Chapter Text
Shane knew something was wrong as soon as he woke up.
There was a dull ache in his head, his neck and shoulders felt stiff, and his throat felt raw. Opening his eyes, he adjusted to the sunlight streaming in through the curtains and breathed through his initial panic. He had a game tonight, he couldn’t be sick. It was hard enough transferring to a new team, where his husband was captain, than to even fathom the idea of having to miss a game being sick. However he felt, he had to get past it. He was okay. He was in bed, with his husband.
Right on cue, Ilya let out a beautiful moan as he blinked awake beside him and smiled in the sunlight.
“Dobroye utro, lyubov' moya,” Ilya greeted sleepily.
He would never get tired of his husband worshipping him in his native language.
“Dobroye utro,” Shane recited.
He hoped to get a compliment about how his Russian pronunciation was getting better, but instead he received a worried look from his husband. Maybe because his voice came out barely above a whisper.
“What is wrong?” Ilya demanded. “You’re sick?”
“No,” Shane croaked. He swallowed hard. “Must be allergies.”
Ilya didn’t look convinced. “Mhmm. I’m making you tea.”
“Merci.”
“And your shake. You need the nutrients.”
“What?” Shane shot up. Tea or coffee was one thing, but the idea of anyone but him making his routine gameday food made his heart pound. “No, Ilya. I’ll do it later.”
His husband crossed his arms. “Do you not think I can make a smoothie?”
“I mean…no, but…”
“Scott Hunter trusts his husband to make his smoothies.”
“Scott Hunter is retired and thinks his husband’s smoothies are magic.”
Ilya waved a hand around. “So? Maybe I can make magic smoothies too.”
He officially did not trust whatever idea Ilya had for his meals. He also hated this. Most partners would love if their husbands offered breakfast in bed. Why couldn’t he just chill and let himself be spoiled? Especially since walking all the way to the kitchen felt like an impossible feat for his sore muscles right now. He felt like he was hit by a truck...and then the truck ran him back over.
“Fine,” Shane huffed sarcastically, as though this were the worst thing in the world.
A loopy smile crossed his face as his husband kissed him on the nose and headed to the kitchen to make the tea. Shane sat up so he could head into the washroom and immediately regretted it. His head pounded harder and it was cold. Their house in Ottawa was built for the brutal Canadian winters, complete with heated floors and a cozy electric fireplace in the bedroom and living. It almost never felt cold inside. He raced to the washroom, took care of his business and grabbed his favorite hoodie- an old Boston one of Ilya’s. The hoodie reminded him of their innocent younger selves, the daring secrecy of their early relationship and how hard his love worked to get to where he was now. How hard both of them worked.
Then he was torn. If he crawled back into bed, Ilya would know for sure something was wrong. Shane felt bad but it wasn’t like he was dying, right? He could take it easy today, then the game against Buffalo would be an easy enough win. Shane new Ilya was a big fan of giving their rookies some ice time and had promoted the idea to the coach for this game, so he was likely to only play in one of the periods. Then tomorrow was an off day before traveling to Boston. Easy.
Ilya appeared back in the bedroom, immediately clocking The Comfort Hoodie, and his eyes narrowed as he sat the tea on the bedside table. He then planted his hand against Shane’s forehead to check his temperature.
“Hey!” Shane complained, squirming away. Ilya’s hands felt cold.
“You are hot!”
“Why thank you, kind sir.”
“You are sick hot. And having chills.”
“I’m fine,” Shane lied. “You cling to me like a koala in your sleep, I’m like a furnace in the morning.”
His husband considered it. “You are a furnace. Makes you perfect pillow.”
Shane rolled his eyes and reached out to pull Ilya down into bed with him.
“You wish to spread allergies to me?” Ilya accused as he landed on to of him.
“Allergies aren’t contagious. Besides, I don’t think there’s anywhere your lips haven’t been on me after last-"
Said lips captured his in a kiss before he could finish. Normally, Ilya’s morning kisses brought instant comfort. They were slow and sleepy- with the occasional bout of eager and adventurous, depending on what kind of dreams Ilya had. But very quickly, these kisses were painful. His throat became sorer, and Shane had to pull away.
“What?” Ilya asked. “Is my breath that bad?”
“No,” Shane chuckled. “My tea is going to get cold. And what happened to that smoothie?"
“So many demands," Ilya teased as he pulled away. "You, stay here. Watch daytime old people TV or whatever you boring north Americans do when you're sick."
As his husband waltzed out of the room to start on his smoothie, Shane called after him:
"I'm not sick and I'm not-"
His voice gave out on him; he hit his head back against the pillows in defeat.
The couple took the day very easy. While Shane joined Ilya for their usual morning yoga- sometimes a little sunlight and fresh air was enough to make him feel better on rough mornings- his husband refused to let him into their gym for a full workout.
“I’m a professional athlete with a game tonight, Ilya!” Shane protested hoarsely.
“Say that without sounding like a sick old man.”
Shane fumed and well…tried and failed. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he could force his legs up on that treadmill even if he tried. This was the worst.
“Stupid allergies,” he mumbled.
With a smug smile, Ilya tipped his chin up with his finger. “You will live. You will also live if you sit out this game and rest.”
Hands fidgeting, he shifted from foot to foot anxiously. He knew Ilya wouldn’t think any less of him if he didn’t play, but he had never missed a game for being sick in his whole career. Rookies were itching for the perfect opportunity to take his spot in hockey history. He was in his thirties now, that moment could come any time. He refused to risk it all ending because he had to take some time off for a sore throat.
“You and I both know I can’t take off for every little sore throat and allergies,” Shane pointed out. “You know that better than anyone Mr. Played With the Flu.”
His throat hurt so much just from saying that little, and neither of them missed the squeak in his voice.
Ilya made a face and pouted at the memory. Not only did a much younger Ilya try to play a whole away series with the flu, he nearly threw up on the ice and got half the team sick. It was a wonder he wasn’t kicked out of Boston right then and there.
“You want me to play you tonight, go back to bed and rest.”
“You’re my captain, not my coach! You can't bench me!"
“But coach loves me and will listen to my advice.”
“…I hate you.”
His husband booped his nose with his finger. “You do not. Now rest. I will bring tuna melt later.”
Okay, that part sounded good. And truthfully, his muscles thanked him as he retreated away from the workout machines and back to his bedroom paradise for a long nap.
Shane felt worse when he woke up two hours later. Instead of being cold, he felt hot and sweaty and couldn’t get the hoodie off fast enough. Still, he knew plenty of guys who played through worse. He was paid a lot of money to make that game tonight and frankly, the press rumors about why Shane Hollander-Rozanov couldn’t play in a single period tonight would be worse. Especially since those rumors would range from ‘Rozanov Takes It Easy On Sick Husband’ to ‘Does Rozanov Not Value His Own Husband As A Player?’. Neither of them needed that kind of stress right now. Hockey players played through sore throats and allergies all the time.
So, Shane took some cold medicine, drank a lot of Gatorade, and rolled up to the rink with Ilya feeling marginally better. When the guys asked what was wrong with his voice, Shane replied 'allergies' like a sane person while Ilya slyly announced 'too much screaming last night'. He gaped at his husband while the players made faces and waved Ilya away, complaining:
"We don't need to know that, man!"
"Ilya!" Shane hissed. "What is wrong with you?"
His husband grinned. "Now they won't bother you about being sick. Or do you want me to have you evaluated by a team doctor?"
"I'm not sick!" Shane mumbled and winced at the effort.
To save his voice, Shane used a white board to help communicate. Of course the second he left the white board sitting out, he came back to a stick figure drawing of him and Ilya in a tree that said 'Shane and Ilya kissing in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g'.
"You guys are five years old."
But during the pre-game huddle, while Ilya was on his soap box acting like this one little game against Buffalo might as well have been game seven, Shane couldn't help but to draw what he thought was a rather flattering stick figure drawing of Ilya, literally standing on a box of soap and shouting about how much he loved everyone.
"Am I supposed to be offended by this?" Ilya asked. He took the whiteboard from him. "I'm putting this on the refrigerator."
The game went on as expected. Shane sat out the first period and was called in the second. He proceeded to masterfully score against Buffalo. He turned around, seeking his husband to celebrate with, but suddenly the whole rink was spinning. He felt hot and shaky.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t just allergies.
“Shane?”
“Ilya-"
It was all he managed before he fell into his husband's arms and everything went black.