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I want you flat on your back. Helpless, tender, open with only me to help.
— Alma, Phantom Thread (2017)
Shane gets an annual cold, Ilya notices, when they start to officially date. It happens when they're both on the road, and he calls Shane from his shitty hotel and hears him sniffling, nose all blocked while he grumbles about having to sit out a game. Ilya lets him whine, says I know, I know, sweetie, it doesn't feel too good, I am sure. He's imagining Shane a little helpless in bed, unable to move, struck down with fever. It stirs something inside him, seeing Shane, usually so whip strong, fastest skater he's seen, laid away to waste by the simple common cold.
Ilya wishes he was there — the desire to bend down over Shane in his bed, feed him his soup, stuff his nose with tissues — yes, Shane, this many tissues is necessary — trail a hand down, adjust his cock to make sure no fever struck there, you know? Check to see if everything else was in place. When Shane burns up, was it all over? Can Shane feel it to his toes, this hot soldering fever? Was it everywhere? Would he be too drowsy to protest? He lets the thought flick away, and Shane gets better by the end of October.
The cold isn't so annual, he finds. Shane gets sick again in January, when a visit with Hayden's kids has him burning up the day after. Ilya supposes he can thank Hayden's children for that — babies he hasn't met who let him strike gold. So, he gets his chance to see Shane sick in full glory on a random January day, when both Boston and Montreal don't have any games, and they hole up in his Boston apartment, half packed boxes haphazardly around, pending ejection to Ottawa.
Shane is a grump when he's sick, swats Ilya's hand away when it comes too close to his face, I'm okay, jeez, I don't need more tissues, I need to just get over it, but doesn't protest when Ilya dips down onto the sofa and lets Shane press all over him, nosing into his neck. Ilya feels like an animal, pressed against the whole of Shane. He feels the heat of his sweet fever that makes Shane mouth breathe, a cuter sound than Ilya ever imagined. Ilya imagines his mouth full of Ilya's cock, nose blocked. How would Shane breathe? Could he ever find out?
Shane lets Ilya feed him soup, lets him whine over the choice of movie, and even out of character, lets him deny Hayden's phone call when it rings in the middle of the day. It's raining out, with heavy thuds of water, and slight thunder in the background, and it makes his home feel like a fortress. They could be the only people who exist in the world and if that doesn't make Ilya ache even more, what could?
They spend the whole day like this, Ilya making sure Shane is stuffed to the brim with healthy liquids and medicine. They have nowhere to go, and nowhere to be, and it feels luxurious, even though Shane wasn't feeling well, and getting more congested as the night went on. Ilya's mind runs wild when Shane shifts against him, cock soft. It's all very everyday life.
They get up to go to bed and Shane doesn't accept the hand Ilya offers him. They trudge along the hallway, Shane pressing a hand against Ilya's apartment walls.
In the bedroom, Ilya wonders if he's not the sick one when he doesn't let Shane take a steam bath, and holds off on the ibuprofen, the tablets setting aside on the bedside table. Shane isn't aware at all, just paws at his face, mumbling I love you sorry I'm sick I love you and smiles sweetly at Ilya and Ilya doesn't smile back, not at all. He doesn't think Shane understands the enormity of what he means to Ilya. There was love, and then there was this — this monstrous desire, to just take, and take, and take. There wasn't even a semblance of a war battling inside Ilya at all — he just wants. He wasn't fighting this idea of oh, this doesn't seem healthy; it could very well be the ruin. But Shane knows, with the taking, there was the giving. He knows Shane wouldn't bat an eye the next morning, and just beam at him, Ilya, that's fine. I would never say no.
Ilya thinks, Shouldn't you? Shouldn't one of us say no?
Instead he lies next to Shane and feels his forehead again, the palm of his cool hand hitting Shane's burnt up body. Shane pushes into it, and sniffles again, congested. It feels as if a chasm opened up here. Ilya feels tense, a question to be asked written in the planes of his face. Shane doesn't even register there is a deep well of emotion — he's out sick and a little dumb. Well, that is until he drowsily pushes into Ilya's side where they're lying together, and God. You can have it, you know? Shane really is the worst. Maybe not so dumb. He's not even making sense, his face all snotty, his voice all thick, his nostrils a little cracked from rubbing with tissues. There's a semblance of a smile somewhere, freckles slightly crinkling. There also isn't the clear Shane line of thinking Ilya is so used to, eyes wide, want forward. This is something else. Ilya thinks that Shane is the most beautiful he's ever seen.
Maybe a sane person would soothe Shane and tell him, no, no, baby, you're sick. I'm here to take care of you. Would it even feel good to Shane? Would he feel the split of his cock, the push of desire, the snugness of his hole?
Ilya's not sane. He knows who he is. So he takes. This is taking care of his Shane, after all. He slicks his fingers from Shane's mouth, all over his face, and trails it to Shane's hole, and pushes in with two fingers. He watches Shane's face change minutely, watches as he drops his head against Ilya's shoulder, and wipes his nose with his other hand when he sees it dripping. He reaches down and licks his mouth. Shane's lips twitch the second after. He lets his fingers crook. God, it feels even hotter inside Shane, hotter than he's ever felt. He rubs around, tugs at the rim, and takes his fingers out, only to collect more drool from Shane's mouth, and if some drips from his nose leak down onto Ilya's fingers — well, who could tell the difference?
He pushes his fingers back in, and adds a third, moving them while watching Shane's mouth open wide. He takes them out and Shane pushes out a weak moan. Ilya maneuvers Shane until he's on his back and brackets Shane's thighs over his own. He pushes his boxers down, rubs his cock with Shane's spit all over it. It would be scorching being inside Shane, he knows now, and his cock aches with want, pre-come collecting at the tip. Shane's quiet, eyes closed, and probably still miserable with sick, burning sweat all over. Ilya wants more than anything. So he puts a hand on Shane's cheek and pulls him open to take a look at his hole. It flutters, almost weakly, like it knows it's not at the best optimum level. But no, to Ilya, it's even more perfect. So he pushes in, tip first, and feels hot, and strains to not come. Shane's hole sucks him in. Shane's own moan is faint. Ilya pushes in further, and further, and open up, Hollander. Open up all the way.
Ilya. Ilya. Shane's voice is guttural, and he coughs. Ilya feels it on his cock, when Shane's hole clenches.
No, I know. You don't feel so good, huh? Your hole is needy. It needs me, can't you see? It needs its medicine. His own voice sounds sick, like he should be collapsing from something. A heart attack. A stroke. Something that would make this whole situation less sticky than it is.
It's hot inside Shane when Ilya fully thrusts in. It feels so good, and he thrusts again, pushing at Shane's legs to spread. Ilya is doing all the work — usually, Shane opens his own legs and wraps them around Ilya and grips at him with his own iron strength, but Shane's useless now, his own cock hard and forgotten, and his face all stuffed-up, while his hole is puffy at the edges, stuffed with Ilya's own cock, driving in and out.
Ilya isn't gentle at all — the heat of fever is everywhere and he seeks to smother himself in it, feeling Shane's tight heat all around him. He fingers at Shane's rim, where it's stretched, and slows down enough to let the tip catch at the edges and pushes back in, quick, stuffing Shane full.
He doesn't even think Shane registers how rough he's shoving in, how his own balls slap against Shane's ass, how he's spreading his cheeks apart, makes sure to watch his brown and pink hole suck Ilya in tight, as tight as possible, the only prep being Shane's own sick drool and congestion. Ilya feels like a madman, thrusting wildly, only to look down at Shane whose mouth is open, face splotchy, nose blocked, eyes closed, panting heavily from his mouth.
No one else can help you like this, Shane, yes? You only need me, right? No one else but me. He sounds savage.
Ilya sees Shane helpless, useless, tender, splayed over the bed, his strong arms and even stronger legs that don't twitch once, his hole open and gripping his cock as he thrusts, and grits his teeth, and comes. He pulses into Shane, feeling fire in his own chest, gasping, letting go of Shane's thighs and lets his hands push onto the bed instead, panting over Shane. Shane, who doesn't really move a muscle, only lets a sound out so low that Ilya can hardly hear.
Ilya pulls out, his come dripping out of Shane's hole. The rim looks abused. He spends a few seconds gazing down and goes to spread his cheeks even more, just to check, just to make sure he got it in okay. It's what any good person would do. Shane's hole twitches, and Ilya reaches over to grab a plug from their bedside table. One of the ones that wasn't electrical, used to its purpose already. He scoops some come that escaped back into Shane's hole, and plugs him. The extra come that didn't make it in gets slathered onto his fingers and Ilya reaches up to Shane and sticks his fingers right into his mouth.
Suck. Don't waste your medicine.
Shane sucks. His eyes are hazy, his face red. He tries to grasp at Ilya's wrist. Ilya, Ilya. Please.
Yes, yes. Tell me. Oh, but Ilya knows. Shane tries to jerk Ilya's wrist lower, and if Shane was feeling any more stronger, he knows he would grasp his own cock. Ilya shakes his head. No, moya lyubov, no, no. Shane whines, and tries to jerk his hips up, and Ilya soothes him, shushing over him, grasping his chin, and wiping off some mucus.
You're too sick. We can't have you getting sicker. Ilya says it in a kind way, cooing at Shane's mottled red face, half burnt with fever, half burnt with use. Shane's cock is heavy and hard. It looks painful, but you know what the doctor says. Right, Shane? We need to listen to the doctor. That could be hard for you. It would be too much. He lets Shane paw at him in an attempt to push, and Ilya grabs the ibuprofen he left on the bedside table, and props Shane up to take them with water.
It's okay. We don't want you to strain your body. A cold is enough, isn't it, moya lyubov? Shane slumps against him, defeated, and Ilya strokes his hair, and watches him go slack, mouth flat, slowly, slowly, until he falls asleep, cock still hard.
Ilya feels the ache of a monster inside him settle, curled up in his heart. He rubs his hands across Shane's arms, where he's nestled inside Ilya's chest. The low light in the room catches on the sweat beads that trickle all over Shane. The rain is still pouring outside the window, and a flash of lightning cracks across the room, thunder instantly right after. He is where he belongs, nestled against the love of his life, body heaving with desire, the enormity of it, Shane sick and miserable against him.
He lets himself fall asleep, soothed by the sound of rain and Shane's heavy congested breathing.
When Shane wakes up a few hours later, coughing a little, Ilya gets the congestion medicine from the living room table and helps him take it. Shane settles against Ilya's body grumbling, you got the wrong congestion medicine. Cherry flavored is the one I wanted and Ilya feels nothing but happiness. He lets his fingers trail down Shane's back, and down to his hole, and pulls the plug out. The come drips. Shane whines. Ilya brings two fingers to Shane's mouth with a little of it, and lets him eat the right medicine this time. If Ilya brings those two fingers down to his hole again and shifts Shane onto his stomach, well, that was perfectly fine, wasn't it? It's what the doctor would want.