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Shane coughed into the crook of his arm, taking a breath as he stirred a pot of pasta. The steam was making him a little dizzy, admittedly. Or maybe that was his fever which still hadn’t gone down after forty-eight hours of feeling like he was congested and weak.
“It’s not my fault,” he grumbled, leaning against the counter to steady himself since he was pretty sure if he sat back down he wouldn’t be able to get back up. “I didn’t get you sick.”
“I was not sick when I got here. Now I am,” Ilya reminded him, head resting on the counter as he sat at one of the bar stools. “That makes it your fault.” He certainly didn’t bring whatever they had into the cottage.
The last thing he would have done was risk getting Shane sick, especially not during their only uninterrupted two weeks of the year. It had become tradition for them, since making their relationship official to come back each year.
Shane claimed he was on a silent retreat every time someone asked, and Ilya told people he was going home but never actually did. It was nice. Usually. Until some sort of illness had stuck them both on the fifth day.
“Do you want me to feed you or just sit there and complain?” he muttered, coughing again as he pushed away from the counter. He was trying not to rely on it, acting like he didn't need to stabilize himself even though he was a few moments away from passing out.
Ilya raised his head, looking exhausted. “Both,” he stated, voice thicker than usual from how sick he was.
He huffed, opening the fridge to get another bottle of Gatorade out of it. He knew it wasn’t exactly the best pairing with pasta, but they couldn’t stomach alcohol and needed the electrolytes. Plus, they were nearly out of, well, everything. Every juice, every drink that wasn't water. It was all either nearly empty or already in the recycle.
“Take your temp, again,” Shane suggested, cracking open the bottle and splitting it into two other cups that would eventually end up in the sink with the rest of the dishes he couldn’t find the energy to wash right now.
He hated having a sink full of dishes. Hated having blankets strewn around the living room and clothes piling up in the laundry, too. But both had started happening before he could really manage to prevent it.
Ilya mumbled something, standing up and wavering on his feet for a moment before he felt steady enough to leave the kitchen. Shane was sure he was complaining about being sick in Russian, but he didn’t feel well enough to ask for elaboration.
His mind was foggy, his steps lethargic, and his chest burned each time he coughed. It felt like his body was mocking him for being stupid enough to think that he could have fought off the virus with a bit of Advil and some extra hydration.
Shane finished tossing their dinner into some of the few remaining clean dishes he had left in the cabinets, just placing the pots and spoon into the sink to get them off the stove. He brought them over to the couch where could at least pretend like there wasn’t a mess driving him crazy everywhere he looked.
The second he sat down; he was leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes. God, he was so fucking tired. They slept until noon, hadn’t moved an inch aside from making some sandwiches for lunch and fixing the bed a bit. The sheets got all rumpled from the tossing and turning they had done, unable to sleep when getting too hot and too cold every five minutes.
Even so, he still felt as tired as he usually did after a rough practice. Maybe worse, even, because there was no adrenaline to keep him upright.
“Is still thirty-nine degrees,” Ilya told him, bringing the thermometer out with him as he emerged from the bedroom, sporting a new shirt. He changed practically every other hour, claiming the sickness clung to the material and new clothes would make him get better faster.
Shane knew that was complete bullshit but didn’t bother to explain why, just letting him go through every clean shirt he had left in the span of two days. “At least it’s not worse,” he murmured, lifting his head and trying to suppress another cough as he sipped his Gatorade.
He sat down on the couch, reaching his own cup to chug it. “Because thirty-nine is such good body heat to feel inside skin.” He felt so dehydrated he was actually considering just drinking straight from the sink faucet until he felt better.
Shane scrunched his nose, swallowing some of his pasta with a bit of effort. “That makes no sense, Roz,” he told him. And it was a little gross, too.
His entire body ached as he reached for a blanket, tossing it over himself as he got another wave of chills. Ilya seemed to be having the opposite problem, running his hand through his hair to try to keep it from his blanched face and sweaty forehead.
Ilya waved him off dismissively, finishing the entire cup of Gatorade and setting it down with a hard thud. “My brain isn’t working,” he retorted in frustration. “Can’t translate the words through mouth.”
He could barely translate them in his head. It took an amount of effort to understand what Shane was saying that it hadn’t since his first year or two speaking English. It was like he could tell he should know what he was saying; it sounded familiar, but a lot of it wasn’t filtering through his brain properly. And the stuff that became even harder to respond to when he had to translate his own words back.
“Oh...right,” he replied, forgetting for a moment that his English got worse whenever he was drunk, angry, or extremely tired. And apparently when he was sick, too. “Sorry.”
He hummed, bringing his legs up and laying them on top of Shane’s blanket so he couldn’t get even hotter under it. “Is fine,” he mumbled deeply, coughing to clear his throat and maybe make it sound a bit more normal instead of gravely. “Just need uh- more seconds to connect.”
Connect the languages to each other, the words into sentences, his tongue to his brain, so they worked together. He wasn’t sure which one he was referring to. All of them, really.
“I’ll talk slower,” Shane promised, shivering slightly as he fussed with the blanket to try to fold some of it on top and make it feel thicker. “Can we watch a movie and then just take some NyQuil tonight?”
As opposed to what else they’d do, he wasn’t sure. But he asked anyway, watching as Ilya stared for a moment, putting more energy into knowing what he was saying. After a moment, he nodded slowly, reaching to take Shane’s Gatorade and drink some of it to maybe quench his thirst.
That probably wouldn’t help too much, though. If he had already had nearly three liters of water and half that in juice and electrolyze heavy drinks and still felt like a fish drowning without water, a few more sips wouldn't change much for him.
“Trying to drug me?” Ilya questioned, clearing his head long enough for a quip before he felt dizzy and put the cup down so he could lean back against the couch again.
He huffed, scraping the bottom of his bowl with his fork. “I just wanna sleep, tonight, instead of tossing until four am,” he clarified.
Or maybe it had been five in the morning when they finally fell asleep. He wasn’t really sure, honestly. He just knew it was nearing morning because some of the birds were chirping when he finally managed to get some rest.
“Sleep is good,” Ilya agreed, nodding as he watched Shane set his bowl on the table and raise his blanket to cover his shoulder. It must be killing him not to immediately get up and rinse it and put it in the dishwasher. “Lots of sleep.”
Reaching for the remote so Shane wouldn’t have to leave the cocoon of his blanket, he flipped through the streaming services, looking for something to watch. Something simple. A comedy or old movie with a plot they could both still follow even though their brains weren’t working very well.
Everything looked too complicated, he thought. He could barely even read the summaries with how many little words they had and how many big terms his brain couldn’t comprehend at the moment. What did oscillating even mean? Did he know that word usually and just couldn’t remember it because he felt like he was burning to death in his own skin?
The sound of Shane’s phone ringing pulled Ilya from his thoughts just as he settled on some film from the fifties. Short, simple, no eye-straining colors or complex plots. They could finish it and be in bed before ten if the medicine worked fast enough.
Shane let out a small groan, reaching for his phone and looking at the caller. Everyone knew he took these two weeks off before the next season started, especially his parents who he nearly shouted at over finding out his dad came over once when Ilya was there to get his phone charger. He still thanked the cosmos that they had been in the lake and his father never saw anything.
Still, after he chewed him out about respect and privacy and a bunch of other things he later regretted the tone of, his parents promised to not bother him during his ‘silent retreats’. So, when he saw his mom’s number on the phone, he got a bit worried.
Shane coughed, trying to get it out of his system before picking up and pressing the phone to his ear. “Hey, mom,” he muttered, trying to sound as healthy as someone with a fever could. “Is everything alright?” There had to be some sort of emergency for her to break her promise and call on his break.
Ilya watched from the other end of the couch, suppressing his own sniffle as he stayed quiet. He could tell nothing was seriously wrong since he looked confused more than worried, but it was also clear that whatever Yuna was saying was difficult for someone with a fever and chills and aches to properly comprehend, too.
“Mhm, no I- I'm sure that’s um...it’s probably fine if you do,” Shane muttered, rubbing his head slightly. “Oh, you already did. Sorry, I didn’t hear tha—” he pulled the phone away from his ear, coughing into his sleeve again as he put his phone down on the blanket to try to keep him from hearing the hacking sound.
He kept dry coughing, chest burning as the tickle never quite disappeared from his throat. It eventually lessened, though. Enough for him to pick the phone back up, at least. He blew out a tired breath that sounded more like a wheeze and apologized for the disruption. He claimed there was dust in the closet he was organizing currently, and it made him cough a bit.
Ilya would normally call it a terrible lie, but for someone who tripped trying to get out of bed and nearly passed out in the shower a few hours ago, it was pretty decent. He wouldn’t have answered the call at all if it was Marlow of Sebbin or anyone who didn’t speak Russian. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to hold the conversation, let alone think of excuses in another language right now.
“So, they need to have the contract extended in the next two weeks?” Shane restated, nodding a bit as things finally clicked after his mom repeated herself for the third time. “I- yeah, it’s fine, mom. Just have them send it to you, I’ll sign it when I visit next week.” He turned the phone away again, clearing his throat to try to keep another coughing fit at bay. “Is that it, nothing else? Okay, love you too, bye.”
Shane threw his phone onto the blanket, groaning at the thought of how that conversation played out. It shouldn’t have been that hard to understand what his mom wanted. It was just a contract extension, after all. Granted, they needed to know immediately after some company changes had a lot of partnerships being reviewed, but he had signed enough deals to know what she was referring to.
He should have, anyway.
“Everything alright?” Ilya questioned, head tilted to rest on the couch as he bent one of his knees, wincing at the ache in his joints.
He nodded. “Just some stupid contact,” he replied, pulling his blanket back up towards his chin to stay warm. “Hit play.” He needed to shut his mind off, to just lay there and try not to shiver and feel every rumble in his chest as he wheezed and coughed.
● ・○・●・○・●
Yuna stared down at her phone after her son hung up on her rather abruptly. That was odd, to say the least. Shane rarely hung up in such a rush, not without a reason. And no, a silent retreat didn’t count as a reason in her mind.
Not when it was in the middle of a luxury home. Maybe if he went roughing it in the woods or did meditation in some other country, she’d allow it.
No, she was pretty sure she heard a distinct coughing sound before he yanked the phone away from his ear. He sounded stuffy, too. To say nothing of his lack of comprehension. He had always been bad at that when he got sick as a kid, needing to hear something a few times to make sense of it and responding to the wrong questions.
“I think he’s sick,” she stated, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she turned to her husband who was still eating dinner without nearly as much concern about the contract debacle.
“Did he sound congested or something?” David questioned, his chopsticks in his hand as he dug through the bowl of rice and brought some to his mouth.
“Congested, coughing, a bit disoriented,” she replied, nodding as she picked up her own utensils. “Why wouldn’t he tell us?”
He shrugged. “Probably doesn’t want to admit he’s not feeling well,” he assumed. Shane always struggled to ask for help, even as a kid. He always insisted he was fine. “Or maybe it’s not serious.”
Yuna hummed, reaching over her plate to grab her water glass. “He sounded like he was going to cough up a lung,” she mumbled to herself, wondering if he was running a fever or had seen a doctor yet.
She knew he was an adult; he could take care of himself and decide when something was serious enough to seek medical attention. But he was also still her only son, and she hated to think he was trying to power through some virus because he was too stubborn to get antibiotics.
There was nothing wrong with needing some help occasionally, especially when sick.
That’s what she told herself, anyway, to cope with the guilt she felt for driving over to her son’s house the next morning. Besides, she texted him an hour ago to check in and he hadn’t responded, so really, she gave him ample time to come up with an excuse for her not to come over if he really wanted to.
He just ignored it, though, so she figured he wouldn’t mind too much if she dropped by more a moment or two. It was just concern, she kept thinking. She just wanted to make sure it wasn’t anything serious, then she’d let him have the rest of his retreat in peace and quiet before the season started again.
Pulling into the driveway, she unbuckled and got out of her car.
Yuna knocked, once then twice. Nither times did he answer the door, so, she dug her spare key out of her purse and let herself in.
Immediately, she knew her concern was valid. The living room looked like a hurricane had hit it, blankets and pillows laying on the floor, cups on the table, and a thermometer laying on the side table. She reached for it, pressing it to check the last temperature taken.
Thirty-nine degrees. That was high enough he needed to see a doctor if he had been feeling this way for longer than forty-eight hours. She’d be sure to tell him that, after scolding him for lying to her. Well, withholding the truth, technically.
“What the...” she rounded the corner, peering into the kitchen and noticed the pile of dishes in the sink and the uncleaned mess on the counter.
Now, she knew her son would never leave a mess like that. He practically had a compulsion to keep things clean and even if he wasn’t handwashing the dishes, he’d at least put them in the dishwasher to get them out of the way.
The fridge was mostly empty, a few apples, a few sticks of cheese, and some Gatorade pulled to the front to look like there was more than there actually was. He’d practically starve to death this way.
Yuna made her way to the bedroom, knocking gently before she pushed the door open to see if he was inside. He might have been so sick he didn’t even hear her knocking. “Shane, why didn’t you tell me you were si—”
She froze. The room was dark and messy, the blankets half thrown off the bed, a hamper overflowing with the number of clothes that hadn’t been washed, and the bathroom door wide open to reveal and equal mess of medicines they had probably taken.
But even with the blinds pulled closed to keep the lights out she could still see Ilya Rozanov in her son’s bed; arms wrapped around him tightly. They looked asleep. Not just napping but deeply unconscious.
Yuna supposed that was the effect of the half empty bottle of Nyquil on the nightstand beside both of their phones that were charging next to each other. No wonder he didn’t respond to her text.
She swallowed harshly, stepping closer to the bed. Her son was tucked against Ilya, face buried against his neck as a source of warmth and comfort. “Shane...” she whispered, shaking him gently. “Shane.”
He didn’t stir, breaths steady as he slept like a rock. Her eyebrows knitted together, gaze shifting to Ilya, who had his jaw resting on top of Shane’s head, one of his hands under his shirt to feel his skin against his palm.
Yuna was pretty sure this is the closest to him she had even been, before. He looked, well, younger like this. Less angry and vicious. Maybe that was just because he looked sick, too. Really sick. Clammy skin and a slight wheeze with every inhale. Now that she was closer, she heard it from Shane, too. It was just softer since his face was turned away.
She blew out a slow breath, feeling a bit twitchy. She wanted answers. To know what the hell was going on, how long this had been happening, and what this was, for that matter. But they were sound asleep and if that thermometer was any indication, then they needed the rest. Both of them.
So, slowly and confused, she backed out of the room, closing the door behind herself before immediately scrubbing her face. “What the fuck?” she whispered to herself, glancing around the house again with a different perspective. She wasn’t sure which one it was, but something had shifted in some capacity.
Trying to get her emotions under control, she pulled out her phone and called her husband. David was a lot better at understanding Shane than she was. He always had been.
She could handle hockey, his stats, his deals. But he was the one who understood the emotional side a bit better, talked him through panic attacks when they first started happening and made him laugh when he was stressed.
“Slow down,” was the first thing David told her, strictly for his own benefit as he struggled to understand her quick-paced whispering that sounded frantic. “What’s wrong?”
“I just—” Yuna stopped herself, mouth hanging open. What was wrong? She didn’t know what was going on, but she doubted Ilya broke into her son’s house, doubted he manipulated or drugged him into cuddling like that. “—think that Shane is sicker than he’s letting on. I’m gonna stay for a few hours.”
She walked through the house, nodding to herself as she accepted that as the right decision. Or at least, the one she was going to do.
“How serious is it, then? Flu?” he asked, unsure if it was really even the right time of year for it. That was usually December, he thought.
Yuna cleared her throat, trying to get a handle on her thoughts. “Uh- I don’t know yet, he’s sleeping,” she admitted. “I’ll let you know when I find out what’s going on.”
In more ways than one.
Hanging up, she slid her phone into her pocket and started picking up some of the blankets and cushions on the floor. She put them back where they belonged, taking the empty cups and bowls into the kitchen and rolling up her sleeves to start on the dishes.
As she did, she started to scrub more absent-mindedly than anything else, thinking about Rozanov in the next room, holding her son. She had instantly felt shocked, of course. But more than that, she felt scared and almost upset. She hated him after all. She tried to think of why that was, exactly. He was arrogant and aggressive on ice, but then again, almost every player was.
She couldn’t just hate him because his teammate hurt her son or because Ilya was a good player. That wasn’t enough of a reason. Shane clearly didn’t hate him at all, for that matter. God, she always spoke so poorly of him. Is that why he never told her about it?
Closing the dishwasher, she wiped down the countertop, trying to make it as clean as she knew her son liked it. Keeping busy helped, as she processed her feelings. But once she ran out of surfaces to wipe and dishes to wash, she got a bit antsy.
Yuna probably shouldn’t have gone back into the bedroom. It was a private moment, not to mention the most likely place to pick up whatever virus they both had. But she couldn’t help but think about the pile of laundry waiting in there and quickly tried to retrieve it.
Admittedly, the pace of the task had slowed down when she stepped back inside and saw Ilya. Again. He was still there, still real, still holding onto Shane like someone might try to take him away. She was pretty sure she couldn’t pry him out of that grip, even if she tried.
“We’re going to have such a long talk when you’re awake,” she whispered to herself, gathering the heaps of clothes and leaving the room.
It was a bit harder, she realized, to pry her eyes away from the scene of domesticity than it had been previously. The first time, it was like a bad dream she wanted to wake up from. Now, it was a bit more tolerable. Almost sweet, if it wasn’t for how many memories, she had of calling Ilya an asshole or cheering when he lost a game.
Starting a load of laundry, her mind had mostly settled. The residual shock was only over the fact that she couldn't tell which shirts she was washing belonged to her son and which belonged to Ilya. The raiders one was definitely not Shane’s, that much she knew for sure.
It was mid-afternoon and neither of them had woken up or come out yet so Yuna’s next step to keeping her sanity intact was to go to the grocery store and pick up some stuff. More electrolyte-based drinks, some fruits, vegetables, and stuff to make soup. Everyone liked soup when they were sick, right? Even Russians, she was pretty sure.
She didn’t exactly know much about Ilya’s culture, having spent the last decade of her life despising the player. But she wasn’t going to let him starve to death if he was sick, especially not if there was some sort of attachment or relationship between him and her son. That’s what she thought it must have been, anyway. She couldn’t fathom any other reason they’d be cuddling in bed together.
Yuna was halfway through cutting up some carrots to throw into the pot of stock when she finally heard her son coughing. The sound was intermingled with the occasional wheeze that had her grimacing as she cut the vegetables, mentally rehearsing what she would say to him when he came out of the bedroom.
She’d had all day to think about it and somehow, still hadn’t come up with anything good enough. It was kind of hard to plan a supportive speech when she had no idea what she was supporting.
The door creaked open and she took a breath, hearing him shuffling towards the kitchen slowly. It was half out of exhaustion and half caused by fear.
“Mom?” he muttered, peeking his head around the corner, looking dead on his feet.
He, somehow, still looked scared. And that realization broke her heart. “You’re up,” she murmured, giving him a small smile as she slid the carrots into the pot and reached for some celery to chop. “Why don’t you sit down? You shouldn’t be standing if you’re sick.”
Shane looked like he might pass out, dizzy and pale as he slumped into a chair at the counter and stared at her. “I didn’t get your text,” he told her, gesturing vaguely to his phone as he set it down. “You really didn’t need to come all the way over.”
She shrugged. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” she replied, knife hitting the wooden cutting board as she focused on staying calm and approachable. “You sounded a bit...disoriented on the phone last night.”
He looked away, coughing into his arm. It was just caused by inflammation in his lungs; he was pretty sure. Nothing too serious. Still, he couldn’t just make it stop, and he turned further, bending over in his chair and coughing until it made his head start to ache a bit.
“I’m fine,” he assured her unconvincingly as he glanced back, a bit out of breath. “I’m getting over a cold, is all. I appreciate the soup, but you can go—”
“I know, Shane,” Yuna interjected, watching him stiffen immediately. “About Rozanov being here. I saw him.” Which meant he could kick her out if he insisted on it, but it really wouldn’t change much.
If it was possible for him to get even paler than the sickness already made him, it happened. He stared at her, his fever-stricken brain trying to understand what that meant. She knew it was a horrible thought to have, but she was almost glad his mind couldn’t process as fast as it normally could. It might keep him from winding himself into a frenzy.
He gave a small, residual cough, shaking his head apologetically. “Mom, I can explain—”
“No, hon,” she interjected, throwing celery into the pot. “You don’t have to explain anything while you're sick, okay?”
Shane paused, blinking as his fuzzy mind started to catch up. “Y- you don’t have any questions?” he wondered.
“Oh, I’ve got a hundred,” she replied with a nervous laugh, wiping her hands on a towel. “But we’ll have that conversation when you don’t look like you’re about to faint.”
Reaching into the fridge, she pulled out one of the drinks she’d picked up at the store and passed it to him. Then, she went back to cooking, just glancing up at him as he slowly deflated in relief. Shane sipped the drink, looking like he was exhausted, even after sleeping until two in the afternoon with a NyQuil-addled brain. Ilya was still asleep, she figured, wondering how bad the medicine would affect him.
“I’m not like...cheating in hockey,” she promised, wincing in pain as he shifted ed slightly, leaning against the counter more. “It’s not like that. He wins because he’s good and I- I'm good too, that’s why I win. No one let’s the other.”
Yuna raised her head, a sad frown plaguing her lips. “I never considered for a second that you were,” she assured him firmly. “I just...was a bit surprised, is all. But I’ve had some time to self-reflect while you slept, so it’s alright. You’re alright. I promise.”
He nodded slowly, like he was trying to believe her. “You really cleaned the whole house?” he wondered, glancing around at the clean kitchen.
She shrugged, as if to say it wasn’t anything special. “I know you hate when it’s a mess,” she told him. “I started some laundry, too. I got through two loads, so far.”
She hadn’t tried to separate anything, unsure whose clothes belonged to who, yet. Instead, she just kept them all folded in the same basket so they could figure it out later.
Shane grimaced, feeling guilty that she had come over at all, let alone cleaned to such an extent. “You didn’t have to do that,” he muttered, before sighing. “Thank you, though. And thanks for not...freaking out or anything.”
Yuna just tried to put on her most supportive expression possible. One that said she was totally cool with it and not that she had gone through all five stages of grief in under a minute when she saw them tangled up together. He didn’t need to know what she felt a bit betrayed, he needed to know that she accepted him, even if his choice of companion was a bit confusing to her.
“I’m old, but I’m not ancient,” she reminded him. “People can love whoever they want to.” She paused, pursing her lips for a moment as she stared at him with a new point of view. “And sometimes...we can’t always help who we fall in love with, can we?”
He shook his head slowly. “Guess not,” he whispered. “I tried to. Tried for a long time.”
Her face contorted, brows furrowing in sadness as she just nodded empathetically. It wasn’t a new situation, then, she supposed. Whatever this was, it had been going on for a while now. Longer than she had let herself believe.
“All your father and I have ever wanted is for you to be happy,” she reminded him earnestly, leaning over the counter a bit. “And if being with—”
Before she could finish her sentence, the door of the bedroom creaked open again. It was followed by subtle shuffling, the sound making both of their heads turn. She could see the look of panic rising on Shane’s face again, like he had just forgotten everything she just told him.
“lyubov',” Ilya called, voice rough with sleep and congestion. “Where is...plastic bottle thing? Lekarstvo.”
Shane grimaced, running his hand over his face as he remembered how much trouble he had been having to translate his words properly. It got even worse after their movie last night, to the point they were spending full minutes staring at each other in confusion after either of them said anything.
“leka-what?” he muttered in confusion. “Oh, Advil. In the bathroom,” he replied, the sentence cut off by another cough as he leaned down to rest his head on the cool counter for a moment. “Bring me some, too.”
He was still clammy, but his shivering had subsided after last night. He was sure his fever broke during the many hours they had slept but would probably come back before the day ended.
There was some mumbling, either in Russian or just so low neither of them could understand what he said, but the shuffling restarted and he fetched the bottle before bringing it into the kitchen. He wasn’t clueless on how to open them or anything, but for some reason the lid was either stuck or he was so exhausted he wasn’t opening it correctly because he was fighting with it as he entered the room.
“Glupaya butylochka s lekarstvom ne otkryvayetsya—” he cut himself off, stopping dead in his tracks as he saw Yuna standing in the kitchen over a pot. “...Tvoya mama zdes'?”
Shane raised his head off the counter, staring at him from a crooked angle of his neck. “That’s not English, Roz,” he told him, like he wasn’t aware. It kind of looked like he wasn’t, honestly.
“O, russkiy yazyk v moyey golove i v moikh ustakh,” he mumbled, gesturing to his head while blinking harshly like she’d disappear or it would clear his head. Neither happened. “Uh- mama. Tvoya mama...your mom? Your mom is here?”
There it was. He got there eventually, after his sick brain caught up and remembered English was a language he was nearly fluent in. Even though no one would believe it if they heard how he was speaking it currently.
He nodded slowly, reaching to pull the bottle of medicine out of Ilya’s hand to open it. “Yeah, she just...showed up a few hours ago,” he muttered tiredly as he cracked the bottle open and started shaking pills out of it. “She seems uh- mostly okay with it. Us.”
Yuna waved slowly, staring at Ilya. He still looked young and sick, like he had when she saw him sleeping. But he also looked, well, afraid. Kind of how Shane had, only worse. She supposed on some level, her son knew she’d accept him even if he was afraid to tell her. Ilya, on the other hand, had absolutely no idea how she would react. She had no duty or responsibility for him.
“Do you like soup?” she found herself blurting out before she could even properly introduce herself after having almost never interacted with him. “I- I’m making some, I mean. Shane likes it when he’s sick. Do you...also eat soup?”
Ilya blinked, slowly nodding. “I eat anything,” he told her, feeling a bit dizzy as he steadied himself on the counter and looked at Shane.
He was popping the Advil into his mouth, washing it down with some drink that Ilya knew for a fact they didn’t have in the fridge last night. Shane reached for his hand, placing some medicine in his palm as well and offering him his drink.
Even though he looked a bit apprehensive, Ilya still took it. He tilted his head back, swallowing the medicine and fussed with his hair to try to push the curls out of his eyes. Yuna watched him set it back down, looking a bit fuzzy in the eyes like something in his mind wasn’t connecting the right way.
“How long have you two been sick?” she wondered, rinsing off her chopping board and running a clean towel over the wood. “You might need to see a doctor about—”
Shane was shaking his head before she could even suggest proper care. “No, mom, we’re fine,” he promised. “And Ilya- he just doesn’t like people knowing he’s in the country.”
Yuna paused, nodding slowly. She supposed that would raise some questions, given it was the off season, and his team was nowhere to be found. “Oh, of course, I- sorry,” she apologized weakly, setting the board back into the drawer.
She didn’t know how to do this. How to talk to a man she’d been convinced she hated until about six hours ago, how to comfort her son about his worry, how to even communicate with either of them when they were both so sick.
“Is not as bad as vchera,” Ilya mumbled, putting the back of his hand against the side of his neck. It was still warm, but he wasn’t sweating anymore. And he hadn’t walked into the wall instead of through the door, either. Those were good things. “We’ll be fine, Mrs. Hollander.”
His lips twisted a bit, calling her that. It felt unnatural and all three of them knew it.
“Are you still hot?” Shane questioned, eyes raking over him for some physical sign of it.
Ilya blinked a few times, forcing his mind to play catch up as quickly as it possibly could. “Less so, but yes,” he responded, lifting the drink back to his lips. “Feel like...uh- want to bury head in snow.”
He had never been overly fond of the snow, for someone who grew up in a pretty cold region. But if it was possible to walk outside and lay in a pile of snow right now, he would do it. Too bad it would probably only make him feel even worse than he already did.
Shane huffed, mumbling under his breath before he tapped his finger on the counter. “Closest you’ll get,” he told him, moving over one chair so he could sit down.
He sat down, laying his head against the material. “Is nice,” he murmured, closing his eyes for a moment. “Still sleepy. Otherwise, I’d...apology- apologize.”
Shane hummed, reaching out to run his hands through his curls, pushing them away from his face before just keeping his palm there. “For what?” he asked.
Ilya’s eyes opened briefly, looking confused about the question. Like he’d forgotten the last thing he said, already. “For...Yuna,” he replied, too offput by calling her by her last name. “If I didn’t make you sick, she wouldn’t be here.”
Yuna’s eyes flickered with something akin to hurt before realizing he wasn’t really referring to her but apologizing that she’d found out about them, that it had to be when they were both so sick they couldn’t even string sentences together to defend themselves. They didn’t need to, of course, but she guessed they didn’t realize that, for some reason.
His lips tugged to the side. “So, you admit it’s your fault we’re sick, then?” he questioned,
He didn’t really care about whose fault it was, at the end of the day. But really, it was probably Ilya. After all, Shane cleaned incessantly and Ilya was the one who had gotten off a germ-infested flight and brought it into the house.
Ilya huffed, turning his head to lay his other cheek on the counter and look at the wall. “No,” he grumbled. “Am just saying...sick is...not good way.” To find out about this sort of thing, he was trying and failing to vocalize. If only his brain would actually start to function, this might go smoother.
“It’s alright,” Yuna assured them both, her voice quiet and sincere. “I- we’ll discuss whatever is going between you two later, when you’re feeling better,” she said. “But...there is something, right? Shane said this has been going on for a while?”
Ilya raised his head, getting a bit of a rush in the process, but he nodded. “Yes,” he replied simply, not really knowing what else to tell her. Or how to, for that matter, feeling too tired and ill to come up with excuses for how he felt or pretend this wasn’t as important to him as it was.
She pulled her lips tight, an epiphany of sorts hitting her quickly as she realized he didn’t have to be some sort of enemy in her mind. He could just be Ilya, if she got to know him. Which she would have to, if he was important to Shane.
“Okay, then,” she muttered softly, scanning over them with her eyes for a moment as they leaned over the counter, both trying to stay upright and look less sick than they clearly both were. “Soup should be done once the vegetables soften, so until then we’ll take your temperatures again and you can both rest on the couch.”
Shane still looked reluctant, not for soup or for the comfort of laying back down but for her spending all day here taking care of them. “Mom you really don’t have to—”
“It’s either me or a doctor,” she interjected, giving him a look he couldn’t argue with when he was perfectly healthy, let alone still sick.
He sighed, and it turned into another cough that just served to solidify her point. “Fine.”
Yuna gave a small smile, much softer than her previous glare allowed and heard the buzzer go off in the other room. “Why don’t you both lay down and I’ll bring you a warm blanket from the dryer?” she suggested, watching her son agree and Ilya tense. “Oh, how about a warm blanket and one of Shane’s cooling towels? I can put it in the freezer for a bit.”
Ilya stared at her like the gesture somehow meant the world to him, nodding slowly as he tried to get to his feet still feeling a bit dizzy. “Thank you,” he mumbled, lips hesitating like he was going to tack her name or another Mrs. Hollander on the end before he decided against it and turned away from her.
She let out a slow, silent breath, watch as Shane shuffled out of the kitchen. He wrapped his arm around Ilya, half to steady himself and half for emotional support. The sight tugged at something in her chest, and she couldn’t really figure out why. Maybe because she had never really seen her son act that way, comfortable, with anyone. Not truly. He always still seemed a bit tense, even when it was family or friends.
In the living room, she could hear Shane coughing again and shifting of pillows falling back onto the floor as they tried to get some rest. Easier said than done when they were both still trying to keep their fevers at bay.
“She’s taking it better than I thought,” Shane mumbled, assuming she couldn’t hear them. “Finding you here, I mean. I thought she’d freak.”
She could, of course, but didn’t bother to let them know that. It killed her a little, though, to know he had believed she wouldn’t accept this. Them. She had never wanted to, for a single moment, come across as the kind of mother who might not accept her son no matter who he was.
Ilya just hummed. “Is not surprising,” he replied. She raised you, after all. Loves you un- uncon...dibitable. Uncondibitly?” He scrunched his nose, knowing it sounded wrong.
“Unconditionally,” he corrected gently, nudging his leg with his foot.
“That, yes,” Ilya snapped his fingers. “I knew the word, I swear it. Brain just...ngh.” He groaned, resting his head on the couch as he gave up on the sentence, figuring it was too much work. “She loves you that way.”
Yuna felt her chest tighten again, this time in appreciation. To her, it felt as normal as breathing to love her son. Sometimes, she couldn’t even differentiate between them. But Ilya said it like it was somehow special, something surprising. Something he might not have, if he came out to the people he was close with.
“Yeah, she’s great,” Shane agreed, nodding his head. “I never really thought she’d be mad, you know? I just didn’t want to disappoint her.”
“Can’t disappoint people who love you,” Ilya told him bluntly, as if it was just a fact he would have to accept. “Can’t disappoint your mom or dad just like you can never disappoint me.”
He tsk’d softly. “Pretty vulnerable coming from you of all people,” he teased lightly, knowing he was just as closed off to the outside world. They didn’t typically have much choice in the matter. For their own careers, they had to be. “I think...” he hesitated. “...If Irina were around, she would love you unconditionally, too.”
Ilya’s lips quirked into a sad smile. “She would,” he muttered without missing a beat. “She loved deeply, like that. You always felt...so safe in her arms, like nothing bad could ever touch you.” He sighed. “When I was sick, she’d rub circles on my back until I fell asleep. She’d sing, too. This song...uh, lullaby, yes? She had a beautiful voice.”
Yuna sucked in a deep breath, reaching up to wipe her eyes that she hadn’t even realized had grown a bit cloudy. She had never given much thought to Ilya’s home life or his family. She never had a reason to. But hearing it now, compared to her, no less, had her blaming the onions still simmering in the soup for her tears.
“What song?” Shane wondered curiously.
He had heard about Irina before, of course, in bits and pieces mostly though. It wasn't something Ilya talked about very often, not unless asked, at least.
“Is called Kolybel'naya medveditsy; means something like bears lullaby in English,” he explained, thinking back for a moment or two about the song. “Spi skorey i ty, Malysh. My plyvom na l'dine, Kak na brigantine Po sedym, surovym Moryam. I vsyu noch' sosedi, Zvozdnyye med.”
He spoke it, instead of singing, almost as if he could never do it justice the way his mom used to. But Shane could still hear the fondness in his voice, see the way he was thinking about her in his head. Yuna could hear it too, realizing how badly he must miss his mom. Everyone wanted their parents when they got sick, right? She didn't really even realize until then that she had already decided to take care of him, to be his parent for now if not longer.
“It’s pretty,” Shane muttered quietly.
“She sung it better,” Ilya insisted, shaking his head a bit. “Did everything better. Best hugs, best cooking, best laugh. Just made everything fade away, you know? Even a bleeding knee could just be cured when she started to make jokes and tickle ribs.”
People saying laughter was the best medicine and all that nonsense, in his opinion. It always had been and always would be. Except when it was about his mama. She could genuinely manage it, none of that ridiculous stuff people just said because they wanted to.
He huffed a bit. “I bet you were cute as a kid, laughing,” he told him. “I wish I had pictures of it.” He could practically imagine him with a stick too big for his hands helmet hair making his hair even frizzier.
“I was skinny child with stupid curls,” he retorted with a grimace. “Not cute. Not like you were with freckles and goofy smile.” Well, he still had both of those, actually. Ilya was glad about it, too. He liked them.
Yuna pulled herself together enough to pry herself away from the kitchen and make good on her promise, bringing them a blanket and cooling towel. She didn’t mention hearing their conversation and doubt they noticed anything too peculiar about her behavior, but she was definitely staring at Ilya with a bit more fondness in her eyes than she was previously when she was still trying to figure out how she felt.
“Here, this should help a bit,” she muttered, pulling the warm blanket over her son and then helping Ilya sit up a bit before laying the towel over his neck. “How’s that?” she asked, double checking.
“Better, thank you,” he told her with a small smile that still felt a bit awkward.
Yuna would take it, though. “I’ll grab you both some more water to stay hydrated,” she told them, pausing for a moment to look between them. “Let me know if there’s anything else, alright?” It was a broad offer, of course. But she looked directly at Ilya when she said it.
He nodded, shoulders slouching as they both rested back against their sides of the couch still coughing and wheezing. He could feel her hand very briefly brush his curls, the gesture swift but noticeable.
He followed her with his eyes as she went to grab them some water, a small smile still perched on her lips. Even when she came back, it was still there. She came and went, checking in every few minutes to make sure they didn't want anything else as she kept folding laundry and wiping down surfaces to try to keep germs from clinging to every single area of the house.
Their heads still ached, and their joints were sore like they had been preparing for a triathlon. But the room was clean; their fevers were lower, and the smell of soup had drifted throughout the whole house. Most importantly, Shane felt a bit lighter. Not physically, but emotionally. When he saw his mom rounding the corner with bowls in each hand, he was pretty sure it was the most comforting sight he’d seen in a long time. Especially when she set them down with the exact same loving expression she had always given, just extended to another person.