Chapter Text
“I’m not sick.”
Although he is not one to often boast, Shane Hollander took pride in his robust immune system.
It’s seen him nightly on the ice, the cold atmosphere of the rink biting for a chance to grasp him, to wriggle inside and cozy up in the warm habitat. It’s been thwarted during harsh winters, when Shane would walk through city streets riddled with a swarm of red noses peaking above scarves. Even the carrier bugs that were Hayden Pike’s children, who always seemed to be down with some form of cold or rash, were no match for Shane Hollander. As a kid, he rarely got sick. Not even the sniffles. He’s always been known to miraculously dodge illnesses like they were flying pucks.
That was until one night where damp sheets drew Shane from his sleep.
Peeling his eyes open in the cottage bedroom, the first thing that Shane noticed was how his side of the bed felt bogged down with moisture. The second was that he felt hot. Too hot. The third was that it was dark. All that met Shane in his half-dazed state was darkness and the distant sounds of the outside Ontario greenery.
Despite the bedroom's feature, he and Ilya rarely bothered with the blinds in the bedroom, instead marvelling in the unabashed openness and the freedom that came from it. There were also other pirks that veered more into the scandalous that Ilya particularly revelled in.
But at present Ilya was comfortably led on his back next to Shane, one arm flung above his head and the other resting at his hip, his chest slowly rising and falling with each satisfied snore. Gently, Shane patted the sheets surrounding Ilya and furrowed his brow. They were dry.
What the fuck?
Slowly, Shane drew back the cover, scrabbled his hand on the floor for his boxers and made for the ensuite, flicking on the light. He eased the door closed, not all the way, but enough to shield the sanctuary of their bedroom from the light which seeped in a single orange strip across their floor, just missing the end of the bed. Taking a final peak at Ilya, Shane turned to face the mirror and jolted.
He looked like he had just come out of an intense gym session.
Strands of wet hair stuck to his forehead. His cheeks and the top of his neck were flushed. Shane pressed his knuckles against his face and felt their radiating heat, sliding his hand down his neck and over his shoulders towards his back. He was sweating, clammy and sticky and horrible to the touch. No, this was different from a gym sweat. There was nothing to show for, nothing to act as proof of working hard. The veil of damp that covered his front and back acted like deviants in the night, soaking his nice sheets and clambering his limbs.
He felt gross.
He felt heavy in his shoulders, as if his body was slowly dragging him to the cold bathroom tiles.
Shaking his head, Shane quickly washed his hands, rinsing the sweat off. He was desperate for a shower. He needed to get it all off. But it was too late in the night for a shower. Settling for water and flannels, Shane let the tap run with freezing cold water until it filled up the sink. He grabbed a towel and placed it on the floor as a makeshift rug before splashing his face, neck and back. Droplets ran down his chest, soothing the scorching skin in its path. He ran the water through his hair to push it out of his face, dunking a flannel in the sink and pressing it against his cheeks, heaving a long sigh as they provided a momentary chill.
“Shane?” a voice called from beyond the door.
Shane took the flannel off, mourning its relief.
“Go back to sleep, Ilya. I’ll be out in a second.”
There was no response, only the rustling of a duvet followed by the padding of determined feet. A hand wound itself around the door, slowly pushing it open.
“Shane, are you okay-Woah.”
Ilya’s hand slipped from the frame to the handle, taking in the sight of a dishevelled and flushed Shane with water running down his body. He rubbed his eyes. Shane wasn’t sure if it was out of tiredness or disbelief. This was not the usual flushed Shane that he so adored.
“Are you okay? Did you go down into the gym, or something?” Ilya asked, sleep still drawing his voice into a low husk.
“No, I’m fine. I just wanted a shower, but I didn’t want to wake you. That’s all.”
Ilya paused, staring at Shane’s face. His lips formed a thin line as he stifled a laugh.
“What?” Shane grouched.
“...You look like big tomato.”
“Fuck off, Rosanov,” Shane quipped, falling into that same nostalgic distance of surnames that they were so bad at trying to keep. “I was just hot, okay?”
“You keep the cottage at the perfect temperature during seasons. It is winter. You are never hot.” Ilya stepped further into the ensuite, moving his eyes from Shane’s face, to his neck and then down his chest. He was inspecting him. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes,” Shane said far too quickly. He was determined. This was a momentary occasion of poor body temperature regulation. He just needed to let the cold sink in, and then they could both go back to sleep. “I feel fine.”
Ilya reached a tentative hand towards Shane’s wrist and circled the bone there. “Kotyonek, you are shaking.”
“What?” Shane dropped the flannel that he was holding and pierced his eyes into the mirror, scanning his body for movement. Sure enough, the longer he looked, the longer Shane noticed the slight involuntary vibration of his arms and legs.
“Is okay,” Ilya soothed, moving his hand to Shane’s elbow and rubbing his arm. “You are sick.”
Shane froze. He had been called a lot of things throughout his life. The ice often invited everyone to chirp or cuss each other out a lot more openly. Even off the ice, Shane had things hurled his way. But no one had ever told him that.
“I’m not sick.” Pride slowly slipped into defiance, or straight out denial.
“Shane, is okay. You have fever. Is normal. People get sick all of the time.”
“I’m not sick,” Shane repeated, harshly wringing out the flannel and folding it back by the sink. Ilya’s hands roamed over Shane, gentle brushes against skin. With one hand firmly planted on Shane’s waist, Ilya hooked Shane’s chin and lightly turned his face towards him. It was often the only tactic that worked when Shane was caught elsewhere, that deafening voice inside overtaking his physical reactions. And this time, Ilya really felt the heat of Shane’s skin.
“Not everyone can be perfect all of the time. We are human. We get sick.” Ilya flicked between Shane’s eyes, searching for a stable thread, a hint of fever-hazed clarity. Despite his guise of being a public menace, Ilya had a knack for unprecedented moments of earnest. He was sincere in his words and actions, especially when it came to Shane. “But, we also get better, yes?”
The cooling effects of the water were fleeting. Shane could feel the heat return across his chest. This thing, whatever it may be, was persistent, almost as persistent as Ilya stroking his face.
“I’ve never seen you sick,” Shane grunted.
If there is one thing that cannot be separated from the two of them, it is competition. It permeates every aspect of their lives. Who can score the most during a game? Who can run the furthest on the treadmill? Who can hold out on cumming the longest? Being sick was no exception and Shane was not wrong. In all of the years that they had been together, Shane had never seen Ilya get sick. Injured, absolutely. Shane had cared for bruised ribs, dislocated shoulders, knee pains, bad backs and everything else.
Sickness was different, though. It was a different state of vulnerability that Shane had no experience with. What happens when your body suddenly weakens on you? His recovery from being hit on the ice had been gruelling and Shane had hated being held back by his shoulder. So many doctors advised him to rest, to do nothing, to let his body heal. It was awful.
Shane felt stupid, stood in the middle of the ensuite like a shivering boy.
Ilya smiled. “No. Is because I have best Russian genes and you are product of boring Canada.”
“I’m going downstairs,” Shane huffed, trying to move out of Ilya’s grasp.
“No no, Shane, you need to stay here.”
Ilya manoeuvred Shane so that he was leant against the sink, bracketed between his arms. He reached behind Shane for the flannel, turned the taps on, briefly wet it and then drew it against Shane’s pulsing neck, applying light pressure just below his jaw. He looked for any sign of protest, but when Shane’s hands settled on his hips with a sigh, he continued lightly dabbing at Shane’s skin.
“I just-” Shane began, faltering. Shane had made an effort long ago to tell Ilya how he really feels. They both did. And now Shane was wrestling with his body not being up to scratch. “I don’t get sick. I never have done and I don’t like how it feels. I’m too hot, I’m too sticky, my bedsheets are gross. It’s going to interrupt my routines. It’s shitty.”
Ilya hummed, swiping the flannel against Shane’s shoulders.
“Yes, it is shitty. But, there is something that will make it not be shitty for so long.”
“What?” Shane questioned. “Probiotics? Glucose? Antioxidants? I can try ordering anti-inflammatory foods, or I could even go out and get some in the morning?”
Ilya let out a soft laugh and let the flannel fall into the sink, drawing back to look at those beautiful brown eyes.
“No,” he said, swiping a fallen strand of wet hair away from Shane’s forehead. “Letting me take care of you. No fancy foods or fancy words or whatever the fuck you just said. Rest. Liquids. Broth. Simple things. You cannot rush the body, it just has to do what it has to do. Flush it out like devil from good Christian child.”
“Really?” Shane said. “That’s your analogy?”
Ilya shrugged. “First thing that came to mind.”
Shane closed his eyes. He never enjoyed being wrong, or even worse, being misguided. He had tried so hard over the years to build up a tolerance for mistakes, albeit rare. He had also tried so hard to be more grounded, more present, less overcome by strict diets and faultless play, less pre-occupied with rigidity. He couldn’t tell what was heat from sweating or what was heat from embarrassment.
But it was so easy to give into Ilya, in every sense of the word. He had learnt the intricacies of Shane’s being just as much as he had memorised the groves of Shane’s body. His gentle patting of Shane was comforting, each tiny dab of the flannel saying It’s okay, It’s okay, It’s okay. When Shane’s eyes opened, they were met with nothing but care. A searching, patient look of love. He smoothed his thumbs over Ilya’s hips,
“Will you let me?” Ilya asked.
Shane nodded, smiling at the triumphant look that spread across Ilya’s face. “Can I finally have that shower, now?”
“Of course, moya lyubov. As long as it’s lukewarm. Cold will not help. ” he said. “Then after, we will go back to bed for few more hours. In the morning, you will stay in bed. I will look after you, okay?”
Shane’s face quirked. He wanted to fight against this sense of uselessness that slowly crept into his skin. He would never ask Ilya for anything. That was not how their relationship worked. He could make suggestions or open statements, but he never expected anything of Ilya. Neither of them did. So to have Ilya crowd him against the bathroom sink and elect himself nurse for the next day was special. Even if he was grumpy, he was being spoilt.
“Okay,” Shane finally breathed, moving his hands from Ilya’s hipbones to sling them over his shoulders.
Ilya softened and leant in to press a soft kiss against Shane’s lips.
Before he could, though, Shane pushed Ilya away, wriggling out of his hold.
“What?” Ilya gaped, hands dangled in the air from the loss of contact.
Shane was halfway inside the shower, already. He peeled off his sweat-ridden boxers and threw over the glass so that they landed on Ilya’s head. He may be sick but he was still a perfect shot.
“That’s for saying that I looked like a big tomato, asshole.”
Not even his first bout of sickness could diminish Shane’s love of Ilya’s feigned shock, his open mouth curving into a laugh.