Chapter Text
*
Ilya isn't thinking about anything but Shane as he half-walk-half-runs to his hospital room, pushing down the door handle and shouldering inside, still panicked despite the hours it's been since the accident on the ice.
His eyes lock in on Shane in the centre of the room, face still beautiful despite all the bruising that paints the underneath of his eyes and those perfect freckles. His arm is in a sling and one half of his chest beneath the hospital gown seems to be bandaged- Ilya imagines it could've been worse. But he doesn't really want to imagine it.
Shane is grinning at him dopily. Ilya traces his eyes to the bag of fluids being pumped into his... friend. Yeah, painkillers, that checks out. Ilya's kneejerk response is to smile right back, which is probably stupid, but his heart is still pumping like he's run a marathon. So.
The second thing he notices as he basically crashes into the room, is that they are very much not alone.
A pretty woman, Yuna Hollander, if he had to guess- sits at Shane's bedside, staring at Ilya like she's not quite sure he isn't some strange hallucination. Like maybe her son isn't the only one with a head injury right now.
"Hello..? Can I help you, Rozanov?"
Fuck. She reminds him so much of Shane it's stupid, the same dark eyes, the same tan skin and healthy flush to the top of her cheeks- the same tone Shane uses on him when he's being an ass.
Well, it'd probably look weirder if he just left again. Too late to back out now, Ilya guesses.
"Uh, hello. I'm just here to see Hollander. Make sure he is alright, you know." Rozanov is very rarely flustered by someone, but right now he finds himself trying very hard to convince Yuna he is a respectable young man and not just her son's douchebag, rival player. So far, she does not look convinced.
Luckily for him, Shane seems to get sick of waiting for something to happen.
"Ilya!" Hollander drawls happily, reaching one grabby hand out and beckoning him closer.
Yuna turns to look at her son with a more than confused furrow between her brows, but Ilya can't worry about that right now. Because it'd take a much stronger man than Ilya to deny Shane Hollander anything.
He moves towards the opposite side of Shane's hospital bed, avoiding the hand reaching out for him with a painful ache in his chest as Hollander frowns. Instead, Ilya searches his face and can only hope his eyes convey everything he cannot say.
"'m sorry for not texting you.." Shane's pupils are wide from the drugs, and his eyes shine a little under the white fluorescent lights as he looks up at Ilya.
"No." Ilya says softly, reaching a hand up to skim Shane's cheek but faltering halfway as he remembers Yuna looking at them. He gestures to the bandaged shoulder and arm instead, hoping the movement didn't look too false.
"You are hurt, Hollander. Texting me is very low on list of.. uh, problems. I am just glad you are okay." Ilya curses his thickening accent, struggling to coordinate his English.
"Priorities." Shane smiles again, gently correcting his mistake.
"Yes, priorities."
Yuna clears her throat a little pointedly. Shane's head tips over to look at her slowly, without much interest. Rozanov takes this as a sign to take a step back from the bed.
"So you just came to... what? Show some friendly sportsmanship? I'll be honest, Rozanov, I didn't take you for the type. Especially not with Shane." She switches her narrowed gaze over to her son, and her eyes soften a little, "Since when do you two text?"
"All the time, mom, duh." Shane giggles to himself pointlessly.
"Not. Okay, not all the time, Shane." Ilya smiles awkwardly, shaking his head at Hollander and widening his eyes nervously.
"Is this where I find out you two have secretly been friends for the past ten years?" The shock on Yuna's face would be funny if she wasn't edging so close to the truth, the terrifying, unspeakable truth. Him and Shane haven't even spoken about it. Ilya was planning to let him down easy last night, now, he's stood in his hospital room instead and-
"Your hands are shaking." Shane states aloud into the quiet room. It isn't the first time Ilya has wished the man was less observant. It's part of the reason Hollander is the star player he is, that whip fast ability to sense faults and strengths.
Ilya clears his throat, "I, uh- I have flight soon. I should go. I am happy you're alive, Hollander. Means I still have competition next season, yes?"
"Want you to stay." Shane disagrees, "Was gonna ask you something last night, but-"
"Hollander." Ilya interrupts with slight panic, "You're high. Ask when you are well again. You will be angry if you cannot remember what you said later. You have already convinced Mrs Hollander that we are friends, when we all know truth is we are enemies. Years old blood feud. Rivals forever." He grins half-heartedly, silently begging Shane to let him go. Yuna is looking between the two of them like they're a particularly odd puzzle.
"Hmmm, okay." Shane acquiesces, squinting in deep thought, "Wait! Let me write it before you go." He brightens again, turning to his mother.
"Pen?"
Yuna digs through her bag for a moment then hands him a pen.
"I'm going to blame this on you being high, sweetheart- do you want some paper? Or to just say whatever embarrassing insult you don't want me to hear out loud?"
"No." Hollander turns back to him, "Hand."
Russians do not blush. But Ilya may go a little... warm in the face, as he drops his hand into Shane's hold without question. His hand is bigger than Shane's, with calloused fingers and scuffed knuckles. He still isn't expecting the ticklish drag of the pen along his palm.
He can't tell what Hollander is writing yet, but he sort of wants to get it tattooed as soon as he leaves the room. His handwriting is neat, which Ilya could've guessed. Smooth and even in the same way everything Shane does is, from folding his clothes to scoring a goal.
'Come to my cottage this summer.'
Ilya clenches his hand shut as soon as he sees it. Holding the secret like a physical thing.
He knows his face is doing something complicated as he looks down at Shane again, pinching with guilt and sadness before allowing Shane's hopeful expression to relax the twisted knot in his stomach.
"Maybe- I don't... maybe." Rosanov nods shortly.
The risk of answering out loud proves worth it a second later when Shane beams at him.
"Yay. I feel better." Hollander nods, settling back into his pillows and letting his eyes slip closed.
Yuna raises an eyebrow at him. Ilya just shrugs.
"He asked if I thought Voyageurs would win cup." He lies smoothly, "Obviously I lied, but he is injured so I must be nice."
Shane's eyes fly open to glare at him again.
"Fuck off."
Ilya's laugh is real this time.
"See that's a little more what I expected." Yuna rolls her eyes, but she's smiling all the same, "I have a feeling I may be hearing more about you soon, Rosanov. And I'm not often wrong."
There's a dip in noise as Ilya's teeth anxiously clench.
"Yes. When I win, probably." He shrugs.
"Thank you for visiting, but I'm doubtful it's something that farfetched." She chuckles.
Rosanov puts a hand to his chest in faux shock, "So this is where you get your cruelty from, Shane Hollander." He tuts, "So mean to the nice Russian player. All because I beat you so easily. Very sore losers."
"Goodbye, Ilya." Shane smiles.
Fuck, Shane is going to be so worried about that when he's sober again.
It could've been worse, Ilya imagines. But he doesn't want to imagine how it could've been worse. He's too busy thanking God Hollander's okay. And also praying Shane doesn't air their laundry to his mother as soon as Ilya had left them, shushing him when Yuna's back was turned.
*