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Shane doesn’t notice his headache until they’re nearly back to his cottage. The stress and anxiety of the last few hours followed by the slow bloom of relief at having his parents finally in on their secret have masked the tension creeping up the back of his neck and the band of pain that’s wrapping like a slowly closing vise around his skull.
He pulls his car into the driveway and blinks against the brightness of the late afternoon sun before looking over at Ilya. “Thank you,” he says. “For coming with me. I—I don’t know if I could have done that by myself.”
Ilya smiles and reaches over to cup the back of Shane’s neck. “I think you could have. But I am glad I was here. Was nice to meet your family.” He studies Shane’s face. “You are okay?”
“Yeah.” Shane nods, a small spike of pain going through his forehead. He ignores it. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m…relieved. I’m glad they know. I want them to know you. It’s good. This is…this is all good.”
“Yes, it is.”
Shane unbuckles his seatbelt. “They like you, you know? I can tell. I know they were a little shocked and weird today, but they do.”
“Of course they like me.” Ilya flashes him one of those wicked smiles he uses when he’s about to be annoying as hell. “I am likable person. Everyone likes me.”
“Not Montreal,” Shane tells him as they climb out of the car. “Montreal fucking hates you.”
“Montreal loves me. They think it is hate, but deep down, they enjoy watching me kick your asses. Is, how you call? Ah! Toxic relationship.”
“Sometimes I wish you spoke less English,” Shane says.
It’s when they’re inside that the intensity growing inside of his head begins to fully take hold. Shit. He hasn’t had a headache in over two weeks. He’d thought he was past this point of concussion recovery. It’s probably been brought on by the stress of the afternoon. Shane is somewhat prone to headaches anyway, so he shouldn’t be surprised that one has arisen on the day he accidentally outed himself as gay by letting Ilya play grabass in his backyard in front of his dad, but the timing still sucks.
Hopefully he can pop a couple of the pills he has left and make it go away. He doesn’t want to waste a single second of the time they have here together. It’s only been four days, but he can already feel the rest of their two weeks slipping by and he’s desperate to hold on.
“You want to go back down to the lake?” Ilya asks. “You did not go for a swim earlier.”
“It’s cold,” Shane protests.
“What is point of having lake if you do not go in it?”
“It’s nice to look at.”
Ilya takes a step toward him and wraps a hand around his hip, that ridiculous smirk on his face. “You are also nice to look at, but more fun when I am inside you. Just like lake.”
Shane huffs an incredulous laugh. “Ew, Ilya.”
“Is true. Come on. I want to try skinny dipping.” He sticks his lip out in a little pout and Shane is helpless, unable to deny him anything.
“Fine. Give me a minute.” Shane turns and heads toward his bedroom.
“Okay!” Ilya calls after him. “I will be down there waiting. All alone. And naked.”
“Don’t drown!” Shane calls back, letting out a soft chuckle at the stupidity of their banter.
The pills the doctor gave him are in the front of the medicine cabinet and he swallows them down with a sip of water, grimacing at the slightly bitter taste they leave on the back of his tongue. After he’s put them tidily back where they belong, he takes a moment to massage at his forehead, as if that will actually do something. It hasn’t before, and it doesn’t now, but he tries in vain anyway.
He’s supposed to take the pills with food, so he grabs a few saltines from the kitchen, munching on them as he heads down to the lake. He can see Ilya splashing around doing some kind of crazy backstroke-doggy paddle hybrid and he has to bite back a laugh. The man can skate with the best of them, but his swimming skills are lacking.
“What took you so long?” he calls when he spots Shane.
“You’re so needy,” Shane fires back, settling onto a damp flat rock near the edge of the lake.
“Mmm, I was not the one begging for dick last night,” Ilya reminds him.
He’s not wrong.
“Come in with me.” Ilya swims closer. “It will be fun.” He waggles his eyebrows mischievously, making it clear exactly what kind of fun he’s planning.
“That water is so cold, there’s no way you can get it up in there.”
“I am Russian. If we had to wait until it was warm to fuck we would have died off centuries ago. Come in here.”
He punctuates the command with a little shimmy and then his sopping wet boxer briefs land with a loud splat on the rock next to Shane.
There’s no good reason to say no other than the pressure that’s still building behind his eyes and that Shane sometimes likes torturing his boyfriend (his boyfriend!) by refusing to give in to his demands for a little bit.
“Shane,” Ilya says, his tone going dark and commanding as he treads water. “Come in with me.”
God help him, he can’t resist that voice. So he stands, pulling his shirt off over his head and letting it drop next to Ilya’s shorts. He doesn’t even fold it this time, just lets it sit there in a little pile of fabric. See Ilya? He can be wild too.
His shorts follow, although he leaves his boxer briefs on. Better to take those off when he’s underwater.
Ilya’s eyes watch him, leonine and hungry, as Shane steps toward the edge of the lake. Shane loves these moments where it feels like he’s the one with the power. Ilya might play the role of boss in their relationship, but he’s so twisted up around Shane’s little finger that he’ll never be able to untangle himself again. And Shane doesn’t mind reminding him of that once in a while.
The sexy spell between them lasts until Shane’s feet hit the water and then he yelps. “Jesus, Rozanov! It’s fucking freezing!”
“Oh be a man Hollander,” Ilya says with a roll of his eyes. “Get in the fucking lake or I’m going to drag you in.”
Shane sucks in a breath and wades carefully up to his knees. The sun has sunk deeply into the horizon and the air is growing chillier, making the water even colder than during the daytime. Ilya looks like some kind of vengeful god the way the last of the sun’s rays reflect off the water, highlighting his curls and his skin. He’s beautiful. And he belongs to Shane. It’s staggering.
Until Ilya makes a colossal fart noise and flops dramatically back into the water with a splash. “I am dead Hollander. I have died of old age in the time it is taking you to get in here.”
“Oh fuck off Ilya,” Shane says, trying not to wince as the water hits his stomach. He sinks to his shoulders, feet slipping over the rocks on the bottom of the lake’s surface. “There. Happy?”
Ilya grabs his ass and pulls him close, both of them bobbing along with the waves. “Almost.”
His thumbs hook into the waistband of Shane’s boxer briefs and drag them downward. Shane lifts his legs to help untangle them from around his feet and then Ilya tosses them somewhere toward the bank. “Now I am happy,” Ilya tells him, leaning forward to capture his lips.
It’s always such a relief to have Ilya touch him, always feels like something has been missing inside of him until they’re finally together again. Shane wants to lose himself in moments like this, drown in the heat and slick of Ilya’s mouth, surround himself in the cage of his arms and legs and chest.
Their bodies bump together as the water moves around them, nudging them together and pulling them apart, until Ilya grabs Shane under his thighs and pulls them tight around his waist, all space between them gone. They kiss like they have all the time in the world, tongues and lips and wet hands dragging through hair and sliding over skin.
Shane can feel Ilya’s cock pressed against him, still soft despite his claims, and he’s just about to tease him about it when there’s an icepick stab of pain behind his right eye. He lets out a startled grunt and unlocks his legs, putting some distance between them.
Ilya’s hands slip from Shane’s hair to his upper arms. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah I—I’m fine.” He doesn’t want to stop. He wants to hold on and kiss Ilya all night long until they’re both blue with cold.
“No, you are not.” Ilya uses a gentle finger to poke at a spot in the center of Shane’s forehead. “You have wrinkles here. You are in pain?”
Yes. He is. It feels like his brain is being squeezed from the inside.
“Shane, did I hurt you?” Ilya looks upset, concerned that he’s somehow done something to cause Shane harm.
As if he could ever.
“No, I just have a bit of a headache. I think the cold is um,” he struggles to put words together as pain stabs through him again. “I think it’s making it worse.”
“A headache? This is from concussion?”
“Maybe? Probably?” Shane suddenly feels too tired to try and figure it all out. “I haven’t had one in a few weeks.”
“We should go inside,” Ilya says, immediately heading for the shore.
“No, it’s okay, you don’t have to come in. You can stay if you want,” Shane protests.
“Like you said, lake is cold. Come on.”
He holds out a hand and Shane takes it, letting Ilya tow him back toward land. They towel off, Shane’s teeth chattering and causing the ache in his skull to intensify. Either his medication hasn’t kicked in yet, or this is one of those times where the headache is so bad that nothing will help. He really hopes it’s the former and not the latter.
They’re almost back to the house, Ilya shooting worried glances at him with every step across the grass, when the dizziness hits. Fuck. Fuck. Why is this happening tonight?
Shane manages to stumble inside and then immediately grabs onto a barstool, breathing deeply and trying to stabilize himself.
“Shane? Hey. Shane? Talk to me.” Ilya puts a hand on the back of his neck and it grounds him a bit.
“I’m just a little dizzy,” he mumbles, squeezing his eyes closed. “It’s okay, it’s normal.”
“What do I do? Do I call your parents? Do we need to go to hospital?”
Ilya sounds panicked and Shane hates it. He doesn’t want Ilya to be scared. “No, no, don’t call my mom. She’ll freak out. It’s okay. It’ll pass, just give me a minute.”
Ilya growls out something in Russian that Shane doesn’t catch. “What?” he asks.
“I said I’m going to fucking kill Marleau,” Ilya repeats for him.
“S’not his fault,” Shane slurs out. “S’part of the game.”
And really, if anyone is to blame, it’s Shane. He let himself get distracted for one second, let himself experience the joy of the game instead of focusing on the work at hand, and now he’s paying for it. It’s not the worst headache he’s had—the ones in the days following his hospital stay had him in the fetal position—but it’s enough to remind him he can never make this mistake again.
“Okay, time for bed,” Ilya says firmly.
“I need to shower first. I’m covered in lake water.”
Lake water that absolutely will not be touching his sheets. They just made the bed fresh this morning.
“Sweetheart, you are barely standing. How are you going to shower?”
Shane manages to lift his head and make eye contact. “Help me?”
Ilya hesitates, seeming to weigh the choice between helping Shane shower or ordering him to bed immediately. Finally he sighs heavily and nods. “Okay.”
It’s a slow walk to the bathroom. Shane has to stop a few times to clutch Ilya’s bicep and breathe deeply against the nausea that builds in his gut when his head moves just a fraction of the wrong way.
“I think we should skip shower,” Ilya says when they reach the bedroom. “You are going to barf all over if you keep standing like this.”
“I might barf even if I lay down,” Shane tells him, weeks of experience indicating as much. “I’d rather do it in the bathroom than the bed.”
It’s the least sexy shower they’ve ever had together, but something about it is intimate in a whole new way. Shane leans against the wall as Ilya soaps them both up, his fingers gentle as they move over Shane’s body. It makes Shane feel vulnerable, like another wall between them is coming down, and he’s not sure he likes this one dropping away. “I’m sorry,” he says as Ilya scrubs a hand over his chest. “You shouldn’t have to be doing this.”
“You say sorry too much. Is a Canadian thing? Or a Shane Hollander thing?” Ilya asks.
Shane lifts one shoulder in a shrug and risks cracking an eyelid. “I don’t know.”
“Hm.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to Shane’s forehead. “No need to apologize. I do not mind taking care of you. Do you want me to wash your hair?”
“Yes, please.”
It’s a relief to be clean and even more of a relief to dry off and sink down onto his bed. Ilya helps him into a pair of sweatpants, literally lifting his legs for him and pulling them up like Shane is some kind of invalid because every movement of his body is now causing stabs of pain through his skull.
He resists the urge to whimper as he curls up into his pillow. It feels better to be horizontal, like the pain appreciates that he’s giving up the fight and is allowing him a bit of a respite.
“What do you need?” Ilya asks. “Ice? Medicine?”
“I took some already. I don’t think it’s working. Sometimes it doesn’t.”
Ilya hums and squeezes his arm. “I will be back, okay?”
“‘kay.”
Shane lies in misery for a while, shifting positions occasionally, trying to find one that doesn’t hurt as much. It’s futile. It all hurts.
He doesn’t know how long it is—it feels like forever— before Ilya comes back. He sets something on the nightstand and then settles onto the side of the bed that has become his. Gentle fingers slide into Shane’s hair. “I made you tea,” Ilya says softly. “And I brought ice for your head and crackers for when your stomach is better.”
“Thank you,” Shane mumbles.
“And I texted your parents.”
“What?!” His eyes fly open. “Ilya!”
“They are your parents. They need to know that you are unwell,” Ilya says calmly. “I told them you are okay, that I am keeping an eye on you.”
“How do you even have their numbers?”
“David gave me his today when you and your mom went outside.”
Something inside of Shane softens. One of the many knots that he uses to tie himself together loosens and then comes all the way undone. “He did?”
“Yes. And then your mom gave me hers when you went to the bathroom. We are on group text now.”
“You’re in a group text. With my parents.” Six hours ago his parents didn’t even know he was gay. Didn’t know that he and Ilya Rozanov—world class hockey prince and asshole extraordinaire—had committed to spending the rest of the foreseeable future together. And now they’re in a group text.
“Yes. Your mom has asked for hourly updates. And your dad said you like this tea for when your stomach is upset.”
Shane can’t process this, can’t understand how after years of hiding, and pining, and worrying, that they have ended up in this place where he’s being taken care of by a man who loves him and will group text with his parents to find out what tea he likes when he’s sick.
Tears fill his eyes and Ilya’s face immediately drops into deep concern. “What is wrong? The pain is worse?”
“No, no I—I just—”
He desperately needs to be closer, so he risks moving, mushing his body slowly across the mattress until his head is pillowed in Ilya’s lap, a reverse of their night outside by the fire. Ilya, bless him, immediately begins running one hand through Shane’s hair and the other up and down the bare skin of his back. His fingers are so soft, so gentle, it almost feels like the pain is slowly ebbing away under his touch.
“I love you,” Shane says, unsure if the words will actually reach Ilya’s ears because they come out muffled in the fabric of his sweatpants.
They must because Ilya echoes them back. “I love you too.”
“That feels really nice.”
“Mm, I know what you like.”
He does when they’re naked. But apparently also when they’re not. How he’s managed to pick up on Shane’s little habits, his likes and dislikes, over a combined total of about a week of time spent together in the last eight years is unbelievable.
In some ways they barely know each other at all, but in the most important ways, it’s like they’ve been together their whole lives.
“What do you like?” Shane asks. “When you’re sick?”
“I do not get sick.”
It’s such a typical Ilya non-answer and if Shane had the energy he’d hit him with a pillow. “Okay, what about when you’re hurt then?”
They’ve both been lucky, there haven’t been too many major injuries that have kept them off the ice. But he knows Ilya pulled a groin muscle in 2012, took a stick to the face in 2014 requiring five stitches in his eyebrow, and had the aforementioned bruised ribs recently. You don’t play a season of hockey without some kind of pain.
Something changes in the air, the way it does when Ilya finally lets that gaping, lonely part of himself be revealed. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice quiet and a little flat. “When I am hurt I am usually alone.”
Shit. Well now Shane’s heart hurts as badly as his head. He sits up, ignoring the pain and the way the room tilts back and forth. “You won’t be,” Shane tells him firmly. “Not anymore. You have me now, okay?”
Ilya’s eyes search Shane’s face, like he’s desperately trying to find something, and whatever he sees must reassure him because his demeanor softens and he nods. “Yes, I know.”
“Okay.” Shane exhales in relief and sinks back into his lap. “Okay good.”
“You should drink tea,” Ilya says. “And what time did you take medication? Right when we got home? I will put on timer for another dose if you need it.”
“I took it when you went down to the lake,” Shane says. “I’m going to try and sleep it off. That usually works.”
“Do you want me to read to you from boring hockey book? You will sleep so deeply you will wake up like new man.”
“It’s not boring,” Shane grumbles. “And yes. Please.”
“Okay, let’s see.”
Ilya shifts a bit, reaching for the book on Shane’s nightstand. “Chapter twenty-two. Strategies to get you to the Stanley Cup. Spoiler alert, not from reading books.”
“That’s not what it says,” Shane grumbles, closing his eyes.
“How do you know? You have not read this chapter yet.”
“Ilya.”
“Fine. It is not what it says, but it should. You do not win cups by reading. You win by kicking fucking ass on the ice.”
If you had told Shane nine years ago that the worst day of his life would end with Ilya Rozanov cuddling him in bed while reading a hockey biography, he would never have believed it. But that’s exactly what happens.
Ilya reads softly and slowly, pausing once in a while over a word he doesn’t recognize, adding some of his own color commentary, and Shane drifts off to it, feeling safe and warm and loved.
When he wakes up in the morning he’s sprawled across Ilya’s chest and his headache has mostly dissolved into one small knot at the back of his skull. Sunlight streams in the un-shuttered windows, illuminating them both in the warmth of its rays. It feels like for the first time in years, Shane can finally breathe.
He can tell from Ilya’s own breathing that he’s awake too, so he shifts until he’s on his side and can look at him. “Morning,” he says softly.
“Good morning,” Ilya echoes. He runs a hand over Shane’s hair, eyes searching for clues. “How is your head? Feeling better I hope?”
“Yeah, it’s much better.”
“But not all gone?”
“Almost.”
“Hm.”
“Hm? What does that mean?” Shane asks curiously.
“It means your mom will not be happy with the update I will send her in a few minutes.”
“I don’t know if I like that you and my mom are in cahoots.”
Ilya’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Cahoots? What is this? Cahoots? Is another Canadian bird?”
“It means working together.”
“Ah. Well, you are very difficult patient. You require full team for care.”
“I literally got in bed and went to sleep. How is that difficult?”
“You are forgetting that you demanded shower first.”
This is so stupid. Shane loves it. “I might have a few more demands this morning,” he says, unable to stop the smile that spreads across his face.
“Oh really?”
“Mhm, really.”
He pushes up into a more seated position, tilting his face until it’s in the perfect position for Ilya to lean down and kiss him. It’s gentle and sweet and not what Shane wants. He opens his mouth, searching for more and Ilya chuckles against him.
He pulls back and cups Shane’s face, rubbing a thumb over his cheek. “Unfortunately this is demand I cannot give into. We should wait until your head is okay.”
“It’s fine.”
“You said almost. Almost is not the same as fine.”
“It’s fine enough. I want you to fuck me.”
“And I want to fuck you. But we will wait.” He laughs again at the look on Shane’s face. “We have time Hollander. Do not worry.”
And what a dream that is. To be so confident that they’ll get the chance to be together again soon that they don’t have to rush into doing something right now. Even if Shane very much wants to.
“I hate that this keeps messing shit up for us,” he grumbles. He’s forgiven Marleau for the hit that ended his season, but he has not forgiven him for messing up a rare chance at a night alone with Ilya.
Ilya doesn’t respond for a moment, and when he does his voice is soft and a little thick. “I am just glad you are okay. I did not like being apart from you when you were hurt. It was…terrible. Not to know. Not to be with you. I did not sleep all night when you were in the hospital.”
Shane pushes himself up into a seated position. “Ilya,” he says, feeling broken when he sees the emotion on his boyfriend’s face.
Ilya smiles, but traces of something Shane can’t place remain on his face. They’re dark, full of grief or fear or something else that he’s not ready to tell Shane about yet. “Is okay. This time you are in pain, but I am here and that is better, yes? I do not have to worry.”
“I don’t want you to ever have to worry,” Shane tells him.
“Oh, you will play in bubble from now on? We will put pillows all around you to keep you from injury?” Ilya’s smile is genuine now, full of teasing.
“You’re one to talk Mr. I’m Fine Playing With Bruised Ribs.” Shane pokes gently at the still slightly tender spot on the side of his ribcage.
“Yes, well, this injury did not send me to hospital did it? I am not a delicate little flower like Shane Hollander. Russians are sturdy. One hit cannot bring me to my knees.”
Shane rolls his eyes and then swings a leg over, straddling Ilya’s hips. “I can think of other ways to bring you to your knees.”
He leans down and kisses the smile on Ilya’s mouth, letting it be soft and sweet and comforting. He doesn’t like that Ilya was worried and that he was holding all of those feelings inside with no one to tell.
There’s a buzzing sound and Ilya breaks the kiss, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. “Is your mom,” he says. “She wants to know if she should come over.”
“Tell her no and that I’m fine.”
“Mm, I will tell her you still have little headache but is better than last night and I will make you take medicine soon.”
“You’ve spent two hours with my mom and you’re more loyal to her than me.”
“Yes. She has hated me for many years, I must prove myself to her. Also she is good mom.” He finishes his text and then pats Shane’s thigh. “Now come. You should eat something and take your medicine.”
“I can take my medicine all by myself without you or my mom helping me!” Shane tells him as Ilya slides out from underneath him and gets to his feet.
“You are doing a lot of whining today. Do you want me to cook you nice breakfast or not?”
Shane considers this offer. “You’ll make my eggs the way I like them?”
“Yes, I will make your boring eggs the way you like them. Scrambled like a child eats.”
“You like them that way too!” Shane gets out of bed and follows him toward the kitchen.
“Yes, but I put delicious things in mine like cheese, like normal person. You eat yours plain like four year old.”
“It’s called eating clean.”
“It is called being boring.”
“It’s called I’m going to win more cups than you because my body is being fueled by my excellent diet.”
“Avoiding cheese makes you sad, it does not win more cups. Plenty of guys win cups and eat cheese. I am one of them.”
“But,” Shane says, adopting a pointed tone of voice, “if you—”
“I have already given up cigarettes, I am not giving up cheese. Or sugar. Or anything else that makes food taste good. Now,” he plunks a glass of water on the counter and magically produces the pill bottle holding Shane’s headache medicine, “you will take these and drink all this water and sit here with me while I make eggs and then maybe later, if you are good and your head is not hurting, I will fuck you so slow and deep that you will still be feeling it next season, okay?”
“And if I’m not good?” Shane has every intention of taking his medication, but it’s fun to see what Ilya will say when pressed.
“Then I will call your mom. Hello? Yuna? Yes, this is Ilya Rozanov, best hockey player in the NHL and your son’s boyfriend. Shane is being a big baby and will not listen to me.”
“You’re bossy,” Shane says, swallowing the pills down.
“Yes, is maybe your favorite thing about me,” Ilya deadpans, turning on the gas for the stove.
He does love when Ilya tells him what to do. But even more he loves that Ilya is making him breakfast. That Ilya sat at his parents’ table yesterday and didn’t flinch when Shane’s mom questioned his loyalty to Boston. That Ilya came here, gave up his summer to be with Shane and spent all of last night taking care of him.
He loves so much about Ilya, and being bossy has gone so far down the list.
“No,” Shane corrects Ilya softly. “It’s not.”
Ilya frowns. “You are looking at me with sappy eyes. What is in your head?”
“I’m just, I’m really glad you’re here.”
Ilya steps away from the stove and comes around the island, cupping Shawn’s cheek and giving him a soft kiss. “I am glad too.”