ok I’m so sorry if this is a lot BUT!! For fic requests, maybe something placed in that spot where they’re not yet a couple but only barely, kind of around the all stars in Florida when Shane stopped seeing Rose but before the cottage. Where their relationship is finally being seen as more serious by the both of them but they’re still trying to find their footing.
They haven’t seen one another sick yet, and Ilya is still a tad uncomfortable with being tender and soft with Shane, but when Ilya shows up to Shane’s place as planned the day before a game he finds Shane just so sick. Shane basically stumbles to the door, hair and clothes a mess, voice congested and raspy, nose red and snuffling, squinting confused at ilya - he had been so busy sleeping and being miserable he had gotten his days confused (and was hoping he wouldn’t be sick by the time they planned to meet so he had put off cancelling plans).
Shane is just so embarrassed to be seen like this by ilya, but Ilya is adamant about coming in and taking care of Shane. Shane fights against the mortification of being seen drippy and sick and gross, the way how bad he feels is making him overly emotional and sensitive and needy, and how much he doesn’t want to be any of those things. Ilya fights against the rising tide of protectiveness he feels, the soft warm squirmy feelings he doesn’t really want to address yet, the sweet soft way Shane keeps looking at him, and he really really tries hard not to let an I love you slip
Hi Blake <333 Thank you so much for this request! It's not a lot at all, I love all the sweet little details so so much! Hope you enjoy :)
Hockey fans, the "Mike" is definitely Mike Milbury LMAO
An (Un)healthy Scratch (H/eated R/ivalry, Shane)
Ilya first saw the news while scrolling through Twitter in his Montreal hotel room.
Pierre Beaulieu @ hockeytalkie:
Shane Hollander (illness) is out for next two games against NYA and BOS, per reports #MTLMetros
Illness? Ilya frowned. He picked up the remote and turned on CBC Sports. Some boring suit-and-tie analysts Ilya didn’t care to learn the names of were yammering around a long table, their chairs spaced comically far away from each other.
“The Metros camp has confirmed that Shane Hollander won’t be playing in this weekend’s back-to-back set of games due to illness. Surprising news, since he hasn’t missed more than one game at a time in his entire career so far. Mike, how do you think Montreal can compensate for losing their captain as they near the playoffs?”
“Montreal had better hope that Hollander gets well soon. They need all the scoring power they can get if they want to make it to a top three playoff spot in the Eastern Conference. Frankly, as good as they are, they can’t do that without him.”
Fucking assholes, Ilya thought. Can’t give him a goddamn second to breathe. He had to shut the TV off before he threw the remote at the screen.
He let out a long breath and texted Shane:
After a few minutes of waiting, Ilya felt unusually antsy. He and Shane had planned a few days ago to meet at Shane’s apartment tonight - since the All-Star Weekend, they’d been texting nearly every day - and Ilya wasn’t sure he should show up if Shane wasn’t answering. What kind of illness could he have? It would have to be something pretty bad for him to be out for two games straight. Ilya tried to resist the urge that had been clawing at his heart since he first saw the news report - to go to Shane and offer him care. To soothe him from whatever was making him feel unwell. To kiss and cuddle and comfort him.
Fuck. Ridiculous. What a stupid, terrible idea.
Still…he wanted to make sure that Shane was okay, at the very least. Maybe he was even okay enough to sleep with. Sexually, of course. Not sleep with sleep with.
Sighing, Ilya grabbed his jacket and left the room before he could convince himself not to.
The cab dropped Ilya off in front of Shane’s building, and he zipped up his jacket against the chilly air. Before he knocked, he checked his reflection as best he could through his phone screen and ran a hand through his windswept curls in an attempt to tame them. He closed his eyes. What the fuck was he doing? He didn’t even know if Shane was home. But where else would he be? Not at the arena tonight, he knew for sure. Definitely not, as he would have assumed a few weeks ago, with Rose Landry. An unpleasant feeling that felt suspiciously like jealousy surged through him.
After a few moments, the door opened a crack. “…Ilya?” came a small, hoarse voice.
Shane opened the door fully, and Ilya felt his face fall. The man looked awful. His skin was white as bone - hell, even his freckles looked pale - save for the deep flush in his cheeks and his fiery-red nose. He was wearing an oversized sweatshirt with the hood covering most of his messy dark hair, flannel pajama pants, and two different colored socks. His face was creased with sleep marks, and, though Ilya would never tell him, a small spot of drool dotted the corner of his mouth. He’d clearly been woken by Ilya’s knocking, and a pang of guilt went through Ilya as Shane sleepily rubbed his eye with a fist.
“Oh,” Ilya heard himself say.
Shane stared at him for a moment, mouth open, then he put his head in his hands. “Oh fuck. It’s today. I forgot to text you…Look, you need to go. You can’t be here.” His eyes were wide, panicked, like a spooked horse that needed calming. He moved to close the door, but Ilya grabbed it and held it open.
Shane was not making eye contact. “I, uh…I’m really sick.”
“And it’s…gross,” he said, a hand tugging nervously at his long shirtsleeve. A rosy pink flush was creeping up his face to his ears. It was adorable.
You are so beautiful, Ilya wanted to say, then squashed the thought down into a little ball and threw it away in the trash can of his mind. “Not gross,” he said instead. “Not you.” Before Shane could respond, Ilya put a hand on his shoulder and ushered him gently back into the apartment. He guided Shane back around to face him. He looked even more unwell up close. The light in his eyes was dull, defeated. Dark circles hung beneath them. And his nose…a deep red against his wan skin, his nostrils and septum looking particularly irritated and scrubbed half to death by what Ilya assumed was frequent tissue usage. Ilya brushed his fingers against Shane’s cheek. “How long have you been feeling not well?”
Shane shrugged. “Coach sent me home during practice yesterday,” he said, eyes casting downward, his face turning a deeper red than before. He looked so…ashamed. Like he had done something much more unforgivable than catch a cold (flu?). Something twisted in Ilya’s stomach.
Not long ago in Florida, Shane had held Ilya in his arms and rocked him back and forth as he cried. Ilya wanted to do the same now. He settled for enveloping him in a hug. Shane lowered his head on Ilya’s shoulder.
“…Don’t wanna get you sick…” he mumbled.
Ilya kissed the top of his head. “Do not worry about that.” Shane tightened his grip against Ilya’s waist. They broke apart, and Shane muffled a little cough into his arm. “Sit,” Ilya said, gesturing to the couch. Shane complied, looking small and rumpled in his pajamas. “Have you taken any medicine?”
“This morning,” Shane said. His voice was an absolute wreck. “Ilya, please, it’s okay, you can leave...” He started to cough again, deep, congested barks that must have been killing his throat. Ilya sat next to him and put a hand on his heaving back. He started murmuring sweet nothings in Russian as Shane took in a deep gasping breath and turned his back to him.
“hih…! htschhh! HDTsch’uhh! hyy’ITZCHyew! -TZCHHiew! -coughcoughcough-…”
Oh. Ilya had heard Shane sneeze a few times before, soft little things that he found adorable and sweet, but these were harsher, wetter, a little louder. Not like the ones he tried his best to hold in and hide. “Bud’ zdorov.”
“Thags…” Shane had a hand over his nose, his face scarlet. “Uhb. I’ll be right back.” He scurried away to the bathroom and shut the door. Ilya heard the sound of him blowing his nose, more coughing, and the sink being turned on and off. Ilya took the time to grab a box of tissues from Shane’s bedroom - the air was stale, and the trash bin was overflowing with tissues - and started going through the kitchen cabinets. Shane stood a distance away from him, looking hesitant to move closer. “What’re you doing?”
“Uh…no.” Shane put his arms around himself. He looked like he was freezing. Ilya went to the thermostat and turned up the temperature a few degrees.
“Hollander. You need to eat something warm. Will help your nose and throat.” Ilya went back to scrutinizing the pantry and fridge. “Do you keep any normal food in your apartment?”
Shane quirked an eyebrow. “What’s ‘normal’ food?”
“Is what I said. What normal people eat.” Ilya squinted at the label on a box. “What is…'qwee-noh?'”
“Quinoa,” Shane corrected. “It’s a seed, I like to eat it with fish—”
“Mhm. I am going to order you takeout. Soup,” he said when Shane opened his mouth to protest. “From Chinese restaurant the other week.”
Ilya thought of that day fondly. It had been shortly after their reconciliation at the All-Star Game, just a few weeks ago. After an especially long session of what Ilya tried not to think of as lovemaking, Shane had been unusually indulgent and ordered them egg flower soup and fried rice from one of his favorite restaurants. They’d eaten on the couch, watching highlights from the game they had played against each other hours before, Ilya trying - and failing - not to stare as Shane sat next to him in only a Metros sweatshirt and boxer shorts. Something Ilya said had made Shane throw back his head in laughter, and before they both knew it Ilya was kissing his neck, and they were right back in bed where they had started the night…
Ilya was broken from the thought when Shane started to gasp again. He turned around to see him duck into his cupped hands, covered by his sweater paws. “hh’tschhhiew! hhih…ihh! hyishh’uu! hadt’choo! hadt’CHIEW!…nghhh…” He grabbed a few tissues and held them to his poor red nose.
“Bud’ zdorov,” Ilya said. He had more important things to do than reminisce right now. Or think about how happy that memory made him. Or give in to the instinct he had to protect this man from his hurting. He’d felt that way towards Shane for a long, long time, actually. Stop it, Rozanov. Ilya took a menu out of one of the infuriatingly neat drawers in Shane’s kitchen and called for delivery.
The two ate quietly at the table, a blanket wrapped around Shane’s shoulders.
“It’s great. Thank you.” Shane looked up from his meal, a warmth shining through his glassy eyes. He smiled shyly, and Ilya felt warmth shoot through him too.
“You are welcome.” Ilya concentrated on adding more wonton strips to his own bowl to resist leaning over the table and kissing him. He knew Shane would freak the fuck out if he did that, and he wanted to keep him comfortable, especially since he was clearly feverish. He settled for placing his hand over the other man’s. “You’re so cold,” Ilya said with surprise.
Shane took his hand away. “Sorry.”
“Hollander. Good Canadian boy. Stop apologizing. Eat more soup.”
Shane nodded without a retort, finishing his soup like Ilya asked. He just wants to please. Ilya ignored the unwelcome(?) thought. Once they were done, Ilya took Shane’s hand - it was much warmer than before, slava bogu - and led him into bed. The navy comforter was soft, familiar. Peaceful. Shane. They lay under the covers and Shane looked at him from beneath his lashes. Those gorgeous brown doe eyes…they looked heavy with exhaustion, and a little wet.
“Tired?” Ilya ran a hand over his silky dark hair.
“Kinda.” Shane turned away again, nose buried in his elbow, and for a few moments Ilya thought his need to sneeze had gone away. Then he pitched forward. “haah…! ahh’choo! adt’chyew! ah! ah-CHOO!” Had Shane been feeling better, Ilya might have gently teased him for having the most textbook sneeze of all time. A literal “achoo.” How basic. How cute. But when Shane turned around, Ilya saw a tear slip down his face from the force of the sneezes.
“Bud’ zdorov.” Ilya reached for a tissue and dabbed the tears from Shane’s eyes as he sniffled.
“Mmh, thanks…don’t know why I feel so shitty…” he buried his face into Ilya’s shoulder, wrapping his arms tight around him.
“You have the flu,” Ilya reminded him. “And…” he put a palm to Shane’s clammy forehead. “…da. Still a fever.”
“Everything hurts,” Shane said softly. Judging by the embarrassment on his face, it must have taken serious effort to admit this to Ilya. (To anyone?)
Ilya ran his hands up and down Shane’s arms, his shoulders, his back. Shane hummed with pleasure. “Better…” His eyes closed and, shortly after, he started snoring quietly against Ilya’s shoulder.
Two thoughts ran concurrently through Ilya’s head:
Loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyou
He needed to leave for practice in a few hours. He also probably should wake Shane up and guide his head towards his pillow so he didn’t hurt his neck. But, for now…this. As Shane slept, Ilya stared up at the ceiling.
