Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Hayden Pike's Children, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Jackie Pike

Additional Tags:

Bodysharing, Angst with a Happy Ending, Forced Proximity, Angst, Fluff, Humor, Body Worship, dubious hockey depictions, even more dubiously google translated russian, Suicidal Thoughts, Relationship Reveal, your decade long arch-rival fwb crush situationship ends up trapped in your body wyd, Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Universe, Falling In Love, with the voice in your head, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, featuring THEEE shane hollander dildo, Sex Toys, Miscommunication, Emotional Constipation, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Mental Health Issues, of various flavors, Disordered Eating, canon-typical racism homophobia sexism etc, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, no AI, can't believe i have to disclose that, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Blood and Injury, forced proximity final boss, Finger Sucking, all these tags will come with time i promiseeee, Cohabitation, Autistic Shane Hollander, Sharing a Body, Shane Hollander Has a Dildo

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-06 Completed: 2026-04-07 Words: 33,974 Chapters: 7/7

Blizost

Summary

So what is the plan now, Mr. Spreadsheet?

“Honestly I was kind of hoping your consciousness would just click back into your body once I touched you.” Shane scratches the back of his head.

You treat me like slap bracelet, Ilya complains.

After a bad hit knocks Ilya’s consciousness out of his body — literally — Shane finds himself sheltering the soul of his decade-long situationship in the back of his head. Turns out it’s a lot harder to keep secrets when you share a body.

(They definitely still try, though.)

Notes

obligatory 'i havent written in years and the hollanov brainworms resurrected me' fic

i honestly thought there was nothing fresh i could contribute to this massive tag but then this idea struck me and i couldnt let it go! please enjoy my little freaks and the ultimate case of forced proximity (and hit 'show creator style' so you don't miss anything!) <3

Chapter 1: Подвиг

Chapter Notes

April, 2017.

Shane Hollander is perfect.

He’s the best in his field. Sports commentators hold off on calling him in the peak of his career because they know he’s only getting better. His body has been sculpted to high heaven from years of training and discipline. His reputation is squeaky-clean; the poster child for model minorities.

There’s just one teeny, tiny little flaw. Aside from the whole undefined-salacious-gay-love-affair-with-his-highly-publicized-sworn-rival thing.

Shane Hollander is not a mind reader. And he’s in love in something with an emotional brick wall that grows three slabs thicker every time someone knocks.

“Let’s hunt some fucking Bears!”

The Voyageurs cheer and jostle one another as they make their way out of the locker room, gear clunky and skates laced tight. The energy before a Boston game is always electric, especially on home ice, the thick stench of bloodlust hanging heavy in the frigid rink air. It thrums in Shane’s veins too, but there’s an additional thrill fluttering against his chest when he emerges from the tunnel. There’s nothing he craves more than a good fucking game of hockey against worthy opponents. Especially when he skates circles around those so-called worthy opponents and crushes their hopes against their losing scoreboard.

Shane glides onto the ice like he’s stepping into his second skin. The opposing team has already started their warm-ups. Shane’s eyes dart around nervously, trying not to look where his heart is pulling him, and then trying even harder to not look like he’s not trying to look at someone. But then his traitorous heart tugs his gaze to the corner of the rink, where it finds bright blue eyes and a head of golden curls.

Well. Maybe there’s one thing he craves more.

Said craving is currently on his hands and knees on the ice, knees splayed out as he stretches his hip flexors. His legs oscillate in and out, pulsing in an all-too familiar rhythm as he maintains eye contact with Shane, unable – or unwilling – to suppress a knowing smirk.

After all these years, Shane likes to think he knows Ilya pretty well – his hockey, at least. Ilya’s personal life is a different story. Getting him to open up is like pulling teeth, and God knows they’ve both already lost enough of those to last a lifetime. Their recent heart-to-heart at the All-Star game is the closest Shane has gotten to unraveling the tightly wound spool of secrets that is Ilya Rozanov, but he still feels the iron walls between them.

Regardless, Shane is intimately familiar with Ilya’s warm-up routine, and the hip stretches Ilya is doing now are out of sequence with his usual pattern. He’s just doing this to fuck with Shane.

He’s good at that.

Shane has never been strong at eye contact, especially not when Ilya Rozanov is trying to eye-fuck him across the ice, so he begrudgingly forgives himself when he breaks first. He hates to lose. Ilya knows this.

That must be why his smile is even wider, giddy even, when Shane looks back over with a smattering of red flushing his cheeks. It’s not from the chill of the rink. Ilya winks obnoxiously, then has the audacity to pucker his lips and Shane scoffs and turns away.

“What an asshole,” Hayden comments as he and Shane start trading saucer passes. “Don’t let him get in your head, okay?”

Shane flashes a tight smile at his best friend. His blush had deepened – Hayden must have mistaken it for irritation. “Of course. Let’s win this one.”

He and Hayden bump helmets before parting to finish the rest of their warm-ups. The preparation time passes in a blur as Shane settles into his game headspace. His pads are perfectly adjusted, his skates are laced up tight enough to place that reassuring pressure on his ankles, and all he can see is ice, ice, ice.

And Ilya.

They’re pitted against each other in the face-off, because of course they are. Their sticks make a satisfying clang as they hit the ice in sync. Shane fights back a grin. He loves this. He loves the challenge. He loves the excuse to hover inches away from Ilya’s face. He loves the reminder that even when they’re playing opposing forces, there’s an inherent harmony between them, like they were cut from the same cloth from opposite sides of the world.

Compatibility. It’s a nice word.

Shane’s pulse races as they wait for the puck to drop. Playing on the same team at All-Stars was its own type of thrill. They’ve spent so long memorizing each other’s strengths and weaknesses that it felt fresh to put that knowledge to use in a new context. Shane always knew he and Ilya would complete each other, but getting the on-ice confirmation that they meld together perfectly is vindicating nonetheless. Shane loves being right almost as much as he loves winning.

Plus, they could celebrate together without drawing the wrong type of attention. It was nice. Freeing. Shane wanted to live in that moment, with Ilya’s lips pressed against the side of his helmet, that bright flash of joy and unity, forever.

It’s why he has a plan for tonight. He wants to capture that fleeting breath where they tuned the world out between their fingertips, and stretch it into a two week getaway at his cottage.

“You look eager, Hollander,” Ilya drawls. Shane can almost feel his breath ghost across his face. He wants it. “Stay in your pants, yes? Is no fun winning when you are distracted like needy puppy.”

“I’m always ready for you,” Shane fires back. It’s supposed to be about the game, about how Shane will never let his guard down on the ice, but something in Ilya’s eyes darkens. His gaze rakes up and down Shane’s hunched body. It can’t be that sexy of a sight, what with the pads bulking him into an unflattering silhouette and the mouthguard bulging between his lips. Ilya’s throat bobs as he swallows hard.

Shane wins the face off.

Flying down the ice like he’s soaring above clouds, Shane allows a twinkle of giddiness to flicker in his eyes, carefully shrouded under the stern, focused furrow of his brows. He fires the puck to Hayden through a narrow passage in the clashing traffic of blades, then loops around to scoop it back up when Hayden gets cornered by Bears defensemen.

Ilya is hot on his heels as he turns. Ilya is always there, stick swiping at his skates, shoulder jostling him off his axis as they battle for the puck. Ilya sweeps it cleanly from under Shane and is off in the next heartbeat, but what Shane lacks in physical brutality he more than compensates for in agility, so it isn’t long before he’s pressed back against Ilya’s side. It’s his favorite place to be.

Yeah, being teammates is special. But being rivals has its silver linings too. The ruthlessness of Ilya’s body slamming his own against the boards like he’s trying to fuse them together, the heady thrill of a good play, the flush of exertion on their cheeks, the sensation of competing against the only other person who knows what it's like to be at the top. The only other person who truly understands.

Shane’s gaze snags on Ilya’s smile. He doesn’t mean to – he was serious about not letting Ilya throw off his game – but he can’t help it. The curve of Ilya’s mouth doesn’t follow the arrogant smirk that usually carries him through winding and bland interviews in his second language, or the toothy grin he uses to charm casual hookups. It’s small. Soft. The tender tilt of his lips that Shane saw in Tampa, after they held each other for longer than they ever allowed themselves before. Shane knows he’s feeling it too, the beat of their hearts in sync.

And then it vanishes.

His mouth drops open with a sharp intake of breath, and he’s darting forward faster than Shane has ever seen him move, not even under the crushing pressure of the draft all those years ago. Stick abandoned and both hands stretched out, it only takes a second for Ilya’s shaking gloves to shove Shane to the side. And then –

Crunch.

A body grazes Shane’s shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground as his skates lose purchase. He lands on his ass first before his body gives out and he smacks the back of his helmet against the ice. Spots cloud his vision for only a moment before he’s up again, hoisting himself onto his hands and knees to gather his bearings. What the fuck was that?

He blearily scans the ice, ready to cuss Ilya out for whatever dirty trick he just pulled. The rink has been thrown into pandemonium, like it often does after a gruesome hit, but it doesn’t sound quite right. Everything is muffled to Shane’s ears, but the fans don’t seem to be spitting and booing like they normally do whenever Ilya does – well, anything honestly. There’s movement around him on the ice, but it’s not the familiar rhythm of a play.

Shane pulls in a stuttering breath, gaze still angled upwards where the other players are standing. He can’t see Ilya. He must already be at the other end of the rink. Did he score? Is it time to switch shifts?

What happened?

“Shane! Buddy, are you okay?” Hayden’s face floats into his vision. His brows are creased with worry. This answers nothing that Shane wants to know, but it makes his heart sink nonetheless.

“Fuck, fuck,” a desperate voice filters through the cotton clogging Shane’s ears. It’s deep, gruff, but the words aren’t edged with the familiar lilt Shane has come to love. “I didn’t see – I don’t know why he intercepted like that! Or why Hollander didn’t move! It was clean, I swear. Roz wasn’t supposed to be there!”

Roz?

“Don’t crowd him Marlow. Let the medics work,” a referee reprimands sharply.

Shane finally shifts his line of sight downward, level with his crouched position. His heart, which beats in a black and gold jersey ten feet across the ice, freezes. Someone is slumped there, unmoving. A ring of medics maneuver the dead weight onto a spinal board. Shane’s stomach churns at the smear of blood left behind on the ice.

When he spots the speckles of red glinting off a delicate chain and crusting into a beautiful golden ringlet, he turns and vomits against the boards.

Ilya, he cries in his mind, because he can’t say it out loud. Can’t crawl across the ice to Ilya’s side, can’t hold his hand as the medics strap him against the board. Is he conscious? If he is, he must be terrified. He shouldn’t be alone.

If he isn’t, that’s even worse.

Tears well up in his eyes. Hayden’s ungloved hand is resting between his shoulderblades, trying to provide the comforting pressure he always seeks in crisis. It only makes Shane feel worse. It’s not Ilya’s hand.

Hayden gently pulls him to his feet, steadying him with an arm slung around his back. He’s trying to soothe Shane like he does when one of his kids throws up in the middle of the night. He normally would shove Hayden off, playfully irritated at getting treated like one of his best friend’s fifteen children, but Shane can’t bear to put up a front right now. Not when his pulse is pounding at his fingertips, desperate to reach toward the body on the ice.

“Il…” he tries to croak out. “I-I–”

“You hit your head, bud. Let’s get you to the bench.” Hayden slowly tracks Shane’s gaze at the lack of response, head tilting with confusion, but he shakes off whatever conclusion he draws. He probably assumes congenial golden boy Shane Hollander is just shaken by any serious injury on the ice, plus his own near miss and resulting damage. “Hey, don’t look. If you’re concussed, the lights are just going to make it worse.”

“No, n-no. I need – I should be – is he okay?” Shane can’t stop cutting himself off with gasps, new worst-case scenarios crashing over him and shoving themselves to the front of his mind with every passing second that Ilya remains motionless.

Blood pools, stark against the pale ice. It’s the only color in the room. It swallows the gold.

“Focus on yourself.” Hayden’s grip tightens. “The medics know what they’re doing with Rozanov. They’ll probably go fix the fucker up in the hospital. He’ll be back to being a dick to you before you know it.”

If Shane had any breath in his lungs, he’d snap at Hayden about time and place, but as it is he doesn’t have enough oxygen to keep himself upright. His knees buckle before Hayden has a chance to stabilize him. The arena goes fuzzy at the edges. The crowd is screaming. Everyone is screaming. Shane might be the only one screaming.

The medics cart Ilya’s body off the ice and no one knows they’re hauling away Shane’s heart with him. Not even Ilya knows Shane’s soul has slipped somewhere into the curve of his skin, scattered across the moles he loves to kiss.

Shane.

The utterance splits Shane’s head apart. When it stitches itself back together, he looks up and finds his heart again, hovering just inches away.

Ilya is kneeling in front of him, blue eyes blown wide. The harsh lights of the rink cast him in a strange glow, curling hazily around the edges of his frame.

It doesn’t make any sense. Ilya is still unmoving but his rigidity doesn’t seem to stem from injury. Confusion clouds his eyes and yet they never stray from Shane’s stricken face. There’s no blood on his head, or in his hair. He’s in his jersey, but the cross he normally tucks safely under his gear rests proudly against his chest.

It glints in the light. Entranced, Shane reaches a trembling hand towards it. The minute his finger should’ve made contact with the smooth metal, a searing pain burns through his muscle fibers and along his synapses. His surroundings flicker in and out.

Ilya’s afterimage is gone, leaving a distinct residue on Shane’s ransacked ribcage. Maybe he was trying to return Shane’s heart.

Keep it, Shane pleads desperately, before his eyes roll back in his head and the world goes blessedly silent.

_____________________

A sharp pinprick of light crosses his vision. Back and forth. Up and down. Top left, bottom right, center.

It clicks off. “You don’t seem to be concussed, but I still recommend you get a check-up at the hospital. And you’re obviously pulled from the rest of the game. Maybe the next one as well. Take it slow for the next few days.” The team’s doctor impassively tucks her instruments back into her kit.

It’s good news. It should be. Shane just can’t seem to feel anything beyond the fear curdling in his stomach and the strange buzzing at the back of his head.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring into nothingness, before someone clears their throat. Hayden is leaning against the door frame, arms crossed.

“So,” he draws out as he joins Shane on the bench. “What was that about?”

Shane levels him with a blank stare. Hayden bumps his shoulder. Gently. Hayden always handles him like he’s about to break.

Maybe he is.

“Don’t play dumb with me. I’ve seen you get checked harder before and I know you didn’t hit your head that badly, so what happened out there? I haven’t been puked on like that since the twins were both down with a stomach bug from those snot-nosed gremlins at daycare.”

Shane just shrugs weakly. As much as he loves Hayden, there’s no way he can tell the truth.

I freaked the fuck out because my not-yet, maybe-soon-hopefully boyfriend who I’ve been fucking behind everyone’s backs for years got injured and I think I saw his ghost and I’m afraid he’s dead and I’ll never be able to take him to my cottage and suck his dick on the couch and on the bed and on the dock and in the lake and maybe-soon-hopefully even hold hands while we cook dinner.

“Sorry.”

“Eh, it’s okay. The twins were way worse. Ruby started first, and then Jade joined in like it was a competition.” Hayden soldiers on with trying to lighten the mood. He shoots Shane a sly grin. “I’ll tell you a secret. When they first got sick, the sight of it made me so queasy I ended up throwing up with them. Jackie had to take care of all three of us. She was pregnant, but she was the only one keeping her food down.”

Ah, of course Pike has stomach as weak as his snap shot.

Shane musters up a wobbly smile at the thought. If Ilya was here, that’s probably what he would say.

“She doesn’t get paid enough to take care of five kids,” Shane tries to volley. He’s not sure it will land because there’s a roaring in his ears he can barely hear past, but thankfully Hayden goes with it, shuddering dramatically.

“Don’t even joke. I went to the best vasectomy doctor in the region because we are already up to our ears in diapers and kid’s toys.” He waves a hand. “But don’t worry, we have enough to put the kids through college and for Jackie to buy the fancy perfumes she likes.“

Shane’s mouth opens like he’s possessed. “Really? Montréal pays salary to players with no goals?”

“Woah, dude!” Hayden reels back with a laugh. “You’re taking chirps out of Rozanov’s book now? I know it seems lonely at the top, but I’m nothing to scoff at, y’know.”

Cheeks warming, Shane buries his face in his hands. Where the fuck did that come from? Luckily Hayden doesn’t seem offended, relief from signs of life out of Shane winning over the sting of the dig. “Sorry Hayd, I’m just – I think I’m just in a weird headspace. I know you don’t like Il–Rozanov,” he swallows, fresh tears summoned at the act of censoring Ilya’s name, “but it’s always scary seeing someone collapse like that. And he doesn’t have any family in the area. Or even the continent.”

Hayden is quiet for a moment.

“I uh, I think I read that in an article once? An article that like, featured the both of us, because I don’t…I don’t read articles just about him. Obviously. Unless it’s about his play style, for research, because–”

“Relax, Shane,” he fixes him with a careful look. “Rozanov may be a piece of shit, but you’re not. You’ve known the guy for years, it makes sense that you’d feel…complicated, about seeing something like that.”

Shane nods wordlessly. He wishes he could stand up for Ilya. Wishes he could tell everyone about the way Ilya strokes the back of Shane’s neck when he knows he’s stressed and always stocks his house with unscented soaps that won’t be overstimulating. Wishes he could buy billboards to broadcast to the world what’s beneath the surface of Ilya’s prickly exterior.

But Shane Hollander is a coward. And he’s not sure what he’d write on the billboards beyond those Shane-specific gestures of kindness anyways, because Ilya still hides his face when he cries.

Maybe even he doesn’t know what’s behind that mask.

Maybe no one does.

“Come on, I’ll drive you home.” Hayden herds Shane around the locker room, gathering his stuff and organizing it just how Shane likes it. With a steady hand pressed to the small of his back, Hayden guides Shane out to the car.

“Listen,” Hayden starts as he taps idly on the steering wheel. He’s not making eye contact, probably because he knows Shane won’t meet it. “If anyone’s a fifth kid in the Pike household, it’s you. So if you need anything, just…let me know, alright? Jackie and I are here for you.”

Jaw clenched tight, Shane manages to jerk his chin in acknowledgement. He wonders if Hayden would sing the same tune if Shane demanded he drive to the nearest hospital to search for Ilya’s room.

Probably not.

When Shane settles into the passenger seat of Hayden’s respectable Honda Odyssey, he has the vague thought that the car is very, very, boring.

_______________________

Age range for psychotic break?

How to know if I’m developing schizophrenia, please?

Male athlete mid-20s hearing voices after hitting head please please no please

“Fuck,” Shane groans, fingers tightening in his hair. He throws his phone on the bed, then immediately picks it up and punches can trauma trigger schizophrenic symptoms into the search bar. The results are not encouraging. “Fuck, this can’t be happening.”

It had started slow. Quiet. Shane was pacing a hole in his carefully-curated carpet, nibbling at his thumbnail because reverting back to bad habits is what most people do in crisis. He fielded a call from his mother, nearly beside herself from watching the crash happen live, and barely managed to keep himself together long enough to grit out something about Hayden taking care of him. Shane is injured, sure, probably enough to be benched for a day or so while he’s on concussion watch, but he’s fine, it’s just– Ilya–

Fuck.

Shane ‘chronic planner’ Hollander doesn’t know what to fucking do next. No one in Ilya’s life would know to call him, because no one in either of their lives knows anything about them being…them. He frantically refreshes all the sports news sites he has bookmarked and he’s had Google alerts set for Ilya’s name for years now, but no useful information is coming through. He had to stop frantically calling ‘Lily’ after the fourth voicemail because hearing Ilya’s gruff voice nearly sent him to his knees. He needs to see Ilya, but he doesn’t know what hospital he’s in, or if he’s already been discharged and just can’t call, or if he’s awake at all.

Or if he’s alive.

That thought sends Shane into a fresh spiral. A bead of blood seeps from the edge of his nailbed. Fuck, what if he’s wasting time stuck in his apartment while across the city Ilya is breathing his last breaths and Shane can’t be there because why would Shane Hollander need to–

Hollander.

One word. Just his name. But it nearly pitches Shane to the side because God, why did his internal voice suddenly sound like Ilya?

“Oh my God, Scott Hunter was right all along.” Shane barks out a sharp laugh. “I really am sounding like him, even in my own head.”

Admittedly, Shane is no stranger to hearing Ilya’s voice in his mind. When they’ve been apart for an especially long time, sometimes Shane will read his dry hockey books in Ilya’s lilting accent. It’s not hard to do – Shane has spent almost a decade listening to Ilya’s different voices. The slightly stilted rhythm during pressers when he uses charm to supersede the language barrier. The measured tone of him reading off a cue card at joint events. The playful flick of his tongue around consonants as he chirps across the face-off circle. The soft, breathy, reverent way he whispers his name during their clandestine meetups.

Shane knows what it sounds like when his internal dialogue poorly reconstructs Ilya’s voice. This isn’t that. But it can’t…it can’t be…

Blood drips down the side of Shane’s thumb. All he can see is a gold cross stained in crimson.

Stop. Shane. You are…hurting yourself.

He goes rigid. The thought is weak, echoing from the very back of his consciousness and barely breaking the surface, but it’s there. Unbidden.

It’s not him.

“Oh, I’ve done it now,” Shane gasps as he shakily lowers himself onto the couch. The burst of nervous energy that spurred his two hours of pacing vanishes and his legs can no longer support him. He lets out a disbelieving huff, pushing his hair from his forehead with his good hand. “Being Asian in a racially homogenous sport and gay and fucking my career rival wasn’t enough, right? I had to be fucking crazy, too. This is just great. I’m like the patron saint of minority representation.”

Hence Shane’s frenzied internet searches into the likelihood of him spontaneously developing a psychotic disorder after physical and emotional trauma. One WebMD article and three Reddit threads later has him googling the nearest psychiatric hospital. Hopefully they let him call Ilya from his ward.

Shane is halfway through dialing the number when his hand locks up. It just…stops. Then, robotically, his thumb hits backspace until the digits all disappear.

He swallows hard. Then again. Similarly to the strange voice in his head, he has the deep-rooted instinct that this did not come from him.

“Psychotic break and demonic possession?” Shane croaks out. He stares down at the hand that will no longer obey his commands. It’s like it doesn’t belong to him anymore, all sensations and control cut off from the wrist to his fingertips.

Breathe. You are shaking like little dog.

Maybe the hospital has a priest on standby.

No hospital. Not for that. Get band-aid for your thumb.

The voice is so strongly Ilya, particularly when he utilizes that commanding tone to take care of Shane, that he obeys. His hand goes lax, the connection suddenly restored between his brain and limb. Heart thrumming in his throat, he pulls a first aid from the cabinet and carefully cleans the wound before wrapping a bandage around his thumb.

Good boy.

Shane stares down at the fabric on his finger. It’s pale blue, one of Shane’s favorite colors. It reminds him of the lake at his cottage.

He…still doesn’t know Ilya’s favorite color. Despite scattered and flimsy attempts over the years, they’ve never had the time — or the willingness — to slow down and trade answers to such banal questions.

It leaves a sting in Shane’s chest regardless. He wants to know Ilya like that. Wants it desperately.

Blue. Color of мама’s eyes.

Shane really must be hallucinating, because Ilya’s voice in his head chokes up a little at the words.

мой милый (My dear), you are not crazy. Not how you are thinking. Only crazy about me, yes?

Shane’s breath hitches again. He ducks his head, chin bumping against his chest, and tries to re-center himself. He doesn’t know Russian. He’s tried to catch the phrases Ilya has muttered to him during sex so he can run it through Google Translate because Shane Hollander hates not knowing something, but he’s never gotten the sounds right. He can recognize a word or two, but not enough to conjure it up on his own.

“...Ilya…?” Shane ventures into the stillness. His lower lip trembles, a sob half-formed in the back of his throat. Even as a hallucination, Ilya’s voice is like a balm to his scorched soul. He wants to trap each word in sticky amber, etch them into his heart until the rise and fall of Ilya’s syllables can never leave him.

He prays Ilya hasn’t already left him.

Oh, Shane. моя любовь. мое сердце. (My love. My heart.) I would not leave you like this.

“If this isn’t a hallucination, can you…can you prove it?” Shane asks. He feels stupid talking to an empty room, but he doesn’t trust his own head enough to think it.

Maybe-hopefully-Ilya hums in contemplation. Get me paper.

Shane finds a piece of scrap paper and a pencil and sits down at his table spine straight like he’s about to take a test. A pressure begins to build against his subconsciousness, squeezing and compacting it to make room. Warmth cascades down his arm and pools in his fingers before it ebbs. When it drains, all the feeling fades with it. Something distinctly different settles in the absence.

The pencil in his hand shifts from its once comfortable grip, now pinched more precisely in between his thumb and index finger rather than being nestled in the curve of his hand. The tip meets the paper, and words flow out involuntarily.

Shane. Did you miss me?

Eyes round, Shane just blinks at the page. It’s not his handwriting. The ‘a’ is formed like how most computer fonts use it rather than the abridged version taught in Canadian schools. The ‘y’ is fanciful and curled with a flair Shane does not have the patience or flamboyance for.

With his other hand shaking, Shane searches for photos of Ilya’s handwriting. It doesn’t take long to find fans flaunting their signatures from Boston’s greatest love machine. Some of the Bears have even posted the birthday cards Ilya had written for them. They’re full of teasing jabs, but the curve of the letters are hauntingly familiar.

I-l-y-a. The double-storey ‘a’. The flick of the ‘y’. Fuck. Fuck. It all matches perfectly. Somehow, Ilya wrote this.

His hand moves again.

Ilya Rozanov

Shane squints at it before the voice in his head echoes again.

Autograph for my biggest fan. Will be worth a lot of money when I win next cup.

Holy shit. Shane’s situationship maybe-soon-hopefully boyfriend of almost a decade, the man who has held him at arms length for years despite Shane’s attempts to get him to open up, is now sharing his fucking body.

Is kind of hot, no?

Shane has never been religious. It’s never felt like a hole in his life, but he suddenly wishes he had a god to pray to. Perhaps there’s a patron saint of consciousness in some religion out there that he can start a shrine for. He could use some guidance here. Ancient Reddit threads probably aren’t going to cut it on this one.

Ilya decides to start showing off using Shane’s hand. Beautiful spiralling Cyrillic letters fill the page, which certainly did not come from Shane.

Я не мог просто оставить тебя одну. Ты как испуганная птичка. Не волнуйся, я тебя приведу в порядок. И даже надену сексуальный костюм медсестры. (I couldn't just leave you alone. You are like a scared little bird. Don't worry, I'll fix you up. And I'll even wear a sexy nurse costume.)

As soon as he wrestles control back Shane launches a translation app, clumsily copying the characters with the Cyrillic keyboard he already has downloaded. He quickly gives up and tries to use the camera function to scan the whole passage. Ilya puts a stop to that by seizing his hand again.

Boo, do not spoil my fun. You want to learn Russian? I will tutor you. I have program just for Shane Hollander.

Shane’s possessed fingers fly deftly over the foreign keyboard. He watches with a queasy mix of awe, irritation, and embarrassment as the machine spits out the English translations for Ilya’s ‘Shane Hollander Program’.

Пожалуйста, трахни меня ←→ Please fuck me

Я хочу, чтобы твой огромный, толстый член был во мне. Никто другой не сможет меня удовлетворить ←→ I want your huge, thick dick in me. No one else can satisfy

Да сэр, прямо здесь, сильнее ←→ Yes sir, right there, harder

“This is not the time to fuck around, Ilya,” Shane warns. His words carry no venom. He’s overwhelmingly relieved that Ilya is…somewhat okay, and is able to tease him like he always does. It would feel like normal foreplay if it was coming from corporeal Ilya, not weird demonic possession Ilya.

I am teaching useful phrases. And you love to fuck around.

“Ilya. You don’t get it. You’re inside me.”

Yes, yes. I am expert in that.

Shane scoffs. The chair squeaks with protest as he stands up and starts pacing the room again. Okay. So Ilya’s soul is sharing his body, or something. That isn’t really great news, but at least Ilya is…still here, in some form. This is a start. Maybe he can – contact a medium, or something? Or perhaps the priest is still a good idea. They can exorcise Ilya out of his body and reunite him with his own. Fuck, but what if Ilya’s soul ascends or something when they do that?

Shane, is past your bedtime. Go to sleep. I do not want to share body with Cranky Shane if you do not get your beauty sleep.

“How are you not more worried about this?!”

Eh, you have panic attack enough for two. There’s fondness in Ilya’s tone. We can have joint panic attack in the morning. Now go to bed before I put you there myself.

Shane doesn’t know much about the occult. He does, however, know how to listen to Ilya Rozanov. Obediently, he stumbles through his nightly routine and climbs under the covers.“Can you actually do that?” he says softly. “Can you take over my whole body…?”

Silence stretches in his head. Shane’s lungs squeeze as he waits for a response.

Probably? I am…tired right now. But I think yes. At least briefly.

Shane’s eyes burn with exhaustion, but he has to follow this line of questioning. If they’re going to…coexist? like this, he needs to know the extent of what Ilya has access to, and they probably need to lay out some ground rules. He can’t have Ilya hook Shane’s body on cigarettes or something. Then he’d kill him for real.

Ilya, Shane thinks cautiously. The words are sharpened with intention, rather than the normal passive monologue that lines his internal world. Can you hear me like this? What are you…experiencing? How much can you see? Can you hear my thoughts?

Ha. Of course I know everything. You are thinking about my cock right now.

Shane’s voice pitches high with indignation. “No! Why would I – can you get your head out of the gutter for one second! Why would I be – your cock, really – right now?!”

Liar. Shane can hear the teasing grin in Ilya’s voice. You are always thinking about my cock.

“Oh my God.” He buries his face in one of the numerous pillows strewn artfully across his bed. “This is going to be torture.”

Relax. You are hissy wet kitten. I do not think I can hear all your thoughts, only the ones you try to communicate to me. And…you can not hear all of mine, correct?

“No,” Shane says. He hopes it’s true. He doesn’t know what he doesn’t know, after all.

Ilya’s words come slower, more thoughtful. Finally serious. I think I am sharing your awareness. I can hear what you hear and see what you see, but it feels far away. Disconnected. Like I am passenger in the back seat of your boring car.

Okay, now Shane is pissed. The initial wave of relief has passed, and Ilya is back to getting on his nerves.

Right. So Ilya, why the fuck are you freeloading in my head? Get your own body!

Ah yes, would love to. Truly. I would not choose to be stuck in second best hockey player’s body when I could have access to first best. Ilya pauses. Seems my body is…not safe right now.

Not safe? Shane echoes. What does that mean? Why can’t you go back?

So many questions, Ilya groans. If I knew how to get back I would not be in here. Is nightmare, truly. You are so tense all the time and I cannot even fuck it out of you like this. All I know is that I saw you in Marlow’s path. He was coming in too fast, too aggressive. I do not remember moving, but suddenly I was looking at myself down on the ice. And then…I saw you.

“You took the hit for me,” Shane breathes. His fingers tighten in the blanket. “Fuck, Ilya, why would you do that?”

Ilya is quiet for long enough that Shane is freshly worried that he’s made this all up.

You should sleep.

A sense of emptiness fills Shane’s chest as he feels Ilya’s consciousness shrink away from him. The conversation is over and Shane can’t even chase after him when he runs like this. Apparently sharing a fucking mind doesn’t make communication any easier.

Shane falls asleep with a roiling guilt in his stomach. It doesn’t belong to him.

Chapter End Notes

Подвиг (Podvig) - heroic/selfless act performed under dangerous and difficult circumstances

i hope you enjoyed, thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading. it's always scary to try to channel new characters but it felt really good to write again. comments and kudos would mean the world to me!!!

this fic is completed, i just split it into chapters because i thought it would be overwhelming as a oneshot. so no worries there 🫡 ! also ive been really into untranslatable words lately, so chapters will be titled accordingly with unique russian words that suit the vibe. i hope u will learn with me 🫂

thank you so much to this wonderful guide for coding text messages
and this lovely guide for making the pop-up translations
!

i'll probably go off anon soon, i was just too nervous to have chapter 1 be blasted into the inboxes of unsuspecting people lol. come hollanov with me!

twitter: pixeljunnie
alterspring: pixinoa

Chapter 2: Притерпеться

Chapter Summary

“Marlow, if you have Rozanov’s phone, you should call Jane.”

The man’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “How do you know about Jane? Roz is so secretive about his girl. What, are you having threesomes with them or something? I didn’t peg you for having a wild side.”

Do not peg Shane, that is my job, Ilya frowns.

Chapter Notes

“We need rules,” Shane declares first thing in the morning. A spreadsheet blinks in front of him, aptly titled Guidelines for Bodysharing. Ilya releases a childish groan that makes Shane wish he had a physical form he could smack on the arm.

It’s easier to talk out loud to Ilya when he’s alone, but it cannot become a habit or Shane will seriously be getting that grippy sock vacation. “It seems like the whole physical possession thing takes a lot of energy and willpower so it’s unlikely to be spontaneous, but you need to warn me if you think it’s going to happen. I don’t want to suddenly lose control while driving, or mid-play. That could put both of us in danger.”

Easy. Now my rule: Do not make me watch you have sex with Rose. I will not be able to stop thinking about how I can do much better than you. And to you.

“Fuck you, Ilya, I told you we broke up!”

I know. I just like hearing you say it.

Shane rolls his eyes. Searching for other logistics they should discuss, he thinks back to an article he read during a moment of late-night weakness: 10 Steps to Getting Serious with your Situationship. Spending time together outside of hooking up was step five.

Check.

Step six was to compromise. Learn to live with your partner’s habits and preferences. Try out their favorite foods, keep an open mind when it comes to their routines, run errands together, and slowly blend your lives together to see if you match.

The article didn’t have instructions for how to do that when your partner lives in your head, but the advice still stands. Probably.

“Obviously this is my body, but since you’re…also here, I want you to be as comfortable as you can be. Hopefully this situation is temporary, but…you know. Just in case. We can go grocery shopping together. I can buy new clothes if you don’t like the feel of mine. You can tell me if there’s anywhere you want to go or something you want to do and I’ll work it into my schedule.”

Oh? Boring Shane Hollander will go clubbing in my place?

Shane wrinkles his nose. “I don’t dance so you’d have to take the wheel for that. But yeah, if you want to go party, I guess we’ll party. Just no taking girls home. Or guys. And no smoking.”

Somehow Ilya manages to blow a raspberry at him. So strict. Is ok, you are very hot when you are bossy.

“Shut up. Is there anything you need from your place? Maybe I can get things shipped here, or – actually, I can’t remember when your team is flying back, maybe we can get someone you trust to take care of your house.” Shane wipes his sweaty palms against his pants and hopes Ilya can’t feel it. “I’ll stock my fridge with Coke and take the extra pillows off my bed if you don’t like them and we can just…take it one day at a time. Together.”

Together, Ilya repeats. Sounds nice. You worry too much – I like your house and your clothes and your weird weighted blankets. Food…well, maybe we work on food. Everything else is ok. Is just funny, this is not how I always pictured moving in.

“You what?!” Shane chokes. Normally he would write off a comment like that as Ilya just teasing, but he can feel Ilya’s emotions bleeding through this strange soul connection they’ve formed. He’s wistful – longing, even. Although against his will, it’s more honest than he’s ever been.

Shane thought he’d be blazing a new trail by inviting Ilya to his cottage for two weeks. He assumed Ilya had never seriously considered something more with Shane, but here he was, apparently fantasizing about living together. Not for the first time, he realizes he doesn’t know the intricacies of Ilya Rozanov.

“Anything else you need? Otherwise we should move on to figuring out what happened to you.”

Hmm. Just one note. If I score any goals in your body they count towards my total, not yours.

“That’s not going to be a point of contention because you are going to stay far away from the controls if I have to play a game before we resolve this.”

Sneaky Shane Hollander, trying to kick me while I am down. At least let me chirp. I can make hockey world think you are funny.

“Whatever! Okay. I need to go see your–” Shane cuts himself off with a pained breath. “Your body. Hopefully you can possess him instead.”

He grabs his keys from the hook, checks the stovetop knobs three times even though he hasn’t used it recently, and is halfway down his driveway before he realizes he doesn’t have an address.

“Wait. Where…are you?”

How should I know?

“It’s your body, dumbass! Can’t you like, sense it somewhere?”

Ilya must be rolling his eyes. Shane. Call Marlow, say you want to visit. Captain shit. He is good man, he will tell you.

Ilya lists off a string of numbers that Shane obediently punches into his phone. The man on the other end of the line sounds exhausted.

“Hello?”

“Uh…this is Shane. Hollander. How – How are you doing?”

“Bad,” Marlow bites out. “None of your business. What the fuck do you want?”

Shane closes his eyes. He wishes Ilya was here physically. They’d probably be holding hands, or Ilya would be stroking his back in just the right rhythm to settle his soul in his body.

“Is Rozanov still in the hospital? I want to visit. Captain to captain, and all that. Figured I’d apologize in person.”

“It wasn’t your team that hit him,” Marlow says. Underneath the anger, his voice is choked thick with guilt. “If you’re trying to get good publicity out of this, stop. You’re already hockey’s Golden Boy, you don’t need to show up at your enemy’s bedside for people to keep believing that.”

“Marly,” Shane Ilya snaps. It’s guttural, harsh at the edges from an accent that definitely isn’t Canadian.

Fuck.

Ilya, we talked about this!

Both parties are shocked silent. There’s no way to explain himself, so Shane just exhales wetly and tries to push Ilya’s presence to the side. “Please.”

“Montréal General Hospital. Room 214. I’ll tell the front desk to let you in. But there’s not much to see. He’s…he hasn’t woken up, Hollander.”

No shit, Shane thinks. Ilya snickers.

The line goes dead, and they finish the drive in silence.

_________________

Ilya looks small.

Logically Shane knows he’s still a massive, hulking hockey player. He’s a notorious menace on the ice, one of the Bears most prone to dropping gloves and getting bloody. Over the years Shane has seen him carry bruised ribs, black eyes, and that one time his shoulder got dislocated.

Ilya has never been this fragile.

Wow. I am very sexy, even in nasty hospital gown.

Shane bats at the air next to his head as if that can make Ilya stop wolf-whistling. He’s probably trying to put on a brave front because ‘Russians don’t feel fear’ or some bullshit, but Shane knows it can’t be comfortable to see your own body lifeless.

Wires puncture Ilya’s skin, stringing him to monitors that beep incessantly. Bruises have surfaced across his cheekbones, creeping up his temple, and his forearm is stabilized with a splint. The blood has been cleaned from his head but his curls are matted. Shane’s eye twitches. Ilya may not be known for his extensive skincare routine like Shane, but he is particular about his hair.

He trains his gaze on the gentle rise and fall of Ilya’s chest. It’s a lifeline.

Ilya is alive. They can fix this.

Somehow.

Shane wanders closer and gingerly traces the back of Ilya’s clammy hand. He counts his knuckles. One, two, three, four, five. Reset. One, two, three, four, five. Praying for Ilya’s fingers to twitch and interrupt his count.

“Okay, you’ve seen him. Congrats,” Marlow drawls from where he’s standing guard at the doorway. “Can I help you with something else?”

Малыш. (Baby.) Do not cry, I’m right here. What, I am so ugly now that you cry at the sight of me?

“Shut up,” Shane says tightly. Marlow scoffs in offense, and Shane frantically tries to erase the evidence of his tears before looking back at him.

“What did the doctors say?”

Marlow levels him with a careful glare. Although it’s irritating to be met with so much animosity and suspicion, Shane is secretly glad Ilya has loyal teammates at his side. Marlow is justified to hesitate before spilling sensitive medical information about his captain to said captain’s sworn arch-rival.

You raised some good cubs, Shane thinks. Ilya glows with pride.

“He’s got some bumps and bruises, obviously. Fractured wrist, fucked-up ribs, nothing that would keep a guy like Roz down for too long. The head trauma is what’s really worrying.” Marlow scrubs a tired hand across his face. “There’s swelling. They’re keeping him under to give him time to heal, but even after they cut the meds there’s no telling when he’ll wake up or who he’ll be when he does.”

If he does, seems to go unspoken.

Shane swears under his breath and a bolt of fear shoots down his spinal column. He feels it twice over. While Shane can definitely panic enough for two people, he knows this white-hot terror is stemming from both of them. He’s at the bedside of Ilya’s motionless, potentially brain-damaged body while the man's scared and wounded soul cowers in a dark corner of Shane’s brain.

Ilya, it’s going to be okay. Please don’t run from me.

For once, Ilya can’t hide his emotions from Shane. He lets the anguish, the fear, the heavy sorrow crest up from the soul nested in his chest. He feels what Ilya feels, and he holds him through it. He can only hope Ilya picks up on the relief flooding Shane’s heart that he can finally support him in some capacity. He wants to be let in. He wants to help.

It hurts both of them when Ilya keeps him at a distance. He’s not a burden; Shane wants to know everything on his mind from the most mundane parts of his day to his deepest and darkest fears. There’s no better opportunity than this.

“Marlow. I know this sounds weird, but please keep me updated about Il– Rozanov’s condition. I just…” Shane is too worn out to plaster on some excuse about post-injury courtesies. He just wants to be able to support Ilya without the whole world picking him apart and throwing his bones to the frothing media. “I need to know.”

Something in Marlow’s face crumbles at the crack in Shane’s voice. “Why are you here, Hollander.” Why do you look so devastated, why do you look like Ilya is something to you, is what he probably means.

Mouth opening and closing soundlessly, Shane avoids eye contact.

“Look. Throw me a bone. I’m all torn up right now because I put my own goddamn captain in that bed. The recaps weren’t able to make sense of the fray, but I know he shoved you out of the way. Roz is hurt, fucking comatose, because of me, and I don’t even understand what happened. I’ve spent years playing his wing. I thought I could read his every move.” Marlow stares at Ilya’s body with empty eyes. “But this…it’s like I don’t know him at all, and it hurts. So tell me, Hollander. Why are you here?”

Fuck. He can’t do this without Ilya. Shane blindly searches the recesses of his mind. What do you want me to say?

You can tell him. He will keep our secret. Ilya’s words are clipped. Carefully monotone.

Do you want him to know?

…I don’t want to lie to him anymore. I did not know it was hurting him like this. And it is not his fault I got injured. He should only be sorry he is skipping precious practice hours to haunt my room like sad slushy Boston snowbank in May. What is he, my widow? Нет. (No.) I would never settle for an ass less juicy than yours.

The dried tear tracks on Shane’s cheeks burn as he steels himself with a breath. He’s never spoken these words out loud, and it feels crazy that Cliff Marlow is the first one that gets to hear them. He wishes so desperately that Ilya’s limp hand would squeeze his back.

“We don’t hate each other,” Shane starts. He looks up to see Marlow’s disbelieving expression. “No, like the rivalry is real, we’re definitely each others’ biggest and probably only competition on the ice – no offense – but outside the rink…we’re…” Gulping, Shane focuses his gaze on Ilya’s eyelashes. They’re so pretty when they flutter. He can almost feel them graze his cheek as Ilya trails kisses down to his clavicle. “Involved.”

He hasn’t even had the what are we conversation with Ilya, so this is as close to honesty as he can get. Marlow doesn’t seem convinced, but Shane bulldozes on. He feels a strange kinship with the guy – two people who desperately want to close the chasm Ilya Rozanov digs between himself and everyone who loves him.

“You’ll have to ask him what he was thinking during the game, but I know he doesn’t blame you. He won’t be caught dead being mushy to your face, but I know he really cares about you all. He knows the risks of the game. I bet he’s just pissed you’re wasting time moping at his bedside like…sad slushy Boston snowbank…instead of doing the shooting drills he assigned.”

“Funny. That’s exactly what Roz would say.” Marlow laughs wetly. “And he’s always on my ass about my forecheck. I guess you do know him pretty well.”

It’s Ilya’s turn to snark, no shit.

Shane nibbles on his bottom lip. Both he and Ilya have complained about their respective teams teasing them about Boston Lily and Montréal Jane. There’s an easy way to prove his intentions to Marlow and bring him up to speed at the same time. He just needs the courage to pick up the phone.

“Marlow, if you have Rozanov’s phone, you should call Jane.”

The man’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “How do you know about Jane? Roz is so secretive about his girl. What, are you having threesomes with them or something? I didn’t peg you for having a wild side.”

Do not peg Shane, that is my job, Ilya frowns.

Resisting the urge to massage his temples in frustration, Shane just lays his phone face-up on the papery bedsheets. Marlow shifts his weight back and forth awkwardly with Ilya’s device in his meaty hand. “I wanted to call Jane earlier. I figured she’d be worried, but no one else has her number or knows anything about her. Do you know his passcode?”

“1221”, Shane rattles off before Ilya can even try. It works on the first try. Ilya’s lock screen is a photo of the sun setting over the water at the beach in Tampa. Shane’s hand tingles with the phantom feeling of Ilya’s thumb brushing over his skin.

Ilya’s home screen, however, appears to be a tasteful nude. At least it’s tasteful compared to the shit he sends Shane when they’ve been apart for more than two weeks. Shane just can’t believe he apparently stares at his own abs every time he switches apps.

What? You’d rather it be a picture of us? Self-love is good thing. I do not remember you having complaints about my abs when you were licking your cum off them.

Shane tamps down the blush fighting at his cheeks while Marlow pulls up Jane’s contact and dials. With a twinge in his heart, Shane recognizes Jane’s contact photo as a puppy with splotches across its snout that look like freckles. Ilya had sent it to Shane weeks ago with the message: You did not tell me you had a daughter.

Immediately, Shane’s phone lights up the room, incoming call from: Lily splashed across the top. Lily has no contact photo. Shane regrets that now.

“You’re getting a call,” Marlow says slowly.

Ilya bursts into laughter.

“Oh fuck it,” Shane gripes as he hits accept. He leans into the microphone. “You’ve taken too many pucks to the head, Marlow.”

His tinny voice echoes from Ilya’s phone a split second later, and Marlow finally fits the puzzle pieces together. He makes a strangled noise and hangs up the phone.

“Shit. You’re…All this time? Seriously?” Marlow’s eyes dart to Ilya on the bed, then back to Shane, then back to Ilya. A mixture of understanding, horror, and shock cycle through his face. “Fuuuck. If I hadn’t hospitalized Roz I probably would’ve killed his long-term lover. Wow. I was fucked either way. Do you know the warpath he went on when you guys so much as had a lover’s spat? We were cursing Jane’s name for weeks when you guys weren’t texting because he was putting us through bag skates every practice. God, he’s gonna kill me when he wakes up.”

“Stop calling us–” Shane protests at the same time as Ilya croons, I like the sound of lovers. “And you wouldn’t have killed me, because that would mean Ilya– and he can’t–”

Shane can’t bear to continue the thought and Ilya doesn’t try to finish it for him.

His grip tightens on Ilya’s hand. He’s memorized every mole on Ilya’s body, from the one he likes to kiss by his mouth to the one hidden on his inner thigh. Shooting a nervous look at Marlow, he caves to his impulses and shifts closer, bringing Ilya’s knuckles to his mouth like a prayer. He kisses the freckle between Ilya’s index and middle finger.

“You’re…okay with this?” Shane ventures. “With us?”

“Fuck no,” Marlow says casually, then backpedals as soon as he sees Shane’s stomach climb out of his throat. “Oh not the gay thing, that’s whatever. Sure I wish Roz told me himself and I hope he will when he wakes up, but it’s not that surprising. He’s always flapping his gums about how he’s God’s gift to holes – gender neutral – everywhere and it’s a shame half the population are denying themselves his ‘super hot bod’. Plus he runs the locker room like the navy when it comes to slurs and especially homophobia. Two seasons ago he knocked a rook’s two front teeth clean out of his mouth for calling the other team’s D-man a cocksucker.”

Is true, Ilya chimes in proudly. I kept the teeth.

“So yeah. Not so far-fetched to think he might extend his sexual conquests to men, but…it’s beyond me why he’d risk fucking around with his arch-rival. I’m not dumb enough to think he’d purposely tank his performance on the ice for anything, but this is still a huge conflict of interest to keep from us. We’re his team, he’s our captain, doesn’t that – doesn’t that mean something?”

There’s a sting in his chest at the mention of conquest. Protectiveness wells up where the word scratches deep, exposing a smarting nerve to the sterile hospital air. Shane isn’t sure either emotion belongs to him.

Заткнись, Марлоу. Ты ничего не знаешь. (Shut up, Marlow. You don't know anything.)

“I don’t think I can give you the answers you need,” Shane says truthfully. Even with Ilya in his head, he can’t assuage Marlow’s worries. It has to come from Ilya directly, in his own body. “You’re right that we’ve never let this affect us on the ice. If anything, we play even harder when we face each other. But it’s not – we’re not just fuck buddies. It hasn’t been like that for me for a long time. I can’t speak on his behalf, but I really, really care about him.”

моя любовь…мой идеальный Шейн… (My love...my perfect Shane...)

Marlow studies him. “I’ve seen the way his face goes all gooey when he texts Jane. The guys have been ribbing him for years about Jane being The One for him, the mysterious girl so irresistible she locked down Boston’s greatest manwhore and his wandering dick, and this–” he waves a hand between them, “–doesn’t change the facts. It’s just a lot to digest.”

Shane supposes that’s fair enough. For a first pass at coming out, it’s not a complete disaster. Marlow hasn’t beaten either of them black and blue, he hasn’t hurled slurs or threatened to contact the press or snitch to the higher-ups in the league. He took it pretty well, all things considered. Especially when the one involved that he actually trusts is unable to provide testimony.

“When are the Bears flying back?”

The bags under Marlow’s eyes seem to darken. “Most of the guys got on a flight earlier this morning. A couple of us got permission to stay back and take shifts with Rozy until we could figure out his situation. He’s not stable enough to ship to Boston, and he doesn’t really have family nearby we could call. His emergency contact Svetlana has been in contact and is making her way here. I don’t think she was in the country when it all happened, so he’s just been stuck in limbo until then.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Shane says quickly. “I know it might be hard to believe, but please. I can’t leave him like this.”

Begrudgingly, Marlow nods. “I’ll come up with something to convince Coach. Don’t worry, I won’t say a word about you two being…you two. I like my front teeth right where they are.”

Finally you are useful, Marly. You were not so quick with the program when you missed beautiful shot I set up for you last week in New York. No excuses, you are not even as old as Scott Hunter.

The relief betraying Ilya’s barbed words makes it clear how much Marlow’s support means to him.

Marlow saves Shane’s phone number as Jane with a half-hearted gloat about being the first Bear to meet the legendary Montréal girl. Neither of them really laugh. Hesitantly, Marlow’s big hand pats Shane’s shoulder when he leaves, scattering vague niceties in his wake. Shane doesn’t know how long he sits stock-still by Ilya’s bed, accompanied only by a ringing in his ears.

I know you love my pretty face, but I do not think you can wake me up by staring holes in me. You should go eat something.

“Not hungry,” Shane mumbles out loud because he’s alone again – or as alone as he can get with a hitch-hiker in his brain.

Would you eat if I say I am hungry? Ilya hedges.

Shane would hand over the puck he had framed from his first Stanley if Ilya wanted it right now. Eating has always felt like pipetting gas into a car – a routine errand made maddening – but now that he’s cradling a piece of Ilya within him he wants nothing more than to protect, to shield, to nourish. Stiffly, he dips his chin in agreement.

Then I am starving. I have huge craving for disgusting protein smoothie made of chalk and grass clippings. Waiter, please add side of rice that looks like shit. We feast like kings.

As Shane stands to leave the room, a thought crosses his mind that he tries to push out of awareness before Ilya can get his grubby paws on it. Based on the raucous laughter echoing in the back of his head, it was unsuccessful.

I did not know Yuna let you watch Disney movies as a kid, Ilya grins. You want to try breaking my spell with True Love’s Kiss? What if I am not your True Love?

Vaguely, Shane notes that Ilya is not raising any issue about Shane being his true love. “You got the Disney channel in Russia?”

Duh. My favorite was Air Bud: Ice Racer.

“Because the dog played hockey?”

Obviously because the dog played hockey.

Shane surveys the hallway via the little window in the door to ensure the coast is clear before he stumbles back to Ilya’s bed. His shadow stretches, enveloping the body as he looms in front of the harsh hospital lights. There’s a slight rustle of the stiff sheets when Shane leans down.

Ilya’s face looks so peaceful he almost doesn’t want to shatter the calm waters. The harsh furrow of his brows is evened out, the worry he carries in the sharpness of his cheekbones buffed smooth. Shane’s lips brush against his mouth.

Shane loves kissing Ilya. The first thing they did when they initially hooked up was kiss, even though the articles Shane read later implied it was an intimacy most casual flings don’t bother with. They’ve shared everything from tender kisses that stretch the meaning of foreplay as they greedily drink each other in, to filthy spit-swapping makeout sessions, to casual-yet-electric pecks on their way out the door.

Shane has experienced many flavors of Ilya’s mouth. His memory fights strongly against the passive sensation of kissing a doll, because if there’s one word to describe Ilya it is not passionless. He should be mischievous, pressing between the seam of Shane’s mouth and sucking his tongue just the way both he and Shane like it. Any moment now Shane should feel the familiar warmth in his gut from Ilya’s ministrations, should feel Ilya’s attention move from his lips to the corner of his mouth to his freckles and then down the column of his throat.

Ilya’s lips have never been so cold.

He waits for a sign. A twinge in the jaw, a spike on the monitor, even a flicker of pain wobbling the lip. Anything beyond the nauseating tranquility that clashes against Ilya’s larger-than-life persona.

But nothing breaks the stillness except the sound of Shane’s splintering heart.

Ah – thank you, Hollander. I have always wondered what it is like to kiss me. All the girls in Boston cry, Ilya! Ilya! You are so hot, we beg you, we line down the block for just one smooch! Ah, I knew it had to be worth expensive lip gloss.

“Sorry,” Shane mutters. The door clicks shut behind him, Ilya’s lifeless form and all its beeping machines swallowed by “It was a stupid idea.”

Ily tries not to sound equally disappointed. Is ok. You are still my sexy Prince Charming.

“I hate you,” Shane says and wishes he meant it.

Chapter End Notes

Притерпеться (Priterpet'sya) - the process of learning to adapt and accept someone's imperfections until you barely notice them anymore :') one website described it as a more positive-feeling spin on 'putting up with someone'. shane and ilya have a lot to learn about each other, and a looooot of adapting to do <3

also, hello! decided to come off anon lol sorry to anyone who subscribed to me for other stuff and is now getting this in ur inbox. maybe youve been bitten by the worm too idk! but regardless, thanks for being here <333

twitter: pixeljunnie
alterspring: pixinoa

Chapter 3: Надрыв

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya stumble through a life forcibly intertwined. Grocery runs, locker rooms. Svetlana. Bowls of rice, a dream of what could be. A phone call.

Fervent attempts to avoid communication throughout it all.

Chapter Notes

heads up for voyageurs-typical hateful language + that disordered eating tag :(

So what is the plan now, Mr. Spreadsheet?

“Honestly I was kind of hoping your consciousness would just click back into your body once I touched you.” Shane scratches the back of his head.

You treat me like slap bracelet, Ilya complains.

They decide to start by grocery shopping because at least it’s something to check off the list, and it’s easier to tackle basic life necessities than figure out how to fix Ilya’s brain until it’s inhabitable again.

While most hockey players in sports-crazed Montréal tend to outsource their shopping to mitigate the risk of impromptu toiletry aisle meet-and-greets, Shane is particular about his food and needs to check the expiration date before any item crosses the boundary into his home. He suits up in his typical disguise – hood up and cinched, sunglasses on, outfit carefully brandless.

His anonymity is immediately put at risk once he pulls into the parking lot. There’s an older woman shuffling across the sidewalk of the plaza where Shane’s favorite organic grocery store is located. On a bedazzled leash, a fluffy yellow dog prances back and forth. It drags the lady toward every passing person, snout in the air and tail wagging so furiously it might hoist its back paws off the ground.

Pet the dog, Shane.

Ilya’s voice is deathly serious. Shane rolls his eyes.

“We don’t have time. Can you focus for once?”

нет. (No.) Pet the dog. Please pet the dog pet the dog I wanna pet the dog pet the–

“Fucking fine!” Shane caves before Ilya can start banging pots and pans inside Shane’s skull.

Shane jogs over to the woman, grateful he’s a professional athlete because it takes a decent sprint to cross the lot before she can disappear into a store. He ends up looking like a freak, panting with his hands on his knees while he catches his breath enough to manage a strangled, “CanIpetyourdog.”

“Sure,” she says, and Ilya whoops. Shane lets him have the hands so he can scratch behind the dog’s ears. It licks a long stripe up Shane’s arm, making him shudder, but he doesn’t want to ruin Ilya’s moment. The man is so happy he won’t stop chattering as they start shopping.

I want bedazzled leash for our puppy. I know Hollanders always wear sponsored things, so your mama can strike a deal with luxury pet brand. Our baby will wear Gucci.

We don’t have a dog, Ilya. Shane tries to chastise him, but it falls flat because there’s a warmth radiating from Ilya that makes Shane’s vision go fuzzy. He can’t deny the little flutter of happiness in his own chest at the idea of him and Ilya raising a life together, even if that life is canine.

Not yet.

He shakes his head in mock annoyance and adds another sack of lentils to the cart against a sonic backdrop of exaggerated protests.

Should I make stir fry tomorrow?

Ilya hums. Yes. Get double ingredients, you can meal prep and freeze the extra for next week. I know you have busy schedule, you will be too tired to cook and you complain Doordash doesn’t fit your diet. Booo.

Huh. Shane wonders why deviating from the written recipe has never occurred to him. Okay.

They squabble over the breakfast bars Ilya wants to buy because the protein to calories ratio is not worth it Ilya, you’re falling for shitty marketing and Ilya sneaks a carton of eggs into the mix because I will cook you an omelet that will change your life, Hollander, and if it wasn’t taking place entirely in Shane’s mind palace it would feel so suffocatingly normal. So domestic.

It’s what Shane always imagined a life intertwined with Ilya could be like. Bickering by the freezers, planning out their meals for the week, taking turns pushing the cart, stealing kisses by the bakery.

There’s a corny book on the supernatural at the stands near the front of the store. After a beat of contemplation, Shane chucks it into the cart and then heads for the self check out lane.

He expects Ilya to chirp him about the book, but based on the barely-contained irritation flooding their connection, he must be distracted by Rose Landry’s face splashed on the cover of a nearby magazine.

The dig comes when Shane is in the middle of scanning a package of fish. Hollander, you forget how to count? Big red sign says self check out is only for twelve items or less.

Shut up. I don’t want to be recognized buying your stupid Russian gingerbread, so yeah I have to bend the rules a little.

Scandalous.

It isn’t until he’s pawing for a bag that he realizes Ilya’s life or death dog-petting quest prevented him from grabbing the reusable grocery bags in his back seat.

“You’re sending me to Hell for crimes against the environment,” Shane grumbles as he peels open a plastic bag.

We fly on planes multiple times a month. We can go to Hell together. Honeymoons are usually in warm places, yes?

I’d never honeymoon with you, Shane lies, and Ilya’s laughter follows them home.

________________

Ilya convinces him to attend morning skate the next day. Shane feels torn about prioritizing hockey for the first time in his life, because he’d rather hold vigil by Ilya’s bedside until he can somehow breathe life back into those bloodless lips.

“I don’t want to abandon you.”

Ilya makes a sound like he’s blowing air through his ghostly nose. You cannot abandon me when I am right here with you. Your mediocre team needs you and you are addicted to hockey. It will make you feel better. And…I want to play with you.

“Put some respect on Montréal. That ‘mediocre’ team brought home the cup two years in a row.”

No, you brought home the cup, Ilya emphasizes. Team is so-so. Your D-men could not cover the net if they had shovels instead of sticks.

“It’s not that bad,” Shane defends weakly, but he mentally adds gap control drills to today’s schedule.

In a move that has always been frighteningly easy, Shane caves to Ilya. At least some of the restlessness itching between his muscles is coming from the other man. They both only feel whole while on the ice or tangled together in bedsheets. Ilya has been making a valiant effort to keep his own stress at bay while taking care of Shane’s physical and mental state, but he must be craving a sense of familiarity and control only bestowed by having a stick in his hands and a puck in his cradle.

Maybe Shane will repeal the ban on Ilya playing hockey in his body, as long as he doesn’t instigate any scrums. A fourth consecutive Lady Byng award is calling his name.

The Voyageur’s locker room is buzzing with excitement as hordes of rowdy men slap their captain’s back.

“There’s our star!”

“What a dramatic exit last game, Capitaine!”

“How’s the ol’ melon?”

“Hey, good thing Rozanov stole the spotlight. No one even noticed our fierce captain blowing chunks over a little tap.”

That last comment comes from Comeau. It’s probably his weird, hypermasculine way of telling Shane not to be embarrassed by his reaction, but he just bristles at the notion of Ilya’s injury being any sort of good thing.

Shane brushes off the commotion and mentally outlines the schedule for practice. The upcoming week is fairly light, but if he’s going to have to play up the head injury to avoid some games – his stomach churns at the thought of what could happen if he strays too far from Ilya’s body – they’ll have to drill the team hard.

Clapping his hands to regain some control over the room, he herds the flock of beasts out to the rink.

He’s nervous. He’s taken to the ice thousands of times before, many of those with Ilya, but never like this. Shane is a man of routine and predictability, and he has no idea what is waiting for him once he sets blade to ice.

Fortunately, Ilya doesn’t try to wrestle control over him like children fighting over the remote control. He must miss hockey – Shane knows he would, if he was in Ilya’s frankly inconceivable position.

Shane runs through his typical warm-up stretches and drills. It feels good to get back to something that makes sense, something that has been consistent his entire life. He may not know how to snap Ilya’s soul back into his body, but he knows how to track a puck. He knows how to move forward.

As practice wears on, Shane can feel the itch in Ilya building up. It’s not just muscle memory or a craving for their sport. He seems to want to experience hockey through Shane’s eyes, because it’s something he loves.

Let me. Ilya appeals, and Shane’s stubbornness collapses.

The balance of their souls must be getting easier with each possession, because this time Shane retains some sensation in his body. Rather than being shoved out of the driver’s seat and retreating closer to his core, it’s like Ilya is right next to him, hands enveloping his own around the wheel. He fills gaps Shane didn’t realize were aching and it feels...intoxicating.

They’re doing this together.

Ilya takes a preparatory lap around the rink, getting used to the way Shane’s muscles flex and release. There’s an oddly shaped self-consciousness rising up Shane’s throat. This reminds him of their first night together, the vulnerability of exposing his body and hoping it would be to Ilya’s tastes.

Luckily, Ilya sounds impressed. Your thighs are hot and functional. And you are so fast! No wonder I blink and you are on opposite end of the rink. I thought you were teleporting, but maybe bird food really is key to good hockey.

So are you going to let me drink my breakfast smoothies without moaning in my ear?

No chance. You love when I moan.

Shane doesn’t dignify that with a response, mostly because Ilya knows how his heartbeat speeds up when he tries to lie.

Ilya amuses himself with keep-away battles and not-so-subtly flinging pucks at Comeau’s head. “Learn to dodge,” he offers with a grin when Hayden pulls the spluttering defenseman to work on angling. Hayden shoots him a questioning look as he skates by, but Shane has no justification.

You’re like a dog off the leash.

Good, buy me a collar. It can be hand-me-down to our future puppy.

If Ilya wasn’t dictating his body, Shane would’ve crashed into the boards at that image.

As the team cycles through drills before their scrimmage, Shane lines up a backhand shot against the empty net. Ilya lets him sink one puck, then slips into control. The switch comes smoothly now. His wrist loosens, knees bending imperceptibly more than usual. He winds up, connects, and carries the momentum so forcefully it almost sweeps him into a full circle where he stands.

A sharp crack breaks the air. The puck sails high and makes a swift home in the very corner of the net where a goalie would struggle to intercept.

“Nice shot Hollander,” the coach calls. “Keep that up.”

Ilya beams, teeth flashing.

See? Backhand was weak, now it is strong like Russian liquor. I keep telling you to crunch more on the follow through, but you always say no no Ilya, I am second coming of Christ for hockey players, hockey genius do not need tips, Ilya mocks. Doesn’t it feel different?

The taste of cold rink air stings familiar on Shane’s tongue. Blades crunching, snow spraying, muscles burning. Rosy cheeks. Freedom. The beating of their hearts in sync. Two souls in one body. Two halves of a whole. Matched pulses.

One core split between two people.

It feels different. It feels exactly the same. Perhaps Shane has been carrying Ilya with him in his heart long before they collided on the ice.

I am counting that towards my total.

No the fuck you aren’t.

__________________

Practice was great. No one commented on Shane’s more aggressive than normal play style, or the way chirps rolled off his tongue effortlessly. He did try to reel back the most inflammatory quips, but otherwise it was nice to sit back and let Ilya wreck some havoc. It’s not like it was a real game, and there aren’t many trade secrets the Voyageurs have that Ilya couldn’t already glean from playing them for years. If anything, Shane is the trade secret.

The real problem happens off the ice. It was nice to hear Marlow praise Ilya’s tight rein on locker room vulgarity, but Shane had felt vaguely uncomfortable knowing that he struggled to keep his own team in check. It was easy to divert the conversation if they were gearing up for an important game, but shutting down bigoted comments too insistently always felt dangerous. Like it would just take one, why do you care Hollzy, you a fag too? to send Shane’s life crumbling. His captaincy is unmatched when it comes to critiquing technique and pushing his men to their best selves as players. He’s just not the guy for bravado, for thinly veiling threats behind banter to mediate interpersonal conflicts.

Drapeau and Comeau are snickering to themselves in the corner, roping a few nearby rookies into their orbit.

“Oi, Chang got photographed with a woman the other day. You think he paid paps for the shot to get people off his dick?”

“Well maybe if he wasn’t getting on other people’s dicks he wouldn’t have so many rumors.” Drapeau cackles and makes a crude gesture with his hands. “He probably paid the bitch too. No sane chick would willingly fuck an Asian dude with a limp wrist. You just know his dick is small, haven’t we seen–”

The rest of his sentence is smothered in laughter, but Shane’s spine stiffens instinctively. Chang is Pittsburgh’s second-string goalie, and the worst of Montréal have latched onto him for some reason, like sharks to blood. Last time they played a game against them, one of Comeau’s cronies sneered at Shane and asked if they were related. Something about family resemblance. They’re not even the same ethnicity.

Still in tune with every beat of his heart, Ilya picks up on the mood shift. As the memories wash over Shane helplessly, a deep, smoldering anger builds behind his eyes.

Sorry in advance, I do not mean to cause you trouble. I will not kill them yet, though. Not in your body.

Before Shane can wrestle away Ilya’s seething spirit, he’s knocked clean out of the driver’s seat and falls down, down, down.

Ilya saunters across the room, giving the huddled idiots a critical once-over. “You spend a lot of time talking about other men’s dicks, is very interesting. You should cut it out before people start to wonder.”

“Are you fucking kidding, I would never–” Drapeau bristles, but he’s cut off when Ilya leans down to hiss into his ear.

“Not so hasty. Maybe if Chang is generous enough to let you suck his cock you will inherit better blocking skills.”

When he straightens up, a rookie avoids eye contact. Everyone else catches on quick and pretends like they were never part of the vile conversation – except Comeau, who looks like he has a slur on the back of his tongue. Ilya beats him to the punch.

“Ah Comeau, I heard Seattle drafted new forward. A Frenchman – Lambert, yes? You know him, from back home?”

Comeau’s eyes narrow. “Why would I know him? I’m French Canadian. Ne joue pas idiot.” (Don’t act dumb.)

Ilya clicks his tongue in disappointment. “Too bad. He is piece of shit,” he says plainly. A mean grin quirks at his lips. “I thought I saw family resemblance.”

The locker room erupts in jeers and hollers. Comeau’s face flushes dark red with a mix of anger and surprise. Shane is no stranger to chirping on the ice, but he’s never put his teammates in their places like this before.

“If I hear any of you talk like that again, it’ll be suicide drills every practice for the rest of the week.”

Ilya has more choice words for the Voyageurs but he settles for breaking a few bones the next time he faces them as Ilya Rozanov. Plus the more damage he does now, the more fallout he leaves for Shane to deal with alone when he no longer has Ilya haunting him. Ilya is a guest in this locker room, but Shane has to return to it day in and day out until he hangs up his jersey one day.

Slowly, he coaxes Shane back to the surface. The familiar routine of showering the rink air off his skin, packing up his gear just how he likes it, and rolling out his sore muscles should provide some solace. Ilya doesn’t want to deprive him of control any longer. That’s not what he needs.

Shane’s hands tremble as he slings his bag over his shoulder and storms down the hallway. He should be pissed. And he is – at least a little – because Ilya did not have permission to go fuck up his relationships with his team members. He used his face and his voice in a moment of blind rage without caring about the consequences to Shane’s image. His body was not his own, and not in the sexy way.

There’s anger there, yes. But there is also affection.

No one has stood up for Shane like that. When he was young, a rare Asian boy in a sea of pale faces, people only laughed when they mixed him up with another Asian kid. He had loving friends, but he always gravitated towards other equally reserved, well-behaved types. Their protection sounded like he didn’t mean it like that and just ignore it, they’ll get bored eventually.

The anger on his behalf, the explosion of fierce loyalty, the refusal to let anyone look down on him. The willingness to step in, to get messy. It’s new. It feels good.

It feels like love.

It feels like damnation.

Hayden catches up to him in the parking lot, wrapping an arm around his shoulders for the short distance they have before they reach their cars.

Ilya pouts. Pike is always this handsy with you? Я его убью. (I’ll kill him.)

Shut the fuck up, Rozanov. You’ve caused enough trouble for the day.

Last name? You are very mad. Or very turned on.

Shane stops in his tracks and counts to ten.

Ahhh. Both.

“You okay, bud?” Hayden tests the waters. It’s a good thing he speaks up, because Shane was seconds away from putting his fist through his own face just to stick it to Ilya. Somehow. “That wasn’t like you back there. I mean, I’m glad someone shut them down. The shit they say is nasty and so unnecessary.”

“They had it coming.” This time, the sentiment comes from Shane.

Hayden nods. Then his eyes shift nervously to the phone clenched in Shane’s grip, and back to his face. “I know I’ve probably said it before, but it bears repeating…I don’t agree with them at all. Even if Chang is gay, that doesn’t change anything about how he plays or who he is. I would never think of anyone differently because of that. Anyone.” He swallows, then continues with pointed words. “You’re my best friend and I’ll love you no matter what. Just…so you know.”

Pike is very subtle.

“Right.” Shane says thinly. “Thanks, man. Love you too.”

The drive home is quiet. Shane’s fingers drum on the wheel. He doesn’t turn the radio on. There’s enough going on in his head to serve as adequate background noise, even with Ilya’s presence hanging back for most of the ride. He’s sheepish like a puppy who got caught destroying furniture, but he doesn’t seem to regret it.

I did not know they spoke to you like that, he finally says.

Shane’s response comes out harsher than he really means. “Yeah, because why would I tell you? Montréal locker room, Montréal business.”

Shane. It’s a plea. You can talk to me.

“That’s rich coming from you,” Shane scoffs. “Whatever. I’m used to it.”

“Ублюдки,” (Bastards.) Ilya mutters, then retreats. My curse words are funny in your pretty voice. Your weak Canadian tongue cannot form the sounds.

“Sorry.”

Is ok. Your mouth is best at other things.

And there it is. Lighthearted jabs, sexual innuendos – familiar territory. Ilya is reverting to what they do best because he knows he had been unwelcome treading uncertain ground. Shane spent so long whining about Ilya not opening up to him and yet here he is, burying his head in the sand when Ilya hits on a sore spot of his own and feeling relieved when he lets him run away.

Hypocrite, Shane thinks to himself angrily, and hopes Ilya doesn’t hear it.

They pull up to the apartment and park, leaving the car behind.

Shane drives in circles for hours.

__________________

For once, Ilya has to talk Shane out of a bad decision.

Shane wants nothing more than to sit guard by Ilya’s bedside, or at least to visit him once a day in hopes that something will progress positively. There’s a slowly-festering guilt that perhaps Shane’s distance from Ilya’s physical body is hindering the reunification process. If he’s been saddled with Ilya tagging along in his head, he should be trying to fix it nonstop by casting witches spells around his hospital room or something.

Shane hates the feeling of helplessness. He hates the feeling of abandoning Ilya even more.

Was lucky getting Marly to sneak you in the first time. Good sportsmanship excuse only works once. Ilya reminds him gently. Too many questions in hospital. And eyes. You would not like public reception if you are spotted visiting me.

“Ilya…” Shane manages, but falls quiet. Ilya’s words taste like ash in the back of his throat. He’s being realistic, which is usually Shane’s job, but it stings. There’s a silent assumption there that Shane would prioritize his image over healing Ilya – hell, even just seeing his face, keeping him company in what is likely his greatest moment of vulnerability.

It’s not even an accusation. Ilya speaks like it is a fact he has already accepted. The worst part is that Shane doesn’t know if he can argue.

As if sensing Shane’s spiraling mood, Ilya’s bravado returns. It’s slathered over his own disappointment with their publicly frigid image like cracked plaster. Though I am very famous and loved, is not surprising to me that hockey world would be like grieving widow at my deathbed. And Shane Hollander is hockey, so. Anyone who jumps from that to ‘Shane Hollander must be taking Ilya Rozanov’s huge thick 9 inches up ass like a champ‘ is bigger perv than us. Would be very impressive.

It’s frustrating. The physical separation, the emotions they keep close to their chests, the societal barrier that would make visiting his…whatever they are…the absolute scandal of the century. It feels insurmountable.

Hollander. The last name again. Distance. Shane hates it. Marly has been texting updates. You know this. There is nothing to see in that room.

“Guess you’re more boring than me for once,” Shane says distantly. There’s a quiet voice in the back of his mind – not Ilya, for once – that says maybe Ilya doesn’t want to see himself so shrunken and weak.

Eugh, you are rubbing off on me. And not in the sexy way, like during NHL awards show when you–

“Svetlana should be there already,” Shane cuts him off. His fingers tighten around the remote as he flips from one hockey tape to another. This one is Montréal vs. Toronto, 2012. He had two assists and one goal. Lackluster. He changes it again.

Svetlana’s name feels too large in his mouth, too heavy to carry against his tongue. There’s a flicker of guilt underlying the hot flash of jealousy that underlines the syllables. He hopes Ilya doesn’t notice.

Traitorously, he also hopes that he does notice, and he’ll reassure Shane that him and his childhood best friend – who he fucks sometimes and who is gorgeous and smart and knows hockey and is his emergency contact and can enter his hospital room without feeling like a major crime is being committed – are nothing.

Sveta, Ilya murmurs, and Shane hates that he can’t parse his tone.

“Do you…want to see her?”

A pang runs through Shane’s chest, but it doesn’t come from him. Too complicated. She doesn’t – cannot – know I am in here, and I…do not think I could see her without speaking to her. Reassuring her I am okay.

“Right.” Shane wants to be glad, to celebrate that Ilya isn’t begging Shane to go visit and probably flirt with his fuckbuddy bestie on his behalf, but all he can feel is Ilya’s heavy heartache.

Svetlana is his emergency contact. She’s probably the closest thing he has to family – or the only.

“Uh – how about I text Marlow. He’s been in contact with Svetlana, right? He could get her to text me. So you can still hear from her, kind of.”

Shane. Ilya sounds choked up now. Thank you.

Shane wants to kick himself with his skates on for having any sort of negative inclinations towards a woman who clearly meant the world to Ilya.

Marlow works quickly. Within minutes, Shane’s phone lights up with a text message from an unknown number. He hesitates, then saves the contact as Lily’s S. because he has a feeling he’ll need to keep in contact with her. If he wants something serious with Ilya, Svetlana will be tangled in there somewhere, just like Hayden is with Shane.

Except he and Hayden don’t fuck.

Whatever.

Svetlana’s message is direct and efficient. Hello Montréal Jane. This is Svetlana, Ilyusha’s emergency contact. His condition has not changed. They have slowed down the medication but he still isn’t waking up. I have a hotel nearby and will be staying with him as much as the hospital allows. Marlow has requested I do not move him from Montréal. I assume this has to do with you, but I have no need to pry.

Fingers hovering above the keyboard, an idea pops into Shane’s mind, carefully sequestered from Ilya’s reach. He’s not sure if Ilya would encourage it

His fingertips fly over the keys and hit send before him or Ilya can get the chance to grasp the situation. The text sits heavy on his screen, a bloated green bubble with a simple request:

Hi Svetlana. Thanks for updating me. This may be a weird request, but I really miss Ilya’s voice. Sometimes he talks to me in Russian even though I don’t understand and it’s soothing. I could use that right now. Would you mind giving me a call and just…talking? Just whatever is on your mind, like…what you’d say to Ilya, if you could. I’m sick so I can’t respond, but hearing something familiar would help. A lot.

Ilya lets out a pained sound. мой милый Шейн… (My sweet Shane...)

Svetlana, apparently, does not waste time. An incoming call flashes onto his screen. Shane waits a beat to see if Ilya wants to be the one to pick up the call, but there’s a slight anxiety emanating from him like he’s afraid it isn’t real. So Shane presses accept.

“Jane. I hear you have good taste and are a big fan of Russian accents?” Even Svetlana’s voice is pretty. It’s pleasantly low and smooth. Vaguely Shane recalls that Svetlana split much more of her early life between Boston and Russia, and it shows in the way her accent is nearly flattened out of her tone in English.

It’s when she starts speaking Russian that the familiarity washes over Shane. His text was mostly a sham to allow Ilya to connect with Svetlana in some capacity, even if she doesn’t know he’s listening, but he realizes there’s a kernel of truth to it as the words flow out. He really does miss Ilya’s voice. His real one, not the murky internal intrusions he would confuse with his own thoughts if they weren’t so distinctly Ilya.

Ilya is quiet in the back of his head as he also soaks in Svetlana’s voice. Shane has no idea what she’s saying. He only hopes that Svetlana took the whole ‘tell me what you’d say to Ilya at his bedside’ thing seriously and is giving Ilya some comfort and companionship beyond what Shane could offer. For all he knows, she’s rattling off her grocery list or talking shit about the food in Montréal. Maybe it doesn’t matter to Ilya.

Her voice fills the silence as it stretches on and on. When she starts to sound tired, Shane shoots a quick, Thank you. This meant a lot to me. in lieu of telling her out loud that she could stop. Svetlana chuckles under her breath, tongue clicking as she seemingly wavers on a decision.

“I’ll clear the room so you may visit whenever you want. Take care…‘Jane’.”

The line goes dead.

Frozen where he stands, Shane doesn’t lower the phone. He can’t reckon with the fact that Svetlana might know. The way she said Jane – the suddenly heavy accent turning the J into almost a Ch which is basically a Sh – the knowing emphasis on the name as if she knows it’s just a cover – as if she knows–

I have not told her, Ilya assures him. But she is smart woman. Most women are.

Shane drags a tired hand over the side of his face. It’s almost dinnertime and the thought of disrupting his nighttime patterns sets off an itch under his skin. “I just hope she’s tight-lipped about whatever she thinks she knows. And I hope…that helped you. A little. Sorry I didn’t check with you first. Thought I’d chicken out if I waited more than a second to send it.”

For a brief, horrible moment of silence Shane is afraid Ilya will make a crude remark about Svetlana’s tight lips, but thankfully it never comes. There’s a subtle glow of serenity from Ilya. It’s not as simple as happiness, but it’s positive. That’s an improvement from half an hour ago, so Shane counts it as a win.

You said my name. In your texts.

He can picture Ilya’s expression – eyes slightly wide, mouth twitching upwards at the corners like he’s fighting off a giddy smile that will betray too much of what he’s really thinking.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll delete it later,” Shane brushes him off.

Still wading through a complex slew of thoughts and feelings from the Svetlana situation, Shane goes on autopilot to prepare his dinner. He throws together a quick grain bowl – precisely measured brown rice, steamed broccoli for fiber, and adzuki beans that round out his protein goals. It’s familiar and safe and Shane has already calculated the calories and macros and how it fits into his performance diet and he doesn’t think twice about it.

Until Ilya does it for him.

It starts with a request. Ilya wants him to drink Coke. There’s no supply issue – Shane has long since stocked his fridge with Coke in preparation for a surprise Ilya-sighting – but it’s different when he’s the one ingesting it. He supposes it’s not a far jump from ginger ale, his fountain of youth, but it still settles over him all wrong.

Trying to make an honest man of himself from days ago when he promised Ilya they’ll compromise while stuck in the same body, Shane cracks open the tab on a chilled can of Coke. He fumbles a few times before getting enough leverage. It’s just soda, but it hisses in a hostile way that just feels so unfamiliar.

It’s stupid. Shane isn’t afraid of a goddamn can. He tilts his head back as the bubbly liquid spills into his mouth. He tries to relax, to let Ilya drift to the front so he can enjoy the taste and sensation and feel a little more normal.

Unfortunately, Shane’s body does not understand the gesture.

A hot panic rises up from his gut and his stomach contracts involuntarily. Instinctively his body rejects the sugary drink as he heaves, spewing the mouthful into the sink. A wave of nausea rocks him and his mind goes wild calculating the calorie difference between the wayward can and his usual drink, what it means for the rest of the night if he maxes out his sugar allowance here, how to suppress the festering wrongness.

How to keep this all from Ilya.

“Sorry,” Shane croaks. He doesn’t bother making more excuses because it’s futile to try fooling someone who literally just experienced his body spit up soda. Ilya knows he isn’t sick, knows he isn’t just throwing a tantrum. There’s nothing Shane can say for himself.

Robotically, Shane polishes off the rest of his dinner. He’s dutifully washing out his bowl as he shoots nervous glances at the cabinet where the Russian delicacies he bought on that domestic grocery run sit patiently. It was so wonderful at the time – picking out food together, learning each others’ cultures, reaching across the grocery aisle.

The magic has worn off now that they’re home and the only body around to consume all those off-diet foods is Shane’s.

Ilya’s presence strengthens as he prods through every nook and cranny of Shane’s frame. It’s reminiscent of the check-ups he sometimes performs after a brutal game; flat palm skimming across the planes of Shane’s body, assessing his bruises and thumbing lovingly at the ones that look the ugliest to gauge how badly they hurt.

Gentle as he always is, Ilya presses on a wound.

You are still hungry, he assesses.

Stubbornness instinctively rears its head within Shane, which is likely not lost on Ilya. He digs his heels in. “Just because you’re in my head doesn’t mean you know everything about me,” he snaps and wonders if it’s true.

What is silly English expression where you boil frog and it does not notice until too late? What the frog did to deserve it I do not know, but eh. You have lived in this body your whole life, is understandable maybe some things you feel are normal are…not so normal.

“Shut up. I…I know what I’m feeling.”

Shane, I know what you’re feeling because I feel it too. I only have one other reference, but still. Bodies should not feel like this. You are dizzy when you stand. It is not indigestion when your stomach hurts, it is hunger. Your headaches get better when you eat, but you never notice. Your body is trying to talk and you are hitting snooze. Is your body, I know, but I am here too. Let me.

Throat tightening, Shane tries to look away. There’s no corporeal Ilya to avoid eye contact with, but the intensity of Ilya’s concern in the back of his head doesn’t feel much different from a staring contest. His skin crawls with truths he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

The desperation bleeding through his last words, let me, sail like an arrow from Shane’s skull, carried by his bloodstream directly into the layers of his heart. They puncture deep.

Shane gets another bowl of rice.

He chokes it down and tries not to run calculations where Ilya can hear them. The leftover rice is just slightly soggy and it coats the roof of his mouth with a thin film that lingers even after he scrubs with his toothbrush.

Your head is strange.

Shane bristles. “The only thing that would make me crazy is your fucking voice in my head.”

Not like that. Well – maybe a little. But no, is just interesting, because your body feels so different.

“If you’re going to chirp me about not being as muscular as you, save it. You know I bench more than you.”

Shane. Ilya doesn’t take the bait. He sounds contemplative. The world, I don’t experience it like you. When I come to front, I feel everything, everywhere. The seam on socks inside shoe, scratchy clothing tags, wrinkly fingers when we shower. Is painful. These are not things I notice in my body. I did not know you were in pain all the time. Did you know?

Nestled in his bedsheets, Shane turns onto his side and wishes he could face away from Ilya and delay this conversation for another day, maybe a week, perhaps forever.

“I know I’m high maintenance,” he mutters. “I’m picky and difficult to be with and freak out when things don’t go my way. I know I’m a lot. Probably too much.”

No, no. Пиздец. (Fuck.) Shane, I like your strangeness. Nothing about you is difficult. You are particular, make it easier for me to know how to care for you. I put items in correct spot in fridge, you are happy. I dim lights and find sunglasses when your brain is loud, you are happy. I learn to avoid texture combinations that make you sick, you are happy. Is good. Is efficient, really.

The bedsheet underneath Shane darkens with a splotch, then another. Ilya reaches up and thumbs away the next forming tear.

I want to make you happy, too. Shane thinks desperately. I want to learn you too, all your ‘too much’.

Ilya smiles. It feels like his teeth are gritted. He doesn’t respond.

Chapter End Notes

Надрыв (Nadryv) - an uncontrollable emotional outburst, a release of deeply hidden feelings. someone who is about to break.

:')

comments/kudos very much appreciated, i love hearing what yall think!! <3

(btw, rating bump in the next chapter....more of those tags coming into play 🙈)
 

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Chapter 4: Родной

Chapter Summary

“No it’s not about – listen. Do you, uh, remember when you asked what color my…thing was?”

Silence.

Your thing, Ilya echoes with a hint of amusement. Shane knows he’s not confused. He just wants to hear Shane say it. Asshole.

“Fuck you. My dildo. We can…maybe I can pretend that it’s…you?”

Chapter Notes

welcome to the rating bump ;)

Stop it, Ilya!

Shane snatches his hand back from where Ilya was inching it towards his nipple. Ilya whines dramatically.

Shaaane. Мой красавчик. (My handsome boy.) You are so mean to me, you deprive me of your body though I am literally already inside it.

Shane and Ilya’s relationship may have been ignited by sexual intimacy, but with their respective work schedules and the hours of distance between their home bases, they’ve become skilled at holding back. They get through it with hands, flirty texts, phone sex, and the knowledge that they’ll make up for all the lost time and then some as soon as they’re in the same city again.

Apparently, Ilya has reached the end of his rope – and now he wants to tie Shane up with it.

Admittedly things have been harder on Shane as well. He can’t jerk off to Ilya in the shower in peace knowing the man is watching everything. Hell, he could probably peek into Shane’s fantasies, which he would never live down. Maybe the whole watching thing would be hot if Ilya could slam him against the glass door, pin his hands above his head, and replace the hand on his dick with his own because you just don’t know how to satisfy yourself without me, моя любовь. (My love.)

But that’s not an option, because Ilya’s body is trapped in a hospital bed across the city while his goddamn soul chatters on in the back of Shane’s mind about how gorgeous his ass looks when he works out and how badly he wants to rail him against the baseboards – and not to get the puck.

When a frighteningly vivid mental image crosses their mind link – Ilya with Shane’s cock in his mouth, drool shining on his lips and eyes half-lidded with pleasure – and nearly makes him pop a boner in the middle of a phone call with his mother, Shane decides he’s had enough.

Oops, Ilya says with all the innocence of a convicted criminal. Were you busy?

At least he could escape Lily by turning his phone off…though that never actually crossed his mind before. Brainspace-Ilya, however, doesn’t have a fucking off button. He’s riling Shane up all day and night, and the sheer force of two healthy libidos crammed into one body is enough to bring Shane to his knees.

It’s a shame there’s no one to get on his knees for.

We can still have a fun night, Ilya bargains. Shane can almost see the pitiful, puppy-dog pleading eyes. That bastard. You don’t trust me to make you feel good? You will still miss my huge cock, is obvious, nothing can replace it, but do not underestimate…what did Marly call me? Boston’s greatest manwhore? Though my dick does not wander these days…Still, many have rated my fingering technique ten out of ten. Best reviews in the city.

Shane suppresses his conflicting elation at the casual mention that Ilya hasn’t been with anyone else lately, and the bitter reminder of his previous roster of flings. “Ilya, you can’t fuck me when we’re sharing a body. That’s weird even for us.”

Oh so now you are Virgin Mary? What happened to obedient slut Shane Hollander who sucks my thumb as soon as I put it in his mouth and begs so pretty for me to push it down his throat and make him gag?

“Fuck you. I’m not a–” Shane’s voice wavers. “–slut.” He’s already shifting to pull his sweatpants down. Ilya grins.

At least let me see your gorgeous face. You do not look in mirrors enough for my tastes.

“Stop buttering me up.” He knows the words aren’t empty flattery, though. There’s a distinct longing emanating from Ilya, a desire just barely contained.

Kicking off his pants, he stumbles into the bathroom. The lights are harsh, throwing deep shadows underneath his chin, but Ilya relishes in the image like he’s worshipping at the altar.

I have always wanted to crawl inside your chest so no one could take me away from you, Ilya thinks so softly that Shane can barely hear it. Perhaps he isn’t meant to. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss seeing your face.

Energy buzzes at his fingertips. A plea for permission. It’s probably a bad idea, but Shane is no stranger to those at this point. Relaxing with a shudder, he lets Ilya in. Like he always does.

A knock. An open door.

Ilya trails his fingers across Shane’s cheek and God, it’s so obvious he isn’t in control of his own body anymore because he could never touch himself with such reverence, such obvious devotion. I love your freckles. Like little stars all over. They are the only thing I remember from the day we met.

“Liar. You met so many people that day.”

He’d feel less insane if he wasn’t speaking out loud, but if he starts communicating internally he’s afraid he’ll lose all control over his inner dialogue and then full force of his love for Ilya will spill out of the hole in his heart. It shouldn’t matter – Ilya deserves to know how much he’s loved, how long he’s been loved – but he’s still scared.

Maybe. But I only saw you.

Shane sheds his shirt.

Pretty. With his other hand, Ilya taps underneath his jaw, then the side of his neck, down to the hollow of his clavicle. If I could, I would kiss you here. Then here. I would suck a mark here and even though you cry and protest and say no Ilya, you can’t, people will see and they will know somehow that this mark is from hockey superstar Ilya Rozanov because only I can mark you up like this, I know you like it. You cannot hide that from me now.

“Fuck. Ilya.”

It’s not the same as Ilya’s calloused touch, but there’s enough of a disconnect between his hands and the resulting shivers they send across his skin that it almost does feel like Ilya is in the room with him. It’s better than any fantasy he’s pursued before, in empty hotel rooms and emptier bedsheets.

You missed this, yes?

Shane releases a small yelp that’s supposed to be an affirmation, but Ilya pats his cheek harshly. Words.

“Yeah, missed you, missed you so much,” he rushes out in one breath. “Haven’t done anything since All-Stars. I was waiting for you. Wanted to make it special, after the game, but then you–”

Shh, no need to think of that now. Just be good for me, like you always are.

Their entire predicament is out of Shane’s control. He can’t fix Ilya’s brain, he can’t reunite his soul and body, he can’t even be the emergency contact in charge of Ilya’s care. But this – being Ilya’s good, obedient, perfect boy – this, he can do.

Ilya nudges his fingers into his mouth. Like instinct, Shane swirls his tongue around the digits, whimpering between breaths as he licks at the skin webbing them together. They explore his mouth and he can still see it all in the mirror because Ilya won’t let him turn away. Tears bead up at the end of his eyelashes, splotchy redness staining his cheeks, saliva escaping between his fingers, gaze glassy. His chin tips up as the fingers prod farther and start to pump in and out with a familiar tempo. Ilya’s favorite.

Fuck, taking me so well. So beautiful. Wish I could come down your throat.

Despite what many might assume, Ilya is a gentle lover. He never fails to check in with Shane, to make sure he’s feeling good, to stay attuned with his body and all its warning signs even in the throes of his own pleasure. Shane knows this, is well acquainted with Ilya’s bleeding heart and all the ways he cares. He just rarely hears it this blatantly.

The blending of their souls has built a rickety bridge across the chasm in which Ilya lives, stranded in a prison of his own misery. Shane’s fingernails bleed as they pry apart the crack in his walls until he becomes privy to thoughts Ilya doesn’t normally voice during their intimacy.

With every breath, every pulse, every tick of the clock, he’s praising Shane’s existence.

Mine, all mine. My perfect Shane, my everything. He strokes down the smooth expanse of Shane’s torso, fingers catching in the divots of his abdomen. Shane shudders. Hardest worker I know. It shows. Most gorgeous body I’ve ever seen, the only one I want. я тебя люблю. (I love you.) So gorgeous, so unbelievably smart. Love when you pout at me with those beautiful lips. I want to kiss your sadness away. я тебя люблю. (I love you.) Love when you swat at me like angry kitten, love how you fold clothes before sex, love wrinkle in your forehead when you watch hockey tapes. Love the way you trust me to turn your brain off. я тебя люблю. (I love you.) You are strong all the time, so brave. Forgiving – too much. Want to touch you all the time, please let me have you forever. Love all your quirks. я тебя люблю. (I love you.) Love y–

Ilya finally yanks the fingers from his mouth and Shane chases after them, whimpering at the sudden emptiness. Ilya’s presence tethers him down, albeit on a long enough rope that Shane still feels like he can float away before it pulls slack.

His spit-slick fingers lock onto his left nipple, twisting and pulling as bolts of arousal light up his spine. The arousal building in his navel borders on painful because Shane knows he can’t have what he really wants. A tear slips down his cheek at the torturous desire tearing him apart and Ilya clicks his tongue patronizingly. Don’t cry, sweetheart. Be good.

Shane melts into the touch as Ilya teases over his bellybutton and palms him through his boxers. He’s so gone, he belongs entirely to Ilya. He has for a long time.

Relinquishing control is not new to Shane, not when it comes to Ilya. Being with Ilya is the only part of his life where he allows himself to let go, and the other man never takes that vulnerability for granted.

Shane has never literally handed the reins away like this, but he finds it surprisingly lovely. Ilya can do whatever he likes with his limbs, manipulate him into any position, stroke him, edge him, spank him, make him cry, anything. It’s even better than when he goes boneless in bed and Ilya scoops him up in his arms like dead weight, because Shane doesn’t have to even be in charge of his breathing right now. He doesn’t have to plan. Doesn’t have to think. He can just sit back, float far away from his body, and put his life in Ilya’s hands.

“Bedroom. Please.” Shane mumbles, unable to stay standing any longer with every rush of pleasure wracking his body. Ilya directs him back to his room, one foot in front of the other. He fusses until Shane is angled toward the mirrors on the back of the closet, because he refuses to lose the sight of Shane, flushed and panting for him.

Shane wriggles out of his boxers and folds them neatly on top of his sweatpants. He grabs the lube in his bedside drawer and squeezes a dollop into his palm to warm it up. He’s already half-hard from Ilya’s ministrations in the bathroom, and he’s hungry for more.

All of a sudden, Ilya’s presence recedes.

Shane’s body goes rigid like a mannequin, an uninhabited husk. His hand hangs in the air, covered in saliva and lube, waiting for instruction. Mentally, he pats around desperately for Ilya, needing him to fill the burning emptiness. “Come back. Baby, please, I need you.”

Ilya laughs. It echoes.

Touch yourself.

He sniffles. “But…I want you…”

I know you do, sweetheart. Give me a show. Make me want you, too.

Ilya already wants him – he always does, but Shane feels himself rise to the challenge nonetheless. There’s an eagerness to please buried under his layers of competitiveness that Ilya knows just how to exacerbate. He wants to show off for Ilya. Wants to make him desperate.

With tremendous effort, he reaches down and wraps a hand around himself. After the lengthy teasing, every pore is primed and sensitive. Each point of contact erupts like a live wire, and he can’t help the moan that tears from his lips. Roughly, he strokes up and down his length. He tries to emulate the rhythm Ilya would adopt, squeezes at the base and curls his thumb over the tip like Ilya would do. Tears well up and he can’t stop them trickling down his flushed cheeks. It’s not enough. It’s never enough.

Ilya tuts softly. You know that’s not how I would do it if I were there. You have already forgotten how I fuck you?

“Then show me,” Shane whines, bucking his hips up into his grip. “Make me remember. Make me yours.”

Oh, fuck.

Ilya’s presence roars back into Shane’s body, seizing control again. His hand tightens around his shaft, hesitant motions turning rough and practiced as his breaths go deliciously ragged. Shane’s lower stomach spasms with red-hot desire and he aches.

“Yes, yes, ‘lya more, please it’s so good–”

Ilya groans low and heady with satisfaction. Shane’s body is the one getting all the physical benefits of their play, but the simple act of pleasuring seems to be hurtling Ilya to the edge.

In the next heartbeat, Ilya mashes more lube into Shane’s hands and nudges a finger at his entrance. A full-body shiver wracks him as Ilya swiftly buries the finger up to his knuckle, shushing his cries in his head the whole way.

Shane’s pulse pounds under his skin as Ilya works him open. He pushes his hips into the touch, rocking himself against a hand that no longer belongs to him. Ilya adds another finger, then another, stretching and prodding and searching for the spot that will make Shane truly scream. It’s a new angle for him, but it doesn’t take him long to hone in on his target. It probably helps that he shares some of Shane’s sensations. He knows precisely what feels good and what doesn’t – but that’s nothing new. He’s been a scholar in the art of Shane long before he shared his skin.

Even with his fingers ramming against his prostate, it’s not enough. He just knows Ilya’s hand would reach deeper, spread him wider, tip him over the edge until his vision goes white.

Ilya has ruined him. He can’t have anyone else. He’s never wanted anyone else.

Fuck, sweetheart. No wonder you come so pretty on my fingers even when you prep yourself. These are no match for mine.

“No, not like yours,” Shane gasps and sobs. “Need you to make me come.”

Your pretty hands will be enough for you? Hm? You don’t need me? Don’t want to come around me?

“Wish I could, want it so badly. Want you to make a mess out of me, to – wait, wait. Stop.” His breath hitches as he claws lucidity back for a moment.

Ilya immediately stops. A warm sensation brushes from one shoulder to the other and back, like Ilya is petting him lovingly. “I have an idea…but you can’t laugh at me.”

Дорогой, (Sweetheart,) you know I am open to exploring with you. Whatever you want. I will never make fun of your fantasies.

“No it’s not about – listen. Do you, uh, remember when you asked what color my…thing was?”

Silence.

Your thing, Ilya echoes with a hint of amusement. Shane knows he’s not confused. He just wants to hear Shane say it. Asshole.

“Fuck you. My dildo. We can…maybe I can pretend that it’s…you?”

Ilya actually growls at that. Oh, my love. You try to kill me.

Like molten sugar the pet name sticks into his chest and burns deep. He wants it to scar there. Wants to hear it over and over, for the rest of his life. My love. My love. My love. Mine. “Is that a yes?”

Get it. Now.

Shane scrambles back to his bedside table. He can feel Ilya becoming obsessed with him all over again when he nervously pulls out a black drawstring pouch and gingerly tips the contents onto the bed. He’d almost forgotten what’s inside; it’s a miracle he’d even kept it all these years. It was his first sex toy, and honestly his last – he never needed it much after he met Ilya. It’s definitely not what he would buy nowadays if he had to pick something out, but it never seemed worth the effort to replace.

He regrets that now, as the sparkly pink dildo bounces onto the covers.

“Fuck.”

Shane.

“Oh my God. Shut the fuck up.”

Sweetheart. This is the best day of my life.

“Don’t fucking say a word, asshole, you’ll make me go soft.”

No you won’t. Ilya can barely communicate through his laughter. Shane’s sides hurt with the force of it. You lied, said it was flesh-colored.

Shane blushes furiously. “They were having a sale!”

Is perfect. Ilya picks it up and watches with delight as the embedded glitter catches the lamplight. God, you are so perfect.

Brimming with glee, he wraps his fingers around it to test its size. Oh sweetheart, but it is so small. No wonder you struggled to take me during our first time.

“Fuck you, it was a starter kit. The FAQ said to size up slowly.”

And you never bothered, because you had me. Ilya beams. So brave, jumping from this to my cock. Must have been overwhelming, but you were so good. Is not the same as my dick, but I can fuck you with this just as well. I’ll make it good for you.

Shane settles against the pillow, knees hiked up to his chest. He slowly spreads his legs, every droplet of sweat on skin still visible in the mirror across the room. Ilya slips his fingers back in, pumping like Shane needs a reminder of what it feels like to be full of him. He coats the dildo with lube, although he’s careful not to drip anything on the bed because he knows how Shane hates mess.

Breathe with me.

Ilya presses the tip into him, both of them shuddering at the electricity that rips across Shane’s body. Shane’s head falls back against the headboard, but Ilya tugs it forward enough to not lose sight of him in the mirror.

Love seeing you take it, Ilya moans. Opening so easy for me.

Without wasting another second, he rams the toy down to the hilt. Shane releases a high-pitched cry that would alarm the neighbors if he had any. It’s too fast, too sudden, too perfect. Ilya knows exactly what he’s feeling, knows he can take it, knows he’s relishing in the rough treatment.

“Oh, fuck, Ilya!”

He thrashes at the sensation of fullness, stretching him deep. It’s not Ilya – not in the physical sense – but everything about it is so him that Shane nearly cries and comes at the same time. The honed technique, the way he angles the toy to hit all the spots he knows makes Shane scream, the tantalizing decrescendo in tempo when Shane tips towards the edge that makes him want to scream fuck you but also please sir more.

Ilya has memorized every twitch and tell, every dip and crest of Shane’s body. He can tune his reactions, pinch and prod and push him into that wonderful floaty space between heaven and earth based on sight and touch alone. Now that he has access to Shane’s precise sensations, he pounces with teeth flashing bloody. He places Shane on a tightrope thinner than he’s ever dared and relishes in the way he sways with the breeze.

Oh, my poor Shane. Ilya doesn’t sound sorry at all. So needy for me. You want to come, yes? Hmmm, should I let you come?

“Yes, yes, been good I’ve been so good, hurry, need to come around you–” Shane babbles. Ilya thrusts the dildo in at a punishing pace, all pretenses of restraint abandoned as he rushes them both toward completion. The sight of himself in the mirror, flushed and panting and spread just for Ilya, is almost hot enough to override the fact that a sparkly pink silicone monstrosity is sliding in and out of him.

It’s better than fingers alone, but nothing can measure up to the real Ilya. Shane stares at where he’s breached around the toy and conjures up memories of Ilya. Moments of them tangled up in shitty hotel bedsheets, of Ilya keeping Shane’s head immobile against the couch as he drills into him, the slow mornings where Shane sinks around Ilya and just floats.

“I miss you,” Shane chokes through his sobs. It’s a crazy thing to say to someone you’re sharing a body with. He’s not sure if it was even audible amid his frantic breathing and wet moans.

Ilya takes him apart like he was born for the purpose of unraveling Shane Hollander. It’s loving, careful, like he’s polishing and storing every unscrewed piece so when he’s done he can perfectly put Shane back together again, and Shane trusts him not to lose a single part in the process.

Shane’s head tosses from side to side, absolutely beside himself with pleasure. The ridges of the toy press deliciously against his walls. Never one to neglect the subtler aspects of penetrative sex, Ilya directs his other hand to roam over the rest of his body. As the dildo hits home with every brutal thrust, pleasure singeing white-hot down his spine, goosebumps are also rising in the wake of his fingertips as they drag across his ribs, detouring at his nipples before crawling between his lips again.

Ask nicely.

Shane sucks desperately at his own fingers when Ilya’s presence flickers out in the appendage, concentrating fully on bringing Shane to heaven. With a cry Shane slips them out, twists sweaty locks of his hair around each digit, and pulls. Hard. It’s what Ilya would do. Everything is tense, tense, tense, muscles clenching and body trembling and Ilya, Ilya, he wants Ilya so badly he would worship at any altar for the chance to truly hold him.

“Please, come with me please, mon cœur, (my heart,) want to feel you!”

In a sensation so vivid Shane nearly crumbles, Ilya’s warm fingers close around his own.

For one blissful moment, their presences overlap perfectly. There is no dominant soul – just two clouds of stardust evenly interspersed. Ilya sinks into every cell of their body. His consciousness stretches toward the tip of every extremity and weaves deep into the core. They are identical silhouettes superimposed.

Everything goes white.

Their body arches violently off the bed as they come hard, thighs trembling and toes curling and ribbons of white arcing through the air. Rattled moans tear from their throat, a siren’s mix of Shane’s breathy whimpers and Ilya’s rough growls. The warmth built up in their stomach boils over in shockwaves that scorch their skin anew with every pulse.

They go up. He comes down.

The world beyond is hazy and unimportant when his awareness settles back into himself. His body is exhausted in the best way. The constant thrumming of anxiety under his skin has gone dormant, his tightly wound muscles are expended, and his hunger is sated. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling.

What is strange is that when he tunes back into himself, like he’s watching his own life from behind a screen, he’s…in the middle of a sponge bath.

My love. You are back?

Ilya’s presence has shrunk back again like a mindful guest in Shane’s body, but Shane aches at the loss. He sounds winded despite no longer connecting to a pair of lungs.

Is odd. I am in your head, yet I still don’t know where you go when we fuck.

“What are you doing?”

Mentally, Ilya shrugs. What I would normally do. Aftercare, it is good etiquette. We fuck, you float, I wipe you down and feed you snacks and water and change your sheets and tuck you in so I do not wake up in bed with Cranky Shane the next morning. Cranky Shane would not like morning sex.

Shane almost wants to say we never wake up together but he bites it off and prays it isn’t one of the thoughts that breaches containment.

It’s quite nice to sit back and let someone else pilot your body. Shane watches himself get pampered like a distant dream, curled up in the corner of his own consciousness like a kitten by a fireplace. The washcloth delicately glides over painful areas and leans into the pressure exactly where Shane craves it. Ordinarily the attention to detail afforded by their unique circumstances would spoil a person, but Ilya is always like this with Shane.

Ilya clicks his tongue fondly. You bruise like peach. Look at you, so sore and I did not even spank you.

When they settled into bed again, this time underneath fresh sheets, Ilya’s voice turns serious. He shifts his gaze towards the corner, where he had wiped the soiled sex toy off and put it aside for further cleaning. It sparkles menacingly in the moonlight.

Shane. Get rid of that thing.

“What? Ilya that’s wasteful.”

The manchild inside Shane’s head actually whines. You said you have not used it for years, just trash it. Why you need to keep stupid glitter dick when you have mine?

“Wait,” Shane says, a slow smile creeping across his face. “You’re kidding. Ilya, are you jealous? Of a dildo?”

No, Ilya lies.

Giggling, Shane snuggles deeper into the covers. Ilya has tucked them around his feet just right. “You think I’d leave you for a hunk of silicone? I know you have a bigger ego than that.”

You will leave me because my dick does not sparkle and I will cry. And then I will get glittery dick piercing to win you back and make you cry.

“You’re such an asshole.” Body pleasantly weighed down by exhaustion and contentedness, Shane lets himself drift away.

Ilya’s voice drifts into the hazy gap between reality and dreams. It slips between Shane’s fingertips before he can commit it to memory.

мой персик. я тоже по тебе скучаю. (My peach. I miss you too.)

The next morning, a black drawstring bag solemnly awaits trash pickup.

Chapter End Notes

Родной (Rodnoy) - someone who is part of your inner circle, an extension of yourself. someone who is home to you.

a brief respite from the miscommunication and angst! if u know me or have looked at my profile at all you know i don't normally write this but somehow i too find it easier for them to fuck than talk LMFAOOOOO

i think this was one of my favorite chapters but please let me know what you think lollll i don't write this often 😭

twitter: pixeljunnie
alterspring: pixinoa

Chapter 5: Тоска

Chapter Summary

Shane thought he knew what it meant to cherish something. He loves hockey. His family. Friends. Routine. He’s been lucky enough to never have any of it jeopardized in a serious way.

He’s never met the other side of love.

Anguish.

Chapter Notes

warning for suicidal ideation ^^ take care of yourselves

Ilya and Shane make breakfast together. It’s a first. There’s a giddiness in Shane’s chest that he can’t trace the origins of. Perhaps it’s from both of them. Perhaps that’s wishful thinking.

Ilya controls the music as they bustle around the kitchen. Shane makes himself a protein shake first, which Ilya gags at theatrically but ensures Shane knows he doesn’t actually mind as long as it fills him up. Shane steels himself and decides to make good on that compromise for real this time.

They have the ingredients for a couple of dishes, but Ilya eagerly walks him through the process of making syrniki, the Russian equivalent of pancakes. He strains the farmer’s cheese until it’s dry and crumbly, then mixes in the other wet ingredients. They switch off forming the dough balls until Ilya makes a dick and promptly loses dough-shaping privileges. Shane cringes at the idea of frying a breakfast food, but he soldiers on.

The cheese base turns the syrniki fluffy and light. Although they’re more of a dessert than a high-performance, protein-packed start to a grueling day, they do look delicious. Shane barters and earns the right to use fresh fruit as a topping instead of the maple syrup he keeps around for use in sauces, and also because he’s Canadian and it’s kind of law.

They start by alternating bites. Ilya seems overjoyed at both the familiar taste of home and the experience of sharing it with Shane. Maybe he’s also relieved to see Shane eating something substantial. Either way, breakfast goes smoothly.

Too smoothly in fact, because it makes Shane hope. They’ve never really done these types of mundane bonding activities before. It’s nice, just spending time with Ilya. He can imagine them sometime in the hopefully-near future, flicking flour at each other and taking a break from baking to slow dance in the kitchen to Ilya’s pulsing Russian EDM music and maybe suck each other off while they wait for dough to rise.

It’s a beautiful fantasy. Shane tentatively cracks open the vaults of his heart to let the feeling through, to show Ilya how much he wants something real with him. A life, intertwined.

Ilya’s heart skips a beat at the image. He aches.

So yes, the day had started off well. Sure there were a couple moments where he felt a strange weight settle on his chest or he zoned out for longer than usual, but it wasn’t anything that raised alarm bells. He and Ilya enjoyed a lazy morning full of gentle laughter and sweet pastries and domestic bliss. It was perfect. They were happy.

This makes it even more jarring when Shane is driving to practice and the impulse to yank the steering wheel into oncoming traffic floats innocently into his consciousness.

Immediately, the world around him fizzles out. All he can feel is panic raking bloody claws through his flesh as it climbs up his throat because this thought – this urge – did not come from him. Neither did the anchor embedded in his chest or the way he suddenly feels so exhausted, like he could sleep and never wake up but maybe that’s not such a bad thing and–

Ilya, he thinks, distraught. What–What was that?

Nothing.

The ground between them splits open into a yawning chasm. Shane blinks. Ilya is so far away, just a smudge against the horizon.

“Ilya,” he sobs out loud. The name comes out mangled as shuddering breaths wrack him. Ilya’s presence has cowered so far away from him that he can’t feel him at all.

Is this…it? Is he gone? Is he going to wake up in his own body or is – is it really–

There’s no call from Svetlana. Surely she would let Jane know as soon as something changed, right? Unless it’s too fresh, too painful.

Unless she’s grieving.

Fuck.

Shane’s eyes slide off the road in his haste as he scours his own frame for any sign of Ilya. The slight buzz of another soul he’s grown accustomed to in his chest. Subtle emotion crossing their mental link. A snarky comment that Shane wishes he could take credit for. A second presence pressing against his consciousness.

It’s all dark.

Ilya must be dying because Shane feels like his body is dying with him. His heart doesn’t know how to subsist without two pulses anymore. His lungs cycle enough air for two and the excess turns poisonous. Their fates are inextricably linked and thus the complete shutdown of Shane’s organs spells disaster for whatever must be happening in Montréal General Hospital Room 214.

The car drifts for real. Headlights flash. Shane can’t see.

The fingers that correct the wheel don’t belong to Shane.

As soon as the feeling in his hands goes cloudy with diminished control, Shane breaks. Someone flicks on the hazards and pulls them into the breakdown lane. It’s just in time, because his shoulders start spasming as his forehead meets the wheel.

Ilya lurks around the corners of his awareness. It’s the first time during this whole bodysharing fiasco that Shane truly feels like he’s being haunted.

“Fuck you. Oh merde (shit) what the fuck was that?” His words are wretched and wobbly, gasped against the rough texture of the steering wheel like a prayer. A plea. “You scared me.”

Sorry, Ilya finally speaks up. I would never put you in danger.

“I’m not talking about the fucking car!” Shane snaps. “I thought I lost you. Again. You had this terrifying thought and then all I could feel was how much of a relief it would be to stop existing and then you – you did disappear and I couldn’t– I didn’t know–”

The force of his own wails cuts him off. He’s never cried like this even when he was a child grappling with his first falls on the ice. They never seemed to hurt much. His delicate young limbs became decorated with purple starbursts but he always got back up. He skated on because he knew the bruises would fade and the pain was temporary. Worth it to batter him into the greatest skater of his generation.

He’s never faced the senseless, unending pain of grief.

Never lost something he couldn’t claw back at the next game, the next tournament, the next sunrise breaking over the skyline.

Is this what it’s like to cry at a funeral?

Shane thought he knew what it meant to cherish something. He loves hockey. His family. Friends. Routine. He’s been lucky enough to never have any of it jeopardized in a serious way.

He’s never met the other side of love.

Anguish.

Staring into the dark side of the moon, Shane realizes Ilya is the only chance he gets. If he loses him, there’s no amount of early morning drills or apology dinners or numbing cream that could fix it.

“Do you…do you get these thoughts often?” Shane ventures when his cries finally lose strength. “I need you to be honest. Please don’t hide from me anymore.”

Normal amount, probably. He sounds infuriatingly monotone, like they’re discussing the amount of rain in the forecast.

“Stop putting up a fucking front, Ilya! We’re sharing a brain right now and you think you can lie to me about something like this? Let go of the tough guy act and just talk to me. It’s not–” With his sleeve, Shane scrubs harshly at the fresh tears welling up in his eyes. Fuck this. Fuck everything. “Thinking about killing yourself in any capacity isn’t normal.”

Ilya is quiet again. He doesn’t make the mistake of trying to peel himself out of Shane’s existence though, so maybe it’s progress. “You say you’ve noticed differences in how we operate now that you’re in my skin. You say high-pitched noises don’t make the hairs on your arms stand up like they do on mine, and that you don’t feel compelled to count the steps between every line on the sidewalk the way I do. Surely you must have realized that I don’t think about driving into oncoming traffic.”

The click of the hazard lights blanket the car in a steady rhythm. Shane slumps back against the headrest. His right hand falls to the console, palm up and open. In another life, maybe Ilya is there to fill the emptiness, pressing kisses to his knuckles as they drive to a destination that doesn’t matter as long as they go together.

My mother struggled. Like this. Is genetic, maybe.

Ilya’s voice grows foggy. Faraway. Shane wants to plead for him not to go somewhere he can’t follow.

I lost her to it.

“I’m sorry,” is all Shane can offer up. The strongest emotion that surges forward is actually anger, because it’s easier to be angry than to be sad. It’s an ache that feels productive.

He’s furious at himself for spending so long in Ilya’s bed, staring at him from across event halls, rewinding hockey tapes that star him and not just because he’s studying his stick handling, thinking he’s peeled back all Ilya’s masks just because he’s discovered the soft center that hides underneath layers of aggression and debauchery, and somehow missing something so huge.

He cares about Ilya. Likes him a lot. Probably too much. Thought he might even love him.

Can he really claim to love a man he never knew?

Shane wonders if Svetlana knows. If the Bears ever notice their captain’s head barely bobbing above a violent sea, body submerged in frigid darkness. If there’s anyone in Ilya’s life that he trusts with his truth.

“Would. Would you ever–”

He can’t say it.

A beat passes. Hesitation. It burns.

I hope not, Ilya says instead of no.

Humming fills the air as cars whiz past them. Friends blasting music on a joyride. Parents taking their kids to ballet practice. A worker embarking on their mundane commute. A lady who really needs to use the restroom at the next stop. A guy puffing smoke out the window.

None of them know that the ground has disappeared under Shane’s feet. Gravity has vanished. He’s come untethered from the world, a fundamental law of the universe no longer applying.

It all feels so unfair. What’s the point of happiness if Ilya Rozanov can’t feel it?

Frantically, Shane combs across the morning. Did he do something to set Ilya off? Was this waterlogged despair crushing his lungs when he woke up in the morning and he just glazed over it? What could he have done differently? They can make a plan for this. Plans fix everything. He just needs to agonize over every detail until he unlocks the pattern to Ilya’s behavior and then he can make sure he never reads the headline Ilya Rozanov, NHL Superstar, Found Dead in His Home.

I’m sorry. Ilya means it this time. Is not fun subject. I never wanted you to know. Telling you heavy things, sad things, things that make you worry, is too much to ask of you.

“Too much?” Shane mocks. A disbelieving laugh bubbles up in his throat. It mixes with bitter sorrow. “You said I could never be too much. You told me you can handle my baggage and it just gives you more ways to tend to me. It’s not fair that you won’t let me do the same. You didn’t even give me a chance.”

I…did not think you would care. Was afraid to let myself consider it.

It’s honest – finally – but there’s no relief in wrenching this from Ilya’s chained-up heart. His voice is small. Young. Shane wonders how old he was when he lost his mother. How long he’s been alone. How many people would actually miss him if he vanished.

How many times he’s asked the exact same thing.

…I wouldn’t have actually pulled the wheel. I would never hurt you. Ilya tentatively reassures him as if Shane’s own safety was what he was most scared of losing in the moment.

“That’s not good enough,” Shane sniffles. “Great, you didn’t kill yourself today because you couldn’t harm my body. Whoop-de-doo. What about your body? Why don’t you care about yourself like you care about me? Don’t you realize that – that losing you will destroy me?”

Ilya sucks in a breath.

“If you really don’t want to hurt me, don’t hurt yourself.” Shane’s guilty conscience conjures up memories of picking brown rice off a kitchen scale grain by grain until it clocks an even fifty grams. Softening, his tone turns reflective. “I know I’ve been running from my issues too and I’m sorry I didn’t take your worry seriously. Maybe we can just…be honest with each other. Let's stop making assumptions about what is and isn’t important to vocalize. I want to know you, I want to help you, and I want to let you do the same. Isn’t that–” he wills his voice to not waver, “Isn’t that what it means to love someone?”

Солнышко. (Sunshine.) Another tear drips down Shane’s cheek. He thought he was done crying, and he was. This is Ilya’s devastation manifesting. Я люблю тебя. Я люблю тебя настолько, что хочу жить. Я хочу, чтобы этого было достаточно. (I love you. I love you so much that I want to live. I want it to be enough.)

Blowing a chunk of hair from the dried crust on his cheek, Shane releases a strangled laugh. “Okay, I feel like you’re obligated to translate that one. This conversation is too raw for you to hide behind a language barrier.”

Not until you master phrases I already taught you.

Shane lets it go because in reality, direct translation isn’t necessary. The intense devotion pouring from Ilya’s soul transcends spoken word.

It’s what it feels like to love someone.

Shane sends an out of character text to Hayden about being too ill for practice. It’s not even a lie. His stomach is still churning with the residue of fear. His heart has been diagnosed with lovesickness. Stage 4 terminal.

He turns the car around. They’re going to go back to their shared home, in their shared body, and pick apart the secrets they tried to never share. They’ll grab one can of ginger ale and one can of Coke and eat the leftover syrniki and curl up on the couch under the best weighted blanket in the house and finally, finally, stop hiding.

They’ve been running in opposite directions so long the acid in their muscles has calcified and their lungs have shriveled. Everything burns from exhaustion and their hearts are tired of struggling and all they want is to take a breath. They’ve earned this break. They’ve earned this honesty.

Love – they’ve never had to earn that. It’s always been there.

__________________

Hayden insists Shane come for dinner the next night because there’s no way the hockey addict Shane Hollander would miss a practice unless he was also missing a limb.

“I thought you were dying, man!” Hayden says by way of greeting. He leans against the doorframe, a relieved glint in his eyes at the sight of Shane standing upright in front of him. From deeper in the house, the high-pitched sound of children fighting rings out. Hayden looks exhausted, but in the way that also looks like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. “You never call out sick. I remember the time you tried to get on the ice with pneumonia and we had to threaten to break your stick for you to go to the hospital.”

“I thought I was dying too,” Shane mumbles. A cascade of warmth passes over his back, the phantom touch of Ilya trying to squeeze reassurance and apology into one gesture. He shivers.

Hayden beckons at him. “You must be cold. Come in, come in. We’ve gotten a late start on dinner so I’m gonna help Jackie to speed things up unless she chases me out of there with a wooden spoon. Don’t worry, we got the brand of chicken that’s on your safe list.”

Greedy Pike, Ilya grumbles. Is hot wife not enough? He must be in love with best friend Shane Hollander too?

Shut it. Just because he’s an understanding friend doesn’t mean he’s in love with me. Shane rolls his eyes to cover up the smug satisfaction at Ilya’s jealousy. At least he’s not the only one acting like a possessive partner.

Partner. It’s a nice word. It implies closeness and intimacy without revealing too much about the relationship. It suits them.

Little footsteps pound in the distance, growing louder and louder until two tiny figures tumble into the foyer. They were clearly racing, and it seems Jade has pulled a Hail Mary near the finish line. Ruby trips over her outstretched foot and goes careening toward the hallway table.

Shane doesn’t react in time.

Ilya, however, surges forward without missing a beat and scoops the girl off the ground before her head can bash into the corner of the furniture. Hayden swears under his breath, which Jackie’s motherly superhearing clearly picks up on because she hollers, “Swear jar, honey! Keep it up and we’ll have enough for a Disney trip next break!”

Hayden turns to scold Jade, who just shrugs unapologetically and celebrates her dirty win.

I like her, Ilya says immediately. She will be great hockey player, much better than Old Pike. She has bright future as a Bear.

Jade’s expression sours when she realizes she won the race, but Ruby is the one being hugged by Shane. She takes off at full force towards him, barreling into his side. Somehow Ilya keeps himself upright even as they climb over him.

“Uncle Shane!” They screech like little cats. Hayden tries to admonish them about their noise level because Uncle Shane has sensitive ears, remember, but it’s a lost cause. Jackie curses from the kitchen when it sounds like a pot bubbles over, and in Ilya’s eyes, the first respectable thing Hayden Pike does in his life is go help his pregnant wife instead of taunting her about the swear jar.

“Sorry buddy,” Hayden winces as he lingers in the entrance to the kitchen. “Would you mind just– It won’t take long, Arthur is busy coloring, but we can’t watch them all while we’re–”

“No worry,” Ilya waves him off. He grins down at the girls. “We will have party with the other five hundred Little Pikes.”

Ilya, Shane warns him because he’s doing a piss-poor job at acting like Shane.

Is okay, Little Pikes are young and Old Pike is dumb as brick. They will not notice me. I will behave in front of Hot Wife Pike, she is probably only one to be scared of.

Ruby tugs at Shane’s shirt insistently. Her hair is tied into two low pigtails. The tip of one is crusted with an unknown substance. She smiles, gap-toothed. “Uncle Shane! D’ywanna play tea party? You ca’ have Jade’s cup!”

“Hey!”

A frazzled Hayden reappears in the doorway. “Don’t worry Shane, you don’t have to do that. Behave, girls.”

Normally Shane is too awkward to partake in the girls’ wild storylines. He likes to sit in the room and watch them play, but he doesn’t think on his feet fast enough in any context other than hockey. Keeping up with the whims of two energetic five-year-olds is way more demanding than professional hockey.

However, Shane has an inkling that he knows someone who would be perfect for the job. He quirks a mental eyebrow at Ilya. You wanna drive?

Ilya beams inwardly, then levels Hayden with a gravely serious look. “I’m coming to the tea party.”

“Ooookay,” Hayden says, drawing out the syllables skeptically. He looks at Shane like he’s grown two heads. Technically, he’s not wrong.

Ilya allows himself to be led down the hall by two suspiciously sticky little hands. The girls pause in front of the entrance to their playroom, arms crossed sternly. “Pwoblem,” Jade announces. She points to the sign on the door with a huge red X on it. “No boys in da’ playroom.”

“Ah. Well, I have confession. I am not man.” Ilya smirks and leans down, bringing his hand up like he’s whispering a secret. He pauses for dramatic effect, relishing in the slow widening of the girls’ eyes. They’re hanging on his every word. Ilya spreads his arms out with a flourish. “I am…mer-man!”

Ruby’s mouth drops, shocked in that way that only a little girl who has to revise her imaginary drama plotline can experience. Shane can see the gears in her head working overtime. She shares a glance with Jade, and they both nod and usher Ilya into the room.

“We hafta hide Uncle Shane from the scientists,” Jade says solemnly. “They’re gonna kill him!”

“Yes. Is big secret, no one can know. I am on the run.” Ilya brings a finger to his lips and winks. The girls crow at the storyline being served to them on a silver platter. Nothing hits quite like a runaway character. The ‘captured and tortured’ arc is fantastic drama, but the ‘heroic rescue by the self-sacrificing protagonist’ that inevitably follows provides material for days.

Shane whistles from afar, where he has cozily retreated from his own body. Damn, Ilya is good.

Jade assumes the role of the evil scientist who wants to dissect merman Ilya, and Ruby positions herself as Ilya’s ally who found him beached by the sea. Ruby takes Ilya’s hand as they run around the room away from Jade, who brandishes a plastic spoon in lieu of a syringe.

At one point Jade catches Ilya and forces him to prove his mermanhood. With chubby fingers she unscrews the lid on a sippy cup of water and flicks it in Ilya’s direction. Ilya stares in mock-horror at the droplets against his skin, then shivers from head to toe. His legs snap together and he sways dramatically before collapsing to the ground.

Hand thrown against his forehead in theatrics, Ilya cries, “My tail!”

Both of the girls make small noises of awe at the commitment. “Waow…Uncle Shane is cool…”

Ruby! Shane protests. You thought I wasn’t cool?

No one thinks you are cool, Hollander.

“He’s fish!” Jade hollers as she jabs a finger at Ilya on the ground. “Stab him!”

That’s not really what a merman is, but Ilya shrugs and complies. “Glub glub.”

“Actually wait,” Ruby breaks character. “I can talk to fish because…um…’cause I’m part witch!”

Jade scowls. “You’re already part unicorn, you can’t be part witch.”

“Why not?!”

Folding her arms, Jade pops a sassy hip. “Witches hunt unicorns. Obviously.”

“True. Everyone say this.” Ilya nods seriously. “But! On full moon, unicorn with special blood can cast spell and turn horn into witch’s wand.” He rolls up a piece of paper and tucks it under Ruby’s headband to look like a unicorn’s horn.

Ruby gasps. Her little hand grasps at Ilya’s fingers, eyes sparkling. “Thas’ exactly what happened!”

Shane had known Ilya was good with kids. He had been lounging by the pool at All-Stars, trying not to trace the path of water sliding down Ilya’s abs, when Ilya rounded up all the kids into a swimming race. Still, this feels like a side of Ilya he hasn’t known yet. He’s so playful, in a way that feels like he’s tapping into his own childishness instead of just humoring the kids. He’s attentive to them, volleying the bizarre twists and turns their imaginary play takes and diffusing fights before they bubble up. It comes so naturally Shane can’t tell if it’s from well-worn routine or from setting free a younger version of himself that always ached for this.

Shane tries to think back to Ilya’s family. Did he grow up with cousins? He has a brother, although it doesn’t seem like they’re on speaking terms. Was it always like that, or did he and Alexei once chase each other around the playground, hurling worms at each others’ heads and trying to bend the rules of tag so they never lost?

Who was child Ilya? Was he carefree like he is in this playroom, spinning wild tales with a pair of five year olds?

Who is Ilya Rozanov?

The first Ilya Shane met was withdrawn, prickly, smoking right next to a no smoking sign. The second was fierce and violent, but also effortless as he stormed the ice. Third was alluring, with sweat arcing down his skin and his eyes raking over Shane’s body. Giggly Ilya at the CCM photoshoot. An Ilya hungry for Shane’s lips against the hotel wall. Gentle, perceptive Ilya easing into Shane and making him see stars his first time. Distant Ilya. Cocky Ilya.

Recently – Scared Ilya. Depressed Ilya. Whimsical Ilya.

Rather than being frustrated that he doesn’t understand Ilya like he once thought, Shane daydreams about the Ilyas yet to come, all the parts of him left to uncover like buried gems as they move through life together. He can’t wait to know all of him.

Shane loves a challenge.

Meanwhile, Ilya is dutifully pretending that Jade’s hairbows are effective handcuffs as he’s strapped to an ‘operating table’. It’s just a rug. Jade hovers above him, spoon-syringe wielded above his heart like she’s about to stake a vampire. Is Ilya a vampire now? Shane missed a few scenes.

“Wait…” Jade splays a hand against her chest and looks off into the distance. She drops the weapon with a flourish, voice dipping into a careful whisper. “I can’t do it. I love him.”

“No I love Uncle Shane! I called it first!”

Liars. I said it first, Ilya thinks. Dibs.

Who taught you about dibs? Shane laughs. He sounds lighter than he has since Ilya went down. Wrapped up in the twins’ drama-fantasy world, Ilya had almost forgotten their mental link. His cheeks warm at the unintentional slip about his confession.

Damn Shane for blushing so easily. It was a fun trait when Ilya was the one riling him up, not when he’s having his own emotions betrayed so easily on the tips of his ears.

The twins squabble and this time Ilya doesn’t intervene. The fucker is probably enjoying having girls fight over him, even if said girls are five and grubby with applesauce and snot instead of the hot models that usually flock to Ilya in clubs.

Shane’s eye twitches.

Hayden materializes in the room after the plot somehow comes full circle and they’re seated at around a mini table with plastic teacups balanced on top of picture-book coasters. On the outside it looks like a tea party. Ilya and the girls, however, know that they’re in the middle of an incantation to contact Ruby’s fictional dead lover and confront him about cheating on her and leaving her with their eleven children.

“We kill him twice. Never settle for deadbeat man,” Ilya teaches them seriously.

“Why is the beet man dead?” Ruby asks.

Either Hayden is also a merman, or the girls don’t consider him a boy, because he’s allowed inside. He gives the room a once-over and shoots Shane a questioning look. Ruby had made Ilya a paper unicorn horn as well, and it’s poorly fixed to his head via a barrette. “What on Earth are you doing?”

Ilya shushes him with a pinched face. “Do not interrupt. We are casting spells on you.”

He waggles his fingers in Hayden’s direction and the girls follow suit in perfect earnestness.

Hayden whistles. “That hit must’ve knocked something loose, buddy. Did you throw up your sense of shame on the ice too?”

He jerks his head, motioning for the girls to wash their hands before dinner. They run off with a stern promise about continuing their story later. Ilya vows to take notes so they won’t forget where they left off.

As the girls disappear around the corner, Shane feels Ilya’s strength waver. They’ve never swapped control for this long. Shane hadn’t really considered what it must take out of Ilya to pilot a body he’s not supposed to be inhabiting. God, fuck, what if possession is so taxing it shaves irreparable energy from his soul and that’s why Ilya isn’t waking up? What if Ilya becomes so drained his presence can’t sustain itself anymore? Ilya could disappear and it’s all Shane’s fault for not wanting to play with the twins himself, not to mention when he goaded Ilya into fucking him with a dildo. Fuck.

Relax, солнышко (Sunshine). You spiral so fast you make us dizzy. I am not going anywhere. Just tired – is hard work, being runaway merman and also unicorn queen’s lover and also head of underworld. Busy schedule.

Shane still nudges Ilya back. He wants him to recover, and he also doesn’t want to risk Ilya spouting some out of pocket jab at Hayden about his scoring game or something. Ilya might be convinced that zombies would starve if they tried to eat Hayden, but Shane knows his best friend is a little more perceptive than that.

…Or not.

Hayden doesn’t flinch when Ilya wrinkles his nose in disgust at the diet-friendly dinner waiting for them even though it was Shane’s request. He doesn’t blink twice when Ilya casually reaches over to cut some food for Jade, and he shifts Arthur into his arms even knowing Shane has a fear of dropping the toddler like a face off puck. Muscle memory.

He’s either the best friend Shane will ever have, or the most unobservant person in the world. Maybe both.

Spending time with his closest friends is nice. It restores a sense of normalcy to Shane’s upended world, and it affords a rare opportunity for Ilya to get to know Hayden the way Shane knows him – without the defensive ire he adopts whenever the real Ilya is within a ten mile radius of their locker room. Shane doubts it changes Ilya’s opinion on ‘Montréal’s fifteenth best player’, but that’s beside the point. Without Hayden knowing it, he’s playing nice with someone Shane cherishes deeply, and it nurtures a small hope in his heart that he can have this someday, for real. With Ilya by his side.

Hayden and Jackie see him off at the door. Jackie has one hand placed on her heavily pregnant stomach, Arthur slung against her hip as he clings around her. He’s a quieter kid than the two girls, but Ilya still managed to find common ground with him using an unexpected breadth of knowledge on dragons.

“Drive safe. And ice that wrist, I noticed you were struggling with your fork at dinner.” Jackie’s eyebrows draw together in a concern that makes Shane’s chest warm. He bats away thoughts of yes ma’am, I happily listen to bossy smart Hot Pike that comes from the traitor in his head and fires back, I told you I don’t hold utensils like that but you insisted on eating that peach cobbler!

Jackie turns to put Arthur to bed. His tiny hand raises in a tentative wave, and Ilya melts. Hayden studies him. “They loved you tonight. Don’t get me wrong, they always love a visit from Uncle Shane, but…you were really great with them today. The girls couldn’t stop talking about some speech you gave about being the last merman-unicorn-witch hybrid alive? They’re so tired out they didn’t even fight me when I told them to brush their teeth. So yeah, I don’t know where this all came from, but thank you. They had fun.”

Shane hides a smile behind his hand. Hayden’s soul would detach from his body if he knew he was complimenting Ilya Rozanov.

“I had fun too. Your Little Pikes are very charming. Is like your genes did not even try,” Ilya’s teeth flash in a grin.

The chirp is very Ilya. The genuine delight and underlying gratitude at being welcomed into a family, Shane is learning, is also very Ilya.

Hayden gives him a hug goodbye, and Shane lets himself indulge for a moment. He imagines showing up to Sunday dinner at the Pikes with Ilya trailing behind him like it’s no big deal, because it isn’t. It’s just like any other friend bringing their partner along. He daydreams about making coffee with Jackie and Hayden while watching Ilya fingerpaint with the girls. He’d let them tangle his hair in half-braids and decorate his cheeks with Paw Patrol stickers and sloppily paint his nails. He’d rock future Amber gently and pat her fragile back until she finally burps. He’d stay up late with Arthur until he forgets he was ever afraid of a monster under the bed.

And maybe, one day – Ilya can do all those things for kids of their own.

Chapter End Notes

Тоска (Toska) - a sickness of the soul (-Vladimir Nabokov), soul-crushing despair, deep deep anguish. the physical ache from missing a person you love. an inevitable part of loving someone.

let me know what you think <3

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alterspring: pixinoa

Chapter 6: Зажиться

Chapter Summary

Protect Shane. Protect Shane. Don’t hurt him, don’t let anyone hurt him.

Ilya is twelve again. He’s never stopped being twelve.

Chapter Notes

:')

Almost a week after Ilya’s hit, Shane’s parents call.

“Best behavior, okay?” Shane bargains with himself in the mirror because Ilya has demanded he get freckle-time again. Whatever that means. “Mom already thinks you’re an asshole. If she finds out you’ve hitched a ride in my body she’s going to pull some strings in the Vatican and get the Pope to perform an exorcism on me.”

This is possibility. If anyone could arrange meeting with Pope it is Yuna Hollander. Ilya falters then, something young and scared creeping into his words. You think she will be…not okay? With me?

Shane blinks.

Not that we are coming out soon. Just – I do not want to cause problems between you and your mama.

“Hey, hey. Rozanov is different from Ilya,” Shane enunciates carefully. “They’ve met Rozanov. They hate him because he’s antagonistic and excels at getting under people’s skin. Rozanov checks their baby boy into the boards – they’ve never really let go of that nasty bruised cheekbone you gave me in 2012. The Rozanov they know always has a snide taunt for reporters and a revolving door of women and is the only one who poses a real threat to my career. Obviously they’d hate your guts. Who wouldn’t?”

You flatter me, Ilya deadpans.

“Shut up. I’m serious. My parents don’t have a great impression of Rozanov because they’ve never met Ilya. The Ilya that stocks ginger ale for me and knows how to handle my shutdowns and spirals. The mushy Ilya who worships my freckles and loves forehead kisses and being the little spoon. The man that took a hit for me.”

Shane blinks away the sudden tears that prick at his eyes. He’s not sure who they belong to. The final sentence, he directs inward because he doesn’t trust himself enough to say it out loud.

The Ilya I love.

Ilya chokes up. Untrue. Russians are tough like beef ration. ‘Mushy’? We are not this word.

“Not to say I don’t love other parts of you. It’d freak me out if you didn’t chirp me on the ice about being slower on skates than a three-legged dog.” Shane shrugs. “But that’s the only side my parents hear. They don’t know the sweet things you say to me that balance out the ribbing.”

Yes, Ilya says sagely. I tell Yuna Hollander about how I call her son my perfect beautiful slut. Over lovely pasta dinner.

“Fuck you, you know that’s not what I mean!”

Futilely, Shane brushes at the wrinkles in his linen shirt. He double checks the locks on all the windows and doors, then loops back for a triple check. Flattening his palms against his shorts in hopes of removing the clammy sheen, he finally psychs himself up enough to get in the car and embark on the drive.

He’s not sure why he’s so terrified to face his parents. It’s not like he’s bringing Ilya to dinner – at least, not in a physical body they can see.

Perhaps it’s the lack of Ilya that makes Shane on edge like he’s marching into war.

“How’s the noggin?” David says as he opens the door. From somewhere behind him, Yuna shouts, “Hi, honey! Did you get my email? How do you feel about growing out your hair? I got you lined up for a meeting with L’Oreal and the moodboard was–“

Long-haired Hollander? Mmm. Sexy. Say yes.

Not now, Ilya, Shane grits his teeth.

Would give me something to pull on when you suck my cock.

“Are you cold?” David asks when he sees Shane shudder. “I can get you a sweater.”

“I’m fine, Dad. And Mom, I don’t – I don’t really want to think about brand deals right now. Please.”

Yuna appears from the living room, throwing her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m just glad to finally see you. It was scary watching that hit, even though you were cleared by medical from going to the hospital. Are they easing you back into play?”

“Yeah.” Shane shifts his weight awkwardly and avoids eye contact, gaze roaming over the framed photos lining the wall. He doesn’t want to think about the hit, can’t bear to relive the moment Ilya went down in his place.

Yuna’s eyes comb over Shane’s frame. She’s well attuned to his body language, even if the Hollander one-track mind tends to make her brush past the signs when she’s swept up by a promising plan. Luckily she puts the brakes on this time.

“Come and sit down. I have a separate bowl of protein pasta for you, don’t worry.”

Shane wipes his hands against his shorts again. If he does it hard enough, he can almost trick himself that the pressure is from Ilya. “Actually, I’ll have half and half.”

David tilts his head, but doesn’t comment on the diversion from his diet. Shane is endlessly thankful that his father knows how and when to hold his tongue. His mild-mannered disposition is the perfect foil to Yuna’s fiery, go-getter personality.

Shane’s thoughts wander. Do he and Ilya complement each other like that? Do they fill each others’ gaps like David and Yuna?

Yes. You have two gaps I love to fill.

Never mind!

Ilya insists on touring the house because it’s verifiably a shrine to both hockey and baby Shane. Shane’s first hockey stick hangs on the wall of the living room. It’s so small Ilya can barely believe it isn’t for a doll. He tries to imagine little Shane toddling around the ice, batting around this ruler-sized stick. What did they use for a puck, a bottle cap?

Yuna probably has videos. Fuck, he needs to win her over immediately.

Hometown pride is splashed between exhibits from the Museum of Shane. David’s jersey from McGill is arranged next to a wooden shelf displaying pucks with the Centaurs logo on them. There’s an Ottawa championship mug on the coffee table that looks ancient, which makes sense because Ottawa hasn’t even scraped the playoffs for over fifteen years. It’s definitely an antique thrifted from the 90s. Yuna is definitely a Voyageurs fan, evident by the rest of the merch the house boasts, but it’s clear they still have a soft spot for their local team.

Ottawa fans, Ilya pretends to click his tongue in pity. So is okay that I beat you all the time, since they are used to losers.

Fuck off. Ottawa just needs a star center to whip them back into shape. Shane trails a finger across one of the pucks. Actually, you’d be perfect for the job. Run some of those drills the Boston boys complain about and they’ll be firing off one-handed dekes like it’s nothing.

Ottawa would not be worst place to go when I am free agent, Ilya says after a moment of contemplation. He tries to make it sound like an offhanded comment, but it falls seriously on Shane’s racing heart. Only two hours from Montréal.

Shane pauses. What? Would you…would you move to Ottawa?

Ilya hums noncommittally. Just a thought.

Ilya lingers by a framed photo on the mantle. David is assumedly the one behind the camera. A tiny Shane wobbles on the ice, legs wide as he learns to keep his balance without sliding. What really catches Ilya’s breath in his throat is his mother. Yuna has both of Shane’s hands clasped in her mittens, leaning slightly backwards as she keeps him steady. David had clicked the photo at the perfect moment. Her eyes are shining with pride as she gazes down at her son. He had taken to her favorite sport like a fish to water, and he wasn’t just skilled at it – he loved it.

On that family outing to the local rink she wasn’t thinking about the NHL, or the Olympics, or the inevitable hardship and glory that lay further down the path. Or maybe she was – this was Yuna Hollander after all, master planner and momager to end all momagers. But in that fraction of a second as the camera flashed, all that was immortalized on film was a mother’s unconditional love.

Ilya’s collarbones itch. He wishes Shane was wearing his cross.

Did you learn to skate before you walked?

Close enough. I took my first steps on a Tuesday and I think Mom had me on the ice by Friday.

A waste of three days. This is why you are like sad slug on the ice.

Snail, Shane corrects. He can’t help himself. Ilya blows a raspberry at him. He can’t help that either.

Shane. Shane, print this one, Ilya demands when they come across a photoshoot Shane did for his U7 team. It’s a snapshot of a Shane that has yet to realize how frightening cameras can be. His chubby, freckled cheeks are screwed up in a carefree, gap-toothed grin. Shane can’t remember if he lost those teeth naturally or not – he was both clumsy and overzealous when he first started learning how to check and take checks.

Please. Shane. Is urgent, I will die without this photo. Ask nice Yuna for copy. As big as they will print it. I want it on my fridge. Maybe even – how you call it, big fabric on the wall?

Tapestry, Shane offers, then kicks himself for indulging Ilya. No. You are not plastering my face on your wall.

Ok. Ilya concedes reluctantly. Shane can visualize the pout tugging at his lips and wishes he could kiss it off him. Just fridge.

Dinner goes surprisingly smoothly. Somehow, Ilya’s nerves supersede Shane’s. It cancels out Shane’s own nervousness because all he can focus on is being strong for Ilya. Ilya thoroughly enjoys the normal pasta, sprinkling a hearty helping of parmesan over his portion. Shane is learning to enjoy it too.

Baby steps. For both of them.

Yuna keeps her promise to keep business out of the family room, instead chattering on about some drama happening within the local community of hockey moms. David checks his calendar about a reunion for McGill alumni. His parents plan which games they’re going to come to in the upcoming weeks. It’s a normal family dinner. Peaceful. They almost make it through the night unscathed.

Almost.

The tranquility splinters while Shane is washing the dishes. They have a perfectly functional dishwasher, but Yuna complains she can taste the film of old food on the plates unless they hand-scrub them first.

Shane is definitely his mother’s son.

Ilya hovers close to the front, ready to slip into control once Shane’s fingertips prune up because that sensation is a one-way ticket into the unsexy type of overstimulation. Yuna cycles through channels in the nearby living room. She lands on a hockey newscast, because of course she does. Ilya assumes that’s the only type of channel that services the Hollander house. David putters around the kitchen behind Shane, wiping sauce off the counters.

“Still no positive news coming from the Bears,” an anchor announces flatly. Shane bristles at the unbothered tone even though he knows that’s how news people are trained. “The Bears’ captain has been unconscious for nearly a week following a nasty hit from his own teammate during a routine match against Montréal. Boston management has declined to comment further on his condition or the circumstances of his injury.”

Yuna tuts. “Those replays are just horrific to watch. Rozanov had it coming, playing like his eyes were closed. What got into him?”

“Still, being out for a week now…that’s awful,” David says. Yuna agrees. It’s a shame Shane can’t hear their expressions of sympathy. He actually can’t register anything beyond the blood pounding in his ears.

What got into him? A muscle in Shane’s jaw clicks in indignation. His parents don’t understand how grateful they should be to Ilya. If it wasn’t for him, it would be their goddamn son in a coma in a lonely hospital room right now.

Fuck.

The plate in his hand slips. A lit match clatters into a pool of gasoline. Sparking wires meet water. A smoldering cigarette in a pile of dry brush. It’s all the same.

A spark. A catalyst.

The world ends.

It explodes against the floor, slivers of glass scattering across the far corners of the tile. One of the pieces reflects the warped light. The face staring back is not his.

Я не хотел этого. (I didn’t want this.)

Ice crystallizes his lungs, fusing the capillaries together until he can’t breathe through the bloody tangled mess. His hands spasm. They’re small. He blinks, suddenly standing in a different kitchen.

An argument. Raised voices. Shattering glass. Words – foreign. A scream, a hand positioned in the air. A plea. A strike. Blood vessels bursting under thin skin. Pain. No – numb. Boys don’t cry.

Fear. Suffocating, sticky, strangling fear.

A face looms into the rapidly tunneling edges of his vision. The brows are furrowed, mouth pulled down in a frown. Expression tight. Pinched. He knows what this means. Anger. A hand, more wrinkled than it was ten minutes ago, swings downward.

Ilya throws his arms in front of his face and drops into a protective crouch. He tucks his forehead firmly against his knees, as small as he can get, because less surface area exposed means less places to hit. It was the most valuable lesson he learned in his twelfth year of life.

Protect Shane. Protect Shane. Don’t hurt him, don’t let anyone hurt him.

There’s nothing pulsing through Ilya’s head except for the mantra of keeping Shane safe. Fuck, if only he was here physically, if only he had a body of his own to shield Shane with. He’d step in front of him and take any blow in a heartbeat – be it fist or bullet.

The second David’s hand came up, Ilya instinctively leapt into control and shoved Shane’s consciousness far, far away. If there’s no way to stop Shane’s body from suffering, at least Ilya can be the only one to bear the sensation of pain. Shane can retreat somewhere safe, somewhere warm, while Ilya grits his teeth through familiar rituals. He will press a cold compress to the bruises and draw a Russian iodine net on his chest to increase blood flow and just like old days, no one will ask questions while the coloration fades. Shane will never know what it's like to carry the evidence of a father’s wrath. Ilya sends up a prayer in gratitude for the injury, for the circumstances that threw him into Shane’s head, because now Ilya can protect him. He won’t have to grapple with this agony.

It’s the kind of thing that crushes a person. Ilya would know.

A bottle of pills sits on his mother’s nightstand. She takes one every night.

Ilya trembles, fingers tightening in his hair as he waits for the blow. Stay down, дорогой (sweetheart), he pleads. Shane should only ever hear and feel good things, soft things, be handled with the reverence an angel deserves. Ilya can weather this for him. It’s the one thing he can do for him.

Time stretches thick and syrupy, sticky on his tongue. The blow never comes.

Shane claws his way back into awareness. The storm whipping around Ilya bites at him, snarling. He reaches out a hand, desperate to reach him before he disappears in the riptide. Frantically running to him, to break through the trauma gripping him so tight his bones jut through skin.

Дорогой (Sweetheart), Shane parrots. He doesn’t know what it means, but Ilya always sounds fond when he says it, so it must be a term of endearment. Come back. Come down. It’s okay, you’re not – no one’s hurting you. No one’s hurting me. Fuck, Ilya. Fuck. You’re safe.

Warm hands settle on his shoulders. Gentle. Motherly. Right – Yuna is here. Is she okay? Did Mom take the hit? Did Mama get hurt? Мама? Он снова ударил маму? (Did he hurt Mama again?)

An empty pill bottle rolls across the bathroom floor. It comes to a stop at Ilya’s feet. She took them all that night.

He’s twelve again. He’s never stopped being twelve.

“Shane!” Мама urges. Ilya snaps his head up, stricken as he scours her for injuries. From what he can see, her skin is clean. That means nothing. The worst wounds always hide where people won’t check. It’s strategy. Protect the parts that will incite questions. The second most valuable lesson he learned.

Pupils blown wide, Ilya’s feverish gaze slides past her to the man huddled at the far end of the kitchen with his hands down at his sides. The buzzing in Ilya’s head starts to muffle.

The lighting shifts. The droning TV in the background switches back to English. The tile under his feet melts from porcelain to ceramic. The scuff mark on the cabinet left from when Ilya kicked a soccer ball into it at seven years old is gone. He squints again at the man.

Suddenly, everything slips back into place. It comes with a burst of pain, like setting a dislocated shoulder, but the spell breaks.

It’s…not his father.

Fuck. Fuck. It’s not 2003. He’s not cowering in a dimly lit kitchen in Russia. He’s freaking the fuck out in Shane’s parent’s house, thinking Shane’s father was going to hit him, in Shane’s body. He’s really done it now. Hasn’t he ruined enough of Shane already?

Ilya, Shane forces the word out through his grief, utterly broken. Oh, Ilya. Sweetheart.

All the fight drains from Ilya at the affectionate name. The strict walls that kept Shane far away from his own body slowly crumble as Ilya recedes. He slinks back with his head hanging low in shame. He’s embarrassed, as if the instinctual reaction to protect Shane, despite no threat being present in actuality, is something to be ashamed of.

Shane wishes so desperately that he could just swaddle Ilya’s soul in his favorite fuzzy blanket and spirit him somewhere far away where no one can touch him. They could turn away from a world that has left scars so deep the grooves have hit bone, and leave this body an empty husk. He doesn’t need it. Doesn’t want anything else except Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.

He wants to fuse with Ilya like pigment mixing into water. Irreversible. Inseparable.

“Shane, are you okay?” Yuna’s eyes are wide. Her hands brush along his cheeks, wiping away tears he didn’t realize were escaping. “It’s just a plate, honey. Did it scratch you?”

“I didn’t mean to spook you,” David says, still in the corner. His voice is tight with guilt. Ilya wants to kill himself all over again.

Ilya.

Shane drops his forehead against his mother’s shoulder and sobs. He cries for little Ilya, whom he never knew and whom he can’t reach through space and time to protect. He cries for the Ilya in his head who loves him so much he’d hurt in his place.

His chest splits apart with the force of his feelings for Ilya and his anguish at how deeply he’s been hurt. He wants to reach in through his ribs and cradle the precious presence he’s been harboring in his heart since long before Ilya’s soul ended up in his body. He’s been carrying a piece of Ilya with him ever since that first handshake in the parking lot. For many years, he thought the piece was rivalry, then lust, but now he knows the proper label for it – love.

The thought never ever do that again, I don’t want you to suffer for my sake clashes against a never ending stream of I love you I love you I love you I love you.

“Oh, my Shane,” Yuna’s lower lip trembles as she pulls him into a hug. Her hands smooth up and down his back. “My poor boy. It’s okay. Let it out.”

Shane nudges Ilya forward, relinquishing control because he can tell it’s what Ilya needs. Ilya collapses into Yuna’s arms and cries anew. It’s been a long, long time since he’s felt a mother’s touch.

After some frantic beckoning from Yuna, David inches closer and joins the pile, crouched to Ilya’s level. He never brings his hands above waist-height, never moves too quickly. The rough, calloused skin of his thumb pad rubs over the back of Ilya’s hand. It’s unfamiliar in both texture and tenderness. His father would never labor so hard his hands grew rough. That man would never treat him like something precious.

It’s been even longer since he’s felt a loving father’s touch.

Tearily, Shane pulls back and watches Ilya bask in the love of a family again. He’s showered with warmth and understanding and he deserves every second. Shane wishes he could stay there forever, wrapped up in his parents’ embrace, in the Hollander’s safe and loving home.

Shane wants to give that to Ilya more than anything – wants to give him peace, family, a place to belong. A space where he is loved and understood and a hand is never ever raised against him in anger. Somewhere where cycles break and love persists.

Shane wants to give him the rest of his life.

Chapter End Notes

Зажиться (Zažitjsja) - to keeping living beyond the point when you feel like you'd be better off dead; to stay too long :')

can you tell this was (i think) my favorite chapter lol hurt + comfort!!!! traumatic past!!! ilya feeling the love of a family, his family (although 2 out of 3 dont know it yet)!!!!!! INJECT ITTTTTTT

thank you all so SO SOOOO much for the warm reception on this fic, especially last chapter woahagh!!!! i'm sorry for the delay in answering comments, but i really do read and cry over each one hahaha. it's been a long time since i've written consistently on a project and i really had so much fun with this :D

next chapter is the last of what i have written, but i've been toying with the idea of adding an ilya pov chapter. don't know when or if i'll get that out since life has been crazy lately, but the idea is cooking 👨‍🍳 if you have specific things you'd like to see.....let me know!

comments and kudos are very treasured as always <3

twitter: pixeljunnie
alterspring: pixinoa

Chapter 7: Однолю́б

Chapter Summary

Я тебя люблю.

Shane’s heart is seizing on that goddamn bed.

I give you translation for free.

A shimmer. Something gold, something precious.

Я тебя люблю. It means I love you.

Chapter Notes

thank you, thank you, thank you.

<3

After they get home, Shane sends a shaky text to Svetlana asking her to let Shane Jane visit tomorrow. He just really, really needs to see Ilya’s face. Needs to hold his hand, even if he can’t squeeze it back right now.

A week. It’s been a whole week since Ilya has squeezed back.

Before exiting out of his messages, Shane’s vacant gaze catches on the aging chat with Lily. The contact now boasts the image of a yellow dog with a flower crown. Shane chose it because it looked like the dog from the parking lot. He couldn’t find a version with a bedazzled leash, so he went with the flower motif. It’s cute. It’s not Ilya.

It’s not enough.

Ilya was quiet on the drive home. Shane had let him soak in his parents’ affection for as long as he needed. Then Ilya had slunk back, presence like a snuffed out candle in the back of Shane’s mind, gently smoldering.

Luckily, the glass hadn’t injured him. He spun some story about sporadic lingering headaches from his bad hit, how the sound of the plate and David’s sudden movement brought on a migraine bad enough to force him to his knees. He was overwhelmed by the season, exhausted by his injury, and frustrated at not being able to play and reach his full potential, which is why he collapsed into heartwrenching wails in his mother’s arms like a scared child.

For a while there, he was a scared child.

Guilty from his lie, he could only stomach his mother’s fretful hovering for a little longer before he made his escape. David seemed hesitant when he hugged Shane goodbye. Ilya clung on even tighter.

“I love you,” are Shane’s first words. “I’m sorry,” are the second.

Ilya sniffles. I love you too. I wish I could say it in my voice. I am…also sorry. I did not want you – anyone – to see me like that.

“It’s scary, right? Opening up to someone.”

The ultimate case of forced proximity has proven to them that love is formed through understanding. Sometimes you must rip your own chest apart and trust your loved one to stitch it back up. It’s the only way to swap hearts.

Yes.

“But…worth it?”

Yes, Shane. Worth it. Now you have seen me cry, my only options are to kill you or marry you. Is Russian way.

Shane folds his arms behind his head. The ceiling stares back at him. “Only if you wear the wedding dress.”

And you call me perv, Ilya finally cracks a smile. You are into crossdressing now? We can work with this.

“Fuck off. I’m trying to be serious here. Mostly.”

Serious, yes, I can do this too. I have been waiting for perfect time to discuss maid outfit I found on Amazon. Comes with feather duster. Very sexy.

“Ilya,” Shane warns. “I want us to be honest with each other, and with ourselves. Actually honest. I’ve wanted that from you for a long time without realizing how big of an ask it is, because I’ve been lying to myself as well without knowing. But I want to try. I want us to try…us.”

You want– Ilya cuts himself off like he’s afraid speaking the words will jinx it. You want an us?

“Yeah. I really like you. So much it’s probably not healthy. I don’t want you to hide your sadness or your scars from me. I don’t think any less of you for them. I just want to be there for you. There is nothing you could do or say that would scare me away – if you told me you killed someone I’d probably just ask how you wanted to hide the body, and then hope it was your ‘father’. That’s how dire my situation is.”

Bad boy. Ilya manages a smirk. Besides, he is already dead.

“What was that you told the twins about killing a man twice when he deserves it?”

Ilya just laughs. It peters out into something calmer, more introspective. Ok, let’s be honest with each other. Let’s try. Моя любовь. (My love.) My Shane.

“Will you finally tell me what that means?”

Ilya rolls over and grabs Shane’s phone. He punches the letters into google translate and is moderately satisfied by the results. It doesn’t quite capture the depth of affection carried in the phrase, but it’s close enough. After this, every translation you will earn with blowjob.

“My love,” Shane echoes. He tries to sound it out. “Moh-yah loo-buhv? You’ve been calling me your love for, what, years?”

With a snicker, Ilya settles back into bed. Yes. Is terrible taste. I have fallen for man who has no aptitude for Russian.

“Aptitude is a good word.”

Mmm. David left New Yorker out on the table.

Shane fiddles with his nailbeds. “What did you think of them? My parents, I mean. Do they…is it hard to be around them?”

They love you, Ilya says simply. We have enough in common.

“You can’t say that when I can’t kiss you,” Shane complains as he buries his face in the pillow. Ilya giggles, lovestruck, and combs through Shane’s hair until they fall asleep.

Morning comes soft and slow. Sunlight filters through the curtains, dappling the room in a golden hue that reminds him of Ilya’s curls. The ache of missing him grows stronger, even though he’s technically been closer than ever.

Shane pulls on a cap and winds a scarf around the lower half of his face when he walks into the hospital. Svetlana, bless her, has kept her word and the hallway is quiet. He makes it to Ilya’s room undetected by anyone beyond the hospital staff that need to know he’s here.

As soon as he sees Ilya’s face, tension he didn’t know he was carrying drains from his shoulders.

Ilya has never left him, at least in spirit. Shane knows this. But the longer he went without seeing proof of an Ilya that could still squeeze back, an Ilya that could still wake up, the harder it was to hope.

For once, there was no plan. He just needed to see the rise and fall of Ilya’s chest with his own eyes. He doesn’t intend to move until the nurses enforce visiting hours.

Shane settles into the chair next to Ilya’s bed and opens the hockey book he had hastily shoved into his bag on his way out the door. Ilya narrates for him. It’s better than any imitation Shane’s internal monologue has conjured up before.

Time ticks on. Ilya’s voice grows softer and slower. It’s not a very interesting book, at least for non-Shanes. Maybe non-Hollanders – he’s pretty sure he got the book from David.

Shane munches on a packet of chips he got from the hallway vending machine at Ilya’s behest. He’s not even freaking out about the macros. Much.

Eat more, Ilya goads. You are eating for two.

We only have one stomach, Ilya. I’m not pregnant.

Ilya ponders seriously. Not yet. I will ask Pike for tips – this is only thing he is good at.

Shane snorts. He probably looks insane, laughing at Ilya’s bedside. Thank God no nurses are around to remove him from the premises. You can take over if you want to eat so badly.

A pause. Then another.

I do not think I can, Ilya says. There’s a measured attempt to keep worry from his words.

It doesn’t work.

What? Shane sits up straighter, brushing crumbs from his lip with the hand that isn’t holding Ilya’s.

Солнышко. (Sunshine.) Is okay. I…am just tired.

Tired, he echoes as if he’s never heard the word before. My body isn’t fatigued and you got just as much sleep as me. That’s kind of unavoidable. I’m not tired. Why would you be tired…?

So many questions, Ilya complains despite Shane only asking one. No panic. Please. I just feel…ah, floaty, I guess. It will pass, we will go home, and I will find way to fuck you that doesn’t involve stupid pink glitter dick.

“I’m not panicking,” Shane says out loud, panicking.

Sha–

A ripple of pain cuts through Ilya’s thoughts. Mentally, Shane scrambles for him. It’s like his car has hit a patch of ice and he’s spinning, spinning, spinning, and Shane can’t do anything to stop him from crashing into the treeline.

Plastic rustles. The bag of chips lies abandoned on the floor. Shane’s hand presses over his smarting eyes. He doesn’t drop Ilya’s hand – thank God, because otherwise he wouldn’t have felt it.

The twitch.

Милый (Darling), Ilya’s voice comes out garbled in his head and whatever spark of hope ignited by the twitch is immediately doused by an ocean of cloying fear because they can’t both be conscious at the same time.

Fuck.

“What’s happening?” Shane rises on legs that have supported him through the NHL draft, countless playoff games, and winning the cup twice. This – next to Ilya’s trembling, wounded body – is where they fail him.

He stumbles and smashes his knee against the railing before righting himself. The pain is only a brief flicker on his radar, but it sends Ilya’s voice back into his head in full force.

Stop. Calm down. You are hurting yourself.

Terminal lucidity. The rally.

The moment a patient’s strength and vibrancy returns. A final bounce-back, a last glimmer of hope for recovery.

Death’s cruelest omen.

The once-steady rhythm of the heart rate monitor accelerates. At least one of their hearts is still beating. Shane’s has turned to stone in his chest.

Motion. It’s supposed to be a welcome sight. Shane has been praying for Ilya to stir, to furrow his brows, to clench his jaw in the way that makes the muscle jump. He had dreamed of what it would be like to be present while Ilya woke up. The sun would slot through the blinds, casting Ilya in a healthy glow as his blue eyes meet the world again.

The first thing on his face would be a smile as he gazes at Shane. The first thing on his lips would be Shane’s.

The second thing would be a cheeky apology for oversleeping.

Yes. This is how they should reunite – sweetly, softly, smoothly. A quiet room, an easy return. Painless.

Ilya’s chest jerks upwards. His body locks up which is frightening enough without the spasms that follow.

No, no, no. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen. Shane was supposed to witness life return to him, not – not this – fuck, he can’t be here, can’t watch Ilya die, can’t let him die alone–

I’m here, Ilya chants through the blizzard. A hand lands at the back of Shane’s neck. It’s not big enough. It’s not Ilya.

With great effort, Ilya massages the base of Shane’s neck. It’s familiar. It’s fading.

Do what I would…if I was there…

His control weakens with each ministration until it’s just Shane, frenetically petting at himself.

“Don’t fucking do this, Ilya,” Shane sobs. “Don’t leave!”

Another convulsion wracks Ilya’s body. The call button looks so far away. Where are the nurses? Fuck, why is no one saving him?

Я тебя люблю.

Shane’s heart is seizing on that goddamn bed.

I give you translation for free.

His knees hit the floor, arm falling limp by his side. He presses Ilya’s hand to his neck because it’s the only touch he craves. The fingers that settle around him are bigger than Shane’s, rougher. It’s the only thing that feels right. He just wishes those fingers weren’t so cold.

A shimmer. Something gold, something precious.

The force of Ilya’s seizures has knocked his necklace to the side.

Я тебя люблю. It means I love you.

Beeping, there’s so much beeping. Voices filter into the room. Sharp. Professional. Masking their adrenaline.

None of them are the voice Shane needs to hear. The silence in his head has never been so unwelcome.

Someone barks an order. Hands everywhere. Nitrile gloves. Restraining Ilya’s shoulders as they jerk. Trying to peel Shane away from the fray. Rooted, he stays.

Shane isn’t possessed. He knows what that feels like by now. He still can’t explain what drives him to reach up and fix Ilya’s cross over his heart.

Илюша. Мой мальчик. (Ilyusha. My boy.)

A woman’s voice. A mother’s love.

Dawn breaks the longest night of his life.

Ilya’s body melts into the bed like he’s unwinding from a dragged-out game. The storm quiets, smoothing out the pained expression that pinched his face. From somewhere behind Shane, a doctor releases a relieved sigh that indicates the situation was even more dire than Shane realized.

“Stable,” she says. “It’s a miracle.”

Shane’s miracle feebly strokes the hair on the nape of his neck.

There’s a gaping emptiness in the back of Shane’s head. The residue of Ilya has been washed clean from every cell and synapse. He can no longer feel a second heart in his chest, a tingling at his fingertips, a thought that he doesn’t own.

”Красивый.” (Beautiful.)

It’s okay. Ilya’s voice sounds much better out loud.

Shane reaches back to clasp his fingers around Ilya’s hand, pulling the touch away just so he can pepper kisses to the inside of his wrist. “Asshole. Fuck you. Motherfucker. Oh my fucking God.” He curses like a prayer between each press of his lips.

“Mmm. Does God know angels have freckles?” Ilya grins dopily, voice ragged from a week of disuse. “And naughty, naughty mouth?”

There’s a joke in there, somewhere, about how naughty Shane’s mouth can really be, but he can’t bring himself to pull away from Ilya long enough to make it.

Tears slide down Ilya’s forearm and pool in the crook of his elbow. “I missed you,” he mumbles into Ilya’s skin. It’s finally warm.

Once the medical team retreat from the room, lecturing about recovery timelines and remaining injuries and things that Shane tries to pay attention to because it can’t be easy to keep up with medical terminology in Ilya’s second language, they both deflate.

“C’mere,” Ilya beckons Shane onto the bed. Pliant as he always is under Ilya’s command, Shane clambers up next to him. It takes a while to arrange their limbs in a way that doesn’t tug on the sling stabilizing his fractured wrist or irritate his bruised ribs.

Shane rests his head above Ilya’s heart, right next to his mother’s cross. He counts every thump. With his uninjured hand, Ilya cards his fingers through Shane’s hair. “I missed you too, моя любовь (my love), though I was always with you. I missed this.”

“So you remember everything?”

Ilya hums in agreement. “Yes. Your little brain, it is very busy in there. Terrible working conditions.”

“Fuck you.” Shane dots a kiss on Ilya’s chest. He decorates the cross with another one. Ilya’s arms tighten around him. He holds him like something precious, something he can never let go. Shane hopes he never tries.

Sunset bleeds into the room, bathing them in a glow of soft orange.

“Svetlana’s gonna see us.” Shane makes no attempt to move from Ilya’s embrace. “I think the doctor called her.”

“Is okay, I tell her Jane transitioned,” Ilya answers easily. “Plastic surgeon had reference photo of most beautiful boy in existence. Similarity to Shane Hollander is coincidence, we do not know this man. Happy accident.”

Shane groans. “You’re insufferable.” He loves it.

“Ah, I hear this word a lot. Must mean sexy? Funny? Gorgeous? Best hockey player in the league?” Ilya teases as he brushes his lips into Shane’s hair.

“None of the above.”

“So mean to me. You are stuck with me, солнышко (sunshine), even if I am not up here,” he taps Shane’s temple, “anymore. Although now I know how much you think about me, you cannot deny this, I am always in your mind.”

Shane doesn’t bother to protest. He just shimmies up so he can swallow the rest of Ilya’s taunts with his lips.

“Yeah, you got me. I’m obsessed with you,” Shane breathes. He nips at Ilya’s lower lip. “So I’m not letting you go anywhere. If you try to run, I’ll be faster. If you try to die, I’ll beat you to the gates of Hell.”

“They will not let you in, you are angel.”

“Then I’ll fall for you,” Shane shrugs. “I’ll throw it all away.”

The line of Ilya’s mouth pulls tight as he swallows hard, blinking away tears that spring up in his eyes unbidden. One escapes down his cheek. Shane suddenly thinks about Ilya’s words from the night before.

Now you have seen me cry, my only options are to kill you or marry you. Is Russian way.

“Да (Yes). So competitive.” Ilya breaks into a teary smile that makes it hard for Shane to kiss, so he opts for the mole on his cheek. “This I will let you win. Ah, I am such good boyfriend.”

Boyfriend. It’s a nice word. It’s bold and uncontestable and tells the world exactly what they mean to each other. It almost suits them.

There’s a better word just out of reach.

Shane kisses him again, and resolves to shop for rings when they get home.

__________________

Somehow, living in two separate bodies again comes with a steeper learning curve than when they were squeezed into one.

Predictably, Ilya is out for the rest of the season. Shane stretches his post-injury recovery leave a little longer to stay home with Ilya. It’s only a matter of time before Boston comes knocking on their door demanding their captain back.

Actually, they might have a longer grace period than initially offered.

Svetlana, it seems, is a woman scary enough to rival Yuna Hollander. Shane had overheard her tearful reunion with Ilya from the anonymity of the hospital en-suite bathroom. She had also cussed Ilya out first thing, which made Shane feel a spark of kinship with her. Then she had muttered something about how stupid Bears will not bother you until next pre-season if they value the wellbeing of the lawyers on their payroll, trust me.

What a woman.

Shane only attends the necessary practices to keep his team in check. Being away from Ilya is torture, and facing his teammates alone is even worse. No one mouths off at him like they normally would, but it’s not necessarily a good feeling. The culture of the locker room hasn’t changed. It has just shut Shane out.

Shane and Ilya had met before their rookie seasons. Shane has never stepped onto an NHL rink without a part of himself belonging to Ilya, and yet for so many years they managed to build separate careers, legacies only blending for a punchy headline about their rivalry. The number of games he’s played without Ilya on the ice far outnumber the ones they’ve played in each others’ presences.

And yet, Shane can’t remember what it’s like to skate without Ilya.

The disconnect seems to be hitting Ilya, too. He frowns during dinner and complains about no longer being able to tell when Shane is lying about being full. Shane stops by Hayden’s house to return the containers Jackie used to deliver meals to him in the early days of his recovery leave, and Ilya perks up before remembering he can’t go play with the kids.

When Shane is exhausted after a long day Ilya scoops him into his arms and walks him through his nighttime routine and it’s nice, really, but it’s just not the same as relinquishing complete control and letting Ilya take care of him from the inside out.

“Am I weird?” Shane ventures one night while they’re curled up on the couch. Ilya, now that his little spoon habits have been exposed, has made himself small against Shane’s chest.

“Specifics, sweetheart. You are weird about many things.”

“Just…” Shane’s gaze bounces across the room. It lands on the tapestry on the wall, a bright blue swath of fabric boasting the Voyageur’s logo. He thinks about the package in the mail, and the Redbubble order confirmation he found in his inbox after returning from the hospital.

He thinks about Ilya.

They’re pressed skin to skin, clothes abandoned long ago except for the socks Shane insists on because he hates the feeling of cold air on his toes. Ilya keeps his socks too, since it’s a sensation that he now understands firsthand, even if it doesn’t bother him in his own body.

They’ve opted to enjoy naked chaste cuddles for the moment, because — while their sex life is more than thriving especially with Ilya inhabiting his own body and assets again — they’re finally learning to embrace intimacy beyond the purely sexual. It’s called versatility. It’s called communication.

It’s called love.

Physically, they’re close as can be. Ilya’s cheek lays heavy on Shane’s sternum and their legs are tangled to the point that Shane can’t tell where he ends and Ilya begins.

Except he can. Every available inch of skin is connected, every point of contact explored, and yet he just can’t get close enough.

Not since.

“Is it weird that I miss you being inside me?” he blurts out.

The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitches. Fucking traitor.

He throws his head back in a carefree laugh, golden curls bouncing in the lamplight. He pushes himself up, trapping Shane between strong arms as he hovers above him. “Oh, my poor darling.”

Ilya’s cross dangles in front of him.

“Say it in Russian,” Shane whines instead of the quip he meant to fire off.

Ilya sounds out the word between kisses. “До–” A mark sucked underneath his jaw. “–ро–” The side of his neck. “–гой.” Down to the hollow of his clavicle.

If I could, I would kiss you here.

Now that he can, Ilya follows through on every promise. His tongue laves across Shane’s collarbone, nipping the skin just enough to elicit that heady high-pitched whine from the back of Shane’s throat.

“That,” Ilya whispers as he kisses down Shane’s navel, “is problem we can fix.”

Chapter End Notes

Однолю́б (Odnolyub) - eternal love; someone devoted to one person for a lifetime

and as you might have figured out, not an untranslatable word buttttt

Близость (Blizost') - proximity ;)

 

and there we have it!! to the person who commented early on and was like 'shane ur gonna miss this sooo much when its over' U NAILED IT LOL. when this idea came to me it felt natural to end it at this point in the story -- they're both healthy, in separate bodies again, and in love. the hollanov bug bit me bad though and i want more of them living in domestic bliss post body separation.....maybe ill channel that into another fic (i have a more lighthearted one i'm working through slowly!!!) or maybe ill scrounge up enough plot bunnies and free time for an ilya chapter. only time will tell hahaha

i want to give a serious THANK YOU!!!! to everyone reading this. whether you've commented on every chapter (MWAH!!!! U GUYS ARE THE BEST) or ever shared your thoughts or just enjoyed my writing at all, thank you SO much!!!!! i forgot how much i loved writing and this was a wonderful way to return T__T

i'd love to hear what you think now that the story has wrapped up! (at least for now....👀) favorite parts/lines? themes you wish we dug into more? anything that will stick with you? thoughts on shane's pink glitter dildo???

til next time!

twitter: pixeljunnie
alterspring: pixinoa
(if you're a hollanov fan and participant in kpop stan culture maybe keep an eye out for my next work........<3)

 

guys honestly i had this chapter all ready to post yesterday but i overslept and ran out of time and then today i woke up and am experiencing a kpop catastrophic event equivalent to zayn leaving 1D so sorry if there are mistakes i havent caught yet bc i cant bring myself to proofread rn but don't wanna drag this out any longer skdfnskdnfdsks)