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Ilya has been watching Shane for longer and with more attention than he has ever watched anyone or anything else in his life. He’s catalogued all of Shane’s expressions, the way he looks when he’s stressed or annoyed, when he begs Ilya to let him come, when he plays the very best hockey.
So Ilya knows, just by looking at Shane when they wake up in the morning, that something is wrong. Shane is much more slow than usual getting out of bed. He forces down a slice of dry toast for breakfast looking like he’s about to throw it back up. When Ilya takes his hand in the car on the way to morning skate, Shane’s skin is clammy, and he’s squinting against the sun as if the brightness is causing him pain.
“Do you want to see Terry when we get there?”
“Why would I need to see Terry?” Shane asks. “I told you, that hit from Vaughn didn’t do any damage.”
Ilya had still been tempted to jump the bench and punch Vaughn in the face during the game two days ago, but one look from Shane had kept him sitting down.
Ilya always notices when Shane is playing off, even if no one else does. Today, though, his reactions are slower, every move less well-executed than it would normally be to the extent that even Dillon and the rookies seem to spot the difference. During breaks, Shane sits on the bench looking tired, wiping his forehead, rolling his water bottle in his hands without taking a sip.
“Is Hollander okay?” Bood asks Ilya quietly.
Ilya responds with a half-hearted shrug. Obviously, Shane is not okay, but he clearly wants to pretend. “He slept badly,” he says.
“Uh-huh,” Bood says. “You guys can rest sometimes, you know?”
Ilya doesn’t think they really can, but no one else would properly understand it. Ilya has got better, he’s worked with Galina to be able to ask for help, ask for time when he needs it. Shane, though, is as relentless as he’s always been, even more so in public. He’s been training harder than Ilya has ever seen him before for the season’s first game against Montreal this afternoon.
Ilya is relieved when Shane seems to rally at least somewhat towards the end of morning skate, chasing after Ilya for the puck. Ilya gets it past Hayes, whoops, whirls around and sees Shane fall. For a moment, Ilya can’t move, and then he skates faster than he ever has in his life.
He skids to a halt next to where Shane is slumped over on the ice and topples forward onto his knees. “Shane!”
Nothing. Shane is still and pale except for a flush high in his cheeks.
“Roz,” someone above him is saying.
Ilya pays them no heed. “Shane, wake up. Shane! Sweetheart, you’re okay, I’m with you, wake up for me, please, please wake up -”
“What’s he saying?” That might be Bood.
Ilya cuts himself of, realising the words spilling out of him were in Russian. He reaches out, very carefully, hovering his hands over Shane. “The spinal board,” he gasps at Hayes, who’s knelt down next to him. “Where are they, why aren’t they coming, he needs the hospital -”
“Roz,” Hayes says. “He doesn’t need a spinal board, he wasn’t hit.”
“No!” Ilya’s voice is rising. “He needs to go to the hospital, I have to go with him.”
“What happened?” That’s Terry’s voice.
Ilya looks up and sees him standing next to Wiebe. Someone must have run to get him.
“Terry,” he pleads. “Why isn’t he waking up, please help him, he isn’t moving, how can we wake him up?”
“Ilya?”
Ilya whips his eyes away from Terry to rest on Shane, whose beautiful dark eyes are fluttering open. “Shane, sweetheart,” he breathes. “You’re okay, I’m here. Is all going to be okay.”
Shane is groping around until he finds Ilya’s hand. His grip is far weaker than usual but he’s holding on.
“Terry,” Ilya says again, finding Terry kneeling down on Shane’s other side now. “Is the ambulance coming? He needs the hospital, please.”
“Let me check him over, Ilya,” Terry says. His voice is far too calm for the danger Shane is in. “Has he had flu symptoms? There’s a wave going ‘round. Has he been eating normally, drinking enough water?”
“’m fine,” Shane groans, trying to sit up.
Ilya puts a hand on his shoulder. “Shane, careful, please, you are hurt. You need to go to the hospital.”
“No,” Shane says, trying again to sit up. “’s okay. We have a game.”
“Tell him!” Ilya says to Terry. “Why aren’t you taking him to the fucking hospital?”
“Terry needs to do his work, Rozanov,” Wiebe says kindly. “How about you let go of Shane to let Terry check him over now. He’ll figure out if he needs to go to the hospital or not.”
“I’m not letting him go!” Ilya says. “You can’t take him without me, we’re married now, you cannot do that, you have to let me go with him, you have to let me stay, I’m his emergency contact!”
“Ilya.” Wiebe squeezes Ilya’s shoulder. “No one is trying to take him away from you. You can go wherever he goes.”
Ilya blinks to clear his sight and realises his eyes are blurry with tears. “No?”
“Ilya,” Shane rasps. His fingers squeeze Ilya’s fingers again. “Everything’s fine. Let me get up.”
Ilya hesitantly inches back but doesn’t let go of Shane’s hand.
“Okay, Shane,” Terry says. “Let’s see if you can get up all right. If not, we’ll get a stretcher for you.”
“Don’t need one.” Shane pushes himself up into a sitting position, clearly putting in a lot of effort to do so. “I’m good. Just got dizzy for a moment. Let me go back to practise, it’s fine.”
“Hollander.” That’s Wiebe. “Terry definitely needs to check that it’s nothing serious. If he clears you, you can come back.”
Shane presses his lips into a tight line, but he doesn’t argue with Wiebe. “Ilya, help me up,” he says again.
Ilya realises he’s drenched in sweat and his heart is racing. He shivers in the cold of the rink even through his gear. At Shane’s request, he automatically gets up and then reaches out to help Shane.
Shane wobbles on his skates a little as he moves to leave the rink. It destabilises Ilya more than anything else could. Shane moves on skates like falcons move through air, or barracuda through water. Smooth and sleek and confident. Shane grips the edge of the rink to steady himself while stepping off.
Ilya reaches out to help, but Shane shoots him a withering glare. So Ilya just watches, ready to catch Shane in case the worst should happen.
Terry gets Ilya to slowly drink a glass of water while he checks that Shane is okay. It helps Ilya’s hands stop shaking, but he still feels unsteady until Terry confirms that Shane has the flu and is dehydrated and has a fever.
Shane is clearly horrified when Terry tells him to stay home and recover for at least three days and to come for a check-up after. “No, no,” he keeps saying. “Ilya, tell him I’m fine, tell him I can play.”
“Shane,” Terry says kindly. “You absolutely can’t play.”
Shane pulls at Ilya’s sleeve until Ilya bends down. “Make him,” Shane whispers. “Just today.”
Ilya drops a kiss into Shane’s hair. “Terry,” he says. “Can you give us moment to talk?”
Terry doesn’t argue, just steps into his office and closes the door behind him. Ilya rests his hands on Shane’s shoulder and catches his feverish gaze.
“Ilya,” Shane says. “Make him let me play this game, please. Then I can stay home. Just today.”
“Shane,” Ilya says firmly. “I am talking as your husband and your captain at the same time, yes? You are very ill. You cannot play.”
Shane shakes his head. He’s clutching at Ilya’s shirt. “I have to.”
“Shane.”
“I have to, Ilya!” Shane’s voice is rising, the words coming out scratchy. “Do you know what people will say if I don’t play this game?”
“I know what they will say,” Ilya says, because he truly does. None of it could possibly be worth Shane’s health. “They are stupid, they are assholes. None of those people matter.”
“A fucking decade.” Shane’s eyes are shining, his skin flushed. His hands are burning hot against Ilya’s skin. “I gave them a fucking decade of my life, and it will be for nothing if I don’t play this game.”
Ilya carefully cradles both of Shane’s hands in his. “Shane, you have very high fever. Terry said you have to go home. I will stay home with you, okay?”
“What?” Shane sounds panicked now. “No! They’ll win for sure if you don’t play. I just – I have to – Ilya – my head, my head hurts so fucking much.”
“I know, sweetheart. You are very sick. Please, please listen to me. I am asking you for this. Please.”
Shane slumps forward into Ilya’s arms. “They’ll say I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“Everyone will say I’m ashamed -” He coughs. “Ashamed of being gay, or being with you. Of us.”
“They can say that. We know is not true.”
“It’s not!” Shane agrees vehemently. The blush on his cheeks is scarlet now, the feverish gleam in his eyes almost frightening. “Ilya, I love you. I’m not ashamed, I swear! I can show them, that was the point of playing this game! So you’ll know!”
“I already know,” Ilya says, squeezing Shane’s hands. “I promise I know, Shane. Okay?”
“My head,” Shane groans again. “Ilya, it hurts.”
“I know, sweetheart. You have the flu really bad. You didn’t sleep much last night and you have not had enough water. Let me take you home.”
“Was gonna win this game for you,” Shane says. He sounds barely present. “So you know I chose you, that I will always choose you. I love you so much, Ilya, I love you. I love you, yeah? Love you so much.”
“Hey.” Ilya strokes his thumbs over Shane’s cheekbones, the freckles he knows so well. “I know this, Shane. I swear. I love you, ya tebya lyublyu, da?”
Shane nods distractedly. “I’m too hot,” he says, pulling at his shirt. “Gonna take this off.”
Ilya shakes his head. “No, let’s keep that on. You’ll feel better once we’re home. Let’s go to the car.”
Shane shakes his head now, too, clearly uncomfortable. “Don’t feel good, Ilya. I wanna – I dunno. ‘m too hot.”
“I know. I know. Come here.”
“Are we going now?”
“Yes,” Ilya says. He refills his water and hands the glass to Shane. “I will go talk to Terry and Wiebe while you have some water. Small sips, Terry said, okay? And then we’re going.”
Shane falls dead asleep as soon as Ilya puts him into bed. It was all Ilya could do to get him to drink a little more water before tucking him in. Anya curls up at the foot of the bed, snuffling and lying across Shane’s feet over the covers. Ilya sits up against the headboard, one hand in Shane’s hair, the other clutching a bottle of water.
Shane, if he hadn’t been sleep-deprived, dehydrated and in pain would have told him to quarantine, but Ilya physically can’t move. He can barely even look away from Shane, the rise and fall of his chest and the way his eyelashes flutter in his sleep. He’s flushed and his lips are chapped. He’s so easily the most beautiful thing Ilya has ever seen, even when he’s ill. And alive, and going to wake up once he’s rested enough, his lungs drawing breath and his heart beating. Alive, and safe, and going to be awake.
Shane sleeps well past lunchtime. Eventually, he shifts around under the blankets, his feet nudging Anya to the side, his hands curling around the duvet and pushing it down to his waist. “Ilya?”
“Hey,” Ilya whispers, tenderly cupping Shane’s cheek while reaching with his other hand to pull the duvet back over him. “How are you feeling?”
“Bad,” Shane croaks. “Hot. ‘n my throat hurts.”
“Here, drink some water,” Ilya tells him, lifting the bottle to his lips.
Shane drinks obediently, then looks up at Ilya with a little frown. “How was the game?”
“Has not started yet,” Ilya says.
“What time is it?”
“Almost four. Are you hungry? I can order soup.”
Shane shakes his head. “Why are you here? The game is at five.”
Ilya brushes back Shane’s hair. “I am staying with you.”
Shane’s eyes widen and he scrambles out from under the covers, dislodging Anya again and rolling out of bed. “If you leave now you can make it in time,” he says, throwing clothes at Ilya, stumbling around to avoid careening into the doors of their wardrobe and the edge of their bed.
“Shane.”
“Don’t drive through town, go around, otherwise you’ll get stuck in traffic.” He keeps trying to drag Ilya’s coat off the hanger even as he’s doubling over with a coughing fit.
“Shane. Please stop. Come back to bed, you have to rest. I am not playing the game today.”
Shane freezes. “What?”
“I need to stay with you.”
“No, no,” Shane says, wrapping his arms around himself. He’s shivering. “The team won’t win without you!”
“I trust our team, okay? But if they lose, they lose.” He takes Shane by the shoulders and gently pushes him down until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.
Shane looks horrified. “Ilya, please, I don’t want you missing the game because of me!”
“I am not missing it because of you, Hollander! I cannot play!” It comes out far more agitated than Ilya intended.
Shane blinks up at him. “What do you mean? Are you feeling ill? Did I get you sick? Shit, Ilya, I’m sorry.”
Ilya runs his hands throat his hair. “I cannot play right now. You were on the ice, you were not moving, I need to -” He tries to take deep breaths and remind himself of all the work he’s done with Galina. Honesty. Explaining what he’s feeling and thinking. “I need to be with you and hold you in my arms and feel you breathe right now. Okay, Shane? Is for me as much as for you.”
Shane looks on the verge of tears. “Oh, fuck, Ilya, I didn’t even -” He scrubs his hands down his face. “It took you back? To when I got knocked out?”
“Of course it took me fucking back,” Ilya says. “I am thinking about that during all the games you play. I can never forget it.”
“Ilya.”
“Is fine, I am just trying to explain the reason I am staying home with you. Terry said he can give me medication and I told him all I need is to see you are okay.”
Shane reaches up his arms and Ilya bends down to let Shane embrace him. Anya whimpers and brushes up against Ilya’s ankles. Shane tucks his face against Ilya’s neck and presses a kiss there. His skin is far too hot. Ilya really needs to let him rest.
“Shane, can we lie back down? Is that okay? Please can you drink water? I am worried.”
Shane crawls back under the covers and holds his hands out until Ilya snuggles up next to him. They share a bottle of water, and then Shane buries his hands in Ilya’s hair and draws Ilya’s head to his chest. “’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
Ilya shakes his head. Shane’s fingers start to draw little circles on his scalp and he closes his eyes in pleasure. “You did nothing wrong. I know you wanted to kick Montreal’s ass.”
“Yeah.” Shane’s voice is quiet. “I did. I can’t stand to think of them winning.”
“They won’t. We have the best team.”
“We do.”
Ilya wraps his arm around Shane’s waist and pulls him as close as he can while Anya jumps back on the bed. Shane for once doesn’t complain about her falling asleep there. He merely makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and nuzzles his face into Ilya’s hair. His Shane, safe and sound in Ilya’s arms. Ilya wants Montreal obliterated, but he can’t bring himself to regret them missing the game. Nothing could be more important than this.
“Hey, Ilya?” Shane whispers.
“Mhm?”
He looks up to see Shane smiling a little. “The good thing is, this way you and I get to trash them for the first time when they’re at home.”
Ilya can’t help it, he pushes himself up enough to capture Shane’s lips in a proper, deep kiss.
“Ilya,” Shane says, once they break apart. “We shouldn’t. I’ll get you sick, it’s bad enough you’re not staying in a separate room.”
“Does not matter,” Ilya says, curling back around Shane. “Is the point, right? In sickness and health, what’s mine is yours.”
“Not my germs,” Shane says.
“I love your germs.”
“Ew, Ilya.”
“I do, I love them,” Ilya insists. “Give me more of them.” He purses his lips.
Shane laughs and pulls a face. Then he leans down, and Ilya gets all the kisses he wants.