Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Fluff without Plot, Domestic Fluff, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), Established Relationship, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Cooking, Comfort Food, Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Post-Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Pre-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers)

Language:

English

Collections:

pepperroxd’s library, 🐧 Heated Rivalry 🏒

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-27 Completed: 2026-03-16 Words: 5,147 Chapters: 2/2

Ilya's Soup for Ilya's Shane

Summary

Finally, Shane lifts his eyes from the computer screen. He removes his glasses, a move that Ilya silently mourns, and sets them aside. Shane's eyes are duller than usual, and the tiniest bit bloodshot. His cheeks are flush in a way that is not fun and sexy but reads more fever and germs.

He looks so tired.

“You, and do not take this the wrong way, look like shit.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov!”

—

Or, Shane gets sick when Ilya visits and Ilya takes care of him.

Notes

This was the first idea I had for a Heated Rivalry fic hut the smut goblin in my brain took over so it had to wait.

It's here now, though.

Enjoy.

Chapter 1: Ilya's Shane

“Shane, kotik. You know that I love you, da?”

Ilya leans against the counter, glass of water dangling from his fingers, and stares at his boyfriend who is sitting at the nearby table. Shane doesn't look up from his laptop, and Ilya can see the reflection of some document in the lenses of his glasses.

He nods and says, “I do.”

The simple nonchalance of the two word reply leaves Ilya momentarily reeling. His brain floods with images and glimpses of maybes and somedays.

Shaking his head, Ilya sets his glass on the counter. He slowly stalks closer to the table, eyes not leaving Shane's pinched expression. “And you also know that I think you are most beautiful man in the world, yes? After me, of course,” Ilya grins. He places his hands flat on the table and leans forward, body angled and taut as he observes Shane.

Sweet, beautiful Shane who… does not look himself.

Finally, Shane lifts his eyes from the computer screen. He removes his glasses, a move that Ilya silently mourns, and sets them aside. Shane's eyes are duller than usual, and the tiniest bit bloodshot. His cheeks are flush in a way that is not fun and sexy but reads more fever and germs.

He looks so tired.

“You, and do not take this the wrong way, look like shit.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov!”

Rolling his eyes, Ilya stands up straight to round the table. “You are taking wrong way!” he exclaims, pulling out the chair beside Shane to sit down.

“My boyfriend just said I look like shit on our first day together in almost a month! How else am I supposed to take it?” Shane asks, clearly agitated. His voice even sounds off.

“I only meant… you look like you could have cold. Maybe you should nap?” Ilya suggests softly. He brushes some of Shane’s hair from his forehead and feels the warmth there. “You feel warm.”

“I feel fine,” Shane argues, gently batting Ilya's hand away.

Ilya lays his hand at the back of Shane's neck. His skin does feel much warmer than usual under Ilya’s palm. “People get sick, Shane. Is okay,” he murmurs, gently squeezing Shane's neck.

“I… I am fine. I don't… Shane Hollander does not get sick.”

Dropping his hand, Ilya leans back in his chair and blinks slowly at Shane. “Okay. So who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?” Ilya asks with a grin pulling at his lips. He gets to his feet and feigns looking around the apartment for help. “Police, quick! A sickly imposter has broken into my boyfriend's apartment,” he yells, hands cupped around his mouth.

Shane's hands flail as he jumps to his feet, attempting to shush Ilya.

Ilya laughs, wrapping his arms around Shane's shoulders to pull him against his chest. “Shh, malysh,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss against Shane’s warm temple. He can feel the tension in Shane’s body begin to drain as he lays his head down on Ilya’s shoulder. “If you will not for you, then can you do this for me? I think it will be nice. You can take a nap. I can get you medicine and soup,” he suggests, voice soft and melodic against the shell of Shane’s ear.

“Will you leave me alone if I go lay down?” Shane asks on a heavy exhale. Ilya can hear him rolling his eyes.

“No,” Ilya says simply. He lets his hands run in broad strokes over Shane's back. He can feel the way his muscles loosen under his touch. “Mm, but I will stop saying you look like shit.”

Shane pinches Ilya's side hard enough to have him yelp and release his hold. Lifting his head, Shane looks back at Ilya and it is glaringly obvious that he is sick despite his loud denials.

“Go. Put on comfy clothes and get in bed. I will get soup and medicine,” Ilya says, taking Shane's cheek in his hand.

Thankfully, Shane doesn't fight him. He simply nods and turns to press a delicate kiss to the center of Ilya’s palm before turning away. And, because Ilya is a kind and loving boyfriend who wants to continue fucking Shane Hollander and does not wish to be murdered, he will never tell Shane how dry his lips felt.

Once Shane is out of sight, Ilya turns to make his way to Shane’s refrigerator. He isn't quite sure what he expected from his bird food eating boyfriend, but he finds meticulously labeled containers with dates and times as well as a lot of produce. Shaking his head, Ilya closes the refrigerator and heads toward the door with his wallet in hand and a hat on his head.

The nearest grocery store has all of what Ilya is looking for, including some cold medicine to hopefully combat whatever is trying to take Shane out of commission.

The apartment is quiet when he returns. After setting the groceries on the counter, Ilya sneaks up to the bedroom to check on Shane. From the doorway, he can see Shane bundled beneath the covers with a hoodie on. He is fast asleep.

He's beautiful.

If he weren't hellbent on taking care of him, Ilya would already be wrapped around him – germs be damned.

With one last fleeting look and a fond smile, Ilya returns downstairs to the kitchen. He remembers the basics but does a quick Google search to find a recipe to make sure he doesn't accidentally kill Shane. He works quickly through all the chopping and the peeling and the slicing.

When the pot on the stove is simmering after about an hour or so of work, Ilya grabs the cold medicine along with a bottle of water and heads back upstairs. Shane is awake this time. He looks adorable sleep rumpled but no less ill.

“Ah, if it isn't Sleeping Beauty,” Ilya teases as he enters the room, “How do you feel?”

Shane blinks slowly and glares at Ilya with all the ferocity of a newborn kitten. “You cursed me,” he rasps out before sniffling once. His nose is blush pink and his voice is dry and crackling. “I wasn't sick until you made me sleep.”

“Bednyazhka,” Ilya coos. He walks over to the bed and sits on the edge. He hands Shane the water. “Drink.”

As Shane opens the water, Ilya pulls the medicine from the box. He turns to look at Shane and raises a hand to press the backs of his fingers against Shane's forehead and cheeks.

“Do you have thermometer?”

Shane nods, lowering the bottle, “In the bathroom.”

Ilya pats Shane on the legs over the blankets before getting to his feet. It takes a minute to find the thermometer in the drawers of stuff Shane has accumulated in his bathroom, but Ilya promptly returns, holding the device above his head. He approaches the bed and sits back down beside Shane. “I know I say this a lot but, open,” he says with a shit-eating grin.

Shane mumbles something he doesn't quite catch that is equal parts exasperated and fond before doing as instructed and letting Ilya place the thermometer beneath his tongue.

“I made soup for you. I will bring up in a minute,” Ilya tells him, petting sweaty hair back away from Shane's forehead.

The only response Shane is able to make with his mouth full, again not in the fun and sexy way, is a low inquisitive hum. His eyebrows raise slightly in a questioning way that makes his glassy eyes widen some and, for some reason, reminds him of the street dog by the training rink in Moscow that he used to sneak treats to as a teenager.

The beeping of the thermometer brings Ilya’s thoughts back. He reaches out to remove it from Shane's mouth and looks down at the tiny screen.

“Again, I know I say this a lot, but you're very hot, Shanya,” Ilya says, turning the thermometer to show the screen to Shane.

38.5 degrees.

Definitely a fever.

Shane's lips pull down into a pout. Ilya coos and leans closer to pepper soft kisses along his cheek and temple. “Take your medicine. I will return with soup,” he mumbled against Shane’s ear.

Ilya reluctantly stands up from the bed and turns to leave the room. He hurries down the steps, back into the kitchen. He prepares two bowls of warm soup, the familiar smell filling his nose is comforting in a way he hasn't thought of in many years. Shaking his head, Ilya spoons a generous helping of sour cream into one bowl but stops before doing the second.

He knows he is pushing it with the soup itself when it comes to Shane's crazy diet, and he's not sure if he should push harder with the addition of dairy on an already very potato forward dish. Ilya decides against it, and returns the container to the fridge. He places a spoon into each of the bowls before picking them out and making his way back upstairs.

Back to Shane.

“Okay. Your soup is here, moya lyubov’.”

He returns to the spot he previously vacated next to Shane. Shane takes the bowl, holding it firmly between both of his hands.

“Wha’ kind is it?” he asks.

Ilya hums softly, “Mm, is shchi. Good to keep warm in Russian winters. Keeps you strong. Eat.”

“Why does yours look different?” Shane nods toward the bowl that Ilya is holding.

“Because you are Mr. Bird Food, yes? Most of soup is tomatoes, cabbage, mushroom… things you eat. But also, potato and I know – I know! – that is not diet approved. But is good. So… I did not put sour cream. No dairy, da?”

The look on Shane's face is hard to read at first. His brows furrowed ever-so-slightly, and his lips pursed together. Then, his eyes soften and almost seem to melt. He looks between the two bowls of soup and holds his out, closer to Ilya.

“A little?”

Ilya’s chest warms like he's already eaten a pot of soup. He could survive the coldest Russian winter in nothing but his underwear so long as Shane always looks at him like that. He clears his throat and nods curtly before using his spoon to move a small bit of sour cream from his bowl to Shane's.

He watches closely the way that Shane stirs the contents of his bowl before lifting the spoon to his mouth for a bite.

“Oh. This is… really good,” Shane says, blinking quickly back at Ilya.

Ilya rolls his eyes fondly, “You are surprised? Are you so sick you become rude and ungrateful?”

Shane kicks lightly at Ilay from beneath the blankets. “Shut up. And thank you, really. I appreciate you taking care of me. I know there are more fun things you'd probably prefer to be doing,” Shane says, voice quickly edging toward guilt.

Ilya, who had been on his way to taking his own bite of soup, lowers the spoon back into the bowl. “No, no. I am here to see you. I see you, I am good,” he grins, reaching out to gently cup Shane's cheek in his hand. His thumb brushes gently over his flushed cheek. “Mm, but if you would like, I can always check temperature other way. I have my own thermometer.” He wags his eyebrows and cuts a quick glance down to his crotch before looking back to Shane.

“Oh, my god, Ilya!” Shane laughs loudly, swatting the hand on his face away.

“You are familiar with process, see!”

Shane doesn't respond, he simply returns to the bowl of soup in his hand. Ilya grins before getting up to go around the bed and scoot up to sit beside Shane, leaning against the headboard. They eat in a comfortable quiet. When they are done, Ilya takes the bowls downstairs. He washes and puts them back where he found them, not wanting to leave a mess for Shane. He finds a container to move the soup to. When he finishes cleaning the pot and kitchen, Ilya finds a label to place on the soup and grabs a pen.

Ilya's soup for Ilya's Shane.

He then tucks the container into the fridge and returns upstairs.

In the bedroom, Shane is once again laying down but his eyes are open and watching Ilya as soon as he steps inside. “You took a long time,” he murmurs, voice slow and sleep-heavy.

“I cleaned up after myself, Mr. Hollander,” Ilya grins. He pulls off his shirt and places it on top of Shane's dresser, then does the same with his pants. Once in just his boxer-briefs, he lifts the edge of the blankets to slip into bed beside Shane.

They both move toward the center of the bed, like magnets being pulled by an unseen force, until Ilya is on his back and Shane is draped across his body. Shane's head finds a home on Ilya’s chest, his arm lays warm and heavy across his waist, and one of Shane's legs drapes snugly over one of Ilya's. They are close, almost one body.

Ilya kisses the top of Shane's head.

“Sleep, Shanya.”

Shane turns his head and nuzzles his nose along the curve of Ilya's pec muscle before he places a gentle kiss to the valley between the two, right below his cross necklace. “I love you,” he whispers as he lays his head down once more.

Ilya smiles at the ceiling, “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Chapter 2: Shane's Ilya

Chapter Summary

“Fine,” he huffs petulantly before standing upright, “I will go lay down.”

Shane smiles and reaches up to push his fingers through Ilya’s curls, “And I didn't even tell you that you look like shit.”

“Yes, yes. Shane Hollander – perfect hockey player and perfect boyfriend,” Ilya grumbles, his voice trailing off as he shuffles toward his bedroom.

“Your words, not mine,” Shane calls after him.

Ilya flips him off over his shoulder.

Chapter Notes

And now it is Shane's turn to care for his man.

A bone deep tiredness settles heavily on Shane's back as he enters his apartment after a particularly draining practice. He is mostly recovered from his bout of illness but being on the mend coupled with Ilya having to go back to Boston has left him miserable and exhausted. All he wants to do is curl up in bed and call Ilya.

He decides, instead, to get something to eat.

He settles his bag by the stairs, he'll take it up later, and shuffles off toward the kitchen. The refrigerator is full of his meal prep containers and ginger ale. Although, he spots a container that he definitely didn't put in there. It's tucked behind some pesto whole spelt pasta, just out of the way enough to not be immediately noticed. With a furrowed brow, Shane reaches into the fridge to pull out the cylindrical container. On its front is a label with handwriting that is very much not his own, but still very familiar.

Ilya's soup for Ilya's Shane.

Oh.

Somewhere in Shane's chest, just behind his ribs, his heart wobbles. He deeply, viscerally misses Ilya. And, even though it is not diet approved, Shane makes himself a bowl of soup. He sits at the kitchen island once it is warmed up and promptly calls FaceTimes Ilya, propping his phone up against the container on the counter.

Almost immediately, Shane's screen is filled by Ilya’s smirking face.

“Miss me already?”

Shane rolls his eyes as he stirs his bowl of soup, “I missed you as soon as you left.”

It's raw and vulnerable. It leaves Shane feeling more exposed than he generally likes, but when he looks back to his phone he can't help but smile at the syrupy-sweet expression that has flooded his boyfriend's face.

“Me too,” Ilya admits softly. There is a quiet moment between the two of them as they simply watch one another through their screens. Shane wishes he could crawl through the glass and curl his body around Ilya where he is reclining on his sofa. Ilya chuckles softly. “What are you eating?”

Shane reaches for his phone, pulls it from its place against the container, and flips the camera around. It's a little fuzzy at first before the image focuses on the label.

He can hear Ilya suck at his teeth, and sees his smile stretch a bit sadly across his lips.

“Do you still feel sick?”

Shane returns the camera and phone to where it had been. He shakes his head, “No. I just missed you.”

“You'll be in Boston in three weeks, yes?” Ilya says, hopefully.

“Mhm,” Shane hums. He takes a small spoonful of soup. It's still good, but it was definitely better when he was sharing it with Ilya. “A full weekend. I have ’business in New York’.”

Ilya snorts back a laugh, “Yes, many important business meetings being held in my bed.”

When Shane's plane lands in Boston he is practically vibrating with excitement. He doesn't even stress about having to go through customs or making sure he has his bags before loading up onto the bus the team has for them. He sits near the back, the seat beside him empty, and pulls his phone from his pocket.

“Already texting Boston Lily?” Hayden asks, dropping into the seat in front of him.

Shane snaps his head up from where he had definitely been opening his messages to let Ilya know that he landed, and stares at Hayden over the top of the seat with wide, owlish eyes. He stammers for a moment, unable to get his brain and tongue to function as a cohesive unit.

Hayden laughs, rolling his eyes, “Chill out. When have I ever judged you for seeing your girl?”

“Sh-She's not my girl,” Shane mumbles half-heartedly.

Shaking his head, Hayden slaps the top of his seat with a grin, “Sure. Whatever, man. Just make sure you don't tire yourself out before the game tomorrow.”

“Gross, Hayd,” Shane grumbles, turning back to his phone.

Shane: Landed and through customs. On the bus to the hotel now.

There isn't a response right away. Shane stares down at his screen like he can mentally will Ilya into replying faster. The doors of the bus close and the bus lurches forward away from the curb. There is excited chatter and laughter from all around, but Shane can't look away from his phone.

Suddenly, three dots appear at the bottom of the thread followed, thankfully, by Ilya's response.

Lily: I am at practice
Lily: Will be for a while. You can go over, let yourself in
Shane: Okay, I'll see you later. I love you ❤️
Lily: Love you too 😘

Shane stuffs his phone into his pocket before turning to look out the window. It is a pretty gray day in Boston; when Shane checked the weather while packing it had said to expect rain all weekend. The rain definitely didn't bother him, he didn't have plans to leave Ilya’s house, let alone bed, for two whole days.

The bus ride and checking into the hotel are all a blur. Once in the room with Hayden, Shane promptly drops his bags and sits on the edge of the bed, pulling out his phone.

Hayden laughs, “Running out already? Not wasting any time I see.”

Shane doesn't reply, he just rolls his eyes and calls an Uber to pick him up outside of the hotel. Once the confirmation that Marnie is on the way, Shane gets to his feet and grabs his backpack. Did he specifically pack a smaller bag just to take and keep at Ilya's place just so he didn't have to conspicuously drag his luggage to and fro across Boston? Of course he did– He's Shane Hollander.

“I'll be back later,” Shane mumbles, double checking his bag and phone.

“Have fun,” Hayden chuckles, flopping down onto his own bed.

Shane waves awkwardly as he hurries from the room. He walks swiftly through the hall towards the elevator, wanting to keep his head down and avoid any of his teammates as he attempts to abscond across the city. Thankfully, he only briefly spots J.J. as he's walking across the lobby, and J.J. is too wrapped up in his phone call to do much of anything but wave at Shane– he returns the gesture just as he steps outside and spots the car he ordered pulling up in front.

The ride itself is uneventful. The car is nice– clean and smells a little citrusy– and the music is some soft jazz that is calming and fills the silence.

When the car stops outside of Ilya’s house, Shane thanks Marnie and promptly rates and tips her as soon as he is out of the car. He slings his bag over his shoulder and makes his way to the door. He desperately wants to take a shower and wash the smell of airplane off of his skin before Ilya returns from practice.

Shane: Heading inside, gonna take a shower.

There isn't an immediate response, which Shane expects, but his phone buzzes in his hand just as he steps through the threshold. He closes and locks the door behind him before looking down at the phone, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

Lily: Is not fair that you are naked at my house and I am so far away 😔
Shane: I'm sure I will also be naked once you get home 😉

Inside is mostly the same as the last time Shane visited, not that he spends much time looking around. He heads directly to Ilya’s bedroom, drops his bag beside the bed, and makes his way to the bathroom. He starts the shower before removing his clothes, carefully folding and setting them down on the counter as he goes.

The water in the shower feels fantastic against his skin, loosening travel tired muscles as it pours over his shoulders and down the curves and divots of his muscles. Shane takes his time in lathering his body with Ilya's body wash, a strange ache blossoming in his chest as he is surrounded in Ilya’s scent but not his body. The hands touching his skin weren't the large ones that he craves.

With a heavy sigh, Shane turns the water off and dries himself with one of Ilya's large, fluffy towels. He wraps it low around his waist and shuffles off into the bedroom, poking around in Ilya’s dresser. Shane, of course, brought clothes of his own, but he wasn't going to pass up the chance to wear some of Ilya’s lounge clothes. He slips a pair of joggers on, as well as a worn NHL shirt that feels so nice against his skin. Both are a little big on him, the joggers hanging low and the neck of the shirt pulling wide. Shane is aware that he isn't a particularly small man– He's nearly six feet tall and a professional athlete– but sometimes being reminded that Ilya is just a bit bigger than him sends a thrill up his spine.

By the time he's dressed, Shane's ears pick up on the front door unlocking and his feet are moving before he can even process it.

“Ilyusha,” Shane coos at the sight of his boyfriend.

Ilya positively beams back at him as the door shuts and Shane is across the floor in seconds, wrapping his arms around him in a way not totally dissimilar from an octopus. His face presses into Ilya's chest and his hands slip easily beneath the back of Ilya’s shirt. If he could, Shane would worm his way into Ilya's skin.

Ilya's… very warm skin.

Lifting his head from Ilya's chest, Shane peers up at Ilya with slightly narrowed eyes. He looks tired, and not just because he's come from practice. His eyes are dull and there is a faint flush to his cheeks that despite wishing it were from him, Shane is sure it isn't.

“Do you feel okay?” Shane asks softly, pulling a hand from Ilya's shirt to gently lay the backs of his fingers against his forehead.

Ilya huffs, leaning his head back, “I am fine. I am excited to see you.”

He tries to distract Shane with his lips pressing against his neck, but Shane lays a gentle hand to the center of Ilya’s chest. “Are you sick, Ilyusha?” he asks, left hand sliding up and down the length of Ilya’s back.

“I do not want to be sick. My boyfriend is here. We have game tomorrow and whole weekend together,” Ilya mumbles, dropping his head onto Shane's shoulder. At the close proximity, Shane can hear the slight sniffle and rasp of breath coming from Ilya.

Shane wraps his arms around Ilya, holding him close. “Well, then you should get in bed and rest so you feel better for our game and our weekend together,” he says patiently, pressing a kiss to the top of Ilya's shoulder. Ilya doesn't move or say anything, which just makes Shane chuckle softly as he squeezes him tighter. “I can order some medicine and make you something to eat.”

Ilya exhales loudly, his breath hot and moist against Shane's neck who pointedly does not say anything about it.

“Fine,” he huffs petulantly before standing upright, “I will go lay down.”

Shane smiles and reaches up to push his fingers through Ilya’s curls, “And I didn't even tell you that you look like shit.”

“Yes, yes. Shane Hollander – perfect hockey player and perfect boyfriend,” Ilya grumbles, his voice trailing off as he shuffles toward his bedroom.

“Your words, not mine,” Shane calls after him.

Ilya flips him off over his shoulder.

Once Ilya is out of sight, Shane makes his way toward the kitchen. He pulls out his phone, pulling up the Instacart app, and begins to formulate some sort of plan. He looks through the contents of Ilya’s fridge with a curious expression. There's more in there than the last time Shane visited, and certainly more diet approved foods too. Shane smiles to himself and looks down to his phone, he leans back against the counter and googles the soup that Ilya had made for him.

It takes a few times.

Shee? Shi? Shchi?

He finally finds a recipe that seems to be what he's looking for. It's simple enough. He looks through Ilya's kitchen, adding whatever isn't there to the instacart order as well as some cold medicine. Once the order is sent, Shane begins pulling ingredients from the fridge and pantry. He works slowly, following each step of the direction to the letter. He absolutely does not want to mess this up.

As the soup is simmering, the doorbell rings and Shane has a brief moment of panic. Shane Hollander can't just open Ilya Rozanov's front door. Even if the delivery person had no idea whose house this was, whose to say that they don't recognize him and post something that leads somewhere. And, oh, Shane's heart stutter-steps inside his chest. He spots a Boston Raiders hoodie draped on one of the stools at the counter. He promptly pulls it on, pulling the hood up over his head and rushes to the door.

He tries to settle his breathing and pulls open the door to reveal an older woman with dark black hair and tan skin. She smiles and Shane for a moment is reminded of his grandma. She holds out the grocery bags, which Shane happily takes and thanks her profusely. He heads back into the house, to the kitchen, and finishes making the soup before spooning them into bowls. He garnishes them with some sour cream and even toasts a bit of bread for Ilya to dip with.

Looping the bag with medicine in it around his wrist, Shane stuffs a water bottle into the pocket of the hoodie he is wearing and walks into Ilya’s bedroom, holding both bowls of soup.

Ilya is sitting up in bed, shirtless, and playing some mobile game much too loudly on his phone. Shane shakes his head with a laugh. “This doesn't look like relaxing to me,” he grins, setting the soup on the nightstand.

“Ah, but I have beautiful man waiting on me hands and feet. What is more relaxing?”

Shane scoffs and gently corrects, “Hand and foot.” He tosses the water bottle toward Ilya and pulls the medicine out from the bag, handing it over with a soft smile. “Take this and then you can have soup.”

Ilya takes the medicine with a grimace, but looks back at Shane with a single raised eyebrow. “What kind of soup?”

A warm blush spreads across the apples of Shane's cheeks. He reaches to the side table, and hands a bowl over to Ilya who sets his phone down on the bed to accept it. His eyes widen like dinner plates as he cradles the bowl close to his chest.

“Shchi? You made me shchi?” he asks, his tone incredulous and delighted.

Shane rolls his eyes, picking up his own bowl and settling against the headboard. “Good to keep warm in Russian winters. Keeps you strong,” he replies in a less than stellar Russian accent.

Ilya cackles until a barking cough interrupts him.

“You are very cute, Shanya. Thank you,” he murmurs once his coughing fit is through.

Shane leans over to press a kiss against Ilya’s shoulder, “Of course. Now eat and rest so I don't feel bad about kicking your ass tomorrow."

Ilya shakes his head but returns to his bowl of soup, making the cutest little noises with each bite. Shane couldn't be any more smitten with him if he tried. When they're both done, Shane takes the bowls and returns to the kitchen. He cleans up his mess from cooking, leaving the kitchen looking better than he found it if he were being honest.

He finds a container to stow the rest of the soup in and grins to himself as he finds a label to stick to the side.

Shane’s soup for Shane's Ilya.

He tucks the container away in the fridge and makes his way back to the bedroom. Ilya is, thankfully, under the covers this time. His eyes are heavy but that doesn't stop the slight shiver from running through Shane as he closes the bedroom door. He removes the joggers he borrowed and makes a move to pull off the hoodie but Ilya makes an inelegant sound of protest from his blanket burrito.

“Ah! No. Keep on,” he mumbles, smirking lewdly.

Shane gives him a half-hearted glare but keeps it on, padding across the room to slip into bed beside Ilya, who lifts the edge of his blanket to allow Shane the space to slide closer. Their bodies meld together easily, like puzzle pieces seamlessly clicking into place. Shane kisses the top of Ilya's curls, gently scratching at his scalp.

“Thank you,” Ilya mumbles in a sleep heavy voice. “For taking care of me.”

Shane smiles softly to himself and kisses the crown of Ilya’s head once more,”Of course. Ya lyublyu tyebya.”

Ilya scoffs against Shane's chest. “Oh look at me Mr. I-Am-So-Smart-I-Can-Speak-Three-Languages,” he playfully mocks. Shane huffs, pinching Ilya’s side, making him yelp but press closer against Shane. He sighs and lifts his head just enough to press a gentle kiss to the underside of Shane's jaw.

“Tozhe, ya tozhe tyebya lyublyu.”

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading and for any kudos, bookmarks, and comments. I really appreciate them all.