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Ilya wakes up feeling like he’s being boiled. He’s so hot, and drenched in sweat. He has just enough time to process this and acknowledge that it’s strange before his stomach lurches, and he suddenly knows why he’s awake. He manages to drag himself halfway upright before he gags, but he’s very much still in bed, not even out from under the blankets, when the next gag morphs into a heave and brings up dinner all over his shirt and the comforter. He has enough mind to turn away from his husband before the next retch, though he’s pretty sure he only succeeds in making a bigger mess: this wave splatters half onto the floor, catching a different section of comforter in the crossfire.
It’s at this point that Shane jerks awake, having been roused by the commotion. Ilya hears his husband’s sleepy “Huh?” before the sound and smell must hit, and then Shane must suddenly be very aware of what’s happening, for he sits bolt upright with a “oh fuck, ok, Ilya, you’re ok,” and Ilya feels his husband’s hand come to rest on his back, rubbing soothing circles. He gets a half second to appreciate it before his stomach contracts again and another rush of hot bile rushes up, splattering dramatically when Ilya coughs a little at the tail end of the heave.
Shane is still muttering platitudes next to him, but it’s all white noise to Ilya as he tries to breathe through the crashing waves of nausea. When he doesn’t immediately throw up again, he takes a bigger breath, willing things to settle. Slowly, the world around him trickles back in, and he becomes aware of Shane’s hand on his back, Shane’s other hand on his forehead, his husband’s murmurs, the whir of the air conditioner.
“Ok, jeez, Ilya,” Shane breathes, sounding equally concerned and shocked. “You’re ok. That was unexpected, huh?”
Ilya hums in agreement. “Sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize,” Shane insists, immediate and firm. “You’re sick, you can’t help it. Do you think we can move to the bathroom, if you’re done for now? We can get you cleaned up, and I can check your temperature, you feel kind of warm.”
“Ok,” Ilya agrees. His stomach isn’t settled, but he doesn’t feel in imminent danger of puking again.
“Ok. Just stay put for a second, ok? I’m going to come help you,” Shane says, shifting away from Ilya and climbing out of the bed on his side.
This, Ilya thinks, is a nice way of saying that Shane is going to try to contain the mess. Which is, unfortunately, necessary. The rapidly cooling pile of sick in his lap is disgusting, and Ilya quickly looks away when a glance at the congealing mess makes him dry heave.
“You good?” Shane has returned from a brief detour into the en-suite, and is now carrying a damp washcloth and an old bath towel. He’s looking at Ilya with an expression that implies he wishes he’d grabbed the trash can, too, just in case.
“Yeah,” Ilya answers his husband. “Just…gross.” He tries and fails to suppress a shudder of revulsion.
“Yeah, but it’s ok,” Shane soothes. “Not your fault, shit happens.”
“Well, no shit yet. Just vomit,” Ilya jokes halfheartedly, which makes Shane huff a laugh. Ilya really hopes that there isn’t diarrhea in his future, at least. The throwing up is bad enough.
Shane carefully picks his way around the splatter of sick on the ground, then takes the bath towel and lays it over the mess. Then he approaches Ilya and holds up the washcloth. “I’m just going to clean your face up a little, ok?”
Ilya hums in agreement and tilts his face in Shane’s direction. His eyes close as his husband gently runs the cloth over his mouth and chin, wiping away drool and strings of vomit. When he’s done, Shane tosses the soiled washcloth on top of the towel. Next goes the blanket, which gets carefully balled up and placed on the floor so that Ilya’s dinner stays contained inside it. Ilya shivers, both at the sudden lack of warmth and at a wave of nausea that crashes over him. God, he does not feel well.
Shane notices, because of course he does. “Are you queasy again?”
“Yes, but am ok. Will not be sick now.” Shane doesn’t look like he believes him, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he instructs Ilya to raise his arms above his head, then slowly and carefully works Ilya’s shirt off, once again being careful to contain the mess. Ilya is sort of grateful he wore a shirt tonight, because the idea of sick being on his bare chest right now makes him feel worse than the wet fabric does.
Once the shirt has joined the pile of linens on the floor (to be cleaned later, or maybe burned, if Ilya has anything to say about it), Shane grips Ilya’s forearms and shifts him towards the edge of the bed.
“Ok, are you good to stand up?” Shane asks.
“Yes, am ok.”
“Go nice and slow,” Shane reminds him, and so Ilya does, easing himself up to standing. It doesn’t immediately make him dizzy, or make him want to throw up more than he already does, so he figures he’s good and begins slowly shuffling to the ensuite. Shane’s hands never leave his body.
By the time they make it to the bathroom, though, Ilya is gulping back saliva, and as soon as he sees the toilet he lurches towards it, half collapsing in his effort to get on his knees in front of it.
“Whoa, Ilya, easy,” Shane exclaims, trying to break his husband’s fall. It doesn’t totally work - Ilya’s knees still crack against the tile hard enough that he’ll feel it tomorrow, but he appreciates Shane’s attempts nonetheless. All sensation, though, is quickly replaced by the urge to heave.
Shane gets the toilet seat up just in time for Ilya to lurch forward and lose whatever is left of last night’s dinner, and probably lunch too. The first wave is violent enough that it comes out his nose, too, and he has to cough after to clear a few stray chunks from his mouth. He doesn’t get long to breathe before he throws up another gush, then pants for breath and waits to see if he’s done.
He sits back, finally, and reaches for the toilet paper with a shaky hand. Shane, of course, beats him to it, and hands him a tissue from the counter so he can wipe his face and blow his nose. He does, and throws the tissue in the toilet before reaching to flush the contents of the bowl with a grimace.
“Ok,” Shane says, in that tone that means he’s overwhelmed but trying to keep it the fuck together, and Ilya wishes, not for the first time tonight, that he wasn’t the problem here. (The voice in his head that reminds him not to think of himself as a burden sounds suspiciously like Galina. He silences that voice.) “Here’s the plan.”
“Shane, moya lyubov,” Ilya interrupts, but Shane shushes him immediately.
“No, Ilya.” This look is a little like Shane’s captain look, Ilya thinks, when he’s corralling the rookies. “You’re sick, and I’m taking care of you. In sickness and in health, remember?”
“Hmm. Yes.”
“Good. I’m going to take your temperature, then we’ll try to get some gatorade in you, or water, ok? If that stays down we’ll go back to bed, I’ll get a new blanket.”
“Mmm. Ok. Is good plan,” Ilya agrees, though really at this point he’d agree to whatever Shane’s plan was. He knows his English is slipping a bit too, dropping articles the way he does when he’s tired or hurt or feels gross. He knows Shane won’t mind. The nausea has abated a bit, and with it the adrenaline that got him to the bathroom. Now, he feels kind of floaty, in a gross, feverish way. He wants to go back to bed, but he also doesn’t want to throw up in bed again.
Ilya’s eyes have started to drift closed on their own accord, his head pillowed on his arm on the toilet seat. It’s a testament to how gross this night has been that Shane doesn’t even mention it, or try to relocate Ilya. Instead, Shane shifts from the floor, standing up to rummage through the medicine cabinet and grab the thermometer. He runs it across Ilya’s forehead, and Ilya tries and fails not to sigh and press his face into the cold plastic.
When it beeps, Shane makes a noncommittal sound. “38 degrees,” he reports. “Fever, but not bad. We’ll keep an eye on it. Now, I’m going to go get you a drink. Gatorade, water, or both?” he asks.
“Both. Blue gatorade, please,” Ilya requests. In reality, he likes red and blue, but red will be scary if he pukes it back up. He drifts, for a few minutes, until Shane reentering the bathroom startles him back out of the haze. Shane hands him the gatorade, already uncapped.
Ilya takes a few cautious sips and waits to see how it settles. At first, he feels ok, so he tries another sip, but that makes his stomach start to churn. He ends up propped over the toilet, letting saliva drip from his mouth, but in the end, doesn’t throw up. Shane offers the water glass, and Ilya takes a small sip and swishes it around, then spits. He follows that with a tiny sip, and when it settles ok, sighs and leans back from the toilet and into Shane’s chest.
Shane sets down the drinks, and Ilya’s husband’s arms immediately come up to wrap around him. Shane presses a soft kiss to Ilya’s curls, and they sit there for a minute in silence until Shane breaks it.
“Alright, back to bed, don’t you think? I’ll bring a bin just in case.”
So Shane helps him up off the floor, and though Ilya has to pause to breathe heavily over the sink for a few moments, they make it back to bed without incident. Shane grabs a spare blanket from the closet and tucks it around his husband before climbing in beside him. Ilya wastes no time in burrowing himself into Shane’s side, his head resting on Shane’s collarbone.
He’s already so tired. “Sorry if I throw up on you,” he mumbles, and feels Shane chuckle in response. “It’s ok, baby. I love you, ok? Wake me up if you feel sick. If you’re not feeling better in the morning, I’ll call my mom, or we can call Terry, ok?”
Ilya hums. He’s already drifting, sleep rising up in warm waves that are much more pleasant than nausea. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he murmurs, the words muffled into Shane’s chest.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane repeats. His accent still sucks, but it’s the best sound Ilya’s heard all night. Between one breath and the next, Ilya is asleep.