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“Shane, kotik. You know that I love you, da?”
Ilya leans against the counter, glass of water dangling from his fingers, and stares at his boyfriend who is sitting at the nearby table. Shane doesn't look up from his laptop, and Ilya can see the reflection of some document in the lenses of his glasses.
He nods and says, “I do.”
The simple nonchalance of the two word reply leaves Ilya momentarily reeling. His brain floods with images and glimpses of maybes and somedays.
Shaking his head, Ilya sets his glass on the counter. He slowly stalks closer to the table, eyes not leaving Shane's pinched expression. “And you also know that I think you are most beautiful man in the world, yes? After me, of course,” Ilya grins. He places his hands flat on the table and leans forward, body angled and taut as he observes Shane.
Sweet, beautiful Shane who… does not look himself.
Finally, Shane lifts his eyes from the computer screen. He removes his glasses, a move that Ilya silently mourns, and sets them aside. Shane's eyes are duller than usual, and the tiniest bit bloodshot. His cheeks are flush in a way that is not fun and sexy but reads more fever and germs.
He looks so tired.
“You, and do not take this the wrong way, look like shit.”
“Fuck off, Rozanov!”
Rolling his eyes, Ilya stands up straight to round the table. “You are taking wrong way!” he exclaims, pulling out the chair beside Shane to sit down.
“My boyfriend just said I look like shit on our first day together in almost a month! How else am I supposed to take it?” Shane asks, clearly agitated. His voice even sounds off.
“I only meant… you look like you could have cold. Maybe you should nap?” Ilya suggests softly. He brushes some of Shane’s hair from his forehead and feels the warmth there. “You feel warm.”
“I feel fine,” Shane argues, gently batting Ilya's hand away.
Ilya lays his hand at the back of Shane's neck. His skin does feel much warmer than usual under Ilya’s palm. “People get sick, Shane. Is okay,” he murmurs, gently squeezing Shane's neck.
“I… I am fine. I don't… Shane Hollander does not get sick.”
Dropping his hand, Ilya leans back in his chair and blinks slowly at Shane. “Okay. So who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?” Ilya asks with a grin pulling at his lips. He gets to his feet and feigns looking around the apartment for help. “Police, quick! A sickly imposter has broken into my boyfriend's apartment,” he yells, hands cupped around his mouth.
Shane's hands flail as he jumps to his feet, attempting to shush Ilya.
Ilya laughs, wrapping his arms around Shane's shoulders to pull him against his chest. “Shh, malysh,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss against Shane’s warm temple. He can feel the tension in Shane’s body begin to drain as he lays his head down on Ilya’s shoulder. “If you will not for you, then can you do this for me? I think it will be nice. You can take a nap. I can get you medicine and soup,” he suggests, voice soft and melodic against the shell of Shane’s ear.
“Will you leave me alone if I go lay down?” Shane asks on a heavy exhale. Ilya can hear him rolling his eyes.
“No,” Ilya says simply. He lets his hands run in broad strokes over Shane's back. He can feel the way his muscles loosen under his touch. “Mm, but I will stop saying you look like shit.”
Shane pinches Ilya's side hard enough to have him yelp and release his hold. Lifting his head, Shane looks back at Ilya and it is glaringly obvious that he is sick despite his loud denials.
“Go. Put on comfy clothes and get in bed. I will get soup and medicine,” Ilya says, taking Shane's cheek in his hand.
Thankfully, Shane doesn't fight him. He simply nods and turns to press a delicate kiss to the center of Ilya’s palm before turning away. And, because Ilya is a kind and loving boyfriend who wants to continue fucking Shane Hollander and does not wish to be murdered, he will never tell Shane how dry his lips felt.
Once Shane is out of sight, Ilya turns to make his way to Shane’s refrigerator. He isn't quite sure what he expected from his bird food eating boyfriend, but he finds meticulously labeled containers with dates and times as well as a lot of produce. Shaking his head, Ilya closes the refrigerator and heads toward the door with his wallet in hand and a hat on his head.
The nearest grocery store has all of what Ilya is looking for, including some cold medicine to hopefully combat whatever is trying to take Shane out of commission.
The apartment is quiet when he returns. After setting the groceries on the counter, Ilya sneaks up to the bedroom to check on Shane. From the doorway, he can see Shane bundled beneath the covers with a hoodie on. He is fast asleep.
He's beautiful.
If he weren't hellbent on taking care of him, Ilya would already be wrapped around him – germs be dawned.
With one last fleeting look and a fond smile, Ilya returns downstairs to the kitchen. He remembers the basics but does a quick Google search to find a recipe to make sure he doesn't accidentally kill Shane. He works quickly through all the chopping and the peeling and the slicing.
When the pot on the stove is simmering after about an hour or so of work, Ilya grabs the cold medicine along with a bottle of water and heads back upstairs. Shane is awake this time. He looks adorable sleep rumpled but no less ill.
“Ah, if it isn't Sleeping Beauty,” Ilya teases as he enters the room, “How do you feel?”
Shane blinks slowly and glares at Ilya with all the ferocity of a newborn kitten. “You cursed me,” he rasps out before sniffling once. His nose is blush pink and his voice is dry and crackling. “I wasn't sick until you made me sleep.”
“Bednyazhka,” Ilya coos. He walks over to the bed and sits on the edge. He hands Shane the water. “Drink.”
As Shane opens the water, Ilya pulls the medicine from the box. He turns to look at Shane and raises a hand to press the backs of his fingers against Shane's forehead and cheeks.
“Do you have thermometer?”
Shane nods, lowering the bottle, “In the bathroom.”
Ilya pats Shane on the legs over the blankets before getting to his feet. It takes a minute to find the thermometer in the drawers of stuff Shane has accumulated in his bathroom, but Ilya promptly returns, holding the device above his head. He approaches the bed and sits back down beside Shane. “I know I say this a lot but, open,” he says with a shit-eating grin.
Shane mumbles something he doesn't quite catch that is equal parts exasperated and fond before doing as instructed and letting Ilya place the thermometer beneath his tongue.
“I made soup for you. I will bring up in a minute,” Ilya tells him, petting sweaty hair back away from Shane's forehead.
The only response Shane is able to make with his mouth full, again not in the fun and sexy way, is a low inquisitive hum. His eyebrows raise slightly in a questioning way that makes his glassy eyes widen some and, for some reason, reminds him of the street dog by the training rink in Moscow that he used to sneak treats to as a teenager.
The beeping of the thermometer brings Ilya’s thoughts back. He reaches out to remove it from Shane's mouth and looks down at the tiny screen.
“Again, I know I say this a lot, but you're very hot, Shanya,” Ilya says, turning the thermometer to show the screen to Shane.
38.5 degrees.
Definitely a fever.
Shane's lips pull down into a pout. Ilya coos and leans closer to pepper soft kisses along his cheek and temple. “Take your medicine. I will return with soup,” he mumbled against Shane’s ear.
Ilya reluctantly stands up from the bed and turns to leave the room. He hurries down the steps, back into the kitchen. He prepares two bowls of warm soup, the familiar smell filling his nose is comforting in a way he hasn't thought of in many years. Shaking his head, Ilya spoons a generous helping of sour cream into one bowl but stops before doing the second.
He knows he is pushing it with the soup itself when it comes to Shane's crazy diet, and he's not sure if he should push harder with the addition of dairy on an already very potato forward dish. Ilya decides against it, and returns the container to the fridge. He places a spoon into each of the bowls before picking them out and making his way back upstairs.
Back to Shane.
“Okay. Your soup is here, moya lyubov’.”
He returns to the spot he previously vacated next to Shane. Shane takes the bowl, holding it firmly between both of his hands.
“Wha’ kind is it?” he asks.
Ilya hums softly, “Mm, is shchi. Good to keep warm in Russian winters. Keeps you strong. Eat.”
“Why does yours look different?” Shane nods toward the bowl that Ilya is holding.
“Because you are Mr. Bird Food, yes? Most of soup is tomatoes, cabbage, mushroom… things you eat. But also, potato and I know – I know! – that is not diet approved. But is good. So… I did not put sour cream. No dairy, da?”
The look on Shane's face is hard to read at first. His brows furrowed ever-so-slightly, and his lips pursed together. Then, his eyes soften and almost seem to melt. He looks between the two bowls of soup and holds his out, closer to Ilya.
“A little?”
Ilya’s chest warms like he's already eaten a pot of soup. He could survive the coldest Russian winter in nothing but his underwear so long as Shane always looks at him like that. He clears his throat and nods curtly before using his spoon to move a small bit of sour cream from his bowl to Shane's.
He watches closely the way that Shane stirs the contents of his bowl before lifting the spoon to his mouth for a bite.
“Oh. This is… really good,” Shane says, blinking quickly back at Ilya.
Ilya rolls his eyes fondly, “You are surprised? Are you so sick you become rude and ungrateful?”
Shane kicks lightly at Ilay from beneath the blankets. “Shut up. And thank you, really. I appreciate you taking care of me. I know there are more fun things you'd probably prefer to be doing,” Shane says, voice quickly edging toward guilt.
Ilya, who had been on his way to taking his own bite of soup, lowers the spoon back into the bowl. “No, no. I am here to see you. I see you, I am good,” he grins, reaching out to gently cup Shane's cheek in his hand. His thumb brushes gently over his flushed cheek. “Mm, but if you would like, I can always check temperature other way. I have my own thermometer.” He wags his eyebrows and cuts a quick glance down to his crotch before looking back to Shane.
“Oh, my god, Ilya!” Shane laughs loudly, swatting the hand on his face away.
“You are familiar with process, see!”
Shane doesn't respond, he simply returns to the bowl of soup in his hand. Ilya grins before getting up to go around the bed and scoot up to sit beside Shane, leaning against the headboard. They eat in a comfortable quiet. When they are done, Ilya takes the bowls downstairs. He washes and puts them back where he found them, not wanting to leave a mess for Shane. He finds a container to move the soup to. When he finishes cleaning the pot and kitchen, Ilya finds a label to place on the soup and grabs a pen.
Ilya's soup for Ilya's Shane.
He then tucks the container into the fridge and returns upstairs.
In the bedroom, Shane is once again laying down but his eyes are open and watching Ilya as soon as he steps inside. “You took a long time,” he murmurs, voice slow and sleep-heavy.
“I cleaned up after myself, Mr. Hollander,” Ilya grins. He pulls off his shirt and places it on top of Shane's dresser, then does the same with his pants. Once in just his boxer-briefs, he lifts the edge of the blankets to slip into bed beside Shane.
They both move toward the center of the bed, like magnets being pulled by an unseen force, until Ilya is on his back and Shane is draped across his body. Shane's head finds a home on Ilya’s chest, his arm lays warm and heavy across his waist, and one of Shane's legs drapes snugly over one of Ilya's. They are close, almost one body.
Ilya kisses the top of Shane's head.
“Sleep, Shanya.”
Shane turns his head and nuzzles his nose along the curve of Ilya's pec muscle before he places a gentle kiss to the valley between the two, right below his cross necklace. “I love you,” he whispers as he lays his head down once more.
Ilya smiles at the ceiling, “Ya tebya lyublyu.”