Another short sickfic originally posted to my sneezehq tumblr. Moving it here for backup. Content warning for vomit. Enjoy!
Yakov glares at the pale teenager currently trying to sit up in bed without toppling over. "Why does the thermometer always disappear when I want to take your temperature?"
Yuri fixes him with an unsteady look of annoyance, trying and failing to hide his obvious dizziness. "Probably because I'm never actually sick and you're just wasting time that I could be using to practice," he mutters irritably, swallowing hard against a sudden surge of nausea. He doesn't bother to mention his increasing queasiness to Yakov, though. Doing so would defeat the entire purpose of his not-sick facade.
"So you're not sick, right," Yakov grunts, pressing a hand to Yuri's forehead to manually assess his temperature. He lets out a low whistle at the heat he feels radiating off the skin usually covered by Yuri's hair, almost searing his palm. "You're just always so clumsy that you fall down the stairs on the way to breakfast, almost giving yourself a concussion on top of the fever you're already running. And you normally feel like you're cooking in your own skin."
The Russian punk pouts, folding his arms across his chest and bracing himself against a wave of shivers. "It's not that bad."
"Right." Yakov dismisses his feeble protest with a wave of a hand. "I'm going to go fetch a cold compress and some medicine, and try to track down that thermometer." He fixes Yuri with a stern look. "You are to stay here in bed and try not to injure yourself again, or I'll put Lilia in charge of your recovery." At that threat, Yuri immediately stops trying to wriggle out from under the blankets, a look of slight horror on his face.
Yakov isn't gone for long-maybe ten minutes, tops-but when he returns, Yuri is leaning halfway out of the bed and retching feebly over the opulent rug. He deposits the medicine, compress, and thermometer on the dresser and rushes forward to steady the boy, making note of the sizable puddle of vomit on the floor already. "Still going to claim that you're not sick?" he asks, helping Yuri sit up and slump back against the pillows when he's finished.
Fully worn out, Yuri responds with the tiniest shake of the head, face scrunched up and eyes shut tight against the dizziness and the nausea. "I really don't feel good, Yakov," he murmurs. "Want grandpa."
The fever must really be getting to Yuri if he's being so emotional. Yakov brushes his hair back from his sweaty, sticky forehead soothingly, placing a cold washcloth on the overheated skin. "How about you take a little medicine and rest for a bit, and we'll give your grandpa a call when you wake up?" Yakov suggests, his voice unusually gentle.
"Promise?" Yuri asks, green eyes pleading, sounding much more like the little boy that Yakov used to teach than the talented fifteen year old skater that proudly represents Russia.
"I promise," Yakov replies, popping a couple of pills out of the packaging and passing them to Yuri along with a glass of water. "Get some rest. You'll feel better when you wake up."
For once, Yuri obeys without hesitation or protest, automatically sinking back against the pillows and letting his eyes fall shut. Yakov has to rescue the cup from his shaking hands before he drops it.
Yuri dreams of skating Agape perfectly for his grandpa and all the world to see, of winning the Grand Prix Finals in his first year in the senior division and making a name for himself. He wants to get better so badly, and to practice. But for now, he'll just have to wait.
He wakes up several hours later to warm soup and a FaceTime with his grandpa. Afterwards, lying in bed and listening to Yakov and Lilia bustle around the house, Yuri almost finds the noise comforting for once. He could almost get used to living here, he thinks, before drifting off into dreams once more.
Thank you for reading! Please leave a review!