Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Police Brutality, Franz Kafka References, POV Alternating, Ilya Rozanov Has PTSD, Anxious Shane Hollander, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Russia, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Major Character Injury, Post-Sochi 2014 Winter Olympics, Rumors, Shane Hollander Is Bad at Feelings, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Bureaucracy, Protective Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Blood and Violence, Love Confessions, Coming Out, Escape, Leaving Home, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov Being an Asshole, Mix of Show and Book Canon, Hockey, but like barely, Subspace, but not how you're thinking, Slurs, Homophobia, but we can be honest mostly hurt

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of This is Love

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-04 Completed: 2026-03-09 Words: 21,589 Chapters: 9/9

Safer in Chains Than to be Free

Summary

The name of your soulmate only appears once your realize you are in love with them.
"Shane Hollander" appears on Ilya's chest before the Sochi Olympics. He tells nobody, and then he disappears.

Six months later, Shane gets a call from an unknown number. Ilya. In Montreal, and completely different.
It doesn't matter, though, and the next morning there's a line of Cyrillic across his chest.

Timeline goes back and forth.

Chapter 1

Shane, July

Shane had spent most of his childhood expecting to never see his soulmate’s name on his chest. Everyone knows that for whatever cosmic reason, the name of the person who completes you can only show on your skin once you realize that you love them. Shane just doesn’t think he has it in him, to love like that. He thinks of meeting some woman and waking up to his name on her chest, and her name on his, and he feels sick. Everyone has a soulmate, but not everyone loves their soulmate. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out like that. Sometimes people start out with names over their hearts, and are doomed to slowly watch them fade away.  Other times, couples break up after they confess their love but no words appear.

Shane’s parents are soulmates, of course. Their marks had appeared at the same time, on their fifth date, when they had caught a flat tire and worked together to fix it. His mother tells the story once and awhile, as though trying to convince Shane to put a little more effort into finding his own soulmate. It doesn't work. Shane can’t deny that a part of him would like to have the emotions his parents talk about, but it just feels impossible. 

It all seems like a lot, and so Shane is happy to not dwell on it, and devote himself to hockey. It’s not like you can fall in love with someone by accident, so as long as he keeps his head in the game, he should be safe.

In the deepest parts of Shane’s brain, he can admit that there’s one person whose name doesn’t make him want to throw up. It just so happens that it’s probably the worst possible name for Shane to bear. Nobody cares that Shane Hollander doesn’t have a name on his chest, but everybody and their mother and their mother’s neighbour’s uncle would care if Ilya Rozanov was written there.

Especially since Ilya Rozanov has disappeared off the face of the planet.

After the humiliating loss to Latvia in Sochi, Ilya just… hasn't come back. It’s been nearly six months now, and nobody in the league has heard from him. The season is over, but the talking heads of hockey podcasters across the country will not shut up about it. They assume he took the loss so hard he went on a bender and just hasn’t stopped. They wonder if he went to a party and OD’d somewhere. They speculate if he’s living it up in Moscow surrounded by beautiful women who help him forget the dismal hockey he had played in the Olympics.

A few reporters had asked Shane about it, before everyone had come to the consensus that whatever happened to the great Ilya Rozanov, he wasn’t coming back. Shane had always replied the same way. “Rozanov and I have always been fierce competitors. Even when they’re your competition, you hate to lose good talent.”

It’s cold and clinical and media-perfect. It echoes what everyone else is saying, without adding any new drama or headlines. Whatever happened to Ilya, it is a loss for the hockey world. Wasted talent is a phrase the media has taken a liking to. It’s a shame, but not a tragedy. Not unless you’re Boston.

Shane doesn’t buy it. Not quite. He’d spoken to Ilya after losing to Latvia, and he hadn’t seemed like a man getting ready to drown his sorrows in substances. He had seemed, if anything, sad. Tense, for sure. Maybe even afraid.

Ilya had pushed him away, and Shane had listened because he hadn’t known what else to do. He regrets it now. They aren’t friends, but they aren’t nothing, especially after Ilya kissed him in the stairwell of his apartment. It had been sweet and wrong and perfect. And so despite himself, Shane cares. And worries. Because yes, Ilya is an asshole, but he’s dedicated to his team. He wouldn’t have just abandoned them.

***

Ilya, February

“We are not anything, Hollander. Go away.” Ilya regrets the dismissive tone as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but he doesn’t take them back. It’s better if Shane is pissed. Then he might listen. Ilya thinks maybe it works, because Shane is quiet for a moment. He looks down hesitantly. Ilya pretends not to watch out of the corner of his eye, facing the rink.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks, voice gentle. Too gentle, for this place.

“Please. Go,” Ilya repeats, voice shaking, and it’s not an answer. He can’t bring himself to lie to Shane, not anymore. He can’t bring himself to tell the truth either. Shane’s face does something that looks uncomfortable.

“You didn’t answer my text,” Shane says, not moving. Ilya needs him to leave before something happens that they’ll both regret.

“No, I did not answer your boring text,” Ilya spits, “Now will you go?”

Shane looks disappointed, “fine,” he mutters, turning away, “fuck.”

Ilya lets himself catch one more glimpse of the man as he walks away, sighing deeply. He thinks of the conversation, and all the words he used when he meant something else. 

Boring meant perfect. 

Go away meant stay. 

We are not anything meant I love you.

The words Shane Hollander have been seared on his chest since that night in Montreal.

Three days later, Ilya opens the door to his Moscow apartment. He isn’t usually here in winter, but the flights back to Boston had been such that a thirty six hour period in his hometown was unavoidable. It’s dusty, because he hadn’t hired a cleaner to keep it maintained this year. It hadn’t felt important. Moscow feels less like home every time he comes back.

Ilya takes off his shirt as he enters the bathroom, needing to shower off the feeling of the airport. If he showers long enough, maybe he can wash away the feeling of failure too. Losing to Latvia had been embarrassing, and everyone blames him. Rightfully, maybe, but that doesn’t make it any better. His father’s rage was especially hard to deal with, because it was interspersed with moments of near childlike confusion that made any sort of retaliation feel cruel. Ilya hopes his family will forget he has this layover at all. 

He places his hands on the lip of the sink and stares down his reflection in the mirror. Shane’s name stares back. It’s a cosmic joke, a cruel curse from the universe. In locker rooms, he has to wear a skin-toned bandage over the letters. It’s bad enough that he loves Shane, but for Shane to be his soulmate… 

Shane did a shirtless interview last week, after winning Olympic gold. There was no patch on his chest, and it’s maybe worse now that Ilya knows that. Before, he could at least pretend that maybe they were both losing their shit about this, but if it’s just him, he isn’t going to drag Shane into it. 

People lose their marks sometimes, if they fall out of love. That seems like the only course of action here, because if Shane finds out, he’ll freak out, and if anyone else finds out, it will be a headline in hours. And Shane will still freak out. 

Ilya had come to the conclusion that he had to stop loving Shane, and then Shane had immediately made that a million times harder, sending him texts and even seeking him out. Ilya had pushed away. It had been necessary. It had been smart. It had been the hardest thing he’d ever done.

Ilya steps out of the shower, wrapping a towel loosely around his waist. He wanders out of the bathroom and into the living room, pulling on a pair of Boston sweat pants, but no shirt - he only has one clean shirt left, and he’d rather wear it on the flight.

This is his first mistake.

He pours himself a glass of vodka, probably more than he should, but he just lost the Olympics and he’s allowed to wallow a little. Ilya flicks on the television and puts on nothing in particular. He scrolls on his phone absentmindedly, responding to Sveta and Cliff and steadfastly ignoring Shane. He’s relaxed and just on the verge of being tipsy.

This is his second mistake.

There’s fast knocking at the door, and Ilya groans. Checks the time. It’s six in the evening. Who could possibly want something from him bad enough to come to his house? Who even knew he was here?

“IIlya, open the fucking door!” Oh. Right. Alexei would know he’s here. And Alexei always wants something from him. Slapping his palms on his knees, Ilya gets off the couch, phone abandoned on a cushion. He strolls over and wrenches the door open aggressively.

This is his third mistake. 

“The fuck do you want Alexei?” he asks roughly. Alexei pushes past, making his way into Ilya’s apartment. He’s still in his uniform, clearly just coming from work.

“The fuck do you think?” Alexei yells, “You fucking embarrass the whole fucking country, and still you’re too selfish to help your family.”

“I help plenty. Who the fuck do you think pays for all your shit?” Ilya responds, getting in Alexei’s face.

Alexei scoffs, “It’s not enough, Ilya, life is expensive, and-” he freezes. His eyes narrow dangerously. “What the fuck is that?” he asks, and he isn’t loud anymore. He’s quiet, and calm, and it’s Ilya’s turn to freeze.

He didn’t put on a shirt. 

Alexei might not know English, but he has enough of a grasp to understand the Roman characters, to recognize what they mean. Alexi definitely knows who Shane Hollander is.

Ilya wracks his brain for an explanation that would save him, but everything is clouded by fear. Ilya’s a strong guy, and he knows it, but Alexei has always been stronger. Taller. Alexei is a cop. Alexei- Ilya swallows thickly. Alexei came straight from work. His eyes sweep his brother’s frame. They land on his belt. A knife, a baton. Fuck. Something that looks like it could very well be a gun.

“Alexei,” he says carefully, his voice cracking, “please.” It’s begging and Ilya doesn’t care. He doesn’t know what he’s even begging for. 

Please don’t say anything. Please don’t do anything. Please remember when we were children and didn’t hate each other. 

Please don’t hurt me.

It doesn’t work. 

Alexei’s face contorts into an evil ugly thing, and he crowds Ilya against the back wall of the apartment. “So this is why you lost then,” he spits, “you were too busy sucking American cock to care about your country.” A laugh, but nothing is funny. Ilya thinks distantly that Shane would hate being called American. “I always wondered if you were a fucking faggot,” Alexei shoves Ilya, hard, and he falls to the ground. “Fucking pathetic.”

“Alexei,” Ilya tries again, but he’s rewarded with the sharp collision of Alexi’s boot to his ribs. He curls inward, groaning. He wishes his body would cooperate and fight back, say something, do anything but lie there, but the panic and terror is paralyzing.

“My boss is going to have a field day with this, holy shit,” Alexi says, and he’s grinning now. 

Some amount of time later, Alexei grows bored of slinging insults and kicking at Ilya’s body. Ilya is barely present, not sure if it's the physical or mental pain that makes it impossible to follow what is happening. 

Suddenly, there are hands on him. Too many hands. They are rough and bruising and they wrench his arms behind his back. He’s dragged to his feet and out the door, shoved into the backseat of a car.

“Please,” he whispers, and he doesn’t even know what he’s hoping to achieve anymore. He doesn’t know what’s happening. Everything is bad. Really bad.

Ilya fades in and out of consciousness, head resting against the cool window of the car. 

His last coherent thought, as always, is of Shane.

Chapter 2

Shane, July

It’s past ten pm when Shane gets the call. An unknown number, something he would usually ignore, but for some reason, he doesn’t. It’s the off season, his calendar is largely empty, he can talk to whatever scammer is on the line.

“Hello?” he says groggily, trying to lure his body away from the half-sleep it had fallen into.

“Shane,” says the person on the phone, and he’e much more awake now. The voice is faint and rough but the accent is unmistakable. “I tried very hard not to forget this number.”

“Rozanov?” he asks, baffled. What is Ilya doing, calling him now, after six months of radio silence to the entire world?

“I’m in Montreal. The airport. Can you-” silence for a moment. Shane’s reeling from whatever the fuck is going on. “Can you come get me? Please?”

“I-” Shane stops himself. “What the fuck, Rozanov? You disappear off the face of the earth and then call me for a ride?”

“Please, Shane,” Ilya replies, and something about the way he says it is so vulnerable, so raw, that Shane finds his indignation fading. And, of course, Ilya’s called him Shane. Twice even. That’s not something they do. 

“Fuck,” Shane runs a hand down his face, “Okay, yeah. Sure. Give me thirty minutes.”

“Thank you.” Click. Shane groans, throwing his comforter off and sitting back up. He throws on a pair of jeans, a ballcap, and a Metros hoodie.

Time to drive to the airport, apparently. The thing is, Shane’s excited. Pissed off beyond measure, absolutely, but excited too. He’s going to see Ilya again. They’re probably going to have fantastic angry sex. Whatever is up with Ilya, Shane hopes he can find a way to get the other man to open up about it, too. He tells himself that this journey to the Montreal airport at ten at night is a fact-finding, sex-having mission, and suddenly he isn’t very tired at all.

Shane parks in the pick up zone, and realizes that Ilya will have no way to know which car to get in. He sighs dramatically, knocking his head onto the top of the steering wheel, and then gets out. 

This is fine. It’s late. Nobody is looking at him. Nobody is wondering what Shane Hollander is doing picking Ilya Rozanov up from the airport. He pushes open the door, and scans the area for Ilya. He tries texting the number that called him, but it doesn’t go through - a payphone, maybe. Why wouldn’t Ilya just text him normally?

Then he spots Ilya. The man is almost unrecognizable, which is probably a good thing. He’s wearing a beanie over his curly hair, large sunglasses over his eyes, and an oversized hoodie with BERLIN across the chest. He looks, Shane thinks, incredibly wrong. His shoulders are hunched, his weight placed unevenly between his legs. He’s leaning against a pillar but in a way where the pillar seems to be holding him up.

Shane approaches slowly, because it doesn’t seem like Ilya has spotted him, and he seems skittish. “Hey,” he calls, in what he thought was a relatively calm tone. Ilya flinches violently, curling in on himself like he’d been shot. His head flicks up, though, and Shane wishes he could see his eyes. Ilya’s mouth twitches, and suddenly he’s right there. Shane frowns when he sees Ilya close up. Bruises peek out from behind the sunglasses. He opens his mouth to ask, but then Ilya’s arms are wrapping around him, squeezing tightly. They’re hugging. Shane doesn’t think they’ve hugged before. Shane doesn’t know if anyone has hugged him quite like this before. Ilya’s face is shoved into his shoulder, and he’s breathing hard, and all Shane can do is bring his arms around to hug back.

Eventually, Shane has to pry Ilya off of him, and he guides him back to where the car is still idling. The only thing in Shane’s mind is a carousel of what the fuck, this is wrong because this is not Ilya. No part of the quiet, shaking man in his passenger seat is Ilya Rozanov. “I, uh,” Shane starts uselessly, “I’m taking you back to my place?If that’s okay.”

He glances away from the road to look at Ilya, who seems to be staring at nothing. “Rozanov?” Shane needs to make sure he’s at least a little bit present. Ilya swallows, and nods. He hasn’t said a word this whole time.

***

Ilya, February 

Ilya’s hands are cuffed to a metal bar in the center of the metal table. His chair is at just the wrong height, and the angle hurts his shoulders. He wonders if it's on purpose. It probably is.

The room is made of concrete, with a drain in the floor for reasons he won’t let himself think about. No less than three cameras are pointed at him, and he pretends that doesn’t freak him out. He’s still shirtless, and he isn’t wearing shoes, and it’s cold. Really cold. 

The door is a heavy metal thing that has probably three locks on it, but when they put him in here he hadn’t been present enough to count the clicks. He’s present now. Too much so. 

This is the kind of room parents tell their children about in the stories of the Soviet days. Where spies would be interrogated or political dissidents threatened. Ilya’s too young to remember the actual Soviet era, but he’s old enough to remember the stories.

Ilya wonders if he is going to die. It’s a passing thought, which it probably shouldn’t be. He knows that it’s a crime to “promote the homosexual lifestyle”, but he hadn’t really promoted anything. And it’s not like he can help who his soulmate is. From a rational perspective, Ilya knows he hasn’t actually done anything wrong. From a legal perspective, Ilya is reasonably sure he hasn’t committed any crimes. Unfortunately, he also knows that rationality and legality are not huge matters of interest for the Moscow police. The bruises already blooming on his back and chest are proof of that.

Click. Click. Click. So it was three locks. The hair on the back of Ilya’s neck stands up. The door opens. Two men in suits step into the room, followed by a uniformed police officer. The suits take seats across the table from Ilya, while the officer stands menacingly behind him. 

“If you confess now,” says the suit with a beard, “this will all be over much faster.”

Ilya isn’t stupid. He knows this isn’t like some American TV show, where he gets a lawyer and a phone call. He knows the only person who can save him here is himself.

“I have nothing to confess,” Ilya says, glaring at the suit.

“You have to understand, Rozanov,” says the other suit, pushing up his glasses on his nose, “this is a very volatile situation. Just last week you were taking photos with high profile ministers. If the public were to catch wind of your… proclivities, they would be concerned. The people need to be able to trust their ministers, don’t you agree?”

“I have done nothing wrong,” Ilya says instead of answering.

The bearded suit twitches, and he frowns, “I think you have, Rozanov. And I think you know it.”

The glasses suit stands up, reaching across the table, and picks up Ilya’s cross from where it lies against his chest. Ilya stills immediately, staring at the man in shock. Glasses raises an eyebrow. “Are you a man of god, Rozanov?” he asks. Ilya doesn’t respond. The foreign hand closes around his mother’s cross. “Confess your sins. It will be easier this way.”

Ilya breathes deeply. He closes his eyes. “I have nothing to confess,” he whispers.

Glasses yanks on the cross, and the chain cuts into the back of Ilya’s neck. “Don’t think you can lie here. We can all see that disgusting name on your chest.”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

Glasses suit pulls even harder on the necklace, and with a small snap, the clasp breaks. Ilya shakes, staring at the hand that still clutches the pendant. He feels a small rivet of what is probably blood on the back of his neck. Bearded suit sighs, shuffling some papers on the table.

“Are you sure this is the story you want to tell?” he asks.

“I have nothing to confess,” Ilya’s voice is flat, and he’s trying not to cry, because that’s the one bit of weakness he will not let himself show in this place.

Bearded suit looks at him for a moment, eyes unnervingly focused. Then he looks behind Ilya, to the officer, and nods once. The suits get up, pushing their chairs back in as though they were civilized people. On the way out the door, Glasses calls to the officer, “don’t go too crazy with him - we’ll be back tomorrow.”

The door closes.

“Did you hear that?” says the officer, speaking for the first time. He’s still behind Ilya, and it’s impossible to know just how close. “‘Don’t go too crazy’ he said. He thinks he can tell me how to do my job.” A hand clenches down on Ilya’s shoulder, and he jumps. The officer chuckles to himself. “Do you know what my job is?” he asks. Ilya doesn’t reply, but the officer seems to have expected that. “I help people,” he explains, “I help people see the value in a confession. I help them see how freeing it can be. Do you want to be free, Rozanov?”

“I have done nothing wrong,” Ilay replies, but there is no confidence in his voice. He’s shaking. He is so, so afraid.

“Hmm,” says the officer, “I think you have. It’s okay, though. I will help you see the truth.”

And then the hand on Ilya’s shoulder is on his neck instead, and it’s squeezing, compressing his windpipe and cutting off the oxygen to his brain. The hand only gets tighter, and Ilya thrashes against the restraints, kicking out his feet. The edges of his vision start to go dark. He’s screaming but there’s no air. The officer is saying something, but Ilya can’t hear it for the roar in his ears. Everything is foggy. And then, blissfully, everything is nothing.

The next day is the same. The suits come in, demand he confess, accuse him of nothing in particular, and then leave the officer to hurt him. This time, Ilya’s hands are uncuffed from the metal bar, attached instead behind his back. The officer holds him to the wall by a shoulder, landing punches to his face and stomach. 

They don’t feed him. They don’t give him anything to drink. They never turn off the harsh, buzzing lights. Ilya refuses to ask. He might not be able to control much, but he can control his words. He will not show weakness in this way.

By day three, everything is horrible. Ilya recalls reading somewhere that the human body can only survive three days without water. That had seemed like an outlandishly short amount of time, then. Now, Ilya thinks it's a miracle he’s made it this long. 

His hands never stop shaking, his stomach cramps painfully, and he’s sure his eyes are sunken and bloodshot. If there’s a point where pride meets survival, this is probably it. 

The suits seem to know it too. When they walk into the room on the fourth day, something is different. Glasses suit holds a bottle of water. A sandwich. Bearded suit has only one piece of paper and a pen. Ilya follows their movements with his eyes.

“Are you thirsty?” Glasses asks. And Ilya is. Horribly. Terribly. More so than he’s ever been in his life. He knows, logically, that he won’t last much longer if he keeps getting weaker like this. Ilya hates himself and nods. He refuses to look at the suits. “Good. Well, I got you this water, and a lunch too if you like.” Ilya doesn’t react, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“We just need you to fill out this form first,” says Bearded suit. 

Ah. There it is. A paper and pen slide across the table. Ilya blinks furiously at the paper, desperately trying to make out the words. His head hasn’t really been working all that well. The dehydration, mixed with a probable head injury. Still, if he squints, he can get most of the words clear enough to comprehend. It doesn’t seem like anything in particular. His name, date of birth, address. His family history. His tax information. It isn’t, Ilya thinks, a confession of any sort. What would the harm be, really? 

His hand shakes so badly the writing is mostly illegible. He doesn’t know half the things the form demands and so he heaves them blank, or guesses. It seems to take a million years.

A final signature in a little box.

Then, mercifully, Glasses is taking the paper and pen from him, and passing him the water bottle.

Ilya only allows himself a few sips, but it still feels like salvation.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

me when i have nothing to do after getting my wisdom teeth out

Shane, July

Shane doesn’t make a conscious decision to bring Ilya back to his real apartment, it just happens.The investment property would probably have been a smarter, safer choice, but Ilya is clearly in a fragile state, and that apartment is too sterile for whatever is going on. 

If Ilya even notices, nothing in his expression shows it. Shane leads him out of the car with a hand on his back, deciding not to be nervous about being spotted, because there are more important things. Ilya moves like a shell of himself, and Shane can’t tell if he’s hyper aware of everything, or moving through a fog. Either way, it’s absolutely horrible to witness.

Shane gets Ilya into his home and deposits him on the couch. Ilya collapses like a puppet with cut strings. Shane doubles back to the door, toeing off his shoes, and then returns. “Rozanov,” he says softly, carefully, “I’m just going to, uh, help you out here.” 

Ilya doesn’t protest, and so Shane helps him take off his own shoes. They aren’t anything near Ilya’s usual tastes - all black with velcro closures, and very cheap. The soles are worn smooth, almost, and the fabric has begun to separate from the sole. Shane places them to the side.

Ilya’s pants are also black, and they fit loosely around his legs. Shane notices that he has lost some muscle in these last few months. Yet another thing to be concerned about. From his position still on the floor, Shane looks up at Ilya. He can’t get a read on the other man, and blames the sunglasses Ilya is still wearing.

Shane straightens, moving slowly to place his hands on the arms of the sunglasses. Ilya stiffens momentarily. “Can I?” Shane asks. A nod. He pulls the sunglasses away, and while he had been expecting to see bruises, it’s worse than he could have imagined. 

Without thinking, Shane tugs the beanie off Ilya’s head as well, and now that he can properly see the damage, he wants to throw up. Ilya’s whole face is a mess of yellowing bruises and half-healed cuts. The damage seems to be at least a few days old, but under the freshest injuries, Shane can spot more, half healed ones. 

“Jesus Christ, Ilya,” he breathes, meeting Ilya’s eyes for the first time. Ilya’s eyes look like shit. Red and bruised, but more present that Shane would have expected given everything. He looks scared and miserable and all sorts of other things Shane has never seen him before. Shane brings a hand back to Ilya’s face and softly traces one of the bruises with the tips of his fingers. Ilya exhales deeply, almost leaning into the touch, but not quite. “Okay,” Shane says, half to himself, “okay so I’m going to get you a change of clothes, and then we’re going to go to bed. And in the morning, maybe, we’ll talk?” He says the last part as a question, not wanting to push Ilya too far. 

When he receives a nod of confirmation, Shane pulls away from Ilya, running to his bedroom to grab a change of clothes. He picks a pair of sweats that usually run large on him, a worn tshirt, and then stops to consider one of his favourite hoodies. It's a Metros sweater, and Shane contemplates, briefly, if that’s the sort of thing that would make everything worse. But Shane thinks there’s a chance it makes Ilya laugh, and so he grabs it.

Walking back into the living room, Ilya is unsurprisingly in the exact same position as when Shane left. “Okay,” he says, “here you go, um, I think it should all fit. And there’s a bathroom just,” Shane indicates a half closed door, “just over there. I’m going to go get changed real quick and then I’ll be back, but. Take a shower, if you want. Or don’t. Um. Here.” he forces himself to stop talking, something that isn’t typically necessary because Ilya would normally have chirped at him by now for being nervous. 

Shane passes the clothes to Ilya, who accepts them carefully, thumb moving over the material. He looks at each piece for longer than he probably has to, but stops when he notices the Metros logo. His eyes move to meet Shane’s, and he raises an eyebrow. Offers something that isn’t quite a smile, but close enough that it feels like a victory. “It’s comfortable,” Shane defends himself like this wasn’t his plan all along, “shut up.”

Ilya stands, looking unsteady on his feet, and slowly walks to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Shane listens, but doesn’t hear the shower turn on. He quickly changes back into what he had been planning to sleep in, hours ago, and makes himself at home on the couch. Shane will probably give Ilya his bed for the night. There are guest rooms, but that feels wrong. And he doesn’t want to pressure Ilya into anything by sharing a bed. 

When Ilya comes out of the bathroom, Metros hoodie and all, he looks a little better. Emotionally, if not physically. He slumps down on the couch next to Shane, leaning into his chest. Shane wraps an arm around him. 

They sit there in comfortable silence for a few minutes, but then Ilya starts to shake. Shane looks down, and oh shit because Ilya Rozanov is crying in his lap. 

On the ice, Shane always knows what to do. He knows where his team is, where the puck is, and where the goal is. It’s easy. Simple. There is no time for indecision, but that is never an issue because Shane knows hockey like he knows breathing. 

This is nothing like hockey. This is even less like breathing. 

In a rare instance in his life, Shane Hollander has absolutely no idea what to do.

***

Ilya, March

There hadn’t been a trial. 

Not that he’d been expecting one.

The day after being given food and water, different men had entered the soulless concrete room, and roughly escorted Ilya into a truck. They had driven for hours, not saying a word or looking at him at all. By the time they arrived at the facility, Ilya had already known where he was going.

It isn’t a regular prison. It’s the type of place Russia sends people that need to disappear. The type of place nobody would ever admit existed. The type of place where Ilya fully expects to die.

It’s not a gulag, because those don’t exist anymore, but that’s only on paper.

Two rows of barbed wire fencing surround the compound, guard towers placed sporadically. Stone buildings connected by little gravel pathways that nobody really tries to keep clear of snow. Cameras everywhere, all the time, a million eyes on the every move of the inmates. There is heat, technically, but it only seems to work in places where guards have to be. 

There are more guards than prisoners and each one of them is sadistic, unconcerned with morality, and armed to the teeth. The type of people that Russia had to employ here because anywhere else they would cause an international incident. 

At least there is routine. 

Every morning, before the sun comes up, if they are so lucky, Ilya and the three men he shares a cell with are roused by a six-foot-something guard who would give the best defensemen a run for their money. Then, Ilya eats a disgusting breakfast of some vaguely salted water that someone might try and call soup. The mornings are always spent outside, and Ilya tries to mind his own business. When people try to talk to him, or worse, recognize him, Ilya walks away, avoiding conversation when at all possible. He works out when he can, because he doesn’t really think he’ll ever play hockey again but at least it takes his mind off things. Lunch is usually some hyper-processed slop. Afternoons are for work, which for Ilya consists of manual labour. 

Most of the inmates are wiry political dissidents, and so the guards are quick to take advantage of Ilya’s physical strength. He moves things from one place to another and doesn’t question it when he is immediately made to put them back. 

Dinner, if it happens, is usually a combination of whatever breakfast and lunch had been. Ilya usually doesn’t gag when he eats it. Afterwards, all the inmates are herded back into their cells for the night, and Ilya takes the time to lie on his bed and try not to be noticed.

The routine is the only way Ilya has survived these past weeks. Everything is horrible, but at least he knows what’s coming next. He can anticipate which guards will spit in his face, and which will have him spend five hours out in the cold digging a hole just to fill it back in the next day. 

And then one day the routine breaks, and Ilya knows he is fucked.

Everything starts off normal.

Ilya wakes to the sound of yelling and a metal baton against bars. He, and the others in his cell, do a cursory check that nobody has killed themselves in the night - it's not uncommon. Ilya can’t pretend he hasn’t been tempted, but that feels like admitting defeat.

At breakfast, Ilya has the good fortune of receiving a portion of not-soup that has more chunks than usual. Chunks of what, exactly, is unclear, but calories are calories. 

After breakfast, things change. They go outside, like normal,  but unlike every time before, they are not given time to grab their issued jackets. They line up against the wall of the building. A head guard then begins reading out numbers. Any complaining that may have been happening ends abruptly. Every inmate looks down to the number emblazoned on their shirt, as though they could possibly forget.

1. The day he arrived in this horrible place. It isn’t one of the numbers called.

The three men who are selected step forward. Two of them look confused. One, whose number ends in 09, does not. He’s one of Ilya’s cellmates, and probably the only person nobody seems to hate. He looks almost relieved. 

The other guards shuffle around a bit, so one of them is in front of each man. Ilya wonders, somewhat shocked, if these men are about to be set free. 

A deafening bang. Really, three overlapping bangs. The men fall to the ground before Ilya can register what has happened. There are perfectly circular holes on their foreheads. The guards slowly lower their weapons, and Ilya hadn’t even realized they were drawn. 

He’s never watched someone die before.

Nobody moves. No explanation is given. The head guard gestures at them like they should get on with whatever they had been planning to do. Everyone complies.

Ilya doesn’t approach the man who he used to share a cell with.

That afternoon, Ilya’s usual work supervisor approaches him early. “Rozanov,” he says, “you’re done eating.” Ilya very much is not done eating his lunch, but after the display this morning, he isn’t about to argue. He shoves one last bite into his mouth and follows the guard. They go outside, towards the fence line. Ilya doesn’t usually venture here, since it typically results in someone yelling at him, or firing a warning shot. The guard hands him a shovel. “Make sure it’s big enough for all three of them,” he instructs.

Ilya swallows. He thinks he’s going to throw up. They can’t seriously expect him to dig a grave, can they?

“I-” he starts, “You’re not actually asking me to-”

The guard cuts him off with a swing of the baton to the stomach. “Get to work.”

Ilya picks up the shovel.

Freedom, he thinks, comes in many forms. 

Chapter 4

Shane, July

Shane wakes up to back pain. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, and realizes that he is still sitting on the couch. Ilya’s head is still resting on his chest. He grabs his phone to check the time, and it's nine. This is the latest he’s slept in since he was a kid. He cards a hand through Ilya’s hair, breathing deeply. Breakfast.

Shane gently moves Ilya so his head rests on a pillow, careful not to wake him up. He needs a shower, and maybe a tylenol. And then he’ll make Ilya food. 

He grabs a change of clothes and heads to the bathroom, stripping without much thought to it. Shane freezes, shirt half off, when he catches a line of black text on his chest. 

Илья Розанов

He prods the Cyrillic lettering with a finger, and it sends a spark of something strange down his spine. Shane isn’t an idiot. He isn’t even surprised, really. Last night, holding Ilya through wordless tears, he had felt something that seemed a lot like love. It’s logical, too: his whole life is hockey, of course his soulmate is the only other player at his level.

Then, a flash of panic. What if Ilya doesn’t love him back? It’s a humiliating thought, to have incontrovertible proof that his love isn’t reciprocated. If they're soulmates, Shane should probably tell him. He doesn’t want Ilya to be blindsided by this.

He shakes his head. A problem for later. 

Back in the kitchen, Shane passes the couch where Ilya still lays, asleep. He looks through the cupboards, and decides on scrambled eggs and toast, and finds some breakfast sausages in the freezer from the last time his parents visited. It’s not something he would usually eat, but Ilya could probably use a hearty meal. He starts preheating the oven for the sausages, and cracks the eggs into a pan. 

Soft footsteps from behind him, and Shane turns to see Ilya standing, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he says quietly, “did I wake you?”

Ilya offers him a small, tired smile and shakes his head. Shane tries not to feel disappointed that Ilya still hasn’t said anything. “Well,” he offers, “I’m making breakfast, um, toast, eggs, sausage, does that work?”

Instead of answering, Ilya comes even closer, dropping his chin onto Shane’s shoulder, breathing deeply. He’s been so clingy, and it’s concerning but Shane can’t get enough of it. He runs his arms gently down Ilya’s shoulders, eventually pulling him away. “Have a seat,” he gestures towards the stools at the kitchen island, “food will be ready soon.”

Ilya sits without protest, grimacing like it hurts to move, and Shane suddenly feels very stupid because if there are layers of bruising on his face, odds are the damage doesn’t stop there. Even if it looks mostly healed at this point, Ilya must still be in pain. 

Shane goes to the cupboard where he keeps a small arsenal of pain killers, and pops one for his sore back. Then, pouring a glass of water, he passes it, with the pills, along the table to Ilya’s spot. 

Ilya picks up the bottle, squinting a little at it before nodding to himself and taking two. Shane takes the pills back, tossing them in the cupboard and knocking the door shut. It’s maybe a little louder than expected, but Ilya reacts violently, flinching with his whole body, curling his hands into fists and hunching over the counter.

“Sorry,” Shane says, trying to be gentle with the tone of his voice. Ilya lets out a deep breath and shakes his head. He’s shaking, but not crying this time.

Shane’s heart breaks a little bit.

***

Ilya, May

It’s been an unknowable number of days in this hell, but at least it isn’t as cold anymore. Ilya’s accepted that he will die here, it’s just a question of when, and how. He thinks, through the fog of hunger that clouds everything these days, that the best way to go would be at one of the lineups. A bullet to the brain and then it’s over. The worst, obviously, would be starvation, but that’s fairly uncommon. The guards feed them just enough to get them through the day, so the only reason to die from it would be if you’re foolish enough to share. 

Ilya finishes his lunch, and goes to report for his afternoon work duty. It’s a different guard than normal, somebody new. When he sees Ilya, a cruel grin spreads across his face, and Ilya knows that look. This man knows who he is. “Rozanov,” he says shorty, “something different today. Come.” 

Ilya follows because anything else will get him robbed of the precious few comforts he has. The guard leads him to a back section of the yard that he hasn’t had a reason to visit before. It’s tucked away from the main area, and as Ilya glances around, he can’t seem to see any cameras. 

Sometimes people disappear in the middle of the day and never come back. Ilya is usually made to dig the day after. He wonders who will dig his grave, when the time comes. 

“I want to show you something,” says the guard, and he brings Ilya to where a metal barrel sits on the concrete. In the winter, the guards had lit fires in them to stay warm. That seems to be the plan today as well, even though the weather is reasonably nice. “Look inside,” the guard instructs, and Ilya complies. 

Inside the barrel is a Russian Olympic jersey with 81 across the back. It isn’t his actual one, he doesn’t think. 

“Burn it,” the guard instructs, handing him a matchbox. Ilya looks at him in surprise. After everything, this isn’t nearly as bad as what he had been expecting. “Do you fucking understand me? Burn the fucking thing.” 

Ilya strikes a match, and drops it in. There must have been some fuel or something in there too, because the jersey catches quickly, the synthetic fabric burning with ease. A sickly smell permeates the air. The guard watches the fire for a moment, sick fascination on his face and the light reflecting in his eyes.

“Get on your knees,” he orders. Confusion melts away to fear, which is objectively better because at least fear is familiar.

“What?” Ilya croaks, and he is rewarded with a slap across the face.

“You fucking heard me Rozanov,” the guard says, one hand resting on his pistol in a silent reminder of what would happen if Ilya doesn’t listen.

He closes his eyes, because whatever is coming next, he doesn’t want to know.

“Face the barrel.”

Ilya complies. His breathing is ragged, his heart fast. If this is how it ends for him, at least he’ll get to see his mother soon. 

Kneeling on the rough concrete in an isolated part of a Russian prison that doesn’t exist, Ilya pathetically wishes for his mother. He longs for her soft hands and her kind eyes. He longs for the way she smiled, and the sound of her voice, and the way she could cook anything and make it taste good. A hand reaches up to his collarbone to clasp at her cross, but it comes away empty.

There’s nothing there. Hasn’t been, not since that government official had taken it from him, months ago. He still forgets. Out of all the things he’s been robbed of, that hurts the most. He could maybe recover his dignity, if he ever got out of here. He could recover the muscle mass he’s losing slowly but surely. He can never get that piece of his mother back. It’s gone forever. Ilya tries not to feel like a bad son.

Ilya distracts himself from his all consuming terror by looking out past the fence. Through two layers of chain-link topped with barbed wire, he sees an endless expanse of cold nothingness. Well, not quite nothingness. Ilya notices a line of train tracks, maybe five hundred meters from the fence. It makes sense, probably. The prison has to resupply somehow. He files the information away for later.

A clinking sound, and then a swoosh, and Ilya opens his eyes to see the guard taking off his belt. His mouth goes dry. Sure, the guards are quick to call him all manner of homophobic slurs, but there’s no way… 

Ilya remembers with disjointed horror that there are no cameras here. Nobody would know. Nobody would care, even if they did. 

The guard steps behind him, though, not in front. Ilya listens and doesn’t hear the sound of a zipper. He relaxes, just a fraction. 

He hears the crack before he feels it. White hot pain blooms across his back, and he yells out, leaning forwards in an effort to get away.

“Shut the fuck up, and stop moving,” the guard growls, one hand on Ilya’s shoulder roughly pulling him upright.

Another crack, followed by another. It’s unlike any other pain he has known. His shirt eventually falls off his back in tatters, but the punishing sting of the belt doesn’t relent. Lines open on his back, crossing each other over the knobs of his spine. The smell of iron fills the air, and Ilya goes lightheaded. He’s probably losing blood. That’s probably bad.

Ilya stops feeling the impacts after a while. He leaves his body and retreats into the safest places in his mind. He thinks first, of his mother, but then wonders if she would have loved him, if she knew who his soulmate is. The thoughts turn sour. Ilya’s mind wonders, then, as it so often does, to Shane. Shane Hollander, with his beautiful freckles and his fantastic mouth. Shane Hollander who is, Ilya can admit to himself, the best player in the league. If Shane were here right now, Ilya would hold him so tightly, and never let go. Their heartbeats would sync and everything would be okay and Ilya would finally whisper the words aloud, “I love you”. 

In the fantasy, Shane holds him back, and loves him back, and somehow, magically, they aren’t in a prison, but somewhere far away. Maybe Shane’s fancy cottage from the documentary that Ilya pretended not to care about. Somewhere good and calm and safe.

Ilya doesn’t remember when the beating stops, or how he got back to his cell, or really much of the rest of the week at all. Maybe that’s for the best.

June

There has been an empty bed in Ilya’s cell for months. It’s been nice to have a little more space, and one fewer person to avoid making eye contact with. When Ilya turns in for the night, exhausted after six hours of moving heavy boxes filled with who-knows-what, all he wants to do is sleep. Unfortunately, there’s a person in his bed.

It’s not his in any definable way, because he doesn’t have any possessions save the clothes on his back, but it’s the bed he’s been sleeping in for the past four months. He tamps down any annoyance he may have, however, and simply changes course, hopping into the other top bunk. The two men who have been here longer than him are in the bottom bunks, and he doesn’t care enough to fight about it. 

In the morning, Ilya is able to see the new man in better lighting, and he is absolutely terrifying. He probably has fifty pounds on Ilya, and at least a few inches in height. “The guards warned me about you,” is the first thing he says to Ilya, “apparently you used to be some big hotshot hockey player until it got out that you’re a fucking faggot.” 

Ilya doesn’t flinch. 

“Well,” the man continues, “just know that if you even look at me wrong, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Just like that, Ilya has a new contender for most-likely-way-to-die. If it isn’t starvation, or execution, or infection from the wounds on his back that can’t seem to heal right, he is going to die at the hand of this absolute monster of a man.

That seems about right.

Chapter 5

Shane, July

Ilya eats his sausages and eggs like a man who has never eaten before. It sends a pang through Shane’s chest as he eyes Ilya’s body, clocking again, even through baggy layers, the loss of muscle mass. For the millionth time in only a handful of hours, he resists the urge to ask.

He is rewarded for his patience. After their dishes are washed and put aside to dry, Ilya walks over to him. “Can you help me with something?” he asks, and his voice is rough from lack of use. Shane is just glad he’s talking.

“Yeah, yeah of course,” he replies, trying not to sound too eager, “what do you need?”

Ilya grimaces a bit. “My ribs,” he says, “I took the wrap off when the plane landed, needed a break, but I should have put it back on before sleeping. But it is hard to do alone.”

“Oh,” Shane frowns. This confirms that Ilya’s injuries are more extensive than he knows. “Okay, yeah. Where’s the wrap?”

Ilya seems grateful that he hasn’t asked any probing questions, and walks back to the living room. Shane follows. Ilya picks up the hoodie he had been wearing at the airport, and pulls a wrap out of the pocket, handing it over, along with a sheet of what are probably instructions. The instructions are in German. Shane furrows his brows. 

“I don’t know German,” he says, and Ilya cracks a smile at that.

“Flip over the paper, Hollander,” he replies, and sure enough the other side is in English. Shane feels like a little bit of an idiot, but it got Ilya to stop looking quite so miserable for a second, so he doesn’t really mind.

Ilya starts taking off Shane’s hoodie, scrunching up his face in what is probably pain.

“Let me help,” Shane says softly, and Ilya stills his efforts, letting Shane help him out of the clothing. 

Ilya’s just in the shirt now, and he’s looking at Shane with an expression that looks a lot like fear. He bites his lip and closes his eyes. Shane’s hands come to the hem of the shirt, telegraphing his next move. Eyes still closed, Ilya nods. The shirt comes off. 

Ilya’s chest has never been hard to look at, but for once, Shane wishes he could look away. The first thing he notices is that the bruising around Ilya’s ribs is brownish yellow, and mostly faded. It’s probably been at least a month since he hurt them, especially if he’s only wearing the wrap some of the time. 

The second thing he notices is a series of freshly scarred over cuts that extend from Ilya’s stomach and down below the line of his sweatpants. They look like they had been deep.

The third thing he notices really should have been the first thing, because it’s his own name written above Ilya’s heart. 

Everything seems to stop, for a moment. Ilya just stares at him, waiting, it seems for judgement. “Is this…” Shane trails off, hand hovering an inch away from the words. He doesn’t need to ask. The matching mark is on his own chest, after all.

Heartbreakingly, Ilya responds, “I’m sorry.” His eyes are wet, and he won’t look at Shane anymore, this is unacceptable. Shane cannot let Ilya, his soulmate, think even for a moment that this is something to apologise for. Messy, maybe. Complicated, absolutely. But never something that needs an apology, especially one as gut-wrenchingly sincere as what Ilya’s offered.

“No,” Shane says, bringing a hand to Ilya’s cheek, aligning their eyes, “no don’t be sorry. I don’t want to hear that,” he tries to be kind and caring but it doesn’t seem to work. Ilya just shakes his head.

“It’s not fair to you, I know you don’t…” the sentence isn’t completed. Shane understands anyway. He realizes that Ilya doesn’t know. He doesn’t know Shane loves him back. Words would take precious seconds that Shane suddenly doesn’t want to waste, and so instead he whips off his own shirt. Ilya’s breath hitches.

“I do, Ilya, fuck,” he takes one of Ilya’s hands in both of his own, and moves it to feel the Cyrillic on his chest. At the contact, Shane lets out an involuntary sigh of relief. The sensation is unlike anything he’s ever felt before. 

It seems to calm Ilya as well, and suddenly there are curls pressed into Shane’s bare chest. “Fuck, Shane,” Ilya mumbles, “thank god. I was worried-” a shaky breath “I love you.”

Shane holds him close, pressing a kiss to his hair. “I love you too.”

Eventually, Ilya pulls away, and Shane tries desperately not to mourn the loss. “We need to…” he says regretfully, nodding at the wrap that lies discarded on the couch.

“Oh, shit, yeah okay," Shane leans over to pick it up. He takes one end, holding it to Ilya’s warm skin. “Here is good?” he asks.

“Yes.” Ilya confirms, and his hand moves on top of Shane’s holding the wrap in place so Shane can get the tension right. As Shane tugs lightly, mindful of the fine line between supportive and restrictive, they both relax the smallest bit.. 

As Shane moves around Ilya’s back, his breath hitches, and the relaxation is gone. “Holy shit, Ilya,” Shane whispers, and his eyes widen as he takes in the expanse of Ilya’s skin. Dozens of scars cross his back, red and puffy like they had healed too slowly. 

Shane is going to be sick. The bruising, the ribs, these are injuries Shane is familiar with. They could be hockey injuries. This is something else. This is deliberate, and evil, and it fills Shane with a rage he has never felt in his life. Somebody did this to Ilya. To his soulmate. He wants to get angry, or start plotting out an intricate revenge scheme. 

But this is not what Ilya needs, so instead, he forces his voice to remain level. “Will this hurt your back?” he asks.

Ilya hums, “yes,” he admits, “but not doing it will hurt more. Just be careful.”

Shane nods even though Ilya can’t see him from this position, and resumes wrapping, paying extra attention to the places where the fabric meets the scar tissue. Ilya doesn’t flinch, so it can’t be immeasurably horrible.

Once the wrap is applied, Shane pulls Ilya into his side, sitting them on the couch. Skin against skin, Shane feels Ilya’s breathing even out. “Are you good if I put something on the TV?” he asks. Ilya nods against his chest.

“Yes, just,” Ilya looks up at him now, and he almost seems embarrassed, “something calm please. No action movies.”

Shane hadn’t been planning on it, but it’s still strange to hear Ilya ask for it.

“You aren’t worried about being bored?” He tries to joke. Ilya blinks up at him.

“If I am bored for the rest of my life, maybe it would not be so bad.”

“Ilya,” Shane breathes, overwhelmed with a sort of second hand sadness, because what the fuck happened to Ilya to make him want to be boring?

They sit in silence for a decent while, some nature documentary plays in the background. Shane zones out, massaging small circles on Ilya’s head. Eventually, Shane’s trance is broken when Ilya takes a deep breath.

“My brother found out,” he mumbles, softly enough that Shane almost misses it. “I was at my place in Moscow, after the games, and he surprised me.” Ilya’s eyes flick up to meet his, “he saw your name on my chest. It was… it was bad. And he is police, so-” a pause. Ilya presses a kiss into Shane’s body, swallowing thickly. “It was not good. Things got very bad. I did not think…” he stops, and reaches up to Shane’s face. He swipes away a tear Shane hadn’t even noticed fall. “I did not think I would ever get to see you again. I was very sorry I never told you.”

Shane lets out a shaky breath of air. All Ilya’s really done is confirm his worst fears, but he’s grateful for any amount of trust he can earn. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, and it doesn’t quite capture his full sentiment, but he doesn’t know what would. The sheer fact that Ilya had borne Shane’s name in Sochi, but had been unable to say anything, means something so huge that Shane can’t quite comprehend it.

“Me too.”

A beat passes between them. Then, Ilya slides off the couch and to the floor. Shane frowns as Ilya settles between his legs. “What are you doing?” he asks, because he has a pretty good idea of what it seems like, but Ilya cannot possibly be in the headspace to give a blowjob right now. Shane doesn’t want Ilya to think it's a necessary thing, especially right now, when he’s clearly in a vulnerable place.

“I think you know,” Ilya replies, placing his hands on Shane’s thighs.

“Hey, okay, you don’t have to- I don't need-”

“I need,” Ilya cuts him off, “please Shane,” he rests his face along the seam of Shane’s pants, “I need to remember why this isn’t wrong.”

And what can Shane do but give in, really, when Ilya puts it like that. “Okay,” he murmurs, “okay.” He keeps his hands in Ilya’s hair, and they breathe together.

Slowly, Shane watches the tension bleed out of Ilya’s shoulders, and his head grows heavier against Shane’s thigh. He watches his soulmate slowly, finally, let go.

***

Ilya, June

There’s been a semblance of an extremely stupid plan formulating in Ilya’s head for months. It’s come together, piece by piece, and it’s so incredibly insane that it might actually work. If it doesn’t, he’ll definitely be killed. Either way, the hell that is this prison will be over with.

Ilya needs to get out of here. Desperately. The wounds on his back are infected, and the guards take delight in beating him on slow work days, and one of his cell mates threatens to kill him on the daily. 

He’s been watching the train tracks since he first noticed them a month ago. Trains come infrequently, but there is usually one in the morning after days where the breakfast soup has no chunks of anything in it. Restocking. Ilya thinks it’s about once a week. The train comes by in the first half of morning yard time, and then that afternoon, Ilya is always moving boxes across the compound. The train stays for quite a while, and doesn’t leave the prison until deep into the work time.

Ilya hadn’t noticed it at first, because the shape of the building obscures wherever the train stops to unload, but now that he knows about it, it’s easy to catch.

Ilya also knows that there is only one task that could possibly get him close enough to the fence to conceivably get to the train without getting shot, and that’s when they make him dig. Assuming that Ilya still has the physical strength to scale the ten foot fence, and assuming the guards don’t shoot  him as he runs across hundreds of meters of open field, and assuming he somehow is able to hop on to a moving train, it’s not the worst plan in the world. It is, however, a very near thing.

The crucial element is that he has to be digging when the train starts to depart, and the guards have to be distracted. 

The only thing to do is wait for someone to die, and hope they have the good sense to do it on the right day.

It only takes fifteen more days for everything to fall together. Ilya had gone to bed the night before, stomach more empty than usual. He had known that today could be the day. He is ready. 

At breakfast, he hears the news through hushed conversations between inmates. Somebody hung themselves last night. Death has stopped mattering in the way it once did, and so Ilya feels nothing in particular for the dead man, except gratitude. This is it. Another chance might not come for ages.

In the yard, Ilya has a mission. Instead of running laps, or doing body weight exercises, he wanders over to one of the guards who typically supervises his work, and doesn’t seem to hate him quite as much. “People have been complaining,” he says, and the guard’s eyebrow twitches upwards. Snitching is highly encouraged in this place, but Ilya typically minds his own business too much to partake. That’s why he’s lying now.

“Complaining about what?”

“The smell. By where the bodies are buried." Ilya has dug probably a half dozen graves in the past five months, and he’s never acknowledged it outright like this. Luckily, the guard does not seem phased. “I was thinking maybe it would be better to start putting them somewhere more out of the way.”

The guard nods, thinking. “Alright. I’ll discuss it with my superiors.” 

Ilya thanks him, and goes to rest in the shade of the building. That went as well as he could have expected. Now all he can do is preserve his energy and hope it will be enough.

A different guard comes to get Ilya early from lunch, a sign that they are, in fact, pulling him from box unloading to deal with the more pressing issue of body disposal. Instead of leading Ilya to the typical location, his wishes come true, and they go instead to the secluded corner where there are no cameras, and a clear shot to the tracks. The shovel is thrust in his hands. Ilya doesn’t let himself look at the barrel that still sits in a corner. 

In the next stroke of insane luck, the guard abandons Ilya to his task, citing a smoke break. Ilya’s been well behaved in this place. Nobody really thinks he has it in him to act out. It pays to be underestimated. 

With Ilya’s main minder gone, he only has to watch for the guard in the tower, some hundred meters away. That guard, however, also has to watch the inmates who are taking yard time now, after a morning of work. He’s distracted. Ilya digs.

His hands are callused in a different way than when he had been playing hockey. They dig into the wooden handle of the shovel. Ilya keeps one eye on the tracks. 

Then he hears it. The rumbling. The train is leaving.

He puts down his shovel, and shoots a cursory glance around. Nobody is nearby. Nobody is watching. 

The engine of the train is visible around the edge of the building. It’s now or never. 

Ilya takes a few steps backward, and then runs at the fence, jumping as high as he can. He latches on half way up, and immediately becomes intimately aware of just how much muscle he’s lost, despite his best efforts. It’s fine. He can do this. It’s already too late to back down. 

Fighting the pain that blooms across his back, Ilya pulls himself up the chain link fence. He gets to the top, and glances ahead. Right in front of him, barbed wire runs in coils along the top of the fence. Ahead, a second fence, even taller. Electric, so they say, but shorter. 

Fuck it.

Ilya pulls himself over the top of the first fence, gritting his teeth as the barbed wire digs into his stomach and thigh. He balances, crouching on the bar at the top of the fence, barbs digging into his shins and calves.

If he messes this up, he’s dead.

Ilya jumps.

He clears the second fence, and the sure death from electrocution, and lands horribly, arms cushioning his head and neck, leaving his chest to take the full brunt of the impact. There’s a loud crunch, as several of his ribs crack. For a moment, he can’t breathe.

Then the adrenaline kicks back in. Ilya looks up, and the train is picking up speed. He struggles to his feet, sprinting as fast as he can, ignoring the agony that permeates every facet of his body. He listens for the sound of yelling, or gunshots, but he doesn’t hear anything except his pulse in his ears.

Somehow, impossibly, he reaches the track. The train is moving faster than he is now, but not so much that he lets himself give up. Ilya runs parallel to the train, desperately reaching for a handle to a cargo box.

He reaches out, and his fingers just graze the metal.

A final burst of speed, and Ilya is running faster than he’s ever run before.  He reaches out again, and miraculously, his hand closes around the handle. He picks his feet up off the ground, bringing them up to the ledge on the side of the boxcar.

Ilya’s arm shakes as he fumbles with the lever to slide open the door, but he manages eventually, swinging his body inside and slamming the door shut again behind him.

He collapses, heaving a desperate breath, half burying himself in a pile of boxes.

He fucking did it. Somehow.

He is free.

Chapter 6

Shane, July

Ilya’s been in his apartment for a week, and there are a lot of conversations they desperately need to have. Shane isn’t going to be the one to start them, not yet at least. Ilya has gotten better at being present in his body, and will sometimes play along with Shane’s teasing like before. He only flinches at loud noises sometimes. He is decidedly not ready to have the we’re soulmates, what now  conversation. Or the what has the league said about you disappearing in the middle of the season conversation. Or the what the actual fuck is going on in your head conversation. That last one, thinks Shane, would be especially useful.

He’s doing yoga, and Ilya’s in the next room, and the day has been going pretty well. Then, outside, there’s a loud noise. A car backfiring, maybe. From the kitchen, Shane hears the sound of breaking glass. He frowns, standing up and making his way over. 

Ilya is sitting on the floor with his back to the fridge. Around him, shards of what was once one of Shane’s glass mugs lie shattered on the kitchen tile. “Are you okay?” he asks Ilya, but he doesn’t get an answer back. As he approaches, mindful of the debris, he notices that Ilya’s eyes are blown wide, and doesn’t seem to be breathing.

Shane quickly runs and grabs a pair of slides for his bare feet, returning to Ilya without having to worry about getting cut. “Hey,” he says softly, couching down, “hey you’re okay, alright?” Shane rubs a hand down the back of Ilya’s neck. “I need you to breathe, okay?”

Ilya’s just looking at him and very much not breathing, at least not how he should be. He looks terrified. Maybe more terrified than Shane’s seen him yet. “Shhh,” He takes one of Ilya’s hands and places it on his chest, letting his soulmate feel his breathing.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers as Ilya’s breathing starts to even out again. “So good, Ilya.”

Shane eventually manages to move Ilya to a less dangerous patch of floor, far away from the glass. He takes a seat next to him, leaning their heads together.

“I thought it was a gunshot,” Ilya confesses softly, and it takes Shane a minute to realize what they’re talking about. “I think a lot of loud noises are gunshots. Even when maybe it doesn’t make sense.”

Shane doesn’t know what to say to that, but Ilya doesn’t seem to need much right now, other than the comforting press of their bodies against each other on the tile.

“When I ran away from the place where they kept me, I was exposed. And the guards all had guns. And I was waiting to hear the shots and feel the bullets. But they never came. I think probably I am still waiting.”

Shane takes Ilya’s hand in his own, rubbing his thumb along the other man’s knuckles.

“Have you considered…” he tries to think of the best way to say this, “you’ve obviously been through a lot, Ilya, and I just. I want you to have somebody you can talk to. About everything. And if it’s not me, I mean, I totally get that, but I do think you should have somebody. Like maybe,” Shane brings their clasped hands towards his lips, “maybe a professional?”

He sits back and waits for Ilya to reject the idea. Ilya surprises him. “This is not the worst idea,” he says, “my agent suggested this also, when she was helping me get here. And… I do not want to feel like this forever.”

“I could help you find someone,” Shane offers, “if you want. I’m not sure how it works exactly, but I’m sure we could figure out something, find someone good in Boston for you.”

Ilya hums. “It does not matter so much if they are in Boston,” he replies, “I do not think I will be going back there very much. Online appointments may be better.”

“You’re not going back to Boston?” It’s the only thing Shane really takes from Ilya’s words. “What about the Raiders? What about hockey?”

“Shane,” Ilya says calmly, “I disappeared in the middle of the season. The Raiders are very unhappy with me. It was against my contract, and so they do not have to take me back.” 

“Okay but you’re still you, and it’s not like you wanted to miss the season, I mean-”

“My agent, Marina, has already talked with them. They do not want me. They are keeping quiet about everything out of respect but… if no team wants to trade for me they will buy out my contract.”

“Fuck, Ilya, I’m sorry.” Shane says, and he really is. He’s known that Ilya was having calls with his agent every few days, but not the nature of those calls.

“Is okay. Marina says a few teams might be interested in the trade, even if I am unreliable now. And probably on IR for the first part of the season. Maybe even some Canadian teams.” 

Shane feels a spike of anticipation at the idea of Ilya playing in Canada. Half the Canadian teams are actually much further away than Boston had been from Montreal, but even the idea of Ilya playing in the same country as him is exciting. Maybe they could be closer. Maybe they could be something.

“It would be cool if you could play in Canada,” Shane offers.

“Yes. Good for immigration too. Much easier in Canada than in US.”

Yet another thing Shane hadn’t really known anything about. He feels horrible about it even though there is no way he could have known. It makes sense: from what he’s been able to piece together, it doesn’t sound like Ilya is exactly welcome in Russia anymore.

“Is that why you came here?” he asks, because that would explain why Ilya had escaped Russia and come straight to Montreal.

“No,” Ilya says, surprising him. He shifts so he is half lying on the floor, head in Shane’s lap. “I came here because you’re here. You are safe. You are my soulmate. If you had been in a different country, I would have gone there instead.”

Shane doesn’t really know how to respond to that. Ilya has said a lot of uncharacteristically honest things in the past week, and it never fails to throw him for a second. He leans down, pressing a kiss on the shell of Ilya’s ear.

“I love you.”

***

Ilya, June

Ilya wakes up to the sound of loud screeching. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. As he forces himself to his feet, ribs and back and everything screaming out in agony, he notices that the train seems to be slowing down. He moves to the door of the box car, peering out through a small crack between the door and the metal wall. They’re entering some sort of train yard.

He knows that this train is still not safe. Not really. The people running this train know about the prison, and they might be looking for him, if anyone suspects this is how he escaped. He has to leave. 

The train slows further, and Ilya slides the door open, jumping onto the gravel. His ribs protest, but his lungs still seem fine, so he drags his broken body deeper into the train yard.

There are a lot of trains here, but most seem poised to go in the wrong direction. As Ilya investigates further, he notices that there are quite a lot of uniformed government officers. He hides between train cars as they approach, darting across rail lines when the coast is clear. He spots a large grey building, and a red and green flag. 

Oh shit.

He has somehow found himself at the border with Belarus. It’s another insanely lucky thing in a series of increasingly baffling lucky things. 

Ilya realizes that he does not have a passport. Even if he did, there is no way it wouldn’t send alarm bells through the system. 

He investigates the border more thoroughly. This crossing point is only accessible by train. It’s surrounded by forest. How many people, really, cross it each day? It seems like the type of place where cargo is shuttled from one train to another, but the conductors stay in their countries. Ilya’s eyes wander to the trees. A short fence extends into them, but considering what he scaled earlier, it doesn’t look like the worst idea.

The sun is starting to set, and the shadows only serve to give him more coverage from any watching eyes as he slinks across train tracks and into the forest.

In the trees, the light is even less, and in only a couple hundred meters, Ilya can’t see or hear anyone at all. He sizes up the fence, grabbing onto it with both hands. It’s going to be fucking agony climbing it. He’s come too far to give up here, and he’s done hard things with busted ribs before. Granted, playing hockey was very different from illegally crossing into another country, and he was usually not half starved when he did it. 

Ilya grits his teeth and doesn’t scream as he climbs the fence, landing with significantly more grace than when he hopped the one at the prison. 

Just like that, he isn’t in Russia anymore. Probably, he will never be in Russia again. He wishes he had been able to say goodbye to his mother’s grave. 

On the Belarusian side of the border, there are significantly fewer government workers. Ilya watches from the treeline as shadows grow long against the trains. He spots one that bears a Polish flag. Poland is in the EU, and he’ll be safe in the EU. Safer, at least. Ilya finds another boxcar with a similar design to the one he used to get here, and slides the door open, slipping inside. 

After an indeterminable amount of time, the train starts to move. Despite his instincts, Ilya lets himself fall back asleep.

The next time Ilya wakes up, it’s to the sound of loud beeping and voices. His eyes shoot open, and he is awake in an instant. He peers through a crack in the metal, and it looks like it’s still evening. That makes very little sense though, because the voices are not speaking Belarusian, or Russian. They’re speaking German.

It takes him a minute to figure it out. Ilya must have slept through a whole day, and the entire country of Poland. He thanks whatever god is out there that nobody had to open this boxcar at any of the stops this train has made in the past day. He isn’t about to push his luck.

Ilya slides the door open, and on cursory glance around, he seems to be in a city. Thank fuck. He drops out of the train, and tries to look like he belongs as he follows clearly marked exit signs. Nobody questions him. 

It takes ten minutes to get out of the train yard, and then Ilya stands in an employee parking lot in an industrial part of an unknown German city, and for the first time in five months, he thinks he might actually survive this. 

As it turns out, Ilya is in Berlin. He sets out walking towards the city center, eyes on the ground, scanning for dropped coins. He has no phone, no way to access his American bank account, and no idea what to do next. 

He finds a five euro note on the sidewalk, and takes it into a convenience store. In extremely broken German, Ilya asks to have the bill broken into coins.

He clutches the stack of coins like it is his salvation, and walks to the back of the store, where a payphone sits gathering dust. Ilya shoves the money in the slot, and calls one of two numbers he knows by heart.

“Hello?” answers his agent, and it’s been so long since Ilya’s had to speak English that he almost forgets how. 

“Hi Marina,” he says. On the phone, Marina takes a sharp breath.

“Ilya?” she asks. 

“Yes.” 

“What the fuck, Ilya. Do you know how much work I’ve had to do because of you? Half the hockey world lost their goddamned minds when you disappeared!”

Something Ilya has always liked about his agent is that she gets right to the point. It’s why, when he ditched his Russian agent, he chose her. 

“Where are you?” She asks. Ilya looks at some postcards on a rack.

“Berlin,” he responds.

“What the fuck are you doing in Berlin?”

“I…” Ilya pauses. He doesn’t even know how to explain what hell he’s endured these past few months, never mind how he got here. The shop clerk is watching him warily, and Ilya knows he must look like shit. He is grateful all his clothes are black, because if they weren’t, the dried blood would be much more obvious. 

“My soulmate is a man” he says, because that’s how this whole mess started, “And Russia found out. After Sochi. And so I had to be… punished.” Ilya is shaking now, the start of the crash from the high of adrenaline he’s been riding for who knows how long. Marina isn’t saying anything, and he wishes she would. “I ran away. From where they had me. There was a train and I- And then the border. And now I’m in Berlin.”

He’s leaving out a lot of very important details but he can’t make the words come out of his mouth, so Marina will have to make do. He considers what on earth he will do if she doesn’t believe him.

“Ilya,” she finally says, and her voice is the least professional he’s ever heard it..

“I thought maybe you could help,” he whispers.

“Yes. Yes okay,” Marina takes a deep breath, “Okay. Are you hurt?”

“Nothing that will kill me in the next few days.”

“Do you have, fuck, anything? ID? Money?”

“I had five euros,” he admits, “and I’ve already used two of them to call you.”

“Okay,” she says, mostly to herself, “okay. So I’m going to book you into a hotel, set you up with a tab for room service. I’ll have a phone sent to the room. When you get there, you’re going to call me back, and we’re going to keep talking. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya replies, because he only caught half of what Marina said, but it seems like as good a plan as he could have hoped for.

They negotiate a location for a hotel nearby, and hang up. Ilya uses his remaining three euros to buy a bag of chips.

Five hours later, Ilya is lying on a queen sized bed. There is food in his stomach, fresh clothes on his back, painkillers in his system, and a plan.

Marina said that it will take about three weeks to get things sorted with immigration to allow him to fly back to North America. It’s not as bad as he had been expecting. For now, she’s instructed him to lay low and rest. And go to the hospital in the morning for his ribs. They’re hurting bad enough that he probably will.

Marina also said that the Raiders would probably not want him back. They had been, apparently, extremely angry with him for disappearing. She is going to quietly start talking to different teams to figure out what is next for him.

Ilya hadn’t thought much about hockey in the past few months. He loves it, but he had accepted that he would never play again. As much as it stings to probably be dropped by Boston, the thought of getting to play at all cancels out a lot of the hurt.

He wonders idly if Russia is looking for him. If they will send agents here to kill him or worse, take him back. 

July

Ilya never feels safe. It’s been eighteen days of watching German soap operas and popping antibiotics, and every time he braves the world outside of the hotel room, he can’t help but see everyone as a threat.

He’s only gone out a few times. To a hospital where they asked him too many questions in a language he hadn’t spoken since middle school. To a tourist store across the street for clothes that aren’t caked in his own blood. To the Canadian embassy, to get all but interrogated on how he got here. 

Marina had initially set up an appointment at the US embassy, thinking he would want to return to his apartment in Boston. Ilya had instead asked if he could go to Canada. To Montreal. “My soulmate is there,” he had said. Marina hadn’t argued, and Canada, apparently, had been convinced by his story and scars, agreeing to grant him refugee status.

Now, Ilya sits around and waits for news that he can leave. Waits for his sudden reappearance to leak. Waits for Russian agents to sing in through the seventh floor window and kill him in his sleep.

A ping. Ilya checks his phone. It’s a plane ticket. 

He’s going to Montreal. He’s going to Shane. 

Shane will keep him safe.

Chapter 7

Shane, August 

Shane loves the feeling of Ilya’s head against his bare chest. His curls brush against Shane’s soulmark and everything feels perfect. Their hearts beat in sync.

It’s  two in the afternoon, and after Ilya emerged from the office, fresh on his third virtual therapy appointment, Shane had simply extended an arm in invitation. Ilya had taken it, curling up against his side. 

House Hunters plays on the TV, because it’s still the offseason and Shane actually does, sometimes, not totally hate things that aren’t hockey. It doesn’t really matter though, because he’s much more enthralled by the sight of his soulmate sleeping in his arms. Ilya is wearing his Metros hoodie again, and it does something crazy to his heart.

It’s been three weeks, and Ilya is doing really great, all things considered. His ribs don’t seem to bother him anymore, and he’s been seeing this therapist who he doesn’t seem to despise. 

They’ve started fucking again, too, which Snahe had worried about at first. Sometimes, it’s just like before, like that time at his investment property. Other times, it’s sweeter and softer. Either way, Ilya looks at him with so much love that Shane almost can’t believe it’s real.

Shane hasn’t yet broached the topic of what will happen at the end of the month when he has training camp. Ilya’s season is still unclear. 

He thinks, distantly, that Ilya might be afraid to go back to hockey. The press hasn’t get figured out that he’s back, but once he’s officially back on a team, that will change. Anyone who cares even a little bit about hockey would want to know what happened and Ilya clearly isn’t ready for that. Shane isn’t either. 

Whatever team Ilya lands with, they will have to be okay with this new version of Ilya. The version that is jumpier, and sweeter, and so much less afraid of his emotions, but so much more afraid of literally everything else. Shane knows Marina has found a few interested teams, but not which ones. The decision seems to be paralyzing Ilya, and as a result, he’s getting dangerously close to the acceptance deadline for some of the offers.

Shane wishes he could help, but he can also see why Ilya needs this decision to be separate from the them of it all. Because no matter what team he signs with, they still won’t come out this season. That much, at least, is clear.

On the TV, the couple chooses the absolute wrong house in Albuquerque. It’s too far from both of their jobs, and there are no good schools nearby. Shane suspects they chose it for the walk-in closets. He plays with the hem of Ilya’s hoodie. His hoodie. Ilya’s weight against him is a comfort, soothing his nerves for the future.

Somebody knocks on the door. Shane glances down to Ilya, but he doesn’t wake. Shane ignores the knocking. It’s probably just a delivery.

Except it isn’t, because the next thing he hears is the sound of a key in the lock, and then the door is opening. 

The door opens, and Shane realizes with terrifying clarity that his mother is in his apartment. He can’t see her for the layout of the space, but she’s the only person in his life who has a key and the will to drop by unannounced.

Yuna Hollander walks with a confidence earned by decades of believing she is the best at everything she does. “Shane, baby, hi, I’m so sorry I didn’t call ahead, but I was in the area and we haven’t had a chance to chat in a few weeks and I wanted to ask you how that shoot with Reebok-”

She enters the living room and stops in her tracks, abruptly stopping whatever she had been saying.

Shane watches her eyes go wide, darting from Ilya, asleep in his clothes, to Shane’s bare chest, and the characters that cross his heart.

He wants to run away. He wants to protect Ilya with everything he has. He wants to curl up into a little ball and die. There were approximately a million better ways for his mother to find out about this.Ways where she wouldn’t walk in on them when Ilya was emotionally drained and asleep against Shane’s body. 

Granted, there were definitely worse ways too. Shane’s mind, unbidden, flashes back to last night when they had made out on the couch, coming in their pants like teenagers.

“Mom-” he says softly, treading a fine line of calming whatever emotions she’s clearly feeling, and not waking his soulmate.

She still hasn’t said anything, just standing and staring and flicking her gaze between the two of them. It’s kind of the worst moment of Shane’s entire fucking life.

“I’m sorry you had to find out like this,” he murmurs.

“Find out what, exactly?” his mother asks, and her tone is cutting. A flash of anxiety shoots down Shane’s spine. 

“That I’m gay?” he says it like a question, but it really, really isn’t. “That Ilya and I are…”

“Soulmates?” the word sounds strangled in his mother’s mouth. Like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. Whether it’s Shane with a man, or Shane with Ilya Rozanov, or Ilya Rozanov being here at all, he can’t tell.

“Yeah,” Shane confirms. He runs a hand through Ilya’s hair and watches his mother make an expression he’s never seen on her before. She swallows around nothing. “Sit, please.” Shane sighs, and she does.

After a moment, Yuna speaks. “Rozanov hasn’t been, like, hiding out in your apartment since February, right?” She looks at him like she might lose her mind if he confirms it. Luckily, he doesn’t have to.

“No,” Shane replies, “no he’s only been here a few weeks.”

“But you do know,” Yuna pries, “you know where he’s been.”

“Yeah, I do.” Shane says, but he doesn’t offer more, because this conversation is quickly veering into Ilya-should-definitely-be-awake territory. He runs his hands over Ilya’s scalp again, a little more insistently. He can tell the moment Ilya wakes up a little, his eyebrows scrunching up. “So don’t panic,” Shane whispers to his soulmate, “but my mom is here.”

A beat. Ilya frowns, eyes still closed against Shane’s chest. “I think maybe this is some new stupid English thing. Idiom. Why would your mother be here?”

“Ilya,” Shane tries to instill as much calm into his words as he can, because Ilya still has not wanted to so much as leave the apartment, never mind meet new people, "it's not an idiom.”

Ilya’s eyes dart open, and widen as he takes in Yuna’s presence. Shane feels his breathing speed up. 

Shane’s mother is still watching them, but her face is at least readable now. She doesn’t seem angry. Confused, yes, but also maybe happy. Happy for what, Shane can’t quite decipher.

Surprisingly, it’s Ilya that breaks the impasse. He flexes his shoulders, sitting up properly, forcing his breathing to even out. “Hi,” he says, and Shane grabs his hand,“Yuna, yes? It is very good to meet you. I am sorry it is… like this.”

Shane hasn’t missed the way his mother hasn’t stopped looking at the mark on his chest. He wishes he had a shirt. 

“Yes,” she says, “yes it’s good to meet you too Rozanov. Officially.”

“Ilya,” the man corrects, and Shane is relieved because he wasn't about to do it, but he can’t stand the idea of his mother referring to his soulmate by an impersonal last name.

“Ilya,” she confirms. 

“Look, mom,” Shane blows out a gust of air, “this is kind of a lot. And um. I do think we need to talk about it. But maybe not right now?” 

Yuna looks like she’s about to protest. 

“Like even today is fine, really, I think we just need a minute to like. Regroup. Is that okay?” Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand, and gets a squeeze in return. 

“We can cook dinner,” Ilya offers softly. Shane raises an eyebrow in surprise. “I could cook dinner,” he amends, “and maybe,” he looks at Shane, almost asking for permission, “you bring David also? This way Shane does not have to explain everything twice.”

Ilya really is fucking amazing, Shane realizes for the hundredth time. All the shit going on in his head, and immediately he’s thinking about how to make things better for others. 

“Oh,” his mother says, and Shane knows it’s not what she was hoping for, but she doesn’t really have a reason to insist on anything else. “Yes, okay. That works. I’ll just-” she stands up, “I’ll just head back to where your father and I are staying, and we’ll be back around, what, six?

Shane nods. “Six works.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Bye, Shane.”

“Bye mom.”

The door shuts behind her, and Shane collapses into Ilya. “Fuck,” he curses, running his hands down his face. 

“So we think she noticed my name on your chest, yes?” Ilya asks jokingly.

“Yeah, pretty sure.” Shane feels hysterical. 

“Do we think she noticed the lube on the table?”

Shane’s hands abruptly come away from his face, and he looks desperately across all nearby surfaces that could be considered a table, mortified. Then, he catches a glance at Ilya’s grinning face.

“Oh fuck you,” he goans, grinning and knocking his head into Ilya’s shoulder.

“Hmm,” Ilya replies, “not now. We have to cook dinner soon.”

The second time there’s a knock at the door, Shane answers. He’s wearing a shirt now, thank god, and his parents are even on time. His father is staring at him in a way that suggests Yuna definitely told him everything. Shane wouldn’t have expected anything less. 

“Hi dad, mom,” he greets his parents more awkwardly than he ever has before, “uh, come in.”

In the kitchen, Ilya is grilling chicken on the stove. He isn’t wearing Shane’s hoodie anymore, just a plain shirt. He’s beyond tense. When Shane’s parents enter the space, he watches his dad’s eyebrows raise, as though he wasn’t entirely sure Yuna had told him the truth.

“Dad,” Shane starts, “this is Ilya. Ilya, uh, my dad.”

He privately feels like he’s might die.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Ilya,” his father says, polite in that way where you don’t know what else to do but smile.

“Yes, Shane has said many things about you. Both of you.”

“Oh,” his mother raises an eyebrow, “I wish we could say the same.”

Yep. Definitely about to die.

“Food is basically done,” Shane doesn’t respond to Yuna’s comment, “let's just eat, okay? Can I get you anything to drink?”

His parents sit at the table, and he goes to the fridge, grabbing four beers. At the stove, Ilya raises an eyebrow. It is a little close to the season for him to be drinking, but Shane doesn’t know how else to get through this.

“Are you okay?” he checks in.

“I think maybe I should be asking you this question,” Ilya replies, tone low enough that Shane’s parents won’t hear it. He shakes his head.

“It’s fine. I mean, I’m freaking out, but they had to find out eventually. Right?”

Ilya hums, and places a hand on the back of Shane’s head, pulling him in close and planting a kiss on the top of his head.

“Food is ready. I will bring it out.”

“Okay.”

“So,” says Shane’s mother once they all have plates in front of them, “when did all this start?”

“Well,” Shane replies, “it’s been, um, a while now.”

“A while? Like since before Roz- Ilya- since before the Olympics?”

If Shane wasn’t so stressed, it would almost be funny to see his sure-footed mother dance around a topic.

“No, since before that.”

“Before the Olympics?” his father seems shocked. 

“Yeah.”

“Since when, then?” Shane is sometimes grateful for his mother’s relentless nature, but not today.

“Since, um, our rookie season.”

“Your rookie season?” his mother’s eyebrows shoot up.

“This is untrue,” Ilya says, and Shane shoots him a look, “was the summer before. Toronto, remember?”

“Ilya,” Shane groans, covering his mouth with his hands, “not helping.”

He would pretend to be more annoyed, but then Ilya knocks their shoulders together, and he can't. 

“So you’ve been hiding each other’s names since rookie season?”

“No, no,” Shane hurries to correct her, “no that’s more, um, recent.”

“Oh, okay,” Yuna seems a little relieved by that. Maybe that she hadn’t missed this massive thing for quite so long. 

“Ilya,” his father says, “I have to say, I’m quite surprised to see you here. Nobody really knows-”

“Dad,” Shane cuts him off. He doesn’t want Ilya to feel like he has to explain himself.

“No, Shane,” Ilya says softly, “it's fine. They can know.”

“Are you sure?”

Instead of answering, Ilya turns back to Shane’s parents. “Shane’s name appeared for me in November. Before the Olympics. And I worked hard to hide it, but my brother found out. And he is police. And these things… things are not so good in Russia. Especially after I spent Olympics shaking hands with important politicians. So they had to make me disappear. I am… very lucky. Very lucky to be here.”

Shane had known his name had appeared on Ilya’s chest before getting to Sochi, but November. November was when he finally let Ilya fuck him. He feels a flash of something like pride that he was so good at sex Ilya fell in love with him.

He turns his attention to his parents, who are wearing twin expressions of something akin to horror.

“So the whole time everyone thought you were off partying, you were in Russia against your will?” 

“Not the whole time,” Ilya says, “I had to wait in Germany for a few weeks to get travel documents. My Russian passport is… not good anymore. I have refugee status now, in Canada.”

“In Canada?” Yuna asks, “what about Boston? What has your team said about this?”

“Mom,” Shane tries to signal with his tone not to talk about this, but Ilya just squeezes his thigh reassuringly.

“Boston is not my team anymore,” Ilya admits, “even though my reason for missing the season is good, they are still very unhappy. They feel bad, so they will trade me where I want, but I would need team that is good about,” he gestures vaguely, “all this.”

“And it would be nice if he were able to play somewhere close to Montreal,” Shane adds, “or at least no farther than Boston was.”

“Yes. So it is a long list, and Marina, my agent, she needs a top choice by Monday, but I just… I do not know.”

For a moment, the only sound is forks scraping plates. Then, Shane’s mother speaks. “What about Ottawa?”

“Ottawa is terrible,” Shane protests.

“So was Boston when Ilya signed with them," Yuna argues,”but it’d be close to Montreal, and I know some people in the management. It’s a good group of guys. They’d be good about everything.”

“I mean…” Shane trails off.

“I would rather play on shit team and be near you,” Ilya admits, “thank you for the suggestion, Yuna. I will ask Marina if maybe Ottawa is an option. And maybe being bad will be good.”

“What?” 

“They are used to losing. So they will be more willing to take a risk by signing me even though Boston does not think I am trustworthy.”

Shane hates it, but it does make sense. 

“I don’t want you to sacrifice your career-”

“I did not think I would have any more of my career. I just want to play hockey.”

It’s a confession that hurts Shane’s heart. He nods, and places a kiss on Ilya's knuckles. 

Silence returns, occasionally interrupted by a glass on the table, or the clatter of cutlery. Then, Yuna gets up, taking her plate into the kitchen. Shane watches her go. Ilya sends him a look, and he nods, standing. He follows his mother into the kitchen, where she is leaning over the counter. Shane stands next to her. 

“For the record,” he says, “I really am sorry.” A deep breath. “Not for loving him, because as much as he can be an asshole, he’s also the most caring person I know. But for not telling you. For hiding. His name,” Shane rubs the spot above his heart through his shirt, and his mother’s eye follows the movement, “it’s new. Only since he came here. But I still could have said something.”

“No, Shane,” Yuna says, and he realizes with shock that she’s crying, “you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m so happy you found each other. We were so worried that you might never get your mark, you’ve always been so focused on hockey, and…” she exhales, “I’m surprised, absolutely, but I’m not upset. I’m the one that should be apologizing, really. I’m sorry that I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me.”

Never, in Shane’s life, has he received such a genuine apology from his mother. He lets out a wet laugh, and wraps an arm around her, surprising them both with the gesture.

“I love you mom,” he whispers.

By the time Yuna and David are out the door, Shane is exhausted. Ilya maybe even more so. They fall into bed next to each other, still fully clothed, breathing together.

To his right, Ilya starts to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Shane asks. Ilya just shakes his head.

“I just met your parents,” he says eventually, still grinning.

“Yeah, and?”

“And we fucking survived, Hollander. There are people out there, in the world right now, and they know that Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander are soulmates, and they are happy about it.” A chaste kiss. “It’s fucking incredible.”

Shane doesn’t really know what to do with that. “I love you so fucking much,” he says.

It’s true. It’s always true. It always will be.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

one chapter to go!!! I was thinking maybe this needs a part two for how Ilya's PTSD effects his experience coming out with Shane (Plusss its only the 2014/15 season so it's a whole different world) (There's something to be said for Hunter approaching Ilya at some game/event to ask for Gay Advice TM that I think would be hilarious.) (I would definitely move the Troy Barrett trade way sooner like I did with Hayes though. For the plot)

Ilya, September

Ilya feels the hum of the arena before he even steps into the locker room. His trade to Ottawa had been a hushed, private affair. He's pretty sure the only people who know he’s coming to practice today is his captain, Zane Boodram, and the coaches. He wonders what the reaction will be from the rest of the team.

He isn’t going to make a big announcement or anything, not yet at least, but this is his team now, and so if they ask, he’ll tell them. Trust is important. In a team, but also in general. Ilya’s been getting better at trusting again. He can eat at a restaurant without panicking over whether someone spiked his food, and he can go for a jog with Shane in the deserted trails that run behind his new home in Ottawa. 

Shane had to go back to Montreal yesterday, after spending the weekend helping Ilya get set up, and it’s the longest they’ve been separated since July. It’s fine, though. Ilya’s fine. He’s finally been cleared to go back to practice, which is why he’s here today, a week before the exhibition games begin. He doesn’t expect to get good minutes once the regular season starts, not at first, and oddly, the prospect isn’t horrible. 

Marina has filled the Centaurs management and coaching team in on  everything that’s happened. It’s good, because Ilya sure as shit didn’t want to do it, but also bad, because a part of him never wants to tell anybody anything ever again. Not that that is really a possibility.

Ilya pushes the locker room door open, and as soon as he steps into the bustling room, everything freezes.

“Holy shit,” breathes a defenseman Ilya doesn’t know the name of, “Rozanov.”

He should have expected this, probably. A few ill-advised twitter searches have told him exactly how much people have been speculating about his absence in the past nine months. Still, a part of him had hoped that actual players wouldn’t have followed the drama so closely. 

Ilya is saved from having to say anything by Boodram standing up, clapping his hands together once, “Well, guys, you were all wondering who are new center was going to be after Douggie retired. Rozanov signed with us a few weeks ago, but we’re keeping it on the DL for now, okay?” He approaches Ilya smiling, but his eyes indicate that he knows at least something of what Ilya’s year has been like. “Good to have you man,” he says, offering his fist.

Ilya bumps it, and grins, projecting a confidence he doesn’t know if he has anymore. “Good to be here. Let’s play some fucking hockey, yeah?”

The Ottawa Centaurs collectively make it two whole practices before someone snaps, and Ilya’s honestly impressed they lasted this long. They might have lasted longer, too, but Ilya is exhausted from practice. His brain is focused on going home, above all else.

He’d been avoiding taking off his shirt in front of the team. It isn't hard, really; he can just wear his compression gear home and shower when he gets there. It’s not a habit he had been planning on keeping up indefinitely, but he’d wanted to get a little more conformable with the guys before giving them the chance to ogle the impressive number of scars that now cross his back and stomach. Plus, it meant he hadn’t had to worry about people questioning the patch over Shane’s name. Not that they would. Generally, it was considered extremely rude to stare at a patch that is clearly covering a soulmark.

But Ilya is fucking tired and they were going to find out eventually and he is feeling particularly sane today, and so he braces himself and strips of his shirt in full view of everyone.

He faces his locker because it will get the inevitable conversation over with faster, and he doesn't have to see the faces of the team like this. 

“Okay,” says Wyatt Hayes, “So I’m just going to say what we’ve all been thinking here, um, what the fuck?”

The team looks at Ilya, almost nervous. He pulls a fresh t-shirt out of his bag, shrugging it on as he turns around. 

Ilya looks around the room. He barely knows these guys, but he does trust them, more or less. He sighs. “Not a word of this leaves this fucking room. Ever. Yes?”

A murmur of agreement ripples across the benches.

“My soulmate is a man,” Ilya watches a few jaws drop in surprise, “Russia found out about it, and they were not so happy.” He partially wants to leave it there, but is he’s already said this much, well, “I know the fucking gossip blogs or whatever, they think I was on months long bar crawl. I was not. No drinks in secret Russian prisons.”

And then, because he can, he grabs his bag and walks out. 

The team had made a collective decision that Ilya wouldn’t do any interviews during the preseason. Exhibition games don’t mean anything anyways, and as captain, Bood is more than capable. Ilya’s been avoiding social media, too. Before the regular season starts, he’ll post something about the Cens, but he’s going to wait until everyone already knows. All in all, It’s been surprisingly easy not to have to deal with the public reaction to Ilya’s reemergence into the hockey world. The only place he’s had any trouble has been on the ice today, but he had only gotten a handful of minutes, and there hadn’t been any players he knows well enough to really ask him about it. All he had to put up with was shocked faces, which he happily turned to his advantage. 

Ilya gets home from the game and collapses on his leather couch. He wants to call Shane, but Shane is playing a game of his own on the west coast, so that isn’t exactly possible. Instead, he flicks on the tv and watches his own game on rerun. 

“Now,” says one of the commentators, “this is the first game of the preseason for both Ottawa and Toronto. What are we expecting from these teams tonight Dave?”

“Well, Chris, it’s honestly hard to say. Obviously with Toronto, you have those heavy hitting players, your Dallas Kents, your Troy Barretts. But Ottawa I think might surprise us.”

“Oh really? I mean, I’m a Cens fan at heart, but I think we can all agree that this team is not exactly made of that same caliber of player.”

“Maybe not, no, but we do know that the Cens signed somebody just a few weeks ago, and they’ve kept it very quiet.”

“Trying to psych out other teams?”

“Who can say, really, but whoever it is, they’re taking up a lot of cap space, that’s for sure.”

On the screen,  Bood faces off against Dallas Kent.

“Look at that, on time for the puck drop, and Boodram takes it!”

“Now Zane Boodram is really quite a player. He’s good at reading the rink, and he knows the game well. Why do you think a guy like that hasn’t asked for a trade in his thirteen year long career?”

“Some guys are dedicated like that, what can you say?”

“Fair enough, Chris. I will say, something that’s always fun with these exhibition games - coaches are always trying out new line combinations, figuring out which rookies they’re going to keep for the long haul.”

“Oh absolutely, and as you say it, it looks like we’re already getting some new players on the ice from Ottawa. We’ve got number seventeen, Evan Dyskstra, a talented young defensemen, and-”

On the screen, Ilya hops the boards.

“Holy ****”

“Is that Ilya Rozanov?”

“Well he’s wearing number eighty-one, and the jersey’s got his name on it.”

“Even looking at the Toronto side, they’re clearly shocked. Hell, the fans look shocked.”

“Not going to lie, Dave, I think everyone’s shocked, myself included. Nobody has heard a word from Rozanov since he just didn’t come back from Russia after the Olympic break.”

“We all know at least one player who went off the deep end after a big loss, but it’s good to see that Rozanov was able to get back on the ice.”

“That it is. A generational talent like that, you hate to see it go to waste. And as an Ottawa man, you love to see it come to your team.”

“Speaking of, Rozanov’s got possession of the puck, and look at that speed! Whatever he’s been doing, he isn’t rusty, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Rozanov shoots, he scores! Ilya Rozanov scores the first goal of the game.”

“And the season.”

“That too.”

Ilya flicks off the TV. He doesn’t actually care what the commentators have to say, and listening is only going to make him miserable. 

October

They’re in Chicago for an away game. The hotel room is incredibly average, and Ilya is rooming with Hayes, who has quickly, but perhaps surprisingly, become his closest friend on the team. Hayes notices when Ilya needs space, and when he needs to be dragged into whatever is happening. Ilya is happy to listen to endless stories about Hayes’s wife and his comic book collection. They’re a good match.

He’s running. His ribs are aching and there’s blood running down his stomach and legs. Ilya can’t breathe. 

The ground is a blur of half-dead grass beneath his feet and his arm is extended towards the rushing train. The noise is deafening. Ilya can't breathe. 

A blood-slick hand grabs desperately at the train car, slipping away uselessly. Ilya can’t breathe.

Behind him, yelling, shouting, the sound of a truck. Horrible pain in his ribs and his soul and his everywhere. Ilya can’t breathe.

The train speeds faster and faster and he’s still reaching but his hand is red and then the train is gone. The yelling is closer. The truck is closer. He collapses to his knees in despair. Ilya can’t breathe.

A man steps out of the truck and grabs him by the throat, tilting his head up. The man has a bullet hole in his skull and is covered in dirt. He wears a guard’s uniform, and his face is half rotted away. Ilya can’t breathe.

In the man’s other hand, he clutches Ilya’s mother’s necklace. The cross swings in the air. “Are you a man of god?” he asks, and then he’s strangling Ilya with the necklace, metal biting into flesh, and there’s blood everywhere. The gold turns crimson. Ilya can’t breathe.

“Confess your sins.”

When Ilya wakes up, he’s screaming. The sheets are twisted around him in the most claustrophobic way imaginable. To his left, Wyatt is crouching by the bedside, eyes wide with panic, hands held out placatingly. He’s on the phone. “Okay Bood, I think he’s waking up. Or something. The door is open.”

Ilya closes his mouth if only to stop the sound from escaping it. He forces air into his lungs. He’s not in Russia. He’s not hurt. 

He really fucking wants Shane.

The door opens, and Bood rushes in. Hayes is saying something, but Ilya doesn’t follow it.

He’s not in Russia, but Russia could be here. They’ve sent agents to North America before. There’s sleeper agents. He remembers learning about them in school. Russians who moved to the US or Canada and built entire lives there, lying in wait. 

Bood could be a sleeper agent. Or Hayes. Or anyone. 

No. That’s ridiculous. If there’s going to be a sleeper agent on the team, it would definitely be one of the European players, and the Cens don’t even have that many of those.

Ilya looks wildly around the room for anything to ground him. The walls are beige and decorated with a single framed photo of the Chicago skyline. The carpet is also beige but with little brown dots. The blankets are soft. The radiator hums. The lights are pleasantly unoffensive. 

If anything, that’s what does it. The lights in the prison were always horrible.

Slowly, Ilya’s brain tunes back in to what Bood and Wyatt are saying. 

“Breathe, Rozy, you’re okay man.”

“What the fuck do we do?”

“If it goes on much longer we’ll have to call coach. I’d rather not, but…”

“Yeah, man, shit.”

Ilya needs to say something, but the words aren’t coming out. Another breath. Another. Hayes says something encouraging. Bood has a hand on his bare shoulder. Weird. Ilya must have torn off his shirt in the throes of his nightmare.

“I’m fine,” he gasps eventually, but it doesn’t seem to comfort them. If anything, they seem confused. Ilya realizes he spoke in Russian. “Sorry. Fine.” he says, and that must be English at least, because they clearly understand his words.

“Hey, Roz, yeah you’re fine,” Bood says, and his tone is so unnaturally calm that Ilya would feel annoyed, except it is actually helpful. “Do you want some water?”

Ilya swallows, testing, and nods. “Please.”

Hayes presses a cup into his hands, looking at him oddly, and Ilya only shakes a little bit when he raises it to his mouth, sipping slowly. 

“Sorry,” he says again, voice hoarse. Probably from the screaming. “For that. It hasn’t happened in a while. It’s usually under control. I’m fine now.”

“Roz,” Hayes says, “holy shit. It’d be totally understandable if you weren’t dude. That was intense.”

Ilya shakes his head. “It’s late. We have team meeting early tomorrow. Thank you, but please, go to sleep.”

Bood sighs, looking unhappy at the idea. “Will you go to sleep?” he asks. 

“Probably not,” Ilya admits, “but it does not make sense for three of us to be tired in the morning.”

It’s sound logic. “Okay,” Bood gives in, “fine.” He walks to the door, grabbing the handle. “And Ilya?”

“Yes?” The use of his first name throws him a little.

“I don’t know if you even noticed but, uh, we’re not going to say anything. We got your back.”

“What?”

“About you’re…” Bood trails off, gesturing at Ilya, and then leaves.

“What did he mean?” Ilya turns to Wyatt, who frowns a little.

“Man, you’re not wearing a shirt.”

“I know. Must have come off when I was sleeping.”

“You’re not wearing a patch either.”

Ilya’s blood runs cold. His eyes shoot down to his mark, and sure enough, there is Shane Hollander emblazoned across his chest.

“Wyatt,” he says softly.

“Hey, don’t worry. Like Bood said, I’m not going to tell anyone. About anything from tonight. But if you ever need a buddy to talk to…”

“Thank you.”

Somehow, Ilya does manage to fall back asleep.

November

“Come on, Ilya, it’ll be fun,” Hayes begs, “it’ll just be me, Bood, Cassie, and Lisa. And you could finally introduce us to your boy!” 

Your boy. That’s what Hayes has taken to calling Shane, because it’s not like he can use his name. He’s been trying to convince Ilya to come over for dinner since the start of the season, and Ilya is running out of reasons to say no. Especially when he actually does sort of want to go.

Shane will be in town next weekend for a game, and then he’ll be staying an extra two days so they can spend time together. Realistically, Ilya knows they couldn’t possibly spend that entire time fucking, but the idea of sacrificing an evening to have dinner with two of his good friends and their wives still feels wrong. 

“I will ask him,” Ilya relents, “and maybe we will go.”

“Yes!” Hayes pumps the air, “You won’t regret this Rozy, trust me.”

A week later, Ilya pulls into Hayes’s driveway, Shane in the passenger seat. The game had been in the early afternoon, and Montreal had won. It was probably for the best: Shane would have been terrified to walk into this house if he had lost, and at least one of them needs to be unterrified. 

“They’re not going to be, like, pissed at me for winning, right?” Shane asks. Ilya laughs to himself. It’s a very Shane thing to worry about.

“No, my love,” he says, “don’t worry. They are good people. Very excited to meet you.”

“They already have met me.”

“That is what I said. But very excited to meet you when you aren’t trying to ruin their day.”

Shane, to his credit, hadn’t panicked much at all when Ilya had called him and explained that two of his teammates knew about them. He had, apparently, used it as an excuse to tell Hayden Pike as well. Not Ilya’s first choice, but he was Shane’s best friend, so Ilya can’t completely hate the man. 

“Come on,” Ilya says, getting out of the car, “let’s go have fun with my coworkers and pretend we are normal people.”

“We are normal people,” Shane protests, following him up the drive.

“We are absolutely not,” Ilya counters, grabbing Shane by the hips and pulling him in for a quick kiss, “and I don’t want to be. Too boring.”

“What happened to liking boring?” Shane jokes.

“There is good boring and bad boring,” 

“And what type am I?”

“I think you know,” Ilya grins, and they’re standing right in front of the door now, so he pushes Shane against it, kissing him first on the mouth, and then slowly down his neck.

The door swings open and Ilya barely catches Shane from falling flat on his back. 

“Were you making out against my front door?” Hayes asks, grinning like this is the best gift he’s ever received. 

Ilya helps Shane regain his balance, and smiles. His soulmate is beet red.

“No!” Shane protests just as Ilya nods,

“Yes.”

Shane hits him lightly in the chest. “Ilya,” he hisses underneath his breath, “this is not the first impression I was hoping to make.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Is not exactly a first impression. Five hours ago you were nearly making Hazy cry…was with boredom, of course. Since you didn’t score today.”

“Fuck off.”

“If I do that, then you won’t score tonight, either. Neither of us want that.”

As they had been bantering, Wyatt had watched them with a bemused smile on his face, but at that he lost it, bursting out laughing.

“Of course this is how you are off the ice. I don’t know why I’m even surprised. Come on in.” 

Ilya grabs Shane’s hand and drags him into Wyatt’s house.

Two hours later, Ilya leans his head into Shane’s side. Shane’s fingers make small circles in his hair. They’re sitting on a couch in Wyatt’s basement, shittalking random players they’ve crossed paths with over the years. Ilya’s friends are laughing along with his partner. His soulmate. 

When Bood’s wife Cassie drops her fork, Ilya doesn’t flinch. He also doesn’t miss the way Shane’s fingers still on his hair, giving him a moment anyway. He looks up at him, and Shane is beautiful as always, a cute little smile on his face. 

I love you. Ilya mouthes the words at him because Wyatt is talking and he doesn’t want to interrupt. Shane holds him a little tighter for it.

Everything is kind of a little bit completely and utterly perfect.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Shane, March

Shane’s in Vegas when the story breaks. 

It’s not even a story, not really. 

He watches the five second clip on a loop anyways. It was probably only recorded an hour ago.

The Cens locker room. A shaky camera. Zane Boodram: “Come on, man. You know we don’t do cameras in here.”

It’s a new policy. Ilya says they made it for him, so he wouldn’t have to worry. 

The camera shakes a little more, and then-

There.

Over Boodram’s shoulder, Ilya. Shirtless. Patch on, but it barely even matters to Shane at this point if the world found out about them. It barely even matters because his scars are on full display. They’re healed now, no longer quite as red, but still certainly visible. 

Ilya doesn’t even notice, busy talking with Hayes after their game.

The clip ends. 

Shane watches it again.

The clip had been all over social media in minutes, people picking over every frame. Shane’s called Ilya eight times, but he hasn’t picked up. Hopefully, that means he’s ignoring his phone. Ignoring the endless, ruthless speculation.

The predominant theory is that Ilya had been in some sort of car crash, which is fair, Shane supposes, given how little of the scarring people could actually see. A few people had made jokes about getting mauled by a bear. 

Shane calls again. No answer. 

He opens twitter

I know we’re all freaking about Rozanov looking like he’s been put through a wood chipper (because this is TOTALLY tied to the reason he went AWOL last year) but like did anyone else notice that he’s also wearing a freaking soulpatch??? Because I checked and he sure as shit wasn’t the last time he did a shirtless interview (which was btw in OCTOBER 2013!!!) Anyway I’m so normal about this man being in love

Shane shuts twitter again. Thinks. He needs to make sure Ilya is safe, at the very least. It’s been a while since he’s had a bad panic attack, but still. 

He belatedly realizes that he has Hayes’s phone number from the time he and Ilya went to dinner at the man’s house. Shane searches through his contacts desperately, finally finding the contact WH (Cens).

Call. 

“Hello?” Hayes’s voice cracks through the speaker, confused.

“It's Shane. Hollander. Have you seen- Is Ilya-”

“Shit, dude, yeah. Thank fuck you called, I couldn’t find your number anywhere. Roz is, um, well. Actually I’ll just pass the phone to him. I’m at his place. One second.”

Silence. Shane tries to think of what that could possibly mean.

“Okay, um, here he is,” then, quieter, “Ilya I have Shane on the line.” Shuffling. 

“Ilya?” Shane says tentatively, unsure of what version of his soulmate he’s about to talk to.

“If you ask me how I am doing I might scream.”

Oh. 

“Okay,” Shane says, almost relieved. Ilya is angry. Angry is surprising, but good. Better than panicking or shutting down. “Do you want to hear about my day?”

“What?”

“Well I want to talk to you, and you don’t seem like you want to talk about yours.”

A beat. 

“Okay.”

“Well Hayden spent thirty minutes trying to find his phone while he was talking to Jackie. On the phone. And I was going to point it out to him but the rest of the guys in the room thought it was the funniest thing ever.”

Ilya let out a startled laugh, like even he hadn’t expected it. 

“This is good. Tell me more about Pike making a fool of himself.”

And so Shane does, embellishing just a little bit when he thinks it might earn him another laugh, sometimes even succeeding. He leans against the headboard of his hotel room, enjoying the warm sounds of Ilya’s voice through the phone. Eventually, Ilya seems calm enough that Shane risks shattering it.

“So I’m not going to ask you how you’re feeling,” he starts, “but I am going to ask if you’re going to do anything? Is there anything I can do to help?”

A sigh. “I think maybe I am going to tell the truth.”

“Really?” That is not what Shane had been expecting.

“Yes. Not about you. Not if you aren’t ready. But the rest of it, maybe. The team already knows most of it. About Russia, and,” Ilya blows out audibly, “and why.” 

“Wow,” Shane says, “you’d come out?”

“I do not want to lie. I do not want to say nothing. And… I think it is maybe important that I tell the truth about this.”

“Okay.” Shane breathes, “Okay. Okay. I-” He pauses. His initial reaction is that coming out sounds like the most terrifying concept imaginable. His second reaction is that Ilya is incredibly brave for even considering it. Shane’s third reaction is that he doesn’t want his soulmate to go through something this difficult alone. Not again. Ilya should never have to feel alone again. He swallows and says something incredibly impulsive. “I think you’re right,” he admits, “it is important. And so… maybe, we should tell everyone.”

“About us?” Ilya sounds shocked.

“Yeah. I mean, we’re soulmates. People can’t, like, get mad about it. It’s just fate or whatever.”

“Shane,” Ilya starts to get emotional, “I want this. I want everyone to know how much you mean to me. But if you are not ready… I do not want you to risk everything.”

“It’s not everything,” Shane argues softly. It isn’t. Ilya is everything. Hockey, his career, his reputation, these things matter, absolutely, but if he has to choose, it’s Ilya. It’s always Ilya.

“Okay.” 

Two days later, Ilya posts on his instagram. Shane refreshes the feed impatiently, tapping his foot on the carpet, hunched in his chair. Illy will be staying offline for the next while, and Bood will take on the extra press duties, like at the beginning of the season. Shane will try to stay away from the drama as much as he can as well.

The post is up.

Ilya, shirtless. It’s a gym selfie, not unlike what he’s posted before. He’s flexing the muscles in his back, and his scars are prominent. In a reflection, his chest is visible too. Shane can just make out his own name, lettering stark against Ilya’s skin. That was intentional.

He clicks into the caption.

When I came back to hockey after my absence last year, I didn’t have a firm timeline for when I would address the reason for it. Recent rumors, and a lack of privacy from certain sports reporters, has made it important that I address the reason now.

I am bisexual. As a Russian man, this has always been a danger for me. Russia does not have much tolerance for the LGBT community. 

In the days after the 2014 Olympics, it became known to Russian authorities that my soulmate is a man. Despite, or maybe because of my performance in Sochi, they did not take it lightly.

I was incarcerated without a trial, and subjected to inhumane treatment in Russia’s Volga District. 

I was lucky, and managed to escape.

My silence on this matter has not been out of fear or shame, but self-preservation. 

As a high performance athlete, I was hesitant to risk my career by coming out. As a person, I knew that I needed to recover from my time in Russia before I would be ready to talk about it.

I would like to thank the @OttawaCentaurs, and also the love of my life, @ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer, for all their support.

(Yes, internet, you did read that right.)

Shane laughs. He knows that most of the caption was actually written by Marina, and not Ilya himself, but that last line has simply too much personality to be agent-approved. 

He’s beyond proud of Ilya. For all of this. For speaking directly against Russia, especially. 

Shane turns his phone on airplane mode just as he hears the robotic announcement blasting across the terminal.

“WestJet flight, four-nine-two, with service to, Ottawa, is now boarding for passengers seated in Zone One. Please proceed to the desk with your boarding pass and government issued photo ID ready.”

Shane grins. Ilya doesn’t know he’s coming, but he has two whole days off, and he’s going to make them count.

He slings his duffle over his shoulder, and nods to Hayden, seated beside him. Hayden, who thinks he’s going to Ottawa instead of back to Montreal to visit his parents. Hayden who is going to find out about Shane’s longest held secret through an instagram post. Oh well. Shane has never been a fan of confrontation.

“See you in two days, man.” He waves a hand.

“Have fun hanging out with your parents!” Hayden says it like a joke. Shane just smiles.

“I will, don’t worry.”

He turns on his heel and walks to the gate.

In just a few hours, Ilya will be in his arms.

They will ride out whatever wave of craziness comes next. 

Together.

Chapter End Notes

It's doneeee!!!
Part 2 is definitely coming soon so stay tuned... please come talk to me at totallynormalnotreally on tumblr if you have ideas!!! I have like, scenes in mind but no clear plot, so suggestions are certainly welcome lol