Archive of Our Own

CLIFF

The problem with Ilya Rozanov, Cliff thought, was that he was too good. 

Boston relied on him too much. Always had, since the moment he was drafted, had built the entire team around him. And it was never more apparent than when Roz wasn't at his best. 

To be fair, "not his best" was still way better than most of the league. At the top were Roz and Hollander, and then a large gap, and then the third best player in the league. And third-best wasn’t with Boston.

It was the first intermission in their game against Montreal, and it was 2-0. Rozanov was sitting next to Cliff on the bench, flushed and drenched in sweat and also shivering approximately every four seconds. He'd stripped his jersey off as soon as they hit the locker room, rasping that he was overheating and being his usual dramatic self. Cliff believed him. But he also was sure that the meds they'd given Roz to get him through the game were not enough. Two minutes after taking his jersey off, Roz was shivering, his sweat soaked gear doing him no favors in the chilled locker room. 

Cliff reached behind Ilya and grabbed a towel from his cubby. He chucked it at Roz. 

Roz raised his head. “Mother hen,” he mumbled, his accent thicker through what Cliff was sure was a gnarly fever and also the sore throat that kept making him wince every time he tried to swallow. He did, though, wrap the towel around his shoulders.

“You look like shit,” Cliff said bluntly. Roz was the last to go down; this flu had swept through the team, and several of the guys still had coughs. Cliff was pretty sure that was why Roz was fighting so hard to stay in the game–he knew that without him, they were fucked. 

“Seriously,” St-Simon said. 

“You're sure we can't get you anything stronger?” LeClaire asked. “Those antivirals worked great on Storrie and Tierney–”

Rozanov shook his head. One of his hands fumbled out from under the towel and pulled it in closer. Cliff wished he had a proper blanket or something. Did they have them in the med suite?

“Can't,” Rozanov said. “Am allergic.”

“Of course you are,” Carmichael muttered. 

Roz shrugged slightly. “It gave me a rash.” He waved a hand, lackadaisical. “Made it hard to breathe. You remember this,” he said, glancing at Cliff. His gaze was kind of unnerving, focused but fighting to stay like that. “Was your… first year? Second year? Here.”

“Maybe if we get you a dose and then also get you some Benadryl,” LeClaire said under his breath. 

“I don't know if that's a great idea,” Cliff said. “Allergic reactions can get worse the second time, can't they?” He’d had a girlfriend in high school who was allergic to shrimp, and Cliff had been terrified that he was accidentally going to kill her, even though he’d never even had a shrimp. And then when he eventually did eat one, after they’d broken up, he’d found out he didn’t even really like them.

“We'll get you an epipen,” St-Simon joked. Except that it wasn’t quite a joke. And Cliff kind of didn’t like that they were all sitting around brainstorming potentially lethal ways to get their captain back on the ice, instead of just sending him home. They wanted the win, but fuck. And Rozanov wasn’t even fighting it. He’d put his foot down–sort of–over the Tamiflu, but he kept letting them put him back on the ice. Normally, Cliff understood that. He’d been there. But this felt… different. Both LeClaire being a little too willing to keep Roz in, and Roz a little too pushy to stay in, even for him. It came to a point.

“Great,” Rozanov mumbled. “I don't know what that is.”

“We don't need any epipens,” LeClaire said, though Cliff wasn't convinced that LeClaire wouldn’t later be looking up stats about whether or not a Tamiflu allergic reaction would kill his star player. “We can get you another dose of Dayquil or something.” 

Rozanov nodded. Cliff was nauseated just thinking about it. He knew how much they'd already convinced Roz to take. And Roz was normally staunchly anti-medication, for whatever fucking reason, but today, somehow, maybe it was that they’d only been giving him liquid meds–was Roz just bad at taking pills?–he was dosed the fuck up.

And despite that, he was still shaking under the towel. He’d pulled it up slightly, so it was over his head.

“Could we get a blanket?” Cliff finally asked. “Is there one in the training room or something?”

LeClaire waved one of the assistants off to go check. Another deep shudder ran through Rozanov. 

“Alright,” Larry, the team doctor, said, striding in from where he'd been checking on a possible concussion on Jonesy. “Where's—there you are. Here.” He handed Roz a gray blanket. Roz immediately dropped the towel and shivered closer into the scratchy-looking fabric. “You're still not feeling better from the meds we gave you?”

Roz opened his mouth to answer, then had to duck his face under the blanket, coughing too hard to answer. He sounded like he was trying to rip out his lungs. Jesus fuck.

“Some more cough syrup, then,” Larry said, unphased, as Roz lifted his head again. “I'll go back and grab some. And I'll check what we gave you for that fever, see if we can't get you something else.”

“Okay,” Roz rasped.

“And I did overhear some of that,” Larry said. “We will not be giving you Tamiflu. You don't need to worry about any epipen scenarios.”

“I still don't know what this is,” Roz said. 

Larry waved a hand. LeClaire moved to talk to some of the others, Roz now dealt with. 

“Why don’t you take a nap?” Cliff said to Roz. “I’ll wake you up when we have two minutes. That gets you–” He checked the wall clock. “A twelve minute nap.”

Roz nodded. He slumped sideways, lay down on the bench. Cliff put the blanket back over him and he mumbled, “spasibo,” and was immediately out. 

—------

The second period went slightly less terrible than the first, in that Boston still scored nothing, but at least Montreal didn't score either. Rozanov was not doing well, but the meds Larry had given him in the first intermission seemed to kick in for the third period: Roz fought back, to get both an assist on Cliff's goal and a goal of his own. Tied. 

Until fucking Hollander stole the puck from Tierney and launched it into the goal, 3 seconds before the period ended. 

Goddammit. 

—-------

“It was a good effort, boys,” LeClaire said, begrudgingly. “Considering none of you are at your best. Get some rest tonight–I do not want to hear about any fucking partying, understand–and we'll come back stronger tomorrow. We'll go easy on the morning skate, got it?” He glanced at Roz. “Not you. Skip it, just be back for warm-ups before the game. Use that time to get some sleep.”

“I don't–”

“Can it. Alright. Go home, everyone.”

After showers and changing, Cliff found Roz sitting on the bench again, hair still mostly drenched, kind of pasted to his head, dripping onto the floor as he held his head in one hand, braced on his knee. The pose of a man who was unsure if standing was a good choice, or even a possible choice.

“Not looking so hot there,” Cliff said to him. Almost everyone else had cleared out, so Cliff was hopeful that Roz would maybe relax just a tiny bit and not act like he was 100% fine.

No such luck.

“I am always hot,” Roz said. He straightened up slowly, like it hurt, and looked at Cliff with a smirk and utterly unfocused eyes. Did he think he was getting away with this? He got to his feet carefully. “I know you're jealous.”

“Where are you going?”

Roz paused, actually looking faintly confused now. “Ah–to my car?”

“I’m not letting you drive home,” Cliff said. “Are you fucking stupid?”

“I’m fine,” Roz said, and proceeded to nearly walk into the doorframe. Cliff grabbed him by the back of the coat collar and yanked back. Roz stumbled, but didn’t get the black eye he’d been aiming for. Cliff let go.

“What is your problem?” Cliff asked. He didn’t get an answer. He never did, despite the fact that he’d probably asked more than a thousand times in the years he’d known Roz.

“You’re being mother hen,” Roz told him again. He rubbed a hand over his face. “I have my car, I need to get it back to–”

“We have a game tomorrow,” Cliff reminded him. “Leave it here. I’ll come pick you up tomorrow, too.”

“Just want to spend time with your favorite teammate, yes?”

“Sure,” Cliff said. “Are you going to let it happen yet?”

Roz looked at him with those glazed eyes, then said, “Fine.” 

—----------------------------------

SHANE

Ilya had texted. You should not come.

Shane bit his lip. Circling back to denial?

LILY: Ha. No. I mean you literally should not come over. 

He was already on his way. Why was he not supposed to–

LILY: cliff is dropping me off

LILY: also, i'm sick. you do not want germs

Which meant Shane just quietly panicked the entire ride over, and he lied and told the driver to drop him off early, at the end of the street, saying he’d gotten the address wrong and it was right here, actually. Except then, as soon as he was out of the car and it had driven away, he realized that was maybe a mistake too, because what is someone looked out their window and saw Shane fucking Hollander just casually walking around Ilya Rozanov’s neighborhood? What was he thinking? It was dark out, so maybe no one would see him properly, except that who walked around in the cold and the dark like this except for people on their way to drug deals, and what if someone thought Shane was–

That was ridiculous. People walked. Right? People had to walk. God, what was he actually thinking?

But he walked quickly, head down, and there were no cars around when he got to Ilya’s. He texted, and Ilya responded, saying Cliff had indeed left, so Shane let himself into the apartment building, and then let himself into the penthouse, quiet.

Ilya was already there. He was standing in his kitchen, looking dizzily at the sink, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing there, in sweatpants and a team sweatshirt. 

“Hey,” Shane said. 

Ilya flinched, then looked up, and his face softened, broke into a smile. “Hey,” he said back, raspy. He reached for Shane even as Shane closed the distance and put his hands on Ilya’s face.

Fuck, he was warm. Shane blinked, then pulled back a bit. “You’re really sick.”

“I told you.” Ilya managed to look exasperated even now. “Said, you probably should not come over, I’m sick.”

“Yeah, but I thought you had some little cold,” Shane said.

“I would not,” Ilya said, offended. “I don’t get little colds.”

“That’s like, definitely not true,” Shane said. But he shook his head, cataloguing all the ways Ilya did not look well. Ilya swayed left slightly and Shane put out a hand. Actually. “Jesus Christ,” Shane said, grabbing Ilya's jaw and forcing his boyfriend's unsteady head still. Ilya looked at him with unfocused, blown out eyes. “How many drugs did they give you?”

“A lot,” Ilya said helpfully.

“Tamiflu?”

Ilya shook his head slowly, as much as he could with Shane's hand still on his jaw. “Allergic,” he mumbled.

“Shit,” Shane said. “To all of them? All the anti-virals?”

Ilya nodded slightly. 

Shane filed this away in his mental care and keeping of Ilya guide. Shane wasn't allergic to anything, but despite Ilya's assurances he was fine and perfectly healthy and built like a tank, he was allergic to an assortment of random things. Penicillin. He was very allergic to poison ivy, needed steroid cream when he'd gotten it out in the woods at the cottage, which also now made him way warier of going off trail and had been a whole thing about going to the clinic. Mango made his mouth itch, though he ate it anyway for some fucking reason. Horses made him sniffly, which apparently did not matter to him. Shane liked to poke fun at Ilya, say he hadn't been exposed to the outdoors enough as a child, call him a cityslicker. Ilya had had to ask what the fuck that word meant the first time. Ilya's response had been no of course I was not exposed to this nonsense, I was busy on the rink, becoming best hockey player of all time. 

And now Tamiflu. 

“That sucks,” Shane said. “So you’re just gonna feel like shit for days.”

“Mm,” Ilya said. 

“Did they say what you have?”

“Flu,” Ilya mumbled. “Which is why you should not be here.”

“Did they test you?”

“Yes. It said flu. Most of the team has it.”

“But did it say which one? A or B? Or a different strain, was there–”

“A,” Ilya mumbled. “Why does it matter?”

“Excellent,” Shane said, dropping his hand. Except he then had to grip Ilya's shoulders, because Ilya had apparently been using Shane's hand a lot more than he'd been letting on, and he swayed forward as soon as that support was gone. “When I got my flu shot, they were predicting A would be bad this year. So that was what they gave me.” 

“Flu shot?”

Shane tsked. “You were supposed to get one, too, it was a whole public health initiative.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. No, I did get it,” Ilya said, forcing himself to stand under his own power. He looked like he was fighting to keep his eyes open, yet he still managed to give Shane an infuriating smirk. “They must have given me the vaccine for B, because I am already A, the best.”

“Yeah, and now you have A, the worse one,” Shane muttered. “Your medical system sucks, you know that?”

Ilya waved a hand. He met Shane's gaze again, though, something wary in it. “What does that mean, though?” he asked. “The vaccine. You having it.”

“It means,” Shane said, “that I'm comfortable taking that risk. I'll leave tomorrow, like I planned.”

“You're staying? Tonight?” Ilya asked.

Shane nodded.

Ilya stared at him, then reached forward and caught Shane's shirt, dragging him close. Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya as Ilya pressed his forehead to Shane's shoulder. Like this, Shane could feel how badly Ilya was trembling. 

“Alright,” Shane said softly. “First order of business is to get you warm.” 

“I know a way to get warm,” Ilya mumbled against him.

“I'm sure you do. But I think probably a blanket is best? Maybe some time in bed.”

“Bed,” Ilya said dreamily. He kissed Shane's neck. Shane rolled his eyes. 

“We can do that later,” he said, trying to placate Ilya. He had no intention of–

Ilya pressed his lips to Shane's throat. Then he laid his head on Shane's shoulder and said, voice low, almost like he was fighting himself just to get it out, “Shane. I don't think I… can get you off tonight. I know the… timing is bad. Can try, but–”

Shane nearly jerked away. He did pull back slightly, to see Ilya's serious face on his shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean–I don't think–even with a nap.” Ilya let his eyes slide closed, but there was something faintly embarrassed about the way he did it. “Do not want to disappoint you. Get your hopes up.”

Shane bulldozed over that. “Obviously you're not getting me off tonight. You're not doing anything tonight. I wasn't being serious.”

“Sorry,” Ilya mumbled. “You come all this way.”

“No, don't be–Ilya. Hey.” He slid his hand up the back of Ilya's neck. Shit. He was kind of burning up. But something cold slicked down Shane's spine. Like Ilya thought Shane was only here because of something Ilya could provide. Like Ilya needed to provide anything to be worth coming over. He understood wanting to feel needed–fuck, Shane loved it when he felt like Ilya needed him–but this? 

He hoped Ilya knew that Shane wanted him. And not just, like, sexually. Wasn’t that the point of–of being boyfriends? Of having gone to the cottage and come out with labels and a game plan?

“Hang on. That’s why you weren't doing face offs,” he said, accusing. “You didn’t want me to know. You weren't going to tell me at all, were you? You're only telling me now because you can't hide it.”

Ilya shrugged slightly. “Is valuable information,” he said, going for cocky. “The best player on the team is not so best.”

But something about that rang false to Shane. He frowned. They’d never–they didn't do insider trading like that. “Do you... do you not trust me?”

Ilya sounded bewildered by that. “What? Of course I do.”

“Then why didn't you tell me?”

“Is nothing, Shane,” Ilya said, sounding exhausted now. “Just. Didn't.”

“Boyfriends tell each other–”

“Shane,” Ilya said quietly. That snapped Shane to attention, to noticing the way Ilya had steadily been leaning more and more of his weight against Shane, in a way that was almost definitely unintentional. “Can we argue later?”

“Of course,” Shane murmured. “Come on. Bed.”

Of course, as soon as Ilya was in bed, he was back to protesting, back to saying he was fine, saying that he wanted to spend time with Shane, not be asleep, despite the fact that he had immediately slumped fully horizontal and looked like it would require far more energy than he had to even sit back up. Shane ignored all of this. He found Gatorade already cold in the fridge, and a Coke in case Ilya wanted it instead, and also a glass of water, with ice. He brought all that back to the nightstand. Ilya watched him with hooded eyes. Shane made another trip: he found some hand towels and dampened them with cool water, hunted down a thermometer and a bottle of Tylenol. He brought those back. Immediately put one on the back of Ilya’s neck, which prompted a shudder and Ilya reflexively curling away, into a pillow, with a little groan. Shane ignored that. He found an extra blanket in a closet, a fluffy one, because Ilya’s bed was always dressed minimally, because he ran warm to begin with. 

Eventually, he ran out of little prep tasks to do, and could finally do what he wanted: crawl into bed next to Ilya, who was, despite his protests, currently the picture of ill health. The cloth had migrated to his forehead, he was wrapped in the fluffy blanket, his cheeks were flushed red, and he even had the thermometer between his lips. He was a literal cliche. 

The thermometer beeped. Shane tried to read it, but Ilya pulled it from his mouth, read the display before Shane could squint at it properly, and then cleared it. 

“What are you doing?” Shane asked. 

“I’m fine,” Ilya mumbled. He put the thermometer in Shane’s lap. “Nothing to be concerned with.”

“Okay.” Shane kind of doubted that, but there wasn’t a lot to be done about it right now and he wasn’t so concerned that he was thinking hospital. So he put the thermometer on the bedside table and scooted over to lie next to Ilya, who immediately crept closer and put his head on Shane’s shoulder. He was almost… more tense now, though, than he had been while he watched Shane do his prep work. Shane shifted slightly, kept Ilya’s head on his shoulder but managed to move that hand to rest on Ilya’s side, stroked his thumb up and down. He wished he could feel Ilya’s skin, felt almost a tangible need to monitor properly, kind of thought that it would make Ilya feel better, too, maybe, though Shane would probably rather die than have someone touch him when he himself had a fever. But Ilya was wrapped in the fluffy blanket, a thin duvet, a sheet, and a sweatshirt. Probably a shirt under that, too.

Hm. That all might have been overkill. But Ilya seemed to like it, and his shivering had eased to just an occasional shudder. So Shane didn’t push back on the situation. He did adjust to moving his full hand and not just his thumb, because he was worried that Ilya couldn’t feel just his thumb through all the layers.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Shane asked. 

Ilya shifted like he wanted to sit up, maybe to look at Shane, but gave up. That worried Shane, too, but he reminded himself that Ilya had played a full game with a fever, that he was probably absolutely exhausted, probably all body ache. “Do you want?” Ilya mumbled, and Shane had to rewind several seconds in his head to figure out what he had even asked.

“I’m asking you,” Shane said. “Or we could start a series or something, and then you can keep watching tomorrow when I leave.”

“When you leave tomorrow, I go to practice,” Ilya mumbled. Before Shane could react to that, Ilya perked up a little. “No. I don’t have to go to practice, LeClaire said to save energy for the game. So you can stay longer.”

Stay longer lit sparks in Shane’s chest, but they were almost immediately doused by the whole game thing. “He wants you to play tomorrow?” Shane asked in disbelief.

Ilya scoffed, the noise something insane behind the hoarseness. “Of course.”

“Like this.”

“Well. I will have sleep.”

Shane blinked at that sentence construction. He swapped out the cloth on Ilya’s forehead. “Okay, but–I mean, Ilya. Come on.”

“People play with the flu all the time.”

“Sure, but like, with help from Tamiflu and regular flu medicine and–”

“I can have regular medicine.”

Shane stared down at him. Ilya still hadn’t touched the Tylenol Shane had brought out. Shane had offered it, Ilya had shaken his head, and Shane had left it on the nightstand. “You’re okay with that,” Shane said.

Ilya nodded slightly.

That did not fit Ilya’s track record with medication. Or, more accurately, his nonexistent record with medication. Not being around Ilya made it harder, but now that Shane knew about Ilya’s reluctance to meds–and why–he spotted the signs more. Took more note of the way Ilya handwaved injuries, played down aches. The fact that this Tylenol bottle was full. 

Ilya wanted to play another game, like this, and Shane was supposed to leave him to do it.

For the first time, Shane realized how hard this was going to be. Not just the normal ache of missing Ilya, the normal hunger for him, growing into a finer and finer point, but… worry. Having to leave him when he was worried. Having to trust Ilya to tell him if something was wrong. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Ilya, he would have reacted with the same bewilderment Ilya had had earlier when Shane asked the reverse. But he wasn’t stupid, either, and he knew Ilya had a habit of lying about how he was. Half the time, he wasn’t even sure Ilya knew he was lying about things like that. It was like when he said he was fine, just tired, which had been happening a lot lately, on the days they called and Shane could physically hear the fatigue. He’d meant to bring that up, actually, about how he wanted Ilya to try to eat more iron and maybe some B and D vitamins. His diet sucked. There was a good chance it was just that. But it did make Shane anxious, and Ilya thought it was normal. Or at least, acted like he did.

It all made Shane want to stay, here, with Ilya. But he couldn’t.

“I should call Svetlana,” Shane said, hesitant. The thought of Svetlana–this ghost who haunted Shane, the girl Shane couldn’t be–made him feel vaguely homicidal sometimes, but she was also one of the only people that he knew Ilya had in Boston. He was pretty sure the other Raiders were not going to come check in on Ilya. He tried to make a joke, to show that he was not crazy and did not think about a discarded plan probably once a week. “The girl you want to marry.”

“No,” Ilya mumbled. “Do not want to marry.”

“Sure, yeah. Anyway. What's her number? Can you unlock your phone for me? She could at least come check on you when I have to go.”

Ilya shook his head. He also shifted closer again, settled his face more into Shane's armpit. That could not be comfortable. But Ilya sighed, nearly making Shane twitch with the feeling of Ilya's breath over sensitive skin. “No,” he said, hoarse, accent still bad with the fever. This new added muffling of Shane's fucking armpit meant Shane had to really focus to understand him. “She will think I'm dying if you ask her to check on me. No. I will be fine.”

“You just don't want me to have your passcode,” Shane said. Maybe if he made it a challenge. “You don't want me to see all your sexts to other people.”

“Aren't any other people.”

“Mmm, mhm,” Shane said. He kept his voice light. He didn't want Ilya to think he actually thought Ilya was cheating. He just wanted Ilya to get annoyed, tell him–

“1410,” Ilya mumbled. “Look yourself.”

Shane smirked, grabbed Ilya's phone from the nightstand, and found Svetlana's contact. It was one of the few in Cyrillic, and Shane wasn't good at Russian yet but he could sound out the letters, and Принцесса Света matched enough.

He couldn't call her. She didn't know, and his voice was a dead fucking giveaway. But he could text. 

Ilya's keyboard defaulted to English letters, though all his texts with Svetlana were in Cyrillic. Shane waffled for a minute, smoothing his hand down Ilya's back as he thought through what he wanted from Svetlana, a woman he'd never met but who may or may not be willing to commit to a fraudulent marriage with his boyfriend. Not if Shane had anything to do with it, but it was the thought that counted.

He would be direct, he decided.

It's Jane, he typed one-handed. Can I send you my number? Ilya is sick and I was hoping we could arrange a care schedule or something, I'm going to be in and out of town a lot right now.

There. True enough. And–

“Was only trying to be helpful.”

Shane glanced down at Ilya. He put the phone down next to his. “What do you mean?”

“Did not want to marry,” Ilya mumbled. His breath hitched, like he wanted to say something else but stopped himself. Then he pulled away, color washing out of his face as his shoulders hitched, but pushed away Shane's hand when he reached for him. Shane didn't understand why until Ilya started coughing, harsh and brutal, into his elbow. Shane reached for him again, to try to rub his back through it, the way his dad had done when he was a kid, kind of instinctive, but Ilya was more direct this time, grabbing Shane’s wrist and keeping it away from him. Okay. Ilya did not want to be touched.

Which was… different.

When it was over, Ilya was nearly panting, and Shane was a lot more concerned. Ilya let go of Shane.

“Fuck,” Ilya mumbled. “Fuck my stupid fucking life.”

Shane didn’t reach for him again. He waited for Ilya to come back. But he didn’t. He just stayed sitting up, trying to even out his breathing, eyes closed. 

“You okay?” Shane asked quietly.

Ilya nodded. He got to his feet, carefully, ducking out of the blankets, and went over to the ensuite. Shane heard him spit, clear his throat, spit again. The water ran. 

He came back and got under the covers with everything pulled up to his chin, and squirmed in closer so that he could press his forehead to Shane’s hip. He was still breathing kind of hard, and his pulse beat fast under his jaw.

“You pick something to watch,” Ilya whispered. “I will be right here.”

Shane was pretty sure that was supposed to be his line. But he was worried, and he didn’t want to freak Ilya out again, so he just found the remote and flicked on the TV. Then he managed to convince Ilya to drink at least a little of the Gatorade, before Ilya slid back down. This time, at least, Ilya caught one of Shane’s hands in one of his cold ones, and then fell asleep with his cheek tucked into it. It was, in fact, insanely uncomfortable for Shane, but he couldn’t bear to move. 

—------

Shane kept waking in the night, rolling over to find Ilya curled up, or propped on one elbow, coughing harshly into his other arm. Shane hated it. And he hated more the wheezy, gasping, unsteady inhale between fits, like Ilya just could not get enough oxygen. Shane hated it, because it scared the shit out of him. And especially because Ilya kept saying it was fine, kept acting like it was fine. And Shane couldn't tell if Ilya just didn't want to worry Shane, or if he didn't want to admit to weakness or some bullshit, or if Ilya legitimately was not concerned. And he didn't know which one was worse. Whatever it was, Shane sincerely doubted that Ilya would be this blasé if their positions were reversed. 

In the morning, Shane woke up at his usual six, even though he was quite frankly exhausted. Ilya was still asleep, heat still radiating off him. Shane stayed in bed for a bit, shifting his schedule around on his phone, considering. Ilya had the game later tonight, if he ended up playing, and Shane didn't really have to be back in Montreal till tomorrow afternoon. Shane chewed on his lip. 

Ilya was still asleep. Shane should wake him, try to get him to take a Tylenol and get him to drink something, but Ilya had to be fucking exhausted. The sleep would probably be better for him. 

Shane, though, needed to eat something. He eased himself out of bed, slow enough that Ilya didn't wake, though one of Ilya's hands did grasp slowly at the sheets once Shane was gone, his eyebrows furrowing. Shane hesitated. Ilya stayed asleep. 

Shane changed, went to the bathroom, then did a quick workout and yoga in the living room. After that, he went to the kitchen. The ingredients for his smoothie were neatly organized in Ilya's fridge. Shane smiled. Ilya had asked–like an asshole, obviously, covered in two layers of transparent sarcasm–what the ingredients were, two weeks ago. Asked which type of protein powder he was doing right now, which fruit he wanted. 

Svetlana had texted Shane. A care schedule. Is he aware of this plan, Jane?

Shane texted back. No. But I don’t want him to suffer here by himself ):

Svetlana: good luck with that. he does not know how to do anything else. Then a second text. i would come. but I am in Russia. my flight back is not for another week. Then a third text. make sure he is breathing deeply, yes? do not want it to turn into pneumonia.

Shane hesitated, slurped at his smoothie. He hadn’t taken Svetlana to be a worrier. Surely Ilya didn’t need to worry about pneumonia. He was a top athlete. Who, to be fair, ate like shit, and smoked when he thought Shane wasn’t paying attention, and was scheduled to put his body through an insane, intense workout tonight. 

He chewed his lip. Maybe he should have been worrying. 

I’ll make sure. He tapped the bottom of his phone gently against the counter, thinking. Is there any way to get him to take cold meds? Or even just a Tylenol?

Svetlana took a longer time to respond to that one. he has not taken it for you?

Shane snorted. No. He’s stubborn. He told me that meds were for sad little Canadians. Even sick, he’s an asshole.

Svetlana sent back a laughing emoji. you know the nicest version of ilyusha that he's been in years. get ready to meet the real thing

Shane went back to worrying his lip. What was that supposed to mean?

He didn’t answer Svetlana. She didn’t text anything more. Shane sighed, and turned to the fridge again. There were eggs and bacon, and Shane got to work on making that for Ilya, since Ilya would absolutely refuse a dose of the smoothie. 

He heard Ilya shuffle in. “Hey,” Shane said, not looking up from the eggs. They were on the edge of done, and he didn’t want to burn them. “How are you feeling?”

Ilya made a hoarse, dissatisfied noise. There was the sound of a glass being taken from a cupboard, then a heavier sound. Shane frowned. What was–

He turned around to see Ilya take a shot of vodka.

For a second, all he could do was stare. “What… the fuck?”

Ilya wiggled the bottle at him slightly. “You want? Alcohol kills germs. It will be… preventative, for you.”

“No, I don't want vodka at–at eight AM. Jesus Christ.”

Ilya took another shot, shrugged, winced, rubbed his fingertips into the side of his neck. He rolled his shoulders. “Your loss.”

“Do you want some breakfast?” Shane asked, deciding to ignore the vodka thing. 

Ilya came closer, stood behind Shane, propped his chin on Shane's shoulder. Shane could feel Ilya's gaze tick around the kitchen, hitting the cleaned blender and the eggshells and the bacon sitting on a paper towel. The detritus of Shane making choices around Ilya. “Okey,” Ilya said, wrapping his arms around Shane's waist. He dipped his face against Shane's, and Shane could feel Ilya's lashes brush against his cheek as his eyes closed.

“Need you to let go of me,” Shane said. “Or I'm gonna burn the eggs.” Also, because Ilya was way too warm and Shane had almost instantly started to sweat. 

Ilya released him, taking a half step back. He leaned his hip against the counter. Shane plated the eggs and added the bacon, then put it on the other side of the counter, so Ilya could sit on a stool and eat while Shane cleaned up the rest. 

Ilya didn't move. 

“Do you want something else?” Shane reached over, pressed the backs of his fingers to Ilya's forehead. He was clammy. Ilya glanced at the plate, and something faint went through his expression. Shane very much doubted that Ilya was hungry at all. He kept his voice low, gentle. “What do you need?”

Ilya flinched back. 

—------------------

ILYA

Once upon a time, Ilya Rozanov had been taught his needs didn't matter.

It didn't matter if he was sick, or exhausted, or injured. Not when his brother said we need your paycheck. When his coaches said, we need you to stay in. When his mother said, I need you to smile, solnishko.

So he'd stopped needing things. He'd taken refuge in his wants, instead. In the drinking and the good food and the sex and the speed. He liked the fighting and physicality of his hockey, he liked getting slammed around in revenge. He was also… tired. A lot. He felt hollow. There were knots in his back that had to be worked out slowly, by the team masseuses, or simply seemed to vanish when he was with Shane. He did what everyone else needed and he did what he wanted and everything was fine. It was a careful balance of cortisol treated with dopamine. He was fine. 

So when Shane asked, gently, like it fucking mattered, “What do you need?” Ilya had no idea how to respond. He wanted to sleep and he wanted to feel better and he wanted Shane to stay, today and tomorrow and forever. Was any of that a need? How much of that was selfish? How much exposed his soft underbelly, in a way he wasn't ready for? No. No, no, no. Nyet. He didn't need anything. He couldn't. 

“I'm fine,” he said. 

“Okay, you, like, clearly need to at least sit do–”

“I don't need anything,” Ilya snapped, and he hated it, he hated who he was when he needed because that version of him wasn't supposed to exist. He crossed his arms–wrapped them around himself, more like, pathetic–and tried to stop shaking. “Sorry,” he rasped. “I–sorry.”

“Okay,” Shane said, looking at him with that furrowed little frown. “Well, I need you to sit down then. Because you’re freaking me out.”

The room was tilting a little bit, and Ilya put a hand on the counter to steady it. Then he took a step back and one to the side and sat on the stool where Shane had put the eggs and bacon. Ilya was not hungry. But he had a game tonight. He had to eat something.

He’d slept so badly. 

Ilya squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. He would eat later. He’d have something at lunch. Not now. 

Shane rounded the countertop and Ilya shifted away, just slightly. Shane stilled. “Sorry,” Ilya mumbled. He shook his head. “Not your fault.” He reached out, found Shane again, pressed his hand. 

That was it.

He felt like shit. He was sweating and exhausted and absolutely fucking miserable, but he couldn't stop. Like this, feeling this bad, he was reduced to instinct, reduced to tooth and nail. Hockey was instinct. And holding himself together, shut down, keep your spine straight because otherwise you are exposed and you are vulnerable and you are weak–

He had been vulnerable at the cottage, with Shane. For a few weeks, he had allowed himself to feel it out, try to learn. For Shane. 

But this was different. This was–he couldn't put his whole weight on Shane. Shane didn't deserve that. 

Ilya couldn't trust it. He trusted Shane, of course he did, they would not have gotten this far if he did not trust Shane. He didn’t trust himself. Or this fantasy world they were trying to make real, where Ilya was safe and Shane stayed and neither of them bailed for an easier, more realistic life.

He wanted to trust it, knew he had to be vulnerable with Shane, had even—had even liked it, at the cottage, once he’d gotten through the first shame of it. He fucking wanted that life they were building.

But like this, feverish, reduced to the weakest parts of himself, he couldn't. It took energy, to be vulnerable. To dismantle the armor he'd built over the years. And right now, he did not have the energy. No matter how much he wanted to. All his energy–all his last drags of it–was reserved for protecting himself, which meant hide. 

What other energy he could scrounge up had to go to hockey. Because that was protection, too.

But the only time. The only time he felt better was last night, when Shane had crawled into bed with him and wrapped him up in the duvet and kept him cocooned in Shane's limbs, Ilya's sweaty forehead against Shane's collarbone. He'd still felt like shit, but the shaking quieted to just shivering, and the pressure of Shane's shoulder on his temple eased his pounding headache and somehow, somehow, Ilya's racing, fluttery heartbeat had steadied and slowed to match Shane's. 

But he’d fought his exhaustion, last night, because he couldn't need this. And he was very, very scared that he was close to needing Shane more than he'd ever needed anything. It was why he’d physically not let Shane touch him last night, why he’d pulled away. He wasn’t supposed to need any of this. 

Shane reached for his face against, and this time, the flinch was sharp. Ilya wished it was intentional, wished it was him jerking back so that he wouldn’t fall harder. It wasn’t. It was unconscious. Ilya, weak, and someone else’s hand, meant to punish. 

“Sorry,” Ilya rasped again, not meeting Shane’s eyes.

“Can you quit apologizing?”

Ilya didn't know how to quit. 

He'd been told it many times. Rozanov just doesn't quit. Svetlana: you never know when to quit, Ilyusha. 

He didn’t know how to quit, and he didn’t know how to need. He only knew how to want, and want, and want.

—--------------------

SHANE

Shane worried, sometimes, about Ilya. The way he could seem fine, seem his normal erratic self, and Shane could chalk it up to just Ilya being Ilya. And then Ilya could make some offhand comment and for just a moment Shane would catch a glimpse of a fracture line, in a place he never in a million years would have thought to look for one. He sometimes thought that he had done it, mapped out every one–not that he was tired of it, but that he thought Ilya had finally lain down all his armor–and then Ilya would turn, or Shane would, and there was another. Sometimes it connected to one of the ones Shane was aware of it, spiraled into it or out of it, made sense with the pattern. Sometimes, it was isolated, and Shane was never going to make sense of it without help. And Ilya, for all his charms, was extremely unhelpful on that count. Both because Ilya didn’t want to be, and because Shane was pretty sure Ilya didn’t know they were there.

It was a balancing act. For both of them. Shane understood that some things, Ilya just wasn't ready to share. Or didn't want to, and for some things, that was okay. Ilya knew Shane did better with a road map, with rules and regulations. He tried to give him those.

Shane supposed, sometimes, that the problem was this: Ilya didn't know his own rules. He liked to pretend he had fewer than he did. 

Would Svetlana help, with that? If he asked?

He wished he didn't have to keep this secret. He wished he could get together in person with Svetlana, prove he was trustworthy, prove he was on Ilya's side. 

This, though, was a problem. That Ilya was sick, and that he flinched away from Shane, and he apologized for it. 

But he also hadn’t eaten, and he was probably dehydrated, and he’d slept badly, and he probably felt awful, and Shane had just almost snapped at him about the apologizing.

“Okay,” Shane said. “To the couch. Do you think you can eat anything? I’ll eat this, it won’t go to waste, it’s not–it’s actually not that bad, macro wise–but you should have something. Do you have any crackers or anything? Bread?”

Ilya sniffled. A shiver ran through him, and then just… didn’t leave. Shit. Shane still hadn’t gotten a number for that fever. “There is bread in the fridge,” Ilya said hoarsely. “I–I can make toast. Can probably eat it.”

“I can make toast,” Shane corrected. Ilya looked like he wanted to protest, but Shane said, “I’m already up. And I want you on the couch. Alright? And you–you drink tea sometimes, right, you’ve brought me some–where is that?”

Ilya hesitated, then pointed at a cupboard. Then he got to his feet, carefully, and went to the couch.

Hm. Shit. Now he was farther away, and not within Shane’s direct eyeline. He’d slumped sideways on the couch, so Shane couldn’t even see the back of his head. He could hear it, though, as Ilya had another awful coughing fit. 

Shane started the electric kettle, and chucked the bread slices into the toaster at record speed. Ilya liked jam in his tea, he’d found that out at the cottage, and there was a half empty jar of jam in the fridge, red, the label in handwritten Cyrillic, like from a farmer’s market. Did Ilya go to farmer’s markets? Would he go with Yuna? Would he like growing tomatoes and cucumbers and basil with David? Would he like making raspberry jam with them, as a family, from the wild, thorny bushes that grew on the edge of the lake?

Shane found a mug, and took out the jam, and then checked the kettle. It wasn’t even really making noise yet, so he went out into the living room. 

Ilya had found a throw blanket and wrapped himself up in it. He was still shivering. 

“I’ll be right back,” Shang said, maybe unnecessarily. Ilya met his eyes, then nodded.

Shane went back to the bedroom. He found the thermometer where Ilya had tossed it last night, and the sweatshirt that Shane had worn when he arrived. He brought both out to the couch. 

Ilya smiled slightly when he saw the sweatshirt. He moved the blanket, pulled on the sweatshirt, settled back in. He was less enthused about the thermometer. Shane wasn’t sure what he had at the cottage, but he made a note to get one of the non-contact ones, so he could just zap Ilya whenever he wanted. For now, he just crouched in front of him and handed Ilya this thermometer.

“I’m fine,” Ilya said. “It is ridiculous to keep asking for new number.”

Shane just looked at him.

Ilya slid it between his teeth. 

Shane waited patiently. As soon as it beeped, he snatched it from Ilya’s mouth, so that Ilya couldn’t hide it from him again. 

It was an American thermometer. Fuck’s sake. Ilya probably had to do the conversions every time he used it, too. Shane typed it into his phone. 101.8. 38.8. 

Okay. Not great. Definitely not what he wanted him to play professional hockey with.

“How long have you been like this?” Shane finally asked. When Ilya gave him a tired smirk, Shane rolled his eyes. “Feverish, Ilya, I mean feverish.”

Ilya shrugged. Shane figured he would say he didn't know, that he hadn't checked. Then Ilya mumbled, “A week.”

“Christ,” Shane muttered. “Is that how it started?”

Ilya shook his head. He hesitated, then, “Sore throat. Is always a sore throat. Used to–I used to lose my voice.” He swallowed, hard. “But that happens less now. Which is good.” 

Shane lifted his hand, then hesitated, then carefully, slowly reached for Ilya. Ilya tracked his hand with tired, half-closed eyes, but he didn’t flinch this time. He let Shane smooth a thumb over his cheek.

The kettle started to whistle.

Shane got up. The toasted had popped, too. He returned and set everything on the coffee table. “I don’t know how much jam you wanted,” he said apologetically. “And do you want butter, for the toast?”

Ilya shook his head, sitting up slowly. “No. No, jam for this, too.” He tried to reach for the knife, but Shane beat him, and jammed the toast, and stirred jam into the tea until Ilya nodded and said, hoarse, “Enough.” Then he handed it over.

“When you’re done with this, maybe a nap,” Shane said. 

Ilya made a face. “No. I am not wasting time with you on a nap.”

“Ilya–”

“I will be fine,” he said. He took small bites of his toast, the complete opposite of how he normally ate, which was just shoving as much as possible into his mouth at once. But he was eating. 

“Do you–” Shane bit at his lip. “Are you sure you want to go tonight?”

“Have to go.”

“I think they’ll live if you don’t.”

Ilya looked away. “I’m captain. They should not have to.” He reached for the mug of tea.

Shane narrowed his eyes. 

Ilya finished one of his toast slices. He eyed the other, left it for the moment. He focused on the mug.

“Fine,” Shane said. “What do you want to do? Movie? Show? We could play MLH–”

Ilya gave a hoarse laugh. “Yes. I can do morning practice after all.” He started to move like he was going to get to his feet, but his color washed out and Shane was already pressing a hand to Ilya’s shoulder to keep him seated. Shane got the game set up. 

It was easy to play against Ilya, listening to his bullshit chirps, nudging him with his shoulder. It was less easy to play against Ilya’s cough, which rasped at Shane’s lungs. Or Ilya’s fever, which dulled his response times. God, Shane did not want him playing real hockey. At one pause, while Ilya was choking into his elbow, Shane went and got another cool cloth, and wrapped it around the back of Ilya’s neck, which Ilya bitched about in Russian. Ilya also seemed determined to stay awake, though Shane told him repeatedly that he would wake him up in time to get to the rink. 

It was a little bit miserable. On the one hand, Shane loved it. He got extra time with Ilya. No one else was around. They were relaxing, mostly. On the other hand, Ilya didn’t feel well, which made Shane upset, and Ilya wasn’t letting him do much to help, which made Shane upset in two separate ways, and also, Ilya had a fucking game that night. There was a timer running constantly in the back of Shane’s head, which was the complete opposite of the languid reassurance of the stretched out weeks back at the cottage. 

There was a selfish part of him, too. He was in the right city and he was not playing. If he was anyone else, he could have gone and watched the game. Watched Ilya Rozanov play, one of his favorite things to do. But he couldn’t. And that was a pit in his stomach that was unrelated to Ilya being sick.

It was lunch–Shane had made himself baked chicken and carrots, two of the only valid things in Ilya’s fridge other than the smoothie ingredients, but Shane couldn’t be picky considering he was supposed to have left by now, and Ilya had eaten another couple pieces of toast and more tea, which was absolutely not enough calories to fuel him for the game tonight–before Shane figured out the right question.

“What is so important about this game?” he asked, after they’d switched from MLH to just Ilya watching Shane play GTA. Ilya kept making chirping Shane’s choices, but he watched with an expression that seemed, if Shane was reading him right, fond. He also kept cackling at Shane’s virtual road rage. In GTA, Shane refused to brake for pedestrians. Or anything else, for that matter. Shane was glad to make him laugh, except that every other laugh triggered a coughing fit that made both of them wince. “I’m serious, Ilya, there’s no reason you can’t bench yourself for one game. I mean, fuck, is LeClaire that much of a monster?”

“Is not LeClaire’s fault,” Ilya rasped. He was shivering again, but he refused more blankets and he refused to go to bed and he refused anything except the tea. His big hands were wrapped around the mug like it was something he needed, and his shoulders were tight under the blanket. “I–I have been… pushing to stay.”

“Why?”

“I need a perfect season,” Ilya finally said. 

Shane paused the video game and turned to him. “You’re having a perfect season.”

“Not if I am out.”

“Everyone misses a game during the season, it’s–”

Ilya’s voice was flat. “I need a perfect season, so that when I am free agent–I can go where I want. Not just whoever I can get, but whoever I want.”

Shane stared at him. “Ilya, everyone is going to want you.”

“Not if I tank this season. They will all think something happened. They will not want me. I will have to go home, or accept new contract with–with Utah or something, and I–we will not–”

“Ilya,” Shane said. “That’s not going to happen.”

“You can’t know that,” Ilya snapped. 

He coughed again, rough, and instead of sipping from his mug, he pressed it to his chest as soon as he could breathe again, like he needed the warmth more than he needed the liquid. Fuck. Shane started, “Do you need–”

“No,” Ilya snapped. “No, I–yes. I need to be perfect, so we have a better chance of your plan. Which means I cannot give up because of a little flu. No one can–no one can think I am not still good.”

“Genuinely where are you getting this? Why would anyone–”

“We are not full of potential anymore,” Ilya said, flat. “No longer–what is it? Summer bird? No. Spring–spring rooster? Fuck. No. Who fucking cares. I just–” He scraped a hand down his face. 

Shane hesitated. “Do you mean spring chicken?”

“Yes,” Ilya said, equal parts relieved and irritated. “What the fuck does that even mean, by the way?”

“Honestly? I have no idea.”

Ilya hmphed.

“But Ilya, I mean, come on. You’re twenty six. That’s like, prime hockey.”

Ilya closed his eyes. “I know that. Except that it took years to get where we are now. Years to build team, and that was building the team around me. If people think that is what has to happen with me, then I will not be young anymore by the time the new team works it out. And I have a reputation. Hothead. Temperamental. I have really only gotten worse, like that.”

Shane chewed on his lip. Ilya wasn’t wrong, necessarily, but Ilya Rozanov was a fucking powerhouse. Everyone knew that. Any team would be beyond lucky to get him. And when Shane had come up with this plan, he’d known it would work because Ilya was generational. Ilya had agreed because he knew that, too. So then why was he being like this now? “You’re older now, though,” Shane said, and hurried on because Ilya had sent him a look that said, and that is the problem. “So you’re more talented. You get how it works. You’ve played on other teams before, like at All-Stars–”

“And the Olympics,” Ilya said flatly. “Look how that turned out.”

“Where is this coming from?” Shane asked, frustrated. “Why are you–”

“Because I want this to work,” Ilya snapped. “I want it to work, I want all of it to work, so I–I can’t–” He broke off, swore in Russian, said something else, longer, in Russian. He switched back to English. “If you don’t understand, fine. But I am not the Golden Prince of Canadian Hockey. I do not have room to make mistakes.”

That got under Shane’s skin. “Oh, and I do?”

Ilya huffed again. 

Something in Shane clocked the circles under Ilya’s eyes, and the way his hands were too tight on that mug, and the flush spreading across Ilya’s cheeks again, but he ignored them. “That’s bullshit, Ilya, and you know that. I’m half-Japanese, I don’t look like you, I–if I’m not a role model–”

“You could do anything you wanted,” Ilya rasped, “and they would still worship you at center ice.”

“I couldn’t kiss you,” Shane said, feeling something break. 

“We are in the same situation, there.”

“We’re not. You–you could kiss me. And then if things went wrong, you could go find some girl, and just say it was a prank, or a–a joke. Just you being you. And everyone would forget about it. If I did it, I–there’s no coming back from that, for me. No one would believe it.”

Ilya looked at him with that flat stare that made other players think twice. Then he mumbled something else in Russian.

“If you’re not going to–fuck’s sake. Do you want me to go?” Shane snapped. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do if Ilya said yes.

—--------------------

ILYA

Sometimes, Ilya thought, it was insane that no one had caught them. Because Shane was so fucking easy to read. Maybe everyone else was just a genuine moron, because Shane was so, so easy to read.

Like right now. He was looking at Ilya, and thinking, I thought we were past this.

Ilya knew that, just like he knew he didn’t want to be acting like he was. He didn’t want to flinch away from Shane’s touch. He didn’t want to force him away. But he was finding it very hard, to flip the switch and remind himself that Shane was safe. 

It was hard, when his head swam, to know who had his hands on him.

It was hard, when he felt so cold, to remember what warmth felt like.

—--------------------

SHANE

Ilya still hadn’t answered. When he did, he sounded like he was being strangled. But he said, tight, “No.”

Which was when it all crystallized. Ilya was being uncooperative on purpose. Maybe it was the fever, maybe it was just being sick in general, but–he’d pulled back, reverted to the version that Shane used to know, the asshole front, the one with walls so thickly protected by thorns it was easy to forget there was a wall at all. 

Shane felt like a dickhead. 

Maybe being boyfriends did not actually smooth everything into a linear progression. Maybe Shane’s plan had to account for the fact that Ilya was… jagged. It wasn’t his fault. But he caught on things that Shane sailed by, like Ilya floated above things that sent Shane spiraling. Neither of them were, exactly, well-adjusted. Shane was aware of that. 

He just forgot sometimes. Not about himself, he knew he was a control freak. But Ilya’s lack of concern over most things, his easy manner, his bright sunshine smile, his hungry wicked eyes–it all managed to trick Shane sometimes, like it was designed to, into thinking that Ilya wasn’t a master of silent self-sabotage.

That was another thing that Shane wanted to bring up, though he wasn’t sure now was the time. The smoking. The reckless cars, or, car, singular, now. The drinking, though that had eased up. 

All of Ilya’s bratty comments today, all his refusals to do what Shane wanted, when Shane only wanted any of it so that Ilya would feel better. 

Once he remembered, though, that Ilya didn’t default to anger but to hiding, he figured out his plan.

“Then come with me,” Shane said. 

He reached out–carefully–and caught Ilya’s wrist, though Ilya tensed up. “What?” Ilya asked suspiciously.

“Come here.” 

“Where?”

Shane didn’t answer, just stood and waited, Ilya’s wrist in his grip. Shit. It wasn’t like Ilya was skin and bone, but Shane had a pretty good measure on his body, and they’d both held each other’s wrists above heads enough times that Shane knew the feeling. He was pretty sure that Ilya had lost weight. Not a lot. Just enough for Shane to register it. Shane hoped it was just from this illness, that something else wasn’t going on, too. Ilya had said he’d been feverish for a week and if today’s vodka, tea, and toast diet was any indication, he’d been burning approximately one million times as many calories as he was taking in.

Ilya gave in, and got to his feet, putting his mug down. He went slowly, resisting, but he followed Shane to the bedroom.

“I told you, I’m not tired, I–”

“Just sit with me.”

“Why?”

God, he was prickly. “Because.”

Without a reason, Ilya had nothing to argue against. He let Shane pull him into the bed. 

“What are we doing?” Ilya asked, as Shane tugged him closer.

“Sitting.”

“Yes, obviously,” Ilya said, irritated. He was still tense as anything. 

“Together,” Shane said.

The word made Ilya tense more, but Shane kept a hold of him, like Ilya was a fish. He had to keep Ilya a firm grip so he wouldn’t wiggle away and flop flat on the dock and stun itself. 

Shane had never been a patient fisher. His dad was, though, and Shane would sit next to him on the dock, kicking his legs, watching the fish under the water, no rod in his hand. Without the rod, Shane could focus on the fish themselves, and not be in a perpetual state of anxious waiting. And when David would reel in a fish, Shane would be the one to unhook it. His mom was surprised that Shane had ever accepted the feel of a fish, considering he was extremely particular about what clothes he wore and what food felt like in his mouth and about a hundred other things that people always seemed to not give a shit about. But he didn’t mind the fish. Kind of looked forward to them. It was a distinct task, one he could learn, one he could learn well, and he liked the slick scales in his palm, liked having to smooth his fingers in the right direction over the fish’s fins so they didn’t spike back into him. He liked to throw them back in the lake, but that meant he had to grip them carefully as he unhooked them, so they couldn’t freak out and hurt themselves more. 

Maybe this was not a good metaphor. He didn’t want to think he’d hooked Ilya. He didn’t want to think he was in control of Ilya’s fate. He definitely didn’t want to follow this metaphor to where Ilya was either swimming listlessly around a bucket, waiting to be eaten by Shane’s family, or being chucked back into a lake, never to be seen again. God, this fish thing was bad.

He just wanted to protect him from himself. From feeling out of control and flinching back hard enough to hurt. 

Ilya was still tense, but he wasn’t pulling away. Okay. That was good. Ilya wasn’t good at being still unless it was something he wanted, which meant Shane had taken the right risk. It wasn’t that Ilya genuinely didn’t like laying here with Shane, it was that he was scared of it. Well. Maybe scared, maybe wary. Ilya was wary about a lot of things, even if he normally chose to hide that by doing exactly what should have made it worse. I like trouble. 

Ilya sneezed, suddenly. “Fuck,” he mumbled, already sounding half asleep. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Shane murmured. 

Ilya relaxed, a tiny bit. Shane did nothing with this. Just kept his grip careful on the fish. Maybe the hook was the flu. The hook was the flu, and the lake was hockey. There. It was a better metaphor now. Less disturbing. 

“I am sorry,” Ilya mumbled.

“You already–”

“For earlier.”

Shane ran his hand up and down Ilya’s arm. “I’m sorry, too.”

“It… there is no going back,” Ilya mumbled. “Not for me either. And not just because Russia. Because you.”

Shane squeezed Ilya’s bicep. Ilya shivered. Shane pulled the blankets up higher.

Another few minutes, and Ilya relaxed a little bit more. His head tipped slowly, settled a little heavier on Shane’s shoulder. Then slipped down to his chest. Shane kept his arms around Ilya, kept them both propped up against the pillows. He wanted to keep Ilya kind of upright, hoping that would let him cough less.

Ilya made a soft sound, and then went completely boneless against Shane.

Thank fuck.

—-------

Which was how Shane finally managed to get Ilya to sleep for a few hours in a row. Shane was tempted to let Ilya just sleep through the second game, but he’d neglected to consider that Ilya would have set an alarm, and it blared through his phone at full volume before Shane could slap it off. It nearly gave him a heart attack, but that was nothing on what it did to Ilya: he snapped away from Shane, eyes kind of wild, and then he started coughing, harsh and gaspy again. Fuck, that sounded bad. 

“You like, absolutely should not play,” Shane said. 

“Need to,” Ilya said, when he could finally breathe again. He was so hoarse it made Shane’s throat hurt in response. His color wasn’t awful, though. He looked, actually, a significant bit better than he had when they were on the couch.

Shane hesitated, then bit his lip, then said, “I’m staying.”

Ilya whipped his head around to stare at him. Shane had never seen someone so completely embody both a startled raccoon and a guarded cougar at the same time before. “You have a flight,” Ilya rasped. “And practice tomorrow.”

Shane shrugged. “I changed the flight while you were napping. And I told Theriault that I got food poisoning. I’ll leave tomorrow night, instead.”

For the first time since Shane had seen him this whole trip, Ilya gave him one of his golden, perfect smiles, one of the delicate ones, where Ilya seemed unsure if something was real. He’d gotten it several times at the cottage, and the first time they’d hooked up in Shane’s hotel room, and also, weirdly, when he’d told Ilya that he’d hired a stylist. He’d never seen it in a picture of Ilya. He wasn’t convinced Ilya had ever seen it at all, if he even knew he did it.

“You are staying,” Ilya said. “A whole extra day.”

Shane nodded. 

“More time,” Ilya said, and crawled back to Shane, kissed him on the neck. Shane realized that Ilya hadn’t kissed him on the mouth once, and wondered if it was Ilya’s way of trying to minimize the damage. It was sweet, if kind of pointless. “All I ever want is more time with you.”

How did he always know how to make Shane feel like he’d swallowed bubbles? Floaty and anxious and happy, at all once? “I will give you all I have,” Shane whispered, and Ilya kissed his neck again. 

-----------------------------------

SECOND GAME

CLIFF

The first period wasn’t actually that bad. Williams had scored, and Roz had given a perfect pass to Cliff, who sank it in Colorado’s five-hole, all within the first five minutes. They kind of lagged after that, but Colorado didn’t manage to catch up, either. All in all, not bad, not bad.

The first intermission had been a nightmare. 

Roz had come straight off a shift, made his way down the tunnel so unsteadily he looked drunk, and then stopped in front of the first garbage can he came across. Cliff only had time to catch up and say, “Are you–” before Roz had doubled over and vomited up his Gatorade. The rest of that break was Roz lying on the exam table in the training room, breathing too fast, looking dizzily at the ceiling, saying he could still play. They hooked him up to an IV just to make sure he was hydrated, and then gave him another dose of Dayquil. Cliff had to kind of look away, Roz swallowing hard as he kept his eyes on the ceiling. Cliff knew how much Roz hated meds, though he'd never been clear on why, and besides that–they were giving him a lot. It made Cliff nervous. Roz was maybe the palest Cliff had ever seen a human person. He asked, voice thin, if there was any way he could get a lemon or a ginger tea, and one of the assistants ducked out to go track some down. 

Cliff was supposed to be in the locker room with the others and LeClaire, but when LeClaire left, Cliff just said, “Yep, I’ll be right there,” and then hadn’t moved. No one had come back looking for him yet. 

He wasn’t even sure why he was still there. It wasn’t like Roz had asked him to be. But he also hadn’t told Cliff to fuck off, so Cliff was staying. 

“You sure you can do another period?” Cliff asked quietly. As if Roz had ever once backed down.

Roz nodded. His eyes slid to the IV again, like they’d been doing every thirty seconds. “Just need to... rest,” he mumbled. “Just need the break.”

“We can do it without you,” Cliff lied.

But that seemed to make it worse. Roz took one slow breath through his mouth, then rolled to sit up and reached for the bucket that Larry had left for him. He doubled over it, dry-heaved a couple times. Cliff was tempted to pat his shoulder, but he’d learned a long time ago not to touch Roz when he didn’t feel good. Hangover, his girl Jane wasn’t texting, illness, injury, after his dad died. 

“You think you’re gonna be sick on the ice?” Cliff asked, keeping his voice down.

Roz shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

Larry came back in, and someone must have found that ginger tea because he was carrying a steaming to-go mug. He handed it to Roz, who took it carefully. He held his face over it first, and Cliff was nervous he was going to just pass out into the hot water, but Roz managed to stay up and take a few sips, and he didn’t even puke.

This, apparently, was enough proof he was fine. 

—-----

Second period, and they kept him playing. It was probably a good thing that Roz had thrown up when he did, because now there was nothing to barf but a few sips of tea. He squirted water on his head instead of in his mouth when he was on the bench. Cliff noticed. 

Second intermission, Cliff was pulled for media–LeClaire knew, at least, that they could not put Roz in an interview right now, no matter how short. When Cliff did get to the locker room, he went to the bathroom to dunk his head in the sink–ritual, when a game was going this badly, to wake him up–and found Roz in front of the mirrors, gripping the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles were white and the pads of his fingers were red. He wasn't puking anymore, but he'd yanked off half his gear. He was soaked in sweat, his gray undershirt nearly black, his hair dark. That was normal, too, except that he didn't smell like exertion, because Cliff had basically gone noseblind to the smell of regular hockey sweat. He smelled sick, acrid and exhausted. He was way, way too pale. He looked like he was barely on his feet.

And he was shaking. It was disguised, barely, by the fact that Roz was holding himself so tightly, but Cliff could see the tension in his spine, the trembling in his arms. 

“Roz,” Cliff said. Roz barely lifted his eyes in the mirror. “You good?”

“I…” Roz lifted one hand, swayed slightly to the side, pressed the inside of his wrist to his forehead. Cliff stood carefully, ready to lunge and catch him when he passed out. It was not an if, in Cliff's head. Maybe they could avoid it if Roz fucking sat down, but that seemed unlikely. Roz put his hand down, then fidgeted up again, rubbed at his elbow, at the bandaid from his IV drip between the first and second period. He was supposed to be getting another one now, actually, making sure he was hydrated, but he was hiding here in the bathroom, instead. “This is too much.”

“Finally,” Cliff said, relieved. “Yeah, I can go tell LeClaire that you're too sick, and–”

Roz shook his head slightly. There was something almost fearful in the tight set of his mouth. “Not that,” he rasped. “I–too much–too much of the meds. I… do not feel good.”

“Shit,” Cliff said. He moved a little closer. “Okay. Like, do you want me to get the medic?”

Roz shook his head slightly, like he didn't want to move. 

“Okay. Then we'll just do–uh–what else is good for sick people? Cold cloths. And blankets?” That seemed like two separate problems, but Roz just gave him a grateful, hazy smile. Cliff could grab a washcloth on his way to tell LeClaire that he needed to take Roz out of the game.

Except he didn't need to go find him at all. LeClaire materialized in the doorway just as Cliff was debating, actually, whether he trusted Roz not to black out if he left. “So,” LeClaire said. “We can get you another dose of–”

Roz gagged over the sink. His shoulder blades flexed under his undershirt as he shifted, his breathing unsteady as he visibly tried to figure out if he was going to be sick again. 

“I really don't think that's a good idea,” Cliff said to LeClaire. He looked pointedly at Rozanov, who looked, genuinely, actually, like garbage. Come on, he said to LeClaire, telepathically. Look at him. 

“Yeah,” LeClaire finally said. “Yeahhh, off the ice, Rozanov. You've done enough.”

Roz shook his head slightly. Cliff rolled his eyes. Of course he was gonna protest. “No, I–I can…” Then he did an unsteady sort of sway-stumble, hard, right into Cliff, who had stepped forward, thinking yep, this is it. Cliff gripped Rozanov's shoulders as Roz tried to steady himself on his skates. 

“Nope,” LeClaire said. “You're done.”

—------

Cliff was, again, the one to drive Roz back to his penthouse. Roz had spent third period in the medical room, on another hydrating IV, being told he was not overdosing on Nyquil, just kind of severely dehydrated and kind of overexerted and also still sick with the fucking flu. This time, he did not just drop him off, though, because though Roz said he was fine and he was perfectly capable of walking to an elevator, Cliff watched him get out of the car and then immediately double over a bush to dry-heave.

Perfectly capable, his ass. 

So he just parked, in what was probably an illegal spot, but he threw on his hazards and hoped for the best. Then he followed Roz into the building, made sure Roz did not walk into anything except the open door for the elevator, and went with him up to his penthouse. 

“Maybe I should stay,” Cliff hedged. “Just till–you said Jane was coming, right? Should I stay till she gets here?”

“Why would you do that,” Roz rasped. He slumped onto a stool by the kitchen counter. 

“Because you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m fine. And Jane is… Jane is almost here. It will be fine.”

“If she’s almost here, then it shouldn’t be an issue for me to–”

Roz swallowed, hard. His eyes were closed. “Marly. I have told you this. Jane is so shy. And you are big and scary. Caveman. She would cry.”

There was no fucking way that Roz would date someone that delicate, but the Raiders had been letting Roz get away with that particular lie for a long time now. Whoever Jane was, she made Roz blush and snicker and smile like an absolute sap; that is, when she wasn’t giving him the silent treatment, which made Roz go homicidal on the ice and suicidal in the club, which was always a really cool and fun time that did not make Cliff and the others anxious at all. Cliff was pretty sure that Jane was just as bitchy as Roz was, and also that she had to be some kind of bad idea–high profile, probably, either married or some kind of diplomat or assassin or something. There was no other explanation. Shy was not a lie anyone believed. 

“It’s crazy that I’ve never met her,” Cliff said, pushing a little harder.

“Not crazy,” Roz muttered. “On purpose. Because of the caveman thing.” He lifted his head slightly. “Are you going yet?”

Cliff rolled his eyes. 

By the time he got back in his–not towed–car, he had a text waiting. 

O CAPTAIN MY CAPTAIN: thank you

Then another one. you will meet Jane someday. i can almost promise

—---------------------

SHANE

Shane heard only a muffled, one sided version of Ilya’s conversation with Marleau, because he had been hiding in Ilya’s bedroom closet and could hear the reverberations of Marleau’s deep voice. Ilya must have been speaking too quietly. That concerned Shane. 

But then there was a text. LILY: he is gone

Shane darted out.

Ilya was in the kitchen, slumped on a stool in his game day suit, and he looked absolutely fucking awful. Worse than yesterday by a mile. He was grey, his eyes somehow both dull and glassy, and when Shane managed to get his suit jacket off, the shirt he had on underneath was soaked in sweat that smelled like illness. 

“Bath,” Shane said, and Ilya did not protest. Ilya also did not protest when Shane helped ease him off the stool, mostly because as soon as Ilya was vertical, his knees gave out and he just slumped against Shane, utter dead weight. 

Shane caught him, badly on account of not expecting it, and then, before Ilya could do anything about it, he picked him up and carried him to the bathroom. Ilya came to when Shane was setting him on the floor of the bathroom, propping him up against the wall, which was maybe good because he didn’t have time to protest the fact that Shane had carried him anywhere before he mumbled “shit” and hauled himself over the toilet, where he tried to empty his stomach and came up with nothing. Shane pressed his lips together at the sound, but touched a hand gently to Ilya’s back, both to steady him and to keep him where he was as Shane reached around and started the bath going. 

“This is new,” Shane said.

“Is not the flu,” Ilya mumbled. He had his cheek pressed against the toilet seat, which was maybe the grossest thing Shane had ever seen him do, but it was too late now and he was about to take a bath anyway. “Is the medicine. For the flu.”

That set off alarm bells. “Did they–fuck, did they give you Tamiflu anyway? Even though you’re allergic? It doesn’t even work if you don’t get it in the first two days, what were they thinking–”

“No. No. Shane. Not Tamiflu.” Ilya managed to sit up. Shane got to work unbuttoning his shirt, and Ilya let him, though he pushed him away when he started to cough again. He inhaled unevenly when it was over, shallow and uneasy. “Just. Regular medicine. Dayquil. I took a lot.”

That didn’t exactly make Shane less angry, but it did give him something he could focus on. Once Ilya was in the bath and it was bringing down his fever, he could start googling at what point a Dayquil overdose needed a hospital. Surely the Raiders medical team had it down to a science. But maybe not for Ilya, who never took anything, who had no tolerance.

Ilya got his own pants off. By that point, the tub was full, so Shane turned off the water, tested the water–lukewarm, not cool, not cold–and then Ilya climbed in without bothering to take off his boxers. Okay. Whatever. 

Shane had considered getting in with him. Had thought Ilya might need more convincing, and getting naked was normally a pretty good way of convincing Ilya to do anything. But he wasn’t in the mood to get wet and he wasn’t sure that method would work this time, and, well, he was increasingly nervous that he would have to leave at a moment’s notice. That he was going to either have to call an ambulance or bring Ilya to the ER, because he was not well. In fact, Shane was pretty sure that if they had been in a normal relationship, Shane would have already brought Ilya, Ilya's protests and the Raiders team doctor be damned. But Shane couldn't bring Ilya to the ER, he would have to call Svetlana to come do it, and that would be outing them both to her, and she wasn’t even in the country. And Shane didn't want to call an ambulance, either, because despite Ilya's prickliness, Shane knew for a fact that Ilya would hate to be in the hospital alone, especially when he felt like such shit. And Shane couldn't bring himself to make Ilya feel worse. Not yet anyway. So he stayed where he was, on the bathroom floor, fully dressed just in case, one hand cupping water and slowly pouring it over Ilya's curls as Ilya shivered. 

And eventually, Ilya started to look a little better. After a while, Shane even let the first round of water drain and refilled it with slightly warmer water. Ilya wasn’t shivering anymore, and he wasn’t so grey, and he could track Shane’s movements without his eyes slipping closed. He hadn’t lunged for the toilet again. And he’d managed to keep down the water that Shane gave him to drink, which was a low bar, but whatever.

When Ilya did shiver again, Shane decided it was the water. So he held out a hand, and Ilya took it and let Shane help him to his feet and dry him off. Kept a hand on Ilya’s shoulder as Ilya put on boxers, and then sweatpants, and then a thin t-shirt. Shane didn’t want him to overheat, because he thought maybe that had been the wrong move earlier, and also he’d put so many blankets on the bed already.

“Bed?” Shane said. “I’ve got water and a Gatorade for you already, and—”

Ilya held up a hand, one finger slightly raised. “Hang on,” he mumbled, and then he was sinking to the floor. Shane followed, panic crackling through him. 

“Ilya,” he said, as Ilya sat against the wall, head leaned back. “Hey. Hey, talk to me.”

Ilya shook his head slightly. He held up his hand again, then reached with his other. Shane took it, hoping he got that right, and Ilya gave him a faint smile, though he didn’t open his eyes.

After a few minutes of Ilya breathing very, very steadily, Ilya opened his eyes a crack. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “To scare you.”

“It’s okay,” Shane said, rushed. “Just—what happened?”

“The…” Ilya’s eyes slid closed again. “Have been… dizzy since warmups. It is not… problem. Just… did not want to pass out on you.”

Shane thought about the fact that he’d carried Ilya up here. “Do you—okay. Do you think any of this is from the Dayquil?”

Ilya shook his head slightly. “Not anymore. Don’t think so. Just. The warm. And the cold. And the flu. And the….” He made a motion with his hand like he was trying to touch something. “The air. Is thick.”

“Humidity? From the water?”

Ilya nodded.

“Okay. I really want to get you in bed. Do you think you can get up? We’ll go slower.”

“You don’t need to—” Ilya started.

“That’s nice,” Shane said. “I didn’t ask.”

Ilya huffed a breath through his nose, but he managed to open his eyes. His grip on Shane’s sleeve was tenuous, but Shane’s grip on him was not. They managed to get to the bed.

Shane had been terrified, when Ilya didn't come back for the third period. Had immediately texted, almost called, but Ilya texted back fairly quickly. Everything is fine. I was pulled. Marly is a baby. Shane didn't know what to make of that, but at least Ilya was conscious, and awake enough to complain. 

This? This was actually not helping the terror.

“I need you to drink this for me,” Shane told Ilya, holding a glass of water.

“Am hydrated,” Ilya mumbled. “Had IV.”

“You had a what?”

“Told Larry to put Gatorade in bag.” Ilya twitched a smile. “He did not.”

“Ilya—”

“Was just for dehydration,” Ilya said. “It happens. You have had this before, yes? After hard game? When pickle and smelling salts and mustard are not enough?”

“This is why you need a better diet,” Shane said.

Ilya snorted. “Everyone uses those things. Well. I do not eat the mustards.” He made a face.

“Please,” Shane said. “Just drink a little of this for me.”

Ilya stuck out his tongue, but he did as Shane asked. Shane put the glass back on the nightstand when he was done, then he crawled into bed next to Ilya. “Tell me if you feel worse,” Shane said. “Okay? Please?”

Ilya nodded, but he already was shifting closer, snuggling into Shane’s side. “Yes,” he mumbled. “But you make it better.”

---------

Shane did not want to leave the next afternoon. Ilya had slept till eleven, and then pouted—and was, potentially, actually mildly upset with Shane—because Shane didn’t wake him up and he hadn’t wanted to “waste” so much of his extra time with Shane. Shane said he hadn’t wasted any, because they’d both been together in bed the entire time. Ilya said that didn’t count, but he also seemed a little bit mollified.

But Shane had to go. So he did. After he ordered a shit ton of soups delivered, and organized it in the fridge with little sticky notes with dates Ilya needed to throw them away by, as well as electrolytes and fruits and vegetables. And after he made Ilya swear not to shower unless he had Shane on the phone, so he would know if he fell. Ilya looked better this morning, but that was… a low bar. And he’d looked better yesterday morning, too, and then been worse than ever last night.

At least tonight, Ilya didn’t have a game. He could just sleep again.

“I’ll see you this weekend,” Shane said. “Okay? I’m going to try to make Sunday to Tuesday work.”

“I always want to see you,” Ilya said. “But I’m fine. You don’t need to skip any—”

Shane already had a back up plan, but he wasn’t telling Ilya about it until he talked to his mom. “I’ll be back Sunday regardless. It’s just Tuesday I don’t know about. I’m serious about the showering thing.”

“I know you are.”

“Ilya—”

“I agreed, I agreed. You are going to miss your flight.”

Shane leaned in, kissed Ilya, on the side of the mouth because Ilya tilted away just in time. “I love you.”

Ilya caught his shirt in one hand and pulled him back, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his mouth. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

---------


Ilya slept most of the afternoon, according to him, and then most of the way through the night, too, though Shane woke up to a whyyyyy did you get zero sugar gatorade text sent at 2:37 AM. Shane called him while he drank his smoothie; he realized halfway through that Ilya was probably asleep, but he wanted to catch him before Shane had to go to practice. And it was a couple rings longer than normal, but then Ilya did pick up. “Hey,” he rasped, smiling softly.

Shane was not smiling. “Ilya,” he said, carefully. “Tilt your phone a little.”

Ilya blinked at him, slow, then shifted his phone. 

“Turn on a different light for me?”

“Shane. Why are you asking me this.”

“Just do it.”

Ilya gave a raspy cough and leaned over, turning on the yellow lamp next to his bed. 

“Phone close to your face again.” 

Ilya obeyed. 

“You need a hospital,” Shane said. 

“I don't–”

“Your lips are blue, Ilya.” Shane's heart was picking up now. “You're not getting enough oxygen.”

“I am getting oxygen,” Ilya said, exhausted. “Is just weird lighting.”

“No, that's why I had you change the lights–Ilya, I'm serious.”

“So am I. I am fine.” 

“I don't think this is just a flu,” Shane insisted. 

“The test–”

“You can get complications. Or a false positive. Or–”

“Shane.”

“You're not in Ottawa, like with the poison ivy, we don't need a cover story or anything–you can just go–”

“I am not going to hospital. I am fine.”

“Well–you can't play like that–”

“Watch me.”

“Ilya–”

“I don't want to fight,” Ilya rasped. 

“You can't pull that card when you look like you're gonna fucking die–”

“I'll not die.” Ilya pulled in a wheezy little breath and Shane’s heart was hammering. “But I have to go to practice. I will text you later.”

“Practice? Ilya–”

“I love you,” Ilya said, and there was something about his expression that made Shane even more anxious. Like he was worried Shane wouldn’t say it back. 

“I love you, too,” Shane said, like it was obvious, because it was. And it did ease something in Ilya’s expression. But then he hung up, and Shane started pacing, because he had no idea what else he could do.

—---------------------

CLIFF

Cliff and St-Simon had dropped off Roz’s car the day before, so Cliff didn’t have to go fetch Roz before their morning practice. If he had, he might have simply refused to do it, on the basis that he did not believe anyone could look as shitty as Roz had after the second period of their last game, and be well enough to play two days later. Not even if that person was insane, like Roz.

But Roz did show up.

At first, he looked–well, not fine, but manageable. He was a little sweatier than normal, and he was pale, but his eyes were focused and he moved like he was sore, not like he was just trying to stay balanced on his skates. 

But that all dissolved as practice went on. Ten minutes in, he was soaked in sweat again. Twenty minutes, and he had high streaks of color on his cheeks. Half an hour, and he was struggling to keep his gaze focused, squinting and then squeezing his eyes shut and then blinking, hard. 

Forty five minutes, and he said, “Ah. Marly?” in a tone Cliff had never heard before. Cliff whipped around, spraying ice, and was next to Roz just in time for Roz to start to lift a hand, like he just wanted to steady himself against Cliff. Instead, Roz’s eyes rolled up and he ragdolled down. Cliff was glad he had practice with his niece, who loved to play this game, though she was approximately fifty pounds and Rozanov was probably somewhere above quadruple that. He caught him, barely. Roz’s head lolled against Cliff’s shoulder.

“Fuck,” St-Simon said, watching with wide eyes. 

“Uh,” Cliff said, panic threading through his voice. What the fuck was he supposed to do with this? “Medic?”

—------

Roz was slumped on the exam table, a blanket half over him, an oxygen mask over half his face. His eyes, tired but open and focused, tracked Cliff as he entered. 

“Feeling any better?” Cliff asked. “You're at least conscious now.”

Roz made a face. “Yes,” he rasped. “Did not even know I had a headache until it went away. Miracle.”

“That's how I feel when you leave my house.”

Rozanov coughed on a laugh. His eyes drifted shut again, then jerked open. He fished his phone out of his pocket, fought to focus on his phone screen. He tucked the phone under his head on the exam table and closed his eyes. “Jane,” he said, slurring the J a little. A pause, as he listened. “No,” Roz rasped, quiet. “No, not playing tonight. You were right.” Another pause. “Flu is pneumonia now.” Another pause, then a faint smile appeared on Ilya's face. God, he was so soft for this Montreal girl, even talking about goddamn pneumonia apparently. “A surprise,” he murmured. “You will be there?” But then the smile fell, and Roz looked kind of like the sun had died. “Whatever it is will be less good than if you were here,” he mumbled. “But yes. Yes. No–Jane. Was only a joke. Stay–stay in–” He broke off, propping himself up to choke into his elbow. When he could breathe again, ignoring the glare of the team doctor, he picked up the phone again instead of the oxygen mask. “Lyubimyy,” he mumbled. “I have to go. I will–I will talk to you later. After whatever surprise is. Yes.” He murmured something in Russian. Then he hung up, and immediately picked up the oxygen mask again. It was kind of concerning, how Cliff only realized how purple-blue Roz's lips had gone when he watched them go back to a normal, healthier color. 

“That fast?” Cliff asked. “Flu to pneumonia in three days? How fucked are you? It’s those cigarettes, man.”

“Hasn't only been three days,” Roz mumbled. 

“What? Yeah it has, you–”

“Felt like shit since Tampa,” he rasped. “Just did not tell you. Could still play.”

“Tampa was a week and a half ago–”

“Yes.” He shrugged slightly. “Could not do anything about it. Have gone through two packages of–” He frowned slightly. “Candy, but for when you're sick.”

“Uh, like, cough drops?”

He nodded. 

He hadn't just played two games sick, then, but four. And he'd played hard games, too, considering his linemates had been out sick and he wasn't used to his replacements, and their other AC had also been out a game–and Roz had made it his mission to keep their rookies safe this week too, considering they'd been in the first day or two of this flu, too, even if they had gotten to take the Tamiflu and get the severity knocked down. 

“Rozy,” Cliff said. “Is there something going on with you?”

Roz gave him that blank stare that Cliff ignored. “Yes. I have pneumonia.”

“No, beyond that, bro. You just seem–I don't know, you've seemed extra intense this season.”

“Want another Cup,” Roz said, his eyes sliding closed again. 

Cliff wanted to continue this conversation, but something else was rapidly becoming more of a concern. “Do you have someone to stay with you? Like–I'd just kidnap you back to my place, but we've got that roadie coming up so you'd be alone anyway–”

“I am fine. Will be fine. I do not need people to watch me.” Roz didn't open his eyes for any of this, which kind of made Cliff doubt all of it. “But yes. I have. I have a friend, who might stay over. If I can convince her. She is back soon.”

“You’d better convince her,” Larry said. “I’d really rather release you into someone’s care than just send you home.”

“Can you give him anything for it?” Cliff asked. 

Larry glanced at Roz, who just shrugged and waved a hand slightly, like he didn’t care. “Antibiotics, for one,” Larry said. “If the pneumonia is bacterial, they should help. If you managed to get a viral case while you were down with the flu, then the antibiotics won’t do anything. It’s all rest and fluids. But other than that–well, I already told you to use this inhaler if it gets bad.”

“Inhaler?” Cliff asked. “Like asthma? Since when do you have asthma?”

“I do not have asthma,” Roz muttered. 

“It’s for the cough,” Larry said. “I already gave him a dose with the oxygen, but you remember how to use the inhaler, right, Rozanov?”

He nodded. So this had happened before.

“We’ll get someone to drive you home again,” Larry said. “Not Cliff this time, you need to be getting back to practice. But we’ll get you set up and cleared to go home, Roz, alright?”

Roz let his eyes slide closed. “Yes. Alright.”

“Well,” Cliff said. “Feel better, bro. And next time, listen to me and just sit out a game instead of giving yourself pneumonia.”

Roz twitched a smile. “Yes.” He dragged his eyes open, found Cliff. “You will make a good captain.”

Cliff rolled his eyes. It wasn’t like Roz was going to die. He wasn’t going anywhere.

------------------

YUNA

When Rozanov opened the door at four that afternoon, Yuna Hollander had to very quickly school her face into something smiley so that her eyes didn't go wide with surprise. David, behind her, didn't do as good a job, if Rozanov's eyebrows ticking up meant anything. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Hollander,” Rozanov rasped. “I—what are you doing here?”

“Shane asked us to come by,” Yuna said. “He didn't tell you?”

“Come by,” Rozanov said, in disbelief. “It is a six hour drive. You need a passport.”

Yuna shrugged. “Close enough.”

A muscle ticked in Rozanov's jaw, making him look, briefly, more like the hockey player Yuna was familiar with. The sweatshirt/sweatpants/ankle tucked into one sock look with the ruffled hair was not one she was familiar with. Not on Rozanov anyway. “No,” he said, voice on the edge of giving out. “No, he did not tell me. Said I had a surprise. I was not… expecting this.”

“Well,” she said. “Can we come in?”

Rozanov glanced behind him, hesitated.

“Even just for a minute,” she said. If she had to make an opening, she would. “David needs a restroom.”

David, used to being a prop in her schemes, sighed behind her. 

Rozanov swallowed—painfully, it looked like—then nodded and stood back. Yuna and David stepped inside. 

Rozanov—fuck, she was supposed to be calling him Ilya, it was so hard—directed David politely to the restroom, then stood awkwardly in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug of something, shivering slightly. She wanted to get him a blanket, push him gently into bed, all instincts clamoring at once, but his reaction to them made her take stock, think her plan through. Change it. 

“I—I’m sorry to have you drive all this way,” Rozanov rasped. “If Shane had told me, I would have—would have said you didn't need to—” He turned away as he coughed, a harsh, barking sound into his elbow. Christ, he sounded awful. Turned away, Yuna could look at him more closely: at the way his curls were damp around his edges, at his temples and at the back of his neck; the way his hands were shaking worse than she'd realized when he'd had them on the mug; and then there was that terrible cough, nearly violent. He wheezed slightly when he finally drew a breath at the end, but it was the kind of stilted breath that signified he needed to cough more but was trying not to. Likely because he didn't want to in front of Yuna. 

“Sweetheart,” she said, the word dropping from her mouth before she could snatch it back. Rozanov—Ilya—looked somewhere between startled and wary. Fuck it. She was his boyfriend's mom and Shane was doing everything in his power to make that permanent—she was basically this kid's mother-in-law and she was going to use that power on him. She took a step closer as he tried to clear his throat, while he was distracted, and put a hand on his back, though he twitched away. Holy shit, he was warm, even through the sweatshirt. Alarmed now, she reached up, blowing past any last propriety, and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. Warm, no, he was burning up. She wasn't entirely sure how he was standing here, trying to act normal. “Sweetheart, have you taken anything for this fever?”

He nearly flinched back, then tried to cover by shaking his head. “Took too much,” he rasped, voice even worse than before. “Day before yesterday. I really don't… want anymore.”

The day before yesterday—oh. There had been a Boston game, against Colorado maybe. She hadn't watched. Had Ilya played? Like this?

Evidently.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Let's think of—”

“Really,” Ilya rasped. “I don't need—” He closed his eyes, and Yuna watched him go slowly paler, her worry going up proportionally. “I'm sorry you drove all the way here,” he said, his voice getting quieter. “And you are… you're welcome to stay, in the guest room, it is—long drive back. But I don't want to get you sick, and I—really, I'm fine, I—”

“Ilya,” Yuna said, firm. “I need you to sit down.”

He dragged his eyes open, but they were unfocused now, glassy, and Yuna wondered how much damage she'd caused by showing up here, by stressing him out unexpectedly. Why hadn’t Shane warned him? He looked like he was about to faint. “Mne eto no…” he mumbled. 

She tugged his sleeve, and—thankfully—he went, though he stumbled the first step in a way that put her heart in her throat. She got him onto his couch. Then she sat next to him. Hand on his forehead again. Fuck. He tried to lean away, swayed slightly.

David came back out, eyebrows raised in a was that enough time? If only she knew. She turned back to Ilya. “Honey, here's the thing.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again, tried to focus.

“I know you're a grown man,” she said. “And I know that you barely know us. But you know Shane, and he called us because he was worried about you. Like, really worried. If we hadn't come, he was halfway to calling out of a game.”

“No,” Ilya rasped, sitting up slightly. “No, I told him not to do this, he can't—” He turned away again, coughing into his elbow, those deep, choking coughs. She was going to have to Google non-pharmacy ways to treat that. Was honey actually good or just a placebo? Was it just to treat the sore throat he sounded like he absolutely had? 

She shared a look with David. The silent conversation went something like You're going to the store later. Followed by Do you want me to go now? Text me a list? Followed by Yuna's nod. 

Ilya finally managed to wheeze in a breath. He was shivering worse now. He dragged the ends of his sleeves over his hands, and fuck, he reminded her of Shane. 

“I know he can't,” Yuna said gently. “And he knows that. Which is why he sent us instead. You want Shane, you have to deal with us.”

Something about that sentence didn't land right. Ilya flinched slightly. 

“But sweetheart,” she said, “you know you're not well. And Shane knows it. So please will you let me stay and make sure you're alright? Otherwise Shane is going to go out of his mind, and I don't think you want to deal with that, either.”

“Not dealing,” Ilya whispered. “Not—he is not something to deal with.”

Oh. She hadn't realized how much him saying it like that would mean to her. 

“Of course not,” she said. She needed to get him into bed, and then she needed cool, wet cloths and honey and whatever else the fucking internet said when she didn't want to risk him ODing on cold medicine again. “But it would be better for everyone if we stayed, right? Just for a day or two? Until you're feeling better?”

Ilya's teeth were chattering. Actually, maybe he would agree to anything if she let his fever climb a bit higher. 

He nodded slightly. “For Shane's sake,” he mumbled. 

“For Shane's sake,” Yuna agreed. 

—-------

Once upon a time, Yuna Hollander had been a mean girl.

She knew it. She wasn't a woman unaware of herself. She wasn't exactly proud of it, either, but she had had two options in high school: be crushed under the weight of racism and micro aggression and regular aggression that came from being the only Japanese girl in her school, or be the biggest bitch in the pond. 

She'd chosen the second. She'd been popular, played field hockey, wore her hair in a perfect ponytail every day, wore skirts a little too short, terrorized her parents, and ruled her class with an iron fist. As much as she could, she was kind, and she didn't bully people who didn't deserve it, but, well, there it was. She was cutting when she needed to be, always with a sly smile, and sometimes, she needed to be. 

The first time she was a bitch in front of David was an accident. He'd been starstruck. The second time was not. 

All this to say: Yuna Hollander had a finely tuned sense of what people were sensitive about. 

Ilya Rozanov was good at hiding. He had a lot of armor, and to anyone else, it might have seemed impenetrable. To anyone else, it might have been invisible.

Not to Yuna. 

It did take her longer than usual, though, to piece together what was going on. She had started to notice a pattern. If it was framed as for his own good, Ilya resisted. Anything. It didn't matter what it was, lozenges or sleep or watching TV on the couch. He made snarky little comments like oh, no wonder Boston is better team, when Canada coddles like this. Chirps—and that was what they were, chirps, designed to distract—that were so ridiculous Yuna couldn't get mad, though she suspected they were said to try to irritate her enough to go away. He just couldn't bring himself to say something serious enough to hurt. 

If she framed the suggestion as for anyone else—her, Shane, David, Boston as a team or city or concept—he folded in under thirty seconds. Every time.

She didn't like this pattern.

—------

Yuna woke up in the dark. 

Proper night must have fallen. The TV was still muted. Ilya was no longer on the couch, though, just the blanket he'd been under. He'd probably made his way to bed. 

She should probably do the same. Her watch said something past midnight; she didn't bother focusing enough to read the rest. She'd brush her teeth, crawl in with David. It had been a long drive from Ottawa, after a panicky call from Shane, and Ilya’s palpable anxiety over having them there had not exactly made the rest of the day easy. She’d at least managed to get some food in him, though he’d only gotten through about half the soup before he’d been nodding off. Then they’d put on the Raiders game that Ilya had planned on being in, and Ilya had laughed slightly when Yuna couldn’t contain her comments of is that ref fucking blind? David had sat in a chair, and Yuna had sat on one end of the couch, and Ilya had wedged himself so far into the other corner of the couch that Yuna had for a moment wondered if she’d forgotten deodorant. Once she found a blanket, though–by asking if he had one she could use, and saying no no she didn’t need the thermostat up, she just wanted a blanket, she was already on her feet, she could get it–and then immediately laid it over him while he looked up at her with this oddly wide-eyed look, it didn’t take long for him to start dozing off again. Every time she shifted on the couch, though, he would jerk awake, somehow looking even more exhausted than before. She’d patted the middle of the couch, said are you sure you don’t want to lay down? But he’d just shaken his head. His cough still sounded awful. 

She was still thinking about Ilya’s tense shoulders when she opened the guest bathroom door. She flipped on the light and–nearly tripped over Ilya. He mumbled something and shifted, eyes flickering open. Yuna was already sinking to her knees, toothbrush forgotten. “Sweetheart,” she said, worried. “Are you okay?”

She should have known not to phrase it like that, at this point. Ilya nodded slightly, even as he tried to sit up and then kind of sank back onto the floor. “Sorry,” he whispered, like he physically couldn't speak any louder. “Sorry. I'll move. Just–give me one minute. Did not mean to fall asleep here.”

“Honey, that's fine.” She stroked his hair back. Fuck. He was absolutely burning up again. His shirt was black, but she realized as he shifted again that it was stuck to him with sweat. She needed to get this fever down. She was going to need to wake up David, have him start soaking full towels in cold water. She pressed the backs of his fingers to Ilya's cheek. He made a small, soft sound, almost like he liked it. Almost like it hurt. “Ilya, honey, why are you in here? Did your stomach hurt?”

He turned his face slightly away, toward the floor. “Coughing,” he whispered. “Was coughing too hard, could not find the inhaler. Was sick.” He shook his head slightly. “I'm sorry. You should not–you should not be here, if you catch this, I–”

“Shh,” Yuna said. She raised her voice and called out the bathroom door. “David?”

“No,” Ilya rasped. He tried again to sit up, and Yuna saw the color go completely out of his face. She reached for him even as he sank back down, visibly trying to stay conscious. “No, you do not–he does not need to be woken–I–”

“He’s probably not even asleep,” Yuna lied. “He’s a light sleeper in–cities–”

Ilya looked impossibly sad at that. What had she said? How did– “Sorry,” Ilya whispered. “I will get–those curtains. For light. And–the noise, I’m sorry, I don’t know how to–how to fix–”

“What? No, honey, you don’t have to fix anything. We won’t even be here long.” 

Shit, shit, shit. Bad to worse. Her first lie–David slept like a log, except that he’d always woken to her voice, especially when she used that our kid is sick, our kid is hurt, our kid is upset tone–had gone down badly, and this one maybe went down worse. We won’t even be here long had made Ilya start shivering worse, again. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Good. You will leave in the morning? I don’t want you to catch this.” Except that he looked so lonely, and so ill–

“No,” she said, soft. “We’re staying for a few days. Okay? But we don’t need you to fix anything. Everything is fine.” She’d worried, once, about what Rozanov was bringing to the table. About what he could possibly bring to Shane. David had been unconcerned about that. In fact, after that first meeting with Rozanov—Ilya—she had caught David googling Raiders merch. He’d seen Ilya ground Shane at the dinner table and hadn’t cared about the rest. She had tried to look at it that way, but she couldn’t quite manage it; Shane was high profile and the best at what he did and he’d been getting death threats since he was fourteen. Ilya Rozanov was going to upset a very delicate balance that Shane walked, and she needed him to be worth it for her baby.

She hadn’t realized how desperately Ilya seemed to want to provide, anything at all.

She stroked Ilya's forehead again, watched as he tried to open his eyes, watched them track, unfocused, across her face, then slide closed again. 

David appeared in the doorway. Where the hell had he been? “Hey,” he said, low, gentle, pushing open the bathroom door a bit more. “We’re having a party in here.”

Ilya huffed a tiny breath through his nose. Yuna thought it was maybe supposed to be a laugh, and it broke her heart.

“What do you need?” David asked Yuna, quiet.

“Wet cloths,” she said. “Towels, really. We need to bring down this fever.”

“Is the thermometer in here?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t realize he was in here.”

“I will go,” Ilya mumbled.

“No,” she said, just barely not snapping at him. It was reflexive, to want to hurt whatever was hurting him, but–but right now, he was the one pushing back. “No, you’re staying right here.”

“Is your bathroom,” he breathed.

“And nobody needs it right now,” she said. She maybe should have brought him to his own bathroom, it was probably bigger and at the very least certainly closer to his bed, but she couldn’t bear the thought of making him get up, not when he looked like he was about to black out every time he tried. “Ilya. Listen to me. You are too sick to make any serious decisions right now. Which means I need you to just listen to me, and do what I say, okay? Nothing crazy, but it does mean don’t argue when I say you’re staying here, and it’s alright, and David and I will be fine. Okay?”

Ilya’s eyes flickered as he looked up at her, going in and out of focus. “You need this from me,” he mumbled.

“Yes. This is what I need from you.”

He nodded, the motion tiny. “Okay.”

“Hang on,” she said, just now processing something. “Did you say inhaler?”

He coughed slightly. It didn’t turn into a full fit, for which she was insanely grateful. “Don’t remember where I put it,” he mumbled. “In my bag. Or my coat. Was too far to get. I’m sorry, I–”

“No, shh, it’s alright. David?” she said without looking away from Ilya. “Can you check and see if you can find that inhaler?”

She felt David’s presence behind her leave. Ilya relaxed slightly. Except then he was coughing, and this was a full fit, hoarse and deep and breathless and terrifying to witness, which meant it had to be hell to experience. She caught his arm, ignored the flinch because there was no other option, and pulled him to sit up. His whole body shook as he tried to breathe.

“Spit,” she said, when it was over. They were right next to the toilet. But he just looked at her like that was an insane suggestion, as if she’d never witnessed a man spit before. Like her son didn’t play fucking hockey. “Spit,” she said again, firm. When he still seemed hesitant, she looked pointedly up at the ceiling. He coughed again, clearing his throat, and she heard him spit. Twice. “Thank you,” she said, looking back at him. He just slid back to the floor, his eyes blinking slowly. Shit. If she’d thought he would do that, she would have kept him against her.

David returned a minute later with the inhaler. He handed it to Yuna, then said, “I’ll go start on those towels,” voice low, and left again. Yuna wished she could do it for Ilya, but she didn’t know how the inhaler worked, so she just nudged it into his hand. He pressed the button, inhaled, tried to hold. Released the breath. Coughed again. “Sorry,” he rasped again, hoarser. She had literally no idea what he could possibly be apologizing for this time.

God, she didn’t like this. And, wait–he’d said he was coughing. Badly enough to be sick. But she wasn’t a deep sleeper, and she hadn’t woken to it, which meant–which meant either he was lying, or he had been trying to muffle the coughing. That couldn’t have helped. 

David came back with a hand towel and a bath towel, both cool and the perfect amount of wrung out, not dripping, still thoroughly wet. He’d also brought one of the Gatorades from the fridge. “I’m getting the other towels ready,” he said. “Get that cycle going.”

“Thank you,” Yuna said. She draped the bath towel over Ilya, who shuddered, and then pressed the hand towel to his forehead. “Can you find me the thermometer? Shane said it’s probably in the living room.”

“No,” Ilya murmured. 

Yuna kept stroking his wet hair back, trying not to knock the cloth off his forehead. “Yes,” she said. “We have to make sure you don’t need a hospital.”

“Don’t need.”

The thermometer that David brought back agreed, technically. He was still just under 39. Bad, but not hospital bad. Unless he stayed at this temperature even into the morning. Then she’d be reevaluating.

“Okay, I'll be right back,” she murmured. He nodded.

She only stepped just outside the bathroom. David was there. “Do we tell Shane?” she whispered.

David shook his head. “He’ll blow a gasket. We’ll keep an eye on the kid. If he needs a hospital, then we call Shane.”

“If he needs a hospital—”

“We’ll figure out a plan,” David said. He ran his hands up and down Yuna’s arms. She let out a breath. “Alright? But for now, we focus on doing what we can here.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

Ilya was worse, on her return to the bathroom. He was breathing faster, that sick kind of pant, and sweat had broken out again. He gleamed dully under the mirror light. 

Then—

“Shit,” he rasped, hauling himself to his knees with a speed she hadn't thought he was capable of right now. “Sorry, I'm sorry—” And then he was puking. For a second, terror ripped through her faster than she could process—but then her brain caught up, and he wasn't vomiting blood, he was vomiting the red Gatorade. The recovery was more violent than the actual illness: it seemed to just pour out of him, and then it was miserable, full body heaves as he tried to catch his breath. 

“Shit,” she said, sliding back to her knees next to him. She hovered a hand over his back, then decided to keep her hands to herself. He spit a little more into the toilet, and she kept her voice that same soft gentleness she would use with Shane. “Did the Gatorade not sit well?”

Well. Obviously not.

But Ilya didn't critique the comment. “Don't think it was that,” he mumbled. “Drank more, when you were gone. Too fast, too cold. I was thirsty. I didn't think.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured. 

“My fault,” he whispered. “Sorry. I should have known better. Wasted the Gatorade.”

“No, no, it's alright. We'll give it a minute, then, before I have you drink a little more. It’s all red and blue in the fridge, did you want a blue one instead?”

Ilya shivered. Shit. Alright. Change of plans. She pulled the towel off him, sent David to find a sweatshirt. “Blue is mine,” Ilya breathed. “Red is for Shane.”

David returned with—oh. It was one of Shane’s, from the back of the couch. She got Ilya to take off his soaked shirt and replace it with the sweatshirt. She got him to take another few sips of Gatorade, slowly this time, and just a few. She kept rotating the cloths on his forehead, and wrapped him in a blanket. “Can you get me one of the blue Gatorades?” she asked David.

“There’s ginger ale, too,” David said. “I can swirl out most of the carbonation, it might settle his stomach—”

Ilya nodded slightly. David left again.

“Shane’s favorite,” Yuna murmured. “Do you go through them at the same rate he does?”

Ilya shook his head. “Bought them for Shane.”

Yuna bit her lip.

----------

The rest of the night wasn’t thrilling, but the height of the fever lost its grip fairly soon after she got him to alternate the flat ginger ale and a blue Gatorade, keeping cold cloths on his forehead and the back of his neck. The cough still sounded like it hurt, but with him a little more hydrated, it was a little more productive, and he could spit into the toilet easier. He didn’t cough so hard he was sick again, which Yuna counted as a win. He still only got sleep in about twenty minute increments, but Yuna didn’t blame the cough or the fever so much as her presence, because every time she moved at all, Ilya opened his eyes again.

In the morning, Ilya seemed better. His fever still simmered, but in the upper 37 range, rather than edging past 39. The flush wasn't nearly so bad, and though he was still moving gingerly, he was at least moving. The cough still sounded bad, but sometimes a bad cough lingered. 

Yuna wanted to stay. When Shane had asked her to go check on him, she'd quite honestly thought he was overreacting. He had a tendency to, and this thing with Rozanov was… well, it apparently wasn't new, but being allowed to show he cared was. 

She stayed till noon. She fought with herself, over what to do. Them being there was good if something went wrong, but it was also stressing him out, potentially making things worse. He would have lived, last night, if they hadn’t been there. It would have been absolutely miserable, but probably it still had been. She wasn’t convinced that her presence had been a comfort to him, like it would have for Shane.

Because she was not Ilya’s mother. She barely knew him, and she wasn't stupid; while she suspected Ilya very much appreciated the effort that she and David had put in, she could also read between the lines. He was terrified of how vulnerable he had been. He was even more tense now than he'd been when he first realized why they were at his apartment. He hadn't relaxed into this, and she was pretty sure it would take a lot more time to ease him into it. And he would have to be eased. 

This was a good compromise, maybe. She'd come, she'd made sure he got through the night, and now she'd leave. He would know that she didn't mind. 

“Alright,” she said with a big sigh. She turned to throw a smile at Ilya, who was sitting at the counter, nearly dozing off over his tea. At her voice, however, he snapped back awake, all tension and wary mouth and tight, tracking eyes. God, she didn't want to leave him looking like that, like she and David were unpredictable spirits in his place, things he had to monitor and manage and be nervous about. She wasn't sure what had made him like that—it was almost like he was in hockey mode, constantly watching for the puck, knowing where his teammates were, every play that might happen. But there was none of the wicked mirth that used to look entirely dickish to Yuna and now, when she saw him on her screen, looked… playful. This was a more serious version.

She didn't want to stress him out more when he was already sick. It wasn't good for him. And he seemed okay now. Maybe the worst had passed. 

Shane wasn't going to be happy about it, but this was no longer just about Shane. 

“I think David and I might head out soon,” she said. “I know I said last night that we’d stay longer, but you seem like you have things under control, and I don’t want to be in your way.”

Ilya met her gaze, searching, evaluating. “You're sure?” he asked evenly. “It's a long drive.” He hesitated. “I know it was Shane who sent you, but I–you are welcome to stay. I don't use that bedroom.”

“Do you want me to?” Yuna asked. “I can, my calendar is already cleared for the week.”

Ilya swallowed. He looked like he wanted nothing less, and was trying to figure out how to phrase that politely. 

“I'll make you a deal,” Yuna said. Ilya smiled faintly at that. “I'll go home, and you'll agree that if you get worse, you'll see a doctor. And you'll call if you need someone. For anything. Alright? You have our numbers.”

Ilya hesitated, then nodded. “Like mother, like son,” he said quietly.

“Pushy?”

He laughed quietly, though it caught, triggered a coughing fit. He muffled it under the collar of his–no, Shane's hoodie.

The coughing didn’t stop. God, it sounded bad, all congestion. Yuna was about to get nervous, but he pulled his inhaler from his sweatshirt pocket and used it, then propped his head in his hand.

“You’re sure you don’t need a ride to the doctor now?” Yuna asked, almost stern.

Ilya shook his head. He waved the inhaler around. “I already know what is wrong. My doctor knows. It’s… it’s fine.”

She reached to check his forehead again, and he flinched.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

David was already there with the thermometer. Ilya submitted to putting it back in his mouth.

38. Not even a decimal. Still pretty low-grade.

“Alright,” Yuna said. “But you’ll call if you need anything? Or even if you want some company?”

Ilya nodded.

---------

“You left?” Shane demanded.

“Honey, he's a grown man and we were in his space. The fever was down. He seemed like he was recovering, and if it's been a few days, then the flu should be–”

“Except he doesn't just have the flu, Mom, he has fucking pneumonia, and of course he seemed fine! He's a fucking liar!”

Yuna stared at David, who sighed and pulled into a random business. He put the car in park and waited. 

“What do you mean he has pneumonia?” Yuna asked, putting Shane on speaker. “You didn't tell me that.”

“I–yes I did, I–shit. No. He told me after I'd already sent you guys down there, and then I meant to tell you but I had the game, and–”

“Alright. Alright. Shane. Breathe.”

“And that’s another thing,” Shane said, still frantic. “They gave him an inhaler because his cough was so bad. It's why he kept passing out.” Yuna wanted to demand, kept? As in, more than once? “He wasn't getting enough fucking oxygen. Because of the pneumonia. And probably because of the cigarettes, holy fuck I hate when he smokes—”

“Okay. Okay. We’re turning around, Shane, we’ll go back.”

“He probably thinks he scared you away,” Shane said, and Yuna could see him in her head, those glossy eyes that he got when he was upset, a hair trigger, the way he worked so hard to keep any tears from falling. There was a specific—it wasn’t a waver, not a crack, but his voice was so specific when he got upset. “And either he did it on purpose or he thinks he’s too much, and—he was trying to do it to me, and I don’t—I don’t know how to make him realize—”

“Honey,” Yuna murmured.

David found a gap in traffic. He pulled back onto the road.

----------

Ilya opened the door again. He was in the same clothes as that morning, and he was still running that slight fever flush along his cheekbones. His eyes were focused, despite the circles under them that made it clear he hadn't actually gotten any rest in the two hour interim. Or if he'd tried, he hadn't succeeded.

“You lied to me,” she said, which was not exactly how she'd planned to start.

“I did not,” Ilya said, stepping aside to let them in. “I did not correct you.”

“Shane–”

“Shane exaggerates,” Ilya said tiredly. 

“Shane thinks you underreact.”

Ilya just lifted his hands slightly, palms up. 

“We're staying,” she said. “At the very least until Shane is back down on Sunday.”

Ilya's eyes softened at the mention of Shane, but he just nodded. “Yes,” he said. “He… Shane called me. Said you were coming back.”

“We'll do our best to stay out of your way–”

“You are not in my way–”

“—but David and I are going to be cooking, and you are going to be resting. Understand?”

Ilya pressed a hand flat against the table, like his balance had momentarily gone out. “I understand,” he said, low.

Yuna went over, pushed him gently into the living room and onto the couch. He slumped down. She sat next to him. “Sweetheart,” she said, again, before she could help it. His eyes found hers. “This isn't a punishment.”

He frowned slightly. “No. I do not—I did not think of you and David as… as punishment.”

“You're tense all over, honey.”

“Is not you,” Ilya mumbled. “Just—I… don't feel good. And I have lived alone a long time. So. Habits. Not your fault.”

“Well,” she said. “Then time for us to make some new habits, hm?”

One corner of his mouth twitched.

------

When Yuna got back from the grocery store, David was playing sudoku in the chair while the TV played a hockey documentary on mute. Ilya, on the other hand, was lying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, his hair a mess, a tissue crumpled in his hand as the one arm not wrapped in the blanket dangled toward the floor. It had been a couple days since they arrived, and while Yuna’s main goal was to keep the lingering fever down, David was playing a slightly odder game that Yuna wasn’t quite sure of yet. He also refused to tell her, had wanted to “collect more data” first. It was easy to see herself in Shane, but sometimes she forgot exactly how much David was in him, too. She was the forward-thinker; David got them there. Shane barreled ahead doing both at once. She loved her boys so much.

“How’s he been?”

David glanced up, then eased to his feet and motioned her into the kitchen, a bit further away. “He’s been in and out,” he murmured. “Maybe every twenty minutes. He’ll wake up, focus, make a joke. And then he’ll doze off again. He’s been pretty solidly asleep for the past maybe forty five, though.” David gestured to the tissue. “I would’ve gotten him a new one, but he… when he’s awake, he denies he needs anything and when he’s asleep–you know how Shane sleeps like the dead, once he’s out?”

Yuna nodded.

“That is not Ilya. Right now, he’s okay, but if I made any sound at all when he was dozing, he kept snapping awake, like it was an alarm. And even now, I… I don’t want to wake him.”

“Well,” Yuna said quietly. “I’ve got new soup and ice cream and a new box of that ginger tea he likes. Are you hungry now or do you want to wait a bit more, see if he wakes up, try to have dinner together?”

“You don’t think that puts too much pressure on the kid?”

“To have dinner?”

“With us,” David clarified. “His boyfriend’s parents. While he doesn’t feel well, and clearly….” He hesitated.

“What?” Yuna asked, impatient.

He sighed, and that was when Yuna knew she was going to get the details of whatever strategy David was running. “Yuna, he flinches.”

“Yeah, he’s sick, and we keep putting cold cloths on him and my cold hands, and–”

“No. I don’t think he’s gone through life on easy mode,” David said quietly. “The way he acts normally, I know we… we used to think he had. But watching him this week? I think we missed something.”

This was what David had been doing. The different places he sat every day in the living room, which had driven her nuts mostly because he always sat in the exact same spot at home. He’d been getting different angles on Ilya. He’d been running a long game, trying to ease closer without bulldozing in like Yuna had done.

“Shit,” Yuna murmured.

----------

So Yuna rearranged her strategy to more closely align with David’s. And she stepped back a little, tried to keep herself matter-of-fact instead of claiming mother-in-law rights too early or whatever the hell she’d been trying to do before. She let David take the lead, since he had a head start right now.

And Yuna saw the moment that Ilya gave in for the first time.

He’d been lightheaded all morning, if she was reading his body language correctly, and he’d mostly stayed on the couch, half curled into a corner, dizzily watching ESPN. David had been on the other end of the couch, the closest he’d been this week, sidling closer like he was getting a street dog used to his presence. He was reading a mystery, because ESPN was currently playing basketball. When Yuna brought them over some ice cream–she had bought a few different flavors, found out that Ilya didn’t really discriminate, liked everything but mint chocolate chip, which used to be Shane’s favorite–Ilya sat up carefully, thanked her with a hoarseness that made her throat hurt, and ate it slowly. It was when she took the bowls back to the kitchen and watched the living room while she washed them that she saw Ilya go to lie down again, and then freeze as he realized he’d forgotten David was there and that he was going the wrong direction, that he would end up with his head by David. There was a tension in Ilya that seemed almost pathological.

There was a quiet moment. Then David patted his thigh; Yuna could see his shoulder move, guessed the rest. Ilya stayed frozen.

Then, after maybe ten seconds, and Ilya wavering slightly in a way that kept Yuna on her toes, in case that dizziness got to be too much, Ilya carefully, slowly eased down. He disappeared from view. David stayed very still.

Yuna finished up in the kitchen. She went over, circled the couch.

Ilya had his eyes closed. He was shivering a little again, but he was wrapped in the blanket and he had his head on David’s thigh and David had one large hand resting on Ilya’s head. His other hand was still holding up his spy book, his eyes trained on that. It was probably the only way he’d convinced Ilya this was an okay plan, by pretending he wasn’t paying attention whatsoever, other than the invitation.

David did lift his gaze slightly to meet Yuna’s over his book, though. His eyes crinkled in a victorious smile. Yuna kissed the top of his head as she passed.

------

Yuna had told Shane to wait till morning, to get some sleep, not to drive to Boston after his afternoon game in Montreal, but there was one of his “clean energy” drink cans in the recycling when she woke up and his coat hung in the hallway. She rolled her eyes.

Ilya’s bedroom door was ajar. There was no sound from inside, so she peeked in.

There was Shane, asleep, face tilted toward Ilya. And there was Ilya, in Shane’s sweatshirt, tucked completely against her son, his face barely visible. For the first time of this whole trip, Ilya looked knocked out. Like he finally felt safe enough to relax.

Yuna’s eyes stung. Alright.

New plan.