Archive of Our Own

It starts with a sneeze. Or three consecutive sneezes that are so loud, Shane’s initial reaction is to shout Holy shit! as he practically jumps out of his skin. 

“Sorry,” Ilya mutters, dragging his sleeve under his nose and sniffing deeply. 

“Bless you, and gross,” Shane says, handing him a napkin from the coffee table. “Are you getting sick?”

Ilya shakes his head, not taking his eyes off the TV as he takes the napkin and wipes his nose. “No.” He sniffs again.

Shane stares at him, unconvinced, but he doesn’t sound congested or hoarse, and the sniffing isn’t out of the ordinary, so maybe it was just a random sneeze fit. 

“You are staring,” Ilya mumbles, nose and mouth tucked into his hoodie. “I am fine.”

“Okay.” Shane nods and settles back against the sofa. 

-------

In the morning, Ilya is flushed and sweaty, shivering against Shane’s back. He grumbles a little when Shane gets out of bed, but doesn’t move to follow him, instead tugging the blanket higher over his shoulders and curling into himself. 

“Are you okay?” Shane asks, quietly. 

“Yes,” Ilya’s voice is raw, even muffled beneath the blanket. “I’ll get up in a minute.”

An hour later, Ilya tries getting out of bed and Shane pushes him back down. “Drink this,” he says, handing him a glass of water. “You look awful.”

“I told you is nothing. Allergies, maybe.” Ilya insists, despite sounding like a frog. He drains the glass and passes it back. “I’m fine.”

“You can’t say the letter N,” Shane tells him. “You’re sick.”

“Shane,” Ilya tries, then clenches his jaw when it clearly sounds like Shade. “That is not how you know someone is sick.” 

Shane nods. “Okay, well, I’ve already told everyone that you won’t be at camp today, so why don’t you enjoy your day off and I’ll bring you some soup later?”

Ilya frowns, propping himself up on his elbow. “You are leaving me? When I’m dying?”

“I thought it was just allergies.”

“Yes, probably it is.” Ilya shrugs. “But maybe I am very sick and need a—” he interrupts himself by sneezing violently. 

Shane hands him a box of tissues from the nightstand. “I brought the garbage can out from the bathroom so you don’t have to keep getting up,” he says, lifting the small bin to show him where it is. 

Ilya rolls his eyes and flops dramatically onto his back. “I don’t want to miss camp,” he complains. 

“Well, I don’t want you to pass out on the ice,” Shane counters. “Besides, do you want everyone else to get sick, too?” 

“No,” Ilya sighs. He sniffs uselessly. “You should also stay away, maybe. So you do not get it.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Shane’s surprised by how much he absolutely hates that idea. “Do you think you have a fever?”

“I don’t know.”

Shane reaches out and rests his palm on Ilya’s forehead. It’s warm, but not alarmingly so. He feels Ilya watching him and pulls his hand away. “Sorry. My mom always did that when I was little.”

Ilya swallows and nods. “Yes, same.”

“I don’t know how they can tell.”

“Me neither.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you feel better? Do you want something to eat?”

“No,” Ilya sighs again and pushes his lips into a dramatic pout. “But I think maybe a blowjob would cure me.”

-------

Shane doesn’t actually get sick very often, and when he has, it’s been pretty minor. He usually just loads up on fluids and pushes through it. He’s certainly never taken care of another sick person before. Bruises and sprains, aching muscles, broken fingers — all of that is easy. But an actual illness where he has to think about fevers and snot and which cold medication is best for which symptoms. About passing the same germs back and forth and what the saying is about starving a fever and feeding a cold (or is it the other way around?) — this he’s never really had to do any of that. He knows it’s silly, but he feels an incredible pressure to get it right. 

He spends some time searching Google for “what do Russians do for a cold” and “Russian version of chicken soup for cold” and finds something about putting raspberry jam in tea. The recipe says to make the jam from scratch, but Shane feels like he’d need at least a few practice rounds to get that right, so he starts a shopping list and adds raspberry jam and black tea. He calls his dad to see if he’s ever made jam before, but as soon as they know Ilya’s not feeling well, the conversation veers into convincing his parents not to come over. 

He spends even more time searching “can i get a cold from giving a blowjob” and “is blowjob safe for person with a cold”. He does this in a private browser, because he never wants to be reminded of the fact that he searched for either of those things. The results are somewhat inconclusive, mainly because of proximity and possible (likely) kissing. Shane thinks it’s probably worth the risk if it’ll make Ilya feel good. He reasons with himself that if they do it in the shower, maybe they can wash up immediately before and after, and it’ll help with the germs. He decides not to check Google to see if that idea holds any merit. 

-------

They were going to meet Hayden for breakfast before camp. Shane hadn’t broken the news to Ilya about that yet. He figured he could wait until they were pulling into the parking lot, but now it’s a moot point. Shane goes anyway, even when Hayden tells him they have to meet at McDonald’s. 

“Sorry about this,” Jackie says as she slides into the booth beside Hayden. “The kids wouldn’t leave us alone about McNuggets this morning.”

“It’s fine.” Shane waves off the apology and holds up the oily little paper bag he managed to get just before the menu changed over. “I got Ilya something.”

“You hate when he eats this sh— stuff,” Hayden says as he opens a box of chicken nuggets. 

“Yeah, but he’s not feeling well, so.” Shane watches him squirt five ketchup packets into the box. “I can’t believe you eat this stuff.”

“You get used to it when you have kids,” Jackie sighs and dips a fry into Hayden’s ketchup puddle. 

“Hey, um… what do you guys do when one of you is sick?” Shane asks. “Like with a cold or something.”

Hayden pauses with a ketchup drenched chicken nugget halfway to his mouth. His nose wrinkles and he tilts his head to the side. “We just take cold medicine.”

Beside him, Jackie rolls her eyes. “Hayden, come on, that’s not what he means.”

Hayden stares for a second, then slowly moves into a full body cringe. “Ugh, buddy, tell me you don’t mean sex.”

“Offensive,” Shane says at the same time as Jackie smacks Hayden’s shoulder. 

“No- NO! Not like that. You know I’m not—” Hayden drops the chicken nugget back to the box and leans forward. “It’s just thinking about you and…” he cringes again. “Rozanov.”

Shane lifts a brow. “You know you don’t have to think about it.”

“What?” Hayden’s eyes go comically wide. “I don’t! I don’t. That’s not—” he looks to Jackie for help, but she just shakes her head. “I don’t think about you having sex.”

Jackie levels him with an unimpressed glare. “You done?”

Hayden nods mutely and picks up his abandoned chicken nugget. 

“To actually answer your question,” Jackie says and turns to Shane. “By the time one of us is sick, it’s probably too late to avoid spreading it to the other one. You know,” she waves a hand in the air. “That stuff incubates for a while before any symptoms show up, and when you share a bed—” she pauses to shove at Hayden’s head when he fake gags. 

“Sometimes I kick him out if he’s got the cold snores.”

“That’s fair,” Shane chuckles, then grimaces. “Ugh, I’m sorry, I didn’t think about— he’s sick and we’ve been—”

Hayden fake gags again. 

“Sleeping in the same bed,” Shane finishes, then shrugs. “And… stuff.”

Jackie sighs and slumps back in her seat. “You guys are around kids almost every day now, it was bound to happen.”

“Kids are gross,” Hayden adds, helpfully. “They wipe their noses on everything. Arthur sneezed right into my face this morning.”

“That’s why I keep telling you to carry tissues,” Jackie says, pulling a small packet out of her purse and waving it at him. “Honestly.”

Shane adds small tissue packets to his shopping list. 

“You should probably skip camp, too,” Jackie says. “I mean, the kids are probably still spreading it around, but no sense in adding to it.”

“Yeah, but if Ilya’s already out sick, won’t it look like… you know.”

Hayden shakes his head. “Nah,” he garbles around a mouthful of fries. “Like I said, kids are gross and germy. Everyone knows that, and if they don’t, I’ll remind them.” He shrugs. “Don’t worry, buddy, I’ve got your back.”

Shane swallows and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

-------

Most of the time, Shane gets his groceries delivered, but occasionally he likes to go to the shops himself. He likes the structure of creating a task and completing it. Likes to make checklists on his phone and mark each item as it goes into his cart. His own lists have always been pretty simple, broken down into the specific categories that make up his diet: produce, protein, complex carbs. The lists have gotten a bit more chaotic since he and Ilya started basically living together in three different homes. Now, they have a shared list that they ping to one another whenever one of them is making an order or running to the store. Shane tries to keep it neat and sorted. He likes when it’s easy to navigate, easy to add items that are found in the same section. Ilya tries to do this for him — Shane knows that he does, because he’s opened the list once or twice to see Ilya, in real time, adding an item, removing it and adding it to the area where Shane would have put it to begin with. But sometimes he forgets, or he’s in a rush, or the category doesn’t exist, so Hot Cheetos wind up with the complex carbs and Ice Cream winds up with the proteins. And the toaster things with the icing - NOT POP TARTS winds up at the bottom without a bullet to check off.

Today, the list is short and simple, but somewhat unfamiliar. Shane stares at a wall of jams, jellies, and preserves and feels overwhelmed by choices. He reads labels claiming to be “all natural” and can’t tell one from the other. He should have asked Ilya if he even likes jam in his tea.

In the end, he puts three different jars in his cart, then adds a jar of Smuckers, just in case. He buys fresh raspberries and sugar, because if none of the jams are right, he’ll figure out how to make it himself and give the others to his parents. Or he’ll have a lot of raspberry smoothies for a few days. He gets tea and tissues and a few other things for the house. At the last minute, he adds two quarts of cookies and cream ice cream, because it’s Ilya’s favorite.

The house is quiet when he gets home. Shane puts the groceries away and heads up to the bedroom, where he finds an unmade bed and no Ilya. He walks from room to room, opening and closing doors with increasing panic until he notices a flash of bright red in the backyard. 

“Ilya, what the hell,” Shane calls as he walks out onto the patio. “You should be resting.”

Ilya looks up from his Kindle and frowns. “I am resting.”

And, to be fair, he is sprawled in one of the lounges, wearing a Centaurs hoodie and basketball shorts that may or may not be Shane’s. He looks cozy, aside from the raw, red nose and garbage bin full of tissues overflowing beside him. 

“I mean inside. Preferably in bed.”

“I cannot lie in bed anymore, Hollander. Is boring and I cannot sleep anyway.” He gestures around the yard. “Is a beautiful day, good to get fresh air.”

“You still don’t sound great. Do you feel any better?” 

Ilya shrugs a little and sniffs. “Not really.” He looks up at Shane with a confused frown. “What happened to camp?”

Shane sighs. “Jackie said that I’ve probably already been exposed to whatever virus you have, so it’s better for me to stay home, too.”

“Ah.” Ilya nods, wrinkling his nose. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Shane waves a hand and settles on the edge of the lounge by Ilya’s hip. “At least I don’t have to keep my distance from you.” Ilya grins suggestively at him and Shane can’t help but laugh. “Shut up.”

“I say nothing!”

“Did you eat?”

“I had coffee.”

“That doesn’t count as eating.” Shane pats Ilya’s thigh and stands up. “Come inside, I got you a McGriddle.” He takes the hand Ilya gives him and pulls him up from the chair. “You’ll have to put it in the microwave.”

“You are so good to me,” Ilya murmurs, leaning in for a kiss. 

Shane hates to pull away, but he palms Ilya’s cheek and nudges him back. “Your nose is running.”

Ilya makes a frustrated noise and reaches into the pocket of his hoodie for a crumpled tissue. 

“I got you more tissues, too.”

“Good.” Ilya nods as he picks up the little wastebin and follows Shane back into the house. “I’ve used at least three boxes.”

Ilya tries to settle at the kitchen counter, but Shane maneuvers him into the living room and onto the sofa. He watches with obvious amusement as Shane drapes a blanket over his legs, tucks it around him, and puts a new box of tissues on the table.

“I just want you to be comfortable,” Shane reasons, turning to look for the remote control. 

“I am very comfortable. I have warm blanket and great view.”

Shane looks over his shoulder and snorts when Ilya’s eyes briefly meet his and then go back to looking at his ass. “Here.” He hands Ilya the remote and heads into the kitchen. “I’ll heat up the McGriddle. Do you want anything else?”

“No, thank you, but come and sit with me after.” 

“Okay.”

Shane puts the kettle on and double checks what the internet has to say about tea to jam ratios. He considers tasting all of the jams to see if one stands out from the rest, but that feels wasteful, so he picks the one with the most pleasant color and spoons it into the mug. He waits for the kettle to hiss before putting the McGriddle in the microwave, then stirs the tea as he watches the seconds tick down.

The TV is on with the volume turned down low, but Ilya is typing on his phone instead of watching anything. He looks up when Shane comes back into the room and tucks the phone into the pocket of his hoodie. 

“Your mom wants to come over,” Ilya tells him as he grabs a tissue and loudly blows his nose. “I told her please don’t. She should not get sick.”

Shane nods and puts the plate on the table. “I told them both the same thing earlier.” He stands there holding the mug and suddenly decides he shouldn’t have attempted this. He should have just made a simple cup of tea. Not that this wasn’t simple — after all, he’d only stirred in some jam, but it could be wrong. It could be gross. Ilya could hate it.

Ilya’s voice cuts through the running commentary in his head. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing. I made you tea.” 

“Okay.” Ilya watches him expectantly. “Do you want me to drink it?”

“Yeah, just. Sorry.” Shane passes him the mug. 

“What are you sorry for?” Ilya peers into the mug, then takes a tentative sip and frowns as he licks his lips. “This is with… varenye?” 

“I mean, it’s just store bought jam, so I’m not sure if it’s— Is it okay? I didn’t know what kind to get, but if this one is bad, there’s like three others we can try. Or I can try to— I got raspberries and sugar, just in case, and—”

“Shane.” Ilya closes his eyes and tips his head back, making a plaintive little noise that curls right around Shane’s heart. “I would kiss you to make you calm down, but I am sick and covered in snot, so you will not let me.”

“Oh.” Shane reaches for the mug. “Sorry, I’ll try another—”

“No.” Ilya shakes his head. “Is perfect.” He takes another sip and smiles over the lip of the mug. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. And… I might let you. Kiss me, I mean. Maybe in the shower?”

“Yes?” Ilya beams at him, already reaching to tug off his hoodie. 

“Not now. Finish your tea and eat your disgusting McDonald’s,” Shane laughs, nudging him to settle back on the sofa. 

“Okay,” Ilya murmurs before taking another sip of tea. He closes his eyes and hums and Shane feels relief settle over him as he drops down onto the sofa and pulls Ilya’s feet into his lap. “I will not forget,” Ilya says, slouching lower against the armrest. 

“I know.” Shane circles his thumb over the ball of Ilya’s ankle and shrugs. “Plus… I mean, if there’s a miracle cure, we have to at least give it a try.”

-------

Shane’s parents text again in the early evening to ask if they can stop by with some soup. Ilya shakes his head vehemently as Shane replies to the group chat. “They’re going to come anyway,” Shane tells him, even while he’s texting them not to. That Ilya will never forgive himself if he gets either of them sick. Ilya reacts to the message with an exclamation mark for emphasis. Shane suspects they’re already on their way. 

When they arrive at the front door twenty minutes later, Mom pushes three large containers into Shane’s arms. “Fridge, fridge, counter,” she instructs, tapping each item in time. She kisses his cheek and brushes past him. 

“It’s chicken soup, noodles, and those cookies he likes,” Dad adds. “There’s some more back at the house if this isn’t enough. You know I always make extra.”

Shane nods gratefully and brings the food into the kitchen, then follows them into the living room where Mom is already leaning over Ilya on the sofa, one hand resting on his forehead. It always breaks Shane’s heart a little to see the surprise on Ilya’s face anytime they treat him like he’s part of the family — which is basically all the time, now. He can’t imagine how Ilya’s father could have been so unkind to a boy with such a big, beautiful heart. It feels weird to harbor so much anger toward a dead man, especially one he never met, but Shane really hates that guy.

Ilya sits stock still as Mom switches from her palm to the back of her hand. Shane wouldn’t be surprised if he was holding his breath so as not to pass along a single germ. When Mom straightens up and declares Ilya fever free, his brows lift as he catches Shane’s eyes and Shane can only laugh and turn up his palms with a shrug.

“Have you eaten?” Mom asks. “David made soup.”

“And cookies,” Dad chimes in. “The ones with the chocolate and—”

“Peanut butter, yes!” Ilya’s eyes light up and he nods excitedly. “I will have these, please.”

Mom winces at the rough sound of his voice. “Can I make you some tea?”

“Shane made some for me already,” Ilya croaks. “I think just the cookies for now.”

They don’t stay very long. Once Ilya starts dozing off with the Tupperware full of cookies open in his lap, Dad gives Shane a brief nod and gently steers Mom toward the door. 

“You’ll let us know if you need anything else?” Mom whispers. “I can come back in the morning to check in.”

“No, you don’t have to do that. We’re fine, really.” Shane leans against the doorframe. “It’s just a cold.”

“I think Shane’s got it covered,” Dad says, winking at him. 

“Okay, well, keep us posted,” Mom waves as she follows Dad to the car. “And try making okayu tomorrow. That always made you feel better.”

Shane waves back, standing at the door until they’ve pulled out of the driveway and onto the road. He locks up and goes back to the living room, takes the container of cookies from Ilya’s lap and sets it on the coffee table. 

“I know you’re not sleeping.”

Ilya blinks one eye open, then the other. “You will not tell them.”

“No.”

“Okay.” Ilya puffs out a breath and drops his head back on the sofa. “I will really feel terrible if they get sick, too.”

“I know. They’ll be fine.” 

Ilya nods and stretches his arms up over his head. “I think I will take a shower now.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes.” Ilya pushes himself off the sofa and takes a few steps closer. “I think maybe you should, too.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Mmm, I will need some help, you know...” Ilya tilts his head and Shane can see him fighting a smirk. “Probably I should not do any heavy lifting while I’m so sick.” 

“Oh my god,” Shane huffs and rolls his eyes. “Go get in the shower,” he says, dodging and laughing when Ilya grabs at his waist. “If you’re lucky, I’ll join you.”

A short while later, Shane’s on his knees on the tile, thinking luck has nothing to do with it. He’s always been a sure thing.

Shane looks up at Ilya and he’s… god, he’s beautiful. Flushed down to his chest, water sluicing over his body. He’s watching Shane with heavy lidded eyes, pupils wide and dark. His hands fist and tug at Shane’s hair. It’s perfect until Ilya’s face scrunches up, confused, then alarmed, then he’s shoving frantically at Shane’s shoulders.

“Stop, stop I’m— fuck—”

Shane lets him go and sits back on his heels as Ilya hurriedly wraps his hand around the base of his dick. Before Shane can ask what’s wrong, Ilya sneezes three times into the crook of his elbow, then groans and immediately comes all over Shane’s face. 

“Oh, fuck. Fuck,” Ilya gasps. His dick twitches in his hand as he slumps against the wall.

Shane gapes up at him, stunned. “Bless you,” he murmurs. 

They look at one another for a few seconds before Ilya starts laughing and Shane can’t help but follow. He turns his face into the spray and rinses it off while Ilya tries to catch his breath. 

“That was hot,” Shane admits, rising to his feet. “Is it weird that I thought that?”

Ilya shakes his head, still chuckling. “We are both weird.” He cups the back of Shane’s head and pulls him into a kiss that starts out filthy and blurs into something soft.

“I guess the miracle cure didn’t work,” Shane laments, smiling against Ilya’s mouth. 

“Well.” Ilya pulls back, tilts his head to the side with a shrug. “This was only the first dose. I will need to have it again in maybe four to six hours.”

“Oh, is that how it works?”

“Hollander, I am worried you do not know this,” Ilya deadpans. “Is how all medication works.” He wraps a wet fist around Shane’s dick and strokes him slowly. “Your turn?”

Shane nods and presses his forehead to Ilya’s shoulder. “Yeah.” 

-------

Shane’s right foot is asleep. He tries rotating his ankle, tilting it slowly from side to side, curling his toes into the carpet. He tries everything other than getting up and walking around, which would definitely solve the problem, but then he’d have to wake Ilya. Pitifully adorable, snot-ridden Ilya, who’s finally fallen asleep, head pillowed on Shane’s lap, arms crossed loosely over the hand Shane has snaked under his shirt. Heart beating steadily against Shane’s palm. Shane rubs the ball of his foot into the carpet again and winces at the pins and needles sensation. 

“What’s wrong?” Ilya’s voice is a raw slur, muffled in the cotton of Shane’s sweatpants. 

“Nothing.” Shane pushes his fingers into Ilya’s hair. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Only a little.” Ilya reaches down and wraps his hand around Shane’s foot. Presses his thumb hard to the arch, then the ball, then massages his toes as Shane groans happily. “Better?”

Shane winces again as he arches his foot into Ilya’s hand. “Yeah, thank you. Sorry for waking you.”

“Yes, next time wait until your whole leg is asleep.”

“Asshole,” Shane mutters, tugging gently at his curls. “You barely slept last night.”

“Mm, neither did you.” 

“Sure I did.”

“Then how do you know that I did not?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Fine, but I’m not the one who’s sick.”

Ilya turns onto his back and squeezes Shane’s hand where it’s still inside his shirt. “I am okay, you don’t have to make a fuss about me.”

“I’m not making a fuss,” Shane insists. “You’re sick, so I’m…” He shrugs. “Taking care of you. You’d do the same for me.”

“Yes, of course,” Ilya says, nodding solemnly. “I would wrap you in a blanket and carry you around.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“No, is practical. If you need something, I am right there. I keep you warm like in… how do you call it? Like to hold a baby.”

“Only you would think it’s practical to carry a full grown man around in a sling,” Shane laughs. 

“Sling! That is it. I will put you in a sling and carry you with me all day until you are better.” Ilya grins up at him. “Laughing is the best medicine, yes? That is the saying?”

“I thought you said a blowjob was the best medicine.”

“Ah, no, that is miracle cure and I am ready again whenever you are.”

-------

Ilya is sick for three days. Shane mentally logs each day and its symptoms into his Ilya Encyclopedia, just in case he needs to reference them at some point in the future. 

On day two, Ilya cycles through periods of being too hot or too cold for approximately twelve hours. 

He’s too cold first thing in the morning. Huddling beneath the blankets long after Shane has gotten out of bed and done his workout. Shane is in the kitchen, trying to figure out what Ilya might eat for breakfast, when he comes trudging down the stairs in sweatpants, a hoodie, and with the blanket from the guest bedroom draped over his shoulders. 

“Why didn’t you just bring the one from our bed?” Shane’s heart does a weird little thing as soon as the words leave his mouth. Our bed. They still refer to their respective houses as yours and mine, but he likes how this sounds. 

If Ilya notices, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he sniffs miserably and shrugs, his blanket wrap rising and falling around his shoulders. “Can we turn the heat on?” He mumbles. His voice sounds even worse than yesterday. 

Shane doesn’t want to deny him anything, but it is also July and the day is already hot and humid. Turning the heat on seems excessive. “Do you think you need to see a doctor?”

Ilya makes the pathetic little noise that Shane definitely likes too much. “Doctor cannot do anything for a cold.” He sighs and slowly makes his way to the sofa, where he drops heavily into the corner seat and cocoons himself beneath the blanket. 

“You can try sitting outside again,” Shane suggests. “It’s nice out.”

The only response he gets is another little grunt, and Ilya makes no move to get up, so Shane leaves him be and starts on breakfast. He makes okayu, like Mom suggested. It’s simple and warm and Ilya accepts it with a chapped smile, gesturing for Shane to sit down and then immediately pushing his feet under Shane’s thigh as he eats. 

An hour later, Ilya is too hot. He begins peeling off the layers he’s wearing. The blanket is pushed to the back of the sofa, the hoodie yanked over his head and tossed over the armrest. Eventually, he’s down to basketball shorts and nothing else. He sits outside in the yard until a film of sweat shines at the hollow of his throat, across his chest and in the small of his back. 

By noon, Shane has given up on shower-only blowjobs. 

Ilya grins smugly from his corner sofa perch. One arm folded behind his head as he reaches for the back of Shane’s neck and tries to pull him up for a kiss. Shane draws the line there, due to the ever-present trickle of snot coming out of Ilya’s nose. And because he feels like he has to draw one somewhere. 

Day three is much of the same, though Ilya sounds a little less congested and his voice has lost some of its roughness. His nose has stopped constantly running, but still looks painfully raw, and each time he reaches for a tissue, Shane notices him wincing in anticipation. After lunch, he dutifully tips his head back and stares down the slope of his nose as Shane dabs ointment around his nostrils.

“This is disgusting,” Shane murmurs. 

“Mm.” Ilya wrinkles his nose a few times. “It feels disgusting.”

On day four, Ilya rolls over in bed and presses his half-hard dick to Shane’s back. Says “Good morning,” and his Ns no longer sound like Ds. 

Shane smiles and pushes against him, starts to roll toward him and then feels the tickle start in his nose. He sits up quickly and sneezes once, hard, then shakes his head to clear it. 

Ilya hands him a tissue from the box on the nightstand, puts a warm palm on his back and says, very seriously, “I will make the sling now.”