“I’m just a little under the weather. I’ll be…fine.”

That probably would’ve been more convincing if Shane hadn’t had to pause to cough up a lung before the word “fine,” and Rozanov snorted through the phone speaker.

Shane felt like dog shit. His head weighed a thousand pounds, his eyes burned, and every time he swallowed, it felt like he was doing it around shards of glass; the silent, empty hotel room made everything worse. He was desperate to have someone there with him. Not to take care of him or anything. He wasn’t a child. Just, you know, someone there. Feeling this sick in a stupid hotel room far from home, with no one around, was a particular brand of loneliness he hadn’t experienced before. He didn’t like it. The last time he’d felt this bad, he’d still been living at home with his parents. He hadn’t known to appreciate it then; appreciate the comfort of having someone there to help him if he needed it, or notice if, you know, he died or whatever. He suddenly missed his parents so much. It was another ache to add to the list. He was homesick and sad, and uneasy about how shockingly sick he was and how fast it had hit him.

But he was definitely not saying any of that to Rozanov.

Rozanov, who had texted I am coming, and then called when Shane replied with* I have to cancel.*

Rozanov, who had demanded to know what was wrong using the same voice he used when he demanded Shane get on his knees.

Rozanov, who still hadn’t fucking said anything after Shane’s coughing fit ended.

Shane held the phone away from his ear to see if the call was still connected and then put it back. “Hello?” he croaked.

“Under the weather is stupid. It means sick, yes? I think you are very under the weather, Hollander.”

“No shit.” He launched into another coughing fit that left him out of breath.

“Wow,” Rozanov said. “You have…” There was one of those pauses that meant Rozanov was searching for the English word for what he wanted to say. “Medicine?” he finally offered with a rise in his voice, unsure of the word.

Even as terrible as he felt, a small smile tugged at one side of Shane’s mouth. Rozanov rarely sounded anything other than fully confident and in control in any situation, and Shane lived for his brief moments of uncertainty or softness. They were like shooting stars: there and gone before he had a chance to appreciate them.

“Yeah,” he whispered, grimacing at the pain in his throat. “Medicine. And I have some.”

“Okay,” Rozanov said and then went quiet again.

Shane clenched his teeth against an unexpected and insane impulse to ask Rozanov to come over anyway, even if they weren’t going to fuck. It took all his focus to keep the words inside. When the silence continued to stretch over the phone connection, he finally said, “I need to get some sleep.”

“Okay.”

He waited for Rozanov to say anything else, and when it was clear he wouldn’t, he huffed a little and said, “Bye, I guess,” and hung up.

Now he was sick and annoyed. They weren’t, like, a couple or anything—God, Shane couldn’t even imagine that. They chirped each other in public, insulted each other in interviews, and occasionally fucked each other in private. There weren’t supposed to be any feelings involved here. But Rozanov could’ve displayed at least a little basic human decency and said he was sorry Shane was sick or whatever. But no, he was probably just pissed he wasn’t getting his dick sucked tonight. Asshole.

Shane flopped around in the bed in frustration, pulling the blankets up and then immediately kicking them off, jamming pillows under his head and then tossing them away, trying to find one that felt cool against his hot face. He finally found a position that was tolerable and sighed in relief before remembering he should get himself more water or a sports drink or something out of the little fridge in the room. He should check the time to see if he could have more pain relievers, too. He’d do it in a minute. He was just gonna rest his eyes first. They hurt. Just for a little while and then he’d…

+ + + +

Ilya pounded on the door again, longer and more forcefully than he had the previous times. He glanced up and down the corridor. He didn’t see anyone, but if Hollander didn’t fucking open up soon, someone was going to complain or open their door to see what was going on.

Just as he raised his fist again, the door cracked open and Hollander glared at him blearily. His face was flushed and creased with marks from his pillow. He tried to say something to Ilya, but nothing came out of his mouth except a high-pitched, raspy squeak. Hollander’s eyes widened in surprise at the sound. He tried to speak again with the same effect. He sounded like a tiny, startled mouse. Ilya grinned. He wanted to tease him about it, but a noise down the hall reminded him where he was standing. “Open the door, Hollander. Someone will see me.”

Hollander stood back, holding the door and glowering as Ilya shoved past him. As soon as Ilya was through, he closed the door and spun to face him, but the movement was too quick for him in his current state, and he wobbled on his feet. Ilya grabbed him by the arms. “Whoa.”

Hollander’s face went pale, and Ilya thought there was a good chance he was about to pass out. He moved beside him and wrapped an arm around his waist, intending to lead him to the bed so he could sit down, but Hollander slapped his hand away. Or at least he tried to. Ilya made a derisive noise and said, “Stop that, malen’kaya mysh’,” before taking a firmer hold of him. “Let me help you.”

A flash of horror electrified Ilya as he registered what he’d just done. The entirely too sweet pet name had fallen out of his mouth out of nowhere and without his permission. What the fuck? Thank god he said it in Russian at least.

Hollander slurred something grumpy Ilya didn’t understand but relaxed against Ilya’s body with a soft sound. He was adorable. It was so annoying.

They’d only taken two steps when Hollander went boneless and began sliding to the floor. Ilya’s heart stuttered in alarm as he automatically held him tighter before scooping him into his arms with a grunt. Hollander’s head lolled against Ilya’s neck. His cheek was so hot. This was not good.

Worried, Ilya strode to the bed and laid Hollander down. He leaned over him, gaze ricocheting from one part of him to another, trying to check all of him at once. Was he breathing? Yes. Good. That was good. Splotches of red bloomed high on his cheeks, but his lips were dry and gray instead of their usual pretty pink. Not good. Sweat dampened the hair around his temples, but he was shivering. Also not good. Ilya focused on the fact that his chest was rising and falling evenly. That was the most important thing. Probably. Fuck. Ilya didn’t know. He’d never taken care of someone when they were sick! Should he call someone? But who? He couldn’t call anyone who knew them. There would be too many questions, and there was no good explanation for why Ilya was in Hollander’s room the night before their teams were supposed to play.

As he pulled his phone out of his pocket, trying to decide what to do, Hollander’s eyes fluttered open. Ilya dropped his phone onto the mattress and cupped Hollander’s burning cheek, relieved. “Hey.”

Hollander blinked at him and scrunched his face in confusion. His mouth formed the word “what,” but no sound escaped, and his eyes sharpened with something that looked like the edge of panic.

“Hey, no.” Ilya kissed his forehead without thinking. And then kissed it again. He stroked his thumb over Hollander’s sweaty, freckled cheek. “Is okay. I am here. You are okay.”

Hollander’s eyes went round as Ilya realized what he was doing. He jerked his hand away and leaned back to put some distance between their faces. He forced the softness out of his voice and spoke louder and more normally, pretending not to see the flash of hurt in Hollander’s eyes. “You should drink.”

He found bottled water and sports drinks in the room’s tiny fridge and grabbed one of each. Then he searched the room for whatever else Hollander had that might help. He found some bottles that looked likely, although the English brand names printed on them were meaningless to him. He brought everything back to the bed and dumped it next to Hollander. “Do you need help up? To sitting?”

Hollander gave him a pitiful glare, but the expression quickly shifted to resignation when he attempted to move and discovered he did, in fact, need help.

Ilya smirked as he lifted his upper body and propped him on his pillows. Then he cracked the lid on the sports drink and handed it to Hollander, who drank greedily until the bottle was empty and handed it back.

“Wow,” Ilya deadpanned. “Thirsty?”

Hollander just stared at him with his cute, grumpy face. Ilya wanted to laugh. Wanted to cuddle him. Wanted to kiss him. Wanted to run from the room.

Instead, he opened the water bottle and held it up. “More.”

Hollander rolled his eyes, but took the bottle and sipped slowly this time while he watched Ilya pick through the medicine bottles on the bed. He held up one with blue words on a silver background and waggled it at Hollander with raised eyebrows. Hollander shook his head, so Ilya dropped it and chose the white and red one next. This time he nodded, so Ilya opened it, poured out a few tablets into his palm and held them out to Hollander, who chose two of them, hesitated, and then chose a third and swallowed them down.

“More?” Ilya asked, this time with a smirk.

Hollander ignored him and pointed to another bottle, and they repeated the process.

“You should set an alarm, yes? So you will know when to take more?” Ilya stretched to get Hollander’s phone off the nightstand and handed it to him. He watched as Hollander poked at the screen with a slow, clumsy finger.

After he finished, Hollander sank back against the pillows and closed his eyes, as if exhausted by the mere act of taking medicine and setting an alarm. The phone slid off Hollander’s chest, so Ilya grabbed it and set it back on the nightstand. Hollander didn’t look good, and Ilya didn’t like it. “Should I call someone?”

His eyes flew open, and he shook his head frantically before aborting the movement and wincing, face clenched in pain.

“Relax, Hollander. I am not stupid.”

Hollander gave him a doubtful look, and Ilya couldn’t help himself. “I was thinking I will call Hayden Pike. He knows how to take care of babies, yes?”

Hollander scowled, but he was too exhausted to maintain it, and his face settled back into a pained expression as he closed his eyes. The urge to tease him disappeared—it was no fun this way. In its place was something tender and worried that made Ilya uncomfortable.

“What should I do?”

Hollander opened his eyes and looked at him blankly.

“To help. To make you feel better.” Ilya wanted to punch himself for how stupid he sounded.

Surprise flickered over Hollander’s pale face.

“Shut up. I do not have to help. I leave instead, maybe.” He moved to stand, and Hollander reached to stop him, but hesitated and then let his hand fall before actually touching Ilya. He looked down, cutting off eye contact, as if embarrassed.

Ilya sat back on the bed. “You want me to stay.” The idea that Hollander wanted him to stay made his heart give a harder-than-normal thump. Fuck. This was not what they were to each other, and Ilya’s stupid heart didn’t get a vote, but it didn’t care. It wanted the sad, soft man next to him regardless of how.

Hollander didn’t respond, so Ilya used the crook of his finger to tilt his face up and waited. After seeming to struggle with himself for a few seconds, and after what was definitely an eye roll, Hollander’s bloodshot eyes raised to meet Ilya’s. Anxiety and vulnerability glowed in them along with the fever, but he nodded and mouthed the word, “Stay.” So brave. It made Ilya want to pull him into his lap and hold him close, stroke his back and make him feel safe.

“Okay.” Ilya slid his hand up to cup Hollander’s cheek. “Okay. I will stay.” And his traitorous heart thumped its approval of the choice.

He pulled out his own phone to set an alarm for a time so early it made him regret all the choices he’d made leading to this one, but he had to make sure no one saw him leaving the room later. Then he stripped down to his underwear, turned off the lights and climbed into the bed next to Shane.

He left plenty of space between their bodies, but heat from Shane radiated across the mattress and washed over Ilya’s skin like a physical touch. It was awkward to be like this—in bed, mostly undressed—when orgasms weren’t the goal. They’d never been together without having sex. Ilya stared at the shadows on the ceiling, his body stiff and hyperaware of the man next to him, of every inhale and shuddery exhale, of the deep silence of the room. He was never going to be able to fucking sleep like this. He should go. He shouldn’t have agreed to—

The back of Hollander’s fingers brushed Ilya’s arm under the blanket, a feather-light touch, there and gone, easily denied or excused as the accidental bumping of bodies sharing a small space, but Ilya knew Shane, and he understood what that shy touch was asking for. Shane was sick, and maybe still a little scared from passing out. He wanted comfort. And as much as it freaked him out, Ilya wanted to provide it. He raised his arm and slid it beneath Shane, encouraging him closer.

Shane came easily, always so easily. He was growing addicted to Shane’s willingness to give Ilya what he wanted, and the satisfaction it gave Ilya to reward his sweet acquiescence.

He tucked him close, wrapped his arm tighter around his shoulders, and kissed his head. “Sleep, malen’kaya mysh’.

Shane sighed and relaxed, threading his leg between Ilya’s legs and going limp against him. He fell asleep quickly and Ilya followed soon after.

+ + + +

Commentator One:

“Well, folks, we’ve got some bad news for you. Both Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander are missing from their teams’ rosters tonight. Word is they’re both down with whatever illness has been going around their respective locker rooms.”

Commentator Two:

“It’s that time of year, I guess. Do you suppose the two of them will compete to be the first back on the ice?”

Commentator One:

“Wouldn’t surprise me at all. Feel better, boys.”

Ilya snorted and turned off the television. “Is no contest. I will be first back,” he said in a voice that wavered between a croak and a thin, high-pitched whisper.

Shane smiled and burrowed deeper into Ilya’s chest. “No way. I have a head start. Now shut up and go back to scratching my head. I liked it.”