Chapter Text
Shane stared at the locker room floor, willing himself not to lay down and go to sleep in front of all the rowdy Centaurs. He felt awful, limbs slow and uncooperative as he took off his gear from practice. He was on full autopilot because at some point during practice his head had been filled with cement.
“You good, bud?” Bood said, looking in Shane’s direction.
“Yeah, just tired.” Shane replied. He was always physically spent after practice; what was the point of practice if you weren’t pushing yourself? But this was definitely worse than usual. Ilya had run them through some tough drills, in preparation for their upcoming game against Montreal, but nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, here he stood with half his gear still on and no energy to take it off. He knew if he didn’t get in the shower soon his sweat would start to dry, a sensation Shane usually avoided by being one of the first in. But right now he couldn’t make himself care.
Ilya returned from the showers, the towel on his hips barely hanging on, singing horribly off-key. “Pink pony club. I wanna kiss you on the pink pony club. I’m gonna get you at the pink pony club.”
“Those are not the lyrics.” Troy said with a smirk. Ilya merely flipped him off before returning to his cubby next to Shane. “Moy lyubimyy, get changed. Anya needs her walk.”
“Right.” Shane mumbled, his limbs still moving like they were made of lead. Shuffling to the showers he stood completely still letting the water hit him directly in the face until his mind went blank. A small eternity passed and echoes of his name brought Shane back to the present.
“Shaaaaaane! Are you becoming mermaid?” Ilya stood just outside the showers, fully dressed and his bag slung across his chest. “I am hungry and you promised we could watch evil Salt Lake women tonight.”
“Yeah, sorry, I’m coming.” Shane said, turning the water off and ambled his way towards his husband.
“You okay?” Ilya said, frowning at Shane's overall demeanor.
“Just tired, I guess.” Shane mumbled drying off and putting his clothes on in a now empty locker room.
“You do not look good.” Ilya said, worried lines starting to appear between his brows.
“Wow, thanks.” Shane said, rolling his eyes. “Your seductions only get better and better.”
“No, no. You are always beautiful. But right now you look like death.” Ilya walked over and cupped Shane’s face. Shane looked up into Ilya’s eyes expecting to see them happily flicking around his cheeks and nose, always cataloguing his freckles. Instead, Ilya was looking at him with great concern as he moved a hand from Shane’s cheek to his forehead. “Moy lyubimy you are on fire! You are sick! Why did you not tell me?”
“I am not sick. I was just in the shower.” Shane deflected, removing his head from Ilya’s hands and finished packing his bag.
“Does shower make you look like ghost and walk like zombie?” Ilya protested, grabbing Shane’s bag from him as they started to walk out of the locker room.
“I am not sick! I don’t get sick!” Shane blurted louder than he intended. He stormed off and immediately felt like a child as he waited in the parking lot at the passenger door until Ilya unlocked their car. Finally, it beeped and Shane got in avoiding eye contact. Ilya let out a small chuckle as he started the car and they spent their ride home in silence.
First step inside the house from the garage and Anya was already running circles around them yipping with excitement. She wasn’t a particularly loud dog but today it felt like glass in Shane’s ears.
<<“Hello my favorite girl! Are you ready for a walk? Yes? Okay lets go!”>> Ilya cooed in Russian and sent her skidding towards the front door where they kept her leash. Shane stared at the plush sofa wishing more than anything to lay down. But that’s what you would do if you were sick and he was definitely NOT sick.
As they walked around their neighborhood, Shane worked hard to keep up with Ilya. Anya was always pulled on her leash so their leisurely walks often turned into slight jogs. Shane tried to hide the consistent sniffles that were required to keep his nose from running. But he could feel Ilya’s eyes on him each time he used his sleeve to wipe his nose.
Once they were finally home, Ilya filled both of their water bottles, sliding Shane’s to him across the counter. Shane slumped into the barstool and eagerly grabbed the drink. The first swallow was heavenly, sliding down his increasingly raw throat. But as he drank more, he could feel the ice cold water make its way through the core of his body and pool in his stomach. Setting the bottle down, he shivered from head to toe. Shane immediately got off the stool staring at the floor refusing to see Ilya’s sky high eyebrows and head tilt that was the Russian equivalent to “Sure, Jan.” Instead, Shane headed towards the den, ready to curl up on the couch and maybe nap while Ilya watched whatever flavor of screaming women on TV that piqued his interest today.
“Shane, we should empty the rest of my boxes.”
Shane stopped. Ilya had a bunch of boxes that still needed to be unpacked from his Boston move that Ilya refused to let the movers unpack for some godforsaken reason. Shane repeatedly pointed out that since he hadn’t needed anything in them since moving from Boston to his temporary Ottawa apartment or anytime since moving into the house they bought together, Ilya should just throw them away. But Ilya always said there were precious things from Russia and Boston in them that he would like to keep. And, yet, they had sat in the garage for almost a year.
“Right now?” Shane replied, trying not to sound whiny.
“You keep saying boxes bug you, we do not have game today. Why not do it now?” Ilya asked with a look of innocent curiosity. But Shane knew better. He knew Ilya would never choose to do a menial task over spending the afternoon on the couch. This was a challenge. He was trying to bait Shane into admitting he was sick.
Over Shane’s dead body.
“Yeah, good idea. I can’t wait to find out what you’ve forgotten you own but will refuse to get rid of.” Shane quipped, hoping the jab would cover the real reason for his annoyance.
Ilya treated every box like it was a present on Christmas morning. He pulled out items one by one, excitedly explaining the epic and lengthy tale of how each one came to be in his possession. Normally, hearing about Ilya’s life from before Shane would be incredibly endearing. But sweat poured down Shane’s back as he tried to come up with an organizational system for the endless amount of sentimental but ultimately useless items. He was breathing heavier in the stuffy garage, his nose now entirely plugged, and a heaviness creeping its way across his chest.
Ilya held up a green tinted high ball glass, a monogram on one side read NEON NIGHTS. “This is from the best bar in Boston I got banned from!” Ilya looked at it fondly, running his thumb across the chip at the top. “I became…friends with the owner and convinced her to have a Russian Rap night.”
“So, why did you get banned?” Shane asked, grabbing the glass and putting it in the “Throw Away When Ilya Isn’t Looking” pile.
“Russian Rap night didn’t go so well. I didn’t end up going and the owner was furious. Apparently, she told lots of people I would be there and when I didn’t show, they thought she lied about knowing me. People were very mad. She said not to come back until I paid her for the drop in sales.” Ilya chuckled, breaking down the box the glass had come from.
“Why didn’t you go?!” Shane asked incredulously.
“A very pretty boy happened to be in town.” Ilya crooned. Shane turned and saw those gorgeous heart eyes Ilya threw his way whenever he got sentimental. “So, I sent her the money plus a tip and she sent me back that glass.” As Ilya turned towards the remaining boxes, Shane silently moved the glass to the much smaller “Find a Place For” pile.
Two hours later, the boxes were empty and recycled. Many items had been thrown out, but the rest were now in smaller piles in the guest room. Ilya promised he would find places for them that wouldn’t be in the way. Shane would normally roll his eyes at the improbability of that happening without his supervision, but currently he was just relieved he could finally go lie down.
“Farah sent over the draft for the GQ Hockey Husbands interview.” Ilya said off-handedly, grabbing his laptop and taking a seat at the kitchen table. “We should review it.”
“Now?” Shane whined, his voice coming out high and scratchy from the intense soreness coating his entire throat.
“Why not now?” Ilya asked, catching Shane’s eye with that same gentle angelic curiosity that could only mean he had seriously nefarious intent. “Is there reason you do not want to look at it?”
Shane took a deep breath. He knew in his heart of hearts he was incredibly sick. They had a game against Montreal soon. If he was going to be anywhere near ready, he needed to get over this as soon as possible and the only way to do that was rest. The worst thing he could do was push himself just to win this stupid challenge that was only hurting him. Winning would mean delaying his recovery. Losing meant finally being able to lay down.
“Let’s do it.” Shane replied, trying to sound as enthused as possible while he was at death's door.
GQ sent them over a hundred photos to review from a photoshoot they had done together a few weeks previous. It took an eternity to narrow it down to twenty because Ilya argued in favor of ones where Shane looked his absolute worst.
“I’m literally tripping in this one, Ilya! Why would we use that one?” Shane exclaimed, throwing his hands up and immediately suffering from his aching muscles.
“It makes you relatable! Even Golden Boy, Canada’s own Prince of Hockey, THE Shane Hollander trips.” Ilya replied, as if it made any sense.
“Everyone knows I trip, Ilya. Maybe you forgot, but the entire population of Montreal never will.” Shane spat through gritted teeth.
“Even more reason to include it, give them a sexy version with your sexy husband.” Ilya smirked.
Ilya then forced Shane to read the article out loud and asked him to define over a dozen words Shane was certain Ilya already knew. Shane’s voice barely came out as a whisper by the end. If Shane had one drop of energy left, he would be Googling ways to divorce a murdered spouse.
Finally, the replies to Farah and their PR team were sent off with edits for the article and their photos chosen. Shane shuffled his way toward the couch, certain nothing would get in his way this time.
“Jackie asked us to come grab Anya’s toys we left there last week. Apparently, the twins keep fighting over who gets to ‘pretend to be family dog and chew on them.’” Ilya quoted from a text on his phone, laughing at the picture of Ruby running across the yard on all fours, Anya’s squeaky toy in her mouth.
“That’s disgusting.” Shane croaked, when Ilya turned the phone towards him.
“Da. Which is why we must go save Anya’s toys from child germs.” Ilya nodded, pulling on his sneakers. “Don’t want anyone to get sick.” He said with his signature smirk.
“I’m gonna stay here.” Shane said, inching toward their plush sofa. Ilya scoffed and Shane watched Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead again. “I’ll get started on dinner! You said you were hungry.” Shane turned and stalked to the kitchen feeling Ilya’s judgemental eyes bore into the back of his skull.
After Ilya herded Anya into their car, Shane opened the fridge and stared. It was freshly stocked with vegetables, lean meats, fish, ginger ale, and cokes. Easy meal prepped dinners were stacked in clear containers labelled with the date made by their chef; each contained colorful combinations of perfectly proportioned meals. It all looked revolting.
Maybe we can just order in tonight.
Shane immediately abandoned that thought, not wanting to give Ilya the satisfaction. He pulled out one of the containers of meal prepped food and prepared a fresh salad to go with it. It was all ready and the table was set before Ilya had gotten back. Relishing the quiet, Shane plopped on the couch and curled up in his favorite blanket. He flipped between streaming services before landing on Letterkenny.
Shane was alone on the ice, gliding lazily. The ice was fresh allowing Shane to attempt to match figure eights trying to match his own marks, making them deeper each time. He heard Anya barking and her feet tap tap tapping across the ice. She sounded weird, almost distressed? He looked up and saw her racing in front of a zamboni as it gained on her. Shane rushed towards her but as he skated harder, she seemed farther and farther away. The zamboni hummed angrily, it sounded almost like a laugh. No, it was laughing. The front of the zamboni was a creature's face, large yellow eyes, and mouth open trying to swallow Anya whole. Shane skated faster than he’d ever skated before. Right as the zamboni’s large teeth reach over and consume Anya in one bite, Shane snatched her away. Relieved, he looked down to be sure she was okay but he was no longer holding Anya. In his arms was an infant with the face of Coach Theriault. Scowling and face growing red, baby Coach Theriault leapt at Shane’s face angrily, his baby hands hitting Shane’s cheeks making them damp. Shane yelled and tried to drop baby Coach Theriault—
“Shane! Shane! Stop!” Ilya was holding his arms as Shane suddenly woke up with a start. He was curled up in the corner of the couch, Anya skittering away from him clearly frightened, and Ilya was all but on top of him. Shane’s heart was beating rapidly, his whole body tense, and he suddenly felt overwhelmingly hot. He relaxed his arms as Ilya put them down in his lap.
<<”Calm down, calm down!”>> Ilya repeated. Shane looked at him and tried to make sense of what dimension he was in.
“Sorry, I must have fallen asleep.” Shane mumbled, “Weird dream.”
“You do not need to apologize….to me.” Ilya said, sitting next to Shane. “You scared Anya. She was just trying to say hello and you freaked out.” Ilya chuckled. “What was dream? Did you win fight?”
“Um…I saved Anya from a zamboni but then she turned into a baby version of Coach Theriault.” Shane stammered trying to recall the details as it was fading from his memory.
“Baby Coach Theriault?!” Ilya cackled, “Of course you yell and flop around like fish. Very scary.” Ilya pulled the blanket off Shane and ran his hands up under Shane’s shirt. “Don’t worry, I will make you feel better.” He murmured as he kissed Shane’s neck.
Shane’s entire body convulsed. His skin was on fire and goose-pimples rose as Ilya’s cold hands ran up his torso. Ilya continued kissing his neck as he tried to remove Shane’s shirt. Shane was sweaty and cold and could barely breathe and his head was pounding and he couldn't think and he desperately needed something to calm his sore throat. Shane thought how much worse he’d feel naked and knew there was no chance in hell his dick could get hard in this condition.
“ALRIGHT!” Shane exclaimed, his voice cracking as he pushed Ilya off and grabbed his blanket back.
“What is wrong, moy llyubimy?” Ilya asked, his face dropped to mock concern. “Why don’t you want kisses from your handsome husband?”
“Because I’m siiiiiiick, Ilya!” Shane whined, flopping back on the couch and covering his eyes with an arm. “You win. I’m sick.”
Shane felt movement on the couch and waited for the laughter, the inevitable gloating, the smirk that accompanied every one of Shane’s losses in these dumb games.
“Here, drink this. Take this.” A gentle voice called with a tap on his arm. Shane cracked his eyes open to see Ilya handing him his favorite sugar-free electrolyte drink and a bottle of aspirin. Shane sat up enough to swallow the pills. Ilya watched him gulp down the drink, then held his face gently, heart eyes on full display. A small peck on Shane’s sweaty temple and Ilya was back up and on the move.
“Do not worry sweetheart, I will make you better. Like sexy nurse.” He winked and sauntered out of the room returning moments later with a steaming bowl of something.
“What’s that?” Shane said, trying his best to sound curious and not hesitant.
“Shchi. It will make you feel like new man.” Ilya handed him a bowl with a towel under it to protect from the heat. Shane eyed it wearily. “It is cabbage soup, Shane, not poison. Eat.” Shane didn’t want to offend Ilya but he really didn’t want to eat anything right now.
“I think I’ll try it later. I’m not hungry.” Shane said, trying his best to sound thankful.
“Ah, no. You will eat some now. Your beautiful body needs help to fight fever. Shchi is good fighter.” Ilya started walking out of the room again but stopped again and said firmly, “If you do not like, I will not make you eat it again. But you eat disgusting bird food everyday, so one bowl will not kill you.”
“Where did you get this?” Shane said, sniffing it.
“Anya and I made a pit stop.” Ilya replied simply from the kitchen. “Is not as good as my Mama’s, but it will do the trick.” Shane immediately pictured a beautiful curly haired blonde woman chopping vegetables in an apron while a young laughing Ilya stood on a stool to stir a large pot of soup.
I should probably try it now while he’s out of the room. He thought, knowing Ilya would immediately be able to tell if he didn’t like it.
It was actually much better than he expected. The warm broth coated his throat that was getting increasingly sore, while the mushrooms and potatoes offset the sharp taste of the sauerkraut. Ilya returned, holding a bowl for himself with a heap of sour cream on top. He turned on Kiki’s Delivery Service, a movie Shane had once told him was a childhood favorite. Ilya put another blanket over the both of them, and pulled Shane close. After some coaxing and gentle apologies from Shane, Anya joined them on the blanket and they ate their bowls of soup as Kiki flew off into the night.
***
There was still half an hour left of the movie but Shane was clearly not going to make it before falling asleep. His sweaty head resting on Ilya’s shoulder was getting heavier and he could see Shane’s blinks slowing down.
“Time for bed, I think.” Ilya murmured into Shane’s hair.
“Mmhmm.” Is all Shane said in reply. Ilya turned off the movie and helped Shane off the couch. The moment he lifted the blankets Shane started shivering. Ilya wrapped Shane up in a blanket like a burrito and guided him through the house to their bedroom. Ilya couldn’t help but smile seeing a frumpled and sick Shane as he plopped down on their bed. Shane was always controlled, always polished, always looked and sounded his best. He worked tirelessly to ensure he was taken seriously as a competitor and business man. Ilya felt it a special privilege to see Shane in such a vulnerable state and know Shane trusted Ilya to take care of him.
Shane rolled his burrito body over the bed grumbling incoherently. Ilya kneeled above him. “Moya rediska, shower before bed, yes? I will get you when is warm.” He leaned past the blanket to try to kiss Shane but Shane squirmed away from him.
“No kiss. Don’t want to get you sick.” Shane mumbled, scrunching his nose in frustration.
“I am big strong Russian. Your little germs do not scare me.” And he dove in for a quick peck before Shane had time to turn away again. Ilya got the shower running and made sure the bathroom was filled with steam before retrieving Shane. Ilya excavated Shane from the blanket then peeled back his sweat soaked clothes, before they both stepped into the shower. Shane stood blank faced under the streaming water while Ilya ran a wash cloth over his body. Ilya delighted in the hums of enjoyment from his husband as he washed and rinsed Shane's hair. He left the shower running to avoid the room dropping in temperature as he dried Shane off. Shane tried to protest Ilya dressing him, saying he was a grown man and not a doll, but was quickly overruled so sat on the lid of the toilet brushing his teeth while Ilya put thick socks on his feet. He put Shane into bed and moved around to his side.
“Wait no, go sleep in the guest room.” Shane mumbled his eyes half open.
“What? I did not make you sick, Shane. You cannot punish me for germs fault.” Ilya said indignantly.
“No. We can’t both get sick. Game. Montreal. Captain.” Shane said with an accusatory point at Ilya.
“Shane. I will be fine. I told you, I am big strong Russian. I do not get sick.” Ilya retorted, climbing into bed.
“Noooooo, I don’t get sick!” Shane wheezed into the comforter now tucked up to his face. “I NEVER get sick. I got my shot. I drink the smoothies. I do YOGA, Ilya!” Shane whined, as if yoga had personally betrayed him.
“Shhhh, I know Shane. Is unfair. Go to sleep.” Ilya held Shane close. Now wrapped in Ilya’s arms, Shane immediately forgot his reasons for Ilya sleeping in the guest room.
The next morning Ilya woke up certain he had been transported to the surface of the sun. A feverish and shivering Shane was wrapped around him, seeking warmth like they were in the tundra. Meanwhile, Shane was acting as Ilya’s own personal furnace. Ilya tried to slide himself away from Shane without disturbing him but he immediately met with grumpy mumbles.
“Dorogoy, I will be right back, okay? You need meds and drink and…” Shane gripped tighter, “Cooold.”
“I know, I know, I will get you nice tea and soft blanky, okay?” Ilya pleaded. Shane did not let go of him easily but eventually Ilya broke free and hurried to the kitchen for medication and tea.
Ilya stood in the kitchen plopping a large spoonful of raspberry jam into a mug of hot water when he heard “WHAT THE FUCK?”
Ilya ran to their master bathroom where Shane stood frozen holding a pair of socks and staring down at his feet which were now bright yellow.
“Ilya, we need to go to the hospital - what the fuck - how does this even happen? - I got a blister last week, the infection must have spread - WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?” Shane could not believe he had been struck by a rare and disgusting disease that was clearly spreading, and his husband, the love of his life, was laughing at him. “I’m dying and you’re LAUGHING?” Shane’s voice squeaked immediately followed by a cough so harsh Ilya thought he might throw up.
Ilya finally straightened up, wiping tears from his eyes, “Not dying, moy lyubimyy, it is mustard powder.” Ilya watched Shane’s poor fevered brain try to make sense of what he was seeing and what Ilya said until Ilya took pity on him. “Mustard powder in socks while you sleep. I told you last night while you brush teeth, yes?” Shane had no recollection of this supposed conversation and just mumbled, “Russians are so weird.” Before throwing his yellowed socks in the hamper and stepping into the shower.
Shane refused to eat in bed so Ilya bundled Shane up in sweats and blankets before depositing him on the couch. On the coffee table he set Shane’s (disgusting) smoothie, a raspberry jam tea, cold medicine, another electrolyte drink, buttered toast, and a giant box of tissues. He handed Shane the remote, sneaking a kiss on his cheek before leaving the room again. Ilya’s heart could have burst with how much he adored this man. If asked at this moment, Ilya would have said he may be great at hockey, but he was put on this earth to take care of Shane Hollander.
***
Shane skipped the next two days of practice, both times having to convince Ilya to go without him. Ilya seemed to believe Shane was at risk of dying any moment Ilya was not watching him. As many times as Shane rolled his eyes and teased Ilya for his slightly overbearing approach to caregiving, Shane also couldn’t be mad about it. He missed Ilya while he was at practice and refused to take for granted the intense devotion with which Ilya cared for him.
The morning of the Montreal game, Shane woke up feeling energized again. He went about his normal game day routine; yoga, smoothie, meditation, adding in more water and tea. He still had a slight cough, but his fever had broken the day before and Shane couldn’t wait to get back out on the ice and send Montreal home crying.
Shane brought a cup of coffee into their bedroom for Ilya. Shane enjoyed his quiet mornings and Ilya enjoyed the extra sleep, but neither of them liked sacrificing waking up and immediately seeing the other. Shane had solved this problem by being Ilya’s alarm clock.
“Good morning, baby.” Shane hummed, setting the cup of coffee on a coaster that lived on Ilya’s nightstand. “You ready to destroy Montreal?" Shane removed the comforter and watched in horror as his gorgeous husband rolled over and curled up into a ball coughing violently onto Shane’s side of the bed. He eventually sat up and looked at Shane, his cheeks bright red, eyes glassy, nose running, and croaked, “Let’s go kick Montreal's ass.”