Chapter Text
Knocking.
The doorbell.
More knocking.
Ilya groans at the loud noise echoing through the open space. He grabs the pillow from underneath his head and pulls it over his ear to drown it all out. He hopes the knocking will stop if he just ignores it, but he is wrong. The knocking grows more insistent, continuing in one steady rhythm instead of a pause in between a few knocks.
He swears softly as he throws the pillow to the other side of the couch. He grunts as he pulls his body upright and the cold air around him hits him like a brick. The bright sunlight spilling in from the windows around him makes him squint his eyes and it increases the pounding inside of his head.
He clenches his jaw to try to stop the shivers running through him. He probably should have grabbed at least a blanket when he laid down last night. He forces his body off the couch and shuffles into the direction of the front door, where the knocking still hasn’t let up.
He’s halfway to the door when the knocking stops and Ilya has half a heart to turn around and go back to the couch instead of seeing who is at the door. There’s hardly anyone that would actually come over to his apartment—none of his teammates have ever been here, his family is all the way back in Russia and Svetlana wasn’t even close to Boston. The only other person that knew where he lived was–
“Rozanov?”
Shane Hollander.
Ilya stops. His feet are frozen to the ground. Shane Hollander is standing at his front door and Ilya knows that he must look as horrible as he is feeling. He doesn’t want Hollander to see him vulnerable in this way. The urge to turn around, walk back to the bedroom and pretend he isn’t here washes over him but a small part of him actually yearns for the company of Shane Hollander. Ilya curses his traitorous heart in Russian.
Before Ilya can finally make up his mind, he sees Hollander’s face appear in the window next to his front door. His face is flushed, his eyebrows and nose are scrunched and those damn freckles finally got Ilya to move his feet towards the door and open it.
“Took you long enough. I’ve been–”
Hollander’s voice dies down as his eyes finally take in Ilya in his entirety and he feels more naked than he has ever felt when he is literally naked in front of the man.
“You look like shit,” Shane Hollander mumbles and Ilya can’t help but scoff.
“Thanks, Hollander.” Ilya grumbles, his voice scratchy from his sore throat and not having used it for over a day. His hand is still holding onto the door. “You came over here to tell me I look like shit?”
“No,” Hollander quickly answers, his hand slamming against the door when Ilya tries to close it again. “No, that is not why I came here.”
The two of them look at each other for a moment. Hollander visibly struggling with his words and what to say and Ilya trying to keep his body from trembling and his face from showing just how fucking awful he actually feels. He just needs to hold on for a while longer, just until he can make the man in front of him leave again.
Ilya nods at the hand on the front door. “If you don’t mind, I’m not really in the mood to have sex and–” Ilya starts but he is interrupted.
“You weren’t at practice.”
“How do you know I wasn’t at practice?” Ilya asks, eyes narrowing in on the blush that appears on Hollander’s cheeks at being caught. “You’re not allowed to be there during our practice.”
“Will you just let me come in?”
“I should report you to the–”
“Rozanov.”
“Hollander.”
“Invite me in.”
“No.”
Hollander crosses his arms in front of his chest, his eyes narrowing in on him and Ilya is trying to find every little ounce of strength that he has left in his body to stand there and stare right back at his rival, but he can feel that his knees are about to buckle and his grip on the door is definitely not going to save him.
“You’re ill,” Hollander finally concludes as his eyes take Ilya in for the umpteenth time. “Why didn’t you tell me that you’re sick?”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
Hollander’s face scrunches up. “Disappoint? Rozanov, I didn’t come here for sex. I came here because I didn’t see you at practice and no one wanted to tell me where you were. I came here because I was worried.”
Ilya can feel his breath catch at the words and there’s a feeling inside of his chest that he does not want to name or explain.
“I will be back in practice tomorrow,” Ilya says. “And tomorrow night I will be there to beat you.”
The fall of Hollander’s shoulders, showing he has given up on coming inside Ilya’s place, makes something twist uncomfortably in his stomach and he almost gives in. He almost invites Shane Hollander inside.
“Just–” Hollander swallows hard and his eyes are intense when he looks at Ilya head-on, rather than focusing on something close to Ilya’s head like he usually does. “Just call me if you need anything, okay?”
Ilya nods, words of gratitude and so much more on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them back down and forces himself to quip, “Next time you spy on us, I will have to turn you in.”
Hollander rolls his eyes fondly. “There’s nothing your team can teach me that I don’t already know, Rozanov.”
Staying true to his word, Ilya shows up to practice the next morning. When he woke up and felt even worse than the day before, he didn’t think he’d make the journey to the stadium and into his gear, but here he was. He tries to avoid his own reflection as he takes a moment to steady himself in the bathroom, knowing that he probably looks even worse than he is feeling.
But he is going to go on that ice, get through their practice and show Shane Hollander that he is okay and there is nothing to worry about when it comes to Ilya Rozanov. He is okay and he can manage just fine by himself—he always has.
Not that he had a choice. Coach LeClaire had called him last night, telling him that he is to come into practice today or he will be benched the entire Boston vs. Montreal game. Ilya can’t have that—games against Montreal are his favourite.
With his skates in hand, Ilya leaves the bathroom. He is clenching his teeth and focusing on every step he is taking, praying to whatever gods there are to give him back the strength in his legs.
He groans as another shiver wreaks through his body. He has never noticed just how cold it is in the stadium. He is trying to blink away the blurriness in his eyes when he collides with someone. Ilya stumbles backwards and is narrowly able to catch himself before he falls on his ass.
“Watch your step, Rozanov.”
Ilya looks up and his eyes meet those of Hayden Pike, a Montreal player and Shane Hollander’s best friend. He wants to bite back a nasty retort but when he speaks, his voice comes out strained and hoarse and instead of a retort worthy of Hayden Pike, it’s… “Where is Shane?”
“Shane?”
Ilya is as confused as Hayden Pike sounds as to why he is calling Hollander by his first name; just like how Ilya is confused why the very first thing that came out of his mouth is to ask where Hollander is.
“Why the fuck would I tell you where Shane is?” Hayden Pike asks when Ilya doesn’t answer.
“I need–” Ilya coughs and forces himself to stand up to his full height even though he feels like the entire world has started spinning around him. He is already feeling horrible and right now he is making an absolute fool of himself in front of Hayden Pike. “Never mind.”
“You look like absolute shit,” he vaguely hears Pike’s voice say over the sudden chattering of his teeth. “Do you–”
Two hands catch him by the elbows as he nearly crashes to the ground. They help him onto a bench and Hayden Pike must be speaking to him because through the blur of his eyes he watches his mouth move, but he has no idea what he is saying. Shivers rip through his entire body and he tries to suppress the urge to throw up.
Two cold hands cup his cheeks gently, forcing his face up, and his gaze meets two brown eyes and a constellation of freckles.
“I must be dreaming.” The words leave his mouth before he realizes.
The ringing in his ear subsides a little, letting him tune into the sounds around him. Shane’s hand moves up to his forehead, the back of it pressing against it before settling on his cheek again.
“You’re burning up. What are you doing here?” Hollander asks him sternly.
“Playing hockey,” Ilya mumbles.
Hayden Pike’s face pops up beside Hollander’s. “No offense but you don’t look like you can actually play hockey.”
“Not dreaming anymore,” Ilya grumbles. “This is a nightmare.”
“Still feeling well enough to be a dick, I see.”
“Hayden, shut up.” Shane’s voice is clipped and he pushes his best friend away with his shoulder before focusing on Ilya again – his thumb lightly brushing his cheek. “You should be resting at home.”
“They–” Ilya swallows hard and he knows that if Shane wasn’t holding his face steady, his head would have lolled back from exhaustion. “They need me.”
“You’re ill, Rozanov.”
“I will be benched and I won’t be able to play against you.”
Something flashes across Shane Hollander’s face, but Ilya is too tired to analyse what it is, but he does hear the indignation in his voice when he speaks again.
“They told you to come to practice even though they knew you weren’t feeling well and if you didn’t show, you would be benched the entire game?”
Ilya hums, anything else feeling too heavy right now.
“That’s fucked up.” Hayden Pike’s voice.
The two friends are talking to each other, but Ilya isn’t listening anymore. The only thing he wants to spend this little bit of energy he has left on is to keep his eyes open so he can keep looking at Shane Hollander.
Shane.
“You’re so pretty,” Ilya whispers.
Shane Hollander tries to stop a smile from spreading across his face, but he fails miserably and it makes Ilya’s heart jump. God, this boy is going to absolutely ruin him and the worst part is that Ilya doesn’t even mind anymore. He just wants to be with Shane Hollander.
Shane.
“He must be hallucinating,” Hayden Pike mumbles. “He’s got to be having the biggest fever.”
Ilya forces his eyes to the other Montreal player. “What? You don’t think he’s pretty?”
“Alright, come on.” Shane interrupts before Pike can say anything more. “Help me get him up and let’s get him to Boston’s doctor.”
“No, get me to the ice and–”
“You can’t even stand on your own feet, Rozanov. I’m not letting you near the ice,” Shane says in a no-nonsense voice.
“You just want me out so you can win the game.”
Ilya meant it as a joke but he watches Shane’s face fall and he immediately regrets his words. His misery must be visible on his face because Shane’s frown smooths back out and one of the corners of his mouth quirks up as he lightly pinches Ilya’s cheek.
“We would have beaten you regardless.”
Hayden Pike and Shane Hollander each take a side and help him up, his arms over their shoulders. He must have blacked out for a bit because suddenly he isn’t looking at Shane’s pretty freckled face anymore but that of the Boston team doctor, which leaves a lingering feeling of disappointment weighing heavy on his heart. The doctor says a few things before he gets up and leaves the room, but all Ilya can think is that he really wants Shane Hollander back.
Shane.
Shane Hollander must have probably gone back to his training and Ilya is once again alone.
Surely he should be used to it. Ever since his mother passed away, he has always been forced to take care of himself when he was sick. In Russia his father and brother never cared enough to check in on him and in Boston or any city he traveled to for his hockey games, he simply had no one around him when he wasn’t feeling well. He’d spend those days retreating at home or in his hotel room, talking to no one.
He won’t deny that it wasn’t partially his own fault—he didn’t tell anyone when he wasn’t feeling well, either mentally or physically. He got used to being alone and going through all of it…alone.
But there’s an undeniable flutter of panic in his chest at the thought that he is now alone once again. He now understands he had asked Hayden Pike where Shane was because he wasn’t feeling well and he didn’t want to be alone anymore. He wants—no, Ilya shamefully thinks, he needs Shane Hollander to be with him.
Shane.
The name leaves his lips in a quiet, pleading whisper.
“I’m right here.”
The steady sound of Shane’s voice washes over him like a comforting blanket and Ilya knows he will regret showing the man all of him right in that moment, but right now he can’t get himself to give a fuck about it as he reaches out for him. He is in desperate need of comfort and it turns out that his new definition of comfort is Shane.
“Please,” Ilya’s voice is a broken sound on his lips and in that moment he knows that he will beg even more times if he has to just to get him closer to him, but all Shane seems to need is that one single word.
Their hands find each other and Shane’s other hand gently reaches up to his face, pushing his sweaty curls back from his forehead. If Ilya had any energy left in his body, he would crawl into the man’s arms. Instead, he is met with cold air as the door to the office opens again and Shane steps back from him.
Two men walk into the room.
“What are you doing here?” Ilya’s coach asks him, his voice sounding accusing and snappy as if this was all Shane Hollander’s fault.
“Mr. Hollander and Mr. Pike brought Mr. Rozanov in,” the doctor said before Shane could respond.
Coach LeClaire raises his eyebrows. “And you’re still here, because?”
“I’m here because I’m taking Rozanov home.”
“As far as I know, you are not part of this team, Shane Hollander.”
Ilya wants to push himself up at the disgusting tone of voice the coach adopts as he speaks Shane’s name, but a hand on his shoulder keeps him from doing so. Shane lightly squeezes Ilya’s shoulder.
“He is ill and he needs to go home and rest.”
“We can’t miss him in the game.”
“He is in no state to play hockey, you must be a special kind of stupid if you cannot see that.”
Everyone in the room is shocked at the clipped tone of Shane Hollander’s voice and the words that he just spit out at Boston’s coach. Ilya’s eyes go from his coach, who turns a deep shade of red, to Shane, who refuses to break the eye contact he has with the man, and back to his coach.
“Who do you think you are?” Coach LeClaire hisses at Shane and takes a few steps in his direction. “How dare you–”
The doctor decides to interfere, putting a hand on Coach’s shoulder to keep him from doing something incredibly stupid to NHL’s favourite star, Shane Hollander.
“I don’t care what any of you say, I’m taking Ilya home.”
“I’m sorry, coach LeClaire, but Mr. Rozanov really shouldn’t be participating in this practice and should also not be playing in the game–”
Ilya.
Ilya is sure that they are discussing more about his current condition, but he is not listening anymore. All he hears is Shane Hollander’s voice saying his first name inside of his mind, over and over again.
Ilya.
“Thank you for bringing me home,” Ilya mumbles as Shane helps him into the front door of his apartment. He watches Shane toe off his shoes at the front door, refusing to let go of Ilya. “You don’t have to stay with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Ilya pulls back the arm that was wrapped around Shane’s shoulders and steps back from the man. He tries to nonchalantly toe off his shoes while he speaks again. “I feel fine, I’m just going to–”
Shane quickly catches him again as he stumbles over his own feet, saving him from a very embarrassing faceplant on the hard floor. Ilya’s head slumps against the man’s shoulder, groaning in complete frustration at not even being able to stand on his own two feet or take off his shoes.
“I’m going to make you sick,” he mumbles, his voice muffled from his face pressing into Shane’s jacket.
“I don’t care,” Shane says, his voice matter of factly and his arm wraps itself around Ilya’s waist again, supporting him to the stairs up to his room. “Let’s get you upstairs and into bed.”
“You’re so strong.” Ilya’s words are starting to slightly slur, exhaustion finally completely taking over at the thought of his bed being so incredibly close now.
Shane chuckles. “I guess all that training is good for something.”
“I can manage on my own,” Ilya mumbles as Shane gently lowers him onto his bed. He wants Shane to know that he really does not have to stay out of guilt or pity for Ilya. “I always have.”
Shane kneels down by his feet, untying Ilya’s shoes and taking them off for him.
“But you don’t have to.” Shane’s gaze is intense as he looks up at him and it feels as if he is seeing right through Ilya’s words, straight to the real meaning behind them. “I’m staying because I want to, Ilya.”
Shane helps him change into comfortable clothes. He catches Ilya’s head with his hand as he helps him lie down comfortably. Ilya swallows—it hurts, but it’s all he can do as he looks up at Shane Hollander standing in his bedroom, gently pulling the blanket over Ilya’s shivering body. The two of them stare at each other for what seems like a handful of minutes.
“Thank you,” Ilya says softly.
Shane sits down on the edge of the bed, his soft and warm hand brushing Ilya’s curls out of his face before caressing his forehead and resting on his cheek.
He can’t stop the next words from tumbling out. “I’m sorry that I was such an asshole yesterday. I’m not used to someone checking in on me. I have been used to taking care of myself when I feel sick ever since–”
His voice catches on the words “—since my mother died,” and he cannot get them past the lump in his throat.
“Hey,” Shane murmurs softly as Ilya looks away, causing his hand to fall away from his cheek. “Hey.”
Ilya avoids eye contact but feels Shane shift onto the other side of the bed. He wraps his arm around Ilya’s shoulders, pulling him close and Ilya’s treacherous body turns to Shane’s body as if it's second nature and completely melts into his embrace.
His eyes close as he feels a hand brush through his hair and he hums contentedly when Shane presses a kiss to the side of his head.
“You’re not alone anymore,” Shane whispers into his temple before pressing another kiss to it. “I’m here.”
Ilya drifts away.
He has no idea how long he has been asleep, tightly in Shane’s embrace, but he wakes at the feeling of Shane shifting his body, trying to make sure Ilya doesn’t wake as he struggles to get out of the bed.
Ilya shifts, wrapping both his arms around Shane’s waist to pull him close to him again.
“Please don’t go,” he pleads.
Shane chuckles softly but he melts back into Ilya’s embrace. His hand finds its way back into Ilya’s hair again, gently untangling the curls while brushing through them.
“I’m just going to see if you have some tea or anything else I can make for you while we wait for the groceries.”
“Groceries?”
“I send Hayden to get some groceries so I can make you the soup that my mom usually makes when I am sick,” Shane tells him. “I asked her to send me the recipe.”
“Wait, you told Hayden Pike where I live?” Ilya grumbles, but his voice lacks the bite he wanted to put behind those words, and suddenly he realizes that he doesn’t really care anymore because Shane Hollander is here and he is not alone.