Chapter Text
Shane Hollander was generally not a man who took many risks. He found what he wanted to do at a very young age and he knew he was good at it. Everything he did in his life was for hockey, in some way. He didn’t get distracted, didn’t lose hope, never gave up. He always knew that when he finally got what he had worked so hard for, nothing was going to ruin it for him.
He hadn’t accounted for Ilya Rozanov.
Had not imagined he would’ve lost his focus, his iron grip on his desires and most ashamed thoughts. It was supposed to be just once, to get it out of his system. But Rozanov had other plans for him. Shane didn’t know how he did it but he managed to get under his skin.
Rozanov, with his stupid curls, his stupid jokes, his stupid accent. They hadn’t really spoken in two years, not counting the short text exchanges that always left Shane feeling a little too giddy. Shane had hoped that he had finally grown used to the feelings that Rozanov’s presence always seemed to make him feel.
And then they were back on the ice together and Shane felt alive. The win felt different, with Rozanov’s hazel eyes constantly tracking him. The air was thick with anticipation as Shane finally, finally, sent the other man his address.
The sex was- well, phenomenal. Of course it was. Shane could not bring himself to think about if it was because Rozanov was good, or because everything felt better when Rozanov was involved. It was infuriating. It should have been infuriating. Instead, Shane felt warm and happy and dazed as he sat on his staircase. Couldn’t stop himself from smiling into the kiss. Tried his best to ignore the itch in his throat as Rozanov left him, with no clear idea of when they were meeting again.
Sochi, 2014
The itch kept coming back. Every time Shane watched Rozanov play, telling himself that he was just studying his rival, his throat hurt a little bit more. When the plane first touched down in Russia, Shane barely managed to conceal a cough. It was probably nothing, maybe a cold. Airplanes always made him feel a little off.
When Russia lost to Latvia Shane couldn’t stop himself from texting Rozanov. He was more worried than he cared to admit. He knew how important this game must’ve been to Rozanov.
Jane: Hey, you doing okay?
He didn’t respond. But Shane couldn’t stop worrying, which was a little silly because Rozanov was probably fine. He always seemed to be fine. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from rushing to the empty bleachers when he saw the familiar mop of blond curls.
Seeing Rozanov took his breath away. He couldn’t stop the gasp he let out as his airway constricted. “Hey,” he said, trying to sound normal.
The other man barely glanced at him, their eyes not even meeting when Shane wanted them to.
“No, not here.”
Shane subconsciously took a step back. “No, that’s not-” He swallowed heavily. This was stupid. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.” It sounded pathetic even to his own ears.
“Fine. Go sit down.”
He didn’t want to go. He wanted to talk, wanted to check in on Rozanov. But when he pushed, when Rozanov couldn’t look him in the eyes, the pain in his lungs grew sharper. His throat constricted as he was rejected again.
“Fuck,” he muttered, as he tried to swallow whatever was stuck in his throat. He was glad Rozanov couldn’t see him like this. Nearly gasping for air, he turned away. Fine.
“Fine.”
It wasn’t fine. He wasn’t fine as he rushed down the stairs, to the first bathroom he could find. He wasn’t fine when he fell to his knees on the cold tiles. When he started coughing and seemingly couldn’t stop.
“Fuck,” he repeated, voice hoarse, as he stared at the flower petals on the floor in front of him.
Las Vegas, 2015
The petals didn’t stop, no matter how hard Shane tried ignoring them. Rozanov hadn’t texted him in months. He should’ve been fine. There was one moment he thought about the surgery. Seriously considered it, even, but then he remembered the way Rozanov would look at him when he was being himself. The soft crinkle of those hazel eyes, the sound of a genuine laugh. No, Shane thought to himself while coughing up more roses, I don’t think I can live without the memories.
He got even more anxious, more obsessed with controlling his life. His time as a hockey player was limited now. Nobody could know what was happening to him. They would force him to stop, would ask who it was that was worth this pain. He couldn’t do that to Rozanov, who had people to return to in Russia. Who had a whole life ahead of him. Shane refused to take that from the man he loved.
It was easier to admit that he loved him, when his body was literally trying to kill him because of it. It felt a little silly to not acknowledge it, when a single mention of the Russian sent him into a coughing fit.
Shane was unsure how he was getting through the MLH awards. The league had paired him together with Rozanov for the Lord Talon award. Of course they had, their names next to each other always attracted attention. Shane should’ve prepared himself for a moment like this. It wasn’t like he was going to be able to avoid the other man forever, if he wanted to spend as long as possible in hockey.
Still, seeing Rozanov again felt like a gunshot wound. He breathed through his nose, trying to gain control of the constricting pain in his lungs. He tried to ignore how good it felt to look at him again. He had missed him. The russian’s accent was less pronounced. It made Shane feel strangely wistful. In a moment of utter indulgence he let himself get lost in the fantasy of helping Rozanov with his English, spending time with him under no pretense.
Their cue snapped him out of his thoughts. He squared his shoulders, clenched his jaw, and stared straight ahead. It was only a few minutes. He could do a few minutes.
He could absolutely not do a couple minutes. Suddenly Rozanov’s hand was on his neck, traveling down his spine and stopping right above the swell of his ass. Shane felt the flowers in his lungs twist and constrict his airways and this wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. He was grateful for his reputation as a no nonsense, incredibly focused player, because he knew that if he opened his mouth flowers would immediately come spilling out.
He doesn’t remember how he gets to the bathroom. One moment he’s on the stage, with cameras on him and Rozanov’s hand on his back and the next he’s hunched over a sink, eyes blurry as he vomits up red roses. They’re no longer romantic petals, dainty and easily crushed. No, these are full flowers, with thorns that cut open his throat. It hurts to breathe. His lips are slick with his own blood, and he can’t stop coughing.
The door swings open but he can’t bring himself to react.
“Well,” Rozanov’s cocky voice echoes through the empty bathroom. It sounds like he’s planning on saying more, but all sound stops when he realises what is happening.
Suddenly, Rozanov is by his side. “Говно!” He curses. Shane doesn’t really know what he’s saying. The rushing in his ears makes it hard to distinguish between languages.
“Ilya-” He coughs out. “You- you have to- just go.” Blood splatters on the sink with the force of his plea. He thinks he might’ve gotten it on his sleeves.
“Shit,” Rozanov- no, Ilya, repeats. “Hollander- Shit, come here. What is happening to you?”
Shane lets himself get pulled away from the sink, but with nothing to hold onto, he sinks onto his knees fast. He nearly chuckles with the irony of it all. This position bone achingly familiar. As if this moment was set in stone the first time Shane Hollander kneeled for Ilya Rozanov. Only this time Ilya joins him on the floor. His large hands hold Shane’s head upright which is really quite kind of him.
“Who did this to you, Малыш? You have to tell me, so I can drag them here. You will be fixed, yes?” Ilya’s hands are frantic on his face, trying to keep him looking at him and aware.
Shane shakes his head weakly, the movement making his head spin with pain. “No- They- It doesn’t matter. Won’t change anything.”
“No, Shane- Baby, don’t say that. Don’t- This is fixable. They love you back. You are Shane Hollander, nobody could resist.”
Ilya sounded so sure of himself. As if there was not a single way the person Shane loved didn’t love him back. He laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. Another wave of flowers made their way out of his throat as Ilya begged him to stop. Red specks of Shane’s blood stuck to Ilya’s skin. Even like this he was beautiful.
“Doesn’t matter. He can. Doesn’t want me like this.”
Shane didn’t even notice the way Ilya freezes as he finally says that it’s a man. It doesn’t matter all that much anymore.
“Then he is stupid. And not worth you. I call hospital, you get surgery. Come on, Hollander.” Ilya reached for his phone, which Shane weakly pushed away.
“Ilya- please. I can’t forget. Not- not this.” Shane’s eyes were watery and big and pleading and Ilya cursed something else in Russian.
“Then who? Shane, tell me. Please,” Ilya begged. “Please, baby. Tell me so I can fix this, so that I can do anything?”
Tears dripped down Shane’s cheeks as he stared at the man in front of him. “Ilya…” He whispered. He watched the recognition slowly settle in on the Russian's face. First the shock, a second of elation and then anger and horror.
“No,” Ilya shook his head as he pulled into himself. “Hollander, tell me you don’t- I’m not worth this. This is your life. Please, don’t tell me- Not because of me.”
Shane closed his eyes and grimaced. He knew this would happen. The pain in his chest increased as Ilya pulled away. As he stopped calling him Shane. “I didn’t want you to find out. I’m sorry. You should go, just- give me a seco-”
Suddenly, Ilya’s lips were on his. Shane’s eyes widened. Ilya’s hands twisted in his hair, desperately trying to get him closer. After a short moment, Ilya pulled away and stared at Shane with wild eyes.
“I am not good with English. I do not know how to- Shane. Shane. I love you.” He repeated the name like it was a prayer, with reverence in his voice. Shane didn’t know what to make of it. “Shit. I am doing this wrong. Я тебя люблю. I love you. I don’t-”
Shane stared at him, before promptly doubling over and breaking into another coughing fit. This one felt deeper, more painful than the last one. He felt breathless and cold, only warm where the blood seeped past his lips. His vision became spotty. Ilya’s hands were everywhere.
“No, no, no. Shane, baby, don’t do this. This can’t be happening. Not to you- Shane- Stay with me, please.”
Shane coughed out a full rose. Had to pull the stem from his throat even as he kept coughing and gagging through the pain. It laid between them as silence settled over them. Shane was breathing hard, blood dripping from his lips onto the white tile. Ilya was frozen, seemingly afraid that one wrong move might set Shane off again.
“Wow,” Shane murmured. His throat felt raw, but better than it had in months. Maybe even years. His lungs felt clear as he gasped in a breath. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, smearing blood across his face and chin. He couldn’t really bring himself to care.
Ilya was staring at him like he was the most beautiful thing in the world. “Don’t you dare do that to me again." There was a beat of silence, and then Ilya's hands were on his arms. "Come on, up. We go to hospital now. Private one, but hospital."
Shane stumbled to his feet, and put a hand on Ilya's arm. "No- you have to- you have to stay. We both know you're winning MVP. You deserve this."
Ilya looks genuinely offended by the suggestion. "Shane, sweetheart. No. Not now. You are more important than any award. Besides, just means I have to defeat you again next year, нет?"
Shane lets out a pained laugh, that immediately makes Ilya rush back to his side. "You're an asshole."
Ilya does end up winning MVP of the year. They watch the show together on a small screen in the hospital, as Shane gets his lungs checked out. In that moment, with Ilya holding Shane's hand and staring at him with soft worried eyes, Shane finds that he can't bring himself to care too much about losing the award.