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When Shane shows up at Ilya’s home in Ottawa late after a Montreal home game, it's quickly apparent to Ilya something is wrong. Shane isn't walking with a limp, but he's definitely favoring a side, and he winces when he moves, a slight thing, but Ilya sees the wrinkle in his brow and the way his lips pull down.
To the untrained eye, it's nothing.
To Ilya, who knows Shane arguably better than anyone, it's everything.
“What is wrong?” He demands as soon as Shane is settled on the couch. It had taken Shane a few minutes to get comfortable, another tell, and he's hunched to the left, his posture changed to accommodate his pain.
“It's nothing,” Shane says in a rush, waving his hand as his brow furrows and he sips from his water bottle. “Are you gonna come sit with me?” He says as he pats the couch.
Knowing there's a better way to get it out of Shane, Ilya acquiesces. He goes and sits beside Shane on the couch and leans into his boyfriend, pressing a kiss to Shane's cheek. When Shane turns his head, Ilya moves to kiss his lips, a teasing, gentle thing as his fingers move to the hem of Shane's shirt with a smirk.
“Ah, I'm really tired, so maybe –” Shane pushes Ilya's hand away, and Ilya’s eyebrows raise. Obviously his not so subtle boyfriend is hiding something from him.
With renewed vigor to find the truth, Ilya leans in and captures Shane's lips again, this time in a more searing kiss. He shifts so he’s kissing Shane into the couch, and Shane hisses against his lips as he puts the heel of his hand against Ilya's shoulder, pushing him away.
Ilya pulls back and scowls. “What is it моя любовь?” Ilya asks again, the concern coloring his tone nothing but genuine.
Knowing he's given away too much, Shane sighs and stands, wincing as he goes. He lifts the hem of his shirt up and reveals big, deep purple and blue bruises blossoming across his left side. Immediately, Ilya feels his expression turn stormy. He hadn’t gotten to watch the Voyageurs game tonight as the Centaurs had a game of their own, so he’d missed whatever hit Shane had taken, but just from the damage done, he can assume it was a nasty hit.
“Who did this to you?” Ilya all but growls the words out as he puts his hands on Shane’s hips and pulls him in to inspect the injury. He can feel his mood souring, and anger clots in the pit of his stomach where only minutes before desire had lurked. He knows injuries are just a part of the game, but it still pisses him off to think that someone hit Shane hard enough to cause this much damage.
“No one. I mean, someone but it’s nothing. It’s not a big deal,” Shane promises as he lets his shirt slide back down his torso. He winces as he moves, and turns like he might sit down again but thinks better of it.
“Who?” Ilya asks again, his gaze meeting Shane’s and his brow quirking as he waits for an answer.
Shane worries his lower lip between his teeth as he thinks. He has to know that even if he doesn’t divulge the truth, Ilya will find out. So finally he sighs and runs a hand through his hair, face quirking in pain as his arm raises. He turns his head away from Ilya, looking out the window, as he finally fesses up. “Reaume. Calum Reaume. Plays for the –”
“Yes, the Washington Founders, I know.” Calum is a big guy, too. And it’s not that Shane isn’t fit and athletic and decently sized himself, but… against a defenseman like Reaume – Shane didn’t stand a chance.
There’s silence between them as Ilya contemplates all the ways he could kill Calum for hurting his boyfriend like this. As if he’s reading his mind, Shane puts a hand on Ilya’s shoulder and squeezes.
“It’s really okay, Ilya. The doctors said I’ll be fine. There’s no breaks, just some bad bruising, I’ll be out the next game, but I’ll bounce back. It’s okay.” And Ilya wonders if Shane is also saying this to reassure himself, a little bit. Because injuries are no joke, and not getting to play in a game is a big deal to Shane Hollander. He hates sitting out, especially this close to the playoffs. Ilya turns to kiss Shane’s wrist and sighs.
“I could kill him,” Ilya says, his tone almost jovial with the half-hearted joke. Half-hearted because, genuinely, Ilya thinks he could kill a man for hurting Shane like this.
“No, you can’t,” Shane huffs out a little laugh and leans down to kiss Ilya’s lips, soft and slow, before straightening up with a little grunt and sighing.
“Honestly, a hot bath sounds really nice right now.”
Ilya stands and nods. He presses the gentlest of kisses to Shane’s cheek, afraid of hurting him even more, then points towards the kitchen.
“I’ll go get the bath started. Go take some advil,” Ilya instructs, but Shane shakes his head.
“They already gave me something for the pain.”
“Okay, then. Go make yourself some tea. Bath will be ready quickly.”
Shane does as he’s told, heading to the kitchen to start the kettle on the stove, and Ilya heads into the bedroom and then the ensuite bathroom. He starts the bath going, then leans against the counter and goes to a highlight reel from the Voyageurs game to watch Shane’s hit for himself. It’s easy enough to find, and seems to have happened at the end of the game. Shane gets his shit rocked by Reaume, and the guy has the fucking nerve to smirk when he skates away from the boards, leaving Shane breathless and clutching his side after the incident. Ilya knows he should calm down, but he sees red.
When he hears Shane coming, Ilya puts his phone away, adds scented epsom salts to the water, and tugs his shirt off.
“What are you doing?” Shane asks, one eyebrow arched as he comes into the bathroom and sees Ilya removing his pants. He sets two steaming mugs of tea on the stand beside the bath tub, and folds his arms across his chest.
“I have a large bath tub. I assumed I would bathe with you.”
With a weak laugh, Shane shrugs and tugs his own shirt off. It’s obvious he’s trying to keep his expression calm and not pained, but he’s failing miserably and it only feeds Ilya’s anger. They both slide into the hot bath water, Shane situating himself in between Ilya’s thighs. With a long, contented sigh, Shane leans into Ilya’s chest, letting his head rest back on Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya doesn’t like that he’s injured, but he does like that Shane is letting Ilya take care of him.
Thankfully, the Centaurs play Washington in a few weeks, and Ilya will surely be having a conversation with Calum Reaume.
It’s towards the end of the second period of Washington versus Ottawa when Ilya sees his opening. Reaume has the puck, and is close enough to Ilya that it won’t seem out of the ordinary for Ilya to go after the puck, and maybe squish Reaume a little in the process. Ilya darts towards the man, then drops his shoulder and lands a blow in the soft spot of his opponent’s side. Reaume lets out a wheezing breath as he’s pressed into the boards, and while he’s bigger than Ilya, it’s not by much. Reaume pushes Ilya off of him and Ilya smirks, a wide, vengeful thing that doesn’t meet his eyes. Those are dark, and pinned on Reaume.
“Make sure you pick on those who are your own size, Reaume,” Ilya chirps. He’s sure the defenseman is too stupid to know his meaning, but Ilya can’t help but get the last word in. For Shane. It’s all for fucking Shane. Because no one gets to hurt the man he loves and not suffer some consequences. And Ilya knows he’s going to get an earful from Shane (and probably Wiebe) later tonight when he sees this replay, but that doesn’t matter. It will all be worth it.
“What the fuck, Rozanov?” Reaume spits out as he pushes off and starts down the rink towards where the action is. Ilya follows, gleeful and proud of himself. He’ll deal with Shane’s wrath later, but it was completely worth it. Satisfied with his vengeance, Ilya turns his attention back to the hockey game he needs to win.