Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Humor, Sweet Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Hurt Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Has Food Allergies, Shallergies, ONCE AGAIN I PROCLAIM I SHALL SEE THAT BECOME A TAG SO HELP ME GOD, Allergies, Anaphylaxis, Ilya Rozanov Has a Crush on Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Has a Crush on Ilya Rozanov, Dumb Hockey Boys, Crushes, Getting to Know Each Other, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Sexual Situations, (interrupted by anaphylaxis rip shane), First Time Blow Jobs, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Angst and Feels, Feels, Getting Together, Mutual Pining, Heavy Angst, Complicated Relationships, Miscommunication, Pining, Appendicitis, Vomiting, Ilya Rozanov Whump, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Sick Ilya Rozanov, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander and Yuna Hollander Love Ilya Rozanov, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Friends with Benefits, Best Friends to Lovers, Good Parents David Hollander/Yuna Hollander, Momager Yuna Hollander, Angst with a Happy Ending

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-01 Updated: 2026-10-14 Words: 113,156 Chapters: 10/?

hit or miss

Summary

Finally, something dawns on him, a way to handle two goals simultaneously. He’d seen Hollander’s mother flipping through papers rapidly when they first got here, seeming calm and in control and more than a little frightening in a way that made Ilya mildly glad he wasn’t one of the people responsible for a clipboard. If anyone can tell him if the long list of “Prohibited Items” he’d been sent in his email a few days ago is just standard practice for big shoots, it would be Yuna Hollander.

Or, hopefully, her son.

“Crazy we cannot even have peanut butter, eh?” He asks. “You also got giant list?”

Hollander stiffens, almost imperceptibly, and Ilya tilts his head, just slightly, confused, wondering if he’s stumbled somewhere unexpected.

(how ilya learns about shane's allergies) (and shane's sexual awakening tragically hits a speedbump in the process 😔)

Notes

HI IN THE PROCESS OF ME BECOMING SHALLERGIES AND ONLY SHALLERGIES, SOMEONE ON TUMBLR PROPOSED THE IDEA OF ILYA FINDING OUT ABOUT SHANE'S ALLERGIES AT THE CCM SHOOT, SO PLEASE TO ENJOY THE FIRST IN A SERIES OF FICS SET IN THAT UNIVERSE BECAUSE APPARENTLY MY LIFE IS SHALLERGIES AND SHALLERGIES ALONE

I'M AT PEACE WITH IT

Chapter 1

It’s something Hollander is already well-known for, his footwork and precision. Ilya’s done some cross training with figure skating himself–years and years ago now, when his mother used to sit on the sidelines and playfully ask him to show off for her at the end–so he recognizes it in Hollander, the balance, the fluidity. It’s contained, absent of flourishes, but there’s a grace in his movements that makes it hard to look away. Ilya’s already heard him be chirped a few times for being in the wrong arena, but even if he wasn’t able to see the envy in other people’s eyes when they say it, Hollander’s skating would speak for itself: no movement wasted, no movement unplanned, everything perfectly practiced and executed. 

It really just adds to the urge Ilya feels to find out what Hollander looks like when he isn’t so in control. 

*

Rozanov is almost obnoxiously confident in his movements on the ice. 

He reminds Shane of a nature documentary, kind of, the way big cats move, all languid grace and coiled muscle. Rozanov moves with a deceptive sense of ease, like he barely thinks about it at all, but Shane’s seen enough of him at this point to know it’s just another part of getting in people’s heads, fooling them with false nonchalance just to surge into motion like a cheetah taking off, stealing the puck and getting the fuck out of dodge before the sucker has even begun to figure out what happened. It’s obnoxious. It’s effective. 

It’s…wildly inconveniently hard to look away from. 

“-ane, Shane?” 

He startles slightly and looks over when his mom touches his shoulder. 

“Were you listening to me?” She asks, like she already knows the answer is no. 

Shane quickly tries to scramble and come up with whatever his ears might have been tuned into when his brain was busy elsewhere. 

“Peanuts,” he offers, snatching at it as soon as it pops into his head. “No peanuts. On set.”

His mom’s look clearly says she knows he was distracted, but apparently she’s decided to take a brief rest on the momaging. 

Thank God. 

“Craft services said there was a miscommunication between them and the catering service they hired,” the look on his mom’s face says there’s about to be repercussions for this that would make God a little envious, “and they can’t guarantee there’s no cross-contamination with the food today.” 

Immediately, Shane flicks back through his own memories, desperately trying to recall if he’s tried anything or not. He’d been a little too nervous when he first got here–half-expecting someone to pop out and say there’d been a mixup and where did he think he was going–to feel hungry, but he’s also been playing hockey at too high a level for too long to let a little thing like not being hungry stop him, especially on a set where for once he’d be able to enjoy the novelty of getting to eat any of it that he wanted. There were bagels, he remember he saw bagels, but did he-

No. He remembers now. He’d gotten distracted when Rozanov laughed at something, and then he’d gotten pulled into a chair to let someone put makeup on him. He’d had a protein bar his mom pulled out of her purse and tried not to feel like he was six years old and getting handed a juicebox again. 

“So I can’t eat anything?” He asks, trying not to sound as annoyed as he is about it. His mom almost definitely has another protein bar in her purse, and he’s got a couple in his bag, but at a certain point even artificially sweetened cookies and cream has a ceiling in how appealing it is as a food option. 

And he passed that ceiling approximately fifty bars ago. 

“No, honey,” his mom says, and under the annoyance, he can see she feels bad for him. 

He’d rather she just goes back to looking annoyed at other people. 

“I can go get something for you,” she offers, but Shane’s already shaking his head. 

“No, it’s fine.” It’s not–not really, it’s fucking annoying–but it’s not like being mad about it is actually going to change anything. He’d been doubtful that the rider his mom has started pushing for his brand deals was actually going to be obeyed anyway, even though she always comes along on the shoots to double-check. It’s extreme in a way that’s kind of annoying, the list of “hey, don’t bring this on set and kill me, please” items in his contract, and he worries it’s going to make him sound like a diva, especially when he’s still just a rookie, but the idea of it is nice, being able to walk onto a set and have actual options of what he’d like to eat. 

He probably turned it into a pipe dream just by wanting it too much. 

“It’s not a problem, honey,” his mom insists, already pulling out her phone. “I can probably even order something.” 

“Mom, please don’t make it a thing,” he says, already feeling his ears go a little hot. He doesn’t know if anyone here knows exactly why they’re working on a nut-free set today, but whether they know it’s because of him or not, he’s going to look like a diva if he then has something totally different brought in just for him. 

Especially if he has his mom go get it for him. 

“I’m not even that hungry,” he lies, watching Rozanov make a beautiful goal, a trickshot delivered from halfway across the arena, impressive even when he’s the only one on the ice. He smiles afterwards, something small and private, like he’s pleased about it but not making a show of it. It’s a good smile, his mouth curving up just a bit higher on the right side, a mouth that Shane can’t help but wonder about, if it would feel good pressed to his-

“If you’re sure…” His mom says, clearly unconvinced. 

Shane internally gives himself a shake, glad the low lighting of the arena hopefully won’t show his ears going red the way he can feel. 

“I’m sure,” he says. 

When a PA perks her head up and starts looking around, he’s already in motion to get back on the ice, away from both moms and thoughts about another player that he should not be having. Rozanov skates past him on his way off the ice. Shane doesn’t change his path even though they’re a little bit on a collision course, and at the last second, Rozanov adjusts just enough that their hands brush past each other, gloves hanging from wrists but not on. 

Shane tries very, very hard not to notice that it makes his skin feel tingly where it touched Rozanov’s. 

Just like he tries not to be as aware of blue eyes on him as he is as he gets in position to make a few impressive shots of his own for the camera. He doesn’t let himself glance up, doesn’t take the risk, but he can feel the weight of Rozanov’s attention on him like a hand on the back of his neck. It’s not unpleasant. It might even be ni-

It’s not unpleasant. 

That’s all. 

*

Hollander looks satisfyingly thrown when Ilya finally lets him in on the fact that he set the shoot up today, and he’s a little annoyed when Hollander is then immediately called away before Ilya can investigate what he might be feeling about it beyond surprised. It had been a gamble that his agent–an old friend of his father’s–would even allow it, always previously saying that modeling is for for bleach-blonde women and not men who have better things to do than sit and wait for someone to do their hair, but he’d taken the risk anyway, even knowing that his father might have questions about it. It had been risky, going to CCM himself and having them then ask his agent, and he still half-expects a phone call about it from his father any day now to remind him that these kinds of decisions aren’t his to make, but for the pleasure of getting to watch Shane Hollander in close quarters with limited witnesses, he’d taken it. 

And if he possibly has other things he’d like to get in return for his risk, well. He’s still figuring out how to get to those things. 

Hollander returns after a few minutes to let the workers set up for a new series of shots, and Ilya tries to take the fact that he immediately returns to stand right next to him as a positive sign. It’s a big rink, after all. Hollander doesn’t have to come stand right here, next to him. 

And yet he did. 

Ilya casts around for something new to offer, something both more interesting than the weather but unlikely to wander past the limits of his proficiency in English. It’s gotten better rapidly since the move to the US, but he still finds himself wrong-footed at odd moments, conversational partners suddenly dropping words too fast and too unclear to catch, so sometimes he’s not sure if he doesn’t know the word or if he just doesn’t know the pronunciation of the word. Either way ends in the risk of looking foolish, and asking for clarification or repetition usually just gets him louder, slower words, like he’s stupid instead of bilingual. Finally, something dawns on him, a way to handle two goals simultaneously. He’d seen Hollander’s mother flipping through papers rapidly when they first got here, seeming calm and in control and more than a little frightening in a way that made Ilya mildly glad he wasn’t one of the people responsible for a clipboard. If anyone can tell him if the long list of “Prohibited Items” he’d been sent in his email a few days ago is just standard practice for big shoots, it would be Yuna Hollander. 

Or, hopefully, her son. 

“Crazy we cannot even have peanut butter, eh?” He asks. “You also got giant list?” 

Hollander stiffens, almost imperceptibly, and Ilya tilts his head, just slightly, confused, wondering if he’s stumbled somewhere unexpected. He’d thought it could be something they could commiserate over, maybe, silly rules for what are almost certainly liability reasons, like people who play contact sports need to be careful about what might be in a cookie. 

“What?” Hollander asks, looking only at the ice. “Didn’t get to pick the catering when you set this up?” 

Ilya knows he’s missing something here, knows he’s offended him somehow, but he can’t even begin to guess why. Is Hollander that mad about it? Does he think Ilya did this as some weird power play? 

“Is a lot of rules for food,” he offers, hopefully shifting some of the blame off of himself here. Maybe he should have been a little slower in letting Hollander know he was the one who set it up, or maybe he should have made it clear that that’s where his involvement stopped. 

He hadn’t thought Hollander would get touchy about nothing with coconut allowed with him for a few hours, but he supposes everyone has their quirks. 

“Yeah,” Hollander says, still not looking at him. “Seems like they kind of half-assed it, though. Apparently the catering fucked something up.” 

This is an interesting tidbit for Hollander to know and also explains Yuna Hollander making two grown men look like they were about to fall at her feet and beg for forgiveness earlier. 

It’s nice to have the confirmation, honestly, that these rules for food are how the set is supposed to go. It makes sense in a way, he supposes. Advertising agencies probably hate liability, and he’s seen the labels on menus here by now, bold font labels for allergen warnings. They’d even announced on a flight he was on once to not eat any peanuts because someone on board was allergic. It must be a cultural thing, maybe, more common over here. 

“Eh,” he says, “not big loss, I do not think. The–what is the word? The thing, you spread on bagel?” He mimes swiping a knife over something and then immediately feels like an idiot, but Hollander doesn’t appear to think much of it. 

“Cream cheese?” He offers. 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “This. You tried?” 

Another look from Hollander, halfway to a scoff before he looks away, like Ilya’s taken a shot at him somehow with this inane smalltalk while he finds something actually interesting they can talk about instead. Christ, he hadn’t known food would be such a fucking sensitive topic. He’d heard at the World Junior Championship before that Hollander apparently had a special diet–why he hadn’t eaten with everyone else at the restaurant in the hotel they were at–but he hadn’t known he was this particular about it. 

“Not good,” he offers. “Very, mm, like sand? Bad texture.” He is feeling more stupid by the moment and wishing he’d let this topic drop after he’d gotten his answer. Jesus, he manages to set this entire thing up, and now he’s going to fuck it up talking about fucking cream cheese? Svetlana will laugh herself sick if she ever hears about this shitshow. 

Hollander, though, seems strangely appeased by the comment. 

“Are the sandwiches any good?” He asks, and Ilya feels a stupid amount of relief at being thrown a bone here. 

“Eh,” he says with a shrug. “Just okay, I think. You have not tried?” 

*

Shane feels the tension leaving his shoulders as they talk. He’d thought Rozanov must have heard about his allergies or something and was taking a shot at him, but it seems like he was instead just complaining about lack-luster catering. Shane is feeling more than a little vindicated, honestly. If he can’t have it, it might as well be shitty for everyone else, too. 

(It probably makes him a bad person, but he’s also currently a hungry person, so he thinks he should get to be a little shitty as payment for his suffering.)

“If you do a shoot for Reebok, their catering is pretty good,” he offers, and it’s true. He hadn’t had all of crafty for himself, but they’d had a special table with sealed, allergen-free food that he’d been able to have his pick of. He’d even gotten the recipe for the granola to add to the recipe binder his dad made him and gave him as a gift when he and his mom helped him move into his new place in Montreal. 

“Reebok, wow,” Rozanov says, letting out a low whistle. “Fancy fancy.” 

“Don’t worry,” Shane says, deciding to take the risk on a soft chirp to see if Rozanov will get mad or chirp back, always a gamble, “they work with a lot of the really good athletes. If you work really, really hard, you might get there one day.” 

To his delight, Rozanov laughs, and Shane grins, pleased and feeling absurdly flustered at the sound of the laughter, immediately wanting to make it happen again. 

“Wow wow,” Rozanov says, and despite himself, Shane sounds out the shape of the words in his mouth without speaking or moving his jaw, saving them to repeat when he’s alone later, liking the sound of them. “They know they hire bully?” 

“Just some friendly career advice,” he says. 

“‘Friendly,’” Rozanov repeats. “Sure.” 

Shane hesitates, just briefly, not sure if he should say what comes to mind or not, unsure if Rozanov will think it’s too mean or if he’ll tell someone and fuck up the image his mom is always working so hard to build for him. Still…

“Friendlier than that one NHL photographer,” he says. “Did you have to work with him at the draft? Glasses and the weird pocket square?” He traces the shape of a pocket square on his chest and then immediately feels like an idiot for doing it. 

“‘Can we serve some friendly?’” Rozanov says in what’s clearly an attempt at imitating an American accent, voice pitched high. 

Shane laughs, delighted that he both didn’t say something he shouldn’t and that at least one other person found the guy annoying with his frustratingly abstract instructions. 

“‘Let’s invite some playfulness into the space,’” Shane says, matching Rozanov’s pitch on the impression. 

“‘Soft eyes, soft eyes.’”

“‘Serious face, sweet energy.’”

“‘Camera loves you, love her back.’”

Their imitation of the obnoxious photographer carries them all the way through the resetting of the props on set, and when they line up for more pictures, Shane finds it harder not to smile.

*

The rest of the shoot goes by quickly. They both end up in trouble more than once for making each other break and laugh–Hollander even getting a “Shane, come on, honey, just a few more, okay?” from his mother, delivered after a helpless little gesture from the photographer towards her but with a lack of conviction that makes Ilya suspect she wasn’t exactly sharing the frustration in the light of her child laughing–and Ilya then uses their shared shower time afterwards to set up trouble of a different kind. 

Which he’s pretending he’s not counting down the minutes towards. 

From spending time with Hollander, he didn’t end up eating much from craft services, and he decides to walk to the restaurant he picks for dinner mostly just to eat up some more time. He doesn’t even necessarily like peanuts, really, but something about being explicitly told he couldn’t have any all day gave him a strange craving, and he gets Thai food as the easiest option to satisfy it, some noodle dish he absolutely butchered the pronunciation of despite his best efforts when ordering and some spring rolls with peanut sauce. He wonders, idly, as he eats in his room after walking back with it, if it was similar for Hollander, if he might also be scratching an itch with a taste of the previously-forbidden up in his room. It’s an oddly pleasing idea, both of them in parallel. He hadn’t seen Hollander eat on set today beyond a few protein bars, but it’s possible he just hadn’t liked the options from catering, maybe, and he’d heard Hollander and his mother making plans to go get dinner right after the shoot wrapped. It had filled Ilya with something he’d refused to think about further, the idea of Hollander getting to go out and have a meal with his mother, and he shuffles it out of his head now, glancing at the clock again to see if he can finally stop lingering in his room like a jumpy ghost or not. 

Right before the clock tells him he can finally leave and be just slightly fashionably late, he pops a few mints in his mouth. Going through the full process of brushing his teeth and using mouthwash would feel too much like admitting to being nervous in a way that would be ridiculous, but if this night is going to go the way he hopes it does, he would like to be at least a little minty fresh. 

It’s only polite, after all. 

*

It’s not that making out and doing some form of sex with Ilya Rozanov has become less of a terrible idea since it first came up, but it’s surprisingly easy to push reason and logic away when he has a hot guy pressing him against a wall and kissing him. 

It’s even easier when he has a hot guy naked and on a bed in front of him. 

…it does become a little less easier when he is also on the bed and doesn’t know what the next step here should be. He’s watched porn before because of fucking course he has, and the guys at this stage are usually already moving to blowjobs and smacking dicks on each other’s faces, but even if the desire is there inside him, the boldness most certainly fucking isn’t. He’s painfully aware of looking like the inexperienced virgin he is, his only previous foray into sex a high school girlfriend grinding on his thigh under the bleachers at a dance his junior year while they made out. She’d seemed to enjoy it, but when she’d asked if he wanted her to return the favor, he’d politely declined, kissed her on the cheek, immediately regretted kissing her on the cheek, and all but fled back to the safety of crowds and chaperones. He’s not going to find a Mrs. Turner from history class to save him from the awkwardness here, though, not when Rozanov clearly has plenty of experience and expectations that Shane isn’t fulfilling and-

“Soooo,” Rozanov ventures, when the moment has stretched into something both mortifying and painful, “what do you want to do?” 

“I don’t know,” he says honestly, half-bracing himself to get laughed at. He’s heard enough to know porn is rarely reflective of real life, so he’s not willing to try and pull any of those moves here, but without that to lean on, he’s kind of depending on Rozanov to drive the bus here. 

Which he finally–thank fucking God–does, getting a hand on Shane’s dick, which feels so unbelievably good that he almost misses being asked if it’s okay altogether and just barely manages to make himself nod. 

He hadn’t realized his chest was so sensitive until Rozanov’s lips are on it, and he’s torn between pressing up into that and pressing up into the pressure around his dick. The glide isn’t smooth, really, not without something to ease the glide, but that doesn’t even fucking matter under the reality that a gorgeous man is touching him, his strong, hockey-calloused hand where only Shane’s hand has been before. 

His arousal goes quite suddenly from a flagging five to a pedal to the metal one hundred, and he has Rozanov on his back before he’s even consciously thought about wanting him to feel the same pleasure. 

He’s glad for the guiding hands on his head during his second attempt at giving a blowjob. It’s nice, bumper rails for this new thing, Rozanov controlling the glide and the depth, letting Shane focus on keeping his teeth out of the way and trying to work out how to move his tongue along the shaft while hopefully not making a stupid face. It’s even hotter than he’d imagined it would be in his shameful, late-night fantasies, but he hadn’t known it would make his throat feel strange or that it would feel harder to breathe while doing it. Logically, he knows there’s now a–very large, which is annoying because he just knows Rozanov is absolutely full of himself about it–dick in his mouth, which means he can’t get much air that way, but it’s not like he’s a mouth breather normally. He tries to focus on breathing through his nose more, but it’s like having his mouth open is making his throat go tigh-

No. 

No no no no no no no-

Shane tries to sink back into the sensation of his head being guided, but he finally tugs away, letting Rozanov’s cock slip from his mouth in a way that isn’t remotely graceful or sexy, leaving it to slap back down against his stomach. Rozanov doesn’t try to tug him back to work, but he doesn’t let go, either, a thumb moving to rub gently behind Shane’s ear. Shane shuts his eyes tight, begging this to not be happening to him. He must have just taken Rozanov’s dick deeper than he thought. That’s all. It just hit the back of his throat, and now that’s why it feels like it’s swelling shut and not-

“Hey,” Rozanov says, and now the hands at his head are tugging, but only to try and pull him up the bed. “Is okay.” 

Shane, eyes still shut, just shakes his head, feeling his heartrate increasing steadily even as the sudden shakiness he feels says his blood pressure is dropping rapidly. His stomach rolls as his mouth waters, and he tries desperately to pull a breath in, trying to make it all stop.  

“No,” Rozanov persists, still trying to pull him up the bed, now sitting up and getting a hand under Shane’s bicep, trying to tug him onto the bed more. “Is okay. Is your first time doing this. Is okay to try something and not like it. If you-” 

Shane tries to draw a breath on reflex to speak, to tell Rozanov that not liking it is not the fucking problem, but all he manages is a tight, painful wheeze. 

*

“Hollander?” Ilya checks, more than a little alarmed now by what’s happening, wondering how he could have missed Hollander winding himself up into this much of a panic. “You are okay?” 

Hollander shakes his head and starts to pull away, and Ilya is torn between letting him go and pulling him close to let him know that there’s no ill will here. Really, he’s cursing himself for apparently missing that Hollander wasn’t feeling the blowjob and continuing to move his head anyway. Hollander had initiated it when Ilya had meant to signal he was fine with just handjobs as the thing Hollander would most likely at least have some solo experience to draw from, but it’s not like he would be the first person in the world to discover that something can be hot in theory but not to their taste in reality. It did feel good, so it would suck if they were off the table forever if they ever have a repeat of tonight, but he won’t push Hollander into som-

Hollander all but launches himself off of the bed, and Ilya moves automatically to follow him before he pauses, one foot on the floor but his knee still on the mattress. He doesn’t know what caused what looks like absolute terror out of nowhere, but clearly he misstepped somewhere, missed a sign that he needed to tap the breaks, didn’t check in enough to see if Hollander was comfortable. He feels like the world’s biggest asshole now as Hollander pulls in labored, painful-sounding breaths and starts digging through his suitcase. He wants to get up and offer Hollander his neatly-folded clothes, wants to let him know it’s totally okay if this is over tonight, and he can get dressed and Ilya can get dressed and they can talk or Ilya can get lost or-

Instead of clothes, what Hollander emerges with is a yellow plastic tube, and the way he stops searching immediately says it’s what he was looking for. 

Ilya blinks. 

Hollander staggers back over to the bed and all but drops back down with a bounce that almost sends him right back off until Ilya on auto-pilot gets an arm around him, tugging him back up. Hollander doesn’t shrug him off even though Ilya immediately moves to hover his hand over him instead of holding when he’s already freaking out so badly. 

“Hollander, what is happening?” He asks. On complete impulse, he moves his hand to gently squeeze at Hollander’s shoulders, where he’d felt before to gauge the tension in them, to know exactly how careful he needed to be moving forward based on how nervous Hollander was. 

Based on what’s happening now, though, it doesn’t seem that the technique is totally flawless. 

“Is okay,” he says again, daring to rub his hand over the bare skin of Hollander’s back. “Okay? I am not mad. Is oka-” 

His reassurance is cut off when Hollander does the deeply bizarre thing of flicking the cap off of the tube and then jabbing it against his thigh. 

Ilya is really, really wondering where the fuck this night went wrong to be going so weird right now. 

*

Against the anticipation of the relief of being able to breathe again, the faint sting of the needle in his thigh barely registers, though he twitches reflexively, just in response to the sensation. 

The movement makes Rozanov’s hand rest over his back again, gentle but present, warmth from his palm radiating into Shane’s skin. 

“Hollander?” Rozanov asks, and Shane opens his eyes to find Rozanov leaning over his shoulder, looking more than a little alarmed. 

Oh fuck, Shane thinks, mind clearing enough as the tightness in his chest eases to let other things come to the front. 

Like complete fucking mortification. 

“Shit,” he hisses out, dropping his head forward, desperately telling himself that this is just a really, really, really weird dream. He definitely didn’t just explore gay sex for the first time and somehow have an allergic reaction to dick. That cannot be what just fucking happened to him. 

Please just let anaphylaxis take him before that is the thing that happened here. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov says again, and now there’s a strain in his voice, both of Rozanov’s hands on him now. “What is happening? What is wrong?” 

“I’m-” Shane cuts himself off, breathing a few more times until the last of the painful tension in his chest has eased. He only registers when Rozanov half-wrenches the comforter from under them to wrap it over his shoulders and starts chafing his hands along his arms gently that he’s shaking now in the aftermath of the reaction, trembling in a way he knows looks alarming from the outside. “I’m not cold,” he says, still sounding a little breathless but not wanting Rozanov to think he’s suddenly delicate enough to be getting cold in a perfectly warm room. 

“Okay,” Rozanov says. “Then what the fuck are you?” 

Startled by the question, Shane laughs, unable to help it. Trying to will himself into stillness and failing, he reaches up to rest his hand over one of Rozanov’s on his arm, a little overstimulated by so much movement happening on him even through the comforter. Rozanov stops immediately, but when Shane goes to drop his hand, Rozanov instead keeps hold of it, warm and steady around his. It’s…strangely soothing. Shane doesn’t bother to pull away. 

“Fuck,” Shane hisses, knowing now how this night is going to end. 

Namely, in a hospital bed and not in an orgasm. 

Fuck his fucking life. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov says again, squeezing his hand in a way that seems like it’s a little tighter than he means for it to be. “What just happened? You are okay? What is-” He leans over, reaching to grab the epipen, and Shane leans back, stopping him by pressing back against his chest. 

“Careful,” he says. “Don’t stab yourself.” 

“What?” Rozanov asks. “Stab what? What is happening? Hollander, what the fuck is this?” 

“Um,” Shane says, “it-fuck. Can you get my phone, please? It’s-” He glances up, trying to remember where he put it, but Rozanov is already in motion, tucking the comforter around him a bit more securely before he crosses to the desk in the corner of the room, unplugging Shane’s phone and returning to the bed. Shane surveys his very enticing naked body with no small amount of regret. 

“Here,” Rozanov says, handing him his phone and then sitting down next to him again, bringing an arm up to rest against his back again. “Hollander, please, what is…this?” 

Shane has another moment of wishing the anaphylaxis had just killed him and saved him from this entire experience. 

“I’m allergic to…a lot of stuff,” he confesses, feeling stupid and miserable and embarrassed. “Food, mostly. That’s what the list was. For the shoot. That’s why there were so many random rules about stuff.” 

“Fuck,” Rozanov says, sounding like he just realized something. “Peanuts.” 

Shane turns to him slightly, finding Rozanov looking chagrined. 

“I had peanuts with dinner,” Rozanov says, like he’s confessing to a crime. “It hurts you even if you did not eat them? If you kiss?” 

“Apparently,” Shane says, feeling his face go a little hot. It’s not something he’s had reason to consider before, honestly. He’d never really wanted to kiss the girls he’s gone on dates with before, so kissing any of them had always been sporadic. 

He hasn’t previously had reason, then, to wonder if tongue to tongue contact might be enough to set off his allergies. 

He can’t say he’s really enjoying the new discovery. 

“And yellow…thing,” Rozanov says, “this is medicine? For you?” 

“Epipen,” Shane offers, knowing he has to call an ambulance now but really, really not fucking wanting to. Jesus, how the fuck is he even going to explain this? “And yeah.” 

“You are okay now?” Rozanov asks. “Epipen,” he pronounces the word carefully, “this fixes you?” 

“Uh, kind of,” he says, “I still have to go to the hospital, so-oh fuck.” 

“What?” Rozanov asks at once, leaning forward. “What is happening? Is happening aga-” 

“Can you grab my clothes?” 

Rozanov blinks. 

“What.” 

“I don’t know how long it’ll take them to get here, and I’d rather not have my ass out when they do,” Shane says, feeling a little bitter now at the only discovery in this room tonight being Rozanov learning Shane Hollander’s Weird Ass Medical Stuff 101. 

God, he’ll be lucky if this isn’t all over the NHL by tomorrow, spread along the grapevine as a golden chirping opportunity. 

Or worse, he thinks, stomach going a little tight, thinking of the more vicious of the messages he’s gotten on social media since the draft and not able to not think about what the type of person who would send those messages would do with such convenient information about him. 

“Please don’t tell anyone,” he says, as Rozanov starts to get off the bed. Shane grabs him by the wrist. “Okay? Please don’t-” 

“You think I would do this?” Rozanov asks, sounding almost hurt by the accusation. “I am getting your clothes like you asked, Hollander. I am not running off to tell news.” 

In an instant, Shane feels like an asshole. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, as Rozanov grabs his clothes and returns, setting them on the bed beside him before turning to start collecting his own clothing. Shane shakily starts pulling his underwear and then his pants back on, standing up as briefly as he can when he still feels a little dizzy. “It’s just-I don’t want people to know, you know?” 

“Why?” Rozanov asks, shimmying back into his jeans and securing the zipper and button before leaning down for his shirt. 

“Just…it’s private,” Shane says, unwilling to get into his entire medical history and how he’d prefer to not have to get into it for public consumption moving forward. He pulls his shirt over his head, looking to Rozanov when his head pops through. “Okay?” 

“Okay,” Rozanov says with a shrug. “Sure.” 

“Thanks,” Shane says, starting to dial for emergency services before something occurs to him. “Um,” Shane asks, before pressing call. “Can I ask you a favor?” 

Rozanov lifts his eyebrows in what Shane is choosing to read as a “go ahead.” 

“Can you help me get down to the lobby?” He can feel his face heat with the abject humiliation of it, of having to ask this of someone who is essentially a stranger who just happens to have touched his dick and had his dick touched in return before this night went completely to shit. “It’s just…less of a scene, if they can just pick me up there.” Really, he isn’t sure even that is going to be enough to not have this end up on the news somewhere, but he’d like to minimize the chance where he can. 

“Yeah,” Rozanov says, like it’s not a problem at all. “Sure.” 

Strangely, the immediacy of his agreement makes Shane feel just a bit better as he hits call. 

*

Hollander is a shaking, mildly stumbling weight against him on the way down to the lobby, and Ilya is half-amused thinking what this must look like from the outside, the polite, golden boy of hockey appearing wasted and needing help from him, who the media is already starting to push the bad boy angle for. 

Hollander tripping over absolutely nothing and then immediately apologizing for it takes some of the levity out of the moment, though. 

“No problem,” he says, not the first time he’s said this. Really, if he couldn’t tell how genuine it was, he would be almost amused by how apologetic Hollander is about this, as if he chose to have Ilya accidentally poison him. 

The thought makes Ilya feel guilty again. 

He gets Hollander out of the front door and settled on a bench by the entrance, waving off a bellboy who perks up as if about to come over and ask if they need something. Really, he thinks anyone else jumping into this night might actually be enough to send Hollander over the edge, and he looks like he already has enough problems. 

“Do you want me to text your mother?” Ilya asks, and Hollander shakes his head immediately, still trembling in a way that makes Ilya want to shrug out of his jacket and wrap it around him even though he’s been informed it’s not because Hollander is cold. 

“She’s getting a drink with a friend from college,” Hollander says, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. “I don’t want to bother her.” 

“I do not think she will mind,” Ilya observes dryly. He pulls out Hollander’s other epipen from his back pocket–grabbed at Hollander’s request and kept in his custody because Hollander looked likely to drop it if Ilya handed it over–before sitting down, leaning enough for their shoulders to touch, a silent offer of some support to lean against if Hollander wants it. 

“No,” Hollander, says, shaking his head and resting just a bit more of his weight against Ilya. “She hasn’t seen Kimmy in over a year. She was really excited.” 

“I think she will be less excited if she-” But his objection is cut off by flashing lights as an ambulance pulls into the parking lot. He’d heard Hollander request them to keep their siren off when they came, but it’s almost disorienting, a silent but flashing ambulance. 

With Hollander still pale and shaking, it doesn’t even take Ilya standing and waving to have them pulling right up, Ilya stepping back when the paramedics hop out and start tending to Hollander. He feels a little at loose ends, honestly, trying to stay out of the way but still be in sight, not wanting Hollander to think he just dumped him and left. 

But also not knowing if he’s supposed to stay at this point. 

Really, of the hookups he’s experienced, this is novel in several new ways that he can’t say he’s really enjoying. 

“Just you coming with us for a ride today?” One of the paramedics asks Hollander as her partner finishes checking him over. 

Ilya doesn’t know if he’s necessarily even welcome in this, but it feels wrong, the idea of a shaking Hollander having to ride to the hospital by himself, especially when it’s Ilya’s fault he got sick at all. They don’t really know each other yet, but Ilya is at least not a total stranger, is at least someone who could make phone calls or get a nurse for him if he needs it, especially when he’s so strangely insistent on not interrupting his mother’s night, even though Ilya is fairly certain his mother is going to be more upset if she finds out she was not interrupted. 

“I can come,” he tells Hollander, as a paramedic helps him up. 

Hollander looks to him, appearing slightly startled. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he says. “It’s late. You can…enjoy your night, or whatever.” 

Ilya doesn’t point out that this kind of was his plan for enjoying his night. 

“I don’t mind,” he says. “Besides, I have not yet been in ambulance before. Sounds fun. We get to run red lights and police cannot get mad about it, yes?” 

There’s a flicker of a smile on Hollander’s lips, and then he nods, still looking a little unsure. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. If you want.” 

When Hollander is safely secured inside, Ilya obeys the wave of the other paramedic’s arm and climbs in as well. 

*

Shane is learning that Rozanov is strangely good company. 

“Try again,” he says now, adding an arm to Shane’s perilously-close-to-death hangman figure. He’d somehow managed to get hold of a notepad from a nurse and at Shane’s invitation because the chair looked awful, toed his shoes off and climbed up to sit at the other end of the bed, legs folded. “You are really terrible at this game,” he says cheerfully. “Your man is dead very soon.” 

“Fuck off,” Shane says, but without heat. He stifles a yawn. He’s exhausted the way he always is after a reaction, but if he falls asleep now, there’s a chance he might sleep through a call from his mom if she tries to check on him in the hotel, and he’d rather not worry her by not responding. He’d said as much to Rozanov when he’d offered to turn the lights off for him earlier, and his refusal had prompted Rozanov to go hunting for something for him to stay awake with. 

Thus Shane getting his ass kicked at hangman. 

“V,” he throws out. 

“Wrong,” Rozanov says, sounding like he’s enjoying himself. “This is in your language and you are killing this man like this?” He tsks, shaking his head. 

“Like you did any better,” Shane scoffs. 

“Better than you,” Rozanov taunts. “And this is not my language. Embarrassing for you.” 

“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov,” Shane says with a grin. 

“Ilya,” Rozanov says absently, adding a bowtie to Shane’s hangman because he’s apparently taking some mercy on him under current circumstances. 

“Huh?” He asks, thrown for a moment, probably because his brain is currently working under less than optimal circumstances. 

“Ilya,” Rozanov repeats, looking up when Shane’s hangman has been appropriately made ready for a formal event with his new accessory. “You can call me Ilya, if you want. I have almost killed you. I think you can use my name if you want.” 

Shane huffs a laugh. 

“Not on purpose,” he offers. 

“Still,” Roz-Ilya says with a shrug. He glances around and then leans in. “You have sucked my cock and I have been in ambulance with you. I think this maybe makes us friends, da?” 

“Shut up,” Shane hisses, looking up like someone with a recorder is lurking in a corner. When Ilya just grins, clearly finding himself so fucking funny, Shane rolls his eyes, sitting back. “You’re such an asshole. T.” 

“Ah, finally,” Ilya says. “You were running out of letters. Very sad.” He adds a T to the second to last space, holding the paper up for Shane’s inspection. His handwriting is surprisingly neat, Shane thinks idly, especially compared with his own chicken scratch. 

_ E A N U T _. What could-

“Motherfucker,” Shane says, extending a foot under his blanket to kick Ilya’s knee. He’s been spared the indignities of having to change out of his clothes and into a hospital gown, but he had accepted the extra blanket Ilya had grabbed for him when he went to get the notepad after a passing comment from Shane about how cold it is in here. It was oddly…touching, the thoughtfulness of it. “Peanuts, asshole.” 

Ilya grins, filling in the blanks. 

“Congratulations!” He says. “Your man lives! Stay of execution. Banishment to Siberia instead.” 

Shane laughs, accepting the notepad when Ilya flips the page to a fresh one and hands it over. 

“You’re such a dick,” he says, thinking of a word of his own and then smiling slightly when one comes to him. 

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Okay,” he says, drawing a gallows and then turning the page for Ilya to look at it. 

“A,” Ilya says, and Shane nods, adding it. 

A _ _ _ _ _ _

“This is what Canadians do for fun?” Ilya asks, leaning back slightly, his elbow on the footrest. “Wow. Very sad. E.” 

“Hey, you were the one in charge of entertainment,” Shane says as he adds the letter to the last blank. “Could have gotten an Xbox or something.” 

Ilya snorts. 

“From where?” He asks. “There is big video game industry in North American hospitals I do not know?” 

“Just saying, dude,” Shane says, turning away to yawn. “Don’t blame me for your choices.” 

“You do this often, then?” Ilya asks. “Spend time in hospitals?” 

More than a little of Shane’s levity deflates. 

“Sometimes,” he says shortly. 

“And the best you can come up with is violence against poor stick man?” Ilya asks, and Shane smiles slightly. 

“My mom started keeping UNO in her purse,” he offers. “And my dad bought a sports trivia gameboy thing when I was younger.” It’s something he feels conflicting ways about, the adaptations his parents have made over the years to try and make hospital visits suck less, to make them have a fun element. 

It hadn’t really worked because nothing about sitting in a hospital is fun, but he knows the gestures have come from a place of love. 

And it has made him really good at sports trivia, so. It’s something at least. 

“You didn't tell me before,” Ilya says. “I?” 

“Tell you what?” Shane asks as he writes I on the side of the page in the penalty box and gives Ilya’s hangman a head. 

“That the set had rules to keep you safe.” 

Shane runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth, not exactly pleased by the phrasing, like he’s some delicate little flower who needs a special enclosure. 

“I don’t need other people to keep me safe,” he says, and it comes out harder than he means for it to. “It doesn’t have to be a whole fucking thing.” 

Ilya tilts his head slightly, expression curious in a way Shane wishes it wasn’t. 

“You are embarrassed,” Ilya says, and it doesn’t sound like a question. 

“No,” he says, internally wincing when it comes out as a snap. “No,” he repeats, more even this time, “I just don’t like people making a whole fucking production out of it.” 

“Hm,” Ilya says. “O.” 

Shane adds it to the letters. A _ _ _ O _ E. 

“You did not eat on set today,” Ilya observes, because apparently he’s really determined to not drop this. 

“From what you said, I don’t think I missed out on much,” Shane says lightly.

“U,” Ilya says, tsking in disappointment when it gains him a body for his hangman. “They had rules, though. This was not so you could eat?” 

“Catering fucked up,” Shane says. “It happens.” 

“And your very scary mother did not make them cry and then go buy new food you could eat?” 

This could be taken as an insult against his mom, Shane considers, but Ilya’s tone sounds more admiring than anything else. 

“She offered,” he says, because he doesn’t want Ilya to think he has a bad mom or anything. “But it’s not a good look, making everyone read a bunch of rules and still making my mom go get me food.” 

“Hm,” Ilya says with a shrug, tucking his feet under the edge of Shane’s blanket. “Well, next time, let me know. We can both order better food than sad bagels and wet sandwiches and be divas together.” 

“What?” Shane asks, smiling slightly. “You trying to take advantage of my allergies to get better catering?” 

Ilya shrugs, looking entirely unapologetic. 

“At least one of us should get something out of it, yes?” 

Shane rolls his eyes. 

(But he also graciously gives Ilya’s hangman biceps to give him some extra chances.)

*

This might not necessarily be how Ilya planned on getting more time with Shane Hollander, but it has at least been effective. He’s hoping any future hookups can be done without the allergic reaction first, though, if possible. 

At least he’s gotten more pen and paper games than he ever wished to learn out of it. 

“A5,” he throws out, knees propped up like Shane’s so they can both hide their grids from the other person. 

“Miss,” Shane says, sounding more than a little smug about it. Ilya grumbles under his breath but marks off the square on his own grid. “D7.” 

“Hit,” Ilya says resentfully, flipping Shane off when he looks up and grins before he yawns for approximately the three hundredth time in the past hour. Ilya breathes through the one he catches immediately. “Stop,” he orders afterwards. 

“Sorry,” Shane says, immediately yawning again because he sucks at hangman and following instructions. “Can’t help it.” 

“It makes you tired? The medicine?” He asks, nodding to the IV attached to Shane’s arm. 

Shane shrugs. 

“I think it’s all of it,” he says. “It’s not…fun.” 

“Really?” Ilya asks dryly. “And it looked like such fun party from the outside.” 

“Fuck off,” Shane says, shifting slightly. 

“You are okay?” Ilya checks. 

“Fine,” Shane says. “I just hate hospital sheets. They always feel weird.” 

“Hm,” Ilya says. “One day you will be big, rich hockey star. Then maybe you can afford fancy hospital with silk sheets. C8.” 

“Hit,” Shane says, grudgingly. “Did you already get your signing bonus?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says shortly, unwilling to elaborate when it would mean saying that it was gone almost as soon as he had it, sent back to Russia. 

“Buy anything fun?” Shane asks. 

“No,” Ilya says, knowing he’s being a little sharper than he means to. “Also is your turn. Try to hit my ships.” 

“C8,” Shane says. 

“Cheater,” Ilya complains. “Hit.” 

“Could have just kept quiet and your ship would have been fine,” Shane taunts. “Are you in your own place in Boston, or are you staying with someone else?” 

“I am staying with player for now,” Ilya says, glad for the conversation to turn away from questions he doesn’t want to answer. “Cliff Marlowe. You know this guy?” 

“I know he could probably knock a house over if he felt like it,” Shane says, sounding admiring about it. “Is he a good roommate?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “He is nice. I am going to get my own place soon, but is easier for learning the city, staying somewhere first. You are with someone?” 

“No,” Shane says. “I got my own place.” 

“Wow wow,” Ilya teases. “You have, what is phrase? Bachelor place?” 

“Bachelor pad?” Shane asks with a small tilt of his head. Ilya shrugs, unsure. “I mean, I guess. I don’t really have people over, though. My mom stays with me if she’s in town for brand stuff, but that’s about it.” 

Ilya could chirp him for this, but it’s something he wishes he had, the ability to host his mother in his own house, to give her a place to be, away from his father’s criticism. 

In another life, he thinks, not for the first time, maybe he could have gotten them both out if she’d just held on a little longer, waited for him to- 

“Hey,” Shane asks. “You okay?” 

“Fine,” Ilya says shortly. “E3.” 

“Miss,” Shane says. “Must be hard, moving to a whole new country. Do you have any family here, or are they all still in Russia?” 

Even if he sucks at finding pencil-marked battleships, apparently Shane Hollander has a talent for finding the exact things Ilya doesn’t want to fucking talk about. 

“All in Russia,” he says flatly. A glance up at Shane, though, makes him soften. It’s kind of hard to stay mad at someone he’s put in a hospital, after all, especially when the questions are annoying but not ill-intentioned. “No more talk about family, okay?” 

“Okay?” Shane echoes. “Is it…not good? With them?” 

“Is…” Ilya trails off, feeling a little cornered. “No more talk about family.” A beat. “Please.” 

“Okay,” Shane says. “Did you already get your uniform? For your team?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “You?” 

“Mhm,” Shane agrees. “It’s pretty fucking crazy, huh?” 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, smiling, glad to be back on easier ground. “It still feels…fake, almost, yes?” 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “I feel like I spent my whole life waiting for it and now I got it. It’s like…like I think I’m going to wake up and find out it wasn’t real, you know? Oh, C5.”

“Hit,” Ilya says, graciously ignoring Shane’s victory fist pump into the air. “Your team is good?” 

“I think so,” Shane says. “I don’t think I really know anyone yet, but everyone seems pretty nice. What about you?” 

“Da,” Ilya says. “I think I will be happy.” 

“The press kind of sucks, though, huh?” Shane asks. “I feel like they’re always trying to trick me into saying something shitty.”  

“Try doing it in another language,” Ilya says wryly. 

Shane makes a sympathetic noise. 

“Very good for getting girls, though,” Ilya observes, watching Shane’s reaction carefully. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, with absolutely no conviction in the word at all. 

“Or do they not get to go to Shane Hollander’s special alone apartment?” Ilya teases, sensing that he’s stepped into territory he’s not wanted in and backing up slightly. 

“I mean is Marlowe cool with you bringing random people back to his place?” Shane teases back. 

“I don’t think he notices,” Ilya says. “He is too busy with his own girls.” 

Shane glances up, checking that there’s no one at the door, even with it closed. 

“Is it just girls for you?” He asks quietly. “When you’re in Boston?” 

“Mm,” Ilya says with a shrug. “F6.” 

“Hit.” 

“I have not found anyone interesting yet, so for now, just girls. The future? I do not know.” 

“But I’m interesting?” Shane asks, sounding pleased. 

“Hm, no,” Ilya says, grinning when Shane scowls at him. “But you are very hot, so you have this at least to make up for how boring you are.” 

“Thanks,” Shane says dryly. “J3.” 

“Hit.” 

*

“Is that why you set up the shoot?” Shane asks. “Just because I’m hot?” He’s strangely pleased by the idea, by the effort of setting up an entire ad campaign just to see him. It’s kind of overwhelming, honestly. 

But also not…unpleasant. 

“Is like I said before,” Ilya says. “You make me curious.” 

“Yeah, well,” Shane says. “Tonight being curious means you get to hang out in a random hospital for hours, so maybe take that as a lesson about curiosity.” 

“Eh, there are worse things,” Ilya says. “H9.” 

“Miss.” Shane says. “And are there? This isn’t exactly a wild night in Boston picking up girls.” 

“Hm,” Ilya hums thoughtfully. “No, but the company isn’t terrible.” 

Shane feels his face get a little warm. 

“Mostly because you suck at winning more things than just hockey, which is very fun for m-” 

Shane hits him with a pillow. 

But he also smiles. 

*

Apparently even Shane’s inherent boring-ness can only take so many games played on paper before even the appeal of pretend battleships loses his interest, so the night has progressed to watching whatever happens to be on the TV mounted in the corner for the last hour they’re here until Shane is released. 

For his part, Shane lasted approximately three and a half minutes before he started drifting off. 

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling when he sees Shane’s head start bobbing forward again only a couple of minutes after the last time he jerked himself back awake. He has his doubts that Shane is going to last even ten more minutes, but he certainly seems determined to-

Shane’s head settles against his shoulder. 

Ilya holds very, very still, wondering if he should nudge him back upright. 

Shane’s head gets a little heavier. 

Careful not to move his shoulder, Ilya turns enough to look at him, getting a dangerously good angle to look at his freckles like this. Shane makes a small noise but doesn’t stir, and Ilya can see him slowly relaxing into the sleep he’s been fighting so hard. He should probably wake him. He’s wanted to stay awake, and they’re probably going to get side eyes if anyone walks in to see them like this. Ilya had moved to sit at the top of the bed with him for the sake of arguing about what to watch on the television from a better vantage point, but this seems…noteworthy, were anyone to see it happening, something creeping past the bounds of behavior between two people who are colleagues, especially colleagues for whom the media is already pushing a rivalry angle. Ilya should wake him up. 

He carefully reaches to slip Shane’s phone out of his lax hand and rest it on his own thigh so he can keep an eye out for any calls from Shane’s mother. 

He lets him sleep. 

*

Shane wakes up to a disorienting amount of noise and movement happening in the room suddenly, blinking his eyes open just in time for his mom to make it across the room to him. 

“Shane,” she says, his name more an exhale of air than anything else. 

Beside him, Ilya unobtrusively slips out of the bed to stand, moving to where he left his shoes earlier. 

“Honey,” his mom says, cupping his face in a way that is humiliating in front of a witness. He pulls his head back. 

“I’m fine,” he complains. “Why aren’t you at the hotel?” 

His mom gives him a look that has him quailing slightly. 

“I got back to the hotel and the front desk agent stopped to ask me if you were okay, which was more than a little alarming when I didn’t know why you wouldn’t be.” 

Shane tries to sink into the bed a little bit more. 

“It’s not a big deal,” he mutters. “I’m only here for like thirty more minutes anyway.” 

“Yes, after coming here in an ambulance with-” His mom seems to remember that they’re not alone in the room at this point, turning to face Ilya, who stands up from slipping his shoes on and looks a little awkward under the attention in a way that Shane would laugh at if he wasn’t very busy trying not to draw his mom’s attention back to himself. “Hi,” she says. “For the second time tonight.” 

“Hi,” Ilya echoes. 

When his mom turns back to him, he sees the question coming even before she asks it. 

“We were watching a game,” he says, the first thing that comes to him. 

“Together?” His mom asks, frowning. She doesn’t say I thought you couldn’t stand him, but Shane knows she’s thinking it. It’s something more and more people have been saying to him, and it’s just been easier to agree than to try and say he doesn’t think he knows Ilya enough to not be able to stand him. 

After tonight, though, he kind of feels bad about it. 

“The gym was closed for the night,” Ilya offers, and Shane’s mom turns back to him. “We both went to workout, but…” He shrugs. “So we decided to watch a game instead. Shane thinks San Jose has potential, but I do not agree. I thought maybe we should watch together so I can show him how he is wrong.” 

“Uh huh,” Shane’s mom says slowly, turning to him. 

His first lie was kind of all he had in him, though, so he really wishes she wouldn’t do that. 

“I had a reaction and Ilya was already there,” he says, which is enough of the truth that he doesn’t think he has to embellish on it. 

He just also will not be expanding on it. 

“I didn’t want to interrupt you going out with Kimmy, and he said he’d come with me.” 

“What did you react to?” His mom asks. “I thought you were fine at dinner.” 

This is…not something Shane knows how to answer. 

“Is my fault,” Ilya says.

Shane feels his entire fucking world stop.

“I drank from his water bottle and did not notice,” Ilya says apologetically. He gives Shane a faux-annoyed look. “Though I would have been more careful if I knew my dinner would have consequences.”

Shane, having just had a near-death experience in this recovery period from his earlier near-death experience, just shrugs, hoping the heart rate monitor isn’t telling on him too badly right now. 

“Pay attention to what water bottle you’re drinking out of, dude.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes. 

“Well, your mother is here now, so…” Ilya says, leaning towards the door. “I will go, yes?” 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, feeling almost…regretful? Time in the hospital is never fun, but having a few hours of Ilya keeping him company during it was almost nice, kind of. 

Ilya pauses at the door, though. 

“Will you text me?” He asks. “Tomorrow? To let me know you are okay?” 

*

Ilya feels stupid about it as soon as he’s asked it, but this night feels incomplete now that he isn’t going to see it to the finish line, ridiculous as that is. Seeing Shane fine enough to play games and then take a nap on him has helped him feel a little less guilty about accidentally putting him in the hospital, but he’d also wanted to hear for himself from a medical person that there won’t be any lasting harm. 

But he also doesn’t know how to make an excuse to stay long enough for that to happen now that Shane’s mother is here. 

“That’s sweet of you,” Shane’s mother says, and Ilya almost laughs. Of the adjectives he’s heard people use for him in recent memory, “sweet” hasn’t come up even once. 

(It feels…nice, kind of, to hear it now.)

“Sure,” Shane says, reaching for his phone. “Give me your number, and I’ll text you so you have mine.” 

Ilya pulls his phone out. 

“617-” 

*

Shane feels almost regretful when Ilya leaves. Ridiculous as it is, it kind of feels like they didn’t finish a group project they started together. 

Even if he is glad he’s not going to have to answer for accidentally falling asleep literally on him. 

“Rozanov?” His mom asks after the door is shut and enough seconds have passed for Ilya to not be in earshot anymore. She brushes his hair back in a gesture of fussing he allows now that there aren’t any other witnesses. “Since when are you two buddies?” 

“We’re not buddies,” he says quickly. “He just didn’t want me to have to go to the hospital alone.” 

“Which you wouldn’t have had to if you had called your mother,” his mom says pointedly. “Still, that was kind of him.” 

“He’s…nice,” Shane offers with a shrug. “We played some games and stuff. Talked. He was pretty good company.” He forces himself to stop talking. 

“Hm,” his mom says, glancing back to the door. “Maybe you two should get dinner or something the next time you’re in the same city.” 

“Mom,” Shane complains, recognizing the tone from the other times his mom has tried to arrange friends for him. 

“What?” She asks. “You two do the same job, and you just said he’s nice. He might be a good friend to have. You guys are both the biggest names in your draft year. Advertising being friends would probably be good for publicity. Obviously the rivalry is profitable, but friends who are also rivals might-” 

“I don’t think that’s usually how people decide to become friends,” he observes dryly. 

“I’m just saying,” his mom says with a shrug, moving to sit on the bed next to him, their arms resting together. “If he’s willing to go to a hospital with you in the middle of the night, he sounds like he’s probably a good friend.” 

“Yeah,” Shane says, looking at the door. “Maybe.” 

He glances down at his phone when it buzzes with a text from a currently-unsaved number. 

next time? 😏

He turns his phone screen-down before his mom sees it. 

Later, when his mom goes to retrieve his paperwork to sign out, he pulls up his texts. 

Depends. 

on? 

Are you going to try and kill me again? 

does making you choke on my dick count? 

Shane feels his face flush immediately before he taps the text and presses delete, almost dropping his phone in his haste. 

Don’t send stuff like that! 

hm, you are right. probably bad idea. 

we will just find out in person

No. 

❌🚢 

miss 

Shane grins. 

Chapter 2: day in the life: what a shared ad weekend looks like (two years in)

Chapter Notes

hello friends! so i was originally going to make this a series with standalone fics, but i took a poll on tumblr, and the winning side was keeping them as a collection in one fic. chapters will be non-chronological, so i will just be posting whatever i feel like writing and circling back in the timeline whenever inspiration strikes. (if you've read my trouver verse for iwtv, it'll be like that!)

hope you enjoy!

“Heading outside for a smoke,” Ilya says, leaning in to speak to the table enough for at least Cliff to hear him over the thumping bass of the music in the club, getting a solid smack to his back in acknowledgement that makes him stagger slightly despite bracing himself before he heads out after taking a shot from the table for a little liquid warmth, still hissing through his teeth at the slap of cold to his face as soon as the door opens, even more stark against the warmth of so much collective bodyheat inside the building. He nods and holds up his pack of cigarettes to the bouncer to let him know he’ll be right back and gets a head nod back in acknowledgement. 

Before he even taps out a cigarette at the back of the building, though, he pulls out his phone and opens his texts, pulling one of the threads up. 

B8. 

Request sent, he closes out of his texts and pulls up the battleship app he and Shane have been playing on for over two years now. He returns fire with a guess before he opens up the chat feature, rolling his eyes fondly when he sees that Shane–well, Jane in the username because Shane Hollander is a bundle of nerves who acts like federal agents are going to bother reading through the chat log of a random game app on his phone for signs that he fucks people of the same sex–still hasn’t given him more than “No, with a t-shirt.” when Ilya asked him earlier what he’s wearing right now and tried to give him a helpful hint of asking if he was just wearing flannel pajama bottoms. 

The response does still do it for him because two years of fooling around with Shane Hollander has broken Ilya’s brain enough to make it do it for him, but that’s still not the point. 

The point is that Ilya is horny and would like a little reciprocity. 

(And for Shane to stop fucking cheating, which is the only explanation for why he’s won the last four rounds of this game.)

(But that’s a separate issue.)

(Horny first.) 

I’m going to bed. 

Ilya shakes his head when the text notification shows up and waits patiently. Shane might not have been ready for anything beyond blowjobs before a few months ago, but a lack of wanting was never a part of it. 

Sure enough, the bubbles indicating that Jane is typing start up soon enough. 

Grinning, Ilya lights up his cigarette and leans back against the building.  

*

Shane shivers in the aftermath, dildo still pressed as deep as he can get it, clenching intermittently as aftershocks run through him. 

“Fuck,” he tells his empty bedroom at large, sucking in a deep breath and holding it for a second to calm down. 

His phone buzzes with another message from Ilya–well, Lily, at least in the chat feature Ilya uses to sext him at usually the most inconvenient and annoying possible times–and he picks his phone up, not bothering to pull the toy free yet, still enjoying the sensation. It’s something Ilya teased him about when they finally had sex a few months ago, the way Shane had reached back to keep him from pulling out after, but Ilya had also obliged and stayed inside him for a long while after while stroking along his side and thigh, so Shane maintains that he’d enjoyed it at least as much. He shoves his hair back out of his face from where it was sticking to his forehead and picks up his phone. 

hello? you are dead? 

Shane snorts.

What do you think? 

miracle! 

you live! 

i was worried you are allergic now to nuts AND nutting 

Where the fuck did you learn the word nutting from? 

your mother

I’m going to tell her you said that. 

nooooooooo 

I’m screenshotting it and sending it to her. 

jane, nooooo, she will take away my sportscar ads for being bad 

You deserve it. 

no, is not true. YOU are the naughty boy here. you should know this. i tell you this often. 

You suck. 

yes???? you have a problem with this suddenly??? 🤨

Shane laughs, making a face as he finally pulls his dildo free so he can sit up, resting it on the washcloth he’d grabbed for that exact purpose. He closes out of the battleship app after making a guess–and making an annoyed face when he’s informed it was a miss–and opens his texts.

When does your plane get in for the cologne thing? 

He winces a bit at the now-unpleasant feel of lube in his ass when he gets out of bed, grabbing his dildo to wash it in his bathroom sink and clean himself up before returning to bed, tossing his toy onto the bed to dry before he returns it to the lockbox it usually lives in. 

12:45 

yours is 13 something, yes? 

1:20

🙄

Do we have to fight about 12 versus 24 hour thing every single time? 

Or can you just get over it already? 

you are so logical but still use stupid time system 

makes no sense 

times are pretty close, though 

want me to wait at the airport for you? 

Shane ruthlessly shoves down the way it makes his stomach flip. Stupid, to feel anything about Ilya offering to wait for him. It’s just what friends do, splitting Ubers if they’re already going to the same place.  

we can drop off luggage at hotel and get lunch

then no airport food for me or gross protein bar for you 

good plan

we are doing that

I don’t remember agreeing to that plan. 

oh, you are that excited for lemon protein bar?? you are not the person who said if you had to eat one more lemon bar you were going to eat a reese’s? 

Shane snorts, but he’s not wrong. He’s been trying to ride out the lemon as long as possible, but he thinks he’s one more lemon protein bar away from insanity. It’s probably time to put cookies and cream or strawberry back in rotation, but he’d been trying to finish out the box he’s on. Maybe he can just leave them in the breakroom in Montreal’s admin offices or something. 

You sure you don’t mind waiting? 

no 

i don’t care 

E7

Shane rolls his eyes but opens up the battleship app.

you know i am always so patient 😙

You had to open the sexting chat to send me that? 

well, i was going to tell you how patient i am going to be when i finger you at the hotel as my reward for waiting for you, but if you want to be ungrateful…

Shane makes a face. 

But he also reaches to grab his lube back out of the drawer of his side table as he starts typing a response. 

*

“Excuse me, are you Shane Hollander?” 

Ilya, who had his hand on the door handle to the restaurant, pauses, turning back and barely resisting the urge to laugh at Shane’s brief imitation of a deer in front of headlights. It’s not the first time this has happened that Ilya’s seen–Yuna gets them both work because their brands are different enough that they don’t really compete for much when it comes to advertisements, but she of course puts extra work into publicity for Shane, making him the hockey player people know even if they don’t even know what a puck is–but Shane never seems to be less awkward about it no matter how many times this pays off in him being recognized in public. 

It makes Ilya want to pull his phone out and take a picture of his own. 

“Uh, yeah,” Shane says. 

“Oh my God,” the woman says. “Can I get a picture with you?” 

“Um,” Shane says, glancing to him as if Ilya cares about a thirty second delay to lunch. Ilya just shrugs, but the look to him catches the woman’s attention. She tilts her head, clearly searching her memory for where she knows his face from. 

“Oh!” She says. “You’re the other hockey player, right? The Russian guy?” 

“No,” Ilya says dryly, not modulating his accent at all. “I am from Wisconsin.” 

The woman blinks. 

Shane gives him a look, but Ilya just grins, joining in the second selfie the woman takes at her request and then waving off her thanks and tugging Shane along to rescue him from playing nice with thank yous. 

“‘The other hockey player,’” Ilya teases when they’ve been shown to a booth at the back of the restaurant, a place they’ve been a couple of times now. “Wow wow, I do not even get a name around you?” 

He feels a helpless little swirl of endearment when he sees Shane subtly sounding out “wow wow” without saying it as he picks up his menu, a habit of his that Ilya doesn’t comment on, “wow wow” especially reliably triggering this silent parrot routine. He’s never seen Shane do it in interviews or during games, and he still isn’t sure if it’s a sign of being comfortable enough to have a weird quirk in Ilya’s presence that he hides otherwise or if it’s just a matter of liking the way he says certain things. 

He tries not to like the idea of the second option as much as he does, knowing it’s ridiculous to feel anything about it at all. 

“Maybe try doing more ads than sportscars and vodka,” Shane says dryly. He glances over the top of his menu, look mischievous. “Or maybe just try being better at hockey. That might work, too.” 

Ilya aims a kick at his leg that Shane dodges, having already seen it coming. 

“You try first,” Ilya says lightly. “Let me know if it works.” 

Shane snorts. 

“Asshole.” 

“You are the one who-” Ilya starts, cutting himself off when a waiter approaches, putting coasters down in front of both of them. 

“Hello, fellas, nice to see you both,” he starts, setting straws and glasses of water on the table. “My name is Henry, and I’ll be taking care of you both today. Can I go ahead and get you started with something else to drink?” 

“Do you have ginger ale?” Shane asks. 

“We do. Ginger ale for you?” 

“Yes, please.” 

Henry nods and turns to Ilya. 

“And for you?” 

“Coke, please,” Ilya says, and he feels the threat of Shane’s foot pressing against his leg hard when he opens his mouth to continue while reaching for his wallet. “And-” 

“Ilya,” Shane hisses, pressing harder. 

“-there are allergies, if you want to go ahead and keep this to hand to the kitchen,” he says politely, handing off the laminated card of Shane's allergies that Yuna had so helpfully provided him the third time he’d gone out to eat with the Hollanders and seen her hand one over while Shane slunk down his seat and looked resentful. 

(And then sent him replacements of when they just so happened to have “disappeared” from his wallet whenever he and Shane met up until Shane finally gave up.)

“Thank you,” he says cheerfully as Henry walks away while reading it over. 

“You’re so fucking dramatic,” Shane complains. 

“And you know what is more dramatic?” Ilya asks, ripping one end off of the paper on his straw so he can blow through it and shoot the other half at Shane, who dodges and then balls it up to throw it back at him. “Anaphylaxis.” 

“You sound like my mom,” Shane complains, attempting to return fire with his own straw paper and then grimacing and ducking down when it ends up sailing over the back of the booth and onto the next table over instead. 

Ilya badly stifles a laugh as he takes a sip of water, both of them huddling slightly like that will save them, Shane offering an apologetic look and a chagrined wave as their neighbor apparently looks over the booth to investigate who attacked them. When he sees Ilya grinning, Shane flips him off, Ilya returning the gesture affectionately, both pausing to say thank you when Henry drops off their drinks. 

“Yuna is very smart woman,” Ilya says with a shrug. “There are worst people to sound like.” 

“Yeah,” Shane says. “I know. I watched your last interview.” 

For his rudeness, Ilya steals his ginger ale just to take a sip and make a face. 

“Ugh,” he judges, passing it back and taking a sip of his Coke as a chaser. “Still terrible.” 

“And who asked you to drink it?” Shane snarks, making a show of grabbing a napkin to wipe off where Ilya’s mouth touched the cup. 

“Quality control,” Ilya says without apology, opening his menu. At Shane’s look of question, he shakes his head. “All good,” he reports. “You think I would drink from your cup otherwise?” 

“Just checking,” Shane says with a shrug, still moving his straw from his water to his ginger ale because he is a very strange person with very specific quirks like a deep, burning hatred of ice cubes touching his lips. 

“I don’t even have peanuts in my house anymore,” Ilya reminds him. 

“Yeah,” Shane says, opening his own menu. “But you’re still a hazelnut addict.” 

“God forbid a man have some Nutella now and then, Hollander. Let me have my vices. Jesus.” 

“Smoking isn’t enough?” 

“Hey,” Ilya protests, flipping back to appetizers and trying to decide how annoying Shane is going to be about it if he orders fried pickles, as if he doesn’t always steal Ilya’s fries despite always insisting he doesn’t want any because he likes to pretend he is better than fried food. “I am down to only smoking on weekends sometimes. Give me credit.” 

“Yeah, but only because my mom threatened to make you start doing ads for lung cancer awareness if you showed up to dinner smelling like cigarette smoke again,” Shane says. 

“I am not afraid of your mother and her threats,” he says archly. 

He can’t even be offended when Shane openly laughs at him. 

They both know better than to not fear Yuna Hollander. 

It’s a delicate balance, getting work from Yuna’s efforts without provoking his actual agent into telling on him to his father. His father hadn’t been happy with him when the narrative around him and Shane first shifted into friends who still get brutal on the ice with each other, the two players at the top who hang out but also slam each other around without mercy as soon as a match starts. His father’s expectation had been for him to usurp Shane, to represent Russia well and dominate the NHL, and he and Shane interrupting each other’s interviews from time to time to be annoying and playing rock paper scissors to decide who gets off the ice first at the end of matches hadn’t been part of that goal. As much as the public might eat up their “unlikely friendship,” his father hadn’t found it to his taste. He still doesn’t, really. 

But publicity pays, and Ilya is aware that the public perception of his friendship with Shane comes with a dollar amount attached, something he wishes wasn’t always at the back of his mind as much as it is, sometimes making him wonder in his darker moments if he and Shane would be publicly friends if it wasn’t so valuable for Shane’s bottom line, too. 

“You good?” Shane asks, nudging his foot under the table. 

Ilya blinks, looking up. 

“Fine,” he answers. “Just wondering if I want fried pickles or fried mushrooms.” 

Predictably, Shane makes a face, self-righteously making a show of turning to the grilled items section of the menu. 

(And then equally predictably stealing a few of the pickles for himself when Ilya orders them because Shane hates mushrooms but loves theft and hypocrisy.)

*

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Shane says, arching upwards and throwing an arm over his eyes. 

“No,” Ilya says, pulling it away by the wrist. “I want to see you.” 

It hits like a punch to the stomach. 

Though that also might be from the way Ilya shifts his hips to a criminally good angle, making Shane shut his eyes again for a moment against his will. 

“So pretty,” Ilya breathes against his jaw, and Shane moans when he feels his tongue along the skin there. It could be gross, maybe, Ilya licking him. 

In the moment, though, it’s one of the hottest things Shane thinks he’s ever felt. 

I missed you, he bites back behind his teeth, something he knows isn’t something to offer up as dirty talk. He did, though. He missed this, missed the pleasure and comfort of Ilya over and around and inside of him, missed the way it feels to let his guard down like this and just feel, to trust that whatever he does right now is okay because there’s no one here but him and Ilya. 

Ilya who lets him do nothing but feel good when they’re joined like this. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groans against his neck, when Shane clenches around him, trying to yank him a little closer to the edge when he’s already so close. “Is okay?” 

“Is-oh fuck,” Shane reaches blindly to get a hand in Ilya’s hair, pulling him down into a kiss. “Is really fucking okay.” 

He feels the shape of it when Ilya grins into the kiss. 

Fuck, I missed you, he thinks. 

“Cum for me,” Ilya breathes against his lips. “Give it to me. C’mon.” 

He barely finishes the sentence before Shane obeys, Ilya managing a handful of additional thrusts before he follows him over, holding tight to Shane’s hips like he can’t bear to have even a millimeter between them. 

“Kiss?” Shane exhales, still breathing hard. 

This time it’s Ilya who obeys.

*

Ilya nuzzles at the side of Shane’s face in a way that’s forgivable with the excuse of afterglow. It’s probably technically too intimate even then, but Shane has never called him on it and just presses back into it now, making a low, content noise that always makes Ilya think of a cat purring. He presses his smile to Shane’s cheek as he listens, squeezing Shane’s sides just to make him do it again. He’s on a time limit, he knows, until Shane is going to remember being fussy about mess and their call time tomorrow, which he knows by now Shane is going to make even worse for himself by insisting on working out before it instead of after, something that Ilya is going to complain about on principle but still participate in because a sweaty, flushed Shane Hollander is one of the few things worth getting up early for. 

I missed you, he thinks but doesn’t say, because that’s not the kind of thing they say to each other. He thinks it lives between them though, maybe, with how quickly they always end up finding each other when they’re in the same place. 

They’ve stayed over at each other’s houses multiple times by now when their schedules allow it. Shane gets some extra leeway to stay at “a friend’s” house for the sake of access to a kitchen–signed off on by his team’s nutrition team, who apparently are just relieved to limit the risk of losing one of their best players to anaphylaxis when an allergy-friendly kitchen is available instead–and Ilya usually gets whoever he was supposed to room with to cover for him in exchange for them getting a room to themselves for a night along with a promise to return the favor. He knows there’s an assumption that he has a girl in Montreal that he favors, and it’s not something he bothers to dispute. 

Not when it gets him a night of sex with Shane and access to a reliably comfortable bed instead of a toss of the dice with a hotel mattress. 

When the way Shane is shifting beneath him says their current state of sweaty and sticky has edged out of hot and into gross, Ilya lifts his head enough to trade one more kiss, swallowing the quiet noise Shane always makes when he pulls out. He rises when he’s kissed him enough to apologize for such a crime and gets rid of the condom as Shane climbs off of the bed carefully, mindful not to get any lube or cum on the sheets instead of the towel he’d put down, even if it’s only Ilya who would be paying the price as the one whose bed it is for the night. The thoughtfulness is endearing, and Ilya helps himself to another kiss before he makes a break for it to get to the bathroom first, Shane slowed just slightly by his still-wobbly legs and freshly-fucked ass. 

“Asshole,” he complains, hot on his heels but still in second place. 

“What?” Ilya taunts, turning the shower on. “You should be used to losing to me by now.” 

“Remind me who’s winning the scoring race this season?” Shane asks lightly, grabbing a washcloth off of the towel rack and tossing another to Ilya. “Or the battleship scoring for this year?” 

Ilya doesn’t grace him with a response as he steps into the shower, soaking his head so he can wash his hair while Shane cleans up first. Shane hadn’t brought his toiletries with him, so Ilya knows he’ll wait to fully shower until he’s back in his own room, though he takes advantage of Ilya’s–allergy-approved–bar of soap to lather up his washcloth, trading places with Ilya like it’s a dance so Ilya can rinse his hair while Shane finishes washing off his stomach and down his thighs. 

Not for the first time, Ilya feels the desire to ask him to stay, to ask if he wants to share a bed for the night. He knows Shane is religious about his skincare, especially before a shoot, but he could send him back to his own room to get it and then return. It’s a nice thought, the idea of Shane’s toiletries lined up next to his on the bathroom counter. Even with staying at each other’s houses, they’ve never actually shared a bed for a full night before, not beyond a quick nap or watching a game after a fuck. He’d managed to soothe Shane to sleep one night in his bed when Shane stayed over at his house, drifting off in his arms as Ilya traced light fingers over his back, but he’d woken up at 3 am to empty arms and a cool expanse of sheets next to him, Shane back in the guestroom he always stays in when they’re done having sex. Ilya had taken it as the limit he knows it was meant to be, Shane enforcing a boundary for what he wants out of the physical component of their arrangement, and hasn’t tried again. 

He’d casually brought up last time Shane stayed over that Svetlana sleeps in the same bed as him when she sleeps over, prompted by Shane asking about the silk bonnet she’d left on the bedside table. Ilya had half-thought that it might let Shane know that it was perfectly within the bounds of friendship to sleep in the same bed, but Shane had just set the bonnet back down where he’d found it, ridden Ilya like it had been years since they last saw each other and not weeks, and then slipped away to sleep in the guest bed. 

The memory of it, still fresh, is what keeps Ilya quiet now when Shane trades places again long enough to rinse off before stepping out of the shower, toweling off and then going to retrieve his clothes. 

“See you tomorrow,” Shane says, pausing at the doorway. 

Ilya swallows down an offer he knows not to make. 

“See you.” 

*

“$20 says that PA ends up breaking something by the end of the day,” Ilya says during a break in the shoot the next day. 

Shane follows the subtle tilt of his head in time to watch the PA in question trip over a wire and then bump into a makeup artist, almost making the woman drop her whole palette. Shane might be more sympathetic to the clumsiness if the PA hadn’t tried arguing earlier that “May Contain Treenuts” meant that snacks were still fine because there was only a small chance they wouldn’t be safe, so he didn’t need to go back through the things on the snack table and check that there were things on offer that didn’t have that warning to make sure that Shane would have at least a few things to choose from. 

As a result, Shane isn’t exactly feeling sympathetic. 

“$40 says it’s something expensive,” Shane says, watching as the man manages to almost knock into a camera before he accepts the half of a bagel with cream cheese he’s handed from Ilya. “Is this safe for me?” 

“No,” Ilya says absently, digging around for a bag of pretzels with his other hand after taking a bite when Shane does and sharing a disgusted face with him at the gluten freeness of it, a hazard of dietary requirements usually getting lumped together, “is poison. I want ad spread for myself.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane says without heat, grabbing an orange and starting to peel it, handing off sections when Ilya extends a hand silently for his portion and then offers his open bag of pretzels in exchange. 

*

Ilya pulls his phone out of his pocket when it vibrates halfway through their snack break and huffs a laugh around his mouthful of orange and pretzel, swallowing before he types back a “Yes ma’am 🫡” and lightly kicks Shane’s ankle to get his attention from where he was watching birds fight over something in a tree. 

“Your mother says answer your phone and stop ignoring her or she’s cutting you out of all of your baby pictures and putting me in instead.” 

“Oh, she’s decorating for Halloween now?” Shane asks, raising his brows. 

Ilya takes back sole custody of the pretzels as punishment for being an asshole, tapping up another message and hitting send. He knows when it’s been received and acted on when Shane looks up from his own phone, clearly unimpressed. 

“I’m not bullying you,” he says flatly. “Stop being a little bitch and whining to my mom about me.” 

Ilya reports the comment to Yuna immediately, of course.  

*

Shane is never really sure what the “vision” for any of these ad campaigns is while he’s participating in them. He prefers when photographers and directors can give him actual instructions for what they want of him, but he’s never been a very artistic person, and that certainly doesn’t change when he’s being put in outfits he would never pick and having people put makeup on his face. At least Ilya usually seems equally lost on these shoots, one of the things that makes them suck a little less when they’re doing a joint campaign. 

Even if Ilya can’t keep a straight face to save his fucking life. 

“Can you get your shit together?” Shane asks as they finally give the photographer enough joint photos to hopefully do something with without Ilya cracking up and making Shane break as a result, but there’s no heat in his voice. 

“Is your fault,” Ilya accuses. “Your face is very funny joke.” 

“Get fucked,” Shane says, but he’s smiling when he does. “And remind me who got the Tom Ford thing?” 

Ilya rolls his eyes. 

“Yuna.” 

Shane rolls his eyes back. 

“Do they still want you in Paris for that thing this summer?” He asks as they walk back towards the wardrobe area. 

“Very specific,” Ilya says dryly. 

“Do they?” Shane presses, shrugging out of the shirt that felt like nails on a chalkboard as soon as it touched his skin, not bothering to duck into the changing area in his eagerness to get out of it. 

(And perhaps enjoying the way Ilya’s gaze lingers for just a second before he turns away, following Shane’s lead and pulling off his shirt, too.)

(Which necessitates Shane briefly finding the rug they’re standing on absolutely fascinating.)

“E9?” Ilya teases. 

“Fuck off,” Shane says, hoping the way his face feels warm will just be chalked up to the heater they’re standing near. “So are you doing Paris?” 

“Maybe,” Ilya says with a shrug, submitting to a stylist messing with his curls and even bending down when she can’t quite reach, giving Shane a dirty look at the laughter he badly stifles at seeing him crouch so awkwardly. “Why?” 

“Nike is doing something there this summer,” Shane says, taking a seat because he’s been told Ilya will go first for the next set of solo shots. “I wonder if we might be there at the same time.” 

“I don’t know if I am doing it,” Ilya says, putting on rings as he’s handed them, which means Shane has to remember to purposefully not look at his hands when there are so many shiny, flashy things emphasizing them. 

“What?” Shane teases as the stylist moves away, consulting a clipboard held by a PA. “You’re too good for Paris?” 

“My father doesn’t like…fashion things,” Ilya says. “I do not think he will like it, especially when I am supposed to be home.” 

“Yeah, but it’s, like, a big fashion thing,” Shane points out. “Doesn’t he-”

“Miss,” Ilya says shortly, not sharply but certainly finally as he walks off towards the dressing area to change into his next outfit. 

Shane obligingly bites back the rest of his sentence, trying not to feel hurt at the reminder that there are things Ilya doesn’t share with him, things their friendship doesn’t stretch far enough to cover. He knows objectively that he shouldn’t be upset about it, that it’s normal for Ilya to put up boundaries, but it always stings a little when he does this, just cuts Shane off and refuses to engage. Even knowing that it’s objectively stupid, it always hurts a little that Ilya doesn’t trust him as much as he trusts Ilya. 

It also always makes him wonder if he feels a little more in this friendship than he should, if these reprimands, gentle as they are, are meant to be reminders of exactly how much of Ilya Shane should reasonably expect to have access to. 

Sometimes he wonders if he should try out having frequent casual sex like Ilya, if he’s just fucking them both over in the longterm by not bothering. He wonders if it makes it easier for Ilya to understand where the boundaries should lie because he sets them so regularly with the people he takes home almost every single night if rumor and Instagram are to be believed. They don’t talk about it–Ilya doesn’t bring it up and Shane doesn’t ask because it makes him feel something he knows he shouldn’t to think about Ilya fucking other people–but he wonders, sometimes, if Ilya just doesn’t feel the same way he does when they have sex, if it’s more muted for him, not as intense. Shane had thought maybe it would feel different after he finally felt ready to try out sex-sex with him, but sometimes he wonders if he just made it harder for himself. 

Ilya had never questioned his weird avoidance–fortunate, given the fact that even Shane can’t really put words to why it felt like a line he wasn’t ready to cross for so long–and had just instead contented himself with blowjobs and hands, progressing to fingering when Shane had asked him almost a year in but never pushing beyond that, seeming perfectly content with an orgasm no matter how it happened. He would have been within his rights to be annoyed by the time Shane finally felt ready to try out being fucked by something other than his dildo in the privacy of his room with the door locked even though he lives alone, but he hadn’t been. Shane had even stretched himself beforehand so they could finally just get down to business and get it over with, but Ilya had still guided him down to the mattress playfully and teased that he wanted to make sure it was done “properly” before pushing Shane’s legs up and getting to work making him forget he ever had any thoughts at all beyond “fuck yes” when it comes to sex with Ilya Rozanov. By the time Ilya had started pressing inside him, Shane hadn’t been nervous at all–well, beyond the fear that he was about to finish embarrassingly quickly, before he even had Ilya’s full length in him–but Ilya had still gone slow, still linked their fingers together and asked if he was okay, still stopped immediately when Shane had inhaled sharply at the pleasure-shock of pressure against his prostate until he had confirmed it was a good noise, still kissed Shane soft and gentle and sweet until Shane had started urging him faster and harder. Even towards the end, when Shane had been tugged up and guided into place to let Ilya fuck him from behind, he’d still been hyper-aware of Ilya’s hands on his skin, of the kisses to his shoulders, his neck, of Ilya’s voice in his ear. He’d thought it might have been a one-off, that first time, consideration for the fact that Shane was probably still technically some degree of virginal in the experience, but every single time after that has felt just as intense, like there’s no one in the world but him and Ilya. He wonders, sometimes, how Ilya manages to feel like that with so many different people and not feel confused even a little bit afterwards. 

In his worst moments, Shane wonders if it’s just a personal defect of his, this inability to do casual sex and feel normal about it correctly. 

When Ilya wanders back out in only tight pants and with his chest clearly moisturized to make his skin glisten, Shane wonders what he specifically has done to deserve it. 

“Oh, Ilya, can we get you without the cross?” A PA asks. “We want you in a different necklace for this shot.” 

Ilya doesn’t respond immediately, but Shane can read the wariness in his body as he touches the necklace reflexively. He’s only seen Ilya take it off once before for an ad, and even then he’d just kept it in his pocket and put it back on as soon as the pictures were done, but Shane can see at a glance that the pockets on his current pair seem purely decorational, and he catches the tension in his jaw as Ilya realizes this at the same time as him. Shane still isn’t sure what the story is behind the necklace, but he’s gathered from the way it never leaves his neck that it’s important to him. It’s not surprising he wouldn’t love the idea of having to put it in a random place on a photoshoot set when it absolutely looks like the kind of thing that could easily get lost or pocketed. 

When the silence stretches a half-beat too long, Shane stands up and steps forward. 

“I can hold onto it if you want,” he offers. “I’m not in this shot.” 

Ilya looks to him, and his expression seems…bizarrely intense for something as casual as offering to hold his necklace for him. He presses against the crucifix a little harder with his fingertips for a moment before he reaches back to undo the clasp. 

“Okay,” he says. Shane starts to lift his hand to hold onto it, but Ilya instead steps forward into his personal space to drape it around his neck instead, securing the clasp and letting the necklace drop. It’s warm from being against Ilya’s skin, and the sensation gives him goosebumps. 

Though maybe that’s just from the way Ilya’s fingers trace the line of the chain before he steps back, eyes still on his necklace now resting at Shane’s throat. Feeling the need to make sure Ilya knows he won’t lose it when he’s clearly so worried about it, Shane touches the pendant, making Ilya look up at his face. 

“I’ll keep it safe,” he assures him. “Promise.” 

Shane is a little startled when an expression flits across Ilya’s face that’s usually followed by him getting kissed like Ilya is trying to suck his soul out through his mouth, but the PA breaks the moment, not even watching the exchange between them as she loops the other necklace–a rhinestone choker that makes Shane want to wince in sympathy, imagining the constriction around his own throat–around Ilya’s neck and secures it into place. For his part, Ilya just keeps glancing back at his necklace on Shane until he’s told to pose. 

Off to the side, Shane keeps his fingertips on the pendant, irrationally worried now that it’s going to spontaneously drop off and be lost forever. 

When he returns it to Ilya, it’s just as warm as when he handed it over. 

*

The rest of the shoot takes place in a rink–because of course it does, with the two of them doing it–which means they can make use of the showers in the facility to wash off afterwards, which means Ilya gets to do one of his favorite things: look at a naked Shane Hollander. 

“Doesn’t seem like a lot of washing is happening over there,” Shane says coyly, glancing to the side. 

“And why are you paying so much attention to what I am doing?” Ilya shoots back. “Mind your own shower.” 

“Oh, my mom wanted me to ask you something,” Shane says, still rubbing soap over his body like this is supposed to help Ilya focus instead of making him really want to play with fire and fuck Shane right here right now. 

“Yes, I am natural blond,” Ilya answers dryly. 

Shane snorts. 

“My mom wanted to know if you have plans for Christmas,” Shane says, ducking his head under the spray from the shower to rinse his hair out. 

And thankfully missing how his request makes Ilya pause and stare at him for a moment. 

“You don’t go back to Russia, right? Since the break is so short?” Shane asks when he pulls his head free of the water and shoves his hair back. He tosses Ilya his shampoo–shared for the sake of Shane being able to pull his hair later without getting a hard-to-explain rash on his hands from argan oil, which was a non-ideal discovery to make right before a shared ad shoot back in their early days–and Ilya catches it on reflex. “Or does your brother want you there for your niece’s-” 

“Miss,” Ilya says shortly, and Shane nods, slightly, obeying the request and dropping the subject. It's convenient, this agreement of theirs, a way of letting Shane know when he's approaching things Ilya doesn't want to burden him with.

“Anyway,” Shane says, reaching for his bodywash. “My mom wanted me to ask you if you wanted to stay with us for Christmas. We go to a whole bigger family thing, but it’s not too crazy.” 

“You think your family will not have questions when you bring random Russian person along to boring Hollander Christmas?” Ilya asks, tossing Shane his shampoo back. “You are not afraid I will break your traditions because I am too interesting?” 

“No,” Shane says, glancing at him with a smirk, “no worries about that.” 

Ilya flips him off before resuming lathering up the shampoo in his hair. 

“Everyone already knows we’re friends,” Shane says. After a glance at Ilya, he spends more time washing his dick than is strictly necessary for the task, and Ilya walks over to grab his conditioner for himself. 

And accidentally letting his hand brush against where Shane’s hands are so attentively cleaning as he turns to walk back to his own shower. 

He smiles when one of those hands moves to grab his wrist before he tsks, pulling Shane’s grip on him loose. 

“So handsy, Hollander,” he scolds. “Very unprofessional.” 

He doesn’t need to look to know exactly what face Shane is making in response. 

“I do not need to crash your Christmas,” Ilya says. “I am fine.” 

“I don’t think it’s crashing if I invite you,” Shane says, catching his conditioner when Ilya tosses it back. “Seriously, you’re welcome to come with me. My cousin Vivienne–her mom usually hosts, but she’s taking over this year–said you were welcome, too. Dad already asked.” 

Ilya doesn’t know what it means, the idea that Shane’s family would talk about him, would care about him at all, really. He understands David and Yuna being polite with him because he gets along with Shane, but he doesn’t understand what anyone’s interest in him would be beyond that. From what he gathers, there are plenty of Hollanders; Shane seems to be somewhat of a rarity as an only child. They don’t need a rogue Rozanov messing up their pretty Christmas. 

“C’mon,” Shane says. “It’ll be fun.” 

“Your fun or normal people fun?” Ilya asks. 

Shane rolls his eyes and doesn’t give him a response to his question. 

“What,” Shane asks, clearly teasing, “you’re too good for hanging out with my family for Christmas?” 

Ilya doesn’t know that there’s a way to say that the opposite is true, that the Hollanders should be able to enjoy their holiday without a random person lurking around. 

“Also Brandon got to bring his roommate last year, and I had to listen to him talk about medieval English literature for three fucking hours. I need backup if I’m going to have to go through that again.” 

“And you think I will save you from this?” Ilya teases. 

“Dude,” Shane says, turning to him, “please. I’m begging. I still don’t know what the fuck a virgil is, and I am so afraid he’s going to try and teach me.” 

Ilya laughs, and Shane’s pretend-sincerity breaks. 

“Seriously, though,” Shane says. “It’ll be fun. If there’s enough of us, we can dibs the main TV and watch hockey.” 

“You have not managed this so far?” Ilya asks, feigning surprise. 

“We got close last year, but that weird ass clay elf movie won,” Shane says, as if Ilya has the cultural background to even begin to guess what the fuck he’s talking about. “My dad betrayed us and voted for it.” 

“The horror,” Ilya teases. 

“Yes,” Shane agrees. “Which is why you should come with me so we can win, and I don’t have nightmares about that creepy ass elf again.” 

“Ah,” Ilya says, “so this is really just for you, then? This is not about me at all.” 

“The elf is obsessed with teeth,” Shane says, like this is the closing argument to end all arguments. “He even fucking sings about it.” 

“And you think telling me all of this is going to make me want to come?” Ilya asks, amused. “You are luring me to random Canadian house with people who like tooth-elves? This is the plot to horror movie, I think. I am very hot, Hollander. My people do not do well in those movies.” 

Shane laughs, shaking his head. 

“I’ll protect you,” he says. 

“Oh, will you?” Ilya asks, amused. 

“Mhm,” Shane agrees, shaking off his toiletry bottles and lining them up neatly in their carrying case. “Who else is going to play battleship with me? Other people are good at it.” 

Ilya cups his hands to collect enough water to toss at Shane’s face. 

*

J3. 

Not tonight. 

D5. 

c’mon 

don’t be boring

i know this is your natural state, but i am in the mood for battleship

😏

Shane hesitates for a second, debating with himself, torn between not wanting to blow Ilya off for no reason but also not wanting to seem dramatic. 

Not more dramatic than having an allergic reaction in front of Hayden for the first time including puking into a bush, at least, not made better by Hayden’s attempts at reassurance by promising he’d dealt with Jackie’s morning sickness enough that puke doesn’t even phase him anymore. 

As if being grouped together with a pregnant woman–even one as nice as Jackie–makes Shane feel less embarrassed about fucking up a night out by finishing it with a hospital visit. 

Before he can second-guess it, he snaps a picture of his IV and hospital bracelet, figuring it’s probably the easiest way to convey exactly why he’s not in the mood. Normally he would play along for the sake of Ilya at least having a good night, but the medication in the IV hasn’t settled in enough yet to get rid of the last of the nausea, and he’d rather not mentally link sexting with Ilya and gagging into a pepto pink hospital basin. 

In the context of sex with Ilya, there’s only really one kind of gagging that’s fun. 

The picture has barely shown the Read checkmarks when his phone starts ringing. He glances at the door out of habit before he answers, settling on his side and resting his head against the phone. 

“Hey.” 

“What happened?” Ilya asks, and Shane smiles, faintly, able to tell that Ilya is keeping his voice low on purpose, mindful of the way reactions usually give him a headache. “Reaction?” 

“Fun fact: vegan nacho cheese apparently has nuts in it,” he says dryly. “And it looks a whole fucking lot like normal people nacho cheese.” 

“You didn’t ask?” Ilya asks, sounding accusing in a way that’s annoying. 

“Yes,” Shane says, maybe a little sharper than he should, but irritated he’s getting held responsible even though it wasn’t his fucking fault. “I asked. The regular nacho cheese was fine, but someone moved the containers around when I was playing darts with JJ. I didn’t notice until my throat started swelling up, so, you know. Rough end to boys’ night out.” 

Absurdly, he feels his eyes sting, residually annoyed and embarrassed, even if his only witness was Hayden, who followed him outside after he made his escape when he felt the first tell-tale tightness in his throat. The one fucking night he agrees to go out with the guys and someone loses track of their fucking nut cheese. 

God forbid he just get to have fun like everyone else. 

“Hm,” Ilya says. “Is night out with Metros. I do not think you are missing much.” 

Shane huffs out a laugh, closing his eyes. 

“A night out with Boston, yes, I would understand. Very sad. Metros? You are better off in hospital, I think. Better company.” 

“I’m in a room by myself,” Shane says. 

“Yes, is like I said,” Ilya says, sounding like he’s confused by Shane’s statement. “Better company than all Metros put together.” 

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane says fondly. Ridiculously, he does feel a little better, just having Ilya’s voice on the phone. 

In light of current circumstances, he grants himself the luxury of not thinking about the why of that. 

“If you are that afraid of facing me in two weeks, Hollander,” Ilya says. “There are easier ways. You do not have to do death by nut cheese.” 

“You fucking wish, motherfucker,” Shane says, grinning and turning on his back, getting more comfortable. “I’ll be back on the ice by the end of the week and making you cry when we crush you by the end of next week.” 

“Oh,” Ilya says, sounding sad. “Tragic. The nuts have ruined your brain this time. You are delusional. Hand your phone to doctor. They should know this.” 

Shane closes his eyes, smiling. 

Somehow, he doesn’t feel quite as bad now. 

*

Ilya can tell Shane is getting sleepy the longer they talk, his words slower, quieter, stretching longer between question and answer. Absurdly, he wishes he was there with him, to keep him company and make sure he’s got an extra blanket if he needs it, knowing Shane is unlikely to ask for one for himself when left to his own devices. 

“I can’t believe Pike left you there,” Ilya says, unimpressed at the lack of loyalty. 

“He has,” Shane yawns, “a pregnant wife at home.” 

“Then he should learn to use condoms better,” Ilya says dryly, smiling when he hears Shane laugh. 

“You’re mean,” Shane says, sounding fond. “I told him to go home to her.” 

Objectively, he knows it’s probably entirely reasonable, Pike heeding Shane’s instructions and going home to his wife. This isn’t new for Shane, after all, waiting out a hospital visit after a reaction. 

But it doesn’t make the idea of Shane all by himself in a hospital bed sit any better with him. 

In an instant, three weeks of going back and forth with himself no longer matter, not when he has something he can offer Shane that might hopefully make his wait feel at least a little bit better. 

“You will be better by Christmas?” He asks lightly, settling back on his couch and stretching out. 

“Uh,” Shane says, sounding confused, “yeah? I sure fucking hope so. Why?” 

“Will probably be very awkward if I show up to your family Christmas without you,” Ilya says casually. “I mean everyone will love me more anyway, but-” 

“You’re coming?” Shane asks, and Ilya smiles at his tone, clearly pleased. It’s nice, being able to please someone like that, just by being somewhere with them. 

Even if he can’t be there right now. 

“I do have a condition, though,” he says seriously. 

“Okay?” Shane says, sounding curious but not cautious. 

“I do demand that we watch the weird tooth elf movie-” 

“No.” 

“I have to be a part of the traditions, Hollander!” Ilya protests, grinning. 

“No,” Shane says definitively. “Not that one. No teeth elf.” 

“Yes teeth elf,” Ilya taunts him. “I will ask David, and he will-” 

“-uninvited, you are uninvited, I will not-” 

“-such a baby about an innocent elf who likes teeth, like you do not have tooth fairy-” 

They argue on the phone until Shane starts yawning, and Ilya stays on the line as Shane’s protests against being subjected to Christmas movies slowly drift into steady, rhythmic breathing that says he’s asleep. 

Ilya closes his eyes and listens for a long, long time before he hangs up. 

Chapter End Notes

"hey pen, are they going to be better at communicating in this verse?"

nope :)

Chapter 3: very merry: ilya's first christmas with the hollanders

Chapter Notes

WHAT UP FAM

I STILL AIN'T FREE OF SHALLERGIES

HAVE SOME CHRISTMAS

“Did you eat my popcorn?” 

Ilya looks up from his phone at Shane’s question, smiling slightly at his tone, which sounds suspiciously aggrieved for someone who has told him repeatedly that buying snacks just for him isn’t something he needs to bother with. 

“Well, it is popcorn I bought that lives in my house,” Ilya calls back, tone dry, “so if I did, I think I would be eating my popcorn.” 

Shane doesn’t slam things shut–it’s one of the things Ilya finds soothing about him, really–but the sound of the cabinet door shutting is distinctly annoyed. He rolls his eyes fondly. 

“Cabinet to the left of fridge,” he calls. “Second row, I think.” 

“With your protein powder?” Shane asks, sounding more than slightly judgemental about it. “Found it!” 

There's the sound of a microwave starting and then a suspicious rustling. Ilya rolls his eyes.

“Stop moving shit around! Micromanage your own kitchen!” 

“Your cabinets make no fucking sense!” Shane calls back, the sound of packages being moved not stopping at all. “Your smoothie stuff makes more sense all together and in the cabinet above your blender.”

“They make medicine for people like you!” Ilya responds, but he slouches down on the couch, not bothered enough to actually protect his kitchen from its regularly scheduled Hollandering.

Ilya takes a handful of popcorn and tosses it in his mouth.

“Disgusting,” he declares, grabbing a second.

“It's nutritional yeast,” Shane says without concern. “It's good for you.” 

“Why?” Ilya asks, taking a third handful but eating it one kernel at a time now. “Because is so gross you do not eat it and save calories?” 

“You don't have to eat it, you know,” Shane says, settling back until he's slouched enough to use Ilya's shoulder as a headrest, the bowl of popcorn resting on their hips between them. 

“If I kiss you later, I will have to taste it anyway. I am acclimating, like with vaccines. Now your yeast breath will not kill my erection.” 

“You're such an asshole,” Shane says without concern. “Oh wait, go back, is that Hawaii?”

“You are going to make me eat sad, horrible popcorn and watch boring real estate shows?” Ilya complains, turning back to the channel and setting the remote down. “Why the fuck do I keep letting you in my house?” 

“Because I have a key and you don't know how to change locks,” Shane says absently, reaching over him to turn the volume up.

Privately, Ilya thinks the actual answer might be the comfort of Shane curled up against him in borrowed clothes, warm and relaxed and pleasantly heavy, clearly comfortable in Ilya’s space in a way that’s more than a little intoxicating.

But that isn’t something Shane needs to know. 

*

Shane doesn't particularly enjoy clubs, but this one isn't as bad, even if he’s a little annoyed that Ilya picked it as Shane’s penalty for Boston beating Montreal at the game tonight. It's one of the few that Ilya drags him out to when he's decided they need to go clubbing when they’re in Boston, one of the ones with the least offensive lights and a corner he can retreat to that's out of the way of most things, far enough away from the speakers that the music doesn't hurt his ears. 

(He doesn't know what it means, Ilya thinking about him when they're apart enough to consider what clubs he would hate the least.)

(Maybe it just means he likes having a guaranteed appreciative audience.)

Shane is envious sometimes, of the way Ilya seems to fit so naturally in places like this. He moves through the crowd like he belongs there and moves his body to the music like he doesn't even have to think about it. 

The latter of which necessitates Shane paying attention to his ginger ale instead of the dance floor for the sake of getting up not potentially being very awkward.

“I can't believe you agree to go out but never dance,” Hayden says cheerfully, dropping beside him flushed and happy and a little tipsy. 

“Is that what you were doing?” Shane asks, lifting his eyebrows. “My money was on vertical seizure.”

“Okay, funny guy,” Hayden says, bumping shoulders with him. “Enough of the tight five. You made me go to a club with fucking Boston. I’ve suffered enough.” 

“Yeah,” Shane says dryly, “I can tell you’re miserable by the way you’ve been doing shots with their goalie all night.” 

Hayden grins, not disputing this fact, and accepts the cup of water Shane hands him. They’re heading into a weekend so a hangover won’t be the end of the world, but Shane would feel like a shitty friend if he didn’t try to mitigate how much regret Hayden will be feeling tomorrow at least a little. 

(And ungrateful for Jackie’s efforts of making him allergen-free food if he sent home a totally useless husband tomorrow when she’s this late in her pregnancy.)

Hayden gets drawn into conversation with JJ and a left winger from Boston, and Shane sits back, content to let conversation flow around him. It’s always a bit of a risk, mixing the teams like this, but they’re fairly good by now about knowing who absolutely can’t play nice for an evening. 

And who’s going to do their best to get wasted no matter who they’re out with. 

“-and Hollander have in common.” He tunes back in enough to catch the end of JJ’s sentence. 

“What about Hollander?” He asks. 

“Connors wants to know how you and Rozanov even became friends,” JJ says. “You both are so different.” 

“Make A Wish,” Hayden mutters into his cup, making Shane smile faintly. “Still hasn’t lost the fight, though, which is disappointing.” 

Shane elbows him. 

“We were in the same draft year,” Shane says with a shrug. 

“Yeah, but you guys work together all the time and do interviews together. You’re, like, famously best friends.” 

“And?” Shane prompts. 

“I just can’t imagine what you guys even talk about,” Connors persists. “What do you even talk about?” 

“Being good at hockey,” Shane says. “That’s when you make goals and score points. I know you’re not familiar with that-” He grins when the Bostonians at the table jeer at him, sitting back and taking a sip of his ginger ale as the table devolves into arguments about point totals and power plays. 

It’s not the first time he’s been asked this question, either informally or with a microphone in front of his face. In terms of publicity, it’s one of the things that makes them so valuable, the whole “unlikely friendship” angle, like they’re one of those combinations on YouTube videos of snakes and babies or cats and chickens instead of two hockey players who are basically the exact same age. He knows part of it also comes down to their different brands as players, cultivated both based on personality and also just to avoid them competing with each other for the same bookings wherever possible. Shane’s brand tends towards polite, respectable, mild-mannered, and restrained, the type of thing that gets him called a role model whether he actually wants to be one or not. Ilya, on the other hand, plays up the party boy angle: wild, carefree, fun, and a little dangerous. 

And no stranger to clubs just like this one. 

Still, unused to nights out like this or not, he does know one way to bring it to a fairly quick end, at least for himself.

D6.

He doesn't wait for Ilya to check his phone, not when he's very busy grinding against a girl with a butt that admittedly looks well-cushioned for the endeavor. 

So are we having sex tonight or should I go ahead and get a cab to go take care of myself? 

He hesitates for a second and then, feeling just daring enough by wanting maybe a smidge of the attention the girl in front of Ilya is currently receiving, adds another stick to the fire. 

You still have my favorite thing in your bedside table, right? 

He puts his phone facedown on the table but shakes his head no when a cocktail waitress wanders by and asks if he wants a refill.

He doesn't expect to be here long enough for that.

Any second now- 

Ilya glances at his phone and swipes across the screen.

Shane has a pretty good guess about what he's navigating to, and sure enough, he's only glanced at what he pulled up before he’s politely nudging the girl in front of him to stand on her own again so he can disengage, barely glancing at her afterwards, already leaving the dancefloor and typing rapidly.

Ah, Shane thinks with satisfaction, leaning over to the guys and putting up with the jeers as he says he's calling it for the night. There we go.

G4 pops onto his screen as he's waiting for his Uber to pull up outside, but he already has the battleship app chat open. 

go ahead and get started.

i'll be there soon.

Better hurry. I might not be in the mood anymore if you take too long. 

🙄

we both know this is a lie. 

I've got a dildo and an entire internet full of porn. I can take care of myself.

we both know that little toy can't compare to my cock.

Shane mentally runs through his schedule quickly, confirming that he doesn't play any games again until Tuesday, giving him a four day window to be sore in. Risk analysis run, he types in a message after climbing into his Uber and confirming the address.

Maybe you should fuck me good enough to prove it.

maybe I should fuck you good enough you can't walk tomorrow.

Shane smiles serenely and closes out of the app, satisfied with a job well done.

*

“Move you-da, good, always so perfect.” 

Ilya rewards Shane’s perfection with kisses trailing from his neck and along the column of his spine before taking secure hold of his hips, thumbs pressing into dimples that he sometimes thinks were made just for him, just for a place to hold on better. 

Shane makes a soft noise, low in his throat, needy in a way that makes Ilya just want to give him more and more and more, to open his palm and offer up anything Shane might care to ask for. When Ilya sinks back into him in one smooth, slick thrust, Shane lets out a sound from deep in his chest, low and hungry and a little breathless. 

“Good?” He asks. 

“Mmhm,” Shane says, sounding beyond words, hands patting blindly across the sheets until he finds a pillow to hold onto, squeezing tight. 

Ilya smiles and presses it against Shane’s shoulder as he finds a good rhythm with his hips. It’s one of his favorite things about having sex with Shane, the way he always holds on like someone might try to rip him away. He’d done it even back in their early days, hands threading through Ilya’s hair when he went down on him. Ilya’s gone down on plenty of people who use a hold like that to push him where they want him–something he doesn’t necessarily have complaints about, always appreciative of someone who knows what feels good and how to get it–but that’s never been Shane’s goal. It seems like he just wants to hold onto something, like he reaches for the security of something to put his hands on. It was funny, in the early days, the way reaching up to palm Shane’s chest usually meant his hand getting captured as soon as it was within reach, like a game, almost, seeing how many times he could rub a thumb across one of Shane’s nipples until Shane’s desperation to hold his hand outweighed his desire for another sensation. It was sweet in a way he didn’t always know what to do with, the way Shane holds onto him. 

It’s something he’s still not sure he knows what to do with. 

*

“-ake it so well,” he hears Ilya purr in his ear, but the words are hard to grasp when they’re accompanied by the stretch of Ilya’s cock within him, the press of Ilya’s hand against his hip and stomach, massive and strong, holding him in place, the illusion that Ilya could make him stay right where he is if he felt like it. It’s one of his favorite games, this little pretend of theirs, being put in a place and expected to stay there. 

To be held there, pliant and obedient, for Ilya to do what he wants with him. 

“Fuck,” he groans into the sheets. “Fuck, Ilya.” He pushes himself back into the thrusts, the pleasure feeling like it’s knocking the air out of his lungs. 

Not that he needs air inside him when he could have cock instead, his horny-fuzzed mind offers, making him clench tighter and shudder against the sheets, pressing his face deeper into the mattress. 

“Is good?” Ilya says, voice a rasp. 

“Yes,” Shane offers, the word more air than sound but the most he’s capable of right now, wanting to give Ilya what he wants but also kind of a little fuck drunk. 

Ilya tends to have that effect on him. 

Sometimes he feels like this is the only time he feels his body is truly his, not an instrument for hockey or a burden that might turn on him if isn’t careful. In these moments, in a bed shared with Ilya, his body has no purpose but to feel pleasure and offer it in return, to work together with Ilya’s body in the world’s best group project. It always makes his mind go quiet, focused like it is on the ice but without the equations constantly running in the background. There’s nothing but the satisfying burn in his muscles and the stretch of making space for Ilya inside of him and heeding Ilya’s gentle hands when he’s put how he wants him. He’s taken a little more initiative during sex recently, but a large part of that initiative comes from the comfort of knowing Ilya will take over if needed, if Shane stumbles or asks, that makes him comfortable enough to try out something that might not work because he knows Ilya can turn it into something that will. It’s nice, being able to trust in something like that. 

In being able to trust like someone like that. 

He reaches back blindly, patting along until-

Ilya’s hand comes down over his, palm against the back of it and fingers slipping through his. Shane curls his around Ilya’s, holding on tight. Given what he wanted, Shane puts his hand back down against the mattress, the comfort of being able to hold onto Ilya the last little nudge he needs to make it over the edge. 

“Are you-” 

Ilya doesn’t even get to finish the question. 

*

Courtesy of a second orgasm despite Shane’s insistence that he couldn’t, he dozes, floppy and unresisting under Ilya’s hands, when he cleans him up, Shane making a token effort to contribute but going still when Ilya nudges him to lay back down. He climbs back into bed and gathers him close, Shane rubbing his cheek against his shoulder sleepily, like a cat nuzzling close. He exhales in a way that just leaves him more limp, eyes closing. He smiles faintly when he sees the motion at the edge of the bed of Shane rubbing the top of his foot against the edge of the mattress, an idle fidget he does when he’s relaxed like this. Ilya’s tried it when he’s in bed alone before, wanting to understand why Shane seems to find it so soothing, but it hadn’t done much for him. 

If it makes Shane boneless and more likely to stay, though, Ilya wishes him godspeed in the gesture. 

“You got new curtains,” Shane observes apropos of nothing, and Ilya follows his gaze. 

“Mm,” he agrees, rubbing slow, meditative circles against Shane’s hip, enjoying the velvet softness of the warm skin under his fingertips. “Sun comes right in these windows now in the morning. Very bad for hangover.” 

“Sunlight in the morning is good for you,” Shane recites, with a cadence that clearly says he’s repeating something that could be found in a heath and wellness magazine on a doctor’s office table. “It’s good for melatonin production or something.” 

“And very bad for headache after a night out,” Ilya says wryly. 

“Which you shouldn’t even have,” Shane points out, but not harshly. “You’re not even of age here in the states.” 

“I am very cosmopolitan person, Hollander,” Ilya says. “I cannot be confined to the laws of one country.” 

“I don’t think that’s how laws work,” Shane observes dryly. “You could probably get window tint,” he says thoughtfully. “I was thinking about it for my place, for privacy.” 

“Mm,” Ilya says, interested now. “So I could fuck you against windows and have an orgasm and a view? I approve. When can they put it in?” 

Shane snorts. 

“I’m still deciding if I want to stay in my current place,” Shane says. 

“Neighbor is still annoying?” 

Shane makes an irritated noise. 

“Swear to God he knows my schedule,” he complains. “He just somehow always manages to be at the front door to the building when I am.” 

“Is your fault for being very hot,” Ilya observes, pretending it doesn’t make him feel the little wriggle of absurd jealousy that it does, the idea of someone as close as in the same building as Shane having access to him that Ilya just doesn’t, not from an entire country away. “He probably wants to fuck you.” 

“He wears those fucking Jesus sandals,” Shane says with obvious disgust, as if this some great crime against Shane’s sensibilities specifically, and Ilya huffs a laugh and hides a smile in Shane’s hair. 

“Hm, so I should not pack mine for Christmas,” Ilya teases. 

“Not if you want to ever fuck me again,” Shane says dryly. 

Ilya chooses not to press on the fact that he’s fairly certain he could change his mind about that. 

“Anything else I should keep in mind for Christmas?” Ilya asks. “For fucking you or otherwise?”

“Well, Christmas and Boxing Day are just us and my mom and dad,” Shane says, Ilya nodding to show he remembers, “but Christmas Eve is the big family thing.” 

“And your cousin Vivienne is hosting because her mother is staying with a cousin in Florida who broke a hip,” Ilya recites. 

“Yes,” Shane agrees. 

“And we like Vivienne.” 

“Mhm.” 

“But we do not like her sister Violet,” Ilya adds. 

“No, we hate Violet,” Shane says. “She thinks yoga fixes food allergies and tried to “build up” my immune system by giving me peanuts when I was little.” Shane tilts his head back to give Ilya a flat look. “Multiple fucking times.” 

“Fuck Violet and her peanuts,” Ilya says loyally, making Shane smile. 

“Correct.” 

“And is just your father’s family?” Ilya asks. 

“Mm,” Shane hums. “My mom’s aunt Kimiko comes sometimes, but she’s in Japan to stay through New Year’s this year because one of her cousins had a baby a month ago and she wanted to see her.” 

“And this is all from her side?” 

“Mmm,” Shane hums thoughtfully. “Pretty much. Her mom died when she was little, and her dad died when I was only, like, two.” 

The information about Yuna losing her mother when she was young is new, and Ilya feels a little pang of kinship about it, ridiculous as that is. He wonders if maybe she senses it about him, if part of the way she’s allowed him into the lives of her family is some deep-down understanding that they have something in common. 

It’s ridiculous and embarrassing to think even only in the privacy of his own head, but it’s a little nice, too, the idea of someone else understanding something like that. Even if he will never admit it to her, will never burden her with any of his shit anymore than he would Shane, it’s something, at least. Maybe. 

*

Shane yawns through his nose, shifting only slightly to get more comfortable, knowing his face must be wildly unattractive smushed against Ilya's shoulder but unable to make himself care about it enough to move when he's so comfortable. He’s teased Ilya about buying the same mattress as him, but it is nice, feeling like he’s in his own bed even when he’s in Boston. He can also admit that it’s a little quicker to get into Ilya’s bed because he doesn’t have as many decorative pillows to move out of the way first, which Shane figures might be due to how many people Ilya must be cycling through his bed. Even if only some of the rumors are true, it’s an impressive number. He wonders how many other people have been in the exact same spot as him, curled up against Ilya’s shoulder on a mattress that feels the same as Shane’s. 

The thought reminds him that this bed isn’t where he’ll be ending his night, and he lifts his wrist to check the time to see if it’s time to make his way to the guest room or not. 

“Wow, wow,” Ilya says, and Shane repeats it without sound as Ilya lifts his wrist up to look at his watch better. “Fancy man with fancy watch.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says fondly. “Rolex wants me to wear it in public for the sponsorship thing. I just forgot to take it off”

“And I only get suits?” Ilya asks, faux-offended. “Sometimes I think Yuna forgets she likes me more than you.”

“Can't imagine why,” Shane says dryly.

“Why don't I get fancy watches?” Ilya whines, clearly playful.

“Maybe if you tried being on time to things, they'd consider it,” Shane says, laughing and flinching when it gets him fingers digging in at the sensitive skin above his hip where he's ticklish. 

“Is called being fashionably late, Hollander,” Ilya sniffs importantly. “Though I do not expect you to understand this. Really, watches should want me most of all! I can start knowing times to be places.”

Shane snorts, fortifying himself with soaking up a little bit more warmth from Ilya’s skin before he makes himself get up. 

It’s the way his body feels heavy and liquid and comfortable that tells him it’s time to go even more than the number on his watch, sleep edging ever closer and making it risky to stay where he is, snuggled up with Ilya. It feels the same way putting on his most worn-soft t-shirt does, these little moments of skin on skin and shared afterglow, and it makes it hard to want to leave. Still, though, Ilya in their earliest days always left after and hasn’t changed it, so Shane gathers that must be standard practice, or at least how Ilya prefers it. 

“Okay, good work, team,” he says, shoving himself up and thwapping a firm pat against Ilya’s abs, ignoring the swat to his ass he gets in exchange. “Night.” 

He pauses when Ilya catches him by the wrist, pulling him in for another kiss. For the sake of not tweaking his neck, he turns to face him more fully, straddling his waist when it’s clear Ilya doesn’t plan to immediately release him. It’s a makeout with no expectation of more, really, just trading leisurely kisses because it feels good even if it’s not the first step to a finish line. One of Ilya’s hands keeps hold of his head, fingers sunk through his hair, and his other rests at his back, heavy and pleasant against his spine. Shane braces himself on his forearms, resting more of his weight against Ilya, one palm resting lightly against his face but not pushing for more, not trusting himself to stick to his own plan for heading to bed if he gets his hands on more. 

Finally, Ilya releases him, but not far, leaving their foreheads to touch while they both catch their breath. With how on top of him he is, he feels Ilya draw a breath as if to speak, but after a moment, he just releases it, patting Shane’s hip twice before he lets him go. 

“Goodnight,” he says. 

Shane wants one more kiss for the road, but he resists, taking the dismissal. 

He climbs off of Ilya and heads to the guest room. 

*

Ilya likes the way it feels to be in Yuna and David’s house. It’s neat–because Ilya can’t imagine any world in which a house that produced Shane wouldn’t be neat–but it’s soft around the edges: a couple of pieces of mail on the counter in the kitchen instead of stacked in the holder, a throw blanket folded but a little crooked on the back of the couch, family photos on the walls, souvenir magnets on the fridge, mismatched mugs hanging up on a little carousel by the coffee maker, including one Metros mug that Ilya had been handed for coffee after he arrived here today, because Yuna is loyal to her son’s team and also maybe a little bit evil to him. It looks like a house people who are comfortable with each other live in. It looks like a house people who love each other live in. 

It looks like a house Ilya has no reason being in. 

And yet here he is, sitting at the bar while theoretically helping with dinner but mostly just being handed samples of things along with Shane as David makes dinner. It had thrown Ilya, a little, the first time Shane had mentioned that his dad did the cooking in the family. Ilya doesn’t even know if his own father has even stepped foot in a kitchen. When his mother was alive, she made food and brought it to the dining room where his father was waiting, and after Polina had shown a lack of interest or skill, he’d hired a cook. It’s something Ilya had resented, back when he was little, another woman touching mama’s pots and pans, putting food in her dishes, like his mother was just a conduit for how food came into being in the house, like someone else could just be slotted in neatly with no disruption. The only interest his father has ever taken in food is when it doesn’t live up to his standards, and even then, his involvement is limited to biting comments or sometimes throwing a dish off of the table if he’s had a bad day and was already looking to do something about it. 

Being handed a noodle along with Shane now, Ilya can’t imagine David Hollander setting a dish down too hard, let alone sending it flying across a room. 

“Quality control,” David says with a wink after Ilya follows Shane’s lead and takes a bite of his own noodle. 

“I think it’s good,” Shane announces. 

“You also like pasta mush,” David teases. “You’re not a reliable opinion. Ilya?” 

“Good,” he echoes, feeling a little meek in his involvement in a way he knows is more than a little ridiculous. He thinks David could serve him a platter of dirt, and he’d probably still say thank you and dig in, a little on edge as an outsider in this household no matter how warm his welcome always is when they see each other. 

“Do you know the secret to knowing if pasta is done?” David asks. 

“If it is soft?” Ilya asks on a guess. 

“If you were going to do your pasta thing anyway, why did you even ask us?” Shane complains, and not for the first time, Ilya feels the kneejerk urge to shush him. Even two years into this, he’s not quite used to how Shane talks to his parents. It’s not rude, not really, but there’s an easiness to it that feels foreign in a way that feels dangerous sometimes, no matter how many times nothing happens beyond Yuna occasionally giving Shane a look and a mild warning of, “Tone.” 

“If you want to know if pasta is done,” David says, ignoring Shane’s interjection as he fishes out another noodle from the pot. “You just…” He winds up and tosses the noodle, where it sticks to the cabinet. “Tah dah.” 

Ilya smiles, a little, at the ridiculous sight of a spiraling pasta noodle adhered to a cabinet like strange wall art. Again, that same sense of disconnect, sitting in a kitchen with someone’s father who not only cooks but does objectively silly things like throwing pasta at a wall to see if it sticks. 

“Try it,” David says, handing Ilya another noodle of his own. 

“Now we’re just wasting food,” Shane observes, resting his chin in one hand. 

“Not wasting,” David corrects mildly, moving out of the way to give Ilya a clean shot to the cabinet. “Cooking. You could try it some time.” 

“I cook,” Shane protests. He looks to Ilya. “You planning on throwing it, or are you just going to keep holding it?” 

“What happened to food waste?” Ilya says in return, but the teasing puts him at least a little more at ease, the challenge in Shane’s voice making it an easy choice to follow instructions, no matter how silly it feels. 

He tosses the noodle in his hand, the pasta landing in a spiral next to David’s. 

“Good shot,” David says. “Looks like we’re good to go.” 

“I feel like we knew that without throwing pasta around the kitchen,” Shane observes. 

“We have to be sure, Shane,” Ilya says. Ridiculously, he wants to take a picture of the noodles on the cabinet, a little keepsake of the evening. 

(He resists, but it’s a near thing.)

*

He and Ilya stay by the fireplace after Shane’s mom and dad go to bed, sitting on the rug together in the warm yellow semi-circle cast by the fire. 

Well, Shane is sitting. Ilya is being nosy. 

“The fuck is this?” Ilya asks, laughing, holding up an–admittedly terrible–craft ornament that Shane made at some point in elementary school. 

Still, objectively hideous or not, Shane feels the need to defend his work. 

“Christmas spirit, asshole. Put it back.” 

“This is for Christmas?” Ilya scoffs. “So this is what? Reindeer from hell? Even Satan gets to have Santa?” 

“You’re awfully fucking mouthy for someone who apparently doesn’t even usually celebrate Christmas,” Shane shoots back, grabbing a throw pillow off of an armchair and laying back with it under his head. “I’d like to see you do better.” 

“Better than garbage that just didn’t make it into the trashcan?” Ilya asks, even as he carefully hangs the ornament back up where he found it before. 

“I was like, four, dude, give me a fucking break,” Shane complains. “If you want to talk shit like this, I should get to see your crafts as a kid.” 

Ilya is still for a moment, apparently absorbed in one of the annual ornaments his dad gives his mom–this year’s is a flamingo in a flamenco dress, which must be an inside flirty joke between them based on the gross lovey dovey looks they gave each other that meant Shane did not investigate further–and missing the question. 

“This is you?” Ilya asks, holding up an ornament with his baby footprint stamped on it. 

“That’s what I’ve been told,” Shane says dryly, giving Ilya a look but not resisting when he picks his foot up by the ankle, holding the ornament up next to it. “What are you doing?” 

“Impossible your foot was ever so little,” Ilya says, dropping his foot after making his comparison. “Your parents have been lied to, I think. This is footprint of much cuter baby, probably.” 

“You don’t get to make that joke and make a joke about ‘What happened?’ after you saw my baby picture before,” Shane complains. “Pick a punchline.” 

“Besides your face?” 

Shane aims a kick at his hip that misses. 

“You were so round,” Ilya observes, sounding fond, as he picks up a present-shaped ornament with a baby Shane at the center, his birthday written on the ribbon. “Like a-what was the word Pike used before? For very fat baby?” 

“I’m not playing dictionary to help you make fun of me,” Shane says. 

“Ty byl takim milym, kak malen'kiy pukhlyash,” Ilya says, hanging the ornament back up before looking at Shane. “See? You do not help me and now you don’t even know what I am saying.” 

“Something an asshole would say, probably,” Shane says, fairly confident in his guess. 

Ilya ignores him, continuing his investigation of their Christmas ornaments. 

“This one just seems mean,” He observes, holding up a sparkling peanut wearing a Santa hat and beard. 

“My dad got that one for my mom the Christmas she was pregnant with me,” Shane says, reaching up and stretching, feeling the late hour in a way it would appear Ilya doesn’t if he’s still got it in him to play Christmas 20 Questions like this. “Apparently it started being a joke to call me ‘the peanut,’ so my dad thought it would be funny.” He snorts, rubbing his eyes before dropping his hand again. “It got ironic later, obviously, so I think maybe they jinxed me.” 

*

“He buys many ornaments for your mother?” Ilya asks, careful to secure the hook back on the branch before he lets go of the ornament. 

“Every Christmas,” Shane says around a yawn he probably thinks he’s hiding better than he is. “They met at a Christmas market in college. They both wanted to buy the same ornament, so now it’s like, a joke that he gets her one they can share. He gets her a new one every year.” 

It’s sweet in a way that makes Ilya’s chest hurt a little, two people loving each other like that, enough to have a silly little tradition. It fills him with a wordless kind of want, wishing that he’d gotten to grow up with parents with stupid, affectionate habits like that. Again, the same sense that he doesn’t belong in a place like this. 

Again, the same desire to never leave. 

“He proposed with one. Apparently he wanted to wait until December, at least, but he ended up getting too nervous and doing it barely a week into November instead,” Shane offers, and Ilya looks to him. The Christmas tree lights are reflecting in his dark eyes in a way that looks like there are stars in them, and it makes him look beautiful in a way that makes Ilya want to do something reckless and stupid like kiss him, right here in his parents’ living room. He looks back to the tree. 

“Which one?” He asks, mostly to have something to think about instead of how badly he wants to kiss Shane in the glow of a fireplace and Christmas lights, like some nauseatingly saccharine holiday movie. 

“Take a wild guess,” Shane says, sounding amused in a way that offers a hint even without anything else said. 

“Something hockey?” Ilya asks, scanning for likely options. 

“Bingo.” 

“So is your whole family that loves hockey too much?” Ilya asks, amused. He holds up an ornament with a pair of hockey players crossing sticks on it. 

“He put the ring on one of the sticks,” Shane says, confirming the guess. “And then it fell off when my mom hugged him,” he says, with a laugh. “It rolled off, fell into an airvent, and they had to ask the manager of the restaurant if they could use a butterknife to unscrew it and get the ring back.” 

“And she still said yes?” Ilya teases, grinning. 

Shane shrugs. 

“He was a really good hockey player.” 

Ilya laughs, hanging the engagement ornament back. 

“Too bad it did not pass down, eh?” He asks, safe from reprisals despite the pillow Shane picks up in a threat because of his proximity to the Christmas tree. 

Ilya grins, picking up a unicorn. 

*

It’s strange in a way it probably shouldn’t be, sharing a roof with Ilya, knowing that he’s right down the hall, saying goodnight to each other and going their separate ways, even if those separate ways are still in hearing distance of each other if they shouted. 

Because he’s very, very stupid, he lets himself briefly play with the idea of this being something it isn’t. He doesn’t put words to it, doesn’t label it–he knows better than that, at least, even in dumb pretend scenarios in his head–but he imagines it, imagines Ilya being able to kiss him on the cheek or being able to hold Ilya’s hand, imagines his mom and dad seeing it and smiling. He imagines it being normal, expected, both of them under his parents’ roof for the holidays. He imagines it being expected that they would share the same room, the same bed, imagines it just being…normal. 

And then he creeps out of his room and sneaks down to the guest room, freezing every single time the floorboards creak slightly under his feet. 

When he makes it to the guest room, he finds the door cracked. 

“I was wondering if you were going to come see me,” Ilya says, teasing voice barely a whisper, and Shane squints a little, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room after the nightlight in the hallway. 

When Ilya lifts up the edge of the blankets in invitation, he takes it, sliding under after shutting the door and locking it. 

“Could have been earlier if you hadn’t been so busy being nosy as fuck about the Christmas tree,” he complains, but when Ilya pulls at his hip, he comes closer, tilting his head for a kiss. 

They don’t get fancy with it. They don’t have the supplies, for one thing, and Shane thinks his nerve wouldn’t quite stretch far enough to cover anything beyond this, spit-slick hands getting each other off quick and a little clumsy, mouths pressed together to swallow any sounds from the other. They pause just long enough to strip their shirts off–and it’s funny, still, seeing Ilya in a shirt in the context of a house given how much he normally seems to be allergic to shirts unless absolutely necessary–and Ilya gently nudges him onto his back, straddling his hips. 

His climax hits him like a gentle thing, like the way waves roll over his feet at the beach. He makes a soft, quiet noise, unable to help it, but it’s a small thing, easily muffled against Ilya’s mouth. He feels the spill of Ilya’s release over his belly–mixing with his in a way that makes him very interested in playing with the idea later when they’re not sharing a roof with his parents–Ilya burying his face against his throat in a way that makes Shane close his eyes and lean into the pleasant heat of it, soft and warm and comfortable, cozy with Ilya in this little bubble of feeling good. 

“Good job, peanut,” Ilya says in his ear, a little breathless, and Shane manages to get a leg up enough to knee him in the side. 

“Fuck all the way off, asshole,” he complains, but when Ilya lingers for a kiss before getting up, Shane accepts it. 

It’s a little funny, watching Ilya pull on pants and a shirt to sneak into the bathroom next door, and Shane lays in bed feeling daring in a way that would probably normally have him about ready to throw up. When Ilya returns with a damp washcloth, though, he hasn’t moved, waiting patiently to clean up the mess on his stomach to avoid getting any of it on the bedsheets. He keeps hold of the washcloth when he’s done, folding it up to keep the mess inside and resting it on his hip. 

“I’ll…wash it out in the sink later,” he says, the fluster just now hitting him at the idea of putting the rag in his parents’ washing machine as-is. Honestly, he might just steal it and take it home. Even if his parents would never know, he would. 

“I can get it,” Ilya says, but he’s laying down as he says it, the words coming out through a yawn. 

“Maybe we should just bring wipes or something, next time,” he thinks out loud. “Could just throw them in the trash that way.” 

“Next time?” Ilya asks, his tone just off enough to make Shane look at him to find out what’s happening, though Ilya’s face is completely neutral in a way that’s a little annoying, honestly. 

“I mean,” he says carefully, realizing he’s started making plans without Ilya’s input, wondering if Ilya doesn’t like the presumption of it. “If you wanted to come here again.” 

“I mean it was fun coming here this time,” Ilya says, lifting his brows in a way that makes Shane start to pop him on the stomach before he realizes the noise might sound suspicious and stopping himself. 

“Gross,” Shane says, feeling a little justified when Ilya makes a face at the now-cold rag landing on his stomach to let Shane get up and find his pajamas. 

“You’re the one who came to my room, Hollander,” Ilya points out, linking his fingers and resting his hands behind his head. 

“Technically,” Shane says dryly, tugging on his flannel bottoms before pulling his t-shirt over his head, “it’s my parents’ room.” 

“Hm, same difference,” Ilya says, yawning again. 

Shane looks to him when his head pops through the collar of his shirt, ready to argue but stopping when he actually looks at him, beautiful and comfortable and clearly quite cozy. Shane feels the stupid urge to climb back in bed with him, to snuggle up in the flannel sheets together. It’s an insane urge, he knows. Even without the fact that it would raise questions he cannot answer if his parents found out, it’s not what they do. 

Even if it’s what he really, really wants to do. 

“You are taking picture for the road?” Ilya asks, lifting an eyebrow and arching up slightly in a way that makes Shane look away at once. It’s a reminder, he knows, that they’re done for the night. He snuck in, they stroked each other off, and now it’s done. 

“Just making sure nothing got left on the sheets,” he says. 

“Hm, yes,” Ilya says, relaxing some and handing Shane the washcloth back. “You are very messy.” 

“Says the motherfucker who ended up getting cum on my shirt halfway across the fucking bed one time,” Shane says. 

“I let you borrow a new one,” Ilya says, unrepentant. 

“How generous,” Shane says flatly. 

He wants to get one more kiss for the night, but Ilya is clearly already settling down, pulling the top sheet and comforter straight to make them lie neater. 

“Night,” Shane says, making his way to the door. 

“Goodnight, Shane,” Ilya says softly as he peeks his head out and then takes his leave. 

*

The silly novelty of riding in the back of Shane’s mom’s SUV like they’re two kids on the way to practice does put Ilya at ease enough to not be too nervous when they finally arrive at Vivienne Hollander’s house, Ilya hanging back at the car to help carry in food meant to be safe for Shane. It had been a surprise, honestly, to find out that he had to bring his own food, a couple of casserole dishes, a trio of tupperware, and a roasted chicken wrapped up in aluminum foil loaded into the car before they came. After two years of living around them himself, Ilya had just assumed anyone in Shane’s life would be similarly adjusted. He might have his Nutella as an occasional indulgence, but he’d just assumed that Shane’s family would make food for him to take part in. Finding out that they don’t does make him a little more suspicious of them than he would otherwise be, their allowance of a stranger at their gathering notwithstanding. 

Despite his misgivings, though, everyone seems pleasant enough as he runs the gauntlet of Hollanders as he follows Shane to the kitchen, smiling faces and raised hands and “Oh, you must Ilya”s that throw him more than a little, the idea of a house of people who know him by reputation but not as Rozanov. 

Really, it’s kind of a relief when they make it to the kitchen and a slightly-frazzled-looking woman with the very end of her ponytail dyed pink is the only one in there. 

“Hey, Viv,” Shane says, making her turn. 

“Hey, you,” she greets, cheerful despite her clear fluster as she comes over and hugs Shane. Shane looks a little awkward in the grasp, but she releases him quickly enough-

-before surprising Ilya by pulling him in for one of his own. 

“Sorry,” she says, pulling back when she registers the stiffness. “I’m a hugger. Should have asked, though. Sorry about that!” 

Before Ilya can find a response, the woman who must be Vivienne is already turning away, pulling Shane with her to the stove. 

“Oh, I’m Vivienne,” she calls back. “And you’re Ilya?” 

“Yes,” he agrees, not sure if she expects him to or not but a little thrown by the warm welcome.

Shane is clearly amused by his slight awkwardness, and he makes a face in response to the grin he gets before Shane is pulled back to focus on the stove. 

“Okay, so,” Vivienne says, with a business-like briskness that makes it clear why she and Yuna get along quite well based on what Ilya’s heard, “Chris brought Nanaimo bars, but they have been banished to the fridge in the garage, and I will put them at the end of the bar when desserts go out-” 

“You don’t have to do that,” Shane protests, but Vivienne ignores him and continues. 

“-and for food-food, GrandMarie brought her tourtière, and it is Shane Safe, and she has threatened violence against anyone who touches it.” 

Shane snorts, glancing back briefly as Ilya goes to put down the dishes he’d been carrying. 

“The potatoes,” Vivienne says, opening the oven briefly to demonstrate, “are supposedly safe, but Violet made them.” 

The look that Shane and Vivienne exchange is a silent agreement that suggests Shane won’t be taking that particular risk as a result. 

“And-oh,” Vivienne appears to register that Shane is still holding things and moves to take them, “I made space in the fridge if you want to put cold things in there and just let me know when hot things should go in the oven.” She turns to Ilya then. “Also, just checking: no allergies for you, right? Shane said no when I asked, but he also lies about his all the time.” 

“Hey,” Shane protests mildly, taking a dish of some kind of casserole from Ilya when he hands it to him. 

*

“No, no allergies, but I will just eat what Shane eats,” Ilya says, and Shane hesitates for just a second, wondering if they should have discussed this before. It hasn’t come up before, really, the way Ilya tends to stick to the same restrictions as him when they’re together. 

Primarily because they can’t say why he does that. 

He starts to turn, to play it off as Ilya chirping him, to put some distance between them so Vivienne won’t think-

“Aw,” she says. “That’s sweet of you. Allergen Buddies. Okay, so-” She turns back, grabbing Shane to walk him through salads. 

It makes Shane feel a ridiculous kind of warmth, the easy inclusion, the acceptance of someone eating the same way as him even if no one else is. 

He makes himself focus on Viv talking about ranch so he won’t pursue exactly why. 

*

Even if he’s inherently more social than Shane by default, Ilya can’t say he minds when Shane subtly tugs him away from a little circle of people when clearly in need of a little break. He’d worried, a bit, about how closely he’s been following Shane around all night, but the Hollanders all seem to have chalked it up to a preference of just sticking to his friend around so many strangers. It’s kind of fucking with him in a way he’s trying not to focus on, the easy way someone else’s family has just absorbed him as one of the group, everyone seeming so pleased to meet him, like of course he would be welcome here, with Shane. It makes him think about how Shane would be treated if their positions were reversed, if Ilya was dragging him around a gathering of his family, but even the idea of exposing Shane to them makes his chest feel tight, knowing there would be comments and snide remarks, maybe even questions that Ilya wouldn’t have answers for. 

At least not answers that he would ever say out loud. 

When Shane pulls him towards the empty staircase at the front of the house, then, it’s nice to have a brief break from having to try so hard to not make comparisons in his head. 

“You okay?” Shane asks, taking a seat. 

“Yes,” Ilya says, leaning against the bannister. “Why?” 

“You’ve just been kind of quiet,” Shane says, expression open and earnest. “I know you said Christmas isn’t really a thing in Russia, but it must be hard, missing your family when-” 

“Miss,” Ilya says, cutting him off. It’s not something he would burden Shane with under ordinary circumstances, and he certainly has no intention of doing it here, among cheerful Hollanders. 

Shane looks frustrated, briefly, but before Ilya can ask him why, they’re interrupted. 

“Hey,” Vivienne says, swinging around the wall and spotting Ilya, “have you see-” She finishes her turn enough to see Shane. “Oh, there you are.” 

“Why are you looking for me?” Shane asks, already sounding suspicious. 

“Because Kevin,” Ilya thinks this is her brother, if his memory of the brief rundown he got on the way here is correct, “is a dirty fucking liar and that table he promised me does not fit all of the people I planned on, so I need you to-” 

“No,” Shane says immediately, apparently guessing how her sentence was going to end and jumping ahead of it, “I am a grown man. I do not deserve to be banished to the kids’ table.” 

“Hm, yes,” Ilya observes from his place to the side, leaning his elbow on the staircase bannister, “you will bring the whole vibe down with your boring. We cannot do this to innocent children.” 

Shane shoves him lightly, and Ilya grins, unapologetic. 

“Listen, I took Aunt Mary,” Vivienne says, planting her hands on her hips. “You owe me.” 

Shane makes a displeased noise. 

It’s one of the newer things he’s experienced tonight, watching Shane interact with someone in his family that’s in the same age range as him. It makes him seem younger, somehow, in a way that Ilya is enjoying watching. 

“Oh, no, wait,” Shane says, looking inordinately pleased suddenly, “I can’t be at the kids’ table. Caroline is only eating peanut butter sandwiches right now. I heard Terri telling my dad.” 

Vivienne turns to face the wall and drops her forehead against it with a thunk. 

“Everyone in this family sucks,” she says, closing her sentence with another soft thunk. 

“Sorry,” Shane says, not sounding remotely sincere. “Guess I have to stay at the grownup table.” 

Vivienne turns and leans back against the wall, giving him a look. 

“Like no adult in this family has ever poisoned you.” 

Shane doesn’t respond to this. 

Ilya files it away to ask about later. 

“Okay, well,” Vivienne says, brightening up at once in a way that has Shane clearly suspicious in response, “Caroline is little enough to squeeze in at the big table, which means you can still be among your peers. Thanks, bud.” 

“No, wait-” Shane says, starting to get back up as Vivienne flees with more than a little clear glee. 

Ilya follows along in his trail, feeling a little lighter. 

*

Shane ends up at the fucking kids table. 

The insult is only made worse by the way Ilya is so clearly enjoying himself in their joint exile. 

“-not really, no,” Ilya says to Aiden, passing back Cierra’s plate after cutting her turkey for her. Cierra–who appears to have developed an instant crush on Ilya and has thus taken every possible opportunity to ask him for things tonight like she isn’t eleven and completely capable–takes it and sits up with absurdly good posture, deflating a little when Ilya just looks back to Aiden. “Boston is cold, yes, but not as cold as Moscow.” 

“I know where Moscow is on the map,” Cierra offers, clearly proud of herself, and if Shane wasn’t amused, he would cringe in sympathy. 

“Very impressive,” Ilya says. “You are better than your cousin, then. I still am not sure he even knows where Russia is.” He grins at Shane, who rolls his eyes. 

“You can borrow my geography book if you want, Shane,” Cierra says primly, clearly trying to show off how generous she is, and Shane resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I don’t need it.” 

Shane firmly reminds himself he’s too old to chirp his little cousin. 

He also just fills his mouth with potatoes as a helpful reminder of that. 

Despite the name, the table doesn’t actually have that many kids at it. Cierra, Taylor, and Morgan are all still kids, but the others are either teenagers or young adults, their family currently in between generations besides the two babies napping in a guest room and Gina, who is pregnant and felt so nauseous at the first smell of food when she arrived that she and her husband immediately 180’d and left. 

If Cierra doesn’t cool it, Shane might be tempted to do the same. 

“I saw your ad for that Lambo,” Aiden says, as starry-eyed as Cierra but for different reasons that still make Shane feel faintly betrayed by his family finding Ilya more interesting than him. “So cool, dude.” 

“Hm, thank you,” Ilya says, covering his mouth until he swallows. “I tried to convince them to let me keep it, but,” a resigned exhale, “they said no.” 

“Still, at least you got to drive it,” Aiden says dreamily. “I would-” 

“Do you want another Coke, Ilya?” Cierra asks as she gets up. 

“I am fine, thank you,” Ilya says politely, clearly aware of Cierra’s crush and very kindly choosing to ignore it. 

“I could use another,” her brother Brandon says, turning away from his own side conversation about the new PlayStation. 

“You know where the fridge is,” Cierra says dismissively as she flounces off. 

Shane snorts into his ginger ale. 

When he gets up for another serving in the kitchen–his food kept separate for the sake of no one’s tongs or serving spoons wandering–Ilya follows, and he sees Cierra’s face fall as she returns only to find Ilya leaving. The clear disappointment makes Shane feel a little bad for her, honestly. 

It’s not like he doesn’t see the appeal, after all. 

“Should I go ahead and save the date for you and Cierra?” Shane teases when they’re in the kitchen, far enough away that she won’t hear them. 

“I have to give her points for persistence,” Ilya says with a shrug. “Also for good taste. Obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Shane repeats dryly, handing over the tongs for the green beans. “You having fun?” He resists the urge to wince as soon as the question is out, knowing it sounds awkward and pushy. Ilya, though, just nods, holding up a drumstick in offer before putting it on Shane’s plate when he extends it in a yes. 

“Yes,” he says. “Your family is very nice.” 

“You just think that because they think you’re cool,” Shane says, leaning back against the counter as Ilya decides what else he wants. 

“Well, yes,” Ilya says, like it’s obvious, “their only other comparison is what, you? The bar is very low.” 

“That’s such a funny joke,” Shane observes. “I should give Cierra your phone number and let you text it to her.” 

Ilya grimaces. 

“Please don’t.” 

Shane grins. 

“Is nice, though,” Ilya says. “Your family. Thank you for inviting me.” 

Shane blinks, a little thrown by the sincerity. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, more on autopilot than anything else. 

Ilya’s plate appears to be finished, but he doesn’t immediately move to return to the dining room, instead stepping just close enough to be riding the edge of crowding Shane against the counter. Shane doesn’t push him back. 

“Is nice,” Ilya says, in a tone of voice that sends a little wriggle of interest down Shane’s spine, something that is not really the best thing to have happen in his cousin’s kitchen at family Christmas dinner but something that he can’t really help when Ilya is right in front of him, close enough to smell his cologne, “being here.” 

“I’m glad,” Shane says, matching the softer tone and feeling another little shiver when he sees Ilya’s eyes dart down to his lips. “Everyone really likes you,” he offers, because it’s true. Ilya is charming under ordinary circumstances even when he’s being a cocky asshole for a camera, and he apparently decided to take it up a notch tonight. “GrandMarie said I should bring you back next year. Apparently you ‘spice things up.’” 

“Oh?” Ilya asks, voice soft. “And what do you think?” 

Shane thinks they should probably break whatever this little moment is, take their plates and return to everyone else. 

Shane also thinks he’s not a strong enough person to do that. 

“I think-” 

“Ilya!” 

He and Ilya both jump, Ilya moving away at once and both of them turning to find Cierra at the doorway. 

“Can you get me a roll off of the counter, please?” She asks. “I can’t reach.” 

“Sure,” Ilya says. “Take this for me?” He asks, holding his plate out to Shane. 

Cierra walks off practically glowing with satisfaction, and Shane rolls his eyes before taking their plates back to the kids table. 

*

Ilya has been informed that the whole Hollander clan doesn’t exchange presents for everyone at what they call “the big Christmas,” instead exchanging things based on pulling each other’s names at random. David had texted to ask if he wanted to be included, but that had felt like a step way too far in his invitation, and he had opted out. 

Which means he also departs from Shane’s side for the first time all night during the exchange after dinner under the excuse of looking for a bathroom, drawing out his absence by looking at various family photos on the wall of the upstairs hallway, smiling each time he finds a small Shane looking back at him from a frame. 

He delights in them every single time, these pictures of a tiny Shane. His favorites are of him playing hockey, of course, in gear that looks as likely to topple him over as to protect him, but he likes the others that he’s seen, too, of Shane at the zoo, Shane in front of a birthday cake, Shane showing off a gap in his smile where a baby tooth used to be. His favorite is a candid taken by David that both of its subjects hate and complain about when David pulls it out of the album it's usually banished to: Yuna and a tiny Shane on her hip in a hockey arena looking onto the ice with uncannily identical judgemental expressions that clearly say whoever they were looking at was falling short of their exacting standards. David playfully refers to it as “Madonna and Co-Critic,” and he knows from David telling him that he keeps a copy of it in a frame at his desk at work. It's a nice thought, David on a long, hard day of boring government numbers looking over to something that makes him smile: his wife and child casting obvious judgement on subpar hockey. 

When he's feeling particularly like pressing on a bruise, Ilya wonders if his father has ever looked at a picture of him and his mother and smiled.

When he feels like turning that bruise into a stab wound, he lets himself know that the answer is no.

“There you are.” 

Ilya looks up at the sound of Vivienne’s voice, feeling a little embarrassed at being caught lurking in someone else’s house and looking at other people’s family pictures. 

“I am being missed?” He asks, turning away and feeling his stomach go a little tight despite the way he keeps his tone light, worried he’s fucked up after doing well all night. 

“Shane was looking for you,” Vivienne says, but there’s no accusation to her voice. “I think he might be worried we scared you off.” 

“I am not so easy to scare,” Ilya says, because that’s easier than saying that he’s actually experiencing the opposite, how much he wants to hold onto this even if he knows he shouldn’t, how much he knows he has no right to be enjoying it as much as he is.

“Tough guy, huh?” Vivienne asks with a smile, reaching out to punch him on the shoulder. Ilya leans into it, pretending to be hurt, which just makes Vivienne snort. “Yeah, right. I’ve watched you and Shane slam each other around. I think it’ll take more than that to make an impact.” 

“No, no, is not true,” Ilya teases. “I am very delicate flower. You have taken me out for the season now.” 

“Well then, I’ll be collecting my bounty from Shane later,” Vivienne says cheerfully, leading him downstairs. “And I think I should get to take a selfie with the Stanley Cup for taking out his competition.” 

“If you’re open to being paid in other ways,” Ilya says, following her back to Shane, “I do have a request. I have heard things about a movie with an elf who likes teeth-” 

*

“Did you have fun?” Shane asks Ilya later that night, back at his parents’ house and in his bed this time for a shared handjob, warm and sleepy in this little bubble of bodyheat in the aftermath, Ilya’s back to his chest, both of them secure enough with the door locked to be shirtless. 

“Yes, very much,” Ilya says, moving the hand he’s been rubbing slowly over Shane’s side up to his wrist, picking it up gently and rotating his arm so he can see it better in the scant light coming in through a crack in the curtains. 

A close call with Caroline’s peanut butter hands after dinner when she was thanking him for her new Barbie closet and outfits–courtesy of Facetiming Jackie in the toy section a couple of months ago to get her opinion on the matter after he drew her name this year–had given him hives all along his forearm, and Ilya had been almost comically alarmed by it, even after Shane had popped a benadryl and retreated to the bathroom to run some cool water over it until the antihistamines kicked in enough to help with the itchiness. Used to it by now, the rest of his family had been sympathetic but largely unconcerned beyond his mom digging the bottle of Benadryl out of her purse and his dad making sure it was just a contact rash. Ilya, though, had sat on the edge of the bathtub to keep him company, and it had been…nice, kind of. 

Nice enough to let him ignore that he probably should have sent Ilya back to everyone else. 

“It still hurts?” Ilya asks, gliding his hand down carefully until his thumb is hovering at the edge of one of the welts. 

Shane shakes his head, yawning through his nose. 

“They don’t hurt,” he says. “They just itch.” 

“They look like they hurt,” Ilya observes, thumb rubbing gently on a patch of skin without any. 

“No, they just itch and look disgusting,” Shane says, a little residually shy, honestly, about Ilya looking at them at all. Ilya hasn’t seemed bothered by them beyond concern for how they feel, but it’s hard not to feel self-conscious about his skin going red and swollen and blotchy and gross. 

“You’re pretty enough to make up for it,” Ilya teases, his hand moving back to Shane’s wrist so he can pull his arm close enough to kiss his knuckles. 

Shane closes his eyes, enjoying the sensation, even if he knows he probably shouldn’t. He gets jealous, sometimes, imagining the other people who get Ilya like this. It makes something tight and hot spark to life in his stomach, the idea of other people getting gentle touches and sweet kisses, getting held in strong arms after getting fucked through the mattress only five minutes before. 

As a Christmas present to himself, he makes himself stop the line of thought, gently pulling his hand free and turning to face him. 

“So,” he says, settling against the pillow. 

“So,” Ilya echoes, smiling slightly. 

“You survived your first Hollander Christmas,” Shane says. “Congrats.” 

“Thank you,” Ilya says. “I think is probably because of the power of the tooth elf movie. Very compelling.” 

Shane makes a face, which makes Ilya grins. 

“I still can’t believe you fucking did that, you traitor,” he complains. “You were supposed to vote for hockey.” 

“I needed to know about Hermey,” Ilya says, faux-serious. “He is inspirational, Hollander.” 

“I will lock you outside, I swear to God,” Shane says flatly. 

Ilya starts humming the fucking misfits song, and Shane pulls his pillow free just to press it over his face. Ilya’s laughter is muffled but still makes Shane grin as he pulls his pillow free and stuffs it back under his head. 

“That’s it,” Shane says, shaking his head. “Cierra is getting your phone number for sure.” 

“Nooo,” Ilya teases, nudging his chin up so he can get his mouth against his throat. “What can I do to apologize for betraying you with elf dentist?” 

“Nothing,” Shane says, though he tilts his hips up when Ilya’s hand starts traveling down his stomach, willing to let him try to make amends. 

It is Christmas, after all. 

*

“Please, hockey, I am begging,” Shane groans the next day. 

Curled up on the other end of the couch under a blanket, Ilya grins, taking another bite of what he thinks has been called a butter tart, trading off bites with the other cookies on his plate. He’d been touched in a way that was a little embarrassing when he’d noticed the pryanik on the cookie platter in the kitchen this morning, Shane letting him know that his father had made them after reading that they were a big holiday cookie in Russia, wanting him to have at least a little taste of home. 

(Ilya doesn’t think there’s any way to say that it tastes even better not in his home.)

“Ilya hasn’t seen any of these movies before, Shane,” Yuna says from her place on the loveseat next to David. 

“Yeah, Shane,” Ilya taunts, getting a dirty look from Shane that he just grins in response to. In all honesty, the movies are generally just okay–beyond the one with the Grinch, which was pretty funny–but Shane’s increasing despair at not getting to watch hockey is entertaining enough that Ilya thinks he could watch even shitty claymation for hours just to keep enjoying it. 

He thinks, curled up on the Hollander’s sofa in a warm, cheerful living room and in a soft sweater that was a gift from Yuna and David, that this might be among the happiest days he’s ever experienced before. 

When Shane’s foot–hidden by his own blanket–creeps just close enough for their toes to brush, he knows it is. 

Chapter 4: going for (miscommunication) gold: sochi and vegas

Chapter Notes

hi :) this shit's ouchy, y'all :)

“I told you to bring your glasses,” Ilya taunts, even as he squints at the–admittedly very tiny–allergen information at the bottom of the menu along with Shane, the lighting in the restaurant certainly not helping by being good for privacy but not for reading. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane says, trying to tilt the menu up to the scant bit of light coming from the shaded sconce on the wall above them. “Blame them for not updating their menu online.” 

“No, I will blame you for not being reasonable person and wearing your old man glasses so you don’t die from almonds,” Ilya says, kicking Shane back under the table when trying to pull the menu closer gets him the protest of Shane’s foot against his ankle. 

“We can always just ask the waitress,” David says mildly, but the look Shane gives him says he’d rather eat a pack of peanuts than do that. 

Ilya gives him a sympathetic shrug before looking back to the menu, knowing Yuna’s going to be pulling out Shane’s allergy card at any moment but willing to play along if it lets him not receive annoyed looks for once. 

It’s a new place they’re trying out in Montreal, Ilya having gotten in early enough to have dinner with the Hollanders the night before the game. (And early enough to fuck Shane over the back of his couch in his apartment as an appetizer, but no one else at the table needs to know that.) (Or that he plans on a round two for dessert, maybe this time over the kitchen island if only because he knows Shane will have fun complaining about sanitation and food preparation spaces and pretending to resist before giving in.) (If he really plays his cards right, he might be able to fuck Shane on the counter, but that’ll probably take a degree of horny they may or may not have time to achieve tonight.) 

(...still, worth asking.) 

Shane’s decided on a sandwich–and Ilya has made fun of him for putting them both through squinting at the bottom of the grilled items for nothing–and the order has been put in by the time conversation moves around to something Ilya has been anticipating and dreading in equal measure: the Olympics in Sochi. 

“Will your family be there, Ilya?” Yuna asks, and Ilya looks up from the bread he’d been buttering, mind going blank for a second at the introduction of his family to this little circle they've never come up in before.

This little circle he doesn't want them in.

“My father, probably, but my brother, I am not sure.” Based on Alexei’s recent spending, he's not sure his brother even knows what year it is most of the time, let alone that Ilya will be back in the country for the Olympics soon. 

(He’ll consider it a win if he even remembers having a brother, frankly.)

“I still can’t believe we couldn't find a single hotel in the city,” Yuna complains. 

“The hazards of the one we booked having an electrical fire,” David says, with regret softened into acceptance. He winks at Shane. “I wouldn’t worry, though. We’ll catch the next one.” 

Ilya feels the strange little pang in his chest that he always does when he sees something like this, the automatic, thoughtless way Shane’s parents support him, believe in him. He’s glad Shane has it, of course he is, but it still…

It still feels strange, that’s all. 

“Sochi is pretty far from Moscow, though, isn’t it?” Yuna asks, and Ilya wishes desperately this conversation hadn’t turned so close to home for him. That’s not supposed to happen here, with the Hollanders. They leave in different boxes, safely separate. 

Or they’re supposed to. 

“You said it was like two days of driving, right?” Shane asks, taking a sip of his water, which he pretended he wasn’t disappointed about when the waiter said they don’t have ginger ale. 

“Yes,” Ilya says, wondering if he can get out of this conversation by just shoving all of the bread in his mouth like a chipmunk. “Is pretty far from Moscow.” 

“Shame,” David says, “could have been fun, maybe, showing Shane around where you grew up. Like a cultural exchange.” 

Ilya, who doesn’t want Shane anywhere near anything he grew up around, just gives him a tight smile. 

“Mm, maybe another time,” Shane says, like Ilya might be disappointed by not getting to show him around the city he’s from. 

There is a certain amount of pleasure to the idea, taking Shane to his favorite places, laughing at him eating the most niche and foreigner-repulsing Russian food Ilya can manage to find, showing him the church his mother always liked to stop in to look at the stained glass. Shane would like that, Ilya thinks, would like sitting in the cool semi-darkness in a colorful stream of tinted light. The main installation is primarily different shades of blue, and Ilya used to pretend he was a fish when he was little, when mama was busy praying and he had to occupy himself or she would look frustrated and then sad at him interrupting her quiet time. He can remember it, still, imagining he and mama were deep, deep in the ocean, where no one would ever find them unless they wanted them to. He wonders what it says about him that he dreamed of escape even then. 

He tries not to wonder too long. 

He looks over at a tap against his shoe, finding Shane tilting his head in question, Yuna and David busy debating whether Ottawa’s sister city is Beijing or Shanghai. He manages a smile for Shane that he hopes doesn’t come across as too strained. 

Thanks to some divine intervention, they make it through the rest of dinner without Russia interrupting again. 

*

They barely make it through the door before Ilya is on him, pressing him into the wall and saving him from a concussion only with a well-timed hand behind his head. 

Shane won’t hold it against him-

-especially when Ilya drops to his knees and starts shimmying Shane’s jeans down with him. 

“Stole my move,” Shane accuses, but without attempting to stop him at all, instead just sinking his fingers through soft curls. 

“I should stop?” Ilya teases, looking up through his lashes, kissing his thigh just to be a fucking tease. 

“You should get the fuck on with it because we have to go to bed soon,” Shane says, aiming for annoyed but coming out a little breathless. 

“Bossy,” Ilya says, sounding fond. 

But he also gets back to work. 

*

Shane has an endearing (if sometimes disorienting) habit of whiplashing Ilya after sex with questions Ilya can’t even begin to predict. Sometimes Ilya wishes he could climb inside of Shane’s brain, pick around to find out what mechanism slingshots seemingly the most leftfield topic front and center when he’s recovered enough from an orgasm to be verbal again. On Ilya’s behalf, he’s rarely thinking actual thoughts, head usually content to just tumble around Shane pressed close and warm and usually a little sweaty, velvety skin under his fingertips and firm muscle beneath. He’s not sure exactly what makes Shane’s brain slingshot from horny to focused on a seemingly completely unrelated topic, but it’s common enough at this point that Ilya isn’t necessarily surprised anymore. 

“Have you heard of xeriscaping? Apparently it’s supposed to be good for conserving water, but I wonder if that matters in Canada.” 

“Did you see Pittsburgh’s new center is on injury reserve? He seemed fine last time we saw him. I wonder what happened. Maybe he was just embarrassed about his performance so far this season and stepped aside for everyone’s sake.” 

“Do women like getting perfume as a present if they already still have some? My mom’s birthday is next week, but I already got her her favorite perfume for Christmas. I feel like she probably still has some of it.” 

Tonight’s post-sex discussion question is, unfortunately, very predictable. 

It’s just also a discussion Ilya would really, really like to not have. 

“-believe we have to share rooms at the fucking Olympics,” Shane says. “I wonder if we could ask to be roommates.” 

There is no chance in the fucking world that Ilya would ever risk that, not when it would get questions from his father about Shane and put a magnifying glass over them both that Ilya cannot afford, but that isn’t something he can say to Shane. 

“I am staying outside of the Village, probably,” he says, rising and collecting Shane’s water bottle on his way to the kitchen under the excuse of getting water for them both, but really for the sake of getting a break from how excited Shane is about something Ilya is still trying to figure out how to navigate. 

Especially after he just spent Christmas with his family, he knows Shane probably expects to at least meet Ilya’s in return. Really, the fact that Yuna hasn’t managed to corner his father at any event to say hello is a minor miracle. Ilya’s sometimes felt like he’s running an elaborate con, keeping his father away from Yuna and David and Shane at any events he attends. His love for his father is real, but it’s complicated, and he doesn’t want complicated around any of the Hollanders. 

Not when it might make them wonder exactly how much of it he’s going to end up bringing with him in the future. 

He checks the locks while he’s downstairs because he knows Shane is going to ask if he did and then arms the security system, returning upstairs as the beeps echo, ice clinking in Shane’s water bottle. He finds him where he left him, and even if he has to consciously check the urge to climb back in, it’s a relief, for once, that they won’t be sharing a bed. He holds Shane’s water bottle out for him and gets a sleepy little smile of gratitude in return that makes his stomach feel like warm caramel. 

“Night,” Shane says around a yawn after taking a sip, returning his water bottle to his bedside stand and then stretching, settling down in his pillows. He looks warm and cozy, and Ilya has to lock his knees to keep himself from climbing into the bed with him. 

“Goodnight,” he says. 

“Sweet dreams,” Shane says, turning onto his side and pulling his covers up to his chin, yawning once before settling down, face smushed a little by his pillow. “Because tomorrow’s going to be a fucking nightmare for you, motherfucker.” 

For the crime of being an asshole, Ilya flips the overhead light on as he goes, grinning at the indignant cry that follows him. 

*

“-and, uh, I know your game was rough, so, um, let me know if you want to talk or…anything,” Shane grimaces at himself, wondering if he should send a text after this voice message to tell Ilya to delete it without listening. 

He wonders if it might get a response unlike his other texts. 

“Hope I’ll see you around before we both leave. Bye.” 

He presses end call to keep himself from saying anything else he’s going to cringe at when thinking back on it during late nights years in the future. 

He hasn’t heard from Ilya since the Olympics started, something that he chalked up to just being the nature of the beast at something so massive. It’s never stopped them from talking to each other even deep into the season, but Ilya was also the captain of his entire team here, representing his whole country. He was probably busy as fuck as soon as he arrived, and now that his run for gold is over…

Well, Shane is still figuring the why of that part out. 

Speed skating’s tomorrow. Do you want to go watch together? 

He feels pathetic as soon as he sends it, like he can’t go watch Olympic events on his own and needs Ilya there for emotional support. 

Still, even if he doesn’t need him there, well…he wants him there. 

We could grab lunch at the cafeteria here in the Village first. Have you been yet? 

Another thing he regrets as soon as he’s sent it, like he’s a kid who’s sad because his friend isn’t at the same lunch table as him. The fumble is made worse by the fact that Ilya told him before they both came here that they couldn’t do any battleship sexting, and while Shane can understand the wisdom of that, it does mean he doesn’t have anything to offer besides just himself right now. 

And Ilya’s absolute silence in the face of that is starting to make him wonder some things he’d really, really like to not wonder. 

Shane types up about five other messages that he immediately deletes before he gives it a rest, deciding not to send Ilya any other texts until he gets one back. 

He doesn’t get one back. 

*

There are probably things worse than having to put on a brave face and play nice at a party that he knows was meant to show off an Olympic winner in the family, but Ilya is struggling to think of one right now. 

His brother and sister-in-law are even here, though they aren't staying long, he knows, trotted out as a show of familial solidarity before being shuffled away. He knows it’s another thing Alexei will hold against him, Ilya taking the spotlight next to their father even when he has–by everything he’s been told–embarassed their family and their country by losing to fucking Latvia. 

“-yes, very proud,” he hears Alexei lying through his teeth when he passes by, his brother on his best behavior for the sake of saving face but the way he keeps rubbing at his nose saying at least some of his bonhomie is chemical in nature. He catches his sister-in-law’s eye and gets a small, half-sympathetic look. She’s secured to Alexei’s side with a strong arm around her waist, and Ilya feels a mixed sort of relief that at least he’s relatively free to wander. 

Which he does now, wandering up to the empty hallway above, close to the rooms his family has taken while here, at a vacation home of a friend of a friend of his father’s. Because he’s pathetic, he thinks immediately that Shane would like this as a place to duck out of the party. He tends to flee upwards when he needs a break, and Ilya has teased him before about being part bird, always looking for a place to roost. He knows from stories from his parents that Shane was a tree climber as a kid, apparently even needing rescue from the fire department once when his ability outpaced his courage, leaving him stranded so high in the air that they’d had to get a firetruck with a ladder out to get him down. There’s no picture because the last thing on Yuna or David’s minds was capturing their child’s rescue from a deadly drop height, but Ilya’s imagined it before, Shane calling down that no, of course he’s not scared, even as he refuses to climb back down on his own. It sounds like the kind of thing he would do, cover his nerves with tough guy bravado. Ilya even knows he has a favorite tree at his parents’ cottage, a big, sturdy maple that he’s seen multiple pictures of a young Shane in. David jokes that there was a while when they weren’t sure if they’d brought home a kid or a squirrel from the hospital with the way Shane had a habit of disappearing and ending up in a tree at events. 

He still judges trees by whether they would be good for climbing or not, something Ilya hadn’t known until only a few months ago. He’d noticed Shane eyeing trees out of windows at events and even sizing up his own trees when he woke before Ilya at his house and went downstairs to have some tea after doing his yoga. He’d thought it was just another quirk of his, maybe an interest in botany in addition to his interest in real estate, but after tapdancing his way around it at All Stars last year when Ilya had found him at the fringe of the mixer staring up at a tree, Shane had confessed he was thinking about what a good tree it would be for climbing. Ilya had thought he was kidding at first, but he’d seen Shane bracing himself for mockery, and he’d softened to teasing instead, asking Shane what his expert opinion is on what makes a tree good for climbing or not. He still doesn’t really understand the criteria–something about branch spiraling that went over his head when Shane started using terms Ilya had no reason to know in English–but Shane had been pleased to explain. It’s become something of a joke since then, Ilya sending him pictures of spindly trees that look like they’d snap in two if someone looked at them too hard and asking if they would be good for climbing, usually getting a 👍 Looks good. Go for it. See what happens. in response. 

Ilya feels the wild, irrational urge to ask Shane what he thinks of the trees here in Russia, if he thinks they’re good climbing material or not. 

He gets as far as taking his phone out of his pocket before he stops, slipping it back in. It might sound like an invitation, after all, Ilya reaching out to playfully offer to show him some trees, which isn’t a field trip they can afford to take. 

Which means it isn’t a text Ilya can afford to send. 

*

“-but at least you guys don’t have your National Houses near the fucking cemetary, man,” Vaughn says. 

He’s leaning into Shane’s personal space, but this bar is small enough that he can’t really hold it against him. He hadn’t really planned on going out at all, but Hunter and Vaughn and a few of the other guys from the NHL had extended the invitation, supposedly as a gesture of “good will” after the loss. 

Shane has his suspicions it’s just to rub in America’s gold, but it’s not like he’d had anything else to do tonight. 

Not when the one other person who might have ideas of what to get up to on a night in Russia still isn’t answering his fucking texts. 

He shakes his head when Hunter lifts up a plate of shared something in offer before passing it along the table. In what Shane suspects is a policy meant to prevent anyone from accusing each other of poisoning the other countries’ athletes, the Olympic Village has actually been surprisingly good about accommodating allergies, but even with his event over, he’d rather not play with anaphylaxis in another country. He’d taken a stealthy picture when they arrived here tonight of the menu and started to send it to Ilya along with, Anything look likely to not kill me?, but he’d ended up deleting it. If Ilya is too busy to even answer if he’s okay, he’s certainly too busy to play allergy translator. 

And if that fact hurts just a little, Shane knows it’s his own fault for getting too comfortable leaning on someone else to handle his shit for him. 

“Sure, rook?” Hunter asks, and Shane nods. 

“Ate in the Village,” he says, which is a lie. He hadn’t known they would be out this long, and he can only hope something will still be serving food when they get back. 

“Hollander!” He looks up at the sound of his name to find one of the Team GB players addressing him, a tag-along for the night he hasn’t actually caught the name of. “You’re friends with Rozanov, yeah?” 

“Uh, yeah?” He answers, wary about the follow-up to that question. 

“Ask him where we should go next,” the player says, getting cheers of agreement from the table. 

“Uh,” Shane says, “I mean, he’s from Moscow. I don’t know if he knows any places in Sochi.” 

“Ask,” Vaughn says, shaking his shoulder in what Shane thinks is meant to be affection but just feels like an attempt at giving him whiplash. “From how that guy parties? I bet he’s got a sixth sense for places. Like how birds know when tsunamis are coming.” 

The comment prompts playful arguing around the table about if birds have Tsunami Senses and if other animals do as well or if it’s all an urban myth or a failure of the American educational system. Even with the discussion happening around the table, though, Shane has been given an instruction, and he doesn’t know how to get out of it. 

Hello, he starts typing before second-guessing and deleting it. It’s too formal, way too formal. 

Hey, hope you’re okay. 

He internally winces at the awkwardness of it, especially with what his follow-up is about to be, but it’s already sent, so there’s no going back. 

Do you know any places to go out here in Sochi? 

He hesitates, knowing what he wants but unsure if the offer would be welcome or not. 

A bunch of the guys want to go out. You could come along, too, if you want. It might be fun. He hesitates before sending it, wondering if it sounds presumptive or not. If Ilya hasn’t even responded to asking if he’s okay, then it’s unlikely he’s even going to respond with a club recommendation, and he certainly won’t want to then get dragged along. He’ll probably be even less likely to answer if he thinks he’s going to get trapped into an invitation. 

Shane backspaces. 

*

Ilya is interrupted from his little bubble of muted party noise by the sound of a baby crying, and he turns towards the noise. He knows his niece was put down for the night before the party started, but from the sound, it would appear she hasn’t stayed down. He tests the doorknob to his brother’s room and is irritated to find it open even if it means he can get in now, annoyed that apparently anyone could have gotten in here to the baby. 

“Hello,” Ilya says softly, Mariya pausing in her crying to sniffle up at him, lashes dark and spiky with tears. “Such noise, Masha,” he teases quietly, reaching into her travel crib to pick her up, her body soft and warm and deceptively heavy. He doesn't have enough practice for it to not be a little awkward, but he manages to support her head and not drop her, which feels like a significant victory. “What is it, Mashenka, hm?” He asks, resting her against his shoulder and patting her back the way he's seen her mother do.

The way he remembers his own mother doing when he was small.

Mariya snuffles and whimpers, her face against his neck.

“Your mama is coming to get you soon, I think,” he tells her. “Your papa is just keeping her talking to strangers right now.” 

As if the word mama was a trigger to remind her that she's being held by a near-stranger and not her mother, she starts whining in a way that sounds like winding up to full crying again, and on a total guess based on what he's seen other people do, he starts a rocking sort of bounce in time to his patting. 

“Don't cry, don't cry,” he repeats to the rhythm. “You are okay. I've got you.” 

In slow increments, she settles. Her diaper doesn’t feel heavy, so he gathers it’s clean, and he’s not sure of how often she eats, but he thinks she sleeps the night without eating by now. If not, she seems at peace with it. After almost tripping over what turns out to be a discarded pair of heels on the floor while pacing, he turns on a lamp, drawing out a surprised little noise from Mariya. On a guess, he turns it off again, smiling at Mariya’s astonished little face as she jerks in surprise. 

Ten minutes into their one lamp baby rave, Mariya seems to have forgotten she was ever upset at all, grinning a gummy baby smile and shrilling a laugh, hands waving wildly like she’s encouraging him to keep going, little feet kicking with such force he has to sit down to keep from dropping her. 

He's seized with the ridiculous urge to take a picture of her and send her to the Hollanders, to share this–literally little–part of his life with them, the one piece of his family that doesn't hurt. Yuna would like her smile, he thinks, would notice how it almost squishes her eyes shut because her cheeks are so round, like Shane's when he was little. David would like her little hands, probably. Ilya heard him playfully threatening to “gobble those little hands right up” when he was holding one of the babies at Christmas. Shane…well, Shane would probably just be relieved she was smiling and not crying, to judge by his reaction last year when a fan had wanted a picture of him and their baby only for the baby to start shrieking when he was handed off to a large stranger who held him like he was a wild animal. 

Ilya's bubble of levity pops when he thinks about the unanswered messages from Shane on his phone. He certainly can't answer now with a random picture of his baby niece.

It might invite questions about who else is here.

“You want to see a friend of Uncle Ilya, huh?” He asks the baby, who takes the brief pause in their lamp party with grace, blinking up at him and giggling. 

Feeling ridiculous even as he does it, he scrolls through his photos until he hits one he and Shane took on a set, a selfie of both of them in headbands to keep their hair out of the makeup. Shane is giving him and the camera a dirty look, but Ilya knows him well enough to see the laugh he’s trying to contain. 

“Handsome, yes?” He asks the baby, half-smiling when Mariya’s little hands try to take the phone to chew on it, mouth open in demonstration of what she wants. “This other guy is there, too, but Uncle Ilya looks good, yes?” Mariya makes a sound like a puppy’s squeak at him in protest of not being given his phone, and he remembers her mother in passing saying something about her getting teeth. He gets up and washes his free hand–one-handed, which is more work than he expected, especially while holding a wiggling baby–before sitting back down and offering the knuckle of his thumb to her, Mariya settling down and diligently setting to teething on him. He winces in sympathy at the little nub of tooth he can feel pressing against his thumb. “Doesn't feel good, does it?” He asks her. Mariya doesn't respond, too busy gumming at him.

He glances at his phone when it vibrates. 

Hey, hope you’re okay. 

He feels a little twist of guilt in his stomach at the knowledge that Shane has obviously noticed Ilya not responding to him. He’d been deliberately non-committal about meeting up here in Russia, but-

Do you know any places to go out here in Sochi? 

It’s ridiculous, the little twinge of disappointment he feels at the question, the idea that there are other people Shane lets drag him to a club. It’s foolish, to think that was something only Ilya was capable of, but it’s not surprising, really. He knows celebrations are in full swing for everyone who’s finished their events. 

Especially for the ones who didn’t lose to fucking Latvia. 

Nowhere you would like, he starts typing and then stops, wondering if it would be rude to respond only to a question about clubs after ignoring the other ones he’s been sent. He’d thought earlier to ask how Shane was doing with food, if he needed him to translate anything for him, but then he’d wondered if that would encourage more texts, things Ilya might have to explain. His father would be pleased to hear about “a deficiency” in Ilya’s greatest competition, and Ilya hadn’t wanted the information to come up with a text coming through when he wasn’t watching his phone, feeling oddly protective of Shane in a way he knows is absurd. 

“There you are.” 

He looks up at Svetlana’s voice. 

“Your father is looking for you,” she says, in a tone that says his absence isn’t going to go unpunished. 

Mariya greets her with a brief little squeal of welcome, and Svetlana smiles and waves at her but keeps her distance, wary of baby drool and arching an eyebrow when she sees Ilya’s slobbery thumb when Mariya pulls her mouth away briefly. 

“How did you find me?” He asks, honestly slightly impressed. 

“Women’s intuition,” Svetlana teases. Ilya gives her a look. “I saw you sneak off.” 

“I wasn’t sneaking,” he protests, wincing slightly when Mariya’s nub of a tooth hits right against the bone of his knuckle. 

“Yes,” Svetlana observes dryly. “Too busy being a chewtoy. I do not think the NHL will appreciate it if you let your niece gnaw your hand off.” 

Ilya snorts, shifting Mariya to rest against his hand, his fingers spanning nearly all the way across her round little belly. She’s gotten so big since he saw her last, but she’s still so very small. He wonders, because he likes punching his own bruises, what she hears of her wayward Uncle Ilya who pays for her toys and clothes but is never here in person when she cries. 

“You had an injured goalie,” Svetlana says, and Ilya glances up to find her studying him. “You did what you could with the team you had.” 

Ilya makes a non-committal noise, looking back to the baby. 

“Or is it about someone else’s performance?” Svetlana asks thoughtfully. “Your friend did well, yes? Shane Hollander?” 

“He lost to America,” Ilya says dryly. “They will probably take his passport away and kick him out of the country.” 

“Hm,” Svetlana says with a shrug, “well, let him know that I am open to marriage if needed.” 

Ilya looks at her sharply, feeling an irrational little wriggle of jealousy. Svetlana just arches an eyebrow at him. 

“What?” She asks. “Good hockey is good hockey. If I need to marry him to give him a new passport, I am willing to make that sacrifice for the good of the sport.” 

“How generous,” Ilya says flatly. 

“I am a giver,” Svetlana sighs. “You know that.” There’s a brief moment in which Ilya is torn between gratitude that his friend is with him and the wish to be alone again with just his niece, who can’t poke at things he doesn’t want to face. 

Mostly because she can’t use words yet. 

“Is he enjoying Russia?” Svetlana asks. “Your friend?” 

“He seems to be,” Ilya says, though he doesn’t really know. He’s seen Shane tagged in a few posts from other people, but beyond a standard Yuna-flavored “Landed and happy to be representing Canada among so many great competitors!” post, it’s been mostly silence from Shane on social media. 

And silence from Ilya otherwise. 

“You should ask him to go out,” Svetlana says. “Two years, and I still have not gotten to meet him in person. What, you are afraid he will like me more?” 

“My father has a very full schedule,” Ilya says, because that’s easier than thinking about how nice it would be, two of his favorite people out together with him. He doesn’t even have a reason he hasn’t introduced the two, really. 

(Aside from what he can’t admit to himself, which is that he’s afraid of Svetlana poking at things he can’t afford to think about if he lets her too close to Shane.) 

“Hm, well,” Svetlana says, pushing herself up. “If you get a break in your very busy schedule,” the emphasis isn’t lost on him, “let me know. Or give him my number. I can play tour guide.” 

“With your extensive knowledge of Sochi nightlife?” Ilya asks, amused despite himself. 

“Hm,” she says with a careless little shrug as she crosses the room to him, “he and I are both very sexy, yes? We will find our way.” 

Ilya can’t help but imagine the way that would make Shane’s ears go red if he heard her say it. 

“Don’t hide too long,” Svetlana says, a little gentler, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. “I will tell your brother you got held up with a minister.” 

“Why my brother?” Ilya asks as she heads to the door. 

“Because by the time it gets through the drugs, it will probably be a better excuse when he says it to your father.” 

Ilya looks back down to Mariya after Svetlana leaves, sitting and rocking her slightly for a long while until her eyes start fluttering closed. On an impulse, he takes a picture of her in her crib, rosy-cheeked and slack-mouthed. He wants to send it to Shane, to tease him about someone else coming for his Yuna-awarded title of cutest baby. 

He doesn’t. 

*

It’s not that Shane had expectations of meeting Ilya's family. He wouldn't have demanded it or anything, but the idea not even coming up…

Well, it feels like he's a secret.

He can't say he likes it.

From what he gathers, Ilya has at least responded to his parents sending him good luck and then better luck next time texts, and it stings, a little, his parents getting responses when he isn’t. His mom had asked for a picture of the two of them “looking cute in your Olympics merch,” and he’s already had to lie to her about forgetting when they met up. His dad had asked if Ilya knew any cultural sites to visit while they were there, and Shane had lied and said the Village had so much they hadn’t had time to get away. 

The honest answer is that he hasn’t even seen Ilya in the Village. 

He opens his phone and looks back at the last message he sent to Ilya, last night when he was killing time in the cafeteria in the Village with whoever happened to stop by the table. It’s made him a little sad, honestly, Ilya missing out on it. Shane is rapidly approaching the number of new people he can handle meeting, but he can’t help but think that Ilya would thrive here, surrounded by new people all seemingly eager to make friends. It would be nice, sitting by Ilya and letting him take the blunt of “hey, nice to meet you”s. Instead, Shane’s drifted around between players he knows and a few new athletes he’s met as well as his friend from figure skating. It’s nice, really. 

But he can’t help but think it would be nicer with Ilya. 

I am being told meat jello is a thing here in Russia. Can you confirm or deny?

One of the Russian skiers keeps saying it’s real, but I call bullshit.

The text had been a bit of a hail Mary last night. 

It still hasn’t gotten a response. 

Are you okay? He types up, but he hesitates before sending it, wondering if he’s just being too clingy. He edits to Hey, just hope you’re okay, but he doesn’t send that either. He’d kind of assumed that he and Ilya would hang out at least a little bit while here. He’d guessed Ilya would probably have other things to do–he gathers from bits and pieces that he’s managed to collect that his father has something to do with politics–but he hadn’t known they wouldn’t see each other at all. 

He also hadn’t known they wouldn’t talk to each other at all. 

He wonders if he missed something somewhere. Ilya hadn’t been super enthusiastic about talking about the Olympics, but Shane had chalked that up to being nervous about being the captain representing his entire country. Trying to ask about his family had gotten him “Miss” after “Miss,” and he’d finally stopped for the sake of not driving himself insane with frustration. Especially after Ilya just spent Christmas with his family, he had maybe thought a little bit that he’d get to meet Ilya’s family in return. 

The longer that isn’t the case, the more he can’t help but wonder if Ilya is embarrassed to introduce him. 

It’s a ridiculous and needy thing to think, and he knows it, but it’s the only thing that makes sense to him. He and Ilya have been papped plenty of times hanging out back overseas, and they’ve done multiple joint campaigns. Just knowing him isn’t a secret at this point. It can’t be. 

But he wonders if there’s something about him that Ilya just doesn’t want around his family. 

He scrolls through his photos while he waits for his friend’s skating routine to start, coming across a tree he’d seen on the night out he’d gone on, a giant, sturdy thing that would be excellent for climbing. He’d taken a picture of it and started to send it to Ilya, but he’d hesitated, then. Is that the kind of thing that would make him embarrassing? Being a grown man who still thinks about if trees would be good to climb or not? It’s not something he spreads widely, obviously, but Ilya hadn’t seemed bothered about it, hadn’t seemed to think Shane was childish or embarrassing for still thinking about it. 

Now, though, he wonders if he just missed hints along the way. 

“Oh shit, look who finally showed up to something,” Vaughn says, and Shane follows his line of sight to find Ilya standing up on a platform looking like discount Batman. 

(It makes him look mysterious and sexy in a way that’s very annoying, but Shane files that away for later.)

“Thought he might have already flown back,” Hunter says. “Sucks to go out that early.” 

“Yeah,” Shane says, not sure what or how much to add. 

“He taking it hard?” Vaughn asks, and Shane feels his stomach go tight at the confirmation that this is something he should know, something that other people expect him to know. 

Something that he doesn’t know. 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees anyway, starting to get up. “I’m going to go make sure he’s good. I’ll be back, okay?” 

He barely waits for agreement before he’s in motion. 

*

Really, Ilya can only blame himself, he knows. 

He’d needed a break from his family and wanted to spend at least some time actually experiencing the Olympics before it was all over in a fizzle of failure, but he remembers only when he spots Shane in the crowd that he has a friend with a routine today. 

And in the five fucking minutes Ilya doesn’t keep eyes on him, Shane manages to spot him in return and decide to make his way up. 

He looks unfairly cute in his fuzzy Team Canada fleece. Ilya wants to tease him about it. Ilya wants to tell him they can’t do this here. Ilya wants to ask to go down and sit next to him. Ilya wants to tell Shane he can’t look at him with so much clear delight to see him. Ilya wants to tell Shane he’s sorry he hasn’t been answering his texts. Ilya wants Shane to read his body language and save him from having to say anything at all. 

“Hey.” 

Ilya closes his eyes briefly, torn between annoyance for his own stupidity and for Shane following him up here and the urge to tease Shane about sounding so tentative, like there aren’t two years of Shane telling him to go fuck himself behind them. 

“Hi,” he answers. “Go back down, please.” 

He can’t do this here. He’s heard enough whispers about listening devices to not trust them talking anywhere in the Village, and getting Shane alone would be too much of a temptation to engage in things he knows they shouldn’t, not here. 

Not when talking to Shane might strip him of the layers of defense he needs to survive his remaining days of playing disappointing trophy son for his father to parade around. 

“Have you gotten any of my texts?” Shane asks, and it hurts worse that there’s no accusation in it. Shane is too direct for that, too earnest, too honest. It’s one of the reasons Ilya is so determined to keep him safe of any of his own shit while over here. Shane should just be able to enjoy his time at the Olympics, something he’s been looking forward to since he was a kid. He doesn’t need Ilya’s shit staining this time for him. 

Now if only he would participate in the effort. 

“Yes,” Ilya says shortly. “I have been busy. Sorry.” He’s not looking at Shane. He can’t. If he looks at Shane, he’s going to forget why keeping distance between them here is so important. 

Looking at Shane tends to make him forget a lot of things. 

“Yeah, same,” Shane says, and Ilya wishes he could smile at that, the immediacy and lack of conviction saying it’s a lie. “Still, I thought we might…hang out. Or something.” 

“Go enjoy the Olympics, Shane,” he says, still refusing to look at him. “I’m busy. Go have fun.” 

“Busy with what?” Shane asks, because he has never successfully read a room in his goddamn life. 

“Just busy,” Ilya says. “Now go. Go have fun.” 

“I would have more fun if you were-” 

“Please,” Ilya says, harder than he thinks he’s ever spoken to Shane before, turning to him at last. “Go.” 

He sees Shane hesitate, clearly a little surprised and a little hurt in a way that makes Ilya’s chest ache. After just a second, though, he sees Shane’s posture go stubborn and internally groans. 

“No,” Shane says, deciding to stand his ground at the worst fucking possible moment. “I’m worried about you.” 

The exact fucking thing Ilya didn’t fucking want to fucking happen. 

“Worry about yourself,” Ilya says, and he puts a snap to it, the crack of a whip to just make Shane go. 

“What is happening right now?” Shane says, coming closer, hand extended like he’s going to touch Ilya’s arm, and Ilya knows he can’t survive that, knows that one little gentle touch will unravel him into something he can’t be, not here, not when his father is waiting for him as soon as he leaves. 

For the first time since they met, he moves away from Shane’s touch. 

“What’s happening,” Ilya hates himself for what he’s about to say, hates himself before it’s even been said, “is you are being clingy. Go make other friends, Hollander. I’m busy.” 

Shane’s expression looks like he would have been less surprised if Ilya had hauled off and hit him. 

Ilya wants to invite Shane to hit him. 

“Why are you acting like this?” Shane says, and it’s the obvious hurt in his voice that reminds Ilya of why this needs to happen. His father and a few others have made noises about meeting “the Canadian” Ilya’s been in so many pictures with. He can’t have Shane lingering around him, not when people might see, not when people might extend invitations to things he needs to keep Shane well away from. “What is-” 

“Miss,” Ilya says. “Now go. Don’t bother me anymore.” 

Ilya has never felt like more of a monster than now, when he’s looking at Shane’s glossy eyes. 

“Fine,” Shane says. “Fuck you.” 

He turns on his heel and marches off, back to sit with Hunter and Vaughn, where he belongs, back with other people not carrying shit that would only be a burden to him. 

This was necessary, Ilya tells himself. There are too many eyes here in Russia even to appear too friendly with each other, to say nothing of his own family’s interest in Shane. Nothing good would come of it, someone as pure and earnest and good as Shane dropped into the pit that is his family. There was no way to explain that, though, without burdening Shane with the whole ugly truth. Better to make Shane mad at him and make it up to him later. 

Ilya spends the rest of the program up above the crowd, telling himself it over and over, until he can hopefully make it stop tasting like a lie in his mouth. 

*

It’s the first time they’re playing against each other since Sochi, Boston coming up to Montreal. 

It’s also the first time Shane has ever deliberately not answered texts from Ilya. 

right after the game? 

do you want me to pick something up from that place you like? 

hello? shane? 

we have landed. should i come over now? 

After one more follow-up of, hello? shane?, he gets an F5 that pushes him from sad to annoyed. He's not good enough to be seen with in public at the Olympics, but he's good enough to sext secretly?

Shane has to lean into being mad so he won't lean into the hurt.

(Or lean into the pathetic temptation to do it anyway.)

I'm busy, he types, adding What? You don't have other friends to bother? before he backspaces. Hurt or not, he thinks the satisfaction of that would fade approximately the second he sent the text. He sends the first two words, throwing Ilya’s excuse back at him. 

the guys are getting dinner. do you want me to wait to eat with you? 

It's stupid, how much the question hurts, Ilya trying to push forward and act like nothing’s wrong. The fact that Shane wants to do the same isn't something worth thinking about. 

Why the fuck didn't you want to talk to me in Sochi? He types and deletes.

Did I do something wrong? He types and deletes.

I'm sorry if I made you mad. He types and deletes this one with prejudice, mad at himself, now, for apologizing first when he doesn't even know what there is to apologize for.

On his part, at least. 

Do you even still want to come over? Do you not want me to come over at your house? Do you actually like me at all? Why did you do that? Why are you only texting me now for sex? Is that all we are? I thought we were friends. I thought-

He types and deletes and types and deletes and types and deletes and types and deletes.

I miss you.

He deletes that one slowly, one tap at a time.

Can't meet up this time. he types. His thumb hovers over the send button.

And then he hits it.

He puts his phone facedown and pretends his chest doesn't ache. Immediately, a call from Ilya comes through. 

Shane watches his phone vibrate until it stops, weak enough to flip it face up again. 

shane? are you okay? 

His phone starts ringing again. Shane watches it until it goes to voicemail. 

are you okay? have you had a reaction? 

A third call comes in. Shane just watches it ring. 

No, I’m fine. I’m just busy, he starts, hesitating a moment and then backspacing it all. 

I’m fine. I’m not just in the mood.

that’s okay 

we can just watch a movie or something 

that new superhero one you were talking about is out now, yes? 

i’ll get dinner. you get the movie. 

I’m tired, and I have a headache. Don’t come over. 

I’ll see you next time, he starts typing and then stops, backspacing. 

are you okay? 

He doesn’t respond. 

Ilya doesn’t come over. 

Shane lays in bed and tells himself he’s glad. 

And then he turns over and buries his face in a pillow so he can tell himself it doesn’t make him want to cry. 

*

Shane is angry with him. 

Shane is angry with him and barely speaking to him and hasn’t been for weeks and Montreal is coming to Boston and Shane hasn’t talked at all about coming over and Ilya doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to do about it. 

It’s not that he doesn’t understand, but-

But he wants Shane to not be mad at him anymore. 

you are still angry about sochi? He types up after an attempted shared joke about Hunter being old–usually a surefire way to draw out Shane’s secret delightful meanness–doesn’t get a response, but he hesitates before sending it, not sure if it comes across as too casual or not. So much of what Shane means lives in his expression, in his body language, and over text, Ilya doesn’t have the opportunity to read any of that. He’s stuck with only words, and words are not cooperating with him right now. 

i’m sorry about sochi. Is that better? He knows he went too far saying what he did to Shane, but does an apology like that invite questions as to why he did it? i’m sorry i didn’t want you to meet my family, but they’re terrible people, and i’m afraid that i’m terrible, too, and if you meet them, then it will all connect for you and you’ll know i’m bad and you shouldn’t be around me. Long and clunky and also not something he’d prefer to introduce to Shane. If he already paid the price to avoid putting Shane around his family, he’d rather not fuck it up at this point even when he’s trying to fix the damage. did you have fun at the olympics? No, too casual, and at this point, past the point in which that could have been smalltalk. 

lemon chicken for dinner? 

The response doesn’t come in for a good ten minutes, which is ridiculous when he knows that Shane is sitting at the airport right now religiously going through everything waiting on a response from him before he’s in the air because he is an absurd workaholic who hates feeling like he’s not maximizing his time. 

We’re going out for Porter’s birthday. 

Ilya starts to type a response, to tease or cajole or even offer recommendations of places to go, places that Shane will have something safe to eat that won’t-

I’m staying at the hotel this time, too. 

I don’t feel like waiting in traffic, and we leave early the next day anyway. 

Ilya stares at the words for a long, long fucking time. 

And then he sends his phone flying across the living room, angry and terrified and knowing that the only fucking person he has to blame is himself. 

*

Really, Shane should have known that the universe couldn’t cut him one goddamn break. 

“-fuckers who can’t even-” 

“Stop,” he manages, eyes shut as his lungs relearn how to draw full breaths again. As much as he appreciates Hayden’s solidarity–and his quick adherence to a very terse “Outside. Now.” to help Shane out of the restaurant where he could use his Auvi-Q without witnesses–he can’t handle someone having emotions at him right now. 

He’s got enough of his own to carry. 

“You okay?” Hayden says, bending over and still rubbing Shane’s back. 

“Never better,” he says with a weak thumbs up. “Point me to the ice.” 

“Asshole,” Hayden says fondly. “I’m being a caring friend here.” 

He is. Shane knows that. Hayden is a good friend, always loyal, always quick to jump on a joke, always reliable. 

He’s just not the good friend that Shane wants right now, and that fact just makes Shane hate himself a little. 

“God, Rozanov is going to feel like an ass, huh?” Hayden says, sounding more than a little delighted about it. “Fucks off to chase tail and now look what happens.” 

It’s the excuse Shane offered when people had questions, saying Ilya had plans with a girl he wanted to bring back to his place. It had gotten him jokes about not wanting a threesome, but it had also gotten him acceptance for a sudden departure from an established routine.

“Don’t say chase tail,” Shane complains. “You sound like an old pervert at a bar.” 

“Well, that is my retirement plan,” Hayden says, making Shane snort and then wince when it pulls at his chest. “Shit, sorry. I’ll save my unbelievably witty comments for after you can breathe all the way.” 

“Feel free to save them longer than that,” Shane suggests, glancing up at him from the side. 

“I’ll give you a pass on being bitchy and mean to me on account of a near-death experience,” Hayden says sanctimoniously, pulling out his phone. “Clearly the anaphylaxis fucked with your brain. That’s why you can’t appreciate how funny I am.” 

“Don’t think that’s the anaphylaxis, buddy,” Shane says dryly. 

Hayden chooses to ignore him, typing what Shane knows must be 911 into his phone. 

He lets out a breath and leans into it when Hayden drops down to sit next to him and rests an arm around him. It’s nice, reassuring. 

And not the person he wants pressed against him right now. 

But then again, Shane thinks, replaying Sochi for at least the thousandth time, apparently that person wouldn’t want to be pressing against him right now, either. 

The thought doesn’t make him feel any better. 

*

It feels like a nail in a coffin, turning up at the ice the next day and finding out that Shane is scratched for the game due to a medical emergency. 

Having known Shane Hollander for two years now, he has a pretty solid fucking guess about exactly what emergency that might be. 

you are okay? 

Fine. 

Ilya grits his teeth. 

reaction? 

I’m fine now. 

Ilya breathes through the tight anger-worry in his chest, even though it’s an easier emotion to grasp than guilt. He should have insisted yesterday. He should have pushed for Shane to come to his house. Even if Shane is still mad at him, even if they ended up shuffling around like awkward roommates, his house is safe. Shane could have gotten something to eat that wouldn’t have put him in a hospital right after. Ilya’s house is supposed to be a safe place for Shane when he’s in Boston. 

Except Shane doesn’t want that safe space anymore. 

Because Ilya has made it no longer feel safe. 

what hospital are you at? 

i can come after 

i can tell you all about how badly your team lost 😉

The third message is a mistake, and Ilya knows it the fucking second he hits send. 

I’m already back at the hotel. 

you want me to pick you up after? 

i can promise dinner and no anaphylaxis 

Hayden got me some stuff from the grocery store. I’m fine. 

It grates even worse, someone else stepping into Ilya’s role, making sure Shane is fed safely. It’s irrational, he knows, but that doesn’t change the feeling of it, like Shane is offering a deliberate reminder that he can have other friends if he wants them, that there are friends who can take care of him and not fuck it up by snapping at him to go away even when they want nothing more than to have him stay. 

next time, then? 

Please, Ilya thinks, give me a chance to make this up to you. Let me fly up to Montreal. Let me prove to you that I’m sorry. Let me cook you food and fuck you stupid and make you remember why you put up with me. I fucked up, but I can make it right. I can-

We don’t have any more games against each other this season. 

Ilya makes himself put his phone away after that, knowing he can’t fuck with his head anymore, even with Shane out of the game tonight. 

They lose to Montreal by an embarrassing number of points when their star player isn’t even on the ice. It hurts. 

He returns to the locker room to find no new messages from the missing star player. 

That hurts worse. 

*

Shane doesn’t know if he’s ever actually regretted being very public friends with Ilya until recently, when he still gets questions about him even when they haven’t spoken to each other in literal weeks, to the point that his parents have commented on him not mentioning Ilya. 

He regrets it even more when it means they have to get on a stage at this fucking awards show and pretend they’re still best fucking buddies when Ilya hasn’t bothered reaching out since the game in Boston, like he’s confirming that Shane was bothering him too much in the first place. 

“You’re late,” he says, knowing it sounds childish but unable to help it, hurt and angry at himself and Ilya about it. 

“I was busy,” Ilya says, straightening his cuffs. 

“With who?” Shane snaps before heeding the direction of the stage manager and obeying the wave to start walking out. 

Ilya doesn't have time to respond. 

Shane doesn’t know if he’s glad for that or not. 

*

Ilya reads the stupid line and takes the stupid prescribed selfie. It’s not the first one he’s ever taken with Shane, even if most of them have Shane making unimpressed faces at the camera because he likes to pretend to be grumpy even when he isn’t. 

He doesn’t think Shane has ever looked more actively pissed in a selfie even with his fake smile on, though. 

They barely make it backstage before Shane is walking away at speed, and Ilya feels his stomach clench. He’d hoped this would give him the chance to finally just talk to Shane, to have a conversation where he wouldn’t be limited by texting and not being able to actually look at Shane during it, to be able to make amends, but if Shane won’t even linger for thirty fucking seconds-

No. 

Ilya is not going to let this opportunity go. 

He follows. 

*

“Jesus Christ,” Shane says into the mirror when he looks up to see who has decided to interrupt his very important “losing his shit because it turns out a friendship breakup sucks just as bad as a breakup-breakup and Ilya’s ease on stage had just made it even clearer that he’s fucking fine with things being what they are with each other” time. 

Really, he thinks he deserves a sportsmanship award of his own for not just hauling off and decking Ilya right here, right now. 

Maybe he should go ahead and file the paperwork for next year’s selection process. 

“What the fuck do you want?” He asks, because being angry is easier than being hurt. 

“To talk to you,” Ilya says calmly, flipping the lock on the door because apparently a third party is unwelcome in this public bathroom he’s already intruding in. 

“Now you want to talk to me?” Shane asks, regretting it the moment he says it. He lets out a laugh that feels as bitter as it sounds. “Go hang out with your other friends, Rozanov. Leave me alone.” 

“You are angry with me for Sochi,” Ilya says. 

“No shit,” Shane says, still speaking through his reflection in the mirror, like that grants him any fucking advantage at all. When Ilya doesn’t move, Shane shows his teeth briefly in an irritated half-snarl, unable to help it, frustrated and angry and hurt and just fucking confused. “What?” He demands. “What the fuck do you want from me? What, can’t find someone else to play battleship and fuck with? I’ve seen TMZ. That doesn’t appear to be a problem for you.” 

“You haven’t answered on battleship for-” 

“Don’t,” Shane says, and the word is half a growl. “Don’t do that.” He turns now, fury outweighing hurt finally. “I don’t know what fucking game this is for you, but it’s not fun. I’m done playing.” He glares when Ilya crosses the bathroom and crowds him against the sink, and he would like to say that he resists, that he gets an arm across Ilya’s chest and shoves him on his ass. 

Unfortunately, he thinks his body has had too long thinking of Ilya in his personal space as desirable to turn against it so suddenly now. 

“What the fuck is this?” Shane says, and he means it to come out accusing. 

Instead it just comes out tired. 

“Well, this is a disgusting bathroom,” Ilya says dryly, making an apologetic half-grimace when Shane gives him a look. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For Sochi. I shouldn’t have said any of that to you.” 

“Why the fuck did you say that to me?” Shane asks, furious with himself when his eyes sting. “What the fuck did I do?” 

His voice cracks on the last word, and he hates himself more than he thinks he ever has before, feeling weak and stupid and-

And clingy. 

“Fuck you,” he says, even as Ilya pushes his head towards his shoulder and Shane obeys him, because he’s missed touching Ilya the way he thinks he would miss a limb. “I’m pissed at you.” 

“I know,” Ilya says quietly, holding him firm enough that Shane finally feels like he can draw a full breath after months of his chest being too tight. “You should be.” 

“Why did you say that?” Shane asks. 

“It-miss,” Ilya says, and now Shane sits up and shoves him back. 

“Fuck you,” he says. “You fucking-fucking drive me off like a fucking stray dog and now you expect me to come crawling back without any fucking explanation just because you say ‘Miss’ like that’s-” 

Ilya kisses him then, deep and hungry. 

*

It feels like coming home after being on a roadie from hell, kissing Shane Hollander, but a home he doesn’t actually have. It feels like coming home to a home he wishes he had, a home where he can rest in a way he only experiences with Shane, a home that feels safe and reliable and secure. 

It feels like inhaling after holding his breath long enough to make his lungs ache. It feels-

-more than a little disorienting when the kiss is broken by Shane getting a hand against his chest and shoving with all of his hockey-born strength. Ilya barely manages to keep his feet and recover, stumbling a bit, but he manages it. 

Shane looks as surprised as he is at what he just did before he recovers and just looks pissed again. 

“You don’t get to just fucking…kiss me and act like that makes up for it,” Shane says, and the way his eyes have gone shiny makes Ilya want to ask Shane to just punch him, to knock him to the ground and then kick him, to do whatever it would take for Ilya to atone, for Shane to feel that justice has been served, that they can return to what they had before. Tragically, Shane isn’t a violent person, not off of the ice, not outside of the parameters of regulated violence. 

It’s one of the things Ilya likes about him. 

“I was a terrible friend to you,” Ilya says, because it’s true and the easiest answer he can give. “I am sorry for that. You did not deserve that.” Not from me, he adds silently, not wanting to swing it back around to himself, not right now. Shane has always deserved better than Ilya. 

But even now, at rock fucking bottom, Ilya isn’t man enough to say it for fear that Shane just hasn’t caught on yet. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, daring to edge into Shane’s personal space again. 

Shane doesn’t shove him away this time. 

Ilya leans forward, until their mouths are a few scant centimeters apart. 

This time, when he kisses him, Shane kisses back. 

The relief of it feels more potent than any drink he might have tonight. 

When they part, Ilya still doesn’t back away, reluctant to surrender any ground when it still feels so unsteady beneath his feet. Shane exhales a breath that sounds like he’s been holding onto it for months now, and Ilya closes his eyes when a warm forehead settles against his jaw, Shane pressing close of his own volition now. Ilya reaches up and rests gentle fingers against Shane’s neck, massaging at the muscles there gently. 

“There is food for you tonight?” He asks quietly, not warning to pop this little bubble of peace he’s managed to stumble his way into. 

“Probably not,” Shane says. 

“You did not ask?” Ilya says, but he backtracks at once when he feels muscles go tense under his fingers, pressing a kiss to Shane’s cheek. “Probably a good call. I saw them moving things around earlier. Looks gross.” 

He feels the movement of air when Shane huffs a laugh, clearly catching that he’s being appeased. 

“Oh yeah?” He asks, pressing a little harder against Ilya, one hand under Ilya’s jacket and firm against his side, like he’s holding him in place. 

Like there’s anywhere Ilya would rather be right now. 

“Mm,” Ilya agrees. “Very sad spinach. No seasoning. Out of a can, probably.” 

“And plain boiled eggs?” Shane asks, and Ilya smiles slightly in return to the one he can hear in Shane’s voice. 

“And those–what are they called? The dry cracker things?” 

“Saltines?” 

“Yes, saltines. No cheese. Just saltines. People will die of disappointment tonight, I think. Or thirst.” 

“Hm,” Shane says, dropping his head to Ilya’s shoulder and exhaling again like it’s a relief, not having to hold himself up for a moment. “Glad I’m missing it, then.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Lucky you.” He presses at the muscles in Shane’s neck, testing the tension, deciding if he can make an offer. The slow easing of the tightness suggests he might be able to. He decides to risk it. “There is good pasta place nearby. I ate there last time we were in Vegas.” 

Shane makes a noise of inquiry. 

“Good for allergies,” Ilya says, sliding his hand up to play with the hair at the base of his skull, knowing that’s a killshot for making Shane relaxed and sleepy and immoral enough to use that knowledge against him now. “We should get dinner from there. I can order it, get it delivered here.” 

“And make everyone else jealous of our non-Saltine meal?” Shane teases, and Ilya feels it when he tries to power through a yawn, inhaling and exhaling through his nose like that makes it not count. 

“No, that will make them mob us and take our food, probably,” Ilya says. “No, we go back out there to boring party, talk to boring people, watch them eat boring food, and then you come up to my room where I will have good pasta, and we can laugh at other people’s misfortune like supervillains.” 

It’s a daring offer so soon after achieving this tentative peace between them, but it’s what Ilya wants, desperately, to end their season eating food safe for Shane and sending them on their separate ways for the summer on a high note. 

He’s too afraid of what Shane might decide on if he’s given an entire summer to hate Ilya in otherwise. 

“Yes?” He dares to press. 

Shane is quiet for a terrifyingly long moment, but finally, Ilya feels the movement when he nods. 

“Yes.”

Ilya feels a relief so immense he has to lock his knees to keep from collapsing under it. 

After all, Shane needs him to lean against right now. 

*

Shane barely makes it through the room and into Ilya’s penthouse when there’s a strong, warm body shoving him against the door. 

After weeks without this, though, Shane doesn’t have it in him to be offended. 

“What do you want?” Ilya says quietly when they pause for air, mouth still against his. 

Shane being able to process the question let alone answer it is briefly sidetracked by the pleasure of Ilya squeezing at his hips, deliciously firm. 

“What do I want?” He echoes, not opening his eyes. 

He feels the motion when Ilya nods. 

“Whatever you want tonight. It’s yours.” 

“You’re the one who won tonight,” Shane points out, their usual agreement for who gets to decide what they do, but when Ilya slips a thigh between his, Shane doesn’t decline the invitation, pressing down against the firm muscle. 

“Mm,” Ilya agrees. “But for my prize, I want to give you what you want, so…” Another kiss, long and slow and lingering. “Tell me what you want.” 

“First,” Shane says, feeling it when Ilya nods in encouragement, “I want to eat the food you ordered because I’m fucking starving.” 

Ilya laughs, and Shane opens his eyes just to look at him. He’s so beautiful when he smiles, his entire face lighting up. He can’t help but reach out, touching the corner of his mouth gently before trailing his fingers up, sliding his palm along his cheek before he sinks fingers into his hair. Ilya leans into the gesture, eyes closing. 

“And then-” Shane cuts himself off, courage deserting him at the idea of actually saying it out loud. 

Ilya’s eyes open. 

“And then,” he prompts, soft and patient. Shane bites his lip, just briefly, and it’s Ilya’s gaze darting down to the gesture that gives him the actual nerve to finish his sentence. 

“And then I want you to fuck me like you missed me.” 

Ilya looks back up at him. 

Shane can feel his heart pounding, wondering if he’s pushed too far, asked for too much, if he’s going to scare him off now, send him running-

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya says, a hand coming up to cushion his head as he presses him back against the wall until his world is Ilya’s hands and Ilya’s thigh and Ilya’s lips and Ilya Ilya Ilya. 

It’s a long, long time before they pull apart. 

*

“-ing gross,” Shane complains, pulling his head away and even pulling his takeaway carton further away for good measure. 

“Is pasta inside of bread, Hollander. You are dramatic,” Ilya says, but it’s fond, and he takes mercy on him, pulling away with his–perfectly normal–dinner roll full of spaghetti. “Mmmm,” he hums obnoxiously after taking a bite, making Shane roll his eyes even as he can’t help from smiling slightly. 

“You’re disgusting,” Shane says primly, flaking up the rest of his salmon and mixing it through his pasta. 

“And yet you’re still going to fuck me,” Ilya says, the tease out before he can stop it. That’s what he thinks is going to happen, but he wonders, now, if Shane will change his mind, if he’ll-

“Yeah,” Shane sighs. “I guess CTE really is real.” 

Ilya laughs, creating a new pasta sandwich and being annoying until Shane submits and takes a bite. Ilya can tell from his facial expression as he chews that he likes it, but Shane just shrugs and returns to his own pasta. Still, when Ilya tears a chunk of his noodle sandwich off to put it at the edge of Shane’s container, Shane accepts it, offering up some of his pasta in return. 

I missed you, Ilya thinks, twirling up a fork of salmon pasta that he’s pretty sure only tastes as good as it does because it’s a peace offering that’s been accepted. Fuck, I missed you. 

*

Fuck, I missed you, Shane thinks, and the thought is not just prompted by the way Ilya’s head is bobbing along the length of his cock. 

(...though that certainly doesn’t hurt.)

Ilya pushes his left leg out to the side gently, cupping the muscle in his palm. Shane grabs on without needing to be prompted, fingers slipping past Ilya’s as he takes over, keeping himself spread wide for-

He groans, low in his chest, when Ilya sinks a finger into him, slow and easy, the glide slick from lube, though God knows when Ilya had time to grab it. When Ilya takes him all the way down, swallowing around him, his vision whites out for a moment, and he reaches out blindly, holding tight to the hand previously resting over his belly. He squeezes, Ilya returning the gesture, and when Ilya sinks a second finger inside him and crooks up at the perfect angle, Shane is gone, his climax flowing over him like warm caramel, sinking its way through his muscles and leaving him trembling slightly in the aftermath. When Ilya pulls off of him, he shivers, over sensitive, soothed by firm kisses pressed to his thigh and hip. 

“More?” Ilya asks, voice quiet, and Shane nods frantically before getting a hand under his chin and tugging him up, Ilya’s warm, solid body settling over him, grounding and comfortable and familiar. 

He’s always loved how Ilya kisses, loved how hungry he always seems, loved how he isn’t afraid to tilt Shane’s head to a better angle if it’s what he wants. Right now their shared kiss is slow and gentle, enough that Shane feels his throat go a little tight. It feels like he was missed, this kiss. 

It feels like what he’s wanted for months now. 

When Ilya sinks into him, thick and heavy and good, all he can do is arch his head back and try to remember how to breathe. Ilya’s mouth presses to his throat, hot and damp, slow kisses pressed to the sensitive skin there. He lets Ilya hook his knee over his elbow and spread him wide, his other leg wrapping around above Ilya’s hips, as if to keep him from pulling away. 

“Oh, fuck,” he grits out when Ilya starts to move, searching for his mouth blindly until Ilya has mercy and meets him halfway. It feels almost overwhelmingly good after so many months without it, and he only knows he’s making noises he can’t control when Ilya pulls away to purr “such pretty noises” along with a string of Russian in his ear. 

When he reaches for his hand when he’s near his peak, needing to hold on, Ilya is already reaching for him, too. 

*

“Well, fuck.” 

Ilya laughs at the statement, Shane’s first words in probably an hour. 

Slumped over his chest, Shane doesn’t bother moving even when the laughter jostles him, just turning his chin up enough to smile at Ilya, sleepy and well-fucked and clearly satisfied. He looks too good to not kiss, and Ilya indulges himself, Shane returning it lazily until he’s released, settling back down against Ilya’s shoulder. He feels slack and boneless in a way that Ilya can’t deny is very good for his ego, but it also feels like he’s successfully made amends in some way, feeding Shane a safe dinner and then fucking him stupid and cleaning him up and getting some water into him before settling into bed with him like this. 

It’s been a very productive night, Ilya thinks with a small smile, running gentle fingers across Shane’s spine. 

“Can I ask you a question?” 

Ilya’s smile doesn’t fade, wondering what leftfield Shane is going to hit him with toni-

“Why were you so mad at me at Sochi?” 

-well fuck. 

Ilya attempts to buy himself a moment to think by pressing a kiss to Shane’s head, his hair sweat-damp but still smelling like the same shampoo and conditioner Ilya uses. 

He could tell him, Ilya thinks. He could say it all now. He could tell him about his family, about his father, about wanting to save him by keeping him away. 

But Ilya is also reluctant to bring anything so ugly into the sweet quiet of this bed, of them reuniting after so many months. 

He picks an easier part of the truth. 

“I wasn’t mad at you,” he says, because it’s true, and he does want Shane to know that part. He doesn’t want him carrying around something he doesn’t need to. 

It’s why Ilya’s always been so careful to keep his own heavy things safely away from him. 

“Was it…” Shane hesitates, but Ilya keeps up the slow movement of his fingers along his spine, and the lack of reaction apparently gives him the nerve to finish the question. “Was it losing to Latvia?” 

“Mmm,” Ilya hums, pressing a kiss to his head. “Very embarrassing,” he says. “Almost as bad as losing to Montreal-” He flinches and lets out an “oof” of air when Shane slaps him on the stomach. 

“Asshole,” Shane says, but his voice is lighter now, and Ilya feels a sense of relief at it, at peace between them again. It means he made the right call, not burdening Shane with things he doesn’t need to carry. Better just to think Ilya was disappointed about losing and acted badly about it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I should not have acted like that to you.” 

“It’s okay,” Shane says, because he’s more forgiving than Ilya deserves. “Just don’t do it again, okay?” 

Ilya tucks his head down enough to kiss him, sweet and slow and reassuring. When they part, he nudges Shane’s nose with his. 

“Okay.” 

Amends made, Shane settles down against him once more. 

*

Shane wakes feeling comfortable but disoriented, frowning blearily around him about why his bed feels so foreign and warm. 

And then he realizes that it’s because his bed at present is mostly Ilya underneath him, chest rising and falling slowly, clearly asleep. 

Immediately, Shane is mortified at having fallen asleep instead of going back to his own room like he should have. Ilya apparently fell asleep before he thought to wake him and send him on his way, but it’s not something he should have had to do. 

Especially not when they just made peace. 

Slowly, Shane slips out from under the warm, heavy warm over him, settling it gently on the mattress. He freezes when Ilya turns towards him, hand reaching out, but a pillow shoved at him in a wild moment of impulse seems to satisfy him, nuzzling his face into it and then settling again after a heavy breath, squeezing it tight against his chest. 

Shane feels what he knows is an irrational moment of jealousy for a pillow. 

And then he makes himself carefully climb off of the bed. 

He gets dressed without turning any lights on, able to see courtesy of the lights of the Strip coming in through the window. He pats his pocket to make sure he has the keycard to his own room in it and then leaves his shoes behind to pad back into the room where Ilya is sleeping, digging through his bag to find his charger and then plugging his phone in for him, turning it facedown so any messages coming through won’t make it light up and disturb him. That taken care of, Shane starts to take his leave, but he hesitates, just for a moment, tempted to do something very, very stupid by the sight of Ilya’s peaceful, sleeping face. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, he rests one hand lightly on the mattress and leans over, kissing Ilya’s head gently. 

He knows as soon as he does it that it was too much, way past the boundaries of friendship, and the fluster of it finally chases him out of the room, shoving his feet into his shoes. He feels a moment of regret at the door, wanting nothing more than to turn around and climb right back in bed with Ilya, but he knows better. Tonight means returning back to what they are, and he knows better than to ruin that by wishing for more. 

Still, back in the elevator, he can’t help pulling out his phone. 

B6

He pulls up the battleship app for the first time in weeks. 

Sucker. Made you look. 

He slips his phone back into his pocket and leans his head back against the wall of the elevator. 

For the first time in weeks, his smile feels real. 

Chapter End Notes

they're SO good at casual no-strings-attached fuckbuddy sex, gang

SO good at it

Chapter 5: wingman: fifth christmas and shane asking a favor ilya REALLY wishes he wouldn't

Chapter Notes

howdy gang. wowzers this got chonky. also a few points:

1. i need to go back and edit the timeline as i've written it before because turns out i think i'm one year short on my earlier chapters in the timeline.

2. the reason this was marked complete is because these chapters are meant to all be able to stand alone under the premise of chapter 1. i wrote one fic like this before and also had another collected as a series, and when i asked on tumblr which way people prefer, all in one story won the poll, so that's how i posted it. that seems to have confused people, though, i marked it incomplete.

3. mind the tag updates! this chapter has appendicitis and vomiting (not graphic but does happen)

okay, enjoy!

In what Ilya suspects is likely just an effort to make them stay out of the way while David and Yuna finish up the annual packaging of the Christmas cookies–delayed this year due to overtime at work for David–Ilya and Shane have been banished to putting up window sticker things in the living room. 

It’s possible the effort has become slightly more contact sport than it should be. 

“No, we already have a reindeer over there,” Shane complains, because he is a control freak with very strong opinions. He reaches to pull down the reindeer Ilya just put up, and Ilya slaps his hand away, getting a slap to the side for it in return. “That’s too many reindeer.” 

“Wrong,” Ilya says firmly. “They are herd animals, Hollander. They want to be together.” 

“Okay, well now we have a fuckton of elves over here and it looks weird. It needs a reindeer.” 

Shane makes a grab for it, Ilya catches his hand, and Shane kicks his ankle. 

“Ow!” Ilya says, even as he grins. “Yuna! He is hitting!” 

“No I’m not!” Shane says, making a liar out of himself by immediately shoving Ilya enough to almost knock him over, Ilya staggering to avoid tripping over the footstool but managing to stay up. 

“Boys,” Yuna calls from the direction of the kitchen, and Ilya can hear the smile in her voice, “knock it off or I’m telling Santa.” 

“Fucking rat,” Shane says, making a face, and then looking offended when Ilya laughs in his face. 

“I will give you one reindeer,” Ilya says, carefully peeling his least favorite one down from the window, “but I want two Christmas gifts and a tree in exchange.” 

“No, you’re not getting three of mine for one of yours. No deal,” Shane says, looking offended by the very suggestion. 

“Okay, then,” Ilya says with a shrug, pressing his reindeer back into place, “then I continue reindeer monopoly and you have sad, weird elf orgy. If this is how you want to celebrate Christmas…” 

“You grabbed all of the fucking reindeer, dude,” Shane complains. “That’s not fair.” 

“Welcome to capitalism,” Ilya says easily, making a show of putting up another reindeer just to rub it in even though it is now looking a little crowded. “I got to the market first, and now I control reindeer supply.” 

“Yeah, because Russians are known for their long history of being so pro-capitalism,” Shane says dryly. 

Ilya snorts. 

“Like you know any-” He stops when his phone starts ringing, and Shane reaches out to grab it for him before Ilya can tell him not to. 

Seeing his brother’s name on the screen, he declines the call and tosses it down to the other side of him. 

“Spam caller?” Shane asks, trying to use the moment to snatch a reindeer away when Ilya isn’t paying attention and almost getting an elbow to the face when Ilya stops him, wrestling his arms back down and shoving him back. 

“Yes,” Ilya lies, because it might as well be. 

Either way, it’s a caller looking to get money out of him. 

It’s something that sits on him worse and worse the more years it happens, how comfortable his family has gotten in asking him for money over the five years of his career. It’s not that he begrudges making sure everyone is fed and comfortable—he knows he’s the highest earner in his family, and it makes sense that he would cover the bills that would be harder for anyone else to take care of—but the expectation of it has only gotten worse as time has gone by, the certainty that of course Ilya will wire whatever they need. There’s a satisfaction in providing for his family, of course there is, but it gets harder to hold onto it when the hands reaching out for more money get more and more insistent with every passing year, the phone calls shorter, the interest in him less and less and less, his role in the family increasingly reduced to ATM. In a family like the Hollanders, a phone call from his brother right now would be to wish him happy holidays. 

In a family like his, however, he knows it isn’t without even needing to pick up. 

“Damn, did someone sell your number or something?” Shane asks, when his phone immediately starts ringing again.

“Probably,” Ilya says, turning his phone off completely. 

“Do you want-” Shane starts, but Ilya doesn’t let him finish that thought, unwilling to let his family take up any more of his limited Christmas With The Hollanders time. 

“I think I need an elf for my reindeer,” Ilya says thoughtfully, studying his work. “There are too many, I think. They need company.” 

He grins when Shane whacks him over the head with his sheet of window clings. 

*

“Where is baby Shane?” Ilya demands that night, not finding his special little guy on the tree for their annual hello. 

Really, it’s like no one respects tradition. 

“In the trash,” Shane says from the couch. 

“Back of the tree,” Yuna says, getting a betrayed look from her son when she glances up from her tablet. “What? You were so cute. Of course he wants to see it.” 

Ilya gives Shane a taunting look before returning to his search, finally emerging victorious. 

“I found him!” He announces to the room at large, Shane looking resentful. Ilya grins. “This should go on your Instagram, Shane, is very fest-” 

“I will kill you,” Shane says flatly. “I will kill you and they will never find your body.” 

“Yuna, he is threatening me,” Ilya complains, as if she didn’t hear it for herself. 

“You had it coming,” Yuna says without sympathy, not even looking up. 

Ilya just smiles, hanging fat baby Shane right up in the middle of the tree in place of pride. 

*

“Oh, there you two are.” 

Ilya turns along with Shane to find Vivienne with a bouquet of forks coming towards them from where they’d taken refuge in an upstairs hallway from one of the babies bringing along an ear-splittingly loud new Christmas gift that’s been deployed for the entertainment of the other tiny Hollanders. Instead of calling them on disappearing for the sake of their eardrums, however, Vivienne just gestures for them to start walking. 

“C’mon, family meeting.” 

“About what?” Shane asks, even as he heeds the shove to his shoulder and starts moving, glancing back at Ilya, who pauses, not sure if he’s supposed to follow or not. 

“C’mon,” Vivienne says, giving him a similar shove. “You make the cut.” 

Ilya falls into step with Shane. 

“What are we meeting about?” Shane asks, as Vivienne pushes them towards a room. 

“Equitable dessert distribution,” Vivienne says grandly, and Ilya sees Shane roll his eyes, even if he doesn’t openly backtalk his cousin. 

“What does that even-uh, hi?” Shane says, when the door opens to reveal an assembly of GrandMarie, Caroline, Aiden, and Vivienne’s friend, Hannah, who Ilya suspects might be more than friends with Vivienne but hasn’t said anything about, all of them sitting on the floor around what would appear to be a chocolate cheesecake. 

As surprises go, it’s not the most startling one Ilya has ever encountered, but it’s certainly not a development to the evening that he expected. 

“There you are!” GrandMarie says, patting the floor next to her. Ilya’s impulse is to offer to go get an actual chair for her, but he knows by now that she’s the one who first got Shane into yoga, something that seems to have served her well into her eighties given how unconcerned she seems about the prospect of having to get back up off of the floor. 

“Here we are for what?” Shane asks, even as Ilya just obeys the instruction and takes a seat as indicated, giving Shane a smug look when he gets an affectionate pat to the shoulder for it, getting an eyeroll in return as Shane sits down next to him. 

“We’re having secret dessert,” Caroline says, seeming more thrilled by the secret part than anything else based on the pitch of her whisper. 

“Kevin was told to bring ice and decided not to do that,” Vivienne says, dropping down next to Hannah, her skirt poofing out around her before settling. “So, no cheesecake for him.” 

“And everyone else has to suffer also?” Ilya asks, amused, even as he accepts the fork he’s handed. 

“It’s the cheesecake GrandMarie made for allergy freaks,” Aiden says, scowling when Shane reaches over to yank his hoodie strings tight in response, pulling the hood tight around his neck. “GrandMarie, kick him out!” 

“Shane, behave,” GrandMarie says mildly, Shane giving Aiden a resentful look but obeying. “Violet decided my brownies needed a hazelnut garnish, so she doesn’t get any of the cheesecake.” Declaration made, she takes a forkful of the cheesecake without bothering to cut it into pieces. 

Ilya sees the justice of this and takes one as well. 

(Three years in, and he likes Violet less with each Christmas that passes.) 

“What about everyone else?” Shane asks. 

“Didn’t see ‘em on the way to the kitchen and back,” Vivienne says with a shrug. “You snooze, you lose.” 

“Suckers,” Caroline agrees, grinning and almost dropping her cheesecake with the eagerness she scoops up a bite. 

“Those are the rules, Shane,” Ilya goads, holding up a forkful of cheesecake to Shane’s mouth just to annoy him. 

It’s possibly ridiculous to think that this might be one of his favorite Christmas moments, sitting on the floor of a guestroom to eat secret cheesecake with Shane’s family, included in a circle of Hollanders like of course he belongs there. 

Ridiculous or not, though, he thinks it might be some of the best cheesecakes he’s ever had. 

*

The grand departure of many Hollanders at the end of big Christmas is always a bit of a production. Almost everyone is as punctual in leaving as they are in arriving, which makes the shuffling of children and coats and presents as everyone tries to collect what needs to go home with them a festive mob of activity. For his own part, Ilya usually just tries to stay out of the way, usually hanging back to help Shane pack up whatever dishes they came with. He’d started participating in the gift exchange last year, but keeping track of only himself and a new custom puzzle of the picture of him and his team with the Stanley Cup from GrandMarie—who shares his and David’s appreciation of puzzles, he’s come to learn—is still easier than trying to mind small Hollanders or get them wrapped up enough to survive a walk to the car. 

He does still end up separated from his assigned Hollanders, though. 

“Where have my crew got off to?” He hears David say from the direction of the front door.

Ilya jumps a little when a hand lands on his shoulder, and he turns to see Yuna give him an apologetic little smile. 

“I've got one of ours,” Yuna calls back, not releasing him. “No idea where Shane disappeared to.” She gives him a teasing look. “Aren't you supposed to keep track of each other?” 

Too stunned under the giddy warmth of being claimed as one of theirs—even as a joke—it takes Ilya a second to get his brain online enough to actually respond.

“He doesn’t listen to me,” he says. “You should punish him, probably.” 

Yuna snorts, squeezing his shoulder affectionately but not releasing him as she nudges him towards the front door. 

He doesn’t especially want her to let go.

*

In the sleepy afterglow of sneaking into Shane’s room for a Christmas Eve fuck, Ilya finally brings up something he’s been wondering about for years. 

“Why do you have to bring your own food?” 

“Hm?” Shane hums, clearly closer to asleep than not. 

“To big Christmas,” Ilya explains, running his fingers along Shane’s spine gently. “GrandMarie and Vivienne, they are good about it, but others are not. Is that why?” 

Shane shifts slightly, moving to lay on his side instead of on top of Ilya, and he worries suddenly that he’s fucked up Christmas by getting nosy. Shane, though, doesn’t seem offended, and he doesn’t pull his feet away from where they’re tangled with Ilya’s. 

“You can eat with everyone else if you want,” Shane says, and Ilya shakes his head. 

“No, is not about that,” he says, turning to face him better and resting an arm along his side. “I don’t mind. Is just…strange, maybe. That you have to bring your own food.” It makes him a little annoyed on Shane’s behalf, honestly. It doesn’t seem fair, him having to haul along an entire meal instead of getting to eat with everyone else. He can understand if they were strict about it to be safe, but it seems like everyone has just accepted that Shane has to eat separate things. For Ilya, who’s fed Shane for years now, he knows it isn’t hard after adjusting to it, and he does it every single time Shane comes over. He can’t understand why Shane’s family would find it so difficult to do it for one meal a year. 

“It’s just…” Shane lets out a deep breath like he can’t find the words he wants. “My mom and dad tried when I was little, but I had a bad reaction one year when someone lied about something in a casserole, and it just got…tense, after that.” 

Ilya, who can’t help but think of the tiny Shane he’s seen in pictures and imagine him in a hospital bed on Christmas of all days, can understand. He thinks he’d be tempted to get a little more than “tense” in that situation. 

“It’s just easier, to bring my own stuff and not have my parents have to fight with people about it just for me.” 

It makes Ilya’s heart hurt, a little bit, the idea of young Shane insisting he was fine if he had to bring food, giving up on expecting anyone to go out of their way to include him. 

It makes him extra glad no one else got any of the cheesecake earlier. 

“Well, is their loss anyway,” Ilya says, tugging Shane in close. “They do not get to eat your father’s cooking.” 

He hears Shane hum a laugh, both of them laying contently in the silence for a moment. 

“I’m glad you eat with me,” Shane says quietly after a moment. “It’s nice.” 

Ilya ducks his head enough to kiss the top of his head. 

“Can I ask you something?” Shane asks. 

“Hm?” 

“Is it your brother who keeps calling you?” 

Ilya freezes. 

“It’s his name on the caller ID, right? You said it when I asked a few months ago. I remembered what it looks like.” 

Ilya suddenly wishes he’d gone back to his own room earlier. 

“You keep not answering his calls,” Shane observes. 

“Is not worth answering,” Ilya says, the most he’s ever said about his family to Shane, he’s pretty sure. 

“Even for Christmas?” Shane asks, and there’s no accusation to his voice. 

“Is…tense,” Ilya says, borrowing Shane’s word. Shane nods. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane says. 

“Is okay,” Ilya says. 

And when Shane accepts being pulled closer, settling his head on Ilya’s shoulder, warm and solid against him, it feels like it might almost be true. 

*

As much as Ilya enjoys the big Christmas with all of the Hollanders, he thinks he might like what he privately thinks of as “little Christmas” even better, when it’s just him and Shane and Yuna and David. 

He’d felt self-conscious his first couple of years about looking unkempt in front of Shane’s parents. In his own home, he would never have even considered leaving his room for the day until he was ready to be inspected for presentability by his father, not even when he small, but if there are any expectations similar to that in the Hollander household, they appear to get dropped completely for Christmas, when they greet the day by sitting in the living room eating breakfast casserole and cinnamon rolls, still in pajamas that Ilya knows by now they’re unlikely to end up changing out of. 

It feels lazy and indulgent and maybe the most relaxed he is all year, nothing on his schedule except his plans to demand a showing of the tooth elf movie to fuck with Shane and maybe helping David out with the puzzle they started the last time Boston played in Ottawa and he stopped by to eat dinner. He let Shane bully him into working out yesterday morning, but he refused to be peer pressured into going to the gym today, and Shane finally gave up and submitted to the terrible trial of just enjoying a single day off. 

He’s acting like he has more time here than he does, he knows. He gets on a plane the day after tomorrow just like Shane—they’d booked tickets close together so they can share a ride there, in fact—but this lazy little stretch of time feels like it might be infinite, like it might stretch on and on, catching them all in a scene and preserving it like in a snow globe. 

Snuggling down a little more under his blanket, his toes just barely brushing Shane’s from where he’s stretched out on the opposite end of the sofa, he kind of wishes it would. 

*

Even years in, Ilya can’t say it gets easier to see Shane have a reaction, not that he’ll ever tell Shane that, knowing it would be a sure way to make him slink off to a dark closet like a dying dog to avoid ever making Ilya see it happen again. 

The fact is endearing when it’s not making Ilya nervous about the very idea of it happening. 

“-kay, got it,” he says, returning to Shane now, who is white knuckling the railing outside of the All Star mixer, the muted music coming through the wall almost mocking at this point, entirely out of proportion to the way Ilya feels while fumbling the cover off of the epipen he sprinted faster than he’s ever run before to grab out of Shane’s hotel room. 

He’ll yell at Shane later about not keeping his fucking life-saving epinephrine on him just because his Auvi-Q expired and is on back order and he doesn’t like the idea of anyone seeing his epipen poking out of his pocket. 

Right now he has slightly higher priorities. 

“Okay, okay,” he says, as much to himself as to Shane, whose knees buckle under him despite his efforts at keeping himself upright through sheer force of will despite the fact that he can audibly barely breathe. He doesn’t even bother offering the epipen, knowing Shane isn’t in a place to use it on himself right now, managing to half-catch him with one arm and help him down before lining up the orange end of the epipen against his thigh. Even knowing it’s stupid, even knowing Shane is counting on him to keep his shit together, he still hesitates, for just a brief fraction of a second, the initial moment of knowing he’s about to stab Shane with a needle still tripping him up years in. 

And then he sucks it the fuck up and presses the epipen down, feeling the little jolt in the plastic as the needle deploys, Shane twitching slightly in response but not pulling away. 

“Okay,” he says, switching to Russian because he can do a crisis or he can do English; he cannot do both. “Vso khorosho. U nas vso v poryadke. Vso normal'no, da?” 

3…2…1…

Countdown complete, he pulls the epipen straight out and away as instructed in the many, many videos he’s watched because while he would never admit it to anyone, he has woken up from nightmares before of Shane having a reaction and needed to refresh his own memory of using an epipen and Auvi-Q before he can settle down again enough to go back to sleep. 

“Jesus,” he complains, dropping from kneeling to sitting properly, tugging Shane in and tucking his head under his chin, careful not to compress him at all or restrict his breathing, but also needing a half fucking second to recover. 

And hopefully to calm down before he strangles Shane the way he thinks he might be tempted to as soon as the non-prescription adrenaline of the moment has worn off. 

“S-sorry,” Shane says, shaky hand landing on his knee and crumpling the fabric of his jeans in a hold that he imagines is supposed to have more muscle behind it. 

Ilya rests his hand over it, squeezing back, even gentler. 

“Save your sorries,” he says, reaching up to smooth over Shane’s hair and checking the urge to kiss it. They’re already borderline-embracing in a way that might get them some questions if anyone spots them. 

A kiss might be beyond even his ability to explain away, no matter how platonic the gesture. 

“You will need them for when your mother wants to kill you for being stupid,” he complains, closing his eyes for a second. “Jesus, Shane.” 

“Hey,” Shane complains, but his voice is breathy, still, so his complaint lacks force behind it. “Blame whoever somehow fucked up pouring a can of ginger ale into a glass.” 

“You didn’t eat anything?” Ilya checks. 

He doesn’t need to look to know exactly what look he’s getting when Shane tilts his head back slightly. 

“No,” he says, confidently. “I just got a ginger ale that was poison, apparently.” 

“Maybe you’re allergic to ginger now,” Ilya teases gently. 

“Take it back,” Shane demands at once, voice still a little wheezy. “Knock on wood now.” 

Grinning, Ilya gently taps his knuckles against Shane’s head, getting a much less gentle elbow to the stomach for it. He grunts but still doesn’t shove Shane away even as he shifts slightly to get to his phone. 

“You want them coming this close to the party or no?” He asks, even though he already knows the answer. 

Predictably, Shane is already attempting to rise. 

“Okay, okay,” Ilya says, rising with him and taking most of his weight in the effort. “Don’t fall and crack your head open. I just saved your life. Don’t fuck it up now. It would make Christmas next year very awkward for me.” 

“I’ll do…my best…” Shane says, making his slow way down the stairs with Ilya stepping down each level first and then holding still so Shane can find his balance when he follows.  

Ilya doesn’t tease him about it. He’s learned over the years where the limits lie when it comes to this, what jokes will poke at something painful. He knows Shane—ridiculously—appears to hate this part the most, the necessary reliance on someone, the way his carefully-trained body sometimes fails him by requiring help from someone else. 

Ilya can at least try to make his help land lightly. 

“If you didn’t want to talk to Scott Hunter anymore,” Ilya says when they’ve made it to the bottom of the stairs, “you could have just fucking said so.” 

Shane laughs in a way that rasps a bit, but Ilya feels better for it. 

“Be nice,” Shane says, but there’s no conviction behind it, which is good, because it would make him the world’s biggest hypocrite if it did. 

“I would argue I am very nice,” Ilya says. “I beat a record, probably, in running to get your epipen, and I am not even going to charge you courier fee until later.” 

Shane snorts before tripping over seemingly just air. 

Ilya doesn’t comment. 

“Is going to be very expensive, of course,” he says reasonably. “This is medical care in America.” 

“Of course,” Shane echoes, sounding amused. 

“Tips are also welcome,” Ilya says innocently. 

“Here’s a tip,” Shane says dryly, pulling him to a stop for a second to catch his breath, “stop wearing that ugly ass tiger shirt already.” 

“Hm,” Ilya hums thoughtfully. “I am forgetting, suddenly, why I am helping you.” 

Shane gives him a sly little smile from the side as he starts them back into motion. 

“Because no one else can beat me at battleship,” he says. “Obviously.” 

Ilya grins. 

*

Shane swears up, down, and sideways after they’re moved to a small room at the hospital that there is absolutely no way he’s going to fall asleep. 

And then he falls asleep approximately six minutes later. 

Ilya tugs the blanket up over him and gently nudges his head to lay straight so he won’t give himself a kink in his neck before sitting back and opening the Yuna And Associates group chat, knowing Shane is going to be mad at him for ratting him out later.

But also knowing Yuna will be more mad if he doesn’t, which is a far more frightening possibility.

mr. peanut made another attempt on shane’s life. 

he has failed once again. 🎉

News broken in a way that at least won’t make Shane feel too self-conscious about it courtesy of a joke at his expense, he navigates back to his messages and scrolls until he gets to his text thread that’s just with Yuna and David, which is used far less but comes in handy for situations like this. 

he’s okay, promise 

he is sleeping right now, but the doctor didn’t seem concerned 

Yuna 👑: What happened? 

cross-contamination at the bar, maybe? 

he only got a drink, but there were snacks there not good for him 

i think maybe the bartender might have either put them out or had a snack 

Yuna 👑: What’s the name of the hotel you’re both staying at again? 

Ilya smiles faintly, glad he’s not going to be the one getting a phonecall from Yuna Hollander demanding answers about why her child was poisoned. 

hotel teatro

David 🧩: Will you ask him to text us when he’s up for it, please? 

yes, of course 

He sits up enough to take a picture of Shane, who looks a little pale even in the limited light of the dark hospital room but relatively peaceful, face relaxed. He sends it to Yuna and David as proof of life. 

you didn’t get this from me

He gets a heart emoji response from Yuna. 

David 🧩: Thank you for being there with him, Ilya. We appreciate you looking out for him. 

Ilya feels a little shy under the praise, honestly. He doesn’t need gratitude for looking after Shane. 

of course

I am using his allergies to blackmail him

it is very lucrative for me

I can retire in a couple of years, I think 

David 🧩: If you cut me in, I can offer some baby photos. 

Ilya laughs, glancing up to make sure he hasn’t woken Shane. He appears deeply out, though, and after tugging the blanket back up over him after he shifts and pulls it down slightly, he sits back again, getting comfortable to finish out the wait. 

deal 

He and David both get thumbs down emojis from Yuna. 

It just makes him smile wider. 

*

Shane’s post-sex whiplash two meet-ups later is really one for the history books.

Which Ilya will submit to publishers after he works through his kneejerk urge to kill someone about it. 

“What do you mean?” He asks, glad that Shane can’t see his face at this angle, with Ilya behind him. 

And still inside of him, which means the question is even more fucking disorienting. 

“How do you know when other guys are interested in hooking up?” Shane repeats, like Ilya not hearing him was the problem here. He starts to try and turn over, but Ilya doesn’t know what his face is saying right now, and he’d rather not have Shane try to read him until he can get it under control, so he holds him in place. “Like, you knew I was. How did you know?” 

Ilya only realizes how hard his jaw is clenched when he feels his teeth protest at the pressure. He makes himself relax the muscles, swallowing and forcing his tone light. 

“The staring at my cock in the shower was a pretty good hint,” he says, and he thinks it almost comes out as teasing. 

“Asshole,” Shane says, elbowing him. “I’m serious, though. Jerking off at me was pretty fucking risky, dude. How did you know I’d be into it?” 

“Because you are terrible liar and spent most of the shoot eye fucking me?” Ilya says, reluctant to say that it was a combination of both suspecting and hoping, or to admit how fucking nervous he was when he actually did it, fully aware of how badly it could have gone. 

And yet wanting it enough to try for it anyway. 

“I did not,” Shane protests, and Ilya thinks he might actually believe it. He knows by now that Shane apparently has no sense of how expressive he is, how much he wears his thoughts and feelings openly when he’s not performing Shane Hollander Professional Athlete for a camera. 

It’s one of the things Ilya finds most endearing about him. 

“You are fishing for compliments or what?” Ilya asks, because he would rather that be where this is coming from. “You want me to tell you you are very pretty?” He teasingly nuzzles against the back of Shane’s head hard enough to push it forward, and Shane shoulders him back. 

“I’m just wondering,” he says, which from Ilya’s experience of knowing him means he’s been tumbling this around and around in his head for a while if he’s committed to saying it out loud. “I thought a guy might have been interested when I was out with JJ the other night, but he didn’t ask for my number or anything, so I don’t know if I was wrong or not.” 

They aren’t anything that would make this something worth getting jealous over. They’re friends who hook up, sure, but it’s not like they’re anything beyond that, anything that would carry an expectation of exclusivity between them. Hell, Ilya certainly isn’t even trying. He prefers Shane, sure, but it’s not like he’s pining away in celibacy between them meeting up. It would be ridiculous and unfair to expect Shane not to seek out some fun, too. 

…and fucking yet. 

“You are trying to pick up with your team around?” Ilya asks, because that’s the better move than asking who the fuck was being so obviously and aggressively flirtatious that Shane actually managed to pick up on it for once. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s flirted at him, after all. They’ve gone out together to clubs for years now when Ilya wins and collects it as a forfeit from Shane. It’s part of the main appeal, if Ilya is being honest, getting to go out and see people’s eyes linger on Shane while knowing he’s the one he’ll be going home with. It possibly makes him a bad person, but it scratches the competitive part of his brain, being the one who takes home the prize other people want at the end of the night. From all available evidence, Shane hasn’t appeared to ever even register it, sipping on his ginger ale because Ilya doesn’t take him places that don’t have it and resisting almost all attempts to make him get on the dance floor for longer than thirty seconds at a time. A man had even sent him a drink once—waving from across the bar when the bartender had said “a fan” had bought it for him—and he’d just given the man a small smile of thanks before handing it off to Ilya. 

Ilya hasn’t ever been a whiskey fan, but getting to watch that man’s face fall when his overture was not only rejected but handed off to him made every sip delicious. 

“I mean, no, obviously not,” Shane says, and he pulls away, which is even more unsettling. He loves having Ilya inside of him in a way that’s more than a little intoxicating, usually even whining a bit when Ilya finally does have to pull out, something that always makes him smile when he kisses him in apology for the great crime of not being able to stay attached forever. Him voluntarily moving away now combined with the conversation he’s trying to have is wildly novel and wildly unpleasant. Shane turns over to face him, and Ilya tries to get his expression neutral. “I’ve just never done it before, you know? Going home with a guy. Well, besides you, obviously.” 

Ilya didn’t know this even if he suspected it, and the way Shane seems almost shy admitting it makes him want to kiss him. He doesn’t. 

“And you are suddenly looking to have a slut phase?” Ilya says, and it doesn’t come out quite as teasing as he means for it to. 

“Hey pot, I’m kettle,” Shane says dryly, which Ilya doesn’t actually understand but chooses not to comment on. 

He has larger concerns at present, after all. 

“Is risky, picking out a man,” Ilya says, feeling a little bit like his teammate with a cat, who only picks her up and takes her out onto the porch when it’s raining as a false lesson about what the outside is like. It’s not fair, and he knows it. Shane is a free agent. He’s allowed to fuck whoever he wants to. 

Ilya just doesn’t particularly like knowing that he’s suddenly interested in doing that. 

“You do it,” Shane says, and Ilya realizes his mistake too late. He made it a challenge. “What, you think I can’t?” 

“I did not say that,” he says, reaching out to squeeze Shane’s hip in a tactile apology. He’s quite certain Shane could easily pick someone up if he wanted to. 

That’s the goddamn problem. 

“Okay, so how do you do it? At bars? Or is there like…an app or something? They have those, right?” 

Ilya feels a wave of what can only be called cuteness aggression so strong he has to consciously resist the urge to wrap his arms around Shane and squeeze. 

The wave of possessiveness he feels about the idea of Shane on Grinder doesn’t help with the impulse, either.

“There are apps,” Ilya says, “but is risky, having your face on something like that.” 

“So…bars?” Shane says. “Or clubs?” 

“Usually,” Ilya says, grudgingly. 

“Can you show me how?” 

Ilya blinks. 

“What?” 

“Next time we go out,” Shane says, like this is a normal and reasonable request. “You know how to pick out guys who are interested in guys, right?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says, forcing himself to loosen his grip on Shane’s hip only when Shane glancing down lets him know he’s holding on way too hard.  

“Okay,” Shane says, like they’ve arrived at a resolution. “Then next time we go out, you show me what guys are into guys, and then I can like…practice, or something.” Shane smiles a little, a smile that means he’s about to issue a challenge. “We can make it a contest. Who can pick someone up first.” 

Ilya has never wanted to play a game less in his goddamn life. 

“Sure,” he says. “You’re on.” 

Satisfied at getting his way, Shane doesn’t resist when Ilya pulls him in, tucking his head under Ilya’s chin contently. 

Ilya glares at the wall. 

*

Because he is Shane fucking Hollander and only goes 0 or 100 miles an hour on something, he reminds Ilya of their agreement the first time they’re out together afterwards, out for the night after a shoot on a Saturday they did for CCM in New York. 

The fact that this is happening even though Shane won their game of battleship today and could have just chosen to go back to the hotel and fuck Ilya instead of a stranger isn’t really helping his sour mood. 

“What about him?” Shane asks quietly, indicating a man across the club with much less subtlety that Ilya knows he means to. 

For the sake of not being obvious about how little he wants to participate in this, Ilya glances his way, not actually bothering to read anything about him. 

“Straight,” he says shortly, taking another sip of his drink. 

Shane makes a disappointed noise and starts to look around for his next candidate. 

Ilya, who spotted two men look at them both just a half-second too long after they arrived, doesn’t give him any hints, looking around himself. 

For the fucking bartender to pour him another drink. 

“Maybe we’re at the wrong kind of club or something,” Shane says, thinking out loud. He’s sipping at a Sprite that Ilya can tell he hates because the bartender said they didn’t have ginger ale when he asked, and Ilya desperately wishes he would have chosen to take it as a cosmic hint to abandon this new interest of his and return to what’s familiar and comfortable. 

What’s happening right now certainly isn’t either of those things for him. 

*

“I can’t believe there wasn’t anyone interested tonight,” Shane observes later that evening, when they’ve fucked and then curled up together in Ilya’s hotel bed, their afterglow stretched thanks to the convenience of having adjoining rooms. It’s not something Ilya had previously considered, honestly, the likelihood that he would have been able to hear Shane fucking someone else tonight, especially with how loud Shane gets when he really feels good. It makes him even more certain that putting blinders on Shane at the club and leaving him with this impression was the right move, unfair as it might be. 

“Is how it goes,” Ilya says easily, rubbing his hand slowly along Shane’s hip and thigh. Because he likes tormenting himself, he imagines someone else in his place tonight, someone who doesn’t know how to touch Shane like this, someone who doesn’t know that he likes to be fucked hard but brought down gently afterwards. It’s not something a casual hookup would do, after all. It’s not even something Ilya does with other hookups, and he prides himself on being a polite one night stand. He won’t necessarily pack it up and leave right after sex—he enjoys some spooning as much as the next guy—but once he’s done, he’s done. He makes it a point not to linger past the point of all parties catching their breath and having the chance to shower so he doesn’t leave someone with the impression that it was anything more than scratching an itch together. It’s different with Shane, obviously, because like with Svetlana, friendship means there’s no countdown timer on being together, but he doesn’t think Shane would like someone fucking him and then hitting the road immediately. 

The fact that this is something he’s bothered about in a way he isn’t when he thinks about Svetlana hooking up with people isn’t something he is allowing himself to pursue. 

“How often do you find guys?” Shane asks, and Ilya thinks he must be imagining a note of something that almost sounds like jealousy through the lens of his own current state. 

“Not as often as girls,” Ilya answers, remaining vague on purpose. The honest answer is that his last hookup with a guy who wasn’t Shane was over three years ago now. It had been fine, nothing to write home about but nothing horrible, either, but he’d found himself disappointed afterwards that it was hazel eyes blinking up at him and not brown, his partner for the evening quieter, too. He hadn’t moved like Shane, either, or touched him back like Shane, or whined, “Ilya, please” when he slowed down to tease him like Shane, or-

He hadn’t been Shane, which had meant the risk wasn’t really worth the reward if it wasn’t even what he wanted anyway and he left unsatisfied after. 

“Hm, well,” Shane says, arching back and stretching. “At least I still got laid anyway.” He smiles over his shoulder, teasing and sweet and pleased and impossible not to kiss. 

“I knew you were using me for my body,” Ilya says, pinching his hip playfully while leaning up to kiss him. 

“Mmm,” Shane hums into it before pulling back. “It’s a good body.” He pats Ilya firmly on the hip and then gets up, stretching again, looking loose and relaxed. 

He’s clearly getting ready to leave, and Ilya feels the old urge to ask him to stay, the edge of it made sharper by the confirmation that he’s now exploring the idea of sex with other men. Ridiculous as it is, Ilya thinks he might feel better about it if he still had something he could be sure other men won’t get. The idea of other people in Shane’s bed wouldn’t sit so badly if Ilya could at least know he was the only one who got to stay. 

But Shane loves his routines and rules, and Ilya is reluctant to make him uncomfortable with a sudden change right as he’s exploring other options. 

So when Shane gets up, Ilya doesn’t pull him back down the way he wants to. 

“I need a shower,” Shane says thoughtfully, wrinkling his nose at the cum half-dried on his skin. 

“And whose fault is that?” Ilya asks dryly, flopping onto his back. 

“Yours,” Shane says, raising an eyebrow. 

Ilya smiles and links his hands behind his head, unrepentant. Shane tilts his head slightly, a corner of his lip quirking up for a moment. 

“You did it,” Shane says, angling himself towards Ilya’s bathroom instead of the cracked door back to his own room. “I think you should clean up after yourself.” 

“Is only fair,” Ilya agrees easily, getting up at once and tugging Shane after him towards the shower. 

*

It’s not even a sexy shower, per se. Hands wander because of course they do, but it’s silly more than anything else, a power struggle for control of the showerhead and an argument about how much body wash is overkill. It’s stupid and ridiculous and almost ends in them taking each other out when Shane’s elbow knocks over the conditioner and makes the floor slick enough to make their footing treacherous, and it ends with handjobs but also ends with smiling and teasing little kisses. It’s good and it’s fun and it’s comfortable. 

And it’s not something Ilya wants someone else to have. 

“Thanks for going out with me tonight,” Shane says afterwards, when they’re toweling off. 

“No problem,” Ilya says. 

“Maybe we’ll have better luck next time,” Shane says, with the air of a consolation. 

“Maybe,” Ilya agrees, hoping there is never a next time. 

*

Ilya is out in Boston for the night a few weeks later when he gets a text from Shane, while he’s pressed tight to a very generously proportioned woman who is demonstrating a very promising athleticism with her hips while they dance. 

“You want a drink?” He asks into her ear, leaning around to do it. He’s not rude enough to answer a text from someone else while grinding against her, and buying her one is a good excuse to step away for a moment. 

He does have some traits of a gentleman, after all. 

“I’m about ready to call it for the night,” she says, glancing back at him with a look in her eyes that says she’s not planning on doing so alone. 

Ilya presses his hips against her in an answer that he’s of the same mind. 

…as soon as he takes care of something else first. 

“Let me close my tab, yes?” He says, right into her ear, just to feel her shiver. 

Her responding nod is eager, and he lets her go to say goodbye to her friends, turning towards the bar and getting his phone out. 

I think I hooked up wrong. 

Of the possible texts he expected to read, that certainly wasn’t an option. He stares at it for a moment, feeling unsettled and then worried. He glances up to hand his card to the bartender and then looks back down while she runs it. 

what do you mean? 

are you okay? 

Under the force of the concerning message, he can’t even find it in himself to be jealous about it, too worried instead. He hadn’t actually expected Shane to try picking up on his own, and Ilya feels guilty, suddenly, that their three rounds of “trying” and failing to find someone for Shane to take home has led him to a riskier target. From being told now, he knows Shane doesn’t have experience with other men, and he doesn’t know if hooking up with women happens often enough for Shane to have experience with that, either. He barely looks up to take his card back, and he’s not even sure what he signs over as a tip before he’s handing the pen back, knowing he’s being rude but unable to care at present. 

Not when Shane is a far more pressing concern. 

C8. 

Ilya frowns, thrown, and then worried about what went so badly that Shane doesn’t even want it recorded in their text messages. He pulls up the battleship app as he starts walking towards the door, jumping slightly when a hand lands on his arm. He looks up to find the girl he had been planning to leave with, but under current circumstances, when something’s wrong with Shane-

“Family emergency,” he says, as apologetically as he can. “Sorry.” 

He doesn’t even wait for her to respond before he’s outside, walking away from the door a few steps and then opening the chat feature of the app, wondering if Shane is about to ask him to fly up to Montreal or call his parents for him or ask if he should go to-

He just left after.

Ilya stares at the message for a long, long moment. 

what? 

I feel like maybe I did something wrong. I went down on him and he fingered me, but then he just left?

Like he barely even looked at me after. 

Ilya literally has no way to process this information, pulled into too many different directions at once. He’s worried, still, about what Shane would be upset about here, and he’s also irrationally jealous at the idea of Shane’s mouth on someone or someone else’s fingers inside of Shane and also wondering if this is some strange mind game Shane is playing suddenly. 

what was the wrong part? 

Was I supposed to ask him to stay after? 

It’s really to Shane’s advantage that they’re in different countries right now, Ilya thinks distantly, given how much he’d be tempted to strangle him otherwise. 

what is the wrong part? 

you did not want him to finger you or something? did he hurt you? 

What? No, of course not. 

Ilya rolls his eyes skyward and begs for patience. 

The fingering part was good. I liked that. 

Ilya, who knows firsthand exactly how much Shane likes it, closes his eyes and counts to five before responding. 

you did not want to go down on him? 

No, that part was fine. 

He uses flavored condoms like a fucking freak, but it wasn’t that bad. 

I mean, he kept trying to push my head, but he stopped when I told him to. 

He also wasn’t even as big as you, so I don’t even know what he thought he was pushing me onto. I can’t deep throat something that can’t go deep. 🙄

Despite himself, Ilya smiles, faintly, amused as ever by the sharper part of himself that Shane is so careful to keep contained around other people. 

(And, yes, a little appeased at someone else being found wanting in comparison to him specifically.) 

so what was the wrong part? you are okay? 

I mean, yeah, I’m fine. 

But he just made me cum and then he left. 

Like RIGHT after. 

Literally pulled his fingers out, got up to wash his hands, and then pulled his clothes on and left. 

Was I supposed to ask if he wanted to stay? 

you wanted him to stay? 

The idea hurts a little more than Ilya expects it to, the idea of Shane finding someone and in the same night wanting them to linger. He worries, suddenly, exactly what this guy looks like that Shane was so- 

I mean that’s kind of rude, isn’t it? Just leaving like that? 

He didn’t even kiss me after. 

That’s a dick move, right? 

Ilya realizes suddenly that he’s at a crossroads here about how to answer, whether to let Shane in on the fact that that sounds pretty standard in general or to keep the odds tipped in his favor as Shane’s default guy to fuck while also avoiding any questions about why things might be different between them compared to other hookups. 

You don’t do that. 

That tilts Ilya rather abruptly into the second option. 

bad luck. poor baby. 

don’t worry, i will kiss you extra next time 😘

and give you something to go deep on 😏

You’re gross. 

I’m going to bed now. 

but i wanted a demonstration of the fingering part 😢

now i am horny and you are going to leave me like this? 😢

It’s half a joke and half not. False alarm or otherwise, he doubts the woman he ditched is going to be too keen on giving him a second chance after he left her so abruptly, so if he’s going to get any action tonight, phonesex with Shane is probably going to be his best bet. 

(And if he feels a need to demonstrate that he knows how to give Shane what he wants even over the phone, well.) 

(That part’s not important.) 

I’m tired, and you’re gross. 

Night. 

Ilya rolls his eyes, wondering if Shane knows how obvious he is or not in how much he likes playing this game. 

just some fingers and you are done for the night? 

what about that nice dildo i just sent you? 

Stop sending sex toys to my house. 

It’s weird. 

It’s not as weird as gutchecking his new hookups with his existing hookup, but Ilya doesn’t comment on that part. 

but is so nice and thick for you 

it feels good, yes? 

He pictures how Shane is likely responding to the messages, shifting how he’s sitting, turned on despite himself. 

Call me? 

Ilya grins, pleased at his success. 

give me ten minutes to get home 

He closes out of battleship just long enough to pull up his Uber app, calling a car and then walking towards the pick up sign. Transport arranged, he returns to more pressing business. 

finger yourself until then 

I bet you can do it better than rude man did 

Thought you wanted me to use my dildo? 

not until i get to listen to it 

He mentally urges Nathaniel to get here faster. 

He has important business to handle at home. 

*

It’s still a little funny even now, the switch that slowly flips the day of a game when he and Shane are playing against each other, the incremental change from playful friends to fierce competitors. 

The morning usually involves a handjob or blowjob followed by a workout, and he’s learned by now to stop expecting even a kiss past 10 am. He can usually sneak one in before Shane starts drinking his smoothie, but like the protein powder activates competitive neurons, anything after that is refused. 

Today, though, Ilya hadn’t pushed for anything at all, sleeping in even after he heard Shane moving around. Shane had even knocked on his door to make sure he was up, but Ilya had said he wasn’t feeling up to working out today. His stomach started hurting the night before, and he’d started feeling vaguely off somewhere around 2 am, when a pang from his stomach woke him up enough to register it. He’d told Shane to give him a warning that he might have caught something, but Shane had seemed totally fine, bringing him medicine and filling his water bottle and then leaving him to sleep. Ilya had initially told himself it was just something he ate, but given that he ate the same thing as Shane, only one of them being impacted would suggest his guess is wrong. 

He hadn’t bothered running it past medical for the sake of not potentially getting taken out of the game for something as stupid as a stomachache and a slight fever, but trying to push past it hasn’t improved things, his stomach still hurting during warm-ups and refusing to stop even after taking some more medication, a couple of teammates even asking if he’s alright, which is how he knows he looks off. 

“You sure you should be on the ice today?” Shane asks as they skate up for their second face-off. 

“What,” Ilya shoots back, refusing to let himself wince as he leans forward, “you are wishing I would make it easy for you?” 

“I mean your playing would be the same no matter what, obviously, but you look rough,” Shane says, getting into position. “Like even rougher than normal when I'm kicking your ass.” 

“Everyone loves underdogs,” Ilya says, but the rejoinder is more rote than anything else. “Is called having flair, Hollander.” 

His heart isn’t in it, though, and he can tell from Shane’s face that he knows. Still, the middle of a hockey game isn’t the time to interrogate each other, and the puck drops before Shane finds anything else to say. 

Shane wins the puck and skates away, infuriatingly quick and graceful, and Ilya takes off in hot pursuit. 

Well, what he means to be hot pursuit that instead comes out as lukewarm pursuit. 

Shane makes the goal. 

As the game goes on, Ilya manages not to puke. 

Honestly, the victories at a certain point start to feel roughly equal. 

*

Feeling bad or not, Yuna and David drove up to watch their game tonight, and he sucks it up and manages to make it through dinner. Yuna and David both ask if he’s alright, and he manages to smile and ignore the way the pain in his stomach has shifted into something sharp enough that he wonders if he pulled a muscle. Given the fact that the most likely way he did this was sex with their son, he’s glad when Yuna and David finally drop it. He makes a mental note to fess up and ask his team’s doctor about it tomorrow. 

A sudden, fierce storm hits as they start to leave the restaurant, and a quick, huddled discussion in the lobby ends in the agreement of David and Yuna deciding to stay at Shane’s place tonight instead of trying to drive back. Since his stuff is already there and Shane has two guest rooms, Ilya decides to stick to the original plan of staying, too, especially when Connors is probably already settled in with the expectation of having the room to himself tonight. 

It would feel risky under ordinary circumstances, sharing a house and needing to sneak to Shane’s room so they can hook up, but by the time they actually get back—and all end up some degree of soaked from dashing inside through the rain—he feels like shit, and even for the sake of fucking Shane, he’s not sure he could actually work up the energy to get frisky tonight. 

“You sure you’re okay?” Shane asks, voice low, as they start to go their separate ways for the night. 

“Fine,” Ilya says, hoping the smile he manages is convincing. 

From the look on Shane’s face, it’s not, but he really doesn’t have it in him to give it another shot. 

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?” Shane asks, reaching out to squeeze his arm. 

“I will,” Ilya says, even knowing that he absolutely will not be doing that. 

At this point, though, he’ll say whatever it takes to just get horizontal and pass out for a while. 

*

Ilya doesn’t know how long he actually manages to sleep for. 

He just knows that his first priority when he wakes is getting to the bathroom immediately, barely beating the way his mouth is watering and getting the lid up before he’s miserably sick, eyes watering with the force of it. In his rush, he didn’t even manage to shut the door to the guest bath, and he is reminded of this only when a soft knock to the frame of it makes him startle slightly. 

“Sorry,” David says when he sees him jump at the sound even as he doesn’t turn away for fear of getting sick all over the floor and really completing how shitty this night is. “Oof, kiddo.” He rests a gentle hand on Ilya’s back, rubbing softly, and it’s as soothing as it is mortifying. 

“Sorry,” he manages to gasp out between gags. “Sorry-”

“Don't be,” David says easily, standing and moving out of the limits of Ilya’s peripheral vision. “I think it's parent sense to wake up when someone in the house is sick.” 

“Yuna?” He manages to get out between heaves, wondering if they're going to have a third member join this wildly shitty party he’s started by accident. 

“Sleeps like a rock like Shane,” David says. Ilya hears the tap run and then there's a cold cloth on the back of his neck. “Better?”

Ilya nods even though he's not sure. It doesn't make him feel worse, at least. He’s torn between asking David to leave and wanting him to stay, his presence calming in a way that feels nice when he feels very not calm. He supposes he should just be lucky he only managed to wake David. 

This is all humiliating enough without a full Hollander family reunion at his expense. 

“Sorry,” he says again, accepting a warm washcloth when it's handed to him so he can wipe his face off. For a moment, Ilya is almost glad for the nausea and the pain in his stomach.

He thinks the shame might just fully take him out otherwise.

“Not a problem,” David says easily, and ridiculously, it makes Ilya's eyes sting, the sincerity of it, like waking up at fuck o’clock to watch while he pukes isn't a big deal at all. “Here,” he says, reaching for the washcloth Ilya just used to wipe his face off.

“No,” he says, starting to pull it away. “I'll wash it later.” Or maybe just burn it to hopefully get rid of this memory forever, but he chooses not to share that part.

“Trust me,” David says, “not my first rodeo with a stomach bug. Shane's thrown up on me before if that makes you feel better. Twice, actually.” 

Ilya doesn't know if it makes him feel better, necessarily, but he does file it away to make fun of Shane for later, and he does hand the cloth back over to David, who tosses it in the hamper.

And then a new round of nausea has him thinking about nothing more than “Jesus Christ make it stop.”

*

In the entire course of his life, Ilya is pretty sure he's been more pathetic than he is right now, slumped on a bathroom floor to press his cheek against a bathtub for the coolness of it.

He can't remember when that more embarrassing time might have been, but it exists, probably.

Hopefully.

“Alright, kiddo,” David says when he returns, and Ilya groans when he's gently nudged upright. “I know, but you made it twenty minutes with no puking, so let's try some water, alright? See if it stays down.”

Ilya would prefer to not try this, actually, but following instructions is easier than arguing.

He manages to follow those instructions for approximately three minutes. 

And then it all comes right back up. 

*

Instead of feeling relieved when his stomach is empty, leaving him only to dry heave incrementally, eventually not even bothering to sit up because he feels so weak and knows nothing is going to come up, Ilya just feels worse as the night progresses. At this point, he’s beyond even the humiliation of having a witness to this, taking sips of water when David encourages him to and trying to remember to say thank you whenever there’s a new cold cloth on his neck and forehead. 

It’s wildly foreign in a way that’s slightly uncomfortable, being tended like this. He doesn’t get sick often, after all, and when he does, his immediate move is usually just to hide away from anyone else until he’s well again. Svetlana has checked in on him before, but Ilya generally finds people fussing over him more uncomfortable than anything else, something he hasn’t experienced since his mother’s passing. 

The first time he got sick after losing her was about four months after finding her body, and the grief of missing her cool hands on his hot skin and her gentle voice telling him he was going to be okay had almost been worse than the illness. It hadn’t even occurred to him to seek comfort from his father. He hadn’t wanted it from him. 

Even then, he’d known better than to think he would get it. 

“Think you’re up to some water?” David asks him softly now, and Ilya shakes his head without bothering to open his eyes. A gentle hand lands on his back and rubs, light, affectionate. He feels his eyes sting and his throat go a little tight at the sensation. 

He chooses to let himself blame it on his illness. 

*

The pain has progressed to the point that he’s curled up in a futile attempt at stopping it when David decides to make the executive decision that they should tap in a doctor. 

Ilya would like to say he puts up a better fight than he does, exhausted by nausea and pain and a fever that’s left him shivering even after David brought him what Ilya knows is one of Shane’s hoodies. 

Miserable as he is, he can’t even feel a thrill at the aiding and abetting of stealing Shane’s clothes. 

“-really think we should take a little fieldtrip to the hospital, kiddo,” David says softly, rubbing Ilya’s arm soothingly, as if in apology. 

“M’fine,” Ilya says, his point probably not helped by the fact that he’s fully horizontal on a bathroom floor right now. It might be a little gross if he had the space in him to think about things like that. 

Or if he didn’t know that being Shane Hollander’s bathroom floor probably means it’s regularly scrubbed to be clean enough to eat off of. 

“I don’t know that I would agree,” David says, and if Ilya had the capacity for humor right now, he might be amused at the gentleness of the disagreement. 

As it is, he just really, really wishes David could just sit with him quietly as he dies so he can perish in peace. 

“I think Yuna and Shane’ll be pretty upset with me if I let you die here on a bathroom floor,” David says, and Ilya peeks an eye open at that. David smiles slightly. “So do me a favor, huh? I’ll even let you hold it against me forever if we get there and they send us right back home.” 

Ilya would like to argue further or even insist that he can go on his own if David is really that worried about it, but pain is a consuming thing, and right now, it’s eating up everything in him that might be able to resist giving in. 

When he nods, David gently helps him to his feet, and Ilya just tries not to get in his own way. 

*

The drive to the hospital through what is either late night or early morning Montreal is a quiet thing. 

Broken only by the humiliating fact that he has a plastic bag clutched in his hands in case he’s sick again, something he thinks might actually kill him from mortification when there’s space in him beyond how awful he feels. 

As it is, he closes his eyes and just tries to breathe through the sharp pain in his stomach. 

*

David probably knows more about him than Ilya wanted him to based on the way he ended up filling out his intake form for him, but it ends with Ilya laying down in a hospital bed attached to something in an IV that he did not bother listening to, David ducking down to say the nurse wanted to know if he has an allergies and squeezing his arm gently when he shook his head no, beyond words at the moment. Against the all-consuming sharp flare of pain in his stomach, the hurt drifting slowly to the right like it’s looking for new things to target, the pinprick of the IV doesn’t even register. 

The pain medication helps after the line is started, and the world goes softer around him. His stomach hurts, still, but in a way that's background noise instead of shrieking lead guitar. In slow degrees, he manages to uncoil slightly, and even through the haze of whatever is getting pumped into his veins, he manages to be a little embarrassed, now, at David Hollander sitting beside him in a hospital like this is even remotely his job. 

“You don’t have to stay,” he says, because it’s true and apparently David needs to be reminded about it based on the fact that he’s still here now. 

“Hm,” David says, and Ilya is languid enough on exhaustion and pain medicine that he doesn’t even jump when a gentle hand settles over his hair. “I’d like to stay if it’s all the same to you, make sure you’re doing okay.” 

Ilya doesn’t have a response to that. 

David doesn’t seem to require one. 

*

He floats in a hazy place, and when he feels David start to remove the steadying solidity of his hand against Ilya’s head, he makes a noise without meaning to that makes him pause, David resting his hand down again and this time even stroking over his hair gently. It’s embarrassing, probably, to be needy like this with someone who owes him nothing at all, but he doesn’t have it in him to take steps to make it stop. It’s not his parent touching him, obviously, but it’s the echo of when he had a parent who did touch him like this, and he’s not a strong enough person to make it stop even if he probably should, not when it feels so nice and he feels so fucking awful. 

“My mama used to do that,” Ilya thinks he thinks, until David responds, which means he said it out loud instead.

“Oh yeah?” He asks, voice soft.

Ilya nods.

“Not anymore?” David asks, and Ilya squeezes his eyes shut tight at the question.

The grief is with him, always, clinging like static electricity. He feels it most keenly, though, the hole in his life where his mother should be, in moments like this, when he's sick and hurting and the child in him wants his mother.

Even if she's long, long gone.

He drifts off to fingers scratching gently over his scalp.

*

For as long as the night seemed like it was, things start moving incredibly fucking fast after he wakes up again. 

So fast, in fact, that he can’t process the English as fast as it’s thrown at him by two different people, especially not when his head is fuzzy with drugs and exhaustion. He catches burst and infection and sep-something, and none of it sounds good, but he needs them to repeat what they said, so he can understand what’s wrong, so-

“Did you catch all that?” David asks, and Ilya, ashamed and feeling stupid, has to shake his head. David, though, just smiles easily and squeezes his shoulder before turning back to the two medical professionals in the room. “Say it again, please,” David says. “Slower this time. The drugs have got him pretty fuzzy.” 

Ilya feels a pang of gratitude for him so strong that it makes his chest hurt a little. 

“Your fever has spiked sharply since you arrived, and based on your white blood cell count and the ultrasound we did, it’s looking like you have a pretty advanced case of appendicitis. We’d like to go ahead and get you into surgery so we can take care of it before it bursts.” 

Bursts is a wildly alarming verb to hear in the context of something that is currently inside of him. 

“I need surgery?” He repeats. 

“Yes,” the doctor agrees. “As soon as possible. We have a surgeon ready to go, and we’d like to go ahead and move you into our pre-op area to get you ready. Your father won’t be able to come with you, but we’ll let him know when you’re ready for visitors.” 

Ilya, immediately, feels his face go hot, focusing on the clear miscommunication here. 

“He’s not-” He starts, turning to David, embarrassed and wanting him to know that Ilya wasn’t the one who told them that, wanting him to make sure Ilya would never saddle him with-

“That sound good to you?” David asks. “I know it’s happening pretty fast.” 

“I-yeah,” Ilya says. Now that David says it, he can register that aspect of things, and it does make him a little nervous, finding out both that he needs surgery and that it’s happening to him now. 

“Anyone you want me to call for you?” David asks, stepping back to let the nurse start moving things around on his bed because apparently he’s just going to get wheeled along in it, which somehow makes him even more anxious about what’s going on. 

“I-um,” Ilya says, trying to get his thoughts in order. He feels a little pang of hurt when he realizes there’s no one in his family that he wants to know about this, that the main people he’d be telling under other circumstances are David and his family. Still, saying that would feel pathetic, and he does manage to come up with one name to offer. “Svetlana? I think I have mentioned her before?” 

David nods. 

“She, um-” They’re starting to move now, and Ilya feels something absurdly like panic setting in. Too fast. This is too fast. He’s not even sure he actually made the decision that this is happening to him, and now it’s happening, and he doesn’t-

“I’ll get her number from Shane,” David says, calm and steady. “Don’t worry about it, alright? You just focus on getting better. That’s all you have to do, okay?”  

It’s a ridiculous instruction, really. 

Still, it settles him some to hear. 

He nods and is then wheeled away. 

*

Ilya wakes up feeling disoriented. 

But also really, really fucking good. 

“Hey, you. You awake for good this time?” 

Ilya blinks at the ceiling for a long moment before he rediscovers the ability to turn his head towards the sound, finding David sitting in a chair next to his bed. When their eyes meet, David smiles. 

“How are you feeling?” 

It takes a long moment for Ilya to find the word he wants and a longer moment to find the word in English. 

“Cloudy.” 

David nods, like this makes perfect sense to him. 

“You feeling any pain?” 

Ilya stops and considers. He feels a vague kind of pulling sensation when he shifts slightly, but the discomfort of it is barely anything at all, especially with the stabbing ache it’s replaced. He shakes his head. 

“You sure?” David presses. “I can get a nurse if you’re hurting.” 

“I’m okay,” Ilya says. “You’re here?” He means it to come out as a bigger question with more words, but those are the only two that offered themselves up. 

“I am,” David agrees. “That okay with you?” 

Ilya nods. 

David nods back. 

Ilya submits to getting some help taking a sip of water to help with his wildly dry mouth, and then he falls asleep again to the sound of David humming something under his breath. 

*

He’s more aware when he wakes up a second time, and the angle of the sunlight through the window tells him that it’s well into the morning. A nurse says he has a visitor waiting to see him if he’s up to it, and he’s thrown for a moment about why he suddenly has to agree to someone coming in to see him, deciding he must have slept long enough for there to have been a shift change or something. He assumes it’s going to be David again, but instead it’s Shane who walks in. 

“Jesus, dude,” he says as soon as he’s through the door. “You couldn’t even wait for me to wake up before you had to have a medical emergency?” 

“It had to be a surprise,” Ilya teases back, barely resisting the urge to wince slightly when he shifts. “You would have eaten peanuts or something and stolen my moment otherwise.” 

“Well trust me,” Shane says, sitting down in the visitor’s chair. “Definitely a surprise to wake up and suddenly two of the four people in my house were just MIA. I had to ask my mom where the fuck everyone went.” 

“Next time I’ll try to time needing the hospital better for your schedule,” Ilya says dryly. 

“Dad said to tell you he’ll be back later with some clothes. I said I’d switch out with him so he could get some sleep.” 

Ilya feels an immediate swell of guilt at being the reason he lost sleep when going to a hospital at fuck o’clock at night is certainly not a responsibility David Hollander has when it comes to him. Before he can figure out a way to say this for Shane to convey to his father, however, he’s already moving on in the conversation. 

“Mom called your coach and told him what happened. He’ll probably call you later and talk to you himself, but your med team said you’re on two weeks of med leave and then they’ll see where you’re at then. They asked if somewhere to stay needed to be arranged for you here until you can fly, but she said you could just stay with me. That cool?” 

“Is your house,” Ilya says, a little overwhelmed at so much happening on his behalf without any input from him. “You tell me.” 

“I mean, it’s going to be expensive, obviously,” Shane says with a grin, “but I know where you keep your credit cards, so don’t worry. I can run them myself.” 

Ilya snorts and then regrets it when the motion pulls at something painful. 

“You okay?” Shane asks, and Ilya nods, settling back carefully. “I have a game in New York day after tomorrow, but then it’s home games for the next week and a half. My mom is planning to stay until I’m back if that’s cool with you.” 

“She does not need to do that,” Ilya says at once, flustered by inconveniencing yet another Hollander. “She can-” 

“I’m going to be honest, dude, I’m not totally sure it’s an optional thing,” Shane says wryly. “The ‘if that’s cool with you’ part was more for being polite. I’m pretty sure you might be grounded.” 

“I am a grown man,” Ilya says, because joking is easier than processing Yuna disrupting what Ilya knows is a very busy schedule just to look after him. “I cannot be grounded.” 

“Oh?” Shane asks, lifting his brows. “I’d love to see you tell my mom that to her face.” 

It’s a challenge Ilya will not be taking, and he can tell from the way Shane grins that he’s read it in his face. 

“I think she’s coming by later,” he says, sitting back. “She’s picking up some groceries right now since you like to get so fucking mouthy about my mealpreps,” Shane teases.

“I have already had an organ removed, Hollander,” Ilya says. “I do not deserve your mealpreps, too. I have suffered enough.” 

“Asshole,” Shane says. “Also, I am absolutely going to kick your ass later for playing through fucking appendicitis.” 

Ilya gives him a look. 

“Like you wouldn’t have done the same fucking thing.” 

This time it’s Shane who chooses not to respond to something they both already know the answer to. 

*

“So rooting for Montreal is what? Humiliation ritual for you?” Ilya teases as Yuna sits back down and hands him a bowl of soup. 

“Bold to sass the person serving you food,” Yuna says, but there’s no real heat to it. She curls back up on the couch with him, pulling her legs up and settling her throw blanket back up over her legs. 

“Thank you for dinner,” Ilya says, and she swallows her own bite before she answers. 

“You’re welcome. You don’t have to thank me for every meal, though, you know.” 

Ilya makes a non-committal noise, taking a bite of his own. He’d tried to reiterate to Yuna that she didn’t have to disrupt her own schedule just for him, but she’d threatened to follow him all the way back to Boston if he didn’t knock it off, so he’s largely just submitted to being told what to do. 

It’s nice in a way that’s maybe a little bit pathetic, but also in a way he’s kind of enjoying. 

“Yes, yes-fuck,” Yuna says, as Montreal’s rookie fumbles a perfectly good pass from Shane, leaving it wide open for the other team to steal. “Why do they keep putting him on Shane’s line? He is not keeping up.” She looks at Ilya, pointing her spoon threateningly. “No comment from you.” 

Ilya grins and takes another bite. 

From the side eye Yuna gives him, he gathers she heard his unspoken commentary anyway. 

*

“You need anything before I go to bed?” Yuna asks that night, leaning over the back of the couch. 

“No,” Ilya says, shaking his head. “I am okay, thank you.” 

“You sure?” Yuna asks. 

“I’m sure.” He hesitates, and she sees it, nodding at him to speak. “Thank you. For staying here. You did not have to, so…thank you.” He barely resists the urge to wince at how awkward he sounds. Yuna, though, just smiles, leaning over and tilting his head forward slightly to kiss the top of it, squeezing his neck gently before letting go. 

“You’re welcome,” she says, standing upright again. “Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight,” he echoes, glad his voice comes out so even when his throat feels so tight.

*

Ilya rouses from a nap he hadn’t known he was about to take when he hears buzzing, opening his eyes just in time to see Shane curse under his breath and reach for his phone. He rests a hand over Ilya’s chest as if in apology as he pulls up whatever message he just got. 

For his own part, Ilya doesn’t bother moving until he has to. Five days post surgery, he isn’t in as much pain as he was when he first got out of the hospital, but he’s also not keen on going through the trouble of sitting up if he doesn’t have to, content to keep resting with his head on Shane’s lap until he’s forced to move. From the way Shane doesn’t move his hand from him, though, he gathers he isn’t at risk of that yet, even if Shane’s expression is interesting as he responds to whatever he got sent. 

“Something is wrong?” He asks, pressing a hand gently just above his incision site as he yawns to keep from stretching anything painful. 

“Hm?” Shane says, looking up from his screen and blinking. He presses his hand down on Ilya’s chest in a gesture that feels affectionate. “No, just someone texting me.” 

The vagueness is interesting. 

“Team thing?” He asks, wondering if Shane is missing out on social commitments just to hang out with him instead. 

The idea is as equally guilt-inducing as it is pleasing. 

“No,” Shane says. “Guy I hooked up with in Toronto. He’s a real estate person, and he’s in Montreal for something. He wanted to know if I wanted to meet up.” He presses the button on his phone to turn the screen off and tosses it to the side. 

Well approximately none of that is pleasing. 

“You want me to get a hotel room?” Ilya asks, hoping it doesn’t come out as bitter as it feels thinking about it. He knows he’s being an imposition here and has no right to begrudge if Shane needs him to leave so he can meet up with someone who isn’t recovering from surgery and can thus fuck him right now, but the idea of having to leave so that can happen is immensely annoying to contemplate. 

“What?” Shane asks, like he’s confused he would even be asked. 

“Does he want to come here?” Ilya asks. 

“No, of course not,” Shane says, frowning like the very idea is mystifying. “I don’t bring people back to my house.” 

As someone who’s been allowed to fuck Shane in his house from the start, this answer is slightly mollifying. He relaxes a bit more. 

“He wants you to meet up with him at his hotel, then?” Ilya checks. It’s less obnoxious than the idea of having to vacate the house so Shane can get laid, but he doesn’t love the idea of Shane going off to fuck someone else when Ilya isn’t going to be able to immediately do better. 

“I told him I’m busy,” Shane says, moving a hand up to sink his fingers through Ilya’s curls. “I’m not going to go fuck someone while you just wait around for me.” 

The fact that he sounds confused that Ilya would even suggest such a thing is more reassuring than it should be, probably. 

“You could. I wouldn’t mind,” Ilya lies, because he knows he should. His own feelings about it aside, it’s not fair for him to try and hold Shane to a fidelity he isn’t owed. 

“I’m not going to just ditch you to go fuck someone else,” Shane says, rubbing against his scalp gently. 

Ilya closes his eyes to enjoy both the words and the relaxing sensation. 

“Besides, he’s not that good in bed anyway,” Shane says easily, settling back a bit, getting more comfortable, fingers not stopping their motion in Ilya’s hair. “I’d rather hang out with you.” 

Ilya smiles, drifting off to the feeling of Shane touching him gently. 

Chapter 6: training wheels: shane decides to get better at casual sex (with ilya's help, of course)

Chapter Notes

hi friends the fatigue of existence has really set in so uuuuuuuh here's this i guess

“You’re leaving?” 

Shane cringes while looking at the door, regretting getting so close to freedom only to fumble at the finish line. He exhales and puts his game face on, turning to face Tara, who is wearing a shirt but nothing else. She’s a beautiful woman. Shane can appreciate that even objectively. She’s nice, and she’s funny, and last night was…fine. 

It’s just that it was only fine, something that is going to be very hard not to think about if he doesn’t make this whole interaction end very soon. 

“Told a rookie I’d meet him at the gym to take him through some exercises I’ve found helpful,” Shane says, which is not a lie. 

It’s the reason he’d made the plans the night before, when he got enough teasing about Tara—who is a friend of a friend of a friend of a WAG—openly flirting with him that not going home with her would have gotten more comments than giving in to what everyone was expecting anyway. It’s not something he feels good about, necessarily, the way he weighs out when he does or doesn’t visibly leave somewhere with a woman, but it’s useful. He gets teased about how little he does it, but he’s refined it over the past few years into something of a mathematical equation by this point. When he’s got two teammates trying to set him up with someone and at least four trying to play wingman when they go out, he knows it’s time to find an opportunity to be seen going home with someone for the sake of not inviting any further chirping or curiosity about his personal life. 

He doesn’t necessarily enjoy these nights, not when he compares them to the familiar comfort of fucking Ilya after so many years of knowing each other, but they run smoothly enough that it’s something almost like comfortable: pick someone funny and not starstruck, make sure she’s not drunk, go to her place or a hotel together, do whatever he can manage to summon up the interest for, take a shower, and then have a reason he can’t stay longer while hopefully not making whoever he went home with feel bad. Easy. Predictable. Gets the guys off his back. 

And something he doesn’t let himself think about past the point it ends. 

“Call me sometime, will you?” Tara asks, and Shane nods. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.” 

He turns away to the door to finish his escape, and he tries to pretend he doesn’t know it’s a lie. 

*

It’s not like he doesn’t have frequent reminders that Ilya has his choice of people to hop in bed with. If his reputation or his Instagram comment sections weren’t enough, even Shane’s parents tease him about it. 

Something that Shane doesn’t particularly enjoy. 

“She seems so nice, though,” Shane’s mom teases tonight, after dinner was briefly interrupted by a woman getting far too into Ilya’s personal space and not leaving until she’d secured a promise of getting a text so they can “catch up.” 

Shane is less than fucking thrilled at the idea. 

“You have to settle down with someone eventually,” she continues, passing the bread basket over. 

“Why?” Ilya teases, accepting it and lifting it to Shane in an offer he refuses with a small shake of his head before he sets it back down. “You are looking to market engagement rings or something?” 

“Well this one,” his mom teases, kicking Shane lightly under the table, “certainly isn’t looking like he’s going to be doing it anytime soon. We’re missing out on valuable advertising dollars.” 

“I should give him lessons, then?” Ilya asks with a grin and an elbow knocking into Shane’s. “Teach him how to pick people up and break hearts?” 

“Shane could break hearts if he wanted to,” his dad says loyally. 

“Maybe I break hearts all the time,” Shane says, taking a sip of his ginger ale, “and I’m just more subtle about it.” 

“No,” Ilya says, cooing obnoxiously, “you are too sweet and innocent for-” 

Shane kicks him hard enough that Ilya bends forward to grab his ankle and hisses something in Russian. 

Shane helps himself to a bread roll after all, snatching Ilya’s off of his plate. 

*

Shane takes a bad hit fifteen minutes into the game that night, and it certainly does nothing to fix his mood, already primed towards annoyance after the interruption at lunch. The hit itself wasn’t too bad, but he fell badly in his attempt at avoiding slamming into JJ and taking him out, too, sending a sharp, bone-jarringly bright flare of pain through his left knee, already predisposed to being fucked up courtesy of an injury he took as a teenager. 

“Bad luck,” Ilya says when they get in place for their next face off. “No need to put your bad knee through this, you know. You could just quit now. Would be same result for Montreal either way.” 

The chirping is annoying even if the way Ilya just knows about his bad knee is strangely pleasing, this little sign of being cared about enough that of course Ilya would know he has a bad knee. 

Not that he’ll ever let the satisfaction of it get in the way of trying to kick his fucking ass, of course. 

“Worry less about my knee and more about being down by two points already,” Shane advises. 

Ilya’s quick flicker of a grin is a promise and a challenge all at once. 

Shane grins in response to both. 

*

“Sit the fuck down, already,” Ilya says, throwing a dishcloth at Shane’s head when he peeks it around the corner into the kitchen. “I can put dishes in a dishwasher, Hollander. I am capable of this.” 

“I want more water,” Shane defends, holding his bottle out as proof. 

Ilya rolls his eyes but moves to take it from him. 

“I will get it. Now go sit down. I will bring ice for your knee.” 

“You don’t need to-” 

Ilya stops him with a gentle tap to his jaw. 

“For someone who has to go to hospitals so often, you are fucking awful patient. Go sit down and stop fucking your knee up more.” 

“It’s not that bad,” Shane calls over his shoulder, even as he moves to obey. “I’m not even out of the next game.” 

Ilya’s pointed silence is a clear statement that he disagrees with this call, but he doesn’t push the point. 

Shane chooses to retreat to the living room, trying to avoid limping as much as possible. 

*

“Thanks,” Shane says, getting a noise of acknowledgement in response after Ilya carefully settles an icepack on his knee before sitting down next to him. “God, we’re going to be so fucked when we’re old.” 

“Hm, I will maybe just not get old,” Ilya says, and it sounds like teasing, but also…not. He makes jokes like this sometimes, things that tiptoe around the edge of something Shane could actually call him on. He’s tried, before, but every path ends in “Miss,” and he usually gives up, afraid of spooking Ilya into keeping everything inside, overcorrecting into hiding things in a way that would make Shane worry he was missing warning signs. With how much Ilya refuses to answer personal questions, he doesn’t know that he’d be able to do anything about them if he did see them, but he’d like to at least get the chance. “I thought you were supposed to do yoga things that make you not be injured like this.” 

“Yoga does help with-” Shane cuts himself off and elbows Ilya in the side when he makes a talking puppet of his hand. “Asshole.” 

“You can talk to me about yoga all fucking day, Hollander. I am not doing it. You cannot make me.” 

“It’s good for your flexibility,” Shane maintains, stubborn, not the first time he’s defended yoga. Ilya’s teasing is gentler than some of the chirping he’s gotten in the past about it, but still. 

God forbid a man care about the longevity of his hip flexors. 

“Is supposed to make you calm also, yes? I am not seeing results from that either.” 

“Feel free to leave my house at any point with your shitty opinions,” Shane says dryly, but when Ilya tugs him in, he goes easily, settling with his head on his shoulder, Ilya’s fingers moving up to play with his hair automatically. 

It’s these moments that are the most dangerous, really, maybe even beyond the fucking. It’s the lack of anything sexual that makes it so easy for Shane to read things that aren’t there. He knows by now that it’s not exclusive to him, this behavior; he’s seen Ilya rest his head on Svetlana’s lap with neither of them acting like it’s out of the ordinary. It still makes him jealous, the casual physical affection between them, even though he knows he should take it as a lesson. The way Ilya touches him isn’t exceptional. 

Shane is just stupid enough to sometimes wish it was. 

“Think that girl is going to be disappointed you didn’t call her?” Shane asks as Ilya starts flipping through channels. Annoying as it was, it’s probably good, the reminder that the only thing exceptional about his and Ilya’s arrangement is that they hang out outside of fucking each other. 

“What girl?” Ilya asks, taking a moment before he appears to remember what Shane’s talking about, which is strangely pleasing. “Mm, maybe I should call her. We could have threesome.” 

He’s clearly being playful, but the idea of having someone else in his bed with Ilya, sharing his attention, taking up his time, getting his hands on their body instead of them being on his,  makes Shane want to break something, even if he knows it shouldn’t. 

“Maybe,” Shane says, the most he can manage without doing something potentially embarrassing like asking when the fuck Ilya had time to fuck someone else in Montreal. As far as Shane has known, Ilya’s always come over as soon as possible when his team gets here and stayed until he has to leave. He hadn’t known he was also making time for pitstops along the way. 

It’s not a discovery he’s enjoying. 

“Could be fun, yes?” Ilya asks, and now there’s a thread of sincerity under the question that makes Shane’s stomach clench. “I have never seen you with a girl. I am curious.” 

“About what?” Shane asks, forcing his tone to remain even. 

“About what you are like with them,” Ilya says, with a shrug Shane can feel. “You like getting fucked. Is hard to imagine you fucking someone else.” 

“What?” Shane asks, tilting his head back. “Is this a hint or something? You want a turn?” 

“No,” Ilya says easily, shaking his head. “No hint.” 

“If you want to-” Shane starts, but Ilya just shakes his head again. 

“No, just wondering out loud,” Ilya says. “I am happy with how we do things.” 

Shane settles, wishing he could say the same. 

*

Shane tries not to think about what it says about him that some of his clearest thoughts come in the afterglow of sex, when Ilya is still inside of him, pressed close and handsy, sometimes idly playing with his nipples to instigate a round two if they’re early enough in the night but otherwise just touching him calm and gentle, firm, rhythmic strokes over his skin and sweet little kisses pressed to his head and shoulders. Ilya rarely talks in these moments, and he doesn’t seem to expect Shane to, either, which leaves them in a simple little bubble of skin and hands and physical satisfaction. He’s tried and failed meditation before because he just can’t get his mind to go quiet enough to get anything out of it, but he imagines this is how it must feel for the people it works for, his body satisfied and calm enough that it echoes up through his spine and into his brain, pushing all of the noise away and letting him think. 

Right now what he’s thinking about is if he should feel this calm and happy with someone he’s supposed to be only scratching an itch with. 

He’s never really felt the urge to stay inside of any of the women he’s slept with after they’ve finished, small as that pool is. He’s felt guilty, in fact, sometimes, when he pulls out immediately. He’s not sure if other people feel the same satisfaction of being full that he does, and he doesn’t know how to ask, either, but it has made him feel bad, knowing exactly how good a cock to stretch around feels even in the aftermath of sex and not usually wanting to offer the satisfaction to someone else. He had stayed inside afterwards once, with a woman named Christina who he’d had casual conversation with enough times by virtue of being a friend of one of the guys on the team that it hadn’t felt heinously awkward to stay close even after finishing, but she’d still slipped away faster than he ever does, making him suspect that other people might not enjoy staying connected after sex quite as much as he does. 

Which had just been yet another signal that something needed to be done about how much he feels when it comes to sex with Ilya. 

Ilya saying he could teach Shane how to pick someone up is something that hasn’t left him, even if he hasn’t brought it up since it was said, letting it stay on a simmer at the back of his mind until he can decide how he feels about it. He knows it was a joke, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something valuable in the offer. It seems so easy for Ilya, after all, sex with no strings attached. 

He wonders, suddenly, if it might just be down to novelty, if sex with Ilya just feels so exceptional because it is an exception to the sex Shane usually has. It’s not like he has sex with women very often, but he’s never had sex with a man besides Ilya. Maybe if he just tries out sex with a few different men, it’ll make it easier to get his feelings in order. It’s not like he hasn’t wondered, after all. It’s just always seemed so risky before, too much of a hazard when he can already satisfy the craving with someone he knows is trustworthy, when he might have to make guesses about someone else, something he’s never excelled at. He’d potentially had the chance the other night, in fact, but he’d gotten too caught up in his own mind about it, trying to work out flirtatious versus just friendly with a friend of JJ’s who had sat next to him the whole night and made conversation, seeming touchy beyond what an average guy might default to but not pushing beyond that, not into anything that Shane could definitively read as interest. He’d thought about it, but he hadn’t been willing to take the risk, not when the consequences could be so fucking massive, especially with his team right there. Ilya manages it just fine, though, reads exactly what kind of interest means another man is down to fuck and ostensibly takes advantage of it. Shane’s never heard so much of a whisper about him, but from what he demonstrates when he and Shane are in bed together, he knows Ilya has certainly practiced plenty. 

It makes the most sense, really. Ilya had managed to read his interest even when Shane was trying to deny to himself that there was interest. If he’d been willing to jerk off at him in the showers, he had to have been confident that his interest would be reciprocated, able to read that Shane would take him up on it. It’s not a skill Shane has, really. Even with the women he sometimes leaves somewhere with, he only makes a move after teasing from other people has confirmed that there’s interest there. It has to be something someone can learn, though, and if there’s anyone Shane can trust to teach him, well…it’s Ilya. 

Plan made, he puts it into action immediately, riding the wave of post-sex clear thinking to rip the bandaid off of something he probably should have done years ago. 

“How do you know when other guys are interested in hooking up?” 

He feels Ilya stir slightly, but he isn’t alarmed. He doesn’t think Ilya does quite as much thinking after sex as he does, so it often takes him a moment or two to catch up to whatever Shane brings up. 

“What do you mean?” He asks finally, not bothering to move and look at him, which reassures Shane that what he’s asking can’t be that wild, not if Ilya doesn’t even bother to pull out of him afterwards. 

“How do you know when other guys are interested in hooking up?” He repeats, like Ilya not hearing him was the problem here. He starts to try and turn over, to better ask this favor, but Ilya apparently hasn’t had his fill of staying inside, because he holds Shane in place. It’s not like Shane doesn’t enjoy it, so he doesn’t bother resisting, pressing back a little closer but not trying to move beyond that. “Like, you knew I was. How did you know?” 

“The staring at my cock in the shower was a pretty good hint,” Ilya says, and Shane rolls his eyes at the teasing, even if it is one of the things that makes Ilya a good person to learn from. 

“Asshole,” Shane says, elbowing him. “I’m serious, though. Jerking off at me was pretty fucking risky, dude. How did you know I’d be into it?” He had to have known, after all. Shane can’t imagine any world in which even Ilya Rozanov could have played that off afterwards. He could have tried to say it was a powermove, maybe, some weird dominance play, but Shane knows they both have to be aware of the fact that Shane could have really fucked him over afterwards if he had felt so inclined. 

Which means Ilya knew the risk would have a payoff. 

“Because you are terrible liar and spent most of the shoot eye fucking me?” Ilya says, and Shane makes a face even if Ilya can’t see it. 

“I did not,” Shane protests, and he’s even pretty sure it’s true. Ilya was the one who set the whole thing up, after all. Shane had just been there to do his job. Yes, he’d enjoyed watching Ilya in action, but that’s not so strange, not when they both do the same job. 

(...that’s what Shane has always told himself, at least.) 

“You are fishing for compliments or what?” Ilya asks, because he’s apparently determined to make this whole thing more difficult than it needs to be. “You want me to tell you you are very pretty?” He teasingly nuzzles against the back of Shane’s head hard enough to push it forward, and Shane shoulders him back. 

“I’m just wondering,” he says, trying to decide if he should offer any justification or not and deciding on the easiest thing he can say as the reason for this. It’s not like he can tell Ilya, ‘Hey, I think I feel too much about you and need to fuck other guys so I can calm down about it and not ruin our friendship,’ after all. Better to put the blame on a third party. “I thought a guy might have been interested when I was out with JJ the other night, but he didn’t ask for my number or anything, so I don’t know if I was wrong or not.” 

“You are trying to pick up with your team around?” Ilya asks, and Shane is frankly a little offended that Ilya thinks he’s that stupid. Being a man who fucks men might not carry legal consequences in Canada, but that doesn’t mean Shane isn’t painfully aware of the way his proclivities getting out would nuke his whole fucking life around him. 

“I mean, no, obviously not,” Shane says, and he pulls away, the accidental insult ruining the satisfaction of Ilya still inside of him when it’s a physical reminder of the central fucking problem here. He shouldn’t really be fucking Ilya at all, and he certainly shouldn’t be enjoying having him inside after. It feels good enough that he knows he’ll keep doing it, but it’s not like he’s unaware of what a bad idea it is. “I’ve just never done it before, you know? Going home with a guy. Well, besides you, obviously.” He feels a little shy admitting it, honestly, inexperienced and maybe a little lame, but if he’s going to get Ilya to teach him, there’s no reason to lie about it. 

Shane’s worked with enough rookies by now to know how annoying it is to try and help someone out when they won’t even admit how much they don’t know, after all. 

“And you are suddenly looking to have a slut phase?” Ilya says, and Shane can’t even be offended when it’s such a hypocritical thing to hear from Ilya “Enough of a Slut to Have Reddit Posts About It” Rozanov.

“Hey pot, I’m kettle,” Shane says dryly. He can tell Ilya doesn’t know what he means, and the little pang of affection he feels in his chest about it is just one more damning piece of evidence that he needs to do something about the way he feels. 

Ilya is too important to him to risk fucking it all up by being attached in a way he shouldn’t be. 

“Is risky, picking out a man,” Ilya says, and again, Shane feels a little insulted, like he isn’t perfectly fucking aware of this. 

Like he isn’t asking for help in the first place because he’s so fucking aware of this. 

“You do it,” Shane says. “What, you think I can’t?” 

“I did not say that,” he says, and Shane is mildly appeased by the gentle squeeze to his hip he gets in response. He can understand why Ilya would be more on edge, after all. They are friends. He wouldn’t want Ilya to get caught, either. 

“Okay,” Shane says, shifting a little to settle more comfortably on his pillow, “so how do you do it? At bars? Or is there like…an app or something? They have those, right?” He’s heard about at least one app, he’s pretty sure, but he also spends a significant amount of time making sure he stays well away from anything that might even hint at him not being perfectly straight. 

“There are apps,” Ilya says, “but is risky, having your face on something like that.” 

This is a good point, and something that confirms that Ilya has experience in this. 

“So…bars?” Shane says, trying to imagine where else Ilya would be finding people. “Or clubs?” 

“Usually,” Ilya says. 

“Can you show me how?” Shane asks, because he’s gotten this far and might as well push for a goal. 

“What?” 

“Next time we go out,” Shane says. “You know how to pick out guys who are interested in guys, right?” The question is a show of manners when he knows Ilya can pick up whenever he wants, but if he’s asking a favor of this magnitude, he should probably be polite about it. 

(There’s a very, very stupid part of him that almost wants Ilya to refuse, to say that he doesn’t want Shane fucking other men. There’s no reason for him to say it, of course. It’s not like either of them has any expectations of fidelity from the other. They’re nothing that would require it, after all. They’re friends who fuck, and Ilya isn’t the one with stupid feelings that threaten that. What is it to him if Shane fucks other people?)

“Yes,” Ilya says, and Shane glances down at how tight his grip has gotten on his hip. He can’t let himself read into that, not when he knows better. 

“Okay,” Shane says, pushing forward. “Then next time we go out, you show me what guys are into guys, and then I can like…practice, or something.” Shane smiles as best he can, trying to lean into the potential competition element so he won’t have to think about the end result, not until he has to. “We can make it a contest. Who can pick someone up first.” 

“Sure,” Ilya says, and Shane tries very hard not to feel a stupid little twinge of hurt that he agreed so easily. “You’re on.” 

Solution set, Shane allows himself the luxury of tucking himself close to Ilya once again, cheek against his shoulder, Ilya’s chin a grounding, pleasant weight against his head. He’ll need to give this up, he knows, the comfort of doing what he knows can only be called snuggling after sex. 

But with a plan made on how to fix his own stupid wanting, he can let himself have it for now. 

*

“Dude,” Shane complains even as he smiles when Ilya doesn’t even make it halfway to their staged face off before laughing. Literal fucking years of this, and the man still catches the fucking giggles at least twice a shoot. Really, it’s a goddamn miracle he has the reputation he does, Shane thinks sometimes, something that can only be chalked up to how little behind the scenes footage gets out courtesy of the riders his mom has for both of them. 

“Sorry,” Ilya calls to the staff, who look far less endeared than Shane feels. “Sorry, I can do it, I promise.” 

“Can you?” Shane asks, lifting his eyebrows. 

“Yes,” Ilya says, even though he still hasn’t gotten himself together, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly in a way that says he’s barely containing the urge to laugh again. “I can do it.” 

“Shane, why don’t we get some solo shots of you, yeah?” Calls the main photographer. “Ilya, why don’t you take five?” 

If Ilya minds the dismissal so he can get his act together, it doesn’t show as he takes the imposed break with grace. 

He and Shane both try to trip the other with their sticks as they pass by in opposite directions. 

*

“Hold.” 

Shane looks up at the command, but he obeys and holds still while Ilya loops his crucifix around his neck for safe keeping. It’s so much a part of his brand by now that Ilya rarely takes it off even for shirtless pictures, but with them both getting oiled up for today’s shoot to mimic sweat, Shane knows Ilya doesn’t want to have to clean it out of the chain later, something Shane’s heard him complain about before. The metal settles against his throat still warm from Ilya’s bodyheat, and Shane barely suppresses the urge to shiver. It feels strangely intimate, even now, wearing a skin-warm necklace that he’s only ever seen Ilya take off to loop around his own throat. He knows that in reality he’s just a glorified mannequin, somewhere to stash it that it won’t get lost or damaged, but it makes him feel special, a little bit, being trusted with something that Ilya clearly values. 

Of the delusions Shane has to consciously fight against falling victim to, it’s at least among the lesser evils. 

*

Shane is aware that his mom’s involvement in Ilya’s career is a delicate balance. He’s never gotten details about it, but he knows Ilya’s actual agent isn’t always thrilled about the jobs his mom gets Ilya. He’s never actually met the man, but from how mad his mom has looked while reading emails before, he dislikes him on principle purely out of solidarity. 

He certainly doesn’t like him more on days like today, when snacking between setups has been disrupted by Ilya stepping away to argue with him on the phone in terse Russian. 

“Everything okay?” Shane asks when Ilya rejoins him, holding out a few orange segments in offer. 

“Fine,” Ilya says shortly, taking his seat again and accepting the orange. 

“Your agent?” Shane asks, even though he already knows. He may not be able to read Cyrillic, really, but he can reliably pick out the symbols that correspond to Svetlana and Ilya’s agent, brother, and father. He’s never said this to Ilya—he gets the feeling that he wouldn’t be thrilled if he found out—but it does mean he isn’t flying entirely blind. He doesn’t have details because Ilya refuses to give him any, but he knows that of the four, only Svetlana on the other end doesn’t often end in Ilya frustrated or quieter than he normally is afterwards for a while. Ilya reliably goes home every single summer and always stays right by his father at events, so Shane’s best guess is just that it must be complicated to be an entire ocean away from someone’s family. He knows it would be for him, after all. It doesn’t really happen with his dad, but even close as Ottawa and Montreal, he and his mom have butted heads before over things and been a little short with each other afterwards until they’ve managed to make amends, usually by cold calling each other after a game to mutually bemoan someone else’s terrible play, an unspoken apology offered and accepted by the reminder that they’re a team and always will be. It doesn’t happen often, but he knows it leaves him feeling out of sorts until they’ve patched things up. He can’t imagine trying to do it across an ocean and in an entirely different timezone when they might not even see each other for months, so he can understand why Ilya might find it difficult, especially when he’s had to do it for years. He’d like to try and help if he can, even if it’s just listening, but Ilya’s refusal to actually give him anything that might confirm his guess is a pretty clear hint that it’s not Shane’s place to do that. 

“He wants to cancel Gaultier thing,” Ilya says shortly. 

“Why?” Shane asks, genuinely thrown. He personally thinks the clothes are fucking awful, but he’s done enough work for similar jobs to know the paycheck is still solid. He also knows that Ilya has plenty of Gaultier clothes in his closet—which Shane knows from making fun of him for it repeatedly—so it’s not like it doesn’t make sense as a move for him. It’s not something that would suit Shane’s brand, but it fits Ilya’s image perfectly fine. 

Ilya makes an annoyed noise and shakes his head, glaring at nothing in particular. 

“Is he mad my mom-” 

“Miss,” Ilya says shortly, and Shane obligingly bites back the rest of the question. His expression must show how annoyed he is, though, because Ilya glances at him and then exhales. “He does not like it for my ‘image.’” The quotation marks around the last word are clear. 

“And he doesn’t like it for your bank account either?” Shane asks, lifting his brows. 

Ilya snorts before moving to rub a hand over his face, saved only by Shane catching his wrist at the last second so he won’t wreck his makeup and have to get it redone. 

“Blyat,” he complains, dropping his hand after Shane releases him. 

He looks tense, unhappy, and Shane casts around for something to offer him when he already has so little information to work off of and when he knows Ilya probably isn’t going to offer him more. 

“Let’s go out tonight,” he offers, resisting the urge to make a face at the idea after it’s out. Saturday night in New York City sounds like hell to him personally, but he knows Ilya is enough of a club rat that he’ll probably enjoy it. 

“You want to go out?” Ilya asks, sounding doubtful. 

No, he doesn’t, really. What he’d actually like is to go back to the hotel room, eat takeout, and then fuck Ilya for as long as they’ve got until they have to go back to their separate rooms before leaving at fuck o’clock tomorrow morning, but he’d also like to offer Ilya something he’ll enjoy, a little stress relief if he won’t just talk to Shane about whatever has his agent so mad. Shane knows, though, that Ilya won’t accept the offer if he thinks it’s just for him, so-

“We can try picking someone up,” Shane says, like it’s totally casual. He doesn’t know if he’s actually ready to put it into practice for himself, but Ilya likes attention and flirting. Maybe it’ll be good for him to get to do both, especially if there’s an added thrill of it technically being a little risky, something Shane knows Ilya enjoys by the way he’s never followed a speed limit in his fucking life. “Like we talked about before.” It’s the most he’s willing to hint even with no one close enough to actually hear him, and it clearly takes Ilya a second to catch on to what he means. 

“We could-” Ilya starts. 

“Ilya, we’re ready for you,” one of the PAs calls. 

Ilya exhales and gets up, heeding the summons. 

*

Shane thinks he should probably be disappointed that his maiden voyage in trying to pick up a guy is a categorical failure. New York City is a pretty prime opportunity, after all, and the security blanket of Ilya with him means the risk is low. It’s the only reason he’s actually bold enough to stick to the plan, in fact, trying to pick out what he thinks are likely possibilities for the sake of practicing but trusting Ilya to make the call on if he’s right or not. 

As it turns out, though, he seems to have whatever the opposite of gaydar is. 

When they return to the hotel room and he’s under Ilya’s comfortable, familiar weight, their mouths pressed together and Ilya’s cock hitting him just right, he can’t say he’s too disappointed, though. 

And in the aftermath, curled close to enjoy the oxytocin of some skin contact, he can’t even pretend he’s anything other than perfectly content with how his night is ending. 

He can try again another time, he decides. 

After all, practice makes perfect. 

*

Shane decides to take the training wheels off after round three of no luck finding anyone when going out with Ilya. He’d prefer to pick someone up with the comfort of knowing Ilya’s there to help him if anything goes wrong, but that feels a little pathetic even in Shane’s own head, and he knows it’s not really Ilya’s responsibility to help him get laid. 

(Well, to get laid with anyone else, at least.) 

He’s a nervous wreck the night he decides to actually commit to finding someone, though. 

He’d gone out with his team in San Francisco with some half-formed notion of maybe having better luck in a city pretty infamous for being pretty fucking gay, and he’d even managed to slip away from everyone else, his privacy assured by having his team all together in a place he plans on not being for very long. Hayden had been the hardest to shake, but with a wife and young baby at home, when Shane had gently nudged him back to the hotel room to get some sleep, he hadn’t fought him that hard about it, just asking Shane to text him if he wouldn’t be back. Shane had agreed. 

And then he’d waited about five minutes before leaving the bar as well, taking an Uber to another bar a good forty-five minutes away, far, far away from anyone who would be able to recognize him, especially without the context of his team around him. 

The bar he picks isn’t a gay bar because he’s not that fucking bold, but it still only takes a little while of him hovering around the edges of the rooftop garden—half in the shadows, where the likelihood of anyone at a distance recognizing him will be even lower—for an attractive man to wander over. Shane gives him a fake name, and the way the man doesn’t even falter says he indeed doesn’t recognize him. 

It takes an even shorter amount of time for the man to get right fucking to it, something that Shane is equally a little thrown and a little flattered by. 

“What do you say we get out of here?” The man asks, finishing his beer and setting it down. 

Shane puts down the Moscow Mule he’d ordered and had approximately one and a half sips of for the sake of not just standing around with a blatant prop without even bothering to pretend to want to finish it. 

“Sure.”

*

Shane gets a hotel room, stops by the lobby to hand over the keycard, and then he asks the guy—Mark, handsome, nice smile, eyes a familiar blue Shane is trying very hard not to think about—to wait ten minutes before following, willing himself not to puke with every second that passes. The whole thing had seemed like such a good idea when he decided to do it, when he decided it was past time that he just got it over with and did what he knows he probably should have years ago for his own good, but his resolution in that is harder to hold onto when he’s stuck in the thick of his decision with nothing to distract him from mindfucking this about fifty thousand ways and exploring every single way this could go so, so badly. His absolutely insane urge is to call Ilya because talking to him always makes him feel better when he’s wound up about something, but even in his own head, the idea of having to explain that he needs a pep talk before he fucks someone else is mortifying. 

It feels like half a fucking century by the time he hears the beep of a key card being scanned and the door opens. 

“You’re shaking,” Mark says softly when the door is shut, crossing to stand in front of him. 

“Sorry,” Shane says, on autopilot, embarrassed to be called on it. “Just…nervous.” 

“First time with a guy?” Mark asks, resting his hands at Shane’s waist and squeezing gently. It’s all Shane can do to not pull away from the unfamiliar touch. When he’s nervous, Ilya always squeezes his neck and shoulders, and Shane hasn’t realized until this moment that he finds that more soothing than being touched elsewhere. 

There’s no way to say that to Mark without sounding fucking crazy, though. 

“No, just…been a while,” he says, hedging around the truth. 

“You still want to do this?” Mark asks, and Shane is nodding even before the question is finished. He’s hot, after all, and Shane could use the experience. 

He’s also, he thinks as Mark backs him up towards the bed and the proximity starts edging him away from nervous and into interested, pretty fucking proud of himself. 

First try solo, and he scored. 

Fuck yeah. 

*

The experience is…fine. 

The thrill of finding a guy all by himself on his very first try fades a little bit when he realizes how much smaller Mark is than Ilya, but it does make it easy to go down on him, even if the man pulls out a fucking blueberry flavored condom like a goddamn serial killer. (And if Shane never has to check the fucking ingredients list on a condom again, it’ll still be too soon). He gets a little handsy and a little pushy, but when Shane pops his head up to ask him to stop, he does. If there’s nothing to choke on, after all, then having his face pushed is just annoying. 

“You want the same?” Mark asks after finishing, when Shane makes his way back up to lay beside him on the bed, satisfied by his work if not by his medium. 

Shane, who has only ever had to say what he wants in bed when Ilya is teasing him, falters slightly, but if he’s going to go through the hassle of finding a guy, he’d rather get something he can only ask for from another man. Even if Mark isn’t going to stretch him as much as he likes, he’d still like to check the experience off. 

“I’d rather get,” he almost says penetrated but chickens out, worried it’ll sound too clinical, “fucked if you’re cool with that.” 

“Uuuuh,” Mark says, seeming a little embarrassed as he glances down. “Not sure I can get it back up that fast.” 

Shane, who was unaware that there was an expected time limit for this experience, feels thrown yet again. Ilya’s response would have been something flirty and teasing and then a smirk before he wriggled his way down to take care of Shane until he was recovered enough to get hard again. He’s not really sure what to do with the answer he’s been given instead. 

“Um,” he says, really not wanting to fuck this whole thing up when he’s already gotten this far and walk away with nothing to show for it, “you could…finger me? Maybe?” 

He kind of wants to sink into the pit of the earth after he says it, but it gets him what he wants. He grabs a lube packet out of his own jeans because he doesn’t trust that Mark didn’t bring fucking pineapple lube or something, and the man gets the job done. It’s hot, obviously, an attractive guy with two fingers sunk inside him, but it’s a little strange, too, a different hand between his legs, a different mouth against his. He kisses differently than Ilya does, and Shane finally pulls away, wanting to chase his orgasm instead of trying to figure out if he likes the kissing or not. 

“Oh fuck,” he says when he’s close, pressing his cheek to Mark’s. His kneejerk urge is to reach for his free hand the same way he would with Ilya, but even with a lack of experience, he can make a wild guess that that wouldn’t be the correct move here. 

Mark wipes his fingers off on the inside of Shane’s thigh afterwards, which makes him frown before he’s even opened his eyes, but he doesn’t get a chance to decide if he should say something or not to let Mark know he finds it rude when there’s a tissue box right beside the bed. 

Mark is already standing up. 

*

Shane heads back to the hotel he’s meant to be at soon after Mark takes his leave, giving Shane his number but not lingering longer than it takes to wash his hands and get his clothes back on. 

Hayden is already asleep when he gets into the room, and he can’t decide if he’s relieved or disappointed by it. He obviously wouldn’t be telling him what happened, but his night feels unfinished with no talking at the end. If he’d been with Ilya, he’d probably still be in bed with him, curled up together and making jokes or talking shit about Anaheim’s new center. Now, though, he’s just…on his own. 

He takes a shower and gets ready for bed, and he has his phone in his hand before he even thinks about it. His urge is to text Ilya, but he feels vaguely embarrassed that he did something wrong to be so disappointed afterwards. 

Letting out an annoyed breath, irritated at himself and Mark and hooking up in general, he plugs his phone in and turns it facedown, deciding he can wait to process the experience until he’s back home. 

*

He manages to compartmentalize everything until he’s back in the safety of his apartment in Montreal, and then he can’t resist the urge to text Ilya to find out where he went wrong, almost as soon as he’s through the door. 

If anyone would know, after all, it’s Ilya. 

*

Ilya doesn’t have any suggestions, as it turns out. 

But he does have a good voice for phone sex and a credit card he sometimes uses to send sex toys to Shane’s house, so. 

He still ends up feeling better. 

*

Martin Prescott is athletic, well-tailored, and has a nice smile. Most importantly for Shane’s considerations, he’s discreet enough that he’s known the man for three years and hadn’t suspected that he was into men until the night they meet up for drinks and Martin mentions that the guy he usually met up with in Montreal had been busy and what a bummer it was to come all the way here just to get stood up. It had been an open-ended kind of statement, but Shane had picked up on the offer under it. It had seemed like the perfect arrangement, honestly. He and Martin know each other, Martin is discreet enough to keep this to himself, and it’s not like Shane hasn’t noticed how hot he is before. 

He’d been absurdly nervous back in Martin’s hotel room—he hadn’t wanted to take him home, and Martin hadn’t seemed to find that strange—but he’d declined the offer of a drink. He hadn’t liked it, honestly, Martin not knowing that he doesn’t drink during the season. It’s something Ilya would know without needing to be told; Ilya would have just known to offer him a ginger ale or to have already had some in his fridge that Shane could help himself to. 

Thinking of Ilya under these circumstances, though, had been a good reminder about why Shane undertook this little project in the first place. 

There had been a brief fumble when they both climbed into bed and then discovered they’d both anticipated bottoming, but as the one who had already had plans to get laid, Shane had figured Martin was probably better prepared and let him have it. It had been kind of funny, being on the opposite side of things for once, and if it had been with Ilya, he might have laughed about it. As it was, he just tried to remember how Ilya did things and tried to replicate them. From the noises Martin had made, he gathered he’d done it well, and sinking into him had felt nice, better, even, than with the few women he’d hooked up with. 

He’d just also been a little jealous of not getting to be the one getting filled up. 

He doesn’t stay inside after, unsure if Martin would find it pleasurable when Shane was already a stretch for him that had been unpleasant for just a moment, but he still settles in to lay together for a while. It’s what he would do with Ilya, after all, and he’s known Martin long enough to assume it would probably be the same. He doesn’t know if they’re friends, per se, but they seem to be on the way there even if-

Martin pulls away and stands, stretching, Shane’s arm falling back down to the mattress after sliding off of his chest.

Shane watches him, thrown and a little confused. 

“Well, fuck,” Martin says with an easy, satisfied kind of smile. “Knew you’d be good at that.” 

“Uh, thanks,” Shane says, barely resisting the urge to grimace afterwards. Martin, though, just laughs. 

“You want first shower?” He asks, stretching again and then tilting his head towards the bathroom. 

“Um,” Shane says, trying to yank his thoughts into order. Did he do something wrong? Martin had seemed pleased, and Shane had finished, too, without needing to dig into his mental bank of scenarios, but he wonders if he was supposed to do something else, if he missed some little step here that would have them both still hazy and content and sitting in the afterglow together. 

The bed feels cooler than it should without a second body in it. 

“Don’t feel pressured to stay if you’d rather just go home and use yours,” Martin says, like that was Shane’s confusion here. “Just didn’t know if you wanted to wash up first.” 

Even for Shane, who doesn’t always pick up on things like this, it’s an obvious polite invitation to pack up and go. 

“I’ll shower when I get home,” he says. He wouldn’t be opposed to being in the shower together for a round two—he honestly would be expecting to have one if this were Ilya—but he’s not even sure if he’ll be able to use the products in there, so it’s not worth getting wet if that’s the only thing he’ll be getting out of it. 

“Cool,” Martin says, already heading for the bathroom. “Thanks for tonight. Do it again next time I’m in town?” 

“Sure,” Shane says, standing and grabbing his clothes, feeling flustered and wrong-footed, orgasmic satisfaction dissipating in the face of this ending so far from what he’d been expecting. With the random hookup, yeah, he hadn’t been too thrown after thinking about it because they hadn’t known each other, but it’s not like he and Martin are strangers. He hadn’t thought a little conversation after would be so odd. 

Apparently, though, he was wrong about that. 

“Uh, see you next time, I guess,” Shane says. 

“Bye,” Martin says easily, already disappearing into the bathroom. 

Shane hesitates at the door, the entire experience still feeling unfinished, until he hears the shower start. 

He heads out into the night, the Montreal winter feeling colder than ever when he’d rather be laying in a warm bed. 

*

Shane thinks that the most annoying part of this particular round of Boston visiting Montreal is going to be that his parents visiting means he’s going to miss out on the opportunity to fuck Ilya before they’re apart for several weeks again. 

And then he wakes up to an apartment missing half of the fucking people that are supposed to be inside of it. 

“You didn’t wake me up for that?” He calls out to his mom from his bedroom, changing out of the workout clothes he’d put on with the anticipation of going on a run with Ilya if he was awake and feeling up to it. 

“I didn’t get woken up either,” his mom calls back. “Your dad woke me up briefly to say Ilya wasn’t feeling well, but I didn’t understand that meant they were going on a field trip to the hospital.” 

For Shane, who always woke his dad up if he ever got sick at night as a kid because his mom sleeps like a rock, this isn’t a surprise, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Not when he didn’t wake up, either. 

It feels fucking awful, knowing that Ilya was in the same apartment as him and experiencing a literal medical emergency, and he just kept sleeping. Logically, he knows it’s not like he has spidey senses or something, but it still feels like he should have just known somehow, been able to repay how many times Ilya has taken care of him when he’s had a reaction. He’d known he wasn’t feeling great, but he’d thought it might have just been exhaustion or maybe the start of a cold or just the end result of too many days on the road catching up to him. He hadn’t known it was serious, hadn’t known he should have been paying attention and been ready to take action. It makes him feel like shit, makes him imagine what would have happened if his parents hadn’t been here, if there hadn’t been anyone to wake up and realize Ilya needed to go get fucking emergency surgery, if he’d woken up to Ilya on the bathroom floor, unconscious or dea-

He presses hard against his sternum, closing his eyes and breathing deep. 

He doesn’t know what to do with it, how to process the fact that the idea of something happening to Ilya feels so massively destructive to him that he can’t even envision it, his brain blanking out like it refuses to even consider the idea. 

He files it away to process in his own time. 

He has other priorities right now. 

*

“You’re never allowed to give me shit about being a bad patient ever again, by the way,” Shane says, after making Ilya return to bed for the third time today and let him bring him more water and a dose of painkillers instead of getting up for them himself. “You fucking suck at it, dude.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes, but he accepts the pills and then the water after Shane waits for him to toss them in his mouth to hand it over. 

“Maybe you should be better nurse,” Ilya says dryly, but when he pats the mattress beside him, Shane still carefully climbs up to sit next to him. 

“Are nurses allowed to handcuff their patients to beds?” Shane asks wryly, settling beside him, careful not to jostle him, his knee lightly touching Ilya’s hip. 

“You ask to get kinky now, when I am injured?” Ilya asks, giving him a faux-hurt look. “You are cruel, Hollander. 0 stars. I need to speak to nurse manager. I am filing a complaint.” 

“My mom’s already back in Ottawa, sorry,” Shane says dryly, using his foot to kick the remote up closer so he can hand it over. Ilya, though, just shakes his head. 

“You pick something,” he says, the words coming around a badly-stifled yawn. “I am not going to stay awake long, I do not think.” 

“You want me to go and let you rest?” Shane offers. 

“No,” Ilya says, shaking his head without bothering to lift it off of the pillows they’re both propped up on, the decorative ones from his bedroom pressed into service here in the guest room for the sake of Ilya’s comfort, something he’s rubbed in more than once, vindicated after getting teased about them for years. “I don’t want you to go.” 

Silly as it is, it sends a warm little wriggle of joy through him. 

He doesn’t want to go, either. 

*

“Thank you.” 

Shane blinks awake from the way he was half-asleep, hand moving automatically to the top of Ilya’s head where it’s still in his lap. He’d meant to start making noises about them going to bed approximately—he checks the clock—forty minutes ago, but he’d been reluctant to break the soft little bubble of them on the couch together watching a movie. He’d worried it might be a little strange, both of them together but with no sex at all, afraid it would impact their dynamic, but instead it’s been oddly…nice, just being together to be together. 

“For what?” He asks, stretching as much as he can without displacing Ilya. A few days post-surgery and he’s already back on his feet and moving pretty easily again, but he knows sleeping has been rougher because Ilya is apparently not a very still sleeper, which has consequences after the removal of an organ as it turns out. 

“For letting me stay with you,” Ilya says, eyes closed. 

Shane frowns, a little thrown by Ilya feeling the need to say thank you. It wasn’t even a decision, really. It didn’t need to be. Shane hadn’t even considered the idea of Ilya not staying with him. The only consideration that had even come up was letting people on Boston’s team know he had somewhere to stay while he recovered, and Shane’s mom had taken care of that. Shane had also texted Cliff because he’d known Hayden would want someone to reach out if it was him getting surgery, but beyond Cliff sending a “tell him i said get well soon brother 💪💪💪 and text me when he feels up to it” text, he hasn’t really done anything other than let Ilya stay at his house with him, which Ilya knows he’s allowed to do whenever he wants anyway. 

Well, Shane had thought he knew that. 

“Where else would you have stayed?” Shane asks before he even thinks about it. “You hate hotels.” 

Ilya’s eyes open, and the look on his face is a little surprised before it softens into something so warm Shane almost feels the need to look away. In a mildly annoyed part of his mind, he considers that this is the kind of shit that makes it so easy to feel attached to Ilya in a way he shouldn’t be, these moments when Ilya looks at him in a way that looks…

Well, looks like something Shane knows better than to think it is. 

“This one is not so bad,” Ilya says, clearly teasing. “No chocolates on my pillows, though, which is disappointing.” 

Shane snorts. 

“I offered you chocolate in your smoothie this morning, and you-” 

“-fucking ‘cocoa nibbles’ or whatever the fuck they are called, not-” 

“-literally what chocolate is made of, so I don’t know why you’re so-” 

“-allergic to flavor, too, or I would have brought-” 

“-is a flavor. It’s literally the flavor of chocolate, just without-” 

“But,” Ilya says, loud enough to speak over Shane, who stops mid-sentence in his defense of cacao nibs, “still. Is nice, being here. With you.” 

It’s not like Shane has a ton of experience being drunk, but the words feel like what he remembers a shot of tequila feeling like, going right to his head, making his mouth move faster than his brain can modulate. 

“You can always be here with me,” he says, before he feels his face heat, the words true but way too fucking much to say to a friend. He backtracks before he can get himself in trouble saying things he shouldn’t. “We’re, like, best friends. I’ve got your back, and you’ve got mine.” 

“‘Best friends,’ huh?” Ilya repeats, and there’s an expression Shane can’t quite read on his face. 

“I mean, yeah,” he says, wondering if even that was too much. “You think I just take strangers with me to Christmas?” 

Ilya smiles, and it gives Shane the nerve to double down a little bit, wanting Ilya to understand that this isn’t something he needs to say thank you for, that he’ll always have a place wherever Shane is. 

That Shane will make a place for him wherever he is. 

“You’re basically part of my family by now, dude,” he says, the dude added to offset what might otherwise not be a very “bro” thing to say to a friend even though he knows Ilya hates being called dude. Sure enough, Ilya’s face twitches just a bit in distaste, which makes Shane smile faintly, but he doesn’t comment. 

“This has gotten a vote from the Hollanders?” Ilya asks, clearly teasing, which Shane is glad for, veering them away from a conversation that otherwise has the potential to get awkward. “I am in officially? I have not gotten the paperwork yet.” 

“Think my mom’s still running it past the lawyers,” he teases back, making Ilya grin. He sinks his fingers through Ilya’s hair, wanting to underscore things just once more before he lets it go. “But I mean it. We’re family. Family doesn’t have to say thank you for stuff like this.” 

Ilya’s expression goes very, very still for a moment, and Shane worries he went too intense with it. Instead, though, Ilya just closes his eyes again and turns his face away slightly, settling more comfortably against the muscle of Shane’s thigh. 

“Well, still,” Ilya says, voice quiet. “Thank you, for letting me be in your family. Is nice to be a Hollander.” 

Shane doesn’t respond other than to rest his other hand over Ilya’s chest, pressing affectionately. He starts to pull away, but Ilya’s hand comes up to rest over his, pressing it into place. Shane leaves it where it is. So does Ilya. 

They finish the movie without letting go. 

*

These days increasingly give Shane the urge to ask something very, very stupid, the time together a gateway drug into an idea that he knows should remain a nice daydream and not something he actually offers. They have their established routines. He knows this. 

And yet he, lover of routines, still finds himself wondering if Ilya might be convinced to break just one. 

“You are thinking too loud,” Ilya complains today from the other end of the couch, but he sounds amused. He peeks one eye open, nudging Shane’s foot with his own. “What? Say it.” 

“How do you know I have something to say?” 

“I can hear the little machines in your brain whirling around. Is very loud. Very bad for poor innocent people trying to recover.” 

“Poor innocent people trying to recover who also still wanted a blowjob this morning,” Shane says dryly. 

Ilya lifts his eyebrows. 

“A blowjob you participated in, Hollander.” 

Shane doesn’t dignify this with a response. Ilya nudges his foot again. 

“Go. Say it. Otherwise you will just keep thinking very loud and then neither of us will sleep tonight.” 

Still, Shane hesitates. It’s a big ask, and he knows it. It’s the reason he’s never offered before. 

But with each consecutive day they have together, Shane just finds himself wanting more. He would never want Ilya to get sick, never want to keep him off the ice when it’s something they both love so much, but this is the longest stretch of time they’ve ever had together, and the longer it happens, the more Shane pre-emptively mourns that it has to end. It’s nice, having someone to come home to, someone to curl up on the couch and watch TV with every single night, someone to laugh with and talk to and cook with, even if the latter mostly involves Ilya just sitting at his counter and heckling him right now. It feels bad, knowing that this might be the only time they ever get like this, a long unbroken stretch of together, something that lasts longer than the 72-ish hours they have each Christmas. It’s stupid to want it so bad, and he knows it. 

He just doesn’t know how to stop wanting it. 

“You know my cottage?” He asks, and the look on Ilya’s face says it wasn’t what he was expecting to be asked. Still, Ilya nods. “Would you, uh, would you want to come up this summer? Spend some time there?” 

“I go back to Russia,” Ilya says, as if Shane has forgotten, and it almost sounds like an apology. 

“I know. And I know you have to go back to see your family,” Shane rushes to offer, not wanting Ilya to think he’s asking him to choose between them. “But you have to come back at the start of the month before pre-season for that Prada thing, don’t you? You could just…stay. With me.” He consciously forces himself to stop talking before he veers too hard into overselling and ruins it. 

“You want me to come stay with you?” Ilya asks. 

So much it would probably scare you if I actually said it out loud, Shane thinks and does not say. 

“It could be fun, don’t you think?” He says. “My cottage is super private, and it’s right on the lake. We could swim and go for runs on the trails and make fires,” he catches the urge to babble and suppresses it. “It’s nice up there. It’s one of my favorite places to be.” And you’re one of my favorite people, he adds mentally, suspecting that that would be way too intense to say out loud. “I don’t need an answer right now or anything,” and he doesn’t want one, either, not with the way Ilya still doesn’t look convinced about it, “but you can think about it. If you want.” 

Ilya is quiet for a long moment, and then he nods. 

“I have to see if I can, but…I would like that, yes,” he says. “I will let you know, okay?” 

Shane slouches down a little bit in case his face does anything embarrassing about how pleased he is, nodding. 

“Okay.” 

Ilya presses one of his feet between his own under the blanket they’re sharing over their legs, both of them returning to watching the TV. 

Shane doesn’t pull away. 

Chapter End Notes

me, smiling and holding a giant mallet behind my back: wow crazy we haven't seen rose yet, huh?

Chapter 7: just the tuna of us: the cottage (and a shared tuna melt)

Chapter Notes

hi a portion of this gave me an actual stomachache while i was writing it

enjoy

(also this chapter was one of the two i was the most nervous about before i even started writing this fic, so pls to be gentle with me okay thanks bye)

After years of diligence in keeping them apart, the first interaction of his father and a Hollander is almost laughably terrible luck. 

“Ilya, honey.” 

Still hazy from painkillers, it takes Ilya a moment to orient himself back in reality: in Shane’s apartment, fresh out of the hospital, currently in Yuna’s custody. He feels a stupid little pang of hurt when the gentle touch to his hair turns out to be from a mother, yes, but not his mother, the last spiderwebs of his dream pulled away from him, some vague memory of his mama ruffling his curls echoing into his sleeping mind. Yuna, though, is still familiar enough to soothe the ache a little, and if the look on her face didn’t immediately put him on alert, he might be tempted to go back to sleep under the feeling of her fingers on his head. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks, the words feeling clumsy on his tongue from a combination of drugs and sleep. 

“Your dad is on the phone,” she says, holding it out. “I’m sorry, it kept ringing. I tried to turn it off, but I answered it by mistake. He seems ups-” 

He snatches the phone away far harder than he means to, terrified in an instant that his secret is out, that she knows now what he’s so diligently kept away from her, that his father said something vicious and cutting and now she’s going to wonder about the kind of family Ilya comes from and if he should be allowed around her and her family at all-

Yuna, though, just gives him a small smile and a squeeze to his shoulder before leaving the room to give him privacy. 

He manages to get his father calm with something that is starting to feel terrifyingly like experience. It’s evening in Moscow right now, which is usually when his father’s memory fails him more, and an empty house always sets him off. He’d thought Ilya was a teenager tonight, had called him to demand where he was so late if not at home, and in the mean part of Ilya he tries very hard to crush into nothing, he’d almost wanted to see what would happen if he’d been honest, if he’d let his father in on how often he snuck out as a teenager, when he was old enough to realize his behavior would never be good enough anyway. He doesn’t, of course. Even with all of the kinks in the love between them, he does love his father, and he knows that telling him of youthful rebellion now would do nothing but distress him. He gets him calm, reminds him of Polina’s existence and her phone number, and stays on the phone until he’s ready to start getting ready for bed. 

And then he makes himself get up and go find Yuna. 

He half-expects to find her packing her bags to leave him on his own. It isn’t her responsibility to care for him at all, after all, and he certainly can’t blame her if she decides to leave after having to deal with his father. Ilya loves him, of course he does, but he knows firsthand how he knows exactly where to cut someone, and he also knows exactly the kind of things his father thinks and says about Shane as Ilya’s greatest rival, enough to worry about what hearing the name “Hollander” might spark in his father’s memory. 

And what he might say as a result. 

Instead, though, he finds her making sandwiches, chicken salad for her and a tuna melt for him even though he knows she hates the concept of hot tuna. She’s teased him about it before, when he’s ordered it when they’ve gotten lunch together. He’s never said it, but it’s one of the reasons he likes ordering it around her: the reminder that they know things about each other, that he’s someone close enough to her to be teased. 

Now he smells melting cheese and just feels his stomach go tighter, wondering how badly it’s going to hurt when she doesn’t tease him this time, not when things are-

“Everything okay?” 

Her tone throws him enough that he almost doesn’t respond, but he catches himself. 

“Fine,” he says. “Miscommunication.” It’s the easiest thing to default to, after all, making whatever his father said on the phone no one’s fault. 

He needs whatever his father said on the phone to be no one’s fault. 

“Feel free to give him my number if you want,” Yuna says, like Ilya wouldn’t walk into the ocean before he would ever do that. “Has to be scary, your child having surgery an entire continent away from you.” 

It feels like something scratchy in his throat, the way his father doesn’t know he just had surgery. The way he doesn’t want him to know he just had surgery. 

The way he probably wouldn’t even remember it for very long if he did. 

“I am sorry if he was…rude,” he says, taking a seat because he’s still not ready to be back on his feet for very long. He rests his hands on his lap beneath the counter, squeezing tight. He hesitates on whether to offer more, on how much background until it becomes a burden instead of an explanation. He doesn’t want to put any of his shit on any of the Hollanders, but if his father said something bad, he doesn’t want Yuna to just think it’s normal. 

Or to think that it’s something that comes of anything Ilya says around his father. 

“He has memory problems,” he says, and having to say it out loud means he squeezes his hands together even harder, feeling a twinge in his side from the incision site there at the tenseness of his muscles. He forces himself to let go. “Sometimes he gets upset.” 

“Oh,” Yuna says, taking the pan with his tuna melts out of the oven. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I had no idea.” 

“Is not…” He starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. It’s not something Yuna needs to worry about, but telling her that would feel rude. He reassesses, trying to do damage control when he doesn’t even know the full scope of the damage. “Can you…not tell anyone, please? I do not want it to get out.” 

“Of course,” Yuna says, plating up his lunch like this is a totally normal day and not the sudden realization of something he’s tried to avoid happening for fucking years. “Let me know if I can help with anything, though, okay? I don’t know much about the Russian medical system, but you know how much I love research and making phone calls.” 

She’s clearly teasing him, and he manages to summon up a smile for her benefit, even if the way her expression softens says he didn’t manage a very good one. She puts his plate down in front of him. 

“Here’s your gross hot tuna soup,” she says, and he looks down at his—delicious, no matter what Yuna Hollanders have to say about it—tuna melt because it’s easier than looking at the sympathy in her eyes. He stiffens slightly when her arm goes around his shoulders, but she doesn’t release him, instead pulling him into a gentle hug, one hand going to the back of his head in a protective sort of gesture that makes his throat feel absurdly tight when he’s a grown man. “My mom was sick for a long time before she passed,” she says quietly. “It’s hard, seeing your parent like that. I’ve been there. I won’t push, but you let me know if you need anything, okay?” 

He nods, having to force a breath before he can actually speak. 

“Okay,” he says. 

If his voice is a little too rough, she doesn’t mention it. 

“Okay,” she repeats, squeezing him tight before letting him go and moving to grab her own lunch. “Now eat your cat food toast. We’ve got Say Yes to the Dress to get to.” 

Ilya, a little startled, laughs in a way that makes him wince, pressing a hand gently over his side. Yuna takes a seat beside him, pushing his bottle of painkillers into easy reach. 

“What?” She asks innocently. “It’s tradition. I made Shane watch it with me if he was home sick from school to make sure he would never fake it.” 

“You think I am faking getting an organ removed?” Ilya says, downing two pills and then taking a bite of his tuna melt. 

“You never know,” Yuna sing-songs with a small smile, taking a bite of her sandwich, chewing and swallowing before speaking. “Could just be an excuse to drop out of the run for the Stanley Cup since Shane’s obviously winning it again.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes, but he smiles, too, feeling his world settling under his feet again at the teasing. 

“Remind me,” he says thoughtfully, taking an exaggerated bite of his tuna melt just to see Yuna wrinkle her nose the same way Shane does when he finds something gross, “who won the Cup first? I am forgetting.” 

“Someone who better remember he’s sassing the person making him food right now?” Yuna says, lifting her eyebrows. 

Ilya grins but lets it go, finishing his lunch. 

*

“Want to put money on if your plant makes it while you’re gone?” Shane calls from the couch, eyeing it doubtfully. 

He’s theoretically here to help Ilya close up his house for the summer before he goes back to Moscow, stopping by for a few days before he has an ad shoot and a magazine cover and interview in New York, but his “help” has mostly consisted so far of fucking Ilya and taking up space on his couch. 

Ilya hasn’t seemed to mind it. 

“This is a hint that you want it or what?” Ilya calls back from the direction of the kitchen. They’re trying to use up all of Ilya’s produce so it won’t have to get thrown out, but this has ended in creative cooking decisions that Shane is more hindrance than help for. 

He maintains that grapes—especially squishy grapes—have no place in a salad, but for the sake of their friendship, he’s working on letting it go. 

(It’s a work in progress.) 

“I think Brenda Three Doors Down would be upset if she saw me walking out of your house with the plant she just gave you,” Shane observes, looking towards Ilya as he enters the living room. He cranes his head to find out what he’s being used as a garbage disposal for now. “Is it grape salad again?” 

“Is food that won’t kill you,” Ilya says dryly, handing it over. “Less complaining. More gratitude.” 

“Give me something to be grateful for,” Shane shoots back, but he still moves his feet out of the way to let Ilya sit next to him. The lunch does look good, actually, some mess of chopped vegetables and what he thinks is chicken in pita pockets. Long habit makes him want to check and confirm it’s safe, but slightly less long habit means he knows Ilya wouldn’t be handing it to him if it wasn’t. Selfish as it is, it’s one of the things he enjoys most about coming to Ilya’s house: he gets a brief break in the mental noise of making sure someone isn’t going to poison him by accident. 

“And who said you had to come eat my food?” Ilya snarks, reaching for the remote and not moving when Shane stretches out and rests his leg across his lap. Even with going basically comatose for a few days after the end the way he does each season, his hip is still killing him after a bad hit from a game against Denver he didn’t have time to fully recover from so deep in the season, something that probably isn’t helped by the positions he most likes to fuck Ilya in. “Hip?” Ilya asks, and Shane looks up mid-bite, a little startled at his mind being read. 

“S’fine,” Shane says around a full mouth, but Ilya chooses to ignore the response, leaning over to grab a pillow and then shoving it between Shane and the back of the couch, easing the slight strain he hadn’t even consciously realized he was feeling until it was gone suddenly. “Thanks.” 

Ilya hums a response, flipping through channels. 

“You already called the post office to hold your mail for you?” Shane asks, going through his own mental list for tasks he does each summer. 

“Mhm.” 

“And your cleaner knows to set the trash by the curb?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you paused your grocery delivery?” 

“Uh huh.” 

“And-” 

“Shane,” Ilya says, looking at him from the corner of his eye, clearly amused, “I am also a grown adult. I know to do these things by now.” 

“Sorry,” Shane says, feeling his face heat. He hadn’t meant to be belittling, but if he’s supposed to be here to help, he’d like to actually be a help. 

“Is okay,” Ilya says easily, squeezing his ankle in a tactile acceptance of his apology. “You are just Yuna Junior. You cannot help it.” 

“I’m telling her you said that,” Shane warns. 

“I have already said it to her,” Ilya says with a smile. “Go ahead. Your threat means nothing.” 

“Asshole,” Shane grumbles. The pita monstrosity is surprisingly good even if he’s not going to actually say that and give Ilya the satisfaction, and they spend a comfortable few minutes just eating and watching a basketball game. Ilya’s phone buzzes, and Shane glances at it automatically, seeing that it’s the characters of Ilya’s brother’s name before Ilya picks it up and swipes up to read the message, jaw going tense as he types back a response. 

Shane bites back the urge to ask if everything’s okay, knowing it’s not going to get him an answer. He gathers things are tense with Ilya’s brother, but he doesn’t have any context for why that is. They talk pretty often, Shane is fairly sure, so he doesn’t think there’s bad blood between them, so he gathers it’s from a secondary reason, but he doesn’t know for sure. It’s one of the many things he wishes he could ask without slamming into a “Miss,” but it’s also one of the many things he knows is going to end that way. 

Still, saying nothing feels wrong when Ilya is clearly not happy. 

“Did you see your rookie’s new interview?” He asks after Ilya has finished his text and put his phone back down, a touch harder than he normally would. 

Ilya blinks, looking to him. 

“What?” 

“Warner,” Shane says, scooping up some of his fallen filling and wrapping it up in the last bit of his first pita. “He had an interview the other day about what his first season with the NHL was like. He said some really nice things about you.” 

Ilya looks a little surprised in a way that makes Shane’s chest hurt a little bit before his expression smooths into something closer to teasing. 

“You were missing me so much you have to listen to my rookie talk about me?” Ilya says in a near-coo, clearly teasing him. “Poor baby. You know you can always cal-” 

“Fuck off,” Shane complains, kicking his shin with his good leg before dropping it again. “I just didn’t know if you caught it or not. He had a lot of good stuff to say about you. It was nice.” 

“He is a good kid,” Ilya says fondly. He smirks. “He also likes you, though, so obviously his taste is very bad.” 

“I mean he called you ‘the best captain he could ever ask for,’” Shane shoots back, “so I think that’s pretty fucking obvious.” 

Ilya snorts, but he does look a little less burdened now the way Shane wanted. He settles back, content with his success. 

“I am so terrible you do not want me at your cottage this summer?” Ilya asks. “Or is the invitation still open?” 

“You’re coming?” Shane asks, trying to act very normal about finally getting the answer after weeks of silence about it that he’d begun to take as a soft no. 

“If you don’t mind me invading your fortress of solitude,” Ilya says. 

“I don’t,” Shane says, too quickly. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.” 

He can’t read Ilya’s expression at that, but it looks soft, almost, and the way he squeezes Shane’s shin briefly feels affectionate. 

“But I will need grape salad,” Ilya says solemnly. “Non-negotiable.” 

“Uninvited,” Shane says at once, wrinkling his nose in disgust that is not pretend. “You’re uninvited. Actually? I’m getting a fucking restraining order.” 

Ilya grins. 

*

Texting with Shane and Yuna and David when he’s back in Moscow for the summer is always slightly disorienting. It feels like lying, somehow, to multiple people all at once. He sends David pictures of food and Yuna pictures of art and Shane inside jokes and cats with “you” and battleship numbers to initiate rounds of sexting on their app, and he never, ever gives them actual updates about anything beyond safe topics. 

Well, more than he absolutely has to. 

Yuna 👑: Good morning/afternoon! 

Yuna 👑: I’m not sure how referrals operate over there, but I found some promising news articles about a new doctor who specializes in memory care treatment in Moscow. Let me know if you want me to send any emails or make some calls. Hope you’re doing okay. 💕

Ilya breathes through the kneejerk panic-anger of the text, pressing his phone to his breastbone and closing his eyes for a moment. It shouldn’t be surprising, probably, Yuna diving headlong into trying to find doctors for his father with the same determination and focus that Hollanders do everything. 

It’s just not especially something he wants her doing. 

he is happy with his doctor now, but thank you. 

This is directly a lie, and he feels guilty for it immediately, even knowing it’s necessary. His father is on his fifth doctor in two years because he doesn’t like what they have to say, and he only still has this one because Ilya has called—and paid—to smooth things over so many times. It’s tempting, the idea of handing over some of it to someone he can trust not to drop it. He knows Yuna would tackle finding his father a doctor from an entire continent away as diligently as she commands every room she enters, so smoothly and charmingly that people don’t even realize they’re eating out of the palm of her hand until it’s too late and she’s gotten exactly what she wanted. 

It’s kind of a joke and kind of not each time someone on his team teases him about how they can get managed by Yuna Hollander, too. 

Yuna 👑: Still, it’s an open offer. Just let me know, okay? 

Ilya smiles, faintly, unable to help it, knowing Yuna probably has a list of thirty possible doctors ranked by experience and reviews and credentials. He could text her in an hour and say he changed his mind and wants help, and she’d probably have a same-day appointment within ten minutes afterwards. It’s an oddly soothing idea, a safety net he’s never going to actually use. It feels like losing a little bit of pressure, just for a moment. He’s not going to ask her to do it. He would never ask her to do it. 

But it’s still nice to know she would. 

I will

thank you

He pauses. It seems insufficient, those two little words. If she were actually his family, he’d be able to buy her something or send her a check, but she already takes a fee from the jobs she books for him only under duress, primarily to make him stop leaving little stacks of hundred dollar bills in her purse and jacket whenever they see each other. His first instinct is a Hermès scarf for her collection, but that’s already established as her annual birthday gift from him. He would ask Shane for ideas, but Shane, despite his enthusiasm for it, is an almost comically terrible gift chooser, overthinking it and then second guessing himself so much that he lands in the realm of the absurd by the time the event that’s being celebrated rolls around. If he asked Shane what his mother might want as a thank you gift, he’d probably somehow land on a fucking Chia pet. 

…which honestly might still be better than the gigantic Kentia palm tree Ilya was temporarily a terrible guardian of after a passing comment of liking tropical beaches inspired Shane to make a big swing on that year’s birthday gift. He’d called Shane and hadn’t even been able to tease him at first because he was laughing so hard after fighting his way into the fucking massive box only to find a tree he was meant to keep in his house. Shane had been flustered and insulted at the response, and Ilya still hasn’t told him that it was probably one of his favorite gifts he’s ever received, purely from the way looking at it lurking in his living room each day made him laugh. His palm had died a sad, prolonged death despite his efforts to maintain it, and he hadn’t been able to throw the pot away. It’s still in his garage now, collecting dust because Ilya is more sentimental than he would like to admit to. 

The memory of watching it slowly fade and die despite how much he tried to save it is a potential life lesson he would really like to not think about too long. 

He sets his phone aside and rises, stretching briefly. It’s time for his father’s evening dose of medication, and he’s been combative for the past few nights. Ilya isn’t looking forward to fighting the battle again, but it’s not as if there’s anyone else currently in the house he could trade off with. Polina is God knows where, and Alexei is in places probably best not thought about. 

He glances at his phone once again, centering himself with the kindness of Yuna’s offer. 

And then he goes to tend to his father. 

*

Shane feels almost absurdly nervous getting ready for Ilya to join him in his cottage, paying for a deep clean a month ahead and then two weeks ahead and then a week ahead and then four days ahead. If the woman finds it strange to get so many calls from him instead of the usual cadence of her company’s services each summer, she doesn’t mention it, which he’s grateful for. She and her co-cleaner just come out, make the already-clean cottage spotless once more, and then confirm when Shane would like them to come again. 

And yet Shane still finds himself checking behind them in a way he never usually does, afraid something obvious has been missed that just hasn’t occurred to him yet. 

It’s ridiculous, really, to feel so anxious about it. It’s not like Ilya is a stranger, after all, or like he hasn’t shared space with him before. Even without the time spent at Shane’s apartment after Ilya’s surgery, they’ve known each other for years, fucked each other for years, waited in hospitals for Shane’s observation periods for years. 

And yet he still feels the pressure of making a good first impression here, at the cottage, to make this a place Ilya finds comfortable and relaxing. 

…and clean enough that Shane kind of thinks he’ll be risking taking the finish off of the floors if he calls the cleaners back one more time the way he still kind of wants to. 

*

Ilya knows it makes him an awful son, stealing this time for himself, two weeks of doing nothing but being lazy in a rural Canadian cottage. He should be back home, tending to his father, using every last free minute he has until the season starts once more to make sure that his family is taken care of. It’s what a good son would do. 

And yet there’s nowhere else he wants to be more. 

“Good morning.” 

He smiles, unable to help it, at the sight of Shane in his glasses on the couch, pulling them off as he sets his book aside. Ilya moves to the couch before he can reach to set them on the coffee table, unfolding the arms and sliding them back into place. 

“Good morning,” he says, kneeling over Shane’s lap and kissing him, knowing he’s going to get told off for smudging the lenses where they touch his face but willing to pay the price as the cost of entry to making out with Shane Hollander in glasses. 

“Did you,” Shane says between kisses, “sleep well?” 

“Mm,” Ilya agrees, trailing off to nudge Shane’s head to the side to start kissing along his jaw until he can get to the soft, sensitive skin of his throat. “Yes. I had very good dream.” 

He rocks his hips forward to rub against Shane’s to demonstrate how good his dream was. 

“And the-oh fuck,” Shane’s voice pitches up slightly as he relaxes into Ilya’s mouth on his throat. “The bed was…” He seems to lose the train of his thought. Ilya grins against his skin, delighted by the success. 

“Bed was very nice, thank you,” he says, answering the question he wasn’t actually asked and making his voice low just to feel the shiver it elicits. 

“I have…breakfast,” Shane says, but he doesn’t seem too dedicated to explaining exactly what’s for breakfast. 

Ilya, pushing Shane onto his back and then working his way down his body, has a different appetite he’d like to satisfy first. 

From the way Shane ever so helpfully lifts his hips so Ilya can get his sweatpants off, he gathers he doesn’t have any objections. 

*

“Horses?” Ilya asks as they pass by a sign for a nearby stable. 

“Yeah, there’s a few places out here with horses,” Shane says, slowing down to take a turn. 

He’d gone to the grocery store before Ilya got here, but a tragic accident in the form of play fighting for control over the bottle this morning meant the tragic demise of a still-full bottle of olive oil, and while he could have just ordered some online and gotten someone to deliver it, he’d felt strangely awkward about the idea of someone coming all the way out to his cottage with a single bottle of oil, even as a paid task. 

So. 

Field trip into town it is. 

“Did you do horse riding when you were young?” Ilya asks, taking a sip of his coffee, a vanilla and lavender concoction from a tiny little coffee shop nearby that’s sweet enough that it made Shane’s teeth ache after a single sip. He’d pokerfaced through it for the sake of not offending the woman who runs the shop and is always careful about cross-contamination when he comes in, but he’d half-wanted to ask if she’d actually tasted the drink before selling it to other people. 

Then again, Ilya seems to be enjoying his hummingbird syrup, so maybe Shane is the odd one out here. 

“No,” he says, coming to a stop at a red light and using the moment to drink his own—sensible and unsweetened—plain latte. “I think there’s a picture of me on a pony at a fair or something, but they always kind of freaked me out, honestly. Their teeth are weird.” 

“But you are so good at riding,” Ilya observes innocently, and he’s spared only from retribution by the fact that he’s still holding a hot coffee. “I am surprised, though. You are so into outdoors things, but you do not like horses?” 

“Do you like horses?” Shane asks, putting his coffee back down when the light turns green. 

“No, of course not,” Ilya says, with a tone like he can’t believe he’s being asked the question at all. “But I am a godless city person. We have established this.” 

“And I’m what?” Shane asks, smiling. “A cowboy?” 

“Well,” Ilya says innocently, “you do give good cowgirl.” 

It’s possible Shane presses the breaks a little harder than he needs to when he pulls into a parking spot, whipping Ilya forward a little bit with the motion. 

Still, he only responds to Ilya’s accusing look with a smile. 

*

“How is the Canadian wilderness?” Svetlana asks on the phone five days into the cottage. “Have you run out of food and become a cannibal yet?” 

Ilya snorts, leaning back against the sun-warm siding of the house. 

“Yes, Hollander is long gone,” he says, crossing one ankle over the other, his legs stretched out in front of him. “Montreal is done for.” 

“If you have killed Shane Hollander,” Svetlana says severely, “I will kill you.” A beat. “I think all of Canada will also kill you.” 

“I am not afraid of Canadians,” Ilya says with a smile. 

“And me?” 

“I will buy you off with something nice,” he says, shrugging even if she can’t see it. 

“For not getting to look at Shane Hollander play hockey anymore? I will need a small city, Ilya.” 

“This is sounding very disloyal,” Ilya observes. “I am supposed to be your favorite.” 

“You were my favorite,” Svetlana says, “and then you abandoned me for the Canadian wilderness.” 

Some of Ilya’s levity deflates slightly. 

“Everything is-” He starts, but Svetlana stops him. 

“I am kidding, Ilya,” she says. “I’ve told you for years to actually use your summers to do something fun.” 

“I use my summers to do you,” he teases. “That’s fun.” 

“Sometimes it is very easy to forget why I sleep with you at all,” she observes, but he can hear the smile in her voice, knowing her well enough to know exactly what face she’s making. 

“Because I have a massive cock and know how to use it?” He suggests. 

“It becomes more of a mystery to me by the second,” Svetlana observes airily. Ilya snorts. “Oh, was I right, by the way? Hollander has a secret kinky sex dungeon in his super secret house?” 

Ilya grins, knowing that he probably would if he didn’t also have parents who drop by regularly. Instead he’s limited to a locked box of toys under his bed, because the enthusiasm is there even if the nerve to do it isn’t. 

But that’s not something he would ever actually say, even to Svetlana, not when it would beg the question of exactly how he knows what sex toys Shane Hollander has. 

“I have not found it yet,” he says instead. “But I will let you know.” 

“I know he’s got something kinky somewhere,” Svetlana says. “It’s always the quiet ones.” 

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek against the urge to confirm her guess. 

“But you’re having fun?” Svetlana asks. “Even without a kinky sex dungeon?” 

“I-yes,” Ilya says. “It’s nice, being here.” 

“It’s hard to imagine you outside of a city,” Svetlana says. “I want pictures. I am expecting flannel and maybe an axe.” 

Ilya laughs. 

“Are you checking up on me or just looking for thirst traps?” 

“I can’t do both?” 

He pulls the phone away from his ear long enough to pull up a photo he took earlier today, a selfie with a sleeping—and shirtless—Shane out cold on a towel on his dock. 

“Satisfied?” He asks after sending it. 

“As proof of life and a thirst trap, yes,” Svetlana says. “I am surprised he sleeps. Maybe he is not a hockey robot after all.” 

Ilya smiles, glancing back at the house, where Shane is probably still swearing at rice paper. Ilya had requested spring rolls as at least one meal during their vacation here, and Shane had been willing to indulge him, only to be sabotaged by a bad pack of rice paper wrappers that keep tearing each time he tries to roll them. Ilya had taken the chance to duck outside to let him work through the annoyance on his own without an audience, knowing that Shane hates people watching him fail at something, even if it isn’t his fault. 

(It also conveniently removed him from the situation as the cause of it all, something he plans to apologize for via sex later.)

“He is not,” Ilya says. “This is just a lie Montreal uses to try and scare people.” 

“You look happy,” Svetlana observes. “Happier than you usually are in summer.” 

The observation makes him pause, feeling exposed. It’s true, after all. This is the happiest he’s felt in a long time during summer, maybe ever. Everything else feels far away, unable to pierce through into the safe little bubble Shane has made here. It feels like resting, like things inside him are being smoothed back into place. 

It’s just not something he expected to be so obvious that someone else would pick up on it. 

“It’s nice here,” he says instead of directly confirming. 

“Good,” Svetlana says. “You deserve nice things, Ilyusha.” 

The statement is enough to make him almost want to hang up on reflex, but he knows that doing it to Svetlana would mean he would pay for it later. He still brings his knees up some, feeling exposed even with such a safe audience. 

“You haven’t seen the bugs here, though,” he says. “Those are not so nice.” 

“I’m sure Hollander can protect you,” Svetlana observes dryly. 

Ilya smiles, glancing back at the house again. 

*

After a long day of doing nothing in particular—besides essentially wrestling Ilya to the ground every two hours to force him to put more sunscreen on because Russians are absolutely susceptible to sunburn no matter what Ilya insists—they tie off another day at the cottage with a (shared) shower, pizzas cooked on the grill and only lightly a little scorched on the edges because Ilya distracted him with a hand down his shorts, and drinks that Shane has been told are cocktails but taste like extended shots because Ilya has the heaviest hand in the fucking world when it comes to making drinks. 

“Jesus,” Shane says once again after his fifth sip, when the melting ice doesn’t appear to have done anything to make it taste less like gasoline. 

“Baby,” Ilya says fondly, taking another sip of his own with the non-reaction of a man who’s been doing shots in clubs since he was a teenager. Shane pours out a bit more of his into Ilya’s glass when he lowers it. “You are trying to get me drunk, Hollander?” Ilya asks, even as he doesn’t make any effort to stop him, holding his glass still until Shane has offloaded enough to be pretty sure he’s not going to reach alcohol poisoning before he reaches the bottom of his drink. 

“Same question to you,” Shane shoots back, standing to go pour more mixer into his. “The fuck kind of recipe did you even follow? Frat margarita?” 

“Not everyone needs a recipe for everything,” Ilya calls after him. 

“Yeah, but maybe you should consult just one,” Shane calls back, topping his glass off with pineapple juice. The tiny can still feeling nearly full is further evidence that Ilya should absolutely not be responsible for mixing up drinks ever, and he takes another long swallow of his that he grimaces at before he fills the glass the rest of the way up again. His sip after that is at least a little more tolerable, and he returns outside. 

He pauses in the doorway when he does, though, struck for a moment by Ilya painted gold by the sunset. He’s beautiful, always, but he almost makes Shane want to look away right now with how ethereal he looks, his skin golden in the light and his curls lit up and nearly glowing. For the first time in his life, Shane wishes he’d paid more attention in the art classes his dad had signed him up for when he was little. At the time, he’d resented it, the effort at making him “well-rounded” instead of entirely dedicated to hockey, but now he wishes he’d listened to Ms. Valerie talking about the way art is the expression of the soul or whatever philosophical lesson she had tried to impart to an unappreciative audience of 7 year olds. He’d like to be able to capture Ilya how he looks right now, happy and loose and golden. 

It’s how he should always look, Shane thinks. 

*

Ilya is aware of Shane’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t make a move to interrupt or call him on it, content to be admired, especially by Shane Hollander, who’s beautiful in a way that sometimes fills Ilya with a wordless feeling that makes him want to bite him just for the sake of doing something with it, for the relief of acting on the pressure in his chest. When he gives into the urge, it’s not like Shane usually has any complaints, not when he’s been a biter in bed from the start, something Ilya teases him about but loves, especially when Shane flusters himself when he gets carried away and leaves bruises: dark, oval marks on his skin, sometimes even a gradient of dark in a way that shows actual toothmarks. There’s a term for that in English, Ilya knows courtesy of a trashy romance novel he scanned through at an airport when his phone was dead: love bite. 

When he’s feeling particularly soppy (or particularly buzzed, like now), he thinks he would like to always be carrying around at least one love bite from Shane. He can’t have the love, not really, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like the bite itself, a claim written in his flesh that Shane Hollander wants him, wants him enough to bite him about it, to sink his teeth into muscle and flesh and hold on. Shane always freaks himself out about it after, sometimes even apologizes if he feels especially bad about it, not guilty about the harm necessarily, but guilty about leaving proof on Ilya’s skin of what they get up to when there aren’t witnesses around. Ilya’s never told him before, but he’s thought more than once that he would like a tattoo of Shane’s teeth on his skin. He thinks about asking him about it now, how he might spin it into something funny instead of something wildly intense. 

It’s possible, Ilya thinks, that Shane might have a point about how strong he makes drinks. 

“You are going to come sit down or just stare like serial killer?” Ilya calls back, because he apparently can’t be trusted with silence and Shane’s attention. 

“Just wondering if I need more mixer or not,” Shane lies, shutting the door and joining him again. Ilya doesn’t call him on it. 

Not when the seat Shane chooses to take is on his lap. 

“Such a baby,” Ilya teases, because if he focuses too much on the way Shane takes hold of his face and tilts it into the angle he wants for a kiss, he might actually lose his fucking mind about it. 

Shane’s mouth tastes like pineapple juice. 

Ilya slides his tongue forward to chase more. 

*

Shane floats in the warm haze of Ilya’s embrace in his bed that night, the draft from the A/C an interesting sensory contrast compared to the hot, slick skin against his own, his head tucked against Ilya’s shoulder, Ilya’s fingers trailing nonsense lines up and down his back. Their fucking wasn’t anything spectacular, and that almost made it hit even harder, the knowledge that they have the time to fuck gentle and slow, Ilya grinding into him more than thrusting, pressed tight to his back. He’d climaxed holding Ilya’s hand against his hip, head back as if there was the faintest possibility of catching his mouth for a kiss at that angle. Ilya had finished soon after, speeding up just a bit but then pressing close, fingers bruisingly tight at his hip, holding him close like there was any chance of him pulling away. He hadn’t pulled out for a long time afterwards, both of them content to float in a headspace softened by sex and alcohol. 

It’s the buzz that gives him the little nudge over the edge for something he’s wanted for a while. 

He’s not drunk enough that he would consider himself incapacitated, and it’s not the first time they’ve fucked when one or both of them is a little tipsy–rare for Shane or not, it has happened a few times over the years–but he can feel the laze of the day in his bones, like the sun has soaked in and left him melted and softer than he would normally be. It’s risky, the thing he finds himself wanting to ask. 

But it’s also something he’s wanted for long enough that the question is tempting enough to risk, especially when Ilya sets it up so easily for him. 

“I should go back to my room now, yes?” Ilya asks around a yawn with the cadence of an apology, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. 

Shane pushes forward before he can second guess himself out of it. 

“You could stay in here…if you want,” Shane says, forcing himself not to immediately duck under the covers as soon as it’s out. He’s known Ilya for closer to a decade than not. He can handle asking if he wants a literal sleepover. 

(He still wants to look away immediately when Ilya looks to him, but at least his liquid courage doesn’t abandon him completely.) 

“In here?” Ilya repeats, and Shane feels his stomach clench a little at the lack of interpretable tone in his voice. 

“If you want,” he says, forcing himself to shrug. “I think the A/C is better in here, and it’s fucking hot outside.” It’s the thinnest fucking reason in the world, and he knows it. The A/C in the entire cottage is perfectly fine, and even if the angle of the sun in the guest room Ilya picked does mean that room gets a little warmer during the day than the rest of the house, it’s always perfectly fine by the time night rolls around. When Ilya still doesn’t immediately respond, just lowers his lips to his hairline in a soft kiss like he’s about to let him down gently, remind him that’s not what they do, tell him he overstepped what they do together, he regrets making the request at all, regrets risking picking at-

“Sure,” Ilya says, shifting a bit to settle down better. 

“We should shower,” Shane says instead of anything else he could say when so surprised, lowering his cheek to Ilya’s shoulder once again, closing his eyes as Ilya pulls the covers over them. 

Ilya hums, tugging him in closer to his chest. 

“We’re gross.” 

Ilya hums again in agreement; he doesn’t move. 

Neither does Shane. 

He drifts off like that, curled into Ilya, lulled by soft, warm skin and a familiar hand against his back, asleep between one breath and the next. 

*

Ilya wakes from a sleep so deep it makes him wonder for a moment what year it is. 

The angle of the sun peeking in through the blinds tells him it’s a little earlier than he normally wakes up on his own, but he feels better rested than he has in…

Fuck, he can’t even remember. 

It’s only when he starts to stretch just to be brought up short by a warm weight against his shoulder that he registers what was likely a contributing factor to how he feels now: Shane still fast asleep on his shoulder. For a long moment, all Ilya can do is stare at him, curled up close in the morning light in a way Ilya’s never seen him before. He makes noises in his sleep, grumbling wordlessly before he settles once again now. That’s a thing Ilya knows about him now, what he sounds like when he sleeps. 

It makes his chest feel full in a way that borders on painful. 

He traces his fingers gently over the constellations of his freckles, unable to resist, the skin soft as suede against his own. Shane frowns faintly in his sleep, displeased at something, and Ilya traces the back of one finger down the slope of his nose, smoothing out the crinkle. It feels surreal, being able to touch him like this, free to let his fingers roam in a way he can’t allow when his subject is awake and might have questions about it. He smiles slightly when Shane shifts just enough to get his leg more over his hips, pinning him into place more firmly. 

As if there’s anywhere else Ilya would ever want to be. 

What the fuck am I supposed to do about you? He thinks, a little helplessly. 

Sleeping Shane doesn’t offer any answers to the question he didn’t even ask. Ilya instead just tucks his head back beneath his chin and closes his eyes once more to steal however much more time he can get, curled up together to do nothing other than sleep. 

It feels like enough of a solution for now. 

*

They don’t bring it up again, Ilya sleeping in his bed with him. 

He just keeps doing it, leaving his suitcase in the guest room and borrowing Shane’s clothes when he doesn’t feel like going to get his own. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Shane says into the quiet darkness of his room three nights into their new arrangement, Ilya curled against him, chest against his back, an arm pleasantly heavy over him, their fingers linked together. 

“I am glad I am here, too,” Ilya says back, just as softly. 

He squeezes Shane’s hand. 

Shane squeezes back. 

He drifts off to the steady movement of Ilya breathing behind him. 

*

They’re playing with something dangerous here at the cottage, something that’s going to be hard to let go of when it’s over, and Ilya is fully aware of it. 

It just doesn’t stop him from doing nothing about it. 

It feels like playing pretend in a way that makes it easy to ignore that it is pretend, sharing a bed, eating every meal together, spending their days doing nothing but swimming in the lake and kicking a soccer ball around and working out in the gym together. 

(And fucking.) 

(So, so much fucking.)

(Really, it’s a miracle akin to the loaves and fishes that Shane hasn’t run out of Windex with how many smudges have been cleaned off of all of the windows.) 

A little part of him is already preemptively grieving it, missing it even as he experiences it, the feeling growing stronger as the days tick by towards the day he has to leave. It’s all so simple here, so easy. Shane’s face is the first thing he sees each morning and the last thing he sees each night. Shane’s voice is the only one he hears for entire days at a time, calling for him across the cottage or swearing dire, impossible things after getting splashed because he’s yet to learn to stay out of range if he isn’t swimming, too. Shane’s company is his, all his, not shared or split with anyone. It’s like all of their stolen time together pushed into days at a time, and the better it gets, the more Ilya struggles to push back the understanding that he’s being tempted into thinking something very, very stupid: the idea that this could be real, that maybe he and Shane could just keep this going, could morph friendship into something else, could manage to have something so beautiful without it breaking and driving splinters into the heart of what they’ve always been to each other. 

It’s the ghoul lurking behind the peace, after all: how easily all of this could be lost to him. 

He’s not entirely unobservant, after all. The more time that passes here, the more he thinks he sees Shane maybe starting to feel something at least similar to him, asking that same internal “What if?” that Ilya already has the answer to even if he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t think Shane is nearly as deep in feeling it as he is, but he thinks he might be on the start of the path there, feeling the first little tremor in the foundations. If he asked if Shane wanted to try being something more than friends, he has a suspicion that his answer probably wouldn’t be an immediate no. He could have it, this little bubble of the cottage expanded to be their standard state instead of a brief pause in reality. He could have everything Shane and Yuna and David have become to him and more. He could have Shane, all to himself, his and only his. He could have all of the stupid things he only ever lets himself think about late at night or when he’s drifting in the afterglow with Shane, fuckdrunk enough to think thoughts he knows he shouldn’t. He could have it, maybe. All of it. 

But he could also lose it just as easily. 

It’s not a risk he’s willing to take. Not when the cost of failure might actually be enough to kill him. 

“What are you thinking about so hard over there?” 

He looks up, a little startled, at David’s question, yanking him out of his own wandering thoughts. David and Yuna have come over for dinner, and Ilya had used a battle of wills over the salad between Shane and Yuna as a distraction to sneak off for a cigarette, a habit he knows those two hate the most. David, though, doesn’t call him on it. 

“Mind if I join you?” He asks, and Ilya knows he could say no. He could tell David to go, and he would. There wouldn’t even be hard feelings about it. 

It’s the reason he nods and shifts over to make space for him. 

“They are still arguing over cucumber peeling?” Ilya asks, holding his cigarette well away and making sure to exhale in the opposite direction of David, the breeze carrying it away. 

“Think they’ve moved on to bell peppers,” David says, sounding amused more than anything. 

“There will be blood over tomatoes, do you think?” 

“No, learned my lesson there. Cherry tomatoes. Only so many ways to cut something that small.” David winks. 

Ilya smiles. 

“Having fun in the Canadian wilderness or had enough spiders yet?” David asks, and Ilya groans. 

“The spider was in the shower,” he complains. “Anyone would be surprised.” 

“From how Shane tells it, you were a bit more than ‘surprised,’” David says, nudging him with an elbow. 

“I am going to smother your son with a pillow tonight,” Ilya warns him. “Then he will not keep telling lies about me.” 

“Eh, he can probably take you,” David says, and Ilya fully has to look away to resist the urge to laugh at the joke he has no idea he’s making. 

(He still files it away to tell Shane later.)

“I’m glad you’re here with him,” David says. 

“Is nice, being here,” Ilya says, because that’s easier and far less intense than saying there’s nowhere else he’d rather be in the world. “I am also going to get a good paycheck with all of the secrets I am going to sell about Shane Hollander’s fortress of solitude.” 

David laughs. 

“No, no, I am serious,” Ilya says, taking another drag off of his cigarette and then stubbing it out in the dish he was given for this purpose the day of his arrival.

“I’m sure,” David says wryly. “Well, incoming paycheck from TMZ aside, I’m glad you’re here. You’re a good friend to Shane. Trust me, he hasn’t had too many of those.” 

I want to be more than a friend, he thinks, plaintively, stupidly. 

“He is a good friend to have,” he says instead. “I am…very lucky.” 

Luckier than he ever thought he’d be, really. In his vision for what his future would look like, Shane certainly wouldn’t have occurred to him as a possibility: steady, reliable, reassuringly boring. Funny, sarcastic, always surprising. 

So much more than anyone on the outside would ever even think to look for. 

So much that it makes Ilya fucking terrified about the idea of ever losing him. 

“Well,” David says, clapping him on the shoulder before standing. “Think you might feel less lucky when Yuna finds out you two went rogue and bought rotini.” 

“I told him she said riga-whatever it was,” Ilya says, groaning as he stands.

“I’ll make sure to tell Yuna you weren’t complicit,” David says. 

Ilya smiles, following him back into the circle of Hollanders. 

If he can’t have everything, well…

At least he still has this. 

*

Even in the weeks after it’s over, Shane can’t get the cottage out of his head. 

It felt like something more, the two of them, together in a little bubble of just them. 

Before the cottage, he felt confident that he was the only one tempted into feeling something other than casual about their arrangement, but after days and nights spent together without interruption, he thinks he’s seen at least something that might hint at the idea of him not being in this all on his own. He’d thought maybe it would fade after the cottage, that common sense would emerge once again, but instead he’s just had more time to think it over. 

More time to hope that maybe the only thing standing between casual and whatever else they might be is just someone being brave enough to make the first move. 

Ilya was the one who started this. Maybe it’s only right that Shane takes the next big step between them. 

He gets off of the plane in Boston for their first game against each other for the season feeling scared shitless but also hopeful. Today, he tells himself during the Uber ride to Ilya’s place. 

He’ll bring it up today. 

*

Like the cottage uncorked something Ilya doesn’t know how to take back, they barely make it past the threshold before he and Shane have their hands on each other. 

“I want to ask you something,” Shane says against his mouth, lifting his arms up to let Ilya help him strip. “I-ow.” He gives Ilya a look when trying to tug his shirt over his head just yanks his hair instead. 

“Sorry,” Ilya says, even though he’s grinning despite the apology, tossing Shane’s shirt to the side without bothering to track where it falls. 

Having his hands on warm, smooth skin makes him feel almost drunk. It feels like their early days again, the excitement of learning each other. Nothing has changed between them, really, but there’s a new edge to it, the understanding of how much they enjoy each other’s company. 

The understanding that they’ll be sharing a bed again tonight. 

“I missed you,” he says before he knows he’s going to. 

It makes Shane’s face light up like a sunbeam, and his kneejerk urge is to repeat himself just to make it happen a second time, always greedy for Shane’s joy. 

“I missed you, too,” Shane says, leaning in for another kiss. “I want to talk to you about something-” 

“Later,” Ilya assures him, because he thinks if he doesn’t get inside Shane Hollander within the next five minutes, he might actually explode. He hasn’t bothered hooking up with anyone else since the cottage, uninterested in anything that isn’t going to adequately compare to the heady thrill of 24/7 availability for sex with Shane. It would be unfair, really, trying to score with someone else when he knows himself well enough to know he’d just be comparing it to things like waking up in the middle of the night to exchange slow, sleepy handjobs or provoking Shane into a wrestling match mid-run for fierce, competitive fucking in the middle of a running trail or sweet, warm little stolen moments of trailing his mouth down Shane’s body under the covers for the pure luxury of having an entire morning to kill together. He imagines the thrill will wear off eventually, but he knows anyone else would be found wanting right now. 

It just also means that he’s fucking ravenous right now as well. 

“Okay,” Shane breathes against his mouth before sucking in a quick, hungry little gasp when Ilya gets a hand around his cock. 

Ilya grins into a kiss and then takes hold of Shane’s thighs to pick him up and carry him to the nearest horizontal surface. 

Shane goes easily. 

*

In light of the need to fuck Ilya several times to make up for weeks apart, Shane’s talk gets delayed in favor of said fucking along with a quick cat nap afterwards. 

(...and then one more round of fucking.)

(For luck.) 

(And also just because he really, really missed Ilya.) 

By the time they’ve managed to get themselves together enough to commit to wearing pants again, Shane’s nerves have settled. He follows Ilya downstairs to the kitchen easily, taking his usual seat at the counter and accepting the ginger ale he’s handed. It feels almost silly, having been so fucking nervous when he’s talking about Ilya of all fucking people. They’ve known each other since they were teenagers. They text each other literally every single day. They’ve stayed over at each other’s houses probably a thousand times by now. Ilya is the first person he wants to tell everything to, and Shane would flatter himself that he’s usually among the first to hear about new things when they happen to Ilya, too. Ilya is probably the person Shane feels the most comfortable with out of everyone in the entire fucking world. 

Really, it’s little fucking wonder no one else has been able to compare. 

*

“Tuna melt?” Ilya asks, already reaching for everything he already had prepared for it. 

“Sure,” Shane says easily, opening his ginger ale. “Do you have the good chips?” 

“No,” Ilya says dryly, amused, as he pulls ingredients out of the fridge and then walks over to the pantry to pull out the Sunchips he only buys because Shane likes them, tossing them over. “I am going to make you eat normal people chips because I met you yesterday.” 

“Asshole,” Shane says fondly, opening the bag and grabbing a handful. He offers Ilya the open package and then rolls his eyes when Ilya makes a face, pulling out a pickle spear and biting off half of it before handing the remainder to Shane, who accepts it. 

“Be nice,” Ilya warns with faux-severity. “I defended your chips from a hungry and drunk Svetlana. I risked my life, Hollander.” 

“Wow,” Shane says dryly. “So brave. Giant hockey player managed to fend off a tiny woman. How courageous.” 

“You have not seen Svetlana when she is hangry, or you would appreciate my effort,” Ilya says, taking a chip from Shane’s hand. “Gross,” he declares, chewing and swallowing anyway. 

“Is she back from Russia?” Shane asks, ignoring the insult but defending his ginger ale and pulling it out of the way when Ilya tries to use it as a chaser. “She was back there for her cousin’s wedding, right?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says, biting another pickle spear in half and offering the remainder to Shane. “Ulyana is now safely married off, and Svetlana is already complaining about her family asking when it’s going to be her turn.” 

“Is her aunt still trying to pair you two off?” Shane asks, and he’s proud that it comes out completely even and unbothered when the knowledge of someone trying to pair Ilya off with anyone has been enough to make him wildly unhappy when it’s come up before. 

The reason for which he’s only been able to start actually thinking about recently. 

“Every single time I see her,” Ilya says dryly. 

“I mean, it would kind of make sense, wouldn’t it? You and her?” Shane asks, something he’s thought about before. 

(And mostly just ended up mad about.) 

“Hm,” Ilya says with a shrug. “Would be nice for the passport, maybe, but she and I are not like that. We are friends. That’s all.” 

His easy acceptance of that isn’t exactly the most promising thing in the world, and Shane decides a potentially awful conversation can wait until after lunch. 

It would be a shame if the Sunchips didn’t get eaten, after all. 

(At least that’s what he gives himself the permission to think.) 

*

The “what if”s that got increasingly loud in Ilya’s head at the cottage haven’t left him in the weeks since, and he’s woken up from more than one embarrassing dream of doing nothing more than holding Shane’s hand at the grocery store or folding laundry next to him or arguing about what their Christmas card should look like. 

Really, wet dreams would be easier to push his way through afterwards. 

It’s only made worse by the fact that being back with Shane feels like coming home even though he wasn’t the one who went anywhere. It feels like being complete again, something snapping back into place. 

It feels like maybe he opened a door he shouldn’t have. 

The only thing that leaving the cottage has done is to remind him of everything stacked up against the idea of him and Shane as a couple, and everything he stands to lose if it doesn’t work out. Phone calls from Moscow have only gotten more frequent, one even interrupting lunch today, pulling him away from Shane to deal with his own messy life. He’d talked his father down from his panic while knowing the man he’s increasingly failing to pretend he’s not in love with was only a few rooms away, waiting for him. 

And he’d known in his heart that even before dementia began stealing pieces of his father, there was no world in which he could have introduced Shane to him. 

He’d managed to soothe his father enough to feel comfortable hanging up on him, and he takes a long few minutes to get himself back together. Even if they’re friends and will only ever be friends, he still can’t shake the urge to give Shane only the best of himself. 

Or at least the best he can pretend to be. 

*

It’s the feeling of Ilya relaxing after they curl up together that gives Shane the nudge over the edge into finally manning up and asking what he’s decided to ask. It has to be a sign, doesn’t it? Ilya relaxing just from sitting next to him? 

It better be a sign, because Shane starts talking before he can start doubting himself again, shifting just enough to kneel over Ilya’s lap. 

“Can I ask you something crazy?” He asks, trying very hard not to focus on the way he kind of feels like he’s going to throw up because he’s so fucking nervous. He feels the same way he did when he went hiking with his dad once as a kid and ended up too close to the edge of a ridge, his toes inches away from a deadly fall. 

But under the terror of the height he could fall from is the possibility of what it would feel like if he didn’t, if they could have the cottage for the rest of their lives, if he could have Ilya and be had by Ilya the same way. It would be complicated—he knows it would be complicated—but he’s never been afraid of hard work before. 

He certainly isn’t now, not when the payoff could be so, so fucking good. 

“I have already heard your opinions about Mission Impossible movies, Hollander, I am not sure you have crazier things to say than that,” Ilya says, clearly teasing. Still, he gently runs his hands up and down his sides in an encouraging gesture. “Go. Tell me your crazy things.” 

“Do you ever think about, like…dating?” Shane asks, trying to pretend like his heart isn't beating as hard as it is.

Ilya pauses and inhales slightly but doesn’t immediately respond, exhaling the breath and taking another. 

“Dating who?” Ilya asks, and there’s something Shane can’t read in his tone, something that makes that “standing at a precipice” feeling even stronger. 

Still, if he’s already gotten this close to the edge…

“I know that we’re…casual, and stuff, with sex,” he says. He realizes he’s squeezing Ilya’s thighs with his own and makes himself let go, relaxing the tension, not wanting to go boa constrictor on Ilya when he’s having a “do you want to be boyfriends, maybe?” talk. “But I feel like we could be-that we kind of have been…more, maybe. You and me. Sometimes.” 

“Shane-” Ilya starts, and Shane rushes to fill the space with more words first, to make his case better. 

“The cottage was fun, right? Just the two of us? And sharing a bed and spending time together? I mean, that’s not really casual friend stuff, right? That’s more,” he’s not actually bold enough to say the word ‘boyfriend’ out loud when this already isn’t going the way he anticipated it going when he rehearsed it in the shower last night, “that’s-it’s different, isn’t it?” He makes himself take a breath, realizing only when his chest starts burning a little bit that he’s not inhaling all the way. “I’m not saying we have to label it or anything,” even though he would find that very helpful, “but maybe we just try out being…more than friends. You know?” 

It feels like there’s something heavy and scratchy in his throat, similar to a reaction in the tightness of it, but from something other than one of his allergens. This isn’t how this is supposed to go. He hadn’t needed them to declare their love for each other or anything, but he felt it. He knows he felt it. He couldn’t have been the only one feeling more than friendship, not in the cottage, not when-

*

“We are friends, Shane,” Ilya says, squeezing his waist gently, trying to soften it. He doesn't want to hurt him–he doesn't ever want to hurt him–but that's the extent of what they can be to each other. What else he might want to be doesn't matter, not when trying for it means having so much to lose. 

For the first time, he regrets that Shane is so easy to read, his hurt so badly hidden. Ilya's heart aches in sympathy, but one of them has to be reasonable about this.

It makes sense that it would be him, who has more to lose.

It's not just that he could never go back to Russia, though that's a large enough thing to loom over him. Stupid as it is, it's not just the danger of what might happen to him legally.

It's also the question of what happens if they try it and fail, the thing he just couldn’t get past in his mind no matter how many ways he twisted it in his head at the cottage. 

There's no world in which the Hollanders would keep him around if he and Shane dated and it went badly. There wouldn't be any reason to, not without the conduit of Shane. Ilya already has so much, too much, maybe, too much collateral held against this kind of gamble. He wants it, of course he wants it, Jesus fuck does he want it.

But he knows better than to think he would ever get to have it. 

It’s more than he ever thought he would get already, Shane and the Hollanders and the comfortable almost-family he’s stumbled into. Shane is one of the most important people in his life, one of the people he would do absolutely anything for, one of the people he wants to see healthy and comfortable and happy. Shane will always have a place in his life, and he hopes he’ll always have a place in Shane’s in return, but as much of a reputation as he has for being a risk taker, he’s never been a gambler. He loves Shane. Of course he loves Shane. He thinks there probably won’t ever be anyone else he loves the way he loves Shane. He’s his favorite person to be around, the first person he wants to talk to each day and the last person he wants to talk to each night. They’ve been in each other’s lives since they were teenagers, walked every step of their careers together. Ilya doesn’t even know who he would be without Shane at this point. 

Which means he can’t take a risk that might mean losing him. 

*

Shane thinks he would welcome the earth opening up and swallowing him whole, right here, right now. 

He feels like an idiot.

He feels the kid at the lunch table who never quite fit with the kids sitting around him. 

He feels like the stupid motherfucker who fooled himself into catching feelings even knowing he shouldn’t have. 

“I-” He starts, pulling away. His throat feels tight, and his face feels hot, and his eyes are stinging, and he cannot have any of those three things happening to him right now, not when he’s already so fucking humiliated. God, he’s so fucking stupid. He’s so, so fucking stupid. 

“Hey,” Ilya says, holding onto his hips, “is okay, Shane, nothing is wrong, okay? We-” 

“Nevermind,” he says, pushing Ilya’s hands off of him so he can climb off of his lap. “Forget I said anything, okay? That was-” 

“Is okay, really. I am not upset. We can forget this happened, yes?” 

Somehow that hurts even worse than if Ilya just made fun of him, the idea that Shane’s feelings for him are inconsequential enough that he can just forget about them, move forward with no problems at all, keep fucking him and kissing him and sleeping with him like-

Like they’re just friends. 

“I need to go,” he says, and he’s not even saying it to Ilya so much as he’s realizing it in real time. He needs to be gone. He needs to not be here. He needs to maybe curl up in a dark closet and die of humiliation, and he needs space from Ilya to decide. He stands, yanking his hand away when Ilya reaches for it. 

Stupid. 

He is so. fucking. stupid. 

“Go?” Ilya asks, moving forward on the couch like he’s about to stand. “Go where?” 

“Just-I need to go, okay? I need to go.” He trips himself on the fucking throw blanket, and it’s just an extra kick to the teeth that it’s only there at all because he bought it for Ilya’s house a few years ago, something soft to curl up under together on cold nights. 

One of many things Shane regrets that he ever let himself get used to. 

“Don’t run away,” Ilya says. “You always stay here. Where are you even going?” 

“Away,” Shane says, fucking finally freeing his foot. “I just-I’ll text you later, okay? I just…I need space.” 

“No, stay. Talk to me, Shane,” Ilya says, standing now. “I am-” 

Shane can’t hear what Ilya might or might now be, not when he already feels like crying or just walking into fucking traffic. He just needs him to stop talking, needs the space to retreat and recover himself, needs-

“Miss,” he says, the first time he’s ever said it in all of his years of knowing Ilya, the first time he’s ever felt something he doesn’t want to talk to Ilya about. 

He doesn’t look back as he makes his escape. 

*

David 🧩: Hey kiddo, you don’t have to tell me if it would be breaking his confidence, but is something up with Shane? 

The message, received two weeks after Shane left his house to stay in a hotel in Boston for the second time in his entire career, hurts worse than David just hauling off and punching him would. 

The follow-up doesn’t feel any better. 

David 🧩: He seems a little down. 

He hesitates on how to even begin to respond. He’s noticed the same because how could he not? He’d given Shane space for a week before texting him again, and they’ve since established a delicate balance of not acknowledging the giant gaping wound between them. They’d even sexted on battleship two nights ago, but Shane had been so obviously not into it at all that Ilya hadn’t even gotten hard, and from the way Shane had responded, he gathers he wasn’t the only one, both of them clinically talking each other into mutual pretend orgasms so they could just call it a night. 

If there’s a hell, Ilya thinks it probably involves that exact fucking scenario. 

he hasn’t said anything to me

He feels guilty the fucking second it’s out. It’s not even skirting the edges of a lie. It’s directly a lie. Shane said what Ilya wants more than fucking anything. 

And Ilya had had to turn him down. 

David 🧩: Gotcha. Well, maybe you two should go do something extra fun the next time you’re up this way. Laser tag is still cool, right? 

Despite himself, Ilya smiles, just faintly. As much as he respects and admires David, he thinks him thinking something is cool probably means it’s far past that, well into the realm of so commonplace that it’s turned boring. Still, he would never say that. 

yeah, laser tag is definitely cool 

David 🧩: It’s impressive that you can manage sarcasm via text. 

not sarcasm. we’ll do laser tag or something. i’ll send pictures. 

He drops his phone back down against his chest at his own stupidity. He doesn’t think Shane will refuse to see him when he’s up there, but if their texts are anything to go by, he doesn’t think they’re going to be doing so much as getting lunch together. Shane hasn’t asked for the key back to his apartment or offered to send Ilya the one to his house, but Shane’s clear lack of anticipation about their next meeting is a pretty clear message. 

He doesn’t resent him for it. Of course he doesn’t. 

There’s a very large part of him that he’s not proud of that’s flattered by it, by the confirmation that he’s someone Shane wants. It’s not something they can act on, but he has faith they can get back to where they were before. It was the only choice he could make, after all. There’s just too much to lose to risk it all on something that seems so impossible. They’ll find their way back to center. Ilya believes that. 

He has to believe that. 

He doesn’t know how he’ll even be able to get out of bed in the morning if he doesn’t. 

*

Despite Shane’s best efforts at acting normal, he knows at least some of the guys have picked up on something being off with him. Hayden and Jackie have started making noises about having weekly dinners with Uncle Shane, a couple of guys have made a point of inviting him for some extra ice time under the excuse of getting pointers, and JJ has doubled down in his efforts at making Shane socialize in places he doesn’t really have any interest in being. It’s embarrassing being upset enough about his friend not wanting to wreck their friendship because Shane got stupid and greedy that people are now making efforts at coddling him, but he also doesn’t know how to make it stop. 

The approach he’s taking tonight is surrender, accepting JJ’s invitation to a party at a restaurant with the X-Squad cast. 

“There he is!” JJ says, clearly a little tipsy as he grabs Shane and jostles him. 

“Here I am,” Shane agrees, giving a smile he hopes isn’t awkward to the group JJ tows him over to. 

Trading meaningless greetings and smalltalk with strangers, he wishes he wasn’t thinking about the fact that he would normally be watching the new episode of Mr. Robot together on Facetime with Ilya right now. Ilya had texted him earlier to ask if they were going to, and he’d made what he hopes isn’t a weak excuse, saying the team was going out for a belated birthday celebration for one of the rookies. Ilya hadn’t pushed. 

Because he is so, so fucking stupid, he can’t help but wish he had. 

He manages to slip away from the group after what is hopefully an acceptable amount of time, getting a beer at the bar when the bartender makes it clear that a ginger ale would be strange when everyone else is drinking. He wishes Ilya was here to hand it off to. He wishes he didn’t wish that. He wishes he’d never said anything and ruined-

“You wouldn’t happen to want some fries to go with that beer, would you?” 

Startled out of his own stupid self-indulgent pity, he blinks, finding a very beautiful—and very familiar—face looking up at him. She scoots a basket of fries closer to him on the table, a clear invitation. She lifts her eyebrows, looking amused. 

“I don’t bite, I promise. You can sit if you want.” 

He does, primarily because he would feel rude if he didn’t. When she nudges the basket of fries at him again, though, he hesitates. 

“I’m good, thanks,” he says. “Not really good for my diet during the season.” 

“Gotcha,” she says easily, sliding them back closer. “Well, I’m going to be in trouble if I finish them all, but they’re good enough that they might be worth it.” She takes another bite and moans dramatically, which makes him smile, a little charmed by her ease with a total stranger. 

“I heard their fried pickles are good, too,” he offers. He wouldn’t personally know because he’s already confirmed they’re not safe for him, but JJ said-

“Can’t,” she sighs with clear teasing melodrama, resting her chin on one hand. “Peanuts in the breading. Who puts peanuts in fried pickle breading, I ask you.” 

Shane blinks. 

“You’re allergic?” He asks, feeling a strange little spark of kinship. 

“Peanuts, tree nuts, and sesame,” she confirms, with the cadence of someone well-used to rattling it off. “That’s why I’d feel bad about them seeing me not finishing the fries. Apparently they even made sure to use a special fryer. I mean, I’m grateful, obviously, because restaurants are so hit or miss, but a girl can only eat so many fries.” 

“There’s a restaurant downtown called Barranco that’s really good about allergies if you’re ever looking for a place,” he says, settling more into the booth without even needing to think about it, like the confirmation of shared allergies is enough to break the ice. 

“Are you also a member of the epipen club?” She asks, seeming surprised but pleased by the idea. “Or just an ally to the cause?” 

“Auvi-Q usually,” Shane says, not even thinking before saying it, “but yeah. Same as you except for sesame and then a few extra.” 

“Oh?” She asks, grinning. “Are we having a competition?” 

“For the shittiest prize in the world?” He asks, finding himself smiling back. 

“Well,” she says, nudging the fries towards him again. “They’re fried in beef tallow and confirmed nut-free if you want to help me out. I’ve been eating them for a good ten minutes now, and I’m still not dead, so they’ve been allergy guinea pigged.” 

Shane laughs, taking a few. 

“I’m Rose, by the way,” she says, holding out her hand. 

Shane wipes his fingers off on a napkin quickly before taking it in his own. 

“I’m Shane.” 

Chapter End Notes

ilya using "miss" to not talk: ah yes perfect system

ilya getting hit with "miss" to not talk: wait no

Chapter 8: honeymoon: the start of rose and shane's relationship

Chapter Notes

HI WELCOME TO ANOTHER ROUND OF THE EMOTIONAL OCTOGON, MOTHERFUCKERS

Ilya knows of Rose Landry the way he knows of any celebrity. Even with as many X-Squad movies as she's been in—and that he has then been forced to watch because Shane always claims the right to pick their movie as his non-sex penalty the way Ilya does clubs—he’s only peripherally aware of her.

He becomes abruptly more aware of her during his team's first game in Ottawa this season, when his standard practice of having dinner at Yuna and David’s house is suddenly coming with a side of gossip.

“-met her yet, have you?” Yuna asks, and Ilya is still stuck processing the idea of Shane dating someone too much to even accept the salad bowl being held out to him. “Ilya?” 

“Shane is dating Rose Landry?” He asks. He accepts the salad bowl, more on autopilot than anything else. It’s not as if he and Shane have spoken much since the conversation at his house, but he would think that dating someone seriously enough that Yuna would be told about it would come up. It hasn’t ever before because Shane hasn’t found anyone worth dating- Well, he hasn’t found anyone worth dating who could actually date him, Ilya amends in his head. 

At least before now, apparently. 

Beneath the edge of the counter, he pinches his thigh, hard, needing to make sure he isn’t having a very, very strange dream. 

(Or nightmare).

“Well, to quote him, ‘We’ve just gone on a couple of dates, mom,’” Yuna says with clear affection despite the feigned annoyance. “But it’s enough that a few gossip sites have picked it up.” She bops him on the head gently with a cucumber before handing it over. “Now I’ve just got you to pair off.” 

He doesn’t have it in him to respond to the teasing, not when his mind is still whirling around the impossible idea that Shane could be dating someone. It’s not like Ilya has staked any claim to him, but dating comes with certain expectations. 

Like the expectation that he won’t be fucking other people anymore. 

“Do I have to date an actress also, or do I get to pick from other options?” He says, throwing out the joke without thinking about it and moving to rinse the cucumber off in the sink, glad for the excuse to hide his expression for a moment until he can get himself under control. 

Their conversation made it clear that Shane was looking for something more permanent, but Ilya had thought it was just Shane playing with the idea of them specifically, maybe wanting to explore something that’s already comfortable to see if he could settle in for good. 

He hadn’t expected that Shane was apparently looking to fill the role with any likely candidate. 

“I mean do you really need more publicity?” Yuna teases. “I would think TMZ getting pictures of you on a night out while holding a goose of all things would-hey.” 

Ilya starts to turn his face away, but Yuna persists, keeping pressure against his cheek to turn it back towards her. 

And Ilya has never had a talent for resisting Hollanders. 

“What’s wrong?” Yuna asks, eyes searching his face, her eyes so similar to Shane’s that he has to look away again, even if he doesn’t try to escape the hold she has on him. 

“Is nothing,” he says, and if he didn’t feel so many confusing things inside right now, he might be tempted to smile when she tsks at him like he’s a naughty child who’s gotten into something he shouldn’t. As it is, he thinks he’s just found himself in something he doesn’t want to be in.  

“I’m just teasing,” Yuna says, clearly trying to figure out exactly where this conversation diverged from playful and into whatever she’s reading on his face. “You know I love you no matter how much of a slut you might be sometimes.” 

The comment is so wildly unexpected that he laughs, startled, and from the look on Yuna’s face, that was the point. She smiles softly, dropping her hand from his face to squeeze his shoulder gently. 

And then the first part of the sentence registers. 

Absurdly, it makes his throat feel tight, her throwing out those three particular words so easily even if it’s a joke. 

When she pulls him into a hug, he doesn’t resist her, bending enough that he can tuck his face down against her shoulder, inhaling the now-familiar smell of her perfume, the same one Shane buys her for Christmas every year. 

The thought of Shane makes him hold onto her a little tighter. 

“Is it your dad?” She asks softly, one hand moving across his shoulders slowly. 

“What?” He asks, lifting his head slightly. 

“Is everything okay with your dad?” She asks. “He had some problems with his new medication over the summer, didn’t he?” 

The problem was that he was suddenly resistant to taking his medication at all, something that Yuna only knows because she’s heard yelling when calling him over the summer to walk him through a sports car ad she’d lined up for him in the fall. It had been the easiest excuse available to him to explain the shouting, his father not reacting well to new medication. 

He hadn’t expected her to remember him saying it. 

“He is okay,” he says, and even he doesn’t really know if it’s a lie or not, not when Alexei is a fucking bastard and doesn’t reliably keep track of this shit to report it back to him. 

“It’s okay if he’s not,” Yuna says quietly. “It’s okay if you’re not okay, too, y’know.” 

He presses his face to her shoulder a little harder, wondering if she would be this kind if she knew that he hurt her son’s feelings in their last interaction face to face, that he’s fucked things up badly enough that Shane has barely spoken to him since. The knowledge that the answer is no only makes everything swirling in his stomach feel worse, the reminder that his place in this family is so delicately balanced, centered on him having a place in Shane’s life. 

It’s a long time before he lets Yuna go. 

She doesn’t rush him. 

It just makes him feel guiltier. 

*

“-and then Cal said–where’s your salad spinner again?” Rose asks, swinging halfway backwards to address him, one hand still on the knob of the cabinet. 

“Uuuuh,” Shane says, trying to remember where it ended up after his last kitchen reorganizing, the new thing he’s been doing when he feels especially restless, like moving his bowls and pots around is going to do anything other than be annoying the next time he needs them.  “Two cabinets over, second shelf down.” 

“So precise,” Rose teases. She moves over and opens it, giving him a look over her shoulder. “You have got to get a stepstool or start keeping your things at normal people height, dude.” She lifts a hand in emphasis, wiggling her fingers a good five inches short of the salad spinner. Hopping onto her toes gives her another three, but he just smiles slightly and wipes his hands off on a towel, leaning around her. When she drops back flat foot, he presses a hand against her lower back, keeping her in place as he pulls the spinner down. He can tell from the way she leans into it that she’s pleased by the gesture. 

He tells himself firmly that he is, too, that he thinks nothing of the fact that the only other person who has ever shared his kitchen with him never needed him to reach anything. 

“My hero,” she teases, taking the salad spinner from him and fluttering her lashes dramatically. 

“I’ll get a step stool,” he says with a squeeze to her waist, stepping back to return to the stove. He falters internally when he realizes the gesture is one he’s copying from Ilya, and he forces the thought away the same way he does every single time it’s popped up. “Or you could just be taller,” he teases to break his own internal tension, glancing at her over his shoulder. 

Rose snorts, and he’s pleased by the gracelessness of the gesture. It’s one of the first things he’d noticed about Rose, how little pretense she has if she’s not in front of a camera. For someone who often feels like he’s performing most of his life instead of just living it, it’s a fascinating thing to watch. He wonders if it comes from her being an actress or just from her being Rose. 

He wonders if he might be able to have some of it rub off on him. 

“I’ll work on that,” she says dryly. 

“What did Cal say?” He reminds her as she moves to the fridge, pulling out lettuce and then rifling through his drawers to find a chef’s knife. He thinks he might understand Ilya a little better after sharing his kitchen with Rose multiple times. It’s nice, seeing someone who has every reason to be cautious feel comfortable moving around in a place that isn’t theirs. It’s less of a hassle for him since he has most of the same allergies anyway, but it’s nice, making a place someone else feels safe. He’s wanted to tell Ilya this, to see if he’s felt the same all these years. 

He hasn’t. 

“Oh, right,” she says, gesturing at him with the knife in her hand in a way that makes him grin, amused. 

“I don’t think that’s proper kitchen safety technique,” he observes as she sets it down on her cutting board. 

“I haven’t killed anyone yet,” she says, smiling back. She bumps her hip against his as she passes by to rinse the lettuce. “Anyway, Cal said he’s been fielding media requests like crazy with how many places have been asking about us.” 

His kneejerk reaction is to play dumb, to ask what about them is worth questions, to ask if all of her friends are worth gossip rags contacting her publicist. 

He won’t insult Rose by actually doing it, though. 

They haven’t put words on what they are, not really. It’s easier without words, without actually having to commit to calling them something. 

It makes it easier to ignore the way he doesn’t quite feel how he thinks he should, how he desperately fucking wants to feel when he has a beautiful, funny, charming woman who is clearly interested in him, who texts him regularly and invites him to art installations and afterparties and comes over to his house to make dinner together. There are labels for things like the dynamic between them. 

They’re just labels he’s currently gunshy about using. 

“Hey,” Rose says, nudging her way under his arm and then resting both of hers on his shoulders. She smiles, an easy, sweet smile. “It’s like I said before, we don’t have to put labels on it. It’s just you and me.” 

“Seems like plenty of other people want labels on it,” Shane points out. He rests his hands on her hips. “Enough to call your publicist about it.” 

“They also called my publicist when I was a little bloated one day to ask when the baby was due,” Rose says dryly. She jostles him lightly. “Seriously, I just wanted to know if you wanted him to tell them anything or not.” 

“Besides the fact that you’re really fucking awful at staying on task when making dinner?” He asks, and Rose laughs, dropping her arms and pulling away after punching him on the shoulder. 

“Alright, smartass,” she says. “I don’t see a lot of sauteeing happening over there.” She gestures with her knife once more. “Get to cooking. I’m hungry.” 

“Watch the tone or I’m going to think it needs some sesame oil,” he shoots back. 

“Oof,” Rose says, pressing a hand to her chest like he’s stabbed her. “Low blow.” 

Despite the threat, he does return to cooking, glancing back and smiling faintly when Rose drives the salad spinner hard enough to make it vibrate on the counter. It’s his second salad spinner, in fact, his first lost to Ilya doing the exact same thing, hitting the lever hard enough to send it whirling right off of the counter to crack on the floor. His kneejerk reaction is to text Ilya, to tell him he’s in good company when it comes to trying to break his shit for no reason. 

Then he remembers exactly why that isn’t a reaction he should be having anymore. 

They haven’t talked about it since it happened, not really. They’ve talked around it, trading a few chirps and pictures of dogs and saying absolutely nothing of substance to each other. It’s been nine days since he last opened the battleship app, long enough that he got a notification this morning that it surrendered their last game to Ilya out of inaction. The last time that happened was after the Olympics, when it ceded the game to Shane as the person who was winning at the time. He hadn’t texted Ilya to tease him about it then. Ilya didn’t text him to tease him about it now. Shane had gotten the notification, stared at it for a moment, and then swiped it away, trying very hard not to think about other things he might have lost along with a stupid battleship game because he just couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut. 

The thought makes him feel something like angry now, mad at himself for fucking his own life up by being stupid and reading into things he shouldn’t have. He can only blame himself for this, for the way things with Ilya feel awkward in a way they never have before, not even back in their early days of getting to know each other. He knows Ilya feels it, too, knows from the stilted responses and lack of sexting on their battleship app that he’s made Ilya uncomfortable with unwanted feelings. He’s probably afraid to text Shane now, afraid he’ll read into it too much, and it’s not as if Shane can blame him. It’s just…

It’s just that he really fucking misses him. 

“What’s that serious face for?” Rose asks as he turns to put the pan on a trivet on the counter. 

“What?” He asks, unaware that his face had been doing anything in particular. 

Rose does an impression of a facial expression that Shane desperately hopes is not one he ever makes. 

“So serious,” she says, sliding the salad bowl over to him. “You wanna talk about it?” 

Not for a million fucking dollars does he want to talk about catching feelings for his friend he’s been fucking for years, but the offer is kind. He leans over, and Rose accepts the kiss he offers. 

“Just thinking about the next game, sorry,” he says, pulling back and then offering her some tongs, gesturing for her to make her plate first. 

“No need to be sorry,” Rose says, stretching up to kiss him on the cheek. “If you do want to talk, I’ve got some pretty great ears.” 

He huffs a laugh, accepting the tongs when she hands them back. 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he says. 

He lets her lead him back to his own couch, and when she stretches her legs out to rest over his lap, he doesn’t stop her, just puts a pillow over her shins to rest his plate on. And it’s…nice. He’s comfortable with Rose in a way he almost never is with people, especially new people. She’s easy to talk to, easy to like, easy to spend time with. Being with Rose is…easy. 

And Jesus Christ does Shane need some fucking easy. 

It doesn’t need to be anything beyond that, he tells himself firmly, when dinner is over and Rose curls up close, head on his shoulder. 

Nice and easy is more than enough, more than most people get, even. 

(If he just tells himself that this is true enough times, then maybe…maybe it can be.) 

*

“You okay?” 

Ilya looks up from the plates he’d been loading into the dishwasher at David’s question. David, though, is still looking at the pot he’s scrubbing out. He knows by now that it’s standard in the Hollander household that one person cooks and the other cleans up after, but he’s never minded participating in both parts. It makes him feel included, really, in a way that’s probably a little pathetic, talking with Yuna and then listening to music and working in companionable silence with David. 

Which means he’s not sure why David is suddenly switching things up on him. 

“Fine,” he answers, watching David turn on the tap to rinse his pot out before putting it on a dishcloth on the counter. David hands him their salad bowls to load in and then starts on a wineglass. 

“Open floor if something’s bothering you, you know,” David says, still not looking at him. Ilya has wondered before if the way David often looks away in conversations like this is down to personal preference or from raising Shane, who tends to avoid eye contact in conversations when he’s not sure of what he’s saying. He’s always found it strangely endearing before, either way, whether it’s something born out of shared genetics or just from the experience of raising a child and adjusting to his quirks. 

Right now it’s just making it a little hard to read what David is trying to get from him here. 

And to decide whether he wants to give it or not. 

“You are wanting to go to laser tag the next time I am in Montreal?” Ilya throws out, trying to steer them back to easier territory. 

David laughs, rinsing the first wineglass out and putting it down on the dishcloth beside the pot. Mostly for something to do, Ilya closes the dishwasher and then walks over to the sink, David leaning aside enough for him to wash his hands before he picks up a clean dishcloth to start drying things. David doesn’t comment, just hands him the second wineglass and then rinses his hands and leans back against the counter, fingers curled lightly around the edge. His posture says he’s perfectly fine settling in for a conversation. 

Ilya is just suddenly wishing he had more dishes to focus his attention on. 

“You just seem a little down, that’s all,” David observes. 

“If you could make Shane start losing more games, this would be helpful,” Ilya says, and David exhales a laugh through his nose. “I am serious. Montreal should not be doing so well when they are so terrible.” 

“Like you wouldn’t get mad if he didn’t give it everything just like you do,” David says, and despite how little he wants to be having this genre of conversation, he can’t help the way it makes him feel warm inside, the easy acknowledgement of how hard he works, how much he tries. It’s ridiculous, really, to feel anything at all about someone else noticing it, but of the things that are wrong with him, it’s probably one of his lesser sins. “Everything okay back in Moscow?” 

Ilya looks to him sharply, feeling betrayed even if he knows he shouldn’t. It’s not like he would expect Yuna to keep secrets from her family for him, but he doesn’t like the idea of Yuna and David putting their heads together to talk about him. 

He’s too afraid of everything they might find wanting if they compare notes. 

“I haven’t been told anything,” David says, clearly reading what he’s thinking. “Just saw Yuna looking up some doctors in Moscow the other day. Either you’re having a little trouble back home, or I’m about to be told to put in my two weeks and get ready for a big move.” He half-shrugs. “Could go either way, really.” 

Ilya almost feels the urge to confess to hurting Shane’s feelings, to let David know there’s not really any reason for either of them to care about him enough to wonder if anything is going on with his family back in Russia. He’s worked hard to keep Russia well away from the Hollanders. He doesn’t particularly care for it creeping ever closer to them despite that. In the end, though, he’s a coward, and if Shane hasn’t said anything, he won’t either. 

“Everything is fine,” Ilya says, collecting both now-dry wine glasses and moving to put them back in their designated cabinet, nudging them back into their perfectly neat line. “No need to worry.” 

“If you say so,” David says, pushing off of the counter and moving to the freezer. “If there is something to worry about, though, you’ve got my number. Sometimes things feel better if you can share the worry with someone else.” 

Ilya doesn’t respond, knowing already that there is no way on earth he will ever willingly bother a Hollander with his worries, especially not now, when his place in their orbit is already precarious courtesy of a shitty conversation and a random Hollywood actress. 

Still, the offer feels nice to hear. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who could help me finish this off, would you?” David asks, pulling a container of cookies and cream ice cream out of the freezer. 

Ilya smiles, knowing that he’s the only one of the three people in this house currently who actually likes cookies and cream and that the carton is almost certainly exactly as full as it was the last time he was here. 

“I might be able to make a call,” he says, moving to grab bowls as David pulls out another carton of plain chocolate for himself and Yuna. 

He settles back in the living room with the two of them and gives himself the cowardly permission to do nothing but enjoy his ice cream for a little bit. 

He doesn’t succeed, but he tries. 

*

Montreal’s second game in Boston comes far faster than Shane was ready for. 

The end of the game comes even faster. 

Your place? He types up on his phone in the locker room, staring at it for a stupid amount of time, still unsent. Montreal took the victory which means no club afterwards, but somehow the idea of being one on one with Ilya for the first time since The Fuckening feels even worse than the idea of going to a rave. Maybe if he just-

A text coming through and making his phone vibrate startles him badly enough that he almost sends it flying. 

“Smooth,” Hayden observes, grinning. 

“Fuck off,” Shane says without heat, not bothering to look up even as Hayden jostles his shoulder as he passes. 

I will be out late tonight 

take anything in the fridge you want

It aches in a way Shane didn’t expect for it to, Ilya going out without him after weeks apart. He’d anticipated that it would be awkward, of course, but he’d still been looking forward to it. He’d thought that maybe they could try to find something almost like normal, could start putting down a new foundation to build on. He knows his confession was clearly not wanted, but he hadn’t thought…

He hadn’t thought Ilya would want to actively avoid him. 

I can just go to the hotel if that’s easier, he types up, hesitating before sending. He wants to run it past someone, wants to ask if it sounds weird or not, but the only person he’s ever tapped in for that kind of thing is the person he’s texting. 

Absurdly, he almost wants to call Rose and ask what she thinks. 

Annoyed at himself at feeling the need to have someone cosign just to send a fucking text, he sends it, feeling defiant at his own hangups. 

if you want

there is already food for you, though

The first text hurts, the casualness of it, like Ilya doesn’t care one way or the other. 

Because he’s the most pathetic person in the fucking world, though, Shane chooses to act on the second. 

I’ll stay, then. 

Thanks. 

He gets a thumbs up emoji in response. 

He slaps his phone down in the locker so hard that it’s a miracle the screen doesn’t break. 

*

“If you are going to steal the hottest girl on the dancefloor before anyone else even gets a chance with her,” Svetlana observes while leaning over his shoulder to steal his drink, “you should at least try to look less miserable about it when you’re sucking her tongue down your throat, I think.” 

“What?” Ilya says, stealing his drink back. “You want a turn?” It’s more bitter than he normally ever is with Svetlana, and he presses his head back in silent apology, forehead pushing against the soft cloud of her hair. It’s not Svetlana’s fault he’s stuck in a loud—and for some reason fucking sticky every goddamn place he touches—club when he’d rather be at home, eating an allergy-friendly dinner and watching a movie with Shane. It’s what he’s wanted for weeks now, the chance to fix his error from last time, to prove to Shane that things don’t have to change between them, that staying at his house can be just as comfortable and safe as ever. He just hadn’t anticipated Shane making changes before he got the chance, and he doesn’t know how those changes might have impacted how willing he would be to stay at his house with a girlfriend in the picture. 

So. Temporary exile into the nightlife of Boston to give Shane the chance to eat a safe meal without having to ask questions that might make him want to leave it is. 

“You are fighting with Hollander?” Svetlana asks. 

“No,” Ilya says, fast enough that he almost grimaces. Svetlana doesn’t even need to say anything for him to know that she hasn’t remotely bought his answer. He presses his head against hers a little harder. “Just a bad game.” 

“And this is suddenly a problem for you two?” Svetlana asks, looping her arms around his shoulders and leaning her weight on him. “I thought your whole thing was that you’re friends no matter what.” 

The comment stings harder than it should. 

He’d thought they were friends no matter what, too. 

“C’mon,” Svetlana says, shaking him lightly. “I need a wingman. At least one of us should get laid tonight.” 

Under other circumstances, Ilya would already be getting laid, driving Shane through the mattress or getting ridden like Shane’s decided to be a jockey instead of a hockey player. They would probably already be on a post-dinner round two by now, maybe with a shower intermission but maybe just interrupting putting dishes away with blowjobs. Absurdly, Ilya hopes Shane at least got a good dinner if he isn’t going to get a good fuck tonight. Under other circumstances, Ilya would know, would have been involved in making something tasty and safe for him, would get to watch Shane enjoy a meal and know that his life was materially better because of Iya’s place in it. 

But all of that was before Rose Landry. 

Ilya downs the rest of his drink in one swallow. 

*

“-cking amazing goal,” Rose says over the phone, and despite knowing it wasn’t anything special, Shane smiles slightly, the movement of his cheek shifting the phone slightly where he has it pinned against his shoulder to keep his hands free. 

“I mean, I think I’ve made that exact same goal probably a hundred times by now,” he demures, kicking the fridge shut after putting the pickles back. 

“I mean I would say doing something a hundred times just makes it extra-impressive,” Rose observes. “But I also work in showbiz and get stuck doing a hundred takes of the same scene sometimes, so I’m biased.” 

Shane laughs, picking up his plate and making his way to the living room. It was kind of weird to be in Ilya’s house on his own with no set time to expect Ilya back, but weird was preferable to the other things being back here could be, so he’s leaned into it. 

Still, it was a relief when Rose called. 

“Director still being a dick about the bomb scene-” 

“Hey!” Rose protests. 

“-which I absolutely don’t know anything about because you definitely didn’t tell me any important plot points at all.” 

He hears Rose snort. 

“We’ll work on your line delivery when you’re back in Montreal,” she says fondly. 

“Hey,” he protests, “you’re the one who told me important script shit.”

“It’s not my fault!” Rose says with obvious melodrama. “You’re so cute! I was under duress.” 

“Not that much duress,” Shane observes, scooping up a forkful of pasta salad. He doesn’t know if he’s actually supposed to be eating the pasta salad he found in the fridge, but Ilya had said to help himself. 

(...it’s also possible that Shane maybe feels a little spiteful at being rejected and then ditched, enough to take whatever food he fucking feels like.) 

(It’s also possible this is a contributing factor to why he helped himself to Ilya’s closet and is wearing a pair of his sweats and one of his worn-soft old t-shirts as well.) 

(Really, based on what the users of Reddit have suggested about how to deal with a guy who rejects you after years of sleeping together, Ilya should probably be thankful at Shane being so light-handed in his tiny little smidgeon of revenge.) 

“See if I give you spoilers again after this,” Rose teases. 

“See if you find anyone else to run your lines with you,” Shane shoots back after swallowing his mouthful of—possibly stolen—pasta salad. 

“Unsportsmanlike conduct,” Rose announces. “Five minutes in the penalty box.” 

“What penalty box?” Shane asks with a smile. 

“I don’t know, you’re at Rozanov’s house, right? Anything look penalty box-ish that I could banish you to for being mean to me?” 

The conversation circling back around to where he is right now takes some of the levity out of him, and he glances around the room, which is lit brighter than it normally is because he’d been hoping having enough lights on would make the house feel a little less empty. 

It hadn’t worked, but it’s possible he might be making Ilya’s light bill higher with how many are on right now, so. Small victories. 

“I mean I can make myself stay on the couch for thirty minutes if that’ll make you feel better,” he offers. 

“Depends,” Rose says. “Is it a nice couch or one of those modern design nightmare things?” 

“Hmm,” Shane hums thoughtfully, feeling his face go a little hot when he thinks of how very comfortable he’s found this couch in the past for things beyond just sitting on it-

-and then thinking about the likelihood that he will never be participating in any of those things ever again. 

“It’s pretty nice,” he admits, and abruptly, he doesn’t want to be talking to Rose anymore, not on Ilya’s couch in Ilya’s house. 

In Ilya’s absence. 

“I’m going to go so I can eat dinner and not make you listen to chewing noises, okay?” It’s abrupt enough to maybe be rude, he knows, but it feels wrong, suddenly, to be talking to Rose in this setting, like…like cheating, almost, as ridiculous as that is. 

“Sure,” Rose says easily. “Text me before you go to bed?” 

“Sure,” Shane says back. “Good night.” 

“Good night.” 

He hangs up the phone and sets it down on the cushion beside him. 

He regrets the loss of Rose on the phone as the quiet settles around him, the house feeling even emptier than it did earlier. 

He finishes his pasta salad. 

He doesn’t have it in him to go back for seconds. 

*

Ilya doesn’t know if he should be relieved or annoyed when he gets home and hears that the television is still on. 

Seeing Shane’s shoes lined up neatly by the door just makes him feel a horrible pang in his chest instead of either option. 

“Ilya?” Shane calls from the direction of the living room, and he hears him hit pause on whatever he was watching. 

Under normal circumstances, Ilya would tease him, call out that no, he’s a home intruder or a kidnapper, here for boring, slow Canadians. 

“Is me,” he calls back instead, toeing out of his own shoes and cursing under his breath when he loses his balance slightly. He’s not drunk, but he’s certainly not sober, something that had felt like a necessary precaution in the face of sharing a house with Shane right now. 

When Shane appears in front of him, he just wishes he had drunk enough to drown the impulse to kiss him, the urge hitting him hard enough after so many years that he’s in motion before he’s even decided to be. He sees Shane’s inhale pause, just for a moment, and there’s a very mean, cruel part of him that wants to know what Shane would do if he kissed him anyway, if he tested the limits of whatever fidelity he currently owes Rose Landry. Ilya was here first, after all. No matter how frequently they’ve seen each other—and isn’t it just more salt in the wound, knowing at all times that Rose Landry has constant access to Shane in a way Ilya never has, not in all of their years of knowing each other—he doubts she’s kissed Shane more than he has. He still has the advantage of seniority, of being there at the genesis of Shane finding out what he likes in bed, of being the conduit through which Shane has discovered what makes him feel good. 

The thought pokes at the idea of exactly how many of those things have been repurposed for Rose Landry’s benefit. 

“Fun night?” Shane asks, and the mean part of Ilya answers. 

“Was good,” he says, brushing past him. “Phoenix Landing has good bathrooms. Very roomy for getting to know someone.” The suggestion he’s making is blatantly a lie, but the truth is that he left as soon as Svetlana found a likely candidate, uninterested in finding one of his own. He doesn’t look at what expression the comment earns from Shane. 

He’s too afraid it’ll be indifference. 

“Do I know that one?” Shane asks, trailing after him into the kitchen. Ilya almost wants to pull down a bottle of vodka, just to see if Shane will stop him, lecture him on responsible drinking and how he has a game in two days and should make good choices. 

He gets a glass of water instead. 

“Is that the one with the,” Shane makes a twirling gesture with his hand, “light thing?” 

“No,” Ilya says, draining his glass and filling it up again. “You have not been. You wouldn’t like it.” I wouldn’t take you there, he thinks and doesn’t say. The speakers would hurt your ears and you would complain about the smoke machines the whole time. He’s almost tempted to offer it up, to see what Shane would do with it, the reminder of how well Ilya knows him, how much he’s paid attention throughout their years of knowing each other, how much Shane’s comfort factors into his choices. 

He drowns the urge with more water. 

*

The dismissal hurts, the confirmation that Shane was left behind because Ilya wanted to go somewhere exciting that he wouldn’t fit in. He almost wants to challenge him on it, to insist that he go next time. 

To try and prove that he doesn’t need to get left behind again. 

“Was it someone’s birthday?” He asks, because he’s never lost the habit of pressing on bruises. He wants it to be someone’s birthday, someone’s anniversary, someone’s something. He wants Ilya to tell him that it was just a matter of scheduling and not a lack of interest in seeing him that ate up so much of their time together. He didn’t expect them to fuck, not when things are so weird between them and he’s started seeing Rose, but he doesn’t want Ilya to have avoided seeing him at all just because sex was probably off of the table, doesn’t want him to have just-

“No,” Ilya says with a shrug, turning back to fill his glass of water again. “Just wanted to go out.” 

Shane’s taken hockey sticks to the face that have hurt less. 

“You could have brought someone back if you wanted,” Shane says, and he thinks it’s probably one of his great achievements that it comes out flat and not as angry as it feels in his chest. “I could have just stayed in the guest room.” They haven’t discussed sleeping arrangements, but with sex off the table and Rose in the picture, he’d been hesitant to share one with Ilya again, even if it were done platonically. 

Now Shane is just wishing he’d gone back to the fucking hotel. 

“No need,” Ilya says with a shrug, and the casualness of it breaks Shane’s heart in a way that means he gets a glass of water of his own, afraid that the way his eyes have gone a little blurry is visible. “Like I said, the bathrooms were roomy. Good place to hook up next time you are here, maybe.” 

*

He’s rubbing salt into his own wound with the words, but Shane’s comment makes it clear that he hadn’t expected them to have sex tonight anyway, that he would have simply packed up his book and his reading glasses and headed upstairs, like it was nothing to him at all if Ilya fucked someone else under the same roof. 

Apparently dating Rose Landry has been quite the cure for hurt feelings. 

“Though maybe you don’t need club bathrooms,” Ilya suggests, because if he’s already aching, he might as well drive the knife in to the hilt and get it over with. 

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Shane asks, still facing away as he adds ice cubes to his water. 

“You are dating Rose Landry?” He asks, the question he hasn’t been bold enough to ask before, afraid of having it confirmed. 

Shane pauses just briefly before returning to putting ice in his glass. 

“We’ve been on some dates, yeah,” he says, turning and resting his back against the fridge. 

“She is hot,” Ilya ventures, and even he doesn’t know if it’s meant to be provocation or an attempt at offering kudos. The latter is what he would offer to Svetlana under the same circumstances, appreciation for his friend’s ability to pull such an impressive person. 

With Shane, though…well, at least the former would mean something to do with all of the feelings that have been curling up tight in his chest since his talk with Yuna. 

“She’s great,” Shane says, and of all of the adjectives, it’s among the most damning he could have chosen. It’s too chaste to belong to something casual. 

“She is your girlfriend?” Ilya asks, deciding that he’s had about as much wondering as he can fucking take. 

Shane looks startled for just a moment, and Ilya feels the first little flicker of hope. Maybe he’s misunderstood, maybe the press has just gotten out of hand. Maybe Rose Landry is just another of Shane’s experiments, a bigger name, sure, but not anyone who will stick around, not anyone who will need to be considered for very long, not anyone who-

“Yes,” Shane says, and it almost sounds like a challenge. “She is.” 

“Congratulations,” Ilya says, and the rush of even his small amount of hope departing from him all at once leaves him feeling hollow. He pushes off of his counter. He needs to be alone now, needs space from Shane to process the confirmation that he has indeed moved on, that Ilya’s established place in his life has already begun to be handed to someone else. 

That he’s broken what he was trying so hard to save. 

“Thanks,” Shane says at his retreating back. “Goodnight.” 

Ilya pretends he doesn’t hear him. 

He’s not sure his voice would come out steady enough to respond. 

*

With the confirmation that he is indeed holding on to nothing at all, it feels stupid to keep delaying on what everyone else thinks is happening anyway. 

“You’re sure?” Rose asks after he broaches the subject at dinner his second night back in Montreal, when he’s visited set to eat with Rose in her trailer in her brief meal break. 

“Not exactly a promising response to asking someone to be your girlfriend,” he observes, scooping up a bit of filling that escaped his taco. As it turns out, being a famous Hollywood actress means some actually pretty decent allergy-friendly food, even if Rose has told him it tends to get repetitive on shoots since caterers tend to have set “safe” meals they rotate through, something that he gathers is undesirable to other people even if it’s the way he tends to eat. “You don’t have to-” 

“No, it’s not that,” Rose says with a small smile, reaching across the table to take hold of his hand. “I just don’t want you to think you have to move faster than you’re comfortable with, Shane.”

She’s so kind. She’s so, so fucking kind. She deserves a guy to commit to being her boyfriend instead of being a guy who just keeps telling other people non-committal answers about just hanging out. She deserves someone who will claim her, not someone who will string her along with mixed signals and pussy out of actually putting a label on it. 

“I want you to be my girlfriend,” he says, squeezing her hand back. “If you want to be my girlfriend.” 

“Yes,” Rose says with a warm smile. “I would very much like to be your girlfriend.” 

Because it feels like the kind of thing he should do, he stands and leans over to kiss her. 

It’s good, he tells himself. 

It’s exactly as good as it should be. 

*

After her absence in the stands instead of wearing the Hollander jersey she’s been donning in every fucking photo Ilya has seen of Montreal’s home games recently, he assumes that Rose Landry will be curling up with Shane at home after the game, cooking a cozy meal together and watching a movie and then making tender, boring love before curling up together to sleep. 

Which means that of everyone Ilya could have possibly fucking run into—literally, in fact, turning to catch someone after they bumped into him and tripped—on the dancefloor of Ciel, Rose Landry would have never fucking occured to him as a possibility. 

And yet here she is, in the flesh. 

(And in a slinky silver dress he can’t help but wonder if she picked out just for Shane’s benefit.) 

“Oh, you’re Ilya, right?” She asks, shouting slightly to be heard over the music. “Rozanov?” 

“Hi,” he says flatly, not even sure if she can hear him. 

(Not particularly fucking caring if she can hear him.)

“Shane is here with you?” He asks, making the question loud enough to hear, because he needs to know now if he should find another club or risk being subjected to watching the lovebirds at close range. 

“No,” she says, shaking her head and making her hair bounce around her face with the movement. She’s even prettier at close range, which is deeply, deeply annoying. He’d half been hoping that all of the pictures he’s been subjected to of her and Shane were Facetuned. It would have been something, at least. Apparently, though, he’s not even going to be granted the small dignity of Shane’s new girlfriend not being stunningly beautiful. “Oh man, he’s going to be so bummed he missed out! I told him he should come out with me tonight.” 

“Okay,” he says flatly, hoping she’ll take the hint and release him so he can go drown himself in enough drinks that he forgets this meeting at all. 

“I’m really glad we ran into each other. I’ve heard so much about you,” she says with a wide, slightly tipsy grin. 

What have you heard? He wants to ask in equal parts pain and hope and stupid want. Have you heard how much he likes my cock in his mouth? In his ass? Have you heard how I know how to cook his favorite foods or that he prefers ginger ale in a glass but only with a straw? Have you heard how he likes red grapes and not green but only if they’re crunchy and how I pick out the best ones for him on shoots to make sure they’re the ones he wants? Have you heard how he laughs when he means it? Have you heard what he actually thinks about things or just what he knows other people think he should think about them? Have you heard he started falling in love with me? 

Have you heard that you have everything I want and can never fucking have? 

“Great,” he says shortly, hoping she’ll finally take the fucking hint and leave him to drown his sorrows in alcohol and finding someone to fuck for the night while knowing that the only person he actually wants is in bed with his beautiful, perfect girlfriend who everyone is expecting to see an engagement ring on any day now. 

God, he is not fucking drunk enough for Rose Landry to be standing in front of him. 

“Oh, we should take a selfie!” She says, already unlocking her phone. “Maybe it’ll get Shane to come out with us if he knows what he’s missing out on.” 

He would hate this club, Ilya barely manages to keep himself from saying. The lights change colors too fast and the booths have buttons on the fabric, and the bar has Schweppes and not Canada Dry. 

He feels smug that Rose Landry apparently doesn’t know any of this about Shane. 

He feels angry that Rose Landry apparently doesn’t know any of this about Shane.

“Come on,” she says, sliding her hand down his arm to hold his in hers, immediately tugging him along with an inordinate amount of strength for someone so much smaller than him. “I’ll introduce you to everyone. They’ll be so happy to meet the famous Ilya.” 

‘No, I-” He starts, trying to protest, but there’s no way he can snatch his hand away from her without looking either rude or aggressive, and even to avoid having to spend any amount of time with Rose Landry, he won’t do either. 

He follows along in her wake miserably, desperately wishing now that he’d just stayed in with Connors and ordered some fucking room service. 

When he sees Connors now at the table he’s being led to, happily laughing with someone Ilya vaguely remembers as another X-Squad cast member, it’s just one more sting to add to the pile. 

*

Guess who I found at the club tonight???

Shane frowns a little, confused, pushing his reading glasses up and sitting back against his pillows, setting his book down to the side. It’s not unusual for Rose to text him when she goes out without him, especially when she knows he likes knowing when she’s home safe for the night, but the guessing game is new. 

Tom Cruise? 

Better :) 

Angelina Jolie? 

GOD, I wish 

But no!

That science TV guy you were telling me about? 

Shane, if Bill Nye were in this nightclub, you would have gotten a Facetime about it 

You really suck at guessing btw

Before he gets a chance to respond with another guess he’s just going to get heckled about, a picture comes through. 

For a long moment, all he can do is stare at it. 

His chest does something complicated, seeing Rose and Ilya’s faces right next to each other. It feels illegal, for some reason, that they should be able to exist so close to one another. They belong in separate boxes in his head. They have to. 

And yet here they are, right in front of him, painted pink by club lights, Rose looking thrilled and Ilya looking annoyed at something, probably at being stopped when he’s clearly on the hunt for someone to take home for the night based on how unbuttoned his shirt is. 

Come out with us! 

We’re at Ciel. 

We can have the whole band together! 

I’m really tired, babe, he types and then hesitates before sending, the excuse he’d given her earlier because Ilya had barely looked at him during the game, and he’d wanted some space to figure out if he should say something about it. He hasn’t come to a conclusion one way or another, hurt and angry in equal measure that Ilya has moved on so cleanly. 

Enough to be out at a fucking club instead of even pausing to get dinner with him. 

Fuck it. 

He tosses his comforter off of his legs and gets up to get dressed. 

*

Ilya thinks he once heard a quote about hell being other people. 

Bookended by celebrities and his traitorous teammates in a booth and thus unable to escape being stuck right next to Rose Landry, he is inclined to agree. He’d gotten a brief reprieve when she got up to use the bathroom, but she had reclaimed her seat right after, everyone sitting down again too fast for Ilya to seize the chance to escape. He’s not quite at the level of desperate that would involve crawling under the table to freedom, but it’s a close fucking thing. 

“Is this mine?” Rose Landry asks her friend to her right, pointing to a drink. 

“Mmm, yes,” the woman says. “Mine had less than yours.” 

This was true before, Ilya knows, but the woman grabbed the wrong glass a few minutes ago and drained it enough that the champagne is lower than in the other glass now. He could say something, maybe, but there is a very mean part of him that would feel a little better knowing that Rose Landry was treated to someone else’s backwash tonight. 

If the night is going to be this shitty for him, after all, it’s only fair to know that someone else might at least pick up a cold or something. 

His hopes are cautiously high based on the way he’s seen the woman sniffling since she’s sat down. It’s possible she might have done a bump in the bathroom, of course, but he thinks the more likely option is the basket of wings that got passed around earlier, Rose Landry passing them on without taking one the same way he had. They hadn’t looked too spicy to him, more like sesame chicken than anything else, so it is still possible that the sniffling is from something that can be passed on. 

He can hope, at least. 

“When does your flight leave tomorrow?” Rose Landry asks now, leaning in some. 

“Early,” he answers shortly, watching her take another sip of her—well, her neighbor’s but now her—champagne. 

“Aw, really?” Rose asks. “I was hoping-” She stops herself, pressing her fingers to her chest briefly and clearing her throat, frowning slightly before taking another sip of her champagne. She clears her throat again. She turns to him. “Is it warm in here to you?” 

He shrugs, a little puzzled that she could feel anything but drafty in the dress she’s in. 

She clears her throat again and takes another sip of her champagne, almost spitting it out when she coughs. 

It’s the wheezy breath she takes after that that finally clues him in to what’s happening. 

“You have allergies?” He asks, repeating himself closer to her ear when she misses him saying it the first time. 

“I-yes,” she says. “It-o-oh fuck.” She starts looking around, her breath wheezing again, but he’s already standing slightly, as much as he can while still in a booth seat, looking around the crowded table for the tiny little handbag he’d seen her with earlier. He’d wondered why she would even bother when he’d seen her hand her phone off to her friend earlier because it was too wide for her bag. 

Now he has a guess as to what exactly she did fit in it. 

“Rose?” He hears her friend Miles ask. 

“Her purse,” Ilya says, loud enough for the other people around them to turn. “Where is her fucking purse?” 

“Here,” an actor three people down says, handing him the tiny glittering thing. 

He snatches it away, feeling the familiar shape of a pair of epipens in the thin fabric. 

“I-I can-” Rose starts, but from how pale she’s gone, he can guess that her blood pressure has dropped, and he thinks they’d both rather not have to dig around under a dark club table if she drops it. 

“I can do it,” he says. He glances up, sees her expression, and is reminded of what Shane has told him before about impending doom. “Is okay,” he says, pulling the epipen free of the protective case. “I have done Shane’s before.” 

She nods, one hand gripping the edge of the table as she drags in another strained breath. 

She twitches slightly when he feels the pop in the epipen that means it’s injected her successfully, but she doesn’t pull away, clearly used to it. Movement catches his eye at the edge of the table, and he sees a passerby lowering a cellphone. He all but snarls at the man taking advantage of a fucking medical emergency to get a picture he’ll probably try to sell to a gossip site later, but before he can do anything, a woman at the end of the booth snatches his phone out of his hand, holding it out of range and apparently deleting the picture before leaning down and sliding it all the way across the floor to the other side of the room. 

“Asshole,” she says, starting to shuffle out to make room for Rose to get out after the injection is complete, the man clambering to chase after his phone. 

At his side, Rose has her eyes closed, her breaths starting to come back a little easier. The hand not clenched around the table has landed on his knee, and he doesn’t shake her off. He’s seen Shane have a reaction too many times to not understand how frightening it is. He might not like the woman, but he won’t be an asshole to her, not about this. 

“Okay,” he says, after counting to fifteen just for good measure and pulling the epipen back. “Better?” 

“Yeah,” Rose says, nodding shakily, eyes still closed. “God, this is going to fuck up the shooting schedule. Fuck.”

It’s something Shane would say, something that he would worry about while still shaking slightly from anaphylaxis, and Ilya feels a little pang about it, about this sign that her mind works so similarly to his. 

That they apparently share something even beyond a joint need to have epinephrine on hand.  

When her breath comes out without wheezing, she opens her eyes, looking up at him and giving him a slightly shaky smile. 

“Will you help me outside?” She asks. 

He doesn’t even hesitate, not when he’s well-used to playing crutch for someone after a reaction. 

“Sure.” 

*

“Ilya’s a really great guy,” Rose says, sounding sleepy. 

Having thought she was already asleep, it takes Shane a moment to respond, lifting his head from where it was resting against hers on his shoulder, both of them squeezed into a hospital bed to finish out her observation period. 

“He is,” he agrees, voice quiet because she gets headaches the same way he does after reactions. 

“I can see why you guys are friends.” 

The sentence lands somewhere in his chest, lodging into the ache there that he’s mostly been ignoring. Of the things he’d expected to find when his Uber dropped him off outside of Ciel, Rose leaning against Ilya had certainly not been one of them. 

Seeing how shaky and pale she was certainly hadn’t made the scene less alarming. 

“Thank you,” he’d said to Ilya after helping Rose into the Uber, throwing a hundred dollar bill at the guy to make up for not formally requesting another ride in order to take her to the hospital. He’d meant it, too. He knows firsthand that Ilya is a good person to have in that exact emergency. Regardless of anything else that’s happened between them, he’d been glad that at least Ilya had been with Rose when it happened. Ilya had just nodded, stepping back and returning to the club, clearly done with his part in the night. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, rubbing his thumb over Rose’s cool fingers, tucking them into his palm to warm them. “He’s a really good person.” 

“It makes sense you guys get along,” Rose says around a yawn, going a little heavier against him. 

Shane doesn’t respond. 

He just rests his cheek against Rose’s soft hair until she falls asleep, eyes flicking to his phone when it lights up. 

she is okay? 

Ilya doesn’t need to clarify what she he means. 

Yeah, she’s asleep now. 

Thank you for helping her tonight. 

I appreciate it. 

she should watch her drinks better

As thanks for helping Rose, Shane elects to ignore the bitchy comment. 

Are you still out for the night? 

He’s still typing up a text to let Ilya know he’s free to stay at his place tonight even if he won’t be home until late when another message comes through. 

no 

I found someone

He backspaces his message. 

He sets his phone back down on the mattress. 

*

Because apparently understanding how to use an epipen makes them best friends now, Ilya has gotten more than a few texts from Rose Landry since leaving her to go to the hospital in the capable care of her equally allergic boyfriend. It would seem that American friendliness trumps the ability to read tone, because no matter how restrained his own limited texts back have been, it hasn’t stopped her from sending more. 

Tonight’s, though, really takes the fucking cake. 

Hi! I hear you’re a regular at Hollander Christmas. Any tips for a newbie??? 

Shane said I didn’t need to bring anything, but I feel weird showing up with nothing. 

Is wine cool, do you think? Or is that too formal?? I feel like I should bring some kind of present, you know?

So. 

Rose Landry has made the cut for Hollander Christmas. 

The fact makes him feel a way that means he has to get up to retrieve his phone after sending it flying across his living room. 

It makes sense, he thinks resentfully, as he drops back onto his couch and curls onto his side, tugging Shane’s throw blanket over himself more for the sensation of being contained more than the warmth of it. It’s absurdly fast for someone to be already jumping into their partner’s holiday traditions in his opinion—what, does she not have her own family Christmas to participate in?—but it’s not unexpected, a girlfriend being brought back to audition for the rest of the family. It was only a matter of time, really, with how many boxes dating Rose Landry ticks off: famous, personable, beautiful, successful, friendly to the point of being fucking obnoxious, female. She’s a good balance for Shane, outgoing to his shy, talkative to his quiet, confident to his reserved, allergic to the same things so keeping a safe house is equally important to both of them. Perfect candidate for perfect Shane Hollander. 

He can see it already with nauseating clarity: going to a celebration dinner for Shane and Rose’s engagement, maybe being a groomsman at the wedding, watching them settle into happy, boring domesticity, maybe answering to Uncle Ilya to some tiny miniature Shanes with their daddy’s freckles, his honorary nieces and nephews instead of his chil-

The thought is so absurd that he cuts it off at once, unwilling to harbor it even in his own mind. 

It occurs to him that he could bow out, could save himself from having to witness perfect Rose Landry make her perfect debut as the perfect girlfriend auditioning to one day be the perfect wife. He could text Yuna and David right now—and he wonders, with equal parts smugness and resentment, if she already has her own chat with them or if she’s still doing time in a group chat with Shane to moderate—and say he has plans. 

But he’s never been one to quit easily. 

Fuck that, he thinks, defiant, angry. He was here first. He has years of Hollander Christmas under his belt. Why should he bow out just because Shane has invited along another person? His time with the Hollanders like this might be now under a countdown that looms over him like a guillotine, but why should he give it up before he has to? If it’s going to be taken from him, it’ll be taken from him with clawmarks in it. 

no need

we always do secret santa

His lofty sense of superiority at already knowing this and already being included in it dies a rather inglorious immediate death with the text he gets back. 

Yes, Shane told me! 

I got Shane’s dad, though, so I think the draw might have been loaded lol. 

then just whatever you are bringing for him is fine

Ilya tosses his phone to the end of the couch. 

He doesn’t pick it up again for the rest of the night. 

Chapter End Notes

*patting ilya and shane's communication with each other on the head* congrats guys, that's the worst anyone has ever done it <3

rose bb you're an angel, and i am so sorry ilya is trying so hard to kill you with his mind constantly

Chapter 9: three's a crowd: rose landry joins christmas

Chapter Notes

HI HELLO AFTER SO LONG AWAY

i was falling asleep while editing this and also my E key on my laptop is now dying on me, so please to forgive any mistakes in this

In preparing himself mentally to share Christmas with Rose Landry, Ilya doesn’t even think to be on alert when he’s asked to dinner with the Hollanders in Montreal in the last game before the holiday break. He’s already thinking forward, mentally preparing to share a space that’s only been his for years with a new person. 

Which means seeing said new person already waiting at the restaurant when he gets there is a wildly unexpected development. 

Especially when said new person is in his seat. 

“Ilya!” Rose Landry calls, the first one to see him and looking far happier to see him than he is to see her. 

Three Hollander heads turning to look at him puts him in motion, unwilling to make a scene over something as ridiculous as not sitting in the seat to Shane’s left, the place he’s occupied at dinners out with Shane’s parents since the start. Shane is a creature of habit and tends to pick the same tables and seats at places he goes frequently when he has the option. At this restaurant, he likes one of the three tables in the back left of the second dining room, especially the one between a wall and a standing planter, both creating a semi-private little bubble for the table that lets Shane sit with his back to a corner, Ilya on his left. He’s not sure why Shane always puts him to the left at dinner with his parents when he gets to pick his seat first, but he’s gathered by now that it’s his preference, a tiny little quirk that costs nothing to indulge and pleases Shane. 

Seeing Rose in his unassigned assigned seat at present is not pleasing Ilya. 

“We were wondering if you got lost,” David teases, when Ilya has taken a seat at the outer edge of the table, a fifth chair drawn up awkwardly and leaving his back facing the rest of the restaurant, something that has him on edge immediately. 

As if Rose Landry pretty and content in what should be his chair wouldn’t have been enough to do that already. 

“Traffic was terrible,” he says, accepting the menu Yuna hands him, though on a suspicion, he doesn’t bother flipping past the sides. “Canadian drivers are terrible,” he adds, mostly just to get a rise out of the Canadians at the table. 

His success is a mild balm on sore nerves. 

“I ordered you the fish tacos,” Yuna puts in, and Ilya can’t help but smile. It felt like acceptance, the first time Yuna did it, ordering for him the same way she does for Shane if he’s late. Shane had been annoyed on his behalf, and Ilya hadn’t known how to tell him that it felt reassuring, being a part of her life enough for Yuna to treat him like a regular at the table, enough to feel confident in ordering him what he’ll like. She could have ordered him anything, honestly, and he would have enjoyed every bite. 

Now he’s faced with the possibility that there’s a third person Yuna will now feel comfortable ordering for. 

“And I’ve been informed this place is good about allergies,” the intruder herself puts in, giving him a sweet, sunny smile that makes him want to hiss like an angry cat, insane as he knows the urge is, “so no daring rescues this time, promise.” 

“Daring rescues?” Yuna repeats, lifting an eyebrow with a half-smile. “What are you getting into that needs a daring rescue?” 

“Not keeping track of the right drink,” Rose Landry says, with a cute, chagrined smile. 

Ilya wishes Yuna had ordered him some tequila to go along with his fish tacos. 

“But my hero over here,” third wheel in chief says, reaching out to squeeze his arm with what Ilya gathers is meant to be fondness, “saved the day. I guess being besties with someone else with food allergies really makes a guy good in a crisis, huh?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says flatly, barely resisting the urge to make a face when he sees that David’s expression clearly says he’s caught onto Ilya’s bad mood. “Is a good lesson, probably, about keeping track of what you’re drinking.” It comes out harsher than he meant for it to, and this time he sees Shane’s expression shift into a sort of half-accusation, a diligent, sweet boyfriend picking up on an insult to his girlfriend. 

He wonders if he should tell Yuna he doesn’t want to do the Tom Ford shoot she scheduled for him and finish off the job of ruining every Hollander’s evening. 

*

It feels strangely…awkward, Ilya and Rose both at dinner with him and his parents. 

He glances over at a nudge of Rose’s knee against his to find her tilting her head slightly in a question, clearly asking if he’s okay. He knows he’s been quieter than he usually would be despite his intention to act normal. Shane gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile, squeezing her hand in his beneath the edge of the table. 

And trying to figure out what it means when he catches Ilya’s eyes flick away from the motion when he glances up, turning back to listen to Shane’s mom talk about the new Tiffany’s commercial she’s been in talks with for Ilya. 

“Oh, I think I’m in LA that same weekend,” Rose puts in after Shane’s mom has pulled her phone out to confirm the dates and make sure they won’t conflict with any games. “We should get lunch or something.” 

Shane smiles slightly, charmed. He does feel a little guilty, Rose not knowing that he and Ilya have slept together, but it’s nice, too, her enthusiasm for being friends with someone who’s important in his life. Awkward right now or not, he can’t imagine his life without Ilya in it somewhere. It’s a relief that his girlfriend wants to get along with him. 

Ilya’s face does something Shane can’t quite read, the expression there and gone too fast to work it out. 

“Maybe,” Ilya says, reaching to take a sip of his drink. “I will be busy, maybe.” 

Shane isn’t sure that he should say anything, but it seems rude, Ilya brushing Rose off like that. He doesn’t expect them to be best friends or anything, but he doesn’t care for Ilya dismissing Rose trying to get along with him, especially when Shane doesn’t even understand why he’s acting like this. Does he miss getting to fuck him that bad? 

“You should take her to that cafe we went to last time,” Shane puts in. He looks to Rose. “They have really good croissants, and the whole place is peanut-free.” Ilya had been the one to find it, and the one to order them both croissants against Shane’s protests about them not fitting in his performance diet. 

At Shane’s suggestion, Ilya looks almost…hurt? 

Before Shane can try to figure out how to silently ask what’s up with him, Ilya is already looking away again. 

He doesn’t look back for the rest of dinner. 

*

“Might want to take that a little farther around the corner if you want to avoid a scolding for it.” 

Ilya looks up from his cigarette to find David approaching, his hands in his pockets. He glances behind him, but Yuna, Shane, and Rose appear to still be inside, waiting out the paparazzi who managed to find them, camping out in the cold to try and get a good shot of the Rose Landry and her “hot new hunk” to quote a talkshow host who had almost made Ilya pull something with how hard he rolled his eyes. 

“You will tell Yuna on me?” Ilya asks in what he knows is a weak attempt at a joke, fully turning his head away to exhale the smoke well away from David, who settles with a shoulder against the building to stand near him. 

“Think she might just sense it,” David teases. “Expect a text any second now.” 

“Maybe the cameras will distract her,” Ilya says, taking another drag and tilting his chin enough to indicate the car of vultures still huddled in place. “Is good publicity for Shane, yes?” It’s something he wants to ask Shane about, how he’s taking being in front of a camera constantly. Ilya can’t imagine him liking it. 

But it’s not something he’s been bold enough to ask about, not when it’ll mean directly confronting why cameras are so very interested in Shane these days. 

Ilya takes another drag off of his cigarette. 

“That’s what I’m told,” David says mildly with a shrug. “I’m just glad I’m enough of a nobody that they don’t want any of me.” He smiles, clearly inviting Ilya in on the joke, and Ilya can’t help but smile back. It’s one of the things he found strangest about David in the early days, the easy, playful self-deprecation, so foreign from Ilya’s own father. 

“Only because they do not know you are such a competitor with the crossword,” Ilya teases. “Better be careful. They will find out you’re down to under five minutes and want pictures of you constantly.” 

David laughs, and Ilya is pleased by it. 

He’s less pleased by what David says next. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

Ilya is immediately wary, but he shrugs in a “go ahead.” 

“Everything okay with you?” 

Ilya looks away immediately, regretting it as soon as he’s done it, knowing it certainly isn’t going to help his case. He delays with another puff of his cigarette. He could try to shut the conversation down, go quiet and hope David just lets it go, but this is also the man who raised Shane. 

He knows David is fully prepared to wait in quiet. 

“You just seem a little…off,” David says lightly. 

“Is this a new strategy?” Ilya asks. “You are trying to, what is the word, psych me out? Montreal is desperate enough that Shane has to get you involved?” It’s meant as a joke, but David doesn’t rise to the bait, just remains as he is. 

Persistently, damnably patient. 

“Is nothing,” Ilya says, giving up. 

“You sure?” David asks, giving him a second chance. “Sure seems like something.” 

Ridiculously, Ilya feels his throat go a little tight, the gentleness of it cutting him right to the quick in a way he still hasn’t learned to guard against. Demanding and yelling and threatening he can handle no problem. If David tried to back him into a corner and make him confess, Ilya would be able to lock himself down and give nothing away, but Hollanders and their kindness have always had a way of knocking his feet out from under him. 

“Just a weird mood,” Ilya says, shaking his head slightly. “Is not a problem. Sorry for worrying you.” He doesn’t know if David cares enough to worry, per se, but it still seems like the polite thing to say. 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” David says easily, and the worst part is that Ilya can hear the sincerity in it. 

Because David doesn’t know exactly how fucking much Ilya has to be sorry for. 

“Things back in Moscow?” David offers, and Ilya runs a quick cost-benefit analysis in his head. He doesn’t want to tell David anything, but he also knows that David is patient enough to wait him out. Of the things Ilya could say, anything is better than the main fucking reason he’s in such a bad mood. 

“I am handling it,” he says. “Just…complicated. Right now.” He doesn’t elaborate. David doesn’t ask him to. With his gentle, patient quiet, he doesn’t have to. Ilya finds himself speaking again before he’s even decided that he’s going to. “My father is…” More words don’t come. There are too many that could end that sentence to pick just one, and none of them are anything that David Hollander needs to be burdened with. “Sorry. I will be better at Christmas. Promise.” It occurs to him only after he’s said it that that might have been the reason David came out here, and he feels a sudden, dizzying little spark of fear about it. There’s really no reason for Shane to drag him along now that he’s got a girlfriend to bring, after all, and despite his best efforts, he knows he hasn’t been managing his best work at being a dinner guest. Did David come out here to tell him privately that his invitation is revoked? That they don’t want to ruin Rose Landry’s debut for her Hollander audition with Ilya skulking about and-

He tenses when David pushes off of the wall, sure he’s about to be told that he’s no longer needed at Hollander Christmas, but instead, David just steps closer, putting an arm around Ilya’s shoulders and squeezing gently. 

“Just be you at Christmas, okay?” David says quietly, squeezing him again. “It’s okay to not be okay sometimes.” 

Ilya immediately whips his head to the side, humiliated by the way his vision goes a little blurry, but David doesn’t call him on it. 

“Sorry,” he still says anyway. Fuck, what the fuck is wrong with him? 

“No need to be sorry,” David says, which doesn’t improve anything when it comes to Ilya keeping his shit together. He hears rustling, and then there’s a little pack of tissues being held in his field of vision. He laughs, unable to help it, hopelessly endeared by David carrying around a little pack of tissues in his pocket. It’s so fucking Hollander of him. He feels as much as hears David’s chuckle in response, glad for the lack of comment when Ilya pulls a tissue free and scrubs at his eyes quickly. David lets him go when Ilya half-steps away, but he doesn’t look offended. 

“Sorry,” Ilya says again, handing the tissues back. “I am emotional about how much I am about to crush Montreal in this game.” 

David smiles and doesn’t call him on it, just returns to resting a shoulder against the building. 

“My offer from before is still open, you know,” he says. “You don’t have to try and carry so much all on your own, Ilya.” 

Because he has already returned the tissues and will not survive the humiliation if he needs David to hand them back, Ilya manages to keep his composure this time. 

“I-” Before he can figure out how to end the sentence, though, there’s a commotion from the front of the restaurant, a clamor of flashing bulbs and calls of Rose and Shane, the lovebirds apparently deciding to call it and make a run for it through the paparazzi to a waiting car. 

Shane stays a half-step in front of Rose, his hand in hers, not actively shoving anyone but also solid enough that it’s clear the options are move the fuck out of the way or bounce off of him like a fly, hockey strength deployed for keeping his girlfriend’s way clear. It’s very…boyfriend-y of him: sweet, protective, caring. 

Ilya taps David on the arm in farewell and makes an escape of his own before he has to see any more. 

*

“Did I say something to offend Ilya that I don’t remember?” 

Shane blinks before looking over to Rose at the other end of the couch at the question, finding her posture relaxed despite the question, her feet still tangled with his. He’d begged off of anything beyond some kissing after they got back to his place, drained from dinner, and Rose had taken it with grace, using his bathroom to wash her makeup off and then stealing some clothes from his closet to get comfortable. 

“What?” 

“He just seemed like he wasn’t…thrilled at me being there,” Rose says with a shrug. “I don’t think I said anything offensive, but you would know better than me.” 

“It’s not you,” Shane says, and if it’s bordering the edge of a lie, it’s a necessary one. It’s not Rose’s fault, after all. She has nothing to do with what’s going on between him and Ilya, not really. Her being his girlfriend might mean he and Ilya aren’t sleeping together anymore, but that’s not Rose’s fault. 

At this point, Shane doesn’t actually fully know whose fault it is, but it certainly isn’t Rose’s. 

“Should I reach out, do you think?” Rose asks thoughtfully. “Let him know I’m not trying to kick him out or anything?” 

“What?” Shane asks, thrown. Rose shrugs again. 

“I mean, you guys have been close for years, right?” In more ways than he can actually tell her, yes. “And his family is all back in Russia. Maybe he’s just worried I’m trying to shove him out of the picture, you know?” 

That is…not something Shane has actually considered before, not when he can no longer imagine a picture of his life that doesn’t have Ilya in it somewhere. Could that be the root of Ilya’s weird behavior towards him? It makes sense in a way, really. Shane certainly knows a thing or two about loving routines. 

It’s not as if he’s loved having to figure out this new one, either. 

“You really think he could be worried about that?” Shane asks, and Rose seems a little amused at the question. 

“I mean, you’d have to tell me. You guys at this point seem like you’re basically brothers. Maybe he’s just worried about getting kicked out of the family.” 

Ilya being described as anything approaching a brother to him makes Shane more than slightly nauseous, but there’s no way to say this without confessing exactly why things between him and Ilya are very, very, very, very not brotherly. 

“Do you want him out?” Shane asks. The idea hasn’t occurred to him before, honestly, and he doesn’t actually know what he’ll do if Rose says-

“No,” Rose says, shaking her head. “God, no. Not at all. I would never ask you to do that. Do you think I should let Ilya know that, though?” 

“Uh,” he hesitates, because the idea of Rose and Ilya having a conversation alone together kind of feels the same as a panic attack. “I’ll do it. I’ll…talk to him at Christmas or something.” 

Maybe, he amends silently in his head as Rose crawls up the couch to curl against him. 

Her hair feels different against his fingers when he plays with it than short curls. 

He tries very hard not to think about this. 

*

In a truly low point after being asked by three separate people and a gossip rag about the details of Rose and Shane’s lovelife in one day and then experiencing an extra kick to the teeth of having to look at Shane’s allergy card still in his wallet while looking for his credit card at lunch, Ilya impulse purchases a jar of peanut butter for the first time in literal years, adding it to his grocery delivery with some vague sense of getting away with something, taking advantage of not needing to think about remaining allergen free. His one indulgence up to this point has been Nutella, even that kept in a cupboard well away from anything Shane might want to eat, usually even labeled with a piece of tape with “NOT FOR SHANES” written on it in Sharpie, mostly just to be annoying. Even then, he’s limited himself mainly to a spoonful now and then, well away from when he’ll be seeing Shane, scared straight years ago courtesy of a Reddit post about someone reacting to allergens in their boyfriend’s semen. He’s always been careful, peanuts never even entering his house. 

Buying peanut butter now feels like admitting something, like facing something he can’t put words to. 

The jar sits on his kitchen counter like an indictment until a text asking if he knows if the rumors of a “Hollandry” engagement are true drives him to eating a spoonful straight from the jar. 

It just makes him think of the peanuts that started this whole thing long ago. 

He tosses the remainder of the jar directly into the bin outside, brushes his teeth even though he won’t see Shane for six more days and won’t be kissing him anyway, and then goes to bed at 8 pm. 

He’s still awake when morning starts turning the sky dishwater gray. 

*

“Dinner’s almost ready.” 

Ilya glances back at him from where he was studying the snowmen Shane and Rose made earlier at her request. Apparently it’s a tradition in her family, making snowmen of everyone at Christmas to see whose is the last standing come spring. Supposedly they always say it’s good luck if someone is the winner. Given the fact that SnowShane came out strangely lumpy no matter how hard he tried to fix him, he thinks he’ll be okay losing out on the luck if it means the poor fucker melts and spares them all from having to look at him. 

Hating that it feels awkward to do so, he steps a little closer to Ilya, who seems to have been fixing SnowMom’s drooping arm. Ilya stands, tucking his hands back in his pockets. 

“Offer’s still open to make one of you, too,” Shane says. Ilya had arrived at the tail end of the snowman construction, his plane getting in late after a two hour delay, and Shane had been surprised when he’d declined. He’d thought it would be the exact kind of thing Ilya would want to take part in. “Unless you’re that scared of losing.” 

“Is possible to be losing worse than you are right now?” Ilya asks dryly, giving SnowShane a critical glance. “Melting will be improvement for him, I think.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane says, but he’s smiling when he says it. It’s easier, the teasing, a return to something almost like their usual dynamic. 

It’s the everything else that still feels awkward. 

Shane feels bad, suddenly, at Ilya looking at a group of snowmen that doesn’t include him, silly as that probably is. It’s not like Ilya’s a child or anything, but in the moment, Shane can’t stop thinking about what Rose said before, about if Ilya might be worried about losing his place here. 

In his shoes, Shane certainly doesn’t think getting left out of the snowfamily would make him feel better about the idea. 

“Hey,” he starts, not even sure how he’s going to actually say it, “you-” 

“Are you two frozen out there?” 

They both look up at his mom’s call, finding her poking her head out of the door. 

“Coming,” Ilya calls back. “Just wondering if I should put SnowShane out of his misery or not.” 

Shane hears his mom laugh at the joke. 

He follows Ilya back to the house, pausing briefly to look back at the little group of snowmen that’s one short. 

*

As it turns out, it’s a unique kind of torture, knowing that he and Shane no longer need to sneak back and forth to each other’s rooms. 

It’s an extra kind of torture knowing that Shane now no longer has to sneak at all to have sex, his beautiful girlfriend automatically put in the same room as him, free to fuck like rabbits to their hearts’ content. 

The degree to which this is keeping Ilya awake probably says bad things about him. 

When his imagination finally reaches a crescendo in convincing him that he can feel vibrations through the floor of the bed rocking in Shane’s room—as if there’s any fucking world in which Shane would be getting that wild under his parents’ roof—he shoves himself to his feet. He normally enjoys their customary pre-Christmas pasta, but even with the way he didn’t take thirds the way he usually would of David’s chicken parmesan, it feels like it’s sitting badly in his stomach. 

He decides a pilgrimage to the altar of Fat Baby Shane Ornament will help him settle. 

He tsks when he finds that his favorite guy has been banished to the back of the tree again, carefully unbending the hook and moving him back to the center of the tree where he belongs. He rubs his thumb along the lower edge of the present, smiling faintly at baby Shane’s gummy grin. He knows Shane probably thinks he only likes this ornament to make fun of him and the way he looks like an overstuffed dumpling in it, but it’s more than that. It’s not something just anyone would ever get to see, this picture. It feels special, like he’s been granted a look at Shane that no one else gets. 

Rose finding it cute was especially annoying, the-

“Couldn’t sleep?” 

“Gospodi,” he swears, grabbing his chest and almost toppling backwards over the ottoman before he recovers, glaring at the intruder at the edge of the living room. 

Shane looks irritatingly amused at his alarm. 

“Swear to God you’re like a fucking cat, dude,” Shane observes. 

“From the guy who purrs like one when-” His teasing catches itself in his throat. It wasn’t even filthy, really, the end of that sentence. Shane makes plenty of noises in bed, but the soft, content little purr-like noises only make an appearance when he’s being kissed how he likes or when Ilya runs fingers through his hair, the soft moments that exist in the periphery of sex. 

Because he’s never met a bruise he didn’t want to push his thumb into, he wonders if Rose Landry has discovered the high of making Shane content enough to purr for her. 

“Jesus,” Shane complains, moving past the fumble a little awkwardly as he steps closer. “Enough with the fucking baby ornament.” 

“Is the cutest you have ever been,” Ilya teases, more on autopilot than anything else. “Really, he should get to come out more often.” 

“Asshole,” Shane complains, but he says it with a small smile. 

The moment feels soft in a way the moments between them haven’t recently, like being lit only by Christmas lights softens the edges of it. Shane drops onto the couch and pulls a pillow onto his lap, and before he can overthink it, Ilya joins him, settling onto the other end. It feels like stepping into a bubble their past is preserved in, being in the same place they’ve spent so many years together. 

Ilya needs to let some of the air out before he gets too high on it. 

“Rose is asleep?” He asks, a reminder to them both that there’s something very different sitting between them on this couch this year. 

“Yeah,” Shane says, shifting just slightly. He sounds fond. Ilya wishes he didn’t. “She sleeps like a rock.” 

So easy that he would know this. Even coming so much later into Shane’s life, Rose has spent more nights beside him in bed than Ilya ever has. There probably wasn’t even a delay for them. It sits badly, the way that Rose Landry knows Shane better than he does in this way. 

It sits even worse given the fact that he could know Shane the same way by now, if they were different people, if they worked different jobs, if he was from a different country, if he had something more to offer than a fucked up family of his own, if this wasn’t already more than he knows he deserves, if if if if if-

“She is excited for big Christmas?” Ilya asks, both because he knows it’s the polite question and needs to remind them both of a very important way this little bubble is different than it has been in years before. 

“I think so,” Shane says. Ilya sees him hesitate just briefly before he apparently decides to ask something. “Are you upset about her being here?” 

Well. It can never be said that Shane Hollander isn’t straightforward. 

“No,” Ilya lies. “Why?” 

“You just haven’t really seemed like you like her,” Shane says. He shifts slightly. “Rose thinks you don’t like her.” 

“And she needs to send her boyfriend to talk to me for her?” Ilya asks, and he regrets it coming out sharp as soon as it has. 

“She didn’t send me to do anything,” Shane says, matching his tone, posture going a little stiffer. “You’re just kind of being a dick to my girlfriend, dude.” 

“Sorry I don’t want to paint nails and gossip about what you’re like in bed,” Ilya says. He can feel this conversation slipping out of his control in a way he didn’t want it to. He doesn’t want to fight with Shane. He doesn’t want to argue. 

And yet he can’t seem to make himself stop. 

“Have you told her?” Ilya asks. “How much you like it when I fu-” 

“Fuck you,” Shane says, shoving himself to his feet and slinging his pillow at Ilya. 

Ilya lets it hit him, already regretful of letting his mouth get away from him. 

“What the fuck do you want from me?” Shane demands, standing over him, and Ilya feels like the lowest kind of worm at the way Shane’s eyes have gone a little glossy. It takes the last of the heat out of his hurt, knowing that he’s hurt Shane. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said that.” 

“No,” Shane agrees. “You shouldn’t have.” 

Ilya takes the anger of it without protest. At the lack of reaction from him, he sees Shane torn between storming off and staying, unsure what he’s supposed to do now. 

Ilya is filled with so much affection for him that it aches in his chest like a physical thing, crushed as it is within his ribs since it no longer has an outlet as easy as kissing him about it. 

“Sit,” he says, trying to make it an offer and not a demand. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, because the idea of watching Shane walk away and leave him alone in this living room makes him feel a little sick. He hates the energy between them these days. He hates that it feels so tense and awkward, and even if he knows he keeps playing an active role in making it that way, it doesn’t make it feel any better. He just…

He just misses Shane. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I shouldn’t have said that. Sit.” 

After just one more moment of hesitation, Shane does. 

“Why the fuck are you so mad at me?” Shane asks, reclaiming his pillow and tugging it in against his chest. “I feel like you’re mad at me all the fucking time now.” 

Ilya’s kneejerk reaction is to make a joke, to deflect, to tell Shane he’s misreading things, but it would feel wrong, blatantly lying. He has been angry, or hurt, at least. None of this has ended up the way it was supposed to. They were never supposed to be in this shitty new arrangement. That was the entire fucking point of turning Shane down. They were supposed to stay as they were, not…

Not turn into this shitty, tense, awful standoff they seem to be stuck in. 

Ilya just doesn’t know how the fuck he’s even supposed to start to try and fix it. 

“I don’t want to keep fighting with you,” Shane says, voice quiet. “I fucking hate it. You’re-you’re my best friend, dude. I don’t want to lose you.” 

“You won’t,” Ilya says, because that’s easy enough to promise. As long as Shane will have him, Ilya will stay in his orbit, drawn by the gravitational pull of Shane Hollander, the same force that drew him in at 17 and hasn’t set him loose since. If Shane sends him away, he’ll go, but until then, he’ll be here. 

No matter how pathetic he knows it makes him. 

“It feels like I am,” Shane says. “It feels like you don’t even want to be around me anymore.” 

Ilya almost wishes they could go back to fighting. It would be easier than sitting under the guilt of Shane’s earnestness. He’s always appreciated it before, Shane’s lack of artifice. He’s never known how to lie well, not really. His first impulse is always honesty, at least with Ilya. 

Including confessing things that have led them to where they are now. 

“I do,” Ilya says, returning honesty for honesty, at least as much as he can. He deliberately makes himself relax, sitting back more against the back of the couch. He braces himself for what he knows he should ask next, a peace offering he doesn’t want to hand over but knows he should. “Is Rose coming to Boston with you next game?” He courageously resists the urge to gag after he asks it. 

“She could,” Shane says carefully, clearly suspecting a trap. “Why?” 

“You should bring her,” Ilya says. “I can show her all the cool places to go. It will make up for having to date you, maybe.” 

“You’re such a dick,” Shane says, hitting him with his pillow, but he’s smiling now, the tension broken, the peace offering taken. 

Ilya makes himself smile back. He starts to ask Shane how terribly he did at choosing a gift for whatever poor soul got him for their Secret Santa this year, but movement in his peripheral vision makes him turn. 

And of fucking course it’s Rose fucking Landry. 

“Sorry,” she says in a stage whisper, crinkling her face in playful chagrin as she tiptoes closer. Ilya is fairly certain she’s wearing Shane’s socks. He very deliberately doesn’t think anything about this. “Think I left my water bottle in the kitchen earlier. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” 

“You aren’t,” Ilya says, standing. “I was just going to bed.” 

He sees Shane’s hand move, and there’s a part of him that wants to think it’s an aborted attempt at reaching for him, some little sign that Shane doesn’t want him to go. 

“Goodnight,” he tells the room at large, skirting his way around Rose Landry and making his escape, leaving the two lovebirds to enjoy the living room in private. 

*

“Still up for the Air Stanley Cup?” Shane asks Ilya the next day, after the initial rounds have been made and Rose has been introduced to everyone. He feels bad for her, the way almost everyone looks at her with stars in their eyes, like they’re looking at one of her movie posters and not at her, but Rose takes it all in stride, smiles and laughs and nods attentively. 

Still, she didn’t resist when Shane subtly pulled her away to give them both a little break, finding Ilya loitering near a wall of family photos. 

“Air Stanley Cup?” Rose asks from under his arm, hers around his waist. 

“Is tradition for us,” Ilya says. “There is an air hockey table in the basement. We play best of five rounds for the Air Stanley Cup each year.” 

“Aw,” Rose says, turning to smile at Shane. “Cute.” 

“Not so cute when he loses,” Ilya says, and it’s a relief, the joke, pushing them back to easier territory. Ilya pulls the tiny little plastic statue from his jacket pocket, the prize they started playing for when Aimee offloading Mark’s “man cave” decor to make room for a new baby meant a new Christmas tradition for the two of them four years ago. Shane feels oddly emotional about the cheap little plastic thing as he looks at it now, dumb as it is to feel anything at all about it. It feels like something that ties him and Ilya together, trading off their own Stanley Cup each year. It feels reassuring, that Ilya still has it. 

Like maybe the past doesn’t have to be fully over after all. 

“Bold words for the guy who’s only won it once,” Shane says, deliberately arrogant. 

Ilya’s responding smile is a sharp thing. 

*

Shane wins the Air Stanley Cup, Rose cheering him on with exactly as much enthusiasm as he imagines she would for the real thing. 

But even with the victory under his belt, he retreats to the backyard approximately two minutes after he’s taken through the lineup of food, leaving Rose with his dad so he can have enough space to collect himself before he makes a scene and ruins Christmas for no fucking reason. It’s ridiculous, to be upset. He knows it. It’s so stupid. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t-

“What, your actress girlfriend isn’t getting you enough attention? You must try to freeze to death also?” He hears the crunch of footsteps approaching him through the snow towards his little paved island at the edge of the yard. “Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” Shane says shortly, still staring at the top of the snowy fence without really seeing it. “Just needed some air.” 

“In December in Canada?” Ilya asks dryly, arriving at his side and stomping his snowy feet off. 

Shane snorts, the exhale leaving white steam in the air, twisting away from him. He’s only got a few more minutes out here before he has to go back in, he knows, before he sucks it up and returns to not feeling anything about the fact that his family so easily accommodated his new girlfriend when even as a child he already knew better than to trust anything his father didn’t cook for him. He’s glad for Rose, glad that everything this year is apparently completely allergy-friendly in her honor. Of course he’s pleased by it. Of course it’s what she deserves. He wants her to feel safe and happy and included. 

He just can’t help but wonder exactly why he hasn’t been allowed to feel safe and happy and included, too. 

“You are also angry about the food?” 

He nearly startles at the question, eerily close to exactly what he’d been thinking about. 

If Ilya notices, he doesn’t react, just pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and lights one. Shane watches him, not realizing he’s wrinkling his nose faintly in distaste until he sees Ilya see it and smile faintly, the same way he always does when Shane does it. 

“I thought you quit,” he says, and while he doesn’t mean for it to come out accusing, he doesn’t bother trying to soften it when it does. 

“I started again,” Ilya says with a shrug, inhaling and then exhaling. He’s considerate about it, a distance from Shane and careful to blow smoke well away from him. 

It just doesn’t make it less bad for him. 

*

His chest aches, a bit, at seeing Shane’s displeasure at him smoking. It feels reassuring, almost, the confirmation that Shane still cares enough to be displeased at his choices. He previously stopped partially because Yuna threatened to make him do lung cancer PSA ads, but his primary motivation was Shane not liking the smell. Even if Shane not wanting to kiss him if he tastes like cigarettes is no longer something he has to think about, it’s nice, still, to know he still cares enough to be mad at him for bad choices. 

He takes another drag and barely resists the urge to smile at the minute crinkle of Shane’s nose, an expression of displeasure that he knows by now came from Yuna. 

The fact that he knows this makes his chest ache more. 

“Do we think Violet’s food is actually safe?” He asks, because complaining about a mutual enemy is better than sitting in his own stupid longing. “Or is there going to be a Christmas hospital visit later? Should we put money on it?” 

Shane snorts, tucking his jacket around himself a little more securely and leaning back against the wall. 

“With Violet?” Shane asks, and his tone is sharp enough that Ilya wants to do something stupid like hug him, to try and soften the edge of the hurt Ilya can tell is digging at him. “Might as well go ahead and pick out what you want from the gift shop now.” 

He’d wondered how Shane would take it when helping GrandMarie put food out—mostly so he could skip watching Rose Landry effortlessly charm the rest of the Hollander clan—meant Ilya found out about the new rules for this year first. The way GrandMarie had given him a commiserating look had said his face was saying more than he meant for it to, but Violet had been busy micromanaging crudite nearby, so any opinions had remained looks and not words. Vivienne had begged a cigarette off of him a few minutes later, and trailing her out to the porch so he could light it for her had meant he’d gotten a bit more of a response from her. 

“I didn’t know you smoke,” he’d said, waiting until she’d inhaled before pulling back and pocketing his lighter again. 

“After listening to Violet lecture me about treenuts all week like I’m not the main fucking person trying to keep them contained every single year? Sorry, Canadian Cancer Association. It’s smoking or kicking my sister’s ass.” 

Already anticipating how Shane might feel at his family accommodating his girlfriend and not him, Ilya had barely restrained the urge to offer his opinion about which way she should decide. 

“Well,” Ilya offers now, wanting to lift some of the weight he can see on Shane’s shoulders, “Rose at least can probably sue her if she fucks up. That would be fun, yes?” 

Shane snorts, the gesture causing a little puff of white steam to escape from around his nose. Ilya leans down to stub his cigarette out and then daringly moves closer, leaning against the wall next to Shane, their shoulders touching. 

He feels absurdly relieved when Shane doesn’t move away. 

“Nice for you, at least,” Shane offers. “Now you can eat anything you want.” 

Ilya doesn’t know how to tell him that he’d sit out here and eat nothing but snow all night if it meant he would get to kiss Shane later. That’s not the kind of thing he can say. 

Not anymore. 

“I think I still might stick to David’s cooking.” 

Shane glances at him from the corner of his eye, and Ilya shrugs with one shoulder. 

“I’m not convinced Violet knows how to cook. Did you see her cutting celery earlier?” 

Shane smiles, a small one but a real one, and Ilya can’t help but smile back, leaning his shoulder against his a little harder. 

“I am serious,” he says, which just makes Shane’s smile a little bigger. “Some of us cannot afford food poisoning. We actually play on teams that might win-” 

“Fuck you!” Shane says with a grin, shoving him hard enough that he staggers slightly. 

“What!” Ilya demands, recovering and shoving back, the conversation devolving into a wrestling match. He tries to twist Shane to the side to dump him into the snow, and he swears and staggers when Shane gets a foot behind his ankle and tugs, almost sending him down instead. “Remind me who is leading the scoring race this year?” 

“By two fucking goals, asshole,” Shane says, playing dirty and grabbing Ilya’s hood, yanking it up over his head and using the brief blinding to tap the back of his knee, making it buckle just enough for Shane to off balance him and knock him over. 

In revenge, he keeps a hand on Shane’s jacket as he goes down, dragging them both into the snow. 

“You suck,” Shane complains, shoving himself up and shaking the snow out of his hair. Despite the words, he’s smiling, his shoulders looking less burdened. 

Under the satisfaction of his success, Ilya doesn’t even mind that he’s fairly certain he now has snow in his jeans. 

(Even though he does make sure to gain some parity before they go back inside, shoving a half-handful into Shane’s waistband when his back is foolishly turned away.) 

(It’s only fair, after all.) 

*

No one dies at dinner, which feels like a bigger relief than it probably should. Shane ventures out from his usual food station in the kitchen to try a pasta salad and a scoop of something that had the name Betty in it. It doesn’t sit any easier, the strangeness of getting food off of the main line, and he sticks mainly to his dad’s food the way he usually does. So does Ilya, though whether out of habit or preference, Shane can’t tell. 

“I’m going to call my parents, okay?” Rose says when they’re back at his parents’ house for the night, his mom and dad already in their room. “I promised I’d video call so I could say hi to everyone staying over.” 

“Sure,” Shane says, accepting the kiss he’s offered. “Uh, tell them I said hi?” It feels awkward, saying it, but it sounds like the kind of thing a boyfriend should say. 

From Rose’s smile in response, he gathers he got it right. 

“Will do,” she says, kissing him on the cheek once and then ascending the stairs, probably to call her family in the semi-privacy of his room here. With his room occupied, then, he wanders to the living room. 

And finds he’s not the only one. 

“Hey,” he calls. Ilya lowers his phone as he approaches, and he hesitates, his one and a half glasses of wine at dinner making him feel absurdly left out and wondering if he should have scheduled a phonecall for now, too. “Am I interrupting?” 

“No,” Ilya says, shaking his head and pocketing his phone. 

“Did your niece like her present?” Shane asks on a guess. “Oh, no, wait, you guys don’t do presents until New Year’s, right?” 

Ilya looks mildly pleased by Shane knowing this. 

Shane is more than slightly pleased by pleasing him. 

*

“Right,” Ilya agrees, not bothering to mention that he was indeed looking at the picture his sister-in-law sent him of Mariya in her new little holiday outfit. He still doesn’t know if his brother was telling the truth when he said he needed more money because she had outgrown all of her clothes or not, but she does look very cute in her frilly little dress and matching headband. 

He represses the stupid urge to show Shane the picture. 

“You and Rose are not going to bed now?” He asks. That had been his assumption when they got back, when David and Yuna had said their goodnights and Rose and Shane had peeled off to one side as well. It had felt a little pathetic, sitting in the living room by himself when everyone else in the house was happily ensconced as part of a couple, but laying in his room alone had felt more pathetic than sitting in the glow of the Christmas tree. He certainly hadn’t expected company. 

Especially not so fast. 

“Rose is calling her parents to say Merry Christmas,” Shane says, and Ilya makes a vague noise of acknowledgement. It seems strange, a little, that Shane wouldn’t stick around for the phone call. It seems like something that a boyfriend would do. 

Ilya’s never been one, but he can make some assumptions about it, at least. 

He doesn’t know what’s written on his face, but something seems to spark Shane’s interest because Ilya sees him come to some kind of decision. He lifts his brows slightly at the determination with which Shane strides forward, sitting down on the other end of the couch like a man on a mission. 

“Are you okay?” He asks. 

“Fine,” Ilya says, mostly on autopilot. 

“Are you?” Shane presses. “Even Vivienne asked if everything was okay with you.” 

The knowledge that he is a subject of discussion among the larger Hollander family is not welcome news. He thought he’d managed to keep it together, to act the way he usually does. It had hurt more than he had expected, seeing Shane and Rose sitting together and looking postcard perfect every single time he turned his head, but he’d thought he’d managed to play through it, to smile and laugh at all the right times. Cierra had been thrilled at having so much of his attention, her crush still going strong, and at least Rose’s presence hadn’t meant him suddenly being excluded from any of the little clusters of people he’d drifted through. It had been strange, really, drifting around instead of staying right by Shane the whole time, but it hadn’t been unpleasant, per se, especially compared to how dinners with his own family tend to feel. It’s just…

It’s just that he’d wanted to still be right by Shane the whole time. 

“I-” He falters on how to finish that. It’s not fair, he knows, to burden Shane with his own stupid feelings when he’s the one who turned him down. He’s the one who told Shane they couldn't be together, and it’s not like circumstances have changed since then, not really. It’s not fair to try and keep him from being with someone else when it’s not like Ilya has anything to offer him instead. 

No matter how much it fucking hurts to watch. 

“Is it…stuff back home?” Shane asks carefully, and Ilya frowns for a moment, confused about what could be happening in Boston that Shane might think is a problem. 

Then he realizes what Shane is actually talking about. 

“Miss,” he says, because if it was already unfair enough before, it’s extra unfair now, to expect Shane to carry hi-

“No.” 

Ilya blinks. 

“What?” 

*

Shane can feel his heart beating a little harder at his own audacity, at breaking the system they’ve operated under for years, but if everything else between them already feels so broken, why not just smash this, too, while he’s at it? 

At this point, what else is there to lose, really? 

“No miss,” Shane says, hoping he’s looking confident and certain and not as wildly off-balanced as he feels. It feels dangerous the way standing on something tall feels, telling Ilya no like this. 

Especially when he’s had so little practice needing to tell Ilya no over the years. 

“Shane-” Ilya starts, and even if his voice isn’t angry, it is conciliatory, which means he’s going to try and double down on the miss. 

Abruptly, Shane tips into mad instead of nervous. 

He has a girlfriend. He’s moved on. He’s proven to Ilya that they can just be friends, that Shane can stand by and watch him fuck other people, that he can find someone else to feel things for. He’s made changes. He’s tried hard to fit himself into this new normal between them. 

Time for Ilya to step the fuck up, too. 

“I fucking hate when you do that,” he says, like the cap has blown off because he cracked the seal on it, everything he’s bottled up bubbling over in a rush that pushes him along, words moving faster than thoughts, than reason. “I know you’re private and whatever, but I fucking hate that you keep things from me. I hate it so fucking much, Ilya, and you just keep doing it.” 

Ilya appears to be at a loss for words. 

That’s fine. 

Shane’s still boiling over with plenty. 

“I’m sorry I fell in love with you, okay?” He didn’t actually mean to say the L-word, didn’t mean to confess to that much, but it’s out before he can stop it. “I know I fucked things up, alright? I know. I fucked up our friendship because I couldn’t keep things casual. But you always keep things from me, and I fucking hate it, and you just keep fucking doing it. I don’t-I don’t want us to be those kind of friends. I don’t want us to keep shit from each other.” 

After all, he’s already confessed to probably the most embarrassing thing he possibly could have. 

At this point, what is there that Ilya could cop to that could top it? 

*

I fell in love with you. 

It repeats in Ilya’s head like the echo out of a cave. From someone else, Ilya would think it was hyperbole, exaggeration, but Shane doesn’t talk like that. He doesn’t say things unless he’s sure of them. 

Unless he means them. 

“Fuck,” Shane says, punctuating himself with a sincerity that Ilya feels a reflexive little swell of affection about. 

I fell in love with you. 

It seems impossible, that a body could contain so much giddy thrill and heartache at the same time, to feel so much regret all at once and not be bowled down under the force of it. 

And yet here he fucking is. 

“I fucked up,” Shane says again. “I know it, okay? And now you’re just fucking mad at me all-” 

“I am not,” Ilya says, the words coming out before he’s even thought them. “I am not-I am not mad, Shane.” 

Of the many things he is at finding out that Shane’s little crush apparently wasn’t a little crush and that he unknowingly slapshotted away something he’d thought was impossible and sent Shane right on his way to fall right into beautiful, perfect Rose Landry’s path, taking his love with him…

Well, mad doesn’t quite cover what he is. 

“Then what the fuck is it?” Shane asks, and Ilya imagines it’s meant to come out as a demand. “I know you’re not okay. And if it’s not me,” he sounds doubtful about this, “then what the fuck is it? What is up with you?” 

What’s up with me, Ilya thinks, feeling just mildly insane, is that I apparently broke your fucking heart, and I don’t know if I should have done that after all, but it’s already done and you’ve already moved on and there’s no use looking back now and yet I just can’t fucking stop myself because you’re the brightest thing in my life, the only fucking good thing that’s ever been mine, and now you’ve taken your light with you to someone who can shine back just as bright, and I am so, so fucking terrified of how dark it’s going to be when you finally turn away from me for good-

It’s only when his chest starts burning that he realizes he’s held his breath. 

*

It feels like forever before Ilya finally responds, and when he does, his voice is quiet, so quiet that Shane almost misses it. 

“My father is sick.” 

The sentence comes out toneless in a way that would confuse him from someone else, but for Ilya, who has deployed years of misses to avoid talking about his family, Shane can gather that there’s emotions carefully contained behind the monotone. 

“Sick like…cancer?” He asks on a guess, trying to prevent Ilya from having to say it if he isn’t ready. It makes sense, really, Ilya acting so off if his father is sick and he’s trying to manage things a whole continent away. It especially can’t be any easier around the holiday season, especially when he can’t go home to see him. 

Ilya shakes his head. 

“Sick like…” He tries to think of something else that would be severe enough to have Ilya so off. “Sick like diabetes?” Ilya doesn’t respond, just takes a breath. “Or like-” 

Ilya huffs a sound like an echo of his usual laugh. 

“Please stop,” he says, and his voice has an edge of warmth to it now. “You are fucking terrible guesser.” 

Shane charitably doesn’t point out that he wouldn’t have to guess if Ilya would just tell him. When he turns to look at him, Ilya’s expression is pained, but there’s something almost like affection there, too. After a moment, he sighs, flopping backwards against the couch. Shane’s impulse is to make another guess, but he refrains. 

“Dementia,” Ilya says. “He-” His voice goes rough enough to cut the word off, and he looks away for a moment, clearing his throat. “He is on medication, but it is…” He shrugs. “Not so good.” 

“And you…didn’t want to tell me about it?” Shane asks, trying not to feel hurt even if he is, unfair as that might be. If something like that were happening to his dad, he thinks Ilya would probably be one of the first people he would want to tell. It sits badly, the idea that Ilya wouldn’t feel the same. 

Then again, Shane thinks, it wouldn’t be the first time, him feeling a way about Ilya that Ilya doesn’t feel about him in return. 

“Is not your problem,” Ilya says, and that hurts, too. 

“It could be,” Shane says. Ilya glances at him. “We’re friends,” he says, emphasizing the second word just slightly, trying to prove he knows where they stand, that he isn’t going to make the same mistake twice. “Your problems can be my problems, too. If you want them to be.” 

Ilya’s expression in response is dangerous, tempting Shane to feel things he isn’t allowed to, not anymore, especially when he has a girlfriend right upstairs. He makes himself shove them down, tuck them all away neatly where he won’t trip over them. 

“No more misses, okay?” He asks. It sounds too demanding, so he revises. “I mean, if it’s, like, embarrassing or som-stop fucking laughing, asshole! I’m trying to be a good friend.” 

Ilya grins, and it looks good on him, much better than the vague misery Shane saw on him all night when he didn’t know he was being observed. Shane grins back, punching him on the shoulder before he goes a little more serious. 

“I mean it,” he says. “You don’t have to just, y’know, not tell me shit. I want us to be honest with each other.” 

Something passes across Ilya’s face that he can’t quite read, something almost…almost regretful? 

“Honest, hm?” Ilya repeats. 

Shane nods. 

“Okay,” Ilya says. 

“Okay,” Shane parrots, clicking the k and pronouncing the -ay the same way Ilya does and seeing the tiniest little hint of a smile in response. He hadn’t realized it until this moment, really, how much he’d missed the shape of Ilya’s accent in his mouth, a consequence of how little they’ve spoken. 

A very ridiculous part of him almost wants to request a “wow wow.” 

“So honestly,” Ilya says, and Shane already knows from the angle of his smile that he’s about to be a dick for sport, “how much did you pay Rose Landry to help you cheat for the Air Stan-” 

“Fuck you,” Shane says, grinning. 

Ilya’s responding smile isn’t as bright as it normally would be. 

But it still feels like a start. 

*

After a restless night, Ilya gives up trying to get any real sleep after he wakes up and spends fifteen minutes just staring at the clock beside the bed, watching the red numbers click right along until they say 5:03 AM, a number he’s never seen by choice before. When the clock reads 5:47, he decides to call it completely and gets up, brushing his teeth but not bothering to change out of his pajamas. He knows the Christmas Day routine by now. He’s even helped David with breakfast before. He can maybe start the cinnamon rolls for-

“Good morning!” 

Really, Ilya thinks, equally tired and resentful, it’s like the woman has a sixth fucking sense for being where she isn’t fucking wanted. 

“Good morning,” he says back, and it even manages to not come out completely flat. 

Still, he does take some small measure of satisfaction at being able to slip around her and go to exactly the right cabinet that holds the pan cinnamon rolls always go in, some tiny little expression of, “I was here first.” If she notices, Rose Landry doesn’t react, just plops down at the bar. 

It is more annoying than it should be, probably, that she’s still in pajamas as well. 

“Did you sleep well?” She asks, irritatingly perky before a reasonable person would have started their morning. 

“Fine,” he answers, pulling dough out of the fridge from where it was left for a long proof. Tragically, his manners do manage to rise to the surface. “You?” 

“Mhm,” she agrees. “Shane got up to work out and woke me up, too, by accident, but I’m not sure I’m a ‘hitting the gym on Christmas morning’ type of girl.” 

“He is insane person,” Ilya says, sounding fonder than he means to. 

“Would you happen to know if they have a coffee machine?” Rose asks. “I didn’t see one, but I didn’t want to go digging.” 

“Yuna has a fancy one in the dining room,” Ilya offers, already stooping to dig out David’s moka pot. “But I think she might kill someone if it ever broke, so I do not touch it.” 

“Noted,” Rose Landry says, with a smile that causes a little crinkle of her nose that would be adorable on someone else. 

As someone incapable of finding anything about her deserving of positive adjectives, Ilya doesn’t think anything about it at all, carefully leveling off coffee grounds. He’s reluctant to involve her in any little Christmas activities at all, but giving her a task means she won’t just sit here smiling at him with her big deer eyes. So. 

Breakfast assistant it is. 

“There is coffee…” He barely resists the urge to curse when the word escapes him in English, feeling stupid in front of this stranger. “Thing that keeps it warm.” This substitute does not make him feel like less of an idiot. “In the cabinet over there. Can you get it, please?” 

“Sure,” Rose Landry agrees, cheerful. “This pitcher thingy?” She calls back. 

Ilya courageously does not have a comment about the word “thingy” and nods at what she’s holding up. She nods back and closes the cabinet. 

“Fill it with-” He starts, but she’s already filling it with hot water before he’s even finished the instruction. This, like everything about her, is wildly annoying. 

“So,” she says, screwing the top back on loosely and leaving it to stay warm until the coffee is brewed, “do you always help with breakfast?” 

The acknowledgment that he’s involved enough in Hollander Christmas to be part of an “always” is mildly appeasing, and his tone is less terse when he starts wiping down the counter to turn the dough out on it. 

“Yes,” he agrees. “I like helping David.” 

“Well, you certainly move around the place like you know what you’re doing.” Her tone is friendly, but Ilya tries to decide if there’s an insult hiding in the words or not. “I’m kind of a disaster in a kitchen. I’m jealous.” 

“Is easier, cooking at home with allergies, no?” He asks, turning dough out and then reaching for a rolling pin. 

“Mm, yeah,” she agrees, leaning back against the counter. “But still, I can chop a mean salad, scramble some eggs, aaaaaand that’s about it.” 

If the admission makes Ilya feel a little bit smug as he rolls the dough out perfectly even the way David taught him, well…

He may or may not make sure she has a good view of his perfect rectangle as he goes to rinse his hands off and retrieve the moka pot as it finishes burbling. 

“Shane’s a really good cook,” she says, as if he doesn’t fucking know this. 

“Yes,” he agrees flatly. “Even though he is scared of cheese and never puts enough.” 

Rose Landry laughs. Even as a response to a joke, it’s annoying to hear. 

“Well he told me you’re a lactose fiend,” she says fondly. “So I’m not sure who I’m supposed to believe.” 

“I think you should probably be loyal to your boyfriend,” he says, and in a minor Christmas miracle, he manages to not fumble over the word. 

Or gag. 

He spent most of the night thinking about Shane loving him. 

And about the past tense with which it was confessed. 

It hasn’t made facing his present tense love any easier. 

“Oh!” She says, making him jump when she claps him on the shoulder as he passes by her, because of course Shane had to pick the handsiest American he could find. “We need to build your snowman today! I almost forgot.” 

“Is fine,” he says, dumping out the hot water in the coffee thing he still can’t remember the name of and pouring the contents of the moka pot in. He screws the lid on and dumps the grounds into the little bucket on the counter for David’s compost and then starts to pack fresh ones in. 

“No,” Rose Landry says, “you’re going to get an unfair advantage if your guy didn’t start at the same time as everyone else.” 

This has to be her rubbing it in, doesn’t it? 

“I don’t need-” He starts, because he might be unwilling to give up his place here without getting thrown out, but he’s not going to shove himself into family traditions that aren’t even Hollander in origin. Rose Landry wants to settle in and play perfect daughter-in-law candidate. That’s fine. But Ilya doesn’t need her pity inclusion to-

“C’mon,” Rose Landry says, and when he doesn’t move, she rolls her eyes. “C’mon,” she repeats, grabbing his sleeve and pulling. 

“This is stupid,” he tells her, as they both shove their feet into snow boots. 

“Uh huh,” she says without concern, handing him a scarf. 

“Russians don’t do snowmen,” he says, shrugging into his jacket. 

“When in Rome,” she says airily, shrugging into her own. 

Ilya builds the stupid snowman. 

It’s annoying, the way Rose seems genuinely pleased at his pile of snow joining the others. This would all be so much easier, Ilya reflects resentfully, if Rose Landry could just be an evil cunt, someone he could hate Shane being with purely on her own merit. 

Instead Shane Hollander had to once again go for fucking gold. 

Ilya wonders in a vague kind of way if knocking SnowShane down would make him feel better or not. 

“Can I ask you something that might sound kind of rude?” 

The question makes him immediately wary, but he nods, Rose Landry nodding back before she looks away to adjust SnowDavid’s arm. 

“Are you jealous about me taking up so much of Shane’s time now?” 

For a moment, Ilya’s mind goes as blank as the snow around them, terrified that she’s caught on somehow, that she’s opened their battleship app and put together clues or read between the lines in a photo of the two of them or-

“What?” He asks, his voice coming out thankfully even. “You are jealous he and I are friends or what?” 

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Not at all. I think it’s nice, how close you guys are.” 

Ilya, because he is not evil no matter what his curated image might have some people convinced of, courageously does not give into the kneejerk urge to let her in on exactly how close they’ve been for years now, to see what she would do with the information that they both know what Shane looks like during sex, how he kisses, how he snuggles. 

How he loves, Ilya thinks with a feeling in his chest vaguely reminiscent of heartburn. 

“I think we got off on the wrong foot somewhere, but I’d really like it if we could get along,” she continues. “Shane is important to me, and you’re important to Shane. I mean fuck, he’s told me you keep your whole house allergy friendly for him.” This is a surprise, and Ilya doesn’t know what to do with it. He hadn’t expected Shane to tell his girlfriend anything about him, really. 

A truly pathetic part of him wants to beg her to find out what else Shane has said about him. 

“I promise,” she says, looking back at him. “I’m not one of those girlfriends who expects a guy to drop all of his friends the second he starts dating her. I’m not trying to get in the way of you two hanging out.” 

And yet she’s about as much in the way of the two of them as it’s fucking possible to be. 

“I’m not trying to kick you out of his life, Ilya,” she says, earnest and sincere and so deeply, frustratingly hard to hate when she’s being so big eyed and inclusive at him. It’s easier to deal with her in the abstract, when she’s a faceless obstacle to Shane back in his bed. 

It’s much harder at 6:33 AM on Christmas morning, when she’s trekked out into Canadian winter with him just so he can make a stupid snowman for a stupid competition. 

So she can try to include him after unknowingly taking Shane from him. 

“So if you could stop being quite so mad about me existing in your general vicinity,” she says, and it comes out as a joke even if Ilya can sense that there’s sincerity under it, “I would appreciate it.” 

It’s not existing in my general vicinity that's the problem, he thinks, feeling cornered by the sincerity and directness of her statement. It’s existing in Shane’s that makes me wish you would go do a movie in fucking Antarctica for a few months. 

Or years. 

“Okay,” she says, clapping her hands briskly. “Anyway. Snowman accomplished. Enough freezing our asses off. Think everyone else is awake enough for breakfast?” She asks, picking her way back over the snow before he even responds. 

It’s a long few minutes before he follows, returning quietly to his cinnamon rolls. 

Chapter End Notes

shout out to the peeps on tumblr who came up with the christmas meal being allergy-friendly but ONLY for rose's benefit. that detail is OUCHY, fam.

Chapter 10: resolutions: heading into a new year

Chapter Notes

For the sake of not being unfaithful even in his own mind, Shane doesn’t default to thinking about Ilya the way he has in the past when he just couldn’t get things started with sex. 

The negative side of this is that it makes it really fucking hard to get things started with sex. 

When Rose has been at the end of the bed for almost ten minutes without much to show for her work, the mortification of calling it is finally outweighed by the awkwardness of his beautiful girlfriend not being able to get him hard enough to fuck her. He went down on her first with the hope that he could just get his head in the game and be able to have sex with her if he committed to it and got himself in the zone with some foreplay, but even if satisfying her had been satisfying for him in terms of knowing that she at least wasn’t wasting her time completely trying to have sex with him, it hadn’t done much for him physically. 

Neither has her trying to return the favor when he’s determined to not think of any mouth on him except for hers. 

“It’s okay,” she says easily after he pulls her back up to lay beside him and apologizes. “No early shoot tomorrow. We’ve got time. There’s no rush for anything.” 

He accepts the kiss she offers, even though the assurance isn’t very reassuring, not when he doesn’t think that not enough time is the problem here. Staying with his parents had been a convenient excuse for avoiding any physical component to their relationship after they’d had a rocky start since four weeks before, and even if he’d felt guilty because that had never stopped him from sneaking across the hall to get physical with Ilya, it had been a nice reprieve. 

Two days after returning to Montreal, though, he’s out of excuses to not get back to it. 

And with his determination to think only of Rose when getting physical, he’s also out of erections. 

*

“Okay, man,” Cliff says, clapping Ilya on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger slightly under the force of it, “you either have to pick a chick to take home for the night or at least let everyone else know who’s up for grabs. This dancing with all of ‘em and then moving on is just selfish.” 

“Oh, is my fault none of them are interested in the rest of you?” Ilya snarks, elbowing him back enough that he can swallow a shot that he’s taking for medicinal purposes more than any real desire for it. 

A would-be cutesy text from Yuna this morning into the group chat to share that SnowShane and SnowRose collapsed towards each other and are now leaning together like cute little snow lovebirds is among the dumber reasons he’s felt the urge to daydrink. 

But it doesn’t mean it was any easier to wait for night to fall. 

“The hell crawled up your ass and died, man?” Cliff asks without any heat to it at all, reaching around Ilya to claim his second shot for himself and ignoring Ilya’s protest in the process. Cliff downs it without remorse or apology and sets the glass back down with a clack. He slaps Ilya’s back again. “Alright, enough moping like a little bitch. Get back out there, champ.” 

I don’t want to get back out there, Ilya thinks, with something midway between petulance and despair. 

It’s a deeply inconvenient recent development, a total lack of interest in taking other people home. He’d gone home with one woman and then felt so guilty about how little he had wanted it to be her in the bed with him that he hadn’t even fucked her, getting her off twice and then stroking himself off over her chest and calling it for the night. He imagines he disappointed her expectations based on her expression when he’d brought her a washcloth and begun making noises about leaving, but that had still felt less rude than asking her to turn over so he could pretend she was someone else. 

There’s no way he can say any of that to Cliff, though. 

“Black skirt red top over there looks like she’d be down for just about anything,” Cliff says in what Ilya imagines is meant to be a supportive gesture of brotherly solidarity. “It’s Christmas. Go give her a nice package.” 

Ilya makes a face even if he can’t resist the faintest smile at the fucking awful joke. 

“Christmas is over,” he says. “I know is probably hard to remember with so much brain damage for you.” 

“You’re the Russian here, man,” Cliff says, hauling him up from the stool. “Still Christmas for your people.” 

“‘My people?’” Ilya repeats dryly. 

“Yeah, you guys do it at New Year’s, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Now go do her now. Go on. You’re bringing the whole fucking vibe down, man.” 

Ilya obeys the shove to his back as the path of least resistance. 

Still, the second Cliff looks away, he makes his way back to a more hidden part of the bar. 

If black skirt red top is disappointed, Ilya doesn’t look her way to see it. 

He orders another shot. 

*

Shane flinches when he blinks his eyes open the next morning to find Rose looking right at him. 

“Sorry,” she says with an apologetic little wrinkle of her nose. 

“S’fine,” he says, stretching. 

(And hopefully also shifting to his side enough to not make it obvious that he was having a dream about Ilya that means he is not experiencing this morning the same problem he had the night before.)