Rating:

Not Rated

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, Yuna Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Sick Character, Hospitalization, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, some light ass play, its not like they could fuck in the hospital bed, (according to reddit it can be done), but they dont, but! lots of making out, Hurts So Good, Idiots in Love, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Autistic Shane Hollander, Happily Ever After, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, they are 18 and 19 years old, Medical Inaccuracies, and probably hockey inaccuracies, I tried my best, So Many Cameos

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of the whump series

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-05 Words: 38,557 Chapters: 2/2

everytime i leave

Summary

ilya rozanov did not plan on spending the majority of his rookie season in the hospital. then again, he did not plan on shane hollander either.
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or, the whump fic. based on my own tweet: a fic where 17 year old shane is a [redacted] ill patient and ilya is the rookie his team drags to the children's hospital. he falls in love with freckles and can't stop visiting shane every chance he gets.

Notes

hiiiihihi, im so excited to finally get to share this! its taken over my life the last month so I hope u enjoy my blood sweat and tears.

psa: this a sick fic where it is primarily based around hospital scenes. nothing major, but there are some themes that could be triggering and I won't be tagging each and every one. but don't worry, no one dies. and im not a doctor, nurse or hockey player so just go with it.

Chapter 1: part one

Ilya hated hospitals. 

The stale, bleached air that tried too hard to disguise the smell of sickness. Lights buzzing overhead, too many voices and machines beeping and babies crying. It all tangled together to make his stomach curl, which was already doing him no favors after celebrating a little too hard the night before.

Unfortunately, he’d been dragged out of his bed that morning by a call from his coach, reminding him about the team’s outing—some kind of charity work, Make-A-Wish shit or whatever they were calling it. The only upside was that it gave him an excuse to get rid of the extra body he’d taken home with him, a fake apology on his tongue that forced his one night stand to haul themselves out of bed and out the door. 

Which led to now, moving room to room, listening to his teammates crack jokes he didn’t understand, and taking photos while making faces. Ilya wasn’t very good at this, they didn’t make him do this kind of thing when he played for the MHL back in his country. 

He hung back as much as he could get away with, staying pressed against walls and watching little chests rising and falling because a machine made sure they did. 

Ilya subtly checked the time on his phone, urging the minutes to pass until they could all get on the bus and head back to the arena, where he belonged. At the rink, he could put on his gear like armor and be surrounded by things that didn’t remind him of death. Maybe that made him a bad person, but it wasn’t like an autographed puck was going to stop cancer from eating away at tiny organs.

“Roz, what do you say, got a round of Go Fish in you?” Cliff Marlow nudged him in the ribs, snapping Ilya out of his daze. “Show off those card skills you’ve been mastering?” Marlow was full of shit, Ilya had never played that game in his life.

“Ah,” Ilya smiled tightly, “I think no, I do not want to make you look bad, Marly.” Before Marlow could respond, Ilya took a step back. “I need restroom.”

Back in the hallway, Ilya slumped against the wall, taking a deep breath that didn’t quite fill his lungs. He felt ashamed, wishing he could shake this off as easily as he did a cross check. Here he was, six foot three, brimming with muscle and a heart pumping away on its own and yet he was the one feeling sorry for himself. 

“Ilya Rozanov?”

Fucking great. He should have just gone outside.

Ilya sighed as he opened his eyes at the sound of his name, finding a boy standing in front of him. Well, not really a boy, but the hospital gown hanging off of his shoulders made him look smaller than he probably was, his hand hooked around an IV pole.

But then Ilya looked at his face and that breath he’d just been trying to catch escaped him altogether. Big brown eyes stared at him intently, a sprinkle of freckles darkening against the slight flush of his cheeks. 

“Yes.” Ilya said, clearing his throat and straightening up.

“You’re an awesome player to watch.” 

Suddenly, Ilya forgot every word in the English language he’d been working so hard to learn, settling for an “okay” and feeling rather dumb about it. 

“I’m Shane,” the boy said, reaching out his free hand, his wrist wrapped in several plastic bands—layered up his arm like the kind kids their age collected from concerts and festivals they attended. Except there was nothing fun about these. 

Ilya slipped his hand into Shane’s palm carefully, as if squeezing too hard might make him shatter into pieces.

“Ouch,” Shane winced, pulling his hand back. 

“Shit, sorry–”

“I’m kidding,” he rolled his eyes, “you just looked scared to touch me.”

Ilya grinned a little at that, staring at him. He was very interesting to look at. 

“Your numbers are good for a rookie,” Shane said unprompted. “You’re on pace for a forty goal season if you stay consistent. Maybe fifty if you don’t fall off after the All-Star break. Ovechkin had fifty-two his rookie year.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows in surprise as Shane adjusted his grip on the IV pole, thumb tapping against the metal absentmindedly.

“They’ve been playing you more, too, your ice time’s gone up the last few games. That was a killer goal in overtime in Toronto, especially since they had the advantage with the power play.” He paused, gaze drifting past Ilya’s shoulder, like he’d only just realized he was talking out loud. His cheeks flushed a little darker. “…sorry, I’m rambling.”

What a weird fucking kid.

“Mister hockey fan,” Ilya smirked, crossing his arms across his chest.

Shane shrugged and looked down, the gown shifting on his shoulder. “It can get boring here.”

Ilya looked up and down the hall, pursing his lips. He couldn’t imagine having to be in this place without losing his mind. “How long have you been here?” he asked, hoping that wasn’t a rude thing to ask.

“Oh,” Shane’s gaze drifted back up, squinting at the wall and humming. “Like, a month?”

“Wow.” 

“It’s better than the ICU,” he laughed, though it didn’t really sound funny. And Ilya didn’t know what that meant. 

“What is…ICU? Sorry, I–”

“No, no, it’s okay. It’s the intensive care unit?” Shane’s eyes met Ilya’s briefly, but he looked embarrassed. “Like, if you’re really sick?”

“And you were?” Ilya asked, his brow furrowing. Though, he realized as soon as the words came out that it was a dumb question. They were standing in the middle of a hospital for fucks sake. 

Shane shrugged again, his black hair hiding his eyes when he turned his head to look down the hall.

“Who is your favorite team?” Ilya asked, just for the sake of guiding the conversation back to comfortable territory. 

“The Voyageurs, obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Ilya repeated slowly, his thick accent curling around each syllable. “They are not better than Bears. They do not have me.”

That earned him another laugh, but this time it was genuine, and Shane looked up at him with playful eyes, “So you are as arrogant as everyone says you are.”

It took Ilya a minute to process that word. He'd been hearing it a lot lately from reporters and chirps from opposing teams…and maybe some of his teammates. He smirked, “Is true, no?”

“That you’re arrogant?” Shane’s eyes raked over Ilya like he was accessing him, and Ilya didn’t mind the attention at all. But just as quickly, Shane dropped his gaze back to the floor.

“Do you watch a lot of games?” Ilya asked when the silence stretched a beat too long. 

“Yeah, if I’m not sleeping,” Shane said, distracted, glancing around like he was searching for something. 

“What?” 

“Oh, um,” his face turned red, not meeting Ilya’s eyes, “do you think we could sit?”

And god, that made Ilya feel like a piece of shit, leaning against the wall casually as if this kid wasn’t using his IV pole like a crutch. He immediately sprung forward. “Ah, yes, I think seat–” 

“I know where all the seats are, trust me.” 

“Oh. Okay.” Ilya flourished his hand out, signaling for Shane to lead the way.

Ilya followed until they turned a corner into a small seating area tucked into a windowed nook. Gray November light spilled in, making everything feel a little moodier than it already was. Shane eased himself into one of the overstuffed chairs, with Ilya hovering close enough to make sure the IV pole didn’t catch on anything while trying not to make it obvious.

“I’ve got it,” Shane muttered when Ilya reached out to adjust the pole. 

“Okay.” 

They sat in silence for a little while, which didn’t really bother Ilya, but he was finding it increasingly difficult not to stare at the boy across from him, trying to figure him out. He had to be close to Ilya’s age, and he didn’t look all that sick from the outside. Shane was gazing out the window, eyes tracking the slow paths of the rain streaks, the freckles across his nose more prominent in the natural light. 

“Stop staring at me,” Shane said quietly, slowly turning his face to blink at Ilya.

Remarkably, Ilya felt himself blush, which was absurd. He never fucking blushed. Instantly his eyes dropped to his lap, finding a frayed thread in his jeans very interesting. “Sorry.”

“I’m just–” Shane sighed, and Ilya could hear him shifting in his chair. “It just gets old.”

“What is old?” Ilya dared to look up, hit with a sudden sadness when he met Shane’s tired eyes. He had drawn his knees up to his chin like he was folding himself up protectively. But he looked so cozy wearing a pair of sweatpants under his gown with the hem tucked into the cuff of a thick pair of socks. 

“People trying to see what's wrong with me.”

“Ah,” Ilya said softly, holding his gaze. This time Shane wasn’t backing down from it. “In defense, I was looking at your freckles.”

Ilya’s eyes dropped to Shane’s mouth as his plush lips parted in surprise. Fuck, that was a good mouth. 

“Oh,” Shane said, the rosiness of his lips matching his cheeks. “I hate them.”

Now it was Ilya whose mouth fell open in plain shock, clutching his chest and offended for something that wasn’t even his. “Hate? How? They are very nice.”

“Nice?” Shane snorted. “If you say so.”

“I say so.”

Shane shook his head, rolling his eyes back to the window. Ilya kept staring, figuring it didn’t bother Shane as much anymore. But then he noticed the goosebumps along Shane’s arms, the way he kept rubbing at them like he couldn’t get warm. Ilya was shrugging off his jacket before he really thought about it.

“Take,” he said, holding it out.

Shane blinked, a little startled. “Oh—that’s okay—”

“No, no,” Ilya insisted, nudging it closer, halfway out of his seat.

Shane lifted a hand, stopping him. “I can’t,” he said, almost apologetic. “It’s—germs, or whatever. Immune system.”

It took Ilya a second to understand, but when he did he yanked it back immediately.

“Fuck—sorry,” he muttered, words slipping into Russian. Of course. His jacket had been everywhere—planes, buses, locker rooms, other countries for fucks sake. He ran a hand through his loose curls, feeling like an idiot. 

“My mom is bringing more clothes later,” Shane explained, even though it was none of Ilya’s business, “so I just have these right now.”

“Okay,” Ilya nodded. 

“Actually…” Shane slowly unfolded himself, looking up at Ilya, “I think I should go back to my room now.”

Ilya’s heart did a weird little flip at that, and he didn’t know if it was because he didn’t want to say goodbye or because he felt like maybe Shane wanted to get away from him. 

“Can I walk you…to your room?” 

“Oh, sure,” Shane sounded a little surprised, but he was already moving and Ilya immediately fell into step beside him. 

“So,” Ilya said after a few moments of silence, desperately trying to think of what to say and landing on the only topic his brain knew how to supply, “you have been to hockey games before?”

“Yeah,” Shane huffed out a soft laugh, “a few, I guess.”

Glancing over, Ilya saw something unreadable slip onto Shane’s face. There was definitely more to it, but he didn’t want to push him. 

They stopped in front of an elevator and Shane leaned forward to press the button but his arm got tangled in the IV cord, making him stumble a bit. Ilya reached out, but then got worried about touching him, so his hand just hovered in the air awkwardly. 

Shane looked at his hand with raised brows, “You don’t have to be like that. I already shook your hand, you know.”

“Sorry,” Ilya said, feeling dumb again. He took a step back to give him space just as Shane hit the button again. 

Glancing back to Ilya, Shane tipped his chin upwards. “Big kids are upstairs,” he explained. 

“Ah.” Ilya nodded. “Is this why you were down here?”

“Shut up,” he scowled, “I’m five ten.”

“Okay.”

The elevator dinged just as Shane rolled his eyes again. He seemed to do that a lot and Ilya found himself growing quite fond of it. He pressed himself against the wall opposite of Shane and for a second their eyes locked, but it was Shane who dropped his gaze first. He did that a lot too. The elevator door was just starting to close when a nurse slid into it breathlessly. 

“Sorry–phew, made it–oh hi Shane!” She exclaimed happily, squeezing his shoulder as he smiled softly at her. “Are you out trying to find trouble?”

Dark eyes met Ilya’s again and Ilya couldn’t help himself from winking, entirely for the selfish reason of seeing Shane’s cheeks blush. It was a very good trick. 

“I was just bored,” he mumbled as she fussed over him and checked his IV bag like an unconscious tick. 

“Are you feeling okay?” she asked, her brow furrowing. Ilya guessed he probably got asked that a lot, and by the look on Shane’s face and by his reaction earlier, it undoubtedly annoyed him. 

“Yeah,” Shane said quickly. “I’m fine.”

“Do you want help getting back to your room?”

Shane let out a quiet breath so Ilya stepped in, saying, “I have him.”

The nurse turned around, only now registering Ilya’s presence and her expression softened into a warm smile. “Oh—are you one of Shane’s hockey friends?” Before Ilya could respond, she looked back at Shane. “Is he a teammate?”

Teammate? Ilya’s eyes widened, snapping up to Shane’s who was refusing to meet his gaze. He replayed their entire interaction back in his mind and tried to figure out when he missed the part that Shane wasn’t just a superfan, but a fucking player. 

“Oh, um—” Shane stumbled over words, but the elevator doors slid open again, cutting him off.

“That’s great, honey,” the nurse said, already stepping out and clearly in a hurry. Then she glanced back at Ilya and wiggled a finger at him. “Take care of him.”

“Yes.”

As the elevator lurched back into motion, Ilya leaned against the wall, eyes settling on Shane with a slight tilt of his head. They stayed silent for a minute as Shane avoided his gaze.

“You are hockey player,” Ilya said slowly. 

For the first time, Shane didn’t blush the way Ilya had already come to expect. Instead, his face was drawn and something in him seemed to deflate in on itself. His head fell back against the wall with a soft, tired exhale.

“Was,” Shane corrected quietly, his eyes shutting. “Was a hockey player.”

Ilya knew better than to pry.

Hockey wasn’t just a sport—it rewired something in you. He’d seen it a hundred times, felt it himself. One bad hit, one wrong step, and you were out for a game, a week, a season if you were really unlucky. And even that was enough to drive you insane. Sitting there while everyone else kept going, knowing exactly what you were missing, feeling it in your bones like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

It made you restless and mean. 

And that was with an end date, with the promise that you’d get back out there eventually, skates on, blade cutting into fresh ice like nothing had changed. He couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of it being taken away forever.

Ilya probably wouldn’t survive that. 

Thankfully, the elevator dinged, and without another word, they stepped out to make their way down another hall. It was quieter on this floor, probably considering there were no toddlers and little kids running around. But it felt so…depressing. Every step towards Shane’s room felt like walking back towards a prison cell. 

“Well, this is me.” Shane cleared his throat awkwardly, waving his hand around towards the door they just stopped in front of. “Thanks for walking me back.”

Ilya smiled, the crooked one he used when he wanted to be charming. “Not going to invite me in?” 

He didn’t really mean for it to sound so flirty. The air between them had just gone heavy in a way he didn’t know how to handle, and instinct had him reaching for something easy and familiar.

On the ice, he always knew what to do with tension—push harder, hit first, get under someone’s skin until it turned into something he could control, something physical and loud and simple. He’d spent years living in that space, slamming bodies into the boards, chirping until gloves flew off, tasting blood and grinning through it. 

But this—this was a quiet kind of tension he had no idea what to do with, and there was a pain in Shane’s eyes that made his chest feel funny. He understood why Shane didn’t like people staring, why he kept his gaze turned away. But it didn’t stop Ilya from wanting to see under the mask, to know him in a way that was completely unearned.

“Sorry, I’m just a little tired–”

“No, no,” Ilya interrupted, gently laying a hand on Shane’s shoulder before he could think better of it, and his fingers just barely caught the hem of the gown. “I’m sorry, you should rest.”

“It was really nice to meet you,” Shane’s eyes reached his and there was a slight spark in them despite his fading exterior. 

“It was nice to meet you, too. Shane.”

“Hollander.”

“Hollander,” Ilya repeated, his fingers grazing the side of his neck before he let his hand fall away. “It was nice to meet you, Shane Hollander.”

Maybe he imagined it—or maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see—but Ilya could’ve sworn Shane reacted to his touch. An involuntary shiver and soft shade of pink graced his cheeks, blooming right under those fucking freckles. 

“Try not to lose to Detroit tomorrow, Rozanov,” Shane said, smirking a little as he took a step back, moving closer to his door and dragging his IV pole along. 

“No fucking chance,” Ilya grinned as he began to walk backwards, the distance between them reluctantly growing. “Rest, Hollander.”

Shane flashed him one more small smile before shutting the door, leaving Ilya standing there in the middle of the hall. 

He’d come in counting the minutes until he could leave, already halfway gone before he’d even stepped inside. And now he found himself rooted in place, like walking away would mean leaving something very important behind. 

__

Ilya hadn’t planned on going back. 

The team fulfilled their obligation: smiling for photos, hugging grateful parents, signing their names on anything held out to them—and checked it off the list. Good, easy PR.

There wasn’t a single reason for him to come back. 

But here he was, a visitor badge shoved into his back pocket, staring at his warped reflection in the elevator doors as it traveled up. Ilya’s foot tapped a restless rhythm against the floor, cheeks puffing out on a slow exhale as he watched the numbers tick while thinking what the fuck am I doing?

He’d googled Shane, is the thing. That night after he’d finally gotten home, he’d dropped onto his bed still in his clothes, feeling heavier than usual, and did the one thing he’d been thinking about doing all day.

And it turned out Shane Hollander wasn’t just some random kid who played low-level hockey. No, Shane fucking Hollander had been wearing a letter in Kingston, playing junior, his name popping up in scouting reports and mid-season rankings. 

This information then turned into hours of Ilya going down a rabbit hole, finding whatever clips he could, studying the details—Shane’s edge work, how he carried the puck, the way he seemed to know where the play was going before it got there. 

It was addicting, learning about Shane. Watching the way he spoke in interviews, scrunching his nose when someone complimented him and watching how his freckles would bunch up. Finding out he was from Ottawa, the only son to people called Yuna and David and a year younger than Ilya. He was possibly the best hockey player Ilya had seen in years. Maybe ever. Besides himself, of course. 

But then it all just…stopped. Like Shane had dropped off completely before scouting and drafts had a chance at him, like he’d never been there at all. It was driving Ilya fucking mad. He wanted to know more and couldn’t explain why this polite Canadian boy made him so curious.

So that’s why he was lightly rapping his knuckles against Shane Hollander’s door now. 

There wasn’t a response and he wasn’t sure what to do, what the etiquette was for just walking into someone’s room. But the door was slightly ajar, so he figured that was somewhat of an invitation. He gently pushed it open and stepped inside. 

And there was Shane. Cozied up on the hospital bed engulfed in a hoodie and layers of blankets, nose buried in a book and not even bothering to lift his head up. Ilya realized he was probably used to nurses just coming in all the time and doing whatever it was they did. What probably wasn’t normal was someone from the Boston Bears showing up unannounced. 

Ilya cleared his throat as gently as possible, and immediately Shane’s head snapped up. And fucking hell, he wore glasses. He was trying to murder Ilya.

Shane’s mouth dropped in a surprised O, seemingly at a loss for words and Ilya’s anxiety spiked that maybe this had been a terrible idea. It was probably a terrible idea.

“You’re back.”

Nodding his head, Ilya leaned against the wall. “Yes.”

The awkwardness was palpable and Ilya kind of wished the floor would open up and just swallow him whole. He hadn’t really planned this out at all or what he’d even say once he got here. 

“But…” Shane’s brows furrowed in confusion as he pulled his glasses off and closed his book, “why?”

Ilya shrugged, “Was around.”

“Don’t you live in Seaport?”

Now it was Ilya’s turn to be surprised, raising his eyebrows and trying to bite back a smirk. So he wasn’t the only one who had been using google, if the immediate blush on Shane’s cheeks had anything to say about it. Fuck, he was cute as hell. 

Maybe not such a terrible idea to come here afterall. 

“You know a lot about me, Shane Hollander,” Ilya teased. “Should I be worry?”

“Worried,” Shane corrected, and then snapped his mouth shut. 

They stared at each other for a moment before Shane inevitably broke the contact, looking down at his lap and smoothing out a wrinkle in the cover of his book. 

“What are you reading?” Ilya asked, taking a cautious step into the room. 

“Oh,” Shane mumbled, flipping the book over in his lap so the cover wasn’t showing. “It’s just…nothing. Hockey stuff.”

Of course. The golden boy of Canada reading hockey books. 

“Boring hockey book? Let me see.” 

Shane hesitated, then lifted the book and handed it over without a fight. Ilya moved closer to the bed, taking the book from Shane’s hand, and the second he turned it around, he burst out laughing.

“Hollander, no—what is this?” He held it up between them, shaking his head. “The Russian Five? You are obsessed with Russians?”

“It’s history,” Shane immediately argued with a pout.

“You are serious?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Give it back.”

Ilya angled it away from him, flipping it over in his hands, grin widening from this delightful discovery. “Is this from meeting your hero?”

“I was reading it before I met you, asshole,” Shane scowled, but unfortunately for him and very fortunate for Ilya, it just made him look like an angry kitten. 

Taking pity on him, Ilya handed the book back. He pointed to the chair near the bed and raised his brows in question. Shane nodded, so Ilya grabbed it and dragged it a little closer before sitting down, crossing his ankles casually.

“What else do you do besides reading of Russians and obsessing over number one player in the league?”

Shane flopped back in his bed, which was slightly elevated, and turned his face to give Ilya a withering glare before saying, “You’re very cocky.”

“Yes,” Ilya nodded, the grin still plastered to his face. “Give me more compliments.”

“Why are you here?” Shane exasperated, but he didn’t seem that upset by it. Maybe amused. 

“To say hello.”

“Oh,” those big brown eyes met Ilya’s for a second before a tiny smile twitched at the corner of Shane’s lips. “Hello.”

“And…” Ilya clicked his tongue, searching for the word. “I thought maybe you have comment about my game last night?”

“You ignored a pass to your left wing in the third,” Shane said without hesitation. “He was open and had a better shot but you didn’t give it to him. You’re greedy with the puck, and you missed.”

Ilya frowned slightly. “No. This is not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Shane said firmly, tilting his chin up.

“I am not greedy.”

“I think you’re stubborn about getting more goals than assists,” Shane shot back, and then smugly, “and instead you got neither.”

That made Ilya laugh under his breath. “You argue with me about my game?”

“Only because I’m right,” Shane bit his lip, like he was holding back a smile, and Ilya couldn’t help himself from dropping his gaze to where his sharp teeth were tugging at that plush pink lip. He wanted to fucking bite him.

Suddenly, there was a soft knock at the door before it opened, a nurse stepping in with a bright smile on her face. The smile on Shane’s face dropped.

“Hey, Shane. Just gonna grab your vitals real quick, okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, pushing himself up in the bed. He tugged at his sleeve before pausing, instead reaching for the hem of his hoodie and pulling it off one shoulder to give her better access.

Ilya was about to look away, for a semblance of privacy, but then his eyes caught on Shane’s bare arm. There were so many bruises. Ilya was no stranger to bruises by any means, his ribs were littered with them right now. If anything, most hockey players wore them like badges of honor. 

But these bruises were not like that. These were layers of faded yellow under fresh purple marks, scattered along Shane’s arm like a map of every place a needle had been pushed in, over and over again. Some small, some darker, like they hadn’t healed before the next one came. It was such a contrast to the rest of his skin, so smooth and unblemished. 

Shane’s gaze had drifted to stare at the wall, unfocused and glazed over, like he’d checked himself out for a minute. Ilya watched his face carefully, feeling like he was intruding on something. But then Shane blinked and glanced toward Ilya and the blush returned to his cheeks before he dropped his eyes.

“Has Danny brought your dinner up yet?” the nurse asked, unwrapping the blood pressure cuff and setting it aside. Instinctively, Shane quickly hugged his arm to his stomach, hiding the bruises. 

“Oh, not yet, no.”

“How are you feeling?” she asked, reaching to take his temperature, the thermometer sliding into his ear. Shane didn’t react to it at all, and Ilya wondered how many times a day they did this.

“Fine,” Shane answered a bit robotically.

There was a soft beep and the nurse glanced at the screen. “You’re running a little warm,” she said. “Any aches? Chills?”

“No.”

“Okay.” She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “We’ll keep an eye on it, alright?” Shane just nodded.

She made a quick note on the chart at the end of the bed, adjusted the IV line with practiced hands, and then she was gone as quickly as she’d come, the door clicking softly behind her.

Shane tugged his hoodie back down, settling back against his pillows and reaching for his book again like he meant to pick up right where he’d left off. For a second Ilya panicked and wondered if he had forgotten that Ilya was sitting there but then—

“You can just ask, you know.”

Ilya had been picking at frayed threads around the hole on his knee, but his fingers stilled when Shane spoke up, his tone flat. He figured he could just play dumb, pretend he didn’t know what Shane was implying and guide the conversation back to the neutral zone. 

But instead he settled on, “What’s wrong with you?”

The book dropped in Shane’s lap and his face whipped to look at Ilya indignantly. “Well you don’t have to word it like that.” 

Ilya threw his hands up in the air. “There is something wrong with you, yes?” 

“That makes it sound like there’s something, like, mentally wrong with me.”

“You sit here reading book about Russian hockey players while Russian hockey player is in room. I think, yes, you maybe might have problem.”

At that, Shane grabbed one of the extra pillows from the end of the bed and tried to whack Ilya in the face. Ilya yelped, “No, do not hurt your hero!”

“You’re such an asshole.”

Ilya hugged the pillow to his chest and grinned widely at Shane. “So what do I say?”

“I don’t know,” Shane rolled his eyes, “maybe politely say may I ask what your diagnosis is?” 

Ilya scoffed, but he did it anyway, slowly copying the words the best he could. “May I ask what your diagnosis is? Please.” 

Shane sighed, but didn’t respond right away. His gaze stayed fixed on his lap, dark lashes blinking slowly, like he was working through something he hadn’t decided how to say yet. Ilya didn’t look away. He didn’t mind the quiet or waiting. He had nowhere else to be, and weirdly, he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

“I have autoimmune hepatitis,” Shane said quietly after a while, not looking up. “It basically just means that my liver is failing. I’m on the transplant list. That’s why I’m here.”

Ilya didn’t understand all of the words, not knowing what half of them meant, but he could feel them. 

When he looked at Shane this time, suddenly all he could see was the hospital—the IV taped into Shane’s hand, the monitors beside his bed humming softly, the tray table cluttered with half empty cups and magazines and a pair of headphones. Shane’s life reduced to the few items surrounding him in this bed. 

He had the sudden overwhelming urge of wanting to wrap Shane in his arms. 

“That is shit.”

Shane burst out laughing at that as he nodded in agreement. “Yeah, it is shit.” And then he rewarded Ilya with a bright smile, eyes flicking over to his like a quiet little challenge.

Ilya was so fucked.

__

The Bears beat the Voyageurs on home ice the next week, despite Ilya spending part of the third in the penalty box, pressing bloody gauze to his lip after dropping the gloves with their left wing, Hayden Pike, who had been getting under his skin all night.

Which, if Ilya was being honest, mainly just meant he found his face annoying.

His coach hadn’t been too impressed, considering Ilya’s penalty minutes were starting to stack up a little too quickly for a rookie. But the slap on the wrist from Coach was nothing compared to the phone call he’d gotten later that night. Grigori Rozanov loved a reason to remind Ilya that he was replaceable.

The next night, they played Buffalo and, embarrassingly, they lost. Ilya was already in a mood before puck drop, and it only got worse as the game went on. By the time he collapsed into bed that night, his whole body felt sore and tense.

Ilya fucking hated losing. Especially to teams like fucking Buffalo.

The last thoughts circling his mind as he drifted toward sleep was that somewhere across the city, in a hospital room on the fourteenth floor, a boy with freckles and entirely too many opinions had almost certainly watched every second of that game. He was probably sitting there right now with a notebook, tallying up all the ways that Ilya could have performed better.

Ilya's mouth curved despite himself.

Morning couldn't come soon enough.

 __

“That was the dumbest fight I’ve ever seen.”

“Hello, too,” Ilya scoffed, softly shutting the door behind him.

“Hello.”

Shane was sitting up cross-legged in his bed, swallowed up in another oversized hoodie and sweats, books and notebooks scattered around him, a newspaper spread open like someone’s grandfather. Who the fuck reads newspapers?

And then there were the glasses. Just sitting there on his little nose, like Ilya was supposed to be normal about it. So stupid. His day was immediately better.

“What was it even about?” Shane went on, narrowing his eyes to the cut on Ilya’s lip. “Pike didn’t even take a run on you.”

Ilya let out a long, put-upon sigh, dropping into the chair beside the bed. He waved a hand dismissively. “It is his face. Very dumb.”

Shane snorted. “He’s actually really nice. I met him once with my parents at a Voyageurs game.”

Ilya tipped his head back with a throaty groan. “I do not care about Hayden Pike, Shane.”

“You’re such a baby.” Shane grabbed a notebook from beside him and kicked out to hit Ilya’s knee to get his attention. “Anyway, I took notes from the Buffalo game. You played like fucking shit last night, but I think this could help.”

“Oh my god,” Ilya swatted Shane’s socked foot away. “Hollander, you are such a—what is word?” He squinted, tapping his chin like he was thinking very hard. “For virgin who is not cool?”

Shane’s mouth dropped open in offense, color rising fast beneath the rims of his glasses. “Asshole.” 

“Yes, that is what Pike said right before I punched him.”

“Well, you’d never punch me,” Shane said before quickly dropping his gaze. 

“No,” Ilya shook his head, “I would not.”

The blush continued to spread down Shane’s neck and Ilya felt the warmth of smug satisfaction in his chest. His eyes caught on Shane’s lips just as he bit them and he had to look away. 

“So you don’t want to know how you can improve?” Shane’s leg was still dangling off the bed, swinging casually as he looked back up, thumbing at the corner of the notebook.

And sure, Ilya maybe had come here under the flimsy excuse to see if this obsessive crazy person would have things to say about the games, but that was just a pretense. Now that he was here, he couldn’t give a shit. 

“Mm, not really, no,” Ilya said, watching Shane’s leg still. He traveled back up to his face and saw Shane looked disappointed. He added pouting to the list of things Shane did to harass him. “How was your day?”

“Oh…” Shane pulled his leg back up and hugged it to his chest. “It was fine.”

“Tell me something.” 

“Like what?”

“About you, in here. Or you could read to me from boring old people newspaper.”

“I have it for the crossword puzzles,” Shane said defensively. “The nurses bring me all the papers people throw out.” He lifted the paper up to show Ilya. 

“Ah,” Ilya leaned forward in his chair to take a closer look, then said, “We have something like that. In Russia.”

“Are you good at it?”

Ilya rolled his eyes, “I do not know, I was busy becoming best player, not best nerd.”

“Oh, so that word you know?” 

“I know a lot of words.”

“Yeah, when you want to. Until you’re in a room full of reporters and don’t feel like talking and suddenly you can’t speak English at all.”

Well, someone had Ilya all figured out. And the annoying part was that he liked it.

A slow crooked grin began to form on Ilya’s face as he watched Shane like this, all loose and happy, like he’d completely forgotten about the fact that he was living in a hospital. It was the way he deserved to feel all the time, and that thought itched at Ilya’s skin. He hated that Shane had to be locked up here all alone when he belonged on the ice and in sunshine.

“You’re very funny,” Ilya said, tapping his foot against the bed.

Shane snorted. “No one has ever called me funny before.”

“What do they call you? Your teammates? Friends?”

The mood changed instantly, like a door opening and letting in a cold gust of wind. Shane’s entire demeanor became stiff as he began to clean up his bed, stacking the books and placing them back on the tray table next to him. When he spoke, it felt like forced casualness. 

“Nobody ever called me anything.” 

Ilya didn’t say anything, instead continued to watch as Shane tidied up, giving him the space to say more if he wanted. When there was nothing left to do, Shane sat still for a moment, picking up his notebook and fumbling with the corner edges like he was trying to search for words. After a minute, he shrugged and said quietly, “I’ve just never really had a lot of friends.”

It didn’t make sense to Ilya, but nothing about Shane made sense to him, really. He seemed like the type who would be very popular, unlike Ilya. With his pretty face and perfect English and that stupidly clean backhand, Shane fit into places Ilya never had. He didn’t have a crooked nose or a dumb accent that got heavier the more irritated he was, didn’t take up too much space or say the wrong thing at the wrong time. He was everything that Ilya would never be. 

“Mm,” Ilya hummed, not knowing what else to say. 

He didn’t like it. And he really didn’t fucking like the way Shane had said it, like it was something he’d already made peace with. So Ilya did what he always did when something didn’t feel right. He ignored it.

Reaching forward, he swiped the notebook from Shane’s hands, flipping it open without asking. “So, you are expert, yes?”

Shane blinked, caught off guard for a second, but then just as quickly his shoulders loosened. He swung both of his legs over the side of the bed and reached out to take the notebook back from Ilya, sifting through the pages searching for something. The tip of his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. Ilya couldn’t stop staring. 

“Okay, so we have to start at the beginning of the game because that first face off is honestly where it all went wrong and you just never got your momentum back…”

Ilya smiled, quietly watching Shane talk and he didn’t even bother trying to pretend to pay attention. After a lot of words and hand gestures, Shane swatted Ilya’s head lightly with the notebook. 

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Sorry,” Ilya shrugged, “My English—is very bad.”

To make matters worse for Ilya, Shane scrunched his nose under those damn glasses. 

“Fuck you.”

There was a beat of silence between them as their eyes locked, and Shane didn’t look away first. It felt almost like a challenge, and Ilya met it without blinking, curious how long he could keep him there. He could get lost in those dark eyes if he let himself, could sit there studying the long black lashes framing them, tracing every freckle scattered across his cheekbones until he knew them by memory.

The moment shattered abruptly as the door swung open unexpectedly, startling both of them.

“Shane, honey—oh good, you’re up—” 

A woman swept into the room in a whirlwind, a tote bag slipping down her shoulder, long black hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, thick frames perched on her nose…and she looked exactly like Shane.

She halted when she saw Ilya.

“Oh—” she blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. “I didn’t realize you had…company.”

Her eyes lingered on him and narrowed slightly, like she was trying to place him. Ilya felt it immediately, that prickle of recognition and wondered if she had the same kind of obsessive knowledge of hockey like her son, if she’d seen his face enough times on a screen for it to stick somewhere in the back of her mind.

“Mom,” Shane sat up straighter in bed, glancing between them and clearing his throat, “this is…Ilya Rozanov, he’s, um…”

Ilya stood up, not sure if he should shake her hand or not, so he just clasped them in front of himself and said, “A friend.” 

He glanced over at Shane, who was looking down at his lap, but Ilya caught the smallest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Yuna Hollander had the same face—the kind that gave everything away whether she meant to or not—and right now it had suspicion written all over it.

“I know who you are,” she said, not moving any further into the room, leaving them all suspended in that awkward space. “Boston’s new center. You’re having an impressive rookie season.”

Like mother, like son.

“Yes, thank you.”

Her eyes moved between Shane and Ilya. “So what are you doing here?”

“I came to see Shane,” he said simply.

“I wasn’t aware you two knew each other,” she directed the statement at Shane, but he was still looking down. 

“Oh, um, my team…” English was getting increasingly difficult in her presence and Ilya stumbled through his mind trying to finish the sentence. 

“We met when his team was here to visit the little kids.” Shane said, looking at Ilya. Ilya smiled appreciatively at him.

“Well, we’re meeting Dr. Palmer in twenty minutes, so…”

“Ah,” Ilya quickly said, taking a step towards the door. “I was just leaving.”

“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Rozanov,” Yuna said, stepping aside and moving to drop her bags on the chair he’d just been sitting in. 

“Ilya,” he corrected softly.

When his fingers closed around the door handle, Ilya glanced back. Shane was already looking at him, like he’d been waiting for it. Something small and private passed between them and Ilya mouthed bye. Shane mirrored it back with a shy smile and it sent a strange, unsettled feeling through Ilya’s chest that he chose not to examine too closely.

He slipped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him. His phone was in his hand instantly, pulling up his team’s schedule, already doing the math in his head as he walked toward the elevator, counting the days when he’d be able to come back.

__

“What’s with you?”

Ilya stopped bouncing his knee long enough to roll his head against the headrest, side-eying Marlow with a raised brow. They were currently somewhere in the middle of the States and thirty some thousand feet in the air on a red eye, headed back from the West coast after a two week road trip. It was the longest he’d been away from Shane and with each passing day, he’d been growing more and more irritable because of it.

“What?” 

“You’ve been so moody,” Marlow said, stretching his long legs out, “not getting laid enough?”

“Shut up, Marly,” Ilya scowled, slouching lower in his seat as he dragged his hood up and grabbed his phone, hoping it would be enough to make him leave him alone.

The screen lit up to the last page he’d been on before the flight—some medical site filled with too many words and not enough answers about autoimmune hepatitis and liver failure.

It had taken Ilya a long time to piece together what Shane had said his diagnosis was, sounding things out under his breath like an idiot and feeding Google broken versions of words until it finally figured it out for him.

Half of it didn’t stick in English, the words slipping past him before he could make sense of them, so he had tapped the translate option, switching it over, reading it again slower. It made his stomach hurt in both languages. He’d gone a little too far learning what happens when liver failure gets bad without a donor and that had resulted in dropping his phone on the hard airport bathroom floor and getting a crack in the corner. 

He swiped out of the page before it could spike his anxiety again and opened Instagram instead.

He’d already found Shane on there the other day but he hadn’t followed him. He told himself it was because the username alone offended him, mister shanehollanderhockeyplayer24, a ridiculous long handle that read like a full sentence, like Shane had just decided to include every possible identifying detail and call it a day. It was stupidly cute.

It was almost as dumb as the collection of photos, which could not be more boring. Ilya did not understand what could possibly be so interesting about posting a photo of a bowl of oatmeal or a bottle of gatorade. And yet he’d memorized each picture like he’d be testing on them later. He was possibly turning into crazy person.

And like every day, more than once a day, his thumb hovered over the message button. He hadn’t had the guts to do it, not yet, because after only three visits, he didn’t know if it would freak Shane out. This was all new for Ilya. He wasn’t even sure what he was trying to do. 

All he really knew was that Shane Hollander had gotten under his skin and the undeniable attraction was an electric, terrifying feeling. 

Ilya pocketed his phone and nudged Marlow in the arm. “Hey. We have optional practice?”

Marlow didn’t look up from the game he was playing on his phone, just asked, “Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I think so. Check your damn calendar yourself.”

Rolling his eyes, Ilya shifted in his seat to stare out the window. In the dark reflection, he could see the dumb smile on his face.

__

It was ten in the morning by the time Ilya made it to room 1410. By now, people were starting to recognize him. The woman at visitor check-in smiled and she knew his name without having to ask for it, and a couple nurses passed him with that same familiar look they’d been giving him lately.

But today something felt off.

He noticed it as soon as he made it to Shane’s floor, in the way those smiles seemed a little thinner, and it made his steps pick up before his own brain had the chance to spiral. 

The second Ilya stepped inside, he exhaled deeply. Shane was there, curled up in bed with the blankets pulled all the way to his chin, mouth slightly parted as he slept, breathing slow and even.

Ilya quietly moved towards the bed, not wanting to disturb him. There were dark circles underneath Shane’s eyes and he looked paler than normal, his freckles a stark contrast across his cheeks and nose. He looked fucking exhausted, even in his sleep. 

Without thinking, Ilya reached out. His thumb brushed lightly beneath one of Shane’s eyes, tracing the shadow there, and once he’d done it he couldn’t seem to make himself pull away. He lingered, rubbing softly while watching Shane’s lashes flutter at the touch.

And then Shane began to stir and Ilya jerked his hand back. His eyes opened slowly, blinking up at Ilya. He watched the different emotions flicker across Shane’s face, starting with confusion but landing on something much, much worse for Ilya’s heart. 

The softest smile formed on Shane’s face, even reaching his tired eyes. He didn’t move, just tipped his head back into the pillow and stared at Ilya like he had all the time in the world.

“What are you doing here?” Shane whispered, his voice raspy.

Ilya shrugged dumbly, because he didn’t actually have an answer that made any sense out loud.

What Shane didn’t need to know was that he’d come straight from the airport. He’d spent the last stretch of the flight too wired to sit still, counting down the minutes instead of sleeping, and by the time they landed he hadn’t even considered going home first, because that would have been a waste of time.

He always kept a gym bag in his car with fresh clothes, so after parking at the hospital, he had climbed into the backseat and stripped out of his travel clothes, pulled on a pair of track pants and a hoodie and walked inside. Totally normal behavior.

“To say hi,” Ilya said, sounding rough himself from lack of sleep. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, how are you?” Shane tried to sit up, but Ilya laid a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head.

“Stay.”

Ilya watched Shane’s body relax, but it still didn’t settle the twisted knots he was feeling in his gut. “Are you okay?” he asked, brows furrowing in concern. 

“I’m fine,” Shane sighed. “I promise.” 

Ilya didn’t believe him. But he let it go, because he didn’t have any right to push him for information. He grabbed the chair and dragged it closer to the bed, maybe a little closer than usual, and sat down without a word. 

“Make yourself at home,” Shane mumbled, rolling onto his side so they were more eye level with each other. From that angle, they were a lot closer and Ilya hoped Shane couldn’t hear his heart pounding so fast. He was about to say something, but Shane spoke up again. “Why do you come here so much?”

Ilya hadn’t expected something so direct. His mouth parted, searching for a logical reason to explain it because he was pretty sure if he told Shane it was because he couldn’t stop thinking about him every hour of the day, it would probably scare him. Or worse, make Ilya sound like a stalker. Which he totally wasn’t. 

“Ah, well, I think you were going to teach me how to be better player, no?”

Shane blinked sleepily at him, and Ilya was glad he was here in the morning for the light, he liked the way it made his eyes look easier to see into, almost like they had gold in them.

“I think that’s a lie.”

For a second, Ilya began to wonder if Shane was on some new meds or something, because he wasn’t usually this…whatever this was. 

“Mm, you caught me,” Ilya smirked. “Nothing better for me to do.”

Shane smiled weakly, but it seemed to be enough. His eyes slipped closed again, like even that small exchange had taken something out of him.

Without Shane looking, Ilya’s expression tightened, his brows pulling together as the concern crept back in. His fingers twitched where they rested in his lap, the urge to reach out almost unbearable—to brush Shane’s hair back from his forehead, to do something small and quiet and comforting. It was a familiar instinct, something his mother used to do when he was younger, her fingers combing through his curls until he settled.

Ilya was a strong man, but he was weak around Shane Hollander and he couldn’t take it any longer. He cautiously reached out, his fingers just barely grazing Shane’s forehead. 

Shane’s eyes fluttered open from the touch, slow and heavy, but he didn’t pull away or protest. Ilya let his hand move properly this time, carding his fingers through his soft hair and pushing it gently back from his face. Shane stayed perfectly still, watching him with a quiet kind of curiosity, like he was trying to figure Ilya out but didn’t have the energy to.

When Ilya met his gaze, he whispered, “Chto s toboy, solnyshko?”

And just like every time he was here, they got fucking interrupted as the door pushed open. Ilya dropped his hand immediately, sitting back in the chair with a huff just as a nurse walked in. She paused when she saw Ilya, “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t realize Shane had any visitors.”

“Ah, sorry,” Ilya shifted, already half-moving to stand. “I need to go?”

“No,” Shane answered immediately.

The nurse brushed past Ilya and gave his shoulder a light, absent pat. “If he doesn’t mind, there’s no reason you need to leave, Mr. Rozanov.”

Ilya sat back in his chair.

“Alright, let’s just check you over real quick,” the nurse said, already setting things down and moving toward the bed, putting it in an upright position so Shane could sit up. “Any chills this morning?”

Shane shook his head, tugging the blanket back up like he wanted to hide in it. “No.”

“Mm,” she hummed, clearly not convinced as she slipped the thermometer into his ear, waiting for the soft beep. “You’re still running a bit warm. We’ll see what your labs look like this afternoon, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Have you been able to keep anything down yet?” she asked, reaching to wrap the blood pressure cuff around Shane’s arm. Ilya’s frown deepened from that question.

“Not really.”

The nurse nodded once, like she’d expected that, and then stepped a little closer to the bed. “Hey, look at me a second,” she said gently, tipping Shane’s chin up with two fingers.

Shane didn’t resist, just let his head be moved, eyes lifting to meet hers without any focus. Ilya watched from his chair, something tightening low in his stomach as she leaned in, studying him a little longer than what felt like normal.

“Okay,” she murmured after a beat, letting his chin go before turning toward the IV. “I’m going to bump your fluids up a bit, alright?”

Shane nodded.

Ilya tracked every movement, the way she checked the line, the small click as she changed the setting. And then she picked up a weirdly shaped bowl that Ilya hadn’t noticed before, that had been sitting on Shane’s tray table, disappearing into the little bathroom. He could hear water running as she rinsed it out, and only then did he realize it was probably for vomit. 

After she was done with everything, she refilled Shane’s water bottle, leaving it on his tray table. “Try to get a few sips in when you can, but keep them small.”

“Okay.”

She scribbled something down on the chart at the end of the bed, then looked back up at him, her expression softening. “And don’t forget, transport will be up later to take you down for imaging this afternoon.”

Shane gave a small nod. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Good.” She gave his covered foot a squeeze before stepping back, offering Ilya a polite smile on her way to the door. “Just hit the call button if you need anything.”

“I know.”

The room fell quiet again, but it didn’t feel the same.

Ilya didn’t look at Shane right away. He sat there for a second, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees and stare at the floor. When he finally glanced back up, Shane was already looking back at him with sad eyes and what looked like an apology on the tip of his tongue. But Ilya spoke first.

“You are not fine.”

Shane shook his head slowly, looking down at his lap. 

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” he said, as his fingers picked absently at the edge of the blanket, smoothing it flat, then wrinkling it again just to repeat the process. “Just a shitty couple of days.”

“You look bad.”

That earned him a faint grunt of something that might’ve been a laugh, but Shane still didn’t look up. “Thanks, dickhead.”

“I am serious.”

“Ilya,” he said, quieter now, not quite meeting his eyes, but he was at least looking up, “it’s not…new. This happens.”

“I do not like it,” Ilya said, frowning.

“Yeah,” Shane muttered. “Me nei—wait—” His head snapped to lock eyes with sudden clarity. “You played the Knights last night.”

Ilya blinked at the shift, caught off guard by the energy behind it, and had to bite back a laugh at the way Shane was looking at him. “Uh…yes.”

“How the fuck are you here?”

“Ah,” Ilya spread his arms to mimic wings. “We fly. It is called plane.”

Shane swatted at one of his arms without missing a beat, rolling his eyes. “I mean how are you here already? You had a late game.”

“Why you think? We fly at night.”

“But…” Shane’s brows pulled together as he stared ahead, doing the math, and Ilya watched it happen in real time the moment it clicked.

“Did you come straight here from the airport?”

Ilya groaned, dragging both hands down his face like he was annoyed by the line of questioning. “Mm, no. That is stupid,” he said, shaking his head. “I would not do that.”

“You totally did that,” Shane said, his smile growing so much that his freckles bunched up. 

It was useless, Ilya couldn’t deny it, so he just kept his mouth shut, his smirk softening into a smile as they looked at each other. 

“How long can you stay?” Shane asked after a minute, a faint blush creeping back into his cheeks. Ilya wasn’t one to gloat—okay, he totally was—but he was definitely going to take credit for getting color to return to Shane’s cheeks.

“Practice is optional today, so…” Ilya shrugged.

“Well,” Shane started, glancing off toward the tray table like he didn’t want to look at him while he said it, “I’ve got a few hours…and I was thinking we could play something.”

Ilya raised a brow. “Play?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, reaching over to grab a small box from beside his bed. “It’s just—like, a word game. You build words with tiles and stuff. Kind of like…Scrabble, I guess, but faster.”

He cracked it open, dumping a few of the letter tiles into his palm to show Ilya. “It might help with your English.”

“My English is perfect,” Ilya scoffed, picking up one of the tiles to look at it.

Shane snorted. “Yeah, okay.”

And that’s how Ilya ended up learning about the word gravity and realizing he didn’t know how to fight it.

__

“You are going to hurt my feelings,” Ilya said, slapping down a card, his hand brushing Shane’s as he flipped the next one over.

Without looking up, Shane shot back with a scowl, “How am I hurting your feelings?”

“Playing this badly, I thought you were fastest skater on your team and now you give me no—what is word—competent? Is very boring.”

“Competition,” Shane corrected, shoving Ilya’s hands away from the deck as he grabbed a new card to flip. “And fuck you, I’m faster than you.”

“Ah, no, I am winning.”

“You’ve cheated three fucking times.”

“Is not cheating, the numbers go in different order in Russia.”

Shane scoffed, slapping his cards down faster now with a little more bite behind it, spurred on by Ilya’s chirps. “That’s not even true, you’re just pretending to be dumb.”

Shane had been doing better since the other day. He was sitting up longer, his hands steadier, the color in his face not fading out halfway through a conversation. Before, he’d barely had the energy to argue or bicker the way that made Ilya happy. Now he was swearing at him and trying to shove him out of the way over a stupid card game. 

“Maybe I am dumb,” Ilya said as he reached across him again, deliberately knocking Shane’s wrist just enough to be annoying.

“Move,” Shane snapped, grabbing his hand to push it out of the way.

“I think you just do not want to admit you are not as good as me. Is okay.”

“You’re full of shit,” Shane muttered, eyes flicking over his cards. “You’re not even following the rules.”

“I had bad teacher.”

“Fuck off—”

Ilya dropped another card. Then another. Shane tried to keep up, shifting forward, grabbing at the pile, missing one, swearing under his breath as he scrambled for another.

“Wait—that doesn’t work—”

“It does,” Ilya said, already on his last card. “Two comes after A.”

“That’s not—”

Ilya threw down his card triumphantly after flipping the deck.

“Ah-ha! I win. Again.” Ilya raised his hands to show Shane that he no longer had any cards left and smiled obnoxiously, tapping Shane’s foot from under the table they were sitting at in the corner of the room. “Now you owe me Coke.”

“Why the fuck do I owe you a Coke?” Shane looked so stupidly cute when he lost, pouting like a scolded kitten. 

“As reward,” Ilya raised his brows incredulously, waving his hand around, “you said if I win I get prize.”

Shane’s mouth fell open, “I never said that.” 

“Mm, I think so, you did.” 

“You’re so annoying.”

Ilya grinned, leaning back in the squeaky chair and folding his hands across his stomach. He liked this—winding Shane up for no reason, just to watch it happen. It scratched the same part of his brain as chirping guys on the ice, except this was better. They didn’t blush after. 

He tapped his foot again, nudging Shane’s ankle. “Do you want to walk?”

Shane was still fussing with the deck, stacking it neatly and sorting the suits, but he paused and looked up. The annoyance was already gone from his face, like it had never been there to begin with. For a second, his gaze drifted past Ilya and out the window, unfocused.

Then he looked back at Ilya, a small smile building.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding once. “That might be nice actually.”

A few minutes later, they were walking out of Shane’s room, both of their hands on the IV pole between them as they made their way slowly down the hall. Shane had slipped one of his oversized hoodies on, and Ilya couldn’t help but notice how baggy it had gotten on him, hanging looser than it used to even just a couple of weeks ago. It made him wonder if Shane was having a harder time keeping his weight up.

His face had sharpened since he’d gotten sick, his cheekbones more prominent than before, but it almost read differently at first glance—like the kind of change that came with age, the way Ilya’s own face had lost its softness a couple of years ago.

“Do you like being in Boston?” Shane asked conversationally after a few minutes as they rounded a corner, giving nods to nurses and other visitors as they passed by rooms.

Ilya pursed his lips, nodding once. “Yes. It is nice.”

“Do you ever miss Russia?”

He hated that question. Because the answer was no. Not even a little.

Ilya kept his eyes ahead, guiding the IV pole forward. “Not really. There is not much for me there.”

He didn’t miss the house, or the silence in it. He didn’t miss the way you learned to keep your head down and he definitely didn’t miss fists that didn’t always know when to stop.

Hockey had been the only thing that made sense in Russia. And his only way out of it.

“Not even your family?” Shane pressed, and Ilya could feel his eyes on him, but he kept his gaze forward.

Exhaling slowly, Ilya shifted his grip on the pole, his tone flattening back out. “I like it here better,” he added with a little more force in his voice, hoping Shane would get the hint to stop asking questions.

Of course, Shane didn’t.

“I’m sure they must miss you.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched irritably, reaching up to rub his nose with his free hand and biting back a response that would reveal too much.

“I would miss my family if I had to be in a different country,” Shane kept going, not picking up on a single social cue to save his life. “Will you go back at Christmas?”

“No,” Ilya said, the annoyance bubbling under his skin and making him wish, for the first time around Shane, that he could just walk away.

“Oh, I guess that would be hard with only a couple of days off. At least you get the summ—”

“Enough!” Ilya barked, louder than he meant to. The word echoed a little louder than he expected, making Shane flinch as their steps came to a halt right next to a nurses station. A few heads popped up from around computer monitors and Ilya cursed under his breath, looking down at his feet.

“Ilya, I—” Shane whispered, his voice sounding shaky, which made Ilya feel like a piece of shit.

“Is everything okay?” a nurse asked from behind the desk. “Shane?”

Shane’s head snapped up, quickly saying, “Yeah—sorry, everything’s fine.”

Ilya looked up apologetically, first at the nurse and then sheepishly meeting Shane’s wide eyes. His shoulders slumped at the look on his face, and he said quietly, “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” Shane said quickly, his voice low so their audience couldn’t listen in. “Sometimes I don’t know when to stop asking questions. I’m sorry.”

Ilya dragged a hand over his face. “Okay, we are sorry,” he sighed. Then, softer, trying to pull them out of it, “now where do we find Coke?”

__

It slowly started to shift after that visit.

Instead of waiting for days off, Ilya began rerouting himself without really thinking about it—stopping by the hospital on his way to the rink, detouring after practices, carving out time in places where there hadn’t been any before. It slipped into his routine so easily it almost felt like it had always been there, like this was just another part of his day that had always been missing.

None of his teammates noticed at first. Why would they? Ilya had never exactly been predictable to begin with.

But as the weeks went on, and nights out started getting cut short—or skipped entirely—because he “had to be up early,” the change became harder to ignore.

Marlow was the first to clock it.

“You got somewhere to be?” Marlow asked one day, leaning back against his stall as Ilya shoved his things into his bag a little too fast.

Ilya didn’t look up. “Yes.”

“Where?”

Ilya zipped his bag with more force than necessary. “Out.” And then he walked out of the locker room without another word.

A few days after that, Marlow caught him halfway out the door after practice, already in his team jacket with his keys in hand. 

“Alright,” Marlow said, stepping into his path. “Who is she?”

Ilya frowned. “What?”

“Don’t do that,” Marlow said, eyeing him. “You’ve been disappearing for weeks. You’re not going out, you’re not bringing anyone back…” His brows lifted. “You hiding a girlfriend from us?”

Ilya rolled his eyes, trying to step around him. “You think too much. It will hurt your brain.”

Marlow shifted with him, blocking him again, a grin tugging at his mouth. “So it’s serious, then.”

“It is nothing,” Ilya said flatly. “Move, now.”

“Whatever you say, Roz.” He was clearly unconvinced, but he stepped aside. And then once Ilya was halfway down the hall, Marlow called out, “Use protection!”

Ilya flipped him off behind his back.

__

As Ilya approached Shane’s door, he paused right before entering, surprised to hear music coming from the other side.

It was sort of familiar even if he didn’t know the words, muffled along with the low murmur of voices. For a second, he just stood there, hand hovering near the handle, suddenly unsure in a way he hadn’t been in a long time.

The door was already slightly open, though, and before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed it the rest of the way and stepped inside.

And then he just stood there, frozen in place by the scene in front of him.

There was a small tree set up by the window with a string of soft white lights wrapped around its branches and a box of ornaments sitting on the chair next to it. Shane was standing beside it, sleeves pushed up, carefully hooking something onto a branch with one hand while steadying himself against the IV pole with the other.

There was a man Ilya didn’t recognize sitting in the chair by the bed, a travel mug in his hand, watching Shane with an easy kind of attention. He looked up first when the door opened, eyes flicking over Ilya in quick assessment before easing with recognition. Ilya felt his body go stiff on instinct and he was having a hard time remembering how to talk.

“Oh hi, Ilya,” Yuna greeted him warmly, barely glancing up from where she was perched on the edge of Shane’s bed, untangling a string of brightly colored beads.

Shane turned so fast the ornament nearly slipped from his fingers, his mouth parting in surprise before blurting, “I didn’t know you would be coming today.”

“Uh,” Ilya said, suddenly aware of himself in a way he hadn’t been in weeks, feeling like he was taking up too much space, or out of place altogether. “Yes. Practice was short.”

He took stock of Shane the way he always did when he walked in, his eyes moving over him like muscle memory at this point, searching for something off or wrong. But there was nothing to catch on this time—just flushed cheeks and bright eyes. 

Sometimes it knocked the wind out of Ilya, how healthy Shane could look on some days, like nothing was wrong with him at all, like his body wasn’t quietly fucking him over from the inside.

Shane was looking at him smiling, and then right on cue his expression softened into something smaller, more private with a hint of shyness creeping in after a second too long of eye contact. Ilya waited until Shane inevitably dropped his gaze before turning towards the man who must be Shane’s dad.

“Hello,” he said, moving forward to hold out his hand, figuring that would be the polite thing to do. “I am Ilya.”

The man stood immediately, setting his mug aside and stepping forward. “David Hollander,” he said, shaking Ilya’s hand firmly. He had very kind eyes, which Ilya wasn’t used to with men his age. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Ilya could feel the tension in his body relaxing a little as he nodded. “Yes. You too.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” David added, his other hand giving Ilya’s shoulder a pat.

Ilya swallowed, curiosity catching in his throat. He wanted to know what that meant—what Shane said about him when he wasn’t there, if any of it came close to what he felt and refused to say out loud.

And then David said, “You’re making quite a name for yourself for a Rookie.”

Something inside of Ilya deflated. These fucking hockey-obsessed Hollanders. Of course that’s what he meant. Ilya exhaled through his nose, a little annoyed at himself for thinking it could be anything else.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling tightly.

“How was practice?” Shane asked, from where he remained over by the tree.

Ilya stepped closer and brushed his fingers lightly against one of the ornaments hanging on a branch. It was made of clay or something, a little warped and painted in messy, crisscrossed lines that were probably meant to be a goalie net. He turned it between his fingers, squinting at the scrawled messy handwriting on the back. Shane, 6 years old. Ilya smiled to himself before turning towards Shane who was trying to untangle a couple of ornaments that knotted together.

“It was fine,” Ilya said, reaching out and taking the ornaments from Shane’s hands to help.

“You only have two games left before Christmas break,” Shane added, picking up another ornament. He narrowed his eyes at the tree, like he was evaluating where to put it.

“Yes. But we will not have to go far. New York and Ottawa.”

Shane went quiet for a second before whispering, “I miss Ottawa,” like he didn’t want it carrying past their little bubble. Ilya figured he was always like that—polite and careful about what he said in front of his parents, probably never wanting them to worry about him. It made Ilya feel like he was holding a secret for him. 

“It will still be there,” Ilya said lowly, shifting his weight to gently tap Shane’s slipper with his foot, “when you go home.”

“Yeah.”

A few quiet minutes slipped between them as Ilya’s fingers fumbled with the strings he was undoing, and then he huffed quietly when they finally unraveled, holding the ornaments up victoriously.

“You can find a place for them if you want,” Shane said, his gaze flicking toward Ilya for a second before dropping back to the tree. He still looked sad, which was not okay.

Ilya reached for a branch to hang one of the ornaments in his hand, but not before deliberately choosing a spot too close to another one. That made Shane’s mouth twitch in immediate disapproval, reaching over to nudge his hand a few inches to the right.

“Not there,” Shane muttered.

“Is fine,” Ilya said, watching him instead of the tree.

“It’s not fine.”

“You are bossy.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Have you never done this before?”

“No,” Ilya said truthfully.

That seemed to catch Shane off guard for half a second, the irritation slipping just enough to look Ilya in the eyes, his mouth turning into a frown. But he didn’t say anything else about it, and Ilya was grateful for that.

“What will you do on Christmas day?” Shane asked after a while of them quietly getting through the box of ornaments. 

Ilya could feel the presence of Shane’s parents behind them without turning around, aware that they were probably listening to every word they were saying. Ilya wished he could just be alone with Shane.

“Oh,” Ilya frowned slightly, not really wanting to get into that here but he easily deflected. “In Russia, Christmas is in January.”

Shane looked up at him then, brows lifting in surprise. “I didn’t know that.”

Grinning, Ilya leaned just enough to bump his shoulder. “I finally teach you something you do not know about Russians.”

For whatever reason—and Ilya had learned there rarely needed to be one—that made Shane blush, his attention dropping back to the tree as if that would hide it. 

A few minutes later, when Shane picked up another ornament, he didn’t hang it right away, turning it over between his fingers like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do with it. Ilya glanced over at him and saw that he was wearing that face he got when he was thinking too hard.

“So,” he finally said after a minute, his tone edging into something that was trying a little too hard to sound casual, “we’re not really doing anything for Christmas either.”

“Okay.”

Shane was chewing on his lip now, and Ilya really wanted to pull it free from his teeth, it was far too pretty to be abused like that. Unless he was the one doing it. And that—well, those weren’t exactly new thoughts. But the rate that they had been frequenting his mind was new.

“I mean, if you…” Shane glanced over Ilya’s shoulder at his parents, raising his brows in question. Ilya looked behind him, to see what kind of silent language they were all speaking.

“Ilya,” Yuna spoke up, relieving Shane, “if you’d like to spend Christmas with us, you’re more than welcome.”

“You don’t have to,” Shane added quickly, but it didn’t sound like he meant it, his attention snapping back to the tree as he reached out to fix an ornament that didn’t need fixing, his ears starting to go a little pink. “If you don’t want to, it’s not a big deal.”

Ilya didn’t say anything at first, just watched the way Shane suddenly had too much to do with his hands, the way he wouldn’t look up again. But after a minute, he looked up at Ilya, and the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

“I have nothing.”

And fuck, those eyes were going to kill him one day. Because they did so much of the speaking for Shane, and he wished he could capture the spark they held now. Shane nodded with a pleased little smirk before turning his attention back to the tree.

Behind them, Yuna spoke gently, like she didn’t want to interrupt but also wasn’t going to pretend she hadn’t heard. “We’d love to have you join us.”

“I will come,” Ilya said, his chest feeling tight with emotions he wasn’t used to having.

__

“I think I’m too tired to do anymore,” Shane said around a yawn, pushing his tray table away where they had been playing the silly word game that had become a regular routine now.

Yuna and David had left a couple of hours ago and Ilya was selfish, not wanting to leave until the very last minute of visiting hours closed. And Shane didn’t seem to hate the company, though Ilya could see how physically drained he was. 

The room felt different at night, softened by the quiet glow of the tree lights. They took the edge off everything—the machines, the screens, the constant hum—turning it into something almost peaceful. The warmth settled against Shane’s skin in a way that made it hard for Ilya to look anywhere else, like the light had decided he was the only thing worth holding onto.

“It is time to leave almost,” Ilya said, picking up the letter tiles and stacking them in their little box the way Shane liked. 

“Too bad you can’t stay the night,” Shane said sleepily, already sinking back into his pillow. The words seemed to catch up to both of them at the same time and their eyes met. Shane looked like a little doe eyed deer caught and it caused a stir of butterflies in Ilya’s stomach. Fucking butterflies. 

“I mean–just because it’s late and–”

“I wish I could stay, too,” Ilya interrupted before Shane could fully go into a word vomiting spiral.

He wished he could do a lot of things—like climb into Shane’s bed and fit himself against his back, hold him there until he fell asleep. He wished he were a doctor who could fix his stupid liver. He wished he was a witch and he could put a spell on him that would keep him safe, wrap him up in the kind of protection that didn’t exist, so nothing could ever touch him again.

But he couldn’t do any of those things. 

Even in the amber light, Ilya could see the way Shane blushed from Ilya’s words. It was another moment he wished he could capture and hold in his palm forever.

Ilya stood from his chair and moved to the other side of the bed, pulling Shane’s table back just enough to give him space, but not so far that he couldn’t still reach his water or his glasses if he needed them. He straightened the stack of books without really thinking about it, nudging the game box neatly alongside them.

He knew he was stalling. It was getting harder to say goodbye lately, and the thought of going back to his empty apartment had started to feel heavier than it should.

“When do you leave for New York?”

“Bus leaves at nine,” Ilya said absently, motioning at the extra blanket at the foot of Shane’s bed, offering to pull it up. Shane nodded, biting his lip. Ilya had to look away. 

“It’s an early game,” Shane said as Ilya pulled the blanket up, meticulously smoothing out the wrinkles. “You’ll be back tomorrow night?”

“I think, yes.”

They’d be getting back around two in the morning, which he already knew because Ilya had started memorizing his schedule. Before, he never gave a shit about any of it. He showed up when he was supposed to, played, won, fucked around after.

Now it all revolved around Shane. Around visiting hours, around how long he could stay and how quickly he could come back. And now he was tucking him into bed like a fucking child. 

“And the next day?” Shane asked quietly when Ilya was hovering over him for a second too long.

“I will come after practice.”

Their eyes met, and Ilya was already about to step back, to put some distance between them before he did something stupid—with the way Shane was lying there, all soft and sleepy and fucking unfair, mouth parted just slightly probably having no clue what he looked like. 

Ilya had had more bodies under him than he could count in his nineteen years, but nothing had ever made him feel anything even close to this. This fucking kid with his stupid freckles and perfect nose and pillowy lips, making Ilya blush like some idiot.

And then fingers curled around his wrist.

He looked down at where they were connected, Shane’s long, elegant fingers wrapped around his bones like it was no big deal, like he hadn’t just lit something up under Ilya’s skin that made it hard to think straight. It wasn’t even tight, but it felt like Shane was crushing all the oxygen out of his body from it.

When he looked back up, Shane was watching him.

And fuck—there was something in his face now. Open in a way he usually wasn’t, eyes a little heavy, a little too focused, like he was waiting for something he wasn’t going to ask for. Like he was just going to lie there and let Ilya figure it out.

Ilya swallowed hard, and as much as it fucking killed him, he forced himself to take a step back. Within a second Shane’s face blanked out, slipping right back into that careful, unreadable version of himself he wore so well. 

“Rest,” Ilya managed to say, the words sounding like they had climbed out of his throat made of gravel.

Shane nodded, averting his eyes to his lap.

“Goodnight, Shane,” Ilya said, and then slipped out the door. And for the first time, it felt like he left his heart behind.

__

Ilya glanced around the airport gift shop, hoping no one was paying attention—or worse, that one of his teammates didn’t wander in. He kept his hat pulled low out of habit, but it didn’t help much when he already felt too big for the space, all shoulders and team jacket, standing there holding a fucking stuffed teddy bear.

It had a red scarf with a maple leaf on it. He was horrified of who he had become.

The game the night before had been a mess. Ottawa wasn’t supposed to be good, but they’d played like they had something to prove, throwing hits harder than they needed to, chasing every puck. Ilya had taken a slap shot straight to the knee late in the second and had felt it all the way up his spine before he could even react. He’d stayed on the ice anyway, and they won.

“What’s in the bag?” Connors asked when Ilya got back to their gate, plopping down into the seat next to his teammate and barely concealing the wince. 

“Is that your business?” Ilya huffed irritably. 

Connors leaned over, trying to peek anyway. “Get yourself a souvenir there, Roz?”

Ilya shot him a look, shoving the bag down by his feet. “Shut up,” he muttered, already pulling his hat lower as he leaned back in the chair, his knee throbbing and his mind somewhere in a hospital back in Boston.

__

“You’re not eating enough, Ilya,” Yuna said, pointing a fork at Ilya accusingly. “You need to eat more, there is plenty of food.”

“Mom,” Shane groaned from beside him, “leave him alone.”

“He’s an athlete, he needs a lot of food!” 

Ilya frowned, glancing at Shane, “I am eating.” 

Across from them, David glanced up from his plate, watching the exchange with a quiet sort of amusement. “You might as well give in to her,” he said mildly. “It’s not worth the fight.”

They were all crammed around the small table in Shane’s room, bumping knees and elbows every time someone moved. Christmas music hummed softly from Shane’s iPad, and Yuna had lit candles so the only real light came from the tree, which now had a few presents underneath it. 

It felt easy being around the Hollanders, and the more time he spent around them it became obvious to see where Shane got his bossy side from. 

But it felt strange to Ilya, too—because he didn’t have anything to compare it to. Not like this. Not warm, not without someone watching him from across a room. He wasn’t used to sitting somewhere with nothing expected of him except to eat, to stay quiet, without waiting for the mood to turn, for the other shoe to drop. 

Yuna made a small, dissatisfied sound under her breath and reached over, sliding Ilya’s plate right out from under him. He watched as she stood, carried it over to the small counter by the sink where all the food was laid out, and promptly piled another heap of pasta onto it.

“So, Ilya,” David piped up once Yuna had come back and deposited his plate back to him. “The playoffs are looking pretty promising this year, Boston’s having one hell of a season.”

Ilya shrugged, “We will see. It is long season.”

“You took a nasty hit the other night in Ottawa with that slap shot,” Yuna chimed in, glancing over at Shane and saying quieter, “Try to at least eat a quarter of it, Shane.”

“Oh, um—” Ilya got distracted, looking over at Shane’s plate, just now noticing that he’d barely touched it and was just swirling his fork around the long noodles, not even reacting to his mom. “It was not so bad and we won.”

“Well, it was the first time our household was divided on who we were rooting for.”

David chuckled, sitting back and rubbing his wife’s back. “We rooted for both teams equally.”

“Speak for yourself,” she shot back, her expression mirroring one that Ilya had seen so often, that stubborn defiance that lit a fire in dark eyes. “Anyways, Shane’s always been like that, too, would downplay everything just to stay on the ice. You could never trust him when he said something didn’t hurt.”

Ilya tried to smile as he glanced over at Shane, but it turned down when he noticed the withdrawn look on Shane’s face and the way his eyes were unfocused and staring down at his plate. His fork had gone completely still, no longer playing with his food.

Ilya shifted in his seat, bumping his knee into Shane’s under the table and leaving it there. “This,” he said, turning back to Yuna, gesturing vaguely with his fork toward the food, “you make all this?”

“Yes, it’s tradition, we always have spaghetti on Christmas now, it was the only thing Shane would eat when he was little–”

“He was such a picky kid,” David interjected. “It was a solid four years of nothing but spaghetti in our house.”

“Remember when I tried to tell him that they discontinued the noodles?”

“And instead he found that package you hid and called their customer service number…”

Shane’s fork started moving again, and when Ilya pressed his knee in just a little more, he lifted a small tangle of noodles to his mouth and actually took a bite. 

The conversation drifted after that, moving between stories Ilya only half followed and small corrections Shane threw in under his breath. Yuna talked with her hands, David nodded along like he’d heard it all before, and every now and then Shane would huff something dry that made his mom swat at him.

Ilya stayed mostly quiet, answering when he was pulled in, but he was more content just watching them all interact. It all felt like a normal picture of a family until a nurse had come in to take Shane’s vitals and do his last round of meds for the day. Afterwards, Shane had climbed back into his bed, with David following to help with his IV, talking quietly to his son and gently helping him get situated. 

Eventually, it started to get late, or at least late for hospital standards, and Yuna announced that it was time for presents. Ilya had left Shane’s gift tucked away in the backpack he’d brought with him, reserving it for when they were alone because he really couldn’t imagine his own embarrassment having an audience when he gave it to Shane. 

Yuna was already reaching under the tree, handing one over to David before passing another to Shane. “This one first,” she said, settling back into her chair.

Shane took it with a weary look but he peeled the paper back slowly, careful not to tear it too much, pausing when he saw what it was.

“Oh.” 

“To help you sleep,” Yuna said quickly. “I read a lot of reviews and this one is very top rated.”

Ilya couldn’t tell what it was from where he was sitting, but Shane seemed pleased with it as he turned the box over quietly. He read something on the back before setting it down on his tray table and smiling over at his parents. “Thank you.”

And then for what felt like the first time all night, Shane looked over at Ilya, their eyes locking. The lights from the tree flickered in Shane’s eyes and something in Ilya’s chest eased in a way he hadn’t expected. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Shane, even while being in the same room. 

“It’s a noise machine,” Shane said, like he’d sensed Ilya’s curiosity. 

“Ah, that will be nice for you. No more beep beep.”

Shane wrinkled his nose like he was trying not to smile too big, looking down at his lap.

“There’s one more,” Yuna said, getting up to grab another package from under the tree, this one in a fancy striped bag. “This is for you, Ilya.”

He blinked at her. “For me?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, already leaning forward to press it into his hands before he could argue. “Just something I thought might be useful.”

Ilya frowned slightly as he opened it just enough to look inside, noticing a lot of small things packed together.

He pulled out a little box that read first aid kit, looking it over before setting it carefully in his lap. Then a portable charger. 

“I know it might seem silly,” Yuna was saying, “but it can be really hard moving alone to a new country without any family…”

A small sewing kit. A pack of lip balm. 

“...and I just wanted to make sure you had some of the essentials. Well, the charger was David’s idea, he knows all that techy stuff.”

He hesitated for a second before reaching back in, slower now, pulling out a pair of thick socks, and then a package of earplugs. A mini flashlight. None of it really made any sense together, but it was the nicest thing anyone had ever gotten him.

Ilya didn’t say anything. He just sat there, looking down at everything laid out in his lap. He swallowed hard, his throat tightening in a way he wasn’t used to, eyes stinging before he could stop it.

These fucking Hollanders. He may never be able to let any of them go.

__

“Are you okay?”

Ilya looked up from where he was across the room, still in the same chair he’d been in before David and Yuna left. Shane was sitting up in bed, cross-legged, fidgeting with the corner of one of his blankets. The lights were low, but even then Ilya could see the faint paleness in his skin, probably from the day catching up to him.

“Your mother…” Ilya started, then stopped, the words catching somewhere behind the lump in his throat.

Shane smiled softly. “She’s a lot, I know.”

“No, no—” Ilya shook his head quickly. “She is…sorry, I do not know word.”

“It’s okay.”

Comfortable silence fell for a few moments, the music from Shane’s iPad still softly playing from somewhere in the room. Ilya knew he was almost out of time before visiting hours closed for the night and he hated that he had a clock running down the time in his head. 

“So,” Shane said after a moment, his voice a little hesitant, twisting the blanket tighter between his fingers, “I actually have something for you.”

“You did not—”

“No, wait, don’t worry,” Shane rushed, already shaking his head. “It’s not really anything. It’s just a card.”

He leaned over to his tray table, pulling a book closer and slipping out an envelope from inside it. When he looked back at Ilya, his eyes were wide, his lip caught between his teeth before he held it out.

Ilya stood, his knee aching as he crossed the small space between them. “Can I sit,” he motioned toward the edge of the bed, “here?”

“Yeah—yeah, of course.” Shane shifted back immediately, making room.

Ilya sat carefully, taking the envelope. He couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his mouth when he saw his name scrawled across the front with a little smiley face next to it. He opened it slowly, already feeling unsteady because this felt like too big of a moment for a stupid card. 

A quiet huff of laughter slipped out of him when he pulled the card free. It was clearly from the gift shop and definitely for a kid, all bright with a cartoon looking Santa Claus on the front. For a second, he pictured Shane going all the way downstairs to pick it out, and for whatever reason that made him feel something warm in his chest.

“It’s stupid, I know,” Shane said quietly. “It’s just all they had.”

Ilya shook his head. “No, I like it.”

He opened it and laughed again as a little paper tree popped up from the center. He glanced up at Shane and smirked. “Is very cute.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, a flush already creeping onto his cheeks.

And then Ilya saw the words…in his language, or at least a very messy attempt at it. His eyes caught on the way the ink had been scratched over and rewritten, whole sentences crossed out and replaced. It looked like someone who couldn’t decide what they wanted to say, like Shane had sat there for a while, going back over it again and again, changing his mind each time, finally settling for something simple.

С Рождеством, Илья. Спасибо что ты мой друг. Люблю, Shane.

It was hardly anything, it wasn’t like it was a declaration of love or anything, but it might as well have been the way it made his stomach feel all fluttery. Fuck. He was so fucked. Beyond fucked. 

“Shane—” Ilya exhaled, not even sure what he was trying to say.

When he met Shane’s eyes, he wanted to drown in them, the way they shone in the light, looking at Ilya like he hung the moon. He did not deserve that kind of look, but here he was, sitting here and taking it for himself.

“I know I messed up some of the letters,” Shane said with a quiet laugh, like he was trying to deflect or something. “It’s actually really fucking hard to write in Russian. Why is your language so complicated?”

Ilya didn’t answer. He just smiled, watching him instead, committing the moment to memory—the softness of Shane’s mouth, the way it moved when he spoke, the way his hair had been pushed off to the side like he’d tried to make it look nice for the holiday. The pink that filled his cheeks the longer Ilya stared at him. 

“I have something for you,” Ilya said, “is stupid, too.” 

“Oh.” The flush deepened, but Shane didn’t avert his eyes.

Ilya stood, walking over to his backpack on the floor by the door and pulled out the wrinkled paper bag he’d had stuffed in there for a couple of days. When he sat back down, he purposely chose a spot a few inches closer to Shane, because distance was quickly becoming a problem for Ilya.

“Here.” He shook the bag in front of Shane. 

Shane took it, his fingers brushing against Ilya’s for a second before pulling it into his lap. “What is it?” he asked, already peeking inside.

“You will see.”

When Shane pulled the bear out, his mouth parted slightly, then closed, then opened again like he couldn’t quite settle on a reaction. He just sat there with it for a long moment and Ilya could feel the heat creeping up his own neck, suddenly very aware of how dumb it was—showing up with a kid’s toy like this, as if Shane wasn’t fucking eighteen years old.

“You said you miss it,” Ilya said, trying to explain his reasoning, “Ottawa.”

Shane blinked, glancing up at him.

“So I saw this,” Ilya added with a small shrug. “And I thought…maybe is close enough. Sorry, it is probably stupid.”

Shane looked back down at the bear, his thumb brushing over the scarf. “It’s not stupid,” he said, barely above a whisper, scrunching his nose. And then the worst thing happened when he looked back up. There were tears pooling in his eyes, clinging there for a second before one slipped free and tracked down his cheek.

Without thinking, Ilya pulled Shane into his arms. He made a small surprised sound, but he didn’t pull away.

The bear got caught between them for a second before Shane pulled it out of the way, his hand fisting the front of Ilya’s shirt like he needed something to hold onto. Ilya tightened his grip, one hand steady at the back of his head, the other pressing firm between his shoulder blades, keeping him there.

“Is okay,” Ilya murmured, not entirely sure what he was trying to soothe. 

Shane shook his head against his chest, a breath catching as he let it out. “I’m not—”

“I know,” Ilya said quietly, his thumb brushing slowly through the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck, over and over, like he was trying to smooth something down that couldn’t be smoothed. Shane pulled back just enough for Ilya to see his face and his breath catching in uneven pulls.

“I just—” he started, shaking his head again like he should cut himself off, but it didn’t work. “I hate this. I hate being stuck here all the time and—” his voice broke, his hand coming up to scrub hard at his face. “I can’t do anything. I’m not sick enough to get pushed higher on the transplant list but I’m not well enough to go home and I—”

“Shhh, shhh, take breath, Shane.”

Shane swallowed hard and swiped angrily at the tears, glancing away. Ilya’s chest hurt, as if his heart was splintering inside of him.

“And they keep saying it’ll be fine, but what if it’s not?” Shane whispered, like he wasn’t sure he should be saying it out loud. “What if they don’t find one in time, or something goes wrong, or I just—”

“Shhh,” Ilya interrupted before it could spiral any further, his hand coming up to cup the back of Shane’s head again as he pulled him back in.

Shane came willingly, clumsily shuffling forward in a rush, his knee knocking against Ilya’s thigh as he moved. Ilya adjusted without thinking, pulling him closer, settling Shane in his lap and wrapping his arms around his waist. 

“I have you,” Ilya murmured, low against his hair. Shane shuddered in his arms and Ilya could feel his breath hot against his neck. 

“I’m so scared,” Shane said, the words muffled against Ilya’s skin.

“Yes, but you are brave.”

They stayed there, neither of them moving, until Ilya shifted backwards just enough to press his mouth to Shane’s forehead, lingering there for a second longer than he should.

Chapter 2: part two

Chapter Notes

“This is very sad.”

“I told you not to get that, you’re the one who didn’t listen,” Shane said, rolling his eyes.

Ilya made a face, picking up what he assumed was supposed to be a chicken tender, but it looked like it had the tender beaten right out of it. It dropped back onto his plate with a dull, disappointing thud.

The cafeteria buzzed around them with small families and screaming kids, chairs scraping, trays clattering, and every time someone squealed, Shane startled in his seat like something had just jumped out at him. Ilya wasn’t entirely convinced this had been a good idea since Shane didn’t do well with too much noise, but Shane had been so grumpy upstairs that Yuna had kicked them out of his room.

Overall, January had been kind to Shane, which was a relief for everyone except for Shane. Because the false sense of health didn’t mean he could be discharged, and the restlessness had started to get unbearable. It showed in small ways—shorter patience, clipped tone, the way he picked fights over nothing. Ilya would say it had made Shane meaner, but he didn’t mind that part, he liked him with a little bite.

Another shriek rang out from a table behind them and Shane flinched again.

Ilya glanced at him, tapping his foot against Shane’s. “You want to go back upstairs?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You are lying.”

“I’m not—” Shane stopped, exhaling hard through his nose as he dragged a hand through his hair. He didn’t bother finishing the sentence, probably because they both knew it didn’t need to be said. Ilya had been picking up on his little tells for months now—the shifts in his expression, the way his eyes gave things away before his mouth did. Understanding Shane had started to feel like learning a third language. 

“You want to go to the gift shop after this?” Ilya asked, offering Shane a fry. Shane shook his head, so Ilya popped it into his own mouth.

“That’s the lamest thing you’ve ever asked me.”

“Why? We can find friend for Bear.”

Ilya had quickly learned that no matter what kind of mood Shane was in, mentioning the stuffed animal had a near perfect success rate of making him soften. Just a little, enough for Ilya to notice and feel smug about.

“Or,” Ilya added, “we get your mother flowers so you can say sorry for being so unpleasant.”

“I regret teaching you that word.”

“Is good word,” Ilya shrugged, unfazed. “I get to use it a lot.”

“When do you have to be at the airport?” Shane asked, ignoring Ilya’s comment and picking at the wilted lettuce on his plate.

Ilya tapped on his phone’s screen that was sitting on the table, frowning, “Oh. I have to leave soon. Maybe thirty.”

Pushing his tray away, Shane’s posture deflated as he sighed, “Two weeks is a long time.”

“Not if we text.” Ilya glanced at Shane to gauge his reaction. 

Shane’s eyes snapped up, but he just stared blankly at Ilya without saying anything. 

“What?” Ilya raised his brows, questioning the look on Shane’s face. “You call me friend but I do not have number? Is no way to treat friend, Hollander.”

“Because you’ve never asked for it,” Shane said slowly, like he had to walk him through it.

“You can not ask?” Ilya asked, and then jabbed his index finger into his chest, “Is me who has to ask?”

“Well!” Shane huffed. “You’re the one that visits me all the time, I just figured if you wanted my number you would have asked for it already.”

“Oh my god, Hollander, you are so boring.”

“And you’re an asshole,” Shane grumbled, crossing his arms across his chest and glancing around the room irritably. His hair had gotten a little longer, just enough to fall into his eyes, and the quick flick of his head to push it back had become one of those small things Ilya tucked away without meaning to.

“Shane…” Ilya leaned forward, sliding his hand onto Shane’s knee, “if you want something, you ask for it. No one teach you this?”

Shane looked down at where Ilya’s hand rested, then back up at him, cocking an eyebrow, “Are you going to give me your number or not, Rozanov?”

Fuck, he was flirting. For a second, Ilya just looked at him, taking in the way Shane’s mouth had tipped up at the corner, the challenge in his eyes when he didn’t look away.

“You are very bratty today,” Ilya said, not looking away as he held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

__

They were against Carolina when Ilya realized he was getting bored.

Not with the game, never that, but with how predictable it had started to feel. His line kept cycling clean entries, his winger forcing passes that weren’t there, everyone playing it safe instead of taking anything for themselves. It was fine, it worked or whatever. It just wasn’t interesting.

He let one play go early in the first, pulling up when he could’ve taken the shot and dishing it off instead. It died on his teammate’s stick almost immediately and Ilya wanted to shake him. But he didn’t let it happen again.

Late in the second, he carried it through the neutral zone himself, ignored the first option and then the second, and held onto the puck just long enough to pull the defense out of position before snapping it past the goalie clean.

They won 4-3. 

Back in the locker room, Ilya was stripping off his sweaty gear when he heard his phone vibrating on the shelf in his stall and reached over his head to grab it.

shane: You passed up a better shot in the first.

ilya: i scored

shane: Could have scored twice.

__

Midway through the third in Florida, Ilya got driven into the boards hard enough that it knocked the air out of him before he could brace for it.

It was a dirty fucking hit, straight into his ribs, hard enough to rattle him against the glass and leave him with nothing but impact and no air. It should’ve been called immediately, and when the whistle never came, Ilya wanted to snap.

“Welcome to the league, kid,” the guy snarled around his mouthguard, breathing in Ilya’s fucking face like he was asking for it.

“Thought dinosaurs were extinct, no?”

It would’ve been easy to give it to him. Instead, Ilya forced himself to pull back, shoving the guy off harder than necessary before skating away, ribs already starting to ache in a way that would be way worse later.

Boston won in overtime.

shane: That was a dirty hit.

ilya: i am fine

shane: Okay.

Later, Ilya had just gotten up to his hotel room when his phone buzzed again. He kicked the door shut and pulled it out, smiling at the notification. 

shane: Surprised you skated away.

__

They were in Nashville the next night, and Ilya felt off in a way he couldn’t fix once it started. Within five minutes into the first, he’d ended up shoved into the penalty box for a minor, and the Predators scored on a power play. 

Once he was back on the ice, every play was slightly off, a second behind his own instincts. He kept trying to push through it anyway but it caught up to him. Coach pulled him off his shift early without a word, just a look that told Ilya to shut up and sit down.

He sat there the rest of the game replaying everything, not letting a single mistake go before dragging up the next, stacking them until they felt bigger than they’d actually been in real time. He knew he was better than all of it, which only made it more irritating.

Boston still won, but Ilya had nothing to do with it.

shane: You think too much.

ilya: u talk too much

__

They were in Dallas a couple nights later and after a day off and a light practice, Ilya felt like himself again.

He was skating with no hesitation or overthinking, just taking what opened and not waiting for something better—stepping into a lane and picking off a pass like it had been meant for him. It  came back fast, like it had never left, like his body knew what to do before he could think about it, the puck moving with him instead of against him.

He scored early in the first.

By the third, he had two.

The third never came. It stayed just out of reach all night, close enough to fucking taste and he wanted it so bad.

Ilya was about to pull his shirt on when Coach leaned into the doorway and jerked his head toward the hall, telling him to go talk to the reporters waiting outside. Ilya huffed quietly under his breath and tossed the shirt back onto his pile of gear.

He didn’t bother fixing his hair, it was still damp from the shower so he just ran his fingers through it to pull his curls off his face and followed the noise out into the hallway. 

The cameras were already up and a couple of mics got pushed in his direction, someone calling his name before he’d even stopped moving. They started talking at him immediately and he did his best to process so many words at once. Something about the second goal, and where he was at in the point race.

“—you keep getting right there, and you were so close tonight.” He heard someone say to his left. “How long until that first career hat trick?”

A moment passed where everyone stopped talking, waiting for his answer. Finally, Ilya leaned forward slightly towards the microphones, eyes flicking toward the camera. “Next game.”

shane: I can’t believe you fucking said that.

shane: You won’t do it.

ilya: what do i get when i prove u wrong

shane: Try to get it first.

__

“ROZANOV PULLS HIS FIRST HAT TRICK OF HIS NHL CAREER! People call him cocky, but boy, does he deliver, folks!”

shane: Fuck you

ilya: what is my reward?

__

Ilya sat on the edge of the bed, rolling his neck until it cracked.

The room was quiet, but it didn’t feel like it. The noise from the arena was still sitting in his head like a dull throb, like it hadn’t caught up to the silence yet. It usually took a minute for it to fade, caught somewhere behind his eyes.

He rested his forearms on his thighs, his head falling heavy between his shoulders while he breathed through it.

And then his phone started buzzing. He knew without even having to look. 

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya greeted, his accent thicker than usual from exhaustion. 

“Congratulations, Ilya,” Shane said, and Ilya could hear the smile in his voice. And just like that, all the leftover static from the arena was out of his head. “That was actually insane.”

Ilya fell back against the bed. “You had no faith for me.”

Shane huffed into the phone, and Ilya could imagine him rolling his eyes. “That was such a stupid thing to say. What if you hadn’t done it? That would’ve been so embarrassing.

Ilya smiled, small and lazy, eyes slipping shut. “But I did.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, quieter now, like he wasn’t arguing that part. “You did. Though you almost lost the third one because of your right wing–”

“Shane,” Ilya interrupted quietly.

“What?”

“How are you?”

“Oh.” Shane paused, and faintly Ilya could hear the steady beeping of the machines in his room. And for a second, he felt homesick for a room that wasn’t his. “I’m fine. It’s been nice and quiet around here lately since you’re not around.”

Ilya shifted further up the bed until his head settled against the pillow, the sheets cool against his skin. “You miss me.”

“I don’t.”

“I do not miss you either.”

Ilya kept his eyes closed, listening to the soft rhythm of Shane’s breathing through the line, steady and close enough that it didn’t feel like he was alone in the room.

“Did you download Words with Friends yet?”

A small laugh exhaled from Ilya’s mouth. “Yes, Hollander, I downloaded stupid game for you.”

“It’s not stupid,” Shane argued, “just think of it like practice.”

Ilya groaned, but there was a lazy smile on his face as he put the phone on speaker and laid it on the pillow next to him. 

After a few minutes, Shane spoke again, softer this time. “Will you come straight here from the airport again?”

Ilya’s hand drifted up to his chest, resting there without thinking, right over his heart. “Da.”

They fell asleep like that, voices soft and fading, neither one willing to be the first to hang up.

__

Shane was asleep when Ilya pushed his door open, the blinds pulled shut even though it was the middle of the afternoon.

Ilya had just gotten back from the road trip. They’d dropped everyone off at the practice facility, and he’d slipped into the locker room to shower, to wash the plane and bus and everything else off of him before coming here.

He moved quietly toward the bed, a small smile tugging at his mouth at the sight of Shane all curled up, his face slack with sleep, headphones half slipping off his head and tangled up in the blankets.

He looked so warm and comfortable. Ilya’s chest tightened, having the stupid urge to climb in beside him, pull him close and sleep for a few hours. 

Carefully, Ilya slid the headphones off Shane’s ears so his head wasn’t tipped awkwardly against the pillow. He curiously lifted them to his ear, expecting a boring podcast because Shane was always learning anything about everything, but couldn’t name a song to save his life.

“Repeat after me. Kak dela?”

Ilya blinked in surprise, hearing his native tongue coming through the tiny speaker.

“…Kak deh-lah,” the voice said again, slower this time. “It means, how are you.”

“What the fuck, Hollander?” Ilya muttered under his breath, but his heart was fucking soaring so high, it was threatening to shoot right out of his body like a missile. 

“Ya kho-ro-sho. I am fine.”

Ilya let out a quiet breath through his nose, something between disbelief and a laugh and set the headphones down on Shane’s tray table, shaking his head. 

“Idiot,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it as he looked at Shane’s sleeping form, and gently touched his hair, his fingers playing with the ends and whispering, “What are you doing to me, moy lyubimyy?”

Shane stirred and Ilya didn’t bother removing his hand, instead applying more pressure, scratching lightly at Shane’s scalp. His eyes finally opened and he didn’t look surprised to see Ilya standing over him, his lips curving into a lazy smile. 

They didn’t say anything at first and after a second Shane reached up to wrap his fingers around Ilya’s wrist, keeping his hand there, asking for more without saying it.

“Good morning,” Ilya finally broke the silence, just barely tugging on Shane’s hair for emphasis. 

“Hi.”

“How are you?”

The smile on Shane’s face grew a little wider, and he shifted his weight so that his head was cradled more in Ilya’s big hand. “Better now. You?”

“Better,” Ilya nodded. “Now.”

__

“I got you something,” Ilya said a little later, after they’d worn themselves out flipping cards and arguing over rules that didn’t exist. He dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small keychain, holding it up between them. It was another stupid airport thing.

Shane eyed it suspiciously, already weary. “Oh no.”

Ilya just grinned and dropped it into his hand.

Shane turned it over—and then made a face like he’d just taken a bite out of a rotten lemon, shoving it right back toward Ilya. “What? Why would I want this? I fucking hate the Avalanche’s.”

“Ah, yes,” Ilya said, completely unbothered, nudging Shane’s hand back. “But now you always remember when you were wrong and I got hat trick.”

“Oh my god,” Shane groaned, but he didn’t give it back this time. “You’re so annoying.”

“I think you like it,” Ilya said, leaning back in his chair.

Shane rolled his eyes, not taking the bait, and instead reached for his iPad, waking it up with a quick tap of his thumb. “Do you want to watch the Voyageurs versus Devils game with me? It’s about to start.”

Ilya slouched further down into the chair and sighed dramatically. “To watch fifteenth worst player on Montreal team play against most annoying player in the league?”

“So that’s why you knocked Hughes’ teeth out last time you played them?” Shane shot back, already pulling up the stream.

“He deserved it.”

“Yeah,” Shane snorted, “I’m sure.”

He shifted a little higher against his pillows, adjusting the blanket over his legs, and then paused—his eyes flicking briefly toward Ilya, then down to the chair, then back again like he was working through something in his head.

“…you can come sit up here,” he said after a second, aiming for casual but the blush on his cheeks gave him away. “The chair looks uncomfortable.”

Ilya looked at the bed with raised brows, “You have very small bed. I do not think it would hold my weight.”

“It’s a hospital bed, it’s meant to hold a lot of weight.”

Ilya blew out a breath and rolled his eyes, but only because he was stalling. The thought of being that close to Shane was awakening something deep in his stomach, like it would be crossing a line they wouldn’t be able to take back. But he was also selfish. 

Ilya hovered above Shane for a second, one hand braced on the side rail, trying to figure out the right way of doing this without breaking anything.

“Move,” Ilya muttered, nudging Shane’s knee with his.

“To where?” Shane shifted anyway, dragging the blanket with him and making space that didn’t really exist. “There’s nowhere else to go.”

“This was your idea, Shane.”

“Fuck off.”

Ilya climbed in anyway, careful to not jostle the IV line, the mattress dipping sharply under his weight and knocking them both slightly off balance.

“Jesus—” Shane huffed out a laugh as the bed creaked loudly  beneath them. 

“I warn you,” Ilya said, already trying to adjust, which only made it worse. 

“Stop moving so much.”

“I am trying to sit.”

“You’re sitting on me.”

Frustrated, Ilya huffed and took over, grabbing Shane by the arms and shifting him himself, manhandling him into place until he could tuck in behind him, his arm slipping beneath Shane’s head where the pillow had been. He dragged Shane’s thigh up without asking, bending it just enough to settle over his own, forcing their bodies into something that actually worked.

Shane didn’t even complain, he just let it happen, pliant in a way that hit Ilya like striking a match in dry air and watching it catch. 

Ilya forced himself to ignore it, jaw tightening as he adjusted one last time, making it look like he was still fixing the position instead of what he was actually doing—trying to get his own reaction under control before it showed on his face or somewhere considerably more inconvenient.

“Better,” he muttered finally, more to himself than anything.

Shane laughed softly against his shoulder. “Took you long enough.”

Ilya didn’t answer. He just reached his free arm out for the iPad instead, angling it between them so they could both see, even though it meant leaning in closer, and he caught a whiff of something fresh, like the ocean. He wanted to bathe in it.

On the screen, the game had already started, the commentators talking over the play as the puck moved up the ice. Shane shifted slightly against him, adjusting until he was more comfortable, his back relaxing against Ilya’s chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

By the time they were nearing the third period, Ilya had no idea what the score was. He barely remembered who the fuck was even playing.

He’d been too busy watching the slow blink of Shane’s dark lashes, catching on the way they fanned out against his cheeks, noticing the small cluster of freckles at the back of his neck that he had never gotten to see before. Tracking the steady pulse there, slower than his own and somehow more distracting because of it.

His shoulder had gone numb a while ago, and his leg was starting to ache where it was pinned under the warm weight of Shane’s, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to move, not when Shane had melted into him like this, not when it felt so easy to just stay.

At some point, his attention drifted, catching on the IV taped to Shane’s arm, only noticeable because he’d shoved his sleeves up. And then his gaze slid past to the machines behind them, the quiet, constant whirring and soft beeping that never really stopped.

He knew it bothered Shane sometimes, especially when he was trying to sleep. But sitting like this, pressed up against him, seeing it from Shane’s point of view instead of as someone just passing through—it felt different in a way he didn’t like.

“Are you in pain?” Ilya asked during a commercial break.

Shane turned his head to look at him, and Ilya’s breath caught at how close they were, barely a few inches between them now. It would be so easy to just lean—

“What? No, I’m comfortable,” Shane said, but his eyes had dropped to Ilya’s mouth. “Are you…should I move?”

Ilya’s hand moved before he could think about it, squeezing Shane’s bicep and then staying there as he shook his head. “No. I mean…not now. Always.”

Shane’s gaze flicked back up to meet his, holding there for a second before he looked away again, back to the iPad. He shrugged lightly. “Not really.”

But Ilya remembered what his mom had said—how Shane would push through pain on the ice, how he’d lie about being hurt even when he was. So he didn’t know if he believed him.

Instead of pushing it, Ilya just squeezed his arm once more before letting his hand fall back into his lap. A few minutes later, Shane shifted against him subtly, until his arm brushed along Ilya’s—and he didn’t move it away. 

__

“I have to go,” Ilya said quietly as he stretched. It was almost nine, the cut off time creeping up on them too fast, and they’d spent the entire evening on Shane’s bed, letting the game bleed into a movie and then dumb YouTube videos until time ran out.

Shane yawned from where he sat on the edge of the mattress, reaching his arms over his head, and Ilya’s eyes drifted before he could stop them—on the smooth stretch of skin at his waist, the faint line of muscle there, the definition of his stomach flexing with the movement. It wasn’t fair, how he could look like that here, all warm and untouched by anything except the low hospital light.

“Okay,” Shane murmured, dropping his arms and tugging his sweatshirt down, looking a little dazed from sleepiness.

Ilya reached for his jacket that was hanging off the chair, shrugging it on. “I can come tomorrow. No practice.”

A shy smile tugged at Shane’s mouth as he stood up.

Ilya stepped forward and grabbed him by the front of his hoodie and pulled him in. Hugging was new for them, ever since Christmas when he’d held Shane in his arms for so long it had been physically painful to leave. Ilya tightened his grip just slightly, his hands wrapped around Shane’s waist and feeling the warmth of him through their clothes.

“Okay, I go now,” he said against Shane’s hair after a few minutes.

Shane didn’t respond verbally, he just shifted closer and with his arms around Ilya’s neck, holding tighter than usual like he didn’t want to let go just yet. 

When they finally pulled apart, Ilya dipped his head and kissed him.

It was a gentle press of his mouth against Shane’s that felt less like a choice and more like a habit, and it took a second to register what was happening. When it did, they both jerked back at the same time. 

“Oh—” Shane whispered, his fingers reaching up to touch his bottom lip.

“Fuck, I—” Ilya panicked. “Sorry.”

Before Shane could respond, before either of them could make it worse or try to explain that it was nothing, Ilya was already moving out of the room. He made it a few steps before turning and pressing his back against the wall, dragging in a breath like he’d just come up from underwater.

“Fuck,” he muttered, staring up at the ceiling.

Because that hadn’t felt like nothing, it had felt like fucking everything.

__

Since there was no practice the next day, it should’ve meant rest, but for Ilya, it meant hours at the team’s gym. 

He’d been there too long, moving through sets without really counting, just adding more weight each time and pushing through it like that might fix everything he was feeling. His shirt was soaked through and clinging to his back, sweat dripping from his chin as he leaned forward between reps, breathing so hard he could never catch up.

Usually this was enough—something physical that emptied him out and left him too tired to think. But his head wouldn’t shut up, it just kept circling back to the memory of last night no matter how hard he tried to outrun it.

And he had no idea what he was supposed to do now.

Ilya dropped down onto the bench, elbows braced on his knees and stared at the floor while his chest rose and fell. God, he wanted a fucking cigarette.

When his phone buzzed next to him, he wasn’t surprised to see Shane’s name—but this time it came with a sharp pang of guilt, because it was getting late and he hadn’t shown up to the hospital like he said he would.

He swiped it open, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

There was no context or even words. It was just a picture of the empty chair next to Shane’s bed. Ilya hated himself.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, tossing his phone back onto the bench. 

And then his brain started supplying him with other images, to make things worse. 

It filled in everything the picture didn’t show—Shane sitting there alone, picking at his sleeve, glancing at the door every time someone passed by. Those big brown eyes going a little dull the longer no one walked through. His mouth doing that thing where it pressed tight like he didn’t want to look disappointed, even when he was.

And then it got worse.

Freckles. The flush in his cheeks when he got worked up. The way his lips looked when he talked or laughed, how they’d felt right there, soft and warm against Ilya’s for that split second that changed everything.

Ilya dragged both hands over his face, pressing hard like he could physically shove the thoughts out his brain. But then he opened his eyes, and all he saw was Shane fucking Hollander.

“Fuck this,” he snapped under his breath.

Ilya grabbed his keys and stormed out of the gym. 

__

Shane startled when the door swung open.

“—oh.”

Ilya shut the door behind him with a click and stayed there pressed against it, his chest still rising a little too fast because the drive there had done nothing to tame it. Shane was sitting up in bed with his glasses on, phone in his hand and just staring at him. 

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Shane said quietly, like he was trying to sound unaffected, but Ilya could hear it. 

“Was busy til now,” Ilya shrugged one shoulder, sniffing.

Shane narrowed his eyes at him, shifting slightly on his bed. “You know visiting hours are closing in twenty minutes, right?”

“Yes. Is that problem?” 

“It’s just…” Shane swallowed and Ilya watched the way his throat bobbed, wanting to know what that could feel like under his hand. “There’s not…a lot we can do in twenty minutes.”

Ilya didn’t think Shane was trying to be suggestive—he had this way of saying things that sounded like an innuendo without ever meaning to. It was one of Ilya’s favorite things about him, which was becoming a longer list by the day.

Pushing off the door, Ilya took a few steps into the room, stopping at the foot of Shane’s bed. 

“Maybe I just want to say hi,” Ilya said, “does not take long.”

Shane’s mouth twitched, his eyes a little unfocused as he looked at Ilya, only briefly making contact before drifting back down. “Okay. Hi.”

“How was your day?” 

“Fine.”

“And how is your mother?”

That made Shane’s eyes snap up to Ilya’s, looking appalled. “Why would you bring up my mom right now?”

Ilya lifted his brows, completely unbothered. “Why is it weird, to talk of your mother?”

“Because,” Shane sputtered, the color already climbing his neck, “it just is.”

“Was never weird before, no?” Ilya tilted his head slightly, watching him closely, tracking every flicker of expression like he would on the ice. “What changed?” 

He didn’t care about the answer. He just wanted to see if he could find something in Shane’s eyes that proved he wasn’t the only one stuck on last night. Ilya also knew Shane wouldn’t make it easy for him. 

“I—nothing. Nothing has…changed.”

Ilya pursed his lips, looking down at the pile of blankets that were on the end of the bed, like Shane had kicked them all off at some point in a fit of restlessness. 

“So, you send me a picture of a chair,” he clicked his tongue, “with no words, because why?”

Shane looked a little irritated now, scowling at Ilya before glancing away to stare at the wall. “What do you want, Rozanov?”

“I told you, to say hi.”

“Okay,” Shane turned back to him, throwing his hands into the air, and raising his voice, “So hi, hello, hey, fuck you, what else do you want?”

Ilya smirked. Finally he had Shane where he wanted him. “Remember when I say to you, you have to ask for what you want?”

“Yes.”

“So ask.”

They locked eyes, Ilya’s gaze full of challenge, and Shane met it with fury—his stubbornness written all over him. Ilya cocked an eyebrow and waited.

“Come here.” Shane finally said, just barely above a whisper, the look in his eyes darkening. 

“Ah, that is not a question. Maybe ask nicely.”

Shane’s jaw clenched hard enough for Ilya to see the tendons flex, that same defiant look still burning in his eyes even as his body fought against the words he refused to say.

“Will you please come over here, Rozanov?” He paused, then added, “Please.”

Ilya smiled, standing straight up and moving around the bed until he was hovering over Shane. “Now what?” 

“Fuck you.”

Taking pity on him—or maybe just losing whatever restraint he had left—Ilya leaned in, bracing his hands on the rails on either side of Shane’s bed, caging him in without touching him.

Shane’s eyes widening like he hadn’t actually expected Ilya to make a move, and Ilya felt the shift in the air like something snapping tight between them. His gaze dropped, drawn to Shane’s mouth as he licked his lips.

“Shane,” Ilya said, his voice losing some of its control.

“Kiss–”

Ilya didn’t let him finish. Shane made a soft noise from the back of his throat at the same time his hands flew up to tangle into Ilya’s curls, using a surprising amount of strength to pull Ilya even closer to him. 

The kiss deepened immediately as Ilya slid his tongue into Shane’s mouth and devoured every whine and moan that kept trying to escape, collecting them like tokens. Shane’s hands were pulling at his hair almost painfully, his body gravitating towards Ilya like it was desperate for touch, like he’d die if Ilya’s hands weren’t on him. 

They found a rhythm, even if it was a little sloppy, but Ilya was drowning in it, getting pushed further and further under the tidal wave with every second passing. Shane seemed lost in it too, his tongue urgently sliding against Ilya’s like he’d been starved for it. It was escalating quickly and Ilya’s arms began to tremble from holding his weight above him, so he pulled back.

“Okay, okay,” Ilya whispered, sounding fucked out as Shane tried to chase his mouth. 

He dropped his forehead to Shane’s, their panting breaths mingling in the space between them. When he opened his eyes, Shane’s were waiting for him, big and glassy and asking for so much more than Ilya could give him right now.

Ilya’s gaze dropped to Shane’s mouth, fixated on how swollen and red his lips looked, parting like he was about to say something.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” 

They both jumped at the sound of a startled voice shattering the moment and Ilya quickly pushed back to stand up.

“I didn’t know anyone was still here,” the nurse stuttered. 

Shane looked horrified as Ilya subtly adjusted himself before turning around, a smile tight on his face. “Ah, I was just leaving.”

He glanced at Shane, aching to bend down and give him one last kiss, but instead he just tapped the side of his bed with his knuckles. “I will see you later.”

The nurse had already busied herself looking at Shane’s chart, which Ilya was certain was for their benefit instead of hers. Shane nodded dumbly, clearing his throat and managing to say, “Okay, thank you for stopping by, Rozanov.”

Ilya wished he could tease Shane relentlessly for the way his voice cracked, but he was already blushing furiously, so instead he just winked. 

__

It happened in the visitor locker room in Buffalo, where everything was loud and feral, exactly the way Ilya liked it—music blaring, guys talking over each other, a roll of tape skidding across the floor after someone threw it too hard. It always felt a little meaner playing on someone else’s ice, knowing the second they skated out they’d get booed to hell, so they got a little rowdier beforehand.

However, they were on a nine-game tear, running hot enough to get under their opponents’ skin, the kind of streak that made them take whatever they wanted. He could feel the edge in the room, competitive and a little vicious, the kind of energy where winning wasn’t enough. They wanted to walk in and give Sabre fans something to cry about.

Ilya was sitting at his stall, hunched over his stick, carefully smoothing the tape along the blade with his thumb while his phone lit up beside him for the third time in less than a minute.

“Your girlfriend keeps calling, Roz, might be good luck to answer,” Marlow said from the next stall over.

Ilya didn’t look up. “Is fine, Marly. Your girl give me good luck this morning after you left.”

And then Ilya nearly got hit in the face with a jock strap. His reflexes were quick enough to swat it away and he snapped up to give Marlow a withering glare, but the asshole was already laughing.

“Fucking dickhead,” Ilya muttered, grabbing his phone—and paused when he saw his agent’s name at the top of the screen, missed calls and messages stacking fast enough that another came in while he was looking at it.

He frowned slightly, tapping the NHL link.

Fans vote Rookie Ilya Rozanov into All-Star Weekend

Ilya blinked at the screen, his own face staring back at him and his first immediate thought was that he couldn’t wait to tell Shane. And his second thought was that Shane probably already saw the news. 

“Fuck—what’s that?” Marlow leaned over, and Ilya barely had time to react before the phone was snatched from his hand. Nosy fucker.

“Holy shit, Roz is going to All-Stars!” Marlow shouted, loud enough for the whole room to hear.

And then the room exploded, and before Ilya could even get his phone back, bodies were crashing into him from every side, arms hooking around his neck and shoulders and dragging him down into a full dogpile, all that pent-up energy spilling over with nowhere else for it to go.

“Get off me—” Ilya grumbled, trying to shove them away, but it was useless, laughter breaking through anyway as someone smacked his back hard enough to jostle him forward. “Idiots—”

He stopped fighting it for a second and just let it happen. Because secretly, his chest was bursting with pride—and with it, an overwhelming thought of his mother, how proud she would’ve been. He shoved it down just as fast before it could show on his face.

“We’re taking you out after the game,” Marlow said, wagging his finger at Ilya. “I don’t care what excuse you have—you have no choice.”

__

The club was already packed by the time they got there, bass heavy enough to thump in his chest, lights flashing in sharp cuts of red and blue that made everything more intense. Security had their section roped off, bottles lined up on the table and a group of girls hovering just on the other side of it, eyeing their team and desperate for an invitation to join.

“Alright, Rook—” Hammersmith shouted above all the noise, halfway out of his seat, grabbing a bottle and tipping it into a line of waiting glasses. “All-Star gets first shot.”

A glass was shoved into Ilya’s hand, bodies crowding into the booth and taking over the section like they owned the place.

They were still riding the high of the win. That leftover adrenaline hit like a line, the kind that sat in your bloodstream and didn’t come down. Buffalo fans had lost their fucking minds and it only fed into the victory more. Ten straight will do that.

Ilya had scored late in the third and took his time getting back to the bench, coasting a little too long just so he could smile at the angry fans screaming at him.

“Give a speech, Roz,” one of the defensemen called out, raising his glass.

With the team’s eyes on him, Ilya just smirked and raised his glass. “To me.”

The glasses knocked together in a messy clatter, liquid sloshing over knuckles, and then it was gone in one tilt of his head. It’d been a long time since he’d had a drink and even longer since he’d gone out with his team, and as soon as he realized that, the only thing he could think about was why.

They were pouring another round of shots when Ilya lifted his hips in the snug space trying to pull his phone out of his pocket. No new notifications. 

Ilya frowned, bummed that he still hadn’t heard from Shane. Nothing about the All-Stars or the game. But more than that, it was causing little alarm bells to ring in his head that were louder than the noise in the club, his stomach feeling knotted up in a way that alcohol wouldn’t be able to loosen. 

It had been four days since that night, since they crossed whatever line had been sitting between them for weeks and finally stepped over it.

The problem was they hadn’t had a second to actually talk about it since then, though Ilya had never been very good at talking anyway. It wasn’t what he wanted. What he wanted was much worse.

He wanted his mouth back on Shane. To explore his skin until he found every spot that caused those little noises in his throat, to find out what it felt like to kiss along his neck and feel his heart beating underneath Ilya’s tongue. 

And Ilya didn’t know what to do about any of this. Because Shane wasn’t just someone he could hook up with and forget about after. 

Suddenly, Ilya didn’t want to be here anymore and thankfully everyone was getting drunk enough that they didn’t even notice as he slid out of the booth. 

He made his way toward the exit, shoulders knocking into people as he forced a path through the crowd. A few of them caught him on the way, grabbing at his arms, shouting his name right into his face. One guy in a Sabres jersey looked like he saw red the second he recognized him, and Ilya was pretty sure if there hadn’t been a wall of bodies between them, he would’ve taken a swing. Ilya just winked and kept moving, shoving through the heavy door that led out to the alley.

The cold hit him hard, cutting straight through the alcohol, and he leaned back against the brick, exhaling until some of the noise in his head finally dropped.

The smell of cigarette smoke pulled his attention, and he cracked an eye open, noticing he wasn’t alone. A girl in some sparkly blue dress stood a few feet away, shivering as she took a long drag. She caught him looking and scowled.

“You have one more?”

She rolled her eyes. “Can’t buy your own?”

He ended up handing her twenty for a single cigarette, because it was the smallest bill he had. The first drag burned a little because it’d been awhile, but for one blissful second, it cleared his mind. 

And then his brain went right back where it had been all night. 

But instead of just obsessing over freckles and rosy cheeks and plush lips, he started thinking about other things. Like the hushed conversations he’d caught between nurses, or even Yuna and David, fragments of information that he’d never really put together before. 

He was crushing the barely smoked cigarette under his shoe as his mind turned a corner it had never gone before. And this time, when he tugged his phone out of his pocket, he pulled up Google. 

__

At two in the morning, Ilya woke in his hotel room to his phone buzzing in his hand, because he’d fallen asleep clutching it. His eyes felt glued shut from exhaustion, but he forced one open just enough to make out the notifications.

shane: I accidentally took the longest nap and now I’m going to be up all night. :(

shane: Holy shit, you’re going to All-Stars. 

shane: My parents voted for you.

shane: I didn’t. Only because I thought you deserved a week off.

shane: Just so you can rest. 

Ilya was fully awake now, staring at the screen and rereading the messages with a stupid grin pulling at his mouth. And then, just as he started typing, another one came through.

shane: Your victory lap at the game looked fucking stupid, by the way. 

__

“It’s our All-Star!”

Ilya couldn’t help the small smile as he looked down at the nurse behind the reception desk—a busty redhead who went by Cassidy and always aggressively chewed gum.

“You’re causing quite a buzz around here, Mr. Rozanov,” she winked, taking her sweet time with his visitor badge. 

“Ah, it is nothing,” Ilya said, his fingers tapping impatiently against the countertop. “All-Stars is stupid, mostly.”

When she finally handed him the badge, he had to stop himself from sprinting down the hall to the elevators, hitting the button a dozen times until it finally dinged the doors open.

They’d gotten back from Buffalo yesterday afternoon, but then there’d been practice, followed by Coach dragging them through three hours of tape until Ilya felt like his eyes were going to fall out. By the time he left the rink, it was pushing ten and visiting hours were already over.

Now he had a couple hours before practice, and he was practically vibrating with seeing Shane again.

Three nurses and a janitor stopped him before he could make it to the door. Ilya slowed just enough to nod, forcing something polite onto his face, but it felt ridiculous. You’d think he was headed to the fucking Olympics with the way people were reacting. They clearly didn’t realize that the All-Stars was just a chance for players to fuck around and play stupid games that didn’t really mean anything. 

“Ilya!” 

The door closed behind him and for a moment he just took it in, Shane sitting up in bed with his iPad, eyes bright and a huge goofy grin on his face that undoubtedly matched his own. It was so dumb what this boy made him feel. He pressed a hand against his sternum to try to make his stomach calm down.

Ilya took a few steps towards the bed without saying anything, Shane’s eyes widening the closer he got and then—

“We’re so proud of you, honey.”

He jumped at the voice, and quickly tried to mask his disappointment when he realized Yuna was standing at the table in the corner, folding Shane’s clothes. Clasping his hands in front of himself, Ilya smiled warmly at her when she glanced up and nodded, “Thank you.”

Fuck. He probably couldn’t climb on top of her son and kiss him breathless with her in the room. Though he did consider it for at least half a second.

“Fan vote as a rookie is not nothing.”

“Yeah,” Ilya said, but it came out a beat late, his focus already slipping back to Shane, caught on the details like a pouty mouth, the faint color in his cheeks, the way his fingers curled tight into the blanket like he needed something to hold onto.

“Your management should be pushing sponsors, this is a great opportunity for more exposure.”

Shane’s gaze dipped for half a second, brushing over Ilya’s lips before lifting again, and it wasn’t subtle at all. It was hungry in a way that made heat flare low, Ilya’s jaw tightening as he held Shane’s gaze, a silent challenge of who would look away first. Neither of them did.

“You guys are looking good for the playoffs,” Yuna kept going, not looking up from the pile of clothes in front of her, “first time in over ten years. I hope they realize how much you are contributing to that.” 

Ilya dragged a harsh breath in through his nose as Shane slowly sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, his teeth biting into it and Ilya was certain he did it on purpose just to drive him fucking crazy. It was working.

“The biggest challenge is not to lose momentum after the All-Star break–”

Shane released his lip and Ilya’s eyes narrowed in as his tongue slipped out to glide across it, leaving it wet and shiny. 

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Ilya interrupted Yuna abruptly.

“Yeah—yes,” Shane said immediately as he scrambled to untangle himself from the bed and cords. Ilya stepped forward to help him with his IV pole, grasping his arm to help pull him up.

“Don’t go too far, Shane,” Yuna called out as they moved toward the door. “Dr. Palmer will be here in thirty minutes.”

Ilya wanted to growl, which was a little primal, even for him. But fuck, he just needed Shane to himself without someone always in the way.

They made it out the door and the tension between them was instantly palpable. Ilya had to use every ounce of restraint not to hurry them along, searching for anything that could give them a moment of privacy. 

After a few minutes, Ilya heard Shane mutter under his breath, “There’s a supply closet at the end of this hall.”

That made Ilya burst out laughing—it was so fucking cliché—but they quickened their steps anyway. Shane glanced around, and when no one was there, Ilya pushed the door open, peeking inside before they slipped in and shutting it behind them.

Darkness swallowed them whole.

Ilya reached out, his hands drawn to Shane’s waist like a magnet and fisting the fabric of his hoodie to pull him closer. It was almost too much of a sensory overload—not being able to see, only feel—Shane’s breath uneven against his chin, the way Ilya could hear him swallow, the heat of him right there.

“Hi,” Ilya said, dipping his head to find the spot just under Shane’s ear, pressing his lips there softly. A small noise caught in Shane’s throat as his head rolled back until it bumped against the shelf behind him, giving Ilya more space. So he took it.

Ilya’s lips trailed along his jaw gently, savoring the way he tasted and the way he could feel Shane’s body relaxing against him with every soft press. It was intoxicating. His tongue just barely slipped out when he found his ear, curving along the shell and licking behind it and earning a small gasp. 

His mouth opened more as he worked down the side of Shane’s neck, leaving wet kisses along the vein there, feeling the erratic beat of Shane’s heart under his tongue. When he reached the dip between his neck and collarbone, he reached up to tug his collar down just enough to nip gently at the bone. And then Shane moaned, letting the sound fall out of his pretty mouth without any inhibition. 

“Fuck,” Shane breathed, “kiss me, Rozan–”

Ilya stole the words straight out of his mouth, controlling the kiss and dragging it out before catching on Shane’s bottom lip and sucking it gently into his mouth. 

Shane’s hands tangled into his hair, mewling as he shuffled forward until there was no space left between them. Ilya felt the IV cord snag awkwardly between their bodies, and it pulled him out of it just enough to make him pause, reaching down to straighten it out. Shane let out a frustrated huff at the break.

A second later, Ilya had him pinned back against the shelves, giving him what he wanted.

His tongue licked into Shane’s panting mouth, and everything turned more feral and breathless—hands tugging, pushing at the layers between them. It felt unreal, sliding his hands under Shane’s hoodie and tracing the smooth skin along his back. He was so warm and soft in a way that made something in Ilya snap.

“Fuck, Shane,” he kissed the words against his throat as Shane’s body arched into his, and they both groaned when they felt how hard each other were. It was too much too fast, Ilya knew that, but he couldn’t stop. His fingers slipped under the waistband of Shane’s track pants, gripping his ass and pulling him closer until they were rubbing friction against their clothed cocks.

“Oh shit, fuck, fuck, Rozanov—” Shane gasped, his arms tightening around Ilya’s neck like it was the only thing holding him up. “Ilya, I—”

Something in his tone made Ilya stop, his fingers releasing their grip but staying where they were, gently kneading the meaty flesh because he was greedy. He pulled back, and he wished he could see what Shane’s eyes were saying. 

“Sorry–” Shane whispered as Ilya tried to slow down his rapid heartbeat. “It’s just…a lot…”

Ilya pulled his hands out of Shane’s pants, dropping his forehead against his.

“Sorry, sorry.”

Shane shook his head.

“Is your first time with a man?” Ilya finally said, once he had his own body back under control.

Shane nodded against him, but still didn’t say anything.

“Okay,” Ilya said quietly, more to himself than anything. Part of him wondered if it was Shane’s first time with anyone, but he didn’t want to ask. Instead he just squeezed Shane’s hips, unable to stop touching him.

“You say if it is too much,” he said after a second, his voice low. “Not just…after.”

“I know,” Shane said quietly. “I will.”

Leaning forward, Ilya kissed him again, softly slotting together in a kiss so tender, it was almost more overwhelming than the frantic ones. Shane sighed into his mouth as they moved together, unhurried, like they were trying to memorize the shape of their lips and steal as much time as they could. Ilya’s hands came up to cup his face, and he could feel the flush under his freckles, even if he couldn’t see it.

When they finally pulled apart, Shane made a small, dissatisfied noise, and Ilya exhaled a quiet laugh, dragging his knuckles lightly across Shane’s lips.

“Is kind of fun, no?”

“What is?”

Ilya pinched his waist. “Being sneaky.”

That made Shane laugh, though it quickly turned into a groan, his head dropping against Ilya’s shoulder. “I should probably get back to my room. My doctor is meeting with us.”

“Good news?” 

“I doubt it,” Shane scoffed, his breath warm against Ilya’s neck. “It never is.”

Ilya didn’t like the sound of that, or the resignation in Shane’s voice. So he just held him a little bit longer until he forced himself to let go.

__

The radio clicked on the second Ilya turned the ignition, cutting straight into the middle of some sports segment as he pulled out of his parking garage to head to the airport.

“—and this is where it gets interesting, because you’ve got a team that’s suddenly on a run, right? They’re hot, they’re confident, everything’s clicking—but it’s being driven by a rookie. A rookie who, by the way, is headed to All-Star Weekend.”

“Yeah, and he’s not just along for the ride either,” a new voice cut in. “He is the engine right now. You watch those games, everything runs through him.”

Ilya bit the inside of his mouth, tapping his fingers impatiently on the wheel as the blinker ticked, waiting for the signal to change.

“And Boston hasn’t had that in a long time,” the first continued. “We’re talking about a team that hasn’t sniffed this kind of mid-season push in, what, a decade?”

“Longer than Boston would like to admit,” the other said, a hint of a laugh. “And now suddenly you’ve got this kid walking in and flipping the whole thing on its head.”

“But that’s where it gets heavy. Because now it’s not just about playing well—it’s about sustaining it. Every team’s watching him now. Every shift’s getting circled.”

“And the way he plays—he plays emotional. He’s finishing every check, he’s in every scrum—”

“—and that’s part of why he’s been so effective,” the second cut in. “He drags the game into his pace.”

“But that’s a lot of pressure to put on a rookie, even someone like Ilya Rozanov. All-Star Weekend, national attention, a city that hasn’t had a tear like this in years…”

Ilya’s fingers tightened around the wheel.

“Yeah,” the first agreed. “Every mistake gets a little louder. So, the question is…can he carry this team into the playoffs?”

He reached over and switched the radio off.

__

All-Star weekend was crazier than anything Ilya had stepped into all season, which was saying a lot.

It wasn’t just the crowd or the music or the cameras that seemed to be everywhere at once—it was the sheer volume of people who suddenly had something to say to him. Players he’d grown up watching were shoulder-checking him in passing, someone always calling his name from across the room like they knew him.

The skills competition was stupid as fuck, basically just a bunch of guys comparing dick sizes. And now Ilya was leaning on his stick along the boards, watching pylons being set up and trying not to die of boredom.

“First All-Stars, that’s a big deal, Rook.”

Ilya dragged his gaze off the ice to find Scott Hunter, the Admirals captain, drifting up beside him, nudging his elbow like that was just something they did.

“You remember your first one?” Ilya asked, already looking away. “Or was that before video was invented?”

Scott paused, then huffed out a laugh. “Man, you really are a dick. Figured that was just a rumor.”

Ilya just shrugged.

They called his name at some point and he skated out onto the ice as a wave of cheers rolled through the arena, surprising him a little. There was also some booing, and he liked that better. 

He beat Scott Hunter’s record by a full second.

shane: 4 for 4 in 7.03 seconds is actually psychotic.

shane: Have you been practicing?

shane: There’s no way you just pulled that out of your ass.

shane: What the fuck, I can’t stop replaying it.

shane: …it’s actually really hot.

__

It didn’t slow down after that.

March was a blur of games, flights, hotel and locker rooms that all looked the same after a while, the season picking back up after All-Stars with more intensity than before. Ilya played like he always did, feeding off the noise and adrenaline. But now he was also learning how to restrain himself when the whistle blew, he couldn’t afford penalties getting so close to the playoffs.

And when he wasn’t on the ice, he was with Shane.

“Fuck,” Shane gasped, “I missed you.”

“Me too,” Ilya said between kisses.

Ilya’s hand slid under the back of Shane’s t-shirt, spreading his palm wide like he couldn’t get enough of the smooth stretch of skin as their mouths moved against each other. It was late, Ilya knew it had to be getting close to nine, but he couldn’t really be bothered to care when he had Shane’s body tangled with his on his bed. 

They had to be strategic about it, though. The way they laid, where Shane’s IV cord ran between them, always something to work around—and worse, having to stop when it started getting too heated, pulling back just when Ilya didn’t want to.

Which was why Ilya was slowing it down now, taking control of the kiss and giving Shane little pecks until he stopped squirming. 

“You are very…mm,” Ilya rubbed his nose against Shane’s, searching for the word, “when you want to hurry but can not.”

Shane laughed. “Impatient.”

“Yes, that.”

“I can’t help it,” Shane whined, shifting his knee so his thigh slid higher under Ilya’s, the fucking menace. “You’re so….”

The hand that Ilya had under Shane’s shirt slid to the front, his fingers exploring his abs and ribs, just barely teasing his pecs and refusing to touch his nipple just to torture him. He dipped his head to mouth at the hinge of Shane’s jaw, murmuring, “What am I, Hollander?”

“Rozanov,” Shane whined, tugging on Ilya’s curls.

Ilya continued his slow path down Shane’s neck, wet and messy, nipping hard enough to pull soft little reactions out of him. But when his hand slid further along Shane’s chest, he paused, brow furrowing at the strange, tacky feeling under his fingers.

He dragged his fingertips over it again, slower this time, trying to place it.

“What is this?”

He started to push Shane’s shirt up, but Shane’s hand caught his wrist, stopping him.

“Don’t,” Shane murmured. “It’s nothing. Just where they stick patches. They keep putting them in the same spots to monitor my heart.”

“Is a lot?” Ilya asked, pressing his palm there and leaving it, wanting to feel Shane’s heart himself. “That they do this?”

“They’ve just been switching them out all day, it’s really not a big deal.”

Ilya didn’t like the sound of that at all. “It sounds like big deal.”

“It’s normal, I promise,” Shane exasperated, scowling at Ilya, which shouldn’t be as cute as it was. “Will you please just keep kissing me?”

Ilya hesitated for a second, his hand still pressed flat against Shane’s chest, feeling the steady thud there under his palm like it could tell him something that Shane wouldn’t. But Shane’s eyes were looking at him in that pleading way, big and brown, silently begging Ilya to ignore reality.

So for now, Ilya did.

“Okay.”

He shifted, rolling them over in one smooth movement, carefully bracing his weight on his arms so he hovered above Shane instead of pressing into him, one knee sliding between Shane’s legs.

“I like you like this,” he murmured, lips brushing against Shane’s.

“Like what?”

Ilya nipped at his bottom lip, pulling it just to watch it bounce back in place.

“Under me.”

Shane made a soft sound at that, and Ilya didn’t give him time to think about it, kissing him again before he could respond. 

Ilya made his way back into Shane’s mouth, and for a while they just made out. But it wasn’t long before the kisses grew frantic, edged with need for escalation. Ilya adjusted his weight, pressing his body flush against Shane’s as he wedged one hand into the narrow space between Shane’s back and the mattress.

“Oh—unh—” Shane moaned when Ilya tentatively rolled his hips against him, his mouth falling open, breath ghosting over Ilya’s lips. So Ilya did it again, still careful but surer this time, and felt Shane arching up into him, hips squirming to meet each slow roll of Ilya’s.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya groaned, slipping his tongue back into Shane’s wet open mouth. He felt electric, little shocks going off under his skin as Shane’s hands began to clasp at his back, his noises buzzing against Ilya’s lips.

He kept his mouth on Shane’s like a gag, greedily swallowing every sound before it escaped. When Shane’s hips lifted off the mattress, Ilya slid his hand down from the small of Shane’s back and under the waistband of his sweatpants. A sharp whine spilled into his mouth, and they picked up pace, slow rolls tightening into urgent snapping of hips. Ilya groaned and spread his palm out over Shane’s ass, teasing his index finger down between his cheeks.

“Oh my fucking god,” Shane gasped, his head falling back against the pillows as his body went limp underneath Ilya. “Fuck, Roz—don’t stop.” 

Emboldened, Ilya pulled back just to watch Shane’s face as he inched his finger lower down the crease, his own heart thudding in his ears. It was intoxicating, the way Shane’s face had gone slack and rosy, eyes shut as he panted erratically through those slick pink lips.

“Look at me,” Ilya ordered, barely a whisper.

Shane’s eyes opened, heavy-lidded and glassy in the dark. Without looking away, Ilya slid his hand lower and lower, in deliberate little shifts, until he felt the tight furl of Shane’s hole. Just that, the slightest brush of contact, drew a full-bodied response out of Shane. He shuddered, breath catching, and Ilya watched it ripple all the way through him.

“Have you ever?” he asked, gently circling his finger against him.

Swallowing thickly, Shane shook his head, his eyes slipping closed as Ilya added a little more pressure, felt him clench up and relax again.

“You want me to stop?” Ilya kissed his chin.

“What the fuck,” Shane whispered breathlessly, “no I don’t want you to fucking st—” He didn’t get to finish because Ilya silenced him with his mouth.

He’d just gotten his tongue back in Shane’s mouth when the door swung open and they both froze, staring at each other for a moment as if they could go unnoticed if they laid perfectly still. 

“Oh shit, I mean, okay—wow,” a nurse stammered, sounding as horrified as Shane looked. “I’m so sorry, um—”

Ilya didn’t move, trying to shield Shane by staying draped over him, but it only made everything more awkward. There was no way he could stand up anyway—not with both of them hard, their erections pressed into the tight space between them. 

“—the call button was going off, I thought you needed something—“

He registered a second too late that he hadn’t moved his hand—still right where it was, and when his fingers twitched involuntarily against Shane, Shane made a sound that had absolutely no business happening in front of a nurse and immediately slapped both hands over his face.

“Oh my god,” Shane groaned, from somewhere behind his palms.

“We did not,” Ilya said slowly, turning his head slightly so she could hear him, “Is mistake.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay. I’ll just—um—” 

“Please go,” Shane groaned from behind his hands. 

“I’m going,” she said immediately, already halfway out the door. “So sorry. So, so sorry.”

The door shut quickly, leaving them in silence as Ilya slipped his hand out of Shane’s pants, figuring the mood was definitely broken. Shane’s face was still covered so Ilya reached down and pulled at his arms so he could see how red his face was. He was not disappointed. 

“That was your fucking fault,” Shane hissed.

Ilya pressed a hand to his chest in mock-offense, “Mine? How is this?”

“Because your stupid huge body probably hit it when you rolled us over!”

“Ah,” Ilya grinned, “you think I am huge?” He couldn’t help himself from rolling his hips one more time so his cock dragged against Shane’s hip. Shane’s eyes pinched shut, biting his lip so hard it turned white.

Ilya took pity on him and leaned down to press teasing kisses all over his red face and saying, “Hollander, is not a big deal, okay?”

Shane tried to shove at him, but gave up quickly, instead muttering, “Fuck off.” 

Sighing, Ilya reached up and pushed the hair away from Shane’s forehead. He kept his hand there, just staring at this pretty boy with his rosy cheeks and lips and wondering how the fuck he deserved him.

“I can not wait to be alone someday,” Ilya said quietly, scratching gently at Shane’s scalp until his eyes opened. “When you are not here.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, but it came out like he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to. And then he swallowed, his gaze flicking away for just a second before coming back, something small and uncertain sitting behind it.

“You would still want to see me,” he said, eyes going distant, “like…after?”

“Shane,” Ilya said softly, and something about Shane’s insecurity made his chest hurt. “Of course.”

Shane looked away again, unable to hold eye contact anymore, staring at the wall. Ilya studied him, the slow blink of his eyes and the sadness that was settling there. When Shane finally turned back towards him, he kept his eyes averted, and then just barely a whisper, he asked, “What if there is no after?”

Only then did he raise his gaze to Ilya’s, just as a tear slipped out of the corner of his eye and slid slowly down his face. Ilya was finding it difficult to breathe, but he had to be strong, for Shane. So he just gently wiped the tear away, keeping his hand there to cup the side of his face. 

“There will be. For us.”

Shane didn’t look like he believed him, but he nodded anyway. It was the first time that Ilya wasn’t sure if he believed himself either, and suddenly the only thing that mattered was making sure that question never had a chance to be real.

__

The hit was fast, Ilya’s shoulder driving into Dallas Kent and pinning him to the boards so hard their helmets cracked against the glass.

The crowd was loud—he could feel it in his fucking bones, in the way the ice vibrated under his skates—but it barely registered. It flattened into something distant, a low, constant roar. What he heard instead was everything else. The scrape of blades. The sharp tap of a stick. His own breath, steady in his chest.

They were tied 2–2 with forty seconds left on the clock, and Ilya was not taking them to overtime.

“Suck my dick, Rozanov,” Kent gritted around his mouthguard, his stick trying to overpower Ilya’s in the fight for the puck.

“Be the best blowjob of your life, sweetheart.”

Kent shoved him hard for that and Ilya shoved right back—and then he had the puck.

Suddenly there was nothing but open ice. Ilya tore through the Toronto zone, legs driving, no one close enough to catch him. It was just him and the goalie.

The net came up fast. Ilya shifted to his backhand as he cut in, stick turning over like he was about to shoot. The goalie took the bait—dropping low and sliding hard to his left to take away the angle.

Ilya never released it. The puck stayed where it was for half a beat and then he flipped his hands, snapping it back to his forehand, pulling it across the open space the goalie had left and firing it high, over the shoulder.

The horn blared and cracked the building open, everything erupting at once—teammates crashing into him, the ice shaking, the crowd losing their minds—because that was the goal they needed. 

They were heading to the Playoffs.

__

The locker room exploded the second they got in, guys shouting over each other, bodies colliding as they stripped gear off, gloves and pads hitting the floor. Someone shoved a beer into Ilya’s hand, another arm slung around his shoulders, pulling him into the noise and the celebration that had been building all season. 

The second Ilya could peel his teammates off of him, he dug his phone out his bag. 

shane: Holy shit, Rozanov!!!!!

shane: What the fuck was that move?!?!

shane: You fucking clinched it!!!!!

shane: Fuck, that was amazing.

shane: I wish I could have been there. :(

And then, three bubbles popped up before Ilya could respond.

shane: I miss you.

ilya: i miss u, malysh

__

“Are you tired?”

Shane glanced over at Ilya as they walked, shaking his head. “No, I’m okay.”

Ilya didn’t believe him, but he didn’t say anything, instead just let his hand drift close enough to brush his knuckles against Shane’s for a quick moment, aching to hold it. There were dark shadows under Shane’s eyes that hadn’t been there the last time Ilya visited, and his steps were a fraction slower than usual, like he was forcing himself to keep pace.

They probably should’ve just stayed in his room. But his parents had taken it over, bent over a puzzle, their voices low and constant. Lately, it felt like every time Ilya showed up, they were already there, making it nearly impossible for Ilya and Shane to ever be alone.  

But Shane was quiet today, and it had Ilya a little on edge. He wanted to ask what was wrong but it felt like the kind of question that would only make Shane retreat further. So, they walked.

“You know,” Shane said after a few minutes, his voice soft in the long stretch of hallway, “if you guys make it to round two, it’s likely you’ll play Montreal.”

“Will that turn you on?” Ilya teased, glancing over just in time to catch the way Shane’s cheeks darkened.

“Shut up,” Shane frowned, but his eyes dropped to Ilya’s mouth for a second too long before he shook himself out of it. “I’m just saying, I won’t be able to cheer for you if that happens.”

“Davai—” Ilya stopped walking entirely, turning to face him with exaggerated disbelief. “You would cheer against me?” He jabbed his chest, emphasizing, “Me?”

Shane pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, fighting a smile as he looked at him, clearly enjoying it. “I’m loyal to my team, Rozanov.”

“Unbelievable, you betray your boyfr—” Ilya snapped his mouth shut just in time, cutting the word off before it could fully land.

Shane’s eyes went wide, his whole face flushing instantly, and Ilya felt a flicker of panic. He started walking again like nothing had happened, grabbing the IV pole and dragging it with him so Shane had no choice but to follow.

After a few minutes, Shane finally broke the silence that had awkwardly settled between them. 

“Well, I guess you could always give me one of your team hoodies or something…” he said, glancing over shyly and looking impossibly cute.

“You want my hoodie?” The idea of Shane, laying in bed all cozy and swallowed up in a hoodie with his name on it—fuck, it was a lot to be thinking about out in the middle of a public hallway. 

“I mean…” Shane shrugged. “I may not cheer you on, but I could still be… supportive.”

Ilya huffed out a quiet breath, glancing away because he needed space from the way Shane was looking at him. “Careful,” he said, “You start wearing my name, people might get wrong idea.”

Shane tipped his head up, those wide, too-innocent eyes locking onto his. 

“What idea is that?” he asked, and there was something deliberate in it now, a small spark of challenge lighting up his tired face.

Ilya glanced down the hall, making sure they were alone, before reaching out and hooking his finger on the waistband of Shane’s sweatpants and tugging him closer. 

He leaned in, lips brushing Shane’s ear and lowered his voice, “That you’re mine.”

It got exactly the reaction he expected and he felt a little smug about it. Watching the way Shane’s expression became unfocused, lips parting slightly as his gaze dropped, caught on Ilya’s mouth and staying there.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Ilya gave Shane’s pants another small tug. “C’mon, Hollander,” he said with a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Keep up.”

__

Media day always felt like a waste of time.

Bright lights, too many cameras, people calling his name from three different directions like he was supposed to split himself in half and be everywhere at once. Someone was fixing his blazer, tugging it straight at the shoulders while he stood there and let it happen. Another voice telling him to look here, no—here. Smile. Don't smile. Repeat over and over.

"Big stretch coming up for you guys," someone said from his left, lost somewhere behind the lights. "How are you feeling heading into playoffs?"

Ilya leaned into the mic. "Good."

The room waited. When it became clear he wasn't going to add anything, someone else jumped in.

"You've been one of the biggest stories this season. Did you expect to have this kind of impact right away?"

"I did not come here to be boring."

That got a laugh, which he didn't acknowledge.

"You're leading the team in points, double-shifted late in games, out there in every situation. It's not something you see often—a team clicking this fast around a first-year guy. How do you handle that kind of pressure?"

Ilya rolled one shoulder, cracking his neck while his brain worked to catch up with the words. "On the ice."

"Your family back in Russia must be proud. Will they be making the trip out for the playoffs?"

He reached up slowly and tugged at the collar of his dress shirt before dropping his hand back to the table. After a long moment, he leaned forward.

“No.”

Nobody pushed it. The next question came from somewhere to his right, something about power play percentages, and Ilya turned toward it and answered. But for a second—just a second—he wasn't in the room at all.

__

The hospital was quiet when he got there, muted in a way that felt weird after the noise of the day. He’d barely had any time to himself between all the interviews, team photos and a mandatory dinner that he’d impatiently sat through. 

Shane hadn’t responded to any of his texts all day—and before that, it had already been getting slower, replies coming later and later until sometimes there weren’t any at all. It had been eating at him all day, leaving him restless until the moment he could finally get here and see him for himself. Ilya pushed Shane’s door open carefully, like he might disturb something on the other side—even if he didn’t know what he was expecting to find.

His eyes immediately fell to the bed, relieved to find Shane asleep. But as he stepped closer, taking in the dark shadows underneath Shane’s eyes and the paleness of his skin, that dread came rushing back just as quickly, heavier than before.

“Hey.”

Ilya turned, finding Yuna and David sitting in the corner, both of them looking withdrawn and exhausted, which made Ilya grow even more uneasy.

“He just fell asleep,” Yuna added softly, “It was a long day.”

Ilya nodded, but he didn’t move right away. His eyes kept drifting back to Shane. He looked so small lying there with the blankets swallowing him up.

“He did not text me,” Ilya said after a second, turning back towards them with his brow furrowed. 

Yuna’s expression softened, giving Ilya an apologetic smile. “He’s been in and out most of the day.”

“What is wrong?” he asked, moving closer so they could keep their voices low.

David exhaled. “They’ve been monitoring his levels more closely,” he said. “His liver function’s been dropping faster than they’d hoped. He’s really tired, and nauseous…it’s just…been a few bad days in a row.”

Ilya listened, but his heart was already beating a little too fast in his chest, anxiety rising before he could get a hold of it. He looked back at Shane, wishing he was awake just so he could read his eyes.

“What does this mean?” Ilya asked after a moment. “Sorry, I—is a lot of words.”

“He’s going to need a transplant,” Yuna spoke up, her tone solemn and resigned. “Sooner than we were hoping.”

Ilya didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, looking at her like he was waiting for the rest of it, like there had to be more attached to that.

“How soon?” he asked.

David rubbed the stubble along his jaw before answering. “They don’t like to give exact timelines,” he said carefully, “but…we’re getting to the point where…” he paused and looked at his wife, who reached out to take his hand. When he looked back at Ilya, his eyes were shiny. “We’re just hoping we can find a match soon.”

Ilya watched Shane for a moment before turning back to his parents, gesturing between them, “You can not be donor, I assume?” 

“Unfortunately,” Yuna sighed, “his blood type is O negative, and neither of us are, so that rules us—and a lot of people—out right away. And even if that weren’t the case, size and overall health matter a lot. You’d be surprised how many people don’t make it past screening because of their liver.”

“The good news is that he’s higher on the list now,” David added with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s just a waiting game now.”

Ilya nodded once, unsure of what to say or do, feeling so helpless in his own skin that he wanted to scratch at it. His jaw hurt from clenching it so hard and he had to look away before they caught the emotion bubbling beneath the surface. 

“He will get one,” Ilya said after a minute, voice steadier than he felt, that same stubborn certainty he carried onto the ice. “They will find one.”

__

He didn’t sleep that night, or the one after, the hours blurring together in a way that made it hard to tell where one day ended and the next began. The words wouldn’t leave him alone. They sat heavy in his chest, turning over and over in his head until it felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Transplant. Match. Waiting. 

Waiting was the worst part. So he didn’t.

It started quietly, a question asked like he was merely curious. And then a number was written down. An address he showed up to between things that were supposed to matter more, still in sweats, hair damp from a shower he’d raced to take after practice. Waiting rooms that were too bright and normal, with people flipping through magazines like nothing in the world was urgent. Meanwhile, Ilya sat there with his knee bouncing, staring at a wall and mind racing.

When they called his name, he followed without hesitation, answering questions, nodding through explanations that he didn’t really understand. A nurse tied the band around his arm.

“Is this for someone specific?” she asked.

Ilya hesitated but then nodded, “Yes.”

“Must be someone very special.”

“Yes,” he said, glancing down at the vial filling in her hand. 

After that, it moved quickly. More appointments, more tests, more people explaining things in calm, measured voices that made it all sound manageable, like this was something people did every day. Ilya worked it around everything else, squeezing it in between practices and film and things he should’ve been paying attention to, showing up when they told him to, sitting where they told him to sit, letting them take whatever they needed from him. 

They kept talking after that, outlining next steps, timelines, risks and how it could still take two to three weeks before he got approved as a donor, and there was still a chance that he would get denied. 

When they got to the part where they asked him what his questions or concerns were, he didn’t have any. Because there was only one person in the equation that mattered. 

And he didn’t tell Shane that he was a match.

__

“You here, Rozanov?”

The question cut across the ice harsh enough that a few heads turned, but Ilya didn’t answer, just circled back into position like he hadn’t heard it as the drill reset around him.

He could feel his teammates’ attention on him a second longer than usual before snapping back into place, because that was the tone of practice now—no one was fucking around anymore. And Ilya had been off since the second he stepped onto the ice.

The problem was, it kept happening.

“Enough!” Coach barked, stopping the play midway through. “Rozanov, you’re ahead of it or you’re behind it. Right now you’re behind. Figure it out.”

Ilya rolled his shoulders as he reset, pushing off again, forcing himself back into it, into the rhythm he knew should’ve come naturally. They ran the rush once more, the puck moving clean through the neutral zone, quick touches, controlled entry, everything the way it was supposed to…until it got to him.

“Stop forcing it, take what’s there or you’re turning it over—and that’s in our net next week.”

A few guys glanced over as Ilya’s jaw tightened, but no one said anything.

By the sixth reset, it was obvious. Guys were getting annoyed, the drill dragging because of him, and Ilya could feel his own irritation simmering under his skin. Even Marlow looked pissed at him. 

“Rozanov, are you with us or not?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not in Juniors anymore, fucking act like it,” Coach shot back. 

__

After practice, Ilya spent two hours in the gym trying to burn it out of his system, pushing himself harder than he should have with playoffs starting in less than forty-eight hours, like if he went long enough it would click back into place. But it didn’t. 

The frustration just shifted, settling into something harder to shake, his mind slipping every time he slowed—back to his phone, only to find the same empty screen waiting for him.

In the end, by the time he finally gave his body a break before it collapsed, it wasn’t the drills or Coach or even himself getting under his skin anymore—it was the feeling like he was working against a clock he couldn’t see, let alone control.

__

Rain tapped softly against the window, the distant sound of thunder rumbling as a storm moved around the city, making Shane’s room darker than usual in the middle of the day. 

Ilya was curled on the narrow hospital bed, one arm wrapped around Shane’s waist and holding him as close as possible despite the tangle of cords. They were sharing a pillow, faces close enough that every slow breath brushed warm against the other’s mouth.

It was the day before playoffs now, and Ilya had already done everything he was supposed to—light skate that morning, followed by a miserable ice bath and very clear instructions to rest and not do anything stupid.

So, naturally, he ended up here.

Every time Shane’s eyes drifted shut for a second too long, Ilya would press another slow kiss to his mouth or bump their noses together just enough to pull him back, like he didn’t trust him to disappear if he closed his eyes for too long.

“Only four teams have ever come back from a three–zero defunct,” Shane murmured against his mouth with a soft kiss. “So statistically,” another kiss, “you’re fucked if you lose the first few.”

Ilya chuckled softly instead of answering right away, catching the corner of Shane’s mouth before pulling back just enough to look at him. “Ah, okay. Good to know.”

Shane hummed, nudging their noses together before kissing him again and again, each one moving slower, almost as if it was putting him to sleep. Ilya’s free hand reached up to cup his jaw, his fingers sliding across Shane’s cheek and holding him there. He could feel Shane smiling against his lips.

“Game sevens are basically coin flips,” Shane continued, words starting to blur together a little. “But home teams win more.”

“We will be at home for game seven,” Ilya said, his thumb moving in slow circles along Shane’s cheekbone. “If it gets that far.”

“You will,” Shane whispered, leaning in again and missing Ilya’s mouth entirely, too tired to aim properly, so Ilya followed, closing the gap and turning it into something that lasted a little longer.

Shane melted into it, shifting closer and sliding his thigh in between Ilya’s, his body going softer as Ilya’s hand slid lower on his back, fingertips slipping under the waistband of Shane’s joggers and leaving them there. They stayed like that for a while, mouths and tongues languid, neither of them really pulling away so much as drifting apart when they needed air before finding each other again.

“Also…” Shane said eventually, his lips grazing Ilya’s when he spoke. “Teams that win the first period win more. It’s just a fact.”

Ilya smiled against his mouth. “You know too much, Hollander.”

“I know too much,” Shane mumbled, imitating Ilya’s accent and sounding pleased with himself even as his eyes slipped closed again.

“Mm. Annoying, too,” Ilya said, his hand drifting lower and squeezing Shane’s ass just because it was there.

Shane nuzzled his face into the crook of Ilya’s neck. “You like me.”

That was when it hit Ilya, hearing Shane say it so easily and seeing how relaxed and happy he looked, despite everything. He didn’t like Shane. No, it was much greater than that.

__

Game One

Ilya’s heart was pounding while the national anthem was sung as his eyes traveled around the arena, every seat packed, waves of black and gold rolling through the stands as the lights cut and strobes flashed. The noise had been deafening when they skated out, flags snapping, people on their feet, stomping so hard he could feel it through the ice, up his skates and into his chest.

Ilya dragged a slow breath in, rolling his neck as his grip tightened on his stick. His head felt clear in a way it hadn’t in days, everything else pushed out, locked somewhere far enough away that it couldn’t touch this.

This he understood.

Ilya shifted his weight, tapping his stick once against the ice as the last note hung in the air and next thing he knew, he was bending for the face-off.

“Can you hear the crowd?” Ilya asked conversationally as he dropped into position.

Hunter narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Ilya’s mouth curved into a smirk. “Was not sure if your hearing aids were in.”

The puck dropped and Ilya won the face-off.

__

The locker room was loud for a while after the game, but it calmed down faster than usual, like everyone was already reeling themselves back in. It was just one win, they couldn’t get too cocky. Yet.

Ilya kept mostly to himself, outside of the usual chirps and goading, letting the energy move around him as he stripped out of his gear. When he finally pulled his phone out of his bag, everything else in the room drowned out.

shane: good game

Eight boring letters. No annoying follow-up texts telling him how he could have played better. No period, as if Ilya could pull deeper meaning out of the absence of punctuation if he tried hard enough.

Shaking his head at himself, Ilya’s jaw tightened as he typed back a couple kissy emojis and shoved his phone back into his bag.

Then he pushed himself up and headed for the showers.

__

Game Two

Ilya’s gloves hit the ice the second the stick came up and caught him high, snapping his head back and opening his cheek. Blood was everywhere immediately, running down into the corner of his mouth and chin.

He was on Zullo before it could even drip onto the ice.

The first punch glanced off the side of Zullo’s helmet, the second landing cleaner and snapping the fucker’s head sideways, splitting his lip open. Blood smeared between them as Zullo swung back and clipped Ilya low, but Ilya didn’t give ground, driving into him again with hit after hit. 

They went down as the crowd went up, and Ilya’s head hit the ice until all he could hear was ringing in his ears and his pulse thumping. 

Marlow got there first, grabbing Ilya by his jersey and yanking him back, another set of hands joining in as Ilya grappled to lunge forward, arm jerking against their grip, trying to reach Zullo again.

“Rozanov—enough!”

The penalty box door slammed behind him as he dropped onto the bench, chest heaving as he spit blood onto the floor. A trainer came in beside him, reaching for his face and Ilya jerked away, shoving the hand off when it blocked his view. He stayed leaned forward, eyes locked on the ice.

And then he had to sit there and watch them lose.

__

“Does it hurt?”

Ilya shook his head against Shane’s neck where his face was buried, breathing him in like he’d been holding his breath for days. His hands slid under the fabric of his own hoodie where it hung loose on Shane’s frame, mapping the familiar lines of his back, pulling him closer until there was no space between them. 

He finally had a day off after the first two games and he’d skipped the optional skate that morning just so he could finally be with Shane, and it was almost overwhelming getting to finally hold him, to feel his heartbeat.

“It was so much blood,” Shane whispered after a long period of silence, like he’d forgotten that he had been talking. His fingers were in Ilya’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp and tangling in his curls. 

When Ilya had stepped into the room, the first thing he noticed was how dark it was with the heavy curtains closed, blocking out the sunshine. And the second was Shane—his eyes a little too unfocused and too pale, something off in the color of his skin that made Ilya’s stomach ache.

It had only been five days. But the difference in Shane's appearance was jarring. Ilya wanted to cry, so instead he hid. 

At some point, Shane’s weight started to sink into him so Ilya moved them carefully, adjusting around the IV’s taped to his arm so it didn’t pull. There were two lines now. He’d noticed it right away, almost asking the question sitting right there on his tongue, but one look at Shane had been enough for Ilya to swallow it down. 

Gradually, Ilya got them positioned until Shane was half draped over him, head tucked against his chest, making those soft, sleepy sounds of contentment every time Ilya dragged his fingers through his hair. He stayed like that, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the steady beep of the monitor behind them, letting it blur into the rhythm of Shane’s breathing.

And then his brain ruined it.

The quiet stretched just long enough for it to creep in, that familiar edge of anxiety building under the surface. He was halfway down a spiral when the door pushed open and he froze.

Ilya’s hand paused in Shane’s hair, body tensing as Yuna stepped in and shut the door quietly behind her. For a second, he had no idea what to do with himself, or how to explain the way Shane was curled into him, or the fact that Ilya’s other hand was under Shane’s shirt to hold onto his bare skin which didn’t look even remotely platonic.

But there was no way in hell he was moving. 

So instead, he looked at Shane’s Mom, offering a small, sheepish smile that he hoped said enough on its own.

“Sorry,” Ilya murmured, though he didn’t know why his first instinct was to apologize.

Yuna didn’t look all that surprised, something knowing settling in her eyes in that way only mothers seemed to manage. 

“Has he been asleep long?” she asked quietly, sitting down in the chair next to Shane’s bed.

“No, not very.”

“Well, hopefully he can get some rest now that you’re here.” 

Ilya relaxed a little from that, allowing his fingers to move gently through Shane’s hair again. Yuna had her elbow propped up on one of the arms of the chair, resting her chin in her palm as she looked at Shane in the same way Ilya often did, like trying to find the parts of him that were hurting beneath the surface. 

But right now, Shane’s face was peaceful and relaxed, his lips parted as he steadily breathed against Ilya’s chest. Ilya couldn’t stop himself from turning his head to press a kiss to his forehead, lingering long enough that it caught Yuna’s attention, her dark eyes watching in a curious kind of way.

“I always wondered,” Yuna said after a while. “About Shane.”

His fingers stilled briefly in Shane's hair, lifting his eyes to meet her gaze. He was pretty sure he knew what she was implying but waited for her to continue.

“What do you mean?” he finally asked when she didn't say anything more.

She tilted her chin at them, an eyebrow raising. “Well, you two are…?”

Ilya hesitated for a minute before nodding, keeping his voice low so he wouldn't wake Shane. “I think, yes.”

Yuna's expression did something complicated—relief and sadness moving through it at the same time, like two things that didn't belong together arriving at once. She looked at her son for a long moment before she looked back at Ilya, and when she did her eyes were soft in a way that made his chest feel strange.

“He's never brought anyone home,” she said quietly. “Never talked about anyone. Not once, in eighteen years. I used to worry about that, it’d keep me up at night. It can feel so helpless as a mother, not knowing if your child—” her voice cracked for a moment, so she paused, steadying herself. “I just worried so much. David and I both did. That he was lonely and just…very good at hiding it.”

Ilya looked down at Shane, at the slow rise and fall of his chest, but didn't say anything. It sort of felt like she needed this moment, and he was more than willing to give it to her.

“And then you started coming here,” Yuna continued, even softer than before, “and he started sleeping better. Smiling more.”

The silence that followed felt full, like something had been put down in the room that hadn't been there before. For Shane's sake, Ilya was glad it could be this simple—met with quiet acceptance instead of something that could cost him everything. He had not let himself think too hard about what this conversation might look like, and now that it was happening, he didn't know what to do with the gentleness of it.

A few minutes passed. Ilya just looked at her. He wanted to tell her—about the tests, about all of it—but nothing was certain yet, and he didn't know if it was worse to say it or not. But the quieter the room got, the heavier it felt holding it in, pressing up against his ribs from the inside.

His arm tightened around Shane like a reflex. And then he just said it.

“Ah, we are…match.”

Yuna's eyes moved from Shane to Ilya, and her smile turned fond. “Yes, I think so. It's obvious he cares a lot for you.”

It would be funny in any other circumstance. Ilya could only shake his head slowly, trying to find the words.

“No, I mean,” he took a careful breath, looking at her so she would understand. “I had tests. We are match.”

The room went very quiet.

He watched it move across her face—the confusion first, then the slow and terrible understanding of what he was actually saying. When it clicked, her hand flew up to cover her mouth, and the tears came instantly, pooling before she could do anything to stop them.

Ilya kept going quickly, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “It is not approved yet. I do not want to, um, have hopes up. But the doctor I speak to says I am good fit, very strong liver—”

“Oh my god,” Yuna breathed out. “Does Shane know?”

“No. No, no, no.”

She didn't say anything for a long moment, just looked at him in the way that made Ilya feel like she was seeing something he hadn't shown anyone. He didn't know what his face was doing. He was too tired to manage it properly.

The chair was close enough that when she leaned forward, they were almost eye level. She reached out without saying anything, and her hand came up to cup the side of his face briefly, her thumb brushing tenderly once across his cheekbone.

It lasted only a second. But Ilya had to look away.

He stared at the far wall while she leaned back, blinking hard as he tried to get control over everything he was feeling. Shane shifted faintly against his chest and Ilya pressed his hand flat against his back, steadying them both.

“He would never let you do it,” Yuna said softly, once she'd settled.

Ilya puffed out his cheeks, exhaling. “No.”

She gave Ilya a weary look that was so entirely Shane it almost made him laugh. “He's going to be so angry with you. I hope you're prepared for that.”

Ilya's fingers pressed gently into Shane's waist without thinking. “He is always angry with me.”

Shane stirred faintly, pressing closer in his sleep, his fingers curling weakly into the fabric of Ilya's shirt before going still again.

“I should have your number,” Yuna said after a while. “For when you're out of town.”

Ilya nodded, carefully shifting just enough to reach for his phone without disturbing Shane, unlocking it one-handed and passing it across. When she handed it back, she held on for just a half second longer than necessary, her fingers over his.

“Ilya, I—”

“No,” he said softly. “Please. Not yet.”

She looked at him with eyes that were still threatening to spill over, her mouth pressed tight like she was holding back something that deserved more room than this moment could give it. And then something shifted—her chin lifted, her jaw set, that same stubborn fire he knew so well rising up through the grief of it.

“Okay,” she said. “Not yet.”

__

Game three and four were brutal, Boston and Admirals splitting the wins, the games fast and unforgiving, Ilya throwing himself into every shift he could because it was the only place his head would quiet down. 

There was no room to think out there, and he made sure of it—skating hard and leaning into every hit, because he couldn’t afford to slow down. Because if he slowed down, his mind would wander. And if his mind wandered, his weak spots would be exposed.

By the end of it, his body ached and his lungs burned, but they had the next day off before having to travel to New York, and Ilya drove straight to the hospital. 

__

“Aisha.” Ilya rapped his knuckles against the counter at the nurse’s station. “I need something.”

Aisha—one of Shane’s nurses he’d gotten to know over the last few months—was behind the desk, slurping the last of her iced coffee through a straw obnoxiously loud. She glanced up at him, brows lifting in greeting.

“Hey, Ilya. What’s up?”

He’d been rehearsing this for days, ever since the idea had come to him, but now that he was actually standing there, saying it out loud made him slightly anxious. He dragged a hand through his hair before settling his forearms on the counter, leaning in closer to keep his voice low.

“I am curious,” he started slowly, glancing around once more to make sure no one else was nearby, “how to stay. All night.”

Aisha blinked at him, her cup stilling in her hand.

“In Shane’s room,” Ilya added, just to make it clear what he was suggesting. 

She stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing, shaking her head as she set her drink down and gave him an amused look. “You’re funny.”

“Is not a joke.” Ilya frowned.

“Ilya, I—” she paused when a couple of people walked by, parents from a room down the hall that he’d seen coming and going over the last few weeks. They were leaving—it was already curfew, which was what Ilya would have to do if he didn’t get her to cave.

“What is your coffee from?” Ilya nodded toward her cup once they were alone again. “I will bring you gift card that will last a year.”

“You can’t just bribe–”

“Two years worth, then!” Ilya threw his hands in the air, exasperated.

Aisha laughed again, though this time there was a nervous edge to it, her eyes darting around. “Listen, only his parents are authorized for overnights. And you’re very much not a parent, considering I’ve walked in on you twice now with your tongue down his throat.” She gave him a look for that. 

But Ilya didn’t care, he just leaned in closer, “You are working all night, yes?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“So, you will be one to check on Shane.”

“Technically, I am assigned to—”

“If you are his nurse, you know I am here. No problem. No one else will know.”

She sighed heavily, leaning back in her chair and eyeing him carefully, and he could tell he was close.

“Aisha,” Ilya said, softer now. “I nee—Shane needs this. He is alone and is very scary.”

She pressed her lips together, glancing down at the chart in front of her, stalling, weighing whatever rule he was asking her to break.

“Alright,” she said after a moment, lowering her voice to barely a whisper. “Officially, I’m saying no.”

“And…not official?”

“I’m not saying it out loud,” she hissed, not meeting his eyes. “You weren’t here. And no wandering the halls at three in the morning—”

Reaching out, Ilya leaned across the counter and grabbed her head, kissing the top of it with a loud smack. “I will be ghost! I love you, I love you, thank you!”

He was halfway down the hall before the smile faded, the noise of the nurses station falling away behind him. The corridor stretched out quiet ahead of him, just the low hum of the floor at night, a light flickering somewhere near the elevator. Ilya slowed without actually meaning to, his hand finding the wall, and stood there for a second in the dim stretch of hallway outside Shane's door.

He just needed a minute.

Because it was one thing to joke about it, to charm and bribe Aisha until she caved. It was another thing entirely to stand here in the quiet and admit, even just to himself, why he couldn't go home. Why the thought of Shane waking up alone in the dark made it impossible to be anywhere else.

Ilya exhaled slowly, his hand dropping from the wall.

Then he pushed the door open and went inside.

“Hi,” Shane mumbled sleepily as Ilya eased himself carefully into the bed beside him.

He’d stripped down to his briefs before climbing in, not wanting to bring anything from outside into this space. Shane shifted back, molding himself against Ilya’s chest and it was exactly what he’d been dreaming of for months. He wrapped both arms around him, pulling him closer until there was no space left, their bodies pressed together so completely it was hard to tell where one of them ended and the other began.

Ilya pressed his mouth to the space behind Shane’s ear and kept it there, too tired to move, breathing him in. His hand slid up to Shane’s chest, careful around the patches, until he found a place to rest it flat, feeling the steady beat beneath his palm.

And then he fell asleep.

__

Ilya woke sometime in the middle of the night.

Shane was squirming, his breathing catching and then quickening, almost like he was underwater and couldn't find the surface. Ilya pushed himself up immediately, pressing the button for a light so he could see his face.

“Shane,” he said quietly, trying not to scare him. “Shane, what is wrong?”

Shane was trying to sit up too fast, his balance off, his hand slipping against the mattress. Ilya moved with him, his arm coming up to steady him, but Shane kept pulling forward like he needed to get away from something. He shoved at the blankets, fighting weakly against Ilya's grip.

“We have to go,” Shane said, the words rushed and uneven. “We're late, I—”

“Go where?” Ilya's hand tightened around his waist. “Shane.”

Shane shook his head, his gaze moving past Ilya instead of landing on him, searching for something that wasn't in the room. His hand caught on the IV line and he tugged hard enough to try to pull it out.

“Stop.” Ilya caught his wrist. “You are okay. You are with me.”

“No,” Shane slurred, “they’re going to leave without us.”

“Who? Shane, I do not understand.”

Shane blinked at him slowly, like it took effort to bring him into focus—and even then his eyes didn't stay. They slipped away again.

Ilya leaned in closer, his panic rising. “Shane. Look at me. Please.”

For a second, Shane's gaze caught. Then his body lurched forward, and Ilya grabbed for the back of his t-shirt and felt it soaked through with sweat.

“Wait—”

Shane leaned over the side of the bed and started throwing up. Ilya tried to hold him upright, trying to keep him from pitching forward. His grip felt clumsy, like he couldn't figure out where to put his hands or how much pressure to use. When the vomiting turned to dry heaving, he reached past Shane and slammed the call button.

“I have you,” Ilya repeated over again, in Russian because English wasn't an option anymore. He didn't even recognize the sound of his own voice.

The door opened fast.

Aisha came in with her hands already moving, stepping in and taking over—guiding Shane back, supporting him, speaking to him in the calm measured tone of someone who had done this before and would do it again. Ilya let go of Shane's shirt because he had to. He climbed out of the bed without being asked, even though every part of him resisted it.

Shane leaned into her, too exhausted to hold himself up, his eyes slow, his responses delayed. He didn't look like the same person Ilya had been holding an hour ago.

Ilya didn't know where to put himself so he pressed his back against the wall and stayed there. Someone else slipped in to clean the floor, moving around him without acknowledgment, which was probably for the best.

After a while, Aisha eased Shane back against the pillows, wiping his face and chest with a damp cloth, her movements practiced and unhurried. She checked the lines, adjusted the machines, smoothed the blanket back up over him and dimmed the lights. Then she stayed—watching his breathing, tracking it until it slowed and evened into something that resembled rest.

Only then did she glance up at Ilya and nod toward the other end of the room.

His body followed her to the corner. Everything inside him was still moving too fast, his pulse not yet caught up to the fact that it was over.

“It would probably be better if you didn't sleep in the bed,” she said softly. “I shouldn't have—”

“No.” Ilya shook his head, wrapping his arms around his bare torso to hug himself. “I made you. I am sorry.”

“I'm not going to tell you to leave, but maybe the chair—”

“Is normal?” he interrupted. “This?”

Aisha hesitated.

“Fuck that,” Ilya said, his eyes finding hers. “Tell me.”

She held his gaze for a moment. Then she let out a slow breath.

“The vomiting is new,” she said quietly. “...but the confusion isn't.”

Ilya nodded once. His eyes had already moved past her to Shane in the bed, face slack with sleep, like none of it had happened.

“Okay.”

He stood there a second longer. Then he went back inside and lowered himself into the chair beside the bed—the same chair he'd sat in a hundred times before, since the very beginning. He put his elbows on his knees and looked at Shane and didn't look away.

__

Game Five

Ilya had opened the game by scoring the first goal before they’d even hit two minutes, but New York answered within seconds. The air felt different in Madison Square Garden, not just because they were on Admirals ice, but because of how much was riding on it now.

They closed out the first period 1-1, and back in the locker room the energy was tight.

“You alright, Roz?” Marlow asked, passing him a water bottle, his dark eyes assessing him in a quick glance.

Was Ilya okay? He hadn’t had time to think about it—and he couldn’t. He was still rattled from that night with Shane two days ago, and now being a few hours away from him sat wrong in his chest in a way he couldn’t shake. The worst part was not hearing from Shane himself. It left something hollow there, like his heart had lost its rhythm without him.

He nodded but stayed quiet, which wasn’t unusual this deep into playoffs. Everyone was buried in their own heads, clinging to routines and superstitions, and he could pass his distance off as one of his.

When he checked his phone, he found a text from Yuna and held his breath the way he always did when he saw her name, bracing without meaning to.

yuna (shane’s mom): We’re watching the game in Shane’s room! We’re so proud of you, you’re looking great out there. Keep an eye on Novak, he’s drifting too high in the zone. David says good luck!

Ilya huffed softly, something in his chest warming at the way she sounded just like her son, slipping in unsolicited advice he tucked away anyway. But it snagged on the fact that she only mentioned David, and he knew why. Shane was probably not awake.

He forced himself to let it go, shoving his phone back into his bag before he could sit with it any longer.

The second period had Ilya buried in a scrum that turned into a power play for the Bears, and they capitalized with three seconds left on the clock.

By the third, Admirals tied the game quickly with the puck bouncing off the post and into the net on nothing but pure luck. 

Boston broke through late, a messy rebound shoved in to take the lead, and the building turned hostile instantly, the arena deafening as New York pushed back. The goalie was gone before the replay finished, six men pressing, the ice collapsing into chaos as they threw everything at the net.

Ilya got tangled low, a stick catching his skates and sending him down hard just as the puck slipped free into open ice. It drifted ahead of him and he stretched out on the ice and jammed his stick forward, catching just enough to send it sliding the rest of the way.

It flew straight down the empty ice and—the horn blared.

Ilya got back on his feet just as everything exploded. 

“Roz!” Marlow shouted as he got slammed from behind, teammates piling into him, gloves in his face, sticks clattering against his pads. “You fucking beauty—holy shit—”

Ilya was laughing, breathless, adrenaline burning through him as he got dragged into the center of it, bodies pressing in from all sides, the noise crashing down around them. It felt big. It felt earned. It felt like everything he’d worked for.

And somewhere underneath all the cheering and noise, was the quiet, persistent ache that Shane hadn’t seen it.

__

Ilya didn’t make it to Game Six.

That morning, he woke up to a phone call that changed everything, and by the time the puck dropped in New York, he was already back in Boston.

__

The first time Ilya woke up, he didn’t fully wake.

The beeping reached him before anything else did—and he knew that sound, had memorized it over months of sitting in a chair that wasn't his, in a room that wasn't his, learning what someone else's heart sounded like through a monitor. He knew the particular rhythm of it, the way it sat underneath everything else like a pulse.

It took him longer than it should have to understand that this time, it was his.

The light was bright, coming from the wrong direction. His mouth felt like something had dried out in it, and when he tried to move, something pulled sharp across his middle and a steady hand was on his arm with a voice saying something he couldn't hold onto long enough to understand.

He felt the straw at his lips before he understood what it was. The water was cold.

Through the light he could just make out a shape in the chair beside the bed and the familiar figure sitting in it, with long dark hair and thick-framed glasses. 

He tried to say Yuna’s name but he didn’t think anything came out. He needed to ask. Shane—was Shane—but his mouth wouldn't cooperate, and whatever sound he made wasn't a word, and then the light got very far away and he stopped trying.

__

The second time was quieter.

The light had changed, softer now, coming from the window instead of overhead. The beeping was still there but it had settled into the background. His throat was dry but the cotton feeling was gone, replaced with something more ordinary—just a body that had been through something and was working its way back.

Ilya blinked at the ceiling for a long moment.

He tried to take inventory slowly. The pull across his abdomen was still there, a deep persistent ache that sharpened when he breathed too far in. His left hand had an IV taped to it. His mouth tasted like a hospital. When he tried to shift into a more comfortable position, he immediately regretted it, his breath catching sharp.

“Hey. Easy.”

Ilya turned his head.

David was sitting in the chair beside the bed. He was still in the same clothes Ilya had last seen him in—how many hours or days ago, he had no idea—and he looked like he hadn't slept, jaw unshaven, eyes red at the edges. But when they found Ilya's face, something in them went soft with relief so plain it was almost hard to look at.

Leaned forward, David reached across Ilya to guide the straw from the cup on the tray table to his lips, steadying it there without being asked or saying anything while Ilya drank.

It took a few minutes. When Ilya's voice finally came back it felt like gravel and broken glass.

“Alive?”

Whatever David had been holding together came apart all at once. His face crumbled as he pressed both of his hands against his eyes, his breath hitching. For a second it scared Ilya, but then he started nodding profusely. 

“Yeah,” he managed, looking up at Ilya with tears spilling. “Yeah, he's alive.” He paused, pulling in a breath to steady himself, his hand dropping to Ilya's arm and staying there. “Yuna's with him. She's been with him since he came out—but she was here too, before you woke up. We've been taking turns.”

Ilya held his gaze. His eyes were blinking too fast.

“I don't—” David stopped. Started again. “I don't know how to thank you for something like this.”

Ilya reached out and wrapped his fingers around David's wrist, shaking his head once.

David was quiet for a moment, his jaw clenching as he thought through whatever he wanted to say, achingly in the same way Shane did, and it made Ilya miss him so much. 

“You know,” he said, not looking up, “Yuna's always been the better one with words. She'd know exactly what to say right now.” A small, watery exhale that might have been a laugh. “Me, I never quite figure it out until after.”

He looked at Ilya with those kind eyes that Ilya had noticed the very first time they met and had never quite known what to do with.

“Shane is—he's everything to us. He's every good thing we ever did.” His voice was rough, unpolished, like he was just saying what was there rather than shaping it into something. “And I've been sitting in this chair since last night trying to figure out how a person says thank you for that. For someone giving their kid a chance to—” he stopped, pressing his lips together. “I don't think there's a word for it. I really don't.”

Ilya looked at the ceiling. His chest pulled in a breath that broke on the way out, and then it was happening before he could stop it—his body finally giving up what it had been holding onto for months.

“Fuck—I'm sorry,” Ilya choked, turning his face away and trying to wipe the tears against his shoulder.

“Hey—no.” David's hand tightened on his arm. “Don't you dare apologize, it’s okay.”

Ilya tried to breathe through it, swiping at his face harshly. “Is he awake?”

“Not yet. They're keeping him sedated a little while longer, make sure his body accepts—”

“It will,” Ilya said. Quiet, but certain.

David looked at him for a moment. Then he nodded, like that settled something.

He reached over and picked up the cup again, offering the straw back to Ilya. And then he set it down and sat back in his chair and didn't say anything else for a little while. Neither did Ilya. They did, however, pass a box of tissues back and forth between them without either of them commenting on it.

Eventually, quietly, David said, “I'm glad you were here. These last few months. With him.” He wasn't looking at Ilya when he said it, his eyes on his own hands in his lap. “I'm glad he has you.”

Ilya didn't answer. He couldn't. He just let the words sit there, feeling them settle somewhere deep, in a place that had been empty for a very long time.

He would give Shane anything if it meant he got to live. He already had two of Ilya's organs, after all—and one of them had been Shane's long before this.

__

One Week Later

"You know you can walk, right?"

The nurse, Hannah, nudged the door open with her hip, wheeling the chair in and eyeing Ilya with barely concealed amusement. Ilya was stretched out on the bed with both arms tucked behind his head, the picture of a man deeply inconvenienced by his own recovery.

"Ah, no," he said, lazily motioning over his body. "I am very weak."

She snorted, pushing the chair to the end of the bed and stopping it with her foot. "You literally walked to the cafeteria earlier."

"It was taco day," Ilya raised his brows incredulously. "I had to be very…" he searched for it, "courage."

"Courageous."

"Yes, that." He sighed, long and put-upon. "I was very brave."

"I think you're just being a diva," she said, but she moved the chair around anyway.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, groaning with a wince just to sell it, lowering himself into the chair with a quiet exhale as he adjusted himself into something approaching comfortable. He tugged at the hospital gown, which barely covered anything, but he didn't really mind. The nurses seemed to appreciate his legs.

"See?" he said, settling back and closing his eyes. "Already exhausted."

"I'm sure."

The wheels rattled lightly over the seams in the tile as they moved out into the hall. The floor was alive with noise, voices carrying from open rooms, a cart clattering hard enough to bounce off the walls, someone laughing too loudly at the desk. Ilya barely registered any of it. He was practically vibrating out of his skin and trying very hard not to show it.

Because Shane was awake.

It had been too long since Ilya had been able to get lost in those big brown eyes. Too long since he'd watched them go soft and shy, slipping away whenever the attention got to be too much. Too long since he'd seen the way they looked when they stayed on Ilya — like there was too much there to say out loud, everything left unsaid pooling right there for him to drown in.

He had sat at Shane's bedside for hours over the last week while machines breathed for him, showing up the second they allowed it and refusing to leave until someone made him. Playing cards with David and Yuna. Eating at the little table in the corner of Shane's room like it had become his home. Talking in low voices about anything, about the Bears pushing into Round Two without him, about games he should have been playing in, goals he should have been scoring.

He thought he'd feel more about all of it. But he didn't.

They made him wait twenty-four hours before he could see Shane after he woke up, and at one point last night he'd nearly lost it and gone down there anyway, consequences be damned. He hadn't, but it had been close.

There was a tiny part of him—stupid and irrational, the part he'd been trying to outskate his whole life—that was terrified Shane would be different. That something would have been rewired wrong and he wouldn't know Ilya, or worse, wouldn't care about him. But surely that couldn't be possible. Not with a piece of Ilya inside of him, keeping him alive.

"Almost there," Hannah said, and Ilya realized his knee had been bouncing the entire ride.

"You only go one speed?" he muttered. "Is very slow."

"You could've walked yourself."

"I did not know you were tordole."

"Turtle."

"Yes, turdle, whatever, can you please go faster—"

"We're here."

They stopped outside room 1221. Ilya looked at the door. His chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with his incision.

"Do you want to walk from here?"

"Ah, no," he said, motioning her forward. "Dramatic entrance. Go."

For the first second after they came through the door, Ilya's eyes had to adjust. When they did, his breath caught.

There was Shane.

He was sitting up in bed, head turned toward Yuna as she fussed over something beside him. And he looked—fuck, he looked like himself. The color was back in his face, his chest rising and falling on its own, no machine counting his breaths for him. Even from across the room, Ilya could see it—something returned to him, something that had been quietly draining away for months slowly refilling.

Ilya hadn't realized, until this exact moment, how much of himself he'd been holding in. Like he'd been bracing for a hit that never came, tensed up for so long his body had forgotten how to let go.

And then Shane turned.

His mouth parted—just a breath, barely anything—but his eyes went wide and then wider as they found Ilya sitting there in the stupid wheelchair. His gaze moved over him slowly, taking in the hospital gown, the slippers, the IV still taped to the back of his hand, like he needed to catalog each detail before he could believe any of them.

When his eyes found Ilya's again, his brows pulled together.

"Ilya?" He said it quietly, like the word might break.

"Shane."

Ilya gripped the armrests and pushed himself up. Shane's eyes followed him, unblinking, as Ilya crossed the room toward the bed. Yuna squeezed Shane's arm once and stepped back saying quietly, “I’m going to go find your dad, he went to go get coffee, we’ll be back in a little bit.”

Neither of the boys acknowledged her as they continued to stare at one another, and Ilya heard Yuna and Hannah slip out of the room, the door clicking softly shut behind them.

"Why…" Shane swallowed, his voice still rough from the tube, eyes moving across Ilya's face like he was searching for something. "Did you get hurt at a game?"

Ilya shook his head. "No. I'm fine, malysh."

Shane tried to push himself up higher and winced. Ilya said "no, no, don't move" at the same moment his hand landed on Shane's shoulder, holding him still.

"What happened?" Shane asked, the worry cutting through the fog in his eyes. “I don’t—”

"You don't need to talk," Ilya said. "It's hard still, I know."

"Tell me." And there it was, that familiar stubbornness, stripped down to its bones, quiet but immovable. He was in a hospital bed one week out of surgery and he was still his Shane.

Ilya exhaled and sat down carefully on the edge of the bed.

"I am fine," he said again, quieter. "Better than before. Nothing matters. Only you."

Shane looked at him for a long moment. And then his gaze dropped, pausing on the way Ilya’s hand was holding his ribs without even realizing it. 

"What's wrong with your side?"

"Nothing," Ilya said, too quickly. Of course, Shane, who had been trained to search for any weak spots in his opponents, would notice the slightly off kilter way Ilya was holding himself. 

Shane's hand moved before Ilya could redirect him, slow and uncoordinated, fingers not quite catching up with his brain yet. He found Ilya's wrist first, then his shoulder, pressing gently, searching, until his palm slid down and flattened against Ilya's sternum and—

"Blyat—" Ilya caught his wrist.

Shane's eyes snapped up. “Are those sutures? Ilya, what—”

“Nothing, nothing,” Ilya tried to deflect, but his face was still wincing. “I just had to have tiny surgery.”

The silence stretched between them, and Ilya could see the exact moment understanding began to take shape behind Shane's eyes. The way his expression shifted—confusion giving way to something just shy of disbelief, like he wouldn’t let himself believe what his brain was supplying. 

"What kind of surgery?" Shane asked slowly, his eyes sharp on Ilya’s face. 

Ilya shrugged one shoulder. "Small thing."

"Ilya."

"Hollander—"

"What kind of surgery." It wasn’t a question anymore.

Ilya looked at him and he could tell Shane knew and just needed to hear it. And then he stopped fighting it.

"You needed one," he said quietly. "I had one to give."

The room went so still Ilya could hear the soft rhythm of the monitor behind them. He watched it happen across Shane's face—the slow, awful understanding of it, everything clicking into place. Shane's eyes went glassy, blinking fast, his lips parting like he was about to say something and couldn't find a single word for any of it.

"What," Shane finally breathed.

"You were being very annoying," Ilya said. "Almost dying like that."

It came out of Shane all at once—the exhale, the wet sound behind it, his hand gripping Ilya's wrist so hard it would leave a mark. "Fuck you," he said, voice breaking. "Fuck you, why would you—"

"I know," Ilya said quietly.

"You don't just—" Shane shook his head, tears already sliding past his lashes, down into his freckles. "You can't just—"

"Is done now." Ilya reached up and brushed them away, first one side then the other, his thumb slow and careful across Shane's cheekbones. Shane sat very still and let Ilya do it and that alone made something in Ilya's chest split open.

"But the playoffs—" Shane started.

"Fuck the playoffs. I am where I need to be."

"You're insane." Shane's voice cracked. "You're actually—what the fuck is wrong with you—"

"Many things," Ilya said. "You knew this already."

Shane let out something that couldn't decide if it was a laugh or a sob. Ilya watched him and didn't look away, because he wanted to remember this—even this, even the broken parts, the ugly crying and the snotty exhale Shane tried to hide. 

Ilya reached out and carefully closed the distance between them until Shane’s face was buried against his neck, feeling the warmth of his breath and his tears against his skin.

"I'm so mad at you," Shane muttered eventually, the words muffled.

"I know."

A long moment passed and neither of them moved. 

"I don't have the energy to fight you yet," Shane said. “But this isn’t over.”

"Good." Ilya brought his hand up carefully, letting it rest in Shane's hair, fingers loose against his scalp. "We have very long time to fight now."

Chapter End Notes

im dedicating this little fic to my sunshine, pointerbrother, the loml and my babygirl. u encourage and support everything i write and ur such an inspiration to me, one of the most talented writers i know, im so lucky to know u. ily my lille engleprinsesse.

and to violet--thank u for always being just as excited as i am to brainstorm and bounce ideas around, for putting up with all my voice notes, correcting my grammar and for being there for every single midnight revelation like the absolute hero u are. idk what i'd do without u in my life.

okay one last thing finally...i've been dying to talk about this.

i was like 95% done with this fic when i found out that the incision scar for liver transplant donors is literally called a "hockey stick incision"...in real life. in actual medical terminology. i genuinely freaked out. i'm still not over it. the universe was cooking with this one and i needed u all to know. anyway. i hope u enjoyed.

oh--and by the way. these two aren't over. do u rly think we wouldn't get smut? please. stay tuned for the next part. :)

follow me on twt @_fckingfreckles !!