Rating:

Mature

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:

Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Post-Scene: Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts in Episode: s01e04 Rose, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Shane Hollander Has Food Allergies, Shallergies, Anaphylaxis, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Soft Shane Hollander, Soft Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Caretaking, Hospitals, Allergies, Domestic Fluff, Good Significant Other Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Takes Care of Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-12 Words: 25,169 Chapters: 1/1

biphasic

Summary

“Go?” Rozanov repeats, and Shane thinks he manages to nod, thinks he manages to spin some kind of excuse that he knows Rozanov doesn’t really buy, but he needs to go. He needs to get out of here. He needs to find somewhere quiet and calm where he can ride out this panic and painful tightness until he can catch his breath again. He needs-

He needs to go.

“I’m sorry,” he says, turning heel and resisting the urge to just book it right for the front door only because he’d rather not have to explain to Hayden why he returned from a hookup with Boston Lily in men’s clothes that he certainly didn’t leave in.

It’s not until he makes it halfway up the stairs to Rozanov’s bedroom that it occurs to him in a cold rush that it isn’t just anxiety that makes it this hard to breathe.

“No,” he tells himself firmly, white knuckling the bannister and trying to take a deep breath just to prove that he can.

It wheezes.

(how the tuna meltdown is averted through the power of food allergies and anaphylaxis)

Notes

WHAT UP FRIENDS. SHALLERGIES CONTINUES TO REFUSE TO RELEASE ME, AND THIS TIME IT BEGGED THE QUESTION OF WHAT IF SHANE HAD A REACTION DURING THE TUNA MELTDOWN THAT THEN HAD TO BE ANSWERED. 

 

thank you also to junkdrawer tales on tumblr for such a detailed rundown of the experience of anaphylaxis and how an epipen feels. 

Sex with Rozanov is always good. Even after a bad day, even after Roz is really being an ass for some reason, even when he’s not even sure at the start that he really wants to fuck enough to make an effort until it starts and then he’s really sure he wants to fuck enough to make an effort, it’s always good. He’s not sure if it’s Rozanov’s experience that makes it so good or just the intoxication of fucking someone who is so down for everything with him, but it’s always enough to leave his head spinning a little bit in the after. 

Right now, though, that spinning is edging out of “fun, hazy afterglow” and into “oh, it’s time to go.” 

He dodges a kiss from Rozanov and then another–the first time he thinks he’s actually done that, he thinks distantly, in the tiny little piece of his brain that can still think things beyond the overwhelming thrum of “oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck” that is currently taking over him–and pushes himself back, managing to keep himself upright despite the way his legs wobble like a baby deer’s under him before he locks his knees, trying to get his breath back. The effort seems harder than it should be, and he avoids looking right at Rozanov as he tries to focus more on it. His chest and throat feel tight, and there’s a slowly increasing sense of something bad happening, and he doesn’t have to guess at what it might be. 

Too far. Today went too far. 

This isn’t something they do: napping together, eating together, cuddling together on the couch while watching TV together. The closest they’ve gotten before is when Rozanov’s made a game of finding out how many times he can orgasm in a night–a score that Rozanov likes to try and beat in a way Shane likes to pretend he finds annoying when in reality he gets off in his solo time thinking about working his way up to one more the next time just to impress him–and left Shane too shaky to leave immediately, usually tossing a blanket over him and putting something on the television for them to listen to until Shane’s knees have remembered how to work again. Sometimes they flirt around the edges of cuddling with Shane resting his head on Rozanov’s bicep or shoulder or Rozanov resting his head on Shane’s stomach or chest, but that’s as far as they’ve ever gotten. Today, though, Rozanov apparently decided to fucking floor it, and Shane has a newfound sympathy for the crash dummies in car safety tests.

It’s about as wrecked as he feels right now, after all. 

C’mon, he tells himself firmly, even as he opens his mouth on autopilot to feed Rozanov the first lie that comes to his mind. C’mon, you fucking idiot. Don’t do this. Don’t have a fucking panic attack right now. Jesus fuck, of all of the times to do this shit. 

“Go?” Rozanov repeats, and Shane thinks he manages to nod, thinks he manages to spin some kind of excuse that he knows Rozanov doesn’t really buy, but he needs to go. He needs to get out of here. He needs to find somewhere quiet and calm where he can ride out this panic and painful tightness until he can catch his breath again. He needs-

He needs to go. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, turning heel and resisting the urge to just book it right for the front door only because he’d rather not have to explain to Hayden why he returned from a hookup with Boston Lily in men’s clothes that he certainly didn’t leave in. 

It’s not until he makes it halfway up the stairs to Rozanov’s bedroom that it occurs to him in a cold rush that it isn’t just anxiety that makes it this hard to breathe. 

“No,” he tells himself firmly, white knuckling the bannister and trying to take a deep breath just to prove that he can. 

It wheezes. 

“No, no, no,” he says through gritted teeth. Jesus fuck, of all of the fucking times.

Like it was just waiting to be acknowledged, he feels the anaphylaxis getting worse. A tremble runs through him as a shiver seems to shake him down to his bones, and he feels his blood pressure drop, sending to him to one knee as his ears start ringing and the world goes spotty for a second. He swallows against both the burning itching in his throat and against the saliva that wells up like he’s about to puke, stomach clenching painfully. 

Through sheer force of will, he pushes himself back up to his feet and finishes making his staggering way to Rozanov’s bedroom, losing a precious few seconds when he has to sit down again at the top of the stairs to try–and fail–to catch his breath, every breath wheezing now against the constriction of his throat. 

He has the sense memory of putting his Auvi-Q in his jacket pocket earlier, a last-minute impulse when he’d thought he was just going over to Rozanov’s house for sex. His allergies have never come up naturally in their time together, and it’s always just seemed like more trouble than it’s worth to have the conversation, especially with how their stolen moments rarely line up close enough to mealtimes to offer that big a risk of contamination, neither of them eager to show up for enthusiastic, athletic sex with full stomachs. He hadn’t known if the rules would be different in Rozanov’s house, though, if being in the context of his own home would make Rozanov comfortable enough to eat right before hooking up, and he’d erred on the side of caution, just in case. 

Which he’d also thought he’d been doing when he’d snuck surreptitious looks at the labels of the bread and chips when Rozanov’s back was turned, confirming that they were free of any allergens. 

Apparently fucking not, though. 

“Where-where the fuck-” He pants out, losing another few precious seconds when he has to sit down again, head spinning. He can feel the itch of hives breaking out over his chest and down his arms, and in the part of his brain that isn’t overwhelmed with the certainty that he’s about to die–impending doom, he recognizes academically, not that it does fucking anything for it feeling any less real–he internally groans. God, stuck having a reaction at his fuck buddy’s house, and he’s also going to look gross. 

It almost makes him wish he would puke the way he feels like he might. That’s less embarrassing than hives, maybe. Probably. 

He doesn’t really have the focus to make an actual judgement call. 

“Where-” He wheezes, squeezing his eyes shut tight and trying to remember where the fuck his jacket ended up in the process of them stripping each other on the way up to the bedroom. 

“Hollander?” 

He keeps his eyes shut when he hears the call of his name, so he jumps slightly when a hand lands on his shoulder, having not heard Rozanov coming closer over the sound of his own strained breathing and the increasingly loud ringing in his ears. When he manages to force his eyes open, he sees Rozanov crouching next to him. 

With the 0.5% of his brain available, he internally grimaces at the remaining evidence of him jerking them both off and then bolting still on Rozanov’s stomach, a nice little visual reminder of exactly how fucked this day has gone. 

Fuck his fucking everything, frankly. 

*

Hurt, and angry about it as a result, Ilya plans on letting Hollander grab his shit and then bolt without interference. If he’s going to lie to Ilya’s face and then run for no fucking reason instead of staying like he agreed to, then fuck him, anyway. Let him leave Ilya with the mess and dart off with his tail between his legs. Fine by him. It is. Really. 

His resolution, however, is tested by the fact that Hollander takes his sweet ass time doing it. 

He’s given him what seems like an unbelievably long grace period when his patience finally runs out. Like hell is Ilya going to sit here covered in now-cold cum on his stomach while Hollander gets to take his leisurely time putting himself back together before he walks out of Ilya’s life for what seems like it might be forever. No. If Ilya is going to end this hurting, then Hollander is at least going to end this disheveled. Let him go back to the hotel and have to answer to Pike about why he looks like a mess. It’s the very least of what he deserves. 

(The anger is easier to hold. Ilya can’t let himself even glance at what lies beneath it or he’s afraid he’ll never be able to look away.)

He rolls his eyes when he sees Hollander’s jacket tossed over a plant in what Ilya was told is called a “breakfast nook” when he bought this house, discarded earlier carelessly in their smiling game of stripping each other as fast as possible. He considers grabbing it for him before deciding that that’s not his fucking responsibility anymore. If Hollander forgets it, good. If he doesn’t want what Ilya has to offer, then fine. He’ll stop offering. Let him forget his jacket and have to go back to his hotel cold. 

He’s even more annoyed when he gets back to his room to find that it’s a wreck. He doesn’t know what the fuck went wrong today, but apparently Hollander has truly lost his fucking mind if he’s going to trash Ilya’s room like an ex with a vendetta when he was the one who ruined today. 

(It has to be Hollander’s fault, after all. It can’t be his. He can’t let it be his. He can’t shoulder the weight of breaking one of the best things he has in his life because he got greedy about it. He can’t live with that.) 

(So it has to be Hollander’s fault). 

“What the fuck is your problem?” He demands, leaning back against the doorframe as Hollander hauls the entire bundle of sheets and covers off of the bed, sending the pillows flying as an after-thought because he’s apparently as thorough in wrecking Ilya’s room as he is in everything else he does. 

Just his fucking luck, honestly. 

Then the sound of Hollander’s breathing registers. 

Well, the sound of Hollander’s attempt at breathing registers. 

In an instant, he pushes himself to stand straight, anger forgotten in an instant, instinctually, at how painful Hollander’s wheezing sounds. He knows by now that Shane Hollander is a bundle of brilliant hockey player and secretly funny asshole and secret sex maniac held together by pressure and expectation and anxiety, but he hasn’t actually seen him this bad before. In their early days, Hollander’s breathing would sometimes still or go a little shaky if he wasn’t sure about something new they were trying out, but he’d settled with time, and Ilya had learned how to offer things better, learned how to bring things up in seemingly-casual passing while doing something Hollander was already comfortable with: suggesting new positions while fucking him in one of Hollander’s favorites, for example, something Ilya still enjoys doing if only because it makes Hollander start fucking him back more enthusiastically as the thought morphs from novel to turn-on in his head. It goes right to Ilya’s ego, knowing exactly how to match Hollander’s freak to borrow a phrase he’d been delighted by the very first time he’d heard someone say it in the locker room. Sometimes he even gets off to the thought of the possibility that no one else knows Shane Hollander in the exact same way he does, that no one else knows how to read what he wants, what he likes, what he needs to be comfortable and fuck-drunk and loose and sweet. 

He certainly doesn’t look any of those things right now, though. 

“Hollander?” He asks, speaking louder, trying to work out how the fuck to take the air out of what is absolutely a panic attack. He’s never seen it this bad before, and a dangerously optimistic little thought sparks to his mind. 

What if this is why Hollander was suddenly trying to make a run for it? 

He’s a little stung, still, that he wouldn’t be trusted with this when he already holds so many of Hollander’s other secrets, but he can understand wanting to hide a weakness, a sore spot, wanting to curl up around something that hurts until it’s not quite so tender. He’s not sure exactly what would have set him off like this, but he’d been the one to say they could just talk after when Hollander had asked after he first got here. He wonders if that was a hint, if Hollander had wanted to talk first because something was bothering him. If Hollander came here today already on edge because of something else, it doesn’t take a wild stretch of the imagination to think that a good orgasm could have cracked the containment he was trying to keep it in. He’s always so fuzzy and loose in the afterglow, after all, something that’s unfairly endearing. Ilya knows that about him by now, knows exactly how long he’ll get to curl him close and run gentle hands over warm skin before Hollander picks himself up enough to pack up and go based on exactly how high he drives him up. Today hadn’t seemed as intense as some of the other things they’ve done, but this is also the first time Hollander has initiated the way he did, the first time he’s taken control like that and been the one steering. It makes sense, in a way, that the novelty might have been a little bit of a mindfuck if he was already stressed when he got here. 

The realization makes it incredibly easy to let go of his last lingering bit of resentment. Rude timing or not, it’s not as if he can hold a panic attack against him, after all, not when Ilya has an intimate understanding of the ways a brain can fuck a person up despite their best efforts. 

He feels Hollander flinch when he crosses the room to kneel next to him, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. He’s not sure if he should touch or not–he’s never seen Hollander in a real panic attack like this before, after all–but he knows Hollander is usually responsive to touch, knows a firm hand squeezing his hip or gentle fingers at his jaw can help him let go and loosen up the last bit on a day other things have him tighter than he should be. He’s not entirely sure the skill transfers here, but it’s best guess on how to even try to start helping. 

He’s also not sure why a panic attack made Hollander decide to start throwing shit around, but he can ask about that later. 

“Ja-jacket,” Hollander gasps out, and his voice sounds painful in a way that makes Ilya wince. Jesus. He’d known academically that panic attacks aren’t great, but this looks painful in a way that makes it very easy to understand why Hollander would want to hide away to ride it out. 

“Is okay,” Ilya soothes, trying to pull Hollander to him. Maybe if they can get in bed together, if he can hold Hol-

“Jacket,” Hollander says with more force, shoving him away. Ilya catches himself with a hand before he lands on his ass, a little surprised at the rejection. “Ro-Roz, please, fuck-fucking jacket. Where is it?” 

“Don’t leave,” Ilya says softly. “Is okay. You don’t have to-” 

“Ilya,” Hollander says, and now there’s a snap to his voice under the painful wheeziness that makes it hard to appreciate the surprising–and pleasing–use of his first name. “My fu-fucking jacket. Please.” 

Still trying to run then, Ilya thinks with equal parts affection and exasperation. As if Ilya would let him go anywhere looking like this. 

“No,” Ilya says, making the choice. He’ll be the bad guy right now if he needs to. Fine. Hollander likes being told what to do when his brain stalls out between choices. Ilya will make this one for him, too, make a safe little bubble for him to calm down in until everything is clearer. 

(Until he can hopefully make a different choice than running away, he doesn’t let himself think too long, knowing it’s a heinously selfish thought.)

“Ilya,” Hollander says, shuddering like a winter breeze is going through him as he bows forward, fingers sinking into the rug beside the bed and taking shaking handfuls of it, like he needs to anchor himself to the earth. 

“Is okay,” Ilya says low, soothing, edging closer and wondering if he should just make a grab for him. “You don’t have to leave. I am not angry-” 

Hollander makes an incredulous noise, still not looking up. 

“I am not,” he says, and it’s true now. It’s hard to still be mad when Hollander was clearly not okay for some reason. Yeah, the timing might have been shitty, but Hollander looks pathetic enough right now that Ilya thinks he could probably forgive him for cold blooded homicide at present. 

“Ilya,” Hollander says, looking up and glaring now, as best he can when his eyes are watering. “Jacket. Fucking. Now.” 

“Is not-”

“Jacket,” Hollander says with more force, bowing forward and taking labored, heaving breaths in a way that makes Ilya’s chest ache with sympathy. 

He studies Hollander for a second before he shoves himself to his feet. Alright. It’s not as if Hollander is in any place to leave right now anyway. If it’ll make him feel better having his jacket, okay. Ilya can make that happen. 

*

Shane is torn between relief and terror when Rozanov finally shoves himself to his feet, making his way to the door. All he can hope is that it finally fucking registered for him that Shane needs his jacket now, because he has passed the point of being able to find it for himself. His temptation is to lay down, to try and make his head spin less by giving it something solid to rest against, but he’s seized by the terrifyingly certain knowledge in his chest that if he lays down and closes his eyes, he will die. He will die right here. He will close his eyes and-

“Here.” 

His head snaps up to find Rozanov in front of him again. 

And thank fuck with his jacket in hand. 

He stops Rozanov from trying to drape it around his shoulders, and his clumsy fingers flip the material around in a way that is stupid and dumb and possibly a fucking magic trick from hell because where the fuck is the fucking pocket where the fucking-

Finally. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov is saying, rubbing a hand over Shane’s back in a way that would be soothing if he had the mental space to think about things like that, “take a breath, yes? You are-what? What the fuck? You are vaping now?” 

Shane does not remotely have it in him to even begin processing what the fuck he’s being chirped about with that question, dropping back to rest his back against Rozanov’s bed. 

He pulls the Auvi-Q out of its case, the robotic voice immediately chiming in to let him know that if he’s ready to use it, to pull off the red safety guard. 

He is most fucking certainly ready to use it. 

He interrupts the rest of robot-lady’s instructions by jumping ahead of her, pulling the guard off, pressing the needle site to his thigh and pushing down, twitching slightly at the faint little sting of pain. 

His head drops back as the robotic voice counts down from five, chest still tight and painful but his mind already anticipating enough relief to at least start breathing again. 

“What the fuck is happening.” 

He blinks his eyes open hazily, finding Rozanov looking confused in a way he might make fun of if he was capable of it right now. 

As it is, he just waits for the countdown to finish. 

*

Ilya is currently wondering if he is currently either dreaming or the victim of a very bizarre prank. 

“Injection complete. Seek emergency medical attention.” 

The instructions from the robot voice in the little plastic thing Hollander slammed against his thigh snap him back to reality rapidly. 

“Shane?” He asks, alarmed now. He leans forward, tapping at Hollander’s cheek gently after he closes his eyes again, leaning his head back in a way that’s suddenly terrifying given the robot voice’s instructions. “Sha-Hollander, look at me. What is happening?” 

“M’okay,” Hollander says, breath less wheezy now but still strained. He blinks his eyes open in a way that suggests it’s taking more willpower than it should. “Just-just give me. Second.” 

“You need ambulance?” Ilya asks, because he still doesn’t know what the fuck just happened, but the robot lady seemed fairly confident in her direction. 

Hollander wrinkles his nose in distaste, eyes closing again. 

“Yeah,” he says, sounding resigned. “Fuck. Goddamnit.” A beat. “Shit.” 

Ilya would like to give him more time to keep swearing–if only to see what he would come up with after running through the standard options–but Hollander is now shaking in a way that is more than a little terrifying. He knows he should grab his phone, knows he’s now been given confirmation of what to do next, but-

“You are okay? Hollander?” 

Hollander manages to open his eyes again and give him a slight, faint smile this time, still trembling like he’s been outside in deep winter with no jacket instead of Ilya’s warm bedroom fully covered in fleece pants and a thick t-shirt. 

“I’m okay,” he says, but the words are more than a little ruined by the way they come out on a tremble with how hard Hollander is shaking right now, even his teeth chattering. “Um-” He closes his eyes, clearly trying to get his thoughts in order. “Can you call an ambulance, please? You can tell them they can come without the sirens-or, no, fuck, you can just give me the phone, I can-” 

“I know how to talk to people on the phone, Hollander,” Ilya says dryly, managing to scrape together his composure with the tips of his fingers. It may or may not be true, not when he still doesn’t know what the fuck even happened here, but the idea of handing Hollander a phone and watch him make his trembling way through trying to ask for help makes him feel a little sick. 

He stands, grabs the comforter to drape it over Hollander’s shoulders, and then goes to find his phone. 

*

“I’m really sorry,” he tells Rozanov as they make their joint way downstairs, Rozanov taking most of his weight in the effort because pure adrenaline is a bitch and has him shaking like his great aunt’s neurotic chihuahua. “I di-” 

“Yes, yes, very sorry,” Rozanov says with clear disinterest. “Is fine, Hollander. Stop apologizing already. I do not care.” 

Shane is a little stung by the statement, honestly, even if he knows he shouldn’t be. Rozanov must catch his expression from the corner of his eye, because his own softens, and he clarifies as he carefully helps Shane down the last couple of stairs. 

“You need an ambulance on purpose?” He asks, and Shane frowns. 

“No? Of cou-” He almost trips them both when his left knee buckles, protesting taking his weight when his joints still feel like jelly, and Rozanov hauls him back upright with an ease that is inconveniently sexy when this is so absolutely not the fucking time. They’re both dressed again, Shane still in the clothes he borrowed from Rozanov because asking for help getting dressed in something else would be more humiliating than just staying in what he’s borrowed, and Rozanov now in a shirt. 

Shane can only hope that he took a moment while on the call with 911 to at least wipe himself down with a damp washcloth. He doesn’t quite have the nerve to ask. 

“Then is not a problem,” Rozanov says, settling him down gently on the bench at the entryway when they’ve made it there, hands hovering for a moment as if he’s not certain Shane is going to stay upright when he lets go. 

Shane is also not certain of this, to be fair. 

“You need a trashcan again?” Rozanov asks, and Shane has a brief flicker of humiliation that almost makes him wish he’d just let the anaphylaxis take him. Even if he didn’t actually puke, having to grab his hookup’s bedroom trashcan and dry heave into it is up there in “God, I wish I was actually dead right now” experiences. 

“No,” he says, shaking his head, and thank God, it’s true. If he puked in front of Ilya Rozanov, he thinks he might just have to ask the ambulance to run him over and put him out of his misery. If they heard his side of things, there’s no chance they wouldn’t agree it was an act of mercy. “I’m good.” 

“Yes,” Rozanov says dryly, and Shane looks up to find himself the subject of a critical look. “I can see this.” 

“I’m sor-” 

He stops when fingers land over his lips, stopping him. 

“Too many sorries,” Rozanov says. “Very annoying.” 

Shane goes quiet. 

*

Ilya feels bad after he’s said it, guilty about making Hollander feel guilty when he already clearly feels like shit, and he attempts to make amends when he crouches down, reaching for Hollander’s shoes, which mysteriously made their way to wait right next to his front door in a demonstration of habitual tidiness that makes him want to kiss Hollander stupid. 

Luckily actually looking at Hollander right now lets him keep the impulse in check. 

“Up,” he says, tapping at Hollander’s ankle to get him to lift his foot up.

“I can tie my own shoes, Rozanov,” Hollander says, and Ilya rolls his eyes both at the insistence and the regression to last names. 

“Yes, I can see this by the way you are shaking like very nervous tiny dog.” He smirks, knowing exactly how to get Hollander to obey him. “Hmm, actually, yes, I can see resemblance. Maybe in a past life you are-” 

Predictably, it gets him Hollander’s foot in the form of a kick. 

He catches it by the heel on its swing back. 

“Seriously,” Hollander says, but his protest remains verbal instead of actually trying to fight him about it. Probably because he’s not in a state to win at present if Ilya had to make a guess. “I can-” 

“So can I, Hollander,” Ilya says, unconcerned, pleased when Hollander gives up his second foot without a fight. 

“Oh, can you grab my wallet, please?” Hollander says. “My insurance stuff is in there.” 

“Jeans pocket?” Ilya checks, already rising, getting a nod and a hummed “Mhm” as Hollander rests his head back against the wall. 

When he returns, he brings a hoodie with him, unable to keep not doing something when Hollander is still shaking so badly, even though he’s already been told it’s not really because he’s too cold. Hollander accepts it without protest, letting Ilya get it over his head and then working his arms through himself. 

“Thanks,” he says, voice quiet, and Ilya makes a small noise of acknowledgement. 

He’s just opening his mouth to ask if he wants water or something when lights catch his attention, and he squeezes Hollander’s shoulder to get his attention. He moves to the door and opens it before the paramedics have even finished getting their gurney out, and he waves a hand of acknowledgement at them, glancing around to try and judge which neighbors might be paying attention to this spectacle. He’d bought in a cul de sac for the sake of privacy, and the giant trees along one side of the driveway offer privacy from that direction, leaving him only really one neighbor with line of sight to be able to find out exactly who’s leaving his house in an ambulance today. 

He can only hope Ms. Bonny is either doing her NICU volunteer work today or at least willing to not run her mouth if she happens to be home and at a window. 

It’s not like Ilya can really do anything about it either way. 

He steps back to let the paramedics work, twitching reflexively when Hollander tries to stand up on his own, a paramedic good-naturedly nudging him right back now. Ilya hovers, ineffectual, and tries desperately not to return to memories best left alone. 

Small and scared and confused, still, mind not yet willing to understand what was happening. Men loading mama’s body onto a gurney, one pale hand swinging down. Ilya had darted forward, to hold it, a response to a lifetime of the signal, and he’d let out a small, hurt noise at how cold it was, eyes filling at once. The paramedic had been kind, gently ushering him back, but he’d kept his eyes on the gurney taking his mother away until it was out the door. He’d tried to chase after it, tried to keep mama company on the ride. She’d be scared, he’d thought, stupidly. She’d want him with her, want to hold him close and cuddle him even though he was getting far too big for that now, as his father never stopped reminding him whenever he caught them. 

Alexei had grabbed him before he could actually try to follow, his big brother’s arms coming around him and his hand pushing Ilya’s head down against his shoulder. He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t shushed him the way mama would have, but he’d held him. It’s something that’s hurt since then, that memory, the knowledge that his brother loved him once, at least enough to hold him while their mother’s body was wheeled away. At least that much. 

He hadn’t been allowed to get near the coffin at the service after, his father too afraid that he would “make a scene.” He’d been planted next to Alexei as his keeper, his brother keeping an arm around his shoulders in what could have been love or restraint or both. He’s not sure. He’s still not sure. 

He just knows that the last time he saw his mother was when they took her away from him on a gurney. 

This isn’t that, he tells himself firmly. Hollander is fine, talking and even making a joke that makes the paramedics laugh because he is funny even if he’s choosy about who he lets know it. This isn’t then. Hollander is fine. Well, he’ll be fine. He’s being taken away to get treated, not to be kept in a morgue until arrangements can be made. They’ll see each other again. This isn’t the last time Ilya will ever see him. It isn’t. 

And yet he can’t make himself look away. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s grabbed his own wallet and his keys until the second paramedic glances back at him after her partner has started wheeling Hollander down the sidewalk. She knows who they are–of course she does, because that’s just their luck–but she’s professional enough that she doesn’t bring up the confusing question of exactly why the NHL’s most famous rivals were hanging out together in sweatpants. She just glances down at his wallet and keys before looking back up. 

“Coming along for the ride?” She asks. 

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. This isn’t his mother. This isn’t forever. This isn’t goodbye. It doesn’t matter that Hollander is being wheeled away, moving out of his sight. It doesn’t matter that it’s painfully clear today that this could have ended in that exact scenario. It didn't. So there’s no reason for him to even think abou-

“Yes,” he says. “If it’s okay.” 

The paramedic shrugs. 

“Fine by me.” 

It’s not the permission he actually needs, but he’ll take it. 

*

Shane is more than a little thrown when Rozanov climbs into the ambulance after him, but it’s not like it’s the best moment to ask what the fuck he’s doing when they have an audience. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be blamed or something? Or have charges pressed against him? It’s not like Shane would, but-

“Okay?” Rozanov asks, voice low, as the paramedics start securing things. 

Shane hesitates. If this wasn’t already risky when it just involved him getting taken away from Rozanov’s house in an ambulance, it certainly fucking is now, when they’re even leaving the scene of the crime together. 

And yet the idea of having to ride to the hospital alone is just unappealing enough that the idea of company is tempting. 

He nods. 

Rozanov nods back. 

Naturally, it doesn’t take him long to start talking shit, because he’s Ilya Rozanov even if he’s potentially doing something sweet. He is, though, using his shit talking to come up with a lie to explain them being together, which Shane is grateful for both because he’s too tired to do it himself and because he wouldn’t be good at it to start with. If Rozanov wants to handle it, good luck to him. 

(But also fuck him a little bit for being an asshole while doing it.)

“-because he was talking shit after our last game,” Rozanov says, and Shane rolls his eyes at being made the villain in this fake story. “Supposedly he is very good at video games, but I did not believe him.” He smirks, every inch Rozanov of “almost everyone wants to punch him after playing against him” fame. “I was right.” 

“I kicked your ass and you know it, asshole,” Shane grumbles. It’s possible he shouldn’t be swearing in front of witnesses–his mom drilled that into him pretty early–but it’s not as if him swearing is the worst thing these paramedics could reveal if they got chatty. Also they can’t talk, probably. Hopefully. 

At the moment, Shane is a little too fuzzy on the details of most things to be certain. 

“Aw,” Rozanov coos in a clear taunt, “I will let you lie to the paramedics because you are so sad and pathetic right now, don’t worry.” 

“Sure it wasn’t an assassination attempt?” One of the paramedics jokes, and Shane doesn’t miss the little flinch it causes in Rozanov. 

“I mean if it was, there are easier ways,” Shane says, deciding to give Rozanov a little smile to try and take the sting out of it, not wanting him to feel guilty over a freak accident. 

Especially when Shane knows it’s his fault for not giving him a heads up before, a decision he’s paying for plenty now. 

“I don’t know,” the female paramedic–Mary? Carrie? Berry? some people are named Berry probably–says, clearly teasing. “Death by anaphylaxis? Sneaky.” 

He glances at Ilya to find a quick little flicker of distaste, there and gone again, like he doesn’t exactly enjoy being thought of as capable of deliberately trying to hurt someone like this. It’s not like Shane can blame him. He’ll insist to his last breath that Rozanov cheats as far as the refs will let him, but dirty is different on the ice versus off. An illegal check isn’t the same as essentially trying to poison someone. 

Shane also feels a little guilty that it wasn’t even a deliberate attempt at poisoning him. 

“Nah,” Shane says, leaning his head back and exhaling. “He’s not a bad guy. He’s just a dick sometimes, but he’s nice sometimes, too. Sometimes.” 

Mary-Carrie-Berry snorts, and he peeks an eye open at Rozanov, opening both when Rozanov is looking a way he doesn’t understand, like Shane has said something he’s trying to figure out. Shane isn’t exactly in the best headspace to try and play a round of Guess Rozanov’s Thoughts–not that he would be even under normal circumstances–so he tilts his head slightly in question. 

“What? It’s true. You pick fights like it’s your actual job, but you’re not a bad guy.” It’s true, after all. Hockey has its fair share of real douchebags, but even back in the early days, he’d known Rozanov wasn’t one of them. He’d always thought it was a performance the same way his public persona is, just opposite sides. Now he wonders if Rozanov was in on it, too, or not. “You’re actually probably one of the good guys in the league,” he says thoughtfully. “When you can shut up for ten seconds.” 

“Is this a compliment, Hollander?” Rozanov says. He tsks. “Wow. You must be actually dying. So sad. Can I have your jersey?” 

“Knew you were a fan,” Shane says with a small smile. Rozanov makes an insulted noise. 

“No, I only like good players. I just think there are many people with bad taste who will pay a lot of money for it on Ebay when you’re dead. Is purely business.” 

When Mary-Carrie-Berry looks away, Shane shoots him a middle finger, grinning when he gets one in return. 

*

Ilya’s not totally sure how he got here, standing in a public restroom of Massachusetts General Hospital using a damp paper towel to try and scrub off a patch of cum he hadn’t noticed missing earlier in his rushed attempt at cleaning up before returning to Hollander’s side until it had fully dried and started pulling at hair on his stomach when he moved. He’s played through plenty of injuries before on the ice, but trying to act normal while that was happening proved to be a step too far for even him. 

He’d also thought it was probably a good idea to make himself scarce while they ran through Hollander’s medical history. Hollander hadn’t asked him to leave, but it had seemed like the kind of thing a person wouldn’t want a casual fling there for, which they may or may not still be. 

He can’t really say he’s having fun being part of Schrodinger’s fuck buddies. 

“Blyat,” he tells nothing in particular, glad that the restroom he found happened to be empty. Even with the news that’s been spread about him before, he’d rather not have someone tell TMZ about him cleaning up after sex in a public hospital. That seems like it’s a bridge too far for even his reputation. 

He contemplates if he should just leave. He hadn’t really been consciously thinking when he followed Hollander into the ambulance, and it’s not as if the situation has improved since then. He doesn’t have a reason to be here, really, and he’s flirting with fucking them both over if someone sees them together here, especially both in sweatpants, which feels like it would make the whole thing worse. 

And yet he also can’t bring himself to commit to leaving. 

If he wanted to pretend to be casual about it, he could focus on the fact that he cleared his schedule today specifically to fill it with Hollander. He’d said no to grabbing dinner with some of the guys, and he’d even passed on watching a new episode of the television show that Svetlana insists on getting him into and he insists he doesn’t care about, even if he still watches all of them with her. He hadn’t even known if it would work, his offer to Hollander, but he’d hoped it would. The circumstances had been perfect for it: open schedules, casual offer, Hollander already sated and relaxed as a result, head just quiet enough to not let the bad idea of it catch up to him before he answered. It was supposed to be perfect, a stolen little moment of something other than just fucking. 

Well, Ilya thinks wryly, tossing his paper towel in the trashcan and straightening his shirt out, this is certainly something other than just fucking. 

Perhaps he should have made his unspoken wanting a little more specific. 

*

Shane looks up at the quiet knock at the door, a little surprised when it’s Rozanov’s head that pops around. He’d made himself scarce when Shane had been settled in this–blessedly private–room for observation until they can be sure he’s not going to keel over, and he’d half-thought that Rozanov was going to leave and go home, probably to try and forget this day ever fucking happened. 

It’s not like Shane could blame him, after all. 

“Okay?” Rozanov asks, edging into the room with just enough hesitation that Shane gets the sense he’s not sure if he’s welcome here or not. 

It’s more endearing than Shane would like it to be. 

“I’m fine,” Shane says, gesturing to the chair beside the bed if Rozanov wants to take it. He’s not sure what the protocol for your fuckbuddy coming to the hospital with you after anaphylaxis is, but he thinks offering him a chair is probably in there somewhere. Honestly, he’s not really in the mental state to think about it too hard. “It’s not that serious, I promise.” 

Rozanov eyes the equipment doubtfully as he sits back in the chair, stretching his legs in front of him. 

“Looks pretty serious.” 

Shane shrugs, fighting off a yawn, the comedown from the epinephrine hitting hard. 

“It’s standard stuff after a reaction. They just have to make sure I won’t have a heart attack or so-” 

“What.” 

Rozanov’s posture looks abruptly less casual and unbothered. Shane shrugs again. 

“It’s not a big deal-” 

“Yes,” Rozanov. “Is a pretty fucking big deal, Hollander. You are an athlete, and you think a heart attack is no big deal?” 

Now Shane is a little annoyed at having his own medical problems explained to him. 

“It’s not a big deal,” he emphasizes. “I’ve done this before. It’s just a risk because of the epinephrine.” He sees the lack of comprehension on Rozanov’s face. “The square shot thing I had to use. It’s epinephrine. Adrenaline.” 

“And this can give you a heart attack?” 

“I mean, it’s straight adrenaline.” He winces, unable to help it when shifting slightly makes the throbbing in his head flare. 

“What is it?” Rozanov asks, leaning forward. “You are-” 

“Just a headache,” Shane says, rubbing at one pounding temple. 

“You need a doctor?” Rozanov asks, moving to stand up. 

“No, no,” Shane says, settling back carefully. “Just a side effect of the reaction and the epinephrine. It’ll go away eventually. It just hurts like a motherfucker in the meantime.” 

Rozanov considers him a for moment, and then gets up, and Shane is mildly offended when he starts making his way to the door, thinking he’s probably at least owed a goodbye if Rozanov has suddenly picked this moment to fucking ditch him for some unknown reason. Instead of leaving, though, Rozanov just flicks the lights off and then moves to the window, fidgeting with the blinds until he manages to shut them. He turns back, hand still on the blind wand. 

“Better?” 

“I-yeah,” Shane says, stupidly touched by the gesture. “Thanks.” 

“No problem,” Rozanov says quietly, returning to his chair, and Shane realizes he’s lowering his volume for the sake of his headache. 

The consideration, unfortunately, just makes him feel a little bit like a dick to be treated so nicely after he kind of was an asshole earlier with his jack off and bounce move, even if he’s pretty sure it was at least partially anaphylaxis-fueled. 

Still, “allergens made me do it” sounds like a fake excuse even in his head. 

*

“This is medicine to help you?” Ilya asks, glancing at the IV Hollander is attached to. 

“Mmm,” Hollander agrees, badly hiding a yawn in a way that makes Ilya smile slightly. “Saline and antihistamines-” He swallows another yawn, and Ilya makes a mental note of the word to try and look it up later. “-and-” Another yawn. “-other stuff. Probably.” 

Ilya snorts. 

“You do not know?” He asks, half amused and half surprised. 

“Mm,” Hollander hums with a shrug, settling back into the bed a little better. Ilya resists the insane urge to tuck his blanket up over him. “At this point, I just let them do whatever they need to do.” 

Ilya wets his lips, hesitating over pushing when Hollander still looks unwell but also really needing to know what the fuck happened today. 

Primarily to make sure it never happens again. 

“You have done this before?” He asks, and Hollander nods slightly before his headache clearly tells him to stop, blinks taking just a bit too long. 

“Allergies,” he says, and there’s an interesting little flicker of embarrassment on his face now. “I’m sorry. That was…not cool.” 

Ilya exhales a laugh he can’t help at the wild understatement. 

“Very ‘not cool,’” he says dryly. He hesitates, just a moment, but if they’re already talking about this anyway… “You knew this could happen? The reaction with the allergies?” 

“I mean,” Hollander says, and even in the low light of the room, Ilya can pick up on the fact that his ears have gone a little pink in a sure sign that he’s embarrassed, “I’ve had them my whole life, so…yeah.” 

“So you have had dangerous allergies your whole life-” 

“I mean, I wouldn’t say dangerous-” 

“-and you do not think to mention them before you eat at my house with me?” Ilya doesn’t mean it to come out with an edge, but it does, more than a little angry at being made party to what was apparently a very dangerous situation he had no idea he was in. 

Because he wasn’t fucking told. 

“I watched you make the food,” Hollander says, and now there’s a note of petulant complaint in his voice that makes him sound endearing in a way Ilya would prefer he didn’t, not if he’s going to remain annoyed at him like he deserves. “And I looked at the label on the chips and bread-” 

“When?” Ilya asks, frowning. 

Hollander’s ears go a little pinker. 

“When you turned around.” 

Ilya lifts a hand into the air in a helpless little gesture of frustration. 

“Why?” He asks, genuinely thrown. “Why not just ask?” 

Hollander mumbles something he doesn’t pick up. 

“What?” He asks again, pointedly, getting a little flicker of a glare before Hollander speaks up. 

“I didn’t want it to be, like, a thing.” 

Ilya stares at him blandly, silently commenting on exactly how that turned out for him. Hollander rolls his eyes and shifts a bit like he’s trying to sink into his bed more. 

“What are you allergic to?” Ilya asks, taking pity on him because it’s apparently extremely hard for him to stay mad at Shane Hollander for any real length of time. 

(Even when he deserves it.)

“A few things,” Hollander says, trying to be evasive and making a face when he sees Ilya’s pointed look. He sighs, closing his eyes and resting his head back before rolling it to look at Ilya. “Almonds, walnuts, cashews, coconuts, kiwis, peanuts-” He catches Ilya’s reflexive little wince. “What?” 

“Peanut butter toast,” he says, all too clearly picturing exactly what must have happened. “I had it for breakfast yesterday with the same bread I used today. Some peanut butter must have gotten in the bag or something.” Which is something he would have known to account for if he had known he had the ability to kill Shane Hollander with groceries. 

His mood swings from contrite to annoyed again. 

“Yeah,” Hollander says, yawning around the word. “That’ll do it.” 

The nonchalance just makes him more annoyed. 

“You have to fucking tell people when they can kill you with food, Hollander,” he says. 

“Now who sounds like my mother?” Hollander snarks, giving him a dirty look. “I fucked up, okay? Got it. The anaphylaxis and the hospital visit are what I get. Lesson learned. Leave me alone about it, Jesus.” 

Annoyingly, fighting with a clearly ill Hollander in a hospital bed just keeps making him feel like a dick even though he’s pretty sure that Hollander is the dick in this situation. 

“Hm, bad luck with that list,” Ilya says in a peace offering, faux-thoughtful. “We both know how much you like having nuts in your mouth.” 

Hollander looks at him, clearly thrown, and then he catches the joke, laughing hard enough that he has to wipe his eyes when they water. 

“God,” he complains. “0/10. Shut the fuck up.” 

“What?” Ilya says, smiling because he can’t help it when there’s a laughing Hollander in front of him. “Is true.” 

“So fucking stupid,” Hollander says, snorting and wiping his eyes with the edge of his bedsheet before looking at Ilya again. He looks lighter now, less wound up. Ilya is glad for it, for being able to accomplish it. “I am sorry that I dragged you into this. I know this is a really shitty way to spend the day before a game.” 

“I don’t know,” Ilya says, tilting his head slightly as if contemplating. “I think I have pretty good blackmail on you now. That’s worth something, probably.” 

“Oh?” Hollander asks. “Going to go tell TMZ that Shane Hollander can get taken out by a pack of peanuts?” 

“Maybe,” Ilya teases, but there’s a little flicker of something in Hollander’s face that makes him pause instead of chasing the bit. “What? You are like Superman? No one can know your kryptonite?” 

“I mean,” Hollander starts, clearly choosing his words carefully. “You know how hockey fans get.” 

“Fucking crazy?” Ilya offers. 

“Yeah,” Hollander agrees dryly. “It, uh, probably wouldn’t be good if they knew throwing peanuts in my face is probably a good way to help out their team.” 

It’s not a bad point. Ilya can all too easily see it happening, someone who takes the game way too fucking seriously but without Hollander’s sense of sportsmanship about it. It makes him feel a little flicker of fear, actually, the idea of someone else having this information, potentially making Shane very, very sick because knocking out Montreal’s best player is as easy as slipping some peanut butter in a protein shake or something. He can see why Hollander wouldn’t want it becoming common knowledge, but still… 

“And you think I would do this?” He asks, trying very carefully to keep his tone neutral despite the way it hurts a little, the doubt, the idea that Hollander thinks he would ever do something like that. 

“No.” 

Well, the speed of the response is something at least. 

“That’s-” Hollander makes a frustrated noise, rubbing at his eyes before dropping his hand to the bed again and breathing through a yawn. “I don’t tell, like, the news and stuff about it because of that, and I don’t tell other people about it because it always just becomes a thing, you know?” 

“‘A thing?’” Ilya repeats. 

“‘Wow, dude,’” Hollander says in a voice that’s clearly meant to be a generic guy impression. “‘No peanut butter at all? That fucking sucks. I’d die if I couldn’t eat peanut butter. Really? You don’t even want to try a little bit? It only has chopped almonds in it. Oh, I don’t think a little bit would hurt.’” He lets out a clearly annoyed breath. “It just always has to be a fucking thing with people, so I don’t really talk about it if I don’t have to. It’s just…easier.” 

“Except when it means you end up in a hospital bed,” Ilya can’t help but point out. 

Shane huffs a quiet laugh. 

“Yeah,” he agrees dryly. “Except then.” 

“You have told your team you won’t be playing tomorrow?” Ilya asks. It’s only a guess, but looking at Hollander now, he can’t see any world in which even he would be up to a game by tomorrow. 

“Yeah,” Hollander says, clearly regretful. “I’ve had to go on med leave before after a reaction. 72 hours to recover, and then I’ll be back.” He exhales. “Which means missing our games in Denver and probably St. Louis, so really I won’t be playing again until the start of next week. It fucking sucks.” The last part is said in a way that tells Ilya he’s not really supposed to comment on it, a little admission that Hollander couldn’t help but say. 

“Yes,” he agrees solemnly, “very sad how badly your team is going to lose now. Even worse than usual.” 

“Montreal is a good tea-” Hollander’s indignation cuts off when he catches the amusement Ilya must have on his face, Hollander settling back against his bed. “Asshole.” Hollander inhales like he wants to say something, but it’s an exhale and another inhale before he commits to it. “Listen, about earlier-” 

“Is okay,” Ilya interrupts. 

“But I-” 

“Hollander,” Ilya says, as gently as he can. “Is fine, okay? You felt sick, you panicked.” It’s an olive branch, frankly, an excuse. He’s not sure Hollander will take it, honestly. He’s not sure it’s actually true. 

But it’s what he would like to be the explanation for why Hollander caught a glimpse at what Ilya would like to do with him more often and then booked it. 

“You have to stay here until tomorrow?” Ilya asks, changing the topic and saving Hollander from having to respond. 

(And maybe saving himself from hearing his response, too.) 

“No,” Hollander says, failing this attempt at swallowing back a yawn. “It’s usually about five hours, and then I’m allowed to leave.” 

Ilya glances at the clock on the wall. 

“So 7:30?” 

“Yeah,” Hollander agrees. “Probably. God, fuck, what the fuck am I even going to tell Hayden?” 

A very, very stupid offer occurs to Ilya then. He shouldn’t say it. He offered it earlier and Hollander then bolted in a way that may or may not be related to allergies. He shouldn’t say it. Hollander can ask if he wants it. He shouldn’t-

“You could come back with me,” he offers. Hollander looks to him without moving his head, going still like a bird in the grass when a hunter gets too close. 

It’s not the most promising response in the world. 

“Or not,” he qualifies, even though he wants it, wants to have Hollander beside him for a while longer until he can convince the lingering sense of fear in his chest that everything is fine now. “But I don’t mind. I will even not feed you peanut butter this time.” 

The joke gets him a little twitch of Hollander’s lips. 

“You don’t have to,” Hollander says. “It’s really-” Another yawn. 

“I mean,” Ilya says. “I’m pretty sure my house is more comfortable than a hotel, and you won’t have annoying teammates asking questions.” He’s mildly amused when he sees that the second part of the sentence is clearly tempting. He decides to take a little leap. “You already told Pike you’d be staying with someone tonight, yes?” Hollander nods, hesitantly. Ilya nods back. “Okay then. Easy. You are already on medical, you tell Pike to say you are staying with a friend, and then you can come to my house and rest. Easy. I already know you are stupid and let me poison you-” 

“Hey.” 

“-so no need to come up with excuses.” Come home with me, he thinks, pretending it’s not begging as much as it actually is. Come home with me but let it be good this time. 

“People will talk-” 

“I will leave first,” Ilya says. “Take an Uber back to my house. You sign out after, take a separate Uber. Who’s going to know?” 

“I mean, people already saw us come here together,” Hollander points out. The reality of the situation seems to fully register for him then. “Jesus, what are-” 

“Two paramedics and then a nurse and a doctor saw us even near each other,” Ilya says, acting calmer than he actually feels. It’s going to be horrifically complicated if this gets out, and he’s aware of it. His story about playing video games is flimsy at best. He’d rather not see if it can actually stand up under scrutiny. 

But he also wants Hollander back inside his house with a desperation that’s probably impairing his judgement. 

“If people saw us come in together,” he says, shrugging, “then they already saw. Is nothing we can do about that now. We will leave separately, and no one will know about that.” Come with me, he thinks. Come back with me. Let me look after you. “Just as safe as going back to your hotel and letting Pike be annoying when you need to rest.” 

“He’s not annoying,” Hollander says, because he’s a good friend even to someone as annoying as Hayden Pike, but Ilya can see he’s tempted. “You’re sure?” He asks. “I really wouldn’t be-” 

“Hollander,” he interrupts. “Come home with me.” 

“Okay,” Hollander says after a moment. 

“Okay,” Ilya repeats. “Now close your eyes and sleep already. You are making me tired just looking at you.” 

“Asshole,” Hollander says, but the word is fond, and he smiles slightly as he closes his eyes. 

Ilya waits until he’s out before he sits back and pulls his phone out, sounding out and typing his best guess at the spelling of the word antihistamines. 

*

Shane follows Rozanov’s plan because he’s too tired to decide if it’s better or worse than any plan he could come up with on his own, and he kills time between giving Rozanov a head start and calling an Uber of his own by making the calls and sending the emails he needs to on his phone. Hayden had been ridiculous (and loyal) enough to stop by before the game even though it put him in a time crunch to drop off his stuff and check on him–thank God after Rozanov had already left–but it’s just Shane again now. The medical staff is obviously already aware of his allergies, and they’ve already confirmed the incident with the hospital and gotten notes about the reaction and his clearance to leave. He knows by now that the standard waiting period they operate under for him is 72 hours of rest, re-evaluation with med staff, and then clearing him to play again. Because he’s normally so careful and diligent in his exercise and diet plan and daily antihistamines, it doesn’t usually take him too long to bounce back after a reaction. 

At least he can do that much right, he thinks in the car on his way to Rozanov’s house, annoyed and embarrassed about missing a game–knowing he’s going to get questions he’s going to have to make excuses for–and still not even sure he’s doing the right thing choosing to go back to Rozanov’s house. 

He doesn’t know why he’s even doing it, really. The lead doctor on the team’s medical staff had asked if they needed to arrange a longer hotel stay for him to recover after his release from the hospital or if he would be returning to Montreal immediately instead and if he needed them to go ahead and arrange a plane ticket for him. Feeling absurdly like a kid lying to a teacher, he’d said he has a friend in Boston who offered him a place to stay for 48 hours to get some rest before heading back to Montreal and gotten clearance to do it. 

He’s still not sure if that’s a good thing or not. 

He shifts in the backseat, making his paper prescription bag rustle–an emergency epipen. He hadn’t been thrilled about it, but apparently the hospital was having a supply issue with Auvi-Qs, and given the option of staying in the hospital for an indeterminate time until one could be sourced at a pharmacy nearby by medical staff or accepting an epipen until he can get home and grab his backup Auvi-Q, he’d chosen the latter. 

“Air okay?” The driver asks, and Shane manages the most polite smile he can offer and nods his head when the man glances at him. 

He looks down when his phone vibrates, a notification letting him know he has a text from Lily. 

can you breathe around peanuts? 

Shane snorts, unable to help it. 

I mean I’m not going to shove my face in them, but yeah. 

do not be a smartass. I am hollander-ing my kitchen so I do not almost kill you again. I just need to know if my peanut butter needs to go in the garage or not. 

Shane hesitates and then types and backspaces and types and backspaces and types and backspaces and types and-

fuck’s sake, hollander. you are writing war and peace or what? peanut butter: house or garage? 

House. 

It’s really not a big deal, I promise. It can stay in your kitchen. You don’t have to go through any trouble just for me. 

too late. it has been banished to a closet. 

this is good, actually. now you cannot be nosy. 

there could be peanuts anywhere. 

or almonds. 

or coconut flakes. 

or kiwis, if instacart can beat you here. 

I have many weapons, hollander. make sure you mind your business. 🥜🔪

Despite himself, Shane smiles, glad that Rozanov is joking about this even if he’s also maybe going a little overboard in exiling parts of his pantry. 

He doesn’t know how to take it, really, how immediately Rozanov is doing this, how much he’s acting like this is just the logical course of action. He would never ask it of him–never ask it of anyone, really, knowing firsthand what a pain it is–but Rozanov also never framed it as a question. In the hospital, he’d found out Shane has a list of his allergies and had him text it to him, scanning over it with a seriousness Shane’s really only seen before while on the ice. 

He doesn’t know how to take that either. 

“Thanks,” he tells the driver when they make it to Rozanov’s house. Reflexively, he glances around to make sure there are no neighbors hanging out as potential witnesses and then makes his way to the door. He raises his hand to knock, but Rozanov opens it before he gets the chance. 

“The house has been Hollandered,” Rozanov informs him solemnly. 

“You really didn’t need to do that,” he says, stepping past him when Rozanov moves to the side to invite him in. “It’s seriously-” 

“Already done,” Rozanov says with a dismissive little wave of his hand. “Dinner is almost ready, also.” 

“Feeding me again already?” Shane asks with a teasing raise of his eyebrows. “Brave.” 

“Hm,” Rozanov agrees, gently nudging him towards the barstool he sat on earlier and returning to the stove. “Here.” He slides Shane some empty packages and a can. “Double check. I compared to your list, but make sure I didn’t miss anything, yes?” 

“You really didn’t have-” 

“Yes,” Rozanov says. “We have established this. I do not have to do anything, but I have already done it, so less complaining and more reading, please. One ambulance visit in a day is enough. Two is just tacky. The neighbors will stop respecting me.” 

“They respect you now?” 

He grins when he gets a dishtowel to the head for the comment. 

He reads over the packages in front of him, struggling a bit with how fucking tired he is but also agreeing that a second hospital visit in one day would probably be overkill. 

(And also probably just…kill.)

“You are taking pictures?” Rozanov asks, and Shane glances up. 

“Uh, no,” he says, moving the package in front of him to one side and centering the other. “Allergy app. Just an extra check, you know?” 

“They make apps for this?” Rozanov asks, already pulling his phone out of his pocket. 

“You don’t ha-” Shane cuts himself off at the look he gets, instead typing in the name of the app on the app store when Rozanov hands his phone over before handing it back. If Rozanov wants to download an allergy app for some bizarre reason, then he can go ahead and knock himself out. 

*

Ilya pretends very hard that he’s not as nervous as he is during dinner, but he knows Hollander catches on by the way he makes a face when he catches Ilya glancing at him from the corner of his eye, paying far more attention to the other person on the couch than the television show on the screen in front of them. He’d been diligent in comparing ingredients to the list Hollander had sent him–and really, more of Hollander’s personality had made sense by the end of such a tedious task–but the knowledge that there was a very real possibility of Hollander dying in his house today has a way of making a person edgy. 

Really, it’s almost a relief when Hollander declines seconds. 

When he joins him back on the couch–kitchen clean up made faster by using paper plates and plastic forks that he could be sure weren’t contaminated with anything deadly to Hollanders–he hesitates just briefly on where to sit. For the sake of sharing the coffee table, they’d sat next to each other while eating, but he doesn’t know now if Hollander would prefer them sitting apart again. It’s how they’d sat at first earlier today, but for the ten seconds it had lasted before going horribly wrong, it had been nice, Hollander against his chest, laying together without the need for sex as an excuse. 

He’s just not entirely sure if he should try to do it again or not. 

Fortunately, Hollander makes the decision for him, glancing at him and then shifting slightly, like he’s making space for him, as if there isn’t plenty to either side of him for Ilya to claim instead. He doesn’t know if it’s a deliberate offer or just a reflexive show of manners, but he takes it at face value, settling down next to him again, close enough that their knees touch. 

Neither of them pulls away. 

“I cannot believe you actually watch this,” Ilya says. “Buying real estate is not enough for you? You have to watch other people do it on television?” 

“It’s good!” Hollander protests. “It’s interesting. And it’s also cool to see different real estate markets in-” 

Ilya holds up his hand and makes talking puppet motions, grinning when he gets an elbow to the stomach for it, Hollander ending his pitch for the wonders of HGTV programming and shaking his head in apparent disgust for Ilya’s lack of appreciation for real estate television. The motion leaves Hollander leaning towards him, just slightly, and Ilya holds very still deliberately, especially when Hollander settles back against the couch, tipping even more to the side. He watches with brief, sidelong glances as Hollander’s eyes clearly get heavier, Hollander rousing himself now and then with a deeper breath like he’s trying to power through but succumbing again soon enough. 

If the aim was staying awake, Ilya thinks, amused, then he really should have reconsidered what he wanted to watch when Ilya handed him the remote. 

“You want to go to bed?” He asks, softly, but the question is enough to push Hollander back to awareness after a blink lasted a couple of seconds too long. 

“No, no,” he says, and Ilya resists the urge to smile at how determined he sounds. “I’m good.” 

Ilya chooses not to contradict him. 

He does, however, start slowly shifting himself closer, the movement of weight on the couch cushion slowly toppling Hollander towards him, centimeter by centimeter. He practically holds his breath when Hollander’s cheek first makes contact with his shoulder, but despite his assurances to the contrary, it would seem Michael and Jennifer’s search for a five bedroom seven bath mansion that’s also a treehouse that’s also next to a beach but also a mountain has not been engaging enough to anchor him to being awake. He exhales and nuzzles his cheek a bit the way he does after sex when he’s relaxed and not back in his body yet, and the familiar little quirk makes Ilya smile slightly, resting his head on top of Hollander’s. 

Naturally he has to get greedy in trying to slip an arm behind him and ruin the whole thing. 

“Hm?” Hollander says, more noise than word, picking his head up slightly and blinking blearily. 

“Sh,” Ilya says, already cursing himself for trying to take more when he already had something good. 

(And isn’t that the repeating theme of this entire fucking day?)

“Oh, fuck,” Hollander says, apparently realizing he’s been using him as a pillow. “Sorry, I didn’t-” 

“Is fine,” Ilya says, slipping his arm around him completely now and using his hand to gently press his head back down. “I don’t mind.” 

“Hmm,” Hollander says, settling down again. He yawns, nuzzles once with his cheek again, and then apparently drops off once more. 

Ilya is painfully still for a few moments more to make sure he stays that way this time. 

When he’s certain Hollander is out in a way that won’t be so easy to surface from, he shifts slightly, getting comfortable. It’s new, holding Hollander like this vertically, but it feels natural in a way that makes it easy to settle into. 

It feels natural in a way that he knows makes it dangerous to settle into. 

This is greedy and bad of him, maybe, enjoying this, liking getting to hold Hollander outside of sex when he knows that’s not supposed to be part of this. There’s an understanding between them, that any shared bed operates under Vegas rules. What happens there stays there, and in the before and after, they choose to adopt a mutual amnesia about any slips that might have happened, any kisses that might go a little too sweet, any touches that might not just be for sexual gratification, any afterglow recovery that slips past catching their breath and into cuddling. It’s supposed to be fucking, plain and simple. 

On his shoulder, Hollander makes a quiet, content noise in his sleep, and the way it makes Ilya feel is a damning indictment that this has gone far beyond fucking, plain and simple. 

He hadn’t let himself wonder why he wanted today to break their pattern, hadn’t let himself wonder why he spent time going through Hollander’s past interviews for any hints about food he likes or wracking his brain in the soda aisle trying to remember if Hollander likes ginger ale in general or only a specific brand or why he’d paid for an extra visit from his cleaning company the day before, like he was trying to impress someone new and not just offer a convenient place to fuck to someone he’s been doing it with for years. 

He’s wondered, sometimes, if Hollander wonders why they’ve never fucked at his house before, if he has theories or questions or assumptions or if his only concern was just getting an address in a text message, AirBnBs picked close to wherever Hollander was staying under the flimsy excuse of making it more convenient for him and not about Ilya keeping him out of his house even after being to Hollander’s repeatedly. 

He’s not even sure he could put it in words, really, why he’s so protective of who gets to come to his house or not, why he lets friends come visit and party and hang out but rarely brings anyone back here if he’s hooking up with a stranger. It’s not like he’d grown up with home being some sacred, safe place, after all. With his father’s career and political ambitions, their house had been a revolving door of visitors. He’d grown up with the understanding of living in a showroom, of keeping things neat and pristine and perfect, of never daring to do something like leave a coloring book or a toy out because something about the idea that people lived in the setting of his father’s stage was apparently abhorrent. Everything and everyone had a place, and adherence to this understanding was enforced rigorously and ruthlessly. 

It’s probably the reason why one of the first things he did when he got his own house was to throw a jacket over the back of a kitchen chair and leave it there for days, feeling a stupid, irrational little thrill each time he passed by to see something out of place that no one would say anything about because it was only him here to see it, here in this house where the only rules are the ones he makes. 

He tries very hard not to think about what it says about him as a person that he waited to buy a house at all until he could be sure that his father would never have any interest in visiting it, that he’d never bothered trying to create something that could be home instead of just a house until he had been safe in the knowledge that his father would never be inside it.

As if sensing Ilya’s thoughts about his failures as a son, his phone lights up with a call from his father, and he hisses a curse under his breath. Knowing it’s just another indictment against him, he lets it ring and then go to voicemail, but when a call comes through again immediately, he knows he has to take it. He starts to get up, but Hollander makes a soft noise of protest without rousing-

-and wraps his arms around Ilya’s waist with a force someone newly out of a hospital really shouldn’t be capable of, especially asleep. 

And fucking yet. 

He pauses, core engaged in his half-way rise, torn between obligations and ethical algebra. Hollander needs his rest and is sleeping peacefully, and he also can’t overhear or ask questions about any phone calls Ilya might be taking if he stays asleep. It’s rude, probably, to take a call right next to someone, but if he’s quiet, if he forces himself to keep in mind that there’s someone sleeping next to him…

He swipes to answer before he can let himself think about it further, knowing that his father having to call again will only make it worse for him when he answers. 

“Hello.” 

*

Shane wakes from a dream about blue eyes and warm hands and also maybe something with fucking on center ice to register sensation under his head, a foreign kind of vibration happening in his pillow that makes him frown, eyes still closed. 

Then he registers sound enough to realize that his pillow is actually a shoulder. 

He glances up. 

Rozanov doesn’t notice, engrossed in a phone call, eyes shut tight. His left arm is around Shane, hand on his thigh, squeezing in a way that would probably be hot if Shane didn’t get the distinct impression that he was currently being unthinkingly used like a stress toy. 

He can’t really catch any words that are being said that he understands, but Rozanov sounds stressed in the way he was earlier, and he catches “papa” more than once as a clue about who’s on the other end of the line. He wishes he knew more about Rozanov’s home life and family, not for the first time. They don’t talk about personal things, really–Rozanov always shut him down in the past, so Shane eventually took the hint and stopped asking–but he gets the sense that Rozanov’s is difficult. Shane knows by now that he doesn’t go home for holidays, and on the few times they’ve brushed around the topic, Rozanov hasn’t seemed that bothered by it. 

In contrast, he’d been strangely interested in Shane’s Christmas card from his Aunt Morgan the time he’d come over and seen it on his fridge, there as a reminder to call and thank her so his mom wouldn’t fuss at him for forgetting. Rozanov had seemed strangely…sad, almost, looking at the faces in the picture, and Shane had wondered things he didn’t ask. It had been a picture from the last family reunion, all of them in matching t-shirts that he’d tried and failed to argue his way out of participating in. Rozanov had teased him about it because of course he had, but he’d also asked questions, gotten people’s names, listened to Shane’s anecdote about the time he and his cousin Brad had gotten locked in their grandmother’s cellar and started writing out wills in the dirt because they’d been so convinced no one was going to find them in there. Rozanov had laughed at him and Shane had let him, but he’d also noticed something almost wistful in Rozanov’s face, like he had stories of his own he was thinking about. Shane had waited to see if he would share them, but he hadn’t. 

He’d just put the Christmas card back on the fridge as carefully as if it was made of glass and not paper. 

“-nyet, papa, Polina-” 

Even without an understanding of the words, he can tell Rozanov is trying to be gentle in this conversation, but that gentleness has a strained edge to it that says his audience isn’t making it easy for him. He pulls the phone from his ear for a second, knocking the corner of it against his head briefly in what looks like a gesture of frustration, and Shane’s fingers twitch with the strange urge to pull it away before he hurts himself, to link his fingers with his own and let Rozanov squeeze his hand instead. 

He resists. 

“-medsestra? Kakaya medsestra?” Rozanov opens his eyes, but he’s looking to the ceiling now, like it’ll offer answers for whatever he’s confused about. When he listens, his jaw is clenched in a way that looks like it hurts, muscles tight. Shane’s never seen him like this before, this…stressed, maybe? He’s seen him in the heat of a match, obviously, which means he’s seen Rozanov tired and annoyed and in a bad mood, but there’s a quality to how he looks now that just makes Shane feel oddly protective of him, makes him wish he understood Russian because then maybe he might have something to offer to help. Rozanov closes his eyes tightly when he starts talking again, which means Shane remains unobserved in his observation. 

Rozanov’s hand squeezes at his thigh harder, and Shane can’t help but smile, just slightly, at what seems like a confirmation that he is indeed being used as a stress toy whether Rozanov is aware of doing it or not. He doesn’t protest. He used Rozanov like a pillow, after all, and if he can’t offer any help with whatever has Rozanov so frustrated right now, he can at least offer his thigh up for service. He feels a way he knows he shouldn’t when Rozanov’s hold loosens and his fingers rub over the area absently, gently, soothing as unthinkingly as he was squeezing. He’s good at that, Shane reflects, making him feel better about things. 

It’s one of the things that makes this thing between them dangerous, after all: how easily Rozanov can make him feel better about things. 

It always makes things simpler, hearing them from Rozanov, having someone cut through the TV static of his spiraling and go, “it’s not as bad as you’re telling yourself it is right now.” It’s overly simple, maybe, but it’s usually true, even all the way back to their second hookup together, when all it took was Rozanov jerking the leash on his spinning-out thoughts by kissing him and then saying, “it’s just a plan to fuck.” Easy. Simple. Delivered with a confidence that made it hard to believe it wouldn’t be exactly like Rozanov said. 

It’s part of what makes it such a relief to let Rozanov take the lead in bed, as ashamed as he usually is afterwards of being pliant and biddable even when he goes in with the goal of finally offering some pushback to being bossed around. It’s not that he thinks Rozanov would ever do something he won’t immediately love in a way that’s going to get him indulgently teased for his eagerness, but outside of the moment, it feels like he should be taking charge more, pushing back against the impulse to obey, to let Rozanov set up the guardrails for him, to tell him exactly what to do and then to tell him he’s doing it well, that he’s good, that he’s perfect, that he’s-

Realizing that his thoughts are leading in a direction that feels awkward when the person involved in them is currently talking to his dad on the phone, Shane cuts them off. 

“-da,” Rozanov says, hand squeezing Shane’s thigh and releasing again. “Khorosho, papa. Da.” 

Shane does know that da means yes at this point–primarily because of how many times he’s heard some variation of “da, Hollander, fuck, yes, like that,” which he deliberately does not pursue further as a thought at this time–and the tone says the phonecall is likely coming to an end. Rozanov seems stressed, still, but he goes a little less tense with an end in sight. He keeps nodding along to whatever’s being said to him, peppering in yes in a way that reminds Shane of himself when he’s on the phone with his mom and desperate to not be anymore, throwing a yes at anything said in the hopes that it’ll expedite getting to hang up already. He wonders if he should play at being asleep again, if Rozanov would prefer if his call wasn’t overheard even by someone who can’t actually understand it. Before he can come to a decision, though, the call ends, Rozanov’s hand dropping down with it like what he’s holding is far heavier than a cellphone. 

Naturally, because it’s just his luck, his eyes immediately find Shane’s. 

“I woke you?” He asks, sounding tired and resigned. 

Technically, yes, kind of, but it feels rude to say, so Shane just shrugs, sitting up and hoping there isn’t drool or something on his face from falling asleep without meaning to. 

“Everything okay at home?” He asks. “That’s the second time today your dad called, isn’t it?” 

“You are keeping count?” Rozanov asks, and there’s a snap to his voice that he immediately grimaces at, gently pulling his arm from around from Shane, scrubbing both hands over his face before he sits back and drops them to his lap, looking tired in a way that doesn’t seem like it can be fixed by something as easy as going to bed. “I am sorry. That was not nice. I am just…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, just exhales. 

Completely on impulse, Shane shifts until he can rest his knee over Rozanov’s thigh, a tiny little offer of connection if he wants it. Rozanov’s eyes dart down to it, but he doesn’t protest, and after a moment, he rests his hand over it, thumb rubbing at the side. 

“You can talk to me, if you want,” Shane says. Rozanov’s eyes flick up to him. “I got anaphylaxis. You can get talking about family stuff if you want. I feel like that’s probably even.” 

Rozanov snorts, rubbing at his eyes. 

“My father is sick,” he says before lowering his hand again, his other still on Shane’s knee. 

“Sick like…has to be in a hospital?” Shane says on a guess, trying to fill in blanks so Rozanov won’t have to. 

“He should be, probably,” Rozanov says. “Maybe. Or something like a hospital. He has dementia. It makes him confused and then upset because he is confused. He gets afraid, sometimes, when he does not recognize things or people. My brother-” He pauses, shakes his head, once. “My brother is supposed to take care of him, but he has tried to hire someone else, I think? Maybe? My father said there was a stranger in the house who said she is a nurse. He thought she was lying and trying to rob him or something.” 

“Is he okay now?” Shane asks, trying to figure out what to even say here, trying to find the line where he can offer support without tipping over into being annoying or overstepping. 

“I think so, maybe,” Rozanov says. “The nurse left. My brother is supposed to be there, but I don’t know where the fuck he is, and he does not answer his fucking phone or-” Rozanov cuts himself off. “I wish I could be there, to take care of him. I am in the summer, but then-then I am here.” It sounds like a crime with the way he says it. “I am a terrible son, I think.” He attempts a laugh, a little huff of air, but it sounds more painful than anything else. 

“I think if you were a terrible son, you wouldn’t actually give a fuck about if you were a terrible son or not,” Shane observes, because it’s true. 

Rozanov glances at him from the corner of his eye, not turning to face him. 

“Your brother’s the one who’s there. You’re in a whole different country. Why the fuck are you the one having to figure things out? You’re not even in the same timezone.” It’s maybe unfair to Rozanov’s brother to try to shift all the blame over to him, but he’s also pulled whatever he’s pulled that’s left Rozanov frustrated and guilty-looking. Rozanov might be an asshole, but Shane knows he’s not someone who shirks his responsibilities or who doesn’t give a fuck about people. 

Hell, he just spent literal hours in a hospital with Shane today, and it’s not like they’re even on the same team. 

“Anaphylaxis and then napping has made you a lawyer?” Rozanov teases, but it’s weak. “Should I get you a gavel? Like the judges on television use?” 

“I’m trying to be nice to you, asshole,” Shane complains, but there’s no heat in it. “I’m being comforting.” 

“Needs work.” 

Shane smiles and moves to try and kick at Rozanov for the comment, but Rozanov catches his foot and pulls it across his lap, holding him captive. 

“I let you stay in my house with me and now you attack me?” Rozanov asks, and if the smile he has on is small, it at least looks real now. “Who raised you? I need to call them and tell them how badly they did.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane says. “You’re the one who invited me.” 

“Yes,” Rozanov says dryly. “My mistake.” He starts to say something else but then seems to catch himself, gently pushing Shane’s leg off of his lap and then stretching in an arch before looking back to him, arms dropping back down. “Some of us did not take a nap, and I am tired. You are ready for bed, or do you want to watch more boring people selling boring houses on-” 

Shane gives his answer in the form of hitting Rozanov in the face with a throw pillow. 

*

There’s an awkward kind of shuffle at the door to Ilya’s bedroom, a moment in which they both realize that they haven’t actually talked about whether Hollander will be sharing his bed with him or not. That had been the plan before, obviously, but then Hollander had fled in a way that may be related to an allergic reaction or may be related to not wanting what Ilya was offering. 

And Ilya isn’t quite brave enough to clarify which it is. 

“Do you want me to take a guest room?” Hollander asks. 

“You can if you want,” Ilya says, “but I don’t mind sharing. Up to you.” 

“I mean, it’s your house,” Hollander says, a response that gets them approximately nowhere in this conversation. 

Feeling the day fully settling over him now that it’s so close to ending, Ilya decides to cut through this impending game of “you” “no you” “no, I insist.” He looks right at Hollander. 

“I would like to share,” he says, barely resisting the urge to add a comment or a joke to add some armor to the admission. “If you do. It would be…nice, I think.” 

“Okay,” Hollander says. 

“Okay,” Ilya says back, nudging Hollander ahead of him through the door. 

*

Shane already took a shower when he got back to wash the hospital off of him, but he brushes his teeth and washes his face while Rozanov takes one. It feels strangely intimate, a naked Rozanov in the same room but not related to sex for once, especially when he’s doing his own routine to get ready for bed. It feels even stranger to smell his own body wash in the air here in this context. Apparently in his Googling in the hospital, Rozanov had stumbled across the fact that soap can have allergens in it, too, and decided to forego his usual body wash for the crime of having shea butter in it, instead ordering the one he’s seen in Shane’s shower before, which he’d cleared with him earlier. 

Shane feels more about that than he should, probably, the fact that Rozanov remembers what body wash he uses. 

Busy trying very hard not to feel stupid ways about fucking body wash of all things, he flips the lights off as he leaves the bathroom out of habit, realizing his mistake even before Rozanov lets out a wordless noise of protest, flipping them back on immediately. 

“Sorry!” He says, Rozanov poking his head around the shower door to glare at him. “Habit. Sorry.” 

“First you try to die in my house, and now you start turning lights off on me? You are a terrible houseguest, Hollander.” 

This time Shane turns the lights off on purpose. 

*

Despite his initial reservations about getting physical when Hollander was in the hospital only a few hours earlier, it would take a stronger man than him to resist Shane Hollander in his bed and horny. 

They don’t get wild, but it’s still good sex because it’s always good with Hollander. He keeps Hollander on his back, rocking into him deep and steady, focusing on getting the angle just right to drive him up and over the edge. He knows that about him by now, knows where he likes to be kissed and touched and stroked and-

Hollander makes a criminally beautiful noise as he comes, and Ilya noses at his jaw, inhaling and pressing soft kisses on soft skin. He smiles at the pressure Hollander applies in his legs wrapped around his waist, like he’s forcing Ilya to stay in place until he’s ridden out his pleasure. 

As if Ilya would ever even think about leaving. 

“Good,” he breathes against Hollander’s ear, eliciting a little shiver. He presses his smile to the hinge of his jaw, pleased at pleasing. “Always so good.” 

The noise it draws out of Hollander is enough to send him into his own climax, and he gets an arm beneath Hollander’s lower back, holding him tight as he shudders through his own release. He catches himself on an elbow before he fully collapses on top of him, their chests touching briefly with each heavy inhale and exhale as they catch their breath. He knows he likes the weight, actually, likes the pressure of Ilya on top of him, but Hollander struggling to breathe is a little too fresh in his memory to compromise his lungs right now. He makes a questioning noise at clumsy fingers pressing at his jaw, but he heeds the silent instruction, turning obediently until Hollander can claim the kiss he was apparently seeking. 

They stay like that for a long time, trading slow, sweet, sleepy kisses until the way Hollander’s stomach keeps flexing says the mess is starting to bother him. 

Ilya smiles into the last kiss he offers before he pulls back, pressing Hollander back down when he gets up to follow. He’s never admitted it, but he likes this part of sex almost an embarrassing amount, likes stroking a cloth over Hollander’s skin and putting him back together after taking him apart. He hasn’t driven Hollander fuck-drunk enough tonight that he’ll let Ilya clean him up without protest, so he offers him a warm washcloth to wipe his stomach off with before taking it back, tossing it into the laundry basket and trying not to think about how pleased he is to see Hollander’s clothes in it mingled with his. 

He makes himself turn around and leave before he can get emotional about fucking laundry of all things. 

It doesn’t help pop the little bubble of stupid warmth in his chest when he sees Hollander already curled up on his side in bed, but he decides to let himself indulge in it. He slips under the sheets and then hesitates, just briefly, tempted by something he should probably resist. He’d gotten to hold Hollander during his nap, earlier, but that had been after he had worn him out earlier, until he was soft and sweet and floppy. Hollander looks content now, and almost asleep, but he doesn’t know if Hollander will consider being held while he sleeps at night too far past being held while he naps during the day. It seems like a rule he would spin to life out of nothing in that fascinating head of his. 

But Ilya wouldn’t say he’s necessarily the best at resisting tempting things. 

He curls up behind him carefully, slowly, ready to move away if Hollander wants it. Hollander, though, just shifts to settle, back against his chest, letting out a deep, tired yawn. Ilya tucks an arm around him, even daring to rest his head on the pillow behind his, strands of hair brushing against his nose. 

“Okay?” He asks softly, not sure he’ll survive being told no. 

“Mhm,” Hollander hums, yawning again. “Thank you for letting me stay. This is better than a hotel.” 

As praise goes, it’s mild, but that doesn’t keep it from going right to his head. 

“Oh?” He asks, far more delighted than he should be at being judged better than a hotel. “I have impressed you, Hollander? I am better than Holiday Inn?” 

“You can call me Shane if you want,” Hollander says, and he blinks, thrown and a little suspicious at the offer of something that likely contributed to Hollander running like his life was on the line earlier. Hollander shifts enough to give him a faint, tired smile over his shoulder, apparently feeling Ilya pull back some, and shrugs slightly. “I mean, today was kind of a lot. You probably unlocked first name status in there somewhere.” 

Ilya huffs a laugh, unable to help it. 

“How generous. You have to call me Mr. Rozanov now, though, for being stupid and not telling me about your allergies until I almost killed you.” 

“Not happening,” Hol-Shane says with a challenging look in his tired eyes. “Ilya.” 

Ilya would really like to say that it does nothing for him, the shape of his name in Shane’s mouth, but that would also make him a dirty fucking liar. 

“You scared me,” he admits before he knows he’s going to, but he doesn’t take it back. It’s hitting him now, with Shane in his arms, that there was a version of today that ended with him in a bed by himself. 

And Shane Hollander in a morgue. 

“I’m okay,” Shane says, turning over but not pulling away, remaining under Ilya’s arm. Ilya settles his palm between his shoulderblades. “Seriously, I know it looks scary, but I’ve been doing this shit since I was a kid. I’m used to it.” 

That makes Ilya’s chest ache, actually, the idea of a smaller Shane gasping for breath and having to stab a needle into his thigh. Little wonder that his mother goes with him so many places, honestly. He only had to watch it happen one time, and he still hasn’t let him out of his sight all day after. 

He sends a silent apology to Yuna Hollander for his previous judgement of her hovering. 

“How does your team handle it?” Ilya asks, mind automatically trying to work out how he’d accommodate it on his own team. He’d probably make sure he always knew where they carried their epinephrine, just in case. There’s no chance that the medical staff doesn’t have some in stock, but for outside of games, barbecues and bars, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to know where it is just in ca-

“They don’t,” Shane says. At Ilya’s look of confusion, he elaborates. “Hayden knows–one of his kids was trying to help his wife make dinner one night and accidentally got some peanuts in the chili meant for me–but he’s the only one. He knows where I keep my Auvi-Q in my bag on the road, and he and Jackie keep my food in the kitchen when they put stuff out for everyone else.” 

“What about at restaurants?” Ilya asks. “They don’t notice you asking about ingredients?” 

Shane shrugs. 

“I don’t really eat with the team, honestly. If it’s something like a chain restaurant where they list stuff out, then yeah, sometimes, but I usually just eat at home and then have a ginger ale or something with everyone else.” 

“You don’t get to eat with everyone?” Ilya asks. He’s not even sure why it bothers him so much, honestly, the idea of Shane having to sit in the middle of a group of people eating while not being allowed to join them, but it does. It seems like ostracizing, kind of, like Shane not getting to belong with everyone else. 

It seems lonely. 

“It’s fine,” Shane says, and the resignation of it just makes Ilya feel worse. “I’m used to it.” He makes an amused noise. “Back in school, I had to sit at a totally different table to make sure there wouldn’t be any peanuts.” He makes a wry face. “Take a wild fucking guess about exactly how many kids wanted to sit at the weird allergy table.” 

Ilya wonders, distantly, if this is a deliberate attempt to break his heart. 

“I’ll sit with you,” he offers, and it comes out a joke even if it’s not. 

“At our many shared dinners?” Shane asks, sounding amused. “That’s a big promise. We have them every Tuesday. You don’t want to keep your options open?” 

“I like my options,” Ilya teases, giving Shane’s ass a playful squeeze before returning his hand to its place at his back. He rubs his thumb across a vertebrae, hesitating about what he wants to say. The thought of a tiny Shane Hollander at a table all by himself, though, gives him the little push he needs to say it. “We could eat together more, if you want.” 

“Huh?” Shane asks, clearly thrown. 

“We could do more than sex, maybe. Eat together after, maybe watch movies or something. Just…hang out. The two of us.” 

Shane goes very still in a way that isn’t making Ilya very optimistic about the answer he’s about to get. 

“I have your list now,” he says, throwing things blindly in the hope that one of them will be something that Shane wants. 

That he can be something that Shane wants. 

“I know what to make you.” 

“You…want to cook for me?” Shane asks, like he’s been presented with a puzzle or a trick. 

Young Shane Hollander at a table by himself, eating alone because no one else wanted to join him. In a moment of true stupid fantasy, Ilya lets himself imagine being dropped into the situation at the same age, a young him dropping a tray next to Shane, sitting next to him to talk hockey and comics and video games. They wouldn’t have had to be rivals then. It wouldn’t have been expected of them. They could just be two kids who like each other. 

They might even have grown into men who might be able to love each other. 

The thought makes him reflexively flinch away internally. As soon as he’s thought it, he knows it’s the right word for what he feels for Shane, knows it has been for long enough that even thinking about it only in his head is embarrassing.

He wonders, knowing he shouldn't, whether he’s alone in it or not, whether Shane might even like him back, if he at least might be on the path towards loving. It can’t end anywhere for them, of course it can’t, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting it. Even despite the hospital intermission, this has been one of the best days he’s had recently, this little bubble of him and Shane. He wants more. 

He wants more so much that it scares him a little bit. 

*

“Do…you want that?” Shane asks carefully, trying desperately to read Ilya’s expression. “Hanging out more?” 

“Yes,” Ilya answers, and Shane can’t help the little flicker of warmth that goes through him. It feels good, being wanted. 

It feels especially good being wanted by Ilya Rozanov. 

His delight takes a bit of a hit when he thinks about their conversation earlier, about all of the girls Ilya has been with. He wonders, suddenly, if Ilya’s easy adaptation to his allergies is from practice, if his roster is wide enough that he’s got a whole little collection of other people with food allergies. 

It makes Shane feel a wildly stupid kind of jealousy, the idea of Ilya banishing his peanut butter for someone else. 

“That won’t cut into your time with all your girls?” He asks, barely resisting the urge to wince when it comes out defensive and accusing. 

Ilya, though, just looks surprised, and then a little amused. 

“I’d rather spend time with you,” Ilya says. 

The admission makes Shane feel a kind of fluster he doesn’t know what to do with, and he very nearly gives into the impulse to shove a pillow over Ilya’s face to get a break from the way he’s looking at him, fond in a way that makes Shane want to want dangerous, impossible things. This isn’t what they are. They’re fuckbuddies, that’s all. That’s all Shane’s let himself think of them as, ever since that first time when getting greedy with enjoying the afterglow had sent Ilya running and then ghosting him for six months. He’s been careful since then, to keep his longing manageable, easy to carry, not a burden when it lands on someone else. 

Ilya saying things like this now isn’t really helping him in that effort. 

“Spending time together doesn’t sound very casual,” he says, because he needs to. He needs to hand Ilya the stick with which to draw a line in the sand. He doesn’t trust himself to do it, doesn’t trust himself not to get greedy and stupid and lose everything by wanting something. This is why he’d been unsettled earlier, too tempted by it being enjoyable, acting like something beyond fuckbuddies, too tempted by the prospect of more days like this, snuggling together in bed and eating food and curling up together to sleep, too tempted by Ilya Rozanov suddenly acting like he’s his fucking boyfr-

“Maybe we aren’t casual,” Ilya says, and Shane’s gaze snaps up to him. He feels Rozanov’s thumb move to rub against his pointer finger, a little fidget he’s noticed before. “Maybe. A little.” 

“You don’t think we’re casual?” Shane asks, keeping his tone neutral only with an effort that’s almost ridiculous. 

Ilya starts to inhale to say something, pauses, and then moves his hand from Shane’s back. Shane opens his mouth to apologize, to take everything back, to find something to say to stop himself from ruining this wi-

Ilya’s hand comes to rest against his face, thumb stroking over his cheekbone lightly, his eyes focusing on the movement. 

“I think it is…maybe not so casual for me,” Ilya says softly. 

Shane only realizes he stopped breathing when he feels his chest going a little tight. 

“Is it the same for you?” Ilya asks. “Maybe?” 

“And what if it wasn’t casual?” Shane asks, feeling the kind of giddy he gets standing at the top of something very tall. “Between us?” 

“Then…” Ilya says, hand slipping back to smooth over his hair before tracing down to rest against the back of his skull. “Then maybe we try being…not casual. Together.” 

“I mean,” Shane says, feeling a little bit like he’s done about three shots of alcohol in quick succession, “you have now gone to the hospital with me. I’m pretty sure that’s one step up from casual.” 

Ilya laughs, and Shane smiles, settling a bit more into his pillow. 

“You also almost threw up in front of me,” Ilya says, faux-thoughtful, and Shane groans, which just makes him grin, because Ilya Rozanov is the most annoying person in the fucking world. “This is very not casual, I think. It-” 

“I take it back,” Shane says. “We’re going back to acquaintances because you’re an asshole. We’re doing nametags and weird conversations where we try to remember where the fuck we met before.”

“Is this how most friendships go for you?” Ilya teases. 

“No, okay,” Shane says, pulling back and yanking his pillow free completely, making Ilya’s head drop to the mattress. “No acquaintances. I’ve never met you, and I don’t want to meet you. Knowing each other over. Go fuck yourself.” 

It gets him a smile for a moment, but then Ilya’s expression goes a little sadder. Shane pauses from where he was about to try and yank the covers over to take sole custody of them. 

“Is this what you wanted earlier?” Ilya asks, and there’s an edge of something Shane can’t read in his voice. “When you pulled away? Not knowing each other anymore?” 

“I…” Shane starts. He doesn’t even know, honestly, doesn’t know if he can put into words exactly why he felt like he had to cut things short. It had felt dangerous, sinking into something that felt so good, something that would feel so comfortable to settle into. 

Something that would hurt so badly if it was taken away. 

“You’re kind of confusing sometimes,” Shane says, unable to help smiling, just slightly, when Ilya looks immediately offended. “I don’t know what the rules are with you and me. You change them all the time.” It comes out more accusing than he meant it, but if they’re going to have this talk, they might as well go for it. 

After all, he’s not the one who has a game to play tomorrow that might be impacted if they stay up too late the way they already kind of are. 

“Sometimes you want to stay and talk with me, sometimes you barely even fucking look at me after, sometimes you text me a lot and sometimes you just don’t answer at all, sometimes you kiss me the whole time and sometimes you just want to fuck me from behind and not even lay down after. It’s-” He cuts himself off. “And then you do stuff like today, and I don’t know if it’s going to be something we do from now on, or if you’re going to do this and next time not even bother to text me after the game.” 

Ilya is quiet for a few moments, thoughtful, and Shane tries not to fidget while he waits. If he opens his mouth to say something, he’s afraid more embarrassing things will pour out, and he’s dug himself deep enough at this point. 

“I am not used to things like this,” Ilya says at last, and Shane tilts his head in question, not sure what the “this” is. “Seeing someone over and over like with you.” 

Shane feels a stupid amount of thrill at the idea of being unique among Ilya’s hookups, even though the feeling is embarrassing even in the safety of his own head. 

“I am…not good at it, maybe.” 

Shane doesn’t say anything, but Ilya must read something in his expression, because he rolls his eyes but smiles slightly. 

“Yeah, okay, I am not good at it. Happy?” 

“I mean, I would even say you’re bad at-” 

“Okay, Hollander, don’t fucking push it. I still know where my peanut butter is and where your toothbrush is, and none of your team knows where you are. Don’t fucking test me. The harbor is a good place to dump a body.” 

Shane laughs. It’s a relief, honestly, to get to joke about this. He’s always hated when people treat him like he’s fragile suddenly as soon as they know about his allergies, like he’s some dainty little invalid they pity. It’s not even always intentional, really, but he’s heard people even change their voices when they speak to him, talking him through what options he can have at a family reunion with their voices pitched up like they’re speaking to a small child. 

Ilya being a playful dick about it feels far, far better. 

(Most things with Ilya do.)

*

“So what does it look like?” Shane asks. “Being not casual?” 

“We have to decide all of this right now?” Ilya teases. “You are just out of a hospital today, Hollander, you cannot take a day off?” 

Shane punches him lightly. 

“Maybe it looks like…when we have time, we spend it together. I come to your house, you come to mine. We still fuck, obviously-” 

“Obviously.” 

“-but maybe we do other things, too. Eat together and stay over when we can. Watch horrible boring real estate shows because you are the most-” 

“Really getting less interested in not casual by the fucking second here, dude.” 

“It is like-” Ilya hesitates, just for a moment, but at this point, he’s already gotten this far. “-being friends, maybe. Kind of.” 

If they ever progress past tonight, he’s really going to have to have a talk with Shane about going so fucking still after he says things. It’s really not the most confidence-building response to things he already has to work up the nerve to say. 

“You…want to be friends with each other?” Shane asks, and even worse than the freezing is the neutral tone he’s using right now. He’s not suddenly launching himself to his feet and making a run for it, which is promising, but it’s not exactly warm, open approval, either. 

“I think so,” he says. “It could be fun, maybe…” He trails off with a shrug, not actually bold enough to expand on the thought when Shane is giving him so little to work with. 

“You want to be, like, friends with benefits?” Shane asks.

“Maybe,” Ilya says, a little tired of repeating the word but also treading an extremely terrifying line here. “Maybe something more than friends, a little bit.” 

“You want that?” Shane asks. 

“Believe me,” Ilya says dryly, unable to resist. “No one is more surprised than me.” 

“Asshole,” Shane says, shoving him but not pulling away. “It would be really, really fucking complicated, us…being more than friends. It’s already hard enough when it’s just fucking.” 

“So you don’t want to?” Ilya asks, telling himself firmly that he isn’t going to be hurt about it. 

“I didn’t say that.” 

*

Shane would by lying if he said there isn’t a very insistent part of him telling him it’s time to get the fuck out of here, to pack it up and flee. Being fuckbuddies with Rozanov is already a nightmare with logistics and secrets and the constant, underlying threat of being found out and the way it almost certainly would nuke their careers, to say nothing of how things might end up with Rozanov given the Russia of it all. He should say no. He knows he should. The part of him that exists with Rozanov isn’t a part of him that can exist anywhere else. There isn’t space for it. 

And yet he wants to make space for it. 

It’s the reason he needed to run earlier, the reason he couldn’t let himself sit in the thing Rozanov made today into. This whole thing was easier when he could tell himself that it couldn’t be anything more than sex, that anything beyond what they can do to each other’s bodies given thirty minutes and a little privacy would be awkward or annoying, that Rozanov is a good fuck but that’s it. 

But Rozanov seems hazardously good at being more than a good fuck. 

“No one knows I like guys,” Shane says, and he can’t help the way his stomach clenches a bit when it’s out in the open. It’s the first time he’s actually said it out loud, the first time he’s actually committed to acknowledging it. 

It kind of figures that Rozanov would end up with yet another first of his, he thinks a little wryly. 

“No one?” Ilya asks, sounding almost surprised. 

“What?” Shane asks, a little annoyed at the doubt. “You start every game by announcing that you fuck guys in your locker room or something?” 

“No,” Ilya says, pressing his fingers into Shane’s back hard for a second in punishment for the sass. “But Svetlana–she is my friend here in Boston, from Russia–and my coach’s son, they both know.” 

“Must be nice,” Shane says, and it comes out more wistful than he meant for it to. He’d meant it to be goading, residually a little annoyed at Svetlana Friend From Russia Who I Fuck Sometimes coming back into the conversation, but it does sound nice, people getting to know something true about him, getting to have people he can trust enough to let them hold that secret. 

Meanwhile Shane still debates on every ad campaign set who even needs to know he can’t be around peanuts. 

The secrecy is important, and he knows it, but it doesn’t make it any less heavy. 

“Well,” Ilya says, thumb moving back and forth over his spine slowly, “now I know. This is something, yes?” 

Shane tucks his cheek a little tighter into his pillow, feeling absurdly shy. 

“Yeah.” 

When Ilya tugs him in to curl themselves together again, he goes easily. 

He falls asleep to the sound of Ilya’s heartbeat beneath his ear. 

*

Crushing Montreal isn’t nearly as fun when Shane isn’t there to make it a challenge, and so Ilya doesn’t bother to linger afterwards. He does his usual post-game routine of checking in with his team, patting backs, pulling anyone back from a spiral who looks like they might need it, knocking anyone down a few pegs if they’re getting cocky in a way that’s annoying, but he doesn’t linger to chat or make plans to get a beer after. 

Either fortunately–or maybe unfortunately, given how much it challenges him to keep his expression unreadable–there is at least a hot piece of gossip circling around that offers him a shelter from any questions about his uncharacteristic eagerness to not go out to celebrate a decisive win. 

“-llander out, do you think?” Marlowe asks. 

Ilya just shrugs, struggling into his undershirt when it wants to stick to his still-damp skin, a hazard of how quick he tried to be in drying off for the sake of getting out of here faster, an eagerness he’s paying for now. 

“Heard he was sick,” a rookie chimes in. 

“Food poisoning, maybe?” St-Simon offers. He grins and bumps shoulders with Ilya teasingly. “Cap, did you finally snap and poison the guy?” 

It’s accidentally close to the truth in a way that’s more than a little uncomfortable. 

“I do not need to poison Hollander,” he says, shrugging into his button-down. “He is not good enough to bother assassinating him.” 

It gets him the expected laugh from the guys around him, but it feels…bad, in a way, the idea that people would even joke about him hurting Shane like that. He knows it’s not serious, knows that at least his team knows him well enough to understand that he wouldn’t no matter what his reputation in the league might have people think, but he hates that their rivalry has pushed them into this, backed them both into a corner that has them playing at hating each other around other people even though Ilya is pretty sure he lov-

He shuts the thought down cold, not ready to acknowledge it and certainly not ready to acknowledge it in his fucking locker room. 

*

“How bad was it?” is Shane’s first question when he hears the door open and cranes his head over the back of the sofa until Ilya is in sight, looking unfairly good for someone he’s probably going to be mad at in about thirty seconds for saying something shitty about his team. 

“Not so bad,” Ilya says with a shrug, picking up Shane’s legs and then putting them over his lap after he sits down. It’s a strangely intimate way to sit, but Shane doesn’t pull away, oddly pleased by the gesture, by the casualness of Ilya moving him around like this. “Montreal lost, but this is not unusual for-” 

Shane uses the position to drive his heel into Rozanov’s ribs, earning a satisfying grunt for his efforts. 

“Dickhead,” he says, but it comes out fond. He has faith in his team to survive without him, obviously, but he knows that Rozanov on the ice without him there to meet him tips the favor to Boston in a way he doesn’t know if his own team can make up for, any more than Boston could if Rozanov wasn’t on the ice to face off with him. He’s felt more than slightly guilty all day at leaving them to play without him because of his own stupid mistakes, but he’d already made his peace with it about halfway through watching the game on the television, when watching Rozanov dominate his team so badly had finally made him wince and turn it off. He’d tried to be optimistic that they could rally in the latter half, but he’d already known that wasn’t likely to happen. 

“Is okay,” Ilya says with a squeeze to his ankle. “They were missing their best player.” The statement is strangely sweet, and Shane waits for the punchline. 

He doesn’t know if he’s pleased or confused when it doesn’t come. 

“You have eaten already?” Ilya asks. 

“No,” Shane says. “I was waiting for you.” He’d prevaricated on this choice for longer than he’ll ever admit to, honestly. Still drained from yesterday, he’d slept late today, not waking until the smell of breakfast had wafted to him all the way up in Ilya’s room. The sheets and comforter had been tucked around him in a way that had seemed deliberate, like Ilya had been making sure he wouldn’t get cold while he slept, and the sweetness of the gesture combined with finding his list of allergies now printed out and sitting on the counter while Ilya made breakfast had made him feel strangely wrong-footed and happy at the same time. They’d had an early-ish lunch in respect to Ilya needing to get to the game, and he rolled his eyes despite his amusement at the way Ilya had made a point of emphasizing using only a brand new loaf of bread that he’d apparently had delivered while Shane was still asleep along with some other groceries. 

Shane had had another sandwich before the game to tide him over, but poking around in Ilya’s pantry beyond that had felt like taking liberties he’s not entitled to, his and Ilya’s new understanding of trying out being friends-but-maybe-more-than-friends-a-little-bit notwithstanding. 

“Aw,” Ilya says, in a saccharine tone that’s immediately annoying. “You missed me, Hollander?” 

“Just trying to make sure you didn’t set up peanut booby traps anywhere,” Shane says dryly, making Ilya snort as he gently moves his legs off of his lap. “I can make-” He starts, sitting up. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Ilya says. “There is still food from yesterday. Leftovers okay?” 

Shane half-wants to say no just to see what’ll happen, but he resists, settling back on the couch and listening to the sounds of Ilya moving around in the kitchen. Again, that strange sense of intimacy, laying on the couch while Ilya heats up food for them. It’s not bad, necessarily, but it does seem hazardously…

Couple-y. 

It’s almost a blessing when his phone lights up with a call from his mom. He’s honestly surprised it took her this long. 

“Hi, mom.” 

“You were out tonight?” His mom asks with no lead-up. Shane looks up to the ceiling. 

“Hi, mom,” he says again, mostly because of how many times she’s scolded him for answering calls without saying hi first. 

“Hi, Shane,” his mom says pointedly. “You were out tonight?” 

“Yeah,” he says, glancing up at movement and finding Ilya returning, a plate in either hand. He pauses, tilting his head back towards the kitchen in a clear offer to let Shane have the room if he wants it. It’s oddly…sweet. He shakes his head with a small smile, pulling his legs up and nodding towards the spot in what he hopes reads as the invitation it is. Ilya takes it, settling down and putting both plates on the coffee table in front of him. “I had a reaction. Hang on just a sec, mom.” He mutes his phone and pulls it away from his ear. “You can go ahead and eat.” 

“I’ll wait,” Ilya says with a shrug, pulling out his phone. “Finish your call and we’ll eat together.” 

Shane feels strangely…pleased, by Ilya waiting until they can eat together, unnecessary as it is. He hits unmute and brings the phone back up to his ear. 

“Sorry, mom, had to answer someone.” 

“You had a reaction?” His mom asks, and he resists the urge to pull a face at his mom’s tone. It’s not like he doesn’t understand academically that having a kid with food allergies is more than a little scary, but the older he’s gotten, the more it’s rubbed at him, the over-protectiveness. “To a new thing?” 

“No,” he says, hesitating for a second before he extends his legs to rest his feet on Ilya’s lap again. Ilya doesn’t even look up from his phone, just lifts his arm until Shane’s settled and then rests it over his shins. Shane smiles a little at the ease of it. “Peanut reaction. I, uh, made some toast at the hotel’s breakfast.” He grimaces, unable to help it, knowing the lie is flimsy given how careful he usually is. “Guess someone had peanut butter around the bread or something.” 

“Shane,” his mom says, “you know better than that.” 

“Yeah, mom,” he says, a little annoyed now even if he’s the one who said it in the first place. “They just didn’t have the yogurt I like. I was just going to have some toast until I could get to a grocery store.” 

“You didn’t bring your protein bars with you?” His mom asks, and now he’s really regretting this whole story. Maybe he should have just said he discovered a new allergy to his mom doubting him. 

“I did,” he says. “I just didn’t want any of them.” It’s not even a lie, really. He’s been an athlete too long to not eat food just because he doesn’t like it, but it does get old, sometimes, getting stuck with chalky protein bars when the other guys get smoothies and eggs and breakfast sandwiches on the road because it’s as simple as walking into a building and paying for it instead of all the steps it would take Shane. It contributes to everyone just assuming that he adheres to a strict performance diet, and the praise for his diligence is easier to face than comments on the real reason he’s so careful with what he eats, but that doesn’t make the same two flavors of protein bar taste any better. 

Or have a mouthfeel that’s any less drywall-esque. 

“Do you want me to see if I can find you some different ones?” His mom asks, and he’s already tired at the idea of the process of elimination it would take even with his mom taking it on for him, something that he does not remotely want her to do. “I think that new brand that sent me an email the other day said something about no tree nuts-” 

At his feet, he catches Ilya watching him, an expression on his face that he can’t read, but when Shane half-lifts his phone in a question if he needs something, Ilya just shakes his head slightly, squeezing Shane’s ankle gently and looking back to his phone. Glancing at the food on the coffee table cooling while they both just sit here, he decides to wrap the conversation up. 

“It’s all good, mom,” he says, when she pauses for a moment to catch her breath. “Seriously. I was just being stupid. I’m fine with my protein bars.” And he is, most of the time. 

Or at least, he doesn’t really have a choice to not be, which is basically the same thing. 

“You’re okay now, though?” His mom asks, and the genuine concern in her voice drains the last little bit of annoyance in him. She’s been the one sitting next to him in a hospital too many times for him to not understand why she worries, after all. At home, his dad always came with them, but his mom was the one who went with him to away games as a kid and then as a teenager, when lack of options and having to gamble on someone saying something is safe has meant more than a few reactions ending in an ability to have opinions and rankings of North American hospitals that he’s pretty sure few other people can claim. 

As achievements go, he can’t say it’s one of his favorites. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m good. I’m staying in Boston for a couple of days, and then I’m probably going right back to Montreal. I should be good to go for our home game next week.” It’s still annoying, having to miss multiple games because of one fucking mistake, but it’s not like he can do much about that now. 

“Do you want me to drive down?” His mom offers at once, and he smiles, slightly, knowing she’d do it. 

“No, I’m good,” he says. “Just tired like usual. Listen, Hayden got me some dinner, so I’m going to eat and then go to bed, okay?” 

“Okay, sweetheart,” his mom says. “Feel better, okay? And let me know if you need anything. I can send groceries to the hotel or something.” 

“I will,” he says. “Love you.” 

“Love you, too.” 

He hangs up and drops the phone to the couch, sitting up in a crunch and reaching for the plates, handing one to Ilya and taking the other for himself, shoving a pillow behind his back so he’s a little more upright. 

“Sorry about that,” he says. “I was kind of hoping she wouldn’t find out or I would have called her earlier.” 

“Is fine,” Ilya says. “She is your mother. She probably worries.” 

“Hm,” Shane says, which is more of a lack of comment more than anything else, uninterested in talking about his mom worrying about him. 

“It has to suck on the road,” Ilya observes between bites. “Having to worry about food.” 

Shane shrugs, even though the honest answer is “Yeah, in a major fucking way, dude.” 

“I have protein bars for breakfast,” he says after swallowing. “And sometimes, a city’ll have a restaurant that’s good about allergies and I can get something from there. Otherwise it’s usually just stopping by a grocery store or getting a delivery of something. The team's nutritionist offered to have meals pre-prepped and sent along on roadies, but the logistics are a pain, and it's also kind of hard to explain being the only guy on the team getting hand-delivered meals on the road. I swear I owe sandwiches a thank you speech one day for my career.” 

It’s meant to be a joke, but Ilya doesn’t seem particularly amused by it. He nudges him with his foot. 

“It’s all good, dude,” he says. “It’s just life.” 

“Hm,” Ilya says, returning to his food. “Well, when you’re in Boston, you can eat here, at least, if you want.” 

Shane blinks. 

“I have your list now, so…” Ilya trails off with a shrug, reaching to turn the volume up on the television. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Shane says. “It’s kind of a pain.” 

“You forget we work with athletes who do all kinds of diets,” Ilya says, sounding amused. “At least I don’t have to explain to you why a professional athlete can’t live off of just watermelon.” 

Shane laughs. 

“No fucking way.” 

“Yes,” Ilya says, sounding tired even remembering it. “I swear the rookies get dumber every year.” 

“That’s mean,” Shane says fondly. “We had one who insisted on eating straight peanut butter before every game.” Even the memory exhausts him. “You can imagine how fun that was to try and work around, even with management making him keep his peanut butter in the breakroom and not bring it into the locker room with him. He threw a fit about it, but he had to listen, at least.” 

“Because your team doesn’t know about you,” Ilya says in a way that sounds like more of a judgement against his team than against him in a way that’s a little nice, honestly, even if Shane still feels the kneejerk urge to defend them. 

“It’s all good,” he says easily, tilting his plate to chase the last forkful. It is nice, honestly, getting to eat a safe, tasty meal on the road, not having to do the world’s shittiest mental math on exposure risk versus “if I have to eat one more mouthful of this goddamn protein bar, I’m actually going to lose my mind.” He scoops up the pasta but waits for a second before taking a bite. “He ended up getting hit in the stomach three minutes in and puking on the ice a few games into the season. Ruined peanut butter for him forever, apparently.” 

Ilya huffs a laugh, and Shane smiles, even if it’s maybe a little bit mean to celebrate a kid puking in front of an arena of people. 

Still, it had made his life a little easier almost immediately. 

So he can’t feel that bad about it, ultimately. 

*

“So home is…bad for you?” 

Ilya blinks awake that night at the question, and it takes him a few moments to re-orient himself from how close he was to falling asleep. He’s learned by now that a warm, relaxed Shane Hollander in his arms is a powerful opiate, and it’s only with effort that he shakes off the spiderwebs of drowsiness enough to respond. 

“I wouldn’t say…bad,” he says carefully to the back of Shane’s head. “More…complicated, I think.” He doesn’t know if it’s true, actually, but it would feel bad to say it’s bad. It’s one of the reasons he hasn’t had this conversation with Shane before, hadn’t wanted to show him ugly things, hadn’t wanted him to make guesses that might be true but unpleasant. 

That might make Ilya unpleasant by association. 

“You always get upset at the end of the season,” Shane says thoughtfully, like he’s been considering this for a while. “You don’t kiss me as much when we fuck, and you take longer to answer my texts. Is that why? Because you have to go back to Russia soon?” 

Ilya blinks, a little unnerved, honestly, to have such an observation about him exist in Shane’s mind. He gets edgy towards the end of the season, yes, and he knows it makes him snappy sometimes, but he usually tries to keep a leash on it. He hadn’t known it was obvious enough that Shane would pick up on it as a pattern of behavior. 

He wonders, with a rock forming in his stomach while he does, if it’s one of the things that had made Shane run earlier, Ilya’s unpredictability. It sits on him badly, the idea that the steadiest thing in his life doesn’t find him steady in return. 

Especially when Shane already said earlier that Ilya gives him whiplash sometimes. 

He tries and fails not to think about how much Shane deserves someone who doesn’t jerk him back and forth enough that he notices it as a yearly trend. 

The thought makes him hold Shane a little tighter without meaning to. 

“Do you have to go there the whole summer?” Shane asks, and Ilya sighs, already knowing what the answer is without having to think about it. 

“Yes,” he says, resigned. “People would be angry with me if I didn’t go back.” It’s not that anyone wants him there, really, but it’s expected, that Ilya will be back in Moscow each summer, that everyone in his family will be able to point to him and collect the applause of having a famous hockey player in the family. 

Because it isn’t just his money that benefits them, after all. 

“But,” Shane says, pulling away slightly but only enough to turn and face him, “do you have to go for the whole summer? Or just part of it?” 

“Why?” He asks, thrown and not really understanding why he’s even being asked the question in the first place. 

“Do you?” Shane persisted. 

“Why?” Ilya repeats, sensing that there’s something buried under the question but unwilling to offer an answer to it until he has a better idea of what it is. 

“Because I have–and you can say no if you want,” Shane says, and Ilya smiles faintly, unable to help it, at Shane qualifying his question before he’s even asked it, “I have a cottage. In Canada. It’s super private. No one else is around. I bought the adjoining lots, so I don’t even have any neighbors.” 

Bragging about how nice and relaxing his super private Canadian cottage is when Ilya has confirmed he doesn’t have anywhere nearly as nice to go seems uncharacteristically mean of him, and whatever he reads on Ilya’s face must clue Shane into that. 

“You could come visit,” Shane offers. “If you want.” 

Ilya blinks. 

“It wouldn’t have to be for the whole summer, obviously, I get you have family stuff you have to do, but maybe a week? Or two? You could tell your family you have to get back early for a photoshoot or helping a new rookie settle in the city or something.” 

“You want me to come stay with you?” Ilya asks, wondering if he is indeed asleep. “In your cottage?” 

“If you want to,” Shane repeats. “You don’t have to, but it might be nice, having something to look forward to, instead of just dreading summer all year. I know it’s probably pretty boring, but it might be nice to relax or something before the season starts. Start the year fresh.” 

*

Ilya is quiet for an unnervingly long time after the offer, and Shane is torn between expanding on the offer and just saying to forget about it because he apparently fucked up somewhere without knowing it. He’d thought it would be nice, letting Ilya know there was somewhere else he could be this summer if he wants it, but now he’s not so sure. 

Even having the idea had been a bit of a surprise, honestly. He’s never actually invited anyone to his cottage before, never felt the urge to have anyone inside of a space that’s more home to him than anywhere else. He has guest rooms because a house should, but despite having his cleaning service change the sheets on the beds when they come by, he’s never felt an interest in actually putting them to work. 

He doesn’t fully know why he’s doing it now, even. Their agreement to try being more than casual is brand new, not even tested yet, but somehow it feels right, the idea of having Ilya in his cottage with him, letting them try out being more than casual in a controlled environment, stress testing whether the absolute nightmare of the potential problems of them being anything other than fuckbuddies might be worth it or not. It’s a little crazy, maybe, to go from 0 to “come to my house this summer” so quickly, but it’s not as if Ilya is a stranger he just met. They’ve known each other since they were teenagers, after all. Sometimes he thinks Ilya might know him better than people he’s seen almost every single day in that same timeframe. 

And if Ilya is offering up his kitchen for Shane to use every single time he’s in Boston just to make his life easier, it’s probably just good manners to return the favor along the way. 

He decides to offer that up as an excuse if Ilya asks what the fuck is wrong in his head that he would think he would be remotely interested in-

“I could do two weeks, probably,” Ilya says. “If that isn’t too long for you.” 

*

Ilya says it without actually thinking it through, giving into an impulse that he knows is unwise. He shouldn’t be doing things like this, carving out sections of his summer for something frivolous like relaxing in a random Canadian cottage when he has responsibilities at home, when he knows that this dereliction in his duty won’t go unnoticed. He knows Alexei will be furious–he rarely sees his brother during the summer, Alexei happy to unload the responsibility for their father completely onto him–and he knows already that he’ll feel guilty about it, enjoying himself relaxing in the wilds of Ottawa when a good son would be at home tending his ailing father. 

But he wants it so badly, wants more of this little stolen bubble of him and Shane together, that he doesn’t know if he’s actually strong enough to say no. 

Weak as he is, he doesn’t know if he could ever say no to Shane Hollander. 

“So you’ll come?” Shane asks, and the clear happiness in his eyes means that Ilya can’t regret his decision, no matter how many headaches it’s absolutely going to create for him. 

“With one rule,” he says solemnly, and Shane sobers, making a curious noise. “I have to have peanut butter or I will die, so-” 

He laughs when Shane grabs a pillow to smack him over the head with before grabbing his wrist and pulling it away, tossing it behind his head to keep it out of range. He keeps hold of Shane’s arm and in a moment of reckless impulse, holds his hand in his own, pulling them to rest over his heart. It feels like being vulnerable in a way even being naked has never made him feel before, but other than glancing down at their hands, Shane doesn’t comment. 

“I’m glad you’re still here,” he says quietly, because it’s late and he’s curled up together in his bed with Shane Hollander and he has two weeks together to look forward to and the combination of all of these factors is maybe making him a little stupid and a little reckless. 

“I’m glad I’m still here, too,” Shane says with a small smile. 

When Ilya tugs him in, he settles with his head under his chin easily, exhaling in a way that leaves him slack and heavy against him. Ilya keeps their hands pressed to his chest, his other moving up to stroke gently along Shane’s back. 

He falls asleep to the feeling of Shane’s warm skin beneath his fingers. 

*

Shane delays as long as he can the next afternoon, unwilling to risk being late for his plane back to Montreal but also not eager to end this little stretch of him and Ilya. Practice had been optional today, and Ilya had decided to skip it, a rarity for him based on how many text messages popped up on his phone asking if he was dead. Shane found it strangely sweet, the teasing, the camaraderie, the clear concern for Ilya’s welfare for something as small as one missed practice. 

Beyond a couple of messages, Shane’s gotten the sense he’s being punished for his absence, and while he understands, he can’t deny that it made him feel a little wistful when compared when the response that Ilya’s absence elicited. 

Even with that, though, it’s been another of one of the best days Shane’s had in a long time. He’d woken up at his usual time this morning and killed time on his phone until Ilya had woken up about 45 minutes later, unfairly handsome while sleep-rumpled and morning-breathed. Shane had managed to enforce his new rule of no kissing until teeth are brushed, but it had been a close call with so much temptation right in front of him. 

(And if his rule of no blowjobs before breakfast was then immediately tossed aside, well. He’s only human.) 

He’d helped Ilya make breakfast today, and it had been strangely fun, as had eating together at the counter before cleaning up the kitchen together while fighting over who got to control Spotify. The argument had been stupid and silly and waged largely by trying to shove each other with soap-wet hands away from Ilya’s phone on the counter, and it had ended with them arm wrestling over it, hands still soapy, and then having to call a draw and flip a coin when they were too evenly matched for either to win. 

(The realization of this had nearly led to a second round of blowjobs from how much it turned him on, but Shane had resisted, largely thanks to his full stomach and the novel contentment of having a meal at someone else’s house that he hadn’t had to micromanage.) 

They’d worked out together and then congratulated each other on their athletic diligence with a round of sex right there on the gym floor followed by a joint shower that had stayed chaste only due to the realities of biology, though they’d both been most of the way there by the end, just in time to move things to the bed for slow, lazy handjobs and then making out for no other reason than just making out. Even without a nap for fear of messing up his sleep schedule more than he already has while sleeping off the anaphylaxis, Shane feels more relaxed and rested than he can remember in recent memory. 

Which has also made the fact that he has to leave now even harder to commit to. 

“Four weeks,” Ilya says against his mouth, having not helped him at all by pressing him against the wall to kiss him with enough heat that Shane wonders if he could squeeze in another round of sex if they were just really, really quick about it. 

“Hm?” He asks when Ilya pulls back enough to catch his breath. 

“Four weeks until we play Montreal again,” Ilya clarifies. 

“And then All Stars,” Shane adds, because having a second thing to look forward to already makes the four weeks feel a little shorter in his head. 

“And then more games and crushing Montreal because they’re terrible,” he punches Ilya on the side lightly, which just makes him grin, “and then summer.” 

There’s a slight hesitance on the end of the sentence that’s more than a little endearing, like Ilya is a little worried that he’s changed his mind already. 

Which, given his attempt at running away before, Shane can’t really blame him for. 

“And then summer,” he agrees. The way it makes Ilya light up like there’s sunshine under his skin really tests his determination to make it on the flight he told Montreal he would be on, but he finally gets himself together and trades two more kisses before he straightens up, tugging the strap of his bag into place and glancing down to see that his Uber is almost here. 

Ilya obviously can’t walk him outside, but he feels eyes on him all the way to the car in a way that makes him have to consciously recite his flight time in his head to commit to getting inside. So busy on this repetition, he doesn’t notice the crinkling in his bag until he’s taking it out at the airport, and then he’s too concerned with getting TSA over with to investigate, wondering if he left some trash in there earlier and hoping it isn’t something embarrassing like Ilya pranking him with empty condom wrappers. 

When he gets to his gate and takes a seat–firing off a text to Ilya to let him know he made it because Ilya asked him to–he opens his bag to investigate and sees a little stash of snacks that he absolutely did not put in there. He pulls out two of them, wondering if he might have suddenly developed a habit of sleepwalking and raiding pantries that he should maybe bring up when he’s in medical clearance tomorrow, before he sees a third with a sticky note on it, Ilya’s surprisingly neat handwriting clear. 

Safe for Jane snacks for the flight. 

Shane smiles in a way that he knows must make him look a little crazy. 

It doesn’t make it fade even a little bit. 

*

As it turns out, there are more new elements in their relationship with each other–thankfully-fake rumors about Shane dating an actress named Rose Landry, the death of Ilya’s father and his resulting decision to cut ties with his family, and Shane getting taken down on the ice in a way that had been terrifying even after prior experience with him needing an ambulance ride–between planning to spend time together at the cottage and actually making it to that time at the cottage. 

In the cozy peace of the experience, Ilya can’t say he regrets any step it took to get them both here. 

He does, however, a little bit regret that the restaurant Shane and his parents suggested for ordering dinner from tonight doesn’t list their menu and allergy warnings online. 

“Yes, I can hold,” he tells the woman on the other end of the line, filled with a new appreciation for why Shane is always so anti-takeout when they visit each other. 

It does mean that Shane’s house is usually well-stocked with things that are safe for him, which has made it easier for Ilya in making his own kitchen a place where Shane can eat without having to worry about it. He’s been happy to do it, to make his house somewhere safe and better for boyfriends with allergies to come over without nearly dying on him, but Shane is strangely shy about actually asking for things he wants to eat. When he isn’t looking, Ilya takes a picture of the snacks and groceries in his cupboard to find back in Boston later, saving himself the legwork by copying off of Shane’s homework. 

And always enjoying seeing Shane’s face when he opens the cupboard the next time he’s there and finds things already ready for him to choose from. 

“Do you need help?” 

He looks up at the sound of Yuna’s voice, finding her peeking around the doorway. He would like to think he’s made a good impression on Shane’s parents since their first–non-ideal–meeting with Shane’s dad, but he still finds himself sitting up a little straighter, as if bad posture will be a deal breaker for Shane’s mother in approving anyone he dates. 

Then again, he can’t fully put it past her. 

“No,” he says. “Is fine. I am just-” The woman returns to the phone, reading off the ingredient list for the salad dressing he had asked her to check, Ilya glancing at Yuna and silently asking for a moment with a gesture while he compares each of them to Shane’s list, asking her to repeat a couple when she goes a little too fast. “Thank you,” he says when she’s finished reading it off. “That dressing, then, please, for the salad, and that’s it.” He waits for her to rattle back their order and tell him a total and when it can be picked up, and then he hangs up after another thank you, looking back to Yuna. 

Who is watching him with glossy eyes that make him immediately wonder what the fuck he could have done so wrong so quickly to make her cry about it. 

“Sorry,” he says, wondering if this is some variation on getting hangry. “She didn’t know the ingredient list for the pasta sauce or the salad dressing for Shane’s order or the bread for all of them. I had to wait for her to go find it.” 

“You checked for Shane’s allergies?” Yuna asks, voice still sounding alarmingly close to tears. 

“Yes,” he answers, wondering if he should cut his losses and go retrieve another Hollander to let him know where he’s gone so terribly wrong here. Was he supposed to order from somewhere else for Shane? Did he miss him saying that? Was there another thing he should have-

He’s a little wary when Yuna crosses the kitchen to stand next to him, but he doesn’t flinch away, even when she rests a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

“I’m really glad you found each other,” she says, squeezing his shoulder again. “I’m glad he has you to look out for him.” 

“I love him,” he says simply, because it’s true. 

Yuna gives him one more squeeze to his shoulder and then steps back, waiting for him to rise as well before she moves to the counter. 

“Do you want a glass?” She asks, holding up a bottle of wine. “David already said he’d go get the food.” 

“Sure,” he says, grabbing a ginger ale for Shane from the fridge on his way. “Thank you.” 

They rejoin the Hollander men on the back deck, where Shane and his father have started a fire because apparently being boring also turns Canadians into pyromaniacs. He hands Shane his ginger ale and then sits down next to him, hesitating only a moment before he wraps an arm around Shane’s shoulders and pulls him in a little tighter. Shane doesn’t resist. 

“What took you so long?” Shane asks, as David and Yuna playfully disagree on whether David did indeed volunteer to go get the food or if he was voluntold to do it. 

“Checking for allergies,” he says, taking a sip from his wine. 

Shane looks surprised for just a moment, and then his face goes soft. Regardless of his parents right across from them, even still distracted, Shane pulls him into a sweet, quick kiss. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he says quietly. 

Ilya smiles, stealing one more little kiss before he sits back, squeezing Shane affectionately. 

“I love you, too.”