Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Wyatt Hayes, Ryan Price (Game Changers), Carter Vaughn, Eric Bennett, Dallas Kent, Troy Barrett, Hayden Pike, Original Characters, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Connors (Heated Rivalry)

Additional Tags:

COVID-19 Pandemic, COVID-19 Lockdown, convenient bending of real hockey timelines to fit my evil little narrative, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Forced Proximity, (times a thousand), blanket cw for like. the entire lockdown period and everything we went through, Gay Sex, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Anal Fingering, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Closeted Character, Secret Relationship, inaccurate depictions of hockey, POV Alternating

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-10 Updated: 2026-03-28 Words: 21,458 Chapters: 3/?

unprecedented times

Summary

Shane has a bad feeling about this year's All Stars weekend.

All Stars usually doesn't stress him out this much, not anymore. It's being held in St. Louis this year, which isn't ideal, but it's fine. It already got delayed into March, which has never happened before, but surely that's fine too. The timing is pushing uncomfortably close to playoffs, but it'll be fine. It's just a weekend. Everything will be fine.

That's what he tells himself, anyway, as he stares at the news on the TV playing in his terminal waiting area. The anchors drone on and on in front of hospitals and government buildings. Text crawls menacingly across the bottom of the screen. Numbers keep catching his eye like brambles snagging in fabric. And over and over and over, that terrifying word keeps popping up.

Pandemic.

or: what if lockdown happened during the all stars weekend?

Notes

as promised: The Covid Lockdown AU.

as a disclaimer: covid has never gone away and is still very much a threat for everyone, especially at-risk and disabled groups. this work is not meant to make light of that in any way, shape, or form. i personally was incredibly fortunate to not be affected too badly during the initial lockdown and ensuing consequences, but i am aware i am an exception and not the rule. just about everyone lost or knows someone who lost at least one person to this virus, and that is not something i take lightly.

this event supremely traumatized us as a species. i only hope i can provide a drop of healing with my silly little fic. please take care while reading, and keep getting boosted and wearing masks!

also yes i'm aware that ryan price was retired by 2020. i just wanted him to be here so he too must suffer. sorry ryan ily.

Chapter 1

Thursday, March 12, 2020

Shane has a bad feeling about this year's All Stars weekend.

All Stars usually doesn't stress him out this much, not anymore. It's being held in St. Louis this year, which isn't ideal, but it's fine. It already got delayed into March, which has never happened before, but surely that's fine too. The timing is pushing uncomfortably close to playoffs, but it'll be fine. It's just a weekend. Everything will be fine.

That's what he tells himself, anyway, as he stares at the news on the TV playing in his terminal waiting area. The anchors drone on and on in front of hospitals and government buildings. Text crawls menacingly across the bottom of the screen. Numbers keep catching his eye like brambles snagging in fabric. And over and over and over, that terrifying word keeps popping up.

Pandemic.

He had watched the coverage a couple of weeks ago, when a cruise ship had been stuck in a harbor unable to let its passengers disembark because of an outbreak. Had seen the chaos and panic that had erupted in China following the virus being traced there as the origin country. Had seen firsthand the way strangers had started glaring at him lately, despite the fact that he was neither Chinese nor in any way responsible for what was going on in the world outside himself.

He's about to break out in a cold sweat by the time Hayden nudges his shoulder and nods toward the jet bridge. "Ready?" he asks.

Shane didn't even hear them call to board, but he just nods and follows blindly along. His heart is beating faster as they duck into the crowded plane. A few people are wearing those medical masks over their faces, and Shane's hands start to sweat as he takes his seat. Should he have gotten one too? Is the air on a plane clean? People have been arguing online about whether masks work or if people need one.

Someone behind him coughs. Shane holds his breath.

Hayden claps his shoulder as he gets settled beside him. "Buddy," he says over the din of voices around them in the claustrophobic cabin. "You feeling okay? You look kinda pale."

Shane swallows and forces himself to start breathing again. "I'm fine, just, uh," he trails off, not able to finish that sentence in a way that means anything.

Hayden gives him a half-smile and bumps their shoulders together. "He acting up already?" he asks, his tone light, even if a tiny edge of judgment creeps into his expression.

The veiled question about Ilya, at least, makes the tension in Shane's chest ease up just a touch. "Not yet. It'll be nonstop once we get there, though."

Hayden groans and slumps back in his seat, reaching for his headphones. "Thank God we have our own rooms this year."

Glad for the distraction, Shane pulls out his phone. He does not pull up the news app or check the trending tags on Twitter, no matter how badly he wants to. Instead he shoots off a text to Ilya, letting him know they're about to take off. He receives a reply almost instantly, since Ilya and Hayes got in earlier that day.

no need 2 hurry. st louis sucks

Shane rolls his eyes and can't resist the retort he sends back. It's not the only thing that sucks.

He shuts off his phone before Ilya can respond, because he doesn't want to be that distracted on the flight.

Still, he can't escape the nagging worry that circles around and around in his mind as the plane takes off and carries them higher and higher into the sky. He has to force himself to breathe normally, not shallow little pants. He winces every time someone coughs or sneezes. He almost wishes he could open the windows, despite the fact that that would kill them all. Planes have never been a problem for him before, but all the way to Missouri, he can only think one thing:

Please don't let me get sick.

Ilya is right — St. Louis sucks.

It's pouring rain when they arrive at the hotel, which is not as ritzy as past locales have been for the All Stars weekend. Due to the lateness of the season, it's getting warmer outside, which just makes everything humid and sticky and gross. Not even the blooming plants and trees can help chase off the gloom of the soggy, damp atmosphere.

The mood at the hotel, at least, is more upbeat. As per usual, Shane's colleagues are just here to have a good time. It's just one weekend, after all. The scores and competitions don't really matter (unless you're Shane Hollander, of course, but that's another story), so no one is too stressed about the actual hockey of it all. Since it's not a beach town or a skiing hotspot, most people haven't bothered to have friends and family tag along, either. Who wants to spend a weekend in soggy St. Louis anyways?

Standing in the lobby, surrounded by people he has come to know rather well over the past ten years, Shane can almost convince himself that the news is overreacting about whatever is going on out in the world. Everyone here is so normal. Carter Vaughan has his arms slung around Eric Bennett and Scott Hunter's shoulders, talking much too loudly between them and waving over Scott's shoulder at Shane. Wyatt Hayes is chatting with the mountain of a man that is Ryan Price in a quiet corner. And in the doorway of the hotel bar, laughing over it all…

Shane turns toward the sound like a flower toward the sun.

Ilya is framed there by Marleau and Connors, his former teammates ribbing him and beaming at their own jokes. As he normally does during All Stars, Ilya looks loose and happy and entirely in his element. He jostles Marley with his shoulder and turns just in time to catch Shane watching him. He grins ear to ear and winks at him.

Shane is saved from standing there gazing stupidly at the love of his life by someone entering the revolving doors behind him and promptly falling on their ass, causing the entire lobby to erupt in laughter at their expense. Shane takes a few steps out of the way as the pair from the Houston Drillers — Dallas Reilly and Rod Freeman — cackle and try to help each other off the slick marble floor.

"Shiii-yet!" Reilly exclaims in his exaggerated southern accent, laughing so hard he's wheezing. "Fuckin' floor's slicker'n goose shit! Y'all watch out!"

Reilly is the Dallas that everyone doesn't hate. His much less popular namesake, Dallas Kent, either hasn't arrived yet or is skulking around elsewhere.

"You are in too big a hurry to get to the bar, Reilly!" Ilya chirps from the doorway of said bar. "Is not going anywhere, I promise!"

Another wave of laughter passes through the clusters of hockey players in the lobby and adjoining bar. It's normal. Hell, it's nice. Shane may not get along with everyone in the league, but every now and then he can suspend his disbelief and feel at home among them, especially at times like this.

Everything is fine. There's nothing to worry about. Even when an employee or two pass by wearing masks, Shane refuses to let himself linger on it too long.

He heads up to his room once he collects his keycards from the front desk, thankful that the receptionist isn't wearing a mask or acting strange over handing him things with her bare fingers. Shane had hoped that his room would at least have an interesting view, but all he gets is the expanse of the parking lot and the backside of a nearby strip mall. Glamour abounds in St. Louis.

Once he's unpacked his suitcase, he texts his room number to Ilya. The knock he expects comes about five minutes later.

"Subtle," Shane chastises him, but doesn't get much of a chance to keep nagging him as Ilya kicks the door shut behind him and grabs his face in both hands.

Shane moans into Ilya's lips, tongue licking into his mouth with the same hot urgency he always has whenever he's alone with him again. It's been a little over a week since the last time, thanks to Ilya moving to Ottawa to be closer to him, but it's still been too long. It's absurd, really, how much Shane misses Ilya between meetings. How much he needs him, needs to feel his firm, heavy weight against his own, needs to relax into his touch until he's nothing but a molten pool of hunger and want.

The reunions are always made even more savory whenever they're in a hotel like this. The barely concealed nature of their illicit encounters are heightened by the fact that only thin hotel walls and a door that the staff have keys to stand between them and discovery. It makes Shane's heart gallop rebelliously every time he thinks about it.

Add the extra layer of danger that is fucking in a hotel full of other hockey players from across the entire league, and he's fighting to keep from coming as soon as Ilya gets his pants off and the open air hits his aching cock.

Ilya senses this, growling against Shane's throat as he takes him in one hand and strokes him rough and slow. "Come if you like, lover," he rumbles low in his chest. "I'm going to fuck you no matter what. As hard and long as I want…"

"Ilya," Shane pants, grabbing at his hair and yanking on it just so he has something to hold onto. His legs feel weak. They haven't even made it to the bed yet.

Ilya obligingly solves that problem by nudging Shane back until his legs bump the edge of the mattress. He paws at Shane to turn him around and Shane obliges, allowing his body to be moved and positioned however Ilya wants him. He pushes him down until Shane is braced on his elbows on the mattress, coaxing his knees up onto the bed as well and tugging his hips upward.

"I missed you," is all Ilya manages before he buries his face between Shane's cheeks, his tongue hot and wet and silky against his hole. Shane barely has time to turn his head and muffle his moan in the comforter. He claws at the fabric, bunching it up desperately in his fists as Ilya works him over, big hands kneading into his ass and thighs while he does unspeakable things with his tongue. Shane's cock drips hopelessly between this legs.

"Ilya, fuck, God," Shane pants, his head quickly going to that buzzy, warm place that it always ends up whenever they have sex. Whatever he was worried about earlier is long gone now. His world has narrowed down to just this: Ilya's tongue and hands, his breath hot against Shane's skin, Shane's own breathing ragged and desperate, his voice reduced to a high, keening whine as Ilya fucks his tongue inside him.

Shane doesn't even have the wherewithal to be embarrassed when, a couple minutes later, he comes just from Ilya's two fingers inside him, the release punching out of him fast and hard, leaving his thighs trembling in its wake. Ilya chuckles behind him, but Shane just groans and arcs his back toward him more.

"Shut up and fuck me already," he whines, not caring that it will be entirely too much for him to handle hot on the heels of one orgasm, that he'll be groaning and sobbing for Ilya by the time he's finished. He wants it all. He needs it all.

Ilya answers by clicking open the lid of the bottle of lube. "Anything for you, my love," he purrs, dripping the cool, slick fluid over Shane's hole and his own cock before pushing ruthlessly inside.

A base, primal part of Shane immediately wants to push him off. His prostate throbs from the overstimulation as Ilya's cockhead slams over it again and again. It's too much, it's too much, and yet, it's exactly enough. Shane grinds his teeth and pushes back against Ilya as he thrusts, his rhythm jagged and uneven, betraying his own frenzied, starving need.

"Fuck, Shane, you feel so fucking good," he huffs over Shane's shoulders, the heavy fall of his breath scalding on the back of his neck. "Taking me so well. You're fucking incredible."

I know, Shane thinks distantly. He is incredible. He's the best at what he does. Ilya could have had anyone in the world, but he chose Shane, because he wouldn't settle for anyone but the best. No one challenges him or pleases him or drives him wild with desire like Shane can. No one even comes close.

Shane tightens around Ilya, as if to prove that he can, that he can make it even better for him, and just as suddenly, Ilya's gasping out his name and coming inside of him, all that bravado and charm blown away by the sheer response their bodies naturally have to each other at this point in their relationship. He leans heavy on his hands, sweaty forehead pressed to Shane's bare shoulders, and a breathless laugh works its way loose from them both.

"I am never going to get tired of that," Ilya sighs, kissing the top of Shane's spine.

"Me neither," Shane replies, feeling his body begin to relax, a warm and drowsy feeling of content spreading through him.

In about thirty seconds, Shane knows the feel of their skin sticking together and the come inside of him and beneath him is going to drive him into the shower to scrub them both clean. But for right now, he makes himself be still. He savors this moment of calm that he so desperately needed after his anxiety-ridden jaunt through the airport and the stuffy flight here.

It's going to be okay, he insists to himself. Ilya is here with him. It's just for the weekend, and then they go home. In the meantime, Shane gets to have hockey and this.

Everything is fine.

Friday, March 13, 2020

The skill competition is on Friday the 13th.

Surely this, and no other reason, is why he loses the title of fastest skater to Rod Freeman by fractions of a second.

Shane's not completely surprised. Freeman has a reputation for being a demon on the ice in regards to speed, sometimes to his own detriment. There have been plenty of compilations made of him crashing into the boards and his teammates because he was going too damn fast and couldn't check his momentum in time. Speed isn't always everything.

But he still takes first place.

The loss makes Shane feel uneasy. It's one more thing in his world that doesn't sit quite right. It's one more thing that he agonizes over. One more thing to add to the ever-growing mountain of things that are making him feel like he's going to start hysterically screaming at any given moment.

It's easier to tune out the ever-increasing noise of the outside world whenever he is with Ilya, but as soon as events and obligations force them apart, the horrors start leaking back into Shane's awareness. His phone keeps delivering dire news. Schools face closure amid COVID-19 outbreak. Senior living facilities on lockdown following reported cases of novel coronavirus. Twelve more dead of COVID-19 related complications.

Shane doesn't dare read the full articles. He glances at the headlines and tucks them away. He will allow himself to dig deeper into the news when he gets home, he tells himself. If he just keeps moving and stays focused on the weekend and what's right in front of him, right at this moment, he won't spiral out of control.

The thing that's right in front of him now, at the end of the night in a hotel room, is Ilya's cock, twitching and all but begging for his attention. Shane blinks at it, realizing he has no idea how long he's been knelt before him just… staring into space.

"Hollander," Ilya purrs, a teasing pout in his tone. "I'm starting to get offended. Is not good enough for you anymore? You want me to make it dance?"

Shane shakes his head. "No, sorry, I just — sorry." He wraps his lips obligingly around Ilya's dripping cockhead and begins sucking him off, but his thoughts wander almost immediately.

Shane has never, ever had a time where he felt anything less than completely and totally present while having sex with Ilya. It's what he loves most about the act, how it forces him to be entirely in his body instead of his head, how every touch and sensation and command feels amped up to a hundred, a dial on the dashboard ramping closer and closer to its max speed until release is finally achieved.

Shane usually has a very good idea of exactly where Ilya is at any given moment on that dial. But tonight, he's so distracted that when Ilya grabs his hair and holds his head against his pelvis while he comes down Shane's throat, he's surprised. He hadn't been paying attention at all. He lost track of everything as his thoughts snarled angrily in his head. He could have been blowing him for half a minute or half an hour.

Ilya groans with appreciation as he releases the hold on Shane's hair and lets him lean back. Shane swallows and clears his throat. Normally, he'd be wild with need after that, pawing at Ilya and fawning over him and racing to get him hard again to fuck him stupid, but not tonight. Tonight he just gets up, flops onto the bed, and stares at the ceiling.

His throat feels raw. Is it just from the rough way Ilya fucked his mouth, or is it something else? Shane presses the back of his hand to his forehead. Is he hotter than usual? Flushed, maybe, but what if it's not just arousal, but a fever? He swallows again. Then again. Studies the way his throat flexes around the motion, analyzes every inch of it for pain or scratching or swelling or —

"Shane," Ilya murmurs, sounding almost heartbroken. "Sweetheart. Talk to me, please. You are worrying me."

Shane sighs. They're in Ilya's room tonight, because neither of them wanted to hear Dallas Kent's jackass bray of a voice while they were trying to fuck. The discovery that he was in the room next to Shane's had made both of them pretend to gag. Ilya has since tugged his pants back up over his hips and now stretches out beside Shane on the bed, resting a big, steady hand on his stomach.

"I'm just getting really worried about this virus thing," Shane admits.

He braces himself for the teasing and ribbing and dismissal that he's certain will follow. He can already hear Ilya telling him not to worry, that there's nothing they can do about it anyway so what's the point, that only a boring dork like him would get so wrapped up in the news that he would think to fret over it to the point of letting it ruin sex for him.

But he doesn't. Ilya nods, hand easing up to rest on Shane's chest instead, rubbing slow, warm circles over his heart. "I know," he replies, voice quiet and tender. "It's scary. Hayes's wife is a doctor in Ottawa. She is seeing some really bad things."

Shane hisses in a breath through his teeth. God, he can't even fathom having a loved one working in the medical field right now. The thought sends panic, instant and sharp as splintered ice, racing through his body. He rolls quickly over onto his side and presses as close to Ilya as he can. He feels cold all over, suddenly, and Ilya's body is the only source of warmth for miles and miles. Ilya responds instinctually, holding him tight, tugging the blanket up around them and shielding them from the world.

"I'm so fucking scared I'm gonna get it," he whispers into Ilya's chest. "Or you're gonna get it, or Hayden, or anyone here, or my parents, or…"

"Shh, slow down, Shane," Ilya tries to soothe him, kneading at his tightly wound shoulders. "Easy. Two more days, then we go home and get away from all these nasty people. Just two more days. Okay?"

Shane swallows hard. He's still shaking, but it's starting to subside. He feels less frozen in place. He wills his muscles to relax, wills his lungs to take in even, steady breaths. "Okay," he sighs weakly. "Okay."

"And besides, tomorrow you're going to embarrass Kent in front of everyone. That, I think, is worth a little risk, yes?"

Shane pinches Ilya's side sharply. "Not really," he says, but he's smiling despite himself.

Saturday, March 14, 2020

On the day of the All Stars game, Shane leaves his phone in his hotel room. It was Ilya's idea, but it's an oddly effective one. He lets his parents know ahead of time that he won't have his phone on him until after the game later that night, but other than that, he is able to blissfully detach himself from the constant tether to the outside world.

It helps him feel, finally, like things really will be okay. He works out in the morning in the hotel gym. He has breakfast with his team, which includes Ilya and Wyatt. Shane notes that none of the other guys at the table have their phones out, either. No one wants the news to rattle them before the game, even if it's a nothing game that doesn't count for anything besides personal pride.

The league has organized the teams as north versus south — an interesting decision, but one that will no doubt be effective in getting people talking. It's nice, in a way, that all the Canadians are on a team together, as well as the northernmost teams from the US.

The downside, of course, is that it places Shane on the same team as Toronto, which means he will have to suffer through Dallas Kent and Troy Barrett. At least they won't play on the same line — and Shane will get to watch whenever the two Dallases face off on the ice, since Dallas Reilly is on the southern team.

"Is bad sportsmanship," Ilya says quietly, his tone meant only for those directly in front of and beside him at the round table, "but I hope Reilly knocks Kent flat on his ass."

"It is bad sportsmanship," Shane admonishes, "and I hope he does it twice."

It'll be fun to watch, either way. Reilly could possibly be related to Ryan Price, if you tilted your head and squinted a little. Both are huge, both are enforcers, and both are redheaded, but that's where the similarities end. Reilly is loud and warm and playfully dumb, where Price is reserved and quiet and visibly anxious despite his size. Reilly is also absolutely lousy with freckles, to the point that Shane feels like an imposter about even trying to claim he has any at all. The man is practically sandblasted with spots.

Breakfast passes with ease. People are talking and laughing throughout the room. Their table finishes up and heads to the rink together. Everyone is very pointedly talking about anything besides what may be going on in the news cycle. If it's not about hockey, they don't discuss it. It's better that way, and Shane will cling to the scrap of normalcy as long as he possibly can.

The teams trickle in, get changed into their gear and practice jerseys, and start gliding onto the ice. Shane has, once again, been voted as captain for the north team, with Ilya and Scott Hunter as his alternates. It's a comfortable spot for him to be in — almost too comfortable, really. Any time he doubts himself, Ilya is there to back him up and enforce any suggestions he has on line setup or play strategy. Scott adds another layer of experience and temperance to it all. The three of them collaborating (despite Ilya's constant chirps about Scott's age) makes for an incredibly cohesive and effective leadership.

Predictably, though, Dallas Kent remains a thorn in everyone's sides. He rolls his eyes and whispers to Barrett at every comment or request the three of them make. Ilya snaps at them several times, and Kent may as well stick his tongue out at him for all he pays attention. He makes it clear that he's going to play this game however the hell he wants to whenever it's his shift on the ice, and Shane has to resign himself to the fact that Kent is a variable he simply can't control no matter how badly he wants to.

That night, as they're gearing up for the puck drop, Shane forces himself not to dwell on how empty the stands are. Or on how many faces in the audience are half-obscured by masks. Or on how people are sitting spaced strangely apart, sometimes inching several seats down to avoid being right next to the nearest other fan.

It's fine. Everything is fine. Just focus on the game. You get to go home soon. It's fine.

Mercifully, instinct takes over when he bends at center ice for the face-off against the southern team's captain, the center from Colorado who Shane has only met a couple of times. The guy grins at him, younger than Shane by a few years, and it's that confidence and cockiness of youth that costs him the face-off. Shane swipes the puck away as soon as it kisses the fresh ice between them, and then they're off.

There is no impending pandemic as Shane flies across the ice, passing to Ilya on his right before outstripping the rest of them to scout out a spot to set up for a shot at the southern team's net. There is no novel coronavirus as he hears his teammates' blades carve deep into the fresh ice as they surge forward into the southern team's zone. There is only the ice, the puck, and the destination Shane intends to get it to.

Eric Bennett is the opposing goaltender, drafted to them despite the Admirals being on the northern team so that the southern guys would have a competent and experienced goalie that could match Hayes. He's annoyingly skilled at what he does, giving nothing away even as Shane examines his stance for any indication of where he can fake him out. It's obvious why New York is so possessive of their goalie.

But he doesn't need to get past Bennett, it turns out, because it's Scott Hunter of all people who scores on him, surprising them all when he slaps the puck high into the net instead of passing to Shane. Bennett sputters, jaw dropping and eyes going wide behind his cage mask, as he stares incredulously at his own captain. Scott throws his head back and laughs.

Ilya cackles off to the side as well. "That was dirty, old man! Elder on elder crime on the ice!"

Shane's grinning without even realizing it as they skate back to reset on the ice. He stops glancing up at the half-full stands, the masked faces, the visible and invisible signs that something in the world is horribly, fundamentally wrong, because for right now, everything is okay. Everything makes sense. He's having fun.

The northern team scores once more before shift change, a gorgeous shot by Ilya that Shane assists on. Ilya grabs him around the shoulders and shakes him hard enough to make his helmet rattle, beaming at him with barely restrained joy and love in his eyes, teeth flashing in a smile that's so sharp with its own intensity that it's almost a snarl. Shane laughs and shakes him right back.

He's buzzing with happiness and energy when they finally drop down onto the bench, the second line taking their places on the ice. "Watch how it's done, Hollander," Kent sneers over his shoulder, but Shane doesn't even give a shit.

"God, I wish we had popcorn," Scott says, nodding to where Kent is taking up against Rod Freeman at center ice for the face-off. "Look at Reilly. He's so ready to lay Kent out."

Shane looks. Dallas Reilly looms enormous in the background on the southern side, a menacing shadow angled in Freeman's direction, eyes locked onto Kent's bending form. Price is opposite him on the northern side, but Shane has a feeling that he won't be doing much enforcing tonight, no matter what his job is supposed to be.

"Want to take bets on how long it takes?" Ilya asks, leaning over Shane to be heard over the increasing noise of the anemic crowd. Shane can feel the heat radiating off of him in waves, and his stomach flips stupidly as they press close together for just a second.

"Nah, I don't have the patience to divide up the milliseconds," Scott replies with a smirk.

In the end, it takes two minutes and thirteen seconds.

Freeman wins the face-off and rockets away with his supernatural speed. Kent is scrambling after him, Barrett hot on his tail for half a moment, but then it's just Rod, streaking across the northern zone with the puck. He stalls only long enough to navigate around Carter Vaughan, both of them grinning and saying something unheard as they awkwardly dance around each other on the ice.

It gives Kent just enough time to catch up, though. Whatever good humor Freeman and Vaughnie have, it's obliterated as Kent slams into Freeman and sends him sharply into the boards, the puck shooting away back toward the middle of the rink. Barrett scoops it up and runs away with it into the southern zone. Kent spits on the ice in Freeman's direction as he turns to follow.

And is met by the absolute wall of muscle that is Dallas Reilly, who checks him full force and sends him sprawling. Kent spins like a top with all his limbs extended like a starfish, his stick flying off in one direction, his gloves in another.

And both benches erupt with laughter.

Shane clamps a hand over his mouth to hide his glee from the cameras, but his shoulders are shaking so hard from the laughter that he's sure they catch it anyway. Ilya has tears in his eyes. Scott and Hayden are wheezing and slapping their knees. It's a terrible, terrible display at the misfortune of someone who's supposed to be on their team, but Shane does not care. No one fucking likes Kent. He got exactly what was coming to him, and they're not even five minutes into his shift on the ice.

Reilly catches a penalty, which he accepts with high-fives from his entire team as he glides toward the box. Freeman seems unhurt despite the hit, and is back in action shortly thereafter. He puts that demonic speed to work over and over, scoring twice and bringing the teams to a tie by the time the lines change again. Kent is useless, and even Barrett's added skill isn't enough to help them catch up.

"Thanks for the tutorial, Kent," Shane chirps as he steps back onto the ice. "Though I think they taught us not to fuck with the center with an enforcer when I was like, six."

Ilya smacks Shane on the back as they head out toward center ice, grinning like a shark. The brilliant white glow reflecting up from the ice and the stadium lights all around them render him a luminous, glowing version of himself. His blue-green eyes dance. Shane feels like he can fly.

The northern team wins by one point, but it's a wonderful point all the same. Shane scores the winning goal with ten seconds left on the clock, and everyone cheers on both sides of the rink. Everyone, of course, except Dallas Kent, who's had the face of a baby who just tasted a lemon for the first time ever since Reilly wiped him out.

Ilya insists they go to Shane's room that night, dragging him right past the drawer where Shane's phone has been locked away all day and throwing him onto the bed. All the way through undressing him and working him open and fucking inside him, Ilya keeps shushing him, and at first Shane thinks he's being unusually cautious about them being noticed, but then Ilya smirks at him and tilts his head, glancing over his shoulder at the far wall.

"Shh," he repeats. "I'm trying to see if I can hear Kent crying in there."

Shane punches his shoulder and tries not to laugh. He fails. He's smiling and giggling right up until he comes around Ilya's cock, grabbing at him and clutching him close as he rides out the delicious waves of his orgasm. Ilya pounds into him again and again, chasing down his own release like a dog after a speeding car, until finally he collapses on top of Shane in a sweaty, snickering heap.

"I love you," Ilya sighs against Shane's skin.

"I love you, too," Shane replies into his sweat-soaked curls.

They shower. They re-dress the soiled bed. They climb under the sheets together, slotted side by side like spoons in a drawer, Ilya's big arms wrapped safely around Shane's chest, Shane's head tucked neatly under Ilya's chin. Everything is good. Everything is fine.

Shane has no idea that this was the last real hockey game he will play for months. That this is the last time for a long time that he will feel calm and unburdened and normal. He slides effortlessly into sleep, not even having checked his phone once since early that morning.

Outside the hotel, ambulance sirens sing all through the night.

Sunday, March 15, 2020

In the morning, the illusion finally breaks beneath the crushing weight of reality.

A knock on Shane's door makes him flinch awake. He disentangles from Ilya's sleeping form to peer through the peephole. He vaguely recognizes the person at the door as one of the league reps, and he takes a deep breath and only opens his door as much as absolutely necessary to peer out into the hall at her.

"Uh, yes?" he asks quietly.

"Sorry to wake you so early, Mister Hollander," she says politely. "We need everyone down in the main conference room by eight. We have some very important information we need to share with you all. Please don't delay."

Shane blinks. Anxiety spikes through him again. What is this about? There's a lot of things it could be — some new rule change that is being enacted due to misconduct that's been discovered, a lecture about sportsmanship brought on by the collective jeering of Dallas Kent, a general send-off for the players… or something more urgent. The vagueness fills him with white hot dread.

"Oh, okay, I'll be there. Thanks." He nods and eases the door shut, but he can hear the woman striding down the hall even before it clicks shut and knocking on the next door.

On impulse, Shane hurries over to the dresser and grabs his phone. His stomach drops as the news headlines blare the announcements over and over on his screen:

BREAKING: WHO upgrades COVID-19 to global pandemic.

BREAKING: Canadian officials to close US-Canadian Border amid COVID-19 pandemic.

BREAKING: Shelter-in-place orders signed to prevent spread of novel coronavirus.

"Fuck."

He sits down so hard on the bed that it makes Ilya start to grumble and sit up behind him. "Mmh? Shane?" he asks sleepily, but Shane's ears are ringing so loudly he can barely hear him. He just keeps staring at the headlines, the missed calls and texts from his parents and his teammates back home in Montreal, the world actively ending in the palm of his hand.

And he's stuck in fucking Missouri.

Shane just tosses his phone at Ilya and puts his head down between his knees. All the box breathing in the world isn't going to help him, it feels like, but by the time Ilya softly curses in Russian behind him, he's at least a fraction less freaked than he was.

Which isn't saying much, unfortunately.

"We have to be downstairs at eight," Shane mutters miserably at the floor as Ilya gets up and starts getting dressed. "They're probably gonna tell us about this. Fuck."

"It just happened though, yes?" Ilya reasons as he drags on his sweatpants and shakes out his shirt from the night before. "Surely they will still let us go home. We —" He comes to a hard stop in the middle of his sentence, and it's enough to make Shane look up, fear ramping back up at the conflicted expression on Ilya's face.

Ilya swallows. "…Well. You are a citizen. They have to let you back in, right? What does Yuna say?"

And then Shane's ears are ringing again and he feels like he's going to throw up, because what Ilya isn't saying is that he isn't a Canadian citizen yet. He might not be allowed back into the country with the border closed.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Shane has to breathe for another five minutes before he can speak again. "Let's just… fuck." He tugs at his hair, letting the hot sparks of pain ground him back into his body long enough to get his thoughts in order. "Let's see what the league says. You go down first."

Ilya looks miserable. Shane feels the same way. He nods, runs a hand through his hair, and gives Shane a quick kiss before slipping out of the room. Shane stares silently out the window, counting to two hundred, before finally getting up, getting dressed, and heading downstairs to the conference room.

The mood in the conference hall is vastly different from last night.

No one is laughing or joking now. Players sit in hushed clusters or by themselves, eyes glued to their phone screens, shoulders hunched, voices low and strained. Several people are talking on their phones, backs pressed to the walls, faces all varying masks of agony over whatever they're discussing with the people on the other ends. Shane doesn't want to be privy to their personal turmoils, but snatches of conversations find their way to him whether he wants them to or not.

"…supposed to visit next week, no, I know, I haven't seen them in three years…"

"…checked in with your parents? Has their care center reported any cases yet?"

"…long have you been coughing? Should — no, no, surely they have to have a bed open at Regional…"

By the time he drops into a chair next to Hayden, Shane is shaking like a leaf.

Hayden doesn't even notice, because he's rapid-fire texting someone, presumably Jackie. His brow is furrowed tightly and his mouth is pinched into a thin, hard line. Shane feels slightly guilty for freaking out as much as he is; so many people in this room have so much more at stake than he does. He has his parents to worry about, sure, but other than them, the only other person he would have to worry about is…

Sitting two rows ahead of him, glancing over his shoulder as he nods at whatever it is Wyatt is murmuring to him on his left.

"How's Jackie holding up?" Shane asks quietly, needing to say something.

Hayden shakes his head. "The kids' school is closing. Something about remote learning. We don't know what that even means. She's still waiting to hear from her boss about her office. Fuck, man, I gotta get home, like, yesterday."

Shane's heart pounds. He feels like he's in a fucking movie. He's seen so many stupid apocalypse movies thanks to hundreds of long, monotonous plane rides, including plenty about viruses that decimate the human race. He thinks back to the one that freaked him out the most — Contagion. The way things are unfolding now reminds him uncomfortably of that movie, and he finds himself hoping that reality will never be as awful or dramatic as fiction.

After another few minutes, the clock strikes eight, and a man in a rumpled suit steps into the room and climbs up behind the podium at the head of the room. He taps the microphone for everyone's attention and waits politely as phone calls are quickly wrapped up and all eyes turn to him.

"Morning, everyone," he says, and Shane wishes he could remember his name. The league suits all blend together after a while, unless they're known for something reprehensible, which this guy clearly is not. "Thank you for getting down here so early. This is very important, so we need everyone's attention and cooperation, please."

Shane glances at the back of Ilya's head ahead of him. He wishes he could hold his hand and be braced for the impact of whatever is about to be dropped on them like a nuclear bomb. He has to content himself with wringing his own hands in his lap instead.

"As I'm sure many of you have seen, this situation with this new virus is… serious. It's officially been upgraded to a global pandemic, and the world is responding accordingly. Myself and the other reps and commissioner Crowell have been up all night trying to figure out a plan going forward, but as things are changing quite literally every minute, nothing is set in stone just yet.

"What we do know for sure, though, is that we are in a very unique and precarious position right here. All of you have flown in from different states and even different countries to be here, and that is… well. Not ideal, considering the current events."

No fucking shit, Shane thinks, glancing around the room again. He's doing the shallow breathing thing again, and he desperately wishes he had one of the blue paper masks that more and more of the hotel staff are wearing today.

The short man adjusts his glasses and takes a deep breath. The hammer is about to fall. "In the interest of everyone's health and safety, and in hopes to be as compliant with local and federal health officials as possible, this hotel is being placed under mandatory quarantine for the next two weeks. No one is allowed to leave the premises unless an emergency medical need arises."

There is a single heartbeat of complete, dead silence. Shane is pretty sure he literally hears a pin drop.

There's a heavy, dull thud in the back of the room. A few people murmur and gasp. Shane looks back. Ryan Price has fainted right there on the conference room carpet. Marleau and Connors kneel beside him and start fanning his face with their hands.

And then everyone is talking at once.

"What the fuck?!"

"I got kids at home, man!"

"What about the playoffs?"

"Are you kidding? Are we still gonna get paid?"

"My wife is eight months pregnant!"

"My brother is getting married next week!"

On and on it goes, ramping up in volume and vitriol, and Shane fights the urge to curl into a ball and clamp his hands over his ears. It's so loud. Everyone shouting and spewing spittle and breath into the stale air of the room. He's getting lightheaded from how thin his breaths have become in response.

I'm gonna get sick I'm gonna get sick I'm gonna —

"Gentlemen — Gentlemen," the league rep calls over the din, but the shouting just builds. People are standing now, leaning toward the podium with malice in their posture and voices, faces reddening and hands curling into fists.

"You can't keep us here, man! This ain't a prison!"

"This is illegal!"

"Fuck this, I'll walk home —"

"Shut the fuck up."

Shane flinches at the voice that slices through the noise. He looks up and finds Ilya standing on his chair two rows ahead of him, glaring defiantly at the crowd of ruffled hockey players. Relief, however minuscule, trickles into him at the sight. Ilya is here. Ilya will help. Ilya will take care of it. It'll be okay.

Everyone else seems to sense this, too, because the room falls completely silent in response. Every face turns toward Ilya, paused for just a moment in their building rage and fear.

Ilya gives them a moment to breathe before he continues. "We are all freaked the fuck out right now. But acting like a bunch of jackasses won't fix anything. This is bigger than any of us. Hundreds, thousands, millions of people are having to cope with this thing. We're not special. So calm down and listen."

He looks pointedly at Shane, then, brows raising as if to ask Are you going to back me up? Shane feels paper thin from stress, but he sucks in a steadying breath and gets to his feet as well, though he isn't brave enough to stand on a chair. It's the least he can do as a team captain.

"Rozanov's right," Shane adds lamely, hating how his voice wobbles, but he plows on ahead. "It's not ideal, but let's just hear them out, okay? We're gonna get though this. Everyone just… breathe."

"But not too much," jokes Dallas Reilly from the other side of the room. "I dunno where y'all have been."

A hesitant chuckle floats up from various spots in the room. Most of the men sit back down. Those who won't sit gravitate to the back of the room. The floor finally returned to him, the league rep clears his throat at the mic and continues.

"Thank you, gentlemen. Yes, I know, we all want to go home. We all want to get back to our families and teams and lives. But the best thing we can do for the people we care about right now is to hold tight and make sure we're not going to take this thing home to them and put anyone in danger, okay?"

Begrudging murmurs of assent roll through the rows of players. No matter how stressed he is, Shane can see the sense in waiting things out here to make sure no one spreads the virus beyond the hotel walls. They're all healthy and relatively young athletes, after all. Shane imagines getting his parents sick and it makes him want to die. This is better, even if it doesn't feel like it whatsoever in the moment.

"We will have teams coming in a day or two to get mass testing done on everyone to be safe. We will repeat this testing every few days until we get the all clear from HQ that we can start sending people home. In the meantime, if you begin to have any symptoms, please isolate in your rooms and notify the front desk immediately, as well as anyone you have had immediate contact with. Please don't try to be a hero or a martyr about this thing.

"The hotel staff and guest services are working overtime to make sure that we are provided for and kept comfortable despite all of this, so I implore you all to give them your thanks and to make their jobs as simple as possible. This is difficult for everyone, them included. If anyone needs anything special brought in or ordered, please let me or Melissa know as soon as possible. This includes prescriptions, dietary needs, and the like."

"Hey, uh, what about us?" asks Troy Barrett loudly. "What about the border? When can we go home?"

Shane hates that a douchebag like Barrett has been the one to raise the question that has been slamming itself against the walls of his skull for hours now.

"We are working with our Canadian reps and government contacts to get our international players back home in a timely manner," the rep replies, all PR bullshit and not-really-an-answer-at-all. "A lot of that, sadly, is out of our control, but we will call in any and every favor we can to get you guys home. You have my word."

Shane's attention flicks once more to Ilya, who has since sat back down beside Hayes. What about him? Who is pulling strings for Ilya, who is neither an American nor a Canadian citizen? Where in the world is he going to end up during all of this? What can either of them even do about it?

Barrett's face twists into a sneer that tells Shane plenty about how he feels about that non-answer. He leans back in his seat beside Kent and crosses his arms tightly over his chest. Being stuck in this hotel with those two for the next two weeks is certainly not going to be Shane's favorite experience ever.

"I thank you all in advance for your cooperation and your courage. As always, please come find myself or Melissa if you have any questions or concerns. We will try to keep everyone up to date on any information or changes as we are briefed of them from the league. Now then — is Mister Price alright back there?"

Shane checks over his shoulder, where Marleau and Connors have gotten Ryan Price up into a sitting position. He's white as a sheet, his shocking red hair making him look even paler, but he holds up the world's shakiest thumbs up in response. Someone — either Ilya or Wyatt or maybe both — begin clapping for him, and soon most of the room has joined in.

God, Shane reflects. This is going to be the longest two weeks of my life.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

The wallpaper on the wall with the bed is a weird pattern.

It looks like a repeating stencil of shooting stars, but not quite. The colors are bad, too, off-white and muted tan. It's only on that wall, too — the other walls are a shade of blue that's trying too hard to be trendy but isn't brave enough to commit and actually pull it off. The bed and the love seat three paces away rest on islands of thin, multicolored carpet, surrounded on all sides by dark gray laminate floor.

A curtain has been installed in order to separate the sleeping area from the kitchenette, which includes a surprisingly nice stainless steel microwave and an unsurprisingly shitty coffee machine, complete with cheap, flavorless packets of instant coffee. The curtain divider is pressed flat to the wall at the moment, allowing the whole of the glorious space to be one, uninterrupted expanse. Only the bathroom and a tiny coat closet near the door are truly cut off from the space.

Ilya hates every inch of this hotel room, and he's only been in it for a few hours total.

After the league reps had debriefed them that morning, most of the guys made the decision to retreat to their own rooms. No one was reporting any symptoms that Ilya was aware of, but suddenly, every sniff or eye twitch felt suspect, so most people just wanted some space until the testing could begin.

The problem, of course, was that space was the last thing Ilya wanted.

Maybe he should be more worried about the virus. He had overheard the last conversation Hayes had with his wife back home, and she was exhausted and scared herself. He'd seen the headlines. He knows that people are getting sick and even dying in crazy numbers, from very young to very old and everything in between.

But the virus is the last thing on his mind right now. Ilya is most concerned about the layers of drywall and concrete that lay between him and Shane, who is holed up in his own room two floors down. Shane hadn't even looked over his shoulder when he fled the conference room earlier. He took the stairs to avoid being caught in an elevator with anyone.

Ilya had fallen asleep holding him last night, but it already feels like days since he last touched him. His arms ache to feel the sure, solid weight of him again, the warmth of his skin, the flex and pull of his muscles with his every move.

He's already texted three times, but Shane's not looking at his phone. Ilya can't blame him. Phones seem to have turned into miniature portals into endless fear and despair. Shane had been so happy and himself yesterday without his. Ilya keeps frantically chasing down the memory of the game, the thrill of the rare opportunity to play on the same line together, to move in tandem and cooperate without even speaking as they shared the ice.

Ilya misses the ice. He misses Shane. He misses a time when he didn't know what the fuck a coronavirus is.

None of the rooms here have balconies, which is a shame. Even if they did, though, Ilya has a whopping four cigarettes left in the pack, and he tries not to smoke whenever he sees Shane. Tries not to smoke at all, really, but he keeps them on hand for when he just needs one to take the edge off.

And right now, he feels like he needs to take every edge off, which would require about ten packs at minimum.

Fuck, he thinks, suddenly realizing that he has no idea how he's even going to get more cigarettes. The reps said to tell them about anything they might need to be ordered or brought in for them, but Ilya imagined that only included medicine or special performance-enhancing supplements. He makes a mental note to ask at some point if he starts feeling… bad.

For the seventieth time, he checks his phone. It's two in the afternoon. No word from Shane. A continuous feed of headlines, each worse than the last.

Ilya hefts himself off the bed, grabs his wallet, and heads for the elevator.

It might be early afternoon, but this hotel is mercifully staffed with a bartender despite the early hour. It doesn't feel like a bar at this point in the day; the tall windows opposite the long, curved bar are wide open with minimal tinting, and the overcast skies outside reflect glaring, bright light over the low profile booths and tables in the seating area.

Regardless, there's a tiny woman behind the bar restocking bottles, so Ilya quietly drops onto a stool and nods at her when she looks up. She's wearing a mask, the dark fabric shiny and silky-looking in the indirect light from the windows. She pauses in her task and glides over, head tilted and dark eyes bright with attention.

"What can I get for you, Mister Rozanov?" she asks in a high, bright voice.

Ilya grins despite himself. "Ah, you know me. Hockey fan?" he asks before he can help himself. It's probably a sin to be as smug about being recognized as he is, but even now, he can't help how happy it makes him.

The bartender's eyes crinkle at the corners above her mask, the only indication that she's smiling behind it. It's a strange translation, having to read all the other parts of the face that the mask doesn't conceal in order to discern intent. Another thing Ilya hates about the entire pandemic situation.

"I am, yes. Most exciting thing to ever happen at this hotel is you guys staying here for the weekend." She winces, eyes squinting briefly. "Well, uh, I guess it'll be a little longer than the weekend, huh?"

Ilya shrugs a shoulder. "I guess. I would like a vodka and tonic, please."

He catches the gleam of a name tag on her collar — Amy. Amy nods and turns away to get a glass and her supplies. As she prepares his drink, Ilya lets his gaze wander around the bar. The barstools have all been spaced abnormally far apart. He's heard a new term a few times already: social distancing. This must be what it looks like.

It feels like he's alone on an island, and there's no sign of land in any direction.

The hollow, cold spot that sometimes gnaws at Ilya's mind twinges somewhere behind his ribs. He wishes, yet again, for an arm around his shoulders. A hand on his. A body pressed close. Shane's is his first choice, of course, but he's beginning to crave any touch, be it passive or passionate.

He's saved from his ruminating by Amy returning with his drink. She sets it before him on a coaster and passes a crisp paper napkin with the hotel's logo pressed into it across the bar to him. Ilya nods his thanks and takes a sip, the vodka sharp and hot above the seltzer.

"Thank you," he says, nodding in Amy's direction. She retreats back against the far side of the bar once he's been served, keeping a healthy distance between them.

Come back, he almost asks. Instead, he falls back on something easier. Normal. "So," he says conversationally, voice pitched at an easy level due to the relative silence of the room. "Who is your favorite hockey player?"

A flush tips Amy's ears and she glances down shyly. "Well, obviously you're incredible," she starts, but Ilya already knows where her answer is going before she even gets there. "But… oh God, don't hate me —"

"Is Hollander, yes? I forgive you," Ilya says with a smirk, taking another sip of his drink. "He is very pretty. Decent player, too."

Amy rolls her eyes, but Ilya can tell she's still smiling. "Yeah. Sorry. But you're definitely a close second."

Ilya snorts. "None taken." He nurses his drink further, letting the silence pass as Amy begins to polish a set of tumblers. The light catches on her mask again, turning the fabric from deep indigo to brilliant violet. The shade shifts back and forth with every movement.

"I like your mask," he says. "Is that weird to say?"

Amy glances up and shrugs. "A month ago? Maybe. But… I think they're gonna be all the rage here soon."

Talk about an understatement. "Is very nice, though. Where did you get it?"

Smile lines touch around her eyes again. "Thanks. I made it myself, actually. My mom's immunocompromised and she lives with me, so I started making masks a few weeks ago just to be safe. Guess I was right to start acting paranoid."

Ilya's brows shoot up. "You made it? Really? Is very well done." He sits for a moment, allowing an idea to percolate for just a second in his brain, before releasing it into the world. "Could you make more? I would pay you, of course. Any amount."

Amy's eyes widen and her hands still around the glass she's drying. "Like, for you? I'd love to! But, umm, you don't have to pay me. I have a ton of fabric at home. I make stuff on the side. It's really no trouble…"

She's rambling, but Ilya is happy to let her. There's no telling when he'll get to have a conversation again, so he's going to savor this one for all it's worth. "No, no, I insist on paying. And yes, I would love one. Perhaps for some of my teammates too, yes? You are familiar with who else is here?"

Amy bobs her head emphatically. "Of course! Oh gosh, I could make them in everyone's team colors…"

Ilya is nodding and leaning over the bar, his drink forgotten. He has selfish ulterior motives, of course, in the form of hoping that perhaps with a well-made mask, Shane will feel better about seeing him while they wait for testing and results. And even if it doesn't, it's still a highly practical gift, all things considered. They can't give each other many things that they can show off publicly, so this will be a private win for Ilya at the very least.

"That would be perfect. One for me, one for Hayes, maybe Marleau and Connors, old man Scott Hunter must be protected, too, poor Price probably needs about ten…" He blinks and comes back to himself before he can get too far ahead. "Ah, I don't want to overwhelm you, though. If it's too much —"

"Are you kidding? They take, like, fifteen minutes to stitch together once I have the pieces cut and layered. I have a pattern already. They're super easy to make. I'd be so honored to make you guys some." Amy leans forward from where she stands a few feet away. "Would you be mad if I made one for Hollander, too?"

The smile, if Ilya could see it on himself, is entirely too fond. But he doesn't care. "Not at all," he replies, equally conspiratorial. "Between you and me, he's my favorite player too."

The sun has started to set by the time Shane finally calls.

Ilya drops onto the bed in his hotel room and stares at the flat, white ceiling overhead. "Sweetheart," he sighs into the phone. "I don't think you can get the virus through the phone. Where have you been all day?"

"Sorry," Shane mutters. He makes the same grumbling noise he usually does when he's stressed and tired; Ilya can practically see him kneading the tension between his brows with his thumb and forefinger. "I talked to my parents for, like, three hours. Then Mom looped Farah in and it became a business meeting. Then I took a nap. Have you ever been so stressed out that you took a nap?"

Ilya snorts. "I can't say that I have."

"Weirdest feeling ever. I feel like my brain just went through a forest fire. God. I fucking hate this."

Ilya chews on his lip. He doesn't want to push and work Shane up into a frenzy again, but… "Did Yuna know what to do about the border?"

Shane is silent for a moment. "Kind of. Canadians can travel into the U.S. and then back again if they test negative on either side and quarantine for two weeks when they go home. But they're not letting anyone from the U.S. in at all, except for politicians and shit."

An uncomfortable tension is starting to burn in Ilya's throat, working its way down into his chest. He doesn't want to ask. Shane doesn't want to bring it up. But they have to.

"And non-citizens? Of either one?"

The phone speaker makes a horrible warped sound as Shane blows out a huge exhale into the microphone. He sucks in another breath through his teeth, sharp enough it whistles. "We… don't know. But… it doesn't look amazing. She's calling everyone she knows that may know something or might be able to help make something happen, but…"

"It's okay, Shane," Ilya says quietly, even though it's absolutely not.

They fought for so long and overcame so much to finally be where they are now, a simple, two hour drive away between Ottawa and Montreal. It hasn't even been two years yet, and already they're fucking losing it. That stupid, imaginary line drawn across the landmass of North America is going to come between them again, and it makes Ilya want to…

"We're going to figure out how to get you home," Shane says, voice tight with conviction. "I mean it. I'm not leaving this stupid fucking country without you."

A wild smile flickers onto Ilya's face, aimed only at the ceiling. "Would probably be easier if we were married, yes?" he teases. "Want to have a Covid wedding?"

Shane sputters. Ilya closes his eyes and calls to mind every sweet, precious memory of the way his blush makes his freckles pop on his smooth skin, the way his ears burn as red as tail lights at night when he's flustered. "We can't — we would have to get married in Canada, I think, and besides…"

"I know." The smile fades. The pain in his chest starts creeping back in, heavy and cold, weaving around every rib like an invasive vine. He distracts himself from it by blurting out, "I have a gift coming for you."

"That sounds dirty."

"It's not! Honest. This time." Ilya rolls over onto his stomach, dragging a pillow under his chin to prop his head up on. "Is something I think you will like. Even if you don't like it, you will need it, so either way, it will be good."

"Uh huh. Okay. Well, I'm looking forward to it, then."

They both fall quiet for a moment. Silence is no longer the killer that it used to be, back when they refused to put a name to what they felt for one another. It's easy, now. Companionable. Safe. Tiny sounds of shuffling and breathing come through the phone, just letting Ilya know that Shane is still there.

After a while, Ilya murmurs, "I love you."

"I love you, too," Shane replies.

"I am going to fuck the shit out of you when we test negative for this fucking thing."

Shane almost startles him with an actual laugh. It's such a good sound, bright and unguarded. "I'll hold you to that."

Frustration wells up suddenly in Ilya's belly. It's maddening to be so close to Shane, to be in the same fucking building, and yet unable to see or touch him. No one had ordered them to stay in their rooms, of course, but there was no way cleanly, anxious Shane Hollander was going to risk unnecessary exposure until he knew for sure that everyone in the hotel was safe to be around. Ilya didn't bother asking or even begging for him to reconsider; Shane was already so far out of his comfort zone with this virus that he wasn't even in the same timezone as comfort anymore.

"I think I will try to get some sleep now," Ilya finally says, despite the fact that the sun has barely sunk beneath the horizon outside his window.

Shane doesn't argue with him. He stressed himself into a nap earlier, after all. "Okay. Goodnight, baby."

Ilya's heart gives a tentative flutter at the name. "Night, sweetheart," he replies, and then they hang up.

Ilya shouldn't be tired. He hasn't done a damn thing all day, besides go downstairs and have one drink. He's flopped around this goddamn hotel room all day. He's stared at the weird not-quite-shooting-star pattern of the wallpaper until his eyes crossed, scrolled through every channel on the cable network, watched the world crawl to a stop outside the window as fewer and fewer cars passed by.

But all he has to do is imagine weeks, maybe even months without being able to go back to Canada to see Shane, and suddenly the weight in his chest is so heavy that it pulls him into sleep like a pillow smothering him into oblivion.

When he orders room service late the next morning, Ilya is delighted to see a sparkly drawstring bag has been tucked beside his plate on the tray. He brings the food inside and promptly forgets about it, carefully untying the bag and letting its contents slide out onto the desk in the corner of the room.

Several masks, folded in half and neatly tucked into their own plastic sleeves, slip out, along with a handwritten note. It's stamped with a floral logo and a thank you note, as well as a line from Amy saying that she hoped she got everyone's colors right. Ilya beams at he shuffles through the crinkling sleeves.

Fire engine red, with a neat little 21 stitched in one corner in white thread — Scott Hunter. Two goldenrod yellow with black numbers — Marley and Connors. Black with a red 81 — Ilya's, and a matching one with Hayes's number right beneath it. And finally…

Royal blue, red trim, a white 24. Shane.

It's such a small thing. Nothing sexy, nothing grand or meaningful, but it feels like a sunbeam aimed right into his room to relieve the gloom. Ilya wolfs down his breakfast, grabs up the masks, and practically skips down the hall.

He drops off Hayes's mask first (and pointedly ignores his lamenting that he didn't get a superhero emblazoned on it), then Scott's (who is two doors down from his own room) and finally Marley and Connors's (next door to each other one floor down.) He's bouncing in the elevator on the way to Shane's floor.

Ilya stands at the end of the hall when he lifts his phone to his ear. His eyes are locked on the door to room 1202.

"Hey," Shane answers. He sounds mostly normal, though there's a hint of apprehension in his voice that Ilya resents. Like he's waiting for whatever bad news now comes mandatory with every phone call he receives.

"Hey," Ilya murmurs. "Open your door. Is safe, I promise."

"Uh huh. Okay." He hears shuffling on the phone. Watches as the light shifts behind the door of 1202 as it cracks open. Shane leans out, phone still pressed to his ear, and leans down to pluck the mask in its plastic sleeve off the floor where Ilya left it. He peers down one end of the hall, and then the other, where he finally spots Ilya and he freezes.

"Where did you get this?" he asks, waving the mask over his head. His voice does a funny thing, coming to him quietly down the hall in person, then half a second later clear and close in his phone speaker.

"Staff here are incredibly talented," Ilya says with a smile. "Bartender makes them herself. I asked for a few for the team. Something to wear tomorrow when we go to testing, yeah?"

Even from this far down the hall, Ilya can see the small, unguarded smile that creeps across Shane's face. God, he wishes he could brush a hand behind his ear and cup the back of his head and bring him in close. He's less than twenty paces away, but it feels like miles.

"Yeah," Shane says with a sheepish little nod. "Thanks. And we can reuse these, right?"

"Yes. Machine washable. They are perfect." It is very important to Ilya that Shane — and everyone else who got a mask — understands this. He won't have Amy's craftsmanship be undermined.

"Okay, cool. This is good. I've been researching the best ones and where to get them, but there's a huge shortage right now, and…" Shane stops himself and sighs, leaning in his doorway, staring down the length of the hall to where Ilya stares back. "And… yeah. Y'know."

Ilya hums. "I know." Hospitals could probably use the energy Shane's brain let off from overthinking to power their generators in an emergency.

Shane nods and waves the mask over his head again. "I'm going back inside, but I'll see you in the morning, okay? And thank you again. Really. This is… really helpful, actually."

Of course, Ilya wants to gush. Anything for you. I would do absolutely anything. I would cross the Canadian border in the dead of night. I would lock us in a room for a decade. I would beg Amy to teach me how to sew and make you a new mask for every day of the year. But he's still standing in the open, in the hallway, where someone could pop out of a room at any moment, so instead he just says, "I'm glad you like it. See you tomorrow."

They hang up, stare at each other down the hall for longer than necessary, and then Shane finally retreats back into the relative safety of his room. Ilya's shoulders slump. It feels like the sun has been concealed by a huge, dark cloud.

He returns to the elevator, stabs the button for the ground floor, and rests his head against the wall with a cold, metallic thud.

He swings into the hotel bar and finds Amy. Her eyes crinkle above her mask (a black satin one with little silvery stars all over it) and Ilya grabs his wallet with a smile that he's not sure quite reaches his eyes. He slaps a wad of cash on the bar and pushes it toward her.

"For the masks," he says, dipping his head gratefully. "I will tell everyone about them. About your shop. And maybe you can start working from home making more, yes? Make it safer for you and your mother?"

Amy blinks, first at him, then at the stack of cash on the bar. It's an ungodly amount for a few small pieces of fabric stitched together on a machine, but Ilya would pay it a hundred times over if she asked.

"Oh, thank you, but that's… I can't…" She starts to protest, but Ilya shakes his head and taps the money on the counter twice.

"Take it. Please. And do what you need to do to keep your family healthy and safe."

She holds his gaze for just a moment longer before nodding. Ilya steps back to give her space and relaxes when she steps forward, takes the cash, and pockets it.

"Thank you, Mister Rozanov. If there's anything else I can do for you, really, just let me know."

Ilya smiles again. This one feels easier, more genuine. "Same to you, Amy. Be well."

Only then does Ilya finally head back to his room, which feels more and more like a prison cell every time he goes back to it. Back to the ugly wallpaper. Back to the islands of thin carpet. Back to the sad coffee maker and the cramped bathroom and the uninspiring view.

He flops onto the unmade bed and goes back to staring at the ceiling.

Who knows, he thinks absently. Maybe I will learn how to sew. At least then he'd have something to do.

Emails and calls and texts go out early the next morning, alerting the players of the same thing: testing was beginning in the parking lot at nine sharp. Everyone was required to come down and get tested. No exceptions.

Ilya is standing in the shade of a blooming dogwood by eight-thirty. He has his brand new mask on, even though it's supposed to be safer to be unmasked outdoors like this. Something about fresh air and open spaces. He doesn't care, though. He wants Shane to feel comfortable enough to stand near him, to speak to him at arms length, to not be ready to bolt at the slightest hint of a scratchy voice or tickled nose.

"You're out here early, Rozanov," muses a slightly muffled voice behind him.

Ilya glances over his shoulder to see Scott Hunter ambling his way, his face partially concealed behind his new mask as well. Ilya grins to himself at the sight.

"Ah! Grandfather, you found your gift," Ilya calls. "Fits okay?"

"Har har. Yeah, it's surprisingly comfortable. Benny and Vaughnie are jealous. I already told them how to get their own."

Ilya nods. Good. This is good. Soon the whole All Stars team will have one of Amy's masks. He stands shoulder to shoulder with Scott as they look out across the parking lot, where a cluster of white vans with a local hospital's logo branded on them have ejected a team of healthcare workers. They're setting up a blue tarp tent to work out of, reminding Ilya more of tailgating and merch booths than anything medical. In his experience, all of that happened behind heavy doors and under bright, fluorescent light. Not in a parking lot filled with pollen and a brisk, early spring breeze.

"I wonder what kind of test this is," Ilya muses aloud. "Are they going to draw blood? Some guys will faint if they do that."

"I watched a video online, where they've started doing drive-through testing," Scott replies. "They have to swab the inside of your nose. It's a really long swab. Most people sneeze. Seems like a stupid way to test for something that spread by fuckin' sneezing, yeah?"

Ilya frowns, hidden behind his mask. "Stupid, yes. Must be why we test outside, then."

As the minutes crawl past, more players join them in the parking lot, watching the setup like old men at a construction site. Hands in pockets, shoulders squared against the breeze, just enough space between themselves and the next person to be comfortable but not too close.

Ilya's pleased to see all the people he got masks for are wearing them. It probably helped that he threatened a couple of them (namely Marleau and Connors) with death if they didn't, but Ilya likes to think they just like the masks that much and want to show them off. It's easy to spot the Raiders' gold, Centaurs' black, and the purple of… whatever team it is that Ryan Price is currently playing for this year. Ilya's glad that Amy knows, because even he can't remember at this point from all the trades.

And right before the clock strikes nine, another color joins the masked faces. Royal blue. Red trim.

Ilya hates those colors so much. But he loves the man who's wearing them, brown eyes squinted slightly over the brim of the mask, the hand-sewn 24 beneath his right eye. He waves a hand at Ilya and Scott and heads over.

Ilya is devastated when Shane approaches, because the mask completely hides his freckles. It's just one more goddamn thing this fucking virus has taken from Ilya. He swallows his sadness at this and nods in Shane's direction when he joins the other captains by the dogwood tree.

"Morning," Shane says, trying as always to be casual, when that's the last thing Shane Hollander is about even the most benign greetings. "Have they started yet?"

"Not yet. Ready to get your brain poked?" Scott jokes.

Shane's eyes widen over his mask. "Oh, God, it's that kind of test? Eww."

Ilya snorts before he can help himself. "Nothing to worry about for you. You have no brain. Just hockey-playing computer between your ears, yes? Everyone knows this."

Shane rolls his eyes. "Asshole. You're the last person who should be making jokes about not having a brain."

Scott's head tips back and a groan works its way from behind his mask. "Ten seconds. You have been standing together for ten seconds and you two are already at it. Good God, these two weeks are going to be insufferable."

Ilya shrugs, but he's smirking behind his mask. He winks at Shane, whose ears are pinking up and giving away his otherwise hidden blush.

They're saved from any further analysis of their interaction by the crackling and subsequent feedback screech of a megaphone. The crowd winces and turns in the direction of the sound. The league rep from a couple of days ago is there, fumbling with the device in his hands as he gets everyone's attention.

"Good morning everyone!" he finally broadcasts through the megaphone. "This is a very quick and easy process, but for everyone's sake, please be patient and cooperative as we work to get everyone seen. I need two single-file lines, please! One for each tent!"

Shane and Ilya, naturally, pick the line closest to them. Ilya is happy to let Shane go ahead of him, because he's clearly more anxious about getting results and knowing for sure that he's still healthy and safe. Plus, it allows Ilya to admire the back of his shoulders and neck (and ass) as much as he likes. Likely glad to take any chance he can to get away from them, Scott heads for the far line a few meters away.

A minute later, the sneezing begins.

"Oh, God," Shane mutters ahead of Ilya. "We're going to have an encyclopedic knowledge of every All Star's sneezes by the end of this thing."

Ilya, of course, already knows what Shane's sneezes sound like. An unreasonably jealous part of him doesn't want that knowledge to be public, even in the spirit of public health and safety, but he tries to push that part down.

"Uh oh," says Hazy from behind Ilya. "Everyone's gonna know the truth about Rozy's dad sneezes."

Ilya glowers back at him. "I do not have dad sneeze, this is lie. You must not spread these lies, Hayes."

"Then set the record straight and don't sneeze like a dad in there!" Hayes laughs behind his mask.

Shane glances back over his shoulder, brown eyes alight with mirth, and it makes the teasing about Ilya's explosive sneezes worth it.

The lines move quickly. This virus has only been a thing for a few weeks, but these people already have testing down to a science, efficient and swift. Ilya watches over Shane's shoulder as hockey players disappear into the tents for a few minutes, usually sneeze inside, and head back out and return to the hotel.

Back to the hotel. Suddenly Ilya wishes the testing would take an hour each. He steps ever so slightly closer to Shane. The urge to rest his chin on his shoulder and pull him close by the waist is so strong. He could give him just a quick squeeze. There's not many eyes on on them out here. Maybe no one would notice…

But even as he's thinking it, the line shuffles forward. He steps forward as well, glancing down to watch the distance between himself and Shane. They come to a stop again.

And Shane takes half a step back.

His shoulders almost, almost brush close enough to touch Ilya's chest. The need to reach for him outweighs his good sense for a heartbeat. Ilya reaches for his waist and has just enough time to course correct before he makes contact. His arm twitches up and rests on Shane's bicep instead, giving the barest squeeze before falling away.

Shane looks back at him with unrestrained longing, just for a second, and then he's facing the front and stepping halfway forward again.

Soon, Ilya promises himself. They just need to get these damn results back, and then they can be together again. Soon.

Shane is next in line when they are intercepted by Melissa, the other league rep that's stuck at the hotel with them all. "There's our favorite rivals!" she says brightly, a blue paper mask over her face.

Ilya bites back a groan at the term. All these months of him and Shane working together on the Irina Foundation, the summer camps, the increasingly tame soundbites after any games they now play against each other, and people still cling to the idea that they hate each other. He's so ready for the day that he never has to hear the word rival again.

They both turn toward her, nodding in her direction. "Oh, I love your masks! Could you two lean a little closer for a quick photo? The league wants some buzz from us and wants to set a good example of how seriously we're taking this." She has her phone out and is pointing at them, and it makes Ilya's heart jump with nerves. From the sudden tension in Shane's back, he knows he feels the same, if not worse.

It's just a publicity thing. It's nothing at all. But as Ilya angles closer to Shane and stares into the tiny black hole of the phone camera, he can still feel how his heart races. Part of him is already anticipating the things people will say, the conclusions they may draw from them standing together in line, wearing masks clearly made by the same hand, but another part of him is thrilled. He's going to hunt down this photo and save it the moment it's posted.

Ilya winks over his mask at the camera. Shane holds up a peace sign. Melissa taps her screen a few times, getting a couple of shots, before smiling behind her mask and bobbing her head. "Thanks you two!" is all she says before she dashes off in another direction.

Ilya watches Shane's shoulders twitch up and slump down with a sigh. They face toward the tent again, so much wanting to be said between them but unable to be voiced here, where people keep buzzing around them like flies.

Shane is finally called forward, and he ducks into the tent with the barest glance back over his shoulder. His absence feels like a giant cold spot that still holds his shape.

The silence is unbearable. "How is Lisa?" Ilya asks Hayes over his shoulder.

"Finally at home and passed out," Wyatt replies. It's hard to see him muted like this, his normally plucky personality weighed down by the fatigue and concern he no doubt has for his wife on the front lines. "Man, I hope we can get home soon. I know she needs me."

Ilya nods, but he doesn't have anything to add. Home is a word wrapped in barbed wire for him, especially since he has no idea how or when he will ever get back there.

"Next!" calls the physician from the blue tent in front of him.

A flicker of satisfaction cuts through Ilya; Shane apparently got through his test without sneezing. One more thing that Ilya can keep to himself. He ducks into the tent and follows the instructions from the staff inside. Sits in the plastic folding chair, tugs his mask aside, holds his breath as the world's longest cotton swab is jammed up both nostrils. Much like so many before him, the burning, itching, tickling sensation is too much for him to stand. He sneezes enormously, to his own annoyance.

"I told you!" he hears Hayes guffaw outside. "Rozanov has a total dad sneeze!"

There's muted laughter. The physician tucking his sample into a tube with his name on it snickers behind her mask and protective plastic shield. Ilya sighs dramatically as he pulls his mask back over his nose and mouth.

"I will never live down the rumors," he moans. "My life is over. No more being known for hockey. Just dad sneezes."

"There's worse things to be known for," the woman wrapped in ten different layers of protective equipment assures him. "Thank you for your cooperation. We should have results back to you by this evening. Next!"

And it's over. Ilya leaves out the back of the tent, strides across the parking lot, and goes back to his room. He gets room service yet again for lunch, pacing around while he waits for it to come up. The whole time he waits, he feverishly refreshes the NHL's Twitter page.

Finally, right after his food arrives, a new post goes up.

@OfficialNHL: We're doing our part to stay safe and #StopTheSpread here at the ASG lockdown! We encourage everyone at home to do the same and keep our communities healthy!

There's a set of four photos attached to the post. The first is a wide shot of the parking lot, showcasing the lines and tents for the testing. Next is a photo of Scott Hunter in his mask, then a spectacularly unflattering picture of Hayden Pike making an I'm-about-to-sneeze face right after being swabbed.

And last is the shot of Ilya and Shane. Ilya's actually shocked by how good they look together. The mid-morning sun is bright on their faces, but not too bright. Shane's eyes are made soft and warm in the sunlight above his mask. Both of their numbers are clearly visible in the corners of their masks, and despite the on-the-spot nature of the photo, they look… comfortable. Natural.

Ilya saves the picture immediately. He wishes he could set it as his lock screen on his phone. Either way, he'll look at it a hundred times a day, he already knows.

With nothing else to do but wait, Ilya stretches out on the bed once again. He fights against the growing craving he feels scratching at the back of his teeth for a cigarette. He tabs through the channels on the TV again, puts on an action movie he's never heard of and turns it down low. He zones in and out of focus, his thoughts lingering on the memory of Shane's shoulders right in front of him in line that morning, the feel of his muscle beneath Ilya's hand for the smallest of moments.

He misses him so badly is physically hurts.

Ilya dozes off at some point, drawn back down into sleep by that same heavy, suffocating weight in his chest that won't go away. He jolts awake when his phone starts to ring. He snatches it up, hoping it's Shane, but it's a number he doesn't recognize. He answers anyways. "Yes?"

"Is this Mister Ilya Rozanov?" asks a man with a thick midwestern accent, his pronunciation of both of Ilya's names absolutely horrible.

"It is, yes," Ilya answers.

"This is John with the public health service of St. Louis," the man goes on. "I just wanted to let you know that your test results for the Covid-19 virus came back negative. We encourage you to continue to mask up and practice social distancing…"

John keeps talking, but Ilya isn't listening anymore. Negative. He doesn't have the virus. He's safe.

He mumbles along with John's speech, thanks him for his time, and hangs up. He immediately opens his text thread with Shane and shoots over a message. negative, he sends. you?

Shane leaves the message on read. Ilya's leg bounces feverishly. How long are they going to wait to get Shane's results back? They were right next to each other in line, surely they had to have gotten them back at the same time, right?

He's about to hit "call" on Shane's contact when there's a knock on his door.

Chapter End Notes

woe! depression upon ye!

special shoutout and dedication to my cousin, who met their spouse online and lived in different countries when we went on lockdown. the border bullshit hit very close to home. but hey, they were able to remind me of the specifics of the fuckery for my fic, so it all worked out (and my cousin has since happily immigrated to canada!) so hurray.

i promise it will get more fun from here. had to get that stupid healthcare and shit out of the way. thank you for reading and stay tuned!!

as always, feel free to reblog and poke me on tumblr.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

As soon as Shane gets the call that his results came back negative, he bolts for the door.

He had received Ilya's text right before his phone had rang. Negative. What a beautiful little word in this current time.

When Ilya opens the door to his room, Shane ambushes him. He kicks it shut behind him and grabs him, kissing him like he needs the oxygen in his lungs, like he'll drown where he stands without it. Ilya responds in kind, hands shoving impatiently against his clothing, legs stumbling backwards over the ugly laminate flooring as they navigate blindly through the room toward the bed.

Whatever plans Ilya may have been hastily making up in his head are quickly rewritten as Shane pushes him back onto the bed. It's not often that he pushes Ilya around in the bedroom; he can, but he usually prefers the unique freedom that comes with surrendering that control to Ilya instead. Tonight, though, Shane is starving, desperate to satiate himself. He's been in a vicious panic cycle for hours, for days, and he just needs this.

Shane pins Ilya down, yanking his sweats and underwear down to his knees in quick, frantic motions. He leaves off of his mouth only to go for his cock, quickly stiffening in response to Shane's presence, and Ilya throws his head back and groans when Shane takes him into his mouth. A hand fists in Shane's hair and nudges his head down, and finally, finally, he feels his nervous system give up. His thoughts are finally still, a blank slate focused only on this. He moans around Ilya's cock.

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya pants above him. "Just let me —"

Shane does not let him. His mouth and throat work on instinct, tongue working against Ilya's shaft and teasing his cockhead. One hand grips his hip tight enough to bruise, while the other kneads at Ilya's balls, coaxing him to full mast almost painfully fast. Ilya's muttering and hissing, twitching further up into Shane's mouth, and Shane takes and takes and takes him.

"Shane," Ilya whines, yanking at his hair until tears prick in his eyes. "Shane, just wait, I —"

Shane does not wait. He sucks harder, spit pooling around his lips and dripping down his chin. Ilya's grip in his hair hurts and it grounds him to here, right here, zeroed in on this moment with this man and this one goal.

Shane throats Ilya fully, squeezing his balls, and a bliss better than any goal buzzer going off hits him as he feels Ilya tense up and release directly down his throat with a broken, ragged sound.

There. There's more that Shane wants, of course, but his first and most demanding need has been satisfied. He pulls slowly off of Ilya with an obscene wet pop, licking his lips and looking up to meet Ilya's eyes and to find…

…That Ilya is in tears.

Shane blinks and swallows, sobering immediately. "Ilya? What's wrong?" he frets, crawling up his body to lean over him, a hand cupping his cheek and brushing away fresh tears.

Ilya turns his head into the touch, eyes shuttering, mouth trembling as he tries to rein in his choked sobs. "Sorry," he whispers against Shane's palm. "It was just… very hard without you the past few days."

Being kicked directly in the chest with skates on would hurt less than that. Shane sinks down on top of Ilya and holds him, Ilya clinging to him like a life raft in the middle of the ocean, breath hitching and tears flowing for a few minutes as he settles back down. "It's okay," Shane soothes him, stroking his hair, kissing his throat. "I'm here now. You're okay. I've got you."

This… has been happening, more and more often. Ilya will be fine, they will have sex, and then he'll be weeping into his hands. It makes Shane worry, because of course it does. Much like his mind tangles itself into panicked, fight-or-flight knots, Ilya's drags him down into a heavy darkness that Shane can't always pull him back out of.

And Shane suspects that, if this lockdown lasts for very long, it's only going to get worse.

The urgency fizzled out, time slows around them. Gradually, they strip out of their clothes, tossing them piece by piece to the floor, until nothing but skin remains between them. They hold each other, content to simply lay and breathe together. At some point, they crawl beneath the covers and turn out the lights and Shane doesn't even care that they haven't properly fucked. Ilya falls asleep wrapped around him like the roots of a tree, his head tucked to Shane's chest, and Shane sleeps soundly for the first time in days.

The morning unfolds slowly. Ilya kisses Shane awake, drawing a smile from him as soon as he opens his eyes. "Feeling better?" Shane asks once he's conscious enough to do so, and Ilya nods.

The world is going to hell outside, but at least this much they have stabilized.

They shower together the best they can. The hotel shower isn't huge by any means, especially when forced to accommodate two full grown hockey players at the same time. Ilya smacks his head on the showerhead no less than three times, and Shane's breathless from laughing by the third time it happens.

"So glad you think is funny, Hollander," Ilya pretends to pout as they step out and towel off. "Head injury is serious even off the ice. I probably need concussion protocol after that. The plumbing here is hazardous."

Head trauma or no, they drift back to the main room and flop back onto the unmade bed. Ilya orders room service for them both, mindful of Shane's diet that he insists on clinging to even though the season has definitely been cancelled until further notice, and they lay in contented, safe silence together while they wait.

Silence that, against his better judgment, Shane eventually breaks. "Ilya," he says carefully, meeting his eyes. "Are you… feeling okay?"

Ilya is the first to look away. "Fine," he says, too quickly,, too casually. "Everyone is on edge right now, yes? I'm sure others are feeling worse. I haven't seen poor Ryan Price in days."

Shane frowns. "That's not what I mean. Last night…"

Ilya sighs. Shane braces for him to either blow him off or start a fight — but he's stunned when neither happens. He scrubs a hand through his still-damp curls and looks up at the ceiling, as if help will come down from above.

"You know that sometimes it gets… heavy. And sometimes I do not know it is bad until it's too late. Was like that last night, after. Which was a shame; you did such a good job blowing me."

The corner of his mouth quirks in the attempt at a smile, but it doesn't meet his eyes. His eyes look tired. Haunted.

"We can talk to the league reps and your team doctors, y'know," Shane says gently, reaching to softly knead at Ilya's shoulder. "This thing… it's probably going to get worse before it gets better. I don't want you to be struggling on top of everything else."

He leaves the other thing, the more honest and painful thing, unsaid: I don't want you to check out early and leave me behind.

Ilya leans toward him until Shane is wrapping his arms around him from behind, pressing his back to his own bare chest. "Okay," he says, and that's a victory in itself, so Shane doesn't push him any further than that. For now.

After breakfast, Shane starts feeling antsy. He may be locked in a hotel hundreds of miles from home, but his internal rhythm is still keeping score. It's time to work out, his body screams at him. It's time to run, to lift, to move. Sitting around is foreign to him, and soon his leg is bouncing hard enough to rock the bed.

"This place has a gym," he says, getting to his feet. "We should check it out. Stay in shape."

Ilya scoffs. "That would be your priority right now," he teases, but he doesn't stop him from getting dressed. It takes a minute of pretending to be difficult, but soon Ilya is up and rifling through his suitcase as well, dragging out clean sweats and socks and his running shoes.

Once they're both dressed, Ilya takes his hand and heads for the door. Shane can't help it; he stiffens as Ilya tugs him forward. Ilya stops and give him a Look. "This was your idea, remember?" he prods him, as if they hadn't established that very thing ten minutes earlier.

"Yeah, but…" Shane glances at the door look he's afraid it will burst open with cameras and microphones all pointed at them, demanding answers. "We should go down separately."

Ilya's eyes narrow. His chin lifts. Fuck. He's going to fight Shane on this, and Shane doesn't want to fight, but he doesn't want a hotel full of NHL players from across the entire league to be bored and looking for something to gossip about. He opens his mouth to try to head Ilya off with this exact sentiment, but Ilya gets there first.

"You saw updated number this morning?" he says, voice low and rolling.

Shane blinks. "New what? Number?"

"Death toll," Ilya adds, even quieter. "Is over seven thousand. There are much more important things to worry about than the two of us being seen together in this hotel, I think." He brushes his thumb over Shane's knuckles softly, eyes gentle and pleading.

And it kills Shane, because he's right. People are literally dying outside this building. People who probably had families and loved ones and maybe even partners that looked at them the way Ilya is looking at him right now. People who will never get to walk through a hotel with their spouses or partners or parents ever again.

It doesn't make the anxious flutter in his stomach go away, but it certainly puts it into perspective. Shane swallows, sighs, and nods. "Yeah," he acquiesces. "You're right. Let's go."

Ilya gives him a tiny smile. His eyes still look slightly sad, but he turns and is opening the door for them before either of them can linger on it for long.

Out of habit, Shane looks up and down the hall before exiting the room. Empty, save for an abandoned housekeeping cart at the far end. He steps out and makes himself walk normally. Forces himself to not check for every security camera or doorknob they pass as if it will open just as they walk past.

You are not a fucking criminal, Hollander, he bullies himself. You're not doing anything wrong or illegal. You're walking down a hallway with your teammate. Granted he's a lot more than just your teammate, but…

In the time it takes for him to get completely lost in his head, they've already reached the elevators. Ilya presses the button to call for the car and leans back on his heels, one hand in the pocket of his basketball shorts, looking for all the world like any other relaxed, mildly bored athlete trapped in a hotel. Shane tries to mimic his loose posture, but then he realizes someone might be getting off the elevator when it comes up, and he ends up standing even straighter than he had before.

"Shane," Ilya murmurs as the numbers tick up on the display above the elevator, "you look like you're being held at gunpoint. Relax."

Shane exhales heavily. He doesn't relax. The elevator dings, the doors roll open, and Scott Hunter is suddenly staring at them.

Shane wants to die.

"Oh, hey, Rozanov. Hollander," he says, almost casually, but he glances between the two of them in a way that feels like he knows something. "Morning."

"Morning, old timer," Ilya says conversationally, stepping forward and past Scott like it's the most normal thing in the world for them to all run into each other like this. "Glad you did not pass peacefully in your sleep."

Scott rolls his eyes as he steps out of the elevator. Shane remembers himself and shuffles awkwardly after Ilya, nodding in Scott's direction as he presses himself into the far corner and pointedly looks anywhere except the other captain.

"Y'know, if you keep talking about my impending death, I might need to look into a restraining order, Rozanov," Scott says over his shoulder.

"I said peacefully! I would never harm the elderly!" Ilya calls back with an impish grin as the doors begin to close.

Shane's pretty sure he catches Scott flipping him off right before the doors slide fully shut and the car begins to descend.

He sags against the handrail as they head down. "Jesus," he sighs. "You could have warned me that he's on your floor."

Ilya shrugs, still looking lax and at peace. "He is gay, Shane. What is the pot going to do? Call the kettle black? Relax."

If he had a dollar for every time someone told him to relax, Shane probably could have made more money just from that than his entire hockey career and endorsement deals combined.

When the elevator reaches the ground floor, Ilya steps out and nods to one side, heading in what Shane already knows for a fact is not the way to the gym. "Quick detour," he explains, pulling his mask out of his pocket and putting it on. "I want you to meet someone. Put yours on."

Shane blinks, brow furrowed, but he does as he's told. He follows Ilya into the hotel bar, and is about to make a remark about how day drinking is most definitely not exercise, when he spots a tiny woman behind the bar sporting a brightly colored mask of her own. She notices Ilya and waves, eyes going wide when she sees Shane behind him.

"Amy," Ilya says warmly when he approaches the bar, careful not to lean into her space. Shane stops beside him and follows his lead, refraining from resting his hands or elbows on the counter. "I wanted to introduce you to my friend Shane. Shane, this is Amy. She made our wonderful new masks."

Normally, Shane would offer a handshake, but this is not normally, as the masks quickly remind him. He offers a wave instead and a smile that he hopes is still conveyed above his mask. "Nice to meet you," he says, following his usual script for meeting new people. "The mask is really great. You did an awesome job. Thank you."

Amy is practically bouncing in place as she waves back emphatically. "Oh my God, thank you, I mean, you're welcome, oh wow, I'm so glad you like it, it looks so good on you, I can't believe — I mean, God, I'm so sorry, I —"

Ilya's eyes crinkle at the corners above his mask. "I may have forgotten to mention that you are her favorite hockey player. Perhaps I was jealous." He bounces his eyebrows at Shane, who narrowly resists the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

"It's okay," Shane tells Amy, inclining his head in her direction. "I'm flattered, really. If there's anything I can do for you, just let me know."

Amy waves her hands and shakes her head furiously. "Are you kidding? You guys have already done so much. I have orders coming in like crazy on my Etsy shop for masks. I'm already working on some for more of the All Stars. I can barely keep up!"

Ilya hums. "Good. You deserve the appreciation. You do good work. Hopefully it can be full time soon, yes?" He tilts his head, and Shane gets the sense that this is a continuation of a conversation they've already had.

Amy shrugs a shoulders, a blush working its way down her neck and around her ears. "Maybe. It would definitely be more ideal than this, especially if things get… worse. Thank you again, Mister Rozanov. Seriously."

"Of course," Ilya replies, leaning away from the bar in a sign that they're about to depart. "And please, call me Ilya."

Amy's yes scrunch up happily. "Ilya. Got it."

They start to leave, but Ilya draws up short, turning abruptly back to the bar after two steps. "Oh, and Amy?" he calls. "We got our test results back. Looks like we are in the all clear. Would it be alright if some of us came down tonight for some drinks?"

Shane eyes him. Leave it to Ilya to figure out a way to to bring the party to them if they can't go out to wherever the party is instead.

Amy giggles. "Of course! You hardly need my permission. I'll be waiting for you all."

"We will be on best behavior. And I will make sure everyone comes with their wallets." Ilya winks at her, Shane waves again, and they finally turn and head for the gym.

"When you say 'some of us'," Shane starts as they remove their masks in the abandoned hallway and pocket them once more, "who do you have in mind?"

Ilya grins at him. "Everyone that will get their asses out of their rooms. We are healthy. Is safe to let loose a little as long as we don't go anywhere, yes?" He jostles against Shane and bumps their shoulders together. "And don't even think about not going. You are a team captain. You are required to supervise."

Shane bites back a groan. "So you're volun-telling me for a night of babysitting a bunch of grown men that have nothing else to do but get drunk at a hotel bar. Thanks."

Ilya's grin just grows. He claps Shane on the shoulder and squeezes tightly in a way that reminds Shane inappropriately of how he handled him in bed the night before. "Any time, captain."

They arrive at the gym after rounding another corner. Shane almost balks. It's not empty. Rod Freeman and Dallas Reilly are spotting each other at the weight racks, while Troy Barrett and Dallas Kent are apparently racing each other on treadmills. Wyatt Hayes is on the far side of the room fiddling with something that does not look like exercise equipment, and Ilya breezes past Shane's rigid form to go see what he's doing.

Leaving Shane alone and unguarded.

"Hey, Hollywood!" Rod calls, waving to Shane from beside the press bench that the less-terrible Dallas is braced against. "Come to join the party?"

"Uh, yeah, I was getting stir-crazy locked in a room all day." Shane makes himself move, stepping further into the room and meeting Rod's eyes. "How much you pressing, Reilly?"

Reilly grunts as he shoves the bar up once more, massive arms bulging with the effort. "Not enough," he grits out through his teeth.

Rod rolls his eyes above him. "D flips tires for exercise back home," he says blithely. "This joint doesn't have quite enough tonnage to compete."

Shane tilts his head, eyeing the plates on Reilly's bar. They each weigh two hundred pounds each. "Tires are heavier than four hundred pounds?"

"Tractor tires," Reilly hisses as he brings the bar back down. "Y'know how much… a tractor tire weighs… Hollander?"

Shane does not.

"Thousand pounds," Rod supplies helpfully. "Flip one of those over a dozen times or so and you'll never need another leg day, arm day, core day, anything, really."

Shane does his best not to gawk. "Jesus. You guys do things different in Houston."

Rod laughs. He has straight white teeth that flash brilliantly against his dark skin. Shane almost feels guilty for noticing. "It's not standard practice for the Drillers. That just comes from growing up in the country."

Shane nods and moves on, leaving them to the weights. He makes a point to avoid Barrett and Kent, who have slowed to an easy jog on their machines and are watching him with keen, intrusive interest. Kent leans over to mutter something to Barrett under his breath. Troy snorts and keeps jogging.

Their presence and attention makes the skin on the back of Shane's neck prickle. He wishes they would leave. They make him not want to be there at all, despite the screaming need in his body to move. Shane steels himself and makes his way to the cycling machines, selecting the one farthest away from the pair and settling in.

He distracts himself from their stares by craning his neck to see what Ilya and Wyatt are doing. Wyatt is on a chair, messing with a device he's tucked into a hole in the wall above their heads. "What's that?" Shane calls over to them.

"Webcam," Wyatt calls back. "I cleared it with the hotel already. The league wants us to be buzzy, sooo…" He steps off the chair and tilts his head up at the webcam. The little red light is on and blinking. "Now we're streaming to the world. Everyone just remember to keep your privates private!"

Shane hates that immediately and completely. But he tells himself that he lives his life being stared at for the most part, so what's one more thing? He looks forward and starts cycling, trying not to let his gaze stray up toward the looming camera.

Ilya and Wyatt, despite both being in workout gear, meander around and hover at the weights, chatting with Freeman and Reilly some more. Shane makes a note to nag Ilya about not actually working out as he listens in to their conversation.

"We are getting some people together at the bar tonight for some drinks," Ilya announces. "Care to join us? We won't hold your shitty team against you."

Reilly finally rests the barbell on the rack above the bench and sits up, drenched in sweat. His red hair is plastered to his forehead and neck. "Hell yeah, brother!" he replies. "Maybe a little music? Little dancing?"

Ilya's brow quirks up, a mirthful smirk on his face. "Even though it will be nothing but hockey players there?"

"Oh you don't know that," Reilly laughs. "And besides, the world's on fire out there. If y'all can't cut a rug with your bros during the apocalypse, when can you?"

Ilya's eyes flit to Shane's. Their gazes meet for a fraction of a second, and Shane's temperature spikes. Ilya looks away first, shrugging at Reilly's remark. "I guess you're right. Sure, if you have speakers, bring music. We will party like it's 2019 again, yes?"

Both Reilly and Freeman grin toothily at that. "Oh, hell yes," Rod says. He slaps Dallas's shoulder loudly. "You bring your boots?"

"Does a bear shit in the woods? 'Course I brought my boots. You bring your hat?"

"Sure fuckin' did, bud." Rod winks at him. "We'll bring the party, Roz. No worries there."

"Good. We will see you then. Tell people," Ilya says.

On the treadmills, Troy and the other Dallas are muttering between each other again. Shane bites back a scowl. That's trouble in the making. It's a problem for later, though, so he just looks ahead and keeps pedaling.

Finally, Ilya joins him on the neighboring cycle. His form blocks most of the room from Shane's peripheral, allowing Shane to finally focus. He relaxes into his exercise with Ilya near, matching his pace as usual, catching his eye every now and then when they wordlessly agree to push themselves more. They're both soon soaked with sweat and breathing heavily. Shane's heart hammers against his ribs, his body singing with endorphins.

It's the second best he's felt since this nightmare started, all things considered.

Two hours later, they're both soaked with sweat and thoroughly worked out. The others have left, leaving them in the humid gym by themselves.

"There," Ilya pants as he shoves his dripping curls out of his face. "Feeling better now, captain?"

"Much." Shane's body is humming satisfactorily in the glow of his workout, muscles warm and worked loose. A pleasant background burn has built behind his tendons, a reminder not to let himself go that long without a thorough workout again. "Need another shower now, though."

Ilya's flushed face splits with a devilish grin. "I think we can arrange that…"

Shane almost reaches for him. Almost. But then he remembers Wyatt's stupid webcam streaming the room into the void of the internet and makes himself. He shakes his head to both himself and to Ilya and heads for the door. Ilya trails after him like a puppy.

The afternoon passes faster when they're in each other's company. Ilya fucks Shane in the shower, deadly too-low shower head be damned, and from there they sprawl in bed together and scroll through channels on the TV until Ilya nods off and takes a nap. Shane doesn't mean to follow him, but somewhere between HGTV and TLC, he also drifts off, his breath synced with Ilya's, his heartrate even and calm.

Somehow, when Ilya nudges him awake, the sun is setting outside the window.

"Shit," Shane mutters as he starts awake, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Time to get ready to go downstairs," Ilya purrs. "You should go get changed. Amy deserves better than your dirty sweats."

Shane rolls his eyes. "What do you wear to a drinking session in a hotel bar during a lockdown?"

"Literally anything other than what you usually wear. Pick something your boring stylist got for you. Something with buttons. You can do this, Hollander." Ilya ruffles Shane's hair fondly as he bounces off the bed. "Seriously. Go. I will see you down there."

Shane sighs, pecks him on the cheek, and slips into the hall to head back to his own room. Thankfully, no one is in the elevator when it arrives, and he makes it back to his room without running into another soul.

His room has been cleaned in the time he's been gone, which is nice. He chews his lip as he considers his wardrobe choices. He wasn't planning to really go out anywhere this weekend when he had packed. He has exactly one button-up shirt with him and a pair of dark, unassuming jeans that would probably work, so he pulls those out and starts to dress.

Shane's never been fussy about his appearance, so he's ready to head down to the bar in less than ten minutes. He knows Ilya well enough to know that it's going to take him at least half an hour longer, so he feels a bit more at ease when he goes down and finds almost no one else in the bar. Amy waves at him, smiling behind her mask, and Shane steps up to the bar and asks for his usual: a ginger ale.

"You sure I can't tempt you with anything stronger?" she asks as she sets a can and a tall glass of ice before him. "I don't mean to be a downer, but I doubt you guys will be playing again any time soon."

Shane shrugs and shakes his head. "I might get something else later," he says noncommittally. "Thank you."

Amy just nods and leaves him to his soda. Shane picks up the can and the glass and finds a small table tucked in a corner where he can watch the doorway and the bar without much interference. He settles in, pours some ginger ale over the ice, and contents himself with people watching.

Wyatt shows up a few minutes later, all but dragging Ryan Price into the bar. The much larger man looks like Shane probably did that morning: like he's being held at gunpoint. Shane's impressed that he even left his room. The two order drinks from Amy, wave to Shane, and park in a corner as far away from him as physically possible.

The next to wander in, of course, is Scott Hunter. Shane immediately remembers his face from that morning and wants to disappear. Scott doesn't notice him when he walks in, heading to the bar and getting a drink first. Once he has it, he turns around and leans his elbows back against the bar, and then he spots Shane.

Fuck.

Scott makes his way over and Shane does his best to look inviting and welcoming and not at all like he would rather be anywhere else. They're colleagues. Teammates. They can have a casual conversation that has nothing to do with why Shane was on his floor with Ilya that morning. Definitely.

"Hollander," Scott says as he steps up to his table. "Mind if I join you?"

"Go for it," Shane replies. Not tense or off-putting at all. Normal.

Scott sits across the table from him, a glass of something deep and amber-colored cradled in his hands. "Weird vibe in here, huh?"

"You could say that." The few other people that have trickled in are taking the same cues as the rest of them, picking tables and barstools spaced several feet away from the next nearest patron. Even though they have all tested negative for the virus, people are still treating each other with an abundance of caution.

Scott sighs and takes a long drink from his glass. His phone vibrates against the table, and he pulls it out, the blue-white glow of the screen slicing through the dim mood lighting in the room and casting his face in pale, gaunt contrast. He looks tired, Shane thinks. Tired and withdrawn.

"How is it back home?" Shane asks. It's the least he can do.

Another sigh. "Kip's stuck at our place. He's worried about his parents. He can't go see them since he was working at the bar before all this shit went down and he hasn't gotten a test yet. I hate that he's trapped there all by himself." Scott scrubs a hand through his hair and types with the other, brow knit in concern. "I don't know if we can even afford to keep the bar in business."

His news settles in Shane's stomach like rocks at the bottom of a river. However bad it is here in St. Louis, it has to be a hundred times more dire in New York City. Shane can't even imagine how much worse his nerves would be if he was surrounded by that many people all the time, wondering which of them had possibly been exposed and was exposing him in turn.

"I'm sorry," he replies lamely, hating that he doesn't have anything more helpful to contribute. "Hopefully they'll be able to get us out of here soon, yeah?"

Scott nods, finishing his text and pocketing his phone again. "Yeah." He takes another long drink, eyes flicking between the table top and Shane, before he finally speaks again, voice low. "You and Rozanov got lucky, at least."

Shane goes still as a statue in his seat. "What?"

Scott rolls his eyes. "Hollander. Come on. I saw you two this morning. I've seen you two before. Every All Stars game, it's the same thing. It's okay."

The excuses come on before Shane can even process what Scott's saying. "It's not like that," he says quickly, the way he always does whenever anyone insinuates something or jokes just a little too close to home. "We're just — we've had to be in meetings for the foundation, and we use the same agent, so —"

"Hollander," Scott repeats, and the firm tone in his voice makes Shane shut up. "It's okay. You don't have to bullshit me about it. Do you think I'm gonna tell anyone? Me? Come on. Relax. Breathe."

But Shane can't breathe, because no one is supposed to know. Not even Scott Hunter, poster boy for being gay and being a professional hockey player at the same time.

Except…

Except people do know. Ryan Price, who still sits crammed into a small booth with a drink he hasn't touched and Amy's mask still over his face. He caught Shane and Ilya at their hockey camp last summer, and he swore not to tell anyone, and Shane had believed him. Still believes him. And Hayden, who won't be joining them tonight because he's FaceTiming Jackie and the kids. That's already two more NHL players that know about him and Ilya than Shane had ever planned on telling, and in both cases, it hadn't been the end of the world.

He remembers what Ilya had said that morning. The death toll is over seven thousand now. That really was the end of the world, and here Shane is about to have a panic attack because an openly gay man is addressing the fact that he is, despite how hard he has tried not to be, also openly gay.

Shane could be one of those seven thousand and counting. He could be one of the hundreds of thousands of positive cases. One of the many fighting for their lives on a respirator. But he isn't. He's healthy. He's safe. And Scott is right: he's luckier than just about any other guy in this hotel, because the person he cares for most is stuck in here with him, and he doesn't have to be alone while the world implodes outside.

There are so many worse things going on right now than me and Ilya being together.

Shane exhales. "…Yeah. I guess we are lucky, in a way."

Scott rewards his admission, however roundabout, with a smile. "There you go. Doesn't that feel better?"

No. Yes. I don't know yet. Shane shrugs, as if to convey all of that with the simple gesture. "I guess so. It's just…"

"Trust me, I get it. My situation was nowhere near as complicated as yours, and I still felt like I would be found out if someone even said the word gay in front of me sometimes. It's fucking hard." Scott returns to his drink and gives Shane a moment to think.

And Shane definitely needs to think. He sips his ginger ale, willing the seltzer to soothe his cramping, anxious stomach. His eyes drift across the room to Ryan again. They don't really talk outside of camp, and even if they did, Ryan's not nearly as high profile of a player as Shane or Scott. He would probably be wiling to listen if Shane wanted to vent, but it wouldn't really be a comparable experience. Whereas with Scott…

"Did you have any regrets?" Shane asks before he can think better of it. "About coming out? About telling the world about you and Kip?"

Scott inclines his head slightly, as if he'd been hoping Shane would ask him something and that was the right thing to ask. "I thought I would. But ultimately, I'm glad I did it, and did it on my own terms. Being caught and outed was my worst nightmare. Sometimes I still wake up in a cold sweat because I'm dreaming that it's happened. But when I realize it was only a dream?" He shakes his head, spreading his hands out before him palms up. "Money can't buy that peace of mind. I don't regret a single thing, except maybe that I waited for so long."

Shane's eyes suddenly start to burn. All he can see is that sad, haunted look in Ilya's eyes. The careful, measured distance they always keep from each other in public. The quiet, longing gaze that Shane always feels follow him whenever Ilya is on the other side of a room from him, forbidden from being near him, exiled from the one place they both want to be more than anything else: at the other's side.

People are dying in droves, and Shane Hollander has never even held his boyfriend of ten years' hand in public. They've been social distancing since before the term even existed in the greater zeitgeist.

"I just think," Scott goes on unprompted, filling the silence without needing to be asked, "if you guys loosened up and let go a little, you might be surprised how much easier it is than you're thinking. Let people make assumptions. Let them talk. Who cares? If anyone says anything about it, just remind them of the real problems going on in the world. You don't have to confirm or deny a damn thing."

He makes it sound so easy. And maybe, just maybe, it is.

"I don't know," Shane sighs. "We'll see."

Scott holds his gaze for a long moment before nodding. "Just don't wait too long, Shane. That's when the regrets begin to pile up."

Shane opens his mouth to say something else, but then a voice is cutting through the relative quiet of the bar, startling him. "Is this a bar or a retirement home? Are any of you even awake in here? Helloooo?"

Shane's neck flushes. Ilya strides into the bar looking like a runway model, his hair slicked back, his silky, maroon shirt halfway unbuttoned on purpose. His gold chain catches the low light, glinting against his skin. Every head turns in his direction, the energy and focal point of the room instantly centered directly on him and his magnetic presence.

And he's mine, Shane thinks, the notion dizzying with its certainty. No one else in this room, in this hotel, in this entire league knows the first real and true thing about Ilya Rozanov except for Shane.

Scott is looking at him like the cat that ate the canary. "Go, Hollander," he urges, raising his glass in Shane's direction. "Life is short. Live."

Life is short. Across the country, across the globe, that is being proved more and more. Tests came back positive. Monitors flatlined. Graves filled up. How many precious things went to those graves, unshown and unsaid?

Fuck it.

Shane gets up. He walks in Ilya's direction and for once, he doesn't check his stride. He doesn't hide his desire, nor the joy that surges through him at the simple fact of Ilya's presence. Ilya turns toward him like a compass turns to the north pole, and his grin grows wolfish and wide. The light returns to his eyes like the sun spearing over the horizon at dawn.

"I knew you had at least one shirt with buttons in your bag," he purrs as Shane draws near.

They don't touch, not yet, but it's a near thing. Heat radiates between them in the open space, and Shane drowns out every nerve that screams for him to step back by inhaling deeply and breathing in Ilya's cologne. Fat Electrician, he knows, a strange name for an intoxicating aroma that he would know blindfolded and half-conscious.

"You know me," Shane says, far more sincerely than he even means. "I always come prepared."

Ilya snorts. He reaches for Shane, cupping his elbow and turning him toward the bar, and Shane doesn't fight it. He doesn't pull away. He lets himself be guided in front of everyone else to the bar by the man he loves. He lets Ilya order for him and throws it back regardless of how sharply it stings in his throat. He commands himself to be present, to be normal, to fucking relax.

Ilya's hand finds its way to the small of Shane's back, tucked between his body and the bar, and Shane doesn't step away. Instead, he leans in.

Life is short.

Chapter End Notes

*jenna marbles voice* life is short... but also like terribly and insufferably long at the same time...

also fear not this party is just getting started. i can't do a party scene from shane's pov i just can't it HAS to be from ilya's so look forward to that coming up next

as always thank you so so much for reading and commenting!! i read every one even if i don't always respond. i'm glad this fic so far has provided some catharsis and weird roundabout healing for folks <3

as always, if you liked and/or wanna yap about it, you can find me on tumblr.