Work Text:
Ilya had forgotten about the slice on the back of his leg that he earned from his father's flying bottle of vodka the last week he spent in Russia.
It didn't hurt so bad at first, and he couldn't really see it unless he twisted himself around, so logically a band-aid slapped over the wound was enough to forget and move on. Apparently not.
He had been in the States for a few days; their first game was back at Boston’s home stadium, set to play against Montreal. Ilya hadn't messaged him yet, but if the past few months were anything to go by it meant he would see Hollander tonight. The fact that it made his stomach flip to think about was irrelevant.
Which is why when his leg began to burn at morning skate, and not just from practice, he suddenly remembered the gash he had taped away.
The burning continued and eventually settled into an ache that buried itself so deep inside he swore he could feel it festering under his bones.
He thought about having their team doctor look at it before the game, but then everything was happening so quickly, and soon it was time for the puck drop. It's fine. If it's still on fire tomorrow, then he'd go in or tell someone, whatever the responsible thing would be to do.
Responsible like Shane Hollander was responsible, and goddamnit he needed to stop thinking about the other man. Not before he had something to brag about in bed tonight, which meant he needed to win this game.
…
Boston lost their first game back after break, and on their home turf no less. Ilya's face was burning in match with his leg, the guilt he took after a loss stacking onto his father's words before their fight.
Was it a fight if only one of them was fighting? Was he a coward for not pushing back and stopping him, or was he just being the obedient child that he was trained to be?
It didn't matter. Ilya was in a bad mood and desperate to blow off some steam, and a beautifully freckled Canadian had just sent him his room number.
By the time he had crossed the threshold, he had once again forgotten about the pain radiating from his calf. There was focus, there was purpose, there were hands frantically undressing each other, there was-
“Jesus fuck, Rozanov!”
“What? Is nothing you haven't seen before, no?” he tried for teasing, but couldn't help but feel exposed by Hollander's sudden exclamation of disgust.
“Have you cleaned this?!”
An awkward laugh left his lips as he realized that the Montreal player was talking about his leg, and not some other part of him that was disgusting and dirty that he thought he hid well.
He twisted on the bed so they were face to face, calculating just how much he could say for them to move past it.
“Yes, the team doctor said is okay.”
“Don't bullshit me, Rozanov. It looks like you've been ignoring it for days, and no team doctor in their right mind would let you play on that.”
Ilya shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with the scrutiny in which Hollander was assessing him.
“And you are doctor now?”
“Fuck you, I don't need to be a doctor to see that your leg is fucking infected.”
“It's not-”
But Hollander had left the bed and was digging in his suitcase, leaving Ilya with nothing to do but try and see what the other man was seeing, how the hell he could have known that Ilya didn't tell the doctor.
He was greeted with a sight that made him pause. The game and the subsequent shower after had dislodged part of the bandage, exposing a patch of skin that was an angry red; more worryingly was the cloudy shit that was oozing over the exposed wound. Yeah, Ilya might not be a doctor, but he knew it shouldn't look like that. Shit.
The air of passion and heat that had initially filled the atmosphere turned into an embarrassment that Ilya rarely ever felt. The fact he was stripped to his boxers made his stomach hurt.
Who did he think he was, showing up like this? Thinking that he could be someone that was desired, someone wanted. He was a professional athlete, and he couldn't even take care of his own fucking body. His livelihood.
He might have pulled his pants back on right then and left without saying anything else, armed with a hope that Hollander wouldn't be too grossed out to look him in the eye.
He didn't get a chance for his escape plan as the other man returned, an armful of…first aid supplies?
“What are you doing?” It was a dumb question; it couldn't be more obvious what Hollander was doing, but the why underneath it all was so foreign to Ilya that he had to ask, to try and make sense of it.
“What should have been done a week ago. Seriously, Rozanov, you know you can get like… sepsis or some shit by letting this get infected.”
“It didn't hurt so bad, so I thought that meant it was fine.”
He wasn't sure why he was giving an excuse; he should be making a joke to deflect and then getting the hell out of here, but it was hard when Shane, no- Hollander, was so delicately pulling his leg into his lap, gentle fingers taking stock of the damage.
The angle he had them in was awkward, forcing Ilya to stay face down, which was never the position he was comfortable in when it came to the bedroom, but there was nothing sexual about the way Hollander methodically peeled off the rest of the bandage and began laying disinfectant cream over the cut.
There was nothing sexual about it, but it was somehow the most intimate thing they had ever done together. Here Hollander was, wrapping his leg in medical-grade gauze without Ilya having even asked, but he hadn't protested either. He lay there, letting himself be taken care of, and tried not to let the guilt of it all eat him from the inside out.
“You really should have had someone look at this, I mean, what if you lost the leg?”
“Hollander. I am not going to lose my leg over a cut. Besides, it was sterile cut to begin with, see? Glass from alcohol bottle, wound cleans itself.”
The other man sputtered above him, and even though Ilya couldn't see his face, he could picture the exact expression it currently held.
“That's not how that works. Like, at all.”
Ilya suppressed a yelp as Hollander slathered on another layer of antibiotic ointment, causing the wound to sting in protest before the cool relief of the cream set in again.
He tried not to think about how this was the longest they've ever gone not fucking while alone in each other's presence like this. Ilya wondered if this fucked up his chances of being with Hollander tonight, or if he was going to patch him up and throw him out.
Would that be better than being kept around for sex and then thrown out? Isn't that why he was here, though? He shouldn't want anything more. He was already getting a hell of a lot more than he signed up for by letting him redo his bandages. Maybe he could chalk it up to good sportsmanship and not read too much into it.
The silence was broken by Hollander after it went on for just a beat too long. “So, an alcohol bottle? Did you get into a bar fight in Russia or something?”
Ilya scoffed. “Why do you think this happened in Russia?”
“Well, I don't think you're idiotic enough to start a bar fight in America while you're still underage. But maybe you don't care about the league fines, I don't know, really. Just a guess.”
“Hmm.” Ilya thought about the image that Hollander held of him in his head, wondered how close it was to the real thing, how much it differed. Did he want him to know the real thing? No, that was crazy.
And yet, he found himself talking without his full guard up. “Was not barfight Hollander, I save my fights for the ice like a good Russian boy.”
He should have known that Mr. Needs-to-know-every-little-detail would have more questions. He should have thought of a better cover story before he found himself in this position. And yet.
“So not a bar fight, how did you get a bottle of what - vodka? sticking out of your leg then?”
Ilya squirmed, his face suddenly getting hot. “Who knows? Maybe is accident, maybe is me being clumsy- what the hell does it matter, Hollander? Are you writing sports gossip column now?”
“Jesus, don't freak out. I was just wondering, asshole.”
He had finished with his leg, but neither player moved; the delicate balance of the night had shifted so far from their usual territory, neither boy knew how to get back to their well-worn dynamic.
“Is nothing. Maybe you are partly right. Someone is upset with me; they throw bottle. It wasn't at a bar. Not really a fight. But, similar, you could say.”
Ilya was still facing away from Hollander, and glad for it. He decided enough was enough and rolled himself towards the edge of the bed, not looking back as he made his way to the bathroom. He hoped the other man would just drop it. Why the hell were they even still talking about this?
And if he stared at his reflection in the hotel mirror for a minute too long, lost in the memory of his father's anger, then what of it? He was fine. Over it. Tonight didn't look anything like he hoped it would, and at this point he was ready to crash.
Hopefully Hollander wouldn't be too disappointed if he left. He might still be able to find the energy to at least show his appreciation for the medical care before he left the room, but at this point he was finding it hard to continue standing. He wasn't sure if he could blame it on the infected leg either; it was his psyche that needed the break. Moments like this, when life became too heavy, he thought of his mother and how she must have felt during those last few months. If he inherited the same weight that dragged her down.
Returning to the bedroom suite, he was greeted with the sight of a fidgeting and borderline nervous Shane Hollander. Reminiscent of the same Shane Hollander who shook his hand twice outside the rink in Saskatchewan that first day they met.
Ilya sat on the edge of the bed, Hollander's anxiety feeding into his own.
“I'm probably way out of line with this, and you can tell me to shut the fuck up if you want, but- I just..” He still wasn't meeting his gaze.
“Spit it out, Hollander, God.” He wasn't sure his heart could continue to take the suspense, not when he was so keyed up.
“It's just- it doesn't matter how upset someone is, they shouldn't be throwing bottles at you.”
Oh. He wasn't expecting that. He wasn't sure exactly what he had been expecting, maybe a more admonishment, to be shamed for his laziness.
“Is fine, Hollander. Really. I deserve firm hand sometimes.”
“A bottle is not a fucking hand!” Hollander seemed to realize that he was shouting and tempered his voice before continuing. “Besides, no one should be hitting you over anything either. Just…” He finally made eye contact with the other man. “...tell me if you’re okay?”
Something in Ilya softened. The genuine concern he saw written on the other player's face reminded him that no one had really cared like this before. He knew it was just because Shane Hollander was a good fucking guy who cared about everything and everyone, and that his concern had nothing to do with their relationship. Even as he convinced himself of this in his mind, it somehow didn’t dampen the lightness he felt. Maybe one day he could believe what Hollander was saying, that violence shouldn’t be the language spoken between fathers and sons, but for now, the bandage and the cream and the reassurance were more than enough.
“I promise, okay? I am fine.”