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Ilya was startled out of his fitful sleep by the sound of his name. He hadn’t even heard the door open.
He was curled up in bed, shivering despite the comforter pulled tight around him. His nose was both stuffy and running at the same time. His whole body ached worse than after a game where he’d been thrown into the boards multiple times.
It had been a long time since he had felt this sick.
“Ilya?”
He heard his name again. It sounded closer this time. It had to be Shane. They both had a few days lined up where neither of them had any games, so they had planned for Shane to come to Boston so they could spend some precious time together. Ilya had given him his own key, so he could let himself in.
Ilya felt his skin crawl with guilt. He had meant to text Shane last night, to tell him not to come. Selfishly, though, he missed Shane too much to say it. They got so little time together. Ilya had been willing to risk Shane being grossed out and annoyed just to see him for even a few minutes.
Now he wasn’t sure how Shane would react. Maybe he would be angry that he came all this way for nothing.
He heard Shane’s footsteps getting closer and curled up even tighter, bracing for rejection.
“Jesus, Ilya, are you okay?”
Ilya screwed his eyes shut, afraid to look as he heard Shane set down his bag and approach the bed. He felt the mattress dip under Shane’s weight, and then the back of his hand pressed against his forehead.
Pathetically, he whimpered at the touch. He knew Shane would leave soon, wouldn’t want to take the chance of getting sick himself.
“Ilya, you’re burning up.”
Hearing the frown in Shane’s voice, he risked opening his eyes to look at him. Shane’s hand moved from Ilya’s forehead to stroke down his cheek. Ilya thought that maybe he looked concerned, but everything felt hazy, so he couldn’t be sure.
“Have you taken any medicine?”
Ilya shook his head no, not trusting himself to speak. Shane’s brows scrunched into what was normally Ilya’s favorite confused expression. Instead this time it made tears prick at his eyes.
“I’ll get you something. Do you keep your medicine in the kitchen or the bathroom?”
“I don’t have any. Am never sick.” His voice sounded strange to his own ears.
Shane looked a bit exasperated, and then his gaze landed on the roll of toilet paper on the bedside table Ilya had been using as makeshift tissues. He huffed out a laugh.
“I don’t know why I’m surprised you’re not prepared for every possible scenario.”
“Is your job. You probably have spreadsheet for being sick.”
Ilya sniffed and, not-so-subtly, scooted closer to Shane, the blanket slipping off his shoulder.
“Shut up, you like my spreadsheets.” Shane pulled the blanket back up and tucked it more securely around Ilya. “I’m going to have to go to the store then. Your nose deserves real tissues. And I’m betting you don’t have any soup either.”
“Don’t go…” Ilya freed one hand from the blanket to grab Shane’s arm. He had a terrible sinking feeling that once Shane walked out the door, he would never come back — especially not after seeing how pathetic Ilya was being.
Shane gave him a soft smile, slowly stroking his fingers through Ilya’s sweat-damp curls. “Ilya, how am I supposed to take care of you without the proper supplies? It should only take an hour.”
Ilya’s fingers tightened weakly in Shane’s sleeve. An hour felt like a long time. Would he really come back? Did Shane really want to take care of him?
“You will… you will come back, yes?”
“Of course I’m going to come back. I’m in Boston for you, where else would I go?” Shane’s voice turned teasing. “Besides, I can’t risk you hiring a nurse who’s hotter than me.”
“Impossible. No one is hotter than Shane Hollander.”
Shane laughed, bright and warm and full of affection.
Ilya looked at him through half closed eyes, afraid if he spoke again it would be to beg Shane to stay. Shane carded through Ilya’s hair one more time as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
“Go back to sleep. I’ll be back before you miss me.”
Ilya knew that wasn’t true at all. Anytime Shane wasn’t with him, Ilya missed him. If he woke up one day to find they had somehow been connected at the hip, he would not complain at all. That seemed more likely than being able to tuck Shane safely in his pocket and carry him everywhere with him always.
Reluctantly, Ilya let go of his sleeve when Shane stood. Shane fussed with the blankets a bit more, making sure Ilya was properly tucked in before he left the room.
Ilya could vaguely register Shane rummaging through cabinets in the other room, and then the sound of water running before he came back to the bedroom.
“Can you sit up? You should probably drink something.”
The thought of moving that much was not something that even remotely appealed to him, but he would try for Shane.
Ilya lurched forward a bit, but his head started pounding and he felt dizzy as an uncomfortable chill radiated down his spine. His breath hitched, which only started a coughing fit that left his throat raw and his chest aching.
Shane set the glass aside and moved forward to rub Ilya’s back until the coughing subsided.
While Ilya worked at catching his breath, Shane adjusted the pillows before gently lifting Ilya to reposition him in a more inclined position. Ilya was a bit embarrassed by the whimper that left him when Shane’s chest pressed against his.
He was so warm. Did he really have to leave? Couldn’t Shane just stay and hold him?
Shane caught a tear that had escaped from Ilya’s watering eyes with his thumb. “Okay?”
Ilya nodded, unable to hold back another cough.
Shane picked up the glass of water again and pressed it to Ilya’s lips. “Go slow, okay?”
Ilya took small sips when Shane tilted the glass. He couldn’t deny the cool water felt soothing to his aching throat.
“Better?” Shane asked when Ilya had stopped drinking. He returned the half-full glass to the nightstand.
Ilya responded by weakly trying to pull Shane forward by the front of his hoodie. Shane came willingly, wrapping his arms around Ilya, lifting him off the bed a little so that he was pressed firmly against him. Ilya sniffed into Shane’s shoulder, loosely wrapping his arms around him as Shane rubbed slow circles into his back.
Shane turned his head and pressed a kiss to Ilya’s temple. “I’ll be back in an hour, promise.”
Ilya sniffed, trying to press his face further into Shane’s neck. “Okay.”
He felt Shane press another kiss to his cheek as he leaned Ilya back against the pillows and tucked the blanket in tight around him. His eyelids felt heavy as he watched Shane leave the room again, and he dimly registered the front door opening and closing, the lock clicking into place.
Ilya pressed himself further into the mattress, burrowing deeper into the blanket. He wished he were wrapped in Shane’s warm arms instead, held tight against his broad chest.
He kept his eyes closed, even though he wasn’t really sleeping. Ilya couldn’t be sure how much time had passed. It felt as though Shane had left days ago, but it might have only been minutes.
For a moment, Ilya thought maybe he imagined Shane being there in the first place, but when he reached for the roll of toilet paper so he could blow his nose, the glass of water was still sitting on the bedside table as proof.
Eventually, he must have actually fallen asleep, because he never heard Shane come back. He blearily opened his eyes when the bed dipping behind him gave him the sick swooping sensation that he was falling. But then he felt a solid arm around him, catching him, pulling him backwards into solid warmth.
Ilya turned over to burrow into Shane, slotting one leg between Shane’s and tucking his head under Shane’s chin, letting the warmth of him seep deep into his aching body. Shane hummed, kissing his forehead and started gently stroking his hair.
“You are warm,” Ilya sniffed.
Shane chuckled. “So are you, even though you don’t feel it.”
Ilya twisted his fingers in the back of Shane’s hoodie. “You were gone for so long.”
Shane squeezed him lightly. “It was only forty-seven minutes.”
“You timed yourself?”
“I knew you would ask.” Ilya could hear the eyeroll even though he couldn’t see it.
“What did you buy?”
“Medicine, Gatorade, VapoRub, a humidifier, soup, real tissues… you know, the essentials.”
“Hollander, I do not know half of these words.”
Ilya tried to press himself closer as Shane’s laughter vibrated through him.
“A humidifier adds moisture to the air, so it isn’t as dry. It should help with your cough. You can only use it with distilled water, not tap water, not even regular bottled water — I’m serious, Rozanov — you have to buy distilled water. And you have to clean it often. Every other day at least. But everyday would be better. If you don’t, it will get gross and moldy, and then it’ll just make you sicker.”
Ilya hummed as his eyes closed, just listening to Shane talk, letting his steady voice warm him from the inside out. He was very passionate about the machine that made the air less dry.
Ilya didn’t think the air would make him better, but clearly Shane thought it was necessary, and just listening to him talk was soothing. Ilya thought maybe just Shane’s presence would make him better.
If he could just stay like this forever — with his ear pressed against Shane’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart — just listening to him talk about anything, everything.
Maybe Ilya could convince him to read from one of the boring hockey books he liked, not because Ilya wanted to learn anything, but just to fill the silence. Ilya didn’t like complete silence, he needed at least some kind of background noise or it started to feel like his skin was crawling.
He supposed that, even without Shane’s voice, it wasn’t exactly silent. Something almost like a fan was whirring softly nearby, though Ilya couldn’t tell if it was real or if he was imagining it. Maybe it was the special water machine Shane had been so excited about.
Ilya didn’t know when Shane had stopped talking, but his fingers were rubbing gentle circles into his scalp, and it felt so nice.
Ilya couldn’t remember the last time someone had held him like this. Usually when he was sick he just waited it out alone.
He shivered, trying to lose himself in Shane’s touch again, but he knew he was failing. Shane shushed him softly, smoothing a hand over his back.
Ilya sniffed, trying to banish the memory of his father’s voice calling him weak, telling him to get out of bed and sweat it out.
Tears pricked his eyes and he turned his head so his forehead pressed against Shane’s collarbone. He sniffed again, no longer sure if it was because he was sick or because he was seconds away from crying in front of his boyfriend.
Shane pressed a gentle kiss into his curls before resting the back of his hand against Ilya’s cheek. He felt his chest tighten when he realized Shane was checking to see how warm he was.
Ilya cleared his throat before speaking, trying for humor despite how exhausted he felt. “Nurse Hollander, I thought you were going to give me medicine to make me all better.”
“You should probably eat something first. I don’t think you’re supposed to take them on an empty stomach.”
“I don’t have much food here. Was supposed to go shopping before you came.”
Ilya felt the familiar weight of guilt creep through him. He should have gone sooner, but he always put tedious things off to the last minute — then he had gotten sick and become useless. How could Shane possibly want him if he was useless?
“That’s okay, I bought soup when I went to get medicine, remember?”
Shane didn’t sound annoyed. And he was being so… so gentle. Ilya didn’t deserve it.
“You are going to cook for me in my own kitchen?”
“I’m certainly not letting you near the stove like this.”
Ilya tightened his grip in the back of Shane’s sweatshirt, overwhelmed by his insistence. It wasn’t the passive aggressive-kind he was used to, either. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.
Secretly, a part of him he had locked away long ago wanted Shane to take care of him — wanted to beg him to do things he knew he could do himself.
He was allowed to want that, right?
Shane pulled away, smoothing Ilya’s hair back to press a kiss to his sweat-damp forehead.
“It should only take ten minutes.”
“Okay,” Ilya sniffed. His eyes searched Shane’s face for any hint of annoyance. He didn’t think there was any, but everything felt a bit surreal and blurry around the edges.
He lay there as Shane got up, once again making sure the blanket was snug around him before leaving the room.
Distantly, Ilya could hear the clatter of Shane moving dishes around the kitchen. He sniffed again before turning toward the bedside table to grab a piece off the toilet paper roll, but found it was no longer there.
Instead, there was a box of tissues, a bottle of light purple Gatorade, and a small white machine emitting a steady stream of steam. Dimly, he realized it was the source of the whirring noise he thought he had imagined earlier.
He grabbed a tissue, blinking back tears.
Weak, weak, weak.
He couldn’t let Shane catch him crying over such simple things.
He wiped at his eyes before blowing his nose.
Ilya would never tell Shane, but the tissue did feel much softer against his raw nose.
Not long after, Shane returned with a bowl cradled in a dish towel in one hand, a spoon and a sleeve of crackers in the other. He set everything down on the nightstand on the other side of the bed before helping Ilya sit up a bit more, rearranging the pillows as he went.
Ilya watched him open the crackers with tired eyes. Shane sat down on the bed facing him, picking the bowl of soup and the spoon back up. He smiled at Ilya.
“It’s chicken noodle.”
Ilya stayed quiet, not really sure if food of any kind appealed to him at that moment.
He was even more confused when Shane dipped the spoon into the soup, filling it with warm broth, before lifting it to his own lips. When Shane blew on it to cool it off some before carefully moving the spoon towards Ilya.
Heat crept up Ilya’s neck.
“Hollander, I can feed myself.” It was a weak protest, even to his own ears.
Shane’s face scrunched into one of Ilya’s favorite expressions — the one he privately thought made Shane look like an angry kitten.
“You’re sick.”
“Sick, yes, not dying.”
Shane’s expression turned serious. “Don’t even joke about that.”
Ilya looked down at the blanket, fiddling with the edge.
“Besides, I want to.” Shane’s voice softened. “I love you… let me take care of you.”
Ilya felt his eyes sting again. His head hurt. His hands were starting to tremble. He wanted to pull the covers over his head and go back to sleep.
“Ilya…”
“I do not want to… to be a burden.” He still wouldn’t meet Shane’s eyes.
“If I was sick, would you think I was a burden?”
Ilya looked up so fast he thought he might have given himself whiplash. “Shane, no — you could never—”
“Exactly.” Shane gave him a small, knowing smile.
Ilya just stared at him — his warm brown eyes, the familiar pattern of freckles dusted over his cheeks. What had Ilya ever done to deserve him?
Not trusting himself to speak again, he just nodded. He let Shane feed him, managing to eat half of the bowl of soup and a few crackers. None of it tasted like much, but he knew Shane wouldn’t let him have the medicine until he had eaten something.
When Shane offered another spoonful, Ilya shook his head. He just wanted to sleep. When Shane got up again, he wanted to reach out and grab him, to pull him back down to bed, but he didn’t have the energy. Instead he leaned back into the pillows and watched Shane busy himself with cleaning up.
He moved around like it was his home too — like he lived there. Ilya would give anything for that to be true, to wake up next to him every morning, to come home to him every night. One day, he reminded himself. Soon.
He closed his eyes, letting himself drift as he listened to Shane walking through the penthouse, tracking him by sound. Rinsing the bowl in the kitchen. Opening one of the dresser drawers. Setting something down at the foot of the bed. Turning on the sink in the bathroom. Coming around to his side of the bed, then away again.
He heard the soft sound of a box opening, the seal of a plastic bottle breaking. Felt the dip of the bed as Shane sat down, melted into the feeling of Shane’s calloused palm cupping his face.
Ilya barely opened his eyes.
“Hey.” Shane's thumb brushed over his fever-flushed cheek. “Take this, and then we’ll go to sleep, okay?”
Ilya fought to open his eyes more. Shane looked like a dream, a little fuzzy around the edges, but so, so warm. He could tell Shane had traded his hoodie for one of Ilya's Boston shirts, the yellow lettering standing out against the black fabric.
“Okay, sweetheart.”
Shane’s smile was like the sun, a glow he could bask in. Ilya accepted the two pills offered to him, grimacing at their size. He took the open Gatorade bottle from Shane and swallowed them. Shane recapped the drink and set it aside before lying down next to Ilya.
As soon as he was fully horizontal, Ilya draped himself over Shane, nuzzling into his neck. He didn’t want Shane to get up again.
Ilya’s eyes drooped shut as he felt Shane pull the blanket up all the way before wrapping both arms around him. He let out a slow breath, allowing himself to cling.
How long had Shane been here already? When would he have to leave?
They only had two days together.
Ilya hated that he was wasting them like this. It would be another month before they got to see each other again, and even then it would only be for one night after they played each other in Montreal.
He was supposed to have more time, time to be greedy with him. Time to see how Shane lived. Did he make his bed every morning? Ilya would bet that he did, but he needed to experience it to be sure. He wanted to figure out how Shane liked things done. Wanted to be able to do them for him.
Ilya was certain Shane had a system for everything. He was even excited at the prospect of relearning how to load a dishwasher.
Even more exciting was just getting to be with Shane. To be so close it was almost like they were one person, to be able to just look at him without having to school his expression. To study him the way he’d always wanted to.
All the different shades of brown that made up his eyes, the perfect gentle slope of his nose, the beautiful generous splattering of freckles.
He wanted to have the time to count them all, to assign each one a number as he memorized their placement.
It was comforting to think about, charting a map that only he would ever be allowed to see.
Maybe if he kept his eyes closed, time would stop. He could just stay suspended in this moment, sustained only by the rise and fall of Shane’s chest and the hum of the humidifier.
For a moment, he almost believed it. But the peace never lasted.
It didn’t take long for the coughing to start, his throat uncomfortably dry. It wasn’t as bad as before Shane had arrived; he was actually managing to fall asleep for short periods, but it still didn’t feel restful.
After the third time, Shane smoothed a hand over his back.
“Want to try the VapoRub so you can go to sleep?”
“What is that, secret cure?”
Ilya felt Shane’s laugh in his whole body.
“No, but it does help, I swear.”
“Okay.” Ilya still didn’t know what that was, but if Shane said it would help, he was willing to try it.
“Let’s get your shirt off then.” Shane shifted Ilya gently off of him as he sat up.
“You are trying to seduce your patient?” Ilya asked, even as he let Shane lift him off the bed a little to pull his shirt over his head.
Shane rolled his eyes, reaching for something on the table beside the bed.
He watched Shane open a small blue jar, and Ilya was surprised he could smell it. Something strong — minty, but sweetly medicinal.
He watched as Shane dipped his fingers into it, scooping out a bit of what looked like some kind of lotion.
“This should help you cough less so you don’t keep waking up,” Shane said as he started rubbing it into Ilya’s chest.
Ilya was fully awake now, overwhelmed by the smell. His whole body tensed as his heart began to race.
Why did this feel so familiar?
He must have made some kind of noise, because Shane stopped immediately and looked up at him, concern etched into his face. But Ilya couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe — the memory rising unbidden from where it had been locked away in the depths of his mind.
He was a child again, lying in bed, watching his beautiful mother through bleary eyes. The same smell clung to the air as she rubbed soothing circles over his chest.
“{Relax, solnyshko, you are okay. Mama’s here.}”
She brushed his curls out of his face as she began to hum a lullaby.
He was too warm, his throat hurt every time he swallowed, and he couldn’t breathe through his nose, but her presence was a balm. Mama would make everything better. She always did.
Just as he was beginning to drift off, calmed by the familiar song and the strong smell of menthol, he heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Ilya tried to force his eyes to stay open as his mother turned toward the door where his father now stood.
“{He does not need to lie in bed all day Irina. You are only making him lazy.}” His father didn’t bother to hide the disdain in his voice. He never did.
“{He is sick, he needs rest.}”
His father scoffed. “{He needs to learn how to take care of himself. How do you expect him to become a man if he always has his mother coddling him?}”
“{Grigori, please, he is only a boy.}”
“{It is only a cold, he is not dying. He will be fine.}”
Ilya could do nothing as his father grabbed hold of his mother’s arm, pulling her away from him. He saw the tears start to roll down her cheeks, apology glistening in her eyes, as she was dragged into the hallway away from him. Always away from him.
He couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore.
Down the hall, his mother sobbed before a door slammed shut.
The memory slipped into darkness just as quickly as it had arrived.
Shane had pulled Ilya into his lap, holding him to his chest, one hand pressed firm against the center of his back, the other cradling the back of his head.
Ilya’s arms ached, and something was making a strangled noise — a strange wet gasping, like someone was choking.
Shane was talking, he could hear it, but the words made no sense. Desperately, he tried to focus, to listen.
“I’m here, Ilya, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere… I’ve got you.”
He was repeating it over and over again, almost succeeding at keeping the note of panic from his voice.
It was then Ilya realized the choking was actually sobbing — and that it was coming from him. His arms ached because he was holding onto Shane so tightly, clinging with the last bit of strength he had.
It hurt.
He didn’t know how to make it stop.
Distantly, he knew he was making a mess of Shane. The thought of him pulling away only made it worse, his body shaking with the force of it.
Instead, Shane held him closer, giving him a long, firm squeeze.
Ilya fisted his hands in the back of Shane’s shirt as Shane slowly started rocking them back and forth.
He focused on Shane’s continued murmured assurances, repeating them back to himself. He was in his home, with Shane, in Shane’s arms. His mother was at peace. His father couldn’t hurt her anymore.
Slowly, the tension bled out of him. The sobs ebbed to slow tears. He slumped into Shane, too exhausted to hold himself upright any longer.
Shane rubbed slow circles into Ilya’s back, holding him steady for as long as he needed.
Ilya stayed like that until he felt the embarrassment start to creep back in. If he had just been strong enough to tell Shane to stay home, he never would have had to see him like this.
Ilya slowly pulled back, starting to wipe his face on his sleeve. Shane grabbed his wrist, stopping him, before leaning over and plucking several tissues from the box on the table and using those to clean Ilya up himself.
His breath came in staccato hiccups, like his lungs didn’t quite remember how to take in air without sobbing.
He stared blankly at the spot on Shane’s shoulder where his face had been, wet and slick with snot. Even he thought it was gross; there was no world in which Shane Hollander’s insides weren’t crawling with disgust. He couldn’t meet Shane’s eyes.
Shane took a deep, steadying breath.
This was it. This was when he was going to tell Ilya he was too much. Or maybe not enough. This was when he was going to leave.
Ilya closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch.
He felt Shane’s hand settle, firm and warm, on the back of his neck, pulling him forward until their foreheads pressed together.
When Shane spoke, it was almost a whisper.
“You scared me… Where did you go?”
Ilya sniffled, trying to match his breathing to Shane’s so he didn’t lose himself again.
“It was like memory… but stronger?”
“Like a flashback?”
“Yes… like I was there again.”
Shane stayed quiet, as though waiting to see if he would say more. But Ilya didn’t want to relive it again — wasn’t ready to tell Shane everything about his past. Even if he weren’t sick, he wasn’t sure he would be able to find the right words.
He braced himself, waiting for Shane to ask for more details, to try and coax the truth out of him.
Shane pulled back to search his face. Ilya swallowed, trying to come up with something that would explain his reaction. Before he had the chance, Shane asked something else instead.
“But you’re back now? You’re okay?”
Ilya stared at him in disbelief. But why was he surprised? Shane had never demanded anything from him that he wasn’t readily willing to give.
“Da… yes, I am here.” It came out as a whisper, unsteady and unsure.
Shane still looked concerned. “Tell me what you need.”
Ilya couldn’t look at him. He needed too much.
“I don’t want you to… to be angry you have to take care of me.”
Shane frowned. “Angry? Ilya, I will never be mad at you for needing me.”
“It is… I am… weak.”
He was staring past Shane, at the empty doorway.
Shane was quiet for a moment before he took Ilya’s face in both his hands.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Ilya hated that his eyes were burning again. He was tired of crying.
Shane leaned forward and kissed his forehead, brushing away the tears with his thumbs. Ilya finally looked at him.
Shane didn’t look angry. If anything, he looked… sad.
“Do you trust me?”
Ilya nodded. He did. Of course he did.
But the question made him uneasy. Where was Shane going with this?
“Then please hear me when I say that I don’t think you’re weak. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. It’s one of the many things I love about you.”
Ilya closed his eyes. He didn’t know how Shane always managed to find exactly the right words — words that never failed to make him feel like the broken parts of him were slowly being stitched back together.
“Shane, I am…” His throat felt thick. “I love you. I love you, but I do not deserve you.”
“Of course you do.” Shane’s voice didn’t waver. “I’m yours, just like you’re mine.”
Ilya couldn’t help it. “For how long?”
“You have me now. You’ll have me always.” Shane gave him a small smile. “For the long game, remember?”
Ilya pulled one of Shane’s hands away from his face so he could hold it. When he squeezed, Shane squeezed back.
“For the long game,” he repeated softly.
He leaned back further into the pillows, tugging on Shane’s hand to get him to follow. Shane took off his dirty shirt and tossed it into the hamper in the corner.
When Shane finally lay down next to him, Ilya settled into his arms, savoring the warmth of Shane’s skin seeping into his own. He tucked his head under Shane’s chin as the blanket was wrapped around him again.
“Are you warm enough?"
“With you here, yes.”
“Good.” Shane pressed a kiss into his curls as his eyes drooped shut.
He loved Shane so much. He still had no idea what he had done to deserve him. Maybe he hadn’t needed to do anything at all — maybe his mother had sent Shane to him all those years ago, had made sure he was standing in exactly the right spot outside the rink in Saskatchewan.
It was a comforting thought, one he finally let lull him to sleep.
Days later, after Shane had gone back to Montreal and Ilya was better, he took his time cleaning the humidifier. He even bought a cylinder brush to get into the crevices. He let it air dry for two days before he put it away on a shelf in his linen closet, next to the Turkish cotton towels he had bought just for Shane.
When he finally moved to Ottawa a year later, he made sure to take it with him.