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The first time it ever happened, Shane hadn’t even been the first to notice — it was Troy Barrett who lit a flame of tension in the air with his question of concern.
“Dude. Are you feeling alright?”
He directed the question to his captain, Ilya, who sat on a bench across the room with a small white bag in hand, crinkling the contents inside with the shift of his palm.
Troy, who had been the last person to enter, stood suddenly still, his skin pale and damp. He, alongside Ilya and his team, had just stepped off the ice.
Exhausted from their weekly Monday night practice, the Ottawa Centaurs stumbled back into their locker room to pant aloud and throw themselves onto waiting benches. Slowly, the space filled with soft chatter, laughter, and the sound of text messages being sent from players to their wives.
Shane himself was busy reading a message he had just got from Hayden Pike during practice: a video of his young daughters playing with the mini-sticks Ilya and Shane had sent the week before.
Troy let out a forced cough to get the man’s attention.
He may have been the last to enter, but Troy Barrett was also the first to spot something wrong.
“Ilya… your face is like… really red.” He said, taking a hesitant step toward his best friend.
No one in the room seemed to stir at Troy’s words, continuing to discard their jerseys and drink from their water bottles as they heaved and huffed.
“Like… really, really red man…”
And then Ilya’s gaze snapped to meet Troy’s.
Considering their team had just run a series of drills, a mock game, and an end-of-practice skate-off, it made sense for Ilya to appear a little flustered and drained. Still, Tory couldn’t help but point out what he was seeing. The jarring colouration of his captain’s face was like something he had never seen before.
Ilya’s cheeks bore prickly patches of a pinpoint red rash, and the longer they sat staring at each other, the heavier and more laboured his breathing became.
Ilya, who sat on the bench across from Troy in full gear — jersey discarded and lying by his feet — stared back with a look that didn’t seem as concerned.
The older man was fidgeting ever so slightly as he shovelled handfuls of trail mix into his mouth, swallowing every bite after a few aggressive chews. Stray chunks of peanuts and chocolate flakes fell from his lips to his chest.
His eyes were entirely unassuming —
A sweet smile on his face —
His cheeks as red as fire.
“Are you doing okay?” Troy asked again, and Ilya’s heart dropped at the worry etched throughout his normally stoic face.
“Ilya?” he pressed.
From a few steps to the left, Shane finally lifted his attention from his phone to his husband.
“I’m STARVED.” Ilya had complained only an hour prior, when the two lovers were forced to face off on the ice.
Shane still remembered the slight pout that had formed on the bow of Ilya’s red lips, and how it brought a smile to his own.
Ilya was always hungry.
“I have a few snacks in my bag.” Shane had said next, before leaning over the ice for the drill. “Help yourself after practice.”
But Ilya hadn’t been compelled by the offer.
“UGH, no. Your stupid health snacks suck.”
Shane had laughed, and then the puck was dropped.
He had thought that would’ve been the end of it — but then, after practice finished, Ilya had reached into Shane’s bag anyway.
Now Tory Barrett rushed to his side and placed a hand on his knee, guiding the Russian to slow his breathing as he catalogued the rest of his symptoms. Shane had somehow missed most of the initial commotion, too busy removing his neck guard and shoulder pads to notice their mutual friend running to his husband’s aid.
Now that he was at Ilya’s side, Shane watched as Troy ripped the bag of trail mix from Ilya’s hand, already suspecting something no one else seemed to fear.
“Are you allergic to peanuts?” Troy asked in a rush, inspecting the contents through the open seal.
The bag still held a few scattered pumpkin seeds, chocolate chips, cranberries, and several other unidentifiable nuts and seeds.
Ilya coughed lightly, then tugged at the collar of his neck guard, revealing a growing rash beneath.
“N-no,” he said quickly.
And from a few steps to the left, Shane echoed the thought at the same time—
“No.”
The Canadian dropped the gear in his hands and took two large strides, arriving at Ilya’s side in seconds.
He crouched down next to his husband and cupped his cheek, cringing as he felt the heat of the Russian’s skin. Shane lifted his other hand to push Ilya’s blonde curls out of the way, inspecting the growing redness below his ears. Every inch of his skin was becoming increasingly clammy to the touch.
“I’ve had peanut before, no?” Ilya whispered to Shane softly, looking into his lover’s focused eyes.
His own were stricken with panic and worry, a cloud of confusion growing behind his big blue orbs.
It wasn’t a familiar sight to any Centaur in the room — Ilya, afraid.
Shane tried his best to stay calm, avoiding a flurry of fear himself. He met Ilya’s eyes and nodded once in confirmation, flinching at the sight of his own shaking thumb.
The Russian hockey player had always loved Reese’s Pieces, PB and J’s, and beer-battered peanuts — so none of this made sense.
Troy flipped the package over to read the ingredients, a pensive look filling his face.
“What about pine nuts?” he asked next, and the married couple’s movements went still.
Shane racked his brain for any memory of Ilya consuming the tiny little tree nut, but ultimately came up empty. It wasn’t like it was a common addition to their regular diet. Of course, there was Yuna’s famous pesto spaghetti, but Ilya hadn’t yet attended one of his family’s Canada Day barbecues.
Could Ilya seriously be allergic to pine nuts?
“Ilya. Please tell me you’ve eaten them before.”
Shane hoped his husband’s answer would ease the terror creeping up his spine.
Surely he had them in Russia, right?
But Ilya’s eyes only darkened dangerously as he shook his head no — gulping, then closing his eyes, trying his best to mask the pain.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!
Panic flooded through him.
“Fuck.” Shane repeated aloud.
“I-I don’t feel so good,” Ilya confessed grimly, and for a moment, Shane felt like he was falling.
Helplessly, he watched as Ilya reached down to scratch various patches of his skin — softly at first, at the base of his neck, then more aggressively along the backs of his hands.
“Ilya—“
Once again, Troy Barrett was the first to jump into action.
“Hayes— Haas— fuck any one of you, call 911. NOW.”
His body sprang up as he turned to the rest of the team.
The remaining centaurs were still changing, half in gear and half not. From their random spots around the room, their attention becomes more alert at the sound of Bartet’s terrified tone. Some even stood at the site of their dishevelled captain.
“Cap?” the Swiss player tried to confirm, but Troy's glare told him that he meant business.
Both Luca and Wyatt already had their phones out, making them easy targets for his demands. As soon as their shock subsided, the two wasted no time in dialling the number.
“Tell them that we need an ambulance,” Troy continued, his face set with determination.
He was doing his best to keep the room afloat while Shane and Ilya felt like they were drowning in it.
“I think Rozanov’s going into Anaphylaxis.”
A series of shocked gasps and a murmur of hushed chatter filled the room. Teammates turned to each other in fear, some grasping at their chest in worry for their friend.
Troy turned back toward the couple and put a gentle hand on Ilya’s shoulder.
“Hang in there, buddy. I’m gonna go get some help. I’ll be right back. Okay? Okay!?”
The longer Shane Hollander knew him, the more he had come to appreciate Troy Barrett.
“T-t-hank you, thank you!” Shane rushed out brokenly, his tone transitioning from steady to shaky in a matter of seconds.
Deep down, Shane knew that allergies worked quickly and lethally, especially when someone’s symptoms were unknown.
Seconds ago, everything was fine, but now it was all flipped on its head.
There was no way to know how severe Ilya’s symptoms would become, how long they would last, or what illness would overtake him as time progressed.
Thankfully, Troy left faster than the gratitude leaving Shane’s lips.
Now it was just the two of them — clinging to each other in some locker room in Ottawa — oh, how Shane wished they were in their bed right now instead.
“S-Shane… S-hane,” Ilya gasped out, his entire face was deep with red — his voice lighter and scratchy with pain. “I-I’m… I’m sorry.”
What the fuck was he apologizing for?
This had been Shane’s fault, after all. Ilya had eaten his trail mix — which Shane had bought because it was designed to be ‘gut healthy’ and ‘great for your metabolism.’ None of this would have happened if he hadn’t offered them in the first place. It boggled Shane’s mind that Ilya could be apologetic for his own mistake. He was the one who needed to beg for forgiveness.
If he knew there was a chance that Ilya was allergic, Shane would have burned every single pack he owned. He would have sifted through every drawer in their apartment until every pine nut product had been thrown into the trash.
“S-shouldn’t h-ave eaten…” Ilya wheezed, dragging in a breath. “T-t-those s- stupid… h-heath s-snacks—“
This man was going to be the death of Shane.
“Shh, shh, shh,” the Canadian interrupted, moving his hands sharply as he pulled off Ilya’s neck guard in a single motion.
He followed by discarding his husband’s shoulder and elbow pads next, slowly removing each layer he thought might be making it harder for Ilya to breathe.
Apparently, his husband had been so damn hungry that he hadn’t even waited to get out of his gear before chowing down on the mix.
Shane didn’t have the energy to scold him for it now, so instead he worked quietly and efficiently — tearing off layers, tracking his pulse, and monitoring his breathing all at once.
The only thing Shane could hear in the room was Ilya’s pants and Haye’s and Haas’ description of their captain’s symptoms over the phone.
No one else dared to speak.
“There we go,” Shane said as he tossed the gear aside.
With his equipment finally gone, Ilya fell forward into a fit of coughs, but Shane caught him before he could hit the ground. Carefully, he sagged his husband’s body off the bench and onto the floor.
The Canadian was quick to adjust their position so that his back rested against the wall, pressing Ilya’s back against his chest.
It was easy to survey all of him from here — easier to hold him.
It was only now that he noticed the swelling on his husband’s hands and cheeks.
It just kept getting worse.
While Shane’s eyes darted around the tight space, searching for some kind of aid or relief — anything — Ilya kept his eyes fixed on him, as if they were the only two people in the room.
“The ambulance is 20 minutes out!” One of the two men called over, but the information did not make Shane feel any better.
His father, David, had been allergic to bees ever since he was a kid. Shane had rarely seen him get stung, but in the times he had, his mother had always had an EpiPen on hand to help him. The ambulance itself often arrived after some of the symptoms had already subsided — the medication working fast to prevent the reaction from becoming lethal.
But Ilya and Shane didn’t have an EpiPen.
The Canadian hoped that someone in the room would step forward with one they might have on hand, but unfortunately, not a single Centaur did.
They were fucked.
Whenever David had a severe reaction, Shane was always ushered away before his anaphylaxis could take a turn for the worse. He had never seen the full extent of his father’s symptoms, but Shane was no stranger to his mother’s heartbreak.
The most traumatic moments had always come afterwards — when Shane was left alone to watch his tear-stricken mother as his father was taken to the hospital. His brain would never forget how violently she had shaken before collapsing to the ground — no matter how hard he held her, his small arms couldn’t provide any real comfort.
Shane felt that same unfathomable feeling now.
“20 minutes is too much time,” Shane couldn’t help but say.
Ilya needed to get better fast if he wanted to still be conscious by the time they arrived.
They desperately needed an EpiPen.
But they didn’t have one.
“Bood I-I-I need. I need…” Shane started, grasping for words as Ilya’s body went limp in Shane’s arms.
He could still feel the Russian’s pulse, but it was hard to deny how his breathing had turned shallow — his muscles melting into the supposed comfort of his husband’s hold.
“I- I need water! A towel! Something!”
Ilya’s skin was so hot that Shane could barely touch it anymore. His husband's persistent warmth felt like a heating pad consuming his body.
“Ilya, baby… I’m gonna lay you down on the ground.” Shane whispered into his ear, and Ilya only groaned in protest.
Good. Still responsive.
Shane knew Ilya didn’t want to move — just wanted to be held — but he couldn’t do much to stop the Canadian from gently peeling their bodies apart.
Every breath Ilya took was wheezy now, and Shane wondered if it was becoming harder for him to speak. The strained, squealing sounds in his lungs were starting to scare him beyond belief.
“Just keep breathing, Ilya, nice and slow, in and out, yes… that’s it… That’s good, baby. Good job.”
Shane guided Ilya into a fetal position, lifting his left arm from beneath him, hoping to transfer as much of the cold from the cement floor to his body.
Now that Ilya was on his side, Shane could remove more of his restrictive gear. He unbuckled his husband’s shin guards first, then worked him out of his hockey pants, leaving the Russian in a pair of long johns and an athletic undershirt.
Zach Boodram sprinted back from the showers with a damp towel, passing it to Shane. The coolness in his hand was immediate relief as Shane quickly pressed it to Ilya’s forehead.
“Ah—“ Ilya gasped, but Shane shushed him right away.
He worked meticulously, wiping away the sweat on his skin, willing — hoping — that with each damp pass, the red patches blooming across Ilya’s body would fade.
“Sh-sh-ane I- I- I love—“ Ilya tried to speak, and although Shane was grateful to hear his voice, the gravity of what he was trying to say settled deep in his bones.
Shane couldn’t tell if the streams of water dripping down Ilya’s cheek were from his own tears, Ilya’s, or the wetness of the cloth.
“Don’t you dare do that, you asshole,” Shane said simply, voice tight, avoiding Ilya’s glances as he continued to dab and wipe.
Please, Ilya… please don’t…
“S-h-ane. я- я- хочу тебя… к- к- знать…” (I- I- want you… To- To- know…)
If Shane hadn’t been crying before, he definitely was now. He could taste the saltiness of his own tears as they streamed like a faucet from his eyes to his mouth.
His gaze darted frantically over Ilya’s rash-ridden body until the Russian suddenly grabbed his hand, stopping him.
Despite the growing weakness in his body, Ilya’s grip was still strong — like it had always been — pulling Shane back to this world from the space inside his head.
Shane finally looked his way.
He could see that they were both definitely crying now… and shaking… and acting scared out of their fucking minds….
“Вам нужно– Знать–” (You need– to know–) Ilya whispered, his voice faltering under his own breath.
Shane wondered if the swelling on his lover’s face was just as bad inside his throat.
How much longer until air couldn’t get inside?
Shane cupped both sides of Ilya’s face, tenderly, and with overwhelming care.
“Fuck, Ilya, of course I know! I know! I love you too!” Shane said earnestly, letting out a whimper as he watched Ilya close his eyes in gratitude.
The scream torn from Shane next was guttural — the raw, terrifying cry echoing throughout the change room.
“FUCK!”
Ilya flinched.
Still there, but fading.
“Where the FUCK is the ambulance!?”
His husband's breaths came out in sharp, broken gasps now. His pulse felt slower.
Fuck — would have had to do CPR?
Shane suddenly wished he had taken Coach Wiebe up on getting his first aid certification last fall. He could have been ready for this — better prepared.
“No, no, no, no, NO!” Shane collapsed further, unravelling into a puddle on the floor. Sobs and pleas tangled together as he spoke. “Please, Ilya, baby, please — slow breaths, slow, slow breathing. Keep breathing. Slow, sweetheart, slow.”
But they were already so far gone that Shane knew Ilya was no longer in control of his own body.
“PLEASE!” Shane shouted to his teammates, but no one moved. No one answered.
Almost all of them were crying now.
“No, no, no, Ilya…”
And then, finally, somebody burst through the door.
Shane whipped his head toward the sound, the heavy metal clanging against the locker room hooks.
The Canadian had been hoping for a flock of paramedics — but instead, he found a frazzled Harris with Troy looming behind him.
Wyatt Hayes rushed forward but—
“MOVE!”
—Harris Drover made it clear that he wasn’t playing around.
The ginger-haired man pushed through the crowd and ran to Shane’s side first, crouching down next to the two of them.
As soon as his boyfriend was safe inside, Troy was quick to turn and flee back down the hallway.
Harris slid something into Shane’s hand.
“Use mine! Quickly!”
Holy fuck — It was an Epi-Pen.
“Troy went to direct the ambulance, but use this. It will help,” Harris explained.
Shane’s eyes went wide with realization as he fumbled with the injector in his hand. He wasted no time removing the blue cap, angling it toward the sky — exactly like his mother had taught him at four years old.
“Just to be safe!” she had said.
Now, Shane was grateful for how naturally it came to him.
Ilya let out a terrifying wheeze as the hand resting on Shane’s waist fell limp to his side.
That was all Shane needed to feel before plunging the needle into his husband’s thigh.
He waited one, two, three seconds before removing it and tossing it to the floor.
Then a sheet of sweat and shame suddenly coated Shane's body.
“Wait, is it even safe to use–”
Shane was about to freak out all over again, but luckily, Harris cut him off.
“It’s safe, Shane… It’s okay,” he reassured. “They all work the same!”
Shane let his shoulders hang loose in relief.
After a few seconds, the medication began to take effect. Ilya drew in another breath — but this time it wasn’t strained or wheezing. It was long and deep, like he was savouring every ounce of air filling his lungs.
Shane, still on his knees, shifted into a seated position, finally registering an ache he hadn’t even noticed forming.
He leaned over Ilya.
“Вот и всё. Дышите,” (That’s it. Breathe.) Shane guided in his husband’s native tongue, taking in a few deep breaths alongside Ilya’s growing rhythm.
Gradually, the captain’s eyes blinked open — red, glassy, filled with tears — and even the smallest glimpse of them made some of Shane’s overwhelming fear recede, if only for a moment.
Shane reached forward and took his hand again.
“Troy!” he heard Harris call, signalling the return of Ilya’s best friend.
Now Troy Barrett stood in the hallway with three paramedics — two beside a gurney, one carrying a bag full of supplies.
“Okay, team, we’ll need you to clear out,” one of them said, but Shane didn’t look up to see who. He couldn’t look away from the rise and fall of Ilya’s chest. It was the only thing anchoring him.
Their surrounding teammates rose and shuffled out instantly, leaving only Troy and Harris with their pitiful boys.
Shane was the next person the paramedics approached.
“Sir, we need you to move,” an older woman said firmly near his ear.
She reached for his shoulder, but Shane recoiled instantly at the touch.
Another paramedic dropped down across from him, silently fitting an oxygen mask over Ilya’s face and checking his pulse.
Harris began describing the symptoms and the dosage they had given, while Shane kept his focus locked on Ilya’s eyes, which blinked hazily.
It didn’t take long for the Russian to find him again — worry flashing in his expression as Shane’s grip tightened.
“Mr.Hollander-Rozanov, please give us space. Let us help him.”
But the two married men held each other’s gaze for a moment longer.
Shane took one last steady breath in time with Ilya’s rising chest before he willingly dropped his hand and moved away, allowing the other paramedics to surge in.
A moment ago, Shane had been Ilya’s only lifeline.
Now he seemed a lifetime away.
Three bodies away, at least, as Ilya disappeared behind the paramedics — one of them administering another injection into his thigh.
“Sh-sh—ane?”
He could hear Ilya trying to speak under the blur of all the chaos, but most of him was still hidden. All Shane could make out were his red-rashed ankles poking out from the side.
“It’s okay, baby, I’m here. I’m right here with you. You’re going to be okay. Just keep breathing, baby, okay? They’ve got you.” Shane blubbered, worlds tumbling out in a mess.
He was desperately trying to calm down both Ilya and himself.
Shane spared a second to wonder if this would become their new normal — fearing every piece of food Ilya put into his body.
How many times would this happen?
How many times would Shane have to watch Ilya almost die?
“Your husband’s right, Ilya, you’re in good hands. Hang tight while we move you.”
Shane scurried out of the way as the paramedics lifted Ilya’s slackened muscles off the floor and into the gurney. As soon as he was strapped to the make-shift spinal board, the medics worked quickly to wheel him out of the room.
Harris got to his feet immediately; however, Shane did not.
His mind had already slipped away elsewhere — spiralling.
He sat still, tears streaming down his face without a single sob spewing from his lips.
“Shane.”
Harris tried to get his attention, but Shane’s expression had gone distant, unfocused — like he was no longer fully there.
“We have to go with him,” Harris suggested gently.
But Shane still didn't move.
He couldn’t.
He was frozen.
“Okay… It’s okay, I’ll go,” Harris promised before sprinting after them, catching up to the gurney before Ilya disappeared around the corner.
Now Shane was alone, left to suffocate in an unspoken sorrow by himself. He had so many questions still left unanswered, but he was also so overwhelmed that his bones began to cement into place.
Shane began to wonder:
Had the reaction even stopped?
Were the symptoms still progressing?
Would Ilya still be alive by the time he got to the hospital?
Why hadn’t Shane talked to the medical professionals when they were here?
Why hadn’t he followed them?
Shane covered his eyes, trying to block out the ringing that descended upon him –– an inhuman sound clanging against the walls of his skull.
All of a sudden, he could feel the pounding of his heart everywhere — in his ribs, his shoulders, his ears, even his cheekbones.
The room spun at the speed of light while the overhead lights flashed and flickered — or maybe he was just blinking too much.
Shane couldn’t stop blinking. It was the only solace he had from his tears.
Had that really just happened?
Had Ilya really almost just died!?
“Shane…” He heard someone say, prompting his frantic breathing to stutter to a halt.
Oh.
It seemed that Shane Hollander wasn’t alone after all.
Troy Barrett had stayed.
“I won’t touch you, buddy, alright?” Troy said carefully, starting his approach with a promise.
He paused, giving Shane time to process.
For a moment, the two Canadian, dark-haired hockey players simply breathed.
“But I need you to focus on my voice. Just listen to me talk, okay? And try to time your breathing. Like… Shit… What’s it called… cubed breathing? Damn—“
Shane let out a soft chuckle at Troy’s stumble. His eyes were still closed, but his body was slowly becoming aware of the steadiness his teammate could provide.
“I’m sorry, man. I’m totally forgetting what Rozanov said to do.”
Oh, Ilya. His sweet, perfect Ilya.
Had he really put in the effort of Shane-proofing their friends for moments like these?
The Canadian didn’t know whether to feel flattered or offended.
Was Shane really that much of a ticking time bomb?
Was Ilya?
Shane appreciated Troy’s attempt at managing his mind, but he wasn’t his husband — and he never could be.
It was only Ilya’s voice that could truly pull him out of this.
He needed Ilya there.
He needed Ilya safe.
“A—a—a— pine nut?” Shane gasped out. “T—t—that’s what… t—-that’s what almost took out Ilya Rozanov!?”
The world was still crashing down around him, but it was hard to deny that the distraction of conversation was good for his brain. Shane was still crying, but he could feel himself coming back, piece by piece.
Solid sensations slowly returned to his fingers and toes.
Realizing that he was helping, Troy continued to reassure.
“I know… I know… It’s vile, Shane. I’m so sorry. But we got it in time. He'll be okay, he’ll—“
God, Tory just didn’t get it.
This wasn’t something the couple could ever escape from.
“He’s okay this time!” Shane snapped. “But what about the next!?”
His tears finally broke into full, shuddering sobs.
“Troy, I— I don’t think I can live like this. Knowing this can happen again. I— I can’t… I can’t watch it happen again. I can’t see him like that again, Troy, I—”
Shane’s spit flew onto the floor.
The floor his lover had just been fighting for life upon.
“I can’t.”
Troy moved then, stepping forward and grabbing Shane’s forearms in a firm, grounding hold.
Ilya must have also told him that touch was okay if it came after he vomited out all his anxious words.
Shane’s body leaned into it instinctively, accepting the contact with ease.
He was so thankful that Iya’s best friend had stayed behind to help him.
“I get it, Shane, I really do,” Troy said slowly, a glow of sincerity shining in his eyes. “Harris is allergic to shellfish, so it’s not always at the front of our minds, but his heart? Fuck Shane, I worry about that all the time.”
Shane almost forgot about Harris’ life-threatening condition — how he pushed himself too hard around the rink despite Troy’s direct pleas for him not to.
“But most of the time I’m so in love with that idiot that I forget how much he scares me.”
Shane let out a real laugh at that, a bit of colour finally returning to his face.
Troy grinned, encouraged.
“He makes up for it by being cute, Shane… won’t Ilya?”
And Shane smiled at that.
He appreciated Troy and Harris more than he could say. They were so different from him and Ilya, and yet — they understood them so clearly.
Deep down, Shane knew he would love Ilya through any flaw. Especially the ones he couldn’t control.
He wiped at his tears and straightened his posture, squaring his shoulders.
Now that the fog in his mind had begun to clear, a new thought crashed in.
“The hospital — I—”
Fuck. Shne thought to himself.
He had abandoned him.
“Troy, I have to go to Ilya. I have to be with him. I—“
“Yeah, yeah, yeah… okay.”
Troy nodded quickly, already reaching into his pocket for his phone. After a few taps, he looked up, determination settling in.
“Harris already sent me the address. Let’s go. I’ll drive.”
He held out his hand.
And only after a moment, Shane took it.
As soon as Troy and Shane arrived at Ilya’s hospital room, the two men were greeted by an overly excited Russian.
“Shannnneeeeee!” the bubbly blonde cheered, lifting a tray of multiple containers in his direction. “Look at all the Jell-O colours I’ve collected — green, purple, orange, blue. Harris found them all!”
Unsure what else to do, Shane went still, his mind working overtime as he tried to process what he was saying.
“Red is good, but blue is my favourite. I think you might like orange… We must make this at home, da?”
But Shane was so shocked that he didn’t know how to respond.
The car ride there with Troy had been so tense, awkward, and unintentionally hostile. All Shane had been able to do was imagine the worst possible states of his husband’s demeanour. He had been so locked into that terror, that what if, that he found it hard to fall out of the trance.
He had expected to walk into the room and find Ilya unconscious, unwell, and strapped to a bed with an oxygen mask.
Just like the last time he had seen him.
Instead, Ilya looked… ridiculous.
Goofy in a hospital gown with a dopey look on his face — one leg tucked under a blanket, the other hanging off the side of the bed. This time, he was happily digging into containers of rainbow Jell-O instead of a bag of fatal nuts.
Shane’s instincts were to run forward and knock it out of his hands.
But of course – Jell-O didn’t have pine nuts in it.
Keep it cool, Shane.
Sensing his hesitation, Harris was the one to speak next.
“It was the only hospital food that he liked, and he kept complaining that he was hungry. I had to bribe a few patients with free tickets to our next game to get their Jell-O off their hands.”
He stepped over to meet Troy, who slung his arm over the ginger-haired man effortlessly.
“Yes,” Ilya added after inhaling another bite. “Also! The doctor taught me a new word: ANYA-phil-axis. It’s not very good... makes me even hungrier than before I ate your gross tree nut.”
Ilya rattled off every word while looking at Shane happily, as if what he was saying had no heat to it at all.
Shane knew that Ilya was trying to soften the trauma he had just caused, but it hurt to know he felt the need to put on an act for him.
Actively trying to take care of him, even now.
Shane didn’t know if he could be quite as brave.
He was terrified. Shaken.
And so fucking relieved.
Fresh tears began to flow before he could control them, his shoulders slumping under the weight of it all.
Shane couldn’t remember the last time he had been such a crybaby. It felt like he had been crying all day.
“I-Ilya I—“ He started to say, but before he could form a tangible sentence, his hand rose to cover his mouth — the room freezing with him.
Shane watched as Ilya hesitantly lowered his spoon.
“Shane.”
His tone shifted instantly — soft, steady, serious.
Ilya had recognized it immediately: Shane needed grounding. He needed to know it was safe to fall apart.
Even in a hospital bed, Ilya would do his best to give him that.
He would always be a safe space for Shane.
The Russian darted a look toward Troy, who nodded just as fast.
The arm he had around Harris dropped to take his hand instead, quietly tugging him toward the door. Surprisingly, the two managed to slip out without saying a word, dimming the lights behind them to give the other couple a little more privacy.
Now, finally—
Shane and Ilya were alone.
And they could say what they needed to say.
“Ilya…” Shane said again. This time unbroken, but his voice was still exploratory.
He glanced at Ilya longingly, as if he feared that his happy-go-lucky lover was going to fade away.
“Shane, дорогой.” (Sweetheart) Ilya smiled cautiously. “I promise I’m okay. Still alive. Still here.”
And thank the holy hockey gods for that.
The Canadian ran to his bedside and pulled up a chair, quick to collect Ilya’s free hand in both of his. Thankfully, most of the redness across his neck and face had seemed to disappear by now. The only evidence of his ailment was the lingering swelling around his nose and lips.
If Shane were feeling a little better, he would have joked about wanting a plumper kiss.
But he wasn’t in the mood for jokes right now.
“You scared me.” He said softly, and at first, he thought he saw Ilya grimace in reaction.
But if he had, he did his best to cover it with a wistful look, a wink, and then a repositioning of their hold so that Shane's hand was in his.
He gave it a long squeeze.
“Hey… that’s my line,” Ilya said back.
So Shane rolled his eyes.
“Well, then… you scare me,” Shane corrected himself, watching Ilya with hooded eyes as the Russian squirmed uncomfortably in his hospital bed. “Is that better?”
It was a useless comment — nothing could make any of it better.
The long-term reality they had just uncovered was terrifying to Shane. Knowing that Ilya had to struggle with this on top of everything else just seemed so unfair. It made him want to wrap his husband in nut-proof bubble wrap and lock him in a habitat where he could be safe forever.
“I’m sorry, Shane,” Ilya said next, and Shane's heart knew that to be true.
One of Ilya’s least favourite things was being a burden, but of course Shane never saw it that way. Taking care of his husband was one of the only things that kept his mind from going crazy.
“It’s okay. I know you can help it.” Shane replied.
Before that day, Ilya had somehow done his best to avoid the forbidden nut. Shane was, at the very least, grateful that the first time he experienced a reaction, he, Troy, and Harris were all there to help.
“There is nothing to forgive,” Shane wanted to say, but he knew he should save it for later — he was sure that Ilya would be apologizing for an unforeseeable amount of time.
“I- I l-love you,” Ilya spoke again, his vocal cords cracking under the confession.
His initial facade was now gone — the Jell-O forgotten. Ilya's features displayed a look of utter stress and worry as tears fell fast, like drops from a stormy sky.
He was clearly just as petrified as Shane.
“I love you so much, Ilya. Fuck. So much you don’t even know.”
Shane stood, leaning over the bed to wipe away every stream. There was no more room for tears — only happiness and relief. Ilya was alive and awake after all.
Now that they knew what they were up against, Shane and Ilya would make sure something like this never happened again. They would be safer and more cautious about what they bought or brought into their lives.
Maybe Ilya wouldn’t be, but Shane wouldn’t mind doing it on his behalf. He would watch his husband’s diet like a hawk if it also meant he’d be protecting his well-being.
“Sit with me?” Ilya asked in a small voice.
At first, Shane wanted to refuse.
Ilya’s tone was overly lethargic, his stomach lacking protein, and his body had just been through hell and back — but then he gave Shane a look so pure that Shane felt himself pulled toward him like a magnet.
Ilya shuffled to the side, creating a small gap beside him. He patted the bed before glancing over and pleading:
“Please? It won’t hurt. It never hurts to be with you.“
So Shane climbed into the bed next to him anyway.
Although he tried not to put too much weight on him, Ilya pulled his boy closer to his chest as soon as he was within reach.
Now Shane wasn’t next to him, per se… more like on top of him.
But Ilya didn’t seem to mind. He took in a long, lasting breath before sighing, content to have Shane in his arms again. He gently lifted his hand to run his fingers through Shane’s jet-black hair.
“I don’t think the doctors would approve of this,” Shane complained, but Ilya just hugged him tighter.
“Well, the doctor does not understand what kind of medicine I need,” He concluded, pressing a kiss to his husband’s forehead.
And Shane hummed in response, snuggling further into his hold.
It felt nice to be grounded by someone he loved — Troy’s awkward touch could only do so much.
After a few more seconds, Shane pulled away to look into the blue of his lover’s eyes.
It was disturbing to know that he almost saw them for the last time that day.
“Ilya…” he started, but before Shane could spiral again, the captain silenced his husband’s fears with a quiet certainty.
“We will get through this, Shane. I’m with you… I’m with you.”
And as Ilya repeated it, he pulled Shane’s face to hide in the crook of his neck.
“I will be more careful going forward—“
But Shane was quick to cut him off.
“No. We will be,” Shane emphasized, his voice muffled as he pushed deeper into Ilya’s skin, breathing him in with all his senses at once.
“I- I shouldn’t have given you that mix,” he added, letting the confession sting like he knew it should.
Ilya replied almost immediately.
“Что? Нет. (What? No.) Shane, I took it—“
“But I bought them!”
“Baby—“
“It’s all my fault!”
“Нет, нет, нет.” (No, no, no.)
Ilya ran his finger down Shane’s spine the way he knew he liked, the soft Russian words bringing the Canadian’s ramble to a stop.
Still, Shane couldn’t help but let out one last “I’m- I’m s- s- sorry” at his own expense.
To which Ilya replied:
“There is nothing to forgive.”
The promise was heavy, yet healing.
That fucker.
Now Shane Hollander was crying all over again, but this time, Ilya Rozanov held him through it.