Work Text:
________________________________________
Lily
13.47 When do you finish practice?
Shane stares at the text while lacing his skates.
Jane
About 2 hours. Why? 13.49
There’s a pause.
Then:
Lily
13.55 I feel sick
Shane goes still.
Ilya never says that. Not “I’m just tired.” Not “Nothing.” Not “I’m fine.”
So, if he says he feel sick, it means it’s real.
Shane types fast.
Jane
Are you okay? 13.55
I’ll come to you as soon as I finish 13.55
Lily
14.03 Hurry up. I miss you.
Jane
You're a baby 14.04
The three dots appear. Disappear.
No answer.
________________________________________
When Shane unlocks the penthouse, it’s quiet. The TV is on. Ilya is curled on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, watching a baking show. His cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy, hair messy against the pillow. He looks small.
Shane drops his bag immediately.
“You look terrible.”
Ilya hums weakly. “That’s not very romantic.”
Shane kneels in front of him and presses a hand to his forehead. Way too warm.
“How are you feeling?”
Ilya doesn't look away from the TV. “I don’t know. I can’t feel anything.”
Shane moves closer. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes. Yuna sent food.” He squints slightly. “It was good.”
Shane brushes his fingers through his hair. Damp already. “Did you take anything?”
“Yes.”
Shane stared at him. “Ilya.”
“Yes, I took the syrup. The blue one.”
He helps Ilya sit up slowly. “I’m very sweaty,” Ilya mutters. “I need to take bath.”
“You need help walking?”
A pause.
“…Maybe.”
Shane helps him up, one arm around his waist, guiding him slowly to the bathroom. Ilya leans into him more than usual, heavy and overheated.
“Arms up.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
“Arms. Up.”
With exaggerated reluctance, Ilya obeys.
Shane pulls the shirt carefully over Ilya’s head, slow so he doesn’t get dizzy. He quickly folds the shirt and places it neatly to the side before helping with the rest — unbuttoning, sliding the fabric down, keeping steady hands at Ilya’s hips so he doesn’t lose his balance. It isn’t rushed. It isn’t teasing. It’s careful. Ilya watches him the whole time.
“You’re very serious,” he says quietly.
“You’re sick. I hate it.”
“I have had worse.”
Shane kneels briefly to help him step out of his clothes, one hand firm at his thigh to keep him steady.
“Okay,” Shane says softly. “Get in the tub. Slowly.”
“Uh…It’s too cold,” Ilya complains.
“Good,” Shane replies. “You’re overheating.”
He helps Ilya step in, holding both his hands while he lowers himself into the cold water. Ilya exhales the second he settles in.
“Oh,” he breathes. “That’s nice.”
Shane stays there a second longer, making sure he’s stable. “Dizzy?”
“A little.”
“Lean back.”
Ilya does.
Shane steps away only long enough to undress himself quickly. No ceremony. Just efficiency. Then he steps into the tub behind him and lowers himself into the water. It sloshes softly around them.
Ilya shifts automatically, leaning his back against Shane’s chest. It’s instinctive.
Shane wraps one arm loosely around his waist to steady him. The contact is warm. Solid. Familiar. “Comfortable?” Shane murmurs near his ear.
“Yes.”
Shane picks up a washcloth and dips it in the water, wringing it out gently. He starts with Ilya’s shoulders. Slow strokes. Careful. He rubs along overheated skin, massaging lightly, easing tension from tight muscles. His hands move over Ilya’s arms, down his chest — not lingering, not suggestive. Just steady. Soothing.
“You’re very gentle,” Ilya murmurs, eyes half-closed.
“Shut up.” Shane smiles faintly and presses a soft kiss to his temple. He tilts Ilya’s chin slightly. “Close your eyes.”
“You sound like a spa employee.”
“Do you want cucumber slices too?”
“If they are organic.”
Shane washes his face carefully — wiping away sweat, brushing damp hair back from his forehead, thumbs gentle along his cheekbones.
“You’re staring,” Ilya says without opening his eyes.
“You can’t see me.”
“I can feel it.”
He moves the cloth down again, washing Ilya’s chest slowly, then his back — turning him slightly so he can reach properly. His hands become firmer there, massaging along his spine, easing knots at his shoulders. Ilya melts into him a little more.
“You’re good at this,” Ilya murmurs.
“Taking care of you?”
“Yes.” Ilya goes quiet at that. No joke this time. He leans his head back fully against Shane’s shoulder, trusting his weight there. Shane rests his chin lightly against Ilya’s damp hair and keeps rubbing slow circles into his skin.
________________________________________
By the time they get into bed, Ilya looks calmer. The fever, unfortunately, has not moved.
Shane isn’t panicking. It is just a fever. Ilya just… becomes dramatic about it. Soft. Needy.
Shane sits against the headboard with a book, glasses low on his nose.
Ilya is half on top of him, radiating heat.
“What are you reading?” Ilya mumbles, voice thick.
“You want to know what I’m reading?”
“No.” Ilya shifts closer, pressing his hot cheek against Shane’s chest. “I want you to read it to me. Because I know it’s boring and it will help me sleep.”
Shane snorts softly. “You’re annoying.”
Ilya smiles faintly, eyes barely open. He likes Shane in glasses. It makes him look unfairly handsome. Shane reads anyway.
Ilya falls asleep halfway through a sentence.
Later, Shane checks his temperature again. Still high. He gets up quietly, soaks a towel in cool water, and places it on Ilya’s forehead. Changes it once. Twice. Three times. Four. By morning, he hopes it will break.
________________________________________
Morning comes soft and gray. They’re still tangled together. Ilya is hugging Shane from behind, arm slung over his shoulder, face buried against the back of his neck. For a moment, Shane just breathes. Then he notices it.
The heat.
It’s worse.
He turns quickly. Ilya’s skin is flushed deep red. His lips pale.
“Ilya… hey.” His voice is soft but firmer now. “You’re still burning. How are you feeling?”
Ilya blinks slowly, disoriented. “Mm.”
“That bad?”
Ilya swallowed. “My body hurts.”
Shane presses his palm to his cheek, then his neck. Ilya tries to smile. It doesn’t really work.
“What time is it?” Shane reaches blindly toward the bedside table. He squints at the screen. “Eight,” he says quietly. Shane sits up fully, brushing a hand over Ilya’s hair. It’s damp with sweat. “I need to make you breakfast so you can take your medicine.”
________________________________________
Shane moves around the kitchen quickly, controlled, pretending this is normal. Toast in the toaster. Eggs in the pan. Juice poured into a glass. He keeps glancing toward the hallway that leads to the bedroom.
“Ilya?” he calls.“Breakfast is ready!” Shane plates the food carefully and carries it to the dining table.
He walks back to the bedroom doorway and leans against the frame. Ilya is sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s gathering strength for something enormous.
“You okay, Grandpa?”
“Fuck you, Hollander.”
Shane crosses the room and slips an arm around his waist. The heat radiating off him is alarming.
“I can walk,” Ilya mutters.
“Good. Do it.” But Shane doesn’t remove his arm. They move slowly down the hallway. Ilya’s hand trails along the wall for balance. His breathing is slightly uneven, like he’s already tired.
The dining table. It’s barely a distance. By the time they reach the chair, Ilya lowers himself carefully, like his body might give out if he moves too fast.
Shane sets the plate in front of him.
“Small bites,” he says.
“You say that like I’m five.”
“You’re acting like you’re five.”
Ilya picks up the fork. His fingers are steady at first. He takes a bite of egg. Chews slowly. Swallows. Shane watches every movement.
“See? Easy,” Shane says softly.
Ilya nods faintly and takes another bite. Then a third.
“I’m full,” Ilya murmurs.
“You barely ate.”
“I know.”
“Come on, two more bites.”
Ilya exhales shakily, like even arguing costs energy. He takes another bite and then the fork clinks against the plate as he sets it down. His hand lingers there, fingers curling slightly.
Shane notices. “Ilya?”
“I’m okay.” His voice sounds far away.
Shane steps closer, crouching slightly to look at him properly.
“You look awful.”
“Thanks.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
Ilya gives the smallest ghost of a smile. Then his eyelids flutter.
Shane straightens. “I’m grabbing my phone.”
“Mm.”
“Don’t move.”
“Bossy.”
Shane walks quickly down the hallway toward the bedroom, grabbing his phone off the nightstand. He’s gone maybe twenty seconds. Thirty at most.
When he walks back into the dining room—
The chair is slightly pushed back. The plate untouched. And Ilya’s head is resting on the table, turned sideways on top of his folded arms.
Too still.
“Ilya?”
No movement.
Shane’s pulse spikes. He walks faster. “Ilya?”
Nothing.
He reaches him and touches his shoulder. Hot. Too hot.
“Ilya. Hey.” He shakes him gently.
Nothing.
Shane’s stomach drops so fast it makes him dizzy. “Ilya?”
His voice cracks now.
A faint sound finally escapes him. “Hmm.” It’s barely there. Weak. Disoriented.
Shane steps closer, sliding one hand under Ilya’s chin, lifting his face carefully. Ilya’s head tilts back with no resistance. His eyes stay closed. His skin is pale beneath the fever flush, lips slightly parted. His breathing is shallow — too shallow — each inhale thin and uneven.
“Ilya, hey. Open your eyes!”
No response.
Shane’s hands start to shake. He presses his thumb lightly to Ilya’s cheek, then to his neck, searching for something steady. The pulse is there — fast. Too fast.
“Ilya, look at me,” he pleads, the word look breaking apart in his throat.
Ilya’s lashes flutter, but they don’t open.
“Okay, that’s it.” he whispers to himself, panic rising fast and sharp. “We’re going to the ER.” His voice isn’t steady anymore. It’s scared. Really scared.
He shifts, tightening his grip “Okay,” Shane mutters, more to himself than to Ilya. “Okay. Up.” He turns, guiding Ilya forward carefully and crouching just enough to pull Ilya’s arms over his shoulders. He hooks his arms back under Ilya’s thighs and pushes up in one controlled motion.
Ilya is bigger. Broader. Usually stronger. But not right now. Right now, Shane doesn’t let himself think about the size difference. He’s a professional hockey player. His legs are solid muscle. His back can handle it. This is not the time to be weak.
Ilya grunts in pain as he’s lifted, pressing his eyes tighter shut. His fingers clutch weakly at Shane’s shirt.
“Sorry,” Shane breathes. “I’m sorry.”
Ilya’s weight settles across his back — heavy, limp in places, burning hot everywhere. His breath ghosts unevenly against the side of Shane’s neck.
“Stay with me,” Shane says again, adjusting his grip and straightening fully. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Each step toward the door is deliberate. Grounded. Strong.
Ilya makes another strained sound, his forehead pressing weakly between Shane’s shoulder blades.
“I know,” Shane says urgently. “I know it hurts. We’re almost there.”
The walk to the car feels longer than it ever has. Shane’s breathing grows heavier, but his hold never falters. He opens the passenger door and lowers Ilya carefully, guiding him into the seat. He supports his head so it doesn’t snap forward.
Ilya’s lashes flutter. He winces faintly, pressing his eyes shut again like even that small effort hurts.
He buckles him in with shaking hands, then he shuts the door, rounds the car, and gets in the driver’s seat — hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough to ache.
One glance over. Ilya’s breathing is shallow.
Shane starts the engine.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, voice rough. And this time, it sounds less like reassurance — and more like a vow. And Shane realizes— this was never just a fever. This is something else.
And he’s not waiting another second.
________________________________________
Ilya’s eyes stay closed the entire drive. Not even a flicker. Shane keeps glancing over every few seconds, like if he looks away too long something will change — something he won’t be able to fix. At the first red light, he reaches across and grips Ilya’s thigh. Still burning.
“Stay with me,” he whispers.
Ilya hums faintly. It’s weak, breathy — but it’s there.
“Good,” Shane breathes. “That’s good. Just keep doing that.”
The light turns green. He drives.
At the next red light, his hand goes back immediately, squeezing gently this time.
“Ilya? Can you hear me?”
A long pause. Ilya’s skin is flushed a deep, unnatural red — fever bright across his cheeks, down his neck. The heat radiates off him in waves. Sweat beads along his hairline, dampening the strands at his temples.
“…Hurts,” Ilya manages again, barely parting his lips. His eyes squeeze tighter when he says it, as if the word itself spikes the pain. His fingers curl weakly into the seat, knuckles paling under flushed skin. Another strained sound escapes him — a sharp inhale that trembles halfway through.
“I know, baby. I know.”
Shane has never seen him like this. Ilya doesn’t show pain. He fights through it. Skates through it. Laughs it off. But now— now his breathing stutters. His jaw trembles and his body tenses in small, helpless flinches, like the pain is rolling through him in waves and he has no way to stop it. He hates it. He hates that Ilya sounds small. Hates that he sounds lost. Hates that he’s in pain and Shane can’t do anything except drive faster and whisper empty reassurances.
Another red light.
“Ilya?” Shane leans closer this time, brushing his knuckles lightly against Ilya’s jaw.
“Where does it hurt?” His voice is tight, urgent. “Talk to me.”
No answer.
Ilya’s head has tipped toward the window again. His lashes rest against fever-flushed skin, cheeks burning red under the passing streetlights. His breathing is too shallow — each inhale catching faintly at the end like it hurts to pull air in.
“Ilya?” Shane presses. “Hey. Tell me where it hurts.”
Nothing. The silence slams into him.
“Fuck—” His hand tightens on Ilya’s thigh. He gives it a firmer shake. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. No. Ilya. Hey.”
Ilya shifts slightly, face tightening. “Head… everything.” Ilya lets out another low grunt. His eyes press so hard at the corners that Shane can see the strain there — like he’s trying to crush the pain between his lashes and keep it contained. A bead of sweat slips down from his temple toward his ear.
Something fierce rises in his chest. Not just the need to help. Not just the need to fix it. He wants the pain. He wants it out of Ilya. He wants to take it like you take a punch meant for someone else. If there were a way to pull the fever out with his hands, to drag it from under Ilya’s skin and let it burn through him instead, he would do it without thinking. He would take all of it. The wanting is almost unbearable. Because he can carry him. He can drive faster. He can hold his face and whisper and beg him to stay. But he can’t take the pain. He can only watch it hurt him.
“We’re almost there,” he says, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Just hold on a little longer, okay?"
The hospital sign finally comes into view. Shane doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until it leaves him in a sharp, shaky exhale.
“Almost there,” he repeats.
________________________________________
The ER doors slide open. The nurse looks up. Then blinks. “Oh. Mr. Rozanov. Back already?”
The doctor walking by laughs lightly. “Third time’s the charm?”
Like it’s normal.
Shane freezes. Back already? Third time? He doesn’t have time to process.
“He has fever since yesterday. He ate a little,” Shane rushes out. “He took paracetamol. He was fine last night but this morning he— he wouldn’t answer me.”
The doctor nods calmly. “And you must be Shane Hollander? Ilya told us a lot about you. I’m Senior Doctor Anthony Heiber. Please follow me.”
Shane’s heart pounds.
They’re not public. They’ve been careful. Private. Controlled. No headlines. No press. No teammates teasing beyond what’s safe.
Does that mean—Did Ilya talk about me here? To doctors? To hospital staff? Should I trust these doctors? The thought flashes sharp and quick. This is a hospital. Confidentiality. Professionalism. Of course they’re bound by privacy laws. Of course they won’t run to the media. They’re doctors, Shane. Get a grip. But still.
“Ilya’s back,” a nurse calls from triage.
A resident looks up from the computer. “Room three.”
They move like its routine.
“Do you know the dosage he’s taken?”
“One tablespoon after each meal.”
Nurse McKay frowns at the monitor. “Temp’s 41.2.”
Dr. Heiber barely looks up while pulling on gloves. “Higher than last time?”
“Yeah. By a bit.”
“Of course it is,” the senior mutters. Then, louder “Alright, let’s not let him cook this time.”
The room quickly fills.
Dr. Anthony Heiber, the attending physician.
Dr. Harrison Wayne, the senior resident.
Dr. Grace Donovan, second-year resident.
And Nurse Yuni McKay.
Four people. Moving with practiced coordination around Ilya. A nurse gently lifts his sleeve to place the blood pressure cuff and pauses. “Jesus. That shoulder’s purple.”
“Hockey,” the second-year says automatically. “Don’t panic.”
The senior doesn’t even look up yet. He’s already lifting Ilya’s eyelid, penlight steady.
Shane is standing just outside the curtain, like he’s afraid to cross some invisible line. The fluorescent lights make everything look harsher. Ilya looks smaller on the gurney. Too still.
“Mr. Hollander?”
Shane blinks. It takes him a second to realize they’re talking to him.
“Did he play yesterday?”
“What?” His brain feels slow. Like it’s underwater.
“Hockey,” the nurse clarifies gently. “We’re seeing bruises. Just making sure nothing’s new.”
“Oh. No. No, he didn’t play yesterday.” Shane rubs a hand down his face. “Last week. He got knocked pretty hard into the boards, though.”
The resident nods once. Calm. Efficient. “Got it.” She turns back toward the team inside the room. “Hockey contact confirmed.”
“Copy,” the senior replies without looking up.
Two fingers press to Ilya’s neck. “Pupils good. BP?”
“Dropping a little, sats 92%.” Nurse McKay answers.
“Bolus. Now."
The second-year hovers near the foot of the bed, staring at Ilya’s shoulder. “Looks brutal.”
“Yeah,” the senior says mildly. “Rule of thumb? With him, bruises mean hockey unless they look fresh and weird. He collects them like souvenirs.”
McKay snorts as she secures the IV line. “That does not sound fun at all. I’m never letting my son play hockey. That’s dangerous.”
For half a second, the room almost feels normal.
Almost. Then the monitor beeps sharper. The heart rate climbs.
“He’s climbing,” the second-year says.
“Yeah.” The senior adjusts the IV. “Temp?”
The resident checks. “Still forty-one.”
“Let’s not let him hit forty-two again, we don’t want him to start speaking Russian!” Heiber says.
Shane’s stomach twists at how easily they say it. The nurse glance at Shane “He does that when the fever spikes.”
Dr. Heiber leans closer to Ilya. “Ilya. I know you hate this part. But stay with us, okay?”
No response. Just shallow breathing.
Then Dr. Wayne steps forward, pulling off his gloves. He looks at Shane — really looks at him.
Shane swallows. “How many times has he been here?”
“It’s his third time,” Dr. Wayne says evenly. “That’s enough for us to know how his body handles it.”
Third. The word lands heavy.
Dr. Wayne studies him. “…You didn’t know?”
Shane’s jaw tightens. “He never told me.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Mr. Hollander.” He nods once. “I suppose he didn’t want you to worry.”
That sounds exactly like him.
On the bed, Ilya shifts faintly, restless even while unconscious. His fingers twitch against the hospital sheet. Dr. Wayne gestures toward the monitor and continues gently, “He runs high fast. Heart speeds up. Pressure dips. It looks dramatic.” A small pause. “But he recovers just as hard.”
The beeping steadies — still quick, but controlled.
Dr. Wayne adds calmly, “Athletes like him tend to compensate aggressively before they crash—strong cardiovascular system, high baseline endurance. It works for him… until it doesn’t. But his body responds well,” he continues. “We’ve given him medication to bring the fever down. He’s on fluids to keep him hydrated and support his circulation. We’re cooling him gradually—nothing too fast. His heart rate will settle as the temperature drops.”
He gestures toward the IV line. “We’ll also run labs to make sure there’s no underlying infection causing complications.”
Dr. Wayne glances at Shane “But I think you already know how it works, right? Athletes usually get basic medical training from their team?”
Shane gives a small, stiff nod.
“We just don’t want him hitting forty-two,” Dr. Wayne continues. He exhales lightly. “Last time he did, he started rambling in Russian. We genuinely thought he was threatening us.”
Nurse McKay raises a hand. “I was scared.”
Dr. Wayne smiles faintly. “Turns out he was just saying he felt hot.” A beat. “He said your name once.” He smiled. “When the fever gets that high, the brain doesn’t function clearly. Reduced cerebral perfusion combined with metabolic stress can cause confusion or delirium.”
Shane looks around the room. They’re comfortable with Ilya. Familiar. Fond. They’ve seen him like this before. Vulnerable.
“Give it a couple hours,” Dr. Wayne says gently. “Then he’ll be back to being the perfect Russian everyone’s scared of.”
“Scared an intern last time,” someone calls from down the hall. “Opened his eyes mid-blood draw and just stared.”
“I was not scared!” the first-year yells from Room Two.
“You absolutely were!” Dr. Heiber shouts back.
For the first time since walking in, Shane almost smiles. Almost. Then suddenly—
Ilya jerks.
His breathing turns sharp. Uneven. He curls slightly toward his stomach, muscles locking. A low sound tears out of him. “—agh—”
It’s not loud. It’s worse than loud. It’s dragged from deep in his chest, rough and involuntary, like his body betrayed him before he could swallow it back. His brows knot together hard, eyes pressing tighter shut as if he can physically crush the pain behind them. His jaw clenches.
“Okay,” the senior says immediately. “That’s the meds kicking in.”
Shane looks at him sharply. “Is that normal?”
“Yes. His body is reacting. The pain medication and fever reducer are starting to work. It can feel intense for a moment.”
Dr. Heiber says calmly, a steady hand on Ilya's shoulder. “Ilya, it’s going to feel intense for a minute, okay? You will feel much better after this wave.”
“Shane—!” The name tears out of him.
Shane moves without thinking. “I’m here.”
“Oxygen’s dipping,” the resident says.
“Mask on,” Dr. Wayne responds, already moving.
Ilya grunts in pain.
The second-year resident steps closer. “Ilya. Listen to me. Shane is here. He’s not going anywhere. I need you to breathe, okay?”
“Mr. Hollander,” Dr. Heiber says softly, “Help us keep him focused, yeah? We need to keep the breathing steady.”
“Okay.” Shane leans close, careful of the IV.
“Ilya. Hey. I’m here. Just breathe, okay? I’m here.”
“Shane—” his voice calmer. Ilya’s fingers claw weakly at the sheet before finding Shane’s wrist.
The monitor stutters—then steadies.
“Vitals stabilizing,” the resident says. “Temp’s down to thirty-nine point one and falling. Breathing’s improving.”
The room exhales collectively. Shane stays where he is.
“I’m here,” he murmurs again.
This time, Ilya’s grip tightens. And doesn’t let go.
And Shane stands there, thinking— About how much of Ilya’s life he hasn’t seen. About how many things he hasn’t been told. And how many people here already know him.
________________________________________
Before leaving, Dr. Heiber pauses beside Shane.
“After he stabilizes, we’ll move him to a quieter room. He hates the ER — too loud. He mentioned it last time. Asked for the VIP room.”
Shane exhales shakily. “That’s so Ilya.”
“Yes,” the doctor says with a small smile. “You can stay with him. It’ll be more comfortable. Nurse McKay will help you — don’t worry.”
He studies Shane for a moment.
“How are you holding up?” Dr. Heiber asks as he locks his tablet.
“I’m okay. Thanks.”
Dr. Heiber gives him a look — the kind that waits for the real answer.
Shane exhales. “I feel like a fucking idiot.” The word slips out before he can stop it. “Sorry.”
“You’re fine. You’re in the ER, not a press conference. I’ve heard worse in a hockey rink.”
Shane lets out a weak breath that almost passes for a laugh.
“I keep thinking… it’s only been ten months since he moved to Ottawa. This is already the third time.” He rubs his face. “What about all the years he lived in Boston? I’ve known him since we were rookies. How did I not know about this?”
Dr. Heiber leans back slightly.
“Honestly? I can understand why Ilya handles it the way he does.”
Shane looks up.
“For some people,” Dr. Heiber continues gently, “especially the way he grew up… you don’t show weakness. Especially not to the people you love.”
Shane’s jaw tightens.
“When you’re raised to be the strong one, the dependable one, you start believing that protecting people means hiding the ugly parts. The pain. The fear. The hospital visits. You convince yourself it’s kinder that way.”
He pauses. “Some people would rather scare themselves alone than scare the person they love.”
The words sit heavy between them. Shane listens, jaw tight.
“According to his records, he averages about one ER visit a year. But I do remember him mentioning he didn’t come in at all for two years straight. Sometimes that’s luck. Sometimes it’s stubbornness. And sometimes,” he adds gently, “it’s the body adjusting. New climate, new environment, different viruses.”
Shane nods slowly. “So if he gets a fever, I should bring him in every time?”
“Not necessarily,” Dr. Heiber says calmly. “Most fevers will come down with medication, fluids, and rest. Food helps too — keeping his energy up matters. But if it hits 39°C and he starts feeling dizzy, confused, or weak — that’s when you don’t wait. That’s when you come in. For him, high fevers can escalate quickly.”
He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. “Some people react to viral infections differently. For most, it’s uncomfortable but manageable. For him, it can become serious faster than you’d expect.”
Shane swallows. “How serious?”
A brief silence.
“For someone with his condition, if it’s ignored… it can become life-threatening.”
Shane feels his stomach drop.
“We’ve stabilized him,” the doctor continues calmly. “But he needs to stay at least a day. Complete rest. No walking. He’s still unstable — high risk of falling.”
Then the doctor’s mouth twitches faintly. “How do you get him to eat? That’s my question. He usually refuses.”
Shane blinks. “I… make him.”
A soft chuckle. “I figured as much. He must have been very happy — having you take care of him.”
Shane doesn’t feel proud. He feels sick. He made Ilya walked around the penthouse. To the bathroom. Back to the couch. He’d thought it would help. Keep him moving. Keep him strong.
Jesus. He could’ve fallen.
“Well,” Dr. Heiber continues lightly, shifting the mood on purpose, “when he wakes up, I’m going to need those skills of yours again. I’ll have lunch sent up. High calories. Real food. And I’m sure you can convince him better than I can.”
Shane nods immediately. “Of course. I’ll make him eat.”
“I thought so.” The doctor gives his shoulder a brief, steady squeeze before turning toward another patient.
________________________________________
When they move him, Ilya is still half-asleep from the medication. The new room is quiet. Private. Soft lighting instead of the harsh ER glare.
Shane sits beside the bed and gently takes his hand.
“Ilya,” he whispers.
No response. Just steady breathing.
Shane’s chest aches.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, squeezing his hand carefully. “I made you walk around the house. I didn’t know it was this bad.”
Fuck. I’m so stupid. He did notice last night — the way he had to steady Ilya on the way to the bathroom. The way his steps dragged. The way he leaned heavier than usual. And this morning. He’d refused to walk to the dining room. Oh my God. What if he’d fallen? What if he’d hit his head? Shane can’t stop replaying it.
________________________________________
Almost four hours pass. Ilya sleeps through all of it. Shane doesn’t want to interrupt him, so he stays — still holding his hand — and eventually drifts off in the chair beside the bed.
When Ilya finally stirs, it’s slow.
“Shane—”
His fingers twitch.
Shane wakes instantly. “Ilya. Hey, baby. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay.” He takes a slow breath. “How long did I sleep?”
Shane checks his watch. “Four hours.”
“Wow.” Ilya exhales.
“You slept well?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get the doctor.”
________________________________________
A few minutes later, Dr. Heiber steps in.
“Ilya.”
“Doctor Heiber.”
“Third time, huh?”
Ilya huffs faintly. “Yes. It sucks.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Dr. Heiber checks his eyes, temperature, listens to his breathing, scans the monitor.
“Okay. So far, so good. You’re still warm, but it’s 38 now — nothing to worry about. After this, you’ll have lunch and take your meds.”
Ilya makes a face.
“Oh, and we registered the syrup version this time,” the doctor adds dryly. “Don’t worry.” Then he gives Ilya a pointed look. “But please, Ilya. Eat your lunch.”
“…Okay.”
Dr. Heiber glances at Shane. “Mr. Hollander, I believe you can help me with that one?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good.” The doctor nods and leaves.
________________________________________
As soon as the door closes, Ilya reaches for Shane’s hand and gently pulls him closer.
“You okay?”
“Me?” Shane asks.
Ilya nods.
“Yeah. I’m okay.”
A pause.
“I’m sorry about all of this,” Ilya says quietly. “I didn’t—”
“You scared the shit out of me.” Shane doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t snap. He just says it. Like he needs it out of his chest before it suffocates him. He’s been holding that sentence back since the car, since the red lights, since Ilya stopped answering him.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. February — a week before our game — you went to the ER. And in June? That video call? That wasn’t just a check-up, was it?”
Ilya’s eyes glisten. “No. I’d just gotten out of the ER.”
Shane lets out a shaky breath.
“What the fuck, Rozanov? You should’ve told me. I feel like an idiot — not knowing you were in pain.”
“Shane, I’m okay,” Ilya says softly. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” Shane gestures around the room. “We’re in a fucking hospital. I saw you in the ER. They put oxygen on you. Pumped you full of meds. You were shaking. That’s not ‘not a big deal.’”
“Okay. Okay.” Ilya reaches for him, slow because of the IV line. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I wanted to. I just… didn’t know how. And I didn’t want you to worry. Usually after this, I’m fine.”
“Yeah?” Shane’s voice cracks despite him trying to keep it steady. “What if you’re not? What if next time you’re not?”
Silence settles between them.
Shane swallows. “What about when you were in Boston? Dr. Heiber told me. At least once a year. I know we weren’t… like this back then, but still. You could’ve told me. Did you tell anyone when you went to the ER there?”
Ilya nods faintly. “Yes. I told Svetlana. And Marleau.”
Shane didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until it leaves him. At least he hadn’t been alone.
“When you were with me,” Shane continues, quieter now, “when we were planning to meet… sometimes you’d cancel last minute. Was it ever because of this? Please be honest.”
Ilya looks at him, almost offended. “No. I never canceled on you because of the ER. If I canceled, it was probably because of the weather. Or a game got moved. Or something with my family.”
Shane points at him. “Well, good. I don’t want you to lie and give me some stupid excuse — not something that turns out you were in the hospital.”
Ilya’s expression softens slightly. “I would not choose hospital over you.”
“Ilya, I’m fucking serious.” Shane steps closer, lowering his voice. “What I mean is… I want — I want to be by your side.”
A faint smile tugs at Ilya’s mouth. “Hospital is boring already. You boring too. I will die from boredom.”
Shane stares at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
“It is true. White walls. Bad food. You pacing like angry cat.”
“I’m pacing because you scared the hell out of me!”
Ilya’s teasing fades just a little. “I know.”
“And don’t joke about dying from boredom,” Shane snaps. “You don’t get to make death jokes right now.”
A pause.
Ilya studies him more carefully now. “You were that scared?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “Yes, I was.”
The honesty hits harder than any shouting.
Ilya swallows. “But you would stay?” He asks quietly.
Shane looks at him like it’s the dumbest question in the world. “I’d stay.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
Ilya’s teasing mask slips completely now. “Even if I am grumpy?”
“You’re always grumpy.”
“Even if I complain?”
“You complain about everything. And I will not let you scare another intern again. You’re horrible.”
“What? When? I never do that. I’m at my best behavior.”
“Ilya,” Shane says flatly, “they’re scared of you.”
“They love me.”
“They flinch when you look at them.”
Ilya crosses his arms carefully, mindful of the IV. “I didn't do anything.”
Shane lets out a short laugh despite himself. “You’re impossible.”
“But you stay, yes? ” Ilya says softly, slipping the joke back into something real.
Shane’s expression shifts. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I stay.”
Shane steps closer to the bed, lowering his voice. “I’d stay if you were grumpy. I’d stay if you complained. I’d stay if you scared every intern in this building and they formed a support group about you.”
“That would be impressive.”
Ilya reaches for Shane’s hand and tugs him closer. His fingers curl tighter than usual, like he’s afraid Shane might disappear if he loosens his grip.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya whispers. “Please don’t be mad at me. I’m okay now.”
Shane exhales slowly, the anger draining out of him, leaving only relief and something rawer underneath. He lifts his free hand and cups Ilya’s warm cheek, thumb brushing lightly along his skin.
“Don’t do that again. Please,” Shane says quietly. “If you’re in pain, you tell me,” Shane continues. “If you’re sick, you tell me. If something feels wrong — even a little — you tell me. I don’t care if it’s two in the morning. I don’t care if we’re fighting. I don’t care if you think it’s stupid.”
“I love you, Ilya,” Shane continues, voice steady even though his chest feels tight. “Of course I’m going to worry. That’s part of it. You don’t get to carry everything alone just because you think it makes it easier.”
His forehead rests gently against Ilya’s.
“Okay,” he says softly. “I promise.”
“You better,” Shane murmurs.
A faint smile curves at Ilya’s mouth. “You are very scary when you are emotional.”
“I can be worse.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want the strong version of you,” Shane adds softly. “I want all of you.”