Chapter Text
Ilya:
He is happy. No—happy is an understatement. He’s the happiest man in the world.
He was finally able to be honest with himself and with Shane, to confess his love after so many years of struggling with the feeling of not being worthy of love and with the fear of not being reciprocated.
But now they are together—truly together! It’s no longer just about sex, though deep down he knows it never really was. From the moment he first saw Shane that cold afternoon in the parking lot, he knew he would never be able to get him—and those beautiful freckles—out of his head.
Also, their relationship is no longer entirely a secret. Shane’s parents already know everything. Maybe the way they found out wasn’t ideal, but Ilya is glad it happened, that someone else finally knows everything, that they get to see how much he loves—no, ADORES—their son.
Meeting them felt like the beginning of something bigger, something he had never dared to dream of: the possibility of belonging somewhere.
Now they are back at the cottage, exhausted, resting in bed, together. Shane is deeply asleep, and Ilya watches him breathe, as if each one of his breaths were a miracle. He loves him so much it feels like his heart could explode at any moment.
Yes, Ilya is happier than he ever thought he could be. So why does he feel like he’s dying?
Shifting slowly, careful not to wake Shane, he squeezes his eyes shut and takes deep breaths, trying to calm the nausea that is slowly but dangerously taking over his body. He tries to think of something else—his happiness, how perfect everything is turning out. Nothing is going to ruin the best moment of his life.
It all started earlier that same afternoon, in the car, on their way back from Shane’s parents' house. They were calmer after the forced confession, after Shane’s small panic attack, and after a delicious homemade meal—something that Ilya had not enjoyed since he was twelve. So, they began the drive back to the cottage.
As they said goodbye, Yuna and David had told them they would come that night for dinner. The idea of a second family gathering on the same day excited Ilya even more than it did Shane. He had spent very little time with them, but he had felt a unique warmth, something close to what he had always imagined it would feel like to be part of a normal family.
But about ten minutes into the road, that excitement began to turn into something uncomfortable: a strange pressure in his stomach. He wondered if he had overdone it with the pasta or the Parmesan cheese. He rolled down the car window to cool off and tried to ignore the unpleasant sensation.
“Are you okay?” Shane asked suddenly, glancing at him without taking his eyes off the road.
Maybe he had not been as subtle with his breathing as he thought, Ilya considered.
“Couldn’t be better,” Ilya replied quickly, squeezing Shane's hand and smiling at him.
“You look a little pale,” Shane insisted, and Ilya could not help feeling both irritated and moved by Shane’s newly acquired ability to read him—his gestures, his movements, his breathing. Still, he did everything he could to throw him off, to brush it aside.
“Not all of us can have your beautiful natural tan, Hollander,” he replied, winking.
Shane blushed and finally let it go, which Ilya appreciated, because he did not think he could keep up that fake smile much longer.
By then, the pressure in his stomach had already turned into something else; a chill ran through his entire body, covering his forehead with cold, sticky sweat. He felt dizzy, the way he used to when he was a child and had to travel long distances. Back then, his mother always knew exactly what to do. She carried lemon candies, peppermint essential oil, cold water, and, in case everything failed, a couple of sick bags that she would open as soon as she noticed the sudden change in his breathing.
Ilya would have done anything to smell a bit of mint, to chew one of those candies, or to feel the cold of a bottle against his neck. But he was twenty-six now; it made no sense that he felt carsick during a drive of barely twenty minutes. It was ridiculous. It couldn’t be that.
He shifted in his seat, swallowed repeatedly to push the discomfort as far down as possible, and closed his eyes so he would not have to watch the landscape moving in the opposite direction.
When they finally arrived, Ilya got out of the car and was surprised to realize that it took a superhuman effort to walk in a straight line toward the cottage. He also noticed Shane glancing at him again and felt a surge of anger. Not at Shane—never at Shane—but at himself for not being able to pretend better, for being weak, for having a body that seemed unwilling to keep up with the perfection of the moment he was living.
He went inside and headed straight to the bathroom to splash water on his face. When he came out, Shane was waiting for him with a glass of water and a deeply worried expression.
“Ilya…”
“It’s nothing,” he cut him off. “I’m just… how do you say? Exhausted. It’s been a long day… but beautiful, yes?”
Shane only smiled and caressed his face, leaning in slowly to kiss him softly.
For a moment, all discomfort left Ilya’s body, and he felt himself back on top of the world.
“Let’s rest,” Shane said suddenly. “Recharge before tonight’s dinner.”
Shit, dinner, Ilya thought, trying not to let the panic show on his face. What had filled him with excitement just moments ago had now become a threat. Just thinking about Yuna’s words—we’ll bring lasagna, chocolate cake, and wine—made his stomach churn even more. Suddenly, he felt his knees weaken and his mouth fill with acidic saliva.
He had to get better. And fast.