Chapter Text
The Cottage is quiet.
There had been yelling a few minutes before, okay, not quite yelling, but voices had definitely been raised beyond Shane’s comfort level, and now every small sound feels amplified, grating on Shane’s already stretched nerves. The hum of the fridge. The faint creak of the cottage's wooden beams warming up in the morning sun. Ilya coughing behind the bedroom door.
He is waiting for his mom to speak again, but Yuna is sitting at the kitchen table, staring pointedly at emails on her phone.
Shane hovers in the short hallway between his bedroom and the kitchen, feeling ridiculous, like a little kid – a little kid standing in the multi-million pound lake house that he had had built and paid for - but his mom had a way of making him still feel like that sometimes and he hadn’t quite figured out yet how to stop it.
Boundaries, Rose had told him over dinner once when he’d talked to her about it. You have to set boundaries. Which had sounded great at the time, but she hadn’t followed up and explained to him exactly how to go about doing that.
“I don't want to go!” He says for the third time.
Yuna’s stony expression remained unchanged “You are going.”
“Ilya’s not well.”
“Ilya has a cold.”
“It’s not a cold,” Shane snaps, a little too loudly, and scrubs a hand over his face in frustration. Ilya was sick, like really sick.
He’d started feeling off about a week after arriving at the cottage, which at first they had both put down to the aftermath of surviving yet another season of the MLH. It had happened to Shane countless times, falling sick over the summer break, or at Christmas. His body just trying to hang on, trying to make it through the last few games, and then when he finally got to relax a little bit, it was like his immune system just up and went on vacation as well, and everything he'd been fighting off for the previous few months finally got a chance to take hold.
It quickly became obvious to both of them that whatever Ilya had wasn’t just a cold. He was feverish and exhausted, sweating through t-shirts and borrowed hoodies one minute and shivering miserably under blankets the next. He hadn’t said so, but Shane could see he was struggling with his throat, barely picking at his food, wincing every time he coughed or tried to drink anything. And last night he’d barely slept, waking flushed and shaky after each hour or two of restless sleep.
Shane had learned a lot about Ilya since he’d arrived at the Cottage. Ilya wanted to leave Boston, wanted to play for a Canadian team and get a Canadian passport. He’d learned about Ilya’s mother, and the devastating fact that she had taken her own life when Ilya was just twelve years old. And the even more devastating fact that Ilya had found her. Something that makes him want to take Ilya in his arms and hold him safe there forever.
He'd learned that Ilya was seemingly terrified of loons, and wolves, and seemed entirely unconvinced by nature in general.
He’d learned that Ilya was pretty good at soccer, and Playstation, and swimming. And was pretty bad at not being the center of Shane’s attention.
He had also learned that Ilya loved him. And that he loved him back. So much.
But he had known that fact for a long time.
The most surprising and sweet thing he’d learned was that Ilya talked in his sleep.
It was likely from the fever, Shane realised. And it was mostly Russian, because Ilya, despite barely having the chance to speak his own language, still dreamt in his mother tongue – something that makes Shane feel tender-hearted, and a little sad for him, and all the more determined to learn Russian.
So no, despite Yuna’s dismissals, whatever Ilya had was definitely not just a cold, and Shane was worried about him. He was also pissed that they’d only had a chance to relax and enjoy a few days together before Ilya had started feeling ill.
And now this forgotten trip on top of it all.
It feels a bit like the universe was conspiring against them.
“He’s got a virus or something, mom.” Shane tries again, in the hopes that something might break through – but Yuna was in full Momager mode.
“He’s really sick,” he adds quietly, and sits on the step.
Yuna finally turns to look at Shane. “Your father already said he will come and check on him.”
Shane can feel his cheeks getting hot, but he knows from the look on her face that this was not an argument he was going to win. “That’s... They don’t even know each other.”
At that, David, who’d been quietly leaning against the counter, straightens a little. As usual, he’d been trying hard to keep out of the crossfire between his wife and his son, but this was rarely a successful tactic. “Hey... We know each other.”
“Barely.”
“We all had dinner together. Twice... And we all watched the game the other night.” David says, though there's something uncertain in his tone. Like maybe it's not the best idea he’s ever heard either. He looks up the hallway, toward the closed bedroom door, then back at Shane. “I’ll bring food. Make sure he’s alright.”
Shane huffs. “You wouldn't want a stranger checking up on you when you’re sick, dad.”
“Shane.” Yuna warns, her voice soft but final. “Your father is not a stranger, and Ilya is a grown man who has been living on his own in a foreign country since he was eighteen.”
“And?”
“And you made a commitment.”
Ilya coughs again and Shane glances anxiously back towards his bedroom. He sounds awful and Shane’s stomach twists at the thought of just up and leaving him. Just to present at some dumb award ceremony in New York.
It wasn’t even a hockey thing.
“I don’t like leaving him like this,” he mutters.
Yuna’s face softens a little. “I know. But you aren’t abandoning him, Shane. Its only two days.”
David pushes off the counter. “I’ll call by at lunchtime. And we can have dinner together. We’ll keep each other company.”
Shane hesitates. Then, because there wasn’t actually another option, he sighs, defeated. “Fine. But dad, you have to text me to let me know how he’s doing. If I ask him, he’ll just say he’s fine, so you have to let me know how he really is, okay?”
“I will,” David says, nodding. “I promise.”
Shane isn’t convinced.
Ilya waits until Shane’s car is long gone before leaving the bedroom.
Shane had been full of heartfelt apologies and gentle kisses before he’d left. He’d completely forgotten about the trip to New York, something Yuna had booked him for almost a year previously. Ilya had told him to go, that he would be fine. It was only two days. He would sleep. He would be better when Shane came home. Then they could make up for lost time.
All lies of course. He feels like absolute shit, and he really didn’t want Shane to go. And the thought of having to make small talk with David Hollander, as nice a guy as he seemed to be, fills the pit of Ilya’s stomach with dread. Maybe he would just stay in bed and pretend to be asleep. That could work. Only David seems like he is genuinely trying to connect with him, and Ilya appreciates the effort more than he could ever say.
David made sure to include him in conversations, asked Ilya questions, his opinion on things – other than hockey. He was trying hard, Yuna too, and if Ilya thought about it too hard, it made him feel a bit teary.
They weren’t quite there yet, but with each shared meal, each glass of vodka and game of cards, each shared joke and pat on the shoulder, Ilya felt more and more like he would be welcomed into Shane’s little family.
He stands and the world tilts, dizziness making him brace a hand against the partition wall. His skin feels too tight, too hot, like it doesn't quite fit him. He swallows hard against the nausea that washes through him and winces at the sharp stab of pain in his throat.
“U tebya vso khorosho,” he mutters to himself. You are fine.
He wasn't fine, but he would manage.
He shuffles down the hallway and into the kitchen, legs worryingly shaky, and pours himself a glass of ice-water from the refrigerator, leaning heavily against the counter while he alternates between pressing the cold glass to his forehead and trying to sip the water. His throat is so sore, but it’s his head that’s currently causing him the most misery, and he knows he must be dehydrated. Shane had brought him a couple of Tylenol pills and some gingery tasting tea with honey in it before he’d left with Yuna, trying to get him to drink some of it even though it felt like swallowing broken glass.
The bottle of pills was now sitting on the nightstand in easy reach for later, along with a bottle of water and a Zero-Sugar Cool Blue Gatorade. The tea and pills had taken the sharpest edge off, but not nearly as much as he’d hoped it would.
He would try to sleep again. Just sleep and sweat out whatever this was until he felt better. That's how he usually got through being sick. It wasn’t like he usually had anyone looking after him.
He is halfway back down to the bedroom when there’s a knock at the front door and Ilya freezes.
Right. David... It must be lunchtime.
For a moment, he considers pretending he hadn’t heard. But the knock comes again, and then a jingle of keys. David was coming in, whether Ilya heard him or not.
With a resigned sigh, he turns and heads back down.
David Hollander is standing in the hallway, a paper bag in one hand and a large flat box in the other. He looks awkward and uncomfortable, which, considering it was his own son’s house, makes Ilya feel awkward and uncomfortable too, like he is intruding.
“Hi Ilya,” David says.
“Hello,” Ilya replies, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper, and gives him the biggest smile he can muster, which isn’t much.
“You look—” David starts, then stops. “Not great.”
Ilya nods his head in agreement. He feels like a sweaty mess, and no doubt looks like one too, and he gestures vaguely at himself with a grimace. “I am sick.”
“Yes,” David agrees, as if that wasn't the exact reason that he was there. He holds up the bag slightly. “I brought you some soup.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I come in?”
Ilya takes a few steps back and nods, and David shuts the door behind him.
It is, in every sense, as awkward as they had both feared.
David sets the bag on the counter and unpacks it with a deliberate kind of focus. There are three tubs of soup, all different colours, a fresh baguette, a carton of fresh pineapple juice, and some oranges. And randomly, a 1000 piece puzzle. On the front of the box is a picture of a polar bear family in the snow. White on white on white and Ilya thinks he might literally die if David asks him to do the puzzle with him now.
“I wasn’t sure what you like,” he says, “so I got a few different things. Whatever soup you don’t want, I’ll have.”
“Thank you.” Ilya replies, perching himself on one of the stools at the breakfast bar, hands folded in his lap, posture straight despite the way his vision kept blurring at the edges. “You didn’t need to get me anything.”
“It’s no bother, Ilya.” David replies, glancing over at him as puts the groceries in the fridge. “Shane told me you’re planning on staying here for another week or so?”
“Yes.”
“You like the place?”
“Yes. Very much.”
David nods in what seemed to be approval. “Shane loves it here. We spent our summers on this lake when he was a little. My dad built our cottage back in the fifties. When he had this place built, Shane offered to build us new place too, but we like our old cottage just fine.”
Ilya tries to clear his throat a little before speaking and wished he hadn’t. He has to take a couple of breaths before he can carry on, and when he does, his voice sounds even rougher than it had. “He likes architecture, I think.”
“Yes.” David agrees, wincing in sympathy. “Yuna has drummed into him about investing his money properly over the years. You can get a much better investment than real estate.”
Ilya’s mind conjures Shane’s face, all scrunched up and frowning when Ilya had teased him about being Mr Real Estate, and he smiles at the memory.
Maybe that was genetic too.
The conversation limps along. David is really trying, Ilya can see that much. And he is too, but his thoughts are foggy and slow, and the pain in his throat is making it difficult to speak more than a few words at a time. After a while, David looks at him sympathetically. “You don’t have to sit up, Ilya. I promise I won’t be offended if you want to go back to bed.”
“No. I am fine.”
David looks unconvinced. “You don’t look fine.”
Ilya shrugs and offers a small smile. “Probably not, but will survive.”
Something uncertain flickers across David’s face at that. There was something about this kid, something so different to Shane. There was no guile, with Shane - he was honest and open and wore his heart on his sleeve – and David loved him fiercely for it. But then David had also been the most surprised he’d ever been to find out that Shane had hidden his sexuality, and his relationship with Ilya, for so long.
Ilya was different. About as different as night was to day.
David thought it was a bit like watching a swan on the water, serene and elegant and unruffled on the surface, but underneath those legs were going a million miles an hour just to keep him afloat. He wondered if Shane had even noticed, because Shane wasn’t always very good at picking up on things like that.
It worries him a little, but he can’t quite put his finger on why.
David puts the soup he’d bought on the stove to heat, and they eat in near silence. David can see Ilya wince every time he swallows and getting the kid to carry on trying to make polite conversation on top of that seems unnecessary. Sitting upright on the stool already seemed to be pushing Ilya to his limit.
David clears away their bowls afterwards. Ilya had barely managed a quarter of the soup and apologises earnestly when David finally takes away the stone-cold remains that he’s been pushing round the bowl with his spoon for the last ten minutes. He wipes down the counter and makes sure Ilya takes some more Tylenol before getting ready to leave.
“Text me if you need anything, kid,” he says, lingering in the doorway like he isn’t sure if there is something else he was supposed to be doing or saying. Despite what Yuna thought, Shane wasn’t being dramatic when he told them that Ilya was sick. Ilya looks like death warmed over, and he can understand Shane’s reluctance to go and leave him – because he was feeling some of that too. But it doesn’t seem like Ilya will go back to bed while David is there, despite David’s insistence that it was fine if he did, so there didn’t seem much point in prolonging the kid’s misery.
“I mean it, Ilya. Call or text if you need anything, okay? I’m ten minutes down the road. It’s no bother.”
“Thank you, I will. And thank you for soup and juice.” Ilya replies, hoarsely. “But I will sleep now. Hopefully better when I wake up.”
David gives him a small smile. “I hope so. See you around seven for dinner, okay?”
“Okay.” Ilya replies, nodding, watching as David gets into his car.
A shiver runs through him, and he clutches his arms around himself. He really doesn’t feel good, not at all, and he heads unsteadily back down the hallway to Shane’s bedroom.
By evening, everything is worse. Much, much worse.
His fever has climbed higher, leaving Ilya’s thoughts sluggish and disjointed. His head is pounding and his skin feels weirdly sensitive. Every joint in his body aches like he’d been checked repeatedly into the boards.
The tiled bathroom floor is cool against his cheek, a small relief against the heat roiling through him. He’d been sick a few times – puking up the soup that David had bought, the juice, Tylenol, and maybe everything else he’d eaten since arriving at the cottage - and he hadn’t made it back to the bedroom. Instead, he just lay on the en-suite floor, too exhausted and dizzy to move, his breath squeezing through his swollen throat in painful, wheezing gasps.
Shane’s face flicks through his mind, distant and unfocused. But Shane was away. In New York. With his mom. Presenting some award to someone or something... The details were hazy. He just knows he wasn’t there, and he Ilya really wanted him to be.
David. He should text him. He’d told Ilya to text him. But he can’t quite make his body cooperate enough to get up and get his phone from the nightstand where he’d left it charging.
At some point, there is a knock at the door again, but everything outside of the bathroom feels so far away, maybe in another country, perhaps even in another universe, so Ilya just closes his eyes and ignores it.
David frowns when there is no answer. He knocks again, louder this time. “Ilya?”
Still nothing.
A prickle of unease creeps up his spine and he digs the key from the pocket of his jeans and lets himself in again.
The cottage is too still and too quiet and too hot. All the windows are shut tight and have been since he left.
“Ilya?” he calls as he steps inside. “I brought dinner...”
The words feel too loud in the silence, and there is still no reply, not even a cough from behind the bedroom door like before.
David sets the bag down slowly on the breakfast bar, listening. There was a faint sound after all. A ragged wheezing from down the hall, and David moves quickly, following the sound, his chest tightening with dread each step closer to Shane’s bedroom he gets.
“Ilya?” he calls again, sharper now.
The bed is empty, sheet half off and dragged across the floor. The blinds all lowered, shutting out any of the warm sunset light and all the windows closed. It was stiflingly hot.
The ensuite bathroom door is half-open, and David pushes it wider and stops.
Ilya is on the floor. His skin pale but cheeks flushed high with colour, his hair and t-shirt both soaked through with sweat, but he is shivering. He seems to be sleeping but his breathing is uneven, and wheezy in a way that makes David’s stomach drop.
“Hey, hey, kid—” David is at his side in an instant, dropping to his knees beside him. “Ilya, can you hear me?”
Ilya stirs faintly, a soft, incoherent sound slipping from his lips that could have been Russian, or just fever-induced gibberish. David isn’t sure which.
He presses a hand to Ilya’s forehead and swears under his breath. He is burning. Heat coming off his skin in waves that David can feel just kneeling next to him. “Jesus...”
Ilya shifts weakly, as if trying to pull away, but doesn’t have the strength, and David squeezes his arm gently and softens his voice. “It’s alright, Ilya. I’ve got you.”
For a second, panic threatens to take over. He doesn’t have him at all. He doesn’t know this kid. Not really. Doesn’t know what he needs, what might make him feel better – or worse. He doesn’t know who Ilya’s doctor is, who his next of kin is, if he’s allergic to anything...
He thinks of all the times Shane had been sick over the years. How he’d been there to help him through it. Mostly it had been Yuna sitting up with him when he was a little boy, comforting him through chicken pox and tonsillitis and ear infections, and then when Shane had been a bit older, he’d wanted his dad a bit more, especially in his teenage years when childhood illnesses became much less frequent and hockey injuries became a regular reality.
There had been sprained ankles and wrists, broken fingers, chipped teeth, black eyes and stiches. David was eternally grateful that Shane had only been hurt badly a couple of times, the worst being only a few weeks ago, suffering a broken collarbone and a concussion after a huge check from Ilya’s team-mate, Cliff Marleau. It had been a legal hit, no malice behind it, but seeing Shane in the hospital, drugged up to his eyeballs and still hurting, David had felt desperate to do something to make it better, to take Shane's pain away.
And now seeing Ilya like this, so sick and helpless... It kind of felt the same.
“Alright,” he said again, forcing his voice to be a little bit steadier, for his own benefit as much as Ilya’s. “Let’s get you off the floor, huh?”
It takes more effort than David expects to get him up.
Ilya is a dead weight in the worst way – not just the fact that he’s six feet of solid muscle – but his body is lagging behind every instruction like it’s trying to stay exactly where it is.
When David slips an arm under his shoulders and helps him sit up, Ilya sways immediately, head tipping forward, blinking rapidly to try to clear his vision.
“Easy, kid.” David mutters, tightening his grip.
A soft, broken sound leaves Ilya’s throat, something between a groan and a wheeze. His hand catches weakly at David’s sleeve for half a second, then slips back down to his lap.
“I know” David says under his breath, more gently now. “This sucks.”
Once they are both upright again, it's even slower going getting Ilya the short distance back to the bed. David keeps one arm braced around his back, the other steadying him at the elbow, adjusting constantly as Ilya stumbles and drifts. David can feel his own back creaking and knows he’s going to be feeling this tomorrow, and by the time they make the ten or so steps back to the bed, David’s heart is pounding with the effort.
“Alright,” he says, guiding him down carefully. “Sit—no, don’t—okay, there we go.” And Ilya more or less collapses onto the mattress, then tips alarmingly sideways. David moves quickly, catching him before he topples off the bed, holding him upright until he’s more or less sure Ilya is going to be able to stay put, then he helps him swing his legs up, and pulls the sheet back up over him, making a mental note to look for a fresh one once Ilya is settled.
“There,” he says, though it feels insufficient. “That’s better than the floor.”
Ilya curls onto his side, drawing in on himself. He is almost as white as the bedsheets, but his cheeks are flushed deep with fever, dampened curls sticking out everywhere. He looks awful and David wonders for a minute if he shouldn’t just bundle him into the car and drive him straight to the hospital in Lanaudière.
“Stay there,” David says, already turning away. “I’m gonna get you some fresh water.”
He moves fast. Grabbing the bottle of Tylenol from the nightstand on his way. He shakes out two pills onto the kitchen countertop, and using the bottom of a glass, he crushes them to a powder and carefully scoops them back into the glass, which he then tops up with a shot of juice from the fridge. He also fills up another glass with ice-water and takes both back to the bedroom.
He knows Ilya probably threw up his last dose of pills so this way at least they will have a chance to get into his bloodstream before his stomach rebels again.
“Hey,” he says, softer now as he approaches the bed. “Ilya, I need you to wake up a little, okay?”
A faint frown crosses Ilya’s face. His eyes flutter, then open just enough to register David’s words.
“Juice,” David says, crouching beside him. “Can you sit up a bit?”
It takes a moment. Then, sluggishly, Ilya shifts, pushing himself up with visible effort. David slips a hand behind his back to steady him.
“That’s good,” he murmurs. Not sure if Ilya is aware of what’s going on or just moving on auto-pilot.
He presses the glass into Ilya’s hand but keeps his own around it, making sure it doesn’t tip. “Small sips.”
Ilya looks at the glass like he can’t quite understand what he's meant to do. Then he obeys, barely. The laced juice sloshes slightly with the tremor in his grip, but he manages to get most of it down in a few swallows, grimacing at the bitterness left behind by the pills and the razor blade pain in his throat that comes with every swallow.
“Alright,” David says. “That should help with your fever.”
He eases Ilya back down onto the pillow, then disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a damp washcloth, placing it carefully across Ilya’s forehead.
Ilya exhales softly at the coolness, the tension in his face easing just a fraction.
“There you go,” David mutters. “Figured that might help.”
He lingers for a moment, hoping that Ilya wasn’t going to immediately throw up what he’d just got into him, then straightens abruptly.
“Thermometer.”
There was one somewhere. He was sure of it.
He heads for the kitchen, memory tugging him toward a cabinet. The memory is oddly sharp - Shane smiling exasperatedly while David insisted on stocking the place properly, there were tools in the outbuilding, basic DIY supplies, and the decently sized first-aid kit. You never know, he’d told Shane.
Well. Apparently, you did know.
“Come on,” he mutters, rummaging through the plastic tub, past plasters and bandages and eyewash ampules. Then he finds the thermometer.
Back in the bedroom, Ilya hasn’t moved much. His breathing is still too shallow, too quick. The flush on his cheeks looks even redder if anything, and he notices blotches of colour down Ilya’s throat, disappearing into the neck of his t-shirt. He doesn’t like that, not one bit.
David sits on the edge of the bed, turning the thermometer on, then hesitates.
“Hey,” he says. “Ilya?”
Ilya blinks slowly, and peers at him through heavy eyelids. His lashes are sparkling with dampness and David wonders if it’s from sweat or tears.
“I need to take your temperature, alright?”
There’s a pause. Then Ilya nods.
He waits until Ilya parts his lips slightly, then places the thermometer carefully under his tongue. “Just hold it there,” he says. “Won’t take long.”
David watches him the whole time, watches the way his chest rises too fast, the way his brow stays furrowed even in near-unconsciousness. Watches for something... Anything that tells him this is all going to be okay, that everything is under control, because it doesn’t feel under control.
The thermometer beeps and David pulls it gently out from under Ilya’s tongue and glances at the little screen - and swears quietly under his breath.
It’s high. Way too high. Definitely not okay, and he looks back at Ilya, who’s already drifting again, eyes slipping closed.
“Hey,” David says softly, adjusting the washcloth. “Ilya. Can you try to stay awake for me for a bit?”
No response.
David exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face before looking down at the thermometer again, like it might change if he checks twice.
It doesn’t and Ilya lets out a little groan of misery and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. He’s clearly in pain.
“Yeah,” he mutters squeezing his arm gently. “I know. I don’t like this either.”
He reaches for his phone, thumb hovering for a second before making a decision. He said he would keep Shane updated, but Shane was getting ready to go on stage about now. There was absolutely no point in freaking him out when there was absolutely nothing he could do to help.
His gaze flicks back to Ilya, softening despite the worry tightening in his chest.
“Alright,” he says quietly, more to himself than anything. “I'm just going to stay here, kid, and we’ll see how you go.”
Ilya doesn’t answer.
David doesn’t expect him to. Instead, he goes around the room and opens the windows, letting out some of the stifling air, pulls the sheet up over Ilya’s shoulders again, then picks up one of Shane’s Hockey paperbacks from the nightstand and settles himself into the armchair in the corner of the room.
It was going to be a long night.
Ilya doesn’t settle.
The crushed Tylenol pills help a little, maybe - but not nearly enough. His breathing evens out a little, but his body never really relaxes. He shifts restlessly under the sheet, fingers twitching, brow pulled tight. David doesn’t like it.
He tries hard not to watch the clock. Shane’s paperback didn’t really hold his interest for long, his son’s taste in reading is somewhat on the dry side, whereas David prefers a racy spy thriller, so he pulls out his phone and opens Candy Crush instead to pass the time.
He’s not sure what he’s actually waiting for; maybe for Yuna and Shane to be done at the award show so that he can call and ask what to do. He assumes that Boston has a similar set-up to Montreal when it comes to health care, and that Ilya’s team doctor is his primary physician – but Boston is way too far away for a house call and he wouldn’t have a clue who to call anyway.
Either that or he’s waiting for some sign that Ilya is sick beyond what a few doses of Tylenol and a succession of cold washcloths can manage, and he will take him to the ER.
But minutes pass. Then more. And Ilya doesn’t wake up. He just drifts deeper into the fever.
At first, it’s just small sounds.
David barely registers it, glancing up from his phone. “Hey,” he says softly, thinking Ilya might be waking. “You okay?”
There’s no answer. Not right away. But then Ilya mutters something under his breath, and David frowns.
“Ilya?”
Ilya still doesn’t reply. His eyes stay closed, lashes damp against flushed skin. But his mouth moves again, forming words too quiet for David to catch.
David puts his phone back in his pocket and leans forward slightly. “What was that, kid?”
The next sound is clearer.
Russian.
David doesn’t understand the words, but the tone is instantly recognisable. Ilya is speaking to someone who isn’t there, and David’s chest tightens a fraction.
“You’re alright,” he says. “You’re just dreaming.”
Ilya shifts, a small, distressed movement. His head turns slightly on the pillow, the damp cloth that is now too warm again to do him any good, slips off onto the bed.
“Nyet…” he murmurs. Then more unknowable Russian, faster this time. The cadence uneven, like he’s struggling to get the words out.
David reaches over to pick up the washcloth again. He goes back into the bathroom and runs it under the cold tap, then brings it back to Ilya, laying it gently across his brow again. “Easy,” he says. “It’s okay.”
For a few moments, it seems to help, then Ilya’s expression tightens further.
“Papa... Pozhaluysta, ne nado!”
Ilya’s voice cracks around the words, before more Russian spills out of him. The sentences are longer now, broken by shallow breaths, his voice rising and falling with an urgency that makes something in David’s stomach twist. He doesn’t speak Russian, doesn’t know Ilya’s language beyond the few words he’d learned from his spy novels, but he knows what he’s hearing.
Papa. Please. Don’t!
“Ilya,” David says gently, leaning over him. “You’re alright. You’re at Shane’s cottage.”
Ilya doesn’t seem to hear him, so David shakes him a little and Ilya’s eyes flutter open – and he immediately recoils, shucking himself out of David’s hands and scooting away, up the bed.
David lets go of Ilya’s arms like he’s on fire and holds his hands up in apology. “Sorry!” he says quickly, his own heart beating hard. “Sorry Ilya... You were having a nightmare.”
“Sorry,” Ilya echoes. His voice is small and cracked. “I’m sorry, Papa— ” And he swallows hard, face crumpling, and more Russian comes out, quicker now, tangled amongst his gasping, wheezy breath. David catches nothing else except the tone - fear, apology, something close to panic, and he realises that Ilya isn’t really awake at all.
David’s chest tightens and he glances at his watch. Still too early to call Shane but he has made up his mind anyway. If he can get Ilya up out of bed and onto his feet, they were going to take a little drive.
David had promised Shane he would look after him, and that’s what he was going to do.
It takes much longer for David to rouse Ilya than he likes, and even though the kid is now sitting upright with his eyes open, he’s still not sure that’s he’s really fully awake. He is compliant though, letting David pull his sweat soaked t-shirt over his head and replace it with a fresh one from the chest of drawers opposite the bed, along with a hoodie from the back of the chair. He isn’t sure if they’re Shane’s clothes or Ilya’s and it doesn’t really matter much. Ilya and Shane are the same size, more or less, and the clothes fit him fine.
Next come the track suit pants, and David knows that these are Ilya’s. He recognises them from when Shane nearly gave him a heart attack by telling him how much they cost. He suspects that Ilya earns a little more than Shane, and Shane’s salary is eye-wateringly huge, but even so, $1000 Dollars seems excessive for a pair of baggy black track pants.
There’s a pair of sliders by the bed and he shoves them onto Ilya’s feet, and they also seem to fit fine. And then they are ready. Except he now he has to get Ilya from the bedroom to his car without either of them hitting the floor, and he isn’t entirely sure he’s up to the task.
Ilya is basically the same height and weight as Shane – a whisker under six feet tall and weighing in at just under two hundred pounds. Which is a few inches taller and quite a few pounds heavier than he is, and David hopes that once he actually gets him up and moving, that he is able to keep him going long enough to actually get him all the way through the house and out to the car.
The roads are quiet, thankfully, and it's only around half an hour before David is pulling into the parking bay outside the Emergency department of the Centre hospitalier régional de Lanaudière. He’d been trying to talk to Ilya the whole journey, to keep him as lucid as possible, but it had been a losing battle. Ilya’s head had lolled further and further forwards until his chin was resting on his chest, and David really didn’t like the way the kid was breathing.
He knew Ilya’s throat was sore, he could hear it in his voice and the way his face scrunched up in pain every time he swallowed, but he hadn’t realised his throat was so swollen – it sounded like the kid was trying to breathe through a straw.
“Ilya. We’re here, at the hospital.” David says, unclipping his seatbelt and Ilya’s, and gives him another gentle shake to rouse him. “We’re going to need to take another walk now, okay?”
“Okay.” Ilya replies, blinking owlishly at the bright lights outside the window. His eyes are glossy and wide, but not really focusing on anything. A shiver works through him, and he groans miserably. “I don’t feel good.”
“I know, kid.” David replies sympathetically. “But that’s why we’re here. Going to get you fixed up, good as new.”
David gets out of the car and jogs round to Ilya’s side, opening the door carefully in case Ilya falls out but somehow, he’s still sitting upright.
"C’mon Ilya,” he says, sounding much more upbeat than he feels. “Time to move.”
There’s a couple of porters standing around the entrance, and they see David struggling to get Ilya up and out of the car and come over to them with a wheelchair.
“Thanks.” David tells them gratefully, as Ilya is helped into the chair, his legs placed gently on the footrests and David follows as they push him inside and up to the reception desk.
“Name and date of birth please.” The receptionist asks and David’s mouth suddenly goes dry. “Umm, this is Ilya Rozanov. June 15th 1991. He really needs to see a doctor please.”
“How do you spell it?” The receptionist asks tiredly, and types the letters into his computer that David spells out. Then he stops, looks down at Ilya who is shivering miserably in the chair, then up at David questioningly. “Wait... Is that the Ilya Rozanov?”
David nods. Being Shane Hollander’s father, he’s used to this sort of reaction, and knows he just has to give the person a moment to get their heads around that fact that a sporting legend was standing (or in this case sitting) in front of them.
“Holy shit!” The receptionist says quietly, then seems to remember where he is and what he’s meant to be doing and blushes. “I’m so sorry.”
“It's fine.” David replies, smiling, but he doesn’t actually feel much like smiling. He feels very much like wheeling Ilya in front of a doctor and then having a nice quiet nervous breakdown. “I haven’t spoken with his team, I don’t know if there’s an emergency contact on file for him? But I think your doctors should probably speak to his doctor before giving him anything, if you know what I mean?”
“There’s an emergency contact on file for Mr Rozanov, and his primary physician’s contact details.” The receptionist confirms.
“Good. That’s good.” David replies and he puts his hand on Ilya’s shoulder, feeling the heat coming off of him even through the t-shirt and hoodie. “You’re gonna be alright now, kid.”
Four hours, two bags of IV Fluids, two different IV antibiotics for the infection, a dose of IV steroids to help with the inflammation, two different painkillers, and several official sounding phone calls between Quebec and Boston and one very fraught one between Quebec and New York later, and Ilya is heading back to David’s car, having been diagnosed with a particularly severe case of bacterial tonsillitis.
The worst case the doctor has seen in a while, apparently.
David thanked the doctor, the nurses, and the porters who help Ilya back into the passenger seat of David’s car, giving Ilya the full VIP treatment. He has a bag full of prescription medication on his lap and strict instructions to rest, drink fluids and come back if anything gets worse. And David just hopes that the worst is over – he's not sure he can take any more excitement for one night.
Ilya does seem a bit better, he’s much more alert, probably thanks to the fluids, but he’s subdued and miserable and exhausted. And to be honest, David doesn’t feel much different. Shane had been furious when he’d called. Furious and sick with worry, and for all David’s insistence that Ilya was going to be okay, he could understand why.
Shane hadn’t wanted to leave Ilya and he and Yuna had pretty much bullied him into it, treating him like a fretful child, instead of a grown man who had an entirely valid reason for not wanting to leave his very sick partner alone in a strange house, in a strange city, in a country far away from his own.
Shane wasn’t a kid anymore. Hadn’t been for a long time.
He and Yuna, they were going to have to try really hard to remember this.
David fastens Ilya’s seatbelt and squeezes his shoulder gently. “How are you doing, kid?”
Ilya blinks slowly and nods. “Better, I think.” His voice low and scratchy. “Thank you for looking after me. Sorry I make you drive... Sorry for being like this...” And he gestures to himself with something very close to disgust.
“You don’t need to thank me, Ilya.” David replies, starting the engine. “I promised Shane I would look after you, and you can’t help being sick.”
Ilya sniffs and wipes at his eyes. “It is too much... I will take pills, get better...”
David turns to look at Ilya. He can’t get a handle on him, not fully. The Ilya Rozanov he’s been watching play for the last ten years, so brash and cocksure and mouthy, was so far removed from the sick, tearful kid sitting in his passenger seat right now. This Ilya was so apologetic, so seemingly terrified of having done something wrong.
He hopes it's just feeling so unwell that’s making Ilya extra emotional, but it worries him.
“Let’s get you back to bed, huh? Get some sleep.” he tells him and Ilya nods and closes his eyes.
David wakes in the chair with a sore back and crick in his neck and for a second, he doesn’t remember where he is.
Then he looks at the bed and sits up sharply.
Empty.
He’s on his feet immediately, pulse kicking up. “Ilya?”
There’s no answer. The en-suite door is open, light off and empty. So at least he hadn’t collapsed in there at some point in the night again. It doesn’t stop David’s chest from tightening though.
Then he hears it, a faint clatter from down the hallway, from the kitchen, and David exhales with not quite relief, and heads quickly down the short run of stairs to see what’s going on.
Ilya is standing at the counter, one hand braced against it like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Shane’s expensive coffee maker is on and hissing, and a mug hangs from Ilya’s other hand, tilted slightly like he’s forgotten what he was meant to be doing with it.
He looks… awful.
He looks paler in the morning sunshine somehow. His curls sticking up in all directions. His movements slow and uncoordinated, like his body is still a step behind every thought.
“Ilya?” David says, softly, trying not to startle him. “What are you doing?”
Ilya turns at David’s voice, the motion almost unbalancing him, and his grip tightens on the counter.
“I—” His voice is rough, scraped raw and he swallows painfully before answering. “I make coffee.”
David blinks. “If you wanted coffee, I could have made it for you. You shouldn’t be up and about.”
“No.” Ilya replies. “You do enough already for me.”
David takes another few steps into the kitchen, ready to catch Ilya if he drops, but so far, he is managing to stay upright on his own.
"It’s no bother, Ilya. I told Shane I would look after you... Now please, sit down.”
“I am okay,” Ilya insists, though the mug is trembling in his hand. “I can make coffee.”
“For who?” David asks, eyebrow lifting, because there’s no way Ilya should be drinking coffee with his throat like that.
Ilya pauses, like he’s trying to think of what he was saying, then he gestures with the mug. “I make coffee for you. You are guest.”
David stares at him for a second, then sighs and shakes his head. “Kid, you are the guest. And I don’t need you making me coffee right now.”
“I can,” Ilya says, a little more urgently. “It is nothing.”
“It’s not nothing if you pass out doing it.”
“I am okay...”
His words cut off as his hand slips from the counter. The mug tilts, then drops, hitting the floor with a sharp crack, ceramic shattering, and Ilya jumps from the noise and the flying shrapnel that hits his legs and bare feet, then swears hoarsely.
“Blyat!”
“Shit! David echoes, and reaches down for the smashed mug the same time as Ilya, and Ilya’s whole body jerks back, and David freezes.
For a second, neither of them moves.
Then Ilya swallows hard, breathing uneven. “Sorry—I ummm...” he says again, hoarsely the words rushing out now. “I— Sorry.”
“No,” David says, a little too fast. He forces himself to ease his tone, hands lifting slightly in a non-threatening gesture, but something cold has just slipped between his ribs, stealing the breath from his lungs. “No, Ilya. Don’t— Don’t worry about it.”
Ilya’s gaze sinks back to the broken mug, like he doesn’t want to, or can’t look David in the eye. “I—I didn’t mean—” he starts and then doesn’t seem to know what to say next.
“Ilya, please. Sit down.” David tells him, trying to smile. But he doesn’t feel like smiling. He feels sick.
Ilya hesitates, he has gone even paler, if that was at all possible and now David was genuinely concerned that he was going pass out
“Seriously, kid.” David says, even softer now. “Go sit down. Please.”
For a moment, Ilya doesn’t seem to know what to do, then his knees seem to waver just enough to make the decision for him. He moves carefully, one hand still trailing along the counter for balance as he makes his way to the table. When he sits, it’s slow and controlled.
David waits until he’s settled before turning his attention to the mess.
“It’s just a mug, Ilya,” he says, mostly to fill the silence as he grabs the dustpan and brush that Shane keeps next to the fridge. “Not a big deal.”
“I am sorry,” Ilya repeats quietly.
David exhales through his nose, crouching to gather the larger pieces of ceramic, and sweeping the smaller pieces into the pan. Then he tosses the shards into the bin, keeping his movements steady and deliberate. Non-threatening.
But his mind is not steady. The way Ilya had pulled back like that...
David’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t like it.
When the broken mug is cleared up, and the dustpan put away, David glances over his shoulder. Ilya is sitting at the table, elbows resting lightly on the surface, head bowed, trying to steady his breathing. His hands are clasped together, knuckles pale.
“You still feeling awful?”
Ilya lets out a faint breath that might almost be a laugh. “Yes.”
“Okay. At least you’re being honest.”
A flicker of something crosses Ilya’s face - confusion, maybe – and David softens his tone again. “You shouldn’t be out of bed, kid.”
“I wake,” Ilya says, like that explains everything. “I see you in the chair and feel bad. You’ve been in chair all night. I think, coffee is good.”
“Coffee is good.” David agrees. “I definitely need a coffee.”
Ilya gestures, like what he was saying wasn’t so ridiculous after all.
“So I make coffee... Except, no. I wake you,” Ilya says, voice quieter now. “And I—” He gestures vaguely at the counter, the coffee machine, the general existence of himself in the kitchen. “I should not.”
David gives Ilya a sympathetic smile. “How about we get you back to bed, and I’ll make myself a coffee and us some breakfast? Do you think you can manage some toast?”
Ilya looks up at David, his face still too pale, and his eyes too shiny, but he gives him a small smile and nods. “I will try. Thank you.”
David reaches for the bread bin, pops three pieces of wholewheat bread into the toaster and walks calmly and slowly over to the table, not wanting to spook Ilya.
“Come on, let me help you back to bed.”
Ilya doesn’t argue much - just a faint protest, but it falls apart halfway through the sentence when he sways on his feet again. David doesn’t push it. Just steers him slowly back up the hall, keeping a light hand at his back.
But the thought stays lodged in his brain heavy and uncomfortable:
Who the hell made you flinch like that?