Chapter Text
It was the last game before Christmas, Ilya had hoped that he and Shane might have a few days before he had to fly to Ottawa, but his parents had been at the game, and they would fly together.
It was a shitty game, Boston had won 5-1, with Hollander scoring once and Ilya three times, with one assist. And a rookie scoring the last time. Hollander had played like shit. And there was a kind of glassy sheen over his eyes during the entire game. Especially in the last part, where he wasn’t even on the ice, but sitting on the bench.
Ilya hasn’t broken his nose or lost any teeth. But he has two black eyes after he got into a fight with Hayden after checking Shane into the boards. So that is hurting like hell. Maybe he should go out? Even if most of the team is going home to their families, possibly a few might still respond to going to a club. Or Sveta might…
The doorbell is ringing, hopefully, it’s Sveta. She started ringing the doorbell after catching him and Shane naked a few weeks earlier.
Ilya pads to the front door, bare feet on the heated floor.
He opens the door and freezes. There in front is Shane, grey-pale, and behind him his parents, looking very confused.
“Eh, hello,” Ilya says. They’re supposed to be on a plane in ten minutes.
Shane’s mother is about to say something when, instead, Shane vomits. His body almost crumbles forward, and Ilya steps back quickly, in time to avoid most of it. But doesn’t have time to reflect, as Shane collapses forward towards the puddle. In the last minute, Ilya steadies him and brings both arms around him.
“Sorry,” Shane says. He’s shaking, not only from vomiting but also from being feverish.
“Mr. Rozanov, we are so sorry, ehm…” Shane’s mother says. Yuna, Mrs. Hollander. “Shane couldn’t fly, and there aren’t any hotels with free rooms, and Shane, for some reason, thought that…”
“We didn’t know he gave us your address,” Mr. Hollander supplies.
Ilya narrows his eyes at Mrs. Hollander and turns to Shane, now drooling against his chest. Shane looks like he’s going to faint.
“It is no problem,” he says. “Come in, please,” he says, because Shane doesn’t look like he needs more explanation or delays. He’s still wearing his game suit, and doesn’t look like he can walk much longer.
So, really, Ilya only has eyes for Shane. However, he doubts Shane’s parents are aware of the situation, and while Shane has come out to his parents, he hasn’t divulged his relationship with Ilya. Shane takes a baby step in the bedroom’s direction. But it would look wrong if Ilya just carries him.
“Sorry,” Shane can’t meet his eyes. But accepts that Ilya pulls him through the hallway.
“You should be in bed.” Ilya whispers, and looks back apologetically to the Hollanders. With an awkward smile, he’s wearing a Boston Raiders t-shirt, and with his black eyes, probably looks a little too much like an enemy.
“We appreciate it,” Mr Hollander supplies, even if neither looks like they want Ilya to lead Shane anywhere.
“I have an extra bed, no issue,” Ilya says, and tries to look less imposing, but he’s rather much larger than either of the Hollanders.
“We’ll clean up after him,” Mr. Hollander supplies. “With your nice flooring...”
“No, no, I will do that,” Ilya says again, and pushes Shane towards the bedroom, he’s putting all his weight on Ilya as Ilya drags him along, a hand around his waist.
“I fainted on the way here.”
“Why did you play with the flu, idiot,” Ilya says, because Shane is hanging like wet oatmeal in his arms. Shane’s mother follows them into Ilya’s bedroom, which she fortunately doesn’t know is Ilya’s bedroom. But it has a nice en-suite bathroom, and Shane would prefer the toilet to be close.
Ilya pulls the duvet off and sets Shane down, and together with Mrs. Hollander he manages to pull off Shane’s jacket. And Ilya bends down to untie his shoes before he collapses onto the pillow.
Ilya pulls the trashcan (fortunately empty; his cleaner has been there hours earlier) to the side of the bed. When Ilya press a palm against Shane’s forehead, he’s burning hot.
“Shane,” he crouches down to face him. “You’re hot, can you say something?” If Shane’s not coherent, they might need to get a doctor.
“I am?” Shane asks. “You think I am hot?”
“Not like that, dummy, you have a fever.”
“Oh.”
Ilya glances at Shane’s mother, unable to handle Shane’s dejected face.
“But you are also hot,” he glide a hand through Shane’s hair.
He bumps into Shane’s father in the hallway. Allowing both parents to assess the situation.
Ilya quickly mop up the vomit from the entrance. The Hollanders have two cabin-size suitcases and Shane’s sports bag. He picks up Shane’s things and carries them to the bedroom.
The Hollanders would prefer him not to touch their stuff. He is uncomfortable. This isn’t the best way to be presented to them.
He can hear them speak inside the bedroom.
“… had no idea they knew each other privately…”
“…I thought Shane hated him…”
“They played well together at the All Stars last year...”
“But that’s so long time ago.”
Ilya clears his throat so that they would know he was there.
“It is late,” Mr. Hollander says. “We’ll see if we can find a hotel room, thank you for allowing Shane to rest here.”
“I don’t think Shane can go anywhere tonight,” Ilya says. Because Shane is still shaking and his clothes is drenched in sweat, and as soon as he can get Shane’s parents out, he’s going to get them both changed into something more comfortable. And cuddle up to Shane, sick or not.
“I have nice guestroom, you can sleep there,” he says.
“Why, alright?” Mrs. Hollander says. “That is very nice of you, Mr. Rozanov,” she looks over at Shane.
“Ilya,” Ilya says.
“Eh, Ilya,” Mrs. Hollander tries, and doesn’t look like she’s too happy with the taste.
They don’t mention that Ilya has identified Shane’s luggage, which he places along the wall.
Shane looks like he’s sleeping again, and Ilya takes the chance to get both Hollanders out of his bedroom and point at the end of the hall.
“There’s a bedroom and bathroom at the end of the hall next to workout room,” he says. “Fresh linen, please ask if you need anything.”
He looks at the clock, it’s 10:30 PM.
“Eh, maybe I should sleep with Shane. I don’t think he should be alone,” Mrs. Hollander provides.
Ilya’s eyes flicker. If he volunteer himself, they might know. Shane would not be happy.
“Eh, alright,” he guess he can sleep on the couch as long as Shane is taken care of.
Mrs. Hollander wakes him by roaming around in the kitchen at two o’clock. She is startled when Ilya pads in from the living room to help.
“Eh, I was looking for a glass.”
“Here,” Ilya takes one. “Is it for Shane?” Because he should have found those things last night, but he was exhausted, when finding rest with Shane sick next door turned impossible.
“Yes, he’s…” She apparently isn’t comfortable talking about Shane.
“Should I call a doctor?” Ilya asks because he desperately can’t handle if anything happens to Shane. Who’s alone in the bedroom right now.
“No, he just threw up again.”
“Is he done? He should not be alone.” And then he regrets complaining about Mrs. Hollander. “Sorry, I will find something to drink and come. There are towels and washcloths in the cabinet in bathroom,” he supplies.
Mrs. Hollander stares weirdly at him, but runs back to Shane.
Ilya finds ice-chips from the fridge. A glass of water, a ginger ale, some cola, a straw, and some napkins. He packs everything on a tray and brazes himself.
Shane is on the side, still holding the trashcan with both hands. His hair is hanging in clumps, and even in the dimly lit room, he looks like shit.
Mrs. Hollander narrows her eyes as Ilya crouches down next to her son.
Shane is too exhausted to speak as he falls back.
“Ilya…” he mumbles.
“Shh, don’t speak, I have a glass and straw, just water, small sip.” he holds up the water first to Shane’s lips. His mother supervises him like a hawk.
“Did he already take Tylenol? I have some in the bathroom,” Ilya asks Mrs. Hollander.
“No, we didn’t bring any.”
Ilya curses himself for not thinking about it sooner. And Shane’s mother looks exhausted. Ilya needs to convince her that he can be responsible.
“Would not have checked you so hard if I knew you were sick,” Ilya chides, pulling Shane’s shirt up to ensure there aren’t any obvious injuries.
His skin’s burning, but there were no marks, and he’s not bloated. So probably the checks hasn’t damaged anything badly. He has taken care of a lot of rookies, both with different head-injuries and flu and hangovers. All of which requires throwing up and painkillers.
Ilya pulls down Shane’s t-shirt. Shane would be more comfortable in a looser one, maybe one of Ilya’s, but he files that away for later.
“No obvious injuries. I will bring Tylenol.”
He locates a half empty bottle in the cabinet and also picks up a washcloth and towel.
Yuna meets him at the door and takes the bottle and washcloth,
“I got it, thank you, Rozanov, Ilya.”
“No problem.” Ilya is tired, and his face hurts, and he’s getting a headache. But he has already taken painkillers.
He collapses back onto the couch.