Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Domestic Fluff, Dumb fights, Dumb Hockey Boys, Domestic, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Married Couple, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Soft Shane Hollander, Soft, Husbands

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-12 Words: 4,137 Chapters: 1/1

oh, worm?

Summary

Beneath the roiling irritation, Shane is pretty sure he’s going to feel stupid in about an hour about this argument.

Right now, though, he’s in the middle of it and annoyed enough to stay there.

“-any fucking sense,” he says, slapping the dishtowel in his hand down on the counter and only succeeding in winding himself up further when it hits a little puddle of dishwater that sprays droplets on him.

Unfortunately, the easiest outlet for this frustration is also the person who started this argument in the first fucking place: Ilya.

“It does not need to make sense,” Ilya says, arms crossed over his chest in a way that says he’s feeling just as ready to commit to the world’s most stupid fight about nothing as Shane is. “Is about feeling.”

“And you feel like you would love a worm?” Shane asks, mirroring Ilya’s posture in a way that’s meant to be mocking.

From the way Ilya’s jaw tightens, he noticed, and it sends a petty little thrill through Shane.

(ilya tries to be sweet and let shane know he would love him even if he was a worm) (somehow it ends up turning into a fight)

Notes

hi idk what i'm doing here either, y'all. i resisted the hockey gays for so long and then they got me.

in terms of timeline, i'm not playing strict adherence, so this is after they're both married and living in ottawa and playing on the same team. if anything doesn't line up with that, that's between y'all and god.

enjoy!

Beneath the roiling irritation, Shane is pretty sure he’s going to feel stupid in about an hour about this argument. 

Right now, though, he’s in the middle of it and annoyed enough to stay there. 

“-any fucking sense,” he says, slapping the dishtowel in his hand down on the counter and only succeeding in winding himself up further when it hits a little puddle of dishwater that sprays droplets on him. 

Unfortunately, the easiest outlet for this frustration is also the person who started this argument in the first fucking place: Ilya. 

“It does not need to make sense,” Ilya says, arms crossed over his chest in a way that says he’s feeling just as ready to commit to the world’s most stupid fight about nothing as Shane is. “Is about feeling.” 

“And you feel like you would love a worm?” Shane asks, mirroring Ilya’s posture in a way that’s meant to be mocking. 

From the way Ilya’s jaw tightens, he noticed, and it sends a petty little thrill through Shane to have gotten under his skin. 

“I feel like I would love you even as worm,” Ilya says, as if Shane is the absurd one here, as if Ilya wasn’t the one who for once failed to read the goddamn room and tried to get cuddly when Shane was already irritated and overstimulated and then topped it off by saying No smile for me today? Kakoy svarlivyy kotenok. Is okay. I would love you even if you were worm.

Really, in what world would that not be something to fight about? 

“Though right now you are being asshole, so maybe not,” Ilya snarks, and oh, it’s like petrol on a flame. “Maybe I will let bird eat you.” 

“Not like I’d live long either way,” Shane says, and God, it’s stupid. This is all so stupid, but also God, Ilya knows just how to get on his nerves. Feeding him to a bird? Fuck him. “You can’t even keep plants alive. If I was a worm, I’d be dead in a day. Tops.” 

“I would keep you alive!” Ilya says, as if Shane has said something truly insulting. 

“Tell that to the fucking ZZ plant that was supposed to be un-killable. It lasted, what? A week?” 

“At least I tried to keep it alive,” Ilya says, uncrossing his arms only to grip the counter behind him that he’s been leaning against, knuckles blanching with the force behind the hold he has on it. “I did not see you helping.” 

“You said you would do it!” Shane says, leaning forward with the volume of it. “Just like you sai-” 

“Do not say it,” Ilya says, already rolling his eyes. 

“Said,” Shane continues, refusing to be interrupted when this axe is begging for another round of grinding, “you would get more milk when you did grocery shopping, and yet-” 

“-got regular people milk, sorry I did not get holy virgin milk from sacred-” 

“-smoothie, but I couldn’t, so I had to-” 

“-ane fucking Hollander can’t go though drive-thru or his precious hockey body will collapse into dust and-” 

“Fuck you!” Shane yells, almost startling himself with the volume. 

In the aftermath, the kitchen is almost painfully quiet, and there’s a long, long moment of eye contact that starts quickly feeling like a staring contest. Irritating him yet again, Shane loses it, and he shoves himself away from the counter, storming towards the door and snatching his keys off of their hook, slapping his wallet into his pocket while he’s at it. 

“Where are you going?” Ilya calls after him, and Shane toys with the idea of ignoring him before he considers an even more annoying response. 

“Out!” He yells over his shoulder, slamming the door shut hard enough to knock the seasonal wreath–a gift from his mom–off of the front of it. 

He glares at it for a moment before he kicks it hard enough to send it flying off into the bushes. 

*

The fight goes out of Ilya fairly abruptly as soon as the door has slammed shut, the force behind it far more than Shane usually ever uses. It’s one of the quirks Ilya loves about him, the quiet way Shane has always shut doors, twisting the handle and pressing the door shut before releasing it. It’s led to his husband startling him a few times over the years when he’s seemingly just appeared behind Ilya in a room out of nowhere, but growing up in a house that was no stranger to things slamming means that it’s just one element of the peace he feels with Shane, the way doors always close so quietly in their home. 

The lack of it now just feels like another thrown fist in what already seems like the world’s most stupid fight even seconds after its conclusion. 

Annoyed at Shane and himself and this entire day in equal measure, he half-heartedly slaps the dish sponge into the sink from where Shane uncharacteristically didn’t return it to its little shelf in the corner. 

The wet plop somehow just makes him feel worse. 

He’d known since approximately five minutes after waking up that it was going to be a bad day for Shane. An overnight update and resulting restart of his husband’s phone had meant his early alarm hadn’t gone off, which meant he hadn’t had time to do his full morning yoga routine. He’d rushed through a truncated version while Ilya–never so militant about morning exercise–had spent the time scrolling on his phone, but Ilya had seen that he was frazzled already when Shane had finally joined him in the kitchen, and that hadn’t improved when he’d discovered that Ilya had indeed forgotten to purchase Shane’s special milk to make his protein smoothie with. To his credit, his husband hadn’t snapped then, but Ilya had seen the twitch of his hands briefly clenching and unclenching in frustration in response to another unexpected change to his routine after it had already been disrupted. He’d rejected Ilya’s offer to make the smoothie for him in apology and still made it himself, but from the minute wrinkle of Shane’s nose after each sip, it hadn’t tasted right. 

The rest of the day hadn’t gone better, and though Shane had smiled when needed in order to be polite and pleasant and muscled through without complaint, his growing tension had been obvious to Ilya, who’s made a study of him from years of close observation. They hadn’t been big things, really–they hadn’t been able to park in their usual spot, Shane hadn’t been able to do his usual circuit in the gym because other people were using the machines seemingly every single time he was ready to move to them, being frazzled from the morning had meant Shane forgetting a pair of athletic socks and having to borrow a pair of Ilya’s that didn’t fit the way he likes, obvious in the way he kept rubbing the heel of one foot against the toe of the other–but for Shane, who loves routines and predictability, it had just been a slowly snowballing day of bad luck. He hadn’t complained, hadn’t whined, hadn’t taken it out on anyone, but Ilya had watched his shoulders get incrementally tenser in a way even a gentle squeeze to the back of his neck hadn’t been able to fix. 

By the time Shane had gotten home late after a shoot for some menswear line–wool suits, of all things, on a day when he already was wound up and not in a place to smile and look pretty in fabric that gives him goosebumps of disgust when his fingers touch it–Ilya had known Shane would be nearing the absolute limits of his tolerance for disruption-

-which meant that watching his husband accidentally fumble his precisely-assembled mealprepped dinner right after taking it out of the microwave was like watching a car accident happen right in front of him. 

There had been silence like a doctor had just announced a terminal illness in the kitchen for a moment, and then Shane had inhaled once and then exhaled, slow and controlled, and knelt to start cleaning the mess up. He’d twitched slightly when Ilya had joined him, offering the broom and holding the dustpan steady, but he hadn’t said anything, and when Ilya had gently nudged shoulders with him before standing, he hadn’t retreated. 

“This is what you get for not eating your dad’s leftover pasta with me,” Ilya had joked, and it had even earned him the faintest flicker of a smile before Shane had turned away to toss the contents of his mealprep into the trashcan.

By the time the mess had been cleaned up and another of Shane’s mealpreps had been spinning around in the microwave, things had seemingly calmed enough for Ilya to risk pressing close to Shane’s back, an overture of offering to squeeze him calm if he wanted. If he’d left it there, perhaps things could have turned out alright. He’d known Shane would still be mad at himself and at the day in general for messing up his schedule of mealpreps by having one missing, but finally eating dinner and then getting to retreat with Ilya to the livingroom to unwind with something on the TV that was low stakes and not loud might have been enough to avert any potential crises from overcoming their home. Maybe they could have even fucked the tension of the day away and ended it with Shane pleasure-slack and content, bad day forgotten. Instead, however, Ilya had tried to make him laugh by quoting something they’d been discussing in the unofficial team chat the day before. 

The unofficial team chat, Ilya had remembered far, far too late, that Shane wasn’t in, avoiding it for the sake of not getting more notifications on his phone each day. 

The microwave shrieks again, a reminder that Shane’s mealprep–a second, Ilya thinks distantly, which means Shane will now be off by two since there’s no way his caution about food safety will allow for eating something after it’s already been reheated once–is ready. 

“Blyat,” he tells the kitchen at large. 

The microwave shrieks again. 

*

The worst part of storming out of his own home after a fight with his husband, Shane is learning, is that there’s nowhere else he wants to be more than at home with his husband. 

“So fucking stupid,” he says to himself, and he’s not even sure if he’s talking about himself or Ilya or the fight or all of it in one grouchy spiral of shittiness. 

He didn’t have a destination in mind when he got in his car, and he hasn’t come up with one since. He briefly thinks about going to his parents’ house because that’s what couples do in movies when they fight–there’s always some kind of line about someone going to their mother’s house–but the idea of looking his parents in the eye and saying that he yelled at his husband and then stormed out of their house because his husband said he’d love him even if he was a worm and that pissed him off feels stupid even only in his own head. 

So. Driving aimlessly around Ottawa it is. 

By the time he finally returns home a couple of hours later, thinking about and then dismissing calling either Rose or Hayden to complain has finished cooling him off enough that embarrassment has fully set in. Yeah, my husband didn’t buy the milk I like when he was doing all of the shopping for the week so I could take a nap when I had a headache and then he said he’d love me even if I was a worm after I had a bad day he had nothing to do with, can you believe this asshole? He thinks even Hayden’s willingness to find things to dislike about Ilya would be challenged. 

He parks, turns the car off, and then still hesitates until the cold starts creeping in enough to push him into actually getting out, feeling like even more of a jackass when he sees that while the house is dark enough that it seems Ilya went to bed, a few lights were left on so he wouldn’t have to stumble around in the dark. Slinking in with his metaphorical tail between his legs, he kind of wishes he at least had a stubbed toe to offer as penitence. 

The house has indeed been settled down for the night, but the faint lingering smell of food leads him to the kitchen, his grumbling stomach reminding him of exactly how long it’s been since his snack of a protein bar before the shoot. At this point he’d even settle for one of Ilya’s Uncrustables right from the freezer, but a note on the counter makes him pause, scrawled in Ilya’s spikey handwriting. 

There is very boring food for you in fridge. Yes, it is on your diet. Eat. 

-I

He pretends it’s just the late hour that makes his eyes sting as he moves to obey, finding a covered plate of quinoa, fish, and vegetables waiting for him, beside a Snickers bar that he knows is a very justified food-based middle finger. 

And beside a tupperware of the same meal, neatly lined up with his other mealpreps for the week, replacing the one he dropped earlier. 

He wonders if he could get Ilya to just punch him in the face so they can call things even. 

*

Ilya is still awake when Shane arrives home, getting the security system notification on his phone and watching a short clip of Shane walking inside before he sets his phone back down, rolling onto his back with an annoyed exhale. He’d meant to be asleep already, but the combination of no Shane beside him and the unfamiliar feeling of the guest bed beneath him had kept him awake. The guest bed isn’t uncomfortable–Shane had kept them in the mattress store for two hours picking it out until Ilya had been prepared to say yes to any option that let them finally leave–but it isn’t quite as nice as theirs. 

It’s also not where he wants to be right now. 

He listens to the soft noises of Shane moving around the house, and it’s amusing, the way he knows exactly what that routine is. He follows his husband around his mind while he does what Ilya fondly calls his closing shift: fluffing the pillows and refolding the blanket on the back of the couch, checking the locks on all of the doors, tossing the dishcloths in the kitchen into the laundry basket under the sink, double- and then triple-checking that the stove is off while unplugging all of the kitchen appliances, refilling his water bottle from the fridge (probably slightly off-center at the fact that he isn’t refilling Ilya’s as well for once), checking the locks on the doors one more time, and then arming the security system. He used to try and help with these tasks, but he’s learned since then that Shane likes doing them, the same way he likes taking care of the laundry or mapping out what supplements he’s going to make Ilya take with him in the mornings or the snacks he never touches but always makes sure are in the house for Ilya’s benefit. It’s one of the ways Shane loves, making sure the house is safe and ready for the next day each night. 

He listens to his husband’s soft footsteps on the stairs and wishes that he’d never even mentioned worms. 

*

The closed door to the guest room down the hall tells him that Ilya has given him their bed for the night, and the consideration of it, of letting Shane stick to his normal routine even in the middle of the world’s dumbest fight truly makes him feel like the lowest, well…

Worm. 

He showers and brushes his teeth, pulling on a pair of flannel pajama pants that Ilya likes to tease him about for looking like “a very soft lumberjack.” He toys with the idea of just going to sleep and figuring out a way to apologize for being a jackass for no reason in the morning, but the idea of trying to fall asleep alone while his husband sleeps down the hall after a fight he picked for truly no reason feels worse than sucking it the fuck up and figuring it out now. 

Ten minutes of hovering at the door to the guest room later, he finally works up the nerve to actually go through with knocking. 

He doesn’t get a response, but when he cracks the door open and peeks through, he can tell from the way Ilya is laying that he’s not asleep. Ilya always sleeps on his back unless he’s spooning Shane, so the fact that he’s on his side and resting against a pillow is a dead give away that he’s still very much awake. Still, he’s been enough of an ass for one night without adding on climbing into bed when Ilya might not welcome him there. 

After a long moment, though, he hears Ilya sigh, his husband shifting back a bit and then lifting up the edge of the comforter in invitation. 

Shane doesn’t hesitate before he accepts. 

“That was so stupid,” he says at once. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled or stormed out like that.” 

“You had bad day,” Ilya offers, and Shane closes his eyes and leans into it when the words are accompanied by a gentle hand stroking over his hair. It would be easy, to let Ilya absolve him of everything, to give in and let his husband forgive him for this stupid fight after a bad day. 

But it wouldn’t be right. 

“That’s not an excuse,” Shane says, cupping his hand over Ilya’s when it slides down to rest over his cheek. He turns his head enough to press a kiss to his husband’s palm, eyes still closed. “I was mad and it was a bad day, yeah, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry. I was being an asshole.” 

Ilya hums, moving only to pull Shane a little closer, tucking his face close to his throat and resting his chin on his head. 

“I did forget your special magical milk,” Ilya says, and Shane smiles automatically in response to the one he can hear in Ilya’s voice. “I am very bad husband for this, da?” 

“No,” Shane says, moving enough to kiss Ilya’s throat. “You’re a good husband.” 

“Mmm,” Ilya hums, and Shane can feel the vibration of it against his lips. “Very handsome husband, too, yes?” 

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments,” Shane says dryly, forgoing another kiss in favor of nipping in reprimand. Ilya twitches slightly at the sting, but the way his thumb presses down against Shane’s jaw says he doesn’t mind. 

“You will make me go fishing?” He teases. “You will not just provide me with nice compliments? Very selfish. Maybe you are the bad husband.” 

Shane grumbles under his breath, pushing at Ilya until he’s on his back and then swinging a leg across him to straddle his hips. He adjusts his weight until he feels a promising stirring beneath him, and then he leans forward, forearms braced on Ilya’s chest. 

“So bad,” he says, the words all but a purr. He hides a smile against Ilya’s jaw when he feels a shiver move through him, feeling a little giddy the way he always does at the reminder of how freely Ilya offers himself up for whatever Shane wants of him. 

God, he loves this man. 

“Very bad,” Ilya agrees, voice coming from deep in his chest. Shane inhales sharply when Ilya’s hands find his hips, rocking them together. “You should be punished, I think. For being so bad.” 

With a grin, Shane lets himself be flipped to accept his punishment without a fight. 

He has it coming, after all. 

*

“Why a worm?” 

Ilya, having barely opened his eyes, squints against the morning light peeking in through their curtains and turns to look at his husband as best he can. 

“What?” He rasps, never quite as functional first thing in the morning as Shane. He stretches, not bothering to fully release his husband when he does so, taking him with him into the movement. 

“Why would I have to be a worm?” 

Ilya gives him a look. 

“We kiss and make up and now you want to start fighting again?” 

“Mmm,” Shane hums, stretching, too, and nearly hitting Ilya in the face with his elbow in the process. “We did more than just ki-” 

He makes an offended noise when Ilya wraps a hand around his side and squeezes him, but he doesn’t move away, settling himself again with his head on Ilya’s bicep, curling up enough to rest a leg over his thighs. 

“I just don’t get why it would have to be a worm.” 

“I did not invent game, Hollander. Don’t blame me.” He reaches, scrabbling for his phone and offering it up. “Blame them. It was in group chat.” 

Shane makes a doubtful sound in his throat, and Ilya allows his thumb to be used to unlock his phone before Shane takes sole custody of it, his husband using his chest to prop it up on while he scrolls, not bothering to move away from where he’s using him as a pillow. Ilya toys with the idea of falling asleep again, warm and content, distantly amused by what the scene must look like to an outsider, handing his phone over without a fight to let his husband go through it. 

“God, you guys talk a lot,” Shane observes, and Ilya lets out a noncommittal hum in response. “Where’s-oh, found it.” He’s quiet again as he reads, and Ilya occupies himself by toying with the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck, brushing his fingers through it meditatively. He’s just about asleep again when his husband makes a doubtful noise, letting his phone drop facedown on his chest. “I still don’t get it.” 

“Not much to get,” Ilya says, eyes still closed. “Is just a game.” 

“A game about someone being a worm?” Shane asks, and Ilya smiles faintly, able to match the tone exactly to what must be a doubtful expression on his husband’s face. 

“About someone you love being a worm,” he corrects. He turns his head enough to press a teasingly loud kiss to Shane’s forehead. “Moy prekrasnyy malen'kiy chervyachok.” 

“No, that’s done right now,” Shane says. 

“You don’t even know what I said,” Ilya protests, smile not fading. 

“I know ‘my’ and ‘little,’ and I can take a wild fucking guess about the rest,” Shane says dryly. 

“Mm,” Ilya agrees. “You missed ‘beautiful,’ though.” 

Shane presses a kiss to his jaw, and they settle briefly into quiet. He can practically hear Shane tumbling thoughts in his head like the rock polishing toy Ilya bought Pike’s children for Christmas to torture him with, and he leaves him to it, happy to doze off with his husband’s warm weight against him. He toys with the idea of finding out if he can lure Shane back into sleep with him if he just traces his fingers lightly enough along his scalp, but before he can make an earnest effort, Shane seems to come to a conclusion. 

“I don’t think worms can love,” Shane observes. “Like biologically. I don’t think they have brains.” 

Ilya, who has no idea and not enough interest in worm anatomy to bother finding out, just hums in response. 

“I’d still love you, though,” Shane says, kissing his cheek and then turning him by the chin to press another to his lips, for once not complaining about morning breath in what must be a form of further apology for the night before. “Even if you were a worm and couldn’t love me back.” 

Ilya huffs a laugh, mouth still pressed to Shane’s. He kisses him again.

“I will always love you,” he says, reaching up to turn Shane’s head to a slightly better angle. “Ya tebya lyublyu. Even if I did not have brain.” 

“I mean, yeah,” Shane says, and Ilya doesn’t even need to open his eyes to know that that tone comes with a very specific smirk. “I mean you do it just fine without one right no-” 

His very rude and mean insult is cut off into laughing when Ilya flops him down onto the mattress, wrestling him into submission. 

“Take it back!” He demands, growl playful even to his own ears. 

Shane’s responding grin as he tries to get the leverage to flip him is a clear and obvious refusal. 

Ilya grins back.