Work Text:
“This is not a cottage,” Ilya says from the passenger seat, his gaze sweeping over it. Despite his clear surprise, another emotion tinges it. Relief, maybe? Shane isn’t quite sure.
In response, he grumbles, “It’s really not that big.” He pushes his door open, hopping out and relishing in the crunch of gravel beneath his sneakers. He shifts his weight once, twice, before continuing around to the trunk to grab Ilya’s bag. Through the back glass, Shane watches him unbuckle, then gingerly straighten as he exits the vehicle. It’s a short enough drive from the airport to the cottage. Not long enough for Ilya to need to stretch anything more than his legs. His mother was right.
His own backpack slung over his right shoulder and holding Ilya’s bag on the same side, Shane clumsily sifts through the keyring with his left hand. The car door shuts.
“I can carry my own bag,” protests Ilya, reaching for it.
Shane walks right past him. “How’re your ribs?”
Ilya, predictably, falls into step beside him as they approach the front door. “Fine. I can take my bag.”
Shane just gives him a sidelong glance, then, with the proper key outstretched, says, “Can’t believe you played with those bruised ribs.”
“Whoa, and you can’t?”
“Okay, maybe I can.”
Ilya glares at him, but keeps pace. Because of course, he does. Because he’s Ilya, and Shane is starting to realize that the Raider would probably follow him to the end of the Earth. Or, to the edges of Canada, anyway.
They grill. Or, rather, Shane does the grilling, because Ilya apparently has only made shashlik before and that doesn’t at all translate to making burgers.
He’d started while Ilya went to take a shower. They’d spent most of the afternoon post-arrival oscillating between cuddling and blowing each other—nothing too strenuous for Ilya’s ribs, yet, and they have so much time right now—and eventually, Shane had grown tired of his skin feeling sticky. He’ll need another one tonight, especially after standing over the grill for half an hour, but that can wait until after the bonfire. If they get to do that. He doesn’t think Ilya will fight against it, but he can be stubborn. Especially when he’s supposed to exist quietly.
Shane, from what he’s heard and guessed, is pretty sure Ilya’s done enough of that.
He glances up when Ilya emerges from the cottage, dressed in a large black T-shirt and red athletic shorts. Shane lifts the lid on the burgers to check them just as Ilya presses himself against his back, a distinct line of heat compared to the effusion from the grill. “Hey,” he greets, moving one hand to blindly pat Ilya’s hip as the other flips the first patty. Ilya’s arm snakes around his waist possessively.
“Why are you making so many burgers?” asks Ilya.
“The recipe was for eight, so…”
“Okay, you cu–hiH! Cut it in half,” Ilya says, then buries his nose into the shoulder of Shane’s flannel with urgency. He rubs it across the fabric once, twice, and then his breath hitches hard enough that Shane can feel the slight pull of air against his neck before Ilya’s head bobs forward. “nyKTSH!”
A moment passes. Ilya’s ribs jump against his spine with the effort of holding the rest of the fit back. “Come on, you’ve got at least two more,” Shane murmurs.
“eh’TSCHih–uh! TSHH’euh!”
“You done?”
“hH’KSHHyu! Oh…”
“Bless you,” Shane says, frowning when Ilya’s grip on him still doesn’t loosen, even in the aftermath of his little fit. “Ilya?”
Slowly, the arm around his middle relaxes. “Yes, sorry. I was not expecting that.” Ilya takes a step back, sniffling damply. When Shane turns to look at him, though, he’s smiling softly. “So, you can’t do math?”
Three seconds inch by while Shane reconciles Ilya’s teasing with their discussion just before he’d started sneezing, and then he pouts at him. “Leave me alone.”
“No,” comes the immediate protest, and Ilya moves forward with both arms. He presses a soft kiss to Shane’s neck, then another behind his ear as he finishes turning over the patties. They stand like that for a minute longer, Shane pushing some of his weight back into Ilya’s steady presence and savoring it. This kind of trust, for them, doesn’t exist outside of sex. There’s never been a moment to just stand together, lean, know the other will lean back.
And, it seems, they’ll never have any longer than a moment: Ilya’s quick to push himself back from Shane, making up for the absence of his body with a steadying grip on his waist, and hurriedly aims a rapid triple toward his right shoulder.
“hK’tshh–tschH’ih–tsHZ’ewh!” It’s soft and breathless from the start, the airy quality indicative of just how quickly the tickle must have snuck up on him. He really hadn’t been expecting the first fit, then. The following inhale is less restorative and more of a gasp, and Shane barely processes it before Ilya’s fingers brush against his hips as they depart en route to his face. “hH–KZSHH’uh! ihy’TSH’ue!” A muttered curse in Russian, and then a desperate, “ZSSH’euh!”
He’s not done yet. Ilya’s breath is still trapped in the rhythm of catch-and-release, hitching in tiny bursts that don’t offer anything productive. Shane turns around, worry thinning his lips when he sees the pained expression on Ilya’s face.
Before he can do anything, Ilya’s left arm goes to brace the opposite side of his ribcage, and the next set is rendered completely silent, the way llya used to. He’s not consciously stifled around Shane in nearly a year, and even then, only when instinct triggers first and he forgets that he’s allowed to not. But the double is clean, neatly contained behind the scrunch of his face and squeeze of his lips.
He sniffles in the aftermath, blinking open watery eyes. His arm doesn’t unwind.
“Bless you, wow,” Shane says, resisting the urge to reach out right away. They don’t talk about it, not really, but Ilya stifling is rarely a good sign. He grabs the blond by his free arm, rubbing a thumb over the skin comfortingly. “You alright? That was intense.”
“Fine,” Ilya replies, sniffling once more, the congestion still thin. He shifts his weight. Grimaces.
Oh, shit.
“Your ribs,” Shane realizes aloud. “Fuck, your ribs—”
“—are fine, Shane,” says Ilya.
“Obviously not. You’re crying,” Shane points out, and Ilya finally lifts his left arm to swipe a finger over his lashes. He actually looks surprised when it comes away moist.
“Oh,” he says, frowning slightly.
“How badly does it hurt?” Shane asks. Ilya doesn’t protest when his fingers ghost over the fabric of his shirt, barely applying enough pressure for Ilya to feel it against the bruises, just closes his eyes and exhales through his nose. “Hey. Ilya.”
“Not too bad. It’s… sharp, when I sneeze. But only then.”
“Alright,” Shane says. Ilya’s gaze tapers back to middle distance, and two seconds later, his shoulders are curling forward with another fit. Four, each of them less than a second apart and rendered silent but for a soft exhalation on the last one. A gasp, then another double, pinched off and followed by a violent flinch. Shane’s about to scold him for stifling when a triple finally escapes his efforts.
“nTZSHh! KTCHh’euh! hih–ihHh…?” His head is tipped back, nostrils flaring with tiny, erratic motions, more involuntary tears spilling from his eyes. “nyKZCHh’iyHh! Fuck!” he curses, forgoing his usual abuse of his nose in favor of cradling his ribs again, now with both arms. Another round of cursing, but now in Russian, and then Ilya all but tips himself toward Shane, hitting the Canadian with most of his weight.
Shane catches him easily, grabbing the dishtowel from off the grill and folding it over Ilya’s nose. “Bless you. You’re okay,” he murmurs, doing his best to wipe gently and wincing sympathetically when, of course, Ilya crumples against his chest with yet another miserable set of four, voicing his pain the entire way through. “Bless you. Jesus, Ilya, what’s going on?”
He’s getting anxious, he can tell, but does his best to stay calm for Ilya, who’s practically falling apart on him. They’re well past the realm of Ilya’s baseline sensitivity. It’s definitely not unusual for him to have these uneven clusters, but they rarely stack up this quickly, not unless Ilya’s having—
“Allergies, I think,” he replies, voice muffled slightly by the dishtowel still pressed against his face. Shane begins to lift his hand, intending to remove it, but Ilya grabs onto his wrist to keep it where it is. “Sorry.”
His voice is soft with shame. Shane’s heart clenches.
“Don’t apologize,” he whispers. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”
Ilya gives a tight, unconvinced shrug against Shane’s chest. His eyes are aimed toward the lake and he’s still hugging his ribcage, like he can hold himself together through sheer force of will. Or like an animal protecting his softest parts.
Shane decides, “Let’s get you some Claritin.”
“The burgers—”
“They need to be on for another five, at least. We have time.”
Reluctantly, Ilya peels away from him, straightening up just enough to be level with Shane again. He’s patient as Shane carefully pinches the towel around his nostrils and pulls it away slowly, trying not to set him off again. The edges of his nose have gone red with irritation, but he’s not giving any outward signs that his clothing is bothering his skin, so it’s probably safe to assume he’s not hiding any hives. Good. During their second season, Ilya had shown up to his apartment with hives so bad Shane had nearly dragged him to the ER once he’d started feeling Ilya up and found the plaques through discovery instead of Ilya telling him. Ilya had just stared at him like he was stupid for caring.
Shane guides him inside, settles him on the couch, and throws a pillow at him. Ilya catches it reflexively, furrowing his brow in confusion. “To brace with,” Shane explains. “Hug it whenever you have to sneeze. And stop stifling. It’s bad for you.”
Ilya mutters something that Shane doesn’t quite catch as he ducks into the kitchen to rummage around in the medicine drawer. There’s four bottles of ibuprofen, for some reason, and he makes a mental note to pass at least one on to Hayden; he’s constantly losing his own. He pushes a box of bandages to the side, then finally unearths the blister pack of Claritin. Shane pops out a tablet for Ilya, fills a glass of water in the sink, then goes back to the couch.
Unsurprisingly, Ilya’s sneezing through clenched teeth when he returns, whole body jerking slightly with the effort to stifle. He is holding onto the pillow, at least, but it doesn’t seem like it’s helping much; the expression on his face is pained and desperate. Ilya’s face bears all of the strain, but not a sound escapes him.
Shane entered the middle of the fit, so he’s not sure where Ilya started, but he counts seven before Ilya’s breath shudders to a stop again. “Bless you,” he murmurs, pretending not to notice the way Ilya flinches in response. They’ll deal with that in a minute. The goal right now is to make Ilya stop holding them in.
He passes Ilya the glass and pill. Ilya stares at it for a moment before tipping the tablet into his mouth and chasing it with half the water. “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” Shane points out, perching on the end of the couch. There’s a solid three feet of space between them. “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”
“I’m not in pain.”
“You’re definitely in pain, Ilya. And it’s not a big deal.”
The Russian scoffs. “We are still hockey players, yes? We are hurt constantly, and still, we play. It’s our job.”
“You wouldn’t send a player onto the ice if their arm was broken,” counters Shane. “And you shouldn’t have been playing with bruised ribs.”
“It is barely an injury! Just bruising.”
“Oh, yeah? And now you’re having an allergy attack and feel like shit, right?”
Ilya lapses into silence. Partially angry, but silence nonetheless.
Shane moves closer. “Ilya, is it so bad that I want to take care of you? I invited you here so that we could have time together. I don’t need you to do anything but be here and be okay.”
“I am not going to waste your time, Shane,” Ilya says. He can’t twist away, so he settles for bringing an elbow up, just to hide his face, for the next triple. And then he keeps it there for the back-to-back doubles. And still as he groans in pain.
“Bless you. You’re not wasting my time, Ilya.”
“Your burgers are going to overcook.”
Shane sighs at the obvious change in topic, but stands up. It’s not like Ilya’s wrong, which is the upsetting part. He’s objectively suffering, and he’s still keeping track of things for Shane. “We’re not done.”
Ilya doesn’t respond.
He rescues the burgers from the grill as fast as possible, slipping two of them onto buns and settling the rest in a glass container with the lid on to keep in the heat. Both plates travel inside with him, and he drops them on the coffee table. Ilya’s now sitting up against the back of the couch, slightly slumped, not enough that the slouch will hurt his torso. “Happy?” he asks.
“Ecstatic. Here’s your burger.” Shane nudges his plate closer.
Ilya takes it obediently, and starts eating with the enthusiasm of someone going into work on a Monday morning. “Keep going.”
“What?”
“With your, ah, lecturing. Keep going,” Ilya says, gesturing broadly with his free hand. “You have things to say you think will be good for me to hear. Keep talking.”
“I just want you to stop hurting yourself. Whether it’s playing while you’re already hurt and making it worse or holding in your fucking sneezes. You don’t have to do the tough guy act with me, Ilya.”
“Oh, you know it’s not an act.”
“Stop trying to change the subject.”
Ilya throws up his hands and barely suppresses a wince as it jostles his torso. “Fine! Whatever! You win, I will stop, we can have a good time.”
“Ilya—”
“You get what you want, Shane. Don’t complain now.”
They’re going to save the bonfire for another day, once they (read: Shane) can ensure the allergy medication is actually working. So, he and Ilya end up sprawled across the bed, sweaty from sucking each other off. The tension between him and Ilya didn’t last long beneath the buzz of two weeks together, but there’s still a current of something uneasy.
Maybe it has to do with the fact that he’s not actually seen Ilya shirtless yet. He’s been very careful to not let Shane lift the fabric above his navel, and a niggling thought at the back of his mind is insistent that it’s because of his ribs. He’s more worried than he should be—he’s had bruised ribs before, and you mostly just grit your teeth and suffer through them—and doesn’t have a clue as to what to do about it.
“Oh,” Ilya says, a foot away and not staring at the ceiling the way Shane is.
“You okay?”
“I’m getting hives.”
“What?” Shane pushes himself up on his elbows so fast the room spins for a second. “How many? How bad?”
“Relax, it’s a small amount. Six, maybe seven.”
His proprioception is startling. Shane can’t identify sensation the way Ilya can, not with nearly the same degree of specificity with regard to location. Ilya can point to any square inch on his body and say this is where and not have to question himself. It’s not just him, though; Ilya’s better than pretty much anyone Shane’s ever met at knowing exactly what’s going on with his body. He doesn’t want to think about why that might be, not knowing Ilya’s family.
“Where?” he demands.
Ilya finally sits up, sniffling as the slight congestion that’s been hanging in his sinuses shifts around. “Two on my neck, three across both my arms, and I think a couple on my back. Can’t reach thoHhse ones, though. nKTzch! hy’KTZZsch!”
“Stop stifling.”
“Is barely—ehT’SCHh’uh!—stifling.”
“That one wasn’t. You’re half-suppressing the others.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”
“No, Ilya—”
His breath leaves him in a sharp, frustrated sigh.
“It’s fine, Shane.”
“Stop fucking saying that!”
“What?”
“That you’re fine! You’re clearly not! If you were, the Claritin would be fucking working and you wouldn’t have fucking hives and you wouldn’t be wincing every time you sneeze because your ribs are fucking bruised, Ilya!”
“That was not very Canadian of you to say.”
He’s on his feet, pacing across the bedroom. Ilya’s leaning back on his hands casually, but his eyes are tracking his every motion.
“You don’t have to be ‘fine,’ Ilya,” he says, after a long beat of silence. “I don’t need you to be. No one does, not today. You are not Boston’s captain. You’re not even 81, or Rozanov. You’re just Ilya, and you’re with me, and I want you to be okay.” His voice is wobbly, they’re both painfully aware. Shane clears his throat awkwardly.
Eventually, Ilya murmurs, “They’re probably going to become a plaque. The–the hives on my back.”
“Do you need stronger medication?”
“No. There’s not much you can do by now. Maybe just…” He trails off, biting his lip. Shane goes back to bed, sitting next to him. Pulls Ilya’s head to his shoulder. His face is warm, and the hives on his neck lie right below his jawline on the left and next to his Adam’s apple, coloring his skin pink.
“Can you take your shirt off for me?” he asks softly, feeling Ilya tense up against him, drawing inward all at once before relaxing by degrees.
He doesn’t protest when Shane lifts the hem of his shirt, eases it off of him, and tosses it toward the hamper. Predictably, his ribs are a mottled mess of purple and red and some yellow mixed between the splotches, wide and ugly and painfully representative of a vicious check against the boards. Shane doesn’t bother hiding the wince he sucks in between his teeth, but assesses Ilya’s face in the aftermath. “Jesus…”
Ilya doesn’t say anything. Hives dot the narrow spaces between the moles on his back, forming a fucked-up kind of constellation. They’re not too bad yet, the biggest no larger than Shane’s thumbnail, but that’ll change within the hour.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya says.
“For what?”
“Being…” He gestures vaguely, and Shane can’t tell if it’s to replace a word or if Ilya’s just searching for the right thing to say.
He presses a kiss to his jawline, right next to the hive. “You’re not anything right now. That’s the point.”