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Shane opened his hotel room door looking like death, which was Ilya's first clue that something was wrong. His second clue was when Shane immediately grabbed Ilya's jacket and pulled him inside without a word.
"Hello is polite way to—" Ilya started, then stopped when Shane pressed his face directly into Ilya's chest and made a sound like a dying animal. "Are you okay?"
Shane shook his head against Ilya's jacket.
"You are sick?"
A nod this time.
"How sick?"
Shane lifted his head. His eyes were red and watery, his nose was pink, and he looked absolutely miserable. "I think I'm dying."
"You are not dying. Is just cold probably."
"Feels like dying." Shane's voice was completely wrecked - hoarse and congested and slightly whiny. "Everything hurts."
Ilya tried to step back and Shane's grip tightened on his jacket immediately. "You need to let go so I can take coat off."
"No."
"No?"
"You're warm." Shane pressed his face back against Ilya's chest. "Don't leave."
Ilya looked down at the top of Shane's head and tried to process this. Hollander was many things - competitive, intense, occasionally annoying on the ice. But clingy was new. Very new.
"I'm not leaving. Just taking off coat. Is hot in here."
"Everything's cold." Shane's words were muffled. "Except you. You're warm."
"That's called a fever. You have fever, makes you feel cold even though you're hot."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Is science. Now let go."
Shane's grip loosened fractionally. Ilya managed to shrug out of his coat with Shane still attached to him like a very tall, very pathetic barnacle.
The second the coat was off, Shane plastered himself back against Ilya's chest.
"You are very..." Ilya searched for the word. "...sticky? No. Clingy. You are very clingy."
"'m not clingy." Shane's arms wrapped around Ilya's waist. "Just cold."
"Uh huh." Ilya stood there, Shane draped over him, and wondered what he'd gotten himself into. "Have you take medicine?"
Shane shook his head.
"Food?"
Another shake.
"Water?"
"Had coffee this morning."
"Coffee is not water! Coffee makes you more..." Ilya gestured. "More dry inside. Dehydrated."
"Oh." Shane swayed slightly and Ilya had to grab him to keep them both upright. "That explains a lot."
"Okay. Couch. You need to sit before you fall."
"Don't wanna move."
"Shane. You are—" Ilya switched to Russian, gave up, switched back. "You are falling over right now."
"The room's spinning. Not my fault."
"Is your fault for not drinking water or taking medicine." Ilya started walking backward, Shane shuffling along with him. "Come on. Move."
They made it to the couch through what Ilya could only describe as a miracle. He tried to get Shane to sit down but Shane had other plans - namely pulling Ilya down with him and arranging them so Shane was sprawled across Ilya's lap.
"This is not what I mean."
"This is better." Shane's face found its way to Ilya's neck. His breathing was congested and warm against Ilya's skin. "You're so warm."
"You keep saying this. I think maybe you have problem with your..." Ilya tapped his own head. "Your brain is cooked from fever."
"My brain is fine. Everything else is broken."
Ilya looked down at Shane - hair sticking up everywhere, wearing sweatpants that had definitely seen better days, radiating heat like a small furnace, clinging to Ilya like Ilya was the only solid thing in the universe.
It was pathetic.
Ilya's stupid heart did a stupid thing in his chest.
He was so screwed.
"Okay. Well. You need medicine. Where is your—" Ilya didn't know the English word. "The thing for when you are sick. Pills."
"Don't have any."
"You don't have medicine? You are professional athlete. How you don't have medicine?"
Shane shrugged against Ilya's neck. "Never needed it."
"That is most stupid thing I hear today."
"You don't have to be mean." Shane's voice had gone wounded and small. "I'm sick."
"Yes, I see you are sick. You are being very dramatic about being sick."
"'m not dramatic." But Shane's arms tightened around Ilya like he was trying to prove otherwise.
Ilya sighed and pulled out his phone. He didn't think his English wasn't good enough to navigate a delivery over the phone, but he could text Kiro, his teammate who'd been in the States longer.
Ilya: Мне нужно, чтобы вы заказали доставку лекарств в мой отель
Kiro: Ты болен?
Ilya: Нет, Мой друг болен
Kiro: Какой еще друг? У тебя нет друзей
Ilya: Заткнись. Ты можешь сделать заказ или нет?
Kiro: Хорошо. Какой отель и какой номер?
Ilya texted him the information and a list of what he needed: thermometer, cold medicine, throat lozenges, tissues, soup.
Kiro: Ты о ком-то заботишься? Это мило
Ilya: Это не мило, это раздражает. Просто сделай заказ.
Kiro: Как скажете. Доставка через 45 минут
The whole time, Shane stayed plastered to him, breathing wet and congested against his neck.
"Delivery coming. Forty-five minutes."
Shane made a sound that might have been acknowledgment or might have been his soul leaving his body.
"You need water. Now. Where is glasses?"
Shane waved vaguely toward the bathroom.
"Okay. So I need to get up to get water, which means you need to let go."
Shane's grip tightened immediately. "No."
"Hollander—"
"You'll come back?"
Something in the way Shane said it - small and uncertain and not at all like the confident player who opposed Ilya on the ice - made Ilya's chest do that thing again.
"Yes. I come back. Where I go?"
"I don't know. Maybe you'll realize I'm too pathetic and leave."
Ilya looked at Shane's flushed face, at his watery eyes, at the absolutely miserable expression, and felt something shift. "I'm not leaving because you're sick. That's stupid."
"Promise?"
"Yes, I promise. Now let go."
Shane slowly, reluctantly loosened his grip. The second Ilya stood up, Shane made a sound of protest and reached for him.
"Two minutes. Stay there."
"That's too long."
"You will survive two minutes."
Ilya went to the bathroom, found a glass, filled it with water. When he came back, Shane had curled into a ball on the couch looking even more miserable.
"You left," Shane said accusingly.
"For ninety seconds."
"Still left."
"You are being very dramatic." Ilya sat back down and Shane immediately uncurled and draped himself back across Ilya's lap. "Here. Drink."
Shane took the glass but just held it, staring at it like it had personally offended him.
"Hollander. Drink the water."
"Don't want to."
"Why not?"
"Throat hurts. Swallowing hurts."
"I know it hurts. You still need to drink." Ilya poked Shane's shoulder. "Drink or I leave."
"You said you wouldn't leave!"
"Then drink the water."
Shane glared at him with watery eyes, then took the smallest sip imaginable.
"More."
"It hurts."
"Life is pain. Drink more."
Shane took another tiny sip. It took forever, but he eventually managed maybe a third of the glass before setting it aside.
"There. Happy?"
"No. That was almost nothing. But is better than nothing." Ilya felt Shane's forehead with the back of his hand. Very hot. "You definitely have fever."
"Told you I was dying."
"Fever is not dying. Is uncomfortable, yes. But is not dying."
"Feels like dying."
"You are very dramatic person when sick, yes?" Ilya couldn't help the small smile. "On ice you are all serious and focused. But sick and you are like..." He searched for the word, gave up. "Like baby."
"I am not like a baby."
"You are exactly like baby. Clingy and whiny and won't drink water."
Shane's face scrunched up. For a horrible moment, Ilya thought he might cry. Then Shane just pressed his face back against Ilya's neck and made a grumpy sound.
"You're being mean to me."
"I'm being honest to you. Is different."
"Still mean."
They sat in silence for a while. Shane's breathing was terrible - all congested and wheezy and occasionally interrupted by small coughs. Ilya could feel the heat coming off him in waves.
"Rozanov?" Shane's voice was small.
"Mm?"
"Thanks for coming over. I know you probably had other things to do and I'm being pathetic—"
"Stop." Ilya's hand found Shane's hair without him meaning to, fingers threading through. "I want to be here."
Shane lifted his head, surprise clear on his flushed face. "Really?"
"Yes. Why I come if I don't want to?" Ilya's English failed him for a moment. He tried again. "You are sick. You text me. I come. Is simple."
"We're supposed to be rivals."
"On ice, yes. Off ice—" Ilya shrugged. "Off ice is different."
Shane studied his face for a long moment, then settled back against Ilya's chest with a sigh. "Okay."
The delivery came exactly on time. Ilya had to physically peel Shane off him to answer the door, which Shane protested with sounds of distress.
"I can see you the whole time. Door is right there."
"But you're leaving."
"I'm walking three meters. That's not leaving."
"Feels like leaving."
Ilya got the delivery bag and returned to find Shane slumped sideways on the couch, looking betrayed.
"You left."
"For twenty seconds."
"Twenty seconds too long."
Ilya pulled out the thermometer. "Open mouth."
Shane stared at it suspiciously. "Why?"
"To check if you are actually dying or just being dramatic."
"I'm not being dramatic!"
"Open mouth."
Shane opened his mouth with an exaggerated sigh. Ilya slipped the thermometer under his tongue.
"Don't talk."
Shane immediately tried to talk around the thermometer.
"That is opposite of what I say."
The thermometer beeped. 101.8°F.
"Okay. You have fever. Not dying fever, but real fever." Ilya measured out the medicine. "Here. This will help."
Shane looked at the small cup like it was poison. "Do I have to?"
"Yes."
"It tastes bad."
"I don't care about taste. You take it."
"You're so bossy."
"Someone needs to be boss because you are terrible at taking care of yourself." Ilya held out the cup. "Drink."
Shane took it with a suffering expression and swallowed it in one go. His face immediately scrunched up. "That's disgusting."
"Medicine is often disgusting. Here. Water." Ilya handed him the glass. "Drink more than before."
Shane managed about half the glass this time before setting it down and immediately reaching for Ilya.
Ilya looked at Shane's outstretched arms, at the needy expression on his flushed face, and felt his resolve crumble. He sat back down and Shane immediately climbed back into his lap.
"You are like cat," Ilya observed. "Very annoying, clingy cat."
"I thought you said I was like a baby."
"You are like baby cat."
"A kitten?! That's not better."
"Is accurate though."
Shane made a grumpy sound but was already getting drowsy. The medicine was working fast. "Your English is getting better."
"Is still bad. But yes, little better."
"I like it. Your English." Shane's words were starting to slur. "Like your accent."
"My accent is terrible."
"No. It's—" Shane yawned. "It's nice. Makes you sound different than everyone else."
Ilya felt his face warm. "You are talking stupid because of fever."
"'m not talking stupid. Talking truth." Shane's hand fisted in Ilya's shirt. "You staying?"
"I stay until you sleep."
"Then longer?"
Ilya looked down at Shane - at his flushed face, at the way he was already fighting to keep his eyes open. "Maybe longer. We will see."
"Good." Shane's eyes drifted closed. "'m glad you came."
"Me too."
Shane was asleep in minutes, his breathing evening out into something still congested but steadier. His grip on Ilya's shirt stayed tight even in sleep.
Ilya sat there with a lapful of sick rival and tried to figure out what the hell he was doing.
They were supposed to be enemies. Competitors. People who hated each other on the ice and barely tolerated each other off it.
But somehow over the past year, "barely tolerated" had turned into "occasionally hooked up after games" which had turned into "maybe more than just hooking up" which had apparently turned into "Ilya sitting in a hotel room taking care of sick Shane like it was the most natural thing in the world."
Nobody could know about this. Not their teams, not the media, definitely not the fans who lived for their rivalry.
But sitting here with Shane pressed against his chest, all the fight and competition stripped away by fever and exhaustion - Ilya couldn't bring himself to care about the secrecy. Couldn't bring himself to care about anything except making sure Shane was okay.
He was so screwed.
Shane slept for almost two hours. Ilya didn't move the entire time, just held him and scrolled through his phone one-handed and tried not to think too hard about how comfortable this was.
When Shane finally stirred, he blinked up at Ilya with confusion. "You stayed."
"I told you I stay."
"I thought maybe I dreamed it." Shane's voice was still wrecked but maybe slightly less terrible. "How long was I asleep?"
"Two hours almost."
"Oh." Shane started to sit up, then stopped. "Can I just—can I stay here? Like this?"
Ilya looked at Shane's uncertain face and felt his heart do that stupid thing again. "Yes. You can stay."
Shane settled back against Ilya's chest with a relieved sound. They sat in silence for a while, comfortable and quiet.
"You feel little better?" Ilya asked eventually.
Shane considered. "Yeah. A little. Still feel terrible, but less terrible."
"Good. Medicine is working." Ilya's hand found Shane's hair again, petting gently. Shane made a pleased sound and pressed into the touch. "You need to eat something. I order soup."
"Not hungry."
"Need to eat with medicine or stomach will hurt more."
"Already hurts."
"Will hurt worse if you don't eat. Trust me."
Shane made a reluctant sound but didn't argue.
Ilya heated up the soup in the hotel microwave and brought it back. Shane looked at it with deep suspicion.
"You need to sit up to eat."
"Don't wanna."
"Shane."
"Fine." Shane sat up with obvious effort, then immediately slumped against Ilya's side.
Ilya handed him the soup and spoon. Shane stared at them.
"What?" Ilya asked.
"Too tired to hold it."
"Your arms are not too tired."
"They are." Shane somehow made his eyes even more watery and pathetic. "Please?"
Ilya stared at him. "You want me to feed you."
"Please?"
"You are grown man. Professional athlete. You can feed yourself."
"Please, Rozanov?" The way Shane said his name - soft and needy and nothing like the sharp way he said it on the ice - made something in Ilya's chest crack.
"Fine. But only because you look too pathetic to do it yourself."
"Thank you." Shane leaned heavier against Ilya's side. "You're really nice. Even though you pretend you're not."
"I'm not nice. I'm practical. You need to eat."
"You're nice," Shane insisted. "Came when I texted. Stayed even though I'm gross and clingy. Letting me stay on you even though I'm probably getting you sick."
"You are definitely getting me sick."
"Sorry."
"Is okay. I have good immune system. Probably will be fine."
Ilya brought a spoonful of soup to Shane's lips. Shane ate it without complaint, then another, then another. By the tenth spoonful, his eyes were drifting closed again.
"Stay awake little longer."
"'m trying." Shane's head was getting heavier against Ilya's shoulder. "Just so tired."
"I know. Few more bites, then you can sleep again."
Ilya got maybe half the soup into Shane before Shane was more asleep than awake, his head dropping fully onto Ilya's shoulder.
"Hollander. Need to go to bed properly."
"'m in bed," Shane mumbled.
"You're on couch."
"Close enough."
Ilya looked at Shane - flushed and feverish and already unconscious - and made a decision.
"Okay. Bedroom."
He managed to shift them both upright, then carefully picked Shane up. Shane's arms immediately wrapped around Ilya's neck, his face pressing against Ilya's shoulder.
"You're really strong," Shane mumbled.
"Yes, I know."
"Like it when you carry me."
"You won't remember this tomorrow."
"Might remember." Shane's words were barely coherent. "Want to remember."
Ilya carried Shane to the bedroom and set him on the bed. Shane immediately reached for him, making a sound of protest.
"You need to get under blankets."
"Come with me."
"I should not. You are sick."
Shane's face did something that Ilya could only describe as crumbling. His eyes went wet and his bottom lip actually trembled. "Please? Just until I fall asleep?"
Ilya's resolve lasted approximately three seconds. "Fine. Just until you sleep."
Shane's face brightened immediately. He scrambled under the covers and patted the space beside him.
Ilya climbed in, staying on top of the blankets. Shane immediately ignored this and plastered himself against Ilya's side.
"You are supposed to stay on your side."
"This is better." Shane's face pressed against Ilya's shoulder, his breathing already evening out. "So warm."
"You keep saying this."
"Because true." Shane's grip tightened. "You'll stay?"
"Until you sleep."
"Mm. Okay."
Shane was asleep in seconds, his breathing going deep and congested. His hand stayed fisted in Ilya's shirt, his body pressed close.
Ilya lay there and stared at the ceiling and tried to figure out what he'd gotten himself into.
This was supposed to be simple. Rivalry on the ice, occasional hookups off it. Nothing complicated. Nothing that would mess with their careers or their reputations.
But Shane sick and clingy and trusting wasn't simple. Shane asking Ilya to stay, looking at him like Ilya was the only solid thing in a spinning world - that wasn't simple either.
Ilya looked at Shane's flushed face, at the way he was holding on even in sleep, and felt something settle in his chest. Something warm and certain and absolutely terrifying.
They'd figure it out. Somehow. The secrecy, the rivalry, the way Ilya's heart did stupid things whenever Shane looked at him with those uncertain eyes.
They'd figure it out.
But for now, Shane was sick and needed him. So Ilya stayed.
Shane woke slowly, his head pounding but clearer than before. He was overheated and sweaty and—
Ilya.
Ilya was still in bed with him. Had stayed all night.
Memories came back in mortifying flashes. The clinging. The whining. The making Ilya feed him soup.
Oh god.
Shane tried to move away without waking Ilya, but Ilya's arm tightened around him.
"Don't," Ilya mumbled. "Stay."
"I'm disgusting."
"Little disgusting. But stay anyway."
Shane stopped trying to escape. "You didn't have to stay all night."
"I know." Ilya's eyes opened slightly. "Wanted to."
"Really?"
"Really." Ilya's hand came up to feel Shane's forehead. "Fever is better. Not gone, but better."
"I'm sorry about yesterday. I was really pathetic."
"Yes. Very pathetic."
"You're not supposed to agree."
"You ask me to feed you soup. Was extremely pathetic."
Shane's face heated. "I know. I'm sorry."
"Stop saying sorry. Was..." Ilya paused, searching for words. "Was nice. You trust me to take care of you. Is nice to be trusted."
Shane looked at Ilya's face - at the soft expression, at the way his usually sharp eyes had gone gentle. "You really didn't mind?"
"Was little annoying. You are very clingy when sick. Like..." Ilya made a gesture with his hands that Shane couldn't interpret. "Like octopus. Many arms, all holding on."
"That's a terrible description."
"But you understand, yes?"
"Yeah." Shane was quiet for a moment. "Thank you. For coming. For staying. For everything."
Ilya just pulled him closer in response.
They lay there as morning light filled the room. Shane's head still hurt and his throat was still raw and he still felt like garbage, but with Ilya's arms around him and Ilya's steady breathing in his ear, it didn't seem quite so terrible.
"Rozanov?" Shane's voice was small.
"Mm?"
"Can we just... stay like this? For a little while?"
Ilya's arm tightened around him. "Yes. We can stay."
So they did.