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The first sign that something was wrong was so small Shane almost missed it.
The charter had leveled out maybe twenty minutes ago, the Ottawa Centaurs spread through the cabin in the usual post-game-flight sprawl of giant athletes pretending they were not all one bad patch of turbulence away from ending up in each other’s laps. Some of the guys had headphones on. A couple were playing cards across the aisle. Someone near the back was laughing too loudly at a video on their phone. The low roar of the engines filled in the gaps between voices, steady enough that it should have been easy to tune out.
Usually, Ilya loved flights like this. It wasn't commercial. Not packed in with strangers. He wasn't forced to fold his long body into a seat built by people who clearly hated knees. The team plane was comfortable enough. Familiar. Routine.
It meant road trips and hockey and long stretches where Shane was close enough to bump shoulders with.
It meant being left alone in the particular way only teammates could leave each other alone. Sure, the team was around, but they were usually unbothered.
Usually, Ilya settled into his seat by the window, put one arm over Shane’s, and either slept or stared out at the clouds with the kind of quiet expression that made Shane feel weirdly fond and a little bit helpless.
Today, though, Ilya had gone quiet in a different way.
Shane looked up from his phone and studied him.
His husband was sitting stiffly, one hand locked around the armrest, the other pressed flat against his own thigh. His face had gone pale beneath the golden flush left over from the game, and there was a faint pinch between his brows that had not been there ten minutes ago. He was staring very hard at the seatback in front of him like it had personally offended him.
Shane nudged their shoulders together. “You good?”
Ilya didn’t answer right away. That, more than anything, got Shane’s attention.
Finally, without looking at him, Ilya muttered, “Da.”
Shane snorted softly. “That sounded super convincing.”
“I am fine.” His accent got thicker when he felt lousy. Shane had learned that pretty early on. It got thicker when he was mad, too, but this was not angry-thick. This was tired, unsteady, and not-quite-present thick.
Shane put his phone down. “You’re white.”
Ilya turned his head slowly and gave him a look. “I am always white, Hollander.”
“Not like this, asshole.”
That got the tiniest twitch at the corner of Ilya’s mouth, but it didn’t last. He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing once, then looked forward again. The hand on the armrest tightened.
Shane sat up a little. “Hey.”
Nothing.
“Ilya.”
Another swallow. “Plane feels…” He paused, his mouth flattening. “Wrong.”
Shane frowned. “Wrong how?”
Ilya lifted a shoulder, then dropped it carefully, like even that took effort. “Too much moving.”
That made Shane blink. “You’ve flown a million times.”
“Yes, thank you, I know this.” Ilya shut his eyes briefly. “I am aware planes are in sky.”
Despite himself, Shane huffed a laugh. Then he took a better look at him and the laugh died quick. Ilya was sweating.
Not much. Just a faint sheen at his temples, a dampness beginning to curl the hair at the back of his neck. But it was enough to send a low thread of concern through Shane’s chest.
“Are you feeling sick?”
“No.” It was immediate. Defensive.
Shane raised a brow. “That was also convincing.”
Ilya inhaled slowly through his nose. It looked deliberate. Measured. “I do not feel sick.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter, almost offended by it, “I feel like maybe I could become sick.”
Shane was already reaching into the seat pocket for the airsickness bag before the sentence was fully out.
Ilya looked at it like Shane had just insulted seven generations of his family. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, so we’re being proud about it.”
“There is no reason for bag.”
“Your face is green.”
“My face is not green.”
Shane held the bag out anyway. “Take the bag.”
Ilya stared at it. Then at Shane. Then back at the bag. “I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Shane grinned and tucked the bag into the seatback pocket closest to Ilya’s knee. “There. Just in case.”
Ilya muttered something in Russian that Shane was pretty sure was deeply rude.
The cabin shifted gently, a tiny drop and sway that made a couple of guys glance up and then go back to what they were doing. Nothing major. Barely even turbulence.
Ilya made a sound so quiet Shane only heard it because he was listening for anything out of the ordinary. A tiny, swallowed-off grunt.
When Shane looked over, Ilya had his hand over his mouth. Not covering a cough. Not rubbing at his face. Pressing.
“Ilya?”
His eyes opened, glassy and wide now, and for one second Shane saw it clearly. Alarm, embarrassment, and nausea all colliding at once.
“Shane.” That was all the warning he got.
Shane grabbed the bag and barely got it open before Ilya snatched it from him and bent forward hard, one hand braced against the seat in front of him.
The sound he made was awful.
A wet, choking gag that ended in him vomiting hard into the bag, shoulders jerking, the whole long line of his body going tense and miserable beside Shane. The noise cut through the cabin’s background chatter instantly.
A couple heads turned on their direction, their friends worried about their captain
Shane was already one hand on the back of Ilya’s neck, the other steadying the paper bag. “Okay. Okay, I’ve got you.”
Ilya gagged again, harsher this time, bringing up more with a miserable heave that left his whole body trembling. His face was bright red now, eyes squeezed shut, tears gathering at the corners from the force of it.
“Oh, Ilya.” Shane murmured before he could think better of it.
Ilya made a strangled sound that might have been a groan or might have been his soul leaving his body from humiliation.
From behind them, Luca Haas leaned over the seatback. “Is Roz okay?”
Shane glanced up. “He’s airsick.”
Luca’s face went from concern to open surprise. “Rozanov? Airsick?”
Ilya, still bent over the bag, managed to lift one hand and flip him off without opening his eyes.
That would have been funnier if he didn’t immediately gag again.
“Yep,” Shane said. “Very airsick.”
Luca vanished from view, probably because he had enough self-preservation instinct not to keep staring at Ilya while he was actively dying of embarrassment.
Ilya spit into the bag, breathing hard through his mouth. Shane rubbed slow circles between his shoulders, careful and steady.
“Done?” Shane asked softly.
Ilya gave a miserable nod.
Shane twisted the top of the bag shut fast and reached for another from the pocket. Good call, because Ilya took one look at the tied-off bag and made the kind of face that said there was no universe in which he could keep looking at it.
His head tipped back against the seat. His skin was clammy. His lips were pale.
“Jesus,” Shane said quietly. “Are you okay?”
“No,” Ilya whispered.
That got Shane more than the puking had, somehow. Ilya hated admitting when he felt bad. Hated it. He would play through broken bones if someone let him. The blunt honesty of that tiny no made Shane’s chest squeeze.
“Okay.” Shane unbuckled. “I’m getting you water.”
Ilya caught weakly at his wrist. “Do not leave.”
The words were soft, but there was something in them that made Shane stop immediately.
He looked down.
Ilya wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were fixed somewhere over Shane’s shoulder, unfocused and sick and just a little frightened. There was still a tremor in his hand where it curled around Shane’s sleeve.
The sight of it nearly undid Shane enough that he sat back down at once and squeezed Ilya’s hand. “Okay. I'm not going anywhere.”
Across the aisle, Troy had apparently been paying attention. “Need anything?” he asked.
“Water, if you can grab it,” Shane said.
Troy was already up. “Yeah.”
The guys closest had gone quiet, that strange respectful quiet that spreads through a team when something shifts from funny to real.
Wyatt leaned up from two rows ahead, concern etched across his face. “He gonna be okay?”
“He’ll live,” Shane said.
Ilya cracked one eye open. “Cruel.”
“Oh, so he speaks.”
Wyatt grinned faintly. “That’s a good sign.”
Troy came back with two water bottles, a cold washcloth he must have sweet-talked from the flight attendant, and an extra stack of airsickness bags tucked under one arm like he was preparing for battle. He handed everything over without comment.
“Thanks,” Shane said.
Troy shrugged. “I used to puke every time we flew when I was younger. You learn fast.”
Ilya made a low noise like he deeply resented being compared to someone’s motion-sick sibling, but he took the cold washcloth when Shane pressed it into his hand.
“Here.” Shane unscrewed the water bottle. “Small sip.”
“I know how to drink water.”
“And yet here I am giving instructions.”
Ilya glared at him without heat and took the tiniest sip imaginable. He swallowed, waited, then took another. His face stayed pinched.
Shane took the washcloth from him and gently wiped at the dampness around his mouth, because there was no version of reality where Ilya was coordinated enough right now to do it himself without missing half of it.
Ilya’s eyes slid shut again. “This is terrible.”
“It does look terrible, yeah.”
“No, I mean flying.”
“Oh, sorry. Thought you meant me taking care of you.”
“You are also terrible.”
“That’s my guy.” Shane teases in hopes that it will cheer his husband up.
The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitched weakly, then flattened again when the plane gave another soft sway.
Shane saw the change instantly. “Another bag.”
Ilya lunged for it and barely got it open in time.
The second round was rougher.
Maybe because there was less to bring up, maybe because his stomach was already angry, maybe because now his body knew exactly what it was doing and had decided to lean in. He gagged over and over, helpless and violent, shoulders shaking so hard Shane could feel it through his hand. Mostly water this time, bitter and thin, but it still seemed to wring him out.
By the end of it he was breathing in shaky little pulls, forehead pressed against the seatback in front of him like he wanted to merge with it and disappear.
“Easy,” Shane murmured. “Breathe.”
Ilya spit weakly, then sagged back into his seat, eyes bright with tears he clearly hated. “I am going to die on this stupid plane.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Maybe better if I do.”
That earned him a withering look from Shane. “Drama queen.”
Ilya let his head roll toward Shane, too sick to maintain dignity. “I have vomited in front of the entire team.”
“Not the whole team. Some of them were asleep.” Shane shrugs, looking around.
Okay, so maybe most of the team was looking at Ilya. Whoops.
“Shane.”
“Okay, yeah, pretty much the whole team.”
A broken-off laugh escaped Ilya and turned immediately into a miserable swallow. Shane rubbed his chest lightly.
“You’re being really mean to me for a man who’s holding your puke bag,” Shane said.
“You married me. This is your punishment.” Ilya retorted.
Shane smiled before he could stop himself. Even green and sweating and one bad bump away from puking again, Ilya could still make him laugh.
The flight attendant came by quietly with ginger ale, crackers, and the kind of sympathetic expression usually reserved for toddlers and very hungover adults.
Shane thanked her and took everything.
“I don’t want crackers,” Ilya mumbled.
“You don’t have to eat them.”
“They smell bad.” The Russian whines. Honest to God whines.
“Okay.” Shane folded the packet back up and shoved it into the seat pocket. “No crackers.”
Ilya cracked one eye open. “You are supposed to argue a little.”
“Nah. I can tell when this is real and when you’re just being annoying.”
“Rude.”
“There he is.”
The captain came over the speaker to announce a patch of rougher air ahead. Just some turbulence, nothing serious, everybody remain seated.
Shane felt Ilya go rigid before the sentence was even over.
“Oh, hell.”
“I hate him,” Ilya said, voice thin.
“You don’t even know him.”
“I hate him anyway.”
The turbulence wasn’t awful, but it was enough. The plane bumped and dipped in uneven little jolts, the overhead bins rattling faintly with each one. Shane didn’t bother pretending this was going to pass. He shoved another bag into Ilya’s hands and put his other hand behind his neck.
“Come here.”
Ilya leaned into him without argument this time, bag held shakily to his mouth, forehead dropping against Shane’s shoulder. He was so warm. Too warm. Not feverish maybe, but overworked and sweaty and miserable enough that his skin stuck slightly where it pressed against Shane’s neck.
He gagged twice dry and then brought up another small wave into the bag, the sound muffled by Shane’s shoulder and the paper crinkling under his grip.
“That’s it,” Shane whispered. “That’s it, baby.”
Someone in the row ahead twisted around. Bood, all concern and dark curls and big-brother energy.
“You need meds? I think I have Gravol in my duffel.”
Shane blinked. “You have what?”
Boodram shrugged. “You room with enough guys over enough years, you start carrying everything.”
“Yeah,” Shane said immediately. “Actually, yeah.”
Bood dug into the overhead compartment the second the seatbelt light dinged off and came back with a little travel pouch. “Motion sickness pills. My wife swears by them.”
Shane could have kissed him. “I could kiss you.”
“I am not kissing you back,” Bood laughs, deep and contagious. “Your husband might get jealous.”
Even in his misery, Ilya made an offended noise into the bag.
Shane popped the packet and looked at the instructions. Then at Ilya, who was still breathing like every inhale had to be negotiated.
“Think you can keep this down?”
Ilya squinted at the pill like it had personally betrayed him. “Maybe.”
“That’s not inspiring.”
“Nothing about me is inspiring right now.”
“That’s true.”
Ilya took the pill anyway, washed it down with one tiny sip of water and a grimace. Shane half expected him to throw it right back up, but somehow it stayed.
For the next twenty minutes Shane turned into a full-time Ilya manager.
He held the bags. He tied them off and passed them discreetly to Troy, who disposed of them like this was now his sacred duty. He kept the cold cloth moving over the back of Ilya’s neck and forehead. He coaxed tiny sips of water and even got half a mouthful of ginger ale into him when the nausea ebbed for a second. He rubbed slow circles into his spine every time the plane moved. He fielded concerned looks and muttered questions and one deeply unhelpful suggestion from Wyatt that maybe Ilya needed to “just sleep it off.”
Ilya, for his part, wilted.
There was really no other word for it.
He started upright and stubborn and prickly, all offended dignity and clipped denials. He ended folded into Shane’s side bonelessly, one hand fisted in Shane’s hoodie, breathing shallow against his shoulder. Every now and then his stomach would clench and he would tense for another round, but the pill seemed to be helping.
Or maybe there was simply nothing left.
Either way, by the time the captain announced their descent into Ottawa, Ilya looked wrecked but less actively catastrophic.
He also looked so exhausted it hurt Shane to look at him.
“You with me?” Shane asked softly.
“Unfortunately.”
“Good enough.”
Ilya shifted the tiniest bit and winced. “My whole body hurts.”
“From puking?”
“Yes. And from public humiliation.”
Shane kissed the top of his head. He didn’t care who saw. “You’re very brave.”
“I know you are mocking me.”
“I’m definitely mocking you.” Shane laughs.
Ilya sighed and let more of his weight fall against him. “You are lucky I love you.”
“I know.”
When the plane landed, Ilya breathed out a sigh of relief. He had a migraine and all he wanted to do was get home and sleep.
The second they were allowed to stand, half the team started moving with unusual efficiency. Not rushing, exactly, but definitely coordinating in that silent sports-team way where everyone just knew the assignment.
Luca grabbed both his and Shane's carry-ons from the overhead bins.
Troy brought over another bottle of water.
Wyatt, shockingly useful for once, asked the flight attendant for one of those cold instant ice packs and returned triumphant.
Bood looped Ilya’s duffel over his own shoulder without being asked.
Ilya, seeing all of this, looked briefly like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
“No,” Shane said immediately, reading his face. “Nobody’s making a thing out of it.”
“They are absolutely making a thing out of it.”
“Yeah, but lovingly.”
“That does not help.”
It did not help, but it did make Shane grin.
Getting Ilya off the plane took longer than usual. Not because he couldn’t walk, but because every movement seemed to require a private conversation with his stomach. He stood slowly, swayed once, and immediately reached for Shane’s forearm.
“Whoa,” Shane said, catching him with both hands. “Easy.”
“I am fine.”
“You almost tipped over.”
“Plane is still moving.” Ilya munbles
“The plane is parked.” Shane deadpans, still holding his husband up.
Ilya glared at him, which was encouraging. Mean Ilya was always a better sign than quiet Ilya.
By the time they made it through the tiny private terminal area and out to the team bus, Ilya had gone from pale to a weird grayish shade Shane did not like at all. The cold evening air probably helped anyone else. For Ilya, it seemed to just make him shiver.
Shane frowned. “Are you cold?”
“A little.” The Russian moves impossibly closer to Shane, as if he were trying to morph them into one person.
Shane stripped off his hoodie and tugged it over Ilya’s head before he could protest. It swallowed him slightly, sleeves hanging long over his hands.
Ilya blinked down at himself, then up at Shane.
“You are in a t-shirt.” Ilya notes, looking his husband up and down.
“And?” Shane quirks a brow.
“It is cold.”
“And?” Shane repeats.
Something soft flickered across Ilya’s face, tired enough to be unguarded. “You are good very husband.”
Shane leaned in and kissed his temple. “Yeah, I know.”
The bus ride to the arena lot where their cars were parked should have taken ten minutes. It took eleven and felt like a year. Ilya sat with his head on Shane’s shoulder and eyes shut, saying nothing.
At one point Shane felt his stomach tighten under his hand and got a bag ready so fast he nearly dislocated something, but it passed.
When they finally got off the bus, Troy handed over their luggage and pointed a stern finger at Shane. “Text when he’s alive.”
“I’m alive now,” Ilya muttered.
Troy didn’t even look at him. “The grown-ups are talking.”
Ilya looked almost too tired to be offended, but not quite. “I hate all of you.”
“Love you too, Roz.” Wyatt, Bood, and Troy all day in unison.
Ilya flips them all off as Shane leads the Russian to their car.
In the car, Shane put Ilya in the passenger seat, reclined it a little, and turned the heat on low.
“You want music?” he asked.
“No.”
“Silence?”
“Yes.”
“Can do.”
Ten minutes into the drive, a tiny voice said,
“Maybe not silence.”
Shane glanced over. Ilya’s eyes were still closed. “Oh?”
“You can talk.”
Shane smiled to himself. “What about?”
“Something not about vomiting.”
“That narrows it down.” Shane chuckles.
“Please.”
There was something about the sleepy drag of that word that made Shane’s whole chest go warm.
So he talked.
About nothing. About the stupid goal Wyatt had almost had if he had not fumbled the pass. About Troy nearly taking out the assistant coach with a water bottle in practice yesterday. About a dog he had seen in the airport two days ago that looked exactly like a loaf of bread with legs. About dinner options. About whether Anya would judge Ilya for smelling weird.
That got him a huff of a laugh.
“Anya loves me.”
“She does. But she also loves dead leaves and socks, so her standards are flexible.”
Ilya made a quiet sound of amusement and shifted deeper into the seat.
By the time they pulled into their driveway, he was half-asleep.
Shane parked and came around to open the passenger door. “Hey. Home.”
Ilya opened his eyes slowly. Blinked at the house. At the porch light. At Shane.
Then, with absolutely no shame, he held out both hands.
Shane stared at him. “Are you asking me to carry you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re six foot three.”
“And very ill.” Ilya pouts. Fuck. His puppy dog eyes could rival Anya’s.
Shane laughed under his breath. “Unbelievable.”
But he bent anyway, one arm behind Ilya’s back, the other under his knees, and hauled him up.
Ilya looped both arms around his neck immediately and tucked his face against Shane’s shoulder with a sigh so content it nearly dropped Shane where he stood.
“You are ridiculous,” Shane said, adjusting his grip.
“And yet you picked me.”
“Yeah. Stupidest thing I ever did.”
“You are lying.”
“Probably.”
Anya met them at the door in a frenzy of claws and fur and whining concern, loyalty and nose-first investigation. She immediately shoved her long snout toward Ilya’s face, sniffed once, and sneezed dramatically.
Shane barked out a laugh. “See? Judging.”
Ilya weakly lifted a hand from Shane’s shoulder to pat Anya between the ears. “Traitor.”
Anya licked his wrist in response.
Inside, Shane carried him straight to the bathroom because there was no way in hell he was putting a man who smelled like plane-sick and cold sweat directly into bed. Even half-dead, Ilya seemed to understand the logic, because he only grumbled when Shane set him on the closed toilet lid.
“Do not leave,” Ilya said again, voice rough and sleepy.
“Not leaving.” Shane reached for the faucet. “Can you handle brushing your teeth, or do I need to do literally everything for you?”
Ilya lifted his head enough to glare. “I can brush my own teeth, Shane”
“Good. Because that’s where I draw the line.”
“That and kissing my vomit face?”
Shane leaned down and kissed his forehead anyway. “That line moved.”
Ilya looked at him for a long second, soft and sick and wrecked around the edges. Then he muttered, “I love you so much, it is disgusting.”
“Yeah, well. You’re the disgusting one right now.”
A sleepy, offended noise followed him as he went to grab fresh clothes.
The next half hour was a blur of gentle domesticity.
Shane ran a warm washcloth over the back of Ilya’s neck while he sat slumped on the toilet lid, too tired to complain much. He held him steady when he stood to brush his teeth and the room clearly moved in a way Shane did not love. He swapped Ilya’s travel clothes for soft sweatpants and one of Shane’s old T-shirts because anything tighter looked like it might count as cruelty. Then he led him to bed.
Normally, Ilya took up space like it was a personal philosophy. Long limbs everywhere, sprawled diagonally, stealing blankets like a thief in the night. Tonight he climbed in carefully and curled on his side almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, one hand tucked under his cheek.
Shane stood there for a second just looking at him. Sick Ilya always did this to him.
Not because Shane liked seeing him miserable. God, no. He hated it. Hated the pallor, the shivering, the weakness, the way pain or nausea stripped all the sharpness off him and left behind something fragile and unguarded.
But there was also this. The unbearable tenderness of being needed. Trusted. The quiet intimacy of caring for the person he loved most when pride and stubbornness were finally too worn down to get in the way.
He left only long enough to get a small trash can, a glass of water, meds for later if needed, and a clean towel to lay over the pillow just in case.
When he came back, Ilya had not moved much. Just enough to track him with tired eyes.
“You made a nest,” Ilya mumbled.
“Sure did.” Shane set everything down and climbed in beside him.
Ilya rolled immediately, seeking him out on instinct, and Shane opened an arm without hesitation. A second later he had a long, warm husband pressed against his chest, ear over Shane’s heartbeat.
“There he is,” Shane whispered.
Ilya’s fingers curled in his shirt. “Still feel sick.”
“I know.”
“Stomach feels wrong.”
“I know.”
“Head too.”
“That’s from dehydrating yourself into another dimension.”
“Mm.” Shane smoothed a hand through his hair. It was still a little damp from the washcloth, soft at the ends where sweat had dried. “You scared me on the plane.”
That got a quiet exhale against his chest. “Sorry.”
The apology was so immediate Shane nearly laughed from shock. “Wow. You really are sick.”
Ilya made a weak protest sound and tucked himself closer. “I did not mean to scare you.”
“I know.”
Shane pressed a kiss into his curls. “You okay now?”
There was a long pause, then, honest and small,
“Better because we're home.”
It was such an Ilya answer Shane’s chest ached around it.
Better because they're home. Better because of their bed and Anya and his husband and quiet and familiar walls instead of fluorescent plane cabins and teammates pretending not to stare while he puked up ginger ale in humiliating installments.
Shane tightened his arm around him. “Yeah. Home helps.”
A little while later, Anya jumped onto the bed with all the grace of a falling wardrobe and settled heavily against the backs of Ilya’s legs, pinning him in place with canine certainty.
Ilya opened one eye. “She thinks I will run?”
“She’s making sure you don’t.”
“Rude house.”
“Rude sick guy.” Shane retorts.
Ilya looked like he wanted to argue, but the energy was leaving him fast now, his body finally letting go now that it understood the worst was probably over.
Shane kept petting through his hair until the lines in his face eased.
Just when Shane thought he had fallen asleep, Ilya mumbled, “You still think I am brave?”
Shane smiled into the dim room. “For puking on a plane?”
“For surviving this harrowing event.”
“Oh, absolutely. Medals. Interviews. A documentary.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched. “I want it noted that I suffered.”
“It is very noted.” Shane chuckles.
“And that Troy saw.”
“He did.”
“And Luca.”
“Yep.”
“And Troy compared me to a child.”
“Also true.”
Ilya groaned into Shane’s chest. “Divorce me.”
“No chance.”
Another quiet beat.
“Good.”
Shane laughed softly and kissed the top of his head again.
The house settled around them, all nighttime creaks and distant heater hum. Anya sighed in her sleep. Outside, wind brushed lightly against the windows. Inside, Shane had one hand spread over Ilya’s back, feeling each slow breath.
He must have drifted for a while, because the next thing he knew the room was darker and colder and Ilya was shifting restlessly against him.
“Hey,” Shane murmured.
Ilya made a small noise. Not awake. Not fully. Then he stiffened, hand flying blindly toward the side of the bed.
Shane was already moving. He caught the trash can and got it under Ilya’s chin just in time.
This round was quieter. Still miserable, but quieter. Mostly sour liquid and spit, a few painful dry heaves that bent him over Shane’s arm and left him shaking when it was done.
Shane held him through it, one hand steady between his shoulder blades.
“Okay,” he whispered when it passed. “Okay.”
Ilya slumped sideways against him, limp with exhaustion. “Thought I was done.”
“Me too.”
“Body is traitor.”
“Hard agree.”
He cleaned him up with the towel, got more water into him in tiny sips, and resettled him against the pillows. This time Ilya did not curl up so much as collapse, limbs heavy and trustful, eyes barely open.
“Sorry,” he whispered again.
Shane frowned. “Stop apologizing.”
“I keep throwing up on things.”
“Yeah, well. None of them are me yet.”
Ilya stared at him blearily. “Romantic.”
“Thank you.”
That earned him a tired huff.
Shane lay down again and coaxed Ilya onto his side facing him. Their foreheads touched.
“You know what I think?” Shane said quietly.
“What.”
“I don't think it was just airsickness. But I think the first time you ever got sick on a plane had to happen eventually, and obviously it waited until you were thirty and married and dramatic enough to make it everyone’s problem.”
Ilya’s eyes slid half shut. “Cruel man.”
“And I think your team loves you.”
That made his lashes lift again.
Shane shrugged one shoulder against the mattress. “You were miserable, and every guy on that plane immediately started helping. Nobody was making fun of you.”
“Wyatt was definitely making fun of me.”
“Wyatt was making fun of you because you flipped him off while actively puking. That’s different.”
A faint pause.
“Was kind of impressive.”
The smallest smile pulled at Ilya’s mouth. Tired. Real.
“There he is,” Shane whispered.
Ilya’s hand slid slowly across the blankets until it found Shane’s wrist. Held on.
“I hate being sick,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“I hate feeling weak.”
Shane turned his wrist and laced their fingers together. “Good thing you don’t get to decide if I love you only when you’re feeling strong.”
Ilya went very still.
There it was. The soft center of it. Not the grossness, not the teasing, not the dramatic public puking. That. The thing under it all. The old instinct in him that hated being seen in pieces. Hated needing things. Hated giving up control.
Shane squeezed his hand gently.
“You don’t have to be impressive every second of the day, babe.”
Ilya’s throat worked once.
“You can just be sick.”
Silence stretched between them, warm and fragile.
Then Ilya moved forward the inch or two necessary to hide his face in Shane’s neck again.
“Okay,” he whispered.
It was maybe the softest word Shane had ever heard from him.
They stayed like that for a long time. Eventually the tension left Ilya’s body in stages, each breath deeper than the last. His grip on Shane’s hand loosened but did not disappear. Anya snored quietly against his legs. Shane kept one hand on his back, rubbing the same slow path up and down until it became rhythm more than action.
Sometime near dawn, Ilya stirred enough to mumble, “If you tell people I cried, I will kill you.”
Shane smiled into the dark. “You didn’t cry.”
“Good.”
“You did, however, almost declare war on aviation.”
“That is private marital information.”
“Sure, baby.”
By morning, the worst of it had passed. Ilya still looked washed out, his stomach still touchy, but he could sit up without immediately needing a bag and managed half a piece of toast and some tea while wrapped in a blanket on the couch. Anya sat pressed to his side like a furry sentry. Shane made him sip electrolyte drink between bites and ignored the glare he got for it.
Around noon, Troy texted Shane.
Troy: Alive?
Shane looked over at Ilya, who was currently being dramatic about how the toast was “offensive” but was eating it anyway.
He smiled and typed back.
Shane: Alive. Pale. Emotionally wounded.
Troy responded almost instantly.
Troy: Tell him Harria says he’s the toughest guy he’s ever seen puke into six bags.
Shane read it out loud.
Ilya closed his eyes in slow, visible despair. “I am retiring.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Changing name. Moving to remote island.”
“With me?”
Ilya opened one eye. Considered it.
“Yes.”
Shane grinned. “Then okay.”
He set the phone down and crossed to the couch. Ilya lifted the blanket without needing to be asked, and Shane slid in beside him, all warm thighs and familiar weight. A second later Ilya was leaning into him again, tea balanced carefully in both hands.
They sat there in the quiet, wrapped together under the blanket with Anya practically in their laps, and Shane thought maybe this was the thing about marriage nobody really explained right.
Not just the big moments. Not just the public love or the private passion or the life-building.
This too.
Getting the flu on a plane and cold washcloths and holding somebody upright while they throw up into a paper bag at thirty thousand feet.
Carrying them inside because they ask with grabby hands and sleepy eyes. Laughing when you can. Being gentle when you can’t. Loving them through the ugly little vulnerable moments until they stop feeling ugly at all.
Ilya tipped his head onto Shane’s shoulder and sighed.
“Still think I am brave?” he asked again, quieter this time.
Shane kissed his temple. “I think you’re my favorite.”
Ilya hummed, content and sleepy and finally okay enough to let himself be held.
“Better answer,” he murmured.
And Shane, smiling into his hair, held him closer.