Chapter Text
Shane woke up nauseous. Which was no surprise.
It sat heavy and sour at the back of his throat, the kind of sickness that didn’t announce itself with drama, just a quiet certainty that today was going to be bad.
His mouth tasted like bile and regret, his head thick and buzzing like he hadn’t slept at all—which, technically, he hadn’t. Every time he’d drifted off, his stomach had twisted violently enough to drag him back awake, rushing barefoot to the bathroom, retching over the toilet in the dark while Ilya slept on, blissfully unaware.
He hadn’t woken him.
He never did.
The bed shifted beside him now, sheets rustling, and Shane stiffened on instinct. Ilya sat up, stretched, yawned—looked painfully normal, like someone who’d had a full night’s rest.
“Dog needs walking,” Ilya said, voice rough with sleep. “You’re up.”
Ilya's tone was sharp and angry. They had had a major fight the night before.
Shane couldn't remember exactly what it was about because he had been trying not to throw up on Ilya most of the time.
Shane swallowed hard. His throat burned as he tried to answer “Yeah. I know.”
He pushed himself upright too fast and the room tilted, a slow nauseating roll that made him press his lips together and breathe through his nose. Don’t throw up. Not now. Please not now.
Ilya was already pulling on a hoodie, movements sharp, irritated. “You said you’d come with me. You said we'd do it together, is why we got the dog."
“I—” Shane started, then stopped.
He could say it. I was sick all night.
He could say I didn’t sleep, I couldn’t stop throwing up, my stomach feels like it’s folding in on itself.
But the words felt flimsy in his mouth, like excuses. Like something Ilya would hear as whining.
“I just need a minute,” Shane said instead.
Ilya scoffed. “A minute for what?"
Shane rubbed his palms against his thighs, trying to ground himself. “I didn't feel great last night. I didn't sleep well.”
“Well, neither did I,” Ilya snapped. “Dog doesn’t care.”
That hurt more than it should have. Shane nodded anyway. “Okay.”
But Ilya was already reaching for the leash, irritation rolling off him in waves. “Forget it. I’ll go myself.”
The door shut a little harder than necessary.
The apartment fell quiet in a way that made Shane’s chest ache.
---
He lay back down, staring at the ceiling, heart thudding too fast for someone doing absolutely nothing.
The nausea ebbed and surged, never quite leaving. He curled onto his side, knees tucked in, one hand pressed to his stomach like he could physically hold it still.
He’s mad, his brain supplied helpfully. You messed up.
Sleep didn’t come. Every time he closed his eyes, guilt crept in—thick, suffocating. He pictured Ilya outside, cold morning air, dog tugging at the leash, irritation sharpening with every step. Shane should’ve gone. Sick or not. He could’ve managed. He always did.
After a while, lying there felt worse than standing.
Shane dragged himself out of bed and into the kitchen, bare feet cold against the tile. He decided to make Ilya breakfast as a silent apology.
The smell of coffee grounds made his stomach lurch, but he ignored it, focusing instead on muscle memory. Eggs. Toast. The way Ilya liked it. He cracked the eggs slowly, carefully, hands shaking just a little.
He had to stop once, bracing himself against the counter, breathing through a wave of nausea so strong it made his vision blur. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck.
Just finish, he told himself. Then you can lie back down.
By the time the front door opened again, the plate was waiting on the counter. Shane leaned against the counter with his fingers laced together, pale and exhausted, but weirdly hopeful.
Ilya came in, unhooking the leash, irritation still clinging to him like static. He stopped short when he saw the food.
“What’s this?”
“Breakfast,” Shane said quietly. “I thought—”
Ilya didn’t let him finish. He grabbed the plate and dumped it straight into the trash.
Shane froze.
“You shouldn’t be cooking if you’re 'so sick' you'll make me sick too,” Ilya said, sarcasm sharp and unmistakable. “Or is that only when it’s convenient?”
The words landed heavy, sinking straight into Shane’s chest.
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
If he said it now, it would sound fake. Defensive. Like backtracking.
“I’m sorry,” he said instead.
Ilya stared at him for a second, then shook his head. “Whatever. Just—”
Shane nodded. Again. Always nodding.
He turned and walked back toward the bedroom before the nausea crawling up his throat could turn into something worse. He shut the door softly behind him, slid down until he was sitting on the floor, back against the bed.
The room spun.
He clapped a hand over his mouth as his stomach finally rebelled, gag reflex snapping hard. Shane leaned forward just in time, retching into the trash can by the bed, body folding in on itself as everything he’d forced down came back up in violent waves. In-between retches he sobbed.
He bit down on the edge of the can, trying to stay quiet.
Shane stayed curled over the trash can long after the worst of it passed, forehead resting against the rim, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls. His throat burned. His stomach cramped dully, like it was offended he’d emptied it at all.
The smell was what finally got to him.
Warm, sour, unmistakable.
He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed, hard. I can’t leave it like this. Ilya would come in. He’d see it. He’d wrinkle his nose and make that face and—Shane’s chest tightened painfully.
He forced himself upright, every movement slow and careful, like his body might shatter if he rushed it. His hands were shaking as he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. He stood there for a moment, waiting for the room to steady.
It didn’t.
Still, he reached down and grabbed the trash can, lifting it with both hands like it weighed more than it did. The slosh inside made his stomach flip violently, but the bathroom was right there. Just a few steps. He could manage a few steps.
He took one. Then another.
Halfway there, the dizziness hit like a punch.
The floor tilted sharply to the left, the walls pulling away from him, and Shane’s foot caught on nothing at all. His vision went dark around the edges.
“Oh—”
He went down hard.
The trashcan slipped from his hands as he fell, clattering against the floor, tipping over. Shane hit the carpet on his side, breath knocked clean out of him, and then—
Warmth.
The contents of the can spilled across the floor and onto him, soaking into his shirt, splattering his arm, his chest. The smell surged, overwhelming and immediate.
For a split second, all he could think was oh god, no—
Then his stomach heaved.
Shane gagged, violent and uncontrollable, body curling in on itself as he realized with horror that he was lying in it. His hand scrabbled uselessly for the trash can, fingers slipping, too slow, vision swimming.
“Fuck—fuck—”
The retch tore out of him before he could move, before he could roll away, and he vomited straight onto the floor, bile burning his throat as it splashed against the carpet, adding to the mess.
He sobbed, soundless and broken, gagging again, trying and failing to crawl forward, away from himself. Another wave hit and he had nowhere to put it, nothing to catch it with.
It just… happened.
By the time his stomach finally gave him a mercy pause, Shane was shaking all over, palms pressed uselessly to the floor, surrounded by the evidence of how badly he’d lost control. His face burned hotter than the nausea, humiliation settling deep in his chest.
He lay there, cheek pressed against the carpet, breathing shallow and miserable.
Don’t cry, he told himself weakly.
Please don’t cry.