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Ilya can tell that Shane has been feeling off for days. It’s just one of those things, the longer you’re with someone, the more you can pick up on their habits, their tells, their idiosyncrasies. It’s how Ilya knows Shane is sick before he does…but mostly that’s because Shane will grip onto the fact that he’s ‘fine’ by tooth and nail. He’ll cling to this notion until he has no choice but to let go. It doesn’t matter if he’s got snot spilling from his nose, that he’s dizzy and faint, that he’s got a headache the size of Russia, or that he can’t fall asleep because he’s sneezing every three minutes—how dare someone suggest he might need to lie down because, as he’s stated, he’s fine.
“Stubborn,” Ilya tuts quietly as he turns off the ridiculously early alarm that Shane insisted on setting last night, as if he was going to get up and do his regular routine. He ended up in bed late and once he managed to actually fall asleep, not even a hurricane could wake him. Ilya knows he’s exhausted.
Shane’s lying on his stomach, breathing heavily through his mouth because his nose is congested and Ilya runs a firm hand along his back, stroking his fingers through his husband’s hair. He leans down and plants a kiss to his forehead, checking his temperature. When he’s satisfied that he doesn’t have a fever, he gets up and places a glass of water on the nightside table along with a bottle of aspirin.
He then quietly leaves the bedroom and makes a b-line for their son’s bedroom. One year old Rowan is already awake, standing in his crib by holding onto the bars for support. He’s been doing that a lot lately, not quite walking on his own but ‘cruising’ by holding onto whatever surface he can get his hands on.
Ilya grins at him when Rowan’s eyes brighten. Eyes that are Shane’s. “Ma,” He whispers, reaching his arms up.
“Yeah, hi.” Ilya scoops him right up into his arms, positioning him against his side, “Good morning, malen'kiy zhuchok.”
Ilya presses a kiss to his cheek, going through the morning routine that Rowan usually does with Shane. He makes sure he’s gotten a bath, changed and has eaten something, all the while getting himself coffee and toast. Shane doesn’t stir until ten-thirty, which is probably why he looks so disoriented as he comes into the living room wrapped up in a blanket.
Ilya is on the floor with Rowan and Anya, Rowan sitting between his legs and playing with a ball drop toy that Yuna and David got for him. Most toys are things that used to belong to Shane, but some things are new. Rowan picks up one of the brightly colored balls and makes a sound of pure joy as he drops it into one of the holes, watching as it travels down a path, plopping into different containers.
He runs a hand through Rowan’s curls, “You look like an angry burrito.”
Shane’s eyebrows draw together, a cough leaving his lips. He sits on the arm of the couch, “Whatstimeisit?”
Ilya raises his eyebrows at the garbled speech, “What language is that?” There’s a bitchy glare that is pure Shane. He grins, “Almost eleven. How do you feel?” He holds up one of his hands, “Do not say ‘fine’.”
His husband sighs, “Awful.” He admits. And while Ilya doesn’t like the sound of that, it’s better than pretending.
Rowan looks up, seemingly aware that Shane’s here and not on the floor, holding up a yellow ball for him. “Dada!”
Shane manages a small smile, one that Ilya can tell is genuine even though he doesn’t feel well, “I see. Yellow.” He sniffles, rubbing his temple.
“Did you take aspirin?” Ilya asks, standing from the floor. He checks to make sure Rowan is okay before moving to position himself in front of his husband.
Shane tips his head back to look at him, nodding, “Thank you.” He whispers.
Ilya smiles, cupping his cheek. He leans down and presses a kiss to the bridge of his nose, brushing his thumb over his freckles, “Let me get you something else.”
Shane shakes his head, closing his eyes at Ilya’s touch, “I just want to go back to bed.”
“You need to eat. Even if it’s something bad for you,” He pauses, trying to think of what he means, “Comfortable food.”
A twitch of a smile on Shane’s lips, “Comfort food.”
“Yes.” His hand falls to the back of Shane’s neck, massaging the bunched up muscles there. Shane sighs out of his nose (or, at least as much as he can), tipping his head forward until he’s resting against Ilya’s shoulder.
Ilya tucks him close for a few moments, glancing over his shoulder to see what Rowan is doing. He’s showing Anya one of the balls he’s playing with. Anya is very attuned to said ball, jumping after it when Rowan drops it and it goes rolling. A small smile pulls the corners of his mouth when Rowan laughs; the sound fills up the entire room.
Shane eventually pulls back, begrudgingly; Ilya can tell he was ready to fall asleep like that, upright and against him.
“Go back to bed,” Ilya adjusts the blanket over his shoulders. “I will check on you in a little.”
Shane nods, slowly getting up and making his way back upstairs. Rowan wanders over on wobbly legs a few moments later, using the edge of the couch and the coffee table to grab onto Ilya’s leg. He leans down and picks him up, a soft smile on his face before kissing his cheek.
“Dada.” Rowan whispers, looking in the direction of where Shane’s went.
“I know,” He rubs Rowan’s chest.
It’s very unlike Shane to not pick Rowan up, to playfully blow raspberries on his neck so he giggles, to get down on the floor with him and immediately start playing. He doesn’t want to get their son sick and while Ilya understands, Rowan doesn’t. But even at one he seems to sense that something is off.
“Dada doesn’t feel good, so he’s going back to bed,” He carries Rowan towards the kitchen, “But,” He smiles, setting him down in his high-chair, “We’re going to take care of him.” Whether Shane likes it or not.
—
Ilya thinks about the last time he was sick, really sick and Shane wasn’t home. It was early in their relationship and he was still playing for the Metros. Not only did Yuna come over and look after him, she made sure he had everything Ilya needed to feel better. Which included, but wasn’t limited to, cupcakes.
He uses her recipe but he already knows it won’t be as perfect tasting as the ones she made. Rowan sits dutifully in his high-chair, munching on a cereal snack, Anya by his legs because he drops some onto the floor every so often. On purpose, he thinks, like Ilya often does at dinner even though Shane tells him not to.
The cupcakes cool and he puts icing on them and nods his head because…not bad, right? Even if they don’t taste just like Yuna’s, they were made with a lot of love and Ilya thinks that intention matters.
“Okay,” He whispers to himself, picking Rowan up into his arms, “C’mon, let’s go take one to dada.”
Rowan reaches for the cupcake Ilya holds and gets one of his hands into it, bringing icing to his mouth. Ilya smirks as he gets it more on his cheeks than anything else but he seems to approve of the sugary taste. Let’s hope it’s actually not too terrible.
He bumps open the bedroom door with his hip to find Shane awake and propped up against the headboard with a bunch of blankets and pillows around him. “No,” He sniffles, “Don’t bring him in here.”
“Is okay,” Ilya assures him, taking Rowan towards his playpen near the fireplace. It’s far enough away from the bed that it should be just fine for a few minutes, “You are going to get wrinkles if you keep worrying.”
Shane grumbles something under his breath that Ilya can’t make out but he smiles as he goes to sit next to his thorny husband,
“We made you these.”
Shane looks at the cupcake in Ilya’s hand, raising his eyebrows. It’s chocolate with buttercream icing, blue sprinkles. It’s definitely not what he expected and there’s something about catching Shane off guard that makes warmth spread through Ilya’s body.
He smiles, motioning to the cupcake, handing it over to his husband, “Eat—sugar will make you feel better.”
Shane lets out a soft laugh, the tip of his nose is pink, making Ilya want to kiss him, “I dunno if it works like that.” But he’s peeling the wrapper, tongue sneaking out to lick at the icing.
“It’s science.”
Shane smiles, something warm and genuine, “It’s really not.”
Ilya purses his lips, “Best husband award is within my reach.”
There’s an eyeroll as he takes a bite of the cupcake, a soft hum leaving his lips before he says (with too much affection), “You’re an idiot.”
Ilya smirks, hooking Shane’s chin between his fingers, “And you are kapkeyk.” Cupcake. He plants a quick kiss on his lips.
There’s a soft protest from Shane, gently pushing on his chest—not wanting him to get sick and needing to make sure he washes his face and hands and brushes his teeth before picking up Rowan again. But it’s worth it. It’s all worth it.
Because Shane’s smiling and Ilya can tell he feels just a little bit better. And he tastes like icing.