Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Troy Barrett, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Misunderstandings, Pining, Roommates, Slow Burn, Alternate Universe - College/University, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Trans Shane Hollander, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Angst, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Boys In Love, Angst with a Happy Ending, Vaginal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, College, Dorms, College Hockey, Rivalry, Autistic Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Jealousy, Anxious Shane Hollander, POV Shane Hollander, Eventual Smut, Title from a Djo Song, Based on a Djo Song

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Back to the egg (it’s crimson and gold)

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-06 Completed: 2026-02-15 Words: 30,961 Chapters: 4/4

Back to the egg (it's crimson and gold)

Summary

Shane and Ilya once knew each other in what feels like another life. Years later, Shane has transitioned, buried his past and finally embraced his truest self. He comes to McGill to play on the men’s hockey team—only to find his roommate is Ilya Rozanov.

“Sorry—um.” Shane swallowed. “I’m Shane.”

Something passed across Ilya’s face, quick and unreadable. Shane’s pulse spiked, thudding loud in his ears. Did he know? If Ilya recognized him—if something clicked—what would stop him from telling the coaches? What would stop him from telling everyone?
Then Ilya smoothed it away, the moment gone as if it had never existed.

“Huh,” he said. “Funny. I used to know a Shane. Pretty girl. Good at hockey.”

Shane’s eyes widened. His mouth went dry. Was Ilya fucking with him?

“Oh—um. I—”

“Relax,” Ilya cut in, lips curling into something almost amused, almost sharp. “You are very pretty, too.”

Notes

I'm back! I can't believe I've never actually written Hollanov before. I think I've always just felt so intimidated by the hockey of it all as I am literally the least sporty person you will ever meet. HOWEVER! I was listening to Egg by DJO and I felt that it was so Shane and so Ilya at the exact same time, so that is what inspired the fic, as well as the title. (Also pls pls if you're a DJO fan say hi I need to find my people) I love these boys so much and am very excited to finally be writing something that centers them. Please guys just ignore the fact that none of my writing about hockey makes any sense. I genuinely know nothing about it but lets suspend our disbelief!

Just a couple things before you dive in, Shane is trans in this fic. I don't really go into detail about his past, however, there are flashbacks from before his transition, but he doesn't end up changing his name, so I never use she/her pronouns, and I never deadname him. However, there are some references to his gender in flashbacks from Ilya and from Shane himself. He definitely has some not so fun thoughts about himself and his gender identity. I don't think anything in this is too triggering or intense, but pls protect yourself if any of these topics are sore spots.

As always, enjoy my loves!

Chapter 1: Is that you?

Chapter Notes

Shane didn’t know how the hell he’d gotten here. The last two years of his life had felt like a blur—days folding into each other, time slipping past him faster than he could keep track of. But he was here now. At college. To play hockey. On the men’s team. His heart sped up just thinking about it, a sharp, nervous thrill cutting through him. McGill wanted him. They’d scouted him. Picked him.

He had known it would be a challenge when he accepted, and he’d told himself—repeatedly—that he was up to it. His coaches still didn’t know he was trans. Shane had been surprised by how little prying McGill had done into his past, how few questions they’d asked, how quickly they’d seemed satisfied with his records and references. It was a relief. A fragile one. He didn’t want to talk about it, or think about it, or open any doors that didn’t need opening. His biggest concern was the roommate. He hadn’t been told who it was, only that he’d be rooming with one of the guys on the team. The logistics of not being found out—of sharing a space, of existing this close to someone—were going to be complicated. Exhausting. But Shane had signed up for it. He wanted this. He’d wanted it for too long to back out now.

Shane’s parents had left to pick up more of his things from the hotel, leaving him alone to meet his roommate. By himself. The hallway felt too quiet, like it was holding its breath. Introductions were…difficult for Shane. They always had been. Everyone else seemed to understand exactly what everything meant all the time—how to stand, how to speak, how to move through the world without second-guessing every action. Shane was always just confused and nervous. And itchy. His hand was sweaty. He wiped it on his pants, took a breath that didn’t do anything to calm his nerves, and knocked on the door.

Inside the room, there was a clatter—something metallic hitting wood—and the sound of someone shuffling around. A muttered curse. Then, a moment later, the door opened.

And Shane’s heart dropped straight to his stomach.

Ilya.

He leaned into the doorframe with a bored look on his face, a cigarette resting between his lips like it belonged there. Shane would have to talk to him about that. Later. Ilya looked…different. Broader through the shoulders, taller than Shane remembered, his hair a little more wild, like he’d stopped bothering to tame it. And that light Ilya had always carried—something easy and bright and alive—was dim now. There was a darkness in his eyes Shane had never seen before, something sharp-edged and heavy all at once. For half a second, instinct took over. Shane was about to smile, to open his arms for a hug, muscle memory pulling him forward—

Then he remembered where he was. What he was doing. Who he was now.

Ilya didn’t know who he was. What he was. There was no flicker of recognition in his eyes, and rightfully so. Ilya knew the old Shane. That Shane didn’t exist anymore.

“Are you just going to stand there gawking at me,” Ilya said, accent thick and familiar, “or will you come in? You are my roommate, no?”

“Sorry—um.” Shane swallowed. “I’m Shane.”

Something passed across Ilya’s face, quick and unreadable. His eyebrows furrowed, like he was trying to figure something out. Shane’s pulse spiked, thudding loud in his ears. Did he know? If Ilya recognized him—if something clicked—what would stop him from telling the coaches? What would stop him from telling everyone?

Then Ilya smoothed it away, the moment gone as if it had never existed.

“Huh,” he said. “Funny. I used to know a Shane. Pretty girl. Good at hockey.”

Shane’s eyes widened. His mouth went dry. Was Ilya fucking with him?

“Oh—um. I—”

“Relax,” Ilya cut in, lips curling into something almost amused, almost sharp. “You are very pretty, too.”

“I—what?”

“And,” Ilya added, stepping back and gesturing him inside, “very easy to rile up. Come in.”

Shane awkwardly stepped through the doorway, bags heavy in his hands. His heart wouldn’t stop pounding, like it was trying to break free of his ribs. This was just Shane’s luck. He needed to be normal. He couldn’t let this—their past, their history, who he used to be—touch his future. He couldn’t afford that.

“What’s your name?” he asked, hating how thin his voice sounded.

Ilya looked surprised, like the question had caught him off guard.

“Ilya,” he said roughly. He didn’t wait for a response, didn’t linger—just turned and retreated into his room, closing the door behind him with a quiet, final click.

Shane was left standing in the living area, bags still in his hands, more confused than ever. Ilya was here. He was his teammate. His roommate, too. They were going to be living together—sharing space, air, silence. Shane forced himself to wrap his mind around the concept, to make it real.

And then he remembered.

Ilya had said he was pretty.

Did he still—

No. That was before.

Pretty girl.

Shane’s chest ached, a dull, familiar pain settling there. He hadn’t allowed himself to mourn the loss of…whatever they’d been. Whatever might have been. But sometimes Shane remembered the way Ilya would smile at him after they’d finished playing, the way he’d always leaned a little closer, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Thinking about that was stupid. The way they had been—it would never happen again. Shane wasn’t that person anymore.

He never would be.

Shane numbly watched as his parents filled the dorm, feeling incredibly stupid at how much stuff he’d brought with him. It suddenly seemed excessive, piled in corners and stacked against the walls. Ilya was still shut away in his room. Shane bristled at the thought. If it were him—if the roles were reversed—he would’ve come out, said hello, done the polite thing. Whatever. Maybe Ilya really was different now.

At least they had separate rooms.

Yuna moved through the space like a machine, efficient and unstoppable, setting everything up at light speed. Clothes were folded, toiletries lined up, shoes tucked neatly away. When she was done, she stepped back, admiring her work with quiet satisfaction. Then she turned and pulled Shane into her arms.

“My baby. I can’t believe it.”

Shane hugged her back, breathing in her familiar scent—clean laundry, something floral, something unmistakably home. His chest tightened. This was it.

“Mom,” he said softly, trying to keep it light, “I’m not going off to war.”

Her eyes twinkled.

“You kind of are.”

Shane laughed, the sound shaky but real. Then she sobered, hands firm on his shoulders.

“Shane. I’m so proud of you. I’m proud of everything you’ve overcome, and I’m proud of the man you’re growing up to be. Anything happens—anything at all—you call me.”

Shane nodded, feeling the tears prick at the corners of his eyes. A wave of gratitude hit him so suddenly it almost stole his breath. He was so lucky. Luckier than he let himself believe most days. He pulled her into another hug, resting his chin on the top of her head.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For being okay with me—with who I am.” His voice broke on the last words.

She didn’t hesitate.

“Baby,” Yuna said, holding him tight, “I love who you are.”

Shane hugged his dad too, who was already getting teary-eyed. They didn’t need to say anything more. He already knew.

“Love you, buddy.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

And then they were gone.

Shane was alone. Well—not quite. He could feel Ilya’s presence in the dorm like a low hum under his skin, unreachable, but close enough to make his nerves buzz.

It was odd. How could you know someone so well, and then just—not know them at all? Shane felt like a chunk of him had been torn out, which was incredibly dumb, because they hadn’t even been together. Or anything. They’d just been friends.

That was it. And yet, Shane remembered the first time they’d spoken like it was yesterday.

He’d just finished begging the coach of the boys’ hockey team for a spot. A little demeaning, yeah—but Shane was dedicated. He wasn’t above asking for what he wanted, even if it sounded outrageous out loud. He hadn’t been surprised by the answer.

Sorry, kiddo. It just wouldn’t make sense. Maybe soon we’ll start a girls’ team if we have the budget and the interest.

Shane had nodded, feeling stupid and embarrassed and too big for his own skin. A couple of boys were still on the ice even though practice had finished, skating lazy laps, most definitely eavesdropping. They probably thought he was an idiot.

Shane slumped down in one of the seats, face flushed.

He watched the boys skate for a while, hypnotized by the sounds of blades moving across the ice. He told himself to leave. Told himself he didn’t care. His skates were still on, bag half-zipped at his feet.

“Hey.”

Shane looked up.

The boy standing at the edge of the rink had dark blond hair plastered to his forehead, his stick balanced casually against his shoulder like it was an extension of him. He wasn’t smiling exactly, but there was something open about his expression—curiosity, maybe.

“You play?” the boy asked.

He was foreign, Shane thought uselessly. A thick accent, something Eastern European. Shane hadn’t seen him before.

Shane snorted despite himself. “Guess not.”

The boy tilted his head, studying him. “You were talking to Coach.”

“Yeah. It was stupid. Dunno why I thought I could get on the team,” Shane said, picking at the peeling skin of a scab on his hand.

“Is more stupid we don’t have girls’ team. Or co-ed. It’s high school hockey, not the NHL. Who gives a fuck?”

“Coach, apparently,” Shane mumbled.

“Has he seen you play?” the boy asked, leaning against the partition.

“Nope. I said I’d skate for him, but he didn’t even give me the chance.”

The boy’s eyebrows furrowed.

“That’s bullshit,” he said flatly.

Shane huffed a laugh. “You’re telling me.”

“No,” the boy said, pushing off the boards. “I am telling him. If he were here.”

Shane glanced up despite himself. “Yeah? You gonna fight him?”

The boy shrugged. “I have done worse.”

That got a real laugh out of Shane, sharp and surprised. He scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly embarrassed by how much it meant to be taken seriously.

The boy watched him for a moment, then nodded toward the ice. “Come skate.”

Shane hesitated. “I’m not on the team.”

“So?” the boy said. “I have puck.”

He hopped over the boards easily, skates hitting the ice with a clean, confident scrape. He circled once, smooth and fast, then stopped in front of Shane.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Shane.”

“Ilya,” the boy said meaningfully. Then he slid the puck across the ice toward him. “Show me what you can do.”

Shane’s heart kicked painfully in his chest. He shouldn’t, he knew that. But he stepped over the boards anyway, the cold biting through his skates, the ice familiar beneath his feet.

Shane pushed off, letting muscle memory take over before his nerves could catch up with him. The rink opened beneath him, wide and bright, the scrape of blades echoing off the boards. Ilya waited near center ice, weight resting easily on one leg.

“Whenever you are ready,” Ilya said.

Shane swallowed, then tapped the puck forward.

He didn’t rush. He let himself skate, let his edges bite and release the way they always did. The puck stayed close to his stick, moving side to side in small, controlled motions. Ilya drifted backward to meet him, eyes alert now, posture shifting into sharp focus.

They circled each other once.

Ilya lunged suddenly, stick darting out to poke the puck free.

Shane reacted without thinking. He pulled the puck back at the last second, pivoted hard on his inside edge, and slipped past Ilya’s reach. His shoulder brushed Ilya’s as he went by, close enough to feel the impact vibrate through his chest.

“Oh,” Ilya muttered, surprised and smiling.

Shane didn’t slow down. He cut toward the boards, then snapped back toward the middle, forcing Ilya to turn and chase. Ilya recovered quickly, matching his speed, skating stride for stride now. He pressed in, using his body to angle Shane off, trying to pin him against the boards.

Shane dug in. He dropped his shoulder, planted his skates, and shielded the puck with his body, back curved protectively around it. Ilya tried to muscle him off balance, but Shane held his ground, legs burning, breath coming fast.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Shane spun out, quick and sharp, slipping the puck through his own skates and into open ice. He broke free, accelerating hard, wind rushing past his ears. He wound up and snapped a shot toward the empty net at the far end of the rink.

The puck rang cleanly off the post.

The sound echoed.

Shane coasted to a stop, chest heaving. He heard laughter.

Ilya skated up beside him, grinning wide now, eyes bright with something like excitement.

“Coach is idiot,” he said, breathless. “You are good. Very good. And not just for a girl.”

Shane laughed, shaky and disbelieving. “You don’t even know me.”

Ilya shrugged, tapping his stick against Shane’s. “I know hockey.”

He looked at Shane for a long moment, like he was filing something away.

“I think,” Ilya added, “we will be friends.”

Shane grinned. He thought so, too. 

Ilya had been right. They became fast friends. It was strange. All of Shane’s friends were other girls. He’d never been great with people, always missing something, always a beat behind. But something about Ilya was easy.

He was so direct, so unambiguous, that Shane almost never felt that sinking confusion he usually carried around with other people. If Ilya was annoyed, he said it. If he liked something, he said that too. There were no hidden rules to decode.

They didn’t talk at school. Not really. Ilya ran with the sports guys, loud and sprawling and confident. Shane had his circle of girls, clustered together in the halls. Their worlds barely touched.

But after practice, it was always the same.

Shane would sit in the bleachers while the boys’ team finished up, elbows on his knees, stick resting between his hands. He knew the drills by heart by now—the flow of the practice, the whistle cuts, the way Ilya moved through it all like he belonged there. Sometimes Ilya would glance up at him mid-skate, just once, like a quiet check-in. Shane would pretend not to notice and feel warm anyway.

When practice ended and the rink began to empty, Ilya would stay.

The other boys peeled off their helmets and disappeared toward the locker rooms, laughing and shoving and loud. Shane waited until they were gone. Only then would he slip into the girls’ bathroom to change, moving quickly, keeping his head down, tugging on knee pads and compression shorts as fast as he could. By the time he came back out, Ilya would be waiting by the boards, stick balanced on one shoulder.

Effortless.

That was the word Shane kept circling back to. The way Ilya filled space without apologizing. The way his shoulders stayed loose, his movements sure. The way the other boys seemed to orbit him without question. He never had to try. Shane felt like he was trying so hard, at everything. He felt it like a low ache sometimes—something tight in his chest that wasn’t jealousy exactly, but wasn’t not that either. It was wanting. 

Then they’d go back on the ice.

It was always just the two of them. Just the rink mostly empty, the lights humming overhead, the echo of blades cutting clean arcs across the surface. Hockey felt different then. Ilya was so fast, so skilled, and yet. Shane could keep up with him. It made him feel worthy, like he belonged. Like he was meant to be there even though everything around him was screaming that he wasn’t. 

And they would talk.

Usually while coasting, sticks tapping idly against the ice, breath fogging in the cold air.

“What the fuck does ‘wherefore’ mean?” Ilya asked one afternoon, exasperated.

Shane laughed, nearly tripping over his own skates. “What?”

“‘Wherefore art thou Romeo,’” Ilya said, mangling the cadence. “My teacher keeps saying it like it is romantic. Why is she asking where he is? She knows where he is.”

Shane grinned. “It doesn’t mean ‘where.’ It means ‘why.’”

Ilya slowed to a stop, staring at him. “That is stupid.”

“Shakespeare is stupid,” Shane agreed easily.

Ilya groaned, dragging a glove over his face. “Every word is a trick. I read the page three times and still feel like idiot. Everyone else is nodding like they understand. I do not.”

Something in his voice made Shane glance over. The irritation was still there—but underneath it was something deeper. Frustration edged with embarrassment. Ilya rarely sounded that way. 

“You’re not dumb,” Shane said without thinking.

Ilya snorted. “You say that because you are too nice.”

“No,” Shane said, more firmly this time. “You just… English is hard. And old English is worse. That doesn’t mean anything about you.”

Ilya was quiet for a moment, skating slow circles, eyes fixed on the ice. Then he shrugged, too casual.

“Back home,” he said, “I was very smart. Teachers liked me. Here, I open my mouth and people laugh at my accent. Or I say the wrong thing.” He kicked lightly at the puck. “Sometimes I think maybe they are right.”

Shane felt something twist painfully in his chest. He knew that feeling. All too well.

“I don’t think that,” he said. “You’re good at…so many things.”

Ilya glanced at him, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, suddenly shy. “Hockey. Math. You remember plays after seeing them once. You’re so… confident, and—”

Handsome. Masculine. Tall.

Shane swallowed the rest of it down.

“I dunno,” he finished lamely. “Anyway. I like your accent. I wish you’d speak Russian more. Even if I don’t know what it means.”

Ilya’s face softened into a smile—open, earnest.

“Вау. Красавице Шейну нравится мой акцент.” He said, clearly pleased. “Интересно, сколько я смогу сказать по-русски, чтобы ты ничего не понялa?”

Shane flushed. There was something magnetic about the way the words rolled off Ilya’s tongue, confident even when Shane understood none of them.

“Okay,” Shane said, laughing a little, “now you have to tell me what you just said.”

Ilya’s smile lingered.
“You help me,” he said. “With words. And… other stuff. You don’t judge me.” He hesitated, then added more quietly, “With you, I do not feel stupid.”

Shane’s throat tightened. “Me neither.”

They skated side by side after that, not talking, just letting the scrape of blades and the cold air fill the space between them. Shane watched the way Ilya moved—the muscular line of his back, the way he took up space so unknowingly—Shane wanted that. 

But he didn’t know what it meant yet. 

Shane blinked, and the memory dissolved. The sharp scrape of blades and the cold air faded into the quiet hum of the dorm. His hands still rested on the straps of his bag, the echo of it lingering in his chest.

Ilya was here. Right there, in the next room. The thought made Shane’s stomach tighten in a familiar, nervous rhythm.

He let out a shaky breath and leaned back against the wall. The past still tugged at him, no matter how hard he tried to shake it loose. But the present pressed forward: Ilya’s dark silhouette through the half-open door, the faint scent of smoke clinging to the room, the weight of sharing this space.

He wouldn’t slip up.
Wouldn’t let this—Ilya—be the thing that unraveled everything he’d built. 

The next couple days were… tense.

To be fair, Shane was trying. Ilya gave him nothing back. Shane would ask if he wanted to grab dinner, offer to put a movie on, float the idea of doing literally anything together—and Ilya would brush him off with a shrug or a distracted grunt, already halfway back into his room. Shane would be lying if he said it didn’t sting.

On top of that, Ilya was a slob.

Shane should’ve known. Towels on the bathroom floor, damp and forgotten. Empty soda cans left on every flat surface. Cigarette butts crushed into the ashtray until it overflowed, ash dusting the coffee table like it belonged there. Ilya never acknowledged it, and he never apologized. He just stepped around the mess like it wasn’t his problem.

And somehow, it became Shane’s.

He cleaned because asking did nothing. Because living in the mess made his skin crawl. Because it was easier to bend than to push and get nowhere. By the end of the third day, Shane could track Ilya’s movements through the apartment by the debris he left behind.

The worst of it, though, was the girls.

Shane came back from the gym that evening sweaty and exhausted, gym bag slung over his shoulder, already rehearsing the quickest route to the shower in his head. He froze just inside the doorway.

Ilya was on the couch with a blonde girl Shane had never seen before. Her legs were draped over Ilya’s lap, her shoes kicked off onto the floor like an afterthought. Shane wanted to tell her that there was a designated shoe rack near the door for guests, but he decided against it. Ilya had one arm slung behind her shoulders, loose and familiar, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh,” Shane said dumbly.

Ilya glanced up. His face was blank.

“Hey,” he said. Then, to the girl, he murmured something low and foreign that made her laugh.

Shane nodded once, sharp, and ducked into his room before either of them could say anything else. He shut the door quietly and stood there, heart hammering, staring at the blank wood like it had personally betrayed him.

He told himself it was none of his business. Ilya could do whatever he wanted.

That didn’t stop the sounds.

Shane heard muted laughter, a door closing, music turning up too loud to ignore. The rhythmic thump of the couch against the wall. Shane lay flat on his bed, forearm pressed over his eyes, counting his breaths like he was trying not to panic.

He stayed there until it was over.

Ilya didn’t look at him afterward. Didn’t say anything the next morning, either—just left early, the smell of smoke lingering behind him, the couch cushions still rumpled.

It happened again the next night.

Different girl.

By the third time, Shane felt like a prisoner in his own space.

He started wearing his headphones all the time. He timed his showers. He learned exactly how long it took Ilya to bring someone home and how long he usually stayed locked behind his door. He told himself, over and over, that this was fine. That this was normal. That this was what living with a stranger was like.

But late at night, staring up at the ceiling, Shane couldn’t shake the thought that settled heavy in his chest:

This Ilya didn’t need him.
And that hurt more than Shane wanted to admit.

He finally broke.

“Look,” Shane said, voice sharp despite his effort to keep it steady, “if you’re going to bring home a different girl every night, can you at least warn me? Jesus, Ilya—this is fucking excessive.”

Ilya was sprawled on the couch, feet slung over the coffee table like the place belonged to him alone. He looked up slowly, eyes flicking over Shane with lazy interest. Then his mouth curled into something mean.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just trying to get my fill before hockey prison starts, you know?” He shrugged. “Is not like you can’t bring people home too. I wouldn’t be mad.”

Shane clenched his jaw.

Actually, it was like that. Shane physically could not do that—but Ilya didn’t know. And Shane wasn’t about to explain himself, not like this, not when Ilya was looking at him like he was a joke.

“That’s not the point,” Shane said tightly. “This is my space too.”

Ilya laughed. “You barely use it. You come in, you clean my mess, you disappear into your room like a ghost.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It works for me, but if you want something, say it.”

“I am saying it,” Shane snapped. His hands were shaking now, fists curled at his sides. “I’m asking for basic fucking respect.”

Something shifted in Ilya’s expression, something colder.

“Respect?” he echoed. “You want rules now?”

“I want—” Shane cut himself off, breath hitching. He didn’t even know how to finish the sentence without saying too much. I want you to look at me like you used to. I want you to stop pretending I don’t exist. I want—

Ilya stood abruptly, towering over him. “You think you get to tell me how to live?” he said, voice low. “You think because we share a room, you will change me?”

Shane stared up at him, heart pounding. He hated how small he suddenly felt. Hated that familiar itch under his skin, the one that told him he was doing something wrong just by taking up space.

“I thought we could be friends,” Shane said quietly.

The words landed heavier than he meant them to.

For a moment, Ilya didn’t say anything. His jaw tightened. His gaze flicked away, just briefly—toward the window, toward anywhere but Shane.

Then he scoffed. “You are not my friend.”

Shane felt it like a blow.

“Right,” he said, swallowing hard. “Okay. Got it.”

He turned and walked back to his room before Ilya could see the way his face cracked, before the ache in his chest had a chance to spill over. He shut the door and leaned against it, breathing hard, like he’d just finished a shift instead of a conversation.

On the other side of the wall, the dorm stayed quiet.

Too quiet.

Ilya and Shane weren’t speaking when the training intensive started. If things had been tense before, they were ten times worse now. Ilya hadn’t stopped bringing girls back, and every time Shane walked in on him, Ilya would lift his eyebrows in a silent, taunting challenge. Say something. I dare you.

Shane never did.

Instead, he focused on what he could control. His performance on the ice. He kept his head down and his mouth shut and let the anger burn where it wanted to.

He would prove he belonged here.

And one way or another, he’d show Ilya just how fucking good he was.

That morning, Shane had gotten up early, done his mobility exercises, gone for a run, and eaten a solid breakfast. Ilya was still in bed by the time Shane was getting ready to leave for training. Whatever. It wasn’t his problem.

He grabbed his bag, and headed out the door. If Ilya was late, that was on him. 

When Shane got to the rink, he was directed to go to the locker room. There were already a couple boys there, getting gear on and exchanging lighthearted conversation. The locker room hushed when he walked through the door.

“Hey, it’s the prodigy!” One boy called, a playful smile on his face. 

Shane rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh–I’m not really–”

“Shane Hollander, right? Coach told us about you. Said you came outta nowhere.”

“Uh–yeah. I’m Shane.”

“Hayden. I’m a sophomore. Good to meet you.” 

Shane nodded, fumbling slightly with the straps of his bag. “Good to meet you.” He glanced around the room, noticing the way the other boys moved with ease—loud, comfortable, already claiming space. The benches creaked under heavy backpacks and hockey gear; socks and gloves littered the floor.

Hayden waved toward the far side. “Don’t mind the chaos. First week’s always messy. Everyone’s figuring out who’s who.” He grinned, adjusting his helmet. “You’ll fit in soon enough.”

Shane tried to smile, but his stomach was a knot. He spotted Ilya almost immediately—leaning casually against a locker, stick in one hand, helmet dangling from the other. He was already halfway changed, exuding that same effortless confidence Shane remembered from home. A group of upperclassmen laughed at something Ilya said, and he didn’t even glance their way. He hadn’t noticed Shane yet.

Shane’s chest tightened. He told himself to focus. This is about hockey. Not Ilya. Prove you belong.

Hayden clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you geared up. You’ll need to meet Coach in about ten minutes for the first drill.” Shane nodded, letting Hayden guide him through the maze of benches and lockers.

From the corner of his eye, Shane caught Ilya’s gaze for a brief moment—just a flicker—but it vanished before Shane could process it.

His shoulder was jostled by another player as he slid his knee pads on. 

“Oh–sorry.”

Shane turned, giving him a small smile. He was struck by how beautiful the guy was. He was around Shane’s height, with the most piercing blue eyes he’d ever seen.

“You’re good. No worries, man.” 

“I’m Troy. I’m a freshman, too. This is kinda nuts.” He said.

Shane sighed in relief. “Thank god. Everyone here seems so experienced. I’m, like, terrified.”

“Well–I’m sure you’ll be fine. Coach hasn’t stopped talking about you and Rozanov since I got here.”

Shane couldn’t respond to that, too nervous to acknowledge the very obvious anticipation around him and Ilya. He finished lacing up his skates, Troy sitting on the bench next to him.

“So… first week,” Troy said, leaning back casually, “crazy, right?”

Shane shrugged, trying to keep his nerves in check. “Yeah. Definitely… intense.” He hesitated, then glanced at Troy. “You don’t seem scared at all.”

Troy grinned, crooked and a little daring. “I’ve been playing since I could walk. But you?” His voice dipped, conspiratorial. “You’re the one everyone’s watching. That kind of pressure—I could never.”

Heat crept up Shane’s neck. “Uh. Well. Hopefully I don’t disappoint,” he muttered, tugging his bag closer.

“You’re not disappointing me,” Troy said easily, nudging Shane’s shoulder with his own. It was kind of nice. It reminded him of the way him and Ilya used to be.

Not now. Shane needed to stop thinking about Ilya and focus.

Shane let himself smile. “Thanks, Troy.”

The locker room buzzed louder as the last players finished gearing up. Coach called for everyone to line up near center ice. Shane followed, Troy falling into step beside him, easy conversation sliding between them as Shane tried to quiet the knot of nerves in his stomach.

“Eyes forward, everyone!” Coach barked, voice cutting through the chatter.

They skated out onto the ice, the chill biting through Shane’s uniform. The team lined up for warm-ups, stretching, passing pucks in controlled arcs. Troy and Hayden stayed next to him the whole time. It calmed his nerves a little bit, having people to share little comments and looks with. Shane felt the familiar muscle memory of skating take over, edges biting into the ice, stick in his hands like an extension of himself.

And then, of course, it happened.

Coach paired players up for one-on-one drills, and Shane’s heart thudded as he realized: he was paired with Ilya.

“Rozanov, Hollander—against each other,” Coach barked. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Ilya’s eyes flicked up, catching Shane’s. A loaded look passed between them, quick and sharp. He leaned on his stick, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Shane clenched his jaw. Focus. This is your moment.

The drill began. Ilya moved first, aggressive, trying to get to the puck with practiced precision. Shane reacted instantly, pivoting, keeping the puck close, his body angled just enough to shield it. Ilya pressed him, shoulder against shoulder, trying to shove him off balance.

Shane felt every inch of pressure, every scrape of Ilya’s stick against his own. But he remembered his training, the hours he’d spent honing his skills. With a quick fake to the left, a sudden shift in weight, he slipped past Ilya’s defense, cutting toward the net.

Ilya recovered, snapping back with speed, but Shane was ready. He lifted the puck just enough and snapped a clean shot toward the goal. The puck hit the ice, slid past Ilya’s reach, and hit the net.

Shane’s chest heaved, adrenaline still hammering in his veins. Ilya’s smirk was gone, replaced by a clenched jaw. Shane caught the glint in his eyes and looked away.

Ilya muttered something low in Russian, shoulder checking him as he brushed past to reset for the next drill.

Shane let himself exhale, but his chest still throbbed. He had done it. Just barely, but he’d beaten Ilya. He’d done it before, back then, but somehow, this felt monumental. Like he had a leg up on him. Like whatever game they were playing—Shane was starting to make a comeback.

Troy skated over after the drill, grinning. “Damn, Shane. That was fucking awesome.” He raised an eyebrow, not hiding the admiration. “I didn’t expect that.”

Shane’s cheeks warmed. “Thanks. Didn’t think I’d get past him either.”

Hayden slid in beside them, clapping Shane hard on the shoulder. “I did. That kid's a show-off. You’re way better.”

Troy laughed. “Pretty sure we’re not supposed to start rivalries. Same team, Hayden.”

Shane smiled—but something twisted low in his stomach. Pride, yes. Relief. And complication.

Ilya had seen him now. Tested him.

And Troy was here. Hayden too. They could be friends, maybe. People who saw him, just as he was.

He didn’t need Ilya.

…But part of him still wanted him.

The whistle shrieked again, cutting the thought clean in half.

“Next drill!” Coach barked.

Shane pushed off, letting the ice take him.

This was hockey.

This was where he belonged.

The rest of the week continued similarly. Shane won… a lot. He was coming to realize that winning came with something else, too—with respect. All of a sudden, every guy on the team was being incredibly nice to him, quick with grins and a pat on the shoulder, easy in a way they hadn’t been at first.

Everyone, except for Ilya, of course.

Ilya had also gotten exceptionally good since the last time Shane had seen him—faster, sharper, more dangerous on the ice. He was decidedly not nice. They still weren’t speaking, aside from whatever insults Ilya decided to hurl at him in Russian during practice, clipped and cutting, meant for Shane and Shane alone.

It was unbearably tense.

Everyone seemed perched on the edge of their seats, waiting to see which of the new kids was better—Shane, or Ilya. The comparison followed them everywhere, buzzing through the rink like static. Shane honestly didn’t care. He just wanted to play hockey, and win. That was it. The other stuff didn’t matter to him.

Not the way Ilya would look at him when they faced off, eyes dark and determined, like he was daring Shane to make a mistake. Not the way he would watch from afar as Troy drifted closer into Shane’s space, easy and familiar.

None of that mattered.

At least, that’s what Shane told himself.

Whatever time they spent in the dorm was…better. Shane had become fast friends with Troy and Hayden, who came over after practice whenever they could. Ilya would just disappear into his room without a word, not coming out for the rest of the night. Sometimes, Shane would smell smoke from his room. But, at the very least, he seemed done bringing people home. Maybe he actually did give a shit about hockey.

They were over again tonight, Hayden having offered to cook. Shane didn’t care as long as he didn’t make a mess.

Troy had an arm slung around Shane’s shoulders, sitting close on the couch, close enough that Shane could feel the steady warmth of him through his hoodie. Hayden was at the kitchenette, wooden spoon in hand, making a sad excuse for a stir fry—vegetables overcooked, sauce splattering the stovetop.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Hayden said, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m an athlete, not a chef.”

“It smells… ambitious,” Troy offered, grinning, squeezing Shane’s shoulder just a little.

Shane laughed despite himself, leaning into it without thinking. The TV murmured uselessly in the background, forgotten.

The sound of a door opening pulled Shane from his thoughts.

Ilya emerged from his bedroom, shirtless and disheveled. As always, there was a fucking cigarette hanging from his lips. God, Shane really hated how much he smoked. He’d never done stuff like that in high school.

Ilya stopped abruptly just outside his door, eyes raking over Troy and Shane on the couch.

“Wow. You two look cozy,” Ilya remarked, smirking coldly.

Those were the first real words Ilya had said to him all week. 

Shane scooted away from Troy on instinct, his face heating instantly. Troy shot him an unreadable look, but didn’t say anything.

“Shut up, Rozanov.”

Ilya shrugged and walked to the fridge, smoke curling lazily around him. He had more moles on his back than Shane remembered. Not that he’d been keeping track or anything. The realization made Shane’s stomach twist.

Ilya grabbed a can of Coke and turned back toward his room.

Guilt clawed its way up Shane’s spine. Why the hell was Rozanov holed up in his room right now? They didn’t even have practice tomorrow.

“Wait.” The word slipped out before Shane could stop it. “Hayden’s cooking. Do you want some food? We’re just watching a movie, but you’re welcome to join.”

Hayden turned toward him from the stove, eyes wide, silently mouthing What the fuck? No! Shane ignored him.

Ilya paused.

For a moment, Shane thought he might actually turn around. Instead, Ilya glanced over his shoulder, eyes sharp, expression unreadable.

“No,” he said simply. Then, quieter, almost clipped, “I’m good.”

He disappeared back into his room, the door closing with a soft but final click.

The silence that followed was thick.

“Well,” Hayden said after a beat, gesturing weakly at the pan. “That went… great.”

Troy shifted beside Shane, his arm dropping back around his shoulders like nothing had happened. “You didn’t have to invite him, you know.”

Shane nodded, staring at the hallway. “Yeah. I know.”

And so it continued this way. Shane stopped trying eventually—too tired of being turned down, brushed off, dismissed with a look or a word that made it clear he wasn’t wanted. If Ilya wanted to smoke and drink and live like an animal, that was his prerogative. He’d been right before. Shane was stupid to think he could change him.

The days settled into a sort of routine. Practice, class, winning more games than he lost. Nights filled with Troy’s easy laughter and Hayden’s constant presence, the hum of the TV, the clatter of dishes in the sink. Ilya became more of a shadow than a person—someone Shane heard rather than saw. It was in the creak of his door late at night. The faint scrape of a lighter. Smoke seeping under the crack of the door and into the hallway, sharp and bitter.

Shane told himself it was better this way. If he didn’t expect anything from Ilya, then he couldn’t be disappointed.

But some nights, when the dorm was mostly asleep and the laughter had faded, Shane would catch himself listening. Waiting. For footsteps, for a door opening, for anything that suggested Ilya still existed in the same space as him.

It was one of those nights—late enough that the hall lights had dimmed, the TV long turned off—when the silence broke. Not with the careful, controlled sounds Shane had grown used to, but with something heavier. Unsteady. A laugh, low and rough, drifting down the hallway, followed by the unmistakable thud of someone colliding with the wall.

Shane sat up in bed before he could stop himself, heart already picking up speed. The smell hit him next—alcohol, sharp and sour, layered over the familiar smoke.

Ilya was back. 

Shane heard a crash, followed by a sharp curse in Russian. He was on his feet before he fully processed it, padding across the room and peeking through the crack in his door.

Ilya was stumbling around the common area like a baby deer, all limbs and no balance, bumping into everything in sight. A lamp lay tipped over on the floor, its bulb shattered. Glass glittered across the carpet—and across Ilya’s hands, blood already starting to seep between his fingers.

Fucking Christ.

Shane didn’t bother thinking it through. He stepped fully into the room and dropped to a crouch beside him. Ilya blinked down at him, eyes glassy, heavy-lidded, unfocused in a way that made Shane’s stomach twist.

“What the hell are you doing?” Shane hissed, already scanning for more broken glass.

Ilya lifted his hands, swaying slightly, and made a vague motion toward his face. Shane grabbed his wrists immediately, firm but careful.

“Stop—” Shane said, sharper now. “You have glass all over your hands, you idiot.”

Ilya frowned at him like Shane had just asked him a complicated math question. He tried to pull away, sluggish and uncoordinated.
“Is fine,” he slurred, the words thick. “You are very dramatic.”

Shane tightened his grip just enough to keep him still. Up close, the smell of alcohol was overwhelming, clinging to him in waves. Shane swallowed, forcing himself to stay calm.

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one bleeding all over the floor,” he muttered. He glanced around, then back at Ilya. “Don’t move. Seriously. I’ll get a towel.”

He stood quickly, grabbing the cleanest one he could find from the bathroom, along with the small first-aid kit under the sink. When he came back, Ilya was still sitting on the floor, legs stretched out awkwardly, staring at his own hands like they’d personally betrayed him.

“Hey,” Shane said more quietly, kneeling again. “Look at me. Just—stay still, okay?”

Ilya’s eyes flicked up to his face, something unreadable passing through them before his expression smoothed back into careless indifference. He nodded once, slow.

Shane exhaled and gently began picking glass from his skin, working carefully, methodically, trying not to think about how close they were—or how easily Ilya let him do it.

“Shanyusha,” Ilya whispered.

He drifted closer as he said it, eyes tracing Shane’s face like he was trying to memorize every line.

Shane’s heart nearly stopped.

He hadn’t called him that since—since they were fifteen. Shane couldn’t even remember when it had started, only that Ilya had brushed it off once, said it was just a Russian thing. A kind of nickname they used with their loved ones. 

But it had never felt like nothing. It was all in the way Ilya said it. Soft, fond, like Shane was something precious. 

Why would he call him that now?

“What?” Shane asked quietly, throat tight.

“I missed you, my Shane,” Ilya murmured. His words slurred together, warm with alcohol and something dangerously close to honesty. “Missed your freckles. Your pretty face.” He laughed weakly, breath puffing against Shane’s neck. “Why did you go away?”

Before Shane could react, Ilya’s forehead tipped forward, resting heavily against Shane’s shoulder.

And now—Ilya was looking at him like he knew. Knew.

Shane swallowed hard. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t let himself react. Every instinct screamed to pull back—to remind himself that this wasn’t real, that this was vodka and talking, that sober Ilya wouldn’t say any of this. But Ilya was warm and unsteady and very real, his weight slumping into Shane like he trusted him not to let go.

“I didn’t go away,” Shane said after a moment, voice low and careful. “We—we just met this year.”

Ilya hummed, unconvinced. One of his hands twitched in Shane’s grasp, fingers curling weakly. Shane tightened the towel around it, grounding himself in the small, necessary task.

“You left me,” Ilya whispered instead, sadly. 

Shane swallowed hard, staring at the carpet. He focused on the steady rise and fall of Ilya’s chest, on keeping the pressure even on his bleeding hand, on anything except the way his name sounded like a confession in Ilya’s mouth—like drunk Ilya was seeing the old Shane, the one he had buried all those years ago.

“You’re drunk,” Shane said gently, voice tight. “You’re gonna hate me again in the morning. I’m not who you remember.”

For a heartbeat, Ilya froze. Then he nuzzled his face into Shane’s neck, warm and unsteady, words muffled but clear.

“No,” he whispered. “I could never hate you, Shanyusha.”

Shane’s chest clenched. He knew he should push him away, should remind himself this was dangerous—that sober Ilya must never know. McGill, his career, his whole carefully constructed life—everything teetered on a knife-edge. And yet, Ilya’s trust, his drunken memory, his softness…he was too close, too human, too good to resist.

And Shane had always been weak. 

So Shane let himself hold him, let his arms wrap around Ilya until his breathing evened out, until his eyes drifted shut against the collar of Shane’s shirt. That would have to be enough for now.

Chapter End Notes

So?? What do we think?? Should I keep writing? Please please leave a comment if you enjoyed it, reading what you guys have to say genuinely feeds my soul.

Also here’s the Russian translation for anyone who’s curious. And yes I did use Google Translate so sorry to anyone who’s actually Russian😭.

Вау. Красавчику Шейну нравится мой акцент.»
«Интересно, сколько я смогу сказать по-русски, чтобы ты ничего не понял?

Wow. Pretty Shane likes my accent. I wonder how much I can say without you understanding?

Thanks so much for reading. Mwah mwah mwah love you all!

Chapter 2: Is that the child who’s afraid in you?

Chapter Notes

Hi beautiful people! Wow so many people have responded positively to the first chapter and I'm so grateful!! I'm having sm fun writing this. This chapter definitely has ups and downs so don't hate me for the angst. Also don't hate me for my extremely unrealistic portrayal of college dorms. Like yes I know they'd realistically never have their own rooms and a kitchen but I'm just having fun here let me live my life!

Some content warnings: We dive a lil more into Shane's past, including his transition and him feeling dysphoric. SPOILER* He gets his period in this chapter (i don't really describe anything graphic or detailed), and it causes him to spiral a little bit. Just be careful if any of that might be triggering. The language Shane uses when talking about himself is pretty harsh so pls protect yourself if you're sensitive.

Shane woke up disoriented. His alarm had been blaring for half an hour already. Missing it wasn’t like him. What the hell had happened?

Memories from the night before slammed into him all at once. Ilya had been drunk, cut his hand on the shattered lightbulb… and then he’d said it.

Shanyusha. I missed you, my Shane. I could never hate you.

Shane’s chest tightened. Ilya knew. Maybe he always had. Shane was completely fucked. Heart hammering, he shot out of bed. He needed to see Ilya now.

He practically sprinted to Ilya’s door, knocking more times than needed. Shane knew he’d be waking Ilya up. He didn’t care. His whole life was on the line here.

There was a muffled groan from inside the room.

“What the fuck do you want, Shane?”

Shane barged in without answering.

“Ilya,” he said uselessly, arms hanging at his sides.

Ilya groaned again, rubbing his eyes. His hands were covered in the bandages Shane had placed there last night. Oh god.

“Shane. Why are you here?”

“You—you got really drunk last night. And you said things.” Shane blurted. 

Ilya’s demeanor shifted. “What things? What did I say?” His voice was thick with sleep, eyes clouded with worry.

“You called me Shanyusha.”

Ilya froze for a split second, then let out a short laugh. “Oh… right. Is a Russian thing, you know.  Nickname for friends. I must have been really drunk to use it on you.”

Shane’s heart stuttered. That sounded like a deflection, but… maybe it was true. Maybe Shanyusha hadn’t been only for him like he’d thought. 

“You… you don’t remember then?” Shane asked, hope threading through his panic.

Ilya shook his head, rubbing his temples. “No, not really. I might have said a bunch of nonsense. I don’t remember anything from last night clearly. You should probably just forget it too.”

Shane swallowed hard, his chest tight with a mix of relief and fear. Maybe Ilya had recognized him in his drunken state, maybe even when he said “Shanyusha,” but he didn’t remember now. And, most importantly, he hadn’t recognized him sober. Everything would be fine.

Shane nodded to himself. “Okay. Yeah, I’ll, uh–I’ll forget it.”

Ilya looked lost in thought for a moment as he studied his hands.

“The bandages… they are from you?” he asked slowly.

Shane suddenly felt caught, as if he’d been doing something wrong when really he’d just been looking out for his roommate. “Uh, yeah. You were kind of bleeding a lot. So.”

Ilya chewed on his bottom lip. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“It was nothing.”

Ilya shook his head. “No. It was something.”

Shane’s breath hitched.

“So… you come into my room just to tell me I got drunk, or?” Ilya started, eyebrows raised.

“Sorry. Just wanted to make sure you—you were okay. That’s all.”

Ilya smirked faintly. “Okay.”

Shane retreated without looking back, shutting Ilya’s door with a quiet click. He stood there for a long moment afterward, heart still racing, listening to the silence on the other side.

Part of him wanted to turn around. To go back in there and tell the truth—spill everything, consequences be damned—if it meant getting the Ilya he used to know back. The one who laughed and smiled and called him Shanyusha.

But he couldn’t.

That wouldn’t fix anything. If Ilya found out like that—found out now—he’d hate him. For not telling him. For lying. For leaving.

Shane shook the thought away and grabbed his bag, forcing himself toward the door and out into the hallway. He felt strange as he walked, a little lightheaded, edges of the world slightly blurred. Maybe it was just the adrenaline. Or the emotional whiplash of seeing Ilya like that—drunk and soft and all too familiar.

God, he missed him.
No matter how much he didn’t want to admit it.

The library didn’t help.

Shane tried to hunker down and push through his assignments, but nothing stuck. Words blurred together on the page. His thoughts kept sliding sideways every time he tried to focus. A faint headache pressed at his temples, dull but persistent, like someone had their thumb buried there and wouldn’t let go.

He rubbed at it absently, telling himself it was nothing. He was just tired. 

He got through as much as he could before packing up and heading to practice.

Getting on the ice would help.
It always did.

Except it didn’t.

By the time Shane stepped onto the ice, he felt worse.

His legs were unsteady beneath him, like his balance point was just slightly off. His stomach clenched sharply every so often, enough to make him suck in a breath and grit his teeth. The headache hadn’t faded. Instead, it had deepened—a heavy, throbbing ache that made the rink lights feel too bright.

He missed a pass.

And then another.

At one point, he stumbled. Not enough to fall, but enough that his skate scraped awkwardly and he had to catch himself with his stick. His stomach lurched unpleasantly.

“You okay?” Hayden called.

“Yeah,” Shane said automatically, even though it wasn’t true.

From the corner of his vision, he caught Ilya watching him, eyebrows furrowed. 

Shane looked away.

When practice finally ended, he felt wrung out. He moved through the locker room on autopilot, barely speaking, head down as he stripped off his gear. His lower abdomen ached constantly now, a deep, pulling pain that made his skin crawl. He chalked it up to overexertion, to nerves, to literally anything else.

He grabbed his towel and headed for the showers.

It was only when he stepped into the stall and peeled off his compression shorts that everything stopped.

There was blood.

Not a lot—but it was there. Bright against the fabric, smeared where it shouldn’t be. Where it couldn’t be.

Shane stared at it, his brain refusing to catch up.

No.
No, no, no—

He hadn’t had a period in years. Years. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d done everything right. Between the testosterone and the birth control—this couldn’t be happening. He’d been so careful.

His vision swam. A sharp spike of pain split through his head, white and blinding, and his stomach cramped hard enough that he had to brace a hand against the tiled wall to stay upright.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

The air in the stall felt thick, humid, pressing in on him. His chest tightened, breaths coming too fast. His hands shook as he turned the shower on, stepping under the spray more out of instinct than intention.

The water hit his shoulders. It came out too hot, then lukewarm, then hot again as he fumbled with the knob. His knees gave out and he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the tile, arms wrapped around himself, water streaming down his face.

This couldn’t be happening. He refused to look down. He knew if he did, he’d see an unmistakable trail of red drifting through the water. He couldn’t handle that right now.

His stomach twisted again and he gasped, forehead dropping forward. Tears mixed with the spray before he even realized he was crying. Every cramp, every pulse of pain felt like proof, like his body was dragging him backward, undoing years of work, years of certainty.

He didn’t remember stepping out of the shower.

Only that he got dressed as fast as he could, skin raw and red from scrubbing too hard, hoodie tied tight around his waist. He barely registered the walk back to the dorm. All he could feel was the pounding headache, the nausea rolling through him in waves, the crawling disgust under his skin.

Once in his room, he tore through his drawers until he found the emergency stash his mom had insisted on packing.

Pads and tampons, Shane, just in case, she’d said quietly. Shane had rolled his eyes, brushed her off. Mom, stop. I don’t need that stuff anymore. 

Turns out he did. 

Using them made his stomach turn. He felt so gross, so wrong. Like he was betraying himself with his own hands. But the pain was getting worse, and he didn’t have the energy to fight his body anymore. The last thing he needed right now was to wake up to sheets covered in blood. 

After he was done, he curled up fully clothed on his bed, hoodie still on, blinds drawn tight. The room was dark and still and mercifully quiet.

He told himself he’d just rest for a little while.

He slept for a long time.

Shane drifted in and out of consciousness, time stretching and collapsing in on itself. Faint dreams—or maybe memories—slid through his mind in disjointed flashes. 

Moments from his past surfaced without warning. They looped and overlapped, taunting him, refusing to let go.
Some memories burned sharp and fast. Others drifted in slowly, heavy with the weight of time.

This one pulled him under.

Back to a day that had started wrong before he even knew why.

Shane had been having a rough day. From the moment he woke up, there’d been a sharp, restless urge lodged beneath his skin—an overwhelming need to do something. By midmorning, it had crystallized into a single thought.

He wanted to cut all his hair off.
All of it. Beauty be damned. He wanted it gone.

He’d tested the idea out loud first, like he always did. Floated it casually to his friends, trying to sound light.

“What if I buzzed all my hair off?” he’d blurted with a shrug. “Like, just for fun.”

They laughed, assuming it was a joke. Then they saw his face.

“Well… I mean,” someone hedged, uncertainty creeping in. “If it’d make you happy?”

Another voice chimed in, louder, firmer. “Shane, you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Why would you wanna ruin that?”

“Oh my god, Shane,” someone else groaned. “If you cut your hair, I’ll never forgive you.”

Shane had laughed along with them, heat rising to his cheeks. He’d waved it off, said he was joking, ignoring the way his chest had tightened painfully at their words.

But he hadn’t been joking at all.

He’d been thinking about it for a long time.

He didn’t know exactly what he wanted—only that he hated his long hair. He knew it was stupid. Everyone told him how lucky he was. He’d inherited it from his mom: long, thick waves that always fell just right. People were always touching it, complimenting it, telling him how gorgeous it was. How gorgeous he was.

But that was the problem.

He didn’t want them to think that about him.

The feeling followed him all day, a restless orbit around something he couldn’t name. Like a word on the tip of his tongue that refused to surface. Maybe it had been there longer than just that day. Maybe much longer.

It only got worse when he sat down to watch Ilya’s practice. Shane watched the way the boys shoved each other on the ice, trading easy grins and casual smacks to the shoulders. And Ilya—he was just so…Ilya.

Shane couldn’t describe it. There was something powerful and effortless about him. Beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with hair or softness or anything you could take away. It was just him.

Watching them, Shane felt an undeniable ache settle in his gut—a yearning to be something other than what he was. To be something he couldn’t be.

When he eventually slipped into the girls’ bathroom to change, he lingered in front of the mirror longer than necessary. Staring at himself. At his hair. His chest. The way the shorts he’d borrowed from Ilya hung loose around his thighs but pulled tight at his hips.

It was all wrong.

He was all wrong.

Shane scrubbed a hand over his face, eyes burning as tears welled up. Ilya was probably waiting. He was probably annoyed. The thought made his chest seize. He couldn’t take another second of his own reflection.

He crumpled to the floor, back sliding down the cold tile, pressing his hands over his mouth to smother the sound of his sobs.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there. Long enough for the room to stop spinning. Long enough his throat to ache from the crying. When he finally dragged in a shaky breath, it felt like breathing through glass.

Why couldn’t he just be normal?

The thought came unbidden, cruel and familiar. Shane hugged his knees to his chest, nails digging into his palms like maybe pain could anchor him to something real. He tried to picture himself standing back up, pulling his clothes on, walking out like nothing was wrong. Like he wasn’t split open from the inside.

There was a knock.

Shane already knew who it was. He could tell by the sound of his footsteps alone.

“Shane?”

He didn’t answer.

“Shane, what the fuck are you doing in there? I've been waiting forever.”

Shane scrubbed at his face and pushed himself up off the floor, legs shaky.
“Sorry. I’m just—I’ll be out in a sec,” he said, voice cracking despite his best effort. He needed to wash his face, breathe. Make himself presentable enough that Ilya wouldn’t know he’d been having a breakdown.

There was a pause on the other side of the door.

“Shanyusha.”

The nickname hit him square in the chest. The tears came back immediately, hot and humiliating.

“It’s fine,” Shane said, definitely not sounding it.

Another beat.

“I’m coming in.”

“Wait, Ilya, you can’t just come into the ladies—”

The door opened before Shane could protest. Just enough for Ilya to slip through, then it shut softly behind him. He took in the scene in one glance—Shane’s red eyes, his hunched shoulders, the way he was bracing himself against the sink like he might collapse.

Ilya’s expression changed instantly.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. “Hey. What is this?”

Shane shook his head, staring hard at the faucet. “It’s nothing. I just—had a weird day.”

Ilya didn’t buy it. He never did. He stepped closer, careful, like Shane might run away if he moved too quickly. “You are shaking.”

“I’m not—” Shane broke off, a sob catching in his throat. He hated this. Hated being seen like this. Hated that Ilya was here at all, that he felt obligated to do this.

Ilya reached out, then hesitated, hand hovering between them. “Did I do something?” he asked, and for the first time there was something unsteady in his voice.

That did it.

Shane laughed weakly through his tears. “No. God, no. This isn’t about you.”

“Then tell me what it is about,” Ilya said. “Because you look like you are falling apart in a public bathroom, and I do not like that.”

Shane finally looked at him. Really looked. Ilya’s hair was still damp from the ice, curls escaping where his helmet must have been. His face was open in a way Shane rarely saw—concern written plainly across it, unguarded.

“I’m—I don’t even know,” Shane said. The words tumbled out, clumsy and raw. “There’s something wrong with me. Like—really wrong. And I don’t think it’s something I can fix.”

Ilya shook his head immediately, frown deepening. “There is nothing wrong with you.”

“No,” Shane said quickly. “Ilya, you don’t—you wouldn’t understand.”

“Then help me understand,” Ilya said, steady. 

Shane hesitated, throat tight. “I wanna cut my hair.”

Ilya blinked. Then he laughed, the sound too bright, echoing sharply against the tile.
“So cut your hair, Shanyusha.”

God. He really didn’t get it. And Shane couldn’t tell him why. He couldn’t even put it into words. 

“All my friends said it’s stupid,” Shane said quietly. “They’re probably right anyway.” He swallowed, shame burning hot in his chest. “I’d be gross without it.”

“They are the stupid ones,” Ilya said immediately. “You would be perfect no matter what your hair looks like.”

Shane laughed wetly, shaking his head, tears stinging his eyes. “I’m—I don’t understand why I can’t just be normal.”

Ilya’s smile faded. He studied Shane for a long moment, something heavy settling behind his eyes.
“Shane,” he said softly, “this is not really about hair, is it?”

Shane shook his head again. The tears came freely now, sliding down his cheeks without resistance.

Ilya stepped closer. Slowly—like he was afraid of spooking him—he reached out and gently pulled Shane’s hands away from his face. Shane flinched, then stilled.

“Come here,” Ilya said.

Shane didn’t know when he started crying in earnest. Only that suddenly he was leaning forward, forehead knocking lightly against Ilya’s chest, breath hitching. Ilya’s arms came around him without hesitation, solid and warm.

“There,” Ilya murmured, one hand settling between Shane’s shoulder blades. “It is okay. You are okay.”

Shane clutched at the front of Ilya’s jacket, fingers twisting in the fabric like he might fall apart without it. He felt ridiculous. Too much. Wrong in a thousand ways he didn’t have words for.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Shane whispered.

Ilya’s grip tightened just a little. “You do not need to know yet,” he said. “Just be here with me,”

Shane let out a broken sound, half sob, half laugh.

“Ilya—”

“Shh,” Ilya interrupted gently. “I have you. I promise.”

The next memory faded in softly.

Not sharp like the bathroom floor or the blood or the panic—but heavy in a different way, still as painful as it had been the day he experienced it. 

It was two months into summer.

Two months since the last day of school.
Two months since Shane last saw Ilya.

The mirror was still there—but now it was a different one. The bathroom at home, sunlight spilling in through the small window above the sink. The fan hummed softly, steady and ordinary.

Shane barely recognized himself.

His hair was shorter. Not perfect–his mom had cut it, trying her best to replicate a picture he’d found, but he still loved it. It was off his neck. Off his face. When he tilted his head, it didn’t fall into his eyes. It didn’t hide him the way it used to.

It just… was.

He ran a hand through it, fingers brushing his scalp, and his chest loosened a little.

God.
He looked right.

Not quite all the way there yet, but closer than he’d ever been.

The binder pressed tight around his ribs, uncomfortable if he thought about it too long—but when he looked down, when his chest was flatter and quieter and not the first thing anyone would see, the discomfort felt worth it. Like proof that he was making progress towards who he wanted to be.

There were other changes, too. 

His voice caught lower now, especially in the mornings. Sometimes, in the early hours of the day when his voice was still rough with sleep, he’d catch himself sounding like an actual guy, and he’d erupt into joyful laughter, too happy to contain it. There was a faint shadow at his jaw he kept touching like it might disappear if he didn’t keep checking. His face—his face—looked a little sharper. Less soft around the edges. 

Testosterone was working.

And for the first time in his life, Shane felt something dangerously close to happiness when he looked at himself.

The thought came immediately after, almost automatic.

Ilya would hate this.

The guilt hit him so hard it almost knocked the breath out of him.

Shane sank down onto the closed toilet lid, elbows on his knees, phone heavy in his hand. He didn’t need to unlock it to know what was there.

But he did anyway.

The screen lit up.

Ilya: Shane please call me
Ilya: Did I do something wrong
Ilya: I don’t understand why you won’t talk to me
Ilya: I miss you

Ilya: Please just tell me what I did so I can fix it
Ilya: I need you right now

They blurred together, days and weeks of messages piling up, starting out casual and joking, and then turning desperate, hopeful, pleading.

He’d read every single one.

He’d typed replies he’d never sent. Deleted drafts over and over until his thumbs cramped. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to explain. I miss you too. Please don’t hate me.

He imagined seeing Ilya again—really seeing him. Imagined the look on his face when he realized Shane wasn’t who he remembered. When all his softness was gone. When his voice was lower. 

Shane’s stomach twisted.

Ilya loved the old version of him. The girl with the long hair. The one who fit into the world neatly enough to stand beside him without explanation.

This version—this real version—was a disappointment waiting to happen.

Tears stung his eyes, sudden and unwelcome.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to no one.

His phone buzzed again.

Ilya: Please

That’s what broke him.

Shane stared at the screen for a long time. Then longer. His chest ached with how badly he wanted to answer, to call, to hear Ilya’s voice and let himself fall apart into it. To tell him everything he’d been feeling. 

But he didn’t.

Instead, he opened a new message.

His fingers shook as he typed.

I’m so sorry.
I’m not who you thought I was. 

I love you more than anything, Ilya. I want you to know that.
But you should forget me.

He read it once, and then scanned over it again.

It felt like cutting something out of his own chest.

Before he could second-guess himself—before he could be weak—he hit send.

The message was delivered.

A second later, Shane blocked Ilya’s number with a trembling hand.

The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating.

He set the phone face-down on the counter and pressed his hands to his face, breathing through the ache as it bloomed full and hot in his chest.

Shane was happier than he had ever been in his own body.

And he had never felt more alone.

Shane woke up with a gasp, sweat slicking his face.
He couldn’t tell what time it was—only that the pain had gotten worse. He groaned, shoving his face into the pillow. His head felt like it was splitting open. His stomach twisted painfully every few minutes, dragging a quiet, miserable whine out of his throat before he could stop it. He stayed still, eyes squeezed shut, drifting in and out of consciousness, counting breaths, waiting for it to pass.

Why the fuck was this happening to him?

He was just starting to drift again when a knock sounded at his door.

“Shane? Hello?” Ilya called, his voice threaded with worry.

“What?” Shane snapped, head pounding.

The door opened anyway.

“Shane?”

The hallway light flooded in, white and brutal. Shane made a noise somewhere between a whine and a growl.

“Just—just come in and close the door,” he muttered.

It shut.

“What the hell,” Ilya said quietly. “You haven’t come out since practice yesterday.”

Yesterday?

Shane’s eyes flew open. “Practice—” His voice cracked. “Fuck. I missed practice. What time is it?”

“Relax,” Ilya said immediately. “I told Coach you were sick. It’s 6:00. You’ve been in here awhile.”

Shane didn’t answer. He just groaned again, rolling over so his head rested on the cooler side of his pillow. Ilya came closer to the bed, approaching carefully, slowly. 

“Are you alright? You look–not good.”

Shane scoffed. “Gee, thanks. Are you here because you noticed your dishes didn’t get washed last night?”

Ilya’s expression flickered. “I–no. I just wanted to see if you were alive, Shane.”

“Well. Here I am. Can you go now?”

Ilya shifted on his feet, looking unsure.

“I’m–is something going on? Are you sick?”

Sick. Shane almost laughed. It’d be better if he was sick. Then maybe there would be a cure for what was happening to him. Medicine he could take to make it better. This was just Shane, his body betraying him again. 

“No,” Shane said quickly. “I don’t need anything. I’m fine. Nothing’s—”

His voice broke.

Once it started, he couldn’t stop it. The tears came fast and hot, spilling down his face as his chest caved inward. He turned his face into the pillow, humiliated.

Before he could register it, the mattress dipped.

Ilya was there.

“Hey,” he said urgently, hands already on Shane’s face, thumbs wiping at tears without thinking. “Did someone hurt you? Was it Troy?”

“No,” Shane sobbed, shaking his head. “God, no—”

Ilya’s hands stayed, steady, grounding. He cupped Shane’s face like he was something fragile, something to be protected. Shane hated how much Ilya’s touch still soothed him. They didn’t do this. They never got close to one another. So why was Ilya here all of a sudden, swooping in to bring him back out of the deep end?

“Hey. It’s okay.” 

Shane shook his head, tears falling faster now. “It’s not.”

“Okay, maybe not. But I’m here, Shane. I’ve got you.”

His fingers slid up into Shane’s hair, pressing gently at his scalp.

Shane gasped.

The pressure cut through the headache for just a second—just enough that his whole body relaxed.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Wait—do that again.”

Ilya did. Slowly, gently.

Shane let out a broken, relieved sound. “That’s—fuck. That’s so nice. My head just stopped hurting for like… one second.”

He stiffened, reality crashing back in. “Sorry. You don’t actually have to—”

“Do you want me to call Troy?” Ilya asked. “Maybe he—”

“No,” Shane said sharply. “It’s not like that.”

Ilya’s face softened. He hesitated. “If it helps… I can keep doing this. If you want.”

“Would it be weird?”

Ilya shrugged. “No. You helped me when I hurt my hands. Now I want to help you.”

Shane swallowed.

“…Okay.”

Ilya slid fully onto the bed, careful not to jostle him, and continued massaging Shane’s scalp with slow, deliberate pressure. Shane melted into it despite himself, eyes fluttering shut, breath evening out just a little. He gripped Ilya’s arm gently, pulling him closer. It was so nice that he barely even registered it–Ilya was in his bed. And they were basically cuddling. But for the first time in hours, his head didn’t feel like it was being hacked open. He felt sleepy, relaxed, safe. 

He drifted off peacefully, the gentle pressure of Ilya’s fingers against his scalp lulling him to sleep. 

This time, when Shane woke, it was slow. Pleasant.
He was pressed against something warm and solid, and—

Ilya.

Shane was tucked against his chest, Ilya’s arm still around him, one hand tangled in his hair, the other resting at the small of his back like he’d never moved. Ilya was asleep, mouth parted slightly, his face smooth—free of the tension he carried like armor when he was awake. He looked younger like this.

He looked like the boy Shane remembered.

The urge to touch him was almost overwhelming. Shane lifted his hand, hesitating, then traced the air just above Ilya’s cheek, mapping the familiar constellation of moles without quite making contact. His throat tightened.

Ilya shifted.

Shane froze.

A quiet sound slipped from Ilya’s throat as he blinked awake, eyes unfocused at first. He looked down, registering the weight against him, the arm around Shane’s back.

“Oh,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. “Hi.”

Shane swallowed. “Hey.”

Neither of them moved.

Ilya’s fingers flexed once in Shane’s hair, reflexive. He seemed to realize what he was doing a second later—but he didn’t pull away. “Did you… sleep?”

“Yeah,” Shane said softly. “I think so.”

“Good.” Ilya exhaled, relief obvious. “You were hurting.”

Shane nodded. “It’s better. Still there, but… manageable.” He hesitated. “You didn’t have to stay.”

Ilya gave a small, tired smile. “You were holding onto me like I might disappear.”

Heat rushed to Shane’s face. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Ilya’s thumb traced a slow, absent line at Shane’s back. “I didn’t mind.”

Silence settled between them—comfortable, fragile. The early light filtered through the curtains, painting everything soft and unreal.

Neither of them were ready to acknowledge what was sitting between them. This was not normal roommate behavior, Shane knew that. And it certainly wasn’t normal for Ilya. He usually avoided Shane like the plague.

What had changed?

After a moment, Ilya spoke again. “You scared me, you know.”

Shane’s chest tightened. “I’m sorry.”

I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” Ilya said quickly. “Just… you are so—fuck, I don’t know the word. You are always holding yourself together.” He shook his head, searching. “It seems like nothing ever phases you. You fall, and then you get back up like it’s nothing. So seeing you like that—” His voice dropped. “It scared me.”

“That’s not true,” Shane whispered. “Everything phases me. I just… don’t want anyone to see me break.”

“You know,” Ilya continued, gentler now, “it’s okay if you aren’t perfect all the time. You don’t have to pretend. Not around me.”

“Okay,” Shane said softly.

For a moment, they just lay there, gazes locked, legs tangled beneath the blanket. Ilya was looking at him like—like he could really see him. Not the version Shane showed everyone else. All of him.

Then Ilya cleared his throat.

“You should eat something. And drink water.”

“Oh. Right.”

Ilya sat up, tugging Shane with him. “Come on, sleeping beauty. I will make you something for breakfast.”

Shane followed him into the living room—and stopped short.

The dorm was spotless. No empty bottles. No stray dishes. The counters looked wiped down, the trash gone, the air somehow lighter. 

He stared at Ilya. “Did you do this?”

Ilya shrugged, already rummaging in the fridge. “I knew you wouldn’t want to wake up to a mess. It’s not a big deal.”

“I thought you said I couldn’t change you,” Shane said quietly. “I thought you didn’t care what I wanted.”

Ilya paused. Then he turned, expression serious. “That was…I shouldn’t have said that.” He exhaled. “I was an asshole. I have been an asshole most of the semester. I’m sorry.”

Shane blinked, something warm spreading through his chest. “Thank you. For saying that. And for cleaning.” He hesitated. “It means more than you think.”

Ilya smiled—small and real this time.

“So,” Shane said, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, “could we maybe be friends? I mean—we live together. We’re on the same team. It’d be nice not to feel like I’m tiptoeing around you.”

Ilya didn’t even hesitate. “Yes, Shane. We can be friends.”

Relief washed over him so hard his knees almost gave.

“Good,” Shane murmured. “I’d like that.”

Ilya turned back to the stove, pulling out a pan. “Sit,” he ordered gently. “You look like you will fall over if you do not.”

“Yes, chef.”

Ilya snorted. “You are lucky you are sick.”

“What are you making?”

“Eggs. And a smoothie. I know your diet is strict.”

Shane blinked. “You know about my diet?”

“How could I not?” Ilya said dryly. “You wake me up at six in the morning with your stupid fucking blender.”

Shane laughed. “Sorry.”

He watched Ilya move around the kitchen—cracking eggs one-handed, flipping them with practiced ease, dumping frozen fruit and protein powder into the blender without measuring. It felt strangely intimate. Younger Shane would’ve killed for this: sharing a space with Ilya, watching him make breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When Ilya was done, he slid a plate and a glass across the counter. “Eat. I don’t want you to waste away.”

Shane took a bite of the eggs.

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “These are actually…really good.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched. “I am offended you thought they would not be.”

Shane smiled, taking another bite, the knot in his chest loosening with every chew. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was—not just for food, but for this. Being near Ilya again.

They ate in companionable silence for a few moments, the AC humming faintly in Shane’s ears, like proof that this was real.

“You feel better?” Ilya asked eventually, quieter now.

“Yeah,” Shane said after a second. “Not perfect. But…better.”

“Good.” Ilya leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expression. “If it happens again—whatever that was—you tell me. Okay?”

Shane hesitated. Then he nodded. “Okay.”

The next few weeks were actually nice. Ilya had started cleaning up after himself. Shane no longer had to worry about picking his wet towels off the floor or throwing away empty soda cans he'd left on the counter.

That wasn’t the only change. Ilya—who, for all intents and purposes, had once seemed perfectly content to ignore Shane’s existence—had become a friend. He cooked most nights, and Shane cleaned. They ate together on the couch, knees brushing, a movie half-watched as they traded quiet commentary and stupid observations. Sometimes they argued over what to put on, sometimes they fell asleep halfway through, plates balanced dangerously on their laps.

Ilya even talked to him at practice now. During drills, he’d skate close enough to whisper hushed jokes under his breath, lips tugged into that crooked grin that always made Shane’s focus stutter.

“Your backhand is shit today,” Ilya muttered once, shoulder-checking him lightly as they passed.

Shane shot him a look. “I beat you in sprints yesterday.”

“Fluke.”

“Liar.”

Ilya laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and Shane felt it settle somewhere deep in his chest.

They started stretching together after practice, sitting side by side on the locker room floor. It felt so much like the days they’d shared in high school, lingering on the ice long after everyone else had gone. Sometimes Ilya would wordlessly hand Shane his water bottle if he noticed he’d forgotten it. 

And Shane tried—really tried—not to read into it.

He told himself this was just what friendship looked like. That the way Ilya hovered in doorways, or waited for him before leaving the rink, didn’t mean anything. That the occasional brush of fingers, the shared looks, the soft “night, Shane” murmured before bed were all harmless.

But late at night, lying in the dark with the faint sound of Ilya’s breathing through the thin wall between their beds, Shane’s chest still ached.

Because it felt good.

It felt like they were slowly finding their way back to something they’d lost—even if Ilya didn’t know there had ever been anything to lose. Shane told himself that was fine. Maybe it was better this way. Friendship was manageable. Friendship didn’t need explanations Shane wasn’t ready to give.

Apparently, it also didn’t go unnoticed.

They were sitting in a café on campus, steam fogging up the windows as students came in and out around them. Thick snowflakes drifted through the air outside. Shane was halfway through his coffee when Hayden leaned back in his chair, studying him over the rim of his cup.

“So,” he said casually, “how come you and Rozanov are all buddy-buddy now?”

Shane nearly choked. “We’re not—” He coughed, setting his cup down. “I mean. We’re just… friends.”

Troy’s eyebrows shot up, a slow, exaggerated climb. Shane felt heat rush to his face immediately.

“Shut up!” Shane snapped.

“I didn’t say anything,” Troy replied innocently.

Shane groaned, dropping his elbows onto the table and covering his face with his hands.

“I mean,” Hayden went on, undeterred, “you guys used to be, like, arch enemies. Now he waits for you after practice so you can walk back to your dorm together.”

“We were not arch enemies,” Shane said, muffled. He dropped his hands and shot Hayden a look. “He was just—he was an asshole at the beginning of the semester. And I was probably too quick to judge. He apologized.”

Troy blinked. “Wow. Rozanov knows how to apologize?”

“Yes,” Shane said sharply. “And he meant it.”

Hayden leaned forward, interested. “Huh.”

“He’s actually—” Shane hesitated, then pushed on, “he’s really nice when you get to know him. He helped me when I was—”

He stopped himself, throat tightening.

Both of them were watching him too closely now.

“When I was sick,” Shane finished quickly.

Troy’s expression shifted, something more thoughtful replacing the teasing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, a little too firm. “He didn’t have to. But he did.”

Hayden exchanged a look with Troy. “Okay,” he said slowly. “So… not-enemies to besties? Or, like—more than besties?”

Shane rolled his eyes, standing abruptly and grabbing his coffee. “You’re reading into it.”

“Maybe,” Troy said easily. “Or maybe you just don’t want to.”

“You two are exhausting,” Shane muttered, already halfway out of his chair.

“Tell your boyfriend we said hi,” Hayden called after him.

“He’s not my—” Shane cut himself off, flipped them off without turning around, and kept walking.

But the words stuck.

Boyfriend. That wasn't—that wasn't an option with Ilya. Not after everything Shane had done. Everything he'd hidden.

The idea followed him all the way back to the dorm, buzzing under his skin in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine. When he opened the door, Ilya looked stressed.

“Hey. What’s going on?” 

Ilya exhaled roughly, dragging his hands across his face. “The fucking heater is broken. I’ve been on the phone all morning trying to get it fixed, but they say they can’t come for at least another week.” 

Shane’s eyes widened. “A week? It’s fucking freezing.”

“I know,” Ilya said irritably. “They say the best they can do is give us one space heater. One. Fucking bullshit.”

“How the fuck are we supposed to stay warm with one space heater?” Shane dropped his bag and rubbed his arms, suddenly very aware of the chill in the room.

“I don’t know,” Ilya snapped, then sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m just—pissed.”

“Okay. Okay.” Shane took a breath. “We keep all the windows closed. Stuff towels in the cracks.”

“That might help a little,” Ilya admitted.

“And maybe we just… spend most of our time elsewhere,” Shane added, a little too quickly. “I could go to Troy’s dorm.”

The moment the words left his mouth, something in Ilya’s expression tightened.

“Oh,” he said flatly.

Shane hesitated. “I mean—just during the day, just until they fix it. His building’s newer. Probably actually has heat.”

“Right,” Ilya said. “Of course.”

He turned away, grabbing a blanket off the back of the couch and shaking it out harder than necessary. Shane watched him, unease curling in his stomach.

“Um. Unless you…”

“What, Shane?”

“Unless you wanna hangout. I mean—I guess sharing body heat is also a viable option.”

Ilya smiled. “You want to share body heat?”

“Well—it’s efficient. Thermodynamically.”

“Of course,” Ilya said, very carefully. “Thermodynamics.”

The silence stretched, thick and charged. Then Ilya cleared his throat.

“We can move the space heater into the living room. They just dropped it off.” he said. “Set up blankets. Make a nest.”

“A nest,” Shane repeated, lips twitching.

“Do not mock me,” Ilya warned. “I am cold and angry and I will bite.”

Shane laughed, real and warm. “Okay. Nest it is.”

And so, after practice, Shane and Ilya returned to a frigid dorm. Shane had already set up the couch, piling it high with blankets and pillows. The space heater sat on the floor in front of it, humming softly, doing its absolute best against the Montreal winter.

Ilya dropped his bag and surveyed the setup. “Hopefully there are enough pillows,” he said, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Shut up,” Shane said, already flushed. “I just—I wanted it to be comfortable.”

Ilya’s expression softened, just a little. “Go change,” he said. “I will start on dinner.”

“Okay.”

Shane padded down the short hallway to his room and changed quickly, tugging on sweats and the thick cable-knit sweater his dad had given him last year. It was oversized and a little worn at the cuffs, but it was the warmest thing he owned. The second he pulled it on, he felt himself relax, shoulders dropping as the familiar weight settled around him.

When he came back out, the dorm smelled faintly of chicken and warm spices, and Ilya was already at the stove, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from his post-practice shower.

Shane paused in the doorway longer than necessary.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“A little,” Ilya admitted, stirring the liquid in the pot. “But it is okay. The nest will fix it, no?”

Shane laughed softly. “Yeah. Let’s hope so.”

He crossed the room and settled onto the couch, wriggling until the blanket was tucked just right around his shoulders. The cushions were still cold beneath him, but the space heater’s weak warmth was starting to gather. He looked up just in time to catch Ilya watching him—something fond in his expression that made Shane’s chest stutter.

A few minutes later, Ilya returned from the kitchen, carefully balancing two steaming bowls of soup.

“We— we shouldn’t eat soup on the couch,” Shane said automatically.

“Our heater is broken,” Ilya replied, deadpan. “We can break rules a little, I think. If we spill, I will clean it.”

Shane snorted. “You’re very convincing.”

“I know.”

He took the bowl Ilya handed him, cradling it in both hands. The ceramic was almost too hot, heat seeping into his palms. He inhaled the steam, then took a cautious sip.

It warmed him instantly, spreading through his chest and stomach like a slow exhale. He couldn’t help the little hum that slipped out.

Ilya’s eyebrows lifted. “Good?”

“Perfect,” Shane said honestly. “Seriously—how’d you learn to cook like this?”

Ilya paused, his expression shifting. “I–my mom used to do all the cooking.” He took a slow inhale, hesitating before going on. “When she died, I had to learn.”

Shane’s heart almost stopped. When did Ilya’s mom pass away? 

“What?”

“Um. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Your mom. She’s–she’s dead?”

Ilya stiffened, shoulders going tight in a way Shane recognized immediately now. A shutdown. He stared down into his soup like it had suddenly become very interesting.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “She died. She was…sick.”

Shane’s chest went hollow. “Ilya… I didn’t know.”

Ilya sighed, rubbing his thumb along the rim of the bowl. “It is not exactly something I announce.”

“When?” Shane asked gently, voice low. 

Ilya swallowed. “The summer after I moved to Canada.”

Oh god.

The word hit Shane like a knife—sharp, echoing. That summer. The one that lived in him like a scar.

The summer he stopped answering his phone.
The summer he disappeared.
The summer he told himself he needed to let Ilya go, that he couldn’t be anyone’s anything while he figured out how to survive becoming himself.

The summer Ilya’s mom died. Shane's brain flashed with images of Ilya's texts from back then. 

Please. I need you right now. 

Please just tell me what I did so I can fix it.

Shane’s grip tightened around his bowl. The soup sloshed dangerously close to the edge, but he barely noticed. His ears were ringing.

“Oh,” he said again, stupidly.

Ilya didn’t look up. He kept tracing the rim of the bowl with his thumb, slow and precise, like if he focused hard enough the past might stay where it belonged.
“She was unhappy,” he added quietly. “I think maybe she is in a better place now.”

Shane’s chest ached. He wanted to reach out, to say something that mattered, something that didn’t sound like an apology for a crime Ilya hadn’t accused him of—couldn’t accuse him of, not yet.

“I’m really sorry,” Shane said finally. It felt inadequate, not even close to enough to make up for the damage Shane had done. But it was all he could say without cracking himself open at Ilya’s feet.

Ilya nodded once. Still didn’t look at him.
“Mm,” he hummed.

They ate in silence after that, the warmth of the soup doing nothing to thaw the cold creeping up Shane’s spine. Across from him, Ilya was quiet and solemn. 

“Sorry. I think I may have brought the mood down.” He said softly, swallowing another spoonful of soup.

“No–no, it’s okay. Do you wanna put on a movie? You can choose.” Shane offered. 

Ilya smiled sadly. “Yes. I would like that.”

Shane set their bowls aside on the coffee table and reached for the remote, handing it over like an offering. Ilya scrolled slowly, pausing on titles without really seeing them. Eventually, he picked something familiar and low-stakes, the kind of movie you could half-watch without thinking too hard.

As it started, Ilya tucked himself back under the blanket, close enough that Shane could feel the heat of him through the fabric. After a second’s hesitation, Shane shifted too, angling his body toward Ilya. Not touching. Just closer.

Onscreen, someone said something meant to be funny. Shane laughed a beat too late. Ilya didn’t laugh at all. Shane could feel his gaze burning into the side of his face.

He shifted, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. The room was warm now—not really, not in any practical sense, but the blankets trapped what little heat they had, and the soup sat heavy and comforting in his stomach. His eyelids felt thick. Weighted.

Shane told himself he’d just close them for a second. It was much longer than a second.

The movie blurred at the edges, dialogue melting into background noise. His breathing slowed without him noticing, head tipping slightly until it brushed Ilya’s shoulder. 

He jerked awake for half a second, mortified. “Sorry—”

“It is okay,” Ilya murmured immediately, voice low. “We can turn it off. If you want to go to sleep now.”

“I think I’m gonna go to bed,” Shane said, rubbing his eyes. “I’m wiped.”

“Okay,” Ilya said. “I’ll move the space heater for you.”

“What?” Shane blinked at him.

“I will move it. To your room.”

“You’ll freeze,” Shane said immediately. “You’re really gonna sleep without a heater?”

“I’m fine,” Ilya replied. “I run hot, anyway.”

“I thought we said we’d both sleep in the living room,” Shane said, frowning slightly.

Ilya hesitated. “The couch is small. And uncomfortable. I don’t want you to hurt your back.”

“So come to my room, then,” Shane blurted. His cheeks went hot the second the words left his mouth.
“My bed is—well, it’s not big, but it’s definitely better than the couch.”

Silence fell between them.

Ilya blinked at him, clearly caught off guard. “Your… room?”

“Yeah,” Shane said quickly, suddenly very aware of how fast his heart was beating. “I mean—just to sleep. It’s freezing out here, and the heater’ll work better in there anyway.”

Ilya studied him for a moment, searching his face like he was looking for something unspoken. Finally, he exhaled.

“If you are sure,” he said carefully.

“I am,” Shane said, maybe too fast.

They moved quietly, like the sound itself might spook the moment. Shane plugged the heater in near his bed while Ilya lingered awkwardly by the door, hands shoved into his sleeves.

“You can take the bed,” Shane said, then immediately backtracked. “Or—half. I mean. We can share. Or not share. Whatever you want. God.”

Ilya huffed a small laugh. “Relax,” he said softly. “We will share. I am not made of glass.”

They climbed in under the covers, careful at first, leaving a polite inch of space between them. The space heater hummed faintly, useless against the cold air seeping into the room.

Shane shivered, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“Shane,” Ilya said quietly.

“What?”

“You are shaking.”

“Uh—yeah,” Shane muttered. “I mean. It’s freezing.”

Ilya shifted closer, close enough now that Shane could feel the heat radiating off him. His hand hovered over Shane’s arm, hesitant.

“Can I… can I touch you?”

Shane blinked, breath catching. “Um. What?”

Ilya flushed faintly. “It’s like you said. Thermodynamics. We will be warmer if we—” He gestured vaguely between them. “Share body heat.”

“Oh.” Shane swallowed. “Right.”

“Only if you want,” Ilya added quickly. “I just—you look really cold.”

Shane hesitated for half a second, then nodded. His voice came out soft.

“You can touch me.”

Ilya didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around Shane, firm and careful all at once, pulling him closer until their noses brushed. His hands were impossibly warm, splayed solidly across Shane’s back.

Shane let out a quiet, contented sigh.

“That’s so nice,” he murmured. “How are you so warm?”

Ilya chuckled softly, the sound low and vibrating through his chest. “I don’t know. Maybe it is a Russian thing.”

Shane smiled despite himself. He tipped his head down, hesitating just a beat.

“It’s fine, Shane,” Ilya said gently, reading him the way he always seemed to now. “You can hold onto me.”

Shane didn’t waste any time. He buried his face into Ilya’s collarbone, breathing him in, hands curling into the fabric of his shirt like he was afraid the warmth might disappear if he let go.

Ilya’s breath hitched slightly, instinct pulling him closer. His arms tightened around Shane without thought, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers tracing slow, steady circles through his hair.

“Sleep, solnyshko,” he murmured again, voice low and certain. “I’ve got you.”

Shane’s brain stuttered at the Russian word, heart skipping. “What… did you call me?” he murmured into Ilya’s skin, heavy-lidded and fuzzy with sleep.

“Nothing, Shane. Just… sleep,” Ilya said, soft, reassuring, pressing him closer.

Shane exhaled against him, letting go of the day, of the cold, of the ache in his chest. His eyes slipped shut, the warmth and steadiness of Ilya’s presence pulling him into a deep, untroubled sleep.

Ilya didn’t let go.

Chapter End Notes

I, too would like to be cuddled and cooked for by Ilya Rozanov. Shane you are not special. I love these babies so much you have no idea. They are almost there I promise they're just a lil confused rn okay??

Please let me know if you enjoyed, leave a comment if you have any thoughts. I love reading what you guys have to say. As always, thank you for reading and I love you!

Chapter 3: You just gonna let fear take that?

Chapter Notes

Woah guys happy last chapter! I don’t really have much to say other than I hope you enjoy and I love you all.

For content warnings, there’s really not too much, but there is explicit content in this chapter so if that’s not your jam I’d steer clear. In the smut, I do use some gendered language to describe Shane’s genitalia, ie: cunt, pussy, so just be aware!

For the next week, Ilya shared Shane’s bed. It was far more pleasant than Shane was willing to admit. Ilya was warm, and safe, and familiar. He found himself sleeping better than he had in years.

In the mornings, they would wake, still wrapped around each other, sharing hushed greetings as the sun streamed in through the blinds. 

It gave way to something unspoken and unnamed between them. Ilya, who had been so careful and cautious about the way he touched Shane before, seemed to have resolved himself to find a way to touch Shane at all times.

Not that Shane was complaining. He kind of loved it, actually. He loved feeling Ilya’s arms slide around his waist while he was washing dishes, blaming the cold, chalking it up to the need for warmth. 

He loved when Ilya would pull him closer on the sofa, until their legs were tangled under the blanket, until Shane could feel Ilya’s heart beating where his ear was pressed against his chest. 

He couldn’t even make himself care about Troy’s comments, about Hayden’s shocked looks.

Shane wanted to stay in this bubble forever. Part of him never wanted the heater to get fixed, if it meant he’d get this forever. 

Tonight, there was something thick and heavy in the air. They both had settled in bed earlier than usual, exhausted from the day. Shane didn’t remember falling asleep. Slowly, he drifted back into consciousness.

Ilya had a hand on Shane’s cheek, and was looking at him like he was the only person on the planet. His gaze flicked down to Shane’s lips. Once, twice, and again. Shane’s breath hitched. 

Ilya pulled him closer, thumb stroking across Shane’s cheek. Holy shit. This was happening. His hand moved down to Shane’s jaw, dragging Shane’s mouth closer and closer until they met in the middle in a slow kiss. 

Shane sighed happily, fingers threading into Ilya's curls. This. This was everything he’d ever wanted. Ilya smiled, pulling back slowly. 

Ilya smiled as he pulled back, forehead resting against Shane’s.

“I love you, Shane.”

“I love you too,” Shane whispered, relief flooding him.

Then Ilya stilled.

His expression shifted, like a shadow passing over his face. “Wait,” he said slowly. “You’re not my Shane.”

Shane’s chest seized. “What—yes, I am. I’m right here.”

Ilya’s hand fell away. His mouth twisted, something sharp and unfamiliar in his eyes.

“No,” he said flatly. “You’re… something else.”

“No,” Shane pleaded, reaching for him. “I’m me. I’m your Shane.”

Ilya recoiled. “You’re different. How could you think I’d want this version of you?”

The words cut deep and fast. Shane’s vision blurred as tears spilled over.

“Ilya—please—”

“Shane?”

The voice was real this time.

“Shane.”

He jolted awake, heart pounding, the room dark and cold around him. His chest felt tight, breath coming too fast. There were tears on his face. Ilya was right there, arms already wrapped around him, concern etched into every line of his expression.

The tears kept falling. Shane tried to breathe through it, to anchor himself, to remind himself that none of it had been real.

“Hey,” Ilya murmured, pulling him closer. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Shane shook his head against Ilya’s chest. He was painfully aware of the mess he was making—snot, tears soaking into Ilya’s shirt—but he couldn’t stop. His body felt like it was still breaking apart.

“Shane,” Ilya said gently, one hand sliding up and down his back, steady and warm. “Whatever it was, it wasn’t real. I’m here.”

That did it.

Shane’s fingers fisted in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt, clinging. His sobs slowly dulled into uneven breaths, hiccupping against Ilya’s collarbone. Ilya didn’t move away. He didn’t tense. He just held on, solid and unyielding, like he had nowhere else he needed to be.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

Eventually, Shane’s breathing evened out. The tears slowed, then stopped, leaving him hollow and exhausted. Ilya shifted just enough to press a soft kiss into Shane’s hair.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked quietly. “Or do you want to forget it ever happened.”

Shane swallowed. His throat burned.

“…Can we just stay like this?” he whispered.

Ilya’s arms tightened, immediate and sure. “Of course.”

He tucked Shane in closer, careful and reverent, one hand resting over his heart. Shane focused on the steady rhythm beneath his palm. 

Sleep crept back in, slower this time, gentler.

And when it took him, Shane didn’t dream again. 

The nightmare followed him through the day, clinging to every stray thought like it had teeth. Shane couldn’t shake it, no matter how hard he tried to bury himself in routine. Every quiet moment brought it back—the way Ilya’s face had twisted, the cold disgust in his voice.

What would Ilya say if he ever found out the truth?

The question gnawed at him. Would he pull away, sharp and cruel, like Shane’s mind insisted he would? Or would he take Shane into his arms, and…

God. Shane scrubbed a hand down his face.

He was going crazy. That was all this was. Old feelings resurfacing because of proximity, because of late nights and shared warmth and the illusion of something safe. But that was temporary. The heater was getting fixed today. This—all of this—had an expiration date.

Practice helped. The ice always did.

Out there, everything narrowed down to muscle memory and breath, the familiar burn in his legs, the sharp scrape of blades against ice. For an hour, his brain finally shut up. 

By the time he was packing up his gear, the fog had lifted a little.

That’s when Troy bumped his shoulder with his own. “Hey,” he said casually. “You going to Cliff’s party tonight?”

Shane hesitated, fingers curling around the strap of his bag. He didn’t usually do parties. They were always too loud, always filled with too many people.

On his other side, Ilya leaned in, already smiling like he knew the answer Shane hadn’t decided on yet. “Come on, Hollander,” he said, nudging Shane with his elbow. “You have to come with me. Will be fun.” His tone dropped, conspiratorial. “And Cliff has good beer.”

Shane snorted despite himself. He glanced between them, weighing it. Maybe this was exactly what he needed—to get out of his head, to break whatever fragile bubble had formed around him and Ilya.

“…Okay,” Shane said finally, a reluctant grin pulling at his mouth. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

Troy groaned dramatically. “Of course you say yes when Rozanov asks.”

Ilya beamed, clearly pleased, and waggled his eyebrows. “Roommate privileges.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but he didn’t bother hiding his smile.

Later, Shane lingered in the doorway while Ilya adjusted his hair in the bathroom mirror.

It was unfair. Genuinely unfair how good he looked without trying—tank top clinging to his shoulders, jeans slung low on his hips like they’d been made for him. His cheeks were flushed from the heat finally creeping back into the apartment, and he kept shifting his weight against the counter, restless energy buzzing under his skin.

It almost made Shane angry.

Ilya caught his eye in the mirror. “How do I look?”

Shane snorted. “Like you’re going to freeze. Ilya, we just spent all week trying not to die of hypothermia.”

Ilya laughed, bright and easy. “Obviously I’m going to put on a jacket.”

Thank God. Shane didn’t think he could handle staring at those arms any longer. It was doing something deeply unhelpful to his ability to think straight.

Unfortunately for Shane, the jacket Ilya grabbed was leather.

“That is not warm enough for walking outside,” Shane protested as Ilya shrugged it on.

“Relax, Shane,” Ilya said, grinning as he zipped it halfway. “I’m trying to look hot here.”

Shane’s chest tightened, sharp and sudden. Trying to look hot. For who?

The thought hit him harder than he expected. His stomach churned as he followed Ilya out the door, keys jangling uselessly in his hand. He told himself it was stupid—of course Ilya wanted to look good. It didn’t mean anything.

The walk to Cliff’s place didn’t help.

Ilya stayed close, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulder brushing Shane’s every few steps. He smelled clean and warm, like soap and something faintly citrusy, and he was talking animatedly about his bio class.

Shane nodded in the right places, laughed when Ilya laughed, but the words barely registered. All he could think about was the space between them, or rather, the lack of it.

By the time they reached Cliff’s house, music thudding through the walls and warm light spilling onto the sidewalk, Shane felt wound tight.

The front door opened before they even knocked. “Rozanov!” someone shouted, already grinning. “You made it!”

Ilya lit up instantly, stepping inside and pulling Shane along with him. The place was packed—teammates everywhere, cups in hand, the air buzzing with noise and laughter. Someone cranked the music louder as they passed through the living room.

Shane hovered just behind Ilya, suddenly very aware of himself. There were already too many people. Too many eyes. He hadn’t been to one of these in a while.

Ilya glanced back at him, noticing. “You okay?” he asked, leaning close so Shane could hear him over the music.

Shane swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

Ilya smiled, warm and reassuring, and clapped him lightly on the shoulder before being swept away by a couple of teammates.

Shane watched him go, leather jacket catching the light, easy and magnetic as ever.

And he couldn’t help thinking that coming here might have been a mistake after all.

Thankfully, Hayden spotted him before he could fully retreat into himself.

“Hey, buddy!” Hayden said brightly, appearing at Shane’s side like a lifeline. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“Well,” Shane said, lifting his hands in a helpless little shrug. “Here I am.”

Hayden laughed and clapped a hand between Shane’s shoulder blades. “Come on. Troy’s in the other room. Let’s get you a drink.”

Before Shane could protest, Hayden was already steering him toward the kitchen, palm warm and guiding at his back. The kitchen was crowded and loud, bodies packed close together, the counter sticky with spilled alcohol.

Troy was there just like Hayden promised—already flushed, eyes bright, swaying slightly where he leaned against the counter. When he saw Shane, his face lit up.

“Shane! You came!” Troy wrapped his arms around Shane’s neck without hesitation, squeezing him tight.

Shane laughed softly and hugged him back, relief flooding his chest at the familiar presence. “Hi, Troy.”

“You want a drink?” Troy asked immediately, already reaching for a cup.

Shane hesitated. He didn’t really drink. He liked control. Liked knowing where his body was, what it was doing. But Troy looked like he was having the time of his life, and Shane felt wound too tight, thoughts buzzing too loud.

Maybe a drink would help.

“Uh—sure,” Shane said after a second. “Yeah.”

Troy’s eyebrows shot up. “Who are you, and what have you done with Shane Hollander?”

Shane snorted just as Hayden shoved a plastic cup into his hand, sloshing with something dark and sweet-smelling.

He raised it uncertainly. “To… poor decision-making?”

“To poor decision-making,” Troy echoed solemnly, clinking his cup against Shane’s.

Shane took a sip.

It burned, then went down warm, settling in his stomach in a way that made his shoulders loosen just a little.

The three of them lingered near the kitchen counter, shouting over the music, trading easy jokes and half-finished stories. Shane found himself laughing more than he had in a while. The knot in his chest loosened with every sip.

Eventually, Troy's eyes flicked toward the living room where the music was louder and bodies were packed together.

“Shane,” he said suddenly, grabbing Shane’s wrist. “Come dance. I wanna dance.”

Hayden made an offended noise. “Hey! What about me?”

Troy didn’t even look at him. “You suck at dancing.”

Hayden scoffed. “That is slander.”

Shane cleared his throat, already being tugged away. “I also suck at dancing.”

“No, you just never do it,” Troy insisted, fingers tightening around Shane’s wrist. “There’s a difference. Come on!”

Before Shane could come up with another excuse, Troy was pulling him into the living room, straight into the heat and noise. The bass vibrated through the floor, through Shane’s shoes, up into his bones. People were pressed shoulder to shoulder, moving in a loose, chaotic rhythm that barely counted as dancing.

Troy immediately started swaying, unbothered by rhythm or coordination, laughing when Shane stood there stiffly.

“Relax,” Troy said, leaning close so Shane could hear him. “No one’s watching.”

Shane doubted that—but he tried anyway. He let himself move a little, awkward at first, then looser as the music carried him. Troy spun once, nearly knocking into someone, and grabbed Shane’s hands to steady himself.

“See?” Troy grinned. “You’re doing great.”

Shane laughed, breathless, cheeks warm. The room felt hazy, edges softening. He caught sight of Hayden across the room, dancing terribly on purpose, and laughed harder.

“I need—” Shane gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. “Water. Or another drink. Or both.”

Troy squinted at him. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, still smiling. “I think so.”

He slipped away before Troy could argue, weaving through bodies and loud conversations. The kitchen was just as crowded, people pressed around the counter, drinks sweating onto every available surface. Shane grabbed another cup, didn’t think too hard about what went into it, just knew he wanted that warm, floaty feeling to stay.

As he turned, cup in hand, his gaze snagged on something across the room.

Ilya.

He was sitting on the arm of a couch near the window, one knee bent, jacket still on. Beside him sat a girl Shane didn’t recognize. She had curly hair, confident posture, leaning in close. They were talking quietly, faces angled toward each other, and then Shane heard what sounded like Russian. 

Russian.

Shane didn’t understand the words, but he didn’t need to. He’d heard Ilya speak Russian more times than he could count. The cadence was unmistakable. The way Ilya’s voice softened, dropped into something intimate and familiar. The girl laughed at something he said, replying just as easily, just as fluently.

Something sharp twisted in Shane’s chest.

He stood there longer than he meant to, fingers tightening around his cup. Ilya hadn’t looked his way once. Not when Shane walked into the kitchen. Not now.

The music pulsed on, laughter rising and falling around him, but it all felt distant suddenly, like he was underwater. He took a big sip of his drink, barely tasting it, eyes still fixed on the easy way Ilya leaned in, the way his hand gestured as he spoke.

Oh, Shane thought dimly.

So that’s what this was. 

The warmth in his stomach curdled into something heavier as he swallowed again.

He numbly walked back to the living room, where Hayden and Troy were still dancing. He took another swig of his drink, joining his friends again. 

Whatever. Ilya could do what he wanted.

He forced a grin, shrugging as he pushed his way back into the crowd. Troy clapped him on the shoulder, laughing, “See? You’re a natural!”

Shane laughed too, though it felt a little hollow. He kept sipping from his cup, letting the warmth spread, chasing down the pinch of jealousy that clung to his chest.

The music thumped through the floor, pounding against his ribs, and for a little while, Shane lost himself. He danced with Troy, laughed at Hayden’s awful moves, even let himself throw his head back and scream along with the chorus of a song he barely knew the words to.

It helped—just a little.

But as the minutes passed, the haze in his head started to twist again. Every time he remembered the image of Ilya laughing with that girl, the warmth turned cold. The liquid courage that had buoyed him now felt like it was leaking out, leaving him floating in a sinking pool of disappointment.

Shane finished his drink, hands trembling slightly, and muttered an excuse to Troy and Hayden. “Be right back,” he said, voice tighter than he wanted.

He wove through the party, ignoring the nudges and cheers of classmates, and headed for the kitchen. He grabbed his jacket, his fingers fumbling with the zipper. He shoved it on, hating the way it barely settled the cold feeling in his chest. 

Without another word, he stormed up the stairs to the balcony, pushing open the door into the cold night air. The wind hit his flushed face, cutting through the buzz, and Shane hugged himself, leaning against the railing. He let the lights blur in front of him as a lump formed in his throat.

Then he heard footsteps. It was Ilya. Shane always knew him without even turning around.

“Shane. Why are you up here? It’s freezing.”

Shane ignored him, staring out over the balcony.

“Is everything okay? I’m sorry if you felt pressured to come. I shouldn’t have—”

Shane turned to face him. “I was glad you asked me,” he slurred slightly, words tumbling out. “But now… I don’t even think you want to be here with me at all.”

“What?”

“You’ve spent all night with your… your stupid fucking girlfriend, and I—”

“I just met her, Shane!”

“Well, you look pretty friendly to me.” Shane muttered bitterly.

Ilya let out a short laugh. “Yes, we are friendly. Because she’s a friend.”

“Whatever. I don’t care.”

“Shane. She’s dating Velasco. I’m not trying to hook up with her.”

Shane’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Oh.”

Ilya smirked. “Yes, ‘oh’,” he teased, mimicking Shane’s tone.

“I would’ve stayed with you… I just… I know Troy and Hayden miss you. I’ve been… What is the word? Ah… monopolizing your time.” Ilya said, shrugging lightly.

Shane’s lips quirked upward. “I like when you do that,” he whispered.

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You are drunk.”

“Mm-mm. Not… not at all,” Shane mumbled, swaying slightly. Ilya shook his head with a laugh. 

“Anyway,” Ilya continued, softer now, “I wasn’t flirting with Svetlana. It’s just… nice to speak Russian again. It’s been a while.”

Shane giggled, voice a little thick. “I wish you’d speak more Russian to me. Just… so I can hear how pretty it sounds.”

Ilya reached over, ruffling Shane’s hair. Shane leaned into it, grinning. “You’re adorable,” he said.

Shane flushed, beaming all the same at the praise. 

Ilya sat down on the bench, patting the spot next to him. Shane joined him immediately, leaning into his shoulder. He was so warm. He smelled so good. 

“Oh. Thank you,” Ilya chuckled. 

Had Shane said that out loud?

Whatever. Ilya was so close, and so solid. Shane let his hand sneak up into Ilya’s hair, twisting the blonde curls around his finger. 

Shane’s hand lingered in Ilya’s curls, twisting them absentmindedly. The warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart under Shane’s ear, made the world narrow down to this one moment.

Without really thinking, Shane shifted closer, until his body was pressed against Ilya’s. Then closer still, practically climbing into his lap. His arms wrapped around Ilya’s waist, his face burying into the side of his neck.

Ilya laughed softly, low and amused. “Shane… you are so drunk.”

Shane looked up at him, eyes glassy but sparkling. He cupped Ilya’s face in his hands, leaning in. “I don’t care. You’re mine tonight,” he slurred softly, voice just above a whisper.

Ilya froze, caught between shock and amusement. “Okay. I’m yours, then.” he said, one hand resting lightly on Shane’s back.

But Shane wasn’t listening. He was too focused on Ilya’s mouth, the sharp curve of his cupid's bow. The little moles surrounding it. He wanted to taste it—needed to taste it. After a moment of deliberation, he leaned in and kissed Ilya, slow and messy, clumsy from the alcohol but full of intent.

Ilya’s breath caught. He kissed back for a beat, hands coming up to cup Shane’s face, before pulling away abruptly. His hands stayed on Shane’s face, steadying him.

“We—we can’t do this.” Ilya said, voice thick. 

“Why not?” Shane pouted, nuzzling into Ilya’s palm. 

“You don’t want this.” Ilya said. 

Shane blinked up at him, chest heaving slightly. He shook his head. “You… don’t want me,” he murmured, the words heavy with sudden, sharp disappointment.

Ilya’s expression changed, something unreadable flickering through his eyes. “I didn’t say that. You’re really drunk. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I think I’m thinking clearer than I ever have,” Shane whispered, eyes glistening. 

“Please, Shane. Don’t do something you’ll regret.” Ilya said gently. “Let’s go home, yeah?” His voice sounded strained. 

Shane frowned, but nodded. He let Ilya help him to his feet, an arm slung clumsily around Ilya’s shoulders as they made their slow, unsteady way down the stairs.

The cold night air did nothing to sober him.

When they reached the dorm, Shane latched onto Ilya again, arms looping around his neck as Ilya caught him at the waist to keep him upright. Ilya made a quiet sound of surprise before relaxing into it, one hand sliding up to rub slow, soothing circles into Shane’s back.

Shane pressed his face into Ilya’s neck, breathing him in like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

“Do you hate me?” he mumbled.

Ilya sighed softly, resting his cheek against Shane’s hair. “No, Shane. I don’t.”

Shane swallowed. “Will you—” His voice wavered. “I know the heater’s fixed, but… will you stay with me tonight? Just to sleep.”

Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him, something gentle settling in his expression. Then he smiled, small and sure.

“Of course,” he said.

They settled into bed easily, like it was something they’d done a hundred times before. Ilya lay behind Shane, one arm curved around his waist, nose pressed into the nape of his neck. Shane reached back, clinging to Ilya’s hand and tugging him closer until there was no space left between them.

The room was quiet. Warm. Safe.

“Ilya?” Shane murmured, already half-asleep, fingers fidgeting with Ilya’s.

“Yes?”

“I think you’re my best friend,” Shane said softly, the words slurring just a little as he traced circles into Ilya’s knuckles.

Ilya let out a long, careful breath against Shane’s neck, his grip tightening just a fraction.

“Go to sleep, Shane,” he murmured.

Shane hummed in response, relaxing fully against Ilya. His breathing evened out quickly, the last of the tension leaving him as sleep finally claimed him.

When Shane woke, his head was pounding. And the bed was cold.

He groaned, rolling onto his back and squinting at the light leaking in through the blinds. Every movement made his skull throb. He sat up slowly, reaching for his water bottle with shaky hands.

How much had he drunk last night?

He tried to piece it together—practice, Cliff’s place, dancing with Troy and Hayden—but everything after that dissolved into static. Nothing stuck. It was all just flashes of noise and warmth and then…nothing.

“Shit,” Shane muttered, taking a long sip of water and immediately regretting sitting upright.

After a few minutes of steadying himself, he dragged himself out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen. He looked at the clock. It was almost noon.

Ilya was already there.

He was leaning against the counter, hair still damp like he’d showered recently, dressed in sweats and a hoodie. He looked painfully normal. 

Before Shane could even open his mouth, Ilya turned and slid a glass of water across the counter toward him. Two Advil followed it.

“Drink,” Ilya said simply.

Shane blinked. “Oh. Thank you.” He downed the pills immediately and followed them with water. “Jesus, I feel like absolute shit.”

“I can imagine,” Ilya replied. He was smiling, but there was something off about his voice. It sounded too careful, too measured.

Shane leaned his elbows on the counter, resting his forehead against the cool surface. “I don’t usually drink. Like, at all. I think my body is punishing me for my decisions.”

Ilya nodded. “Yes. That sounds accurate.”

Shane glanced up at him, squinting. “Did I do anything embarrassing?”

Ilya stilled for half a second. Then he shrugged. “You danced.”

“That’s it?” Shane winced. “Because that already sounds embarrassing.”

“That’s it,” Ilya said again, a little too quickly.

Shane accepted that answer easily. He was too tired—and too hungover—to question it. “I’m gonna go lie down and try not to die.”

“Good plan,” Ilya said. “Drink more water.”

Shane gave him a weak salute and shuffled back to his room.

He spent the next couple hours half-studying, half-staring at his notes without really absorbing anything. His head still hurt, but the worst of the nausea had faded. He’d probably be more productive if he went to the library, but the idea of leaving the dorm was less than tempting. When he checked the time and realized it was almost time for practice, he groaned softly and started getting his bag together.

By habit, he grabbed his jacket and stepped into the hall, already bracing himself for the cold walk.

“Ilya?” he called, glancing toward the kitchen.

There was no answer.

He checked the living room. Empty. The bathroom door was open, lights off. Ilya’s shoes were gone from their usual spot by the door.

Shane frowned.

Maybe he’d already left.

That was…weird. They always walked together. It was a kind of unspoken agreement. Shane hesitated for a moment, then shrugged it off. He was probably overthinking it. He headed out alone, the cold biting sharper without Ilya at his side.

Ilya was already in the locker room when Shane got there, bent over, pulling on his socks with quiet focus. He didn’t look up when the door swung open.

“Ilya,” Shane said, dropping his bag onto the bench. “I was wondering where you went.”

Ilya made a noncommittal sound. “Just wanted to get here early today.” His voice was flat, eerily neutral.

Shane narrowed his eyes. “You could’ve just asked me to leave earlier. I would’ve been fine.”

“You were resting. You’re hungover. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not a—”

“Shane!”

He turned.

Hayden was standing a few lockers down, already half-dressed for practice, grinning at the sight of his friend.

“Hi, buddy,” Shane said, a little distracted. He glanced back at Ilya, who was now tying his laces with intense concentration, like the knots required his full emotional commitment.

“How you holding up?” Hayden asked. “You really let loose last night.”

“I feel like death,” Shane groaned, pressing a hand to his temple.

Hayden laughed. “Yeah. Makes sense. You’re a fun drunk, though. You should come out with us more often.”

Ilya’s locker slammed shut with a sharp crack that echoed through the room.

Shane flinched.

“…You okay, Rozanov?” Hayden called, laughter still threaded through his voice.

Ilya didn’t look at either of them. His jaw was tight, shoulders rigid as he shoved his things into his bag.

“Fine,” he said between gritted teeth.

He swung the strap over his shoulder and stalked out of the locker room without another word.

Hayden let out a low whistle. “Yikes. Looks like Rozy’s in a bit of a mood today, huh?”

Shane forced a small cough, trying to ignore the way his stomach twisted. “Looks like it.”

He didn’t remember much of practice, other than the fact that Ilya had ignored him the entire time. There were none of the usual jokes, nudges of the shoulder, comments made under his breath during stretches. In fact, he had taken a spot at the opposite end of the ice, next to Cliff, which was unusual. 

Shane found Ilya after showering, cornering him where he was packing up at his locker.

“Hey. You wanna do our cooldown stretches now?” He offered, trying to sound normal. Cheerful. Everything was fine.

Ilya sniffed. “I can’t. I’m meeting someone for dinner tonight. I meant to text you about it. There’s grilled salmon and cous cous in the fridge for you.” 

Shane’s heart clenched. Ilya had gone out of his way to prep dinner, but why was he being so distant? And who was he meeting?

“Oh. Thank you. You didn’t have to do that for me.” 

“Is not a big deal.” Ilya said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Shane shifted his weight. “Who’re you meeting?”

Ilya finally glanced at him, expression carefully neutral. “A friend.”

Something about the way he said it made Shane’s stomach drop.

“Right,” Shane said, nodding once. “Cool.”

“Anyway,” Ilya continued, already stepping past him, “I’m going now. See you tonight. Maybe.”

Maybe.

The word felt like Shane was being struck in the face.

Shane stood there long after the locker room door swung shut behind him, the echo ringing in the quiet space.

He didn’t know what he’d done.

He headed back to the room, painfully aware of how silent it felt without Ilya talking in his ear. It was all wrong. Shane had thought they’d been making progress. He thought he’d finally gotten Ilya back.

What changed?

When he stepped into the dorm, it was dark and quiet. Unhelpfully, his brain kept circling back to Ilya’s words.

A friend. See you tonight. Maybe.

The nausea crept up on him again, sharp and sour, but this time it had nothing to do with the hangover.

He fired off a quick text to Troy and Hayden. He needed the distraction. Needed noise. Hayden was busy with his girlfriend, but Troy agreed to come over for dinner and a movie.

Shane exhaled in relief. He couldn’t be alone with his thoughts. Not while Ilya was out with… God knew who.

An hour later, Troy came through the door carrying two paper bags full of snacks and soda.

“Brought you ginger ale,” he said cheerfully.

Shane managed a small smile. “Thanks, Troy.”

Troy dropped the bags on the coffee table and flopped onto the couch like it was his own. It basically was at this point.

“So, what’s with the grumpy face today?”

Shane paused. “What do you mean?” The words felt sticky in his mouth.

“Shane. You’ve been sighing and frowning all day.”

“I just— I’m tired. And I’ve never really been hungover before. Guess it was a wake-up call.”

Troy cracked open the sweating can and pushed it into his hands. “Drink. It’ll help.”

Shane took a long sip. The fizz burned pleasantly down his throat. It did help. A little.

Troy grabbed the remote and scrolled for a moment before putting on Shane’s favorite—Kiki’s Delivery Service.

“I’ve never seen this one,” Troy said, glancing at him. “But I know you like it. Thought it might cheer you up.”

Shane did love it.

The first time he’d seen it, he’d been fifteen, sitting beside his mom while she insisted on watching the original Japanese dub. He hadn’t understood why it hit him so hard. He’d just sat there under the glow of the television, crying quietly into his sleeve.

There was something about Kiki—about feeling out of place, suspended between two worlds, unsure if her magic would ever come back—that had cracked something open inside him.

It had wrecked fifteen-year-old Shane, who didn’t yet have the language for why he felt wrong in his own skin. Who was still trapped in a quiet, relentless cycle of self-hatred.

Today, Shane sat quietly beside Troy, anchoring himself in the steady warmth of him. His eyes were glassy from the start, but the tears didn’t spill until halfway through the movie.

Troy paused it. The screen froze on Kiki—soaked through, standing alone in the rain.

“Shane,” Troy said gently, “I’m starting to think you’re really not okay.”

Shane sniffed, swiping at his cheeks with the heel of his hand. “No, no. I’m fine. This movie just makes me emotional.”

Troy frowned and shifted so they were facing each other, knees and brushing.

“I’m gonna tell you something,” he said. “Not because I expect you to say anything back. I just—I’ve had this feeling, and I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. I probably sound insane.”

Shane blinked, confused but nodding anyway. “Okay. You can tell me anything.”

Troy took a breath.

“I’m gay.”

Shane stared at him. “What?”

“I’m gay,” Troy repeated, softer this time. “I like guys.”

The words settled slowly. Troy was—he was like Shane. Maybe not exactly the same, but close enough. For so long, Shane had thought he was the only one in the hockey world carrying something like this. The only one who felt fundamentally out of place.

But he wasn’t.

“Oh,” Shane said quietly. “Well. Obviously I’m cool with it. And, um—me too. Kind of. I guess. It’s just… different.”

Troy’s expression shifted. Not surprised. Just curious.

“Different how?” he asked carefully. “Are you bi?”

Shane’s thoughts slammed into a wall.

“Uh—no,” he squeaked.

“Then how is it different?”

His heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears. If he told Troy… Troy wouldn’t tell anyone. He understood what it meant to have something this fragile.

Shane swallowed.

“Troy, I’m trans.”

The room went very still.

Troy’s eyes widened, but not in horror—just surprise. He didn’t speak for a long moment.

“Wow,” he said finally. “I—thank you for trusting me with that. That’s… wow. I didn’t think—”

He stopped himself, shaking his head.

“Sorry. I don’t want to say the wrong thing.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly nervous.

“It’s okay,” Shane said softly. “I don’t even know what the right thing is. I’ve never really told anyone. Besides my parents.”

Troy nodded slowly. “I… just to clarify—I haven’t been, like, misgendering you, right?”

Shane huffed out a small laugh. “No. I’m a guy.”

“Okay. That's what I thought. Just checking.” He hesitated. “So… you also like guys.”

Shane inhaled, steadying himself. “Yeah. I always did. Even before I had the language for it.” He stared at the frozen TV screen. “It’s just weird. Having the one thing that felt normal about you suddenly not be normal anymore. I never questioned liking guys before. And then it was like—” He gave a helpless little shrug. “‘Oh. Now I’m a man. Which means I’m gay.’”

Troy winced sympathetically. “That’s… yeah. I can see how that’d be confusing.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of quiet.

“Has it been hard?” Troy asked carefully. “With hockey and everything? I’m guessing nobody knows.”

“Nobody knows. So you can’t tell anyone.” Shane said quickly. “The coaches and scouts have been surprisingly uninvasive, which is good. But I have to be careful. All the time.”

Troy nodded, absorbing that. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Shane sighed in relief.

“What about Rozanov?” Troy asked. “Does he know?”

Shane went completely still.

“…No.”

The word came out flat.

“And I’m never telling him.”

Troy frowned, chewing on his bottom lip.

“You like him, though. It’s obvious.”

Shane flushed instantly, dragging his hands over his face. “It’s—he’s not gay. I know that.”

“How?”

Shane hesitated. “We used to go to the same school. Before I transitioned.”

Troy’s eyes went wide. “Holy shit. So you two knew each other before.”

Shane swallowed. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“How well?”

“Very well,” Shane admitted quietly. “He was my best friend.”

Troy raised an eyebrow. “Just your best friend?”

Shane let out a shaky breath. “There were always feelings. We both knew it. But it just… didn’t work.”

“Didn’t he recognize you?”

“I—I hope not.” Shane stared down at his hands. “I look different. I sound different. And I don’t think he even really knows what being trans is.”

He paused, jaw tightening.

“It doesn’t matter anyway. Even if he did recognize me, he’d want the old version of me.” His voice cracked slightly. “And I love him. I do. But I can’t go back to who I was just to make it easier for him.”

Love. Shane had never said it out loud, but just then—it had slipped out. Like it was nothing. Just a fact of life. His heart clenched painfully. Admitting it didn’t make it any easier. It didn’t take the aching weight off his chest.

Troy’s expression softened.

“That fucking sucks,” Troy said gently. “I’m sorry.”

Shane nodded, staring down at the label on the ginger ale can in his hands.

“But,” Troy continued carefully, “you don’t actually know what he wants. If he really loved you back then? He’s not going to care what ‘version’ of you he’s getting. He’ll just want you.”

Shane let out a slow breath through his nose. “He doesn’t,” he said quietly. “I made my peace with it a long time ago.”

Troy studied him for a second, like he didn’t fully believe that, but didn’t push.

“Okay,” he said instead. “Well. I’m really glad you told me.” His expression softened. “You’re kind of incredible, you know that?”

Shane barked out a surprised laugh. “What? I’m just a guy.”

“You’re strong as hell,” Troy said simply. “And brave.”

The compliment made something in Shane twist. He shifted on the couch, ducking his head. “Oh. Thanks.”

Troy bumped his knee lightly. “Alright. That’s enough mushy feelings for one evening. I can only handle so much character development.”

Shane huffed a laugh.

“I wanna finish the movie,” Troy declared, grabbing the remote and pressing play.

Kiki flickered back to life on the screen, rain still pouring. Shane leaned back into the couch cushions, feeling a little lighter. Not fixed, but better.

Ilya came through the door two hours later, just as the credits for their second movie began to roll.

He stopped short in the doorway, eyes flicking from the TV to the empty soda cans on the coffee table, then to Troy sitting next to Shane on the couch.

Shane hated the rush of relief that flooded him when he realized Ilya was alone.

Ilya looked away first. He toed off his shoes and crossed into the kitchen without a word, opening a cabinet and grabbing a granola bar like this was any other night.

Troy shifted beside Shane, clearing his throat. “Uh. I think I’m gonna head out. It’s pretty late.”

Ilya didn’t respond. He leaned back against the counter, unwrapping the bar slowly, gaze fixed somewhere over Shane’s shoulder.

Shane stood, walking Troy to the door. He could feel it—feel Ilya watching. The weight of it prickled along his spine.

When they reached the door, Troy turned and pulled Shane into a tight hug, arms wrapping firmly around his waist.

Shane clung back without thinking.

“Hey,” Troy murmured into his hair. “I love you, man. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Shane swallowed. “Don’t leave me here with him,” he whispered, half-joking, half-not.

Troy squeezed him once more. “You gotta face this sometime. I know you can.”

He pulled back just enough to press a quick, affectionate kiss to Shane’s forehead. It was warm and comforting. It didn’t fix the hollow feeling in Shane’s chest.

The door clicked shut behind Troy.

Shane walked back to the couch, hoping maybe Ilya was done being weird. He gathered the empty chip bags and soda cans, throwing them away in the kitchen trash can. His hip brushed against Ilya’s as he tried to get past, the touch feeling like a burn on his skin.

Ilya was still looking at him. 

“How was dinner?” Shane asked, trying his hardest to sound casual.

Ilya shrugged. “Fine.”

Shane sighed, mouth pressing into a thin line. “Okay.”

“How was your dinner?” Ilya asked. Shane was shocked he’d even bothered to keep the conversation going.

“Good. Thanks for cooking.” 

Ilya nodded. Shane started towards his room, but was stopped by Ilya’s voice.

“And how was Troy?” he asked, measured and calm.

“Um…good?”

“You have fun with him?”

“Yeah. I always do. He’s my—” Shane stopped himself before the words best friend came out. He’d always thought that spot was reserved for Ilya, but maybe not anymore, with how distant he was being.

“My friend.” Shane finished. 

Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Cool.”

“Okay. Well—I have some studying to do tomorrow if you wanna come to the library with me.” Shane offered, desperately hoping Ilya would give him something. Anything.

“I’m good.”

Shane deflated. “Right. Goodnight, then.”

The next couple of weeks were more of the same. It was like they’d snapped back to how they’d been months ago—tense, distant, and carefully not talking.

Shane wanted to scream. He didn’t know what had changed, why Ilya was suddenly so cold. Every time he tried to bring it up, Ilya dodged the conversation or just left the room entirely.

It hurt more than Shane let himself admit.

The dam finally broke one night when Troy was over again. Shane had been inviting him around more now that they were both out to each other. It was easy, being with someone who understood without explanation.

Ilya emerged from his room for the first time that evening. Cigarette butts and empty packs were scattered across the coffee table.

Shane sat up straighter, seizing the moment.

“Can you pick up your trash while you’re out here?” he asked, voice flat.

Something flickered across Ilya’s face—gone too fast to name. “I thought that was your job,” he said, picking at his fingernails.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Troy said firmly.

Ilya lifted his head slowly.

“What did you just say?”

“I said, don’t talk to him like he’s your fucking servant.”

“Troy, stop,” Shane pleaded.

“No. I don’t think I will. You’ve been acting like a dick for weeks. Shane doesn’t deserve that.”

“You don’t fucking know me,” Ilya shot back, jaw tight.

“Ilya, please,” Shane tried again, softer now.

Ilya’s eyes locked onto his.

“You’re a hypocrite, you know?” he said, voice sharpening. “You were angry when I was bringing people home, but I have to listen to your fucking boyfriend running his mouth in my dorm. So maybe we’re even.”

Troy stiffened. “I—I’m clearly making this worse. I’m gonna step back from…whatever this is. Shane, call me later.”

He grabbed his jacket and left.

The silence he left behind was suffocating.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Shane muttered.

“Whatever.”

“But if he was,” Shane continued, anger creeping in, “I don’t get why you’d be so intent on ruining it for me.”

“Shane, I don’t care who you date. I just don’t want to have to see them.”

“Right,” Shane laughed bitterly. “You don’t care.”

“What?”

“I just—I don’t know what I did,” Shane whispered.

Ilya looked away.

“I thought we were friends. I thought I mattered to you. But now you act like I’m—” His voice cracked. “Like I’m not even there.”

That made Ilya look up.

His eyes were wide, something raw sitting just beneath the surface. He was quiet for a long moment.

“You didn’t do anything.”

“Then why?”

“Hollander, it’s not—”

“Don’t fucking call me Hollander,” Shane snapped. “Tell me why. I deserve that much.”

Ilya dragged a hand down his face, breath shuddering. “Fine. You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“That night. At Cliff’s party.” His chest rose and fell unevenly. “You kissed me.”

The words knocked the air from Shane’s lungs.

“And I—I can’t keep—” Ilya broke off, pressing his palm to his mouth like he was physically holding something back.

Shane’s vision blurred. Oh god. “I’m so sorry. It’s—it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t.” Ilya’s voice cracked. “Do not say that.”

“But I—”

“I am not angry about the kiss. I never would be.”

Shane shook his head helplessly. “Then I don’t understand.”

Ilya looked at him then—really looked at him. His eyes were bright, almost painfully blue, wet with something he wasn’t trying very hard to hide anymore.

“Shane,” he said quietly. “Did you really think I wouldn’t know?”

Shane went completely still. It felt like the room had filled with water.

“Know what?” he whispered.

“Even now,” Ilya said, voice trembling, “you cannot say it. How long were you planning to keep lying to me?”

“I—I’m not lying.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Ilya said, not unkindly. “You are many things, Shane Hollander. But you are not dumb.”

“Ilya…”

“How could you think I wouldn’t recognize you the second I saw you?” His voice finally broke. “That I wouldn’t know my Shane anywhere?”

Shane’s breath stuttered in his chest.

“But you—you never said anything.”

Ilya let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head.

“You made it very clear,” he said hoarsely, “that you didn’t want me in your life anymore.”

Tears were spilling down Ilya’s face now, unchecked. Shane’s chest ached at the sight of it. He didn’t know what to say. What could he possibly say?

“You left me,” Ilya continued, voice shaking. “And picking myself up after that was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I told myself I was over it. I told myself I was fine. And then—you just waltz back in here, looking so—”

His voice broke.

“Looking more like yourself than I have ever seen you look,” he finished, barely above a whisper. “So happy. And beautiful. And comfortable in your skin. Just like I always knew you could be.”

“I…” Shane’s throat closed as a tear slipped down his cheek.

Ilya let out a fractured laugh that turned into a sob. “You know, I thought you were dead.”

The words felt like a punch in the face.

“That last text you sent—I thought…”His breath hitched violently. “I mourned you.”

He covered his face with his hands, shoulders shaking under the weight of it.

Shane stepped forward without thinking. He gently pulled Ilya’s hands away from his face.

“Ilya,” he whispered. “Ilya, I’m so sorry.”

He gathered him into his chest.

Ilya collapsed into him, sobbing openly now, his tears soaking through Shane’s T-shirt. Shane held him tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head, pressing a soft kiss into his hair.

“I’m here,” Shane murmured, voice breaking. “I’m here. I promise.”

Ilya’s hands fisted in the fabric of Shane’s shirt.

“I’m sorry, too,” he choked out. “I wish I could be the friend you need, but I can’t. I love you too much. It—it is killing me, Shane.”

Time seemed to stop.

Shane pulled back just enough to see his face. “You—you what?” he asked, terrified to let himself believe it.

“I love you,” Ilya said again, like it was a confession. Like it was something ugly. “I have always loved you.”

Shane lifted his hands to Ilya’s face, cupping his wet cheeks, his thumbs brushing away tears.

“Ilya,” he said softly, trembling, “do you love me… or do you love who I used to be? Because I—I can’t be her anymore.”

Ilya’s brow furrowed immediately. “Of course I love you,” he said, almost offended. “I love who you are now. That’s why this hurts so much.” His voice cracked again. “That’s why I feel like I am dying inside. I cannot be near you and pretend it is nothing. I cannot just be your friend.”

Shane shook his head, tears falling freely now.

“Then don’t,” he whispered desperately. “Don’t be my friend. Be near me. Be near me always.” His voice broke on the last word. 

“I—I love you, Ilya. I always have.”

Ilya broke all over again.

He buried his face in Shane’s neck, shoulders shaking with fresh sobs. Shane slid a hand into his hair, stroking it gently, overwhelmed by the enormity of it—by the fact that this was real, that this was happening.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya whispered against his skin.

The words sent a sharp, aching warmth through Shane’s chest.

He remembered that phrase.

He remembered Ilya trying—and failing—to teach him Russian in high school, both of them laughing over mispronounced vowels. Shane had secretly looked up a list of important phrases once, determined to impress him. His eyes had snagged on that one. He’d felt his face burn as he read it.

When he’d asked what it meant, Ilya had gone quiet. Shy, almost. Then he’d leaned in and whispered it, like it was too sacred to say any louder.

“It means I love you.”

Shane tightened his arms now, pressing his cheek against Ilya’s hair.

“I love you too,” he whispered back.

Ilya pulled away from Shane’s neck, hands moving to cup his face. He leaned forward and caught Shane’s mouth in a soft kiss. Shane’s breath hitched as he melted into the comfort of Ilya’s arms, of his mouth. The kiss turned needy and desperate, Ilya’s tongue breaching Shane’s parted lips. Shane sighed into it, letting his arms loop around Ilya’s neck. 

They pulled away slowly, like they’d rather die than separate. Ilya smiled, bumping their noses together. “Shanyusha. Ya nikogda ne otpushchu tebya seychas. Ty moy.” He murmured. 

“What did you just say?”

“I’m not letting you go now. You are mine.”

“Good. I don’t want you to.” Shane whispered, giggling quietly. 

“Fuck. I love you so much.” Ilya growled. 

He kissed him again, deeper this time, tongue soft but insistent as it explored Shane’s mouth. Shane let out a desperate whimper, fingers tugging into Ilya’s curls, pulling him impossibly closer like he could fuse them together if he just held on tight enough.

“Mm—bedroom. Bedroom, now,” Shane murmured, breaking away roughly, breath already uneven.

Ilya barely let him go. He chased Shane’s mouth anyway, kissing him again and again as they stumbled down the hallway, bodies bumping into the walls, broken breaths tangling until they reached Shane’s room.

The door was barely open before Shane was pushed back onto the bed. He bounced slightly against the mattress, heart racing, chest heaving. Ilya didn’t follow him right away—he stayed standing at the foot of the bed, eyes roaming slowly, hungrily, taking Shane in like he wanted to memorize him.

Shane needed him here. Needed him closer, needed to feel him everywhere.

“Why are you so far away?”

Ilya chuckled softly. “Sorry. Just…looking at you.”

“Get the fuck over here.”

Ilya obeyed immediately, climbing onto the bed and over Shane, his body heat pressing down like a promise he fully intended to keep. Shane’s heart hammered as Ilya’s hands slid along his thighs, parting them, making room to slot himself between them.

Fuck.
This was really happening.

Ilya captured Shane’s mouth in another messy kiss, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing along his cheek. Shane thought he could do this forever—kiss him until nothing else existed. They fit together so easily, so instinctively. It felt right in a way that made his chest feel full to bursting.

Ilya broke the kiss to trail wet, open-mouthed kisses down Shane’s neck, sucking softly, then harder, making Shane squirm beneath him, breath hitching.

“Fuck—Ilya, that’s—”

Ilya stopped instantly. “Is this okay? Can I leave marks?”

Shane nodded frantically, panting. “Please. Please, mark me.”

Ilya grinned against his skin, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below Shane’s ear before he latched on. He sucked hard enough to pull a sharp gasp from Shane’s throat, then bit down lightly. A faint bruise bloomed against his skin, small, but unmistakable.

Shane arched his neck, fingers digging into Ilya’s shoulders as pleasure shot through him in hot waves.

“God, yes,” he breathed, voice shaking. “More.”

Ilya obliged, moving lower, sucking another mark into the curve of Shane’s collarbone. His hands slid under Shane’s shirt, pushing it up inch by inch, exposing more skin.

“Wait—wait—” Shane gasped.

Ilya’s hands froze instantly. 

Shane wasn’t experienced. Nobody had ever seen him like this before. What if it wasn’t what Ilya wanted? What if he didn’t like the way Shane looked? Maybe he’d have preferred him before, all soft curves and smooth skin, unmarred by scars and time.

“I’m—you might not like what you see. I have scars. It’s not—”

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice was gentle but sure. “I think you are perfect. I always will. But I will leave the shirt on if you want.”

Shane swallowed. He wanted this. Wanted Ilya to see all of him. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that his body needed a warning. He needed the choice to be his.

“No,” he said quietly. “I—you can take it off.”

Ilya licked a slow stripe up Shane’s throat before claiming his mouth again, the kiss turning heated and urgent. Shane arched up into it, body thrumming with need. His cunt was already aching, slick and needy.

Ilya’s fingers traced down Shane’s chest, thumbs brushing over the fabric one last time before he broke the kiss and tugged the shirt off completely, tossing it aside.

He looked at Shane like he was seeing something holy.

His fingertips skimmed gently over Shane’s scars, reverent, unhurried, making Shane shiver beneath his touch. Then Ilya leaned down and pressed a slow kiss beneath Shane’s right nipple. Then another beneath the left.

“You are so strong,” Ilya murmured. “So fucking handsome.”

Shane squirmed, face flushing hot. No one had ever called him that. Maybe it was stupid—but it felt grounding, affirming, like Ilya saw him exactly as he was and wanted him anyway.

“I—I love you,” Shane blurted, the words tumbling out because his chest felt too full to hold them.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya whispered.

Shane smiled faintly. 

Ilya pressed a gentle kiss to his stomach, then hesitated as his hands reached Shane’s waistband.

“What do you want, solnyshko?” he asked softly. “We can stop. Or just keep doing this. We don’t have to do more.”

“I want more,” Shane said quickly. Then quieter, suddenly feeling exposed. “Want…”

“Tell me, sweetheart.” Ilya murmured. 

“Want you to fuck me.”

Ilya’s eyes darkened immediately. He leaned down to claim Shane’s mouth in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss before sitting back to unbutton his pants and slide them down with his underwear. Shane lifted his hips to help, cheeks burning as cool air hit bare skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” Ilya murmured, eyes heavy with hunger as he took Shane in fully. His gaze lingered openly between Shane’s thighs, on the slick folds of his cunt, already glistening. Shane squirmed under the scrutiny, shyness and arousal twisting together in his gut.

Ilya bent down again, pressing open-mouthed kisses along Shane’s jaw, down his chest, sucking lightly on each nipple in turn. Shane moaned, hands fisting the sheets as sparks shot straight to his core. Ilya’s hand finally dipped lower, fingers tracing the outer lips of Shane’s cunt, teasing the slick entrance without pushing in yet.

“Have you ever done this before?” He whispered softly.

Shane shook his head.

“Have you touched yourself?”

“I—I do. Sometimes,” Shane admitted, cheeks blazing. “I have a—a thing.”

Ilya pulled back to look him in the eyes. There was something knowing there, like he was determined to coax it out of him. “A what, kotenok?”

“Shut up. You know.”

Ilya smiled wickedly. “Something to fuck yourself with?”

“Fuck off.”

“What do you think about when you use it?”

“Ilya,” Shane whined.

Ilya teased at his entrance, fingers sliding through the slick heat of Shane’s cunt. Shane gasped, pussy throbbing and clenching around nothing.

“Tell me,” Ilya murmured, “or I won’t give you my fingers. Your cunt’s practically begging for them already.”

Shane let out a short, frustrated breath. “Obviously I think about you, asshole—now will you fucking—”

His words broke into a gasp as Ilya slipped two fingers inside him.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Ilya said, voice rough but careful as his thumb circled Shane’s clit. Ilya slid his thick fingers in and out slowly, curling them just right. Shane cried out, cunt fluttering, gripping tight. Every drag of his fingers against that spot inside him made Shane’s vision go white. 

“It’s good—oh, fuck, it’s so good,” Shane panted, spreading his thighs wider. “Please, don’t stop.”

“Like that?” Ilya asked, fucking in deeper, scissoring gently to open him up, thumb never letting up against his clit.

“Yes—oh god, Ilya, fuck.” Shane moaned, grinding his hips against Ilya’s fingers. 

Ilya went faster, thumb rubbing firm circles as pleasure built too fast, too sharp. The coil in his stomach built, growing closer with every second. Shane came with a choked sob, body tensing as his walls pulsed hard around Ilya’s fingers.

“That’s it, come for me,” Ilya growled, kissing him through the aftershocks. Shane’s stomach clenched and shook as the wave of pleasure subsided. Ilya withdrew his fingers slowly and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean without breaking eye contact.

“Holy shit,” Shane breathed.

His body buzzed as he reached for Ilya, tugging at his shirt. “Can I—I want to… I want to suck you.”

Ilya groaned softly as he stripped the rest of the way, his cock springing free—thick, hard, pre-cum beading at the tip. Shane stared, nerves fluttering, then ran his hands over Ilya’s chest, over muscle and moles, marveling.

“Only if you want to,” Ilya said, rolling onto his back and guiding Shane up. 

Shane wanted to. He wanted to feel Ilya filling him up, heavy on his tongue. He nodded, wrapping his hand around Ilya’s cock tentatively, feeling the velvety heat. He stroked once, twice, then leaned in to lick the tip, tasting salt. Ilya hissed, fingers threading into Shane’s hair.

Emboldened, Shane took the head into his mouth, sucking lightly, tongue swirling. He bobbed slowly, inch by inch, free hand gripping Ilya’s thigh. The weight, the warmth, the way Ilya throbbed—it was intoxicating.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya panted. “Your mouth is so good. Just like that.”

Shane hummed around him, the vibration drawing a moan from Ilya. He worked his tongue along the underside, bobbing faster, saliva dripping down the shaft. His jaw ached, but Ilya’s broken sounds spurred him on until Ilya cursed in unintelligible Russian and pulled him back.

“Stop,” he said, strained. “Or I’ll come too soon.”

He pushed Shane gently onto the pillows again, settling between his legs. “You still want me to fuck you?”

Shane’s heart pounded. “Yeah,” He said breathlessly. “Want you inside me.”

Ilya kissed him deep, and then paused, glancing around. “I’m guessing you don’t keep condoms in here?”

Shane laughed softly. “No. But—I’m on birth control. So you can fuck me raw.”

Ilya groaned. “Fuck, malysh. Gonna take such good care of you.”

Ilya lined himself up, rubbing the head through Shane’s slick folds to coat himself. Then, slowly, he pushed in, the tip breaching Shane’s cunt. Shane gasped at the stretch, sharp heat blooming before melting into pleasure.

“Oh—fuck, you’re big.”

Ilya stilled, kissing his face, his forehead. “Breathe. You’re doing so good.”

Inch by inch, he sank deeper until he was fully seated inside. The fullness was overwhelming, Shane’s walls gripping tight.

They stayed like that, hands soothing, breaths steadying—until Shane rocked his hips.

“Move,” he whispered. “Please.”

Ilya began to thrust—slow and deep, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in. Shane moaned, legs wrapping around him, nails dragging down his back as the pace built.

The slick slide of llya’s cock inside him was so good—filling him in a way that made his cunt flutter and spasm around the thick shaft. 

“So tight,” Ilya grunted, angling to hit that spot. “Taking my cock so well. My perfect boy.”

Shane cried out, overwhelmed by the fullness, the emotional weight of it. His world narrowed to the dampness of their skin, the slap of bodies, Ilya’s rough sounds mixing with his own. Pleasure coiled sharp and hot, Shane’s pussy throbbing steadily with need. 

“Ah, ah, ah—harder,” Shane cried. “Fuck me harder.”

Ilya did, pounding into him, one hand slipping between them to rub Shane’s clit. Shane came hard with a shout, cunt clenching around Ilya, fluid gushing out of him as he tumbled over the edge. Ilya groaned in response, thrusting deep and spilling inside him, moaning his name as heat flooded Shane’s cunt.

They collapsed together, Ilya still buried inside as they caught their breath. He kissed Shane’s jaw, then his marked neck.

“I love you so much,” he said softly.

Shane hummed, warm and content, pressing a lazy kiss to Ilya’s forehead. “Love you too.”

“You okay?”

Shane smiled, sated and sore in the best way. “More than okay.”

For a long moment, they stayed like that— Ilya’s face tucked into Shane’s neck, still halfway inside him, both of them warm and damp and breathing each other in. Shane ran his fingers through Ilya’s sweaty curls, slow and absent, and kissed the crown of his head.

Ilya answered with another unhurried kiss to Shane’s neck. “Mmm—okay. If you don’t pull out now, we’re gonna get stuck together.”

Ilya laughed, the sound vibrating against Shane’s skin. He pushed himself up onto his hands and pulled out slowly.

Shane groaned softly at the empty, oversensitive feeling. Ilya immediately bent back down, kissing him again—gentle, lingering, unhurried.

“Come here,” Ilya murmured, tugging Shane onto his chest.

Shane went willingly, settling against him with a sigh, nuzzling into Ilya’s collarbone. He knew, distantly, that they were a mess—that they needed a shower, needed clean sheets—but he couldn’t bring himself to care. All he wanted was this. The closeness. Ilya’s arms around him, holding him tight.

Shane tipped his head up, silently asking.

Ilya smiled and kissed him again, soft and sweet this time. Then he pulled back and sat up. “Wait here. I’ll be back,” he said, voice firm but gentle.

Shane reached for him immediately. “Nooo, don’t leave.”

“I’m coming back, kotenok,” Ilya said fondly. “Patience.”

True to his word, he returned a minute later with a water bottle and a washcloth. He settled back beside Shane and started cleaning him up slowly, carefully. Shane shivered at the cool touch, then relaxed completely, letting himself be taken care of.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“I love you.”

Shane took a sip of water, then frowned slightly. “Hey. What does kotenok mean?”

Ilya smirked and pressed a quick kiss to Shane’s stomach. “You will be mad at me.”

“What?”

Ilya pursed his lips, deliberately not answering.

Shane batted weakly at his chest. “What have you been calling me?”

“…Kitten.”

Shane flushed immediately. “That’s not even—I’m not a fucking—mmph!”

Ilya cut him off with a kiss. Shane melted into it despite himself, fingers tangling in Ilya’s curls. When he pulled back, the pout was still there.

“I’m not a kitten.”

Ilya grinned. “Look how little and angry you are,” he teased, kissing the tip of Shane’s nose. “Just like a kitten.”

“You’re an asshole. I hate you,” Shane lied, blushing fiercely.

“No, you love me.”

Shane sighed, soft and helpless. “I do.”

Ilya hummed in quiet satisfaction and pulled him closer again. Shane let their legs tangle, breathing in the familiar scent of him, grounding himself in the warmth.

“We should… we should probably talk about this,” Shane said, wincing a little.

“What will we say?” Ilya murmured. “I love you. You love me. Is simple.”

“I—I want to explain what happened. It doesn’t make it better. But I need you to know.”

“Okay, malysh,” Ilya said gently. “Tell me.”

Shane swallowed.

“I was really struggling the year we met. You know that. I wasn’t happy. I finally figured out what was wrong a couple weeks before the end of the year. My parents were supportive. But I… I felt like I had to erase the old me. So I just—left. I didn’t tell you because I thought you might hate me. Because I wasn’t who you thought I was.”

Ilya didn’t interrupt. He just nodded, sliding a warm hand slowly down Shane’s back, steady and soothing. It gave Shane the courage to keep going.

“I know I shouldn’t have disappeared like that. You deserved the truth. I just—I wasn’t ready. For anyone to know.”

“It’s okay,” Ilya said softly. “You didn’t owe me anything.”

“No. I definitely did,” Shane insisted, shaking his head. “I handled it badly. I’m a fuckup.”

“You are not a fuckup,” Ilya said firmly. “I did some research, when I saw you again. I was confused at first, yes. But I understand now.” His thumb traced slow circles against Shane’s spine. “I was only hurt that you didn’t tell me once we were here again. You had many chances.”

“I know,” Shane admitted. “At first—well. You were so different. I didn’t know if I could trust you anymore. This—Ilya, if this were to get out, it’d be over for me. So you need to not say anything to anyone about it.” Shane said, voice growing firm. 

Ilya nodded quickly. “Of course. I would never.”

Shane smiled, pressing a kiss to his chest before continuing.

“I was still scared. I thought you didn’t know. I thought maybe you’d convinced yourself it wasn’t me.”

Ilya gave him a small, incredulous smile.

“I could never forget these freckles,” he said quietly, brushing a finger across Shane’s cheekbone. “I have them memorized.”

Shane’s breath caught.

He leaned in and kissed him—soft, slow, like he was still afraid this might disappear if he moved too fast. Ilya melted into it immediately, one hand sliding up to cradle Shane’s jaw.

When they pulled apart, Ilya’s brows were drawn together, something fragile lingering behind his eyes.

“Shane,” he said quietly. “Please do not leave again. I don’t know if I could survive that twice.”

Shane’s chest tightened. He pressed their foreheads together.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.

Shane let himself sink fully into Ilya’s chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath his ear. For so long, everything had felt like it was slipping through his fingers—his body, his past, the people he loved. But this? This was solid. It was real.

He wasn’t going to let fear take from him again.

Ilya’s fingers traced lazy patterns along his spine, softer now, like he was still reassuring himself that Shane was there. That he was staying.

“Good,” Ilya murmured into his hair. “Because I am very tired of losing you.”

“You’re not,” Shane said, tilting his head up just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re stuck with me now.”

Ilya huffed out a quiet laugh. “Is that a threat?”

“Absolutely.”

Chapter End Notes

Wow!! I can’t believe she’s over!! I’m so proud of this fic. It was such a labor of love, I had the best time ever writing it. I’m so grateful for everyone’s comments and love. Thank you all so so much for reading!!

The story pretty much ends here, but I wrote a sweet little bonus chapter that’s basically 90% fluff.

Let me know what you thought!! I hope this was a satisfying ending for you all.

Lots of kisses love you guys very much.

Chapter 4: Leaves on the light for me (Bonus Chapter)

Chapter Summary

Bonus chapter / epilogue for back to the egg in which Ilya surprises Shane by coming back a couple days early from his trip.

Chapter Notes

Hello beautiful people! As promised, here’s a lil epilogue chapter for these two. You do not need to read this if you’ve already read chapter three. The story is finished, this is just a lil something extra. Now I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think this is the last thing I’ll write for this fic. I think there’ll be more eventually. The chapter title is from Potion, by Djo.

In my head, this takes place about a year after the end of chapter 3, but yall are welcome to imagine it any way you’d like to. There’s pretty much 0 angst whatsoever in this, so I don’t think there are any content warnings other than the smut. If explicit content is not your jam I’d steer clear.

As always, hope you enjoy!

1 year later.

Shane sighed as he pulled his hoodie over his head, damp hair soaking through the fabric almost instantly. Ilya had been gone for a week now, and practice just didn’t feel the same without him. He was visiting his aunt—his only living relative he still kept in touch with. Shane was glad he had her. Glad he wasn’t alone.

But he missed his boyfriend.

Troy clapped him on the shoulder. “He’ll be back soon, loverboy.”

Shane flushed. “Shut up.”

Hayden smirked from across the locker room. “Y’know, since Rozanov’s been gone, the vibes in here have been way less terrifying.”

“Watch it, buddy,” Shane warned, though he was fighting a smile.

His phone pinged.

Ilya:

I miss you, malysh.

How was practice?

Shane’s chest warmed instantly.

Shane:

It was okay. But I had to do cooldown stretches with Hayden and Troy. It wasn’t the same.

I miss you so much.

Ilya:

Where are you headed right now?

Shane:

Back to the apartment. Probably gonna go to bed early, but I’d love to call if you’re free.

Ilya:

I wish I could, but I’m about to leave for dinner. Sorry, my love.

Shane:

Aw okay then. I’ll talk to you later.

Ilya:

Love you so much, solnyshko.

Shane:

Love you more ❤️

Shane slipped his headphones on and started his beginner Russian podcast. It was warm enough to linger outside, so he took his time walking back, letting spring settle into his bones. The city looked soft and golden in the fading light.

When he opened the door, it was dark and quiet, just like he’d left it.

Too tired to bother with the lights, he toed off his shoes and padded toward the kitchen counter to refill his water bottle, Russian phrases murmuring in his ears.

Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around his waist.

Shane shrieked, nearly dropping his bottle—then froze.

“Ilya?!”

He ripped his headphones off and spun around, and there he was—grinning in the dark like he’d just won something.

Shane didn’t hesitate. He launched himself forward, and Ilya caught him easily, lifting him off the ground and spinning him once in the middle of the kitchen.

Shane’s laughter echoed off the walls.

Ilya set him down gently.

“I thought you weren’t coming back for another—”

Ilya cut him off with a firm kiss.

Shane melted instantly, hands sliding up into his boyfriend’s hair. It had only been five days, but it felt like forever. Like something essential had been missing.

Ilya pulled back first, eyes shining.

“Sorry, kotenok. I wanted to surprise you.”

Shane bit his lip, failing miserably to suppress his grin. “I’m surprised.”

“I missed you.”

Shane threw himself at him again, burying his face in Ilya’s neck. Ilya wrapped his arms around him immediately, pressing a kiss into his hair.

“God,” Shane murmured, holding him tighter. “You’re never allowed to leave again.”

Ilya huffed softly against his temple. “Next time, I’ll take you with me. My aunt wants to meet you.”

“I would love that. Did you have a good time?”

Ilya nodded. “It was nice to see her again. To talk to someone about my mom.”

Shane squeezed him tighter. “I’m glad.”

Without warning, Ilya hoisted Shane off the ground, hands firm beneath his thighs. Shane let out a startled sound, instinctively wrapping his legs around Ilya’s waist, arms looping around his neck.

“Okay, enough talking,” Ilya murmured, voice dropping. “I want to fuck my pretty boyfriend now.”

Heat rushed to Shane’s face, but his eyes darkened. He kissed Ilya hungrily, tongue sliding against his in slow, slick strokes. Ilya groaned into his mouth, fingers tightening around Shane’s thighs.

He didn’t break the kiss as he carried Shane down the hall to the bedroom—one that had quietly become theirs.

Ilya laid him back on the bed and crawled over him, settling his weight on top. The pressure was grounding, warm. He nuzzled into Shane’s neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses into the sensitive skin there.

Shane sighed, threading his fingers into Ilya’s hair. “Mmm—Ilya… Ilya.”

Ilya paused, lifting his head. “What?”

“Kiss me.”

He did—deep and filthy, claiming Shane’s mouth again. Shane moaned into him, arching up as Ilya stripped his shirt away and worked open his pants, pushing them down his thighs. He spread Shane’s legs, gaze dropping to the darkened fabric of his underwear.

“Wow. You’re wet already, kotenok?” Ilya murmured, brushing his fingers lightly over the damp material.

“Ngh—don’t call me that—”

The protest dissolved into a gasp as Ilya tugged the underwear off and pushed two fingers inside him in one rough thrust. Shane’s back arched; he loved when Ilya got like this.

“Mmm. You pretend you don’t like that name,” Ilya teased, curling his fingers just right, “but you’re still so needy for me. Isn’t that right, kotenok?”

His fingers slid in and out, slow and deliberate.

“Mm-mm. No, I’m—not,” Shane insisted weakly, hips jerking as Ilya pressed deeper.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Ilya smirked, then withdrew abruptly. Shane whimpered at the sudden emptiness.

“No—put them back. Want them in me.” The words came out breathless, needy.

Ilya clicked his tongue softly. “Patience,” he said, eyes dark. “I’ll fill you up soon. I just want to taste you first.”

He lowered himself on the bed, settling in between Shane’s legs. He leaned in, breath hot against Shane's folds, before dragging his tongue flat and slow from entrance to clit.

Shane arched off the bed with a sharp gasp, fingers tightening in Ilya's hair. "Oh god, yes—" Ilya's mouth sealed over his pussy, sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue flicking against the swollen clit. He lapped at the slickness gathering there, delving inside with broad strokes, tasting Shane deeply. Shane's hips bucked, grinding against Ilya's face as moans spilled from his lips, unrestrained and needy.

Ilya gripped Shane's thighs to hold him steady, nails digging into the soft flesh. He alternated between sucking on the clit and thrusting his tongue into Shane's hole, feeling the walls clench around it. Shane's breaths came in pants, his body trembling as pleasure built fast and intense. "Ilya—fuck, don't stop, I'm—"

Ilya licked into him deeper, faster, and Shane came with a shuddering moan. 

Shane's body quivered through the aftershocks, his chest heaving as waves of pleasure ebbed away. Ilya lifted his head, lips glistening with Shane's release, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. He crawled back up Shane's body, pressing their mouths together in a deep kiss, letting Shane taste himself on Ilya's tongue.

"Good boy," Ilya murmured against Shane's lips, his voice low and rough. "You came so hard for me, sweetheart. But I know you need more."

Shane nodded weakly, his hands fumbling with Ilya's shirt, tugging it up and over his head. Ilya helped, discarding the fabric before shoving his own pants down, freeing his hard cock. It sprang out, thick and veined, the tip already leaking pre-cum. Shane's eyes darkened with hunger as he reached for it, wrapping his fingers around the shaft and stroking slowly.

"Please, Ilya," Shane whispered, guiding the head toward his entrance. "I want you inside me. Fill me up."

Ilya positioned himself between Shane's spread thighs, rubbing the blunt tip along Shane's slick folds, coating himself in the wetness. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch. Shane's face contorted with pleasure as his cunt stretched around the intrusion. His walls fluttered, still sensitive from his orgasm, gripping Ilya's cock like a vice.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Ilya groaned, bottoming out with a final roll of his hips. He paused there, fully sheathed, letting Shane adjust to the fullness. 

Ilya started moving then, pulling back almost all the way before sliding back in, deep and deliberate. Each thrust was slow, his cock dragging against Shane's inner walls, hitting that spot inside that made Shane's toes curl. Shane moaned softly, his nails raking down Ilya's back, urging him on without words.

"That's it, Hollander," Ilya breathed, nuzzling into Shane's neck, sucking a fresh mark into the skin. "Take me just like this. So perfect for me."

He kept the pace steady, hips rolling in a slow grind. Shane's breaths hitched, his body rocking in time with Ilya's movements, the bed creaking faintly beneath them. Ilya's hands roamed, one squeezing Shane’s thigh, the other threading through his hair to tilt his head back for another kiss.

Shane broke the kiss with a whimper, his pussy clenching around Ilya's cock as another wave of heat built low in his belly. "Deeper—god, Ilya, you feel so good. Don't stop."

Ilya obliged, kissing his knuckles before guiding Shane's arms above his head. He hooked his hands under Shane's knees, pressing them up toward his chest, folding Shane's body in half. Shane's flexibility allowed it easily, his ass lifting off the bed, angling Ilya deeper.

"Love you so much," Ilya growled, eyes locked on Shane's flushed face. "Gonna fuck you so deep. Make you take every inch." He thrust forward, sliding his thick length all the way inside in one smooth motion. Shane's pussy yielded, stretched wide, the new angle letting Ilya bury himself to the hilt with every thrust.

Shane gasped, the pressure intense, Ilya's cock pressing against spots that made stars burst behind his eyelids. "Oh—fuck, yes, so good," he moaned, his folded legs trembling in Ilya's grip. The bend compressed Shane's body, making each plunge feel monumental, Ilya's pelvis grinding directly against his clit with every slow drive.

Ilya set a deliberate pace, withdrawing until just the head remained, then sinking in fully, hips rolling to grind deep. The wet sounds of their connection grew louder, Shane’s slick easing the way. Shane's hands gripped the sheets above his head, body pinned and open, utterly at Ilya's mercy.

"That's my good boy," Ilya praised, leaning down to capture Shane's mouth in a messy kiss, their noses bumping. He released one knee to brace on the bed, using the leverage to thrust even harder on the next stroke, his balls slapping against Shane's ass. Shane's walls fluttered wildly, the depth coiling pleasure tight in his core.

Shane broke the kiss with a cry, head tipping back. "Ilya—it's too much, you're so—" His words dissolved into a whine as Ilya rolled his hips, dragging the head of his cock along that sensitive ridge deep within.

Ilya kept him folded, muscles straining to hold the position, sweat slicking his skin. He watched Shane's face, drinking in every expression—the parted lips, the bitten lower lip, the way his eyes squeezed shut on particularly deep thrusts. "You can take it," Ilya murmured, thumb brushing Shane's swollen clit in slow circles. 

The rhythm built gradually, Ilya's movements unhurried but forceful, each one bottoming out with a grind that had Shane arching as much as the fold allowed. Shane's breaths came in ragged bursts, his pussy clenching rhythmically, chasing the building heat. "Gonna cum—please, don't stop, fuck me harder—"

Ilya obeyed, increasing the depth without speeding up, pounding brutally into that sweet spot until Shane shattered, his release gushing around Ilya's cock, soaking the sheets. The sensation pulled Ilya over the edge, his thrusts stuttering as he flooded Shane, hot spurts painting his insides.

He held the position a beat longer, riding out the pulses, before easing Shane's legs down gently. They collapsed together, limbs tangled, Ilya's cock slipping free with a wet pop. 

Shane curled into Ilya’s side, body loose and satisfied, a soft smile lingering on his lips as Ilya carded gentle fingers through his hair.

“Missed you,” Shane murmured, voice heavy with sleep and contentment.

Ilya tightened his arm around him. “Missed you too, moya lyubov.”

Shane tipped his chin up slightly. “That means… my love, right?”

Ilya smiled, brushing a kiss over the tip of his nose. “Very good.”

Shane hummed, pleased with himself, and tucked his face into the warm curve of Ilya’s neck.

“I can’t believe you tricked me,” he mumbled. “I was all sad that you couldn’t FaceTime.”

“Yes, well,” Ilya replied lightly, lips twitching, “I had to throw you off the scent.”

Shane snorted softly against his skin. “You’re an asshole.”

Ilya chuckled, the sound low and warm in his chest. “I love you.”

Shane pressed a slow kiss to his collarbone. “Love you too.”

They lay there for a long while, chests rising and falling in slow sync as the last of the evening light faded through the blinds. Their skin was still warm and damp, legs tangled together on top of the comforter, the room smelling faintly of sweat and Ilya’s cologne and something distinctly theirs.

“We should shower,” Ilya said eventually, voice low and practical.

Shane groaned and burrowed deeper into his neck. “I don’t think I can even move.”

Ilya smirked. “I will carry you.”

True to his word, he slid one arm beneath Shane’s back and the other under his knees, lifting him easily from the bed. Shane yelped, then giggled, cheeks flushed and glowing as he looped his arms around Ilya’s neck.

“You’re ridiculous,” Shane said, smiling up at him.

“Yes,” Ilya agreed calmly, nudging the bathroom door open with his foot.

Steam quickly filled the small space as the shower warmed. Ilya set Shane down gently on his feet and reached behind him to start the water, testing it with his hand before guiding Shane under the spray.

The heat washed over them both, soothing and steady.

Shane sighed as the water hit his shoulders. “Okay. This was a good idea.”

“I am full of good ideas,” Ilya replied.

Shane snorted.

They stood close under the spray, water running down their bodies in quiet rivulets. Ilya reached for the shampoo first, squeezing some into his palm.

“Come here,” he murmured.

Shane obediently stepped forward.

Ilya worked the shampoo into his hair slowly, fingers massaging his scalp with careful pressure. Shane melted almost instantly, eyes slipping closed. 

“Mmm,” he hummed. “That feels really nice.”

Ilya’s touch softened further. “You work very hard,” he said quietly. “You deserve nice things.”

Shane opened his eyes at that, something tender flickering across his face. “You’re one of my nice things.”

Ilya leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, careful not to get soap in his eyes.

“Close,” he instructed softly before rinsing the suds away, shielding Shane’s face with his hand.

When he finished, Shane reached for the bottle himself.

“Your turn.”

Ilya rolled his eyes but stepped closer. Shane worked the shampoo into his hair—less practiced, maybe, but just as careful—fingers threading through the thick strands with quiet concentration.

“You’re very bossy,” Shane murmured as he scrubbed gently.

“Says the CEO of being bossy,” Ilya shot back.

Shane laughed under his breath, letting his blunt nails drag lightly over Ilya’s scalp the way he knew he liked. Ilya’s shoulders dropped, tension easing as he leaned into the touch without even realizing it.

They took their time—rinsing, washing, lingering beneath the steady spray. There was no rush. Just the warmth and steam and the comfort of standing close enough that their toes bumped every so often.

When they were finished, they dried each other off with lazy affection, trading the towel back and forth until they were both warm and clean and smelling faintly of Shane’s citrus shampoo.

Ilya, stubborn as ever, refused to let Shane’s feet touch the tile. He scooped him up again despite the half-hearted protest.

“Ilya,” Shane laughed, arms automatically looping around his neck. “I can walk now.”

“I know,” Ilya said simply. “I do not care.”

Back in the bedroom, Shane hung up his towel and, without thinking, tugged one of Ilya’s jerseys over his head. It swallowed him a little, the fabric falling past his hips. He stepped into a pair of boxers and turned back around.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathed.

Shane blinked. “What?”

“You should only ever wear my clothes,” Ilya said, sliding his arms around Shane’s waist and pulling him close.

Shane grinned, tilting his head back to steal a kiss. “Of course you like me wearing your name on my back.”

Ilya’s lips brushed over his neck, softer now. “Can you blame me? I like seeing that you are mine.”

Shane turned in his arms, cupping his face. 

“M’all yours,” he said quietly. Then, after a beat, “And you’re mine.”

Ilya kissed him softly. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Shane echoed the words slowly, tripping a little over the syllables. Ilya smiled, hands warm against Shane’s cheeks.

“Your Russian is adorable.”

Shane pulled back just enough to frown at him. “Hey. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means it is cute,” Ilya said, brushing his thumbs beneath Shane’s eyes. “I love it.”

“Are you saying it’s bad?” Shane asked, suddenly serious.

Ilya let out a soft laugh and shook his head. “No. It’s very good. Your accent is just… cute, okay? I like my boyfriend speaking Russian. Is that allowed?”

Shane tried to stay indignant, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Maybe,” he muttered. “Depends how much you’re making fun of me.”

“I would never,” Ilya said, leaning in to kiss him again. “I am very proud of you.”

Shane’s expression softened. “Yeah?”

“Of course. You are a fast learner. I love that about you.”

Shane huffed out a quiet laugh, then grew more serious. “I just—I want you to be able to talk to me in your native language, too. It feels unfair that I never have to worry about words or being understood, and you have to think about it every day.”

Ilya stilled for a moment, something tender flickering across his face. He shook his head softly, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

“You are unbelievable,” he murmured. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Shane replied immediately. Then, nudging him with a small grin, he added, “Okay. Say something in Russian.”

Ilya narrowed his eyes playfully. “Nam pora nachinat’ gotovit’ uzhin,” he said, carefully enunciating each word.

Shane squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating. “You said… we should start making dinner?”

Ilya broke into a wide grin. “Yes! See, Shanyusha? Fast learner.”

Shane shook his head with a grin and padded into the kitchen, bare feet quiet against the floor. He opened the fridge, scanning the shelves, when Ilya’s hand closed gently around his wrist.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Ilya said, tugging him back a step. “You don’t do anything. Let me spoil you.”

“Ilya,” Shane replied, voice soft and fond.

“Hey.” Ilya’s expression shifted—playful, but earnest underneath. “I haven’t cooked for my boyfriend in a week. Let me do this, yeah?”

Shane studied him for a second, then sighed in surrender. “Fine.”

“Good,” Ilya said, pressing a quick kiss to his temple before steering him toward one of the kitchen stools. “Sit. Supervise.”

Shane rolled his eyes but obeyed, hopping up onto the counter instead. “I am not supervising. I am judging.”

“Even better,” Ilya muttered, already pulling ingredients from the fridge.

Truthfully, Shane loved when Ilya cooked for him. He hated the constant calculations—managing his diet, grocery shopping, planning meals for the week. It all made his brain feel loud and cluttered. Ilya usually handled it for both of them without complaint.

During the week he’d been gone, Shane had survived almost exclusively on rotisserie chicken and raw vegetables.

“What’re you making?” Shane asked, leaning forward on the counter, chin in his hands.

“Your favorite,” Ilya replied, brow furrowed in concentration. “That, um… miso rice bowl you like.”

“With salmon?”

“Yes.” Ilya glanced up at him. “With salmon.”

Shane smiled immediately. That had always been his favorite. His mom used to make it all the time when he was growing up. She’d even shown Ilya how to make it when he’d come over for Christmas a few months ago—patiently walking him through the marinade, correcting his knife grip, giving him pointers like it was a chemistry lab.

“I can’t believe you remembered the recipe,” Shane said softly.

Ilya shrugged, rinsing the rice. “I wrote it down. Your mom threatened me if I messed it up.”

“Sounds like her,” Shane said with a small smile.

Ilya returned the smile, tilting his head slightly.

“She really is wonderful,” he said softly, voice warm. “I’m very grateful… for how welcoming she’s been.”

“She loves you,” Shane said quietly.

Ilya didn’t reply, just nodded, a soft smile lingering on his face. He turned back to the stove, moving around the kitchen with ease. The rice steamed gently, the salmon sizzled in the pan, and the aroma of miso and fresh vegetables filled the small room. Shane loved these quiet moments—watching Ilya focused, seeing him at home in their shared space.

Carefully, Ilya plated the meal, drizzling the sauce over the fish exactly the way Yuna had shown him. Shane’s chest warmed at the thoughtfulness. Sliding a bowl across the counter, Ilya grabbed a cold ginger ale from the fridge and handed it to him, then joined Shane at the table a moment later.

Shane took a bite, eyes closing as the rich, comforting flavors hit him. He hummed in satisfaction.

“I don’t know if it’s exactly like your mom’s, but I thought maybe you were… homesick, and you—” Ilya began.

“Ilya. It’s perfect. I love it,” Shane said, smiling softly, heart full.

Ilya relaxed, letting out a quiet breath. “Good.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Taking care of me.”

Ilya’s lips curved into a gentle smile. He reached across the table, covering Shane’s hand with his own. “Always. You don’t even have to ask.”

Shane squeezed his hand, warmth spreading through him. “I know. I just… I feel like I don’t tell you how much I love it enough.”

“Then I’ll keep doing it,” Ilya said softly, leaning his forehead against Shane’s. “Because I love you, Shane Hollander. Every little bit.”

Shane leaned into him, resting his cheek against Ilya’s. “I love you too. More than I can say.”

They finished their meal, the warmth of the food and the quiet comfort of being together wrapping around them. When the last bite was gone, Ilya got up to wash the dishes.

“Okay—no. That’s where I draw the line. I’m helping,” Shane said, stepping forward.

Ilya shook his head with a small smile. “I can do it, malysh. Is fine.”

“And what if I want to help? Huh?” Shane challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Ilya glanced at him, pretending to think it over. “Okay. Come help me, then.”

Shane grinned and nudged Ilya to the left side of the sink with his hip, leaning over to scrub one of the pots. Their shoulders brushed, the scent of warm soap and lingering food filling the air. Even something as mundane as washing dishes together felt incredibly intimate with Ilya.

Ilya rolled his eyes but let Shane scrub a few dishes, leaning over him to rinse them off. 

“You’re making it worse,” Shane said, laughing when Ilya leaned even closer, murmuring something in Russian that made Shane’s ears burn.

“I like being close to you,” Ilya admitted, shrugging, though his grin was soft and affectionate.

Shane hummed, finishing the last pot. “Well… I like being close to you too.” He dried his hands and turned to grab the drying rack, letting Ilya stack the clean dishes.

When they were finally done, Shane looped his arms around Ilya from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder. “See? We make a good team.”

Ilya leaned back into him, smiling. “The best team. Always.”

Chapter End Notes

Did we enjoy?? Please let me know if you did! I honestly could not stop smiling the whole time writing this they are so precious I literally can’t. If theres anything else you wanna see from this series, lmk!

Also if you enjoyed this fic, or you like djo or trans Shane Hollander, I have another fic that you should check out called Carry the name! Here’s the link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/82472096/chapters/217085596

Thank you so much for reading! (Also thank you to all the wonderful people who commented and left kudos on the og fic that motivated me to write this sweet lil bonus chapter) love yall very very much.