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When Ilya wakes up, he feels one thing. Warmth.
The early morning sun streams across the lake, filtering blissfully through the open curtains and heating the bedcovers.
A crinkle of sheets, and Shane burrows tighter into his side, his head hot and heavy against Ilya’s chest. Ilya pulls him closer, basking in the sensation of Shane’s firm body pressed against his. He feels secure. Grounded. As he smells the spearmint shampoo in Shane’s dark hair, he tries to think of the last time he was this happy. Nothing comes to mind. The cottage feels like his home now, too.
As if he can hear Ilya’s loud thoughts, Shane opens his eyes.
‘Hi,’ says Ilya.
‘What time is it?’
‘It does not matter, Hollander. We are on holiday.’
Shane groans and squeezes his eyes shut.
Ilya pushes himself up slightly against the headboard. ‘You okay?’ he asks.
‘Fine,’ mumbles Shane, settling his head back on Ilya. He squints against the bright sunlight. ‘Bit of a headache again. It’s all good.’
‘Do you need sunglasses?’
‘In bed?’
‘Yes. Very stylish.’
‘No,’ says Shane, nuzzling deeper into Ilya. ‘No more sunglasses.’
‘Hmm, shame. Could be very sexy,’ says Ilya, carding his fingers through Shane’s hair, as if to soothe the pain out with his fingers. It’s become somewhat of a ritual, Shane’s concussion still lingering long after his collision with Cliff Marlow; his head slamming into the boards. And then slamming again hard against the ice. It had been serious. Everyone was shocked.
No one more so than Ilya. When Ilya thinks about that day and remembers how his stomach swooped when he saw Shane sprawled unconscious and unmoving on the ice, it makes him feel physically sick.
Ilya has only truly loved two people in his life. He’s seen both unresponsive and he never wants to experience that pain again. He thought Shane was dying, too, lying there on the ice. And even the idea of losing him makes his heart feel like it will rip out of his chest. He knows, deep down, he wouldn’t be able to survive now without him. He's the only family he has left.
‘Did you sleep okay?’ murmurs Shane.
Ilya nods. ‘Yes. You look pretty today, by the way,’ he says, trying to remind himself that Shane is very much alive. Concussed or not, it’s a privilege after so many years to see Shane like this. Relaxed and sleepy and so, so soft. ‘You?’
‘I always sleep well, with you.’
‘Me too. When you ruin me. At night.’
‘Sure, sure. Do you want a smoothie?’ mumbles Shane through a yawn, pressing a soft kiss against Ilya’s chest before he drifts back to sleep. He’s usually neurotic about his morning routine, but he's been sleeping a lot since they came to the cottage five days ago. He naps less than he did when he was recovering at home with his parents, to savour his precious time with Ilya, but he still feels groggy. Pulling himself to full consciousness in the mornings feels like wading through sticky syrup. He has to fight to reach the surface.
‘Will smoothie taste like grass? Or cardboard mixed with grass?’ teases Ilya, mostly because he doesn’t want Shane to escape. He wants to keep him here in bed, maybe forever.
‘Fuck you,’ says Shane quietly, his breath tickling Ilya’s chest. ‘Yes, it will taste like grass. But grass is good for you.’
‘Do I look like cow?’
Shane lips lift at the sides. ‘No.’
‘You’re good for me. Not grass,’ says Ilya. ‘All I need. Is you.’
Shane tries not to melt as he finally pushes himself up, the covers tumbling from his shoulders. He finds his face inches from Ilya’s – where he can see every freckle on his skin, every wrinkle. He loves every inch of this man, every detail, so much. He can't believe he finally has him all to himself. He leans in-
‘You’re not going to brush your teeth?’
‘Stop-’ says Shane.
‘You disgust me,’ jokes Ilya.
‘Fuck you,’ says Shane, crashing their mouths together.
The kiss is furious, their tongues furling together, their hands skimming each other’s bodies as they run over the thick ridges of taut muscles of their torsos and legs.
Ilya feels himself throbbing as he claws his fingers up and down Shane’s back.
Shane groans, growing hard and firm against Ilya’s leg, pressing himself willingly into Ilya, melting into his arms-
It’s too much. Ilya needs to be inside Shane. He needs to be inside now.
He grabs Shane’s thighs and flips him violently on his back. Shane thumps against the bed. Ilya pounces between Shane’s thighs-
‘Woah,’ says Shane, his hands faltering from Ilya’s side and dropping onto the bed. ‘Wait, woah,’ he says again, his voice weak. 'Fuck.'
Ilya stills. He looks up. ‘Shane?’
Shane has a hand clamped over his eyes. ‘The spin. Too fast,’ he manages.
‘Shit,’ says Ilya, shuffling up to the top of the bed. ‘Are you dizzy? Is it your head?'
Shane doesn’t answer.
'Shane?'
Ilya can feel his body start to panic as Shane stays still. He reaches over to the bedside table and grabs a half-empty glass of water with a shaking hand. ‘Here,’ he says, ignoring the racing heartbeat in his chest. ‘Shane? Water. Take it.’
Shane can’t move. The whole room feels like it’s tilting to one side, like he’s about to slide off the bed completely. ‘One minute. Don’t… worry,’ he says breathlessly. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m fine.’
‘Okay,’ says Ilya. ‘I won’t worry.’ He is absolutely worrying. He wants to sound confident, but he doesn’t know what to do, he forgets how to English. He feels like he did on the day of Shane’s accident. ‘Do you… are you… Fuck, I’m sorry,’ he babbles. ‘It’s my fault. I forgot. About concussion.’
Shane plants his spare, clammy hand on Ilya’s thigh, ‘Not your fault,’ he says, determined to sit up as if to prove a point. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine,’ he says, feeling gratified he can reassure Ilya this time around, now that they're finally alone.
‘Sure?’
‘Yes. Fine,’ says Shane. ‘See. I can sit. I didn’t pass out.’
‘Pass out?!’
‘I didn’t!’
‘That’s low standard for being fine, Shane,’ warns Ilya, supporting more of Shane’s weight than he’d like as he helps him lean against the headboard. It doesn’t make him feel better. He scrutinises every movement as Shane starts taking small sips of water. Ilya feels relieved as his cheeks flush from morbidly white to a dusty pink. ‘Okay now?’ he asks, hopefully.
Shane nods slowly. ‘I think so,’ he says, ‘fuck, that was so weird.’
Ilya reaches out and tangles their fingers together. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says again. 'For forgetting.'
After having weeks of people fussing over him – doctors, parents, coaches, physios – Shane feels frustrated that Ilya, the only person that hasn’t treated him like an invalid, seems so worried. In a way, he wanted him to forget. ‘It's literally fine, Ilya. Let's go and eat.'
‘Wait-' says Ilya, gripping onto Shane's shoulder. 'Not yet. How do you feel?’
Shane shrugs him off, feeling stubborn. ‘Fine. My head is hurting more than normal today. Sometimes it just does. Concussions are a bitch. It’s not your fault.’
‘Fucking Marlow,’ Ilya seethes. ‘It's Marlow's fault. Not only did he hurt you, but he ruined my sex life. Twice.’
Shane laughs, quiet breath whooshing out of his chest. ‘What sex life? You haven’t slept with anyone for months.’
‘Just you.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Is not the point, Hollander,’ snaps Ilya. He doesn’t like to see Shane hurt. When Shane’s hurt, Ilya feels his pain too – it physically aches in his chest. And they’re both still hurting now, weeks afterwards. He takes the glass from Shane’s fingers – and realises his hands are still shaking. Shane notices, too.
‘Right,’ says Shane, pushing off the side of the bed. He hides a stumble by reaching down and pulling on the crumpled dark clothes Ilya had ripped off the night before. ‘Grass and cardboard smoothies. Yes?’ he says in a faux Russian accent.
‘Yes,’ says Ilya, eyeing Shane nervously.
As they head down the stairs, Shane walking behind Ilya, he still doesn’t feel okay.
In fact, he doesn’t feel okay, at all.
He feels sick, dizzy, and shaky. The air on the stairs dances in front of his eyes. The whole world feels like its glitching under his feet. He grips the banister tightly to stop himself from slipping.
He can’t tell Ilya. He’s worried him enough.
Wordlessly, he makes a quick plan when he wobbles into the kitchen behind him; make the smoothies quickly and tell Ilya to choose a film – preferably a quiet one with no cars blowing up - so he can plant his ass down on the sofa, not move for the rest of the day, and sleep off whatever shit his brain is trying to pull. Anything, so that Ilya won’t notice he's struggling.
‘Shane? Are you sure you’re okay?’ asks Ilya, his voice thick with concern.
Fuck. He noticed.
Shane tries to wave him off, but his body floods with a worrying heat as he pulls the blender out of a dark kitchen cupboard.
He reaches for the bunch of browned bananas from his marble fruit bowl, but his stomach churns. He knows he won’t be able to drink it, even if he wanted. His whole body feels heavy. Feverish.
Before he can give himself away, before his body can betray him, Shane walks towards the kitchen door, aiming for the bathroom in the hallway so that he can splash cold water on his face away from Ilya's prying eyes.
He doesn't even make it halfway across the massive kitchen (seriously, why did he build the house to be this fucking big?!) when cold sweat sprouts on his forehead, and pearls on his palms. Not fucking good.
‘Shane?’
‘I’m fine, Ilya,’ says Shane, but his tongue feels thick in his mouth. He feels drunk as he slumps sideways into a kitchen counter near to the door. He’s completely lost his balance-
Fuck.
‘What’s going on?’
'I'm fine-' says Shane.
'Are you?!'
Shane shakes his head. ‘No. I think I need to sit down-’ he slurs.
‘What? Shane?!’
It’s too late.
Shane’s knees buckle.
Ilya runs towards him, grabbing his elbow in a vice grip. ‘Shane? Sit, okay. Sit. I’ve got you. Sit-’
Shane doesn’t even feel himself fall.
‘Shane? Shane?’
One second Shane is leaning against the counter, and the next his eyes roll back in his head and he slumps into Ilya with a groan.
‘What the fuck?’ shouts Ilya. ‘Shane? Shane?!'
Shane’s dead in his arms, his entire body dragging them both down to the cold kitchen tiles. Ilya's muscles scream from holding him up at such an awkward angle. He doesn't know what to do.
He tries to lay Shane down on the floor. It’s impossible. Their limbs tangle together as he prioritises catching Shane’s lifeless head before it bashes against the counter – his unconscious body desperate to crash to the ground.
He almost slips from Ilya's grip. Both men fall, Shane limp and pale as he sprawls against the floor, caught in Ilya’s arms.
Ilya frantically pulls himself out from underneath him and cups Shane’s burning cheeks in his hands.
His eyes are closed. His breathing too slow. His body too limp.
But he's warm.
Warm.
Warm.
He’s breathing.
Shane’s breathing.
Shane’s alive.
Alive.
Ilya repeats the word over and over and over and over again in his head.
Alive.
Shane isn’t dead.
He’s just fainted.
Hasn’t he?
FUCK.
Panic sets in now. Ilya feels it snatch the oxygen from his lungs.
He needs Shane to wake up. The whole world will spin apart if he doesn't.
‘Please, Shane,’ pleads Ilya, his voice breaking. ‘Come back to me,’ he says in Russian. ‘Please, don’t leave me. Shane? Shane.’
He taps Shane’s cheek, softly at first. He runs his hands over Shane’s hair, blows air on his cheek.
Nothing.
Ilya screams a swear word in Russian as tears well in his eyes, striping hot streaks down his cheek. He sits on the kitchen floor, pulls Shane into his lap, and sobs. He rocks them softly back and forth, his back thumping against the counter with each movement.
When all is lost, Shane twitches under his fingers.
Ilya jumps. ‘Shane? Can you hear me? Shane?’ he asks. He forces his voice to be soft. Calming. But it sounds broken in his throat. He wants to scream.
‘Urghh,’ says Shane. ‘What the fuck-’ he mumbles, his arms flailing against Ilya.
Ilya doesn’t know whether to laugh or continue sobbing. Neither. Both. He holds Shane firmly against him. ‘Can you hear me?’ he asks. 'Are you okay?'
Eventually, Shane nods. ‘What happened?’ he asks, looking around and realising that he’s lying on the kitchen floor, half in Ilya's arms.
‘You fainted. Is okay. I caught you.’
Shane stares up at him, his large eyes brimming with confusion. ‘Fainted?’
‘Yep,’ says Ilya, flatly. ‘Like a stupid damsel in distress. Very fucking dramatic.’
‘Very dramatic.’ Shane repeats, the world coming back into focus, finally, for the first time all morning. ‘I’ve never fainted.’
‘Fucking Cliff Marlow,’ mutters Ilya. He vows to kill him when they get back into training. His whole body burns with frustration. He wants to go out on the ice and punch someone, maybe smash them into the boards, too. Harder than Cliff did with Shane. That would make him feel better.
Wouldn't it?
Three years ago, it would have done. He doesn't know what he needs anymore.
Shane’s eyes suddenly widen, his muscled arm reaching up and brushing something wet from Ilya’s cheeks. ‘Ilya, you’re crying.’
Ilya hastily swipes the tears away on his shoulder, but he can’t hide them. They fall, harder and thicker and more obvious than ever.
‘Please don’t-’ says Shane. ‘I actually feel fine now,’ he says. Sort of.
‘Liar,’ Ilya snaps. ‘You said that before. And then you faceplant. And try to break your pretty face. Again.’
Shane tries to sit up. He wants to hug Ilya. To reassure him. To pull him close.
‘No fucking way,’ says Ilya. ‘No standing. No walking. No fucking sitting. Just lying still, and being quiet.'
‘Ilya, I’m fine,' protests Shane, trying to break out of the fortress of Ilya's arms.
'No. Not fine. Far from fine,’ says Ilya. He crouches into a squat, and wraps one arm around Shane’s shoulders, and tucks the other under his knees. ‘Hold on to me,’ he says, pulling Shane up and into his arms.
Shane clasps his hands around Ilya’s neck.
'Okay?' asks Ilya.
'Okay,' says Shane, tucking his face into Ilya's neck as the house spins and his head hurts. He feels Ilya walk down the steps as he carries him through to the living room and lays him gently on one of the large sofas that look out onto the glittering lake.
Like a mother, Ilya grabs one of the plaid throws hanging on the back of the sofa, and pulls it over Shane, tucking him in. 'Okay?' he checks in again.
'Okay,' repeats Shane.
‘Good. Stay,’ he commands, with a harsh point.
Shane stays. He wouldn't dare move an inch. Not when Ilya is like this.
When Ilya comes back into the room, Shane is looking out the window and smiling. Ilya wants to kick him in the face. In all his years of being alive, he has never, not once, felt more worried and stressed and anxious than the man he loves collapsing lifeless against him. And Shane is fucking smiling about it?!!!!!
‘What is so fucking funny?’ snaps Ilya.
‘You caught me, Ilya. I can’t believe I fainted, and you caught me,’ says Shane with a smile, turning to face a wild Ilya looming over him in the doorway with his piercing eyes and messy curls. Secretly, despite being mortally embarrassed at fainting in Ilya’s fucking arms, there’s something so comforting about Ilya looking after him. About a man that sexy being his nurse. He wouldn’t want it to be anyone else. He feels safe with Ilya. And after everything, that makes Shane love him even more.
‘How are you feeling now?’ asks Ilya, perching on the sofa besides Shane, and brushing a hand over Shane's hair, and pressing a kiss to his forehead. He breaks away and hands him another glass of water, and a cereal bar from the kitchen. 'Eat and drink.'
‘It was like my brain needed a reset. So would you believe me if I said I was feeling a little better?’ asks Shane, taking the water.
Ilya pouts. ‘No.’
‘I am. I promise.’
'You are going to eat this,’ says Ilya, wiggling the bar in Shane's face. ‘We are going to ring doctor, or your team medic to check you don't need hospital. Then, you take painkillers or whatever. And then, when everything is okay, you do not move from that sofa. Not one inch. I will look after you. Make you toastie. And if you're really lucky, I might even read you your boring hockey book. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ says Shane. He doesn't feel scolded at all, he feels surprisingly warm. ‘Ilya?' he adds.
'What?'
'Please don't cry anymore.'
Ilya angrily brushes another tear away. In fact, from the moment Shane fainted, they haven’t stopped. They feel almost infinite.
‘I’m really sorry,' says Shane. 'I'm sorry if I scared you.'
‘Is okay,’ says Ilya. ‘As long as you’re okay now.'
'Yes,' says Shane, tucking into his blanket. 'Look,' he says. 'Alive. Conscious. Eating. Fine.'
'Good,' says Ilya, raking his hands down his face. 'Seeing you, like that. It scared me.'
'I just fainted, Ilya. It's okay.'
'No... it's not just that.'
'What then?'
'It reminded me of my mother. When I found her,’ says Ilya. ‘Both times. At the hockey game, and today. It makes me feel... what's the word? When I can't do anything. When I want to help, but I can't?’
'Helpless,' supplies Shane.
'Helpless,' repeats Ilya. 'I do not like it.' More tears fall. 'With my mother, I was too late. She was already gone.'
‘Ilya, listen to me,’ says Shane, suddenly earnest. ‘Yes, I may have a fucked up head for a few weeks,’ he says. 'Yes, I am not fully myself right now. But what I am sure of is that I love you. Okay?'
Ilya nods.
'I love you more than anyone or anything,' says Shane. 'I didn’t think I would ever be able to love anyone as much as I love you. So I’m not going anywhere. I am never leaving you. Never.’
Ilya’s chin wobbles, and Shane pushes himself up, kissing the tears from Ilya’s cheeks as they fall, one by one.
'I love you, too,' says Ilya, kissing Shane softly. It's the softest kiss they've ever shared. 'That is enough,' says Ilya, pulling away. 'I don't want you dying again. Please lie down.'
Shane sinks back into the pillows. ‘Thank you for looking after me.'
‘Is okay,’ says Ilya, soothing the blanket lying across him. 'Just never, ever do that again.'
Shane's eyes slowly drift shut. He's tired, and his head hurts. ‘I promise,’ he says. 'Fucking Cliff Marlow.'
‘Fuck Cliff Marlow,’ repeats Ilya, a hint of a smile lighting his face.