Work Text:
So tell me why I gotta live without you?
'Cause all I wanna do is be around you
In my arms, I could've sworn that you didn’t leave
It felt so real to me, just like a fever dream
Why does it feel so good to disregard reality?fever dream, Sabrina Carpenter
Ilya is in a terrible mood by the time he’s punching Hollander’s backdoor code.
For starters, they lost to fucking Montreal tonight, which always puts him and his teammates in a weird downer loop that he knows is going to last for weeks. On top of that, his Coach wanted him to stick around after the game to talk about ‘what the hell was that’ which any other day might have been a minor inconvenience except tonight all Ilya could think is ‘I could be getting laid already’. It’s been months of their schedules not lining up and if he doesn’t get Shane Hollander under him in the next couple hours he might genuinely murder someone about it. To top it all off, it is fucking freezing and raining in stupid Montreal, which he, of course, didn’t account for when leaving the hotel so, after walking three blocks from where the Uber left him, he is drenched and shivering in a very undignified way for a Russian. He can’t feel the tip of his nose.
“Fucking finally,” the door buzzes open and he runs up, taking the steps two by two in hopes it’ll warm him up.
The door swings open just as he’s reaching Hollander’s floor, and there is the man himself, already blushing even if Ilya hasn’t even said a damn thing. Ilya crosses the space between them in three long steps and has Hollander’s warm mouth on his a second before the door locks behind them. His hair is almost as wet as Ilya’s, probably from his second post-game shower, but his body is radiating heat in a way that he finds most welcome.
Hollander moans against Ilya’s mouth, in a particular tone that he’s come to know as an impatient ‘get on with it’. Ilya laughs and starts taking off his clothes immediately. He finds Hollander’s hands fumbling too against his light jacket, his shirt, his pants. He must be needier than usual because he lack the precision Ilya has come to expect from him. Regardless, getting rid of his soaked clothes is a big relief. Getting Shane Hollander half naked is an even bigger one.
Ilya kisses Hollander’s neck, feeling the warmth of his skin against his tongue. The heat is still welcome, but without the cold clothes Ilya’s body is quickly regulating its temperature. He wraps a hand around Hollander’s back, pressing firm fingers against the curve of his waist, and finds the skin there clammy and still too warm.
He pulls back, bringing a hand to hold Hollander’s jaw carefully. Now that he is warm, he finds the contact with his skin jarring.
“Hollander, you’re hot,” he says, blinking.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” he replies, chasing his lips.
When they kiss, Ilya feels the temperature of his mouth against his, the heat of his breath, how wet his forehead is. He pulls back, frowning.
“No, you’re too hot. Sick.”
And Hollander… doesn’t look surprised. Just annoyed.
“S’fine. S’nothing,” he rolls his eyes, grabbing Ilya’s hips and pulling him flush against his body. “Just a fever.”
“You are not well,” Ilya says. He doesn’t mean it as an accusation, but it comes out a little too sharp.
Hollander recoils just enough to glare at him. An angry kitten face that even in the midst of all this makes Ilya’s heart jump a little.
“Well enough to beat you tonight.”
“You played sick.” Shocked, Ilya takes a step back.
Hollander sways.
“Ah,” Ilya steps forward and catches him by the arm, feeling his heart speed up a little. Now that he’s paying attention, the warmth is concerning. “Let’s sit you down.”
Perhaps more concerning is the fact that Hollander lets himself be dragged to the couch with barely a groan.
Ilya thinks about his words. He replays their game from earlier. He had thought that Hollander was more focused than usual. Not in his normal intense way, but with a more unsteady kind of focus, like he was afraid the game might slip out of his control any second. Ilya had just assumed Hollander was horny and distracted by their upcoming sex. He’s a little disappointed to find out the truth. He’s also a little disappointed in himself for missing it.
“You played sick.” This time, it is an accusation.
“Coach said so long as I could stay on the skates,” Hollander sighs, dropping on the couch with a sigh.
Ilya’s jaw ticks. Hollander rests his head back on the cushions. His face flushed. His breath uneven. His hair isn’t wet from a shower but drenched in sweat, sticking to his forehead. Ilya brushes it off and when his fingers meet skin again he swears under his breath.
Hollander is burning up. Playing a fucking hockey game, with all the effort and the gear on probably didn’t help. This cannot be good for his brain.
Pushed by the need to do something about it, Ilya stands up. Shane’s hand shoots out and grabs his wrist immediately.
“Don’t go,” his voice trembles. “I’m sorry. I’m okay. I promise. I can- I want you. Please don’t leave.”
Ilya shakes his head. Even feverish, Hollander is a needy hungry thing. But he wouldn’t take advantage of it. Not if he thinks it will hurt him.
“Relax, Hollander. I’m just going to get you something for this,” he says. “Where is your medicine cabinet?”
“Hmm?” Hollander blinks, confused, still not letting go.
“Your medicine, Hollander.”
“Ah, uh, linen closet. Up the stairs. Just before the bedroom.”
“Okay.” Ilya tries to move but he’s still trapped by Hollander’s desperate hot grip. “I’m not leaving. I promise. You just…” his brain defaults to what he know will work. Bossing him around. “Now, Hollander, let go. I will be back. And when I do, you will be waiting here for me like good boy, yes?”
Hollander’s breath catches as he releases Ilya’s arm. His eyes darken with desire. “Okay,” he whispers.
Ilya moves before Shane’s obedience breaks his self control.
It takes him a couple guesses to find what a fucking linen closet is, but when he does he finds Hollander’s (neatly alphabetically ordered) medicine stash. He grabs paracetamol and NyQuil and hurries back downstairs. He makes a pitstop by the kitchen to grab a glass of water and, struck by an old memory of his childhood, he wets several rags with cold water and brings them over.
Hollander is slumped back on the couch, brow furrowed with something that isn’t confusion. When Ilya sits back down by his legs, his eyes snap open.
“You came back.”
“Didn’t leave. Here, take this,” he hands Hollander the pill and the water. He takes it without even questioning it. Ilya tries not to think too much about that trust, about how someone else could so easily abuse it.
“I’m so cold,” Hollander shivers.
“You’re hot, actually. You just feel cold. But we can’t warm you up right now, Hollander. You need to cool down.”
“You need to cool down,” he groans, which doesn’t make much sense.
Perhaps Ilya is too late to avoid his brain melting. He decides to try anyway, resting one of the wet rags over Shane’s forehead. He sees immediately the way his entire body sags with relief.
“Oh, that’s nice,” he mumbles, as Ilya puts two more tags on either of his wrists. Shane closes his eyes and sighs, content. “Thank you.”
Ilya tries very hard to pretend like his heart doesn’t do a little squishy thing at that.
“You’re welcome, you idiot. This is what you do when you’re sick, by the way, not play a fucking hockey game while burning up.”
Shane honest to god pouts. “I didn’t want to miss it.”
“There’s more important things than hockey, Hollander.”
“But it’s been so long! It’s been months!” Hollander’s eyes are still closed. “And I really wanted to play against you. It’s- it’s my favorite thing in the world. Okay, maybe second favorite.”
Shane’s face blushes even more, in a way far too adorable to be just the result of a fever.
“You like playing against me?” Ilya teases, keeping his tone playful even if he knows the truth, because part of him just hungers to hear Hollander say it and he’s increasingly suspicious that the man might be too delirious to even attempt lying.
“Always,” Shane smiles. “All the time. Hockey is great, and I’m great, but when we play Boston it’s like… like I am better, and we come alive. I love it. And I miss it. I miss him. All the time.”
“Him?”
“Ilya.”
Oh.
Oh this is bad.
He needs to get out of here before this gets worse. But before he can’t even attempt to move he feels that hot iron grip on his writ again.
“You can’t tell him,” Shane’s eyes are open now, unfocused and glassy. He looks at him at the edge of panic. “You can’t tell Ilya that I-“ his voice cracks. “He can’t know. Please.”
“Hollander, relax. I won’t tell him,” Ilya says, earnestly, which is nonsensical.
“He will leave me,” Shane’s voice wavers so much it hurts. “He will see. If he knows he will know.”
Ilya’s English isn’t perfect but he’s pretty sure that didn’t make sense.
“And he can’t know I… have feelings,” Shane’s voice cracks with desperation and Ilya is torn between wishing to ease his despair and remembering how to breathe. “He will realize that I’m- that this isn’t convenient anymore. That I’m a problem. I always think I’ll end it, but I- I won’t. I like him too much. But he- he will one day. Ilya will find someone better and easier, someone he can have more with. And he will leave. I’m always scared he won’t come back.”
Something inside Ilya’s chest constricts, like he pulled a muscle in training but a million times worse. He brushes a thumb over Hollander’s cheek, tracing his freckles.
“He would be an idiot to leave you.”
Shane frowns, looking offended. “He’s not an idiot. He’s smart. He’s so smart, and funny and charming. He’s too good for-“
“I heard he’s an asshole,” Ilya tries to deviate.
“He is,” Shane laughs closing his eyes again and settling down, as if he found that reality comforting. “But it’s an act. He’s an asshole because he is soft inside, like a gooey cookie. He is kind. And a little sad. I wish I could fix it.”
Ilya helps Shane settle down, hoping his silence will end this conversation before he takes any more knives to the chest… but apparently Shane isn’t done undoing him.
“I think about it,” he goes on. “I wish I could be… his. That he would let me make him unsad sometimes. I wish I could look after him.”
The stiff muscle in his chest unwinds all at once and melts into a puddle at his feet.
“Don’t tell Ilya,” Shane whispers again, begging. “I don’t want him to leave me.”
Ilya shushes him softly. “He won’t. It’s okay.”
When Shane stops talking, for a second, it’s a relief. Then he goes very still, too quiet, and panic seizes him. Did he pass out? That can’t be good. Maybe Ilya should’ve called an ambulance. Fuck. But when he presses his hand to Shane’s cheek he finds it less searing than before. And then he snores softly.
Oh, good. The medicine must be working. And the NyQuil, clearly.
Ilya sits back up, feeling his pulse even out. He watches Shane sleep.
He should leave.
He promised he wouldn’t.
He feels like an asshole.
Ilya makes time. He gets dressed again on his wet clothes, he picks Shane’s up too and carefully folds them on the chair next to him. He washes some dirty dishes Hollander must have left (another clear indication that the man is far more sick than he was letting on). He takes the rags that have grown warm and wets them again. Shane doesn’t wake up when he puts them back in place.
And then Ilya waits some more.
(He goes over the conversation more times than he would ever admit. He feels like a priest receiving confession. He feels like a thief.)
He waits until he knows he can’t.
If Ilya could, he would stay. But he knows that come morning Shane —his Shane who is standoffish and bitchy and oh so paranoid— will be furious at him if he risked their years-long secret over some feverish sentimentality.
He should leave before anyone notices his absence.
Ilya takes away the rags that have grown warm again and shoves them with others he supposes will soon go into the washing machine. Then, he comes back and checks on Shane’s temperature one last time, pressing his fingers to his forehead gently. With immense relief, he confirms it’s much better. Still warm but far closer to normal. A good night’s sleep should do the rest.
On a whim, he leans down and presses his lips to Shane’s forehead with a kiss that has no place in what they actually are to each other.
“Ilya…?”
He pulls back, caught. Shane’s eyes are only half open, more present than before even through the veil of sleep. The way he looks at him, completely unguarded and awed, feels like a dagger to the heart.
“Is okay, Shane. Go back to sleep.”
Shane smiles and does as he is told, settling down with a gentle hum of satisfaction. Ilya feels like he might die.
It feels like torture to get up and leave. But he does. Quietly. Carefully. Like a thief in the night.
Jane: Asshole
What in the hell?
Jane: Why didn’t you come last night?
Jane: I fell asleep fucking waiting for you
Ilya blinks at the messages, rubbing his eyes in hopes it will ease the headache starting to pound the back of his skull. It would be easier if airports didn’t keep their fucking lights so high.
His sleep deprived brain struggles to catch up with why Shane is saying. And then it clicks.
He doesn’t remember.
Ilya should be happy about it. He should be thankful. He is. Really, he is. Whatever happened last night was a disaster in the making, risked undoing the careful balance they’ve precariously kept all these years. It’s best that Shane doesn’t remember everything he said. He was just delirious.
Ilya: fuck
Ilya: my bad
Ilya: i think im coming down with smth
Not the most creative excuse.
Jane: Shit
Jane: Yeah, me too I think.
Jane: Maybe we caught the same bug?
Ilya represses a laugh.
Ilya: probably
He watches three dots bounce on the screen several minutes until the next message finally comes.
Jane: How are you feeling? Are you okay?
It’s so stupid the way it makes his chest twist. I wish I could look after him.
Ilya: fine
Ilya: tired
Ilya: didn’t sleep much
It feels only fair to avoid lying to Shane, since he holds truths only he knows now. Like giving him honesty will somehow fix the imbalance.
Jane: ok
The dots appear at the bottom of his screen. Typing, typing, typing. Then nothing. Ilya frowns down at his phone, fighting a new wave of unease. It’s not the first time they miss a chance to fuck. It sucks. But they take what they can and they never ask for more. That’s the deal. No point in mopping about it. Except…
I’m always scared he won’t come back.
Ilya pictures Shane at home, maybe with his cheeks still flushed from the fever, his hair sticky with sweat, no memory of last night, wondering why Ilya hadn’t come. Thinking he didn’t. It makes something inside him ache with the need to fix it.
Ilya: I’m sorry
Ilya: it sucks
Ilya: was looking forward to it
And then, because he can’t help it.
Ilya: will have to save all four orgasms i wanted to give you for next time
And there it is, hidden between the crass (if honest) comment: a promise. They don’t usually do that. They pretend there won’t be a next. They don’t say it out loud but it’s always there. ‘This is the last time’. ‘We should stop doing this’. ‘This can’t go on forever’. But just as Hollander admitted last night, he also knows that he doesn’t have it in himself to stop. And, after last night, he knows with even more certainty than before that he never will. Not while knowing how it will hurt Shane, even if he will try to hide it.
Jane: 🙄
Jane: It’s ok.
Jane: I will collect. With interests.
Jane: Next time you better not be sick.
Ilya actually laughs at that. Marley’s face snaps up, sending him a curious knowing look. Ilya flips him off, walking further away before typing back.
Ilya: you said you were sick too
Ilya: so not just my fault
Ilya: are you better now?
He will never admit to it out loud, specially not to Hollander, but he’d freaked out a little back there. It’s embarrassing how close he came to panic over the idea of the other man’s brain melting or something on his watch.
Jane: Much better.
Jane: Guess I just needed a good night sleep.
Relived, Ilya sighs and lets the last of last night’s worries fade away.
Ilya: aa
Ilya: this is code for sexy dreams right
He imagines Hollander’s laugh.
Jane: Yes.
What.
Ilya: oh?
Jane: Sexy nurse and all.
Ilya: russian nurse?
Jane: No.
He laughs, shaking his head. Hollander is full of shit. But then he remembers that look he gave him last night, his cloudy eyes, the unguarded want in them, the way he said his name. His first name.
Ilya: liar
Ilya: was wearing sexy nurse outfit?
Jane: Not you.
Jane: A nice nurse.
Ilya: i am nice
Jane: You’re an asshole.
Ilya: yes also
Jane: Gotta go to practice. Have a nice flight.
And then after a moment:
Jane: At least the game was fun last night.
Ilya’s chest is so warm he is afraid he might melt into a puddle right there. It would be unfortunate.
Ilya: yes
Ilya: it’s always good game against you.
Jane: Especially because we beat you 😉
Ilya: now who is asshole
Jane: Still you.
Ilya: i won’t be so nice next time
And, oops, there it is again. Next time.
Jane: Good.
Jane: Until next time, then.
Ilya: three weeks
Jane: See you then.
Ilya puts his phone away before he says something stupid like ‘take care of yourself’ or ‘you shouldn’t go to practice sick’ or ‘I miss you all the time too’.
What the hell is wrong with him?
“You’re blushing, Rozy,” Marley grins as he sits back down next to him.
“How many times do I have to tell you? Russians don’t do this. I am just… maybe sick.”
Marley frowns and, before Ilya can dodge it, presses a hand to his forehead. “Shit man, you are kinda hot. I think you’ve got a fever.”
Ilya laughs, leaning into the cold touch of his friend’s hand. Of fucking course. That’s it. That’s all this is. He’s just being a little bit delusional too.
It’s the fever. It will pass