Work Text:
Patient Zero
March 2021
Shane is three days into what he is absolutely not admitting is glandular fever when his phone starts vibrating off the coffee table.
**Lily**: I'm sick 🤧🤒😷
**Lily**: I will never recover
**Lily**: You have given this illness to me and now I die
Shane stares at the ceiling. He has been staring at the ceiling for approximately six hours, which is how long he has been lying on the couch too exhausted to find the remote, too feverish to sleep, and too stubborn to call anyone and confirm that yes, he is, in fact, dying.
**Lily**: Pike children infect you and you infect me
**Lily**: Canadian disease will end me!!
Despite everything ( the throat that feels like gravel, the headache sitting behind his eyes like a dull blade, the general sense that his body has staged a coup ) Shane smiles.
**Jane**: Interesting. I don't recall forcing you to visit.
**Lily**: I am bedridden
**Lily**: I cannot even taste water
**Jane**: I warned you but you wouldn't leave me alone.
**Jane**: You knew the risks.
A pause. Shane can picture Ilya's face, the outrage, the theatrics, the very specific expression he makes when he has done something catastrophically stupid and is trying to blame someone else for it. The image is so clear and so fond that Shane's chest does something he would prefer not to examine.
**Lily**: This is not the point
**Lily**: The point is that I am suffering
**Lily**: Beautifully. Tragically. Like a Russian novel.
**Jane**: You're not in a Russian novel. You have a virus.
**Lily**: Same thing
**Lily**: Come take care of me
**Jane**: I'm sick too, Ilya.
**Lily**: Yes but your sick is almost over
**Lily**: Mine is just beginning
**Lily**: I need soup
**Jane**: Make your own soup.
**Lily**: I cannot lift a pot. My arms are too weak from suffering.
**Jane**: Your arms were fine twenty minutes ago when you were replying to that hockey Twitter thread.
A longer pause this time.
**Lily**: ...I was resting my fingers between tweets
**Jane**: Goodnight, Ilya.
**Lily**: SHANE
**Lily**: solnyshko
**Lily**: 🥺
Shane puts his phone face down on the cushion. He is not going to respond to the puppy eyes emoji. He has resolve. He has boundaries. He is a professional athlete and a team captain and he will not be moved by a single -
**Jane**: I'll drive up on Thursday when I can actually stand without the room spinning.
**Lily**: ❤️
**Lily**: I knew you loved me
**Jane**: Don't push it.
**Lily**: Too late. Already pushed it. Non-negotiable.
Shane puts his phone down again, but he's still smiling. His throat still feels like gravel. The ceiling is still the same ceiling.
He's going to be fine.
One Week Earlier
Shane should have known better.
The moment he walked through Hayden's door, his best friend was already grabbing his coat. Jade stood in the hallway, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Shane's stomach dropped.
"They're fine," Hayden said. "Just a little under the weather."
Shane opened his mouth. Closed it. Hayden was giving him *the look*.
"Uncle Shane!" Arthur launched himself forward. Shane's hands came up automatically, catching the kid before he could make full contact. Arthur's face was flushed, his forehead damp with sweat.
Jackie appeared from the kitchen, purse already on her shoulder. "Doctor said it's probably just a virus. They're not contagious anymore."
Shane's smile felt tight. His hands were still hovering near Arthur's shoulders, not quite touching, trying to maintain some distance while the kid clung to his legs.
"Anniversary dinner," Hayden said, apologetic but already moving toward the door. "You're the only one we trust who isn't out of town."
The door closed. Shane stood in the entryway, Arthur wrapped around his shins, and felt his chest tighten.
"Uncle Shane, will you play dinosaurs?" Ruby's voice came out nasal, congested.
Before he could answer, she was hugging his waist, her face pressed into his shirt. Shane's whole body went rigid. He could feel the dampness from her nose soaking through the fabric.
"I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!"
Arthur started climbing. Small hands grabbed Shane's face, turning his head. The kid's breath was hot, medicinal-sweet. Shane's eyes watered.
"RAWR!"
Shane tried to lean back. Arthur's grip tightened.
Jade appeared with a juice box, straw already in her mouth. She pulled it out, held it toward Shane. "You look thirsty!"
Shane stared at the saliva-slicked plastic. His throat worked. "That's very thoughtful -"
The straw was already at his lips. Jade's face was so hopeful. Shane's mouth opened before he could stop himself. The smallest sip. His whole body recoiled, but he swallowed, forcing his expression into something resembling gratitude.
Two hours in, Shane's hands wouldn't stop clenching.
The kids had made him a "special snack." Crackers, pre-chewed, offered with sticky fingers. When Shane hesitated, Arthur's face crumpled.
"It's SHARING," he explained, solemn. "Mommy says sharing is caring."
Shane took the cracker. His throat felt scratchy. The house was too hot. His palms were damp, and he kept wiping them on his jeans, but the clamminess wouldn't go away. He could feel it already, the infection multiplying in his throat, spreading through his bloodstream with every breath.
When Hayden and Jackie returned, Shane's voice came out higher than normal. His throat was raw.
"You're a lifesaver," Jackie said, moving in for a hug.
Shane's body went stiff. He angled away, just slightly, while his arms came up in something that might pass for reciprocation.
"Were they good?"
"Angels," Shane said, as Jade wiped her hands on his jeans.
Hayden's eyes narrowed. "You feeling okay?"
"Fine." Too quick. Shane cleared his throat, winced at the pain. "Just, uh. Long practice. Very intense."
He was definitely not fine.
The Contamination Spreads
Two Days Later
The first swallow came somewhere past Gananoque. Sharp. Wrong. Shane reached for his water bottle, drank, and felt the liquid scrape down his throat like sandpaper.
By Kingston, the heat in the car was suffocating. He cranked it down. Five minutes later, goosebumps prickled up his arms. He turned it back up. His hands looked pale against the steering wheel.
The gas station sports drink tasted metallic. He stood in the parking lot, the wind cutting through his jacket like he wasn't wearing one at all, and drained half the bottle. His reflection in the car window showed flushed cheeks, glassy eyes. He got back in the car.
Past Cornwall, his meal prep sat open on the passenger seat. Three bites in, the chicken tasted like nothing. Like wet cardboard. His stomach turned. He sealed the container and shoved it back in his bag.
The highway stretched endlessly. White lines blurred together. Shane blinked hard, gripped the wheel tighter. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat despite the cold air blasting from the vents. Every swallow felt like swallowing glass. His pulse hammered in his temples, too fast, too loud.
The exit for Ottawa appeared through the haze. Shane's hands trembled as he signalled. His overnight bag felt impossibly heavy when he pulled it from the trunk. Three steps toward the building and his legs wavered, unsteady.
He kept walking.
But he was fine. Totally fine. Absolutely fine.
Ilya opened the door mid-smile, the expression dying the second he saw Shane's face.
"Solnyshko." The word came out soft, worried.
Shane tried to answer. His voice cracked halfway through "hey," rough and broken like he'd been screaming for hours. The sound made Ilya's eyes go wide.
Before Shane could protest, Ilya's hand was on his forehead. Warm fingers pressed against burning skin. Ilya's mouth tightened into a thin line.
Shane caught his wrist gently, steadying himself against the doorframe. The world tilted slightly. "Inside."
Ilya stepped back immediately, letting Shane through the door. It closed with a soft click. Shane made it three steps toward the couch before his legs decided they were done. He sank onto the cushions, his overnight bag hitting the floor with a dull thump.
The room spun. Shane closed his eyes, felt the couch dip as Ilya sat beside him.
"How long?" Ilya's voice was quiet now, the theatrical edge gone.
Shane's throat burned when he swallowed. "Two days. Maybe."
Silence. Then Ilya's hand found his hair, fingers carding through it carefully. Shane leaned into the touch without thinking, his body making decisions his brain was too tired to argue with.
"Where?" Ilya asked.
Shane knew what he was asking. Knew he should lie. His fever-ridden brain couldn't manage it. "Hayden's kids."
Ilya's hand stilled. When Shane cracked his eyes open, Ilya was staring at him with the kind of horror usually reserved for natural disasters.
"Pike children." Not a question. An accusation. Ilya stood abruptly, backing away from the couch like Shane had just announced he was radioactive. "Canadian children. You let Canadian children breathe on you."
"I didn't really let-" Shane's voice gave out. He coughed, the sound wet and painful.
"Biological weapons!" Ilya threw his hands up, pacing now, his accent thickening with every word. "Walking petri dishes! They go to school, they touch everything, they share juice boxes like communal disease dispensers!" He spun around, pointing at Shane. "And you! You bring this into my home! Canadian Germ Apocalypse! This is Chernobyl but worse!"
Despite everything, Shane laughed. It hurt.
Ilya's expression crumpled for half a second before he caught himself, arms crossing defensively over his chest. But he was moving closer again, concern winning out. He perched on the arm of the couch, close but not quite touching.
Shane's eyes were already closing. The room kept spinning even with them shut. His whole body ached, heavy and useless.
Ilya's hand returned to his hair. Gentle. Careful. His other hand found Shane's forehead again, checking his temperature with the back of his knuckles.
"Ya tebya lyublyu," Shane mumbled into the cushions. "But please stop talking."
Ilya huffed, but his fingers kept moving through Shane's hair, soothing. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Shane's temple, lingering despite all his earlier dramatics about contamination. When he pulled back, his hand stayed, thumb brushing against Shane's cheekbone.
"When I am dying next week," Ilya whispered, "very dramatically, probably on ice during game, you will remember this."
Shane was already half-asleep, Ilya's touch anchoring him. He'd definitely remember.
Mostly because Ilya would never let him forget.
Ilya Gets His Turn
He lasted six days.
Six days of tending to Shane with increasingly elaborate methods of protecting himself: bringing soup while wearing a scarf indoors "for protection," holding his breath every time he took Shane's temperature, spraying door handles with disinfectant and announcing it loudly so Shane could hear and feel appropriately guilty.
Six days, and then Ilya woke up on a Tuesday and could not swallow.
He lay very still in the dark and assessed the situation. His throat felt like gravel. His body ached in a way that was deeply offensive and personal. Shane was a warm, terrible weight against his side, radiating heat like a furnace, *finally* on the mend.
Ilya stared at the ceiling for a long moment.
"Shane," he said. His voice came out as a croak.
Shane stirred. "Mm."
"I am dying."
A pause. Shane turned over, blinking. In the dim light, Ilya watched him process the situation, the flushed skin, the glazed eyes, the tragic expression. Something between 'I told you so' and 'oh no' moved across Shane's face.
"You kissed my temple," Shane said. "When I had a fever. Multiple times."
"This is not relevant."
"You kissed my forehead. You made me soup and then tasted it from the same spoon to check the temperature-"
"I was being attentive-"
"You used my water bottle-"
"One time-"
"Ilya." Shane sat up, pressing the back of his hand to Ilya's forehead. His expression went soft and insufferably knowing. "You have a fever."
"I am aware."
"You gave yourself glandular fever by refusing to stop touching me while I was sick."
"...The medical details are still unclear."
Shane laughed, properly, the sound still a little rough but warm. "I warned you. I literally said, 'don't kiss me, I'm infectious' ."
"You were sad." Ilya said it like it explained everything. Because it did. Shane had been lying there looking wrecked and miserable and Ilya had apparently lost all capacity for self-preservation the moment Shane's face did that crumpling thing.
Shane's expression did something complicated. He pressed a kiss to Ilya's forehead, deliberate and gentle. "Idiot," he said softly. "My idiot."
"I hate you," Ilya informed him, already leaning into it.
"No you don't."
"No," he agreed. "I don't."
By Thursday, both team communications departments were having a very bad morning.
The Announcements
**@MontrealMetros** ✓
[We can confirm that captain Shane Hollander will be out of the lineup for the foreseeable future due to illness. He is resting and expected to make a full recovery. Updates to follow.]
The tweet sat quietly for approximately four minutes before it was dwarfed by the notification surge from Ottawa.
**@OttawaCentaurs** ✓
[Following medical advice, captain Ilya Rosanov will be taking time away from game activities due to illness. The organization wishes him a speedy recovery and asks for privacy during this time.]
Seventeen seconds later:
**@IlyaRosanov28** ✓
[I have the kissing disease. I blame Canada.]
The internet, already mildly curious, lost its mind.
Within the hour, Hayden Pike's phone was vibrating so aggressively it fell off the nightstand. He picked it up, squinted at the screen, saw forty-seven notifications from Twitter, and made a decision he would later describe to Jackie as "a moment of poor judgment in an otherwise excellent life."
**@HaydenPike** ✓
[in my defence my kids were technically cleared by a doctor]
The reply notifications started immediately. Hayden stared at them. Put his phone down. Picked it up again.
**@HaydenPike** ✓
[okay so they had glandular fever. and apparently they gave it to Shane. this is not my fault]
**@HaydenPike** ✓
[[replying to @user49271] he VOLUNTEERED to babysit. nobody forced him]
**@HaydenPike** ✓
[[replying to @user_hockeymom] I feel terrible about this. the children also feel terrible. jade cried]
**@HaydenPike** ✓
[wait why does this have 40k likes]
In Ottawa, Ilya was lying in Shane's old spot on the couch -*Shane's spot*, not that either of them called it that - scrolling through the chaos with the focused attention of a man who was extremely unwell and had absolutely nothing better to do.
"Hayden is posting," Ilya announced.
Shane, making tea in the kitchen with the careful movements of someone at sixty percent functionality, called back: "What's he saying?"
"That Jade cried." Ilya considered this. "I do not feel bad. She gave you a pre-chewed cracker."
"She was sharing."
"She was committing bioterrorism."
Shane appeared in the doorway, two mugs in hand. He looked better than he had a week ago - colour in his face, eyes clear, that particular crease of worry gone from between his brows. He handed one mug to Ilya with the automatic ease of someone who had been doing this for years, and then folded himself into the other end of the couch.
"I like how it's just-" Shane gestured vaguely at his phone, where the notifications were still rolling in. "Both our teams. Same week."
Ilya looked at him over the rim of his mug. "People are asking questions."
"I noticed."
A beat. Shane's expression was impossible to read - that careful neutral look he used when he was actually thinking very hard about something.
"We could say something," Shane said.
"Or," Ilya replied, "we could say nothing."
They looked at each other.
"Nothing," they said, in unison.
The Internet Investigates
The discourse, when it truly ignited, came from a corner of hockey Twitter that had spent the better part of two seasons making increasingly elaborate thirst posts about the Metros-Centaurs rivalry. The immediate catalyst was a viral thread.
**@puckbunnywrites**
[okay so. BOTH captains. SAME WEEK. GLANDULAR FEVER. also known as the KISSING DISEASE. i am not saying anything. i am simply NOTING.]
*thread 🧵*
[*1/ shane hollander and ilya rosanov have been famously antagonistic for three seasons. the beef. the trash talk. the incidents. we know. we love.*
*2/ but. BUT. observe the following: ilya rosanov posts "i have the kissing disease. i blame canada." and then does not elaborate. he is BLAMING CANADA. SPECIFICALLY.*
*3/ shane hollander lives in CANADA.*
*4/ hayden pike, shane's best friend, then IMMEDIATELY tweets that his kids gave mono to SHANE specifically. not just "a teammate." SHANE.*
*5/ and SOMEHOW ilya also has it. SIMULTANEOUSLY.*
*6/ i am just a girl. standing in front of a conspiracy board. asking it to make sense.*]
[image: elaborate conspiracy board with string connecting photos of shane and ilya]
*47,291 likes | 18,904 retweets*
The replies were immediate and unhinged.
**@user_velvet_glove**: THE STRING BOARD I'M DECEASED
**@hockeylover4ever**: okay but this is actually??? circumstantially interesting???
**@notashipper_actually**: I am a notashipper who is SHIPPING
**@IlyaRosanov28** [replying to @puckbunnywrites]: interesting theory
The tweet with Ilya's reply hit 200k likes in four hours. Shane, reading it from the other end of the couch, made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
"You replied to the conspiracy thread."
"I found it very well-researched."
"Ilya-"
"She had string, Shane. A board. This is professional work. She deserved acknowledgment."
Shane put his face in his hands. But his shoulders were shaking.
In Montreal, Hayden Pike had made things significantly worse.
He had not meant to. He had simply been responding to tweets in what he considered a normal, proportionate way, because it was his day off and he was bored and Jackie had taken the kids to her mother's and the house was very quiet.
**@HaydenPike**: [replying to @puckbunnywrites] okay I'm not saying you're wrong but I'm also not saying you're right
This was immediately screenshotted, zoomed in on, and posted back to the thread with the caption: HAYDEN PIKE JUST SAID "I'M NOT SAYING YOU'RE WRONG."
**@HaydenPike**: that's not what I meant
**@HaydenPike**: okay look
**@HaydenPike**: I genuinely cannot comment on this
**@HaydenPike**: [replying to @user49271] because of reasons. that I cannot explain. legally and also personally
Hayden stared at his phone for a long moment, then called Shane.
Shane picked up on the third ring. His voice sounded better, still a little rough, but present. "I know."
"I panicked," Hayden said. "Twitter was very fast."
"It's fine."
"Is it?"
A pause. Hayden could hear a voice in the background - low, Russian-accented, saying something he couldn't quite make out. He heard Shane make a quiet, fond sound in response.
"Hayden," Shane said, "how much do you actually care if people know?"
Hayden blinked. "Me? I don't, I mean .. it's your-" He stopped. Tried again. "Do you care?"
Another pause. A longer one.
"We're thinking about it," Shane said finally, and something in his voice was lighter than Hayden had heard in a while. Something settled, like a decision already made.
"Okay," Hayden said. "Cool. Uh. I'm gonna go delete like six tweets."
"Don't bother. It's fine."
Hayden looked down at his phone and saw that the conspiracy thread was now at 80k likes. He scrolled down to a tweet that said: [hayden pike is the worst liar in professional sports and i mean that as a compliment.]
"For what it's worth," Hayden said, "people seem really into it."
He heard Ilya's voice in the background again. Then Shane laughed, properly, warm and real.
"Yeah," Shane said. "I know."
Team Meeting (Unofficial)
JJ called Shane that evening, which Shane had been expecting.
"I'm not asking," JJ said, by way of greeting.
"Good," Shane said.
"I just want to know you're okay."
Shane looked across the room at Ilya, who had fallen asleep sitting up, head tipped back against the couch cushions, mouth slightly open. He'd been in the middle of a sentence about the string board conspiracy. Shane had watched him lose the fight with consciousness mid-word and had not had the heart to move him.
"Yeah," Shane said quietly. "I'm good, JJ."
A pause. "Okay." Another pause. "Comeau is going to keep asking questions in the group chat."
"I know."
"I'm going to keep telling him to stop."
"I know that too."
"And Hayden-"
"Hayden's fine. He's being surprisingly not terrible about it."
JJ made a sound that might have been a laugh. "Don't tell him that, he'll get a big head." Then, softer: "We're glad you're okay, Shaner."
Shane watched Ilya sleep. His own throat barely hurt anymore. Outside, Ottawa was doing whatever Ottawa did in March, grey sky, thin cold, the particular quiet of a city that had decided winter wasn't done with it yet.
"Yeah," Shane said. "Me too."
The Centaurs group chat had its own problems, mostly because Ilya was in it and was constitutionally incapable of being unhelpful.
**rosanov**: I have the glandular fever
**Troy**: ...we know. are you okay?
**rosanov**: I am dying
**Troy**: you're not dying
**rosanov**: dramatically, yes. medically, probably not. but the drama is important.
**Boodram**: what is glandular fever
**rosanov**: it is the kissing disease
**Boodram**: ...
**Boodram**: I see
**rosanov**: I found a very interesting Twitter thread about it if you want the full analysis
**Troy**: ILYA
**rosanov**: she had a *string board*. She deserves recognition for her work.
**Boodram**: I read the thread
**Boodram**: I have no further comment at this time
**rosanov**: very wise
**Troy**: I genuinely don't know what I'm allowed to ask you right now
**rosanov**: then ask nothing! Everything is fine. Shane made tea.
**Troy**: Shane
**Boodram**: Shane Hollander???????????
**rosanov**: do you know many other Shanes
**Troy**: [typing...]
**Troy**: [typing...]
**Troy**: I'm glad you're okay
**rosanov**: ❤️
The Picture
It happened on a Saturday.
Both teams had announced their captains would miss another week minimum. The conspiracy thread had spawned eleven follow-up threads, a Tumblr post with 200k notes, and at least three long-form sports journalism pieces ranging from "The Curious Case of Two Sick Rivals" (respectful, vague) to "What the Hockey Internet Is Reading Into the Rosanov-Hollander Situation" (less respectful, more specific) to "I Spent Three Hours Reading Fanfiction About NHL Players and I Have Thoughts" (a personal essay that went briefly viral on its own merits).
Hayden had stopped tweeting after a conversation with Jackie that he described as "a gentle but firm reminder of what a media storm looks like." He was holding firm, mostly. He had only subtweeted once ["some things are just nice and people should let them be nice"] and then pretended it was about something else when asked.
Shane was reading the personal essay about the fanfiction when Ilya's voice came from the bathroom doorway.
"Come here."
Shane looked up. Ilya was freshly showered, hair still damp, wearing one of Shane's old university sweatshirts that was slightly too small in the shoulders and slightly too long in the body, and holding his phone with an expression Shane couldn't quite read.
"What?"
"Come here." Softer now. A little careful. Not worried, just thinking.
Shane set his own phone down and went.
Ilya turned his phone around. He'd scrolled to a reply near the bottom of the conspiracy thread, one that had accumulated 60k likes in the last twenty-four hours.
**@user_rinkside_observer**: [the thing is. I don't even need it to be true. I just need them to be okay. they both work so hard and the rivalry is sick and if they have something good? I just want them to have something good.]
Below it, two hundred replies that were mostly variations of 'same' and 'this' and a string of heart emojis.
Shane read it twice. His chest did something complicated.
"People are kind," Ilya said quietly. "Sometimes. When they are not being completely unhinged."
"Sometimes," Shane agreed.
Ilya looked at him. That direct, patient look that Shane had spent three years pretending didn't make him feel completely seen. "What do you want to do?"
Shane thought about it. Really thought about it, the thing he'd been half-thinking for a week, since the announcements, since the internet went sideways, since he'd watched the speculation roll in and felt something looser than fear settle in his chest.
"I want to take a picture," Shane said.
Ilya's mouth curved. "Yes?"
"Just us. Nothing.." Shane made a vague gesture. "Nothing performed. Just."
"Just us," Ilya said.
"Yeah."
Ilya reached out and pushed Shane's hair back from his forehead, he'd been doing that all week, checking temperatures long after there was any need to, and then cupped his face briefly, tilting it up. The look on his face was so open that Shane had to look away, and then couldn't, and then didn't want to.
"Okay," Ilya said. "Come, sit. You look terrible."
"Thanks."
"Beautifully terrible. Terrible in a way that is very endearing." He pulled Shane down onto the couch beside him, arranged them both against the cushions, tucked Shane's head against his shoulder with an ease that came from weeks of practice. Shane felt him raise his arm, camera pointing down at them both.
"We don't have to post it right now," Shane said.
"I know."
"Or at all. We could just-"
"Shane."
"Yeah."
"Stop talking and look at the camera."
Shane looked at the camera. He felt Ilya's arm tighten briefly around him, warm and solid. The afternoon light was coming in low through the windows. Ilya was wearing his sweatshirt. Shane's throat didn't hurt anymore, not really. The whole apartment smelled like the soup Ilya had made yesterday and the tea they'd had this morning.
The shutter sound was very quiet.
Shane looked at the photo. They both looked wrecked; pale, tired, shadows under their eyes, clearly and unmistakably recovering from something. Shane's hair was a disaster. Ilya's was still damp. Shane was wearing an Ottawa Centaurs zip-up that had migrated into his bag somewhere around day three and he hadn't given back.
He was smiling. So was Ilya. The kind of smiles that don't know they're being photographed.
"Good?" Ilya asked.
Shane thought about the past week. The soup. The tea. The hand in his hair. Ilya kissing his temple while insisting he wasn't going to get sick. Ilya getting sick anyway. Ilya being furious about it while also being completely, transparently fine, because he would do it again, obviously, of course he would, that had never been in question.
He thought about [I just want them to have something good.]
"Yeah," Shane said. "Good."
**@IlyaRosanov28** ✓
[image: Shane and Ilya on a couch, Shane in a Centaurs zip-up, Ilya in a Montreal sweatshirt, both clearly tired, both clearly smiling]
[we are recovering. thank you for concern. blame Pike children.]
The post went up at 4:17pm on a Saturday.
By 4:19, it had 30k likes.
By 4:45, it had a quarter of a million.
By Sunday morning, it was the most liked post in the history of Ilya's Instagram, the subject of every major sports media outlet's weekend blog, and the reason Mama Hollander called Metro's PR coordinator at 8am just to say "I'm not dealing with this until Monday" and hang up.
**@HaydenPike** ✓
[[replying to @IlyaRosanov28] my children are NOT to blame. jade is SEVEN.]
**@IlyaRosanov28** ✓
[[replying to @HaydenPike]* 🤷]
**@HaydenPike** ✓
[[replying to @IlyaRosanov28] also congratulations I guess. you're welcome for the germ vector situation]
**@IlyaRosanov28** ✓
[[replying to @HaydenPike] I suppose you are forgiven. Slightly.]
The conspiracy thread, which had not stopped going for five days, now had a pinned update:
**@puckbunnywrites**
[UPDATE: I win. string board vindicated. I would like to thank god, my string, and the Ottawa Centaurs zip-up that Shane Hollander is clearly wearing in that photo.]
[image: zoomed in on the Centaurs zip-up logo on Shane's chest]
[he was WEARING HIS JERSEY. THE EVIDENCE WAS ALWAYS THERE.]
**@IlyaRosanov28** [replying to @puckbunnywrites]: 👏
Everything is Fine, Actually
**Three Weeks Later**
The press conference was brief. Both organisations had coordinated, and the statement had been reviewed by approximately eleven people before anyone was allowed near a microphone.
It didn't matter much. Shane stood at the podium, Ilya slightly behind him and to the left, and said: "We're together. Have been for a while. That's really all there is to it."
A reporter in the third row raised her hand. "Can you comment on the glandular fever situation?"
"No," said Shane.
"The kissing disease angle-"
"No."
"Twitter's been calling you-"
"I know what Twitter's been calling us." Shane's expression was the careful neutral one, the one that meant he was trying very hard not to laugh. "No comment."
"Rosanov, anything to add?"
Ilya leaned toward the microphone. "I blame Canada."
The room erupted.
Shane put his face in his hand. His shoulders were shaking.
"This has been very helpful," the communications coordinator said, stepping smoothly in front of the microphone. "Thank you all so much."
Outside, in the corridor, Ilya found Shane leaning against the wall, head back, still shaking.
"You said you were going to be professional," Shane managed.
"I was extremely professional." Ilya settled beside him, their shoulders touching. "You said no comment three times. Very composed."
"You said 'I blame Canada' on camera."
"It is true." Ilya's voice was injured. "Hayden Pike's children are directly responsible for this entire situation. I was simply being accurate."
Shane turned his head. Ilya was already looking at him - that open, patient look, the one Shane had spent years pretending not to notice and approximately two weeks deciding he was done pretending about.
"We're okay?" Shane asked. It wasn't really about the press conference.
Ilya's hand found his, brief and warm. "We are very okay," he said. "We were always going to be okay."
Shane exhaled. "Yeah."
"Also-" Ilya's mouth curved. "The string board woman tweeted again. She wants to know if she can put 'vindicated by Ilya Rosanov himself' in her bio."
"Tell her yes."
"I already did."
Shane laughed, helpless and fond. Ilya bumped their shoulders together, once, deliberate.
Down the hall, their respective communications teams were undoubtedly having complicated feelings. Hayden was probably already tweeting something inadvisable. The conspiracy thread was probably still going. The internet was going to be loud about this for a while.
That was fine. That was going to be fine.
Shane looked at Ilya. "Buy you soup on the way home?"
Ilya considered this with great seriousness. "Yes. But from the good place."
"The good place is thirty minutes out of the way."
"This is a very small price for me to ask, given that I got glandular fever."
"You gave yourself glandular fever."
"Details," Ilya said, already moving toward the exit. "Irrelevant details, Shane."
Shane followed, still smiling.
It was, he thought, a completely reasonable price to pay.
fin.