Archive of Our Own

Shane woke up on Friday morning already feeling iffy. It wasn't really anything he could pinpoint though, which had been stressing him out. At first it was nothing but the feeling of weight down in his lower belly, like something wasn't sitting quite right. Him and Ilya went to morning practice together like usual, and spending time on the ice let him ignore the heaviness for the most part. 

By lunch, his appetite was fully gone, and he could only stomach a bit of leftover smoothie from breakfast. Ilya didn't say anything when Shane handed him a plate and joined him at the table with nothing but a tall glass of green mush. He had been subtly eyeing him suspiciously all day, as if he could understand his body better than he himself could, and could tell something was wrong. And, yeah, he probably could. He always did. 

Ilya'd always had a knack for reading Shane, after spending years cataloguing all the little ticks in his body language. He also knew, regrettably, that Shane would ignore whatever was wrong until he had no other choice.

They moved to the couch afterwards, laying down to watch some game re-runs, spooning on the cushions. Ilya could feel the tension in Shane's posture, the way he seemed to be sitting uncomfortably in his body, even as he tried to relax against Ilya. Pressing soft kisses against the nape of his neck and rubbing soothing palms up and down his husband's arms, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

"You feeling okay?" he asked, already expecting Shane's answer.

"Yeah," Shane muttered softly.

"Yeah?" He pressed, lips brushing against Shane's ear as he spoke. Shane sighed. He knew what Ilya was doing.

"Okay, yeah. It's just my stomach's been feeling a little off since this morning," he said, giving in. "I'm sure it's nothing, maybe it's just disagreeing with something I ate."

"Hmm," Ilya muttered, shifting his arm to rub slow circles against Shane's abdomen. That felt... really nice, actually, Shane thought, relaxing even further into his husband's embrace. "You've been eating what you always do though, except for maybe those sandwiches Harris brought over yesterday?"

"I guess, maybe. I think only Troy and I tried the chicken ones, right? And you're feeling fine?"

"Sure, but you know how I eat. It's gonna take a lot more than some weird sandwiches to bring me down, unlike you and your little bird stomach," he teased, making Shane huff out a soft laugh. "We can just nap here for a while until we need to head out to your parents' to get Anya, maybe that'll help."

"Hm, that does sound nice," Shane said, burying further back as Ilya tightened his arms around him. His voice softened. "Keep doing that?"

Ilya pressed a kiss into his dark hair and committed to the belly rubs.

"Sleep, malysh. I'll wake you up when we need to get ready."

He'd been dozing off for a while when he felt the first shift in his lower belly, like whatever mass was rioting inside him had finally decided to push down. And out.

"Fuck," he mumbled as his stomach cramped, Ilya blinking blearily behind him. He needed to get to a toilet, and quickly. "Let me up, c'mon," he said, untangling from Ilya's arms and struggling off the couch.

"Okay?" Ilya muttered, as Shane stumbled a little, sleep clinging to his limbs even as the rest of his body was suddenly, painfully awake.

"Bathroom," he called back, already rushing down the hallway and locking himself in, barely making it to the toilet seat.

Sitting up on the couch, Ilya heard his husband curse again, amidst... other, quite worrying sounds, and winced in sympathy. He picked his phone up, checking the messages he'd missed while asleep, and winced again.

Harris: Hey buddy
Harris: Just a heads up, Troy's been pretty sick since getting back from practice this morning. We think it might've been yesterday's lunch
Harris: Hopefully you guys will be fine? Really sorry if not 😬

Yikes.

He shot off a quick text back and got up to the fridge, busying himself with serving a glass of ginger ale and one just water, hoping either one might help. He moved to wait for Shane in the hallway arch.

When his husband emerged from the bathroom after a couple minutes, he definitely looked worse for wear. He was paler than usual and his forehead shined with sweat, except not in the way that usually made Ilya hungry after running some tough drills. He looked, well, sick.

"Is your tummy upset at you?" Ilya said, walking up to Shane with his hands already reaching for him, taking him in and balancing them slightly from side to side as Shane rested his face on his shoulder.

"Yeah, it's not great. Maybe, uhm," he mumbled, hiding further into Ilya's neck, "maybe don't go in there just yet."

Ilya chuckled softly, switching to hold him from behind and leading Shane back into the kitchen. He took his fingertips back to Shane's abdomen, feeling the cramped muscles and trying to massage a little ease into them. Shane let out a quiet sound.

"So Harris texted, said Troy is not having a great time either. Sounds like your evil chicken sandwich got to him too," he said as Shane made a face. He pointed at the glasses on the counter. "Thought you'd like to drink some ginger ale? You say it helps settle you up?"

Still holding him, Ilya felt the way Shane's body recoiled at his words, as he made a tight, throaty sound. He spun Shane around gently, trying to read his expression better. He looked even paler, if possible.

"Gonna take that as a no, then."

He pushed Shane to rest against the countertop and handed him the glass of water. Shane eyed it wearily but took a couple of tiny sips. Ilya put the offending drink back in the fridge and went back to stand close to him.

"I don't think the bathroom helped, either," he muttered quietly. He looked uncomfortable enough having to talk about it, and Ilya's heart ached for him a little. "I thought I would, uh, get it all out? And it would be over with. But I still feel like I'm full to the brim and any wrong step is gonna make me spill over. Just looking at that soda made me feel like I was gonna be sick."

"I'm sorry you're not feeling well, moya lyubov. I think we stay in and deal with what your body is throwing at you, yes? I can text Yuna to reschedule and maybe get some mother wisdom to help you."

Shane looked resigned. Ilya pet his arms some more.

"Yeah, okay. Can we go back upstairs, then?"

The thing is, Ilya knew exactly why Shane was having a hard time. Maybe not in so many words, and it's not like they had ever discussed it. Despite how long they had known each other, despite approaching two years of being married, there were things Ilya knew Shane wasn't comfortable talking about. 

Ilya didn't even take it personally. They had, painfully and as a result of a lot of therapy, developed a great way of communicating. They had their systems in place, knew how to have hard, difficult conversations, how to fight and make up, ask for things, say sorry... It was just that there were things Shane found difficult to admit to himself in the first place, let alone bring up unprompted. Every once in a while he would reach a breakthrough in his head and only then would disclose some fundamental truth about himself, quiet in the early hours or the morning, while he let Ilya hold him.

This topic, though, they'd skirted around often enough that Ilya knew Shane wasn't quite there yet. Through a lot of observation (and wasn't it his favorite thing in the world, to watch Shane exist, to be allowed the privilege), Ilya had reached his own conclusions on the matter. He just wished Shane had had time to settle it with himself before this unfortunate situation forced him to.

It was no secret Shane had a complicated relationship with his body. It was in fact very well-documented that he treated it like a well-oiled machine. His eating habits, his yoga, his strict training routines and even his pre-game rituals, it was all part of an intricate system of control.

What Ilya had gathered over the years was that Shane found it difficult to listen to his body. Like it spoke rather quietly, and his threshold for sensing what it needed sat higher than it should. He had painstakingly learnt, over the years, what he could do to keep himself in top shape and stuck to it, developed a checklist of signals, little indicator lights on a dashboard, that he could keep an eye on even if he couldn't quite feel what was wrong.

This didn't quite apply to hockey. Ilya assumed hockey pain was special. It was no secret hockey was a contact sport, extremely physical. The bruising, the exertion, whatever injury he might have gotten on the ice was a risk that Shane calculated, a tried and true outcome of doing what he loved. Pain that was related to hockey was predictable. It had a delicately carved place in Shane's system. He had a high threshold for it, kept it integrated into his rituals just as he did the specific ways to manage it. He could account for that pain. If Ilya was being honest, he sometimes thought Shane even enjoyed it.

Sensory-seeking, Yuna had once called it. It came after some mild prodding from Ilya over wine and yearbook photos. She said she'd almost been worried, in the beginning, researching as much as she could. Just before Shane found himself in hockey and everything changed. She told Ilya how nothing would work to settle Shane's early restlessness better than a scrimmage on the ice and the ache of his sore muscles after practice. That he used to play dirtier, incite more fights, before how much he wanted to excel overruled how much he craved the physical, skin-to-skin pleasure of the sport.

What Ilya couldn't really tell his mother in law then was that Shane was pretty much the same about sex.

Sex brought him back into his body in ways nothing did. Grounded him with an overload of sensation Shane found addicting, if their long history of encounters and Shane's (greatly appreciated) sex drive were any indication. He felt powerful, wilfully giving in to the pleasure running through his body. And Ilya loved giving him that. Anytime he could.

So, Ilya surmised, Shane had developed a couple of ways to feel in his body, and the gaps he couldn't account for he filled in with routine. This kind of control had worked out perfectly for him so far.

Illness, however, had the opposite effect on him. The crux of it was Ilya knew Shane hated being sick. It was evident in the way he took extreme care to prevent it. Illness was his body rebelling on him. It was a betrayal of his rituals, something that had gone through his defenses even as he carefully managed every detail pertaining to his health. It pushed him to feel the most unpleasant of sensations and be helpless against them. More than anything, it was his body screaming at him at a volume it rarely did, and it very clearly freaked him out.

Which brought them to the matter at hand.

They'd walked up the stairs together, and Shane had taken a detour straight to the en-suite just as they'd reached their bedroom. Ilya feared it would only be the second of many more to come tonight.

He was now sitting up in bed, back ramrod straight and face slightly green at the edges, valiantly pretending to be resting in between waves. Ilya could see his knuckles gone ash white from how tight he was squeezing his fists.

It pained him, not being able to do much to help. He always felt like a buoy floating needlessly in the face of Shane’s distress. He hated the feeling with a passion.

"Shane," he ventured, sitting closer to him on the bed, reaching up to brush his sweaty hair back from his forehead.

"Hm?" Shane leaned into the contact, still not looking at him. He looked like he was trying to move as little as possible.

Stubborn little thing.

"What are you doing, sweetheart?"

"What do you mean?" Shane finally ventured a look back at Ilya. The skin around his eyes was tight and a grimace seemed to be trying to overtake his beautiful face.

"Are you nauseous? You haven't really drank your water," Ilya asked. He looked at the almost full glass on the bedside table and back at Shane.

"I can feel it sitting weirdly inside me. I don't know if I can have any more right now," he said, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. His shoulders went up even further as his voice went brittle and quiet. "You know I hate throwing up."

It was true. And it wasn't even that Shane was squeamish. You kind of couldn't be after spending your life around stinky hockey players. He'd been wonderfully sweet last year, when Ilya caught whatever stomach bug had ran through the Pike household, and couldn't keep anything down for a whole weekend. He'd even taken care of Ilya on the rare occasions he would drink enough alcohol for it to come back up (it took a great amount, yes, but it wasn’t as impossible as Ilya liked to boast it was). Shane would always run his hand through Ilya's curls and caress his spine when he was hunched over some toilet.

Ilya, however, had never gotten to return the favour. Not even after their crazier nights out with the team, when Shane would let loose after a win and have more than a couple drinks, would he let himself be sick. Hangover, sure, but Ilya would see him drink water in between cups and before bed, breathe through the dizziness in the morning, and make himself disgusting, magic-hangover-curing smoothies Ilya would die before tasting. But he would never, ever let himself be sick like that. He'd told Ilya a number of times how much he despised the feeling.

And now Ilya, with dread sitting over his heart, saw how hard he was trying not to. And how close he was to failing.

"I know, malysh, I'm sorry," he answered, squeezing the back of his neck like he knew Shane liked. "But I think it might help you feel a little better."

He saw Shane shake his head in response, and also saw the way he immediately regretted the movement. He cursed quietly under his breath. Ilya decided for him.

"Here, let's move to the toilet, yes? You'd hate it more if you got sick in the bed."

He got up and slowly pulled Shane up from his elbows, trailing back into the bathroom as Shane reluctantly followed. He folded a towel on the floor by the toilet to avoid making the cramps worse and sat on the edge of the bathtub, looking up at his husband with big, sympathetic eyes.

Ha saw Shane sigh and lower himself down onto the towel, leaning back against Ilya's legs. He immediately started massaging his shoulders.

"Is it better or worse that I'm in here with you?" Ilya asked.

This was not really about him, except in all the ways it was. Any chance to help relieve Shane’s unease was a drop of cooling balm for his bleeding heart, and every single thing he could not fix for him was another needle digging into it.

Shane seemed to think about it.

"Neutral, I think, right now. If it's fine? I'll tell you if I want you out? Just..." he trailed off, resting his head back on Ilya's knees and frowning as another cramp seemed to hit him. He started making a sound under his breath Ilya couldn't quite recognize.

"Are you singing?" He asked, bewildered. "Is this some Canadian puking custom I don't know about?"

Shane laughed a little. Ilya counted it as a win, confused as he was.

"Humming," he answered. "It helps override the nausea reflex. Obviously."

"Obviously," he laughed. "You know you'll just feel worse the longer you fight it, right?" Shane was staring up at him with tired eyes, resuming his humming. It sounded vaguely like the Canadian national anthem, and Ilya was hopelessly endeared.  He leaned down to kiss his husband's forehead. "It will feel like, eh, relief? And you'll be fine after. Also obviously."

Ilya felt, more than saw, the first heave run up Shane's spine. The humming got louder as he clamped a hand over his mouth and seemed to breathe through it.

"Fuck," he said, voice thick, leaning over the rim of the toilet as his breathing sped up.

Ilya would trade places with him in a heartbeat. He’d sacrifice a lot of things to spare his lover the tiniest bit of unease. Instead, all he could do was get up to wet a hand towel and set it on the back of his neck. He sat back down and tried to act like nothing was happening, hand rubbing Shane's shaking shoulders.

"It's okay, sweetheart. Let it out. You're okay, just let it out."

The second wave Shane didn't have as much success in taming. Sounds of harsh retching filled the bathroom as Shane finally gave in. Ilya kept petting him gently as he winced at the force of it. He watched Shane's hands grabbing the toilet seat and his eyes squeezing shut, sparkly tears at the corners of his lashes.

Ilya just muttered soft, comforting words at his back until Shane leaned back, spent. He stretched to immediately flush and kept breathing harshly with his forehead on the seat as Ilya got up again to bring him water.

"Here, rinse." He stayed quiet as Shane did and watched as he flushed, again.

"I don't think I'm done yet," he said, voice raspy and curling into himself. He was squeezing at his stomach like it was torturing him still.

"How have you got more left inside you?" Ilya teased gently, petting Shane's sweaty hair.

"No fucking clue." Big brown eyes stared up at Ilya from the floor, as his husband all but head-butted his hand like some sad wet kitten. "Actually, I meant the... Uhm. The other way out. You mind waiting back in bed?"

Even in the midst of it all, Shane's cheeks went through the effort of blushing. Ilya admired the commitment.

Complying, Ilya stretched his arms out to help Shane up from the floor. He managed to sneak in a quick hug and a wet kiss against Shane's forehead before he was being pushed out of the bathroom.

"Good luck!" He stayed back to mutter through the now closed door. 

"Fuck off, Rozanov," he heard Shane call back, strained, as he moved away.

It wasn't that Ilya had never seen Shane sick before, or helped him through it. Well, maybe not in their early years. A younger Shane would probably die before letting Ilya notice he wasn't feeling well. Ilya wasn't much better, back then.

But being married and living in the same house (fucking finally) left little space for hiding things like that from each other. While Ilya was still working on letting Shane take care of him when hurting, old ghosts of his past slowly fading away against Shane's tender worrying, his husband was actually a pretty good patient.

They'd gone through a couple of injuries together, and twice now he'd nursed Shane back to health after he'd picked up some flu being passed around in the locker room. Aside from the hating-being-sick part, Shane mainly just got a little bossy and a lot clingy when not feeling good. He craved physical comfort in a way Ilya happily obliged, even at risk of catching whatever bug he had too.

It was just that he absolutely suffered through whatever illness he had, and Ilya had never seen him this sick before. And Shane didn't even like painkillers. He said they dimmed his already low alertness to some body alarm system that he was convinced he had to keep an eye on. Seeing him in this much pain was making Ilya hurt all over. His whole being felt like a Shane-shaped phantom limb of discomfort.

As he let Shane take his time in the bathroom, Ilya went around the house gathering some supplies. He called Yuna while grabbing some Pedialyte from the kitchen (the sugar-free kind, because Shane hated Ilya's Blue Raspberry ones with a passion). They'd dropped off Anya at their house before practice for a day at the groomer, and he had to ask for them to keep her at least over the weekend. He made Yuna put him on speaker to tell her just how much they'd miss her.

Afterwards, Yuna reassured him through the phone. She was perceptive, but it wouldn’t take much to hear the clear, heavy worry in his voice anyways. They commiserated over Shane's long-developed hatred of puking. Before hanging up, she promised to bring soup the next morning for when Shane might feel up to eating.

Mission accomplished, he headed back upstairs and set up the bedroom while he heard the shower turn on. He got Shane the most comfortable clothes he could find (and yeah, that was his own sweatshirt, what about it) and left them by the sink. Then, he opened the window a bit but set the room temperature a little warmer, turned the TV on to some mindless commentary channel, and set his bounty on Shane's bedside table. Three brands of crackers, the electrolytes, a hopeful box of stomach ache meds, plus he put an unassuming trash can and clean towels by the bed, just in case.

A couple minutes later, Shane came out to join him in bed and insistently repositioned Ilya around until he was cuddle-worthy, before plopping down on top of him. Ilya grabbed one of the towels and tried to dry his hair a little more.

"Did the shower help?"

"A little bit," Shane said through a yawn. He looked exhausted. "I just wanted to do something about the smell. Felt stinky."

"You're allowed to be stinky, you're sick," Ilya muttered into his damp hair, worming his hand down to Shane's stomach to massage it again. Shane melted into it.

“I didn't want to get under the covers smelling like shit.”

“Moy kotenok, I'll wash your stupid shitty covers if you want. You're not gonna shower every time you go to the bathroom.”

“Why are you calling me a kitten?”

“Yes, little sad and stinky kitten, with very angry stomach. Getting belly rubs. Bitey, too.”

Shane bit his pec softly for good measure. 

“I think I can start timing the space in between the cramp sequence and, uh, stuff coming out. So I can prepare better. But I think that was the worst of it.”

His still raspy voice was already trailing off, the tiredness catching up to him. Ilya squeezed him a little harder.

“Yes,” he said, pretending that had been a reasonable thing to suggest. “But sleep first, no?”

Shane was already snoring softly.

It was not, as Ilya had feared, the worst of it.

Ilya was starting to doze off when Shane shot up in bed, halfway through retching already, as Ilya hurried to grab the trashcan and pushed it under his chin.

Shane squeezed the life out of Ilya's hand as he somehow managed to stop a second heave. He started up some high-pitched, desperate hum, then seemed to come to terms with his situation.

“Nope,” he muttered, scrambling to get up as he kept a tight grip on the trash can, “bathroom.”

Ilya got up slowly, deciding between hurrying behind and giving his husband some much needed privacy. When he heard louder, echoing sounds join the retching without reprieve, he headed for the en-suite anyways.

Fully opening the door, left ajar in hurry, he found Shane sitting on the toilet while bent over the trashcan, face red with the effort and tears beginning to stream down his cheeks.

“Oh, malysh,” he whispered as he wet yet another hand towel and resumed his spot by the tub, holding the cold cloth to Shane's forehead and rubbing his back.

When the puking subsided, Shane turned his face away from Ilya, sniffling softly.

“Go back to bed, ‘m disgusting,” he whispered, followed by a hiccup.

Ilya turned his head back gently, scratching at his scalp and waiting for Shane to look at him.

“You are not disgusting, you're my very gorgeous husband who is feeling very badly. It's just bodies, sweetheart, I promise I don't mind.”

Shane just sniffled some more, nose scrunching up like a bunny. Ilya would have to do something about the small-animal-related cuteness aggression he kept getting today. Not helpful. He tried a different route.

“Also, I've had my tongue on your asshole many more times this month than you've shat today, probably.”

“Shut up, what the hell, how is that at all related,” he said, slumping down as the sounds plaguing the toilet bowl finally seemed to quiet down. “I clean said asshole for that, Ilya, and you fucking know that. And stop making me laugh, it hurts,” but he was smiling, even if just a little. Ilya jotted it down as another win.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, running a knuckle over Shane's cheekbone. Not right after practice, you don't, he thought to himself, but decided not to push it. He reached for the trashcan instead. “Let me clean this out while you finish, yes? Then you can lie back down.”

The pattern continued well past sunset. At some point Shane had gotten bored of the not-sleeping, relocating to the living room. He’d put on some hockey videos and then had shut his eyes when the motion on screen made him dizzy, rolling over to just listen to the commentators. He'd get up every once in a while to puke, or shit, or sometimes both, and come back looking paler every time.

They tried the crackers, and he couldn't keep them down the first time, nearly bringing them up on the blankets before Ilya handed him the trashcan, but the second time went better. The nausea finally appeared to be over, for now, so he accepted when Ilya handed him the Pedialyte too, trying to get some fluids into him. But the pain didn't really seem to be getting better.

Worried as he was, Ilya texted all updates to the team doctor while Shane was once again in the bathroom. 

Terry: Sounds like you've had a rough evening, guys, but it's par for the course with food poisoning. I'd be more worried if he still wasn't taking any fluids
Terry: See if you can get some loperamide in him, Roz, but other than that just stay home and eat easy for the rest of the weekend

Shane came back to read over his shoulder and made a face.

“No meds.”

“Moya lyubov, come on, if Terry says so…” Ilya tried.

“No, I remember loperamide from a high school bug, I lost my appetite for weeks.”

“Don't you think that was maybe the bug?”

“No meds,” he said, leaving the room.

Ilya: no luck w meds
Terry: I figured. I'll check him on Monday just to be sure, but he'll be fine, just some more pain for a couple days
Ilya: okay ((

Shane came back with what seemed like all the pillows from their spare room. Ilya stared at him, then slowly looked around at all the perfectly comfy cushions arranged around the living room.

“Shut up.”

“I didn't even say anything.”

“Your stupid soft sofa pillows are not stiff enough,” Shane started, arranging his collection in some complicated pattern beside Ilya, “and my stomach is fucking sore, and my ass hurts like hell, and I don't know how else to get comfortable. Stop giving me looks and help.”

At this, Ilya took Shane's hand and gave it a firm squeeze, waiting until Shane breathed out and squeezed back. He stood up in front of Shane's halfway built sofa nest, and yeah, nope, he had no clue what Shane’s vision was.

“You look like you have your…” he moved his hand to gesture at the pillow mounts, “handled, sweetheart. I can bring electric blanket from the closet, for your tummy? Sorry I didn't think of that earlier.” 

“Fuck, that does sound nice,” Shane's voice softened. “And you are helping. I don't think I can even explain the pillows thing. Sorry, I'm just…”

“No, is okay. You are very tired kitten and are allowed to be a little grumpy, I think. Do your pillows thing. I'll get the blanket, yes?”

“Okay, yeah.”

Squeezing his hand once more, Ilya left Shane by the couch and went into the closet for the electric blanket. He went back, pressing a kiss to the side of his head as Shane melted into his side again. Then, he let Shane settle into the couch while grabbing him some snacks.

He cut up a banana and arranged it into a smiley face over some toast. He hoped it looked like the ones Yuna had mentioned making for a tinier Shane. Shane burst into quiet laughter when offered the plate. Another little piece of Ilya’s despair crumbled to the sound of it.

“You called my mom?”

“What, you think I don't know B.R.A.T. diet?”

“That's not even-”

“Brat, like you.”

“Okay, heard, sorry for freaking out on you. This does help,” he said, as Ilya tugged the heated blanket over Shane's stomach and settled beside him.

“That was not freaking out, Hollander. It's fine. And also, I have an idea.”

“Hm?”

“Do you want me to give your asshole a rub?”

Shane choked on his toast. Ilya raised his available hand under the weight of Shane's stare.

“Not like that! You said your ass hurts. You're sore, I help. Little massage, like aftercare?” He barely pinched Shane's thigh, if only to get him to stop staring. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

Shane made a face. “No, that's disgusting.”

Ilya didn't think that was fair. He figured it made sense Shane would be less embarrassed about that after getting his ass pounded for hours, deep in the afterglow and content to let Ilya circle cold lotion over the tight ring of muscle.

“It's really not,” Ilya replied. “You're feeling hurt and it's something I can do about it. And your asshole and I are already very good friends.”

That made Shane snort. Another point for Rozanov! Fuck you, evil chicken sandwich.

“Okay, okay. Maybe I'll ask later, yeah? Find a dumb movie.”

He passed Ilya the remote and grabbed his other hand to place over his own hair. Ilya got to it.

At some point past midnight they did move back into the bed, once Shane started feeling sleepy again. He was getting a little more time in between waves now (and Ilya knew he was somehow timing them, the little fucker). He helped Shane through some light stretching to try and soothe his very sore body, then let himself be ragdolled into prime cuddling position.

That's how he ended up spooning Shane so he could draw slow circles into his tummy as he slept, feeling relief as the tension in his ab muscles slowly released.

While he was happy Shane was getting some much needed, actual sleep, Ilya felt wide awake. He'd been dozing off with Shane all afternoon and felt well-rested, even as the worry he'd been carrying all day crashed down, finally, watching the tightness around Shane's eyes ease.

He was on his phone, having checked in with Harris and Troy first, then the rest of the team, when he first felt Shane shift against him. It had been maybe an hour since he'd fallen asleep. Ilya pushed up a bit without moving Shane, trying to catch a glimpse of his face with little luck.

A couple minutes after that, Shane moved again, coiling tighter around his middle, freeing up Ilya's arms so he could sit up slightly. There was a frown in Shane's face now, his eyes moving quickly under his closed lids. Ilya tried snaking a hand back around his middle, drawing slow circles against his belly, once again feeling it tight and warm. He hoped the touch would help the cramping.

He also hoped Shane's body would be kind enough to wake him on time for anything. This, he would reflect later, was where things went wrong.

Shane's breathing slipped back into something calmer, and Ilya relaxed back against the mattress. He had maybe another minute of false security before Shane's insides twisted into themselves again, hard enough Ilya could feel it through Shane's sweatshirt and tightly coiled muscles. Shane woke up with a gasp.

“Fuck,” Shane whined, high and thin as his breathing went rough and he curled into himself. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Ilya sat up fully, pushing Shane's hair back from his forehead, where cold sweat was now blooming. “Deep breath, malysh. Bucket?”

“No, no,” Shane groaned, “it's, uhm, the other way out. But Ilya, I-” his breathing hitched, and his eyes closed harshly. So low that Ilya could barely hear him, he muttered, “I can't move. I won't make it to the fucking bathroom.”

His breathing sped up again. Shane's face was a whirlwind of tension, pain evident in his tightly furrowed brow and pursed lips. He was clearly struggling with the effort of holding himself together. Ilya gave himself one second to panic, another one to think about it, then came to a decision.

He stretched over the side of the bed and grabbed a long towel, then quickly started arranging it under Shane's hips, careful not to jostle him. 

“Rozanov, what the fuck are you doing?” Shane squeezed out.

Ilya got off the bed and came around to Shane's side, squatting down in front of his face. He resumed the hair pets. Shane was just lying there, arms tight around his stomach, frozen and panicking. Ilya’s chest felt like it was burning inside out.

“Okay, so no bathroom. You go here.”

“What? No,” Shane wheezed.

“I know it's not great,” Ilya winced. “But do you have a better idea?”

“You want me to just fucking-” a high whine cut through his words, before he continued, “shit my fucking shorts?”

“We do own a washing machine, Shane. It is fine.”

Shane blinked quickly, shiny tears collecting in his lashes. He clutched his middle tighter and exhaled harshly. Ilya felt like an asshole immediately, but he was trying his best. Sure, he had come to terms with what was going to unfold, but seeing Shane struggle through it could still unravel him.

“It's humiliating, Ilya.”

“Baby. You're in pain. That's all I care about” Ilya brought a hand to his cheek, collecting the tears with his thumb. His other hand snuck between Shane's tight embrace to hold him better, rubbing at his back. “You'll just hurt yourself trying to hold longer. I promise nothing bad is going to happen if you just… let go.”

Shane shook his head quickly, every breath coming out more strained than the other. Ilya stayed silent, swallowing past the lump in his throat and letting his husband reach the same conclusion Ilya had come to already: this was going to happen, whether he wanted to or not. 

When he did, a little sob escaped out his mouth. He tried moving away from Ilya, but he switched to hold him tighter. Ilya brushed a kiss into his sweaty brow, then guided Shane's face to hide into the crook of his neck. He held him as Shane worked himself up into panicked crying, every little sound out of him smarting like a punch.

“Shane, sweetheart,” Ilya shushed right into his ear, “you're okay. Let it out. It'll be over soon.”

Ilya felt the moment Shane's body gave up the fight. Shane whimpered into his skin and grabbed Ilya’s arm to squeeze the life out of it. Ilya just kept muttering sweet nothings to him, squeezing him softly back.

He ignored the bubbly sound of Shane's shorts filling. Ilya didn't even give a damn about the mess. Not with his husband hurting and crying into his arms. He clearly had priorities.

“Malysh, you're gonna make yourself sick. Deep breath for me, okay?” Ilya demonstrated, and Shane unsuccessfully tried to follow, choking on the inhale. “Good, that's good, let's try one more time.”

Ilya kept breathing nice and slow, waiting for Shane to match his rhythm. There was definitely a smell permeating the room now, so Ilya tucked Shane's head tighter against his shoulder, hoping to block it out from Shane's perception, lest it drove him to freak out again.

He pressed soft kisses into his hair until he could feel his breath even out, mostly.

“Done?” He asked quietly.

Shane took a deep breath and gave a small shake of his head. Ilya just started running his fingertips up and down Shane's spine soothingly. He felt his body do a little push in a way that might have been funny in any other circumstances. Now, he just kept the motion of his hand going. He then felt Shane's grip on his arm ease.

“Okay,” Shane said after a bit, quieter than Ilya’d ever heard him.

“Okay,” Ilya repeated, and with one last kiss, he pulled back to hold Shane's face into his hands. 

Shane looked wrecked. His expression was trying to settle somewhere between disgust, exhaustion and mortification. Ilya gave him a light kiss on the tip of the nose and pulled back with a sad, sympathetic little lift of the corner of his mouth.

“How are the cramps?”

“... Less, now.”

“Good,” he tried to rub some warmth back into Shane's side. “See? We're okay. Now we just deal. Let's sit up?”

Shane made a face at that, and yeah, that was gonna feel pretty gross. Ilya gave him a second before pulling him up slowly. Shane groaned at the shift in sensation and Ilya winced with him as he watched Shane try to sit up without putting his whole weight down.

“Fucking hell.”

“Just a minute, yes? Just til the bathroom. Can you walk?”

“Not really. Sorry,” Shane replied, looking away.

“No sorries. I'm carrying you then. We'll be quick. Hold onto the towel.”

Ilya moved quickly before Shane had time to overthink it, hauling him up from below his knees and armpits, keeping the towel wrapped around his middle. He moved to the bathroom and put him down over another hastily stretched towel on the floor. Shane kept quiet.

“Stop freaking out on me,” Ilya said, nudging a knuckle at Shane's cheekbone. Shane met his eyes with a vacant stare. “Leave the clothes. Shower. Let me clean up and then we can cuddle again.”

Ilya turned away from Shane into the stall, getting the water running and fixing the temperature. He tried to give him some privacy, hearing him sniffle softly as he dropped his clothes on the towel, then nudged him under the water. He was being so strong. Just as he turned away to pick the offending bundle up, he heard Shane clear his throat.

“Can you just. Throw those out? Sorry.” Ilya closed his eyes at the frustration in his voice. “I don't think I can stare at them ever again.”

“That's fine, moya lyubov. And I said no sorries!” Ilya replied, leaving the bathroom to do just that.

Ilya tried to give him a while. He really did. He brought new clothes in for Shane, changed the sheets, aired the room out, lit his husband's favorite candles and waited a bit. Restless, he went downstairs for more snacks, electrolytes and a warm water bottle. He waited a bit more.

When enough minutes passed and Shane was still not out, he abandoned the pretense of patience. Call him codependent, sure, but he refused to leave his husband be miserable by himself.

He stripped and stepped into the shower only to find Shane clean and merely standing under the water, shoulders shaking, muffling his sobs into his hands.

“Oh, my baby…”

Ilya gathered him into his arms once again.

“Why are you being so good to me? It's fucking gross,” Shane sobbed.

“Never,” Ilya said immediately. “I don't know if you know this, but I have this condition. Called ‘I love my Shane more than anything ever’. And symptoms are I will always worry you're okay, yes? It's so strong it overpowers everything else. I mean everything.” He punctuated that by moving Shane's hands away enough to place a kiss over his mouth. He needed to put the warmth inside him somewhere. Shane’s lips felt like just the place. “Nothing silly like your body being sick and human could win over that. Doctor says it's terminal, so.”

That ultimately seemed to be what broke through Shane. He gave a watery sort of pathetic chuckle and pushed his forehead against Ilya's.

“Right.” With a long, trembling breath, his shoulders dropped. “Good word. Overpower.”

“Yes. Hospital said so.”

“Okay.” After what felt like a lifetime, he finally looked into Ilya's eyes. “Okay, thank you.” He kissed Ilya. “And I'm sorry.” Kissed him again. “And I love you. More than anything ever, too.”

Ilya took his shoulders and shook him.

“Say you're sorry one more time and I'll take it back. No. More. Sorries.”

Shane giggled.

“Okay! I'm cold. We can get out now.”

They stepped out of the shower together, and Shane let Ilya wrap him in a big fluffy towel and dry him off, and held onto his shoulders as Ilya helped him put sweatpants on. He let himself be dragged out back into the bed and dutifully ate some more crackers, and didn't even complain about crumbs.

“Hollander?”

“Yeah?”

“You take the loperamide now.”

Shane groaned, and pulled the covers up above his head.

“Don't wanna.”

“Shane,” Ilya squirmed under the covers until he was laying half on top of Shane, chin propped up on his chest. “Your body has had a long, overwhelming day. Lots of things happening, lots of crazy sensations, yes? It needs rest. It can't rest if it's spending every second trying to figure out if that twitch or that roll or that sound means something bad is coming. Just take the help.”

Shane felt a little choked up all of a sudden. Again. It was stupid, because he was all out of tears anyways. And his head hurt from crying already. Ilya, of course noticed, and dropped his face to nuzzle into his sternum a bit. 

He stretched over to the bedside table and grabbed the pills.

Two hours later, Shane stretched over again and turned the lamp back on.

“Ilya,” he said, shaking him a little.

“Uh,” Ilya replied, trying to lift his head from where he was sprawled all over Shane's body.

“Ilya,” Shane repeated, shaking him again.

“Are you feeling sick again?” Ilya muttered, groggy but making the effort to sit up and look at Shane.

“You couldn't have carried me to the fucking toilet?”

“What?” He says, confused and half asleep.

“The toilet, Ilya. You could carry me perfectly fine after. Didn't it occur to you we could move there before anything happened?”

Ilya looked at him blearily.

“Okay, next time I lift you over my shoulder and throw you in the bathroom, cramps and all. Fine? Just go to sleep.”

He buried his face back into Shane's armpit.

“Wait, fuck, no,” Shane waved his hands quickly, “no next time, let's not say that.”

“Well,” he replied, unfortunately more awake now, “sorry I didn't think of that in the five seconds we had before you blew the bed up anyway.”

“Don't be crass.”

“I did ask you for ideas. You were busy dying but I didn't hear you suggest it either.”

“Well, no, but-”

“It's okay. I know you're still having panic attack over it. My little control freak.”

“Shut up.”

“This happens to sick people, yes? Not your fault. I bet it's happened to at least half the team.”

Shane groaned.

“I bet Troy is doing worse,” Ilya continued. “Think about poor Harris, having to clean up-”

“Ew, Ilya, just stop talking. I don't want to picture that.”

“So now we stop talking? But not before, when you woke me up just to be rude to your helpful caring husband? Didn't that occur to you before?”

He stayed silent. Ilya gave him a little bite on the side of his ribcage.

“Did the meds help? You're sure you're not feeling sick?

“Yeah, I think so,” Shane whispered.

“Okay,” Ilya replied, shifting to lay even more of his weight over Shane. “Then stop worrying and fucking sleep.”

Tired as he was, Shane had no option but to listen.