Work Text:
Of course it would happen on Valentine’s Day – just to make an already shitty situation even worse.
Shane doesn’t know how it happened, but it will probably live rent-free in his head for the rest of his life. Whenever he so much as blinks, the back of his eyelids turns into a wall projector and replays the scene over and over again.
His mind is probably making it worse, but this is how he remembers it:
They’re halfway through the second period and they have a one goal lead on Boston. Shane’s team – and Shane – are slowly but surely losing momentum while the Raiders rage across the rink. If somebody doesn’t do something fast, they’re going to lose the lead or, worse, Boston is going to gain on them.
Shane refuses to play a defensive game. Like his mother said months ago, when it was still summer and the word boyfriend was an unfamiliar taste in his mouth: He’d rather die.
Pike finally intercepts a pass between two Boston players and sends the puck flying to the other side. There are two options here: let it cross the entire rink, which would mean a whistle, or chase after it. And Shane is fast. He can get the puck, he knows he can.
But then there he is – his boyfriend. Fucking ugh. Not today. Ilya never lets him live down a loss, and Shane will not be hearing any slander tonight. He has other plans for tonight.
He goes hard on his skates. He’s barely shorter than Rozanov, but in this moment, he tells himself it’s all the difference he needs to become a human bullet and fucking fly on the ice if need be.
He’s almost got it. The puck is right there.
But so is Ilya.
This is where Shane’s memory gets a little hazy and turns it into the worst scenario it can be.
One, because it means Rozanov gets there first; two, because the way Shane crashes them both into the boards reverberates like thunder. Even as it happens – at least that’s how Shane’s brain recalls it – there’s a collective gasp from the audience. Which is bullshit, because the NHL crowds are rowdy, boarding is common, and gasping is not. But Shane can hear it. It’s shortly followed by loud booing of Boston’s home rink.
The hit throws Shane back and his legs try to fly, but he manages to stay upright.
And Ilya doesn’t.
He fumbles instead and falls to ice, and nobody ever holds their shoulder like that. Shane felt it even as they collided – the angle was all wrong, and now here’s the evidence.
A whistle sounds, piercing Shane’s ears. He’s standing there like a statue.
“Rozanov,” he says. The name feels wrong when all he wants to do is kneel down and check on him and make sure that the damage that has been done is not too serious. Like a broken collarbone or some weird accident where it’s a dislocated shoulder and a concussion or – But he can’t.
So he stands there.
Statuesque.
Marlow skates over, shaving ice straight into Shane’s face.
“What the fuck, Hollander!”
“It’s fine,” Ilya finally speaks, saving Shane from a push and a shove and maybe something worse. Not that Shane wouldn’t deserve the black eye for this, to be honest.
On Shane’s right, the referee appears. “That’s gonna be a penalty,” he informs him like Shane is fucking five and operates on half a brain cell.
“No shit, Sherlock,” he grumbles, spitting out his mouth guard.
“Cool the attitude,” the referee reprimands and taps Shane’s shoulder to urge him to go.
Marlow is leaning over Ilya, blocking Shane’s view. He can’t tell if there’s movement or not and Shane is going to lose it. It quietly dawns on him – it’s still dawning, actually, just remembering it – that he’s hurt Ilya. That Ilya is down, and he can’t help him; he has to leave the scene, skate to the penalty box, and sit there.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
Not one full breath is taken on Shane’s side as he does what he’s told. By the time he’s in the sin bin, his lungs are painfully aware of the lack of proper air. But then – oh, thank you.
Ilya gets up, although Marlow has to help him a bit, and for the love of everything holy, he skates back on his own. Shane’s eyes don’t move away from him for a nanosecond – let the crowd decide it’s a death glare, whatever – but Ilya never looks his way. He’s just clutching his shoulder, bent slightly forward, and then he disappears down the tunnel into the locker room.
This, Shane decides, is the juiciest nightmare fuel he’s ever drunk.
And this, on infinite loop.
The Metros win 3:1 and it doesn’t even matter. Not tonight. It’s probably the first time that the win leaves Shane fully empty. He doesn’t know where Ilya is – he never returned to the ice – and being the cause of that occupies his mind much more forcefully. He avoids congratulatory slaps; he doesn’t respond to quick quips; he skirts out of hugs.
He practically runs for his phone when they get back to the locker room, but there’s nothing.
Next to him, Pike is saying: “You should take the sewers to the hotel, man. The fans are probably waiting outside for you for what you did to Rozanov.”
“Uh-huh,” Shane responds noncommittally. His fingers fly across the keyboard.
Jane: Are you at home?
Shane chews his fingernail; worries at his eyelashes; tugs at his hair. Hooks a fingernail on a piece of dry skin on his bottom lip.
They were supposed to meet in Shane’s hotel room tonight. They usually opted for Ilya’s house – much thicker walls, much more private – but Shane insisted tonight.
The stupid dinner he had brought up to that room, together with the expensive vodka, and the thing in his suitcase, and the really over the top rose petals he had requested like a yearning teenager – all going to waste. Count on him to fuck it up for himself, really. What was he thinking, anyway? A romantic Valentine’s night? Please.
“You alright in there?”
Right. Shane should move.
He gives an uneasy laugh. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”
“Man, I’m so glad we’re not sharing a room tonight,” Hayden continues like nothing happened. “Jackie and I are going to try over video, y’know, she’s into the romantic stuff and I can’t be there, so… Have you ever done it? Video stuff?”
Decidedly so. “No.”
“Huh. Well, I’ll let you know if it’s any good.”
“You really don’t have to –“
Shane’s just taking off his jersey when his phone finally vibrates. He snags it like it’s going to run away otherwise.
Lily: Yes. 🙄
Jane: Can I come over?
Lily: Yes. 🍆
There’s a rock that falls off Shane’s chest. It’s about as loud as the crash against the boards in his mind. If Ilya’s joking, then he must not be on the brink of death.
Shane’s mind continues reeling, though.
They file out of the locker room far too slowly; the ride to Ilya’s house seems to take hours upon hours. Shane’s body is abuzz when he finally jogs the last two steps leading up to the ten-foot door. It’s not the usual excitement that’s setting his nerves in motion – it’s just good old-fashioned anxiety. He wishes he had a key so Ilya wouldn’t have to move from wherever his resting.
But Ilya Rozanov is looking pretty okay when he opens the door.
If Shane didn’t know any better.
It’s only seven seconds extra that he waits at the door compared to the usual, but it’s seven seconds that make all the difference. And Shane can tell there’s a slight preference to the right to how Ilya is standing – the side that wasn’t crushed against the boards.
“Come on,” Ilya says, and again, if Shane wasn’t Shane, he would miss the slight strain in Ilya’s voice.
“Thanks.”
Shane slips in, purposefully turning his back to Ilya to give him the time if he needs to move a certain way that he doesn’t want to show.
Ilya’s house is familiar at this point, and there’s been no other running-away incidents. There’s the kitchen island, there’s the fireplace, those are the stairs leading to the impressive upper floor.
Well, this can only be postponed for so long.
Shane drops his overnight bag on the floor next to the kitchen island, hiding it between two chairs. He takes a deep breath and turns around.
Ilya is watching him with a raised brow and the smallest of smirks.
“Well?” Shane snaps, more at himself than anything else. “How bad is it?”
Ilya shakes his head. “Not bad.”
“Show me.”
Ilya really wants to put on a performance – Shane can tell by the way his hands go down to the hem of his black cotton shirt. He almost goes through with it, even. In the end, though, Ilya has to shake his head in defeat.
Shane takes a small step forward. “Can I…?”
“Yes. Fine.”
Closing the distance is actually much harder than being a jackass on the ice, but Shane somehow manages. The only thing he knows for now is that Ilya’s shoulder isn’t dislocated – it would be in a sling. That’s all. He can’t guess at Ilya’s pain level – or annoyance level – and he certainly can’t even begin to guess how careful he should be.
So he opts for extra super mega premium careful.
It takes him at least a minute to roll Ilya’s shirt up and then slowly takes his good arm out. They’re hockey players, for fuck’s sake. Pain is essentially in the contract they all sign. Ilya is sighing like it’s an Olympic discipline, and it’s definitely at Shane’s cautiousness. But he can’t help himself. It’s a teensy half of an inch after another once he gets to the hurt shoulder.
And then the shirt is off.
“Shit,’ Shane summarizes.
“You’re trying to take me out after all, Hollander?” Ilya asks in a jokey manner.
Shane doesn’t feel like joking. The fact that the shoulder is only starting to bruise around its edges means that it’s a deep-set bruise, and it’s never easy to look at this type of hurt when you’re the one who caused it.
Ilya hisses despite himself when Shane touches the tip of his finger against the blooming color.
“I’m so sorry,” Shane whispers. He can’t tear his eyes away from the bruise, and he can’t stop himself from welling up. It’s just that he wanted tonight to be so nice. He had so many things planned, and he wanted to spoil Ilya rotten, and instead here they are – Shane, Ilya, and the hurt Shane’s caused. The bruise so present it feels like Shane’s invited it in for a threesome. And to think it’s just because he lost sight of himself on the ice like a fucking junior –
Ilya’s hand lands on his cheek. The good arm, of course. “Shane,” he says like he can’t believe he has to. “You didn’t mean to.”
“I know, but…”
“It’s hockey. Stop. You are doing your thing, aren’t you?”
Shane finally looks away from Ilya’s shoulder and into his face. “What thing?”
“The thing where you let your brain tell you you are a bad person.”
Shane lets a small smile escape out of the corner of his mouth. That’s absolutely what he’s doing. What he has been doing, ever since it first happened. It only eases his anxiety a little bit that Ilya will be able to finish the season; another small bit for Ilya taking it so lightly.
It’s stupid – of course he is. Shane doesn’t know why he entertained the idea that Ilya would blame him or hold it against him. If anybody in the world understands, it’s the two of them. And this is not the moment for Shane to expect babying – the least he can do is shut up and be the one taking care of Rozanov. Like, come on.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, covering Ilya’s hand with his.
“Kiss me,” Ilya instructs, and who’s Shane to deny a patient’s needs?
Still carefully, Shane allows himself to close his eyes and press his lips against Ilya’s. A sigh of relief escapes him immediately – he’s come home. It’s perfectly enough to be cradled by one arm, because it’s Ilya’s arm, and Shane is perfectly happy to taste him, tongue to tongue. To make sure that they’re both still real.
The worst thing is that Shane immediately wants to do more.
The plans he had flash through his mind again – the different ways he wanted to take and be taken, and how much his body has been yearning for it. Even the slight pressure of Ilya’s tongue as it easily slides into the warmth of Shane’s mouth is enough to make it react.
With clumsy steps, Ilya pushes against Shane until he’s pressed against the kitchen island. The edge of it digs into his lower back, and it hurts a little bit, but only in the way that makes Shane feel the want, the need, the heat of Ilya’s body against him.
God, if they don’t stop, he’s going to lose control of himself again.
It physically pains him to pull his face away. Ilya’s mouth, abandoned, leaves a wet trail that goes from the corner of Shane’s mouth all the way to the soft skin of his cheekbone. It makes him shiver.
“Ilya,” he breathes out, and it doesn’t sound like an objection at all. If anything, it sounds like a request for more, more, more.
Ilya presses his lower body against Shane, huffing out a breath right against Shane’s neck.
“Ilya, we can’t,” Shane tries again.
“Why not?” Ilya murmurs against Shane’s skin. His fingers grip Shane’s hip and it’s so stupid hot, except they’re both aware of how awkwardly Ilya is holding his bruised, tense body. “Is okay. I want you.” The soft T; the way it sounds like a whiny I wantchu.
Shane sighs. “You can’t,” specifies. “I want you too, I do, but I – I’ve already hurt you. it’s enough for one evening, I think.”
“But it’s Valentine’s! Don’t you people see that as like, a late Christmas or something?”
“Yeah? Have you bought me flowers or something?”
“Have you?”
“Well,” Shane tries, a blush creeping into his cheeks in a hot wave. “Yes? I had this elaborate setup for the hotel room – dinner, rose petals, everything.”
Ilya is positively stiffening against Shane’s thigh. “You’re fucking with me.”
Shane shakes his head and squeezes himself out of the situation. “No. And we’re not doing this. Seriously.” Ilya looks at him with a pout. “I’m taking care of you instead. Not in that way.”
“Ugh.”
“Whatever. First up, we’re going to take a shower. You smell like the Boston sewers Hayden told me to take after hurting you.”
“Hayden’s not so bad after all,” Ilya says as he – although partially unwillingly and dragging his feet – follows Shane across the living room and to the bathroom.
Shane looks over his shoulder and pulls his hoodie over his head. “Nah, he was worried your fans would kill me.”
In the bathroom, Shane undresses both of them.
At first, it’s difficult not to let his touch linger. All he wants is to touch Ilya. The bruise is scary, sure, and the pain seems to come in small waves as the painkillers are starting to wear off, but the rest of his body is stupidly gorgeous – as always. It’s easy to get distracted – Shane wants to trace the familiar lines of Ilya’s muscles, caress the places he knows are sensitive.
As they go about it, though, his want transforms into something else.
He finds it nice. Downright romantic and intimate, in a way that sex never is. It’s not worse – just different, really.
There’s something about it when they’re both standing in the shower, hot water hitting their backs. You don’t just get naked with anyone. There is vulnerability to when his soaped up hands rub Ilya clean, and a softness to Ilya’s gaze when he watches Shane do it.
Thinking about it, they don’t say a word throughout the whole thing. There’s nothing but the sound of water surrounding them.
When they’re clean, Shane slowly wraps his hands around Ilya under the stream, and holds him. He takes care not to upset the shoulder – he’s not so much hugging, he’s really just wrapping his arms around the whole that is Ilya Rozanov, and seems to settle into him.
Ilya’s hands go around Shane’s waist, equally soft.
“Not so bad,” Ilya mumbles into Shane’s neck.
Shane wonders, not for the first time, how long it was since someone last held Ilya before he came around. Ilya always holds on a little too tight; a little too long.
And Shane always lets him.
They get turned on during, of course, but it fades – slowly and, yes, a little painfully – when they get out of the shower and Shane dries them both up. Before pulling a clean shirt over Ilya’s head, he softly kisses the bruise. It’s dancing between pink, red and purple now, like an exquisite summer sunset might, and Shane is barely touching the edge of it. He tries to tell the skin the same thing they told each other: I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, I don’t want to hurt you. Each small brush of his lips against the swelling muscle and bone a small promise to nurse it back to health.
For all Shane’s plans for fucking and dining and drinking and fucking some more, it really isn’t so bad to end up on Ilya’s couch. They turned the TV on, but the only other light source is the fireplace.
Ilya’s in his lap, laying on his good side.
One of Shane’s hands is holding a bag of frozen peas against Ilya’s hurt shoulder (while the actual icepacks re-freeze since Rozanov is a human embodiment of a pizza oven); the other is in Ilya’s curls.
It’s not lost on Shane that this is how they sat during the summer, at the cottage. Is it possible to be in two places at once?
The TV channel switches to news and the sports section shows their crash against the boards. It looks gnarly – Ilya’s lucky the shoulder isn’t dislocated or worse.
“Next year you better get me the rose petals and the dinner,” Ilya says, his mouth practically against Shane’s thigh.
Shane’s fingers snag on a particularly wavy curl. “I can get you that and more once you feel better.”
Ilya seems to press himself into Shane’s body even more. “I love you, Shane. Don’t worry about this.”
“I love you too,” Shane breathes and leans over to kiss the top of Ilya’s head.
“Ouch,” Ilya hisses even though Shane was careful to avoid the hurt shoulder. “Kiss it better, Shane.”
A small laugh bubbles out from somewhere in Shane’s chest. “Yeah? And how many kisses should do it?”
“Hm.” Ilya presses his own small kiss against Shane’s leg. “It hurts really bad. Maybe a million.”
“I’m on it,” Shane says, playing along, as he leans down again.
He’ll kiss it better – the shoulder, and whatever else there is to mend, for as long as Ilya lets him. He’ll add the rose petals; the dinner; everything.