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There were very few things (not involving any negativity towards his husband) that really upset Ilya Rozanov.
Unlike Shane, who craved routine—Ilya shrugged at minor inconveniences and small frustrations. He was more of a ‘go with the flow’ type of guy. Through therapy, Ilya has even become better at letting go of lots of his emotional stubbornness, built from years of childhood trauma. He barely ever had a difficult time these days expressing his vulnerabilities with Shane; he now wore his heart on his sleeve.
However, there’s one thing that causes him to absolutely lose this new level-headed, reasonable side of him—and that’s being sick.
Ilya hates being sick. He hates what it does to his body, how it makes him feel useless and weak, and everything bad all at once.
The night before, Ilya had felt slightly off—nothing too awful—but enough to make him wary of the way his body slightly ached, and the small chill that ran down his skin every once in a while. His limbs felt heavy, and his stomach turned with unease.
But he was fine.
Instead of his typical pajama-wear (a.k.a. wearing little to no clothing), Ilya was bundled up in an old Boston hoodie and flannel pajama pants. He was even wearing socks.
When he walked into their bedroom and slid under the covers next to Shane, he was met with an all-knowing look.
Shane was lounging in their bed, wearing a white t-shirt, glasses on, with one of his boring hockey books propped up against his legs. He looked Ilya up and down, and not in the sexy way (unfortunately). The skin between Shane’s eyebrows crinkled in focus as his eyes began to pan from where Ilya’s socked feet lay, all the way up to his slightly rosy cheeks.
“Are you getting sick?” Shane reached out to cup the man’s face, leaning in closer, and putting the back of his hand against the warm skin of Ilya’s forehead.
Ilya gently swatted Shane’s hand away and took it into his own. “I am fine. Do not worry about me, solnyshko.” Ilya lightly kissed each of Shane’s knuckles, and worked his way up—pecking up his arms, to his neck, and leaving soft open-mouthed kisses.
Shane let out a soft hum of pleasure; his eyes closed blissfully for a few seconds, the world disappearing around him.
Score. Until…
“Hey— no.” Shane grabbed softly at his husband’s curls, dragging Ilya’s head from the nape of his neck to look him directly in the eyes. He held his face with both of his hands. “You’re getting warm, Ilya. Let’s go to bed.”
It’s hard to stay stubborn when your husband speaks in that soft voice reserved for you, concern written all over his face. But, of course, even with the way the room slightly spun, Ilya was not getting sick.
“Ah. So,” Ilya began, fingers crawling up to cradle the back of Shane’s neck. “You do not want to fuck me.”
“Shut up, Ilya,” he laughed and rolled his eyes, though Ilya could still see the skin behind Shane’s freckles darkening with a red flush. “You’re not getting one last fuck in before you wake up tomorrow with a fever.”
Ilya huffed. He flopped dramatically down onto his pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I knew you were going to say this,” He rolled his eyes and turned to face Shane. “I am not getting sick.”
“Okay. Whatever you say, Ilya.” Shane leaned down to lightly kiss his—extremely in denial—husband, before taking his glasses off, and snuggling into bed right next to him.
***
Ilya could swear that their room was tilting on its side.
He woke up in a cold sweat; his skin felt damp, somehow hot and shivering at the same time. His head was spinning and suddenly he felt something vile building up in the back of his throat.
Fuck.
Ilya quickly peeled himself out of the covers and stumbled his way to the bathroom, and as soon as he dropped onto that cold, tiled floor and lifted up the toilet lid—he was retching. It burned deep within Ilya’s throat as he heaved, his hands wrapping around the cool, smooth bowl in search of any kind of stability.
He gagged for a second, third, fourth time, emptying his stomach of the bile that remained, full of nothing but the fluid. It was fucking awful.
“Ilya?”
Oh no.
The man couldn’t get himself to respond, his body slumped against the toilet and his face resting against the seat. He was sure Shane would find it disgusting, but he didn’t have the energy in him to care at the moment; his body shook with every breath he took and he could feel his skin burning against the cold porcelain.
After flushing down Ilya’s sickness, Shane was on the ground almost immediately and began to rub Ilya’s back. “Oh, baby,” Shane cooed, and Ilya’s stomach somehow still fluttered, despite spilling out all of its contents less than a minute ago. “How long have you been here? You should’ve woken me up—”
“Is okay,” Ilya wanted to die at how weak his voice sounded then, almost like a child’s. His face was still pressed against the toilet seat, avoiding his husband’s most likely worried eyes. “Do not worry about me. I probably just ate something bad yesterday.”
“Ilya,” Shane’s voice came out soft, but underneath lingered a slight frustration. “Look at me.”
Ilya took a deep breath and looked up at the black-haired man. Behind the clear frames of his glasses, Shane’s eyes were glossed over in concern, and his eyebrows furrowed as he, once again, scanned his husband’s sick body up and down. Ilya winced. “I’m sorry,” He wasn’t sure why he was apologizing, but he could barely recognize his own voice. The apology came out pathetic and small, and his eyes began to well with tears.
“Hey, no, no. You have nothing to be sorry for,” Shane shook his head and moved his hand to cradle Ilya’s face. “Ty v poryadke, moya lyubov'?”
Well, and that made Ilya want to cry even more. Shane was always so caring. He should be disgusted right now. Ilya was sweaty, hunched over their toilet, and for some reason, Shane was still looking at him with an insurmountable amount of love in his eyes. “I am okay, sweetheart. You should go. I am gross,” Ilya said, finally sitting up and looking down at himself. “I will shower.”
But, as Ilya tried to get up on shaky legs, his knees almost buckled. Shane was at his side immediately, holding him up with no effort.
Ilya wanted to die.
“Let’s get you undressed, okay? C’mon,” Ilya couldn’t even protest. He gave a small nod, and Shane walked him over to their sink. “Lean against the counter,” and Ilya did just that.
After turning on the shower, ensuring that it was the perfect temperature, Shane lightly grabbed the bottom of Ilya’s sweatshirt. “Arms up,” he said as he pulled the article of clothing gently over his head. Shane continued to gingerly undress his husband, making no sudden or harsh movements, as if Ilya were something fragile, something to be taken care of.
Ilya felt his eyes begin to tear again and ducked his head away to the side in an attempt to hide himself away. Shane looked at him and said nothing, but instead, brushed Ilya’s curls, damp with sweat, away from his eyes, and leaned in to kiss him on the forehead. He cupped his face and gave him a small, soft kiss on the lips.
Ilya was fully naked now, and he felt like it, too. He’d never been one to be insecure about his body, and, obviously, his husband has seen every part of him more times than he could count. But in this context, it felt like something to be ashamed of. Shane’s face wasn’t laced with need, and his eyes didn’t linger in all the right places; instead, his gaze was gentle, just like everything about him right now, as he guided Ilya into the shower.
Shane stepped in alongside him, the spray engulfing them both, not too hot but not too cold either. Ilya sighed out a wave of relief as the water shot at him with just the right pressure, and Shane began to sink his fingers into Ilya’s blonde curls.
He washed his hair with reverence, slow circular movements massaging into Ilya’s scalp. Shane’s face was the epitome of softness. He looked up at Ilya’s curls, big brown eyes focused on the task at hand; his eyebrows were tented, and his lips pursed in the way they did when he gave something his full attention.
“You do not have to do this,” Ilya said, looking at Shane, one hand snaking to cradle the man’s face.
Shane didn’t even falter in his movements, continuing to thoroughly work the soap into Ilya’s hair. “I know that I don’t,” his voice tender, “but I want to.” He led Ilya under the warm spray once again and watched the soapy suds cascade out of his hair and down the drain.
He then washed Ilya’s body thoroughly, taking a washcloth and lightly scrubbing with soap, being extra gentle in certain areas. Every now and then, Shane would come up and kiss Ilya’s cheek, forehead, temple—each small press of his lips more loving than the next, and Ilya thought his heart was going to explode.
“I love you,” Shane pressed another small kiss onto Ilya’s lips, “so much.”
***
After Shane dried them both off from the shower and got dressed, he began to dress Ilya again. A perfectly folded pile of clothes (which Ilya did not seem to notice earlier) consisting of a Centaurs sweatshirt, new boxers, and pajama pants sat on the counter of their sink. Ilya took a deep breath.
It wasn’t that Ilya didn’t like being taken care of. He was taken care of daily now, and Shane showed it in his own special way.
Coming home to a premade, mostly healthy (because Ilya would never subject himself to Shane’s food choice) meal, already put away laundry, and a beautiful husband was already enough to make Ilya’s life better. Shane made everything feel so easy.
But this was different. Ilya could barely remember the last time someone had taken care of him like this; in fact, it reminded him of his mother. The way she used to rub comforting circles into his back as he threw up, the way she ran him a bath whenever he felt sick. It all felt too familiar.
But Ilya was not a small, sick child anymore. And for the first time in a long time, for absolutely nothing in exchange, he had someone who was nothing but tender, warm, and caring to him. What was he supposed to do with that?
“Shane, it is okay. I can do it.” Ilya, with shaky hands, pulled the sweatshirt over his head, his pants and boxers already on.
The man didn’t respond, but just ran his hand lovingly down the side of Ilya’s face. “Okay, do you want to head back to bed?”
Ilya yawned. It was then that he realized that it was most likely still dark out. The sun hadn’t even risen, and he already had Shane up and awake. He had definitely disrupted his routine. They had early practice tomorrow, Shane’s not gonna get enough sleep, and—
“Hey, what are you thinking about?” Shane looked at Ilya, eyebrows lightly furrowed, and his hand cupping his face. “Do you need something? Are you gonna be sick again?”
Ilya shook his head no, and suddenly was blinking back tears for what felt like the thousandth time tonight.
Shane rubbed his thumb against Ilya’s cheek, his eyes filled with concern, then softly said, “What’s wrong, my Ilya?”
That broke him. A few tears ran down Ilya’s face, and Shane was immediately holding him close. Ilya no longer bit back his sobs, but let them out into the crook of Shane’s neck.
“Oh, my baby,” Shane said, and Ilya’s sobs grew, and grew.
He isn’t sure how long they stayed like that; the only thing Ilya was aware of was the comforting caress of Shane’s hand through his hair, and the small incoherent whispers of reassurance coming from his husband. He felt like a mess.
Even after his cries subsided, he kept his head buried into Shane’s shoulder. He managed to croak out, “I’m really sorry,” but once again, he hated how helpless he sounded, how weak. “You must be so tired, and I’m ruining your schedule, and I don’t deserve this.”
Shane pulled away gently, his hands went to Ilya’s shoulder, forcing him to stand up straight and face him. “No, no, no. None of that,” Shane wiped the wetness of Ilya’s cheeks away. “I don’t care about any of that right now, okay? All that matters to me is that you’re okay,” he paused and scanned Ilya’s face. “Are you?”
“Yeah,” Ilya said, though it came out almost as a whisper. “I just feel bad. You’re going to be so tired at practice tomorrow.”
Shane laughed a little bit. “Ilya, I’m not going to practice tomorrow. I’m staying here. With you.”
“I don’t want to be the reason you miss practice. You hate missing practice.”
Shane’s hands came to Ilya’s waist as he tenderly pulled him closer. “Well, as much as I hate missing practice, I hate leaving you even more.” Shane kissed him on the forehead, “so, I’m staying, okay?”
Ilya looked at him, and all the fight left his body at once.
“Okay. You are staying.”
“Come, let’s go back to sleep,” Shane grabbed Ilya’s hand and led him back to their bedroom.
***
Once they got into bed, Shane had Ilya in his arms. His hand draped over the Russian’s shoulder, drawing their bodies flush together as Ilya’s head and hand rested on Shane’s chest. He rubbed small patterns into Ilya’s arm and kissed each knuckle of his fingers. Ilya’s stomach fluttered with an overwhelming amount of adoration, his breath slowed, and he felt himself drifting towards sleep.
Shane continued to murmur sweet words into his skin, and Ilya could finally feel himself start to relax into his warm touch.
“I love you, Shane,” he said sleepily. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
“I always will. Ya tebya lyublyu, Ilya.”