Chapter Text
…
Their sundays started slow,
Most days they followed a seamless routine.
Nap till noon, coffee definitely
Food perhaps by one at the earliest,
Smoothies unfortunately.
Ilya thought distantly, his brain,
a bit foggy
Around two, they met with Shane's parents for dinner.
...
It was eventful, a majority of it spent in the comfort of David and Yuna’s home with board games, and dinner followed in a smooth pattern.
Illya doesn't remember much after that,
the nausea still rolling through him at trying to use some type of brain power.
Shane’s hand smoothening down his shorts,
as they ride up from the frequent movement of his husband's nervous petting.
He had gotten sick at dinner, excusing himself,
following a prompt reply from his partner.
“Are you?” Shane questioned, brown eyes laced in concern as he watched Ilya move swiftly to his parent’s guest bathroom.
Shane followed,
concern only deepened as his question was unanswered. He stayed there at the door,
ears peeked for sound before sneaking in at the silence that followed after some deep inhales.
They had decided at that moment or Ilya had,
bargaining that Shane should finish dinner and the game that played on while Ilya had tried to get some sleep.
…
“Malýsh” Ilya stuttered,
unbeknownst to himself, his throat closing around mucus as the word slipped from his mouth.
Greeted with mumbles, his breath quickens.
Automatically at the recall of the events that had taken place,
his cheeks are flushed in embarrassment at the realization.
Fuck, they were still at David and Yuna’s.
He was laying flat on their guest bed,
his Saturday outfit he had picked out,
now wrinkled as the comforter he laid on.
He can’t think straight, he feels hot, body soaked in sweat.
Full recognition hits him quickly,
no remorse in sight.
Great,
another nightmare.
Here of all places,
Ilya grumbled to himself.
Amazing timing really, Ilya huffs.
Straining his blue eyes on the ceiling above him,
meeting warm dark brown eyes staring at him already.
“I'm concerned” Shane bites.
His hands stuck in the air above his husband, wanting to touch, but knowingly not.
Concern emitting,
honey brown eyebrows raised with it.
Just amazing, Ilya groans.
He doesn't have the energy to explain what's going on,
how not only is he sick but he’s also had a nightmare;
And has been having them for weeks.
No,
he has the restraint
He then grumbled something like “ Food sickness” as an excuse to buy himself sometime,
sighing with relief when it did the trick.
Shane doesn't follow up with more questions,
He guides Ilya to the bathroom and cleans him up.
His husband acknowledges that Ilya is uncomfortable,
it shows in his posture,
eye bags heavy,
shoulders trembling.
Shane guides his husband into his shoes,
unfastening his belt to relieve pressure before he opens the guest room door.
Shane says goodbye to his parents for the both of them, explaining the situation in a soft tone briefly with a promise of filling them in later while he shuffles his companion into their shared vehicle with care, concerned edged in his forehead.
Illya pouts even harder, exactly what he was trying to avoid is happening.
Then with slow blinks he realized they were heading back home.
Ilya couldn't help but lean his head on the glass of the passenger side window,
his brain felt like soup.
It buzzed loudly, matching the car's engine,
lunch gurgling deep in the gut,
Ilya pressed his mouth thinner in unease at the feeling.
He feels Shane’s hand on his thigh, his body latching onto the peace it gives, warm hands massaging the skin exposed from his shorts being pushed up.
Ilya tries to grapple onto the feeling,
hoping that it'll fight the nausea somehow,
stomach thundering,
as the car pulled into the driveway.
He feels his husband's eyes on the back of his head, the cat humming to a stop, the sound of keys juggling.
Fuck.
“You okay” Shane questioned,
his voice soft,
body turned towards him.
“Mm yes” Ilya grunts, holding onto to his stomach dear life, tongue heavily moving against his better judgment, sweating at the thought of moving.
“Really, because” Shane offered, trying to lighten the mood, before cutting off at the solid action of Illya's attempt to not gag.
Eyebrows raising in alarm,
“Oh” Shane screeched in panic,
arms fumbling for the mini trash can the couple kept in the backseat,
quickly sliding it under his husband's mouth.
Illya groaned, hands grasping the plastic bin harshly as his stomach rolled.
Fuck.
He felt his stomach thundering one more time before he felt it come up, groaning as he heard it hit the plastic bottom of the trash can, Shane definitely heard that too.
Illya just wanted to just crawl up and die.
He feels Shane's soft hold on his sweaty back, rubbing up and down in consolement. His other hand at the crown of Illya’s head, pulling his salt and pepper embedded hair.
“I love you, I got you,” Shane whispered, leaning over the console of their car as much as the space would allow. He attempted to look into those hazel eyes, looking for signs of fever.
“I have fever” Ilya stated simply,
mouth formed in a pout,
shoulders trembling.
He watches Shane's eyes soften at him,
his mouth forming in a pout to match him.
He was so cute,
Ilya happily thought deliriously before his head spun violently for a moment;
another audible gag followed.
“You stayed late at work almost every day this week,” Shane mumbled, mostly to himself, but to Ilya too, as he helped his husband out of their shared car.
Leaving the dirty trash can to clean later, his laser focus was on the six foot three man he was basically carrying, just a couple more steps to the entrance of their house.
Luckily, night encased them; they had left later than usual, due to the game and Ilya's dulling nap.
Ilya grunted at him,
acknowledging
that yes, he did do that; did he know it would blow up in his face?
Obviously, not.
He also wasn't sleeping,
but Shane didn't need to know that.