Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs Player Ilya Rozanov, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Player Shane Hollander, Hockey Injuries, Metaphors, Concussions, Lamps, I Will Make Lamps A Tag Someday, Debbie The Lamp, Inspired by Apollo and Hyacinthus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Ilya Rozanov Misses Irina Rozanova, Mentioned Irina Rozanova, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Soft Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Light Angst, Happy Ending

Language:

English

Series:

Part 4 of Lovely Lights

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-16 Words: 2,031 Chapters: 1/1

You Are My Sunshine

Summary

Irina once told Ilya a bedtime story about Apollo accidentally killing his lover during a game. Ilya crashes into Shane during a game and the similarities are all too much for him.
(Classic "you deserve sunshine" moment here)

Notes

Realized I absolutely had to include a "you deserve sunshine" moment for these two and I was already working in my Apollo/Hyacinthus allegory fic.

When Ilya was little, his mother would tell him bedtime stories. She’d lay beside him in his way too big bed, and tell him about the Greek gods. She’d wave her hands about and weave elaborate plots that usually ended with a bittersweet ending, but would always have the hero triumphant and loved. They’d lay with only his small bedside lamp on, bathed in a honey glow that would make his eyes droop and his breathing soften.

When the world was yellowy and dim, when his mother’s voice lulled him to sleep, Ilya felt safe in an otherwise unsafe house. He would curl up next to her, back to the lamp, face in her lap as she stroked his hair and scratched soothing little shapes into his back, and find peace. Once he was older he always wondered which of these stories meant the most to her.

To him, it was the last story she ever told him, when he was ten and his father said he was too old for bedtime stories now. It was his favorite because she did not end it happily as she often tried to do. It was about a god named Apollo who accidentally killed his love, Hyacinthus, while playing a game. 

That night, he thought the white ball of the lamp looked like a poor imitation of the sun. A mourning Apollo.

Sometimes, his mother would say that he was Apollo, with his golden curls and boundless energy. She’d whisper to him that his moody older brother was Artemis, stoic and showing little love to others, while Ilya burned with so much love inside him that he was her burst of sunshine. She would say that her youngest son was too bright and eager for the world. She did not warn him that someday it would all come crashing down.

When Ilya crashes into Shane on the ice, his first thought is not an ancient myth or old lamps or the sun. It’s actually just, that fucking hurt.

The Voyageurs are playing the Centaurs in Montreal for the first time in the season when it happens. Ilya misjudges his distance, mistimes his stopping, miscalculates his speed, and slams viciously into Shane. Their heads connect, Ilya’s forehead to Shane’s temple. Their sticks and legs tangle, and they go down. Ilya lands ungracefully, legs bent awkwardly as he falls on top of Shane. Shane lands worse, back of his head smacking the ice as he crumples.

Whistles blow and for a moment, Ilya doesn’t know why. It was a nasty fall, but they can shake it off. He’s already moving, reaching an arm out to help Shane.

“Rozanov!” Someone shouts, Hayes maybe? The lights in the arena are too bright, the noise buzzing and ringing between his ears. He tries to stand but his skates slip around.

He looks down at Shane. Who hasn’t stood up or bitched at him for being so careless yet.

Shane’s nose is bleeding, he’s not moving. Not frowning, not rolling his eyes with a chirp, not worrying his little head off about the two of them touching on the ice even in such a violent manner. He’s just… laying there.

“Hollander.” He says, voice thick.

Someone puts their hand on Ilya’s shoulder, is talking to him in too loud of a voice, but he can’t feel them. Can’t decipher their words. It’s all fuzzy and when he turns to look at them. He thinks it’s a medic but he can’t… he can’t tell.

“Rozanov, can you hear me? Can you move?”

“Da.” He says, trying to wave them away. “Let me stand.”

They offer him their arm, he clutches it with his gloves as he finally gets his feet beneath him. He steadies himself, then looks back at Shane.

“Hollander-” He starts, but the medic cuts him off.

“Someone else will help him, can you skate off the ice? I want to test you for a concussion. You’re responding slowly.”

Shane is still lying on the ice.

What year is it? Is it 2017? Has Ilya even been to the cottage or was it all a dream? What team does he play for?

Without even realizing he was moving, Ilya finds himself in the nurse’s station. His skates are off, his helmet is beside him, and a very pretty woman is shining a little light into his eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Ilya… Rozanov.”

She hums, twisting her lips together like she’s displeased.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

He thinks, truly tries to track the events of today. “I was in locker room. Putting on skates. I think… I think I had just finished a phone call.”

“Do you remember being on the ice?”

“No? Was I?”

“Are you dizzy? Nauseous?”

“No. Unless I move my head, then dizzy.”

She hums, makes a note on a pad of paper, then nods to herself. “Definitely a concussion.”

The nurse keeps him for the rest of the game, offering him a little paper cup of water and providing him with a list of things to do once he gets home to care for his head.

“Do you have a ride home tonight or did you two drive here?”

“I have a ride.”

“Great, we can have them walk you to the car.”

He frowns down into his cup of water. “Not possible.”

“Why not?”

His sluggish brain is firing on all cylinders to come up with a good explanation as to why he can’t have Shane Hollander come carry his sorry ass to the car. He looks at this woman, Veronica if his memory serves, and deems her reliable enough. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Yes?” She stops typing on her iPad and looks up at him curiously. “Paitent confidentiality.”

“I drove here with Shane Hollander. He cannot come bring me to the car like a knight because nobody can know.”

She blinks at him. “Oh.”

“He is probably very worried right now, he does not like when I get hit. Who hit me? Was it Pike? Fucking Pike.”

“Well… it was more like… you hit him.”

“I hit Pike?”

She bites the tip of her Apple pen, looking everywhere but at him. Veronica takes a large inhale before rushing to say, “you hit Hollander.”

“No.” He says simply.

“I’m sorry to have to say this, but you did. You were going too fast, your feet got tangled, you both went down. I um, I believe he’s being checked out too.” She chews on the end of her pen again.

“No, you are wrong.” He stands, unsteadily, and moves towards the door. “I will call him, he will be fine.”

Veronica grabs onto his shoulder. “You stay here. I’ll send someone to bring your things and we’ll sort out your emergency contact to pick you up.”

If Shane’s hurt, both of my emergency contacts are probably busy with him. He thinks, but he nods and sits back down on the shitty little plastic chair she’d had him in.

Veronica disappears into the hallway, and he tilts his head back against the wall and prays she’s wrong.

~

Shane arrives at his Montreal home after the game to a very distraught Ilya. He had only been kept after the game for two hours, but by the state of his boyfriend you’d think he’d been in a months-long coma.

David had driven Ilya home while Yuna waited for Shane and now his parents hover, running his duffel bag to the laundry room and offering to make a late dinner. Shane slumps his way to the couch without turning on any lights despite how dark the living room is at this hour. He’s just about to flop onto the couch when he makes out the figure already laying on it.

“Ilya? What are you doing in the dark?” He leans over and turns on the light, the ugly orange and white flowered lamp illuminating his boyfriend who, despite being cleared to leave before him, somehow looks the worst out of the two of them. His hair is sticking up at all angles, curls askew, and his face is stony and red.

“Thinking.” Ilya says, burying his face into the couch cushions. “Turn Debbie off. She is too bright.”

Shane picks up Ilya’s feet and sits, placing them onto his lap, pointedly not turning Debbie off. “What are you thinking about? The hit? I’m alright, just a black eye and broken nose. Mom said you have a concussion?”

“Hyacinthus.” It’s muffled by the cushions.

“What?”

Ilya rolls over, groaning a little before slinging an arm over his eyes. “You are like Hyacinthus.”

Shane looks around the room for some kind of clue as to what that means. His parents are talking quietly in the kitchen, so he’s alone to decipher his puzzle of a fiancé. He’s fairly certain it’s not a Russian word, but doesn’t actually know what Ilya is trying to say.

“How am I like a Hyacinthus? What is a Hyacinthus?”

“Apollo, Greek god of sun, was playing a game with his lover. Something went wrong, I don’t remember what, and Hyacinthus was hit in the head by Apollo. He died.”

Shane works quickly to connect the dots. “I didn’t die. You are not a god, despite what some girls on Twitter call you.”

Ilya frowns but doesn’t otherwise move.

“Ilya, I’m alright. I didn’t even lose any teeth!”

“You are hurt. I hurt you.”

“Baby,” Shane allows the pet name to slip, trying to convey his own liveliness. He runs a hand through messy, sweaty, post-game curls. “You didn’t hurt me on purpose. That’s just how hockey works sometimes, you know?”

“Apollo could not save him. Hyacinthus was turned into a flower.” Ilya mumbles. “Purple or blue I think?”

“I am okay.” He reaches for the hand not currently covering Ilya’s face and squeezes the fingers tightly. “I am right here.”

Shane kisses his hand, each individual knuckle, each callus, each fingertip, the palm of his hand, the freckle on the side of his wrist. “You are not Apollo. You are not the sun. I am not Hyachinthus. I am okay.”

“You are my sun, Shane.” Ilya mumbles into the crook of his arm. “Heh, sun-Shane. My sunshine. My solnyshko.”

Shane presses a kiss to Ilya’s hand. “And you’re mine.”

“I don’t deserve it. Sunshine. You.”

“Mmm, I disagree. I think we all deserve sunshine.” Shane whispers, lowering his head to rest on Ilya’s chest. “Even Apollo does. He didn’t mean to hurt Hyacinthus.”

“He is the sun, Shane.”

“And so are you.”

“Da, that’s what Mama used to say too. Don’t leave?” Ilya asks very, very softly, like he’s scared of the answer. “I cannot look, but stay?”

“Of course not. I’m here until you’re ready.”

~

Ilya wakes up in the morning still on the couch, with Shane draped over him. His head is pounding, his throat is dry, and he has the distinct feeling he’s been crying, but he cannot bring himself to move Shane off of himself.

He brushes his knuckles lightly under Shane’s left eye, where a large purple circle mares his face. For a moment, he considers pressing down on it, waking Shane and forcing him to look at the mark he can’t hide. The mark Ilya has publicly left on him. But he shakes it away. He is not like that. Not now. Maybe later when they’re in front of a mirror and he is already burrowed deep into him in other ways, when Shane will make an obscene noise at the idea, will he push down on the bruise. He files that thought away for later tonight.

Sunlight falls through the window pane, the blinds making slotted shadows across Shane’s face. Ilya smiles, using a featherlight touch to trace the little patterns. A rush of warmth and appreciation fills his chest as Shane’s nose twitches.

He’s going to marry this man. He doesn’t know how yet, doesn’t know when, but if it’s the last thing he does, he will. Even if it destroys his career and legacy, he will marry Shane Hollander someday.

Because he is not Apollo after all. He will get his happy ending.