Chapter 1: it’s the light touch of a friend

it’s a leap year, it’s the light touch of a friend hope it still feels like this when it comes again

i’m picking a fight with the night in a short dress you’re warming me up like the sun is in your hands

Ilya was sick, and he was furious. He did not get sick. Certainly not sick enough to get benched for a night, and yet here he was, staring at his reddened eyes as he gripped the sink in his stupid apartment, resisting the urge to cough. Benched. He had a fever - a low one, barely anything - but the team doctor had insisted he not play tonight. Ilya ran a hand over his face, his stomach twisting. He could only imagine what his father would say. That he was lazy, probably, or come out with some rant about how the American league was too soft and Ilya should come back to Russia. Fuck that. Luckily it was just the flu, nothing serious. He’d be fine for the team’s road trip south next week. But the doctor had told him to rest, ordered it actually, and told him he was pushing himself too hard with a stupid sympathetic look on his face that made Ilya want to punch him. ‘You’re young,’ the man had said. ‘And there’s only so far you can push yourself before your body demands what it’s missing.’ ‘What’s that?’ he’d croaked, through a raw throat (and not the fun kind). ‘Rest,’ the doctor had said. Fuck that. Ilya could only imagine what his father would say to that. According to his father, Ilya had never pushed himself in his life. But here he was. Sick, and benched. And they were playing Montreal tonight. Ilya tried to pretend the sting he felt was that of missing out on a competitive game against his team’s rivals and not because he wouldn’t get to see those dark freckles and stupid pink lips of one Shane Hollander. It turned out Ilya wasn’t very good at lying, at least not to himself. His phone buzzed. He pulled it out and thumbed it open, walking out into the living room and collapsing on his couch. He told himself the swoop of anticipation in his stomach was just vertigo from his flu, and opened the text. Jane: ur not playing tonight? no. sick. Jane: since when do u get sick? Since now, idiot. The dots came up and went away again - Hollander was typing. Ilya waited, resisting the urge to cough. He wasn’t sick, not really, so there was no need to cough. Except his stubbornness made him feel even more like a toddler being put down for a nap he didn’t want than being benched did. He slammed his head against the couch in frustration. He hated this. Hollander didn’t text again. ******** Montreal won, because of course they did. Ilya watched the whole game, cursing out his own team’s mistakes, greedily drinking in every shot of Hollander’s face - eyes narrowed in concentration, or scrunched up in joy when they won. Ilya decided he hated Hollander’s teammates, each and every one of them. They were mediocre at worst, sort of good at best. What right did they have to play on a team with Hollander, one of the best players in the league? What right did they have to be close to him, to touch him - friendly pats on the shoulders, arms around each other, ecstatically hugging each other when they won. Ilya watched one of Montreal’s defenseman pick Hollander up in a playful bear hug when the buzzer went and decided he would end him the next time they played each other. Then he decided he was being ridiculous. Then the camera cut to a shot of a sweaty, glowing Hollander in the locker room, basking in his two goals, and Ilya decided he didn’t care if he was being ridiculous. He left the tv on, closing his eyes until the familiar sound of Hollander’s voice filled his ears. The reporter had asked him some stupid question - stammering like it was his first day speaking, even Ilya spoke better English than him - something about what it took to beat a team like Boston. ‘Well, you know, teamwork is important,’ Hollander was saying. Boring answer. They were always boring questions, and always boring answers. ‘Especially against a team like Boston. They’re tight, defensively and offensively, y’know - you can’t - you can’t give ‘em an opening, or they’ll take it.’ Ilya had given Hollander an opening, without meaning too, and Hollander had taken it, whether he had meant to or not: and now some awareness of him sat always in Ilya’s chest, taking up space in his mind, until it seemed that all he thought about was the other man. (Maybe that was just the fever talking.) ‘Do you think your impressive win tonight had anything to do with Rosanov being out?’ Another reporter, now - looking for a good clip. A stupid question, and insulting, too. ‘Ah - ‘ Hollander rubbed a hand over his sweat-soaked hair. ‘I think we’re a good team, and we showed that tonight, and I’m proud of the guys. They played well. But - ‘ he looked up, at the camera, and for a moment Ilya could pretend Hollander was looking at him. Talking to him. ‘I won’t pretend it isn’t easier without Rosanov on the ice. He’s a good player, one of the best. I’m not saying anything anyone doesn’t know already, you know?’ Hollander grinned, almost. (He never really grinned, not during interviews.) ‘So I hope he gets better quick - so we can prove we don’t need him out sick to beat Boston.’ He’s a good player, one of the best. Fuck. Ilya swallowed hard, through a sudden upswell of stupid emotions. He knew it didn’t really mean anything - it wasn’t a sign that Hollander felt more for him than the burning lust they held for each other, heady rush of hormones. But still. Turning off the tv with an aggressive punch to the remote, he rolled over, burying his head in the couch cushions. Maybe he could sleep long enough that when he woke up, this fever would be gone, and he would have forgotten about the look in Hollander’s eyes when he’d complimented him. ******** Ilya blinked, disoriented. The world felt upside down. What the…? His head was pounding, a centred line of pain pulling him away from the world. He felt cold, far too cold, and heavy - all of his limbs pulling him down, so that he was stretched apart. And his mouth was terribly, painfully dry, and he couldn’t remember where he was. Mama? He couldn’t make his voice work. No, he was being stupid. His mother was dead, he knew this. Didn’t he? He managed to turn his head to the side, painfully, and the sight of the wall and the sliver of couch by his head brought some clarity. He was in his apartment, in Boston. Sound. Buzzing, by his head. Was that what had woken him? He groped around, finding the thin phone which was the source of the terrible noise. Thumbing it open, he squinted at the screen. Jane: feeling better? That was the first text. It had been sent an hour ago. Then: Jane: Rosanov? Jane: u need to get better, ur team is shit without u Jane: it’s almost boring Jane: r u dead? Jane: u better not be dead, rosanov Jane: i guess maybe ur sleeping. Jane: don’t forget to drink liquids, you need to get better so i can beat ur ass next month Ilya smiled, something hot and pleased curling in his chest. When they’d first started this, when Ilya had first gotten Hollander’s number, Hollander had texted all proper and boring - full sentences, with punctuation. Ilya had soon cured him of that. He wondered if Hollander texted this way with anyone else - loose, free, without the ‘hockey-star-shane-hollander’ mask he kept on most of the time. A fresh wave of pain ran through Ilya’s head and he groaned, closing his eyes. In a sudden fit of misery, he wished that Hollander were there. He’d make him drink water and probably some awful tea, too, or one of those terrible smoothies the man was always making. Just because they were athletes didn’t mean they had to suffer. Before he could think better of it, his fever-clumsy fingers were typing out a message on his phone. feel terrible. am probably dying. will leave u my cars eben tho u wont apreciat them He couldn’t be bothered to fix the plethora of spelling mistakes he’d definitely made before he hit send, and drifted back into miserable sleep. ******** The next time he was pulled rudely from his fever-sleep, it was because his phone was buzzing again. Not the quick double-buzz which indicated a text message, but a longer, drawn out sound. His ringtone. Who the fuck was calling him? Without looking, he swiped accept and held the cool metal to his burning skin. ‘What?’ he croaked, wishing he’d thought to get water before he laid down on this godforsaken couch. He wasn’t sure he’d ever have the ability to get up again. He’d probably just die there. ‘Rosanov?’ He rolled over again, staring at the ceiling. ‘Mm. Hollander.’ ‘Geez, you sound like shit.’ ‘So charming. Fuck off.’ He broke into a cough, which despite his best efforts he hadn’t been able to suppress. When the fit ended, he was surprised to see Hollander had not hung up on him. Such a nice Canadian boy, staying on the call to see whether or not Ilya lived. ‘Christ, Rosanov.’ ‘Mm, no,’ he managed. ‘The devil, perhaps.’ ‘I was gonna ask you if you were feeling any better, but…’ ‘Not better, no.’ ‘Your text scared me, a bit.’ Ilya’s head was spinning. ‘My text?’ He wasn’t sure he remembered texting Hollander. The worry in Hollander’s voice came through loud and clear: ‘Rosanov, do you have a fever?’ ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘How high?’ He shrugged, and then remembered Hollander couldn’t see him. ‘Hmm. Do not know. Have not checked in - ‘ he stopped. ‘Since before game.’ Hollander let out a spluttered sound of disbelief and recrimination. It was one of Ilya’s favourite sounds that Hollander made. Top three. Well - Ilya revisited the last time Hollander had come over, when he had pushed the smaller man over the kitchen counter and Ilya had gotten his mouth between Hollander’s legs, had spent his time licking over the seam where thigh met groin, biting and sucking until Hollander would feel the memory of him for the next few days. Top ten, maybe. ‘Ilya, that was five hours ago.’ ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘Cannot be.’ ‘Fuck, you’re delirious,’ Hollander said, and Ilya thought he actually might be worried. ‘Am not delir - deli - ‘ English was hard. On the best of days it was so, a slippery, contradictory language, the mishmashed cobbled-together result of hundreds of years of mixing - a little French, a little Latin, and even before that Old Norse, shifting and tangling until you were wrapped in it and then it drew quick, tight, around your feet, tripping you up. ‘Yeah, you are,’ Hollander was saying. Ilya had stopped paying attention. That was bad. Especially when Hollander’s words were soft and low, the sort of thing Ilya would normally hold his breath just to hear better. ‘Are you alone?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I’m coming over. Don’t move, ok? I’ll bring - stuff.’ Hollander did not elaborate as to what ‘stuff’ he may be bringing. Ilya resigned himself to drinking at least one of the man’s terrible smoothies, even as jubilation burned in his stomach. (Or maybe that was the fever.) He hadn’t exactly fallen asleep by the time the banging on his door started, just drifted in and out of a strange sort of haze, transfixed on counting the lines in the wood trim on the walls. Cold had settled into his bones and taken up residence in his chest, a snarling, angry creature, and he was so tired, shaking until his teeth rattled. When the banging became fierce enough he could no longer ignore it, Ilya lamented the fact he’d never given Hollander a spare key. It would have made this next part that much easier. Could he stand? He doubted it somewhat, but as many had noted over the years of his career, it was a mistake to count Ilya Rosanov out. He picked up his phone which had started it’s abhorrent buzzing again, and stabbed the accept button. ‘I am coming,’ he managed, though his voice was weaker than he would have liked. ‘Keep your pants on, Hollander.’ ‘I wish I had a key,’ Hollander muttered, and then made a sharp, high pitched noise. ‘I just meant - I don’t want you to give yourself a concussion trying to stand. It could be dangerous, with your fever.’ Ilya smiled. ‘Am fine,’ he said, even though that wasn’t really true. Then he hung up. Standing, Ilya decided, was a terrible idea. Sitting up was a terrible idea, the shivers only growing worse as he managed to somewhat push himself to a vertical position before he had to stop, hands braced on his knees, head hanging low as he sucked in careful, slow breaths. His head spun, and for a brief second or two he seriously thought he might pass out. How long would Hollander make it, he wondered, before he fully panicked and called 911? When he no longer felt like he was on the brink of fainting, Ilya put one hand on the couch arm and steeled himself with a single deep breath before he slowly pushed himself to standing. His knees felt like cooked noodles underneath him, more tired than he’d ever been, even after game 7 of a playoff finals, even after the grueling training camps in his teens, even after the marathon he’d run when he was 19, in the summer after he’d lost a bet. He was used to relying on his body, to knowing it could perform how he needed it to; to feel like this was… off-putting. Worrying. He didn’t like it. He waited. A beat. Pulled himself together, the lines of his body pulling taught, every inch of bone aching. For a single, feverish moment, he imagined each vertebrae of his spine, stacked on each other, listing sideways under the weight of the fever raging through his veins. Fuck, maybe he was delirious. Ilya sent a faint plea to his body to last him the five steps he needed to make it to the door of his apartment, and let go of the couch. That proved to be a mistake, but the corner of the wall was there to catch him when he only made it two steps before stumbling. His phone started buzzing again, but he ignored it that time. Two more deep breaths. Come on, Ilya. He made it to the door. Unlocked the dead-bolt. Pulled it open. Tried not to drink in the sight of Shane Hollander’s worried face too deeply, even as his greedy brain tried to memorize the freckles splashed across Hollander’s cheeks, fainter now in the winter; the messy fall of his hair, which he'd been growing out; the slight bruise Ilya could make out over the collar of his jacket. ‘Fuck, Ilya,’ Hollander said, just before Ilya swayed, the blurring of his vision unignorable now. Hollander’s hands come up, around Ilya’s back, just as he face-planted into the other man’s chest, the weight of his fever pulling him down, down, down. The last coherent thing he noticed was Shane’s scent, familiar and comforting, weaving through Ilya’s stupid cracked open chest and pushing away the cold.

Chapter 2: know me like you do

Chapter Notes

I'm no longer sure this really accurately fits in either timeline, book or show - definitely there are feelings being felt earlier here than is maybe canon. I suppose this event of Ilya getting sick maybe pushed things ahead, so there's that, but there's still a lot of uncertainty. I tried to capture that - and Shane's thoughts about everything - accurately. As always, it got longer than I thought, so there will be a part three. See the end of the chapter for more notes I'll meet you at nine, go halves on a bottle of wine I'll see you in five, that's a lie, I'll never make it on time Oh to know you, know you, know me like you do To know you, know you, know me It's so cool

Shane didn’t know anything was wrong until about twenty minutes before the game, when J.J. came flushed and breathless into the locker room and proudly proclaimed: ‘Rosanov is not playing tonight!’ like he had just single-handedly handed them their victory. ‘What?’ Shane’s stomach plummeted, though he did his best to ignore it. He and Rosanov weren’t anything, barely more than acquiatances, really. He shouldn’t be feeling worry at the news. He should be jubilated. He wasn’t the only one who spoke, questions pouring out of the rest of the team. J.J. held his hands up. ‘Je sais pas, I do not know. He is sick, I hear, but that is only rumour.’ He grinned a sharp grin; J.J. had a wolf’s nose when it came to sniffing out gossip. ‘Damn,’ Hayden said quietly beside him. ‘Sucks for Boston.’ He sent Shane a quick grin, which Shane did his best to return, even as he was pulling out his phone. ‘Yeah,’ he said absentmindedly, fingers already on the keyboard. ur not playing tonight? He didn’t bother with proper grammar, not anymore - he told himself it was to keep Rosanov from teasing him about it, and not because it was easier to be with Rosanov than it was with anyone else, easier to turn that part of his brain off that was always assessing everything he does, wondering if it was measuring up. The response came almost immediately. Lily: no. sick. Shane frowned. since when do u get sick? A beat, the three dots coming up again. Lily: Since now, idiot. Shane couldn’t help the fond exasperation that welled up in his chest. He put his fingers to the keyboard, typed out a message - deleted it, typed it again (are u ok? How bad is it?) then deleted it again, and threw his phone into his locker. Rosanov and him weren’t anything. They were enemies, arch-rivals. They were something convenient when they both needed to let off steam. They don’t worry about each other, or ask each other how the other one is doing. Rosanov was fine, and Montreal was gonna kick Boston’s ass - on home ice, no less. Shane grinned, and didn't look at his phone again. ******** They won, and it was glorious, even though the addictive joy was dimmed somewhat without Rosanov on the ice. It wasn’t as fun, playing without him - he was the only one in the league who could match Shane, still, though every year Shane wondered if one of the new rookies would be the one who could finally climb to the top with the two of them. That player hadn't come, yet, and so Shane greedily hoarded the minutes he had on ice with Rosanov, the joy of playing with someone - even if it was against - who was as good at the game as Shane was. Boston was a good team this year , but without Rosanov, they were just ok. They had no depth, something very apparent with their star player gone, leaving their top line fucked without him to lead it. The second line couldn’t compensate, in fact they seemed to be regressing without their captain, which made the general uselessness of the bottom six only that much more apparent. The only player really doing anything was Boston’s goalie, who Shane felt bad for - the guy was practically standing on his head trying to give Boston a chance. It didn’t matter - Montreal sped to a glorious 6-2 finish and a four point game for Shane. Almost a hat-trick, but you couldn’t have everything in life, right? Media was a pain, as usual. At some point the nerves from being interviewed went away, and Shane had never really wanted the fame part of hockey - he liked being good, but he didn’t need people fawning all over him - and without the anxiety it mostly just became monotonous. The questions were all either the same, or just sort of annoying, or both. Shane tried to look anything other than bored out of his mind as a reporter stammered through some long-winded question, voice eager - some question about beating Boston. ‘Well, you know, teamwork is important,’ Shane said earnestly, wondering if anyone was even listening to him. The man hadn’t said Rosanov’s name, but he’d been thinking it. ‘Especially against a team like Boston. They’re tight, defensively and offensively, y’know - you can’t - you can’t give ‘em an opening, or they’ll take it.’ ‘Do you think your impressive win tonight had anything to do with Rosanov being out?’ Another reporter called out, and Shane bit back the frustration. ‘Ah - ‘ He rubbed a hand over his sweat-soaked hair, ignoring for a moment the eager eyes on him. Saying ‘Rosanov’ around him, or ‘Hollander’ around Rosanov, was like blood in the water to the reporters. They were leaning in, eyes transfixed, waiting for the clip they could plaster everywhere, to further reinforce the rivalry. For once, Shane didn’t want to give it to them. ‘I think we’re a good team, and we showed that tonight, and I’m proud of the guys. They played well. But - ‘ he looked up at the cameras, and picked his words carefully. How much could he say? What if Rosanov was watching this? The thought sent butterflies swirling in his stomach. ‘I won’t pretend it isn’t easier without Rosanov on the ice. He’s a good player, one of the best. I’m not saying anything anyone doesn’t know already, you know?’ Shane smiled tightly. ‘So I hope he gets better quick - so we can prove we don’t need him out sick to beat Boston.’ There was a large, stupid part of him that really hoped Rosanov was watching right now. He shoved that down as best as he could. He made it to the hotel before he looked at his phone again; it was an impressive show of restraint. There was nothing, and he couldn’t ignore the stab of disappointment in his chest. Before he thought better of it, he typed another message out to Lily and hit send: feeling better? Then he stared at his phone for an agonizingly long moment before Hayden asked him if he was ok (in a judgmental tone Shane did not appreciate) and then threw a pillow at him. ‘We won, buddy. You could at least act like you’re excited.’ ‘I am,’ Shane mumbled. ‘It was a good win.’ Hayden raised an eyebrow. ‘Problems in paradise?’ he nodded knowingly at Shane’s phone. ‘W-what?’ ‘You fighting with ‘Lily’ or something?’ Hayden made air-quotes around the name with his fingers. ‘I don’t - ‘ Shane stammered. ‘No. No, it’s nothing.’ ‘Ok,’ Hayden said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Well, I’m gonna shower. Took a hit from that defenseman, guy built like a brick, y’know? My shoulder fucking aches, I’m telling you bud, they don’t pay me enough for this…’ Shane let his friend’s voice trail off under the buzzing of his own thoughts. He hadn’t realized it before, but he was greedy. Normally, he’d be heading to a hotel room right now, eager to meet Rosanov. Normally, the other man would be texting him dirty things before the game. Normally, game days between Montreal and Boston meant that Shane had most of Rosanov’s attention, something he hadn’t realized he’d taken for granted before now. Rosanov still hadn’t responded. Shane waited until 20 minutes had passed before he sent another text. u need to get better, ur team is shit without u it’s almost boring Ok, he sent two. Sue him. Shane showered, choked down some food he barely tasted, and scrolled aimlessly on his phone. Another 40 minutes - who was counting? - and nothing from Rosanov. He tried to ignore the curl of worry in his stomach. r u dead? u better not be dead, rosanov What would Shane do if he was dead? He shoved the thought away as soon as it set it’s greedy little claws in his mind. That was not a path he wanted to be going down right now. No spiraling. Besides, it wasn’t even like him and Rosanov were that close, right? Shane was a terrible liar, even to himself. It would wreck him if Rosanov died. That was a thing he had just acknowledged, apparently. Fuck. Rosanov was fine. He was fine! He was sick, and - and probably in bed, and - asleep! Shane’s mind latched onto that idea like it was a life-raft. Rosanov was sick. Of course he was sleeping. i guess maybe ur sleeping. He sent one more text before locking his phone and, full of jittery energy, went to the hotel gym. He managed to spend an hour on the treadmill and hardly thought of Rosanov once. (Ok, twice.) (Ok, maybe three times, but really, three was pretty good if you thought about it. That was like, once every 20 minutes.) Once he was back in his room and showered (again), he lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Rosanov was at his apartment. Was he alone? Probably. Was he taking care of himself? Probably not. Rosanov was impressively bad at being healthy considering he was an elite professional athlete. Fuck. Shane grabbed his phone. don’t forget to drink liquids, you need to get better so i can beat ur ass next month A moment. Then, right before Shane threw his phone down, three little dots, hovering. Lily: feel terrible. am probably dying. will leave u my cars eben tho u wont apreciat them Shane’s stomach dropped and swooped up at the same time, and he couldn’t help the slightly fond smile he gave his phone. Of course Ilya Rosanov would be a drama queen while sick. It probably wasn’t even that bad of a cold…. But bad enough to be benched, a small voice in the back of Shane’s head whispered. Bad enough for all the spelling mistakes in Rosanov's message, when the man was usually so careful about spelling (but not about grammar) as if proving a point about his English. Before he could think better of it, he slipped on his shoes, leaving Hayden with some flimsy excuse and ducking into the stairwell. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the call button. Rosanov picked up right away, his low voice even lower, the strain on it audible even through the phone. ‘What?’ Rosanov croaked, and Shane winced. ‘Rosanov?’ he asked, making his voice as gentle as he could. Shit, the man sounded - not good. A laboured breath over the line. ‘Mm. Hollander.’ ‘Geez, you sound like shit,’ Shane breathed, his worry peaking. ‘So charming. Fuck off,’ Rosanov said. The effect was ruined somewhat by the fact that he broke into a coughing fit right after he said the words, harsh and hacking, even as Rosanov was clearly trying to suppress them. Shane bit his lip, the coughing going on for far longer than he’d like. ‘Christ, Rosanov,’ he said, when it was over. ‘Mm, no,’ Rosanov croaked. ‘The devil, perhaps.’ Again, Shane couldn’t help the fond look at the wall, shaking his head. ‘I was gonna ask you if you were feeling any better, but…’ ‘Not better, no.’ ‘Your text scared me, a bit.’ Shane bit his lip. They didn’t really talk like this. They didn’t really talk much at all. There was a long pause, and when Rosanov’s voice came back, it was slow and uncertain. ‘My text?’ Shane’s heart dropped. ‘Rosanov, do you have a fever?’ A pause, again, before: ‘Yes.’ ‘How high?’ Another pause, and Shane began picking nervously at the skin around his cuticles. ‘Hmm,’ Rosanov hummed, as if he was seriously trying to remember. ‘Do not know. Have not checked in - ‘ he stopped. ‘Since before game.’ Shane let out a spluttering sound. Since before the game? Rosanov must be alone then, alone and clearly in the grasp of a high fever. ‘Ilya, that was five hours ago,’ he said. ‘No,’ Rosanov said slowly. ‘Cannot be.’ He truly sounded - unmoored, Shane thought, and it was such a difference from the usually unshakeable Rosanov that he didn’t know what to do. ‘Fuck, you’re delirious,’ he said. ‘Am not delir - deli - ‘ Rosanov broke off, giving up on the word. ‘Yeah, you are,’ Shane said, mind whirring. Rosanov’s place wasn’t that far from his hotel…‘Are you alone?’ ‘Yes.’ That cemented it. Shane turned and began to make his way back up to his room, already writing a grocery list in his head. ‘I’m coming over. Don’t move, ok? I’ll bring - stuff.’ He hung up, trying not to think of Ilya - of Rosanov - sick and alone. He made his feeble excuses to Hayden - who waved him off with a grin - shoved his shoes on, and left the hotel with anxiety thrumming in the pit of his stomach. He sped through grocery shopping, grabbing anything he thought might help. What would Rosanov have for food in his apartment anyway? Or hell, anything else? Shane couldn’t stop himself from getting like, five different types of herbal tea. Maybe he was over-doing it. Ok, he was totally overdoing it. He couldn’t stop himself. Rosanov’s penthouse was - new territory. Shane had been there once before, always too nervous to commit whole-heartedly to moving their hookups there, preferring the anonymity of a hotel room. It seemed ridiculous now, even in the privacy of his own head. He stood in front of the door, nervous - last chance to back out, now. He debated texting Rosanov, and knocked lightly on the door instead. Nothing. He pulled out his phone, checked to see if Rosanov had sent him anything; he hadn’t. He knocked again, louder this time, hoping no one came to see what the racket was. Worry curled tight in his stomach. Finally he sucked in a breath, pulled out his phone, jabbed the call button. It rang for a worryingly long time before Rosanov picked up; the man’s voice was even weaker than before. ‘I am coming,’ was all he said, the words faint. Shane imagined him on the other side of the door. Was he in bed? Was he trying to stand, fever flushing his cheeks? ‘Keep your pants on, Hollander.’ He sounded - awful. Shane’s heart clenched. ‘I wish I had a key,’ he muttered, unthinkingly, and then his stomach dropped. ‘‘I just meant - I don’t want you to give yourself a concussion trying to stand. It could be dangerous, with your fever.’ Fuck, he was such an idiot. ‘Am fine,’ Rosanov said, and Shane thought his voice might have even sounded a little fond. Then he hung up, the bastard. Shane waited, his anxiety growing with each minute that passed. It wasn’t even the fear of discovery anymore; it was worry for Rosanov, who wouldn’t just be making him wait on purpose, who could have fallen, who could be - who could be - Shane pulled out his phone and pressed call again. This time, there was no answer, at least not before the door creaked open in front of him and the bottom of his stomach dropped out. Rosanov looked - well, terrible really was the only word for it. He was wearing low-slung sweatpants, rucked up around his calves, and a sweat-soaked grey t-shirt. He had to be cold, Shane thought, because he was shivering, swaying slightly as he stood in the doorway. His hair was matted, damp curls stuck to his forehead, his eyes dazed and empty. He looked almost confused, Shane thought, as if he wasn’t sure if this was real, and his hand was reaching out to the side, slightly, as if looking for the doorjamb to support him. ‘Fuck, Ilya,’ Shane breathed, unable to stop himself from using the other man’s first name. Rosanov’s eyes softened at that, and he half-mouthed something that Shane thought might be his name, before he swayed, keeling like he’d been unmoored. Shane lunged forward, getting one hand around Ilya’s waist and the other around his shoulder, as the man face-planted into his chest, an impressive feat considering their height differences. ‘Shit,’ Shane cursed under his breath, maneuvering them forward, out of the doorway and into the penthouse. It wasn’t an easy feat, manhandling the dead-weight of a professional hockey player a good head or more taller than him. Shane let out a breath of relief once he’d managed to kick the door closed behind them. ‘Ok,’ he said, looking around. It seemed like Ilya had been on the couch, from the dented cushions and the throw blanket on the floor. But it didn’t seem like he’d prepared for being ill in any other way - there was none of the detritus one would expect from a sick person. Shane frowned. Had he just been laying on the couch, waiting for the illness to pass, nothing to aid him with that process? It seemed suddenly like a very Ilya thing to do, and Shane could now imagine the stubborn tilt of his brows, the insistence that ‘Russions do not get sick, Hollander. We do not have ‘colds’ in Russia.’ He smiled fondly, letting out a huff of breath. Rosanov made a questioning noise, and his fever-hot hand slipped under the edge of Shane’s t-shirt, gripping at his waist. ‘You are terrible at taking care of yourself, aren’t you, Rosanov?’ Shane asked quietly, against the man’s curls. ‘Come on.’ Somehow, he got the other man back over to the couch, dumping him on the cushions, Rosanov’s fever bright eyes barely cracked open. Shane pulled the blanket back over the shivering man, unable to resist running a hand gently over his sweaty forehead. ‘Just stay there, ok?’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in a sec.’ ‘You came,’ Rosanov said, the words mumbled. ‘Yeah, of course,’ Shane said, confused. ‘I told you I would.’ He moved to step away, to retrieve the groceries from where he’d dropped them in the foyer, and to plan out his next steps - but Rosanov had shot his hand out, reflexes hockey-player fast, and grasped the edge of his t-shirt. ‘You came,’ he said, again, more force behind it this time. Shane furrowed his brows, uncertain. They were in new territory now. Looking at Rosanov like this made him feel like his heart was cracked wide open, like all the stuff he’d never let himself even contemplate would come spilling out. He didn’t know how Rosanov was feeling. He didn’t know what the other man needed. After a moment, he knelt down, giving in to his desires and stroking his thumb across Rosanov’s cheek, just under his eye. ‘I came, Ilya,’ he said softly, unable to stop himself from using Ilya’s first name. Ilya’s eyes were open now, but they looked distant, and Shane wondered how lucid he was. He seemed to be drifting in and out of understanding. ‘I’ll always come.’ Ilya probably wouldn’t remember any of this. At least that’s what Shane told himself. His heart stuttered as Ilya lifted his other hand, wrapping it weakly around Shane’s wrist. His eyes seemed to be drifting closed now, and Shane watched as he licked at his chapped lips, and mumbled something in Russian, the words low and pleading. ‘What was that?’ Shane nudged his cheek. ‘Ilya?’ ‘Don’t go,’ Ilya whispered, his eyes barely open, eyelashes brushing against the tops of his cheeks. Shane’s heart clenched. Shit. He was in way, way over his head. He was so totally, completely fucked - because he didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay forever, if Ilya would let him. If they lived in a world where that was possible, or where Ilya would want to settle down with someone like Shane. Someone boring. Ilya liked Shane well enough, Shane thought, and they were certainly… compatible. But they could never be anything more - it would mean giving up far too much for both of them. Shane could never give up hockey. It was everything to him. Was it selfish to wish he could have both? And Ilya - Ilya would have to give up Russia, his home, if he ever came out. Shane could never ask him to do that. All Shane could have, then, were moments like these. Quiet, brief, stolen, and always fleeting. But Shane was selfish. He often thought that that was something people didn’t see, didn’t notice, behind the quiet Canadian exterior, the polite boy, the responsible captain: Shane Hollander was as selfish as they came, and greedy, too. He wanted. He wanted so many things. When he was a kid, it was to play professional hockey. When that dream started to come true, then it was dreams about Rookie of the Year, the Cup, the Olympics. Now, it was the man in front of him who made Shane greedy, who made him selfish. He’d take what he could. He’d keep every moment carefully tucked away, until he couldn’t have any anymore. ‘I won’t,’ he whispered, brushing his thumb across Ilya’s face again. Maybe he couldn’t have both. Maybe he was walking a tightrope and it would only be so long before he came crashing down. But he was tired of acting like Ilya meant nothing. They’d never let this thing between them grow, and Shane didn’t even know if Ilya would want that. But now - well, now Shane didn’t think he could pretend to himself that this wasn’t something he’d want, maybe, in a world where it was possible. So he’d stay as long as Ilya let him, and take what he could, and never breath a word to anyone about what he was actually feeling.

Chapter End Notes

I thought about ending it here, and then I thought that I actually wanted to write more of them :). And to end it on a more hopeful note. Hopefully neither of them feel too OOC.

Chapter 3: it's the feeling of forgetting how it was

Chapter Notes

the aftermath. Updated tags!! See the end of the chapter for more notes It's the feeling of forgetting how it was Sat spilling your guts and a drink on a counter top

I'm singing the La's to the stars while you're floating off You're cheering me on with a nod as you tap along

Ilya dreamed in broken fragments. Later, he would be glad he could not remember, glad the fever had stolen what usually plagued his nights, the times he was not tired enough or drunk enough or fucked out enough not to dream. His mother, pale and far away. His father, always angry. Even Svetlana, leaving him, a twisted look of disappointment on her face which he has never seen there in real life. In between these nightmares, though, there was something else: a cool hand on his forehead, a low voice that spoke in soothing tones, though he could not always make out the words, the language strange and far away. There was water, gentle on his parched throat. There was a blanket, tucked around his aching limbs. There was Shane Hollander, who had apparently decided he was Ilya’s guardian angel. Normally this would scare Ilya, prompting him to put up the walls he had worked so hard to try to keep up, but now he could only bask in it. If each moment of lucidity, each moment where he cracked open his eyes and Shane was there, offering him water or taking his temperature or speaking to someone on the phone in a low, worried voice, only made Ilya long for him more, then fine. So be it. Later he would pretend it was the fever that soaked his bones which made him feel such things, that really this thing between them was nothing, casual. Ilya was starting to hate the word casual. The fever burned through him with a vengeance, stealing his mind, and he succumbed to it. He had not been this ill since he was a child in Russia, and in the haze his mind drifted back there. He became unmoored in time, convinced that his mother was with him, his father before he grew so cold. Even his brother, quiet as he had been when they were young, before he grew loud and brash in his attempts to keep up with Ilya. The lines between reality and fever-dream blurred. Eventually, though, the heat subsided, the chill leaving him wrung out and exhausted. Eventually, the pulsing beneath his skin quieted, leaving him empty, suddenly painfully aware of the sweat soaking his t-shirt. Ilya woke in his quiet apartment, twisted up in the covers on his cold bed. His head ached, and his limbs felt impossibly heavy, but his fever was gone. His head was empty. The air was still, and as he blinked his eyes open to see the empty room, his heart dropped. Of course, it must not have been real, nothing more than a fever-induced hallucination - there was no way Shane Hollander actually was at his apartment, had bullied his way over and taken care of Ilya in the depth of his illness. He threw a hand over his face, annoyed at how his heart betrayed him even in his dreams. But - he could have sworn he had been on his couch, watching the game? He could not have imagined that, surely. That felt real. A clatter, footsteps. Ilya’s traitorous heart lurched up, into his throat, as Shane Hollander carefully pushed open the door of his bedroom. His hair was mussed, one side pressed down like he’d been sleeping. His eyes were sleepy, too, half-closed, like he’d just woken up. He was wearing one of Ilya’s hoodies; he must have gone into Ilya’s closet, paged through all the clothes, most of them familiar to Shane, because he’d seen Ilya, he knew Ilya. He’d never worn Ilya’s clothes before, despite Ilya wanting it. He had wanted it almost since the first time. Ilya wanted to cry. ‘Shane,’ he croaked. He didn't bother with last names, didn't bother with hiding the fondness he knew must be clear in his voice. Shane’s face half-crumpled with relief when he saw him, and he hurried to put the mug he was holding on Ilya’s bedside table. ‘Ilya,’ he said, and reached his hand out, left it hovering over Ilya’s face, uncertain - then he must have thought fuck it, because he carded his hand through Ilya’s hair, cupped the side of his face like he was checking for a fever. Ilya, still a little delirious, unable to believe that this is real, turned his face and pressed a kiss to Shane’s palm. ‘You’re here,’ he murmured, and Shane’s face did something complicated. ‘Yes, Ilya, I’m here,’ he said, and pressed his hand to his forehead again like doubted whether or not the fever was actually gone. ‘You feel cooler.’ ‘Yes, I feel better,’ Ilya mumbled. ‘What do you remember?’ Shane asked. Ilya shrugged. His eyes wanted to close again, now that he knew Shane was there, would be there. ‘Bits and pieces. You came.’ ‘I came,’ Shane agreed. ‘God, Ilya, you scared me. Your fever was so high… I didn’t know what to do. I almost called someone - I was thinking about trying to break into your phone.’ ‘No need,’ Ilya said. ‘I was fine, because you were here.’ Shane’s face went fond, and he stroked his hand over Ilya’s hair again. ‘Who is Irina?’ he asked. Ilya paused. ‘My mama,’ he said, and the words carried a weight to them in the quiet of the room. ‘You said her name a lot,’ Shane said. ‘I was…’ ‘Curious?’ Ilya did his best to smile. ‘Yes.’ Shane continued stroking his hair, sitting on the side of the bed. ‘You must miss your parents very much. I’m lucky to be so close to mine.’ They don’t talk like this, usually. They don’t have this, this quiet moment where time had seemed to stop just for the two of them. It was like a spell, one which Ilya wouldn’t break as long as Shane didn’t. Ilya closed his eyes. ‘My father is… traditional. We are not close,’ he whispered. ‘My mama… she is dead.’ He could feel tears welling up, did his best to suppress them. ‘Oh, Ilya.’ Shane scooted closer, so that his hip pressed into Ilya’s side. ‘I was very young. Twelve years old, only,’ Ilya continued, because now that he had started, he could not stop. ‘How did she die?’ The question came softly, and Ilya knew that if he opened his eyes, Shane would be looking at him with that fond look he got sometimes, the one Ilya treasured. The one that made him think that Shane, too, felt there was more to this between them than the fucking. He kept his eyes closed. ‘Was an accident,’ he whispered. ‘She accidentally swallowed a whole bottle of pills. I was the one who - ‘ his voice broke, and he turned his head away. ‘I was the one who found her.’ He couldn’t stop the tear from sliding down his cheek. There was a bare moment, then Shane was moving, clambering onto the bed and pressing himself against Ilya’s back, winding himself around Ilya: one arm around his waist, the other over his chest, cupping Ilya’s face and wiping the tears from his cheeks. Ilya turned, pressing his face into Shane’s chest, and broke into sobs. Shane shushed him, tucked his face against Ilya’s hair, pressed kisses to the top of his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ Shane whispered, and held Ilya tight as Ilya shattered into a million pieces in his arms. He had not cried since his mother died. He had not had anyone to hold him, to let him release the grief he kept in the gaping, cavernous hole in his chest. Shane let him cry until there were no more tears left, until he was sniffling into (his own) gross, snotty, hoodie. ‘Sorry,’ he said, pulling back. ‘I make you gross.’ Shane brushed a thumb over Ilya’s cheekbone. His own eyes were shiny, like he had been crying, too, and Ilya suddenly felt impossibly fond. ‘Don’t apologize,’ Shane said. ‘I knew you were sick. I knew what I was signing up for, when I came over.’ He paused, and swallowed, and looked Ilya dead in the eyes. ‘I don’t regret it,’ he said and Ilya thought that maybe he didn’t just mean this time, but all the time they’d spent together. It felt like that was what he was saying- he didn’t regret any of it, didn’t regret coming up to Ilya at the International Prospect Cup, didn’t regret flirting with him the night of the draft, didn’t regret a single time, since the summer before their rookie year. ‘Me too,’ Ilya said. ‘I don’t regret any of it.’ Shane pulled him close again, and tucked his face into Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya held him as exhaustion pulled at his limbs. ‘I remember - you were talking to someone?’ The memories were slippery and faint. Shane nodded against his shoulder. ‘Hayden,’ he said, and Ilya stiffened. ‘I didn’t - I didn’t tell him about us. He thinks you’re Lily, the girl I meet up with Boston.’ Ilya smiled, and relaxed slightly. ‘My teammates think you are Jane, my Montreal girl. What were you asking him?’ ‘He has a kid,’ Shane said. ‘I figured he’d know about fevers and when you need to go to a doctor, and… stuff.’ ‘And stuff,’ Ilya said softly, fondly. Shane shoved at him. ‘I was trying to make sure you didn’t die, asshole.’ Ilya laughed, which turned into a coughing fit. Shane pulled back and guided Ilya to sit up against the pillows. When he was slightly more upright, Shane grabbed the mug from Ilya’s bedside table and pressed it into his hands. ‘Drink,’ he said, helping Ilya guide his tired hands to his mouth. ‘What it is?’ Ilya asked. ‘Tea,’ Shane said. ‘Herbal. It’s good for you.’ Ilya smelled it warily. It smelled like peppermint, the steam soothing against his face. He sipped, the hot liquid sliding nicely down his throat. ‘Mm,’ he hummed. ‘Is nice.’ ‘It should help your throat,’ Shane said. He was sitting up beside Ilya now, and Ilya missed the closeness of him at his side. Shane returned to stroking his fingers through Ilya’s hair, though, so he was mollified. Ilya settled back against the pillows, and took another drink of tea. Shane busied himself straightening the blankets, smoothing them out over Ilya’s legs and grabbing an extra one from where it fell to the floor during Ilya’s tossing and turning. Ilya smiled at his fussing. ‘I am glad you came,’ he said, sleep slurring his words. ‘So am I,’ Shane said. ‘When do you have to leave?’ Ilya hated that he even had to ask, and hated that Shane couldn't stay. ‘We have an afternoon flight out,’ Shane said. ‘So not for a while.’ Ilya looked at the clock on the bedside table. It read 8:00 am. They had more time than he thought - the fever had stolen away his ability to tell the passage of time. ‘Stay until your flight?’ he asked, his voice small. Shane’s face softened, and he came and sat beside Ilya again. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he promised, taking Ilya’s cup and passing a hand over his forehead. ‘You should sleep more, if you can.’ ‘Mm,’ Ilya hummed, closing his eyes. Shane settled on the bed beside him, wrapping an arm around Ilya so that Ilya was curled into his chest, his head resting over Shane’s heart. His heartbeat echoed in Ilya’s ears, a comforting low sound. Ilya’s English was still clumsy, though it had improved a little in the handful of years he’d known Shane. He didn’t have words for many of the things he wanted to say, much less the ability to say them well. Still, he tried to express what he had been feeling - that what they have meant more to him than just a simple fuck. ‘I miss this,’ he said. ‘Between.’ ‘Between games?’ Shane asked, his voice soft. Ilya hummed, nodded. ‘Me too,’ Shane said. ‘But Ilya - I’m scared,’ he admitted. ‘I’m a coward.’ Ilya shook his head. ‘Not a coward. Is hard. All of this. But…’ he hesitated. ‘I am not scared when I am with you.’ Shane let out a huff of laughter. ‘God, Ilya,’ he said. ‘How are we supposed to do this?’ Sleep was pulling hard at Ilya’s mind, and the world was starting to feel very far away. But even through the vestiges of his illness, he knew the answer. It was as easy as anything. ‘Together,’ he breathed. Shane pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and Ilya knew that not everything was figured out, that there was a space between the two of them and the rest of the world - hell, the rest of their lives - that felt unbroachable. He knew that his nervous, neurotic Shane would have a million and one fears, a million and one questions. He knew that the League would never be supportive of a relationship between them, not right now, at least. But in that moment, with Shane’s arm wrapped around him, with Shane’s voice echoing his, whispering ‘together,’ into his hair, it was beginning to feel like they might have at least a shot at a chance for - something. That was all that Ilya had ever needed, in hockey. A chance, a shot, a breakaway. He could do the rest himself.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you to the commentor who suggested Ilya waking up and thinking it was all a dream! Also thank you to everyone who has read/commented/left comments on any of my Heated Rivalry fics, this fandom has been a fever dream in the best way. Happy New Year!! Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!