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The smoke alarm's piercing shriek cut through the 2am silence like a blade.
Shane swore, waving a dish towel frantically at the detector while smoke billowed from the stovetop. The pan (which had contained what was supposed to be a simple grilled cheese) now held something that looked like it belonged in an archaeological dig. He'd gotten distracted scrolling on his phone, and now he was paying for it.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he muttered, finally yanking the battery out of the smoke detector. The blessed silence that followed was broken only by his heavy breathing and the hiss of the ruined pan as he shoved it into the sink and ran cold water over it.
The sound of footsteps made him turn, an apology already forming on his lips. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake—"
The words died in his throat.
Ilya stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame like he needed it for support. His face was the color of old newspaper, that grayish-white that made Shane's stomach drop, and a fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead despite the cool air conditioning. His hair stuck up in every direction, and his eyes, usually so bright and full of mischief, were glassy and unfocused, ringed with shadows so dark they looked like bruises.
"Jesus Christ, Ilya."
"Is fine." Ilya's voice came out rough, scraped raw. He pushed off from the doorframe and took a step into the kitchen, then stopped, swaying slightly. "You are trying to burn down house at 2am? This is new hobby?"
Shane crossed to him in three quick strides. "How long have you been feeling like this?"
"Like what?" Ilya tried for his usual cocky grin, but it came out as more of a grimace. "I feel perfect. You are one making smoke alarm scream. Maybe you are sick one."
"Ilya." Shane's hand found Ilya's forehead, and he sucked in a sharp breath. The skin under his palm was blazing hot. "You're burning up. Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"
Ilya leaned into the touch despite himself, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. "Not sick. Just..." He trailed off, seeming to lose his train of thought. Then his eyes snapped open again. "Just tired of listening to fire alarm. You wake whole building probably."
"When did this start?"
"When you decide to cook in middle of night? Five minutes ago."
"You know what I mean."
Ilya's jaw tightened. "Yesterday. Maybe. Is just bug. Nothing dramatic." He turned, clearly intending to head back to the bedroom. "Go back to destroying kitchen. I go back to bed and try to forget I have boyfriend who cannot make sandwich without catastrophe."
He took one step, then another. On the third step, his legs buckled.
Shane caught him before he could hit the floor, arms wrapping around Ilya's waist as his full weight sagged against Shane's chest. For a terrifying moment, Ilya was completely limp, his head lolling against Shane's shoulder.
"Okay, okay, I've got you," Shane said, his heart hammering. "You're okay."
"Mm." It was barely a sound. Ilya's hand came up to clutch weakly at Shane's t-shirt. "Floor is... moving."
"Yeah." Shane adjusted his grip, taking more of Ilya's weight. He started to steer them toward the living room, but Ilya made a low sound of protest and his legs locked.
"No."
"Ilya, you need to lie down—"
"Can't." The word came out flat, matter-of-fact. "Can't make it that far."
Before Shane could argue, Ilya was sliding down, his back against the kitchen cabinets, folding himself onto the tile floor with none of his usual grace. He ended up sitting with his legs sprawled out in front of him, his head tipped back against the cabinet door, eyes closed.
Shane stared at him. "The couch is fifteen feet away."
"Fifteen feet too many." Ilya didn't open his eyes. "Here is fine."
He looked awful. His skin had gone from gray-white to an almost greenish tinge under the harsh kitchen lights, and Shane could see a muscle jumping in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. The t-shirt he wore (one of Shane's old ones) was soaked through with sweat, clinging to his chest.
Shane grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the kitchen chair and draped it around Ilya's shoulders. Ilya made a soft sound and immediately pulled it tighter, his fingers clutching the edges. The shivering Shane hadn't fully noticed before became obvious now, fine tremors running through Ilya's whole body.
"When did you start feeling sick?" Shane asked again, quieter this time.
Ilya was silent for a long moment. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Yesterday morning. Woke up feeling off."
"And you didn't say anything."
"We have lunch with your parents today. Didn't want to cancel."
Shane checked his watch. "That's eleven hours away. And you can barely stand."
"Will feel better by then," Ilya said, but there was less conviction in his voice now. He swallowed again, harder this time, and pressed a hand against his stomach. "Just need to sleep it off."
"Right. That's why you're sitting on the kitchen floor."
"Is strategic position. If I need to throw up, sink is close."
Shane's stomach dropped. "Are you going to throw up?"
Ilya opened his eyes to slits, considering. "Ask me again in five minutes."
"Christ." Shane stood and filled a glass with water, then crouched beside Ilya again. "Here. You need to drink something."
Ilya eyed the glass with obvious distaste. "Don't want to."
"I don't care. You're burning up. Drink."
For a moment, Shane thought Ilya would argue. But then he reached for the glass, his hand shaking so badly that water sloshed over the rim. Shane wrapped his hand around Ilya's to steady it, and together they brought it to Ilya's lips.
Ilya took a small sip, grimaced, then another. Shane watched his throat work as he swallowed, watched the way his face tightened like even that small act hurt.
After four sips, Ilya turned his head away. "Enough."
"Okay." Shane set the glass on the counter. "I'm going to get you some Tylenol."
"Shane—"
"Don't argue. Just sit there."
When Shane returned from the bathroom with pills and a damp washcloth, Ilya's eyes were closed again. His breathing had gone shallow and quick, and one hand was pressed flat against his stomach, the other gripping the blanket.
"Hey." Shane touched his shoulder gently. "Take these."
Ilya looked at the pills in Shane's palm like they were a personal insult. "They won't stay down."
"Maybe not. But we're trying anyway."
With visible reluctance, Ilya took the pills. Shane had to help him with the water again, one hand supporting the glass, the other steadying Ilya's trembling wrist. The pills went down, followed by a few more sips of water.
Then Ilya pressed the heel of his hand against his mouth, his eyes squeezing shut.
"Breathe," Shane said quietly. "Just breathe."
Ilya breathed. Seconds ticked by. The hand over his mouth trembled. Shane could see him fighting it, jaw clenched, shoulders rigid.
Slowly, Ilya lowered his hand. "Okay. Staying down."
"Good." Shane pressed the cool washcloth against Ilya's forehead, and Ilya's eyes fluttered closed with a soft sigh.
They sat in silence for a moment. The kitchen clock ticked above the sink. Outside, a car passed by.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Shane asked finally.
Ilya didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter than before, missing its usual sharp edge. "You worry too much already. Didn't want to add to it."
Shane's chest tightened. "Ilya—"
"Thought I could sleep it off. Wake up feeling better." He swallowed. "Didn't work."
"No," Shane agreed. "It didn't."
He studied Ilya's face - the fever flush on his cheeks, the shadows under his eyes, the way he kept swallowing like his throat hurt. "When's the last time you ate?"
"Yesterday. Lunch."
"You need to eat something."
Ilya made a face. "Nothing sounds good."
"I know. But you need something in your stomach." Shane stood. "I'm making you toast."
"Toast," Ilya repeated, without inflection.
"Yeah. Plain toast. Simple."
Ilya didn't make a sarcastic comment about Shane's cooking. Didn't joke about setting off the smoke alarm again. He just nodded slightly, his eyes still closed, and that worried Shane more than anything else had so far.
Shane made the toast in silence, watching the toaster like a hawk. When it popped up golden-brown, he plated it and brought it over.
"Here."
Ilya opened his eyes and looked at the toast with something close to dread. "Okay."
He reached for a piece, his hand shaking badly. Shane watched as he brought it to his mouth, took a small bite, chewed slowly. Swallowed with obvious effort.
"How is it?" Shane asked.
"Like toast." Ilya took another bite. His movements were mechanical, automatic. Like he was forcing himself through each motion.
It took him twenty minutes to finish one piece. By the time he was done, fresh sweat had broken out on his forehead and his breathing had gone shallow again.
Shane dampened the washcloth again and pressed it gently against Ilya's face. "You okay?"
"Mm." Ilya leaned into the touch. His eyes were closed, his features slack with exhaustion. "Tired."
"I know."
"Everything hurts."
"The Tylenol should help soon."
"Mm."
The blanket had slipped down around Ilya's waist, and Shane could see how the t-shirt clung to his skin, soaked through. "You need to change. This shirt is wet."
Ilya didn't argue. Didn't make a joke about Shane trying to get him naked. He just nodded slightly, his eyes still closed.
That scared Shane more than anything.
It took effort to get Ilya's shirt off - his coordination was shot and his arms felt like dead weight. Shane worked quickly, efficiently, trying not to think about how Ilya just sat there, passive and unresisting. This wasn't like him. Ilya fought everything, argued about everything, made everything difficult just because he could.
This quiet compliance was wrong.
Shane got a clean, dry shirt on him and adjusted the blanket back around his shoulders. Ilya made a soft sound and pulled it tighter, still shivering despite the fever.
"Shane," he said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Don't think I can make it to bed."
"I know. It's okay."
"Kitchen floor is..." Ilya trailed off, then seemed to give up on finishing the sentence.
"It's fine. We'll stay here."
Ilya's eyes opened slightly. "You don't have to."
"I know."
Shane grabbed a pillow from the couch and settled himself on the floor beside Ilya, their shoulders touching. He pulled his own blanket over his lap and wrapped an arm around Ilya's shoulders.
Ilya leaned into him immediately, his head dropping onto Shane's shoulder, his body curling into Shane's side. The fight had gone out of him completely now. No more jokes. No more deflection. Just exhaustion and misery and the kind of quiet that meant he felt truly terrible.
"Okay?" Shane asked softly.
"Mm." Ilya's hand found Shane's and gripped it weakly. "Sorry."
"For what?"
"Being sick. Ruining plans. Sitting on your kitchen floor at 2am."
"You didn't ruin anything." Shane pressed a kiss to Ilya's sweat-damp hair. "Just rest."
Ilya's breathing gradually evened out, the tremors in his frame slowly subsiding as the Tylenol started to work. Shane stayed awake, listening to every breath, feeling the heat still radiating from Ilya's skin.
Around 3am, Ilya stirred. "Shane."
"I'm here."
"Gonna be sick."
Shane's heart jumped. He grabbed a mixing bowl from the cabinet behind him, helped Ilya lean forward, one hand on his back, the other supporting his shoulder. Ilya braced himself against the cabinet, breathing hard through his nose.
"Okay," Shane said quietly. "Okay, I've got you."
Ilya retched once, his whole body convulsing, but nothing came up. He gasped, retched again. Still nothing. His hands were shaking, gripping the bowl so hard his knuckles went white.
"Try to breathe," Shane murmured, rubbing slow circles on Ilya's back. "Just breathe through it."
It took five minutes for the nausea to pass. When it finally did, Ilya slumped back against Shane, completely spent. His face was gray, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"Sorry," he whispered.
"Don't apologize." Shane adjusted the washcloth on his forehead. "You're okay."
Ilya didn't respond. He just closed his eyes and leaned into Shane, his breathing slow and labored.
They sat like that as the night wore on. Sometimes Ilya slept, his breathing deep and congested. Sometimes he was awake, silent and miserable, his hand gripping Shane's like an anchor. He didn't make jokes. Didn't try to downplay how awful he felt. He just held on.
Around 5am, the nausea came back, harder this time. Shane barely got Ilya turned toward the bowl before he was throwing up, his whole body heaving. Shane held him steady, one hand on his back, murmuring quiet reassurances that he wasn't sure Ilya could even hear.
When it was over, Ilya was shaking so hard he could barely sit up. Shane wiped his face with the washcloth and helped him rinse his mouth, then settled him back against his chest.
"I'm sorry," Ilya breathed, and his voice cracked on the words.
"Hey. No." Shane held him tighter. "You're okay. You're going to be okay."
Ilya didn't answer. He just pressed his face against Shane's shoulder and breathed.
The sun was starting to lighten the edges of the kitchen window when Ilya spoke again. His voice was barely a whisper.
"Thank you. For staying."
Shane's throat tightened. "Where else would I be?"
Ilya's hand tightened weakly on Shane's. "Bed. Anyone with sense would be in bed."
"Good thing I don't have any sense."
That got the tiniest huff of breath that might have been a laugh. Then Ilya went quiet again, his breathing evening out into something that might have been sleep.
Shane held him and watched the sun rise through their kitchen window, painting their floor in shades of pink and gold.
Ilya was sick. The kitchen floor was hard and cold. Shane's back ached and his legs had gone numb an hour ago.
But Ilya was here, warm and breathing in Shane's arms. And Shane wasn't going anywhere.
He pressed another kiss to Ilya's hair and settled in to wait for morning.