Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Multi, M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow, Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Romantic Soulmates, lily and jane, Sexting, Phone Sex, Long-Distance Relationship, Shane Hollander Has a Praise Kink, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Soulmate lore, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Autistic Shane Hollander, Power Bottom Shane Hollander, Service Top Ilya Rozanov, Closeted Character, Secret Relationship, Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of saturated sunrise: soulmates au

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-10 Updated: 2026-09-13 Words: 55,653 Chapters: 37/?

you were a vision in the morning (when the light came through)

Summary

Shane Hollander says Ilya Rozanov's name out loud the first time they meet, and Ilya's world bursts into color.

The stars demand Shane and Ilya be together, and so they will be :).

Notes

I'm unwell

Chapter 1: the beginning

Ilya

Ilya can’t remember the name of this stupid fucking Canadian town he is in. He knows it does not matter—the teams are bussed from their hotel to the rink for practice and games—but he hates not knowing where he is. If his father calls and asks, he needs to be able to answer, or gaskets will be blown. Roofs will be hit. It is something with an R. He takes his cigarettes out of the inside pocket of his coat. He will ask Coach. Coach will know, and he will not be a dick about it.

He takes the cheap, plastic lighter he’d bought at the same time as the cigarettes out of his pocket. He almost wishes he had a nice lighter, like his father’s: a Zippo that flips open, decorated with an eagle. Ivanov, one of their defensemen, had said the lighter was bright red, the color of the tiny cherries they give you on ice cream Sundays. Ilya had wanted to ask about his soulmate; it’s rare for someone his age to have found their person already, especially in places like Russia, where people are so spread out and the winter is so long.

But he hadn’t asked. Ilya can’t see color yet—he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to. He doesn’t want to hear about his teammate’s luck, his destiny with the one person he’s supposed to be with.

“Ilya Rozanov.” The voice is unfamiliar. Ilya turns, and there is a boy his age standing there—one of the Canadian players.

His eyes are brown.

Ilya blinks. The boy’s eyes are still brown. His hat is deep, dark green. He looks down at the lighter in his hand. The color of sweet cherries.

“I’m Shane Hollander,” the boy says.

Shane Hollander.

“Okay,” Ilya says, instead of saying the boy’s name back.

His soulmate can’t be a boy.

“I just wanted to introduce myself,” the boy says. His lips are a different brown than his eyes. Mixed with red, or pink. He wonders what pink looks like. “I uh… don’t think you’re supposed to smoke here.”

“Okay,” Ilya repeats, unable to find the words in English to tell this boy that they cannot be soulmates, that Ilya’s destiny cannot be to be alone for his entire life.

Or worse, to be like—

“Well, um…” the boy clears his throat. “It was nice meeting you.”

Ilya nods. “Okay.”

Ilya should stop thinking about Shane Hollander. He is standing with his father, and the owner of the Boston Bears and he is thinking about Shane Hollander. His suit is black. His shirt is white. The two colors really are opposites. His father’s eyes are steel-grey, almost white in this lighting, blending with his sclera and making his cutting gaze slice deeper into Ilya. He thinks about the deep, woody brown of Shane’s eyes. Ilya’s own eyes are bright blue, darker than his father’s.

“I promise to work very hard for you,” Ilya murmurs when prompted. His father calls him lazy. Ilya thinks about the brown of Shane’s eyes, and the way his freckles are just slightly darker than the rest of his skin. He thinks about Shane’s hair, also dark brown in contrast to Ilya’s curls, which are a golden color. He thinks about his mother; he has a picture of her, in full color now. Her hair was also gold like his, but her eyes had been brown.

Ilya is panting. Shane is also panting. Ilya’s legs are burning. His chest is heaving. Plain water from his lucky bottle has never tasted so good. It’s the same color as Shane’s shirt, Ilya realizes. His shorts are the same dark green that his hat had been. He wonders if Shane knows, if someone who can see color picks out his clothes.

Does Shane have a favorite color?

He does not have a water bottle with him. Ilya offers him his own.

Their fingers brush, and Ilya’s soulmate cannot be a boy, but if he was—

If he was Shane’s soulmate, and Ilya was his, they could share water. They could race on exercise bikes or treadmills for fun, to push each other. He could hear Shane panting for different reasons than exercise bikes.

Their fingers brush again when Shane hands the bottle back. Ilya’s soulmate cannot be a boy, but there is a boy sitting across from him, and he is perfect.

Their faces are very close together. Ilya had been calling Shane Hollander all afternoon, as they posed in different pieces of gear, holding different pieces of equipment. And now their faces were very close together.

“You look pretty,” he says because he can’t stop himself.

“You’re wearing makeup, too,” Shane says, voice higher and reedy. He thinks Ilya is making fun of him.

He should let him think that, but their faces are very close together—Ilya had never known that a person’s irises were textured. There are peaks and valleys of color, all circling around the pupil.

He doesn’t know who breaks first—himself or Shane—but the two of them are smiling, laughing. They reset. They reset again. And again. The photographer sighs and gives up.

Shane doesn’t go straight to the locker room to change. His mother is here. She is beautiful. Her hair is brown, streaked with grey.

Ilya is imagining the way Shane’s eyes keep straying over to him. He must be. He should pretend that he is.

He thinks about Shane’s smile, the brown-pink-brown of his lips. He tries to count the freckles that dot Shane’s neck and shoulders. They’re like stars in a clear night sky. Brown eyes meet his. He holds the other boy’s gaze. Something possesses him.

He’d heard stories before, of people doing stupid things to get their soulmate’s attention. The people in the stories can’t help it. They lose self-control and self-preservation instincts. The universe grabs them by the brain stem and forces them to do something. And for Ilya, apparently that something is stroking his cock in a public shower.

Shane’s mouth drops open. His tongue is pink. He looks at Ilya’s groin, then at his eyes, then back again. “Not here,” he says, and turns off his showerhead. That is probably a good idea. His soulmate is smart, practical, pragmatic.

Ilya’s soulmate cannot be a boy.

He turns his own showerhead off, towels himself dry. His towel is dark green. It reminds him of the hat Shane had been wearing when Ilya’s world had burst into color for the first time, the shorts he had one when their fingers brushed in the hotel gym. He wraps the towel around his waist and stalks toward Shane, where he’s sitting on a bench, tying his shoes.

Ilya is no longer possessed by the universe, but he opens his mouth anyway, “Shane—”

“Hey, I'm sorry,” Shane says with a sigh. “I shouldn't have—you’re really hot.” A warm sensation blooms in Ilya’s chest like he’s never had someone call him hot before. Maybe it’s different because they’re soulmates? Shane clears his throat. “But I'm... it’s gonna sound lame, but I'm saving myself? For my soulmate.”

Ilya feels like all of the English has fallen out of his brain. Shane has been saving himself for him. “Mm.”

“My mom and dad are soulmates,” he explains without prompting. He’s looking down at his hands, studying his fingernails. Does he know the very tips of his fingers are pink? “And they're the best couple I've ever met, you know? And I like the idea of only being with the person I'm meant to be with. I... I already want them, you know? Whoever they are.”

He already wants his soulmate. Already wants Ilya.

Ilya’s soulmate cannot be a boy.

Shane smiles, tight-lipped, like he’s expecting Ilya to retaliate, or make fun of him for saving himself.

“Very romantic,” Ilya says. Has anyone ever been romantic toward him? Svetlana, maybe. But they are friends. Dear friends, best friends, but not romantic.

Shane chuckles, his face going pink around his cheekbones. Ilya wants to fall to his knees and worship this man.

Has he ever had that thought before? About anyone?

No one else is his soulmate.

“Shane Hollander.”

Chapter 2: their first time

Chapter Summary

i wrote an early version of this chapter without realizing they'd put hazel-eyed connor storrie in blue contacts. miss reid im sorry for disrespecting your vision

Shane

Shane blinks once and the locker room is different. His mind automatically supplies names for some colors—red lockers, brown bench. Ilya’s hair is a gold color.

Ilya’s hair.

His soulmate’s hair.

“What is your room number?” Ilya asks.

“1410,” he says automatically. Ilya’s eyes are blue, like sea glass. His hair catches the light. It shines like it’s actually made of gold. Shane knows he’s staring but he can’t stop himself.

“I come by. 9 o'clock?” Ilya says, taking a half step forward. Shane’s attention is drawn to the towel around his waist, how he’s rolled it down so his hip bones are visible. Shane doesn’t mean to lick his lips. “Hollander.”

Shane blinks again. “Why wait?”

Ilya’s smile rises higher on one side than the other. “Want to get ready for you.”

Holy shit. “Oh—oh, yeah, sure, I... wow, okay. 9 o'clock.” He clears his throat and the lump in it doesn’t go away.

“9 o'clock,” Ilya repeats, and turns on his heel. Shane doesn’t watch him get dressed.

Shane feels himself smile as he lets Ilya into his hotel room. “Hi,” he says, almost bouncing on his feet. He’d spent the time between the locker room and now pointing his color ID app at different things in the hotel room—learning the names of colors, of shades. His bedspread is red, with bits of orange and yellow. It’s the color of sunrise, of waking up. The colors of the skyline outside had registered as blue, black, white. Ilya’s eyes are darker in this lighting, but no less blue, blue, blue.

“Hi,” Ilya says and puts a hand on Shane’s chest. Shane lets him walk him backwards, until his back is against the wall. Shane had imagined the moment he would meet his soulmate over and over again. He has a recurring dream about being interviewed after a hockey game, a reporter saying his name as she puts a microphone in his face.

But his soulmate isn’t a reporter, isn’t a she.

He decides in that moment that it doesn’t matter. His soulmate is a he. He’s Ilya Rozanov. The two of them are on rival teams, are constantly being pitted against each other. And that doesn’t matter. He’s complete, he’s whole, he’s—

Ilya kisses him and Shane feels lightning coursing through him. It starts in his mouth, at the contact point of his lips and Ilya’s, and shoots down to the souls of his feet, then back up to the top of his head. He wraps his arms around Ilya’s neck and tilts his head, mouth opening to let Ilya’s tongue slide against his.

He never wants to kiss anyone else. There’s no way it will ever be like this.

He’s hard against Ilya’s hip. He grinds his hips forward, desperate for friction. Ilya is hard against him too, and he shifts their positions, so their cocks grind against each other and Ilya presses him to the wall, his hands on Shane’s hips.

“Fuck,” Shane gasps as they break apart. “Ilya, I—” Ilya kisses his cheek, his jaw, moves down to his neck. Shane shivers as his teeth rake against his pulse point. “You’re beautiful,” Shane chokes out, hips trying to rebel against the hold Ilya has on them. He could probably break free from Ilya’s grip, but he doesn’t want to. The weight of his hands, the gentle pressure he’s exerting to keep Shane still, is fucking intoxicating. “You’re gorgeous. Is your hair blond? Is that what blond looks like? It looks like gold.”

“You are very pretty,” Ilya murmurs against Shane’s neck. “Like I said before.”

Shane laughs. “I thought you were fucking with me.” A realization hits him like a train. He puts his hands on Ilya’s shoulders and pushes him gently. Ilya goes, hands falling from Shane’s hips. “Wait! You knew. You knew we were soulmates from the time we first met. Cause I said—”

Ilya looks… guilty? He looks down and away. “I didn't know... what is word?” His brow furrows. “How to think about it.”

“Process?” Shane guesses.

Ilya nods, still not looking at Shane. “Yes. Did not know how to process.”

“Because we have to play against each other?” Shane asks. Everyone’s been pitting them against each other since they each came on the scene. Hollander vs. Rozanov, the rivalry to end all rivalries.

Ilya’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He shakes his head. “No, that part is hot.”

Shane laughs again. “It is kind of hot, isn’t it? Fuck, Boston and Montreal play against each other all the time. That’s gonna be intense.”

“Mm,” Ilya hums. He moves back toward Shane, presses his mouth to the other side of Shane’s neck.

Shane sighs, body wanting to melt. Instead, he pushes Ilya again, flips the two of them so he’s pressed against the wall instead. The app had said the wall was beige. He doesn’t like beige. He prefers blue. Prefers gold.

“I still want to know why you were having a hard time processing,” he says. “We should talk about it.”

“It is nothing you did,” Ilya says. “It is… everything outside of the two of us.”

Shane thinks for a moment. “Because I'm a man?” He hadn’t considered that his soulmate might be a man before, but now that it’s happened… should he care? Should it matter? Does it matter to Ilya?

Ilya moves his head from side to side. “Yes and no. We do not have to talk about this now.” His arms snake around Shane’s waist.

“Oh, okay.” Shane nods. Ilya’s right. This is their first night together. They can talk about the hard stuff later. “Can I—I want...”

“Whatever you want.” Ilya says, his shoulders falling back against the wall. It’s a move that opens up his posture, makes him look vulnerable, like Shane could do anything to him and he would welcome it.

Shane swallows. He sinks down to his knees. Ilya’s cock is straining against his sweatpants. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“You have not done before?” Ilya asks, his accent sounding thicker, like it’s harder to speak his second language when he’s worked up.

“No,” Shane says. He’d said as much in the locker room. “But I want to.” Ilya cups Shane’s face in one hand and lowers the waistband of his sweats with the other. His cock bounces as it’s uncovered. Ilya hadn’t worn underwear. “You’re gorgeous,” he says, the tip of Ilya’s cock brushing his lips as he speaks.

“Mm,” Ilya sighs. He tilts his head back, exposing the long line of his muscular neck to Shane’s gaze. His fingers card through Shane’s hair, not grabbing or guiding, just touching. Shane takes his cock into mouth.

It’s heavy on his tongue, and tastes faintly of salt and soap. Shane remembers the locker room, how it hadn’t felt strange to see Ilya touching himself. The only thing that had held him back had been the thought of someone walking in on them. He groans, eyes fluttering closed as he moves up and down on Ilya’s cock, the taste filling his mouth, dominating his senses. He puts his hands on Ilya’s thighs and tries to take him a little deeper. He swallows around the head, eyes watering at the intrusion.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya sighs.

Shane’s eyes open. He pulls off. “Will—will you call me Shane?” He pants.

Ilya nods. “Shane. Sorry. Shane.” He cups Shane’s face in both hands. “Shane.”

“Thank you.” Shane smiles, leans into Ilya’s touch. His mouth falls open again and Ilya slides his cock between his lips.

“Keep your mouth open,” Ilya says. Shane makes a noise in the back of his throat as the other man thrusts slowly against his tongue, the roof of his mouth. He looks up at Ilya with his mouth slack, tears threatening in the corners of his eyes. “Good,” Ilya whispers. “So, fucking good for me.”

Shane moans, a shiver running through him at the praise. Yes, he thinks. wanna be good for you.

Ilya slips his cock out of Shane’s mouth and rubs against his face. Shane feels like Ilya is marking him, putting his scent on him like an animal, and he wants it. He closes his eyes, again, lets Ilya thrust against his face, smearing saliva and pre-cum over his skin. He lets his mouth fall open again and Ilya thrusts inside. Shane wraps his lips around the head and hollows his cheeks.

“Fuck, Shane—” Ilya yanks him back by his hair. The noise Shane makes sounds broken. He doesn’t know if he’s moaning because hair pulling feels good, or whining at being denied Ilya’s cock in his mouth. “Don’t want to cum yet,” Ilya pants.

Shane whines again. “Wanna make you feel good.”

“I know,” Ilya says. “But I want to see you.” He steps back and pulls his shirt off over his head. Shane has already seen him naked, and in color, but it feels different, in his hotel room rather than the showers. He drops his sweats and steps out of them before helping Shane stand. He lifts Shane’s shirt over his head, then walks the two of them to the bed.
Shane lays on his back and lets Ilya slide his shorts and briefs off. His eyes travel over Shane’s body as more and more of it is revealed. Ilya had also already seen him naked, but—

But this is different.

“This okay?” Ilya asks, hands on Shane’s thighs.

Shane’s spreads his legs, invites Ilya in. “Yeah. Yes.”

Ilya stoops and kisses Shane’s belly. He works his way down his thighs, trailing kisses and tiny kitten licks. Shane is almost embarrassed at how his thighs tremble underneath his touch. But then Ilya’s mouth is on him. Ilya’s tongue is swirling around the head of his cock. Ilya’s hand is reaching up, dragging itself across Shane’s skin and up to his chest. He squeezes Shane’s pec, thumb flicking across his nipple.

“Fuck, Ilya—I’m not gonna last,” he pants. Ilya sucks him down, the wet warmth of his throat pulsing and squeezing around Shane’s cock. “Il—wait, I—I’m gonna—” He tries tugging at Ilya’s curls the way he had Shane’s hair, but Ilya only surges downward again, until his nose is nestled in Shane’s public hair. Shane makes that broken sound again, head thrown back against the pillows.

Ilya sits up on his knees between Shane’s legs, wipes the corner of his mouth with his hand. “Feel good?”

“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever…” Shane trails off, watching Ilya’s cock move as he adjusts his position on the bed. “You’re fucking huge.” How much had he managed to get in his mouth? Not much, he imagines.

Ilya chuckles, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Like what you see?” He reaches down and squeezes his own balls. They’re huge too, hanging low between Ilya’s legs.

Shane nods. “Yeah—yeah, absolutely. Can—can I touch you?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, voice quiet.

Shane surges forward, flips the two of them over. He crashes their mouths together, teeth clacking for a moment before their mouths settle against each other. Ilya slides a hand down his back, grabs a handful of his ass. Shane moans into his mouth, hips bucking like he could get himself hard again. Maybe he could.

He reaches between the two of them and palms Ilya’s cock, stroking it slowly as the two of them continue to kiss. They shift onto their sides and Ilya thrusts lazily into Shane’s grip. Shane’s eyes flutter open; Ilya is looking at him too. He feels like he could get lost in the sea-sapphire-twilight-sky of Ilya’s eyes.

He wants to.

Wants to drown in them.

“Ilya,” he says against the other man’s mouth.

“Shane,” Ilya pants. “Shane.” His thrusts get quicker, more erratic. Shane tightens his grip, just slightest bit, and Ilya cums across his belly, mouth dropping open like he wants to devour Shane whole. Shane would let him.

Chapter 3: the afterglow

Shane

“That was your first time?” Ilya asks after the two of them get cleaned up. They’re lying on their sides on the bed again, not quite touching.

“Yeah.” Shane tries not to sound as insecure as he feels. “Was… was it bad?”

“No.” Ilya smiles, moves closer to him. “Very good. You practice?”

“What? No, I... I don't know, I wanted it to be good.” He shrugs one shoulder.
Ilya touches his hair again. “Mm. Was good for you, too?”

“Yeah. Absolutely, yeah.” He feels himself blush at the frankness of their conversation, but there’s no reason to hold back with your soulmate. “You... you practiced?”

“Mmhm.” Ilya nods. “That is okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah, totally. I'm just curious, I guess.” He shrugs again, though he doesn’t quite believe what he’s saying. He can feel jealousy streaking through him, but he tries not to let it show on his face.

He thinks he must succeed, because Ilya says, “I like sex.”

Shane laughs, face split in a grin. “Yeah, I can tell.”

“I have sex, with people,” he continues, like he’s talking about the weather. “With friends. With people I meet in bars, at clubs.”

Shane nods, trying to parse why Ilya is saying these things. “Do you... want to keep doing that?”

“Maybe.” Ilya shrugs. He takes his hand from Shane’s hair and rolls onto his back. “I don't know.”

Shane scoots closer to him, rests his head on Ilya’s chest. “Okay. Take your time.”
“Mm.”

A moment passes. “Do you... I guess you're gonna think about it, but... I'd like to be together.” He trails his little touches along Ilya’s abdomen, traces patterns along his skin. “You’re... I've been looking forward to meeting you.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Ilya’s hand finds his hair again. “If I was with a man...” He pauses again. Shane looks up at him. He’s looking down at Shane. “If I was with a man,” he says again. “Things would get complicated back home.”

Shane sits up on one elbow. “Because of the gay thing?”

“Mm.” Ilya nods. He cups Shane’s face with one hand and Shane can’t help but lean into the touch.

“Even for soulmates?”

“My mother's soulmate was a woman,” Ilya looks surprised, like he hadn’t meant to say that. He continues anyway, “They made her marry my father.”

Shane swallows. “The government did?” Could they make Ilya marry a woman? For what? Appearances?

“My grandparents,” Ilya says. Shane feels like he’s been stabbed. How could someone do that to family? “Because of the government. Because of Russia. Because of my grandfather's strong bloodline. It is a million things with the same end.”

“Oh...” Shane’s mind immediately starts whirring. His dad calls this problem solving mode, and apparently, he gets it from his mom. He sits up fully, turns toward Ilya. “Well, you know—there are programs to allow people to move to Canada for their soulmate. I don't know if the US has the same kind of thing, since you're in Boston. But once we get you over here, it'll be easier to get her over, too. She... do you know if her soulmate married someone? Maybe if we get them over here, they could be together.” There would obviously be the problem of Ilya’s father, but they could deal with that when it came up. Maybe Mr. Rozanov also needed rescuing?

Ilya blinks. His eyes are wet. “You are beautiful.” His thumb strokes over Shane’s cheek.

“Thank you.” Shane kisses his hand. “You're beautiful, too.”

“My mother is dead.” Ilya’s voice cracks.

“Oh!” Now Shane wants to cry. “Oh, Ilya I'm so sorry.” He puts a hand on Ilya’s chest.

“My father is sick,” he continues. “He doesn't want to admit it. My brother doesn't want to admit it. But he is sick, and I am the one with the money. I cannot... I can't.”
Shane is sinking. He’s falling into a deep, dark hole. The earth will swallow him up and he’ll never see the sun again. “I understand. I'm sorry.”

Ilya’s brow furrows. “You… did not do anything?”

“Oh—no, um… in English, sometimes you say I’m sorry to mean that makes me sad. It makes me sad that you’re in this position, that we can’t do anything about it right now.”

“I don’t want to make you sad,” Ilya says, hand shifting so he can gently pull Shane toward him. They kiss, mouths moving slowly against each other.

Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s neck, and Ilya holds him by the waist. “Do you… wanna stay?” Shane asks, terrified that he already knows the answer. “Here, tonight.”

Ilya presses his face into Shane’s neck. He feels the wetness from Ilya’s tears and can’t help but think he doesn’t want Shane to see him cry. “I can hold you?” Shane asks, voice trembling, just slightly.

They’re already holding each other. Shane squeezes tighter. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Thank you,” he says against Shane’s neck.

Chapter 4: good morning

Ilya

When Ilya wakes, he has the distinct sensation that he is in trouble. He tenses for a moment, and Shane makes a small noise as he’s squeezed awake. “Sorry,” he murmurs, kisses Shane’s hair. It’s so soft, so fluffy.

“S’okay,” Shane snuggles into him, rubs his face against his chest like a cat. Ilya never wants to leave this place. “The breakfast here is supposed to be really good,” Shane says. “My mom said they have smoked salmon.”

“Mm.” He hums, kisses Shane’s forehead. Maybe they can get a quickie in before they have to check out.

“Ilya?”

“Mm?” He looks down, expecting Shane to be looking back at him, but his face is still pressed to Ilya’s chest.

“Do you... I'd still like to see each other, when we can. Like, when we play each other, maybe?” Shane asks. “I know… I understand that we can’t be together, especially not publicly… but I want to see you.”

“We play Montreal in two weeks,” Ilya says because it’s true. Maybe he is still possessed and that is why he isn’t explaining that they can never see each other again. The risk is too great, even for the person the stars want him to be with.

Shane looks up at him, smiling. “Then, can I see you in two weeks?”

Ilya sits up, displacing Shane and losing the warmth of his body against his. He tries not to shiver. “Give me your phone.” He holds out a hand.

Shane twists and reaches toward the nightstand on his side of the bed. “Here.”

Ilya puts his phone number in, saves himself as Lily, before texting himself. He finds his own phone in his pants and saves Shane’s number, returns Shane’s phone.

“Lily?” Shane asks, head cocked to one side like a confused puppy.

“And Jane,” Ilya says, saving Shane’s number in his phone.

“Oh... right, cause... right. Sorry.” Shane runs a hand through his hair. It sticks up in every direction. Ilya wants to touch it again.

“What is wrong?”

Shane shakes his head. “I'm just disappointed we can't be open, is all. I understand why we can’t, but I'd rather be able to like you out loud. Like, in an ideal situation. Which, this obviously is not.”

Ilya feels an ache deep in his chest, like a pit has opened up inside him. “Me too. But...”

“Of course!” Shane pats the air in front of him. “Yeah, for sure. I'm sorry your family sucks.”

He wants to laugh. “So am I.”

“My family doesn't suck, if you ever want to meet them,” Shane says, looking away like he is embarrassed. “I know they would love to meet my soulmate, my dad especially.”

Ilya cannot meet Shane’s parents, because Ilya’s soulmate cannot—

“Maybe,” he says.

Shane’s smile is bright, like a full moon in a cloudless sky. Ilya didn’t used to think these kinds of things about smiles. “Think about it, okay? Maybe we could spend part of the summer together.”

The idea of spending the summer with Shane, in Canada, and not in Russia with his family is… what even is the sensation he’s feeling? Afraid? “Mm.”

Shane flinches and Ilya wonders what his own face must’ve done. “I hope I don't sound like I'm pressuring you. I'm not trying to.”

Ilya wraps his arms around Shane’s middle, presses their foreheads together. “I don't feel pressure. I feel you... wanting me.”

“I do want you.” Shane holds him back, closes his eyes.

“Look at me,” Ilya says. Shane opens his eyes in an instant. “I want you, too. But… it is scary.”

“I’m sorry it’s scary,” Shane says quietly. “Thank you for agreeing to see each other, though. Even if it’s scary.”

“You’re not the scary part,” Ilya murmurs. Shane kisses him.

Chapter 5: boston wins the cup

Chapter Summary

weirdly excited about the text formatting in this

Shane

Shane books his flights to Boston before the final game of the playoffs. If the Raiders win, he wants to be there to congratulate Ilya. If they lose, he wants to be there to console him. He watches the final game in an airport lounge on his phone, and has to restrain himself from cheering when Ilya hoists the cup above his head. He wonders what Ilya has said in Russian, tries typing it phonetically into google translate. It comes back as nonsense. He translates a single word, then another.

Ilya starts typing and stops, starts typing and stops.

Shane shakes his head, smiling. His flight will start boarding in thirty minutes. He grabs his bag and heads to his gate.

Shane is surprised at how nervous he is. Ilya is still out celebrating, and Shane had keyed his way into his place with the passcode. He puts his suitcase in the bedroom and undresses. He goes back and forth on whether he actually should execute his plan. It would be enough that Shane is visiting—and hopefully staying for the weekend—he doesn’t need to… show off.

“You’re being an idiot,” he says to himself, unzipping his suitcase. “It’s a good idea.” He lifts the black and gold Rozanov jersey out of his case, then the purple mesh bag containing the other thing he ordered online when the Raiders made it into the playoffs.

The lace boxers are tighter than he’d expected; if he buys more, he’ll need to size up. Still, they make his ass look amazing, wrapped in black lace. The gusset in the front cups his cock and balls, and he feels himself hardening as he watches himself in the mirror. The material is softer than he’d expected. They disappear under the jersey when he puts it on over his head. Good—that will be a nice surprise on top of everything else.

Ilya sends a picture of Marlow drinking something amber-colored from the cup, then another of Ilya with his arm slung around a woman’s shoulders. It takes Shane a moment to recognize Svetlana from other pictures Ilya has shown him. Her hair is tousled, her smile bright instead of sly.

Ilya types. Stop. Types again, stops.

Shane sets his phone down. He tries out a couple of sexy poses he could get into when he hears Ilya come in: on the bed face down spoils the surprises of the lace boxers, as does laying on his back with his knees pointed at different continents. He gets on his belly with his head toward the door, and feels like a teenager studying for a math test. Kneeling on the floor is nice, but his knees hurt after a few moments. He lays against Ilya’s pillows. The satin of his pillowcases is cool against his skin.

The TV remote is on the ledge above the bed, and he scrolls through channels before he lands on a sports channel playing highlights from the game. He decides it’s not embarrassing to get hard watching Ilya absolutely wipe the floor with the other team. He doesn’t even realize he’s falling asleep until he’s waking back up.

Early morning light is pouring in through Ilya’s gossamer curtains as Shayne returns to consciousness. Svetlana’s eyes are dreamy brown. Her curls are red-brown, but her dark roots are poking through in a way that feels artsy and intentional. “Good morning, Jane,” she says in an accent not unlike Ilya’s.

“Hi,” he says, sitting up. He looks at the window, then back at her. “What time is it?”

“Five something,” she says. She’s also wearing a Raider’s jersey, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Have you been here all night?”

Shane nods, cheeks heating like he should be embarrassed. “Did you guys have a good time celebrating?”

She nods, eyes flicking up and down like she’s assessing Shane. It hits him that this is his first time meeting someone that Ilya considers family. He wonders if this is a good impression or a bad one. “Ilyaha,” she says loud enough for her voice to carry. He wonders if the extra syllable is a regional pronunciation, or maybe westerners just don’t say Ilya’s name correctly.

“What?” Ilya’s voice is groggy-sounding and hoarse.

“There is a present here for you,” Svetlana says. Shane sits up farther, tries to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

“Present?” Ilya sounds excited. “Jane said she was sending something.” There are quick footsteps, like he’s moving toward the door.

Svetlana smiles, puts a hand on Shane’s thigh. “This was good idea. He will like it.” She winks and stands from the bed. Ilya appears in the doorway, an eager grin on his face. His expression faulters for a moment, eyes flicking to Svetlana, then back to Shane.

“You two make sense as soulmates, I think,” Svetlana says, striding toward the door. Shane wonders if the jersey she’s wearing is Ilya’s actual game jersey. He tries not to feel jealous. She pats Ilya on the shoulder, changing places with him in the doorway. “I’m going to sleep off last night in guest room. Have fun.” She kisses his cheek and closes the door behind her.
Ilya approaches the bed slowly. He’s wearing an undershirt and boxers, like he’d stripped off as soon as he and Svetlana got home.

“Hi,” Shane says, kneeling on the bed, the jersey pooling around his thighs like as skirt.

“You are here,” Ilya says like he can’t quite believe it.

Shane nods. “I wanted to be there, at the arena. With the families. I wanted… I wanted to be there. I’m not saying that because I want you to feel bad—”

Ilya puts one knee on the mattress. “Hollander. You could never make me feel bad. Especially not when you’re wearing my jersey. My number. Fuck, turn around.” He crawls toward Shane. The way his shoulders move reminds Shane of predators on the Discovery Channel.

Shane turns, facing Ilya’s pillows so he can see Rozanov written across his back. Ilya wraps him in his arms, buries his face in Shane’s neck. “Mine,” he practically growls. Shane’s cock is almost instantly hard in his lace boxers. “Fucking mine, wearing my number, my name. Blyatt, I can’t believe you are here.”

“I wanted to say congratulations,” Shane says, touching Ilya’s hand where it lay on his sternum. “And I wanted to see you, before you go back to Russia.”

“You are beautiful,” Ilya says against Shane’s skin. “You are perfect.” He murmurs something else in Russian. Shane wants to ask what he said, but Ilya continues, “I am still drunk.” He moves away from him and lays on his side.

Shane lays on his side, moving toward him. “I’m glad you had fun.”

“Mmmmm,” Ilya hums, drawing out the syllable and he pulls Shane closer to him. Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s neck as Ilya’s hands roam, snaking first up Shane’s bare back underneath the jersey and them down to his ass. “Mm?” He pulls back a little. “What is…”

Shane lets out a nervous chuckle. “I… um—I wanted to look nice, I guess.”

Ilya looks down in the dim early morning light. His eyes light up when he registers the lingerie. “My pretty slut.” He runs his fingers over the material. He looks up at Shane. “That is okay?”

“I feel kind of slutty,” Shane says, legs falling open as Ilya slots himself between them. “It’s nice. I’m… I’m glad you like them.”

“Mm.” Ilya stoops and kisses the outline of Shane’s cock where it’s straining against the fabric.

“We shouldn’t do anything while you’re still drunk,” Shane says, voice quiet. Part of him wants to let Ilya do whatever he wants, but he would hate for either of them to regret it later.

Ilya sighs and lays on his side again, gathering Shane up in his arms. “I sleep it off. Wake up in a couple hours, have beautiful morning sex with beautiful, slutty soulmate.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Shane murmurs, getting comfortable on the mattress. He doesn’t expect to sleep, but drifts off anyway listening to Ilya’s breathing.

Chapter 6: celebrating

Shane

Svetlana is once again the one to wake Shane up, tapping him gently as she climbs into bed. She’s changed into a different shirt, probably still one of Ilya’s, but this one doesn’t get Shane’s back up the way the jersey had. “I am ordering breakfast,” she says, gesturing with her phone. “What do you want?”

Shane had shifted onto his back at some point, and Ilya is lying on his belly, head resting on Shane’s abs. Shane ran his hand through his hair. The light from the window was turning his blond hair the color of firelight—red, gold, orange. “Where are you ordering from?”

“Place nearby,” Svetlana says unhelpfully. “I am getting pancakes, sausage, bacon, eggs.” She sighs dreamily. “I love American breakfast.”

“Do they have oatmeal?” Shane asks. He doesn’t need to stick as closely to his diet right now, but it would still be nice to keep to his calorie count steady.

Svetlana scrolls. “Mmmm… old fashioned oats with dried fruit and honey. Okay?”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Shane says, rubbing Ilya’s back. The other man stirs slowly, his grip around Shane’s waist tightening for a moment. “We’re ordering breakfast.”

“Pancake,” Ilya murmurs.

“Sausage?” Svetlana asks.

Ilya’s response is to hum and rub his face against Shane’s crotch. Shane flinches. “Ilya—!”

“Taking that as a yes,” Svetlana murmurs, tapping at her phone. “You want coffee, Ilyaha?”

“Da,” Ilya says. “Iced latte, vanilla.”

“Jane? Coffee?” She looks at him.

“I don’t know how I feel about that nickname,” Shane says. “And no, I’m good. Orange juice?”

Svetlana nods. “Okay. Will be here… twenty minutes.” She pats Ilya’s head and rolls out of bed.

The door clicks shut softly, and Shane looks down at Ilya. His face is placid, calm, the tiniest hint of a smile on his face. “Are you awake?” Shane asks. Ilya nods, again rubbing his face against Shane’s lace-covered cock. “Ilya—can I ask you something?” He nods again, and this time mouths gently at Shane’s bulge. “Fuck, if you do that, I’m not gonna be able to—ah!” Ilya licks him more intentionally, one eye opening to glance up at Shane’s face. “Stop it, I wanna ask you something important.”

Ilya sits up on his elbows so he can look Shane in the face more easily. “What is it, dorogoy?”

“Have I been saying your name wrong?” Shane asks. “I know that sometimes names are pronounced differently in different languages, but Svetlana calls you Ilyaha? Is that more correct?”

Ilya chuckles, settling back down against Shane’s belly. “No, is not more or less correct. Is… what is word? Nickname. Cute way of saying it, friendly. Like how I call her Sveta.”

“Oh, okay,” Shane says, carding his fingers through Ilya’s hair.

“You would be…” Ilya thinks. “Shanya. Maybe Shanushka. Or Vanya. since Shane is like Ivan.”

“It is?” Shane asks.

“You do not know? Shane is like Sean, which is like Ivan.” He trailed kisses along the waistband of Shane’s boxers. Shane’s stomach shook with the effort not to laugh at the ticklish sensation.

“Did—did you look that up? The origin of my name?” Shane asks.

“No, I am simply encyclopedia of names,” Iya says, kissing up Shane’s belly and until he gets to the rucked-up seam of the jersey. “I know everything there is to know about them.”

“I think you looked it up,” Shane says, cupping Ilya’s face in his hand. “I think you like me.”

“Interesting theory,” Ilya murmurs, nuzzling against Shane’s hand. “I would like to see evidence.”

Shane raises an eyebrow, shifting so he can press his thigh against the bulge in Ilya’s boxers. “Well, there’s this, which I find pretty compelling.”

Ilya takes a moment to sigh and grind against Shane’s thigh before asking, “What is this? Compelling?”

“Like… interesting,” Shane explains, the voice going higher on the third syllable when Ilya grinds their clothed cocks together.

“My soulmate is so smart,” Ilya murmurs, kissing Shane’s check. “And so slutty, and beautiful.”

“Fuck,” Shane breathes. The heat of Ilya’s hardon leaches through the lace, and Ilya’s movements rub the textured fabric against Shane’s cock, already sensitive from being keyed up for so long. “Ilya,” Shane whines. “Fuck, Ilya.”

“Hm? You need something?” Ilya grinds forward again.

“Want you,” Shane breathes, gripping Ilya’s upper arms. “Please.”

“Mm: smart, slutty, beautiful, and polite. How lucky I am.” Ilya kisses him briefly, and Shane chases his lips with his when he pulls away. Ilya sighs. “But if only he would tell me what he is asking for.” He presses his hips against Shane’s again.

“Want—need you. In me, please? Please, fuck,” he bucked against Ilya’s hips.

“Good boy,” Ilya breathed. He kisses Shane again, before pulling back and flipping him over. “This is the angle I want, I think.”

Shane looks over his shoulder, a request to see him instead forming on his tongue. Then he sees the hungry look in Ilya’s eyes, the way he licks his lips at the sight of his name across Shane’s shoulders, and decides to simply arch his back instead.

“Good boy,” Ilya repeats, then smacks the side of Shane’s thigh. He lets out a tiny noise, pushing his ass up a little higher. “Now… are these the kind…” Ilya runs his fingers down the central seam of the boxers, exploring the material, pressing the floral patterns into Shane’s skin. “Ah, no. Next time, you buy some with opening in back, hm? Can leave them on when I fuck you.”

“Okay,” Shane says. He hadn’t even considered that as a possibility.

“I could buy for you,” Ilya says, tugging the waistband. “Would you like that? Could spoil you with nice lingerie, toys to keep you satisfied while I am gone.” He presses his thumb into the pucker of Shane’s hole.

“Fuck,” Shane chokes on the sound. “Y-yeah, I would like that. If—if you want.”

“I do want.” Ilya presses his thumb a little further. The stretch is dry, just to one side of painful. “I want you."

“I want you, too,” Shane whines. “Fuck, Ilya. Please.” He pushed back against Ilya’s hand and Ilya withdraws. “Wait—”

“Hush, dusha. I am getting lube.” Shane hums, buries his face into the pillows. He hears the cap on the lube snap open and sighs, spreading his legs as wide as he can with the boxers still around his thighs. “You look amazing like this,” Ilya says, then rumbles something in Russian. Shane recognizes one or two words, but doesn’t know what they mean. He looks at him over his shoulder again just as Ilya pushes one finger into his hole and loses all desire to ask what he’s said.

“Fuck, Ilya,” he sighs. “Wanted this forever.”

Ilya hums. “Your whole life, waiting for your soulmate. For me to come take you.”

“Yes—yeah, fuck.”

Ilya’s finger slides in easily and he makes a surprised noise. “You touch yourself here? You lie in my bed and fuck your fingers, thinking about my cock?”

“I—I prepped a little,” Shane pants. “When I thought you would be here last night.”

“And you’re still loose now. Always ready for me, hm? Always wet.” He fucks his finger in and out of Shane slowly. The heat, the friction, the stretch is nothing like it is when Shane gets himself off. “Going to add second finger. Okay?”

“Yes, yes pl—” he cuts himself off in a gasp as Ilya adds a second finger. He scissors them apart, stretching Shane slowly. Ilya says something else in Russian, practically growling under his breath. His free hand digs into the meat of Shane’s ass and pulls it apart. Shane imagines his hole on display, stretched tightly around Ilya’s fingers and moans, whimpers, face heating. He presses his face to the mattress.

“Mm-mm,” Ilya corrects him, pulling him backward onto his fingers so Shane is forced to sit up again. “Let me hear you, dusha.” Shane moans loudly, fucking himself back on Ilya’s fingers, bouncing his ass against his hand. Ilya groans. “Fuck, what did I ever fucking do to deserve you?”

“You won the fucking Cup,” Shane says, out of breath. He can feel himself leaking onto the sheets, his balls tight like he might cum before Ilya even gets inside him.

Ilya growls and withdraws his hand before flipping Shane over. He crushes their mouths together, fucking his tongue into Shane’s mouth like he owns it. When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, the shiny blue of his irises a tiny ring around a sea of deep black. He puts his fingers back against Shane’s hole, three of them sliding in slowly.
Shane whines again, trying to spread his legs, stretching the lace boxers enough that the sound of threads snapping fills the room like gunshots. Ilya smacks his thigh. “Ruining your pretty panties.”

“I need you,” Shane pants, having lost the ability to actually reply to what Ilya is saying. “I need you, I need you, I need you.”

Ilya says something in Russian, chanting it the same way Shane is chanting. Shane reaches up, takes Ilya’s face in his hands. “Tell me. Tell me what you’re saying, please.”

Ilya kisses his cheek. “Same as you. I need you. Ty mne nuzhna.” He slides his fingers out of Shane and braces his hands on his thighs. “And I will have you.” He spreads Shane’s legs with enough force that the boxers rip in half, tatters hanging limply at his sides.

Shane’s cock jumps, a spurt of pre landing across his chest. “Fuck.”

Ilya hunches over him, hands working between his own legs. Shane can hear the sound of the condom wrapper faintly, under the noise of his own breathing, the blood pounding in his ears.

“I go, slow, okay?” Ilya says quietly, kissing Shane again. “You tell me if is too much?”

“Mmhm.” Shane nods. “Please, in me, in me, in me.”

Ilya murmurs in Russian, kisses his collar bone, the side of his jaw, his ear. The tip of his cock presses against Shane’s hole and the world stops for a moment. The only thing that exists is the slide of Ilya’s cock inside him, the way their pulses seem to match up as Ilya sinks deeper inside him, deeper than Shane has ever gotten his own fingers, a toy.

“Ilya,” he pants. “Ilya, Ilya.” His eyes flutter closed as he chants Ilya’s name, says it like a prayer.

“Eyes open,” Ilya commands, stopping his slowly slide inside. Shane looks at him, eyes opening wide. “Good boy.” He starts sliding out and Shane wants to protest, wants to beg him to stay deep inside him forever. But then, he thrusts back in slowly, fucking him deeper and deeper until he’s fully seated inside Shane, their hips flush against each other.

Shane feels like he’s losing his mind, like he’ll never be the same again. His mouth falls open, eyes briefly rolling into the back of his head. Ilya is inside him, a part of him, buried in his core.

“Okay?” Ilya asks, leaning their foreheads together. Shane makes an incoherent noise, wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist. “Shane? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Shane manages to say. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes.” He grinds his hips against Ilya’s desperate for more sensation, clenches down on his cock.

Ilya groans like he’s been stabbed. “Fuck, don’t do that, dusha, or this will be over too soon.”

Shane whines. “Sorry.”

“No, no sorry.” Ilya kisses his cheek. “You are okay? Ready for me to move?”

Shane nods frantically. “Please, please fuck me Ilya.”

Ilya sits up, shifts so he’s kneeling above Shane. Nothing is in focus except his face, smiling down at him. “Say again, beautiful.”

“Fuck me, Ilya,” Shane begs. “Take me like I’m yours.”

Ilya pulls back and snaps his hips forward. Air will never fill Shane’s lungs again. Ilya’s cock has collapsed them and he’s going to suffocate in this bed, his last moments spent with this perfect, beautiful man. His hands scrabble for Ilya’s shoulders, nails digging into the muscles there. “Ilya.”

“Yes, that’s right, say your soulmate’s name. Tell me who you belong to,” Ilya growls, thrusting steadily, their hips smacking together in the quiet space.

“Ilya,” Shane moans. “Belong to you. Want you, need you.”

“Belong to you, too, Shane,” Ilya says, breath hot against Shane’s ear. “My Shane, my dusha.” When Shane’s brain starts working again, he’ll ask if that means soulmate. Every time Ilya pulls out of him, he pulls until just the tip of his cock remains in Shane’s hole, then slides in again until their hips are touching. Shane loosens the grip his legs have on him as he pulls back, reels him back in each time he thrusts forward.

He pulls Ilya down for another kiss, this one more a movement of tongue against each other than anything. “You are trying to devour me,” Ilya says against his mouth. Shane only nods, keens in the back of his throat. Ilya wraps a hand around Shane’s cock and pumps, once, twice. The whole world goes white. There is a ringing sound in Shane’s ears.

When he returns to the world of the living, Ilya is hunched over him, face buried in his neck as he chases his own release, Shane’s cum smeared across both of their bellies. He grunts each time he bottoms out, filling Shane’s ears with guttural uhn,uhn, uhn noises. Shane’s arms twine around his neck so that Shane is completely wrapped around him.

Ilya hilts himself deep and cums with a cut-off breath. He deflates, like his orgasm is the only thing that had been holding him together, and now that it’s gone, he can’t help but collapse. Shane unwinds, lets his legs and arms flop down against the mattress. Ilya is still inside him, and Shane wants him to stay that way forever.

Chapter 7: breakfast

Chapter Summary

me and ilya do have the same genre of depression unfortunately

Ilya

He tosses two soiled washcloths in his hamper as Shane lounges on the freshly-changed sheets. His phone is sitting on his bedside table, and he taps the screen just to see if he has a message from Alexei, or his father. Nothing from them, but Svetlana let them know the food was there a little while ago. He looks at his soulmate, takes in the goofy, tired smile on his face. “Are you hungry, moya dusha?”

“Does that mean soulmate?” Shane asks, hand reaching out toward him.

Ilya takes his hand. “Yes. Literally it is soul, but is cute way of saying it.”

“Like Ilyaha,” Shane says. Ilya nods. “Mm. Yeah, I am a little hungry.”

Ilya kisses his hand once before letting it go. He goes into the living room, where Svetlana is sitting on the couch, laptop open. She looks up and smiles as he comes in. He’d put on a pair of pajama pants, and she’s wearing one of his old T-shirts. “They are making you work day after play-offs?”

“Just paperwork,” she explains. “You and Jane have fun?”

“Mmhm.” He stoops to kiss her cheek. “You eat already?”

“Wanted to wait,” she says. “Seemed rude. The food is in the warming drawer.”

“The what?” He looks over at the kitchen.

She purses her lips. “You don’t know your kitchen has a warming drawer? It’s in the island.”

He pads over to the island, inspecting each side of it. On the back, facing the sink, is a black panel he hadn’t noticed before, one corner displaying ON in green lights. Pressing on the top of it reveals a handle. He pulls, and finds several takeout containers waiting and warm.

“Well, shit,” he says, withdrawing the boxes.

“Something wrong?” Shane’s voice comes from the bedroom door. He’s still wearing the jersey, but he’d put on a baggy pair of shorts.

Svetlana sighs. “Your soulmate is incurious about his surroundings.”

“You learn words like that just to spite me,” Ilya says, opening a round container. “This is yours, Shane.” She slides the oatmeal across the counter. “Fucking bird food.”

“I like oatmeal,” Shane says as he crosses the room. “And it has fruit.”

“Birds eat fruit,” Ilya retorts. He grabs cutlery for everyone, puts on coffee, and carries his and Svetlana’s boxes to the couch. He sits between the two of them and turns on the TV. Shane snuggles into his side, pours honey into his silly oats. Ilya kisses his forehead, tries not to think about the flight he has to Russia in two days. He steals a piece of Svetlana’s bacon, ignores the pull of his phone in the next room. His father will no doubt have things to say about his play, even if they did win the fucking Cup. He touches his cross, thinks of his mother. You would have liked him, mama. I can feel myself starting to love him, mama. I don’t know what I’m going to do.

Chapter 8: cottage I

Chapter Summary

sorry if this ended up in your inbox like four times, i kept hitting post instead of preview while trying to fix the formatting

Ilya

He sends a picture of himself, hair mussed and wearing an oversized hoodie, giant noise-canceling headphones over his ears.

He sends a picture of a box of cookies—Ilya recognizes the brand right away, and their name is in Cyrillic on the box. Pryaniki. Ilya’s mouth waters, his mind filling with memories of the smell of the honey and spiced cookies baking in his mother’s kitchen.

Ilya feels stupid, smiling at his phone the way he is. But there is nothing he would rather do than sit with Shane in his home and eat honey-sweet cookies and talk about nothing.

Ilya puts his phone down, runs a hand down his face, checks his flight times again.

Shane’s cottage is in a forested part of Ottawa, on a small lake surrounded by green trees and flowering bushes. He’s barely out of his rental car before Shane is rushing out of the front door, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s waist.

“Missed you,” he says against Ilya’s neck.

Ilya drops his bags, hugs Shane back. “Missed you.” His accent is thicker from being home. “Ya vsegda budu skuchat' po tebe.”

Shane looks at him curiously. “What?”

“I always miss you,” Ilya translates. Shane kisses him like the world will end if he doesn’t.

They spend most of the day in Shane’s bed, wrapped around each other, depleting Shane’s hard-earned stash of snacks and treats. Ilya thinks he could live his whole life in this room, looking at the deep brown of Shane’s eyes, kissing every bit of skin he can reach, making love to this perfect man.

Eventually, Shane announces that they should have dinner, and makes Ilya busy himself with other things while he cooks: “I’m a get out of my kitchen person,” he says like this is a type of person Ilya should be familiar with.

Ilya hovers around the kitchen island, asks Shane about his childhood, about growing up in Ottawa. Shane tells him about his mother, about her love of hockey, about starting skating lessons when he was four. In turn, Shane asks him about growing up in Moscow. Ilya tells him about discovering his passion for hockey, about meeting Svetlana, about the first time he kissed a boy.

“You were my first kiss,” Shane says, pouring a splash of red wine into the pan. A hiss fills the air as steam rises from the food. He scrapes at the bottom of the pan, incorporating the brown bits stuck to the bottom into the rich sauce. He’d said he had a chef for during the season, but he clearly knows how to cook—or at least, he’s familiar with this process.

“Was it a good first?” Ilya asks.

Shane smiles, looking at him through his eyelashes. “It was fantastic.”

The sun is just beginning to set by the time the pasta is finished, and Shane suggests they eat on the patio. They’re serenaded by crickets and buzzing things as they eat, Shane encouraging Ilya to put as much parmesan on his serving as possible.

“For special occasions, we make the pasta ourselves,” Shane explains, twirling his fork with the same precision he uses on the ice.

“Me visiting was not special occasion?” Ilya teases. He gathers more spaghetti on his fork, moving it through the spicy, savory red sauce.

Shane looks stricken. “No, of course it is.” He touches Ilya’s arm.

Ilya puts his hand over Shane’s. “I am only kidding, dusha.”

He takes a deep breath through his nose. “Okay. Thank you for telling me point-blank like that. I can’t always tell.”

Ilya nods. “Of course.” He looks back at his plate. “Does your dad know you make his pasta sauce for your soulmate?”

Shane shakes his head, chewing. Shane never talks with his mouthful, and the amount of time it takes him to swallow is just enough for Ilya to start panicking about Shane not wanting his parents to know about him.

But that’s Ilya’s fault, isn’t it? He wanted—needed—them to be a secret. Svetlana found out by accident, and Shane is just honoring Ilya’s wishes, isn’t he? Honoring his stupid, cowardly wishes to not come out, even to the most important people in their lives.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay with that, first,” Shane says finally. “I think I want to tell them about Lily at least.”

“About Lily?”

He nods. “Yeah, like I want to tell them I met my soulmate. I think they’re going to notice eventually, anyway. I can’t stop staring at the color blue.”

“Blue?” Ilya smiles. “Is that your favorite color?” Like the Metros’ uniform.

He nods again. “Like your eyes.”

Ah.

Ilya shoves another forkful of pasta in his mouth.

“Would you be okay with me telling them about you?” Shane asks. Ilya nods. He doesn’t clarify whether he means as Lily or as himself.

Shane smiles and kisses him on the cheek. “Thank—oh.” He must’ve left a smear of sauce on Ilya’s face, because he swipes his thumb across the apple of his cheek. Ilya has the impulse to suck the digit into his mouth, wrap his tongue around it. He leans forward to do just that, but is interrupted by—

A wolf?

That was a fucking wolf.

“Holy shit,” he says, looking around frantically, scanning the surrounding trees for glowing yellow eyes.

“What?” Shane asks, wiping his hand on a paper towel.

“You didn’t hear that?” The wolf howls again; it sounds closer this time. “We should go inside.”

“Hear what? The loon?”

Ilya looks at him, and he is looking back at Ilya like he’s grown a second head. “The what?”

“The loon.” Shane repeats, and the howl comes again. Shane stands and comes to Ilya’s side of the picnic table, slotting himself against Ilya’s side. “It’s a bird,” he explains.

“What kind of bird sounds like a wolf?” Ilya demands.

Shane chuckles. “A loon!” He cups his hands in front of his mouth and mimics the sound.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Of course you can speak bird, too.”

“Fluently,” Shane says. He kisses Ilya’s shoulder. “Don’t worry I’ll protect you.”

Ilya eats another forkful of pasta. “Stupid, Canadian wolf-bird.” He smiles when Shane laughs again.

Chapter 9: all-stars weekend

Chapter Summary

*slaps the roof of shane hollander* this bad boy can fit so much autism inside

Shane

“1221,” Ilya whispers as he skates by. Shane can feel the tips of his ears turning pink. He smiles anyway.

Next to him, Scott Hunter shifts on the bench. “What was that?”

“Hm?” Shane looks at him.

“What did Rozanov want?” Scott nods in Ilya’s direction.

“We’re hanging out later,” Shane explains. “He says there’s a really good, authentic Russian restaurant in town he wants to try.” That isn’t even a lie, though Shane is sure they won’t make it out of Ilya’s hotel room.

Scott raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize you two were friends. Guy seems like kind of an asshole.”

“He is.” Shane nods. “But he’s chill.”

Scott chuckles. “Uh huh. Well, at least he didn’t hold my record for more than a minute. Nice shootin’, rook.”

“Thanks.” Shane smiles.

Ilya

There is a soft knock on Ilya’s door. He swings it open and grabs Shane by the front of his shirt, pulling him inside. He hears the wind get knocked out of him as he slams him against the door. “Record holder Shane Hollander,” he growls, pressing his straining cock against Shane’s hip.

“Fuck,” Shane chokes on the word.

Ilya buries his face in Shane’s neck, mourns the fact that he can’t leave marks. Shane has a million half-naked photoshoots to do. He can’t have hickeys, bite marks, little crescent moons from Ilya’s fingernails, no matter how much he wants to put them there.

Ilya gets on his knees, pinning Shane’s hips to the door. Shane is half-hard, and Ilya laps at him through the fabric of his gym shorts, coaxing that beautiful cock to full hardness. Shane buries his fingers in Ilya’s curls, making him shiver. He wants to let Shane fuck his throat, cum on his face. He opens his mouth to say as much, but Shane interrupts him:

“Are—are you mad at me?”

Ilya looks up at him, startled. “What?”

Shane’s eyes are wet. He looks away from Ilya. “W-why—”

Ilya surges upward, puts their faces close enough that he knows Shane can feel his breath against his lips. “Why the fuck would I be mad at you? For the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen? You think I am mad? Why?”

Shane worries at his lip for a moment. “You sounded angry.” He rolls his shoulders. “Sorry.”
Ilya takes a half-step back. “Angry?” Angry, like his father. Like Alexei. Like every fucking asshole with something to prove in this fucking league.

Shane swallows. “Sorry, I’m being a baby. We—” He reaches out toward Ilya, touches his chest.

Ilya bends his knees, puts his hands on the backs of Shane’s thighs, and scoops him up. Shane lets out a surprised noise, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s neck. “Always tell me if I scare you, hurt you.”

“Okay,” Shane murmurs. “Sorry.”

“You say sorry too much, Hollander.” He lowers Shane onto the mattress. Shane keeps his legs wrapped around Ilya’s waist. “You say sorry for things that are not your fault. You say sorry when nothing is wrong. No more sorry.” He kisses Shane’s collar bone, the side of his jaw. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

“It’s okay,” Shane sighs, melting into the mattress. “I think I overreacted. I really don’t want you to be mad at me, and so I keep thinking about you being mad at me.”

He rucks up Shane’s shirt, kisses the V between his pecs. “I am not mad. I am never mad. You are beautiful. I am so glad you are mine.” He laps at Shane’s nipple, is rewarded with a shiver.

“Sorry.” Ilya pinches Shane’s thigh on instinct, then regrets it. Shane doesn’t want to be hurt. “Ah!” Shane flinches, but he’s smiling. He laughs, locks his thighs around Ilya’s waist and flips the two of them over. “Okay, okay—no more sorry.”

“No more sorry,” Ilya says, rubbing Shane’s thighs. Shane’s amazing, thick, muscular thighs.

Shane sighs again, rolling his hips against Ilya’s, grinding down on Ilya’s hard cock. “Mm, fuck. Been thinking about you. About this. Want you in me.”

“I have lube,” Ilya says, hands on Shane’s hips. “Condoms.”

Shane nods. “Yeah. Yeah, please.” He pulls his shirt up over his head and tosses it in a corner.

“You want to be on top?” Ilya cups his chest, squeezes gently.

Shane moans, rolling his hips again. “I… no, I want—ah!”

Ilya rolls the two of them over again. Shane gasps in surprise, laughs. Ilya pulls away from him, missing the warmth immediately. He stares into Shane’s wide eyes as he undresses. Shane’s eyes follow his hands, watch as fabric drops to the floor. He doesn’t seem to have the presence of mind to take his sweatpants off, and so Ilya yanks them and his briefs down himself. Shane’s mouth drops open as he does, his cock bouncing from the momentum of the movement.

“Fuck, Ilya,” he sighs.

Ilya retrieves the lube and condom from his bag and crawls onto the bed. Shane’s legs spread easily for him. “Bezuprechnyy,” he says, voice low and hoarse from lust already. Perfect. Shane tilts his head like a confused puppy. It’s beautiful.

“Maybe you could teach me some Russian,” he says, laying a hand on Ilya’s cheek.

“Mm. Only useful phrases. Pozhaluysta. Sil’neye.” Things he hears from Shane often. Please. Harder.

Shane tilts his head to the other side. “Does… does that mean fuck me?”

Ilya chuckles. “Not quite. We save language lessons for later, hm?” He tosses the condom and lube on the bed and slides his hands over those beautiful thighs.

Shane nods. His eyes are on Ilya’s cock where it’s hard and leaking, precum dripping onto Shane’s cock. His mouth opens again and Ilya swipes his fingers through the mess. Shane’s tongue slides out of his mouth as before he even starts reaching for him. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Shane laps at Ilya’s fingers, sucks them deep into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed. His cheeks are pink. Pink might be Ilya’s favorite color. He takes his finger way and Shane chases his hand, eyes opening.

Maybe his favorite color is the deep brown of those eyes, pupils blown wide. Ilya presses his wet fingers to Shane’s hole. “You touched yourself here since last time?”

Shane nods, mouth still open. He swallows, looks up at the ceiling. “Y-yeah, I have… um…”

This is one of these English words with 1001 meanings—verb, adjective, prepo-whatever. “Have…?”

“I have a toy,” Shane murmurs. “A dildo.”

Ilya’s smile is wide. He leans over Shane, grips his chin and makes him focus on Ilya. “What color?” Shane huffs a laugh. “Is big?”

“Fuck off.” A stronger laugh bubbles out of him.

“Mm? You haven’t pointed your color app at it? You do not know?” He swirls his fingers around Shane’s entrance. He arches and writhes on the mattress. “You can tell me.”

“It—it’s pink,” Shane pants.

Ilya’s favorite color is definitely pink.

He reaches for the lube, warms it in his palms before spreading it over his first two fingers. Shane lets out a breath, spreads his legs a little wider. Ilya pushes one of his legs up so his knee is near his shoulder. “Hold, please.” Shane grips the back of his own knee. “Good boy.”

“Fuck,” Shane whispers.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You like that? Like to know you are good?” Shane looks away, nods. Ilya leans down and kisses him, presses his lubed fingers to Shane’s entrance. They slide in up to the first knuckle easily. Shane arches his back again, clenches down around the intrusion. “Relax, dusha.”

Shane breathes out, moves his other leg out farther. “Feels good.”

“Good,” Ilya says, sliding out and then back in. He fucks his fingers in and out, shallowly at first, then deeper and deeper by tiny increments.

“Fuck, yes,” Shane pants. “Please, please—fuck, Ilya, g—”

There is a knock at the door.

Chapter 10: eavesdropping

Shane

Shane stays still on the bed, like if he doesn’t move, whoever is on the other side of the door won’t know he’s here, in Ilya Rozanov’s hotel room. Maybe this is too risky. Maybe they should’ve gone somewhere else, somewhere where other players aren’t staying. He squeezes his eyes shut, braces his whole body for a moment, then relaxes. He can’t freak out right now. He can freak out later. Everything is fine right now. He’s here, and Ilya is here, and no one can take that from them. Not right now.

Ilya climbs back onto the bed and lays on his side, gathering Shane into his arms. He feels himself actually relax, melting into the other man’s arms. "I think there is a man in Scott Hunter's room."

Shane pauses in his efforts to burrow into Ilya's chest like a squirrel. "A man? You mean like... how there's a man in your room?"

"Yes, maybe." Ilya shrugs. "Or maybe not. The man seemed embarrassed, but maybe just because he knocked on wrong room."

"Yeah, probably," Shane says, his focus on Ilya's chest again. He presses his face between his pecs, laps at the salty skin there.

Instead of enjoying Shane's ministrations like a civilized young man, Ilya muses, "Although..." and pulls away from him.

"What're you doing?" Shane asks, sitting up on his knees.

Ilya moves to the headboard, presses his ear against the wall they presumably share with Scott Hunter's room. "Shh."

"Ilya!" Shane protests. "Ilya stop. Don't eaves—"

Ilya waves at him."Shhh!"

He shakes his head. "I really don't think—"

Ilya's face shifts. His eyes widen, brows rising toward his hairline. He looks at Shane seriously and raises one finger to his lips, pressing his ear a little closer to the wall, like he needed to hear a little better. Holy shit. What could Ilya possibly be hearing in Scott Fucking Hunter's room? He leaned forward, a hand on Ilya's arm. What? he mouths, mind running through a thousand impossible scenarios. Is Scott Hunter gay? Does he have a boyfriend? A fucking husband? Are they soulmates like him and Ilya are?

Ilya leans slowly toward him, lowering his finger slowly, like even doing that might make a noise and alert the man—men? Men??—on the other side of the wall. He looks at Shane like he's about to spill the secrets of the universe. Shane reflexively nods, encouraging him to spit it out already. Ilya takes a deep breath and says, "I can't fucking hear shit."

Shane cracks him across the face. It's not hard, but it does make a sharp sound. Ilya grabs him by the shoulders and tosses him onto the mattress, crowding into his space as Shane fights back giggles.

"Oh, we are hitting, now?" Ilya asks, muscling his way between Shane's legs.

"Maybe," Shane retorts. "What're you gonna do about it?"

Ilya lands a hard smack on the side of his ass. Shane jolts, moans. "As much as you like being told you are good: you like being bad. Trying to earn spanking, bad boy?"

Shane smiles, decides to push the envelope a little. He struggles without any fight in it, rocking back and forth in Ilya's hold, as he keeps him pinned by the shoulders. Ilya hesitates for a moment, moves he'll pull away. Shane says, "You wouldn't dare."

Ilya's eyes sharpen, cottoning on to the game. "I wouldn't give you what you need?" He cocks his head to one side. "That is all I do." He flips Shane over, positions him across his lap. Shane arches his back, anticipating what’s about to happen. Ilya grabs a handful of his ass. “That is all I want to do,” Ilya says, voice quiet. Shane shivers. He taps Shane’s ass cheek, not nearly as hard as Shane would like. “This is okay?”

“Yes,” Shane pants, sticking his ass a little farther into the air. “Please. Give me what I nee—ah!” He cuts himself off with a shout as Ilya’s hand comes down across his right cheek, sharp and stinging and beautiful.

“I give you ten,” Ilya says. “Count.”

“One,” Shane says. Ilya strikes the other cheek. “Two! Fuck, Ilya.” His cock is leaking like a faucet, covering Ilya’s lap in pre. Smack. “Three! Shit, that’s so good.”

“Slut,” Ilya says and smacks him again. He keeps going. Shane counts. His ass is stinging and red by the end of it.

Ilya massages the reddened muscle. “Okay?”

“Yes.” Shane’s voice is hoarse. There are tears threatening behind his eyes. He doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want Ilya to think he’s hurt him. He really, really hasn't hurt him. “So good. Please, fuck me. Need it. Need it, please.”

Ilya rolls him gently onto his back. A painful zing shoots through him as his stinging skin touches the soft sheets. Ilya cups his face in one hand, thumbs away a tear that managed to escape. He murmurs something in Russian. Shane furrows his brow; he recognizes dusha, but not much else.

He slides two lubed fingers inside Shane and suddenly, asking him to translate couldn’t matter less. “Good boy,” Ilya murmurs. Shane whines, the praise combined with the stretch, the pressure, the pain from the spanking, makes him feel like he could fly. “You want my cock, sweet thing?”

“Yes, please,” Shane moans, spreads his legs wider. Ilya puts him back in the position from before, knees up by his ears. He holds the backs of his knees, moans and squirms as Ilya finishes prepping him, slides on the condom. “Please, please, please,” Shane chants. Ilya shifts on the mattress, puts his hands on Shane’s thighs so his are free to touch Ilya’s face, his shoulders, his chest. Shane wants to devour this man, to consume him until there’s nothing left for the world to hurt. “Please,” he pants one last time as Ilya positions himself at Shane’s entrance. He pushes in slowly, one continuous, agonizing slide, until he’s fully seated.

“Not a lot of people can take the whole thing,” Ilya says, the brag hiding underneath his tender tone. “But you were made for me.”

Shane nods. “Yes. Yours.”

“Mine.” He thrusts, and each time his thighs meet Shane’s ass, the stinging pain from the spanking comes back in full force, just for a moment. He sets a steady pace, pulling out halfway before thrusting back in, like he can’t bear to not be inside Shane for too long.

“Fuck,” Shane whines. “Fuck, yes, please. Ilya, you’re so deep.”

Ilya lets out a growling sound, captures Shane’s mouth with his own. He grinds inside Shane, getting himself just a little deeper, Shane’s legs resting on between Ilya’s shoulders and his own. Shane thinks he might love this, being spread out and open and exposed, vulnerable this man he knows won’t hurt him.

“Want to take you apart,” Ilya says, his accent turning a little thicker. He’s losing his English, Shane thinks. I’m making him lose it.

“Yes,” Shane says. “Please—you can. I want to fall apart for you.”

Ilya pulls out and snaps his hips forward. Shane lets out a broken sound. He throws his head back against the pillows, grips Ilya’s shoulders like he had after the Cup final, in Ilya’s bed, in his home. His nails dig into his skin. He wants to mark him, scar him, make sure everyone knows that Ilya belongs to him, to him, to him.

Ilya groans, maybe from the pain of Shane’s nails. He doesn’t for a second think to loosen to his grip. Ilya fucks him like a fucking train, driving himself deeper and deeper until Shane swears he can feel him behind his bellybutton.

“Cum for me, dusha,” Ilya rasps, and Shane does, before Ilya can even wrap his hand around Shane’s cock. Cum spurts across Shane’s chest, almost up to his chin. He feels rung out, emptied of everything that isn’t Ilya.

Ilya seats himself and cums with an agonized-sounding groan, letting out a string of Russian curses. Or maybe they’re endearments. The sound washes over Shane as Ilya lets go of his legs. He wraps them around Ilya’s waist, the two of them panting in sync.

“Good boy,” Ilya says, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Say it in Russian,” Shane murmurs, sleep tugging at him from all sides. He could sleep like this, wrapped around his soulmate, his softened cock still inside him.

“Khoroshiy mal’chik,” he says. He kisses Shane’s cheek, repeats himself over and over. Good boy, good boy, good boy.

Chapter 11: the vegas rooftop

Shane

“Where’s your boy Rozanov?” Scott asks in the glitz of the awards venue, the two of them in tuxes and surrounded by the best and brightest in the league.

Shane hesitates. Does Scott know about them? Had he figured something out during Allstar Weekend? “My—what?”

Scott shrugs. “You said you were friends, right? Kinda crazy, considering how much you two get pitted against each other.”

“Oh, yeah.” Shane nods. Obviously, that’s what Scott meant. He’s so bad at this. “We’re really competitive with each other on the ice. I actually… I don’t know where he is. I might go find him.”

“I’m sure someone will grab him.” Scott shrugs again, gestures to the bar where other players are lining up for shots.

Shane swallows. “No—I… he’s probably feeling down. He’s—his family’s kind of a nightmare about hockey. I almost wish I could just give him the trophy.”

Scott raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Shane puffs out his chest. “Almost. I think the ego boost it would give him wouldn’t be worth it.” Scott laughs again and promises to save him and Ilya a couple of shots. Shane thanks him and heads first to the bathroom, then up to the roof.

He feels a tension release in him when he sees Ilya leaning against the railing, silhouetted against the Vegas skyline. “Ilya?” He turns toward him but doesn’t say anything. Shane steps forward. “Hi. Are you okay?”

“Fine.” He turns away again.

Shane comes up to him and leans against the railing as well, one hand close to Ilya but not touching him. “I wanted…” He glances at the view and cuts himself off. “Wow! Wow, I’ve never seen this view in color before.”

Ilya turns to him, looks him up and down. “Mm. Is pretty.”

Shane chuckles. “Ilya, you’re looking at me.”

“You are also pretty,” Ilya murmurs. He moves his hand closer to Shane’s on the railing but doesn’t touch him.

“Thank you.” He smiles. “Is… is your dad being an asshole?”

Ilya sighs. “Not yet. It is early in the morning in Moscow. He will get the news. He will call. It will be bad.”

“Gross.” Shane makes a face. “How is… how’s his health?”

“He has good days. He has bad days. More good than bad right now, which is good. My useless fucking brother continues to be fucking useless.” He raises a glass to his lips. Shane hadn’t noticed the drink before—clear liquid, probably vodka, with an ice cube rolling around in the bottom. Shane wants to ask if the vodka is good; he knows Ilya is discerning about what brands he drinks.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead.

“Mm.” Ilya sips again.

Shane moves his hand a little closer. He thinks about telling Ilya that the guys are doing shots, asking if he wants to be around people, if that might cheer him up. He thinks about what would cheer him up if he was upset about his own parents, or if Ilya had won Rookie of the Year instead of him. “Do you wanna get out of here?” He asks. “Relax, maybe?”

Ilya doesn’t look at him. “Relax?”

“My hotel room has a whirlpool tub,” Shane offers. “We can take a bath, pretend none of this other shit matters.”

Ilya looks at him, takes another drink from his glass. “You are beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful, too.” Shane smiles. The light from the city is yellow, white, blue. It makes shadows appear on Ilya’s profile, makes his cheekbones look sharper, his chin stronger.

“What is your room number?” Ilya asks. Shane gives it to him. He nods. “I will stay up here for a little bit. Try not to throw my phone off roof. Meet you there later?”

Shane nods. “Okay. I’ll be there.” He looks toward the door, then back at Ilya. He touches Ilya’s hand. Ilya grips his hand, squeezes once, then lets go. Shane leaves, wonders if he could find somewhere to buy a bath bomb or fancy soap somewhere nearby.

Chapter 12: shane's condo

Ilya

Shane Hollander has approximately one hundred million pillows on the bed in his condo. The bedding is a neutral tan color, but there are pops of color in the room: a picture of a blue bird on the wall, a red glass vase on the dresser, a bright orange throw blanket at the foot of the bed. Ilya imagines he’s been adding more color to his life, his home, since Ilya said his name.

“Did your mama help you with decorating?” Ilya asks. The two of them had kissed in the living room, pawing at each other and peeling each other out of their clothes. He’s in his trousers, feet bare.

Shane finishes stripping, folds his clothes and piles them neatly on a chair in the corner of the room. The chair is white, but patterned with marigold flowers: red and orange and delicate green for the leaves. “I hired someone,” he explains, just in his briefs now. He’s facing partially away from Ilya, and Ilya takes the opportunity to drop his pants and slide onto the bed, nestling himself among the endless pillows.

Shane turns and his shoulders fall, his entire form relaxing as he takes in Ilya’s form. Ilya pats his thighs. “Come here, dorogoy.”

“What does that one mean?” Shane crawls onto the bed.

Ilya thinks for a moment. “Sweetheart.”

Shane crawls into his lap, straddling his thighs so his naked cock brushes against Ilya’s clothed one. “I’m your sweetheart?”

Ilya kisses him, slow and soft. “You were meant to be.”

“Fuck,” Shane pants. “Jesus, it’s so hot to hear your say things like that—that we were meant to be.”

“The stars created us for each other, pushed us together,” Ilya says, feeling his throat get tight. He has never cried in front of Shane before.

Shane kisses his forehead, the apple of his cheek, the spot below his ear. “And I’m so glad they did. You’re so perfect.”

“I am not perfect,” Ilya says, the reply coming from somewhere deep in him, something foundational and without question. Ilya is not perfect. He is not good or kind. Not beautiful like Shane.

Shane chuckles, pressing their forehead together. “No, I know—you’re a person, you’re not perfect. But you’re perfect for me. I miss you so much when we’re apart; all I want is to be with you, on you, wrapped around you.” Ilya swallows. Shane is only saying… physical things. Is that what this is? Just sex?

Very, very good sex, but… not romance?

“I miss you, too, moya dusha,” Ilya murmurs, hands moving to cup Shane’s bare ass. He squeezes, trying to get things started.

Shane sighs, a shiver running down his back. “Fuck, you feel so good. And you make me feel so good.” Ilya kisses his collarbone. He sighs again, dreamy and calm. He wraps his arms around Ilya’s neck, pressing their torsos together, their chests touching, their abdomens, their hard cocks. “I’m so glad we found each other,” he murmurs.

“So am I.” Ilya tries to buck his hips against Shane’s cock, but the other man squeezes his thighs around Ilya’s hips, stilling him.

“I wanna try something,” Shane says against Ilya’s neck.

“Okay.”

He worries his lip for a moment, gaze sliding off Ilya and onto the framed bird photo. He tells the bird, “I want… to be in charge, I guess? I want to ride you, and you can’t move or fuck up into me.”

Ilya licks his lips. “You want me to be a toy for you?”

Shane looks at him. “Do you… is that something you like? Being an object?”

“I have never tried it that way,” Ilya explains. “Usually, I am in charge because I am strong, I am experienced. The people I sleep with like to be controlled or told what to do. I like making my partners fall apart. You like that.”

Shane nods. “I like that a lot. But I also… I think it would be really hot, to challenge you like that.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Challenge me?”

Shane nods, broad grin spreading across his face. “I think it’ll be hard, but not impossible for you to be patient and let me get myself off on you first, and maybe you have to keep your hands on my hips.”

Ilya’s hands move to Shane’s hips automatically. He puts his hands over Ilya’s. “You want to challenge me, sweet thing?”

Shane nods again. “I love watching you win, Ilya. It’s my favorite thing in the world. Other than winning against you.” He laughs, shakes his head. “Sorry—does that sound stupid?”

Ilya makes a growling noise. “No more sorry, dusha. It does not sound stupid, not at all. It sounds hot. And I am glad that you like to watch me win. It’s good to know that something I do so often can bring you pleasure.”

Shane laughs again, adjusting on Ilya’s lap so his cock is pressing against the cleft of his ass. “So, you think you’re up for it?” Ilya nods. “Okay, then I need you help me.”

He takes Ilya’s hand, guides it to his hole. Ilya grins when he realizes Shane is wearing a plug. “You were very excited for me, hm?”

“Yeah,” Shane breathes. He sits up a little more on his knees, spreads himself apart so Ilya can tug the plug free. Shane moans like a dying man as it comes out of him. “Fuck, yeah.”

Ilya rolls on a condom, slicks himself up, and then watches Shane sink down onto him, the tight heat of him engulfing Ilya’s cock and making his entire body warm up.

Shane puts Ilya’s hands on his hips. “Be still, okay? I’m gonna make myself cum, and then you’ll get to, if you’re a good boy.” He kisses Ilya’s cheek, the tip of his nose.

Good boy. Ilya has said it to Shane many times, but he doesn’t think any has ever said it to him. “Okay,” he pants. This is already the hardest thing he’s ever fucking done.

“Fuck, you feel good,” Shane sighs, sitting back on Ilya’s dick and making himself comfortable. He pinches his own nipples, kneads his pecs. Ilya squeezes his hips, if only to keep himself from reaching up and touching Shane the way he wants to, the way he should be doing. “Just having you inside me is so amazing, baby.”

“You feel good, too,” Ilya murmurs, voice straining.

Shane kisses his forehead. “You’re gonna be good for me, aren’t you?” Ilya nods. “Yeah, I know. You always are.” Finally, finally he moves his hips, grinding down on Ilya. It’s not enough, not enough, not enough. “You make me feel so good, baby. Sweetheart. Love.” He punctuates each endearment with a movement of his hips, shallow and sharp.

Ilya keens. “You’re going to kill me, Hollander.”

“Mm-hm.” Shane shakes his head. “You can take it, Rozanov. You can take it.” He leans forward so his mouth is by Ilya’s ear. “You’re already doing so well.” He starts moving in earnest, bouncing on Ilya’s cock in that way that makes Ilya want to dig his fingers into the flesh of his ass. Ilya doesn’t though. He keeps his hands on Shane’s hips and listens to the tiny noises he’s making in Ilya’s ear.

“Fuck, Shanya,” Ilya rasps.

“Mm, love it when you call me that,” Shane murmurs. He kisses Ilya’s ear. “Feels so good to hear my name in your voice.”

Ilya makes a noise that he means to be Shane’s name again, but Shane is speeding up, fucking himself down onto Ilya’s cock with abandon. He clenches his jaw, every muscle in his body tight with the strain of holding still. To let Hollander use him like a toy. Shane sits up, rocking his hips back and forth as he bounces, mouth falling open. He takes his pleasure, luxuriates in it, moans and cries out about good Ilya’s cock is.

And Ilya stays still. He holds onto his hips and watches Shane’s pecs bounce with his movements. “Shane,” he pants.

“Mm, yeah, baby? What’d you need?” Shane’s eyes are back on him.

“Fuck, please let me fuck you,” Ilya grits out, jaw clenching almost as tightly as Shane is clenching around him.

“You’ll get to,” Shane kisses his forehead again.

“Let—let me touch you,” Ilya whines. Shane’s cock is dripping a steady stream of pre onto Ilya’s stomach.

Shane shakes his head. “Are you trying to change the rules in the middle of our game? That’s unsportsmanlike.” He stills, works his hips in tiny circles. The noise he makes in the back of his throat tells Ilya that his cock is right against Shane’s prostate.

Ilya grunts. “I can make you feel good.”

“You are making me feel good,” Shane sighs. He wraps a hand loosely around his own cock, gives himself a few slow pumps. Ilya watches, mesmerized. “So good, Ilya.”

“Shane—”

Shane moans loudly again, rocking forward. “Yeah, say my name, sweetheart.”

“Shane, Shane, fuck,” Ilya pants. He feels like he’s on fire, like he’ll burn away into nothing at any moment. Everything is too much and not enough. He chants Shane’s name, digs his nails into the other man’s hips. That earns a high, keening cry and Shane’s hand speeds up as he starts fucking himself again, riding Ilya hard and fast. “Shane, Shane, Shane—”

“Ilya—!” Shane cums, stroking himself through it. He lets out a broken-sounding noise and for a heartbreaking moment Ilya thinks he’s overstimulated, that Ilya won’t get to fuck him after all. “Fuck me,” he breathes. Ilya flips them over and drives him into the mattress.

Chapter 13: the stairwell

Shane

Shane walks Ilya down the stairs to the door, holding onto the black hoodie he'd been wearing when he arrived. Maybe Shane could keep it. Maybe he could give Ilya the grey one he's wearing.

"You could stay," Shane says.

"Early morning practice," Ilya says over his shoulder. "If I stay, I will not be able to sleep."

Shane smiles. "Why's that?"

Ilya gets to the bottom of the stairs, turns on his heel, and braces himself on either handrail, bracketing Shane between himself and the stairs. "Because I will want to make love to you again, and again, and again."

Shane shivers, leans in for a kiss. It's slow and sensual, their lips meeting before their faces meet, impatient but not hasty. They don't need to move fast; they're already here, with each other, and they will be again.

"My cab is here," Ilya breathes against Shane's lips. He reaches for his hoodie.

"I don't want you to go," Shane says, letting the garment go.

"I don't want to go," Ilya says, and steps out the door.

Shane swallows. He yanks his hoodie up and over his head, then rushes forward before the door can close behind Ilya. The other man turns, surprised, concerned. He lets Shane tug his hoodie out of his grip, replace it with his own.

"Bye, Ilya," Shane says, stepping back toward the doorway.

"Bye, Shane."

Shane doesn't notice that his new hoodie bears the Boston Raiders logo on the back until he wears it to the rink the next day and three separate guys yell at him that he's a traitor.

"Is that Lily's hoodie?" Hayden asks as Shane is taking it off in the locker room. Shane looks at him sidelong.

Hayden nods. "Not betrayal if it's for love."

"Bullshit!" JJ says, laughter in his voice. The guys ask about Lily and Shane tells them she's his soulmate, that he can feel himself falling for her. He has to catch himself on pronouns a couple of times, but the conversation goes smoothly enough. His ears are turning pink, he knows, but no one is shitty about it.

He wonders if it would be different if they knew Lily was a man, if they knew he was another player, not just a Boston fan but an actual Raider. He looks at the way Hayden lights up when Shane tells him that he visits Lily regularly, that she comes to Montreal for work. He can't stop himself from talking about Ilya, spilling like an over-full pitcher, pouring himself out and feeling the relief of finally getting to talk about the person he's crazy about.

"You should invite her to dinner next time she's in Montreal," Hayden says, pulling his jersey on over his pads. "I know Jackie would love to meet her. I've never seen you so happy about anything but hockey—she has to be special."

"She is." Shane nods. "But it's um... it's unsafe for her right now."

Hayden raises an eyebrow. "Unsafe?" He leans closer to Shane. "Is she married?" Hayden and Jackie aren't soulmates themselves, Shane knows. He also knows that Jackie can see color, but doesn’t know the whole story about what had gone down with her soulmate.

Shane shakes his head. "It's complicated. I'll ask if she feels up to it, but I don't think it's likely."

Hayden nods. "Let me know, okay?"

"Okay."

They beat Boston's ass 3-1. Ilya puts Shane's knees up on his shoulders and makes him forget his own name.

Chapter 14: the metros win the cup

Shane

Montreal wins the Cup. Shane kind of hates being covered in champagne, the way that it dries sticky on his skin. He calls his mom, stays out past sunrise with Hayden, JJ, and Miity. He spends a lot of their celebration smiling at his phone, and Hayden teases him about it, asks where Lily is.

“She’s out of the country,” he explains. “That’s why she couldn’t be here.”

“You should bring her ‘round one of these days,” Hayden says, words leaning on each other under the weight of four vodka cranberries and a round of shots.

“I want to,” Shane says. His phone dings again and he grins at the screen. His friends groan and call him a sap.

It’s two days later when Shane keys his way into his apartment in Montreal to find Ilya’s shoes sitting next to his in the foyer. Chocolate covered strawberries, his favorite seaweed chips, and a case of fancy-looking ginger ale sit on the counter beside a small trophy and a note. Shane laughs as he realizes the trophy is for 2nd place. The plaque on the front reads Awarded to 2nd best player in MLH. He shakes his head and picks up the note. Look in fridge

He opens the fridge to find a dish of salmon risotto ready to be reheated, and a bottle of champagne. He goes to put the ginger ale in the fridge only to find another case, already on the bottom shelf, like Ilya wanted him to be able to have a cold bottle right away.

"Ilya?" Shane calls out in the empty kitchen. "Are you here?" He must be, if his shoes are here. Shane pads over to the bedroom.

His bedroom door opens as he approaches. Ilya leans on the doorway, draped in black fabric. The dress barely qualifies for the title: barely long enough to cover Ilya's hips and ass, and plunging so low in the front that Shane can see from his collarbone to his naval.

"Good evening, MLH champion, Captain Shane Hollander," Ilya drawls, voice low and accent thick, the way it gets when he speaks primarily Russian for a while.

"Hi," Shane's voice squeaks. "You look nice."

Ilya smirks. "You like?" He shifted, one arm going up to grip the top of the doorway. He leans forward so his arm and shoulders flex and Shane doesn't stand a chance.

He surges forward, captures Ilya’s face in his hands and kisses him until they’re both breathless. Ilya’s arms wind around his waist, hands squeezing and massaging Shane’s ass and thighs.

“You're so fucking hot,” Shane pants against his mouth, open hand working its way into Ilya’s hair. The other slides down his back, left bare by the cut of the dress.

“Hollander jersey was sold out,” Ilya explains. “This was next best thing.”

Shane can’t help but chuckle. “You don't have to buy one. I have some jerseys you can wear. Have” He pulls away, takes in the sight of Ilya’s cleavage again. “God, Ilya, look at you.”

Ilya takes his chin in his hand, tilts his face up to look him in the eye. Eye contact has always been weird for Shane, but he likes looking at Ilya’s eyes. In the dim light, they’ve gone a deep, moody blue. Ilya hums. “Mm. Want the one you wore in final game. Want the one you won in.”

Holy shit “I—I sent it off to get framed.” He swallows. He’s always dreamed of hanging his Cup-winning jersey like that, filling a trophy room with medals and gold pucks. “We can take it out of the frame.”

Ilya smiles. “I am much better display than frame.”

“Yeah,” Shane sighs, kisses him again. Ilya walks backwards into Shane’s bedroom, pivots them so he’s on top of Shane when they fall onto the bed. Shane spreads himself out across the comforter, lets out another sigh.

Ilya buries his face in Shane’s neck, sinks his teeth into his pulse point. Shane moans, digs his nails into the muscles of Ilya’s back. Ilya bites and sucks until Shane’s neck bears his mark. “I love belonging to you,” Shane murmurs. Ilya looks at him. There’s sadness in his eyes, and Shane hates that. He fucking hates it. He reaches up, touches Ilya’s face. “Are you okay, baby?”

Ilya smiles, letting his eyes go hooded. “How many times you want to cum tonight?” Shane frowns. If Ilya doesn’t want to talk about his feelings right now, they don’t have to, but he doesn’t want to ignore—

Ilya kisses him again. “How many goals did you score?” He asks, reaching down and undoing Shane’s jeans. He kisses down Shane’s neck to his collarbone, uses his free hand to ruck up his T-shirt.

“Th-three,” Shane pants, all thoughts of having a grown-up conversation leaving his head as his brain melts out his ears.

Ilya sucks Shane’s nipple into his mouth and Shane can’t help but keen, arching off the bed. Shane’s back actually bounces when Ilya pulls off it with a wet pop. “Not enough,” he muses. “We do six.”

He’s going to make Shane cum six times?? He groans. “God, Ilya.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You want more?” He cups Shane’s other pec, squeezing and massaging until that nipple is budded and hard.

Shane whines. “No—yes—I don't...” Ilya pinches his nipple. “Ah!”

“Once on my fingers,” Ilya muses. “Once in my mouth.” He nips at Shane’s pulse point, hands reaching down to tug at his pants. “Twice on my cock.”

“Twice?” Shane pants. He lifts his hips so Ilya can take off his pants, tug them down and off. His cock is straining against his boxer-briefs, a dark patch forming where he’s leaking like a sieve.

Ilya yanks Shane’s shirt up over his head and tosses it across the room. Shane is a little annoyed at first, but he realizes that Ilya had been aiming for his hamper. He’s missed, but the intention had been there. And that makes him blush harder than the filthy things they’re saying to each other.

“Once with you on top,” Ilya continues. “Then I put ankles by ears, hm?” He kneels between Shane’s legs, puts his hands on Shane’s thighs. He’s leaning forward, and the sparkly black fabric of his dress falls such that Shane can see all the way down to Ilya’s groin, where his cock is hard against his stomach.

Shane stares at it openly, his lips parted. When he registers Ilya’s words, he looks up at his face again. Ilya is watching him, a gentle smile on his face—not a cocksure grin, like he’s proud that Shane had been staring at his cock; it’s gentler than that, more content, like he could just sit there and look at Shane all night. Shane swallows. “Once on m-my front,” he suggests.

Ilya nods. “So I can watch champion ass bounce.” He pulls Shane’s underwear down, watches as his cock springs free. Shane nods enthusiastically. “Once against window, so whole world knows I get to fuck captain of Cup winning team, hm?”

Shane’s mouth falls open again. A shiver runs through him at the idea. He shakes his head anyway. “N-no, not the window.”

Ilya purses his lips, looks at Shane sidelong. “We will see how you feel after number 5.”

Shane curls up on the bed, refusing to look at Ilya where he's spraying the window down where Shane's cum had splattered against the glass, cock pulsing untouched as Ilya whispered to him about how good he was, how beautiful, how lovely.

Ilya looks at him over his shoulder. “You are embarrassed?”

He groans, covering his face with his hands. “It's embarrassing, Ilya.”

“I think it is beautiful,” Ilya says. Shane can’t see him, but he imagines that soft look in his eyes, the one gets when Shane—

When Shane does anything, he supposes. When Shane opens his door for him, when Shane asks if he wants a glass of water, when Shane makes sure he has Ilya’s favorite snacks in his kitchen. The little things he doesn’t even really think about. It’s a look that makes Shane feel loved, cherished.

He looks up at Ilya. His back is to Shane as he finished wiping down the window. Shane watches him cross over to the bathroom to dispose of the paper towels. He’d taken his dress off, and his flaccid cock bounced slightly against his thigh as he walked. “Am only saying truth,” he said as he passed.

When Ilya comes back, he takes the time to put Shane’s clothes in the hamper properly, then dresses in a pair of briefs from his overnight bag, and one of Shane’s T-shirts. Shane smiles to see him in a faded blue Metros shirt.

He climbs into bed and Shane wraps his arms around him and buries his face in his neck. “I'm glad you're here.”

“Wanted to congratulate you,” Ilya says against his hair.

“Yeah, but also... I'm really glad we met when we did,” Shane explains, stroking Ilya’s back with one hand. He feels rung out, exhausted, but also like he never wants to sleep again: he’d rather be awake, with Ilya, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. “I can't imagine celebrating this without you, and a part of thinks I wouldn't have made it without you.”

Ilya hums. “Because you copy my moves.”

Shane smacks his ass, mostly ignores the punched-out sound Ilya makes. File that one away for later. “No. Asshole. Because you support me, and watching you makes me want to be better.” He looks up at him. “I don't feel that way about anyone but you.” They kisses, slow and languid on their sides.

“I'm glad we met when we did, too,” Ilya says against his mouth. “I—um.” He says something in Russian.

“I love you,” Shane says, because he feels like he doesn’t have a choice. This moment was always going to happen.

Ilya looks at him, eyes wide and wet at the corner. “Fuck.”

Shane smiles. “It's okay if you can't say it back y—”

“I love you.” Ilya brings him into a tight hug, squeezing his middle and burying his face in Shane’s neck. Shane holds him back as the other man starts shaking. “Yes, of course I love you. You're perfect, you're beautiful, you're mine.” Shane tries to say something—Ilya’s perfect, Ilya’s beautiful, Ilya is Shane’s too—but Ilya continues, practically sobbing into Shane’s skin. “And your freckles are like the stars, and sometimes I look in your eyes and want to fall into them.”

“Ilya,” Shane sighs. This man makes him feel so special, so cherished.

“I love you,” Ilya says, and then says something in Russian, the same thing he’d said before.

Shane pulls away slightly, just so he can look at Ilya’s face. “What does that mean?”

“I love you,” Ilya repeats. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Ya…” Shane squints, like he needs to see the words better. “Ya teb…” Ilya repeats himself again, voice breaking. They go back and forth a few times until Shane finally gets it. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Ilya swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I... you really...?”

Shane sits up, startled. He displaces Ilya a bit, and his boyfriend looks up at him with something like panic on his face. He takes his face in both his hands. “Yes. Ilya, have I ever done anything to make you think—”

Ilya’s face softens. He kisses Shane’s palm. “No, Shanya.”

“Because if I have—”

Ilya reaches up and touches his face. “I know, dusha, you want to solve all my problems with that big, beautiful brain of yours.”

Shane looks away for a second. “I would want to address my behavior if I ever made you feel uncared for.”

“It is not you, vozlyublennyy. My brain is not as beautiful as yours. Is...” He murmurs under his breath in Russian, then says, “Mean to me, sometimes.”

“Oh.” Shane’s shoulders fall. “Fucked up.”

Ilya laughs, his smile thankfully meeting his eyes. “You always know just what to say.”

“What? It's fucked up. Do you...” He settles back down on his side. “Have you talked to anyone about it?”

“Talked?”

Shane pulls the blankets over him. “Yeah, like a therapist.”

Ilya shrugs one shoulder, which is not what Shane wants from him in this situation; he can’t put his finger on what he does want, but nonchalance isn’t it. “No. I don't think it is big deal.”

That doesn’t sound right. That sounds downright incorrect. But sleep is clawing at the edges of Shane’s mind, and he just went through several emotional highs in a short amount of time, and… well, Ilya knows himself best, right? “Oh... well, if you're sure.” He snuggles closer to him and Ilya kisses his head. “I just wouldn't want you to be... sad, I guess?”

“I am mostly not sad,” Ilya rumbles.

“But sometimes.” That’s too often.

“Just sometimes.” That’s too often!

“But… you're okay?”

“But I'm okay.” Ilya sighs and shifts, getting comfortable so the two of them can sleep. Two days later, Shane drives him to the airport and almost asks him to stay.

Chapter 15: the olympics

Ilya

Sochi is a fucking shitshow. His father is here. His brother is calling him. His team can’t stop hating each other long enough to score a fucking goal. And somehow, it is all his fault. He leans against the railing above the rink where Men’s Figure Skating is happening. He sees Shane, with Scott Hunter and the Admirals AC, Vaughan. Figure skating is very pretty. Maybe he should’ve been a figure skater instead. But he isn’t pretty.

The skater finishes with a spin, a bow, soaks up the applause. Ilya sees Shane stand, make his way to the stairs. Ilya doesn’t want to see him. He hasn’t answered Shane’s text. It had been simple: How are you doing?, after Ilya’s loss to fucking Latvia. A kind thing to do. His soulmate is kind, and soft, and good. Ilya isn’t good.

“Hey,” Shane’s voice comes from just out of his eyeline. “Are you okay?”

Ilya glances at him. He thinks about Vegas, about their bath, the floral scent of the bubble bath Shane had bought just for them. He aches with want.

He shakes his head. No. He is not okay.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says, to mean I am sad about that. Ilya looks back at the rink. Shane stands next to him, one hand on the railing, not touching. Just there. Just there, if Ilya wants him.

By God, he wants him.

“Not here,” Ilya murmurs.

“Okay,” Shane says. “That’s fair. That’s… do you want to get lunch in the village some time? Just as friends?” Ilya looks at him. He shrugs. “People know we hang out sometimes, and… and I miss you.”

Ilya shakes his head, looks away again. “Go away, Shane.”

Shane takes a half-step away from him. “You need space?” He nods. “Okay. Will you text me later, just so I know you’re okay?”

Ilya nods. He wants to cry. He wants to fall to his knees in front of this man and beg. He doesn’t even know what for.

“Okay,” Shane says. He taps the railing. “I hope your dad isn’t too much of asshole.”

“He will be,” Ilya sighs. He looks at Shane again. His Team Canada jacket is white, fully sheepskin with red maple leaves embroidered into it. Red isn’t Shane’s color. He looks better in Metros blue, in the black and gold of his Rozanov jersey. In pink.

His brow is pinched, eyes wet. “I’m sorry, Ilya.”

Ilya shakes his head. “No more sorry.”

Shane nods. “No more sorry.” He puts a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. It’s a friendly gesture, one he could give any other athlete, any other man. Ilya feels like he might break into a million pieces. “I hope things get better.”

Ilya nods. Shane walks away. He touches his cross pendant. He knows in his bones, in his soul, that Mama is not angry with him for losing. He focuses on that, and on the phantom sensation of Shane’s hand on his shoulder.

Chapter 16: the bathroom

Shane

At the MLH awards, Shane checks the stalls to make sure no one else is in the bathroom before he says anything to Ilya, who had made really intense eye contact with him and then gone inside. Part of him is wondering if this is cruising, if Ilya wants to hook up in a stall. It’s a thrilling idea but he’s not sure how smart it is with have the League outside. Ilya smiles at him, one corner of his mouth rising higher than the other. Shane stands a few feet from him, leans on the sink in a way he hopes is casual. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

Ilya looks him up and down, hunger in his eyes. They haven’t seen each other in weeks. “Like I am about to win MVP.”

Shane stops calculating how long it would take for people to wonder where they are and glares at him. “Hey, I could win, too.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “But probably not.”

“Neither of us could win!” Shane tries not to raise his voice but Ilya’s beautiful face is infuriatingly smug. “It could go to Bennett.”

He shakes his head, takes a half-step toward Shane. “No, no chance.”

Shane scoffs, looks away. “Whatever.”

In the mirror above the sinks, Ilya steps toward him again. “When I won the Cup, you were excellent prize for me.” He puts his hand on the counter, close to Shane. “When I win tonight, you will do the same?”

“What if I win?” Shane asks his reflection.

Ilya looks at him in the mirror. In the fluorescent light of the bathroom, his eyes are more the color of midnight than the color of the ocean. “Then I am prize.”

Shane smiles. He feels himself melt a little. “Okay. Winner gets to choose how we spend tonight.”

Ilya nods, starts toward the door. “I will.”

“Or I will,” Shane tells him as he passes.

Ilya turns on his heel, crowds into Shane’s space. “What will you choose? If you win?”

Shane blinks. He wants to kiss this man, wants to watch his face turn pink and red with exertion as he fucks Shane’s mouth. Saliva pools in his mouth as the image flashes in his mind. He swallows. “Not sure... I'll think about it.”

“Mm.” Ilya hums. He gives Shane another once over as he backs away.

“You already know what you want?”

“Yes.” Ilya takes a deep breath, like he has to calm himself down, like he’s as turned on as Shane is. “I do.”

Chapter 17: the penthouse

Ilya

Shane should always wear his bowtie undone with his tuxedo. Ilya doesn’t care if it would break fashion rules, he looks like a prince in an oil painting, like he should be wearing an ermine cape and rich, red velvet. He should be covered in gold and diamonds. Ilya wonders if Shane would let him give him jewelry, if he would wear it in public. Maybe that is too risky?

“Congratulations,” Shane says. He is standing too far away, but this way Ilya can see all of him at once. He wants to stare at him, catalogue every hair on his head, every dip and crest of his muscles, count every freckle.

“Sasibo,” he says, sipping from his chilled vodka glass. It’s excellent: smooth and bright, crisp and almost refreshing on his tongue. Shane’s eyes darken the way they always do when Ilya speaks Russian. Ilya sips again. “Take off your clothes.” Shane smiles, slides his tie through the loop of his collar and tucks it into his pocket. Ilya watches as he disrobes, carefully folding his jacket, shirt and trousers. “Mm, good boy,” Ilya rumbles. He sees Shane shiver and it’s all he can do not to simply tackle this man to the ground and make love to him on the penthouse floor. To calm himself down, he says, “They have good vodka here. Hard to find in the States.”

“Good,” Shane says, slipping his boxer briefs down his thighs. “I'm glad.” Chert voz’mi this man would kill him.

“I love you,” he says.

Shane takes a step forward, tentative, like he doesn’t know if he has Ilya’s permission. “I love you, too. I like your hair like that.”

“Da?” Ilya cocks his head to one side. He’d slicked it back for the ceremony, tamed his curls somewhat.

“Yeah—I mean, I think I like it however it is, but you look hot.” He licks his pretty lips. “Powerful.”

“I feel powerful.”

“Most Valuable Player Ilya Rozanov,” Shane recites, taking another step forward. His hands flex. He wants to touch Ilya. Not yet.

“Come.” Ilya turns, leads him into the bedroom. “Get on the bed.”

Shane does, crawling onto the king-sized mattress so that his cock—already hard and straining for attention—bounces between his legs. “Not gonna join me?” He settles against the pillows.

Ilya sits in the armchair facing the bed, puts his feet up, sips his vodka. “I want to watch you. Touch yourself.”

Shane thinks for a moment, spreads his legs. “In any particular way?”

Fucking damn it, goddamn fucking hell. “The way you do it when I'm not there.”

“Okay.” Shane adjusts again, laying against the pillows. Maybe this is why he has so many pillows on his own bed, so he can lay against them like a precious gem on display in a museum. Ilya watches him wrap one hand, loosely around his shaft. His free hand reaches up and squeezes one pec, rolls the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Gorgeous creature,” Ilya breathes. He doesn’t mean to, had intended to let Shane go for a while longer. “Does it feel good?”

Shane nods, eyes fluttering closed. “Mm, yeah. Would feel better if it were you.”

“It's my special day, Shane,” Ilya shoots back. “I want to see a show.”

Shane chuckles. He’s hotter when he smiles. “I think about your hands on me when I do this. Your cock in my mouth.”

“You want to touch yourself while I fuck your mouth?” Ilya offers. Maybe not tonight, but—

Next time. There will be a next time. And a time after that.

“Maybe, yeah.” Shane slides the hand not on his cock down his torso, squeezing and groping as he goes. Ilya follows the movement with his eyes, tracking the way he slides two fingers between his legs. “Oh fuck...”

“Spread your legs,” Ilya orders. Shane does. “Keep talking.”

“Bossy,” Shane teases.

“My special night!” Ilya repeats, just to hear Shane laugh again, see his smile get bigger. Ilya sits back in his chair, spreads his legs to accommodate his hard cock against his leg. “Love your pretty tits.”

“Oh—” Shane pants.

“You like that? Talking about your tits?” The last thing he wants to do is sour Shane’s mood by saying the wrong thing.

“I—” he takes his hand off his cock and cups one pec, still circling his hole with his other hand. “You can talk about any part of me.”

“But especially your pretty tits,” Ilya says. “And your pretty cock.”

“Fuck, Ilya.” Shane whines. He pauses to suck two fingers into his mouth. Ilya swears under his breath, watching him make them wet. When he’s satisfied, he puts them against his hole again, pushing in to the first knuckle. “So good. Need you. Need your cock, please.”

“Touch your pretty cock for me, Shane,” he says. Begs.

“I won't last.” He takes his hand off his tit anyway, wrapping it around his shaft.

Ilya finishes his vodka and stands, reaching for his belt. “How many times do you want to cum tonight?” Shane’s mouth drops open, eyes locked on Ilya’s trousers as he they fall away. “Shane,” Ilya says firmly. “How many times do you want to cum?”

Shane’s eyes flick up to his face, then back down again. “How—how many times do you want me to cum?”

Ilya can’t help but smile. He drops his jacket off his shoulders, pulls off his under shirt. Shane whines at the sight of his bare torso. He’s still stroking his cock, still moving his spit-slicked fingers around his rim. Ilya strips off his briefs, cock bouncing free in the relatively cool air of the penthouse. “We will see how many we can get to, hm?

“F-uck—” Shane curls in on himself as he cums.

They make it to four orgasms before Shane is shaking and crying, begging Ilya to cum all over him. He does, painting his beautiful, perfect soulmate in white.

Later, when they’re cleaned up and under the hotel duvet, Shane crawls between Ilya’s legs, adjusting and laying against him so his head is pillowed on Ilya’s abdomen. He sighs, content. “That’s better.”

“You are too good to me,” Ilya tells him in Russian. Shane cocks his head curiously, but Ilya doesn’t translate for him.

A few moments pass, and Shane asks. “When do you go back to Russia?”

Ilya finishes his second glass of vodka, tosses it back like cheap bullshit. “Two days.”

“Wow, that's so soon. I think I would be overwhelmed.” This is something Shane does often: explains how he would feel in a situation Ilya is in. He thinks maybe Shane wants him to talk about his feelings, to confirm that he is also overwhelmed.

But that isn’t how Ilya feels. Going back to Russia was always going to happen. It’s going to keep happening.

“Mm.” He grunts.

Shane sighs again. “Do you have to stay home all summer, or can you come back before pre-season? We could spend some time at the cottage again.”

Ilya looks down at him. His brown eyes are blown wide in the dark room. They are guileless, filled with longing. Real longing? “You want me there?” He has to ask, every time. He has to make sure it’s not a dream.

“Of course, love.” Shane smiles. He’s told Shane now, that his brain won’t quite let him believe it when Shane tells him he wants him, needs him. And Shane understands, doesn’t get frustrated when he asks for reassurance, doesn’t demand Ilya get his shit together. He can be weak around Shane; because Shane is strong.

Ilya swallows. He speaks before he can talk himself out of it. “I come for the last two weeks of July. Okay?”

The room is no longer dark because Shane lights up. “Yeah, that sounds awesome! I really wanna try cooking together this time. I really like cooking with people, I feel like it’s a good bonding activity.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “And you let loose in the summer, yes? Cream dressing on your salad?”

Shane laughs. Ilya wants to kiss him, wants to cry. “Hey, be nice to me.”

“I am always nice to you.” Ilya touches his face. Shane kisses his palm. “What is your favorite food for summer?” They’d mostly gorged themselves on snack foods and Shane’s fancy cheese the last time Ilya had been to the cottage. Time had stopped existing; mealtimes weren’t important inside their tiny bubble, where it was just the two of them and nothing else.

“I like grilling: burgers, fish, corn on the cob. And my mom makes herring pie.”

“Those sound good,” Ilya says. And he means it, especially warm fish pie. It’s so hard to find good meat pie in Boston; none of the bigger immigrant populations have a strong tradition of them, or else did not bring them over. When they go on road trips to Michigan, he likes to find Finnish pasty shops, Polish delis with good pierogi. When they play the Roans in North Dakota, he buys frozen piroshki from a shop in Fargo, lives off them for weeks. Maybe he will tell Shane to buy piroshki, if he can find them.

“Good,” Shane says in the silence Ilya’s reverie has created. “I'm gonna miss you.” He kisses Ilya’s naval. His cock makes itself known, but Ilya doesn’t want another round right now. He just wants to lie here with this man that he—

Likes.

“Mm.” He hums.

“Okay if I stay here?” Shane asks.

Ilya’s first reaction is to be offended, stupefied that Shane might think Ilya wants him to leave. He knows his face hardens in a flash of anger. “If you go,” he says. “I will cry and it will be very embarrassing for both of us.”

Shane laughs, giggles like princesska. “Ah, I see. Wouldn’t want anyone to be embarrassed.”

“No, we would not.”

Chapter 18: long distance

Chapter Summary

there's like, worldbuilding or whatever, in this one

EDIT: thanks to the russian-speaking reader who informed me that I accidentally named Ilya's niece vape 🙏🏽 hopefully Alya is more appropriate than Ashka

Shane

Shane gets a call from Ilya at 6pm—Ilya is in Russia, so it must be around 2am for him. Shane is eating dinner, and sets down his fork as he hits answer call.

“Hey, baby,” he says.

“Hi,” Ilya says. His voice is rough and wet-sounding, like he’s been crying.

“Ilya? Are you okay?” He asks.

“Yes.” Oh, good. “No.” Shit. “No, I am...” He sighs like he hasn’t slept in a hundred years. “My father is—and my brother. Fuck.”

“Ilya, try and breathe,” Shane soothes.

“No more sorry,” Ilya says, though he hasn’t apologized for anything. Maybe he’d been going to, and stopped himself.

Shane smiles. “No more sorry. You're okay. It's alright. Do you wanna talk about it? Or do you want me to talk?”

He sighs again. “I... English is so hard right now.”

“I'm sorry, baby. I wish I spoke Russian.”

There’s amusement in his voice when Ilya replies, “I could teach you.”

“Yeah? What would you teach me?”

“Important things. Useful phrases.”

Shane rolls his eyes even though Ilya can’t see him. “You mean the dirty stuff?”

“Yes, but also Ya khochu tebya.”

Shane stands from the dining table and goes to grab his laptop. He could probably find a class to take. “What does that mean?”

“I want you,” Ilya explains. “Ya skuchayu po tebe. I miss you.”

Shane sets his computer down next to his dinner plate and opens it. He connects his headphones to his phone so he can still talk to Ilya and type at the same time. “I miss you too—oh, wait. Say it again?”

“Ya skuchayu po tebe,” Ilya repeats.

“Ya skun—no. Ya skucha...” he closes his eyes, tries to concentrate on the sounds.

Ilya repeats each word, slowly. Shane copies him, tongue tripping over vowels until he has it right. "Ya skuchayu po tbe," he says, feeling his face heat with the threat of tears.
"Ya skuchayu po tbe, Ilya."

"Ya skuchayu po tbe, Shane."

It’s 6pm two days later the next time Ilya calls him. 2am in Moscow.

“Hi.” Shane worries that something might be wrong again, that Ilya might be feeling the weight of everything again.

“Hello, shcheno.” There’s loud music in the background, the sound of people talking on the other side of a wall. Ilya sounds drunk, or maybe high. Some teams allow players to test positive for weed on drug tests, as long as they’re not showing up to practice or games high. Shane isn’t sure if Ilya indulges, or does any other drugs off-season.

“I don't know that one,” Shane says.

“I have to be quiet,” Ilya stage whispers. “There are people here.”

Shane finds himself whispering as well, for no reason. “Where?”

“Sasha's house. He is always parties. No. Partying. English turns everything into a verb.”

“It can do that, yeah.”

“Say something to me in French.”

Shane chuckles. “ Que voulez-vous que je dise?"

"Mm, so pretty." Ilya rumbles.

"JJ says my French is embarrassing."

"Embarrassing? Why?"

"It's just that he's a natural speaker and I have the French Immersion accent," he explains. He’s eating dinner again—garlic and onion chicken and rice, with leftover stirfry veggies. He skewers a piece of brocoli with his fork.

"Immersion?" Ilya struggles to pronounce the word with his brain in Russian mode and his mouth slowed by alcohol.

"It's a program for kids to learn French."

"You don't speak it with your mama?"

"No, she doesn't speak French at all. My dad's side of the family does, though."

"Mm. Do you know any Japanese?"

"No. I mean—I know some family words, and words for food. My mom used to call me goma when I was little, cause her mom did the same to her. It means sesame seed."

"Mmmm," Ilya hums like that information is a delicious treat. "She was right. You are a little sesame seed. So cute and little, and also healthy."

Shane chuckles. "Sure."

"What other words do you know?"

Shane lists them out: haha and chichi for mom and dad, sobo and sofu for grandma and grandpa. Oba, obji, otto, tsuma. Ilya hums, asks him to repeat himself a couple of times.

"What is soulmate, do you know?"

Shane thinks for a moment. It’s right on the tip of his tongue. "I always forget the actual words… but it refers to a myth about the god of matchmaking tying red strings to people’s fingers, so they’re linked together. In some stories, people can see red right before they their soulmate, so they can follow the thread.”

"Matchmaking god ?"

"I don’t know a lot about the actual myths, but yeah—he’s the god of matchmaking, love and marriage. It’s really interesting how different cultures interpret the origin of soulmates. In Spansh, your soulmate is your media naranja."

"May-dee-ah, " Ilya repeats.

"It means half orange. Your matching half. "

Ilya hums. “I heard once, the Qazaq word for soulmate means love like the sky.”

“The sky?”

“Mm. Their… what is word? Traditional god, he is god of the sky, and loving like the sky is loving deep, endless, un… nepostizhimyy. Un-understandable.”

“Incomprehensible,” Shane provides. He repeats himself when Ilya asks.

“Incomprehensible,” he says. “Terrifying. I feel like that sometimes, about us.”
Shane winces. “You’re scared?”

"A little," Ilya’s voice trembles. "Scared of how much I want you. Need you. Miss you. It's so much inside of me. I feel like I will burst."

Shane swallows. He feels similarly sometimes—overwhelmed, surrounded, like he’s drowning in it. “In a good way, or a bad way?”

“Today, it is good,” Ilya says.

“Good.”

Ilya sighs. He sounds annoyed: “I have to go.”

“Okay. Tell your friends hi from Jane,” Shane says, though he wants Ilya to stay on the line longer.

Ilya makes an amused sound. “Okay. Ya skuchayu po teb.”

“Ya skuchayu po teb.”

It’s 8:30am in Moscow. Shane has both clocks on his home screen now.

4:48pm in Moscow.

Ilya sends a picture of a young girl walking along a gravel beach. She's wearing a dress, but it's simple and patterned with polka dots.

Ilya sends a picture of his hand, palm up, holding an assortment of worn-smooth rocks, still wet from the pond or lake they're visiting.

12:01am in Moscow. Shane lays in bed and wishes Ilya was in Ottawa instead.

Chapter 19: cottage II

Shane

Ilya has another loon tattoo when he arrives at the cottage, burying his face in Shane’s neck and holding him close. The new tattoo is further down his arm, this one in flight as opposed to the swimming one he’d gotten after his first trip to Ottawa. He tells Shane about the night he and Svetlana got matching eagle tattoos on their thighs. He has a peace lilly on his wrist for his mother. Once, the two of them had been in front of the press together and a reporter had asked why Rozanov had such a "girlie" tattoo.

"You can do better than that," Shane had said into his microphone. "Take some time and come up with a real question."

"No, I can answer," Ilya had insisted. "Is memorial tattoo for my dead mother. Her name means peace. That make good pull for article?"

In the present, Shane traces the flying bird's wings with a finger. The two of them are just standing outside his front door, listening to songbirds in the trees. "Maybe I should get a tattoo. I never thought about it before."

"What would you get?" Ilya asks, breath puffing against Shane’s ear. He nips and nibbles on his earlobe.

Shane sighs at the sensations. "I guess getting a loon myself would be too obvious," he murmurs. He knows his frustration with the situation is coming through in his voice.

Ilya kisses his forehead. "I'm—"

"Ah, ah!" Shane puts a finger over his lips. "No more sorry."

"No more sorry," Ilya murmurs against Shane's hand. The two of them make their way inside and Ilya tosses his bags into one corner of Shane’s bedroom before they’re climbing into his bed, shedding clothes as they go.

Shane straddles Ilya’s waist, looking down at the way the light from his windows makes Ilya’s eyes shine like stained glass. He cups Ilya’s face in his hand, strokes his thumb along his cheek. Ilya kisses his thumb, the side of his hand. He opens his mouth, lets Shane like his fingers inside. Shane loves sucking on Ilya's fingers; he hadn't thought about what it would feel like from the other side. Ilya's mouth is warm and wet, and welcomes Shane in like belongs he there.

"Fuck," Shane breathes, fucking Ilya’s mouth slowly and gently with his first two fingers. Ilya's eyes are half-lidded, his mouth working Shane's fingers like he would his cock. He wraps his tongue around them, sucks them deeper into his mouth. "Ilya, you're so..." He doesn't even know what he wants to say. He's so hot, so beautiful, so—

"You're mine," Shane says. Ilya nods, groaning in the back of his throat. "You're all mine." Ilya nods, mouth open, tongue lolling out. He makes a noise in the back of his throat. “That’s what you want be, isn’t it?” Ilya nods, eyes fluttering shut. Shane slides his fingers out of his mouth, and he chases them with his lips.

“Yes,” Ilya says when Shane doesn’t give him his fingers back. “It’s all I want to be, moy lyubov'.”

“Ty takay krasivay.” You’re so beautiful, Shane tells him in slow, halting Russian. He sucks his own fingers into his mouth, moaning at the taste.

“You’re sort of a freak, Hollander,” Ilya says like he’s not out of breath and panting.

Shane’s fingers come out of his mouth with a wet pop. “I’ve been with one person.”

Ilya puts his hands on Shane’s hips. “But you are a freak for me.”

Shane rolls his eyes, smiling. “Hope that’s not a complaint.”

“Say something else in Russian,” Ilya pants, spreading Shane’s legs wide.

Shane lets out a tiny moan just at that motion, his cock bouncing against his stomach. “I—um… Ya lyublyu tebya.”

“Mm, fuck.” Ilya presses to lubed fingers to his hole, moves them in a gentle, swirling motion. “I love you, too. Boleye.” More.

Shane whines as Ilya’s fingers slide inside. He spreads his legs a little wider, works his hips down on the intrusion. “Fuck, Ilya—Ya khochu tebya.”

“I want you, too,” Ilya purrs, scissoring his fingers apart rather than searching for his prostate. Shane moans, knowing Ilya wants to be inside him just as much as Shane wants him inside. “Boleye, darling.”

“Ya skuchal po tebe, Ilyusha.” He’s wanted to try adopting a diminutive for Ilya since Svetlana had used Ilyaha for him. He’s read up on the practice, how important and intimate it is for loved ones to use small names.

“Missed you, too.” Ilya groans, adding a third finger. Shane thrashes on the mattress. “Please, keep going dusha.”

Shane swallows, tries to string a sentence together rather than repeating from his list of phrases: “M-mne nravitsya… kogda? Ty menya—ah! Menya tak nazyvayesh'.” It’s getting hard to think with Ilya’s fingers in him.

Ilya leans over him, breath ghosting across Shane’s face. “I love to call you that,” he says in Russian. Shane understands him, which is a real head rush. “My soul, my beautiful boy. I love you.”

“I love you,” Shane pants. “Please—can I—” He searches for the words and comes up empty. Grinding down further on Ilya’s fingers, he whines, “Please, fuck me.”

“Repeat after me,” Ilya says, because he always knows what Shane wants, what he needs. “Pozhaluysta.”

This word, Shane knows: Please. “Pozhaluyta.”

“Trakhay is fuck,” Ilya explains. Shane repeats it. “And you know me, don’t you? Mr. Duolingo?”

Shane groans. “Trakhay menya, pozhaluyta Ilyusha.”

Ilya withdraws his fingers, and Shane can’t help but whine at the loss. “Terpeniye. You know this word?” Shane shakes his head. He doesn’t know any words, in any language. He knows that he’s empty, that Ilya’s cock is there and dripping pre-cum. He knows he wants this man more than he’s wanted anything in his life.

“Patience,” Ilya provides. “Say it for me: Terpeniye.”

“T-terpen—terpeniye.”

“Good boy,” Ilya purrs. His hand moves again and Shane cranes his neck to watch him roll the condom on. He wants to tell him not to bother, wants Ilya to fill him up so he’s dripping. They haven’t done that before, though, and he doesn’t know how Ilya would feel about—

“Fuuuuck,” Shane moans as Ilya positions himself at his entrance. He doesn’t push in, and Shane starts begging: “Pozhaluyta, pozhaluyta, pozhaluyta,” he chants, staring wide-eyed at Ilya’s cock where it’s just barely touching Shane’s hole.

"Beg for me so pretty,” Ilya moans. He moves his hips forward slowly, hilting himself inside Shane. He holds himself there for a few moments, tosses his head back and moans loud. “All I want is to make you feel good,” he says like a confession. Shane wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist, presses them just a tiny bit closer together.

“You do make me feel good,” he pants. “I’m yours, Ilyusha, Ya ves' tvoy.” He grabs Ilya’s shoulders with both hands. Ilya groans as he digs his nails in. He loves with when Shane marks him up, when he makes it obvious that Ilya belongs to someone.

“Tell me, Shane,” he moans. “Tell me what you want.”

“Want you—your cock, your—shit, fuck me, Ilyusha, please.” He repeats himself in Russian best he can. He definitely uses the word penis instead of cock. He should look that one up. Memorize it. Get it tattooed on his pelvic bone.

“Shane, chert voz’mi.” Goddamn it.

Shane opens his mouth and French pours out like a faucet. “Please, please. Fuck me, need you. Need your cum. Fuck, I want you to breed me. Breed me.” He repeats that last phrase over and over again. Ilya fucks him to the cadence of his words.

“What are you saying, dusha? Tell me what you’re so desperate for,” he groans, slamming home a little harder than before.

“Please, Ilya,” Shane sobs, tears getting caught in his eyelashes.

“What do you need, baby? Tell me and I will give it to you. Anything, anything.”

“Cum inside me, Ilya.” Shane begs, eyes squeezing shut so his tears finally fall. “Please, I—I need it.”

And then Ilya is gone, pulling out of him. Shane makes a devastated sound, tries to pull him back. Ilya looks at him, eyes wide. “Taking off condom,” he says. His hand stills. “Or did you want to pretend?”

Oh, fuck.

Shane lays back again, eyes rolling into the back of his head like he might cum just from the idea. “Fuck... fill me up.”

Ilya finishes disposing of the condom, slicks himself again. “Okay. Ready?”

“Da,” Shane barks immediately. Ilya fills him slowly.

“Ohhhh, fuck,” Shane whines. “Every fucking time, it's so good, Ilya.” He winds his arms around Ilya’s neck and brings their faces close. He knows it’s harder for Ilya to thrust like this, but he needs him close, needs him here with him.

Ilya shutters. “I feel—Shane, I am not going to last.”

Shane nods. “Yes, yeah—cum for me, baby. Cum in me, fill me up.”

Ilya thrusts once, twice more. He snakes a hand between them, pumps Shane’s cock until the two of them are spilling together. Ilya hilts himself again as he cums, mouth dropping open. Shane arches his back, grips the sheets below him.

All of him, Shane thinks deliriously. All of Ilya is inside him. All of Ilya is his. “Moy Ilyusha.”

“Tvoy,” Ilya whispers back. Yours.

Chapter 20: loon tattoo II

Ilya

The first time Ilya undresses in the locker room at the start of the new season, Marly zeroes in on his new tattoo.

“Is that the same bird?” He asks, dropping his own shirt off his shoulders.

Ilya swallows. There is no need to lie, right? “Yes.”

Marly squints at the ink. Ilya “You... really like ducks?”

“It is a loon,” Ilya corrects. The rest of the words feel pulled out of him; he remembers a video Shane showed him once, of a snake having a beach towel removed from its stomach. “My soulmate is Canadian.” It had been slow and gentle, but probably very painful for the snake; but still it had to be done. “There are many of them around her house where I spend the summer.” The sickness needed to be taken out of him.

Marly lights up, smiling wide. “Oh! Hell yeah, brother. That's awesome.”

From Ilya’s other side, Connors pipes up: “Soulmate? No way Rozie's got his soulmate.”

Ilya turns to him; he knows his face is tough, on one side of angry. His insides are shaking like a scared puppy. Can Connors see something in him that Shane cannot? The undesirable parts of him? “Why no way?”

“She know you got a girl in every town we visit?” Cons asks, shoving playfully at his shoulder. There’s a ripple of laughter through the locker room.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Yes, she does. How do you know she does not have many men falling at her feet, hm? Does not matter, because we will marry one day.”

There is another round of laughter. St. Vic rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right, Roz.”

Ilya scoffs, turns back to his stall. Marly bumps his arm with his elbow and Ilya looks at him. “Love that for you, man.”

He smiles. “Spasibo.”

“I'm still in black and white,” Marly admits, though Ilya is sure he knew this already. When they go out to pick up, sometimes girls would give either or both of them their full name, ask them to say it. Ilya always does, knowing that no one else but Shane is his. But when Marly says strangers’ names… it’s with desperate hope in his eyes. Please, this one. This one, he must be thinking.

“You will find your soulmate, Marly,” he says. Insists. “She will be even taller than you and you will have the world's largest babies together.”

Marly chuckles. “Here I thought I was having a serious conversation with my best buddy.”

Ilya gawks at him, expression exaggerated. “I am being serious!”

He shakes his head. “Get dressed, man.”

Chapter 21: architectural digest

Chapter Summary

you guys have to tell me if this format is at all coherent

i will not be silenced @hollanovreal69
Okay but is it me or are there definitely two people living in Shane Hollander's cottage?
>> scott cunter @redtricorn
>> It's just you babes
>>> mammie moth @anactualbug
>>> No I think she might onto something.

puck enthusiast @puckenthusiast
[Image: a shelf in Shane Hollander’s cottage kitchen, featuring a tall, glass bottle of Russian vodka]
Shane famously doesn't drink alcohol
>> scott cunter @redtricorn
>> He says in the segment that he uses wine in cooking. Maybe he makes vodka sauce?
>>> puck enthusiast @puckenthusiast
>>> With $300 top shelf Russian vodka that the bar I work at is currently on a waitlist to get?? Doubt.

wazy hazy @centaurryder
House shoes by the door: normal, expected even
House shoes next to Nike slides? Suspicious
>> puck enthusiast @puckenthusiast
>> Wait doesnt Shane have a reebok deal? Can he even wear nikes?
>>> met-hoe @shayden-truther
>>> The plot thickens....
>>>> walter gd @bellcenterfake
>>>> Yall are making shit up to be mad at
>>>>> british hockey enjoyer @d3st1ny
>>>>> No one is mad bruv

starship ranger @shaneshollander
Wait! Enhance!
[Image: a shelf in Shane Hollander’s cottage pantry, where several boxes of different flavored snack cakes are displayed]
Shane "macrobiotic diet" Hollander has not 2, not 3, but FOUR varieties of snack cakes in his pantry
>> sofia:) @blackandgolden
>> five! the red one on the end is a russian brand. source: i am russian:)

elles @bonushocket
[Image: a screenshot of Shane’s Hollander’s garage, where he stores a forest green Range Rover, and a smaller vehicle, covered in a form-fitting tarp]
I know they only spend a small amount of time in the garage, but they remark on the Range Rover and not this covered vehicle? Beyond whatever tin hat conspiracy we're all cooking up, I just wanna know what Shane's second car is.
>> Mr. The Car Guy @caridentifier
>> 2015 McLaren 650S. Maybe 2014, but I would lean newer
>>> elles @bonushocket
>>> Wh
>>>> Mr. The Car Guy @caridentifier
>>>> Proprietary dust cover
>>>> Mr. The Car Guy @caridentifier
>>>> Might also be the reason they don't focus on it in the segment, might end up owing royalties to McLaren, depending on how they treat their copyright. Like how no one actually owns their Ferrari
>>>>> elles @bonushocket
>>>>> Wait say more right now. Wym no one owns their Ferrari??

i will not be silenced @hollanovreal69
Shane Hollander has never been photographed once driving a McLaren or similar sports car. You know who DOES drive an orange 2014 McLaren 650s? And who is often seen driving it in Ottawa during the off season???
>> mrs. rozanov @raidersluvr
>> Girl calm down
>>> i will not be silenced @hollanovreal69
>>> I'M NEVER WRONG
>>>> brian the goalie @thetrapezoid
>>>> Super gay to store your second car at your buddy's place when he has a 2 car garage and only one car
>>>>> i will not be silenced @hollanovreal69
>>>>> Glad we agree
>>>>>> brian the goalie @thetrapezoid
>>>>>> Why haven't I blocked you yet

starship ranger @shaneshollander
[Image: a picture of the inside of Shane Hollander’s fridge, zoomed in on a jar of Dill Daddy spicy pickles on a lower shelf]
Dill Daddy mention
>> out for a rip @puckpuckpass
>> Stop you literally can't get those in canada💀
>>> british hockey enjoyer @d3st1ny
>>> Special order? Smuggled in by a friend?

Shane Hollander Updates @SHupdates
[Image: the top of Shane Hollander’s dresser, crowded with several small framed photos: Shane as a child with his parents, Shane’s high school graduation with his parents and grandparents, a photo from Hayden and Jackie Pike’s wedding, what appears to be a photo from a family reunion, and a portrait of a blonde woman with long, curly hair]
I love this collection of family photos ^-^ such a sweet guy

out for a rip @puckpuckpass
Exactly two Adirondack chairs on my patio at my house where only I live

shane hollander’s freckles @stickseasons
There's no reason to have two stationary bikes side by side like that in your HOME gym
>> met-hoe @shayden-truther
>> Unless...
>>> shane hollander’s freckles @stickseasons
>>>Be gone, Shayden shipper

met-hoe @shayden-truther
[Image: a zoomed-in screen shot of Shane Hollander’s bathroom vanity. There is a tray near the mirror holding a glass jar of Q-tips, and two cologne bottle: one oval shaped with a brown topper and one rectangular gold]
Shane's cologne is Obsession by Calvin Klein, pictured here ALONGSIDE 1 Million by Paco Rabanne, which has a completely different scent profile
>> out for a rip @puckpuckpass
>> Yall are zooming in on this AD video like a dan and phil vlog in 2010

i will not be silenced @hollanovreal69
[Image: a zoomed in screen shot of Shane Hollander’s shower]
EVERY BODY STOP
TWO SHAMPOOS
THAT MAN IS NOT A TWO SHAMPOOS MAN
>> met-hoe @shayden-truther
>> No reason for Shane Hollander to have curl cream in his shower NONE
>> eric bennet’s left leg pad @myadmirals21
>> This is going to sound fake but you have to trust me okay. My cousin plays in the A and he's subbing on the metros rn
>>> i will not be silenced @hollanovreal69
>>> Go on.
>>>> elles @bonushocket
>>>> Oh, the tea
>>>>> eric bennet’s left leg pad @myadmirals21
>>>>> And HE says that Hollander met his soulmate but doesn't talk about her publically
>>>>>> elles @bonushocket
>>>>>> OH! THE TEA!!!
>>>>>>> i will not be silenced @hollanovreal69
>>>>>>> "Her" oh I'm so sure
>>>>>>>> Shane Hollander Updates @SHupdates
>>>>>>>> It's not happening, beloved
>>>>>>>>> i will not be silenced @hollanovreal69
>>>>>>>>> No one wants me to dream!!!!!

Chapter 22: gifts

Shane

Shane had thought Ilya meant he was planning on sending Shane one present, something specific—but it seems Ilya had actually been asking for permission to send presents, routinely. Shane had read about love languages once, taken a quiz online. He can’t remember his result anymore, but he remembers acts of service and gifts being on the list.

He texts Ilya pictures of the new lace boxers he’s sent—one of them in package and a few of Shane posing in different colors. He says thank you for the glass bottles of ginger ale waiting for him in his road trip hotel rooms, sends pictures of what he orders when Ilya gets him dinner reservations at his favorite place in New York.

He does, however, spend an inordinate amount of time holding the diamond and silver earrings up to his ears, looking at himself in the mirror. He wears the silver tennis bracelet most often, though—it does match all three of the Rolexes he wears most often, and he likes the weight of it on his wrist, likes to fidget with the smooth metal when he’s thinking through plays and strategies. On a road trip, he sends Ilya a picture of himself in his post-game suit, the silver bead and seed pearl necklace peeking out from under the collar of his dress shirt.

Ilya sends a picture of his cock, hand wrapped loosely around the base. A pearl of pre-cum is beading at his slit. Shane’s mouth drops open, and he must make some kind of sound because Hayden looks up from the book he’s reading.

“You good, man?”

Shane glances at his friend. “Yeah—yeah, I’m… Lily sent a picture.”

Hayden smiles. There’s something sly in it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah… h—she’s beautiful.” Shane looks back at the picture again, at the way the head of Ilya’s cock is flushed red.

“Wow,” Hayden chuckles. “You are gone.”

Shane doesn’t deny it. He can’t; could never pretend to not be head-over-heels for Ilya. “Yeah, I kind of am.”

Hayden shakes his head. “No kinda about it, buddy. You're outta here on this girl. I hope she knows how lucky she is.”

Shane smiles. He feels like he might cry. He wants so badly just to tell Hayden, to pour out everything he feels about Ilya. He swallows. “I think she does.”

Hayden frowns for a moment. He must see that Shane is holding something back. Maybe his eyes are showing too much of his sadness. Instead of prying, though, Hayden just nods. “Good.”

Ilya

The next time Boston is in Montreal, there is a bouquet of flowers waiting in Ilya’s stall. They’re beautiful pink lilies with little white spots on their petals.

“Must be a prank,” St. Vic says. Ilya looks at him, brow raised. “Funeral flowers,” he clarifies.

Ilya hums, looks at the card. He feels himself smiling before he’s even done reading it. Good luck tonight, you’ll need it! It’s signed Jane.

“What’s it say, Roz?” Marly asks from beside him.

Ilya shakes his head, carefully crafts his smile into something less smitten, and crumples the notes in his fist. “We’re going to destroy them,” he tells Marly. Later, he presses one of the lilies between two pages of a book, packs it carefully away in his luggage before he leaves to meet Shane at his condo.

Chapter 23: rose

Shane

Shane takes another fry from Rose’s basket. “I don't usually eat a lot of greasy food, but these are really good.”

She nods, blonde hair bouncing around her collarbone. “Sometimes people over-do it with truffle oil, but these are just right.”

“You sample a lot of truffle oil fries?” He smiles, takes a sip of the ginger ale he’d insisted the bar tender pour him, because he’s a paying customer and if they have ginger ale on the menu and in stock, he should be able to order one, for fuck’s sake. Insisting had felt good. Standing up for himself had felt good. And it had given him the courage to say hello to Rose Landry, to tell her he liked her movies, and say yes when she asked if he wanted a fry.

“Every chance I get, Shane Hollander," she says his name with a curious, mischievous glint in her eye. Briefly, Shane is flattered that Rose Landry knows his name. Then, he's astounded that she would be hopeful about him possibly being her soulmate. "Anything?" She quirks one immaculately trimmed eyebrow.

"I'm, um—I'm already in color," he explains, then says, "Rose Landry." Just so she knows for sure.

She sits back and sighs. "Worth a shot. My family would be so happy for my soulmate to be a hockey guy and not an actor. Or-" she grimaces. "-a producer."

Shane chuckles, asks about Rose's family. Her brothers are all in hockey at one level or another. She's a Detroit fan, warns him that they won't go easy on the Metros. They never have.

"So," she says, plucking a fry from the basket. "Tell me about your soulmate."

Shane swallows. "Her name's Lily," he says slowly. "She lives in Boston, so we don't get to see each other that often, but her job is really important to her, and she can't leave it right now."

"And so is yours," Rose says.

"I don't really think of hockey as a job, but yeah." He nods.

"If it's not a job, what is it?" Her voice is curious, not accusatory.

Shane thinks for a moment. "It's... my passion, my whole world. My whole life."

Rose cocks her head to the side. "And Lily understands that?"

"She feels the same way, actually," Shane explains. "She wouldn't ever want me to quit hockey, it's one of the things she likes about me. But maybe I'll play for Boston some day." He doesn't realize it's something he wants until he says it.

Rose frowns. "Ilya Rozanov’s team?”

Shane nods. “Rozie and I are friends,” he says, the nickname feeling unfamiliar in his mouth. But that’s how hockey guys talked about their friends. “We’re super competitive with each other, but there’s no real animosity to it. We’ve just been chasing the same records since Juniors.”

“I think the two of you on the same team would ruin the whole league’s life,” Rose says, laughter in her voice.

They talk some more, about hockey, and Montreal, about Rose’s favorite rolls. He’d had no idea she’d been on Broadway for a season. He’s never seen a live play. She promises to get him tickets if they’re ever in New York at the same time. She puts a hockey stick emoji next to his name in her phone. He puts a movie camera next to hers.

Shane

Hayden eyes Shane as he comes into the locker room. Shane had been there for a few minutes already, meditating in the quiet space. When his friend comes in, he looks up, smiles. Hayden raises an eyebrow at him. "They're saying you're dating Rose Landry."

Shane's shoulders fall. "Ugh, of course they are."

“So, you're not?" Hayden asks. His phone is in his hand and Shane imagines him texting Jackie, saying that he finally figured out who the mysterious 'Lily' was. Ugh, Shane can only imagine how lame he would be to give a flower code name to his flower-named girlfriend.

"No, I'm dating my soulmate," Shane insists. Hayden looks disappointed; Shane had poked an undeniable hole in his parlor room monologue. "Rose and I are friends—she comes from a hockey family, loves talking puck, you know?"

"You're just collecting girls named after flowers," Hayden teases.

Shane shrugs. "The universe is filled with beautiful coincidence." It’s something that gets repeated in health classes when talking about soulmates, the statistics for finding yours, how most people do because the universe pushes people together. It’s all a big Rube Goldberg machine, working tirelessly to give people the destinies they’re meant for.

Comeau bounces up and down on the balls of his feet. “So, you're saying I have a shot?”

Shane barks out a laugh. “I don't think you're her type, Comeau.”

“What? Why not?” He slicks back his hair, strikes a pose Shane is sure he thinks is sexy.

“When's the last time you read a book?” He asks. Comeau opens his mouth. “Voluntarily.”

He closes his mouth, nods. “Okay, so Rose Landry digs smart guys. I could be a smart guy.”

Hayden pats Comeau’s back. “Sure, C. We believe in you. “

JJ muscles his way into Shane’s space; not in a mean way, just in that over-the-top JJ way that he does everything. “So, when do we get to meet this soulmate, hm?” There are murmurs of agreement around them.

Hayden’s response is immediate: “Guys, lay off.”

JJ puts his hands on his chest, clutching imaginary pearls. “What? We cannot know the love of Capitaine's life?”

“She's a really private person,” Shane says. “Maybe someday, but not soon.”

“Tell her we are excited to meet her,” JJ insists. “Say we are perfect gentlemen.”

Shane’s face scrunches. “Why would I lie to her like that?”

JJ looks affronted the way a cartoon character does. Really, he should be accompanied by sound effects. “Eh? Capitaine, you wound! You bully us!”

“That’s right, and its gonna get worse if you don’t all get your asses in gear so we can show Detroit the fucking door.”

They win 4-3. He texts Rose that her team is formidable, fun to play against. She texts back several knife emojis and a threat against his life. He asks her if she wants to hang out again sometime soon.

Ilya texts him, too: That last goal was poetry. You are so fucking hot. Shane calls him, gets lube and his favorite toy out of his bedside drawer.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Ilya rumbles.

Shane can’t help the shiver that runs through him. His entire body heats, a blush spreading all the way down to his chest. “God, just hearing your voice is so good,” he pants.

“Mm,” Ilya hums. “You want me to keep talking, baby?”

“Yes, please,” he huffs. “I—I’m in bed. Got one my toys… it’s a big one.”

Ilya groans out loud. “You’re so fucking good for me, dusha. Wish I could be there to congratulate you every time you prove to the whole world that you’re Shane fucking Hollander, one of the best there is.”

“One of,” Shane laughs.

“Oh course. Would not be fun if I was not there with you, also being the best.”

“Mm,” Shane hums, getting more comfortable against his pillows. Ilya had made fun of how many he had, but he liked having something soft to lean against while he prepped himself. Ilya must hear the cap on the lube bottle click because he swears under his breath.

“Can we video call?” Ilya asks.

Shane smirks to himself. “You want to?”

“Yes. Yes, darling, I want to see you. Want to see my champion, please,” Ilya pants. There’s the noise of movement on the other line, like he’s getting undressed.

“What’re you wearing?” Shane asks, enjoying the head rush of pulling Ilya’s puppet strings, just a little bit.

“Nothing,” Ilya says over the sound of fabric hitting the floor. “I’m in bed, naked and alone, and my perfect soulmate won’t let me see him.”

“Aw, that sounds really hard,” Shane murmurs. He balances his phone on the pillow next to him so he can lube his fingers.

“You know what else is really hard?”

“No, what?” Shane teases.

“My cock after watching that perfect goal. You are a symphony on skates, Shane Hollander. Shane sighs, circling his hole with his first two fingers. “Are you touching yourself?”

“Yes,” Shane groans out, pressing inside. The stretch is intense, but that’s exactly what he’s after right now. “Yes, I’m touching myself and wishing it was you. Fuck, I love your hands so much. They’re so big, and your palms are so rough.”

“Hang on, I have to throw out my fucking callus cream,” Ilya laughs. “God, Hollander, you really won’t let me see you?”

“Ask me nice,” Shane moans.

“You are so mean to me, dusha. Making those pretty noises, moving that perfect body where I can’t see it. Are you touching your cock?”

“N-no, I’m fingering myself,” Shane pants, fucking his fingers in and out of his hole, feeling how hot and tight he is. “God, Ilya.”

“Mm, yes, sweetheart. Open yourself up for your toy. Get your slutty body ready for me.” Me, not it, like Ilya could teleport here before Shane is done stretching himself out. “Good boy.”

“Keep talking,” Shane begs. “Please, talk to me.”

“Next time we are together, I want to fuck you with one of your toys. Which one is your favorite? I remember, you sent picture of the pink one inside you, stretching your pretty hole. It’s so wide at the base, but you can take it, can’t you? You’re a good slut and you can take it.”

“Yes, yes—Ilya, I—” He cuts himself off in a whine, scissoring himself open.

“Say it,” Ilya commands.

Shane blinks, brain trying desperately to parse the order. Say—? “I’m a good slut,” he moans. “I’m a good slut for you.”

“Yes, you are. And will my good slut let me see him taking his fingers, hm? Will he let me watch that slutty hole get wider and wider, looser and looser. Which toy are you using? The pink one, or—oh, the one that vibrates is so good.”

Shane looks down at the toy he’d picked. He and Ilya had never played with this one before. It’s a custom commission; the Etsy toy maker had been very excited to receive her first “sports themed” order—a realistic cock (complete with veins running down the sides that had introduced Shane to nerve ends he’d been previously unaware of) done in yellow and black, nine inches long, with the Raiders’ logo on the base. He swallows.

“Please don’t make fun of me,” he murmurs. “Not about this.”

Ilya makes a curious noise. “Make fun? Of your choice in toy?”

Shane takes a deep breath and rearranges himself on the bed, facing his pillows he can prop up his phone. He positions the dildo between his legs and stands up on his knees before hitting the video button.

“Fuck,” Ilya practically spits.

“It’s um—”

“Where the hell did you get that?” Ilya is holding his phone close-ish to his face. Far enough away that Shane can see his chest, but too close to see what his free hand is doing.

“I commissioned it,” Shane says, feeling his face glow bright red with a blush. “I missed you. I miss you. I wanted—it felt like I could be close to you, with this.” It sounds so stupid when he says it out loud.

“Fucking hell,” Ilya says in Russian. Shane recognizes the words, smiles to himself. “You—Shane, I—fucking English is such a shit language. Why aren’t there more words for what you are? Perfect, beautiful, stunning, amazing, fantastic, a dream. You’re a dream, Shane Hollander.”

Shane suddenly wants to cry. He wants to wrap himself around Ilya, bury his face in his neck and sob until he’s empty. “Ilya, I—” he chokes around the words.

“You are okay, sweet thing?”

“Yes,” Shane pants. “Yes, I’m fine. Fuck, I just want you so bad.”

“I want you, too, my darling. Please, let me watch you feel good.” Shane hadn’t realized Ilya was standing until he sits down, spreading himself out against his headboard. He keeps his phone in his hand, and Shane makes a mental note to look into portable tri-pods. They must have them for like, YouTube people. They could each have one, just to make things logistically easier.

“Tell me,” Shane says, wrapping one hand around the base of the toy.

“Fuck yourself, Shane,” Ilya practically growls, his voice low and rasping. “Sink down on it like you like to do on me.”

Shane pants, lets out a low, keening whine as he lowers himself onto the toy. The stretch is a little too much, but he doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated. “Ilya,” he breathes. “Ilya, fuck.”

“Good boy, Shane,” Ilya rumbles. “Fuck yourself on your toy—you can bear down on it, can’t you? The way you can’t on my cock because my body wants to fill you so badly. You can squeeze and clench on plastic cock so much more, harder.”

Shane feels himself clench down, body desperate for more sensation. He cries out Ilya’s name again. This is why he bought the whole floor. No neighbors to hear him screaming himself hoarse trying to make Ilya hear him from 300 miles away.

“You’re so wet,” Ilya practically moans the words.

Shane reaches for his own cock blindly, his entire body jumping when his hand wraps around the base. He can feel himself leaking, making a mess on his comforter. “Y-you make me like this, Ilya.” It’s hard to form words when he’s so full, so stretched, so fucked up about not getting to actually ride Ilya the way he wants. “You’re so—” he cuts himself off in a broken sound. “And I want you so bad.”

“I should quit hockey, become your live-in boytoy,” Ilya says, a teasing lilt to his voice. “Always there when you need me, when you come home.”

Shane shakes his head. “You would hate that.”

“No, I would love it, only existing for you. To take care of you. To give you pleasure.”

Shane looks at screen for the first time in a bit, to find Ilya laying back on his couch, cock in one hand and lube in the other. “Fuck.”

“I was made for it,” Ilya says. “The stars said so.” Shane chuckles, rolling his hips down on the dildo. “Fuuuuck, Hollander.” He says something in Russian and Shane concentrates long enough to translate in his head.

“I wish you were here, too,” he says, and starts to ride the toy in earnest. Ilya makes a sound like he’s been hit in the solar plexus. Shane blinks at his screen. Ilya’s cock spurts white, his hand still working himself as he cums. Holy shit. Holy shit.

“You’re going to kill me, Hollander,” Ilya moans.

“Not before I get to cum,” Shane retorts. “Think you can get hard again?”

“Do not ask me stupid questions, moy dusha.”

In the afterglow, Ilya asks for the name of the shop where Shane got his Raiders dildo. Two weeks later, Ilya sends him a picture of flesh light, bright blue and red, wrapped around his cock. Shane works himself on his own toy, cums so hard he makes himself dizzy.

Chapter 24: the tuna meltdown pt. 1

Chapter Summary

it was not my intent to have ilya just absolutely sobbing his lungs out for most of this sequence, but that is what happened

Ilya

Ilya opens the door for Shane on a bright, sunny morning during a rare 2-day road trip for the Metros. Shane has his phone in his hand. He’s still looking at it as he comes inside, shoulders Ilya out of the way without kissing him in greeting. Ilya feels instantly bereft. He opens his mouth to say something but Shane speaks first:

“Scott Hunter's soulmate is a man.” He finally looks up, showing Ilya his phone screen.

Eh?? Ilya peers down at the screen. Scott Hunter has posted on Instagram, a block of text about how happy he is to have found his soulmate, how he is ready to be loved by his fated person. Shane swipes to reveal a photo of Hunter and—

“That is the man!” Ilya says, recognizing him instantly from the All-Star game, years and years ago. “Holy shit, he was at the All-Star game, in Hunter’s room.”

“Holy shit,” Shane breathes. “Holy shit.” He wraps Ilya in a hug. Ilya holds him back; it’s not a decision, it’s nature. “Can’t wait for our turn,” Shane says, rocking the two of them back and forth.

But he will have to wait. Because of Ilya, because of his insistence on clinging to a place that hates him, to people that hate him. Somewhere, in the vastness of the universe, there is a version of him who is brave, who can admit that he wants to be loved more than he wants to be needed. “M'sorry,” Ilya murmurs.

Shane rubs his back. “Hey. No more sorry, remember? We can't be open right now, and that's okay.” He pulls back, just a little, to look Ilya in the eye. Shane doesn’t really make eye contact with people; he says it’s uncomfortable. But he’s never had trouble looking deep into Ilya’s soul. “I like the time we spend together, and I want to keep going. Okay?”

“Okay.” Ilya nods. He searches desperately for a change of subject. If they talk about this for too long, Shane will realize he’s getting a bad deal, that the stars cursed him with a coward for a soulmate. “I saw your interview with Quebecois reporter,” he says, backing Shane toward his kitchen counter. “Was very sexy.”

“Sexy?” Shane chuckles. He gasps when Ilya boosts him up onto the counter, the way he always does when Ilya moves him like he weighs nothing.

“Yes, I can show you if you like,” Ilya says, hands running up Shane’s thighs. He’s wearing blue jeans—Ilya had never realized that blue jeans were actually blue; everyone wore them like they were neutral color, like they went with everything—and a white T-shirt under his jacket. It’s ridiculous how much such a simple outfit turns Ilya on.

Shane’s face scrunches like a perturbed bunny rabbit. “Ugh, no, I hate watching myself.”

“I love listening to you speak French,” Ilya confesses. He listens to Shane’s interviews to fall asleep sometimes, and listening in a language he doesn’t understand means he doesn’t get mad when reporters ask stupid questions.

Shane tilts his head to one side. He says in French, his voice coy, “Really? You want me to speak French? ”

Ilya rumbles in the affirmative. Shane likes when he growls, like a hungry animal. “You sound sexy. Mysterious. Like a woman in a movie who might kill the sexy detective.” He kisses Shane’s collarbone where it’s sticking out above the collar of his T-shirt.

Shane laughs again, presses his lips to Ilya’s. He has a hand on Ilya’s cheek, his brown eyes searching Ilya’s blue one. “Is everyone in this movie sexy?”

“Mmhm.” He nods, stepping forward so he can press his hips to Shane’s, the other man’s legs wrapping around his waist. “And the detective is Russian immigrant with tragic backstory.”

“Uh huh.” Shane is still laughing at him, playful and teasing.

Ilya kisses him, breathing in the scent of his cedar-wood-and-something cologne. “And she comes into his office to report her missing husband.”

Shane nods, some of the lightness gone from his voice. There is still mirth in his eyes, as the two of them sink into whatever game this is. “Because the police won't believe her.”

“Yes, because he is a bad man, but she worries for him.” He trails a hand up Shane’s clothed thigh. “And she wears short skirt and smokes cigarettes, drinks gin in bars.”

Shane switches back to French. “But actually she's the one who killed her husband. .”

Ilya nods. He has no idea what Shane has said, but he slips his jacket off his shoulders all the same. “Mm.”

“And she needs to make herself look innocent. And maybe she seduces the detective,” Shane continues.

Ilya nods again, working at Shane’s belt with one hand while the other rucks up his T-shirt. He needs to touch this man. “Mmhm, absolutely.”

“Because she's so helpless, so innocent,” Shane sighs, head lolling backward for a moment. His neck is irresistible. Ilya imagines him in one of those short, square-cut 1920s dresses, a cigarette pen between his lips. Not even to smoke, just to have something in his mouth. “The detective can't help but want to protect her, hold her.”

Ilya wraps a hand around Shane’s cock, where it’s poking out through the flap in his briefs. “Do they fall in love?”

Shane nods, eyes fluttering closed. “She doesn't want to, but she does. He's been gone since the day they met.”

He strokes Shane’s cock, feeling the heat of it against his palm, the pulse of his heartbeat. “Do they betray each other?” He doesn’t know why he asks this, why he would bring that into their fantasy. But suddenly he needs to know; needs these two characters to survive, to live happily ever after. Needs it like air.

“She tries, but she can't bring herself to do it.” Shane moans as Ilya thumbs the head of his cock. Already shiny with pre. Shane gets so wet for him, so easily. “They run away together,” Shane says in English, so Ilya can understand.

“Mm. They are happy together?” He resumes stroking in earnest, drinking in the noises Shane makes in the back of his throat.

Shane leans forward, resting his head in the crook of Ilya’s neck. “The happiest.”

And for some reason that’s too much for Ilya. He swallows, tries not to let his movements faulter. “Not a very exciting ending for a detective movie,” he teases, trying to clam himself down with humor.

Shane kisses him, slow and sensual. He puts a hand over the one Ilya has on his cock, brings it up to cup his face instead, so Ilya is holding his face in both hands. “It's a romance,” he says. “The story only exists so they’ll fall in love.”

Ilya is going to cry. He doesn’t know why, but he can feel it coming on. Part of him wants to pivot again, to chase Shane into the bedroom and put him on his stomach, so he can’t see Ilya crumbling into nothing. Instead, he lets a different part of himself speak. “Are you falling in love, moya dusha?” My soul. His whole soul.

Shane blinks and his eyes are wet like Ilya’s. “I think... fuck, Ilya, I want you so bad.” He brings Ilya close to him, clings to his back like he’ll fall off the face of the earth without Ilya anchoring him there.

“You have me, beautiful.” Ilya’s voice cracks. “My perfect, beautiful, boy.”

“Yours.”

“Mine.”

“Mine.”

“Yours.”

Ilya lifts him up off the counter. He carries him to their bed—their bed? Their bed. Their bed—and lays him down gently. He’s never undressed Shane in the light of the day like this, sunlight streaming in through the windows. It’s like seeing him again for the first time, every curve and dip of him, every freckle and hair-thin scar.

He drops his sweatpants on the way to get the lube and condoms from his drawer. Shane keeps his eyes on him, smiling absently as Ilya moves.

“Ready?” Ilya asks, kneeling between Shane’s spread legs.

Shane nods. “Be gentle with me, detective,” he says, stretching out on the mattress, back arching and arms elongating he as he reaches toward the headboard.

“I will take care of you," he says in Russian. Shane's expression shifts, like he's trying to translate in his head. He knows Shane has been learning a bit of Russian—he has apps on his phone. He speaks slowly, tries to use simple words, so Shane will understand more of what he's saying. But honestly, it's hot to think they could talk to each other like this, fuck like this, even though they can't understand each other. They don't need to speak to communicate. They know each other, their bodies.

“I trust you," Shane murmurs something in French.

“I have wanted you for so long,” Ilya replies in Russian.

Shane licks his lips, says something in French as he guides Ilya’s hand up his thigh, to his hole. He gasps when Ilya’s fingers make contact with his rim. “Was your husband not gentle with you?” He asks. Shane clearly recognizes some of the words, but not others. Muzh, maybe. Husband. “Was he mean to you?” He slicks his fingers, presses into Shane slowly, delicately, like he might break. Normally, Shane hates when Ilya is too gentle, too nice. But he’d asked for this, asked for gentle.

“I will take care of you,” Ilya switches to English as he crooks his fingers, searches for that spot inside him. Shane gasps again, back arching. “My darling,” he switches back to Russian. “No one else can compare to you.” Ilya had taken exactly two piano lessons before his tutor declared him unteachable, but he feels like a virtuoso touching Shane like this, coaxing beautiful music from him like he’s a masterfully-crafted instrument. There is no other way to describe his careful movements, the practiced way he can touch Shane after being together—not together, but not not together—for so many years. He is a maestro, an expert in his instrument. And he is making art.

“Ilya.” Shane grips his shoulder, nails digging in, in that delicious way that Shane likes to mark him, claim him. “Fuck me. I’m ready.” He breaks into a string of French, then starts repeating the same words over and over: S'il vous plaît. S'il vous plaît. S'il vous, s’il vous, s’il vous.

“Begging so sweetly for me,” Ilya murmurs. Shane nods like he understands, but his pupils are blown wide, his entire body bow-string taut. Ilya would be surprised if he understood him in English.

“Pozhaluysta,” Shane barks out, Russian accent perfect, like he’s mimicking Ilya’s own inflection.

That’s what does it, really—the idea that Shane is trying to sound like him, trying to sound like home—he thinks about it for two seconds and he’s shaking, crying, sobbing into Shane’s neck even as the other man wraps his legs around his waist, even as he’s burying himself inside Shane. This is the only place he ever wants to be.

“Ilya?” Shane tries to get Ilya to look at him. He can’t face the deep brown of his eyes right. now “Ilya, hey—are you okay?”

“Da, yes. I—I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Shane says, easy and casual, concern still in his voice.

Ilya looks at him. He knows he must look ridiculous, tears running down his face, eyes reddening at the edges. He’d never realized how visible crying is, before he could see in color. Before Shane.

Shane looks concerned, eyes searching his face. He touches his cheek. “Ilya, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Ilya croaks. “I’m s—"

Shane touches his lips with his other hand. “No more sorry, baby. It’s okay. I was just worried we got too intense for you. Was it the roleplay?”

He shakes his head. “N-no, I just… feel a lot. When I’m with you.”

Shane nods. “There’s so much inside you, some of it has to come out of your eyes.” He thumbs away Ilya’s tears, reaches for a corner of the duvet to dry his face.

“Yes,” Ilya says, eyes fluttering closed to let Shane take care of him. “The roleplay was good, hot.” He opens his eyes again, kisses Shane’s forehead. “My sexy, French femme fatale.”

“Glad you liked it, detective,” Shane says, his smile returning. It feels like a reward. “Are you still in the mood?”

Ilya raises an eyebrow, looks down where the two of them are joined, where he’s literally inside of Shane, hot and pulsing with want.

Shane grips his face, guides his gaze back to him. “Just because you’re hard doesn’t mean you want it,” he says.

“I want it,” Ilya says, and kisses Shane’s thumb.

Shane nods, smiles again. “I want it, too. Fuck me.” And Ilya does.

Shane peppers kisses along Ilya’s shoulders at the two of them lay together. He’d insisted on spooning Ilya, holding him close while the two of them napped in the afternoon sun. Now, he nuzzles the back of Ilya’s neck, draws nonsense patterns on his belly with one hand. “Sleep well?” He asks.

“Mmhm,” Ilya hums, turning over so he’s facing Shane, his arms wrapped around him. He presses his face to the valley between Shane’s pecs. He loves Shane’s tits so much. He wonders if they’re big enough that he could slot his cock between them. Shane pets the back his neck, kisses the top of his head.

Ilya has been told before that he has a self-sabotaging streak. “Did you mean it?” He asks, piercing the quiet perfection of waking up with the man he loves.

“Mean what?” Shane asks, words leaning on each other like he can’t get his mouth to work properly.

Ilya could tell him nevermind, could change the subject. “Is fine if you didn’t,” Ilya says instead of answering him. “Was heat of moment.”

Shan’s hand grips Ilya’s curls, yanks his head back. His eyes are severe, face serious. “Ilya Rozanov. Are you asking me if I meant it when I said I love you?”

“Yes.” There isn’t anything else to say. Yes, that is what Ilya is asking. No, it’s not a question he wants the answer to.

“I love you,” Shane says. “Fuck, Ilya.” He kisses him, long and deep and tender. “I love you,” he says against his mouth. “I hate that your first instinct is to doubt that. I hate that you haven’t heard it enough for it to feel real. I love you, I love you.” He repeats himself over and over, like he’s trying to make up for all the times Ilya hasn’t heard it from people in his life, from the world.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says against Shane’s tongue. “I know we said no more sorry, but all I have is sorry. I have so much sorry.” He’s going to fucking cry again. Fuck. “We cannot be together because of me, because I am—” A coward. A stupid, fucking coward who can’t let go of thing that hurt him.

“Ilya.” Shane sits the two of them up, brackets his face in his hands. “Ilya, I don’t understand. We are together.”

“Chto?” What?

“Do... do you not think of us as together? I know we can't be public yet, but I thought...” Shane trails off, words no longer coming to him.

Ilya sits up, a wave of calm crashing so hard into him that he no longer feels like he’s going to cry. This is the most important conversation he’s ever had. “No, I—I did not know that you... you really?”

Shane sits up too, takes both of Ilya’s hands in his. “Yes. Ilya, I talk about you all the time, about Lily, my soulmate. How much I like her, how amazing she is. Hayden and my parents know that we're working things out so we can be together publicly eventually. Is... I'm sorry, are we not on the same page?”

“You... you talk about me?” Fuck—is he fucking stupid? Why hadn’t Ilya been doing that? Svetlana knows about them from seeing Shane in Ilya’s apartment, but—

He hadn’t even considered. There were already so many lies by omission. Actively saying my soulmate Jane felt like a step too far. But Shane has already been telling people about Lily?

“Yes,” Shane says. Fuck! “They don't know it's you specifically, I promise.”

“You tell people you... you like me? You want me?” There is something inside him that swallows Shane’s assurances like a black hole, disappears them to somewhere Ilya can’t reach, and so he needs more.

Shane doesn’t hesitate for a moment. “Yes. Is that okay?”

“Yes. Yes, Shane, Bozhe moy, my god. Holy shit. I never thought—”

“Thought what?”

He swallows. Shane will not hurt him. He has seen his vulnerable underbelly before, reached for it only touch lovingly. “I did not think I would be good enough to wait for.”

“Oh, Ilya...” Shane smiles, his eyes teary again. He leans his forehead against Ilya’s. He takes a wet shaky breath. “I'm gonna kill you dad.”

Ilya pulls away from him like he’s been burned, the tiny animal part of him crying and clawing against the image of his father being hurt. “Shanya!”

Shane nods, face serious. “I am. I'm gonna fuck him up for making you think like that. I'll fight an old man, I'll do it.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “You say crazy things after I fuck your brains out. Stay here and come to your senses while I get a towel.” His thighs protest the speed of his motions, but he has to get out of bed before he’s forced to show this man the parts of him that would die alongside the monster Shane wants to slay.

“I'm serious, baby,” Shane calls as Ilya moves toward the bathroom. “Say the word!”

Ilya says over his shoulder, “Shut the fuck up, Hollander!”

Chapter 25: the tuna meltdown pt. 2

Shane

Ilya makes these tuna melts in his toaster oven instead of a panini press like they had at the cottage. “This is how I learned to do it,” he explains, sliding the little metal tray inside the oven.

“Who taught you?” Shane asks.

“My friend Sasha. My coach’s son, back in Russia.” He sets the timer on the over and then grabs two plates from the cabinet. “We didn’t cook a lot at home, even after my father re-married. It was nice, to have someone cook for me.”

Shane nods. “You’re saying I should make you something the next I host.”

Ilya smiles over his shoulder, rummaging around in the fridge. “If you want to.”

“I could make us grilled cheese,” Shane suggests.

Ilya sets a jar of pickles on the kitchen island where Shane is sitting on a stool. They’re a local brand, unique to Massachusetts. Shane had discovered this while trying to find some to keep at the cottage. “With real cheese?” Ilya asks.

Shane’s nose wrinkles. “Of course.”

Ilya shakes his head. “When I say real cheese, I do not mean protein cheese you get from websites that sell dick enhancement pills.”

“I get it at the grocery store!” Shane protests.

“Tastes like protein powder. Next time we see each other, I make chicken parmesan.” He nods with finality.

“This is about something I can make you,” Shane says, reaching for the pickle jar.

“And after I teach you to make chicken parmesan, you can make it.” Ilya shrugs. Shane pops the lid on the jar, helps himself to a pickle spear. Ilya checks his phone and his face falls for a moment before he turns it over and sets it on the counter.

Shane imagines texts from his shithead brother. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “More stupid articles about your true love Rose Landry.”

Shane’s brow furrows. “Ilya.” He looks at him. “Do you have a Google alert for me?”

The other man scoffs, rolls his eyes, makes a big show of turning around to check the toaster oven.

“Oh my god,” Shane laughs.

“Fuck off.”

“That’s actually sweet,” Shane says. “In like a stalker way.”

Ilya’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, looks away. An apology forms on Shane’s tongue, but Ilya shrugs and grabs himself a pickle spear. “Should turn them off until the world forgets you ever looked at her. Then I can get back to stalking in peace.”

Shane knows his nose is scrunching when he smiles. “Wait... are you jealous?”

“No, of course not.” He rolls his eyes. “Why would I be jealous that you are dating beautiful, Hollywood movie star?”

“Ilya, I'm gay,” Shane says, the words coming naturally despite this being the, maybe, second time he’s ever said them out loud. He is gay, but the more important thing is that he’s with Ilya. “And you're literally my fated soulmate,” he says, to this point. “The fucking stars chose us for each other.” He climbs off his bar stool and comes around the island to take Ilya’s face in his hands. “You're mine.”

Ilya’s eyes flutter shut. Shane misses their cool blue. “Yours,” he rumbles.

“And I'm yours.” He kisses Ilya’s forehead, his cheek, his nose.

Ilya wraps his arms around Shane’s waist, brings them close. “Mine.” He buries his face in Shane’s neck. “We are... together. Lovers.”

“We're together,” Shane repeats.

The toaster oven dings and Ilya lets out a sigh like a big, tired dog as he has to let go to retrieve their food.

They sit on the couch and mostly pay attention to the New York-Buffalo game. Shane thinks it must be nice to be on such a short road trip. Less actual travel time would mean more time to do tourist stuff, or visit friends, like when he sees his parents every time they play in Ottawa.

“I wish we were nearer to each other,” Shane says, snuggled against Ilya’s side.

“Mm,” Ilya hums. “You should play for Hartford.”

Shane wrinkles his nose. “Hartford? No way.”

“What, you want me to come to Canada? Play for Ottawa?” There’s a palpable sense of yuck in his voice. Shane laughs. The idea really is ridiculous: one of the best players in the league signing with one of the worst teams. Ilya looks down at him and smiles, the way he does sometimes when Shane laughs loudly and freely, when he isn’t feeling self-conscious about being loud or annoying.

Ilya phone buzzes. He kisses the top of Shane’s head and excuses himself from the couch.

Then there’s a lot of yelling in Russian. Shane recognizes some words—Papa, obviously, and Ilya’s brother Alexei’s name. His stepmother Polina. Ilya’s father is… lonely? No. Alone. Ilya demands where and what. Shane’s hoping to take an actual class sometime during the spring.

He knows Ilya sounds angry, scared. He gets up from the couch, approaches him cautiously as he’s pacing his dining room, yelling down the phone as his face turns red. Is his father missing? People with memory problems sometimes wandered off, going on errands they forget halfway through. He wants to hold Ilya, to take his hand and try to calm him down. Instead, he lingers at the doorway, watching his boyfriend crumple in on himself.

“Fuck,” Ilya spits as he hangs up. “Fuck!” He’s facing away from Shane, leaning on the dining table. He repeats himself over and over, fuck, fuck, fuck, just above a whisper. Shane tries to make noise as he steps forward, but Ilya still jumps and looks at him wall-eyed when he touches his shoulder. He wraps him in a hug, cradling Ilya’s head against his neck.

Ilya shakes and shutters. Shane strokes the back of his neck. “You’re okay,” Shane murmurs. “It’s alright. You’re okay.”

The other man buckles, leaning his entire weight against Shane as he hugs him back, crushing the two of them together. He sobs into Shane’s neck, whole body shaking. He doesn’t know how long this lasts, just that he never stops murmuring to Ilya. He’s okay, he’s doing so much. It’s not hard because of him, it’s hard because it’s hard.

“I should be there,” Ilya says at one point, voice nearly gone.

“No,” Shane says. “No, no, I don’t—”

No, that’s a mean thing to say.

Ilya leans away from him, teary eyes searching his face. “What?”

Shane steels himself. “I don’t think you should be there, because I don’t want him to hurt you.”

Ilya smiles weakly. He nods. “I don’t want that either. I feel so guilty for not being there, but I fucking hate it there, with him, with Alexei. With Russia.” He kisses the corner of Shane’s mouth. “And you are not there. I want to be here with you.”

“I want you to be here, too,” Shane says and kisses him again.

Ilya

They make it back to the couch. Ilya curls himself into Shane’s side, tucking his legs underneath him. Shane’s arm is warm and strong around his shoulder. He loves this man. He loves him. He should tell him, say it over and over again until it’s the only words he knows.

The thing that comes out of his mouth is, “He was alone, scared.” Shane nods, nothing but sympathy and kindness in his eyes. “Alexei is supposed to be there, or his wife Polina. I fucking hate these people, why can't they do what they say they're going to do?”

Shane kisses his temple. “Have you considered hiring a nurse? I know it would be hard to trust your dad to a stranger, but it would at least be consistent.”

“He would hate that,” Ilya says, rubbing a hand down his face. Ilya has considered it before; a doctor had recommended it, said that lots of people choose to use care homes. He cannot put his father in a home. He touches his necklace, pictures his mother’s concerned face. He cannot put his father in a facility.

“But he would be taken care of,” Shane points out. “And he’ll adjust, especially if you have someone coming every day. There are people who specialize in Alzheimer’s and dementia care. They would know how to navigate his condition.”

Shane is right, of course. Because he’s smart, and sees the world through kindness instead of what Ilya sees, which is mostly people grabbing thoughtlessly for what they want, and fuck how it affects other people. “Mm. Maybe.”

“Something to consider.” Shane squeezes his thigh. They cuddle on the couch, watch a movie with that woman in it. He should stop being jealous. Shane isn’t going anywhere.

Shane sends him the name of a service in Moscow, articles about transitioning a relative into care, information about at-home care and what the costs usually are for a daily nurse.

The nurse's name is Margarete. She specializes in difficult cases, in men whose families cannot handle their bullshit. He warns her that Alexei may also be difficult. Over their video call, she gives him a knowing look and assures him things will be quieter at home. Ilya feels himself deflate after they hang up the call. He checks the time. Shane will be gearing up for his game in Washington.

Chapter 26: the plan

Ilya

Shane doesn’t stop being photographed with Rose Landry. Ilya really does turn his Google alert off. During a video call in which Ilya only really wanted to watch Shane fuck himself on his new vibrator, but that Shane had decided would be an Actual Conversation, Shane pitches an idea:

“Rose is down for being my beard,” he says, leaning back against his mountain of pillows.

Ilya’s brow furrows. He touches his own, clean-shaven chin. “Beard?”

“A woman who dates a man so that people don’t think one or both of them is gay,” Shane explains. “If the two of us start pretending to date, then you and I could spend more time together, in public.”

Ilya hums.

“People would be way less suspicious, and Rose said we should tease the idea that the two of us are soulmates.”

This, Ilya does not like. No one else should claim to be Shane’s one and only. His jaw clenches, and he knows Shane sees it because his eyes turn sad.

“In a feed-the-rumor mill kind of way,” he says quickly. “I don’t think I could handle saying someone else is my soulmate.”

Ilya nods, glad that Shane feels the same way. “And this would… help?”

“I think so, yeah. We’ve already done a good job convincing people we’re friendly off the ice, so it’s natural for us to hang out when we’re in each other’s cities anyway, and if I have a girlfriend, people won’t suspect as much. You already have kind of a playboy reputation. The power of heteronormativity kept queer people from being with their true soulmates for years and year. We can use it to our advantage.”

Ilya nods again. It does make sense when Shane puts it like that. There is no reason for outsiders to think Ilya is bisexual, because he is only ever seen with women. “I told my team about Jane,” Ilya says. “They think I am tied down now.”

Shane nods. “Okay, then we should find someone for you to pretend to date, too.”

This is how Ilya ends up calling Svetlana at 12:30 in the morning to ask her to be his beard. “Who taught you that word?” She asks above the din of house music on the other end. “I can pretend we are destined for each other, Ilushka. It won’t even be hard.”

“Because I’m irresistible,” he teases.

“Because you are my friend and I love you,” she says, tone serious. Svetlana has always had a knack for seeing through Ilya’s bullshit.

“I love you, too,” Ilya says, and asks her what club she’s at.

Shane

Ilya greets Svetlana at the door, taking the vodka she’s brought with her and kisses her on both cheeks. She’s beautiful, in high waisted black pants and a sparkly top, her hair braided on the sides so it bursts into an explosive, curly ponytail at the base of her neck. He hugs her, kisses both her cheeks.

“This place is nice,” Svetlana tells Shane, taking one of his hands in hers. She kisses him on both cheeks, too.

“Thanks,” Shane says. “It’s nice to see you again.” He turns toward Rose to introduce the two of them, but Ilya beats him to it.

“Sveta, this is Shane's friend Rose.” It might be a quirk of his accent, but Ilya hits the F in friend pretty hard. “Rose, this is Svetlana.” Oh, so that’s how it is, okay.

Shane gives Ilya a look as Rose steps forward the shake Svetlana’s hand. “Hi! Pleased to meet you.”

Svetlana extends a hand to shake Rose's. "Rose Landry. I saw the play you were in on Broadway. Was very good."

"Thank—thank you." Shane has never heard Rose sound flustered, literally ever. He looks at her, wants to ask if everything is alright. Rose holds onto Svetlana's hand after their handshake has ended. "Sorry: what was your name? Your full name, I mean." Oh, shit!

"Svetlana Vetrova," Svetlana says, all emotion falling from her face. She puts her other hand on top of Rose's.

"Svetlana Vet—sorry." Rose shakes her head as if to clear it.

"Vetrova," Svetlana repeats, slower.

"Svetlana. Vetrova," Rose says.

Shane has never actually witnessed this happening to someone else—besides Ilya, he supposes. Rose had been facing away from him when Svetlana said her name, but when Rose says hers, something shifts in Svetlana. She looks lighter, brighter—not just happier but fuller, more complete.

"Oh, fuck off." Ilya says, sounding at once astounded and exasperated.

“Holy shit!” Shane says, delighted.

“Neveroyatno,” Ilya murmurs. Shane is surprised at the way he recognizes the word from his Russian lessons. Unbelievable. He’s still shit at reading tone in any language, though, so he has no idea if Ilya means it in a good way or bad.

He turns to the girls. “Do you two want some time alone? My office is that way down the hall, on the left.”

Rose is looking around the apartment, eyes landing on the pops of bright color Shane has been integrating into his decorations. Svetlana is looking at Rose the way people look at newborn kittens. “That sounds nice,” Svetlana says.

Rose’s attention snaps to her. She looks startled. “Yeah, that sounds... wow. Yeah, that sounds amazing.”

Svetlana kisses her hand. “You are fucking adorable.”

Shane watches them go, smiling so hard his face starts to hurt. He looks at Ilya, more excited than he’s been in weeks. His boyfriend rolls his eyes. “They are going to fuck on your desk.”

Shane shrugs. “It's a sturdy desk, they'll be fine.” Ilya looks away from him, mouth pressed into a thin line. Shane touches his arm, smile dimming slightly. “Hey. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I... I need to get over myself.” He scratches at his scalp.

Shane wraps him in a hug, presses a kiss to his cheek. The two of them hold each other and sway slightly, basking in the warmth of it. “It's okay to be emotional.”

“I thought Rose was taking you,” Ilya confesses. Shane already knew he’d gotten jealous over gossip about them, but he hadn’t realized Ilya had been dealing with it this whole time. “And now it feels like she is taking my best friend. Is stupid. Svetlana deserves a beautiful, glamorous soulmate."

“I love how protective of me you are,” Shane whispers against Ilya’s ear. “It's so hot.”

“Mm, but I should not take it out on Rose,” Ilya says. He kisses Shane’s neck.

“No, that's a bad idea. She's a good friend. And she’s really excited to be my fake girlfriend.”

“Mm.” Ilya hums.

“Speaking of friends: Hayden invited the two of us to dinner with him and his wife the next time the Metros are in Boston.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “She will travel with the team?”

Shane nods. “Yeah. Like I said before, they think Lily lives in Boston. They want to have a couple's weekend anyway, since we're supposed to be there for two nights. They really want to meet you.”

Ilya’s face scrunches. “Hayden hates me.”

“He hates the Raiders. He loves Lily. He knows she makes me happy.” He kisses him.

Ilya leans their foreheads together. “I make you happy?”

“Yes, baby,” Shane says, cupping Ilya’s face in his hands. “You make me happier than I’ve ever been before.”

Ilya’s eyes flutter shut. He sinks into the feeling of Shane’s hands on him holding him. “Okay. I will have dinner with them. Maybe I host? Cook goose.”

“I've never had goose before.” He can hear the smile in Shane’s voice.

“My Mama had recipe for roast goose,” he says, remembering the creased, delicate notecard he’d saved from his father’s need to purge their house of memories of his mother. “With potatoes and vegetables.” He swallows. Why does the idea of sharing Irina’s recipes with his soulmate—why does it stick like a lump in his throat? “Is beautiful.”

“That sounds awesome.” Shane kisses him. He wraps his arms around the other man, holds him close.

Eventually, the girls are ready to rejoin them. They definitely fucked on Shane’s desk—Ilya is intimately familiar with how Svetlana looks and acts post-orgasm—and they don’t stop touching each other, exchanging small kisses, for the whole night. Ilya finds himself snuggling close to Shane on the couch, insisting on sharing his space.

“We could go to games together,” Rose says, addressing the group but looking at Svetlana. “It wouldn’t be suspicious, since the boys are friends. We can say we met through them, and now we’re friends, too.”

“Mmhm.” Svetlana hums, kissing the tip of Rose’s nose. Ilya wonders if he and Shane look like that, besotted. “I like this plan,” Svetlana says to Rose’s eyes. They’re green, a sharp contrast to Svetlana’s warm brown ones, like the way Ilya’s blue eyes contrast Shane’s.

And thinking about his own eyes always makes Ilya think of his mother’s gold-brown eyes, the way they shone in the sunlight. The way they were so unlike the cold grey steel of his father’s. He won’t hurt Shane, the way Gregori had hurt Irina. He can’t. He’s not capable of—

He’s not capable of it.

He isn’t.

“Ilyusha?” Svetlana’s voice pulls him out of the hole he was rapidly sinking into.

Shane squeezes his hand. “You okay, baby?”

Ilya nods. “Yes, sorry. I… what is phrase? Zoomed out.”

“Zoned out,” Shane says with a kiss to his cheek.

“Mm. What were we talking about?” He looks at Svetlana and knows she knows he was in that dark place his mind sometimes reaches, where he can’t convince himself of his own worth. She’s seen him in that place before, but he thinks maybe Shane hasn’t learned to recognize it. Hopefully, he never will.

Chapter 27: the execution

Chapter Summary

i hope it's clear who's texting whom. if it's not, tell me and i'll do some edits. Love y'all <3

Chapter 28: lunch with david and yuna

Shane’s terrible Range Rover pulls into a sparsely populated parking lot outside what he has described as Yuna Hollander’s favorite restaurant. Ilya keeps telling himself that he and Shane are friends, publicly. Reporters ask Shane about him, he says, Rozanov is super fun to play against. They ask Ilya about Shane, he says, I love that guy, but I’m going to kick his ass. No one will suspect that the two of them are anything but friends, just because they are having lunch with Shane’s parents.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks, turning off the engine.

“Da. Yes. Just... I am fine.”

The thing is: that’s not actually what Ilya is worried about, people looking at them. Everyone thinks Svetlana is his soulmate, that Shane is dating Rose Landry. It is safe, to go inside and sit at a table with Shane’s parents.

But—

Shane’s parents. The people he is closest to in the entire world. The people who ask after Lily, who have wanted to meet her for so long. The people responsible for how kind Shane is, how gentle, how responsible and loving and passionate.

Shane touches his hand. “It's okay if you're not fine. We can leave.”

Ilya looks at him. “You are having lunch with your parents.”

He shrugs. “I know, but we don't have to do anything you don't want. Hell, you could take the car and I could tell them something came up.”

“I love you,” Ilya says because he can’t help it. The words are summoned, unbidden.

Shane kisses his cheek. “I love you, too. Do you want to go?”

He shakes his head “No. No, I... do you think they will like me?”

“Like you?” There is laughter in Shane’s voice. “Of course they'll like you. They already like you.”

“They like Lily.”

He squeezes his hand. “You are Lily. I never lied to them about anything. I even told them you play hockey, that you're good at it. Ilya, baby: You don't have to worry about that. I promise.”

Parents don't like him. Fathers don't like him on principle. They can tell he is not good enough, like his father knows. Mothers see him and see a threat to their daughters, the peace in their homes. The only mother to ever like him was his own, and she was taken from him before he learned why.

"Okay," he says, taking another deep breath. "Okay, we can go."

"You sure?" Shane touches his hand. "I'm serious: we don't have to."

Ilya nods. "Yes, I am sure."

The restaurant is nice. No one looks at them as they enter, despite being famous hockey players in a Canadian town. Shane waves at someone and Ilya's eyes land on Yuna Hollander and her husband. They wave back, and Yuna must see Ilya because her smile falls. Mother do not like him.

Mr. Hollander stands first, and hugs Shane. He turns to Ilya, surprise in his eyes, on his brows. Shane turns so the two of them can shake hands. "Dad, mom, this is Ilya Rozanov."

"David," David Hollander says. He has strong handshake, good posture, carries himself like someone important. Ilya wonders if he is important, besides being Shane's father. He works for the treasury, but he’s not A Treasurer, is he? He should really learn how the Canadian government works.

"Mr. Rozanov," Yuna Hollander says, extending her hand. Her handshake is also strong, her eyes severe. Mr. Rozanov. Not something you call your future son-in-law.
Because that is not what Ilya is.

"Very nice to meet you both," Ilya murmurs, hunching his shoulders, trying to be smaller.
Shane pulls his chair out for him like gentleman. "I'm really excited for you guys to meet Ilya," he says. "I'm sorry it took so long. The situation is kind of complicated."

"I have a colleague from Russia," David says. "He says the situation re: Queer Rights back home is quite tense." He is saying these things like he already knew Ilya was Russian, like it is natural to think about. "When Shane said the two of you needed to work things out, I was afraid you were married."

Ilya finds himself smiling. "No, not yet." Shane touches his thigh under the table.

"I'm glad you feel safe enough to meet up with us like this," David says.

"Shane and I are friends," Ilya says. "Rivalry is not about hating each other, just fighting over who is best. He will realize he is losing soon enough."

Shane sighs and rolls his eyes. "You keep forgetting which of us has more Cup wins."

Ilya gestures like he is swatting a fly. "This is meaningless detail. You will not get any more."

"I'm gonna fight you in this restaurant." Shane picks up his menu.

"You would embarrass your mother like this? After everything she has done for you?" Ilya asks, focusing on Shane so he cannot see the way Yuna has narrowed her eyes, like she can see inside his soul.

"She's on my side," Shane says, gesturing to Yuna. Ilya forces himself to look at her.

Yuna smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling the same way Shane's do. "I was going to ask if maybe Shane had let you win once or twice, since he told us you two connected before your rookie season. But now I see I didn't have anything to worry about."

Shane makes an insulted noise. "Mom! Why would I ever—would you let dad win at cards?"

"I would rather die," Yuna says, all mirth gone from her face for a moment.

David smiles at his wife, his soulmate, like she is the best thing that has ever happened to him. Ilya thinks he can relate.

Their waiter materializes in the next moment. "Can I get us started with anything to drink?"

David shows him the wine menu, pointing to something Ilya has never heard of. Maybe David is a wine guy. Shane had said he was the one who cooked for the family growing up; maybe he and Ilya could talk about food, something to bond over.

"Four glasses?" The waiter asks the table.

"Could I have a ginger ale?" Shane asks. Yuna teases him about how one glass of wine will not kill him. Ilya feels himself smile, one side of his mouth rising higher than the other.

"We don't have that," the waiter says, sounding too dismissive for Ilya's liking. He tries not to glare. "Sparkling water?"

"Uh, sure," Shane says, then looks back at the menu. He can't try something new now, without his safe drink to ground him. "What vodkas do you have in stock?" The waiter raises an eyebrow—rude—but tells him they have two: one is Canadian bullshit, but the other is good brand. Shane looks at Ilya. "That's one of the ones you like, right?"

Ilya nods, tells the waiter he'd like two fingers, on ice. David asks him about vodka, asks if the brand he usually gets is good or if he just likes it—Ilya says it is, that he has discerning taste.

"New vocab word," Shane teases.

When the waiter brings their drinks, Ilya can tell Shane is disappointed in his sparkling water. It surprises him how much he doesn't like that, how important it has become to him that Shane has his safe drink. They order their food. Shane gets salmon risotto. Ilya gets skirt steak, baked potato, roasted brussels sprouts.

"Stupid that they do not have ginger ale," Ilya says when the waiter is out of earshot. "Lie to say it is full bar."

Shane chuckles. "Lots of places don't have it, Ilya."

"Lots of places are stupid and lying to their customers. What if someone wants Dark and Stormy?"

"That's ginger beer, not ginger ale," David points out.

"Ale is beer," Ilya says. He glances at Shane. Is he getting a word wrong?

"I think there's different processes, when it's actually alcohol," Shane says. "But dad's right—ginger ale and ginger beer are super different. Ginger beer's sharper, less sweet." Ilya hums. "Why do you even know what's in a Dark and Stormy? You don't drink rum."

“Because I go to bars with people, Shane. I know what is in Sex on The Beach, too.”

Shane blinks. “Excuse me?”

Yuna laughs. “It’s a cocktail, Shane.”

His face scrunches. “Why would they call it that?” Ilya can’t help but laugh.

“Because it’s tropical and fun,” Yuna says, which makes Shane wince, but David look over at her fondly, as if remembering something specific.

Ilya adds, just to see the way Shane turns pink: “And you shouldn’t have it too often, or else you will end up with sand in your bits.”

Pink Shane groans, shakes his head. “Please don’t talk about bits with my mother.”

Yuna laughs again. Ilya leans over and stage whispers to Shane, “Yuna thinks I am funny, moy pomidor. Don’t ruin this for me.”

“Stop calling me a tomato,” Shane shoots back, turning a dark shade of pink.

“Stop turning red then, moy lyubimyy granat.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “What if we talk about something else?”

“You got invited to Wimbledon,” Yuna says. “You and a guest, in the VIP box.”

“We could all go this summer, for a couple weeks maybe,” David adds.

All, he says, so casually, like Ilya is already a part of their family, already someone to bring with on family vacations. Yuna explains that appearing at Wimbledon would be a good opportunity for Shane to network, and that the tickets are being offered by one of his bigger sponsors. Shane is frowning.

“Ilya and I usually spend the last part of July together,” he explains. “At the cottage.”

Yuna nods. “This would be in June.”

Shane looks at Ilya. He swallows. “I don’t have to come with you,” he says.

“Will you be busy in June?” David asks, a tinge of sadness in his voice.

Ilya nods. “I visit with my family in Moscow between the end of the season and seeing Shane. I go every year.”

“Well, if you’ll already be in Europe, you could take a couple days and come down to England while we’re there,” David says. “And maybe you could bring your folks with you.”

“We’d love to meet them.” Yuna smiles.

Ilya wants to cry. Shane touches his thigh under the table. Ilya thinks of when Shane had jumped right in to rescuing his mother, taking her away from his father and reuniting her with her soulmate, a woman whom Ilya never met and never will.

He smiles, and he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. “My family is in a difficult place right now. My father is sick, and does not travel. And my brother and I do not get along. It is wonderful of you to offer to meet them, to vacation together, but I do not think it is possible.”

“If we do go to England,” Shane says. “You could maybe come down for a weekend, if you needed a break. It would be easier than coming to Ottawa in the middle, right?”
Ilya puts his hand over Shane’s, the tablecloth brushing their wrists. “Maybe.”

“Think about it,” Yuna says.

“It’s good of you to go home to help out when you can,” David says. “I hope they appreciate it.”

“They don’t,” Shane says sharply.

“Shane—”

“They don’t, and it’s so annoying.” He huffs. “I’m not gonna talk about it because I’ll get made, but they don’t appreciate anything Ilya does for them, and all the money he sends them—” he takes a deep breath. “I don’t wanna get mad.”

David reaches over and pats Shane’s shoulder. He nods at his father, an unspoken exchange between the two of them.

“You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, Ilya,” Yuna says, also reaching across the table to touch Ilya’s forearm. “But… how much of your income is going home?”

Ilya shrugs. “I pay for my father’s nurse, and help out with my brother’s family. He has a daughter. She’s very young.”

“That isn’t the answer to my question, sweetheart,” Yuna says. “I’m not sure who handles your management—what sponsorships have you acquired?”

“Yuna, don’t go into momager mode,” David says, only half teasing.

Ilya shrugs. “I have CCM, and Adidas.”

Yuna pauses; she’s waiting for Ilya to continue, but that’s it. “That’s it?” He nods. “Send me your firm’s information. They’re wasting a lot of opportunity with someone like you in their stable—have you done anything with Dunkin’? It’s practically tradition for Boston athletes, and I know they love there.” She fishes in her purse for her phone. Their food arrives as Ilya is putting his number into it. Yuna goes on, suggesting he create a second bank account where his sponsorship money is sequestered, that he look into an investment portfolio.

“Are there any brands or products you’re already passionate about?” Yuna asks between bites of her shrimp scampi.

Ilya, feeling a little overwhelmed, glances at Shane, who only smiles. “Um… maybe Grillo’s?”

“The pickles?” Yuna asks. Ilya nods. “I think I know someone who knows someone. I’ll email your people.”

“You know,” Shane adds. “There are probably American or Canadian vodka brands who would really appreciate a Russian brand ambassador. Could be legitimizing for them.”

Ilya can’t immediately think of a non-Russian brand that he would feel good about representing, but it is a good thought. The conversation devolves into chatting about vodka, about wine. Yuna lets them talk for a bit while she types on her phone. Twenty minutes later, Ilya has a video call scheduled to talk to someone from Grillo’s.

"Excuse me," a small voice says as they walk toward the door after Ilya insists on paying. Ilya turns. There is a young Asian girl standing there, a scrap of paper in her hands. Ilya reaches over and grabs Shane, who hadn't heard. "Hi," the girl squeaks at them. "Are you—you're Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov?" She nods to each of them in turn.

"That's right," Shane says. He is stiff, like he's nervous, but he smiles at her anyway.

"Mmhm," Ilya nods. He looks at the paper in her hand. "Ah, she recognizes greatness, Shane. You have pen?" Shane reaches into his inside jacket pocket and withdraws a pen, clicks it. Ilya takes the pen, then the girl's paper when she extends it wordlessly. "You only want my autograph, yes? Not nobody's like Hollander."

"She literally recognized both of us," Shane grumbles. The girl giggles.

"You are recognizable when I am here. What is your name, young lady?"

"Manami," she says, and spells it for Ilya. He goes to hand the paper back and Shane snatches it. She laughs again.

"You're Japanese, Manami?" Shane asks as he signs, apparently recognizing the name as such.

"My mom is," she explains. "But my dad's French Canadian." Shane beams at her, tells her they are the same. The three of them chat for a few moments. Manami plays hockey for her school. She wanted to play defense, but isn't big enough.

"Forward is better," Ilya says. "More goals, more glory."

"You could always bulk up later, too," Shane encourages. "Lots of kids switch over when they get older."

Eventually, Manami's father comes looking for her. He is one of the widest men Ilya has ever seen—Manami should have no problem bulking up for defense position. He shakes both their hands. The four of them take a picture together, and Shane and Ilya join a smiling David and Yuna Hollander at the door.

“You know what I’m craving,” David says as they walk through the parking lot. “Butter pecan on a waffle cone.” Yuna makes an excited noise.

Shane looks at Ilya. “You feel like ice cream?”

Ilya does feel like ice cream. The four of them walk a few blocks and down a hill to where a little blue food truck is parked near a set of picnic tables. The grandma working the register is very patient as Ilya tries nine of the twelve flavors they’re offering, including butter pecan, which is good, but Ilya prefers the cookies and cream. Yuna gets mint chip—also good, but Ilya associated mint too closely with mint lamb and mint jelly to like it in dessert—and Shane has some of Ilya’s.

“You’re sure you don’t want some?” Yuna asks. “Sometimes I worry that you aren’t letting yourself enjoy things.”

“I’m not a big sweets guy,” he says. “I had ricotta ice cream at a place in New York once, and it was really good. Plus, ricotta has a lot of protein.”

“Cheese ice cream,” Ilya says quietly. He looks over at Yuna and David, who both laugh at his incredulous expression.

“They’re both dairy,” Shane says like that explains everything. Ilya shakes his head and thinks I can’t believe I love this man.

Chapter 29: one of the girls

Chapter 30: detectives

Chapter Summary

today i showed my students a sentence that i consider my favorite sentence in all of western literature and they said ewwwwwww tomato tomato tomato so please have a silly one to cheer myself up

Chapter 31: all stars tampa bay I

Chapter Summary

hellooooooooooooooooo did you miss me? i missed youuuuuuuuuuuu

Tampa is hot and wet, and the back of Ilya’s shirt is sticking to his back as he rocks up to the cabana bar at the resort that is hosting the Allstars’ teams. He recognizes the man right away. He’s seen him at games in New York, and a few in Boston when the Admirals are visiting. He appears at Scott Hunter’s side during the MLH awards, at charity events. People online joke that he must be one of the Admirals’ support staff, one of their social media people or a trainer, the way he seems glued to the team at all times. And now here he is, at a bar in Tampa, sipping something frozen, with a chunk of pineapple sticking out of its hurricane glass. Scott Hunter’s soulmate.

Ilya approaches cautiously, like he might scare the other man off. He wonders if people have been giving him shit, the way he knows Hunter has been getting from other players, idiots online who think Hunter is less of a man for being destined to be in a gay relationship, or accusing his soulmate of using him for the glamorous lifestyle. Hunter still hasn’t made any kind of public statement; this man just appeared one day, already slotted into his life, and the rest of them had to deal with it. Ilya admires the bravery of it.

“You are Scott Hunter’s soulmate,” Ilya says, climbing onto a barstool next to the man. He’s quite handsome: dark eyes and hair, square jaw, and bouncy curls that contribute to a kind of playful, fun aura. He’s the kind of man Ilya would maybe want to hook up with, back when he was still hooking up with people.

The man blinks at him. “Um… yeah. I’m Kip.” He holds a hand out for a shake.

Ilya takes it; figures a man willing to be publicly with his famous hockey player soulmate would have a strong handshake—balls of steel, will of iron. “Ilya,” he says.

Kip tilts his head to one side. “Rozanov, right? You play for Boston.”

Ilya nods. “You are here with Hunter for All-Stars Weekend?” Kip nods. “Must be nice, yes? Famous hockey boyfriend takes you on vacations.”

Kip looks at him for a moment, eyes scanning like he’s trying to read Ilya’s motivation on his face. “Um... yeah, it is nice. Sorry, I couldn't tell if you were giving me shit or not.”

Fuck. Ilya had meant what he said genuinely. Hm… “Ah, yes. I am more blunt in English than I mean to be. Is stupid language, no nuance. Or... lots of nuance, in wrong places.”

Kip chuckles. “Oh, for sure. As someone who's had to write two thesis papers in English: you're 100% right.”

“Two?” Ilya had not gone to college, but he’d been under the impression that a thesis was something for the end of your degree, a big project to tie it all together.

“One for undergrad and one for my master's,” Kip explains. “I'm starting my doctoral program soon, too.”

“Congratulations,” Ilya says with a smile, trying to appear as friendly as possible without getting weird. “And congrats to Scutt Hunter for Dr. Boyfriend.”

Kip laughs again. He seems like a man who laughs easily. “Thanks. But yeah, I guess one of the perks of having a soulmate who travels for work is getting to come with sometimes.” He sips his colorful drink. If Ilya didn’t know just by looking at it that that thing would put him on his ass if he finished a whole one, he might order one himself. He needs to not get too turnt before he meets up with Shane.

Ilya nods. “Mm. Sometimes I think I will be the same one day.”

“The same?”

Ilya swallows. He considers making a joke and then promptly exiting the bar. “My soulmate... Jane. Plays hockey, too. And I think I will retire first, mostly because he will play for 100 years, and I will be bored before then.” On his last sentence, he preens. “I will make excellent WAG.”

Kip frowns. “Wouldn't you be a... HAB? Husbands and boyfriends?”

He shakes his head. “Maybe you can be HAB, but I am a wife and a girlfriend.”

Kip nods like Ilya is a brilliant sage who has just dispensed incredible wisdom. “Ahhh. I've heard some people say PASO: Partners and Significant others. The Admirals’ partners groupchat is called WAGAK: Wives and Girlfriends and Kip, since I’m the only man.”

“They are good to you, then? The team?” Ilya asks, thinking about Marly and Cons and St. Vic, the way they all want to meet Jane. Would they still want his partner to be a part of their lives if they knew she was really Shane?

Kip nods, something shifting in his eyes. “Yeah, they’re chill. There are one or two guys who were apprehensive at first, but I think Scott and I being soulmates softens the blow a bit: it’s preordained for us to be together, there’s no reason for us not to be. My dad says it’s a sign the world is becoming a friendlier place, if even a bunch of macho hockey guys can admit the stars know what they’re talking about.”

“Good. I’m glad. Is a little… scary. But good.”

Kip winces. “Sorry.”

Ilya has to stop himself from saying no more sorry. “For what?” Is Kip also Canadian? Why apologize for something that isn’t his fault?

“That it's scary. Like, it's scary for me, and I'm not from...” He makes a vague gesture, wincing again.

“Country where it is illegal to be... HAB?” Ilya says.

Kips nods. “Yeah.”

He shrugs. The bartender seems to finally notice he doesn’t have a drink and saunters over, towel on his shoulder. Ilya orders a Corona. After the tall, suntanned man hands over the cold bottle, Ilya says to Kip, “Is also scary because hockey. I'm sure you know what they are calling Hunter on the ice.”

Kip shifts on his bar stool. He pushes his drink away like he needs to sober up for this conversation. “What?”

Uh oh. “Ah, maybe this is something for him to tell you.”

“What is it, though? People have been giving him shit?”

Ilya scrunches his face, feeling like he’s about to get in trouble, or get Hunter in trouble. “Yes. No one on the Raiders, because they know I don't tolerate that shit on my team, but other teams are full of weak babies who think playing against gay man says something about their own masculinity, and so they lash out. Is stupid, but is happening. I know Troy Barett, in Toronto, was fined for it. Is getting worse, now that New York is on win streak.”

“Fuck,” Kip breathes. “He didn't tell me.”

“Probably does not want you to worry,” Ilya suggests, gently.

Kip rolls his eyes. “I hate when he does that shit. Like, why are you deciding when I'm allowed to have an emotion?”

Ilya nods, sighs. “I do the same thing to Jane. I do not want her to hurt on my behalf.”

Kip is only half talking to Ilya when he replies. “But we're a team. We're supposed to be sharing the hurt.”

Ilya thinks for a moment. He wonders what he would want Shane to say, if he were here, talking about Ilya’s behavior. And it is Ilya’s behavior: hiding the way he hurts. It’s something Shane has tried to gently coax him out of throughout their entire relationship, the way Shane is always trying to coax him into being something better than what he is. “If Hunter is anything like me,” he starts, voice gentle. “He does not want you to hurt ever, but know he only has control over the hurt he shares. So, he keeps it to himself.”

Kip scoffs, taking a sip of his drink. “Well, that's bullshit.” He says it easily, like the solution to the problem is as simple as realizing there is a problem. “And I'm saying that to you, too.” He pokes Ilya’s chest, and Ilya is so surprised by the casual trust of the gesture that he laughs. “That's bullshit.” Kip repeats.

He shakes his head. “You sound like Jane. You are both very smart.”

Kip’s smile is genuine. “Do you and Jane have dinner plans? Scott and I were gonna get sushi.”

“Ah, maybe.” He feels the pang of it like a knife through his chest. Maybe, meaning no. Maybe meaning sitting and enjoying a meal with the love of my life is something I have to do in private. He swallows. “I would have to ask her.” And Shane will say no, because he is sensible.

Kip frowns. “The place we're going is really private. If that’s the thing you’re worried about, I mean.”

Ilya nods. He texts Shane. When he looks up, Scott Hunter is walking through the bar. He stops to greet a few guys Ilya recognizes. Something shifts in him when he spots Ilya, however. Ilya can see Hunter sixing him up, eyes flicking from him to Kip and back again. Ilya recognizes the protective glint in his eye. He smiles, trying to appear friendly and not like an asshole who might taunt Hunter’s soulmate.

Kip turns like he can sense Hunter coming. “Hey!”

“Hi, sweetheart.” Scott presses a kiss to Kip’s temple. His eyes flick to Ilya. “Rozanov.”

He smiles his best, most harmless smile. “Hi.”

Kip explains like Ilya and his boyfriend are not having a telepathic boxing match: “I was just telling Ilya that I think it would be fun for him and his soulmate Jane to join us for sushi.”

Hunter looks surprised for a moment. He looks at Ilya. “Jane?” He must’ve heard the rumors about Ilya and Rose Landry—or else, Ilya and the enigmatic Lambo Lady, as the Metros WAGs have begun calling Sveta.

Instead of explaining, Ilya just nods. “Mm. I am texting now.” He looks down at his phone, where the typing bubbles are doing their little dance at the bottom of his and Shane’s text thread.

Hunter hums curiously. “I actually invited Vaugnie and Gloria too, so that should be fine.” Ilya doesn’t know Carter Vaughn well, but he doesn’t strike him as the sort of person to out someone on purpose, or be an asshole generally. Still, the thought of inviting more people into their tiny circle makes the hair on the back of Ilya’s neck stand on end.

As if sensing Ilya’s apprenhension, Kip says: “They're chill.”

I'm good with that if you are, Shane texts. What sushi place?

Ilya takes a deep breath. “What is the name of the restaurant? Jane can meet us there.”

The six of them crowd into a private booth at the back of an upscale sushi restaurant and order two of those little wooden boats of sushi, several plates of nigiri, and a tasting menu of tiny mocktails and cocktails. Shane talks at length about salmon and protein and macros. Carter Vaughn’s soulmate is a professional bodybuilder, and the two of them get into a long discussion about athletic diets, and the benefits of making one’s own protein powder instead of buying a supplement. Ilya talks more with Kip, asks him about his art history degree. He tries his best not to start crying.

He doesn’t even know why he would cry. This isn’t upsetting. He isn’t sad. He’s sitting with his soulmate, the love of his life, and talking with new friends. It shouldn’t make him cry. He ends up patting his eyes dry in the bathroom anyway.

The door swings open behind him, and he looks up at the mirror, terrified for a moment that it’s Shane coming in to check on him. He would rather a stranger see him losing his mind for no reason than his beautiful Shanya, the light of his life. He couldn’t let the other man think that he wasn’t enough, that Ilya still isn’t happy even though they are together, even though they love each other.

But none of that is relevant, because it’s Kip who’s standing in the doorway, his brow pinched in concern. He moves into the bathroom proper, and moves the trash can in front of it before he even says anything.

Ilya finishes wiping his eyes. Kip puts a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

He nods. “Fine. It is stupid—I don’t know why I’m…” He gestures vaguely at his own head, like that will explain everything: my brain is bad at being a brain.

“Do you wanna talk about anything?” Kip asks, voice so incredibly earnest it makes Ilya want to bolt out of this bathroom, out of this restaurant, out of Florida entirely.

He swallows, nails digging into his palm as his fist clenches. He doesn’t know why affection makes him want to run away so badly. This man is only showing him kindness, compassion, because Ilya is a person just like he is. Why is that so frightening? Why does it feel so wrong to let him do it?

Ilya shakes his head. “I am okay. I just—overhwhlemed, I think.” He looks at the door, at the shiny metal top of the trashcan blocking the way for anyone who might interrupt them. It’s such a tiny gesture, but the face that Kip even thought to ensure they had privacy for this conversation makes waves rise in Ilya’s chest, water crashing down around his heart and threatening to drown him. “Jane and I do not get to spend time together, with other people, very often.”

Kip nods. “That really sucks, Ilya.” Kip isn’t pronouncing his name the way Americans and Canadians usually do: Ill-yuh, with the I sound like isn’t, internet, imminent. Instead, he’s mimicking the way Ilya himself says it: Eel-ya, just like the fish. Are eels fish or something else? Probably someone in this seafood palace knows.

Ilya nods back. “It really does. Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Why would you be sorry?” Kip interrupts. “You shouldn’t apologize for having emotions, it’s bad for you.”

Bad for you, like going out in winter without a hat.

Kip squeezes his shoulder. “I hope you’re able to get to a place soon where you and Shane can be open about things,” he says. “I’m sorry that’s not right now.”

“Thank you,” Ilya rasps. He can feel his eyes start to water again and swipes at them with his wrists. “Fuck.”

“Here.” Kip rips a paper towel from the holder, then wets it with ice-cold water. “I learned this trick as catering waiter. Close your eyes.” He presses the cold towel to Ilya’s eye and counts out to fifteen, then gets a fresh, cold towel and repeats with the other eye.

“I’m sorry people made you cry at work,” Ilya says.

“It’s alright.” He smiles. “The universe has given me a rich soulmate who hates it when I’m working instead of texting him.”

Ilya chuckles. “That is real karma: get screamed at by enough socialites at fancy parties and you unlock the right to life as a househusband.”

“That’s certainly how it should work.” Kip tosses the paper towels in the trash.

Ilya checks himself in the mirror again—his eyes are a little red, but he doesn’t really look like he’s been crying. “That is good trick. Thank you”

Kip shrugs. “I hope you don’t have to use it again any time soon.”

Chapter 32: all stars tampa bay II

Chapter Summary

me showing up to the loving yuna hollander competition and david AND shane hollander are already there????? nothing wrong with 3rd place

Shane

Ilya is definitely a little tipsy as they walk back to his room at the resort after dinner. It had been really nice to have a little date with friends like that; Shane thinks about dinner with the Pikes, and the times they’d spent a weekend with Rose and Svetlana—always in private, always hidden away in a house or an apartment. And he did appreciate the privacy of dinner and a movie at home or on Hayden’s couch, but being out in the daylight with Ilya, with new friends who knew them as a couple, made Shane’s heart ache. Lunch with Ilya and his parents sometimes gave him the same feeling; they so rarely got to see the sun together.

But yes, Ilya is a little tipsy. He’s walking along in front of Shane, humming a nonsense song under his breath and shimmying back and forth like he’s dancing to an imaginary soundtrack. He keeps looking over his shoulder to make sure Shane is still following him. Each time, Shane smiles and wishes the two of them could just hold hands walking down this stupid hallway—but an employee brushes past them with a stack of towels, doors open and close, other Allstars excitedly greet them, chirping about Shane babysitting his Alternate Captain for the weekend.

When they make it to Ilya’s room, Ilya barely lets the door close before he’s bundling Shane into a hug, nuzzling his face against Shane’s neck and wrapping his arms around Shane’s back like he’s trying to crawl into Shane’s skin. Shane giggles, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s neck. “Baby, I’m not going anywhere”

“You like me,” Ilya murmurs, breath puffing against the skin of Shane’s neck.

Shane feels his heart shattering into a million tiny, sharp pieces. “Yeah, I do,” he says, adjusting so his arms around slung around Ilya’s back. He rubs one hand in circles in the space between Ilya’s shoulder blades.

“You like me,” Ilya repeats, peppering kisses along Shane’s throat.

“Yes,” Shane says for lack of anything else to say. His chest is tightening like he might cry.

“You like me,” Ilya says again.

Shane moves one hand to his shoulder and pushes gently. Ilya whines, protests, but Shane eventually pries the two of them apart enough that he can look Ilya in the face. And it’s such a beautiful face: golden hair, sea-blue eyes, the bright wide of his teeth forming that dazzling smile. “Ilya.”

Those brilliant blue eyes flick up and down. “Shane,” he purrs, one hand moving down to cup one of Shane’s buttocks.

Shane moves Ilya’s hand back up to his waist and is not at all distracted by his puppy-dog eyes and pouty frown. “I think you should see a therapist.”

Ilya winces. Shane expects him to pull away, but he stays where he is, arms around Shane’s waist, their faces a breath apart. “I am okay, Shanya.”

Shane swallows. “No.” His voice cracks. He takes a breath, lets it out slow. “I... Ilya, I don't think you are.” His chest is constricting, throat tightening. He needs to get these words out before he breaks down crying or they’re never going to get anywhere. “Any time spent disliking yourself is bad.” Ilya sucks in a breath. Shane holds him a little tighter. “Not just not ideal: bad, Ilya. Not good. Completely undesirable.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, but he still doesn’t pull away. “Keep going, this is good vocab practice.”

Shane shakes him slightly. “Be serious.”

Ilya looks at him for a long time. His eyes are clear, sharp, even if he’s slack and relaxed from the rice wine at dinner. His eyes flick from Shane’s own down to his mouth and back again. “I love you,” he murmurs.

“I love you, too,” Shane replies automatically. “And I think you should talk to a professional. We'll find someone who speaks Russian, so you can express yourself the way you need to.”

Ilya winces but doesn’t say anything.

Shane kisses the side of his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the apple of his cheek. “Please,” he breathes against his skin. “Think about it.”

Ilya looks at him, embrace shifting so his hands are on Shane’s hips. He leans their foreheads together, eyes fluttering shut. “You think I am sick?”

Yes, Shane thinks. “I don't think being sick makes you bad,” he says. Ilya’s eyelids flutter like he can’t decide whether to open them or not. “And yes, I think you might be depressed.”

“Like my mother,” Ilya murmurs.

Shane’s arms snake around Ilya’s neck. The two of them hold each other for a few moments. “Well... it can be hereditary.” Ilya’s eyes open. Shane sees the confusion in them right away, the searching look he has when he doesn’t quite know what a word means. “Passed on,” he explains.”

Ilya nods. The two of them start to sway, dancing to music that isn’t there. “Is that scary for you?”

Shane shakes his head. “This isn't about me.” How he feels about it doesn’t matter, aside from being worried about Ilya.

Ilya sighs. “Please, Shanya. Is it scary?”

Shane swallows. He doesn’t want Ilya to think he’s afraid of him. “Yes. It's scary to think that you might be hurting, and that that hurt might take you.”

Ilya touches their foreheads together again. There are tears welling in the corners of his eyes. “Okay,” he breathes. “I will think about it.”

Shane kisses his forehead. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Ilya. That's all I ask. And... and that if you get sad, you'll call me.”

Ilya lets out an admirable attempt at a lighthearted chuckle. “We will be talking all the time.”

Shane shrugs. “Then we'll talk all the time. I love talking to you. I love you.” He swallows, kisses Ilya’s cheek again. “I don't want to lose you.”

Ilya’s voice is sharp when he answers: “You will not.”

“Thank you,” Shane sighs.

Ilya presses a kiss to his neck. “Can I make love to you, Shanya? My solnechnko?” His teeth nip at Shane’s pulse. “My sunshine.”

“Yes,” Shane breathes, moving forward slightly so their bodies are pressed together. “Wanna make you feel good.” They move against each other, hips grinding together, cocks hardening in their shorts.

Ilya moans as Shane pivots them toward the bed, moving the two of them until the back of Ilya’s legs hit the bed. He falls back with a slight bounce, arms falling to his sides, his legs spread and cock straining against the ridiculously short khaki shorts he’s wearing. “Take me,” he breathes. “Do whatever you want to me, dorogoy.”

The husky rasp to his voice makes the hairs on the back of Shane neck stand on end. Ilya is lying there, spread out for him like fucking feast, waiting for Shane to dive in. He swallows, steps forward and runs his hands over Ilya’s clothed chest, his abdomen. Slowly, he undresses his boyfriend, taking the time to fold all of Ilya’s clothes and pile them neatly on one of the rattan chairs in the room’s little sitting area.

Ilya’s pupils are blown wide when Shane looks back at him. His cock is heavy and flushed against his thigh, the very tip glistening with pre-cum. Shane can’t help the way he stares at it, his mouth watering slightly. His own cock is straining against his shorts, but he doesn’t undress.

He approaches the bed slowly, eyes raking over Ilya’s form. “Anything I want?” Shane asks, head tilted to one side. Ilya swallows, nods. “Answer me,” Shane commands in Russian.

“Anything,” Ilya answers in the same. “Please, Shanya. Use me.”

Shane tries not to wince. “That is what you want, sweet thing? To be used?”

He nods vigorously. “Please. Want to be a thing for you. Just for your pleasure.”

Shane nods, an idea sparking to life at the back of his mind. “Mm. But I take care of my things, don’t I?” He steps between Ilya’s legs. Ilya blinks at him. Shane slides a hand under his shirt, pushing it up to his chest so the buttons strain against Ilya’s pecs. “Answer, darling,” Shane murmurs.

Ilya’s brow furrows like he isn’t sure what say. For a moment, Shane considers repeating himself in English, in case his Russian was incorrect. But then Ilya answers, “Yes, Shanya. You take care of your things.”

“And I’m going to take care of you.” He climbs onto the bed, straddling Ilya’s still-clothed waist. “My most precious possession.” He leans down and kisses the valley between Ilya’s pecs.

“Fuck, Shanya.” Ilya bucks his hips up.

Shane puts a hand on one hip to still him. “Be good, sweet thing.” He kisses Ilya’s chest again and again, chaste and close-mouthed, not licking or biting, just pressing his lips to patch after patch of his soulmate’s beautiful skin. Ilya sighs, hips moving minutely again. Shane pushes his shirt up above one nipple and kisses the pink bud. Ilya moans at the tiny touch. Shane kisses his other nipple and he shutters.

“My Ilyusha,” Shane murmurs against his skin. “My pretty thing, so responsive. So good for me.” He moves down, kissing Ilya’s abs the same way.

“Sh—Shanya,” Ilya moans.

“Hm?” Shane looks up, shifting so he can comfortably rest his chin against Ilya’s naval. He looks down at him, blue eyes wide and wet. “I’m going to take care of you, Ilyusha,” he says, tongue darting out to lick at Ilya’s belly button. “I promise.”

Ilya cries out, his hips bucking. Shane doesn’t hold him down, lets him rut against the air, his cock just barely touching Shane’s clothed chest. He continues, working his way down to Ilya’s hips, taking the time to kiss and lick and suck at the skin there. He sinks his teeth into taunt muscle, worrying a bruise into this place that’s both intimate and not, as Ilya’s cock bobs and cries for attention near Shane’s cheek.

Ilya babbles in Russia, praises Shane’s tongue, his hands, his teeth. “Dusha, please—I can’t—please touch m—” he cuts himself off in a cry when Shane pinches his thigh.

“Be good, sweet thing,” Shane murmurs.

Ilya runs a hand down his face, sweat beading on his forehead. “The things you fucking do to me.”

“Hm?” Shane hums, standing up straight again. “What things do I do, baby?”

Ilya chuckles, looking away. “Your Russian is getting very good.”

“Spasibo.” Shane smacks the side of Ilya’s thigh. “Now, answer my question.”

His soulmate looks at him, tears gathering in his waterline. “You make me feel so good, Shanya.”

Shane smiles. He leans down and presses a kiss to Ilya’s hip. He must’ve though he’d finally been going for his poor cock, because he swears like he’s been clotheslined. Still, he doesn’t grab at Shane, or demand he finally, finally, finally put Ilya’s cock in his mouth. “Good boy,” Shane murmurs. Ilya moans at that, hips buck again. She sinks down to his knees and looks up at Ilya through his lashes. “We haven’t done this before,” he says. Ilya’s brown furrows. “Tell me if it’s okay.” Blue eyes widen slightly when Shane cups his glutes, spreading them gently. He swipes his tongue over Ilya’s hole, and the other man lets his head fall back against the mattress, a groan punching itself out of his chest.

“Fuck, Shane. Yes, is okay.”

Shane moans in response, both at the knowledge that Ilya wants him to do this, and the salty, heady taste of Ilya on his tongue. He eats him out slowly, working his tongue in tiny circles, pushing against Ilya’s hole until he gives just enough to let the tip of his tongue in. He keeps Ilya spread with his thumbs, burying his face into the heat of him. Ilya moans and cries, probably too loudly for a hotel room, but Shane doesn’t have the heart to ask him to quiet down. He wants this man to shout himself hoarse, wants him to shake and cry and fall apart on his tongue.

Ilya arches, cries out. “Fuck,” he pants.

Shane sits up, alarmed. “Ilya?” It’s only when Shane sees the streaks of white decorating Ilya’s chest that he understands what’s happened. “Fuck,” he breathes. Ilya’s done this to him before, made him cum without once touching his cock directly—does it feel like this for him every time? He could live off this adrenaline rush for a week. “Holy shit, you’re perfect.”

Ilya chuckles. “I should not tease you when you cum untouched, Shanya. It is a little embarrassing.”

“Well, I’m glad this experience could inspire some empathy in you,” Shane says as he stands. Ilya looks up at him, loose and content. “You think you could go again?” He asks, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

“Yes,” Ilya breathes. His cock twitches against his stomach. “Yes.”

The next morning, he kisses Ilya goodbye and makes his way outside into the damp morning air. His dad picks up after two rings.

“How’s my All-Star doing?” He asks over the sound of a whisk in a metal bowl—scrambled eggs for breakfast in the Hollander household this morning.

Mom sounds far away when she calls out to him: “Hi Shane!”

“Hi mom.” He smiles despite neither of them being able to see him. “And I’m doing fine. How’re you two?”

“She says hi,” Dad relays. “We’re good! Excited to watch the skills competition later. Glad it’s in our time-zone this time. And I’m sorry we couldn’t make it in person with everything that’s going on.”

“No worries,” he says truthfully. “It’ll look the same on TV, I’m sure.” Dad chuckles. “But um… listen, Dad: can I ask you a question?”

The whisking stops. “This sounds serious. Should I grab mom from the other room?”

Shane takes a deep breath. “Um… it’s not serious—I mean, it’s not bad-serious.”

“Good-serious, then?” There’s the sound of shuffling movement on the other end.

Mom’s voice: “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine—I just—Dad, did you buy mom’s engagement ring before you proposed?”

There’s a clattering sound, and a splat. Shane can see it so clearly in his mind: Dad has dropped the whisk. He must be using his Bluetooth earpiece, because otherwise the phone would be on the kitchen floor too. He winces. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t you dare apologize!” Dad says, his voice just to one side of sharp. “You’re allowed to surprise your old man once in a while.”

“What happened?” Mom asks, sounding closer now. “Is something wrong?”

“No, love—everything’s alright,” Dad soothes. “I was just startled. Could you finish this up for me? I’m sure Shane will tell you when he’s ready, but I think this is a father-son talk.”

Shane tries not to laugh—he can see this clear as day, too: Mom’s fists on her hips, her hair swishing as she shakes her head. Yuna Hollander does not like being left out of conversations, especially where Shane is involved, even if he is a grown adult.

“Okay,” she says tightly. Shane can picture the way she folds her arms—both to register her annoyance with the situation and to hold herself back from following Dad as he moves through the house. The sliding glass door opens, closes. A thrush calls in the distance.

“Okay, got us some privacy,” Dad says. There’s a creak as he settles into one of the Adirondack chairs on the patio.

“Sorry, I guess I shouldn’t have sprung that on you,” Shane murmurs.

“No, no—you’re fine. To answer your question: no, I didn’t have a ring picked out when I asked your mother to marry me. I made an appointment with a jeweler for that same day, and we went together. You know she’s particular. I would never risk picking something she didn’t care for.”

Shane nods alone on the hotel patio. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Does Ilya wear jewelry? Besides his cross, I suppose.”

“Sometimes, when he wants to show off or make a statement. I think I wear more jewelry than he does…” he reaches up to touch the seed pearl necklace Ilya had gotten him, a present just because Ilya likes to give presents, just because he thought Shane would like it, would look pretty in it. “But what he does wear is usually gold, I think.”

“If you’re going to pick something out, that’s a good place to start. And you might want to research Russian engagement customs, if there’s anything specific. Do you know when you’re planning to pop the question?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet… I sort of only just now decided I wanted to ask. He um… he’s having a hard time, with Russia and his family and—and I want—” he’s surprised by the stinging in his eyes, the tightness in his throat. “And I want to keep him safe.”

“Of course,” Dad says quietly. “Have the two of you talked about getting married?”

“Sort of—we’ve talked about being together longterm, eventually playing on the same team or in the same place. Do you think we should have a more in-depth conversation before I ask?”

“That’s what your mother and I did,” he explains. “I didn’t like the idea that it was a foregone conclusion, just because we’re soulmates. And I knew your mother had plans for her future, and I didn’t want to assume that I was automatically apart of them.”

“Right.” Shane starts walking, not in any particular direction, just wandering down toward the beach. There are a few early-morning swimmers out, other people walking along the sand, at least one person heading back to the resort hung over and exhausted. “That makes sense. I… I know that Ilya wants to settle down, but I don’t know if he’d rather stay in Boston or move up to somewhere in Canada.”

“Would you move to Boston if he asked?”

“Of course.” It’s not even a question in his mind. “We could have a place built down there, or move into the house he lives in now. It’s a really nice place, actually.”

“I think you ought to say these things to him, son: ask what he envisions in his future, and tell him what you envision in yours. Once you know where you stand, it’ll be easier to plan out engagement stuff.”

Shane watches a sea gull sneak up on a woman holding a piece of fruit entirely too close to where seagulls could get to it. “That makes sense… I think… I don’t know, I think I had my heart set on getting him a ring right away: so he knows I’m serious.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that if you think you can pick something out that he’ll like. And your mother and I can help you with that part, too, if you need us.”

The seagull bravely absconds with the woman’s cubed cantaloupe; she lets out a whoop in surprise as it flies away with its ill-gotten goods. Shane can’t help but imagine it bringing the ripe fruit to its nest, presenting its mate and their children with its bounty. He doesn’t even know if seagulls mate for life; but maybe they do. “Thanks, dad. I um… I’ll have to do some thinking. Plan some stuff out—maybe I’ll propose in the summer, at the cottage.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea, Shane.” There’s another creak as he adjusts in the deck chair. “Your mother is looking at me through the glass door.”

Shane laughs. “You can tell her, I don’t mind. But—thank you, for having this talk just the two of us.”

“Of course! I’m your dad, this one’s for me,” he says, a jovial lilt in his voice. Shane laughs again. “Oh, mom’s moving away now… how long do you think she’ll wait for me?”

“Where were her hands?”

“Arms still folded,” Dad says. Extremely different from her hands being on her hips.

“Then I’d say you’ve got 10 or fifteen before she pokes her head out just to check on you,” Shane says.

“You’re probably right. I should go put her out of her misery.” He stands with a quiet groan.

“Have you bene doing those stretches I recommended?”

“Yes, sir,” he says in the same tone Shane uses to talk to Coach. “And my back has actually felt a lot better since I started, by the way.”

“Good.”

“Well—is there anything else you’d like to talk about while I have you?”

“No, I should head to breakfast.”

“Alright. Eat well, and go kick ass.”

“Yes, sir,” Shane mimics his cadence from before. “Love you.”

“Love you too, son.” He hangs up first.

Shane texts his mom: I’m fine, just needed to talk to Dad.

Half an hour later, he’s trying to decide if the little plastic thing the honey for his tea came should go in the resort’s recycling or trash when she texts him back: I found some articles on traditional Russian wedding and engagement customs. Emailing them now. I was just skimming, but a lot of what I read mentioned witnesses for the engagement itself. Your father and I will be more than happy to be there for the proposal if you would like. I’m so, so happy for you, baby.

He texts her back thanks and a string of heart emojis, then opens his email.

Chapter 33: Ilya gets the bad news

Chapter Summary

almost called this chapter "ding dong gregori is dead"

Shane

After poring through all of the info his mom sent him on Russian engagement and marriage traditions, Shane starts looking at rings. He also tells Hayden he wants to propose, and his best friend wraps him in a bear hug so fierce and so unenthusiastic that all the air rushes out of his lungs. He lets Shane examine his own wedding ring—silver with a black band of onyx running through it, something that Hayden could admire even though he couldn’t see color. Shane likes it, but it doesn’t seem like Ilya’s style.

He makes a Pinterest board, he asks every married person in his life for input and advice. He stops dead in front of every window display in every jewelry store he passes for weeks. Nothing feels right, nothing looks good enough to present to his soulmate, his fated one and only, to ask him to stay with him for the rest of their lives. Maybe there weren’t any metals or gemstones in the whole world that properly represented the swelling in his chest when he thought of Ilya. Maybe his feelings for this beautiful, kind, perfect man just couldn’t be captured by a jeweler’s hands.

He flies to Boston with the team, and asks to see a couple of his teammates’ wedding bands on the bus. This elicits a wave of Ohhhhh from all of them, like middle school kids who just found out their classmate has a crush.

“Why would you get her a men’s wedding band?” Comeau asks, even as he offers his left hand to Shane. His wedding band is thick and gold, with dark blue gemstones mounted on the sides. Shane knows his wife Andrea has blue eyes; that might be something to think about—brown gemstones, for Shane’s own eyes. Or pink, since it was Ilya’s favorite color. “That’s asking for trouble,” Comeau continues.

Shane shrugs. “She’s more butch,” he says. “And she doesn’t wear a lot of jewelry, so I’m just keeping my options open.”

“Here, Capitaine,” JJ says from the row in front of Shane. He’s kneeling in his seat, leaning over to show Shane his phone. “These are my maman and papa’s rings.” The picture is of two dark-skinned hands clasped together. Shane can tell it’s a photo of a framed photo, maybe from Mr. and Mrs. Boiziau’s wedding photos. Their rings are made of interlocking gold and silver designs. JJ shows him another photo, this one of both rings in a person’s hand. They fit together such that they could be one singular ring if the wearer desired.

“Wow,” Shane breathes. “That’s really cool, Jay.”

JJ nods. “I will send you information for their jeweler, eh? The company does a lot of custom work. Maybe that will work for you and your Lily.”

“Thanks JJ.” Shane smiles.

Next to him, Hayden nudges Shane with his elbow. “So happy for you, man,” he says quietly. There’s another ripple of teasing whoops, a couple of pointed questions about who this Lily is anyway. Dmitriev brings up the WAGs’ Svetlana theory again, and Shane just laughs and shakes his head.

Shane is extremely aware that they need to leave for their game Very Soon. He is also extremely aware that his boyfriend's arms are strong and warm and he can feel Ilya's heartbeat through his chest where he's laying on top of him. Ilya kisses the top of his head, and he wants to burrow into Ilya's ribcage, curl up inside him and stay forever.

Ilya's phone buzzes. Shane imagines people are wondering where he is, if he's coming to the rink early like all good captains should. He braces himself to be eased off Ilya's chest, for the other man to sigh and say they have to go. Instead, Ilya scoffs and sets the phone back down.

"Who is it?" Shane asks

"Fucking Alexei." Ilya rubs at his temple with one hand, like just the thought of talking to his brother gives him a headache. Shane lets himself be guided by impulse; he snatches the phone up and hits answer. "Shanya!" Ilya sits up, eyes wide.

Shane puts a hand on his chest, stopping him from reaching for the phone. "What the fuck do you want?" He demands in Russian. Ilya blinks, his eyes darkening the way they always do when Shane speaks Russian.

"Who the fuck are you?" Alexei spits. His voice isn't as deep as Ilya's, and there's something cold about his affect that Shane doesn't like. "Where is my brother?"

"Answer my question, piece of shit." Yes, he has been practicing swearing. Ilya lets himself fall back into the pillows, one hand on Shane's arm, fingers tracing abstract patterns on his skin.

"Whoever you are, put him on the fucking phone," Alexei sighs. There's a pause like he has to get himself together before he speaks again. "You play on that faggot hockey team of his?" Shane tries not to flinch. He knows what that word means, what it's analogous to in English. Does Alexei call Ilya that? "What, is he getting bent over in the showers? Too busy to talk to his own flesh and blood?"

Shane steels himself. "It's none of your business what he's doing. What, the check didn't clear this month? You need more drug money?" 'My brother is an addict', Ilya had told him one evening while they ate. 'I wish I could get him help, but instead I give him more money to waste on cocaine'.

"Fuck off!" Alexei roars so loud that Shane takes the phone away from his ear for a moment. "My father is fucking dead you rat-fucking cocksucker. Put him on the phone. Maybe he would answer if I let that bitch nurse call him like she wanted. He thinks he can send a stranger to take care of him, because he's a shit-swilling coward."
Shane swallows. He mutes the call. Ilya is looking at him with something like awe in his eyes.

"Ilyusha," he murmurs.

Ilya blinks. "What?"

He sets the phone down, takes a deep breath. He's never had to be the one to do this. He leans forward, presses a kiss to Ilya's cheek. "Baby, I'm so sorry. Alexei's calling because your father passed."

Ilya nods. He sits up, wordlessly takes the phone, unmutes it. "When?" He asks, waits for Alexei to answer. "Okay. Margarette knows the contact information for the funeral home." He rolls his eyes. "I did give it to you, asshole. You said you didn't need it because he wasn't going to die. I'm so fucking sorry I was prepared, made arrangements. Yes, arrangements! Talked to the funeral director, arranged for the flowers. Bought the space in the mausoleum so he can be with his parents. Fuck you, you weren't going to do it. I'm going to book my flight.” He scoffs, shakes his head. “Never fucking mind who it was! You think I don't have friends? You think because you don't care if I live or die, other people don't?” Shane does flinch at that. He needs to figure this ring shit the fuck out so he can get Ilya away from these people. “Go comfort your fucking daughter, Alexei." He jabs the end call button. Shane immediately crawls into his lap, wrapping his arms around his neck.

"I'm sorry, liubimyy," he murmurs, kisses his collarbone.

Ilya holds him back, presses a kiss to his forehead. "I'm a bad fucking person."

"What? No, you're not." Shane looks at him. "No, you're not, Ilya."

Ilya shakes his head. "Then why am I not sad that my father is gone? Why am I relieved?"

Shane kisses his forehead, brushes a curl over his ear. "Because he was cruel to you. Because you were managing his treatment from a continent away. Because now he's not suffering anymore."

A broken laugh breaks its way out of Ilya's throat. "I hope you are right, Shanya." He runs a hand down his face. "Fuck, we have a fucking game."

"You should call off," Shane says. Ilya shakes his head. "I'm not going to make you do anything, but I think you should call off."

Ilya sighs, lets his head thunk back against the headboard. "Fucking hell."

"I'm sorry I answered the phone," Shane says. He'd just finally wanted the chance to tell Alexei to fuck off, and now Ilya's day is ruined.

He shakes his head. "No more sorry, dusha. It's alright. I would have found out eventually anyway, and now I can start the work right away." He kisses Shane's cheek. "Thank you, for defending me to him. I don't... I don't think anyone has ever done that."

Shane feels like he's falling for a moment. "That's fucked up, Ilya.”

Ilya looks down, long lashes obscuring his eyes. “Mm.”

Shane cups his face in both hands. “You know that's fucked up, right?”

“Yes, I know.” His eyes are closed now. He puts a hand over one of Shane’s, like he just needs to touch more of him.

“Say it,” Shane orders.

Ilya opens his eyes, brow furrowing. “What?”

“Say it's fucked up,” he repeats. “You don't deserve to be treated that way.”

“I—” Ilya starts to pull away.

Shane moves his hands to Ilya’s shoulders, squeezes. “Ilya. Say it.”

Ilya swallows. He looks up at the ceiling, then back at Shane. “It's fucked up,” he recites. “I don't deserve to be treated that way.”

“No, you don't.” Shane kisses him, just a quick brushing of their lips.

Ilya leans their foreheads together, eyes closing again. “I wish—I wish the funeral didn't have to be in Moscow. I wish you could come with me.”

“I'm sorry I can't.” Shane can feel himself wanting to cry. He can’t do that right now, can’t crack while Ilya is already breaking.

Ilya smiles. “Thank you for not offering to come. I don't think I would be able to say no, if you asked outright.”

“I know,” he says because it’s true.

“Can Svetlana come?” Shane asks. Ilya hands are roaming Shane’s body, fingertips tracing little circles into his shoulders, his arms, his sides, but Shane can tell he’s listening. “I know she's in Montreal with Rose right now.”

Ilya nods. “I... I should ask.”

“Yes, you should.”

At that, Ilya withdraws his hands, and when he opens his eyes, there are tears forming on his waterline. “Fuck off, Hollander,” he laughs. It’s a small laugh, but genuine. He blinks, letting his tears fall.

Shane swipes at them with his thumbs. Ilya hums, leaning into his touch. “It's okay to ask for support when you need it.” Ilya rolls his eyes. “And you have people in your life who love you, and who want to help you and you should let them.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Do you want me to pack your suitcase while you book your flights?”

Ilya sighs. Shane can see him forcing himself to slide out from under his covers. He stands, stretches his back. “Yes, that would be...” he looks at Shane and puts a hand on his face. Shane kisses his palm. “That would be helpful, thank you.”

Shane nods. “Okay.” He slides out of bed and crouches to slide Ilya’s suitcase out from under his bed. He sets it on his bed, hearing Ilya sigh behind him. He starts murmuring in Russian, and it takes Shane a moment to realize he’s praying. Shane looks at him, and he’s holding his cross pendant. He finishes with a quiet amen, and smiles at Shane weakly before padding toward his bathroom.

Shane throws open the suitcase, then grabs his phone where it’s charging on Ilya’s nightstand.

“Theriault,” Coach answers gruffly. There’s noise in the background like Theriault is already at the rink.

"Hi, Coach. I’m sorry to do this at the last minute, but I won’t be able to play tonight."

Shane pictures the vein in his coach’s forehead throbbing. "Excuse me, Hollander?"

"My partner's father has died. It's sudden, and she's distraught. You know I wouldn't call out for anything less."

"Oh... well, alright. This once."

"This once." He nods even though he’s alone in an empty room. Theriault ends the call first. Shane texts the Metros group chat, saying he won’t be able to play. Then he texts Hayden and explains why.

That’s so fucked up, Hayden replies. Me and the boys will hold the fort while you’re gone, Cap.

Shane packs a few changes of clothes for Ilya, puts one of the black suits in his closet into a garment bag, neatly folds pairs of underwear and socks. Svetlana texts him, says she will be flying out to Moscow in the morning, thanks him for being there for Ilya. Shane thinks to text his parents, explain why they won’t be seeing him on the broadcast that evening.

Oh, how awful, Mom replies. Should we send flowers?

Ilya comes out of the bathroom, his eyes rimmed in red. He looks at Shane like he’s going to say something, but stops when his phone starts ringing in his hands. He looks at the screen, then at Shane, then back again before answering. “Yuna?”

Shane smiles to himself. Shane hadn’t replied fast enough, so Mom was going to the source.

Ilya starts crying again almost immediately. Shane walks over and wraps him in a hug, pressing their bodies together at every point of contact he can.

“Thank you,” Ilya says, voice wobbly. “No, you do not need to send flowers. Is not… what is word? Custom. There will be flowers, but is military funeral. Should not be very big, flashy.” Shane hears the sound of Mom’s voice. “I—yes, that would be… that would be very nice, thank you. No, I am okay. Shane is here, and my friend Svetlana is coming to Moscow with me. I know, but would not be safe.” Mom must’ve said something about Shane going to the funeral. “Yes, I probably return soon after. I texted my coach, but I have good record. Do not miss games. Will probably be fine.” He chuckles, the sound reverberating in Shane’s chest. “I am sure if it is problem, I will have the full force of Yuna Hollander’s wrath behind me. Thank you.”

They talk for a few minutes more, and Shane stays will his arms wrapped around Ilya. Ilya’s tears continue to fall. When he hangs up the phone, he tells Mom and Dad I love you, and Shane knows they say it back. Ilya hugs him back, kisses the side of his head. “Spasibo, Shanya.”

“Any time, Ilyusha.”

Chapter 34: The Funeral

Chapter Summary

I know the Russian diminutives Svetlana uses for Ilya aren't as poetic as I'm portraying them here, but I think we've established this is a pretty poetic universe we're living in.

Ilya

Lara comes up to him outside the banquet hall. It’s mid-afternoon and the sun is refusing to show itself from behind the clouds above them. He looks at her over his shoulder and then away, hoping to signal that he isn’t really in the mood to talk. She steps up beside him and retrieves a metal cigarette case from her bra. His sister-in-law is a severe woman with sharp eyes and hands practiced at smacking her elementary school students’ wrists with her ruler. She lights up and offers Ilya the case. He shakes his head.

She takes a drag, lets it out slow. “You are really quitting?”

He nods. “My soulmate doesn’t like it.”

She smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’ve met her, then? What is her name?”

“Jane,” he says. “She is Canadian.”

Lara frowns. “Hm. I always thought you would end up with a French super model or something ridiculous like that. You like her? This Jane?”

“I am in love with her.” The answer comes as easy as breathing.

Lara’s face sours like she smelled something rotten. “And she doesn’t come to your father’s funeral?”

Ilya takes a breath so he does not start screaming. No, his soulmate has not come to his father’s funeral, because it is illegal to be gay in this shithole country, and all of his relatives are circling Ilya like sharks ready to tear him apart and he actually doesn’t want the love his life witnessing that bullshit, okay?

She shakes her head, waves her words away along with a plume of cigarette smoke. “No, I am sorry. I should not have said that. You do not want her here, not while we are like this. At each other’s throats.” She takes another puff. “Your brother has been insufferable. I don’t know what his problem was with the nurse. He wasn’t going to take care of Gregori.”

“I’m sorry he is the way he is,” Ilya says like it’s his fault.

Lara looks at him for a long time. “I think you should cut him off.”

Ilya frowns. “What?”

“Don’t give him anymore money,” she says. “Fuck, don’t give any of them anything.” She stubs her cigarette out on the patio railing, tosses it into the grass. Ilya thinks of Shane, telling him not to litter. “You know, Alya’s teachers think she is a genius.”

“She is a genius,” he says. She will win Nobel Prize in Geology one day, if there is such a thing. If not, they will have to invent one for her.

Lara nods. “Does she talk to you about the rocks too? She is obsessed—reading about them, collecting, stacking them up. And the talking: endless lectures about layers and sediment and crystal formations. Never in my life did I ever think I would know so much about pebbles.”

“She tells me about them,” he says. Sometimes, Lara will give Alya her phone to facetime Ilya in Boston, and she will show him her collection. Once, he went to the Harvard Museum of Natural History specifically to buy her a geode from the gift shop, and it now sits pride of place on a shelf in her room, surrounded by crystals similar to it, labeled in Alya’s unsteady handwriting.

“They want to send her to a special school,” Lara continues. “I don’t know if I want her to go. It’s far away, and she is so little.”

“I would pay her tuition,” Ilya assures.

Lara shakes her head again. “I knew you would say that. But I am serious: do not give us any more money, Ilyusha. I think, if Alexei cannot afford the drugs, he will have to go sober, and things will be better.”

“You really think he would quit?” Ilya asks. He can hardly remember a version of his brother not puppeteered by his addiction, whose actions were not always colored by the eventual need for more coke.

Lara is quiet for a long stretch. Eventually, she sighs again. “I think… if I send my baby girl to school half a continent away, and she is not here to see her father go through withdrawal, it will be better. And I think if Alexei gets clean, he will be happier, and a better father, and Alya deserves that.”

“She does,” Ilya says. “I’m so happy she’s so talkative. I was very quiet as a child.”

For a split second, Lara looks like she wants to cry. Her expression schools itself back to a mask of neutrality. “Because you were scared? I don’t want her to be scared. She knows her papa is not well, that something is wrong. I don’t want her to find out.” She takes her cigarette case out again, flips it open, closes it, opens it again. “And your fucking father.” She crosses herself. “I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead, but fucking hell, if he had shouted at my little girl one more time.” She snaps the case closed more forcefully this time, like the blade of a guillotine coming down on its target.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Sorry that his father was the way he was, sorry that Alya was exposed to it, sorry that he hadn’t been there to protect her.

Lara fixes him with a glare so intense it straightens Ilya’s spine. “Don’t you dare apologize for getting out of here, away from these people. You deserved to have a good father too, and you deserve to be safe now that you are grown.” She turns back toward the banquet hall, toward the door that will lead them back to dinner with the family, with his father’s friends. “Don’t give anything more to them, Ilyusha. Please. Especially not that awful wife of his. The same age as Alexei, my God.” She rolls her eyes. “Did she help at all? With the funeral?”

Ilya shakes her head. Lara herself had made several phone calls on Ilya’s behalf while he was still traveling, and had taken care of the exit paperwork with his father’s nurse Margarette. Ilya could have taken care of those things on his own, but having her help had lifted some of the weight off his chest.

She scoffs. “Awful woman. I’m surprised she hasn’t already moved on to her next meal ticket.” She puts the cigarette case back in her bra, and holds a hand out to him. “Come. Let us face the storm together, hm?”

He nods, takes her hand, and the two of them walk into the building together.

Ilya is halfway through his entrée when Alexei starts making furtive faces at him, glancing around and gesturing as subtly as he can toward the bathrooms at the back of the room. Ilya is trying to eat his fucking potatoes, and listen to Alya tell him about the specific kind of stone she left at her grandfather’s final resting place, so that he will feel safe in a new place.

“Maybe I should take one with me when I go,” he tells her quietly. She’d asked her mama very politely if she could sit next to Uncle Ilya, and Lara had obliged without hesitation. Sveta had sat on her other side, and when asked what her favorite rock was, Sveta had pretended to think very hard before saying emeralds, which Alya had deemed acceptable.

“I have to go to lots of new places when I travel for games,” Ilya continues. Alya nods, her face lighting up. Ilya glances at Alexei, who looks away and then back again, his mouth pressed into an impatient line.

Ilya stoops and kisses Alya on the forehead. “I have to go talk to your papa for a bit, okay?”
Alya nods. Ilya stands, and Sveta makes eye contact with him. He nods, mouthing I’m okay. She doesn’t follow them when Alexei hurries after him.

There is a beaded curtain separating the little hallway with the bathrooms from the rest of the dining room, and they swish and clack together as Alexei crowds into Ilya’s space.

“Tell me what the fucking plan is,” he demands.

Jesus Christ, the man died two fucking seconds ago, can he breathe? Can he live? “Lara wants you to go to rehab.”

“Fuck what Lara wants!” Alexei practically spits. He’s close to Ilya’s face now, and he can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“How fucking dare you?” Ilya keeps his voice down, hissing through his teeth. “That is your fucking wife! Mother of your child. And she wants you to get clean, to get healthier, so you can be there for Alya.”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” Alex shoves him, his back hitting the wall behind him.
Ilya wants to shove back, to hit him as hard as he fucking can. “As long as you are living off of my money, I will talk to you however I want!” He takes a breath so he doesn’t start shouting. They shouldn’t be having this fucking conversation here, where people could witness it, but his brother has done what he’s always done and forced his hand.

He walks forward, not stopping until Alexei is forced against the far wall, his back hitting it with a soft thud. “You want to know the plan? This is the fucking plan: I will pay for Alya to go to special school for geniuses. I will pay for you to go to rehab for a year, and my apartment is yours after that. You’re going to get your shit together, and you’re not going to fucking bother me.” He takes half step back, intending to go back to the meal.

Alexei grabs his arm, fingers digging in through the fabric of his turtleneck. “Don’t walk away from me you fucking—”

The beads clatter softly together. Ilya turns to see Sveta standing in the doorway, eyes sharp and piercing, like her glare could actually cut Alexei to ribbons. “Ilyaha? Are you okay?” She asks, eyes on Alexei.

His brother scoffs, rolls his eyes. “What the fuck do you want? Why are you even here? My brother has to bring his whore everywhere he goes.”

It’s not a decision. Ilya is simply moving. He’s seizing Alexei by the lapels. He’s slamming him against the wall. His fist is rearing back, cocked and ready to send Alxei’s nose through the back of his skull.

Lara’s voice cuts through the noise in his head first: “What is going on!?”

Then he feels Sveta’s hand on his wrist. “If you hurt your hand on his hard head, you will not be able to play.” Her voice is even, light.

Alexei takes Ilya’s hesitation as an opportunity to squirm out of his hold, rushes to Lara. She checks the back of his head for blood, and when he hand comes away clean, she smacks him like a naughty child. “You think I don’t know that you started that shit? At your father’s funeral—shame on you, idiot.” She yanks Alexei’s arm, takes him back to the table.

“I need to get out of here,” Ilya tells the back of his eyelids.

“Then we will go.” Sveta takes him by the arm. He hadn’t realize there was a side exit near the bathrooms, but he feels sunlight on his face when she opens the door.

He texts Lara that he is sorry. She tells him again to stop apologizing, and that Alya wants to send him a special rock in the mail (Why couldn’t she be a genius in paper butterflies instead?). He promises to pick it up from her before he goes, so he can say goodbye properly.

They drive in silence, Sveta's favorite orchestral station on the radio. Something light and bouncy comes on, with a flute and friendly strings.

"This is from that opera you like," Ilya says as they pull into the parking garage beneath his building.

"The Magic Flute," Sveta supplies. "I'm taking Rose to see it next time we are together."

"Good." Ilya nods. He's attended the opera with Sveta before, and each time he's fallen asleep, lulled by the gentle music and lovely voices. "Good for you to have someone cultured to go with, who will not fall asleep halfway through."

Sveta parks, turns the engine off. She turns to Ilya and fixes him with a look so sharp he's surprised it doesn't sting to look back at her. "Please don't be mean to my friend Ilyushenko right now. He is hurting." She runs a hand through his curls.

Ilya can't help but lean into the touch. "Sorry. I just meant it's good that you have someone to go with."

She nods. "I want to ask her to live with me."

Ilya brows go up. Right now, Rose and Sveta are essentially his and Shane's beards. If the two of them move in together, would that stop?

Does it matter? Now that Ilya's father is dead and he has no reason to return to Moscow each summer?

"I love that for you, Sveta," he says truthfully, thinking about Shane's cottage, the way it becomes home for him every July.

Sveta smiles, though it doesn't reach her eyes. "I don't know where we would live yet. Maybe Windsor, to be close to her family in Michigan. And so many movies film in Ontario. I can work anywhere there is money for fast cars."

Ilya nods, letting himself smile, trying to tell her that it's okay to be happy about this, even if it will affect him and Shane. "Windsor is a fun town. You would do well there, and you can come to games when I play in Detroit."

She is still stroking his hair, the spot just above his ear. She'd done the same thing once upon a time, after his mother's funeral, after Ilya's father had shouted at him for crying. She left us, he'd said. You drove her away, Ilya had thought. And he'd gone running to Sveta, in her black dress and sweater, had cried into her shoulder and listened to her soothing voice.

"Maybe Shane knows a real estate person in Windsor," he suggests. Sveta has always, always been there for him. It's his turn now. "I can ask when I go back. We will find you a penthouse with waterfront views, maybe a pool. Text me or Shane your specifications, hm?"

Sveta laughs. There's enough joy in it to half-fill a thimble. "I have not asked her yet, Ilyushenka." She's not calling him Ilyaha, a name for her friend she goes clubbing with, or even Ilyusha, a name for someone she cares for. Ilyushenka is the name of someone in her family, the most affectionate name she can give him.

"She will say yes," he says. Something occurs to him. "You are worried... will Sergei not sign paperwork?" All soulmate matches need approval from a parent, if they're alive. Remembering that last detail sends something like hope zinging down Ilya's spine.

She shakes her head. "No, he—when I told him I had found my soulmate, he gave me the papers, already signed. I just had to fill in Rose's name."

Ilya's smile is a grin now. He lunged forward and plants a kiss on the sign of her head. She slaps at him playfully. "Congratulations, Svetusha," he says, returning her affection. "Why do you think she might say no?"

Sveta's mouth turns down for a moment. "Do you and Shane have a plan? For what happens now?"

He shrugs. "Yes and no. I have to make a decision. And there is citizenship to worry about. But if you are worried about us, and the charade: don't be. I know Shane wants to come out when it is safe, and now it might be the safest it will ever be. Please, Svetusha: do not hold back on our account. I promise, it will be okay." He takes her hand in both of his. "Please, I want you to be happy."

"I want you to be happy, too," she says.

He nods. "I will be, I promise. I love you." He kisses her temple.

"I love you, too," she murmurs.

The two of them sit for a bit. He strokes her hand with his thumb, listens to her breathing now that the radio has turned itself off. He swallows. "I think, sometimes, that I am like my mama."

She squeezes his hand but doesn't say anything.

"Shanya thinks I should see a therapist, maybe take medication."

She squeezes harder. "Are you asking me if I think it is a good idea? I do."

He nods. "I do, too. I have been thinking... I know my mama did not want to die. She only wanted to stop hurting. I... I am hurting now, the way she was."

"Ily—"

"I am not going to hurt myself," he says, extinguishing her fear before it can leave her mouth. She nods once, decisive, trusting. "I feel like I owe it to her, a little bit, to find a better way to stop the pain. I need to do some things first, and I want to pack up this apartment."

"I can do that." She makes a dismissive gesture. "Mark the things you want to keep and I'll hire someone to take the rest away."

"There is only one thing here that I want to keep," he says and opens his door. She lets go of his hand reluctantly, and follows him up to his apartment. He tells her about Lara's plan, about giving them this place once Alexei cleans up his act, about Alya's school.

"She is the only reason I would return, I think," Ilya says.

"I think even little Alya would understand if you could not," she says as they walk down the hallway to Ilya's door. It feels like a lie to call it his, really. This place has never felt like home. "And maybe I will bring her to visit you, wherever you and Shane end up."

"That might be nice," he says, keying into the apartment. "The rocks are probably different in Canada."

"She will be thrilled," Sveta chuckles.

Ilya brings her to the bedroom, shows her a safe in the back of his closet. It has some important papers in it, things he would hate to lose in a fire. These, he stows safely in his suitcase where it's still sitting on the bed. The only other thing inside is a jewelry box: plain, dark wood, decorated with gold filigree that is half rubbed away.

"My father took away mama's things after she died," he explains, sitting on the bed with the box on his knees. "Alexei and I tried to save what we could." He touches his cross, brings it to his mouth and kisses the pendant. "And when he married Lara, he gave a lot of mama's jewelry to her."

Sveta nods. He knows she hates him. Ilya hates him too, sometimes, but he isn't angry with him for taking mama's pearls, or her favorite garnet necklace, or her engagement ring with its pear-shaped stone. One Christmas, Alya had proudly showed off a bracelet set with dark blue sapphires, too big for her now, but something she could grow into, and maybe wear to dances or on dates when she's a teenager. Ilya remembers it gleaming from his mother's wrist on special occasions.

He opens the box. It contains only one last piece now. You should have this, Alexei, all of 19, had said to him. It's still diamonds, so you can propose to your soulmate with it. He takes the gold ring out of its velvet cubby. It's unpolished, burnished metal, the inside worn shiny from mama taking it on and off, fidgeting with it in her lap. It's a wide band, with three small diamonds set into the metal.

"It's lovely," Sveta says.

"I know he will say yes," Ilya says. "And we've talked about me moving to Canada, because they have a program for people whose soulmates are Canadian. I will get citizenship faster. And maybe I will play for Montreal." He shrugs. "That part is a little fuzzier. But I know he will say yes."

Sveta wraps an arm around his waist, leans against him. "I know he will, too."

Chapter 35: Boston at Montreal

Shane
Shane skates over to Hayden near the boards after saying hi to Ilya and confirming their plans for tonight. Hayden is grinning at him like a madman. Shane smiles back. "Hey."
"Hey!" He's practically bouncing in his skates. "So it's tonight, right?"

Yeah," Shane breathes. "We're having dinner with my parents. They're already in town, and my dad is making Ilya's favorites, and I got a really nice bottle of wine for all of us." Because Ilya does like drinks that aren't vodka, and wine goes better with chicken parmesan. "I don't know why I'm nervous. I know he's going to say yes." He looks back at Ilya, who's talking to Cliff Marlow now. Marlow looks over at Shane and Hayden, then back at Ilya. His smile reminds Shane of Hayden's. He's glad Ilya has a friend like him in his life, the same way Shane does.

Hayden practically rolls his eyes. "Of course he's gonna say yes."

Shane sighs. Yeah, of course he is. "And then we'll finally be able to be together in the open. No more potential threats from Russia, no more sneaking around." He looks at Ilya again. He's talking to one of the Raiders' rookies, gesturing around like they're reviewing a play. At one point, the rookie shakes his head, and Ilya seizes him by the shoulders and gives him a gentle shake. "God, Hayden. I love him."

Hayden's eyes go soft. Shane feels like a literal wave of love splashes over him. This is his best friend—his future best man if they decide to do wedding parties—and he is so, so happy for him and Ilya. She feels like the luckiest man on the planet; he knows some people believe in platonic soulmates, people you're meant to be friends with, whom the universe designed for you. That must be him and Hayden.

"I know you do, buddy," Hayden murmurs. "And things are gonna go off without a hitch tonight."

"You sound really certain," Shane teases, because if he doesn't he'll start crying.

Hayden shrugs, like it's just that simple. "Yeah, cause I believe in you. And even if something does go wrong, it'll be fine. You're soulmates."

Shane feels the smallest pang in his chest; Hayden hasn't met his soulmate. He loves Jackie, but she isn't the one the universe picked out for him. They don't really talk about it, because Hayden's so content with his family, but he wonders sometimes, how Hayden feels about his soulmate being out there, if he's afraid of being rejected when they find each other.

"100%," Hayden says, pulling Shane out of his thoughts. He leans forward, head inclined toward Shane.

Shane leans forward and bonks his helmet against Hayden's. "100%. Now let's make sure the victory sex later is for me and not him."
Hayden tosses his head back laughing.

At the faceoff dot, Shane crouches. He fires back when Ilya chirps him. He smiles. He thinks, I'm going to marry this man. And then he steals the puck.

Chapter 36: Shane Goes Down

Chapter Summary

Is it realistic to have Hayden, Ilya, and Cliff all leave the game after Shane's injury? No. Have I done it anyway? Yes.

Ilya

Shane isn't moving.

He's on his front, on the ice, and he isn't moving. Ilya can't breathe. The linesman says something to him but he can't hear over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

Shane isn't moving.

People are moving around him, skating toward their benches. He can hear different voices, maybe talking to him, maybe just talking. He moves forward, toward Shane. There are medics on the ice, bent over him. Talking to him? They wouldn't be talking to Shane if he was—not fine. Right?

But he isn't moving.

"Back to your bench, Pike," a linesman says.

"Ilya." Pike's hand on his shoulder. "Ilya, buddy, listen to me." Pike shakes him. "Ilya: are you still in color?"

Ilya blinks. He looks at Pike.

"What color are my eyes?"

"Blue," he says. Blue, like his own. Like the dotted lines on the ice. Like Shane's jersey.

"If you're still in color, then he's fine, right?" Pike says, nodding. Ilya nods too. "I'll find out what hospital they're taking him to. Go back to your bench, okay?" He pushes him gently so Ilya slides backwards on the ice. "Okay?"

"Okay." Ilya nods. He watches them take Shane. He makes his way first to his bench, then past LaClaire into the visitor's locker room.

Inside, Cliff is getting treated for a split lip. There's a bruise forming on his cheek. What the hell happened to Marlow?

Oh.

Right.

Ilya stares at him. He looks at the white, gold, black of his jersey, the smear of blood near his shoulder. Bright red. "You are okay?" He asks.

"He'll be fine," the medic answers for him.

"I'm sorry, Cap," Cliff says, disrupting her efforts for a moment. "I didn't mean—"

"I know," Ilya says, realizing it's true as he says it. "I know you didn't mean it. But you make it up to me, hm? Tell Coach I'm going to hospital."

Cliff salutes. Ilya strips his gear, redresses, and checks his phone. Pike has texted him: Montreal General. Meet you in the parking lot.

Hayden is practically vibrating with nerves. He looks on the outside how Ilya feels on the inside. It's comforting, knowing he isn't alone. "They probably have to give him a CAT Scan and everything," he says, just to fill the empty space between them. "They take time."

“Mm." Ilya nods, takes a drag. This is his first cigarette in three months. If he doesn't count that one outside the bar when he was shitfaced and missing Shane.

"Plus, he might've broken something," Hayden continues. "Like, if it's his collarbone, they have to be really careful setting it."

"Mmhm." Ilya nods again.

"After we see him, maybe we can get food or something? Unless you need to be with your team. I'm just thinking--if Jackie was laid out like that, I wouldn't to be alone." He bounces on the balls of his feet.

Ilya thinks about it. He hasn't been alone since Shane went down, not really. He was with his team, with Marly, and now with Hayden. Suddenly, the idea of having to carry everything he is feeling on his own is unbearable. But also, people might get suspicious. It's already risky for him to be here, after the show he and Hayden had made on the ice. "Maybe," he says after a long time.

Hayden nods, sighs. "Sorry if I'm talking too much. Anxious."

"Me too, Hayden. Is fine." And it is fine. It's actually making Ilya feel a little better, knowing neither he or Shane is alone in this. There's movement over Hayden's shoulder and Ilya's eyes land on a person walking toward them. "Marley."

Hayden turns to see him walk up. The side of his mouth is bruised where Hayden punched him earlier, and he has a plaster high up on his cheek bone, holding a tiny cut together. Ilya is oddly... happy? That Hayden jumped in to wallop Marley like that. He knows it wasn't Marley's fault that Shane had gone down, but it's good that Shane has such a fierce friend on his side.

"Hey, Rozie," Marley rumbles.

"Marlow." Hayden nods at him.

A strange look crosses Marley's face, like he wants to say something but can't find the words. He clears his throat. "I uh... is he out yet?"

"Not yet." Hayden shakes his head.

"Wanted to come apologize," Marley tells the wall next to them. His eyes are darting around, not just like he's avoiding eye contact but... looking at something? Discovering?

"Was clean hit," Ilya says; maybe the strange expression on his friend's face is guilt? "Hollander was distracted."

Marley shrugs. "I'm still sorry. Shit's fucked."

"I'm not sorry for that right hook," Hayden says, voice light and jovial, maybe also trying to make Marley feel better.

Marley touches the bruise on his face, a smile pulling at his features. "Yeah, you got me good, man."

There's a pause then. He scratches the back of his neck, puts his hand over his eyes. Ilya has seen him do this before: when he's scared. "Um... sorry, I... I came here to do something. More than just apologize to Hollander. I... fuck." His voice breaks on that last word.

Ilya steps toward him. "Cliff? You are okay?"

Marlow takes his hand away from his eyes, fixing Pike with an intense stare that Ilya associates more with his fellow forward chasing the puck. "Hayden Pike."

Pike nearly stumbles backwards. They're facing toward the sun—and he is seeing it in color for the first time. "Whoa. Whoa, holy shit."

Ilya looks at Marlow; he imagines there are things like astonishment and confused joy on his own face.

Pike said my name on the ice," Marlow explains. "I... we're..." He looks at Pike again, who is blinking and looking around at the yellow lines of parking spaces, the beige-grey of the wall they were standing near, the red of the sign marking 25 feet from the entranceway.

"Your wife is not your soulmate?" Ilya asks.

He blinks again, looks at Ilya like he's never seen him before, clears his throat. "No, we're in love but we're not soulmates."

Marlow, to Ilya's horror, takes a step back, angles his body like he's going to walk away. "Oh, I didn't...I didn't realize you were married."

Pike reaches out before Ilya can. "No! I mean—wait. It's alright. Can we talk?"

Ilya looks at Marlow, watches his form relax under the heavy fabric of his navy-blue jacket. "I am going to check on Shane," he tells the two of them. "You two should talk."

He leaves them staring at each other. Pike has very blue eyes, and Marlow has very brown ones. He imagines the two of them each taking in the colors, picturing the love that could be in each other's eyes.

He goes up to the desk and asks after Shane. The receptionist asks for his name and Ilya hesitates.

She tilts her head to one side. "Are you family?"

Fuck it. "Shane is my soulmate," he says. Is this the first time he's said that out loud? He feels lighter, freer. He remembers: his father is dead. His brother is dead to him. His niece will be taken care of. He has no more home in Russia. There is no reason to hide anymore. "My name is Ilya Rozanov." He spells his surname for her.

She smiles and nods, looking at her monitor. "Oh! You're one of his emergency contacts. Let me see... he's marked as out of treatment. Let me get you a visitor's badge and we can get you to his room.”

The receptionist hands him off to a nurse, who explains that Shane likely won’t be awake for a few hours, but that Ilya can stay as long as he needs to. “Close family is allowed overnight,” she explains.

“We are soulmates,” he says to a second stranger. They're soulmates. He's going to marry this man. His mama's ring is in his jacket pocket, where he'd put it before the game. She nods, assures him again that Shane is just fine.

Inside the room, Shane looks… small.

He’s not a small man. He’s 6 feet tall, 200 pounds of muscle. But he’s lying there, propped up on a pillow, his arm in a sling, bruises on his face, and he looks small. Ilya wants to barricade the door—no one should see him when he’s this vulnerable, like a baby rabbit in its mother’s nest.

Ilya doesn’t move away from the door for a long time. He watches Shane's chest move up and down as he breathes, listens to the heart monitor beep, telling him quietly that Shane is okay, that he's alive and breathing.

The door opens behind him and he turns to see Yuna and David in the doorway. They'd been in town already, David assigned to cook dinner for the four of them to share. Shane had said they were celebrating Ilya returning, and Ilya had thought it was a great opportunity to propose.

"How're you holding up?" Yuna has a cup of coffee in each hand. She gives Ilya his iced latte.

"It is good to see him,” Ilya says, moving to his bedside. “Did Pike leave?"

"He's updating some of the other Metros. He said you might not want them to see that you're here."  As she explains, she stands at the foot of Shane’s bed, eyes on him. David comes around to Shane’s other side. He sets his own coffee down on the side table and adjusts Shane’s pillows for him. He murmurs in his sleep, brow furrowing and unfurrowing.

Ilya swallows. "That is probably good idea. Shane wouldn't... I would want to ask him first."

Yuna nods. "He isn't awake anyway. They're just concerned. Hayden will talk to them, and then they'll go and wait for updates at home. It's alright."  Her eyes are still on Shane. “I keep thinking of that hit you took,” she says. Ilya frowns. He’s had mild injuries throughout his career, but he’d never been laid out like this. David puts a hand on Yuna’s shoulder and Ilya understands that he is the you in Yuna’s sentence, not Ilya.

"College game," David explains. "It was pretty touch and go for a bit."

Yuna puts a hand on David's own where it rests on her shoulder. Ilya looks at her wedding rings: a thing silver eternity band pair with a three-stone ring with light pink gemstones. "He was unconscious for almost 18 hours."

Ilya swallows. He feels like he's collapsing, imploding like an old building slated for demolition.  He puts a hand in his pocket, squeezes the ring box tight in his palm.

"He was perfectly fine when he woke up," Yuna explains.

"Didn't even remember getting hit,” David adds.

“But the whole time he was under, I couldn't help but imagine the worst." She looks at Ilya for the first time since the three of them assembled in this tiny room with the most important person in their lives lying in a hospital bed. "It's going to be alright," she says. Ilya only nods. 

Chapter 37: The Hospital

Ilya

"M'm?" The sound is more of a grunt than speech. Ilya wakes up all at once; he hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep. Yuna is asleep also, leaned against his side on the two-person plastic couch in Shane's room. David is across from them in a chair, sitting up now, eyes on Shane. The room is dim, light no longer pouring in through the windows. "M'm...?" Shane repeats from the bed. Ilya wakes Yuna up gently. She breathes in sharply, looks around the room like she forgot where she was.

"He's awake," Ilya says, standing. He helps her to her feet. Her leg must've fallen asleep, because she limps her way to Shane's bedside.

"Mom," he says, reaching out to her.

"Hi, Shane." There are tears in her voice.

Ilya stands beside her, and she touches both their hands at once, linking them. Her two boys. People she loves. Ilya wants to cry.

David is on his other side. He touches the back of his hand to Shane’s forehead, a reflexive, fatherly move. "How're you feeling, son?"

Instead of answering, Shane smiles at Ilya, lopsided and loopy. "Ilyaaaaaa. Hi!"

"Hi, Shane," he says. "You scared us."

Shane frowns. "I know. I'm sorry. Ugh, I'm so sorry we didn't get to spend last night together, Ilya."

"We did," Ilya says. "You were just asleep."

Yuna leans down and kisses Shane's forehead. He smiles at her, mouths I love you. "I'm going to let the nurses know you're awake, okay?"

"M'kay." He nods. Yuna leaves and Ilya takes Shane's hand, kisses his knuckles.

"You scared me," he repeats.

"I know—I'm sorry," Shane says sleepily. He brings Ilya's hand to his face, nuzzles against it. "I love you, so much."

"I love you, too," Ilya tells him.

The door swings open a moment later. Ilya tries to step away while the nurse works, but Shane holds onto his hand and he stands there awkwardly while the nurse checks Shane's vitals, asks him who the prime minister is. Shane passes his cognition test with flying colors and is rewarded with a morphine drip and a cup of ice chips.

"I was really looking forward to last night," Shane tells Ilya, squeezing his hand.

"So was I." Ilya smiles.

"I wanted to ask you—"

Yuna interrupts him, a hand on his leg where she's standing at the foot of the bed. "Shane."

"No, mom—I want to ask."

"What is it?" Ilya looks at Shane, a million worst-case-scenarios filling his mind. Why wouldn't Yuna want Shane to ask him something? What could be wrong?

"I just think you should stick to the plan you made," Yuna says with another pat on Shane's leg.

David smiles down at him. "It was a good plan, buddy."

"We can do the plan whenever." Shane makes a dismissive gesture. He looks up at Ilya, brown eyes wide. "Ilya, will you marry me?"

Ilya's world stops for a moment.

"What?"

"Will you marry me?” He repeats, something sparkling in his eyes like the stars themselves are visiting this tiny hospital room. “You said you don't want a Russian passport anymore, and since we're soulmates we can go through the expedited naturalization process, and we can talk about where we want to live, what team we want to play for, or maybe we move to somewhere like Alberta where there's two MLH teams in one town—"

"Shane, honey..." Yuna's voice is quiet, tender, like she's talking to a child. "Slow down."

It's then that Ilya realizes he's crying, tears gathering on his eyelashes until they have no choice but to fall.

"Sorry," Shane says, pressing Ilya's hand to his face again.

"No more sorry," Ilya says, voice hoarse from tears.

"No more sorry." Shane kisses his palm.

"Yes," Ilya says. Shane looks at him. "Yes, I want to marry you. Ya tebya lyublyu."

"Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu," Shane says in his inexplicably perfect accent. "Ya s neterpeniyem zhdu nashey svad'by." I can't wait to marry you. "And we can still do the plan!" He smiles, eyes crinkling at the sides.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. "What is this plan, hm? Roses and 1000 burning candles?"

"No, that would be a fire hazard," Shane says.

Ilya would marry him a hundred times if he asked.  “You tricked me,” he says. “You said tonight was about welcoming me back from Russia.”

Shane nods. "And it was. It was alsoooo about making you my fiancé." He waggles his eyebrows in a way that un-concussed Shane would probably find terribly embarrassing.

Ilya takes Shane's right hand in his. It takes him a moment to remember that westerners wear their engagement rings on the left hand, not the right like in Russia. But Shane is looking at him curiously, and Ilya's free hand is already in his pocket. He slides it out slowly, and slips the burnished gold band onto Shane's hand. Three diamonds twinkle in the fluorescent hospital lights.

"Oh—" Yuna's voice sounds punched out of her.

Shane looks down at his hand, spreading his fingers out and tilting it from side to side. He smiles, eyes twinkling not unlike the diamonds. "This is really different from the one I got you."

"Shane," David's voice has both mirth and warning in it.

Ilya laughs. "It is okay, I'm sure I will still be surprised." He brings Shane's hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to the cool metal. "Will you marry me, Shanya?"

"Yes," Shane breathes. "Yes, I love you. Yes. I can't wait."

Ilya chuckles again. "No? You want to go down to the hospital chapel and do it there, hm?" He looks at David. "Is a treasury officer a justice of the peace? You could officiate."

David laughs, shakes his head.

"I can't get married in a hospital gown," Shane says, his voice just to one side of whiny.

"No, you can't," Yuna says. Ilya can tell she's relieved; if Shane had really set his mind on eloping in the hospital, she would've been supportive; but it is nice that she does not have to.

"This is really nice," David says of Shane's ring. He takes Shane's wrist gently in his hand, tilts it back and forth to watch the diamonds sparkle. "Is it an antique?"

Ilya nods. "It was my mama's. Not her wedding band, just something she liked."

"That's so cool." Shane says, head lolling to one side. "That's so awesome. You're so romantic and beautiful. I can't wait to marry you."

"You said that before, Shanya," Ilya teases.

Shane smiles. "I wish I brought yours with me. It's at my condo."

"It's okay," Ilya said, voice hoarse with tears. "I will see it when we go home."