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It starts surprisingly enough when Ilya is sick. Not just sick sick, but depression-causing-a-low-so-hard-that-he-forgets-to-go-to-the-toilet-despite-Shane-begging-and-getting-a-kidney-infection-sick.
Of course, Shane would never tell anybody, but a sick Ilya is a clingy Ilya and a clingy Ilya means Shane’s entire routine has been thrown out of whack as his boyfriend holds his ankles like a toddler being refused candy in a grocery store, blanket and pain meds along for the ride.
If the house wasn’t constantly clean, in no part thanks to Anya’s messes and all the thanks to the amazing cleaning team that they literally have hired for this kind of thing - he’s sure that Ilya would leave noticeable drag paths or a series of footprints in his weight from following Shane around, even though he should be upstairs resting.
Shane feels awful, because of course he does, it’s his boyfriend after all and he wishes he could do more, but given there’s only so much a 6 foot Russian masochist can be convinced to do, Shane’s not exactly speedrunning many ideas that don’t involve calling his parents and taking off just to get a few hours of calm.
It’s only when he’s picked up Anya from the groomers and lets her run riot in the house, that he gets an idea.
Quietly, he ascends the stairs two at a time, heading down the hall until he reaches his and Ilya’s bedroom, pushing the ajar door open and leaning against the door frame as he watches the sunlight of early afternoon create golden lines across the floor and on the bed covers where Ilya is lying curled up, face hidden under one of his arms that is thrown over it.
Thankfully, it’s easy to wake him, Shane simply sitting on the far side of the bed and running his hand over Ilya’s chest, producing an irritated grumble in response that makes Shane chuckle. “Rise and shine, Boston.”
“Is not Boston any more.” His boyfriend’s voice echoes back tiredly, arm moving as he cracks one of his eyes open to glare at Shane. “Don’t feel like eating.”
“For once, I’m not here for that.” Shane can’t help but smirk, knowing exactly what Ilya was going to say, tilting his head while he looked at him. “You feel like getting up?”
“Why?” Ilya’s head moves fractionally, interested, but not completely convinced. Shane can work with that.
“Wanna make you feel better is all.” He reaches out, ghosting Ilya’s hand with his own before he laces their fingers together and tugs gently. “C’mon.”
Ilya hesitates for a few minutes before he pushes himself up on an elbow and follows, their hands staying linked the whole time.
“Why are we in bathroom?” Shane turns as his boyfriend asked the question, grabbing the shower chair they still had from when Ilya fucked his knee and couldn’t stand (or play) for several weeks, settling it inside the shower glass before petting the seat. “Clothes off and sit.”
Ilya just looks at him a little funny.
Shane rolls his eyes. “Not like that, you pervert. I just don’t want your clothes to get wet.”
“What even are you doing?”
“Just shut up and take your clothes off.”
“Okay, okay.” Ilya held his hands up before slowly starting to remove his shirt and sweats. “Bossy, solnyshko.”
Soon enough, Shane guide his naked form into the shower and sits him in the chair, cranking the shower up to a decent temperature as the water groans through the pipes, shocking his own clothes before he wanders over to their meticulously curated shower shelf that Shane insisted getting installed once the renovations happened on their house about a year ago.
Ilya, from his post, watches as Shane carefully picks up his highly prized (and very expensive) curly hair shampoo and conditioner, along with the leave in brassy tone remover that he gets specially imported from Russia via Svetlana as the American brands are inferior.
Bringing them over the short distance, Shane settles the bottles on the ground next to Ilya before pulling out one of their shower steamers and chucking it on the ground under the spray, the entire room starting to smell like eucalyptus and mint before Shane is angling the shower towards Ilya’s head, fingers diving in and nails scratching Ilya’s scalp with a gentle ferocity that makes his shoulders completely drop and a sigh leave his mouth.
He floats, boneless, as Shane’s hands work their magic, shampoo, conditioner, leave in - then he feels them run down his neck and chest with something that smells a lot like Shane’s body wash (something fresh that Ilya’s smelled before on the latter after a workout), humming and head dropping to one side as Shane works down his arms and abs as well with the stuff, till the top half of him is completely lax and he’s nuzzling his face into Shane’s side as he comes round to help wash the soap off.
“Feeling better?” Shane’s voice is quiet as he asks.
“Da. Yes.” Ilya grabs Shane’s free hand, kissing his knuckles. “Thankyou, luchik.”
“Thank me by getting better, okay?” Shane just kisses his damp forehead before resting his there. “Love you.”
“Tozhe tebya lyublyu.”
Love you too.