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"Hollander, I am dying."
From the kitchen comes the familiar sound of a kettle being set down a little too hard, followed by socked footsteps padding down the hallway. Shane appears in the doorway, already dressed, hair still a little damp from the shower. He’s got that look on his face, something too fond and tired and resigned, the exact one he wears when Ilya says something ridiculous, but he’s going to indulge it anyway.
"You’re not dying," Shane groans back. "You have a cold."
Ilya rolls dramatically onto his back, clutching the duvet to his chest like he’s about to deliver a deathbed monologue.
The cold had hit Ilya like an ambush.
It’s undignified. It’s unfair. It is, quite possibly, the greatest betrayal of his short and illustrious career as a professional athlete. He wakes up with a throat that feels like it’s been sandpapered from the inside, a nose that has decided to leak continuously for reasons unknown, and a head so heavy it might as well be filled with wet cement.
He considers, very seriously, simply not existing today.
Unfortunately, existence persists.
"This is not just cold," he insists. "This is plague. I read about this in history. Whole villages wiped out. Tragic. Very sad."
Shane snorts despite himself. He crosses the room and presses the back of his hand to Ilya’s forehead, gentle, grounding.
"You don’t even have a fever."
"That’s because my body is strong," Ilya counters weakly. "But I am dying."
Shane laughs quietly and sits on the edge of the bed. "You’re dramatic."
"I am realistic."
"You’re literally talking about dying over a cold right now."
"Da."
Shane reaches over and grabs the box of tissues from the nightstand, nudging it closer to Ilya. "Blow your nose."
Ilya glares at it like it personally offended him. "It is running again," he mutters. "I hate it."
He does blow his nose, though, long and tragic, followed by an exaggerated sigh.
"I sound terrible, moya lyubov," he says mournfully. "Like stupid dying accordion."
"Well, first off, you sound like you’ve got a cold," Shane muses, holding out the tissue box, which Ilya swats away, "Secondly, why did you pick an accordion to compare yourself to?"
"Stop saying this." Ilya pointedly ignores the second part of Shane's statement, "It minimises my suffering."
Shane stands and smooths the blankets around him, tucking him in like he’s about six years old. Ilya watches him go through the motions with half-lidded eyes, all the sharp edges softened by congestion and fatigue.
"Tea," Shane says. "I made honey lemon."
Ilya’s expression turns suspicious. "Is this… the one with ginger. That you drink with stupid freak diet."
"Yes."
"I hate ginger."
"You don’t hate ginger, Ilya."
"It attacks me."
"You had ginger tea yesterday and said it was ‘fine.’"
"That was before betrayal," Ilya says gravely. "Before sickness. Everything is different now."
Shane brings the mug anyway, careful as he helps Ilya sit up, propping pillows behind his back. The steam curls between them, warm and fragrant.
"Drink."
Ilya takes a cautious sip. His face twists.
"Too healthy."
"Drink it."
He does, slowly, like he’s been sentenced to something terrible. When he finishes, he slumps back against the pillows.
"Thank you, nurse," he says, softening. "You are very kind. When I survive this, I will win Cup for you."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes. And you can watch me."
Shane chuckles. "Riveting."
Ilya’s eyes flutter closed for a second. He looks so small like this, stripped of his usual sharp grin and relentless energy, wrapped in blankets with a tissue crumpled in his fist.
Shane’s chest tightens. "You need to rest," he murmurs.
"I cannot rest," Ilya says immediately. "If I rest, I will die."
"You’ll fall asleep."
"Same thing."
Shane sits beside him again. "You’ve got practice off today. You don’t need to do anything."
"That is worst part," Ilya sighs. "Nothing to distract me from misery."
"I can put a movie on."
"Only if it is sad."
"You want sad?"
"Yes. To match mood."
Shane tips forward to grab the remote, and the brief absence of the warmth radiating from him that Ilya could feel, even through his blanket, makes him want to haul Shane back towards him instead. Maybe. On a day where he isn't dying.
"Okay," Shane fiddles with the remote, flicking on the television and scrolling through the streaming services, eventually landing on one and beginning to scroll through the movie selections, "what about-"
"Not that one. Too depressing."
"…That one is literally a comedy."
The look that Shane is greeted with when he deadpans to Ilya is one of pure vitriol.
"It lies."
"I thought you wanted sad?"
Ilya doesn't respond.
Shane sighs, long and patient, the kind of sigh that can only be obtained from years of loving someone who treats every minor inconvenience like a personal vendetta from the universe. His thumb lazily presses the next button, endless rows of brightly colored thumbnails sliding past, each one a potential target for Ilya’s ruthless judgment.
Ilya squints at the television like it owes him money.
"No," he says immediately, stabbing a weak finger toward the screen. "Too loud. I can already feel headache from here."
Shane scrolls.
"Also no," Ilya continues. "Too loud. Too many explosions." Another flick. "This one… too much romance. They will kiss in rain, and I will cry. My nose cannot handle emotion."
Shane pauses. "You’re already crying."
"I am… congested."
Another swipe.
"Why are they all smiling? Suspicious. Something bad will happen."
Shane huffs a laugh. "You haven’t even seen half of these, Ilya."
"I can tell," Ilya insists, eyes narrowing. "Look at their faces. Lies. Stupid American television. All they do is smile and have guns."
Well, okay.
Shane sighs once more. "You watched an action movie last night."
Ilya turns to him, and he's met once again with a look of pure disbelief. "That was before tragedy."
Shane scrolls again, slower now, humoring him. Ilya leans closer, squinting harder, like he’s trying to read the soul of each title.
"This one… boring."
"You don’t even know what it’s about."
"Exactly."
Eventually, finally, much to Shane's part amusement and part chagrin, they linger on a quiet-looking movie for long enough that he thinks Ilya might actually choose it. The movie is non-descriptive, all soft colors and indistinct shapes, with a title that's wildly unassuming. Nothing about it screams catastrophe, and yet Ilya studies the thumbnail like he’s trying to read a prophecy in the pixels, eyes narrowed, suspicious but intrigued all the same.
He takes his time with it. Lets the moment stretch.
"…Maybe," he concedes at last, voice rough and thoughtful, and Shane swears he was less serious when he signed his contract with Boston. "But if someone dies, I will sue."
Shane hums, something amused and fond, and hands him another tissue without ceremony. Their fingers brush briefly, and its so warm, so familiar, and everything they'd ever dreamt of. Shane taps the screen and presses play. The movie begins quietly, acting as nothing more than background static with its soft music and slow pacing. Nothing urgent, nothing demanding.
They settle into it, into each other.
They lounge in that quiet, unremarkable way that only happens when the world finally loosens its grip: Shane half-sprawled at the edge of the bed, one arm braced behind him, the other resting casually, a steady presence, near Ilya’s shoulder, knees angled toward Ilya without even thinking about it, while Ilya is a bundle of blankets and warmth, cocooned and sniffly, a messy bundle of limbs and soft sighs, his head tipped just close enough to Shane’s side to feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, every so often breaking the quiet with a dramatic nose-blow followed by a disgruntled huff, grumbling in Russian, while all the while intermittently poking Shane to get his attention, only to whine about his body betraying him.
The movie hums in the background, more atmosphere than story, its dialogue slipping past them like water through fingers. Shane watches the screen occasionally, but mostly his attention drifts back to Ilya, at the droop of his eyelids, with the way his shoulders finally start to relax.
Time thins out around them.
Nothing important happens. And somehow, that feels like everything.
"Shane," Ilya says, sometime halfway through the movie, whispered like a prayer perhaps. Shane had thought he'd fallen asleep from how quiet he'd gotten, but apparently not.
"Yeah?"
"If I die-"
"You’re not dying."
"But if."
Shane sighs. "Okay. If."
"Promise you will tell my story."
"Your very tragic story of having a cold?"
"Yes. Tell the children of my bravery."
"I’ll carve it into history books."
"Spasibo."
The room is dim, afternoon light leaking through the curtains in thin, golden stripes that paint their skin and the rumpled sheets, dust drifting lazily like they’ve got nowhere better to be. Ilya shifts occasionally, chasing comfort like it’s a moving target, mumbling half-formed complaints into the pillow before settling again, while Shane watches him with that quiet fondness he never bothers to hide, thumb absentmindedly tracing slow patterns into the fabric near Ilya’s sleeve. The movie murmurs on in the background, forgotten, a blur of sound and color, but neither of them minds, because this is better, this small pocket of stillness where nothing is required of them except to exist, tangled together in the soft, unhurried peace of it.
"I sound like," Ilya mumbles, maybe a little delirious. He thinks he's talking out of his ass, but Shane likes his ass, so. "I sound like frog."
Shane smiles. "It’s kind of cute."
"Do not say this. I am fearsome."
"Terrifying," Shane agrees solemnly.
Ilya studies him, then smiles weakly. "You are mocking me."
"Never."
"Liar."
They fall quiet again. Outside, the city hums, distant and uninterested in Ilya’s suffering. The movie drifts on. Ilya’s head starts to droop.
"Shane."
"Mm?"
"I want stupid American soup later."
"I’m Canadian," Shane responds slowly, "But I'll make soup."
"Chicken."
"Obviously."
"Extra noodles."
"Done."
"None of your stupid freak diet shit."
"…Fine."
Ilya’s eyes finally close, lashes resting on flushed cheeks. His breathing evens out, slow and soft. Shane watches him for a moment, something tender blooming in his chest.
He adjusts the blankets again, careful not to wake him, and lowers the volume on the TV. For a second, he just sits there, hand resting lightly on Ilya’s shoulder, grounding himself in the quiet.
"You’re ridiculous," he murmurs fondly, to no one in particular. Ilya's breath had evened out, and Shane was sure he couldn't hear him, but the words tumbled out nonetheless. "But you’re mine."
The first thing Ilya registers when he wakes is warmth.
Not the good kind, not the gentle, sun-soaked warmth of a lazy afternoon nap, but the heavy, thick sort that clings to his skin and makes everything feel slightly wrong. His limbs are sluggish. His head feels stuffed with cotton, thoughts drifting in and out like they forgot their own purpose. Somewhere in the distance, something smells… good. Savory. Familiar.
Soup.
The realisation comes slowly, like it has to wade through fog to reach him, but when it does, it settles deep in his chest with something like gratitude.
He blinks blearily at the ceiling, eyes burning just a little, and tries to swallow. His throat protests, raw and scratchy, and he lets out a quiet, offended sound that dissolves into a cough before he can stop it. It rattles in his chest, harsh and sudden, and he curls slightly on instinct, blankets shifting around him.
"Mm," he whines weakly.
From somewhere nearby, he hears movement, soft footsteps. And the gentle clink of ceramic.
"Hey," Shane murmurs, voice careful, stepping into a fragile space. "Easy."
Ilya turns his head slowly. The room swims for a second before settling. Shane stands by the bed, a mug in one hand, a bowl in the other, steam curling dreamily into the air. He looks… soft. Domestic. His hair’s a little messy, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Concern sits quietly on his face, like it’s always lived there. A part of Ilya's mind goes dizzy from the scene in front of him.
Marry him, a small voice muses.
"You smell like… kitchen," Ilya croaks instead.
Shane snorts. "High praise."
He sets the bowl down on the nightstand, nudging aside a small pile of used tissues, then presses the back of his hand gently to Ilya’s forehead. His brow furrows.
"You’re warmer," he says.
Ilya sighs dramatically. "I told you, Hollander. Fever. My body is becoming furnace."
"It’s a slight fever," Shane corrects. "Not a furnace."
"Same."
Shane smiles anyway, soft around the edges, and brings the cup to Ilya’s lips. "Small sips."
Ilya obeys, because despite everything, he trusts him. The liquid is warm, soothing, and he hums quietly as it slides down his throat. More tea. Ginger. Gross. But the sight of Shane's hopeful eyes is currently overpowering all fight within Ilya, so he stays silent.
"Soup?" he asks after he's forced down all the tea, voice hopeful.
"Chicken noodle," Shane says. "Extra noodles."
Ilya’s eyes light up weakly. "You listen to me."
"Occasionally."
Shane helps him sit up, propping pillows behind his back. The movement sends another cough up his chest, and he hunches forward, hand coming up instinctively. Shane rubs slow circles between his shoulder blades, grounding and steady.
"Okay," Shane murmurs. "Okay. I’ve got you."
The coughing subsides, leaving Ilya a little breathless and disgruntled.
"I am falling apart," he mutters.
"Mm. Tragic."
Shane scoops up the bowl and carefully holds out a spoon. The soup smells comforting, broth rich and warm, carrots soft, and although Ilya couldn't give less of a fuck about what he's putting in his body right now when everything is probably going to taste like ash, seeing the stupid noodles tangled together like they’re clinging for dear life paired with the gentle warmth that Shane exudes is so fucking domestic he couldn't help but sink into the feeling.
Ilya opens his mouth obediently, slurping noisily. Some of it dribbles down his chin.
"Ilya, please don't get anything on the bed."
"Oh my god," he gasps, pointedly ignoring Shane's previous statement. "This is… incredible."
"It’s soup."
They eat like that for a while. Shane feeds him slowly, patiently, wiping his chin when he makes a mess. Ilya complains about everything, from the temperature and texture to his immune system giving out on him ("Russians never get sick, Hollander."), but he eats every bite.
When they’re done, he slumps back against the pillows, exhausted like he’s just run a marathon.
"Come here," his tone is decisive as he pats the sheets next to him, "I need to cuddle."
Shane freezes.
"Ilya."
"Shane."
"You’re sick."
"Yes."
"I don’t want to get sick."
"You already were with me earlier!"
"That was before you had a fever." Shane's voice is firm.
"This is selfish," Ilya says gravely.
"I need to clean up," Shane's already grabbing the dishes and backing away, "If I get sick, nobody will be able to take care of you."
"Love is," Ilya's brain feels like mush, English mixing with the Russian, "zhertva, Hollander. Fuck. Sacrifice, yes."
"I already made soup."
"Get into the fucking bed, Hollander."
Shane hesitates, clearly torn. He takes a step back, then forward again, then promptly turns and speed walks out of the room, dishes in hand. Ilya thinks, for a brief moment, that if he weren't currently dying in bed, he would've chased after him. Shane reappears before Ilya could finish that thought, though, sighing like he’s giving in to something inevitable.
"You’re gross," his tone is resigned. "You know that, right?"
Ilya pouts. "You love me."
"I do," Shane admits. "That’s the problem."
Ilya reaches out weakly, fingers curling around Shane’s sleeve.
"Please," he croaks. "I am… dying."
"You are not dying."
"But emotionally."
Shane exhales, long and tired, before climbing onto the bed carefully, staying slightly angled away, trying to distance himself. Ilya immediately scoots closer, burrowing into his side with all the subtlety of a cat claiming territory.
"Hey-"
"I am cold," Ilya murmurs, already settling in. "You are warm."
"This defeats the purpose," Shane mutters, but his arm slides around Ilya anyway.
They settle into an awkward, careful cuddle — Shane leaning back against the headboard, Ilya tucked against his chest, blankets piled around them. Ilya lets out a content little hum, nuzzling closer.
"You smell like laundry," Ilya murmurs after a while, "It smells good."
"That’s not romantic, like at all," Shane pouts, while Ilya just smiles, "And you make fun of me."
"It is romantic to me."
Another cough sneaks up on him, and he pulls away slightly, turning his head. Shane tightens his grip automatically, rubbing his back again.
"Easy," he murmurs. "Breathe."
"I am breathing," Ilya says, offended, between coughs.
"I know. You’re just dramatic about it." Shane leans over and presses a quick kiss to his forehead, light as a promise.
Ilya blinks at him, something soft flickering in his eyes. Then his eyes harden.
"Stupid Hollander," he grumbles, "Give me a proper kiss."
"I thought you were sick."
"Asshole."
"If I get sick," Shane reminds him, voice tutting, "you'll have to take care of me."
"You act like I don't already take care of you." Ilya wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Shane slaps him on the chest weakly, minding the state he's currently in.
Ilya yelps anyway.
Shane laughs before pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. The cough fades with it, leaving him flushed and tired. Shane presses a cool hand to his cheek.
"You okay?"
"Define okay."
Shane smiles softly. "Fair."
They sit like that for a while, quiet settling around them like a blanket of its own. The room is dim, afternoon light slipping in through the curtains, painting everything gold and slow. Outside, the world keeps moving, but in here, in the little cocoon they've built for themselves, time feels paused, and Ilya lets everything just melt away, as his head lolls against Shane’s shoulder.
"Shane."
"Mm?"
"Thank you… for soup."
"Anytime."
"And… for cuddling."
Shane chuckles. "You’re lucky I like you."
"Very lucky," Ilya agrees, eyes fluttering shut.
He dozes for a bit, drifting in and out, occasionally waking to cough or sniffle. Shane stays still, even when his arm goes numb, even when Ilya shifts and accidentally elbows him. At one point, he almost decides to move to grab his book, but when he shifts and Ilya's brows furrow, he sighs before settling back in, focusing on Ilya's sleeping frame instead.
His curls are messy and greasy, flattened messily against the pillow, sweat-damp at the edges. His cheeks are flushed an uneven pink, fever-warm, lashes clumped together slightly where his eyes have watered too much, and his mouth hangs open just a bit as he breathes through congestion. Every so often, he lets out a tiny, pathetic sniff or a quiet, rattly breath, brows knitting faintly like even unconsciousness isn’t sparing him from the drama and ostentation that is Ilya Rozanov. He looks fragile in a way he never usually allows himself to be, all sharp edges softened, bravado stripped away, just a sick boy wrapped in blankets, clinging to warmth and sleep, and Shane's heart pings.
This is his, all his. He is in love with him, truly, in all his forms and all his glory. Ilya is his, and he is Ilya's.
That fact drives him, has been driving him.
At some point, Shane does manage to slowly wrangle himself from Ilya without waking him and washes the dishes before grabbing some more supplies. He grabs some meds, his book, and a towel he'll soak in some cool water later. He also gets started on dinner, something light and soothing. As he cuts the veggies, he thinks he can already hear Ilya nagging, but, perhaps pitifully, all that does is fuel his smile more.
When Ilya wakes again when he next checks up on him, eyes glassy, Shane's more than ready.
"I am hot," is the first thing he says when his eyelashes flutter open. Shane wants to laugh because Ilya is nothing if not a complainer.
"You have a fever."
"I hate it."
"I know."
Shane reaches for a cool cloth from the nightstand and presses it gently to his forehead. Ilya sighs, melting into the touch.
"That’s nice," he murmurs.
"Good."
Ilya smiles weakly, then coughs again.
"Sorry," he mutters.
"Don’t apologise," Shane says softly. "You’re allowed to be sick."
Ilya blinks at him, something tender flickering there.
"I do not like being weak," he admits.
"I know."
"But with you, it’s less scary," Ilya's voice is soft, and Shane's pulse skyrockets. There's a rare vulnerability to him right now, and a mean, protectiveness settles into the crevices of Shane's heart. He kind of wants to hide Ilya from the world, despite everything.
"Hey," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to his hair. "You don’t have to be strong all the time."
Ilya closes his eyes, breathing him in. He doesn't say anything more, which feels like something in and of itself. The moment passes, as it always does, and Shane lets it; Ilya says what he pleases, and when he pleases, and Shane will cherish every bit, holding it tenderly with his palms.
They argue a little after that, about medicine, about how often Ilya should drink water, about whether he can have ice cream (he cannot, according to Shane, which is apparently a crime), but it’s soft and familiar, more routine and playful than a true conflict. Fondness permeates the room, and it's moments like these that they both live for.
Eventually, Shane convinces him to take another spoonful of honey, to drink more tea, to shift positions so he can breathe better.
"You are bossy," Ilya mutters.
"You need it."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
"Rude."
Shane just grins.
They fall back into quiet, Ilya growing sleepier, movements slower, words slurring around the edges. Shane holds him close, protective, even as he pretends to complain about germs. As Ilya drifts off again, Shane quietly gets up from the bed and continues to make dinner. He makes his usual meal, some brown rice, salmon, and veggies, but he makes some more chicken noodle soup for Ilya. When everything's done, he quickly eats his meal standing at the counter, because sitting down feels like it would make the whole thing too real, too slow. He doesn’t even bother plating it nicely — just scoops rice onto a bowl, forks off a piece of salmon, shovels a few roasted vegetables in like an afterthought, and grabs a ginger ale from the fridge. It’s fuel more than dinner, something to get through before he can go back upstairs where he knows he’s supposed to be.
He chews fast, barely tasting anything. The kitchen is quiet except for the clink of cutlery and the low hum of the fridge. He checks the clock once, then again, and every few seconds his mind drifts back to the bedroom, to flushed cheeks and soft breathing, to the way Ilya had gone heavy against him, trusting, unguarded.
He swallows the last bite of salmon, washes it down with a hurried gulp of ginger ale, and doesn’t even register if it was overcooked or perfect. He just knows he’s done. Good enough.
Then he turns back to the stove.
The second pot of chicken noodle soup is still warm, steam swirling in wisps from the surface. He stirs it gently, testing a noodle between his fingers before nodding to himself. Extra noodles. Soft carrots. Exactly how Ilya likes it. He pours it into a thermos, because it’ll stay warm longer that way, screws the lid on tight, and grabs a spoon.
He hesitates for a second at the bottom of the stairs, listening.
No coughing and no dramatic groans. No grumbling notes that are so Ilya. It's silent. And while a part of Shane misses it, a larger part is relieved that Ilya is still resting.
When he pushes the door open, the room is dim, bathed in late-afternoon light. Ilya is exactly where he left him: curled around a pillow, hair a mess, lips parted just slightly. He looks peaceful in that fragile, sick way, like sleep is the only thing holding him together.
Shane sets the thermos carefully on the nightstand, then eases back onto the bed, trying not to jostle him. He pulls the book from beside the lamp, some half-finished hockey book. His reading glasses perch crookedly on his nose ("I will be happier when I see you in your glasses again," Flashes briefly through his mind now every time he wears these. Damn you, Ilya.), and he plays with them for a moment before finally settling in.
He opens to where he left off.
For a while, he just reads. The words blur together sometimes, because his eyes keep drifting back to Ilya, back to the rise and fall of his chest, the soft twitch of his brows, the tiny sniff every now and then, like his body hasn’t quite given up the fight even in sleep. He reaches out absentmindedly, brushing his knuckles over Ilya’s arm, slow and gentle. Not enough to wake him. Just enough to reassure himself he’s still warm, but not too much that he's still comfortable.
It's funny, really. It really is just a cold. Shane doesn't even think he'd do all this for himself, and yet, maybe partially due to Ilya's dramatic musings, and partially because Shane would do abso-fucking-lutely anything for him, Shane almost lets Ilya's catastrophising influence his own state of mind, and he finds himself fussing, fussing, fussing over Ilya.
"Idiot," he murmurs fondly.
Ilya doesn’t hear him. He shifts a little, sighing, and settles closer to Shane’s side without even opening his eyes, like his body knows where it wants to be.
Shane freezes, then carefully sets his book aside.
Well. So much for not getting sick.
But he wraps an arm around him anyway, pulling him in just a little closer, protective and resigned and completely gone for him. Dinner can wait. Everything else can wait. Right now, this is where he’s meant to be.
Outside, the light fades. Inside, everything feels small and safe.
"I love you," Ilya murmurs suddenly, half-asleep.
Shane freezes for a second, then smiles.
"I love you too," he whispers back.
Ilya hums contentedly, finally drifting back to sleep, fevered but safe, wrapped in blankets and the steady, ever-present warmth of Shane Hollander.
"Fuck you, Rozanov."
Ilya’s too-innocent eyes pop into the bedroom, bright and annoyingly healthy, curls perfectly unbothered by illness now that he’s fully recovered. He looks radiant, which is frankly offensive. He’s dressed, standing upright, breathing normally — all the things Shane cannot currently relate to. The blanket-cape from his sick days is gone, replaced by smug posture and the subtle air of someone who has survived and is thriving, "Well, I would like to, yes. But it seems that you are a little preoccupied, sweetheart."
Meanwhile, Shane is horizontal.
Completely taken out.
His nose is a tragic shade of red, voice wrecked, eyes glassy. Tissues are scattered across the bed, and it's frankly disgusting. Shane should not have let Ilya sweet-talk him into more kisses and cuddles; he was a man who trusted love and paid the price. He had convinced himself that giving Ilya what he wanted was a good thing, and now he has just lost a very personal war.
He squints at Ilya. "You’re disgusting."
Ilya tilts his head, confused in a way that should be illegal. He looks refreshed. "I am healed," he says proudly.
"That’s the problem," Shane mutters, rolling onto his side with a groan. His joints ache. His head feels like it’s full of soup. The bad kind. "You gave me this. You and your… face."
Ilya steps into the room, completely unconcerned, inspecting Shane like a museum exhibit. "Wow," he says. "You look… exactly like I did."
Shane groans. "That is not comforting."
Ilya smiles like he just won something. The audacity of it. He’s glowing. He probably slept eight hours. He probably breathed freely all night. Criminal behaviour.
Shane coughs into his elbow, glaring. "I don't even want to talk to you right now."
"Aw, moya lyubov," Ilya corrects. "You could never get rid of me."
"I should not have let you kiss me."
"Yes," Ilya agrees happily, "But you did."
Shane sinks deeper into the pillow, defeated. "I hate you."
"You don’t."
Shane pauses. "Unfortunately."
Ilya beams, clearly pleased. He perches on the edge of the bed, close but not touching — only because Shane gives him a look that suggests that Ilya might not make it out alive if he gloats any more. So he hums to himself instead, perfectly healthy, not a single sniffle to be found.
"Next time you’re sick," Shane mutters, "I’m wearing gloves. And a mask. And I'm not coming anywhere near you."
"You would still cuddle me." Ilya's grin is all teeth. Shane hates him. He hates him. With every fibre of his being. He hates him. He loves him, "And kiss me."
"…Probably."
Ilya smiles more softly then, less smug, more fond. "Stay," despite everything, the taunting, the boasting, Ilya's words are honey sweet, and Shane thinks that his voice alone could perhaps cure the knives digging into his throat, "I will make you soup. It will fit your stupid freak diet, don't worry, yes?"
Shane nods once.
Ilya's hand comes up to meet Shane's cheek, and he strokes it softly, so sweetly, so fondly. He leans in and presses a gentle kiss onto Shane's forehead, before something mischievous crosses his gaze.
"Sorry, Hollander," His voice is lazy, silky smooth. Gone were the days of his theatric wailings, "I cannot kiss you right now. You are sick."
Nevermind. Shane wants to kill him.
"Fuck you."
Ilya doesn't say anything more; instead, he stands and heads for the door, still victorious, still glowing. The windows shine into his curls, and they cast a golden glow. It's stupidly cinematic; the world fucking hates him. Whatever higher power he'd pissed off in his last life is probably laughing right now.
Shane watches him go, sniffling. He feels disgusting.
Worth it?
Absolutely not.
Would he do it again?
Unfortunately… yeah.