Archive of Our Own

Their landing in Montreal was not a gentle one.

He’d expected as much, watching that opaque sheet of gray cloud though the window. Once the plane’s wheels finally did grace the runway, Ilya nearly raised his hands in applause. Had the turbulence not turned his blooming headache to a blinding migraine, maybe he would have.

While the other passengers hurried out of their belts and up to their feet, Ilya merely rolled his head against the back of his seat. He’d let them elbow their way down the aisle and take an extra moment to rest his eyes. Already, the woman in the adjacent seat scrambled to reach the overhead bins.

Getting back was an even bigger mess than reaching Moscow in time for the funeral. The layovers alone consumed a full, miserable day. It was all he could do to groan and watch the red letters pop up beside his gate number—Flight Delayed.

But it was still early. The Bears’ game against Montreal wasn’t until later that night. He could still make up for the sleepless hours spent crammed beside this woman and the obnoxiously bright game on her tablet. While her back was turned, Ilya offered her one last glare. She’d even had the gall to keep the volume up.

As the crowd started to thin, he figured it was time to pry himself off the leather and collect his own luggage.

The couple days he’d spent in Moscow were nothing short of hell. First, the haste to arrange and perfect the funeral on remarkably short notice; the rest of his family hadn’t lifted a finger, awaiting his arrival, awaiting the moment, with arms outstretched, that he opened his wallet.

The majority were content to hush and reminisce after the ceremony, to push food around their plates and trail off to silence. Alexei was the first to finish mourning the loss of his father, practically catching Ilya by the sleeve to talk finances. Ilya wouldn’t regret his decision to snap and fling him against a wall, though it’d come at the expense of ever returning to his hometown. There, however, he had nothing alive left to miss. Whether he sulked on the snowy streets of his childhood or a luxury flat in Boston made no difference. It was only nostalgia.

He didn’t rejoin the table after Svetlana left him. It didn’t surprise him that she knew, and it surprised him even less that she’d accepted him without question. Ilya felt he didn’t have the strength to face the rest of them, to keep up a lie before a family that wouldn’t care if he lived or died. So he left, merely wondering how long Svetlana had known, and what gave him away at last.

Even now, as he hobbled down the stuffy aisle, suitcase in tow, it put a pit in his stomach to think about. His escape to the harsh, biting cold, his thought to pull out his phone like it was an inborn instinct. He typed out the message through red and shaking hands, a plea for a kind of comfort he couldn’t find elsewhere.

It was warm and instant. Then, just as quick to wither to guilt.

Shane’s question was innocent as it was sweet—“Is it very upsetting?”

It was. Enough to make his eyes freeze over, it was. And it wasn’t for the passing of his father, nor his brother’s rotten insults, nor the prospect of never returning to the place he’d called home his entire life. It was for a reason that likely hadn’t crossed Shane’s mind that night, though he hoped it would.

But he knew Shane wasn’t so presumptuous. He’d never picture himself, amidst this twisted tragedy, as the first thought in Ilya’s head. He’d never guess that what Ilya mourned the most was his chance to confess, to tell his father that he was in love. It wouldn’t be like telling his mother—far from it—but maybe it was the next best thing. Maybe, from wherever she was, she would overhear.

He hadn’t anticipated telling Shane what he’d already admitted to himself a hundred times over; by then, he no longer clung to pointless things like shame or denial. But until that night, he had yet to speak it aloud.

His invitation to do so, to unload all that stirred in his heart, was the kindest he’d ever gotten. From the echo of his voice over the phone, it sounded like Shane was holed up in a bathroom or cold stairwell for some privacy. He’d sit there, on his own, listening without understanding a single word. All for the slim chance of making Ilya feel a bit lighter.

And, for about a minute, it did. Enough to make a stupid joke, to practically hear Shane roll his eyes from across the sea. He only allowed for a brief moment of quiet to pass between them; what he filled it with, coincidentally, was the same, hopeless wish stuck at the back of Ilya’s throat.

“I wish you were here right now.”

The ache returned, and it morphed to something new. His parents would never know because he’d run out of time. It was something that couldn’t have been helped, and he could, eventually, make peace with that.

But Shane was right there, breathing, waiting on the other line. Ilya imagined a reality in which he said it all over again, in a language they both understood; in which the wind wouldn’t bite so hard, and the lamppost at the edge of the tunnel didn’t flicker. There, Shane would never doubt how deeply he was loved, because Ilya would never choke back his confession like it was a poison.

While he coughed into the crook of his arm, the woman in front of him ushered her kid forward, further away. Had the eager family of four behind him been a little less pushy, he would’ve happily kept his distance.

It wasn’t enough now that his feelings were out in the open. Or, rather, they were in some nebulous in-between that Shane couldn’t decipher—not that it’d stop Ilya from thinking and rethinking every word he’d said during that phone call.

But to really spite him, what started as the sore throat he first noticed at the gate in Moscow had turned to an insufferable fever. While his congestion kept him awake, he tried tracing it back to its source; sniffles from one of the children who’d attended the funeral, or, maybe the stress of spending a couple days in his hometown had driven him to poor health.

In the back of his head, he’d hear his mother’s scolding, caring voice. She would insist that he’d gotten sick from walking in the snow without a hat or gloves.

He shivered, hauling his suitcase onto the bridge connecting the plane to the gate. It was as cold in Montreal as it’d been in Moscow. From the looks of it, snow was getting ready to fall, to add to what had yet to thaw. Ilya pulled the hood of his jacket further over his hair, squinting against the fluorescents reflecting off anything and everything. He hated to go through the trouble of focusing his vision. While the ache in his head droned on, he’d decode the blur of colorful signs and arrows.

Among the directions, posted both in French and English, the walls of the terminal were decorated in murals and advertisements. From depictions of landmarks to commercials for candy bars, it was all meant to catch the eye; even those that were stung by the brightness.

And, in terms of catching the eye, some got the job done better than others.

This one was digital, displayed on a massive screen outside a sports-themed bar. There were a few other athletic teams in Montreal—football, or something—but, unsurprisingly, the city was best known for their hockey.

Ilya couldn’t help but stop, caught in the reds and blues reflected off the linoleum floor. The Voyageurs’ captain was front and center, wearing the serious expression that came naturally to him. He had a beautiful face, one that was made to be stuck before a camera, to be plastered to billboards and skyscrapers alike. Ilya was still working to memorize it; not the pixels each passerby pointed at gawked at, but every freckle and ultra-rare imperfection in his skin.

Were he to get very lucky, Shane would let him further his study. He’d creep into bed, make a comment about the excessive decorative pillows, and feign his annoyance at having to share a blanket. After a huff and a threat of being kicked out, he’d settle down, inch closer, content to watch Shane read his latest uninteresting book. Until the very moment he yawned and reached to turn out the bedside lamp, Ilya would trace the yellow light shining off his glasses. But, then again, he would have to get very lucky.

Ilya shut his eyes to sneeze into the crook of his arm. By the time he opened them, the image of Shane had dissolved into a different ad. Something about a dental office. He ripped his gaze away, mildly tempted to stick around until the screen cycled back to the Voyageurs’ hockey propaganda.

Sluggishly, he kept on, half reliant on the signage, half on his vague recollection of the airport’s layout. Despite it being early morning, the gates were packed. He reminded himself to duck his head, to tug on the brim of his hood as it rode upward. It would cost him to be recognized here.

Based on a rough calculation, he only had about eight hours before having to drag himself to the stadium. He planned to spend them in a deep, rejuvenating sleep.

That was it, he merely needed to sleep it off—this cold, or flu, or whatever sludge he couldn’t quite cough up yet. He certainly couldn’t risk wasting that precious time being mocked and interrogated by a die-hard Voyageurs fan. He tugged again for good measure.

He’d hit the jackpot with his cab driver; an older man who didn’t seem to speak a word of English nor of French. More importantly, he was infinitely more intrigued by the dials of his radio over the world famous hockey player sinking into the backseat. Ilya crossed one arm over the other to keep from shivering, ever-aware of the cold leeching in through the frosted window. So, the driver liked to keep it cold. Nobody was perfect.

What should’ve been a relatively quick trip downtown was painfully prolonged. The highways were at a standstill, he’d gotten carsick from only a quick glance at his phone, and he was fighting off a bout of chills that wouldn’t subside. It was wildly uncomfortable. His head felt hot, as though it were too heavy to sit over his shoulders, while the rest of him broke into an icy sweat. Ilya cursed the cough scratching at his throat, realizing that he couldn’t simply will this illness away because it’d come at the wrong time.

He struggled through a conversation with the hotel concierge, who seemed to half-recognize his face, but couldn’t quite place him. Behind her and her neatly styled bob, he peered at the ornate clock on the wall. Nine-thirty.

While she listed all the amenities he’d never need or remember, he did the math in his head, adjusting for the delay. Ilya quickly thanked her during the next pause in her speech, swiping his key card off the counter and dragging his luggage to the elevator. By now, he imagined, the contents of his rolling suitcase were a wrinkled mess. He cast it aside as the door to his room shut and stumbled to the edge of the bed, hoping it’d quell the fever making his heart race.

The rest of the morning was uninspired. Leaving a pile of clothes behind on the bathroom floor, he meandered into the shower, nearly lulled to sleep by the warm water. He managed to brush the sickly taste from his mouth before crawling under the hotel duvet and pulling it over his wet hair. As an act of service to his future self, he set an alarm to go off an hour before his expected appearance at the stadium.

Much to his dismay, however, his nap wasn’t nearly as restful as he would’ve liked. Something woke him every hour or so; whether it be an odd dream, or a cough, or the kids bickering through the wall. He’d crack an eye open, roll to the side, and tap his phone to check the time. The day went on relentlessly, too cruel to slow and let Ilya catch up.

He called it quits a few minutes before five. The sleep meant to miraculously revive him was disappointingly useless; still, the fever muddled his pounding head, and his chest grew tighter with every breath. Without a quick solution, he wouldn’t last halfway through the first period.

After hoisting himself upright, he glanced at the phone lying beside him, face-up like he left it. The thought to send a message to his teammates flashed through his mind, to duck out and retreat beneath the covers. He imagined that, on such short notice, they’d scramble to fill the gap he left behind, stuck at a blatant disadvantage against their greatest rivals. Really, he should’ve sent that message the moment he stepped off the plane. They’d manage, though. He wasn’t skilled nor arrogant enough to claim that his team would simply fall apart without him.

Ilya braced himself using either arm, getting to his feet. He merely needed to get through the next few hours. He wouldn’t have to be their star player that night; just provide enough support to score a couple goals.

At the bathroom mirror, he looked at himself with heavy eyes. It wouldn’t be their best game, but he would show up. He doused his face with cold water and dressed himself and even straightened the duvet back over the mattress. He knew that he wasn’t lazy, and they would know it too.

There was a little pharmacy adjacent to his hotel. He’d noticed it just as the cab pulled up that morning. In all his determination, he found himself hesitating before the glass doors. His reflection now wasn’t the same as it had been up in the hotel room; paler, reserved, as if something frightened him.

And, embarrassingly, this was his last resort, the proof that he’d tried everything to feel well enough for the game. It was all he needed, he reminded himself while pulling open the door, to get rid of this dizzying fever. Just enough to keep his balance on the skates.

Clutching the strap of his gym bag, his eyes roamed over the labeled aisles. It was irrational to think this way at his age, to let his hands shake like they did, to freeze at the sight of something so harmless.

But, for several years, he’d truly believed the story his father told him. That her death had simply been an accident.

Of course, it wasn’t remotely the fault of his sweet mother. She wasn’t mistaken. She didn’t overshoot the dose.

It was the pills; they must’ve been faulty, or poisoned by somebody evil, somebody who hated her and Ilya both. And even once he grew old enough to understand why it happened, he wouldn’t blame her. It was easier to blame the pills. To hate them instead.

She always knew when her headaches were coming on. Ilya listened to her describe it once; that telltale warning, the colored spots circling her vision. Like with everything, she made it sound beautiful. He wished he could’ve seen it, too.

She’d get them often enough to keep a bottle of those pills on her nightstand. Ilya recalled them, still, white and round in the palm of her hand.

What he reached for now looked completely different. These were oblong, dyed an odd orange-brown; more importantly, according to the packaging, the medicine could bring down his fever within a half hour. Ilya squashed the protest crying out at the back of his head and pulled the box off the shelf.

Back outside, he frowned at the little thing in his hand; he could almost marvel at his own aversion, so potent after all these years. He stalled until the cab turned the corner, until he had no choice but to shut his eyes and swallow it dry. The pills rattled together, taunting, as he stuck the box in his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

He made the mistake of looking up from the backseat, met with the cab driver’s bewildered expression. Evidently, he hadn’t gotten as lucky this time.

“You’re kidding me.”

No, this went further than simply being unlucky. This had to be some sort of divine punishment, Ilya thought, catching sight of the glaring, red number sewn into the man’s sleeve. Twenty-four.

He scoffed in disbelief, looking Ilya up and down. After ensuring his eyes weren’t deceiving him, he pinched his jersey’s blue fabric, waving it back and forth to emphasize his point.

“I’m afraid you’re in enemy territory, Mister Rozanov.”

As he blew out a sigh, he watched his breath curl into a cloud of steam. It made him wonder if the cab drivers in Montreal even knew that cars came with heaters.

“Oh no,” Ilya hoped the sarcastic tone would mask how his voice broke. He fixed his gaze out the window so the driver would take the hint; he didn’t have the strength for banter. “Should I look for another cab?”

The driver laughed, shaking his head while adjusting his cap—obnoxiously Voyageurs themed, like the rest of his ensemble.

“Hey, actually, why don’t I give you the scenic tour while we’re on the way?” He raised his brows like he’d just been struck with an epiphany. “I’ll make sure you’re at the stadium by the end of the third period.”

Ilya cleared his throat, trying to pass it off as a laugh.

The driver waved his hand, turning away to shift the car into drive. “Kidding. You’re running late as it is,” he gave Ilya one last look in the rearview mirror. “It’s not like Boston stands a chance tonight, anyway.”

“We’ll see.”

The lack of a response was a relief. Ilya resigned to watch the cars they passed, quiet, save for the driver’s peculiar choice of pop music playing from the speakers.

He drew his brows together, unable to ignore his phone as it buzzed against his leg for what seemed like the hundredth time. Reluctantly, he pulled it from his pocket to squint at the recent notifications—a stack of messages from his teammates and a missed call from Marleau. He was typically among the first of his team to make an appearance. Which, as their captain, was the expectation.

Checking the clock at the corner of his screen, he figured he must’ve dawdled in that damn pharmacy for too long.

Based on an awfully loose approximation, he opened his chat with Marleau to type out a quick message. ‘Will be there in 10.’

He closed out of it quickly, with the goal of avoiding an imminent wave of motion sickness. But his eyes would settle on the name a few lines below Marleau’s.

Ilya froze for a moment, thumb hovering just over the last text he’d received from ‘Jane.’

‘Goodnight. Please go to sleep soon.’

It was sent in the dead of night, just after he’d hung up the call with Shane. Back then, it was enough to persuade him to turn around at last, to venture back into the snow in the direction of his Moscow apartment. Though it made no difference to him whether he was warm or rested for the next day, he couldn’t find it in himself to deny what Shane wanted.

He found it embarrassing, now, rereading the message over again—his blatant wish that a new one would come. But Shane was already an infrequent enough texter. This close to a game especially, his phone probably wasn’t even on.

Sometimes, Ilya would catch him early enough. Just before the teams went out for stretches, he’d earn a response to one of his cheeky messages. He’d watch the notification light up his screen, and long before the game started, he’d feel like he’d scored an impossible goal.

“You’re not getting sick, are you, Mister Rozanov?”

Ilya looked up from the crook of his arm, catching the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. The thought of Shane’s texting etiquette, unfortunately, hadn’t been enough to distract from the itch in his throat. Ilya swallowed painfully, suppressing the next cough that already threatened him.

“No, is allergy,” he managed to get out, forcing his gaze at the road.

The driver suddenly seemed interested, theorizing about the cause—something about a housecat, or possible mold growing in the trunk of the cab. Ilya tuned it out, focused on the names of the streets they passed; he’d been here enough times to recognize a few. They were getting close.

He reached for his bag in search of his wallet, preparing to cut the driver’s theories short and ask how much he owed for the ride. The box of pills he’d bought earlier rattled from the movement.

It made him warm, the swell of anger looming over him. The noise reminded him of the trouble he went through, of all he had to relive, and, subsequently shun from his mind. Now, with the stadium halfway in sight, he had to accept that he was out of time.

He figured, in retrospect, that it was unwise to hang all his hopes on a single pill; it was equally unwise to blame it for not making him better. But it was easy. Far easier than faulting himself for getting into the damn cab when he should’ve called out sick.

As they rolled to a stop at the next traffic light, he stuck out a handful of all the Canadian dollars he had laying around—far more than the fifteen-minute drive was worth. The driver scrambled to catch the wad of money, peering over his shoulder while Ilya shrugged off his seatbelt.

“You’re getting out here?” The man asked through furrowed brows, glancing out at the crowded street. “Hold on, I can pull up a little closer—”

The rest of his sentence was cut short by the slam of a car door. Ilya winced as the phone buzzed in his pocket again, an indicator that he’d gone over his promised ten minutes.

Starting at the box office, a line of eager hockey fans spiraled before the stadium. He braced himself, picking up the pace, hunching into the hood of his sweatshirt like it’d save his life. From all sides he was met with outrage, accused of cutting in line while weaving through a sea of blues and reds.

An especially dedicated fan went so far as to snag him by the arm and yank him backward. While he caught his breath, she started to chew him out, chastising him for ruining her son’s birthday by having such poor manners. She’d almost gotten through her whole speech before a hush fell over that section of the line; one by one, they started to recognize him, and a whole new type of fury burned in their eyes.

Had the nearby security officer not intervened, Ilya could’ve very well been left as a bloodstain on the pavement. Considering his current state of health, out of breath from merely crossing the street, he was no match for them.

He was escorted through the lobby indoors, practically hidden around the guard’s side. There was a separate entrance at the back of the stadium meant for instances like this; he certainly wasn’t the first player to arrive this close to the start of a game. Directing the cab driver there, however, through the throng of pedestrians and standstill traffic, would’ve added another agonizing ten minutes to their drive.

Not that it made much of a difference. Judging by the persistent buzzing in his pocket, his coach already had a grueling lecture lined up.

The locker rooms were stowed in a hallway protected by a set of metal doors. On the way down, Ilya caught a glimpse of the ice. By then, most of the seats were filled with anticipatory fans, mesmerized by the players’ stretches and practice shots. Himself excluded, both teams were there in their entirety.

At the doors, far enough away from any rabid Voyageurs fans, the officer took his leave without a word. From where Ilya stood by the base of a set of stairs, the rink was no longer visible. It was cold near the ice; not so cold that he’d need to shiver beneath three layers of clothes. He knew that, clenching his fists against the tremor, pushing through the doorway.

He wondered if it’d always been so bright, trailing into the empty locker room. Ilya’s equipment had already been set aside at the edge of the bench, from the shin guards to the pearly white helmet. The sight, or, rather, what it entailed, made his stomach turn. To be stuffed into all that padding, to keep his watery balance on a pair of skates before hundreds of bloodthirsty spectators, to have to sputter and catch his breath while the man he loved watched from the other end of the rink.

How long would it take for Shane to notice? Would it only torture him to keep the distance?

That would mean, of course, that Ilya was worth feeling tortured over.

He let his trusty gym bag drop to the floor, then followed suit, slumping over onto the bench. Eyeing his uniform a final time, he settled to admit defeat. At the very least, his coach would be happy, finally receiving a call back after six failed attempts. The room went on spinning as the other line buzzed. It didn’t take long to get an answer.

“Where the hell are you, Rozanov!?”

He took a moment to recover from the sudden increase in volume. So, his coach wasn’t as happy as he’d hoped. “Locker room.”

“Why call me now, then?” Somewhere in the background, he could hear another voice coming nearer. “Get your ass on the ice!”

He hesitated without reason. “I can’t.”

“You can’t? What?”

“I am sick.”

Ilya could only pick out bits and pieces of his coach’s frustrating yelling—an insult that he was irresponsible, that he should’ve said something sooner, that he could cost them the victory. All things he’d figured out on his own.

The shouting became softer, like someone was forcibly pulling the phone away.

“Why’d you even come, Roz?” Marleau, who, unsurprisingly, had overheard.

“I took medicine.” The admission made his mouth turn sour. Or, maybe, being sick always put that bad taste in people’s mouths. “Thought it would help in time.”

Marleau made a noise that sounded like a scoff. “Come on, I know you’re not that fucking dumb—”

He cut off suddenly. It was muffled when he spoke again, like he was covering the microphone, hiding their conversation from an eavesdropper.

“The hell are you staring at, Hollander!? Go back to your side!”

Merely hearing his name made Ilya’s chest get tight. Or, maybe, that was the sickness again. He hardly bit his tongue in time, fighting the urge to tell Marleau to watch his tone.

And, shortly after that urge passed, the feeling was replaced by something hollow. He pictured Shane, the odd one out, clad in blue, failing terribly at being subtle. Of course he would stop to listen. Of course Marleau would notice; anyone would.

A sharp noise came from the speaker he still had pressed to his ear. His coach had taken back the phone. “Enough. Go home, Rozanov.”

“Hold on, he’s already here—” Marleau cut in again before Ilya could speak. “Roz, hey, I’ll get a medic to come check you out. Just go to the sickroom.”

He wondered if being sick was making him delirious, too. All he heard on the other line was mush. His mind was stuck on Shane; if he was still there, if he’d ignored Marleau and gotten closer instead, if he’d say something, should Ilya wait long enough.

“Okay? Can you get there, at least?” Marleau again, impatient from the lack of a response.

“Yeah, I’m going.”

He clicked his tongue. “Jesus, man.”

Marleau left it at that, mercifully, and hung up. He surely had more to say but was out of time to say it; after breaking the news to the rest of the team, they’d have to work on their backup plan down to the last second. Ilya shuddered, imagining the wrath they’d face from their coach at no fault of their own.

He swallowed the guilt accompanying that thought, heaving the deepest breath he could. It fizzled out miserably as a string of coughs.

It was a relief to find the sickroom only a few steps down the hall. After dropping his bag off by the door, he got himself up on one of the exam tables without a shred of grace. By the end of the ordeal, he was sorely out of breath.

The medic Marleau elected showed up not long after that. The guy was impossibly tall, practically ducking into the room to avoid slamming his head on the doorframe. He’d given Ilya a puzzled look, as if he hadn’t expected him to actually be there.

He had Ilya list and describe his symptoms, merely nodding along while gathering things in his hands.

“You said you think you have a fever?” The man asked automatically, sliding a plastic cover over some kind of metal probe.

“I don’t know. Is like— hot and cold at the same time.”

“Right,” he sounded unimpressed, sticking the probe closer to Ilya’s face. “Open.” So it was a thermometer.

He held a device in his hand, watching the screen for a number. “You started feeling sick this morning, you said?”

Ilya nodded, craning his neck so he could see it, too.

Their quiet moment wouldn’t last much longer. The two looked up simultaneously, exchanging a glance over the sudden thumping coming from the hallway.

Something—someone was barging into the sickroom without so much as a knock at the door. Ilya had to keep from spitting the thermometer out in surprise.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Shane Hollander, skates, helmet, and all, dipped his head in apology. After another moment of being gawked at, he seemed to remember his reason for coming.

He lifted his right leg off the ground, gesturing for emphasis. “I hurt my knee.”

Right on cue, the medic’s thermometer started to beep.

He looked uncertain, knitting his brows over Shane’s suspiciously-intact balance. “How?”

That, and players didn’t tend to get injured before the game started.

“I don’t know, it feels, um— loose.” He made that same gesture again. “Will you—?”

“I’ll take a look once I’m done,” the medic glanced at the adjacent exam table. “You can sit down.”

“Thanks.”

The room went silent again, save for the awkward clanging of all Shane’s gear. He sat with little more grace than Ilya had earlier, quickly busying himself with untying his laces.

By the time he was about halfway through, Ilya’s mind had fully caught up to the sight in front of him. And, once it did, it wouldn’t stop reeling with possible explanations. He focused on what was most obvious; this ‘knee injury’ of Shane’s was clearly fake, and, based on Marleau’s comment over the phone, Shane had some idea that Ilya would be in the sickroom.

The medic, now holding some sort of plastic clip, broke his daze by speaking up. “You have a pretty high fever.”

“How high?”

His eyes snapped up at Shane’s question, asked without a moment’s hesitation. An undeniably puzzled look was stuck to his face. “A little over thirty-nine.”

Shane made a thoughtful noise, kicking off his skate and moving on to the shin guard. The medic went on working, clipping the plastic thing to Ilya’s finger. Ilya started to wonder if he’d fallen asleep on the table and was seeing a dream.

“So you’re not playing tonight?”

A pair of numbers popped up on the plastic clip. The medic frowned at them and moved to feel his wrist for a pulse, as if to confirm something. At that, Ilya realized Shane had been speaking to him. He also realized that the entire time Shane had been there, wriggling out his gear, he’d been stunned into silence.

“Guess not.” It was a good guess, based on the medic’s troubled sigh. So, he couldn’t quite pin Ilya’s racing heart on the fever alone.

Shane pressed on. “How long have you—”

“Shh.” Ilya cut him off promptly, making a small motion toward the medic; he’d only now pressed a stethoscope to Ilya’s back, concentrated on the sound of his breathing.

Following a muttered ‘sorry,’ Shane got quiet, held in suspense.

The medic looked up, finished with his exam, visibly deciding whether to speak to Ilya directly or to share his findings with the both of them.

“Definitely not playing tonight.” He folded his stethoscope, opting to draw his gaze to a spot on the floor.

“I’d get some imaging done. Maybe antibiotics. Most clinics are closed by now, so your only option is an ER. The closest hospital—”

“Hospital? Oh, no,” Ilya interrupted, holding a hand up. He could see it now; he’d be stuck for hours under buzzing fluorescents and the Canadian public’s prying eyes. They’d tear him to pieces right there in the waiting room.

Besides, hospitals were serious. And Shane was already doing a terrible job of hiding the concern in his expression. “It is, what, flu? I will sleep it off.”

“Didn’t you hear what he just said?” Somehow, it was even more evident in his tone.

Sensing the oncoming dispute, the medic chimed in with a compromise. “If you’re against going to a hospital, I’d go home now, then to a clinic first thing in the morning.”

Ilya spoke up quickly, grasping his chance before it ran from him. “I will do that.”

He ignored the inexplicable urge to look at Shane for approval. Ilya didn’t miss, however, the audible huff from the adjacent exam table. By that point, half of Shane’s gear was set aside on the floor, and he’d rolled his pant leg up to the knee. The medic gave Ilya a final moment to voice any lingering complaints before moving on to his next patient.

He gave Shane an odd look. Ilya didn’t blame him, seeing as Shane had whisked the gear off his left leg rather than the right he so clearly gestured to in the doorway. “It’s this one?”

Shane nodded absently.

“I thought it was your other—”

“It’s this one.”

Ilya wasn’t sure whether Shane meant for that to come out as curt as it did. The medic certainly wouldn’t argue further, reaching to pull on a new pair of gloves.

From the corner of his eye, Ilya watched the medic squeeze the sides of Shane’s knee, asking if he felt any pain. The sight reminded Ilya that, technically, his evaluation was over. Anyone else in his position would’ve hobbled off the table by then.

“Are you staying at a hotel?”

It was like Shane could read his mind, stopping him even before he made a decision. He nodded in response.

“Anyone staying with you?”

Ilya practically flinched at the question, widening his eyes toward the medic to remind Shane they weren’t alone. It would hurt them both to have their secret revealed; Shane, however, was leagues ahead in terms of being paranoid. He was sure these medics were all sworn to secrecy, or something, but all it took was one stray rumor. To pry this much in front of another person was unusually careless for Shane. It made him wonder if something had changed.

“I mean, like, any of your teammates?” Shane backtracked a little, watching the medic’s expression. “I just wanted to know if anyone else might be sick.”

“Oh,” to help with the charade, Ilya reached for the phone in his pocket; a way to appear occupied. He kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. “No. Is just me.”

All he got in return was a low hum. Shane went on to answer each of the medic’s questions regarding his injury with a confident ‘no.’ Ilya, meanwhile, had only gotten as far as unlocking his phone, entranced by a blank screen.

“All good.” The medic straightened up, clasping his hands. “Need me to look at the other one?” He seemed to hesitate before asking.

“No, I feel much better now.” Shane, suddenly cured, flexed and extended his leg for good measure. “I think I was just— in my head about it, maybe. Thank you.”

“Sure.” He glanced to the side, watching Ilya stare at his home screen before venturing to speak again. “Do you need anything else?”

“Ah, no.” That, finally, was enough to strike Ilya with the idea of opening his messaging app. He wasn’t sure what was worse for him; the fever cooking his brain or Shane’s fictitious knee trauma and all it implied. “Just letting my coach know I am going home.”

With the game only a few minutes from starting, the medic had to make himself available should anyone truly be injured. He doffed his gloves and headed for the door, wishing Shane good luck and Ilya a fast recovery. After reinstating his gratitude, Shane got to work reassembling his gear.

Knowing his teammates were already keenly aware of his absence, Ilya set his phone aside and let out a shallow breath.

Sickness be damned, he couldn’t hold back a smile at the sight of Shane hopping down from the table to retrieve his shin guard. To tease him always gave Ilya more energy than it cost, anyway. “So, your knee is not loose anymore?”

His comment, regrettably, went in one ear and out the other.

“Don’t go to the hotel.”

It came out sharply, like something he’d been holding in for a while. Ilya, stunned once again, awaited the rest while Shane tightened the straps around his leg.

“Come to my place. I’ll write the address and code to the building for you—”

The opportunity presented itself, and Ilya was brought back to Earth for a second. “If I don’t have the strength for hockey game, I definitely don’t have the strength for that.”

“What is wrong with you? That’s not what I—” Shane scoffed, through with straightening his pants. He turned to the back of the room in search of something. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Ilya watched him glean the countertops before moving to the overhead cabinets. Shane’s abrupt—and, remarkably casual—suggestion hung thickly in the air, still too fresh to process. Instinctually, Ilya pushed back, because it was what they always did. “I will get you sick.”

“That’d be better than you dying in your sleep.” In the corner of his eye, he watched Shane pull a pad of sticky notes from a drawer.

“Is just flu, Hollander.” Ilya coughed through the last part, as if to counter his own point. He fixed his eyes to the poster on the wall; a list of hockey ‘safety tips’ that looked like it belonged in a children’s classroom. He squinted at the final, most important rule at the bottom, printed in bold letters. ‘Never play if you are sick! Tell your coach right away if you are feeling unwell!’

Shane clicked a pen. “People die from the flu.”

“Yes, but I am not ninety years old.”

Over his shoulder, he could hear Shane approaching. That wasn’t good. His argument was already withering to its last legs as it was; if Shane got too close, or, God forbid, touched him, it’d all be over. Ilya almost missed having the medic around as a buffer.

Shane stopped beside him. There was a pink sticky note stuck to his finger. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

The way he’d softened his voice dealt a serious blow. Mustering the courage to look him in the eye, Ilya joked with the last of himself. “Will you worry?”

“Yes.”

He hadn’t even the decency to roll his eyes, or scoff, or pretend to think about it. Knowing he’d won by a landslide, he stuck the note to the exam table beside Ilya’s leg.

Ilya followed the neat loops of ink with his eyes, finding a certain relief in his surrender. “I can’t make you worry now. You have such an important game to win.” Shane had already wandered off to gather the rest of his gear; a helmet and a pair of gloves. “I hear you are playing your biggest rivals.”

“Won’t be much of a game.”

“Because I am not there?” Ilya tilted his head, surprised by how easily the smile came to him. “Do not flatter me, Hollander. It will get to my head.”

“It already has.”

Ilya adjourned his staring, focusing instead on the sticky note. The address was one he’d never seen before. “This is not condo from before. You finally rented it out?”

Though his back was still turned, Shane seemed to stiffen up at that.

“No. There’s, just, nothing there. Like, nothing to eat in case you wanted to.” For the first time that day, his speech turned choppy, like this part was all unrehearsed. There was a tremor in his hands, a struggle to clasp the helmet beneath his chin. “And I’ve kept the heat down— you know, to save on costs. So it’d take a while to warm up. And— and, my apartment’s closer, anyway.”

Shane cut himself off, tightening his hold over the gloves. He was nearly out of time, running the risk of an intrusion by one of his teammates.

“The key to my unit’s under the mat.” He turned to the door, and, coincidentally, to Ilya as well. “I’ll come right after the game ends.”

The skates gave him some height, and the gear some bulk. He stood over Ilya; still dressed in sweats, hunched and painfully frail. But he didn’t feel small.

“What’s the hurry?” He shrugged, finding Shane’s eyes beneath the visor. “Go out and celebrate. You’re so sure you will win.”

Shane knit his brows into a look of concern; unreserved, achingly genuine. When they last saw each other, Ilya would’ve expected him to hide his face or harden his tone, to put up some kind of front. But he didn’t do any of those things. His voice stayed soft. “Ilya.”

And, Ilya could do nothing but return the favor. “Okay.”

Shane smiled at that; not like he’d won an argument, but like he was relieved. From down the hallway and beyond the doors, the announcer started talking over the loudspeaker. He didn’t move from his spot; merely lifted a hand to graze Ilya’s forehead with the backs of his fingers.

His eyes flickered to the sticky note. “You’ll be there?”

A wildly irrational part of Ilya pleaded to cling to his arm, to ask him to take off all the gear and abandon the game altogether. They’d leave through the back exit, together, unseen. Ilya couldn’t help but wonder how much it’d take for Shane to be convinced. If their roles were reversed, he’d only need to ask once. Hell, Ilya would’ve probably been the first to offer.

But he wasn’t so cruel as to make Shane choose. Especially not when he’d already gotten so lucky, blessed by the feeling of sweet, cold skin against his pounding forehead. He settled to wait a few hours. “I will be there.”

Shane gave him a little nod, finally looking up as the announcer went on rambling from the rink. He started to head for the door, each step resounding with a heavy clunk. Ilya had to stop from counting them, clearing his throat to speak above a whisper.

“Good luck, Hollander.” Watching him go, Ilya sat back on his hands, reminded of something that bothered him earlier.

“And don’t let Marleau talk to you like that. I heard over the phone.” Shane turned, framed by the doorway.

He looked thoroughly confused. “Marleau? What’d he say?”

Yet another lighthearted comment turned to a shot to the heart. To think, Shane was so hung up on this mysterious illness he hadn’t even registered Marleau’s hollering. That irrational part of him was growing stronger by the second; he elected to squash it while he still could. “Nevermind.”

And he sat there, squashing it, up until he heard the roar of the crowd to signal the start of the game. He could imagine they were all thrilled to hear the news of Ilya’s surprise disappearance.

As compensation for practically dooming them, Ilya thought to linger at the bleachers and be one of the few voices cheering for the Bears. It would come with the enticing bonus of getting to look at Shane some more.

He didn’t have much of a voice to cheer with, however. And, he had to consider the very real possibility of his head splitting open from the combination of light and deafening noise. Pushing off with his arms, he slipped off the exam table and caught his balance.

He pried the sticky note away carefully, with both hands, knowing it was worth its weight in gold and diamonds and everything in between. Even rereading it for the tenth time over, he felt his mind couldn’t fully grasp the magnitude of what that little pink paper meant.

Shane, his Shane, wonderful, paranoid Shane, was inviting him to his personal flat in Montreal. The same flat his parents and teammates all knew about. The flat where any of them could suddenly drop by unannounced, say, to congratulate him on his imminent victory. They’d barge in with a bottle of champagne and some strange cake made of fruit, plotting to add some excitement to Shane’s life. Then, before they could shout ‘surprise!’, they’d stop dead in their tracks, greeted by a pitch black room and Ilya half-conscious on the couch.

Had Shane not even considered that? Or, worse, had he actually rubbed off on Ilya that much?

Maybe it was all as simple as Shane said. His secret condo was cold and there was nothing to eat.

But, even in Ilya’s foggy memory, it was a damn nice place. It’d take, what, twenty minutes to heat up all the way? There was certainly no shortage of pillows nor of blankets to burrow in while he waited.

And, even if Ilya could've stomached the idea of food in his present state, he was plenty capable of picking some up without needing to raid Shane’s refrigerator.

Something had changed. And Shane had rubbed off on him.

Ilya folded the sticky note into quarters, hoping it’d help quiet his spiral. Was that what this was? A spiral? How did Shane live like this?

No, enough was enough. This was a good thing. For whatever reason, Shane chose that cold, sickly day to let Ilya further into his life. More than anything, that was what Ilya wanted. He wanted it enough that it scared him, enough to consider ending this thing, whatever it was, before it went on festering. Because the longer he allowed his heart to swell, the more it’d bleed once Shane finally shut his eyes and stomped on it.

But he couldn't dwell on things like that for long. Not with the folded sticky note still jutting into his closed fist. Bound for the exit, Ilya swept his bag over his shoulder and tread into the hall. If there was any good to come out of the dreadful ache in his lungs, he pleaded it would be this; a night spent beside Shane, in truth.

Ilya smartly opted for the stadium’s back door this time, though much of the crowd had long since dispersed. The wind had picked up to ambush him in their place, enough to make him squint and sway on his feet. He wrapped both arms around himself, praising whatever higher power parked a cab right outside the exit.

Then, after taking refuge in the car’s backseat, he’d shortly come to rescind that praise.

Begrudgingly, the driver paused the video on his phone. So, it wasn’t cruel fate that brought the two of them together again. He’d merely pulled over to watch the livestream of the game.

He glanced upward, finding Ilya in the rearview mirror. “Hello again.”

Ilya could only stand to sigh.

“Stadium’s that way, you know.” If Ilya had to guess, he’d been camped there to watch the stream interrupted, then to possibly snag one of the players on their way out. He, evidently, wasn’t expecting a patron before the game’s end. “Or did the competition scare you off?”

It was still a better option than facing the wind again. Ilya fastened his seatbelt into place. “I am out sick.”

The driver gave his phone one last wistful glance. “You said they were allergies.”

“Is what I thought. Medic disagrees.”

“Well—and feel free to take offense—but I can’t say I’m too heartbroken over that.”

Ilya wasn’t fully certain what the guy said. He let his head lay against the back of the seat, closing his eyes. “Sure.”

“Back to the hotel?”

He shot up at once.

“Ah, no. I have address.” Ilya unfurled the sticky note, admiring each letter he read aloud. The driver said nothing in response, save for a questioning hum as he started the car.

They went on mostly in silence. Ilya opened his eyes only when they hit an especially jarring pothole. At red lights, the driver would reach for his phone to obsessively check the score. He’d click his tongue and announce it to Ilya each time; tied at zero.

As the car’s blinker switched on, a long, impressed whistle came from the driver’s seat.

“Nice place.”

Ilya cracked an eye open, disoriented by the length of their trip. It was as if only a minute or two had passed. Then again, he’d spent the majority of it in a feverish dream.

Peering through the frosty window, he needed to crane his neck to see the building’s full height. The car jolted, switched into park.

“It’s good you know someone in town.” The driver snuck a look over his shoulder, tipping the brim of his Voyageurs cap. “You know, so you can hide from people like me when you’re weak and vulnerable.”

He’d likely have some kind of cardiac event should he learn which ‘someone in town’ the flat belonged to. Ilya wouldn’t push himself to choke out a laugh, instead saving his strength to root for his wallet.

“Ah— no need for that. It was my pleasure, believe me.” Watching him unzip his bag, the driver waved his hand.

“Besides, you paid me triple what I would’ve charged you last time. And that’s already triple what I’d charge anyone else.”

That got somewhat of a smile out of him. He curled a hand over the doorhandle and braced for the oncoming, icy assault. He caught the driver’s gaze, speaking from the bottom of his heart.

“That is generous. Thank you.”

Over the wind, he heard the man call out. “Don’t get well too soon, Mister Rozanov.”

Arms crossed anew, he recited the six-digit code to himself again and again. His hands were stiff against the pinpad, but he got the job done, breathing out as he stepped into the lobby.

The front desk was unmanned at this time of night. The elevators were straight ahead across a black marbled floor. It was a nice place, he thought to himself, circling an overly elaborate centerpiece. And, naturally, he decided while the gold-trimmed doors drew closed, it was a place that fit Shane.

During his climb to the nineteenth floor, Ilya caught sight of himself in the elevator’s meticulously polished mirror. He could hardly recognize the pale, sunken-eyed thing looking back at him. No wonder Shane took pity and invited him to cozy up in his apartment.

But, then again, Shane was a notorious planner. It was a given that the two of them would meet up after the game. If he’d ever intended to bring Ilya back to his mystical condo, he would’ve already gone to turn up the heater and stock the fridge with soda.

The elevator dinged. It didn’t matter at that point. Whatever thoughts his mind still managed to churn out were probably nonsense, anyway.

He hardly needed to look at the number hung on the door, stopping at the mat that so obviously belonged to Shane. From the floor, it greeted him kindly, a cartoon of a white dog in a knit cap and hockey stick in hand. Or, paw, rather. As he peeled it upward to retrieve the key, the greeting turned to an undying ache.

Ilya wanted to see it every day, this cartoon of a dog. When Shane inevitably complained that the mat was too worn or dirty, Ilya wanted to buy him a new one. And, when Shane started griping about the surprise gift, Ilya would pass it off as something for both of them. Something for the house. For their house.

Turning the key, he could only wonder what horrible sickness made people dream about such ridiculous scenarios. He wondered, as if he hadn’t been dreaming about them for the past year.

Shane’s apartment, as promised, was warm. It was quiet too, lit dimly by a tasteful lamp tucked into a corner. After all he’d endured, it felt like stepping into a new dimension where nothing ever went wrong. Ilya was stuck by the entrance for a while, tentative to somehow interrupt the peace, afraid that this was too good to be true and he’d soon learn why.

But the fatigue wouldn’t wait up for him. It urged him along, toward the living room couch, to reach for the navy blanket draped over the back. The cushions were clean and soft, scented with the same laundry detergent Shane had used since they’d met. It was subtle, comfortable. The first thing to soothe his head that whole day. To deny it would be impossibly cruel to himself.

So, he sank, and he fell asleep in record time.

It was bland at first; probably what was best for him.

But, before long, he found himself back in the stadium’s locker room. His teammates surrounded him, talking amongst each other with muffled words. Their coach, on this rare occasion, wouldn’t nag them, instead preoccupied by his phone screen.

Ilya’s arms and legs felt heavy. Not in a bad way; only because he was wearing all his regular gear. They’d just finished warmups.

He hadn’t given a speech that night. Not because he couldn’t; it would simply be a waste of time. They were already motivated enough, himself especially. That’s always how it was when they played against Montreal.

How he loved playing against Montreal. Against Shane. To try with his whole self, to keep up his guard until the very last second. Even when he lost, he felt that he'd leave the ice having gained something.

But Ilya didn’t anticipate a loss that night. He was at his best. His teammates, filing into a line behind him, seemed to be at their best, united. A strong hand clapped him over the shoulder. His lips and teeth were pulled into a grin.

The lights in the arena were white, frigid. Every seat was filled, and every spectator perched at the very edge. The roar was relentless. It was something that could never be replicated. It was exhilarating.

A voice called his name just as he stepped onto the ice. He’d hear it often; typically, some shortened variant of his last name, or, uncommonly, a devout fan would opt for his first. This was the latter case.

It was odd, however, to hear it spoken without that clunky accent. To hear it spoken just how he’d say it himself.

Sailing just over the rest of the crowd, it was a voice that he knew, that lived deep within him. For so long he feared forgetting the sound of it.

What a stupid thing to fear. No one could forget the sound of their own mother’s voice.

“Mama!”

His teammates didn’t look his way while he skated past them, while he tore off his gloves and threw his helmet aside. The crowd didn’t quiet. It wouldn’t make a difference to him either way.

She appeared just as he remembered her. Beautiful, warmed by a cable-knit sweater, framed with golden curls. In the mornings, she’d stand in the mirror and huff, complain that she couldn’t ever tame her hair. Ilya never understood. He wished his father let him grow his out so it could look just like hers.

He gripped the board with both hands and hurled himself over. There was nowhere else to go besides her outstretched arms.

“You’re here. You came.”

He took care not to squeeze her too tightly against his gear. It was a miracle she understood his mumbled, tearful speech.

“Of course, Ilyusha,” she held a hand to the back of his neck, softly carding through his hair. Just like before. “I always come to watch you play. Do you remember?”

It was true. She'd be the one to walk him to the ice rink, to cheer and clap while he skated circles around her. Without exception, she’d taken the front row at all his matches in grade school. When his teammates threatened his temper, he’d merely need to look up, to catch sight of her with her hands against the glass. It never failed to make him smile again.

He pried himself away, just barely, just so he could see her face. “I remember.”

A sharp pain started to bloom at the center of his forehead. He winced without thinking, shutting his eyes.

Once he opened them again, the smile had left his mother’s expression. In its place was something knowing, sympathetic.

She lifted a hand to touch his cheek. “Your head is hurting.”

“No, Mama, I feel well.” He wouldn’t move his arms from over her shoulders.

Her eyes wandered past him, toward the ice. Both teams had already gotten into formation, wired for the initial faceoff. The audience went on with the same intensity, as if nothing was amiss, as if the empty gap where Ilya was supposed to be didn’t exist.

He was supposed to be there. But his mind screamed at him, warning him that if he let go of his mother now, she’d vanish again. He took her hand like he had back then, back when he’d tug her around the ice to show how fast he could go. Back when he’d wonder if his hands would ever get as big as hers.

Eventually, he would let go, because he would have no choice. He still had this, though. She could still know this part of him.

“Come with me. I want you to meet him.”

He was met with resistance. Ilya whipped around to face her again, blinking against lingering tears. The sudden motion caused the pain to spread.

“There’s no time. The game is starting.” She nodded toward the ice. “I think you need to go, sinok.”

A pit grew deep in his stomach and he ignored it. Ilya tightened his grip, pleading. He wanted her to know. “It’s okay. It’ll only take a minute. They can wait.”

She shook her head, smiling again.

“Mama, come on.” Hopelessly, he tugged again. In the end, it’d have to be him. She’d hold on only for as long as he did. “Please.”

His mother suddenly reached forward, hooking his chain around her finger. She pulled out the cross until it lay flat over the front of his jersey.

“Didn’t I tell you?” She tapped on the gold with a fingertip, softly laughing over having to repeat herself.

“I always come to watch you play.”

She’d hardly finished her sentence before a shriek of metal clatter filled the space, ringing from all sides.

Ilya awoke with a jolt, disappointed to learn how difficult it suddenly was to breathe.

A little ways behind him, someone muttered an expletive. The metal clattered again, softer this time.

It’d been a dream, this vision with his mother and the prospective game against Montreal. Really, the only thing that bled into reality was that God awful headache. It was like a cloud of evil, humid fog rattling his mind.

Ilya propped himself up on his elbows, grimacing at the sweat sticking the shirt to his back. He kicked a blanket off himself. He may as well have woken up in hell.

“I woke you up. I’m sorry.”

Okay, not hell. This was very, very far from hell.

He peeked over the back of the couch. Shane was pattering around in the kitchen, wiping the counter with a paper towel, dousing his hands under the faucet, drying them off quickly. Each time Ilya blinked, he seemed to be in a different place, occupied with a different task.

“I was cutting an orange and I knocked the knife off the counter.” He turned to Ilya at last, carrying a glass dish in both hands. “Sorry. I know you were asleep.”

It wasn’t easy to adjust. He’d last seen Shane moments ago, distant and hazy, staring at an empty patch of ice. Not that he looked any less dreamlike in the warm lighting of his apartment. But, undeniably, this version of him, damp-haired and hovering nearby, was real.

He followed Shane with his eyes, how he continued to soften his steps despite having woken Ilya up already. “Is fine. I was having a bad dream.”

Shane set his plate down on the coffee table. It was full of orange slices cut into wheels, arranged along the rim. He studied Ilya for a few seconds; his face and posture. Based on the furrow growing between his brows, he didn’t like what he saw. “I’ll check your temperature.”

He walked off decisively, leaving Ilya with the oranges. There were nicks cut into the peels to make the slices easier to pull apart and eat. A folded square of paper towel stuck out from under the plate—in case he wanted to wipe the juice from his hands, Ilya guessed. There were also things on the table he hadn't noticed before falling asleep. A box of tissues. A glass full of water. The whole setup was, like everything Shane ever did, incredibly thoughtful.

When he reappeared, he brought with him a digital thermometer. He handed it to Ilya and moved right on to asking questions.

“Have you eaten anything?”

Mouth full of thermometer, Ilya merely shook his head. God forbid he speak and interrupt the temperature-measuring process.

“You don’t have an appetite?”

He shook his head again.

“You still need to eat something.” Shane sat forward, pulling the plate closer to him. “The oranges are for you. They’re good to eat when you’re sick. Vitamin C, and stuff.”

His lecture on the health benefits of citrus fruits was cut off by beeping.

Too impatient to wait for Ilya’s sluggish head to work, he retrieved the thermometer on his own. Another furrow-browed frown. “Thirty-nine point eight. I don’t think it’s gone down.”

Within a split-second, his expression relaxed. He looked just like he did on the ice; referencing the play-by-play in his mind. He simply needed to move to the next step. “It’s alright. I’ll go look through my meds. I should have something—”

And, like he tended to do, Ilya caused an interruption Shane couldn’t have accounted for.

“No.”

Shane faced him, taken aback. “No? You’d rather keep sweating through your clothes?”

His heartbeat picked up, uncomfortably. He didn’t want to lie or make a joke. Shane’s blanket was still draped over half his leg, spilling onto the floor. “No.”

“Okay, well, I know what’ll help you.”

“I won’t take them.” Ilya’s jaw felt tight. He felt it’d be easier if he looked the other way, anywhere but the pair of eyes gnawing at him.

“Why? Because you’re still sleeping it off?” Shane’s tone had sharpened. He waved a hand toward Ilya in accusation. “First, you refuse to go to the hospital. Fine. Now, what, you’re too stubborn to take a damn pill?”

No, that wasn’t true. Shane had no way of knowing what was true. And, yet, that didn’t stop him from raising his voice. That didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I am not being stubborn.”

But this would hurt much more. To watch the upset flash over Shane’s face, to feel the couch cushions spring up as he stood without another word. After he’d invited Ilya here. After he’d taken such a risk. After he’d opened his heart.

It was a miracle Ilya had the sense to reach after him.

“No, no, Shane.” His palm was clammy, wrapped desperately over Shane’s wrist. It made him feel pitiful, sure. But it wouldn’t torture him like it would to sit there, silent, alone.

“Don’t leave.”

Shane stopped in place and blew out a breath.

He quieted, saying it like he should have the first time. “I am not being stubborn.”

“What is it, then?”

“Sit down. Please.” Ilya squeezed his wrist. “I will tell you. And I will eat your oranges.”

The tension in his arm went slack. Ilya let go slowly, only once the seat beside him dipped and Shane’s knee was pressed to his own. True to his word, he took a slice of orange. It was more sour than he would’ve liked; had he voiced the complaint, Shane probably would’ve said that meant it was better for him.

He bit the wedges off one by one. He really didn’t have an appetite, but it was easy enough.

“My mother used to have headaches.” Ilya started his story from the beginning, with perhaps more detail than was warranted. But all Shane knew about her was that she was dead. And, though he seldom got the chance, he loved to talk about her.

“They were really bad. Messed up her whole day when it started.”

He used to think it was like a curse from a fairytale. It made him wonder how someone so good could ever be cursed.

“The only thing that helped were these little round pills. It would not help all the way, but made it so she could tolerate.” His voice was getting hoarse. He cleared his throat and pushed on. “She always had them with her. In her purse. Or she had a bottle on the dresser by her bed.”

Down to the last wedge, he was left with only a thin peel. He turned it in his hands, knowing Shane was still watching him intently.

“One day, she took too much. It was what killed her.”

The words felt heavy in his mouth. When he finally got them out, however, the weight was replaced by surprising relief.

“I found her.” Ilya set the peel down beside the remaining slices. He had a long way to go.

“The bottle was right next to her.”

He turned to Shane for the first time since mentioning his mother.

“Is why I don’t like taking them. It makes me scared.”

Reaching the end of a long-winded explanation, Ilya paused to breathe out. “I bought some kind of pills before the game and took one. It did nothing.” He found himself disappointed, even now. “They’re in my bag.”

Shane followed his gaze to the floor at his feet. Ilya’s gym bag lay deflated, needlessly dragged along. He bent down to unzip it from the top.

Squinting through poor vision, Shane brought the box up to his face to read the label. The sight threatened Ilya with a smile. Caught up with caring for the ill, he hadn’t thought to put on his glasses. It was a shame.

“One probably wasn’t enough. And you have to keep taking them every few hours for it to work.” He opened the box, rattling the contents.

Shane’s expression turned softer. He had yet to react in any way to Ilya’s story. Maybe he didn’t trust himself just yet, reaching for something safer like the directions on the back of the box.

“Were you still scared when you took it today?”

Thinking back, the scene outside the pharmacy seemed more trivial now. “Yes.”

The solution seemed to come to him instantly.

“What if I took the next dose with you?”

Ilya blinked. “Why would you do that?”

“So it’s less scary.” Shane spoke as if it were obvious. He smiled as if he couldn’t believe Ilya even asked that question. “Don’t you think it’s easier to do scary things when you’re not alone?”

“I guess so.” There was certainly no disagreeing with that look.

He took Ilya’s hand gently, tapping the box to pour two pills out into his palm. Shane did the same for himself, swallowing his dose with a sip of water. It would take Ilya a little longer to follow suit.

Shane spoke again only once he was finished. “I’m glad you told me about her, Ilya.”

The dream from earlier still stung. It stung, because it made him long for something impossible. The two of them would never meet. But Ilya would know, without a doubt in his mind. She would’ve absolutely adored him.

“I don’t want you to think she was weak.” He bit the inside of his lip to stop it from trembling, peering forward. “She was very strong.”

A hand grazed his temple, pushing some of his hair into place. He could scarcely imagine the mess on his head after the way he’d slept. “I know. I always wondered where you got it from.”

Ilya let his eyes close while they started to well up. He could live another hundred lifetimes and never love another person this much.

Shane pulled back his hand, knocking their knees together. “I’m not letting you off the hook.”

Ilya could picture his gesture toward the table. “Oranges.”

That made him all the more certain. He blinked until the sight of Shane wasn’t so bleary. “Yes, Doctor.”

Shane let him trudge his way through another slice.

“Did the nap make you feel any better?”

“Not really.” Ilya admitted, disappointedly. “Still hard to take a deep breath. And my nose is very—”

He waved a hand in front of his face to illustrate what he meant, unable to come up with the word in English. “I don’t know how you say it. Zalozhin.”

Shane nodded in understanding. “Congested.”

“Yes, yes, congest.” He traded the peel for another slice. “So you do speak Russian.”

“I can just tell by how your voice sounds.”

Ilya wondered if the sound of his sickly voice was really that amusing, seeing as Shane was practically grinning at his side.

“I do know a little, though.”

Taken by surprise, Ilya abandoned his next wedge of orange and looked up. “I learned some phrases before the Olympics in Sochi.”

“You are kidding.” It was like music to his ears. “Please, you have to tell me. Your terrible accent might get rid of my fever.”

Though Shane rolled his eyes, the smile only grew. “Well, I know the obvious ones.” He held Ilya in a brief suspense. “Like, privyet, dasvidaniya, and, um— oh, spasibo.”

“Wait, check it again,” Ilya dropped his orange altogether, swiping the thermometer off the table. “I think it is already going down.”

Shane took it back without missing a beat, hiding it on the couch behind himself. “I also know how to say what my name is.” He lifted a finger like he was preparing an audience for a grand performance.

“Menya zavut Shane.”

“Ochen priyatno, Sh-ayyne.” Ilya drew out his name, making an exaggerated attempt at a Canadian accent.

“Stop it.” Shane spoke through a poorly concealed laugh, lightly shoving him aside. “Oh, wait, this one’s good.” He left a hand lingering on Ilya’s forearm, squeezing.

“Ya ochen lyublyu igrats v hokay.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows in question. He got the gist of it, but this one was clearly more of a struggle.

“Come on, you know what I said.” Shane squeezed him again. “‘I really like to play hockey!’”

“No, you say you love playing hockey.” Ilya corrected, folding a hand over Shane’s so he wouldn’t pull away. “That is probably more accurate for you, anyway.”

Shane went quiet, retreating into his thoughts. Perhaps he was searching for another phrase to butcher.

“Right, ‘lyublyu’, that’s—” He glanced at the oranges on the table. “Like, when you say ‘ya tebya lyublyu,’ that means ‘I love you.’”

Reminded of his task, Ilya had no choice but to free up his hand. He knew there was no leaving that couch until he cleared the plate. “There you go.”

Beside him, Shane was still grinning, as if expecting him to catch on to something. “I looked that one up recently.”

“Why? You’re planning a trip to Russia?” Ilya, evidently, did not catch on.

“No.” Shane paused to give him one last chance. The effort was in vain. He was too preoccupied by finishing off an especially sour piece of orange.

“I heard you say it over the phone. When you called me from Moscow.”

So, that’s what this was about. Ilya swallowed before he choked and created a whole new problem.

“I thought I knew what it meant, but I wanted to be sure.”

And, no, he triple checked. This wasn’t another hyperrealistic, fever-induced dream.

While the dread settled in his chest, Ilya asked the only question he could think of; though, he’d already guessed the answer. “Were you right?”

“I was.”

He nodded, boring holes into the half-eaten orange slice in his hands. What the hell were the odds? Of the four phrases Shane had learned and actually remembered, that had to be one of them?

His only saving grace was the hand Shane left resting on his arm.

“Don’t you want to hear what else I know?”

Ilya shrugged as if his insides weren’t all twisting and coming undone. “Sure.”

“Okay. I learned this one a few days ago.”

He felt another squeeze. Shane was trying to get his full attention. Ilya turned his neck and met his eyes like he wanted.

Was he stupid? From the look on Shane’s face, it was so, painfully obvious. He had nothing to be worried about.

“Ya tebya bolshe lyublyu.”

It was the reason for all his knowing smiles. Why he offered to take the medicine together. Why he didn’t hesitate to invite Ilya to his own place. Why he pretended to have a busted knee. All this time, Shane had been waiting to tell him.

“What?” He knit his brows, still awaiting a response. “Did I not say it right?”

Ilya hung his head to rest on Shane’s shoulder. The sweatshirt he wore smelled like that same detergent, subtle, comfortable. How lucky was he to consider that scent a familiar one.

“Everything is a competition to you, Hollander?” He let the words echo sweetly in his thoughts; ‘I love you more.’

“Well, I’m winning.”

“You’re winning? What makes you say that?”

“You’re dozing off on my couch, eating my oranges that I cut for you.” Though he emphasized his words, he sat still, careful not to jostle Ilya too much. “And, Montreal won the game tonight. Notice how I haven’t said anything about it.”

“By a lot?”

“One to zero.”

“You scored the goal at least?”

“Hayden.”

Ilya clicked his tongue, smiling against the soft fabric. “Doesn’t count, then. I should be making fun of you.”

That made Shane laugh, without holding back or hiding behind a hand. He lifted his head to watch and revel in the sound. Maybe it was just the delirium fully setting in, but it almost felt easier to breathe.

“You will spray me with cleaning chemicals if I try to kiss you?”

Shane inched forward, pushing their foreheads together. “No. I’ll get more points if you get me sick.”

Ilya wouldn’t wait, speaking in between eagerly-awaited kisses. “Oh, there is points now?”

“Of course.”

“And how will I get them?”

He received quiet in response. As he pulled away, Shane simply nodded toward the coffee table.

Ilya allowed himself a long, soulful groan before returning to his all-important work. As consolation, Shane swept the blanket off the floor to drape over his shoulders.

“How do you say that in Russian?” He tugged on either side so Ilya was equally covered. “‘Finish your oranges?’”

Before taking his next bite—and, before being reminded of how sour it’d taste—Ilya smiled at him.

“Ya davno uzhe vigral, moy zolotoy.”

“Really?” Those four phrases were carrying him shockingly far.

“There’s two ways of saying it.” Ilya lied, to avoid being seen through completely.

“What’s the other way?”

He answered with his mouth full. The oranges really were terrible.

“Dayesh svyoi apelcini, pridurak.”