Work Text:
The first thing that Ilya notices when he steps into Shane's apartment is that he has never seen it so… messy before. To any other person, it would be a perfectly normal looking apartment, but Shane isn't always the most normal. At least not with the way he tends to his living spaces. There's a jacket hanging on the back of his couch, two unwashed glasses in the sink, and a bag of trash by the door that hasn't been taken out yet.
He locks the door behind him, takes his shoes off and wanders to Shane's bedroom. Another weird thing—normally Shane would be right there, greeting him with a crushing kiss. Nights they have together now are less rushed, but they still are operating on borrowed time.
"Shane?" Ilya calls out, wandering through the hallway.
His bedroom door is left open and Ilya can see him tucked in with three blankets covering him. Shane looks downright adorable. The flush on his cheeks is visible even in the dim light of the room. Ilya quickly strips his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor before he dives right into Shane's little nest.
"You are tired?" Ilya kisses Shane's cheek, then his neck. His skin is warm, hot, even.
"Just been a long week," Shane mumbles. He sticks his arms out of the pile of blankets to get his hands on Ilya's hair, dragging him into that crushing kiss Ilya has been waiting days for. "Fuck, missed you, Ilya."
Ilya kisses him back, tasting the sweat on his upper lip and getting hotter by the second just from touching Shane's skin. He lets himself sink into the feeling of having Shane below him, scraping his teeth on his lower lip and devouring him. He pulls back to rip off the throw blanket, the fuzzy one Shane uses when he's feeling overwhelmed and the boring navy comforter that Ilya's certain he's been buying over and over since he was a teenager.
He's bundled up under there too with thick sweatpants, a hoodie, and a pair of his winter socks. Ilya considers him for a moment, twitching up his eyebrows.
"What?" Shane whines, already petulant and needy. "Fuck me, Ilya. Need you."
"You always need me so bad, don't you?" Ilya teases, but doesn't go to kiss him again. Instead, he rucks up Shane's hoodie to feel the planes of his abs and the thin layer of soft, fatty skin right on his stomach. It's almost alarmingly hot. "Fucking Christ, Hollander. You are a furnace!"
"Just cold, come on, Rozanov."
Ilya nods, albeit a little more subdued than he normally would, now because he's getting worried. Nevertheless, he posits Shane upright to yank off the hoodie. Ilya kisses him again, but makes sure to thread a hand through strands of Shane's hair so he can check the warmth of Shane's forehead, which too is burning up.
"Shane," he speaks into his mouth. "You are sick. How long have you been sick?"
"I'm not sick! Just—I don't know, tired. It's fine, really, come on," Shane urges, immediately going to capture Ilya in a kiss again and to snake his hand down to grab at his dick that's plumping up. "You feel good, wanna feel you get hard in my hand, baby."
Ilya moans when Shane flicks at the head of his cock through his thin basketball shorts. Through the abundance of years Ilya has known Shane, neither of them have ever been around each other when sick. Or at least, never when the other has known they were sick. It's a weird thought, a weird feeling that tugs at Ilya that has him wanting to get Shane's hand off of his dick and back under the blankets.
"Shane, have you eaten today?"
Shane groans. Head tipped back in utter frustration. "I want to fucking eat your dick."
"That's not sexy."
"Fuck you."
"No fucking until I know you have eaten. Or taken any medicine at all? What is your temperature?"
Shane doesn't reply, keeps his head tilted back and his mouth in a firm grimace.
"Shane," he urges again. Pinches the side of his hips, deducing right away that was the wrong move as it just spurs Shane on to shift his hips and hard dick onto Ilya's thigh. "Baby."
"It doesn't fucking matter, I want your dick in me. It'll help, please?"
Ilya trails his palm across Shane's chest, flicks at his nipple and grazes his nails across his neck and ends with two fingertips sitting at Shane's lips. He sticks them into Shane's mouth, the warmest wettest heat enveloping him that it's a shock to his system. Shane bobs his head around the digits, trying to take them as deep as he can. Still, his eyes are up to the ceiling.
"Stop," Ilya commands. He presses his fingers down on Shane's tongue to keep his mouth open. "You will tell me if you ate today. If you took medicine. I will take care of you and you will do what I say. Yes?"
Shane nods around his fingers. Ilya hums happily, then continues, "yes, good boy. First, bring your head back down and look at me." Shane complies, and shows Ilya his shiny brown eyes. They're either shiny with tears or just glazed over with sickness, and yet he looks so pretty it makes Ilya's heart stop for a moment. Ilya fucks his fingers into Shane's mouth, because he really can't help it. He likes to watch how his Adam's Apple bobs and the way his throat constricts. "Fuck, you are so warm. Your mouth, baby. Suck my fingers like you suck me."
His first instruction of keeping his eyes open doesn't last long, Shane's eyes almost immediately closing as he bobs his head down onto Ilya's fingers. He licks over the tips of his fingers like the head of his cock, spears his tongue between the pads like it's his slit. Shane is almost shameless like this, hazy and trying to grind his hips up onto anywhere his body can reach Ilya's. And Ilya just watches him with awe, his beautiful boy wanting him so bad.
With a startling amount of self-control, Ilya pulls back his fingers, wipes them on Shane's chest. His nipples are now shiny with spit. "Did you eat?"
"I had some saltines and an old can of soup."
"All of it?"
Shane swallows and it looks like it hurts. "Some of it. Really fucking high in sodium."
"I will make soup," Ilya decides. If Shane's been sick and still winning games, he knows his eating has had to be erratic. Never enough fucking nutrients or calories. Or anything even remotely close to comfort. Ilya can provide this for him, he is allowed to provide this for him now.
"Ilya," he whines and shakes his head. "Please fuck me?"
"Shane."
Shane throws all the remaining blankets and covers off the bed, flings off his socks and his sweatpants. Sitting up against the headboard, Shane absolutely fries any lingering instincts in Ilya's brain to do anything but fuck the hell out of him. He sucks his own two fingers into his mouth and leads them down to his hole. Ilya sits on his knees and watches helplessly.
"Shane," he admonishes again. "You're sick. This isn't… a game, I am not teasing you."
"Didn't say you were," Shane whispers. "You go make fucking soup and I'll touch myself. Maybe use that dildo I've never shown you." The tip of middle finger breaches his rim and Shane exaggerates a loud moan. Though Ilya thinks it might not actually be an exaggeration. Sometimes Shane gets like this, where he feels so empty and needs something in his tight hole so badly he feels like crying.
Ilya watches him, Shane with his legs spreading to show him his hole and the way the spit-shiny finger fucks into it. It looks so fucking tight, Ilya already knows how it feels when Shane is worked up and wanting it so bad, but he wants to feel it now, not just the memory of it.
"Fuck, Shane," he moans. His own cock throbs, already back to being completely hard. It's absurd the way Shane can work him up in a moments notice without even a single touch.
"Feels good, Ilya, so warm. I will feel so good, I'll be so fucking good, Ilya. I promise."
Shane's getting babbly now, his hairline is getting sweatier and his cheeks even more flushed. It's from barely nothing, just a single finger that is now almost dry fucking into him. Ilya can tell he's getting frustrated, the way his hole is twitching, like it's begging for Ilya to take over.
"You are good, Shane," Ilya promises. "Stop it. I want to touch you."
Shane stills and quickly pulls away his hands from himself. He slumps back onto the pillow but leaves his legs wide open in an invitation that Ilya cannot refuse.
"Are you okay?" Ilya asks quietly as he is undressing. "You promise me you are not too sick?"
"You can force feed me NyQuil and Borscht or whatever you want afterwards, but I need your dick, Ilya. I need it, please. I feel like I'm going fucking crazy."
Shushing him, Ilya gets his hands back onto Shane's heated face. He traces lines on his cheeks, brushes against his eyelashes as he settles in between his legs. There's lube already sitting out on the bedside table, another sign Ilya recognizes as Shane not being wholly himself right now. It must have been from last night or even this morning. He imagines Shane laying face down, ass up on his bed. All alone with his fingers fucking into himself imagining it was Ilya.
"Fucking Christ, Shane. You will kill me."
He gets a glob of lube on his fingers and squirts some directly onto Shane's hole. Wet and shiny and messy, just the way he knows Shane needs right now. Shane's squirming and twisting, trying to get Ilya to get on with it. Ilya probably should just get on with it. Get him prepped quick, fuck him fast with a hand on his dick and have them both finish in a few minutes so that he can get to taking care of Shane. But, this is taking care of Shane, too. Drawing it out, putting just one finger in his greedy hole, making him take stock of every little shiver and shake in his body.
"Fuck, you are so tight," Ilya breathes. The grip and heat Ilya's finger is encased around already feels insane. He slips in his ring finger, right next to his middle and watches as Shane's mouth slackens and his features relax. "So warm. You're like a cock-sleeve."
"Fuck, yes," Shane mumbles. "Your dick now, please?"
Ilya's an absolute sucker for Shane and for anything he wants, but it is especially more significant now. Shane's watery glazed eyes looking up at him, his pink lips turned into a pout. He's sweaty, too, Ilya can see the way his armpits are sticky with it when he raises his arms.
"Can you keep your arms up for me? Just right above your head."
Of course, Shane is able to do that. He would do anything Ilya wanted him to do. Probably. Ilya leans in closer to Shane's body as he fucks a third finger in and presses his face right into the crease of his armpit. He breathes in Shane's musk, feels completely drunk on the scent alone. He licks and sucks at the hair as Shane squirms beneath him. His cock is rock fucking hard, leaking in anticipation of sinking into him.
"You're so fucking gross," Shane moans. "God, it's so fucking hot. This is so fucking gross."
"Yes," Ilya agrees and forces himself to pull back. In a rush, Ilya pulls his fingers out. His fingertips are pruney with saliva and lube, and his lips are tingling from the prickly feeling of Shane's armpit hair brushing against them.
Shane is dripping with sweat everywhere now, so much so that he's gleaming with it, and it's made better with the precum that's steadily been pooling on his belly. Ilya gets up on his knees again, grabs at Shane's thighs and gets his palms on the back of them to hold him up.
"Hold this leg up," Ilya instructs.
Shane is out of it, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, but he easily obeys. Always blindingly, beautifully, obedient to Ilya's wishes. Once Ilya's cock is settled at his entrance, just the tip popping in, he sucks in a breath. It's overwhelming, the unbelievable heat of him.
"Fuck, 'ts like I forget how fucking big you are every time."
"Shane," Ilya croaks. Another two inches in and stars are comically exploding behind his eyelids. "Cannot say that right now."
"Why?"
It's an earnest question from Shane. After how many years, he has no idea what he does to Ilya. That with just a couple of inches inside of him, it feels like he may explode with how good Shane lets him in. It's unbearably good, the fever spiking in his body makes it the perfect warm hole for Ilya to fuck into. He's finally bottomed out, entranced with the way Shane's rim is puffy and red around him.
"Move, are you moving? It's like I'm spinning."
"Fuck, are you okay?" Ilya says. Then he gasps, because Shane is clenching around him, clearly trying to get Ilya to move.
"Stop asking me that, fuck me, baby, fuck—" the air gets punched out of him as Ilya pulls out at just the tip before slamming back in. "Feels good, Ilya, you feel so good, I'm—fuck, fuck."
Thank the Gods above that Shane is so out of it, or Ilya would feel awful at how quickly he is on the edge. He's barely thrust six whole times before the feeling builds at the base of his spine, the way his balls are tightening and he's trying to think of French participles to keep him from coming so quickly.
"So big, it's fucking crazy, Ilya. I mean," Shane gulps in between a seemingly anguished moan. "I took your cock the first time we fucked, and I'd never taken anything that big before. Fuck, it's like, it's like—shit, like my body was fucking waiting for you."
It's true, Ilya's always though that, too. He's never uttered it out loud. Maybe nothing more than a you were made for this, while Shane rode his dick, but this. Their bodies connected, tethered together, even when Shane's barely all there but desperately needing Ilya like it is the one thing that will make him feel better. It's sickly sweet and perverted all at once, it is the only thing that Ilya will always be able to count on.
"Is it good?" Shane slurs.
"It's so good," Ilya reassures.
He lays Shane flat and crowds him. Bodies flushed together—sweat, heat, wet. There's the stickiness of Shane's precum rubbing against Ilya's belly hair. It'll probably be completely crusted by the time either of them are ready to shower after this. Ilya will have to drag Shane, loopy and dizzy into the bathroom and he's already getting butterflies in anticipation. He wants to gather soap in his hands and gently rinse all the remnants of sick and sex off of him just to put it there all over again.
Lasting long enough can't be a thought in his head any longer, the sensations all around him is too momentous. Shane's fever-hot hole and iron grip on his cock made Ilya lose it the moment he fucked into him. There's tears gathering at the edges of Shane's eyes and Ilya wants them to fall, he wants to lick them off of his face.
"Cry," Ilya begs. "Then come, please, Shane."
"What?"
"Cry," he repeats, coming out like a whine. "Cry on my dick. Then come all over yourself. I'm not—I'm not going to last. I need to see you cry."
The tears don't trickle down delicately, more so coming out in a rush across his red cheeks. Shane's body is so tuned to Ilya's commands, he barely needs words. It's intoxicating to see, Ilya's gaze keeps drifting between his cock going inside of Shane to then pop back up to watch Shane cry. He bends down to lick the salty tears away, barely tasting the difference between the sweat there too.
"Fuck, Shane," he groans and suddenly he's coming. Body tensing and abs constricting as he thrusts deep one last time to empty inside of him. "Fuck, you feel so good."
Ilya lays there panting against Shane's shoulder like he is the one running a maybe dangerously high fever. Really, he should be pulling out to race to the bathroom to get a cold washcloth and a thermometer. But Shane is still there, clenching around him and crying.
"Did you come?"
"Yeah, baby, I came," Ilya soothes with a breathless chuckle. He swipes a clump of damp hair out of Shane's eyes and kisses his nose. "You did so good. Are you okay?"
"Mmh," he coos. "Make me come. I did good."
"Yes, very, very good. The best. How do you want it?"
Shane ponders, his bleary eyes still wet with tears. "Just like this. Touch me."
Nodding wordlessly, because words are certainly not much to Shane right now, he gets a hand around Shane's shaft. Just like the rest of his body, his cock is an angry red and boiling hot. He only pumps a few times before Shane is coming, his back arched and throat groaning. Cum splatters across his stomach and over Ilya's fist. Shane holds his mouth open even before Ilya brings his sticky fingers directly up to his lips.
He sucks them clean, eyes closed and body shaking. Shane looks so beautiful and peaceful right after he's fucked hard, Ilya almost feels evil for having to pull away to gather him up in his arms.
"No, no, Ilya. I'm so tired."
Shane's naked body is pressed against Ilya's limply, like he isn't impressively stacked with all of his hard-earned muscle. Ilya kisses him again, because he's incapable of not giving into those plump pink lips.
"We have to get you cleaned off and bathed, sweetheart."
Shane mumbles and grumbles all the way to the bathroom, sits slumped against the toilet as Ilya draws him a bath. In his hazy state, he growls like an upset kitten, but relaxes as Ilya cleans delicately between his legs and across his chest and stomach. Once he's sufficiently sated, Shane even lets him take his temperature without complaining. It's high, but not go to the ER sort of high. They get to have this, then. Ilya will wash him and make him soup later and laugh as Shane grimaces from the taste of cold medicine.
"I don't think I've ever felt safe before," Shane confesses into the air. Ilya's behind him, slowly pouring a cup of warm water in his hair to rinse out the conditioner suds. He stills, waits for Shane to continue. "Like—not, um, the way you've been unsafe. But. Maybe in my body? I don't think I know how to word it… I just, you fucking make me feel really safe."
"Oh," Ilya gasps. "Me too. The way you let me in… it is not anything I am able to say how much it means to me. How much it matters."
"Yeah."
Shane closes his eyes again and Ilya scratches his scalp. Not because there's any more product to lather in, but because Ilya likes the breathless squeaks Shane lets out when he is this safe and happy.