Archive of Our Own

The apartment in Tampere smells wrong.

Shane notices it the moment he crosses the threshold: some combination of unfamiliar cleaning products, old radiator heat, and a floral air freshener that's trying way too hard. The scent hits the back of his throat, cloying and artificial, and he has to breathe through his mouth to keep from gagging.

"Tervetuloa!" His host, Liisa, a cheerful woman in her fifties, gestures him inside enthusiastically. "Welcome! You must be Shane, yes? From Canada team?"

"Yes, thank you," Shane manages, because that much is automatic. Hockey player politeness, drilled in since he was six years old.

She shows him around the apartment, chattering in heavily accented English about meal times and house rules that Shane loses track of halfway through. Something about breakfast at seven-thirty, quiet hours after ten, the wifi password is written on the fridge. Shane nods along, trying to build a mental map of the space while his nervous system steadily ratchets up to a seven.

His room is small but private - a single bed, a desk, a narrow dresser. The bed has one of those puffy European duvets and pillows that are somehow both too firm and too flat. The overhead light is one of those energy-efficient bulbs that flickers just slightly, enough that Shane knows it's going to drive him insane.

But it's his own space. That's something.

He unpacks with methodical precision, arranging his clothes in the dresser: underwear top left drawer, socks top right, shirts middle, pants bottom. Sets up his toiletries in the bathroom exactly the way he likes them. Routine helps. Having a task helps.

His phone buzzes: "You survive billet assignment?"

Shane smiles despite himself. Ilya.

"Barely. You?"

"Is fine. Old couple, very nice, try to feed me constantly. I think they believe Americans are starving. Or maybe just Russian-Americans."

"Where are you?" Shane texts back.

"Other side of city. Maybe 20 minutes? I looked on map."

Of course Ilya looked. Of course he's already plotting how to see Shane, even though they're here with their respective national teams, even though any contact between them will draw attention they can't afford.

"Don't be stupid," Shane texts. "Someone will notice."

"Let me worry about that. You just settle in, yes? Text me if you need."

Shane wants to point out that texting if he needs something doesn't help when Ilya is across the city with Team USA, but he doesn't. Just sends back a thumbs up and tries to ignore the way his chest feels tight.

He makes it through dinner - some local place with the team, where he orders the plainest thing on the menu and eats about half while his teammates joke around him. Makes it through the first night in the too-soft bed, getting maybe four hours of broken sleep while his brain catalogs everything that's wrong with this room, this apartment, this country.

Practice the next morning is rough. He's exhausted, his body aching from tension and lack of sleep, and he can't get his timing right. The coaching staff notices but doesn't comment, probably chalking it up to jet lag.

That afternoon, Shane is lying on his bed, trying to force himself to nap, when there's a knock on the apartment door. He hears Liisa answer, hears her voice go bright with surprise, and then—

"Shane?" Liisa calls. "You have visitor!"

Shane emerges from his room to find Ilya Rozanov standing in the entryway, wearing a Team USA track jacket and his most charming smile, speaking shockingly competent Finnish to Liisa who is practically glowing.

"What are you doing here?" Shane asks, too surprised to filter.

Ilya switches languages smoothly. "I was nearby, thought I would say hello. Is okay?" This last part directed at Liisa.

"Of course, of course!" She's already bustling toward the kitchen. "I make coffee, yes? You boys talk."

When she's gone, Shane hisses, "You can't just show up here. Someone could see—"

"Relax. I told my billet family I was going for walk to explore city. No one followed me." Ilya's eyes scan Shane's face, cataloging. "You look like shit."

"Thanks."

"Did you sleep?"

"Some."

"How much is some?"

Shane doesn't answer, which is answer enough. Ilya sighs.

"Okay. Show me your room."

"Rozanov—"

"I am checking if you are settling in okay. Is normal friendly concern, yes? Americans and Canadians, we are allies."

It's a flimsy excuse and they both know it, but Shane leads him back to the small room anyway. Ilya takes in the space with a critical eye, sits on the bed and immediately makes a face.

"This is terrible," he pronounces. "Like sleeping on marshmallow."

"I know."

Ilya tests the pillows, checks the window for light leakage, opens the closet to see Shane's meticulously organized clothes. His expression softens.

"You are handling okay?" he asks quietly.

Shane wants to lie, but this is Ilya. "It's a lot. Everything smells wrong, tastes wrong, sounds wrong. And I have to be 'on' all the time because Liisa is nice but she hovers, and the team dinners are overwhelming, and—" He stops, aware he's spiraling.

"Hey." Ilya's hand finds his, just for a second, quick enough that it could be accidental if anyone saw. "You are doing good. You are here, you are functioning. That is enough."

"I can't sleep."

"I know. But you will adjust. You always do." Ilya stands, casual, like he's just being friendly. "I should go before people wonder where I am. But text me, okay? Even just to talk. Especially at night when you can't sleep."

Liisa insists Ilya stay for coffee, and practice his Finnish on her while he charms her effortlessly. Shane watches from the kitchen doorway, marveling at how Ilya makes it all look easy - the language switching, the friendly conversation with a stranger, the way he seems comfortable in his own skin no matter where he is.

When Ilya finally leaves, Liisa is smiling.

"Such nice boy," she says. "You are friends, you and Ilya?"

"We play against each other," Shane says, which is true enough. "Boston and Montreal."

"Ah, he is American now, yes? Playing for USA team. Must be strange for him, playing against Russia."

Shane hadn't thought about that. Ilya doesn't talk about it much - the fact that Russia isn't competing anymore, that he had to choose Team USA to play internationally at all. It must be complicated in ways Shane can't fully understand.

"Yeah," Shane says. "Must be."

That night, Shane lies awake in the too-soft bed and texts Ilya: "Can't sleep."

The response comes immediately: "Me either. Talk to me."

They text back and forth for an hour - nothing important, just the minutiae of practice and meals and adjusting to new spaces. It helps. By the time Shane finally drifts off, it's almost three AM, but at least he sleeps.

The pattern repeats. Shane struggles through practices, forces himself through team obligations, retreats to his room and texts Ilya. And every few days, Ilya shows up - always with a plausible excuse, always charming Liisa, always spending just enough time in Shane's room to check on him without raising suspicion.

"You are going to get caught," Shane warns on day four.

"Doing what? Being friendly to Canadian player? Americans and Canadians, we are basically same, yes? Both North American teams." Ilya's sprawled in Shane's desk chair like he owns it. "Besides, Liisa loves me. She thinks I am delightful."

"You are exhausting."

"You love it."

Shane does, which is the problem. He's barely holding himself together in this foreign country with disrupted routines and constant sensory overload, and having Ilya show up every few days is both the best and worst thing. Best because it grounds him, gives him something familiar to hold onto. Worst because it's a reminder of what he can't have - not here, not publicly, maybe not ever.

On day five, Shane wakes up knowing something is wrong.

His stomach feels off - not quite nauseous, but not right either. There's a heaviness in his abdomen, a vague cramping that could be anxiety or could be something else. He lies there for a while, trying to decide if he's actually sick or if his body is just protesting the stress of the tournament.

By afternoon, the cramping is worse. He skips dinner with the team, texting the captain that he's not feeling well, and retreats to his room. Lies in bed and tries to will his stomach to settle.

His phone buzzes: "You are not at team dinner. What's wrong?"

Shane stares at Ilya's text. How does he even know Shane isn't at dinner? USA and Canada are staying on opposite sides of the city.

"Stomach feels off. Probably nothing."

"Off how? Like nervous or like sick?"

"Don't know yet."

There's a pause, then: "I'm coming over."

"Rozanov, no. You can't—"

But Ilya doesn't respond, and Shane knows he's already on his way.

Twenty minutes later, Liisa is knocking on Shane's door. "Shane? Ilya is here. He says you are not feeling well?"

Shane drags himself out of bed, finds Ilya in the living room looking concerned and holding a plastic bag from a pharmacy.

"What are you doing?" Shane asks.

"You said stomach is bad. I brought ginger tea, plain crackers, antacids." Ilya holds up the bag. "Things that help."

Liisa looks delighted. "Such thoughtful boy! You see, Shane? Is good to have friends who care."

If she thinks it's weird that Ilya showed up the moment Shane got sick, she doesn't say. Just bustles off to make tea, leaving them alone.

"You can't keep doing this," Shane says quietly. "People will notice."

"Let them notice. You are sick, I am helping. Is what decent people do." Ilya's studying Shane's face. "How bad is it?"

"I don't know. My stomach just feels... wrong. And I'm so tired, and everything here is already too much, and now this—" Shane's voice cracks despite himself.

"Okay. Okay, come on. Back to bed." Ilya steers him toward his room, easy and natural like he has every right to. "You take the ginger tea Liisa is making, try to sleep. I will stay for bit, make sure you don't get worse."

"You have practice tomorrow."

"Fuck practice. You're more important."

Ilya can't stay long - it would be too suspicious. But he stays for an hour, sitting in Shane's desk chair while Shane lies in bed, sipping ginger tea that doesn't really help. They don't talk much, but Ilya's presence is grounding in a way Shane desperately needs.

When Ilya finally leaves, Shane feels the absence like a physical ache.

He makes it until almost four AM before his body gives up any pretense of cooperation.

The first heave wakes him from fitful sleep - his stomach convulsing, saliva flooding his mouth in that telltale warning. He barely makes it to the bathroom, dropping to his knees on the cold tile just as his dinner from yesterday comes up in a violent rush.

It's loud. Wet and horrible and echoing in the small bathroom, and Shane has a distant mortified thought that he's probably woken up Liisa. His stomach contracts again, bringing up more half-digested food, and then again, until he's just dry-heaving over the toilet bowl, nothing left to expel.

"Shane?" Liisa's voice outside the bathroom door, worried. "Are you okay?"

He can't answer. His throat is raw, his mouth tastes like bile and stomach acid, and there's vomit on his chin. He's shaking, full-body tremors that he can't control, and his stomach is still cramping like it's trying to turn itself inside out.

The door opens - he forgot to lock it - and Liisa takes in the scene with practiced efficiency. She says something in Finnish that's probably meant to be soothing, then disappears and returns with a washcloth.

She hands him the cloth with the same matter-of-fact kindness his mother would, then flushes the toilet. "Come," she says. "Back to bed. I get thermometer, yes?"

Shane lets her guide him back to his room, too miserable to protest. The bed feels even worse now - too soft, too warm, the duvet sliding off as soon as he tries to get comfortable.

The thermometer under his tongue tastes like plastic and antiseptic, and Shane's stomach does another slow roll of protest. When it beeps, Liisa makes a concerned sound.

"38.9," she says. "Is high fever. I call doctor, yes?"

Shane wants to say no, but he's burning up and shivering at the same time, and another wave of nausea is building. He manages a nod.

Liisa disappears, and Shane can hear her on the phone in the hallway - rapid Finnish that his fever-fogged brain can't even attempt to parse. He closes his eyes against the dim light from the hallway, focusing on breathing through his nose, trying to keep his stomach from staging another revolt.

Time does weird things. At some point his phone buzzes, but reaching for it seems impossible. The light from the screen would be too much anyway.

At some point Liisa comes back with water, helping him take small sips that his stomach immediately threatens to reject.

At some point he's vomiting again - Liisa has put a basin next to the bed, which is both thoughtful and humiliating.

At some point the doctor arrives - an older man who speaks English and asks questions Shane can barely focus on. Professional hands press on his stomach, checking for rigidity, for signs that this is something more serious than a virus. Each touch makes Shane's muscles lock up, his body trying to curl away from the intrusion.

"Viral gastroenteritis," the doctor says. "Same as other players—there is outbreak at tournament. Very contagious. He must rest, hydrate slowly, let it pass."

The doctor leaves instructions with Liisa - something about rehydration salts and fever reducers and small sips of water. Shane catches maybe every third word before the fever pulls him back under.

When he surfaces again, weak sunlight is creeping around the curtains and Liisa is standing in his doorway.

"Shane? Ilya is here. He wants to see you."

Shane's brain struggles to process this. "What?"

"Ilya. From USA team. He heard you are very sick, he wants to check on you."

Of course he does. Shane would be touched if he wasn't so miserable.

"Tell him..." Shane starts, but he's not sure what to say. Tell him to leave? Tell him to come in? His brain isn't making words properly.

But then Ilya is there anyway, filling the doorway, his expression doing something complicated when he sees Shane.

"Fuck," Ilya says quietly.

Liisa makes a disapproving sound at the language but doesn't comment. "I make breakfast," she announces. "You boys talk."

When she's gone, Ilya comes to sit on the edge of the bed. "Hollander. When you text last night that stomach was bad, I did not think you meant this bad."

"Didn't text today," Shane mumbles.

"I know. Is how I knew was very bad—you always text back. So I texted Liisa this morning, asked her to let me know how you are." Ilya's hand hovers near Shane's forehead, like he wants to check for fever but knows he shouldn't. "Doctor came?"

"Yeah. Stomach flu. Going around the tournament."

"I know. Four players from USA are sick too. Two from Finland, one from Sweden." Ilya's quiet for a moment. "What can I do?"

"Nothing. Just have to wait it out."

"Did doctor leave medicine?"

Shane gestures vaguely toward the nightstand where packets of rehydration salts and pills are scattered. "Have to drink that. Can't keep anything down."

"Okay." Ilya stands, all business now. "Then we start. Small sips, very slow."

"Rozanov, you can't stay here. You have practice—"

"I am not leaving you like this."

"People will notice—"

"Hollander." Ilya's voice is firm. "You are sick. You need help. I am helping. Anyone who has problem with this can fuck themselves."

It's reckless and stupid and exactly what Shane should have expected. Ilya has never been good at hiding what he feels, never been able to pretend he doesn't care. It's going to give them away someday.

But right now, with Shane's body actively trying to destroy itself and his brain too fever-fogged to think straight, he can't bring himself to argue.

Ilya reads the doctor's instructions - his English is better than Liisa's - and starts mixing rehydration solution. "Okay. Doctor says one teaspoon every five minutes. If you keep down for one hour, we increase to one tablespoon every ten minutes."

Shane eyes the bottle dubiously. The liquid is clear, which is good, but he has no idea what it tastes like and the unknown is making his already-churning stomach worse.

"What does it taste like?" His voice is barely a rasp.

Ilya pours a teaspoon into a small cup, then dips the tip of his finger in and brings it to his mouth. "Like water, but little bit salty. Not bad. Just strange. Come on. One sip."

It takes three tries to get his body to cooperate enough to sit up. The liquid hits his tongue - lukewarm, slightly salty, vaguely mineral. Not offensive, but his stomach clenches anyway, rejecting the intrusion.

He forces himself to swallow, then immediately regrets it as his stomach cramps.

"Breathe," Ilya instructs. "Slow. In through nose, out through mouth."

Shane does, focusing on the count. In for four, out for four. His stomach churns threateningly but doesn't actively rebel.

"Good," Ilya says. "Very good. Now we wait five minutes."

The five minutes stretch endlessly. Shane focuses on breathing, on not thinking about the liquid sloshing around in his stomach, on the way Ilya is watching him with barely concealed worry.

Another teaspoon. Wait. Another. Wait.

Somewhere around the sixth teaspoon, Shane's stomach lurches and everything comes back up into the basin. Ilya takes it away without comment, rinses it in the bathroom, brings it back.

"Okay," he says. "We start again. Is normal—doctor says stomach will reject first attempts."

They start again. And again. By the third round, Shane's stomach finally accepts defeat, settling into a queasy détente with the rehydration solution.

"See?" Ilya says. "You can do this."

There's a knock on the door - Liisa, calling in Finnish. Ilya responds, and Shane catches the tone even if he doesn't understand the words. Something about needing to stay with Shane, making sure he's okay.

Liisa responds, sounding concerned, and then her footsteps retreat.

"What did you tell her?" Shane asks.

"That you are very sick and I am staying to help because you are alone here. She says is very kind, she will make soup for when you are feeling better."

"I can't eat soup."

"I know. I will deal with this later. For now, just focus on keeping down water."

The morning passes in a blur. Shane drifts in and out of feverish sleep, waking to drink more rehydration solution under Ilya's watchful eye. Occasionally he has to lurch for the bathroom when his stomach decides to reject things from the other end. Each time, Ilya waits patiently outside the door, not commenting on how disgusting this all is.

Around noon, there's another knock. This time it's different - Liisa's voice speaking Finnish, and then a man's voice responding. Shane recognizes it after a moment: the doctor, back to check on him.

Ilya translates the examination, the doctor's questions and Shane's mumbled responses. Temperature is still 38.5. Stomach is tender but not rigid. No blood in vomit. Probably viral, just needs to run its course.

"He asks if you want IV for hydration," Ilya says. "Would be faster than oral rehydration."

The thought of a hospital, of needles and bright lights and strange people touching him, sends Shane's heart rate spiking. "No. I can keep down the solution now. I'll be fine."

The doctor leaves more medicine - anti-nausea pills that dissolve under the tongue, stronger fever reducers -and repeats his instructions about rest and hydration.

When he's gone, it's just Ilya and Shane again. Ilya sits in the desk chair, scrolling through his phone, occasionally looking up to check on Shane. It should be boring, but Ilya doesn't complain. Just sits there, steady presence, like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

"You're going to miss practice," Shane mumbles at some point.

"Already missed it."

"Ilya—"

"I texted coach this morning. Said I am helping sick Canadian player because his billet family is not comfortable with medical things. Coach says is fine, is good sportsmanship, good for international relations."

Shane highly doubts that went down that smoothly. "You can't tell them it's me specifically—"

"I didn't. Just said Canadian player. Could be anyone." Ilya sets his phone down. "Hollander, you need to stop worrying about this. You are sick, you need help, I am giving help. Is simple."

It's not simple at all, but Shane is too tired to argue.

Sometime in the afternoon, Liisa returns with soup. The smell hits Shane before she even enters the room - rich and earthy, onions and something else, completely overwhelming.

His stomach revolts immediately. He grabs for the basin, dry-heaving over it even though there's nothing left to bring up except the rehydration solution he's been forcing down all morning.

"No, no!" Ilya is on his feet, switching to Finnish, his voice sharp. Words Shane doesn't understand, but the meaning is clear from the tone: Get that out of here.

The smell retreats. The door closes. Shane slumps against the pillows, shaking and miserable, having lost another hour's worth of careful hydration.

When Ilya comes back, he looks frustrated. "I am sorry. I told her this morning, no food, no strong smells, but she did not listen. She says soup is traditional Finnish remedy, very good for sick stomach. Everyone eats soup when sick."

"Can't," Shane manages. His throat is burning from stomach acid. "The smell—too much—"

"I know. I tried to explain." Ilya refills the rehydration solution. "But she does not understand why you cannot just try little bit. She thinks you are being... what is word... fussy? Picky?"

Shane's chest tightens with familiar shame. He is being picky. Being difficult. A normal person would just eat the fucking soup, or at least not vomit from the smell of it.

"Hey, no." Ilya's voice is firm. "I can see your face. You are not being difficult. Your stomach is sick, and strong smells make it worse. This is medical fact, not you being picky."

"But—"

"No. Listen to me. Doctor said bland foods only, when you are ready. Soup with onions and whatever else Liisa put in there—is not bland. So you are correct to refuse, and your stomach is correct to reject even the smell. Okay?"

Shane nods, but he doesn't really believe it.

"We start again with hydration, yes?" Ilya says. "One teaspoon at a time."

They do. Shane's stomach is in full rebellion now, but they keep trying - one teaspoon at a time, waiting, breathing through the nausea.

It's dark outside when Shane finally manages to keep the solution down for a full hour. Progress.

"You should go," Shane says. His voice is barely a whisper. "It's late. Your billet family will wonder—"

"I already texted them. Said I am staying with sick friend tonight."

"Rozanov—"

"Is fine. They are very understanding." Ilya stretches, then eyes Shane's bed dubiously. "This bed is too small for both of us, and also you are very contagious. I will sleep in chair."

"You can't sleep in a chair all night."

"Watch me."

And he does. Shane drifts in and out of feverish sleep, and every time he wakes - to drink more solution, to stumble to the bathroom, to vomit into the basin - Ilya is there. Curled in the desk chair that cannot possibly be comfortable, or standing in the bathroom doorway with a washcloth, or holding a cup of rehydration solution with infinite patience.

By morning, Shane's fever has dropped to 37.8. His stomach is still tender and queasy, but the violent revolt has passed. He's exhausted, wrung out, but alive.

Ilya looks worse than Shane feels - rumpled and unshaven, dark circles under his eyes from sleeping in a chair.

"You look like shit," Shane tells him.

"You looked like you were dying yesterday. I win." Ilya stands, stretching with audible pops. "How you feel?"

"Like I got hit by a truck. But better."

"Good. Doctor comes back this morning to check. If you are improving, maybe you can try bland foods."

Shane's stomach is uncertain about food, but not violently opposed. Progress.

The doctor arrives, examines Shane, pronounces him improving. "No vomiting since midnight, fever is down, this is good. Today you can try very bland foods - crackers, plain toast, bananas. Small amounts. If stomach tolerates, you can increase tomorrow."

When he's gone, Ilya turns to Shane. "What do you want? I can go to store, buy specific things."

"You don't have to—"

"Hollander. What foods can you eat?"

Shane lists them: plain white bread, not toast. Applesauce without cinnamon. Bananas. Plain rice cakes.

Ilya nods, making mental notes. "Okay. I go now, get these things. Liisa will be here if you need something."

"Don't you have practice?"

"Is just morning skate. I miss yesterday, I can miss today too." Ilya grabs his jacket. "Rest. I will be back soon."

He's gone for an hour. When he returns, he's carrying multiple bags from different stores.

"Could not find red box crackers I know you like," he announces, unpacking. "So I bought four different kinds, you can pick which is closest. Also, three kinds of applesauce because labels are in Finnish and I was not sure which is plain. Bananas, rice cakes, plain bread from bakery—woman says is very fresh, made this morning. Oh, and this—"

He holds up a sleeve of Chips Ahoy cookies, Shane's favorite familiar brand name from North America.

"How did you find those?" Shane asks.

"Specialty store near USA team hotel. They have section with North American foods. Is probably very expensive, but I thought maybe familiar food would help."

Shane's chest does something complicated. Ilya went to multiple stores, probably spent way too much money, all to find foods that Shane's overwhelmed, sick brain might be able to tolerate.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

"Of course." Ilya sets the bags on the desk. "Now you try to eat something, yes? Start small."

Shane manages two crackers and a few bites of banana before his stomach decides that's enough. But he keeps it down, which is progress.

"Good," Ilya says. "Very good. Now I have to go to afternoon team meeting—is mandatory, even coach cannot excuse me from this one. But I will come back tonight to check on you."

"Rozanov, you can't keep coming here. Someone from your team is going to notice—"

"Let them notice. I will say I am checking on Canadian rival, making sure he is okay to play when we face each other. Is strategic intelligence gathering, yes?" Ilya grins, but his eyes are serious. "Hollander. Stop worrying about this. You are sick, you need help. Everything else can fuck off."

He leaves before Shane can argue further.

The afternoon is quiet. Shane manages to sleep for a few hours, actual deep sleep now that the worst of the fever has broken. When he wakes, Liisa has left more crackers and a banana on his nightstand, along with a note in careful English: "Ilya says these are good foods. Eat when ready."

Shane nibbles on crackers, drinks more rehydration solution, feels almost human for the first time in two days.

His phone buzzes: "How you feel?"

"Better. Managed to eat a little."

"Good. This is very good. You are strong, Hollander. Stronger than you think."

Shane stares at the message. Ilya has seen him at his absolute worst - vomiting, feverish, unable to function - and still thinks he's strong.

That night, Ilya shows up again, this time with takeout containers.

"USA team nutritionist made this," he announces. "Is very bland—plain rice, plain chicken, nothing else. He says is good for recovering stomach. You try?"

Shane does, managing a few bites of rice and chicken. It stays down.

"See?" Ilya says. "You are getting better."

They sit in Shane's small room, Ilya in the desk chair and Shane propped up in bed, and it feels almost normal. Like they could do this—just be together, without hiding, without worrying about who might see.

"Game is tomorrow," Shane says. "Canada versus Sweden. I'm going to miss it."

"Doctor says you need minimum three days rest before playing. So you miss Sweden, probably miss USA too. But you will be back for Finland game." Ilya grins. "Would be boring if you were not there to watch me play."

"You just want someone to show off for."

"Maybe. Or maybe I just want to know you are back on your feet, where you belong."

Shane's chest tightens. "I should be there tomorrow. The team needs—"

"The team needs you healthy, not playing when you are weak and making yourself worse. You will be back. For now, you rest."

It's getting late. Ilya should leave, should get back to his own billet family before it gets suspicious. But he stays for another hour, keeping Shane company, making sure he drinks enough water, just being there.

When he finally does leave, Shane feels the absence like a physical ache.

The next two days pass in a blur of slow recovery. Shane manages to eat more each day - crackers and bread and plain rice. The nausea recedes to background noise. His strength starts to return, though he's still shaky and weak.

Ilya texts constantly: "Did you eat?" "How is stomach?" "Drink more water, Hollander."

And every evening, he shows up. Sometimes just for an hour, sometimes longer. Always with a barely plausible excuse - checking on rival, bringing food from USA nutritionist, seeing if Shane needs anything from the store.

If Liisa thinks it's strange, she doesn't say. Just smiles and lets Ilya in, sometimes joining them for tea in the kitchen.

On day four, Shane is finally cleared to return to light skating. He's still weak, still exhausted, but functional.

He makes it to the rink, makes it through a light practice with the team. His teammates welcome him back, asking if he's feeling better, not commenting on how Ilya Rozanov somehow knew Shane was sick before most of them did.

That night, Canada plays USA.

Shane sits in the stands, not cleared to play yet, and watches Ilya dominate on the ice. USA wins 4-2, with Ilya getting a goal and two assists. When the camera pans to Shane in the stands, he's wearing his Team Canada jacket and trying not to look too impressed.

After the game, Shane gets a text: "You saw?"

"I saw. You were good."

"I was amazing. But you already know this."

Shane smiles down at his phone. "Yeah. I know."

"Feel better. Need you back on ice. Tournament is not complete without you there to lose to me."

"Fuck off."

"There is the Hollander I know. You are definitely feeling better."

The next day, Shane is cleared for full practice. The day after that, he's back in the lineup for Canada's final round-robin game against Finland. They lose in overtime, but Shane plays all three periods, getting an assist and feeling almost like himself again.

The tournament continues. Canada makes it to the bronze medal game. USA makes it to the final.

On the second-to-last night in Tampere, Ilya shows up at Shane's billet one more time.

"Just saying goodbye to Liisa," he explains when she lets him in. "She was very kind, letting me visit so much."

They sit in Shane's room one last time, door open to be appropriate, and don't talk about how this is it. How tomorrow Ilya plays for gold and Shane plays for bronze, and then they fly back to North America - Shane to Montreal, Ilya to Boston. How it might be weeks before their schedules align enough to see each other again.

"You did good," Ilya says finally. "Getting through tournament while sick. Was very hard, but you did it."

"Because you helped."

"Yes. I helped. Is what we do, yes? Take care of each other."

Shane wants to say more - wants to say everything he can't say with Liisa in the next room and walls that might be thin and a world that wouldn't understand. But Ilya seems to hear it anyway.

"I know," he says quietly. "Me too."

When Ilya leaves, he hugs Shane goodbye - just a friendly hug, nothing that would raise eyebrows. But his hand lingers on Shane's shoulder for just a second longer than necessary.

"Text me when you land in Montreal," he says.

"You'll still be in the air."

"Text me anyway."

Shane does.

Canada wins bronze. USA wins gold. And two days after they're both back in North America, Shane gets a text from Ilya: "So. I have stomach flu now. Is very unpleasant. I blame you."

Shane feels guilty for approximately five seconds before Ilya texts again: "But is okay. Tournament is over, no games for five days. I can be disgusting in peace. And you were sick first and still played, so now is my turn to suffer. Is fair."

"You should go to a doctor."

"Already did. Is same virus, just have to wait it out. At least I am home in Boston, not foreign country with bad bed and smell of flower air freshener everywhere."

"Do you need anything?" Shane texts. "I could—"

"You could what? Drive four hours to bring me crackers? No, Hollander. You rest, I rest, we both recover. Then next week, we kill each other on ice like normal."

"Can I at least call you?"

"...yes. You can call."

They talk for an hour that night - Ilya sounding rough and miserable, admitting that yes, the vomiting is terrible, yes, he understands now why Shane looked so awful, no he doesn't need Shane to come to Boston but it's nice that Shane offered.

"I am glad you are better," Ilya says finally. "Was scary, seeing you so sick. I did not like it."

"I'm glad you were there," Shane admits. "I don't know how I would have gotten through it without you."

"You would have managed. You always do. But is better when we do things together, yes?"

"Yeah," Shane agrees. "It's better together."

When they finally hang up, Shane lies in his own bed - the right firmness, the right pillows, everything exactly how he needs it - and thinks about Ilya in Boston, sick and alone.

But not really alone. Because they have this - texts and calls and the knowledge that someone out there understands, someone cares, someone will show up even when it's risky and stupid and could give everything away.

It's not enough. But for now, it has to be.

Shane falls asleep with his phone next to his pillow, waiting for Ilya's next text.

It comes at 3 AM: "Cannot sleep. Stomach is being asshole. Tell me something to distract me."

Shane smiles in the darkness and starts typing.