on, I'm still looking." Shane took a step back, keeping the phone just out of reach. "Oh, this is gold. You have a whole section labeled 'Songs Shane Cannot Know About.'"

"Shane—"

"'Toxic' by Britney. 'Since U Been Gone' by Kelly Clarkson." Shane looked up, delighted. "You sing along to these, don't you?"

"No."

"You definitely do. I bet you know all the words."

Ilya made another weak grab for the phone, nearly falling off the couch in the process. Shane caught his arm, steadying him, but kept the phone held high.

"'My Heart Will Go On'?" Shane was trying not to laugh. "From Titanic? Really?"

"Is classic love song," Ilya muttered, giving up on trying to grab the phone and slumping back against the couch cushions. He looked exhausted, his breathing slightly labored from the minimal exertion. "Is beautiful. Celine Dion is vocal genius."

"I'm not arguing with that. I'm just trying to picture you listening to it."

"Well, don't. Give phone back and stop imagining things."

Shane scrolled a bit more, his grin widening. "You have a thirty-seven hour playlist of songs you're embarrassed about. That's dedication."

"Am not embarrassed. Just... is private music taste." Ilya's eyes were starting to droop again, his indignation fading into exhaustion. "Everyone has private music taste."

"I don't have a secret Spice Girls playlist."

"You should. Would improve your personality."

Shane laughed, and the sound made Ilya's mouth twitch despite his obvious misery. For a moment, they just looked at each other—Shane standing there with Ilya's phone, Ilya curled on the couch with blankets pooling around his waist, both of them grinning like idiots.

Then Ilya's expression shifted, going soft and slightly sad. "Give it back, please? Am too tired to fight you."

The guilt hit Shane immediately. Ilya was sick, feverish, barely able to sit up, and here Shane was teasing him about his music taste. He crossed to the couch and sat down beside Ilya, handing the phone back.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"Is fine." Ilya took the phone and set it on the coffee table, not even bothering to lock it. "You find out eventually anyway. Might as well be now when I'm too sick to care."

"I think it's cute."

Ilya made a face. "Is not cute. Is embarrassing."

"No, it's cute. You pretend to be all tough and cool, but secretly you're listening to Britney Spears and singing along in the shower."

"Don't sing along."

"You definitely sing along."

Ilya opened his mouth to argue, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he shifted slightly, making room on the couch. "Sit. If you're going to make fun of me, at least be comfortable while you do it."

Shane settled in beside him, and Ilya immediately leaned against his side, his head dropping onto Shane's shoulder. The heat from his fever radiated through both their shirts, but Shane didn't pull away. He wrapped an arm around Ilya's shoulders and pulled the blankets back up over both of them.

"Want me to put it on?" Shane asked quietly.

"The playlist?"

"Yeah."

Ilya was quiet for a moment. Then, so softly Shane almost missed it: "Okay."

Shane reached for the phone and started the playlist. The opening notes of "Wannabe" filled the living room, and they both laughed, but then Shane felt Ilya relax against him, a soft sigh escaping his lips he tried to conceal.

They sat like that for the next hour, Shane's arm around Ilya's shoulders, Ilya's weight warm and solid against his side. Ilya didn't sing along this time - he was too tired, too sick - but his breathing evened out, matching the rhythm of the music, and eventually he drifted off to sleep with Britney Spears crooning softly in the background.

Shane stayed awake, his hand moving in slow circles on Ilya's back, and decided that maybe guilty pleasure music wasn't so embarrassing after all.

On day three of the flu, Ilya woke up shivering so violently his teeth were chattering.

Shane had been in the kitchen making soup - actual homemade soup, from a recipe his mom had texted him, because apparently he was the kind of person who made homemade soup now. He heard the sound of Ilya's teeth chattering from the living room and immediately abandoned the pot to check on him.

Ilya was curled into a tight ball on the couch, the blankets twisted around him haphazardly. His face was pale, almost gray, and he was shaking so hard the whole couch was vibrating.

"Hey. Hey, what's going on?" Shane crouched beside him, pressing a hand to Ilya's forehead. Still warm, but not dangerously so. "Is your fever spiking again?"

"C-cold," Ilya managed through chattering teeth. "So c-cold, Shane."

"Okay. Okay, hold on."

Shane grabbed every blanket he could find - the throw from the armchair, the quilt from the bedroom, even the fuzzy one Ilya had bought as a joke because it had cats on it. He came back to the couch and started arranging them carefully around Ilya, layering them one by one.

But Ilya was still shivering, still curled so tight he looked like he was trying to fold in on himself.

"Here," Shane said, making a decision. "Sit up for a second."

"Can't. Too cold."

"I know, but I need you to sit up. Just for a minute."

With Shane's help, Ilya managed to sit upright, swaying slightly. Shane took the largest blanket - the down comforter from their bed - and wrapped it around Ilya's shoulders. Then he brought the sides around to the front, overlapping them across Ilya's chest.

"Arms in," he instructed.

"What are you—"

"Just put your arms in."

Ilya tucked his arms inside the blanket, and Shane continued wrapping, bringing the bottom up and tucking it around Ilya's legs, then the sides in again, until Ilya was completely enclosed in a cocoon of fabric. Just his head was visible, sticking out the top.

"There," Shane said, surveying his work. "Blanket burrito."

Ilya blinked at him. "I look ridiculous."

"You look warm."

"Can't move."

"That's the point. You're not supposed to move. You're supposed to get warm and rest."

Ilya tried to shift, testing the boundaries of his blanket prison, and found he was thoroughly trapped. "Shane. This is excessive."

"You were shivering so hard I thought you were going to vibrate off the couch."

"Was not that bad."

"It was exactly that bad." Shane helped Ilya lie back down, adjusting pillows so he wouldn't roll. "Better?"

Ilya was quiet for a moment, his eyes closing. The shivering had already started to ease, his body relaxing into the warmth. "...Maybe a little better."

"Good."

Shane started to stand, but Ilya's eyes opened again. "Where are you going?"

"Kitchen. The soup's going to burn."

"Stay." Ilya's voice was small, almost hesitant. "Please? Just for a minute?"

Shane's chest tightened. Ilya rarely asked for things directly, rarely admitted he needed anything. The fever, the exhaustion, the misery of being sick—it had stripped away his usual defenses, leaving him raw and vulnerable.

"Yeah," Shane said softly. "Yeah, okay."

He climbed onto the couch behind Ilya, fitting himself against Ilya's back. The blanket burrito made it awkward, but Shane managed to get his arms around Ilya's cocooned form, holding him close.

"This is weird," Ilya mumbled, but he pressed back against Shane anyway, seeking his warmth.

"You're wrapped in a blanket like a burrito. Everything about this is weird."

"Am cold burrito. Needs more heat."

Shane huffed a quiet laugh and held him tighter, pressing his chest against Ilya's back, his legs against Ilya's legs, trying to share as much body heat as possible. Ilya made a soft sound - relief or contentment, Shane wasn't sure - and the last of the tremors finally faded.

They stayed like that until the soup started to smell slightly scorched and Shane had to reluctantly extract himself. But when he came back with a bowl and a spoon, Ilya was still wrapped in his blanket burrito, fast asleep, a tiny smile on his face.

Shane took a picture. For later. Then he sat on the coffee table and ate the soup himself while watching Ilya sleep, warm and safe and ridiculous.

On day five, Shane remembered the tea.

It had been a throwaway comment, weeks ago, when they'd been lying in bed and talking about childhood memories. Ilya had mentioned his grandmother - his babushka - who used to make him tea when he was sick. A specific kind, with honey and lemon and something else Ilya couldn't quite remember the name of in English.

"Smell was very distinctive," Ilya had said, his voice soft with nostalgia. "Always make me feel better, even when I was very sick. Babushka would sit with me, make me drink whole cup, tell me stories until I fall asleep."

Shane had filed the information away, not thinking much of it at the time. But now, watching Ilya curled on the couch with a box of tissues and a glazed, feverish look in his eyes, he pulled out his phone and started researching.

It took three calls - one to his mom, one to a Russian grocery store in Brighton Beach, and one to a very patient woman who worked at a tea shop and happened to have a Ukrainian grandmother - before Shane figured out what he needed. Chamomile tea, fresh lemon, honey, and a small amount of dried lime blossom.

The ingredients arrived via express delivery the next morning. Shane waited until Ilya was napping, then set to work in the kitchen.

The first attempt was too bitter. He'd used too much lime blossom and not enough honey.

The second attempt was too sweet. He'd overcompensated.

The third attempt was too weak. Barely tasted like anything.

Shane was about to give up and just make regular tea when he decided to try one more time. He measured everything carefully, followed the instructions the tea shop woman had given him precisely, and let it steep for exactly four minutes.

When he finally tasted it, he knew he'd gotten it right. The flavor was delicate but distinct - floral and citrusy, with the honey rounding out the edges. It smelled exactly like Ilya had described: distinctive, comforting, like childhood and care and safety.

Shane poured it into a mug and carried it to the living room. Ilya was awake, propped up against the arm of the couch with the TV on mute. He looked slightly better than he had yesterday - the fever had finally broken this morning - but he was still pale, still weak, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

"Here," Shane said, holding out the mug.

Ilya looked at it without much interest. "What is it?"

"Tea."

"Shane, I have tea. Is cup of tea on table right here."

"This is different. Just try it."

With a sigh, Ilya took the mug. He brought it to his nose, inhaling - and froze.

His eyes went wide. He stared at the tea, then at Shane, then back at the tea. When he inhaled again, his breath hitched slightly.

"How did you..." He trailed off, his voice rough. "This is..."

"Is it right?" Shane asked, suddenly uncertain. "I tried to make it like you described. The woman at the tea shop said lime blossom is traditional, and I got the lemon fresh, and—"

"Shane." Ilya's eyes were glassy now, bright with unshed tears. "How did you know?"

"You told me. Weeks ago. About your babushka."

"You remembered."

"Yeah."

Ilya stared at him for a long moment, the mug cradled in both hands. Then he took a sip, his eyes fluttering closed. When he opened them again, there were tears on his lashes.

"Is perfect," he whispered. "Is exactly right. Is exactly like she used to make."

Shane's throat tightened. He sat down on the edge of the couch, close enough that their knees touched. "I'm glad."

Ilya took another sip, his hands trembling slightly. "You didn't have to do this."

"I wanted to."

"You try to make it before? More than once?"

"Three times before I got it right."

"Shane." Ilya set the mug down carefully on the coffee table, then reached for Shane, his hand finding Shane's and gripping tight. "Thank you. This is... you have no idea what this means."

"I think I do."

They sat like that, hands clasped, while the tea cooled slightly on the table. Ilya's eyes were still glassy, but he was smiling now, soft and genuine and completely unguarded.

"Babushka would like you," he said quietly. "She would say you are good man. That you take care of her Ilyusha properly."

Shane's chest felt too full, too tight. "I try."

"You do more than try." Ilya picked up the tea again and took another long sip. "This is best gift anyone has given me in long time. Is perfect."

"It's just tea."

"Is not just tea. Is..." Ilya trailed off, shaking his head. "I know you understand."

Shane did understand. He understood that sometimes the smallest gestures meant the most. That comfort could come in a cup of tea that smelled like childhood. That love was in the trying, the three failed attempts, the research and the phone calls and the determination to get it right.

"Drink your tea," he said softly. "Before it gets cold."

Ilya smiled and obeyed, and Shane stayed beside him until the mug was empty and Ilya was drowsing against his shoulder, finally peaceful, finally comfortable, finally home.

On day six, Ilya was feeling well enough to be annoying again.

"I am feeling like a sick puppy," he announced from his nest on the couch.

Shane looked up from his book. "What?"

"Sick puppy. You know. Very sad, very pathetic, needs sympathy."

"I think you mean you feel sick as a dog."

"No, sick puppy. Is what I said."

"That does not mean what you think it means.'"

Ilya frowned. "Are you sure? I am quite sure is sick puppy."

Shane set his book aside, trying not to smile. "You feel sick, yes. But the expression is 'sick as a dog,' or you could say 'like a kicked puppy.' Or maybe 'like a sad sack.' Not both."

"This makes no sense. Why would I feel like sad puppy? Am not sad. Am sick. Sick puppy is more logical."

"It's an idiom, Ilya. It's not supposed to be logical."

"English idioms are stupid," Ilya muttered, pulling his blanket tighter. "If I am sick, I say I am sick. Not sad or kicked."

"In English, you'd say you feel 'under the weather.'"

Ilya stared at him. "This is worse. How is being under weather relevant to being sick? Weather is above head, not on top of body."

"I don't make the rules."

"Clearly, because rules are terrible." Ilya coughed, then winced. "See? I am sick like puppy. Sick puppy who is under weather. This is how I feel."

Shane couldn't help it—he laughed. "Okay. You feel like a sick puppy who's under the weather."

"Finally, you agree."

"I didn't agree. I was humoring you."

"Is same thing."

An hour later, Ilya announced he was "feeling like death warmed up."

"Close," Shane said. "But it's 'death warmed over.'"

"Warmed up, warmed over—is same thing."

"It's really not."

"Shane, I am too sick to care about prepositions. Up, over, sideways—all means I feel terrible."

"Fair enough."

Another hour after that: "I am running on fumes."

Shane looked over. "That one's actually correct."

"Really?" Ilya looked pleased. "Finally, I get one right."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late. Am already celebrating victory." He paused. "By lying here feeling like sick puppy who is warmed up and running on fumes."

"That's a lot of idioms."

"Am very sick. Requires many idioms to properly express suffering."

By evening, Ilya had declared himself "right as rain" (wrong - it's "right as rain" only when you're better, not still sick), "fit as a fiddle" (also wrong for the same reason), and "at death's doorstep" (close, but it's "at death's door").

"I give up," Shane said finally. "Just tell me how you feel in Russian."

"In Russian, I feel like govno."

"Which means?"

"You don't want to know."

"Try me."

"It means shit. I feel like shit."

Shane laughed. "Well, at least that's accurate."

"See? Russian is better language. More honest."

"Your English is getting better, though."

"Is getting wronger, you mean. Every idiom I try, you correct." But Ilya was smiling, clearly not actually bothered. "Maybe I just make up own idioms. Feel like sick cat instead of sick puppy."

"That's worse."

"Feel like warmed-up weather?"

"Definitely worse."

"Feel like Shane's patience running on fumes?"

Shane threw a pillow at him. Ilya caught it with a laugh that turned into a cough, but he was still grinning when the coughing subsided.

"You're terrible," Shane said, but there was no heat in it.

"And you are very patient with my terrible English."

"Someone has to be."

"Lucky for me, that someone is you."

Shane crossed to the couch and sat beside him, pulling Ilya against his side. Ilya went willingly, his head dropping onto Shane's shoulder, his body relaxing into the familiar shape of Shane beside him.

"For the record," Shane said quietly, "you can mangle as many idioms as you want. I'll always know what you mean."

"Even when I say sick puppy?"

"Even then."

"Good," Ilya murmured, his eyes already drifting closed. "Because I am definitely still sick puppy. Very sick. Need much sympathy."

"You have all my sympathy."

"And your patience?"

"That too."

"And your love?"

Shane pressed a kiss to Ilya's forehead. "Especially that."

Ilya hummed, satisfied, and fell asleep against Shane's shoulder, finally comfortable, finally healing, finally home.

On day seven, Shane decided to bring Ilya flowers.

He'd been out getting groceries - actual groceries, because they'd been living on soup and toast for a week and the fridge was looking depressingly empty - when he passed a flower shop and had the thought: Ilya might like flowers.

It wasn't something they did. Flowers were for dates, for apologies, for grand romantic gestures. They'd been together for two years and Shane had never once bought Ilya flowers.

But Ilya had been sick for a week, miserable and exhausted, and Shane wanted to do something nice. Something to make him smile.

So he went into the shop and stared at the overwhelming array of options for ten minutes before finally just pointing at a bouquet of sunflowers and saying, "Those. I'll take those."

The florist had wrapped them beautifully, tied with a ribbon, and Shane had carried them home feeling ridiculous and nervous and determined all at once.

Now he was standing in their bedroom doorway, holding the sunflowers, watching Ilya sleep in their bed. They'd finally made it back to the bedroom this morning - Ilya had been feeling good enough to walk there without getting dizzy, which was progress. He was propped up against three pillows, his laptop open but ignored on his lap, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and even.

Shane cleared his throat. "Hey."

Ilya's eyes opened slowly. "Mm?"

"I, uh. Got you something."

"Groceries?"

"No. I mean, yes, I got groceries. But also something else." Shane stepped into the room, holding out the bouquet. "Here."

Ilya blinked at the flowers. Then at Shane. Then back at the flowers. "You bought me sunflowers."

"Yeah." Shane felt his face heating. "I thought you might like them. Since you've been stuck inside all week, and you like sunflowers, so I just—I thought—"

He was rambling. He needed to stop rambling.

Ilya was still staring at the flowers, his expression unreadable.

"If you don't like them, I can—"

"I love them," Ilya said quietly. He reached for the bouquet, his fingers brushing Shane's. "Is very sweet. You are very sweet."

"I just thought—" Shane started, then stopped as Ilya pulled the flowers closer to smell them.

And that's when disaster struck.

Shane wasn't sure exactly how it happened. One moment Ilya was holding the bouquet, the next he was setting it on the nightstand, and somehow—somehow—the vase tipped.

Water went everywhere. All over the nightstand, all over the floor, soaking into the papers Ilya had left stacked there, pooling on the hardwood.

"Shit!" Shane lunged forward, trying to catch the vase, but he was too late. It had already fallen, water spreading in every direction.

Ilya stared at the mess for a moment. Then he started laughing.

It wasn't a polite chuckle or a restrained giggle. It was real laughter, the kind that shook his whole body, the kind that made his eyes water and his shoulders shake. He laughed so hard he started coughing, which made him laugh harder, which made Shane panic.

"Are you okay? Do you need water? Should I—"

Ilya grabbed Shane's wrist and pulled, yanking him down onto the bed. Shane went sprawling across the mattress, half on top of Ilya, and Ilya wrapped his arms around him and kept laughing.

"Your face," Ilya gasped between laughs. "Shane, your face was so—you looked so—"

"I just spilled water all over our bedroom."

"You were trying to be romantic!" Ilya was grinning now, his whole face lit up with joy. "You buy me flowers, bring them to bedroom like romantic hero, and then immediately destroy them. Is perfect. Is most Shane thing ever."

"I didn't destroy them. Just the vase. And half the nightstand. And those papers."

"Those papers were junk mail. And vase was ugly. You did me favor." Ilya pulled Shane closer, until they were nose to nose, both of them half-sprawled across the bed. "Flowers are beautiful. You are ridiculous. I love you very much."

Shane's face was burning. "I was trying to do something nice."

"You did do something nice. You bought me sunflowers because you know they are my favorite. Because you want to make me happy even when I am sick and annoying." Ilya's hand came up to cup Shane's cheek. "That you spill water everywhere is just bonus entertainment."

"I'm glad you're entertained."

"I am very entertained. Best gift all week. Better than tea, even."

"The tea was better."

"Tea was different kind of better. This is funny better. Both are good." Ilya kissed him, soft and quick. "Thank you for flowers. And for disaster. And for taking care of me all week even though I was terrible patient."

"You weren't terrible."

"I was absolutely terrible. I complain, I refuse to take medicine, I make up wrong idioms, I steal all blankets even when is dangerous—"

"Okay, you were a little terrible."

"See? Terrible." Ilya kissed him again. "But you stay anyway. You make me tea, you wrap me in blanket burrito, you correct my English, you buy me flowers and spill water everywhere. You are best person."

Shane's throat felt tight. "You're delirious."

"Am not delirious. Fever is gone. Am just happy." Ilya's thumb brushed across Shane's cheekbone. "Am happy because you are here. Because even when I feel like sick puppy who is warmed up and under weather, you are here."

"That's still not the right way to say it."

"Don't care. Is my way." Ilya pulled him down for another kiss, longer this time. When they broke apart, he was smiling. "Now go clean up water before it ruins floor. Then come back and lie down with me and tell me about your day. I want to hear everything. Even boring parts."

"My day was mostly just worrying about you."

"See? Boring. Tell me anyway."

So Shane cleaned up the water - saving the sunflowers and finding a new vase in the kitchen - and then climbed back into bed beside Ilya. Ilya curled into his side immediately, his head on Shane's shoulder, his arm around Shane's waist.

And Shane told him about the grocery store, about the old woman who'd given him unsolicited advice about buying soup, about the cashier who'd recognized him and asked about the upcoming season. Boring, mundane details of a boring, mundane day.

Ilya listened to all of it, his eyes closed, a small smile on his face. And when Shane finished, Ilya pressed a kiss to his shoulder and whispered, "Thank you for flowers. And for everything. You are good man, Shane Hollander. Best man."

Shane held him tighter and thought about sick puppies and terrible idioms and spilled water and sunflowers. About tea that tasted like childhood and blanket burritos and secret Spice Girls playlists.

About love, in all its messy, imperfect, beautiful forms.

"Love you too," he whispered into Ilya's hair. "Even when you're sick like a puppy."

"Sick puppy."

"Whatever you say."

Ilya hummed, satisfied, and fell asleep in Shane's arms. And Shane stayed awake for a while longer, watching the sunflowers cast shadows on the wall, feeling the weight of Ilya against his side.

Perfectly ridiculous. Perfectly theirs. Perfectly home.