Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Mentions of Suicide, Sick Fic, Set during the 2012 playoffs, Ilya gets injured, D4D, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative

Language:

English

Collections:

Drabbles for Dopamine

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-14 Words: 3,440 Chapters: 1/1

Safe upon the Shore

Summary

Ilya gets injured during the Playoff series, and oh no he's stuck in Montreal with Shane to take care of him.

Notes

Once again proving I don't understand what a frikkin Drabble is. CONGRATS ON FINISHING THE THINGS

“Get your foot out of my—ROZANOV!” Shane spat out the toe Rozanov had managed to get into his mouth and made exaggerated gagging sounds. He knew it would make Rozanov smile, and yeah, it had worked.

Rozanov was looking a lot more bedraggled than usual. His right arm was strapped up against his chest, and his right leg was held almost straight by a collection of stiff braces. Turns out the human body could only put up with so much when you refused to tell your team doctors that it hurt to walk, Rozanov.

Mostly, Rozanov was pissed off that his flight home after the final game had been postponed so he could see a specialist. And then the specialist had told him he needed to wait at least four weeks before he could fly if he wanted half a chance of being ready for reconditioning in August, but fuck.

The hockey hadn’t helped.

Montreal had got past Carolina and then drawn Boston. Which should have been fun. Shane beating Rozanov in the playoffs? He should have been unbearable.

Except Rozanov had been hurt. Not enough that anyone seemed to have stopped him playing, apparently, but Shane knew how Rozanov skated. He’d been analysing Rozanov’s skating too long not to notice every moment he protected himself against a collision, when he was just a hair slower over the boards. Something in the hips, he’d been sure. By game seven, Shane was watching for it without meaning to.

Montreal won. Shane was wrapped up in the elation of the win, the anticipation of the next series, and the relief that Ilya would finally actually see a fucking doctor.

Then Washington knocked them out in the conference final anyway.

At least the final game against Boston had been in Montreal. At least Rozanov was stuck here, where Shane could tell him to wait in the condo where the ink had barely dried on the deed, and he could make him fucking take care of himself. Even if he hadn’t really expected Ilya to be hiding this much injury.

“If I watch Edmonton win cup, I eat your feet, Hollander.”

“Nobody eats anyone’s feet. I know where they’ve been. And if you eat them, then I can’t play hockey.”

“Yes, see. Is all part of plan. At least if I have to watch Edmonton win with their crazy rookie pair, I can know that I only have to beat them and not also Shane Hollander.”

“I’ll learn to skate anyway. I’ll still be better than you.”

“Even with no feet? Will you be first flying hockey player? That is not regulation.”

“I didn’t think you knew any words for following rules.”

“Ah, must know rules before I can break them.”

As though to prove his point, Rozanov started reaching for his drink, twisting in exactly the way Shane knew the doctors had told him to avoid. Shane reached over and picked it up for him before he could get there.

“Hollander, I am fine. I will be fine.”

“Tell that to the list of painkillers as long as my arm that they sent you home with.”

Rozanov grimaced at the reminder. He’d been weirdly reluctant to actually take any of his medication, which Shane didn’t understand when it was pretty obvious he was still hurting. Shane was sure he still wasn’t seeing all of how much it hurt—pride was still getting too much in the way.

“Pah, this is why Russia is better at everything. We keep going even when it hurts, don’t need so many pills.”

Shane pursed his lips and didn’t say anything.

“Unfortunately, this deal means that if Washington win, you eat my feet. But I will definitely still be better at hockey than you. I am taller and more beautiful.”

“Fuck off,” Shane said, though he was grinning. Rozanov had put the glass against his head—as close as he could get to a dramatic swoon given his limitations—and was still going on about all his attributes. Shane wished that he could say Rozanov was wrong, but it was true that he found almost everything about the other man unbearably attractive. Even now, thinking about it, he was feeling a movement in his pants.

Shane went back to watching the hockey, batting at Rozanov’s foot whenever it crept upwards as though toward Shane’s mouth again.

Eventually Rozanov settled back to start actually watching the game, and the two of them talked over each other as the game progressed. Shane was only rooting for Washington mostly because it was much less embarrassing to lose to the Cup winners than the fucking runners up, especially when Shane remembered that Montreal had absolutely destroyed Edmonton when they’d played during the season and it pissed him off that they could have had a cup.

Finally the third period was done, Edmonton now leading the series 3–2, but it was far from over. Shane turned off the TV, not really wanting to watch the pundits take it apart, and leaned back onto the couch, his legs spreading out as he let himself relax. For a few seconds neither of them moved. The room felt much quieter without the game filling it, the television gone black and reflecting vague shapes of the condo back at them, the sudden absence of commentators shouting about turnovers and defensive coverage leaving behind the hum of the refrigerator and the soft rattle of traffic somewhere below. Shane tipped his head back against the couch and closed his eyes for a second. His shoulders ached in the way they always did at the end of the season, all of him feeling just that little bit heavier after spending so long fighting to stay fit enough to keep playing. And there was still a familiar restless buzz in his body that came from watching playoff hockey even when he wasn’t the one on the ice.

Rozanov’s foot nudged his leg. Shane opened one eye and found him looking straight ahead, apparently deeply interested in the blank television. Shane shoved the foot away carefully, because the stupid brace made even harmless roughhousing complicated, and it came back almost immediately.

“Don’t,” Shane said, and Rozanov’s mouth twitched at one corner.

“I am doing nothing.”

“You’re doing something.”

“I am sitting on couch. This is now suspicious?”

“You’re sitting suspiciously.”

Rozanov smiled, slow and smug, and Shane had to look away because that expression had caused enough problems already. It had been like this most of the evening. Rozanov had spent the first period complimenting Washington while badmouthing the Voyageurs, the second inventing reasons Shane should bring him things from the kitchen, and most of the third finding increasingly ridiculous ways to get into Shane’s personal space while pretending none of it was deliberate. Since the brace prevented a knee from appearing against Shane’s thigh, Rozanov had made do with his foot, his shoulder, and the good hand that had spent most of the last twenty minutes resting next to Shane’s leg, high up near the crease of his thigh, like it was waiting to pounce.

Shane knew where this was going, or at least where Rozanov wanted it to go. The hand crept, finger walking along the couch, finally onto Shane’s thigh, and Shane exhaled through his nose, willing his dick to calm the fuck down.

“You are incredibly annoying.”

“Yes.”

Shane snorted. “You agreed with that way too fast.”

Ilya just shrugged. “I know my strengths.”

Shane laughed out loud, throwing his head back, and then looked back at Rozanov.His hair had fallen slightly across his forehead over the course of the evening, and he still looked wrecked in a way Shane wasn’t used to seeing: not unattractive, because that seemed to be impossible, but tired and less put together. The sling made one shoulder sit oddly and the brace kept one leg awkwardly extended, but somehow Rozanov had still arranged himself like he was posing for something. Shane hated that it worked. He hated even more that Rozanov plainly knew it worked, because the hand on Shane’s thigh shifted higher by another inch.

“Behave.”

“I am behaving very well.”

“No, you’re not.”

Rozanov’s smile widened. “You like more when I do not.”

Usually, yes. Shane did not say that. Rozanov leaned closer instead, carefully at first, then a little more when Shane didn’t immediately move away. His mouth brushed Shane’s jaw, brief enough to be teasing, and Shane felt himself smile despite everything. Then Rozanov moved again, and the change was tiny but immediate: his breath caught, his fingers closed hard around the fabric of Shane’s sweatpants, and the muscles along the side of his neck pulled tight before he went completely still. A second later he was moving again as though nothing had happened.

Shane’s smile disappeared.

Rozanov noticed. Of course he did. He leaned in again, slower this time, his mouth tilted like he was about to say something obscene and annoying enough that Shane would normally have kissed him just to shut him up. Shane put a hand flat against his chest instead.

“No.”

Rozanov blinked. “No?”

“No.”

For a moment they just looked at each other. Rozanov’s hand stayed where it was on Shane’s leg, and then he shifted again, another careful movement closer as if Shane had misunderstood the suggestion rather than refused it. Shane pushed him gently back against the couch.

“Absolutely not.”

“Hollander, you are making very bad decision.”

“You can say my name like that all you want.”

“I have not even said what I offer you.”

“Your face is sweating.”

That shut him up for a second. Rozanov lifted his chin as if considering a rebuttal. “Maybe it is warm.”

“It is not warm.”

“Maybe I am warm.”

“You were complaining that you were cold twenty minutes ago.”

“I have recovered.”

“You’re wearing a blanket.”

Ilya looked down as if he had only just discovered the blanket spread across his lap. He adjusted it with his good hand, smoothing it over the brace, but his movements had become careful again. He tucked the edge around his leg, paused, and flexed his fingers twice against the fabric.

Shane reached for the pharmacy bag on the coffee table.

Ilya’s head turned immediately.

The bag wasn’t anything special: white paper, crumpled slightly at the top, Hospital logo printed on one side. It had been sitting there all night beside the remote and two empty glasses, ignored with such determination that it had become impossible not to notice. Shane picked it up, and Rozanov’s hand left his thigh at once.

That made Shane stop. He glanced at Rozanov, who had turned his attention toward the kitchen with sudden interest, and then down at the bag in his hand. “You really don’t want these.”

Ilya lifted his good shoulder in a shrug. “I told you, I do not need them.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Another shrug, smaller this time. Shane set the bag on his own lap instead of opening it. Ilya’s eyes flicked toward it and away again.

Shane waited.

Silence did strange things to Rozanov. If Shane filled it, Rozanov could dodge around anything indefinitely, turning every question into a joke or an argument or some complaint about Shane’s clothes, his condo, Canada, North American coffee, or whatever else happened to be available. If Shane left the silence alone, Rozanov eventually seemed to find it more irritating than talking. So Shane said nothing. Rozanov shifted against the cushions, rubbed his thumb slowly across the side of his index finger, stopped, then picked up his empty glass and stared into it as though something useful might have appeared at the bottom.

“This is very dramatic,” he said eventually.

“You’re the one staring into an empty glass.”

“I am thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

Rozanov gave him a faint smile, but it disappeared quickly. Shane let the silence return. Another minute passed before Ilya moved as though he might reach for the bag, stopped halfway, and dropped his hand again. Shane still didn’t say anything.

“I don’t like to take pills.”

Shane turned his head to look at Ilya, his focus now entirely on Ilya’s face. The light from the street outside wasn’t enough to fully illuminate the room, but it fell dramatically across Ilya’s face, and so Shane was looking at the faint glow of his profile. Ilya was staring down at the coffee table, as though looking directly at Shane would mean he couldn’t say anything at all, as though that would make his resolve rumble entirely.

“You need them. If you’re in pain you won’t sleep, you won’t rest properly. And then you’ll be injured longer.”

“I know.”

Ilya’s attention moved slightly. He reached forward and picked up the glass, a little water still in the bottom, and the light danced through the moving water onto Shane’s face.

“My mother took pills,” Rozanov said at last.

Shane turned his head.

Ilya was still looking at the glass in his hand. His thumb moved slowly around the rim, and his face had gone unusually still. Shane waited, because he had no idea what the right thing to say was and anything immediate felt likely to be the wrong thing.

“Before she died,” Ilya added after a while. He swallowed, and then corrected himself quietly. “No. When she died. She did this on purpose.”

“Ilya—” the name slipped out and the man in question flinched. But he didn’t move away from Shane at all. If anything he leaned closer.

Shane’s fingers tightened around the pharmacy bag before he made himself loosen them. He set it carefully back onto the table.

Rozanov watched him do it. Then he looked away again.

For a while there was only the traffic outside and the quiet mechanical noise of the condo. Shane kept his attention on what he could actually see: Ilya’s thumb moving around the glass, the gradual lift of his shoulders, the way his breaths had become shallow enough that his chest barely moved. Shane put his hand down on the couch between them, not touching him, just leaving it there.

Ilya looked at it.

After several seconds, his fingers moved over and touched Shane’s. Shane turned his hand palm-up, and Ilya rested his own against it. The grip was loose at first, then slowly became firmer.

“She was sick for long time,” Ilya said, still not looking directly at Shane. “Everyone knew this, I think. But nobody knows what to do when person is like that. Nobody talks.”

Shane stayed quiet, his thumb reaching out to just tap against Ilya gently, reminding him that he was there.

Ilya put the glass down on the table suddenly, lifting his free hand to rub across his face. He pressed his fingers briefly over his eyes, then let the hand fall heavily into his lap. “I know this is different,” he said eventually. “I am not idiot. Doctor gives medicine. Doctor says amount. I understand numbers. I understand what is safe.”

“Okay.”

Rozanov looked sharply at him.

“What?” Shane asked.

“You will not tell me I am being ridiculous?”

“No.”

Ilya’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he didn’t trust that answer. “You enjoy telling me when I am ridiculous.”

“Usually you are ridiculous.”

“Yes, but now suddenly you become polite Canadian.”

“I can tell you you’re being an asshole about plenty of other things, if that helps.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched. He looked back down at their hands and tightened his fingers once around Shane’s. “It is not that I think if I take one pill, something happens. I know it does not work like this. But I see bottle, and my brain is…” He stopped and made a vague movement with his free hand, searching for the word. “It remembers before I tell it not to.”

Shane nodded once. “Okay.”

“You keep saying okay.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I do not know.”

“Then okay is what you get.”

That earned him a small laugh, quiet but real. Ilya leaned his head back against the couch, and some of the stiffness seemed to go out of his shoulders. Shane glanced toward the pharmacy bag, then back at him.

“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” Shane said. “We can call the doctor tomorrow and ask if there’s something else. Different medication, different dose, whatever. I don’t care.”

Rozanov’s eyes moved toward him, but he didn’t answer.

“I’m not going to make you take anything,” Shane continued. “But I’m also not going to pretend you’re fine when you’re sweating through your shirt every time you move.”

“I am not sweating through shirt.”

“You’re focusing on the wrong part of that sentence.”

“I am correcting factual error.”

“You’re impossible.”

“This is why you like me.”

Shane ignored that. Even if it was maybe a little bit true. “If you don’t want to take them, fine. We’ll figure something else out. But no pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Ilya stared at their hands again. “And no sex, apparently.”

“Yes. Definitely no sex.”

“Hollander, I am injured, not dead.”

“You nearly stopped breathing moving six inches across the couch.”

“I was being seductive.”

“You looked like you were getting stabbed.”

Ilya gave him an offended look. “This is terrible thing to say to man trying to seduce you.”

“You failed miserably. Emphasis on miserable.”

“I did not fail. You were interested.”

“That is not the point.”

“It is at least small part of point.”

Shane almost laughed, but Ilya shifted against the cushions and the movement pulled a clear wince across his face before he could hide it. Shane’s expression flattened.

Ilya sighed. “You make this face again.”

“What face?”

“Concerned Canadian face. Very serious. Very irritating.”

“I don’t have a concerned Canadian face.”

“You do. It says, ‘Please wear helmet and take medicine and maybe drink water.’”

“That sounds like good advice.”

“It sounds boring.”

Shane let him complain. Ilya went quiet after another minute, eyes drifting toward the pharmacy bag again. He looked at it for a long time, then at Shane.

“Maybe I take smallest one.”

Shane didn’t reach for it immediately. “Only if you want to.”

“I have just said I want.”

“I’m checking.”

“You check too much.”

“Yeah.”

“And you are still not having sex with me?”

“No.”

Ilya shook his head slowly. “Cruel man.”

“You’ll survive.”

“This evening becomes worse every minute.”

Shane finally picked up the bag, checked the instructions again even though he already knew what they said, and handed Ilya the smallest prescribed dose with a fresh glass of water. Ilya took both, but for several seconds he only turned the pill between his fingers, his thumb moving over it once before he stopped. Shane didn’t watch the pill. He watched Ilya’s face, the rise and fall of his shoulders, the way he took one long breath before finally swallowing it.

He drank half the glass of water and handed it back. “Happy?”

“No.”

Rozanov frowned.

“I’ll be happy when you stop trying to break yourself.”

“I played whole playoff series and was fine, nothing broken.”

“Yeah, and you’re going to keep it that way.”

“Hollander.”

“Ilya.”

Ilya looked surprised, like he’d thought maybe the previous time Shane had said his name was an accident.

Ilya held Shane’s gaze.

“Shane.”

Shane didn’t flinch, just held Ilya’s gaze until he finally looked away.

A few minutes later he shifted sideways until his shoulder rested against Shane’s. The movement came slowly, each part of it deliberate, and Shane stayed still until Ilya had settled. Then Ilya moved a little farther and rested his head against Shane’s shoulder.

“You’re heavy,” Shane said.

“You are athlete. You can survive.”

“Debatable.”

“You complain very much for man who wants me to stay.”

Shane looked down at him. Ilya’s eyes were closed now, his good hand loosely caught in the fabric at the front of Shane’s shirt. Shane adjusted himself carefully so Ilya could lean against him without shifting the bad leg, then let his arm settle around Ilya’s shoulders. There was a brief tightening beneath his hand before Ilya relaxed again, his weight coming more fully against Shane.

The room stayed quiet. Shane could feel Ilya breathing against his side, slower now, the hand in his shirt no longer moving. The evening had gone nowhere near where either of them had seemed to expect it to go, but Shane didn’t particularly care. He rested his cheek briefly against Ilya’s hair.

Ilya shifted closer.

Eventually, the combination of closeness and the effects of the painkiller made Ilya fall asleep, and Shane felt himself falling not far behind.