Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Episode: s01e05 I'll Believe in Anything (Heated Rivalry), Hockey Injuries, Concussions, Phone Calls & Telephones, Obsessive Behavior, Confusion, Memory Loss

Language:

English

Series:

Part 5 of kill me (romantically)

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-11 Words: 2,364 Chapters: 1/1

talk makes me itchy (interlude #1)

Summary

The display lights up blue with a simple first name: Lily. Shane pulls over without thinking, smacking ineffectually at the dashboard for his hazards as he scrambles to answer the phone before the chance slips through his fingers.

Once he manages to hit the answer button, he calls out, “Um, hi?” into the staticky silence.

A beat later, Ilya replies, “Hello.” Shane can hear the impish smile on his face as he tugs out the vowels, from the sneaky quirk of his brow to the teeth chasing his full bottom lip. “I am coming to your cottage. Will be on the next flight to Montreal.”

“What?” Shane asks.

-

Shane goes to his cottage.

Notes

Sorry for the delay, I got promoted ag work and then had family in town and then got sick so it's been wild.

This is more of an interlude than anything, but it's important context for the next part, which should come out quicker skdjdjh

Thank you all for such lovely engagement ! It means everything to me <3

After five days in the hospital and a month at his parents’ place in Ottawa, Shane reluctantly makes a stop at his condo in Montreal rather than going straight to his cottage. His arm has come around for the most part; the hospital bought the same excuse he gave the team doctors, a bar fight, and neatly replaced Ilya's stitches with precise staples that had to be removed a week after Shane's discharge. His head, on the other hand, aches with a constant low-level pressure at the base of his skull that only sleep can truly relieve.

His mother has watched every match of the playoffs so far, despite the Metros getting knocked out on their first game without Shane. As much as each broadcast carved at Shane's ribs like a paring knife scraping flesh from bone, he needed to see. A diligent player always learns from their opponent. Shane hasn't watched the game that put him out for the season yet, just as he hasn't come back to clear out the basement before today, but he can't put either task off forever.

The second Shane lets himself into the stairwell of his building, his arm throbs with the memory of watching Ilya carry Shane's victim down to the basement. He had been gentle- respectful with his grip and cautious of tight corners. More and more, Ilya handles Shane the same way, like he'll be tainted if he clings too hard. Shane can't blame him for that. 

After all, he's using his first free night after a season-ending injury to dispose of his kills. It would be more disconcerting if Ilya wasn't put off. 

Shane beelines to the filing cabinet for his protective equipment: a respirator mask, a paper gown, and nitrile gloves. After dropping his backpack, he puts them on in order to prevent contaminating himself and wonders whether Ilya would be comforted to know Shane lays the remains to rest eventually, or further revulsed by the mechanical efficiency of his methods. The radio silence since the last time they saw each other says enough. But Shane can still feel Ilya's ghost in this room, hovering over his shoulder, lips shiny with spit and face green with nausea.

Shane shakes his head to dispel the image. His vision swims as punishment, forcing him to shut his eyes and breathe deeply in order to catch his bearings. The air he takes in tastes like bleach. Still, he forces himself through the steps of his cleanup with rote precision, recounting them like items of a list in his head to keep himself on task.

Give fruit to the flies.

Don't think about one of them landing, curious, on Ilya's wrist as he lowered their last meal.

Retrieve the remains. 

Don't picture the tick in Ilya's jaw as he mumbles something over the tank, natural on his tongue but thick in his voice. 

Add the remains to the saprobic barrel. 

Don't remember the flash of relief in Ilya's glassy eyes the moment he had permission to leave the room.

Take off the protective gear.

Don't wish for Ilya's help hauling it out to the car.

Carry the barrel upstairs. 

Don't miss Ilya.

Carry the barrel.

Don't let something stupid like pain get in the way.

Carry the goddamn barrel. 

Don't pass out. 

Carry the fucking barrel, Hollander, this is embarrassing.

On the last landing, only seven steps from the door, Shane's bad arm gives in, and he slams the barrel down just in time to avoid dropping it. His own body follows suit. It crumples like a puppet with its strings cut, leaving him to clutch his cramping bicep and pant for air through starry vision. He should be able to do this. He should be able to easily carry two barrels if he had to, one under each arm, and barely break a sweat.

Shane presses his cheek into the cold metal. Its grip will leave marks on his skin, but he has no appearances lined up during his recovery, and no plans with Ilya that warrant caring for his appearance. Now that he's let everyone down, no one cares how battered and bruised he looks. No one would miss him for days if he stayed here. 

Eventually, some twenty or sixty minutes later, Shane drags himself upright once more, grabs the barrel, and muscles the rest of the way up. He takes a break in the parking lot to catch his breath and check his messages. As always, he hopes to hear from Ilya; as usual, his only messages are from the team groupchat and his mother. Shane is a fool to expect otherwise. If nothing else, the sting of rejection gives him the strength to toss the barrel into the trunk of his car. 

Before he knows it, he'll be home. He just has to make it there. The drive is maybe forty minutes, and if he wears his darkest sunglasses, he can manage the headache during it. Shane clicks the radio onto the last period of the Stanley cup final to keep himself awake as he pulls out of the driveway. 

It's hard to paint a picture from just the commentary, especially while driving and fighting off a migraine, but Shane listens nonetheless. It's a close match. Still, the Admirals have been ruthless all season. They knocked out both the Metros and the Raiders. Whatever comments Ilya keeps tucked in his back pocket, Scott Hunter is a great player and captain who knows it well, and the arrogance bleeds into his play. There aren't many players that ballsy in the league. Not for the first time, Shane wonders if perhaps Ilya chirps Hunter so aggressively because he sees something of himself in the man. 

Halfway to his cottage, Shane listens to the announcers celebrate the Admirals’ first Stanley Cup in years. They drone on and on about statistics and critical plays and how it would've been different if Shane weren't injured. He knows as much, but it still burns to hear his faults broadcast back at him over the radio. He can fix things next season. Until then, a summer of rumination looms ahead of him. 

One of the announcers hesitates suddenly, stuttering over some absurd post-match celebration from Hunter. Shane nudges the volume up to hear the cause of the chaos but the narration isn't helpful, too mired in mumbled exclamations for Shane to make use of. Fifteen or so seconds in, the radio abruptly cuts out in favor of his ring tone.

The display lights up blue with a simple first name: Lily. Shane pulls over without thinking, smacking ineffectually at the dashboard for his hazards as he scrambles to answer the phone before the chance slips through his fingers. 

Once he manages to hit the answer button, Shane calls out, “Um, hi?” into the staticky silence. 

A beat later, Ilya replies, “Hello.” Shane can hear the impish smile on his face as he tugs out the vowels, from the sneaky quirk of his brow to the teeth chasing his full bottom lip. “I am coming to your cottage. Will be on the next flight to Montreal.”

“What?” Shane asks.

“I am coming to the cottage,” Ilya repeats slowly and carefully. “That is, if you still want?”

Shane wracks his brain, trying to parse out why Ilya is calling, why right now, why like this, only to come up with nothing. He's mentioned his cottage in passing, certainly, and the idea of waking up beside Ilya in its luxurious bed has occurred to Shane more than its fair share of times, but he knows the optics too well to have extended an invitation. Supposing they could overlook the risk of getting caught, Ilya would be all too vulnerable. No, Shane doesn't want to hurt him. But for Ilya to come to Shane's completely isolated cabin, in rural Quebec, acres from the next property, without telling anyone where he is, would be monumentally insane. 

“The cottage,” Shane echoes, still trying to make sense of the idea.

“Yes…” Ilya says. He draws out each letter of the word like he's buying time to construct the rest of his thought. “The cottage. We talked about it.”

Shane pinches the bridge of his nose. It doesn't jog his memory, which sends a spark of worry down his throat. This isn't his first concussion, and Shane is far from new to the little bits and pieces of life that slip through the cracks of recovery, but losing an entire conversation ties his stomach in knots. 

“When?” he demands. 

“At the hospital.” 

After a moment, Ilya clears his throat. Somehow, Shane can picture him so clearly, dressed and put together, probably a room away from whatever party he attended to watch the final, awkwardly tugging at his own ear as he stalls for either of them to fill the space. When it becomes clear Shane won't, Ilya finally adds, “When I visited you, day after the game.”

Shane cannot imagine Ilya fitting himself into the tight four corners of the hospital room he recuperated in.

“I brought Marleau to say sorry, yes? He was scared he killed you. There was blood on ice, it was- everyone thought…” Ilya stops himself there, muttering something under his breath that disappears into phone static. “You were, mmm, sleepy- eh, silly. On some very nice drugs.”

On Shane's left, a sedan barrels by. With its windows down and its stereo blasting, it reeks of the youthful escapades Shane's teammates in juniors never invited him to. He always heard about it the following week at practice. No one tried to rub it in his face, but it was never hidden, either; they drank and partied and hooked up with girls at their families’ cabins outside the city, and Shane watched game tapes on his dad's projector.

“You haven't texted,” Shane says, “or called.”

Ilya hums. “Neither have you.”

“Well, the last time I remember us talking was when you left my condo,” Shane blurts out. Immediately, he drops his head onto the steering wheel, but he has to explain now that he's admitted to his failure. “I didn't- I don't remember you visiting me. At all.”

He assumes Ilya knows the drill with concussions by this point in his career. They only get worse, especially ones as egregious as the hit Shane took from Marleau, but missing so much time itches. Shane could have said something incriminating and have no idea. For all he knows, there's an investigation underway already and he has a matter of days before his face is plastered in the tabloids.

“You were on extremely nice drugs, then.”

“Fuck you,” Shane bites automatically. The frames of his sunglasses are digging into his temples, but when he pushes them up his face, the sun shines too brightly, even through his eyelids. “I just- don't remember.”

Ilya makes another soft sound on the other end, maybe considering, maybe condescending. Too much gets lost in the patchy signal outside Montreal and Shane has no image of Ilya's marble-carved expression to fill the gaps.

“Okay,” Ilya says.

Another car rolls past outside Shane's window, a brightly colored, modified brick of a truck that rattles the frame of his car on its way by, and he grits his teeth against the vibration. He should say something. But every time he tries, the words slip beyond his reach to jumble up in his throat. 

“Do you want me to come to your cottage?” Ilya eventually asks, like the question is nothing. “I do not have to, if drugs and concussion made you invite me.”

Shane lifts his head enough to press the heels of his palms against his eyes. “You just… want to come?”

“On next flight,” Ilya assures him.

“To Montreal.”

“Yes. Leaves in two hours, lands in four. You will pick me up?”

Four hours isn't enough time. It's barely enough for Shane's usual routine when he arrives for an extended stay, not taking into consideration that he's still bogged down from his injuries and has a barrel of evidence in his trunk. With the state of Shane's current headache, he'll be lucky to get an hour's worth of work in before it becomes truly crippling. 

“There aren't any planes coming tomorrow?” Shane snaps.

Ilya chuckles, almost too quiet for his phone to register. “I have already seen the bodies. Cottage is worse?”

“Ilya.”

The name hangs in the air between them.

“Okay, yes,” Ilya says, “flight tomorrow.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “Afternoon, lands around five o'clock?”

Shane nods, forgetting Ilya can't see him, before he remembers to speak aloud. “Yeah. Uh, text me the details, I'll be there.”

“Good,” Ilya praises. “I see you tomorrow then, yes?”

Having a purpose gives Shane the strength to fix his sunglasses and his posture. He's pretty sure he's a bit more than fifteen minutes from his cottage, and once there, he can afford to lay down on the couch for a few minutes to rest his eyes and head. If he has an ice pack in the freezer, he can tuck it under the back of his neck, too.

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

Ilya huffs through his nose, an almost-laugh if Shane isn't mistaken. “Okay. Goodbye,” he says, adding a couple of syllables that get eaten by the static or language barrier or both. 

“Bye,” Shane echoes. 

Ilya hangs up first.

For a couple of long, silent minutes, Shane stares at the call log on his phone, trying to convince himself he didn't imagine the conversation. Then a screenshot of Ilya's flight confirmation comes through. It's official now. Ilya is going to come to his cottage. This is the last separate piece of Shane's life that he hasn't already touched, and in less than twenty-four hours, he'll be there, too, and Shane will have laid as much of himself bare as he has to offer. And yet, this feels much more intimate than his ritual. 

Instead of thinking about Ilya, Shane merges back onto the highway and forces himself through the last twenty minutes of his drive, processing nothing from the radio but taking comfort in its constant drone nonetheless.