Chapter Text
Shane
The aura started during warmups. The lights all of sudden starting to pierce his eyes and the noise of the rink building pressure in his head. Fuck. The warning signs were there, the stiffness in his neck when he woke up, how weak his body felt during the morning skate. In all fairness, he had just recovered from a slight cold, which disguised the symptoms enough to allow Shane to be caught off guard. He doesn’t like to be caught off guard, not when he’s already feeling uneasy from the radio silence and ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe radiating off Ilya that he can feel from across the rink.
He knows the smart idea is to tell Theriault, sit out the game, but he can almost feel the disappointment from his coach, and the resentment of his team as he hangs them out to dry. That combined with his fierce competitive nature is enough to squash any lingering hesitations about playing with a migraine. He’ll be fine, right?
Catching Hayden’s eye in a silent check up, Shane nods, hoping he doesn’t see the slight wince as Shane’s head lifted towards the lights. Thankfully he makes it through warmup without anything worsening, and by this point he’s confident if it stays like this, he will make it through the game. He can suffer at home. His team is depending on him. Besides this is not the first injury Shane has played through in his career.
The first period is uneventful, Shane is slower, needing a little extra time to work through the symptoms of the migraine as he plays. It’s noticeable, yet still excusable by claiming the lingering sluggishness from his head cold. Brushing off the concern of the team doctors, Hayden, JJ, and Theriault (if you can call it concern), he ignores the worsening spots in his vision and slight tingling in his arms causing his grip to weaken.
It could honestly be considered a miracle that he even makes it through the first half of the second before it really kicks in. And does it ever kick in. The lights that were tolerable previously, seem to have increased in intensity tenfold and the pressure behind his eyes becomes unbearable. As he bends over for the faceoff, paired with Ilya because of course, Shane is hit with a wave of nausea he should’ve been expecting, knowing this was a constant in his migraine routine. Maybe it was the way he slid back slightly, or the lack of colour in his face despite visibly physically exerting himself until this point. Maybe it was the way the sweat on his face, combined with the lights, made him look sickly instead of ethereal as per usual. Or maybe it was just pure longing that overcame Ilya enough to speak his first words to Shane in months.
“You look like shit.” The way he said it made Shane pause. To anyone else, it would read as a chirp, albeit a weak one considering Ilya’s reputation within the league, yet still just an exchange between rivals. To Shane, he could almost hear the longing in Ilya’s statement, behind the slightly veiled concern and facade of nonchalance he always put on. And despite knowing him better than almost anyone, the lack of contact allowed Shane to believe he imagined that, in his state of delirium and all.
With all the analyzing of his words, and the extra reaction time added due to the migraine, Shane lost the faceoff. Decisively. It was like he didn’t even try to grab the puck. Which made it all his fault when Ilya scored, making it 2-0 Boston, and the added noise from the mixed cheers and boos within the crowd pushed Shane over the edge.
He barely makes it to the garbage can on the Metros bench before he is violently throwing up the precariously balanced meal meant to fuel his game.
Behind him, where Ilya should be celebrating his goal, he is instead staring as Shane is led into the Metros tunnel and out of his sight.
Shane does not return to the game.
Shane does not remember how he got back to his apartment. Shane also does not remember how he made it to his ensuite. He is grateful at this moment, that he closed his black out curtains before leaving for the game with the intention of sleeping when he got home. The light from the nighttime skyline through the open bathroom door would’ve been torture at this moment. Even the sound of him retching in the dark is too much for his head to handle. His eyes leak and he can’t even muster the energy to actually sob. An unknown amount of time later, he passes out on the bathroom floor. Too drained to move anywhere and uncaring of his own comfort or the cleanliness of his bathroom floor.
Ilya
The goal was ruined the moment he saw Shane on the bench, hurling his guts into a trash can. He would admit, he was worried, he knew how he played, his tells, everything. Something had just been off from the moment the game started, yet he couldn’t say anything. It wasn't his place, he had Rose Landry to take care of him now.
He had tried to take it back, trying to pretend he didn’t mean it. All the feelings that came with breaking down the barriers their last names provided them. He had tried to show Shane- Hollander, that they could pretend it didn’t happen. He still didn’t stay. Nobody ever stayed when it came to him, so he should be used to it by now. It’s a known fact in his world, anyone he ever loves will leave.
He plays the rest of the game like shit. He doesn’t care, the Metros really aren’t anything remarkable without Sha- Hollander. He isn’t anything remarkable without Hollander either, so I guess they're even. Despite the win, he feels no joy, no desire to party with his team, all he wants is in a condo in Montreal that he doesn’t even have the address for. Ilya isn’t a weak man, but for Shane he is. And scaring him the way he did tonight is not something he cares for.
He texts him once, just his name. Bridging the gap he had let get between them in the wake of Rose Landry. When five minutes pass without an answer, he texts again. A simple ‘r u ok?’ which also does not get a response. They aren’t even being read. Which is likely what causes the pit in his stomach, even when the one was ignoring the other, all their messages were read. Because he is weak, for no one but Shane, he texts five more times, something he would normally never do especially in an increasingly panicked nature.
It takes all the restraint Ilya has left in his body to wait outside the Metro’s locker room to talk to none other than Pike. “Pike!” he calls out as Hayden exits the locker room.
Hayden turns looking years older than Ilya knows he is. He looks exhausted. “What.” comes the deadpan from Hayden as he searches Ilya’s own face for a hint as to what this about.
“I need Sh- Hollander’s address.” He pauses, “Please, Pike.” That gets the attention of the other man.
“Why? I can’t even fathom any reason why you would need his address. So tell me why.” Pike stares him down with a look that is probably meant to be intimidating, yet falls short in the essence of Montreal's fifteenth best player.
“I just need. No questions. I’m asking you for favour Pike, please.” His desperation slipped through on the last word, and despite all their reputations and history, one thing Hayden knows for certain is that was the most sincere ask he’s ever heard.
“Are you going to kill him?”
“What! No, Pike. If I was going to kill anybody it’d probably be you, or Rose Landry.” That last sentence was said under his breath, and he really hopes Hayden didn’t hear it and will give him the address. “We’re friends.” He adds after a brief pause. Please please just let me go see him.
“Yeah, I'll believe it when I see it.” Pike scoffs and turns to walk away when he catches the utter despair on Ilya’s face. The raw emotion currently on display for everyone to see. “What’s your number? I’ll text it to you.” and the sheer relief on his face almost stopped Hayden in his tracks. “Let me know how he is, okay? That’s all I ask.” and with that Ilya nodded and turned away, booking a cab and jogging slightly down the hallway toward the players’ exit.
It didn’t take long to reach Hollander’s building. It took even less time to sprint up 8 flights of stairs, with no time to spare on an elevator. When Ilya reached Shane’s door, he didn’t know what to do anymore. Questioning his welcome (there wasn’t one in the first place) and what if his girlfriend is there tending to him. He almost leaves. But the invisible string pulling him to his other half is taught, and he can’t go anywhere. He knocks, for at least a minute, when he hears no signs of life, the panic in his heart starts to grow and that pit in his stomach is engulfing more as each second ticks down.
He begins trying the door code, 1919, 1221, 1410. Fuck. He tries one last code before deciding to break down the door, 2481, and surprisingly enough, it beeps and lets him into the cold silent apartment.
He almost feels bad invading Shane’s space without his permission, he knows all too well how Shane is about boundaries within their dynamic. But none of that matters when he finds Shane laying unconscious on the floor of his ensuite. He’s paralyzed with fear, unwilling to turn on the light and see the love of his life dead on his bathroom floor.
For a moment he’s transported to the moment he found his mother, unconscious, limp, dead. Laying on her bed, hand outstretched for anyone to grab onto. No. Shane is not his mom. He flicks the light on, studying Shane, searching for a sign of life, which he gets in the form of quickened breaths and a slight whimper falling from the lips of his beloved. He takes in Shane in his state, trying to diagnose the issue, noticing the tear tracks on the sides of his face, the pale colour of his face, his dry cracked lips, the dried sweat on his forehead, and the saliva dried on his chin from violently vomiting. Flu, maybe?
He’s so distracted by his assessment that he almost doesn’t notice Shane’s whisper, “ilya- lights… off.” He blindly obeys, swallowing them both in darkness again. Too concerned to notice that his Shane didn’t call him Rozanov.
“tell me what’s wrong Shane. i’ll fix it i promise, i’ll do anything for you.” he pleads quietly, not fully understanding the situation but understanding the necessity of dark and quiet.
“medicine, kitchen” The brief words are all Shane can get out before the tears resume and he’s bent over his toilet bowl, retching, having nothing left to expel.
The words kick Ilya into action and he’s scrambling out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. It takes him a good five minutes of searching his kitchen for a glass and the medicine, and another two to google what all the medications are for. He does this until he can match the medicine with the symptoms Shane has. He returns to the bathroom and hands Shane the pill and glass of water, getting in behind him to hold him up for support. It isn’t until Shane goes limp against him that he realizes the trust they have within each other.
Ilya lets a good hour go by of Shane just resting against him, the medicine having helped settle the nausea, and his back begins to kill him. It is also then that he remembers his obligation to Pike, pulling out his phone to send a quick text before realizing the light is going to make things worse for Shane. “Shane, moya lyubov, can you move to the bed for me please?” He whispers quietly into the darkness hoping Shane is still awake enough to understand his request. A slight shift is all he feels before Shane attempts to move himself forward to get up.
He promptly falls over, despite his current desire to not be touched or moved, Shane is grateful Ilya was there to catch him. Together they make their way to the king size bed in the connecting room. The way they move together channeling the same sort of intimacy Shane was faced with during his last ‘visit’ with Ilya. Before it all got screwed up when Shane ran away, before he started dating Rose Landry, before there was this distance between them again.
Ilya guided Shane to the bed, pulling back the covers and tucking him in as if he were a child. Then, understanding the severity of the migraine, he begins to retreat from the room, tiptoeing as quietly as he can possibly manage. He really doesn’t want to disturb Shane.
After a successful stealthy exit, he makes his way to the door. Shane wouldn’t want him to stay. He knows he’s intruding and he wasn’t even invited in. He just came to make sure Shane was okay.
He’s pulling on his shoes when he pauses. He hadn’t left medicine or water or anything by the bedside to wake up to. With a light sigh that attempts to express resignation but really is just there to mask the joy at getting to be in Shane’s presence once more, he makes his way back into the kitchen. Without switching on a single light, he grabs a fresh glass and fills it with exactly 3 ice cubes and water from Shane’s fancy-ass fridge.
Satisfied with his creation, he slips back into the master bedroom. And with his eyes so adjusted to the darkness he can pretty clearly make out the layout of the bedroom that he did not pay attention to previously. The bed in the center of the room, with the figure limp on the left side. The matching nightstands, the one on the left being the only one with things actually on it. The TV on the stand directly across from the bed with the remotes laid out perfectly in front of it, and Ilya just knows for a fact that this TV has never been used before. It was probably placed there by some designer who doesn’t know that Shane would never watch tv in bed, have a lazy day, or even just allow blue light to factor into his rigid sleep schedule. And it causes a slight twinge in his heart, thinking about how well he knows the man who is supposed to be his rival.
The man who is currently mumbling something that Ilya wasn’t listening to. He moves in closer to crouch on the left side of the bed, where his love has tilted his head to him to whisper, “stay.” He says it in such a soft tone, one that folds Ilya immediately, despite knowing it’s a bad idea. When has he ever been able to resist Shane anyways.
“ok,” Ilya places the glass he was still holding on the nightstand beside the bed, and begins to peel off his clothes. He moves as quiet as he can, knowing that asking him to stay probably took all of Shane’s energy. He creeps into the right side of the bed, how ironic that his preferred side of the bed and Shane’s preferred side match up, covering up under the covers and reaching a hand for Shane on the other side of the bed. He quickly retracts it when Shane winces as Ilya’s hand makes contact with his shoulder.
However it seems to unsettle Shane enough for him to muster up the energy and resolve to shift the half foot over into the space where he can be tucked beneath Ilya’s arm. And isn’t that just the best thing in the world? He holds his breath as he waits for Shane to change his mind and pull back. To whisper that he needs to leave him, that he’s hurting him more by being there. Yet Shane does none of these things, and as the moments pass by, Ilya relaxes into him.
They lie still, tucked into one another, and Ilya believes this is the most peace he’s felt in his lifetime. Enough peace that he forgets about Rose Landry, forgets about Russia, forgets about hockey and homophobes, forgets about everything stopping him from being with the love of his life. And as they both drift into sleep, he knows he would happily stay here forever, and he would change nothing if it meant he got to hold his Shane as they both fade into sleep.