Fever VS Fervor
Series: H/eated R/ivalry
Characters: I/lya R/osanov, S/hane H/ollander
Blurb: Ilya is under the weather and Shane is acutely aware of his inner forecast. Plot is spoiler-free!
Length: 3.6k words
TW: Cursing
**Please do not share to non-kink snz blogs and minors DNI! Feedback and formatting tips are always welcome <3**
“aa’HZSHH-!!”
When Ilya catches Shane staring at him out of the corner of his eyes, he inadvertently stiffens his lip and flashes a frown in his direction.
“It was a sneeze, Hollander.”
It was several, actually, Shane thinks but doesn’t say. Two when he’d entered the apartment, and four while he showered. But hey, who was counting?
Oh right. He was.
Shane sits up straighter on the couch, watching as Ilya enters the room, freshly cleaned and slightly damp following his shower. Ilya had only just returned from practice an hour ago (having gone against Shane’s wishes), and despite the obvious head cold he was battling, he’d managed to catch a ride to Shane’s, dodge his chastising, abandon his gear, shower, and change into his lounge-wear in record time.
All that was left to do was flop onto the couch, which he does with a resounding grunt and effort that has Shane nearly dropping the book in his hands. Removing his glasses, Shane gingerly places both his novel and spectacles on the coffee table beside him. Now that Ilya was here, he was the immediate center of his attention.
The minor migration from the bathroom to the couch must’ve been enough to stir something in Ilya’s sinuses, because the second his face hits the cushion he’s refurfacing with a hastened gasp. Shane can literally count down to the sneeze in his head.
One…two…three-
“aA’ZSCHH’hu!…hhy’ZZCHH-!! Fuck!”
“Bless you,” Shane chirps, adding: “again.”
“Is that all you can say now?” Ilya asks moodily.
“If all you do is sneeze, then yeah, I guess so,” Shane replies.
Ilya had been irritable all day, and it looked like this evening would be no different. Before he’d left for practice, he and Shane had gotten into an argument over whether it was really necessary he attend or not. Maybe “argument” was too strong a word, but chalking it up to a minor disagreement felt equally disingenuous.
Ilya had been stubborn as all Hell about going. On any other day Shane might’ve applauded his commitment to the sport. After all, of everyone either of them knew, it was Shane who understood just how vital it was for a captain to be present for his team. Today was different though. Shane knew Ilya wouldn't listen to reason when it came to his health, so he’d tried to convince him that if he went to practice and exacerbated his cold (or God forbid infect his whole team), his attendance would only work against him. Normally Ilya would listen to logic like that, but Shane was pretty sure he’d ignored the facts purely so he could get out of the house. Ilya didn't like to sit still for too long, and getting him to rest at all was like pulling teeth.
Deep down, Shane wasn’t angry or disappointed Ilya had gone; he was only frustrated over his flippant disregard for his own health. That, and parts of him worried that his persistent attempts at nursing Ilya had inadvertently chased him further away. He didn’t think that was the case, but the possibility bothered him. He couldn’t help it when the thought clung to him like an itch…and speaking of itch...
“hHH’ZZSHH’hu!”
Shane startles free of his own thoughts.
“Bless you,” he repeats more patiently this time. With a deliberate softness, he reaches for Ilya and pets the tops of his hair. It was his way of extending an olive branch after their earlier argument. “How was practice?”
“Fine,” Ilya grumbles. He sniffles and rubs his nose on the couch. “Fucking cold.”
“Is it getting worse?” Shane asks.
“What?”
“Your cold? Do you think it’s getting worse?”
Ilya tilts his head, squinting slightly.
“…I meant the rink, Hollander,” Ilya corrects. “The rink was cold.”
“…Oh.”
Ilya stares at his boyfriend, shaking his head while he murmurs something under his breath. He sighs, chest deflating as he sinks deeper into the cushions.
“I’m not dying, you know,” he murmurs. “You act like you’ve never heard me sneeze before.”
“Okay, but you don’t normally sneeze like that.”
Ilya immediately peeks at Shane, looking at him sideways in a way that has him feeling unusually nervous. It was like Ilya had suddenly flipped the script and Shane was now the one being studied.
“Oh? How do I usually sneeze then?” he asks.
Of all the ways he could’ve responded, Shane never would have guessed it’d be like that.
“W-Well,” Shane licks his lips, “it depends. Out on the ice, you tuck it because of the gloves. You know, sneezing into your jersey or your collar or whatever. But out in public or during your interviews, you pinch it; usually in twos. Not like when you’re alone with me.”
“Huh,” Ilya breathes, glancing Shane up and down, “and how long have you noticed this?”
“A while,” Shane admits. “Like…I don’t know; since rookie season?”
“Oh, so you were spying on me,” Ilya teases, his tone dry but gaze mischievous. “You are obsessed.”
“Fuck off,” Shane says, embarrassed but pleased to be reinstated as the subject of Ilya’s coy banter (as opposed to a reminder of his poor condition).
“You should be paparazzi,” Ilya proposes.
“And do what? Follow you around, take your picture? I do enough of that already,” Shane smirks. “Besides, you’re only saying that because you like being the center of attention.”
“Ah-ah — I like being the center of your attention,” Ilya amends. “Very important distinction. It’s where I belong; between the ice-“
Ilya inches closer via an army crawl and nudges his forehead against Shane’s thigh.
“-and you.”
Shane smiles and clicks his tongue. “Can’t argue that,” he concedes.
“Good, because I am sick of arguing with you,” Ilya sighs. “And I am actually sick.”
His confession catches Shane by surprise. “So you are sick?”
Ilya glances at Shane.
“Yes,” he answers, "aren't you the one who’s been saying it all day?”
“I guess, or I mean…” Shane swallows as he reorganizes his thoughts. He was used to Ilya speaking candidly, but not always with such honesty. He’d anticipated having to coax admission out of him, but once again, Ilya has usurped his expectations.
“I thought it was possible,” Shane says, finally. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” Why didn’t you just tell me, he thinks.
Ilya shrugs with a sniff. “It’s not important.”
He says it like it’s simple, but to Shane it's anything but. It was Ilya’s reasoning that bothered him. He may not understand Russian, but after ten years, he could speak Ilya with near fluency; so he knew deep down that “it’s not important” secretly (and heartbreakingly) translated to “I’m not important”…and that hurt him almost as much as he knew it hurt Ilya.
Shane clenches his jaw and stiffens his shoulders, his body bracing against the thought as a tough, painful feeling swirls around his chest.
“It’s important to me,” Shane responds; his tone is stern and serious, but lacks defensiveness. “How long do you think you've been sick?”
“A few days,” Ilya estimates, suddenly giving Shane an odd look. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” Ilya clarifies. “You seem bothered…am I bothering you?”
“What?” Shane asks, almost sounding offended by the suggestion. “No, you don’t ever bother me.”
“Then what is wrong?”
“Nothing, I-…-I just want to make sure you’re okay is all,” Shane says, swallowing again. “Are you? I mean, do you feel okay?”
Shane thought what he’d been asking was obvious, but then it occurs to him that Ilya wasn’t always used to being asked questions about himself; at least not outside his performance as an athlete (or who he was sleeping with). Asking Ilya about his health was always a tricky gamble. On one hand, it made Shane insecure. Ilya did always say he asked too many questions, and Shane could imagine why the questions he asked may feel more interrogative than intended — especially to someone so unfamiliar with being asked at all. Up until they’d met (and even years thereafter), Ilya had been reluctant to discuss any subject breaching the surface, so Shane was acutely aware this sort of attention was foreign to his boyfriend under most circumstances. He didn’t want to dismiss the progress they’d made by being too pushy.
Still, he also couldn't just ignore that something was wrong — not when it was sniffling in his face.
Thus, Shane shifts his weight on the couch and faces Ilya directly, lacing their fingers together and curling both their hands in his lap. Up close, and connected, he senses and sees a sort of hyper-vigilance shadowing Ilya’s features; an unease that he wasn’t comfortable expressing. Catching this, Shane instinctively hovers his thumb against Ilya’s knuckles, touch light and fleeting in hopes that in some way he can comfort him — remind him he’s not judging, only curious. Only caring.
Together they share the silence. Shane didn't need to repeat himself. He knew Ilya had heard him and was processing the question. The least he could do was be patient enough to await an answer.
Shane raises his other hand to cup Ilya’s cheek, which burns and flushes with fever. He tenderly brushes a stray curl out of Ilya’s icy blue eyes, then plants a kiss to where the lock lands, curtaining his face.
“You look so tired,” Shane murmurs, his touch reluctant to retreat from Ilya’s space as he moves on to stroking his beauty mark.
Ilya swallows, sniffling and allowing his eyes to fall shut while he leans into Shane’s touch. He pecks his palm, breath warm against the flesh.
“I am exhausted,” he whispers. “I feel disgusting."
“You’re not disgusting — you could never be,” Shane hums back dotingly. “You’re just sick and it’s been a long day.”
“Too long,” Ilya complains.
“I agree,” Shane nods. The heat emanating off Ilya’s skin is distracting, almost dizzying this close up. “You’re burning up, you know.”
“No, you are just cold,” Ilya disagrees, his speech half-muffled as he nuzzles into Shane’s palm and itches his nose. “It’s the Canada in your blood — icy.”
Shane smirks. “If either of us is cold blooded, shouldn’t it be you? You’re the one who’s survived Russian winters.”
“Barely,” Ilya murmurs, shaking his head. “And who told you I was Russian? That does not sound like me,” he jests.
“Right; except that is exactly how you sound,” Shane smiles back charmingly. He reluctantly pulls back his hand, earning him a pout and a whimper. “Shhh,” Shane consoles, locking on to Ilya’s needy gaze, “I’m not going anywhere.”
To satiate his partner, Shane extends his arms, spreading wide then beckoning for Ilya to fall into his chest. “Come here.”
He loves the way Ilya smiles at him; his features relaxing into a soft, fond look while he gladly takes up Shane’s offer. Together the two fall into place like dominos, with Shane tentatively grasping Ilya’s shoulders and reclining him back into his lap, and Ilya trusting Shane’s touch to guide him. He really wasn’t kidding about being exhausted, Shane thinks. On any other day, Ilya would put up some sort of playful resistance, begging for Shane to make him surrender while probably making some cheeky remark, calling him captain or accusing him of being unnecessarily handsy…but tonight, he wordlessly obliges his invite to shamelessly snuggle in his lap and unite in his warmth. Head against Shane’s thigh, Ilya turns on his side, stretches and yawns, his whole body releasing a tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.
“Mmm,” Ilya hums.
“What?”
“It’s nice.”
“My lap?” Shane asks. Ilya nods.
“Yes. Your thighs. They make good pillows,” he says, reaching overhead to grope and massage the flesh. “I am so used to gripping them while you ride me that I-“
“Woooow,” Shane interrupts. He scoffs despite feeling flustered, “okay.”
“What? Is a compliment,” Ilya drawls, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
“You’re such a flatterer,” Shane teases, “do perverts like yourself really not take sick days?”
Ilya hesitates, shifting his weight again so he’s on his back. He blinks up at Shane as the latter pets through his hair and wordlessly admires the hidden shades of seafoam drifting in Ilya’s eyes. Slowly, Ilya reaches up, pinching Shane’s chin and admiring him from his current angle. In his mind, he connects his freckles like constellations.
“No,” Ilya says, “and neither do boyfriends.”
Shane can't resist the smile that creeps up on him, and best of all, he doesn’t want to. He leans forward, attempting to kiss Ilya, but his partner catches him, netting his lips into the cusp of his hand.
“You will get sick,” Ilya chides, shaking his head. Shane kisses his palm, reciprocating his favor from earlier.
“I don’t mind,” Shane says.
“Yes, but I do,” Ilya confesses. “And I am not nice like you — you are whiny enough healthy; I won’t take care of you if you are sickly,” he adds, kneading at his nose with his other hand.
Shane grins, knitting kisses along Ilya’s palm lines. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he insists.
Ilya raises an eyebrow. “And how would you know this?”
Shane lands one last kiss before retreating back so he’s sitting upright again. “I’m going to sound weird if I say.”
“Weirder than when you talk about me sneezing?”
“Fuck you,” Shane scoffs, though his words are far from unkind. While he fights his creeping embarrassment, Ilya nods at him again, urging him to continue. It’s enough encouragement for Shane to brave a deep breath.
“Okay, so this might sound crazy because it is,” he starts, “but I’ve noticed you have a tell.”
“A tell?” Ilya repeats. He blinks, looking as confused as he sounds. “What is…?”
“It’s like a quirk o-or a signal that tells you something about someone. Usually it’s a trait or habit others would consider inconspicuous, but…it’s one that I notice because,” he pauses, swallows, “because I like you; and I notice you, obviously.”
“I think you do more than notice me, obviously,” Ilya says, lips twitching into a smirk as he shifts positions again. He likes the way Shane rolls his eyes at him. “Okay, okay,” he relents, “speak.”
“Right,” Shane exhales, feeling sweat springing to his palms, “so when you lie-“
“I never do this.”
“When you lie,” Shane restarts, chuckling, “you always touch your nose. Like you do this-,” Shane removes his right hand, then demonstrates by alternating between pinching and scrubbing at his own nose, “-that sort of thing,” he sniffs.
Ilya says nothing at first. Instead, he stares at Shane, lips slightly parted around questions he doesn’t ask, and eyebrows knit together in curiosity.
“I honestly thought maybe you just had allergies or something at first,” Shane continues, “but then I realized you do it whenever you lie about something.”
The silence from Ilya sustains, serving only to make Shane feel smaller and more insecure where he sits. Finally — after what feels like years — Ilya clicks his tongue.
“What?” Shane asks.
“Nothing that is just…” Ilya trails off, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, “learning these things; it makes me realize you are…what is the word…? Ah-! Yes!”
Ilya blinks again, snapping his fingers and settling his sights back on Shane.
“Neurotic,” he cheeses. “And a pervert for my nose.”
“Oh fuck off,” Shane laughs.
“Is the right word, yes?” he chuckles back. “Because Hollander, who the fuck notices a thing like that??”
“I do, asshole!”
“Yes, but why??”
“Because-!” Shane leans his head back, no longer laughing, but still left smiling. “See this is why I didn’t want to tell you; you think it’s weird — that I’m weird!”
“I already thought this-“
“Fuuuuck you.”
“-but that’s okay,” Ilya giggles. “You know why?”
“…Why?”
Ilya toys with Shane’s ear, his thumb grazing along its edge as it turns pink. He bites his lower lip, fighting the urge to spring up, suckle it and kiss Shane all over.
“Because I enjoy weird,” Ilya murmurs, breath as hot as his attitude.
“Whatever,” Shane blushes while swatting Ilya’s hand away. Any more fondling and he was going to squirm. “You’re the one who asked, you know,” he reminds him.
“I know, I wish I hadn’t,” Ilya chuckles, absentmindedly rubbing at his nose. He catches himself mid-act, both he and Shane immediately sharing exaggerated glances. “See??” Ilya exclaims, shaking his hands like they’re cursed, “now I will think of this forever…of you forever!”
“Oh what a terrible fate~!” Shane cries. Ilya reaches up his hands, breaking Shane into a fit of faux sputtering and genuine giggles as he pretends to choke him. “I’m innocent, I swear!” Shane howls.
“That is just what everyone thinks! They don’t know you like I do, Shane Hollander,” Ilya mocks, “and you are far from innocent!”
Shane throws his head back and begs for his freedom between saccharine laughs. That laughter is like music to Ilya’s ears, and the sight of Shane’s perfect smile is a feast for his eyes; the way his lashes bat so prettily against rosy cheeks, his teeth sparkle behind those lips he loves to greet, and how his freckles dance and wiggle, just as expressive as the rest of him. The sight of his happiness was an antidote to Ilya’s aches, even if just for a moment.
“Mercy! Mercy!” Shane pleads.
Eventually, Ilya releases his lover, both hands raised in generous surrender. Shane struggles to catch his breath, his laughter dying down as he blinks slowly back at Ilya.
“You are too attentive for your own good,” Ilya says, voice low and husky, but nonetheless bemused and bewildered by Shane’s bizarre interest in him. He reaches forth and fixes Shane’s bangs, pushing them out of his eyes. “And you are crazy, you know that?”
“What, about you?” Shane asks, sounding sleepy following his smothering.
“Mmm yes about me,” Ilya confirms, “and in general. But I will add myself to the list.”
“The list?”
Ilya nods. “Of all the things that make you crazy.”
“Oh yeah? And what else do you think is on that list?” Shane asks, entertaining Ilya’s banter and watching him dreamily while he curls his golden hair around his finger.
“Mmm…hockey, ugly cars, birds, real estate, and your boring, tasteless ginger ale.”
“It’s not tasteless,” Shane giggles, infectiously smitten by Ilya’s deceptively lazy wit and proud, precious grin. “You’re just saying that because you’re used to drinking vodka. Besides, I could’ve sworn you said you were starting to like it.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean it’s tasteful.”
“Then why do you drink it?”
“Because it is always around. That, and it tastes like you,” he smirks, “reminds me of your mouth.”
Shane can't decide whether he’s flattered or embarrassed or confused, but his expression must reflect a mix of all three because Ilya pokes his cheek and laughs.
“You’re blushing,” Ilya points out.
“Maybe,” Shane grins. “You say crazy things.”
“Sounds like someone else I know.”
“Right,” Shane rolls his eyes, “so you admit you’re also crazy?”
“Am I?” Ilya snickers. “How so?”
“I don’t know…because you like me?” Shane asks, his tone shrinking slightly. “Because you tolerate the things I notice and say, even if they’re somehow boring and crazy and weird all at the same time?”
Tolerate? How could someone so smart be so dense? Ilya thinks. He relished everything Shane noticed and said, even — no…especially when Ilya himself lacked the words to express as much.
Ilya mulls over his boyfriend’s inquiry. His mind searches for a remedy to his speechlessness, all the while his gaze remains restless; busy absorbing all the small details of Shane’s face. He memorizes the moonlit whites of his eyes to the freckles painting the bridge of his nose and smattering his cheeks like pixie dust. He fancies the cute curve of his lips, so plush and pink, and how they team up with his smile to light up the rest of his face. Shane wasn’t just beautiful…he was breathtaking, and Ilya felt lucky to bask in his glow.
But it was what lay past that perfect face that he was really attracted to. Shane’s kindness, his curiosity, and his vulnerability to ask questions Ilya could never pose, let alone answer without him. He was cautious, but he was also ridiculously brave, and that only made him shine brighter from Ilya’s perspective. For so long Ilya had only known a void of emptiness, and now he spent every day feeling blinded; eternally grateful to orbit a whole new world side by side with the light of his life — the sun newly adorning what had once been a relentlessly dark, cold, and isolated existence.
Words could never suffice nor do justice to the overwhelming feelings he had for Shane. They just bubbled up so naturally, as natural as breathing, as natural as-…!
Crying?
“Ilya…? Hey,” Shane coos as he swipes tears that have sprung from the corners of Ilya’s eyes. His expression mirrors the concern in his voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Ilya shakes his head, sniffles. Being so tired must’ve been making him emotional, but even while exhausted, he knew he could never tire of Shane’s company. It was simply impossible, even if he didn’t quite know how to say it. “I love your boring, your crazy, and your weird,” he says finally.
He blinks hard at Shane, freeing indecisive tears.
“You are too nice to me,” he whispers.
Shane swallows, taking both Ilya’s cheeks in his hands and holding him with reverence.
“I like being too nice to you,” Shane reassures, tilting Ilya’s head back and planting a kiss to his forehead. “You just hate hearing that.”
Ilya bites the inside of his cheek, then shakes his head, exhaling shakily and cupping his hands over Shane’s.
“Not when it’s from you.”
Shane’s chest melts. He smiles, then tilts his head, connecting both their noses in a silent gesture he hopes speaks to his endless adoration.
“Please let me kiss you,” he whispers.
“We shouldn’t,” Ilya whines, though it’s so obvious he wants to. “It’s not healthy; it’s to protect you.”
“But it’s torture,” Shane half-whimpers.
“Torture?” Ilya says, mirroring Shane’s smile back at him. “Is that what this is to you?”
The two share romantic stares until Shane breaks first, his smile irresistibly dreamy as the two lock hands.
“No,” he whispers. “Everything but.”
And that’s all it takes for Ilya to cave into a kiss. Lips colliding, he swears he’s seeing stars behind lidded eyes; a thousand little cosmos igniting in his chest and exploding into a dazzling fervor.
Fever be damned. His fervor won this round.
