Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Canon Compliant, Set in the Episode Four Fuck-Montage, Sick Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-08 Words: 2,776 Chapters: 1/1

wait

Summary

Jane: No problem again, sorry. I’ll see you in a few months.

Notes

this is set right at the beginning of episode four, a little before things blow up between the two of them :)))

and thank you SOOOO MUCH to laura for beta-ing!!!!!!!!

Autumn buckles into the bite of winter. The sky darkens above gray streets, messy with slush. Ilya shivers all day. His feet ache, his chest tightens, his skin is dry, his headaches worsen. He's familiar with this, the cold, the long months sparse of relief.

Ilya paces in front of his TV, which currently shows a slow pan of Hollander’s face on the bench. Even with the plastic visor over his eyes, reflecting the light, he looks pale. The shape of his body is drowned under pads and cloth. Ilya can’t pick out where his shoulders start, where the soft dip of his waist is. The footage is flat, shadowless. 

His half-eaten dinner cools on the table. He’s thinking about how next week, Montreal and Boston will play each other here in Boston.

Tonight, Montreal gets whooped, finishing 3-1. Hollander is skating slow, his passes not connecting. Once, he misses the gate while trying to get back to the bench, painfully knocking his hip into the boards.

Ilya waits until the game finishes, then another hour for media and team meetings. 

Me: You are not good today?

Hollander takes another hour to respond. 

Jane: Some guys had the flu. I think they gave it to me.

Ilya bites his thumb, staring at the blue square of his screen. He remembers once when Hollander blew his nose in Ilya’s bathroom, a weird honking sound. Ilya had frozen in place. Noticed how Hollander's nose was red at the tip when he emerged.

Me: Feel free to stay sick. Give us win next week.

Jane: In your dreams, Rozanov!

Montreal beat them the last two times around; by the time the game starts, everyone is starving for payback. They leave the locker room in a frenzy, the din of the crowd warping into a flat howl. Hollander and him settle in for the face-off. Ilya’s entire body blisters hot. Hollander doesn’t meet his eye, doesn’t bare his teeth. Ilya gets the puck, pulls it back, and lets it fly. Energy sharpens, aggression festers; the slapshots are constant, the hits personal. Montreal skates fast, but Boston is fast too. Faster.

Boston wins 3-2. Ilya stands taller, his insides squeezing with the thrill. By the time Ilya gets to the locker room, a text from Hollander is waiting. His chest blooming with excitement, he fumbles to unlock his phone.

Jane: Luck.

Me: Sure.

Jane: I’ll get you next time.

Now that he thinks of it, Hollander had been playing a little sluggishly. Like Hollander had read his mind, Ilya’s phone buzzes with a new text.

Jane: Hey. Sorry to say but I’m sick. 

His tongue is hanging outside his mouth, Ilya realizes.

Me: Still?

Jane: It might be TB or something. I’m obviously still playing fine

Right. 

Me: Well, you are not giving me sickness

Me: This is sabotage for my season.

Ilya puts down his phone to start to strip off his gear. His eyes rest unblinking on the screen, waiting for a message. But Hollander takes a long time to respond.

Jane: Yeah, no worries. I thought so, I mean it’s rude to show up coughing everywhere, right?

Ilya doesn’t understand, until Hollander’s next text comes through.

Jane: No problem again, sorry. I’ll see you in a few months.

Ilya freezes, then grapples to pick up his phone. His face is getting hot.

He rereads all of it. Reads it one more time.

Ilya looks around, at the guys changing lazily, no one paying attention to him. He cautiously turns back to the screen, to those messages.

Something heavy and cold leeches into his chest.

Well he’s fucking right. Ilya doesn’t want to get sick, has a team that relies on him to play ferociously every week. If he shows up to Hollander’s plague-infested hotel room; rolls around in the sheets that Hollander has slept, sweated, dreamed in; kisses Hollander’s mouth open until both of their tongues are slippery with spit, it’s pretty much a guarantee. He’s not going to tempt fate.

His eyes fall back to the text. In a few months. 

It’s ugly laid out like that. Months? 

Maybe Ilya can go over and not kiss him. Disease isn’t transmitted through the dick, right? As long as he stays away from his face, from all the crevices that spew bacteria, then he’ll be fine. He can fuck him face-down, press him into the mattress, and it won’t be a risk.

But Ilya thinks of him, of Hollander, how the second the door closes Hollander is on him, kissing his mouth, rubbing his finger until Ilya’s ear, and he knows it won’t work. Hollander is unembarrassed. Hollander kisses like it’s the first time, like he’s shocked at how lovely it is; like he wants all of it and is scared someone will take it from him. Ilya can trace the jagged edge where his control falters, and knows that he won’t resist the second Hollander touches him.

Something sad lurches in Ilya’s chest. He could go over and not fuck Hollander. But then what else would they do? 

Me: See you. Get well.

Even as he sends that, he regrets it. It’s too affectionate, too dismissive. Not appropriate. Ilya lets his head knock against the metal of his locker. For a second, he can’t breathe.

Ilya stays at home long enough to change into a fresh set of clothes and spray on cologne. He’s out the door in less than five minutes. 

He’s not seeing Hollander tonight. That’s fine. He can still get laid.

The run from the car to the club entrance is fucking frigid, unbelievable. Smoke and heat envelop him as he slips through the door. Ilya stands at the mouth of the room.

Lights flash, music screams. He works his way over to the bar and orders two drinks. As he waits, he scans the place. Bodies writhe. Clothes sparkle. He recognizes no one.

The drinks come quickly. He orders manly shit, strong spirits and no frills. He drinks the first in one insane gulp, comes up woozy. The second one he clings to as he pushes off the bar and starts to walk around.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Lots of girls are dancing. His gaze picks its way around the edges of the room, the groups lingering around tables. He halts on simple T-shirts, on broad shoulders. People stream past him, here and there. Ilya watches them walk by. He can’t settle; once he notices someone, they’re gone in the next blink.

He ends up at a standing table, staring out into the crowd. People jostle him without looking. His head pounds. His drink has already gone warm. He takes a while to realize there’s a girl leaning on the other edge of the table.

She meets his eye, then saunters until she’s nestled next to him.

“Hi!” she yells over the music.

Ilya turns his body until it’s bent over hers. “Hi.”

They watch the crowd for a bit. Her head tilts towards him.

“Are you going to get me a drink?” Her sticky lip brushes his ear.

Ilya hovers, studying her. She’s gorgeous, exactly his type: dark hair, lusty eyes, full lips. Her dress tumbles down, sweeps of skin exposed. He doesn’t hide where his gaze lingers.

She watches him with curiosity, but no recognition. She probably doesn’t know who he is. And he doesn’t know who she is. Her face is unfamiliar. Her body a stranger. 

A stranger. “Maybe later,” Ilya says hoarsely, turning away. He feels sick. On the other side of him, the crowd ripples. The speakers shriek. People on all sides, their faces a blur, undistinctive, unfamiliar; a hoard of strangers, unknown strangers, amble and shove and shout. The alcohol has left a bitter coating over the inside of his mouth. He recognizes no one in the endless stream of foreign bodies, all babbling in foreign voices. 

Ilya’s knuckles dig into the table. He can feel his mind, in its terrible weakness, retreating to the place that it always retreats to, the safe contours of the thought he can’t help but think.

How long until he sees Shane again?

Like a photograph, the dates Boston and Montreal play each other appear before his eyes. And with a lurch Ilya remembers that it was supposed to be today. Today was supposed to be the relief.

The woman still sways next to him, eyeing him hopefully. He feels sick.

He’s out of the club before he knows it. The cold is a shock. He stumbles down the street, waving for a taxi with one hand and opening his messages with another.

Me: What hotel are you in

Me: And number

Hollander responds immediately.

Jane: I’m sick. Remember?

Me: Yes.

Jane: You don’t want to get sick??

Me: I won’t.

Jane: ??

Jane: Whatever. Ritz-Carlton, 1428.

Ilya has a plan. The second Hollander opens the door, he will run through it and sit on the edge of the bed. He will cross his arms in front of his chest and look aloof, closed-off. He will be assertive straight away, will tell Hollander to strip and get on the bed. He’ll fuck him face-down. When he finishes, he’ll stand and get dressed. He won’t lay down. If he lays down, he’ll stay; he’ll breathe too deeply, catch it all.

He feels jittery in the elevator. The hallway stretches like taffy. Then he’s in front of the door, his knuckles rapping against it.

It opens, and Hollander’s wary face swims into view.

Go, Ilya laments to himself as he hobbles inside and makes it halfway across the room before he peters to a halt. He turns to look at Hollander, leaning against the door.

“Hi,” Ilya offers. 

Hollander doesn’t respond. Ilya can’t look away from his mouth.

“You… still feeling sick?”

Hollander’s lips look dry. When he speaks, his voice rasps. “A little.”

Ilya wavers. 

Hollander is being short with his words, the way he does when he’s ashamed— ashamed of all of this, of his desire for men, of his desire for Ilya, disgust at himself for unlocking the door once again. 

Hollander has good hockey, has a good family, has brand deals with everyone, untouchable life, perfect player, withdrawn and serious, so far beyond Ilya that it hurts. Ilya can give him only one thing. And Hollander hates it sometimes. It’s only a matter of time. The years tumble down. He can’t breathe. It’s only so long that Hollander will let this continue.

“Are you okay in the cold?” Ilya asks.

The heater is feeble. Hollander has a big jacket on, with his hands in his pockets. “I’m used to it.”

It doesn’t answer the question, really.

“You play in Columbus next?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re so shit.”

A tiny smile warms Hollander’s mouth. “Yes. Lucky for us.”

Ilya shifts his weight so that he’s leaning towards the bed. “Win by at least two, okay?”

The smile gets bigger. “That’d be nice.”

“Your wrist isn’t bothering you?”

“No, no. That hasn’t hurt for a while.”

Ilya’s chest is tight. He nods.

Hollander’s cheeks are warm. Already, Ilya can see his defensiveness thawing. Hollander has a short memory with grudges. He’s so sweet, it’s unsurvivable.

He wants to tell Hollander to be meaner, to be less generous. Ilya imagines finding the sharp point of his own cruelty taking root in Hollander’s open face, and the thought pangs.

Don’t kiss him. Ilya breathes into the collar of his shirt, like that will filter out the sour air.

“I thought,” Hollander starts, “you weren’t going to come today.”

His eyes shine in the low gray light of the room.

“I don’t get sick.” Ilya shrugs. “I feel like coming.”

Hollander nods hopefully. He pulls his big jacket tighter around himself. 

“I knew you would open,” Ilya continues. Then: “You always.”

Hollander sways.

“I know you’re a whore for it,” he slurs, sudden, too mean.

It is too mean. Hurt whips across the soft planes of Hollander’s face. He recoils, as if to get away. 

Good. It’s a punishment for this, for the way that Hollander wants him so sweetly. A punishment for Ilya, too, for being so weak, for needing it so much. They have no business doing this. And Ilya hates him, hates Hollander, so much, for all of it.

“Get on the bed,” Ilya instructs, and his voice doesn’t waver. There’s a crumbled tissue lying on the bedside table.

Hollander hesitates, just for a second, then turns to obey. He shucks off the big jacket, then the rest of his layers. He crawls onto the bed, Ilya helplessly follows. 

All at once, all of Hollander is available, exposed. His pale skin glows under lamp-light. The shadow of his spine arcs. The muscle ripples. His shoulders are here, finally, the mole on his left one winking at Ilya. Hollander adjusts himself: the way his back flexes is perfect. The dim light smoothes everything. The rounding of his hamstring heaves, and Ilya is rapt. Hollander bends a knee, Ilya’s favorite knee, to spread his thighs apart. Swatches of his dark hair, so familiar, reveal themselves.

The relief is an ache.

Ilya drops his pants and pulls off his shirt, even though he told himself he won’t get naked. Hollander is waiting, his head half-turned. He’s— so good. Ilya would be cruel to not touch; he runs his cold hands over the heat of Hollander’s skin, watches the way goosebumps raise. Ilya is cruel, useless off of the ice, despises himself for it, and here it feels crushing. 

Hollander has freckles on his back, faint. Ilya loves them, touches them, and it’s such a relief. Ilya bends down to press a kiss to his shoulder, and it’s such a relief.

Hollander moans at the contact. “C’mon.”

Ilya turns his head, so his cheek is resting on his skin. Hollander’s voice was hoarse. From yelling in the game, or from being sick?

“C’mon, please. Please.”

He listens like it will make up for any of it. His fingers reach the inside of his thighs, then travel higher. Hollander makes a blissful noise and Ilya has to shut his eyes against it.

As he works Hollander open, Ilya ends up slumped over the expanse of Hollander’s body, haphazardly propped up with a hand and a knee. The angle is inconvenient, and Ilya’s probably putting too much of his weight down, but Hollander is sturdy. He takes it well, so sweetly, ruinously. Ilya props himself up. He breaches into him, and Hollander cries out.

Ilya isn’t even moving, just jerking back and forth, an awkward grind. Hollander isn’t complaining, but wants more. He bucks up against Ilya’s weight, shifting from side to side, but Ilya doesn’t give in. He waits, lets it linger on and on, gives one good thrust, then holds himself still again. This is going to last. Hollander shudders, rocking back. It’s not very good sex, but the frustration gets delicious. Denial is okay because what other choice do they have.

Time gets hazy. He’s sweating, at his hairline, dampening his back. They’re panting, humidity beading skin. The heater rattles. The rhythm is choppy, a start-stop, unpredictable, enough that they’re both starting to get crazy. 

The heat of Hollander trembles around Ilya, and it’s all such a fucking relief. They have this night, they have this hour, this ticking hour, and Ilya drinks in every detail he can to hoard away, to save, to save. He doesn’t always have this, so he has to remember it well. Preserve it faithfully. The winters are long.

He’s thrusting now. Beneath him, Hollander shudders. His face turns towards him. He’s so beautiful. His body is so familiar that it aches. 

And Ilya can’t help it, doesn’t ever have the strength to do what he should, he’s dropped forward, jostling, feeling blindly, fingers searching until they find Shane’s face, until Ilya’s mouth is on his. He kisses the soft, sour part of Shane’s lips, the wet spill of tongue beneath it. He tightens until his entire body is coiled around Shane’s fever-hot skin.

“Sorry,” Ilya whispers, trembling, hips rabbiting. “‘M sorry.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. The last ten years are a headache that keeps getting worse. Ilya wishes he could do a lot of things differently. Wishes he realized sooner that he will always end it too early, or let it go on for too long. Wishes he realized that it will kill him at the first chance he lets it. And wishes he didn’t keep letting it.

“Oh,” Shane sighs, cut-off as Ilya kisses him again, and again, and one more time, and one more time.